Chapter Text
The four-bedroom house on Rue Mistral wasn’t anything special—until it was. The moment Max Verstappen walked in with his overnight bag slung over his shoulder and a wrench tucked into the side pocket of his backpack, he claimed the largest room upstairs with a nod and a cocky grin. “Perfect,” he muttered, kicking open the windows to let in the breeze.
Max had always been a favorite at university—top of the mechanical engineering department, quick-witted, and annoyingly handsome. That, plus his no-nonsense attitude, made him somewhat intimidating. Moving into the house with him were Lewis Hamilton, Sebastian Vettel, and Yuki Tsunoda—all from different departments, but longtime friends.
They weren’t the only ones.
Alex Albon and George Russell were living a few houses down, often dropping by with food or project tools. Carlos Sainz, Lando Norris, and Oscar Piastri were scattered across town, but frequent visitors nonetheless. The group had become tight over the past few years—sharing courses, clubs, and weekend hangouts.
The last person any of them expected to see that afternoon, standing on the neighbor’s porch, backpack slung low and bruised knee peeking through ripped uniform trousers, was a high schooler.
“Who the hell is that?” Max asked, wiping grease off his hands as he peeked out the window.
Yuki squinted. “Looks like a middle schooler.”
“Uniform says high school. Second year, maybe?” Sebastian added, arms crossed.
The boy smiled politely at the older woman letting him into the neighboring house. As he turned, Max caught a better look. He was beautiful—almost too much. Messy brown hair, wide green eyes, soft freckles over his nose. But the bruise under his chin was unmistakable.
“Someone’s clumsy,” Lewis commented casually, turning back to his laptop.
---
Charles Leclerc wasn’t supposed to be here. At least, that’s what he thought every time he stepped outside his sister’s house and met the stares of older students. Kika had been ecstatic about moving closer to Pierre, her boyfriend of a year. She even promised Charles his own room. Privacy. Freedom.
But freedom felt like chains when it meant more time hiding the bruises.
High school was hell.
The bullies never hit him where it would scar. But sometimes he wished they did. At least then someone might believe him.
“Careful again?” Kika asked as he dropped his bag in the hall.
Charles laughed brightly. “Fell. Don’t worry.”
Pierre walked in, ruffling Charles’ hair without a second glance. “You really need to stop tripping over your own feet, kid.”
“I’ll try harder,” Charles joked.
But his smile never reached his eyes.
---
Back on Rue Mistral, the group was adjusting to the noise. Kika was loud. Pierre even louder. But Charles? Charles was the wildcard.
Max had never heard someone laugh so freely yet move so carefully around people. One evening, Charles stopped by to return a charger Pierre had left.
“Thanks,” Max said, barely looking up.
Charles smiled. “No problem. Your bike’s leaking oil.”
Max blinked. “What?”
“The gasket’s loose. I saw it earlier. Just thought you should know.”
With that, Charles turned and left, headphones in, hoodie up. Max stared after him.
---
“You’re telling me the kid noticed your oil leak from ten feet away?” Oscar whistled. “That’s sharp.”
Max wasn’t sure how to explain it. Charles was weird. Always smiling. Always quiet. But he saw things—little things. Max found himself watching more, even if he hated admitting it.
Still, the bruises didn’t go unnoticed for long.
Not by Sebastian, who once found Charles rubbing his ribs on the porch.
Not by Lewis, who saw the flash of a busted lip before Charles turned away.
And especially not by Max.
He didn’t say anything. Not yet. But something about Charles Leclerc was very, very off.
And Max Verstappen hated not knowing things.
---
By the second week of living next to Charles, the group’s patience had worn thin.
Charles had a habit of walking in uninvited, raiding their pantry, leaving socks in the living room, and asking relentless questions about their classes. When he wasn’t bouncing between rooms, he was pranking people. Lando found hot sauce in his shampoo. Oscar’s engineering notes had mysteriously been replaced by glitter stickers and Charles’ doodles.
"Are you serious right now?!" Oscar had shouted.
Charles, curled up on the couch, replied with a smug, "Oops. Must’ve mixed up the papers."
Max had had enough.
One evening, after Charles showed up and smeared chocolate on Max’s freshly polished engine part, Max pulled him aside.
“You have five seconds to leave,” Max growled.
Charles blinked at him, wide-eyed. "But I thought—"
"No. You thought wrong. This isn’t your house. And you’re not funny."
The others thought Max might’ve gone too far. Charles didn’t come over for two days after that.
No one expected to miss the chaos. But they did.
Until he returned—with a cut lip, a bruised cheekbone, and no cookies. He waved awkwardly and tried to joke. “I got into a fight with gravity. Gravity won.”
Sebastian gave him a look. “Did gravity punch you in the face, then?”
Charles shrugged, but this time the grin didn’t come so easily. “You’d be surprised what gravity can do.”
He didn’t stay long.
Later that night, Max watched him from his window. Charles was out on the porch next door, staring into nothing, arms wrapped around his knees. Max noticed the way he flinched when Pierre touched his shoulder.
---
By the next week, things were different.
Charles stopped being annoying. At least, not in the same way.
He still came by, but now he lingered in doorways instead of barging in. He cleaned up after himself. He didn’t prank anyone. He barely spoke.
Yuki noticed it first. “What’s wrong with the kid? He’s quiet.”
“I kind of liked it better when he was annoying,” George admitted.
“He’s always smiling, but it’s empty,” Lewis added. “Like he’s trying to pretend he’s okay.”
Max hated it.
The silence made him feel worse than the noise ever did.
So when he found Charles sitting alone on the steps again, looking like a lost kitten, Max sat beside him.
“What happened to you?”
Charles blinked up at him. “Nothing.”
“You're not a good liar.”
“I am. People believe me.”
Max frowned. “Not me.”
Charles looked away. “Then don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
That night, Max couldn’t sleep.
He didn’t know why it bothered him so much. Why Charles Leclerc—annoying, loud, irritating Charles—was suddenly haunting his thoughts.
But he was.
And something in Max told him this was only the beginning.
---
(To be continued...)