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Chapter Text

The cars lined up on the grid, one by one, waiting for the lights to go out. Tonight could be the deciding race for the 2024 World Driver's Championship.

It was a fierce battle between Lando Norris' McLaren and Max Verstappen's Red Bull. The Dutch reigning champion only needed to finish ahead of the Brit to clinch the title.

Max had been here before. With three world championships under his belt, this was supposed to be just another race. Yet, his heart was pounding as fast as a his RB19. He tried to ignore the cold sweat creeping up on him and focused on the race ahead of him.

The lights went out, and all twenty cars sped off the line. Fifty laps of intense racing followed. The front row saw a battle between the Mercedes and Ferraris, but it was George Russell in the Mercedes who crossed the finish line first, followed by teammate Lewis Hamilton, with Carlos Sainz and Charles Leclerc from Ferrari right behind. Max, the reigning champion, took fifth place, while the Brit finished sixth.

Cheers erupted over the radio as the team congratulated Max Verstappen for securing his historic championship win, making him a four-time world champion—a rare achievement in Formula 1.

"... You did it... mate... four times..."

Max heard his engineer, GP, through the radio, though the words were unclear. A loud ringing filled his ears, and his vision began to blur. He couldn't tell if it was the adrenaline fading or if his tears were clouding his sight. But one thing was certain: he had done it. There were few things they established earlier this year, the Red Bull dominance was officially over and McLaren had claimed the title of the fastest car on the grid. Max was raised to win; Jos Verstappen never expected his son to lose. A fifth-place finish would usually be a letdown for Max, but today, it felt even better than a win.

After parking his car in his grid spot, Max lingered in the cockpit. From the outside, it appeared he was just savoring his victory, but the reality was different. His limbs were numb, and his body had stopped obeying him the moment he crossed the finish line. It was a miracle he had even made it back safely. Sweat dripped from him, and the ringing in his ears only grew louder. He tried to pinpoint when the feeling had started. He’d been in top shape during the first two days of the Grand Prix weekend, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary—except for a brief encounter earlier that day.

On his way to his driver’s room after finishing his pre-race rituals with his team and GP, he passed a group of men wearing the other team’s colors. They called out to Max, and as usual, he offered them a polite smile. But instead of kindness, he was met with loud heckling.

“The only reason you dominated 2023 is because of your car. How does it feel to be on the other side?” one man jeered, followed by mocking laughter.

“Every time I hear your national anthem, I’m just disappointed you survived Silverstone,” another shouted.

The others joined in with insults, and Max struggled to respond. On the brink of collapse, he felt a gentle tug on his hand. Looking up, he saw a woman in her early 50s, smiling at him, which immediately calmed him down.

“Don’t listen to the noise. A lot of people are cruel without reason. You didn’t make a mistake by being kind in this cruel world. Keep doing your thing, and they’ll learn what a good person you are. Just wait, Max.”

Max glanced around to see the group of men had disappeared, and so had the woman, whom he never had the chance to thank.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a tap on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw his race engineer, GP, beaming with happiness. Max could see his lips moving, but he couldn’t hear a thing. From that moment, everything seemed to run on autopilot. He had no recollection of what happened after GP helped him out of the car. It all became a blur.

The podium ceremony began, and the Las Vegas GP made an exception, allowing Max—who wasn’t in the top three—to join the celebration, as he had just secured the title. His entire team welcomed him back, and he managed to complete all his media commitments before retreating to his driver’s room.

He carefully placed his helmet on a table, gripping the surface as he tried to steady his breath, struggling against the pain. It felt like his breath was slowly being drained from him. His vision blurred as his body gave way, and he collapsed forward.

Chapter Text

Hours had passed since the checkered flag. The paddock buzzed with loud music and celebrations as various parties erupted in honor of the successful Grand Prix and the crowning of the 2024 World Champion. Almost every driver on the grid was there, except for one—the very person who was supposed to be the center of attention that night. He was missing.

"Where’s Max?" Charles asked, his eyes scanning the crowd. He’d already visited a few parties but hadn’t seen the world champion anywhere.

"I don’t know, mate," Pierre, Max's former teammate and Charles’ close friend, replied. "He went back to the garage after his media duties."

A sense of unease twisted in Charles’ gut. Something wasn’t right—this wasn’t like Max to miss his own celebration.

At the far end of the room, Charles spotted Lando talking with some crew members.

"Lando!" Charles called out.

"Mate, hey!" Lando greeted him with enthusiasm.

"Congrats on P2," Charles said, unsure of how to respond. Lando had just been defeated, after all. But still, being second in the championship was no small feat.

"Thanks, mate. And congratulations to you too, P3 for Ferrari," Lando replied. Charles could see the pain and hunger for the title in his eyes—a look he knew all too well, one he had worn himself in 2022 when he finished second.

"Thank you. Our time will come, Lando, and when it does, we’ll celebrate like never before."

"Cheers to that. What brings you here? Where’s Max?" Lando asked, looking around.

"I was hoping you’d know. I haven’t seen him since the media pen. Have you?"

"I’m sorry, Charles. The last time I saw him was in the media pen after we congratulated each other."

"Thanks, Lando. Enjoy the rest of your night," Charles said, bidding his friend goodbye as he made his way toward another driver who was chatting with Fernando Alonso.

"Checo!" he called.

"Charles, congrats on P3!" the Mexican responded with genuine warmth.

"Thanks. Have you seen Max?" Charles asked, his concern deepening.

"After the interviews, he went back to his room. The last thing he said was he’d take a quick nap before joining the celebrations. He mentioned his head hurt."

"Have you seen him since?"

"I haven’t, no."

Panic began to rise in Charles. Where could he be? He asked himself, frustration building.

He sprinted back to the paddock, where some of the Red Bull team members were still gathered. The sounds of laughter and celebration echoed from inside, suggesting there was some kind of private party happening for the team. He hoped that was the case.

Peeking inside, he saw Gianpiero Lambiase, Adrian Newey, and Christian Horner sharing a toast and chatting about the season. Christian caught his eye and looked surprised.

"Charles?" Christian asked.

"Hi, Christian," Charles replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

"What are you doing here?" Christian asked, confusion in his voice.

"I’m looking for Max. Is he here?"

"He’s with Checo outside. They’re celebrating with the McLarens," a mechanic answered.

"I’ve been looking everywhere for him. His car is still parked, and I’ve checked all the parties. No one’s seen Max since the media pen. I ran into Checo, and he said Max went to his room because he wasn’t feeling well. Are you sure he’s not here?"

The concern in Charles’ voice seemed to unsettle Max’s engineer, GP. He exchanged a look with Christian before turning back to Charles.

"Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him since that moment either," GP said, his voice tinged with unease.

"Has anyone checked his room?" Christian asked urgently. A chorus of "no’s" rang out, and panic spread throughout the group.

GP immediately dropped his glass and rushed to Max’s room. Charles followed, but when GP turned the knob and saw what was inside, his face went pale.

Charles’ heart sank. GP was known for his calm demeanor, and seeing him so shaken was unsettling. Christian, equally alarmed, pushed past Charles and entered the room. The sight that met them was disturbing—the room was a mess. Clothes were scattered everywhere, drinks had been spilled on the floor. This wasn’t like Max at all. He was always organized, taking great pride in keeping things tidy. Even when he was upset, Max wouldn’t have trashed his space.

Charles snapped out of his shock first. He began searching for Max’s bag and found his phone and wallet still there, along with his passport tucked into his favorite hoodie.

"This isn’t like Max. He would never leave without his things," Charles repeated, the realization sinking in.

"Call security. Ask them to check the footage. Find out where Max was last seen. There’s a security camera in front of his room—check it immediately," Christian ordered.

The team sprang into action, instructing the mechanics to begin a physical search while the security footage was reviewed.

Once the footage was pulled up, the group watched it, frame by frame. Just as Checo had said, Max went back to his room after the media pen, but after that, no one entered or exited the room for hours.

"How is this possible? We’ve reviewed all the footage, and no one has come or gone from the room. Are you sure there’s no glitch in the cameras?" Christian shouted, frustration mounting. Passersby, including the Ferrari team principal, Fred, overheard.

Fred, who had been talking with Andrea Stella, Zak Brown, and Ayao, noticed Charles’ distressed expression. He excused himself and approached the Red Bull team.

"What's going on? Are you okay, Charles?" Fred asked, concern in his voice.

"Fred... no one has seen Max since the media pen. I’ve looked everywhere. We saw him go into his room, but when we checked, he wasn’t there. We’ve reviewed the security footage, and we saw him enter, but he didn’t leave. His car and things are still here, his passport is here... We were supposed to go back to Monaco tonight. He wouldn’t just leave without me."

"Calm down, Charles. How can I help?" Fred asked, his tone reassuring as he looked at Christian.

"If you still have people in the paddock, could they help us search and let us know if they see Max anywhere?" Christian asked.

Fred nodded immediately and started making calls to his team. Other team principals who had been with Fred offered their assistance as well.

The night that was meant to be a celebration for the Las Vegas Grand Prix winner and the new World Champion quickly turned into a frantic search across the paddock for the missing driver who had seemingly vanished without a trace.

In a last-ditch effort to find his missing boyfriend, Charles sent messages to all the group chats he had with F1 drivers.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Send Message to: F1 Grid Class of 2024, Twitch Quartet, Prema Alumni + 7 other groups

I know we agreed to keep things professional, but I’m desperate. I’ll keep this short—Max is missing. We’ve reviewed all the footage from the Red Bull garage and hospitality. We saw him enter but never leave. His room is trashed, but his belongings and car are still here. His passport is here... We were supposed to go back to Monaco tonight. He wouldn’t leave without me. Please, if you see him, let me or the team know. If anyone sober is still around, I’d really appreciate the help. Thank you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Hours passed, and still no sign of Max. Some of the drivers close to him joined in the search.

"Calamar, you need to rest. It’s been a long race. I’m sure Max just wanted to cool down. He’s fine," Pierre tried to reassure him.

"No, Pierre. Max wouldn’t leave without letting me know. We were supposed to go home together," Charles insisted.

"Calamar, please, just go home," The Frenchman pleaded, seeing how exhausted Charles looked.

"I’m staying here, Pierre. I’ll sleep here if I have to. But I’m not leaving until Max is back with me."

Charles stood his ground. Daniel, who had been watching the race and visiting old teammates, decided to join him in waiting for Max. While some drivers went back to their hotels, a handful, including a few rookies for next year, chose to stay behind to continue searching for the missing world champion.

Chapter Text

A faint hum echoed in the stillness, soft but insistent, like a distant voice calling his name. He couldn’t quite make out who it was, but the sound tugged at his awareness, like a ripple in the quiet, tugging at the edges of his consciousness.

"MAX" 

"MAXY WHERE ARE YOU" 

"MAX LET'S GO HOME NOW BEBE. WHERE ARE YOU"

"cha-li..'m here. maxy... here" he whispered, desperate to answer the call, but his voice refused to break free. It remained trapped inside him, a silent plea that wouldn’t escape. His lips wouldn’t move, his throat felt paralyzed, and his body was unresponsive. But the hum—the voices—kept calling. The warmth around him stayed constant, neither cold nor uncomfortable. The space was untouched by time—neither day nor night seemed to matter. The last thing he remembered was heading to his driver’s room before everything had gone dark.

"MAXY COME ON MATE, CHARLES IS ALREADY GETTING WORRIED. PLEASE MAN, WHERE ARE YOU" 

"dany... maxy... 'm here." he tried again. Why couldn’t they hear him? Why was Danny ignoring him? Why was nobody listening? He was here—he was just here—but it felt like no one could reach him.

The darkness surrounding him wasn’t menacing. It was heavy, suffocating even, but it held no threat. It was calm, almost soothing, like a blanket enveloping him in warmth. He wondered why the light never came, why everything seemed suspended in a dreamlike state, as if time itself had stopped.

At times, he thought he felt movement—like a brush of cold air or a soft vibration beneath him—but it was so fleeting that it barely seemed real. He drifted between moments of clarity, unsure whether he was awake or still dreaming. The space felt like both his prison and sanctuary. It was warm—so warm—and there was no pain. No sharp edges of reality to break through, no harsh truths to disturb his quiet slumber. It was just peace, just warmth.

He wanted to scream, to make someone hear him, but nothing happened. No response. His mind kept circling the same unanswerable questions: What is this place? Why can’t I move? Why won’t they hear me? I’m just here... but where exactly is ‘here’?

"Charlie... where are you? Come get me Charlie. I'm just here" 

With every passing moment, the peace around him seemed to deepen, like a blanket of stillness settling in, wrapping him tighter. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, he didn’t need the answers. Maybe the voices weren’t meant to be answered. Maybe the silence, the calm, was enough.

The warmth continued to lull him, and he allowed himself to give into it, letting the questions fade away like leaves drifting on the surface of an endless, calm stream.

Meanwhile...

Across the paddock, Daniel Ricciardo found himself caught up in the lively chaos of a party with former colleagues. It had been a while since he’d seen many of the drivers. He’d tried distancing himself from F1 since his unexpected departure from the sport during the Singapore Grand Prix, but tonight, surrounded by familiar faces, he couldn’t help but feel the pull of nostalgia.

Then his phone buzzed, a message alert flashing across his screen. The flood of notifications caught his attention. Why were so many group chats suddenly popping up?

16 Notification from Charles of Lestappen

The words on his phone didn’t make sense. What did they mean by 'Max is missing'?

How could a man, a four-time world champion, disappear in the paddock during the grand prix weekend without anyone noticing?

The thought of Max being gone, unaccounted for in his own celebration, sobered Daniel instantly.

He quickly paid for his drink, his mind racing. As he turned to leave, Kym, the paddock photographer turned friend called out to him.

“DANIEL!”

“Sorry, something’s come up, I have to go,” Daniel called back, already rushing toward the Red Bull Hospitality, a place he once called home. 

When he arrived, chaos greeted him. Team principals from every team were on the phone, shouting at whoever was unlucky enough to be on the other end. Christian Horner, Red Bull's team principal, was engaged in an intense conversation with the Chief of Security for the Las Vegas Grand Prix.

In the back of the garage, Charles Leclerc—Max’s boyfriend or partner which they preferred to be called—was being consoled by GP. His voice trembled with desperation.

“How did this even happen? How can Max just vanish and no one noticed? It’s Max we’re talking about, how is it possible that no one saw him, his face is everywhere.”

“We’re doing everything we can, Charles. Max is one of us. We’ll make sure he’s safe.”

“But what if someone took him, GP? I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

Daniel’s heart shattered hearing his friend’s anguish. He had witnessed Max and Charles’ journey together, seen their struggles and heartbreaks over the years. He knew how real their love was, and now, seeing Charles in this kind of pain, broke him.

"Charles, I came here as soon as I saw your message" the Monegasque looked up and saw the Australian walking towards him. Charles quickly closed the gapped and wrapped his hands on the older driver's shoulder

“Danny, please... tell me he’ll be okay. Tell me we’ll find him.”

Daniel saw the fear in Charles’ eyes—the fear that had consumed him. He knew this wasn’t just about Max’s safety; it was about the fear of losing him.

Max had always trusted Daniel. He had told Charles that if Daniel said something, it was as good as the truth. If it wasn’t the truth yet, Daniel would make it happen.

“Charles... you know I can’t say that right now,” Daniel said softly. “We all hope Max is okay, but—”

“Non, non, NO! You’re not allowed to say bad things, Danny... Max always said that as long as you say something, even if it’s not true yet, you’ll make it happen. You can’t say something bad happened to him... Please, you have to say everything will be okay.”

Daniel’s heart felt like it had been torn open. He had to hold onto hope for Charles—for them both.

“Charlie... we both know Max. He’s as fierce as a lion. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. He’ll be okay. We will find him.”

Charles’ eyes flickered with a glimmer of hope.

As time passed, more and more drivers arrived at the hospitality, offering their help. Pierre, Ollie, and Kimi, the 2025 rookies, stayed behind to keep Charles company. Meanwhile, Daniel took the opportunity to join his former boss and team to gather information firsthand.

"I’ve heard from Charles, but I need to know what’s going on. What have you found out?" he asked, cutting straight to the point.

Christian let out a deep sigh before filling Daniel in on the details.

"The last confirmed sighting of Max was in the media pen while he was doing interviews. As far as we know, Checo was the last person to see and speak with him. Max had mentioned he was feeling a slight headache and planned to take a short nap before joining the celebration. The team was still in the garage, celebrating Adrian's last championship with Red Bull. About two or three hours later, Charles came barging in, frantic, looking for Max. That’s when we started to panic because no one had seen or noticed Max leave the room. When we checked his driver’s room, we found it trashed—clothes scattered everywhere, Red Bull cans, and spilled drinks on the floor. His bag was still there, along with all his personal belongings. His car was still parked outside too. What really set us off though, were the small droplets of blood we found. It looked like Max had been bleeding and was walking somewhere, but we can't figure out where because the trail stopped. We went through all the security footage, frame by frame. Our mechanics and other teams also started searching the paddock and the parties, but there was no sign of him anywhere. The footage shows Max entering his room, but there’s no footage of him leaving."

"How could that be possible? Maybe he snuck out?" Daniel suggested.

"That could be the case if there had been someone seen near the room. Daniel, no one has been seen entering or exiting his room or our garage after Max. We’re all losing our minds trying to figure out what could have happened. I’m just hoping that he hitched a ride with someone, and it’s nothing worse."

"If Charles is here, it’s impossible that Max would leave voluntarily," Daniel replied. "Max is attached to Charles like a shadow. The only time they’re apart is when they’re racing even then, they are still chasing each other, openly flirting in the track. He would never leave without Charles, so I’m sure he’s still around."

Christian ran a hand through his hair, looking defeated. "I don’t know what to do anymore, Daniel. We’ve alerted all the security posts in the area. We are all hands on deck right now looking for Max. I asked Charles if we should involve the police, but he said not yet. He doesn’t want to cause more panic, especially with his family still in Belgium and the Netherlands."

"If that’s the case, I’ll take my leave now," Daniel said, his voice firm. "But please, look after Charles. I’ll keep searching for Max. I’m going to check the spots where we used to hide when we were teammates. Maybe he’s just there, or maybe he fell asleep somewhere."

Daniel would find himself racing through the paddock, his mind focused only on one thing: finding Max. He moved with urgency, his steps driven by a sense of resolve as he checked every hiding spot he'd once shown Max during their time as teammates. He raced from one place to the next, covering each spot as quickly as possible.

"MAXY COME ON MATE, CHARLES IS ALREADY GETTING WORRIED. PLEASE MAN, WHERE ARE YOU"  Daniel shouted, frustration clear in his voice. He never wanted to resort to using what they jokingly called the "Charles Card" or "Charles Effect" but desperation was starting to win out.

The "Charles Effect" was an inside joke that Nico Rosberg had introduced years ago. It all started when Nico was doing some media work for Sky Sports and noticed the way Max and Charles interacted back when Charles was still in the feeder series. There was something undeniable between them, though Nico couldn’t quite place it until both were racing in F1. Max, who had always hated media duties, could be convinced to go along with anything, but only if it involved Charles—there was no hesitation, no complaints.

One weekend, Nico made a playful comment about Charles joining Max for an interview, and that’s when Nico saw it firsthand: Max’s entire demeanor shifted. From the brooding, intense driver that everyone knew as Mad Max, he transformed into someone completely different, like a burst of sunshine, eyes lighting up at the mere idea of being in the same space as Charles. Nico immediately shared the moment in the older drivers' group chat, and the other guys, at first skeptical, quickly realized what was happening. Sebastian, Charles’ teammate at the time, was the next to witness the "Charles Effect" in person. Max had just come off a horrible race, clearly in a bad mood, but the moment Charles’ name was mentioned, Max's entire attitude shifted. It was like someone flicked a switch. The moment Charles walked in, Max’s eyes softened, filled with warmth and affection.

The media caught onto it, too, capturing it all and replaying it in the press. But it wasn’t just about the visible change in Max’s demeanor... it was clear how deeply Max cared for Charles. When Charles had been outed publicly without his consent by a Ferrari employee, Max had been livid. He was like a bull ready to charge, driven by a primal need to protect Charles from any harm—emotional or physical. The idea of Charles being hurt in any way caused the dutchman a kind of fury that no one dared cross.

Max Verstappen—fiery, competitive, and as fierce as a lion—had one undeniable weakness. His name was Charles Leclerc.

---- 

Chapter Text

Fernando Alonso had a reputation. He was ruthless on the track, sharp-witted off it, and carried an air of indifference that made him one of the most formidable figures in Formula 1. At 42 years old, he had seen and experienced almost everything the sport had to offer. He was a two-time world champion, a driver who had fought battles with legends and still stood his ground. He had nothing left to prove.

Yet, despite his hardened exterior, there were a few people in the paddock who had earned his respect. One of them was Max Verstappen.

Fernando had watched Max grow up—from the wide-eyed kid trailing behind his father, Jos, to the firebrand racer who defied expectations and dominated the grid. He recognized something special in him long before the rest of the world did. Max wasn’t the villain the media painted him to be. They needed an antagonist, and they had found one in him, but Fernando knew better. He saw the raw talent, the passion, the sheer will to win. He had taken the Dutchman under his wing in small ways—never too close, but always watching, always there.

Years Ago — Their First Meeting

It was a warm afternoon at a European Grand Prix, and a much younger Fernando Alonso was making his way toward the paddock when something small and fast slammed into his legs.

He barely had time to steady himself before looking down. A boy—no older than five or six—blinked up at him, his blond hair slightly messy from running. He looked surprised but not scared, which was unusual. Most kids in the paddock kept their distance from Fernando, the man the media often painted as a villain.

The boy mumbled something in broken English, then in Dutch. "Sorry."

Fernando studied him for a moment before his usual smirk tugged at his lips. Without a word, he crouched down and pinched the boy’s cheek lightly.

The boy’s eyes widened, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he just rubbed his face and stared up at Fernando with quiet curiosity.

Jos Verstappen called out from a short distance away. "Max! Come here!"

The boy turned, hesitated for a second, then ran back to his father. Fernando watched him go, something unreadable in his expression.

He didn’t know it then, but that was the start of something special.

Present Day — Las Vegas

So, when Max won his fourth world championship in Las Vegas, Fernando made sure to find him in the paddock before heading out. He caught the younger driver by the arm, pinched his cheek lightly, and smirked.

“Well done, kid.”

Max’s grin was immediate and boyish, a rare moment of unguarded happiness. “Gracias, Nando.”

Fernando chuckled and patted his shoulder before waving off the invitation to celebrate. “I’m too old for all that. Go enjoy yourself.”

And with that, he left for his hotel, ready to put his feet up after a long day. He barely made it into deep sleep before his phone began vibrating non-stop. He ignored the first few messages, groaning, until one particular notification caught his attention.

 

Mark: Mate, dropped by Red Bull. Absolute chaos. Horner says Verstappen is missing.

 

Fernando frowned, suddenly wide awake. He opened the group chat, which included Mark Webber and Jenson Button, and saw another message.

Mark: Oscar’s out with Lando looking for the kid. No trace on CCTV, but there was blood, so they can’t rule out foul play. Red Bull’s trying to contain the news until Leclerc finishes informing Max’s family.

Jenson: I’ll head back to the media room, see what I can do.

 

Fernando didn’t waste a second. He was out of bed, grabbing his keys, and within minutes, he was speeding back to the paddock.

The sight that greeted him was nothing short of mayhem.

Drivers, engineers, and even mechanics from rival teams were running through the paddock, searching every possible hiding spot. Security personnel were talking frantically into their radios, and inside Red Bull hospitality, tension hung thick in the air.

Fernando stormed in, eyes locked onto Christian Horner, who looked like he had aged ten years in the last few hours.

“How the fuck did you let this happen?” Fernando snapped, his Spanish accent cutting through the noise like a blade.

Horner, already on edge, barely had time to react before Fernando continued his tirade.

“He’s your driver. Your world champion. And somehow, in the middle of a grand prix weekend, he disappears from your garage? With no one noticing?” His voice was like thunder, drawing the attention of every Red Bull staff member in the room.

Christian ran a hand down his face, exasperated. “We’re doing everything we can—”

“Clearly not fucking enough.” Fernando wasn’t having it. “You think I give a shit about PR? About containing the news? That kid is missing, and you’re worried about the press? His family should have been told the moment you found blood in his damn room.”

Before Horner could reply, Fernando turned on his heel and marched toward the security team stationed near the paddock entrance. His fury burned brighter with every step. When he reached them, the poor men barely had time to react before Fernando unleashed his full rage.

“Explain to me how a four-time world champion disappears under your watch.” His voice was ice-cold, more terrifying than if he had shouted. “You’ve got cameras, personnel, checkpoints. How does someone vanish?”

The chief of security swallowed hard. “Mr. Alonso, we—”

“Shut up.” Fernando’s stare could have melted steel. “If something happens to him—if Max is hurt, or worse—you will be held accountable. And trust me, I’ll personally make sure your careers end here.”

Silence stretched as the guards shifted uncomfortably under his glare. He exhaled sharply, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Now, tell me exactly what you know. Every detail.”

The security chief nodded quickly. “The last sighting of Verstappen was in the media pen. Mr. Perez was the last to speak to him. He said Mr. Verstappen mentioned having a headache and planned to take a short nap before celebrating.”

Fernando frowned. “And?”

“When Mr. Leclerc went to find him a few hours later, he was gone. His room was trashed—his stuff was still there, his car untouched. We checked the footage—he never left.”

“That’s impossible.”

“We thought so too. But there’s no trace of him walking out. No footage of anyone going in either.”

Fernando’s fists clenched. This didn’t make sense. How could Max just disappear?

“Expand the search,” he ordered. “Check every damn frame of footage again. If someone tampered with it, I want to know how. And if you haven’t already, get forensic experts to analyze the blood. We need to know if it’s his.”

The chief nodded hurriedly. “Yes, sir.”

Fernando caught sight of Charles Leclerc standing off to the side, looking devastated. He walked over and placed a firm hand on the younger driver’s shoulder.

“We’ll find him,” Fernando said, his voice softer but no less firm. “Max will come back.”

Charles swallowed hard and nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

Fernando’s eyes darkened. “I know I am.”

Max was out there. Somewhere.

And Fernando Alonso wasn’t going to stop until he found him.

Chapter Text

The hours had passed in a haze of uncertainty, the late-night shadows stretching across the tracks and through the pit lanes like darkened memories. They had searched high and low—through the team garages, the hospitality areas, and even the quiet corners of the paddock where no one ever bothered to go. Max Verstappen, the four-time world champion, had simply vanished.

It had been Charles who noticed first, the tightness in his chest as Max didn't arrive at his own Victory Party. Charles and Max had a bet earlier that day that if Max wins the title today, Charles will wear his "horrible team kit" and drink his "disgusting" Red Bull Cocktail. He had to pull a lot of strings and endure a lengthy reminder from Fred that he should be careful because  if someone saw how he looks like, the sponsors and Ferrari would panic. He arrived thirty minutes earlier than what they agreed on but about an hour has passed and there was still no sign of Max. An hour became two hours and when it was approaching the third hour, Charles knew something was wrong. His phone buzzed with missed messages, but nothing seemed more pressing than the absence of his boyfriend. The silence he felt in the middle of the crowded party was deafening. Max was not a man who could disappear without leaving some trace, but there was nothing, nothing at all.

Charles had pulled Ollie Bearman and Kimi Antonelli into the search as soon as he could. The two young drivers were on the way back to their hotel and upon knowing what was happening, they were quick to abandon the idea of rest. Max was family, Ollie and Kimi has been adopted to the ever growing lestappen grid family after all, and no one could shake the feeling that something terrible had happened.

The trio split up in search of him, calling out his name, hoping for any sign, any glimmer of Max, but the night passed in shadows. Kimi, ever the stoic figure, refused to let the uncertainty get to him, but even his sharp instincts weren’t able to pierce the veil of mystery that had surrounded Max’s sudden disappearance. What started as a three man search turned into a paddock wide search for Max. As the night grew long and the search dragged on, even Fernando Alonso—who had been one of the pillars of the search—finally spoke the words no one wanted to hear.

“Enough,” Fernando had said, his voice low and rough. “You’ve done all you can. We need rest. He wouldn’t want us to destroy ourselves over this.”

Reluctantly, they agreed. But Charles remained behind in the Red Bull garage, his mind running in overdrive. He couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping, of giving in to the exhaustion. Max would come back, and Charles wanted to be the first to see him, to make sure he was okay.

Kimi went back to the Mercedes hospitality, a place he would be calling home next season, but the doubt in his eyes betrayed him. Ollie, too, had returned to his assigned search area, which was the Ferrari garage. Though Max had no connection to Ferrari, the search was thorough, and Ollie had been given responsibility for that section. It was a chance, however slim, that Max could be hiding somewhere unexpected. 

Exhausted, Ollie wandered through the quiet Ferrari garage, his mind racing for any clue. Every corner, every chair, every empty space felt wrong without the presence of Max. Though Ferrari was Charles’ team, Ollie still checked with meticulous care. He knew Max’s meticulous nature, and if there was even a small chance of finding something—a clue, a forgotten personal item, an overlooked note—he couldn’t leave it unchecked. He knew that aside from Racing, Charles is his priority which means if something is wrong. if he felt something was wrong, Charles would be the first one he'll look for. 

Before he left, Ollie made a decision. He pulled out his phone, took a deep breath, and began recording—filming every part of the garage with careful attention. He panned over the machinery, the empty seats, and the unused areas. He lingered for a moment in the driver’s room, noticing the things that never made it to the public eye: Charles’ personal touches, the notes left on the whiteboard, the maps and diagrams showing how he had prepared for the season. Nothing seemed out of place, but the absence of Max’s presence was a constant ache in his chest.

Ollie closed the door behind him as he stepped out, a lump in his throat. The thought of Max, absent from all of this, weighed heavily on him. He had hoped to find something, but it felt like the world was conspiring to keep Max hidden. With a heavy heart, he left the garage.

Exhausted, he found a quiet spot and curled up on one of the plush couches in Charles’ driver’s room. The walls of the room were lined with all kinds of memorabilia—the kind of personal touches Charles had always kept private. It was a space so uniquely Charles, full of personal relics from his racing journey. Ollie lay there, reminiscing of the day he got a glimpse of the real Max Verstappen, the one that the media never saw

Jeddah, 2024

Ollie Bearman sat in the dimly lit corner of a paddock bathroom, his back against the cold tiles as he tried to steady his racing heart. The excitement, the pressure—it was all too much. He could still feel the rush of adrenaline from qualifying earlier, the roar of the engine, the thrill of reaching Q3 for the first time in a Ferrari. But now, just a few hours away from the race, it was all starting to settle in.

Ferrari. Ferrari. The team that every member of the Ferrari Driver Academy dreamed of joining. The team that was synonymous with greatness. And now, here he was, just hours away from not only being a part of that legacy but becoming the youngest ever Ferrari driver.

It all felt surreal.

Ollie’s eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing shallow as his mind spiraled. It had happened so quickly—one minute he was focused on doing his job, another minute he was standing in front of Fred Vasseur, hearing those words: "Ollie, you’re driving for Ferrari."

It was a no-brainer. Of course, he had said yes. But now, the weight of it was crashing down on him. He had just completed FP3 and the qualifying session. Now, there was nothing left to do but race. The moment he’d been dreaming of was finally here, and all he had to do was stay calm and focus but the anxiety was gnawing at him. The pressure of being the first FDA member to race for Ferrari alongside Charles, of being the youngest driver in the red car—it was a lot. A lot more than he had anticipated. He wasn’t just any rookie now—he was the rookie driving for THE Ferrari. He couldn’t screw this up. He had to make it count.

“I can do this,” Ollie whispered under his breath, his hands trembling slightly as he wiped his sweaty palms on his race suit. “I can do this. Just race. Don’t crash. That’s all.”

The words echoed in his mind, but they did little to calm the rising tide of anxiety. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his breath came in short, quick bursts. He knew this wasn’t just about being fast—it was about the eyes of the world being on him. There would be expectations, comparisons to Charles, and, of course, the pressure to perform.

The tap on his shoulder was sudden and soft—just a gentle reminder that life was still moving around him.

Ollie startled, spinning around, his heart leaping in his chest. But when he saw the familiar face standing behind him, his breath hitched.

Max Verstappen.

The three-time world champion. The man who had defied expectations, conquered every challenge thrown his way, and had become the very definition of dominance in Formula 1.

"Hey, you okay?" Max asked, his voice calm but with an underlying concern that immediately cut through Ollie’s panic.

Ollie opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come out. He gave a nervous smile, shaking his head as if trying to brush it off. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

Max didn’t buy it. He stood there, watching Ollie with an expression of understanding. He was no stranger to the weight of expectation himself—he had been there before, as a rookie with the world watching, carrying the hopes of a team on his shoulders. Max knew exactly what was going on in Ollie’s mind without him even having to say a word.

Without another word, Max reached over and locked the bathroom door, ensuring they wouldn’t be disturbed.

“You sure about that?” Max asked gently, lowering his voice. “I’ve seen that look before. You’re about to have your first big race with Ferrari, right? That’s a lot of pressure.”

Ollie felt his throat tighten. He didn’t want to seem weak. Not here, not now. But Max’s presence, his calm demeanor, made it impossible to hide.

Max leaned against the sink, his hands in his pockets, his expression warm but knowing. “I get it. I was in your shoes once. It’s normal to be nervous. Hell, I was terrified when I made my debut, I couldn't stop vomiting from all the nerves. But you’ve earned this. You’ve worked your ass off to get here.”

Ollie’s chest tightened, his breath hitching. Max had always been a figure of strength and dominance to him, but hearing him speak with such empathy felt different. Max wasn’t just a champion in that moment—he was someone who understood exactly how Ollie was feeling, someone who had been where he was now.

Max continued, his tone light but filled with quiet authority. “You’ve got the speed. You’ve got the talent. Just take it one lap at a time. And when the pressure starts to feel too much, remember to breathe. Don’t let the anxiety take over. Control what you can control, let go of what you can't.”

Max’s words struck Ollie hard. He hadn’t expected this from Max—not after hearing about his reputation for being distant, cold even. But Max’s advice was exactly what Ollie needed. There was something about the way Max spoke, as though he knew exactly what Ollie was thinking without him even saying it out loud.

And that was the part that struck Ollie the most.

Max was kind. In a world where everyone talked about Charles’ gentle nature, Ollie had heard whispers about Max—that he was intense, unapproachable. But now, sitting in the bathroom with him, Ollie saw a side of Max that few did. Max wasn’t just a champion; he was someone who cared deeply for the people around him. He was someone who knew the struggle and wasn’t afraid to reach out and help.

Ollie took a shaky breath, his mind starting to clear. He wasn’t alone. He had Max’s support, and that made all the difference. Maybe it wasn’t just the car that made Max unbeatable—it was his heart, too.

“Thanks, Max,” Ollie finally managed to say, a small but genuine smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll do my best. I won’t let you down.”

Max nodded, his expression softening. “I know you won’t. Just go out there, enjoy it. You’ve earned this. And don’t forget—use the hard tires for the first stint, take it easy on the straights, and remember—you’re not alone out there.”

Ollie nodded, his chest lifting with the weight of Max’s advice. He couldn’t believe how much lighter he felt.

Max gave him one last look before pushing open the door. “Go get ‘em, kid. Charles is looking for you, I think he wants to give you a pep talk” He said laughing before leaving Ollie to compose himself. 

The race came and went, and Ollie’s nerves melted away as soon as he hit the track. He raced fiercely, with the heart of a lion and the precision of a seasoned driver. By the end of it, Ollie had managed to finish in the points, a feat he hadn’t dared to dream of when the day started. When the race was over, Charles and Max were the first two to congratulate him, their faces full of pride.

“You did great, Ollie!” Charles cheered, clapping him on the back, his smile infectious.

Max stood beside him, offering a nod of approval. “That was impressive,” he said, his voice steady. “You didn’t let the pressure get to you. That’s what counts.”

Charles, ever the joker, grinned widely. “I knew it! Ollie is my grid child, so I guess that makes you his dad, Max.”

Max laughed, a deep, genuine sound that made Ollie’s heart swell with warmth. “I’m not sure that's how things go, but I’ll take it. I'll be proud to have Ollie as my grid child”

They all shared a laugh, the camaraderie of the moment bringing a sense of warmth that Ollie would carry with him forever. But the moment in the bathroom—the words Max had shared with him, the kindness he’d shown—would remain a secret between just the two of them. It was something Ollie would cherish, a memory that would help him through the challenges ahead.

And maybe, just maybe, that was what Max had been trying to teach him all along: that you don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone.

He kept staring at the ceiling, his mind restless, before sleep finally overtook him.

The following morning, his sleep was interrupted by a loud noise. He was sure it wasn’t the soft hum of the Ferrari garage that woke him. No, it was a sound much more innocent, though far more surprising—a cry, soft and uncertain, followed by a tiny sniffle. Ollie blinked, his eyes adjusting to the early morning light filtering through the windows. He could still feel the remnants of sleep pulling at him, but the sound was unmistakable.

A child’s cry.

His heart skipped a beat. Was it a prank? A dream? No—it sounds far too real.

Ollie sat up, his legs stiff from sleep, and followed the sound. His feet led him back into the driver's room, and what he saw there stopped him dead in his tracks.

There, nestled in the corner of the room, was a toddler. His small frame was curled up in an old, very well-worn Red Bull hoodie something he recognized as Max’s hoodie. The little boy’s face was hidden in his hands as he sobbed, his tiny shoulders trembling with every cry as he clutched Charles Ferrari Hoodie he left behind along with his bag. The hoodie was too big for him, swallowing his small frame like a blanket, and the number on the back—the unmistakable “33”—was faded from years of use.

It was Max.

Max Verstappen, the four-time world champion, was now a child again.

Ollie’s mind raced to process what he was seeing. This couldn’t be real. Max had disappeared without a trace, and now—now he was here, a small child in need of care. His heart pounded in his chest, a million questions racing through his mind. What had happened? Why was Max like this?

The little boy’s cries subsided as Ollie knelt down beside him, hesitating for just a moment before gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Max?” Ollie whispered, his voice filled with disbelief.

The toddler looked up at him, and for a brief second, there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes—those same piercing blue eyes that had once been the hallmark of the champion. But just as quickly, the recognition seemed to fade, and the toddler buried his face back into the oversized hoodie.

Author's Note : For reference, this is how small I imagined Max was during this scene. 

"Owwie?" he whispered, a flicker of recognition in his voice. One hand clutched Charles' Ferrari hoodie, while the other reached out toward Ollie, his eyes welling up with more tears. 

Ollie's breath caught in his throat. Max was back. But what had happened? Why was he in this state?

Tears welled in Ollie’s eyes as he gently lifted Max into his arms, cradling him like a fragile little bird. The weight of it all crashed down on him—the confusion, the impossible situation, the overwhelming need to protect. He wasn’t sure if Max could understand him, but he whispered anyway, his voice soft and full of emotion.

“We’re going to figure this out, okay? We’ll get you back to where you belong.”

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the soft breaths of the toddler in his arms. Ollie stayed like that, unsure of what to do next, but knowing one thing for certain: the world had just changed forever. And now, he had to figure out how to protect the champion who had once been an unshakable force in Formula 1—but now, was just a child in need of help.

Before Ollie could even process what was happening, Max looked up at him again.

"Charlie?" His voice was soft, almost uncertain, as if he were asking where Charles was. When Ollie didn’t respond quickly enough, Max’s face crumpled, and he began crying harder, calling out for Charlie. The tiny toddler shook with each sob, chanting one name over and over—Charlie.

"Max, please stop crying... liefje, please stop, you'll choke on your tears," Ollie pleaded, his voice strained with worry.

"Owwie, Maxy want Charlie," Max sobbed, his tiny voice trembling.

Ollie’s heart ached. “I know, liefje, we’ll go to Charlie, but you need to help Owwie first, okay? You need to calm down so you can breathe properly. Can you do that for Owwie?”

Little Max looked up at him, his teary eyes searching Ollie’s face. After a moment, he nodded, his small head giving the faintest of affirmations.

Ollie carefully guided Max through a small breathing exercise, his own pulse racing with every shaky inhale and exhale Max took. When the toddler finally seemed to calm down, Ollie wiped the tears from Max’s face, lifting him gently into his arms so they could go to Red Bull. In the flurry of the moment, Ollie hadn’t noticed that Max dropped Charles’ Ferrari hoodie.

As Ollie started walking, he felt Max squirm in his arms, trying to wiggle free.

"Liefje, we’re going to Charlie already, please stay still," Ollie said, trying to soothe him.

"No," Max whimpered, his small voice insistent.

"Lief..." Ollie sighed, his patience wearing thin.

"Owwie forgot Charlie hoodie" Max suddenly pointed out, his voice small but firm.

Ollie turned to see that he had indeed left the hoodie behind. With a quick nod, he turned back to retrieve it. The moment he returned with it, Max grabbed the hoodie eagerly, pulling it tightly to his chest, hugging it like his binky.

Ollie quickly adjusted Max’s oversized Red Bull hoodie to cover the toddler’s face, fearing the attention they might draw if anyone saw them. He needed to keep this under wraps.

"Maxy" Ollie said softly, trying to get Max’s attention. "You have to listen to Owwie, okay? The only way we can go to Charlie is if you stay quiet. Can you do that for me?"

Max’s little eyes looked up at him, filled with determination, and he nodded. He slipped his thumb into his mouth, the other hand still clutching the hoodie like it was his binky.

Ollie smiled faintly, his heart heavy but full of resolve. You can do this, Ollie. This is just a new mission… You’ve already succeeded in finding Max Verstappen. Now, your next mission is getting Max Verstappen to Charles without anyone noticing.

With that, Ollie held Max close and began to carefully move through the paddock, his eyes constantly scanning for any sign of a curious onlooker.

Chapter Text

The paddock was beginning to stir, soft footsteps and the quiet buzz of early morning rising with the sun. But within Red Bull’s hospitality suite, it was still. Still and silent, the air heavy with worry.

Charles Leclerc sat curled in the corner of the lounge, eyes bloodshot, hoodie wrinkled from hours of restless pacing and finally, collapse. He hadn’t slept—not for a second. Not after Max disappeared.

It made no sense. One moment Max was in his driver’s room, and the next… gone. No crash. No explanation. Just an empty space where his presence used to be. Security had flooded the paddock. Drones flew overhead. Engineers whispered worst-case scenarios. But Charles had stayed here.

“I’ll wait,” he had said, voice hoarse with something that sounded like prayer. “He always comes back to me.”

So he waited. All night. Through every false alarm, every disappointed shake of a head. Through the growing ache in his chest that Max might not come back at all.

And then—

Footsteps. Quiet. Light. But deliberate.

Charles didn’t look up at first. Probably another update. Another “sorry, nothing yet.”

But then he heard it. A voice, soft and uncertain:

“Charles?”

Charles’ head snapped up, breath catching.

There in the doorway stood Ollie Bearman, pale and wide-eyed, hoodie slung over his shoulder. But it wasn’t Ollie that made Charles stand.

It was the small boy cradled in his arms.

He couldn’t have been more than four. His oversized hoodie nearly swallowed him. A matching cap slipped over a mop of unruly curls. One hand clutched a tiny stuffed lion, the other held a familiar red Ferrari hoodie, the sleeves dragging behind him like a cape.

And then the boy looked up.

Big blue eyes. Bright. Familiar. Max.

His face lit up the moment he saw Charles.

“Charlie pick me! Bapple noo noo! Skrrt nap! BOOM!” the small boy in Ollie’s arms shrieked gleefully, eyes going round like saucers the moment he saw Charles. 

Wearing an oversized Red Bull hoodie with a faded 33 on the front, a cap too big for his curls, and clutching a stuffed lion in one hand and a Ferrari hoodie in the other, the child vibrated with excitement.

Charles stumbled to his feet, blinking as if the world had just flipped inside out. “Max?” he breathed.

Ollie gave a dazed nod. “I… I found him crying in the driver's room back in Ferrari. I didn't know how he got there Charles, I swear I checked everything before I went to sleep. He was Just standing there while crying, Looking around like he was waiting for someone. Then he saw me, He looked at me, said something about apples and fire trucks and demanded I bring him to you. I swear I have no idea what he said, but also... somehow... I knew.”

The boy twisted in Ollie’s arms, flailing. “BAH! Nuh Charlie! NOW! Wiggly banana cloud hug!!” [Translation : Charlie! I knew he knows where to find you] 

“Okay, okay,” Ollie chuckled, handing him over. “Here’s your French translator.”

Charles caught him like he was made of stars, instantly wrapping the boy in his arms. Max snuggled into his neck like it was home, and Ollie watched as the weight visibly fell off Charles' shoulders.

“I missed you,” Max babbled into Charles' hoodie. “Giggly boom-boom zoom. Loud people go shhh, but no one did! So I go BAP! And find Owwie! Owwie wake up and I say Charlie! CHARLIE!”
[Translation :  Everything was loud. Nobody listened. But I said ‘I want my Charlie’ and then Owwie came. I told him, ‘Owwie wake up now, we need Charlie.’]

Charles clutched him tighter, a shaky laugh cracking through his tears. “Oh, mon dieu, Maxie... I’ve been so scared.” 

Max leaned back slightly and patted Charles’ cheek with sticky fingers. “No cry. I do time twisty. Came back. Just smaller. But still me. Wiggly brain. Boom heart.”
[Translation : No cry. I’m back now. Like always. Just… littler]

Ollie blinked.

He turned his head slowly toward Charles, who just nodded with that strange, serene calm he always wore when it came to Max.

“What did he even just say?” Ollie whispered, half-laughing, half-terrified he was losing his grip on reality.

Charles didn’t even hesitate. “He said he got overwhelmed, but he knew I’d understand him, and when no one listened, he looked for me. When he can't find me, He looked for you instead and trusted you to bring him here.”

Ollie stared.

Max poked Charles’ face again. “Freckle-dots still zoom. Apple eyes go shiny. Boom pretty!” [Translation : Your freckles are still there.And your eyes. Like shiny apples. I don’t like apples, but I like your eyes] 

Charles laughed again. “Yes, I still have freckles.”

“How... how do you know that’s what he’s saying?” Ollie whispered, genuinely baffled.

Charles shrugged, not looking away from Max. “I just do. I always have. Max never needed real words.”

Max twirled one of Charles’ curls, giggling. “Tiny me go blurp-zoom, nobody see. But Charlie? You do. Still do. Always noodle-read my heart book.” [Translation : No one ever got me when I was little. But you did. Even now. You still get me]

“Of course I will always understand you mon amour” Charles said, eyes sparkling.

Ollie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, warmth blooming in his chest as he watched them.

This was the kind of bond he didn’t think could exist outside of fairytales or... weird metaphysical dream states. Max—tiny and incomprehensible—and Charles, understanding every absurd, beautiful word.

“You know,” Charles said suddenly, glancing over, voice raw with affection, “Thank you, Ollie.”

Ollie blinked. “Me? Why?”

Charles nodded, still cradling the half-dozing Max. “You found him. You listened to him. You brought him back to me. You’ve always been our first son, haven’t you? No wonder Max felt safe coming to you for help.”

Ollie felt his throat tighten, a crooked smile forming. “He always called me that. Your first son. The trial run before you guys figured out parenting.”

Charles laughed quietly. “He wasn’t wrong.”

“Guess that makes me the responsible sibling now,” Ollie joked, brushing a hand through his hair. “God help us.”

Max mumbled something in Charles' lap—“Cloud nap skrrr zzz choo choo tummy”—and curled into him again, clearly exhausted.

“He says he’s ready to nap now,” Charles translated helpfully.

Ollie grinned. “Obviously.”

As Charles began to softly hum a French lullaby, Max nestled deeper into his chest, soothed by the melody, the arms he trusted, and the unspoken language only they understood.

Ollie didn’t leave the doorway. He just watched—and, for once, didn’t try to understand. Because somehow, watching Charles hold Max like the whole universe lived in his arms… it already made perfect sense.

Ollie stayed close to the lounge window, watching the sun rise with a tired kind of tension written all over him. His hoodie was half-zipped, his curls still messy from the night, but his mind was spinning faster than any qualifying lap. Behind him, Charles sat on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around tiny Max—still sleeping, still clinging to his Ferrari hoodie and stuffed lion like lifelines.

Ollie finally broke the silence, his voice quiet but certain.

“Charles… we can’t keep this a secret for long. Should we tell someone? What do we do?”

Charles looked up, eyes rimmed with exhaustion and fear. “I don’t know, Ollie. I just know we have to get Max out of here before anyone else notices. And I need to call Sophie—she needs to know he’s okay.”

Ollie hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, do that. But… listen, I can’t be the one to take care of him. I mean, look at me—I freaked out just trying to figure out if he wanted water or a nap. And you? Charles, you’re Max’s boyfriend. If he stays with you, everyone’s going to start asking questions. You’re being watched 24/7. This whole thing will explode.”

Charles’s grip around Max tightened. The boy stirred a little in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent—probably about rocket-shoes or marshmallow tires. Charles pressed his lips to Max’s curls and closed his eyes. “I know. But what do we do? I won’t leave him. I can’t.”

Ollie stepped forward, voice firmer now.
“We can ask Kimi, he was also with me last night, he just stayed in the Mercedes hospitality.”

Charles blinked up at him. “Antonelli?”

Ollie nodded. “Yeah. He’s my teammate in Prema, remember? I know the guy. He’s grounded, responsible—he’s got younger siblings, he’s used to being the eldest in the chaos. If he shows up with a kid, no one’s going to question it. They’ll just assume it’s family or some cousin visiting. He won’t panic or overshare. And more importantly…”

He glanced at Max and cracked a small smile.
“Max actually likes Kimi. He was the first one Max ‘adopted,’ remember? Kept calling him ‘kitten boss’ and insisting Kimi take the first bite of every snack.”

Charles let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “God, I forgot about that. Max was obsessed with feeding him.”

“Yeah, and Kimi just went with it. No questions, no weird looks. Just shrugged and played along. That’s why I’m telling you—if anyone can handle this without making it worse, it’s Kimi.” Ollie stepped closer, tone more sincere now. “I trust him, Charles. I wouldn’t suggest this if I didn’t.”

Charles looked back down at Max, who was still curled up in his lap, thumb tucked in his mouth, breathing soft. Then he looked at Ollie, the gears clearly turning behind his tired eyes.

“Okay,” he said at last, quietly. “Let’s ask Kimi.”

Ollie exhaled with relief.
“Good. I’ll call him. Tell him to meet us somewhere quiet.”

“Tell him to bring snacks,” Charles added with a crooked smile. “Max has a long list of snack loyalty.”

Max stirred then, muttering something that sounded like, “chaa bluu squish zip nap apple shoes,” and both Ollie and Charles looked at each other.

Ollie grinned. “I still have no idea what he’s saying.”

Charles smiled faintly, brushing Max’s curls from his forehead.
“I do.”

Ollie laughed under his breath. "Most people never really got him—he was always this little whirlwind no one could keep up with. But you… you’ve always understood him, Charles. Even when he couldn’t say what he needed, you just knew. You still do. That’s why he ran straight back to you."

Charles didn’t respond immediately. He just nodded, holding Max close like a promise.
“We’re going to fix this, Ollie. Whatever this is… we’ll fix it.”

And for the first time since Max disappeared, there was a little bit of light in Charles’ voice.

Chapter Text

The paddock was unusually quiet for a Sunday morning. The buzz of media, engineers, and crew from the night before had slowed to a hum as the city lights flickered beyond the fences. Inside a private room in the back of the Red Bull hospitality unit, Charles sat hunched over his phone, Max curled up beside him on the long cushioned bench, softly snoring while keeping his "binky" close to him.

Ollie stood near the door, leaning against the wall, his expression guarded. He’d been the first to insist on keeping the little boy shielded from the chaos. “I’ve got the door, I'll watch out for any people coming in” he said, as Charles tapped his screen and the video call connected.

Sophie appeared on the screen almost immediately, her expression tight with worry. Victoria joined seconds later, adjusting the angle of her phone as she settled beside her mother on the sofa back in the Netherlands.

“Charles?” Sophie asked, voice shaking. “Is everything okay? Have you found Max”

“Everything is okay now” Charles began, voice soft. “We’re still in Las Vegas. I couldn’t tell you much earlier, because everything was still a mystery even to me but now I know a bit more and ... I need to explain everything I know so far.”

He turned the phone slightly, just enough for them to catch a glimpse of the boy nestled beside him, clutching the oversized cap. Sophie gasped. Victoria covered her mouth.

“Oh my God,” Victoria whispered. “That’s...”

“It’s Max,” Charles confirmed. “We found him.... well he found us”

Tears welled up in Sophie’s eyes instantly. Victoria pressed a trembling hand to her heart. “He’s alive? He's okay?”

“He’s alive, and physically okay,” Charles said gently. “But something happened. He doesn’t remember much. Sometimes he's the max we know sometimes he's not. Sometimes I feel like I was talking to my 27 year old boyfriend but there were times were he's babbling like a child around his age. I think he's around four years old right now. That’s how he behaves.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Sophie choked out. “What happened to him?”

“We don’t know yet,” Charles admitted. "There wasn't a single trace of what happened. Nobody entered the room after Max last night, nobody exited as well. Ollie found him in the Ferrari hospitality. I checked the cameras, Ollie was the last one there around 3 in the morning and he also took videos, there was no way Max could've sneak. What I can think of right now is that something took Max out of that room and turned him into a toddler that's why he also magically appeared in the garage without anyone noticing."

"Are you sure that's really Max? I mean I know my son and that's how my max looked like but is that really him?" 

"I believe yes Sophie. He was calling for me, he knew stuff about me that only Max will know. I don't have a clue how this happened but that's really Max" 

“Does he… trust you? I mean when he's not the Max we know, when he regressed back to 4, does he still trust you?” Victoria asked.

Charles smiled faintly. “I like to believe that he does. He still called me and reached out to me when he got scared. I noticed he called me Charlie when the max we know was awake but if it was the four year old him, he calls me chacha.”

That made Sophie sob quietly. Ollie looked away, jaw clenched.

“Thank you,” Sophie whispered. “Thank you for staying with him. Thank you both for not giving up on him”

“I had to,” Charles said simply. “But listen… I know you were thinking of flying to Vegas. Please don’t. I don't think it would be good idea.”

“Why?” Victoria asked, blinking quickly.

"Max needs to disappear for a while. People will feast on him if they find out he turned into a child. Adult Max already had a hard time dealing with public scrutiny, I don't want to put him back in that spot especially now that he can't defend himself. I will make it look like Max returned to Netherlands, all you have to do is make it seem like Max is with you. "

"My son needs me right now charles... my liefje is small again"  

“I know Sophie and trust me, I wanted you here but if you are here and they see you with Maxy, people will connect the dots. This wasn't the first time this happened in Motorsport. Marquez got sensationalized for it and I don't want to put that kind of pressure on Max. I promised I will take care of him and I'll update you everyday” Charles promised.

Victoria sniffled. “Then I’ll send clothes. Luca and Lio are around that age—Luca’s five, Lio’s four. If anything doesn’t fit, I’ll buy more. No one will question it. If people asks, just tell them it was my kids, they looked like Max anyway”

“That would be perfect,” Charles said gratefully.

“I know Dad's going to ask questions,” Victoria added, lowering her voice. “But don’t tell him. Not yet. He’ll overreact. And the press—”

“I won’t say a word to anyone,” Charles reassured. “Except… can I tell GP?”

Sophie looked surprised. “GP? You mean—”

“Yeah. Max’s GP. He’s practically Max’s second father. I think he deserves to know.”

Victoria hesitated. Then nodded. “Just him. But swear him to secrecy.”

“Of course.”

Sophie leaned closer to the screen. “Charles, please… keep him close. Don’t let anyone take him away.”

“I won’t,” Charles promised, glancing down at the little boy now dozing against his side. “I swear, I’ll protect him.”

As the call ended, Ollie finally stepped back toward them. “They okay?”

“As okay as they can be,” Charles murmured. “They’re sending clothes for him. And they agreed—no one else can know.”

Max stirred in his sleep, fingers still wrapped around Charles’s hoodie.

“He’s safe now,” Ollie said quietly. “And he’s got us.”

Charles looked over, grateful. “Yeah. But we have to be careful. From now on, everything we do… it’s for him.”

The Mercedes hospitality was buzzing, as usual. Time didn't stand still when Max disappeared. The following morning, the team was back on business after all in just a few days, they will be in Qatar racing for the second to the last race of the season. Data engineers were weaving in between debriefs. Screens lit with telemetry. Trays of coffee gliding across counters. But for Kimi, the whole world had gone still.

He stared at his phone. One new message from Ollie:

“Come to Red Bull. Now. No questions. Just trust me.”

He shrugged his doubts the moment he saw the message. He didn't question why his teammate, Ollie Bearman, a Ferrari Driving Academy Driver will suddenly asked him to go to Red Bull... a team where neither of them drives for. He just knew deep down that this was because of Max... it has to be.  It pains him that just hours ago the whole paddock was united in the search for Max and now when the morning came, it was as if nothing happened. Life went on, at least for Mercedes. Vcarb, Red Bull and Ferrari were still actively looking. 

Minutes later, Kimi was weaving through the paddock, holding a charger in hand to make it look like he was just running an errand. As he reached Red Bull’s hospitality, Ollie was already waiting just outside, eyes flicking across the walkway like he was guarding state secrets.

Ollie grabbed his arm and pulled him in fast. “You’re not gonna believe this,” he muttered, pulse racing. “He’s here. Max is here.”

Kimi froze. “What do you mean here?”

“I mean he came back. But… not how you expect.” Ollie looked down for a second. “He’s… he’s four, Kimi.”

Silence.

Kimi blinked. “Four?”

“He doesn’t remember everything. He’s just… a kid. But it’s him. You’ll see.”

Ollie didn’t give him more time to react. He led Kimi down a quiet corridor and stopped outside a private lounge. With a quiet breath, he opened the door.

And there, asleep on a couch barely big enough to fit his limbs, was Max Verstappen. Or some soft, impossible echo of him. He wore an oversized Red Bull hoodie, the sleeves falling past his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, cheeks rounder. He looked peaceful. Innocent. Like the world hadn’t yet asked him to carry the weight of it.

Kimi took one shaky step inside. Then another.

He couldn’t breathe.

“Maxy,” he whispered, voice barely holding.

The boy stirred.

Big blue eyes blinked open, adjusting to the light. They landed on Kimi—and something in them sparked.

“Mimi,” Max mumbled. “’re here.”

Kimi dropped to his knees. His hand reached out and brushed over Max’s. The tiny fingers twitched, then curled instinctively around his.

“You remember me?”

Max nodded, sleepily. "You let me eat all da o’ange swices. Mama said no, but you din’t."

Kimi let out a broken laugh. “Yeah… yeah, that sounds like me.”

Max’s small hand reached up, patting Kimi’s wrist. “I missed you, mimi”

That did it for him.

Kimi pulled him into a careful hug, one hand cradling Max’s back like he was made of glass. Max nestled against his chest, tiny arms clinging tight.

He didn’t care who saw. Ollie could be filming, the whole paddock could be watching—none of it mattered.

Max was back. Somehow. Some part of him had returned.

And Kimi—who once sat in Max’s garage clutching a towel after a rough race, who once called him  his “grid dad” during a karting interview—felt like a kid again too.

2022

The champagne had dried.

The crowd was thinning out. Some were still lingering, caught in the usual post-race buzz—media interviews, sponsor photo ops, half-hearted small talk from people who didn’t really know who Kimi Antonelli was beyond the headlines written about him.

“Next Leclerc,” some said.

“He reminds me of a young Nico,” others mused.

No one ever said Kimi is Kimi.

Even after winning the Formula 4 Championship, the attention felt… hollow. They talked about his future, not his present. They spoke to him, not with him. Everyone wanted to skip ahead to who he might become, not who he already was.

He slipped away from the press area, helmet still tucked under his arm, suit half-zipped. His heart should’ve been soaring—he had just won his first title in single-seaters. But instead, it felt like he was watching it happen to someone else.

And then he saw him.

Max Verstappen.

Two-time World Champion. Red Bull’s golden weapon. The same man whose aggressive overtakes and championship duels Kimi had studied on repeat. He was walking calmly across the paddock, casually sipping from a water bottle like he hadn’t just shaken the world with his latest dominant season. People whispered and stared but gave him space.

He wasn’t here for media. He wasn’t even supposed to be in this part of the paddock.

Yet Max's steps slowed… and then stopped.

Right in front of Kimi.

Kimi froze. Heart in his throat. He opened his mouth, maybe to say congratulations or I'm a big fan, but Max spoke first.

“I remember you,” Max said, voice relaxed, like they were old friends. “You came up to me once. Karting paddock in Genk, right? You asked for a picture. You had that big grey beanie. I remember thinking it was too warm for a beanie.”

Kimi blinked. “…You remember that?”

Max smiled, soft and real. “Yeah. You were tiny. Barely up to my waist. But your eyes were sharp.”

Kimi flushed, unsure what to do with his hands or his helmet or his emotions.

Max nodded toward the trophy behind Kimi. “F4 Champion. That’s not easy. I watched the race—clean lines, good decisions under pressure. You were calm even when the others were pushing hard. That last overtake in Turn 7? Nice read.”

It was the first genuine feedback Kimi had received all day.

“Thank you,” Kimi said, and it came out quieter than he meant. “Really. That means a lot.”

Max gave a little shrug, as if he didn’t realize how much weight his words carried. “You’ve got something. Not just talent—mindset. That matters more than people think.”

There was a pause. Then, curiosity finally bubbled up from Kimi’s chest.

“…Why do you watch feeder series?”

Max glanced sideways, thoughtful.

“Because it’s fun,” he replied simply. Then, with a hint of his trademark honesty, “And because I like knowing who’s coming.”

Kimi looked up, intrigued.

Max continued, “People underestimated me when I was your age. When I debuted in F1, they didn’t take me seriously until it was too late. I don’t want to make that mistake with others. Just because I’m in F1 doesn’t mean I can ignore the competition. I like being ready. And honestly?” He shrugged again, “I just like good racing.”

Kimi couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. That wasn’t something he expected to hear—especially not from someone always described as cold and distant.

Max tilted his head slightly. “You remind me of myself a little. Quiet, observant, but intense when it counts.”

There was another pause, one that felt like it carried weight.

Then Max leaned just slightly closer, his tone dropping lower but gaining warmth.

“I’m looking forward to racing you one day,” he said. “Really.”

Kimi’s eyes widened, breath catching.

“I—I hope I make it.”

“You will,” Max said, with such quiet confidence it anchored Kimi in place. “I’ve seen enough drivers come and go. You? You’ve got the real thing.”

Before leaving, Max offered a small smile. “Take care of your racecraft. Keep the hunger. Don’t let anyone talk over your wins.”

He glanced down at Kimi’s helmet, then back up.

“And next time, bring back the beanie,” he added with a wink.

Kimi let out a soft laugh, heart hammering. “Deal.”

They took a photo together—Kimi still in his suit, Max in jeans and a Red Bull tee. No PR team. No lights. Just a quiet paddock and two racers: one at the peak, one just starting his climb. But for that moment, they were equals.

That photo would sit framed on Kimi’s desk for years.

And one day, when he finally lined up beside Max on an F1 grid, he’d remember exactly when it all began.

Present, 2024

Later, when Max was curled up beside him with a blanket around his legs and a juice box in hand, he looked up drowsily.

His little voice was soft. “Mimi?”

Kimi turned to him, blinking. “Yeah, Maxy?”

Max reached out, hand brushing along Kimi’s arm. “You’re tall now…”

Kimi choked on a laugh. “And you became small.”

Max giggled—light, warm, pure—and curled up again. This time, he tucked his arm around Kimi’s wrist and didn’t let go. Within seconds, he was asleep, breathing slow and steady against his side.

The quiet stretched for a while. Ollie had left them alone.

Kimi just sat there, still and silent, watching Max sleep.

But Max stirred again—eyes fluttering open, still heavy with dreams. He stared at Kimi for a long moment.

“Yo’ eyes look swowwen,” he murmured.

Kimi blinked fast. “It’s nothing.”

Max frowned. “Mimi, you cwyed?”

“Just a little,” Kimi admitted, voice cracking.

Max reached up, brushing clumsy fingers under Kimi’s eye like he was trying to wipe away invisible tears. “Dun be sad, Mimi… I’s here wif you.”

And then he said it—so soft Kimi barely caught it:
“I p’tect you, 'kay? Even if I’s wittle… I ‘member how.” [Translation : I’ll protect you, 'kay? Even if I’m small. I remember how.]

Kimi had no words. He just nodded, forehead resting against Max’s curls.

“You always did, Maxy.”

At that moment, it didn’t matter that one of them had once been a World Champion and the other a junior. In that moment, they were just two souls—forever bonded, by the laps they’d raced and the tears they’d shed.

Chapter Text

The race weekend had ended the night before, but Charles lingered in the Red Bull motorhome, his steps uncharacteristically hesitant. He’d called GP earlier, simply asking him to come to the driver's room, no details—just, “It’s important. Please and please bring kids merch and toys from the gift shop.” GP has so many questions but he decided not to ask, Charles' voice tells him that this was an urgent amtter. 

When GP arrived, Charles was already waiting outside the garage, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, his brows knit.

“You’re being weird,” GP said flatly, eyeing him. “Is this about Max? Is Max okay?”

Charles flinched just slightly. “You have to promise me you won’t freak out.”

“That’s usually what someone says before they show you something deeply freakout-worthy.”

“GP.”

It was the way Charles said his name—careful, like it might break in his mouth—that made GP go quiet.

Charles didn’t say more. He simply turned and led GP down the long, back corridor of the motorhome, where the buzz of the world seemed to fade away. They passed locked doors, storage crates, and darkened meeting rooms until they reached one small room at the very end, Max's favorite spot.

Charles paused.

“He’s inside,” he whispered. “Asleep. But… if he wakes up, let him come to you. Let him decide what he remembers.”

GP stared. “He who?”

Charles opened the door.

Inside, curled up under a navy fleece blanket with a Red Bull logo barely visible near the hem, was a small boy. No older than four. Golden brown hair flopped messily over his forehead, his lashes thick and fanned over flushed cheeks. One small hand clutched a stuffed toy—someone had given him one of the plush Verstappen lion mascots. The other was balled up beneath his chin.

GP’s breath caught. “Charles… is this—?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I know.”

GP looked again. The shape of the nose. The stubborn little chin. The faint crease in the brow even in sleep. His chest rose and fell, soft and steady.

He looked like Max. Not just any child—Max. But impossibly small. Fragile. Whole in a way GP had never seen him.

“Charles…” GP’s voice cracked. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did. But he knows things. He remembers things.” Charles knelt beside the couch and gently brushed the hair from the boy’s forehead. “He called me Charlie earlier. And he also asked for you before he fell asleep again. But I have to warn you, he calls you something else now.”

GP swallowed hard. “What?”

“You’ll see.”

Then the boy stirred.

Tiny fingers twitched, toes shifted under the blanket, and after a few seconds, his sleepy eyes blinked open—cloudy and confused, but so unmistakably Max. Those blue eyes darted around the room.

“Cha-li?”

Charles smiled softly. “I’m here, Maxie.”

The little boy sat up with a sleepy groan. His hair was sticking up on one side, and his shirt had bunched around his belly. He looked like he’d just come from a nap at kindergarten.

“Whewe’s… Pipi?”

GP’s eyes widened. “Pipi?”

Max turned, squinting at him.

“Pipi!” he chirped, then scrambled to his knees and pointed. “Pipi it’s youuuu! You wook diffwent. You so big now!”

GP crouched slowly, stunned. “You… you remember me?”

“Yuh-huh,” Max nodded, grinning toothily. “You do da shouty-shout in my heaw when I dwive. You say, ‘Max, go!’ and I go zoom!” He made a vroom noise with his mouth and wobbled his arms like a steering wheel.

GP’s face twisted. A hand came up to his mouth.

Max blinked. Then, with no hesitation, he held out both arms. “Can I up, Pipi?”

GP reached for him instinctively, and the little boy climbed into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. Max curled into his chest, clutching his shirt in tiny fists.

“You smeww same,” Max mumbled, pressing his cheek to GP’s collar. “Pipi is da same.”

GP couldn’t speak. He just held him—tighter than he meant to—and buried his face in Max’s hair.

“Is he… stuck like this?” GP whispered to Charles.

“I don’t know,” Charles said softly. “But I don’t think it matters right now. It’s still him.”

“Yeah.” GP pulled back just slightly, enough to look at the sleepy boy in his arms. Max blinked up at him, thumb now halfway in his mouth.

“It’s still him.”

The small driver's room was not meant for this. Charles sat at the end of the table, a serious crease between his brows. Kimi slumped into the chair across from him, a half-eaten granola bar in his hand. Ollie was pacing like he was about to take pole position, while GP sat cross-legged on the floor with a small toy box open beside him.

Inside the toy box, Max—four-year-old, grinning, gummy-smiled Max—was busy lining up tiny Formula 1 cars, narrating softly to himself as if broadcasting his own race.

“An’ noww… da leader is Baby Max, vewy fast… bwroommm! But uh-oh! He go spinnn~ wheeeee! It’s okay, Pipi fix it!”
He clapped his hands and giggled, then looked up and waved one car at GP. “Dis one’s you! You my teammate now!”

GP looked up from where he was helping Max unbox a stuffed llama. “I’d be honored, champ.”

Max beamed.

Charles cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s focus before he decides to run a press conference too.”

Kimi leaned in. “So, we’re really doing this?”

Ollie grinned. “We’re bringing Max back. Just… not adult Max.”

Charles tapped a tablet showing a list of names and dates. “Right now, only the four of us know. Plus Sophie and Victoria. No one else. We need to be extremely careful.”

GP nodded, though his eyes flicked to the tiny boy now trotting around the room pretending his llama was an airplane. “He needs time. And safety. And consistency. He shouldn’t be overwhelmed.”

“Which means no sudden paddock reveal,” Charles added. “Not yet.”

“Maybe we do it in phases,” Ollie said. “Like a soft launch.”

Kimi raised an eyebrow. “Soft launch… of a four-year-old Max Verstappen?”

“You know what I mean,” Ollie said with a shrug. “We let people see glimpses. A ‘mysterious family friend’ in a few Red Bull vlogs. Background shots. Maybe he’s spotted with GP and Charles. We build curiosity.”

GP rubbed his chin. “Then eventually, one of us—maybe you, Charles—does a carefully worded post. No big reveal. Just enough for people to put two and two together.”

“And when they ask?” Kimi asked.

Charles sighed. “We just say… he’s with us. That he’s safe. No comment beyond that.”

Suddenly, a small voice cut through the seriousness.

“Where’s Cha-li’s caw?”

They turned to see Max standing by the toy bin, a pout forming on his face as he held up a red car in confusion.

“This not Cha-li’s… dis has fiff-tee-fiwe! Dis Ca-los caw!”

“That’s Carlos’s Ferrari, buddy,” GP explained gently. “It’s close enough, right?”

Max’s lip wobbled. “Noooooo! I wan’ Cha-li’s caw! Numbeh 16!”
He threw the 55 car across the carpet like it had personally offended him. “Dis wong! Dis not Cha-li!”

Kimi blinked. “Wow. Loyalty runs deep.”

Ollie chuckled. “He’s a Charles stan, confirmed.”

Max was now full-on stomping in little socks, arms crossed and cheeks puffed out. “I wan’ Cha-li’s caw! I wan’ it nowww!”

Charles knelt down, gently scooping the boy into his arms. “Mon petit… I’ll find you one later, okay? We’ll go get one together. Maybe even a shiny one.”

Max sniffled dramatically. “Pwomise?”

“Promise,” Charles said, tapping their foreheads together. “And you know what else? You can have my Ferrari jacket.”

Max gasped. “Da big one?!”

“The very one,” Charles smiled.

Instantly soothed, Max lit up again. “Cha-li da best.”

Charles looked up, shrugging to the others. “What can I say? He’s got taste.”

They all fell quiet, the weight of their mission settling in again as Max returned to playing—this time, cradling the Carlos car while whispering to it, “you be Cha-li for now, okay? Shhh, no cwyin’…”

Operation: Maxie’s Return wasn’t just a plan anymore.

It was a crusade—with a very dramatic, Ferrari-loving toddler at the center of it.

The room had fallen into a soft, thoughtful silence. Charles and Ollie were bent over a notebook, sketching out the next phase of their so-called “Max Verstappen Comeback Plan,” while Kimi sat cross-legged on the floor, absentmindedly organizing toy tires and track pieces for Maxy’s imaginary Grand Prix.

Maxy, however, was in his own little world.

He sat quietly near the far corner, oddly subdued for a child so often bouncing off the walls. In his small hands, he clutched a model car GP had brought earlier—a red Ferrari bearing the number 55. Carlos’ car.

Maxy stared at it intently, little brows furrowed, his tiny fingers awkwardly trying to cover the side with the number printed on it. He held it out, lined it up next to the smaller model of his own Red Bull car, and whispered, “Cha-li goin’ aftuh Maxy… vroom vroom… go fast Cha-li…”

GP had just stepped out of the bathroom when he saw it.

He froze, one hand still on the towel he'd been folding. His chest tightened. There was Maxy, their golden boy, pretending Carlos Sainz’s car was Charles’. Trying to make the world match what his heart wanted.

It hit harder than he expected.

GP had always loved Max. Not that he ever said it aloud—he wasn't exactly known for emotional declarations—but Max had been his boy long before fatherhood ever entered the equation. Every test session, every quiet late night at the factory, every time Max asked for advice or vented frustrations—GP had been there. And now, here was his boy again… only four years old, still wearing that same fierce loyalty, still choosing Charles.

Even now, Maxy refused to wear the Red Bull jacket GP brought. Instead, he swam in one of Charles’ oversized hoodies, the sleeves dragging like puddles behind him as he moved. It made GP smile and ache all at once.

Christian and Helmut would absolutely have him served on a silver platter for what he was about to do.

But screw it.

This was for Maxy.

GP muttered a quick excuse—“I’m going for a walk”—and was out the door before anyone could stop him. He kept his head low and his hoodie pulled up as he made a beeline to the nearest merch store. Once there, he marched right past the Red Bull side and straight to the Ferrari section.

He found it instantly. The #16 Charles Leclerc model car.

Then he went rogue.

Mini Ferrari hoodie. Mini tracksuit. Cap. Shirt. Even a tiny red helmet replica that came with a display stand. For pants, he picked soft ones Maxy could run around in. For shoes—he hesitated, then grabbed the same Red Bull sneakers Max liked. A bit of balance, at least.

By the time he left the store, his arms were full and the Ferrari logos were hidden under his jacket. He practically sprinted back.

When he re-entered the room, everyone looked up.

“Maxy,” GP called gently.

Maxy popped up from his track setup like a gopher. “PIPI!!!”

GP knelt down and began pulling out the items one by one. “I brought you something.”

The second the red flashed in Maxy’s eyes, he squealed, bouncing in place.

“CHA-LI SHIRT!!! Is fow me?! Is Maxy’s?!”

GP smiled. “All yours, buddy.”

Charles shook his head in awe. “You’ll be disowned by Red Bull by sunset.”

“Worth it,” GP muttered.

But then—GP sniffed the air and grimaced. Maxy’s curls were slightly sticky, and his little fingers had leftover cookie crumbs stuck in the creases.

“Alright, you little gremlin. Bath time.”

Maxy’s face crumpled instantly. “NOOOOOOO. Maxy NO WANNA.”

“I’ll show you the hoodie again if you cooperate.”

Maxy narrowed his eyes like a tiny mafia boss. “Both hoodie and cap?”

GP sighed. “Both. Deal?”

Maxy crossed his arms. “…Pwomise?”

“Promise.”

Ten minutes of splashing, protesting, and suds later, GP emerged with a clean, still slightly grumpy Maxy in a towel. He dressed him in the Red Bull shoes, comfy pants, a tiny Max Verstappen shirt (which earned an immediate pout), and then quickly layered Charles’ hoodie over it. The Charles cap completed the look.

Maxy looked in the mirror, spun once, then ran out of the room shouting, “MAXY LOOK LIKE CHA-LI!!!”

Charles choked on his tea laughing.

Ollie wiped tears. “Oh my god. This is too good.”

Kimi simply snapped a photo. “Icon.”

Maxy ran to each of them, showing off his outfit with pure glee. “Wook! Issa Cha-li hat! Maxy d’iver now!! Vroom!!”

The joy was infectious.

Later, after Max had calmed and gone back to zooming his cars along the floor, Charles joined him and sat cross-legged beside him.

He waited a moment, then asked gently, “Hey, Maxy?”

Max looked up, cheeks still pink from the bath. “Hmm?”

“Did you thank Pipi yet? For the toys… and your new clothes?”

Max paused. His eyes drifted to GP, who was cleaning up again in the background.

“Uhhh…” he blinked. “I finked it in my head ‘gain…”

Charles raised an eyebrow with a soft smile.

Maxy bit his lip, then scrambled up and ran over to GP.

“Pipi!”

GP looked down. “What is it, Maxy?”

“Fank you fow da Cha-li shirt… an’ da toy car… an’ da hoodie too. You da bestest Red Bull.”

GP knelt and pulled him into a warm hug. “You’re welcome, my little Ferrari traitor.”

Maxy giggled. “Maxy love you even if you team boss.”

Charles grinned from the floor. “He’s got you wrapped around his tiny little finger.”

GP didn’t deny it.

And honestly, he didn’t mind one bit.

 Operation Baby Bull

The lights of Las Vegas never slept, and neither did the paddock.

Security was tighter than ever, with whispers growing louder by the hour—Where was Max Verstappen? Red Bull’s golden boy had vanished, and everyone from engineers to FIA representatives to Christian Horner himself was demanding answers. But the only people who truly knew the answer were currently hiding in the back room of the Red Bull motorhome, watching a four-year-old version of Max Verstappen snore softly with a half-eaten biscuit in one hand and Charles Leclerc’s hoodie swallowing him whole.

Charles leaned against the table with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he watched the boy sleep. “We’re insane.”

Ollie, sitting cross-legged on the floor, glanced up with a smirk. “No, we’re heroes. Slightly illegal ones, maybe, but heroes.”

Kimi, seated near the door, was double-checking the contents of a small duffel bag. “If we’re doing this, we need to be airtight. One wrong move and it’s not just Max’s career on the line—it’s ours too.”

GP stood with arms folded, pacing. His face was unreadable, but his eyes betrayed the weight he carried. Max—his Max, his golden boy, his headache, his pride—had somehow turned into a wide-eyed, clingy, Ferrari-obsessed toddler overnight. And now it was up to them to make sure no one ever found out.

“Alright,” GP finally said, stopping mid-stride. “Here’s the plan.”

Phase One: The Kids Go First

“Kimi and Ollie, you’re up first. You’re leaving the paddock with Max.”

Kimi looked up. “I’ll prep Charles’ car and take everything he’ll need—clothes, toys, the damn blanket, snacks, juice, even the baby shampoo.”

Ollie nodded. “I’ll carry him. He trusts me. Besides, people are used to seeing me walk out with gear or fan gifts. I can wrap him in a blanket and say it’s for a friend’s kid.”

GP continued. “The key is timing. Security shift changes happen every 45 minutes. We go on the next turnover. Keep your heads down, act normal.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “And if they ask questions?”

Ollie grinned. “Then Max will flash those giant toddler eyes and say ‘I wanna go home,’ and no one’s gonna stop us.”

Phase Two: The Public Drama

“Once you’re out,” GP said, turning to Charles, “we make it believable. We stage a fake argument—me yelling at you, saying you’re in the way, that the garage is shutting down, whatever. You storm off, all dramatic, and say you’re going back to your hotel.”

Charles quirked a brow. “So I get to yell at you in public?”

“You’ll enjoy it too much,” GP muttered.

Charles shrugged. “I am a Ferrari driver trapped in Red Bull drama. The angst is natural.”

“After that,” GP continued, “you head straight to your room, collect all of Max’s leftover stuff—his toothbrush, baby socks, sketchpad, that stupid toy airplane he tried to launch off the balcony…”

“He said it was an emergency flight,” Charles muttered fondly.

“You meet Kimi and Ollie at the hotel. Got it?”

Charles nodded. “Loud and clear.”

Phase Three : The Decoy

“I’m taking Max’s jet to the Netherlands. Alone,” GP said.

Charles blinked. “Alone?”

“I’ll wear his hoodie, shades, and keep the security staff at a distance. No photos. Just enough for people to assume it’s him traveling quietly. The team will log the manifest, and it’ll show Max Verstappen departing Vegas as expected.”

“You’re… pretending to be him,” Ollie muttered, eyes wide.

GP shrugged. “Not the first time I’ve cleaned up his messes. Just never while impersonating him.”

“Iconic,” Kimi deadpanned.

Phase Four : Enter the Cover Story

“I’ll land in the Netherlands tomorrow morning,” GP continued. “Sophie and Victoria will be waiting. We’ll make sure I’m seen from a distance—neighbors, a friendly barista, whoever. People will think Max flew home for a break.”

Kimi nodded slowly. “And they’ll back the story?”

GP hesitated. “They’re doing it for this Max,” he said quietly, eyes drifting to the child now awake and playing quietly with toy cars. “They’ll do anything to protect him. Even lie for the real one.”

“And the clothes?” Charles asked.

GP reached for the second duffel bag. “Victoria packed a full suitcase. Onesies, socks, those weird tiny shoes, pajamas with cartoon bulls. I’ll take them to Qatar.”

Charles blinked. “Why Qatar?”

“That’s where we’ll regroup,” GP explained. “Once it’s clear Max has ‘been home,’ I’ll quietly fly from Belgium to Doha. You’ll already be there with him by then. We’ll say he traveled separately to rest before the next race.”

“And the baby version?” Ollie asked.

Kimi snorted. “We’ll keep him hidden and loved. Like a Ferrari-loving gremlin.”

Maxy, now spinning in circles with his toy, shouted, “I go FAST!”

GP glanced down with a soft smile. “You will, little man. Just not yet.”

Phase Five: The Great Disappearance

As midnight approached, the motorhome buzzed with fake tension. GP packed Max’s usual travel backpack, complete with headphones, snacks, and his personal iPad. Every detail had to scream Max Verstappen, even though the real one was currently trying to climb Charles like a jungle gym.

They coordinated their movements perfectly. GP left through the paddock’s secured VIP corridor, sunglasses on, hoodie low. Security nodded, none the wiser. Max Verstappen was tired, they assumed. Burnt out. Nothing to see here.

An hour later, the jet departed—destination: Netherlands. Onboard was GP, seat reclined, pretending to nap behind dark glasses. The flight crew didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Everything had been arranged.

The Great Escape Begins

Kimi and Ollie slipped out into the evening lights of Las Vegas, nodding casually to security. Kimi chatted with a logistics staffer about post-race schedules while Ollie carried the "gift-wrapped bundle" out through the back entrance. No one batted an eye. Just two F2 drivers calling it a night.

Inside, GP gave Charles a look.

“Ready?”

Charles cracked his neck. “Let’s make it Oscar-worthy.”

The Argument

“You’re not helping!” GP barked, loud enough for the media pen to hear.

“You’re not even listening!” Charles snapped. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Then leave!”

“Maybe I will!”

“Good!”

Charles turned on his heel, muttering a loud, angry, “Screw this,” as he pushed through the door and vanished into the shadows. A few Red Bull staffers gave GP a wide-eyed look.

He waved them off with a scowl. “He’s just dramatic.”

Back at the Hotel

Ten minutes later, in the quiet of Ollie and Kimi’s shared hotel room, Maxy was unwrapped and free again, crawling around with his toy Ferrari, giggling as he raced it across the floor.

“Vroom! Cha-li win! Maxy zoom zoom!”

Kimi sat on the edge of the bed, watching fondly as the child threw himself into his imaginary race.

“Think he’ll be okay?” Ollie asked.

Kimi nodded slowly. “He’s with us. That’s what matters.”

And somewhere, across the city, a Red Bull jet lifted off into the night—GP Lambiase on board.

Just as planned.

Chapter Text

The wind in the Netherlands was different.

It wasn’t the hot buzz of Vegas or the stale climate of an F1 paddock. It was soft. Cool. Familiar. A whisper that brushed against Gianpiero Lambiase’s face as he stepped off the private jet onto Dutch soil.

He kept the hoodie on. Dark sunglasses. Shoulders hunched the way Max’s would be after a long, tiring weekend. Every movement had been rehearsed in his head a hundred times. From the side profile, he could pass for Max at a glance. That was all they needed—glances.

A few strategically positioned Red Bull crew members lingered around, greeting “Max” loudly for the cameras. Just enough noise to be seen. Not enough to be heard.

It was all smoke and mirrors.

He didn’t speak.

He nodded.

He walked quickly, suitcase in tow—one filled with all of Victoria’s kids’ clothes, the ones she had handpicked for Maxy.

Victoria was waiting by the terminal door, standing beside Sophie Verstappen.

For a moment, GP faltered.

They were both calm, composed, unreadable.

Victoria wore sunglasses, her arms crossed, posture militant. Sophie had her arms at her side, but her gaze pinned him with laser-sharp focus.

He had known both women for years.

Sophie Kumpen—the quiet storm. The matriarch who had seen her son rise, crash, rise again. And Victoria, Max’s godmother in everything but name. Protective, precise, and perhaps the only one besides GP who could stare Helmut Marko in the eye and not flinch.

And now they were staring at him.

Not at Max. Not really. They knew.

“GP,” Sophie said softly. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were steel.

He stopped walking. Dropped the act. Pulled off the sunglasses.

Sophie sighed and looked down, hand to her chest. Her eyes were glassy when they rose again.

Victoria stepped forward. “Where is he?”

GP didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he opened the suitcase and showed them the neatly packed child-sized clothes, some with little Verstappen logos still stitched inside.

Then he looked up, jaw clenched. “He’s okay. Safe. With Charles, Kimi, and Ollie. He thinks he’s four. He calls Charles ‘Cha-li’ and wants nothing to do with the color blue.”

Sophie blinked. Her knees nearly buckled. Victoria caught her by the elbow.

“He’s… four?” Sophie whispered, as if saying it aloud might make it real.

GP nodded slowly. “Mentally. Physically. Everything.”

“Does he… remember us?”

“Sometimes,” GP said. “There’s flashes. The way he stares at the sky. The way he walks with his hands behind his back. He hums the F1 theme when he plays with his toy cars.”

Victoria looked like she’d been punched.

“But he’s not our Max right now,” GP continued. “He doesn’t ask about racing. Or the championship. Or rivalries. He asks if he can have juice before bed. If ‘Cha-li’ will read him a story.”

Sophie lowered herself onto the airport bench. Her voice cracked when she said, “My son… forgot he was a man.”

Victoria swallowed thickly. “And the world?”

GP met her eyes. “They think he’s here. That he’s resting. You’ll be seen with me. Enough for people to assume it’s Max. After today, I’ll vanish. Head to Belgium. Then Qatar.”

“You’re taking the weight,” Victoria murmured.

“I’ve always taken the weight,” GP said.

There was silence. Heavy. Sharp.

Sophie finally stood again, brushing her palms over her coat. “Can we do this? Play along?”

“We have to,” GP said. “For now.”

Victoria reached for the suitcase and zipped it back up. “He’ll need these when he comes back.”

“If he comes back,” Sophie added quietly, then shook her head. “No. When.”

GP offered a small, sad smile. “Max Verstappen never stays down for long.”

“Neither does Maxy,” Victoria whispered.

The three of them stood there, flanked by a few cameras, the wind tugging gently at their coats. From a distance, the illusion was perfect. The grieving family, reuniting with a worn and weary champion. Behind the doors, there would be no cameras. No script. Just heartbreak, and planning, and the quiet fire of love burning stubbornly through the unknown.

Later that night, Victoria texted Charles a photo: the suitcase, open in GP’s hotel room. A folded hoodie, a onesie with the Dutch lion, and a note she slipped inside the pocket.

It read:
"You are loved—even when you forget how."

The paddock was in chaos.

It had been days since Max Verstappen’s disappearance, and despite every search effort—from CCTV reviews to private investigators—no one had found a single trace of the reigning World Champion. Red Bull’s headquarters were in panic mode. Rumors flew, media pressure mounted, and the FIA grew restless.

Then came the blow no one expected.

Sophie Kumpen, Max’s mother, issued an official statement:

Following the chaos during the Las Vegas Grand Prix weekend, Max Verstappen was found in his hotel, unresponsive. Doctors have since confirmed it was due to an unexplained medical event. After much consideration and with support from his family and his partner Charles, Max will sit out the rest of the 2025 season to focus on his health and recovery. We ask for privacy and understanding during this time. We thank everyone for their concern.

No details. No explanation. Just an end.

Red Bull lost it.

Helmut Marko was livid. Christian Horner was stone-faced in every press conference. Sergio tried to smooth over with vague words like “family emergency” and “personal matters,” but it wasn’t enough. The silence was deafening. The team—hell, the sport—was desperate for answers.

And they weren’t the only ones.

Team principals gathered like sharks. Mercedes, Aston Martin, McLaren, even Williams—everyone wanted to know the truth. But their anger paled in comparison to the heartbreak inside Red Bull’s garage. For years, Max had been their anchor. Their golden boy. Their champion.

Now?

He had vanished.

Even Ferrari wasn’t immune.

Fred Vasseur finally cornered Charles outside the Ferrari hospitality, voice low and edged with quiet frustration.

“We gave you everything you asked for, Charles. Extra support. Privacy. Discretion. And now this?”

Charles met his gaze calmly. “I know.”

“Where is Max?”

Charles’ jaw tightened.

Fred softened, just a little. “You know they’re saying all kinds of things, right? That he ran off. That he’s in rehab. That he’s dead.”

Charles exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay steady. “He’s not dead.”

“Then tell me something. Anything. You’re his partner, aren’t you?”

Charles looked him in the eye.

“I can’t tell you what’s happening right now,” he said quietly. “But I can tell you this: your support hasn’t been in vain. You helped in ways you can’t even imagine.”

Fred’s brow furrowed.

“All I’m asking,” Charles continued, voice steady, “is that you trust me. Trust us.”

Fred studied him for a long moment.

He saw the exhaustion in Charles’ eyes—the weight of carrying something far bigger than a secret.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Fred said finally.

“So do I,” Charles replied, and turned away.

Back in their hotel suite, Maxy was curled up in GP’s hoodie again, tracing tiny circles on the helmet Charles had let him hold. Unaware that the world was in an uproar over his absence. Oblivious to the headlines, the meetings, the chaos.

“Cha-li,” Maxy said sleepily as Charles walked in.

“Yes, Maxy?”

“I no like being ‘gone.’ It makes Pipi sad.”

Charles crouched beside him, stroking his hair. “I know, little lion. But you’re safe now. And that’s what matters.”

Outside, the world burned with questions.

Inside, a child smiled with trust.

And Charles Leclerc held onto that smile like it was the only truth that mattered.

The hotel room in Qatar was warm, hushed, lit only by the flickering glow of a children's cartoon playing on a tablet. Maxy was nestled in Charles’ lap, swaddled in a red Ferrari hoodie that looked three sizes too big. The little boy's fists clutched the drawstrings, and every time Charles shifted to reach for something, Maxy tensed.

He wouldn’t let Charles go.

The Zoom call was active on the table, the screen showing Sophie Verstappen, seated beside her daughter Victoria and Victoria’s husband, Tom. They were calling in from the Netherlands, the background clearly framed to give off the impression of normalcy. Subtle, quiet, perfectly staged.

Just a few minutes before the call began, Victoria’s husband—dressed in a hoodie and cap—walked past one of the front windows while pretending to talk on the phone. It was all part of the act.

A nearby photographer got his shot.

“From the outside,” Victoria whispered, “it still looks like Max is home.”

Tom crossed his arms. “Yeah, but it won’t hold forever. You saw the article from De Telegraaf—they’re already speculating about why he hasn’t posted anything.”

Sophie’s gaze wasn’t on the media storm. It was on the boy onscreen—her son, though in a way she’d never imagined. Maxy was sucking lightly on one thumb, the other hand clinging tightly to the fabric of Charles’ shirt. It was heartbreakingly familiar.

“He’s different,” Victoria said quietly. “The way he moves. The way he watches Charles.”

Tom added, “He’s attached to him. It’s not just comfort. It’s something deeper.”

“You didn’t see what happened earlier,” Victoria said. “When Charles tried to go outside just to speak with Ollie. Maxy cried so hard he couldn’t breathe. We thought he’d pass out.”

Sophie went still.

Her voice was quiet, but the weight behind it filled the room. “Max was like that. When he was that age. He hated being apart from me—even for a few minutes. If I had to leave for a grocery run or even just stepped out, he’d scream until he went hoarse. He’d hit the floor, crying, and sometimes he choked on his own breath.”

Victoria swallowed hard. “Then we can’t take him away from Charles.”

“No,” Sophie said firmly. “We won’t. He chose Charles. And right now? That’s the safest thing in his world.”

They all turned their eyes to the screen, where Maxy had curled further into Charles’ chest.

“He calls him Cha-li,” Victoria murmured.

Sophie smiled faintly. “He used to call his teddy that. The one I brought back from Monaco. Said ‘Teddy Cha-li keeps me safe.’”

As the call drew to a close, Maxy stirred in Charles’ lap. His eyes blinked at the screen.

“Mama?” he whispered, pointing at Sophie.

Her voice cracked. “Yes, sweetheart. Mama’s here.”

“Pipi?” he asked.

GP leaned into the camera. “Right here, buddy. I’ll see you real soon.”

Maxy gave a small nod, then curled back into Charles, small fingers twisting into his sleeve like they belonged there.

“He wouldn’t let me out of his sight again today,” Charles said, voice thick off-camera. “He cried until he choked.”

Tom looked away, blinking fast. Victoria reached for her mother’s hand and whispered, “It’s like we’ve been given Max back. But this time, he has someone who won’t leave him behind.”

And Sophie, with tears in her eyes, whispered back, “This time, we protect him better.”

Once they ended the zoom call, GP was back in his rental getting ready to drive to Belgium. GP exhaled for the first time when he was inside the car and beyond any lenses or curious eyes. The hoodie came off. The cap was tossed into the backseat. He drove alone across the border to Belgium, taking back roads and unmarked detours to avoid detection. In the passenger seat, Max’s childhood monkey sat buckled in next to the duffel bag.

Brussels International Airport was quiet in the early morning. GP had arranged everything under a pseudonym. No one batted an eye at the man traveling alone with children’s clothing and a well-worn stuffed animal tucked into his carry-on.

When the wheels of the Qatar-bound flight finally lifted from the ground, GP leaned back in his seat and let the silence stretch.

He thought of Charles. Of the way Maxy clung to him like gravity. Of the way the boy sobbed when Charles left the room. Of how, in a strange and miraculous way, love had found its way back to Max—in smaller shoes, in simpler words, in one familiar soul.

He closed his eyes and whispered to himself, “Hang in there, buddy. I’m bringing your whole world back to you.”

The Qatar heat rolled in heavy waves across the tarmac as GP stepped off the plane. The morning sun was low, but already sharp against the runway. In his arms, the duffel bag pulled on his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to feel it. He was scanning—eyes darting, searching.

The airport staff had arranged a private exit, no press, no questions. It was quiet. But GP’s heartbeat wasn’t.

Charles had texted earlier:
We’re waiting in the hotel. Room 314. He’s been asking about you since breakfast.

GP didn’t wait for his own suitcase. Just the bag with Maxy’s things and the monkey tucked carefully into the top.

The hotel suite was cool, drawn shades casting soft shadows across the carpet. Charles was pacing, barefoot, still in joggers and a loose white tee. But he froze when the door clicked.

“GP?” he called, tension crackling like a live wire.

Then—

Small footsteps.

Fast ones.

“PIPI!” Maxy’s voice cracked the stillness like lightning.

He barreled into the room, barefoot and in red pajamas, his curls wild from a nap. Charles turned just in time to step aside as Maxy launched toward the man holding the monkey.

GP dropped the bag. Caught him midair.

“Ohh, Maxy!” he gasped, arms locking around the boy like instinct. “There’s my little man!”

Maxy buried his face in GP’s neck, his little arms wrapped tight. “You come back! You come back for me!”

GP held him tighter. “Always, buddy. I told you. Always.”

Charles watched from a few steps away, chest tight, eyes stinging. Maxy was trembling—not from fear, but relief. His small fists gripped the collar of GP’s shirt like he was afraid to let go.

“I got your monkey,” GP said softly, reaching down with one hand to pull it from the bag. “Look. He missed you too.”

Maxy looked down and squealed, grabbing the toy and hugging it to his chest before pressing it against GP’s cheek. “Say hi, Monkey. Say hi to Pipi.”

GP gave the plush a little nod. “Hey, Monkey. Thanks for keeping him safe.”

Maxy turned and reached toward Charles. “Cha-li! Look! Monkey came back too!”

Charles stepped closer, his hand brushing Maxy’s curls. “I see him, mon petit. He’s brave—just like you.”

GP eventually sat on the edge of the bed, Maxy still on his lap. The duffel bag was now open—pajamas folded, favorite toys laid out. The Lightning McQueen shirt was tugged on over the pajamas because Maxy insisted. He pointed out his sandals, his sun hat, the lion plush—every item earning a gasp of joy or a soft “my favorite one!”

“This is everything,” Charles murmured, crouching beside them.

“Everything he left behind,” GP said, brushing Maxy’s hair back. “He wanted to come back. In every way.”

Maxy suddenly cupped Charles’ cheeks in his small hands. “You stay now? You no go?”

Charles blinked fast. “No, Maxy. I stay. I promise.”

The boy gave a decisive nod, then pulled GP’s hand to his own cheek, holding it there like a seal. “Pipi and Cha-li. Both stay.”

“We’re right here,” GP whispered. “And we’re not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

Fernando Alonso was many things—ruthless, relentless, brilliant. But above all, he was observant.

It had started as a feeling. A ripple in the paddock that didn’t quite settle. The official statement about Max felt… too clean. Too curated. Fernando had been racing long enough to smell PR spin when it was cooked too perfectly.

Max Verstappen, sidelined with a “medical event”? Cared for by “his family and partner”? The words were technically sound. But the silences between them—those were screaming.

So Fernando waited. Watched. And listened.

He noticed the way Red Bull operated in Max’s absence. Too frantic, too defensive. He noticed how Charles seemed both calmer and more frayed, a contradiction that didn’t fit unless you were hiding something colossal. He saw the way GP’s public appearances were brief, scripted, a ghost wearing Max’s shadow.

And then there was the small thing—an almost laughable thing, if you didn’t know Max well.

During a technical debrief, Fernando caught a young Aston Martin engineer mumbling to himself, scrolling through Reddit.

“They say he’s dead,” the kid whispered. “Or like, in a coma. Someone on Tumblr says he time-traveled. God, the fans are unhinged.”

Fernando blinked slowly and walked away.

But he couldn’t unhear it.

Time-traveled. Dead. A coma.

He laughed about it in the quiet of his hotel room that night. He laughed until he didn’t.

Because then he remembered the Monaco weekend. The way Max had stared off into the clouds just before FP3, like he was trying to remember a dream he hadn’t woken from yet.

“Didn’t sleep last night,” Max had said then. “Had a weird dream. I was small again. Tiny. I think I was in a treehouse.”

Fernando hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

But now…

Now he wasn’t sure.

The Qatar paddock was brutal—hot, dry, its edges always sharp. Fernando sat alone in the Aston Martin hospitality, sipping cold water and reviewing sector data. But his eyes kept drifting toward the Ferrari suite.

Charles was late. Again.

When the Monegasque finally arrived, he looked like he’d barely slept. Fernando watched him laugh off a question from Carlos, smile faintly at the team chef, and disappear into the sim room.

Ten minutes later, Fernando followed.

Charles didn’t hear him enter. He was staring blankly at the monitor, a practice lap paused mid-corner. His hands were on his knees. He wasn’t breathing normally.

“Leclerc.”

Charles flinched.

Fernando didn’t sit. Didn’t cross his arms. Just watched.

“I’m not here to threaten you,” he said quietly. “Or expose anything.”

Charles stared at the screen. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Trying to figure out how a man disappears from the face of the Earth but leaves behind so many fingerprints.”

Silence.

Fernando continued, softer now. “You’re protecting something. Or someone.”

Charles closed his eyes. “I’m protecting Max.”

“Not our Max,” Fernando said. “Not the one with three titles and an impossible throttle map.”

Charles opened his eyes.

“You’ve seen him,” Fernando said. “Haven’t you?”

It wasn’t a question.

Charles didn’t speak. But he didn’t deny it either.

Fernando sat then, across from him. His voice dropped to a near-whisper.

“I don’t care about the press. I don’t care what Red Bull says. I care that a driver I respect has vanished, and the man who loves him looks like he’s unraveling thread by thread.”

Charles swallowed. “He’s not gone.”

Fernando tilted his head.

“He’s just… smaller now,” Charles said. “In body. In mind. He doesn’t remember most of it. He barely remembers racing. But he remembers me. GP. His family. And somehow… he still loves all of it. Just differently.”

Fernando stared.

Then said, softly, “He went back.”

Charles nodded. “Somehow.”

A long silence.

Then: “Is he scared?”

“Only when I leave the room.”

Fernando didn’t ask how it happened. Not yet. He was too seasoned to chase answers before they were ready.

Instead, he leaned forward. “What do you need from me?”

Charles blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” Fernando’s voice was steady. “You’re not doing this alone anymore.”

Charles looked down at his hands. “You believe me?”

“No,” Fernando said. “But I believe him. And if he chose you, even now, it’s for a reason.”

Charles exhaled. “We’re trying to keep him safe. Quiet. Until we can figure out if this is temporary. If he’ll… come back.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Charles’s voice cracked. “Then we raise him. And this time, we do it right.”

Fernando’s eyes softened.

“Well,” he said after a pause. “That boy’s lucky.”

Charles blinked. “Maxy?”

“No,” Fernando said, standing. “You.”

Charles looked up, stunned.

Fernando headed for the door, pausing just before he left.

“When he’s ready to see another familiar face,” he said, “let me know.”

And with that, he disappeared into the heat.

Later that night, Charles sent GP a text.

“Fernando knows. I didn’t tell him everything. But he wants to help.”

GP responded three minutes later.

“Good. We’ll need him. Max always loved Nando.”

“Even now?” Charles typed.

“Especially now.”

“Why?”

“When Max was four, he told Victoria he wanted to ‘drive forever, like Nando.’ Said Nando was a knight who never quit.”

 

Charles set the phone down, eyes damp.

In the next room, Maxy was curled up in bed, the monkey tucked under one arm, his other hand resting on Charles’ hoodie. He was whispering to it, barely audible.

“Cha-li stay. Pipi stay. Nando stay too.”

Charles didn’t ask how he knew.

He just whispered back, “Yes, lion. We all stay.”

And across the paddock, Fernando Alonso looked up at the stars, the desert wind tugging at his jacket, and smiled.

Max Verstappen was still racing.

Just in a different way now.

And Fernando would be there at the finish line.

The apartment was dim and quiet, washed in late-afternoon gold. Maxy was napping. GP had said this was the best time — twilight, when the boy usually woke slowly, still pliable, not quite wired yet with the boundless energy he carried in the mornings.

Fernando stepped inside, carrying a small stuffed animal in a plain brown bag. A gift, though he hadn't called it that aloud. It was a soft dragon, green with red wings. The kind of creature you could believe in, if your world had already broken the rules of time.

Charles met him by the doorway. His expression was tight, anxious. “He doesn’t always react well to new people.”

“I’m not new,” Fernando said gently. “Just a different kind of old.”

Charles gave a faint smile and led him through.

The living room was scattered with soft chaos: a small toy Ferrari sat on the edge of the couch, its wheels scuffed from use. Crayons littered the coffee table beside a half-colored drawing of a racetrack. In the corner, a pile of fleece blankets shifted.

A small figure sat cross-legged inside them, blinking sleepily. Tousled brown-blond curls, oversized Red Bull socks, and a sleepy scowl that was unmistakably Max.

Fernando’s heart clenched.

He didn’t show it.

“Hallo, kleiner Löwe,” he said quietly.

The boy looked up at the voice. His eyes were wide, not scared — just cautious.

Then a pause. A blink. And he said, shyly: “Nando?”

Charles froze.

Fernando smiled. “Sí, pequeñito. It’s me.”

Maxy stood up, slow and cautious. Then padded over barefoot, dragging his monkey behind him. He stopped about three feet away and tilted his head, scrutinizing.

“You look… big... old like pipi”

Fernando chuckled. “And you look very small. like a very bug”

That earned a smile and a giggle. Tiny, but real. “You talk like Pipi.”

“Pipi always was the smart one,” Fernando said.

The boy stepped closer, then paused. “Are you mad at me?”

The question struck like lightning.

Fernando knelt, eye level now. “Why would I be mad?”

Maxy bit his lip. “Because I left. Because I forgot. I forgot lots of things.”

Fernando reached out and very gently offered the stuffed dragon.

“Sometimes forgetting isn’t your fault. Sometimes it’s just part of the story.”

The boy took the dragon in both hands, reverently. His voice was soft. “He’s scary.”

“He’s brave,” Fernando corrected. “Like you.”

Maxy pressed the dragon to his chest. Then — to everyone’s quiet astonishment — he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Fernando’s neck.

Fernando froze for only half a second before returning the hug. The boy was warm. Small. Solid in that way that children were — soft edges, fast heartbeats.

“Thank you for coming,” Maxy whispered.

Fernando closed his eyes.

“I always would,” he said.

Later, after Maxy had gone to play with his racetrack — lining up tiny replicas of cars he didn’t fully remember once piloting — Fernando sat with GP and Charles at the kitchen counter.

“He’s different,” Fernando said, stirring his tea. “But the eyes are the same.”

Charles nodded.

GP said nothing for a long moment. Then: “You know he asked for you three nights ago?”

Fernando blinked.

“He told Charles, ‘I dreamed I was in a rocket ship, and Nando was there too. He said don’t be afraid of stars.’”

Fernando stared into the tea. It suddenly felt very still in the room.

“I’m staying,” he said finally.

GP looked up. “What?”

“I’ll base myself here. I don’t need to be in Spain. Not right now. If he’s going to wake up one day and remember something dangerous, I want to be close. Just in case.”

Charles whispered, “Do you think he’ll go back?”

Fernando shook his head. “I don’t know. But I think, wherever he lands, he deserves people who remember who he was.”

He turned toward the living room, where Maxy had just made a car fly off a pillow ramp, shrieking with delight.

“And who’ll love him for who he is now.”

That night, as Charles tucked Maxy in, the boy blinked up and whispered, “Nando stay?”

“Yes, lion,” Charles said. “He’s staying.”

Maxy yawned, his dragon squished under his arm. “Good. He’s the bravest knight.”

Charles ran a hand through the curls. “So are you.”

“No,” Maxy murmured, already drifting, “I’m just a lion.”

And in the hallway, unseen, Fernando Alonso smiled.

Chapter Text

The days leading to the next grand prix grew longer, quieter.

Maxy was thriving in a way none of them had dared hope for. He was still small—four years old in frame, maybe five in energy—but his mind was sharpening. He’d started asking more questions: about tracks, about cars, about “the other Max.” Sometimes it was playful—“Did big Maxy also like pancakes?”—and sometimes it cracked through, sudden and hard, like lightning in clear skies.

“Did I die?”

The first time he asked, it was to GP. Quietly. Over a puzzle.

“No,” GP had said, calm but firm. “You changed. That’s all.”

Maxy had nodded, solemn. “Okay.”

But he didn’t forget the question.

Neither did Fernando.

They built routines. Fernando started bringing Maxy tiny gifts—not toys, exactly, but little bits of himself. A spare race glove, a faded cap from 2005, a miniature replica of the Renault he once drove. He never called it mentoring. He didn’t have to. Maxy lit up when “Nando” arrived. Sometimes he clung. Sometimes he simply sat beside him, drawing quietly while Fernando read sector data.

Charles watched it all, heart full and aching.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said one evening as they washed dishes, Maxy humming in the living room.

Fernando shrugged. “You don’t.”

“But—”

“He’s Max,” Fernando said. “Even like this. I couldn’t walk away.”

There were moments when the illusion cracked—like when Maxy stood too still, eyes unfocused, as if caught between now and something else. Or when he muttered words that didn’t belong in a child’s mouth: “Mid-corner balance… too sharp on exit…”

Fernando had recorded one of those moments. Played it back later. Listened to the child’s voice whispering telemetry like a ghost remembering the cockpit.

They didn’t know what it meant. But it scared them.

Still, Maxy laughed more than he wept now. He colored full circuits with GP. He called Charles “Cha-li” and reached for his hand before crossing the kitchen floor.

He curled up next to Fernando during storms.

And one night, half-asleep, he whispered, “I’m gonna race again.”

Fernando didn’t respond.

Not because he didn’t believe him.

But because he did.

It started with a noise.

"PAPA! PAPA CHA LI" 

A toy, dropped in the bed. Late. Loud. Enough to wake the room.

Charles woke instantly. He found Maxy sitting up on their bed, fists clenched in the fabric of his pajama shirt, breathing too fast.

“Maxy?” he whispered, turning him towards Charles. 

The boy didn’t answer.

Charles touched his shoulder. Maxy flinched.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s me. You’re safe.”

But Maxy’s eyes were wide—too wide. Not sleepy. Not here.

“Too fast,” he said. “They made it too fast.”

“What did?”

Maxy’s lip trembled. “The sim. It wasn’t real. It was off. I told them. Pipi said wait, but then I was already—”

He broke off. Pressed his hands to his ears. “The brakes didn’t catch.”

Charles felt his blood chill. “What sim?”

Maxy’s voice was barely a whisper now.

“Zandvoort.” GP sleepily added. GP was staying in the adjacent door. He heard Maxy crying so he immediately went to the couple. 

Charles nearly called for GP, but Maxy suddenly grabbed his arm. Tight.

“There were two of me,” he said. “One in the car. One watching. I hit the wall.”

Charles froze. “What wall?”

Maxy’s breath hitched. “But I didn’t die. I woke up. But not right. I was here. I was this.”

His hands were shaking now. “I don’t like it, Cha-li. It wasn’t a dream. It was… scary.”

Charles wrapped his arms around him. “Shhh. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t.

Because when Charles looked up, Fernando was already in the doorway, silent and pale.

And GP, who’d come from the kitchen, muttered, “That session at Zandvoort. The test sim. Before Austria.”

Fernando looked over. “What happened?”

GP hesitated. Then: “Telemetry glitch. Car went hard into the barrier. No crash in real life. Max said he felt dizzy after. Like he lost time.”

Charles swallowed. “What if he didn’t just lose it?”

No one spoke.

In Maxy’s small hands, the sleeves of his Red Bull pajamas were damp with sweat. His dragon was dropped on the floor behind him.

“I want to go back,” Maxy said softly. “But I think something’s waiting there.”

Fernando stepped forward and knelt.

“Then we don’t go back,” he said. “Not until you say we’re ready.”

Maxy looked at him, eyes haunted. “What if it comes here?”

Fernando didn’t flinch. “Then it deals with me.”

And for the first time since he’d returned as a child, Maxy smiled.

A small one.

But it held.

The Ferrari suite was quieter than usual — midday lull, just before race prep kicked up in earnest. Charles sat near the far window, phone in hand, Maxy asleep beside him on the couch, curled into his hoodie.

The child’s hair was slightly darker now, thanks to a gentle dye Victoria had sent. Nothing drastic — just enough to suggest a familial echo, not a carbon copy. Enough to suggest Luka.

Charles tapped the side of his phone and murmured, “Okay. It’s time.”

The screen blinked to life. Victoria’s face appeared — tired, but focused. Behind her, the faint hum of a playroom buzzed.

“What do you need me to do, Charles?” she asked, voice low. “You’re sure about this?”

“No,” Charles said honestly. “But we don’t have a choice anymore. There are too many eyes. If anyone sees him walking around the paddock, we can’t risk them connecting dots. Even if they think it’s just resemblance, the story writes itself.”

Victoria nodded slowly. “So… Luka.”

Charles took a breath. “Make a post. Something casual. Say Luka’s on school holiday and he’s staying with me until Christmas. That he’s been begging to see the cars up close. Maybe add a blurry photo. Enough to make it feel real.”

Victoria was quiet for a beat. “Won’t the real Luka ask questions?”

Charles’s lips twitched. “You said it yourself — he’s more into dinosaurs than downforce. You said it yourself, he doesn't like playing outside too much.”

Victoria sighed, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll handle it. Give me ten minutes.”

As the screen went dark, Maxy stirred beside him, murmuring sleepily, “Did vic say I get new name?”

Charles brushed hair off his forehead. “Yes, lion. You’re Luka now.”

Maxy blinked. “Like... a disguise?”

“Exactly,” Charles said. “Like a story we tell so you can stay safe.”

Maxy nodded solemnly. “Okay. But you still call me Maxy. Just you. Pipi too.”

Charles smiled. “Always.”

Twenty minutes later, the post went live.

@VictoriaVerstappen:
Luka’s officially on holiday mode — staying with Uncle Charles until Christmas. He says the paddock is too loud but the cars are “super cool.” Pray for Charles’s sanity 😂
(Attached was a sunlit photo of Maxy, slightly blurry, tugging a tiny Ferrari cap over his eyes. Just enough of a glimpse to plant the story — and quiet the storm before it ever built.)

Within the hour, the fans began commenting:

@f1obsessed: Wait, Max has a nephew?? Which cave am I living in

@leclercshands: Victoria’s kid looks EXACTLY like him omg clone theory revived

@paddocktea: So Luka is with Charles… 👀 Lestappen shippers wake up

@tracksidegossip: Imagine staying with Charles Leclerc until Christmas and then calling Max Verstappen ‘uncle’ I’d be insufferable. I will never shut up about it. 

@yellowflagged: This child is literally baby Max with Charles's fashion sense. I’m SCREAMING.

@gridwitch: Not to be dramatic but that photo just soft-launched an entire alternate universe where Max and Charles are co-parenting and I’m not okay.

@softpolepositions: Luka holding Charles’s hand in the paddock WHEN??? I need a blurry pap shot stat. For science.

@sunsetsector7: That boy looks more like Max than Max does. If this is Luka, then Luka is a Verstappen 2.0 and Charles is the upgrade package.

@chaoticchicane: I’m not saying they’re raising a secret child together. But I am saying I’d read 300k words of fanfic about it.

@leclercfanfiction: Imagine Charles reading bedtime stories and Max teaching the kid racing lines. I need to lie down and touch some grass.

A meme circulated within hours: A blurry Maxy in a Ferrari onesie being held by Charles, with the caption:
“Max Verstappen’s clone child and his Ferrari stepfather.”

Even a few journalists joked on Twitter:

@autosportElena: We asked for silly season. The universe gave us parental cosplay with Max and Charles. Fine by me.

Charles read the threads in silence later that night, phone glowing in the hotel dark. Across the room, Maxy was curled in his blanket nest, humming softly to his stuffed dragon.

From the bathroom door, Fernando leaned against the frame, arms crossed.

“You okay?” he asked.

Charles didn’t look up. “They’re… saying we’re like his parents.”

Fernando smirked. “You kind of are.”

Charles sighed. “It’s a game to them. A fantasy. But for us, it’s—”

Fernando cut in gently. “For you, it’s real. That’s why it matters.”

Charles nodded once. “I don’t want to lie forever.”

“You won’t,” Fernando said. “But for now, let them believe it’s fiction. It’ll protect the truth until Maxy’s ready.”

And in the quiet, Charles whispered, “He called me papa this morning.”

Fernando blinked.

“He didn’t mean to. He looked scared when he said it. Like he thought he was wrong.”

Fernando crossed the room and put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s not.”

GP skimmed the thread and let out a breath. It was working. For now at least. In his own room, GP was already preparing the next steps — planning paddock routes, briefing security, subtly aligning schedules to make sure “Luka” and any cameras never crossed wires.

But as Charles watched Maxy draw a racetrack on the back of a hotel notepad later that night — labeling each corner in shaky red crayon — he felt the edge of something heavier settle on his chest.

This lie was temporary.

But the boy wasn’t.

And soon, the world would want answers.

Chapter Text

The paddock was alive again—buzzing, clattering, a thousand conversations stitched into one great hum of anticipation. Cameras flashed as mechanics wheeled carts, reporters lined up near barriers, and fans leaned against fences craning for glimpses of their idols.

Charles adjusted his sunglasses, Maxy’s small hand tucked firmly into his own. The Ferrari cap sat snug on the boy’s head, brim low enough to shadow his eyes. Maxy had practiced in the mirror—how to wave like Luka, how to tug on Charles’s sleeve, how to look shy.

But it was still terrifying.

“Remember,” Charles murmured as they approached the gate, “you are Luka. You’re here because you like dinosaurs, and I promised you ice cream after.”

Maxy nodded, whispering, “Not cars.”

“Exactly. Not cars.”

The first test came sooner than expected. A group of journalists spotted them, voices rising. Charles forced a smile, his grip on Maxy steady but calm.

“Charles! Charles—who’s this little one?”

“Is this your nephew?”

Charles crouched slightly so his body blocked the boy from the worst of the flashes. “This is Luka,” he said evenly. “Max's nephew. He’s visiting me for the holiday.”

Maxy clung tighter. His eyes flickered—briefly too sharp, too knowing. Charles squeezed his hand gently: stay with me, lion.

“Luka, do you like racing?” one reporter pressed, leaning too far forward.

Maxy’s lips parted. For a moment, the answer was nearly out—something about apexes, or telemetry, or braking zones. But Fernando’s voice cut clean through.

“He likes chocolate,” Nando said smoothly from behind them, stepping into the circle with the effortless authority of a legend. His hand landed on Maxy’s cap, tilting it playfully. “And drawing. Tell them about your dragons, eh?”

Maxy blinked up at him, then nodded. “Dragons,” he echoed softly, holding on like the word was a lifeline.

The journalists laughed, charmed, and the questions shifted. Charles exhaled. Fernando’s hand lingered on Maxy’s shoulder, anchoring him.

They moved on quickly after that, but the close call rattled Charles. In the relative quiet of the hospitality suite, he knelt in front of Maxy.

“You almost said something else,” Charles whispered.

Maxy’s eyes filled—half guilty, half scared. “I forgot my name. I was… I was Max again.”

Charles’s chest ached. He pulled him close, whispering against his hair, “It’s alright. I’ve got you. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

But from the doorway, Fernando watched, frowning. Later, when Charles finally left to prep for FP1, Fernando sat with Maxy at the low table, crayons scattered around them.

“You know, little one,” Fernando said quietly, “sometimes it’s hard to live two lives. But the trick isn’t forgetting. It’s choosing which one to show.”

Maxy looked up at him, wide-eyed. “So I can still be Max?”

Fernando hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. But with us. Only with us. Out there—” He pointed toward the window, where the grandstands stretched, endless and bright. “Out there, you’re Luka. And Luka is safe.”

Maxy absorbed that in silence. Then, with surprising gravity, he whispered, “But what if Max wants to come back?”

"Max will come back bebe... just not when we are with people with cameras... Nando, Pipi and I can't protect you since we also need to race" 

The question lingered like smoke. Fernando had no easy answer.

That night, after the garage lights dimmed and the world quieted, GP pulled Charles aside. His voice was low, grave.

“Charles… I went back through the Zandvoort sim data. There’s something you need to see. The crash file—telemetry, biometric traces—it’s like… two people at once. Like Max stayed in the car, but someone else walked away.”

Charles’s blood ran cold. “You’re saying—”

“I’m saying,” GP cut in, “we’re running out of time to treat this like a game. Whatever happened that night… it’s not done with him.”

And in the next room, Maxy stirred in his sleep, whispering a single word into the dark.

“Wall.”

Daniel Ricciardo had been leaning on the rail near the entrance to hospitality earlier, sunglasses perched haphazardly, posture loose but eyes sharp. He’d seen the crowd of journalists swarm Charles, seen Fernando slide in like a shield, seen the tiny boy tug at Charles’s hand.

On the surface, it was nothing. Kids showed up in the paddock all the time. Teammates’ nieces, cousins, sponsor’s children—it was normal.

But something in Daniel’s chest twisted.

He watched the boy’s expression: the flicker too fast for most to catch. Fear, recognition, instinct. He’d seen that look before—on Max. That flash of calculation before a word, that way of pressing his lips tight when his brain was three steps ahead of his body.

And when the boy had nearly answered the reporter, Daniel’s stomach sank. That’s not Luka.

So he waited. Patient, grinning, the same way he used to bait Max into admitting he’d eaten the last packet of stroopwafels.

Later, when the noise of the day thinned out, Daniel found Charles by the espresso machine in Ferrari’s suite. Charles looked exhausted, the sort of exhaustion no coffee could touch.

“So,” Daniel started, casual but careful, “how’s babysitting duty?”

Charles’s shoulders stiffened. “It’s fine. Luka is… easy.”

“Uh-huh.” Daniel leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “Funny thing, though. I’ve met Luka. Real Luka. That kid’s allergic to noise and doesn’t say boo to random people. Today? That wasn’t the same kid.”

Charles turned, eyes narrowing. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Daniel replied softly, “you don’t have to lie to me.”

The silence stretched. Charles’s jaw worked, but no words came.

Daniel sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Look, mate, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t need the full story. But I know Max. Better than most. And that little guy today?” His voice broke, just slightly. “I don’t know how it happened or how it’s possible, but that was Max. I’d bet my last shoey on it.”

Charles’s throat tightened. “…it’s complicated.”

Daniel’s grin softened. “It’s Max. Of course it’s complicated.”

But Daniel wasn’t finished. He waited for his moment, and it came sooner than expected.

He caught them slipping out of hospitality—Charles balancing Maxy on his hip, GP trailing just behind, Fernando scanning the corridor like a hawk. Daniel stepped neatly into their path, his sunnies dangling from his fingers.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Uncle Charles and little Luka,” Daniel said, his grin wide but his voice steady. “Mind introducing me to the little guy?”

Charles froze. Fernando’s expression darkened instantly. GP’s jaw flexed.

But Daniel crouched to Maxy’s level, smile gentle now. “Hey there, champ. I’m David. David Coulthard. Nice to meet ya.”

Charles’s eyes widened a fraction—Daniel, what are you doing—

Maxy blinked up at him. Squinted. Hard. His whole face scrunched in concentration, studying the man in front of him.

Then, very solemnly, he said:

“No you’re not. You’re Dadan… Dadan Avocado.”

The silence was deafening.

GP made a sound suspiciously like a choke. Fernando pinched the bridge of his nose. Charles looked like he was about to pass out.

Daniel? Daniel just laughed—loud, unrestrained, the kind of laugh that cracked open the tension in the air. He clutched his stomach, nearly doubling over.

“Dadan Avocado?!” he wheezed. “Oh my god, mate, he knows me. It’s been years since he last called me that.”

Charles stammered, “He—he just—kids make things up—”

But Maxy tugged on Charles’s sleeve, still looking at Daniel. “He’s funny. He always laughs like that. Even when Maxy beats him on the sim.”

The world tilted for Charles.

Fernando muttered something in rapid Spanish under his breath, low and dangerous.

And Daniel straightened at last, wiping at his eyes, grin sharper now. He looked right at Charles.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s not Luka. Still want to lie to me, Charles?”

Charles’s pulse was racing. GP looked like he was about to combust. Fernando had crossed his arms, jaw working like he was holding back an entire storm in Spanish.

And Daniel—Daniel wasn’t even looking at Charles anymore. His eyes were fixed on Maxy, wide, almost vulnerable, like the kid had just peeled back a layer of his soul he hadn’t touched in years.

“Dadan… Avocado” Daniel repeated softly, a laugh tumbling out of him, but there was no bravado in it this time. No loud, cheeky punchline. Just disbelief.

Charles blinked, thrown. “It’s just—he’s a kid, Daniel. He—he makes things up, that’s all—”

But Daniel shook his head, chuckling low. “No, mate. He didn’t make that up. That’s… old. That’s ours.”

Years ago, back at Red Bull.

Max had been eighteen, still raw, sharp edges everywhere, his intensity often mistaken for arrogance. Daniel had walked into that partnership knowing one thing: if Max was going to survive Formula 1, he needed someone to teach him to breathe.

So Daniel did what Daniel did best—he teased him.

“Danny,” Max had called him first. Testing. Shortening his name like he was trying to figure out what stuck.

“Dan,” he tried next, sharper, when Daniel stole the last stroopwaffle in the driver’s room.

Then “Dandan,” muttered after losing yet another late-night sim race to him, voice tight with teenage frustration.

But the real turning point came thanks to a viral clip.

During a fan event, a kid—barely four years old—had tugged at Daniel’s sleeve and blurted on camera, “Are you Daniel… Avocado?” The internet exploded. Memes. Headlines. Avocado merch. Daniel laughed it off, leaning into the joke, but it became part of his identity in a way he never expected.

Max, of course, took it further.

The very next morning, in the garage, he’d greeted Daniel with a deadpan, “Good morning, Dadan Avocado.”

The mechanics had choked on their coffee. GP had snorted into his headset. And Daniel—Daniel had groaned loud enough to rattle the rafters.

“You little—don’t start that!”

But Max had only smirked, already walking away.

It stuck.

Everywhere. In the garage. Over the team radio. Whispered across the paddock with a cheeky grin. Even in private—especially in private. When Max was exhausted, strung too tight, Daniel would poke at him: “Come on, kid, lighten up. Your Dadan Avocado’s here.” And Max, despite himself, would crack the smallest smile.

For Daniel, it was more than a nickname. It was proof he’d broken through Max’s walls. That beneath the intensity, beneath Jos’s crushing expectations, Max was still a kid who wanted to laugh.

But the fun didn’t last forever.

When Max clinched his first world title, everything changed. Suddenly, he wasn’t the kid anymore—he was a champion. Red Bull wanted polish, seriousness, no more “childish” jokes. And Max… Max believed them.

That night, Daniel had tried anyway, clapping him on the back in celebration, eyes warm with pride. “You did it, mate. Your Dadan Avocado’s proud.”

Max’s smile had been thin, practiced. “Not now, Daniel.”

And just like that—the name was gone. Retired. Buried with the rest of Max’s youth.

And now—years later—Daniel was hearing it again. From a boy who should not exist.

Maxy had squinted up at him with those same sharp eyes, that same smirk, and declared it with all the certainty in the world.

“No you’re not. You’re Dadan. Dadan Avocado.”

The words hit Daniel like a gut punch.

His laugh bubbled out, wild and broken. “Oh my god—mate. You stopped calling me that when you became champion. Told me you had to ‘grow up.’ And now…” He rubbed a hand over his face, blinking hard. “Bloody hell, you remembered.”

Charles felt the world tilting under him. GP’s lips pressed into a thin line, giving nothing away. Fernando muttered something sharp under his breath in Spanish, though his eyes softened for just a moment.

Maxy only tugged on Charles’s sleeve, still studying Daniel with solemn seriousness far beyond his years.

“Dadan Avocado always makes Maxy laugh, sorry cha-li I know Im luka now... but dadan told maxy he doesn't like when maxy lied” he said simply, like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

And for Daniel Ricciardo—he didn’t need any more proof.

This was Max. His Max. His teammate. The kid he’d teased, protected, believed in. The kid who had grown too fast, too hard, too serious.

The kid who had just called him Dadan Avocado again.

Chapter Text

The engine roared in his ears.
Too loud. Too fast. His tiny hands gripped a steering wheel far too big for them, but it felt natural, like muscle memory carved into bone. Silverstone’s asphalt blurred beneath him, the corners flashing by.

And then—Copse.

Maxy’s stomach clenched. He didn’t want to be here. Not this corner, not again. He tried to lift, tried to back away, but the car beside him edged closer. A flash of silver and black. Lewis.

“No,” Maxy whimpered in his sleep, legs kicking weakly beneath the sheets.

In his dream, the touch came like lightning. A wheel brushing, a sudden shove, and then the Red Bull was weightless—airborne, sliding, spinning. The barrier rushed up to meet him.

The crash was a thunderous roar.
Metal screamed, carbon shattered, the cockpit shook so hard he thought his bones would snap. Pain shot through his chest, stealing his breath. The harness dug into his shoulders like claws.

Too fast. Too hard. Can’t breathe—

He gasped in the dream, and in the bed his breaths came quick and shallow, his lips forming broken words. “No… stop—hurts—can’t…”

Charles stirred beside him, then bolted upright. He heard it—small, strangled cries. He quickly turned to Maxy, heart thudding harder than any engine.

The boy was tangled in his blanket, fists clenched, sweat beading on his temples. His face twisted, every muscle tight as if bracing for impact.

And still the nightmare raged.

The cockpit was smoke and sparks, flames licking the edges of his vision. His helmet rattled, blood roared in his ears, and the barrier pressed into him like a vise. He tried the radio but no sound came. He tried to move but the belts locked him down.

He was alone. Trapped. Broken.

“Help me,” he sobbed in his sleep, voice tiny, desperate.

Charles knelt at the bedside, scooping the boy gently into his arms. “Lion, shhh… I’ve got you,” he whispered, rocking him against his chest. But Maxy’s eyes stayed shut, his body rigid with fear.

And the dream turned crueler.

Voices slipped through the smoke. At first distant, then sharper, clearer, cutting through the roar of the crash.

“You’re reckless, Verstappen.”
“You’ll never learn.”
“He had it coming.”
“Should’ve lifted. Should’ve known better.”
“This is what happens when you think you’re untouchable.”

The words stabbed through him, louder than the crackling fire, louder than the ringing in his skull. He twisted in the belts, desperate to escape, but the voices only grew, circling him like vultures.

“Should’ve died that day.”
“The sport would be better without you.”
“You don’t deserve to walk away.”

Maxy shook his head violently in the dream, tiny body trembling on the bed. His voice broke into the air, a plea torn from deep inside him.

“Nooo… don’t be mean… I don’t want to die… please…”

Charles’s breath hitched. He pressed kisses to the boy’s damp curls, whispering against his hair, “Mon petit lion, it’s not real, you’re safe. They can’t hurt you here. They’ll never hurt you again.”

But Maxy didn’t wake.

In the dream, faces pushed through the haze—old rivals sneering, reporters waving microphones, fans jeering from grandstands and comment sections alike.

“Dangerous.”
“Crash kid.”
“You’ll never be a champion.”
“You should’ve stayed down in that barrier.”
"You stole Lewis' championship"

The words fused together, a thunderous chorus louder than engines, louder than anything.

Maxy screamed in silence, his mouth open but no sound reaching the air. His little fists pounded against the cockpit that wasn’t real, against the sheets that held him now.

Charles hugged him tighter, rocking gently, his own voice breaking as he whispered, “You’re not alone, Max. Not anymore. I’ve got you. Always.”

But the dream dragged Max deeper, locking him in that corner, that barrier, that fire. He relived the moment he truly believed he would never climb out.

And even asleep, he kept whispering it, over and over, breaking Charles’s heart with every word:

“I don’t want to die.”

Maxy’s whimpers softened into shallow breaths, but his body stayed tense, small fists still locked against Charles’s shirt. His mind didn’t free him—it only shifted.

From Silverstone’s crushing barrier, he drifted into another memory. Different city. Different lights. Still the same ache in his chest.

Vegas.

The streets were alive with neon, roaring crowds, the energy of a city that never slept. But for Max, that night had been hollow. He’d sealed the championship, yes, but his body was heavy, his mind frayed. The crash still echoed inside him, even years later.

And then there were the voices. Always the voices.

In the dream, Maxy stood in the paddock as his older self. He could see them again—the men in orange, laughing too loudly, pointing at him as he walked by.

“The car carried you.”

“Without Adrian Newey, you’re nothing.”

“You should’ve stayed in the wall at Silverstone.”

The words struck like stones. Maxy flinched, small even in the shell of his older body. His lips trembled, and in the bed, his voice broke into the dark.

“Nooo… don’t be mean… I don’t want to die… please… I didn't do anything... stop being mean”

Charles held him tighter, his own throat burning.

In the dream, Max had felt it again—that helplessness, that crushing weight on his chest. He wanted to fight back, to scream, but his voice caught. It was then, when the jeers grew crueler, that he remembered the touch on his hand.

Gentle. Warm.

He looked up. A woman, early 50s, kind eyes that softened even the harsh neon glow. She smiled at him like she saw through it all—the victories, the hate, the exhaustion—and only saw him.

“Don’t listen to the noise” she’d said. “People can be cruel for no reason. You didn’t make a mistake by being kind in this cruel world. Keep doing your thing, and they’ll learn what a good person you are. Just wait, Max.”

And just like that, the noise had faded. The men were gone. She was gone. But the weight in his chest lingered—always lingering.

In the bed, Maxy stirred, curling tighter into Charles’s arms, as if searching for that same hand again. A safety that would not vanish this time.

Charles bent his head, whispering into his hair, a vow he hadn’t planned to make:
“You’ll never face them alone again, mon lion. Not while I’m here.”

And in the dream, though the neon haze swallowed the woman whole, a softer light replaced her. Not Vegas, not Silverstone. Something gentler. Warm arms that held him close.

This time, when the voices rose, Maxy didn’t face them alone.