𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘴 || 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯

𝐡𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐬

Charles had always loved driving the Ferrari.

Especially this year's car. Despite his suboptimal results, he felt he was in harmony. Man and machine instead of man versus machine. Exactly how a Formula One driver hoped they would feel at each race.

Max too, was in harmony with the car. His results showed it. Charles was left watching from the Ferrari hospitality each Sunday afternoon as Max hoisted a trophy above his head, physical proof of him and his car on the same wavelength.

Charles said the right words, but didn't have anything to show for it.

It stung. Bitterly. Even one podium at the beginning of the season was nothing compared to the Dutch driver, for which winning was a standard, no longer an accomplishment. A win was normal, in fact, standing anywhere except on the top step of the podium was an anomaly for Max.

Formula One was inevitably Max. It was his reign, one king and 19 challengers. The man owned the sport, claiming pole position after pole position, win after win. Charles hated how every time he was posting on social media hoping for a better weekend the next race, Max was posting about his most recent addition to his extensive trophy cabinet back at home.

If it was a game of confidence for Max, it was a game of hope for Charles.

Each time, he could hope that he'd have a breakthrough. That it'd be his name headlining the news articles, not the same old name. What Charles coveted so badly, Max had in the palm of his hand.

Would Max inevitably win while Charles was predestined to lose?

This weekend, Charles adopted determination. Sometimes it was hope, sometimes anger, sometimes fear, but this weekend it was determination. He had gotten sick of not believing in himself so this weekend he chose to believe not just that he could win, but that he would.

There was a certain aura that followed him around the paddock. A sense of solemnity, of intense focus. It was as if he was physically present but his mind was in another dimension. It looked as if there would be nothing that could get in the way between him and that elusive victory. Not even Max Verstappen at the peak of his career would get in between Charles and the top step of the podium, it seemed.

The first qualifying.

Charles came first, Max came second. Upon noticing that Charles had elevated his level, Max saw no other path but to do the same.

The second qualifying and Charles came first yet again. Max thought he had risen enough. Clearly not.

The third qualifying and this time Max resolved that this time it would be him, not Charles nor anyone else. He pulled back into the pit lane with a smug grin on his face underneath his helmet, knowing he had pole.

And then, Charles was flying.

Of course, Max hadn't yet watched the relays of his own lap so he was in the dark as to what he was comparing the Monegasque's ongoing lap to. But hell, he knew an incredible lap when he saw one and this? This was incredible.

As Charles crossed the line, Max's eyes went wide.

The exact same time.

That was almost unheard of. First and second, the front row setting exactly the same lap time.

As the two drivers exited their cars and went to shake hands, a common understanding settled over them.

They had driven side by side since they were merely teenagers. And it was once again just them at the front, untouchable like they once dreamed of being.

Leclerc's fire versus Verstappen's ice.

Max nodded at Charles, Charles nodded back. Through their helmet visors, their eyes locked on one another. Even if it was for the faintest of seconds, words were exchanged through that glance. Words, emotions, apprehensions, and most certainly intentions.