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2010 - Gent (Belgium)
Pierre had seen Charles sulk before. It was part of his personality, when things didn’t go his way, whether on track or off, he’d retreat into this moody quietness, his green eyes downcast, his lips set in a thin line. But this? This was something else entirely.
Charles hadn’t spoken much all day, not even when Esteban cracked his usual dumb jokes or when Antoine dared him to eat the questionable pasta from the karting cafeteria. Normally, Charles would have rolled his eyes and grinned, but today he just stared at his plate, pushing the food around with his fork.
Pierre had been waiting for an opportunity to ask him what was wrong, and when they finally had a moment alone, sitting on the curb by the paddock, watching the sunset wash the sky in streaks of orange and pink, he decided to just go for it.
“What’s going on with you?” Pierre asked, leaning back on his hands.
Charles hesitated, fiddling with the hem of his race suit. “Nothing.”
Pierre gave him a look. “Don’t lie. You’ve been weird all day. Did something happen?”
Charles glanced at him, then quickly looked away, his cheeks turning pink. “It’s... complicated.”
Pierre raised an eyebrow. “Complicated how? Did you crash? Did someone say something?”
“No, it’s not that,” Charles said quickly. Then, quieter, “It’s... personal.”
Pierre blinked, caught off guard. Charles wasn’t usually shy about personal stuff, not with him, anyway. They’d spent so much time together over the years, talking about everything from racing to family to stupid crushes on girls at school.
“Okay,” Pierre said carefully. “You can tell me, though. Whatever it is.”
Charles hesitated again, and Pierre could practically see the gears turning in his head. He was staring at his shoes now, his fingers twisting the fabric of his suit.
“Do you think...” Charles started, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think it’s... normal? To like... ” He stopped, took a deep breath, and tried again. “To like boys?”
Pierre’s brain short-circuited for a moment.
“Boys?” he echoed dumbly.
“I think I might like... boys,” Charles said, the words coming out in a rush.
Pierre froze. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, something about racing, maybe, or a crush on some girl he’d been too shy to talk to, but this was definitely not it.
“Oh,” Pierre said, his brain scrambling for a response. “I mean... that’s okay, right? Like, lots of people like... guys.”
Charles finally looked up at him, his expression a mix of fear and hope. “You think so?”
“Yeah, of course,” Pierre said quickly, though his voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s not a big deal. Not like... bad or anything.”
Charles relaxed a little, but not completely. He hesitated, then added, “It’s not just... guys. I still like girls too. I think.”
Pierre nodded, though his mind was spinning. He hadn’t expected this conversation, not from Charles, of all people. “Okay,” he said again, trying to sound normal. “So... both. That’s... cool?”
Charles’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Cool?”
“Well, I don’t know!” Pierre said. “I’m not good at this kind of stuff. But it’s fine, okay? You’re still you. The same annoying little kid I’ve been racing with forever.”
Charles snorted, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t completely go away.
Pierre hesitated, then asked, “Is that why you’ve been acting so weird? Because you didn’t know how to tell me?”
“Partly,” Charles admitted, his voice quieter now. “But there’s... more.”
“More?” Pierre repeated, his stomach tightening. “What kind of more?”
Charles’s cheeks flushed, and for a second, Pierre felt a flicker of panic. Was Charles talking about him ? Did Charles... like him? He didn’t know how he felt about that. Charles was his best friend, and this was all happening so fast... “Wait, is this about me?”
Charles blinked at him, startled. “What? No! Of course not!”
“Oh,” Pierre said, relief flooding through him. Then, teasing, “I mean, not that I’d blame you. I am pretty amazing.”
Charles rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Shut up, Pierre.”
“Seriously, though,” Pierre said, nudging him with his elbow. “What’s going on? Why are you even thinking about this?”
The smile faded, and Charles’s gaze dropped again. He was quiet for a long moment before he finally said, “It’s about Max.”
Pierre froze. “Max Verstappen?”
Charles nodded, his face turning red.
“What about Max?” Pierre asked cautiously, already dreading the answer.
Charles hesitated, then mumbled something Pierre couldn’t hear.
“What?” Pierre prompted.
“I kissed him,” Charles said, his voice barely audible.
Pierre stared at him, sure he must have misheard. “You what?”
Charles sighed, covering his face with his hands. “I kissed him. Well, we kissed. It just... happened.”
For a moment, Pierre just sat there, stunned into silence. His best friend, the quiet, stubborn Charles he’d known since they were kids, had kissed Max Verstappen. The Max Verstappen. The one who raced like every lap was a battle to the death and acted like he owned the track. The one Charles always bickered with, raced like his life depended on beating, and yet somehow couldn’t stop talking about when they weren’t on track.
“When?!” Pierre blurted out, louder than he meant to.
Charles winced. “A couple of weeks ago, in Gent.”
Pierre stared at him. “A couple of weeks ago? Like, after the race?”
Charles nodded, still not looking at him.
“How does that even happen?” Pierre asked, throwing his hands up. “You two can’t even have a normal conversation without trying to kill each other!”
Charles flinched, and Pierre immediately regretted how harsh he sounded.
“I’m not... look, I’m not mad,” Pierre said quickly. “I’m just... I don’t get it. You kissed Max Verstappen? Like, for real?”
“Yes, for real,” Charles muttered, his shoulders hunched.
Pierre blinked at him, then asked the first question that popped into his head. “Did he kiss you back?”
Charles’s head snapped up, his cheeks somehow going even redder. “Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Pierre’s jaw dropped. “What?!”
“He kissed me back,” Charles repeated, sounding more defensive now. “It wasn’t just me!”
Pierre threw his hands up again. “Okay, okay! I’m just trying to understand!”
Charles groaned, burying his face in his hands.
“Okay,” Pierre said, trying to sound calm even though his brain felt like it was short-circuiting. “Start from the beginning. What happened?”
Charles peeked at him through his fingers, looking miserable. “We were talking after the race. It was late, and everyone else had left. He wasn’t... he wasn’t being an idiot for once. We just talked. For hours.”
Pierre frowned. “Talked about what?”
“The race. Karting. I don’t know. Stupid stuff,” Charles said, his voice muffled. “It was... nice.”
“Nice?” Pierre echoed, struggling to picture a “nice” conversation with Max Verstappen.
“Yes, nice,” Charles snapped, dropping his hands. “And then... it just happened.”
“You kissed him?”
“Yes,” Charles said, his voice barely audible.
“And he kissed you back,” Pierre said, more to himself than Charles.
“Yes!” Charles said, throwing his hands up in frustration.
“For how long?”
“What kind of question is that?” Charles muttered, finally looking up to glare at Pierre.
“A valid one!” Pierre shot back “This is Max Verstappen we’re talking about!”
Charles groaned. “I don’t know. A while.”
Pierre blinked, then let out a low whistle. “Okay, so not just a quick thing.”
“No,” Charles admitted, his voice muffled.
Pierre tried to picture it. Charles and Max, their usual intense rivalry melting into something else entirely. It didn’t make sense, but at the same time... it kind of did. There was always something electric between them, something Pierre had never quite been able to put into words.
“And after?” Pierre asked cautiously. “What happened after?”
Charles froze, his expression darkening.
“Charles?” Pierre pressed.
“He left,” Charles mumbled.
Pierre blinked. “He what?”
“He said he had to go, and then he left,” Charles repeated, his voice cracking slightly.
Pierre frowned. “And now?”
Charles hesitated, his hands twisting the fabric of his race suit.
“What about now?” Pierre asked, his stomach sinking.
Charles looked at the ground, his voice barely audible. “He ignored me.”
Pierre stared at him. “What do you mean, he ignored you?”
“He’s been ignoring me ever since” Charles said, his voice breaking “He won’t talk to me, won’t even look at me. Like it never happened.”
Pierre’s chest tightened with anger. “Are you serious? That’s such a... ” He stopped himself, biting back the string of words he wanted to yell. “So he kissed you, and now he’s pretending it didn’t happen?”
“Yes,” Charles said, his voice cracking.
Pierre clenched his fists, his protective instincts flaring. “What an idiot.”
“I don’t know if he’s mad, or if he regrets it, or...” Charles trailed off. “I feel so stupid, Pierre.”
“Hey, hey, stop that,” Pierre said, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. “You’re not stupid.”
“I am,” Charles muttered, his eyes glassy. “I thought maybe... I don’t know what I thought. But now he’s acting like it never happened, and I... ” He swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t even know what’s wrong with me.”
“Listen,” Pierre said, his voice softening. “I don’t know what’s going on in Max’s head, but you’re not wrong for feeling how you feel. And if he can’t handle that, then that’s his loss.”
Charles looked up at him, his green eyes shining with unshed tears. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” Pierre said firmly.
For a moment, they just sat there, the quiet hum of the paddock around them. Then, slowly, Charles smiled.
“Thanks, Pierre,” he said softly.
Pierre grinned, ruffling his hair. “What are best friends for? Now, let’s go find Esteban and Anthoine before they do something stupid.”
As they stood up, Pierre glanced at Charles, silently vowing to keep an eye on Max. Rivalry or not, no one got to hurt his best friend without consequences.
2012 - Val d'Argenton (France)
Pierre was lying on his bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone when it buzzed in his hand. Charles’s name lit up the screen. He frowned. It wasn’t unusual for Charles to call, but it was late, and Charles knew Pierre had been racing all weekend.
Still, he picked up. “Hey, what’s up?”
The line crackled for a moment before Charles’s voice came through, loud and furious. “You will not believe what that asshole did today.”
Pierre blinked, sitting up. “What? Who?”
“Max!” Charles spat the name like it physically hurt to say it.
Pierre sighed. Of course, it was Max. “What happened?”
“We were racing at Val d’Argenton, and it was... ugh! It was such a mess!” Charles began, his words tumbling over each other in his anger. “I was faster than him, Pierre. I was faster, and I passed him fair and square, and then he just shoved me off the track like a complete idiot!”
Pierre sat up straighter, already feeling his own irritation rise in solidarity. “What do you mean shoved you? Like, on purpose?”
“Of course on purpose!” Charles snapped. “He didn’t even try to hide it. He slammed into me, pushed me wide, and got past. It was so dangerous! If I hadn’t caught it, I would’ve spun out completely.”
“Jesus,” Pierre muttered, his free hand clenching the edge of his blanket.
“And then he won,” Charles continued, his voice shaking with frustration. “Like nothing happened. Like it was just another race. But I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.”
Pierre paused. “What did you do?”
“I pushed him off after the flag,” Charles said, his tone defiant.
Pierre froze. “You shoved him?”
“I shoved him,” Charles confirmed.
“And where did he end up?” Pierre asked, trying not to sound as amused as he felt.
“In a giant puddle” Charles said, and even through the phone, Pierre could hear the hint of satisfaction in his voice.
Pierre let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Good. He deserved it.”
“They disqualified me,” Charles added, his tone clipped. “And him too, but still. I lost everything because of that idiot.”
“Serves him right,” Pierre said immediately, his anger simmering. “They should’ve done more. What he did wasn’t just dirty! It was dangerous. He could’ve hurt you!”
“I know,” Charles said quietly.
Pierre’s grip on the phone tightened. “This is what I’m saying, Charles. Max is bad news. He’s reckless, he doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and he always takes it too far. And now this? I swear, if I were there... ”
“What would you have done?” Charles asked, a faint edge of amusement creeping into his voice.
“I don’t know,” Pierre admitted, his pacing growing more erratic. “But he wouldn’t get away with it, that’s for sure. He’s lucky I wasn’t there to see it.”
“Pierre, calm down,” Charles said, though he didn’t sound entirely displeased by Pierre’s outrage.
“Calm down?” Pierre snapped. “Charles, this isn’t the first time he’s pulled something like this, and it won’t be the last. He thinks he can do whatever he wants because he’s Max Verstappen, but he’s just... He’s such a prick!”
Charles didn’t say anything, and Pierre frowned. “What?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” Charles said quickly. “It’s just... you sound more angry than me.”
“Of course I’m angry!” Pierre exclaimed. “You’re my best friend, Charles. I don’t want to see you get hurt because of some spoiled brat who thinks he owns the track!”
Charles sighed, and for the first time, Pierre heard the exhaustion in his voice. “I just don’t get why he’s like this. Why does he have to ruin everything?”
Pierre hesitated, his own frustration faltering. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe he’s just... I don’t know, jealous or something. Of how good you are.”
Charles snorted. “Jealous? Of me? Max doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”
Pierre stayed silent for a moment, his mind flashing back to the stories Charles had told him about Max over the years. The bickering, the rivalries, the strange tension between them that never seemed to go away. And, of course, the kiss .
“Look,” Pierre said finally, his voice softening. “Whatever his problem is, it’s not your fault. You’re better than him, Charles. Always have been. Don’t let him drag you down to his level, okay?”
Charles hesitated, then let out a long breath. “I just hate how he gets to me, Pierre. He always knows how to push my buttons.”
“Because he knows you’re better than him,” Pierre said simply.
Charles let out a small, bitter laugh. “Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever stop fighting.”
“Not if he keeps acting like this,” Pierre muttered.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him after the flag,” Charles said, though his tone wasn’t entirely apologetic.
“No,” Pierre said firmly. “He deserved it. Maybe now he’ll think twice before pulling that crap again.”
Charles was quiet for a moment, and Pierre could hear the faint hum of background noise on his end. “Thanks, Pierre,” he said softly.
“Always,” Pierre said. Then, with a wry grin, he added, “Next time, let me shove him off for you, okay?”
Charles laughed, and it was the first real laugh Pierre had heard from him all night. “Deal.”
As they said their goodbyes, Pierre hung up the phone, his irritation with Max still simmering beneath the surface. He didn’t trust Verstappen, not with his driving, and certainly not with Charles.
“Reckless idiot,” Pierre muttered to himself, tossing his phone onto the bed.
If Max Verstappen wanted to play dirty, Pierre thought, then he’d better be ready for the consequences.
2019 - RedBull Ring (Austria)
Pierre knocked on the door, the sound firm but deliberate. He didn’t know exactly what he was walking into, but he had a strong feeling he wouldn’t like it. Charles had been uncharacteristically distant since France. Quiet, withdrawn, moving through the paddock as if the air around him weighed twice as much. Pierre had seen Charles upset before, seen him frustrated or angry after a bad race or a team mistake, but this was different. This wasn’t about racing.
When the door finally opened, Charles stood there, looking far worse than Pierre had expected. His usually pristine appearance was gone; his hair was disheveled, his eyes red-rimmed, and his expression hollow. He said nothing, just stepped aside to let Pierre in. That alone was enough for Pierre to know something serious had happened.
Pierre walked in and closed the door behind him, taking in the room. It was neat, almost untouched, except for the bed, which looked like it had been slept in but abandoned in a rush. Charles sat heavily on the edge of the mattress, his shoulders hunched, his hands clasped together as if trying to hold himself together.
“Alright,” Pierre began, pulling the desk chair around and sitting across from him. “Talk to me, Charles. What’s going on?”
Charles stared at the floor, silent for a long moment. Pierre waited, letting the quiet stretch between them. He wasn’t going to push, he just needed Charles to start.
Finally, Charles spoke, his voice low and rough. “It’s Max.”
Pierre’s stomach twisted, his mind immediately racing. He’d suspected Max might be involved somehow. The tension between the two of them had been palpable since the weekend in France, though Pierre hadn’t known why. Now, he braced himself.
“What about Max?” Pierre asked cautiously.
Charles hesitated, his hands tightening around each other. “After the race in France, we… we spent the night together.”
The words hung in the air like a live wire, and for a moment, Pierre wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “You and Max?” he repeated, trying to keep his tone neutral.
Charles nodded, his cheeks flushing, though his expression was pained rather than embarrassed. “It wasn’t planned. We were just talking, and… it happened.” He looked up at Pierre, his eyes pleading for understanding. “But the next morning, he was gone. He left a note.”
Pierre’s jaw clenched. He already didn’t like where this was going. “What did it say?”
“That it was a mistake,” Charles admitted, his voice breaking on the last word. “That it shouldn’t have happened. He didn’t even stay to talk to me. He just… left.”
Pierre exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair as he processed the information. His first instinct was anger, not at Charles but at Max. The audacity of him, to do this and then walk away as if it meant nothing. “And then?”
“Then he ignored me,” Charles continued, his voice barely audible. “All week. I thought maybe he just needed time, but now we’re here, and he’s still avoiding me. So today, I went to find him. I wanted answers. I needed to know why he just… disappeared like that.”
Pierre’s hands tightened on the back of the chair he was sitting on, his knuckles white. “What did he say?”
Charles let out a bitter laugh, the sound devoid of humor. “While we were talking, his phone rang. I saw her name, his ex. He didn’t even try to hide it.”
Pierre’s stomach sank. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” Charles whispered. “He told me they’re back together. That he owes it to her to try again. That what happened with me was just… something he needed to forget.” His voice cracked on the last word, and Pierre felt his own chest tighten with anger.
“That bastard,” Pierre said through gritted teeth. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Don’t,” Charles said quickly, though his voice lacked conviction. “It’s not worth it.”
“Not worth it?” Pierre repeated, his voice rising. “He used you, Charles. He ran off like a coward and now he’s acting like none of it happened? That’s worth it.”
Charles shook his head, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I feel so stupid, Pierre. I thought maybe…” He trailed off, his voice trembling.
“You’re not stupid,” Pierre said firmly, standing up and moving to sit beside him on the bed. “You trusted him. That’s not stupid, that’s human. He’s the one who’s an idiot. He’s the one who doesn’t know what the hell he wants.”
Charles buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Pierre put a comforting hand on his back, his anger momentarily pushed aside by the sheer weight of his friend’s pain.
“I just… I don’t understand,” Charles choked out. “Why would he do this?”
“Because he’s scared,” Pierre said, his voice low but steady. “Because he’s selfish. Because he doesn’t know how to deal with his own feelings, so he runs away and pretends they don’t exist. That’s not your fault, Charles. That’s on him.”
Charles didn’t respond, but Pierre could feel him trembling under his hand.
“You’re better than this,” Pierre said softly. “Better than him. He doesn’t deserve you, not as a friend, and definitely not as anything more. You need to let him go, Charles. For your own sake.”
Charles nodded weakly, though Pierre wasn’t sure if he believed it.
“I’m here for you,” Pierre continued. “Whatever you need, whenever you need it. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
“Thank you,” Charles whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
Pierre squeezed his shoulder, his resolve hardening. Max might have broken Charles’ heart, but Pierre would make damn sure he never got the chance to do it again.
On Sunday the podium ceremony felt like a twisted farce. Pierre stood at the back of the crowd, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. Charles was on the second step, a hollow smile plastered on his face as he held his trophy. Max stood above him, grinning broadly, champagne dripping from his hair as he raised his own trophy high. And then there was Dilara, leaning over the barrier, radiant and perfectly positioned for the cameras.
When Max descended from the podium, she pulled him into a kiss that was so perfectly timed it might as well have been scripted. The crowd roared their approval, and Pierre saw Charles’ expression falter for just a fraction of a second before he recovered, lifting his trophy again for the cameras.
Pierre’s hands curled into fists. He’d seen Dilara earlier in the paddock, but he hadn’t expected this. It was one thing to push Charles off track and steal his victory, something Pierre was furious about already, but this public display felt calculated. Cruel, even.
After the ceremony, the team gathered for the debrief. Pierre sat stiffly, arms folded as the engineers dissected the race. Max’s voice carried through the room, casual and confident as he defended his late-race maneuver against Charles.
“It was hard, yeah,” Max said with a shrug. “But that’s racing. If you leave the door open, you can’t complain when someone walks through it.”
Pierre felt his pulse spike, his nails digging into his palms. The screen in the room replayed the incident, Max forcing Charles wide, practically shoving him off the track. The stewards had deemed it a racing incident, but Pierre had watched enough races to know it wasn’t clean.
When the debrief finally ended, Pierre waited. He hung back as the engineers filed out, his eyes locked on Max, who was still casually leaning against the desk, scrolling through his phone like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Max,” Pierre said sharply, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.
Max looked up, his expression unreadable. “What?”
Pierre stepped closer, his voice low but seething. “What the hell was that out there?”
Max raised an eyebrow, slipping his phone into his pocket. “What are you talking about?”
“That move on Charles,” Pierre snapped. “You shoved him off the track. He had the race in the bag, and you... ” He stopped himself, taking a deep breath. “You didn’t need to do that. You had the pace.”
Max’s smirk returned, infuriatingly smug. “Like I said, that’s racing. If he can’t handle it, he shouldn’t be out there.”
Pierre took another step forward, his fists trembling at his sides. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Max. We both know what you did. It wasn’t just about the race.”
Max’s eyes narrowed slightly, his posture stiffening. “What are you trying to say?”
“You know exactly what I’m saying,” Pierre shot back. “You didn’t just beat him today, you humiliated him. You took what should’ve been his maiden win and rubbed his face in it. And then you go and kiss Dilara in front of everyone? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Max’s expression darkened, his easy arrogance replaced by something colder. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” he said tightly. “Or him. I’m here to win, not to play nice or make friends.”
“Win?” Pierre scoffed, his anger boiling over. “You think that was a win? You think shoving someone off the track, stealing their moment, and then flaunting your perfect little life in front of them makes you a winner? That’s not winning, Max. That’s just being a coward and an idiot.”
Max’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he crossed his arms, his gaze icy. “You don’t know anything about it,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less sharp.
Pierre leaned in, his own voice a low growl. “I know enough. I know you’ve been screwing with his head since France. I know you’re too scared to admit what you actually want, so you’re lashing out and making him pay for it. And I know that if you keep this up, you’re going to lose the one person who actually gives a damn about you outside of this sport.”
Max’s expression flickered, just for a moment, before his walls slammed back into place. “Stay out of it, Pierre,” he said, his tone like steel. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“It concerns me when my friend gets hurt because of you,” Pierre shot back. “Charles deserves better than this, better than you. And if you’re too much of a coward to face that, then at least do him the courtesy of staying the hell away from him.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The tension crackled like a live wire, and Pierre half-expected Max to throw a punch. But instead, Max just turned away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“I don’t need advice from you,” Max said over his shoulder, his voice flat. “And I don’t need your approval.”
Pierre let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t need anything, do you? Just keep telling yourself that, Max. Maybe one day you’ll actually believe it.”
Max didn’t respond, walking out of the room without another word. Pierre stayed behind, his anger still simmering but his concern for Charles burning even brighter.
He didn’t trust Max, not with Charles’ heart, not with anything. And after today, he wasn’t sure he ever would.
2019 Spa (Belgium)
The paddock had never felt so suffocating. Grief hung heavy in the air, a weight pressing down on everything and everyone. Pierre sat on the cold steps outside the Toro Rosso motorhome, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. The exhaustion of the day, of the entire weekend, threatened to crush him, but the ache in his chest was worse.
He glanced to his left, where Charles sat beside him. The younger man was staring into the distance, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. His face was pale, his eyes rimmed red, but no tears fell. He looked hollowed out, like the grief had drained him of everything he had.
Anthoine was gone.
The words echoed endlessly in Pierre’s mind, a mantra of loss he couldn’t shake. Anthoine, his friend since childhood, a brother in everything but blood. The boy he’d raced with, grown with, dreamed with. Gone.
“Charles,” Pierre began, his voice cracking, “I... ” He stopped himself, unsure of what to say. Nothing would make this better.
Charles shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible motion. “I know,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Me too.”
Charles hadn’t said much since the race ended. His win, the maiden win that should have been the happiest moment of his life, was tainted, eclipsed by loss. Pierre had watched him on the podium, a single finger pointed skyward, the gesture speaking louder than words ever could. Anthoine.
"I can’t believe he’s gone," Pierre murmured, his voice hoarse.
Charles nodded, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “Neither can I.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of the paddock muted. Neither wanted to move, to face the world. Anthoine was supposed to be here, supposed to be celebrating with them, supposed to...
Footsteps approached, hesitant but deliberate. Pierre’s stomach tightened as he looked up. Max.
Of course, it was Max.
Max stopped a few paces away, his expression unreadable. For once, there was no arrogance, no smugness, no defiance. He looked almost...uncertain.
“I just wanted to say…” Max began, his voice softer than Pierre had ever heard it. He glanced at Charles, then back at Pierre. “I’m sorry. About Anthoine. He was a good guy. I’m really... ”
“Save it,” Pierre snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air. He stood, his fists clenching at his sides. “You don’t get to come over here and pretend you care.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “I do care,” he said, his tone firm but not defensive. “I knew him too... ”
“Don’t,” Pierre interrupted, stepping forward. His grief boiled into anger, white-hot and searing. “Don’t you dare make this about you. You didn’t know him like we did. You didn’t grow up with him, race with him, dream with him. You can’t stand there and act like this is your loss.”
“Pierre... ” Charles began, but Pierre wasn’t done.
“And you,” he continued, his voice rising, “you’ve done nothing but take from us. You took Charles’ win in Austria, his maiden win. Do you even understand what you did that day? You stole his joy, his moment, and now his first victory will always be tied to this. To Anthoine. To pain.”
Max flinched, his expression hardening into a mask of ice.
“And as for me,” Pierre spat, his voice trembling, “I lost my seat at Red Bull because of you. Because I wasn’t good enough to be your teammate. Or maybe because I refused to kiss your ass like everyone else does.” He jabbed a finger toward Max, his voice rising. “But you know what? Fine. I’m glad I’m not in that car anymore, because at least now I don’t have to deal with you every day.”
“Pierre,” Charles murmured, his voice soft and strained, but Pierre barely heard him.
“And you know what else?” Pierre said, his eyes blazing as they locked onto Max’s. “You’re an idiot. A selfish, arrogant idiot who doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”
Max didn’t respond. He just stood there, his face a blank slate, his hands shoved into his pockets. He didn’t argue, didn’t fight back, didn’t even flinch again.
Pierre’s chest heaved, his anger bubbling over into something messier, rawer. “You think you’re invincible, don’t you? That you can do whatever you want, say whatever you want, and it doesn’t matter who you hurt.” He gestured to Charles, whose face was pale and stricken. “But one day, Max, it’s all going to catch up to you. And when it does, I hope you realize just how much you’ve destroyed.”
For a moment, the three of them stood there, the air between them thick with tension and unspoken words.
Max glanced at Charles, his expression flickering with something, guilt, regret, maybe both, but he said nothing.
“Just go,” Pierre said, his voice low and tired. “We don’t need you here.”
Max hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on Charles, before he nodded once and turned to leave.
As he walked away, Pierre sat back down beside Charles, his shoulders slumping. The anger that had fueled him moments ago was gone, leaving behind only exhaustion and a deep, aching sadness.
“I’m sorry,” Pierre murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “For everything.”
Charles didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. They sat in silence, their grief shared but unbearably heavy, as the world continued to move around them.
2022 - Bologna (Italy)
The FIA gala had been endless, hours of stiff, polite applause, pre-rehearsed speeches, and the kind of hollow smiles that only came with events like this. Pierre had endured it, like everyone else, because that’s what you did when you were part of this world. But by the time the final awards were handed out, his jaw ached from forcing a smile, and his patience had worn thin.
Max, of course, had been the star of the night. Another championship, another triumph. He had Kelly by his side, her hand resting lightly on his arm, both of them shining under the spotlight. It was all so perfect, so polished, it made Pierre’s stomach churn.
Charles had been quieter. He sat a few tables away, alone, a composed but detached figure. Pierre couldn’t help but glance at him now and then, searching for cracks in the armor. Charles had told him about the breakup with Charlotte days ago, before the rest of the world knew, and though he’d spoken with a calm acceptance, Pierre could tell it had shaken him. How could it not?
And yet, when their eyes met across the room, Charles offered a small, reassuring smile. Always so careful to hold it together. Pierre nodded back, but the tightness in his chest didn’t ease. He knew Charles too well to believe the facade entirely.
When the ceremony finally ended, Pierre tagged along with a group heading to a nearby club. He wasn’t much for partying anymore, not after the year he’d had, but it felt better than retreating to a quiet hotel room with nothing but his thoughts.
The club was packed, pulsing with music and heat, the air thick with energy. Pierre stuck to the edges of the VIP section, a drink in his hand more for show than anything else. It wasn’t long before he spotted Charles.
It was impossible not to.
In Italy, Charles was untouchable, an icon, a god. Tonight was no exception. A sea of admirers surrounded him, laughing at his jokes, hanging on his every word. Charles played the role effortlessly, his charm on full display as he danced with one woman, then another, his grin never wavering. He was the center of attention, and for the first time in weeks, Pierre saw him smile without forcing it.
He was dancing, laughing, and flirting, though not just with the girls. A few guys lingered close, their intentions clear, and Charles didn’t seem to mind.
Pierre chuckled to himself, shaking his head. Charles deserved to let loose, but someone had to keep an eye on him, and it looked like he wasn't the only one.
Max had noticed Charles too.
Even across the crowded room, Pierre could feel the tension radiating from the Dutchman. Max’s gaze was locked on Charles, sharp and unyielding. Kelly was by his side, but it was clear Max’s focus was elsewhere. He wasn’t as obvious about it, but his eyes kept straying to Charles, narrowing slightly whenever Charles got too close to someone. Pierre recognized that look, he’d seen it before, though Max would never admit to what it meant.
Max’s hand rested on Kelly’s waist, his other nursing a whiskey, but there was something performative about the way he leaned into her, brushing his lips against her cheek or whispering in her ear. Pierre rolled his eyes. It was so transparent it was almost laughable.
And yet, Charles seemed to notice. His dancing became a little more animated, his smiles a little brighter. A cycle was starting, one Pierre had seen far too many times before, and he hated it.
It got worse when Charles disappeared into a quieter corner of the VIP area with a tall, blond Italian guy. Pierre didn’t recognize him, but the guy looked like he’d stepped straight out of a fashion magazine, with sharp cheekbones, blue eyes and an easy smile. Charles leaned in close as they talked, laughing softly, their heads almost touching, the energy between them unmistakable.
Pierre saw the shift immediately, the way Max’s jaw tightened, his grip on his glass turning white-knuckled. He leaned back in his seat, his expression darkening with every second.
When Kelly excused herself to go to the bathroom, Max shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly as if he were about to stand.
Pierre was faster.
He intercepted Max just as he rose, grabbing him firmly by the arm. “Don’t even think about it,” Pierre said, his voice low but firm.
Max scowled, shaking off Pierre’s grip. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Pierre snapped, stepping closer so their conversation wouldn’t carry. “Don’t you dare go over there. Whatever you’re thinking, drop it. Right now.”
Max’s glare was icy. “It’s none of your business.”
Pierre laughed bitterly. “Oh, it’s my business when it comes to Charles. You’ve done enough, Max. He’s finally starting to put himself back together, and you’re not going to rip him apart again.”
Max’s face twisted with anger. “I haven’t done anything.”
Pierre’s laugh was cold. “You’re joking, right? Do you think I’ve forgotten Austria? Or everything that came after? You’ve done nothing but mess with his head for years, and I’m not letting you do it again.”
Max yanked his arm free, his voice dangerously low. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Pierre retorted. “You made your choice, Max. You’re with Kelly. You’ve got your perfect little relationship, your two world titles, your perfect public image. Don’t come over here and mess with Charles just because you can’t stand seeing him happy without you.”
“I’m not... ” Max started, but Pierre didn’t let him finish.
“Don’t lie to me,” Pierre said sharply. “You think I don’t see what’s going on? You’ve been staring at him all night like he’s the only person in the room, and now you’re trying to play the jealous ex when you’ve got Kelly hanging all over you? You’re an idiot, Max. Grow up.”
Max’s face twisted in anger. “I’m not trying to...”
“Yes, you are,” Pierre interrupted. “And let me make this clear. Charles is my best friend. I’ve been there for him every time you’ve hurt him, every time you’ve made him doubt himself. If you go over there now and screw with his head again, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Max’s jaw clenched, “You think I don’t care about him?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
Pierre met his gaze head-on. “If you care about him, then leave him alone. Let him have his fun, let him figure out who he is. And if you ever want a chance at fixing whatever’s left between you two, you better start by being honest, for once in your life. But not here, and not like this.”
Max’s fists clenched, his knuckles white, but he didn’t move. For a long moment, they stared each other down, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
Finally, Max turned away, his movements stiff and controlled. “Stay out of it, Pierre,” he said over his shoulder, his voice icy.
Pierre glanced back to Charles, who was still blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding on his behalf. He was still with the blond man, laughing at something he’d said. Pierre hoped Charles wouldn’t look back. Max didn’t deserve his attention. Not tonight, not ever, not until he figured out how to stop being such a coward.
2024 - Yas Marina (Abu Dhabi)
Thursday afternoon
Pierre had been keeping a close eye on Charles all week, and something was definitely off.
Sure, pre-race pressure was higher than usual, Ferrari was fighting for the Constructors' Championship in this final race of the season, but Charles had faced pressure like this countless times before, and Pierre could always tell when something else was going on.
The past week had been far from ordinary. Max’s crash in Qatar, just four days ago, had shaken everyone to their core and for sure Charles had been nothing short of heroic. Pierre still hated to think about what might have happened if Charles hadn’t stopped on track to pull Max from the car when it became clear the marshals weren’t going to reach him in time. The risk Charles had taken was unthinkable, but when you considered that the Red Bull had literally exploded seconds after Charles dragged Max out… well, it was hard to fault him for acting on instinct.
Still, if Pierre was honest with himself, Charles had been acting “off” for longer than just this week. The breakup with Alexandra had probably played a part, though Charles had claimed it simply wasn’t working anymore. He’d been calm about it, even firm, and Pierre had believed him. There had been no signs of lingering doubt, no suggestion that there was something more to it.
At first, Pierre had let it go, chalking it up to the emotional toll of the season and the chaos surrounding Max’s accident. Charles just needed time to process, Pierre had reasoned.
After all, Charles always told him everything.
Or at least, Pierre had thought so.
But now, as they walked through the paddock, Pierre couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story. Charles was distracted, fidgeting like he was trying to keep a secret.
“Alright, out with it,” Pierre said, falling into step beside him.
Charles shot him a quick glance, his expression guarded. “Out with what?”
Pierre gave him a pointed look. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on,” Charles replied, too quickly to be believable.
Pierre raised an eyebrow. “Charles, come on. You don’t have to pretend with me. I know you. You’re twitchy, distracted. And don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding every question about Max during the press conference.”
Charles hesitated, his steps faltering. Pierre could see the wheels turning in his head, debating how much to say.
“I wasn’t avoiding...”
“You were,” Pierre interrupted. His tone was firm but not harsh. “And I get it. I know what happened in Qatar wasn’t just another crash. But seriously, how is he? How are you?”
Charles let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly. “He’s… recovering. Slowly. It’ll take time.”
Pierre nodded, his expression softening. “And you? I mean, that was a lot to go through. You sounded... different this week. Not yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Charles said, but Pierre wasn’t buying it.
He reached out, grabbing Charles’ arm lightly and stopping him in his tracks. “Look, man, I know we don’t always talk about this kind of stuff, but I’m here. If you need to unload or whatever. And don’t give me the ‘I’m fine’ routine. I can see through that.”
Charles met his gaze, and Pierre saw something crack in his friend’s carefully constructed façade. There was hesitation, and then a flicker of something else, determination.
Charles glanced over his shoulder, checking their surroundings, before he spoke in a low voice. “He’s here.”
Pierre blinked. “What do you mean, he’s here?”
“In Abu Dhabi,” Charles clarified. His voice was barely above a whisper.
That didn’t make sense. Pierre frowned. “Wait. Max is here? I thought he was supposed to be in Monaco, resting.”
Charles shook his head. “He didn’t want to stay in Monaco. He wanted to be here. With me.”
The weight of those last two words hit Pierre like a punch. “With you?”
Charles nodded, his cheeks flushing slightly. “We’re… together. We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks now.”
For a moment, Pierre didn’t know what to say. The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Max and Charles. Together.
He stared at Charles, his mind racing. This wasn’t just about the crash or the chaos of the season. This was bigger, something Charles had been keeping from him, something he’d decided not to share.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Pierre said, his voice quieter than he’d intended.
Charles winced. “I wanted to. I just… I didn’t know how. I was afraid you’d... ”
“Think you’re making a mistake?” Pierre finished, his tone sharper than he’d meant it to be.
Charles nodded, looking guilty.
Pierre sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ll be honest, I didn’t see this coming. And yeah, I remember 2019. I remember how much it messed you up.”
Charles flinched, and Pierre instantly regretted his choice of words. He softened his tone. “I just… I didn’t want to see you hurt again, okay?”
“I know,” Charles said quietly. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to think I was setting myself up for more heartbreak.”
Pierre studied him for a moment, weighing his next words carefully. “Do you trust him?”
“I do,” Charles said, and the conviction in his voice was undeniable. “He’s different now, Pierre. He’s been… amazing.”
Pierre exhaled slowly, his initial frustration melting into something more complicated, reluctant acceptance. Just as he opened his mouth to respond, Carlos appeared, strolling toward them with his trademark impeccable timing. The knowing look in Carlos’ eyes told Pierre everything: Carlos already knew about Charles and Max. Of course, he did. Carlos always seemed to know more than he let on.
“What’s this?” Carlos asked, his tone light and teasing. “Are we having another deep and meaningful conversation without me?”
Pierre gave him a sidelong look, still processing everything. “Charles just told me he and Max are… together.”
Carlos raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “Oh, you mean how Verstappen has completely lost his mind over Charles? Yeah, that tracks.”
Charles groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Carlos…”
"What?" Carlos said, feigning innocence. "It’s true. The guy’s practically a puppy around you."
Despite himself, Pierre let out a laugh, though the knot of concern in his chest didn’t fully ease. Carlos’s approval wasn’t something to dismiss lightly. Pierre knew how much Carlos genuinely cared about Charles, and it carried weight that Carlos, who had known Max for years, they’d even been teammates back in their Toro Rosso days, was willing to vouch for him now.
"Alright, fine," Pierre said at last. "If Carlos is on board, I guess I can be too. But seriously, Charles, if he hurts you... "
“He won’t,” Charles said firmly, his eyes meeting Pierre’s.
There was no hesitation, no doubt. Pierre had to admit, Charles looked happy, genuinely happy.
“Okay,” Pierre said finally. “If you’re happy, I’ll back you up. Just don’t shut me out again, alright?”
Charles smiled, relief washing over his face. “I won’t. I promise.”
Pierre nodded, falling back into step with them as they continued down the paddock. He silently promised himself to keep an eye on Charles, to watch over him in his own way. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about all of this, Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc, but for now, he would trust Charles’ judgment.
Thursday evening
Pierre was sitting in the quiet of his hotel room, scrolling through his phone and catching up on the growing backlash online. Social media was ablaze with outrage over the FIA’s harsh decision to penalize Charles, forcing him to start from the back of the grid for violating protocol in Qatar. The sheer unfairness of it all churned in Pierre’s stomach as he swiped through the posts.
Then Max’s Instagram post popped up on his feed. The image was striking, an aerial shot of Charles shielding Max with his body as flames engulfed the remains of the Red Bull - with Max’s caption boldly criticizing the FIA’s decision to penalize Charles
Pierre read the caption once, then again, the words sinking in. Apologies if I don’t agree with the FIA’s decision... punishing someone for acting in the moment is beyond me. Max’s words were direct, unapologetic, and surprisingly heartfelt. The hashtag at the end, #Lestappen, made Pierre snort softly, but it was the sentiment behind the post that stuck with him.
Max had never been one for public vulnerability. His reputation was built on being fiercely private and guarded, a wall of steel around his emotions. Yet here he was, breaking that image, not just to defend Charles but to acknowledge the weight of what Charles had done for him.
Pierre leaned back against the headboard, letting out a slow breath. For the first time, a flicker of hope replaced the lingering unease he’d been feeling since Charles had told him about their relationship. Maybe, just maybe, Max had finally come to terms with his feelings for Charles. Perhaps this was proof that Max wasn’t going to repeat the mistakes of the past.
Still, Pierre’s worry wasn’t entirely gone. Max had a history of volatility, and Charles… Charles was Pierre’s family in every way that mattered. He couldn’t bear the thought of him being hurt again, especially not by someone he’d risked everything to save.
But then Pierre thought about the way Charles had spoken about Max earlier. The quiet conviction in his voice, the trust in his eyes. It was clear how much Max mattered to him. And now, seeing Max’s post, Pierre could see it too.
Opening his messages, Pierre typed quickly, letting his thoughts spill out without overthinking:
Pierre: “Charles, I’m glad Max is speaking up for you. What you did was incredible, and seeing him stand by you like this… I get it now. I see why he matters so much to you. Proud of you, mate. Always here for you.”
He hit send and set the phone aside, staring out at the city lights twinkling beyond the window. There was still a part of him that was wary, but he allowed himself to hope. Hope that Max had truly changed. Hope that, against all odds, this might actually work. For Charles’sake, Pierre wanted to believe it.
Saturday afternoon
Esteban stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening as he glanced past Pierre. “Is that… Verstappen?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Pierre turned casually, already knowing what, or rather, who, he’d see. Esteban, on the other hand, looked like he’d spotted a ghost.
Max was making his way down the paddock, sunglasses on, his stride easy despite the weight of the attention he was drawing. Pierre could practically feel the ripple effect as heads turned, whispers spreading like wildfire. What Esteban didn’t know, what most people didn’t know, was that Max had arrived in Abu Dhabi days ago. The world thought he was still in Monaco, recovering in private.
But now, here he was, stepping into the spotlight in a way only Max Verstappen could.
“What the hell is he wearing?” Esteban added, squinting as Max came closer.
Pierre followed his gaze, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The navy-blue Ferrari hoodie was impossible to miss, even from across the paddock. It wasn’t overtly flashy, subtle enough to avoid screaming "Scuderia", but the number 16 embroidered on the sleeve was a deliberate, unmistakable nod to Charles. The hoodie’s zipper was half-open, revealing a Red Bull t-shirt underneath, the clashing logos making the statement even bolder. It was as if Max were daring anyone to question where his loyalties truly lay.
Pierre crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall as Esteban kept staring. “It’s a Ferrari hoodie,” Pierre said, his tone dry. “Charles’ Ferrari hoodie, to be exact.”
Esteban’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
Esteban let out a low whistle, clearly trying to process the sight. “He’s got guts, I’ll give him that.”
Pierre hummed in agreement, though his thoughts were less focused on the shock value and more on what it meant. This wasn’t just a fashion choice or a cheeky swipe at the FIA after yesterday’s Instagram post. It was yet another step in Max’s relentless, almost stubborn commitment to standing by Charles.
Max passed by their garage, his pace unhurried. Pierre caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. “Nice fashion statement,” he called out, his voice carrying just enough to draw a smirk from Max.
“Thought you’d appreciate it,” Max replied, giving him a mock salute before continuing toward the Red Bull garage, unfazed by the growing murmurs around him.
Esteban shook his head, clearly still trying to wrap his head around the scene. “Does he know what he’s doing?”
“Oh, he knows,” Pierre said, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful.
Watching Max navigate the paddock like this, calm, deliberate, unflinching, Pierre found himself less skeptical than he’d been just the day before. Piece by piece, Max was proving something. To the world, maybe, but more importantly, to Charles. And, Pierre had to admit, to him too.
Without another word, Pierre turned back to Esteban. “Come on, let’s go. Qualifying won’t wait for Max’s fashion show.” But the flicker of a smile on his face lingered as they walked away.
Sunday evening
The chaos of celebration still buzzed in the paddock, even as the sun dipped below the horizon. Ferrari had done it. Charles had done it. The Constructors’ Championship was theirs, and Charles had claimed an astonishing win after starting from the back of the grid. Pierre couldn’t stop grinning. Seeing Charles drenched in champagne, holding the winner’s trophy with that brilliant smile of his, it was enough to make anyone proud.
He was leaning against a railing, watching the revelry from a slight distance, when a familiar figure caught his eye. Max Verstappen.
“Pierre,” Max said, his voice low but urgent. “Can we talk?”
Pierre straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “This should be interesting,” he muttered, more to himself than to Max. He gave a curt nod. “Alright. Go ahead.”
Max hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “Not here. Can we go somewhere quieter?”
Pierre raised an eyebrow but gestured for Max to follow him. They walked a little ways, finding a corner of the paddock where the noise was distant, muffled by walls and the fading evening. Pierre turned to face him, his expression unreadable.
“Alright, Verstappen. You’ve got my attention. What is it?”
Max exhaled, visibly steeling himself. “I need to apologize.”
Pierre blinked, caught off guard. “Apologize?” he echoed, his voice tinged with incredulity. “For what exactly? You’re gonna have to narrow it down for me.”
Max winced but didn’t back down. “For everything,” he said quietly. “For how I treated you. For how I treated Charles. For how I acted... like a complete asshole... for years.”
Pierre tilted his head, his tone sharp. “You’re not wrong. But why now, Max? Why not, I don’t know, five years ago when you were screwing things up left and right?”
“Because I was scared,” Max admitted, the words tumbling out like they’d been locked away for too long. “For a long time, I couldn’t even admit to myself that I wasn’t…” He paused, exhaling sharply. “That I wasn’t straight. It messed with my head. I lashed out at people because it was easier than dealing with my own feelings.”
Pierre’s eyes narrowed. “Your feelings? You mean Charles.”
Max nodded, his gaze dropping to the ground. “Yes. Charles. I’ve been in love with him for years, Pierre. Probably since forever. And I buried it, ignored it, denied it to myself because I didn’t know how to face it. But I’ve always been terrified. Of what it meant. Of losing control. Of screwing up.”
“And you decided to take it out on everyone around you instead,” Pierre said bluntly. “Real mature.”
“I know,” Max said, his voice breaking slightly. “I know I was a bastard. I know I hurt people, hurt Charles. And you were right, Pierre. About everything. About me being too much of a coward to deal with my own feelings. About me not deserving him.”
Pierre leaned back against the wall, his arms still crossed. “And now you think you do?”
Max’s head shot up, his expression raw. “I don’t know if I do. But I’m trying. I’m trying to be the man he deserves. I love him, Pierre. Desperately. I’d do anything for him. Anything. I just want to be with him, to make him happy. And I know I’ve got a lot to make up for.”
Pierre studied him, his sharp gaze searching Max’s face for any hint of insincerity. He found none.
“And why are you telling me this?” Pierre asked after a beat.
“Because I know how important you are to Charles,” Max said, his voice thick with emotion. “I know how much he trusts you, how much he looks up to you. I screwed things up with you too, and I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight. But I want to try. For him. Because if there’s any chance of fixing this, of proving that I’m serious, I need you on my side.”
Pierre let the silence stretch for a moment, letting Max squirm. He thought of Charles, how radiant he’d looked on the podium, how light he’d seemed these past few weeks despite everything. Max was clearly a big part of that. And while Pierre still had his doubts, the rawness in Max’s voice, the sincerity in his words, was impossible to ignore.
“You’ve surprised me, I’ll give you that,” Pierre said finally. “These past few days, the way you’ve stood by Charles, especially with the FIA nonsense, it’s not what I expected from you.”
Max’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, waiting for Pierre to continue.
“I can see you’re trying,” Pierre admitted, his voice softer now. “And for Charles’ sake, I hope you’re serious about this. Because if you hurt him... ”
“I won’t,” Max interrupted, his voice steady. “I swear to you, Pierre. I won’t.”
Pierre sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Alright. I’ll give you a chance. But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook that easily. I’ll be watching. Closely.”
Max’s lips twitched into a faint, almost relieved smile. “Fair enough.”
As Max turned to leave, Pierre called after him. “Hey, Verstappen.”
Max stopped, glancing back. “Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth,” Pierre said, his voice lighter now, “you’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do, but… I think you’re finally on the right track. Just don’t screw it up.”
Max nodded, the weight of Pierre’s words settling on his shoulders. “I won’t,” he said firmly. And this time, Pierre believed him.