Work Text:
The first time Max Verstappen saw Charles Leclerc that weekend, it was entirely by accident.
Friday morning in Monaco was always chaotic. Team personnel moved through the paddock with the focused urgency of people who had been awake since before sunrise. Engineers carried laptops and folders thick with data. Journalists clustered outside hospitality units, hoping to catch drivers on their way to meetings. Sponsors and guests drifted through designated areas, wearing expensive watches and smiling carefully.
It was noise, movement, and routine. Max barely noticed any of it anymore.
After nearly a decade in Formula 1, race weekends followed a familiar rhythm. Meetings. Simulator comparisons. Practice sessions. Media obligations. More meetings. Everything was scheduled down to the minute.
He was walking back from a briefing when he first noticed the crowd. It wasn't a large crowd, nothing dramatic. Just enough people gathered near the Ferrari hospitality suite to suggest that someone interesting had arrived.
Normally, Max would have ignored it; instead, curiosity made him glance in that direction.
That was his first mistake. The second was looking for longer than a second.
Standing near the entrance was a man in a navy linen shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Dark hair caught the sunlight, and a pair of sunglasses was carelessly on top of his head.
He was laughing at something someone had said. The expression transformed his entire face. For a brief moment, Max forgot where he was supposed to be. Then the name clicked into place.
Charles Leclerc.
Not that Leclerc, the one driving for Ferrari, the other one. The model, the one whose face seemed to appear on billboards in every major city on the planet. The one who had recently signed some enormous campaign that had apparently made half of the fashion industry lose its collective mind.
Max had seen him before, of course, everyone had. It was difficult not to.
Yet seeing him in person felt strangely different. Less polished, less distant, more real.
Charles was currently speaking to several Ferrari sponsors, and unlike most celebrity guests, he didn't look bored. If anything, he appeared genuinely interested.
Max watched him gesture animatedly while discussing something. A Ferrari engineer beside him was laughing, and one of the sponsors looked completely engaged. Whatever Charles was saying, it wasn't small talk.
Someone bumped Max’s shoulder as they passed. He blinked and looked away immediately. Ridiculous.
He had meetings to attend and a race weekend to focus on. He had absolutely no reason to stand there staring at a model.
Turning sharply, he continued walking. The matter should have ended there; unfortunately, it didn't.
***
A few hours later, Max saw him again. This time it happened during lunch. The Red Bull hospitality area overlooked one of the busiest sections of the paddock, offering an excellent view of people moving between team buildings.
Max was halfway through eating when a familiar figure appeared outside. Charles was walking beside two Ferrari representatives.
What immediately caught Max’s attention wasn't the fact that Charles was there. It was what he was carrying: a paddock pass and a notebook. An actual notebook. Not a phone or a designer accessory. A notebook that looked to be filled with handwritten notes.
Charles paused near a display car, one of the Ferrari’s engineers pointed at the front wing, and Charles seemed to listen carefully. Then asked a question. The engineer launched into what looked suspiciously like a detailed technical explanation. Most celebrity guests nodded politely through these conversations before changing the subject.
But Charles didn't.
Instead, he asked another question, then another. The engineer looked delighted. Max found himself watching far longer than intended.
“You know him?” The voice belonged to one of Redbull's performance engineers.
Max looked away immediately. “No.”
The engineer followed his gaze. “Oh.”
A grin appeared. Max immediately disliked that grin.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're smiling.” The grin widened.
“Just surprised.”
“Why?”
The engineer shrugged. “I've never seen you pay attention to a celebrity guest before.”
Max returned to his lunch, signalling the conversation was over. Unfortunately, the engineer wasn't entirely wrong.
***
Their actual introduction happened later that afternoon. Max had just completed a media session and was heading toward a quieter section of the paddock when he nearly collided with someone exiting a side corridor.
Both stopped abruptly, and for half a second they simply stared at one another.
Charles recovered first.
“Well.” His voice was warm and surprisingly deep.
“That would have been embarrassing.”
Max glanced behind him. “Narrow hallway.
“Fair point.” Charles smiled.
Up close, the effect was somehow worse. Or better. Max wasn't entirely sure.
“Sorry,” Charles continued. “I wasn't looking where I was going.”
Neither was I. The thought arrived uninvited. Fortunately, Max kept it to himself.
“It’s fine.”
A brief silence followed. The kind that usually happened between strangers preparing to move past one another. Instead, Charles tilted his head slightly.
“Verstappen.”
It wasn't really a question. Max nodded.
“Leclerc.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Charles burst out laughing. Not polite laughter, the restrained sort used around sponsors, actual laughter. The sound echoed down the corridor.
Max frowned. “What?”
Charles shook his head, “You realise how confusing that is?”
“What is?”
“There is literally another Leclerc driving for Ferrari.”
“Oh.” For a moment, Max considered it. Then, reluctantly, he admitted the point.
Charles' grin widened immediately. “I'm kidding, he is my brother. I'm used to it.”
Something about his amusement was infectious.
Against his better judgment, Max felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Charles noticed, of course, he noticed. His eyes brightened.
“You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“No.”
Charles laughed again. “You're terrible at pretending.”
Max had dealt with world champions, team principals, journalists and hostile interviewers. Very few people spoke to him casually within five minutes of meeting him. Oddly, he didn't mind.
A Ferrari staff member appeared nearby. “Charles, they are waiting for you.”
“Right.”
Charles glanced back towards Max. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he extended a hand.
“Nice to finally meet you.”
The gesture surprised Max. So did the warmth of Charles's grip when he accepted it. Not overly firm, just genuine.
“You too.”
For a fraction of a second, neither let go. Then Charles stepped back. “Good luck this weekend.”
Max raised an eyebrow.
“You support Ferrari.”
“I support good racing.”
“Dangerous answer.”
“I know.” Then Charles turned and walked away with the Ferrari representative. Max watched him disappear around the corner. Only after several seconds did he realise he was still standing there, staring like an idiot. With a quiet curfew, he continued towards his next meeting,
Yet for the rest of the afternoon, he found himself remembering the conversation. The laughter, the easy confidence, the way Charles seemed completely unaffected by who Max was. Most people approached him with some combination of caution, admiration, or nervousness.
Charles had approached him like he was simply another person. The experience was unexpectedly refreshing.
***
Their second conversation happened the following day.
By then, Max had already encountered Charles several more times throughout the paddock.
Each interaction consisted of little more than a wave or a smile. Yet somehow, he always noticed when Charles was nearby. And, increasingly, Charles seemed to notice him too.
Late Saturday evening, after qualifying, Max escaped to a balcony overlooking Monaco harbour. The city glowed beneath the setting sun. Golden light reflected across the water. Luxury yachts drifted gently below. It was one of the few places where he could briefly avoid journalists, cameras, and endless questions. Or so he thought.
The balcony door opened behind him, and footsteps approached. Max didn't bother turning around.
“Are you following me?” a familiar laugh answered him.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
When Max finally glanced over his shoulder, Charles was standing there holding two glasses of sparkling water. One was offered immediately, and Max accepted with a small smile.
“Thanks.”
“You're welcome.”
“You're supposed to be celebrating pole position.”
“I’m celebrating.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Charles laughed softly. The sound carried over the water. Charles leaned against the railing beside him. For a while, neither spoke. The silence felt surprisingly comfortable, not awkward or forceful. It was simply peaceful.
Below them, Monaco stretched across the coastline like something painted by an artist who had been given an unlimited budget.
“It never gets old,” Charles said softly.
“You like it here? Max asked
Max followed his gaze.
“The view?”
“The place.”
Charles glanced at him. “ I grew up around Monaco."
“Not exactly an answer.”
“I know.”
Max waited; eventually, Charles signed. “ It's strange.”
“Why?”
“When you're a kid, Monaco feels huge.” His gaze drifted toward the city.
“Then you leave. You travel, you work everywhere. New York. Milan. Paris. Tokyo.” The corners of his mouth curved faintly.
“And suddenly the place that felt enormous became small.”
Max understood that feeling better than most people realised. The strange relationship between success and belonging. The way the world became simultaneously larger and smaller.
“Still home, though.”
“Yeah,” Charles looked at him with visible surprise. “Still home.”
Charles looked at him, really looked at him.
For a moment, something passes between them. Recognition, understanding. The feeling of finding someone who somehow already understood part of your story without needing it explained. Neither mentioned it, neither needed to.
***
Sunday morning arrived bright and cloudless. The entire principality seemed to vibrate with anticipation. Max focused on the race, or at least tried to.
Unfortunately, Charles kept appearing everywhere. On Ferrari social media, in paddock interviews, walking through the garages, standing beside famous actors and musicians who somehow looked less confident than he did. Every time Max spotted him, Charles seemed to spot him too.
The Monaco Grand Prix demanded complete concentration; there was no room for distraction, no room for mistakes. No room for wondering what a model from Monaco was doing to your ability to think clearly.
Max won anyway, not comfortably or easily, but he still crossed the finish line first, and the crowd erupted. Team radio exploded with celebration, another Monaco victory, another trophy, another successful weekend. He should have been entirely focused on that.
Instead, while walking toward the post-race interviews, he found himself searching for a familiar face among the chaos. Charles stood near Ferrari's section of the paddock, applauding for him. Their eyes met across the crowd, and Charles lifted a thumb, and Max smiled before he could stop himself.
***
The after-party occupied an entire waterfront venue. Music thundered through the building, and champagne flowed freely. Every major name in Formula 1 seemed to be present. Max usually hated events like this; tonight felt different, possibly because Charles was there. Possible because he had already spent the entire evening pretending not to look for him. Possible because pretending was becoming exhausting.
“You won.”
Max turned. Charles stood beside him, holding two glasses. One was promptly offered max acceptance without a second thought. It was becoming a pattern between them.
“Thanks.”
“You're welcome.”
“You don't have to congratulate me.”
“I know,” Charles took a sip. “I wanted to.”
He honestly caught Max off guard, too. Neither spoke for a moment. The music shifted, the crowd swaying in sync as the harbour lights shimmered beyond the windows.
“You know,” Charles said eventually,” when Ferrari invited me this weekend, everyone assumed I was here for publicity.”
“Weren’t you?”
“Partly. ”
Max nodded. At least he was honest.
“But mostly I came because I genuinely love Formula 1, despite barely being able to attend races in person, I do try my best to get to a couple a year to support him, but I’m always in the stands.
Max smiled despite himself.
“My father used to wake us up to watch the races.” Charles continued.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You don't strike me as someone who gets excited about tyre strategies.”
Charles looked offended. “Both my brother and I started karting from a young age, but, as I know you're well aware, it's expensive, and my family couldn't afford to support both of us, so I stopped. I was always more into the pitwall side of things anyway, and Arthur liked the racing more, so my decision was simple. I planned to get an engineering degree and hopefully become a race engineer; however, I began modelling on the side to help pay for my studies after my father passed, and then I got signed, and the rest is history.”
“Do you ever regret switching careers?”
“No, I don't think so. I made a lot when I signed with my agency, so I was able to help support Arthur to reach his dreams, and I know Dad would be proud that one of his boys made it to the grid.” Charles let out a self-deprecating, “I don't think I would have been a very good race engineer anyway."
“I think you would have been great. I heard you spent twenty minutes explaining undercuts to sponsors yesterday. ”
“Oh god, you heard that?” Charles sighed into his hand.
“Would it help if I said I wasn't listening?”
“No, you absolutely were.”
Max refused to answer, and Charles ' grin returned. It was a dangerous thing that grin.
***
The conversation stretched unexpectedly. On topic became another, then another; fashion, travel, Monaco, family, growing up in the public eye, living under expectations, the strange loneliness that accompanied successful careers. Hours disappear, the party continuing around them. At some point, they migrated onto a quieter terrace overlooking the water. The air felt colder outside. Charles leaned against the railing. The city's lights reflected in his eyes.
“I used to think modelling would make everything easier.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Did it?”
“No,” the answer came immediately. “No, actually.”
Max understood that, too. Success solved some problems, all while creating entirely new ones.
“People think they know you”, Charles nodded.
“Exactly.”
The single word carried more weight than expected. For a while, they stood in comfortable silence. Music drifted through open doors. Charles finally spoke.
“You know what surprised me the most this weekend?”
“What?”
“You.”
Max blinked at that. “That's concerning.”
Charles smiled, “I thought you’d be impossible.”
“Impossible?”
“Arrogant, intimidating, completely uninterested in talking to anyone.”
“That's specific.”
“I had expectations.”
“And?” Charles studied him long enough to make Max acutely aware of every inch separating them.
“I was wrong.”
Something tightened in Max’s chest.
“Good wrong or bad wrong?”
“Very good wrong.”
The answer arrived so quietly that Max nearly missed it, nearly.
Neither moved, neither looked away, and the silence stretched and changed shape. Became something neither could easily ignore. Max had experienced pressure before, championship deciders, final laps, critical overtakes, none of them felt remotely similar to this.
Charles glanced down briefly, then back up. His smile softened.
“You know,” he said, “ this is usually the point in films where someone says something incredibly clever.”
“That's unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“I'm not clever.”
Charles laughed. “Neither am I.”
“Liar.”
“Occupational hazard.”
The laughter faded gradually. Leaving only the quiet and the distance between them, which suddenly felt very small.
“You're leaving tomorrow?” Max asked.
Charles nodded. “Paris.”
“Work?”
“Always.”
Max looked out towards the harbour. He wasn’t entirely sure why disappointment appeared so quickly. Perhaps because this weekend had been unexpectedly easy, because Charles had become unexpectedly important and because he didn't want this conversation to end.
“I’ll probably see you around,” Charles said.
“Probably.”
The word sounded insufficient; Charles seemed to think so, too. For the first time all evening, uncertainty flicked across his face. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Max stared as he held it out, raising an eyebrow.
“You're a Formula 1 world champion.”
“Yes.”
Surely you can figure out what this means.”
“Oh.”
Charles laughed again as Max took the phone and entered his number. Their fingers brushed as Max handed it back.
***
The party ended eventually, and they walked toward the exit together. Neither seemed to want to say goodbye. Which probably should have concerned Max, it made him strangely happy instead. Outside, Monaco glowed beneath the midnight sky. The streets remained crowded. The entire city seemed unwilling to sleep. Charles stopped near a waiting car.
“This is me.”
Max nodded. “Right”
Brilliant conversationalist as usual. Charles appeared amused. “You're much worse at this than I expected.”
“At what?”
“People.”
Fair
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
The driver opened the door, charles still lingered. “Text me.”
It wasn't a question, and Max liked that. “I will.”
Charles smiled, a real smile, warm and genuine, ducking forward to place a light kiss on Max's cheek. Before climbing into the car, the door closed before Max could react. Max watched until it disappeared into Monaco traffic. Only then did he look down at his phone. A notification had already arrived. A single message waited.
Unknown number: Congratulations on the win.
A second appears immediately afterwards.
Unknown number: Also, you owe me a proper coffee.
Max laughed out loud. Right there on the pavement like an idiot before replying.
Max: I thought you were leaving for Paris.
The response arrived seconds later.
Charles <3: I am
Charles: <3: Paris has coffee.
Max shook his head, smiling. Perhaps for the hundredth time that weekend. His thumbs moved across the screen before he could overthink it.
Max: Good.
Max: Then I'll see you there.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared then reappeared. Finally:
Charles <3: I'd like that.
Max stared at the message, at the city around, the harbour light reflecting across the Mediterranean. The Monaco Grand Prix weekend had given him another victory, another trophy, another successful chapter in a career already overflowing with them.
Yet somehow that wasn't what he would remember most. What he would remember was the Ferrari guest standing on a balcony at sunset, a smile that kept catching him off guard and the growing certainty that something important had begun long before either of them realised it.
For the first time in a very long while, Max found himself looking forward to what came next, not the next race, championship or the next challenge. Just coffee in Paris with Charles.