Chapter Text
Nine-year-old Charles dangled his legs under the table, trying not to kick his younger brother, who was sitting across from him, busy building a tower out of mashed potatoes on his plate.
"Arthur, food is meant to be eaten, not for building castles," Pascal reached across the table and gently wiped her younger son’s cheek with a napkin, making him wrinkle his nose in annoyance.
"It’s not a castle, Mom, it’s a racetrack, and the peas are the cars," five-year-old Arthur retorted shrilly, demonstrating how one green pea crashed into a mashed potato wall.
Charles snorted quietly, watching his brother. Sometimes Arthur seemed too small and silly to him, and his antics were irritating, especially when Charles wanted to be serious and grown-up. But deep down, he felt a strange, aching tenderness toward this whirlwind of energy. He was the big brother, and that title gave him importance.
"Racetracks are better built on the rug in the playroom, but we’re having dinner here," Hervé intervened, putting down his cutlery. His gaze, always so attentive and kind, shifted to his eldest son. "Speaking of serious things. Charles, how did school go today? You promised to tell us about the math test."
Charles instinctively straightened his back, feeling pride welling up inside. He always wanted his father to be proud of him, to see him not just as a child, but as someone capable of handling challenges.
"It went great, Dad," Charles said confidently, feeling his cheeks warm slightly with pleasure. "Madame Cooper said I’m the only one in the class who solved the last fraction problem without a single mistake. She even put my work on the honor board."
"That’s my boy," Hervé’s face lit up with a wide, sincere smile, and he reached out to affectionately ruffle his son’s hair. "I didn't doubt for a second that you’d handle it. You’re a very smart boy, Charles, just don’t get lazy."
"I don't get lazy, I just get distracted sometimes," Charles muttered, feeling a bit embarrassed, his chest filling with warmth from his father’s praise.
These moments of family unity were a kind of anchor for him. He knew that no matter what happened outside their apartment, here he would always be heard, supported, and understood.
"You get distracted because you’re trying to do everything at once," Pascal noted softly, clearing the empty plates. "And now, young men, dinner is over. March to the bathroom to brush your teeth, and I want both of you in bed in fifteen minutes."
"Oh mo-o-om, just a little bit more," Arthur whined, clinging to the edge of the table as if it could save him from the inevitable bedtime. "I haven’t finished the track!"
"No 'little bit more', Arthur. A routine is a routine. Charles, make sure your brother brushes his teeth properly, and doesn't just chew on the brush like yesterday."
With a sigh that was meant to demonstrate the full weight of his big-brother burden, Charles climbed off the chair. In reality, he didn’t mind that the day was coming to an end. School, homework, games in the courtyard — it was all exhausting, and now he just wanted to be in his cozy room.
He took a resisting Arthur by the hand and led him down the hall. The brushing process went through the usual arguments: Arthur tried to spit toothpaste onto the mirror, and Charles lectured him with an important air about the dangers of cavities, copying his mother’s intonations.
When the water procedures were finished, the boys went to their rooms. Charles closed the door behind him, and silence instantly enveloped him.
How grateful he was to his parents for having his own space. Arthur’s nursery was further down the hall, and although Charles loved his brother, he needed this sense of solitude. A place where he could be alone with his thoughts, dreams, and secrets.
Of course, this solitude was broken a couple of times a month when Arthur had nightmares. Then his younger brother would quietly crack the door open, patter across the parquet floor in his bare feet, and silently climb under the blanket with Charles, pressing against his back. On those nights, Charles never chased him away, feeling a protector’s instinct wake up inside him. He would tuck the blanket around his brother better and fall asleep again, knowing his presence kept all the monsters away.
But tonight promised to be calm. Charles went to the closet and took out his favorite soft flannel pajamas, covered in drawings of small red race cars.
Turning off the overhead light and leaving only a dimly glowing moon-shaped nightlight, Charles was in no hurry to get into bed.
He had his own little nightly ritual.
He went to the large window overlooking the courtyard. Their apartment was in a fairly old but beautiful building with whimsical architecture. Directly opposite Charles’s window, at a distance that seemed both huge and insignificant to a child’s imagination, was another wing of the same building. If a fire escape or a long board had been thrown between their windows, it would be easy to get to the other side. Charles often imagined this crossing, picturing himself as a tightrope walker over the abyss of the dark courtyard.
For a long time, the same person lived on the other side of the abyss. It was an elderly, very lonely woman, whose face Charles had never really seen because of the thick curtains she rarely pulled all the way back.
But the woman had cats.
Many cats.
Charles knew this because the windowsill opposite was always filled with flower pots, between which fluffy tails constantly flashed.
Among all the animals, Charles had a favorite. It was a large cat with light, almost cream-colored fur. Every evening, at about the same time, this cat would jump onto the windowsill, sit motionless like a porcelain figurine, and look straight into Charles’s window.
The boy grew attached to this silent ritual. He would sit on a chair by his window, sometimes placing his palm against the glass, and it seemed to him that the cat was doing the same. Charles would whisper to the cat about how his day went, complaining about unfair grades or Arthur’s pranks. It felt like the animal understood everything, blinking its large yellow eyes. It was their little, silent secret.
But yesterday, this thin connection was broken.
When Charles walked up to the window as usual before bed, the windowsill opposite was empty. There were no flowers, no thick curtains, and most importantly, no light-colored cat.
Charles stood by the glass for more than twenty minutes, feeling an unpleasant tug of disappointment in his chest. He told himself the old lady had simply gone to visit relatives or forgotten to open the curtains. He sincerely hoped that today everything would return to normal.
So now, standing barefoot on the cold floor, Charles peered into the brick wall of the neighboring building with his heart in his mouth. There was no light in the room opposite, and the boy’s heart sank. The cat hadn’t come, and the woman couldn't be seen either.
Charles pressed his forehead against the cool glass, feeling a childish, but no less deep sadness rolling in. A small but tangible loss had occurred in his stable world. He wouldn't be able to share his secrets with his silent listener anymore.
Charles was already about to turn away and go to sleep, resigned to the fact that he wouldn't see the cat again, when suddenly the rectangle of the window opposite flashed with a harsh light.
The boy flinched in surprise and instinctively recoiled, but curiosity was stronger, and he stuck to the glass again.
The room opposite had changed completely. There were no flowers or old furniture there. Half-unpacked cardboard boxes stood along the walls.
In the middle of the room stood a boy. He was about the same height and age as Charles himself. His light hair was slightly tousled. The boy stood with his back to the window, his shoulders tensely raised, and his head slightly bowed.
Standing next to the boy was a tall, large man. Charles couldn't see his face either because of the viewing angle, but his entire figure radiated heaviness. The man rested one hand on the boy’s shoulder. Even through the glass, through the distance that separated them, Charles physically felt how heavy and oppressive that hand was.
The man leaned over the child, his free hand rose, and his index finger began to twitch to the rhythm of the words he was speaking.
Charles couldn't hear a sound, but he knew how to read emotions. He saw how tense the boy’s back was, how he seemed to try to become smaller, to shrink into a ball under the man’s heavy gaze.
The man’s movements were sharp and irritated. It didn't look like the gentle, though sometimes strict, lectures that Hervé gave Charles.
The boy only nodded shortly, submissively, his light-haired head jerking downward. This gesture looked so rehearsed, so familiar, that Charles’s heart ached. Satisfied with the answer, the man abruptly let go of his son’s shoulder, turned around, and walked out of the room with large strides.
Left alone, the blond boy didn't move immediately. For a few long seconds, he continued to stand motionless, as if waiting for the man to come back. Then his shoulders dropped heavily. Charles saw the boy exhale loudly, as if he had been holding his breath the whole time the father was in the room.
The boy slowly turned, rubbed his neck with his hand, and took a few steps toward the window. He walked right up to the glass, apparently intending to look out at the street or maybe close the window, although there were no curtains on it yet. His gaze wandered in the darkness until it suddenly bumped into the illuminated square of Charles’s window.
Their eyes met.
The blond boy froze in place, and his eyes widened in surprise. He clearly didn't expect anyone to be watching him from the neighboring building.
The hand that had reached for the frame hung in mid-air. Tension appeared in his posture again. He looked at Charles without blinking, as if trying to understand if the neighbor in the funny pajamas was a threat.
Charles felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He felt awkward for being caught peeping. In the first few seconds, he wanted to retreat into the room, hide behind the curtain, turn off the light, and pretend he wasn't there at all.
But something in the eyes of the boy opposite stopped him.
Overcoming his embarrassment, the Monegasque forced himself to stay put. He took a deep breath, calming his frantically beating heart.
Charles slightly lifted the corners of his lips, forming a shy, uncertain, but completely sincere smile on his face. He raised his right hand, the fingers of which were still trembling slightly from the excitement, and slowly, cautiously waved at the boy.
The reaction on the other side was instantaneous and read like an open book. The stranger went into an even greater stupor. His eyebrows met on the bridge of his nose for a second, forming a funny wrinkle of bewilderment. He tilted his head slightly to the side, studying Charles so attentively that he seemed to be trying to solve a complex math problem. He was clearly confused by this sudden friendliness.
Charles continued to stand, not lowering his hand and maintaining a soft smile, waiting patiently. For some reason, he felt that he shouldn't turn away now.
Suddenly, the hostility and caution on the boy’s face began to melt slowly, like ice under the first rays of the sun. The tension left his features. The corners of his lips twitched, first uncertainly, with clear doubt, and then crawled upward.
It wasn't a wide, happy smile, rather a weak, almost ghostly shadow of a smile, but it completely transformed his face, making it softer. The boy looked at his hand, as if surprised by what he was about to do, and then slowly raised it in return. He waved at Charles hesitantly, barely noticeably, still keeping that light, doubting smile on his lips.
At that moment, a completely ridiculous but incredibly accurate thought flashed through Charles’s mind. He looked at that tousled blond hair, at those cautious but curious eyes looking at him, and suddenly realized who this new neighbor reminded him of.
The cat.
The very same light-colored cat that Charles used to spend his evenings with.
Of course, the boy wasn't a cute fluffy animal, he didn't have a tail or ears, but in his habits, in that caution changing into careful interest, there was a resemblance to that independent and proud creature.
The boy had taken the cat’s place on the windowsill, and perhaps it wasn't the worst substitute in the world.
This thought seemed so funny to Charles that he couldn't hold back and chuckled quietly, sincerely. A chuckle escaped his lips like a cloud of steam in the cool air of the room.
He saw the boy’s eyes opposite narrow slightly, as if he were trying to understand the reason for Charles’s amusement, but he didn't turn away. He continued to look at the Monegasque with clear, undisguised interest, studying every detail of his face, his pajamas, and the interior of his room that fell into his field of vision.
Charles understood that it was time to go to sleep. Pascal could come in at any moment to check if he was asleep, and if she caught him by the window at such an hour, long lectures on the importance of a routine wouldn't be avoided. And he himself felt that the emotional roller coaster of this evening had taken the last of his strength.
He lowered his hand smoothly so as not to scare the moment away. Then he gently jumped off the low chair he had been kneeling on. His feet touched the cool parquet again. Charles took a step back, approaching the light switch on the wall. Before pressing the button and plunging the room into darkness, he cast one last, long look out the window opposite.
The boy was still standing there. He hadn't moved an inch, his figure standing out clearly against the background of the half-empty, uncomfortable room. He stared intently at where Charles had just been standing, as if waiting for the continuation of this strange, silent dialogue. His posture held some kind of strange expectation, and for a moment, Charles wanted to stay, press back against the glass, and invent some kind of sign language to find out his name.
But he had to go to sleep. Charles smiled softly at the silhouette in the window opposite for the last time and firmly pressed the light switch.
Charles quickly climbed under his warm, fluffy blanket, covering himself head-to-toe from the night chill. He closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep, but the face of the unfamiliar boy still stood before his inner eye.
His lungs burned from a lack of oxygen, and every breath felt like an unpleasant, scratching sensation in his throat.
Charles hated being late.
He was practically running through the long school hallways, sliding the soles of his sneakers on the polished linoleum, and praying only that he wouldn't run into any of the teachers on duty.
Madame Cooper didn't tolerate rule breakers. Charles had always been her favorite, the golden boy with perfect manners, and destroying that image at the very beginning of the school day was not part of his plans at all.
Making a final dash, he braked sharply in front of the door, tried to straighten his wrinkled shirt, and, breathing deeply to even out his ragged breath, pushed the classroom door open.
He was lucky. The bell had rung just a second ago, and the teacher hadn't entered yet. The classroom was filled with the usual morning hum: some were hastily finishing homework, some were tossing crumpled pieces of paper, and some were just loudly discussing the past weekend.
The first thing Charles instinctively did was find Pierre with his eyes. His best friend was sitting in his usual spot in the second row and, noticing the breathless Charles, exhaled in relief, flashing a wide smile.
Charles smiled back and took a step forward, habitually shifting his gaze to the neighboring desk. The very one that had belonged to him since the first grade. It was an ideal spot — not too close to the teacher’s desk to feel constant pressure, but not at the very end either. From there, you could see the board perfectly, and the light from the window fell just right so as not to blind you. The seat was to the left of Pierre, which allowed them to secretly exchange notes and glances during boring lessons.
Charles had already started taking his backpack off his shoulder when his gaze focused, and his heart skipped a beat for a moment, then plummeted somewhere downward.
His desk was occupied.
A boy was sitting in his chair, and on the wooden surface where Charles was used to laying out his perfectly sharpened pencils, a black pencil case was lying carelessly.
An acute feeling of something being wrong flared up inside Charles instantly. In this classroom, there were unwritten but iron rules, and one of them was that the seat next to Gasly belonged to Leclerc. Everyone knew that.
Charles was that child everyone wanted to be friends with. He knew how to find an approach to everyone, never refused help with math, and always smiled radiantly. Over the years, he had managed to build an ideal ecosystem in which no one even thought to encroach on his personal territory. If someone sat at his desk out of ignorance or accident, it was enough for Charles to just walk up softly, smile charmingly, and politely ask them to yield. No one had ever refused.
Firmly gripping the strap of his backpack, Charles moved forward down the aisle. He felt the eyes of several classmates who had already noticed the brewing non-standard situation. Pierre was also watching him with slight anxiety.
But Charles was confident. It was just a misunderstanding. The new kid didn't know the rules of their little community, and now everything would be resolved in a peaceful and pleasant way.
Approaching his desk, Charles stopped, towering over the troublemaker. He intentionally stood so that his shadow would fall on the notebook, forcing the boy to raise his head.
Charles’s gaze collided with piercing blue eyes, and the words of greeting, already ready to spill from his tongue, suddenly stuck in his throat.
The blond boy from the window opposite was sitting before him.
Up close, he looked even more real. In his blue eyes, directed at Charles, a flash of recognition flickered for a split second. The boy also realized who was standing in front of him.
A strange, warm feeling of relief washed over Charles. Everything turned out even simpler than he thought. They already had contact, that small, silent connection born yesterday evening.
Charles remembered that shy, uncertain smile the blond had given him yesterday, and the feeling of compassion he had experienced watching the boy’s heavy scene with his father.
"Hi," Charles’s voice sounded soft and friendly. He broke into his most sincere, winning smile, showing the dimple on his cheek. "I think we met a little bit yesterday. Glad to see you in our class."
The blond continued to look at him without changing his expression. There was no trace of yesterday’s confusion or vulnerability in his gaze. Instead, he looked calmer and slightly detached. He didn't smile back.
"Hi," the boy replied. His voice turned out to be a bit hoarse for a child, and an accent was clearly audible in it. Charles couldn't exactly identify its origin, the words sounded a bit harsher than usual, with a slight, barely noticeable lisp on the sibilants. It made his speech strangely engaging.
"Sorry, but this is my desk," Charles nonchalantly shifted from foot to foot, displaying friendliness and openness with his whole demeanor. He pointed his finger at the desk surface. "I mean, I’ve been sitting at it since the first grade. Everyone in the class knows this is my spot. I understand that you’re new and couldn't have known that, so, maybe you’ll move? I can even help you move your things."
Charles finished, expecting the blond to apologize immediately, hurriedly pack his pencil case, and move.
This was the natural order of things.
This was how Charles’s life worked.
However, the boy didn't even move. His face remained impassive, and the gaze of his blue eyes seemed almost icy. He blinked slowly, as if digesting what he had heard, and then his lips parted.
"I don't see your name here," he said in an even tone, devoid of any emotions. Because of the accent, the phrase sounded even more abrupt and harsh.
Charles froze, feeling his smile start to slowly slide off his face like melting wax. He didn't even realize the meaning of what was said right away; it didn't fit into his world view at all.
"Excuse me?" Charles asked again, and notes of confusion broke through in his voice for the first time.
"I said that I don't see a nameplate with your name here," the blond repeated, looking straight into Charles’s eyes. "I arrived in the class first. The desk was empty, and I took it. That means it’s my spot now."
The corner of Charles’s lip twitched nervously. A tiny but rapidly growing spark of irritation began to boil inside him. All his carefully constructed friendliness cracked. He wasn't used to being spoken to like that. No one in this school spoke to him in that tone.
"Listen," Charles tried to save face, although his voice became noticeably harder, losing its former velvetiness. "It’s an unwritten rule. I sit here always. My best friend sits next to me. It’s just... it’s just my spot. Understand?"
"No, I don't understand," the blond leaned back slightly in his chair, displaying with his whole appearance that he wasn't going anywhere. "In my previous school, I also always sat in this exact spot. I like it here. And I’m not obliged to yield to you just because you wanted it."
The words hit Charles like a slap in the face. There was no aggression in them, no desire to insult, there was only impenetrable confidence in his rightness. This boy was sitting in his chair, looking at him from the bottom up, but at the same time, Charles felt as if he had just been scolded like a small child.
Blood rushed to the Monegasque’s cheeks. He felt the tips of his ears burning. A feeling of the deepest injustice mixed with an acute feeling of humiliation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the whole class had already gone quiet and was watching their altercation with interest. Pierre was looking at him with wide eyes, clearly not understanding why Charles wouldn't just give up.
But Charles couldn't give up.
This was no longer just a seat at a desk, this was a matter of his authority. Anger, unusual and prickly, rose in Charles’s chest.
He gripped the strap of his backpack with such force that his knuckles turned white. He suddenly wanted to yell at this arrogant blond, tell him everything he thought about his impudence, his manners, his stupid accent. The words were already spinning on his tongue, ready to spill out and destroy the image of the ideal, polite Charles Leclerc.
"You..." Charles took a step forward, dangerously closing the distance, his eyes flashing with lightning.
But at that very moment, the entrance door creaked, and Madame Cooper walked into the class with a fast step, slamming her gradebook loudly on her desk.
"Good morning, class! Let’s take our seats, the bell has already rung," her strict voice instantly destroyed the tension hanging over the third desk.
Charles froze, breathing heavily. He took one last look at the blond. The boy didn't even flinch, only calmly turned away toward the board, as if Charles no longer existed.
The sensation of his own defeat was physically painful. Charles turned around sharply and, feeling as though he were literally shaking with indignation, flopped down with force into the only free seat — the desk standing right in front of this unbearable blond.
The lesson began as if in a fog. Charles mechanically took out his notebook, but his back was burning. He felt like he could physically feel the gaze of those blue eyes on him. Every movement behind him — the creak of a chair, the rustle of pages, the sound of an opening pencil case — drove him to a white heat. His personal space had been treacherously invaded, his authority trampled, and his nervous system was on the verge of breaking down.
Soon Madame Cooper asked for silence.
"Children, a moment of attention," she said, sweeping her gaze over the class. "As you may have already noticed, a new student has joined us today. He moved to our city quite recently. Please, stand up and introduce yourself to the class."
Charles heard the chair behind him creak as it was pushed back. He didn't turn around on principle, continuing to drill the board with his gaze, but his hearing sharpened to the limit.
"My name is Max," came the already familiar, slightly hoarse voice with that same accent from behind. "Max Verstappen."
The name sounded sharp, it had too many hard consonants, it didn't flow smoothly like the names of the other classmates. It stuck in his memory, demanding attention.
Max Verstappen.
The person who had just declared an unwritten war on Charles.
For the rest of the lesson, Charles couldn't think about anything else. The numbers on the board blurred into an incomprehensible mess. He remembered yesterday evening, and now his own sympathy for Max seemed like pathetic weakness.
This boy didn't need pity.
Max was like a hedgehog that had let out its quills, ready to prick anyone who approached him. And Charles realized with horror that this hedgehog now lived not only in the neighboring building but was breathing right down his neck in every lesson.
As soon as the bell rang for the break, Charles gathered his things into his backpack with such aggression that he almost tore his notebook. He jumped up from his seat without even looking at Max and headed for the exit with a fast step. Pierre, barely keeping up with him, caught him only in the hallway.
"Charles, wait!" Pierre grabbed him by the elbow, forcing him to stop. "Why are you running like that? And what was that anyway?"
Charles turned sharply to his friend.
"Did you see him?" the Monegasque’s voice trembled with indignation, he switched to a furious whisper so as not to attract the attention of other students. "Did you hear what he said to me? 'I don't see your name here'! What impudence! He came here on the first day, and he’s acting like he’s the owner!"
Pierre looked at him with open astonishment. He blinked, trying to digest the reaction of his always-calm friend.
"Well, yeah, he acted strangely," Gasly began in a conciliatory tone, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "But it’s just a desk. You’re sitting right in front of him, we’re still together anyway. Is it worth getting so worked up over a piece of wood?"
"It’s not a piece of wood, Pierre!" Charles almost shouted, waving his hands. "It’s a principle! He didn't even try to be polite. He looked at me like I was empty space. He has such a haughty look, and that terrible accent of his... He’s just unbearable!"
Pierre continued to study Charles’s face attentively, and suddenly understanding mixed with slight disbelief appeared in his eyes.
"Calamar," Pierre said slowly, shaking his head. "I haven't seen you this angry since George accidentally spilled a whole packet of orange juice on you right before the school photo in the second grade. But then your white shirt was ruined beyond repair, and you didn't talk to Russell for a month. And now you’re ready to kill the new kid just because he refused to yield a chair to you."
Charles suddenly went quiet, feeling his breathing stumble. Pierre was right. His reaction was completely inadequate, absolutely not in his style. He, Charles Leclerc, a diplomat and everyone’s favorite, was standing in the middle of the corridor and was ready to stomp his feet because of the stubbornness of some unfamiliar boy.
But something inside him had broken. Max Verstappen had managed to punch a hole in his perfect, controlled world in one morning. And something told Charles that this morning skirmish was just the first drop. He remembered the heavy, inflexible gaze of the blue eyes and realized that this boy would never play by his rules.
It was a war, and Max had fired the first shot, hitting exactly the target — Charles’s pride.
The morning began long before the first rays of the sun pierced through the apartment windows. Charles woke up a few minutes before the alarm, which in itself was an extraordinary event. Usually, he was ready to give all his pocket money for an extra ten minutes of sleep, burying himself in a warm blanket and ignoring his mother’s persistent calls to wake up.
Charles sat up abruptly in bed, threw off the blanket, and determinedly lowered his feet to the cold floor. The plan in his head was crystal clear and could not wait.
When he appeared in the kitchen, already fully dressed, with neatly combed hair and a packed backpack, a long, almost comical pause hung in the air.
Hervé, who had just brewed himself his first cup of strong morning coffee, froze with the cup halfway to his lips, raising his eyebrows in surprise. Pascal, standing by the stove, turned slowly to her son, and a slight anxiety flickered in her eyes.
"Charles, honey, are you sure you’re feeling okay?" Pascal came closer, instinctively reaching out a hand to touch her son’s forehead.
"I’m perfectly fine, Mom," Charles gently dodged her hand, trying to speak as casually as possible, although everything inside him was ringing with impatience. "I just have a lot to do before lessons today. I want to arrive early to go over the topic in silence. We have a test soon, I don't want to lose face."
"Our boy is growing up, Pascal," Hervé chuckled, taking a sip of coffee, and shook his head. "Responsibility is taking over the love of a pillow. I’m proud of you, son. Sit down, have a quick bite, and you can run."
Charles forced himself to swallow a couple of pieces of toast with jam, although the food wouldn't go down his throat at all. He couldn't wait to be at school.
Charles walked along the deserted sidewalks quickly, almost breaking into a run. When he finally threw open the heavy school doors, there was an unusual silence in the corridors. No noise, no running younger students, only the guard on duty nodded at him in surprise at the entrance.
Charles flew up the stairs to his floor and entered the empty classroom. He walked up to his spot, took off his backpack, and with pleasure, almost solemnly, lowered himself into the wooden chair. He ran his palm over the smooth surface of the desk, feeling a wave of satisfaction wash over him.
However, time, as luck would have it, dragged on unbearably slowly. The hand of the wall clock above the school board seemed to mock him. To distract himself somehow from the nervous anticipation, Charles took out his social studies textbook and opened it to the right page.
He honestly tried to read the paragraph, but the letters blurred into a meaningless pattern. Completely different thoughts were spinning in his head. He replayed the upcoming dialogue time after time, picking out the most caustic intonations for his greeting. He imagined how Max would get confused, how he would try to argue, and Charles would only smile condescendingly, reminding him of his own words from yesterday.
"Leclerc, did you sleep here or something?" a clear, surprised voice sounded from the door.
Charles flinched and looked up. Standing on the threshold was Pierre, looking slightly sleepy and stunned. He walked slowly to his seat in the next row, not taking his cautious gaze off his friend.
"I just decided to come early to be in silence," Charles replied.
"I can't believe it. You and 'early' are antonyms. And all for the sake of..." Pierre looked expressively at the desk where Charles was sitting and grunted understandingly. "Ah, well, of course. The principled battle for a chair. Listen, don't you think you’re taking this too seriously?"
"It’s a matter of principle," Charles cut off, burying himself in the textbook again, making it clear that the discussion was over.
Gradually, the class began to fill with students. The noise grew, doors slammed, someone laughed, someone was copying homework on the windowsill. Charles sat upright, shoulders squared, and watched the door attentively. His heart began to beat faster with each new arrival.
And finally, he appeared.
Max entered the classroom with a calm, measured step. His light hair was slightly disheveled from the street, and his face retained the impenetrable expression that kept Charles off balance.
Max moved between the desks with the confidence of someone who didn't care about others. Charles felt his back muscles tense involuntarily. He put the textbook aside, locked his fingers together on the desk, and prepared.
Max approached the third row, and his gaze slid over Charles for a second. The Monegasque felt adrenaline boiling in his blood. He allowed himself a wide, smug smile that didn't have a drop of friendliness in it.
"Well," Charles drew out, tilting his head slightly to the side, his voice sounding velvety but with distinct notes of mockery. "What do you have to say now?"
Max stopped for a fraction of a second, his face not twitching, showing neither the slightest surprise nor a gram of disappointment. He looked at Charles from top to bottom with his steady, almost indifferent gaze.
"You arrived first and took the seat," Max said in a completely calm voice. "It's only fair."
With these words, he simply turned away, took one step forward, and unconcernedly lowered himself into the empty chair at the desk right in front of Charles. He took off his backpack, pulled out his pencil case, and began laying out his supplies on the table as if nothing had happened. As if they were discussing the weather, not the territory Charles was ready to fight for.
Charles froze, feeling his triumphant smile turn into an absurd grimace.
What was that? Where was the indignation? Where was the resistance? He had woken up early in the morning, made that whole trip, sat here for an eternity, exhausting himself with the anticipation of a conflict, and Max just... agreed?
Instead of the expected satisfaction, Charles felt a sharp, burning prick of disappointment that instantly grew into irritation.
It wasn't fair.
Max had broken the script.
Yesterday, this impudent blonde had gotten under Charles’s skin, made him lose his composure, made him feel vulnerable. And today, Charles wanted to pay him back in his own coin. He wanted to see that icy calmness crumble, wanted to hurt his pride.
But Max didn't give him that opportunity. He stripped the victory of all meaning by admitting defeat so easily, as if the battle hadn't meant anything to him at all.
Charles leaned back in his chair, feeling anger boiling inside him, much deeper than yesterday. He glared at the back of Max’s head, the closely cropped blonde hair on his neck, the line of his shoulders hidden under a dark hoodie. There was an arrogance in that calmness that infuriated Charles to the point of trembling fingers. It felt like Max was laughing at him without making a single sound.
Thoughts swarmed in his head, giving him no peace. Charles was already ready to lean forward and say something biting, just to make him turn around, to break through that armor of indifference, but at that moment the teacher entered the classroom, loudly announcing the start of a test.
Charles had to clench his teeth, swallow the words ready to spill out, and focus on the answer sheets that were being passed down the rows.
The long-awaited bell for the long break sounded like a salvation. Charles walked down the aisle between the tables in the cafeteria with Pierre, trying to shake off the morning tension. They took their usual spot by the window.
Charles really loved these moments. For him, school wasn't just a place of study, but a huge social playground where he felt like a fish in water. Gradually, their table began to come alive.
"Hey, move over, or I'll die of hunger and my death will be on your conscience," came Esteban’s cheerful, slightly hoarse voice. The Frenchman unceremoniously squeezed onto the bench next to Pierre, placing a tray piled high with food on the table.
Following him, laughing merrily and gesturing actively, came Lando, telling another funny story. Charles laughed sincerely while listening to Lando’s lively account. The conversations spun in their usual, comfortable rhythm.
At some point, after laughing at Lando’s latest joke, Charles accidentally let his gaze slide over the heads of his friends sitting at the table, surveying the spacious cafeteria hall.
And then his gaze seemed to trip over something hard.
In the very far corner of the cafeteria, at a small table meant for two, sat Max. He was completely alone. In front of him stood an untouched glass of juice and some kind of sandwich. But Max wasn't eating and just sat motionless, leaning back in his chair.
He was looking directly at Charles.
The distance between them was quite large, the hall was buzzing with hundreds of voices, the figures of other students were constantly flashing between them, but that gaze pierced through the space.
It was a heavy, studying, piercingly attentive gaze. Max looked as if they were alone in an empty room.
Max seemed detached from the rest of the world. But at the same time, his loneliness didn't look like exile. It wasn't like how people shun losers or those nobody wants to talk to. By Max’s posture, by his relaxed but confident shoulders, it was clear that he had chosen to sit there himself. He had walled himself off from everyone.
But why was he looking like that?
This question hit Charles in the head, causing a sudden, almost physical wave of discomfort. Under that steady, heavy gaze of blue eyes, Charles suddenly felt uncomfortable in his own skin. It seemed to him that Max could see right through him — could see his pathetic attempt at self-assertion that morning, could see his fake smile, could see the nervousness Charles had been hiding so carefully.
There was something deeply personal in that gaze, something that violated the boundaries of personal space more than a taken desk.
Charles felt a nasty chill run down his spine, and his cheeks warmed traitorously.
He couldn't handle this silent confrontation and, with an effort of will, broke eye contact, sharply turning his head to Esteban, who was just passionately proving to Lando that the football match on the weekend had been poorly officiated.
"Oh, come on, Esti, the referee was standing right there, it was a clear penalty," Charles squeezed out, trying to make his voice sound steady and interested.
He actively joined the conversation, smiling and nodding, but his heart was beating unusually fast.
Charles felt stupid.
He was surrounded by his best friends and was at the center of attention, but some tiny part of his consciousness was now dead-set on the distant table in the corner of the cafeteria. He didn't look there again, but with every cell in his body, he felt that the gaze of the blue eyes continued to watch his every move intently.
And that feeling was simultaneously frightening and, for some reason, exciting.
Today, Madame Rousseau was supposed to announce the results of yesterday’s social studies test.
For Charles, days when test results were handed out were always like little holidays. He loved that feeling of superiority, loved seeing the teacher’s satisfied smile, and catching the admiring — and sometimes slightly envious — glances of his classmates.
When the bell rang and the class sat down in their places, Madame Rousseau took a heavy stack of graded sheets from the desk. Charles straightened his back, folded his hands on the desk in a perfect clasp, and prepared to listen.
"I’ve graded your work," Madame Rousseau began, pacing between the rows. "I have to say that on the whole, the class did quite well. Most of you mastered the topic. However, to my slight regret, only one student submitted a perfect paper, scoring all one hundred points."
Hearing this, Charles lowered his head slightly to hide the smile spreading across his lips. He didn't doubt for a second who she was talking about. He remembered every answer of his, every perfectly written letter. A warm, sweet feeling of triumph was already spreading inside him. He was waiting for Madame Rousseau to say his name so he could nod modestly and take his well-deserved sheet with a red hundred in the upper right corner.
The teacher began handing out the tests. Charles watched impatiently as the stack in her hands became thinner. Finally, she approached his desk and placed a sheet of paper in front of him, text-side down. With a careless, confident gesture, Charles flipped it over, expecting to see the usual sight.
In the upper right corner, circled in red, was the number ninety-nine.
Charles blinked, deciding he was seeing things. He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
Two digits that, to him, meant failure.
This just couldn't be. He scanned the entire sheet, looking for a mistake. All the multiple-choice questions were marked with checkmarks. Everything was perfect, except for one task at the very end, where instead of choosing an answer, he had to write down the classification of settlement types himself. Next to his detailed, neat answer, there was a red minus, and one point had been deducted in the margin.
A wave of indignation rose from his stomach to his throat. How was this possible? He had written everything correctly! He had mentioned cities, villages, and capitals!
His hand shot up faster than he could think through his actions.
"Yes, Charles?" Madame Rousseau stopped by the board, looking questioningly at her usually calm top student.
"Madame Rousseau, excuse me, but I don't understand," Charles’s voice trembled slightly from suppressed emotion, but he forced himself to speak clearly and loudly. "Why were points deducted in the last task? I listed all the types we covered in the textbook."
The teacher smiled softly and walked over to his desk, leaning over the sheet.
"Charles, your answer is very good and detailed," she began in a calm tone, running her pen over the lines of his handwriting. "You wrote about metropolises, ordinary cities, and rural areas. But you forgot to mention urban-type settlements. We discussed this in the last lesson, and it’s an important part of the classification. Therefore, the answer isn't absolutely complete. Because of that, I was forced to deduct one point."
Charles stared at her with wide-open eyes, feeling everything inside him tighten with injustice.
Because of one tiny, insignificant point that he had simply let slip his mind due to nerves, he had been deprived of his legitimate hundred points?
"But I conveyed the essence correctly," Charles argued, feeling resentment rising in his throat. "Is that worth a whole point? I know this topic better than anyone."
"The grading rules are the same for everyone, Charles," Madame Rousseau replied strictly, but without malice, straightening up. "Ninety-nine points is a wonderful result. You have no reason to be so upset."
But Charles couldn't stop. His wounded pride demanded satisfaction. If he hadn't received the top score, then who had? Who was this one person who had turned out to be better than him?
"Who scored one hundred points on this test then?" he asked.
Madame Rousseau surveyed the class, and her face lit up with a smile again, this time an especially proud one.
"This came as a real surprise to me," she said loudly so that everyone could hear. "Max, despite the fact that he joined our class quite recently and had to catch up with our program, submitted a perfect paper. Not a single slip-up and not a single missed word. Max, you did a great job."
Charles felt the blood drain from his face. He turned his head slowly, as if in a dream, and looked at the desk in front of him.
Max sat calmly, his back straight, and his light hair remaining motionless. He didn't even turn around to look at the class’s reaction, just accepted his sheet from the teacher’s hands, nodded shortly, and put it on the edge of the desk, as if it weren't a perfect test, but an ordinary napkin. There was no joy or bragging in his movements, and that was what infuriated Charles the most.
A fire flared up in the Monegasque’s chest. The irritation he had felt toward Max from the first day suddenly turned into something dark, heavy, and suffocating. This newcomer with his stupid accent and icy gaze hadn't just taken his desk — he had invaded his sacred territory.
Max had encroached upon the one thing Charles had always been absolutely certain of — his title as the best student.
Charles gripped the edges of his desk until his knuckles turned white. He hated the number ninety-nine. And in that second, he felt that with his whole childish, but no less furious heart, he hated the light-colored back of Max Verstappen’s head.
The rest of the school day passed for Charles as if in a fog. He answered questions nonsensically, barely talked to Pierre during breaks, and constantly returned in his thoughts to his defeat. It was vitally important for him to prove that it was just a coincidence. He had to restore the balance of power and show this impudent Dutchman his true place.
The opportunity arose in the last lesson.
Mr. Räikkönen, their PE teacher, a man of few words, stern, and who never raised his voice, stood in the center of the gym with a whistle around his neck. He waited until the children lined up and surveyed them with an unreadable gaze.
"Today we have an obstacle course," Räikkönen announced in short, chopped phrases. "We’re working by elimination, so we’re splitting into pairs. You go through the stages: a roll, running on a bench, jumping over cones. Whoever is faster goes to the next round. The losers sit on the bench and watch. Is everything clear? Let's go."
For Charles, sports had always been his second passion after studies. He was fast, agile, and stubborn. On ordinary days, he just enjoyed moving, but today everything was different.
With every sound of the whistle and every new stage of the competition, Charles gave it his all as if his life depended on it. He bypassed his classmates one after another. He ran faster, jumped further, his breathing became ragged, and drops of sweat shone on his forehead, but he felt no fatigue.
He was driven by a thirst for revenge.
Out of the corner of his eye, in the pauses between his sprints, he followed the other half of the competition bracket. There, Max was dealing with his opponents with ease.
The blonde moved completely differently. There was no bustling sharpness in him that was inherent to other boys. His movements were precise, measured, and fast. He leaped over obstacles as if he wasn't putting any effort into it at all.
Charles gritted his teeth. He knew where it was all heading.
It was inevitable.
Twenty minutes later, the gym filled with the hum of voices of resting students. Only two remained in the center. Mr. Räikkönen signaled them to the far wall of the gym, from the ceiling of which hung thick, worn ropes.
"The final," the teacher said monotonously, looking at the heavily breathing Charles and the absolutely calm Max. "The rules are simple. You climb the rope. At the very top, under the ceiling, red ribbons are tied. Your task is to tear off the ribbon and climb down. Whoever touches the mat with their feet first with the ribbon in hand is the winner. Without the ribbon, the victory doesn't count. You mustn't fall. Any questions?"
Charles shook his head in the negative. He wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts and walked over to his rope. Looking up, he felt a slight wave of nausea — the ceiling seemed very high. But the fear of heights was insignificant now compared to the fear of losing to this Dutchman for the second time in one day.
Charles looked to the right, where Max stood by the neighboring rope. He was also looking up, evaluating the distance. There wasn't a shadow of anxiety on his face; he was just waiting for the signal.
"Take your places," ordered Mr. Räikkönen, raising the whistle. "On your marks."
The whistle sounded.
Charles threw himself forward, clutching the rough, prickly rope with his hands. He pulled his knees up, clamped the rope with his feet, and began to climb up. His arm muscles responded with pain instantly, but Charles ignored it. He could hear his classmates shouting below, supporting them.
Pierre’s voice stood out from the crowd, breaking into a screech.
"Come on, Calamar! You can do it!"
Charles climbed with all his might, pulling air in heavily with a whistle. The coarse fibers of the rope scratched the skin on his palms. He was halfway there when he allowed himself a quick glance to the side.
And what he saw made his heart skip a beat.
Max was higher.
He was higher by at least a meter. The blonde wasn't climbing convulsively like Charles. He was using some strange technique, pushing off with his feet and grabbing the rope in long, powerful jerks. His body twisted around the rope like a spring, rapidly closing the distance to the ceiling.
No, not this.
Not again.
Charles clenched his teeth so hard that his jaws ached, and surged upward, ignoring the burning in his abraded palms.
He had to make it.
The ceiling was getting closer. Charles could already see the red ribbon tied to the metal ring. There were only two grabs left. He reached out, feeling his shoulder muscles trembling from the tension.
But at that very moment, he heard a sharp rustle of sliding fabric to his left.
He turned his head and saw Max, already having clutched the red ribbon in his teeth, rapidly sliding down, nimbly using his feet and hands so as not to burn his skin on the rope. He had torn the ribbon a fraction of a second before Charles.
Desperation gave the Monegasque strength. He tore his ribbon off, clenched it in his fist, and began his descent. He was almost falling, letting the rope burn his palms, just to be down faster. He pushed off the rope and jumped onto the soft mat, hitting his heels painfully.
But it was too late.
When Charles straightened up, breathing heavily, with disheveled hair and a face red from the tension, Max was already standing in front of Mr. Räikkönen. In his raised hand lay the red ribbon, victoriously.
The gym erupted in applause and shouts. Classmates who hadn't known the new student’s name just yesterday were now crowding around him, patting his shoulders and shouting congratulations.
In a group of children, winners are always loved.
Charles was left standing on the mats all alone. His chest heaved heavily, and his mouth was dry. He looked at the crowd of kids surrounding Max.
Max was looking directly at Charles. And for the first time since their meeting, an emotion appeared on his face. The corners of his lips crawled upward slowly, folding into a wide, dazzling smile of a winner. There was no open malice or mockery in it; it was just the smile of a boy who knew he had won fairly.
But for Charles, this smile was the final straw. Max Verstappen had come to his school, to his class, to take everything from him.
His desk.
His first place in his studies.
His sports victories.
Charles stood there, crumpling the useless red ribbon in his fist. His nails dug into the abraded skin of his palms until it hurt. He looked at the smiling blonde, and inside him, displacing the resentment, injustice, and childish confusion, a completely new and strong feeling was growing and strengthening.
He hated Max.
In the locker room, Charles sat on a narrow wooden bench in the very corner, his head low. His movements were sharp and jerky. He couldn't get his foot into his pant leg, he was angry at the uncooperative fabric, and when he tried to zip up his windbreaker, it got stuck halfway. Charles tugged at the slider with such force that he almost tore it off, breathing heavily and raggedly.
A real storm of resentment, anger, and an unfamiliar, bitter feeling of his own helplessness was raging inside him.
"Charles, what's wrong?" came a quiet, sympathetic voice nearby.
Pierre sat down on the bench by the neighboring locker, looking his friend in the face. There was sincere anxiety in his eyes. Gasly was perhaps the only one in the class who understood how hard defeats were for Leclerc.
"It's fine," Charles hissed through clenched teeth, without even turning his head toward his friend. He shoved his gym kit into his backpack with fury, not caring that it would get wrinkled.
"It’s just one PE lesson. Next time we’ll play football, and you’ll definitely score the most goals," Pierre tried to cheer him up, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. "You’re our best striker, Max probably doesn't even know how to dribble a ball."
Charles didn't react to these words at all. The joke sounded flat, and the consolation seemed pathetic.
Pierre didn't understand.
It wasn't about the rope or the football. It was about the fact that this Max had destroyed the pedestal Charles had stood on since the first grade in just one day. He had made him look like a loser in front of the whole class.
Pierre sighed heavily, seeing that his attempts were breaking against a deaf wall.
"Alright," Gasly stood up from the bench, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. "I have to run. Philippe picked me up today, he promised to take me to an ice cream parlor if I get ready quickly. Don't sulk, Charles. See you tomorrow!"
Charles only nodded vaguely, continuing to glare at the toes of his sneakers. He heard Pierre’s footsteps receding, heard the front door slam, letting the last of the kids out into the school hallway.
Gradually, the noise died down, and silence fell over the locker room, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the ventilation under the ceiling.
Charles finally zipped up the stubborn zipper, exhaled deeply, trying to calm his frantically beating heart, and raised his head.
He expected to see an empty room. He wanted to be alone so he could allow himself a moment of weakness — perhaps even shed a couple of tears out of resentment while no one was looking.
But when his gaze focused, he froze.
By the opposite row of lockers, leaning his back against the cold metal, stood Max. He was already fully changed into his regular clothes: worn-out jeans and a dark sweatshirt. His gym bag hung over his shoulder. He had been ready to leave ten minutes ago, but for some reason, he had stayed. He was silently watching Charles.
The Monegasque’s heart skipped a beat, then began to beat at double speed. All the anger he had been trying to suppress flared up with renewed force.
What the hell is he doing here? Waiting to laugh at the defeated? Wants to say something nasty in private?
Charles jumped to his feet, grabbing his backpack. He wanted to walk past him, ignore him, fly out of this room as fast as he could. But Max, noticing his movement, pulled away from the lockers and took a few steps toward him, blocking the way to the exit.
The blonde stopped a couple of meters from Charles. There was no mockery or arrogance on his face. It was completely calm, almost serious. Max looked Charles straight in the eyes, and then did something Charles hadn't expected.
He reached his right hand forward.
"That was a good fight," Max said in his hoarse voice.
Charles stared at the extended palm as if it were a poisonous snake. His head felt clouded.
A good fight?
Seriously?
Max had climbed up that damn rope as if he’d lived in the trees his whole life, snatched victory from under his nose, and now he’s standing here offering friendship? Offering a handshake as if they’d just been playing in a sandbox?
"Are you mocking me?" Charles’s voice trembled with suppressed rage.
Not giving Max a chance to answer, Charles slapped his extended hand away with force. The sound of the slap echoed through the empty locker room.
Max stepped back half a step out of surprise, and his hand dropped to his side. For a second, incomprehension flashed in his eyes. His eyebrows met on the bridge of his nose, forming a small fold.
To him, Charles’s reaction was illogical. It was a competition. Max had given it his all, Charles had too. But Max had been faster.
What was the problem?
"I don't understand what you mean," Max said slowly, and his voice became a little colder, as if he had slammed some invisible door shut. "It was fair and honest."
"Fair?" Charles took a step forward, invading the blonde’s personal space. He had to tilt his head back slightly because Max was a couple of centimeters taller. "You think that just because you came here and took everything in one day, you can stand here with such an innocent look? You think I don't see how you look at me? How you’re trying to show your superiority?"
"I'm not trying to show anything," Max replied sharply, his accent becoming even more noticeable. "I just did what I had to. And the fact that you’re angry... It’s not my fault I was better than you."
These words didn't sound like boasting, but like a statement of fact.
"You’re not better than me," Charles jerked his hand up, pointing his index finger right in front of Max’s face, almost touching his nose. "And I’ll prove it. You’ll regret that you even transferred to this class."
Without waiting for an answer, Charles turned around, his backpack hitting his own thigh painfully, and flew out of the locker room.
The home environment, which usually had a soothing effect on Charles, seemed stifling today.
At dinner, he poked at the stew with his fork, moving pieces of vegetables from one side of the plate to the other, and didn't say a word. Even Arthur, sensing the tension hanging in the air, behaved unusually quietly, only occasionally casting wary glances at his older brother.
Pascal and Hervé exchanged glances across the table. They knew their son too well not to notice that something had happened. Charles was an open child, he loved talking about his school days, about his friends, about funny incidents during breaks. His sullenness today screamed that there was a problem.
"Charles, honey, you’re not eating anything at all," Pascal broke the silence softly, putting down her utensils. "Did something happen at school? You look very tired."
Charles tensed his shoulders and lowered his head even further.
"It’s fine, Mom. Just not hungry."
"How did the social studies test go?" Hervé joined the conversation, trying to come at it from a different angle. "You spent the whole evening yesterday sitting over your textbooks and preparing. Has Madame Rousseau given the results yet?"
Charles froze. The mention of the test resonated in his chest with an aching pain. He felt physically ashamed. It wasn't the custom in his family to scold for bad grades, his parents always said that the effort was what mattered, but for Charles himself, the bar was set to the maximum.
He fidgeted, feeling his ears start to burn. He opened his mouth to answer, but the words stuck in his throat. He didn't want to admit his defeat.
"Come on, speak up," his father smiled encouragingly. "Even if you got an eighty, we won't scold you. It’s a difficult topic."
"I got..." Charles swallowed a tight lump. "Ninety-nine."
A short pause hung in the air, and then his parents’ faces lit up with sincere smiles.
"Charles, that’s magnificent!" Pascal exclaimed, clasping her hands. "That’s practically perfect. What are you so upset about?"
"We are very proud of you, son," Hervé supported his wife. "It’s a great result. You’re worrying for nothing. There are no perfect people, one point is a mere trifle."
But Charles didn't feel relief. Their words brought no joy.
"It’s not a trifle," Charles objected quietly but stubbornly, looking up at his parents with eyes full of wounded pride. "I was worthy of the top score."
He didn't add that the newcomer had received that top score. He didn't want to say Max’s name in his house. This was his sanctuary, and he wasn't going to let this Dutchman in, even in the form of conversation.
His parents tried to calm him down for a long time, cited examples from their own lives, talked about how mistakes teach us to be better, but all of it flew right past Charles’s ears. The bitter aftertaste didn't go away.
After dinner, Charles locked himself in his room. He sat down at his desk and set to work on his homework with a vengeance, burying himself in his textbooks as if the fate of the world depended on it. He solved math problems, wrote English exercises, trying to load his brain so much that there would be no room left for memories of the day.
Only when the clock showed half-past nine did Charles allow himself to close the notebooks. He felt tired. His arm muscles ached, and his head buzzed from an overload of emotions. He walked to the closet, stripped off his everyday clothes, and changed into soft pajamas.
Charles approached the switch to turn off the light, but before that, he looked out the window out of habit.
From the very day they first clashed at school, Charles had made it a rule to pull the curtains tight at night. He didn't want Max to be able to watch him. He had erected this fabric barrier as a symbol that there was nothing and could be nothing common between them.
But today, exhausted by the day’s events, he had forgotten about this rule.
And that was why Charles saw him.
Max was in his room. There were still no curtains in it, and the only piece of furniture added was a desk by the window.
Max was sitting at that desk, facing the window. He was sitting with his head propped up by both hands, his elbows resting on the windowsill, and he was looking straight at Charles.
What does he want? Why is he staring? Why can't he just leave him alone? Isn't it enough that he humiliated him at school?
Charles felt the lump rising to his throat again. With a determined, almost aggressive step, he walked right up to the glass. For a few seconds, they looked at each other across the gap of the night courtyard that separated them.
Charles wasn't going to play staring games. He raised his hands, grasped the edges of the heavy drapes firmly, and with one sharp, demonstrative motion, pulled them toward each other.
Charles turned off the lamp and dived under the blanket, vowing to himself that tomorrow would be a new day, and in this new day, he would be ready for anything.
The tension that had been building in Charles’s chest since the very first day Max appeared in their class reached its breaking point on a grey, unfriendly morning.
It all started in literature class, which had always been Charles’s favorite subject. Madame Hart asked them to discuss the protagonist’s motives in the story they had read, and Charles, as always, was the first to raise his hand, delivering a perfectly polished, textbook answer.
He was used to the approving nods of teachers and the admiring glances of his classmates, but this time the silence of the class was broken by a voice with a slight, grating accent.
Max didn't agree.
He calmly, without raising his tone, took Charles’s answer apart, offering his own much deeper and more unconventional point of view, which instantly delighted the teacher.
Charles felt the blood rush to his face. He tried to sharply cut the Dutchman down, delivering a biting, almost rude remark that Max hadn't been studying with them long enough to understand such things.
But instead of getting angry or flustered, Max only looked at him with his impenetrable gaze and asked in a level voice why Charles was so afraid of being wrong.
A deathly silence fell over the classroom.
Charles, who had always acted as the diplomat and everyone’s favorite, suddenly found himself in the role of an arrogant, haughty upstart who didn't know how to lose. And the most terrible thing was that Max didn't even try to humiliate him, he just stated a fact.
Charles had to bite his tongue and turn away, clenching his fists under the desk until his knuckles turned white. Because two dozen people were looking at them, he forced himself to put on a mask of indifference, but inside he was seething with rage.
The rest of the school day turned into a real torture for the Monegasque. He moved from classroom to classroom, didn't listen to the teachers’ explanations, and gave one-word answers to Pierre’s attempts to start a conversation. It seemed to him that every look in his direction was filled with judgment or, worse, mockery. The image of Max, his calm tone, and that outrageous composure haunted Charles every second. He wanted to scream, wanted to break something just to release this pressing weight from his chest.
When the last bell rang, Charles flew out of the classroom first, not even saying goodbye to Pierre. He was shoving his notebooks into his backpack on the move, not paying attention to the fact that they were getting crumpled.
Bursting onto the school porch, Charles braked sharply, nearly slipping on the wet tile.
The weather outside completely matched his internal state. The sky was covered with dark clouds from which a cold autumn rain was pouring in a solid, dense wall. Water flowed in streams from the school’s awning, forming huge, bubbling puddles on the asphalt.
Charles bit his lip in annoyance. In the morning, immersed in thoughts about the upcoming day and his desire to prove his superiority to Max, he had completely forgotten to check the weather forecast and didn't take an umbrella. His light jacket wouldn't have saved him even from a drizzle, not to mention this real downpour. The bus stop was several hundred meters from the school, and the path to it went through an open square.
Charles shivered, hugging his shoulders. He estimated in his mind whether he could run to the shelter of the bus stop without getting soaked to the bone, and came to a disappointing conclusion. But remaining here on the porch, where a crowd of classmates would start gathering any minute, was even more unbearable.
Charles pulled the hood of his jacket deeper over his head, gripped the strap of his backpack tighter, and was already preparing to make a dash into the cold streams when he heard the familiar sound of footsteps behind him.
He turned around, and his heart instantly sank, then began to beat with double force, pumping adrenaline through his veins.
Max came out of the school doors. He looked collected, wasn't in any hurry, and was holding a large black umbrella in his hand. The blonde stopped next to Charles, pressed a button, and the canopy of the umbrella opened over his head with a dry snap, reliably protecting him from the bad weather. Max shifted his gaze to the huddled Monegasque, his eyes sliding over his light jacket and the lack of an umbrella.
"We’re going the same way," Max said. "Want to walk together?"
The words sounded simple, without mockery or hidden subtext. It was a normal, logical offer of help from a person who lived in the neighboring building.
But Charles perceived it completely differently. For him, this open umbrella, this calm tone, and the very fact that Max was in a winning position again were the last straw. The Monegasque saw not care in this, but another attempt to assert himself.
It was as if Max was saying to him: look, I’m better than you at everything, I’m even prepared for the rain, while you stand here pathetic and helpless, waiting for my mercy.
"Go to hell!" Charles shouted, his voice breaking on a high note. He took a step forward, invading the space under the umbrella, but not to hide from the rain, but to be face to face with his enemy. "You think I’ll go with you? You think I need your pathetic help?"
Max frowned slightly, clearly not expecting such a violent reaction to a simple offer. He instinctively moved the umbrella back a bit so the drops wouldn't fly onto Charles, who was now standing unacceptably close.
"I just offered to walk together," the blonde replied calmly, though a slight bewilderment appeared in his eyes. "Otherwise you’ll get wet and get sick. What’s your problem?"
"What’s my problem?" Charles sneered without a hint of amusement. "The whole problem is you! Since the very day you transferred to this school, all you do is try to ruin my life! You took my desk, you stole my top score on the test, you disgraced me in PE, and this morning you specifically made me look like an idiot in front of the whole class!"
"I didn't make anyone look like an idiot," Max countered, his tone becoming a bit tougher, but he still maintained amazing composure. "You said a foolish thing yourself, and I just expressed my opinion. Nobody is to blame that you can't accept that someone might know more than you."
These words hit Charles harder than any slap. They hit the most vulnerable point, his inflated but so fragile pride.
Charles, a boy from a good family who had always despised physical violence and considered fighting the lot of ill-mannered hooligans, suddenly felt an irresistible desire to wipe this calmness off Max’s face by any means.
Charles threw his hands forward sharply and pushed Max in the chest with all his might.
Max, not expecting the attack, staggered and took a step back, retreating from the dry porch right into the pouring rain. The umbrella slipped from his fingers, fell onto the wet asphalt, and, caught by a gust of wind, rolled to the side, tumbling helplessly. Streams of water instantly poured onto them both, soaking their clothes, but neither of them was paying attention to this anymore.
"Don't you dare talk to me like that!" Charles screamed. Water was filling his eyes, his hair stuck to his forehead, but he felt nothing except blinding rage. "You think you’re better than everyone? You think you’re allowed to do anything? I hate you! I hate your voice, your arrogant face, I hate that you breathe the same air as me!"
He pushed Max again, this time aiming for his shoulder. Max, who had already managed to regain his balance, tried to intercept his arms.
For the Dutchman, fights weren't anything out of the ordinary. In his past life, conflicts were often resolved with fists, and he knew how to stand up for himself. He could’ve easily hit Charles back, could’ve knocked him off his feet, but for some reason, he didn't do it. Something in Charles’s face, distorted by rage, and in his clumsy, jerky movements, made Max hold back.
He didn't want to hit him.
He wanted to stop him.
"Calm down, you idiot!" Max shouted. He grabbed Charles by the forearms, squeezing them tightly, trying to block his chaotic attacks. "Stop swinging your hands, we’ll both fall now!"
But Charles couldn't stop. He was breaking away, twisting, trying to kick Max in the legs. His heavy backpack, full of textbooks, dangled on one shoulder, shifting his center of gravity.
At one point, trying to free himself from Max’s steel grip, Charles jerked back sharply. His foot in a slippery sneaker slid from the wet asphalt right onto the lawn adjacent to the school porch, which had turned to mush from the rain. The ground had turned into real mud.
Charles lost his balance, and Max, who was still holding his arms, involuntarily reached for him. They both waved their arms in a futile attempt to keep their footing, but in the end, with a squelching sound, they collapsed right into the cold, sticky mud.
The impact knocked the breath out of Charles. He ended up on his back, and Max fell on top of him, pressing down with his weight. The mud instantly soaked the Monegasque’s light jacket, clogged under his collar, and stained his jeans. Water poured on them from above, turning the lawn into a real swamp.
Charles growled in helplessness and started kicking, trying to push his opponent off. He beat his fists against Max’s shoulders, scratched his sweatshirt, tried to reach his stomach with his knee.
Max, gritting his teeth, intercepted Charles’s wrists and slammed them into the muddy ground on both sides of his head with force, hovering over him and breathing heavily. Water flowed in streams down his face, washing his light bangs into his eyes.
"I said, that’s enough!" Max growled, and notes of genuine irritation broke through in his voice for the first time.
He looked at his hands, smeared with brown sludge, at his sweatshirt, which had turned from light grey into a dirty mess, and his eyes widened with sudden realization.
Max abruptly let go of Charles’s arms and tried to get on his knees, shaking off the chunks of mud. His face distorted in a grimace of fear that mixed with rising anger.
"Look what you’ve done!" Max shouted, pointing to his ruined clothes. His accent became even sharper from excitement. "Because of your tantrums, we both look like pigs now! My father... he’ll kill me for this."
The mention of his father should have been a trigger. Charles remembered that terrible, silent scene in the window opposite very well, when a large man was berating the cowering boy.
In any other situation, on any other day, Charles would have stopped, would have felt a prick of conscience or compassion.
But not today.
Today, the poison of resentment had poisoned him too deeply. He was blinded by his own defeat and his own pain. He couldn't care less about Max’s problems, couldn't care less about his fears. He wanted to inflict the same pain on him that he felt himself.
Charles sat up with difficulty in the puddle of mud, leaning his hands on the ground. He was shivering violently, whether from the cold or from the excess of adrenaline. He looked up at Max with a gaze full of pure contempt and spoke the words he intended to say so that they would hurt as much as possible.
"I don't care about your clothes! And I don't care about your crazy old man!" Charles said, his voice trembling, but the words sounded clear and merciless. "If he hates you so much, then maybe you shouldn't have appeared in this city at all? Maybe you should’ve stayed where you crawled from and not ruin the lives of normal people? Nobody needs you here. Not at school, not at home!"
The words hung in the air.
Charles was breathing heavily, waiting for a return blow. He was sure that after that, Max would definitely pounce on him, that a real fight with broken noses and bruises would start now. He even tensed up, preparing to take a hit.
But Max didn't move. He stood on his knees in the mud, frozen like a statue. His face instantly lost all color, becoming pale. The anger that had just been raging in his eyes because of his ruined clothes disappeared, giving way to something completely different. It wasn't disappointment and it wasn't resentment.
It was something else entirely.
He looked down at Charles with an unblinking gaze, and there was so much weight in that gaze that for a second, the Monegasque became afraid.
The rain continued to pour down on them mercilessly, but Max didn't seem to notice the cold. He slowly rose to his feet, towering over Charles who was sitting in the mud. His chest heaved heavily. He clenched his hands into fists, then unclenched them, as if trying to gain control over some unknown force inside himself.
"How dare you talk like that to your future husband?" Max’s voice was low, firm, and there wasn't a drop of mockery in it.
It sounded like a statement of an undeniable fact.
Charles froze, blinking, with raindrops hanging on his lashes. His brain refused to process the incoming information. He looked at Max, expecting to see a mocking smirk on his face, expecting the blonde to burst out laughing now, enjoying his stupid joke. But Max’s face remained serious.
"What?" Charles nearly choked on the air, his voice breaking into a hoarse whisper. He leaned forward, not believing his ears. "Am I dreaming, or did I hear you right?"
Max didn't look away, looking straight into Charles’s eyes, which were wide with shock.
"No, you didn't mishear," Max replied confidently and clearly. "You will be mine."
Charles felt his jaw drop. The whole situation turned into some surreal, delusional nightmare in an instant. They were sitting up to their ears in mud, under an icy downpour, had just been trying to strangle each other, and this crazy Dutchman was claiming this to him? Charles let out a nervous, hysterical laugh that sounded more like a cough. He pushed a wet strand of hair from his forehead, leaving a dirty smudge on his skin.
"Are you sick?" Charles snorted, trying to gather the remnants of his dignity. "What kind of bullshit is this? Do you want to humiliate me once and for all? You think if you say some perverted stupidity, I’ll cry and run away?"
"I’m not trying to humiliate you," Max took half a step forward, his face was tense, and his jaws were tightly clenched. "I mean exactly what I said. You can be angry, you can fight, you can scream that you hate me. But that won't change anything. You’re supposed to be with me. And you will be."
The confidence with which he said this even scared Charles. It didn't make sense to the Monegasque’s mind how one could say such things with such a serious face. This Dutchman, who had ruined his life and who made him feel like a nobody, was now claiming rights to him? Like some object? Like a won prize?
"You’re a nutcase," Charles hissed, feeling a nasty chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the icy rain.
He couldn't stay here any longer.
Charles awkwardly got to his feet, feeling how the heavy, water- and dirt-soaked clothes were pulling him down. He looked around, spotted his backpack, which was lying nearby, having turned into a shapeless dirty lump. Charles picked it up with disobedient, frozen fingers, not even trying to shake it off.
He didn't say anything else, as any words seemed meaningless now. Charles turned around and, staggering from fatigue and cold, walked quickly away from the school, toward the bus stop, trying not to look back.
But he didn't even have time to take ten steps before a loud voice rang out behind him, drowning out the sound of the downpour and the howling wind:
"Remember these words, Charles!" Max shouted after him, making the Monegasque instinctively pull his head into his shoulders and quicken his pace, breaking into a run, splashing through puddles with his dirty sneakers. "Because one day you’ll carry my surname!"