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Evening Monaco gleamed in the cold light of streetlamps, and the wet asphalt reflected ribbons of brightness that danced across the hood of the parked car. The air was heavy with humidity and salt, but it smelled of the sea and oranges. It seemed as if the city itself was breathing in a quiet winter rhythm.
Max adjusted the bouquet of freesias in his hand — cream-coloured, delicate, smelling of cleanliness and peace. Their petals trembled in the wind as he ran his thumb over them. He shifted the bag onto his other shoulder and, for a moment, looked at the door in front of him, at that ordinary house with pale walls and warmth glowing behind the windows.
He felt almost the way he did before a start, tension and adrenaline refusing to leave him, though this time he wasn’t waiting for the starting lights. He wasn’t nervous about the track, a camera, or a crowd.
This time, Charles’s mother was the one making him nervous.
“Are we going in?” he asked, turning to Charles standing beside him in a grey coat.
The Monegasque lifted the corner of his mouth in that characteristic smile of his, the one capable of disarming any stress. The wind stirred his brown hair, and amusement flashed in his eyes.
“If you’re scared, you can always run back to the apartment.” He shrugged.
“Then your mother will hate me.”
“She won’t hate you. She’s too nice to hate anyone,” he answered with humour, lifting his hand to knock.
He didn’t get the chance. The door opened immediately.
Pascale Leclerc stood in the doorway — elegant, petite, with the same soft gaze Charles had inherited from her, and that gentle melancholy in her eyes. Her hair was tied up carelessly, and a thin chain at her neck glimmered in the lamplight.
“Welcome, Max,” she smiled widely, her voice filled with sincere joy.
“It’s an honour, Mrs Leclerc,” he replied, trying to sound calm, though his tone came out a little hoarse. He handed her the flowers. “I hope you like them.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to,” she giggled, glancing at her son. “I bet Charles helped choose them?”
The younger boy rolled his eyes, and Max lifted the corners of his mouth, feeling the tension slowly begin to ease.
The three of them moved into the hall. The air smelled of lavender and freshly baked bread. Pascale set the bouquet on the dresser, then, without a moment’s hesitation, stepped back toward the Dutchman. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheeks in the traditional French greeting.
Max froze in surprise, feeling her warmth and the softness of perfume that smelled like home. After a moment, he returned the gesture awkwardly, but from the heart.
“Should I be jealous, maman?” Charles said teasingly, watching them with a quiet giggle.
“Mon cœur, it’s not every day one meets a future son-in-law, and the only son-in-law at that,” she said, turning to her son. Her gaze softened as she hugged him. “I can see you’re blooming beside Max. That’s good. Come, the rest are already waiting.”
The Monegasque sighed, and the other couldn’t hold back a laugh. Their eyes met for a moment, a brief, silent understanding: we survived the first five minutes.
The living room had a soft, cosy atmosphere. The chandelier light danced over the walls, and from the kitchen came the smell of garlic and baked bread. Empty glasses stood on the table, and the radio played quietly in the background. Lorenzo stood when they entered and shook the Dutchman’s hand with the courtesy of an older brother. Arthur only raised his brows and smiled from the corner of his mouth. He knew more than he should.
“So this is the famous Max Verstappen,” the younger one began with mock seriousness. “At last, I meet the legend.”
“I hope in a good context.”
“Well… I’d say you’ve been part of family arguments for years,” Lorenzo added, and Charles jabbed him with his elbow, rolling his eyes.
“You’re not helping me,” he muttered with resignation, though humour did not leave his face.
Dinner passed surprisingly peacefully. Between the warmth of conversation and Pascale’s laughter, time moved slowly. Max felt that, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to pretend anything. He talked about childhood, about tracks, about how hard it had been to satisfy his father, and she listened. Really listened.
With every glass of wine and every joke from Arthur, the tension melted. The table was noisy, but somehow relaxing. The pleasure radiating from that house held something his own had never given him.
When the evening was drawing to a close, Pascale rested her hands on her hips, a mischievous note shining in her eyes.
“The guest room is taken by Lorenzo, so you’ll have to sleep together. At least you won’t be sneaking around at night like he did when he brought Charlotte over.”
“Maman!” the older brother groaned, covering his face with his hand.
“Was I not supposed to mention that?” she laughed, walking away with satisfaction.
***
Charles’s room smelled of dust, paper, and old memories. The red walls were decorated with Ferrari posters, and on the shelves stood model cars, old trophies, and faded race tickets. A lamp with a dusty bulb sat on the desk, while the scent of the past hung in the air.
Max stopped in the doorway, slowly taking in every detail.
“This is a Ferrari shrine,” he murmured, leaning against the frame. “Should I sacrifice my cap?”
“Very funny,” Charles said, setting his bag down on the bed. “I was fifteen.”
Max walked a few steps farther in and ran his hand along the edge of the desk. He stopped by a shelf where a framed photograph stood.
In the picture — a young Charles, still a child, smiling from ear to ear, and Max himself with a hand on his shoulder, wearing a cap with the Red Bull logo.
“Is this Monaco?” he asked. “I didn’t know we’d met earlier.”
“You came to our karting academy during your first Red Bull season and said you were rooting for me.”
“I said that to every kid.”
“But to me, it was everything,” he replied without lifting his gaze, then escaped to the bathroom.
The door closed quietly, and Max was left alone.
Something between amusement and tenderness flashed in his eyes when he noticed a box under the desk. Red cardboard with a small inscription, “MV33,” and a tiny heart beside it. He bent down, lifted it, and simply looked at it for a moment before carefully raising the lid.
Inside, he found newspaper clippings, photos, printouts from the internet, several posters, and a Toro Rosso cap with a faded “#33” on it. A wave of surprise went through his body, but also something soft and intimate. Something like being moved.
“Schatje…” he whispered in disbelief when he heard footsteps approaching the room. “Is this your fan box?”
His boyfriend appeared in the doorway with a towel around his neck and damp hair. As always, he was wearing one of Max’s stolen shirts. For a second, he looked shocked, as if he had been caught red-handed.
“They’re just keepsakes,” he said, scratching the back of his neck.
“Keepsakes? These are my pictures, articles, a cap from my first season. These aren’t keepsakes, this is an archive.” He tilted his head solemnly. “Wait… were you running a fanpage called Verstappen_lover_16?”
Charles went stiff, and a blush spread down his neck.
“How do you know about— no! That wasn’t me!”
“Sounds like someone explaining himself too quickly.”
“Because it wasn’t me!”
“Sure. I actually liked your edits.” He shrugged, taking the cap out of the box.
“Max!” He grabbed his wrist, trying to take the object back, but Max only moved away, amused, and kept looking through the treasures.
“Fuck, you were my fanboy.”
Charles froze, then flushed bright red.
“Is that disgusting?” he asked quietly.
“No. It’s adorable,” Max replied gently. “But admit it. Was it ordinary fascination, or something more?”
The Monegasque fell silent. His shoulders were slightly raised, his gaze fixed on the frame. He ran his thumb along it, looking as if he were searching for courage.
“At first, I admired you. I wanted to be like you. But with time I understood it was something more. I was fifteen when I realised it wasn’t just admiration.”
Max raised an eyebrow, but warmth shone in his eyes.
“So you jerked off to my pictures?”
“Maaax…” he groaned, covering his face.
“What? It’s a fair question.”
“Sometimes you really don’t know when to stop,” Charles scoffed.
“So yes.”
“Stop, please,” he said with resignation, then reached for a pillow and threw it at him.
Max’s laughter filled the room, low and genuine. Then everything quieted. Only their breathing remained, and that strange, dense warmth filling the space between them.
The Dutchman set the box on the desk before sitting down beside his partner.
“So what happened later?” he asked, placing a hand on his knee.
“Nothing. For years I tried to ignore it. I thought it would pass, that it was just a phase. And then I got into F1 and everything came back. By then I knew it wouldn’t go away.” He hesitated. “And yes, I tried to flirt a bit, but I didn’t know how you’d react. You seemed unreachable, and I… I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“You thought I was straight?” he continued, his hand wandering over Charles’s forearm.
“Not exactly. I saw how you were with Daniel. It didn’t look like pure friendship. But even so, I didn’t believe you’d notice me. That it could even happen.”
Max didn’t answer right away. He looked at the Monegasque for too long, with an attention that had something disarming in it. Then he slid his fingers over the back of his neck until he reached his jaw.
“I noticed. Just a little late,” he whispered.
The kiss was soft, but certain. In the silence, only their breathing spread through the room, heavier than before. The touch made them tremble subtly — peace, relief, old memories, and something that didn’t need words. They quickly found the rhythm they had known for a long time.
Charles pulled away after a moment with a smile.
“I can’t believe you found that box.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve found in this house, maybe apart from you. I’m hiding this fan box among my trophies.”
“Chéri…”
“What? It’s a nice keepsake.”
“I swear I’ll strangle you.”
“I’ll risk it.”
Then Max turned off the lamp and pulled his partner to him. The room smelled of dust and lavender, wrapping around their bond growing stronger.
“I never would have thought,” Max whispered, brushing Charles’s hair with his lips, “that my biggest fan would become the love of my life.”
“I’ve always aimed high,” he answered, and the other laughed quietly, holding him closer.
***
In the morning, the kitchen smelled of coffee, warmth, and fresh croissants Pascale was just taking out of the oven. Pale light fell through the window, spilling over the counter and shining cups. On the table lay a linen cloth, slightly rumpled, with crumbs from yesterday’s cake.
Arthur sat at the table, still sleepy, with a mug in his hand. His hair was messy, his gaze half-conscious, as if he was trying to understand why he was already awake.
When Max and Charles came down the stairs, Pascale lifted her eyes from the coffee machine. Her eyes said everything before any words were spoken.
“You look tired,” Arthur noticed, hiding his amusement in a sip of coffee.
“Long night,” Max said innocently, slipping a hand into his pocket. There was something dangerously satisfied in his voice.
“I know. My room was next door…”
“Arthur,” Charles muttered, then lowered his gaze to his cup.
Pascale shook her head, but her eyes shone with amusement. She set plates of croissants in front of them and poured coffee.
“I’m glad I can finally see my son happy,” she said calmly, without exaggeration, stating a simple fact.
The words settled naturally between them. Charles lifted his eyes to Max. They didn’t have to say anything. One smile was enough for them to know she was right.
***
The engine purred softly as they drove down the winding road toward the coast. The city behind them blurred in the grey morning light. Water shimmered in the distance, and the sky took on the colour of lead.
The car was peaceful.
Charles sat sideways with his head resting against the window. His hand, lying loosely on the armrest, moved toward Max, searching for warmth. The Dutchman drove with one hand. The other, resting freely between the seats, sometimes brushed his partner’s fingers. They weren’t seeking contact, but they weren’t avoiding it either — a natural pull happening despite themselves.
“Your mother is wonderful,” Max said, “and she scared me a little.”
Charles lifted the corner of his mouth without opening his eyes. That blissful smile, one he rarely saw in the mirror, did not leave his face.
“Only a little? I’d call that a success.”
“Honestly?” Max snorted under his breath. “After she hugged me at the door, I was ready to swear loyalty to the Leclerc family for the rest of my life.”
The Monegasque opened one eye, sending him a look from beneath his lashes.
“So she won you over faster than I did.”
“Not at all,” he replied immediately, warmth entering his voice. “You had a slightly more difficult strategy.”
“Oh, really?”
“You didn’t immediately tell me you ran my fanpage.”
The younger boy turned sharply, shooting him a look. His green eyes in the light of the passing streetlamps looked far more dangerous than they really were.
“Say that one more time and you’re flying off at the first corner.”
“Are you that embarrassed?” he asked with feigned innocence, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “I think it’s cute.”
“Cute?!” He exhaled heavily, dragging the word out. “Did you see what was in there? That wasn’t a fan box, it was an archive of shame.”
Max laughed sincerely.
“Don’t exaggerate. I was quite handsome in those photos.”
“That’s not the point,” Charles muttered, turning back to the window. “The point is that all of it reminds me how stupid I was then. I thought that if you said two words to me at karting, it meant something.”
The Dutchman breathed out and weighed his words.
“It always meant something,” he interrupted calmly. “Even if I didn’t remember.”
Charles went quiet. Only the steady hum of the engine and the distant sound of waves could be heard. For a moment, he looked at the dark sea beyond the window and the blurred reflections of light on the water.
“Sometimes I feel like all of this isn’t real,” he said. “That I’ll wake up and be that thirteen-year-old kid from Monaco again, following your races at night with a laptop on my knees.”
“And sometimes I think I don’t deserve for you to have remembered me back then,” Max said after a moment. “And yet you did.”
Their eyes met for longer. Neither of them smiled, but there was something soothing in the silence between them, something that didn’t require explanation.
Max reached out and placed his hand on Charles’s knee. The warmth of their skin met halfway in that brief gesture, saying more than all the words spoken that night.
“And don’t regret that box,” he added in a tone as soft as a whisper. “Because thanks to it, I know you truly saw me before I learned how to see you.”
Charles was silent for a moment, then turned back toward the road. A shadow of sincerity appeared on his face, barely noticeable.
“I still think you should share your Verstappen_lover_16 account.”
“Never in my life,” Charles answered immediately.
“I swear one day I’ll find your old account and there’ll be fanfics on it.”
“You think I wrote fanfics?”
“After the way you react to drama in TV shows, I’m sure of it.”
“You’re lying.”
Max shot him a brief look and couldn’t help it — he smiled widely. The light inside the cabin spilled softly over his cheek, letting the Monegasque see how his eyes softened.
“You know, Leclerc, I don’t know how you manage to make me fall more in love with you every day.”
“It’s a talent, Verstappen.”
“My favourite.”
The car rolled onto the motorway. Monaco stayed behind them, with its memories and the box with a little heart, probably still lying under the desk in the room full of Ferrari.
Charles turned his head, watching the man’s profile behind the wheel. Road lights reflected in his blue eyes, and peace sat on his face, the kind Charles never saw on track.
“If back then, at the academy, I’d heard you’d make me fall in love with you, I wouldn’t have believed it,” the Dutchman said after a long moment.
“And now?”
“Now I believe everything you say.”
Max reached for his hand and laced their fingers together. And in that moment, for the first time in a long while, neither of them felt the need to speed up.