Alright Everyone It's Time To Start Spreading The "charles Got A Podium In The 7th Fastest Car" Agenda

"Aurelia Knife Verstappen-Leclerc" i giggled so bad that whole fic

AHHHHH its a valid name!! lmao it was either knife or sword and I stuck with knife THANKS FOR READING BTW!! LOVE YOUUU

omg u did it again with the angst i fucking ate that shit UPPPPP. i love heavy angst with happy-ish endings and ik it's not the same as what charles was going through but as someone who is insanely dependent on google calendar to remember to perform simple daily tasks such as wash my hair, do my laundry, and make coffee in the morning, i really did feel seen by charles and his detailed notes app

lmao im pretty sure thats a universal uni student experience, mate. i hope that's vindicating.

kept my promise. here's the longer version: The Kingdom, The Power, The Glory.

i cried while writing it. i hope u cry while reading it. thenks.

The Kingdom, The Power, The Glory.

a/n: ok so first of all, this is @souvenir116's fault for making that one post. u gave me ideas. so now i gift you trauma. hope u like it. wrote this during my self-imposed study break which lasted 3 hrs. hah.

lemme know if u guys want a full-blown 10k fic on ao3. i might be able to turn this babyboy into a fluff fic. somehow. if i have enough words. and time. and sleep deprivation. 

Tags: angst, lestappen, hurt no comfort, sad ending, canon divergence, unrequited love.

Summary: After a devastating crash with Max Verstappen in the 2021 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, Charles Leclerc is left to face the aftermath — and Max — in silence, guilt, and unbearable grief.

Charles comes back to consciousness with the taste of carbon and gravel in his mouth and a white-hot spear of pain down his side. His vision is blurred, smudged red at the edges, like someone dipped the whole world in shame.

The first thing he hears is that Lewis has won.

The second is silence.

Max isn't Champion. Not today. Not ever, maybe.

Because of Charles.

Because of that corner.

Because he didn’t lift.

He doesn’t remember the impact. Just the blur. The smoke. The scream. He remembers pressing the brake too late, the car twitching beneath him like a frightened animal. And Max was there. Max was right there. Max was always there.

And now everything is over.

He’s wheeled into the medical bay with one arm strapped to his chest and the sharp ache of a cracked rib every time he breathes too hard. The bandage across his temple itches. His mouth is dry. His fingers are shaking. He’s nauseous with adrenaline, horror, and the metallic taste of guilt he’s swallowed since he was five years old and first learned what it meant to want something you weren’t allowed to touch.

He doesn't ask for the championship standings.

He doesn’t need to.

Max DNF.

Lewis wins his eighth.

And Charles is the reason.

The FIA room is cold. Tiled like a morgue. Smells like antiseptic and judgment. No one speaks to him when they bring him in. They sit him in the corner, like a bad child. His fireproofs are still streaked with blood and smoke. His helmet is gone. He keeps looking at his hands. He doesn’t recognise them.

Charles doesn’t lift his head. Not until he feels him.

The fury.

It walks in before Max does.

It lives in the air. It vibrates in the walls. It hums inside Charles’ lungs, stealing the breath from his chest. The rage is so alive it feels like a third person in the room. And still — Max is silent.

No screaming.

No shouting.

No finger in his face. No snarled accusations.

Max walks into the room limping, jaw locked, and then—he sits down beside him.

Not across. Not far away. Right beside him.

Like this is personal.

Like this was always personal.

Charles keeps staring at the floor, because if he looks at Max’s face, he’ll break open. And he doesn't deserve to break. Not after this. Not after everything he just destroyed.

He took Max’s title.

He took Max’s year.

He took Max’s first World Championship and drove them both into smoke.

And it doesn't matter if he didn’t mean to. It doesn’t matter that he braked late thinking he could hold it. That he thought Max would leave him space. That he thought—

It doesn’t matter.

Intentions don’t count for anything when you steal the thing someone’s spent their whole life chasing.

Max’s hand is clenched into a fist on his knee.

It’s shaking.

Charles whispers, “I’m sorry.”

It’s all he has.

Max doesn’t reply. But the air goes colder.

“I didn’t—I didn’t want that to happen.”

His throat burns. His chest twists like wire.

“I locked up.”

His voice hitches.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

He shakes his head. It’s pointless. Words are pointless. Nothing he says will change it. The moment happened. The damage is done. History has been rewritten in the time it took for two cars to kiss carbon.

“I was trying to keep it clean.”

He swallows. It tastes like bile.

“I thought I left enough space.”

Max still doesn’t say anything.

Charles doesn't know what hurts more — the silence, or the fact that Max is still sitting there.

He keeps going, because if he stops, he’ll start crying, and he doesn’t deserve to cry.

“I should’ve backed out. I know that. I should’ve just let it go.”

Max’s fingers twitch. A flinch in his jaw.

Charles doesn't look at him. He can’t.

“I didn’t want it to end like that.”

It was supposed to be Max’s year.

Charles was supposed to stand in parc fermé, watching the fireworks go off above Max’s head. He was supposed to watch him cry — but the good kind, the kind that tasted like gold and champagne and glory.

He was supposed to wait in the shadows, and maybe, later, when things had calmed down, find him. Pull him aside. Say something like, “You did it. I’m proud of you.” Not “I love you.” Never “I love you.” But something. Anything.

Not this.

Never this.

Max’s shoulder is brushing his.

He’s so still, but Charles can feel it — the thunder in him. The fury just beneath the surface, held back with the kind of restraint that hurts to witness.

“Max,” he says, quietly. “Say something.”

Max’s voice, when it comes, is low and taut, like piano wire pulled too tight.

“What do you want me to say?”

Charles flinches.

Max turns to look at him.

His eyes aren’t red. He isn’t crying. But they’re wrecked. Devastated in a way that can’t be put back together.

“I lost everything,” Max says. “Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve—” He cuts himself off.

His jaw is shaking.

Charles wants to disappear.

“I know,” he whispers.

“No, you don’t.” Max laughs, short and sharp. “You’ll never understand. You’ve always been the favourite. The golden boy. You never had to fight like I did. You never had to claw for it. You had people handing you crowns before you could walk.”

“That’s not true—”

Max stands suddenly, like he can’t take it anymore.

But he doesn’t walk away.

He looks down at Charles. And for one awful second, Charles thinks he might hit him. That Max might finally let it all out.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, fists shaking, mouth trembling, the whole sky of him collapsing inward.

And then, quietly, he says, “You should’ve just let me have it.”

Charles nods.

He knows.

Max stares at him, like he’s trying to see something human behind Charles’ eyes and can’t find it.

Then he says, “I don’t hate you.”

It’s worse than if he did.

“But don’t come near me again.”

Charles nods again.

And then Max walks out of the room.

He doesn’t look back.

Charles stays where he is, staring down at his own bloody hands, shaking in silence.

He thinks of the corner. Of the blur. Of the second he thought he had it. The second he thought they’d make it out the other side.

He thinks of every year that brought them here.

Every lap.

Every time he held his tongue and said nothing.

Every time he watched Max walk away.

He thinks of the prayer he whispered into his gloves before the formation lap.

Let the best man win.

And now the best man is gone.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t cry.

He just sits in the wreckage of something holy, and breathes like it’s a punishment.

And wishes the crash had taken him instead.

i have a severely questionable fic plot rn and I cant stop it from forming in my brain and I have an exam in like (checks notes) FOUR FREAKING HOURS wish me luck miladies and milads and miladders.

love this guy, the... [checks notes] president of the world??

I FUCKING LOVE YOUR FICS!! ❤️ Red Flags and Checkered Hearts.!max is my spirit animal! pls share your secrets on how tf you write so fast… im in awe…

i get possessed by the ghost of shakespeare. i black out. i wake up with a ~10k fic. works like magic babyyy

also thank youuuu for reading so much love <33

gonna manipulate mansplain malewife gaslight girlboss gatekeep our way thru this one

The white race suits are so the track knows we are pure of heart and will bless the car for this weekend

Music is wild like howd U make that lol

if lando norris was 3 and charles leclerc was an apple then how many centimeters is the milk that i need to burn on the antarctic refrigerator to gain 3/10ths down the straight at the rainbow road grand prix circuit?

first of all, thank you for this question. It has changed my life. second of all, the answer is clearly blueberry.

you see, if Lando is 3 (which checks out), and sharl leclair is an apple (organic ofc), then the milk (specifically emotionally unstable almond milk) needs to be cryogenically yeeted onto the antarctic refrigerator, which, as we all know, is guarded by two penguins named Lewis and Seb.

once you bypass the ice circuit boss battle (featuring rookie Fernando Alonso on skates), u pour exactly π centimetres of combusted dairy essence into the carburettor of your Mario Kart and scream "FOR MONZAAAA" while drifting at preciselyy 42° angle into rainbow road.

congratulations! you now have 3/10ths and also irreversible lactose trauma. charles is still an apple. lando has evolved into 4 somehow.

science. ✨

to be loved the way i love f1, what a thought, but not like ferrari since 2010, no, that’s like a cursed love letter you keep reading even though it’s giving “toxic ex who keeps texting” vibes. no thank you, i’d rather be loved like red bull in 2023— chaotic, fast, a bit of drama, but at least we’re winning and making everybody mad. and maybe like mclaren after 2024? who knows, still figuring it out, but they’ll get there and so will i, just. let me breathe.

i’m not even sure i want to be loved— i just want speed, and noise, like driving down a street, f1 music blaring while my 1.2L engine pretends it’s a turbocharged beast, but it’s not, it’s just me, pretending i’m at monaco. but somehow it feels real.

so i went and chose engineering, because who wouldn’t want to suffer, like i’m not already doing enough by being born too late to be an f1 driver. like, yeah, i could’ve raced at 18, but here i am, soldering wires and calculating resistance, living the delusion that somehow, someway, toto wolff will see my tweets and hand me a seat so i can drive into the pit of my dreams.

but nah, i’m just here, pretending i’m quicker than i am, just like when i got my license at 18 and blasted f1 tracks as if i was about to win silverstone, while my car barely passed the speed bump at the end of my block. it was freedom, though. it was delusional and it was everything.

maybe i’m not even in love with people, maybe i’m just addicted to the idea of speed— and yeah, the walls i keep hitting don’t help, but hey, if i crash into a barrier, at least it’s a passion crash. i’m in love with the chaos. maybe that’s my problem.

but pls—if you’re gonna love me, don’t love me like ferrari, don't love me like “oh, we were so close but here’s p2,” love me like red bull— always faster, always something up in the air, always winning (in the most chaotic way possible). that’s the vibe i’m after, that’s the dream i’m chasing.

so, here i am—delusional, writing f1 rpf fanfics at 2 a.m. while figuring out why i’m broke and why my heart beats to the rhythm of pit stops, but if you get it, then maybe you get me. or maybe we’re both just chasing something that’s always just out of reach.

(aka: send help, and a car with a turbo unit, pls.)