𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

𝟒 - 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄

CHAPTER FOUR

DEVIL YOU CALL ME

HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX

Max had promised himself he'd never go back to smoking. It was a habit he'd picked up during the early years of his career, a way to cope with the relentless pressure and expectations that seemed to crush him from every angle. The burn in his lungs, the brief moment of clarity it offered, had been a crutch during the toughest times. But after winning his first championship, he'd made a vow to himself that he'd leave that crutch behind. He'd conquered the mountain, and with it, the need for such vices.

But now, here he was, sitting on his balcony in Monaco, the moon casting a silvery glow over the calm sea, a cigarette between his fingers. He'd managed to stay away from this for so long, but this week, everything had changed. Silverstone had shaken him, cracked the veneer of control he'd held onto for so long. Charles had gotten under his skin in a way no one else ever had, and Max couldn't understand why. The frustration, the anger—toward Charles, toward himself—had become unbearable.

So, he'd given in. The cigarette offered a momentary reprieve, a familiar escape as he exhaled his worries into the cool night air. But it was more than just stress that drove him back to this old habit. It was the feeling of being lost, adrift in emotions he didn't recognize and couldn't control. Nights like this had become an unsettling routine for Max. The tranquillity of the night, once a refuge, now felt like a stage for his internal chaos. Ever since that race, he found himself haunted by the echoes of frustration and self-doubt.

Sleepless, restless, he would sit on this balcony, staring out at the moonlit water, trying to make sense of the turmoil inside him. But the answers never came. All he had were the cigarettes and the quiet solitude of the night, both of which were proving to be poor substitutes for the peace he so desperately sought. They acted as a fragment of his old, determined self he oh-so-wished he could have back. Sure, he was a reckless driver, with little care for the people around him as long as they didn't stop him from winning, but that was what he needed right now. The confidence it took to be that arrogant and reckless.

Was the cigarette in between his fingers bigger of a sin than giving into the concern and anxiety haunting him? Max couldn't decide. The smoke curling into the night air seemed like a lesser evil compared to the thoughts that twisted through his mind. Each drag was a brief escape, a momentary distraction from the gnawing self-doubt that had taken root in his heart. But as the ember burned down, he knew that the real sin wasn't the nicotine he inhaled—it was the way he had allowed Charles to crawl under his skin, to unsettle him in a way no one else had ever managed.

He could feel the hands of doubt and insecurity grabbing his throat, leaving the corpse of the person he used to be as a cruel reminder of how far he strayed from his unshakeable security. The cigarette was a symptom, a small rebellion against the pressure he felt closing in from all sides. It wasn't just about Charles, or Marc, or the race—it was about the fact that, for the first time in a long time, Max didn't feel in control. He was adrift in a sea of emotions he didn't want to acknowledge, let alone confront. And the more he tried to push them down, the more they consumed him. The cigarette might be an offence, but it was also a lifeline—a way to keep himself anchored, even if just for a few minutes, in the midst of a storm he wasn't sure he could weather.

The Hungarian Grand Prix was supposed to be another routine win for Max, another step toward solidifying his dominance in the championship. The Red Bull was performing flawlessly, and Max had started from pole, with Charles Leclerc just behind him in second. The tension between them had been palpable all weekend, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest spark to ignite it.

As the race progressed, it became clear that Charles was not content to settle for second. Lap after lap, he kept the pressure on Max, his Ferrari sticking to the Red Bull, looking for any opportunity to overtake. Max was used to this kind of challenge—he had faced down rivals before and come out on top. But there was something different about Charles today, a kind of desperation in his driving that made Max uneasy.

On lap 48, as they approached Turn 5, Charles made his move. It was aggressive, more aggressive than anything Max had seen from him before. Charles dived down the inside, braking later than seemed possible, his car wobbling under the strain. Max reacted instinctively, trying to close in, but it was too late. The Ferrari clipped the rear of the Red Bull, sending it spinning off the track.

The screech of tires and the crunch of carbon fibre filled the air as both cars crashed into the barriers. Max's hands were shaking with adrenaline and rage as he unbuckled his harness and climbed out of the wreckage. He tore off his helmet, his eyes blazing with fury as he saw Charles shamelessly driving away. What the fuck was that?

But he didn't get far. The Ferrari, battered and struggling, limped back towards the pit lane. As he made his way down the pit straight, the damage became increasingly evident. The crew scrambled to prepare for an emergency stop, but it was clear that Charles was heading in to retire the car.

The moment Max saw Charles in the paddock, standing by his battered Ferrari, something inside him snapped. The frustration and anger from the past few weeks, the doubts that had been gnawing at him since Silverstone, all came surging to the surface. He stormed over to Charles, his vision narrowing, his fists clenched at his sides.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Max's voice was a low, dangerous growl, barely contained.

Charles turned to face him, his expression defiant. "I was thinking about winning, Max. What else?"

Max's blood boiled at the nonchalance in Charles's tone. Without thinking, he closed the distance between them in a single stride and grabbed the collar of Charles's race suit, yanking him closer. The gap between them was almost nonexistent, their faces inches apart, eyes locked in a fiery stare.

"You don't win by driving like a reckless idiot," Max hissed, his grip tightening on Charles's suit. "You nearly took us both out, and for what? To prove you're not afraid of me?"

Charles didn't flinch, his own eyes blazing with a mix of anger and something else—defiance, maybe even a flicker of something deeper, something unspoken. "I'm not afraid of you, Max. And maybe it's time you stopped expecting everyone else to be."

The tension between them was electric, the air thick with unspoken words and barely suppressed violence. Max's hand trembled slightly as he held Charles, the muscles in his arm taut with restraint. Part of him wanted to lash out, to vent all the frustration that had been building inside him for weeks. But another part, the part that was still thinking clearly, knew that crossing that line would have consequences he couldn't control.

"You think you can just drive like that and walk away?" Max's voice was low, dangerous. "Just because you have a decent car now doesn't mean you can make up for the rest of your season. You're not the only one on this track, Charles."

Charles's breath was warm against Max's face, his tone just as sharp. "I'm here to race, Max. To win. Just like you. If you can't handle that, then maybe you're the one who needs to think about what you're doing."

Max's grip tightened momentarily, his knuckles white against the red fabric of Charles's suit. The moment stretched out, the fury between them palpable, but finally, Max released him, shoving him back a step. The intensity of their proximity had stirred something in Max, a mix of anger and an unexpected, unsettling pull that he couldn't quite name.

"You're not better than me, Charles," Max said, his voice cold, almost a whisper. "All you've proven today is that you're desperate. And desperation makes you dangerous—but it doesn't make you a champion."

Charles straightened his suit, his gaze never leaving Max's. A small smile appeared on his face."Would be a shame if something happened in Spa."

Max narrowed his eyes, caught off guard by Charles's calm response. The unexpected smile tugged at something inside him, adding to the confusion of emotions already swirling in his chest.

"Is that a threat?" Max asked, his voice low, trying to mask the unease creeping in.

Charles's smile widened just a fraction, a hint of something unspoken lingering in the air. "Just a reminder, Max. We're not done yet."