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carmimsaturno1633 · 11 days ago

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97'd Bulls. Chapter 23

Summary.

Charles standing tall on his car, the wings stretched across his shoulders matching the ones under him in the car. In the background, a somber electronic beat pulses, tension building. A voice murmurs through the track—low, almost mean: Red Bull gives you wings.

In what could only be described as a crisis of faith, Charles leaves Ferrari.

Available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63570670

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The hotel corridor was sterile and silent, a long, anonymous hallway that felt a universe away from the chaotic thrum of the paddock. Every muscle in Max’s body ached with the familiar, bone-deep exhaustion of a Zandvoort Thursday — a day of being pulled in a dozen directions at once, of smiling for cameras until his face felt stiff.

He knocked softly on the door, a quiet tap that was absorbed by the thick carpet. It swung open almost immediately.

Charles stood there, a vision of calm in soft pajama shorts and a loose t-shirt. The sight of him, unguarded and waiting, was like a switch being flipped; the tension coiled in Max’s shoulders began to unwind instantly.

He stepped aside, but Max had barely crossed the threshold before he was being pulled into a hug. He let out a low, tired hum, his body sagging as he melted against Charles, burying his face in the warm crook of his neck. The constant, high-frequency engine that was his mind finally sputtered into silence. He’d been waiting for this exact moment all day.

“Have you eaten?”

“Yeah.” Max mumbled, his mind briefly picturing the sad, obligatory protein shake and salad someone had handed him between interviews.

“Go take a shower. You’ll feel better.” Charles murmured, his voice low and soothing.

Max sighed, resting his forehead against Charles’s. “Want to stay here.” he admitted softly, his arms still looped around his waist, reluctant to let go.

They discussed this. He wanted this — waking up with Charles every morning of a race week — but both valued their own pre-race routine, the personal space to focus. They were still figuring it out. For now, their agreement was to keep their nights separate before qualifying and the race and discuss the rest.

“You can,” Charles assured him, brushing another kiss to his lips. “but shower first, you smell like paddock.”

Max finally relented, pressing one last lingering kiss to Charles’s forehead before dragging himself toward the bathroom.

When he emerged, his skin still warm and damp, he found Charles already in bed, on his phone. He wasted no time sliding in beside him, his body immediately seeking out Charles’s warmth. He pressed close, his arm draping over his waist. It was still early, not even ten o'clock, but he planned to sleep already.

“So, I should tell you something…” Charles began, his tone careful while he broke the quiet of the room.

“If it's about the fireproofs, Sarah already spilled.” Max grumbled into the pillow.

“Dammit, it was supposed to be a surprise.” Charles lamented. “Anyway, it’s not about that.”

Max blinked his eyes open. The tone had changed — careful, edged with something uncertain. He propped himself up slightly, instinctively tensing.

“What is it?”

“I… may have overdone it a little today. In the press conference.”

Max frowned. “I heard something happened. I didn’t ask for details.”

Charles hesitated, fingers picking at the seam of Max’s shirt. “Lando made a comment. About your dad.”

Max’s face closed off, expression flattening into something unreadable.

“And you?” he asked, voice low.

“I might have said something…” Charles admitted, eyes holding Max’s. “about his dad’s wallet.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then, slowly, a grin broke across Max’s face — dangerous and sharp, filled with something warm beneath the edge.

“Don’t laugh!” Charles groaned, shoving at his chest.

But Max wasn’t laughing. Not really. He was proud. He loved it when Charles let the polite, princely mask drop and showed some teeth. And on his behalf? It sent a hot thrill through him, part possessive, part reverent.

“I love it when you’re a little bitchy.” Max said, and Charles let out an exasperated noise as Max surged forward, kissing him.

Charles answered the kiss with a hum of protest that melted quickly into something softer. Max’s hand cradled the back of his head, fingers slipping into damp strands as he pushed him gently into the mattress.

There was heat, yes — but more than that, there was comfort. A closeness that felt like support.

Charles smiled against his lips. “Thought you were tired.”

Max kissed him again, harder this time. “Not anymore.”

The soft knock on the door of Max’s driver room was hesitant.

“It’s open.” Max called out, not looking away from the television screen where he was navigating a digital version of his own car around the Zandvoort circuit. He expected Charles, probably coming to drag him to an early dinner.

Instead, Lando’s head peeked around the door, his expression uncertain.

Max didn’t pause his game, just flicked his eyes toward him for a second before returning his focus to the screen. “Hey.”

Lando stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. He hovered awkwardly for a moment. The practice session had ended an hour ago; Max had set the fastest time, while Lando had trailed in fourth, just behind Charles and George.

“Look, mate.” Lando began, rubbing the back of his neck. “About yesterday… in the press conference. I was just trying to deflect. It was a stupid joke.”

Max just grunted, taking a perfect line through Turn 3 and gaining two-tenths on his own ghost car. “I don’t give a shit, Lando.” he said, his tone flat with indifference. “It wasn’t even a good one.”

And it wasn’t. Max didn’t understand why Lando had bothered to say anything, but if he had to be honest, Max only cared to watch the replay of the panel because he wanted to see Charles’ response.

“Right, yeah, but…” Lando shifted his weight, clearly not getting the dismissal he’d hoped for. He pauses, quiet for a moment too long before continuing. “I just… been dealing… There’s just been a lot of pressure, you know? The media’s been all over me about not winning since Japan, saying the car’s the best on the grid and I’m not delivering, and I just wanted to… deflect a bit.”

Max still didn’t look at him. He continued driving the banked corners. “So you decided to say shit about my dad to do it? Bold strategy.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Lando insisted, his voice taking on a frustrated edge that grated on Max’s nerves. “You get it, though, right? The pressure of everyone expecting you to win every single weekend. I just wanted people stop talking about it for five seconds.”

Max almost laughed.

He considered Lando a friend, or as much as any of them could be friends. Before Max had Charles, it was good to have someone on the grid you could actually talk to, someone with a similar chaotic energy who understood the ridiculousness of their lives. But the thing with Lando was that his mouth always ran a few laps ahead of his brain. He’d throw out a comment — like the one about his dad — thinking it was just a cheeky bit of banter, without ever considering the ricochet or the effect it would have on himself. Max found it more amusing than malicious. It was why he liked Lando, but it was also why they’d never be best friends.

He just didn’t have the energy to manage Lando’s self-inflicted wounds.

He finally paused the game, the screen freezing on a shot of his car crossing the finish line. He turned his head slowly, his expression devoid of much sympathy.

“This is the job, Lando.” he said, his voice blunt. “We get paid millions to drive the best cars in the world. People talking shit is part of the price. You think I like reading headlines that call me a robot or an asshole? Or having every move I make analysed by people who have never driven faster than a rental car?” He shook his head. “I don’t care about the media enough to even defend myself. You said what you said. Now you deal with it.”

“But you understand.” Lando pressed, his voice almost pleading now.

“Look,” Max said, his patience wearing thin. “if every bad headline is enough to send you into a crisis, then you either need to learn to shut out the media.” He paused, “Or find a different job.”

The brutal honesty hung in the air, cold and sharp. Lando just stared at him, looking stung.

Just then, the door opened without a knock and Charles came in, lifting his eyes from his phone and taking in the tense scene with a quick, perceptive glance. He blinked, then his gaze settled on Max, a questioning look in his eyes.

“Car’s ready.” he said simply. “Wanna go?”

The shift in Max was immediate, the tense lines around his mouth softening as he stood and turned off the TV. “Sure.” he said, his focus entirely on Charles now. He turned to the younger driver, his expression expectant, waiting for him to leave.

Lando watched the silent exchange between them, then looked from Max to Charles and back again. “Good luck tomorrow. For you two.” he said, his voice quiet, before he turned and left the room.

Charles sent him a silent question, to which Max just shrugged, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

Charles considered that for a moment, then nodded, not pushing further. He moved to pick up Max’s backpack from a chair while Max pulled on his jacket. They left together, Charles holding Max’s things, and as they walked down the quiet corridor, Max’s arm found its way around Charles’s shoulders, a familiar, grounding weight.

Charles got pole the next day. Max ignored his smirk when they crossed paths before the conference, giving him a congratulatory half hug and cursing good naturally in his ear.

Later, after dinner, they sat at the quiet lounge of their hotel, both stalling for a bit, as they wouldn't be sharing the room this night. The low hum of scattered conversations and the soft clinking of glasses filled the space, creating an atmosphere that felt alive but private enough for them to talk undisturbed.

Max was mid-sentence, recounting Lewis’ performance, when Charles’s attention seemed to drift. His gaze flicked toward the sleek black piano in the corner of the room.

“Do you mind if I play?” Charles asked abruptly, cutting Max off.

Max blinked at him, momentarily thrown by the sudden shift. “Uh… sure, go ahead.”

Charles got up without another word, wandering over to the piano. He slid onto the bench, his fingers finding the keys instinctively. The first soft notes filled the room, and Max leaned back in his chair, watching.

He didn’t got to watch Charles play much, even during the break Max only got glimpses of it, usually when Max was busy working on something while at Charlrs apartment. Truth was, Max knew next to nothing about music, but whatever Charles was doing sounded… good. Relaxing, even. For a moment, Max let the melody wash over him, but just as he was settling into the calm, Charles’s voice broke through.

“You were talking about the seventh lap, right?” Charles asked, his fingers still moving effortlessly across the keys.

Max frowned. “I thought you were gonna play?”

“I am playing.” Charles said with a grin. “I can multitask. Go on, what were you saying about tire degradation?”

“Hm, that Ferrari upgrade seems better. The new suspension may fix their issue with-” he restarts, but then Charles does a complicated-sounding sequence of notes and Max stops himself, “Okay, no.” He stood, walking over to the piano. “I can’t think when you’re here giving a concert.”

Charles turned to him, his smile teasing, hands still moving. “I’m the one playing, and you can’t focus?”

The song didn’t falter, Charles’s hands gliding across the keys with ease.

“How do you not lose yourself doing that?” Max asked, his brows furrowing in curiosity.

Charles shrugged, the movement casual despite the focus in his hands. “It’s just muscle memory, picking out melodies. It’s not much different than the rhythm of breaking and accelerating in a track you know.” His smile softened when he noticed the bewildered look on Max’s face. “Come on, try it.”

Max shook his head immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Max. I’ll show you the notes.” Charles said, tugging at his arm, his accent clicking the words.

“You just want to embarrass me.” Max muttered.

“Definitely,” Charles admitted with a laugh, “but it’ll be fun.”

Before Max could protest further, Charles pulled him down onto the bench beside him. The stool was narrow, their thighs and shoulders pressing together, and Max felt a flicker of awareness at the closeness.

Charles grabbed Max’s wrist, guiding his fingers to the keys. “Okay, this is ‘do’.” he explained, tapping a key. “Now press each finger one at a time, like this. Move your index after the pinky. Yeah, just like that.”

Max hesitated but followed along, feeling both ridiculous and oddly intrigued as the notes began to take shape under his fingers.

“You’ve got good hands for this.” Charles observed, pressing his palm briefly against Max’s to compare their hand spans. “Long fingers.” he gives a crooked wink, in a clear innuendo, before letting go, “Ever think about playing an instrument?”

Max snorted. “Can you imagine my dad letting me waste time on music as a kid?”

The melody faltered for just a moment. Charles’s hands stilled before resuming, his expression tensing. “Well, you’ve got a knack for it.” he said lightly, guiding Max into another sequence of notes.

As they played, Charles asked, too casually, “Is Jos coming to the race?”

Max nodded, eyes focused on the keys, trying to follow the simple pattern Charles had shown. “He was at quali.”

Charles hummed in response — quiet, unreadable. He didn’t press further, but the silence stretched between them, dense and shifting. The notes from the piano lingered for a beat too long before dying completely.

Max felt it instantly. The mood tilted. The familiar knot in his stomach twisted tighter. He pulled his hands from the keys, resting them on his thighs.

“If you have something to say, just say it.” he said flatly.

“It’s nothing.” Charles replied, too quickly. His gaze stayed pinned to the piano.

“Then just say whatever you’re thinking.”

Charles hesitated, then finally said, “I was just wondering what you and Lando were talking about yesterday.”

Max blinked. That wasn’t what he’d expected.

“Nothing. Lando being Lando. He came to apologise for the press conference. Tried to blame it on pressure. I told him I didn’t give a shit.”

“It seemed like you gave a little bit of a shit.” Charles said dryly, finally glancing over.

Max rolled his eyes. “It’s a waste of energy. I told you, I don’t care what the media says. Or Lando says.” Max’s voice rose slightly, frustration creeping in.

Charles didn’t drop it. “So it doesn’t bother you, at all? When people dig into your past? Use it like it’s fair game?”

Max stopped. The weight of the words sank into him like stones.

He sat up straighter, jaw tight, the easy rhythm of the lesson shattered. The piano keys were quiet again, untouched.

“Of course it bothers me.” he said at last, voice taut. “It’s pathetic. And it’s not their place to speak of.”

He exhaled through his nose, steady but controlled. “I talk about it sometimes because it’s mine to talk about. But people… they take it. They strip it of context and turn it into some headline or a stupid fucking joke. Like they get it. Like it was fun for me.”

His fists clenched lightly on his knees. “So yeah, Charles, it fucking bothers me. But if I let it get to me…” He trailed off. His throat tightened. “Then I’d never leave my damn room.”

The silence that followed was different now. It wasn’t uncomfortable — it was heavy. Too close, too open.

The hum of people in the lobby sound around them, but it felt distant. The unplayed piano between them held a strange kind of gravity.

Jos didn’t even talk to Max that much anymore. He cared more about Max’s stats than his life. He’d still call, especially after a bad race — those long, tense debriefs that felt like interrogations. But Max knew how to handle it now. Knew how to deflect, control the conversation, and end it on his terms.

What he didn’t know how to handle — not as much as he wished, at least — were the fucking jokes. The gas station comments. The smug speculation about Jos’s reaction anytime Max lost. How many wins? How many titles? How long until people stopped imagining a father’s fist when they saw a son’s mistake?

And Charles — sitting right here, steady and quiet — wasn’t making it easier. He saw too much. He always had.

Max didn’t want to defend Jos anymore. But he didn’t know how to stop reacting like he should.

And now he’d snapped at Charles, all because Lando opened his dumb mouth and dragged Max’s past into the spotlight again.

He braced himself. Dared a glance at Charles.

He expected judgment. Maybe pity. Or worse, that quiet flinch — the same way his mother used to shrink back when Jos raised his voice.

But Charles wasn’t flinching. He wasn’t looking at him with pity or disgust. He was just… there. Watching him. Steady, unreadable, but present. Not leaving.

The quiet felt like an answer all on its own.

And in that hollowed-out space left behind by Max’s anger, a new thought began to bloom — terrifying in it’s weight.

He swallowed. “What about you?” he asked, voice quieter. “What do you actually think about him?”

Charles looked away, down at the piano keys. His posture shifted slightly, thoughtful.

He didn’t answer at first, and the longer the silence stretched, the more tense Max became — the air taut between them like a pulled string.

Then finally, Charles said, simply, “Honestly? I don’t have a very high opinion of him.”

The words landed like a slap — not loud, not cruel, not even surprising, just true. Max flinched anyway. He forced the next question out. “Because of me.”

Charles’s voice didn’t waver. “Yes.” Direct, unflinching, and so did he meet his gaze. “We grew up together. Me, Pierre, George, the others. We saw it. Not just heard stories. We saw it.”

He let that sink in before continuing, his voice steady and full of a history that only so few people in the world shared. “And more than that… he wasn't exactly the nicest adult to the rest of us, either. Like, for me…” Charles hesitated again, as if weighing a memory. “For me… there was this one time…” he said finally. “Remember that KF2 competition in Spain? WSK, two thousand… eleven?”

Max remembered. He remembered his dad grabbing him by the back of the neck afterwards, shouting that he should’ve ignored ‘that damn boy’. He had thought it had been a private moment, but now Charles was bringing it up.

“What about it?” Max asked.

“I was fixing my hair.” Charles said, his voice oddly soft. “Teen boy, trying to look good for photos. Someone started banging on the door, and I made them wait. When I finally opened it, it was your dad. I froze so hard I didn’t even let go of the brush in my hand.”

Max felt his stomach tighten as Charles continued, his voice quieter now. “He grabbed my arm, threw me out, and said something like ‘you fucking fairy.’”

Max froze. The words hit him like a gut punch, their weight amplified by the calm, detached way Charles said them. Yet Max could hear his father’s voice so clearly in his head. That harsh tone, the venom behind the same word thrown at him more times than he cared to remember, for the slightest sign of imperfection or weakness.

He swallowed hard. “Charles-”

“I didn’t even know what he meant at the time.” Charles interrupted, his voice still detached.

“I’m so-” Max began, the words tumbling out before he could think.

“No.” Charles cut him off, his gaze unwavering. “It’s not your place to apologise, Max, and I’m not telling you for that. What I am saying is that I have reservations that don’t are necessarily related to you, exclusively.”

Charles’s hands paused, his fingers resting on the keys. He looked down, his voice soft but steady.

“But it is your place to decide the relationship you want to have with your father. I wouldn't ever involve myself in it. And I won’t ever judge you for wanting him in your life.” He turned to meet Max’s eyes.

Max furrowed his brows, his expression sceptical and confused.

Charles nodded earnestly. “I get it, okay? I’d do anything to have my dad too. You have a chance to have yours, and you deserve that.” He took a breath, leaning forward slightly, hand coming to circle gently around Max’s wrist, “And if you say your relationship is good now, that he is good for you and you want to have him in your life, I’ll believe you.”

Max’s posture relaxed slightly, though his expression remained closed, and his words didn’t come. Charles sighed, thumb rubbing softly over Max’s pulse “I mean it, okay?”

The weight of their conversation lingered. Max stayed beside him, still in silence as Charles went back to playing, his shoulder still firmly pressed against Max.

Later, when Sarah asked about delivering a paddock pass for his father, Max hesitated. Instead of the garage access, he opted for a VIP viewing.

Charles deserved the space to focus — and Max wasn’t sure he was ready to see his dad in the paddock either.

The energy of the orange sea was incredible. Now, as part of Max’s team, Charles could truly feel the huge wave of support as he stepped into the Zandvoort paddock. Fans cheered wildly, their voices blending into a loud, constant roar that vibrated in his chest.

Smiling, Charles stopped to sign a few orange caps, nodding politely as people called out his name. Their excitement was so real he could almost touch it. The passion reminded him of being a Ferrari driver in Italy, and the thought brought a familiar, sad feeling, especially with that race coming next week. He had loved the Tifosi, but their love always felt like a lot of pressure. This felt different. Lighter. He shook off the sad thought and kept walking.

That feeling of being part of something huge, but without all the pressure, grew stronger during the Drivers’ Parade. Charles stood near the back of the open-top truck, feeling very noticeable in the special edition orange team kit.

Yet through all the chaos, Charles was most aware of Max’s eyes on him.

Even across the crowded truck, mid-conversation with Kimi, Gabriel and Fernando, Charles could feel his gaze. Max’s face could be hard for others to read, but for Charles, it was an open book. He saw the way Max’s eyes kept coming back to him, a small, proud smile touching his lips whenever he looked at Charles in the bright orange shirt. That look alone made all the teasing he’d gotten from Pierre and Joris earlier completely worth it.

Pushing back his own smile, Charles tried to focus on a conversation with Lewis and Carlos. But then, Pierre’s voice boomed over the noise, enthusiastic and impossible to ignore.

“HEY! PARTY! AMSTERDAM, AFTER THE RACE!”

Carlos, standing nearby, laughed. “What are you celebrating, mate? Finishing a race?”

“I’m celebrating life!” Pierre shot back with a huge grin. “And Kika’s friends are hosting a big party at a club. We’re all going.” He turned then, his focus landing on Charles. He jabbed a finger in his direction, a playful but firm command in his eyes. “You. You will come.”

It wasn’t a question. A smirk played on Charles’s lips, and he raised an eyebrow. His gaze flicked across the truck, easily finding Max, who was already watching him. He tilted his head slightly, a silent question passing between them. Max simply gave a tiny shrug that only Charles would understand, a gesture that said everything: Up to you. I’m in if you are.

Pierre saw the entire silent exchange. He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Realising he had to get approval from the other part of the couple, he turned his attention to Max.

“Come on, man!” Pierre called out, full of energy. “It’s gonna be good! Invite your friends, let's have some fun!”

Max’s grin was immediate and easy. He gave a big thumbs-up. “Alright, man. I’m in. Just tell me the club.”

A real, warm smile spread across Charles’s face. It was that easy now. A shared look, a silent question, and a simple decision made together. The roar of the crowd was exciting, but the quiet, steady support from the man across the truck was something else entirely. It felt solid and safe. It felt like everything.

[SkyTV - Video Description: ON-SCREEN GRAPHIC: LAP 68/72] CROFTY: “And we are into the final five laps here at Zandvoort! Max Verstappen, after a brilliant undercut on Lewis Hamilton earlier, is now charging up to his teammate for the lead! Leclerc’s tyres are older — this will be his biggest defensive test yet.” The camera cuts to a shot of the two Red Bulls, nose to tail through the banked Turn 14, Max’s RB21 twitching slightly as he gets on the throttle early. BRUNDLE: “Leclerc has been absolutely relentless all weekend. He got pole, controlled the early stints, and kept Max behind twice already. But now Max has the fresher tires and DRS. This isn’t going to be easy.” CROFTY: “If Max passes him now, it’ll be the third time in this race. But don’t expect Charles to just roll over. He’s still fighting for the championship, and he needs this win.” The broadcast feed cuts to the intense battle for P3. HAMILTON's Ferrari is defending aggressively from NORRIS in the McLaren. CROFTY: And look at this! Lewis Hamilton is making that Ferrari as wide as a bus! Lando Norris is all over his gearbox, but he just can't find a way through! Lewis is really playing with him. ADDAMI (RADIO): Lewis, do not fight him. I repeat, do not fight Norris. We need to save the tires to the end. HAMILTON (RADIO): Leave me to it. BUTTON: Ohhh, Lewis is not giving up this podium position without a fight, team orders or not. The feed cuts back to the front. Max's car is now right behind Charles'. The DRS flap on the Red Bull is wide open as they scream down the main straight. CROFTY: “Verstappen with DRS, gaining, gaining! He pulls out to the inside heading into Turn 1!” On board, Max darts left. Charles reacts immediately, swinging over to defend. They touch — light contact, a wheel-bang, sparks flying. BRUNDLE: “Oh! They’ve touched! Just a kiss of wheels. Max is still there, Charles refuses to give it up!” CROFTY: “No quarter given by either of them! And they both hold it through Turn 2! What a duel between the Red Bull drivers!” The shot switches to a wide angle of the next sequence — Turns 3 to 5. Max remains on the inside line, relentless, and finally edges fully ahead into Turn 7 as Charles is forced to yield a car’s width. LAZENBY: “Incredible car control. That was real racing. Hard, clean, just like the old days.” CROFTY: “And Max Verstappen takes the lead of the Dutch Grand Prix with just four laps to go! But my word, Charles made him work for every centimetre of that!” BRUNDLE: “That’s what makes these two special. Teammates or not, they are absolutely fearless. Charles knew the risks and still kept it alive through every corner.” Montage shows the final laps. Max builds a slim gap, but Charles stays close. Both push to the limit. CROFTY: “Last lap now. The Orange Army on their feet, and Max Verstappen just a few corners away from victory.” Wide shot as the checkered flag drops. Formula 1 theme song sarted playing. CROFTY: “ The checkered flag is out! MAX VERSTAPPEN WINS THE DUTCH GRAND PRIX! The Orange Army erupts! The four-time world champion wins his home race for the fourth time! An absolute masterclass here at Zandvoort!” Final shot of the parc fermé, Max and Charles getting out of their cars. Max slaps Charles’s helmet before pulling him into a brief hug — equal parts adrenaline and respect.]

[Instagram - Photos Descriptions: Photo 1: Close-up of Max in the cockpit, special black and red helmet on, with visor up, eyes intense and locked ahead as he adjusts his gloves. Photo 2: Max leaning against a Red Bull garage table, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he looks directly at the camera, team personnel bustling energetically around him. Photo 3: A dynamic shot of Max's RB21 speeding around a banked corner at Zandvoort, showcasing its special Zandvoort livery: a sleek black base with prominent orange accents and details Photo 4: The podium, with Max front and center on the top step, Charles to his right (P2), and Lewis to his left (P3), all beaming at the cheering Zandvoort crowd. Photo 5: Another podium photo, Max and Charles drenched in champagne, striking a pose together. Max's arm is firmly around Charles's waist, their champagne bottles clinking in a triumphant toast. Photo 6: A plaque with MAX P1 and CHARLES P2. The two drivers are kneeling on either side of it, still in their orange fireproofs, grinning as the Red Bull team cheers wildly. Instagram Caption: @ maxverstappen Home win, Zandvoort! (orange heart emoji) Unbelievable energy from the Orange Army. So good to be back on top. @ redbullracing

[Instagram - Photos Descriptions: Photo 1: A low-angle shot of Charles Leclerc standing beside his RB21 in the pit lane, helmet tucked under his arm, the racing suit open around his hips showing the orange fireproofs. Photo 2: A head-on, low-track-level shot of Charles’ RB21 storming down the Zandvoort main straight. The halo and front wing are sharp in focus, while the background smears into vibrant streaks of orange grandstands and asphalt under a bright sky. Photo 3: Candid shot of Charles in the Red Bull garage, sitting on a stack of tires, headset half-off, a genuine smile as Rocky leans over to explain something on a tablet. Photo 4: A trophy-side table shot: Charles’ Red Bull cap tossed next to his P2 trophy, champagne stains glistening on the tabletop. Photo 5: A plaque with MAX P1 and CHARLES P2. The two drivers are kneeling on either side of it, still in their orange fireproofs, grining as the Red Bull team cheers wildly. Photo 6: Close-up photo of Charles on the podium, champagne bottle in hand, mid-spray, with the Zandvoort crowd a sea of orange behind him.] @ charlesleclerc Podium in Zandvoort! P2 and a great fight out there. The team did an amazing job this weekend. (orange heart emoji) Let’s keep pushing! @ redbullracing

Max sat in the Red Bull debrief room, the roar of the Orange Army still ringing faintly in his ears, like a faraway tide. His phone screen glowed in his lap, schedule lined up in relentless blocks of obligation — interviews, media, sponsor greetings. And at the very bottom, an item that made his stomach twist: Dinner - Dad.

His thumb hovered over it for a second. It wasn’t going to be a celebration. It never was. But skipping it wasn’t an option either. Not unless he wanted to open a bigger can of worms.

The earlier conversation with Charles still pressed uncomfortably against the edges of his thoughts — too fresh, too raw. He hadn’t expected it to come out like that. Out of nowhere, in a home race weekend. And now it was like a nerve had been exposed, and the idea of seeing his father tonight made his jaw ache.

He looked up slowly as the engineers began their presentation, half-hearing technical chatter while the familiar weight of tension settled across his shoulders. The initial thrill of the win had already dulled into something quieter, more drained. He wasn’t even tired, not physically — just worn thin.

Beside him, Charles spun a water bottle between his palms, still riding the post-race high. He looked relaxed. Comfortable. Like he belonged in this moment of shared victory. Max just wished he could stay in that easy space with him, instead of spiralling into whatever came next.

Christian’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Ferrari may have resolved most of their balance issues. They were gaining on us in the straights, we’ll need to factor that into updates.”

Max spoke without really thinking, voice edged in something sharp. “Well,” he said, too lightly, “let’s see if FIA decides to go knock on their door next.”

A few mechanics chuckled, but around the lead engineers, there was a hitch — not quite silence, but a shared pause. The head of engineering cleared his throat.

“The FIA has concluded its investigation. Everything regarding the cars is officially closed. No further concerns.”

Max raised an eyebrow. That was an oddly specific phrasing. Charles made a small sound beside him. “Regarding the cars, huh?”

Another pause.

Then Christian clapped his hands once, too loud. “Alright, alright. Enough FIA talk. Let’s focus on the win. We had a perfect weekend.”

Max shrugged. He didn’t care much about whatever weird tension was floating around — if something was actually wrong, someone would tell him. Or they wouldn’t, and he’d find out later. Either way, it wasn’t his problem right now.

What was his problem was how Charles stretched his arms overhead, fireproofs still sticking to his skin, the way his body moved so easily, still riding the high of the podium. Charles pushed up from his chair, stretching out the stiffness in his back, then nudged Mx with his elbow. “Come on.” he said, keeping his voice deliberately neutral. “Your driver’s room has better snacks.”

Max turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, his lips curved into something dangerously amused. “Oh? And what exactly I’m offering, Leclerc?”

Charles rolled his eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Food, Max Emilian. Normal, non-diet-abiding, edible food.”

Max hummed, clearly unconvinced, but stood anyway. When they finally reached the quiet sanctuary of Max’s driver’s room and the door clicked shut behind them, the last traces of public restraint crumbled.

Max didn’t hesitate — he stepped forward and caught Charles by the wrist, tugging him close until they were chest to chest. His lips found Charles’s jaw in a soft, lingering kiss that made Charles’s breath hitch.

“Are you okay?” Max asked, his voice low and warm. It wasn’t just about the race. It was everything — their first time competing like this since getting together, Max’s win, the bump on track that had made the whole garage hold its breath. And Charles acted normal, happy even, but Max needed to ask.

Charles didn’t answer with words. He leaned in and kissed him instead — slow at first, lips soft and deliberate, like he wanted to remember the taste of Max’s mouth. Max responded instantly, melting into it, hands finding Charles’s hips and pulling him flush against him. They kissed again and again, hungrier each time, mouths opening, breathing into each other.

Charles broke away only to press a line of kisses down Max’s throat, then returned to his lips with a grin. “Still okay?” he teased against his mouth.

Max just groaned, nudging him backward until the backs of Charles’s knees hit the small couch. Charles went down willingly, dragging Max with him. The fall was clumsy, but neither cared. Charles laughed, twisting beneath Max to flip him onto his back. He straddled him, kissing him harder now, hands in his strands, tasting the heat between them like it was fuel.

“You looked so pretty today.” Max murmured between kisses, tugging at the fireproofs. “Wearing my color like that.”

Charles smiled into the kiss, lips brushing Max’s again. “You looked at me like you wanted to eat me alive,” he whispered. “Even during the cool-down room.”

“I did.” Max confessed, his voice gone hoarse. He reached up to thumb at Charles’s lower lip, then pulled him down into another deep kiss, their bodies pressed impossibly close, heat pooling between them. The tension wasn’t rushed — it was heavy and electric, full of knowing touches and unfinished sentences drawn between their mouths.

Charles let himself get lost in it — in the feel of Max beneath him, the sharp little gasps and the grip of strong hands on his back — until Max’s phone buzzed once from the side table. Neither of them moved.

Then Charles’s phone vibrated next, this time insistently. He groaned and pulled away, pressing his forehead to Max’s.

“Pierre.” he mumbled. “I know he asking about the party tonight.”

Max let out a dramatic groan and flopped his head back. “What is it with this fucking party?”

“I have no idea.” Charles said, reluctantly reaching for the phone to type a reply. “But if we don’t show up, he’ll come knocking.”

Max rolled his eyes. “We should just stay in. Lock the door. No one would find us.”

“It’s your win. ” Charles said, glancing up with a softer expression. “You choose.”

Max considered for a moment, then sighed. “I already invited Martin. That was a mistake.”

Charles smiled, nudging him with his nose before kissing him again, slow and coaxing, tasting the protest from Max’s mouth. “Okay.” he whispered, lips brushing against his. “One hour. For your friend. We go, make an appearance. Then we come back and you can have me all to yourself.”

He pulled back just enough to let Max see the promise in his eyes — dark, playful, and impossible to resist.

Max’s hand slipped beneath his fireproofs. “You already are.”

Charles grinned in response.

The restaurant Jos had chosen was exactly as Max expected: expensive, formal, and utterly devoid of warmth.

Across from him, Victoria was deep in a pleasant but strained conversation with Jos’s wife, a practised ease in her smile that Max knew was pure performance. Thomas nodded along, having long learned to stick to talking about their children rather than try and participate in Jos rant of racing talk.

“The start was clean.” Jos began, cutting straight to the point as the waiter cleared their plates. He hadn't said "congratulations." “But you gave up too much space into Turn 1. And Leclerc… getting pole in qualifying? He’s getting too comfortable.”

Max took a slow sip of water, his own voice carefully neutral. “His one-lap pace was strong. My long-run simulation was two-tenths faster per lap. We knew we had him on strategy. It was never a concern.”

“It should be a concern.” Jos pressed. “He is a danger. You need to keep him behind you, always.”

“Noted.” Max said, his tone flat, offering nothing more.

Jos huffed, clearly annoyed by the short answers. “And I don’t understand why I was stuck in some VIP box instead of the garage. I couldn’t see the telemetry, I couldn’t hear the team radio…”

Max thought of Charles’s face in the hotel lounge, the quiet, brittle way he’d recounted a memory from when they were teenagers. He thought of the promise he’d made to Charles, and to himself, to protect him.

“I just needed to focus this weekend.” Max half lied smoothly. “No distractions.”

He saw his father’s jaw tighten, but he didn’t push it. Instead, his attention drifted away, his gaze landing on his phone. The race talk was over. Max knew that, for his father, the meaningful part of their dinner was now concluded. Max watched him, then glanced at Victoria. As usual, his father hadn't asked his sister a single question about her life, her kids, or her work. The spotlight was only ever big enough for one of them, and the price of being in it was to be a performance, not a person.

Just then, his phone buzzed softly on the table. He picked it up. It was a text from Charles.

“Hows dinner?? just woke up from my nap ;) Leaving for Pierres party soon. Miss you.”

Attached was a selfie of Charles, hair a mess from sleep, pouting in a poor but incredibly endearing attempt at a kissing face. A real, unguarded smile broke through Max’s carefully constructed composure. The warmth that flooded his chest was a stark, jarring contrast to the cold atmosphere of the dinner. He pocketed his phone and gestured to the waiter for the check.

“Alright.” he said, “I have to go. Got a party to get to.”

Jos barely looked up from his phone. “Fine.”

“A party?” Victoria asked.

Max looked at her, at Thomas, “Yeah, Gasly’s throwing something in Amsterdam for the grid. You guys should come with me. Have some fun.”

Victoria’s face broke into a wide, grateful grin. “Okay,” she said, already reaching for her purse. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Max arrived with Vicky and Thomas in tow, stepping into the Amsterdam club. The decor was expensive, the room was dimly lit, and the guests were a sea of designer brands. It didn’t seem any more special than the dozens of other high-end, exclusive places he’d been to, but it had a good enough vibe.

It took him a moment to find Charles and the rest of their group, but as he watched, he could read the quiet language of Charles’s body. His shoulders, instead of loose and relaxed, were a little tight. His easy smile was replaced by a look of polite, watchful assessment. He was scanning, calculating, the walls going up brick by invisible brick.

A familiar, protective instinct stirred in Max’s gut. He moved closer, his hand lifting to brush against Charles’ shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low enough that only Charles could hear over the music.

Charles didn’t answer him. His gaze was on Pierre, bringing to the booth a tray of ridiculously colourful drinks.

“So.” Charles said, his voice a low counterpoint to the thumping bass, his attention entirely on Pierre. “You brought us to a gay club.”

Max blinked and then properly looked around.

He’d seen the drivers mingling with the other partygoers, but now he noticed the details. George, Franco and Alex were deep in conversation, unbothered. Lewis had his arm around a blonde woman, but next to them, two men were sharing a deep kiss, completely at ease. Near the dance floor, Franco seemed to be chatting up two women who were holding hands. And on the wall behind the bar, tucked between the flags of Brazil and Netherlands, were the unmistakable rainbow and trans pride flags.

Oh.

Pierre turned, handing Charles a vibrant blue cocktail without missing a beat. His expression was serious, but his eyes were full of a deep, unwavering fondness. “I brought everyone to a fun club. A queer-friendly one.” he corrected gently. He put a hand on Charles's shoulder, his tone firm but kind. “Live a little, Leclerc. Nobody gives a shit about you.”

Max watched the exchange, a flicker of grudging respect for Gasly igniting in his chest. It was a ballsy move, but a good one. He watched Charles process the words, saw the internal conflict playing out on his face. Max glanced around again at his peers. He realised Pierre’s gamble wasn’t that risky. For all the sport’s macho, male-dominated posturing, most of these drivers didn’t actually care what other people did with their lives.

He saw the exact moment Charles came to the same conclusion. The subtle but definite release of tension in his shoulders, the slow, deep breath he took as he looked from Pierre’s sincere face out at the joyful, chaotic crowd. It was a silent surrender. Charles then turned and, with a new, lighter energy, went to go greet Victoria and Thomas.

Max caught Pierre’s eye and clapped him on the shoulder, a silent, grateful acknowledgement. The Frenchman just grinned and hit him back lightly on the arm. “Have fun, you too.” he said, his voice low. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”

A little while later, he found himself settled in their booth. Victoria was deep in conversation with Kika, Pierre's girlfriend, about travel spots and media creation, while Thomas was listening intently to George about tennis. Max was nursing a beer when a familiar face appeared through the crowd, “Well, I had to watch the race next to Jos, which is always an experience, but I feel like I should still congratulate you in person.” Martin said, instead of a normal greeting.

Max laughed, but stood to accept the hug from his friend.

“Good to see you, man. Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.” Martin took in the scene, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Have to say, though, this is not usually your kind of party. A bit too much… colour for you, no?”

Max just rolled his eyes. Martin was one of the very few people who knew he was bi, but Max, much like Charles, never really engaged with the scene — much to the annoyance of Martin himself and the parties he didn’t get to bring Max to.

He shot a mock glare across the booth at Pierre, who caught his eye and cheekily raised his own vibrant cocktail in a toast. Max just shook his head, a reluctant smile playing on his lips. He was here for one reason, and now that Charles seemed to be okay, he felt a surge of confidence.

He caught Pierre’s eye again and gestured with his head toward Charles, who was now laughing at something Victoria had said. Pierre nudged Charles shoulder and pointed in Max's direction. When Charles looked over, Max gestured for him to join them. He watched as Charles excused himself and made his way over, stopping beside Max with a questioning smile.

“Charles, this is Martin,” Max said. “Martin, Charles.”

Martin extended a hand. “Man, we’ve met before,” he said, a teasing glint in his eye. “Like ten times, remember?”

Max’s hand found the small of Charles’s back, a simple, telling gesture. He looked directly at Martin, his voice calm and clear.

Not as my boyfriend.”

The words landed with weight. For a second, everything stilled — even the music in the background felt quieter.

Charles’s head snapped toward Max, eyes wide. But Max didn’t flinch. He just smiled, calm and certain, and slid his arm fully around Charles’ shoulder, tugging him in.

Martin blinked. Once. Twice. Then his face broke into a wide, delighted grin. “Oh, that’s… unexpected as fuck, but that’s great! Really great.” He clapped Max on the shoulder with force. “Good for you, man.”

He turned to Charles with the same warm energy. “Nice to properly meet you again, then. I always thought Max had a massive crush on you, by the way.”

Charles smiled, almost fond. “Oh, I know.”

Max’s head whipped between them. “Excuse me? ”

“I didn’t think it was romantic,” Charles said, half-laughing, nudging Max with his shoulder. “ but you were not subtle, love.”

“Yeah, well-” Max stuttered, ears turning red. “You know, yes, whatever.”

Martin whooped. “Oh my God. You’re so whipped, man.”

Max muttered something unintelligible into his drink, but he was holding back a smile.

Just then, Victoria appeared beside them. “Alright, that’s enough.” she said, her own smile bright and welcoming. “Charles, come, let’s get you a real drink.”

She looped her arm through his, a clear, deliberate act and led him away toward the bar. Max watched them go before feeling a hand on his shoulder.

Looking back at his friend, the man had a much more serious and curious look on his face, “How the fuck did this happen?”

Victoria led Charles toward the far end of the bar, creating a small pocket of relative quiet away from their booth. The air was thick with the scent of gin and sweet perfume, the thumping bass of the music a physical vibration against the sticky counter. She leaned against it, a knowing, analytical look in her eyes as she watched him order their drinks.

“So,” she began, her voice a calm counterpoint to the music. “I didn’t know you two were telling people.” she said, her tone carefully neutral.

Neither did I, Charles thought, a jolt of nervous energy running through him. The memory of Max’s calm, proud voice saying the word "boyfriend" was still replaying in his head.

He just shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “Martin is his friend.” he said instead, as if that explained everything.

They stood in a comfortable silence for a moment, watching the chaotic, joyful crowd. “How was dinner?” Charles asked, remembering the reason Max had been late.

Victoria waved a dismissive hand. “The same old shit. Dad talked about the race, mostly.”

“Anything special?”

She considered it for a moment, her expression hardening just slightly. “Not really. But he wasn’t very happy about you getting pole in quali.”

Charles processed that, then asked “Which means?”

Victoria sighed, a weary sound. “It means he sees you as a real threat. Just… don’t be surprised if Max doesn’t exactly rush to introduce you two.”

“We talked about it,” Charles said quietly. “I told him he can choose how to deal with all that.”

“Yeah, well,” Victoria’s started, and she looked at him with a startling intensity. “Max thinks he knows how to handle dad, but that’s because the only real contact he has with him is about his work. Everything else is kept at a distance.” She took a sip of the last of her drink. “I’m only telling you this because as good as Max is at compartmentalising, that stuff still messes with him. So… yeah. Just a warning.”

Charles nodded, a surge of gratitude for her honesty warming his chest. He was being let in, not just as Max’s boyfriend, but as an ally who needed to know the unspoken rules of this family. It was a heavy piece of information, a glimpse into the complex, painful history that shaped the man he was falling in love with. He was handed their drinks, and he passed one to her, holding his own and the gin and tonic he’d ordered for Max.

“Hey.” a voice said, and a hand tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Charles turned to see a short man with kind eyes and a warm smile, who then said something in fast, friendly Dutch.

Victoria answered back for them, and the man’s smile widened as he turned his attention to Charles, switching to a heavily accented English. “I love your necklace. I was wondering what brand it is?”

Charles’s hand went instinctively to his neck, to the geometric gold pendant he’d helped design. “Oh, it’s APM Monaco, but this collection hasn’t been released yet.” Charles explained, a flicker of pride in his voice. He loved this new venture, the feeling of building something that was his, separate from the track.

“Well, it’s very beautiful. I will wait for it.”

“Please do.” Charles said with a genuine smile.

“Can you put me on the waiting list?” Victoria asked, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’ll get you a press kit.” Charles promised, and Victoria hugged his arm.

“Best brother-in-law ever.” she whispered loud enough for only him to hear, making him laugh. The word landed with a pleasant, surprising weight.

The man leaned closer. “Are you here for work, for the brand?”

“Not exactly.” Charles said. “I’m working, but for the race, actually.”

“Oh right, that’s happening. You work with it, too?”

It was a rare, refreshing moment of anonymity. Charles traded an amused look with Victoria, who was hiding a laugh behind her drink. “Yes.”

“Really? Do you know Lewis Hamilton? I love his fashion.”

Charles smiled and pointed over to where Lewis was holding court. “That one?”

The man gasped. “Oh my god!” he squealed. “Do you think he’d take a photo with me?”

Charles laughed. “I really couldn’t say.”

“Ugh, worth a try. I need to get ready anyway. Maybe later.”

“Ready?” Victoria asked, curious.

“I’m the DJ later.” He paused, a playful flair entering his expression.

“Oh, sorry, my friend brought us, so I didn’t even check who was playing.”

“You probably wouldn’t recognise me anyway.” At their confused looks, he added with a flip of imaginary hair, “I’m a drag queen. The name’s Bitter-Bella.”

Victoria laughed. “Is that a word play?”

“Of course, darling.” he said with a wink. “Because I’m bite-size delicious.” He lifted his drink. “Anyway, I need to go get into character. Hope you enjoy the show. APM Monaco, right?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got a customer, beautiful.” he said as a parting shot.

Charles laughed, raising his glass. “Good luck.”

“He was sweet.” Victoria said, watching him disappear into the crowd.

“Yeah, I’m curious to see his drag look.”

“You like drag?” she asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.

Charles laughed it off, a little too quickly. “I haven’t even watched Drag Race, to be honest. But I think it’s cool.”

Victoria took a sip of her drink, her gaze softening with a deep, knowing empathy. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be such a gay man trapped in an aggressively straight shell, but I fear you and Max are the same in this too.”

The observation was so accurate it made Charles a little uncomfortable. He had spent his entire life in hyper-masculine, ruthlessly straight worlds. He knew the language of gear ratios and tire degradation by heart, but was a complete novice in the language of his own identity. He'd never had the chance, or perhaps never felt safe enough, to explore it.

Still don’t. Entirely.

“I just… I haven’t had much space in my life to enjoy this side of things.” he admitted, the words feeling inadequate.

Victoria leaned in, tone gentle now. “I’m not hoping either of you would change, Charles. I just wish you had the freedom to if you wanted.”

He nodded, her words hitting deep.

“Come on,” she said finally, tipping her glass toward their booth. “Let’s head back.”

They weaved through the crowd, returning to where Max sat deep in conversation with Martin. Charles didn’t interrupt — just passed him the gin and tonic and slid in beside him. Max’s hand brushed his thigh, a subtle press of warmth, grounding and familiar.

Charles leaned in slightly, just enough to feel Max there beside him.

The night had unravelled into something wild and untamed, the edges of it smudged with sweat, glitter, and heat. The drinks flowed like water — champagne, cocktails, shots handed out like candy. Everything tasted vaguely sweet and vaguely dangerous.

Onstage, the club’s resident DJ emerged in all her drag glory: sequined bodysuit, towering heels, a glitter-flecked beard that sparkled every time the strobe lights caught her mid-turn. She raised a hand, the crowd roared, and she dropped a bassline that made the air vibrate. It was the kind of set that bypassed the ears and went straight to the bloodstream.

The dance floor exploded. What had been a sway of expensive outfits became a pulsing mass of bodies giving in to the beat.

In a corner, Max spotted Ollie and Kimi, heads close together in an intense-looking conversation over their phones, with what were definitely just cans of Red Bull, looking like two serious students who had accidentally wandered into a rave. The teal glowstick around Kimi’s neck felt ironic.

Near them, Lewis had somehow acquired a fan club of strangers, all of them gathered like it was a spiritual summit to the DJ. “Celebrating the death of the American president,” he said solemnly to a woman with a hat. She whooped. Max didn’t ask questions.

Back at the VIP booth, Albon was watching Franco, who was in the middle of an animated, flirty conversation with a trio of incredibly stylish partygoers.

Alex leaned toward Vicky, eyes never leaving Franco. “Williams’ PR team is one espresso martini away from waking up to rumour about Colapinto having a four-way with local artists.”

Charles dropped back into the booth just in time to hear that. He shoved another round of drinks onto the table and collapsed next to Max with a wheezy laugh. “Oh, Pierre survived worse.”

Pierre, lounging with Kika tucked against him, didn’t miss a beat. “Calamari, shut your fucking mouth, please.”

Kika cackled. Someone tossed a straw at Pierre. Nobody knew who.

Max wasn’t paying much attention — half his brain was caught in an argument with George and Martin over a drinking game he definitely won.

“I’m not paying you twenty bucks.” Max said, fully affronted.

“You earn seventy million a year.” George shot back.

“It’s the principle! I won, Regina!”

“You did not.” Martin replied.

“You’re both unbelievable.” Charles said, sipping his drink with judgment.

“Charlie, you didn’t even see it—”

“I did.” Thomas chimed in, perched at the edge of the booth with his third whiskey sour. “You lost.”

Max turned to his brother-in-law, utterly betrayed. “Traitor!”

Charles was already sliding out of the booth. “Okay, this is stupid. Let’s go dance.”

“But-”

“Come on!” Charles insisted, tugging on Max’s arm, “Vicky, you too. Martin?”

“I still want my twenty bucks.”

“Shut up, George.” Charles called over his shoulder.

The lights on the dance floor hit them in waves: hot pink, electric blue, golden strobe. Charles led the way through the moving wall of bodies until they found a rhythm pocket near the center — where the bass was loud enough to feel in their ribs and no one was watching too closely.

Charles didn’t say anything when he turned. He just backed into Max’s space, hips already moving, pressing against him in a way that made Max dizzy.

His breath caught. He wasn’t even sure what instinct took over — just that his hands found Charles’s waist, holding him through the pulse of the music. The rest of the world dimmed: the DJ, the crowd, the chaos. All Max could focus on was the warmth of Charles’s back against his chest, the way they moved together like they’d done this a hundred times, like it was easy.

Max dropped his forehead gently against Charles’s hair. It smelled like sweat and his cologne and something sweet he couldn’t name. It was quiet, somehow, in the middle of all the noise.

Then came the high-pitched opening of a Britney Spears song — one of the old ones, instantly recognisable — and the club screamed .

Max felt Charles jolt off his arms like someone had plugged him into a power outlet. He spun, drunk on music and mischief, eyes huge, mouth open in delight.

“LEWIS!” he shouted, pointing like a man possessed. “YOUR EVERYTHING BUT A LOVER!”

Lewis, a few meters away, turned, face shocked and looking speechless.

Max burst out laughing. He threw an arm around Charles’s shoulders to steady him, just as Martin and Pierre appeared beside them, already off-key and belting the chorus.

It didn’t matter. No one cared. Everyone was singing, everyone was dancing, and somewhere between the glitter, the noise, and the sweat, Max stopped thinking completely and let himself feel.

F1 STANDINGS · 31 AUG 2025 Position. Driver. Team. Points. 1. VER RED BULL 297 2. LEC RED BULL 232 3. PIA MCLAREN 184 4. NOR MCLAREN 156 5. HAM FERRARI 152 6. SAI FERRARI 136 7. RUS MERCEDES 131 8. ANT MERCEDES 68 9. ALO ASTON MARTIN 59 10. TSU RACING BULLS 50 11. STR ASTON MARTIN 41 12. ALB WILLIAMS 17 13. GAS ALPINE 15 14. BOR STAKE 2 15. …

#lestappen #97'sbulls #ao3

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