#lestappen angst

The thing about growing up in karting is that you see the same faces over and over. The same circuits, the same motorhomes, the same drivers. The paddock becomes its own small world, and within that world, Charles and Max carved out something that belonged only to them.

They learned each other's languages in fragments. Max taught Charles Dutch curses that made Charles dissolve into giggles behind the timing screens. Charles taught Max French endearments that Max would whisper to himself at night when his father's voice still echoed in his ears.

Mon coeur. My heart.

Max was faster, in the beginning. He won more, climbed the ladder quicker. But Charles was fearless in a way Max could never quite manage, Charles would send it into corners that Max's instincts told him to back out of, would make moves that seemed impossible until suddenly they weren't.

"You're going to kill yourself one day," Max told him once, when they were fourteen and Charles had just pulled off an overtake that had left the entire paddock silent.

"Maybe," Charles had said, grinning, still high on adrenaline. "But I'll look good doing it."

They'd been sitting on the roof of Charles's motorhome, legs dangling over the edge, sharing a bottle of Coca-Cola they'd nicked from someone's coolbox. The sun was setting over the circuit, painting everything gold and rose, and Max had looked at Charles, really looked at him, and thought, oh.

Oh no.

Their first kiss happened in a hotel bathroom in Italy.

They were sixteen. Max had just won the European Championship. Charles had finished third, which was good, brilliant even, but it wasn't first, and the gap between them felt infinite.

There'd been a party. Someone's parents had hired out a restaurant, and all the drivers had gotten drunk on wine that tasted like vinegar and made them feel like adults. Max had slipped away when it got too loud, when the congratulations started feeling like weights on his shoulders, and he'd found Charles already hiding in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid with his bow tie undone and his shirt half-untucked.

"You alright?" Max had asked.

"Yeah." Charles had looked up at him, eyes slightly unfocused. "You were brilliant today. Proper brilliant."

"Thanks." Max had moved to lean against the sink, suddenly aware of how small the bathroom was, how close they were. "You were too."

"Not as brilliant as you."

"Charles—"

"It's fine. I mean it." Charles had stood up then, swaying slightly, and Max had reached out instinctively to steady him. Charles' hand had caught his wrist. "Max?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I—" Charles had stopped, bitten his lip. "Nevermind. Stupid."

"What?"

"I want to kiss you," Charles had said, all in a rush. "I've wanted to for ages and I know it's stupid and we can't but I just—I want to know what it feels like. Just once."

Max's heart had been hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay."

Charles had kissed him like he drove, fearless, all-in, nothing held back. Max had kissed him back like he was drowning and Charles was air.

They didn't talk about it after. But everything had changed anyway.

Max made it to Formula One first.

Of course he did. Charles had watched the announcement from his mum’s flats in Monaco, still grinding through his second season of Formula Two, and he'd been happy, genuinely, truly happy, but there'd been something else too. Something that tasted like longing and fear mixed together.

Max had called him that night, voice crackling over a poor connection from wherever his new team had flown him for publicity.

"I wish you were here," Max had said.

"Me too." Charles had been lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. "But you deserve this, Max. You've earned it."

"Doesn't feel right without you."

"I'll get there. Just—just don't forget about me when you're famous, yeah?"

"Cha—" Max had started, but Charles had already known what he was going to say, had heard it in the way his voice caught. "I could never."

Max's first season in Formula One was everything and nothing like they'd imagined. He was good, everyone could see he was good, but the car wasn't quite there yet, and he spent most races dragging it to positions it had no business being in.

Charles came to every race he could, the ones that didn't clash with his own Formula Two calendar. He'd lurk in the back of Jules’ garage, watching the mechanics work, watching Max climb in and out of the car, watching him grow into this new version of himself.

They'd stolen moments where they could find them. A supply cupboard in Bahrain. The back of Max's driver's room in Barcelona, door locked, hearts racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the cars on track.

"This is mad," Charles had whispered, pressed against the wall with Max's mouth on his neck. "Anyone could hear."

"Then be quiet," Max had murmured back, and Charles had bitten down on his own hand to keep from making a sound.

Afterwards, they'd straightened their clothes in silence, and Max had checked the corridor before Charles slipped out. Professional. Careful. Always careful.

Charles made it to Formula One the next year, signed to a team at the back of the grid with an underpowered engine and a chassis that handled like a shopping trolley.

"Doesn't matter," Charles had told Max, grinning so wide his face hurt. "I'm here. We're both here."

They'd celebrated alone, in Charles' hotel room, with cheap champagne Charles had bought from the supermarket because he couldn't quite believe this was real yet.

"To us," Max had said, raising his plastic cup.

"To us," Charles had echoed. "Finally."

They'd kissed like teenagers again, clumsy and eager, and for one perfect night, nothing else had mattered.

But racing changed things.

On track, they were competitors. They had to be. And the first time they'd battled wheel-to-wheel. Austria, Turn Three, both of them fighting for seventh place like it was the championship lead, something had shifted.

Max had defended hard, too hard maybe, and Charles had had to bail out to avoid contact. Neither of them had scored points. Both of them had been furious.

"What the fuck was that?" Charles had found him after, in the car park, still in his race suit.

"That was racing."

"That was you running me off the fucking road!"

"You would've done the same!"

They'd stood there, both breathing hard, and Charles had wanted to grab him, to kiss him, to scream at him, all at the same time.

"Yeah," Charles had said finally. "Yeah, I would've."

They'd looked at each other, and something unspoken had passed between them. An understanding. A boundary drawn.

On track, they were racers first. Everything else came second.

The media started noticing them that season.

"There's something about Verstappen and Leclerc," one commentator had said during a race. "They seem to know where the other is at all times. Like they're connected somehow."

"They came up through karting together," his co-commentator had replied. "Probably just that familiarity. Lot of history between those two."

Charles had watched the replay later, alone in his hotel room, and wondered what the commentator would say if he knew just how much history there was.

Max's first podium came in Spa, in the rain, the same circuit where they'd first crashed into each other all those years ago.

Charles had been knocked out in the first corner, his race over before it had really begun, and he'd watched the rest from the garage, teeth gritted, as Max had carved through the field like he was possessed.

Third place. Max's first trophy.

Charles had waited until after the media circus had died down, until most of the paddock had cleared out, before slipping into Max's motorhome.

Max had still been in his race suit, trophy sitting on the tiny table, champagne dried sticky in his hair.

"You came," Max had said, and he'd sounded surprised.

"Of course I came." Charles had crossed the space between them, pulled Max into a hug that lasted too long to be just friendly. "You were brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

"I wanted you up there with me."

"Next time," Charles had said, even though they both knew that Charles' car was nowhere near quick enough for a podium. "Next time, yeah?"

They'd kissed surrounded by the smell of champagne and racing fuel, and it had tasted like victory and longing in equal measure.

The girlfriends started the next season.

Max first. Her name was Lucy, and she was beautiful and kind and worked in marketing for one of his sponsors. The team had introduced them at a gala, and Max had known immediately what was expected of him.

Charles had met her at the next race, all forced smiles and polite handshakes.

"It's lovely to meet you," Charles had said. "Max has told me so much about you."

He hadn't. They'd barely spoken about her. But Lucy didn't need to know that.

Later, much later, Max had found Charles in his hotel room.

"I'm sorry," Max had said.

"For what? Having a girlfriend? You're allowed to have a girlfriend, Max."

"Cha—"

"I mean it. We can't—this can't be all you have. It's not fair."

"What about you?"

Charles had looked away. "I'll figure something out."

He'd started dating Emma three weeks later. She was a teacher, completely removed from the racing world, and she'd looked at Charles like he was something special. Like he was more than just a midfield driver in a bad car.

Charles had wanted to love her. Had tried so hard to love her.

But every time she'd laughed, he'd thought of Max's laugh. Every time she'd reached for his hand, he'd remembered how Max's hand felt in his. Every time they'd kissed, he'd wondered if Max was kissing Lucy the same way.

It had lasted four months before Emma had ended it.

"You're in love with someone else," she'd said, not angry, just sad. "I don't know who, but—you are. And I deserve someone who loves me the way you love them."

Charles hadn't been able to deny it.

Max's first championship came in his third season.

He'd driven like a man possessed that year, taking risks that made team principals nervous and other drivers angry. He'd put his car on pole position twelve times out of twenty-two races, and half of those laps had included moments where the engineers in the garage had genuinely thought he was going to crash.

"He's got a death wish," one pundit had said after Max had qualified on pole in Monaco, his final lap so aggressive that he'd kissed the barriers in three separate places.

"Or he's just the best driver on the grid," another had countered.

Charles had watched that qualifying session from his own garage, had seen the onboard footage, had felt his heart stop at least twice during that lap.

"He's going to get himself killed," Charles' engineer had muttered.

"No," Charles had said quietly. "He won't."

He'd known, even then, that Max was in control. That every risk was calculated, every movement precise. Max wasn't reckless. He was just willing to go places other drivers wouldn't.

Charles had been the only one who understood the difference.

They'd celebrated Max's first championship in private, hours after the official team party had ended.

Charles had finished the season ninth in the championship, respectable for his car, meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

"World champion," Charles had said, running his fingers through Max's hair as they lay in bed together. "Fucking hell, Max."

"Doesn't feel real."

"It should. You were the best. All season, you were the best."

Max had turned to look at him, and there'd been something raw in his expression. "I wanted you there. On the podium with me. Fighting with me."

"I know."

"It's not enough without you."

Charles had kissed him instead of answering, because what could he say? That he wanted it too? That watching Max succeed while he fought for scraps was slowly tearing him apart? That he was proud and jealous and in love in ways that made it hard to breathe?

They'd made love that night like it was the last time, desperate and aching, and neither of them had said what they were both thinking: that this couldn't last forever.

Charles moved to Ferrari the next year.

Not as the first driver, almost felt like the reserve driver, really, with Sebastian as his teammate, he didn’t feel like how Max probably felt in his seat. But it was Ferrari. The name meant something. And the car, when he did get to drive it, was a revelation after the shitboxes he'd been dragging around for two years.

"You're going to be brilliant in red," Max had told him, when Charles had called to share the news.

"I'll barely be driving."

"Doesn't matter. You'll make every lap count."

And he had. Charles had scored points in almost every race, and had driven like every lap might be his last chance to prove himself.

The media had started paying attention.

"Leclerc is performing miracles in that Ferrari," one journalist had written. "If he ever gets promoted to their first driver, he could be something special."

Charles got the upgrade the following year, when Carlos became his teammate.

Suddenly, the car was better and they were next to each other all the time. Charles at Ferrari, Max still at Red Bull, now the established number one, the man everyone else was chasing.

"This is going to be interesting," Carlos had said, when they'd been introduced. "You and Verstappen have history, yeah? Came up through karting together? He was my teammate too."

"Yeah," Charles had said carefully. "We go back a long way."

"Good. You'll need that. He's the benchmark now. If we want to beat him, we need someone who knows how he thinks."

Oh, I know how he thinks, Charles hadn't said. I know exactly how he thinks.

Max won his second championship that year, and his third the year after.

And somewhere in those years, he'd changed.

On track, he'd become something almost frightening. He drove with a calculated aggression that made other drivers nervous. He'd push to the absolute limit of what was legal, and sometimes beyond it, and he never, ever backed down.

"Verstappen is a menace," one driver had said after Max had forced him off track. "Someone needs to stop him before he kills someone."

"Then drive faster," Max had said in his post-race interview, and he hadn't been smiling.

The media had loved it. "Mad Max" became his nickname. "The Dutch Lion," some called him, though Charles had always thought that was too kind. Max wasn't a lion. He was something sharper, more dangerous.

But Charles understood. Understood that Max drove like that because it was the only place he could let everything out, all the anger and frustration and longing that had nowhere else to go. The track was where Max could be honest, even if he couldn't be honest anywhere else.

And Charles was the only one who could keep up with him.

"There's something fascinating about Verstappen and Leclerc’s battles," one commentator had said during their fight for second place in Spain. "They race each other harder than they race anyone else, but it's always clean. Always precise. Like they're speaking a language no one else understands."

"Well, they did grow up racing together," his co-commentator had replied. "That kind of familiarity breeds respect. Even if they're absolutely hammering each other on track."

Charles had listened to that commentary later and had almost laughed. Respect. If only they knew.

The interview slip-ups started small.

Max first, after winning in Silverstone, still high on adrenaline and champagne:

"Yeah, it was a tough battle with Cha—with Leclerc I mean. He never makes it easy, but that's why—" He'd caught himself, smiled his media smile. "That's what makes racing fun, yeah? Having someone push you like that."

The journalist had noticed, of course. "You two seem quite close. Still friends after all these years?"

"We're competitors," Max had said, deflecting. "But yeah, we have a lot of history. Hard not to respect someone you've been racing against since you were seven."

Charles had seen the clip later, had noticed the way Max's smile hadn't quite reached his eyes when he'd corrected himself.

Then Charles, after a particularly brutal race in Singapore where he and Max had gone wheel-to-wheel for fifteen laps straight:

"Ma—I mean, Verstappen, he's just—he's the standard, isn't he? If you want to be the best, you have to beat him. And today we didn't, but—" He'd laughed, run a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "There's always next time."

"You called him Max," the journalist had said, leaning forward. "Is that what you call him? Privately? When the world doesn’t know you as rivals?"

"What? No, I—" Charles had felt his face flush. "I mean, yeah, sometimes. We're mates, have been since we were kids. But on track, he's Verstappen. He's the enemy."

He'd said it like a joke, but there'd been something too real in his voice.

The fans had noticed.

Of course they had. Fans noticed everything.

Online forums filled with speculation:

"Did anyone else catch Leclerc calling him Maxy? They gotta be fuckin’?"

"They're literally just friends omg some of you need to go outside"

"But did you see the way Verstappen looked at him in parc fermé? I'm not saying anything but I'm also not NOT saying anything"

"Y'all are delusional they're both straight they both have girlfriends constantly"

"Yeah and those relationships last about 5 minutes before they're on to the next one"

"Correlation is not causation guys they're just bad at relationships"

"Or they're in love with each other and trying to get over it by dating other people but okay"

"Fanfiction has ruined your brain"

There were compilation videos on YouTube: "Verstappen and Leclerc being suspicious for 10 minutes straight." Clips of them looking at each other in press conferences. Moments where they'd touched, a hand on a shoulder, fingers grazing during a handshake, that probably meant nothing but could mean everything.

Charles had watched one of the videos once, late at night, alone in his flat, and he'd felt something crack in his chest.

They were so careful. They'd always been so careful. But love, it turned out, was hard to hide completely. Not when they'd been in love for two decades. Not when they knew each other better than they knew themselves.

The girlfriends accumulated.

Max dated an actress for eight months. Then a physiotherapist from another team. Then a lawyer he'd met at a sponsor event. None of them lasted longer than a year.

"Why do you think you struggle to maintain long-term relationships?" a journalist had asked him once, during a feature interview.

Max had looked directly at the camera and said, "I think I'm probably just too focused on racing. It's hard to give someone what they deserve when you're away three hundred days a year."

Charles had watched that interview from a hotel room in Japan and had wanted to scream.

It's not the racing, he'd thought. It's me. I'm the reason you can't love anyone else properly.

Charles’ relationships followed a similar pattern. He'd meet someone, try desperately to make it work, convince himself that maybe this time would be different. And then:

A girlfriend who'd said, "You talk about Max like he's the most important person in your life."

"He's my rival," Charles had protested. "Of course I talk about him a lot."

"No, you talk about him like you're in love with him."

Charles had ended that relationship the next day.

Another girlfriend, after six months together: "I feel like I'm competing with a ghost. Like there's someone else in this relationship and I just can't see them."

"There's no one else," Charles had said, and it had been true. There was no one else because Max wasn't someone else, he was the person, the only person, and everyone else was just Charles trying to fill a space that only Max fit into.

By Max's fourth championship, they'd both stopped pretending they were good at relationships.

"Neither Verstappen nor Leclerc seem particularly interested in settling down," one gossip magazine had written. "Both drivers seem married to their careers, and possibly to each other's careers as well."

It had been meant as a joke, but Charles had kept the article anyway, tucked into the back of his wallet like a secret.

Max's racing got more aggressive with each passing season. More dangerous. He'd qualified on pole in Monaco and had driven the most insane lap anyone had ever seen, threading the car through gaps that shouldn't have existed.

"He's going to crash eventually," Carlos had said, watching the replay. "No one can sustain that level of risk forever."

But Charles had just shaken his head. "He won't crash."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know him."

And he did. Knew that every move Max made was calculated. Knew that the aggression was controlled, the risks measured. Knew that Max drove like that because he needed to feel something, needed to push himself to the edge because everything else in his life felt like a lie.

Charles's sixth season with Ferrari was supposed to be different.

The car was good, properly good, not just "good for a Ferrari" good. They'd nailed the regulations, and from the first day of testing, Charles had known this was his chance.

"This is it," his engineer had said, watching the data scroll across the screens. "This is your year, Charles."

Charles had wanted to believe it. Had let himself hope for the first time in years that maybe, finally, he could fight for a championship.

The season had started well. A podium in Bahrain. Second place in Saudi Arabia behind Max, who'd driven like a man possessed, as always. Another podium in Australia.

But it was China where everything clicked.

Charles had led from pole position, had controlled the race with a precision that surprised even himself. Max had been fourth, battling with the other championship contenders, and for once Charles had been able to just drive without looking in his mirrors for that distinctive helmet, that car he'd know anywhere.

He'd won by seven seconds.

Standing on the top step of the podium, champagne soaking through his race suit, Charles had looked down and found Max in the crowd below. Their eyes had met for just a second, and Max had nodded. Just once.

Proud of you.

Charles had felt something expand in his chest that might have been joy or might have been grief. He couldn't tell anymore.

The wins kept coming, but so did Max's.

They were fighting for the championship, but there were others in the mix too, younger drivers, hungry drivers, drivers in cars just as good as theirs. The points were close, brutally close, and every race felt like it could tip the balance.

"You and Verstappen," a journalist had said during a press conference in Spa, "you seem to race each other differently than you race anyone else. Why is that?"

Charles had glanced at Max, two seats down, and had seen the slight tensing of his jaw.

"We've been racing each other since we were seven," Charles had said carefully. "We know each other's styles. Know what the other will do before they do it, most of the time. Makes for good racing, I think."

"But it's more than that, surely?" the journalist had pressed. "There's a respect there that seems almost—" She'd paused, searching for the word. "—intimate."

The room had gone very quiet.

"We're professionals," Max had cut in, his voice flat. "We race hard, we race clean. That's what fans want to see, yeah?"

The moment had passed, but Charles had felt it settle in his stomach like a stone.

The Monaco Grand Prix was in May, blazing hot, the circuit baked under the sun.

Charles' home race.

He'd never won it. Had come close twice, a DNF in his second season with Ferrari, a third place the year after, but never won. It was the one thing missing, the one piece of his career that felt incomplete.

"No pressure," his engineer had joked during the strategy briefing, "but the entire country is watching."

"Brilliant," Charles had muttered. "No pressure at all, then."

He'd qualified on pole, in front one of the younger drivers who'd been on absolute fire all weekend. Max had qualified sixth, had made a mistake in Turn Eight that had cost him half a second.

Charles had found him after quali, in the corridor between their motorhomes.

"You alright?" Charles had asked quietly.

"Fine." Max hadn't looked at him. "Just a shit lap."

"Max—"

"I'm fine, Cha. Really." Finally, he'd looked up, and his eyes had been dark with something Charles couldn't quite read. "Win tomorrow, yeah? For Monaco. For yourself."

"Yeah," Charles had said. "Yeah, I'll try."

The race had been chaos from the start.

A first-lap collision had taken out three cars, including the drivers between him and Max. Charles had inherited the lead and had held it through the first round of pit stops, through a safety car, through the other championship contenders throwing everything they had at him.

Max had been fighting through the field, had made his way up to fifth by lap thirty, and Charles had been able to see him on the timing screens across the track, that familiar name, that familiar gap.

"Max is in fifth," his engineer had said over the radio. "He's not a threat. Focus on the track ahead."

But Charles couldn't help it. He'd checked his mirrors anyway, looking for a car that was too far back to see.

The final ten laps had felt like an eternity.

Charles' tyres were gone, and Oscar was closing, half a second a lap, and Charles had been gripping the steering wheel so hard his hands had ached.

"You've got this," his engineer had said. "Five laps. You can do five laps."

Charles had thought about seven-year-old him, crashing into Max on a wet track in Belgium. Had thought about every kart race, every junior formula race, every time he'd dreamed about this exact moment.

Had thought about Max, somewhere behind him, watching.

He'd crossed the line with a two-second gap.

Winner. Charles Leclerc. Monaco Grand Prix.

The radio had exploded with voices, his team screaming, someone crying, and Charles had felt his vision blur with tears he hadn't expected.

"Yes!" he'd shouted into the radio. "Yes! Fucking yes!"

He'd parked the car in parc fermé, had climbed out on shaking legs, and his team had been there, pulling him into hugs, shouting congratulations he couldn't quite hear over the roaring in his ears.

And then he'd seen Max.

Max had finished sixth, not close enough for the podium, not close enough for the celebrations, but he'd been waiting by the barriers anyway, still in his race suit, helmet tucked under his arm.

Their eyes had met across the crowd, and Max had smiled. Not his media smile, but a real one, the one Charles hadn't seen in months.

Charles had wanted to run to him. Had wanted to push through the crowd and throw his arms around him and say did you see, did you see what I did, I won, I finally won my home race.

But there were cameras everywhere, and his team was pulling him toward the podium, and by the time he'd looked back, Max had disappeared.

The podium had been a blur. The anthem, the champagne, the crowd chanting his name. Charles had stood there, trophy in hand, and had felt the strangest mix of complete joy and profound emptiness.

He'd won. He'd finally won his home race.

But Max hadn't been there to share it with him.

Later, much later, after the media obligations and the team celebrations and the endless photographs, Charles had found a text on his phone.

Je suis fier de toi. I'm proud of you.

Charles had stared at it for a long moment, then had typed back: Merci. Tu me manque. Thank you. I miss you.

The reply had come immediately: Moi aussi. Me too.

They hadn't seen each other that night. Hadn't dared to.

A bit later, they'd raced at Monza.

Ferrari's home race. The Tifosi had been out in force, the grandstands a sea of red, and Charles had felt the pressure like a physical weight on his shoulders.

"Two home races in one season," Carlos had joked. "Living the dream, mate."

"Or a nightmare," Charles had muttered.

He'd qualified forth, had nailed the lap when it mattered, and for the first time in weeks, he'd felt something like confidence settle in his chest.

Max had qualified seventh. Another messy qualifying session, another mistake in the final sector that had cost him.

"Is something wrong with his car?" someone had asked in the press conference.

"No," Max had said shortly. "Just driver error."

But Charles had seen the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had clenched and unclenched in his lap. Something was off. Something was wrong.

Charles had wanted to ask but hadn't been able to. Not there. Not with everyone watching.

The race had been even more chaotic than Monaco.

An engine failure on lap three had brought out a safety car. A crash on lap fifteen had brought out another. The field had been bunched up, the racing frantic, and Charles had made his way up.

Max had carved through the field again, had made it up to sixth by half distance, and Charles had been trying not to think about him, trying not to wonder what he was thinking, trying not to look at the timing screens.

But it was impossible. It had always been impossible when it came to Max.

With ten laps to go, Charles had still been leading, but barely. The car behind him had been all over him, DRS open every lap, and Charles had been defending like his life depended on it.

"Stay calm," his engineer had said. "You've got this."

But Charles hadn't felt calm. Had felt like he was coming apart at the seams, like everything he'd worked for was about to slip through his fingers again.

He'd defended into Turn One. Defended into the chicane. Defended through Parabolica.

And somehow, somehow, he'd held on.

Crossing the line at Monza, winning Ferrari's home race, Charles had screamed into the radio. Properly screamed, all the frustration and fear and desperate hope of the past seven years coming out in one long, ragged sound.

The crowd had been deafening. The team had been crying. Charles had climbed out of the car and had been immediately mobbed by everyone in red, people he knew and people he didn't, all of them celebrating like they'd won the championship.

He'd looked for Max in the chaos and hadn't found him.

Max had been sixth again. Always sixth, just close enough to see but too far away to touch.

Charles had stood on the podium with the Italian anthem playing, with the Tifosi singing along, and he'd held the trophy above his head and had felt something crack inside his chest.

Two home race wins in one season. It should have felt like everything.

Instead, it felt like it wasn't enough. Like it would never be enough.

They'd finally seen each other three hours later, in the car park, when most of the paddock had cleared out.

Max had been leaning against his car, clearly waiting, and Charles had stopped when he'd seen him.

"Congratulations," Max had said.

"Thanks." Charles had crossed the distance between them, but carefully, consciously keeping space. "You alright? You've been, you've seemed off, the last few races."

"I'm fine."

"Max—"

"I'm fine, Cha. Just—" Max had looked away. "Just tired, I think. It's been a long season."

They'd stood there in silence, and Charles had wanted to reach for him, to touch him, to ask what was really wrong. But there were still people around, still cameras potentially watching, and they'd learned long ago how to swallow everything down.

"Good race today," Max had said finally. "You drove brilliantly."

"Sixth isn't bad."

"Sixth is shit and you know it." But he'd smiled when he'd said it, that small, private smile that was just for Charles. "But watching you win at Monza? That was—that was special, Cha. Really special."

Charles had felt his throat tighten. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They'd looked at each other for a long moment, and Charles had thought, I love you, I love you, I love you, the words so loud in his head he'd been half-convinced Max could hear them.

But he hadn't said anything. Neither of them had.

Max had climbed into his car, had driven away, and Charles had stood there in the empty car park and had finally let himself cry.

The championship fight had continued through the summer, into autumn.

Charles had won again in Texas, a brilliant drive from fourth on the grid, fighting his way through the field while Max had been stuck in a DRS train for most of the race.

Third place. Max had made it to the podium that time, had stood two steps below Charles, and they'd sprayed champagne like it was any other race, like Charles’ heart wasn't breaking every time he looked at him.

But despite the wins, three wins, his best season ever, the championship had still slipped away.

Too many retirements. Too many races where his car had failed him or the strategy had been wrong or he'd just been unlucky. Too many points lost to too many mistakes.

Max had won his fourth championship in Vegas, with two races still to go.

Four time world champion. One of the greats.

Charles had finished the season fourth in the championship. His best ever. Meaningless.

The april before, Charles had met Alex, three races into the season.

She'd been a friend of a friend, worked in marketing for a completely unrelated company, had no idea who he was when they'd first been introduced at a dinner party in London. She'd asked him what he did for work, and when he'd said "I'm a racing driver," she'd said, "Oh, like rallying?" and Charles had found himself laughing for the first time in weeks.

She was easy. That was the word that kept coming back to him. Not in a bad way, she was intelligent and funny and kind, but she didn't need anything from him. Didn't ask about his day if he seemed tired. Didn't push when he was distant. Didn't seem to notice when he looked at his phone and his face changed because Max had texted him.

It was easy. And after years of everything feeling impossibly hard, Charles had wanted easy.

They'd kept it quiet at first. Charles hadn't even told his team, had just enjoyed having something that was his, something that existed outside the paddock and the cameras and the constant speculation about his personal life.

He'd seen Max at races, had stolen moments here and there, a conversation in a corridor, a shared look across a press conference room, but something had shifted. Charles had been pulling back, trying to create distance, trying to convince himself that this was the right thing to do.

"You've been different lately," Max had said after Spain, finding Charles in the car park after most people had left.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Distant. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Max. Just focused on the season, you know?"

Max had looked at him for a long moment, and Charles had seen something like hurt flash across his face before he'd hidden it. "Yeah. Okay."

Charles had won in Monaco, and Alex had been there.

She'd stayed out of the way, hadn't come to the garage or the paddock, had just watched from the grandstands like any other fan. But afterwards, after all the celebrations had died down, Charles had gone back to his hotel and she'd been there, and it had been nice. Comfortable. Safe.

"I'm proud of you," she'd said, and Charles had almost flinched because it was the same thing Max had texted him hours earlier.

Je suis fier de toi.

Charles had kissed her to stop thinking about it.

After Texas, after his third win of the season, Charles had made the decision to go public.

"Are you sure?" Alex had asked. "It's going to be a lot. The media attention, the fans—"

"I'm sure," Charles had said, and he'd meant it. Or thought he had.

They'd posted a photo together on Instagram. Nothing dramatic, just the two of them at dinner, Alex’s face partially hidden but visible enough. The caption had been simple: Good end to a good week.

The media had exploded.

"LECLERC CONFIRMS NEW RELATIONSHIP"

"Who is the mystery woman?"

"Charles Leclerc finally settling down?"

Charles had turned his phone off and had tried not to think about what Max would say when he saw it.

Max hadn't said anything.

Not at the next race. Not at the one after that. He'd been professional, polite, had congratulated Charles on his wins and his season, but there'd been something missing. Some fundamental warmth that had always existed between them had disappeared, and Charles had felt the absence of it like a physical ache.

They'd barely spoken through the rest of the season. Brief conversations about racing, about the championship fight, but nothing real. Nothing that mattered.

Charles had told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. They both needed to move on.

He'd almost believed it.

The next season had started the same way the last one had ended, Charles and Max dancing around each other, professional and distant, two people who'd once known everything about each other pretending they were barely friends.

Alex had come to more races. Had been photographed in the Ferrari garage, had done interviews about what it was like dating a Formula One driver. She'd been perfect, really, gracious and charming and never demanding more than Charles could give.

Charles had looked at her sometimes and had wondered why he couldn't love her the way he was supposed to. Why his chest didn't feel tight when she smiled. Why his heart didn't race when she touched his hand.

He'd known why. Had always known why.

But knowing didn't change anything.

The decision to propose had come in August, halfway through the season.

Charles had been lying in bed, Alex asleep next to him, and he'd been staring at the ceiling thinking about his life. Twenty-eight years old. No championship. No real future with the person he actually loved. Just an endless cycle of racing and hotel rooms and pretending everything was fine.

I need to move on, he'd thought. I need to actually move on.

Alex deserved better than someone who was using her to get over someone else. But more than that, Charles deserved better than spending the rest of his life waiting for something that was never going to happen.

So he'd bought a ring. Had planned it out carefully, a restaurant in Monaco, private room, no cameras. He'd proposed on a Tuesday, between races, and Alex had cried and said yes, and Charles had felt something that might have been relief or might have been resignation.

He couldn't tell anymore.

They'd decided to tell people before making it public. Alex’s family first, then Charles', then close friends.

And then the paddock.

Charles had wanted to tell Max privately, had tried to find him for three days, but Max had been busy with testing, with sponsor obligations, with everything that came with being a four-time world champion.

So Charles had told people. Had told his team first, during a dinner at the factory. Had told Lewis in the driver's room. Had told other drivers when they'd asked about the ring that Alex had started wearing to races.

Word had spread quickly. It always did in the paddock.

Max had found out at the same time as everyone else.

They'd all been at a sponsor event, drivers from multiple teams forced into suits and fake smiles, and someone had made a toast to Charles' engagement.

"To Charles and Alex," one of the other drivers had said, raising his glass. "Finally tying the knot!"

There'd been laughter, applause, congratulations shouted across the room.

And Max had been standing by the bar, glass of champagne frozen halfway to his lips, staring at Charles like he'd been punched in the chest.

Their eyes had met across the room, and Charles had seen the exact moment Max had understood. Had seen the shock, the hurt, the betrayal flash across his face before he'd hidden it behind that bland, professional smile.

Max had set down his glass, had turned, and had walked out.

Charles had found him twenty minutes later, in a corridor away from the main event, standing with his back against the wall and his eyes closed.

"Max—"

"Don't." Max's voice had been rough. "Don't fucking talk to me right now."

"I tried to tell you. I tried to find you—"

"When?" Max had opened his eyes, and they'd been red-rimmed, furious. "When did you try to tell me, Charles? Before you proposed? Before you started telling everyone else?"

"I—"

"You're getting married." Max had laughed, sharp and broken. "You're actually getting married."

"Yes."

"To her. To someone you've been dating for what, a year? A year and you're ready to marry her?"

"Max, please—"

"We've been—" Max had stopped, had run his hands through his hair. "What have we been doing, Cha? All these years, what the fuck have we been doing?"

"We've been surviving," Charles had said quietly. "We've been trying to survive."

"I thought—" Max's voice had cracked. "I thought we had an understanding. An unspoken thing where we both knew that we couldn't be with other people. Not properly. Not in a way that mattered."

"We can't keep doing that, Max. We can't keep holding onto something that's never going to be real."

"It is real!" Max had shouted, and Charles had flinched. "It's the most real thing in my life and you know it. Everything else is fake—the interviews, the sponsors, the girlfriends who never last—but us? We've always been real."

"It's not enough!" Charles had shouted back, and he'd felt tears burning in his eyes. "Being real isn't enough when we can't actually be together!"

"We could—"

"Could what? Come out? Live together? Be a proper couple?" Charles had laughed bitterly. "You know what would happen, Max. The media would destroy us. The teams would drop us. Everything we've worked for would be gone."

"I don't care."

"Yes, you do! And even if you didn't—" Charles had had to stop, had to breathe. "Even if we burned it all down and said fuck it to everything, we'd still be racing against each other. We'd still be competitors. How do you think that would work? When one of us wins and the other doesn't? When we're fighting for the same championship?"

"We'd figure it out—"

"Would we?" Charles had wiped at his eyes angrily. "I've spent seven years watching you win. Seven years. You've got four world championships, Max. Five. You're set for life. You could walk away tomorrow and you'd still be remembered as one of the greatest to ever do it."

"Cha—"

"But me? I've won eight races in seven years. Eight. I haven't even come close to a championship. I'm still trying to prove that I belong here, that I'm not just some midfield driver who got lucky with a good car for one season."

"You're more than that—"

"I know!" Charles had been properly crying now, couldn't stop. "I know I am, but I need to prove it. I need a championship, Max. I need something that's mine, something I've earned, not something that exists in hotel rooms and stolen moments and text messages we have to delete."

"So that's it?" Max's voice had gone quiet, dangerous. "You're just going to marry her and pretend we never happened?"

"I love you," Charles had said, and the words had felt like they were being torn out of his chest. "I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. I've loved you since I was seven years old and crashed into you on a wet track in Belgium. You're my first everything. First kiss, first love, first person I ever wanted to spend my life with."

Max had made a sound like he'd been stabbed.

"But we will never be happy together," Charles had continued, and his voice had been shaking. "Our jobs, our roles, everything about our lives won't let us be together. Not properly. Not in a way that doesn't destroy us both."

"I'll stop racing." Max had said it desperately, reaching for Charles. "I will, Cha. I'll retire. I'll walk away. We can—we can figure it out. We can make it work."

Charles had stepped back, out of reach. "It's easy for you to say. You're a four-time world champion. I still have nothing."

"You don't have nothing—"

"I've only just won my home race after seven years!" Charles had shouted. "I want a chance too, Max. I want my own championships. I want to prove I'm more than just the guy who loved you and let it ruin his life. And I can't do that if we're together. I can't chase what you already have while being with you. It'll kill me. It's already killing me."

The silence that had followed had been absolute.

Max had been staring at him, tears streaming down his face, and Charles had wanted to take it all back, wanted to cross the space between them and kiss him and say never mind, forget everything, let's just run away together.

But he hadn't. Because he'd meant every word.

"So that's your solution?" Max had finally said. "Marry someone you don't love so you can focus on racing?"

"I care about her—"

"But you don't love her. Not the way you love me. You can't."

"Maybe that's better," Charles had said quietly. "Maybe loving someone less means it hurts less when things go wrong."

Max had flinched like Charles had hit him.

"I'm sorry," Charles had whispered. "I'm so sorry, Max. I wish—I wish things were different. I wish we lived in a world where we could just be together and it would be simple and easy and no one would care. But we don't. And I'm tired of pretending we do."

"So this is it?" Max's voice had been hollow. "This is really it?"

"Yeah," Charles had said, and the word had felt like goodbye. "This is it."

Max had left after that. Had walked away without looking back, and Charles had stayed in that corridor for another twenty minutes, crying so hard he’d thrown up.

When he'd finally composed himself enough to go back to the event, Max had been gone.

Charles had found out later that he'd left entirely, had gotten in his car and driven back to his hotel without saying goodbye to anyone.

That night Alex had found Charles on the balcony of their hotel room, starting out at the lights in the city.

"You alright?" she'd asked, sliding her arms around his waist.

"Yeah," Charles had lied. "Just tired."

"Big day. Lots of congratulations to handle."

"Yeah."

She'd kissed his cheek, and Charles had closed his eyes and had tried not to think about how wrong it felt. How her arms around him felt like a cage instead of comfort.

"I love you," she'd said.

Charles had opened his mouth to say it back and had found he couldn't. The words had stuck in his throat, wrong and impossible.

"I know," he'd said instead, and he'd felt her tense slightly before she'd relaxed again.

"It's okay," she'd said quietly. "You don't have to say it."

But they both knew. They'd both always known.

Charles hadn't seen Max for three weeks after that.

They'd missed each other at the next race, different media obligations, different schedules. The race after that, Max had been out injured.`

When they'd finally been in the same place at the same time, they'd been professional. Distant. Two people who'd once known everything about each other pretending they were barely acquaintances.

Charles had watched Max walk away after a brief, stilted conversation about tyre strategies, and he'd thought, this is what I chose. This is what moving on looks like.

It had felt like dying.

the end.

Charles should've been asleep by now. But he was glad he wasn't. He got a text from his phone. He didn't check it at first, no one should get noticed if they message him at 3 am.

He checked it the second time, though. It was from Max. It was weird that he texted him at 3 am during the winter break, when he knew he was visiting his mother in Belgium.

'You have done so much for me, Charles. I don't know how to ever thank you. Everywhere I go, I take the pain with me, giving it to the people around me. I can't keep doing that, and I can't live like this'

That was the first message.

'I love you'

Charles was suddenly wide awake. He went into his contacts, never having found a number that fast.

A string of muttered pleas left Charles' mouth as he held his phone up to his ear, "Charles?" Charles let out a sigh of relief as he heard Sophie's tired voice on the other end.

"I need you to check on Max, please, I beg of you," In any other instance, he would've apologised for calling this early, but he didn't have time for that.

"Why?" He could hear the ruffle of the duvet on the other end.

"Just… Please?" She didn't hang up, she just hummed. Charles could hear the opening of a door and her footsteps along the floor.

He heard a soft gasp of her as she entered Max's room. She hung up without any words. Charles was relieved as she found him, hoping to the gods above that she found him in time.

Charles didn't sleep that night. He was up in his simulator all night, driving around Monaco, crashing at every lap, not able to get the worst scenario out of his head.

He didn't even acknowledge Alex as she walked into the room in the morning, asking him how long he had been up or if he had even slept.

He ignored every text from friends and family, only focused on listening for the call he would hopefully get from Sophie.

It was a little before 10 when his phone rang. He picked up immediately as she saw Sophie's name on his screen.

"Is he okay?" He asked immediately.

"He's stable," Sophie sniffled, having obviously cried. Charles let out a relieved breath again "Thank you for calling, Charles"

"Of course," He muttered, nodding softly as if she was in the room with him "You know, I would've also called you if he was staying with Jos"

"You would've?" She asked, for some reason surprised, "I'm glad he has someone to talk to about his father. He wouldn't have given a shit if you called him"

"He would've, but only to lecture him about it. How he's selfish for it. He's still mad about last season, so… Yeah, I would've called you even if," He explained.

"I'll call you if anything changes. Thank you again for calling, Charles. You're a good friend"

He never got a message from Max. Sophie called him once, saying that he was home and a bit better than when he had woken up in the hospital, but he never received anything from Max.

—

Pre-testing rolled around, and he had yet to receive anything from Max. He had seen him once in Monaco, but Max immediately turned around when he saw Charles. He didn't think much of it, thinking that maybe he was busy or something.

Charles stood with Lewis in the paddock between sessions, talking softly.

He stood straighter as he saw max walking towards him. He sighed and slumped his shoulders when Max just walked past him, not even sparing him an eye.

"Are you and Max okay?" Lewis asked worried, his eyebrows scrunched together.

"Hm? Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't we be?" Charles dismissed.

"Just… Sensing a bit of tension," Lewis hummed, studying Charles' body language.

"We're fine," He sighed, quickly changing the subject.

—

Halfway through the season, and they were racing in Belgium again. He hadn't talked to Max yet, or even made eye contact with him. Every time they shared a podium, Max would look the other way, spraying the third on the steps, not even hesitating to ignore Charles.

He sat at a table outside of the Ferrari hospitality, enjoying the sun as he looked over at the Red Bull hospitality, watching Max talking with his sister and mother.

Charles' breathing hitched slightly as Sophie made her way over to him, sitting down at the table opposite to him.

"He doesn't want to talk to you," She said, her hands folded on the table.

"I've realised," He chuckled, trying to joke, but it came out as a pathetic laugh "I'd rather not be his friend than have him dead"

Sophie sighed softly, covering Charles' hands with her own, "I'm forever in your debt, Charles"

He looked up at her, his eyes slightly glazed, "You know, that night, it was the first and only time he said that he loves me," He sniffled softly, trying to hold back his tears.

"He does, Charles. He has been in love with you since karting," His eyes widened slightly as she spoke, "It's just, y'know, his father. At some point he had convinced himself that he wasn't gay, but…" She shrugged slightly, her hands tightening around Charles' "He loves you, much more than you can imagine. He has never cared for someone as much as he cares for you"

He couldn't bear the thought, so he changed the subject again, "Back then, Kelly was pregnant. Why'd he do it?"

She sighed, leaning back in her chair, letting go of Charles' hands, "He didn't raise Penelope," She shrugged "He was afraid he'd raise the little one like his father raised him, but he can't exactly leave Kelly. I don't know what it is she has on him, but he's afraid"

"God, I hate her," He breathed out, putting his head in his hands.

"You and me both," Sophie said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing him softly "Remember; he loves you. If he didn't, he'd have attempted a lot sooner"

—

Sophie's words were heavy in Charles' head. He didn't think of anything else outside of the car. He distanced himself from everyone. His family and friends no longer contacted him, knowing they wouldn't get an answer back. Alex broke up with him because she couldn't handle the one-sided relationship.

He didn't even feel bad, he just wanted Max back. He wanted back what they had before the break.

Ferrari didn't even care about him being distant. The only two people he talked to were Sophie and Lewis. He needed to talk to somebody that wasn't Sophie, and Lewis was the one who was closest to him at the moment.

He had told Lewis what had happened. Lewis listened to his problems. He didn't give advice or try to fix it. He just hugged Charles close once he started crying- sobbing, rather.

Charles spent a lot of time in Lewis' apartment after he had fessed up and told what had happened. Everything in Charles' apartment reminded him of Max and what they once shared, and he couldn't walk around in it, so he had almost moved into Lewis' apartment.

Lewis didn't care, he just wanted Charles to be comfortable in his own skin. He knew he couldn't give Charles what he needed, but it seemed like Charles was doing just the tiniest bit better at his place than his own.

He tried cooking for Charles, but everything that went down eventually came up again. The smoothies he made for him seemed to stay down. He knew Charles couldn't live off of smoothies for the rest of his life, but if they stayed down, it was all he could ask for.

"I owe you a lot, Lew," Charles said after he was done sobbing into Lewis' chest, drenching his shirt.

"You don't owe me anything, Charles. I'm doing what everyone with a decent brain would," He said, tugging Charles closer, laying his cheek on the top of Charles' head.

Charles moved his head to look up at Lewis, "I want to repay you in some way. Name it, and I will give you it"

"Charles-" Lewis began, but Charles cut him off with a kiss, quite a forceful one at that. Lewis pushed him slightly back "Stop it. You're in a vulnerable state"

"Please. Just this once," Lewis couldn't stand Charles' begging eyes as he looked at him. He nodded softly.

—

it wasn't just that one time. It became a regular thing. Every time Charles was just feeling that little bit worse than when he had woken up, he went to Lewis, and Lewis didn't dare say no, because he knew the sex made Charles feel better, even if it was just for a few hours.

They weren't a couple, Lewis knew he could never give Charles what he longed for- Lewis knew he wasn't Max and he didn't want to be. He knew how dear to Charles Max was.

Charles had barely gotten into his own apartment after Abu Dhabi, having wanted to feel it again and wanted a little time alone with Leo away from Lewis and Roscoe. He opened the door, his eyes widening slightly.

"Can I stay here for the night?" Max asked softly, his eyes puffy and his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"Of course," Charles hummed, taking a step to the side.

Max thinks not even God could bear such a life. He's the one who created Charles and put him on this Earth, maybe he's in the same position Max is, with a too-good fruit in his hands and the path to Hell carefully mapped out.

Charles' soft features are smoothed out by the bliss of sleep, and yet, so calm and pretty, they can't utter a word of help to Max's wild heart. He takes a glimpse at the pond, where the virgins wait for Spring to come, but his face is broken, reflected in thousands of shards. He can't see himself.

The point is that Max feels like he takes and takes and takes when he fucks Charles on the hood of his Ferrari, in his garage, his moans echoing red against his Red Bull trophies, but he's the one losing bits of himself among the sheets.

Max thinks Charles gets off when he slaps his face next to the second championship trophy on his bedside table. The empty one. The one Kelly left. Left for Charles is left unsaid, loudly in Max's brain.

Max feels like a monster shutting up Charles, pressing his face on the mattress or filling his mouth with his fingers. He's a monster because he wants so much, knowing that's the one thing he can never have or win.

But the words Charles whispered in his ear when he found out he was alone are branded like cattle marks on his brain. “Now that you're free, wanna have some real fun?”

Fast, passionate, bleeding fun. Everywhere, every time. On Max's couch, in Charles' car, in the bathroom of Charles' mother's apartment, while she cooked them lunch and waited for pasta to cook, on the phone with one of Charles' brothers. 

Max knows it's not casual, for him, when he sinks his nails in Charles's hips, marking and scratching like a rabid dog, marking his territory, praying to God that when Charles comes back home to his girlfriend she'll see him, leave Charles to him.

Max feels like a monster for wanting all the time, and hating Charles at the same time. He hates that “Baby, no attachment,” when Charles' dick is twitching down his throat, shooting his load in Max at the thought of having him at his disposal. Max hates loving power imbalances, knowing he wants but could never have that.

Max loves being so stupid to know about Charles' family, receiving worried calls from Arthur about his future and buying Lorenzo's favourite padel brands. Is it casual still when Joris challenges him to get the wag of the year trophy? 

Is it casual still, when Charles' clothes are in his washing machine and his housekeeper folds them in a neat pile in his dresser, where her things used to be?

Max knows it's not, although Charles is free and bright, he comes to him like darkness at sunset, beautiful and morbid as he takes his hand and places it on his throat.

They feel so entangled Max doesn't know where he starts and where Charles ends, where his paradise staircase became a slide to hell.

Max thinks he can hate, but then he sees that golden plane of skin under his pale fingers, he can't grab the brakes anymore and shall brace for impact.