Chapter Text
The studio lights buzzed overhead like they hadn’t been turned off since the early 2000s. Charles Leclerc adjusted his tie in the reflection of the teleprompter, exhaled, and then immediately lost the will to live as Carlos Sainz barged into the studio with two coffees, three croissants, and zero balance.
“Your latte has almond milk, right?” Carlos asked, holding up the most precariously stacked set of pastries since the Leaning Tower of Pisa. “Or did you switch to oat because of that ‘dream about dairy’ thing?”
“I told you that in confidence,” Charles said through gritted teeth, snatching the coffee before Carlos dropped it. Again.
Carlos grinned. “Too late. I already tweeted it.”
Before Charles could threaten to replace him with a potted plant, their producer waved frantically from behind the cameras. It was time. Not for the news. No. Worse.
Kid Takeover Day.
An annual segment meant to engage younger viewers that, in practice, turned the newsroom into an unsupervised birthday party with fewer cupcakes and more existential crises.
“Is Oscar here yet?” Carlos asked, peering toward the lobby.
Charles glanced at his phone. “He’ll be here on dot. Very on brand.”
“You sure about this, Charles? I still think sending Oscar to that site is career sabotage. For both of you.”
“He’s got to learn! It’s just for a week. One live youth segment. What could go wrong?”
James Vowles, their boss who was impeccably dressed as always, sighed from across the room. “You just cursed it. Thanks for that.”
Charles offered a confident smile. “He’s a smart kid. He’ll be fine.”
Carlos snorted. “He’s Max’s kid. There’s a 90% chance he’ll bulldoze the camera crew and file a complaint about media ethics by lunch.”
“He’s also my kid. He might charm someone.”
“He’ll charm the concept of silence.”
“…Fair.”
Cut to: the front door.
Oscar, aged 17, and more emotionally exhausted than most adults, entered the studio, then deadpanned, “This feels like child labor.”
“You’re going to be amazing,” Charles said, appearing behind him with manic optimism. “It’s one small segment. Smile once, and you get extra screen time on the sim.”
Oscar sighed. “That’s not how screen time works. And you didn’t tell dad.”
“I thought it’d be a nice surprise!” Charles beamed.
Oscar blinked. “You thought ambushing the Max Verstappen, your husband, my dad, with surprise national television was a good idea?”
Carlos appeared, holding a glitter-covered microphone. “C’mon, Little Verstappen. We’ve got a chaos quota to hit.”
On Air.
The segment began.
“Welcome back to Leclerc Live at Five,” Charles said, his smile professional, hair unreasonably perfect. “Today is our annual Kid Takeover segment, where we let the youth take the reins. Joining me is Oscar, who will be co-hosting our next story.”
He then turned to Carlos, gesturing the crew to cut his mic, “Wait – what is the next story? Is it the Ilama?”
***
Live Location - Downtown Food Festival
A shaky handheld camera zoomed in on Oscar standing in front of a crowded food festival, clearly radiating the aura of a hostage.
Charles winced. Carlos laughed.
Oscar, in the middle of a crowd of locals and food trucks, stared deadpan into the camera. His lanyard was askew. His hair, disheveled by the wind.
He looked like Max Verstappen had somehow been reborn as a grumpy seventeen-year-old holding a microphone.
“I’m at the city’s annual Food Fest,” Oscar intoned, as if reading a eulogy. “Where hundreds of people are willingly consuming things like cronut tacos and deep-fried kombucha. Humanity has peaked.”
Carlos nearly spit out his coffee. “God, he sounds like Max. I’m not even sure he’s blinking.”
Charles let out a quiet noise of anguish. “He’s fine,” he said weakly. “He’s just - observational.”
“You mean he hates everyone.”
“I mean he’s discerning.”
Meanwhile Oscar was still going. “The line to gastrointestinal regret is already thirty minutes long.”
Cut again to Charles in the studio, plastered smile twitching slightly. He spoke through gritted teeth, “What a natural on-camera presence.”
Carlos wheezed. “He sounds like he’s narrating the fall of capitalism. I love it.”
10 minutes later
Oscar had interviewed a six-year-old dressed as a weather cloud, narrowly avoided being hit by a nearby makeshift t-shirt cannon, and been asked if he was “the boy from Stranger Things but Dutch.”
“I need to leave,” Oscar muttered, holding a donut like it might be explosive.
“You’re doing great!” Charles encouraged from his in-ears.
The seventeen-year-old moved through the crowd, clearly attempting to find someone to interview. Unfortunately, what he found instead was Lando Norris - wearing sunglasses indoors, holding a smoothie with far too much enthusiasm, and walking directly into him.
The mic caught the collision.
“Jesus - what the hell are you doing in the middle of the -”
Lando stopped. His voice caught in his throat.
Charles watched with the growing horror of a man who knew exactly what was about to happen.
Lando tilted his head, eyebrows raised, lips parted slightly. Then he said, in a voice too soft for live TV, “God, you’re gorgeous.”
Carlos dropped his coffee. Charles nearly fainted.
Oscar stared at Lando with the expression of someone who had just been offered a wet sock as a friendship bracelet. “I’m working,” he said.
“Yeah,” Lando breathed, “but like - are you doing this segment forever, or…?”
“I'm on live television.”
“Even better. Free publicity. Hi. I’m Lando. I’ve had three failed relationships this year and a spiritual awakening that might’ve been food poisoning.”
Charles rose from his chair. “Absolutely not.”
Carlos choked on his own breath. “Oh my god.”
On screen, Lando continued, somehow unbothered by the cameras or the fact that he was being broadcast live to thousands of viewers. “You’ve got the eyes of someone who’s seen things. Like…soul-burial levels of trauma.”
“What?”
“I mean - you’ve got those eyes like you know where my soul is buried.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Please go away.”
“My ex-girlfriend said that too,” Lando said brightly. “Then my last boyfriend told me I was emotionally unavailable. But I’m growing. Like a cactus.”
“I’m here to report on the food festival,” Oscar deadpanned. “Not your failed relationships.”
Charles had stopped breathing. Somewhere behind him, James Vowles screamed into a folder.
Lando didn’t stop talking. “Just saying, if you ever want to get bubble tea and trauma-dump about our emotionally distant fathers, I’m free after 3.”
Oscar, now tired of existence, pulls out his phone and texted his dad:
me:
come get me. it’s awful.
there’s a dude here
he talks a lot
says i have soul-burial eyes
your genes did this to me.
dad:
Where are you?
Who said that?
And what does that even MEAN?!
me:
the idiot with the smoothie
i’m at the food fest
come get me pls
dad:
omw
tell him to stay put
All of a sudden, Oscar's in-ears chimed in with his papa’s voice, “Osc, everything okay?”
“No, I’m calling Dad.”
Charles’s face paled. “Do you… have to?”
“He's just across the street. Said he’ll be here in five.”
And as promised, five minutes later, Max stepped onto the festival grounds like an avenging angel with a Bluetooth earpiece and a face that said “I have no time for any of you.”
The camera caught him approaching, calm but with the tension of a panther about to pounce.
Oscar didn’t smile, but the relief on his face was palpable. Lando, however, turned, took one look at Max, and visibly died inside.
“That’s - he’s your dad?” Lando stammered.
Oscar nodded. “Yep.”
“God – he’s hot.”
Charles spat out his coffee from the studio while Carlos was now on the floor laughing.
Max approached, sharp blue eyes assessing Lando in two seconds. “You.”
Lando froze. “Me?”
“Were you flirting with my son on national television?”
Lando swallowed. “Not - flirting, exactly. I was being… warm. Charismatic. Potentially open to future connections.”
Oscar, deadpan as ever, chimed in. “He also mentioned his last four breakups. By name.”
“Is this a prank?” Max asked, voice low, Dutch accent thickening.
Oscar stood up from the anchor chair. “No. It’s just my life.”
Max was already dialing Charles. “You didn’t tell me he was going to be on television.”
“I thought it would be fun!” Charles offered. “And he was brilliant!”
Max gave him a look usually reserved for malfunctioning spreadsheets. “I’m taking my son home.”
“You’re on camera,” Charles whispered helpfully.
Max turned directly to the lens.
“I’m taking my son home.”
Oscar grabbed his backpack, waved to the viewers like he’d just completed jury duty, and walked off camera without another word. Max followed, his hand lightly resting on Oscar’s shoulder.
Charles, in the studio, buried his face in his hands. “I should’ve sent him to the weather segment. Why didn’t I send him to weather?”
The camera now cut to on Charles and Carlos.
Carlos sipped his coffee. “We’re still live, aren’t we?”
“Do we still have that llama segment?”
Carlos nodded. “Oh, yeah. And this time they brought two.”
***
10 minutes later
Charles got a text from Max.
mon amour 😘❤️:
Next year, ask first.
Also, I’m sure that he did great. Even if he won’t admit it.
me:
i still can’t believe he called our son GORGEOUS
on live tv
i mean he is but -
that dude was flirting with him
in sunglasses
at a food truck
mon amour 😘❤️:
I know
He also used the word cactus unironically
I nearly committed violence
me:
i swear if that boy shows up at our door i’m hiding the knives
mon amour 😘❤️:
He’s lucky i didn’t run him over with my Ferrari
Also Oscar told me he wants tacos again tomorrow
So congrats. It wasn’t a total disaster.
***
Later that evening, in the safety of their apartment, Charles scrolled through Twitter and saw the clip of Lando calling Oscar “gorgeous” trending under #SoulBurialEyes. His face was permanently stuck in disbelief.
He leaned back on the couch, exhausted, and looked across the room at Oscar, who was watching reruns of Top Gear like nothing had happened.
“You okay?” he called gently.
Oscar shrugged. “I survived.”
Charles grinned. “Your father almost had a breakdown.”
Oscar didn’t even look up. “He does that a lot.”
Charles texted Max again.
me:
i love you. your genes are terrifying. our son is unstoppable.
also carlos wants to invite lando to dinner
should i block his number again
mon amour 😘❤️:
Yes.
Immediately.