Chapter Text
The first thing Max notices on Thursday morning is the noise.
It isn’t engines yet — not the scream of V6s or the hiss of wheel guns. It’s voices. The paddock is alive earlier than usual, fans pressed against the barriers with orange smoke already staining the air. He pulls the brim of his cap low and forces himself to smile as the cameras catch him stepping out of the motorhome.
“Max, Max, over here!” Reporters swarm like pidgeons on breadcrumbs.
He gives them what they want: a wave, a nod, a quick one-liner about how it’s “great to be back home.”
He doesn’t mean it, not in its entirety.
Yes, Zandvoort is always special to him, but it’s suffocating too. Every pair of eyes wants something from him. Win here, Max. Prove again you’re the best. Do it for the country. For the flag.
He shoulders through the pen, answering pr-approved questions with that clipped rhythm he’s perfected.
"Yes, McLaren is quick this year, but we’re confident about our pace."
"Yes, winning at home is always special."
"Yes, I do think that the McLaren is going to be quick, here at Zandvoort, but I'm confident in the car"
His voice sounds steady. Inside, he’s chewing over the fact that McLaren’s car looks like it’s running on rails and he's pretty sure there's something fishy about that flexy rearwing.
Red Bull’s upgrades haven’t hit the mark. Every practice session feels like a knife fight. But numbers, at least, are honest. If the telemetry says he can still win, then he can still win. Except the fact that the numbers don't say that.
He thinks about that as the next reporter waves a mic in his face and asks whether he feels threatened by Lando Norris.
“No,” Max says simply, and the cameras eat it up.
Later, he finds a quieter corner outside the Red Bull hospitality suite, leaning against the railing for a breath. From here, the circuit stretches out, dunes rolling toward the sea.
The air smells like salt and fried dough, and he closes his eyes for a moment.
“Already tired?”
He cracks an eye open. Victoria leans on the rail beside him, arms folded, her smile quick and teasing. She’s one of the few people who can get away with that tone.
“Media,” Max mutters. “Same questions every week.”
“You don’t exactly make it easy for them. One-word answers, deadpan stare.”
He snorts, but she’s not wrong. “Better than saying too much.”
Victoria studies him for a second, then nudges his arm. “So? How are you really?”
Max shrugs. “Car feels shit. Not terrible, but still shit.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He doesn’t answer right away. It’s easier to keep everything boxed up — the pressure, the whispers about McLaren, the gnawing thought that his dominance isn’t untouchable anymore. Finally, he says, “I’ll win here. Doesn’t matter how. I’ll win.”
Victoria tilts her head. “You sound like Dad.”
That stings, though she doesn’t mean it cruelly. He swallows it down. “Someone has to.”
She lets it drop, shifting the subject. “Mom and I are sitting in the grandstands later. She’s bringing a few friends.”
Max arches a brow. “Mom's always bringing friends.”
“Mm.” Victoria’s lips twitch, like there’s more she wants to say, but she leaves it there.
The rest of media day unspools in the usual blur: photo shoots with the team, sponsor appearances, a Q&A panel where he fields questions about “home advantage” and “Dutch passion.” He recites the script automatically, his mind elsewhere.
In the Red Bull garage, the engineers walk him through updates. Floor tweaks, rear wing stiffness, weight distribution.
He nods, asks a question about degradation over long stints.
The answers wash over him, technical but steady.
He sits on a chair near the monitors, helmet balanced on his knees, half-listening. His gaze drifts across the room, unfocused.
And then—
Through the glass wall of the hospitality suite, someone passes. Dark brown hair, pale skin, slim figure, the kind of walk he knows by heart even after six years.
His chest tightens.
No. Not here. Not now.
He blinks hard, and the shadow is gone. Just another guest, maybe a sponsor’s assistant, nothing more. Maybe he’s actually going crazy because McLaren is charging at the title while Red Bull’s upgrades never seem to land.
He drags his focus back to the data on screen. Delta times, tire degradation, gaps to McLaren.
Numbers are safe.
Numbers don’t lie.
———
The meeting runs longer than it should. Engineers argue over tire models, someone pulls up a fresh batch of simulations, and Max finds himself staring too long at the same graph. His thoughts won’t settle. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the slip of movement outside the glass but he pushes it away.
Stress makes ghosts out of nothing.
By the time he leaves the garage, the sun has dipped lower, staining the sky a warm orange that matches the sea of shirts beyond the fences. The crowd noise is still relentless, but the walkways between motorhomes are calmer now. Drivers strolling about, team staff rushing past with clipboards.
Hospitality tents glow warm against the orange haze. Max walks slowly, head down, cap pulled low, trying to avoid being stopped again.
That’s when he spots them.
Arthur Leclerc and Pierre Gasly, standing just off the main walkway, half-shielded by a stack of crates. Pierre is gesturing wildly, Arthur looking pale and tense. They’re speaking in rapid French, too fast for Max to follow.
They notice him at the same time. Pierre snaps his mouth shut, Arthur stiffens.
“Max!” Pierre calls out, voice just a shade too loud. “You had the press conference today, yeah?”
Max nods, slow. “Yes, it was fine.” His eyes flick between them. Both are trying too hard to look casual.
Arthur manages a strained smile. “Yes, um, looking forward to the weekend.”
There’s sweat on his temple, though the evening air isn’t warm enough for it.
“Everything alright?” Max asks, tilting his head.
“Of course,” Pierre says quickly. “Just… catching up, you know. Things.”
Max raises a brow but he doesn’t press. “Right. See you around.”
They both exhale too fast as he walks past.
Back in the garage, the atmosphere is calmer. Mechanics are packing up for the evening, laptops shutting down one by one. Max sits on a low stool, scrolling through data sheets on a tablet, trying to scrub the unease out of his head.
He should be focusing. McLaren’s pace is real; he can’t afford distractions.
He rubs his temple. Maybe he should go back to the motorhome early, shut himself in, watch footage of last year’s race until sleep takes him.
But then a voice pipes up, high and curious, just at the edge of the garage.
“Why did you pit earlier in Silverstone if you knew the hard tire wouldn’t last?”
Max looks up sharply.
A boy stands there, maybe six, maybe seven. Small, with a shock of chocolate curls that catch the light, and eyes — startling and icy, fixed squarely on him.
The child tilts his head, waiting. “Because if you had waited, maybe the McLaren would’ve had more degradation. Did you think about that?”
The garage goes quiet. Engineers glance over, puzzled. Kids aren’t uncommon in the paddock — sponsors bring them, families too — but this one looks like he walked in alone.
Confident, curious, as if he belongs here.
Max blinks, caught in disbelief.
Who the hell is this kid?
He crouches slightly, hands braced on his knees. “That’s… not a question I usually get from someone your age.”
The boy shrugs, unfazed. “I like racing. I watch all the races. I watch the strategies too.” His French accent is faint but there, curling around the words.
Max stares, momentarily speechless. Around them, the engineers have gone quiet, exchanging glances, unsure whether to intervene.
Finally, Max manages, “What’s your name?”
Before the boy can answer, a voice calls sharply from somewhere down the paddock. “Jules!!"
The boy’s head snaps toward the sound and Pierre appears a moment later, breathless, scanning the garage until his eyes land on the boy.
Relief floods his features, and he jogs over.
“There you are,” he mutters in French, crouching down to take the boy’s hand. His tone softens. “Mon joli, tu ne peux pas disparaître comme ça.” (My pretty, you can’t just disappear like that)
The kid — Jules — looks up at him with a sheepish grin. “Je ne me suis pas perdu, Tonton. I was just asking une question to Max!” (I wasn’t lost, uncle)
Pierre chuckles nervously, then glances up at Max. “Sorry about that. He, uh… slipped away for a moment. Curious little guy.”
Max straightens, eyes flicking between them. Something prickles at the back of his mind, but before he can ask, Pierre is steering Jules gently toward the exit.
“Say goodbye,” Pierre prompts.
Jules turns, gives Max a small wave. “Bye. Thanks.”
And then they’re gone, swallowed by the paddock crowd, leaving Max standing there confused.
———
Max wakes before dawn, the pale sunlight just slipping through the curtains of his hotel room. He sits at the edge of his bed, stretching, running a hand through his blonde hair, and takes a quick shower before getting into the team kit.
He leaves the hotel and heads into the paddock with GP. The air is brisk, full of diesel and damp sand. Mechanics push trolleys with spare tires, team trucks rumble past, and a scattered crowd of early-arriving media wander the area. Max nods at a few familiar faces but keeps his head down.
The first practice session is a blur of data, radio calls, and minor wheel-to-wheel action. Lap after lap, he boxes, pits, accelerates again, eyes scanning telemetry for degradation, temperatures, delta times. Engineers chatter on the radio, but his attention drifts.
He peeks at the F1TV live feed for the first time that morning. The camera pans through the paddock, showing team motorhomes, engineers, journalists. And then — unmistakable.
And, as he glances to the F1TV live for the first time in the session, the figure is unmistakable.
Charles.
His chest tightens in a way he hasn’t felt in years. His mind rebels against it.
No. Just someone who looks like him. Someone in the paddock with the same build, the same style.
A few laps later, the feed shows a wider shot, and confirmation hits like a punch: green eyes. Text overlays read:
“Charles Leclerc — Arthur Leclerc’s brother, professional model”
Max freezes in the cockpit, hands gripping the wheel. His mind rebels. The impossibility of it twists in his chest. He knows Charles. He knew that that walk was familiar, that posture, that way he carries himself. And now he’s here. In the paddock. Right here.
He fights to push it down, focusing on the corner exit, apex, and braking point. But everything makes his mind drift back to the monegasque's presence.
When the session ends, he pulls into the box, takes off the wheel, and yanks his gloves loose. GP is already at the sidepod with the cooling fans, rattling through notes, but Max only half-listens. He climbs out, pulling off his helmet.
The noise of the paddock swells around him. He walks back toward the garage entrance, shoving through a small crowd of photographers. He tells himself to go inside, debrief, do his job. But his eyes betray him, dragging back toward the Ferrari motorhome.
And there he is.
Charles, standing with Arthur. His hands move animatedly, sharp gestures that look more like scolding than casual chatter. His voice is low but urgent, his brows furrowed in frustration. Arthur shifts uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact, mumbling back.
At Charles’s side is a little boy — dark-haired, no older than five. He tugs at Charles’s sleeve, wide-eyed at the chaos of the paddock, clutching a toy car in one hand. Charles softens instantly when he looks down, crouching for a moment to brush his hair back from his forehead, murmuring something only the boy can hear.
The sight roots Max to the ground. His lungs forget how to work as he recognizes the boy as the same who approached him.
Arthur’s brother, Charles Leclerc. And now — with a child. A boy with blue eyes and Charles’s cheekbones, blinking up at the world like he doesn’t belong here at all.
Max turns away sharply, his jaw clenched so hard it aches. The noise of engines firing up again echoes in his chest, but all he hears is the blood rushing in his ears.
———
Back in the garage, Max sits at the edge of the chair in the briefing room, arms crossed tight across his chest. He’s meant to be listening to GP talk about fuel loads and corner entry, but the words blur, muffled, like they’re spoken underwater. His thoughts drown everything else out.
What the fuck is going on?
Charles. In the paddock. After six years. With a kid.
A kid that looks like that young Justin Bieber copy he fell in love with in 2012.
Max presses the heel of his palm against his eye, like maybe if he pushes hard enough the image will disappear. But it doesn’t. It just comes sharper. Charles crouching, smiling at that boy, gentle in a way Max remembers too well.
Was he ever really mine?
The question slams through him before he can stop it.
Had Charles already been moving on when Max was still planning their future? Had he already been looking somewhere else, with someone else? Max swallows hard, stomach twisting.
He remembers that night — the ring box shoved at the back of a drawer, burning a hole in his hand every time he picked it up. He’d been ready. Ready to ask him, ready to build something together.
And what? He didn’t even want me?
The thought makes his throat close.
Was it all a lie? Every kiss, every whispered word, every stupid promise said between long flights and endless nights?
Had Charles just been waiting for something better?
And now — what? He’s married? To someone else? Starting a family while Max was out there killing himself for points and titles?
Max’s hands curl into fists on his knees.
Fuck. Was I just stupid?
Was he the idiot who didn’t see it coming? The one who thought he had it all when really, he had nothing?
The boy’s face burns in his mind. The way Charles’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder. Protective. Familiar. That wasn’t just anyone’s kid. It couldn’t be. It had to be Charles‘s.