ok i'm not the worlds biggest lestappen fan but i had a fic idea and i had to do something with it so here's wtv this is..!
Charles Leclerc always knew he was in love with Max Verstappen.
From the first time they raced against each other in go-karts, to the moment Max lifted his first Formula 1 trophy, Charles’s heart had always beat a little faster for the Dutchman. It was the way Max drove – relentless, unapologetic, eyes blazing with that fierce, unyielding determination.
Charles felt it every time Max overtook him on the track, a pang in his chest that was equal parts frustration and yearning. But that love was never spoken, and life moved on.
Now, Charles is married to Alexandra, a woman who adores him. They share a 12-year-old son named Nicolas, a boy with his father's smile and his mother's gentle heart. Max, on the other hand, is with Kelly and has a 13-year-old daughter named Lily.
Lily is a firecracker – all wild hair and mischievous grins, with her father’s fierce determination and love for racing burning through her veins.
The two children, Nicolas and Lily, are now competing in karting, their friendship blossoming just as their fathers' once had.
They race against each other with a fervor that echoes the past, their rivalry intense but playful. Lily is captivated by Nicolas – the way he smiles, the way he pushes himself on the track, the way he laughs just a little too loud when he’s nervous.
Charles notices, catching glimpses of the girl staring at his son as though he’s the only boy in the world. Max notices too, but he tries to ignore it, not wanting to remember how he once looked at Charles with the same starry-eyed adoration.
It’s not until a warm summer evening at the karting track that the past comes rushing back. Max watches from the sidelines as Charles kneels beside Nicolas, adjusting his helmet and whispering words of encouragement. The sun is setting, casting a golden glow over the track, and Max’s chest tightens at the sight. Lily stands nearby, her cheeks flushed and eyes glued to the boy, and Max feels a pang of something sharp and bitter – jealousy, longing, regret.
Later that night, when the kids are asleep in the hotel nearby and the track is quiet, Charles and Max find themselves alone under the fluorescent lights, the air heavy with the scent of rubber and gasoline. The silence between them is thick, filled with everything they never said and everything they were too afraid to admit.
"She likes him," Max says, his voice low and rough.
"Yeah," Charles answers, his eyes on the asphalt, as if looking at Max might shatter whatever fragile truce they’ve managed to maintain over the years. "A lot."
"You think he likes her back?" Max’s jaw is clenched, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his branded hoodie. He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the empty track, but Charles can see the tension in his shoulders.
Charles swallows, the words he never said lodged in his throat. "Maybe."
Max lets out a breath, the sound heavy and hollow. "You think he’ll ever tell her?"
Charles’s chest tightens, and for a moment, he feels twelve years old again, standing in the pouring rain after a race, staring at Max as he laughed and pulled off his helmet, his eyes bright and alive. "I don’t know," Charles says softly. "Did you?"
The silence stretches between them, a chasm of what could have been, the weight of everything they never said pressing down like the roar of engines on race day.
And as the fluorescent lights flicker above them, both men stand there, hearts aching with the ghosts of the boys they once were.
R.F. Kuang, Babel, or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution, Craig Thompson, Carnet de Voyage, Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping, Hélène Cixous, "Hyperdream", Silas Denver Melvin, pitiful origin, Emily Dickinson, the first poem
