Chapter Text
It was the match that had set first the Formula One paddock and then the world alight. When, randomly at testing in Bahrain, it had been announced via a singular post on Verstappen.com that on Wednesday the 3rd of June, before the Grand Prix weekend got underway, two-time world champion Max Verstappen would claim Monaco native Charles Leclerc at the Circuit de Monaco, every sports and gossip outlet in the world had been fascinated by the story. How had Max hidden this mystery omega-to-be from the cameras for so long? Especially when he had been so closely observed since he'd made his debut?
Max hadn’t given any answers to the questions when he’d been faced with them at media day. Instead, he’d simply shrugged his shoulders and said he wanted to talk about things that were relevant to the car and to racing. That his upcoming claim had absolutely nothing to do with whether or not he was going to take the championship that year. People had expected that sternness to loosen as he got closer to the event, that this Charles would begin to appear alongside him, that they’d be spotted together. But other than a handful of professionally taken photos and a short, clearly very controlled profile, the champion’s omega-to-be had remained almost entirely a mystery.
While the world whispered and wondered about the omega that the young lion was set to claim, across town in his mother's apartment Charles took a deep breath as he looked at himself one last time in the mirror, green eyes tracing over the delicate white silk that clothed his body. Every ounce of the fabric was spotless, as it had to be. Over a dozen people had slaved over this outfit, every last one of them committed to making sure it was beautiful from every angle. He’d been spun around almost a dozen times to make sure that no matter how many cameras flashed, not a loose thread or crease could be found. After all, a single stain would have had tongues wagging, that perhaps he wasn’t as pure as had been suggested, that he was not worthy of the alpha he was promised to. There had been great debates over whether his outfit for the claiming should be a suit, a dress, or something in between, with the stylists he’d been assigned agonising over the fact that while it was largely out of fashion for male omegas to wear dresses now, it might be expected of him due to Monaco’s more traditional general public.
In the end a compromise had been struck. He would wear a fitted blouse and trousers, something that would spark conversation but still remain respectful. Though most of the blouse was conservative in its styling, including long lace sleeves that were supposed to be reminiscent of Princess Grace’s claiming gown, the neckline of the garment was open and low, exposing as much of his unblemished skin as possible, ready for the collar and the bite they were destined for.
The only piece of the outfit that he’d chosen or put up any kind of protest about was the veil. The stylists had wanted to pay tribute to Princess Grace again, but Charles had insisted upon wearing his mother’s veil. He would give up his last name that day, would give up his apartment, the life he had built to belong to another. But he would go wearing a piece of his family, the veil that had witnessed his parents’ love match. So despite gentle pushback, and an alternative veil having been made "just for him to look at", the veil that Pascale’s mother had sewn for her was arranged neatly in his brunette, tousled hair. Charles would give up a lot of himself in this claim, he knew that already, but there were some things that he would never surrender.
Out of the open window Monaco buzzed with excitement as it waited for him to make his entrance. For weeks he hadn’t been able to go anywhere without whispers and gazes directed his way. His face was plastered on both sporting channels and celebrity gossip sites alike; the omega whose claiming ceremony would be attended by the prince himself, whose altar would be hosted on the starting line of the world's most famous Grand Prix. In childhood he never could have expected that this would be his fate, that the Monaco track which should have borne witness to his victory behind the wheel would instead see him give over his independence to a claim created only as part of a contract. Because despite what the world might think, that was all this match was for now: a contract.
With a sigh Charles reached down and traced a finger over the as-yet unopened white gift box on his dressing table. Lorenzo had pressed it into his hands before leaving to get ready earlier that morning, with the message that the contents were a gift from the man he was promised to. A figure who in his younger years had been a rival, a competitor, whom Charles would now surrender himself to despite the years that had lapsed since they’d known much of one another.
Max Verstappen. The youngest Formula One champion of all time, the lion of the track, and the man whose reputation was so bad that the only thing that would save it was a claim to Monaco’s Princesse. Of course Charles had occasionally seen the other man around Monaco, the place was so small that it was hard not to, though without the fierce rivalry they’d once had on track he hadn’t thought that they’d have much to say to eachother. He’d assumed that Max would find little interest in him now that he could no longer go wheel to wheel with him. So he’d only ever really nodded his head in greeting when they’d seen one another in the street, occasionally offered a tepid wave when the Alphas blue eyes fixed on him. He’d really never expected the offer that was to cross his desk a few months ago.
After all he was only a what could have been now, the boy upon whom Ferrari’s hopes had once rested before Charles’s body had betrayed him. With driving no longer an option, Charles had turned to charity work, determined to use the wealth of the principality that had denied him his dreams to help those who suffered beneath the dazzling surface of Monaco’s elite. To try to find another young talent within the handful of children who were actually born among the harbour and white buildings who could take the wheel that he’d been denied.
He’d worked tirelessly, unable to stop in case he looked around and actually saw what he’d lost. With his single-minded dedication had come acclaim, eyes on him, a perfect omega waiting for the right claim. While most of the world liked to pretend that arranged claims were mostly a thing of the past, growing up in Monaco Charles knew that if there was any kind of money or influence involved that often wasn’t true. People who calculated almost every part of their life didn’t give their bite to omegas out of desire or love alone, they found one who suited them as well as the rest of their life. As his profile rose and he began to be invited to more events, his picture began to appearing in society pages the offers of claims had begin to come in. Some on paper, some in person along with some highly unwanted advances. But then eventually an offer that had surprised him appeared. Delivered to his door by a lawyer, Max Verstappen was offering him a claim. With a bonding agreement that included a guaranteed seat for Arthur when the time came and funding for his F3 and F2 career. Plus, of course, the sizeable mate price that would allow his mother to finally own both her apartment and salon.
The lawyer had explained that Max was looking for a suitable mate who understood the demands of Formula One, who would be willing to tolerate the schedule and who was happy to live in Monaco. When Charles had then agreed to sign a non disclosure in order to hear more about the proposal it had then been explained that it was also hoped that Max’s negative reputation could be improved by the addition of a mate. That Red Bull believed their young champion needed an omega to soften his edges, to help him through the difficult season that he was having.The contract presented was fair, and yet the situation so unfair all at once. But he could not earn the kind of money and opportunities that were being offered to his family any other way. His biology had made sure of that.
Agreeing to the bonding had led him to suffering through all kinds of indignities, including testing his fertility, endless background checks, negociations with Red Bull and Verstappen lawyers as well as a one on one meeting with the ever unpleasant Jos. But Charles had weathered it all, mostly surprised that he hadn’t seen more of the Alpha who was on the other end of the contract. Red Bull and the lawyers had claimed that it was because Max was focused on his championship battle with Lewis Hamilton but Max had been so absent from the hours of negotiations that in the end Charles had found himself demanding to see the blonde to make sure that he actually wanted to bond at all. In fact after getting the brush off once again from the Verstappen lawyer he’d told them that he’d be halting the process all together until he at least had dinner with the man he was supposed to be tying his life to.
Charles flipped open the gift box, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, and was surprised to find a pair of beautiful leather driving gloves inside. He wasn’t sure what he had expected based on the very limited interactions he’d had with Max so far. Jewellery perhaps, that was a usual gift from a new Alpha to an omega. Though with the way that the claim had been processed he was more inclined to believe it would be something impersonal purchased by an assistant or worse based on the friends he knew Max had, perhaps some sort of crude sexual gift. But as he picked up the butter-soft glove, which he could already tell was tailored completely to his hand, he felt a wave of affection. Underneath the gloves was a short note n French, written in scrawled handwriting that he recognised was Max’s own hand, his mind finding some familiarity in his former rival’s writing from when they’d signed their names next to one another on competition sheets.
Charles,
I hope in this claim I can give you back a little of what you lost.
Yours,
Max
Charles felt another wave of affection run through him at the fact that the Alpha had taken the time to write the note in French, his language. With tentative fingers the omega picked up the note and took a sniff of the Alpha’s scent that still clung to the pages. Tonic water, something floral, and a hint of gasoline. His inner omega purred, once again delighted at the smell overwhelming his senses. Catching sight of himself in the mirror again, Charles was surprised to find that he was blushing and hurriedly adjusted his veil to hide his pink cheeks from view. He then tucked the note carefully back into the box along with the gloves, still curious how exactly Max meant to give him back anything. Maybe the Dutchman was going to let him drive some of the insane collection of cars that had been listed in the Alpha’s assets alongside the property portfolio, yachts, and private plane. If that was the plan, Charles wasn’t going to complain about it. He couldn’t deny that the sheer amount of assets listed in the bonding contract had been impressive.
“Charles,” came Pierre's voice from the doorway. “I’m sorry to rush you, but it’s time. The car is here.”
His best friend looked beyond nervous, almost ill with worry. He’d tried everything to talk Charles out of this, spent hours telling him stories of Mad Max in the paddock, of Jos and the kind of Alpha he was. But Charles had been as stubborn as ever, refusing to change his mind. He’d gone wheel to wheel with Max as a child, and now he would fulfil that childhood prophecy of lining up next to him on the Monaco Circuit, even if it wasn’t in the way he had hoped for.
“No worries, copain,” Charles responded, giving Pierre as serene a smile as he could manage and trying to keep his scent as neutral as possible. “I’m all ready to go.”
“There’s still time to change your mind,” Pierre offered hopefully, his eyes scanning across the room as though he was trying to find some sort of hidden escape for them. “They will promote me to Red Bull for sure next year, and I can at least give you some of what Verstappen is offering.”
“Let’s not have this conversation again.” Charles sighed, not having the energy to once again explain to Pierre that he could never match what was being offered and that he didn’t want him to. Pierre was his friend, and Charles wanted him to be happy someday with an omega of his own, not saddled with Charles and his family.
Pierre pressed his lips together but didn’t argue further as they headed for the door. As they passed the hallway, Charles found himself nodding to his father’s photograph on the mantle, hoping that, high above him, he understood that Charles was doing what he could to take care of the people they both loved. Of course his hopes found no reply, and so Charles left his childhood home behind and climbed into the sleek Aston Martin that had been sent for him. The next time he visited, he would no longer be a Leclerc, and he supposed he would have to be at peace with that.