Hate to race lestappen

Epilogue

"No one won the Formula 1 World Championship that night.

For the first time in the sport's history, the title ended in a draw—no tie-breaker, no stewards' decision, no final lap to settle it.

Two drivers equal on points.
And in the final race, neither finished.

Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc—names at the center of one of F1's fiercest rivalries—crashed out with less than fifteen laps to go. Not together, not on purpose, but not entirely by accident either. One's car faltered. The other didn't lift.

There were no celebrations. Just confusion in the paddock and chaos on the screens. The stewards combed through every possibility, but there was no precedent.

No rule in place for a tie with no race result to break it.

Some suggested two champions.

Others argued for none.

But by midnight, the outcome was confirmed: the championship would remain undecided.

The season would go down in history—not for a winner, but for the fact that it had none.

The biggest rivalry of a generation ended not with a title, but with a tie."

Charles read aloud, putting on an over-serious voice. He tilted the phone so the others could see the headline, then deadpanned: "This one wins."

Pierre immediately raised his drink like it was a toast. "Iconic. Shakespearean. Tragic. You both died heroes."

Daniel, spread out sideways across Max's couch laughing, Max, hood up, legs pulled to his chest on the armchair, didn't.

That was the rule now. Don't push it. Don't ask how he was. Don't name what happened. Just let it sit in the room, between the unopened FIA statements on the TV and the half-eaten food on the counter. Let it float between the barking dog and the silence Max couldn't break.

Charles dropped into the space beside him anyway. He still didn't quite know what to do in moments like this—how to be casual when nothing felt normal. His thigh pressed against Max's, and Max didn't pull away.

Close enough.

There were more headlines. Charles could've read a hundred.

"No Title, No Winner, Just Smoke—Formula One's Most Violent Season Ends in Silence."

"Verstappen and Leclerc: A Legacy of War, A Finish Without Glory."

"Tie-Break Chaos: FIA Holds Emergency Session as Neither Car Finishes."

There were pictures too. Still frames of fire and carbon fiber, of Max's helmet tilted down and Charles stepping out like he hadn't meant to. Theories. Freeze-frames. Clips looped endlessly online.

Pierre flipped his phone around. "Apparently someone edited the Wikipedia entry. Under 'champion,' it just says 'good question.'"

Daniel laughed into his sleeve, and others followed with quiet giggles but even that faded into silence eventually. And still, Max didn't speak.

The cat leapt onto the arm of Max's chair, curling up near his feet. He scratched behind its ear absently.

Charles didn't look directly at him when he said it. "They'll keep asking."

Max nodded once. Because of course they would. When neither team protested. When the points stayed equal. When there was no footage clean enough to make a decision, and no one wanted to admit what they all suspected anyway.

Because some of them thought Charles had slowed down on purpose.

And some of them thought Max had crashed into him on purpose.