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Chapter Text

~July 24th, 2023: Charles~

3:24 AM blinked on the hotel clock, bright red in the darkness. Charles squinted at the numbers and tried to make sense of what woke him- it certainly wasn’t his alarm.

His phone buzzed, face down on the side table.

Then, more knocking on the door to his room offered valuable insight into what had happened. He hauled himself out of bed and tugged on a pair of pants from the floor before swinging open the door.

Max Verstappen, flushed and grinning, stood in his doorway. The sight was enough to snap Charles to proper awareness. He grabbed Max’s shirt and yanked him inside, immediately shutting the door behind him. Max’s hands were on him instantly, running up and down his sides.

“Max, you cannot be showing up at my hotel at this hour!” Charles hissed. “Only Mercedes and Ferrari are here, if anyone saw you coming in–”

“S’fine,” Max slurred. His breath was hot against Charles’s neck, and he crowded him back against the wall. Charles’s pulse quickened as Max continued, Dutch accent thick. “Wanted you. I won today, doesn’t that get a reward?”

“You win every race,” Charles retorted. It wasn’t necessarily true; Checo had taken both Bahrain and Azerbaijan, but the Hungarian GP today- well, yesterday now -had marked the ninth win for Max this season.

Charles had only placed seventh, barely ahead of his own teammate thanks to a shit qualifying and an embarrassing penalty for speeding in the pit lane. Carlos had made up three places while he’d managed to lose one. There’d been no celebration for him tonight, just a disappointing debrief post-race and a few hours of brutal self-imposed data review.

Clearly, though, Max had celebrated his win properly. The smell of alcohol lingered on his skin, he was sweaty- either from the walk here in the nighttime July heat of Hungary, or from the press of bodies in whatever club Red Bull had gone to -and his clothes were rumpled.

His turquoise eyes had the bright shine of inebriation glazed over them. He was as unfairly gorgeous as always. 

“Then I, of course, should get a reward after every race.”

Max surged forward, pressing his mouth against Charles’s with bruising force. Charles groaned into it and gave as good as he got, sliding his tongue along the seam of Max’s lips. They parted instantly, and the kiss deepened. He tasted like gin.

Charles’s hands slipped under Max’s shirt as Max squeezed his waist. Abruptly, Max pulled away and panted, “Bed. Now.”

They stumbled through the dark. Max stripped off his clothes on the way,  in his brutally efficient way. Charles fell backwards onto the bed; suddenly, Max’s hands were yanking down the jeans he’d only just pulled on. 

In the span of a moment, Charles’s world narrowed down to nothing but Max. His muscled arms bracketed Charles’s head as he ran his mouth along the length of Charles’s neck, alternating between kissing and nibbling.

“Max, please,” Charles gasped. 

Max’s hands trailed downwards, until they reached Charles’s waist, when he abruptly flipped Charles. He cried out as Max ducked down and buried his mouth in his ass, expertly tonguing the ring and pushing past the entrance. A blistering heat built between them; if Charles’s dick hadn’t already been with the program, it certainly would’ve been now.

There was a brief, agonizing moment where Max pulled up to ask, “Lube?” before diving back in.

“Bedside table, please,” Charles groaned.

Charles almost whined with distress as Max pulled away, fumbling in the dark with one hand before the drawer slid open. Then, he heard the pop of the cap and yelped as cold lube drizzled directly over his hole. He squirmed underneath Max, but he pressed one hand against Charles’s back, holding him in place.

“Shhh, baby,” Max hushed. “You’re alright, it’s okay.” His hand moved quickly, spreading the lube and warming it against Charles’s skin before a finger plunged inside. Charles cried out and began rutting back against him almost instantly.

“Max, please,” he panted. “I need–”

“Yeah? What is it?” Max began working his finger, opening him up.

“I need more,” Charles gasped out.

Even facing the opposite direction, Charles could hear the grin in Max’s voice. “You need more? You should ask politely, maybe then I will give it to you.”

Charles was already far beyond shame, pinned naked under Max. There was no hesitation when he started to beg. “Max, please, s'te plait–”

He was cut off with a cry as Max slid another finger in and began scissoring, opening him up. “There you go, that’s a good boy.” He squirmed underneath the praise, moaning wantonly as Max worked him. His fingers brushed across the bundle of nerves buried deep within, and Charles’s moans reached new heights as he babbled in every language he knew.

Soon a third finger joined the others, and Charles desperately pushed back against Max. They’d done this enough by now that Max recognized his impatience for what it was; even drunk, though, he was still careful enough to prep Charles for just a little longer, waiting until he was near tears to pull his fingers out and drag Charles’s hips upwards.

“Hurry up,” he demanded. Charles had been aiming for commanding, but missed and instead fell somewhere around overcome. “You are so slow!”

Max chuckled, a low rumble, before lining up and sinking all the way in. Charles gasped as he bottomed out, punching the air out of his lungs. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so impatient- he’d be feeling the abrupt stretch later. 

Behind him, Max was similarly affected, propped up on one knee and buried to the hilt. He moaned out a choked, “You’re so tight,” before pulling halfway out and then going to town. Charles gave out a high-pitched keen as Max rammed into him without abandon. The pain fed into the ecstasy of chasing a fast orgasm.

Max reached around and began rapidly jerking Charles off, technique sloppy as he made delicious grunts. It wasn’t the best sex they’d ever had- Max was still halfway drunk from the party -but the quick and dirty nature of it made it easy to get lost in the pleasure. It only took a few minutes before Max groaned, “M’coming,” and finished deep inside; the sensation of being completely filled by him was enough to tip Charles over the edge as well, and he messily came across the sheets.

Max pulled out and flopped down bonelessly next to Charles, who winced at the sudden loss. He wiggled across the bed to close the gap between them, very aware of the wetness inside and around him.

Charles sighed gently against Max’s chest as he curled against him. Max shifted before wrapping his arms around him. “We should clean up,” Charles mumbled.

“Mmm. We should lay here.” Max’s voice was sleepy, accent especially pronounced. 

“It will be very gross in the morning,” he feebly protested. “I do not think waking up like this will be very pleasant, non?”

Max’s arms tightened. “I think waking up next to you will be very pleasant.”

Charles’s heart fluttered in his chest, and he furiously tried to tamp out the emotions that single sentence lit within him. He doesn’t mean it like that. 

“It will be much more pleasant if we are clean.”

“Mmm.”

“Max,” Charles said weakly.

 “Goodnight, schatje.”

Charles’s remaining will to leave Max’s arms dissolved under the weight of the pet name, and he resigned himself to an unfortunately crunchy experience in the morning.

*

The sex had started after Miami last year. 

Their group had piled around the table in some club, but now they were countless drinks deep and the rest of the drivers had disappeared onto the dance floor. Despite the P2 finish, Charles was feeling far more drunk than celebratory; his girlfriend had ended things shortly before the weekend had started, wanting more time than his schedule could allow. It was understandable.

It still stung.

And second was a solid finish, even if it wasn’t a win, so he’d dragged himself out to the club with the others to party, in an attempt to take his mind off things. But Carlos had disappeared into the crowd, Lando and Pierre had both stayed home- Charles would’ve too, if he’d DNF’d -and nobody had caught his eye. 

That left him sitting alone at a tacky table, nursing an overpriced drink, buzzed and irritated at the lack of appealing options. He was gearing up to leave when Max had slid onto the seat next to him and pressed much closer than necessary, thigh to thigh.

“You look bored,” he remarked. His eyes were bright, a flush across his cheeks- at least Max was having a good time. 

“I think I am going to leave,” Charles responded. “I am not in much of a party mood.”

Max’s gaze lingered on his face, unreadable. “Alone?”

Charles’s mouth flattened into a line. “Yes, alone. You are very observant.”

Max grinned, clearly sensing he’d struck a nerve. “Can’t convince someone to go home with you with that P2?”

“You are also alone,” Charles sniped, “And you got P1. Should I assume that that was not enough to overcome your personality?”

Max laughed, and for a brief moment Charles noticed how long his neck looked when he tipped his head back. “Most people here want the first place finisher. Perhaps I want someone who wants me.”

Charles took a sip from his glass, letting the vodka heavy mix burn down his throat. “I did not peg you for a romantic, Verstappen,” he commented. 

“I’m not,” Max confided. “I am… pragmatic. It is harder to sleep with people when you bring them home and hand them an NDA before sex. It risks killing the mood unless they’re very determined.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “And why would you need an NDA for that? Everyone knows Checo gets around, and he’s married. You are uncommitted. What is the issue?”

Max studied him for a moment, then lowly said, “Women, there is none. But sleeping with men…”

Charles’s heart momentarily stopped. It wasn’t spoken about much, but it was an open secret around the paddock that plenty of the drivers had next to no preference for how their dick got wet. He was one of them- while he’d been exclusive with Charlotte for years, he hadn’t been picky before and he wasn’t about to be now. 

“I see,” he acknowledged. Then, impulsively, “Ferrari is even more strict. Very traditional. But what they do not know, does not hurt them.”

The lights flashed, and for a split second Charles swore he saw Max’s eyes dilate at his admission. His heavy gaze dropped to his lips.

Charles broke first, casting his sights back out to the floor. 

“We could help each other,” Max’s voice pulled him back.

Charles’s head jerked towards him. “What?”

Max’s expression was serious, intense- like he was studying telemetry instead of Charles’s face. “You and I… purely for convenience. Save us both the effort.”

“We can barely stand each other,” Charles pointed out. “You think that’s a good basis for… this?” He waved a hand between them. 

Max shrugged, far too casual for what he was suggesting. “Why not? You feel the tension of racing on track. I think it would translate off track as well. No feelings. Just sex.” he leaned back and smirked. “Unless, of course, you are scared.”

Anger flashed behind Charles’s eyes. “I am not scared,” he scoffed. “I just think you do not know what you are asking for. This could end terribly. We are coworkers.”

“Coworkers with compatible urges.” Max slowly stood back up. “But I understand, you do not want this. I will find someone else. Enjoy going home… alone.”

Before he fully realized it, Charles’s hand flashed out and latched onto Max’s wrist. “I think you misunderstood,” he said. “I did not intend to go home alone tonight, Verstappen. It makes no difference who it is. If you are so easy as to offer yourself up, well.”

Max smiled, full of teeth.

It was fast, after that. They slipped into the habit of meeting up every race weekend, alternating hotel rooms. Sometimes Max came in after a long night of partying, sticky from booze and sweat. Sometimes Charles went to his hotel room and pinned him down, sucking bruises into his skin before he could think about getting a fix anywhere else.

And Max was right- the tension on track was explosive off of it. No one had ever been so good at reading Charles’s body, or so responsive to his own moves. It was like they were engineered for one another, bodies tuned to perfection.

It was supposed to be just sex. Not even exclusive; some nights, Charles could smell perfume on his skin, see the smudges of another’s lipstick along his jaw. They were just convenient, a safe option for one another to seek release in.

At some point, though, it had become more than that for Charles. Somewhere between the sheets and months, he’d lost his detachment, falling for the soft man who gently held him and crooned sweet names in their hazy, post-orgasm glow. Every time Max held him close, the affection sunk its claws deeper into Charles’s heart.

And now, in the darkness of his hotel room, awake on Max’s chest, Charles once again thought about how it was a shame Max would never feel the same way.

~July 24th, 2023: Max~

A familiar alarm was ringing, pulling Max from a dreamless sleep and into a mild headache, courtesy of a late night. He swatted vaguely in its direction but only succeeded in smacking the table instead. Fingers stinging, he sat up, grabbed the phone, and shut it off. He absently noted the text he’d sent last night to Charles, demanding entrance to the hotel room. Next to him, Charles rolled over, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

It was Charles’s phone that had been going off; why on earth he needed to be up early on the Monday after a race, Max had no idea. He nudged the sleeping body next to him with his knee, and got no response.

“Charles.”

Still nothing, not that Max had really expected anything different. They’d spent enough mornings together for Max to be well aware that Charles never moved from bed before ten without reason. If he- the one who set the damn alarm -wasn’t getting up, Max could certainly afford to linger. 

His own phone was likely somewhere on the floor and well out of reach. Max contented himself with studying the lump under the covers and imagining running his hands over the body underneath, then mentally raced the Monaco circuit as he waited patiently for any sign of life.

It was a familiar routine, but not one he could indulge in forever. Once the time ticked past nine, he acknowledged that he still had to get back to his own room before checkout in two hours. Max stood from the bed and stretched- he also picked up a pillow and aimed.

It was a perfect shot. It nailed the Charles-shaped heap directly where Max estimated his head was, resulting in a pitiful groan. “Get up.”

Charles’s drowsy face poked out from under the sheets, eyes still closed and nose scrunched up. The sight made Max’s heart hurt a little, knowing that he was one of the very few who got the chance to see him in his most relaxed state, slow and warm with sleep instead of sharp and focused on the track.

Max could lose himself in moments like these. It was the opposite of focusing on racing, the way Max had dedicated his entire life to. It was a dangerous temptation he couldn’t afford, not when his third championship was so close. 

He resisted the urge to crawl back into the bed and instead made his way into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he was scrubbed clean from the remnants of the night, teeth brushed and mind refreshed. Charles must’ve fallen back asleep; he didn’t stir as Max redressed in the same clothes he’d shown up in. It made the shower feel a little pointless, but it had at least woken him up. He’d have to stop by his own hotel before lunch with his father anyway; he could change then.

He was dressed. He could go now, slip out the door without wasting time to say goodbye. Get back to his own room. Change clothes, pack everything up, maybe show up early to lunch instead of just on time and get through it faster. 

His hand was on the door handle, mind full of unhappy thoughts about the impending lecture from Jos about a thousand errors he surely made in the race when a small noise came from the sheets. Then- “Mon cher?”

For all his posturing, Max was a weak man when it came to that voice. He immediately abandoned the idea of leaving and turned to see Charles half out of the sheets, sculpted back on display as he sprawled across the bed. “You’re awake,” he breathed. “I thought surely you would sleep longer.”

Charles frowned. “You were not there, when I reached. How could I sleep without you?”

Max wanted to press his lips to the crease between Charles’s brow and smooth it with a kiss. He wanted to strip back down and slide against him, feeling nothing but the heat from their bodies. He wanted to fall into the bed and never leave.

He didn’t have that luxury, though, so instead he just dryly commented, “The same way you do every other night.”

Charles’s face flattened a little at that. “I suppose.” Then, his nose wrinkled. “I feel disgusting- this is why you must let me clean up after sex.”

“I feel fine,” Max commented. “So it must be just you.”

“It is not just me, you have already– you are leaving so fast?” Charles sat up as he spoke, scratching at his stomach and making a funny face. Max felt a little bad; he knew firsthand how unpleasant it could be to wake up without wiping off the night before, but he also knew it’d happen again. “You were going to leave without waking me?”

Max gave a half-shrug as he responded, “You weren’t inclined to wake. It wouldn’t be the first time- besides, we’ll see each other in less than a week, in Spa.”

Something sharp flashed at the edge of Charles’s expression, but it was smoothed over almost instantly. “Ah. Yes. Well, my alarm would have woken me, so. It is fine that you did not.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “The alarm that you slept through?”

Charles’s eyes went wide. “Slept through?” He twisted over to check the time, and Max had to hold back a laugh as he blanched. “Merde, Max! You should not have let me sleep in, Joris will be–”

Right on cue, there was a pounding on the door. “Charles, si tu n'es pas là dans une minute, je vais raconter à Andrea pour le pot de glace que tu as mangé au petit-déjeuner la semaine dernière!” 

“J'arrive, une seconde!” Charles called back. He was already scrambling out of bed. “Max, where are my pants?”

Max helpfully tossed them at Charles’s head, but didn’t succeed in a second direct hit like earlier; instead, Charles caught them and began tugging them on over-

“Are those my boxers?” He asked, incredulous. “Charles, where did you get those?”

Pants halfway up his thighs, Charles froze, ears turning red with embarrassment. “You must have left them at some point and they made their way into my laundry. I can return them.”

“No, it’s- it’s fine.” Something possessive in Max’s chest purred at the vision of Charles walking around wearing his clothes, no-one the wiser. He shook his head a little, trying to dislodge the thought before it could escalate. His mouth was dry as he continued, “I’ve got others.”

Charles gave a sharp nod before hiking up his pants and darting into the bathroom. At the same time, there was a faint beep from the door- all the warning Max got before it swung open to reveal Joris barreling in. “J'arrive, tu ne peux pas– oh, hello Max.”

“Hi, Joris,” Max said sheepishly. Charles poked his head out of the bathroom and mumbled something around his toothbrush before ducking back in. 

Joris sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your doing, I suppose?” 

“Charles is plenty capable of being late on his own,” Max protested. “That I am here is… coincidental. What do you even have today?”

“He is always late when he is with you.”

“That’s because he’s always late in general. It takes him thirty minutes to pick out pants. And when he does, they are always hideous.”

Cleary Charles was listening, because his hand briefly appeared through the doorway to gesture rudely at Max. Max ignored it.

“Yes, well, he does not have thirty minutes to pick out pants today because he is late.” Joris crossed his arms. “Charles! We need to leave- we are supposed to be at the shoot prior to ten.”

The sound of the sink came briefly, then Charles came out drying his face with a towel. “Yes, yes, I am coming. They will have a stylist on site, non?”

Impatiently, Joris replied, “Oui. And hopefully they will fix your hair.”

Privately, Max decided it didn’t need to be fixed. It looked good like this, messy and tangled. Perfect for pulling.

Charles ran a hand through it, accomplishing nothing, and gave a roguish grin. “You do not like it?”

Max opened his mouth to respond, but Joris beat him to it. “I would like it more if it was in the car. Downstairs!”

“Yes, yes. I am coming. Max?”

Max moved to follow them out the door, but Joris held a hand up. “No. Absolutely not. You will wait here for at least fifteen minutes so there are no photos of you two leaving the same hotel together, when Max is not supposed to be here.”

Charles ducked his head, blushing. “Ah. Right.” 

Max flashed a thumbs up. “See you in a week.”

The door softly clicked shut behind the pair as they left, Joris’s rebuke echoing down the hall in rapid French. Max stood by the door for a long moment before sitting heavily on the bed. It would’ve been nice to go with, he thought. He knew why he couldn’t, though; even if Ferrari and Red Bull were comfortable releasing to the public that their drivers were not just gay, but together, Max had already sworn off a relationship.

He had to stay focused on driving. That was what mattered. He couldn’t afford distraction, no matter how badly he wanted it.

Chapter Text

~July 28th, 2023: Charles~

Sprint weekends were always intense. More time on the track was always a benefit, in Charles’s opinion, but it also meant everyone’s schedules were so tightly filled that he barely had enough time to breathe. 

There was also the downside that Max detested sprints, which made him extra irritated and snappy towards everyone until after the race. Charles was planning to give him a little distance until after the race when they would (hopefully) see one another on the podium.

Or, worst case, when they would fall into the same bed Sunday night. There, they could work out any remaining pressure from the jam-packed weekend. Together.

This weekend had come with a sudden stroke of luck though, in the form of an overlapping break between himself and a few of the other drivers. They’d gathered in McLaren’s hospitality to bask in the moment of peace- mostly. Pierre was actually hiding from Esteban; apparently there’d been another argument.

Charles wasn’t about to open that can of worms today. His focus on their game of cards was already shot and he was losing terribly to Lando, which was just embarrassing. The last thing he needed was another distraction.

“Charles, mate,” said Daniel in disbelief. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this?”

Charles gave him the evil eye. “I am,” he insisted. “But Lando is cheating.”

“Am not!” Lando protested. “How could I be, you dealt!”

“It is quite simple. These are Lando’s cards, therefore they are- how do you say it? Biased for him,” Charles responded.

Daniel let out a laugh as Pierre said, “Cha, I don’t think you can blame the cards for this. Carlos is beating you, and he’s been in the bathroom the last two turns.”

Charles opened his mouth to give an appropriately scathing retort, but Lando interrupted him. “They can’t be biased for me, they’re not even my cards. Nicked ‘em from Oscar back in… Canada? He told me I could keep them.”

“Even worse,” Charles moaned. He dramatically tossed his hand face-down on the table. “If they’re Oscar’s, they’re definitely for you. And probably Daniel too.”

Lando’s cheeks turned a little pink at that, and he nervously laughed. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

Pierre just nodded, ignoring Lando’s floundering. “Ah. Australian solidarity.”

“Pierre!” Daniel exclaimed, clearly delighted. “I didn’t know you knew that word!”

Charles ignored Pierre whacking Daniel and instead answered Lando. “Oscar likes you, therefore his cards also like you. You are beating me, you cannot be that stupid that you do not know.”

Lando gave him a dejected look. “As a teammate. Not the way–” He was abruptly cut off by Daniel launching himself out of his chair to tackle Pierre in retaliation. Lando stared for a moment, then (wisely, in Charles’s opinion) decided to ignore them. “Not how I want him,” he finished quietly.

“Have you talked to him?” Charles asked. Lando liked Oscar. And while Charles hadn’t asked him, Oscar spent every other moment staring at Lando’s face with a sickeningly sweet expression. It seemed very straightforward to Charles.

And anyone else with half a brain.

Daniel crowed with success from his seat on top of Pierre.

“No, but- I know what he’d say,” Lando said. “He’s too cool for me. He’s just- so chill all the time. He’s like my exact opposite. It wouldn’t work.”

Pierre craned his neck to squint at Lando from the floor. “Is he talking about Oscar again?”

Simultaneously, Daniel and Charles answered, “Yes.”

“You say that like I talk about him a lot,” Lando whined.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “That’s because you do.”

“Almost as much as Charles talks about Max,” Pierre chimed in. Daniel rolled off and climbed into Carlos’s abandoned chair as Charles sputtered in outrage. 

“I do not– that is entirely different!” he protested. The only response to that- which Charles could privately admit, maybe wasn’t quite as true as he’d like -was three incredibly unimpressed looks. He barreled on regardless. “Max and I are friends, I am going to talk about him frequently. Lando is pining.”

“Calamar…” Pierre said, a little sadly. Before it could go anywhere, though, the door burst open to reveal Carlos, back from the bathroom. Trailing behind him was Max himself, inspiring the thought of a world where Charles could summon him instantly, any time he liked. That would be very nice.

“Look who I found!” Carlos called cheerily. 

Max gave a little wave and said, “Hello. I hope you don’t mind, I was looking for Checo. Have you seen him?”

Daniel gave a confused grin. “Always welcome to hang, buddy. But have you tried looking in your own garage? It’s probably a little too papaya for him to hang around here.”

Carlos shoved Daniel out of his seat, saying, “Shoo. Pest.” Max followed him over to the table and sat on the couch next to Charles, a respectable distance away. Charles wished it was a little less respectable. He was so caught up in deciding the best way to subtly get closer, that he almost missed Max asking about the now-forgotten cards on the table.

He didn’t miss Lando’s helpful answer of, “Charles was getting destroyed.”

“Yes, because they are Oscar’s and they like Lando best, as Oscar does,” Charles grumbled. “It was unfair.”

Max laughed lightly. “Careful. You’re sounding like me, now.” Then, casually, “I didn’t realize you two were such good teammates that Oscar’s cards work for you, Lando.”

Lando dropped his head to the table and groaned, but Carlos raised an eyebrow. “Ah, cabrón, you did not know? They are in love.”

Lando’s protests were muffled by the table, but Charles was entirely focused on the way that Max’s mouth opened slightly in surprise, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “They’re dating?” 

“No, because they are stupid and will not talk,” Pierre said sagely. “But! They could be.”

Max looked lost. “But that’s dangerous. What would McLaren do if they knew? The sponsors?”

“Mate, forget about them.” Lando lifted his head to flatly reply. “It’s none of their business, yeah? Private life and all that shit. But it doesn’t matter, because Oscar doesn’t like me like that- he’s… beyond me.”

Charles turned to sympathetically pat Lando’s shoulder. He understood better than Lando knew; these days, the feeling of wanting someone you couldn’t have was a constant shadow over Charles’s life. It also meant he was facing away from Max when he said, “It’s probably for the best, though. I mean, dating another driver- it’d be messy. One minute you’re fighting on track, the next you’re lovers. How would you keep the sides separate?”

The words slid like ice down his back.

It was a brutal reminder that- no matter how it felt -their relationship wasn’t what Charles wanted. That it never would be. Across the table, Carlos’s eyes softened as they met his. There was probably at least a dozen people who knew Max and Charles were fucking on the side, but Carlos was one of only three Charles had confided in about the actual depth of his feelings.

Pierre was another; Joris was the unintended third.

“We just would,” Lando snapped. Charles focused very firmly on a loose thread in the carpet by the foot of the table and tried not to think about anything at all.

~July 30th, 2023: Max~

It had been an excellent weekend for Max, taking P1 in both the sprint and the race. A one-two finish for Red Bull followed by a month-long break meant that the party tonight would be long and loud, and he was ready for it after the endless drain of practice-qualifying-shootout-sprint-race.

Seriously. They were here for the race. The rest of it was just a distraction.

He had showered before getting to the club to rinse the sweat and champagne from his skin, but the moment he entered it was rendered pointless. The air was hot and humid, and the smell of alcohol was strong enough to raise his B.A.C to a 0.8 on its own. The thumping bass replaced his heart, reverberating through his chest.

Max made his way deeper until he saw Daniel and Yuki sitting at a table towards the back. Yuki looked vaguely disinterested in whatever story Daniel was telling (which involved no small amount of exaggerated gestures and arm waving) so Max figured he was helping when he interrupted, sliding into the booth.

“Maxxy, baby!” Daniel crowed. “Man of the hour! Welcome to the best seat in the house!”

Yuki perked up. “Ah. Freedom! Pierre is coming with shots. You will partake.”

Daniel leaned heavily on Max, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Yuki made it into the points and Pierre didn’t, so he has to buy Yuki’s drinks,” he explained. “It’s one of their arrangements.”

“We have many,” Yuki responded slyly. Max was saved from hearing about any other arrangements by Pierre himself arriving with a tray of half a dozen shots.

“Max!” He called over the music. “You in?”

Max nodded firmly. “I’m in.”

True to Daniel’s word, Pierre bought the next two rounds- and not just for Yuki, but for all of them. They spent some time laughing at the table, but soon he was feeling the buzz thrumming in his veins, and allowed Daniel to drag him to the dance floor. Yuki and Pierre stayed behind. They made a pit stop at the bar for Max to get a gin and tonic before stumbling into the crowd and joining the throng.

The hours passed in brief flashes, Max losing himself in the atmosphere. At one point, a leggy brunette- taller than him -pressed along his back, and the sight of dark curls spilling against his shoulder made him think of Charles.

He would be infinitely better company, Max decided. He always was.

He gently nudged her away, ignoring her lingering stare as he teetered away from the mass of writhing bodies. In an effort to tell someone he was leaving, he found Checo and shouted that he was heading back to the hotel. Checo waved; hopefully he heard, and if not, well. Someone would figure it out eventually.

Checo probably wouldn’t have guessed which hotel he was going back to, anyway.

Max passed the address for the hotel Ferrari was staying in to the cab driver, and tossed definitely-too-many bills at her when he climbed out of the car. It was whatever; he had the money to spare. 

He made it to Charles’s room in one piece and prepared to have to wake him through the force of his knocks- but his fist only made contact with the door twice before it was yanked open and Charles stood in front of him, nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, skin damp and hair wet.

His green eyes dilated instantly at the sight of Max in his doorway. “Mon ange,” he breathed. “Come inside.”

Max was certainly about to do just that.

He immediately crowed against Charles, barely registering the soft snick of the door closing behind him. Instead, Max focused entirely on sucking the water from Charles’s neck and dragging his jaw along the smooth column, leaving pink skin behind. Charles let out a breathy moan before lacing his fingers through Max’s hair and gasping Max’s name. 

He brought one of his hands to cup Charles’s face and pressed a bruising kiss to his mouth, while using the other to drop his towel on the ground. Charles fought back, sliding his tongue along the seam of Max’s lips until he parted them. He tasted clean, minty. 

Max pushed Charles towards the bed, barely taking a moment to break from their kiss as they fell. Standing, they were the same height- but laying down like this, Max on top, he felt much larger. It gave him an almost heady sense of power, the way he could cover Charles, narrow his world down to just Max. The contrast between being fully clothed versus Charles’s nakedness only added to the sensation.

Clothes would only get in the way of sex though, so he briefly paused his ministrations to strip, feeling the weight of Charles's heavy gaze on him. He grabbed the lube from the bedside table and ignored the unopened box of condoms; they never bothered, since they were both required to get regular testing. It wasn’t like Max was having unprotected sex with anyone else.

Besides- Charles preferred to feel the results spilling out after, and Max preferred to see it. It worked out neatly this way.

Naked, he popped the cap of the bottle open, but Charles’s hand grabbed his wrist. “Wait,” he said. “I want- let me blow you.”

Well, Max wasn’t about to turn that down. He let Charles tug him back down, and sat against the headboard. His dick was already hard, but seeing Charles position himself between his legs made him impossibly harder. Charles carefully lapped at the tip, inciting a low groan from Max’s throat.

It gave Charles the wrong idea. He started pressing kisses along the shaft, tongue darting out to give little kitten licks as he went. Max’s fingers tightened where he was gripping the bed as he grunted, “Baby. You’re teasing me.”

Charles stopped, giving him an innocent look. “Me?” he asked. “Mon cher, I would never!” He leaned down and gently laved over Max’s balls, eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks as he gazed upwards. 

Some nights Max was alright with Charles taking his time, but this wasn’t one of them. He laid his hand gently on the top of Charles’s head, then abruptly pulled his wet hair, deftly yanking his head back. “You are,” he said, voice gravelly.

A wicked expression crossed Charles’s face. Then, he jerked forward, swallowing Max down whole. Max cried out at the wet heat enveloping him; he wasn’t small by any means, but Charles had long since mastered taking him down to the hilt. 

It was exquisite. Charles pulled back, leaving just the head in his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the tip before tracing the slit, and Max’s eyes rolled back. He rethreaded his fingers between dark curls from where they’d slipped off after Charles’s sudden move. Then, Charles sucked back down the shaft again.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, moaning as Charles devoured him, but it felt far too soon when the heat behind his navel began to build. He tugged Charles back by the hair, dragging him off his dick and leaving it exposed to the cold air. “M’gonna come if you don’t stop,” he warned.

Charles’s mouth was red, lips swollen, spit sliding down his chin. The green of his eyes was almost entirely gone, pupils blown out. “I think, I would be alright with that,” he panted.

In a surprisingly tender moment, Max carefully reached up and swept a thumb under Charles’s eye; it came away damp. “When I come in you, it won’t be in your mouth.”

Then, he moved, swapping their positions. He situated Charles underneath him, hands tight enough to bruise his hips as he put him right where he wanted. Max grabbed the abandoned bottle of lube, heedless of the drops spilled across the sheets as he liberally coated his fingers.

Charles squirmed below him, letting out delicious little whines as Max carefully teased at the edge of his rim. “Max, mon cher, s'il te plait, give me!” 

Painfully slow, Max pushed a single finger in. He set a leisurely pace, relaxing the muscle with no concern for the way the begging increased in rapidity. He began sucking a series of bruises down Charles’s chest, determined to leave a reminder. “Baby, I thought you liked teasing?”

“Bordel de merde, Max, do not!” Charles whined. Max gave it another few pumps before carefully adding in a second finger. He began to scissor them. Charles always opened up so beautifully for him; he allowed himself a moment to admire the sight sprawled beneath him, the flushed, sweaty body of his— 

Not lover. But, something. For the moment, at least.

Charles ground down on his hand, fingers wrapping around his own dick. Max immediately noticed, and thought that won’t do. “No,” he snapped, adjusting so he could use his other hand to peel Charles off. Charles glared.

“You are taking so long,” he said impatiently. “If you will not put your dick in me, I will get myself off.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Have it your way, then.” Charles’s eyes widened as Max immediately pulled his fingers out and slicked himself up. “I was going to prep you more, but–”

He sank in immediately, and Charles wailed under him at the sudden stretch. Max wasn’t too worried; he knew what Charles could take, but he also knew that he’d definitely be feeling the ache tomorrow. His hands scrabbled against Max’s back as he began setting a rapid pace.

“You’re so tight,” he gasped. The bed creaked underneath them, and Charles moaned loudly. As soon as he knew Charles could take it, Max paused long enough to hook a leg over his shoulder, and resumed at an even more frantic pace now that he had a better angle. He could feel the heat licking up his insides as his impending orgasm drew close. 

He grabbed Charles’s hips once more and shifted him slightly before his next thrust; the high-pitched keen let Max know he’d hit his prostate like he’d intended. “M’close,” he warned. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna come on my cock?”

It was enough to tip Charles over the edge. He came hard, white striping up his chiseled abdomen. As his muscles tensed, he squeezed around Max and it was enough to have him coming too, filling Charles up entirely. Max collapsed down on top of Charles without pulling out, sticky with sweat.

They laid there for a minute, just breathing heavily together. Charles was the first to break the spell by poking Max in the side and mumbling, “Descendez. Get off, I cannot breathe.”

Max rolled off from on top, soft enough by now to slide out without trouble. He couldn’t resist- didn’t see a need to, really -and dipped two fingers down to gently push the spilling semen back into Charles. 

Charles groaned. “Mon cher, you are killing me,” he said dramatically. He winced as Max dragged along his insides but otherwise seemed to have no issue.

“Open.”

His mouth obediently fell open, and Max set his wet fingers onto Charles’s tongue. His eyes never left Max’s face as he sucked them clean. The intense eye contact combined with the wet sounds of his mouth was enough to make Max’s spent dick give a valiant twitch against his thigh.

It was maybe ten minutes of laying together before Charles pushily shoved him off the bed, insisting on a shower. Max didn’t bother to point out that his hair was still damp from the shower he’d taken just before Max arrived. They needed it.

They spent a long time under the hot water together, Charles determined to wash Max himself. He took such care it made Max’s heart swell; there was nothing sexual in the way he tenderly shampooed Max’s hair or ran a bubbly washcloth down his limbs. Max hoped that it felt half as good for Charles as he returned the favor.

It soothed some of the tension that always sunk into Max’s bones when he spent too long without sex. Without Charles. It’s break, he thought. I’m allowed to think like this on break. 

Nobody had to know.

They climbed back into the bed afterwards, Charles complaining about the dirty sheets. Max tolerated it without comment like always; if it wasn’t this, he’d surely grumble about something else instead. Charles just liked to whine. 

Sated and relaxed, sleep quickly came for Max. Before he was entirely asleep, though, he heard Charles faintly murmur, “Oh, papa… I am in love.”

*

Charles was once again still asleep when Max woke the next morning.

This time, there was no alarm. Just the sun pouring through the blinds and directly into Max’s eyes. There was, however, a massive headache brewing. Max rolled onto his stomach and tried to fall back asleep, silently grateful Charles had had the sense of mind to force them both into that shower.

Not that he’d admit it.

He managed to doze at best, mind never truly turning back off. Sooner than he expected, Charles stirred; Max felt his weight shift as he sat up. He didn’t bother moving, fully content to bask in the moment. He’d won the stupid sprint. He’d won the race. A full month off laid ahead.  He could have this.

Featherlight fingers trailed down his back, and Max twitched under the delicate ministrations. Charles let out a faint, breathy laugh. Then, quietly, Max heard, “Oh, mon amour. Comme je voudrais pouvoir te garder pour toujours.” 

The warmth drained from Max’s body as he froze, breath catching in his chest. His French was abysmal, especially with how rapidly Charles spoke his native tongue, but he knew what those first words meant.

The memory- so hazy he’d almost thought it was a dream -of Charles’s words last night slammed into the forefront of his mind.

Charles must’ve sensed something, because the fingers stopped moving. Tentatively, he said, “Max?”

Max’s whole life was plunging headfirst into the smallest gap, never faltering or reconsidering a decision. A racing career lived or died by pouncing on every chance and taking it, full throttle. Hesitation was killer; he never did it, even in moments like these, when the alternative seemed unbearable. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked at Charles.

He was ethereal in the morning light. The sun fell across his back, illuminating tanned skin from behind and casting a glow around his edges. The white sheets were pooled at his waist, revealing the sharp V of his Adonis belt. His lips were still swollen, and the bruises down his chest had darkened overnight into a beautiful purple.

His fingers twisted into the bedding. Charles swallowed, and then repeated himself. “Max?”

Belatedly, Max realized he was waiting for a response. His head swirled as he hoarsely asked, “Last night. You said you are in love.”

Charles’s eyes grew impossibly wider. “Max, I- I thought you were asleep.”

He pressed again. “You said- you are in love. You called me your love.” 

Max wasn’t even sure how he wanted Charles to respond. Because if he said yes, that meant this had to end. Immediately. There wasn’t room for both of them to be feeling this way. Max could only love him because Charles didn’t love him back, because there was no risk for a relationship to swoop in and consume his time and space and thoughts, pulling him away from racing.

If he didn’t, well. Max wasn’t sure he’d recover from that either, at this point.

There was a long pause, Charles studying his face intently before quietly admitting, “Yes.”

Max’s heart soared high, before crashing violently to the ground. It was pounding in his chest, threatening to burst out of his ribs, and breathing was suddenly much more difficult than moments before. “Charles, you- this is just.” He cut himself off, struggling to find the words in English until Daniel’s expression from last night came to mind. “An arrangement.”

Charles’s breath caught, a small choked noise. Then, he forced out, “Non. It is more than that, mon cher, and it has been. You cannot tell me you do not feel it, this is–”

Max scrambled off the bed. “Charles,” he said harshly. The intensity of his own feelings was more terrifying than any race he’d ever been in. “We agreed. No feelings. I can’t- I don’t have the time for this.”

He began casting about trying to find his clothes. Charles sharply said, “Yes, and that was so long ago. If there are no feelings, you should not call me sweet things like baby and schatje-” and his pronunciation was terrible, but it still made Max’s heart flop helplessly in his chest “-and shower with me, and sleep in my arms, and–”

“Stop,” Max pleaded. He tugged on his shirt, grateful for the momentary break from seeing Charles’s devastated face. “You are right. I should not. And I will not do it again. We are done.”

Charles blanched, blood draining from his face. “Done! We cannot be done, Max, I am sorry, pretend I never–”

Max’s voice was strangled as he said, “I can’t.” He stumbled towards the door, each step feeling harder than the last. “Charles, we are coworkers.” Then, more emphatically, “Rivals.” 

Charles was scrabbling out of the bed, now, still naked- but for once, Max had no issue keeping his eyes on his face instead of letting them drop. “Max,” he pleaded, and then hesitated. The killer, indeed. 

“Charles.” Max said. His voice cracked over the single word. His fingers landed on the handle of the door.

“Do not leave,” Charles begged. “Max, do not do this to me. To us.”

Max was certain he would never forget the shattered expression spread across Charles’s face as he weakly uttered, “I have to. For me. For us. Goodbye, Charles.”

The door closed behind him, much more softly than he thought the situation warranted.

Max was alone in his own hotel room before he let himself cry.

Chapter Text

~August 5th: Charles~

Charles flopped over in his bed as he tried to find a comfortable position. August in Monaco, windows thrown open, sheets pulled up to his chest- and he still felt cold. He wished he didn’t know what the heat from Max’s body felt like.

More than that, he wished Max was here.

It’d been a week since he’d humiliated himself in front of his– nothing. In front of Max. He should’ve lied instead of doubling down on his feelings. But he hadn’t been able to, and more than that, he’d convinced himself that Max felt the same. If it was just sex, why did Max stay? They’d shower and fall asleep wrapped up in one another’s arms, Max would order them breakfast (and he even knew Charles’s favorites and meal plan needs), more than once he’d fed Charles from his own damn fork. One could argue he was just hoping for another round in the morning, and it’s not that they didn’t do that frequently, but- Max didn’t ask for that. Never let on that that was why he lingered.

Sometimes, when he thought Charles was asleep, he’d press a gentle kiss to his shoulder and whisper Dutch. Charles never understood what he was saying in those moments, but there was no way it was something casual. Friends just didn’t do that.

But that was how he’d gotten into this mess, wasn’t it? Charles had given into the impulse and said something out loud, thinking Max wouldn’t hear, or understand, or… he wasn’t even sure. He should’ve known better.

If Max wanted more, he would’ve asked. He always said exactly as he was feeling, blunt and honest to a fault. If he had even the smallest margin of affection beyond friendship, he would’ve laid it out on the table. That’s how he’d started it:  a clear cut this is what I want, and very explicitly stated that it was just for convenience.

Max didn’t want more. He’d made that very clear.

Charles shifted again to stare outside at the half-full moon. There wasn’t much in the way of cloud cover, and the resulting moonlight was pouring in. Maybe he’d fall asleep faster if it was dark.

He couldn’t muster the energy to get up and close the curtain.

The way the light fell across his bedroom reminded him of that final morning with Max. He’d looked simply lovely: sunlight spilling across soft pale skin, dirty blond hair mussed from sleep, muscles relaxed in a way they never quiet achieved when he was awake. Charles hadn’t been able to resist running his fingertips along his spine, admiring the artful curve. Hadn’t been able to stop himself from expressing his wishes to keep Max all to himself.

But that just made him think of the sudden rigidity his words spawned in Max, his horror at learning Charles broke the very first rule they set. The obvious revulsion in Max’s face as he realized that Charles had long since blown past the agreed upon “friends with benefits” and secretly hauled Max into a one-sided relationship.

If he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t gotten greedy, could he still have that? They’d met up for sex a couple times during summer break last year, and their meetings had only increased in frequency since. He’d probably be asleep in Max’s arms right now if he’d just kept his mouth shut.

It wasn’t fair to Max, though. If Charles was a better person, he’d have said something as soon as he realized. Would’ve distanced himself so that Max could set up a new arrangement, with someone who was able to stay within the track limits set at the beginning of the race.

Charles wasn’t a better person. Screw the white line, Charles had spun out into the grass three laps ago.

He stared at the moon. The moon coldly stared back.

*

Charles didn’t feel any better the next morning. He was pretty sure he never actually fell asleep, just tossed and turned until eventually the sun came up and he decided he might as well start the day.  It was how every night had gone so far for break, since he’d arrived back in Monaco and dumped his luggage on the living room floor.

He hadn’t even unpacked. He’d pulled out a few pieces of clothing before finding one of Max’s white shirts, had a mini breakdown on the couch over it, then spent the next four hours laying down and wondering if it would be better to drop all of Max’s stolen clothes at his apartment, or just set them on fire.

It’s not like Max knew they were even gone. He hadn’t noticed the loss.

Charles had settled on neither when he realized he didn’t have the heart to shuffle through his drawers and dredge up every article and memory that belonged to Max. The luggage remained on his floor, and he resigned himself to swallowing down tears every time he dug through his hamper.

He shambled into the kitchen, gave his cupboards an obligatory stare, then moved into his home gym to get in a morning workout in place of breakfast. Everything he’d eaten since coming back- primarily half-servings of the preportioned, Andrea-approved meals that were delivered weekly -seemed flavorless. It felt pointless to shovel down food when he didn’t want it.

Plus, Joris had made good on his threat back in Hungary and tattled about his cheat-day ice cream breakfast. Andrea had raked him over the coals for that, and the subsequent chewing out had been enough to pull him back into line for the foreseeable future. It was also the only reason he kept up his daily workouts; he wasn’t risking another lecture like that.

Well, except for running. Monaco was small, and he wasn’t about to risk bumping into Max. He’d been indoors the last week straight. Normally that would drive him stir-crazy- but an unexpected benefit of heartbreak meant that it was really the only issue his mind could focus on. One major mental malaise at a time, s'il vous plait.

By the time his muscles were properly aching from the workout, the clock had ticked past eleven. Charles took a brief shower, then figured he should go for round two on attempting a meal. He ate a two-thirds of a slightly wilted salad, neatly labeled Spinach/Chicken/Apple/Walnut/Bacon, then dumped the rest in the trash and settled in to spend the remainder of his day on the couch.

He grabbed his phone, ignored the messages from everyone except Joris (who’d asked if Charles was alive, and got a thumbs up) and his mother asking if he wanted to come by for dinner tomorrow.

He sent a brief, apologetic no.

Out of habit, Charles then flipped to his message thread with Max. The chat hurt to open- he’d fired off half a dozen messages after Max had fled his hotel room back in Spa, and tried calling and texting multiple times since. Max had read them up until Thursday, at which point the texts failed to deliver.

Turns out, being blocked wasn’t enough to stop Charles from hoping for a reply. He really was pathetic.

He dropped his phone face-down on the coffee table and flipped on the TV.

~August 12th: Max~

You up for drinks tonight?

Max stared at the text from Daniel, time stamped an hour ago. He really wasn’t up for it, to be honest. He wasn’t up for much of anything.  He’d spent most of break so far trying to maximize his hours on the sim and in the gym, only stopping to sleep or eat. 

It wasn’t quite how he’d intended to spend the time off. Of course, he’d planned to squeeze in plenty of sim time- it was one of his favorite ways to relax -and while Brad always went a little easier during time off, he still expected a level of discipline from Max. He’d mentally blocked most of his schedule off to hang with Charles.

He hadn’t explicitly discussed it with him, but Charles also never turned him down to hang out (barring previously scheduled Ferrari-mandated duties). He was a good friend like that. And he’d even dropped some hints that his break was wide open, so Max had just assumed they’d spend a good chunk of it together.

Guess he’d been wrong.

So instead of playing FIFA (against Charles), being dragged to weird little cafes (by Charles), and having mind-blowing sex (with Charles) he’d gone back to his roots and dedicated every moment to improving his racing.

Part of that dedication meant not going out, drinks or otherwise, and he was very tempted to ignore Daniel. He’d already tossed his (not a) relationship with Charles down the drain- might as well throw the others away too. Hell, maybe he should just move into the cockpit of the RB19 full time and not talk to anybody except for GP.

He shot back a quick No and went back to the sim to start a new run on the Baku City Circuit.

Thirty minutes later, an aggressive banging from his door surprised him into jerking his wheel. He binned it straight into the wall on turn 15- which, really? -and angrily yanked off his headset. He stalked to the door and swung it open to reveal Daniel, an overly enthusiastic grin plastered on his face.

Max slammed the door shut again and turned right back around.

Daniel opened it anyway and sauntered past him on his way in. “Max! How’ve you been? Must be keeping very busy, considering you’ve done nothing but blow me off all break.”

Max folded his arms and flatly asked, “What do you want?”

Daniel dropped onto his couch and kicked his legs up onto the table. Max narrowed his eyes at the sight of shoes where food went, but either Daniel didn’t understand the silent message or just didn’t care. “I would like to spend some time with my most favorite little ex-teammate in Monaco,” he started. “But he seems to have gone missing. Maybe you’ve seen him? He’s about 1.8 meters–”

“Daniel.”

“–turquoise eyes like the Mediterranean–”

“Daniel.”

“–very broad shoulders, quite handsome actually–”

“Daniel!” Max snapped. “I’m not in the mood.”

Daniel just smirked, the bastard. “I know. That’s why I’m here mate, to get you in the mood. We’re on break, but I know you’ve done nothing but work. You’re going out with me.”

“I don’t want to,” Max bit out. “I need to stay focused, the championship–”

“Max.” Daniel cut him off. “There’s only been two races you haven’t won this year. The only guy who’s managed to beat you was your teammate. The championship isn’t going to disappear just because you went out to a bar with friends, okay?”

Max dropped down into the squashy armchair, and the squeaking of the springs was enough to summon Jimmy from the bedroom. He never missed a chance to cuddle. The cat affectionately rubbed against Max’s shins as he grumbled, “Not like you would know.”

The smile on Daniel’s face flickered, and it made Max feel a little bad. He didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of Max’s shitty mood. Just as fast, though, it came back full force. “Don’t need two WDC’s to understand a break is healthy, mate. One drink, then you can go home. We can keep it small- you, me, and Lando. How’s that?”

He had a point. And maybe it’d be a chance to return a little bit to normalcy. He didn’t want Daniel thinking he was a pushover though, so instead of just agreeing Max skeptically asked, “Lando?”

“I’ll need company when you ditch me. Poor lad is also still pining over Oscar, he could use the distraction.”

That made two of them, then. “...fine,” he conceded. “Long as you don’t expect much. You’re getting me for thirty minutes. Then I’m going home.”

*

Two hours and four drinks later, Max was not home. He was tucked up in a booth while Lando drunkenly bemoaned about Oscar’s nails of all things. Daniel was only egging him on, and the entire situation was rapidly becoming intolerable. Max scanned the crowd looking for an escape and saw–

Broad shoulders. Low lights glinting off a necklace. A multi-ringed hand came up to brush at dark hair curling over the nape of his neck.

Max’s heart leapt into his throat.

The man turned, revealing a markedly less handsome face than Max had been hoping for. Of course it wasn’t Charles. Even if it was, it’s not like he could go over there and talk to him. They were over. Outside of work, Max was determined not to interact with him.

If they weren’t talking, there was no risk of falling back into the same patterns as before. No risk of love sapping at his thoughts when he needed to keep his focus on racing.

It was a little alarming, though, to suddenly be presented with proof that Max would’ve gone straight over if it had been Charles. He would’ve shoved right out of the booth and wrapped his arms around an unfairly narrow waist with no hesitation. It was why he’d had to block Charles- he’d been teetering on the edge, dangerously close to throwing away all his efforts and texting him back.

Max had incorrectly assumed that he’d been getting over him, or something. There were still two more weeks of break, though- surely that was enough time to smother the thought of pinning Charles to the bed and doing something stupid like kissing him senseless. 

He must’ve been looking out at the crowd for too long, because Daniel dragged him back to attention by knocking their shoulders together. “See something you like?”

“No,” Max said hastily. 

Daniel pounced on the opportunity. “Someone, then. Who’s caught your eye out there, mate?”

Emphatically, Max doubled down. “Nobody. I’m not trying to take anyone home tonight.”

“Right, right,” Daniel said casually. “I forgot, you’ve got Charles on the side, why would you–”

“Do not mention him to me,” Max snapped, cutting him off. Across the table, Lando looked up from his drink in surprise.

“You’ve got- wait, is Daniel implying you two were…” Lando trailed off, cheeks pink. Max sent him his most venomous look possible, relishing when he ducked back down to stare at his half-empty glass. 

Daniel let out a low whistle. “Lando, how did you not know? They eyefuck every time they’re in the same room!”

“We do not,” Max mulishly argued. It was overrode by Lando’s horrified–

“They what?!” 

Daniel burst into loud laughter. Lando looked almost ill as he turned to Max and pleaded, “Tell me it isn’t true. I don’t think I could handle sharing a cooldown room knowing you’re using the races as some kind of- bloody foreplay!”

Daniel’s cackles only increased as he wheezed out, “That’s exactly what they do, mate!”

“We do not!” Max repeated, louder. Annoyed, he continued, “And it’s over now, anyway, so. It doesn’t matter.”

For some reason, that was what cut Daniel off as he stared in shock. “Wait- over?”

Testily, Max answered, “Yes, over. Is there a problem?”

Daniel just kept giving that blank, surprised stare. Lando took the chance to jump in. “I’m just learning about this, when it’s over? How long has it even been happening?”

Max wasn’t inclined to share the details, but unfortunately Daniel was. The questions seemed to shake him out of the stupor because he quickly replied, “The eyefucking, or the actual sex? Because the first has been since Charles joined us big boys in back in 2018, and the actual-”

“It doesn’t matter!” Max interrupted. “Because we are no longer doing it. It was just sex, it- what difference does it make?”

“Mate,” and why was Daniel looking at Max like he was particularly stupid? “It makes a difference because you’re–” He cut himself off, then held up his empty glass. “Lando. Get us another round, yeah?”

Lando eyed him dolefully. “No. It’s already too late not to know, I need the details to share with Oscar later. And I’ve still got half my drink anyway.”

Daniel snatched up his glass and immediately drained the rest of it, then thunked it down on the table in front of Lando’s bewildered face. “Now you don’t. I know your salary, go put some of that racecar driver money towards getting us another round.”

For a brief moment, Max thought Lando was going to argue further. But after a brief hesitation, Lando stood up- wobbling only a little -and grunted, “Fine.

As he wandered off into the crowd, Daniel zeroed back in on Max. An unfamiliar nervousness crept in as Max was pinned under an unforgiving stare. “Max. What the fuck happened, mate? Because last I checked, you and him had a pretty solid deal going on.”

Max doubted there was much in the way of explanation that would satisfy Daniel. He’d never understood the all-consuming need to win, the way Max would sacrifice anything and everything to be on the top of the podium week after week. So instead he just muttered, “Charles- it got. Complicated. Wasn’t a good way to go forward. ”

Daniel’s tone was skeptical as he replied, “Is this why you’ve been hiding all of break? Because your boyfriend broke up with you?”

“I haven’t been hiding, and he was not my boyfriend.” Max seethed. “We did not break up because we were not together.”

“Right,” he said incredulously. “So you’ve got no… lingering feelings over this. You’re not torn up at all.”

“No,” Max said flatly.

Helplessly, Daniel said, “Max. You’re my friend. I know you- you’ve never been causal about a single thing in your life. And you’re telling me that you’ve been fucking Leclerc for well over a year, but at no point that made you feel… anything?”

“Yes,” Max lied. It really wasn’t anyone’s business but his own. What did it matter?

“Fine. One more question, then we’re done. Which one of you ended it?”

And wasn’t that a loaded question. Max had said the actual words, but he wouldn’t have had to if Charles hadn’t opened his mouth and admitted to feeling things. They could’ve kept right along without that. 

“Charles.”

Daniel just looked at him sadly until Lando finally returned with their drinks. Max forgave him a little bit for prying when he deftly fended off Lando’s pestering for details by distracting him with a question about Oscar’s hair.

~August 19th: Lando~

Lando’s fingers flew across the keyboard, mouse clicking frantically as he tried to dodge his opponent’s shots. It wasn’t enough. A final bang rang out, and his screen flashed into darkness. Lando groaned in frustration and leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand down his face. His team had been shit for the last couple hours of gaming, and their skill issues had infected him. He decided to call it; it was closing in on dinnertime anyway.

He picked up his phone and noticed a message from Pierre, which was a little odd. They were friendly, but it was more of a “your friends are my friends” situation, not one where they regularly texted. He opened up the thread.

Hi Lando. Have you heard from Charles? He hasn’t replied to my messages since the beginning of break, and he hasn’t even opened any from the last week or so.

Lando stood and stretched as he recalled the last conversation he’d had about Charles. He had a morbid curiosity to learn more about the filthy shit he and Max got up to in their free time; it was kind of like watching a car crash in real time. His back cracked; maybe he should’ve gotten up more than once in the last six hours. The perils of break, and all that. He fired off a response as he shuffled into the kitchen.

nah not rly

tried 2 meet 4 padel last week but he didnt open my msg so i met up w alex instead

he good?

There was nothing meal-plan approved in the fridge, and he wasn’t in the mood to cook. Now that he was thinking about it, maybe Charles and Alex would want to get something? He switched over the Monaco drivers group chat and sent a quick dinner 2night anyone?? Then, he flipped back to Pierre.

I’m a little worried. He doesn’t normally ghost like this, and I haven’t seen his location anywhere but his apartment all break. 

not every1 wants 2 do shit all break

hes prolly just relaxing

y r u even tracking his location? lol

Alex texted back to say he and George were in for dinner. George followed up with an immediate agreement as well as three separate suggestions. Lewis was also in. 

Nico reacted with a thumbs down. Rude. But Valtteri had reacted with a thumbs up, so- take that, Hulkenberg.

Lando sent a vote for the Greek place George suggested- he’d been there before, it was pretty good -then read Pierre’s latest message.

We have each other on Find My Friends. We don’t use it much, but since I haven’t really heard from him all break I’ve been periodically checking. Would you be able to do me a favor and swing by for me, make sure he’s doing okay?

Lando snickered a little bit at that. Pierre was such a worrywart; Charles was an adult, he could take care of himself. But there was nothing wrong with collecting a little leverage. Could come in handy later.

yea sure. u owe me 1 tho

tomorrow fine? or should it be 2night. going out for dinner w some of the others, i can swing by after?

Thank you! If you’re not out too late, the sooner the better. He’ll probably be up. Since you mentioned them, maybe see if anyone else would like to visit as well? I’m not sure he’s had much contact with people this break, probably just Max. But Max didn’t reply to my text earlier either, so I’m not sure.

Lando frowned at his phone. Max had seemed very emphatic that he and Charles were over when they’d met up for drinks last weekend, even if he hadn’t spilled the deets. Unless they’d had a change of heart- and Max hadn’t seemed inclined towards that -it seemed really unlikely that he’d been hanging with Charles over break.

Probably why he hadn’t replied to Pierre, honestly. God knows Lando wouldn’t want to admit to that kind of mess in writing.

kk will do

ill let u know how he is

or ill just tell him to text u back lol

btw last i heard he nd max were “done” or whtvr. hes prolly just pouting

It’s very much appreciated, thank you Lando!

I’m sorry, “done”?

Ooh, a double-text from Pierre. The man normally typed like he was writing a book, all proper and shit, and almost never fired off two back to back. He was weird like that. 

met up with max nd danny last weekend

max said theyd fought. seemed real mad abt it

btw did u no they had a thing going on? osc said everybody knew

Charles never mentioned. All the more reason to check in. Also, how did you not know? They weren’t subtle.

yea i guess

not u 2!!!! 

Lando took a moment to fix the flat spot his headphones had left in his hair, then grabbed his keys. He’d been outvoted for dinner plans; apparently Lewis had been meaning to try option two George had sent (some Persian place) and nine times out of ten Valtteri just chose whatever Lewis chose because “he’s got good taste.”

Pfft. Lando had great taste. He’d get the Finnish driver on his side one of these days, and then his picks for dinner would win way more often. 

*

Dinner was good. Good enough that it likely set Lando’s efforts to convert Valtteri back another mile. Catching up with the others was always nice; Alex had gotten another cat, George had apparently been stuck in media duty hell for the last four days, and Valtteri had gone to New Zealand for an extended trip featuring a lot of skiing. 

Pierre’s request completely fell out of his mind until they were wrapping up and Lando remembered he couldn’t go straight back home. “Wait,” he blurted. “I totally forgot- have you guys heard from Charles all break? Apparently he’s ignoring Pierre or something and he asked me to check in on him.”

Lewis frowned. “No, I actually messaged him last week to see if he wanted to do brunch- a new café opened up in Nice, and I thought he might like to go. He never responded.”

Valtteri just shrugged. George and Alex were arguing over whether or not Alex could name his new cat George Jr. (for some reason George was strongly against it) and therefore had zero contribution, but presumably they weren’t lining up outside Charles’s apartment for playdates so Lando doubted there was much to be learned from them, either.

Unless Charles had been put on house arrest by the FIA, in which case reaching out to George might be helpful. 

Although… Carlos was also a director for the GPDA and Charles was probably more likely to text his teammate for help than bloody George Russell.

“Well, I’m gonna swing by his place,” Lando said. “You’re more than welcome to join. Pierre said he’s probably been shy on company.”

Lewis’s frown deepened. “Yeah, of course. More the merrier and all that. Mind if I catch a ride? I walked.”

The group split up after that, each going back to their respective homes. The drive to Charles’s apartment was made in a companionable silence, but as they pulled up Lewis calmly said, “So, no one’s heard from him all break? And now Pierre is sending you in to make a house call?”

Lando gave a half-shrug as he deftly parked his beloved Jolly. “Pretty much. Pierre didn’t give much detail, to be honest. I think he’s just being a little overprotective.”

Lewis slipped out of his seat- it was unfair for any human to be that graceful, really -and asked, “Did something happen that would give Pierre reason to be concerned?”

“Nah,” Lando replied casually heading towards the stairs up to the apartment. Lewis dutifully followed; Lando absently wondered if he’d ever been here before. Then, a moment later he remembered, “I mean, he had a fight with Max or something. Max was bitching about it last weekend. But I don’t like, actually know what happened.”

“A fight,” Lewis mused. “Hopefully nothing too serious.”

Lando knocked on the door. It was barely nine, Charles was probably still awake. Sensing a potential opportunity for information, he casually asked, “Did you know they were fucking?” 

Lewis raised an eyebrow, failing to hide a tiny smile. “Did you… not?” 

Lando’s jaw dropped. “You knew too?” 

The tiny smile grew bigger. “It was more than knowing. I walked in on them in the bathroom once. Don’t tell Charles though, neither of them noticed. Wouldn’t want to embarrass them.”

 Lewis bloody Hamilton knew more about Lando’s friends’ sex lives than he did. This was terrible news for someone who lived for gossip. “Is that how everyone found out?” he demanded. “I only don’t know because I wasn’t subjected to witnessing it first hand? Unbelievable.”

He was full-on grinning now. “Not my fault, mate. I’m a little surprised you didn’t, to be honest. The only ones worse about keeping things secret are– well, actually, it’d be rude to tell.”

Lando scowled at the door and knocked again, this time with much more force. “Traitor. I have a right to know. Who is it, Alex and- I dunno, Logan?”

“Wouldn’t be right to share now if it was, I think.” Lewis’s smile faded a little. “But Charles and Max, they’re done now, you said? That’s strange.”

Lando shifted from foot to foot. Where was Charles? He was usually quick to answer the door. “Don’t see why. It was just a friends-with benefits type thing apparently. They probably just decided it had run its course or whatever.”

There was a faraway look in Lewis’s eyes. “I find it hard to believe it was that cut and dried.” 

Lando got the feeling there was some sort of story there, but decided against prying. Lewis didn’t seem in the mood to elaborate on anything, and he was already sort-of doing him a favor by joining him on this weird house call. Instead he just said, “Max seemed pretty sure it was over.”

They waited for another minute- Lewis with that same strange expression, like he was remembering something difficult -before he figured they could probably bail. “I don’t think he’s home.”

Lewis snapped back to attention. “What, so you want to leave?” 

“Don’t see why not.”

He rubbed a hand across his mouth, clearly thinking, before saying, “Let me just…” Lewis reached for the door handle and turned it. 

It opened with a click, revealing a dark entryway. “He leaves his door unlocked when he’s not home?” Lando asked in surprise. “Dude is begging to get his shit stolen.”

“No,” said Lewis grimly. “I don’t think he does.”

He swiftly pushed past Lando and plunged into the apartment. Despite none of the lights being on, he navigated it flawlessly- that answered Lando’s earlier speculation about being here before. Even in the darkness, though, Lando could make out a mess as he followed behind Lewis: there were stacks of Tupperware next to the trashcan in the kitchen, luggage open in the living room with clothes thrown half out of it, and a veritable nest of blankets heaped around the couch. The TV was on but muted, a Disney movie lighting up the room with shifting colors.

Lewis marched right past it all and through an open door at the farthest end of the apartment- Charles’s bedroom. This was dark too, but this time Lewis flipped on the lights to reveal Charles, curled up in bed.

Lando reflexively said, “Charles, mate- what the fuck,” then belatedly realized that was probably a pretty bad opener.

He looked like shit, though. He slowly sat up from his bed, mouth open in shock. He was pale, especially considering most of the drivers developed a healthy tan by this point in break. He had deep bruises under each of his eyes, and his jawline was somehow sharper than before, visible behind his scruffy facial hair.

“Wha– how did you get in here?” Charles rasped. Lando winced at the sound.

“Your front door was unlocked.” Lewis’s voice was soft, like he was talking to a frightened animal. “Did you know that?”

He blinked blearily. He looked strangely small, sitting on his oversized bed. “My mother visited. I must have… forgotten to lock the door behind her.”

Concerned, Lando asked, “Have you been sick? You look like shit, mate.”

Charles just squinted at him, like he wasn’t sure if Lando was actually standing in his bedroom. 

Lewis sighed. “Alright. Let’s get you up, c’mon.” He moved over to the side of the bed, and started tugging Charles to his feet.

“But, what are you doing here?” Charles asked, this time with a little more emotion. 

Lewis started herding him into the connected bathroom as Lando tried to feign cheerfulness. “House call, mate! Pierre said you were being a bit of a hermit, so I offered to pop by. Lewis thought the idea was mint, so he’s here too.”

“Shower.” Lewis sternly said. “You stink. Do you need help?”

Standing under the white light in the bathroom, Charles looked even more washed out. He folded his arms and said, “I know how to shower, thank you. As you can see, I am alive, please leave.”

“Alive is a bit strong, eh?” Lando snickered. “Pierre wants you to text him back, too.”

Charles scowled. “I will as soon as you leave.”

Lewis shook his head. “Afraid you’re rather stuck with us until we’ve seen some improvement here. Shower, and when you’re clean, we’re talking. Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

Lando wasn’t sure he believed him. He looked about two seconds from keeling over, actually- if Lando’s mom had seen him in this kind of state, he’d be bundled up under a blanket and force-fed soup until he exploded. And since Pascale wasn’t here, it seemed like that responsibility was about to fall on him and Lewis instead.

Lewis clearly wasn’t convinced either. “Right,” he said doubtfully. “Well, you shower. We’ll sort out the mess.” Charles opened his mouth to protest, but Lewis just gave him a stern look and he snapped it shut just as quickly.

Immense dad vibes, that one.

Lewis drifted to the kitchen to pull a trash bag out of nowhere, and began sorting through a lot of sad little food containers that were strewn about. He simultaneously bossed Lando into gathering up the clothes sitting around the place and tossing them into the hamper. While he was working on that, Lando noticed a familiar navy cap sitting on the bedside table.

He picked it up, studying the white 1 printed on the brim. “Hey, Lewis,” he called. “Think Ferrari knows Charles has this?” He waved the hat at him to make it clear what he was asking about.

Lewis still had that same concerned expression he’d been wearing since throwing open the door, even as he was wrist deep in a bag of garbage. “Probably not. I’m not sure even Max knows.”

“S’weird, no? Like, I don’t think I’ve got any other team’s merch. Especially not the biggest challenger on the grid.”

He turned back to the mess on the counter. “Finish up with the clothes, please. Once you’re done, I’m putting you on dish duty.”

Lando rolled his eyes and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

It took almost half an hour for Charles to come stumbling out of his bedroom, skin pink from the shower and face freshly shaved. He seemed startled to see that they were still fussing about in his apartment, but he also looked a little more lively than when they’d first found him. Lando considered that a win.

“You did not leave?” He immediately questioned. Then, even more confused- “Lando knows how to do dishes?”

“Better than you do, apparently,” he grumbled. “Seriously, mate- have you run the dishwasher once all break?”

Charles gave a sheepish grin- the first one they’d seen since arriving. “Sorry, I have… been busy.” He cleared his throat, then continued, “Thank you for the visit, but. You do not need to stay any longer. I promise I will text Pierre to let him know I am alive.”

“You may be alive, but you’re in quite a state here.” It was a much more diplomatic way of saying every aspect of your existence looks pretty shit right now than Lando would’ve managed. “Mind sharing what’s going on?”

“Just some… things. I am sorting it.” Charles came into the kitchen and attempted to nudge Lando away from the sink, wielding a towel. Lando planted his feet; he was getting a real groove going here.

“My hands are already wet,” he pointed out. “If you want to help, you can dry. Your rack is full.” Not only that, but he’d actually started stacking things directly onto the counter next to it and the water was beginning to pool on the granite.

Charles eyed him but moved and began drying the bowls. “Why are you doing this?”

Lando glanced at Lewis for an answer, because that was a great question. Why exactly were they doing house chores for a grown man, even if he did look especially pathetic? Lewis gave him a steady- but soft -look. “Charles, Lando said you and Max are… done?”

Charles’s face crumpled inwards. It was equal parts impressive and heartbreaking, how fast he buckled under the question, shoulders hunching in and head dropping. “Max has been spreading that around?” he asked weakly. “I suppose so. If that is what he is saying then, yes. We are- done.”

He sounded desolate. For the first time, it occurred to Lando that they might not have just been friends with benefits.

“Charles, I’m so sorry,” Lewis murmured. 

Charles gave him a baleful look. “I do not need your sympathies,” he said shortly. “It was just an… arrangement-” and whoa, there was a lot of venom packed into that single word “-and it was my fault it ended, so. As I said. I will have myself sorted before Zandvoort.”

Lando’s eyebrows raised. “When do you fly out? ‘Coz McLaren is making us leave tomorrow to do some media stuff.”

“That early?” 

He wasn’t sure why that was so surprising to Charles; he’d seen the amount of Instagram posts Ferrari made on a daily basis, surely he (and Carlos) had to do at least as much PR work as he and Oscar did, if not more. “Yeah mate, they usually like us there a few days before the race after a long stint off.”

Charles’s eyes grew wide as Lewis quietly chimed in. “It’s the nineteenth- Charles, did you not know what day it was?”

There was a long pause, before he seemingly restarted. “Non, I- it cannot be the nineteenth. My mother, she was just here on– it has been four days?”

“I don’t know when your mother visits,” Lando pointed out.

Lewis shot him a look, but Lando figured Charles probably needed the reminder. He seemed kind of spacey right now. 

The doorbell rang, echoing through the apartment. “That must be your dinner,” Lewis said, immediately moving to retrieve it. 

“I am not hungry,” Charles said feebly.

“Don’t bother arguing with him,” Lando advised. “He’s been in a bossy mood since we got here.”

Lewis swiftly returned with a bag and started pulling out a few Styrofoam containers. “I hope you like Vietnamese. Wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for, so I reckoned I’d order a variety.”

Lando sniffed appreciatively at some chicken congee while Charles protested. “I do not think my trainer would appreciate you coming in and sabotaging my diet.”

There was steel in Lewis’s voice as he replied, “You’re sabotaging it well enough yourself. I cleaned your kitchen, Charles- we’re not leaving until you’ve had a proper meal.”

Charles looked properly cowed at that and took a seat at the counter. He silently spooned up pho under Lewis’s watchful eye while Lando filled the empty airspace with friendly chatter and splashing water. The bowl was halfway empty when he put his spoon down and didn’t pick it back up.

“Listen, Charles,” Lewis started. 

Charles held up a hand. “Thank you for the soup. And the- everything. You did not have to. And I appreciate it. But I really would like to sleep now.” He looked exhausted, like eating half a cup of soup took more energy than the entirety of the Singapore grand prix.

Lando pulled the pug from the sink and watched the water swirl down. 

Lewis gave a sad smile. “Alright, then. Make sure you text Pierre back, though- seriously. And everyone else you’re presumably ignoring.”

Charles looked faintly shocked at that. “How did you…”

“I’ve been there.” Lewis had a deeply meaningful look on his face as he said that, and Lando briefly wondered if he’d also had a weird sex-thing going on with one of the other drivers that ended poorly.

Nah. He could maybe wrap his head around Max and Charles- but only because he’d seen both of their poor reactions to the aftermath. Surely a seven-time world champion knew better than to get wrapped up in anything like that.

Charles’s eyebrows pinched together, before he took on an impossibly sad look similar to the one he’d had when Lewis had first mentioned Max’s name. His voice was a little wobbly when he quietly replied, “Please, do not… say that.”

Lewis gently patted him on the shoulder. “If you need anything, man, I’m here for you.” He glanced at Lando, then tacked on, “So is he. You’ve got a lot of people on your side- don’t stew in this alone, okay?”

Charles’s eyes were shiny as he replied, “Yes, of course. This I know.”

There weren’t many words after that. Lando helped Lewis pack up the food as Charles watched quietly from his stool, eyelids drooping. Before leaving, Lewis forced Charles to plug in his phone- which had apparently died shortly after Charles’s mother stopped by to cut his hair -and extracted another promise to text Pierre back. As they were leaving, Lando fired off his own messages to the French driver.

hes alive

sad abt ending things w max ig. lewis fed him soup nd i washed his dishes

now u both owe me 1 lol

hell text u back. his phone died

Chapter Text

~August 25th, 2023: Charles~

Andrea drew Charles into a brief but tight hug immediately upon seeing him for the first time since Belgium. “Charles, you look…” his voice trailed off, before he made an attempt at a recovery. “Well. Maybe not, uh, the most refreshed. But it’s great to see you again!”

Charles gave a sardonic smile. “It is quite alright, Andrea. I have mirrors at home, you know. I know this is not my best appearance.”

It really wasn't, even if he’d put in a tremendous amount of effort into putting himself back together after the surprise visit from Lewis and Lando. He was still visibly exhausted, his smiles didn’t seem to fit quite right, and two thirty-minute sessions of standing on his balcony before getting on the plane to the Netherlands hadn’t done anything to mask the effects of spending virtually the entire break inside.

He’d thrown on sunglasses and an oversized Ferrari sweatshirt, but even that wasn’t enough to hide the lingering remnants of a month with next to no appetite or sleep. It was almost funny, in a way- Charles wasn’t sure he’d ever spent so much time laying down, but he still wasn't rested.

“Well, at least you’re aware about it,” Andrea easily replied. He looked a little relieved that Charles wasn’t going to beat around the bush or try and hide his fatigue. “C’mon, let’s get you on the scales and get started. Don’t think I’ll be going easy on you just because you partied a little too hard over break now, yeah?”

Charles’s smile tightened as he began following Andrea to get weighed. “Of course not.” 

Andrea must’ve heard something in his tone, because he paused and glanced back at Charles as he said, “I’m guessing it… wasn’t that, then. Charles, mate, what’ve you been up to? I could barely get a reply back to my messages, and Joris said you weren’t giving him much to work with either. Were you ill?”

“I felt unwell, but I am doing much better now. I’m fine to race, if that is your worry.”

Clearly, that was the wrong answer. Andrea’s brow furrowed before he turned and kept walking. “Charles, I’m not asking because I don’t think you can race. I’m asking because I care about you.”

That softened him up a little, and Charles’s tone was slightly nicer when he offered, “I had, well. Not a break up. But… I thought I meant more to someone. And they informed me that I did not. It is a little embarrassing to admit I did not take the news politely.”

“It’s Max, isn’t it?” Andrea said flatly.

Charles winced. “Why would it be Max?” he asked, a little flustered. “I mean, I barely–”

“Don’t play stupid,” Andrea sighed. “Charles. You know Joris and I talk. You think I don’t know, just because I’ve not said anything about- No. I’m not even going to say it. Anyway. Nobody else makes you act so irrationally, and a month of moping definitely counts as irrational. So. Spill.”

“I am not telling you about my sex life,” Charles hissed, face hot with embarrassment. “He ended things. That is all you get.”

Andrea gave him a long, indecipherable look. His eyes tracked Charles from head to toe, leaving him feeling horribly exposed, before he simply said, “I see.” Then he picked up the pace.

Charles hurried after him, demanding, “I see? That is all you have to say, that you see?”

Andrea stopped in front of the scale and pointed at it. “Take off the sweatshirt and get on. I’m about to have a lot more.”

Horribly aware of how this was about to go, Charles grimaced. “Are you sure? I mean- it is quite cold in here, non? I think I might–”

“Charles.”

That was his no-nonsense tone, usually reserved for Charles’s third attempt at getting out of something. Never the first. Charles tugged the sweatshirt over his head and dropped it on the floor before stepping onto the scale and looking up at the ceiling.

The silence dragged on. Charles eventually gave up on waiting and stepped off, but Andrea still didn’t say anything. He’d definitely seen the damage. Charles tugged his sweatshirt back on and shoved his hands in the pocket, slouching like a rebellious teen.

Andrea finally spoke. “Well, I guess I can safely assume you weren’t eating your post-breakup feelings.”

Ouch. “I followed my diet plan almost the whole break- and if you are looking for someone to scold, find Hamilton,” Charles said snippily. “He dropped by uninvited and would not leave without persuasion, specifically in the form of dinner.”

That got something more than a bad joke. “As he should, if this was the shape you were in!” Andrea said, appalled. “Charles, you dropped six kilograms in a month, that’s not healthy! Okay, I changed my mind- we’re talking about this.”

Charles cringed at that. He’d know it wasn’t great, but that sounded... worse than he was expecting. He’d been mostly avoiding mirrors, actually, and pretending nothing was wrong. “I was not hungry.”

Appalled, Andrea asked, “What, the whole time?” Charles only gave a shrug in response- what else was there to say? It was basically true. “This doesn’t just happen, Charles. Okay, so you skipped lunch and- what, spent every day working out? Is this because of Max?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and ignored the last question. “I did not skip, Andrea. I tried to eat. But the food was- not good. And of course I worked out, you wrote the plan, you should know what it contains.”

The horrified look took on a tinge of disappointment. “Charles, if you don’t like the plan, fucking- tell me. For the love of God, man, don’t starve yourself over it! Frankly, I’d rather you ignored the plan entirely than… this! And if you aren’t eating, then skip the workout, you should know this by now.”

“I do know that, and the plan is fine,” Charles tried to mollify. “It was- all food. Everything just. There was no appeal. But I needed the routine to hold myself together. It was necessary.” 

Even though it hadn’t worked as well as he wanted. The days had started blurring together, especially once he closed all the blinds in an attempt to sleep better (and never bothered to reopen them). The last two weeks especially were all very repetitive, only broken by his mother’s visit to give him a much-needed haircut. 

It’d been a brief stop, shorter than she would’ve preferred- especially after seeing the state he was in. Thankfully he'd had enough foresight to sweep his uneaten food into the trash and do a brief tidy of the apartment. He’d still had to lie and feign illness to mask his heartbreak to prevent prying questions, and he was pretty sure she’d seen right through him despite it all. At least she’d had enough pity to let him pretend he was physically sick instead of emotionally.

That had pretty much been it for human contact besides Lewis and Lando barging in, by request of Pierre. It had been aggravating, but in hindsight he was very thankful. He’d already had a fruit basket delivered to Pierre’s doorstep in gratitude, and planned to thank the others in-person as soon as he saw them again.

Andrea groaned. “You understand this is a problem, though, right?”

“Yes,” Charles admitted. “And I will fix it, I promise.” 

“We will fix it,” Andrea said emphatically. “That’s why I am here- to keep you in top form. We’ll sort out the meal plan and find you things you can tolerate, okay?”

Charles nodded; he was immensely grateful for how understanding Andrea was. He deserved a fruit basket too, honestly.

*

An hour later, slowly sucking down a protein shake and sweaty from the (admittedly lighter than expected) workout, Charles felt considerably less grateful.

“My hips hurt,” he grumbled. He set the cup down, then immediately picked it back up when Andrea’s eyes briefly flicked up from his tablet. 

“You’ve been keeping up with your stretches, right?” 

Charles rolled his eyes. “Yes.” He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. “It has been happening the last few days, I believe. Specifically after exercise.” It wasn’t anything major- mostly just a vague, uncomfortable sensation that left him very conscious of how he was seated post-workouts. 

Andrea hummed thoughtfully, scribbling away at his screen. “Any other pains? And how do you feel about salmon? We can sub that in more frequently. You could use the B vitamins anyway, if I’m cutting some of the leaves- just for now, though.”

“Salmon is fine. No other pains.” Unless you counted his nipples suddenly being more sensitive to the fabric of his shirts, which he did not. Much like his sex life, that fell under the category of things not discussed with Andrea. He put the cup back down.

Andrea meaningfully looked at the shake. Charles scowled, but acquiesced and lifted it once more. He took another long pull.

“Well, you’re probably just stiff- and lacking in calories needed for recovery,” he decided. “Let me know how you’re feeling after free practice, if it persists we’ll get you a massage and try out some new warm-ups, okay?”

“Ça a l'air bien.”

Charles set the shake down a final time, and this time he didn’t pick it up even as Andrea made increasingly pointed glances between him and the beverage. “Is it empty?”

“Empty enough,” Charles said grouchily. “I am full.”

Unfortunately, Andrea immediately called his bluff and reached over to pick up the container. He was clearly unimpressed as he said, “You’re barely halfway. You can be done when you’re three quarters through. He tapped the stylus against his screen, then said, “I'm also switching you to smaller portions more often, by the way. Hope you can count to five because that's how many mini-meals you're getting a day.”

There was a lead weight in his stomach as he glowered his way through a few more mouthfuls, begrudgingly agreeing to a new schedule and answering Andrea’s questions. It felt a little pointless- it wasn’t like he hadn’t enjoyed his previous diet-friendly meals, and changing them wasn’t liable to magically fix whatever had broken inside when that hotel room door had closed back in Spa. But he had to do something different. It had been made very clear his current setup was unsustainable. 

He’d successfully made it to the three-fourths mark on the bottle by the time Andrea wrapped up. He had a sneaking suspicion that he had been dragging their meeting out just to make sure that Charles actually drank as much as Andrea told him to, not that he could blame him. 

He felt a little ill, but. He’d keep it down. 

“Alright. Get out of here, you’ve got an hour ‘til FP1.” Charles hopped up, rejuvenated at the thought of getting back inside the car. “And if I find out you’ve skipped one more meal, you’re not going to like what I do to you when winter break ends.”

Charles eagerly nodded. “Of course. Thank you for all your help- I do not know what I would do without you.”

“Starve, apparently.” Andrea was grumbling, but it was good-natured enough that Charles could tell it’d be alright. “That's what you pay me for. Go get changed, I’ve got to tell your engineers to adjust the ballast because you’re a fool.”

He was out the door so fast he forgot the shaker cup behind entirely. As soon as he was in his driver’s room, he stripped and started tugging on his fireproofs. Skintight had always been the name of the game under the race suit, but as he got dressed it made Charles a little uncomfortable. 

Once he was wrapped up in Nomex, he studied himself properly in the mirror for the first time in weeks. The longer he looked, the worse he felt- suddenly, the cuffs seemed a little loose around his wrists, hipbones a touch more prominent under the pants. He was probably imagining it, especially after an extended session aggressively focused on his weight, but... it didn’t make him feel very good.

Charles pushed it to the back of his mind. There was no point fretting over it; Andrea had been adamant that it was fixable. They’d sort it out.

It was a little harder to ignore the sudden sensitivity in his chest, especially with how he could feel the scratchy drag of the material every time he shifted his arms. He didn’t have much choice, though- there wasn’t anything to be done about it. He’d suffered through worse just for a chance to get behind the wheel.

He plastered on his best PR-approved smile and went to face the team.

~August 25th: Max~

“How’s the hand?”

Daniel’s grin was particularly lopsided as he responded, “Shit.”

Max gave him an affectionate clap on the shoulder- his right side, he wasn’t cruel -and said, “Well, that’s shit, then.”

He got a barking laugh in return. Even with a broken metacarpal, Daniel seemed in relatively good spirits. He was certainly bearing it with more grace than Max would’ve. The rain had picked up again, and they watched it from the safety of the garage, letting the bustle of the Red Bull team fill the silence.

Daniel probably should’ve been over at the AlphaTauri garage helping Liam review for his first ever F1 free practice debut, but he’d insisted he wouldn’t be missed. Max wasn’t about to read too much into it and turn down the company. Maybe he could even repay Daniel a little bit for pulling him out of his post-Charles blues.

As they sat there, a man dressed in the signature Mercedes colors ran by in the rain, hauling an oversized fruit basket. He was being chased by another employee holding a broken umbrella; both of them were soaked through. 

“All that money and they can’t afford a poncho, eh?” Daniel mused. “Poor blokes. Guess it ain’t cheap keeping Hamilton and Russell on.”

Max shrugged. “It’s just rain.”

“Just rain. We’re not all Dutch, you know. Us Aussies were made for the sun, not this…” he waved his intact hand and leaned back the chair, stretching his legs. “Wetness.”

Max leaned over to nudge him a little and smirked. “Made for a different wetness, yeah?”

That got a chuckle from his injured companion. “And don’t you forget it. You young drivers think you’ve got game- none of you have anything on the Riccardo style.”

“Is the Riccardo style going to be enough to compensate for your handicap there?” Max jokingly asked, tipping his head towards the sling.

“If you're good enough with your mouth, a broken hand ain't a handicap.” Daniel finished off his statement with a wink.

It triggered a memory in Max’s mind: Charles, screwing up half his face in a horrible approximation of what was supposed to be a wink. The thought made him feel a little hollow, and he turned back towards the rain instead of replying. After a minute or two of watching in silence, Daniel softly placed his non-broken hand on Max’s shoulder.

His tone was light when he started speaking. “I know you said you’re fine, but–”

“I am.” Max roughly shook him off. “I did well in practice, and with the forecast–”

“Max. Buddy. It’s not your racing I’m worried about.”

Mulishly, Max asked, “What else is there?”

There was no trace of annoyance in Daniel’s voice as he responded, “Oh, I dunno. Maybe you?”

Max turned to him, expression blank. “My racing is me. I am a driver, Daniel,” Max pointed out.

Daniel’s signature grin was slightly tight around the edges as he waved his sling a little. “And where does that leave me, eh?”

“That is different,” Max protested. “It is…” his voice trailed off as he struggled to find the words. Just because Daniel was temporarily down for the count didn’t mean he wasn’t still a driver. He’d be back soon enough. And he wasn’t like Max; Daniel had so much else going on besides driving. He was friends with everyone, funny, interesting, the life of the party. He lit up a room just by entering.

Outside of the car, Max was nothing. His dad had made that clear enough growing up, and the media had only reinforced the notion. Max’s value was easy to sum up in numbers, tallied with trophies and rinsed with a spray of champagne.

Eventually, Max settled on, “You are more than a driver. You are my friend.”

“And you’re mine too, yeah?” Daniel said. “Which is why I’m asking if you’re alright. You’ve been putting on a brave face, but I know my Max. You’ve been off ever since ending things with Charles, even if you don’t want to admit it. It's like you're turning back into that machine I met in 2016.”

For a brief moment, Max considered speaking the words out loud.  He’d never said them before- not when anyone was awake, at least -but if there was anyone who’d at least be kind about it, it would be Daniel. He probably wouldn’t make too much fun of Max for having feelings, and Max was confident he wouldn’t berate him for risking a distraction like his dad would.

He thought of Charles, asleep under the morning sun, perfect in every way.

He thought of his destroyed expression as Max left him alone in that hotel room.

The words caught in Max’s throat, and tears pricked at his eyes. He squeezed them shut in an attempt to force them away, and buried his face in his hands, propped up on his knees.

There was a brief scraping sound, and suddenly there was another chair shoved against Max’s. Daniel wrapped his free arm around Max’s shoulders silently, and they sat there in silence, letting the rain fall in front of them.

Later, back in his hotel room, Max opened up his message history with Charles. He spent a while reading through the history, trying to recapture the feelings that always ignited in his chest whenever he’d receive a notification from the Monegasque man. 

You have blocked this number taunted him the entire time, positioned neatly above his keyboard in a thin gray banner. His finger hovered.

He hit unblock.

Immediately, new messages came through. Max panicked, and shoved his phone under his pillow without reading any of them.

Seconds later, he pulled it back out, unable to stand not knowing. They were more of the same as before- apologies, begging to speak to him, promises that they could pretend it never happened.

Too bad, Max thought. Even if Charles somehow could, he’d never forget. 

Max stared for a long time, wondering when they’d been sent. Had they all been that first week of break? Or had he kept trying, day after day? Maybe some were from the quiet hours of the morning; maybe Charles had felt just as cold and alone in his bed as Max had felt in his.

For a very, very brief moment, Max considered typing out his hotel and room number, the way he had countless times before. He felt certain that if he did, Charles would come to him like always. Maybe not tonight, or tomorrow, and probably not until after the race on Sunday- but he knew that it’d be inevitable.

It would be so easy.

Max locked his phone, set it face down on the table, and decided to review the data from practice today instead. 

~August 27th: Lando~

Lando always enjoyed a good party.

Some would argue that P7 wasn’t a result that deserved a celebration. Lando would point out that you can drink to forget just as easily as you could to remember, and there was no better place for booze than the inside of a club. Besides, he still finished in the points today. That seemed like reason enough to go out for a night.

Carlos had driven him, but Lando had lost him to the crowd shortly after arriving. At one point he’d seen him shooting his shot with a hot blonde at the bar, so he was probably fine. And Lando didn’t even care that he’d been ditched, because he had much better company anyway. 

Oscar had seen him sitting and politely requested to sit next to him, and now he was across the high-top within perfect viewing range. The multicolored lights danced across his face, casting bizarre highlights and shadows that gave Lando flashing glimpses of each individual feature.

He was so distracted by the cherry-red lighting dancing across Oscar’s lips that he completely missed that there were words coming out of them.

They quirked into a small smile, and Lando realized he’d probably missed something. “What?” he half-yelled.

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

Lando’s tan skin did well enough at hiding a blush in lighting this choppy, but there was no disguising his embarrassed reaction to being called out. He hiked up his shoulders and tipped his chin down, then weakly said, “It’s loud in here!” 

The lights made Oscar’s eyes sparkle as he leaned forward- closer to Lando -and propped his head on a fist. “I was saying you did a nice job out there today- you look like you’re getting more comfortable on a wet track.”

Lando preened under the praise. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before, but coming from Oscar made it infinitely more flattering. “Thanks, I’ve been spending a lot of time in the sim.”

The mirth in Oscar’s voice was evident as he said, “I know, we work in the same building. I see you pretty much every time I’m there.”

Right. Lando probably should’ve realized that, especially considering the original reason he’d started penciling in more factory time was to get more chances to speak with Oscar. It hadn’t really worked, since he had to do his job when he was there, but if it got him compliments from the Australian then Landon was going to count it as a win.

Flustered, Lando said, “Right, right.” To try and recover, he went to take a long sip of his drink- some blue fruity thing he’d picked at random.

Just as he tipped the glass to his lips, someone smacked him on the back. Lando jerked in surprise, and was rewarded with the remarkably unpleasant experience of being mildly waterboarded with liquor as the majority of his drink immediately spilled onto his face and down his front.

Lando wheezed, desperately trying to clear his airway as he spun to see who dared make him look like an idiot in front of Oscar. He did well enough on his own- the last thing he needed was help.

Carlos was standing there, face surprisingly solemn for someone who’d scored P5. “What?” Lando asked, more than a little peeved. 

“We are leaving.”

“We? Mate, leave if you want to, I’m busy here!”

Carlos shook his head. “I am your ride and I am leaving, therefore we are leaving.”

Lando groaned. “I’ll take an Uber, then. Or hitch a ride- I’ll sort it out. It’s not my first time on the town!”

Carlos stared even more insistently. “I think we should stick together. Will you come with if I say you may bring Oscar?”

Oscar gave a tiny wave from across the table, and Lando blew out an exasperated breath. Of all the nights for Carlos to want to leave early- why this one? “Bring him where?”

“Back to the hotel. We are meeting with Charles and Pierre, to play FIFA.”

Lando’s brain temporarily short-circuited at the concept of bringing Oscar back to his hotel room. He shook his head to try and clear that thought, then waspishly asked, “FIFA? You’re telling me Pierre scored a podium today and he’s celebrating with FIFA?”

“And wine,” Carlos added. “There will be wine and also very small cheese and crackers. Salami. The tiny foods.”

“You should go.”

Lando whipped his head towards Oscar. He hoped he didn’t look as sad as he felt, hearing Oscar basically tell him to get outta here. “Not that I’m not enjoying this,” Oscar continued, “But it’s clearly important to Carlos that you join them. And I’m about done here anyway- I only stuck around so long to hang with you.

Lando’s heart swelled three sizes. Oscar stayed for him? He gave a dopey grin and said, “So, you’re joining us?”

“Nah.” And just like that, Lando deflated. “I doubt Charles will want to see me after that front wing damage, ya know? Especially since he DNF’d today. And honestly, I’m ready to call it. But I had a good time tonight.” And he smiled that wide grin, where all his teeth showed and a little dimple appeared on his right side. It was hard to stay upset in the face of that.

Oscar held up a fist and Lando awkwardly tried to handshake it before realizing he was trying to fist bump, and ended up patting the top of Oscar’s closed hand. 

Like pretty much every other interaction with him outside of McLaren-related duties, this was rapidly flying into the top ten most embarrassing moments of Lando’s life. But Oscar’s eyes only got squintier as his smile stretched wider, so he at least didn’t seem to care too much about Lando making a fool of himself.

Next time. He’ll do better next time, when he’s not covered in his own spilled drink and still patting Oscar’s hand, oh my god.

Lando yanked his hand back and anxiously wiped it on his pants. He watched as Oscar slid off his stool and vanished towards the door. 

“You are very skilled,” said Carlos earnestly. “I have never seen someone humiliate themselves so fast, in so many ways.”

“Oh- what do you know?” Lando grumbled. “You started that whole thing, I was doing just fine before you came in and decided to knock me around.”

Carlos gave him a disarming grin. “You are not smooth, unlike the operator.” 

Lando could feel the corners of his lips twitch up at Carlos’s lame joke. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here.”

As Carlos deftly weaved them through the horde of people dancing, Lando noticed Max. After his breathless first place finish- nobody put on a wet race masterclass like Verstappen -it wasn’t surprising to see a crowd around him. He got a brief glimpse of a woman with a dark pixie cut pressing her mouth against his before they vanished. Ah, the life of a race winner- Lando was ready for that to be him.

Preferably with Oscar, though. Not some rando. 

Carlos drove them back to Alpine’s hotel, which turned out to be the same as Ferrari’s. He made a brief detour to his own room, where he threw a clean shirt at Lando’s head and made him change once he’d washed the stickiness off his face, then led him down the hall.

“Ferrari used to book us next to each other,” Carlos said offhandedly, “But I filed too many noise complaints and now they do not do that.” 

Lando staunchly ignored the implication and instead joked, “Damn, Charles must snore louder than I thought.”

A mischievous gleam crossed Carlos’s eyes as he responded, “Max is worse.” Then, he knocked on the door, preventing any response.

 There was a faint scuffling from inside, then the door swung open to reveal Pierre. “Come in!” he said happily. “You have excellent timing, we’re about to start a new game.”

They followed Pierre in. Alpine was apparently more willing to shell out for hotel rooms than McLaren, because he’d been put up with a tiny kitchenette. Charles was standing at the counter, fiddling with a bottle of wine, and there was a cart from room service decked out with tiny finger foods next to the bed. Lando’s lingering disappointment at being pulled away from Oscar disappeared in the face of a chance to fit as many tiny cheeses in his mouth as possible.

Charles waved, a tired smile on his face. If there’d been any improvement in his mental state since their impromptu summer break visit, it had almost certainly been reset by his retirement from the race today. Lando felt a little bad for the guy. Carlos started helping Pierre dig out two more controllers to hook up to his console; Lando decided to descend on the spread. He was still a little buzzed from the party, and that always put him in the mood for a snack.

There was a popping sound from the bottle, then a disappointed call. “The wine- it is spoiled!”

Pierre twisted his body to peer towards Charles. “There’s no way,” he declared. “Room service sent that up fifteen minutes ago, they wouldn’t send something expired.”

Charles delicately sniffed the opening of the bottle and screwed up his face. “Well, it does not smell consumable. I do not think we should risk it.”

“Fine,” Pierre sighed. “There’s another bottle under the cart- set that one aside, I’ll call later to let the staff know. Lando, can you pass it to Charles?”

Lando pulled the bottle of white out from an ice bucket underneath the food tray. He set it on the counter next to Charles, then picked up the red he’d abandoned.

“Careful, it’s not pleasant,” Charles warned, going to town on the new bottle.

Lando carefully smelled the open wine, but there didn’t seem to be anything off about it. He swirled the bottle a little, then took a quick drink.

Scandalized, Charles said, “Lando! I just told you, it’s no good!”

Lando wiped the back of his mouth with his hand and shrugged. “Maybe it’s not good enough for the French, but it’s just fine for this Brit.”

That sent Charles off on a rant about the differences between Monaco and France, much to Pierre’s delight. Carlos came over and took his own experimental swig. “Tastes fine to me. Maybe you are just too picky, cabron.”

Charles scowled and pulled the cork from the second bottle and sniffed. “This one is also bad,” he declared. “The hotel must have something wrong with its collection, or perhaps storage.” 

Pierre ignored him and set four glasses down on the counter. Lando had no idea where he’d pulled them from- maybe summoning wine glasses was just something French people could do. Carlos poured a healthy serving into one of them, then offered it to Charles.

He wrinkled his nose, but took a dainty sip. Almost instantly, he grimaced and passed the glass back. “Non. I do not know how you can tolerate that, c'est terrible. You have put me off for the night.”

Pierre picked it up and took a much more reasonable sample. His eyebrows raised. “Seems fine to me.”

“Uncultured. All of you,” Charles grumbled. “When you are sick tomorrow, do not complain to me.”

Lando wondered if the DNF was lingering in Charles’s throat, leaving a bitter taste behind. That happened to him sometimes.

They played a few rounds (honestly, pretty badly) before calling it and just talking. Instead of discussing the race, they focused on other things- training, meal plans, media duties and other painful time-wasters. By the time both bottles were gone (with no help from Charles), Lando was feeling loose and ready to move onto more important topics.

His head lolled onto Carlos’s shoulder. “Oscar hung out with me at the club,” he said, pleased with the situation.

“I was there,” Carlos said matter-of-factly. “He seemed very amused.”

Charles perked up from where he’d been half-asleep. “You two were together at the club? Did you tell him how you felt?”

Pierre snorted into his glass, refilled with water. “Five grand on no.”

Lando barely heard Charles mumbling not taking that as he said, “No, but- we had a very nice time. It was…” he trailed off, trying to think of a strong enough word. He settled on lamely repeating, “Nice.”

Charles stifled a laugh. “It sounds very nice.” 

“It was!” Lando exclaimed. 

“And yet,” Pierre said, “It wasn’t nice enough for you to stick around?”

Carlos shifted, looking away as Lando shot him an unimpressed look. “My ride insisted we leave together. And–”

“You have eaten half of the cheese from the plate," Carlos cut in. "And you are having fun with your friends. I think you should not be distressed.”

“Aw, there’s no shame in Landito hoping to spend the evening with someone else,” Charles said. For a brief moment, Lando felt vindicated- then Charles continued. “He just wanted to go back with Oscar and–” he stopped, and began making obscene gestures. Lando felt the heat rise in his face as he frantically tried to stop him. 

Pierre and Carlos both laughed, the traitors. Lando desperately tried to redirect their attention in an attempt to shut them up. “Better than Max,” he blurted. “He was practically eating the face off of some girl in the middle of the club, he didn’t even wait until getting back to his hotel.”

His plan worked, and the laughter abruptly stopped. 

The silence that followed was almost worse, though.

Carlos was staring, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Pierre had a tight grimace painted on, and Charles was biting his lip, eyes squeezed shut. To everyone’s surprise, he was eventually the first to speak. “I am- glad, that. Max is- doing well.” His words were stilted as he forced them out.

“Well, I’m not,” Pierre suddenly snapped. “He’s been a dick to you, Cha, and I wish he was doing worse. He should not be out there, getting- frisky, with random women while you’re–”

“Pierre,” Carlos said quietly. He reached a hand out to rest it on Charles’s knee. “ Perhaps we can be angry and yelling about Max later?” He cast a meaningful glance towards Lando.

He had no clue why. Sure, Max was his friend, but so was Charles. He wasn’t about to go blabbing about any of this, especially after figuring that they were maybe more-than-friends-with-benefits. He hadn’t even mentioned that bit to Oscar. His teammate.

Pierre huffed. “I will be as angry as I want. But the yelling can be saved for later, I suppose.”

Charles gave a feeble smile. “Thanks, Carlos.” Then, he grabbed Pierre’s hand and squeezed. “Both of you, thank you. I really appreciate you being here tonight.”

Lando feigned a cough.

Charles’s smile thinned a little. “Thank you as well Lando. For the, ah, update. Although I feel as though I could have done without that.”

Abashed, Lando mumbled, “Sorry, man. Didn’t think about it.” He probably should’ve, honestly- he silently resolved to try and be a little more sensitive about mentioning Max around Charles. 

Carlos bumped a fist into his shoulder. “No harm done, cabron.”

Charles yawned. Pierre jumped up. “Alright, that’s it. I’m calling it a night- Charles has been falling asleep for the last half hour, and I’m about ready for bed myself.”

The others- Lando included -stood up, stretching stiff muscles. He made a mental note to see if he could squeeze in a massage tomorrow; coming back after break had used his muscles in ways a gym workout just couldn’t compare to. They shuffled to the door as they said their goodbyes, Charles giving all three of them lingering hugs.

Pierre’s embrace seemed extra tight, and Lando caught a brief frown on his face as he rubbed his hand up and down Charles’s back. 

To his surprise, Pierre left with them and Charles stayed behind. “I thought that was your room," Lando commented. 

Pierre shook his head. “No, Alpine is in a different hotel entirely. I came by to spend time with Charles- I must say, I was pleasantly surprised when Carlos texted to say you were willing to join us.” He clapped a hand to Lando’s arm and gave a half-smile. “You are a good friend.”

Then he nodded once, and was off.

Carlos and Lando exchanged a look and silently agreed that neither Pierre nor Charles needed to know exactly how Lando ended up spending the evening with them. That was probably better for everyone.

*

By the time Lando woke the next day, there was a text sent to all three of them- Lando, Pierre, and Carlos -from Charles.

I hope you are all feeling worse than I am. One mouthful was enough to make me ill!!!

Lando just rolled his eyes and ignored Charles’s dramatics. He was probably fine.

Chapter Text

~September 2nd, 2023: Charles~

There was nothing quite like racing in Italy as a Ferrari driver.

Charles loved every piece of it. It was the embrace of Ferrari’s motherland welcoming them home, screams of the tifosi ringing for hours on end, plumes of scarlet smoke drifting into the sky, banners the size of gardens sprawled out amongst the crowds.

It was intoxicating.

Being in Monza while wrapped in rosso corsa was the culmination of everything Charles had spent years chasing. The only way to make it better would be to stand on the top step of the podium while doing it.

It was also one of the busiest weeks of the year for him (and Carlos). They’d been required to fly in the Monday morning immediately following Zandoorvort, and it seemed like he'd spent every waking moment since getting here in one of two ways: contractually mandated PR obligations, or hunched over trying not to be sick.

Sometimes both at once.

That damn wine; it had absolutely wrecked something in him. Charles had woken up nauseous the morning after, and since then it just kept coming back, seemingly at random. On Wednesday, he’d been forced to flee from an interview with an Italian journalist to throw up the meal Andrea had pressed on him an hour before. 

He'd gotten a dressing down from PR after that, all very disrespectful and you know better. They hadn't known why he'd left, and since he was determined not to let on how sick he was (who knew if they'd let him drive?) he wasn't able to give a good explanation for why he'd bailed in the middle of a conversation about the constructor's standings.

The revised meal plan was surprisingly helpful, if not in the way Andrea had intended. His overhaul towards smaller, more frequent meals meant Charles was getting more chances to recuperate the lost calories without raising suspicions by asking for extras. And the reduced portions meant there was less coming back up. 

Small wins.

Charles propped an elbow on the table, pressing his cold smoothie against his temple. He needed to focus on what the team was saying. Qualifying started in less than two hours, and he’d been fourth in FP3, an entire 0.574s behind Carlos. That wouldn’t have even been a podium position, and Charles had never been willing to settle for just a podium.

He needed to take pole like he needed air.

He needed to win. 

And maybe he even could, assuming he could get his head in the game. He was having a harder time than usual staying focused on the engineers, distracted by the roiling feeling in his stomach. He used his free hand to scratch notes and absently weighed the pros and cons of telling Andrea after all. 

Pro: he might have suggestions on how to help.

Con: he might deem Charles “not fit to drive” and have him pulled from the car this weekend. In Monza. If Vasseur didn't kill him for stopping il predestinato from driving in the holy land, the tifosi might. 

Con times two: He might not even be helpful. Charles wasn't too inclined to risk his race on just a chance to feel better.

And even without that, Andrea was already stressed enough dealing with the fallout from Charles’s temporary break with reality over the summer- even his current drink had been handed over with a worried look after he’d gotten out of the car post-practice. Charles didn't want to pile on even more reasons for concern.

He'd tell Joris, but that was the same as telling Andrea. Anyone in Ferrari would be at risk for talking to his trainer, actually, so it was probably for the best if he just... pretended it wasn't happening.

His stomach churned, impolitely informing him that he could pretend all he wanted- but it didn't change reality. 

Under the table, Carlos kicked him. Charles flicked his eyes towards his teammate, who gave him a concerned look. Had his discomfort been that obvious? 

Charles offered a weak smile in return and fixed his sight on the engineer aggressively gesturing towards the screen. He could still feel Carlos’s watchful gaze, and made a concerted effort to keep his expression carefully blank. He pulled his smoothie away from his head and took a slow sip.

The reward for his efforts? A sudden wave of nausea. He abruptly stood, muttering, “Bathroom,” and took off.

He barely made it in time to lose what minimal drink he’d choked down, knees slamming onto the floor as he heaved. The banana-strawberry blend was far less appealing coming back up. Even once the urge to hurl passed, he stayed kneeling on the cold tile floor for a minute longer.

His mouth tasted awful. He briefly wished he’d thought to bring his drink, but the lingering aftertaste of fruity acid was enough to quell the thought.

Eventually, he remembered he was supposed to be back in debrief. Charles pushed himself up onto wobbly legs, then stumbled to the sink. He rinsed and spat, taking a moment to study his appearance. Pale. A little sweaty. Tired.

It was- remarkably enough -still an improvement from last weekend. He’d been getting some real sleep the past week, falling unconscious immediately each night with no trouble. He’d even seen the sun multiple times despite Ferrari’s best efforts to keep him and Carlos booked up. His cheekbones were still a little more prominent than they should be, but that was probably a given when he was fighting to keep down every other meal.

He made a mental note to look up methods of reducing nausea. Qualifying was going to be hell, but maybe he could get something delivered to his hotel room tonight and be back to one hundred percent by lights out tomorrow. 

Should’ve done it days ago, really. How silly of him not to do it sooner. 

Charles eventually made it back to the meeting, staunchly ignoring the side-eye Carlos kept giving him. He also didn’t bother ingesting any more of the offending beverage; he’d eat something back in his room once the meeting was through. Someone- maybe Andrea? -had helpfully left him a basket of snacks that he’d briefly pawed through this morning. For the time being, though, he contented himself with running his fingers through the condensation as it gathered on the sides of his cup. The discussion had started running in circles while he was gone; at least he didn’t seem to have missed much.

He was even feeling marginally better (if hungry) by the time they were released half an hour later. Charles was quick to escape, but not fast enough to dodge his teammate.

“Charles!” Carlos’s steps were fast behind him. Charles decided it was probably more suspicious to break into a dead sprint just to avoid questioning, so he slowed and allowed Carlos to catch up to him.

He gave a casual smile, determined not to let on that anything was wrong. “Carlos, hello. Some meeting, eh? Tire degradation, fascinating."

Carlos ran a hand through his dark, fluffy hair. “It was a meeting,” he agreed. “But are you feeling alright? You were making faces at your drink, which-” he passed the cup over, and oh, Charles must’ve forgotten it in his haste, “-here you go. And you left very quickly.”

Charles gingerly held the smoothie. “Ah, thank you. I think it upset my stomach- Andrea is trying some new things, and they are not all winners. But I am fine now.”

Carlos tilted his head down slightly. “You are sure?”

“Yes,” Charles replied firmly. They passed a trashcan, and he tossed the mostly-full cup away. He’d find something else before qualifying to soothe the angry hole in his stomach. Carlos’s eyes tracked the discarded drink, then refocused on Charles. 

“You are eating enough, yes? You look thin.”

Charles pursed his lips. He knew how he looked; he had a better idea of his weight than anyone else, besides Andrea. He didn’t need people constantly pointing it out. Not to mention, every time it happened, it reminded him of his embarrassing month of sulking that landed him here in the first place. “I am eating plenty,” he snapped, more irritated than the situation really warranted. “Andrea is enough of a mother-hen, should I be sending you messages when I eat as well? Perhaps make a group chat?”

Carlos shook his head, smiling slightly. “No, I do not need that. But you do not seem recovered from your, ah…” he trailed off, sparing Charles the embarrassment of having his heartbreak spilled to the entire motorhome. 

He hadn't even told Carlos what happened. He was pretty sure Pierre had tattled. 

Still, it was hard to stay upset in the face of such obvious care- even with his emotions frayed after a week of nonstop go go go born from Monza duties. Charles patted him on the arm. “I am doing well, or at least well enough, all things considered.”

It was even sort-of true. His allotted pining time had been dramatically cut down over the last week, through no real effort of his own. It had unhelpfully been replaced by throwing up, and then fretting over how he was going to justify to Andrea that the number on the scale was going the wrong way- despite their best efforts.

Without giving away the bit, obviously. 

Charles stopped; they’d reached his room. “What things are there to consider?” Carlos questioned. “You are doing well, or you are not.”

I am in love with a man who refuses to look at me even from a hundred feet away. I have kept down maybe fifty percent of the meals Andera has assigned me in the last week. All wine has suddenly turned sour, which is not ideal in Italy when there are sponsor dinners at expensive restaurants every night.

Instead of saying any of that, Charles just gave a shrug and absently pulled his shirt away from his chest. “I was fourth in free practice. I will be doing well when I take pole in a few hours- until then, that is what is to consider.”

Carlos tilted his head towards Charles. “And your… feelings? You have spoken with someone, you are not bottling them up?”

“Of course,” Charles lied. Then, sensing that that wasn’t enough to appease the Spaniard, he tacked on, “Lewis.”

Some of the concern cleared from Carlos’s eyes, and Charles immediately felt bad about deceiving him. Quietly, he said, “Good. You cannot heal if you do not acknowledge the pain, cabron.” Then, he firmly dragged Charles into a quick, one-armed hug. “I will see you in the garage, before I take pole.” 

Carlos strode off towards his own room, and Charles let out a sigh. He placed a hand on the handle of his door, but didn’t enter- instead, he dropped his forehead against the wood with a muted thunk. He mentally added talk to Lewis to his to-do list, just in case Carlos double-checked with him; Charles had a hunch that Carlos hadn’t dropped the topic nearly as easily as he was pretending.

Once his brief contemplation was over, he pushed into the room. He was greeted with immediate disappointment: the basket of snacks he'd been looking forward to was gone from the table.

 A polite container of salad was sitting pretty in its place.

Charles could feel the texture of leaves crunching between his teeth without even opening the plastic box. Normally he was fine with it- you didn’t get to be an athlete without reaching some sort of agreement with greens -but the concept suddenly seemed intolerable. He wanted… something. He wasn’t even sure what, just that it wasn’t that.

He ignored it entirely, deciding that he was less likely to be sick during qualifying if there wasn’t anything in him to throw up.

*

“Charles, when I told you to come to me if you needed help, I didn’t mean with lying to your teammate.” 

Lewis’s expression was remarkably flat; Charles really had to commend his effortless ability to convey disappointment. “Please,” he implored. “This is a conversation, non? And look, I will even say his name again: Max. Now we have discussed it, and if Carlos asks then you can say yes. It is not lying.”

Charles ignored the inconvenient truth that just saying Max’s name was enough to cause a pang in his chest. 

Lewis raised a single eyebrow. “We can just… have the conversation.”

“I do not want to,” Charles said petulantly. “And there is nothing to say, I do not know how to make that any clearer.”

“You looked like you were about to rip his head off after qualifying,” Lewis pointed out. “I think you have plenty of things you want to say- even if not to me, then definitely to him. Actually, have you even talked to him since?”

Obviously he was going to look mad after qualifying. Carlos had taken pole after all, and then Max had had the audacity to qualify in second, leaving Charles to fume in third. “No,” Charles bit out. “Because he will not talk to me. He will not even make eye contact.”

Lewis crossed his arms, entirely unsympathetic. “You're an adult, Charles. You can be the one to start a conversation.”

This really wasn’t going how he’d wanted. Charles had jogged halfway around the track to find Lewis, after George passed on that he was doing a post-quali track walk. It was nine thirty at night, dark, and the impromptu cardio with no warm up had caused the ache in his hips to reappear. He wanted to be indoors, curled up under a blanket and maybe watching a shitty movie, not pleading for Lewis Hamilton to help get his own damn teammate off his back.

He bit his lip. “I tried. I texted him many times, and- look!” Charles fumbled for a moment, yanking his phone out of his pocket and opening up the chat. What did it matter at this point if Lewis saw his embarrassing messages? He shoved the screen at his face. “He has blocked me! He does not want to talk, I will not either.”

Lewis stared at the screen, then said “I don't follow.”

Impatiently, Charles started, “When someone is blocked in messages, it means that–”

“No, I know that,” and was Lewis laughing at him? The injustice of it all, truly. “But just because he's not texting you back doesn't mean you're blocked, Charles. You also haven't texted him in a couple weeks, so maybe it's time to try again.”

“What do you mean, of course I am…” Charles’s voice trailed off and his eyes grew wide as he properly looked at the chat.

All his messages were delivered now. Read, even. When had Max unblocked him?

“I was blocked,” he breathed. “But now I am not.”

Lewis affectionately ruffled his hair, and Charles immediately snapped out of the sudden trance he’d entered upon realizing he could once again message Max. He began trying to swat Lewis's hand away while he snickered. 

Once he was temporarily through with being a menace, Lewis kindly said, “Maybe he's ready to talk to you now.”

“Or, maybe he realized he shouldn't block people when he needs to see their work texts,” Charles said skeptically. “Perhaps George yelled at him for not answering me in the GPDA group.”

“Max doesn't answer anyone in the GPDA group. I'm not even sure he knows he's in it.” Then, thoughtfully, “Also, George yells at him weekly. I don't think Max actually hears anything he says at this point.”

Lewis might have a point there. Maybe two. Charles elected to ignore that in favor of focusing on the hollow ache that was settling behind his ribs, because- Max had unblocked him. He's seen all of Charles's begging, pleading messages, including a multitude in French that (in hindsight) Charles wasn't even sure Max understood. 

Max hadn't replied. 

“I do not think he wants to talk anymore than I do,” Charles said quietly.

“But you never know unless you try,” Lewis insisted. “C’mon, mate. Aren't you always telling Lando to talk to Oscar? Imagine if- ah, shit, I'm sorry, man.”

Charles was crying now, tears stinging in his eyes. What the hell? He didn't even have the capacity to wonder how Lewis knew about his conversations with Lando- probably more Pierre tattling. “Non, it- it is fine,” he gasped. “It has just been a very long week. I am tired, I think.”

Suddenly, firm arms were wrapping around Charles, and he let himself sink into the hug. It felt good to be held- even if he'd rather it was Max doing it. The tears came harder. 

“S’alright, I didn't mean to push so hard. Let it out, man.”

Eventually, Charles got himself back under control. Lewis gracefully allowed him to pretend like his eyes weren't still red and shiny even after he wiped them with the sleeve of his jacket. “Thank you. It is-” he waved his hand vacantly as he tried to explain. “Every year, Monza. Imola. These weeks are… intense. I will always bleed for Ferrari, but it is taxing, at times.”

And that was true enough, wasn't it? Sure, he'd never felt quite so wrung out before- and he certainly couldn't recall the last time he burst into tears out of absolute nowhere like that -but he was also heartsick and maybe a little actually sick. Was it really a surprise that he'd reached a tipping point?

He must need more sleep, even though he'd been remarkably solid on that for the past seven nights straight. Probably some anti-nausea meds too, even though he felt fine at the moment. Just in case. 

He cleared his throat and continued, voice unsteady. “And it has not helped that-” he couldn't bring himself to say Max's name again, despite his earlier bravado, “-He has been perhaps, unkind. There are a few stresses in my life, at the moment.”

Lewis laughed in disbelief. “Unkind? Charles, I don't know the details,” because you won't tell me went unsaid, “But whatever happened left you in a right state. You still don't seem back to one-hundred percent, and I’m only seeing you from across the paddock. I don’t think just a little unkindness is enough to send someone into a spiral like this.”

Despite how miserable he'd been because of him, Charles felt the urge to defend Max. “He said nothing but the truth. He has always been straightforward, it is my own fault for being surprised that he was just as blunt ending things as he was starting them.”

Lewis's eyes narrowed, and Charles sensed he’d misstepped. “He ended things?” he asked sharply. “That's a little different than what you said before.”

Was it? Charles barely remembered. He didn't respond, instead looking away.

Lewis pressed further. “Charles, you said it was your fault. I thought you meant that you ended it.”

“I did!” Charles exclaimed. “I forced his hand- he was clear, from the start! No feelings, he said, and I agreed! But then I-” and the tears were back, and he was sinking to the ground. 

The track was unyielding beneath him. Charles pressed his head against his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs. Quietly, he whispered, “I thought he felt the same.”

From above, Lewis's voice was strong. “You were honest with how you felt. If Max couldn't handle it and was cruel enough to punish you for speaking your truth- that's not your fault, Charles. It's his.”

There was a moment of pause before he dropped down next to Charles, bumping their knees together. Enough time passed without words that Charles’s tears dwindled to sniffles. Lewis’s voice was muted when he finally broke the silence.

“You know, 2016 was a hard year for me.” His words traveled across the track, swallowed up by the darkness. “I was fighting my own teammate for the championship, but it wasn't like it had been before. It changed our relationship. We never really talked about it- neither of us wanted to give any potential ground to the other. We just kept clashing. On track, off track, any chance we got. It devolved so quickly, one week to the next, and before I knew it… it was over.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said hollowly. “I know you and- Rosberg, were-”

“Charles,” and the grief was so evident, Charles stopped speaking. “He didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to either. So we didn't. We still don’t.” His gaze was fixed on the barrier, but Charles couldn't tear his eyes away from Lewis's mournful face. “He won. He proved himself. I thought- this is it. We can stop fighting.” Lewis let out a bitter laugh. “We did.”

His disappointment was evident, and Charles couldn't help himself. “You… wanted to keep fighting?”

Lewis fixed his eyes on Charles’s face. “Yes. Because once we stopped, we didn't start anything else. We just… gave up.”

Charles wasn't sure how to respond. He fiddled with his shoelace and shifted around, trying to reduce the pinch in his left side. 

Evidently that Lewis was hoping for a little more than that, because he gently knocked a hand against Charles’s shoulder to regain his attention. “What I’m getting at is- keep trying, man. Max is a dick, alright? Couldn't recognize healthy communication if it pushed him off the track. But I bet he's also scared. You say he doesn't want to talk, but I think he needs to even if he doesn't want to. You both do.”

“Maybe,” Charles allowed.  He felt too drained to fight anymore tonight. 

Lewis shoved himself to his feet, then held out a hand. Charles begrudgingly took it and allowed Lewis to tug him upwards. “I mean it,” Lewis said firmly. “I know it sucks. But you can't keep going like this forever- and the only way through is forward.” A slight smile lifted one side of his mouth. “And, if Carlos asks if we've talked about Max- I can tell him yes. No lies needed.”

Charles glared. “You bâtard, you tricked me!” 

Mirth crinkled the corners of Lewis's eyes. “Maybe. I think you were just looking for a way to spill everything without having to actually ask for what you wanted. You should be thankful.”

“I will be grateful when I am back in my hotel room sleeping and not outside in the wind and cold,” Charles grumbled. 

It honestly wasn't even that chilly. Charles was just feeling sensitive. 

~September 3rd, 2023: Lando~

Lando was slowly packing his things, tossing them aimlessly into his bag. Eighth place. It didn’t feel great, knowing that he’d made up a place at the cost of his teammate dropping down to twelfth because of a collision. 

He was pretty sure Oscar had forgotten they were supposed to leave together, and had already split. Lando couldn’t really blame him; he was feeling similar. 

There was an unexpectedly gentle knock at the door. “Come on in,” he called, halfway anticipating Oscar despite already resigning himself to going back alone.

To his surprise, it was Max who poked his head through the door. “Hey.” He was far more subdued than a record-breaking winner should be. Sure, Lando wasn’t feeling the vibe, but there was no reason for Max not to be. 

Lando waved, gesturing for Max to actually enter. “Max, mate, what can I do for ya?”  

Max left the door ajar as he came in and sat awkwardly, perched on the edge of the couch like he was prepared to bolt at a moment’s notice. “Lando, hey. Have you, ah, spoken with Charles recently?”

Lando blinked. Of all the things he expected Max to say, that was probably second to last; the only thing less likely would’ve been good race. “I s’pose,” he offered. “We haven’t hung this week, I think he’s been too busy with being like, a Ferrari driver in Italy. Why?”

It was a little intimidating being faced with Max Verstappen when he was displeased. “He looked tired.”

Lando snorted. “You don’t say? It’s Monza, I think he and Carlos have been dragged from one thing to the next for the past week straight.” Honestly, Max should know that better than Lando by now- he’d been doing this for years, and everybody knew that the red frenzy reached unholy levels in this country.

“It was more than just exhaustion,” Max insisted. “He looked- sick.”

“Well, he-” Lando stopped himself. Charles had never explicitly said that Max couldn’t know about how he’d been depressed for pretty much all of break, but he probably wouldn’t appreciate it. Lando figured he could practice some of that sensitivity he’d promised himself he would try out. Besides, it’d been a couple weeks since then- surely he was getting over that by now. 

“He what?” Max asked urgently.

Lando shrugged and tried to dance around the details. “I mean, he was sick. During break. But he’s been recovering, he’s fine now. Carlos would probably know more, he sees him every day.”

Max’s eyes narrowed; his expression looked mad, but his tone belayed concern. “He was sick? With what?”

Yeah, Charles definitely wouldn’t appreciate the truth here. Instead of saying heartbreak, Lando just shrugged. “I dunno. Some bug. Like I said, he’s fine now.”

“Is he really?” Max said skeptically. “Because when he took off his helmet, he looked-” he stopped himself. Good; Lando didn’t need to hear him wax poetic about Charles’s post-race face. Daniel’s warning about their cooldown room vibes had yet to leave his mind.

“Mate, I dunno what you want from me here. He was sick. He’s better now. Lewis fed him some magic soup or whatever-”

“Hamilton?” There was a reckless glint in Max’s eyes. “Are they close now or something?”

Lando resumed shoving things into his backpack- a water bottle, Oscar’s cards, a fistful of electrolyte packets from his trainer. “I guess. Lewis seemed pretty comfortable in his apartment.” Max’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping. Lando ignored the warning sign, barreling ahead. “And yesterday, after qualifying, I heard from Alex- who heard from George -that Charles was looking for Lewis so I guess–”

“Great,” Max spat. Lando suddenly got the vibe he was in danger, and he wasn’t even entirely sure why. “I am very glad that Charles has found me so easy to replace.”

Oh, he’d accidentally poked the bear. “Mate, I don’t think you’ve been replaced,” Lando said hastily. “If you mean like- I know you had that. Thing. Going on with him, I don’t think-”

“This is, of course, why you should not get involved with other drivers,” Max snarled. He twisted his hands together, knuckles white from the force. “Words of advice: whatever you and Oscar are doing? Do not. Because it is not worth it.”

“Hey,” Lando said tightly. “I don’t reckon I asked, yeah?” He wasn’t about to let the guy who sent Charles into a brief but notable bout of insanity give him relationship advice.

Max glared and folded his arms, leg bouncing erratically. “You don’t need to. This is given from experience, it is a much nicer way to learn than doing it yourself.”

Lando shot a dirty look right back. “I can screw things up on my own, thanks.”

“You’re saying I screwed it up?” Max’s voice was deadly.

Lando zipped his bag with more force than necessary; none of this was helping his mood. “I’m saying you buggered it, yeah.”

Max stood up from the couch, a thunderous expression building on his face. “Don’t bother telling Hamilton and- Leclerc I stopped by. I’ve got a win to celebrate.”

Lando slung his backpack over his shoulders and flatly said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be too busy with Oscar to talk to them.” He ignored the squeezing of Max’s fists as he shoved past him towards the doorway. “Drivers can’t have relationships,” he mocked loudly. “Please. Like I’d want what you had, anyway. Seems like a load of rubbish if this is what it does to the people involved. Hit the lights on your way out, yeah?”

Lando jerked the door fully open, completely intent on leaving Max and his pissy behavior behind. His heart dropped to his feet when he locked eyes with Oscar.

Oscar, who hadn’t left yet. Who must’ve been coming after all, like he’d promised. 

Who’d definitely heard Lando’s cruel parting shot through the door Max hadn’t closed.

Oscar’s eyes were wide; there was a slight tremble in his open mouth. Anyone who claimed Oscar was expressionless clearly didn’t know him- even ten feet down the hall, Lando could see the defeat spread across his face in real time. Lando froze, unsure how to salvage the situation.

He took too long to decide. Oscar turned and vanished.

Lando regained the ability to move despite his horror. He rushed to where Oscar had been standing, but the door he’d gone through must’ve automatically locked behind him. “Oscar!” Lando called, aggressively rattling the handle. “Osc, wait, I need to- you have to listen! Let me explain!” 

He got a response, but it came from the wrong direction. Max had followed him out. “You were right. You can screw things up on your own.”

Lando whirled around. “Fuck you, Verstappen,” he hissed. “If you cost me Oscar-”

“I didn’t cost you shit,” Max retorted. “You’re teammates, you’ll see him in two weeks at most. Get over it.”

Lando’s hands flexed. He had the urge to shove Max up against the wall and get in his face, but he knew he wouldn’t win that fight. “I’ll put you in the wall,” he swore. “Watch your fucking back in Singapore. I’m coming for you.”

“Good luck getting me from the middle of the pack,” Max taunted. 

Lando didn’t have a comeback for that. Instead, he just forced himself to turn around and walk away before he could make the situation impossibly worse.

~September 4th, 2023: Max~

Max blearily woke, head pounding. There was a warm body in the bed next to him, and it took him several long moments to piece together how it had gotten there.

He’d gone straight to a bar after asking Lando about Charles- not the club that Red Bull had booked out to celebrate his and Checo’s podiums, but instead somewhere a little more catered to his mood. He’d gotten a little too wasted, flirted a little too obviously with the first dark haired man he saw, and brought him back to the hotel a little too fast. 

Thank god he’d started keeping NDA’s in his travel bag again. He’d done it in a horrible moment of clarity that he and Charles were done, and he should start acting like it if he ever wanted a chance to believe it.

Even with that, though, he clearly hadn’t been thinking straight. If anyone got a photo of him leaving a gay bar with a man hanging off of him, his PR rep was going to have his head for not giving a warning that shit was about to hit the fan. Maybe he should text Gemma, just in case.

He didn’t.

Instead, he rolled to face the man laying next to him. He looked a little mauled, actually- Max felt kind of bad about that, even though he’d seemed to enjoy it. He had his back to him- just like he had during sex, at Max’s insistence. Max had blurry memories of bright eyes that had drawn him in, but no face. 

One of his hands was sticking out from the covers. He still had all his jewelry on, shiny rings and a series of bracelets stacked on his wrist. 

Max closed his eyes again, succumbing to the dull throb in his head. He couldn’t remember the stranger’s name- but he knew what it wasn't.

*

Post-race lunch with Jos was always an ordeal.

He loved his dad- really. He would forever owe him for doing what he had to do to turn Max into a champion. Sure, it hadn’t always been sunshine and rainbows, but so what? It worked. You didn’t ascend to the pinnacle of motorsport without struggling. 

Twenty drivers on the grid, and every single one of them had their share of baggage. Max just happened to meet with his over a meal once or twice a month.

Jos had a frown on his face already when Max sat down at the table. “You’re late.”

This wasn't going to help his hangover.

Max kept his eyes down. “Sorry. Had to clear up some things before leaving the hotel.” And by things, he meant ‘make sure that paperwork was signed and his guest was long gone’, but Jos didn’t need to know the finer details. He’d never approved of less… traditional inclinations.

In fact, the whole ordeal reminded him of the second reason he’d originally started hooking up with Charles. Max had forgotten how much a hassle it was to deal with strangers and confidentiality agreements, all to keep his sexuality under wraps. It was why he’d primarily stuck with women before Charles; it had been easier.

The first had been a chance to do something with the pent up energy Charles had inspired under his skin as far back as Val D'Argenton when he’d been pushed off the track. At the time, it’d been rage- then as they got older, it had morphed into something else. The intensity had never dwindled, only boiling to the surface every time they battled on track and relaxing to a simmer when they were apart.

Now that they were adults, Max could appreciate that Charles hit pretty much every item that got him going. Max loved sex with men- broad hands, smooth muscles, the redness left behind from the drag of facial hair against sensitive skin. But sex with women was also special, with their long lashes, delicate touches, and waists tiny enough to wrap his hands around.

Charles had all of that in abundance. Didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous, besides. Max had wanted him for years by the time he’d approached him in that Miami club, and he’d been a little worried that the delirious heat he felt had made him see signs where there weren’t any.

Then Charles had grabbed his wrist, looked at him with fiery eyes, and Max knew he felt the same.

Jos’s irritated voice pulled him back to the present. “It’s disrespectful to make people wait.”

Max just nodded, still not looking up. He focused on carefully peeling off the wrapper from a straw left next to his sweating water.

There was a sigh. “What is wrong with you today?” Jos snapped.

“Nothing. Just- tired,” Max said. He placed the straw in the glass. Watched it bob.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Jos commanded. Max dragged his eyes up to his dad’s hard face. “If you’re so tired, you should spend less time at night whoring yourself out and more time actually sleeping. You think you’re being sly with that shirt?”

He’d forgotten that it wasn’t just what’s-his-name that had been marked up last night. Max’s hand twitched, but he refused to reach up and cover the hickey at the edge of his collar. Jos had already seen it, and would only interpret the move as further weakness. “I won,” he pointed out. “I’m allowed to celebrate how I see fit.”

 I won today, doesn’t that get a reward?

You win every race. 

Then I, of course, should get a reward after every race.

The memory crept up Max’s throat, burning all the way. He swallowed it down before it had a chance to reach his eyes, where his father might see it.

“Not if it leaves you so tired that you can’t meet your obligations,” Jos said snidely.

Please. Obligations. It was lunch with his own damn dad, not the FIA awards gala. “I’ll do better next time.”

Jos sneered. “We’ll see. It could be worse- at least you’re not wasting time dating some harlot who only wants you for your wins. God knows how late you’d be then.”

Max flinched, almost imperceptibly. It was all too fresh- not just his self-inflicted falling out with Charles, but also his fight with Lando. He’d lashed out in anger against him, jealous over Lewis and how close Lando and Oscar seemed to be to having what Max and Charles couldn’t. He needed to apologize.

He would, as soon as he found a way to do it without sounding ashamed of himself. Just because he’d been the one to strike first didn’t mean he should roll over belly-up to say sorry.

Jos’s sharp eyes caught the motion anyway; Max didn’t know why he’d thought he could hide anything. He was temporarily spared by a waitress coming by to take their orders, and began worrying at the seam of his jeans with a hand.

His father spoke for them both. Max silently accepted it. It was their usual routine.

“There isn’t a girlfriend, is there?”

Max felt the back of his neck grow hot as he replied, “No. Nothing like that.”

“You’re a shit liar,” Jos observed. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Tell me- is it some fangirl? Or someone working for the team?”

Max grit his teeth before saying, “It’s no one. Not anymore.” 

“I’m guessing this was someone from the team, then, if you were hiding this,” Jos said, aimlessly waving a hand. “Do you know what kind of damage that could do to your image? What if she’d gone to the press and started spilling? At least tell me you didn’t let her take any compromising pictures, for God’s sake.”

“He never–”

“He?”

Max went still, digging his fingers into his thigh. He’d fucked up. Reluctantly, he confirmed, “He.”

Jos’s voice was razor-sharp and dangerously low when he spoke, clearly aware of the people around them. “I didn’t raise you to be a fag. If you’re going to fuck around, do it with women like a proper man. And you- what, you were dating?”

“No,” Max said savagely. “Never. It was just sex.”

“Just sex,” Jos spat. “Please. You’re throwing away your career for sex?” 

Max could feel the flush travel from his neck to his face. “I’m not throwing anything away,” he defended. “I ended it. He was-” and oh, it hurt to throw Charles under the bus, no matter that he wasn’t sharing his name or that it was even true, “-too attached. I told him it was nothing, and he got clingy anyways. So I told him to get lost. It’s over.”

Jos’s expression was dark. It was horribly familiar to Max- both from his childhood, but also because it was the same face he made whenever he looked in the mirror and thought about not having forced Charles away.

“Good. Keep him and any others like him far away. Stay out of that shit, you hear me? Don’t start it again. That’s not how a champion acts.”

Max robotically nodded, unable to form a reply.

The disgust was still evident in Jos’s voice as he continued. “God. If you want a regular fuck so bad, I’ll get you somebody. That Piquet girl is available- she’s got a thing for drivers.”

“I don’t want that,” Max choked out. “I want to drive. That’s it.”

“Remember that, then, next time you feel the urge to stick your dick in someone’s ass.”

The waitress returned, dropping off their plates. “Here’s your lunch- hope you enjoy!”

Any other company, and Max might’ve laughed. How was he supposed to enjoy anything when he wasn't in the car?