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Chapter Text

It was a really sunny day, fitting for the day Mr. and Mrs. Wolff were finally bringing him back to a house he could once again call home. He had been meeting them on and off for almost a year. Sometimes they brought him out for ice cream or a movie. Once, Mr. Wolff had sat with him through an entire superhero film even though he clearly didn’t understand half of it, and another time Mrs. Wolff had bought him a scarf because she said Monaco boys weren’t used to the cold. He had even gone to one of his soon-to-be brother’s tennis matches, where Lewis and Sebastian had shouted themselves hoarse from the stands. They were so cool and nice to him!

He had been counting down to this day for months now, but now that it had arrived, he felt like his chest was too small to hold everything. Hope, nerves, excitement, were all jumbled up together in him. What if they changed their minds? What if he wasn’t what they expected? He tried to shake the thoughts away, tugging on the strap of his backpack and pressing his palms against his knees.

After what could have been a whole eternity, the familiar black SUV finally rolled in, gleaming in the sunlight. Not long after, he found himself climbing inside once again. The leather seats smelled the same, faintly of pine and something new, and as the doors shut around him, he felt, just a little, like he was already part of something bigger than himself.

The Wolff house was bigger than anything Charles had ever lived in. The front steps seemed to stretch forever, and his legs itched to run up them, though he forced himself to walk behind Mr. and Mrs. Wolff like a proper guest. Except, he wasn’t a guest anymore. He kept repeating that to himself: not a guest.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of fresh bread and polish, and Charles heard voices before he saw them.

“Finally! You took forever,” a boy groaned from the living room.

Lewis was sprawled across the couch, long legs in socks hanging off the edge. He looked up, grinned, and Charles felt the tight coil in his chest loosen a little. “Wassup, little man.”

Before Charles could reply, another figure appeared from behind the couch, a tennis racket still in hand. Sebastian. His hair was sticking up every which way, and he gave Charles a quick nod, casual, like they’d already been brothers for years. “Mum said we’re not supposed to tackle him,” Sebastian said pointedly to Lewis.

Lewis held up his hands in mock innocence. “I wasn’t gonna!”

Then came Kimi, the quietest of the three, padding in from the kitchen with a glass of water. He didn’t say much, just gave Charles a small smile as he handed the glass to him, as if that explained everything: welcome, you belong.

Charles clutched the glass in both hands, suddenly aware of how small they looked next to Kimi’s. “Hi,” he managed, barely above a whisper.

For a moment, he felt three pairs of eyes on him, waiting. Then Lewis scooted over and patted the couch. “Come on. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do if you wanna keep up with us.”

Charles perched gingerly on the edge of the couch cushion Lewis had patted, trying not to spill the glass of water in his lap. The three older boys seemed to fill the room in a way that made him feel both very safe and very tiny.

“So,” Lewis said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Do you play football?”

Charles blinked. “Um… sometimes.”

Lewis grinned, exchanging a look with Sebastian. “Good. We need another player, especially since Kimi refuses to move most of the time.”

“I move,” Kimi said flatly from his armchair. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the glass of water in Charles’s hands. “You just don’t see it.”

Sebastian snorted. “That’s because your ‘moving’ is standing there until the other guy gets bored.” He turned back to Charles with a smile that was both reassuring and a little intimidating. “Don’t worry, you can be on my team. Lewis cheats.”

“Do not!” Lewis protested.

Charles let out a tiny laugh before he could stop himself, and instantly all three heads snapped toward him. His cheeks burned hot. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be,” Lewis said, softer this time. “That’s the first smile we’ve got out of you today. Took long enough.”

Kimi tilted his head. “He’s smart. He’s watching.”

Charles wasn’t sure what to say to that, but for the first time, it felt less like he was being tested and more like he was being… seen.

Before long, it was lunch.

Lunch was louder than Charles expected. He thought maybe big families sat politely at long tables, but at the Wolffs’ dining room, plates were passed around too quickly for him to keep up. Lewis kept stealing everyone’s potato, Sebastian complained dramatically, and Kimi wordlessly slid the plate of food in Charles’s direction whenever it looked like he couldn’t reach.

“Eat, eat,” Mrs. Wolff encouraged, spooning more onto his plate before he could finish what was already there. “You’ll need the energy if you’re keeping up with these three.”

“I don’t think anyone can keep up with them,” Mr. Wolff muttered, which made Charles smile into his fork.

When the last plates were scraped clean and the adults drifted toward the kitchen, Mrs. Wolff turned back with a firm look. “Boys. Show your brother around properly. Don’t just dump him in his room.”

Lewis stood immediately, puffing his chest out like he’d just been promoted. “Alright, tour guide Lewis reporting for duty.”

“Haha. No. You’ll just yap about the most random corner of the house forever.” Sebastian shot back, but he was already on his feet too.

Kimi said nothing, but when Charles hesitated, he gave a small nod, and that was enough to make Charles scramble up.

The house was big, yet it seemed filled. Every wall adorned a picture, some of the three older boys, some of the parents, and some of all five. Charles trailed a little behind as the three older boys bickered about what to show him first, looking wistfully at the photos.

“We’ll update them soon,” Kimi muttered to Charles quietly, catching the boy’s longing gaze at the portraits. “Soon, you’ll be all over these walls too.”

At the front, Sebastian hissed, “Kitchen’s important. Mum keeps the snacks in the left cupboard, right above the dishwasher.”

“Rookie mistake,” Lewis corrected. “Fridge first. That’s where the good stuff is.”

Kimi sighed quietly next to Charles, but stopped at a doorway. “This is the best room.”

Charles peered in. It wasn’t a bedroom at all, but a small den crowded with beanbags, a games console, and shelves of DVDs and board games. The air smelled faintly of popcorn.

Lewis grinned at Charles’s wide-eyed stare. “We spend more time here than anywhere else.”

Kimi rolled his eyes at that. “Come on, don’t overwhelm him on the first day.”

“Overwhelm?” Lewis repeated, pretending to look offended. “I’m enhancing his cultural education.”

“Enhance later,” Kimi said simply, already heading down the hall again, steering their newest brother with a hand on his back.

They climbed the stairs together, Charles a step behind, his hand trailing along the polished bannister. His heart thumped harder the higher they went. This wasn’t just a tour. Somewhere up here was his room (his real room!!!) and he didn’t know what to expect.

Sebastian stopped in front of a door near the end of the hallway. He hesitated, then stepped aside with a small smile. “This one’s yours.”

Charles blinked at the word yours, then reached for the handle with fingers that trembled more than he wanted them to. The door swung open with a soft creak.

Inside, sunlight spilled across neatly made sheets. The bed wasn’t too big, but it looked soft, with a navy-blue blanket folded carefully at the foot. A small desk waited by the window, and on top of it, someone had placed a basket of chocolate bars and crisps, his favourites from the times the Wolffs had taken him out.

“You… you remembered,” he whispered.

Lewis leaned against the doorframe with a grin. “Told you we pay attention.”

Kimi walked in first, opened the wardrobe door, and gestured. “Plenty of space. Don’t put socks on the floor.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Ignore him. And Lewis. Just listen to me, and you’ll survive.”

Their bickering made Charles laugh nervously, but it wasn’t the bad kind of nerves anymore. He ran his hand across the blanket, the desk, the basket, every corner of the room that felt like a promise. For the first time, it wasn’t just a room.

It was his.

When the brothers drifted out again, their voices echoing down the hallway, Charles sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, soft in a way that felt strange after years of stiff cots and borrowed bunks. He lay back slowly, staring up at the ceiling, his chest tight with a jumble of feelings he couldn’t name. There was joy. There was relief. But, there was also a sliver of fear that if he blinked too hard, it might all vanish.

His fingers curled into the blanket. This is mine, he told himself firmly. This is real.

The door banged open without warning. Lewis poked his head in, grinning. “Oi, no sleeping yet. We’ve got a house tour to finish.”

Before Charles could reply, Sebastian’s voice rang down the hall. “Don’t you dare steal him for your team already!”

Kimi appeared behind Lewis, expression unreadable as ever. “Hurry up. Mum said if we don’t finish, we wouldn’t be getting dessert.”

Charles sat up, heart still fluttering, but this time it was lighter. He couldn’t help smiling as he slid off the bed to follow them out.

For the first time in years, the word home didn’t feel like something far away.

Chapter Text

Charles padded down the stairs, still half in disbelief. Sunlight spilled across the Wolffs’ kitchen, making everything gleam, but it didn’t chase away the knot of nerves in his stomach. This wasn’t just another house. This was their house. This was his house now.

“Morning, Charles!” Mrs. Wolff called cheerfully from the stove, flipping a pancake with effortless skill. “Hope you’re hungry. Oh, and by the way…”

Charles froze mid-step, clutching the railing. “…By the way?”

“You start school next week, with everyone.” Mrs. Wolff said, sliding a plate toward him. “Toto and I got your transcripts sorted yesterday. You’ll be going to the same school as your brothers so you got someone in case anything happens.”

Charles’s fork hovered over the pancakes. “Next… week?” His voice cracked slightly. The idea of walking into a new school, meeting teachers, and making friends suddenly felt very real.

Toto, leaning casually against the counter with his usual calm smile, added, “We know it’s a lot, Charles. But you’ve got us and your brothers. You’ll be fine.”

Lewis, as well as the other two boys had somehow come down without Charles realising. “See? Told you you’d have to keep up with us eventually, little man.”

Sebastian, mouth half full of toast, said, “Eat first. Panicking works better on a full stomach.”

Kimi, quietly sipping his juice, gave Charles a small nod. “Focus on breakfast. The rest will figure itself out.”

Charles exhaled shakily and started to nibble his pancake. Next week. School. My brothers. My new life. He looked at Mr. and Mrs. Wolff. Not just his adults. Not just caretakers. And for the first time felt a faint flicker of something warmer, closer, like maybe… family.

Charles had barely finished breakfast when he noticed something strange: Lewis, Sebastian, and Kimi were all suddenly dressed in casual jackets and sneakers, bustling around like they were heading somewhere important.

“Wait… where’s everyone going?” he asked, clutching his fork.

Kimi, who had been quietly tying his shoes, looked up at him with the same deadpan expression he always had. “It’s Sunday before school starts,” he said matter-of-factly. “Time for school supply shopping.”

“School… supply… shopping?” Charles repeated slowly, his stomach doing a somersault. “Now?”

“Yes,” Kimi replied, picking up a backpack. “Get dressed too. Don’t panic. Mom and dad already have your supply list. You just need to come along.”

Lewis grinned at him. “Chill, little man. Everything’s settled. Just bring some vibes and chaos and you’re all set to go.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “And by chaos, he means organized chaos. Just follow Kimi’s lead and try not to get lost in the stationery aisle.”

Charles swallowed hard and pushed himself off the chair. He had never gone on a family outing like this before, especially not one that involved three 15-year-olds leading the way. But Kimi’s calm tone and the fact that the parents had everything sorted somehow made it feel… manageable.

As he ran upstairs to grab his jacket, he tried to remind himself: Okay. It’s just school supplies. It’s not scary. It’s not scary…

The Wolff family SUV rolled into the parking lot of the massive mall where the boys were going to get stationery and uniform and everything else. Charles’s stomach churned with excitement and nerves. He had never been in a place like this before, as there were no such place in Monaco, where he lived before the orphanage and everything.

“Alright, little man, let’s start with notebooks,” Lewis declared, striding confidently into a shop with leather-bound notebooks and pens that adults probably only use to sign documents. He immediately grabbed a whole stack of definitely-overpriced notebooks. “These are cool notebooks. Trust me.”

Charles hesitated. Cool? He wasn’t sure he had a concept of what “cool” notebooks looked like yet.

Sebastian was already flipping through a clipboard Susie passed him before she and Toto left to get some alone time at a Starbucks. He glanced at the supply list. “No, no, no,” he said sharply, tossing the notebooks back onto the shelf. “We need the ones with reinforced covers. Don’t just grab that just because it vibes with you.”

Kimi, quiet as ever, appeared behind Charles holding a stack of exactly the right items. “These are the ones on your list,” he said simply, placing them gently in Charles’s arms. “Don’t worry about it. Just follow me.”

Charles blinked, overwhelmed, and nearly dropped the entire stack. “Huh?”

Lewis grinned. “Relax. I’m gonna help you get everything you need. But better. Here. You want pens? Highlighters? Sticky notes?” He tossed a few into Charles’s basket without waiting for an answer.

Kimi’s lips twitched, though his deadpan remained. “Ignore him. Just focus on what you actually need. And if you need help, just ask.”

Despite the monotone, Charles felt a little spark of relief. At least someone knew what was happening, and they weren’t letting him flounder alone.

As they moved through the store, Charles began to notice the little things: Kimi quietly holding the door open for him, Sebastian fooling around, and Lewis making jokes to keep him from panicking. By the time they reached the uniform shop, Charles’s nerves had calmed enough that he even managed a small laugh when Lewis tried on a ridiculous hat from the display.

By the end of the trip, Charles’s arms were full of perfectly stacked supplies, his mind buzzing from the chaos and laughter, and he realized that maybe this school thing wasn’t so scary after all. With his brothers at his side and Mr. and Mrs. Wolff handling the rest, he might actually survive.

It was almost dinnertime when the family got back to the house. Charles trailed behind the older boys as they carried the last of the shopping bags inside. His arms were already full of notebooks, folders, and a neatly folded uniform, but he couldn’t help feeling a little thrill at holding something that was all his.

He set his supplies carefully on the edge of his desk and began unpacking. The notebooks stacked neatly, pens arranged by color, folders lined up in order. Everything looked so official. Real. Permanent.

“Don’t worry if it feels like a lot,” Susie said, leaning over the desk, he and Toto helping Charles unpack his many new supplies. “You’ll get used to it. And you’ll probably lose half of it by next week anyway.”

Charles laughed nervously, shoving a pencil into the holder. “Thanks… um, Mom and Dad?” The word slipped out before he could stop them.

He froze, immediately regretting it. He wasn’t sure if they’d be offended or think it was weird.

But Susie smiled warmly, and Toto’s calm, amused expression made Charles’s chest unclench.

“You can call us that if you want,” Susie said gently. “We’d actually like that very much.”

“Yes,” Toto added with a nod. “If it feels right, then it’s right. We’re your family now, Charles. There’s no need to be shy.”

Charles’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Really,” Susie smiled at him. “You can call us anything you like, so long as it’s not offensive.”

Charles returned the grin. The knot of nerves in his stomach loosened a little more.

As they continued unpacking, arranging his supplies with care, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: the warm, steady certainty that he was finally home.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled across the Wolffs’ driveway, bright and sharp, but Charles barely noticed. His stomach was a tight knot of excitement and nerves, and no amount of sunshine could chase it away. Today was the day. His first real day at school, as a Wolff, with his brothers just a few grades ahead.

“Ready, Charles?” Susie asked, adjusting the strap on his backpack.

Charles swallowed hard. “I think so…”

“You look ready enough to me,” Toto said with a reassuring smile. “Just remember, we’re here if you need anything. And your brothers will keep an eye on you too.”

Lewis nudged him, already bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Don’t be nervous. Well… try not to be. Worst comes to worst, I’ll embarrass myself first so no one laughs at you.”

Sebastian snorted. “Or I’ll give you a crash course in survival 101. Just follow my lead.”

Kimi, quiet as always, slipped Charles’s lunchbox into his hand. “Don’t overthink it. You’ll figure it out.”

Charles took a deep breath and climbed into the Wolffs’ SUV, staring at the familiar streets rushing past. The black car was smooth, comforting, and for the first time, he felt that he wasn’t entirely alone in the unknown.

When they arrived at the school gates, Charles’s eyes widened. Students bustled in all directions, voices overlapping, backpacks swinging. Upon spotting familiar faces, Lewis and Sebastian already blended and disappeared into the crowds, confident and laughing.

“Don’t worry,” Kimi whispered. “We’ll check in at break. Just focus on getting to your classroom first.”

Charles squared his shoulders, gripping the straps of his backpack. I can do this. I’m ready.

Charles clutched the straps of his backpack as he followed Kimi down the crowded corridor. The noise of chatter and lockers slamming echoed around him, making his heart race faster. Everywhere he looked, groups of older students flowed past, confident and chatting, while he felt small and out of place.

“Just stay close to me,” Kimi murmured, walking calmly beside him. “You’ll be fine.”

Charles tried not to be intimidated. He took a deep breath, imagining this as just another kind of track. One that he could learn to navigate with practice.

Finally, they reached his classroom. Charles hesitated at the doorway. Inside, students were talking in clusters, some flipping through books, others scribbling notes. The teacher looked up, smiled, and waved him over.

“Ah, you must be Charles,” the teacher said warmly. “Welcome! Come on in and find a seat.”

Charles stepped inside slowly, scanning for an empty desk. A few curious glances followed him. Whispers that he couldn’t quite hear. One boy leaned toward another and nodded in his direction. Charles felt a pang of anxiety.

Kimi leaned close and whispered, “Just pick a seat, don’t worry about them. You’re here to learn, not make friends immediately.”

He did as Kimi suggested, choosing a seat near the middle of the room where he could see the board clearly. As he sat down, he noticed the small comfort of his pencil case and notebooks neatly stacked beside him. The familiar sight steadied his nerves slightly.

The teacher began introductions, asking students to say their names.

When the teacher called his name, Charles stood up. “I’m… Charles—”

The classroom door banged open mid-sentence, and a boy with a familiar grin sprinted in, slightly out of breath.

“Calamar?” the boy called.

Charles froze, eyes widening. “Gasly?”

The classroom seemed to vanish around them for a moment. “Holy shit!” they both whispered, staring at each other.

The teacher cleared her throat. “Ah, you must be Pierre. Welcome. Find a seat, please.”

Without hesitation, Pierre ducked under a nearby row and plopped into the empty seat right next to Charles. “Can’t believe it’s you!” he murmured, shaking his head. “I thought I’d never see you again after that summer.”

Charles grinned, feeling the tight knot in his stomach loosen. “I know! I… yeah, I can’t believe this either. This is… amazing.”

For the first time that morning, the classroom didn’t feel so intimidating. With Pierre there, familiar and friendly, Charles realized he might just survive his first day after all.

Charles and Pierre were still exchanging whispers about Monaco when the teacher assigned seats for the rest of the class.

Charles glanced at the students in front of them. Two boys, Alex and George, were already whispering and laughing, clearly best friends. Charles noticed them noticing him and Pierre, but they didn’t look unfriendly.

Suddenly, a third boy slid into the empty seat diagonally across from Charles. “Hi, I’m Lando,” he said with a grin. “Looks like we’re… uh… neighbors now?”

Pierre laughed quietly. “Seems that way.”

Charles nodded, still trying to get used to all the new names and faces. “I’m Charles, and this is Pierre.”

Alex leaned back and grinned. “Pierre! Wow! You know the new kid? That’s so cool!”

George chimed in, “Yeah, we should all stick together. Right, Lando?”

Lando nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely.”

Charles felt his chest loosen. For the first time that day, the classroom didn’t feel so intimidating. Not only did he have Pierre, but somehow, just by seating arrangement, he already felt like part of a little group.

The teacher cleared her throat, and Charles quickly straightened his back.

Before long, it was lunch.

The bell rang, and the hallway erupted with noise. Charles, Pierre, Alex, George, and Lando headed toward the cafeteria, passing by the basketball court, where a group of older students were shooting hoops.

“Hey, Charles!” a familiar voice called.

Charles froze mid-step. Lewis, Sebastian, and Kimi were walking toward him, casual but unmistakably there. Lewis grinned. “Thought we’d check in. Making friends okay?”

Charles waved awkwardly. “Yeah.”

Sebastian smirked. “Good job, lil’ bro.”

George’s eyes widened, and he suddenly pointed at Lewis. “HOLY SHIT! LEWIS HAMILTON IS YOUR BROTHER?!”

Charles’s face turned bright red. “George!”

Lewis laughed, hands raised in mock surrender. “Relax, man. Yeah, that’s me. But I’m just a big brother, not a celebrity here.”

Alex nudged Charles. “Oh my god can you get me your brother’s autograph? He’s so good at tennis I heard he’s gonna take part in the US Open juniors.”

Kimi, already used to this bullshit, leaned close to Charles. “Ignore them. They’re excited. You’re fine.”

Charles glanced at Lewis, who winked and tossed a friendly hand toward him. “Don’t worry, Bub. I’ll make sure no one gives you a hard time.”

Charles swallowed hard, still flushed, but a small smile crept onto his face. With Pierre, his new friends, and now his brothers around, recess felt like it had turned into the first day of something really good.

Chapter Text

After school, the boys planned to go to McDonald’s for a quick bite.

The plan hadn’t been a plan at all.

It had started with George and Alex yelling at each other on the way out of school gates, something about whether the McSpicy was overrated or a holy grail of after-school dining. By the time Pierre and Charles caught up, the debate had escalated into hand gestures and a full blown shouting match about “the best nugget-to-sauce ratio.”

Lando had appeared somewhere along the way, sliding into their group as if he’d been there all along. Nobody questioned it. He just sort of materialised, bouncing on his sneakers, already inserting himself into the argument.

Charles trailed just behind Pierre, slightly dazed, backpack slung over one shoulder. This was new. Spontaneous, loud, messy. He couldn’t believe this was his new life. Hanging out with friends after school, at a fast-food place no less, had always seemed like some coming-of-age movie, yet it was his life now.

“Charles.” Pierre nudged him as they crossed the road. “Have you ever even had McDonald’s in Monaco?”

Charles blinked, caught. “…Oui. Of course.”

Pierre raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You hesitated. You’ve never had a Happy Meal, have you?”

Charles sputtered. “I am not a child.”

“Exactly my point.”

Before Charles could retort, George threw his arms dramatically in the air. “Settled, then! Fish-o-fillet is king. Anyone who disagrees can sit downstairs by themselves.”

“No way,” Alex shot back. “We’re sitting upstairs, and you’re not ordering until you admit the big mac is the backbone of civilisation.”

“backbone or big back of civilisation?!” George screeched.

They pushed into the McDonald’s, still bickering, while Pierre shoved open the door and held it for Charles. The warm fry-scented air hit him like a wall. The place was crowded, the after-school rush already in full swing.

George and Alex beelined for the self-ordering kiosks like they owned the place. Lando darted after them, muttering something about ice cream. Charles hung back, unsure where to stand.

Pierre noticed. “Come, I will help you order. It’s easy.”

Which turned out to be a lie.

“Okay,” Pierre said, pointing at the glowing screen. “What do you want?”

Charles stared at the menu. Too many options. Burgers, wraps, nuggets, salads that looked suspiciously not like salads. He opened his mouth. Closed it. “…What do you usually get?”

Pierre grinned. “Me? Big Mac. Always. Classic. But you should try nuggets. Nuggets are universal. Even princes of Monaco must bow to nuggets.”

“I am not– ” Charles began, then stopped when Pierre winked at him. “…Fine. Nuggets.”

“Good man.” Pierre tapped it in, then added fries, Coke, and, without asking, an apple pie.

“Eh? What is– ”

“You’ll thank me later.”

Meanwhile, George and Alex were making a scene at the counter.

“I SAID extra barbecue sauce, mate!” George called. “Extra! That’s not extra, that’s one packet!”

“George, please,” Alex wheezed, already crying and laughing. “You’re going to get us banned.”

The poor cashier looked like she regretted her life choices.

Lando sauntered up behind them, casually sliding three extra sweet-and-sour packets into his hoodie pocket while no one was looking. Charles caught it and nearly choked on his laugh.

By the time they carried their trays to an empty spot, it looked less like food for a friend group and more like sustenance for a small country. Nuggets in quantities that should have been illegal. Multiple McFlurries. An absurd mountain of fries. Someone (probably Alex) had probably ordered enough apple pies to last a year.

Naturally, one table wasn’t enough.

“Shove it over, shove it over,” George ordered, dragging tables together while fries went flying. The group settled into a makeshift island in the corner, sprawling backpacks and elbows and loud voices everywhere.

Charles set his tray down carefully, like it might explode.

And then the chaos began.

It started innocently enough with nuggets.

Alex stacked his into a tiny tower. George immediately copied, then made his tower bigger. Pierre declared himself “judge” and started rating their architectural skill. Lando, not to be outdone, attempted to balance fries across the towers like scaffolding.

Charles tried to focus on eating his own meal, but Pierre elbowed him. “Go on. Build one. Show them how it’s done.”

“I don’t…”

“Charles! This is serious competition.”

The seriousness lasted about thirty seconds before Alex flicked a fry at George.

George gasped, scandalised. “How dare you!”

And that was it.

Fries became swords. Nuggets became grenades. Alex narrated in a faux-posh voice about “The Great McDonald’s War of 20XX.” George yelled battle cries loud enough to earn a glare from a mum at the next table. Lando attempted to catch a fry in his mouth and nearly fell off his chair.

Charles couldn’t breathe. He was laughing so hard his stomach hurt, tears threatening the corners of his eyes.

They got their first warning about twenty minutes in.

A McDonald’s worker appeared at the edge of the table, expression flat. “Could you keep it down, please?”

“Of course,” George said solemnly, like a choirboy.

The second the worker walked away, they all leaned in conspiratorially.

“Whisper mode,” Alex hissed.

For exactly thirty seconds, they whispered everything with exaggerated seriousness.

“Pass me the nuggets.”

“THE NUGGETS.”

“No, not those, the HOLY nuggets.”

Charles snorted so loudly he broke the silence. The table collapsed into hysterics all over again.

The incident happened not long after.

Alex, demonstrating his “incredible aim,” tried to toss a fry into George’s open mouth from across the table. It went wide. Very wide and landed squarely on the shoulder of an unsuspecting businessman a few tables away.

Everyone froze.

The man turned slowly. The fry slid down his suit jacket.

Pierre reacted first. “So sorry, monsieur,” he blurted, in perfect French-accented English. “Accident! Children, you know.”

The man stared at them, unimpressed.

Alex muttered an apology too, cheeks flaming. George buried his face in his hands. Lando kicked Alex under the table, whisper-snarling, “You’re going to get us killed.”

Charles thought he might actually die from holding in his laughter.

The businessman sighed, shook his head, and went back to his meal.

The table collectively exhaled.

And then, predictably, burst into muffled laughter again.

“Banned for life,” George wheezed. “We’re all banned for life.”

Eventually, mercifully, the food dwindled. The noise level dropped. The boys slumped back in their seats, sated and buzzing.

For the first time all afternoon, the chaos gave way to quiet conversation.

George quizzed Lando on whether he actually did his maths homework (“what maths homework?”). Alex leaned back and started recounting a disastrous football match from last weekend. Pierre teased Charles about his neat way of eating fries one by one.

Charles, surprisingly, didn’t mind. In fact, he felt… comfortable.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed like this.

That was when his phone buzzed.

He glanced down. Family group chat.

Toto: @Charles Where are you?

Toto: What time are you coming home?

Charles typed quickly, With friends. At McDonald’s. Maybe home around seven.

He shoved the phone back in his pocket, only for it to buzz again almost instantly.

This time, it wasn’t Toto.

Lewis: I’m nearby. Want me to go home with you?

Charles blinked, surprised. Wasn’t Lewis hanging out with that blonde friend of his?

He hesitated. Then typed back: Sure.

When he looked up, Pierre was grinning at him. “What’s that face?”

“Nothing,” Charles said quickly.

Charles had promised he would meet Lewis outside the mall entrance. That was what they agreed on, anyway. Lewis had even sent a “here” text, like the world’s most responsible older brother, expecting Charles to appear. But five minutes passed. Then eight. Then ten.

Lewis frowned at his phone. The kid didn’t seem like the type to be late when he was supposed to meet him, unless something had derailed him. He shoved the phone into his pocket, tugged on his uniform blazer and walked inside. The scent of fries, grease, and too many people hit him instantly. He followed the noise.

It wasn’t hard to find them.

Because in the far corner of McDonald’s, a pack of boys were absolutely dominating the space like it was their personal clubhouse. Trays were stacked in a dangerous tower, fries scattered across the table like confetti, and the loudest laughter in the building kept coming from them. Charles sat smack in the middle, red in the face, grinning like he hadn’t in weeks.

Lewis stopped for a second, surprised. The sight hit him differently, a wave of relief and warmth coursed through him. His little brother had friends. Already.

Still, he was supposed to pick Charles up, not watch him destroy the public peace. So Lewis strode forward.

“Charlie,” he called, voice pitched just enough to cut through the noise.

Charles froze. Then his head whipped around, eyes widening.

“Lewis?!”

The table went silent. Every single boy turned.

There was an awkward two-second pause. Then George leaned forward, eyes bulging. “Oh My GODDDDDDDD. LEWIS. MY IDOL. WE MEET AGAIN. DO YOU REMEMBER ME?” His voice cracked halfway through, but no one cared.

Lewis raised his hands, half-smiling. “Yea. Hi. Thank you for being friends with my little brother.” He looked at Charles. “You weren’t outside.”

Charles ducked his head sheepishly. “Sorry. We… got carried away.”

Lewis exhaled, but he wasn’t mad. Not really. He could see the way Charles’s new friends were buzzing, whispering to each other, barely containing their excitement. He pulled a chair over and sat down at the edge of the group like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“So, who am I meeting?”

For a second, no one moved. Then Alex, trying desperately to act cool but failing, stuck his hand out first. “Uh. Alex. Nice to meet you.”

Lewis shook it. “Nice to meet you too, Alex.”

George immediately shoved Alex aside, almost knocking over his soda. “George. Best tennis player in our class.”

Lando snorted. “Best tennis player? I bet you can’t tell the difference between tennis and badminton.”

“Yes I can,” George shot back.

Lewis chuckled, shaking George’s hand anyway. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Pierre leaned back, smirking. “I’m Pierre. Known Charles longer than any of them. So I get seniority.”

Charles rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“And I’m Lando,” Lando said quickly, raising his hand. “I don’t really have a title. Yet.”

Lewis gave a slow nod, pretending to think. “Well, judging by the fry pile, you’re the designated eater.”

The table erupted in laughter. Lando groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Unfair!”

Charles couldn’t stop grinning. His big brother had slipped into the group like it was nothing, like he belonged there too. The knot in his chest, the one that usually tightened whenever Lewis showed up, worried he’d be embarrassed, unwound.

“So,” Lewis said after a beat, leaning an elbow on the table. “Do you guys always treat McDonald’s like your living room, or is this just a special occasion?”

“Special occasion,” Alex said quickly. “First day hangout.”

“And also,” George added, “Charles ate twenty nuggets in under a minute, which, frankly, was historic.”

Charles buried his face in his hands. “George!”

Lewis raised his brows, amused. “Twenty nuggets, huh? That’s impressive. Should I tell mom and dad to start training you for competitive eating?”

“Please don’t encourage him,” Pierre said dryly.

They all laughed again, and Lewis let himself sit back, content for now just watching Charles glow in the middle of it all.

Eventually, he tapped Charles’s shoulder. “Are you ready to head home soon? Or should I order a McFlurry and join the chaos properly?”

Charles hesitated. He didn’t want to leave yet. But the fact that Lewis had offered to stay, and even joked about it, made his chest warm. “Just a little longer?”

Lewis nodded. “A little longer. But you’re carrying the trays when we go.”

That set off another round of loud groaning from Charles, while his friends cheered Lewis like he had won a set six, love.

Lewis sighed. Yes, they were boisterous. Yes, they were public nuisances. But, they’re his brother’s new friends. And for the sake of his brother, he’ll put up with that.

Chapter Text

Charles sat at the Wolffs’ dining table, pencil poised over a blank sheet of notebook paper, staring at the math problems like they were hieroglyphics. The sunlight slanting through the window painted streaks across the polished tabletop, warming the scattered pens, a half-finished juice carton, and his slightly wrinkled notebook. His back ached from hunching over for too long, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to do it right, and he’ll spend however long to get it right.

This past week had been… strange, wonderful, and a little overwhelming all at once. Living with Toto and Susie officially now, even though he’d known them for a year, still felt surreal. Every time he called out “Mom! Dad!” in small bursts of habit, he almost flinched at the familiarity. Not because they were strangers. Far from it, in fact, but because saying it out loud made the word home feel heavy. Real. Permanent.

He glanced across the dining room to the living room. Kimi and Sebastian were in the living room, arguing quietly over something inconsequential. A tennis racket clacked against the floor somewhere between them. Charles tried to concentrate on his homework, but his ears picked up the ambient noise of the Wolffs’ house: Toto shuffling papers upstairs, Susie’s muffled voice reminding Seb to please not leave his racket where it could trip someone. The house was alive. And for the first time in a long time, Charles felt like he belonged to that hum, even in the smallest way.

Just as he was about to sigh and resign himself to another half-hour on that stupid question, Lewis called out to him.

“Doing homework?” Lewis’s voice cut through the quiet. He leaned casually against the doorframe, tennis bag slung over one shoulder, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tennis polo was slightly rumpled, his tie loose, but his hair still looked impossibly perfect.

Charles blinked at him, pencil poised in midair. “Uh… yes?” he said cautiously, unsure if he’d be teased.

Lewis raised an eyebrow. “Yes, you’re doing homework, or yes, you’re staring at the wall?”

Charles’s lips twitched. “Homework,” he said flatly, though he wasn’t entirely lying.

Lewis pushed off the doorframe, walking toward him, the tennis bag swaying lightly with each step. “Good. Because you’re coming with me. There’s a tournament at the club today. Thought you might like to watch. Shouldn’t be boring.”

Charles tilted his head, squinting. “Boring? Aren’t tournaments supposed to be… tense?”

Lewis laughed, a short, confident burst. “Not this one. My opponents won’t last ten minutes. You’ll barely get to see me serve.” He smirked, tossing him a folded flyer with bold letters and a tiny diagram of a tennis court. “Consider it a show. And you’re invited, obviously.”

Charles hesitated. There was homework, of course. And maybe he should have been happy to stay put, safe, in the quiet order of his room. But the spark of curiosity won over. Tennis was… interesting, and from what he heard (from his friends. OH MY GOD. HIS FRIENDS. CAN THEY PLEASE SHUT UP ABOUT HOW GOOD HIS BROTHERS ARE? HE GETS IT. STOP.), Lewis was apparently going to be the next Federer. Watching Lewis play, being in that environment, maybe even learning something was going to be an adventure.

“Fine,” Charles said, finally. He set his pencil down with a little more force than necessary. “I’ll go.”

Lewis grinned, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “That’s my little brother. You won’t regret it. But try not to fall asleep during my matches, or your eyes would miss the most amazing bedazzling wonderful awesome display of talent.”

Charles rolled his eyes at that, though a grin crept onto his face.

By the time Charles had packed his things  ( a notebook and a singular pencil shoved into his backpack,) Sebastian appeared in the kitchen, leaning lazily against the counter.

“Going with Lewis?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

Charles nodded. “Yep.”

Sebastian smirked. “Don’t get too impressed by him, you know. He’s good, but he can be… a show-off.”

Charles frowned, unsure what to make of that. “A show-off?”

Sebastian shrugged. “You’ll see. But don’t let it scare you. Just enjoy the match.”

Kimi popped his head around the corner, looking far too energetic for ten in the morning. “Tell him to serve faster than last time. My arm hurts just watching!” he said, and Charles laughed softly.

Lewis emerged from the hall, bag swinging. “We’re leaving. Don’t get lost in your thoughts, little brother. Adventure awaits.”

The bus ride to the tennis centre was a short one, but Charles found himself unusually observant. The town looked different on a Saturday morning: quieter streets, sunlight glinting off cars and shop windows, the distant sound of kids playing somewhere in a park. Lewis talked almost constantly, half-teasing, half-instructing, pointing out subtle details about court surfaces, ball bounces, or even how the wind might affect a serve. Charles nodded along, mostly confused by the ten thousand tennis terms he had never heard of prior to this conversation.

“You see,” Lewis said at one point, “it’s not just about hitting hard. It’s about positioning, timing, and reading your opponent. And, of course, winning with style.”

Charles smiled faintly. “Winning with style?”

Lewis raised a brow. “Exactly. And that’s the part most people forget.”

When they arrived, the tennis club’s energy hit him immediately. The smell of morning dew on the grass courts and faint sweat mingled with the distant scent of concession stands. The rhythmic thwack of balls echoed from court to court, accompanied by the murmur of spectators, coaches’ calls, and occasional cheers. Kids of all ages scurried across the grounds, rackets in hand, practicing, competing, stretching. The place was buzzing. It was a small, organized chaos.

Lewis barely let him take it all in before striding toward the nearest court. Charles trailed behind, backpack bouncing, a mixture of awe and nerves twisting in his stomach. Lewis’s first match started immediately, and Charles had barely settled into a folding chair before it was over. The opponent had barely returned a single serve, and within minutes, Lewis had secured victory. Small cheers came from the few paying spectators. Charles clapped politely, trying not to show how surprised he was by Lewis’s skill.

The matches kept coming, quick and precise. Charles admired Lewis’s focus, his fluid movements, and the effortless way he dominated each round. But after a while, he grew restless. Each match seemed to blur into the next. Even the best players could only entertain a spectator for so long.

That’s when Charles noticed something unusual a few courts away.

While Lewis served effortlessly on his own court, Charles let his feet carry him elsewhere. The hum of the tournament pulled him down a row of courts. He barely noticed he was leaving the bleachers behind, his eyes locked on the boy who had caught his attention.

The boy was younger, smaller than most of the competitors, yet every swing of his racket radiated confidence. His serves were precise, his footwork sharp, and his concentration absolute. Charles ducked behind the low fence at the edge of the court, careful not to block anyone’s view, and raised his phone subtly to take another photo.

“Who is this?” Charles whispered to himself. His curiosity had turned into full-blown fascination. He crouched slightly, watching as the boy moved with an ease and precision that seemed almost unnatural for someone so young. Each point he won brought a tiny, triumphant grin to his face, a glimmer of pure joy that made Charles smile without realizing it.

He leaned against the fence, studying the boy’s technique. The way he adjusted his stance before each serve, the way he anticipated his opponent’s next move, the way he celebrated even the smallest victories. It was mesmerizing. Charles felt a mix of admiration and envy. The boy was good. Really good.

“Good point,” Charles muttered under his breath when Max executed a particularly precise shot, barely able to contain his admiration.

A man, with the whole celebrity-who-don’t-want-to-be-caught-in-public get-up of sunglasses and baseball hat, whipped around, eyes narrowing like a hawk spotting prey. “Good? That was sloppy! Did you see how your stance shifted on the second serve? Did you anticipate that? No! Absolutely not! And what was that footwork? You call that a backhand? The only backhand happening is one to his face after this atrocious handiwork.” His voice was sharp, unrelenting, and carried over the court despite the distance.

Charles froze. The man continued to list every minor mistake, every imperfection, with a venom that made the hairs on Charles’s neck stand up. He winced at the words, unable to comprehend how someone could speak to another human being like that, especially to a fellow child. Max’s hands tightened around his racket, jaw clenched, but he continued to play, head down, trying to block out the tirade.

Charles’s stomach twisted. He wanted to say something, to step in, but he was just a spectator. A stranger. He felt small, insignificant, and scared. The admiration he’d felt moments ago was tangled with dread.

Slowly, carefully, he backed away from the fence. His footsteps were quiet, almost hesitant, as he retraced his path toward Lewis’s court. His eyes still flicked toward Max, who kept playing, ignoring the verbal barrage. The scene left Charles shaken, his heart racing.

By the time he reached Lewis, mid-serve, Charles felt a measure of relief. The racket slammed against the ball, echoing with confident force, and Lewis’s calm focus was a stark contrast to the tension he’d just witnessed. Charles sank into the folding chair, hugging his notebook to his chest, still watching Lewis with a mixture of awe and quiet gratitude.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus back on the match he could understand, on the brother who seemed untouchable, whose presence was a small island of safety amidst the chaos he’d just seen.

The match carried on, Lewis moving with an almost mechanical precision, his serves blistering, angled, impossible to return. Charles scribbled absent-minded notes in the margin of his notebook, half-ignoring the math problems he’d abandoned hours ago. Numbers didn’t matter here. Angles, speed, rhythm. They were more fascinating than any equation he could ever write.

Yet his thoughts kept drifting back to that smaller court, to the boy who hadn’t stopped playing despite the torrent of criticism raining down on him. Charles couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d seen him pivot, the controlled intensity in every motion. Even from a distance, he seemed… remarkable. And Charles had a feeling he wasn’t just good. He was extraordinary.

“Hey, you okay?” Lewis asked, pausing mid-serve to glance over his shoulder. His voice snapped Charles out of his daze.

“Uh… yeah,” Charles said quickly, closing the notebook a little too forcefully. “Just… paying attention.”

Lewis smirked knowingly. “Watching me dominate again, huh?”

Charles rolled his eyes, hiding the slight flush creeping across his cheeks. “Something like that.”

Lewis chuckled, spinning the racket lightly in one hand. “Good. Keep your eyes open. Finals are coming up soon. You’ll want to see this.”

Charles nodded, still glancing toward the far court, though he forced his focus back. His stomach twisted in anticipation. He didn’t know the boy’s name, didn’t know anything about him. But somehow, Charles felt certain that, when the finals came, their paths would cross.

Time blurred in the heat of the tournament. Lewis breezed through the semi-finals, his dominance absolute. Charles clapped, cheered, and occasionally jotted down notes about the techniques he noticed, though half of them didn’t make any sense. Every so often, his eyes flicked toward that other court, catching glimpses of the young competitor who moved like a ghost, untouchable yet visible, fleeting yet unforgettable.

And then… It happened.

Lewis jogged to the center court, bouncing lightly on his heels, calm as ever, even though it was the finals match. Charles perched on the edge of the bleachers, heart hammering. And then… the mystery boy stepped onto the opposite side of the net. He was smaller than Lewis by a noticeable margin, but his presence made up for his lack in size.

Charles froze. His jaw dropped slightly. He still didn’t know the boy. Didn’t know his name. Didn’t know anything. Yet somehow, seeing him here, standing opposite his brother in the finals, felt monumental.

The first serve flew from Lewis, a blur of speed and power. The boy returned it effortlessly, each movement controlled, precise, almost unnervingly calm. Charles’s pencil fell forgotten onto his notebook as he watched, captivated.

The rally stretched. Point after point. Lewis, at his best, moving fluidly, adapting with ease. Yet the boy matched him, shot for shot, refusing to yield. Charles felt a strange thrill, a tight knot in his stomach that was equal parts awe and worry. How could someone so small, so young, stand up to Lewis?

The match was no longer just a tournament final. For Charles, it had become a puzzle, a mystery, a magnet pulling his attention in a way he hadn’t felt before. Every swing, every pivot, every shot from the boy sparked questions that demanded answers.

And yet… the scoreboard reflected what Charles already knew in his heart: this boy was incredible.

Charles leaned forward, gripping the edge of the chair, eyes wide. Who are you? he silently wondered. And as the next serve was launched into the bright, open sky, Charles knew only one thing for sure: he needed to find out.

The match stretched on, the scoreline tight, each point more intense than the last. Charles’s eyes darted between Lewis and the smaller boy across the net. The younger player moved with precision, anticipation in every step, and yet… there was a subtle falter. A slight hitch in his footwork, a wince barely noticeable if you weren’t watching closely.

Charles’s heart tightened. Something wasn’t right.

“Shit. Is he ok?” Charles whispered to no one in particular, leaning forward, his notebook forgotten in his lap.

The boy gritted his teeth, refusing to show weakness, but Charles saw the subtle tremor in his serve. Every swing looked measured, controlled, but tinged with pain. And then, after one particularly sharp move, the boy stumbled slightly, gripping his side.

The referee, who had been observing closely, finally stepped forward, concern etched across his face. “Are you hurt?”

The boy’s lips pressed together, shaking his head. But the grimace he couldn’t hide spoke volumes. Charles’s stomach sank.

From the sidelines, Charles could see that scary man from before, face red, screaming some harsh-sounding, foreign language at the boy.

The words hit Charles like a physical blow. He froze, horrified. The boy had been pushing himself, refusing to yield, and yet he was being berated for the very signs of human limitation. Charles felt his fists clench.

The referee intervened again, this time with authority. “I’m sorry, but he can’t continue. The match must be stopped for his safety.”

The younger boy’s shoulders slumped, exhaustion and pain evident in every movement. Charles’s heart ached seeing him forced to yield, not by lack of skill, but by his own body.

Lewis, still on the opposite side of the net, moved to shake the boy’s hand, a polite, respectful gesture. “Good game,” he said, genuine admiration in his tone. “Let’s have a rematch some day.”

The boy nodded back and shook his opponent’s hand, though no word left his mouth.

Charles noticed Lewis’s brow furrow slightly, a quiet recognition of how impressive the effort had been despite the outcome.

Charles stayed crouched at the edge of the court, eyes wide, his problem sum in his notebook long forgotten. His curiosity and admiration had turned into a protective, urgent feeling. Who was this boy? Why was the man screaming like that? How could someone so young and skilled be treated this way?

The boy limped off the court, barely acknowledging the murmurs of the small crowd. His racket swung loosely at his side, head bowed, shoulders tense. Charles wanted to run over, ask if he was okay, but something held him back. Distance. Rules. Fear.

Still, the name “Max” echoed in his mind. Somehow, he felt certain that this wasn’t the last he’d see of him. Something about the determination, the skill, the way he refused to give in… it called to Charles, insistent and magnetic.

Lewis jogged over moments later, wiping sweat from his brow, still buzzing with the triumph of the finals. He glanced at Charles, noticing the haunted, wide-eyed stare. “Everything okay?”

Charles shook his head slowly. “Your opponent. He’s amazing. Do you know him?”

Lewis raised a brow, glancing over in the direction Charles had been staring. “Can’t say that I do. But anyone who pushes themselves like that… yeah. They’re someone to watch. I’ll probably be seeing a lot of him if he’s not a random player from elsewhere popping by.”

Charles nodded, still processing. The cheers continued around him, but in his mind, all that existed was the small, determined figure leaving the court. Pain, skill, perseverance… and an unspoken sense of intrigue that made Charles’s pulse quicken.

By the time the trophies were handed out, and the spectators began filtering out, Charles felt a strange mix of awe, frustration, and fascination. That mystery boy had a gravity that pulled at Charles.

Lewis clapped him on the shoulder as they walked to the bus stop. “Hey, baby bro. You’ve got that thoughtful look again. What are you thinking about?”

Charles hesitated, then allowed himself a small smile. “ I think I want to see him play again.”

Lewis smiled knowingly.

Chapter Text

The morning light spilled through the tall classroom windows, casting elongated rectangles across the desks and floors. It was Monday, which signals the start of the second week of school. Charles sat stiffly at his usual spot by the window, notebook open but largely untouched. The graphite on his pencil was barely pressed to the page. His mind kept drifting back to the tournament yesterday, to the boy he had watched, and now to the new reality that this boy would be part of his school, part of his daily world.

He fidgeted slightly, adjusting his backpack strap, then resettling, glancing at the clock. Ten minutes to the teacher’s arrival. The class chatter swelled with laughter, whispered arguments, and the low buzz of friends catching up after the weekend.

Then the door clicked, and everyone’s attention shifted. The teacher, clipboard in hand, stepped in with a briskness that commanded quiet almost immediately. “Good morning, everyone. Before we begin, I’d like to introduce a new student.”

A collective murmur rippled across the room. New students were always an event, a slight disruption to routine. Charles’ heart skipped a beat at the words.

“He’s joining us a week late due to administrative issues moving from the Netherlands to England. Please welcome Max. He’s not as acquainted with English as many of you, so be patient with him, and help him if he needs it.”

The door opened wider, and there he was. Max. Charles recognized him instantly, though his classmates had no idea. It was the boy from yesterday, the one from Lewis’s final match. Today, his blonde hair was neatly gelled today, but a few strands fell rebelliously across his forehead. His backpack was positioned just so, one strap over his shoulder, the other dangling slightly.

Charles caught the subtle tension in Max’s shoulders as he scanned the classroom, taking in the unfamiliar desks, the new faces, and the strange rhythm of English chatter. And then, for just a fraction of a second, their eyes met. Charles felt himself freezing all of a sudden.

“Max, you’ll be sitting here,” the teacher said, pointing to a desk in the middle row, next to George.

Charles swallowed hard, noting George’s immediate stiffening. George’s eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a tight line, the kind he reserved for anything that threatened the hierarchy he had established in the classroom.

Max eased into the seat, careful, almost hesitant. Charles could see the boy’s slight hesitation, the cautious way he placed his bag under the desk, the meticulous adjustment of his notebook. There was a fragility to him, but it was offset by the confidence in his stance, the steadiness of his grip on the pencil.

The lesson began, but the tension lingered. George’s glare was palpable. Every glance at Max was punctuated with subtle, sharp movements of disapproval, the occasional twitch of his mouth when Max asked a question or tried to clarify instructions.

“Hey,” Max said softly, a few minutes after settling down in his new seat, leaning slightly toward George. “My name is Max Verstappen. What’s yours?”

George’s smirk widened, and he leaned back, resting one arm on the desk in a deliberately casual way. “George Russell” His voice carried a mocking lilt, intentionally saying it in a way akin to how one would speak to a toddler.

 “Ge-or-ge Ru-ssel. Maybe I should slow down, so you can catch it.” He wasn’t being helpful. He was being patronising on purpose, and everyone could tell.

Charles’ stomach twisted. What George did was cruel, but it was quiet enough that it only reached the immediate group. Max’s face tightened imperceptibly. His lips pressed together, jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He nodded, then took out a notebook, writing, erasing, and rewriting, trying to keep his focus, to shield himself from the derision.

George leaned back further, satisfied with the effect. “Wow, this is going to be fun,” he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, but loud enough for Charles and the others to hear.

Alex, ever the loyal friend, chuckled softly, nudging George with an elbow. “Yeah… that’s… kind of funny.”

Charles froze. The words of his friends, the ease with which they fell in line, pressed down on him like a heavy weight. He wanted to defend Max. He should defend Max. But the fear—the gnawing, instinctive fear of being excluded—was louder than his conscience.

“Yeah…” Charles muttered finally, voice hesitant but betraying agreement. “I guess he’s… different.”

Pierre’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He didn’t add much. Just a quiet nod, an almost imperceptible gesture indicating that Charles’ agreement was enough. Lando, watching the exchange, grinned faintly and copied the nodded too, joining the chorus of quiet conformity.

Charles felt the weight of his choice settle like a stone in his chest. Max hadn’t done anything wrong. Max was just trying to be polite. And yet, here he was, being subtly mocked, subtly excluded, and Charles had, by the smallest of words, lent his own voice to the act.

The rest of the lesson passed in a tense blur. Max stayed quiet, occasionally scribbling onto his notebook, occasionally glancing at George’s smug expression with a flicker of discomfort that Charles couldn’t ignore. Every now and then, Charles caught himself staring at Max, guilt twisting in his stomach like a knot he couldn’t untie.

When the bell rang for lunch, the cafeteria was a chaotic whirl of trays, voices, and movement. Charles followed his friends toward their usual table, trying to shove down the discomfort gnawing at him.

“Man, that new kid,” George started as soon as they sat, voice carrying just enough to be audible over the clatter. “He’s… weird. That accent? Totally off. And he takes forever to read the instructions. I don’t even know why he’s in our class. He should be with the kindergarteners, with how illiterate he is.”

Alex folded his arms, nodding. “Yeah. Seriously. Kind of annoying.”

Charles felt a tightness in his chest, but he forced himself to nod. “Yeah… I guess he’s… different.”

Pierre shrugged, leaning back slightly. “He’s… alright, I guess. But different.”

Lando grinned faintly, copying Pierre’s motion. “If everyone thinks so, I guess I’m on board.”

Charles swallowed hard, forcing the words down as if they were edible, digestible. Inside, he hated himself. Max hadn’t deserved any of this. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was just here, trying to fit in, trying to find his place, and Charles had, in the quietest, most subtle way, helped exclude him.

But the fear of losing the fragile balance of friendship he had just begun to enjoy, the fear of being an outsider was louder than conscience, louder than empathy. Charles laughed at a sarcastic remark George made about Max’s reading speed, tried to match the others’ casual tones, but the laughter rang hollow in his ears.

Across the cafeteria, Max sat alone at a far table, quietly unpacking his lunch. Charles glanced at him fleetingly and looked down at his tray, guilt burning behind his ribs. How long he could keep pretending?

The bell for the afternoon lessons rang sharply, echoing across the emptying cafeteria. Charles and his friends trudged back to class, the chatter of the lunch crowd fading behind them. The first lesson of the afternoon was English, and Charles settled into his usual spot, glancing briefly at Max as he entered the classroom.

Max moved with careful precision, weaving between desks, setting down his bag, and sitting at the desk George had claimed as his domain. He didn’t make a fuss. He didn’t complain. He simply began organizing his notebook and stationery, his posture straight and disciplined, his gaze fixed on the teacher as she began the lesson.

Charles’ stomach tightened. He had a front-row view of Max’s quiet composure. It was impressive, almost intimidating, and yet it was paired with a vulnerability that tugged at something protective in Charles. He couldn’t look away.

George, predictably, leaned slightly toward Charles as soon as Max was seated. “Look at him pretending to be nonchalant.”

Alex snorted. “So stupid.”

Charles’ pencil hovered above his notebook. He wanted to say something. He wanted to defend Max, but the familiar knot of fear in his stomach reminded him of the precariousness of his position. He was part of the group now. He’d finally found a place where his voice mattered, where he wasn’t just the kid sitting on the sidelines. Speaking out for Max might jeopardize that.

So he said nothing.

Pierre, sitting diagonally across, glanced at Charles, then at George, then shrugged, the silent acknowledgement that he was following Charles’ lead enough to guide his own behavior. Lando, ever the observer, tilted his head slightly and mirrored the group, joining the quiet consensus.

Max raised his hand at one point, asking a question regarding the passage the teacher had them read that lesson. Charles could see the effort it took for him to form the words. George’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a thin smile.

“Oh… you mean… this?” George said, after the teacher finished answering, imitating Max’s pronunciation with exaggerated care. “Are you sure you understand English? Or do you need me to spell it out?”

Max’s face tightened slightly. He hesitated, then nodded politely, continuing his work without further comment. Charles felt a pang of guilt. Max wasn’t weak. Max wasn’t incompetent. He was simply learning.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. Charles annotated his text halfheartedly, glancing at Max, noticing how he concentrated, how he didn’t let George’s taunts affect him, or at least, he tried not to show it. It made Charles’ chest ache.

By the time Maths rolled around, Charles’ internal conflict had only grown. He sat behind George and Alex and Max, notebook open, pencil poised, and tried to focus. But he was mesmerised by how fast Max’s pencil seemed to glide across the notebook, doing maths so fast, as though he was just writing down his name.

George leaned over again, whispering harshly, “What a nerd. He’s pretending to be good at maths, but he’s literally just writing down random numbers. I bet they’re all wrong.”

Alex chuckled quietly, nodding. “Yeah. I bet he’s supposed to be in special needs or something."

Charles’ hands tightened around his pencil. The casual ease of the words coming out of their mouths made the words sting more than if they had been shouted. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the pressure of conformity weighed too heavily on him. To disagree meant standing alone. To agree meant survival.

And so he agreed.

“Yes,” Charles said softly, almost automatically. “I bet he’s actually older than us. Just retained because of his lack of intelligence.”

Pierre and Lando mirrored him immediately. The group’s consensus was solidified, their unspoken pact clear: Max was the outsider. Charles felt the knot in his stomach tighten further, a mixture of shame, fear, and helplessness.

When the bell finally rang for the end of lessons, Charles didn’t immediately pack up. He lingered, watching Max carefully pack his notebook, noticing how deliberate every movement was, how he avoided confrontation yet remained unbroken. Charles wanted to apologize. He wanted to explain. But the words caught in his throat.

Outside, the playground buzzed with the usual post-school chaos. Charles walked alongside George and Alex, their conversation a relentless stream of mockery and opinion about Max’s “weirdness.” Pierre and Lando chimed in here and there, laughing along, reinforcing the social hierarchy that Charles had just helped cement.

As he laughed at George’s jokes, nodded at Alex’s comments, and followed the group’s rhythm, he couldn’t escape the guilt gnawing at him.

Chapter Text

Max winced as he walked along the narrow streets toward the school, each step reminding him of the cramp still lingering in his left leg. It throbbed faintly, a stubborn reminder of yesterday’s tournament, but he had no choice. His dad had made it abundantly clear: no excuses, no shortcuts. No backing up. “Yielding because of a cramp is pussy behaviour,” he had said the day before. Now, Max’s backpack dug into his shoulders, heavy with books he hadn’t had time to organize, and his tennis bag swung awkwardly against his hip.

He paused at a street corner, asking a friendly-looking lady on directory to the school. He wasn’t allowed a phone as they were massive distractions, so asking for directions had been necessary, awkward, and humiliating. Every passerby seemed to be moving faster than him, their chatter and laughter highlighting his own isolation. Finally, after what felt like hours, but was only twenty minutes, he saw the gates of his new school school rising before him.

Panting slightly, he hurried to the office, the weight of expectation pressing down on his chest. A secretary glanced up from her desk, eyes flicking over him briefly. “You must be Max Verstappen,” she said, her tone polite but brisk. “Your teacher will come down and escort you to class.”

When the teacher appeared, a tall woman with calm eyes and a gentle smile, Max’s stomach did somersaults. She introduced herself quietly, and he nodded, repeating his own name with careful precision. Each syllable felt strange in the hall’s echoing silence.

The walk to his new classroom was torture. Each step was painful, both physically and emotionally. The unknown of what’s to unfold in mere minutes made his heart beat faster, a strange mixture of fear and adrenaline. He peeked around the corner as the door opened and froze. Kids already sat at desks, chatting and laughing. One of them looked and smiled at him.

A flicker of hope warmed Max briefly. Maybe they were friendly. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he feared.

He swallowed and walked to the first available seat, next to a boy who looked as if he owned the space already. “Hi, I’m Max,” he said softly, trying to meet George’s eyes.

The boy’s smirk widened, and he leaned back, resting one arm on the desk in a deliberately casual way. 

“George Russell” His voice carried a mocking lilt, intentionally saying it in a way akin to how one would speak to a toddler.

 “Ge-or-ge Ru-ssel. Maybe I should slow down, so you can catch it.” 

Max’s chest tightened. He forced his shoulders to relax and turned his gaze toward the desk. He would ignore it. He had done it before. Tuning people out was an art he had perfected over years, and he could do it again.

The lesson went on. Max scribbled notes, eyes darting to the blackboard, listening carefully, repeating phrases under his breath to anchor himself. Every so often, George would snicker, then repeated words he had said. Max’s fingers clenched around his pen, but he did not respond. Not yet. He couldn’t.

Lunchtime was a small mercy. With no packed food from home, he queued silently, collecting a tray of cafeteria food he barely recognized. Sitting alone at the far end of the hall, he felt the strange comfort of invisibility. Here, no one could judge him, no one could laugh at his accent, his slow reading, or the way he hesitated in conversation. He could eat, think, and breathe without interference.

But the bell rang too soon. English class awaited. Words tumbled in his head like slippery fish, sentences fracturing before they reached the page. George’s occasional snide comments didn’t help. Max recalled his father’s words: “If you don’t master English, even your tennis will mean nothing. You will fail.” The pressure crushed him inwardly, a familiar knot tightening in his chest.

Yet, when mathematics rolled around, the world seemed to align. Numbers didn’t lie. Problems could be solved. Equations could be manipulated, patterns recognized. Max felt alive in a way that no language lesson, no sneer from George, no mocking laugh could touch. He smiled quietly to himself, scribbling through exercises with an almost ecstatic precision.

But the group surrounding him was whispering. He could hear the words, the murmurs, and the snickers even through his focus. Max pretended not to notice. Let it slide. Ignore it. He had survived worse. But inside, the words stung, leaving tiny scratches he couldn’t show.

—------------------------------------------------

School ended, and he now had to walk to the tennis courts, trying not to limp too noticeably, trying not to draw attention, trying not to fail before even stepping on the court.

The walk to the school’s tennis court was long and filled with trepidation. Each stride reminded him of his father’s expectations, of the tournament yesterday, of his dad’s criticisms back home. 

When he finally arrived at the tennis centre, he was immediately greeted by chaos: confused and out-of-place newbies trying out for a place in the club, seasoned players stretching like they were playing for Wimbledon finals instead of a normal match against peers, balls bouncing across courts in precise rhythm. He slipped through the gates, trying to move unnoticed, but everyone’s eyes seemed to flicker in his direction. He hated that feeling.

“Hi! We played against each other yesterday.”

Max swallowed, grit his teeth, as a black boy jogged from the other end of the training centre. He nodded. He remembered him. He always remembered his opponents, especially good ones like this one.

“Are you trying out for the club? You must. I beg of you. We want to win the nationals this year, and you’ll be an asset.”

If he had not caught the attention of everyone before that, he had now. Everyone paused what they were doing, and began watching the interaction, murmuring to each other. 

Max’s heart skipped, then thudded in panic. All eyes on him, every movement scrutinized. He nodded curtly, forcing a tight-lipped smile. Yes. I’m trying out.

“That’s great. I’m Lewis. ” 

Lewis clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly but overpowering way, exuding effortless confidence. “Good,” Lewis said. “I’ll get a coach to come assess you. But you’re most likely already. This is just a formality.”

Max adjusted his grip on the racket, trying not to look too awkward standing there, everyone returning to their previous activities as his previous companion jogged away in search of a teacher.

Before long, his try-outs began. He was grouped with quite a few other students.Each student was called one by one to demonstrate serves, volleys, and footwork drills. Max hung back for a moment, taking in the chaos: older kids smirking at him, some whispering, others already flexing their skills with casual ease. He felt the familiar adrenaline. Pressure. Expectation. Anticipation.

When his turn came, he stepped onto the court with deliberate calm. The cramp suddenly went away from the adrenaline. Max bit his lips. Focus. He had to do well. He couldn’t afford otherwise. He reminded himself of the rules, the rhythms, the angles. Tennis was mathematics in motion. Predictable. Solvable. He could control this.

The coach, clipboard in hand, observed silently as Max served, returned shots, and moved with precision. Each swing of his racket was deliberate, his footwork sharp. His concentration was absolute. Around him, whispers started to rise: “Wow… he’s good.” “Where’s he from?” “I heard he’s so good, even Lewis recognises him!”

Max ignored them all. He kept his jaw tight, eyes on the ball, hands steady, each shot more confident than the last. There was no room for self-doubt here. This was his world: the court, the ball, the physics of movement.

After a particularly smooth rally, he felt a wave of quiet satisfaction. For the first time all day, he wasn’t thinking about George, English class, lunch, or his father. He was solving the problem in front of him, one shot at a time.

Then, there were no balls coming towards him anymore. 

He slowly left his locked-in state, finally paying attention to the coach he was previously rallying with.

The man was grinning.

Lewis, who Max now noticed was standing at the side of the court, wore a matching smile.

“Yeah. You’re definitely on the team. Come on, follow me to the locker room. Get dressed, and join in on today’s practice.”

Max nodded stiffly, trailing behind the more senior student.

This was it. He was on the team. He was one step closer to becoming number one on the professional circuit.

Max followed Lewis through the swinging doors into the locker room, the smell of sweat, fresh tennis balls, and disinfectant thick in the air. Lockers slammed, shoes squeaked against the polished floor, and chatter bounced off the walls. Max’s own heartbeat thudded in his ears, echoing the chaos around him.

He found an empty locker and set down his bag, hands trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the combination of relief and lingering anxiety. Lewis asked for his sports attire’s size, then pulled out a set of the team’s tennis kit, socks, and wristbands. Max brought his new gear to the changing room, exchanging the sports attire he was wearing with them. Meticulously, he folded his old clothes to put back into his school bag. Every motion was deliberate; everything had to be perfect. One mistake here, one slip, and it would matter. It always mattered.

He was greeted by Lewis, already dressed, upon leaving his changing cubicle, casually spinning a tennis ball in his hand. “Your trial went great,” he said lightly. “You handled yourself well out there.”

Max nodded, letting a small, almost imperceptible smile cross his face. Praise was rare, and he didn’t know how to handle it. “Thank you,” he said softly, voice almost lost in the locker room din.

As the other players trickled in, to change into proper tennis gear as actual training began, Max noticed them whispering, glancing at him, sizing him up. Some nodded politely, others shot quick looks of curiosity or skepticism. He ignored them all. There was no point. Here, the only thing that mattered was the game, and his body, mind, and racket were ready.

Practice began with stretching and agility drills. Max moved through them with calculated precision, his legs still tender but his movements fluid, almost instinctive. Lewis shot him a glance from across the court, eyes bright with amusement and approval.

“Keep your eyes up,” Lewis called during a drill. “Don’t let the ball dictate your rhythm. Anticipate, control, dominate.”

Max obeyed without hesitation. Tennis was control, and he would not give anyone, no matter coach, teammates, or his father the chance to see weakness.

Next came pair drills. Max was paired with another new member, a few years older than him, who smirked at him. The first few volleys were stiff, a little awkward, but Max adapted instantly, adjusting angles, timing his movements, predicting the boy’s responses. Whispers of “Wow… he’s unreal” floated across the court. Max ignored them, focused, and relentless.

By the time the scrimmage began, Max’s mind was locked in a rhythm that left nothing else in the world. Every serve, every return, every sprint across the court was calculated. He moved like someone who had trained his body and mind to anticipate every possible outcome. Even his cramp, a constant reminder of his father’s expectations, was gone beneath the surge of adrenaline and concentration.

Lewis, who had finished his own drills and was observing from the sidelines, shook his head with an impressed grin. “Kid’s good. Really good,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Max felt a small flicker of satisfaction. For once, the day hadn’t been about surviving ridicule or translating his thoughts into fractured English. It had been about him, his talent, his precision, his control. This—this was where he belonged.

When the scrimmage ended, the coach called the group together. Max stood, wiping sweat from his brow, trying not to look too eager. Lewis clapped him on the shoulder again, a silent affirmation.

“To every returning member from last year, welcome back,” the coach said. “And to Max and Carlos, welcome to the team.”

A wave of relief, pride, and determination hit Max all at once. He had survived the day. He had earned a place on the team. And now, the real work could begin.

As he left the court, Max felt a small, quiet thrill. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to imagine the future: grand slams. ATP finals. Olympic gold. Every step forward, every precise swing of the racket, was a step closer to becoming number one.

Even with his father’s shadow looming, even with the mean whispers and judgments, he was ready to claim his number one spot.

Chapter Text

Max’s shoes scuffed against the gravel driveway as he trudged up to the door, racket bag sliding from one sore shoulder to the other. The glow from the porch light spilled across the white stone, too bright, too sterile, like it belonged to a hotel instead of a home. He fished the key out of his pocket, shoved it into the lock, and pushed. The door swung inward with a sigh, heavy and mechanical, the kind of sound that always reminded him he lived in a house that was built to impress, not to be lived in.

The silence hit him first.

All the way home, he’d kept up this quiet excitement under his skin. He’d made the team. Not just squeaked in, either. He’d played hard and proven that he deserved a place. He’d even imagined saying it casually, throwing it out over dinner like it was no big deal. Yeah, I made the team. No, it wasn’t that hard. He wanted the reaction more than the words. He wanted to see the nod, the grunt, maybe a rare flicker of pride in his father’s eyes.

Instead, he was greeted with silence.

He dropped his bag by the door, the thump echoing back at him. The house seemed to mock him with the sound: large and cavernous, full of rooms that never had anyone in them. He kicked off his sports shoe and padded into the kitchen, already knowing what he’d find.

The counter was bare except for a note.

The handwriting was sharp, slanted, almost gouged into the paper:

Weekend in Monza. Focus on your training.

Max stared at it for a long moment. He didn’t need to ask what Monza meant. Another race, another weekend where the world came first and he came second. He ran his thumb over the paper, as if the message might change if he smudged the ink. But it stayed the same: cold, efficient, distant.

Of course. Formula One came first. It always did.

Max folded the paper once, twice, until it was just a hard little square pressed into his palm. He shoved it into his pocket like he could bury the disappointment with it. His throat was tight, like he’d been holding his breath since the courts.

He’d thought maybe tonight would be different. He thought his dad might have waited for his news before departing for race weekend.

He turned, leaning against the counter, letting the silence press in on him. The kitchen was spotless, untouched, like no one had eaten here in weeks. He thought about calling someone, but who? His mother was countries away, and probably could not give two shit about his life. His friends from school were… well, non-existent. 

Pathetic.

Max pushed off the counter and headed upstairs. His footsteps echoed against the high ceilings, bouncing back at him like reminders. Every step felt heavier, as though the house itself wanted to weigh him down. He reached his room, shut the door, and dropped onto the bed without bothering to change.

The racket bag dug into his side, but he didn’t move it.

He stared up at the ceiling. White, smooth, perfect. Like everything else in this place.

“What’s the use,” he muttered, “of such a big house when the only one listening to the news I wanted to share is the wall?”

His voice cracked. It sounded too loud in the stillness, so he whispered it again, softer this time.

He turned onto his side, grabbed his phone, and flicked through notifications. Nothing from his dad. Nothing that mattered. Out of habit, he pulled up a video of a tennis match highlights of yet another Sinner-Alcaraz grand slam final. 

The screen glowed against his face, blue light filling the dark room. It wasn’t company. Not really. But it was better than the silence.

He propped his chin on his hand, eyes burning from tiredness he refused to give in to. In his head, he heard himself say the words again, like a serve hit too hard:

“I made the team.”

They bounced off the walls and fell flat.

And that was the only answer he got.

Chapter Text

The morning air was already heavy with humidity by the time Charles arrived in class. The chatter of students swarmed around him like a tide, familiar and loud, each voice overlapping until it became the usual background hum. Normally, he would have joined Alex and Pierre in teasing Lando about his bed hair, or George about his obsession with polishing his tennis racket, but today his eyes were looking for someone else.

Max.

He spotted him near the bike racks. The boy with the too-serious eyes and hair that caught the sunlight in a way that made it look more gold than blond. He was pulling out his books, movements precise and quiet, like he wanted to take up as little space as possible.

Charles slowed his steps. He hadn’t meant to, but something inside him tightened. That match last weekend was still a thorn in his side, even if he had tried to ignore it.

Was Max the mystery boy?

He remembered the way the mystery boy had swung the racket. Calm, perfect, like the game bent to his will. Then he thought of Max, who sat stiff in class, who seemed smaller even though he was about average height, who had been the target of half their jokes last week. It didn’t fit.

George’s voice broke his thoughts. “Oi, Charles, hurry up.” George’s grin was already sharp this early in the morning. He slapped Charles’s back hard enough to sting. “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing.” Charles forced his legs to move. He didn’t look back at Max again.

Max walked the same path, a few steps behind, feeling their laughter scrape against his back like thorns. He’d hoped today might be different. 

He had made the competition team.

Maybe today would be better. Maybe people would notice him differently now.

As he climbed the stairs toward class, a shadow fell over him. George, with that smile that never meant anything good.

“You’re early,” George said. “Nervous for lessons?”

Max didn’t answer. He slid past him, heading for his desk.

But George’s words clung to him anyway, sticky and unpleasant.

The classroom buzzed with the usual Monday lethargy. Papers shuffled, chairs screeched against the floor, sunlight bled in pale rectangles across the tiled floor.

Max set his bag down beside his desk, carefully aligning it with the leg of the chair. He always did that. A tiny ritual to ground himself before lessons.

He pulled his chair back, ready to sit.

The chair vanished.

His body hit the floor with a thud, books tumbling from his arms, laughter detonating all around him. For a heartbeat, Max just stared at the ceiling, the sound of the class vibrating in his skull.

Then George’s face appeared above him, grinning down. “Careful, Verstappen. Gravity works fast.”

Max’s throat burned. He wanted to snap something back, but the words stuck, heavy as lead. Slowly, he picked himself up, brushing chalk dust from his elbows.

Someone muttered, “Can’t even sit right.”

Laughter again, sharp and easy.

Charles sat frozen at his desk. He hadn’t laughed. Not really. But he hadn’t spoken either. His chest felt tight, an ache spreading between his ribs. Max’s expression, blank, unreadable, like he had learned to wear silence as armor, unsettled him.

It could have been him. It should have been him. The mystery boy who had beaten him at the park had moved with that same quiet control.

But George had said Max was terrible at tennis last night. He practically spent the whole night ranting in the chat on how some people should never touch a tennis racquet to begin with. And George wouldn’t lie, not about that. Tennis was George’s kingdom, the one place he ruled without question.

Charles forced himself to relax into his chair. So it couldn’t have been Max.

The knot in his stomach loosened. At least, he pretended it did.

At break, Max found his tennis bag missing.

He searched the racks twice, checked under tables, even retraced his steps back to the corridor. Gone.

The others milled around, snacking, trading homework answers, talking too loudly. He felt invisible again, like his panic was nothing but smoke in the air.

Then he saw George, leaning casually against the back wall, Max’s bag slung over his shoulder like a trophy.

“Looking for this?” George called. His voice carried, and a couple of boys laughed.

Max walked toward him, each step heavy. “Give it back.”

“Relax, mate. I’m keeping it safe for you. Don’t want you losing your recreational gear, yeah?”

The words bit hard. Recreational. The word George had been spreading since this morning, or even before that. That Max had only scraped into the lowest group, that he wasn’t competition material, that the coach had only put him on court to make up numbers.

Max stared at him. He wanted to argue, to shout that he had made the team, that he deserved to be there. But the more he thought of saying it, the more he imagined their laughter ringing louder, drowning him out.

So he said nothing.

George finally tossed the bag onto the ground. “Don’t look so serious, mate. It’s just a joke.”

The class snickered.

Charles turned away. He didn’t want to see Max’s face when he picked the bag up from the floor.

By lunch, the rhythm of the classroom had settled into something Max could read like sheet music. George’s voice, always too loud. The bursts of laughter at his expense. The way his name was used like a punchline.

Max tried to fold himself into the background, but silence wasn’t a shield. It was a spotlight.

That afternoon, during French, the teacher asked Max to read aloud.

His accent snagged immediately. Dutch vowels caught in French consonants, the words sounding like they had been chewed through gravel.

Snickers started in the back row.

George grinned, muttering just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Can’t even speak his own sport’s language.”

Laughter rippled.

Charles’s mouth twitched. He didn’t mean to smile. He hadn’t wanted to smile . But it was easier than sitting in the heavy silence Max left behind, easier than acknowledging the way Max’s voice had faltered mid-sentence.

He told himself it wasn’t cruel, not really. Max didn’t even play proper tennis.

Later, walking home, Charles replayed the mystery boy’s movements in his head. The clean forehand, the impossible return. The certainty.

He imagined Max holding a racquet. He couldn’t picture it. He saw Max’s slouched posture, the awkward way he carried himself in PE, the quiet way he folded into corners like he was trying to disappear.

That wasn’t the boy from the tournament.

He told himself he had been wrong. That George was right.

Relief washed over him like warm water. If Max wasn’t the mystery boy, then his silence wasn’t guilt. Then Charles hadn’t ignored something important. Then Max was just… Max. A classmate. A convenient target.

And if everyone was laughing, what harm was there in laughing too?

The next morning, George “accidentally” knocked Max’s pencil case off his desk. Pens scattered across the floor, rolling under chairs.

“Oops,” George said. “Slippery hands.”

Max bent down quickly, shoulders tight, gathering them one by one. His ears burned. He could hear the chuckles starting already.

Charles hesitated. His throat clenched, a sharp ache pressing at the back of it. He could feel the weight of choice. He could ignore it, he could look away, or–

He laughed.

Not too loud. Not leading the charge. Just enough to blur into the chorus of voices around him.

George smirked, satisfied.

Max froze, just for a second. He didn’t look up. Didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. But something in the way his hands trembled as he shoved the last pen into the case told Charles he had noticed.

Not George’s smirk. Not the class’s laughter. His .

Chapter Text

The courts smelled of sun-baked asphalt and faintly of sweat, though it wasn’t even three yet. Max stood just outside the chain-link fence, his fingers tightening and loosening around the strap of his bag. His dad had always reminded him: don’t be late, make a good impression, they’ll be watching you.

He wasn’t late. He was early. And still, he felt like he’d shown up at the wrong place.

Inside the fence, the older boys already moved like they owned the space. Nico and Lewis were laughing at something Max couldn’t hear, their racquets tapping against their shoulders in time. Seb and Kimi were rallying in near silence, every shot smooth and controlled, like a language Max didn’t speak. Fernando stood at the service line feeding the other new guy, Carlos, balls, murmuring corrections, while Daniel, of course, was everywhere at once, bouncing on his toes, shouting, “Come on, mate, you’ve got that!” at whoever was closest.

Max hovered, his bag suddenly enormous against his back. Nobody turned to look at him. Nobody said hi.

Then Daniel spotted him. “Oi, baby prodigy’s here!” he called, grinning.

A few heads turned. Lewis gave Max the quickest of nods before Nico leaned in to say something, pulling him back into their own little world. Seb flicked his eyes over and then away again. Both Kimi and Fernando didn’t look at all.

Max forced his legs to move, stepping onto the court with what he hoped looked like confidence. It felt more like sneaking in.

“Alright,” Coach barked, clapping his hands. “New faces—this is Carlos Sainz. Thirteen. Good hand speed, big serve. This is Max Verstappen. Eleven. Phenomenal footwork, and not bad volleys. We’ll see what they can do. Pair up, stretch.”

That was it. No welcome. No space made for him. Just stretch.

The others dropped into easy routines with their partners. Max drifted to the edge of the line, copying what they did, bending down to touch his toes, rolling his shoulders back. His hamstrings screamed, but he didn’t dare stand up before anyone else.

He could feel the silence around him. Not true silence—Daniel was cracking jokes, Seb was muttering something to Kimi, Lewis and Nico’s conversation rose and fell like a tide—but silence for him.

The rally rotations started.

Max’s first partner was Daniel, and for a few minutes it was fine. Daniel chattered so much it didn’t matter if Max barely spoke. “Nice, mate! You’ve got snap on that forehand. Don’t let your wrist drop. Ah! Nearly! Nearly!”

But even Daniel’s eyes wandered. Halfway through, Seb mishit a shot that clipped the net cord, and Daniel doubled over laughing at him. Max smiled weakly, waiting, his racquet limp at his side, until Daniel remembered him again.

The rotation whistle blew.

Nico was next. Nico played with a clipped efficiency, sending balls back with surgical precision. He didn’t speak at all until Max dumped a return into the net. Then he sighed. Just sighed, long and sharp, and Max’s ears burned hotter than the sun.

Lewis followed. At least Lewis gave him one quick pointer. “Toss higher on the serve, you’ve got the motion”. But the moment Nico called his name, Lewis jogged away, not even finishing the drill.

Seb barely looked at him when their turn came. Kimi didn’t look at him at all.

The water break should have been a relief. Instead, it was worse.

The others collapsed into their pairs automatically, knees brushing, bottles swapping hands without thought. Lewis and Nico bent over the same phone screen, one earpiece shared between the two. Seb and Kimi sat shoulder to shoulder, murmuring quietly. Fernando rested an arm over Carlos’s back, conversing animatedly in Spanish.

Daniel stood for a moment like he might come over, but then someone shouted his name, and off he went, grinning.

Max sat alone on the bench. He twisted the cap of his water bottle until it squeaked. Took one sip, then another. Kept his eyes on the ground, because looking at the others felt like admitting something.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He was here to play. Not to sit. Not to make friends.

But his throat stayed tight, water catching at the back of it.

When the doubles games started, Max stood up, racquet ready. But Coach’s voice cut across the court.

“Verstappen. Bench. Watch and learn.”

The words landed like stones in his chest.

He clapped when someone hit a winner, quietly, just to prove he was part of it. Nobody turned. His hands stung where he gripped the racquet too hard.

And when it was all over, when the clusters of boys drifted off together still laughing, nobody said goodbye to him.

Max packed up slowly, one strap at a time, dragging out every second. Hoping.

Nothing.

The fence clanged shut behind him, and he walked home with the bag heavy on his back.

I thought joining the team would fix things, he told himself. But here, I’m still on the outside. Just like in class.

Then, sharper, meaner: Fine. They’ll see. They’ll have to. I’ll prove myself, and they won’t have a choice.

Max slung his tennis bag over his shoulde. The sun was low, the streets washed in orange light, and kids his age were walking in pairs or threes, laughing about something he couldn’t hear. He didn’t have anyone to walk with, so his footsteps were the only sound he carried with him.

Every now and then he shifted the strap of his bag because it bit into his shoulder. It wasn’t far to the house, but the silence stretched the distance longer. At least when his dad was home, there’d be someone to tell about the new drills, or about how fast Nico’s serve was, or how Daniel had cracked some stupid joke mid-practice.

But the house was dark when he reached it, every light off, every window blank. Dad was still gone. Max unlocked the door and stepped inside, greeted only by the hollow echo of his own footsteps.

He trudged upstairs, set his homework on the desk, and told himself he was fine. He had been fine walking to school alone, fine eating lunch alone, fine ignoring George’s taunts. Fine being in practice alone. But as he lay back on the bed, ceiling staring down at him, he wondered how long “fine” could hold out.

Chapter Text

Charles has not gotten used to how warm the Wolff house felt at dinnertime even after almost a month officially living with them. It wasn’t just the smell of garlic and olive oil clinging to the air, or the heavy clatter of pans still cooling on the stovetop. It was the noise. Real, living noise. Chatter spilling from the kitchen to the dining room, voices bouncing off each other before they had time to settle.

In this house, dinner was an event. Susie would insist everyone sit down at once. Nico (who had begun sleeping over more often than not, now that school has started) and Lewis would argue about who had set the table worse. Toto would usually stride in last, like a general surveying his troops, only to be cut down to size when Susie raised an eyebrow at him for forgetting the salad bowl.

Charles liked it. No. He loved it. Even if he sometimes felt like a guest hovering on the edges, not quite sure where to insert himself into the constant hum, he loved it.

Tonight was no different, other than the fact that Toto was away for Monza.

“Charles, darling, could you pass me the parmesan?” Susie asked, already reaching for the salad tongs in the same breath.

“Oui. Ah, yes.” Charles corrected himself quickly, cheeks heating, and slid the bowl across. He liked that Susie always asked him for things, even though she could have asked Lewis or Nico more easily. It made him feel noticed.

Nico, halfway through loading his plate with pasta, smirked. “He’s gonna eat all the cheese himself if you’re not careful.”

“I am not!” Charles protested, but Lewis was already laughing.

“He is. You weren’t here that night, but you should have seen him that time. Like half the block gone.”

Charles ducked his head, smiling despite himself. They weren’t being mean. Not like how George acted to that weird Max kid sitting in front of him. This was different. It was teasing that left him warm instead of hollow.

Susie cleared his throat then, commanding the table without needing to raise her voice. “So. Tennis trials. How are they going?”

The shift was instant. Lewis and Nico both straightened like the question was an opening serve, and Charles instinctively sat up too, listening.

Nico jumped in first, as always. “Really good. We’ve probably already won the nationals, honestly. The coach said we have a real shot this year. That means we’re super good, in coach lingo.”

Lewis rolled his eyes. “He said you had to work on your backhand.”

“Still very good!” Nico shot back, grinning. “Anyway, there’s this boy. Charles’ age, I think. He’s really, really good. Not as good as me, of course.”

Charles’s fork paused midair.

Lewis leaned in, serious now. “He’s quiet, though. Doesn’t say much. But he’s clearly talented. His strokes are clean, his footwork’s fast. He knows what he’s doing.”

Susie hummed approvingly. “That’s promising. Maybe he’ll push all of you both to work harder.”

“What’s his name?” Charles asked, though he knew it was definitely George.

Kimi shrugged. Sebestian answered, “Don’t know yet. Haven’t talked to him. But we will. He seems cool.”

And just like that, Charles’s heart leapt. He knew who they meant. It had to be George. Who else fits so perfectly? George, who never stopped reminding Charles that he was good at tennis, that he’d been top of his age group. George, who went quiet around new people sometimes but always warmed up once you knew him. George, who has claimed that he was played in the competition team, the one his brothers were all in.

Charles’s chest swelled with a mix of pride and relief. His brothers noticed George. His friend wasn’t just talk. He was proving himself.

“I think I know who it is,” Charles blurted before he could stop himself.

“Who?” Nico asked, curious.

Charles froze, fork halfway to his mouth. Should he say? What if he was wrong? His cheeks heated under the weight of their eyes, and he chickened out. “Never mind.” He shoved the pasta into his mouth instead.

Susie gave him a soft smile, the kind that made him feel less stupid. “Well, whoever it is, I hope you’re all kind to him. It can be hard, being the new one.”

Charles nodded quickly, too fast. The words sank into him anyway, warm and heavy.

He didn’t even taste the rest of dinner. All he could think about was tomorrow, when he’d tell George. He could already imagine the look on his friend’s face when he heard that Charles’s brothers thought he was good. And George would most definitely light up, hearing Lewis admit that he’s good.

Chapter Text

Charles had been waiting all morning for the right moment. The words sat on his tongue like a secret too delicious to keep, and every time George leaned across his desk to whisper something or laugh with Lando, Charles’s chest tightened with anticipation. Soon. He would say it soon.

Math was a blur. Numbers were dancing without meaning as Charles rehearsed lines in his head. Lewis and Nico think you’re good. My brothers noticed you. Lewis said your footwork was fast. He had replayed that dinner conversation so many times that it had begun to sound like a trophy, one he could hand to George as proof that his friend really was everything he said he was.

By the time the bell rang for English, he couldn’t hold it in anymore. The class was noisy, chairs scraping, pages flapping, the teacher not yet arrived. George sat slouched in his seat, Lando perched sideways on the next desk, Alex spinning a pen like he was born to do it. They looked like they owned the room. Charles needed to put George in the spotlight.

“My brothers talked about you last night,” Charles blurted before his courage failed.

The words cut through the chatter like chalk screeching against a blackboard. George froze, then turned his head sharply. “What?”

Charles’s cheeks flushed, but there was no going back now. He straightened his spine, trying to sound casual. “At dinner. Nico and Lewis. They said there’s this boy, my age, who’s really good at tennis. Quiet. Talented. They were impressed.”

For one heartbeat, George’s smirk faltered. His eyes flickered, just briefly, with something Charles couldn’t name: fear? Realisation? But then it was gone, replaced with his usual grin, wide and sharp.

“Oh,” George said smoothly, stretching the word as though it were obvious. “Yeah. That’s me.”

Lando laughed, quick and delighted. “Knew it! Told you George is the best.”

“Best in our year,” Alex added, nodding.

Charles felt warmth bloom in his chest, relief mixing with pride. See? He hadn’t been wrong. George deserved this recognition. His brothers had seen it, even from afar. He’d been right to believe in him.

But George was still looking at him, too hard, too fixed. And Charles, sensitive to every flicker, thought: why does he look… nervous?

George recovered quickly, though. By the time the teacher arrived and class settled, he had already begun weaving the compliment into his usual persona, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Lewis Hamilton himself,” George said during group work, his voice carrying across the rows. “Said I had clean strokes, fast footwork. Not surprised, really. But nice to have it confirmed.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, wearing the expression of someone trying to look bored with his own greatness. Lando laughed dutifully, Alex shook his head in mock disbelief, and Charles… Charles smiled, small and private, proud of his friend for once again proving himself.

But one desk over, Max’s grip on his pencil tightened.

Lewis Hamilton didn’t say that about him. Max had been there. He had seen Lewis’s smile, had felt that approving clap on his shoulder. He’d earned it. Yet here was George, stealing it. Twisting it into a crown and wearing it like he’d been born with it.

George caught Max’s glare and smirked wider. “What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Jealous, little Maxie? Don’t worry. Not everyone’s cut out for the competition team. Recreational’s fine for you.”

The words landed like stones. 

Max’s jaw tightened. “I’m not in recreational,” he muttered.

George leaned forward, lowering his voice but ensuring the nearby desks could still hear. “Please. You think the competition team has a place for someone like you?”

A sharp laugh rippled through Lando and Alex, and Charles, though silent, felt the sting of unease settle in his stomach. Something about George’s tone was wrong. Too pointed. Too cruel.

Max sat back, trying to steady his breathing. He had promised himself he wouldn’t rise to it. But George kept going, relentless, pressing every bruise.

“You’ll never get their attention. Not Lewis. Not Nico. Not anyone. You’ll always just be… recreational.”

The class tittered. Max’s fingers curled into fists. The calm he’d carried on the tennis court just last weekend felt far away now, drowned beneath the hot flush of anger.

“Shut up,” he snapped, louder than intended.

The room stilled.

George grinned like he’d been waiting for this. “Or what?”

Max’s pulse hammered in his ears. He knew he should look away, let the heat simmer out before it consumed him. That was what he had trained himself to do: ignore, endure, survive. But George’s smirk. That smug, superior curve of his mouth snapped something sharp inside him.

“I said shut up,” Max repeated, his voice low this time, dangerous in its steadiness.

The class held its breath.

George leaned back in his chair, utterly unbothered. “You’re really going to get angry, Maxy? Over facts? Look, some people are born with talent. Others,” He gestured lazily at Max. “they just aren’t.”

A ripple of laughter went through the group. Lando snorted. Alex grinned. Even Charles forced a weak chuckle, though it lodged like a stone in his throat.

Max stood up so fast his chair screeched against the floor. The sound cut the room like a blade. His fists were tight, his eyes burning with something half-terrifying.

“You want to see talent?” Max’s voice cracked, raw. “I’ll show you talent.”

George’s smirk faltered, just a fraction. “What are you gonna do? Swing a racket at me?”

Max didn’t think. He shoved George’s desk hard, sending his books sliding to the floor. Gasps erupted across the room.

George shot up immediately, shoving Max back. “Don’t touch my stuff!”

And then it spiraled. Fast. Too fast.

Max lunged. George shoved harder. Desks screeched and tipped, pencils scattered, and soon fists were flying, clumsy and furious, the kind of fight that was more about rage than skill. George’s friends surged forward instinctively, Lando grabbing Max’s arm, Alex yelling encouragement, Charles frozen in his seat, horrified.

But Max fought like someone who had been cornered too many times before. Every push he gave carried the weight of yesterday’s whispers, today’s humiliation, and years of his father’s voice drilling into him: don’t back down.

“Stop it!” the teacher shouted, rushing to separate them. But by then it was already chaos: Max against George, against the group, against the whole weight of being the outsider.

It ended with chairs toppled, papers strewn everywhere, and Max breathing hard, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead as the teacher dragged him back by the arm. George’s lip was split, his shirt rumpled, but he still wore that same smile. Triumphant, poisonous.

“You’re finished,” George hissed mockingly under his breath.

The word echoed in Max’s skull as the teacher barked, “Principal’s office. Now. All of you.”

The principal’s office smelled of paper and coffee that had been reheated one too many times. The fight had left Max’s knuckles raw, a faint sting every time he flexed his hands. He sat stiff in one of the too-big chairs, school bag dumped at his feet like discarded evidence.

George lounged across from him, arms crossed, lip still bleeding but with the air of someone who knew victory was inevitable. Around them, the others fidgeted. Charles was chewing the inside of his cheek. Lando was tapping his foot. Alex whispered too loudly about how “mad their parents are going to be.”

The door opened, and the first wave of parents swept in.

Mrs. Russell arrived brisk and furious, her heels clicking like a gavel. “George! What is this? Fighting? At school?”

George ducked his head just enough to look contrite, though his eyes gleamed sideways at Max. “He started it, Mum.”

Max clenched his fists tighter, nails digging into his palms.

Next came Lando’s father, trying not to look embarrassed as he shook the principal’s hand, muttering apologies. Then Alex’s mum, flustered, red in the face. The room filled with reprimands, disappointed sighs, clipped voices scolding their sons.

Charles’s turn came last. Susie walked in with the same calm authority she carried at the Wolff dinner table, her presence making the whole office seem to shift. She gave Charles one look. Not sharp. Just knowing. And he wilted.

Through it all, Max sat silent. Waiting.

The principal cleared his throat. “And… What about young Max’s parents?” He glanced at the secretary, who shook her head. “His father hasn’t responded.”

A pause followed, heavy and awkward.

George leaned back in his chair, voice pitched just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Guess he doesn’t care.”

Max’s jaw tightened.

George smirked, turning toward him. “Or maybe… he doesn’t have anyone. Are you an orphan or something?”

The words cut deeper than any shove. The office erupted. A teacher scolded George for the cruelty, parents tutting. Alex snickered until his mum elbowed him.

But it was Charles who reacted hardest. The word “orphan” hit him like a punch to the chest. His stomach dropped, and suddenly all he could see was himself. All alone in that orphanage, before Toto and Susie and Lewis and Seb and Kimi. The ache of it, the way loneliness sat in his bones, came flooding back.

He stared at Max, who didn’t flinch, didn’t rise, didn’t even blink. Max just stared straight ahead, jaw locked, eyes ice-cold.

And for the first time, Charles wondered. He wondered not who Max was, but what it felt like to live like that.

The principal slammed his folder shut. “Enough. All of you are suspended for three days. And if there’s another incident like this, it’ll be on your disciplinary records. Do I make myself clear?”

A muttered chorus of “yes” followed.

But Charles didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on Max, and the way silence seemed to wrap around him like armor.

The bell had already rung by the time the group was released. The corridor outside the office was half-empty, just a few stragglers hurrying back to class.

George strutted out first, chin lifted like suspension was a medal of honor. Lando and Alex trailed after him, whispering like they were already plotting how to spin the fight into a story that made them look cooler. Charles followed, but slower, the weight of what he’d heard still pressing down on his chest.

Max came last. He didn’t hurry, didn’t drag his feet either. Just walked, steady and silent, like none of this mattered. His schoolbag hung off one shoulder, strap digging into his shoulders.

“Three days off,” Lando snorted. “Sick. Free holiday.”

George shoved him lightly, but grinned. “I heard our high scores in the arcade has been beaten. I want to reclaim my glory.”

“Speak for yourself,” Alex muttered. “My mum’s gonna murder me.”

George only grinned. “Worth it.” He glanced sideways at Max, then added loud enough for everyone to hear. “At least your parents care enough for you to have to worry about what they think.”

Max didn’t react. He just kept walking.

But Charles felt it, sharp in his chest. The word “orphan” still rang in his ears, and the way George said it just now, so casual yet so cruel, made his stomach turn.

“George, enough,” Charles blurted before he could stop himself.

The others looked at him, surprised. George arched a brow. “What? It’s true. He hasn’t got anyone.”

Charles opened his mouth, then closed it again. What was he supposed to say? That he knew what it felt like? That George was wrong, that Max probably did have someone, even if they weren’t here today? The words stuck, tangled up with the ghost of his own past.

Max walked ahead, expression unreadable. For a moment, Charles thought he’d turn, say something, acknowledge the defense. But he didn’t. He just kept going, shoulders squared against the world.

George smirked. “See? He doesn’t even deny it.”

The laughter rose, but Charles didn’t join in. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the floor.

Something was shifting. He could feel it, like a hairline crack running through the group he’d always thought was unbreakable. And at the center of it was Max. Silent, unflinching, and carrying something Charles was only beginning to recognize.

Loneliness.

The sun was already low by the time Max left school, shadows stretching long across the pavement. He walked quickly, head down, the straps of his bag biting into his shoulders. The streets were busy with people returning home, kids weaving between their parents, the air heavy with the smell of fried food drifting from corner stalls.

Max didn’t stop. Didn’t look. He kept moving, block after block, until the noise thinned and the houses grew taller, bigger, colder. His father’s house stood at the end of the lane like a fortress: white cement walls, heavy gates, sharp edges where no flowers grew.

He slipped inside. The silence swallowed him whole.

The living room lights were off. His footsteps echoed faintly against the tile, each one reminding him that no one was waiting. 

He set his bag down carefully by the stairs and looked around. The house was spotless, too spotless. His father’s rules demanded order: no shoes out of place, no dishes in the sink, no mess that could be interpreted as weakness.

Upstairs, the bed was already made. He lay down fully clothed, staring at the ceiling, the knot in his chest tightening. Tomorrow would come, and he’d have to survive it the same way as always. Alone.

Across town, the Wolff house was alive.

Charles sat squeezed between Kimi and Seb at the dinner table, the air thick with garlic and olive oil, laughter bouncing against the walls. 

Seb was recounting something ridiculous from chemistry lab, Lewis cutting in every few seconds to correct him, both of them talking over each other until Susie raised an eyebrow and they quieted immediately.

Charles laughed when they laughed, chimed in when he could, but mostly he listened. To the noise, to the warmth, to the way this house felt nothing like the one he grew up in. Probably nothing like Max’s either, he mused.

Still, George’s words from earlier pressed at him. Don’t even have anyone.

Charles twirled his fork in silence, his chest heavy. He wanted to tell someone, maybe Susie, that it wasn’t fair. That they shouldn’t have said that. That he knew what it was like.

But instead he smiled when Susie offered more cheese and nodded when Seb elbowed him about getting pasta sauce on his sleeve.

The laughter filled the room again. Charles let it wash over him, warm but not quite reaching the quiet ache in his chest.

Chapter Text

The smell of pancakes was the first thing Charles noticed when he padded into the kitchen in his socks. Sweet, buttery, warm, so unlike the stale cereal boxes that had been his only option for years before the Wolffs. He slid into one of the long wooden chairs, still in his pajamas, hair sticking out at odd angles. Susie had set a plate in front of him without a word, the stack of golden pancakes already glistening with syrup.

For a moment, Charles allowed himself to relax. He forked a bite, sweet and fluffy on his tongue, and sighed. No rushing, no uniform, no heavy schoolbag. It almost felt like a holiday.

The peace lasted three minutes.

Kimi appeared first, blazer half-buttoned, hair still damp from his shower. He stopped short at the sight of Charles hunched over his plate. His face didn’t move, but the single raised eyebrow was enough.

“Why are you not dressed?”

Charles froze mid-bite. “…I don’t have school today,” he said quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

Seb followed, knotting his tie in the doorway. He blinked. “Since when?”

Charles’s cheeks warmed. He glanced down at his pancakes. “Since… yesterday.”

Lewis and Nico burst in next, mid-argument about someone stealing the other’s socks, their voices bouncing off the walls. They stopped when they saw Charles in pajamas. Lewis tilted his head, suspicious.

“You’re not going to school?”

Charles stabbed his fork into the syrup, muttering, “No. I got suspended.”

The word dropped like a stone.

Nico let out a bark of laughter. “You? Suspended? Not even halfway through the first month and you've gotten a suspension already? What did you do, try to sneak extra cheese into your desk?”

Seb snorted. “He probably corrected the teacher’s French.”

Kimi sat down across from Charles, deadpan. “So. What did you really do?”

Charles shifted in his seat, stomach tight. Images flashed: Max shoving George’s desk, the fists, the shouts, the word orphan like a blade through the air. He pushed his pancake around with his fork. “There was… a fight. I didn’t fight. But I was there. So… they suspended me too.”

That shut them up.

For once, Lewis wasn’t joking. He slid into the chair beside Seb, frown deepening. “Who fought?”

Charles’s fork hovered over his plate. “…Max Verstappen. And George Russell.”

The names rippled across the table. Seb and Kimi exchanged a look. Lewis whistled low.

Lewis leaned forward, sharp now. “Max?”

Charles nodded, confused why his brother was more interested in the one not as good in tennis.

He looked at Lewis sitting back slowly, brows furrowed, as if turning over a thought he wouldn’t say aloud.

Charles tried to return to his pancakes, but they no longer tasted sweet.

Max wandered through the living room, half-looking, half-feeling his way along the edges of furniture. The shadows stretched long across the floor as the sun rose up, the quiet pressed against him again. It was the kind of quiet that made your own heartbeat sound like a drum in a cathedral. He dropped his bag in the corner and ran a hand over the sofa cushions, imagining that somewhere beneath them, something could break the stillness. A voice, a step, or a yell.

But nothing came.

He found himself in the kitchen, staring at the fridge as though it might offer a distraction. He opened it, sighed at the plain bottles of juice and neatly stacked leftovers, then closed it without touching anything. Food felt heavy, unnecessary. Energy was better spent elsewhere.

Out back, he spotted his shadow stretching across the tennis court, long and thin in the morning light. He picked a racket out of the shed and popped a new can of balls open. He was suspended already, might as well make full use of these three free days.

He started with serves again, slower this time, deliberate, almost meditative. Each thwack of the ball against the wall was steady, grounding. He thought about George’s shove yesterday, the way it had knocked the air out of him. He could still feel the sting in his calf, the ache that radiated up his leg. But here, on the court, he could make the world obey. He could control the pace, the strength, the rhythm.

After a while, his swings became less about practice and more about something else. A release, a soft anger that had nowhere else to go. Each hit of the ball was a small rebellion, a quiet defiance against the storm that lived in the house when Jos was home. Max didn’t think about what he would do if his father walked in. He didn’t want to think. He just hit, over and over, until the once young light dimmed once again before creeping away, shadows of the harsh concrete swallowing the court whole.

Finally, he let the racket fall, resting it against the bench. His shirt was soaked through, his chest heaving, and his calf throbbed like a reminder of yesterday. He collapsed onto the court, staring up at the sky, dimming from gold to bruised purple.

He was alone, and it was perfect. Terrifying, yes, but perfect. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, Max could feel a small pulse of something like freedom. Fragile, fleeting, but his. And for now, that was enough.

He rubbed his calves and massaged his shoulders, then glanced at his books again. Tomorrow, he will do more. Maybe he could catch up on English. Maybe physics wouldn’t be so grueling if he had a clear head. Maybe, just maybe, he could make these suspension days count.

And as he closed his eyes, the quiet of the outside wrapped around him like a soft blanket. It was heavy, but it was his.

Chapter Text

The arcade swallowed them in color and noise the second the glass door swung shut. Lights pulsed. Bells chimed in uneven rhythms. Somewhere, a dance pad thumped like a heartbeat. Suspension had carved a gap in the day, and they were determined to fill it with tokens and sugar.

“Straight to the cars,” Charles said, already weaving through the crowd. Lando darted past him with a whoop, George followed at a swaggering jog, and Alex and Pierre brought up the rear, laughing at the unnecessary sprint.

They tumbled into four seats. Plastic wheels, squeaky pedals, the kind of fake bucket seats that tried to look serious. Lando cracked his knuckles like a showman.

“Winner names the high score,” he announced.

“Loser buys the sour gummies,” Alex replied, calm as a spreadsheet.

“I am not losing,” George said. He tugged the seat forward until his knees almost touched the dash. “This is my track.”

“You say that about every track,” Pierre murmured, soft and amused. He adjusted his mirrors out of habit, even though they were decals.

The count-in flashed. Beeps. Lights. Go.

Charles settled in. His hands were steady on the wheel, his breathing even. Lando drove like he was trying to outrun a storm, twitchy and fearless. Alex was precise, saving speed through the corners. George threw the car into every apex like a dare.

They were loud and ridiculous, shouting through the hairpins, groaning at traffic, yelling when Lando skimmed a barrier and somehow kept going. Pierre stood just behind them now, one hand on Charles’s seat, coaching in a quiet stream.

“Lift sooner. Now. Good. Eyes up.”

Final lap. Three of them split by tenths. George went for a move that never existed, clipped a backmarker, and spiraled into a ghostly spin.

“Rigged,” he said at once, then laughed at himself.

Charles and Lando drag-raced to the line. The checkered flag pixelated across the screen. Charles by a nose.

He leaned back, grinning, chest lifting with a win that felt like air. Lando ripped off his seat belt that never buckled anyway and pointed at the name entry.

“Do not put CHAR,” Lando said. “It’s so boring.”

Alex leaned on the cabinet and thought for two seconds. “CH4,” he suggested. “Looks cooler.”

Pierre nodded. “Or CHL, like chill, because you were actually calm for once.”

Charles typed CL16. George made a big show of rolling his eyes, then bumped their shoulders one by one as if he could pass the loss on by contact.

They drifted to skee-ball next. Lando went first, hurling the first two too hard, then finding the arc and landing a clean 50. George tried to copy the motion and clipped the rim every time. Alex kept a quiet rhythm and stacked points like they were always meant to be his.

When George finally nailed a 100 and crowed like he had found gold, Charles whooped and pulled him into a clumsy side hug. Pierre tore a strip from a paper ticket and tied it around George’s wrist like a bracelet.

“For bravery,” Pierre said. “And no more shots at the ceiling.”

They shared a soda and a pile of fries at a sticky table. Lando blew the straw wrapper at Alex, who caught it midair without looking and tucked it under George’s new ticket bracelet. Someone’s phone buzzed. Charles glanced down and saw Susie’s name on the screen.

Where are you?

His smile dipped for a heartbeat, and quickly typed “coming home soon”. Alex saw it. He nudged the pile of tokens closer to Charles.

“One more set before we go,” Alex said. “You promised you’d teach me that line through the chicane.”

Lando clocked the shift and stood up fast. “Yeah, and I am taking the dance pad crown before we leave. You can be my moral support, Charles.”

Pierre was already at the prize counter, buying a bottle of water and a tiny keychain shaped like a steering wheel. He dropped the water in front of Charles and clipped the keychain to his own belt.

“You looked thirsty,” Pierre said. “And I like tiny wheels.”

They tried the claw machines next. Lando insisted he could read the swing, then misjudged it twice and pretended that had been part of the plan. Pierre claimed the machines were on a payout cycle, then lost three attempts anyway and laughed so hard he had to lean on Alex.

Alex, patient, watched the claw for a full minute, then placed it where the plush’s weight sat, not where its head looked easy. The claw closed, lifted, wobbled, and held.

He turned with the prize, a small green turtle, and handed it to George.

“For the bracelet,” Alex said. “They match.”

George placed the turtle on his shoulder like a parrot and refused to take it off.

After that, George decided that he himself should, too, try the claw machine.

But to no avail.

As yet another keychain dropped from the clamps, George groaned dramatically. “That’s the third time! This is such a fraud.”

“Told you,” Pierre snickered.

Charles was too busy laughing at the sight of George hopping from machine to machine, spending his tokens like he had a bottomless wallet. The lights, the music, the way they shoved each other just to annoy was chaotic, but it was theirs. Suspension had been humiliating, sure, but at least they had each other.

Then a voice came from behind them. “Well, well, well. Look who we’ve caught red-handed.”

The five of them froze. Charles turned slowly and felt his stomach drop. Standing near the entrance, half in shadow from the neon glow, were Lewis, Seb, and Kimi. Nico lingered a step behind, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Uh…” Alex blinked. “Hi?”

Lewis crossed his arms, trying to look stern, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Mon and dad would be thrilled to hear about how you’re spending your suspension.”

Charles immediately panicked. “No! Don’t tell them! We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re just, you know, practicing… hand-eye coordination!” He gestured desperately at the claw machine.

Kimi raised an eyebrow in that classic, unimpressed way. “Hand-eye coordination,” he repeated flatly, as if Charles had just claimed the earth was flat.

Pierre jumped in, grinning sheepishly. “Technically, he’s not wrong. Look, watch– ” He yanked the lever, missed completely, and the claw dropped onto empty air. “…Okay, maybe not the best example.”

Sebastian chuckled, nudging Kimi. “They’re harmless. Honestly, I’d rather Charles go spend some tokens here than blow our house apart.”

Lewis glanced at Charles again, and his expression softened. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna snitch. But you owe me one.”

Nico leaned forward, smirking. “Maybe two. It depends on how annoying you lot are about it.”

Charles groaned, but relief washed over him as the older boys walked away, still teasing each other in that effortless way older siblings did. The younger four stood in silence for a moment before Lando broke it with a grin.

“Well. That was terrifying.”

“Yeah,” George muttered. “But also… kinda lucky.”

“Very lucky,” Charles agreed, though he was already dreading how much leverage his brothers and Nico now had over him.

The moment passed, and soon they were back at it, laughing too loudly, pushing too hard, daring each other to win the biggest plush in the arcade.

On the dance game, Lando went full hurricane and somehow hit half the steps. Charles refused with mock dignity until Pierre stepped onto the other pad and chose a slower song. They moved together, small and in time, and it felt like being let in on a quiet joke.

When the music surged into a fast section, Lando slid across, joined halfway, and turned the last bars into a chaotic trio. George filmed and heckled and cheered all at once.

“You all look ridiculous,” he said, beaming.

They circled back to the racers for a final heat. This time Alex won. He did not celebrate loudly. He just looked very pleased, and everyone else made noise for him. Lando draped himself across Alex’s shoulders like a cape. George bowed in an exaggerated show of respect. Pierre tapped the corner of the screen.

“AA23,” Pierre said. “Your name belongs up there.”

At the counter, they pooled tickets. Lando wanted the giant neon foam sword. George petitioned for a blind box “because mystery is elite.” Alex pointed at a multipack of mechanical pencils. Charles picked a bunch of coke. When the cashier told them the total, Pierre split it evenly without being asked.

They left with the foam sword, the grab bag, the pencils, the bottles of coke, and a strip of sour gummies that Lando had negotiated as a “group loyalty discount.” Outside, the late afternoon heat felt soft after the neon.

“Race you to the bus stop,” Lando said, sword over his shoulder.

“No more racing,” Alex said, but he smiled.

George walked in the middle, nudging them apart and back together like a sheepdog. He bumped his turtle with one finger, checked the time, and glanced at Charles.

“It’s seven already.” George said. “Let’s meet again tomorrow. And if anyone asks, we were revising. Chapter’s called Applied Physics of Reaction Times.”

“Group project,” Lando added. “Very academic.”

Charles snorted. “You are all terrible at lying,” he said.

“We are excellent at loyalty,” Pierre said.

They fell into step, shoulders knocking, sword bobbing, turtle riding high. They talked about the next time, about beating CL16 and AA23, about whether the claw machines really had payout cycles, about nothing important and everything that mattered.

At the corner, they split, each boy drifting toward home with a pocket lighter than before and a head full of noise that felt like a shield. Charles checked the time again and picked up his pace. He probably needed to be home soon. He still had brothers who would ask where he had been.

But for the space between the door chime and the street, he had been part of something that asked nothing of him except to show up, steer hard, and laugh.

And that felt like winning.

Chapter Text

On the Sunday between the second and third day of suspension, Max found himself sprawled on the sofa, legs dangling off the edge. A tennis racket leaned against the wall by the door, proof of how he’d spent the past two days trying to beat exhaustion into his body. His shoulders still ached, wrists sore, but stopping meant thinking, and he couldn’t afford that.

He picked up the remote almost without deciding to, like muscle memory. The screen blinked to life, flooding the quiet room with noise. A flash of scarlet cars under the September sun, commentators’ voices tumbling over one another, the sweep of Monza’s track. Max froze. His throat tightened.

It was the Italian Grand Prix.

And there, slipping into the Ferrari cockpit with a sharp tilt of his helmet, was Jos. His father. His jawline harsh as ever under the camera, his movements efficient, confident, untouchable. The commentators were already saying his name with reverence, as though they knew how this race would end.

Max leaned forward until his knees brushed the coffee table. For the next two hours he didn’t blink properly, didn’t notice the glass of water sweating onto the coaster beside him. Every lap was a held breath. Jos overtaking on the straight, Jos shaving a second off in the pits, Jos weaving through Monza’s curves with the kind of control Max had only ever dreamed of. His pulse raced as though it were him behind the wheel, and when Jos crossed the line first, checkered flag snapping in the air, the tifosi screaming themselves hoarse, Max actually laughed, sudden and unguarded.

His dad had done it. His dad, standing on the podium with champagne spilling down his race suit, fist raised like a king. And for one stupid, dizzy moment, Max wanted to shout it at the TV, shout it at the empty house: That’s him. That’s my dad. That’s where I come from.

The pride was a sharp rush, like blood pounding after a sprint. His eyes stung, and he didn’t even care. For once, the world was cheering Jos the way Max always thought he deserved. For once, it felt like being Jos’s son could be something to carry, not something that pressed him down.

But the thought cracked, thin as glass. His dad had never looked at him like that. Not once. Not after a clean sweep in a tennis match, not after report cards with no subject below 100, not after the nights Max forced himself to stay awake and get ahead on assignments so there’d be nothing to scold him for. Jos didn’t see him as a reflection to be proud of, only a shadow reminding him what wasn’t good enough.

You’re a disappointment.

The words hit like a slap, loud even over the muted roar of the crowd. Jos had said it enough times that it was practically stitched into Max’s bones. Watching the podium, Max’s pride twisted into something sour. Jos could feel this kind of triumph. Jos could have the world worship him. But Max, no matter how much he tried, would never earn that look.

He muted the TV. The living room fell into a thick, buzzing silence, broken only by his own shallow breaths.

That’s when the other thought crept in, cold, practical, merciless. Jos would be home soon. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. He’d walk through the door still smelling of champagne and engines, and someone, a teacher, a neighbour, or even his tennis coach would tell him. The suspension. The disgrace. Jos would find out his son had been benched like a child who couldn’t even behave himself at school.

Max’s stomach flipped hard. He curled forward, digging his palms into his eyes, as if pressure alone could block the thought out. He’d worked so hard these past three days: tennis until his arms shook, English essays drafted twice over, physics notes scrawled past midnight. He’d tried to bury the evidence of failure under hours of effort, as if he could bribe the universe into forgiving him.

But none of it mattered. Not to Jos. Not when the word suspension would be there in black and white, undeniable. Proof that Max wasn’t just failing to live up to his father’s name. He was dragging it down.

He shot off the sofa suddenly, pacing the room in tight, agitated circles. His hands twisted into his hair. He thought about excuses, about whether he could hide it, whether the other parents might keep quiet, whether the school would forget to call. Every idea collapsed under its own weight. Jos always found out.

Max stopped at the window, chest rising and falling too fast. Outside, the sun was sinking, gold bleeding into shadows. Any hour now, the front door could open. His heart gave a hard, frightened kick.

He’d felt proud today. For a fleeting second, he’d believed being Jos’s son could mean something good. Now, standing in the quiet house with the race over and the fear pressing in, all he could feel was the panic of waiting to be caught.

And knowing that pride was something Jos would never, ever feel for him.

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, Max spent the last day of his suspension on the court in his backyard again.

Max had been hitting balls for so long that he wasn’t sure how many hours had passed. The machine whirred, spat another neon blur, and his body reacted on instinct, racket swinging with a crack that jarred his arm. His vision swam. He hadn’t eaten properly all day, and his legs felt like wet sand. But he didn’t dare stop. If Jos came home and found him idle, he knew exactly what would follow.

The machine fired again. His timing was late, his racket clumsy. The ball skimmed past and smacked the fence behind him.

Jos’s voice rang in his head, as clear as if he were standing right there: Pathetic. Can’t even keep your eye on the ball. Other kids your age already know what it means to fight. To win. And what are you? Nothing.

Another ball shot out. Max swung too early this time. His chin dropped forward in defeat, sweat dripping off his jawline. The burn across his skin distracted and he didn’t hear the next snap. He wasn’t ready for the next one. The ball thudded into his shoulder. He hissed.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was too tired to go across the court to stop the machine.

That’s when he felt it: the sharp, stinging slap across his face. His head snapped to the side, and for a second, he thought maybe the machine had somehow spat the ball wrong. But no. His father was there, towering over him, eyes blazing, hand already drawing back again.

“You think this is tennis?” Jos’s voice thundered. His palm connected again, and Max staggered, the racket clattering onto the court.

Max’s heart raced as Jos kept coming, words as sharp as fists. “Worthless. Useless. Every second I waste on you is a mistake. You’ll never be like me. You’ll never be anything.”

Each blow landed heavier than the last. The words pierced deeper still. Jos’s tone carried finality, like a verdict from a judge. And in Max’s head, he couldn’t argue. How could he, when even George and the others said the same? Dumb. Awkward. Bad at tennis. No friends. Weird.

Jos finally stepped back, leaving him crumpled on the court. “Clean yourself up,” he spat, turning away like Max was dirt on his shoe.

Max pressed trembling fingers against his chin, where the sting had started it all. His breathing came in shallow gulps. He wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Crying only ever made Jos angrier.

Instead, his mind filled with the echo of those words, so loud he couldn’t silence them. Never amount to anything. Worthless. Useless.

He looked at the racket lying beside him, strings frayed from overuse, handle slick with sweat. His fingers hovered over it, trembling. Almost absentmindedly, he yanked it up by the strings. A sharp edge bit into his skin.

Crimson beads formed quickly, trickling down his finger. The sting was hot, immediate, and for a split second it drowned everything else. No more pounding in his chest. No more voices in his head. No more memory of Jos’s words, no more George’s jeers. All of it quieted.

Max stared at the red against the black strings, mesmerized. The sight was… marvelous in its way, precise and definite. A small, real thing in a world that felt endlessly harsh and loud.

For a fleeting heartbeat, he entertained the idea of doing it again, just to feel that quiet stretch a little longer. The thought was strangely comforting.

He remained motionless, clutching the racket, the motor of the machine winding down beside him into silence as the last of the balls were shot out. He listened to the echoes of every voice that had ever told him he wasn’t enough. Jos’s rage, George’s cruelty, kept at bay by the sting in his finger, even for just a moment.

And for once, that quiet felt like something he could hold onto, if only briefly.

Chapter Text

The morning the suspension was lifted felt heavier than usual. Max slouched in his seat, the straps of his backpack pressing into his shoulders, and tried to pretend he was absorbed in arranging his pencil case. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, the way his hands trembled slightly when he thought about the hallway, the looks from kids he hadn’t seen in a few days. Suspension had left him out of everything, but it hadn’t erased the memories. The silence he carried felt like a shield and a trap at once.

Mr. Steiner clapped his hands sharply, drawing the class’s attention. His eyes scanned the room, noting the absences from yesterday, before he addressed the board. “Since you were all absent yesterday,” he began, voice deliberate and precise, “I’ve assigned your project groupings. You will work in trios, by your row.”

Max’s stomach twisted immediately. His throat felt dry, almost closing. He tried to focus on the numbers scribbled on his notebook, the way the ink bled slightly across the page. Maybe if he looked down long enough, the words on the board wouldn’t matter.

The first row was simple. Lando, Charles, and Pierre. They all murmured among themselves quietly, not even glancing toward the second row. Max tried to breathe evenly.

Then the second row appeared on the board:

Row 2: Max, George, Alex

He froze. His chest tightened, and a cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck. George’s name on the board felt like a weight pressing into his ribs. Max felt the heat in his cheeks, the familiar sense of dread curling like a snake in his stomach. Alex, by contrast, leaned forward slightly, curious, tentative. Max’s gaze dropped to his hands folded neatly on the desk, and he felt the edges of panic beginning to nibble at the corners of his thoughts.

Mr. Steiner continued his instructions, but it was as though his words had been muffled by a thick fog. Max could hear the scrape of chairs, the scratch of pencils, the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead, but none of it touched the ball of dread in his stomach. Every muscle in his body stiffened as he tried to plan his next move. Every glance from George, every twitch of his smirk, sent electricity down Max’s spine.

He remembered Thursday and Friday. How the hallway had smelled of disinfectant mixed with cafeteria food. How George had cornered him near the lockers, smirking and calling him useless, a loser, a joke. Even the memory made the bruises along his arms throb faintly. And now, to have him so close, to be trapped in a trio… the thought pressed against him like concrete.

Alex leaned toward him slightly, whispering, “Looks like we’ll be partners. We can figure this out.” The words were gentle, almost careful, but Max didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His brain was too busy racing through every possible angle: how to survive the day, how to avoid provoking George, how to sit still and not get noticed, how to breathe without drawing attention.

George, on the other hand, was already grinning. That grin, the one that had haunted Max’s dreams, spread across his face like a predator preparing to strike. He glanced at Alex, then at Max, then back at the board. “Well, isn’t this convenient,” he said loud enough for a few nearby classmates to hear, his voice dripping with mockery. “Looks like I get the ‘favorite’ of the row… and you, Max, get stuck with me. Lucky, huh?”

Max pressed his palms against the desk, fighting the urge to flinch. His ribs ached faintly from Sunday’s bruises, the pain a constant reminder of what could happen if he lost control. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe slowly. He couldn’t give George the satisfaction of seeing him crumble. Not here. Not now.

Mr. Steiner continued to go over the project guidelines, breaking down the requirements, but Max barely heard him. He noticed the slight tilt of Charles’s head, the way Lando tapped his pen against his notebook, Pierre doodling absentmindedly. They were engaged in their own world, a protective bubble he had no access to.

His gaze flicked back to George. He was already leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, smirk fixed, waiting for the first sign of weakness. Max felt a dull panic rise and fall with his pulse. Every instinct screamed to get out of the row, to disappear, but he couldn’t.

He focused on the floor, counting the scuffs in the linoleum, tracing imaginary lines across the tiles, anything to anchor himself. He replayed Sunday in his head. The tennis practice, the bruises, the sting of Jos’s hand. That memory became a talisman of self-control. He would not let George see him break. Not today.

The bell rang, slicing through the air, signaling the end of the explanation. Mr. Steiner’s voice lingered for a moment: “You may begin planning your project now.”

Alex leaned closer again. “We should… maybe start a group chat or something? Coordinate ideas?”

“No,” Max said quietly, almost to himself. His voice was low, measured, but there was a tremor he couldn’t entirely hide. “I… I don’t have a phone.”

George’s laugh sharpened again, brittle and cruel, cutting through the classroom chatter. “What? You don’t have a phone? That’s rich. Absolutely priceless. Seriously, Max… what, your family can’t even afford a phone? Living in the slums, I bet. Cardboard walls, maybe rats for neighbors, huh?”

Max’s stomach twisted violently. Every word George said felt like a physical blow. The faint ache in his ribs, still throbbing from Sunday, flared sharply. He forced himself to swallow. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t argue. He couldn’t even glance up without feeling like he would collapse under the weight of George’s gaze.

Alex coughed, trying again to smooth things over. “Hey… come on, George, that’s–”

“Shut it,” George snapped, waving a hand, smirk widening. “I’m just saying it like it is. Max here is completely…” He paused to glance around the room, as if seeking applause. “...broke. Pathetic. Probably used to crawling through garbage to find dinner.”

Max’s fists clenched under the desk. He could feel his face heating further. He could feel the pressure building in his chest, the way his breath caught at the edges of his throat. Memories of Jos’s yelling and hitting surfaced like jagged stones, reminding him that losing control could be dangerous. He took a slow, trembling breath and counted to ten, focusing on the scrape of pencil on paper across the room, the dull hum of the heater, the way the fluorescent light flickered. Anything to keep himself tethered.

George leaned closer, voice dripping with mockery. “Seriously, Max… don’t even know what it’s like to have normal things, huh? A phone, a house, a real bed… you’re just lucky you even made it to school. You should invite us to see your small little piece of cardboard. I bet it has “Tesco” printed on it.”

Max felt a faint pulse in his temple. His fingers ached from gripping the desk. He wanted to say something sharp, to hit back, but he couldn’t. Not here. Not now. He forced his jaw closed, forcing his voice down into nothing. He would not give George the satisfaction. He reminded himself, over and over: bruises still throb, Jos is at home right now. He would know everything, and one wrong move could make everything worse.

His mind was crowded with George’s laughter, the imagined sneers of his classmates, and the steady, insistent heartbeat that told him to stay small, stay silent, survive.

Max swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded slightly, forcing a quiet, polite, neutral tone. “Okay… sure.”

George’s smirk widened, satisfied. “That’s what I like to hear. Humble, quiet… perfect. Now we just need to figure out if we can actually see where you live. Bet it’s… cozy, huh?”

Max forced himself to nod again, eyes glued to his notebook. He felt trapped, cornered by the echo of yesterday’s bruises and George’s relentless teasing. He had no way out. Not now.

George leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, smirk still plastered across his face like he owned the room. “What about today, Maxy-Max? You don’t want to keep guests waiting, do you?”

Max froze. His stomach lurched. The idea of anyone seeing his home. The silence. The bruises. The memory of Jos’s fists. It made his throat constrict. He swallowed hard, forcing words out. “Uh… I guess… maybe Thursday?”

“Thursday?” George echoed, feigning innocence. “Why Thursday? Come on, Max, don’t be shy. Don’t tell me you’re scared of your own place. That would be… hilarious.”

Max’s fingers pressed into the edge of his desk. He thought quickly, measuring Thursday against his father’s schedule. Jos would be away for the next race. That meant the house would be empty. Max could survive a visit then. No fists, no yelling, no punishment for simply existing. “Thursday,” he repeated, more firmly this time, a thin veil of control in his voice.

George rolled his eyes, before his grin widened. “Perfect! Thursday it is. You’ll show us your place, and we can all come. I’m bringing the gang too. Alex, Lando… everyone.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to mock conspiratorial tones. “Bet it’s cozy, huh? Maybe you live in a cupboard box or something. You know, typical for someone with no phone, no money, no… life.”

Max pressed his lips together, jaw tight. The color in his face flared as he imagined George and the rest of the group laughing at his home. But he couldn’t refuse. He couldn’t risk angering George here, in front of Alex, where every word and action was a trap. Thursday was the only option that would keep him safe.

Charles shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Max. “Uh… do you… want us to come too?” he asked softly.

George waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t worry, Charles. You can tag along. Max doesn’t have a choice anyway. Let’s see how the people who live off taxes our parents pay lives.!” He laughed again, loud and cruel, his amusement filling the row.

Max exhaled slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. Inside, panic twisted through him. He thought of the bruises that still throbbed, the echoes of Jos’s voice telling him he was worthless, and the sharp sting of fear when he imagined losing control. Thursday would have to be controlled, quiet, precise. He would have to survive it.

For now, he simply nodded. “Thursday,” he repeated, whispering it like a mantra to himself. Thursday would come. Thursday would be bearable– but only because Jos wouldn’t be home to see, to punish, to scream.

George leaned back, smirk triumphant. “Can’t wait, Max. Really. Can’t wait to see the place where all the magic happens. I’m really excited to see the cardboard box, the slums, and the whole setup! We’ll have a proper tour, won’t we?”

Max felt his stomach knot tighter. He stared down at his hands, folded on his desk, fingers trembling faintly. He said nothing, only nodded again, letting the words wash over him and planning, mentally, how he would make Thursday survivable.

Because survival, more than pride, more than anything else, had become his only skill.

Chapter Text

Max had forgotten that there was no training that day. Coach had flew to the USA to watch the US open. He didn’t want to go home just yet, as Jos was definitely at home. He couldn’t practice like that, not with Jos watching, not with the silent threat in every glance.

So he decided on a public court he found on his way to school one day. The chain-link fences looked worn, paint peeling, net sagging in the middle. It wasn’t polished, it wasn’t perfect, but it was usable. As soon as he swung open the gate, the familiar sound of bouncing balls and a faint grunt made him pause.

And then he saw him.

Daniel.

Max froze. He hadn’t expected anyone here. Daniel, the reserve on the competitive team, older than him by a few years, wielding a racket with casual precision, tossing balls against the wall in perfect rhythm. Max’s instinct was to turn around, leave, and avoid any interaction. He didn’t want to explain himself, didn’t want to risk judgment.

“Hey,” Daniel said, noticing him immediately. His tone was neutral, but friendly. “Wanna practice?”

Max hesitated. His throat felt tight, but something in Daniel’s expression, patient, open, not expectant, made him nod. “Okay.”

For a while, they practiced in silence. The thwack of the ball against the racket and wall filled the air, rhythmic and steady. Max felt the familiar burn in his arms, the ache in his calves, but it was… different. Not forced, not meant to erase pain. Just movement, exercise, focus. The sweat trickled down his back, sticky and warm, but instead of tension, it became grounding.

Daniel’s returns were steady, measured. Max found himself synchronizing with the rhythm, hitting the ball without thinking too much, letting his body take over. It was calming, almost meditative.

After a few rounds, Daniel paused to wipe his brow, breathing heavier than Max expected. “Do you ever feel like… everything’s just… against you?” he said quietly.

Max looked at him, waiting.

“I mean… school, tennis, life,” Daniel continued, voice low. “I’m failing some classes, I can’t get my grades up. Sometimes I think people think I’m annoying, that I can’t shut up. And on the team… I don’t feel… I don’t feel as good, you know? I’m the reserve. Sitting next to people like Lewis and Kimi and Seb, it’s like… I don’t even belong.”

Max kept hitting balls in rhythm with Daniel, his eyes focused on the wall. He didn’t offer advice, didn’t try to fix things. He simply existed there, moving with the pattern, listening.

Daniel’s words spilled out in a quiet rush. “I know it’s dumb, I know I probably sound like a baby whining about this stuff, but… I just… I needed to say it. Someone to hear it, you know?”

Max nodded once, small, almost imperceptible. The act of listening, of sharing the space without judgment or interruption, seemed to calm Daniel’s shoulders.

They continued practicing for a while, moving side to side, switching to volleys, Daniel occasionally tossing a ball slightly off to test Max’s reflexes. Each mistake Daniel made, he’d groan dramatically. “Oh no! That one’s going straight to the blooper reel!” Max couldn’t help but smile, the sound escaping as a quiet laugh.

“Hey, careful!” Daniel shouted mockingly, swinging his racket at an imaginary opponent. “If you hit me like that in the actual match, I’m suing!”

Max laughed harder, genuinely, feeling the warmth spread in his chest. The sound felt foreign but wonderful. It wasn’t just laughter at a joke. It was laughter as relief, as freedom.

For the next hour, they volleyed, practiced serves, and tried new shots, all the while peppering the session with playful taunts and exaggerated complaints. Daniel called Max “the human catapult” when he overhit a shot, and Max retaliated with nicknames like “the wall whisperer” when Daniel’s returns were too soft. The rhythm became a game, lighthearted and absorbing.

When they finally paused to catch their breath, Max leaned against the fence, sweaty and flushed, and realized something: he hadn’t thought about George, Jos, or anything for almost three hours. His stomach didn’t feel tight, his hands weren’t trembling, and his chest felt… light.

He realized how rare this was. Since moving from the Netherlands, since the first days with Jos and George’s torment, he had rarely felt happiness that wasn’t mixed with fear or guilt. Here, he could just exist. Here, his presence mattered only in the game, not as a disappointment, not as a target, not as someone who could fail at everything.

Daniel, noticing the quiet pause, grinned. “Alright, enough mopey moods. Let’s make a deal: whoever messes up next gets the silliest nickname. Deal?”

“Deal,” Max said, laughing again. The sound felt full, easy, like it belonged to him.

They played on, jokes flying, laughter echoing across the empty public court. Daniel feigned dramatic collapses and Max responded with playful commentary, each moment a thread stitching warmth into Max’s chest. He felt seen, included, just for being himself.

By the time the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt, both were sweaty, panting, smiling. Max leaned on his racket, shoulders relaxed, the ache from earlier practices now a pleasant reminder of movement rather than punishment.

Daniel smiled at him. “You know… you’re fun to practice with. Not that I expected otherwise.”

Max let out a quiet laugh. “You too,” he said simply, and meant it.

Chapter Text

The bell rang, sharp and insistent, sending waves of students spilling into the hallways. Max hoisted his backpack over one shoulder, careful to keep his expression neutral. George, Alex, and Pierre were already waiting, surrounding his table, making sure he didn’t run away. Lando and Charles lingered a few steps behind, curious but cautious.

George’s grin widened the moment he saw Max. “Finally! Thursday, huh? Can’t wait to see where you actually live. Or, y’know, if you’re still in a cardboard box.”

Max didn’t respond. He started walking, measured and steady, toward the streets that led away from the school.

Alex fell in step beside him. “So… are we really going to your house?”

Max nodded briefly. “No. Just… a café. Somewhere quiet.”

George snorted. “A café? Not the slums? Or the ‘real’ Max turf? I thought this would be… more authentic. You know, like your place.” He jabbed a thumb behind him toward the poorer district they were leaving. “Poor district, street corners, dingy apartments… that’s your vibe, right?”

Max said nothing. He kept his eyes ahead, calm, letting the comment hang.

Lando glanced at him, slightly amused. “Maybe he’s place isn’t big enough to actually fit us, Georgie. Let’s be empathetic. Some people have small little houses, you know, unlike us.”

“Yeah, that seems about right.”

Pierre muttered, “Maybe he’s just… careful with money?”

George laughed harshly. “Careful? I’d call it pretending. Bet your house is a shoebox or something. Parents gone all the time, right?”

Max’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent. In his mind, he traced the route and calculated the timing. He wasn’t bringing them to the house. Not today. Not with his dad still home, for some reason.

The streets gradually changed, shifting from narrow, worn buildings to cleaner roads lined with small shops. The café appeared ahead, tucked between a bakery and a florist. The sign above was modest, the letters faded. Max stopped in front, pulled out the door, and gestured for them to follow.

George’s eyes narrowed, scanning the modest interior. “What a small place. I bet you work here to get money for food.”

Alex nodded, ever the loyal companion.

Pierre shrugged. “Looks nice for a café.”

George leaned toward Max, smirking, “awwwww. Bringing us to your place of employment now, are we?”

Max remained calm, guiding them to a table in the corner. He didn’t need to explain. The café, quiet and neutral, was safe. His house, with his dad home, was not. And he didn’t need to risk a confrontation. The subtle reason was enough for him. He didn’t have to justify it.

George, meanwhile, took his seat stiffly, scanning Max with a mixture of irritation and begrudging curiosity. “You’re paying for food. Since you lied about bringing us to your home.”

Max ordered coffee and a pastry for himself, nothing extravagant. Each quiet gesture emphasized the gap between George’s assumptions and Max’s reality: competent, careful, and unflappable.

Max leaned back slightly, letting the tension settle around the group. He didn’t need to gloat. The quiet control was enough. George might think him broke, insecure, or ordinary, and Max didn’t care enough to correct him otherwise.

George tapped his fingers against the table, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “So… uh… what do you even do here after school? Serve matcha and take orders and slack when your supervisor is not here?” His voice tried for humor but wavered, betraying the uncertainty gnawing at him.

Max’s gaze lifted calmly and shrugged at him.

George blinked, caught off-guard by the lack of defensiveness or explanation. He opened his mouth to retort but nothing came out. He jabbed at the table lightly with his knuckles instead, a nervous tic.

Alex and Pierre exchanged glances. “He’s… completely unfazed,” Pierre whispered.

Charles leaned back in his chair, a quiet smirk on his face. “George has no idea how to handle him right now.”

George leaned closer, lowering his voice as if it might make him sound more in control. “I mean… you don’t even have a phone, Max. How do you… keep in touch with people? Do you even have people to keep in touch with?”

Max’s eyes met George’s briefly, calm, steady. “I manage,” he said simply. No emotion. No arrogance. Just a fact.

The group noticed George’s posture stiffening. His shoulders hunched slightly, his smirk faltering. The café’s small, quiet space felt suddenly more like a stage, where every attempt at dominance revealed his insecurity instead of covering it.

Pierre whispered again, “It’s like… he’s untouchable or something. George has nothing on him.”

Alex nodded, quiet awe in his voice. “Yeah”

George’s laugh returned occasionally, brittle and forced. Every time he tried to joke, the words sounded hollow, even to himself. He tried again, sharper this time, leaning back in his chair. “So… you’re as lonely as you seem huh?”

Max tilted his head slightly. “I don’t mind.”

The simplicity of the answer hit George harder than any insult ever could. Max didn’t defend himself. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t even try to make George feel foolish, yet 

Max’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “I don’t need external validation.”

It was enough. The air shifted. The rest of the group felt it immediately: the dynamic had changed. George, the once-unquestioned provocateur, now seemed like the provoked. Max didn’t need to raise his voice, didn’t need to argue, didn’t need to prove himself. His composure, his focus, and his biting replies had done it for him.

George stared at Max across the table, his mind spinning. Every jab he had prepared, every insult he had relied on, had failed. And he couldn’t shake the growing envy that knotted in his chest.

Max sipped his coffee quietly, letting the tension settle. He didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to, for George knew, deep down, that for once, he was powerless.

The textbooks and notebooks spread across the café table, a half-hearted attempt at order. Alex flipped open a workbook, but within minutes he was doodling caricatures in the margins instead of writing equations. George leaned over, snickering. “That’s supposed to be me? My nose isn’t that big.”

Alex laughed. “It’s generous, mate. Artistic license.”

They bumped shoulders, chuckling. The laughter rang out too loud in the quiet café, earning a glance from the barista.

Max, meanwhile, sat with his pencil poised, his handwriting precise and efficient. His notes were clean, structured, and purposeful. He had already written out the formulas, the steps, even filled in half the solution while George and Alex were still joking about noses and bad sketches.

Pierre tried to join in at first, laughing with Alex’s drawings, but his gaze kept drifting to Max’s page. His eyes widened. “Wait… you’re actually… doing the whole thing?”

Max didn’t look up. “Someone needs to do it, and the someone didn't seem like any of them.”

George waved a hand dismissively, grinning. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll help. Just… let him get the boring stuff down first, right, Alex?”

Alex nodded quickly, smothering a laugh as he turned another page to draw. “Exactly. Max is, like, the… foundation. We’re… quality control.”

“Quality control for what? Your doodles?” Charles leaned in, raising an eyebrow. He was trying to sound neutral, but there was a note of admiration under the sarcasm. His eyes flicked to Max’s neat solutions. “He’s already done more than half the assignment.”

George’s grin faltered for just a second. He leaned back in his chair, feigning confidence. “It’s just… maths. Anyone could do it.”

“Then do it,” Max said.

George’s jaw tightened. He glanced at his page, then back at Max’s. His throat went dry. He laughed instead, elbowing Alex again. “Come on, mate, let’s see how bad your drawing of Charles would be.”

Alex immediately sketched an exaggerated jawline and tuft of messy hair. George burst out laughing, leaning over the page. “That’s perfect. That’s so him.”

Charles rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, “Immature.” But when his eyes met Max’s, who went back to quietly working without complaint, he felt something different. Not just admiration, but a strange unease as well.

The café filled with George and Alex’s over-exaggerated laughter echoing every few minutes. Eventually, the pile of solved problems grew taller in front of Max, while George and Alex’s pages stayed almost empty.

Pierre finally sighed. “This is ridiculous. He’s literally carrying their whole project.”

Max set his pencil down briefly, flexing his fingers. His expression didn’t change. Not angry, not resentful, just calm.

George stopped laughing mid-chuckle. The words weren’t loud, but they landed heavier than anything else said that afternoon. For the first time, Alex and George’s amusement dimmed.

Alex’s gaze lingered on Max, his voice quiet. “He’s right. I think we should do something.”

George opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He reached for his pencil, fumbled, and then gave up with a muttered, “Fine.”

Max, unbothered, picked up his own pencil again.

Chapter Text

Max hadn’t meant to end up at the courts again.

But somehow, after the project session at the café, his feet took him there anyway.

The late afternoon sun hung heavy over the asphalt, turning the chain-link fences into gold wire. He was half-expecting the place to be empty. Part of him hoped it would be. He wasn’t sure he had the energy for company.

But Daniel was already there, bouncing a ball on the service line, racket loose in his hand. He spotted Max immediately and grinned like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Knew you’d come back,” Daniel said, jogging over. “Didn’t take you for the type to play solo.”

Max only shrugged, but he was already reaching into his bag for his racket.

They hit for a while without talking, the rhythm steady and grounding. Daniel’s shots were still messy, but he had energy in spades. He was the type who would never quit just because he wasn’t good enough. Max respected that more than he said.

Eventually, Daniel noticed. “You’re quieter than usual. And that’s saying something.”

Max caught the ball on his strings and let it rest there. He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to explain. Not about the project, not about the act he kept pulling in front of George and Alex, not about the heavy silence waiting for him at home with his father inside the house.

Daniel jogged to the net, leaning his arms across it. “Rough day?”

Max shrugged again. That was all he could manage.

Daniel studied him for a moment. Then he nodded, like he understood more than Max had said. “Okay. No talking, then. Just playing.”

And they did. For a long stretch, neither said a word. The only sound was the ball smacking against the strings, the scrape of shoes on painted concrete, the occasional grunt of effort. It was strangely comforting, the kind of silence Max could live in.

When Daniel finally missed a return, he groaned and flopped back onto the court. “I’m starving. Are you hungry?”

Max hesitated.

Daniel didn’t wait for an answer. He bounced up, grabbed Max’s wrist, and tugged him toward the exit. “Come on. You’re eating. No muscles if we don't get protein.”

Minutes later, they were squeezed into a red vinyl booth at a greasy diner two streets away. The kind of place that smelled like frying oil and salt, where the waitresses looked too tired to care. Daniel ordered two cheeseburgers, fries, and milkshakes without even asking Max.

When the food arrived, Daniel leaned back smugly. “Bet I can eat more than you.”

Max raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t give me that look,” Daniel said, already biting into his burger. “I’ve got the metabolism of a rabbit on caffeine. No way you keep up.”

It was childish, ridiculous, and Max didn’t know why, but he found himself playing along. He dug into his own burger with quiet determination.

By the time they were halfway through their plates, Daniel’s grin had turned competitive. “Okay, maybe you’ve got game after all. Didn’t think the broody kid could put it away like that.”

Max smirked an actual smirk and kept eating.

They pushed themselves until they were both groaning, fries scattered across the table like fallen soldiers. Daniel dropped his head onto the booth with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Call it a draw. But only because I don’t want to puke in front of you.”

Max leaned back, surprisingly warm inside. He didn’t say anything, but Daniel didn’t need him to.

For a moment, the heaviness of the day lifted.

And when they left the diner, side by side under the buzzing neon sign, Max realized he wasn’t dreading tomorrow as much anymore.

Chapter Text

The day had started wrong.

George was at it again, tapping his pencil against Alex’s chair, muttering jokes just loud enough for a ripple of snickers to run through the row. Max sat one desk over, eyes glued to the worksheet. He was trying to block it out. If he just kept his head down, maybe the teacher would finally notice who was actually being disruptive.

But Mr. Steiner’s voice cut through sharp. “Max.”

Max flinched.

“You’ve been restless this entire week. Do you need to be moved to the front?”

His throat locked. Restless? He hadn’t moved at all. George froze with his pencil mid-tap, lips quirking.

“I– ” Max started, but the words tangled. English always slipped when he needed it most. He could argue in Dutch. He could argue fine. But here, now, with half the class staring, all he managed was a thin, “No.”

Steiner’s frown deepened. “Then I expect you to sit still and pay attention. Last warning.”

The snickers started up again. Not loud, not enough to be called out, but Max could feel them against his skin.

He stared at the page until the numbers blurred. George leaned back, gave him a smug grin, then scribbled something on his paper. Alex snorted.

Max didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He already knew it was about him.

By the time lunch rolled around, Max’s stomach was tight with something sour. He collected his tray, and slipped through the cafeteria, head down.

He sank into his usual corner near the flickering vending machine. He stabbed at his food mechanically, chewing, swallowing, trying not to hear.

And then:

“Oi, Verstappen!”

Max froze.

Heads turned. Daniel Ricciardo was weaving through the crowd, tray balanced in one hand, juice box in the other, grin wide and unbothered.

“He’s not— ” one kid whispered.

“No way he’s— ” another.

But Daniel was.

He stopped at Max’s table, dropped his tray with a clatter, and plopped down opposite. “Move your apple.” He nudged it aside without waiting, then leaned back like he owned the corner. “There we go. Best seat in the house.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the cafeteria. Not at Max, not really. At the sheer audacity of Daniel Ricciardo deciding this was the most interesting spot in the room.

Max stared. “Why– ”

“Shh.” Daniel unwrapped his sandwich with exaggerated delicacy, like it was treasure. “Don’t argue with fate, Verstappen. You’re my bestie now. Can’t get rid of me.”

Max blinked. “I didn’t– ”

“Exactly,” Daniel said, pointing a triangle of sandwich at him. “That’s what makes it destiny. It’s always the quiet ones. Me and you, bestie material. Undeniable.”

Max’s ears went hot.

Nearby, someone whispered, “Is he serious?” Another snorted, “Ricciardo just adopts people now?”

Daniel took a huge bite of sandwich, chewed noisily, and gestured at Max’s tray. “School food? Mate, tragic. You can’t keep living like this. Where’s your protein?” He held up his sandwich like a trophy. “See? Turkey. Cheese. Mayo. Balance. Legendary.”

“It’s fine.”

Daniel leaned forward, stage-whispering. “Don’t tell me you’re shy.”

“I’m not,” Max muttered.

“Ha!” Daniel slapped the table, grinning. “Called it. Quiet guys always say that.”

Max pressed his lips together. He could feel eyes on them. He hated being noticed. But Daniel soaked in it, as if attention was oxygen, and somehow Max was being dragged into the bubble whether he wanted it or not.

“Oh, by the way,” Daniel went on, mid-chew, “you owe me.”

Max frowned. “What?”

“The fries. Yesterday. You took the smaller basket. I counted.”

“That’s not– ”

“Oh, it is. I had at least three more and you still called it a tie.” He wagged a chip at him accusingly. “Tonight. Rematch. Burger place. Same time.”

Max shook his head, incredulous. “You’re– ”

“Brilliant? Handsome? Right? All of the above, mate.” Daniel stuffed the chip into his mouth and winked.

Max looked down, but his mouth betrayed him, corners twitching just a fraction.

Daniel saw. Of course he saw. His grin lit like a flare. “Aha! That’s almost a smile. Careful, Maxy, you’ll ruin your dark-and-mysterious aura.”

Another ripple of laughter went through the nearby tables, not unkind this time. Daniel had turned the spotlight, reframed the moment. Somehow, impossibly, Max wasn’t the punchline.

The bell rang. Daniel shoved the last bite of sandwich into his mouth, slung his bag over his shoulder, and pointed at Max with his juice box. “See you at the courts, bestie.”

And just like that, he was gone, swept back into the tide of students.

Max sat still for a moment, fork loose in his hand. The cafeteria noise swelled again around him, but it felt different now. Less sharp, less heavy.

He packed up his tray.

He was already planning to go.

The sun was already low, a heavy orange spill across the chain-link fences, when Max dragged his racket out again. He’d been half-expecting Daniel not to show. Maybe the cafeteria thing had been just another Ricciardo joke, a momentary amusement.

But there he was, already on the other side of the court, bouncing a ball with exaggerated flair.

“Yay you didn't ditch!” Daniel called. “But you’re late.”

Max rolled his eyes and muttered, “Wasn’t late.”

Daniel grinned. “Good. Didn’t want to start my winning streak without you.”

They began. The thud of the ball against the racket, the squeak of shoes on asphalt, the rhythm falling into place. Max let the sound drown out the leftover sting from Steiner’s scolding. With every rally, his chest felt lighter, less caged.

Until Daniel started talking.

“Oi, Verstappen, what’s your deal? You some secret prodigy or just a tragic try-hard?”

Max smashed the ball down the line. “Play.”

“Dodging the question. Classic.” Daniel lunged, missed, and groaned dramatically. “Ah, heartbreak. And betrayal. You’re meant to carry me, bestie.”

Max smirked despite himself. “You’re bad.”

Daniel froze mid-retrieve, racket tucked under his arm. His eyes went wide. “Wait. Did you just insult me?”

Max shrugged, trying to hide the flicker of satisfaction.

Daniel gasped, clutching his chest. “My boy speaks! And burns me alive in one sentence! This is a historic moment. Where’s the press?” He spun in a circle, yelling at the empty bleachers, “Write this down! Write this down!”

Max couldn’t help it. A laugh burst out of him, sharp and real.

Daniel’s head snapped back to him, grin splitting wide. “There it is. I knew it. You’re done for, mate. You laughed at my jokes once, now you’re trapped forever.”

Max shook his head, still chuckling under his breath. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” Daniel corrected, jogging back into position. “Now come on. One more set. Winner buys burgers.”

Max lifted his racket, heart oddly light. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Daniel smirked. “That’s the spirit! Bestie bonding tradition, right here.”

And so they played, long after the other kids had left, long after the sky had bruised into purple. By the time they finally trudged off court, sweaty and laughing, Max realized something startling

It was starting to feel like routine.

Not punishment.

Not survival.

Just… friendship.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun spilled through the living room windows, catching the dust in golden streams. Seb fingered a tennis ball he found on the floor, eyes sharp, smirking at Kimi.

“Think fast,” he said, flicking the ball toward him.

Kimi didn’t even flinch. The ball barely brushed his shoulder, and he let it drop to the floor. He leaned back, arms crossed, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

Seb blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? I almost missed?”

Charles, perched on the sofa with his notebook in his lap, laughed softly. “Wow. Seb, you just got owned by someone standing still.”

Lewis, leaning against the doorway with his racket in hand, shook his head. “Oh man… we’ve really let ourselves go. Look at us. Can’t even throw a ball without looking like amateurs.”

Seb huffed, tossing the ball against the wall with exaggerated flair. “Stop. My hand just slipped. That’s all”

Kimi smirked, tilting his head. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Kimi leaned back, a quiet smile on his face. “You guys ever think maybe we should practice somewhere?”

Lewis checked his phone, frowning. “The club's full. All courts booked. Typical.”

Seb frowned, tapping the ball against his racket. “Hmm. Daniel once mentioned a public court. Barely anyone goes there. Could be good for a proper run-through.”

Kimi’s eyes lit up, a rare spark of enthusiasm. “Yeah. Not the club, but at least somewhere we can actually hit without worrying about breaking something.”

Lewis grinned, bouncing a ball off his racket. “Then it’s settled. Public court it is! Time to see if we’ve still got it!”

Seb rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a small grin. “I’m gonna wipe the floor with all of you.”

Charles shifted, glancing at the group. “Uh… do you want me to come?”

Seb’s grin faltered slightly. “Yeah, c’mon, you can join. Could be fun.”

Charles hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the strap of his backpack. He liked them, liked being part of the energy, but the thought of pushing himself physically—or being caught up in the competitiveness—felt heavy. “Nah… I think I’ll pass. You guys go ahead.”

Seb raised an eyebrow, but let it slide. “Suit yourself.”

Kimi gave Charles a quiet nod. “It’s chill. We’ll fill you in later.”

The four of them gathered their gear, bantering as they made their way to the door. As they stepped into the golden afternoon, the quiet streets seemed to wait for them, the public court Daniel had once recommended standing like an unclaimed stage for whatever was about to unfold.

The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt of the public court. A chain-link fence rattled slightly in the wind, enclosing the space in a golden halo of late afternoon light.

Seb, Lewis, and Kimi approached, rackets slung over their shoulders, balls bouncing in rhythm with their footsteps. The air carried the faint scent of asphalt and grass from the nearby park.

“Looks empty,” Lewis muttered, scanning the courts.

“Almost,” Seb corrected, narrowing his eyes. There, two figures moving with precise rhythm. Daniel Ricciardo and Max Verstappen were mid-rally, silent and focused, the ball flying back and forth with effortless intensity.

Seb froze for a fraction of a second, chest tightening. He had seen plenty of players, but something about Max, quiet, calculating, fluid in motion, felt… familiar. Too familiar. 

Kimi nudged him. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Seb shook his head, brushing it off. “Nothing. Just… warm up.” But even as he said it, a coil of irritation wound inside him. Why did this kid have that calm? That focus? That… presence?

Lewis grinned, sensing the tension. “Hey, why don’t we make this interesting? Mini competition. Best of three sets. Loser get out, winner stays to play against the next opponent.”

Seb’s eyes flicked toward Max again. A spike of possessiveness, irrational and sudden, flared. Daniel was there too, but it was Max who he saw someone who reminded him of what he had buried under the Wolffs’ polished life. And yet… someone who seemed to handle it better than he ever had at that age.

“Fine,” Seb said through tight teeth, voice calm but edged with something sharper. “Let’s see who gets dragged first.”

They claimed one half of the court, bouncing balls, testing their muscles. Max and Daniel’s rally continued, rhythmic and smooth, drawing Seb’s gaze again and again. A knot formed in his stomach. He hadn’t realized how much seeing someone else handle life the way he once had, but better, calmer, almost untouchable, could sting.

Kimi, quietly aware, shot a sidelong glance at Seb. He didn’t know why his brother’s jaw was so tight, why his eyes kept narrowing at Max, but he could feel the tension radiating. He stayed silent, letting Seb wrestle with the emotions he didn’t yet want to name.

Lewis, oblivious to the subtle storm, bounced a ball and called out, “All right, let’s see if we still remember how to play!”

Seb gripped his racket tighter. This wasn’t just about tennis anymore. This was about control. About recognition. About proving that even if someone else mirrored his past, he was not the same boy anymore.

“I want to play Max first.”

As Max tossed the ball over, Seb felt that sharp edge of something new, something dangerous: a mix of jealousy, admiration, and fear.

The game would be starting. And from now on, nothing here will be simple.

Seb adjusted his grip on the racket, jaw tight. Across the net, Max bounced the ball lightly, a controlled rhythm that seemed to taunt Seb without a word. Daniel’s eyes flicked between the two, sensing an unspoken tension but unaware of its depth.

The first serve went up. Max returned it effortlessly, the ball skimming over the net like it had a mind of its own. Seb lunged, slamming his racket down, but Max was already anticipating, moving with that calm precision that made Seb’s chest tighten.

Each rally felt heavier than the last. Seb found himself not just playing tennis, but replaying his past. The afternoons he’d spent exhausted, beaten down by his parents’ vicarious expectations. How he never tasted milk before living with the Wolffs as they couldn’t afford it after spending everything on tennis. The phone call telling him they passed, when they just dropped him off at the tennis court an hour before. Not feeling any sadness at that news. All the months of fear and uncertainty before the Wolffs adopted him. And now, watching Max move with a quiet confidence, it was like looking at a younger version of himself who hadn’t broken.

“Think fast!” Seb finally muttered, smirking, smashing the ball with a little extra force.

Max caught it on the strings without hesitation, and returned it straight to Seb’s corner. The ball hit the line perfectly, a small, almost imperceptible challenge. Seb’s eyes narrowed.

“Not bad,” Max said quietly, almost under his breath, voice steady, calm. Nothing else. No pride, no gloating, just a simple acknowledgment that stung more than any insult.

Seb gritted his teeth, heart racing. Why am I… annoyed?

Daniel laughed from across the court. “Oi, you two sound serious. Don’t melt the net!”

Seb ignored him, focusing on the ball again. But each return from Max chipped at his composure. There was something about the way Max didn’t need to prove anything, didn’t need to dominate the conversation, didn’t flinch under pressure… that made Seb feel exposed, small, even though he’d grown up under scrutiny and expectation.

Lewis, meanwhile, tried to keep the mood light. “Ha! I knew your skills rotted away like you in the past week.”

Seb didn’t react. He couldn’t. His mind was elsewhere, swirling with memories and envy and something else he didn’t want to name: admiration.

A few volleys later, Seb tried a sharp serve aimed to force Max into an awkward position. Max returned it again, soft and precise, making Seb lunge, trip slightly, almost miss.

“Wait… what?” Seb muttered under his breath. His cheeks flushed. Not with exertion, but with a strange mix of frustration and awe. He’s like me last time… only… 

Kimi noticed the tension radiating off Seb, eyes narrowing slightly. He stayed quiet, sensing that whatever this was, Seb had to figure it out himself.

The point ended. Max didn’t celebrate. He simply moved to bounce the ball lightly again, ready for the next serve. The calmness, the lack of arrogance, the effortless skill, they were like a mirror, a challenge, and a provocation all at once.

Seb’s chest heaved. He wasn’t used to feeling small on the court. He wasn’t used to feeling anything like… envy for someone younger than him. And yet, there it was, prickling through him, raw and undeniable.

Daniel finally stepped in, laughing. “Oi! Stop brooding, Seb. You’re scaring the poor ball!”

Seb gritted his teeth but forced a smirk. The game wasn’t just tennis anymore. It was history, rivalry, recognition, and fear all rolled into one. And somehow… he couldn’t stop playing.

The sun dipped lower, and Seb’s serves became sharper, aimed deliberately to unsettle Max. 

Seb slammed a backhand return down the line, the ball screaming past Max. But Max didn’t flinch. He simply adjusted, returning the ball with a soft tap that landed perfectly in Seb’s corner.

Seb froze mid-step. How?

“Nice one,” Max said quietly, almost conversational, and continued bouncing the ball lightly, calm, unshaken.

Seb’s fingers tightened on the racket. “Why do you… why are you so… normal?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. His face flushed, a mixture of frustration, embarrassment, and something else he didn’t want to admit.

Max paused, looked at Seb briefly, and shrugged. No mockery, no gloating. Just a small, steady acknowledgment.

Seb felt the weight of the past pressing into him. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t know how to respond. Not with anger, not with skill, not with words.

Daniel grinned. “Oi! That’s a full-on stare-down now. Who knew tennis could get so… dramatic?”

Seb exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the tension, but the storm inside him wouldn’t settle. Max was calm, steady, untouchable in a way Seb both hated and couldn’t help but admire.

Lewis leaned over. “You okay there, Seb? You’re hitting like a tornado.”

Seb forced a laugh. “Yeah… yeah, fine.” But inside, he knew the game had become more than just tennis. It was about control, about fear, about recognizing a reflection he wasn’t ready to face.

Max, silently, just waited.

And that waiting, unflappable, quiet, and patient, was what unsettled Seb the most.

The ball screamed past Max’s racket, barely missing him, and clattered against the fence. Max froze, calm but wary, watching Seb’s storm of motion.

“Careful,” Daniel called, joggling over, eyebrows raised. “Are you trying to murder him or just your pride?”

Seb’s chest heaved. “I… I don’t know why I care so much,” he muttered, gripping the racket tighter than necessary. His eyes darted away, ashamed of the mix of anger and envy simmering inside him.

Max lowered his racket slowly, breathing even, offering no mockery, no applause. “You don’t have to explain,” he said quietly. His voice was steady, neutral, but not cold.

Seb’s jaw tightened. Max won’t get it even if he explained, anyways.

From the sidelines, Kimi’s eyes softened as he studied Seb. He’d seen the flashes of frustration before but never like this. “Seb…” he said quietly, carefully. “You’re… you’re projecting, mate. You see him, and it reminds you…” He trailed off, letting the words hang.

Seb’s gaze fell to the court, shoulders tense. Then, he relaxed. He exhaled slowly, letting the heat in his chest ebb. The racket felt lighter in his hands. 

He glanced at Max, who was now bouncing the ball lightly, patient, steady. There was no arrogance, no gloating, just presence. And in that quiet, Seb recognized something he hadn’t admitted to himself in years: admiration.

“Okay…” Seb muttered under his breath, a wry half-smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe you’re… alright, Max.”

Max glanced up briefly, nodding, calm and neutral, as if acknowledging a truce without words. That small gesture was enough to dissolve the lingering tension.

Daniel laughed from the sidelines, oblivious to the quiet moment between them. “Oi! Enough staring, Seb! The ball’s not gonna hit itself!”

Seb picked up his racket properly, shoulders a little looser, chest lighter. He met Max’s next serve not with a need to dominate, but with focus and respect. Each volley after that carried a new weight: the thrill of competition without bitterness, the recognition of skill without jealousy.

Kimi nudged him slightly, quietly proud. “See? Everything’s gonna be alright, mate.”

Seb exhaled again, this time with a laugh that was half relief, half disbelief. He’d faced himself, and for once, he didn’t need to win.

The match continued, faster, sharper, but freer. And for the first time in a long while, Seb felt… whole, if only for a moment.

Chapter Text

The boys gathered at the school gates just as the morning chill clung to the air. Lewis was already loud, bouncing on the balls of his feet, smacking Nico’s shoulder and crowing about how this time they’d crush Zones so badly the other schools wouldn’t bother showing up next year. Nico rolled his eyes, muttered something sharp in German. Kimi didn’t even flinch when Seb lobbed a tennis ball his way with a deadpan, “Think fast.” The Finn let it bounce off his arm and continued scrolling through his phone like nothing happened, which had Lewis in stitches.

It was the usual chaos. Familiar and easy.

Except for Max.

He arrived last, shoulders squared a little too tightly, grip on his racket case just a little too firm. He said hello like always, but his eyes didn’t quite meet theirs. If the others noticed, they didn’t say anything. Lewis was too busy poking fun at Nico, and Kimi had his headphones in.

But Seb noticed.

Max didn’t fidget often, but now his thumb worried at the strap of his bag, back stiff as though he were bracing for something invisible. Seb knew that posture. He had worn it himself, just a year ago, when he had made the school team, still angry and hungry for the trophy.

“You alright?” Seb asked quietly once they started filing toward the bus.

Max blinked, like he hadn’t expected anyone to ask. Then he nodded too fast, too practiced. “Yeah. Fine. Just, first time with the team. Don’t wanna mess it up.”

Seb tilted his head. He didn’t buy it, not fully. But he also knew better than to push. If Max said it was just nerves, then for now, that’s what it was.

So Seb smirked instead, nudging him with an elbow. “You? Mess it up? Please. You’ll have your match done before Lew even finds his water bottle.”

Max gave a small, almost reluctant laugh. The tension didn’t vanish, but it cracked, and that was enough.

The others piled onto the bus, voices bouncing off the narrow space, Lewis already challenging Nico to a thumb war, Fernando claiming the back row like it was his throne. Seb slid into a seat across from Max, while Daniel went for the swat next to Max. He didn’t say anything more, but he kept half an eye on him as the bus rumbled out of the school lot.

Max leaned his head against the window, watching the blur of the city slip by. He looked calm enough to the rest, but Seb could see the way his jaw clenched every few seconds, the way his hand flexed around his knee.

Something was sitting heavy on him. Something he wasn’t saying.

Seb didn’t press. He just sat back, crossed his arms, trying to get into the zone for later’s match.

The bus pulled up to the venue just as the sun broke through the morning haze, glinting off the glass doors of the sports complex. The chatter inside the bus rose. Half nerves, half excitement. Lewis practically bounced out of his seat, shoving Nico’s shoulder on his way to the aisle.

“Come on, lads, history’s about to be made,” he declared, already grinning like he’d won.

“History of you double-faulting, maybe,” Nico muttered, dragging his bag down from the rack.

Kimi slipped his headphones off long enough to deadpan, “No one remembers second doubles anyway.”

That sent Nico into loud laughter, Lewis into defensive sputters, and Seb into shaking his head at the circus that was their team.

Max followed behind them quietly, his racket case heavy on his shoulder. He tried to let the familiar bickering ground him, but as soon as they stepped off the bus, the atmosphere shifted.

The venue was buzzing. The team from the other school in matching kits moved through the entrance, voices bouncing in waves of nervous energy. Parents clustered at the doors, some with cameras, others balancing takeaway coffees, eyes already scanning for their kids.

Max slowed a little, his breath catching before he even realised why.

Because in that blur of parents, one face snapped into focus.

Jos.

He wasn’t cheering, wasn’t smiling, just standing there with his arms folded, blending into the group like he belonged. But to Max, he might as well have been a thundercloud dropped in the middle of the crowd.

Max’s stomach twisted. His grip on the racket case strap tightened until the fabric bit into his palm.

His dad was watching. Watching and judging. And Max knew that if he lost, if he slipped even a little, there’d be no excuses waiting for him at home.

“Max, you coming?” Seb’s voice cut through the fog. He’d paused just ahead, raising an eyebrow.

Max blinked, forcing a breath into his lungs. “Yeah. Coming.”

He fell into step, but none of the bounce in Lewis’s voice, the confidence in Nico’s stride, nor the calm detachment in Kimi’s face had reached him. All he could feel was that pair of eyes in the crowd, pinning him down before he’d even set foot on court.

The boys filed through the entrance in a messy cluster, the noise of sneakers squeaking against polished flooring mixing with the low thrum of other teams warming up. Seb dropped his bag at the benches, already reaching for his racket. Kimi peeled off his hoodie without ceremony, rolling his shoulders like he’d been born for this, while Lewis was still narrating how “first doubles is where legends are made.”

The draw sheet pinned by the entrance settled it: Kimi and Seb were up first.

“Don’t choke,” Lewis sing-songed, elbowing Seb as if the words were harmless.

Seb arched an eyebrow. “I’ll leave that to you.”

“Please,” Nico cut in, smirking. “You'll choke before the coin toss.”

Kimi ignored them all, tossing his hoodie onto the bench and walking toward the baseline with the same blank calm he always carried. Seb followed, though the sharp way he tugged his wristbands tighter gave him away.

On the bench, Daniel leaned back, arms stretched along the top of the seat. “Well, here we go. The Seb-and-Kimi show.”

Max sat beside him, trying to fix his gaze on the court. His dad had drifted into the spectator stands, close enough that Max could see the faint outline of crossed arms. That weight pressed against his ribs, even here on the bench.

“Oi, little man.” Daniel bumped him lightly with an elbow. “Bet you Kimi doesn’t even sweat. Five bucks.”

Max’s mouth twitched despite the coil in his stomach. “You don’t even have five bucks.”

“That’s the beauty of it.” Daniel winked, and Max let out the smallest laugh, enough for his chest to loosen for a second.

On court, Kimi played like the game was a formality. Every shot was clean, efficient, placed with an ease that looked almost bored. He barely blinked when a ball came at his feet, just angled his racket and sent it slicing cross-court.

Seb, meanwhile, burned through the rallies like each one was a battle to be won. He smashed serves, chased impossible returns, his shoulders tight with every swing. The score climbed fast. 3–0, then 4–0, but the balance between them was stark: Kimi effortless, Seb desperate.

From the bench, Daniel cupped his hands around his mouth. “Don’t break a sweat, Kimi! Save it for the finals!”

A few kids laughed in the stands. Kimi didn’t even acknowledge it. Seb, though, clenched his jaw, firing his next serve down the line with brutal precision.

“Why’s he playing like it’s a grand slam final?” Daniel muttered, half to Max.

Max didn’t answer right away. He just watched Seb’s fists tighten after every point, like even winning wasn’t enough. “Maybe he doesn’t want to lose at all,” Max said softly.

Daniel tilted his head, studying him for a second, but didn’t push.

The set wrapped at 6–0, just as expected. Kimi looked as fresh as he had at the start. Seb, though, walked off court with the tight focus of someone who hadn’t just won easily, but survived something invisible.

Daniel jumped up, clapping like they’d just clinched the championship. “Easy work, boys! Told you. Kimi didn’t even sweat.”

Max smiled faintly, though his eyes lingered on Seb. For a split second, he thought Seb glanced back at him, something unreadable flickering across his face before it vanished.

And then the call came for the next doubles team, the buzz of the tournament shifting forward, pulling them all along with it.

Next up, it was Lewis and Nico. The boys huddled near the benches, rackets in hand, as the announcer called their names. Lewis swaggered onto the court like it was a stage, tossing a ball in the air and catching it with a flourish. Nico followed with his usual stiff, precise stride, already adjusting the strings on his racket like he was preparing for a physics experiment instead of a tennis match.

“Bet I’ll ace first serve,” Lewis bragged, spinning his racket.

“You’ll double fault first serve,” Nico shot back, expression flat but eyes glinting.

Max, standing with Daniel at the sidelines, felt his lips twitch. He tried to suppress it, but by the time Lewis sent his first ball straight into the net and Nico groaned loud enough to echo, Max’s laugh broke free. It wasn’t just a chuckle. It rolled out of him, sharp and sudden, until he was doubled over slightly, hand braced on his racket. Daniel snorted and joined in, the two of them feeding off each other until Max had to wipe his eyes.

On court, Lewis was busy shouting, “It slipped! Bloody new balls!” while Nico yelled back, “You always say that!”

The whole team was laughing now, even Kimi with a quiet huff through his nose.

For Max, the laughter felt different. It wasn’t the usual half-smile he gave when others cracked a joke. This was real, bubbling out before he could stop it, burning away the tightness that had been coiled in his chest since stepping off the bus.

But in the corner of his eye, through the blur of spectators, he saw Jos. Arms still folded, jaw tight. No smile. No amusement. Just watching.

And then, just as Max drew another shaky breath from laughing too hard, Jos was nowhere to be found.

The laughter died in Max’s throat. He straightened suddenly, scanning the court entrance, the stands, the hall beyond the glass doors. Gone. Completely gone.

“Max?” Daniel’s voice pulled him back. His friend was leaning forward, brow furrowed. “What are you looking for?”

Max blinked, forcing himself to shake his head. “Nothing important.” His voice was even, but his stomach hadn’t unclenched.

Daniel frowned. “If it’s nothing important, then don’t worry about it.” He nudged Max’s shoulder with an easy grin. “Look at Lewis. He’s about to trip over his own shoelaces.”

Sure enough, Lewis had nearly tangled himself sprinting for a volley, and Nico was yelling in two languages at once. The ridiculousness pulled another small laugh from Max, though softer this time, weighed down by the nagging unease.

He tried to let it go. Tried to believe Daniel. But even as he clapped when Nico smacked a clean winner down the line, a part of him still searched the corners of the crowd for a face that was no longer there.

Chapter Text

Lewis and Nico’s doubles started out steady enough. They looked sharp in warm-up, Nico cool and precise, Lewis grinning like he was already holding the trophy. But the second the match began, it all slid into chaos.

On the very first rally, Lewis tried a flashy smash, slipped just slightly on the baseline, and went down on one knee like he was proposing to the crowd. The ball dribbled into the net. Nico barked his frustration in German, then swatted at Lewis’s arm.

“Stand up! You’re not auditioning for a musical!”

That set the bench laughing. Kimi even cracked a small smirk from behind his water bottle.

By the third game, it got worse. Lewis had developed a habit of calling his shots loudly. “Watch this, down the line!” he’d announce, only to send the ball into the doubles alley. Or, “Ace, incoming!” before faulting so hard the ball bounced off the back fence.

“Stop saying it!” Nico snapped after the fourth one. “Every time you call it, you miss it!”

Seb was already doubled over, covering his mouth to keep his laugh from echoing too loud across the court. Daniel leaned forward on the bench, eyes gleaming. “I swear, if he says it one more time– ”

“Mate, he will,” Max muttered, shaking his head, though a smile was tugging at his mouth.

Sure enough, two points later Lewis puffed his chest and called, “Right at his feet!” before promptly nailing Nico in the calf with his serve. Nico dropped his racket with a yell, hopping around like he’d been stung by a bee.

That did it. The entire bench lost it. Kimi chuckled under his breath. Seb had tears in his eyes. Fernando slapped the seat beside him, wheezing.

Max tried to hold it in, tried to be composed, but the sight of Nico limping in circles while Lewis jogged after him shouting, “You were in the way, bruh!” was too much. A bark of laughter ripped out of him. Then another. Then he doubled over, shoulders shaking.

Daniel leaned into him, laughing so hard his face was red. “Holy shit! He’s weaponized his serve! Friendly fire, Verstappen! Watch your knees when you practice with him next time!”

Max couldn’t stop. It wasn’t just a laugh. It was full-on, head-tipped-back, gasping-for-air laughter, the kind he didn’t let himself have often. His chest ached with it, but in a good way.

On court, Nico was still berating Lewis, who just pointed toward the bench like, “See? They loved it.”

“Bloody hell,” Daniel managed between wheezes. “We should make that a thing. Every time someone screws up, call it a Lewis Special.”

Max snorted, eyes crinkling. “Or a ‘Friendly Fire.’”

That set Daniel off again, both of them leaning against each other for balance.

The others didn’t even bother to rein them in. They were too busy heckling from the sidelines, shouting things like, “Careful, Nico, duck next time!” and “Lewis, you aiming for the ref now?”

By then, he had completely forgotten about Jos already.

Chapter Text

When Max’s turn finally came, he walked onto the court lighter than when he’d stepped off the bus. The nerves hadn’t vanished, but they’d been burned off by laughter, by the stupid chaos of Lewis and Nico’s doubles. His grip on the racket was steady now, his breath calm.

The whistle blew.

From the first serve, it was clear: this was his match. His strokes were clean, sharp, decisive. The ball bit into the court with that crisp sound that made coaches nod and opponents flinch. He barely gave the other boy time to settle. Points stacked up fast, games even faster.

The bench started quiet at first, watching. Then, as Max kept piling on winners, they got louder. Seb was nodding along, a little smug, like he’d seen this coming. Lewis whistled after a backhand down the line that clipped the chalk. Nico muttered something about “machine-like precision,” though the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile. Even Kimi, who rarely reacted to anything, tilted his head as though admitting, yeah, this kid had it.

Max didn’t notice any of it. He was locked in, head clear. Each rally ended with him already moving for the next, each serve struck like he had nothing to prove and everything to enjoy.

In less than an hour, it was done. Straight sets, no fuss. Handshake at the net, his opponent muttering a half-awed, half-defeated, “Good game.”

Max just nodded, but inside, something glowed. He’d done it. Not just played well, but owned the hell out of it.

Back at the bench, Daniel slung an arm around his shoulders, shaking him a little. “Bloody hell, mate, you didn’t even let the guy breathe. Quickest match of the day, no contest.”

“Respect,” Lewis said, offering a fist-bump. “Guess we can call that a Max Special. The good kind.”

Max actually let himself grin, bumping his knuckles back.

The team lingered in the venue until all matches wrapped, the air buzzing with leftover adrenaline. Once it was clear they’d secured a clean team victory, Nico clapped his hands once, decisive as ever.

“Dinner. We go out together,” he declared.

Seb raised a brow. “Lunch, you mean. It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Lunch, dinner, whatever,” Nico shot back. “We earned it.”

The idea caught immediately. Lewis shouted something about burgers. Daniel wanted pizza. Fernando insisted Spanish food or nothing.

In the middle of it, Max hesitated. A shadow crept at the edge of his thoughts. He could still hear his father’s voice from that morning. Straight home after, no excuses.

But then he remembered the empty space in the crowd, the way Jos had disappeared before his match even started. No one was waiting at the door. No one was calling his name. And he didn’t even have a phone for his dad to contact him with.

For the first time in a while, Max realised: the choice was his.

And he wanted this. The noise, the laughter, the teammates still riding high.

He adjusted his racket bag on his shoulder and said, a little quietly but firmly enough to be heard, “I’ll come.”

Daniel grinned so wide it nearly split his face. “Atta boy. Max Special continues. Now it’s pizza edition.”

The team roared their agreement, filing out together into the late afternoon sun, voices tumbling over each other about where to go. Max walked with them, steps a little lighter, the taste of victory and freedom lingering sweeter than anything waiting for him at home.

The team gathered their things in a whirl of racket bags and half-zipped hoodies. Lewis was still buzzing, declaring loudly that Max had “broken the sound barrier” with his forehand, and Nico kept shoving him, muttering that he was exaggerating but smiling anyway.

Seb caught Max by the shoulder as they filed out of the sports hall. “Good job,” he said simply, squeezing once before letting go.

Max’s ears warmed. “Thanks.”

It might’ve ended there, but Nico threw his arm dramatically around Lewis’s shoulders. “Alright, champions, impressive as shit, but I’m starving.”

“Shut up you big back.” Lewis tried shrugging the blonde off his shoulder, but Nico only clung on tighter.

“At least this big back didn’t double fault. Twice.”

“I did not double-fault twice!” Lewis began, sputtering.

“You did,” Kimi said flatly.

That set the whole group laughing, and in the haze of their teasing, Max almost forgot to feel nervous. Almost.

By the time they found a diner tucked a few blocks from the venue, the boys were all drenched in sweat. The place smelled of frying onions and fresh bread, and it was blessedly quiet except for the hum of conversation from a couple of tables.

They slid into a booth that barely seemed big enough for them, elbows bumping, knees knocking. Lewis insisted on the aisle seat because he claimed he needed “easy access to freedom,” and Nico shoved him until he nearly fell into the next table. Daniel took the spot next to Max, grinning.

Menus were passed around, but nobody really read them. The chatter didn’t stop.

“You saw him, right?” Lewis leaned halfway across the table, eyes wide, pointing his fork like a sword at Max. “Bro didn’t even sweat. Like, not a bead. Are you secretly a robot? Be honest.”

Max felt his ears heat. “I’m not a robot.”

“Say that again but in robot voice,” Daniel nudged him, straight-faced.

Max blinked. “What?”

“You know, monotone. ‘I am Max Verstappen, tennis machine.’”

The table cracked up immediately. Even Kimi’s lips twitched.

Max buried his face in his menu, but he couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out of him. It was sharp, sudden, bubbling up before he could think to suppress it. He laughed so hard his shoulders shook, and the others joined in, loud enough that the server at the counter gave them a look.

And somewhere in the middle of it, Max realised that this was an inside joke. Something stupid, born at this very table, with these exact people. Something that would resurface weeks from now when Lewis accused him of being “90% lithium battery,” or when Daniel made beeping noises under his breath just to see him crack.

It hit Max like warmth spreading through his chest. An inside joke meant belonging. It meant being part of something bigger than himself.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like he was on the outside looking in.

The server arrived to take their orders, notebook poised, but the table was still vibrating with laughter.

“Alright, alright,” Nico said finally, wiping the corner of his eye, “robot boy needs fuel. What’s it gonna be, Verstappen? Oil change? New battery pack?”

Max shook his head, unable to stop smiling. “Burger,” he muttered, hoping that would be the end of it.

But of course, Daniel leaned into the opening. “One cheeseburger with extra motor oil, please,” he told the server solemnly.

The poor woman blinked, pen hovering over her pad, clearly uncertain whether to write that down.

“Don’t encourage him,” Max hissed, elbowing Daniel hard in the ribs, which only set him wheezing with laughter again.

“It’s fine,” Seb cut in dryly, though his mouth was twitching. “He means ketchup.”

The server relaxed, chuckled, and scribbled it down. “Cheeseburger. With ketchup. Got it.”

Max hid his face in his hands.

Even after everyone had ordered (Lewis demanding for a vegan option, Nico choosing something pretentious with avocado, Kimi simply asking for “food” and leaving it at that), the teasing had lost none of its momentum.

“Careful,” Fernando said with mock seriousness as the server walked away, “if Max keeps this up, he might accidentally short-circuit. And then where would we be? One singles player down. Carlos’s time to shine?”

“I’m not a robot,” Max tried again, exasperated but still smiling, because he couldn’t help it.

“Say that in robot voice!” Daniel insisted, pounding the table with his fist. “Come on, once. For the team. Do it.”

Max looked around the booth. Every pair of eyes was on him: Lewis with his lopsided grin, Nico leaning forward in expectation, Seb’s cool stare softened by amusement, Fernando smirking as though daring him otherwise, and Carlos practically bouncing in his seat. Even Kimi, unreadable as ever, was waiting.

He wanted to say no. He wanted to roll his eyes and dismiss it. That was his instinct, the part of him that always stayed guarded, always on edge, ready to protect himself from ridicule.

But the warmth that had been growing ever since he walked off court pushed him forward instead.

He straightened his back, pressed his lips together, and intoned in the flattest voice he could manage:

“I… am… Max Verstappen. Tennis machine. Beep boop.”

The table erupted. Daniel nearly slid under the table, Lewis actually howled, Seb snorted so loudly it startled the whole restaurant. Even Kimi shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing, though his eyes gleamed with quiet humor.

Max felt his face burn scarlet, but he was laughing too, the sound torn out of him against his will. He laughed until his stomach hurt, until his ribs ached, until he forgot why he had ever hesitated.

His laugh faltered for a split second, but then Daniel nudged him with his elbow and whispered, “You did the voice, mate. I’m proud of you,” and Max was lost to laughter again.

The food arrived on the crest of their amusement, steaming plates slid onto the table. Burgers, fries, salad, and everything else. The smell wrapped around them like a blanket, and conversation turned chaotic as everyone grabbed for plates, passed things down, argued over whose fries were whose.

Max’s burger landed in front of him, and he stared at it for a moment as if it might vanish if he blinked too long.

“Eat,” Seb ordered calmly, already cutting into his meal with meticulous precision.

Max obeyed. The first bite was messy, juice running down his chin, but he didn’t care. It tasted like victory.

And maybe something more.

Max was halfway through his burger, still grinning at some half-baked pun Nico had tried to make about oil changes, when the world tilted.

Through the window behind Daniel’s shoulder, a man walked past. Just another adult weaving through the street traffic. But Max froze, his teeth locked on bread and cheese, because for a heartbeat he could have sworn it was Jos.

The same gait. The same set to the shoulders, stiff and purposeful. The same blonde hair and intimidating aura.

Max’s stomach turned ice cold. The laughter ringing in his ears dulled, muffled, like it was happening underwater.

He blinked. The man was already gone, swallowed by the crowd outside. Maybe it hadn’t been him. Maybe it was just someone with the same haircut, the same broad frame. But his chest felt tight, like iron bands were tightening around his ribs.

“Oi, robot boy,” Daniel nudged him, oblivious. “Do we need to send you back to the factory for a reset?”

The table laughed again. Max forced a twitch of his mouth, but it wasn’t real. His burger suddenly tasted like cardboard.

He looked down at his hands, at the grease smudging his fingers, and all he could think was: I should go home. He told me to. He’s going to be furious.

The panic rose sharp and acidic. He pushed back from the booth abruptly, muttering something about needing air. Chairs scraped, voices startled.

“Max?” Lewis asked, brows pulling together.

Max shook his head too fast. “I forgot something. I have to.. just, I need to go.”

“Go where?” Daniel blinked, confused.

“Home,” Max said, and it came out too sharp, too quick. He didn’t mean to sound angry, but he couldn’t help it, not with the pressure rising inside his chest.

Seb opened his mouth, maybe to insist he sit back down, but Max was already shoving bills out of his wallet and onto the table. His heart hammered against his ribs. His legs felt restless, urgent, like if he didn’t move fast enough something terrible would catch up with him.

Daniel half-rose, reaching for him. “Mate, what– ”

“Nothing important,” Max cut in, the words clipped, echoing what he’d said earlier in the day. He didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

The warmth of the booth, the smell of food, the low laughter all fell away as he pushed through the restaurant door and out into the street, where the air slapped cold against his skin. He scanned the crowd frantically, searching for the familiar looming shape, but saw only strangers.

Still, the phantom remained. The fear lingered.

And Max, shoulders tight, hands shoved into his pockets, started walking toward home.

Chapter Text

Max’s shoes slapped against the pavement, too loud in his ears. He hadn’t grabbed his jacket properly before bolting, and the chill dug into his skin like teeth. His breaths puffed white in the late afternoon air, shallow, uneven.

It wasn’t him. Couldn’t have been. Just some guy. Just a guy.

But the certainty refused to stick. He kept replaying that half-seen face through the restaurant glass. Jaw set just so, shoulders squared in a way that was too familiar. The longer he thought about it, the less real it seemed, and yet his chest stayed locked up as if Jos had already spoken, already judged.

Inside the booth, the warmth had curdled. The plates that had arrived steaming now sat in limbo, fries losing their crisp, chicken going cold.

Lewis jabbed a fry into ketchup with unnecessary force. “Seriously, though, what was that ? He didn’t even finish his food. Who runs out on Nando’s ?”

Nico snorted. “Maybe he’s allergic to actual fun.”

Daniel, however, wasn’t laughing. He leaned forward on his elbows, glancing at Seb. “You saw his face, right? That wasn’t just ‘I forgot to feed my cat.’ He looked like he was about to throw up.”

Seb’s mouth pulled thin. “Yeah. I saw.”

Max cut through a quieter street, away from the clatter of shops. His pace hadn’t slowed. If anything, it quickened the further he got from the restaurant. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching for something, like his racket, maybe, or something steady.

For a flicker of a second, he imagined going back, slipping into the booth again, laughing like nothing had happened. But the thought collapsed under the weight of a memory: Jos’s voice, sharp and cold. Focus. Don’t waste time. Don’t act like a child.

He shoved the thought down and kept walking.

Daniel fiddled with his straw, scowling at the table. “We should’ve stopped him.”

Kimi arched a brow. “You’re fast enough to chase him?”

Lewis rolled his eyes. “Not the point, mate.”

“Then what is the point?” Nico asked. “If he wanted to talk, he would. If he didn’t, then oh well. Dragging him back won’t help.”

Seb didn’t disagree, but he stayed quiet. He could still picture the stiff line of Max’s shoulders as he left, the way he hadn’t looked at anyone. He knew that posture. He’d worn it before.

Max reached the corner near his house and finally slowed. His breath came ragged, not from the run, he hadn’t really been running, but from the coil of nerves that refused to let go. He glanced over his shoulder once, twice, scanning the street.

No Jos. No shadow trailing him.

Just silence.

He exhaled hard, dragging a hand over his face. Relief trickled in, sharp and temporary, followed quickly by the sting of guilt. He should have stayed. Should have kept laughing with them, like any normal kid. But normal wasn’t something he was allowed to be, was he?

Back at the restaurant, the team was already trying to stitch the mood back together.

Lewis cracked some half-hearted joke about Daniel’s hair, Nico piled on, Fernando chuckled. The sound was there, but thinner, forced.

Only Daniel kept glancing at the door.

Finally, he muttered, almost to himself, “Whatever it was, I hope it’s not something serious.”

Seb’s gaze flicked to him, steady, unreadable. “It is.”

The table fell quiet again.

Max pushed into his empty flat, the door clicking behind him. No voices, no warmth. Just the echo of his own footsteps. He dropped his racket bag by the wall and sank down onto the edge of his bed, head in his hands.

The inside joke from earlier. The way everyone had laughed, including him. It has drifted back to the surface. For a second, it had felt like belonging. Like he could actually stay, laugh, and be just another kid.

But the phantom face outside the window had ripped it all away.

Max swallowed hard and lay back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Nothing important, he’d told Daniel.
But his chest still ached like it had been everything.

Chapter Text

When Max pushed through the front door that night, he already had the words lined up, neat and orderly, rehearsed so many times on the walk back it almost felt natural.

“I stayed for lunch with the team because Nico suggested it, and I didn’t want to be rude, and it won’t happen again.”

He pictured saying it quickly, before Jos could snap. He pictured his father’s scowl, the lecture about discipline, the thinly veiled threat about wasting potential. Max braced himself for it, chest tight but steady.

But when Jos finally appeared in the kitchen doorway, there was no scowl. No lecture. Just a look that slid over him like Max wasn’t even there, and then silence.

The words Max had practiced stuck to his tongue, brittle and useless. He muttered them anyway, voice low, barely audible. “I just… Nico suggested, so I didn’t want to be rude…”

No reply. Jos opened the fridge, pulled out a beer, shut the door with a dull thud, and walked away.

That was worse than yelling.

The silence stretched into days.

In the mornings, Jos would sit at the table with his coffee, newspaper folded, and never look up when Max came in. The scrape of toast on a plate filled the whole kitchen. Max would murmur “morning” once, twice, testing the air, but the word never landed anywhere.

In the evenings, Jos would stay in his study, the door closed, the team meeting seeping through. Max ate alone, washed his own dishes, sat in the stale quiet.

The absence pressed in harder than anger ever had. With anger, at least, Max knew where he stood. With this? He felt like he didn’t exist.

At school, the world carried on as if nothing had shifted. Except George.

The morning after the win, the loudspeaker announcement filled the classroom:
“Congratulations to our boys’ tennis team for their outstanding clean sweep against Indy High yesterday, with a dominant 3–0 result!”

The class broke into applause, a few cheers. George broke out a grin and stood up to wave to everyone in class. Everyone clapped, and screamed, and Alex even catcalled him. Max sighed.

And then George’s voice cut sharp across the noise.

“Wish that was you who won, don’t you?”

Max froze.

George smirked, leaning back in his chair, making sure the whole class heard. “Well, too bad. It was me. Boo hoo.” He dragged out the words in a singsong, exaggerated wail, rubbing at his eyes like a toddler pretending to cry.

The class chuckled. A few kids laughed outright. Someone clapped George on the back.

Max stared at the desk, knuckles white around his pencil. His stomach twisted. For a moment he thought about saying something, but the weight of Jos’s silence at home held his tongue.

George kept grinning, pleased with himself, before finally slouching back into his seat.

The rest of the day moved on. Max didn’t.

The week stretched long and heavy. Every practice, Max pushed harder than needed, lungs burning, arms aching. He stayed late, hitting ball after ball against the wall until the sound blurred into numbness. Maybe if he kept moving, the silence wouldn’t catch him.

But every night, it was waiting when he came home. The dark apartment. The closed study door. His father’s shadow passing him without pause.

By Friday, Max wasn’t sure which cut deeper: the cruelty George weaponised so casually, or the indifference his own father wielded like a blade.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet in a way that felt almost deliberate, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Max moved through the kitchen, trying not to disturb the tension lingering in the air. He’d spent the last week tiptoeing around it. Jos had not spoken to him since the tennis win at school, as though he did not exist to begin with. The silence was heavy, suffocating in its own way, and Max had grown used to it.

Until tonight.

Jos finally spoke, the words slicing through the stillness with a sharpness that made Max flinch. “Pack your things. I’ve gotten you excused from school for the rest of the week. You’re coming to Silverstone this weekend. It’s important. Valuable connections.”

Max froze mid-step, a half-empty laundry basket in his hands. Valuable connections. The phrase felt like a sentence rather than an opportunity. He wanted to argue, to say he didn’t care about connections, didn’t need to be there, didn’t want to be anywhere he wasn’t choosing, but his voice had learned to obey long before now.

“Sure,” he said, voice quiet, almost flat.

Jos gave a sharp nod, as if permission or acknowledgment was a reward in itself. “Good. Don’t waste time. You’ll need presentable clothes. I don’t want you embarrassing me there.”

Max didn’t respond, just turned away and went up the stairs, into his room. His hands moved automatically, packing, sorting, tucking clothes and essentials into his bag. He had no excitement, no anticipation, only a mechanical focus that kept his thoughts from spiraling. He tried to imagine the weekend as neutral: just a trip, just a race, just being somewhere else. But the weight of Jos’s eyes lingered in his mind even as he zipped the bag closed.

By the time he finished, the living room was empty except for Jos, who had retreated to his study. Max leaned against the doorframe for a moment, taking a shallow breath. He tried to convince himself this was normal. This was just how fathers and sons operated in his world. Distance, expectation, subtle judgment. Nothing personal.

Nothing that should hurt this much.

The rest of the evening passed in silence. Dinner was quiet, Jos speaking only to remind Max to eat properly, to not waste time, to be ready for the morning. Max ate mechanically, chewing on the food as if the taste didn’t matter, as if swallowing quickly might help him vanish into the background.

Later, he double-checked his bag, ensuring everything was set for the early departure. The racket felt heavier than usual in his hands. Not the weight of the wood, but of the unspoken expectations layered on top of it. He wondered briefly if Jos even noticed how tense he was. Probably not. Jos never did.

When Max finally climbed into bed, he lay on his side staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, except for the faint glow from the streetlight outside. He tried to imagine Silverstone as a neutral place, a world outside Jos’s influence, but even there, he couldn’t shake the sense of being under someone else’s scrutiny.

Tomorrow, he would wake early. Tomorrow, he would pack into a car and be driven to a weekend he didn’t want. Tomorrow, he would navigate a world of smiles, handshakes, and opportunities framed by Jos’s ambitions rather than his own.

But tonight, he was alone with the quiet. And that was something, at least.

The drive to Silverstone was quiet. Max sat in the back, bag resting on his lap, hands folded around the strap. Jos barely spoke, only clipped instructions on how to behave, who to meet, what to say. Max nodded along, stomach twisting at each turn.

Once they arrived, the paddock was already alive with movement. Trucks lined the edges, mechanics scuttled, engineers spoke in clipped bursts of technical jargon, cameras clicked, voices carried. The smell of fuel, rubber, and polished metal made Max inhale sharply, a familiar pulse of adrenaline and anxiety.

Jos jumped out immediately. “Max, stay close. Don’t wander. Network. Understand?”

Max nodded, forcing his body to obey, but as soon as Jos disappeared into the team hospitality area, he exhaled. The invisible weight pressing down on him lifted slightly.

He wandered along the sidelines, quietly waving to faces he recognized from previous races. Then, Toto Wolff appeared, striding toward him with a warm smile.

“Max! Good to see you,” Toto said, voice carrying. “I see you’ve grown since last time. Come meet my son and his friend. If you want, of course.”

Max forced a small, polite smile. “Thanks… maybe next time,” he said, raising a hand in a wave. He stayed where he was for a while, letting the warm acknowledgment settle inside him. 

He wandered further, watching cars being prepped, mechanics working in synchronized chaos. A small part of him felt at home in the rhythm, reminded of tennis courts, of calculated moves and split-second decisions. 

Nearby, where Max was unaware, Nico and Lewis were practically vibrating with excitement. Paddock passes around their necks, they bounced from trailer to trailer, laughing loudly, interrupting interviews with cheeky questions, and making even the sternest team members chuckle. They had begged for months to Toto and Keke, arguing about the exclusivity of the passes, and while Keke had refused Nico, Toto produced the passes that now hung around their necks for the two teens.

Lewis nudged Nico, pointing at a group of engineers. “Bet we can get one of them to explain tire degradation in under five minutes. Loser buys lunch!”

Nico laughed, shaking his head. “You’re on. But don’t cry when I school you.”

Race day dawned with a low, gray sky, and the paddock was alive earlier than ever. Max moved with it, drifting between the trailers and hospitality units, feeling the pulse of engines before the roar began. Every corner held familiar sights of mechanics checking tire pressures, engineers huddled over tablets, and cameras swiveling, but today, every movement carried the weight of his father’s gaze, even if Jos wasn’t immediately beside him.

Jos had been tense all morning, pacing near the garage, glancing at telemetry on his tablet, muttering under his breath about possible ways to go from seventh to first, with his Q3 cut before he could set a decent timing due to a red flag. He had been furious about it ever since, and Max had tried to stay out of the way and be invisible. It had mostly worked.

The race started, and Max settled into a vantage point at the edge of the paddock, eyes darting between monitors and the cars on the track. Jos was almost flawless, overtaking until the final laps. It was so intense, Max could see Jos’s wheel wobble as he parked his car behind the P1 marker at the end of the race.

When Jos was finally at his side again, Max exhaled before he even realized it. “Good job,” he murmured quietly, almost instinctively.

Jos snapped his head toward him, eyes blazing. “Excuse me?” His voice carried like a whip crack across the pit lane.

Max’s stomach lurched. “I said… you did well,” he clarified, voice careful, tentative, but sincere.

Jos’s expression darkened further. Without another word, he turned sharply, marching away from the track, leaving Max rooted to the spot. Max blinked, watching him disappear, a strange hollow settling in his chest.

He tried to shake it off, but his attention wandered, drifting toward the bright colors of the grandstands, the chatter of fans, the engines screaming past. 

Max’s chest tightened. What was he supposed to do now?

So, he lingered near the Red Bull garage, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, eyes darting between the team packing up and the stream of activity around him. Mechanics wiped down cars, boxes of equipment were stacked, monitors powered down, all barely noticing Max’s presence.

The roar of engines and chatter of team members was oddly comforting, yet it reminded him of his own invisibility. He felt like a ghost, wandering amidst people who belonged entirely to this world, while he existed only as an extension of someone else’s plans.

He shifted from foot to foot, unsure whether to approach or remain hidden in the periphery. His stomach twisted with a mix of nerves and anticipation, and he realized he didn’t even know what he would do once the team finished. He didn’t have a clear path, only the vague idea of following instructions, obeying, existing.

Eventually, a mechanic wiped his hands on a rag and glanced at Max with a raised eyebrow. “You heading back? Want a lift to the hotel? The team’s packing up, and I’m taking a quick run.”

Max’s chest tightened, but he nodded quickly. “Yeah… that’d be great, thanks.”

He followed the mechanic to a small service vehicle tucked behind the hospitality truck. The engine hummed beneath him, a subtle vibration that reminded him of tennis courts, of timing, of focus. He climbed in, gripping the edge of the seat as the car rolled toward the hotel.

Through the windshield, he could see the paddock receding, the grandstands looming in the distance, and the Red Bull team moving in coordinated chaos. Max kept his gaze forward, forcing his breathing to slow, trying not to think too much about the weekend, about Silverstone, about the weight pressing down on him at home.

The car turned onto a quieter road leading to the hotel. The mechanical hum and the occasional shift of gears filled the space, and Max realized he had been holding his breath for a long stretch. He exhaled, leaning back against the seat, feeling the tension in his shoulders gradually ease.

By the time the vehicle pulled up to the hotel entrance, Max’s thoughts were tangled, part relief, part apprehension, part the dull ache of loneliness amid a crowd he didn’t belong to. He thanked the mechanic quietly and stepped out, the hotel’s polished exterior reflecting the early evening light.

He lifted his bag onto his shoulder and walked toward the entrance, each step echoing lightly on the marble floor. The air inside smelled faintly of coffee, freshly cleaned surfaces, and polished metal. Max navigated the lobby quietly, scanning the area for a place to settle, waiting forJos to come down when he realises Max did not have an access card to the room.

Chapter Text

The school on Monday morning felt like it had caught fire. Not literally, of course, but in the way chatter spread through the corridors, sparking from one group to the next until the entire building seemed to hum with the same story. Silverstone. Jos Verstappen. The last-lap duel.

Max walked down the hall with his bag slung over one shoulder, the racket handle jutting out from the zipper like an awkward reminder of who he was supposed to be. Kids were pressed against lockers, animated voices ricocheting between walls:
“Did you see that pass? Unreal.”
“Mate, Verstappen’s got ice in his veins.”
“My dad says it was the best race he’s driven in years.”

Max’s stomach twisted. Every mention of that name felt like someone tugging on a leash he couldn’t escape.

By the time he slid into his seat in class, the noise hadn’t died down. Posters from the race weekend, clipped from newspapers, had already been taped to the bulletin board. The teacher hadn’t even started, and half the class was still buzzing about overtakes, pit stops, and how “unreal” Jos was.

George was at the center of it all, lounging back with a cocky grin as if he’d personally been on the podium. He was telling a story with exaggerated hand motions, describing Jos’s move like he was the one behind the wheel. Kids laughed, nodded, hung on his every word.

Max tried to keep his head down, pulling his notebook from his bag, but it didn’t take long.

“Oi, Verstappen.”

His name cut through the air like a dart. Max froze, pencil halfway to the page. Slowly, he looked up. George’s eyes were on him, bright with mischief, and a dozen heads turned in the same direction.

“You’re not hiding back there, are you?” George said, voice dripping false innocence. “I mean… Verstappen, right? Like Jos Verstappen? Any chance you two are related?”

Laughter rippled through the room. Someone muttered, “No way,” and another whispered, “Would explain the temper.”

Max’s pulse hammered in his ears. He wanted to say nothing, to let it wash over him, but George leaned forward, elbows on his desk, grin widening.

“Come on. What are the odds? Same surname, same country, same temper. Pretty convenient, isn’t it?”

The laughter grew sharper, more directed. Max felt his grip tighten on the pencil until the wood creaked.

“Bet you just use the name to look cool,” George continued, voice pitching higher like he wanted the whole building to hear. “Big faker energy. Pretending you’re related to Jos Verstappen? Pathetic.”

Something inside Max snapped. His voice cut through the noise, low and raw.
“I wish it was fake.”

Silence crashed over the room. Even George blinked, caught off guard. The sharpness of Max’s tone left no room for jokes.

For a moment, no one moved. Max’s chest rose and fell too quickly, the pencil still trembling between his fingers. The truth hung heavy in the air, an answer none of them expected.

Then George barked out a laugh, too loud, too forced. “Yeah, right. Good one. As if. You really expect us to believe that?” His eyes narrowed, insecurity bleeding into cruelty. “If you were really his kid, everyone would know. The media, the school, literally everyone. But nah, you’re just some wannabe.”

Max wanted to slam the desk, to shout until his throat tore, but his body betrayed him. He stayed frozen, only his jaw working as he bit back everything unsaid.

And then Charles spoke. His voice was calm, precise, each word measured.
“My father would have told me,” he said, arms crossed. “Toto knows everyone in the paddock. If Max was really Jos Verstappen’s son, I’d know.”

The dismissal was casual, almost careless, but it cut deeper than George’s mockery. Logic and authority layered into a verdict. The class murmured in agreement, the weight of Charles’s certainty pressing in on Max until it felt hard to breathe.

He dropped his gaze to the notebook, the page still blank, lines waiting for words he couldn’t summon. Around him, the noise returned. He was invisible again, except for the name that chained him to a man he didn’t want to claim.

And all he could think was: I wish I really could lie. I wish it wasn’t mine.

The rest of the lesson passed in fragments Max could barely piece together. The teacher eventually entered, clapping her hands to bring order, but the chatter never really went away. It hummed beneath the surface like static, always threatening to flare up again.

Max stared at the lines of his notebook until they blurred, the pencil unmoving. Every so often, his name rose in whispered jokes behind him, muffled laughter pressed into sleeves. He caught scraps, “faker,” “wish it was fake,” “as if”, like thorns dragging along his skin.

He forced himself to copy the equations on the board, but the numbers slipped from his mind the moment they hit the page. His jaw ached from clenching, and he realized only when his hand cramped that he was pressing the pencil too hard, nearly carving grooves into the paper.

Across the aisle, George leaned back in his chair, foot tapping against the leg of Max’s desk just enough to make it tremble. The smirk hadn’t left his face. Every nudge was deliberate, a silent reminder: I see you. Everyone sees you.

And Charles. Charles didn’t look at him once. His attention stayed fixed on the lesson, posture immaculate, answers precise whenever the teacher called on him. No malice, no laughter. Just absence. That hurt more than the jeers.

When the bell rang, Max nearly jolted out of his chair. The sudden rush of sound, chairs scraping, voices rising, felt like water spilling over a dam. He shoved his books into his bag, the zipper catching on the edge of his pencil case, and for a moment he thought it might rip. His fingers fumbled, clumsy with urgency, and he hated himself for it. He hated how obvious it must look.

“Careful, Verstappen,” George drawled, standing just close enough that Max could feel his shadow. “Wouldn’t want your fake surname slipping out with your pens.”

A few boys laughed, not even cruelly, just following the current George set. That made it worse.

Max snapped the zipper closed and stood so fast his chair skidded back. His heart thumped, heat rising to his face. He wanted to spit out something sharp, something that would slice through the smugness radiating off George, but the words tangled in his throat.

Instead, he shouldered past, muttering, “Move.”

George let him through with exaggerated politeness, bowing slightly like a stage actor. “After you, Verstappen.”

The laughter followed him out into the hall.

Recess was no refuge. The courtyard was alive with the same buzz as the morning, clusters of kids rehashing the race, mimicking overtakes with their arms. Max tried to lose himself near the far wall, bag pressed against his side, racket handle sticking up like an antenna drawing attention.

It didn’t work. George spotted him within minutes.

“Oi, there’s our Verstappen!” he called, striding over with Lando and Alex in tow. “Got your autograph book ready? Maybe your dad can sign it for us, eh?”

The boys flanking him laughed. Max’s stomach dropped. There it was again. That word. Dad. The chain around his neck.

“Shut up,” Max muttered, staring at the ground.

But George wasn’t satisfied. He stopped just short of Max, crowding the space, his voice rising so others could hear. “No, really. Tell us. If you’re his son, where’s your paddock pass? Where’s your fancy car, your front row seats? All I see is a faker with a off-brand racket bag. I bet it’s fake. Or you got it from someone’s dumpster.”

The sneer in his voice twisted the word racket into something filthy.

Max’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I said shut up.”

George tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Maybe you’re the bastard, huh? The one he’s so ashamed of, he doesn’t talk about. Must be nice, watching on TV while the real family gets the spotlight.”

The words hit like a slap. Max felt the breath go out of him, replaced by a buzzing in his ears. Heat crawled up his neck, the edges of his vision sharp and bright.

“Say that again,” he whispered.

George grinned, sensing the crack. “The secret disappointment. That’s what you are, isn’t it? Well, too bad you’re really bad at hiding the ‘disappointment’ secret.”

Something snapped. Max shoved him, hard enough that George stumbled back a step, surprise flashing across his face. The courtyard went quiet around them, heads turning, the sudden shift in energy pulling attention like gravity.

George’s friends stepped forward instantly, puffing themselves up. “Whoa, mate. Watch it.”

But George steadied, smirk returning. He leaned close, voice dropping so only Max could hear. “That’s it. Lose your temper. Just like your old man.”

The whisper cut deeper than the shove. It wasn’t just mockery. It was knowledge, or at least the illusion of it. And it left Max hollow.

Charles’s voice came from the sidelines then, calm as ever. “Enough.”

Both boys turned. Charles stood a few steps away, arms crossed, gaze steady. Not angry, not amused. Simply firm.

“Break it up,” he said. “It’s childish.”

For a heartbeat, Max thought maybe, just maybe, Charles was stepping in for him. But then Charles added, “he’s not worth your time. Let him play pretend in his own little world,” and the hope drained away.

George raised his hands in mock surrender, backing off. “Fine, fine. Don’t want to upset Leclerc’s royal decree.”

The tension broke. Kids turned back to their conversations, the moment dissolving into background noise again. George threw Max one last smirk before retreating with his friends, already laughing.

Max stood frozen, fists still trembling, throat tight with unsaid words. He didn’t look at Charles. He couldn’t.

Instead, he slung his bag higher on his shoulder and walked away, fast, before the pressure behind his eyes could spill over.

The bathroom stall was small, tiled, and mercifully quiet. Max locked himself in and sank onto the closed lid, bag at his feet. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until colors burst behind them.

He looked at the scar from the tennis line that day, a reminder of when he felt remotely in control. His name never mattered when he held onto the racket. It didn’t matter when he put in all those hours when no one else was watching.

His breath came in shallow pulls. George’s words echoed, looping in the quiet. Secret disappointment. Just like your old man.

He wanted to smash something. To hurl his fist against the cubicle walls until the sound drowned everything else out. But he couldn’t. If he broke it, Jos would be called. Jos would notice. And Jos’s notice was worse than George’s taunts.

So he sat there, shaking, until the bell rang again and the world demanded he put his mask of nonchalance back on.

The heat of the day hadn’t faded by the time the tennis team gathered on the courts. The asphalt shimmered faintly, and the air smelled of sun-baked rubber and faintly sour sweat from the morning’s gym classes. Max slipped through the gates with his racket bag digging into his shoulder, head ducked, hoping to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of drills.

The courts had always been a sanctuary. Lines, nets, rackets, balls. The simplicity of it was a relief after that nasty day he just had. Out here, everything came down to contact, timing, control. Out here, his name mattered less than how he struck the ball.

Or at least, it usually did.

Coach whistled the team into a huddle, clipboard tucked under his arm. “Alright, boys. Today we’re mixing things up. Competition team, you’ll be practicing with the rest. I want everyone sharp, everyone learning. No coasting just because you’ve made the lineup.”

There were nods, murmurs of assent. Max kept his gaze on the ground, jaw tight. He was on the main squad. His work had earned that, but George’s snort from somewhere behind him curdled the moment.

“Pairs,” Coach continued, scanning the list. “Lewis with Nico. Verstappen with…” he paused, flicking his eyes up. “Russell.”

A ripple of amusement went through the recreational group. George smirked, already striding forward as if he’d expected it. Max’s stomach sank.

Coach clapped his hands. “Warm up. Ten minutes. Then I want to see clean, competitive rallies.”

The team scattered, shoes squeaking on the courts, rackets snapping strings as they tested tension. Max pulled his cap lower and forced his fingers steady around the grip.

George met him at the baseline with an expression of false cheer. “Well, isn’t this poetic. The fake Verstappen and the real Russell. Guess Coach thought we’d balance each other out.”

Max didn’t answer. He bounced the ball, let it thud against the ground, the sound solid and grounding.

George tilted his head, voice lowering just enough so the others wouldn’t catch it. “Tell me, Max. Did you get your spot on the team because you’re good… or because Daddy Verstappen slipped Coach a cheque?”

The words hit harder than a serve to the ribs. Max’s grip tightened until the handle creaked. “Shut your mouth.”

George grinned, unfazed. “Come on. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Son of a multiple times world champion suddenly here a week after school starts, instantly in the lineup. It’s either cash or connections. Which is it?”

Max’s chest burned. “I earned it.”

“Oh, sure.” George took his place on the opposite baseline, casual, like they were discussing homework instead of twisting knives. “But imagine how funny it would be if we found out your whole tennis career’s just funded by F1 prize money. Wouldn’t that make you the biggest joke in school?”

Max bounced the ball again, harder this time, the echo sharp against the fence. He wanted to smash it straight at George, to wipe the smugness off his face, but Coach’s whistle cut through.

“Start rallying! Keep it clean!”

Max tossed the ball, swung, and the match began.

At first, he tried to focus on the rhythm. Forehand, backhand, move, recover. But George wouldn’t stop. Between shots he spoke like a metronome, his words timed to land just as Max was resetting his stance.

“Bet Daddy bought your spot into this school.” thwack

“Bet Daddy don’t even have the time for your bullshit.” thwack

“Bet Daddy doesn’t even like you.” thwack

Each comment chipped away at Max’s focus. His strokes grew sharper, wilder, the ball skimming lines instead of landing deep. Coach shouted corrections from the sideline, but they barely penetrated the haze.

Then George upped it. “You know, if Daddy Verstappen’s so rich, maybe he should’ve paid for temper management therapy too. Could’ve saved you from that little outburst this morning.”

Max froze mid-swing, the ball flying off his frame and into the net. Laughter sparked from a few nearby players. His ears roared.

George smirked. “Can’t handle pressure without blowing up, huh? How are you even in tennis, let alone the competitive team?”

That did it.

Max slammed the next ball down the line with everything in him. It rocketed past George before he even moved, skimming the paint with a crack that drew startled whistles.

George’s smirk faltered for a second. But only for a second. He straightened, clapping slowly, mock applause ringing out. “Wow. Maybe Daddy did teach you something after all.”

Max’s pulse hammered. He wanted to hurl the racket, to shout until his throat shredded. Instead he reset, bouncing the ball again, shoulders trembling with rage.

Coach’s whistle pierced the air. “Verstappen! Russell! Enough with the dramatics. Control your shots. Doubles rotation now!”

They shifted reluctantly, joining another pair for practice games. But the tension lingered, thick and choking. George kept up his muttered commentary, just loud enough for Max to catch:

“Daddy’s boy.”
“Cheque-book player.”
“Wish it was real, huh?”

Max bit down on every response, channeling the fury into his returns. The ball left his strings like fire, faster and harder than usual. His partner struggled to keep up, but Max didn’t care. All that mattered was hitting, hitting, hitting, drowning George out with sheer velocity.

By the time practice ended, his shirt clung with sweat, his breath ragged. The others laughed and joked as they packed up, the sting of drills already fading. For Max, the burn lingered, crawling under his skin.

George slung his bag over his shoulder, sauntering past. “See you tomorrow, Verstappen. Don’t forget to thank Daddy for the court time.”

Max’s nails dug crescents into his palms. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Coach called after Max to go talk with him, leaving George with his smug smirk on his face.

Coach’s office smelled faintly of leather and old tennis balls. Max slouched in the chair across from him, still trying to rein in the fire in his chest. Sweat streaked his hair, and the red in his neck wouldn’t quite fade.

“Max,” Coach began, voice measured but firm, “I know you’re talented. You’ve earned your place on this team. But today… your control slipped. You can’t let someone bait you into losing your focus. That’s the difference between good players and great ones.”

Max’s jaw clenched. He wanted to argue, to tell him that it wasn’t just about losing focus, it was about the words. About being constantly reminded of a name he didn’t even want to own, about the assumption that he was handed everything because of it. He wanted to explain that George wasn’t just annoying, he was cutting, poking at every hidden insecurity. But he didn’t have the words. And, honestly, he didn’t want Coach to know just how much it got under his skin.

Coach leaned back, eyes softening. “You need to control it, Max. That’s all I’m saying. Your skill is undeniable, but temper, focus… those are what make you a champion off the court, too.”

Max nodded, forcing himself to inhale slowly. He wanted to say more, wanted to justify, to yell, to cry, but nothing came.

Meanwhile, George was at the locker room, zipping up his bag, slipping back into his uniform to head home. The smirk had faded from his face as he tucked his racket away, the echo of Max’s furious strokes still ringing in his ears.

The rest of the main team lingered by the lockers, glancing toward George. Sebastian stepped forward first.

“Oi, Charles’ classmate,” he called, voice casual but carrying authority. “Why was Max so pissed today?”

George froze mid-zip, looking up. Then a grin crept back onto his face. “Oh, that?” he said, feigning thoughtfulness. “It’s nothing, really. Just… Max isn’t doing so well in class. Teachers are warning him that if he keeps slipping behind, he might get kicked off the team. That’s why he was all… fiery.”

The team blinked, exchanged looks. Some suppressed smiles, others frowned. George leaned against the lockers, expecting the others to laugh, mock Max, maybe even tease him in the way he had hoped.

Instead, Sebastian shook his head, a spark of determination in his eyes. “If that’s true, we can’t let him fall behind.”

“What do you mean?” Daniel asked, eyebrows raised.

“I mean,” Sebastian continued, “we organise a study session this weekend. Main team members. Library. A few hours. Work through whatever Max needs help with. Make sure no one’s falling behind, especially him.”

Kimi nodded slowly. “Sounds fair. Beats watching him blow up on the court again.”

Fernando grinned. “Count me in. I’m failing chemistry soon.”

Lewis laughed. “Fine, library it is. Max won’t be able to say no.”

George’s grin faltered slightly as he realized his little story hadn’t landed as intended. No laughter, no ridicule. Just concern and initiative from the team.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and old books, sunlight slicing through the blinds in thin lines across the floor. Max sat at his desk, bag tucked at his feet, racket case leaning against the side. He flipped through a textbook with careful attention, trying to convince himself that the world could be ordinary again, that the Silverstone weekend and George’s barbs were just yesterday’s noise.

A subtle squeak at the door drew his gaze. Nico slipped in quietly, moving like he didn’t want to attract anyone’s attention. His steps were light, almost too deliberate, and he crouched slightly beside Max’s desk.

“Hey,” Nico whispered. “Study session… this weekend… library… Sebastian said no one can skip.”

Before Max could reply, Nico straightened, gave him a quick nod, and slipped back toward the door. His exit was so smooth, so fleeting, that Max barely had time to process it.

Max blinked, staring at the empty doorway. The classroom was still abuzz with murmurs and rustling papers, but the brief intrusion left him oddly unsettled. Something about being told, even indirectly, that there was a study session, that people actually wanted him there… made him feel warmer than he’d felt in a week.

But the whispers didn’t stop. Heads turned, eyes darting between Max and the empty space Nico had occupied. Confusion spread, subtle at first, then louder.

George, always alert to the slightest crack in the air, saw his opening immediately. His grin widened, sharp and cunning. Leaning back in his chair, he addressed a small cluster of classmates, voice carrying just enough to be heard by everyone nearby.

“Did you see that? Max Verstappen? Nico Rosberg talking to him?” George said, tone incredulous. “Funny, right? You know why he’s getting all this attention?”

The group leaned in, eyes wide. George’s grin sharpened, every word carefully measured.

“They’re pitying him,” he said, as if revealing some state secret. “Yeah. The main team. The one I’m on. They’re letting him hang with them, showing him the ropes, helping him practice, all because he’s… well, because he’s bad.”

A ripple of disbelief spread. Max’s stomach sank. He wanted to snap, to tell everyone to shut up, but the class had already turned into a murmuring swarm, pieces of George’s story twisting and stretching in every direction.

George continued, leaning casually against a desk, arms crossed. “I mean, I’d know, being on the main team myself. They’re just using the library thing as a cover story so he feels less embarrassed when Nico announces it to the whole class. Really, it’s all so he doesn’t embarrass himself in front of the class.”

Laughter bubbled from somewhere at the back. Heads nodded, whispered confirmations echoing. Max felt heat crawl up his neck, burning and bitter. His hands gripped his textbook so hard the spine creaked.

He didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Every eye in the room seemed to press down on him, every whisper another weight dragging him toward the floor.

And George? He sat back, triumphant, knowing the rumor had spread, knowing he had reshaped the story to suit his version, leaving Max small, isolated, and simmering with helpless rage.

Max buried his face in the textbook, wishing he could disappear.

Chapter Text

The weekend arrived with a crispness in the air. Max carried his bag over one shoulder, muscles still tense from the week, mind half preoccupied with George’s rumor. He wasn’t sure why Nico had slipped into class to mention a study session. He’d been doing fine with his homework. Better than fine, in fact. He didn’t need extra help.

Yet, here he was, following the faint trail of murmured instructions toward the library. The corridors felt different today: quieter, charged with a purpose he didn’t fully understand. Every step made his chest tighten.

The library smelled faintly of polished wood and old paper, a soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. It was quiet, but the quiet had weight. The kind of weight that made Max’s footsteps echo as he walked toward the long, massive table where the rest of the main tennis squad had already gathered. Textbooks and notebooks were stacked high, pencil cases opened, water bottles half-empty. The entire squad had claimed it like a kingdom, their chairs arranged in a semi-circle that could accommodate everyone, and somehow, Max felt simultaneously invited and completely out of place.

Nico waved him over first. “Over here! Don’t sit somewhere weird,” he said, grinning. Max followed cautiously, dropping his bag beside the table and sliding into the only gap left between Daniel and an empty chair. He pulled out his notebook, pretending to review the algebra he hadn’t needed to study in weeks.

Sebastian’s sharp gaze scanned the table. Then, almost imperceptibly, he picked up his heavy set of workbooks and dragged them next to Max’s side. Sebastian said quietly, lowering his voice so only Max could hear, “this study session is to help all members improve. Apparently, you’re… not doing very well. I’m here to make sure you don’t lag behind.”

Max blinked, caught between surprise and disbelief. “Me? Doing badly?” he murmured, more to himself than to Sebastian.

Sebastian didn’t answer, just set his books down and opened the first page. He flipped through complex algebra problems.

A few minutes had passed, and Seb seemed to not have moved his pen at all. “Stuck?” Max asked after a moment.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “Yes, I’m stuck. But it’s fine. You don’t have to deal with this for a few years.”

Max leaned in, pointing to the first equation. “You see, you need to isolate the variable first. Start with the exponent here. Subtract it from both sides, and then…” He guided Sebastian step by step, drawing arrows in the margin, carefully explaining the logic behind each move.

Sebastian’s brow furrowed as he scribbled notes, following along. “Wait… you can actually solve this?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. “I thought you’re in Charles’ grade? ”

Max shrugged, trying not to let the flush creep up his neck. “I… like to do maths questions in my free time.”

Sebastian looked up after a few minutes, a rare softness in his eyes. “I still don’t get it,” he muttered. “How are you actually solving this? I’ve been stuck for a while, and you’re doing it without a hitch. George said… he said you’re failing. And you just…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Max felt a small, private warmth in his chest. “Maybe George likes to lie,” he said quietly.

Sebastian chuckled, a rare laugh that made the corners of his mouth twitch. “Maybe he does. But I think he’s going to owe you an apology someday.”

Chapter Text

Dinner at the Wolff household was never quiet. The clinking of cutlery, the hum of overlapping conversations, the occasional burst of laughter. It all mixed into something that felt alive, a rhythm the boys had grown used to. The long dining table was filled to capacity tonight: Toto at the head, his wife opposite, Kimi and Sebastian squeezed onto one side, their plates piled high with roast chicken, potatoes, and salad, while Charles and Lewis set at the other, Lewis’s eyes glued to his phone screen, probably texting Nico.

The parents had been curious from the start. “So,” Susie asked with a smile, folding her napkin neatly. “How did your little study session go? Was it all serious, or did it turn into another excuse to joke around?”

Lewis grinned immediately, placed his phone down and leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Serious! Nico actually sat still for once, which is a miracle. And Daniel didn’t even try to set his homework on fire, though he talked about it quite a few times.”

Kimi didn’t look up from cutting his chicken. “It was loud,” he said flatly. “But… good loud. Better than practice sometimes.”

Sebastian was already nodding, eyes bright. “It was actually fun. We thought we’d just be, you know, helping someone catch up, since George kept saying one of the guys wasn’t doing so well. But it wasn’t like that at all.”

Lewis leaned forward, grinning. “Yeah, Seb’s right. Turns out he was the one helping us. He explained algebra better than the teacher, no joke.”

Sebastian shook his head with a half-smile, still a little incredulous. “Didn’t expect that. Honestly, he was Charles’ age, so it was even more surprising.”

Charles paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, frowning slightly, but no one else picked up on it. They were studying? But didn’t George say they were practicing with Max because he was atrocious, even amongst the recreational team? Maybe they were covering up for Max. Yeah. That makes sense.

Toto raised his brows, glancing at Susie with quiet amusement before turning back to them. “So the study session worked out. You boys are learning to work as a team off the court, not just on it. That’s important.”

“Yeah,” Lewis added quickly, leaning forward on his elbows. “It felt… I dunno. Like this team can be more than just teammates. Maybe friends.”

There was a soft pause at the table. The word hung there, heavier than Lewis had meant it, but not unwelcoming.

Sebastian broke it with a sudden spark of an idea. “We should do it again. Not just studying, but something else. What about a barbecue next weekend? Right after our match.”

Kimi gave the faintest of nods, already imagining it. “More food.”

Lewis laughed, nearly knocking over his glass. “That’s Kimi’s way of saying yes.”

Susie smiled warmly at the boys’ excitement, glancing across at Toto. “A barbecue could be nice. If you win the match, we’ll host it here. Consider it a reward.”

Sebastian grinned, lifting his fork like a toast. “Then it’s settled. Next weekend we celebrate. We’ll definitely win. We’re too good.”

Chapter Text

It was Monday morning once again, and the classroom hadn’t quite settled yet. Bags thudded against desks, chairs screeched across the floor, and the smell of someone’s half-eaten breakfast pastry clung stubbornly in the air. The five of them had gathered at their usual cluster of desks near the windows. Charles was flipping through his worksheets to make sure all his homework was done, while Lando sprawled half over his chair. Pierre hummed tunelessly as he sharpened a pencil, and Alex tugged at a loose yarn along the hem of his hoodie.

Charles looked unusually irritated, his lips pressed in a thin line as he scribbled something on his newly-discovered undone homework.

“What’s with you?” Lando asked, propping his chin on his hand. “You look like someone stole your dessert.”

Charles huffed. “The whole weekend, they either slept or vanished into practice. I barely saw them except at meals. I’m literally so human-deprived, I could cry.”

“Calamar you’re so dramatic,” Pierre said dryly, rolling his eyes.

Alex leaned back, smirking. “What were they on about this time?”

Charles let out a small sigh, as if repeating it was more annoying than the thing itself. “Apparently after their match this weekend, they’re planning some barbecue at the house. Like, a big thing for the team.”

“Barbecue?” Lando perked up instantly, grin wide. “At yours? Can I crash?”

Charles shook his head, though his lips quirked. “It’s for the team. Not for freeloaders like you.”

The group chuckled, but George froze.

It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. His laugh caught in his throat, dying before it could escape. He forced his face to stay neutral, to stay light, but inside his chest everything was clawing tight.

A barbecue. At the Wolff’s. For the team. That means Max will be there. With them. Where everyone can see. If Max shows up like he belongs there, he’ll be fucked. Royally fucked. Everyone would lose their respect for him. No one would want to be friends with a liar.

George’s leg started bouncing under the desk, a nervous, uncontrollable rhythm.

Pierre, oblivious, snorted. “Of course it’s only for the team. Free food is wasted on us.”

Charles smirked faintly, flipping another page in his notes. “Exactly.”

George swallowed hard. The scrape of chairs, the murmur of conversations felt far away, muffled against the thrum of his pulse.

I need to control this. If they start asking questions, if they start wondering why Max is there… 

His palms were slick where they pressed against his thighs. I need to find a way to keep it quiet. To make sure nobody thinks twice.

He glanced around the group, trying not to look desperate. Lando was still grinning, already distracted by a doodle in the margin of Charles’s worksheet. Alex was watching him, though. 

George forced himself to smirk, voice tight with forced confidence. “Well, don’t read too much into it. They’ll probably drag Max along out of pity again. You know how it is. Can’t exactly cut the deadweight without looking cruel.”

Charles frowned, but only for a heartbeat before dropping it. Why would he suddenly mention Max, especially since the boy isn’t even here yet? Is there something between the both of them deeper than that casual beef George declared they had on day one of meeting the other boy? 

The others laughed on, their conversation straying from Charles’s brothers and onto plans they had for the next weekend. Though the conversation strayed, George’s stomach remained a pit of dread, his mind racing ahead to the weekend.

When the bell rang to signal class starting, George had barely noticed it. On the outside, he looked like any other boy preparing for class to begin. Inside, though, his thoughts clawed against each other, frantic and looping.

This is bad. This is really, really bad.

The barbecue had ruined everything. He hadn’t expected Charles to mention it, hadn’t even considered that the Wolff brothers’ lives might bleed into his own in such a direct, casual way. A barbecue wasn’t just food and laughter. It was exposure. It was Max sitting there at their house, surrounded by the main team, welcomed like one of them. And if word got back to class? If someone pieced it together? If Charles asked Max what he was doing there? The fragile scaffolding George had built. All the half-truths and confidently delivered lies. They would collapse.

His pulse thudded in his ears. I’ve kept it together this long. I’ve kept them believing. If they find out I’m not on the team… The thought stopped him cold. The humiliation. The laughter. The way his own friends would look at him.

He pressed his back against his  chair, dragging a hand down his face. He’d tried thinking of a way out all morning. Some clever story to spin, some excuse to buy himself more time. But his brain felt like static, the panic short-circuiting every line of logic before it could form.

Next to him, Max shot him a cornered look and asked him if he was okay. He said yes and waved the centre of his current problem off.

And then came the bitter truth he didn’t want to admit: he was good at talking, good at swagger and bravado, but not at strategy. Not when things actually mattered.

Alex was the one who came up with plans. Alex was the one who found the cracks and worked out how to cover them before anyone noticed. Every time George had talked himself into a corner before, Alex had been there to drag him back out.

George clenched his fists. He hated that it was true, hated that he needed it, but the gnawing panic didn’t leave him much choice.

If I tell him, he’ll be pissed. But he won’t let me sink. He never does.

The thought steadied him, if only slightly. Enough to push himself off the wall and start moving again.

He’d have to talk to Alex later. Tell him. Convince him to help patch the holes before the entire lie caved in.

It was humiliating, needing someone else to save his mess. But humiliation now was better than humiliation later, when the whole class was laughing at him.

The classroom buzzed with low chatter as the teacher told the class to discuss with their seatmates. Alex turned to look at George, and then to Max and shrugged, before going back to scrolling through his TikTok for you page under the table. George sat slouched at his desk, drumming his fingers against the wood, pretending to read through his notes. His leg bounced under the table.

He wasn’t reading a word.

His mind circled the same panicked thought again and again: They’ll find out. The barbecue. If Max goes, it’s all over.

Every laugh that rose from the back of the room felt like it was aimed at him. Every whisper sounded like his name. He told himself he was imagining it, that no one knew yet, but the paranoia coiled tighter in his chest.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught Alex standing, stretching lazily.
“May I go to the bathroom?” Alex muttered, not waiting for the teacher’s approval. He slipped out the door, shoulders loose, like he had all the time in the world.

George’s pulse spiked. This is it. No audience. No eavesdroppers. Just him and me.

Before he could talk himself out of it, George shoved his chair back with a scrape loud enough to earn a glance from the front row. He ignored it, muttered something about the toilet himself, and slipped out after Alex.

The corridor was quieter, the hum of the classroom fading behind him. He followed the echo of footsteps until he pushed open the bathroom door.

Alex was at the sink, running the tap idly. When he looked up at the mirror, he caught George’s reflection behind him. His brows pinched slightly. “Hi mate, you need to piss too?”

George shut the door, the click of the lock sounding sharper than he meant it to. His hands were clammy. “We need to talk.”

Alex turned, leaning back against the sink, arms folding across his chest. “About what?”

George’s throat tightened. He hated saying it out loud, hated how desperate it sounded, but the words tumbled out anyway. “Charles told them. About the barbecue. They’re gonna find out I’m not on the team.”

Alex blinked, then let out a sharp laugh. “You dragged me in here for that? Jesus, George. Wait.. huh? You’re not on the team? Since when? We even did a whole party for you getting on the team that day? Haha. You must be joking. Hey joking, I’m Alex!”

George bristled, heat rising to his cheeks. “It’s not funny! You don’t get it. If Max shows up, if they start asking questions, the whole class is gonna know I lied.”

Alex’s expression hardened. “You mean I made a fool of myself for no reason? You fed me all that crap about Max being useless, about the team pitying him, and I believed you. I even backed you up.” His voice rose, echoing off the tiled walls. “Turns out the only useless one here is you.”

George flinched at the words, but anger came quickly to cover the sting. “Don’t act all high and mighty. You’ve always just gone along with whatever I said. Weak-willed. That’s what you are. You need me to think for you.”

Alex pushed off the sink, stepping closer, his eyes sharp. “No, George. I trusted you. There’s a difference. And now? You’re so insecure about not being good enough that you dragged me into your lies. You made him the asshole, when really– ” He jabbed a finger at George’s chest. “--it’s you.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the dripping tap.

George swallowed hard, his mind racing, panic spiking hotter now that Alex wasn’t falling in line. “So what, you gonna tell everyone? You gonna throw me under the bus?”

Alex shook his head slowly, disgust plain on his face. “You’re doing a fine job of ruining yourself without my help.”

The words hit harder than George wanted to admit. His breath came shallow, his chest tight. He opened his mouth to fire back, but no words came.

The bell rang in the distance, muffled through the walls. Class was about to start.

Alex brushed past him, shoulder colliding with George’s as he shoved the door open. “Figure your own mess out,” he muttered, disappearing back into the corridor.

George stayed where he was, knuckles white against the sink edge, staring at his reflection in the streaked mirror. His own face stared back, flushed and furious, eyes wide with something that looked too much like fear.

Chapter Text

Today, the gym teacher was in a particularly chipper mood.

“All right, everyone,” the teacher called, clapping his hands. “Dodgeball. Standard rules. Two teams. The first team to eliminate the other, wins. Let’s see some energy!”

Groans and cheers erupted simultaneously. The class split into clusters, some kids grumbling about the inevitable bruises, others bouncing on the balls of their feet, itching to throw.

George’s eyes scanned the gym instinctively, and when the teacher’s gaze moved toward team selection, he made a decision without a word. His stride was confident, bordering on aggressive, as he picked up a ball and moved toward one side of the gym.

Alex, across the room, immediately mirrored him, moving to the opposite side. Their movements were almost synchronized, but in reverse. Mirrored instincts, as if their bodies already knew what their minds had just decided. No one said anything. No one needed to. The energy crackled before a single word was exchanged.

The rest of the friend group froze for a beat. Pierre and Charles exchanged quick, questioning glances. “Uh…” Pierre muttered. “They’re… on opposite sides?”

Lando’s eyes widened. “Yeah… I guess we– ”

The awkward silence stretched just long enough for the rest of the class to start forming teams around them. The tension was thick, palpable even to people who weren’t in their circle. When the teacher finally asked the friend group to pick sides, the choice felt like stepping onto a minefield.

Pierre shrugged and moved toward Alex’s side, muttering, “Guess I’m with him.” Charles followed silently, still uneasy, but his loyalty towards Pierre pushed him in the same direction. Lando hesitated, glancing between George and Alex, before settling on George’s team, so it wouldn’t seem like the whole group is siding with Alex on this unknown drama between the two.

The gym felt smaller now, the overhead lights glaring, the floorboards creaking under the shuffle of dozens of sneakers. The friend group was split. Just five kids in a sea of bodies, but the unspoken war between George and Alex had already cast a shadow over everyone else.

George’s jaw tightened as he scanned the players on his side, one eye occasionally flicking toward Alex. Alex, for his part, kept his gaze locked on George, barely glancing at the balls around him. It wasn’t just a game anymore; it was a stage, a battle that no one else really understood yet.

And so, the teams lined up, the referee—well, Mr. Hawkins, grinning like a man who had no idea what was about to unfold—counted down.

“Three… two… one… go!”

The first balls flew, and chaos erupted.

Balls ricocheted off the polished gym walls, thumping against the floorboards in rapid succession. Squeals and shouts filled the air, sneakers squeaking as players dove for cover or lunged to grab a stray ball.

George’s eyes were locked on Alex the moment the whistle blew. He didn’t scan for teammates, he didn’t glance at the closest opponent. All his attention was drawn to that single target. Each throw, each dodge, each feint in his peripheral vision was measured against Alex’s movements.

Alex, predictably, had the same fixation. His arms tightened around a ball, stance rigid, every muscle coiled, waiting. But Alex had a wider awareness. He noticed teammates moving, balls rolling too close to the sidelines, classmates yelling encouragement or taunts. Still, he couldn’t shake the magnetic pull of George’s glare.

Pierre noticed first. “Uh… they’re not even playing the game,” he muttered to Charles, who was crouched low behind a line of players.

Charles squinted, trying to understand. “Yeah… it’s like they’re fighting… or something.”

Lando, now on George’s team, could feel the tension radiating off his side. Every time George caught a glimpse of Alex, he stiffened, throwing balls harder than necessary, even at neutral opponents. Lando frowned. “Dude… calm down, it’s dodgeball.”

George didn’t hear him. The fire in his chest made him deaf to everything else. Each time Alex dodged a ball, each time someone else grabbed a point or got eliminated, George’s irritation grew. It wasn’t the game he wanted. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Alex, meanwhile, was trying to focus. Keep your eyes on the nearest threat. Don’t get distracted by George. But it was impossible. Every movement, every throw, every glance from George felt like a provocation. He couldn’t let it go.

The first casualties fell. Balls flew fast, hard, and accurate. Kids yelled in frustration or delight as friends and opponents alike were tagged out. The teacher blew the whistle to mark eliminations, but the pace didn’t slow.

Finally, Alex got hit. The ball bounced off his shoulder with a sharp thwack, and he stumbled backward, wiping sweat from his brow, breath coming fast. He moved to the sidelines, out of the play area. Relief should have followed, but it didn’t.

George’s eyes followed him instantly. Even from across the gym, Alex’s distance didn’t matter. George grabbed the nearest ball, spun it in his hand, and launched it with precise aim.

The ball arced across the gym in a perfect line and struck Alex squarely in the chest.

Gasps erupted around the gym. Classmates froze mid-motion. Even the other friend group members couldn’t hide their disbelief. Pierre’s jaw dropped, Charles stared wide-eyed, Lando’s hand went to his forehead.

Alex stumbled, glaring up at George, face reddened with a mix of shock and fury. “Really?!” he yelled, voice carrying across the gym.

George, on the other side, smirked, almost triumphantly. “You’re out. Might as well know it doesn’t stop here.” His tone was light, casual, but the intensity behind his glare said otherwise.

Pierre muttered under his breath to Charles, “Are they… actually hating each other? Weren’t they literally still best friends this morning?”

Charles nodded slowly. “Yeah… I think they are.”

The rest of the game unfolded with a strange energy. George continued to hyper-focus on Alex, throwing balls harder, faster, angrier than anyone else, even when Alex was clearly out of the game. Each throw carried a silent, searing message. Alex, sidelined, seethed but refused to throw back. He knew George’s point wasn’t the game, it was personal.

Meanwhile, the rest of the group struggled to navigate the tension. Pierre and Charles were trying to play normally, occasionally glancing toward Alex to check if he was okay, while Lando kept pace on George’s side, growing more uneasy with each throw that had nothing to do with the game itself.

The rest of the class could feel it too. Conversations died mid-laugh. Even kids sitting out for the game whispered to each other. What is going on between those two? Every dodge, every throw, every glance from the sidelines added fuel to the rumor mill that had yet to start spinning.

By the time the second round of the game has started, the gym had an almost electric charge to it. George’s team had a slight lead, but it didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was Alex. Every glance across the gym fueled his determination, every missed opportunity gnawed at him.

Alex, still on the sidelines, gritted his teeth. He wasn’t out of the game in spirit. He studied George’s throws, noted his patterns, the slight tilt of his shoulder before he launched, the timing of his lunge when he aimed at someone. Even out of play, he was analysing, planning.

On the opposite side, Pierre leaned toward Charles. “Do you think we should try to… intervene?” he whispered, eyes flicking nervously between George and Alex.

Charles shook his head. “No. Let them burn themselves out. You can’t reason with this kind of stubbornness.” His tone was calm, but inside he was both fascinated and uneasy.

George’s throws began growing more erratic, almost desperate. He started targeting his side’s players by accident, hitting teammates more often then not, but he didn’t notice. Lando groaned as a ball smacked his shoulder, and George barely acknowledged it, eyes still narrowed on Alex.

And then it happened. George grabbed a ball from the middle of the court, one of the heavier, well-used ones that bounced unpredictably. He aimed at Alex again, despite the fact Alex was still eliminated and far to the side.

“Watch this,” George muttered under his breath, spinning the ball in his hand.

Pierre froze mid-dive. “Oh no.”

Charles’s stomach sank. “He’s– ”

The ball soared across the gym, but this time, Alex was ready. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t dodged in the traditional sense. Instead, he bent slightly, arms folded, and let the ball hit his chest squarely. But instead of staggering or reacting with anger, he grabbed it with both hands.

The entire gym gasped.

George’s eyes widened. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Alex was out. He wasn’t supposed to aim there. What was he doing? What was Alex doing?

Alex straightened, holding the ball, and turned to face George, the corners of his mouth lifting into a calm, almost amused smirk. “You’re out of control,” he said quietly, loud enough for George to hear.

George felt a flush rise in his chest, a combination of shock and humiliation. He had expected resistance, anger, maybe a scowl, but not composure, not control. Not this.

Lando leaned over, whispering, “Dude… you’re going to get yourself benched if you keep– ”

“I don’t care,” George muttered, teeth clenched.

Alex stepped forward from the sidelines, slowly re-entering the game with the ball in hand. “I was right. You don’t need my help.” he said calmly. Then, with precise aim, he lobbed the ball towards George.

George stood still, frozen by the words that came out of Alex’s mouth, and the ball grazed his shoulder. The collective gasp from the class echoed around the gym.

Pierre muttered, “He… he actually got hit.”

Charles shook his head, incredulous. “George just got schooled by someone out of the game.”

George’s face turned red, but his glare never left Alex. He clenched his fists, shaking, but the fire in his chest had met a wall. Alex had, in response, shrugged at him.

From across the gym, the friend group watched silently. Lando, Pierre and Charles exchanged glances, realising this feud had escalated far beyond what they had expected.

George tried again, grabbing another ball, but Alex was methodical now. He dodged, caught, and redirected with ease, forcing George into defensive maneuvers he had never anticipated. The gym’s energy shifted; laughter and excitement from other students faded into nervous murmurs as they sensed the tension had turned dangerous.

George’s throws grew sloppy. His frustration became visible in every miss, every overpowered throw, every misstep. He was not thinking about the game, just about Alex. And in that hyper-focus, he opened himself up.

Finally, George rushed forward to intercept a ball Alex had lobbed casually. Misjudging the timing, he slipped on the polished floor, sprawling toward the edge of the court. A collective oooh echoed as he scrambled to regain balance.

Alex approached slowly, ball in hand, and for a moment, the gym seemed to hold its breath. The power dynamic had shifted. Alex’s calm, measured demeanor stood in stark contrast to George’s fiery desperation.

“You need to chill,” Alex said softly, almost conversationally, and tossed the ball gently away from him.

George froze, chest heaving, mind racing. No retaliation. No escalation. Just… calm.

It was a turning point. The rest of the class, and especially the friend group, could see it. George had been outmaneuvered, not through force, but through composure and timing.

Pierre muttered, “Wow… he’s actually… managing him.”

Charles nodded slowly in agreement. 

The final whistle blew. The game ended with George’s team technically winning, but the unspoken battle between him and Alex had left the gym tense and silent. George didn’t celebrate. He didn’t smile. He barely moved, staring at Alex as if trying to decipher the calm, controlled expression that had unhinged him.

Alex, meanwhile, returned to the sidelines, shoulders relaxed, smirk still in place. He glanced at the friend group. Pierre, Charles, and Lando gave him small nods, acknowledging the silent victory.

George, shaking slightly, muttered under his breath, “This isn’t over.”

The rest of the class slowly filtered out of the gym, buzzing with whispers, giggles, and speculation about what had just happened. No one wanted to touch the tension lingering between George and Alex. They just wanted distance.

And as the gym emptied, the friend group gathered near the lockers, quietly dissecting the entire spectacle. Lando frowned. “This is… bad. Really bad. They’re gonna ruin PE for the rest of the year if they keep this up.”

Charles, still processing, shook his head. “No… it’s more than PE. That wasn’t just a fight. That was… something else. Something personal.”

Pierre shivered. “Yeah… personal… scary personal.”

Meanwhile, George stormed to the lockers, ball still clutched tightly in his hand, and Alex walked calmly beside him, pretending to check his phone, ignoring the furious glare burning into his back.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria smelled of reheated pasta, microwaved pizza, and the faint tang of cleaning supplies. The room buzzed with half-shouted conversations, the clatter of trays, and the scraping of chairs, but for Lando, Pierre, and Charles, the air felt heavier than usual. It wasn’t the smell or the noise. it was the tension radiating from George and Alex.

Lando had known these two the longest. He’d been there through pranks, arguments over trivial bets, and the kind of ego clashes that usually dissolved after a couple of hours. This, however, was different. This wasn’t a fleeting spat; it was a wall building up between them, and he could feel how it was slowly seeping into the group, poisoning every small interaction.

He glanced at George, who had planted himself at a table on the far side, tray in hand, posture stiff, eyes flicking toward Alex as if the mere sight of him ignited some internal fuse. George’s jaw clenched every time Alex laughed, every time he leaned back casually in his chair. Lando’s stomach twisted. This is new. I’ve never seen him this… consumed. He’s letting it get to him, and it’s dragging the rest of us along.

Across the room, Alex sat at their usual friend group table, sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes darting toward George. There was no malice in his expression, only calculated call, but Lando knew that calm. He knew the storm simmering underneath. He could see it in the way Alex’s fingers drummed against the edge of the tray, in the subtle tightness of his shoulders.

Pierre and Charles tried to make small talk to fill the gaps, but Lando’s attention kept snapping back to the two of them. I can’t believe it’s come to this. I’ve known these guys since forever. We’ve been through way worse, and now this… this is just stupid. All of it.

When George slammed his tray down and muttered “I’m done,” Lando felt a flicker of both fear and irritation. Typical. He always has to make a scene. And Alex. Alex won’t back down. Not even a little. This isn’t going to blow over on its own.

Lando shot a glance at Pierre, who just shrugged helplessly, and then at Charles, who was already muttering, “Here we go again.” Lando pinched the bridge of his nose. I’m too old for this. I can’t babysit them every time they decide to act like kids. They can’t drag the rest of us into this, whatever it was.

He watched George march out, heat radiating off him in waves, and Alex continue eating as if nothing happened. Lando’s jaw tightened. They’re going to keep doing this. Every. Single. Day. And at some point, I’m just going to lose it. Someone’s got to snap some sense into them, or their friendship is going to implode right in front of everyone.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the now-empty spot George had vacated. The cafeteria chatter filled the void around them, but Lando’s mind was already racing ahead, planning how to intervene, what to say after class, how to prevent this from spiraling further.

 I’ve known these idiots too long to just sit back. And yet… I’ve never seen them like this. Not ever. It’s exhausting just watching it unfold.

Even as Pierre and Charles joked quietly to keep the mood from collapsing entirely, Lando’s thoughts kept circling. I’ve tried ignoring them before, tried letting them work things out themselves. This isn’t working. They’re digging a hole, and they’re dragging the rest of us in. Something’s got to give.

The bell rang, cutting through the chatter, but it did nothing to release the tension. Lando felt it lingering, heavy and insistent, like a storm cloud refusing to pass. As he packed up, he made a mental note: after class, he’s talking to one of them. Maybe both. Someone has to break the cycle before it gets worse. And if they won’t listen, he’ll have to find a way to handle it himself.

Because he was done watching two people he’d known his whole life make everything awkward. Done.

The final bell rattled through the halls, echoing off lockers and bouncing into empty classrooms. Most of the students poured out, chatter and laughter filling the corridors, but Lando stayed back, waiting for Alex to finish packing. He watched him move slowly, methodical, calm. Too calm. There was something simmering under that composed exterior, a tension in the way his shoulders squared and in the faint bite of his jawline.

Lando’s stomach twisted. He knew that look. He’d seen it on George before, during arguments that seemed to stretch on forever, leaving everyone else exhausted. But seeing it on Alex was new, disorienting even. He’s pissed, and he’s holding it in. That’s dangerous.

“Alex,” Lando called, stepping closer. His voice was low, carrying just enough to pull Alex’s attention.

Alex looked up, eyes meeting his. There was a flicker of something unreadable in them. Annoyance, maybe, or calculation. “What is it?”

Lando exhaled slowly, trying to keep the sharp edge from his words. “We need to talk. About… you know, what’s happening with George.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the dumb feud that’s dragging the rest of us into chaos?” His voice was casual, almost careless, but the tension in his posture betrayed him.

“Yes,” Lando said, stepping closer. “That. It’s getting out of hand. Everyone can feel it, Alex. The rest of the group is confused. They don’t know what’s going on, and honestly… it’s kind of exhausting.”

Alex ran a hand through his hair, a faint groan escaping his throat. “I know. Believe me, I know.” His voice softened slightly, but there was still an edge. “But it’s not simple, Lando. You don’t know what he said to me, or what he did to me. Did to us, in fact.”

“I don’t care what he said,” Lando interrupted, sharp but measured. “I’ve known you two longer than anyone else, well except for the two of you. You’re letting this spiral because neither of you wants to admit that you’re both being ridiculous. I get that George has issues, I get that you’re frustrated… but you can’t keep letting this fester.”

Alex’s eyes flicked away, to the crowded hallway beyond the classroom, before returning to Lando. There was a pause, a soft weight in the air, like the storm between him and George was pressing on everything. Finally, he spoke, quieter this time. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t get it? George is… he’s insecure. He’s always comparing himself to others, and yeah, maybe I let him blindly guide me, and then gets pissed off when I realise…” His words trailed off.

Lando nodded slowly. “Exactly. He’s insecure, Alex. You’ve seen him his whole life, you know what drives him, and you know he’s not all bad. You’ve also got your own flaws, but you care enough to recognise them. So why let this stupid fight ruin everything? You’re friends, Alex. And you don’t throw away friends over petty stuff.”

Alex hesitated, jaw working. He hated admitting it, but Lando’s words dug in, right where they needed to. He’s right, Alex thought. I’ve been too focused on my own frustration to see the bigger picture. George isn’t perfect, but he’s my friend. And losing him… it’d be on me if I let pride win.

“You’re saying I should just… swallow it up?” Alex asked finally, cautiously.

“I’m saying you should think about the friendship instead of the argument,” Lando said firmly. “And yeah, maybe help him if it’s the right thing to do… but whatever it is, it’s definitely gonna get messy, and you’ll be in the middle.”

Alex felt a pang of recognition, the edges of his mind connecting dots he’d been avoiding. Max. The BBQ. The study session. George’s paranoia. He exhaled slowly, the weight settling on his shoulders. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t want this to ruin us, or the group. Alright. I’ll help him. But…” His voice hardened slightly, “we need a plan. And we need to do it carefully.”

Lando’s lips curled into a faint, relieved smile. “Then let’s figure it out before it gets worse. You do you, and I’ll keep the rest of the group from losing their minds. Deal?”

Alex nodded. “Deal.” He felt the first real sense of clarity all day, the tension between him and George now a manageable puzzle rather than an inevitable explosion.

As they walked down the hallway together, Lando glanced at Alex, the corners of his mind already racing with contingencies. I just hope they don’t mess it up, whatever the problem is. But if anyone can handle it… it’s most likely Alex.

Chapter Text

George sat outside the gym, frozen in place, though school had ended nearly half an hour ago. His bag was dumped by his feet, half unzipped, but he couldn’t even remember dropping it there. The hallways around him had thinned out, voices fading into distant echoes as students poured toward the exits, toward buses, toward home.

But George couldn’t move.

It’s all unravelling.

His fingers dug into his knees, knuckles paling. He kept replaying it in his head, over and over. Alex’s reaction. Alex should have understood. But he didn’t. Now he had probably told everyone already. He must have. The way the others had glanced between them, just slightly too long, as though they’ve known the whole story already.

They can’t know. If they know, I’m done.

His chest tightened. It was a stupid lie to begin with, he knew that. But it had been easy, so easy, to let them believe he was on the team, someone cool and mighty, not just George the background character. But now he wasn’t George the mighty anymore, nor is he George the background character. He’s Geroge the liar now.

George pressed the heel of his palm to his eye, hard enough to sting. He hated how hot and raw his chest felt, how his brain wouldn’t stop spinning. And underneath all of it was one thought he couldn’t shake: Alex told them. Alex has definitely told them already.

“Are you planning to rot here all night?”

George’s head jerked up. Alex was standing in front of him, bag slung over his shoulder, watching him with that unreadable face that drove George insane. Not angry. Not smug. Not even disappointed, not yet. Just… calm. Which was worse.

George straightened instantly, spine stiff, voice sharper than he intended. “What? Here to tell me again how insecure I am? Fake? Weak? Go ahead.”

The words came out like a shield, brittle but jagged. Better to lash out than wait for the blade to fall.

But Alex didn’t bite. He sighed, set his bag down, and lowered himself onto the bench beside George. Not close enough to crowd him, but not leaving space for George to pretend he wasn’t the one being confronted either.

“No,” Alex said quietly. “I came to talk. Properly this time.”

George barked a short, ugly laugh. “Talk. That’s rich. That went great in the bathroom, didn’t it?”

Alex rubbed his face with one hand, exhaling through his nose. For a moment, George thought he might just give up and walk away. That would almost be easier. But instead Alex leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice steady.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “And… I get it.”

George blinked. “You get it?” His tone was scoffing, but underneath it was something raw, unguarded.

Alex nodded once. “Yeah. You’re scared. You always feel like you’re playing catch-up. Your older siblings, the team, everyone else. You tell yourself you’re behind before you even start. And then Max shows up, and suddenly you’re more than just behind. So you cling harder to fiction, because the alternative is admitting you’ve got nothing to show. And you can’t stand that.”

The words landed like stones in George’s chest. He opened his mouth to snap back, to deny it, but the truth of it stole the air from his lungs. Alex wasn’t guessing. He was dissecting. Pulling apart things George barely admitted to himself and laying them out in the open like it was obvious.

He hated it. He hated how seen he felt.

George muttered, staring hard at the floor, “So what, you’re here to rub it in?”

“No.” Alex’s reply was immediate, almost fierce. He turned, fixing George with that steady, frustratingly clear gaze. “I’m here because I don’t want to lose our friendship over this. Not over something stupid like this.”

George’s head snapped toward him. That wasn’t what he’d expected.

Alex pressed on. “Lando reminded me today. You’ve had my back before. Remember when you stepped in back in elementary, when those guys wouldn’t let it go?” His jaw tightened briefly. “You defended me, George. You’ve always been there. I can’t just throw that away because you messed up now. Everyone’s got flaws. You’re no different. Doesn’t mean you’re not my friend.”

George swallowed hard. He wanted to scoff, to dismiss it, but the words caught in his throat. His chest felt hot, unfamiliar, like he was being given something he hadn’t asked for and didn’t deserve.

“You’d… really cover for me?” His voice cracked, just barely.

Alex nodded. “Yeah. Because I’d rather deal with the mess than lose you. But don’t get this wrong.” he raised a finger sharply, “I’m not saying you’re right. I’m saying friendship means sticking around even when the other one’s being an idiot.”

For the first time all day, George felt a laugh slip out of him, though it was shaky and small. “Guess I’ve been a pretty big idiot, huh.”

“Massive,” Alex said flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the hint of a smirk.

Silence settled between them again, but it was different now. It was less suffocating, more like the air after a storm. George let himself breathe, really breathe, for the first time since the morning. Alex wasn’t abandoning him. That mattered more than he could admit.

Finally, George leaned back against the bench, voice quieter. “So… what do we do now?”

Alex’s answer came without hesitation. “We stop Max from going to that BBQ. If he shows up, your story collapses. The friend group will know, the team will know, everyone will know. That’s checkmate.”

George’s stomach twisted at the thought, but the way Alex said we cut through the fear. It wasn’t just him against the world anymore.

“And if he doesn’t listen?” George asked carefully.

Alex’s gaze sharpened, but his tone stayed calm. “Then we make sure he has no choice. Tomorrow, after school. We corner him. We make it clear he’s not going.”

George let the words settle, heavy and solid. A plan. Not perfect, maybe not even smart, but it was something. And with Alex beside him, it felt possible.

Still, in the quiet that followed, George couldn’t shake one last thought. What if this is the thing that finally breaks us, no matter what Alex says?

He shoved it down, deep as he could. For now, he’d take it. Alex chose him, flaws and all. At least this friendship was salvageable from this mess. And honestly? He didn’t mind losing everything else if it meant keeping this friendship.

Alex had never liked waiting, but today he forced himself to.

He’d seen George heading to the gym as soon as class ended, scurrying like someone had stolen all the bones from his body. If it was anyone else, Alex would’ve walked straight past. Let him stew, let him wallow. He had earned it after the stunt in the bathroom earlier. But it wasn’t just anyone. It was George. His best friend since kindergarten, and although it doesn’t seem so currently, he was his favourite person ever. He couldn’t bear just letting his favourite person go, just like that.

Furthermore, George was usually all flamboyant, even when angry or sad. But now? He looked almost… hollow.

Alex’s first thought was serves him right. He’d lied. He’d dragged Alex into it. He’d spat words like venom. Called him weak. Called him gullible. All because of his loyalty and devotion.

But then, under the flicker of irritation, came something else.

He remembered back in kindergarten, when everything was simple and superficial. People became friends over favourite colours and shows. People were nice to each other, just because they were the same age. But superficial doesn’t always mean good. On his first day in kindergarten, someone asked him why he was so brown. They asked him why he talked funnily, and his mom didn’t seem like their moms. They laughed at him when he cried because he didn’t know how to answer. And then George had barged in, reckless only in a way toddlers are, screaming at them that he’ll tell the teacher. George had probably forgotten, because when he brought it up again a few years back, George had said he had hallucinated all that, but Alex knew it was real. He will never forget it.

George could be a disaster. But he wasn’t cruel. Not really.

So Alex walked over. “Are you planning to rot here all night?”

He half-expected George to leap up and snarl. Instead, George jerked like he’d been shocked, then snapped back with brittle defensiveness: “What? Here to tell me again how insecure I am? Fake? Weak? Go ahead.”

Alex bit down a sigh. Same George. Always choosing to fight before anything else.

He dropped his bag, sat down beside him. Not close enough to push, just close enough to make it clear he wasn’t leaving. “No. I came to talk. Properly this time.”

The scoff he got in return was predictable. “Talk. That’s rich. That went great in the bathroom, didn’t it?”

Alex rubbed at his face, hiding the small flare of guilt. Maybe he’d pushed too hard in the bathroom, cornered George before he was ready. But the alternative, keeping silent, would’ve eaten at him worse.

He steadied himself. This time, no half-measures. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “And… I get it.”

George’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and disbelieving. Alex almost smiled at how fast he went from snarling to startled.

But he meant it. He did get it. He saw George the way George couldn’t bear to see himself. Always chasing shadows of his brothers, of the team, of expectations too heavy to carry. Always terrified he’d be the one left behind, the one remembered as nothing.

So Alex laid it out, piece by piece, even as George’s jaw clenched tighter. He told him what he’d been too stubborn to say earlier: that fear drove him, not pride. That he wasn’t fooling anyone, not really. That he clung to the lie because the truth would eat him alive.

And for once, George didn’t interrupt. Didn’t spit venom. He just… sat there, staring at the floor, brittle in a different way. Like he’d been caught naked in the cold.

Alex felt something loosen in his chest.

“No,” he said when George accused him of rubbing it in. He leaned forward, kept his tone even but firm. “I don’t want to lose our friendship over this. Not over something like this.”

He meant it more than he’d expected.

Because beneath the mess, beneath the arrogance and the lies, George was still the boy who’d once taken a hit for him when no one else had stepped up. And if Alex threw him away now, over one lie, what did that say about him?

Everyone has flaws, he reminded himself. He’d been on the receiving end of George’s temper enough times to know that. But friendship wasn’t about waiting for the perfect version of someone. It was about showing up even when they were a disaster.

“You’d really cover for me?” George asked then, voice cracking at the edges.

Alex’s chest tightened. He shouldn’t have felt anything at that. George didn’t deserve sympathy after the bathroom fight, not after dragging him into the lie. But still, there it was. That little knot in his ribs.

“Yeah,” Alex said. “Because I’d rather deal with the mess than lose you.” He fixed George with a sharper look, making sure he heard the warning. “But don’t get this wrong. I’m not saying you’re right. I’m saying I’m not bailing on you.”

The flicker of laughter that came from George then was shaky, almost boyish. For a second Alex saw the friend he remembered, not the liar he’d been resenting.

It eased something Alex hadn’t realised had been coiled tight in him all day.

They sat in silence after that, but it was a silence Alex could bear now. He’d chosen. He wasn’t excusing George. He wasn’t forgiving everything. But he was staying. And that was enough.

When George finally asked what they should do, Alex answered without hesitation. He already knew the path forward. “We stop Max from going to that BBQ.”

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t foolproof. But it was something they could do together. And after the last twenty-four hours, Alex realised that was what mattered: not winning, not saving face, but standing beside each other.

Still, as they left the bench side by side, Alex caught himself wondering if he’d just tied himself to a sinking ship.

And then he shoved it down. Friendship wasn’t meant to be easy.

Chapter Text

The bench groaned under their weight, the kind of hollow, metallic sound that echoed too loud in the otherwise empty gym. The late-afternoon light filtering through the high windows cut in long stripes across the polished floor, throwing dust motes into the air.

For a while, neither of them said anything. George kept his eyes glued to the opposite wall, fingers worrying the strap of his bag. Pull tight. Let go. Pull tight. Let go. His knee bounced in jittery rhythm, betraying nerves he didn’t know what to do with.

Alex sat forward, elbows braced on his knees, his gaze locked on the floorboards like they held the answer. He could hear the faint thump of a ball from the courts outside, the distant squeak of sneakers down some far hallway. It should’ve been enough to fill the silence, but instead it only made the gap between them feel louder.

It wasn’t the choking kind of silence they’d had earlier, not anymore. But it wasn’t comfortable either. It sat between them like a third person, glaring and insistent: so, what now?

George hated it. He hated the way his chest was tight even after they’d “fixed things,” the way his throat felt raw like he still needed to defend himself, even though Alex wasn’t saying anything. He hated that he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Normally he’d talk. Joke. Fill the space with nonsense until Alex rolled his eyes. But now? Now he couldn’t even manage a stupid comment about the weather.

His mouth opened once, then shut again. He dragged a hand down his face and muttered, “This is…” He trailed off, frustrated.

Alex tilted his head. “What?”

“This.” George waved vaguely between them. “Us. Sitting here like… like it’s some awkward first date or something.”

That earned him the smallest curve of Alex’s mouth, the first real smile George had seen since… God, since before the bathroom. Alex shifted on the bench, straightening a little. Then, with deadly seriousness, he extended a hand toward George.

“Uh, hi,” Alex said, voice deliberately stilted. “I’m Alex. Do you… like dodgeball?”

George blinked. For a moment, he just stared, caught between disbelief and the ridiculous image of Alex actually trying this on someone. Then, despite himself, a sound burst out of him. A sharp snort, followed by laughter that came too quick and too loud. He slapped a hand over his face. “You’re such an idiot.”

Alex smirked, still holding his hand out. “Better than sitting here like statues.” He leaned in a little, raising his eyebrows. “Wow, George, cool racket. Do you… play sports?”

That did it. George doubled over, laughter shaking his shoulders. It felt raw, messy, like something breaking loose inside him after being wound too tight for too long. “God, that’s the worst line I’ve ever heard.”

Alex finally dropped his hand with a put-upon sigh. “Don’t act like you could do better.”

George straightened, wiped at his eyes, and cleared his throat with mock seriousness. “Hello, I’m George. Do you, uh… come to this bench often?”

Alex groaned and shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

The shove landed like old times, not sharp, not bitter,  just familiar. George leaned back against the wall behind the bench, his grin slipping into something smaller, quieter. His chest still felt raw, but now there was space to breathe.

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp anymore. It wasn’t the kind that demanded answers. It sat between them like an old friend, familiar, easy, something they both remembered how to share.

George tilted his head back against the wall and exhaled. “If anyone walks in right now, they’re gonna think we’ve lost it.”

Alex crossed his arms, leaning back too. “They wouldn’t be wrong.”

George laughed softly. It wasn’t the shaky, defensive laugh from earlier. It was lighter, easier.

Alex caught the sound and let it sink in. For the first time in hours, maybe the first time all week, he felt the tension in his chest loosen. He almost let it stay quiet again, but something nudged him forward.

“You know,” Alex said slowly, eyes still on the far wall, “I was trying to picture what it’d be like if we actually stopped talking.”

George shifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And it was… weird. Wrong. Like trying to imagine the sky green instead of blue. It just didn’t fit.”

George swallowed hard, unsure what to do with that. His instinct was to joke, to brush it off, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment either. His voice came out softer than he expected. “Guess we’re stuck with each other, then.”

“Guess so.”

The words settled warm between them.

For a beat, George’s mind flickered back. Kindergarten, Alex tripping over his shoelaces and face-planting in the sandpit, and George laughing so hard he’d fallen over too. Middle school, them sneaking into school at ni, pretending they were training for some world championship when really they just wanted to avoid homework. All those little stupid things that had built up into something bigger than either of them realised until it had almost cracked apart.

George glanced sideways at Alex. “Hey.”

“What?”

“You’d be a terrible date, by the way. Just putting that out there.”

Alex snorted. “Says the guy whose best pickup line involves benches.”

That earned another laugh, lighter this time, the kind that echoed through the empty gym like it belonged there.

For the first time all day, George didn’t feel like the floor was crumbling under him.

The final bell had rungminutes ago, but the classroom still smelled faintly of chalk dust and the lingering heat of too many bodies. Most of the students had already bolted, their laughter echoing down the corridor, but Charles, Lando, and Pierre stayed behind, half-heartedly shoving books into their bags.

Pierre snapped his notebook shut with a dramatic sigh. “Finally. I thought today would never end.” He shoved it into his backpack like it had personally wronged him.

“You say that every day,” Lando muttered, balancing his pencil case on top of a precarious stack of folders.

“Because it’s true every day,” Pierre shot back, though there wasn’t much fire in it. His eyes flicked toward the empty desks right behind them, the ones George and Alex occupied. The absence felt louder than it should.

Charles noticed it too. He kept his gaze fixed on the zipper of his bag, fingers fumbling longer than necessary. The silence left behind by those two was starting to feel permanent, like they’d ripped a hole in the group just by refusing to sit together anymore.

“Still weird, huh,” Lando said suddenly, voice sharper than his posture suggested. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the desks. “Them not being here. Them not… talking.”

Pierre let out a short laugh, humorless. “Weird’s one word for it. Pain in the ass is another.”

Charles’s chest tightened. He swallowed, pretending to adjust the strap of his bag. “Do you think they’ll… fix it on their own?” His voice came out smaller than he wanted.

Lando glanced at him, then away. “Not a chance. George is too proud, and Alex.” he gestured vaguely, “Alex would rather sit on a grenade than admit he’s upset. They’re gonna keep orbiting each other until one of them explodes.”

Pierre slung his bag over his shoulder, rolling his eyes. “So what? We just wait around for fireworks? Meanwhile the group split in half. Great plan.”

Charles’s hands stilled on the bag strap. The idea of waiting, of doing nothing made his stomach turn. He thought about those months before the Wolffs had taken him in, how every day had felt like drifting further into silence, into empty rooms where no one noticed if he spoke or not. He couldn’t go back to that. Not now. Not with them.

“We can’t just wait,” he blurted, sharper than he’d meant.

Both Lando and Pierre looked at him, startled.

Charles forced himself to keep going, even as his throat tightened. “If we do nothing, maybe they… maybe they won’t come back. Maybe this is just it. And I don’t– ” He cut himself off, shaking his head, jaw tight. “I don’t want that.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Lando stood, slinging his bag onto his shoulder with a decisive snap. “Then we don’t let it happen. We find them. We get them in the same place. And we don’t leave until they’re normal again.”

Pierre arched an eyebrow. “Normal? You mean the constant bickering, the ridiculous inside jokes, the two of them ganging up on us whenever they’re bored?”

“Exactly.” Lando’s grin was sharp but real. “That normal.”

Pierre hesitated, then huffed a laugh. “Fine. At least it’d be better than this.”

Charles felt something ease in his chest, just a little. It wasn’t certainty, but it was a plan. And that was enough to cling to.

“Okay,” he said quietly, almost like a promise. “We’ll do it. We’ll fix this.”

Thank god that as they’re plotting, their two missing friends were already on the other side of campus, mending the cracks themselves.

Chapter Text

It took some time for the gang to form a plan. They’ve decided that squeezing the other two members in a diner booth with them would be the best way to force proximity. And now, all they need is the duo.

“Okay,” Lando said, swinging his bag onto his back like a soldier going to war. “Where do two idiots go to sulk?”

“Library,” Pierre said immediately.

Lando barked out a laugh. “George? In a library? He’d probably get arrested for crimes against silence. You remember last time he tried to ‘study’? He balanced three rulers on his head and started laughing like a madman and got us all kicked out.”

Charles blinked. “He balanced rulers?”

“Like a circus act,” Pierre muttered.

They peeked into the library anyway. It was almost empty, save for a cluster of quiet students. No George. No Alex.

“Nope!” Lando announced. “Next guess.”

“Cafeteria?” Charles suggested, hugging his bag to his chest.

Pierre frowned. “Why would they go back there? Lunch was hours ago.”

Lando grinned. “Emotional support pizza, Pierre. Ever heard of it?”

Charles stifled a laugh as they ducked into the cafeteria. The smell of reheated cheese still lingered in the air. A lone janitor was wiping tables. No George, no Alex.

“They’re not here,” Pierre said flatly.

“Fine, fine.” Lando snapped his fingers. “Music wing. Alex likes piano, right?”

“And George?” Pierre asked.

Lando smirked. “Triangle solo.”

Charles bit his lip to keep from laughing as they poked into the music hall. A few notes drifted from a practice room where someone was rehearsing violin, but otherwise, it was empty.

Lando spread his arms dramatically. “Do you see them?”

“No,” Pierre deadpanned.

“Exactly,” Lando said. “Strike three.”

Charles shuffled his feet. “Gym?” he offered quietly.

Lando froze mid-step, then snapped his fingers again. “Yes! The gym! Brooding central. Big dramatic echoes, perfect for tragic monologues. If they’re not there, they’ve left the planet.”

Pierre muttered something in French that got Charles to let out a snort, but he followed anyway.

Meanwhile, back in the gym, George and Alex were still on the bench, side by side.

George kicked at the floor absently with the toe of his shoe. “So what exactly is the plan? You really think we can just… stop Max from showing up? What if he tells everyone himself?”

Alex leaned back, his hands braced on the bench behind him, pretending to think casually while his eyes stayed sharp. “Then we make it so he doesn’t want to.”

George gave him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean? Bribery? Threats? Kidnapping?”

Alex smirked faintly. “Tempting.”

George groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but a shaky laugh slipped out anyway. The laugh felt weird. Too light, too close to normal. He wasn’t ready for normal yet, and yet… part of him ached for it.

The silence stretched, awkward but not hostile, until Alex nudged his knee against George’s. “We’re acting like this is our first date or something. All stiff and weird.”

George froze, then side-eyed him. “…You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but so are you,” Alex shot back.

It cracked the tension clean in half. They both laughed, too loud for the empty gym, the sound echoing off the walls. For a moment, it almost felt like the old days again.

And then the gym doors slammed open.

“AHA!” Lando’s voice boomed. “What did I tell you? Gym equals brooding equals found.”

George and Alex both jolted like they’d been caught red-handed.

Pierre followed behind, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking far too pleased with himself. “Finally. We looked everywhere else. You two should be grateful we didn’t put up missing posters.”

Charles trailed last, his chest loosening at the sight. They were together, side by side, not spitting venom or avoiding eye contact. Together. His lips twitched into a small, relieved smile he tried to hide by looking at the floor.

Of course, Lando ruined it.

“Well, don’t stop on our account,” he said, grinning. “Go ahead, kiss already.”

George groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Shut up, Lando.”

Alex snorted, shoulders shaking with laughter. The laughter spread to Pierre, then Charles, until George gave in with a reluctant laugh of his own.

The gym filled with the sound, bright and messy, like it was supposed to be.

Pierre clapped George’s shoulder. “Come on. We’re going out. All five of us. No excuses.”

Lando wagged his eyebrows. “And when we get there? You two are cramming into the booth with us. Forced bonding. It’s happening.”

George groaned again, but this time it didn’t sound heavy. It sounded almost… light.

Charles hugged his bag tighter, his smile soft and real. The sound of them laughing, the sight of them moving together again was like sunlight breaking through after days of rain.

For the first time in too long, he felt it deep in his chest once again: they were okay. They weren’t going to split ways.

Chapter Text

The walk to the restaurant wasn’t long, just a couple of blocks past the school gates, but somehow the group managed to turn it into a whole parade.

Lando led the way, chattering at Charles about which milkshake flavor he was going to order like the fate of the world depended on it. Pierre walked behind them, hands in his jacket pockets, watching with the faint air of a long-suffering older brother.

George and Alex trailed a few paces further back. At first it was unspoken, just the natural gap of two boys who hadn’t quite adjusted to being folded back into the group. But as the street thinned and the voices up ahead blurred into background noise, George leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“So,” he muttered, “we really doing this?”

Alex didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. What, you think I sat through that emotional rollercoaster back there just to chicken out now?”

George snorted, shoulders loosening a little. “Fair point.” He kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk, watching it skitter ahead of them. 

A comforting silence blanketed the two of them.

George gave him a sidelong glance, a laugh huffing out of him before he could stop it. “God, say something. Next thing you know, we’ll be holding hands.”

“Shut up,” Alex muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

Up ahead, Pierre finally turned, catching sight of them whispering shoulder to shoulder, half-smiles tugging at their faces. He rolled his eyes so hard it could’ve been audible.

“Unbelievable,” he groaned. “We set out to drag them into some kind of group therapy, and instead we’re third-wheeling a rom-com.”

Lando twisted around immediately, grinning. “Oh my god, you’re right. Look at them back there, all secretive. It’s disgusting.”

Charles looked too, his expression softer than theirs. Relief warmed his chest again, but he tried to hide it under a shy smile.

“Seriously,” Pierre went on, gesturing dramatically. “If anyone needs therapy now, it’s the three of us. We’re the victims here, forced to endure this gross PDA.”

Lando clutched his chest. “Won’t somebody think of the children?”

Charles laughed, shaking his head, but the sound of it felt different tonight. It felt lighter, freer.

Behind them, George muttered, “We can hear you, you know.”

“That’s the point!” Pierre called back, smirking.

By the time they reached the restaurant (a cozy diner with red booths and neon lights humming in the window) the teasing hadn’t let up. Lando and Pierre made a big show of insisting George and Alex squeeze into the same side of the booth, Charles pressed into the opposite corner like he was the chaperone of a double date.

George groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is a setup.”

Alex, to his credit, just smirked and slid in. “Relax. At least you got the good side of the booth.”

Pierre threw himself onto the seat beside Charles and spread his arms theatrically. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to couple therapy, mandatory session one.”

Charles laughed so hard he nearly dropped his menu, while George turned red instantly. “Shut the hell up.”

Alex, far more composed, picked up a menu and said blandly, “So what’s good here? Besides the entertainment.”

Charles burst into laughter, his hand half-covering his mouth. He looked embarrassed for laughing, but he couldn’t help it. The scheming, the jokes, the way George was sputtering while Alex was deadpan. The sheer absurdity of all this made his chest feel lighter than it had in weeks.

“Can I just say,” Pierre announced grandly, “this is not what I signed up for. We were supposed to fix the broken friendship, not be subjected to… whatever this is.” He waved vaguely at the two across from him. “Gross reconciliation PDA.”

“PDA?” George spluttered. “We’re literally sitting.”

“Close,” Pierre corrected, smirking. “Too close. Obscenely close. Do you know how traumatizing this is for me? For us?” He gestured to himself, Lando, and Charles like they were a support group.

“I need hazard pay,” Lando said solemnly. “Or at least free milkshakes.”

Charles tried to stifle another laugh and failed.

George dropped his head onto the table with a thunk. “Why do I even hang out with you guys.”

“Because without us,” Alex said smoothly, “you’d still be sitting outside the gym sulking.”

That earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs, but he only smirked wider.

The server arrived with a notepad, looking faintly bemused at the scene. Everyone scrambled to order — Lando rattling off a triple-stack burger like it was a dare, Pierre requesting his fries “crispy, not burnt,” Charles politely asking for a grilled cheese, and George mumbling something about pancakes at any hour.

When it was Alex’s turn, he said simply, “Same as him,” nodding at George.

Pierre groaned loudly. “Oh, unbelievable. Matching orders? Are you serious? Might as well just share one plate and feed each other at this point.”

“It’s called efficiency,” Alex replied without missing a beat.

“It’s called making me want to gouge my eyes out,” Pierre shot back.

Charles nearly choked on his water.

The server left, and for a while the group dissolved into overlapping chatter. Lando was telling some ridiculous story about nearly falling asleep in math class, Pierre was complaining about homework, and Charles was listening with a soft smile that didn’t quite hide how grateful he was just to be here, surrounded, included.

Across the table, George leaned closer to Alex, lowering his voice. “So… after school tomorrow. The plan?”

Alex nodded, tapping a finger on the table like punctuation. 

“Got it,” George murmured.

Pierre squinted at them suspiciously. “See? This is what I mean. Whispering, plotting. PDA with scheming on top. The only ones who need therapy now are me, Charles, and Lando, because we’re the poor souls forced to witness it.”

“True,” Lando said cheerfully. “I might sue for damages.”

“Shut up, all of you,” George said, though he was grinning this time.

And just like that, the booth filled with laughter again.

For Charles, sitting in the corner with his grilled cheese soon arriving, it was enough. He didn’t need to say it out loud, but the sight of George and Alex joking again, Pierre being dramatic, Lando being… Lando. It settled something in him.

He was really glad the gang was back together once more.

Chapter Text

The locker room smelled of teenage hormones and sweat, the kind of air that always felt heavy before practice. Sneakers squeaked somewhere down the hall, a ball thudded against the wall in steady rhythm, but the real noise was the drumbeat in George’s chest.

Alex leaned casually against the lockers, arms crossed, but George could tell from the tightness in his jaw that he was anything but relaxed.

“Here he comes,” Alex murmured.

Max strolled down the corridor, his tennis bag slung over his shoulder, humming to himself. When he spotted them blocking the doorway, he slowed, brows raising in mild surprise.

“Well,” he said easily, “this looks serious.”

“Cut the crap,” George snapped. He straightened, planting himself squarely in Max’s path. “You’re not going to the BBQ.”

Max blinked once, then smirked. “Not going?” He tilted his head, mock-considering. “Hm. Why not?”

“Because I said so,” George shot back. His voice was sharper than he’d intended, but he couldn’t reel it in. “If you show up, it’ll screw everything. Stay home.”

Max looked at him for a long beat, then laughed. Actually laughed, light and amused, like George had just told a joke. “Wow. That’s convincing. Really. I’m shaking.”

Alex pushed off the lockers, stepping closer. His voice was lower, steadier. “George is serious, Max. Don’t test this.”

But Max only glanced between them, eyes glittering with something sly. “Oh, I get it now.” His smile curved. “What about no.”

George froze, stomach dropping.

“Whhy would you be scared of me going?” Max went on, voice almost sing-song. “Aren’t you the high and mighty George, who’s so so good at tennis? The star of the team?”

George’s fists clenched at his sides, nails biting his palms.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

Max arched a brow, unbothered. “Make me.”

Something snapped. George stepped forward, fury cracking through his voice. “Listen to me, you smug little– ” His hands curled like he might actually grab Max’s shirt, but Alex slid between them in one smooth motion, a hand outstretched against George’s chest.

“George,” Alex warned sharply.

George’s breath came too fast, too hot. He forced himself to stop, but his words came out like venom anyway. “If you go, Max, I swear– ”

“You’ll what?” Max interrupted, amused, utterly unimpressed. He leaned back against the lockers, looking down at George like he was nothing more than a buzzing gnat. “Tell everyone I suck at tennis? Newsflash, they already know. Or maybe you’ll hit me? In front of the team? See how that plays out.”

George’s throat locked. He had nothing. No weapon Max hadn’t already stripped from his hands.

Max slung his bag off his shoulder and adjusted it casually, like the conversation hadn’t meant anything. “See you Saturday,” he said with a wink, and walked past them into the gym.

Silence dropped in the hall, heavy and suffocating.

George stared after him, heat crawling under his skin, shame and rage mixing until he could barely tell them apart. “I’m screwed,” he muttered, voice hollow. “If he goes, I’m done. Everyone’ll know.”

Alex’s jaw was tight, his fists balled at his sides, but his voice stayed level. “Then we don’t let him go. One way or another.”

George dragged a hand down his face, chest twisting. For the first time since last night, since Alex had chosen to stay, he felt the ground slipping out from under him again.

This wasn’t over. Not even close.

Chapter Text

Max hadn’t meant to think about George again. He told himself the confrontation earlier in the day was over, that he’d won, that the look on George’s face was enough. But even as he sat at the dinner table, fork scraping against the edge of his plate, he kept replaying it in his head. The shift in George’s expression from defiant to shaken. The way Alex had looked at him like he was some kind of problem to fix.

It was addictive, that feeling of control.

Jos’s voice snapped him back. “You’re smiling,” his father said, not looking up from his tablet. “That’s never a good sign.”

“I’m not,” Max said too quickly.

Jos finally raised his head, eyeing him across the table. “You’ve been grinning at your plate for the past five minutes. Either the potatoes are telling jokes or you’re thinking of something stupid.”

Max stabbed at a piece of chicken. “Just thinking about the match.”

Jos snorted. “Thinking, huh? That’s new.”

Max rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to it. His dad was in a good mood this week. Even got him a phone this week, stating that he could watch tennis matches on it anywhere to improve his skills faster. He was in a really good mood, and it was probably due to his contract renewal.

They ate for a bit in relative quiet. Jos scrolled through a feed on his tablet, half-distracted, half-listening. Max chewed slowly, his mind wandering again, this time to the upcoming weekend.

The BBQ. He’d almost forgotten about it.

Lewis had mentioned it after practice that day, something about celebrating if they won Saturday’s match. Sebastian had looked way too excited. He had forgotten about it, until just now in the locker room. His dad’s in a good mood, so it’s probably a great time to ask right now.

He swallowed, glanced at his dad. “Hey, Dad?”

Jos hummed without looking up.

“There’s a team BBQ this weekend. After the match. I was wondering if I could go.”

Jos’s eyes flicked up briefly. “Where?”

“At the Wolffs’ place,” Max said.

That got Jos’s full attention. He set his cutlery down. “Toto Wolff?”

“Yeah. His sons are on the team,” Max said, pretending to focus on his food. “Lewis and Seb. And Kimi, I think. It’s at their house.”

Jos blinked, then let out a short, surprised laugh. “You didn’t think to tell me that before?”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Of course it matters,” Jos said, shaking his head. “You’re going to a BBQ at Toto Wolff’s house. Do you have any idea how many people would kill for that kind of connection?”

Max frowned. “It’s just a team thing. Not… networking.”

Jos leaned back in his chair, studying him. “Everything’s networking, Max. You don’t waste opportunities like this. Wolff’s a sharp man. You’ve met him before. Quite a few times, in fact. You should know that.”

Max wasn’t entirely sure what his dad was talking about. Toto’s a nice man. Sure, he’s important in F1, but his dad is literally friends with him. Why is he talking about him like some untouchable, vaguely acquainted figure? 

“So… I can go?”

Jos guffawed. “Of course. Just don’t make a fool of yourself. And if he’s around, be polite. Shake his hand. Tell him I said hello. Congratulate him on his Mercedes double podium last week.”

Max beamed. A yes was a yes.

“Tell me about Toto’s sons.” Jos said simply, picking up his glass again. “I heard that they’re really good at tennis. You’re better than them, aren’t you?”

There was a flicker of pride in Jos’s voice that Max hadn’t heard in a long time. It made something twist in his chest, the familiar ache of wanting to impress him.

“I’ll congratulate him on your behalf,” Max said.

Jos nodded, satisfied. “Good. And Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Win the match first. Won’t want him knowing you’re the only one who lost a match that day, would you?”

Max gave a half-smile. “I’ll win.”

Jos smirked faintly, almost approvingly. “That’s what I like to hear.”

As Max gathered his plate and left the table, the grin returned.

Chapter Text

The match ended an hour ago, the sun still blazing across the courts. Max should’ve been riding the high of their win. Another solid performance, another reason for his dad to say good job, son with that half-proud, half-condescending tone that always made him feel five again.

But the satisfaction never came. Not fully.

He sat in the passenger seat of Jos’s car now, hair still damp from a rushed shower, tennis polo replaced with a crisp shirt and jeans. 

Jos drove one-handed, the other resting on the wheel like he was navigating a racetrack. The low hum of the engine filled the silence between them.

“You played okay,” Jos said finally. His voice wasn’t quite praise, but more like an evaluation.

“Thanks,” Max said automatically, eyes on the blur of trees outside the window.

Jos gave a short nod, then adjusted his sunglasses. “Don’t slouch. You look sloppy.”

Max straightened instantly. “We’re not meeting a sponsor, Dad. It’s just a BBQ.”

“You’re going to the Wolff household,” Jos corrected, glancing at him. “That’s not just anything. It’s an opportunity. You think Toto doesn’t notice which kids carry themselves like winners?”
Max bit back a sigh. “Pretty sure he’s not scouting for F1 talent at his own barbecue. I don’t even do karting.”

Jos didn’t laugh. “Does that mean that connections are not important?”

That was Jos’s way of saying I’m right, don’t argue.

They fell into silence again, but Max’s thoughts were far louder.

George and Alex’s faces flashed through his mind. The way they’d cornered him earlier that week, voices low, desperate. Don’t go to the BBQ.

Max had almost laughed in their faces. What could they even do if he did?

Now, as Jos turned into the long, sleek drive that led toward the Wolff’s street, Max wondered if he’d pushed too far. George’s fear had been almost too real. His reputation really means that much to him, huh…

And part of Max, the part that liked having control, wanted to see how far that fear would go.

Jos parked the car right in front of the house, blending in well with the rows of expensive cars on the street. Mercedes, Audi, even a Rolls-Royce, the kind of display that said successful adults only.

He killed the engine and turned to Max. “Remember what I said. Be polite. Don’t act like an idiot with your friends. And when you see Toto, be nice.”

“You’re literally friends with him,” Max muttered.

Jos didn’t budge. “Don’t mumble your words.”

Max clenched his jaw. “I’ll be polite. I’ll make an impression. I won’t act like an idiot.”

Jos smiled faintly, satisfied. “Good boy.”

The words burned. Max forced a smile back, unbuckled his seatbelt, and reached for the door handle, but Jos stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I’ll walk you in.”

Max froze. “Why?”

Jos looked at him like it was obvious. “You think I’m letting you run off to some house full of teenagers? I’ll say hello to Toto, make sure you’re where you said you’d be.”

“Dad… ”

Max bit the inside of his cheek. There was no point arguing. Once Jos had decided something, it was easier to let the storm pass.

He followed his father up the front walk, where laughter and the faint smell of grilled food drifted from the backyard. The Wolffs’ house loomed above them, sleek glass, modern lines, the kind of house that made people nervous about touching anything.

Toto Wolff himself opened the door.

“Jos,” he greeted warmly, a surprise flickering in his tone. “Didn’t expect to see you on a non-F1 weekend.”

Jos smiled, all charm. “Just wanted to drop Max off. Heard your boys were hosting a little BBQ party. Thought I’d say hello.”

The two men shook hands like old colleagues. The air shifted into some mix of polite and professional, too full of history for Max to read between the lines.

Behind Toto, voices carried from deeper inside. Laughter, music, the buzz of conversation. Max spotted Lewis darting past with a tray of drinks, followed by Sebastian trying not to spill his. Typical chaos.

Jos clapped Toto’s shoulder once, smiling that familiar PR smile. “You’ve raised quite the crew, I see. Good environment for the kids.”

Toto chuckled. “It’s loud, but it keeps them honest. They work hard. Play harder.”

“Good balance,” Jos said approvingly, and Max nearly rolled his eyes. If Jos ever saw what “playing harder” actually looked like, he’d probably have a heart attack.

Finally, Jos turned to Max. “Be good. I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“Eleven?” Max tried to bargain, but even that sounded weak in his ears.

“Ten,” Jos said firmly. “If you need to stay longer, text me. I don’t want you sneaking off with your friends.”

Toto glanced between them, mildly amused. “Don’t worry, Jos. He’ll be fine here. The boys will look after him.”

Jos nodded once, satisfied. “Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

He gave Max a short pat on the shoulder, firm and perfunctory, then turned back toward the car.

When the door shut behind him, Max exhaled slowly, the weight of his father’s presence finally lifting.

“Nice seeing you here, Max. I see you’ve already met my boys. No need for that introduction we agreed on a few races ago, huh? How’s the school and the team? I bet everything’s going well for you, yeah? You’re a charismatic little man, you definitely have been doing great.”

Max shrugged and nodded accordingly, though his mind was still stuck with Jos’s freshly imprinted words. Be good. Don’t act like an idiot.

He hated that those words had power over him. He hated even more that part of him still wanted to impress him.

From behind, Lewis’s voice rang out: “Dad! Stop it! Let Max in. You're lowkey so embarrassing! Come Max! Let’s leave this old man to yap to someone else.”

“Hey! This old man financed this whole BBQ!” And the father and son duo burst out in laughter.

Max plastered on a grin and shoved all the chaos in his head aside.

George’s panic, Alex’s threats, Jos’s expectations, he’d deal with it later.

For now, he could just relax.

He stepped into the house, the scent of barbecue smoke thick in the air, the laughter of his teammates spilling around him like a tide.

And somewhere out back, Charles froze when he saw who was at the door.

Chapter Text

The moment Max followed Lewis through the sliding glass doors, the backyard exploded in noise.

Sunlight reflected off the pool, the smell of grilled food wafted thick through the air, and laughter came from every direction, from overlapping conversations, to bad music, to the sizzle of something burning on the barbecue.

“Max is here!” Lewis yelled like he was announcing a celebrity.

Heads turned instantly.

Daniel Ricciardo, wearing an apron that read Trust me, I’m the chef, raised his tongs in greeting. “Well, well, if it isn’t little Verstappen. Come to bless us with your presence, huh?”

“Little?” Max echoed, eyebrows raised.

“Compared to me, everyone’s little.” Daniel grinned. “You’re what, three? four?”

“eleven,” Max said automatically.

Daniel gasped dramatically. “Oh, my apologies, eleven! Someone write that down!”

“Someone write down your cooking too, so we have evidence when we all die later,” Kimi muttered from the corner, sipping lemonade like he’d seen too much.

Lewis choked on a laugh. “Kimi, you can’t just– ”

“I can,” Kimi interrupted calmly.

Seb nearly fell over laughing beside the grill. “He’s not wrong, though! Daniel, how many times have you set something on fire this year?”

“Accidentally?” Daniel asked.

“Daniel,” Fernando warned in his half-Spanish accent, half-laugh. “Answer wisely.”

“What if I did it on purpose?” Daniel challenged, flipping a patty with unnecessary flair.

“Stop capping,” Fernando said, clapping him on the back. “It was six.”

Daniel turned around and looked at him, scandalised.

Laughter broke out again, warm and effortless, echoing off the white walls of the patio.

Lewis turned to Max with a grin that could light up the court. “You picked a good time to show up. They were trying to figure out how they were charring on the skewers on the outside though the inside remained raw.”

Max gave a small, earnest grin.

There was something disarmingly easy about this group. They were loud, teasing, and comfortable in ways that didn’t need explanation. It reminded him of the team he’d always wanted to have, kind of like team Europe Laver cup ‘22.

Seb spotted him caught in his own thoughts and waved a soda can at him. “You’re not gonna stand there like a lost kid all day, are you? Grab a burger before Daniel burns them!”

“I don’t burn them,” Daniel protested.

“Why are you still on grilling duty anyways?”

“Y’all just love me and my meat too much!” Daniel shouted, thrusting the air for comedic effect, earning another round of laughter.

Lewis groaned and dropped into a lawn chair, muttering, “Bruh.”

“Shut up,” Daniel said, “you’ll eat three of them anyway.”

“The only ones that he’ll be eating are mine!”

Kimi, who hadn’t moved once, looked up just long enough to add, “Aren’t you and Lewis just best friends, Britney?”

The blonde started sputtering, and the laughter that followed was instant and unstoppable.

Even Max, trying to hide his grin behind a sip of soda, couldn’t hold it in.

When Daniel finally shoved a plate into his hands. The bun was slightly lopsided, cheese hanging off the side. Max took a seat next to Lewis and Nico, watching the chaos unfold.

Fernando and Carlos were arguing over who knows what in Spanish. Seb was dancing terribly with a ketchup bottle. Daniel was fake-offended about it.

It was ridiculous, messy, and so full of life that Max couldn’t help but feel something tight in his chest loosen.

Lewis elbowed him lightly. “Told you we’re the best team, didn’t I?”

Max smirked. “You’re the loudest team, that’s for sure.”

“Same thing.”

Daniel overheard and pointed his tongs at Max. “Oi! Don’t come for our volume, short king! You’ll have to earn the right to roast us!”

Max rolled his eyes, laughing. “Short what?”

“Short king!” Daniel repeated proudly. “It’s a term of endearment, mate. Means you’re powerful and portable.”

Lewis wheezed so hard he nearly fell off the chair.

Seb shouted over the music, “Portable! Daniel, what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing! He’s compact, like a high-performance engine! Efficient!”

By now, everyone was crying from laughter. Even Kimi cracked half a smile.

Max threw a balled-up napkin at Daniel’s head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I prefer irreplaceable,” Daniel said smugly, catching it midair.

“Same number of syllables, same amount of ego,” Fernando muttered.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, old man!”

That set off another explosion of laughter.

And for the first time in weeks, Max wasn’t thinking about George or Alex or secrets or warnings. He was just… here.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this belonging.

Seb came over then, handing him another soda. “You fit in easily, huh? Told you we’re not scary.”

Max took it with a small grin. “You’re terrifying.”

Seb winked. “Flattery gets you everywhere.”

Lewis groaned from the couch. “Can we not flirt? He’s a minor, you know.”

Seb gasped. “Excuse me, I’m a minor too!”

Daniel yelled, “That’s not what you said when you try to buy liquor that day!”

Everyone screamed.

“Daniel!” Seb shouted, mortified, chasing him around the patio as Daniel howled with laughter, barely dodging a flying napkin. “Not where my parents can hear!”

“Seb, calm down!” Lewis yelled between fits of laughter. “You’re gonna knock over the grill again!”

“Then maybe I’ll be a hot mess!”

“Sebastian!”

The chaos was unstoppable now. Daniel was yelling “worth it!”, Fernando wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, Kimi muttering “children” under his breath as he turned the music up a little louder.

And through it all, Max sat there, grinning like an idiot.

Charles hadn’t expected to see him here.

He wasn’t on the competition team. George had made that point very clearly, very smugly, and very proudly every time Max’s name came up.

Recreational, he’d said. Not competition.

Yet here Max was, sitting comfortably among them, fitting into the dynamic like he’d been born to.

Lewis was draped sideways in a chair beside him, Seb and Daniel were still mock-fighting near the grill, and even Kimi, who had once declared that he “socialising is for the weak”, had been seen nodding at something Max said.

It didn’t make sense.

Charles grabbed a drink from the cooler, watching from the edge of the patio. He wasn’t the type to jump into chaos. He preferred to observe, to understand.

And right now, there was a puzzle in front of him.

“Earth to Charles,” Susie said, waving a hand in front of his face. “You’ve been staring at the new kid. Come on, don’t be shy. Go talk to him. If your brothers don’t want to join the BBQ, I’ll go have a word with them.”

Charles blinked. “What? No. It's not that. I just– ”

“Right,” Susie said, grinning. “You just happen to be analysing him. Sure. What’s up?”

Charles hesitated. “I just didn’t expect him to be here.”

Susie shrugged. “Why not? He’s on the team.”

“No, he’s not.”

Susie gave him a confused look. “But I’ve seen him play for the team just now at your brothers’ school matches.”

That made Charles freeze. “But I’ve heard that he’s not on it though. Maybe he just got promoted?”

“Nah,” Susie said casually. “He’s the boy your brothers talk about after almost every school training session. Got called up after trials, I think. Apparently the kid's good. Like, scary good.”

“Huh,” Charles repeated slowly, like he was tasting the word. “I thought they were talking about George?”

Susie shrugged.

Charles didn’t respond to that. He couldn’t, not yet.

Because that wasn’t what George had told him.

George had been adamant that Max was just “messing around on the rec side,” that he wasn’t even close to being good enough for the competition squad.

And George had said it with such casual superiority, the kind that Charles had believed, because George was usually so composed, so confident.

But now…

Now, as Charles watched Max laugh at something Lewis said, saw Daniel sling an arm around him like he belonged, he realised George’s story didn’t fit.

Not even close.

“Hey, Charlie,” Seb called from across the backyard. He was holding a plate of burgers and a grin that could only mean trouble. “Why are you sitting with mom like a loser? Come. Eat something with us. We all know you anyways.”

Charles gave him a thin smile and walked over. “Haha okay.”

Seb handed him the plate. “Eat.”

Charles took it automatically, then glanced at Max across the table, laughing his head off at something Daniel had said. He had never seen his classmate this carefree before.

“Seb?”

“Yeah?”

“Is Max… really that good?”

Seb laughed, like the answer was obvious. “That good? He’s insane. You should’ve seen him during selection. Kid plays like he’s got something to prove. Raw talent, completely fearless. Reminds me of Lewis at that age, except more…” he waved a hand vaguely, “...explosive.”

Charles blinked. “Better than Lewis?”

Seb tilted his head, thinking. “Different. But… yeah, maybe even better for his age. Don’t tell Lewis I said that.”

Charles didn’t respond. His grip tightened around the paper plate.

So George had lied.

Not misunderstood. Not exaggerated. Lied.

And the more he replayed their conversations in his head, the more the pieces fit in a way that made his stomach twist.

George’s confidence. His little smirks whenever Max’s name came up. The way he brushed off questions about his own matches.

It wasn’t pride. It was deflection.

George wasn’t on the competition team. Max was.

And George, his supposedly honest, rational, overachieving George, had pretended otherwise.

Charles stared down at the grill, where Daniel was flipping something that looked vaguely edible. Laughter roared in the background again, but it all sounded muted now, distant.

George had lied to him.

The betrayal wasn’t loud. It was quiet, cold, creeping up his spine like a shadow.

He thought of every time George had rolled his eyes at Max, every snide comment. He’s not serious, he just got lucky, he’s not competition-level.

Every word now curdled into something crueler.

It wasn’t that George hated Max. It was that George was jealous of him.

Charles took a deep breath through his nose, steadying himself.

He was angry. Not the fiery, reckless kind, but the steady kind that sat heavy in his chest.

He’d trusted George. Believed him. Defended him, even, when the others teased him for being uptight.

And now, standing there watching Max laugh like nothing in the world could touch him, Charles realised how stupid that trust had been.

Max hadn’t been the one hiding something.

George had.

Seb clapped him on the shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. “You look like you just solved a murder.”

“Something like that,” Charles said quietly.

Seb grinned. “Good! Now smile before Lewis thinks you’re plotting against him again.”

Charles managed a small, distracted laugh.

But his gaze drifted back to Max. Carefree, confident, completely unaware of the silent storm brewing in him.

And when Max caught his gaze, he gave Charles a soft, unsure grin. Charles returned it, equally unsure.

Chapter Text

Monday mornings at school always felt like someone had dimmed the world. The hallways buzzed faintly with tired chatter, sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming, all the noises that made up the humdrum start to another week.

Charles arrived early, slipping into the classroom before most of the others. The room smelled faintly of whiteboard markers and overripe bananas from someone’s forgotten bag. He set his bag down, trying to act normal, which shouldn’t have been so hard, except his stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since Saturday.

Last weekend’s barbecue kept replaying in his head. Daniel and his perverted jokes, Kimi’s deadpan comeback, Seb pretending to keep the peace but is actually the most chaotic. Max had fit into the chaos easily by the end of it, even if he’d been a little quiet at first.

And George hadn’t been there.

That last part still sat weirdly in his mind.

He would be lying if he said that he hadn’t thought much about it.

Slowly, people trickled in and the room started filling. George and Alex, as usual, tumbled in together, talking too loud for eight in the morning, their usual effortless energy filling the space.

George looked good, relaxed. Like someone who’d just had a great weekend.

It was almost funny. Almost.

Charles pretended to scroll on his phone, waiting for the right moment. He didn’t even know why he cared. Maybe he just wanted to hear what George would say. Maybe part of him hoped there was a reasonable explanation.

“So,” he said casually as George dropped into the seat right behind him, “how was the BBQ? I was out because I didn’t want to disturb the team.”

It was just four words, but they felt heavier than they should.

George blinked, caught off guard for half a second, then smiled. “Oh, it was great, man.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, grinning. “You went, huh? I thought you’re busy”

“Yeah I was planning on skipping,” George said easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “But Lewis texted me and, you know how he’s my idol, I couldn’t say no.”

Charles kept his expression neutral, nodding slowly.

“Food was insane,” George continued, warming up to his story. “Your brothers really went all out. Had this insane steak platter, and Daniel was grilling like his life depended on it. Nearly burned the whole thing but somehow made it work.”

Alex laughed. “Classic Danny.”

“Right?” George said. “And Seb was doing his usual moral compass thing, trying to stop everyone from starting a food fight, but, as usual, ended up instigating it. Lewis nearly dropped a tray of drinks. It was chaos, honestly.”

Every word felt like a punch to the gut.

Charles knew exactly what had happened at that barbecue.

Seb had indeed started a food fight, and Lewis did drop the tray. Daniel had burned half the meat there was. 

George hadn’t been anywhere near it, and it was scary how accurate the reality his lie painted was.

“Sounds like fun,” Charles managed, forcing a small smile.

George nodded, smiling like he believed every word coming out of his mouth. “Yeah. Everyone was there. Kimi, Lewis, Nico, the whole team. You could tell they’ve known each other forever. It’s that kind of vibe, you know?”

Charles nodded again, but his stomach felt like it was folding in on itself. He could hear his pulse in his ears. 

George wasn’t even flinching. Not hesitating, not backtracking. Just lying, perfectly, smoothly, like he actually lived through it.

The bell rang again, signaling the start of class. Chairs scraped, the teacher walked in, and everyone turned toward the front. But Charles barely heard a word.

He sat still, staring at the board but seeing nothing.

Why would George lie about that?

It wasn’t like anyone had asked. He could’ve just said he didn’t go, that he had something else on. No one would’ve thought twice.

Instead, he’d gone out of his way to pretend.

And what made it worse was that Alex didn’t look surprised.

Charles had caught it. The small, unspoken flicker of awareness in Alex’s face before he’d joined in.

They both knew.

The thought settled heavy in Charles’s chest, sour and strange..

Charles forced his eyes forward, pretending to focus on the equations on the board. But his thoughts were already spinning in quiet, careful circles.

Something didn’t add up.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know the answer.

By third period, the morning’s pretense had worn thin.

The sky outside was blindingly blue, sunlight pouring in through half-open blinds and scattering across the classroom floor. The hum of the ceiling fan mixed with the soft scratch of pencils and the occasional cough. The white noise of a normal Monday.

Except Charles couldn’t hear any of it properly.

George’s voice carried over everything.

He sat directly behind Charles, between Alex and Max. Next to Max, who his teasing Charles did not realise was so malicious. He used to like sitting just in front of them, laughing along to whatever joke George made at Max’s expense. It made him feel like part of the group even when he wasn’t in the thick of the chaos.

But today, the laughter grated.

“So, about that BBQ,” George said suddenly, just loud enough to rise above the teacher’s voice. “Shame some people didn’t get the invite, huh?”

Charles froze mid-sentence, pencil hovering over his notebook.

It was a casual tone. Teasing, even. The kind George always used when he wanted to stir trouble without looking like he meant to.

Max didn’t reply. Charles didn’t have to look to know Max was ignoring him. Max always did.

But George wasn’t the kind of person who stopped when ignored.

He laughed softly, leaning back in his chair. “It was only for the competition team, afterall. But don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll make it on the team one day.”

There it was. The dig.

Charles’s fingers tightened around his pencil.

He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. He could picture George’s grin, the lazy confidence that came from knowing he could get away with saying whatever he wanted.

Alex chuckled beside him. “Yeah, man, imagine showing up uninvited to a team BBQ. That’d be tragic.”

“Don’t think anyone would’ve noticed anyway,” George added. “He probably would’ve just stood in the corner like some hermit.”

Laughter followed. Quiet at first, the kind of laughter that pretends to be harmless.
But Charles knew better.

He stared straight ahead, pretending to take notes, the teacher’s words dissolving into meaningless sound.

His stomach churned.

He’d seen Max at that barbecue. Seen how polite he’d been, how he’d laughed at Daniel’s terrible jokes, how Lewis had dragged him into the chaos of the grill, how Seb had casually thrown an arm around him like he’d always been part of the group.

And now George, who hadn’t even been there, was using that same event to make Max feel small.

The hypocrisy made Charles’s skin crawl.

He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

It wasn’t just that George was lying. It was how easy it came to him. How Alex played along without blinking, how the rest of the class half-listened with amused smiles, not really knowing what was true or false, not caring enough to find out.

Charles thought about turning around. Just once. To say something.

He imagined it. The quiet that would follow, the looks, the shift in the room.
He could picture George’s face, the tilt of his head, the slow smile that said, really, you’re picking him over us?

The thought alone made his chest tighten.

He’d been the new kid too many times. 

The quiet one shuffled from house to house, school to school, learning fast that belonging was something fragile. Easy to lose, impossible to rebuild.

He couldn’t risk that again.

So he stayed quiet.

The teacher droned on about something, but Charles couldn’t even remember what subject it was anymore. All he could hear was the low, smug rhythm of George’s voice.

“Hey, Alex, bet Max didn’t even know there was a competition team until, like, last week.”

Alex snorted. “The only competition he’ll be in is probably boxing. Gotta put all that anger somewhere”

The two burst out laughing again, and Charles felt his throat tighten.

He wanted to sink through the floor.
He wanted to tell them to stop.
He wanted to stop wanting to belong to them.

Instead, he did what he always did. Hhe shut down.

He stared at the same line in his notes for the rest of the period, pen unmoving, expression blank. It was easier that way. If he didn’t react, maybe he could convince himself he didn’t care.

When the bell finally rang, the class scattered in a flurry of noise, but Charles packed his things slowly.

Behind him, George was still laughing, recounting something else now, his voice loud and bright and utterly unbothered. Alex chimed in, finishing his sentences like always.

Charles slung his bag over his shoulder and stood. He hesitated for just a second before turning toward the door.

Max was still seated, tying his shoelaces, face unreadable.

Charles’s throat went dry.

For a heartbeat, their eyes met.

Then Max looked away, and the moment dissolved.

Charles left the room feeling like something had cracked open in him. Something small but irreversible.

Chapter Text

By the time Charles got home, the sky had already darkened to a soft, navy blue. His bedroom windows reflected the suburban neighbourhood streetlight, pale gold dots scattered among the peaceful black. It should’ve felt peaceful. It didn’t.

He sat up from his bed and went straight to his desk. If he couldn’t sleep, there was no point just lying there. The room smelled of the deodorant he uses and the scented candles Seb burnt in here just a few nights back. Among the smell, though, was a hint of sterility. A reminder that wasn’t his room just a couple of months back, although it seems like he had been here forever.

He stared at the mess of books and notes in front of him. The open notebook from earlier still had that same unfinished line scrawled across the page. 

He hadn’t written a single thing since class.

His mind hadn’t stopped replaying it either.

George’s voice.
Alex’s laughter.
Max’s silence.

It all came back in loops. Over and over.

He told himself it wasn’t his problem. That it wasn’t worth stirring drama over. That George wasn’t a bad person, just someone who didn’t know when to stop.
But none of those excuses held up anymore.

Because Charles knew the truth now.

He’d seen Max at the BBQ. Seen the way the team had treated him, not like an outsider, not like whatever George paint him as, but like family.

He’d watched Max laugh, talk, belong.

And George had lied about all of it.

The worst part wasn’t even the lying. It was how natural it had seemed. How he’d told that story so easily, like the truth had never mattered in the first place, and Alex, joining in with that same easy laugh, like nothing was wrong.

Charles rubbed his face with both hands, leaning back in his chair. The guilt sat like a stone in his chest.

He wanted to say something.
He should’ve said something.

But the thought of losing the first real group that had ever made him feel wanted made his stomach twist.

He’d been through it too many times before: people leaving, people deciding he wasn’t worth the trouble. In the orphanage, it was always the same story. Be quiet, be agreeable, don’t cause problems. That was how you stayed wanted. Even in his last year of residence in the orphanage, when he had started knowing the Wolffs, it was the same. Be polite when they come. Hope they like you. Hope they come again soon. Hope they don’t change their mind on wanting to adopt you. 

He’d learned the rule young.
And he’d obeyed it ever since.

His phone buzzed beside him. A group chat message.

Pierre: bro someone tell alex to stop sending that tiktok 💀

Lando: no keep going it’s funny

George: I’ll send it to Charles he’s probably doing math homework like a nerd

Charles stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

A part of him wanted to reply. To laugh it off, to keep pretending nothing had changed.

But he couldn’t bring himself to type.

He turned the phone face down.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

Across the room, the window reflected his face back, tired, unsure, small.

He thought about Max again. The way he’d looked when George had mocked him. This time, he noticed a tiny flicker of something in his eyes. Not surprise, not even anger. Just the quiet kind of hurt you get when you’ve stopped expecting better from people.

Charles swallowed hard.

He shouldn’t have stayed quiet.
He should’ve done something.

His eyes flicked to his phone again. Max has a phone now, right? He saw him holding a new one at the barbecue. Maybe... he could text him.
And before he could talk himself out of it, he picked it up.

He scrolled through his contacts until he reached Kimi’s name.
Kimi was the easiest to talk to. He was blunt, unbothered, and always in his own world.

He typed, hey can you send me max’s number? need to ask about the group project thing, and hit send before he could change his mind.

The reply came two minutes later.

Kimi: ok sure. don’t make it weird. Do you want to watch a movie? Seb and Lew are here too.

A number followed.

Charles stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering.
Then he opened a new chat.

He didn’t want to use his name. Didn’t even want to say too much.
He just wanted to say something. Anything.

He typed slowly, fingers trembling a little.

Me: hi.

Me: you don’t know who this is. I just wanted to say sorry.

Me: for what happened today

Me: and all along

Me: you didn’t deserve that.

He read it twice, three times.
It looked pathetic. Lowercase letters and cowardice in digital form. But it was all he could manage.

He hovered over send for what felt like forever.

Then he hit it.

The message sent. One gray tick. Two.

He threw the phone face-down on the desk and sat there, breathing hard.

There was no reply. He hadn’t expected one.

But the guilt didn’t go away. Not fully.

It just shifted. Duller, deeper, like a bruise settling under skin.

After a while, he gave up and left the room for Kimi’s room. Nothing like a movie and brotherly bonding to distract him from this, yeah?

That night, when Pierre texted to ask if he was joining the group for lunch the next day, Charles said he’d see.
He didn’t promise. He didn’t lie either.

And over the next week, he found himself laughing a little less when George made jokes, staying quiet when Alex egged him on.

He’d drifted just enough that Pierre noticed, then Lando, then slowly, subtly, the balance began to shift.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing.
He just knew he couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

Somewhere out there, Max’s phone probably lit up once that night, an unknown number flashing a quiet apology.

Chapter Text

The sound of the ball hitting the court was sharp enough to echo.
Again.
And again.
And again.

Max’s arm ached with every swing, muscles straining against the repetition. The late evening sun’s orange bled off, revealing a black. Across the half-empty courts behind his house, sweat dripped down the back of his neck, making the collar of his shirt stick to his skin.

Jos’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Feet! Move your feet! You’re late on every return! You’re supposed to predict the ball’s movement, not let the ball predict yours!”

Max gritted his teeth and lunged for another ball, catching it just before the bounce died. The shot flew clean, barely grazing the line. It should’ve been perfect.

Jos’s tone didn’t soften.

“You call that control?”

The ball came back again, machine-fed, relentless. The rhythm had stopped feeling like practice a long time ago; it was punishment now.

He didn’t know what for.

Maybe for missing a serve that morning. Maybe for talking back. Maybe for something Jos just decided counted as “attitude.”

The last swing came out sloppy. His arm faltered, and the ball bounced off the net.
The machine clicked to a stop.

Jos sighed, the sound sharp and disapproving.

“That’s enough. You’re out of rhythm. Go cool down before you disappoint me even more.”

Max nodded mutely and walked toward the bench. His legs trembled with fatigue. The water bottle in his bag was lukewarm by now, but he drank it anyway, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

The familiar routine of disappointment settled around him. Jos didn’t need to yell to make him feel small. He just had to look at him that way, like Max had wasted an opportunity he’d never be good enough to earn.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and dragged a hand through his hair.

There was a time when tennis had felt like a game. He couldn’t remember when that ended.

When he’d started playing for approval instead of fun.

When it had stopped being his.

He sat there for a long while, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, staring blankly at the fading light on the court.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Once, short and soft.

He almost didn’t bother checking. Probably just a group chat from the team or one of Daniel’s stupid memes.

But when he pulled it out, the screen showed a number he didn’t recognise.

He frowned. Opened it.

Unknown number: hi.

Unknown number: you don’t know who this is. I just wanted to say sorry.

Unknown number: for what happened today

Unknown number: and all along

Unknown number: you didn’t deserve that.

Max blinked, rereading the message twice.
No name. No context. Just that.

He didn’t know what to make of it at first.

Then, slowly, the knot in his chest loosened. Just a little.

He didn’t even care who it was from. Someone out there, maybe someone who’d heard, maybe someone who’d seen, had thought he deserved better.

And that, for some reason, felt like oxygen.

He leaned back against the bench, staring up at the washed-out blue of the sky.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t enough to fix anything. But it was something.

For once, he let himself feel it.

A small, private warmth. The first thing all week that hadn’t come with pressure attached.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

He was halfway through typing when Jos’s voice snapped across the court again.

“Break’s over. Let’s go again.”

The words hit like a reflex trigger.

Max’s stomach twisted. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, stood, grabbed the racket.
“Coming,” he said, his voice low, almost mechanical.

By the time he hit the first serve again, he’d already forgotten the half-typed message glowing on his screen.

The phone sat on the bench, screen dimming, the anonymous text still there, unopened since.

Chapter Text

The classroom was too bright.

That was the first thing Charles noticed as the sunlight slanted through the blinds, cutting the room into sharp stripes of light and shadow. The second was that he couldn’t focus on a single thing the teacher was saying.

Something about trigonometric functions. Or maybe vectors. He wasn’t sure.

His notebook was a mess of half-written formulas and random lines that weren’t quite doodles but weren’t notes either. Every time he tried to write, his mind drifted.

To him.

To that first message he’d sent nearly three days ago.

He’d stared at the screen so long after sending it, waiting for those three little dots to appear. They never had. No “seen,” no “typing,” no nothing. Just silence.

And the silence hurt more than any insult ever could.

He told himself that he didn’t expect a reply, that Max had no reason to answer, no reason to trust him, no reason to even care. He’d been complicit, after all. He’d sat beside and laughed alongside George and Alex for months, while they made cruel jokes at Max’s expenses. He hadn’t done anything to stop them.

That made him just as bad.

He tried to push it out of his head, to focus on the numbers on the whiteboard, but every so often his gaze flicked to his bag, where his phone was hidden inside the front pocket, face-down.

Just in case.

Just in case Max had somehow decided to respond to him in class.

Behind him, George was whispering something to Alex. They weren’t even trying to be quiet. The occasional muffled laugh slipped through, familiar, practiced, cruel in that casual way that made people think it wasn’t.

Charles didn’t need to turn around to know what it was about.

It was always about Max.

He heard Max’s name once, then again, and his hand tightened around his pen until his knuckles turned white. How the boy could take it, sitting in the same row as these two bullies, Charles didn’t know.

He wasn’t angry at them. Not entirely. He was angry at himself. For sitting there. For pretending not to hear. For being exactly what he hated most: a coward.

He’d promised himself he would change.

And change didn’t happen in silence.

Charles exhaled shakily, sliding one hand into his bag under the desk. He unlocked his phone, the bright screen cutting through the dimness of the classroom.

The old message was still there.

Still no reply.

His stomach twisted.

He typed before he could talk himself out of it.

Me: I know I shouldn’t expect you to reply

Me: But I wanted to say this properly

Me: I’ve been part of the problem

Me: I let things happen that shouldn’t have

Me: I’m not asking for forgiveness

Me: just a chance to change

He stared at it for a long moment, the words blurring into one long confession.

He had sent it. Asking for a chance he knew he did not deserve.

The vibration of Max’s phone buzzed softly in his bag, just audible for his searching ear to pick up the sound. 

Behind him, George laughed again, that smug, familiar sound that had once made Charles feel like he belonged. Now it made him sick.

He didn’t turn around.

He didn’t join in.

He just stared down at his phone until the message disappeared into silence again, and told himself that even if Max never replied, at least this time, he hadn’t joined in.

Math was easy today.

Too easy.

Max had finished the worksheet in fifteen minutes, and that was him deliberately dragging it out. Now he sat there, pencil spinning loosely between his fingers as the teacher paced the front of the room, explaining the same problem he’d already solved twice.

He should’ve been paying attention. Jos would’ve wanted him to. “You don’t get better by being comfortable,” his dad always said. But right now, all Max wanted was to be anywhere else.

His notebook was already closed, the corners of the pages dog-eared and smudged with graphite. He tapped his pencil once, twice, before giving up and pulling his phone from his bag under the desk. He felt it vibrate just now. It was basically begging him to use it.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to use it in school. That much, his dad has made clear. But then again, he wasn’t supposed to do a lot of things.

He told himself he was just checking the group chat for updates on practice that afternoon. Something about being able to check the location of his afternoon practice via WhatsApp rather than Daniel emailing him the location for him to check on the school computer during lunch excited him unreasonably much.

He unlocked the screen, half on autopilot.

No new notifications.
He swiped down anyway.

That’s when he saw it.

New notifications. From the same unknown number he had forgotten about.
No name, no picture. Just a few bubbles of text.
His thumb hovered over it for a second before he tapped it open.

unknown: I know I shouldn’t expect you to reply

unknown: But I wanted to say this properly

unknown: I’ve been part of the problem

unknown: I let things happen that shouldn’t have

unknown: I’m not asking for forgiveness

unknown: just a chance to change

Max blinked, rereading it once, then again.
There was no name, but he didn’t need one.

He knew who it was.

Something in his chest tightened. Not anger, not quite satisfaction either. Just this weird, heavy feeling that didn’t fit neatly into anything.

Charles.

Of course it was him.
Polite, careful Charles, who’d always watched from the side, who’d laughed when it was easy to laugh and looked away when things got uncomfortable.

Max wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel.
It wasn’t enough to fix anything. But it wasn’t nothing, either.

He locked the screen, slipped the phone back under the desk.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Except it wasn’t.
The words lingered like an echo, quiet but impossible to ignore.

He wanted to reply. He almost did. His thumb hovered over the screen again when the teacher passed by. He quickly slipped his phone under his desk, just as a shadow loomed over.

“Finished already?” The teacher glanced down at his notebook.

Max nodded quickly, still gripping onto his phone underneath. “Yeah.”

“Then double-check your answers.”

“Yes, sir.”

He spent the rest of the lesson staring at the same question he’d already solved, the numbers blurring into meaningless shapes, the words from that message replaying in his head.

He typed before he could talk himself out of it.

I’m not asking for forgiveness.

just a chance to change.

He didn’t reply that day.
By the time class ended and he made his way to training, he’d almost convinced himself to forget it altogether.

Almost.

Chapter Text

The thud of balls echoed in rhythmic waves, sharp and steady, the usual pulse of evening practice.

But Max wasn’t feeling the rhythm today.

He knew it the moment he mistimed a forehand, the ball slicing off the frame and sailing straight into the next court. 

He could almost hear Daniel’s groan before it even came.

“Mate, that ball just retired itself.”

Max forced a smile and went to retrieve it, feeling the sweat stick his shirt to his back. The air was thick, the court lights harshly bright against the deepening dusk. His racket felt heavier than usual, his thoughts even more so.

He tried to shake it off, gripping the handle tighter. “My bad. Again.”

Coach raised a hand from the sidelines. “Focus, Max. Feet first, then the swing.”

“Yes, coach,” he said automatically.

Focus. Easy enough to say.

But every time he took position, every time the ball bounced toward him, he saw the notification again in his mind. The “anonymous” message from Charles.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness. Just a chance to change”

He hadn’t replied to it yet, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The sound of sneakers squeaking against the court snapped him back. Lewis had just caught a shot that was clearly going wide, but instead of scolding Max, he just tossed the ball back gently.

“Rough day?” Lewis asked under his breath.

Max shrugged. “Just tired.”

Lewis didn’t push. He just nodded with that quiet kind of understanding that said, yeah, I’ve been there too.

It wasn’t just him who noticed. By the end of the second set, the rest of the team had adjusted around Max without saying it out loud. Daniel, normally the loudest on court, stopped teasing after missing an easy volley. Seb took over calling rotations. Even Kimi, the most stoic of them all, muttered a low “you good?” when they crossed paths at the net.

Max nodded every time. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He wasn’t. But what was he supposed to say? I got an apology text, probably from your brother, and now I can’t hit straight?

The truth felt too small, too strange, too unimportant.

By the time Coach called it a day, the sun had dipped low enough to turn the court into a wash of orange and shadow.

The boys collapsed near the benches, stretching out their sore muscles.

“Dinner?” Daniel asked between gulps of water. “We earned it.”

Lewis groaned. “You say that practice.”

“Yeah, because every session has been hell so far.”

Seb tossed a ball at him. “I’m in, but let’s not get kicked out of another restaurant.”

There were a few mumbles of agreement. They were all tired, all hungry, all half-dead from drills to properly reply.

Max sat quietly, towel around his shoulders, half-listening to the chatter. It was familiar, the warm, easy noise that usually made him feel safe.

Usually.

Tonight, it just made the silence in his head louder.

He still hadn’t replied. He didn’t even know if he wanted to.

And he hated that he cared this much.

Daniel nudged him with an elbow. “You’re coming, yeah?”

Max hesitated. “Maybe. My dad’s picking me up.”

The group exchanged knowing looks. “Maybe” was basically a “no”. His dad was strict, exacting, and whenever Max had to ask, he would not say yes to Max’s request to eat dinner with them. They didn’t mock Max for it, but they didn’t envy him either.

“Text him to meet you there,” Lewis said. “One meal won’t kill you.”

“Yeah,” Seb added, smirking. “Tell him you’re carbo-loading on lettuce.”

Max chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “I’ll see.”

He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder, the familiar ache settling into his muscles. Practice was done, but the weight in his chest wasn’t.

As he left the court, the others’ laughter followed him, faint, fading into the background hum of evening cicadas.

He looked down at his phone one last time, screen lighting up the fading light.
The two messages were still there.
Still unread.
Still waiting.

—---------------------------------------------------------------

The carpark was nearly empty when Max slung his bag over his shoulder and started toward the exit, muscles pleasantly sore but mind still buzzing.

The night air was cooling fast, carrying that faint scent of asphalt after a long day in the sun. The lights from the nearby court still glowed faintly, the muffled laughter of his teammates echoing somewhere behind him.

He should’ve gone with them, maybe. It would’ve been nice, just food, jokes, noise to drown out the noise in his head.

But the thought of facing his dad after being even a few minutes late made his stomach twist.

And then he saw it. The sleek, unmistakable shape of his father’s silver Porsche parked by the curb. Of course he was early today after that bullshit training over the weekend. He probably had found Max a coach already, for his first session in probably an hour’s time.

Max braced himself.

Jos Verstappen leaned against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, still in his team kit, although there was no race this weekend. He was tall, and coupled with that presence, Max started thinking he was insane for entertaining the thought of going for dinner with the team just a few moments ago.

His eyes flicked toward the gym entrance just in time to see Daniel wave exaggeratedly from the doorway.

“Bye, Maxie! You’re missing out on dinner, man!”

Max winced internally. Thanks, Daniel.

Jos’s gaze followed the voice, then moved back to Max. Sharp, assessing. “Dinner?”

Max hesitated, unsure if denying it would help. “They’re just grabbing something nearby.”

“With who?”

“My team.”

Jos nodded slowly, eyes narrowing in thought. For a moment, Max thought he was about to get a lecture about focus or nutrition or something about professionalism. But instead, Jos straightened, opened the driver’s door, and said- 

“Go with them.”

Max blinked. “…What?”

“You heard me.” Jos’s tone was flat but decisive, the way he sounded when giving team orders on a race weekend. “You should eat with them. Build connections. Toto Wolff’s sons were on the team, right? I think Toto mentioned it at the door last week”

Max frowned, caught between confusion and disbelief. “Yeah?”

Jos grabbed his key from his pocket, and pressed for the boot to open, “You don’t waste chances to make allies like that. Go on.”

For a split second, Max just stood there, staring.

Jos Verstappen, the man who scheduled his life down to the minute, who scolded him for every “distraction,” who once said friends come after podiums, was now encouraging him to go have salad with the team.

Maybe the world really was ending.

Jos’s voice broke through his shock. “Well? Give me your bags. They’re waiting. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Right,” Max said quickly, taking a step back. “Yeah. I’ll… uh. Text you where I’m at later.”

Jos gave a curt nod, already checking something on his phone.

That was permission enough.

As Max turned back toward the gym, Daniel’s laugh rang out again, loud, bright, impossible to miss as always. The team was walking through the carpark, on their way out of the campus.

When they saw him walking over, Lewis cupped his hands around his mouth dramatically.
“No way! Max’s coming out to dinner with us?”

Daniel whistled. “Did the stars align, or did you finally convince your dad you’re human?”

Max rolled his eyes, but the tension in his chest eased. “He told me to go.”

That earned a chorus of stunned reactions.

“What. Your dad told you to go out?” Seb’s jaw dropped. “Are you sure he wasn’t replaced by a doppelgänger?”

“Maybe he got hit on the head,” Nico offered.

“Maybe,” Max said dryly, “he just wants me to spy on you.”

Daniel threw an arm around him. “Then you’ll have to tell him all our dark secrets. Like how Lewis cried at Finding Nemo.”

“Oi!”

The group burst out laughing, and just like that, the heavy air from practice lifted. Max couldn’t help smiling, even if just a little, as they started walking together.

It was only when they reached the street that Seb stopped mid-step, eyes widening as the Porsche engine roared to life behind them.

“Wait,” he said, “that’s your dad’s car?”

Max blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

Seb turned to the rest, incredulous. “That’s Jos Verstappen’s car”

The others looked back, catching a glimpse of the man behind the wheel before he pulled away.

“No way,” Daniel breathed. “The Jos Verstappen? Like, multiple-time world champ, Jos Verstappen?”

Max groaned quietly. “Please don’t—”

Lewis clapped him on the shoulder, grinning like a fanboy. “Holy shit. Max Verstappen. Jos Verstappen. Should’ve known that. My dad’s always talking about you, you know, like ‘Jos’s son plays tennis. I heard he’s really good. I should introduce him to you guys. Y’all would probably be friends.’ ”

Seb was still watching the car disappear. “Shit. Why can’t Toto drive instead of own a team? Do you think he’d sign my racquet if I asked?”

“Seb, we play tennis,” Nico said, deadpan.

“Yeah,” Daniel added, “but greatness transcends sport, man.”

Kimi, who hadn’t said a word so far, murmured, “He’s not wrong.”

Max shook his head, laughing despite himself. “You guys are unbelievable.”

“Hey, you can’t blame us!” Daniel said, elbowing him. “You’re like, motorsport royalty. And we’ve been eating cafeteria spaghetti this whole time.”

Lewis smirked. “So you’re paying for dinner, right?”

“Absolutely not. Plus your dad probably earns more than mine. I should be the one asking instead.”

The group erupted into easy laughter as they started toward the street, the neon lights of nearby restaurants spilling across the pavement. The warmth of their banter seeped through the cracks of Max’s overthinking, soft, familiar and grounding.

For the first time all day, he felt his shoulders relax.

Still, when his phone buzzed in his pocket, he felt the pull of that message again. 

The one that started it all.

The one he still hadn’t answered.

He shoved his phone deeper into his jacket and looked up at his team.

“What should we eat?”

Lewis shrugged. “The shop we eat at needs to choose us. Not otherwise.” 

And the whole team erupted in laughter once more.

—---------------------------------------------------------------

“McDonald’s,” Nico suddenly declared, halfway to the main road.

To that, Kimi spoke up for the first time in ten minutes.

“Nope,” he said, tugging the strap of his bag higher.

Everyone turned to look at him. 

“What do you mean ‘nope’?” Daniel asked.

“I’m not stepping in there,” Kimi said flatly. “We almost got banned last time.”

Lewis blinked. “Oh my god. He’s right.”

Seb tilted his head. “Was that the day Dan tried to make a McFlurry explode?”

Daniel’s face twisted into mock outrage. “It wasn’t my fault the lid didn’t fit!”

“You sprayed ice cream on the ceiling,” Nico said helpfully.

“And on everyone within three tables radius,” Fernando added.

“I said sorry!”

“Pretty sure you just declared to the whole place, ‘you should make sturdier cups’.”

They dissolved into laughter again, tripping over each other’s memories of that disaster.

Kimi gestured at the building ahead, golden arches glowing in the dusk. “They definitely remember us.”

“Salad bar next door, then?” Seb said.

Lewis sighed. “Wow. From nuggets to lettuce. What a downgrade.”

“Call it balance,” Fernando said. “Eat grass today, win the match tomorrow. Plus you already love drinking your grass juice”

“Hey! You don’t get to diss matcha like that.”

Daniel clapped his hands together. “Alright, boys. Salad it is. Let’s go be healthy losers.”

When they filed into the small shop, the cool air greeted them with the smell of sesame dressing and grilled chicken. From where they were, they could hear someone groaning about kale, while someone else complained about quinoa. And somewhere behind that easy noise, Max walked in last, thinking about the unread text that had been sitting on his phone all day.

They grabbed a long corner table after they had ordered their salads, half of them immediately leaning back in their seats like they’d just run a marathon.

Daniel was the first to complain. “This place feels like a dentist’s office that sells lettuce.”

“You’re dramatic,” Lewis said, tossing his racket bag under the table. “It’s just food.”

“Salad isn’t food,” Daniel said solemnly. “It’s a punishment.”

Seb rolled his eyes but was already grinning. “You sound like Nico when he finds out vegetables exist.”

“Hey!” Nico said, mouth already full of croutons he’d stolen from who knows where.

Fernando smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “At least pretend to be civilised in public.”

They laughed again, the kind of laughter that filled the whole space, drew a glance or two from nearby tables, and then softened into the comfortable hum of familiarity. Even the waitress smiled when she came by to deliver their dinner, clearly charmed by their energy despite the noise.

Max sat wedged between Kimi and Lewis. He should’ve felt relaxed, surrounded by them. Usually he did. They were ridiculous, kind, messy, and like brothers who never shut up, but his mind kept circling back to that message.

He hadn’t meant to keep thinking about it. Just one message tucked into his notifications that morning. And yet, it had sat in his chest all day like a small, misplaced weight.

He hadn’t even replied. Every time he’d reached for his phone, Jos’s voice cut through his head: focus. He had focused, or at least  tried to, but now, surrounded by his teammates’ laughter, the silence of not replying pressed a little harder.

“Yo, Max,” Lewis said suddenly, snapping him out of it. “You okay? You look like you’re calculating taxes in your head.”

Daniel perked up. “Oh my god, he does! That’s his ‘I regret my life choices’ face. Are you entering a mid-life crisis? Noooo Maxie! Twenty something is too young to die. I better see you in the retirement home with me when we’re both eighty and crusty”

“I’m fine,” Max said, smiling faintly.

Kimi gave him a side glance, unreadable as always, then returned to spearing a tomato. “He’s thinking about something. Probably cars. Or that burger we didn’t get.”

“I am thinking about the burger,” Max said.

That earned another round of laughter, loud, familiar, grounding. 

Still, Seb was watching him with that quiet, older-brother awareness he always had.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked, softer now, between bites.

Max hesitated. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Seb nodded, satisfied enough not to press. “Fair. We’ll all sleep like corpses tonight.”

Daniel leaned back, hand over his stomach. “Not if this lettuce kills me first.”

“You chose the triple chicken bowl,” Lewis reminded him.

Daniel groaned. “Yeah, because I’m a growing boy!”

“Horizonatally!”

“That’s not how you spell emotionally.”

“I’m pretty sure I do not need to spell a word to say it out loud.”

The table broke down into laughter again. It was stupid, and loud, and so wonderfully normal that Max felt his chest loosen a bit. He stared down at his half-eaten salad. Maybe it wasn’t that deep. Maybe Charles is really trying to be nice.

He pulled his phone out without thinking, thumbing it open under the table.

The message was still there, short, a little awkward, typed like someone trying hard to be brave.

I know I shouldn’t expect you to reply, but I wanted to say this properly. I’ve been part of the problem. I let things happen that shouldn’t have. I’m not asking for forgiveness, just a chance to change

He could almost hear the voice behind it, hesitant but genuine.

He wanted to reply. But what was there to say?

“You texting someone?” Nico asked suddenly, leaning in far too close, from across him. 

Max nearly dropped the phone. “No.”

“Liar!” Daniel sang. “He’s totally texting someone.”

“I’m not!”

Fernando grinned. “Who is she?”

“Or he,” Lewis said innocently. “It’s 2025, Nando, not 1925.”

Daniel gasped dramatically. “Is our little Max in love?”

Max groaned, shoving his phone into his pocket. “You guys are impossible.”

“That’s a yes,” Nico said triumphantly.

Seb, chuckling, added, “Already getting love confessions over Whatsapp? It’s only been one week since you’ve gotten your phone. God knew not to give you a phone because you would’ve been overpowered. But then something glitched and you got a phone now. They really gotta nerf you. You can’t be good at tennis and school and still get all the hot chicks.”

Even Kimi cracked a faint smile. “We’ll approve them after background checks.”

The laughter that followed was ridiculous, bright and full and somehow healing.

Max leaned back in his chair, the sound of it washing over him. Maybe it really wasn’t that deep.
Maybe the simplest answer was enough.

He pulled his phone out again, typed a single word, ok, and hit send.

Then he slipped the phone away, lifted his head, and joined in the teasing, the banter, the warmth.

By the time they left the restaurant, their laughter still echoing into the night, Max wasn’t thinking about what he’d lost anymore, but only about how, for once, he didn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

The sun was melting into the horizon, leaving streaks of pink and gold bleeding across the river. The air smelled faintly of water and rust. It was a calm evening, warm but not too humid, the kind of weather that made you want to walk without really having anywhere to go.

Charles walked a step behind Pierre and Lando, hands stuffed into his hoodie pockets, sneakers scuffing lightly against the pavement. The other two were arguing about something dumb, probably about who had the better wrist flick in ping-pong or whose fingers were more “aesthetic.” It was easy noise, the kind that filled silence just enough to keep your thoughts at bay.

Except Charles couldn’t quite stop thinking.

He hadn’t meant to distance himself from the others, not at first. He just… didn’t feel like laughing lately. Not when George was around. Not when Alex chimed in with those smirky, knowing looks.

It was easier to say he was busy. Easier to pretend than explain.

They’d been walking for a while when Lando suddenly slowed and glanced back at him, his voice light but curious.

“Hey, how come you didn’t ask George or Alex to come with us just now in class? You usually do.”

Pierre, walking backward now, grinned. “Yeah, what gives? They’re not cool enough anymore?”

Charles’s stomach tightened, like someone had cinched a cord around it. He tried to laugh it off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, it’s not that. Just felt like a smaller group today. You know, less noise.”

Pierre raised a brow. “Lando? Less noise? Never.”

And to prove his point, Lando started hollering, but Charles didn’t join in. He kicked at a loose stone instead, sending it bouncing along the path until it skittered into the water with a soft plop.
He could feel Pierre and Lando looking at him. Not accusing, just waiting for more. But he didn’t know how to explain that he didn’t trust his own friends anymore.

How could he say it?

That every time George laughed, it sounded just a little too sharp now?

That Alex’s jokes felt more like daggers than teasing?

That he’d started to wonder if he’d ever really liked them, or if he’d just liked the safety of being liked?

He opened his mouth to say something, maybe to deflect, maybe to confess, when his phone buzzed.

A single vibration.

He almost ignored it, but something about it made him stop.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

Unknown number:
ok.

His heart stuttered. For a split second, the rest of the world dimmed. The chatter, the river, the sound of wind rustling through trees. They all melted into background noise.

Just that word. ok.

Lando leaned over immediately. “Ooh, mysterious. Who’s texting you?”

Pierre, taller, craned his neck to peek too. “You gettin’ a secret admirer, Charles?”

Charles blinked, suddenly flustered. “What? No. It’s not- ” 

He locked the screen, too quickly, which only made them grin wider.

Pierre gave him a teasing nudge. “Come on, man. Who’s it from?”

“It’s…” He trailed off, throat dry.

Do I tell them?

He hadn’t told anyone about the message he sent last week. Not even that it had been to Max. He wasn’t even sure why he’d done it. Guilt, maybe. Or the way Max had looked that day in class, quietly enduring everything without ever fighting back.

He’d wanted to do something right, even if it was small.

But now, standing there with his friends waiting for an answer, the truth was pressing against his chest, begging to be let out.

“It’s Max,” he said finally, voice quiet.

“Max Verstappen?” Lando tilted his head, frowning. “Wait, why’s he texting you?”

Pierre blinked. “Hold up, you two talk?”

Charles exhaled slowly, staring out over the water where the sun was finally slipping beneath the skyline. The surface of the river shimmered like broken glass. “I texted him first,” he admitted. “A few days ago.”

Neither of them said anything right away, so he kept talking, because stopping now would make it worse.

“I sent it anonymously at first. I just… I don’t know. I wanted to say sorry. For how George treats him. For how we laughed. I didn’t even realise how messed up it was until- ”

He hesitated, searching for the words.

“-until the barbeque. I… I lied about not being home that day. I was there. I saw him at the barbecue. He was there, and George was not. But George told everyone he wasn’t invited, but he was. And everyone. My brothers, the team. They were all nice to him. They treated him like he belonged.”

Lando blinked, processing. “Wait, wait. So George lied? About being on the competition team?”

“Yeah.” Charles nodded, eyes still fixed on the water. “Max is the one on the team. Not George. My brothers said he’s actually good… even better than Lewis at our age.”

Pierre let out a low whistle. “That’s… wow. That’s a lot.”

“I know,” Charles murmured. “And the worst part is, Alex probably knew. I saw how he looked when George talked about it. Like he was in on it. And we laughed. I laughed.” His voice cracked, raw with guilt. “We thought it was funny. But it wasn’t. It was just… mean.”

Silence followed, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that hurt a little.

Pierre leaned on the railing beside him, eyes soft. “So that ‘ok’ was from him?”

Charles nodded. “Yeah. I told him I wanted to change. That I wasn’t asking for forgiveness, just a chance to be better. He probably figured out it was me. And all he said was ‘ok.’”

Lando frowned. “That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

Charles gave a small, sad smile. “But I guess I shouldn’t expect more. If someone like me texted me, I wouldn’t reply either.”

The wind picked up, tugging at their hair and carrying the faint smell of the river. Of wet metal, of leaves, and of something faintly sweet from the nearby bakery. The world went soft around the edges, sunset deepening into dusky violet.

Pierre finally said, “You’re trying. That counts.”

“Does it?” Charles asked quietly.

Lando shrugged. “You could’ve ignored it. Pretended you didn’t see what was wrong. But you didn’t.”

Charles thought about that, letting the idea settle. Maybe they were right. Maybe this was a start. Small, clumsy, but honest.

They began walking again, slower this time. The conversation drifted into other things. Random nonsense, small talk, half-jokes that filled the silence just enough. But underneath it all, there was something different in the air now.

Something quieter. Kinder.

Charles slipped his phone back into his pocket and looked out across the water one last time.
Maybe ok wasn’t forgiveness, but it wasn’t rejection, either. And that, somehow, was enough to let him breathe again.

Chapter Text

Charles walked down the pavement leading to his home, the glow of his phone screen painting his face in pale blue light. It was late, the kind of late when the world felt soft and hollow and your thoughts got too loud to ignore.

Pierre and Lando had parted ways some minutes ago, but their voices still echoed faintly in his head:

“You’re trying. That counts.”

He turned the words over and over like a coin between his fingers, wondering if they were true.

He walked through his house’s gate and into the house itself as the night breeze carried with them the sound of crickets and distant traffic. He entered his mess of a room, books half-open on the desk, his other bag slumped against the chair, a hoodie tossed somewhere near his feet. But his mind was worse. It wouldn’t stop looping through everything: George’s laughter in class, Alex’s easy smirk, Max’s quiet face that day at the BBQ.

He’d spent so long trying to belong that he hadn’t stopped to ask what he was belonging to.

When George first let him into the group, it had felt like validation, like proof that he was finally someone. Someone people noticed, joked with, wanted around. He’d laughed at all the right times, joined in when they teased Max, convinced himself it was harmless. Because if they were laughing, that meant he was safe. That meant he wasn’t the one being laughed at.

And that was all he’d ever wanted. Not to be the outsider.

But tonight, walking along the river with Lando and Pierre, he’d realised how hollow that safety was. Because Pierre didn’t make jokes at other people’s expense. Lando didn’t egg the jokes on. And somehow, he’d felt more seen with the two of them in an hour than he had with George and Alex in months.

He reached for his phone again and re-read the message from Max.

Ok.

So short. So neutral. But not cruel.

He could live with that.

Charles let the phone fall onto his table and sighed. He didn’t know what tomorrow would look like, but for the first time, he felt clear. He wasn’t going to hide anymore.

If George wanted to spin lies, let him.

If Alex wanted to pretend not to see, fine.

But Charles was done being complicit.

If they unfriended him over this, then maybe they were never really his friends to begin with.

He plugged his phone into its charger and flopped into his bed, watching the faint shimmer of moonlight slip through the curtains. Somewhere in the dark, the quiet hum of the city carried on cars, wind, life.

He closed his eyes and thought, not with guilt this time, but with resolve:

Tomorrow, I’ll talk to them. No more pretending.

And for once, that thought didn’t make him anxious.

It made him feel free.

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered weakly through the blinds, striping the classroom in uneven bands of gold and shadow. The air hummed with the usual chatter. Paper rustled, chairs scraped, and people laughed too loudly about things that didn’t matter.

Charles sat stiffly at his desk, eyes fixed on the open English workbook in front of him, though none of the words really landed. His mind was running laps around itself.

He hadn’t said anything yet. Not to George. Not to Alex. Not to anyone. But something in him felt different, like he’d already started to walk away from them, even if he hadn’t told them so.

The teacher clapped her hands once, snapping everyone’s attention to the front of the room.
“Alright, everyone. We’ll be doing some pair reading today. I’ll assign partners unless you already have one.”

Immediately, chairs began scraping against the floor.

George spun halfway around in his seat to face Alex. “Oi, you and me?”

Alex smirked. “Obviously.”

Pierre leaned over his desk, shooting Charles a quick look. His voice was casual but deliberate.

“I’ll go with Lando, yeah?”

Charles blinked, realising what Pierre was doing. Leaving an opening.

That only left him and-

He turned to look at Max, who had his head down, pencil spinning idly between his fingers.

The teacher’s voice carried over the chatter. “Looks like Leclerc and Verstappen are unpaired. You two can work together.”

Charles nodded automatically, grinning in his mind. This is perfect.

He didn’t even hesitate a moment before dragging his chair over. The sound of its legs screeching against the tile seemed painfully loud. Max looked up, his expression unreadable. Cautious, maybe, or just tired.

“Hey,” Charles said softly.

“Hey.”

They stared at each other for a beat too long before Charles sat down beside him, opening his book to the assigned page.

The silence that followed was thick. Not angry, just… fragile.

“So,” Charles said finally, trying for casual, “we’re reading chapter six?”

“Yeah.” Max’s voice was quiet, his eyes flicking between the page and Charles’s face. “You can start if you want.”

Charles nodded, beginning to read aloud, his voice steady but his hands slightly trembling on the edges of the book.

For a few minutes, they just worked. Reading alternating paragraphs, correcting each other’s pronunciation under their breath, the kind of teamwork that didn’t need much conversation.

But Charles could feel Max watching him sometimes, like he was trying to figure something out.

After the third page, Max spoke.

“You sent those messages, right?”

Charles froze. His heart skipped, then stumbled.

He met Max’s eyes, which were open, uncertain, not accusatory, but guarded.

“…Yeah,” Charles admitted quietly. “That was me.”

Max didn’t look away. He just nodded slowly, like he’d suspected it already. “Why?”

Charles swallowed. “Because I was a coward,” he said finally. “Because I laughed when I shouldn’t have. And because I realised that wasn’t who I wanted to be.”

The honesty seemed to hang between them for a moment, heavy but clean.

Max looked down at his page, tracing the edge of the paper with his thumb. “That’s… different,” he said after a while. “Most people don’t admit it.”

Charles gave a small, almost embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, well. I’m not most people, apparently.”

A faint smile tugged at Max’s lips, the first genuine one Charles had seen from him all morning. Something eased in his chest.

They went back to reading, and slowly, the silence turned easier. They began to trade small comments, about how boring the story was, how dumb the protagonist seemed, how the teacher probably picked this book out of spite.

By the time the bell was close, they were both leaning forward, voices low, muttering snarky observations that would’ve made Pierre proud.

It wasn’t friendship yet. But it was the start of something real. Something quiet, a mutual understanding that neither of them said out loud.

Then, as the class dissolved into chatter again, Charles heard George’s laugh from behind them.

Loud. Deliberate.

“Man, can you imagine being benched and not getting invited to the team dinner?”

The words hung sharp in the air.

Alex chuckled under his breath. “Poor Max. At least the rec team gets free pizza, right?”

Charles stiffened. His fingers curled slightly around his pen.

Max didn’t say anything, just kept his eyes on the page, jaw tight, pretending not to hear.

Charles turned, ever so slightly, and met George’s smirking face. For a moment, something flashed through his expression. Disappointment, disgust, exhaustion all at once.

Then he turned back to Max.

“Hey,” he said quietly, leaning in. “Ignore them. They’re just jealous you don’t have to babysit them on court.”

Max blinked, caught off guard. Then, to Charles’s relief, he laughed. Just a little.

And in that small, unassuming sound, Charles knew he’d made the right choice.

Chapter Text

“See you,” Max said, tucking his book into his bag.

Charles smiled. “Yeah. See you.”

Max gave a small nod and slipped out of the room.

Charles caught himself watching him go, a tiny warmth creeping into his chest. It wasn’t anything huge. Just relief, maybe pride. He’d actually done something right.

A low whistle sounded behind him.

Pierre leaned against the doorway, grinning. “Well, someone’s smiling.”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Lando appeared beside Pierre, eyebrows raised in exaggerated curiosity. “You. Grinning like a Disney prince. What happened, Leclerc? Found true love in English class?”

“Shut up,” Charles muttered, but his ears burned.

Pierre smirked. “We’re just saying, it’s nice to see you not glaring at your phone for once.”

“Yeah,” Lando added. “You actually talked to Max. I thought you would melt.”

Charles shot them both a look. “You’re ridiculous.”

Pierre shrugged, falling into step with him as they headed into the corridor. “Maybe. But you looked… I don’t know, lighter.”

Lando stuffed his hands in his pockets, walking backward to face them. “He’s right. Haven’t seen you look this relaxed this whole week.”

Charles rolled his eyes, but couldn’t quite kill the smile tugging at his mouth. “You two sound like therapists.”

Pierre clutched his chest dramatically. “We prefer the term supportive friends.”

That made Charles laugh a quiet, genuine sound that surprised even him. “Right. Supportive friends who tease me about everything.”

Lando grinned. “That’s how we show affection. You should know that by now.”

They turned the corner toward the lockers, the late afternoon light spilling through the windows and catching the dust in the air. It was one of those in-between moments: loud enough to feel alive, quiet enough to feel safe.

Pierre nudged him lightly. “Seriously, though. You and Max seemed happy together. Good move on apologising.”

Charles shrugged, pretending not to care too much. 

Pierre said, voice softer now, “I really mean it. Not in a mean way.”

Lando nodded. “ It’s not easy, that apologising and facing-the-mess-you-helped-make-thing.”

Charles hesitated, then said quietly, “I just… yeah.”

Pierre’s grin turned proud. “There he is. Character development arc unlocked.”

Lando laughed. “Our boy’s growing up.”

Charles groaned, half-smiling, half-embarrassed. “You guys should go apologise to Max too. You’re literally part of the problem as well.”

Pierre threw an arm around his shoulders anyway. “Yeah.”

Charles sighed, but he didn’t pull away.

They kept walking, laughter echoing faintly down the hallway.

For a fleeting second, it felt like the world had shifted just a little closer to right again.

—------------------------------------------------------

The trio had just stepped out into the courtyard when Charles heard the familiar voice behind him.

“Well, well. Look who’s suddenly best friends with Verstappen.”

George.

He turned before he could stop himself. George and Alex were walking over from the other side of the courtyard. George’s grin was wide and lazy, but his eyes were sharp.

“Don’t make it sound like that,” Charles said, frowning.

George arched an eyebrow. “Like what? I’m just surprised, mate. You telling him to ignore us and all that?”

Lando stopped in his tracks, frowning. Pierre’s expression cooled instantly, his earlier smile evaporating.

Charles’s pulse jumped. “What about it?”

“Oh, come on,” George cut in, voice light but needling. “Don’t play dumb. I saw you in English. Whispering to him like some kind of moral savior. You really think you can flip sides that easily?”

Alex hovered a half-step behind, arms folded, not meeting anyone’s gaze.

Pierre stepped up beside Charles. “George, that’s enough.”

“Enough?” George laughed, short and disbelieving. “What, I can’t ask my friend why he’s acting all high and mighty now? You weren’t even there for all the crap Max pulled during tennis to be qualified to talk.”

Lando’s brows knit together. “What crap, exactly?”

George opened his mouth, then closed it, like he hadn’t expected anyone to question him that directly.

He regrouped fast. “You wouldn’t understand. He’s… he’s just… arrogant. You’ll see eventually.”

Charles’s chest tightened. “You mean we’ll see how you pretended he wasn’t good enough to make the team? Or how you kept mocking him until everyone else joined in?”

The words left his mouth before he realized he’d said them.

The courtyard seemed to go silent around them.

Alex shifted uncomfortably. “Charles, don’t start– ”

“No,” Charles snapped, voice cracking but firm. “You knew, Alex. You knew he was lying. You knew Max was actually on the team and you went along with it anyway.”

Alex’s lips pressed together. “It wasn’t that deep.”

“Wasn’t that deep?” Charles repeated, incredulous. “You made him feel like a joke in front of everyone. How is that not deep?"

George scoffed, trying to laugh it off. “You’re acting like we ruined his life. Gosh, Charles, you don’t even know the full story.”

Pierre’s tone was calm, but sharp as a blade. “Then tell us the full story.”

For the first time, George faltered. His eyes flicked between them. Pierre’s cool stare, Lando’s quiet disappointment, Charles’s furious hurt, and he realized he’d lost his usual audience.

He straightened, defensiveness replacing charm. “You’re really taking his side? After everything? He’s been nothing but a parasite since he joined this school. You all act like he’s some poor victim, but maybe he’s just not worth the trouble.”

Lando’s jaw tightened. “You know, George, I used to think you were just insecure. But now I think you just like having someone to look down on.”

George turned to him, startled. “Lando– ”

“No,” Lando said, his voice steady and quiet, the kind of tone that landed heavier than a shout. “I’ve known you for years. I let you make fun of people because it was easier than arguing. But you’ve changed. Or maybe you were always like this.”

Alex took a small step forward, as if to defend George, but Pierre beat him to it. “If you really think bullying someone makes you look stronger, then you’ve got bigger problems than I realised.”

Something cracked then. Not loud, but irreversible.

George let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Wow. Look at you three. The moral police. Fine. Have fun with your new saint.”

He slung his bag higher on his shoulder, brushed past them, and started toward the gate. Alex hesitated, looking between both sides, before muttering, “You’re making a mistake,” and following after him.

The silence that followed was thick.

Charles let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hands were trembling, his chest tight.

Lando nudged him gently. “You okay?”

Charles swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah. I just… ”

He stopped, exhaling slowly. “I should’ve said something sooner.”

Pierre’s voice softened. “You said it now. That’s what counts.”

They started walking again, not toward the main gate, but toward the river path beyond the school, the same one they’d taken the night before. The sunlight hit the water just right, shimmering gold across the ripples.

Lando looked over at him, half-smiling. “You know what, let’s forget this bullshit and go get some lunch."

Charles gave a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

Pierre smirked. “It’s fine. We’ll find us some better friends. Or we can just be a trio.”

—------------------------------------------------------

For the first time since school started, the cafeteria felt too quiet.

It wasn’t actually silent, of course. Trays clattered, the air buzzed with chatter and laughter, but to Charles, every sound seemed distant, muffled behind the ringing in his ears. The morning confrontation replayed itself in slow motion: George’s scoff, Alex’s defensive stare, the sharp echo of Pierre’s calm words.

He still wasn’t sure whether he’d done the right thing.

He just knew he couldn’t have stayed quiet any longer.

He sat with Pierre and Lando near the windows, where the early-afternoon light pooled golden over their trays. None of them had much appetite. Pierre idly picked at his salad, and Lando was halfway through his juice box, chewing the straw instead of drinking.

Across the room, George and Alex had taken their usual spot by the vending machines. It used to be their whole group’s table, where the teasing and jokes had filled every gap of silence, where Charles had laughed along without thinking. Now, it looked like an island he’d finally swum away from.

George was animated as ever, tossing a grape up and catching it in his mouth mid-sentence, Alex laughing at something he said. A few of their classmates had joined them, but the easy rhythm Charles once recognized wasn’t there. The laughter sounded thinner, a bit forced.

Pierre followed Charles’s gaze, his expression unreadable. “They’re already trying to act like nothing happened,” he murmured.

Charles nodded slowly. “That’s what he does best.”

Lando leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Yeah, well. Let him. People like that need the noise. They fall apart in the quiet.”

Charles didn’t respond. He traced a circle on his tray with his thumb, eyes unfocused. He’d spent years learning how to stay invisible in the orphanage, how to blend in, be agreeable, make himself small enough to survive. He’d thought friendship was about that same thing: bending, laughing when others did, never being the one who made things awkward.

Now that he’d stopped bending, everything felt foreign. But also… lighter.

“Do you regret it?” Pierre asked softly.

Charles glanced up. “What?”

“Speaking up. Confronting him.”

Charles hesitated. His first instinct was to say no, to sound firm and certain, but he paused. “I don’t know. I don’t regret what I said. I just… wish it hadn’t needed saying.”

Lando gave a low whistle. “Man. You sound like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“Because I have,” Charles admitted, smiling faintly. “You ever realize you’ve been friends with someone for so long you stopped questioning if they were good for you?”

Pierre’s gaze softened. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “And when you finally do question it, it hurts twice as much.”

They sat there in companionable silence for a while. Charles looked around the cafeteria again. It was strange, he’d spent so many lunches at George’s table, surrounded by noise and ego, but never noticed how small everyone else’s groups seemed. Now, sitting with just two people, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time.

Peace.

—------------------------------------------------------

That peace, however, didn’t last long.

By the end of lunch, the air of the classrooml had changed. Rumors drifted. Half-truths, fragments of the confrontation warped and twisted in retelling.

Some said Charles had “snapped” at George for no reason. Others said George had been “exposed” for lying about something, but no one knew what exactly.

Charles tried not to care, but whispers always find their way into quiet moments. He could feel the eyes sometimes, the curious looks, the murmurs that stopped mid-sentence when he passed by.

Pierre told him to ignore it. Lando tried to crack jokes to make the tension lighter. But it wasn’t that simple, because George wasn’t avoiding him.

He was performing.

Every time Charles walked into a hallway, George would find a way to make his presence known. A loud laugh, a forced story, a dramatic retelling of “something funny Max did.” It was always Max. That was the thread George pulled at now, using the other boy’s name like a weapon, twisting the narrative before anyone else could.

Once, in PE, Charles overheard him say, “It’s just weird how some people suddenly think they’re better than their friends because they feel guilty. Like, congratulations on your new morality clause.”

The people around him laughed uncertainly, unsure what he meant.

Charles didn’t rise to it. He’d done enough talking.

But the worst part was Alex.

Alex, who had always been the calm one, the balance to George’s impulsiveness, had gone quiet. He didn’t mock Max anymore, but he also didn’t defend him. He avoided Charles’s eyes in class, smiled a little too tightly whenever they crossed paths.

The silence between them hurt more than the confrontation had.

Chapter Text

And before long, the other Wolff brothers have caught wind of a rumour of some verbal fight happening during one of the lower level’s recesses, concerning their beloved youngest brother.

And of course, like the gossip-hungry teenagers they are, all three were in the living room, waiting for Charles to enter like starving piranhas.

Seb looked up first. “Hey, Charlie. Anything you’d like to tell us?”

Charles blinked. “...No?”

Lewis crossed his arms. “So nothing about yelling at George Russell in front of your whole cohort?”

Charles’s backpack slid off his shoulder. “Oh my god. You heard about that?”

Kimi, who hadn’t looked up until then, muttered, “Everyone heard about that.”

Charles groaned, pressing a hand to his face. “It wasn’t. Okay, maybe it was yelling, but he deserved it.”

Seb raised an eyebrow, and Lewis asked carefully, “Wanna explain before dad hears about it and ground you for being in a brawl again?”

“It wasn’t a brawl! It’s just words!” Charles said quickly, sinking onto the couch. “It’s just… I found out something. About George. And Alex. And… me, and the rest of my friend group, I guess.”

The three older brothers exchanged glances. Seb tilted his head slightly, the universal “we’re listening” gesture.

Charles took a breath, words tumbling out faster than he could stop them.

He told them everything. The teasing, the group’s dynamics, how it started out as jokes that turned meaner, how Max just accepted fate and took all the verbal abuse, how he’d just gone along because he didn’t think George would lie about it, and how he thought it was all jest. How it took seeing it happen, being lied to himself, to realise how much it must have hurt.

And finally, the message he sent after getting his number from Kimi the other night.

How Max replied.

How they’d sat together today, awkward but… nice.

And how George had reacted.

When he finally finished with the events leading up to the confrontation, his throat was dry and his heart was pounding. Seb was quiet, Lewis’s brows were furrowed, and Kimi was watching him like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“So,” Lewis said slowly, “you were one of the people teasing him.”

Charles flinched. “Not… not like that. I didn’t mean to.”

“Same thing,” Kimi said bluntly.

Seb shot him a look, but didn’t disagree.

“I know,” Charles muttered. “I know. I feel like shit. But I’m trying to fix it now.”

Lewis leaned back against the wall, sighing. “I mean… good. That’s more than most people would do.”

Then, quieter, “We’ve all been there, you know. When you want people to like you so bad, you start pretending to be someone you’re not.”

Seb nodded. “It’s part of growing up. Doesn’t make what you did okay, but… it’s good you caught it.”

There was a long pause.
Charles looked up. “You’re… not mad?”

Kimi shrugged. “We are. Just not at you. Actually a bit, but not entirely.”

Charles blinked. “Then?”

“At George,” Kimi said simply. “And a little at Alex. You’re dumb, but not mean. They knew what they were doing.”

Charles’s eyebrows furrowed. “Wait, so you guys actually know them?”

Lewis snorted. “Know them enough to avoid them, yeah. George keeps on hanging around the competition training courts though he’s on the recreational team. And if he’s sitting quietly in the corner and observing, it’s fine. But he keeps on making those annoying as heck sound effects whenever someone loses a point. And then he’ll comment on everything so loudly like he’s a professional commentator or something. Really annoying, if you ask me.”

Seb leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “He’s obsessed with appearances. Says all the right things when adults are around, then turns into a brat when they’re not. Reminds me of half the kids in the tennis juniors circuit, just without their skills.”

Charles felt heat crawl up his neck. “I didn’t know that.”

Kimi gave him a flat look. “You didn’t want to know.”

He wanted to argue, but Kimi was right. He hadn’t wanted to see it. It was easier to believe George was just confident, not cruel.

Lewis exchanged a look with Seb, then shrugged. “This explains why his comments are especially mean when Max plays. And he’s always mouthing off about someone not deserving to be on the team, that kind of thing. Thought he meant Fernando, since he’s been hogging his spot since forever, but like, he’s probably talking about Max now that I think about it.”

Seb huffed a quiet laugh. “But that kid’s good. Little man’s quiet, but sharp. Doesn’t talk much, just listens and plays. Honestly? He’s one of the cleanest hitters we’ve seen.”

Lewis nodded, his tone thoughtful now. “He’s good. Real good. Doesn’t show off, doesn’t talk back. Always stays late after drills to help put the balls away. He’s really likeable. Even dad likes him.”

“Toto?” Charles blinked. “Dad?”

“Yeah,” Lewis said, smiling faintly. “He glazes at him like crazy. You know Jos Verstappen right? Dad’s friend? That F1 driver? Dad’s always saying how good Jos’s son is at tennis. That’s him. Max. I don’t even know if dad would yell at you or tell you good job if he know that you’re yelling to defend Max.”

“How did you not know we were talking about Max though? He literally lives rent free in Seb’s head and he’s all Seb yapped about after every practice at the start of the year.”

For that comment, Kimi earnt a throw cushion straight to his face, served by none other than Seb.

Charles groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I didn’t know it was him! You guys would always talk about ‘the new kid with the crazy backhand,’ and George kept saying he was the one everyone kept praising, so I thought– ”

“That George was the one we meant,” Seb finished, half amused, half exasperated. “Oh, Charlie.”

Lewis grinned. “Gotta work on your inference skills, little bro.”

Kimi moved his new throw cushion, leaned against it, and muttered, “Doesn’t develop when you listen to idiots.”

“Thanks, Kimi,” Charles muttered into his palms.

The others laughed softly, the tension easing for a moment. But when it faded, Seb’s voice came quieter. “You know, you should make friends with Max. He's a really nice kid. Really blunt and honest, but he’s really funny. Plus like, he’s so nervous around new people all the time. He’ll do good with a new friend. And you seem to like him anyway.”

Lewis nodded. “Yeah. And he hates being complimented. Just brushes it off and changes the subject. Dad says his dad’s strict, though. So that might be the reason. But i think it might be more than that.”

Charles looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

Seb hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Let’s just say, Jos doesn’t really do encouragement. We’ve seen him pull Max aside after matches. Never looks pretty.”

A dull ache settled in Charles’s chest. He thought about Max’s easy smile, the way his voice always softened when talking to others, the quiet apologies that never seemed necessary. The way he’d taken every cruel word and still showed up.

“I think I made it worse,” he said quietly.

Kimi tilted his head. “Then make it better.”

Charles blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Kimi said simply. “You already started. Don’t stop now.”

There was a beat of silence. Seb leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You texted him again?”

“Uh.” Charles glanced toward his phone on the coffee table. “He… he messaged me earlier. About the English book we had to read. ‘Cause we paired up for english”

Lewis grinned. “And?”

“And we talked. Just a bit,” Charles said, trying to sound casual, but the faint pink in his ears gave him away.

Seb smirked. “Let me guess. Blushing every time his name pops up?”

“I don’t blush!” Charles protested immediately.

“You’re blushing now,” Lewis teased.

Kimi deadpanned, “Being gay is okay. Ask Lewis. Or Nico. He’ll probably be in our house tomorrow. But he might be too busy in Lewis’s room. Lewis too.”

That earned a loud laugh from Seb and an indignant shriek from Lewis and launched a cushion at Kimi. 

When the laughter faded, Seb reached over and ruffled his hair. “You did good, Charlie. Not perfect, but good.”

Lewis nodded. “And if Max’s really kind. He’ll likely forgive you. Though you don’t really deserve it.”

Kimi murmured, “You’re still family. Even when you mess up. Just tell us, and we’ll help you with your mess.”

Charles looked at them, these ridiculous older brothers he had, and felt something settle inside him. Not relief, exactly, but steadiness. A kind of peace.

—----------------------------------------------------

Later that night, the house was quiet. Seb was still watching highlights of the Laver cup in the living room, Lewis’s low voice carried from a call, and Kimi had long since dozed off.

Charles sat cross-legged on his bed, staring at his phone. A new message blinked at the top.

Max: come to my house tmr to do the assignment. How long can you stay?

Charles smiled faintly, thumbs hovering before he typed back:

Charles: ok. Probs till 10. I think my brothers would hunt me down if i go home any later

He hesitated, then added

Charles: btw sorry again. for before.

The reply came faster than he expected.

Max: it’s okay.

He stared at the words, feeling something in his chest unclench. Slowly, he leaned back against the wall, phone resting beside him.

Chapter Text

Charles stood on the doorstep, fingers tightening around the strap of his backpack. The sun was low in the morning sky, casting Charles’s long shadows across the front door. The house itself was massive, and a wave of nerves coursed through Charles. The driving force of the nerves were not the house, but rather the person inside.

He knocked, trying to steady his breathing. A few seconds later, the door opened.

Max. Calm. Casual. Unassuming. He gave a small, friendly nod.

“Hey,” he said. “Come in.”

Charles stepped inside, forcing a smile. “Hey.”

Max led him to an office, where textbooks and notebooks were already spread out on the table. It looked as though he’d been waiting, not anxiously, but organized, like he had a plan for everything. Charles swallowed, feeling the weight of the past week settle onto his shoulders.

He hesitated at the threshold. “Uh…”

Max waved a hand. “Take a seat. You can have my chair if you like. I’ll take the other side” His voice was light, unbothered. No judgement, no expectation, just a casual invitation.

Charles dropped into one of the chairs, letting his backpack slide to the floor. He couldn’t stop glancing around. Everything was orderly, colour coded, from tallest to shortest. Even the pencil holder was arranged perfectly by size. It made him self-conscious about his own chaotic backpack.

“So…” Charles said, trying to break the silence. “English assignment. Reading and… presentation?”

Max grinned faintly. “Yep. We’re done with the reading. Let’s do the slides.” He flipped open his notebook. “I’ve got some ideas on what we could do, since we can do them on anything, as long as it’s relevant to the passage. We can compare ideas.”

Charles nodded, fingers hovering over his own notebook, unsure where to start. The air felt thick at first, not awkward exactly, but… tense. The lingering memory of the teasing, the lies, the confrontation from earlier in the week, it all pressed down.

He hesitated. “So… uh… thanks for letting me come.”

Max looked up, eyebrows raised. “Huh? Uh… no problem, I guess?.”

Charles laughed, a little too quickly, then stopped himself. “I just… I appreciate it, okay?”

Max gave a small smile. “Okay. Glad you’re here.”

The words were simple, but they carried weight. Charles leaned back, realizing the tension in his shoulders was already starting to ease slightly.

He opened his notebook, and Max slid his toward him. “Tell me if they’re good or not. And be honest if you don’t like them.”

Charles nodded. “Got it.”

They spent the next few minutes quietly reviewing each idea. Charles kept stealing glances at Max, noticing small things: the way he jotted notes with careful loops, the occasional crease of concentration in his brow, the way he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear absentmindedly. Nothing grand, nothing exaggerated. Just… Max being Max. And it felt comfortable in a way Charles hadn’t expected.

“So… um,” Charles said finally, breaking the quiet. “You’re not mad at me?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Max looked up, tilting his head. “Mad? About what?”

Charles swallowed. “For… the teasing. For… for not speaking up sooner.”

Max blinked. Then, after a pause, he shrugged. “I mean… it’s fine. People make mistakes. You can’t just go around punishing your friends forever.”

Charles felt a rush of relief, like air filling a lung that had been pinched tight. He exhaled slowly. “Okay… thanks.”

A silence fell again, but it wasn’t heavy. It was the kind of quiet where two people could sit together, feeling the weight of everything but also the possibility of… something new.

Max broke it with a small joke about one of the part of the story, and Charles laughed, genuinely this time. The ice was slowly breaking.

—-------------------------------------------------

By the time they were almost done with their slides, the atmosphere had shifted. It was no longer tight and hesitant, but quietly focused. The late afternoon sun had crept through the window, casting a warm golden light across the dining table. It made the scene almost domestic: two boys bent over open books, the faint hum of an air conditioner in the background, and the muted tick of a wall clock marking time that neither seemed to mind.

“So,” Max said after a while, tapping his pen against the page. “What do you think the author meant by ‘searching for light in the quiet places’?”

Charles frowned. “Uh… depression?”

Max snorted. “Bit grim, but okay.”

Charles looked up, defensive. “What? It sounds depressing!”

“Or maybe it’s just about… peace,” Max said, leaning back slightly. “Like, maybe it’s not sad. Maybe it’s about finding comfort when things aren’t noisy all the time.”

Charles tilted his head. “That’s actually… good.”

Max grinned, a little smug. “I know.”

Charles rolled his eyes but smiled anyway, jotting the idea down. “Fine, you win this one.”

“I always win,” Max said automatically — then paused, realizing how that sounded. “I mean… not like… not win win, but– ”

Charles laughed, unable to help it. “You’re so competitive.”

“Am not!”

“You totally are.”

“I’m literally not.”

“You literally just said you ‘always win,’” Charles said, air quoting.

Max groaned, covering his face. “Oh my god, you’re insufferable.”

Charles grinned wider, the tension between them unraveling completely. It was easy. Natural. And for the first time, Charles saw Max not as the boy he’d pitied or wanted to apologize to, but just… a boy. Someone funny, stubborn, a little awkward, and really, genuinely kind.

They finished the last page of questions, and Charles stretched, groaning softly. “That was way more work than it looked like.”

“Yeah,” Max agreed, closing his notebook. “But hey, we finished before dinner. That’s a miracle.”

Charles checked his phone. “Oh, speaking of that, I told my brothers I’d be back by ten. They’d probably show up at your door if I wasn’t.”

Max laughed. “They totally will.”

“They’re overprotective,” Charles admitted, leaning back in his chair. “It’s annoying sometimes, but… I get it.”

“Must be nice. I really like them. They’re some of my first friends,” Max said quietly, so soft that Charles almost didn’t catch it.

He looked up, but Max was already scrolling through the slides and shifting some of it’s elements, like the words hadn’t slipped out at all.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time. Just… heavy with something unspoken.

Charles wanted to say something, that Max deserved that kind of care too, that he wasn’t as alone as he thought, but before he could, Max looked up again with that same small smile. “You want something to drink? There’s soda in the fridge.”

Charles nodded quickly. “Yeah, sure.”

As Max got up, Charles watched him for a moment, the quiet confidence in his movements, the way he hummed under his breath as he opened the fridge door. It felt weirdly domestic, like something normal people did after a normal school day.

When Max sat back down and slid a can across the table, Charles smiled. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They drank quietly for a bit, trading soft laughter over the stupidest things, like a misread question, or a crooked doodle in Charles’s notebook that Max said looked like a cursed frog. Slowly, steadily, the walls between them thinned.

At one point, Charles caught Max glancing at him, almost like he wanted to ask something but didn’t.

“What?” Charles asked.

Max blinked. “Nothing.” Then, after a pause: “It’s just… weird, I guess. Hanging out like this. In a good way.”

Charles’s smile softened. “Yeah. In a good way.”

—--------------------------------------------------------

They’d just finished cleaning up the table, books stacked neatly to one side, soda cans tossed into the recycling bin, when the doorbell rang.

Charles blinked. “You expecting someone?”

Charles froze mid-step. “Uh. No? My dad’s away till next week.”

The bell rang again. Then again. Then someone knocked. Hard. And as they made their way to the sound, they could hear obnoxious laughter from behind the door.

Max frowned and headed toward the door, but Charles’s stomach dropped, already recognizing that laughter.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “Oh no, no, no.”

“...What?” Max asked, hand on the doorknob.

Before Charles could stop him, the door swung open.

“HELLOOO, baby bro!” Seb sang, leaning dramatically against the doorway like he was making a red-carpet entrance. Lewis stood behind him, arms crossed and looking like he’d been dragged there unwillingly, and Kimi, of course, was holding a few boxes of pizza.

“Hi,” Kimi said simply.

Charles slapped a hand over his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Seb grinned. “We thought we’d come check if you were actually doing schoolwork, or if ‘assignment’ was code for something else.”

“It’s literally just an assignment!” Charles said, mortified. “And how did you even find me?”

Lewis waved his phone. “Find My Phone. You really thought you could hide from us?”

“You tracked me?!”

“Technically, yes,” Lewis said. “Morally, no.”

Kimi shrugged. “We brought food.”

That at least earned him some redemption points.

Seb stepped in, looking around the foyer with an approving nod. “So Maxie, your place huh?”

Max blinked. “Since when did I say you can enter?”

“Oh pleaseeeeee. We’re basically family at this point. So this is my house too,” Seb said easily, sauntering into the living room like it belonged to him.

Lewis entered and flopped straight onto the sofa. “Nice couch. You gotta invite the team here some time.”

Max’s cheeks turned a faint shade of red. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”

Charles groaned softly from behind them. “Can we please pretend this isn’t happening?”

But it was happening with full force. Within minutes, Lewis had somehow camouflaged with the decorative cushions on the couch, Seb was looking at the trophy cabinet decorating the back wall of the room, and Kimi had started unpacking the food he brought on the coffee table, as if they all lived there.

Max stood awkwardly at first, unsure how to react. But the longer the brothers stayed, the more natural he became. Lewis and Seb cracked easy jokes, like the joker they usually were in tennis, and even Kimi, in his quiet way, made sure Max had the biggest slice of pizza.

It was chaos. Loud, ridiculous, family chaos.

Charles sat cross-legged on the floor, watching the madness unfold, equal parts exasperated and endeared.

Seb pointed at one of Jos’s trophies. “Suzuka 2018. My favourite race.”

Lewis leaned forward and squinted at the trophy. “It looks wayyyyy shinier in real life than on TV. Like Seb’s bald spot”

Seb scowled. “Hey! I’m not balding! Look at your receding hairline before you talk.”

That made Max laugh. It was a genuine one, small but bright. The kind that made the room feel lighter.

And somehow, watching that, Charles didn’t even mind being teased anymore. Seeing Max laughing, actually comfortable, was worth it.

Seb caught Charles watching and nudged him lightly. “Invite me to you guys' wedding in 10 years time,” he said under his breath.

Charles blinked. “What?”

“Haha dont think about it.” 

Charles didn’t know what to say. He just looked at Max, who was now arguing with Lewis over whether forehand grip changes were “a crime or a necessity,” and felt something warm in his chest.

The night blurred into laughter, gentle teasing, and bits of real connection. They talked about tennis, music, and even did a few of those dumb TikTok trends that Kimi pretended not to know but absolutely did.

At some point, Max leaned back and sighed. “This is so tiring. We should just stay in your assigned tennis hours and not cross paths any other time, like usual.” The soft grin on jis face betrayed his mean words.

“See! I told you. They’re absolutely nightmares in different fonts,” Charles said, grinning as well. 

“But you two love us. Don’t lie.” Seb whined.

And to that, everyone burst into yet another rambunctious laughter.

Kimi lifted his drink slightly. “To nice things, then.”

Lewis grinned. “To nice things.”

And so they sat there, in that living room that smelled faintly of pizza and the mist from the diffuser somewhere in the living room, surrounded by the echoes of laughter that did not have time to fade before the next wave came.

When Lewis finally checked the time, it was nearly ten.

He stood, groaning. “We should go before Dad sends a search party.”

Seb clapped a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Your dad’s off for race week right? Let’s go out tomorrow. The whole team.”

“Yeah, sure” Max said, smiling a little shyly. “Thanks. For… all this.”

Lewis winked. “Anytime, champ.”

As they left, Charles turned back for one last glance. Max was standing in the doorway, waving, that small, genuine smile still there.

And for the first time in a long time, Charles didn’t feel like he was making up for something. He just felt… okay.

Like he was finally starting to get it right.

Chapter Text

It was barely eight when the Mercedes junior team assembled like a pack of overgrown children on Max’s doorstep.
Seb had, of course, been the ringleader.

Seb: TEAM BONDING. TOMORROW. 8AM. MAX’S HOUSE. IMMA SEND THE ADDRESS LATER
Lewis: 8??
Daniel: I’m not awake at 8 unless there’s free food
Seb: There will be free food
Carlos: Nahhhhhhh ur lying
Seb: Nope. I saw food in his pantry yesterday.
Seb: like food food
Seb: not ingredient food
Daniel: aight im coming

And because they were, collectively, incapable of ignoring Seb’s chaos, they’d all shown up. Lewis, Kimi, Nico, Daniel, Fernando, Carlos, and Seb himself, standing in a semi-circle outside Max’s front gate, coffee cups in hand and varying degrees of consciousness on their faces.

The only problem was: no one was answering the door.

“Maybe he’s still asleep,” Lewis muttered, glancing at the closed windows. “It’s eight in the morning, Seb. The kid’s still growing.”

Seb looked mildly offended. “Early bird gets the worm.”

“Early bird gets punched if it wakes up another bird before sunrise,” Carlos grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Daniel was already halfway leaning against the gate. “So what’s the plan, we just… stand here? Wait for him to wake up like some horror movie cult?”

“Exactly,” Seb said cheerfully.

Kimi grunted. “We’re gonna get reported for noise.”

They stood there for a solid ten minutes, bickering quietly, when Nico checked his watch. “Okay, this is stupid. He’s definitely still asleep.”

Seb cupped his hands and yelled, “MAX! TEAM MEETING!”

Everyone winced.

“Seb,” Lewis hissed, “he’s going to think we’re burglars!”

But before anyone could drag him back, the sound of quick footsteps approached from around the corner of the street, light, rhythmic, and getting closer.

Then, turning the corner, came Max.

Sweaty. Shirtless. AirPods in.

The team froze.

Max slowed to a stop, breathing hard, eyes widening as he spotted them. His hair was damp from the jog, cheeks flushed, and confusion painted across his face.

He pulled one AirPod out. “...What are you guys doing here?”

There was a brief silence before Daniel, of course, was the first to break it.

“Mate,” he said slowly, grinning like a cat, “didn’t know we were joining a fitness session.”

Seb, utterly unbothered, nodded approvingly. “Dedication. That’s what I like to see.”

Max blinked. “It’s eight in the morning.”

Lewis smirked. “And yet you’re already done with your run. What’s our excuse?”

“None,” Nico muttered. “I’m supposed to still be asleep.”

Carlos squinted. “Bro, weren’t you on COD at like 3? Why are you awake?”

That earned him a round of snickers from the others.

Max looked down, then back up with the flat, unimpressed expression of someone who had accepted that his team shared a total of half a dying brain cell. “so?”

Daniel grinned wider. “So that’s a yes.”

“Shut up.”

Seb clapped his hands once. “Alright, everyone inside! Team breakfast. Kimi, you brought the croissants?”

Kimi wordlessly raised a paper bag like it was a trophy.

Max blinked again. “You weren't serious last night.”

Seb smiled like an absolutely serious man. “Of course I was. Why would I lie?”

Max groaned softly, rubbing a hand down his face, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Fine. But if my dad finds out about this, I’m blaming all of you.”

“Deal,” Daniel said brightly. “Now go get a shirt before a paparazzi think we’re running a cult.”

Max rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath as he jogged inside, the team following behind like a parade of chaos.

—---------------------------------------------------

By the time Max returned from changing into an oversized hoodie that looked about two sizes too big, the team had already made themselves at home.

Seb was poking around the kitchen cabinets like he owned the place. Daniel had found the cereal stash. Kimi was halfway through a croissant. Lewis was sipping tea like a guest who’d actually been invited, while Carlos and Nico argued over whether oat milk counted as real milk.

Max just stood in the doorway, staring at the scene. “You guys… are actually insane.”

Seb looked up, completely unapologetic. “We call it enthusiasm.”

“It’s called breaking and entering if you don’t stop opening my cabinets,” Max muttered, crossing his arms.

Lewis smiled over his teacup. “Relax, mate. We’re teaching you about the joys of team bonding. Consider this… leadership experience.”

Max groaned softly, dropping into a chair. “You people are the reason I don’t tell anyone my schedule.”

“Hey,” Daniel said, pointing his spoon at him, “you should be thanking us. Do you know how hard it is to get all these legends out of bed at eight on a weekend? You’re basically a miracle worker.”

“More like a victim,” Max said under his breath, but there was a tiny hint of a grin.

—---------------------------------------------------

They were halfway through raiding the fridge when Seb opened a random door off the hallway and stopped dead.

“Holy shit.” he breathed. “You have a movie theatre?”

Seven heads snapped toward him.

“What?” Max said, startled. “Oh, that? Yeah. My dad make me watch ATP and WTA  matches there all the time. He thinks that a bigger screen means I can learn their playing styles and mistakes better.”

Seb’s jaw dropped. “What a waste! It’s a cineman. Not a classroom!”

Lewis peered over his shoulder. The room beyond was dimly lit, rows of recliners facing a massive projector screen, with a bar at the back. It looked like a proper mini-theatre.

“You never told us you had this,” Daniel said, scandalized.

Max shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t– ” Carlos looked personally offended. “ That’s because no one even knew where you lived before last night. How did Seb even get your address anyways? And do you even understand how much potential this room has?”

Kimi stepped forward, deadpan as ever. “We should test it.”

Seb’s grin turned positively evil. “Movie day.”

Max blinked. “Now?”

Lewis clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Now.”

Nico straightened. “We’ll need snacks.”

Daniel grinned. “And blankets.”

“Popcorn,” Carlos added.

Kimi nodded solemnly. “And Coke.”

Within seconds, it was unanimous. The chaotic collective had made their decision. They were doing this. Now.

Max opened his mouth to protest, then sighed, because at this point resistance was pointless. “But my dad will murder me if he finds out I’m using this for entertainment.”

“Tell him it’s team cohesion training,” Lewis said smoothly, already putting on his shoes. “Now grab your wallet, champ. We’re going shopping. On you, of course.”

—--------------------------------------------

The sight of eight half-awake tennis players marching into the local supermarket at 9 a.m. was… frankly ridiculous.

Seb had seized a trolley like it was a weapon of war, charging ahead with purpose. Daniel and Lewis followed side by side, arguing over which brand of chips had better crunch. Kimi trailed behind them, face expressionless but already holding three packs of gummy bears. Carlos and Fernando were in deep discussion about whether fizzy drinks counted as hydration.

And Max?

Max was simply trying to make sure they didn’t get banned for life.

“Seb, we don’t need four different kinds of popcorn,” he said helplessly as Seb tossed another bag into the trolley.

Seb didn’t even look up. “Of course we do. What if one burns?”

“That’s not how popcorn works,” Max groaned.

Before anyone could respond, Nico stopped mid-aisle. His gaze locked on a shelf stacked with bags of flour and boxes of cocoa powder. “You know what,” he said suddenly, “I kind of want cake.”

Lewis turned to him, eyes lighting up like someone had just suggested free front-row tickets. “Cake?”

“Cake,” Nico confirmed solemnly.

There was a beat of silence. Then Seb said, “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”

Daniel looked intrigued. “Wait. You mean bake it ourselves?”

“Yeah,” Nico said, now fully in planning mode. “We could do a challenge. Blind-deaf-mute style.”

Carlos immediately grinned. “Sí, like the TikToks!”

Kimi blinked slowly. “Who’s blind?”

Daniel was already raising his hand. “Not me!”

Seb smirked. “Totally you!.”

“Fine,” Daniel said, resigned. “But only if Max is mute. He talks too much anyway.”

“I don’t!” Max began, then stopped, glaring as everyone laughed.

Lewis clapped his hands once, settling the chaos. “Okay, teams then. Let’s make this fair.”

He pointed like a referee. “Team One. Fernando, Carlos, and Kimi.”

Carlos fist-bumped Fernando immediately. “We got this.”

Lewis turned to the others. “Team Two. Seb, Daniel, and Max.”

Seb gave Max a conspiratorial look. “You ready to bake history?”

Max sighed. “I’m going to alert the fire department first. This is gonna end with my house burnt down.”

Nico nodded wisely. “That’s why Lewis and I are the judges. We’ll supervise. From a safe distance.”

“More like eat from a safe distance,” Lewis corrected, grinning. “We’ll be the unbiased taste-testers.”

Kimi raised an eyebrow. “You just want to eat.”

“True,” Lewis said cheerfully. “Who doesn’t?”

By the time they finally reached checkout, their trolley looked like a culinary disaster waiting to happen: flour, sugar, cocoa, eggs, butter, milk, three random types of frosting, and a suspicious number of rainbow sprinkles.

Max stared at the pile. “Does anyone actually know how to bake?”

Seb shrugged. “There’s always a first time.”

Daniel patted him on the shoulder. “Worst case, we just make an abstract cake.”

“Cake my ass,” Max muttered.

Lewis grinned, and smacked Max’s butt. “You indeed got cake as ass, kid.”

—----------------------------------------------

By the time they’d unloaded everything into Max’s kitchen, it looked like a cooking show set, if the cooking show were hosted by people who’d never read a recipe in their lives.

Bowls, measuring cups, and ingredients covered every inch of the counter. The sun streamed through the wide windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air, blissfully unaware of the impending chaos.

Lewis clapped his hands together. “Alright, bakers. You’ve got one hour to create a masterpiece worthy of my refined palate.”

Nico raised an eyebrow. “Our refined palate.”

Lewis grinned. “Yes, yes. The Michelin-star committee of two.”

Seb, already tying an apron around his waist (backwards), pointed a whisk like a sword. “We demand equal rights for Team Chaos.”

“Equal rights?” Daniel echoed. “You burned cereal once.”

Seb ignored him. “Now, roles! Who’s blind, deaf, and mute?”

“Team One.” Lewis began. “Fernando, Carlos, and Kimi. Decide your fates.”

Fernando immediately raised his hand. “I’ll be the blind one.”

Carlos laughed. “That’s not fair, you’ll just say you ‘felt’ the technique.”

“Then you be deaf,” Fernando shot back.

Kimi blinked slowly. “I’ve always wanted to be mute.”

“Bruh,” Carlos grumbled.

Across the counter, Seb’s team was having a similarly chaotic discussion.

“Okay,” Seb said decisively. “I’ll be the deaf one. Daniel, you’re blind, and Max, you’re mute.”

“Why am I mute again?” Max asked.

“Because you’re the youngest,” Daniel said, already wrapping a towel around his head as a blindfold. “And the youngest always gets bullied.”

Max groaned but didn’t argue.

Lewis raised his phone like a referee raising a flag. “And… bake!”

—---------------------------------------------------

Within minutes, the kitchen descended into glorious, sugary anarchy.

Fernando, blindfolded, moved with terrifying confidence, mixing flour and cocoa like he’d done it all his life. Except the bowl was empty. The flour was landing perfectly in the sink.

Carlos, shouting over the chaos, yelled, “Not that bowl! The other one!” 

Meanwhile, Kimi was silently pointing at ingredients, trying to communicate with them both through sheer willpower.

On the other side, Seb was humming obliviously, pouring milk straight into a bag of sugar. Daniel, blindfolded, was narrating his every move like he was Sir David Attenborough.
“And here, the blind baker gently folds the eggs into the flour. Oh god, that’s the counter.”

Max was doubled over laughing but kept his mouth shut, since he wasn’t allowed to talk. He pointed frantically at the measuring cup Daniel was holding upside down, but Daniel only said, “Ah, I see your encouragement!” and proceeded to dump the “cup” of flour (actually baking soda) into the bowl.

It was beautiful, terrible teamwork.

Lewis and Nico shared a beanbag they dragged in from some room upstairs, sipping a shared packet of orange juice like TV hosts watching a trainwreck.

“Do you think we should stop them?” Nico asked, taking a sip of the juice in Lewis’s hand.

Lewis took a sip too. “No. I want to see if it explodes.”

After about twenty minutes of chaos, Daniel and Seb’s side was covered in a layer of flour so thick it looked like a snowstorm had passed through. Fernando’s team, against all odds, had managed to produce something vaguely cake-shaped, though the inside was suspiciously grey.

Then, right as things were reaching peak madness, Nico tugged Lewis’s sleeve. “Hey,” he said, lowering his voice. “I just realised I left my watch in the room we got the bean bag from earlier. Come with me for a sec?”

Lewis shrugged. “Sure. Can’t trust you alone in someone else’s house.”

And with that, the self-declared judges disappeared down the hallway.

—----------------------------------------------------

Twenty-five minutes later, both teams had finished their… creations. The kitchen looked like a war zone. Max’s hair was dusted white, Seb had frosting on his nose, and Carlos had somehow managed to get cocoa powder on the ceiling.

Daniel glanced around. “Where are our esteemed judges?”

Seb frowned. “Weren’t they supposed to be timing us?”

Kimi, licking frosting off his finger, nodded toward the hallway. “Probably in one of the guest rooms.”

A pause.

Then Carlos smirked. “Ohhh. In one of the guest rooms.”

Fernando immediately burst out laughing. “Are you sure they’re not doing anything in there?”

That earned a groan from Max, who was trying (and failing) not to smile.

Seb grinned. “If they come out with messed-up hair, I’m telling dad.”

The teasing escalated fast. Overlapping voices, fake scandalised gasps, Daniel dramatically clutching his chest and declaring, “The betrayal! The unprofessionalism!”

When Lewis and Nico finally reappeared, blinking at the mess, they froze.

“What,” Nico said slowly, “happened here?”

Eight very innocent faces turned toward them.

“Nothing,” Seb said, far too quickly.

“Yeah,” Carlos added, barely holding back laughter. “Just wondering if you two… enjoyed your room.”

Lewis frowned. “Our– oh my god.”

Nico blinked, still confused. “Room? We found my watch.”

Seb smirked. “Sure you did.”

Lewis groaned, covering his face. “You are all nine years old.”

“SYBAU!” Max piped up.

“Haha little man is now chronically online.”

The room erupted in laughter again.

—--------------------------------------------------------

Lewis and Nico exchanged a look. They both took a cautious bite of Team Fernando’s cake first.

Nico chewed thoughtfully. “Surprisingly edible.”

Lewis nodded. “Not bad. Maybe a little dry. But I can confirm it’s food.”

Encouraged, they moved on to Seb’s team’s creation.

The first bite hit like a thunderclap.

Lewis froze mid-chew, eyes widening. Nico coughed into his elbow.

“What,” Nico managed, “is in this?”

Seb blinked innocently. “Love.”

“Bullshit,” Lewis said. “And possibly actual bull.”

Max pressed his lips together hard, trying not to laugh.

Daniel squinted at the cake like he could read its soul. “What’s wrong with it?”

Lewis slowly set his fork down. “It tastes like someone put frosting on a battery.”

Nico nodded gravely. “It burns a little. Like… motivational pain.”

Seb, offended, crossed his arms. “That’s the energy. We put passion in there.”

Max burst out laughing, unable to hold it anymore. “You put Red Bull in the icing.”

There was a beat of stunned silence, and then the room erupted.

Daniel clutched his stomach, laughing so hard he nearly fell over. “We what?!”