Chapter Text
Charles felt his head slipping from his hand, one eye secretly shut behind his fingers as he (probably very unconvincingly) pretended to be interested in whatever the fuck Mattia was saying, because to be honest- he'd been here since 5pm.
It was 2 in the fucking morning.
He was past the point of wanting to sleep. At this point, he was well aware of how he was set to be awake for the rest of the night, regardless of whether he got to his bed or not. This had been happening more and more lately. As the engine kept performing like a shitbox and the strategy performing even shitter- there was an increasing number of meetings going on into the small hours of the morning, to the point where Charles was beginning to wonder whether the reason the team was failing so miserably at the moment was because none of them could get any bloody sleep- that wasn't the point, though. Winning a championship, and all that; that was what it was all about, right?
Not at 2am, Charles thought. At 2am, all he was worried about was getting his beauty sleep. One does not look stunning as they step into the paddock, bright smile and glowing skin against the red of his Ferrari apparel without his goddamned rest!
But as Mattia droned on and on, Charles became increasingly aware of the fact that by this point, there might not actually be any point in going to sleep at all. By the time he got to his hotel, set his stuff down, did his nighttime routine (because skin-care is important, people. Remember the glowing skin? The glowing skin? This was a crucial part of his image), got his pyjamas on and actually climbed into bed, he would still want to spend, like, an hour scrolling on his phone, and at that point the sun would be rising!
So when Mattia finally shut up and Charles was told he was free to go, instead of heading "home", he went for a walk. A stroll, if you will, down the paddock.
It was dark, of course, with it being night and all, pretty much all lights out within the various motorhomes belonging to the teams, Charles only being able to spot one other poor soul outside at this dreadful time of night, and while slightly creepy, this made it ideal to wander in. The silence was peaceful. Eerie, yes- you don't often get to experience a Formula One track simultaneously in full swing while also so desolate- but peaceful.
He walked with his hands tucked into the pockets of his Ferrari team jacket, occasionally rubbing them together to get some warmth into them. When he occasionally passed a dim light illuminating the pavement in a yellow glow, he could see his own breath as he breathed out like something straight from a Christmas themed music video. It was weirdly picturesque, like an abandoned street only he knew had been abandoned, time frozen along with his finger tips.
Until he heard a distinct crashing, and the sound of someone falling and clambering against bangs of metal and the crunching of rubbish.
"Hello?" Charles called out to the mysterious crasher, picking up his pace (he did like to go fast after all) and turning the corner to see someone hastily pulling themselves up, dusting various bits of trash off their skinny jeans.
"Fucking- trash on the ground- making me slip- I'm ok, I think, just- Charles?"
"-Max?"
It was unclear who was more surprised to see the other.
"What are you doing out so late?" Charles was the first to speak.
"I should be asking you the same question!" Max was like a deer in headlights, but also seemed weirdly annoyed like he'd been interrupted in whatever he was up to.
Charles stared at him, bewildered. "I was just going for a walk."
"...at 2 in the morning?"
"Yes, have you got a problem with that?" he replied indignantly, because- come on, it wasn't like Charles was about to admit to Max, of all people, the face of the enemy and the reason Ferrari were so determined to improve their car in the first place, that the reason he was there was because of a meeting carrying on this early into the morning.
Max folded his arms. "Yeah, actually, I do have a problem with it, because I was just trying to, um- what was I trying to do again? I was going for a walk too. Late night, it's, er, peaceful, I suppose."
"Yes." Charles smiled and gave him a slow nod, gesturing to the scuff marks on his Red Bull jumper. "Because, clearly, you are having a peaceful time right now. Do you always fall on your late night walks?"
"Shut it, Leclerc, last time I checked, I hadn't actually asked for you to be here, so if you could toddle on now, that'd be nice-"
"Oh, so you are champion which means you own the paddock? I am allowed to be here too, Verstappen."
Max's face contorted into one of extreme annoyance. "Well, I'm going to go then." he took a swig of a Red Bull he'd apparently magicked out of nowhere, Charles noticing he was wearing one glove. Yes- glove, singular. Just the one, on his left hand. "Some people have places to be."
"What, home in time for curfew?" Charles laughed.
"No, but I heard your mum has space in her bed tonight, might head there." Max snapped back without a second's hesitation, Charles watching him walk away as his mouth hung agape, a genuinely stunned expression encompassing a choked laugh.
Max was a dick, that was for sure. But it didn't stop Charles remaining curious as to what on earth he was actually doing out so late for the remainder of the race weekend.
-
Max did, genuinely, find nighttime walks peaceful. Not because he enjoyed the serenity of silence, the feeling of the world being frozen in darkness as it was only him and the light of the moon strolling down an empty pavement- no. That was poetic bullshit, in his opinion.
He went out at night because, quite honestly, what else was there to do? Call him sad, but he didn't have many friends to talk to on race weekends. His options were pretty much, like, his dad? or Christian. Both of which were actually quite sad options. His dad or his boss were his closest things to friends. Not one to brag about, he thought.
And thanks to all that bloody Red Bull, he was now a permanent insomniac. They should add that as a warning when you sign up for them as a junior driver, warning: Potential Formula 1 seat will come with permanent insomnia, non-negotiable. Curse them for making it so addictive and so full of fucking caffeine. There was no thought put in for his beauty sleep whatsoever.
...not that he had "beauty sleep", per say. That was for pussies. Like Charles.
Who, by the way, had no right so rudely interrupting him that one night. So what if he tripped on an empty... ugh- can of monster (Mercedes really did have it out for him at all times) and fell onto the pavement. Did that mean Charles had to be all, what are you doing here? he could be wherever he bloody well wanted, thank you very much.
It didn't deter him from his walks, though. He was pretty sure nothing could, except maybe going to rehab for a Red Bull addiction. He had a couple races of uninterrupted peace, getting to appreciate the paddock when it was void of people and drama and, again, ugh- Sky Sports F1 reporters, until-
Well, it happened again, didn't it?
Except this time it was a Red Bull can- his own, actually.
He dropped it, bent down to pick it up, stood up again and bam, Charles fucking Leclerc, stood right in front of him, pale face like a lunar jumpscare as a light above shone directly on to him making him the only illuminated thing in sight. Max got such a fright that he chucked the contents of the can right all over him.
A waste of Red Bull, in his opinion.
"What the fuck, Charles!" he shouted at a volume far too loud for 3 in the morning. "Why were you stood that close to me?"
"I wanted to scare you!" Charles exclaimed. "But obviously I was too successful-" he gave a futile attempt at shaking the Red Bull liquid off his Ferrari jacket with one hand, the other still in his fucking pocket, but of course it didn't work, and Max could sense the stickiness that would taint those clothes forever (he had been a victim of many a Red Bull spillage himself).
"Okay, well, you have got to help me clean this up now." Charles shrugged, his eyes serious in that annoying Charles way where you can't actually tell if he's being serious or not.
"Mate, what the fuck am I gonna do about it?" Max replied. "It's your clothes, your problem."
"You spilled your drink on me!" Charles said animatedly, violently gesturing at Max. "I think that makes it your problem!"
They went on like this for a while, and Max was stubborn. But Charles was too, and it seemed like this was the only thing he actually beat Max in. Because somehow, 20 minutes later Max found himself traipsing behind Charles into Ferrari's now empty motorhome. He was pretty sure Charles didn't actually know how Max could help either- he genuinely just wanted to annoy him.
Was he succeeding in annoying him? Yes. But Charles didn't need to know that. Max was succeeding in everything else, like um, winning races, thank you very much. and besides, the enemy was willingly letting him into their lair- he would never turn that opportunity down. Although he was pretty sure if Mattia spotted him he would be crucified in front of the entire country of Italy. He shuddered and removed that thought from his mind.
"Right." Charles said, setting his jacket down once they'd reached a room that was practically empty except for a red (because of course it was red) sofa in the corner that the jacket was placed on, the rest of the room plain white walls with not a window in sight. "You are going to clean this."
"With what." Max sighed.
Charles stopped for a second, puzzled. Max almost thought he was going to say nothing and let him leave, but a second later there was a wicked grin on his face and he raised a finger indicating for Max to stay out while he ran off, eventually returning with-
"Toilet paper?" Max practically cried out. "You are evil."
"I know." Charles quickly replied, still grinning. He took a seat on the sofa, crossing his legs and resting his hands on top of them. "On you go, clean."
Max was this close to punching the living daylight out of him. Why was he going along with this anyway? the ridiculousness of his complacency in this situation was just starting to sink in. Only at 3am with no sleep to give him better judgment could he have ended up here. So instead, he decided it would be better to just chuck the toilet roll at Charles.
And he went straight for the head. (Thanos would be proud)
"You... bitch!" Charles shrieked, jumping up and trying to throw the toilet roll back at Max, who had already started running for the exit, practically giggling with glee. "Max Emilian fucking Verstappen I swear to god I don't care about press or paperwork I will kill you right here, right now- wait- why have you stopped?"
Max was trying to open the door. It wouldn't budge. He tried again, and then again except more violently this time, then again ( "50 fucking times!" if you will) but still nothing.
"Hold on, you are not doing it right." Charles said impatiently, pushing him out of the way and trying to open the door himself, but he too could not get it open.
"Charles." Max said quietly, like it was a question. "Have you locked us in here?"
Charles stopped. like, Charles.exe has stopped working type stopped. "No-" he tried unconvincingly.
"Please, for fucks sake, Charles, just tell me you have a key?"
"...er."
"For fucks sake, Charles!" Max shouted, banging his fist on the wall (it hurt). "What the fuck do we do now?"
"Alright, alright, ok- no need for the anger-" Charles started, talking like someone's fucking mum- "It is already late, no? We just wait until someone comes in the morning."
Max checked his wristwatch. "That could be in 4 hours, Charles! Are you telling me I'm stuck in Ferrari's motorhome all night? How the fuck am I going to get out?"
"You could jump out the window?"
"Who do you think I am, Yuki?" Max exclaimed, pointing to the nearest window. "How the fuck would I fit?"
Charles shrugged. "Okay, then you are stuck here. That is it."
Max leant back against the wall and allowed himself to slide down it until he was sitting huddled into his knees on the floor like someone had just told him he'd be stuck alone outside in the arctic for the night. Imagining what would happen once someone from Ferrari came to open up the motorhome later in the morning and discovered Max Verstappen inside was, quite honestly, a petrifying thought.
Charles stayed silent for a moment, pondering something as he paced back and forth. Eventually, he hit a lightbulb moment. "If it makes you feel any better, though-
we do have snacks."
-
As much as he hated to admit it- spending the night here with, ugh- Charles- wasn't as bad as Max had thought it would be. They hijacked one of the screens Ferrari used for team meetings and put on a replay of Monza 2019 (because Charles got to pick first, apparently, even though it was Max's F1 TV account they'd signed into) and spent most of the time laughing at their past selves and the rest of the grid while raiding Ferrari of their entire food supply.
It did feel kinda wrong to be there, though, and he definitely wasn't processing how absurd the situation actually was- but he was vibing, and internally thanking himself for always carrying 3 cans of Red Bull on him (while simultaneously cursing himself for not carrying 4).
Max lay back on another red sofa so that his head was hanging off the end, feeling lightheaded as the blood rushed to it while he pressed his cheek against the door of one of various mini-fridges throughout Ferrari's motorhome. He pulled his phone out, staring up at it as the screen blared bright and the time read 5:52. Somehow, he'd survived nearly 3 hours with Charles and only wanted to throttle him once (when he'd shouted he won in Spa, HE WINS IN MONZA! and nearly blown Max's eardrums out).
"AH." Charles suddenly screamed.
Max jumped out of his skin, dropping his phone square onto his face before sitting up and seeing Charles in his hoodie sipping from a can of lemon San Pellegrino. He rubbed his nose in agony. "What is your problem?"
Charles laughed and chucked a crisp at him- there were more than his personal trainer would be happy about's worth of empty packets laying beside him. "Sorry, I just like scaring you."
"I did not sign up for this." Max sighed, rubbing his brow.
"You signed up for it when you spilled your drink on me."
"That was only because you scared me in the first place!"
"Ah, tomayto-tomahto." Charles sighed, and Max burst out laughing.
"What was that?" he said between laughter-tears.
"What?" Charles exclaimed. "It is what they say in English."
"Mate, I've never heard that in my life."
"Then you are living under a rock."
Max laughed a little too hard at that one and suppressed the urge to say sums it up, yeah . Instead he said, "Can I have my hoodie back?"
Charles looked down at himself, pulling a face at the Red Bull branding but still shaking his head. "No."
"Why?" Max was reaching the ends of his patience here- would anyone really notice if they were one driver short at the race? No, he's too loud and annoying for his absence to go unnoticed, he thought ever-so-sadly.
"Because I am cold." Charles humphed, throwing another crisp across the room. It missed by a good few metres but that wasn't the point.
"Wear your own hoodie then?" Max replied in shock-surprise at his own ground-breaking revelation.
"It is soaked in Red Bull!" Charles exclaimed. "Although, I suppose this one is soaked in Red Bull too- but at least it won't get me wet."
Max suppressed a laugh. "That sounds wrong."
Charles frowned and stared up at the ceiling for a second, clearly confused. He continued darting his eyes between Max and the light fixtures before finally widening his eyes and throwing yet another crisp at him. "Max Verstappen, you are so dirty minded! Oh my god."
Max jumped up, unsure whether he was laughing or squealing as Charles began full on pelting him with Più Gusto crisps as he ran like he was under fire from a machine-gun. "Where are you going?" Charles called, a man on a mission to secure a head shot with his weapon of choice. "And why can I not hit you!?"
Max was still laughing as he left the room and flew down the corridor. "Red Bull gives you wings, mate, or something like that!" he called back- he was too tired to think straight.
"If Red Bull gave you wings you'd have flown away before I ever had to meet you!" Charles said like he wished nothing more than for that to have been the case.
Max kept running and dodging crisps, getting further through the maze of the motorhome and quickly realising he was approaching the door, dodging tables and chairs and turning down corridors until eventually seeing the light of morning and running for the entrance when-
Bam. He was stopped in his tracks by the feeling of something soft yet hard against his head, sending him flying backwards (those goddamn wings) and crashing onto the floor. He looked up at the figure in front of him as they were illuminated by the slowly brightening yet still orangey sky behind them, like an angel sent down for him.
Only, it wasn't an angel.
It was Mattia fucking Binotto.
"Max?" he said, and that thought of being crucified in front of the entire country of Italy came flooding back into Max's mind. "Charles- why is Max Verstappen in our motorhome? And why are you wearing Red Bull?"
Max realised how it must've looked, and wanted to throw himself through the glass door.
He sat up and watched Charles's face turn white as a ghost. "I- I am sorry-" he started, and Max was now fully standing. "We were just-"
Max suddenly cleared his throat and got the two of them to look at him in surprise. "-lovely seeing you, fellas." he interrupted. "But I really have important stuff to be doing right now." he turned to Mattia. "You know, strategy planning and stuff. or maybe you don't know that-"
Mattia's expression also turned white except this time it was white with anger and Max took that as his cue to run. "See you!" he called, practically throwing himself out the door and booking it as fast as he could out of the paddock, knowing full well what he'd possibly just doomed Charles to.
It was one-all, he decided.
But as much as Charles wanted to kill him after having left him alone to explain the situation to his boss the next time they encountered each other in the middle of the night, there was an air of understanding between the two that it'd be far more fun to spend the time together than alone- and that was how they'd begun regularly hanging out at 3 in the morning. Although, as they say; one's company, two's a crowd, and three's a party. They'd need to find other drivers with acute insomnia and/or nocturnal tendencies to really create a nocturnal drivers club.
They would come, though. Max and Charles just didn't know that yet.