Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You know that you can just speak a little slower, right? I’m not going anywhere, Charles,” George had said with his signature goofy smile, big eyes blinking owlishly at the Monegasque.

Charles reddened at that, taking a deep breath before blurting out, “Max said you look like a bug — and you really do. Especially when they handed you the trophy, your eyes were like moons.” He clearly meant every word, holding nothing back. To drive the point home, Charles lifted both hands and mimed his eyes growing as wide as saucers, making himself look completely ridiculous.

George had frowned uncertainly, “Is that supposed to be a compliment? We don’t usually call each other bughead in the UK.”

Charles just shrugged. “I don’t know. But you were really good today. You deserved that podium, George. Keep up the good work.”

But that wasn’t the end, though. Charles Leclerc turned out to be a one funny guy. After that encounter, he began hanging out with George and Alex outside the track, turning their duo into a trio for gaming sessions huddled around Alex’s Game Boy. Sometimes Charles would bring sodas and invite them to watch races together on his dad’s laptop. It was fun spending time with him off the track — especially since, despite being the second oldest, Charles always insisted that he was the baby of the group.

“I know that it’s childish, but I have to say that I’m jealous of your mother,” Charles told Alex after the Albons first invited the three of them to dinner before a race at PFi.

Charles had scarfed down his plate so quickly that Mrs. Albon clapped her hands in delight, “This is what I meant when I said that you’re the son that every mother wants! Eat more, Charles. Here, sweetheart!” she said, piling more food onto his plate.

“You’re going to take away my title as their favorite son,” George grunted jokingly, eyes still trained to the television where they’re busy playing Gran Turismo 5.

“You’re lucky I’m only here for a week, then,” Charles teased, flashing a big smile as he crossed the finish line ahead of George and Alex. Both boys gave Charles a playful shove with their feet, trying to tackle Charles for once again winning the game without breaking a sweat.

“You’re forever banned from my house; we’ll go broke if you keep inhaling everything in three bites,” Alex dramatically exclaimed. Charles puffed his chest like an overproud peacock at that, “What can I say? I’m a big boy! I need to eat if I want to grow like Schumacher.”

“Keep dreaming!” George cackled, ruffling Charles’s already messy curls as he put away the PlayStation console. George then stretched like a cat, his brother’s old, ratty shirt hanging over his gangly limbs as Charles playfully whistled and checked him out.

“You’re way taller than the last time I saw you before the winter break. What is it? Did your dad make you go swimming, finally?” Charles inquired, “I’m waiting for my growth spurt, but it’s nowhere to be found.”

“Nope,” Alex answered for him, “I started pulling his legs in the morning before we jog.” He then looked at George seriously in the eye, “See? I told you it’s very effective! We Asians never lie!”

George rolled his eyes, “I did the same to you, and you don’t gain a new height. I think I’m just tall for a carrier. I mean, both my parents are tall, and my siblings are too! It’s only natural if I’m tall.”

Charles hummed thoughtfully. “What are you going to do about your sub-gender? My father says I should register with the government contraception service once I turn sixteen. Do you have something like that here?”

George shrugged. “My doctor said I have to wait until I’m sixteen, too. From what I understand, they’ll probably just put an IUD in me and call it a day. Or maybe I’ll have to take more pills… I’m not really sure.”

Alex shuddered from his spot on the sofa, looking at his friends with sympathy. “I’m really sorry you guys have to deal with all that.”

“That’s why you need to be nicer to us, old man. We’re suffering here!” George declared, then launched himself onto an unsuspecting Alex, making the older boy yelp in surprise and pain.

“Your elbow’s in my stomach!”

At that, Charles sprang up from his sprawl on the floor, a mischievous grin on his face. “Cannonball!”

 

George is a carrier; for a long time, he had no idea what that even meant for him. But when he turned seven and started karting, his dad pulled him aside and asked, “Is this truly what you want to focus on?” George answered without hesitation — of course it was. From that moment, his sub-gender became everything, shaping not just his path but his entire identity.

His older brother, Benjy, gave him his first lesson about male carriers not long after that. “You see, instead of nutsacks beneath your rod, you have this slit,” Benjy had crudely pointed at the comparison picture between male carrier’s genitalia and cis male’s genitalia he browsed from Google a handful of seconds ago, “See here, Georgie? This part is called a vagina. That’s where you birth your children from, that’s what made you a carrier. Yours are the same as mama’s and Cara’s.” To say that little George was perplexed would be an understatement.

He started going to see the doctor when he was eleven after he collapsed during one of his practices from a stomach cramp and dehydration. He pushed through it for months before his body just collapsed from the pain; that was when he experienced his first bleeding, too. Apparently, from that first medical check-up, it was found that George has a hormonal imbalance and is also anemic. It was as if the world was plotting to throw him out of the circuit, really.

During that time of the month, George had to endure itchy rashes on his inner thighs from the 30-centimeter pads he wedged between his legs to avoid leaking. It was especially aggravating during practices or races, sitting in the cockpit with his crotch and backside slick with sweat beneath his karting suit. He was constantly hot, itchy, and uncomfortable. That all changed when sweet, sweet Lando — a year younger and much more informed about male carriers — introduced him to menstrual pants and tampons. Lando gave him a thorough tutorial, listened patiently to George’s questions and complaints, much like a seasoned therapist, and also shared his own experiences. At least now, they could commiserate with each other. Yaaay!

George was genuinely grateful for Lando, since he couldn’t confide anything related to male carriers with Alex before the older boy combusted into a million tiny pieces out of embarrassment or stare at George’s eyes with nothing but emptiness like a brain-eating amoeba had gotten into his head.

So, George had a relatively easy time navigating that growing up. Both his mother and older sister were always very supportive too, ready at his beck and call whenever he needed it. From his sister’s research, George learned that although male carriers make up nearly 41.7% of the world’s male population, it was still rare to find male carrier drivers on the grid. With Charles, that rounded up to 3 male carrier drivers in the Euro championship.

Still, George didn’t really encounter prejudice on the track — at least, not until he was thirteen. That changed dramatically the first time he truly met Max Verstappen in the flesh.

 

“Did you know about Max? Rumors are saying that he’s going to skip to KF1 with his perfect performances.”

“Really? No way he’s that talented? He’s just moved to KF2!” Lando perked up, half-eaten ham and cheese sandwich hanging from his mouth in disbelief. He then asked around a mouthful to Charles, “Macaron, this Max guy is your boyfriend, right?”

Charles glanced up from his Nintendo, irritation flickering across his face, already flushed from the heat of the southern Italian summer. George scooted closer and dabbed the side of Charles’s head with a tissue his mama had packed for him. His own collar was drenched with sweat, and he could feel droplets racing down his back beneath his cotton shirt.

“He’s not my boyfriend! Tu m’énerves… arrête de m’appeler ‘macaron’, hein!” Charles barked menacingly, throwing a barely ominous glare at Lando, who grinned sheepishly. “Max is very talented, he’s been karting since he was 3 or 4. His father is very strict too, so… I raced with him and he almost socked my face in front of everyone over a little incident.”

Lando hummed noncommittally. “I never really saw him racing before, but I saw his father’s performances with Oliver on TV.” The group fell silent at that before their eyes found Alex, who was quietly chewing his own lunch.

“What? All I know is his father beats him when he underperforms. No wonder he’s always perfect on track,” Alex said with a shudder. George couldn’t imagine racing against someone as angry and ruthless as Max. Charles, he thought, must be tough as nails to compete in the same league with him.

However, the conversation soon turned lighter when Charles’s coach came looking for him, saying he was needed in the tent for a quick briefing. Shortly after, the rest of the boys drifted off to their own tents or parents for some unofficial practice and last-minute discussions before their first official session the next day.

As George cleaned himself up in his caravan later that night, his thoughts kept flying back to Max and what Charles had told the group.

Is Max actually crazy and brazen enough to hit on another driver?
George couldn’t decide whether Max was brave or ludicrous for even thinking about beating his rival on track, especially when that rival was a carrier, someone unlikely to match him in physical strength.

The answer presented itself the next morning when Max Verstappen finally arrived at the track in person, just as George was waking up and the first golden light was creeping over the horizon.

His father and coach had gone earlier to his team’s truck to check up on his kart. His mama was busy inside the caravan, squeezing lemons into a huge water jug filled with ice and Manuka honey to be brought to the tent later on when the heat would be unbearable. George had received a good luck message from Lando, in which he responded with a neat “u too kiddo ;)” just to piss in Lando’s cereal bowl.

He then crawled out of his bed to start the day, ignoring another beep from his phone, probably poor Lando with his creative expletives thrown George’s way.

George quickly washed up and got dressed, wriggling into his undershirt and brushing his fringe out of his eyes. He noticed his bangs were getting a bit long — he’d probably have to endure another haircut from his mama soon. Bowl cuts and all, it was the only style she knew how to do.

“Georgie, breakfast is ready!” Somewhere from across the caravan, his mama called, followed by the sound of plates being arranged on the make-shift table they brought from home. George exited the small bathroom and met his mama in the common space of the caravan, where she was crouched over a pot of steaming tomato pasta and diced chicken.

“Ah, you’re ready for the day. Good,” his mama smiled kindly, pushing his plate closer to him as she stood up yet again to put away the pot and do the dishes.

“Thank you for the food, mama.” George dug into his breakfast, feet tapping together below the table as he watched his mother glide across the caravan, packing everything they would need for the practice day. He loved that his mother is always prepared and ready, she’s always so handy and reliable that there’s never anything missing.

Outside, the sun was already blazing, and people bustled about the paddock. George spotted his rivals in their vibrant karting suits, walking or cycling alongside parents and coaches toward the track. The hum of conversation drifted into their otherwise quiet caravan, nudging him further awake. The day had officially begun.

“It’s gonna be very hot today, darling, make sure you put on your sunscreen, okay?”

“Yes, Mama.”

George had no idea what the day would bring. As it turned out, he never could have guessed it would end with Max Verstappen cornering him behind the tents after practice.

 

“It’s not bad, but you should pay very careful attention to your speed and momentum in Turn 9. This section is very crucial, you don’t want to be overtaken here after a flawless execution of the whole lap, right?” His coach pointed at his computer screen, “Missing the apex here will cost you time, George. It’s not just about being fast; you need to be precise.”

George nodded in understanding, cradling a cold electrolytes bottle in the crook of his arm. The heat was relentless; he felt like he might melt into a puddle of goo on the blistering asphalt. La Conca was gruesome, even more so when it’s literally in the height of summer. His arms ached from the high-speed corners, but finishing the session in one piece almost felt like a victory.

“Does anything hurt?” his father asked from behind him, big palms squeezing the hard muscles of George’s tense shoulders lightly.

“Not really. But I think I need ice, though. My arms are burning; I have to adjust my grip better.”

His coach nodded, typing things into his computer before he skipped away to bring some ice packs for George.

“You did well today, son,” his father praised softly, “Hopefully tomorrow will be even better than today.”

“I hope so, the tyres felt really good today. I only have to keep in mind about Turn 9, I think everything will be okay tomorrow, Dad.” George reassured, relaxing on the chair a little as his coach came back with the ice packs and pressed them softly to George’s sore arms and wrists.

The briefing wrapped up quickly after that, and George was dismissed to get enough rest for the qualifying practice and the heats the next day. His father stayed behind to talk to the mechanic about the kart, while his mother promised she’d join him back at the caravan in a bit.

The sun was no longer blazing overhead; instead, a humid breeze tousled George’s sweaty hair as he stepped out of the tent. He was eager to shower and change into something more comfortable — his undershirt was damp with sweat, and his suit now hung loosely around his waist.

He wandered through the maze of makeshift paddocks, weaving between tents and clusters of people deep in conversation. The clatter of machinery echoed along the street, mingling with the sharp scent of fuel and burning rubber. George loved race weekends. He enjoyed the rivalry as well as the friends he made along the way, the thrill of traveling to new places, and getting to know various tracks all over Europe. Sometimes, he could hardly believe this was his life, fully dedicated to cutting his teeth for F1 someday. He still couldn’t fathom how his older brother had walked away from all of this; in another life, he wished Benjy could be here, the two of them racing side by side. The Russell brothers, world champion duo — wouldn’t that be something?

Lost in his thoughts, George barely noticed the flap of a tent whipping toward him as someone stormed out. It nearly smacked him in the face, and he let out a soft “oof,” staggering on his feet.

“Watch where you’re going, bug,” the person spat harshly.

George frowned, craning his head up a little to finally see eye to eye with the infamous Max Verstappen.

Max stood at least a head taller than George, already filling out with the strength that came from being a year older and much firmer. His expression was of a dirty scowl, red smattered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose — highlighting the barely-there freckles of his face. Sweat trickled down the side of his face, clinging to the tense line of his jaw. With his buzzcut and heated blue eyes, Max looked so intimidating that George couldn’t even find the words to respond.

“Do you have trouble hearing?” Max tipped his head in a mock, “I said, watch where you’re going, bug.”

Oh.

Oh, he really, truly called me Bug. Charles was not lying.

George gulped, suddenly hyperaware of the hustle and bustle around him. He could easily scream or scram if he wanted to, but instead, a surge of adrenaline ran through him, and he puffed up his chest before mustering the most heat he could afford.

“Watch your tone, you were the one who’s not looking, fuck-face.”

It was like all of the air was sucked out of George’s lungs. Oh my god. He just called Max Verstappen a fuck-face, right to his flabbergasted, red, hot face.

George felt his courage quickly drain away, and it must have been obvious because Max swiftly recovered from his stun. He stepped toward George with deliberate purpose, lips set in a deep frown. Instinctively, George backed up, raising his hands in defense.

“Who are you calling a fuck-face?” Max leered, stepping closer and closer as George’s breath stuttered in his chest. He felt like a mouse trapped in a mousetrap, small and helpless to its doom. George backed up until he hit a pole, finding himself with nowhere left to go as Max loomed over him.

He’s going to punch me, and I won’t survive, George thought, panic flooding his mind. His legs shook with fear, and he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the impact.

“You should’ve seen your face,” Max spat, his voice harsh and frighteningly close. “A stupid carrier like you will never make it to the pro league. Even if you make it, I will be there to put your fucking head in the wall. I’ll cherish the day when I get to squash you and Charles under my feet. You’re just a good-for-nothing; you will never be an F1 driver. Remember your place, bug.”

The hit never came. Instead, Max’s venomous words poured over him, leaving George speechless and cold with shock. Those split seconds felt like decades, with George’s breath completely stuck at the base of his esophagus and Max’s puff of angry breaths hitting his face; George could only stare up at Max’s dark eyes in utter shock, too afraid to say anything.

Max backed away, seething and completely seeing red. He didn’t say another word or lay a hand on George, but the younger boy was left slumped against the tent pole like a wet rag being squeezed dry. Without looking back, Max marched off, hands shoved inside the pockets of his pants, and head bowed low between his shoulders. By the time George managed to steady his breathing and swallow down the bile rising in his throat, Max had already disappeared among the rows of tents.