Chapter Text
The limousine's tinted glass reflected the golden lights of Monaco as if the entire city had decided to dress up for the night.
The lampposts along the coastal avenue twinkled in sequence, a necklace of diamonds stretching to the red carpet that awaited them. Inside the car, the world seemed suspended - muffled by the soft leather of the seats, the discreet woody perfume that always accompanied important events, the distant sound of traffic being swallowed by the gentle purr of the engine.
Charles sat with his back against the seat, his impeccable posture honed by years of cameras, but his fingers betrayed the tension. They played with the thin ring on his right hand, twirling it with an automatic, almost unconscious movement.
The black Louis Vuitton suit seemed tailor-made for that exact version of him: young, elegant, a little tired. The light silk shirt highlighted the contrast with the dark tie, and the discreet necklace rested against his collarbone like a secret known only to him. His hair, styled with calculated precision to appear casual, still carried the scent of the product he had just applied in his bathroom.
Ahead of him, with a tablet resting on his knee and an air of practical concentration bordering on affection, Oscar scrolled through an endless list of appointments. He wore an equally elegant suit, but with his tie slightly loosened - a small rebellion permitted to someone who wouldn't be photographed under incessant flashes. Oscar was his manager, best friend, confidant, and, in many ways, the axis that kept Charles's life spinning without going anywhere.
"Okay," said Oscar, clearing his throat as he swiped his finger across the screen. "After the red carpet, you have two quick interviews. One with Vogue France and another with GQ. Ten minutes each, no surprise questions… at least in theory."
Charles let out a low sigh, almost a humorless laugh.
"In theory, it never reassures me," he murmured, glancing out the window. The sea appeared between the buildings, dark and calm, as if silently observing everything.
Oscar raised an eyebrow, accustomed to the tone.
"I know. But remember, short answers, focus on the new music, the partnership with Louis Vuitton, and the fact that you're in a very good place with yourself right now." He made air quotes, ironically. "That usually pleases people."
Charles tilted his head slightly, closing his eyes for a second. His expression was beautiful, almost serene, but there was something there - a subtle shadow, an emotional weariness that couldn't be erased by makeup or impeccable tailoring.
"And then?" he asked, opening his eyes again.
"Then there's the private dinner with sponsors. Three tables, lots of people wanting to shake your hand and tell you how much they admire you." Oscar paused thoughtfully. "Tomorrow morning, photo shoot. And in the coming weeks, Milan, Paris, and London. Basically, that's it until the end of the year."
Charles let out a short laugh.
"Until December," he corrected.
Oscar smiled slightly, already expecting it.
"Until December." He nodded, as if confirming an old agreement. "You always make that clear. December is sacred. Holidays, family, disappearing off the map, end-of-year celebrations… I know, I know."
"It's not just a whim," Charles said, his tone more serious now. "It's survival."
Oscar observed him for a moment longer than usual. There was a concern there that didn't need to be verbalized.
"I know," he repeated, more quietly. "And that's precisely why I organize everything so you can disappear in peace when the time comes."
The limousine made a smooth turn, and the distant murmur began to grow louder. Voices, music, anticipatory flashes. The event was approaching like an inevitable wave.
Oscar returned to his tablet, but his expression shifted subtly.
"Oh. And there's something else," he said cautiously, studying his words.
Charles rolled his eyes before even listening.
"If it's about numbers, contracts, or that absurd rumor that I'm going to quit music to become a full-time model, I'll pass."
"No, it's not that." Oscar took a deep breath. "It's about the rumors."
The ring stopped spinning between Charles's fingers.
"What rumors?" he asked, though he already knew.
Oscar tilted the tablet, quickly showing the screen. Headlines, tweets, theories, old photos recycled with new captions. Names connected by invisible arrows, smiles analyzed as evidence.
"The internet decided you can't stay single for more than five minutes," Oscar explained. "After the breakup with Carlos, they're trying to guess who your next target is."
The name hung in the air as something still too sensitive to ignore. Charles looked away again, the reflection of the city flickering in his eyes.
"And who's the favorite of the week?" he asked, in a neutral tone that required effort.
“It depends on the day,” Oscar shrugged. “This morning it was a French producer. This afternoon it turned into a British actor you greeted at an event two years ago. Now tonight…” He made a funny face. “They’re betting on someone you followed on Instagram yesterday.”
Charles let out a genuine laugh this time, short but real.
“Amazing how a ‘follow’ button has become a marriage proposal these days…”
“Welcome to your life,” Oscar replied dryly. “The PR team prefers you not to comment. Silence usually leads to less drama.”
“It always leads to drama,” Charles retorted. “It just takes shape.”
The limousine began to slow down.
Outside, flashes were already exploding like fireworks. Charles straightened his posture automatically, took a deep breath, and adjusted his jacket with an elegant gesture, practiced until it became instinct.
"Ready for another night being everything they expect of you?" Oscar asked, with a half-smile that mixed provocation and affection.
Charles stared at his reflection in the glass for one last second before answering. There was the young singer the world knew. Confident, handsome, impeccable. But there was also the man behind the image, carrying stories that couldn't fit into ten-minute interviews.
"I'm never ready," he said, with quiet honesty. "But I'll go anyway."
The door began to open, and the sound of the world filled the limousine in waves. Oscar closed the tablet, lightly touched Charles's arm - a silent gesture of support - and nodded.
As soon as the soles of his shoes touched the red carpet, Charles felt the immediate change in the air - as if the atmosphere around him became denser, heavy with expectation, flashes, and overlapping voices. The murmur turned into a controlled roar. His name began to be called from all sides, pronounced with different accents, in tones ranging from professional to utterly euphoric.
"Charles! Over here!"
"Look at us, Charles!"
"A smile!"
"You look incredible!"
He took a deep breath, allowing his body to take over before his mind could interfere too much. It was a movement rehearsed over the years, almost choreographed: shoulders aligned, chin slightly raised, firm but unhurried steps. Every inch of that red carpet was territory he knew exactly how to occupy.
The flashes exploded like tiny white lightning bolts, blinding him for fractions of a second. Even so, Charles had trained his eye to find them. One by one. He turned his face just right, tilted his body almost imperceptibly, letting the light draw the angles that photographers so desperately sought. A soft smile here, a more open one there. Sometimes, a serious, intense, deliberately distant look - the kind that always made headlines.
The shouts continued.
"Beautiful!"
"Charles, you're perfect!"
"King!"
He listened to everything as if he were underwater.
The words arrived muffled, but the tone was clear enough for him to know exactly what they expected of him. To be handsome. To be charismatic. To be impeccable. To be approachable, yet unreachable... A delicate balance he had learned to maintain gracefully, even when inside he felt like he was made of strings stretched too tightly.
Oscar walked a few steps behind, attentive as a well-trained shadow. He didn't interfere, he didn't draw attention, but his eyes were everywhere at once. On the clock, on the most insistent photographers, on the security guards, on the event staff. When Charles took a step further than planned or lingered too long in a pose, Oscar made an almost invisible gesture with his hand - a silent, respectful reminder.
That's how they worked.
Charles realized the exact moment when he had given everything he could to the red carpet. His smile was beginning to ache in his facial muscles, the intense light made his eyes sting slightly, and that familiar feeling of premature exhaustion was beginning to set in. Still, he maintained his composure.
With a final nod, he moved a little closer to the barriers separating the photographers from the official walkway.
"Merci," he said, his voice firm and polite, inclining his head slightly. "Excuse me, I need to go now."
A few protests arose, requests for "just one more photo," "just one more smile," but he was already walking away, still smiling, still kind, never seeming rude. It was an art, that perfectly timed farewell.
As soon as he turned around, Oscar was already there, discreetly making his way through, murmuring an almost imperceptible “this way.”
Charles felt the weight of the spectacle gradually lessen with each step he took away from the red carpet, as if he were crossing an invisible border between myth and man.
The first interview awaited them in a carefully arranged space, illuminated by softer lights, with the Vogue France logo in the background. The journalist was already positioned, elegant, smiling, holding cards with questions that Charles knew even before they were asked.
Oscar stopped at a strategic distance, close enough to hear everything, far enough away not to invade the frame, not to break the illusion that Charles was navigating that world alone.
"Charles, it's a great pleasure to have you here!" began the interviewer, with an impeccable and warm French accent. "You look stunning tonight. How was it choosing this Louis Vuitton outfit?"
Charles smiled, a smile different from the one on the red carpet - less performative, more controlled.
"It was a very collaborative process," he replied. "I wanted something that reflected elegance, but also comfort. This night is long, and fashion, for me, needs to reflect who I am, not the other way around."
As he spoke, he maintained a steady gaze, alternating between the interviewer and the camera. His hands rested calmly on his legs, his gestures subtle and precise. Nothing was exaggerated. Nothing was careless.
The questions followed the expected path. Music, inspiration, the relationship between fashion and artistic identity, the pleasure of being there for such an important event. Charles answered fluently, choosing each word as one chooses notes for a confident, pleasant, but never banal melody.
"And what can we expect from you until the end of the year?" she asked, with a curious glint in her eye.
Charles didn't need to look at Oscar to remember the script. Still, he felt his presence there, firm, like a silent point of support.
"A lot of work!" he said, laughing softly. "Shows, new projects, collaborations… but also moments of pause. I've learned that balance is essential to continue creating truthfully."
Ten minutes passed quickly. A thank you, another smile, a few final photos. As they parted, Charles slowly exhaled, as if only then realizing he had been holding his breath.
The GQ interview followed immediately, in a slightly more relaxed atmosphere, with more direct questions, a more intimate tone. Still, Oscar maintained his calculated position - always present, never the protagonist.
"Your name is everywhere, Mr. Leclerc," the interviewer commented. "How do you deal with this constant exposure?"
For a second, Charles felt the urge to answer with the raw truth. That sometimes it was suffocating, that he didn't always know where the character ended and the person began. But he smiled, in the right way, and said:
"I try to remember why I started. The music. The love for what I do. The rest… I learn to filter it out."
Oscar watched attentively, proud and worried in equal measure. He knew how much each answer cost more than it seemed.
When the second interview ended, Charles thanked him, stood up, and adjusted his clothes with an automatic gesture. As soon as they were out of camera range, his shoulders relaxed a full inch.
"You were perfect," Oscar murmured softly as they walked side by side. "Exactly on time. Exactly in tone."
Charles closed his eyes for a moment, just walking.
"Merci," he replied. "Now… dinner, right?"
Oscar nodded.
"Dinner. And after that, if all goes well, you can breathe a little."
Charles opened his eyes again. Ahead, the brightly lit hall awaited them, full of people and expectations. He straightened his posture once more, placing his smile in the right place.
The discreet sound came almost as a whisper amidst the elegant hubbub of the room. A tall security guard, with impeccable posture and a neutral expression, approached Charles from his right, leaning slightly so that only he and Oscar could hear.
"Mr. Leclerc, Mr. Piastri," he said in a low, professional tone. "If you'll allow me, I'll escort you to your table."
Charles nodded automatically, his polite smile already back on his face, even though there were no cameras pointed directly at him now.
Oscar made a short gesture with his head, buttoning his blazer as he positioned himself half a step behind Charles, as he always did when crossing crowded spaces. Not to hide - Oscar never hid - but to ensure that Charles could move forward without having to think about anything other than walking.
They followed the security guard through already occupied tables, where conversations intertwined like background music, low laughter, the clinking of glasses, the sophisticated murmur of various languages mixed together.
The Louis Vuitton lounge seemed designed to impress effortlessly. Modern chandeliers hung from the ceiling like sculptures of light, reflecting golden hues onto impeccably white tablecloths. Minimalist flower arrangements occupied the center of the tables, elegant and silent, as if they too knew exactly when to draw attention.
Charles walked naturally, but his eyes absorbed everything. There was something different about this part of the evening. The red carpet and interviews demanded a specific version of him; here, at dinner, the game was different. More subtle. More political. More personal.
The security guard stopped before a round table, still empty, located in a strategic point of the room - visible enough to be important, private enough to allow for less performative conversations.
"Here, please," he indicated, pulling Charles's chair away with rehearsed precision.
Oscar pulled his chair up next to it, before anyone even needed to offer help. They both thanked him almost simultaneously, in a synchronicity that only years of shared experiences could explain.
As soon as they were seated, Charles's gaze fell to the plate in front of him. On it, a small card of thick paper, with elegant black lettering.
𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓮𝓼 𝓛𝓮𝓬𝓵𝓮𝓻𝓬.
Next to him, another card.
𝓞𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓻 𝓟𝓲𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓲.
Charles smiled slightly, that intimate smile meant for no one but himself. There was something strangely comforting about seeing his own name written like that, simple, without titles, without adjectives, without hashtags.
But curiosity got the better of him.
Discreetly - because discretion was a language he spoke fluently - Charles leaned forward to observe the other cards still untouched around the table. Names appeared one by one, each carrying its own weight, stories he knew only from fragments or occasional headlines.
It was then that Oscar, who had already made the exact same identification in seconds, let out a low, restrained laugh, clearly amused by something.
"What?" murmured Charles, without taking his eyes off the cards.
Oscar leaned a little closer, keeping his voice confidential.
"Nothing, nothing…" he said, but his smile betrayed everything. "It's just… interesting."
Charles finally turned to face him, raising an eyebrow.
"Oscar."
"Okay, okay," he conceded. "It's just that you definitely have no idea who you're sharing a table with tonight."
"That's rarely news," Charles replied honestly. "You know I'm terrible at… pretty much everything that isn't music."
Oscar bit his lip, holding back another laugh.
"Right. So, let's go." He made a discreet gesture with his head, pointing to the cards. "Besides the two of us… Felix and Hyunjin will be sitting here."
Charles blinked.
"Hmm."
"From Stray Kids," Oscar added, as if that solved everything.
"Sure," Charles said automatically, before frowning. "Wait. Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
Oscar laughed, this time unable to completely contain the sound.
"My God, I forget how you live in a very specific bubble."
"I know it's K-pop," Charles defended himself, half-laughing. "That's quite a lot of information for one person."
"They're giants," Oscar continued, clearly amused. "Absurd talent, global influence, millions of fans. The whole world knows who they are."
"Great," Charles murmured. "I hope they know who I am."
"They do," Oscar assured him without hesitation. "Trust me.
Charles looked at the cards again, absorbing the information as one accepts an inevitable fact.
"And these two here…" He discreetly pointed to the other names. "Lando Norris and Max Verstappen."
Oscar's smile changed. It became sharper. More intentional.
"You know these ones," he said.
Charles exhaled through his nose, a half-laugh without humor.
"Knowing is a strong word."
"You dated a Formula 1 driver long enough to at least recognize the smell of the paddock..." Oscar teased quietly.
"I dated Carlos," Charles corrected automatically. "The rest... was just background noise. I cared more about how I looked in photos than the sport itself."
Oscar tilted his head, studying him.
"Even so, you know who they are." He paused briefly. "Especially Max."
Charles felt a slight tightening in his chest, too quick to be called a defined feeling. He disguised it by picking up the glass of water in front of him, swirling it between his fingers.
"I know," he replied. "World champions, media, ego… The whole package."
"And Lando…" added Oscar. "…is basically the opposite of all that. But equally famous."
Charles nodded, distracted.
"So," concluded Oscar, with almost theatrical satisfaction, "we have two K-pop idols, two Formula 1 drivers… and you. A recently single pop singer, emotionally exhausted and completely oblivious to half of this universe."
"Thanks for the summary," said Charles dryly.
Oscar smiled, resting his elbow on the table.
"It's going to be an interesting table."
Charles looked around once more, observing the empty seats that would soon be occupied by people he didn't yet know personally, but whose names already carried expectations, stories, and potential complications.
He took a deep breath, adjusted the napkin on his lap, and straightened his posture.
"At least nobody here is my ex," he said, with a hint of irony in his voice.
"Yet." Oscar made a thoughtful face.
Charles gave Oscar a warning look, but ended up smiling.
It didn't take long for Charles to notice an almost imperceptible change in the rhythm around the table. It wasn't obvious - no shouting, no flashes exploding like on the red carpet - but there was that subtle shift in the air, that collective pause that happens when something or someone important enters the scene.
The same security guard returned down the aisle between the tables, firm steps, impassive expression. Beside him were two figures who, even before any rational confirmation, Charles recognized with almost instinctive certainty. Not because he knew their faces in detail - he definitely didn't follow K-pop, he could barely name Korean groups - but because there was something in the way they moved, how they occupied the space, that screamed presence.
"It's them," Oscar murmured, almost amused, as if confirming an all-too-obvious secret.
Charles looked up more attentively.
Felix was the first person he truly noticed. Medium height, relaxed posture, a smile that seemed to exist even before being asked for. There was a lightness about him, something sunny, almost contradictory to the restrained sophistication of the surroundings. The suit he wore was elegant, but worn with an unpretentious naturalness, as if fashion were an extension of who he was, not armor. When he smiled at someone outside Charles's field of vision, it was impossible not to notice that the smile had weight, warmth, and impact.
Next to him, Hyunjin was something completely different.
Where Felix radiated light, Hyunjin seemed to concentrate it.
His movements were more controlled, almost feline, his gaze attentive, analytical, absorbing the space before surrendering to it. His serious face softened just enough not to seem too distant, but there was a sharp elegance there, a presence that didn't need to ask for attention because it simply took it. His carefully styled dark hair, the impeccable cut of his suit, everything about him seemed thought out - not rigidly, but artistically.
Charles felt a pang of unexpected recognition.
"They know how to exist in public," he thought. Not just appear. To truly exist.
The security guard led them to the table with the same formality he had shown Charles and Oscar. As they approached, Felix was the first to notice who was already seated. His eyes lit up immediately, and he broke into an even wider, genuine smile, almost childlike in his excitement.
“Ah!” he said, in clear English with a soft accent. “Then this is the place.”
Hyunjin followed the gesture with a slight nod, his gaze passing over Oscar first - quick, assessing - and then landing on Charles. And there was a microsecond. A suspended instant. A silence that only existed inside Charles's head.
Hyunjin recognized him. Not as one recognizes someone seen from afar, but as someone who has already constructed a preconceived image. The gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, curious, attentive, almost respectful. Not invasive. But conscious.
Felix was more direct.
"Charles Leclerc, right?" he asked, smiling as he extended his hand. "I'm Felix! It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person!"
Charles stood up almost automatically, his polite smile naturally appearing on his face.
"The pleasure is entirely mine," he replied, shaking his hand. Felix's energy was warm and welcoming. "I hope you didn't have any trouble getting here."
"Monaco is a beautiful labyrinth," Felix commented, laughing.
Hyunjin approached next, offering his hand with an elegant gesture.
"Hyunjin," he said, his voice lower, controlled. "It's a lovely pleasure."
"Likewise," Charles replied, feeling the firm, precise handshake. There was something there that made him strangely attentive.
Oscar observed the scene with a restrained, satisfied smile, greeting them soon after, exchanging a few quick words that made it clear he knew exactly who they were, what they represented, and how this meeting was - at the very least - strategically interesting.
The two sat down, taking the places indicated by the cards. As soon as they settled in, Felix looked around the table with open curiosity.
"So…" he began, excitedly. "It seems we're going to have a very interesting mix today."
"Without a doubt," replied Oscar, setting his glass down on the table. "This table seems to have been designed to generate good conversations."
"Sometimes, the best conversations are the ones no one planned." Hyunjin glanced briefly at Charles again, almost imperceptibly.
Charles smiled, nodding in agreement, as he reflected that, just a few minutes ago, that evening had been just another appointment on a busy schedule.
A few minutes passed at a pace too tranquil for an event of that magnitude. Light conversations began and dissolved easily, like silken threads slipping between attentive fingers.
The room was now beginning to fill completely; chairs being pulled out, greetings exchanged, laughter restrained. A waiter approached the table with silent, almost choreographed steps, bringing with him the first bottle of wine of the evening, the label precisely facing the table, accompanied by new glasses - taller, thinner, specific to that choice.
The crystal glass clinked softly as it touched the table, a delicate sound that, even so, seemed too loud for Charles at that moment.
"Good night, gentlemen," said the waiter, in impeccable French. "May I serve you?"
Oscar nodded politely, Felix thanked him enthusiastically, Hyunjin murmured a low, elegant “merci.”
Charles observed the scene as if slightly detached from his own body. The light reflected in the glasses, the subtle scent of the newly opened wine, the feel of the suit fabric against his skin - everything seemed to reach him with a minimal, but constant, delay.
He took a deep breath.
“Excusez-moi.,” he said then, carefully placing the napkin on the table and standing up. The movement was calm, rehearsed, but there was a silent urgency behind it. “I need to go to the bathroom quickly.”
“Of course,” Oscar replied immediately, giving him a look that mixed understanding and vigilance. “We’ll wait for you.”
Felix smiled amicably.
"No rush."
Hyunjin simply nodded, his gaze following Charles for a second longer than necessary before turning back to Felix beside him.
Charles carefully pulled his chair back, walked around the table, and before finally leaving, turned to the waiter who was still there, holding the bottle with almost sculptural precision.
"Hey," he said politely. "Could you show me where the restroom is?"
"Of course, Mr. Leclerc," the waiter replied promptly, discreetly pointing to a side corridor, partially hidden by a light wood and frosted glass partition. "Go that way, to the right."
"Merci."
Charles walked in the indicated direction, feeling the weight of the room dissolve with each step. The sound of conversations grew more distant, muffled by the walls and the thick carpet. When he turned the corner, he finally allowed himself to release the breath he had been holding since sitting down at that table.
The bathroom was empty.
The silence inside was almost deafening after the constant murmur of the event. Clean, white light reflected in the large mirrors, the light marble of the countertops too impeccable to seem real. Charles closed the door behind him carefully, as if even there he needed to maintain a certain delicacy.
He walked to the sink, placed both hands on the cold edge, and leaned forward, staring at his own reflection.
There he was again. The familiar face. The slightly tired green eyes. The light makeup, meant to be nonexistent, but which he knew was there - correcting small imperfections, hiding shadows that no night's sleep could resolve on its own beneath his eyes.
He turned on the tap and let the water run for a few seconds before turning it off again. He took a deep breath, then turned it back on and splashed some water on his face, spreading it quickly across his cheeks and forehead. The cool sensation made him close his eyes for a moment.
"You can do it," he murmured to himself, his low voice echoing faintly in the empty room. "It's just another night. You can do it. You always can..."
He straightened up slightly, resting his hands on the sink again, staring at his reflection as if expecting it to respond. His heart was beating too fast for someone who was merely tired. There was something there - a strange anticipation, a nameless restlessness.
"It'll be alright," he added, almost like a promise. "You can handle it."
"If you keep splashing water on your face, you won't be able to keep that makeup on for long."
The voice came from behind him, breaking the silence like a thin blade.
Charles froze.
He didn't quite jump, but he felt his whole body stiffen, his shoulders tensing instantly. Slowly, he raised his gaze to the mirror - and it was there, reflected behind him, that he saw him.
Tall. A posture too relaxed for someone who clearly knew exactly the impact he made. A dark suit, perfectly tailored, worn with an almost nonchalant confidence. His arms casually crossed, leaning lightly against the wall near the door.
And his gaze.
Clear, attentive, filled with a tranquil blue intensity that seemed to observe much more than it let on.
The accent was unmistakable now that Charles had a second to process it.
"Let me guess... Max Verstappen?" Charles guessed, more as a statement than a question, turning slowly to face him.
Max raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"In person," he replied. "And with plenty of experience in environments where everyone pretends to be perfectly fine."
Charles let out a short laugh, too nervous to be convincing.
"Great." He ran a hand over his face, now more carefully. "Just tonight."
"Relax," said Max, uncrossing his arms and taking two steps forward, stopping at a respectful but still present distance. "I don't bite. At least not without warning."
Charles exhaled through his nose, despite himself.
"Thanks for the makeup tip," he said. "I'll try to remember that next time I'm on the verge of an elegant meltdown."
Max tilted his head slightly, observing him with renewed attention.
“You don’t look like someone on the verge of a breakdown,” he commented. “You look like someone who just needed a minute away from everyone.”
Charles held his gaze for a moment longer than he intended. There was something strangely comforting in that observation, made without judgment, without excessive curiosity.
“Sometimes,” he replied softly, “a minute is all we have.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy. Dense. As if the space between them was being slowly filled by something.
Outside, the event continued. Glasses were being raised. Conversations were happening. Expectations were building.
Max let out a muffled, short laugh, almost a whisper, as if he'd been caught off guard by his own previous comment - or perhaps by the way Charles had responded. It was a discreet, restrained sound, but it carried something easy, unpretentious, that contrasted with the silent tension that still hung in the bathroom air.
Without saying anything, he turned and walked to the sink next to Charles's.
The movement was too natural. As if that space wasn't strange. As if he wasn't intruding on a moment that clearly didn't belong to him. Max rested one hand on the cold edge of the marble, turned on the tap with the other, and let a trickle of water run. He wet his fingertips, turned it off again, and ran his hand through his blond hair, pushing a few unruly strands back with a practical, almost automatic gesture.
Charles observed it in the mirror even before realizing he was observing.
There was something curiously human about that scene. Nothing performative. Nothing calculated. Just a man adjusting his own reflection, as anyone else would before returning to a room full of attentive eyes. The expensive suit, the sophisticated event, the world-renowned name - all of that seemed suspended for a few seconds, reduced to water, mirror, and silence.
That's exactly what made Charles frown.
"You…" he began, still looking at Max's reflection, his eyebrow arched in a mixture of confusion and slight provocation. "…don't you have hair gel? Like… at home? Or wherever you live?"
Max continued running his fingers through his hair, completely ignoring the question for a few seconds. He tilted his head slightly to one side, assessing the result, then to the other, as if he were facing a mathematical problem too simple to demand his full attention.
"Water works," he finally replied, with a minimal shrug. "It always has."
Charles blinked.
"That can't be true," he said, incredulous. "People like you definitely have some kind of miracle product hidden in secret drawers."
Max turned off the tap and grabbed a paper towel, calmly drying his hands. Only then did he turn to truly face Charles, the corner of his mouth lifting in an almost lazy half-smile.
"People like me?" he repeated, with feigned curiosity.
Charles realized his mistake too late.
"I meant…" he sighed. "People who clearly don't wake up with their hair like this by accident."
Max let out another low laugh, now more audible, and tossed the towel in the trash with a nonchalant gesture.
"Family secret," he said. "And good genetics, I guess."
Silence returned, but now it was different. Less tense. More curious.
Max leaned slightly against the sink, crossing his arms in a relaxed manner, and observed Charles with renewed attention. Not that quick, assessing look from before, but something more focused, almost studious. As if he were finally connecting his face to the idea.
"So…" he began, tilting his head slightly. "You're Charles Leclerc, right?"
Charles felt a slight weight settle in his chest upon hearing that. It wasn't the first time someone had asked that question in that way - with an emphasis too subtle to ignore - but it still always caught him off guard.
"It depends," he replied, with a tired half-smile. "The famous singer? Or just a guy trying to survive a social event without going crazy?"
Max watched him for a longer second, as if deciding which answer to choose.
"The famous singer," he finally said. "The one everyone seems to know personally, except me."
Charles relaxed his shoulders slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"So yes," he confirmed. "It's me."
"Hmm." Max nodded slowly, as if that explained something he'd been trying to understand for a while. "That makes sense."
"What makes sense?" Charles asked, curious despite himself.
"The way you came in here," Max replied sincerely. "Like you needed to remind yourself who you are before going back outside to the table."
Charles felt the impact of those words immediately. They weren't said with malice, nor with intrusive curiosity. Just an observation. As if Max had seen something that few noticed - or few dared to comment on.
He looked away for a moment, staring at his own image in the mirror again.
"It's part of the job," he said softly. "Sometimes you forget where the character ends and the person begins."
Max nodded again, understanding more than reacting.
"I know that feeling," he commented. "Everyone thinks you're just one thing. A title. A result. A name in big letters."
Charles looked at him again, now more attentively.
"And you?" he asked. "What do they think you are?"
Max smiled slightly.
"Usually, someone who shouldn't be in a bathroom chatting with a famous singer about hair and existential crises."
Despite everything, Charles laughed. A low, genuine laugh that relieved something tight inside him.
"Well," he said, taking a deep breath, "in that case, I think we're both out of place."
The silence that followed was comfortable. Almost too intimate for two strangers who had met by chance minutes before a Louis Vuitton dinner. Outside, the distant sound of the hall seemed to call, reminding them that this temporary refuge had an expiration date.
Max was the first to straighten up.
"I think they're going to start wondering where we've been," he commented.
"Probably," Charles agreed. "And Oscar will definitely think I got lost on purpose to avoid dinner."
Max gave one last look in the mirror, satisfied with his hair now minimally tamed.
"Just so you know," he said, before moving towards the door, "the makeup is still intact."
Charles arched an eyebrow, feigning exaggerated relief.
"Thank goodness. It would be tragic to debut a messy emotional breakdown on a night like this."
Max opened the door, glancing quickly over his shoulder.
"See you at the table, Charles Leclerc."
Charles watched him leave, feeling the echo of that encounter linger even after the bathroom was empty again.
He approached the mirror once more, adjusted his jacket, and took a deep breath.
"You can do it," he repeated to himself, now with a slight smile.
Upon leaving the restroom, Charles felt the weight of the event settle back on his shoulders almost instantly. The hallway seemed narrower now, as if the brief refuge had altered his perception of space. The sounds of the hall grew louder with each step - overlapping voices, elegant laughter, the constant clinking of silverware and glasses - all composing that carefully disorganized social symphony.
When he crossed the glass and light wood partition, the table was almost full.
Oscar spoke animatedly, gesturing with an ease that only someone who knew the subject - and the person - deeply could possess. Charles recognized the tone immediately. It was the tone Oscar used when he assumed, without asking permission, the role of spokesperson. Not out of control, but out of protection. Out of habit. Out of friendship.
“And the most impressive thing wasn’t even the size of the audience!” Oscar said, resting his forearm on the table, completely at ease. “It was the silence. There was a moment in the middle of the show in Paris when you could hear absolutely nothing but his voice. That doesn’t happen often. It’s rare!”
Charles slowed his pace, observing the scene for a second before approaching. Oscar spoke of him as if he weren’t there - which, in a way, was true until that moment. Felix listened with an interested smile, his body leaning slightly forward. Hyunjin maintained a more restrained posture, but his attentive eyes betrayed that every word was being absorbed carefully.
Max was sitting further away, next to a young man with an open expression and an easy smile - Lando Norris, Charles recognized immediately. Lando was laughing at something Max had mumbled, his hand distractedly swirling the still-untouched wine glass.
"Sorry to interrupt the impromptu press conference," Charles said, approaching with a slight smile.
Oscar turned around immediately.
"Oh, look, there he is!" he commented casually, as if Charles had never left. "I was just providing context."
“Too much context,” Charles replied, pulling up a chair and sitting down next to him again. His body relaxed almost automatically as he resumed that familiar place.
“Impossible,” Oscar retorted, laughing. “Someone needs to do justice to your chaotic schedule.”
Felix was the first to greet him.
“Everything alright?” he asked sincerely. “We thought you got lost in the labyrinth of Monaco.”
“Close,” Charles replied, amused. “But I survived.”
Hyunjin nodded, offering a discreet smile, almost too elegant to be casual.
"Sometimes these events call for small strategic escapes," he commented.
Charles sensed an unexpected echo of the bathroom conversation, but simply smiled in agreement.
"Exactly."
It was then that Lando turned to him with genuine enthusiasm, extending his hand without hesitation.
"Hey, you must be Charles," he said excitedly. "I'm Lando."
"I know, I can see you sitting in his seat," Charles replied, smiling and shaking his hand. "Nice to finally meet you."
“The pleasure is mine,” said Lando, smiling broadly. “Max doesn’t talk much, but when he does… it’s usually interesting.”
Max raised an eyebrow.
“That was a half-hearted compliment,” he commented.
“But still a compliment!” retorted Lando, laughing.
Charles glanced quickly at Max, who held his gaze for a brief moment - enough to acknowledge, not comment, not elaborate. A silent agreement seemed to be forming there, invisible to the rest of the table.
Oscar, perceiving the dynamic with the precision of someone observing people professionally, cleared his throat slightly.
“Well,” he said, “now that we’re all officially introduced… I think this table looks promising.”
Felix raised his glass, still empty, as if toasting the idea.
“I agree.”
Hyunjin looked around, analyzing the faces, the places, the unlikely connections.
“It seems like one of those combinations that doesn’t make sense on paper,” he said, “but works in practice.”
Before anyone could respond, the ambient sound began to change. Conversations gradually faded, as if someone had slowly turned down the volume of the world. A faint feedback echoed through the speakers, followed by soft music that quickly dissipated.
In the center of the hall, a figure approached the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" announced the voice, clear and well-projected. "Welcome!"
Collective attention turned to the front. Waiters stopped moving mid-way. Glasses were carefully placed on the tables. Oscar automatically adjusted his posture. Felix and Hyunjin straightened up almost in sync. Lando rested his elbows on the table, curious. Max crossed his arms, attentive.
Charles took a deep breath.
Sitting there, surrounded by people so different and yet strangely connected by that specific moment, he felt something settle within him. A silent but insistent feeling that this dinner - that table - was not just another appointment on the agenda.
As the opening speech began, with words about fashion, art, unlikely encounters, and celebration, Charles realized that, for the first time that night, he wasn't counting the minutes until it was all over.
He was present.