Chapter Text
Charles was well aware of fan pages, edits, and all that came with them. In the past, he had even interacted with some fans online, on various social media platforms, with obvious pleasure. He loved discussing karting with them, all of whom were as passionate as he was. He appreciated the idea that people were following his "career" seriously, were enthusiastic about it, and wanted to debrief it with him. He loved the photos of him on various podiums, smiling, that people posted online.
"How to drive a Tony Kart KZ properly? I had trouble with braking..."
"Always the dimples"
"See? This year's world champion @gp2"
"Risqué, mais tellement beau a voir !"
Maybe he simply liked all the attention, maybe he liked being loved.
When he joined Sauber, all those little habits faded fast—no time, no energy, a tighter grip on his image, on his socials, PR trainging, advice that felt more like orders... and, honestly, a bit of fear. The fans were growing in numbers, the attention getting louder, the comments way too personal. That's scare him. How was he supposed to tell what was real and what wasn’t? How could he ever find that one anonyme guy asking for karting tips, lost in the crowd?
That was the end of Charles caring about fans online, about photo edits, about all of it.
Which, really, was a good thing. It saved him from the terrible truth, the horrifying discovery.
In 2022, during summer break, Joris, half-joking (who even jokes about something that serious?), asked him if he’d ever read fanfiction.
He’d left school earlier than most of his friends to focus on karting. So, he’d probaly missed the whole fanfiction chapter. He already spoke three languages—he couldn’t know everything, right?
‘’Des fanfictions ?’’
‘’Bah oui, si j’étais à ta place, je crois que j’en aurais lu plusieurs, par curiosité. C’est amusant, faut pas trop le prendre au sérieux, t'sais.’’
‘’Joris, de quoi tu parles sérieux ?’’
What followed was a long and painfully awkward explanation, because people wrote fics about litteraly everything, like about F1 drivers. Together.
Yeah.
That night, Charles did some research, purely for professional reasons. He had to know.
He found a site called Archive of Our Own. It was the first link that popped up, an unfortunate coincidence. He clicked on the Formula 1 RPF category, just to check.
Putain de merde.
Joris was right.
RPF: Real Person Fiction.
However, Charles wasn’t a scifi character. He was fucking real: his past, his life, all his choices—they weren’t just ideas scribbled in some ugly notebook by a lonely writer.
Yet, there he was,on a screen, with his name. Doing things he definitely did not recall doing.
He didn’t dig any deeper that night. The discovery was already too much. He closed the page, cleared his history, shut his laptop—
And still, as he lay in bed, he couldn’t shake the feeling that even setting the computer on fire wouldn’t have been enough.
Him and another driver. Another man.
***
Brasil, november 2023
He hadn’t thought about it all year, not all all, not once and especially not even during his sleeples nights.
He was with Alex now. He was happy. The car had been really good these past few races. He was really happy. That’s what mattered.
They’d been together for six month, met in Monaco through mutual friends. The place was small—everyone knew everyone. Everyone knew Charles Leclerc. Things had moved fast between them, like it was just meant to happen. She didn't care about his reputation, his past, his job, his absences, all the secrets. He liked when things made sense, liked certainty.
Life carried on. He signed autographs, took selfies, did interviews, filmed that french feat and fun YouTube video with Pierre, posed for Ferrari photoshoot, charmed sponsors, shared vacation vlogs. He did what was expected of him as an F1 driver: he was accessible, because he loved his fans. He wanted to give back all the love they gave him, to do things right.
But he never thought about fanfiction. Not once. And it had taken more energy than he cared to admit.
Tonight, however, the tension was too much. He was sitting alone, just him, his laptop, his thoughts, and ignoring the monster only made it grow, like a shadow creeping in a dark corner of the room.
It wasn't so bad, really. He shouldn't be afraid of it. It was just fiction. He’d never been into that kind of art—always preferred movies or music—but there was a first time for everything. And like Joris had pointed out, he had every right to be curious. anyone would be. Anyone would want to know. So why not him? It didn’t mean anything. Just that he was human, like everybody else.
If people were out there making up stories about his life, he might as well check. Make sure they got it right Maybe he was a little curious about what they imagined. About his love life, his preferences. About how he might look—alone, in bed, with a man.
Charles glanced at the shadow in the corner of the room—small, almost unnoticeable—before clicking back onto the site he’d already visited. Typed in his own name.
“1 - 20 of 13,828 Works in Charles Leclerc”
Fine.
Alright. That was… a lot. But manageable. He wasn’t the main character in all 15,000 stories—sometimes just a side character with a single line of dialogue to move the plot forward. He wasn’t that important. He wasn’t the only driver, the only celebrity people gave a secret gay storyline just because it was easier. There were twenty men—it just made sense.
Charles wasn’t special.
‘’Pining.’’ ‘’Secret relationship.’’ ‘’Accidental marriage.’’ “Resolved Sexual Tension.” “Not Canon Compliant.” “Accidental Voyeurism.” “Sex Car.” “Cock Ring.”
Well.
What the fuck is even a accidental mariage ??
That was more than enough information for one night. He’d come, he’d seen, he was convinced.
***
Japan, april 2024
Honestly, things couldn’t get much worse.
He’d finished just off the podium, right behind Carlos, watching from below. A failure.
"Ferrari fired the wrong driver."
"Ferrari missed a great opportunity to have Lewis and Carlos in the same team."
"I think we’ve kept the wrong guy."
"If Charles was enough, they wouldn’t have signed Lewis."
Putain de parfait.
Truthfully, that wasn’t even the worst part. He’d been seeing comments like that forever. He was used to them. Barely read them anymore. He knew where he belonged. But P4 stung. And proving those people right? That irritated him.
No, the worst part was the loneliness. He’d broken up with Alex a few days ago. A mutual decision. His decision, if he was being honest. Something had been off between them, something just didn’t fit —like a crooked frame in a too-quiet museum. She was perfect. And he knew that was entirely on him. He was the thing that didn’t fit.
Like the hate comments, he’d gotten used to it. It wasn’t the first time he’d dated someone brilliant, kind, charming—fallen in love, been happy, really happy—only for it all to crumble. Like noticing a shadow growing in the corner, creeping up their face, into his heart, swallowing up whatever love was left. He felt almost guilty, even though she’d assured him she understood, that she didn’t regret anything. He should’ve loved her more. Loved her better. Should’ve tried harder.
Maybe he just wasn’t made for this. Maybe his real love was asphalt, speed, the roar of the wind rushing through the tunnel and vanishing. That’s what he told himself whenever a relationship ended. He couldn’t love two things so different, couldn’t crave both danger and passion. Passion was for Ferrari, for racing, for the thrill of the fight. He didn’t have time, didn’t have the need, didn’t have whatever it took to love a woman the way he loved taming the prancing horse. Maybe he wasn’t the problem. Maybe he was just... different.
He rolled onto his right side, facing the bathroom door—the same one where he’d once tried to drown himself, drown the consuming ache, the unspoken fear of being too different, in scalding water. Beside him, a beige and gray nightstand. His phone, barely charged. He’d silenced his notifications earlier. For sleep. For tonight. Just for a while, so he wouldn’t have to exist outside this room.
Another thought. Maybe this was better than raiding the mini-bar. Better than sticking his head under the faucet, cold this time, to clear his mind.
He grabbed his phone, praying it would die in his hands, knowing he couldn’t stop himself.
Archive of Our Own. Charles Leclerc. Search.
14,236 Works in Charles Leclerc.
Fine.
Include. Relationship. Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen (5167).
Perfectly fuckingly fine.
A few clicks and a little common sense later, Charles figured out he was mostly paired with Max in these twisted little fantasies. Further down the list were Pierre, then Carlos—the people he was actually close to, the ones he spent his time with in and sometimes outside the paddock. The ones who, if anyone, would make sense. But maybe trying to find sense in this was his first mistake.
Why Max?
Why not Pierre, who’d been his friend since childhood? Who he vacationed with every summer, whether it was Ibiza or some random French countryside because ‘’si, je t’assure Charles, la Normandie l’été c’est vivant.’’ Why not Carlos, who played along with that ridiculous homoerotic tension they had in every PR video? Why not Sebastian, even? He’d spent two years with him. What was he supposed to take from this?
He scrolled back.
40,897 Works in Formula 1 RPF. Include. Relationships.
Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen (5465).
Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen (4005).
Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz Jr. (1865).
Putain de merde.
Max.
Of course.
Nothing belonged to him. Nothing existed—no memories, no wins, no circuits slick with rain, no fucking scent of burning carbon, no goddamn drawer of torque wrenches—without Max being there. He couldn’t exist in F1 without Max.
2013, vice world karting champion. Right behind Max fucking Verstappen.
2015, signed by Van Amersfoort Racing because Max Verstappen had recommended him.
F2 champion in 2017, while Max was already a race winner in F1.
October 16, 1997. Max had already been breathing for two weeks. Charles had already lost.
"The sun of Maranello and the rain of Milton Keynes."
And now, he couldn’t even exist online without Max.
Charles wanted to scream—at this site, at this stupid statistic, at everything else .
He could go to the moon, dive into the depths of the ocean, fly to the fucking edges of the universe—Max would’ve been there sixteen days earlier.
Anal Sex (486).
His phone hit the nightstand, then the floor with a dull thud.
Boom.
Whatever.
486 times.
486 times people had written about Max fucking him.
Max—who, for years, he’d barely been able to say bonjour to. Not because of the language barrier, but because of the sheer weight of hatred lodged in his throat. Max, the one person he’d rather lose himself , push him into the puddle, than see win.
Unfair right ?
What was unfair was that he couldn’t love the most incredible woman in the world, but apparently, 563 times , people had imagined him in a ‘’established’’ relationship with Max Verstappen.
His mind drifted back to 2013. His kart. The rain. Max. Black racing suit, shoulders too broad, teeth too sharp. Wet grass.
If he could’ve loved the way he’d hated Max, maybe things would’ve been easier.
***
Miami, may 2024
The car had felt pretty good all weekend. He’d been confident—maybe too confident. That’s probably why he’d let his guard down.
When a reporter asked him to pick the ultimate F1 driver for different categories, he really should’ve just kept his mouth shut instead of blurting out Max Verstappen for ability in the wet. The second the words left his mouth, Charles rolled his eyes but kept the interview going like nothing happened. No big deal. Max was the best in the rain—hadn’t he proved that in Brazil 2016? It wasn’t like nineteen-year-old Charles had rewatched that race more times than he’d admit, equal parts envious and in awe. And nothing more. Envy, admiration.
Race day went well. Charles kepts up a solid pace, fought hard against both Red Bulls and his own teammate. Despite an aggressive strategy he crossed the line in third, behind Verstappen and Norris. Not bad—not what he wanted.
He’d barely stepped out of the car when Max appeared, his cap already replacing his helmet. Same grin as always—bright, confident. Charles shook his outstretched hand quickly, then let go just as fast, already walking towards the FIA officials. He had a plan now, one he’d tested back in China: ignore Max as naturally as possible. The goal? To not give any credibility to those 1,050 fluff fics about them.
Charles wasn’t secretly craving Max’s attention. Max wasn’t dying to talk through every lap with him. It was all just… interpretation. Yeah, they talked a lot after racing, but that was because they saw things the same way. Same background, same driving style. It was just better to debrief with Max than with journalists, analysts, even his own engineers. Because Max got it. He understood.
Was it the best part of racing? Almost. But it had nothing to do with unresolved tension or whatever people liked to imagine. And it definitely didn’t end in light dom.
Max was already following him. Charles barely had time to pull off his helmet and throw on his cap before Max launched into a dramatic retelling of the race. He could feel the Sky Sports camera moving behind him—at least this way, they wouldn’t catch his face in 4K when Max inevitably made him laugh. Because he would. Some ridiculous joke, that perfect mix of sarcasm and nonsense only Max could pull off.
Two minutes in, Charles had already abandoned his ignore Max strategy. He just slipped right into it, the easy back-and-forth, like always.
Classic.
“So when you decided to go for it there,” Charles started.
“Had it under control,” Max cut in with a smug smile.
“You sure ? ‘Cause from the outside, it kinda looked like—”
“No, no, no. Under control,” Max repeated, adjusting his watch like that settled it.
It wasn’t mutual pinning.
***
Thinking about it, hopping into Max’s white cart after the podium wasn’t exactly the best part of his "don’t stir the pot" strategy. But the temptation was too strong. They hadn’t finished their conversation, and after the ride came the podium, then the press conference. If they didn’t finish it now, who knew when they’d get another chance? Calling each other? Nah, not really their thing. Charles wasn’t even sure if he had Max’s number. They saw each other almost every weekend for the past ten years. And if they really needed to talk, they could always go through their physio, PR people, or their director— anyone. Or they could just wait until they bumpe into each other on the street.
“You know you’ve got a cart of your own, right?” Max started, vaguely pointing behind him to the exact same cart, only in a lighter blue.
“Didn’t know you were so territorial,” Charles said, grinning.
“I can be,” Max shot back, smirking.
“We didn’t finish our conversation,” Charles continued, "—you never told me if you guys went for a one-stop or kept the two-stop open?"
"One-stop was the priority. We really wanted to stretch the mediums, we were confident."
"Yeah, I saw a lot of graining on the mediums. Especially out of T7, front left."
"For me, it was mostly Turn 11. Traction was shit. You’ll see it when you watch my onboard."
"I don’t watch your onboard every time."
"Really? You should."
Yeah. No, thanks. Let’s just say he did—nine times out of ten. For professional reasons, obviously.
Putain.
"You think you guys will be quick in Italy?" Charles switched the subject, almost uneasy.
“Of course,” Max replied. “But I try not to think about it too much. It’s all about overall performance. I’d like a bit more pace on the soft tires.”
“Have you thought about a strategy?”
“Get the right speed into Tamburello.”
Thinking about it, waving to the crowd the second the cart started moving—like they were some newlywed royal couple—probably wasn’t the smartest move. Neither was leaning into Max every time the cart jolted, just to keep his balance.
Sure, no cameras had been following them for a while now, but the contact tingled and he couldn't help feeling guilty.
The thought hit him as he tensed his abs, trying to avoid even the slightest touch.
Did Max know? That their story had been diverted, twisted, written, rewritten in every possible way, in every possible position? Did he know about the smut tag , and what that meant? How would he react? Would he brush it off, like Charles did—or at least, like he tried to? Would he be proud? Pleased to be the first? The most popular? With Charles and with everyone else? Would he get weirdly competitive about it, like of course he had the highest hits, the filthiest tags—The best , inevitably, in every universes.
Thinking about it, laughing out loud after pointing out that Max had instinctively sat in the winner’s seat at the press conference—that was the final nail in the coffin for his so-called strategy. A real laugh, genuine, caught on camera in front of thousands. A total disaster.
Why couldn’t he keep it together for more than one weekend? Prove them wrong? Prove to himself that he had control?
He’d try again in Italy. With more fire.
***
It was almost midnight when he got back to his hotel room, the one with a view over a row of palm trees. It reminded him of Nice. Charles collapsed onto the brown leather couch in the middle of the room—fake comfortable—scrolling through social media for a bit. A little scientific monitoring . What he found didn’t exactly thrill him.
Honestly, he wasn’t even playing this chess game anymore. Every other move, he was handing over the reins, letting some clueless idiot push the pieces around for him. How the hell was he supposed to execute his strategy—win the damn game—when his teammate was as careless, as oblivious, as Max ?
All the effort, all the careful calculations this weekend, blown to bits by one single look from him.
The video had been looping on his screen for a while now; he wasn’t even really watching it anymore.
Charles, all smiles, shaking hands with Zinedine Zidane as he handed him the trophy. Just behind him, slightly off to the side, Max—grinning even wider—giving him a once-over, eyes lingering exactly a tenth of a second too long on his ass.
That infamous tenth he was always missing in quali.
That one extra tenth—The one that, today, was sending him into a spiral.
"My personal Roman Empire: Max looking Charles up and down, staring at his ass."
"He’s ridiculously shameless about it, love him for that."
"Could he be any more obvious?"
"Lestappen are real, pleaaaase."
A fucking coincidence. That’s what Charles called it. A bad camera angle. A joke from the universe. But definitely not obvious. Definitely not proof of anything.
He rolled his eyes, setting his phone down.
Max really wasn’t making any effort.
***
May 12, 2024, day off
It was the last weekend before Monaco, the last calm day. He could’ve taken the chance to go out, work out, or sleep, but instead, he was standing in his office, a meter away from his computer. He’d had the webpage open for more than ten minutes.
Charles was the king of in-between spaces, neither here nor there. But tonight, curiosity had won out over fear.
He opened the site.
Archive of Our Own. Charles Leclerc. Search. 14,356 works about Charles Leclerc. Include. Relationship. Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen (5197).
He’d taken care to pick a popular story, liked but not too much, scrolling through to about the fifth page. He’d also filtered out a bunch of tags from his search: "Anal Sex," "Roleplay Confusion," "Hand Jobs," "Overstimulation," "Choking," "Coming in Pants," "Dirty Talk."
Putain de merde.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for—validation? Clarity? An ego boost? A reason to never open this site again?
Maybe it was just morbid curiosity, like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurts.
You don’t need to stick your hand into a fire to learn it burns.
Just knowing fanfiction existed, searching for his name, browsing the site—that was one thing.
Horewer reading a story, actually diving in... that was something else. Still, Charles felt like it was a rite of passage, something he had to do to finally make that growing shadow in the corner go away, definily. Maybe if he fed it just once, it’ll be satisfied for the rest of his life and leave him alone. He had to do it, just so he could sleep, stop thinking about it in loop.
He’d found a short fic: about two thousand word, simple summary and tags that didn’t scare him off. Established Relationship; Domestic Fluff; Idiots in Love.
the fic was set during the 2023 Las Vegas Grand Prix, still fresh in his mind, which sealed the deal. He was curious to see how someone had written what he’d actually lived. He liked knowing what fans thought of him, of his race; it almost amused him to finally discover how others imagined him and, what kind of personality they gave him.
Maybe it was just an excuse to avoid the real issue, the thing actually bothering him. Because in the end this wasn’t just a race analysis from some dedicated fans.
Max.
Water whispers
[...]
The best thing about Vegas? The hotel rooms. Nowhere else did they get rooms this big. In Monaco, space was optimized, and a tub this big—big enough to fit, what, three people?—was a luxury he couldn’t justify. But here, for one weekend, he could soak in steaming water, let the dark thoughts fade and let his mind settled into something close to peace.
He dunked his head under for a few second. When he resurfaced, he took a deep breath. However, it didn't help, the nausea was still there. No, what he really needed was—
Charles shook his head, cleared his thoughts, and sank back, his neck against the cold ceramic edge of he bath.
Third in the Constructors’ Championship, a humilaiting result, considering the team he drove for. And he took full responsibility for it. He hadn’t won a single race. Just like sixteen other drivers on the grid this season, but that wasn’t the point. Sure, he’d been useful in Singapore—Carlos had that trophy thanks to him. But so what? He hadn’t won. He hadn’t beaten—
The bathroom door creaked open, letting out some of the steam fogging up the mirrors. How long had he been in here? Judging by how pruny his skin looked, too long.
“You’re not out celebrating?” he asked, voice rough, still submerged to his shoulders, eyes fixed on the water.
“What would be different from the last ten times?” Max shot back with a smirk—teasing, but fond, as he stepped closer.
Charles turned his head away as the other man crouched beside the tub.
He hadn’t won this year. But the guy who had broken every record and completely dominated the season was kneeling right in front of him. Charles still wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be comforting.
Maybe it was awful to think like that… Max would never see it like that—he had no reason to. He wasn’t in his position.
Winning was the most important thing, right?
Right?
“How long have you been in here?” the older driver asked, trailing a hand through the water.
“Five minutes.”
“You’re lying.” Not a question. A statement. He knew him too well, and never let him forget it. As if Charles could.
“You’re upset.”
Another statement. Apparently, he wasn’t gonna be left to sulk in peace.
“Maybe.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“I failed this year.”
“Ferrari failed,” Max corrected instantly, like he could read his mind. “You might not see the difference now, and it probably doesn’t help, but trust me, it matters. This wasn’t your failure. It was theirs. Did you do everything you could?”
“I… I could have—”
“Okay. Then tell me. What could you have done differently?”
Charles didn’t answer, his eyes drifting to Max’s hand under the water, inching a little too close to his thigh—innocent, yet dangerously so.
“See? Charles, we’ve been living together all season. I see you. I saw you before that, but if you need solid proof—here it is. There was nothing more you could’ve done. You can’t build the car yourself, run the strategy, do the pit stop, and fix Carlos hair before every race. You do the job you’re here to do. And you do it better than anyone.”
Charles frowned at him. Easy to say.
“Better than you?”
“No. No one’s better than me,” Max grinned, unapologetic.
That got a laugh out of Charles. Small, but still.
“Is there room for me?”
“The water’s lukewarm,” Charles replied, as if that would dissuade Max.
“Let me warm you up then,” Max continued amusedly before taking off his shirt.
A few seconds later, the water sloshed as another body slid in. Charles barely had time to register it before he was pulled forward, against solid muscle. He grabbed at Max’s shoulders on instinct.
“It’s freezing. You’ve been in here way longer than five minute, you liar,” Max muttered near his ear, arms winding around his waist, pulling him even closer—if that was even possible.
“Maybe. But didn’t you say you’d warm me up?”
A small sparkle flashed in the champion's eyes and a soft but teasing smile appeared on his lips.
"As you command."
Well.
Charles shut the laptop without even bothering to read the author’s notes. He never should’ve done this. If Lewis Carroll had taught him anything, it was that curiosity was a dangerous thing—sharp-edged. Diving down the rabbit hole was never a good idea, and now he was bleeding out over the void. He pushed against the floor with his feet, rolling his chair back from the desk, away from danger and took a moment to process what the hell had just happened.
Completely out of characters.
Max would never… It made no sense to imagine any of this. It was ridiculous. How did people even come up with this stuff? How could they see the way they interacted and think, Obviously, they take baths together ?
Charles wanted to scream. It was just coincidences—birthdays kinda close together, a shared passion that millions of people had, two bright primary colors. That was all.
And the way they wrote him—how could anyone look at the way he fought, his hunger to win, and imagine this ? He didn’t need Max to tell him where he belonged, didn’t need to be comforted. He didn’t need their conversations, didn’t need his support, his approval.
And Max would never say…
Charles exhaled sharply, trying to ground himself, stuck in the echo of something he didn’t understand. A version of himself that didn’t belong to him anymore.
Okay, sure, Max complimented him in the media sometimes, but that wasn’t that surprising. He wasn’t the only one Max did that for. The only people who thought Max was cold and unfeeling were the ones who didn’t know him.
Charles remembered an interview he’d stumbled upon by accident where Max hadn’t hesitated to say he preferred the 2022 season over 2021, that he’d liked competing against Ferrari more—against Charles, ‘’who he knew very well, who was a nice guy’’.
Charles remembered 2022 perfectly. Their debriefs at the start of the season, their excitement, the way they’d praised each other, the sheer joy of fighting an equal, someone who could push them both to their limits.
Max had never been shy about saying what he thought of him.
Fine.
Charles closed his eyes.
Was there some parallel universe where Max whispered all those things to him before kissing him? Could that actually be real?
That was the problem with opening Pandora’s box—some answers only led to more questions.
And maybe… maybe it was easier to wonder whether Max could be that tender, could want him like that, rather than ask himself if he wanted it, too. It was easier to picture Max’s words, Max’s hands on his skin, than to think about what he would do.
It was easier to think about Max.
Because if Max was the problem, then everything was simple.
If Max didn’t want him, there was nothing to think about. No questions to ask. If Max kept his distance, there was nothing to anticipate.
And Max would never do this. He’d never sink into a cold bath just to join him. His hands would never trace over bare hips, never cross the fireproof, that last fragile boundary—the one that kept them safe from the irreversible.
He shouldn’t have read that fic. Not because it was bad. It didn’t matter that the grammar was clean.
Charles rubbed the back of his neck, standing up abruptly. He couldn’t sit still anymore. He paced the room once, twice.
What did they see in them?
That was what he couldn’t understand. People watched interviews, races, press conferences, and somehow walked away thinking that . Thinking them .
Charles sat back down and looked at the soft blue glow of his screen.
He wondered what it would say about him if he read another one.
Was the verdict final? Was he doomed? Or was he just overthinking something so innocent? He probably wasn’t gonna find the answer in the light of his screen—or in the darkness of the room. Maybe it was way more obvious, written somewhere in his flesh, but it was still too early to get lost in those meandering.
He could pick one further from reality, from their world, so he wouldn’t mix everything up and get confused. That way, he could satisfy this guilty desire once more, just one last time, without risking getting lost in this dreamlike world.
In French, they used a word for it— chimère, that monstrous creature with a lion’s body, a goat’s head, and a serpent’s tail, to describe those pipe dreams. And it perfectly captured what Charles was feeling now— this fear of some creature lurking on the other side of the mirror, just beyond the screen.
It was a chimère.
He moved closer to his desk and clicked back to the homepage, then filtered by Alternate Universe. Among the culinary, artistic, and post-apocalyptic settings, he found a long fic—twenty-something chapters, set in the 18th century, the golden age of piracy, Max reimagined as a Dutch John Rackham.
The further he got from reality—from his Max—the less it felt like he was betraying him. The less it felt like he was fantasizing about him , about them . Since it had nothing to do with Max. This was about Charles and his own curiosity, his own need to figure himself out.
So he spent the night lost in the adventures of Captain Verstappen and Charles—the unlucky secretary who’d been kidnapped by mistake instead of the governor’s son, stuck onboard with a bunch of crude, merciless pirates.
***
CIK-FIA World KZ Championship — September 22, 2013
Charles had crossed the line six-tenths ahead of the guy behind him. Second place. It was an improvement from the European Championship, where he’d finished third. Being P2 today felt okay. But there was that little voice in the back of his head whispering that he’d never have done better than second anyway—that he’d never be first, never be ahead of him .
He shook his head, shutting the dusty restroom door behind him—the ones in the old locker rooms, the ones that never got cleaned, tucked away behind the hangars. Good thing he’d handed his trophy off to his papa before slipping away, before the little press conference the CIK-FIA had set up. He didn't want to dirty the trophy.
He actually liked press conferences; they made him feel like a real driver, like the ones he watched on TV. What he liked less was watching Max show off in front of the cameras and journalists. What he liked even less was laughing, in spite of himself, at his stupid jokes. Max was funny. Sometimes.
Charles let the door shut and headed to the back of the building, outside, to wash his hands at the outdoor sink. The track was great, but the facilities were rough.
That’s where he found Max, sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall, legs stretched out in the damp grass. He was staring at his trophy, smiling to himself, totally unaware of Charles watching him. He looked really happy.
Charles didn’t hate Max—hate was too strong a word. Max wasn’t worth that. When Charles was younger, back when he was just getting into European karting, he’d actually liked him. At first, it had been reassuring, seeing Max felt familiar. They weren’t friends, not really, but they were there , always finishing at the front, always crossing paths. Back then, they barely talked. Max used to carry marbles in his pockets, and sometimes they played without saying much, without fully understanding each other. Then they learned English. Then they started talking. Then Max started talking too much . Then Max started winning, Charles fought back, harder, better. They clashed on track and off, and whatever had once been easy between them disappeared.
No, Charles didn’t hate him. But his existence was exhausting . He felt so many things toward him, things he’d never felt before. Anger, jealousy, fascination, resentment, rivalry, curiosity. No one else in the world annoyed him as much as Max, and that bothered him. It was always the same. Every time Max stood on the top step of the podium, every time he laughed too loudly, every time he looked at Charles as if he were something to be understood, something to be challenged, something to win against. Charles hated not being in control of his emotions. He’d rather just not care. He’d rather Max didn’t exist at all. He wasn’t scared of Max—he was scared of what he didn’t understand about him.
Emotions that were too intense were never a good thing.
"What’re you doing here?" Charles asked, too sharp, unable to stop himself.
"Wanted a moment alone," Max said, still looking at his trophy, his voice quieter than usual. "Just me and this." He looked smaller here, sitting in the grass against the locker room wall. Less glorious than during their victory lap in the pickup or standing atop the podium, glowing, terrifying in his confidence, exactly where he belonged . Right now, he just looked like what he actually was—a fifteen-year-old kid, happy.
"You think that’s stupid," Max added, setting the trophy down, eyes drifting away.
"Why would I care?" Charles scoffed, stepping up to the sink. Max wasn’t the only one who could play the pride game. He might’ve been second today, but he’d left hundreds behind him. Charles was good.
"I probably look stupid, sitting here on the ground," Max muttered, more to himself. He still wouldn’t look at Charles.
" You always look stupid," Charles shot back, bold. He wasn’t intimidated by Max, wasn’t one of those kids tripping over themselves to be his friend. He didn’t need his approval, didn’t want his advice. Charles saw through him. Max, the untouchable champion, was just smoke and mirrors—a project, built brick by brick, by his dad and all the adults hovering around him. No, Charles wasn’t like the others. He was the only one who really saw him. Max was just an angry, loudmouthed kid. Too honest to be smart. Sometimes, Charles envied that. Other times, Max made him so furious he wanted to scream.
"You’re jealous," Max said suddenly, frowning now. The vulnerability he’d shown just moments ago had vanished. He was back to being the cocky, impossible kid Charles knew. "Mr. Perfect came second. Must kill you, huh? After all that effort."
"At least I know I got here on my own," Charles snapped. "Not just because of my last name. Maybe next year you should get yours stitched even bigger on your suit, just so everyone remembers exactly whose son you are."
Max was on his feet in a flash, making Charles take an instinctive step back—not out of fear, just surprise. He wasn’t scared of Max.
"You think I don’t know people talk about your connection to the Bianchis?" Max fired back. "You think that’s any different? If it helps you sleep at night, think whatever you want. I don’t care. I could strip the name off my suit, take it off entirely, and I’d still beat you. Every time. Any track, any car." He smirked then, all sharp confidence. "But thanks for the idea—I’ll make sure my name’s even bigger next year. Right there, with Ferrari."
"You got picked for the Florida Winter Series?" Charles bit out, fists clenching.
"Yep." Max grinned. Absolutely smug.
That was the last straw.
Charles grabbed Max by the collar of his race suit and shoved him against the locker room wall, gripping his shoulders to keep him there. Max’s head hit the concrete with a dull thud , and he let out a pained noise. But Charles didn’t regret it. Max deserved this—for this, for Val d’Argenton, for everything.
It was the first time they’d actually come to blows. Usually, an adult was always there to drag them apart. Back then, the language barrier had stopped them from tearing each other to shreds. Most of the time, Max just ignored him. And putain , this felt good.
"Klootzak."
Charles had no idea what it meant, but it didn’t matter. He’d hurt Max. He’d made him react. Maybe if he could make Max feel even a fraction of what he felt every time he lost, every time he came second—maybe then, this weight in his chest would finally lift.
He didn’t want to be the only one feeling too much .
And anger—pain—those were the easiest emotions to trigger. The only ones he somewhat understood. Everything else was a thick fog, some weird, unsettling dream. But this —this was real. So he wanted to hurt him, hurt him the way he hurt every time Max took something he wanted, every time he had to watch him stand on the top step of the podium, every time he felt that strange shiver when Max touched him.
Max struck back instantly, shoving Charles just as hard. But Max was stronger. Charles, caught off guard, stumbled and hit the damp ground behind the locker room, hands and tailbone slamming into the mud.
Max froze for a second, surprised too, but he recovered fast. He dropped to his knees, pinning Charles down.
Charles was an idiot. Max was bigger, stronger, crazier . He never stood a chance. But he still didn’t regret it, because seeing Max lose his composure like this? Worth it. And once again, he was the reason. Whether he forced Max off the track or against a wall, what difference did it make? Max always reacted, and that meant Charles had won .
Max grabbed his collar, shoved him down harder into the grass, and settled between his legs. Then he raised his fist.
Charles was about to get hit . It was going to hurt. But somehow, it had never felt this good. Lying there, heart hammering, Max with him, only them , no one to stop them —Charles had never felt so alive . It was their last year together. They might never see each other again. At least they could go out the right way.
But the punch never came
Max still had his fist raised, but he just stared at Charles, brows furrowed. And suddenly, Max was the one who looked like he was in pain. Something Charles had never seen before.
Charles didn’t really understand what was happening, but was satisfied. He wanted Max to hurt , just as much as he did.
His pulse roared in his ears, his skin burning where Max’s weight pressed him down. Max’s breath was hot against his face.
Then Max’s grip loosened. Charles took the chance to push himself up, his face suddenly way too close to Max’s. That’s when he noticed it.
The mole, right above Max’s upper lip. Almost too big. Had it always been there?
They’d never been this close before. And now, suddenly, Charles was seeing him for the first time. The too-close-set blue eyes. The full, pink lips. The freckles. The acne. The slightly crooked teeth. The mole.
Was Max… attractive ?
Had the girls at the track ever thought so? They liked him, but maybe just because he won . Charles figured he was better-looking. Girls batted their lashes at him more.
But that didn’t explain why his throat had gone dry.
That wasn’t really the point. Charles had lost track of the conversation. He couldn’t quite remember what they were even fighting about anymore.
Why hadn’t Max hit him?
And why did that disappoint him?
Max must’ve realized too, because suddenly, he pushed back, springing to his feet too fast .
Cold air rushed in where Max’s body had been. And fuck , Charles felt it. Felt the absence of warmth, the distance between them now.
Max looked at him one last time, almost sad. Then he turned away, grabbed his trophy, and left.
Charles lay back down in the grass, just for a moment.
The next year, Charles moved up to Formula Renault 2.0 Alps, finishing 2nd in the championship with Fortec Motorsports. In 2015, he entered FIA Formula 3 Europe with Van Amersfoort Racing, taking 4th overall with 13 podiums. By 2016, he was finally part of the Ferrari Driver Academy, dominating GP3. He and Max didn’t cross paths again until 2017, when Charles stepped up to Formula 2 and won the championship in his rookie season, the first to ever do it.
By then, that fight behind the locker rooms barely felt real anymore. Just a fever dream, already fading.