Chapter Text
The colors of the room were too cool, like a baby blue that had done a fusion dance with a bag of flour and their offspring had the free trial version of sensory deprivation.
Max Verstappen, four time world champion at the age of twenty seven, lapsed Catholic and hater of post-race interviews, sat with the rigid discomfort of someone awaiting the verdict of their trial. He had on his usual combination of team merch and jeans that probably cost more than the therapist’s monthly mortgage.
A weird flex but that was the fact of the matter.
Sprawled out on the couch beside him was Charles Leclerc, the sinfully handsome and ill-fated Ferrari driver who had the ability to enchant anyone. Except Max, of course. Dressed in a vintage Armani t-shirt and a pair of pristine loafers, the Monégasque looked like a perfume commercial with an unresolved plot.
The two men had their gazes fixed on opposite ends of the room, not speaking.
It was probably the seventh time that season.
Their silence was like the room, cold and worthy of frosting a cake commemorating the Cold War. If that Cold War was conducted via radio calls and middle fingers at 300 kilometers per hour.
“Mr. Verstappen? Mr. Leclerc?”
Charles rose first, Max following suit thereafter. The two drivers entered the room with the energy of two men attending their own joint funeral.
The room was, regrettably, blue as well.
The therapist, Dr. Annika Blom, had a PhD in Clinical Psychology, ten years of experience, and a bonsai tree that looked healthier than probably any of the clients that walked through that door. The older woman wore sensible shoes, hot-rimmed glasses, and the expression of someone who deeply regretted coming into work that morning.
“Gentleman,” she began calmy, folding her hands over her knee. “Thank you both for coming in this morning.”
“I was forced to come,” Max stated flatly as he plopped down in the couch across from the doctor.
“So was I.”
The two men glared at one another like they were about to go a few rounds in a boxing ring. Dr. Blom took a deep breath. She had already read the FIA report, and they were… yeah.
Three public altercations. One leaked team radio screaming match that had become a TikTok sound. One... incident involving a catering table and a tub of hummus in Bahrain that no one would take responsibility for. Now most recently, the Suzuka incident – details redacted, but it ended with a red flag, a broke wing and not-so complimentary article written on some Japanese blogger’s website.
“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” Dr. Blom Suggested gently, flipping open her notebook. “When did this… rivalry begin?”
Max exhaled through his nose like a disappointed dad. “Karting. 2013”
Charles rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Are you still going on about that!?"
"You pushed me into a-" Max starts angrily then turns to the therapist. "He pushed me into a puddle. AFTER the race!"
"It was one time, Max. Get over it!"
Dr. Blom blinked, ears probably ringing from the usually-collected drivers' outbursts. if she didn't regeret her choices earlier, the vines were probably crawling in right now."Would either of you care to elaborate? I understand your indigantion, Mr. Verstappen, but why hold it against Mr. Leclerc for all these years?"
Max leaned back stiffly in his chair, arms crossed as he looked at the ceiling like he was asking the Almighty for strength and restraint. "Fine. If we’re doing this, I may as well start from the beginning and give you an honest explanation."
12 years ago
It was raining.
Of course it was. The universe had a sick sense of humor and loved using Max as its punching bag. The fourteen-year-old Dutchman stood beside his kart, glanced at it with the cold, clinical gaze that suggested he would one day be deeply unfun at parties and unliked by his peers. Max's mechanic yelled something at him in Dutch but the young racer chose to ignore him in favor of glaring across the paddock.
At Charles Leclerc.
He was smiling, hair somehow still fluffy and soft-looking even in the drizzle. The Monégasque was flocked by his usual groupies, one of then handing him a water bottle while the rest him patted on the back. He looked like one of those hearthrob teen idols all the girls would gush over.
Max didn’t like that. Didn't like him.
He didn’t like how Charles smiled at the marshals. Didn’t like how Charles’ kart always seemed suspiciously faster than his. He didn’t like how Charles would compliment his driving in front of everyone—because it sounded like a compliment, but felt like a challenge, especially with that subtle wink paired with that cocky smile Max just wanted to wipe off his face with his fist.
The karts tore down the final straight like a pack of wolves chasing prey.
Every muscle in Max's body was tense, and even the steering trembled under his grip. Charles' kart skidded slightly on the worn track, but he recovered with practiced precision. The two had battled neck-and-neck all season, trading victories like MMA fighters traded blows. Charles caught the slipstream, pulling closer, but Max swerved just enough to block him. The checkered flag waved, and with a burst of speed, the Dutchman crossed the line first—by half a kart’s length.
Max didn’t even glance back at his rival, which probably made Charles' blood boil. The finish was official, the race done, but the tension between them was far from dissipated.
As they slowed past the flag line, Charles twisted his wheel sharply, ramming the side of Max's kart. The force shoved the other male off the track and straight into a wide puddle left from the morning’s rain. Muddy water splashed high, soaking his suit, helmet, and pride all at once. The crowd gasped, Max sputtered, drenched but glaring.
It was only beginning.
Max waited and he planned
It came to fruition three races later, in Spain. That's when when he unleashed hell.
In a poetic sense, of course.
Max "gifted" him a small, extremely ripe piece of Camembert, because what Frenchman didn't like cheese? He could hear the offended, "I'm Monégasque" in his head, but that was beside the point. The Dutchman had hid the offending piece of dairy product in Charles' helmet bag before qualifying. In the Spanish heat, the smell of the cheese bloomed like a cursed flower with the most aggressive stench ever. Charles screamed. Three mechanics gagged. Max himself still gets phantom wiffs of that cheese even to this day.
Charles swears it was biological warfare, but Max stuck with the assertion that revenge is a dish best served with cheese.
Present
"I knew it was you!" Charles exclaimed, shooting up like a man possessed. "I had to throw that helmet out!"
Max shrugged, unapologetic and maybe a tiny bit smug. "You started it."
"With a puddle!"
"That stunt almost cost me a victory in the next race!"
"You cost me my sense of smell."
"Okay," Dr. Blom interjects slowly. "So, it sounds like this… tension began with mutual sabotage during karting."
"It wasn’t mutual at first," Max muttered.
"Oh my God, get over it," Charles snapped. "You act like I actively tried to ruin your life then kicked your puppy to boot."
"I don’t have a puppy."
"Exactly! Everything hates you!"
Dr. Blom pinched the bridge of her nose. "Right. Well. Progress is acknowledging where things began. That’s good. Maybe next session we can talk about boundaries."
"We don’t have any," Charles said.
"That’s the problem," Max muttered.
The therapist glanced toward the bonsai tree in the corner as if hoping it would deliver her from this hell. Or spontaneously burst into flame and take the whole room with it.
The two men walked out the building ten minutes later, a space as wide as the Grand Canyon between them, the silence more loaded than the gun on an AH-64. If someone had to see them walk out of a therapist's office, would they think the two were rebuilding old bridges. If an article had to appear on the front page of a tabloid, would the headline would read: “Rivals Reunited: Are Max and Charles Finally Making Amends?”
Spoiler: they were not.
Dr. Blom sat back, closed her notebook, and sighed. She had a master’s degree. She had dreams once.
She had a bonsai tree.
It wouldn’t judge her if she tapped out