Work Text:
The news had been out for thirteen minutes and Max Verstappen was grinning like a raccoon who just set fire to a Louis Vuitton store and pissed in the ashes.
“MAX VERSTAPPEN TO JOIN CADILLAC F1 IN 2026”
The headline glared back at him, screaming in all caps like it was just as dramatic as he was. His phone was blowing up. Journalists. PR reps. Lando fucking Norris. Christian Horner, probably bleeding from the nose. Helmut Marko, possibly already organising a press conference in a bunker somewhere in Austria.
Max?
Max was in his living room. Shirtless. Wrapped in a cheetah-print blanket. Eating Sour Patch Kids with a fork like a madman in a padded cell.
He refreshed Twitter.
“Max said I’d rather lose in style than win in Christian Horner’s tax-evading, strategy-flopping, morally bankrupt red circus and honestly? Iconic.”
“Cadillac hired Max Verstappen like you adopt a feral cat from the alley and tell it ‘do crime, king.’”
“Verstappen to Cadillac is the energy of a man who was denied a chicken nugget and burned down the McDonald’s.”
Max kicked his foot in the air like a teenage girl who just got proposed to in Paris.
Good.
Good, let them scream.
Because this—this glorious, chaotic, scorched-earth moment—was the culmination of twelve months of Max biting his tongue so hard it needed stitches. Twelve months of Red Bull fumbling strategy like toddlers juggling knives. Twelve months of watching Oscar “Silent Menace” Piastri beat him with the smugness of a koala holding a Nobel Prize.
He came second.
SECOND.
Not first.
Not fifth.
Not even a respectable third where he could pretend he was robbed.
No. That honour went to Lando fucking Norris—Max’s “best friend” whose idea of friendship was abandoning him emotionally, spiritually, and in every post-race group hug to go suck face with the boy wonder from Melbourne.
Max could still see it.
Oscar holding the trophy.
Lando giggling beside him like a child seeing snow for the first time.
Max in the background, looking like a ghost at the bottom of a well.
He should’ve been five-time World Champion.
Instead, he was the guy who rage-tweeted “Red Bull should’ve stuck to making energy drinks and being annoying” and then liked his own tweet with a burner account called @DefinitelyNotMax69.
AND YET, they were surprised he left?
Really?
Max had been dropping breadcrumbs like he was Hansel, but with way more attitude and significantly less intention to return. He had posted cryptic Instagram stories for months. "Love when my car decides to cosplay as a tractor." "You can't gaslight me if I'm already at full throttle." He updated his Spotify playlist with tracks titled ‘Everyone Sucks but Me’, ‘My Team Hates Me and That’s Fine’, and ‘Christian Horner Blocked Me on WhatsApp Again.’
Still—still—they didn’t see it coming?
Idiots.
Christian had called him—voice trembling—“Max, we can work through this.”
Max told him, “I’d rather get run over by a Cadillac.”
He wasn’t joking.
Not even a little.
And then came Cadillac.
The most absurd, unhinged, glitter-covered, yeehaw-happy option on the grid. Max hadn’t just leapt off the Red Bull train—he'd flipped it, lit it on fire, and performed a TikTok dance beside the wreckage.
Cadillac said “Do you want a say in the chassis design?”
Max said “No, I want complete power and a throne made of carbon fibre.”
They said “Yes, King.”
Cadillac said “We’ll let you name the car.”
Max said “I want to call it Vengeance.”
They said “Would you like that embroidered on the race suit?”
Cadillac said “What do you need to win?”
Max said “Petty rage and unlimited screen time.”
They said “Perfect. We’ve cleared your calendar.”
Was the car likely to explode on Lap 4? Probably.
Did they even have a full team yet? Unclear.
Was there a possibility their entire factory was just a Waffle House with two interns and a dream?
Absolutely.
And Max didn’t give a single shit.
Because Max wasn’t here for reliability.
Max was here for revenge.
He was here to haunt Christian Horner in his sleep. To make Helmut Marko’s blood pressure spike every time he said the word "Cadillac" out loud. To become a one-man PR disaster with freedom, spite, and a personalised coffee machine.
Another tweet popped up.
“Max to Cadillac is like if someone lost a Uno game and burned the house down but still claimed victory.”
Max liked that one. Replied,
“House wasn’t insured anyway 🔥🔥🔥”
The mentions exploded. Fans were rioting in his replies. Someone posted a deep-fried meme of Max with laser eyes on a Cadillac lawnmower. Another drew him in a cowboy hat riding a flaming horse labeled “Public Relations Disaster.”
It was art.
It was performance.
It was Max, finally unleashed.
Red Bull could choke. On a spark plug. In the middle of a strategy meeting they invited Brad Pitt to for clout. With Christian talking about “the legacy” while chewing on dry toast and resentment. Legacy his ass. They legacy-ed Max right out of a fifth championship and into the arms of American chaos.
And if anyone thought he regretted it?
They could look directly at the new story he posted:
A screenshot of the headline.
Caption:
“Sometimes you have to be the villain. Especially when the hero has zero downforce and a broken diffuser.”
He hit “post” and grinned.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought about Charles. Briefly. Accidentally.
Like a warm flash of hazel eyes and champagne smiles.
Max immediately shut that thought down like a laptop full of viruses.
Nope.
No feelings today.
Only carnage.
Max Verstappen was free.
He was feral.
And he was taking Cadillac with him straight into the flaming pits of glory.
And dammit, he was going to look hot doing it.
Max Verstappen was in heaven.
Well. Not actual heaven. If Max ever landed in heaven, it would be because the afterlife was under severe management changes and also had very low standards. But emotionally, spiritually, pettily, Max was in his own flaming paradise.
Wrapped like a divorced Real Housewife in his leopard print blanket (a staple of vengeance), he sat sprawled across his couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table, laptop open, cheeks full of Sour Patch Kids. He adjusted the blanket higher over his lap like a villain stroking a cat, except his cat was vindictive American capitalism in the shape of Cadillac’s 2026 livery.
Red, blue, and gold.
He was gonna look like a Warhammer space knight dipped in motor oil.
He’d already decided he was doing gold boots.
Custom.
With “FUCK RED BULL” stitched inside the soles in tiny black thread only he would know about.
He was gonna look like a revenge arc come to life, a little Roman emperor hopped up on spite and highlighter markers. The car? The car was going to explode on Lap 3 and probably scream in agony every time he hit the throttle.
Max didn’t care.
He was planning to drive it like a tank anyway.
A missile.
A guided torpedo aimed directly at every Red Bull on track.
He was going to recreate Fast & Furious 6 but in glittery boots and a PR nightmare.
And then—
His phone started vibrating like a demon trapped in a microwave.
Lando calling.
Incoming call from: “pain in my ass”
Max sighed. Answered. Didn’t say anything.
Immediately:
“MAXIE FUCKING VERSTAPPEN ARE YOU ON ACTUAL FUCKING DRUGS—”
Max peeled a Sour Patch Kid off his tongue and inspected it like a jewel. “Oh good. You saw the news.”
“I DIDN’T SEE THE FUCKING NEWS, TWITCH CHAT SAW THE FUCKING NEWS—”
Max blinked. “Wait. You’re live?”
“YES, YOU INSANE PIECE OF FERMENTED CHEESE, I’M STREAMING. I WAS PLAYING MARIO KART—OSCAR’S HERE—AND CHAT STARTED SPAMMING ‘MAX TO CADILLAC’ AND I THOUGHT THEY WERE MEMING BUT THEN OSCAR CHECKED—”
In the background, a voice cut in, bright and sweet and fucking smug:
“He’s not meming. It’s real. It’s glorious. Max is on his villain era World Tour.”
Max grinned like the devil had just learned to moonwalk. “Oscar. Good morning, you little thief.”
“Love you too, sunshine,” Oscar sang from the void, sounding far too pleased for someone who robbed Max blind of a WDC.
Lando, meanwhile, was absolutely losing his damn mind.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?? I’M SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR BEST FRIEND—”
Max grabbed a grape Sour Patch and threw it across the room like a tiny grenade. “You’re dating the enemy, Norris. There are rules.”
“I’M DATING YOUR TWITTER ADOPTED SON, NOT A TERRORIST—”
“Same difference.”
Oscar, now fully in the call somehow, was cackling like a Disney villain in a bathrobe. “I’m gonna buy Max a Cadillac-branded mug for Christmas. It’ll say ‘I left the empire and all I got was this mid-tier engine.’”
Max flipped him off via the phone. “I hope Lando crashes your streaming setup with his bony knees.”
Lando shouted, “THEY’RE PERFECTLY STRUCTURED KNEES, THANK YOU—”
Max leaned back on the couch, tossed his phone on his chest, stared at the ceiling dramatically. “You know what this means, right?”
Silence. Then Lando cautiously:
“What?”
Max’s voice dropped into full-on villain mode. “I’m gonna continue my reign as the main character of Drive to Survive.”
“Oh my goodness no, you’re gonna be insufferable.”
Max was already imagining it.
Scene 1: Max standing dramatically in a fur-lined Cadillac jacket.
Scene 2: Max smirking into the camera with a mug that says “World’s Most Petty Ex.”
Scene 3: Max shunting both Red Bulls into a gravel trap at Silverstone and saying “Oops :)” while the Netflix crew cheers.
He was going to be obnoxious.
He was going to be an icon.
He was going to be unhinged and gold-booted and America’s new problem.
Lando said, “You’re going to wear cowboy boots, aren’t you?”
Max whispered, “Already ordered.”
Oscar made a horrified noise. “Oh my goodness, he’s so unserious.”
“You stole my championship, Oscar.”
“You called me ‘that smug-eyed child with the face of a Catholic priest,’” Oscar replied. “I deserved to win out of self-preservation.”
“Fuck you.”
“Love you too.”
Lando was laughing so hard now Max could hear his headset crackling.
“THE CHAT WANTS TO KNOW IF CHARLES KNOWS,” Lando said, sing-song, like a little bitch. “THE LESTAPPEN AGENDA WILL LIVE FOREVER, MY CHILDREN.”
Max froze.
Oscar, traitor that he was, took the mic and asked sweetly, “Wait, Max. Did you tell Charles?”
Dead silence.
Max hung up the call.
Click.
Just like that.
Not because he was flustered, of course not. He didn’t do flustered. He did rage and revenge and very deliberate outfit choices and burner tweets. He didn’t get caught out by Lando “live-streaming my life because I have the emotional depth of a spoon” Norris and Oscar “knows too much and always smirks” Piastri.
No.
He had simply—
He had more imagining to do.
More daydreams.
Of revenge.
Of the Cadillac seat.
Of looking sexier than Charles ever had in red (which was hard, because Charles in red looked like a sin).
Of the chaos to come.
Of the Red Bulls flying past him on fire.
Of Christian Horner watching DTS with a migraine.
And fine.
Maybe also of Charles.
Just a little.
Just sometimes.
Just enough to wonder what he'd think.
Max tucked the blanket tighter around his legs, smiled to himself like an unhinged warlord, and opened Pinterest.
It was time to start planning the Cadillac era.
Max scrolled through another meme—this one was him photoshopped into the Titanic poster, cradling the Cadillac logo like Jack holding Rose, except he had evil red eyes and the caption read: "he's taking the whole ship down with him."
He double-tapped. Replied:
“damn right. icebergs beware.”
Another one: Max with devil horns photoshopped onto his DTS talking head, with text that read, "Verstappen's Joker era confirmed."
He quote-tweeted that one:
“call me the cadillac clown, i’m here to crash the party.”
And another: a photo of Christian Horner looking tragically out a window, face half in shadow, with “Max” written across the sky like a dead anime wife.
Max snorted and replied:
“why he look like his sims died”
His phone buzzed from the notification overload and he didn’t even care. He was THRIVING. He was unbothered. Moisturized. In his villain arc. Vengeance was best served cold, and he was about to deliver it with a side of slow-motion dramatic walk-ins and bad post-race interviews where he would say things like “the vibes weren’t right today” and “i didn’t see them, i was too busy being iconic.”
He tossed the iPad onto the couch like a freshly-slapped Uno reverse card, then stood up with a dramatic flair that absolutely no one saw but the universe.
The leopard-print blanket tumbled to the ground like a silk robe at an Oscar-winning striptease.
Max stretched. Groaned like he was a 70-year-old man possessed by an angry house cat. His boxers were Ferrari-red just to be petty. He reached down and scratched at his knee.
Sassy—the least emotionally available of Max's adopted Bengal duo—sauntered past his ankle with the exact energy of a French aristocrat who tolerated him only out of legal obligation.
Max reached down and scratched her head. “You would’ve told me to leave Red Bull earlier, huh?”
Sassy purred like a small sports car in neutral. Or maybe she was growling. It was always hard to tell with her.
“Yeah,” Max muttered. “You get it.”
He walked into the kitchen with the chaotic energy of a man on the verge of inventing a pre-season cult. Opened the cupboard. Saw the neat line of shiny red and silver Red Bull cans like a museum display of a life he once lived.
He narrowed his eyes.
Grabbed them all.
One by one.
Tossed them into the trash can like he was purging cursed objects from his home. A demon priest in boxers. A one-man exorcism.
“Be gone, capitalist sugar water,” he muttered, wiping his hands like Pontius Pilate if Pilate had a Twitter following and rage issues.
He reached into the fridge.
Poured himself a glass of leftover iced coffee.
Into a wine glass.
Because all his mugs were in the dishwasher. And also because aesthetics.
He held it up like it was the blood of his enemies and stared at it for a moment, swirling it like a sommelier in a Michelin-star revenge fantasy.
“Tastes like liberty,” he said aloud to no one.
Then he sighed. Long and deep and dramatic like a period drama widow.
And then he cackled.
Full. Evil. Witch. Cackle.
He was living in a palace of spite and unfiltered chaos. He was barefoot in a kitchen with cat hair on the floor, wearing boxers and a grin. He had burned every bridge. And then set up lawn chairs to watch the embers glow.
Cadillac 2026 was going to suck.
But Max Verstappen?
Max Verstappen was about to suck louder.
Max downed the last swig of coffee like it was tequila at a bachelor party he didn’t even want to be invited to. The wine glass clinked softly against his teeth and he let it hang from his fingers for dramatic effect, the empty vessel of his caffeine-fueled rage, the chalice of vengeance now dry. He flexed his arm. No reason. Just vibes. Just muscle memory and vanity. Just a completely delusional man in Ferrari-red boxers with wild bed hair and a criminal glint in his eye, alone in his kitchen at noon on a Wednesday, flexing like a feral Greek god in exile.
He licked his lips. Smacked them dramatically.
Flexed his bicep.
To no one.
Just stood there, shirtless in his kitchen, with cat hair on his knees and pride in his soul, flexing like a Greek statue made entirely out of spite and caffeine addiction.
“Gonna make that race suit look hot,” he muttered, stalking back to the couch with the gait of a man who had just buried Christian Horner’s metaphorical career in a very real ditch. “Red. Blue. Gold. America’s wet dream. Cadillac can flop so hard I crash through the bottom of the constructors’ table and I will still be sexy doing it.”
He collapsed into the couch like he was doing a trust fall with his own delusions.
Phone. He needed his phone.
His thumb unlocked the screen like a trained sniper: 300 more notifications.
The memes were still rolling in like a tsunami of unfiltered chaos.
First one: A pic of Max photoshopped into a cowboy hat and American flag jorts, standing on top of a Cadillac that was mid-explosion, flames in the background, with the caption:
“yee-fucking-haw.”
He cackled.
“Yee-fucking-haw,” he whispered to himself like it was a prayer.
Next meme: Charles Leclerc with sunglasses edited on, superimposed next to Max with angel wings, both standing in front of the Cadillac logo with a priest in the background photoshopped to be holding a marriage license. Caption:
“AND THEY WERE TEAMMATES 💍”
Max choked.
He froze.
The grin dropped off his face like a bad front wing.
His thumb shook as he scrolled past the next few tweets—
Wait.
Wait.
WAIT.
WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT—
"Charles Leclerc joins Cadillac for 2026 alongside Max Verstappen."
There were five images attached.
The first one: Charles smiling in the paddock. Pretty as ever. Big soft eyes. Silly little dimples. Hair fluffy. Max’s doom incarnate.
The second one: a mock-up render of Max and Charles in Cadillac gear.
The third one: someone edited Charles kneeling before a Cadillac like it was a religious altar.
The fourth one: a direct quote from Charles from like two years ago saying “Ferrari is my dream and my heart.”
Max’s entire skeleton audibly clicked.
“NO,” he said aloud.
“NO NO NO NOOOOOO.”
He slammed the phone down.
Picked it up.
Texted his team principal:
> is this real or did someone deepfake this from a fanfiction archive
She replied in thirty seconds:
< it's true. do you want him removed? we can make it work.
Max stared at that text like it was asking him if he wanted to live or die.
He hovered over the keyboard.
Typed: > no
Paused.
Backspaced.
Rewrote it: > no keep him i’m fine
Added: > it’s okay i’m normal about it
Deleted that.
Wrote: > no it’s fine. keep him. we can work together. i am perfectly fine and not screaming.
He threw the phone away like it burned his hand.
Then picked it back up.
Called Lando.
“BIIIIIIIIIIITCH!” came Lando’s voice before Max even said hello.
Max barely had time to say “WHAT—” before Lando was screaming.
“YOU! YOU ACTUAL SLUT! I’m gonna say everything I can now, so you listen. K, babes? You didn’t fucking tell me you were joining Cadillac, you absolute moron!! I had to find out LIVE?! LIVE ON STREAM?! DO YOU KNOW HOW TRAUMATIC THAT WAS FOR ME?! I thought I was your best friend, not your fucking keptboy.”
“I was busy driving for a shit car of a shit team, okay?!” Max snapped. “And I am sorry. Now please be a good best friend and fucking save me!”
“No, you cunt! You deserve to fucking suffer,” Lando wailed. “When I saw the chat explode, I thought someone died, or like, Charles dropped another single or something! But nooooo, it was you—”
Oscar's voice came through faintly in the background, unmistakably wheezy with laughter: “Max Verstappen to Cadillac, the era of unhinged begins!”
“You still live?” Max barked, panic flaring.
“NO, the stream’s off,” Lando huffed. “You can scream now. Which is good because I know you’re about to.”
Max didn’t hesitate.
“MY HEART CANNOT TAKE THIS SHIT,” he shrieked. “WHY IS CHARLES THERE? WHY. IS. CHARLES. THERE. I HAD A VENGEANCE ARC LINED UP. A WHOLE VILLAIN MONOLOGUE. I WAS GOING TO BURN THE PADDOCK DOWN IN STYLE. I HAD A PLAN.”
“Was your plan to fall in love mid-season?” Lando asked, barely holding it together.
“I’M ALREADY IN LOVE YOU DOUGHNUT-STAINED DORK.”
Oscar, somewhere behind the speaker, died.
Max could hear the thud of what must’ve been Oscar collapsing off the couch.
“Did Charles even know?” Oscar shouted between gasps. “Like—did he find out from Twitter? Is that what happened?!”
“I DON’T KNOW,” Max roared. “NO ONE TELLS ME ANYTHING. I’M A MUSHROOM. KEPT IN THE DARK. FED BULLSHIT.”
“You are the bullshit,” Lando said cheerfully.
Max kicked at the air.
“I WAS SUPPOSED TO HAVE AN ICONIC RISE FROM THE ASHES MOMENT,” Max wailed. “NOT A FUCKING ENEMIES TO LOVERS SITCOM. THIS ISN’T NETFLIX. I DON’T WANT A ROMCOM. I WANT A BLOOD FEUD.”
“But instead you got a slow burn paddock love story with dramatic tension and hot uniforms,” Lando said, sounding very much like the devil.
Max whimpered. Loudly. “You don’t understand. I’ve been in love with that man since we were thirteen.”
“Oh, we know,” Oscar said, still cackling. “The world knows. Your cats know.”
“I can’t do this,” Max muttered, staring at the ceiling like heaven might offer him a refund. “I can’t. I had revenge to deliver. I had plans to shunt RB cars with style. I can’t be thinking about his fucking jawline and the way he tilts his head when he’s confused—”
“You know what this is?” Lando said. “This is karma for not telling me about Cadillac. Now you and Charles are stuck together in the same garage for a whole season, and I—personally—cannot wait to watch you melt.”
Max slammed his head into the pillow.
Screamed into it.
A muffled, tortured scream of a man who was both furious and secretly thrilled and dangerously unwell.
“I hate you both,” he growled.
“Love you too,” Lando and Oscar said in unison.
Max ended the call.
He flung his phone to the floor.
Then flung himself after it.
Then lay there on the carpet, dramatically sprawled, imagining himself in a Cadillac race suit standing next to Charles Leclerc. And it was horrible. And it was romantic. And it was everything he didn’t ask for.
Max covered his face with the wine glass.
And whispered, “I’m gonna die in that garage.”
Then paused.
And added, “But at least I’ll look hot doing it.”
Max Verstappen was face-down on the floor.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. No, he was physically—bodily—crumpled like a dying heroine, one leg twisted under the other, wine glass still in hand, cheek smushed against the carpet like he was trying to become one with the fabric. He had briefly considered licking it, just to feel something, but decided against it because he was pretty sure Jimmy had dragged a dead moth across this part earlier.
He groaned.
Into the floor.
His phone buzzed somewhere beneath him, lost under the throw pillow he’d violently yeeted two meltdowns ago.
Another buzz.
Another.
Incoming call.
Max stares at the screen.
It’s an unknown number.
Except it’s not.
Because Max — world champion, tactical genius, professional emotion avoider — had made the incredibly smart and not-at-all pathetic decision to never save Charles’ number. Because saving the number meant caring. And caring meant feelings. And feelings meant vulnerability, and Max doesn’t do that. Even if Max has fully accepted that he's in love with someone he could never have.
He has, however, memorised the number.
Accidentally.
Completely by chance.
Definitely not on purpose.
Shut up.
He stares at the digits like they’ve personally wronged him.
He doesn’t answer at first.
He panics.
Then breathes.
Then panics again.
Then — with all the calm grace of someone defusing a bomb using a pillow — he answers.
“…hello?”
There’s a pause.
A quiet one.
And then—
“Hi, Max.”
And fuck.
Charles’ voice is all soft edges and late-night warmth, the kind of voice that sounds like it's wearing pyjamas and holding a cup of tea. It curls around Max’s chest and squeezes.
He rolls over onto his back. Clutches the phone like it's oxygen.
“Oh,” Max says, casual in the same way earthquakes are casual. “Hey.”
Charles hesitates. “I wasn’t sure if you… saw.”
Max’s brain short-circuits.
He blinks at the ceiling.
Saw what, Charles? The collapse of the Roman Empire? The collapse of my sanity?
“Yeah,” Max says finally. “I saw.”
Another beat.
“You okay with it?” Charles asks, voice small.
Max sits up. Then lies back down. Then sits up again. He’s malfunctioning like a broken espresso machine.
“You mean… us being teammates?” Max asks.
A quiet hum from the other end. “Yeah.”
Max lets the silence stretch a bit. Lets it do a few lunges. Then finally, quietly:
“Yeah. I’m okay with it.”
A little exhale of breath from Charles. Like relief. Like… like hope.
Max’s heart goes feral.
“Didn’t think you’d say yes,” Max admits, voice low. “I mean. You’re Charles. Ferrari Charles. Red suit and rose-tinted legacy and all that. Why leave?”
There’s a silence that makes Max want to claw the walls.
Then Charles says, so softly Max nearly misses it:
“…I think they gave up on me.”
And Max’s heart shatters.
“I tried,” Charles continues, “but the car never changed. The promises didn’t mean anything. Every time I asked for more, they said I needed to wait. I didn’t want to keep waiting. I didn’t want to be the symbol. I wanted to race.”
Max is clutching the phone so tight it’s nearly embedded in his face.
“…they gave up on me too,” he says eventually. “Red Bull. Said I was too angry. Too ‘done.’ Said my peak was over and I should start being a mentor.”
Charles lets out a breath, sharp and stunned. “But you’re—you’re Max Verstappen.”
Max shrugs, even though Charles can’t see it. “Yeah. And you’re Charles Leclerc. Apparently that means nothing to people who want robots.”
There’s a pause. Then—
“I wanted something different,” Charles says.
“So did I,” Max replies. “Freedom. Chaos. A team that would let me swear and scream and maybe accidentally break a chair.”
Charles gasps. “You’re allowed to swear?”
Max grins. “They said they’d pay the fines.”
“No way,” Charles whispers, scandalised. “I once got told off for saying ‘sacré bleu’ under my breath at Ferrari.”
Max chokes on air. “CHARLES. That’s not even a curse.”
“They said it was offensive to the brand,” Charles huffs.
Max is howling now, actual tears in his eyes. “They muzzled you.”
“They said I had to be graceful,” Charles mutters. “Also they tried to ban me from growing a moustache.”
Max falls backward dramatically onto the floor. “That is a human rights violation.”
“Thank you!” Charles says, possibly genuinely. “Cadillac told me I’d have… what did they say. Something about… autonomy? I forgot to search what that means.”
Max slaps the ground. “YOU—wait. You didn’t Google it?”
“No,” Charles mumbles. “I was gonna. But then I started watching that documentary about penguins narrated by Cumberbatch.”
Max is crying. Full-on crying. His laugh sounds like it’s echoing inside a canyon.
“It means freedom, Charles. Like. You do what you want.”
“Oh,” Charles says softly. “That’s… actually nice.”
Max exhales so hard he goes a little dizzy. He rubs his eyes. Lays there. Soaks in the sound of Charles’ breath.
“You and me,” Charles says, after a minute. “On the same team.”
Max closes his eyes. “I know.”
“Like… teammates,” Charles adds unnecessarily.
“Uh-huh.”
Charles sounds like he’s smiling. “I guess we’re… working together now.”
Max hums. “If by working you mean: plotting to destroy every car on the grid that wronged us? Then yes. We’re working.”
Charles giggles. It’s soft and stupid and it sounds like falling in love. “Max, we can’t destroy the other cars.”
“Why not?” Max pouts. “I already wrote a hit list. It’s laminated.”
Charles snorts. “We should probably just… win races.”
“Fine,” Max grumbles. “But only if I get to call it world domination.”
Charles is laughing. “Okay. But I want a cool codename.”
“You can be… Agent Redemption,” Max says without thinking.
A pause.
“…what’s yours?” Charles asks.
Max pauses. Then says, quietly: “Agent Vengeance.”
Charles laughs so hard he wheezes. “That’s the most you thing I’ve ever heard.”
Max is grinning at the ceiling like a lovesick idiot. “You love it.”
“I do,” Charles says.
And for a second. Just one second. Max pretends it’s true.
Pretends that Charles is calling not just to talk about teams. But because he missed him.
Because he wanted Max. Not Agent Vengeance. Not the racer. Just—him.
“Max?” Charles says, soft again.
“Yeah?”
“…I’m glad it’s you,” Charles says quietly. “That I’ll be with you.”
And Max? Max has never felt more feral-soft in his life.
“Me too,” he whispers. “I’ll make sure no one ever gives up on you again.”
Charles doesn’t reply.
But Max hears him breathing.
And for now—
That’s enough.
They're quiet for a bit.
Not awkward quiet. Not that weird "should I hang up" quiet either. It's the good kind.
Like the kind of silence that tastes like sleepy rain. Or post-midnight honesty. Or the moment right before a really good hug.
Max feels it like a blanket. It's warm and horrible. He wants to scream into a pillow.
Then Charles speaks again, voice soft like he's lying in bed on his side, tangled in covers and hope.
“Did you ever think,” Charles says slowly, “that we’d be teammates?”
Max blinks up at the ceiling.
“No,” he says. “Literally not once. I thought we’d die fighting on different pit walls, you in red, me in navy. Like a motorsport Shakespeare tragedy.”
Charles snorts. “Yeah. You stabbing me in the cooldown room, me dramatically dying in slow motion in the media pen.”
Max cackles. “Then you rise again during the podium to steal my champagne.”
“Obviously,” Charles says. “I’m dramatic, not ungrateful.”
Max lets out a laugh that sounds like the word fond if it had wheels and a heartbeat. Then he falls quiet again, eyes still open, chest still ridiculous.
Then Max says, low and honest, “You were always the best.”
Charles blinks audibly. “Huh?”
“At wheel-to-wheel,” Max clarifies, voice rough with the truth. “You were always the best at it. Racing you was… I don’t know. Like dancing with a knife.”
Charles laughs, startled. “What a terrifyingly romantic metaphor.”
“I mean it,” Max murmurs. “No one else made me drive like that. Like I had to be perfect. Like if I messed up for even a second, you'd eat me alive.”
“I would,” Charles says proudly. “And then I’d wave.”
Max laughs. “You’re evil.”
Charles snorts. “And you love it.”
Max doesn’t say anything.
He can’t.
Because it’s true, and the words are right there at the back of his throat, snarling and soft, begging to be said.
He does love it. He loves him.
He chews his lip. Runs a hand over his face. Pretends the silence doesn’t tremble.
Max lets out a breath that turns into a smile mid-air.
“2026 is going to be terrible for my heart,” he says before he can stop himself.
“Huh?”
“Nothing,” Max coughs, “I said 2026 will be great for… charts.”
“…what?”
“I’m going to bed.”
“It’s not even noon yet.”
“Goodnight.”
Charles laughs softly. Then he goes quiet for a few seconds, like he’s lining his words up on a conveyor belt and inspecting them before release.
Charles sighs, fond and sleepy. “I’ve been fighting you since I was five.”
“I remember,” Max says. “You were shorter than the kart.”
“You used to call me squirrel.”
“You bit me once,” Max accuses.
“You stole my sandwich first!”
Max wheezes. “I earned that sandwich. I lapped you.”
“You lapped me because your dad gave you newer tires!”
Max is grinning so hard it physically hurts. “Heavens, you were annoying.”
“And you were smug. Still are.”
“Yeah, but now I’m hot and smug. It’s different.”
Charles barks out a laugh. “You were always hot. You just didn’t know it.”
Max short-circuits. His brain goes offline. The Windows error sound plays somewhere deep in his soul.
“…what?”
Then Charles says, very quietly, very much like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud:
“If fifteen-year-old me knew my crush would be my teammate in 2026, I think he’d explode.”
Max stops breathing.
He doesn’t choke, not really. He just sort of—breaks.
Everything in his brain halts like a power outage.
He blinks once. Twice. The words echo. Then echo again. And then settle into his bones like a thousand feral butterflies with machine guns.
“Wait—” Max says, very eloquently. “Crush???”
Charles makes a sound that can only be described as “regret in stereo.” It’s high-pitched. It’s so Monegasque.
“I didn’t mean—shut up.”
Max is delighted.
“No no no no—hold on—what do you mean crush—Charles—Charles you cannot drop that and then disappear into the Alps—”
“I didn’t say I’m disappearing into the Alps—”
“Well you should,” Max says, grinning so wide he might combust. “Because what do you mean you had a crush on me?!”
There’s silence.
Then Charles says, grumbling, “Everyone had a crush on you when they were fifteen.”
Max blinks. He sits upright.
“…They did?”
“Oh my goodness,” Charles groans. “Are you serious right now.”
“No I’m just—” Max frowns. “I had a crush on you, okay?”
Silence. Earth-shattering silence.
Then—
“That’s stupid,” Charles mutters, voice a little high.
Max laughs.
“What do you mean that’s stupid?!”
“You hated me!” Charles accuses.
“I never hated you!” Max yells.
“You stared at me like you were going to burn my house down!”
“I was shy!”
“You shoved me at Spa!”
“You elbowed me in the ribs at Monza!”
“You called me a mushroom head at the FIA gala!”
“You were a mushroom head!”
Charles is laughing now. Max is too. It’s the kind of laughter that feels like screaming into a pillow while kicking your legs like a Disney princess. It’s dumb. It’s warm. It’s them.
Max exhales sharply, flops back down, phone still pressed to his ear like a second heart.
“Okay,” Max says, after a moment. “So. We both had a crush on each other when we were fifteen.”
“Apparently.”
“Cool. Normal.”
Charles hums. “Kind of wish I’d told you then.”
Max closes his eyes.
“…I would’ve freaked out,” he admits. “It’s best you didn’t. I was surely not emotionally available for an epic enemies-to-lovers in my gremlin years. Probably would crash a kart on the spot.”
Charles chuckles softly. “Yeah. Same.”
They’re quiet again.
But this time the quiet feels… full. Like a balloon on the edge of bursting. Like a secret almost confessed.
Max speaks first.
“Still have a crush,” he says, under his breath. “By the way.”
Charles goes silent. Like weirdly silent.
Max panics. Immediately.
“Or I did! Did! Past tense! Gone now! Deleted!”
“I hope not,” Charles whispers.
And Max dies.
Just dies.
On his apartment floor in Monaco with a dream. In red boxers and a dream. Holding a phone like a lifeline and a dream.
“…No,” Max says, soft. “It’s still there.”
Another long pause.
Then Charles laughs, quiet and sweet.
“Same here.”
There’s a pause.
A beat of silence where Max is pretty sure time stops. His brain? Not responding. His fingers? Cold. His heart? Currently slam-dancing inside his ribcage like a teenager at a concert in 2007.
Same here, Charles had said.
Same here.
Same here.
Same here.
Like this is normal. Like he didn’t just admit to having feelings in the same breath as Max. Like this isn’t life-altering. Like Max isn’t about to peel himself off the floor like a boiled cheese slice and dissolve into feelings.
“…Wait,” Max says, very calmly, like a man on the brink of falling into the ocean. “Just to clarify—when you said ‘same here’… you meant like… feelings. For me. Personally. Like, specifically. Not like, a general concept of me. But me.”
There’s a soft noise on the other end. It sounds like Charles is smiling. It also sounds like he’s trying not to laugh at Max’s complete and utter breakdown.
“Obviously,” Charles says. “Everyone has a crush on you.”
Max almost drops the phone.
“No they don’t!” he squawks. “And that’s not the point!! That’s not the question!! I don’t care about everyone! I care about you—do you, Charles Leclerc, specifically, like me?!”
There’s a beat.
Then Charles says, amused and stupidly fond, “Yeah. Max. Of course I do. It was kind of obvious.”
Max stares at the ceiling.
He blinks once.
He blinks again.
He whispers, “It literally isn’t.”
Charles giggles. Like full-on giggles, like he’s wrapped in ten blankets and spinning in a teacup ride made of emotion.
“Oh my goodness,” Charles says. “Do you not know we’re the number one F1 ship tag on AO3?”
Max pauses.
“…What is an AO3?” he says cautiously, like he’s asking about a new species of wild animal.
Charles wheezes. “Archive of Our Own. A fanfiction website.”
Max blinks again. “Okay. That didn’t help.”
“It’s where people write stories,” Charles says, amused. “They write stories about us. Kissing. Sometimes in space. Sometimes with swords. Or we’re rivals. Or we’re in love. Or—well. You get it.”
Max’s brain stutters.
“You’re saying people… write about us… being in love?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you read them?”
Charles laughs again. “Some of them. When I’m bored. I’ll show you. When we’re dating.”
There’s a sound like a cartoon record scratch in Max’s soul.
“Wait,” he says. “We’re dating?”
“I mean,” Charles says, suddenly a little shy. “If you want to?”
Max’s heart flips upside down and does a backstroke.
“Wait. You want to?”
“I don’t want to rush this,” he says. “But… I also don’t want to pretend it’s not happening.”
Max swallows hard.
And Charles keeps going, voice sleepy and soft and real.
“Cadillac already said they don’t want me to go through anything emotionally or mentally compromising this time,” he says. “So maybe… I need some romance in my life after all.”
Max is actually unwell.
Romance. He said romance. He said it like that. Like it’s a prescription. Like he needs it. Like Max is part of the treatment plan.
Max’s voice is very, very quiet.
“I don’t wanna pretend it’s nothing either,” he says.
Charles exhales. It sounds like relief.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” Max echoes, grinning like a damn fool.
There’s a beat.
“Also,” Max adds, “if we’re dating, does that mean I can send you memes at 2 am without guilt?”
“I would expect you to,” Charles says solemnly. “And I will respond with increasingly aggressive emojis.”
Max beams. Like sun-out, teeth-bared, stupid-boy smile. Like victory and hope and serotonin with a side of blush.
There’s a pause again, soft and slow and sticky with affection.
Then Max says, voice full of hope and idiocy, “Do you think Cadillac would let us hold hands on the pit wall?”
“I think they’d encourage it,” Charles whispers.
Max sighs, dreamy and ruined. “Heavens. I love 2026.”
Charles giggles.
And Max?
Max doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.
He’s in love. Terminally. Softly. Stupidly. Loudly. With Charles freaking Leclerc.
And they’re going to take over the world. One Ferrari and Red Bull at a time.