Chapter Text
The day Max Verstappen was born, Belgium was struck by an inexplicable freeze that left scientists baffled. Temperatures plummeted without warning, frost creeping across the streets as if nature itself had paused to witness his arrival.
The very moment Max entered the world—his hair as white as fresh snow and his eyes a piercing, icy blue—the delivery room seemed to grow colder. Breath misted in the air, and a thin sheen of frost began to spread across the metal equipment and glass surfaces.
In the hospital nursery, nurses whispered in disbelief. The crib where baby Max slept shimmered with a delicate layer of frost that never seemed to melt, as though the chill radiated from him alone.
As the years passed, it became undeniable that Max possessed abilities far beyond ordinary understanding. His parents tried to explain away the strange occurrences, but deep down they knew the truth—they were raising a child touched by something otherworldly.
When Max turned five, his powers became impossible to hide. Everything he touched—whether a toy, a doorknob, or his mother’s hand—was left coated in a thin layer of ice. Frost trailed after him like a ghostly signature, marking the presence of a boy born from winter itself.
———
Max sat quietly in the small trailer he shared with his father at the karting track, watching through the window as Charles and a few of the other young competitors kicked a soccer ball around on a nearby field. Their laughter carried faintly on the wind, light and carefree.
Watching them play brought back a memory — one Max could never quite forget.
⸻
(Flashback)
Four-year-old Max had finally gathered the courage to go outside and play with one of the other young drivers. The winter air was crisp that day, the ground blanketed in snow. Most of the children had stayed indoors to keep warm — all except one.
Charles.
The blond, blue-eyed boy trudged across the snow toward the Monegasque, his breath visible in the cold air. “Can I play with you?” he asked shyly.
Charles’s grin was immediate and contagious. “Of course!”
The two boys ran and laughed, chasing each other through the snow until they were red-cheeked and breathless. For the first time in a long while, Max felt completely at ease.
When they finally stopped to rest, Max leaned closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Wanna see something cool?”
Charles nodded so quickly his hat nearly fell off.
Max brought his small hands together, circling them in concentration. A faint blue glow began to shimmer between his fingers. Slowly, the light brightened, swirling until it took shape — a glowing, translucent globe made entirely of delicate snowflakes.
Charles gasped in awe as the floating snowball hovered between them, spinning gently.
“Ready?” Max asked with a grin.
Charles could only nod, wide-eyed.
Max thrust his hand upward, sending the glowing sphere shooting into the air. It grew larger and larger until it suddenly burst, scattering a flurry of shimmering snowflakes all around them.
Charles spun in place, laughing and shouting, “This is amazing!”
“Watch this,” Max said proudly. He stomped his foot against the ground, and a sheet of frost instantly spread outward, coating the snow beneath their feet in sparkling ice.
The boys continued to play, building a snowman they named Olaf. Max crouched behind it, moving its twig arms so it looked alive.
In a funny voice, he said, “Hi, I’m Olaf, and I like warm hugs!”
Charles giggled and threw his arms around the snowman. “I love you, Olaf!”
They kept playing, completely lost in their own little world — a world of snow, laughter, and imagination.
After a while, Charles grew a bit more daring. He climbed onto a nearby snow pile, laughing as he jumped off. Max caught him with a cushion of snow that formed in midair beneath him.
“Hang on,” Max said, moving his hands quickly to steady the soft mound.
“Catch me!” Charles shouted, leaping again. Each time, Max conjured another pile of snow to catch him, the mounds growing taller and taller.
“Wait! Slow down!” Max called, struggling to keep up with the other boy’s excitement.
But Charles was too caught up in the fun to listen. He jumped again — this time from the highest point.
“Charles!” Max screamed, reaching out instinctively.
To his horror, a brilliant blue beam of power shot from his hand, streaking across the snow and striking Charles squarely in the head.
The light faded as quickly as it had appeared. Charles fell to the ground, limp and silent, the snow around him disturbed only by the soft sound of Max’s panicked breathing.
Max rushed forward, his knees hitting the snow with a dull thud as he gathered Charles’s limp form into his arms. Panic clawed at his chest.
“Charles!” he cried, voice trembling.
The boy didn’t respond. Max’s heart pounded as he watched, horrified, while a single streak of Charles’s brown hair faded into a Snow-White strip — matching Max’s own.
“Mama! Papa!” Max screamed, his voice cracking as tears welled in his eyes.
He leaned closer, cradling Charles’s head, trying to keep him warm. In his desperation, he didn’t notice the frost spreading out from where he knelt — a piercing, icy layer that crept across the snow, consuming everything in its path. The towers of snow they had built collapsed, frozen solid and shattered. Their snowman, Olaf, crumbled under the surge of unnatural cold.
“You’re okay, Charles. I’ve got you,” Max whispered, his small voice breaking as he heard hurried footsteps approaching.
“Max, what have you done?” Jos’s voice rang out, equal parts fear and anger. He rushed toward them, eyes wide. “This is getting out of hand.”
“It was an accident,” Max stammered, still clutching his friend. “I’m sorry, Charles.”
Sophie knelt beside them, her face pale. Gently, she lifted Charles from Max’s arms. “Oh—he’s ice cold,” she murmured, pressing a hand to his cheek.
Jos placed a steadying hand on Charles’s shoulder, his expression grim. “I know where we must go.” He turned to Max, his tone urgent. “How long will his parents be gone?”
Max wiped at his face with his sleeve. “A few hours. Charles’s parents are with Arthur and Lorenzo.”
Jos nodded sharply, already moving. He sprinted back to the trailer, returning moments later with a ring of keys and a folded map in his hand.
The drive was long and silent. Forty-nine minutes through a forest buried beneath snow, the car tires crunching softly on the frozen ground. Max sat in the backseat, his hands clenched tightly in his lap, staring at Charles’s still form resting in his mother’s arms.
When the car finally stopped, they stepped out into a clearing scattered with large, rounded rocks. Snow drifted gently down from the gray sky.
Jos looked around before calling out, “Please! Help!”
Max blinked, confused. “Papa, why are you yelling at—”
He stopped mid-sentence. The rocks around them began to tremble, shifting and rolling toward the family. Sophie instinctively pulled Max closer to her side, while Jos moved protectively in front of them.
Within moments, the rocks transformed — their stony surfaces morphing into faces, arms, and legs. Trolls. Dozens of them. They whispered amongst themselves before an older, larger troll stepped forward. His eyes were ancient and knowing as he approached.
The elder reached for Max’s hand, holding it gently. “Born with the powers, or cursed?” he asked, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.
Jos bent slightly, his voice tight with worry. “Born. And they’re getting stronger.”
The elder troll nodded gravely before turning to Sophie and motioning toward the boy in her arms. Carefully, she stepped forward, presenting Charles. The troll placed a hand on Charles’s forehead, closing his eyes in concentration.
“You are lucky it wasn’t the heart,” he said at last. “The heart is not so easily changed. But the head can be persuaded.”
Jos exhaled shakily, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Do what you must.”
The troll pressed his palm once more to Charles’s forehead. “I recommend we remove all magic,” he said solemnly. His hand lifted, and glowing shimmers formed above them, creating a small screen of light that displayed Charles’s memories — each one involving Max and his powers.
“Even memories of magic,” the troll continued, “to be safe.”
One by one, the images flickered — memories of laughter, of snow, of light — each moment gently altered until every trace of magic had been erased.
“But don’t worry,” the troll added with a faint smile. “I’ll leave the fun.”
When he was finished, the shimmering images drifted back down into Charles’s head. The boy’s expression softened, a faint smile curling on his lips as he remained asleep.
“He will be okay,” the troll said.
Max looked down at his hands, guilt and confusion twisting inside him. “But… he won’t remember I have powers?”
Jos knelt beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s for the best.”
The elder troll stepped forward, resting a hand on Max’s other shoulder. “Listen to me, Max,” he said gently. “Your power will only grow.”
He lifted his hands toward the sky, conjuring a swirling blue projection of an older Max surrounded by people. “There is beauty in it…”
The image shifted — Max controlling his power gracefully, a delicate snowflake forming above the glowing scene.
“But also grave danger.” The snowflake turned red and sharp, the people around the projection shifting color — red silhouettes now turning against Max’s blue figure, attacking him. The boy’s projected self screamed.
“Fear will be your enemy,” the troll warned.
Max gasped, eyes wide with terror, and turned, burying himself in his father’s arms.
“We’ll protect him,” Jos promised firmly. “He can learn to control it, I’m sure. Until then, we’ll be cautious — limit his contact with others, keep his powers hidden. From everyone. Including Charles.”
And from that day on, Max never allowed himself to get close to Charles again. Or to anyone, except his parents.
When they returned home, Jos fabricated a story about what had happened — a harmless accident that explained the white streak in Charles’s hair. Whatever tale he told, it worked.
No one ever questioned it.
⸻
(End flashback)
He leaned forward, resting his small hands on the windowsill. The glass was cold against his cheek as he tried to catch another glimpse of the boys still playing outside. But before he could look any longer, a familiar chill ran through his fingers.
The wooden surface beneath his palms began to shimmer — frost spreading rapidly outward until the entire sill was coated in a thin, glittering sheet of ice.
Max gasped, jerking his hands away and clutching them to his chest as if burned. His breath came fast, misting in the air. He stared at the frost, heart pounding with a mixture of fear and frustration. No matter how hard he tried, the cold always found its way out.
⸻
A few hours later, back home, Max stood silently in front of his father. His shoulders were slumped, his hands trembling slightly as Jos knelt and slipped a pair of soft silk gloves onto them.
“The gloves will help,” Jos said gently, adjusting the fit. To prove his point, he took Max’s gloved hand in his own. No frost formed this time — just warmth.
“See?” he said with a small, reassuring smile.
Jos straightened, his expression turning serious as he repeated the words he’d drilled into Max’s mind — a motto meant to keep his son safe from discovery. To Jos, the powers were a threat to Max’s future — not only to his everyday life, but to the career he already dreamed of: Formula One.
“Conceal it,” Jos said firmly.
“Don’t feel it,” Max whispered, repeating the familiar words.
Together, father and son finished the phrase in unison.
“Don’t let it show.”
———
As the years went on, Max’s powers only grew stronger — and more unpredictable. What had once been a harmless frost now came in violent bursts of ice and snow he couldn’t control. His parents tried everything they could to help him, but Max had begun to fear himself more than anyone else. Whenever the cold surged through him, he’d retreat into a corner, terrified of what he might do if they got too close.
⸻
The air inside Max’s room was frigid — cold enough to make even a Dutchman’s teeth chatter. Frost clung to the walls, the furniture, and the floor, turning the space into a miniature winter storm.
Jos and Sophie stood just inside the doorway, breath visible in the freezing air, their eyes locked on their seven-year-old son. Max sat hunched over in the middle of the room, trembling, his small hands hovering in front of him as though they were something dangerous. Behind him, an enormous snowflake of ice spread across the wall — sharp, glimmering, and alive with frost.
“I’m scared,” Max whispered, his voice shaking. He held his hands out away from his body, afraid to move them. “It’s getting stronger.”
Jos took a cautious step forward, his arms open in a gesture meant to soothe — like a zookeeper approaching a frightened animal. “Getting upset only makes it worse,” he said softly. “Calm down.”
But the moment his father reached out, Max flinched backward. “No! Don’t touch me! Please,” he begged, shaking his head violently. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He kept his hands pulled close to his shoulders, body pressed against the icy wall. His parents could only stand there — helpless, hearts breaking — as their little boy recoiled from the very people trying to protect him.
———
It was a few years after that when Sophie finally said she couldn’t handle it anymore. The secrecy, the constant fear of discovery, the endless worry over Max — it all became too much. The weight of it pressed down on her until she couldn’t breathe beneath it.
For Max, it might have been too much as well — if not for karting.
When he was behind the wheel, he felt free. The cold didn’t matter, the fear didn’t matter. It was just him, the track, and the rush of air cutting past his helmet. The roar of the engine drowned out everything else — the whispers of guilt, the memory of Charles, even the ache of isolation. For a little while, he could pretend he was normal.
The next year, he moved into single-seaters, and with every new level came new pressure — not only from the racing world, but from the secret he carried. He knew he would have to be more careful than ever.
He’d already begun rehearsing excuses in his head: why he always wore satin gloves, even in summer; why his hair was so white it shimmered under the sunlight.
Because the truth — the frost that lived under his skin — could never be allowed to show.
———
It had been seven years since that day — seven long years of control, fear, and silence. And now, Max had achieved the ultimate dream: he was a Formula One World Champion.
But the final fight with Lewis had pushed him further than he’d ever gone before. No — it had broken him. The rush, the anger, the desperation — it all boiled over until he’d felt the chill in his very bones. There had been ice inside his gloves, for goodness’ sake.
He wanted to tell himself the worst was over. That the championship would quiet the storm inside him. But it hadn’t.
Everywhere he turned, people were congratulating him — teammates, journalists, even rivals. Cameras flashed, fans screamed, and still, Max couldn’t bring himself to take off his racing gloves. He kept them on until he could find his satin pair, the ones that kept his powers contained.
He knew what people said about the gloves. The rumors about his “superstitions,” his “quirks.” Some joked that he wore them for luck; others whispered stranger theories. But Max didn’t care anymore. He’d rather fuel the gossip than risk hurting anyone — not again. Not like Charles.
Because his powers were stronger than ever now. Every day, the cold inside him seemed to grow. Without gloves, even a light touch left a trail of ice.
“Max!”
He blinked, startled. That voice — it was familiar.
Turning around, Max came face to face with a smiling Charles.
“Oh. Charles. Hi.”
Charles stepped closer, that same warm, easy grin still on his face. Instinctively, Max took a subtle step back.
If Charles noticed, he didn’t show it — or he simply chose not to. Instead, he reached out and clasped Max’s gloved hand in his own.
Max froze. His breath caught in his throat. For a split second, his vision blurred — the memory flashing before his eyes like a film reel on repeat. A young boy. A blue beam. A friend falling limp in the snow.
“Congratulations on the win, mate,” Charles said, still smiling. “I’ll get you next year.”
Thankfully, Charles released his hand a moment later, oblivious to the way Max’s heart was racing.
“Yeah. Thanks,” Max managed to say, though the words felt strangled. “Can’t wait for the fight.”
With that, he turned and walked away, his satin gloves clutched tightly in one trembling hand.
He threaded his way through the crowd of celebrating faces — mechanics, journalists, fans — all of them clapping, cheering, reaching out to touch him. Every pat on the back made his skin crawl. The noise pressed in from all sides, and it felt as if the sky itself was collapsing on top of him.
By the time he reached his hotel room, the world had become a blur — a fever dream of lights, sounds, and motion.
Inside, the quiet hit him like a wall.
Max began pacing the room, muttering under his breath, his heart still racing from the contact, from the memory, from the fear.
“Come on, Max. Pull it together.”
He squeezed his hands into fists, taking in a shuddering breath.
“Conceal it.”
“Don’t feel.”
“Don’t feel.”
Gradually, the trembling slowed. The air grew still. The cold that had been building in his chest eased, and for the first time since the podium, he could breathe without feeling suffocated.
He managed to steady himself — just before the first traces of frost began to creep from under his feet.