Chapter Text
charles leclerc had always known that come designation day he would be submissive. he knew by the way that he itched when his friends suggested they break a rule, and how good he felt inside when someone picked something out for him and recognised the cause of the deep anxiety that bubbled up when too many choices were placed in front of him. he’d love to have been ignorant, to truly have no clue what was going to happen with his biology. but as much as he was a dreamer he was also, a realist. what was more important he supposed was avoiding anyone else guessing that he was submissive for as long as possible.
it’s not that he’s ashamed of being submissive, he knows it’s natural just a part of his biology. but he’s also heard what the boys at the track say about submissives. too fragile, too emotional to race. they can’t believe that the rules were changed back in 2000 so that they weren’t banned from the grid. a submissive could never have the kind of aggression needed to make it in formula one, one disapproving look from a dominant and they’d be driving their own car into the barriers in apology. charles knows that if the boys at the track are saying it, then even if it’s rubbish it means their parents are saying it, means their trainers are saying it. so everyone thinks it. charles knows he’s just as aggressive on track as the other boys, knows he wouldn’t yield to any of them to give up the win. but somehow he doesn’t think anyone would believe him.
he buries his nose in his ferrari bedsheets at night and prays that that somehow he’ll be a switch. prays that something as stupid as liking to be told what to do won’t stop him from his dream, from ferrari. he pushes any urges of first kisses and boys away, and makes sure that nobody in his karting championships would ever think he was a submissive. he copies the other boys, demands things even when his stomach curls, and tries to style himself to look less soft, less delicate.
the wrench in all this is of course as it always is, max verstappen. charles had promised himself that he wouldn’t think about boys, wouldn’t give in to any of his urges to bat his eyes at them. but there’s something about the blonde that makes his knees buckle a little, something about the way the other boy commands the track that makes charles want to dip his head in respect. a worthy opponent, someone worth kneeling for, burning blue eyes that make charles blush. but he can’t, ferrari has asked questions about putting him into their junior program, he can’t throw all that away for a boy.
so he pushes him off the track instead, he fights the older boy on every corner and prays that nobody notices how he stares when max takes his helmet off. how he scoots a little closer to max on their shared podiums and savours the older boys hand on his waist. they’re just rivals, just friendly rivals who occasionally chat after a particularly hard battle on track, or brush hands when max is showing him the new adjustments on his kart.
he makes it. makes it into the junior ferrari program, wins more races, proves himself on every corner. but still the test lingers over him like a noose, he knows there are submissives on the grid now but none of them drive for ferrari. the oldest team in the world, deeply traditional and unchanging. he has to be a switch it’s the only way. everyone else is starting to have firsts, testing at their suspicions, trying out the biological urge to submit or dominate. but charles keeps himself locked away like a prude, won’t even look at porn. because he knows what he’d like, knows he’d want to see blonde men making smaller brunette ones cry. knows as sure as he knows the sun will rise that he craves to be collared to be owned. but all he can do is fight it.
pierre has scened plenty, which charlie doesn’t necessarily think is a good thing because they’re still pretty young. but he’s always trying to persuade charlie to loosen up, to talk about the things he might like. but charles stays tight lipped and tight legged, trying to tune out every biology lesson that informs him that he’s doomed. and still max verstappen taunts him, at night when he creeps a hand between his legs thinking about the other boy putting him on his knees his ferrari poster seems to stare down at him. what do you want more boy? it seems to ask. which dream will simply be that, a dream.
the test confirms all of his fears on a frustratingly ordinary tuesday afternoon, charles leclerc of monaco is a submissive. there is no doubting it, in fact the doctor notes just how high the percentage of submissive hormone that he’s producing is like it’s something to be proud of. she’s all smiles and congratulations, but charles goes home and buries himself under his covers and cries. the trophies on the shelves opposite his bed seem to mock him, remind him of what he’ll never have now. so he curls up and faces away from them, waits for ferrari to call and drop him.
the call doesn’t come. max kisses him, and charles kisses him back. the call still doesn’t come. charles wins GP3, and nico rosberg comes second in the world championship. a submissive so close to the top. charles is a little more confident that the call won’t come. max wants to date him and charles does his very first scene. the call still doesn’t come. charles wins F2, and nico rosberg is world champion. the first submissive champions of each category. charles gets a call, not the one he feared but the one he’d dreamed of. in 2018 he will join formula one, he will be one step closer to ferrari.
but there’s one thing playing on his mind, something he couldn’t admit even to pierre. having been kissed by max, having knelt for him, dropped with him. he’s not sure if he could give it up anymore, he’s not sure if he wants ferrari if he can’t have max. when all was said and done maybe he was just like the boys on the track had said. a weak submissive who’d give it all up for a dominant. maybe he doesn’t deserve ferrari, and maybe he never had at all.