Unbroken Hopes|| Charles Leclerc X Max Verstappen(Lestappen)Wildest Dreams Book2 Race

The early morning light seeped through the curtains of their hotel room, casting a soft golden glow over the bed. Max stirred first, blinking sleepily as he felt the warmth of Charles next to him. It was race day. Not just any race day, but the race day—the final showdown for the championship. He watched Charles, his chest rising and falling peacefully, still asleep, oblivious for just a few more precious moments to the weight they would soon face.

Max gently nudged him. “Hey, sleepyhead. Time to wake up.”

Charles groaned softly, squinting as he shifted toward Max, burying his face in his chest. “Just five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Max smiled and ran a hand through Charles’s messy hair. “I’d give you five more hours if I could, but we’ve got a pretty important day ahead.”

Charles sighed, finally lifting his head and blinking his bleary eyes open. The reality of the day hit him instantly, the weight settling on his shoulders like a familiar yet oppressive presence. But as his eyes met Max’s, that weight felt just a little lighter.

“I can’t believe it’s here,” Charles whispered, his voice laced with nerves and anticipation.

Max leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “I know. But we’ve made it. Whatever happens today, we’ve made it here together. And I’m proud of us for that.”

Charles shifted fully onto his back, staring at the ceiling for a moment before turning to Max. “I keep telling myself that. That it’s enough just to be here, to be fighting for the title against you. But…”

“But you want to win,” Max finished for him, his voice understanding, not judging.

Charles nodded. “Yeah. I do. I want this so badly, Max. But it’s not just about the title. It’s about everything that’s led to this moment. All the sacrifices, all the battles—both on and off the track.”

Max sighed and rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he gazed down at Charles. “I get it. I’ve been there, remember? And I know how much this means to you. But you need to know something. You’re already a champion, Charles. Whether you win today or not, you’re a champion. You’ve proven it to yourself, to me, and to the world.”

Charles’s eyes shimmered slightly, the weight of Max’s words sinking in. “You really think that?”

Max nodded, his gaze never wavering. “I know that. I’ve known it since we were kids, karting together, pushing each other to the limit. You’ve always been destined for this.”

Charles swallowed hard, feeling a swell of emotion rise in his chest. “I… I just don’t want to let you down.”

Max’s face softened, and he reached over, cupping Charles’s cheek. “You could never let me down. Not in racing, not in life. We’re in this together, no matter what happens out there today. I’m with you, always.”

Charles closed his eyes for a moment, letting those words wash over him, grounding him. He took a deep breath, and when he opened his eyes again, there was a new determination in them. “We fight together.”

Max smiled. “Always.”

They lay there for a few more minutes, sharing the silence, the calm before the storm. But soon, the inevitable pull of the day dragged them from their cocoon of warmth and safety. They got ready, dressed in their respective team gear, and shared a quiet breakfast before heading to the track.

As they arrived at the Yas Marina Circuit, the tension in the air was palpable. The media swarmed the paddock, eager to capture every moment of the unprecedented title fight between them two , two rivals, and two lovers. The world had never seen anything like this—a championship decider between partners at the pinnacle of motorsport. It was the kind of story that captured imaginations, that would be written about for years to come.

Charles and Max moved through the paddock side by side, their focus sharp but their hands never straying too far from each other’s. Every camera, every reporter wanted a piece of them, and they obliged with carefully measured smiles and polite responses. But their minds were already on the race.

In the final moments before the race, as they sat in their respective garages, preparing for battle, Charles closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. The roar of the crowd outside the garage was deafening, but inside his helmet, it was just him and the silence of his thoughts. He could feel the weight of the day pressing down on him again, that familiar pressure that had chased him all season. And then, as if on cue, his mind began to wander.

What if I can’t do it? he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. What if I’m not good enough?

He could already see Max out on track, pulling ahead from pole, the Red Bull fast and strong as always. Charles had to climb from P6—no easy feat. And as much as he believed in his own abilities, he couldn’t help but think about all the times he’d fallen just short. All the close second-place finishes, all the races where luck hadn’t been on his side.

But then, amid the whirlwind of doubt, memories started to flood his mind.

He thought of his father, who had always believed in him, who had sacrificed so much to help him chase his dreams. He thought of Jules, who had been like an older brother to him, who had taught him so much about racing, about life. Jules had always told him he had what it took to be great.

He thought of Max, of their childhood battles in karting, of how they had pushed each other to be better, faster, stronger. Max had always believed in him too. Even now, even when they were fighting for the same prize, Max was his biggest supporter.

You’re a champion, Charles. You’ve always been destined for this.

Max’s words echoed in his mind, grounding him. He took a deep breath, the weight lifting ever so slightly from his chest.

I can do this, he told himself. I will do this.

The lights on the grid flickered, signaling it was time. Charles felt the tension in the pit lane spike as the teams prepared their cars for the final battle. The air was electric, thick with anticipation.

He climbed into his Ferrari, securing his helmet and gloves with the practiced precision of someone who had done this a thousand times before. But today, everything felt different. Bigger.

The formation lap was a blur of sound and color as the cars weaved around the track, warming up their tires. Max was ahead, comfortably in pole position, while Charles stared down the daunting task of clawing his way from P6. The cars lined up on the grid, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

The lights flickered on, one by one, and then—

Lights out.

Max surged ahead, his Red Bull screaming down the straight as he led into the first corner. Charles, meanwhile, darted off the line, threading his Ferrari through the midfield chaos. He pushed hard, his mind singularly focused on one thing: getting to Max.

The first few laps were a blur of overtakes and defensive moves. Charles was relentless, carving his way through the field with the precision of a man possessed. Each pass brought him closer to the front, closer to Max. By lap 15, he was up to P3, the crowd roaring with excitement as they watched the Monegasque charge forward.

But Max had already built a gap. The Red Bull was quick, and Max was in his element, controlling the race from the front with the cool precision that had earned him four world championships.

Charles gritted his teeth, frustration beginning to gnaw at the edges of his focus. He was driving as fast as he could, but the gap wasn’t shrinking fast enough. He pushed harder, his mind a swirling mix of determination and doubt.

I need to catch him. I can’t let this slip away.

But as the laps ticked by, that familiar voice of doubt crept back in. Maybe I’m not fast enough. Maybe this is it—another second place.

He shook his head, trying to banish the thought, but it lingered like a shadow. His grip tightened on the steering wheel.

Why does this always happen? Why do I always come up just short?

And then, like a floodgate bursting open, memories surged back—memories of his father, of Jules, of all the sacrifices, all the near-misses. He thought of every time he’d doubted himself, every time he’d wondered if he was good enough.

But you are good enough, a voice in his mind whispered. You’ve always been good enough.

Suddenly, clarity washed over him. He could hear his father’s voice, could feel Jules’s hand on his shoulder, could see Max’s smile as he told him he believed in him.

I’m not doing this just for me, he realized. I’m doing this for them. For everyone who believed in me. For everyone who sacrificed for me. I can’t let them down.

His grip on the wheel relaxed slightly, and with it, his mind sharpened. The fear, the doubt—it didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was the next corner, the next lap, the next opportunity.

Charles’s pace picked up. His lap times began to tumble, and the gap to Max started to shrink.

Lap by lap, he clawed his way closer. By lap 45, he was within striking distance, the crowd on their feet as they watched the battle unfold. Charles was relentless, pushing

through every corner, every straight, shaving off precious tenths of a second as he hunted Max down. The gap was now less than two seconds, and with each passing lap, the tension in the air grew thicker.

Max, of course, knew Charles was coming. He could see it on the timing screens, feel it in the way his engineer’s voice crackled with increasing urgency over the radio. But he was calm. This was the kind of pressure he’d thrived on his entire career. And today was no different.

The Ferrari was fast, no doubt, and Charles was driving like a man possessed. But Max trusted his instincts, trusted the car beneath him. He’d been in this situation before. He knew how to handle it.

Still, there was something different about this battle. It wasn’t just any rival closing in on him. It was Charles. His partner, his husband. Max had watched Charles grow from a fierce karting competitor to one of the finest drivers in the world. And now they were here, fighting for the ultimate prize.

For a fleeting moment, Max’s mind drifted to their conversations back home, to the nights spent lying next to each other, talking about what it meant to be in this exact position. He’d always known Charles had the talent to be a world champion. He’d never doubted it for a second.

And now here they were, the two of them, battling for the title on the final day of the season. It was almost poetic.

But there was no time for sentimentality now. Charles was closing in, and Max had to focus. He shifted his weight slightly, eyes scanning the track ahead, calculating the perfect lines, the ideal braking points. There would be no room for error in these final laps.

Behind him, Charles’s focus had become razor-sharp. His earlier doubts were gone, replaced by a burning determination. He could see Max up ahead, his Red Bull darting through the corners with effortless precision. But Charles knew he could catch him. He had to catch him.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he approached one of the trickiest sections of the track. The car felt light, nimble, almost as if it were an extension of his own body. His mind was clear, and he knew what he had to do.

As they approached lap 50, the gap was down to just over a second. The tension in the paddock was unbearable, the roar of the crowd growing louder with each lap. The world was watching, and they knew they were witnessing something special.

“Come on, Charles,” his race engineer, Brian, encouraged over the radio. “You’re catching him. Keep pushing.”

“I’m giving it everything,” Charles replied, his voice calm but laced with intensity.

Max, too, was getting updates from Gianpiero, his race engineer. “Charles is closing in, but you’ve got this. Stay cool.”

Max nodded to himself, his grip on the steering wheel tightening ever so slightly. He knew that Charles wouldn’t give up. He knew that the fight was far from over.

And then, just as Charles was closing the gap to within DRS range, the unthinkable happened.

“Yellow flags, turn 7,” Brian’s voice crackled over Charles’s radio. “Slow down, slow down. Debris on track.”

Charles’s heart sank. He backed off the throttle, his Ferrari slowing as the marshals waved the yellow flags. He glanced at the timing screens in frustration, watching the gap to Max stretch again, within the delta, but still. The opportunity he’d been waiting for, the chance to strike, was slipping through his fingers.

“Why now?!” he shouted into his helmet, his voice tinged with desperation.

But it was about to get worse.

“Double yellows, double yellows,” Brian continued, his tone more serious now. “Red flag. Red flag. The race is being stopped.”

Charles’s world tilted. A red flag? Now?

Max was already being informed by Gianpiero. “Red flag, Max. Slow down and head to the pit lane.”

Max’s heart clenched. He could hear the frustration in his husband’s voice over the team radio that was being played over the speakers at the circuit and knew exactly what Charles was feeling. He could picture Charles in his car, shaking his head, probably cursing under his breath.

The cars slowed down, with Max leading the pack into the pit lane, where the race was suspended. The mechanics swarmed around the cars, while Max sat quietly in the cockpit, staring at the giant screens showing the incident that had caused the red flag—an accident involving a backmarker further down the grid.

Charles climbed out of his Ferrari, yanking his helmet off with a frustrated sigh. His heart was still pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins, but now there was nothing to do but wait. Wait and wonder what might have been and what might happen. His pulse thudded in his ears as he stormed toward the Ferrari garage, running a hand through his damp hair, still trying to process what had just happened.

Max stepped out of his Red Bull moments later, his eyes immediately scanning the crowd for Charles. He saw him heading toward the garage, his body language stiff and tense.

Max wanted to run after him, wanted to tell him it wasn’t over, that there was still a race to finish, still a championship to fight for. But he knew Charles needed a moment. He knew his husband well enough to give him space, even when every fiber of his being wanted to be by his side.

In the back of his mind, Max couldn’t help but think about the stakes. He was leading the race, one step closer to his fifth world championship. But the sight of Charles’s disappointment gnawed at him. Max didn’t want to win like this. He wanted the battle on track, fair and square, just as they’d always promised each other it would be. He could only hope that they would restart.

Back in the Ferrari garage, Charles stood with his back to the monitors, head down as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. His engineers and team gathered around him, offering quiet words of encouragement, but Charles barely registered them. His mind was elsewhere—back on track, replaying the moments before the red flag over and over again in his head.

He could have had Max. He would have had him.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Taking a deep breath, Charles closed his eyes and tried to refocus. The race wasn’t over yet. He couldn’t afford to give up, not now. Not when everything was still on the line. He had to believe in himself. He had to trust that there was still a way to win this.

Max, standing by the Red Bull pit wall, caught Charles’s eye from across the paddock. For a moment, they locked gazes—silent, unspoken communication passing between them. There was no need for words. Max knew what Charles was feeling, and Charles knew that Max understood.

Charles forced a small smile, lifting his hand in a half-hearted wave. Max, in return, gave him a nod—one that spoke of reassurance, of belief.

If the race would restart soon. And when it did, they both knew what was coming.

A final battle.