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Chapter Text

Lewis prided himself on being a very open-minded person. He was, it is true. He was always striving to be a better version of himself and a role model to the younger generations looking up to him. He did not wish to hold any form of prejudice towards another human being.

However, right now, he was itching to say something to the two men in front of him acting strangely… intimate. Was that the word? Lewis was not so sure. Well, they for sure were making him feel like an intruder in whatever little happy bubble they engulfed themselves in.

He was in the cool-down room with Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc, the two other contenders to the world championship title - the two faces of the new generation. Lewis has known both of them for years now, and for all he knew, they didn’t get along that well.

But he started to share more podiums with the pair now that Ferrari and Red Bull got their shit together, and Lewis started noticing. Firstly, they were on speaking terms, which was great, considering what he knew about their rivalry and their fights.

Secondly, he realized that they were very good friends. The best of friends, it seemed. Any given opportunity they had during a Grand Prix weekend to be talking and laughing, there they were, joined at the hip.

(Lewis has had both experiences with Nico Rosberg, the honeymoon phase and the I-Can’t-Look-You-In-The-Face phase. He knows the difference, that is.)

So whatever Charles and Max were doing… He did not know what precisely tickled him wrong - they had this softer air around them whenever they started talking. It was almost as if they were... flirting.

Lewis was not a homophobic asshole. That was not it, far from it. Although he frowned upon the choice of partner (see above i.e. Nico Rosberg; again, he gets it), he was most concerned about the fact they were being this obvious in front of every-fucking-one.

He wanted to roll his eyes until they popped out of his head, but mostly, he wanted to pull them apart and tell them to get it together, Jesus Christ, there are cameras around us.

He followed the two drivers from parc fermé and all the way to the cool-down room. He was grinning from ear to ear, having won the race. Max came in a painful second place due to engine problems in the last lap, almost losing the position to Charles, who crossed the line in third.

The blonde was very frustrated as he left his car, and Lewis kept an eye on him while he himself celebrated with his team, knowing he needed to shake hands with Max and congratulate the man for a great race. He did not have much chance to do so, from being hassled to speak to the Formula One media and being cared for by his team, watching as Charles Leclerc did not leave Max’s side for one freaking second.

Sure, losing a win like that hurt, but what was the fuss all about? Lewis saw Charles hugging him briefly by the shoulder, all the while whispering something in his ear. Max nodded along, eyes down, expression still hurt, and Lewis was sure he saw Leclerc give the Dutchman a little kiss on the side of his head.

He decided to look the other way; easy to do when the adrenaline of a win was pumping through his veins.

He was practically hopping around when he reached the place they were supposed to calm their nerves a bit before the podium ceremony, but his enthusiasm practically died down as soon as he entered the place, being graced by the image of Charles holding Max’s wrist, giving his arm one, two light squeezes before saying something that made Max chuckle. The Dutchman finally looked up and rolled his eyes affectionately at the brunette in front of him.

With them, thankfully, was only someone from the medical team to register their weight, no cameras around yet.

Lewis cleared his throat and smiled brightly at the two. “Hey Charles, Max,” he greeted. Gosh, he hoped he did not sound as awkward as he felt.

“Hey, mate,” said Max. “Great race.”

“Hi, Lewis! Congratulations on the win,” complimented Charles.

They were standing near the television showing the results and replays of the race, practically forming a barrier between them and everything else in the room. The tip of their shoes almost touched.

Lewis had to follow procedures, so he got himself weighted, got a towel, a bottle of water, his cap for the podium, and finally walked the few steps to where the pair was.

“Man, you had a great race,” he said to the Dutchman as soon as possible, “that was so unlucky.”

Max and Charles got closer together to give space for Lewis to join their conversation.

“Ah, mate,” Max groaned, “fucking engine fucking me up again.”

Lewis was sympathetic, his McLaren days were a nightmare. “I know, it sucks. You had the pace today to win this. Still, a hell of a drive. You too, Charles.”

The Monegasque chuckled. “P3 was all I could extract from the car today. Well, almost P2.” He nudged Max on the ribs. “No offence, your engine could have blown up a corner or two sooner.”

Lewis was slightly taken aback, it seemed too soon to be joking about that. But to his astonishment, the Dutchman only huffed.

“Leclerc, just shut up, please.” Were his words, and they carried no venom, more of an exasperated fondness.

Charles simply winked.

“I almost passed you at the start,” Charles was saying, this time to Lewis. “Mate, the way you closed that corner was awesome.”

Lewis shook his head. “It was all Max pushing me to take that line. Well, we all got past Valtteri one way or another.”

The man on pole position was attacked at the start due to an engine stall, and Lewis was glad he got out of the way soon enough.

“Valtteri is almost as unlucky as me,” commented Max, looking at the tv.

Lewis noticed Max’s entire body still favored the side Charles was at, unconsciously leaned to his left, body language leaving no doubt about his preferred company. It was strangely entertaining to be picking up on their behaviour.

The Brit patted the younger man on the shoulder. “Don’t say shit like that, could have been worse.”

He noticed how Charles’ eyes followed intently his movements and felt somehow triumphant. God, were they really screwing?

“Yeah, but could also have been a lot better.”

“You had some problems pitting today, didn’t you, Lewis?” asked Charles.

Their arms were touching. They could easily hold hands. Lewis needed to look away. “Huh? Ah, yes, the rear left got stuck. I was sure I would come up behind Valtteri for the second stint.”

He averted his eyes, anywhere else would do. The Brit was tired, he was not that young anymore, after all, so catching up to Max had been an endeavour. He sat on the stool closest to him, giving his legs a rest. And something else to do. Yes, put some distance between himself and the two men.

But they had other plans. Lewis might want some space, but Max and Charles, on the other hand, snuggled themselves against one another on the tiny sofa on the other wall. They were glued from shoulders to hips, touching all over, and at that pace, the Monegasque could just as well sit on the Red Bull driver’s lap. It would save everyone some time.

He was a bit incredulous, to be honest. They were acting so nonchalant about it as if nothing was amiss. Like that was their normal behaviour. Perhaps it was? What was up between them anyway?

“Are you…” he began. What was he doing? He should not meddle. Lewis started again, trying to trust his voice, “are you two okay?”

Charles found the question very strange and out of place, Max simply said “nope”, popping the p.

He actually meant something else--well, never mind. Of course Max wouldn’t be in the best of moods, he lost. Lewis won. Charles was just happy to be P3.

The conversation sure died there; Charles and Max were completely ignoring him and the staff. They started whispering and chuckling between themselves and Lewis could swear he even saw Charles blushing.

What was taking them so long? The ceremony should have started already. Proof that things were late was that only then a camera entered the cool-down room to film them, so Lewis tried to appear relaxed and not excluded.

He tried to keep his eyes trained on the tv in front of him while being filmed, drinking his water. However, a movement from the side captured his attention. Charles had twisted almost completely to the side, one elbow on his leg, head supported on his palm, lips parted, incredibly attentive to what Max was saying. The Dutchman was sulking, gesticulating with his hands. Then one strand of blonde hair fell from his head, resting against Max’s forehead. Just as naturally, as if on instinct, Charles reached up to comb the hair back to its original place, brushing his fringe to the side gently until the stubborn hair obeyed.

Max did not even flinch. They never blinked twice nor did they stop talking.

Lewis’ mouth fell open and he almost choked on his water. He clocked his head to the side, doubting his own eyes. Thankfully the camera had been on him.

He had seen enough.

“I think they’re calling us,” he hurriedly said, getting to his feet just as fast, and looked pointedly to the pair, who simply blinked at him.

Jesus Christ.

“I am too old for this shit,” he whispered to himself, leaving the room.

Chapter Text

As soon as Pierre finally stretched his legs, he soundly moaned. Damn if he was not tired, he felt he’d never been this tired in his entire life; he could just close his eyes and sleep like a log.

He was adjusting himself against the upholstery of the jet’s seat to finally rest when he noticed Charles looking at him.

He blinked his eyes open. “What?”

“Don’t moan like that, you freak.”

Pierre grinned. “Sorry to insult your prude ears.”

The Monegasque gave him the finger before going back to his phone. Nothing new in that, Charles was a social media butterfly and he could spend hours scrolling through his phone if people let him. But Pierre was bothered by his silence - normally he would be laughing at stupid videos and trying to make Pierre do the same by shoving the phone screen on his face.

His friend, in fact, had been quiet during all the car drive to the airport, and spoke very briefly while they waited for the private plane to take off. When he did laugh, shake his head or murmur something, he did it at his phone.

Pierre was very curious. He tried to sneak a peek but every time he only saw Charles’ chat with Max open.

“Who are you speaking with? Did that girl from Tuscany reply to you?”

Charles seemed to reluctantly avert his attention from the phone. “Ah... No, she didn’t. I don’t think she will, it has been days already,” he answered dismissively.

Ah what a pity, that would have been a good fuck.

The Frenchman looked at him pointedly. “So who are you speaking with?”

Charles frowned. “What do you mean? No one. I am not texting anyone.”

Pierre snorted. “You are a terrible liar, Charles. Why would you be all gooey with your phone if you aren’t flirting like a schooler?”

His best friend took offence to his words very quickly. He put his phone down and pointed his finger at Pierre, smiling wolfishly. “Between the two of us,” he started, “who here fucking quoted Star Wars during sex with a girl?”

Heat rose immediately to Pierre’s face. “Fuck you,” he murmured, “I told you that in confidence.”

Charles laughed out loud. “Well, we are here alone, your secret is safe; except from the pilot. But I don’t think he will be telling anyone you quoted Yoda to the poor girl when you came.”

Pierre rolled his eyes. “Hahaha, very funny,” he said dryly. He actually cited Anakin; he was trying to be romantic. It was true though, that girl never looked at him the same again (harsh and judgmental, giving the fact she recognized it from the movies).

Charles bowed his head. “I aim to please.” To the beat of silence that followed, he completed matter-of-factly, “and for your information, I am just talking to Max.”

Huh?

That definitely got the Frenchman’s attention. His face twisted in a curious expression. Max as in... “Verstappen?” he inquired out loud, just to be certain they were thinking about the same person.

“Yep.”

“My ex-teammate?” he tried again. Just to be sure.

“Yes, Pierre,” Charles replied, annoyed, “that one.”

Now, Pierre knew Max and Charles were friends - they were not best friends like himself and Charles, mind you, but they grew closer this year. Pierre was glad they finally got around to forming a friendship, he was always confident they would get along just fine. They just needed to try.

This, however, was a new development. And a weird one. Since when were they chatting non-stop like that? Charles had barely spoken to him the entire way to the plane, and he did not seem to be keen to pay the Frenchman any attention any time soon.

His eyes grew comically when Charles took a selfie and immediately seemed to send the picture to someone, who Pierre was assuming was Max now. His friend was completely unaware of his surroundings, smiling down at his phone, and in consequence, of Pierre almost having a fit.

“When are we taking off?” asked Charles, finally looking at Pierre.

He practically jumped out of his skin, feeling like he just witnessed something he shouldn’t have.

Looking at his watch, he said, “Shouldn’t be much longer now. Why are--”

“Oh, okay,” the Monegasque cut him off, back to typing something on his phone.

Well, rude. Pierre was opening his mouth to point that out, and fucking ask Charles what had gotten into him today. Only his friend dismissed him with a hand as his phone vibrated with a call.

When he picked up, showing all his bright teeth and dimples with a big smile to no one in particular, Pierre could hear Max’s voice on the other side of the line. He would recognize the Dutchman's raspy voice anywhere.

Intentionally or not, he perked up and tried to listen to their conversation, moving a bit closer to the direction where Charles was. It was difficult to make out what Max was saying to Charles through the phone, but his best friend was beaming at whatever he was listening to.

“Yes! I know! Oh, shut up, you loser,” he scolded Max, still too cheerful to be anything but bantering.

Pierre raised one eyebrow at the interaction.

To keep his reactions hidden, he turned his head to the window on his side. His fucking heart was beating madly against his chest. Why was he so nervous?

“I was thinking of that now, you know.” It was Charles still babbling. He was fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie, almost idly. “But we can try that later. I know a place that serves that.”

Were they making plans to eat out together? Was that a thing that happened regularly and Pierre was simply not aware? He lived in Monaco, too, why was he not being invited to their little getaway.

“That is not true, I beat you to that game last time. You suck, just admit it!” Charles laughed freely. He then bit his lip, “you left it in my house, don’t you remember?”

Holy shit. Max was visiting Charles in his apartment? They were for real hanging out without telling Pierre anything? He felt so betrayed.

Mostly, he felt weirded out. They sounded like a… couple… talking to each other.

“I have to go. Yes, I will let you know. You too, text me as soon as you arrive safely. Okay. By then.”

Pierre let out a strangled sigh he didn’t even notice he was holding in, relieved that the torturous phone call was over. He was already expecting pet names and kissing sounds at the end by the way that was going.

Charles turned his phone off and glanced around, “aren’t we ready to go?” As soon his gaze landed on Pierre, he asked “what is with you?” after noting his friends sitting all crookedly, frozen in place.

Pierre forced his shoulders to relax, and the grip of his hands on his seat to lessen. He chuckled awkwardly, schooling his expression to appear less… traumatized. “Nothing...”

Charles simply shook his head.

The silence did not last too long.

“Actually,” Pierre started. He had to ask. He was going to, curiosity was going to kill the Frenchman. He tried to not sound disgusted as he finally let out, “since when are you and Max such good friends?”

Charles did not think there was anything out of the ordinary to the question. “Well, we have been friends for a while now, you know that. But I guess we started to hang out more since we crashed together in Brazil last year.”

Pierre knew that as well. Still… “You never told me you guys hang out together during off time in Monaco, too,” he said, almost as an accusation.

The Monegasque scoffed. “Of course I have, I invited you to play tennis with us once.”

“Ah...” That was true, he realized. Charles had done that. Pierre remembered thinking to himself that Max sucked spectacularly at tennis, that he shouldn’t go near a tennis court. “But Charles!”

“What?” he spoke more harshly, finally finding Pierre’s insistence overbearing.

God, Pierre wished he had not started that conversation. He had no idea how to even begin to articulate what he wanted.

“Nothing! It is just that,” he gulped, trying to get the words out, “you were so…’text me as soon as you arrive’?” He mimicked Charles’ obnoxious tone of voice, and teased, “what was that, man?”

It took Charles some seconds to respond.

He glared at Pierre. “What the hell are you talking about? I was simply asking him to text me when he arrived. And I don’t sound like that, idiot,” he growled. Then. “Wait--are you jealous?” asked Charles in mockery, already laughing at Pierre’s expense.

Was he? Yes, a little bit, he was feeling kinda left out. “Not really,” he lied reluctantly.

Charles puffed. “Yeah, sure you are not.” He rolled his eyes. “I say the same thing to you when we part ways, Pear. What is the big deal if I ask Max the same?”

Now, Pierre wanted to laugh uncontrollably because either he was going insane imagining absurd things (such as Max screwing his best friend), or he was making a big deal out of nothing and making a fool of himself. He did not feel like he wanted the answer to any of that today.

“Whatever,” he ended up saying. His brain was melting, he was so tired.

Still, of one thing he was certain, Charles did not look like a fucking idiot in love when talking to him, that was for sure.

Chapter Text

Daniel missed Max. He could not admit that out loud, he had a reputation to maintain (albeit said reputation was not very pristine). Sitting beside the Dutchman now for an interview with Formula One media, he could pinpoint the exact moment he realized he missed the man.

“Shhh, I am trying to concentrate here,” he had jokingly said to the reporter while the camera was being prepared.

The woman simply rolled her eyes and told him they would, as tradition, exchange gifts. Daniel laughed out loud to irritate the woman further, and Max sneered childishly at seeing he had back up.

They would just go back to acting like juveniles around each other - for all the shit they went through as teammates, Daniel would always be grateful they found ways to regain this lightness to their friendship. He was not with Red Bull anymore, thank God, so it was even easier to keep only the qualities of that time they shared.

Not sharing a garage with him, however, meant he barely saw Max around the paddock now; they would try to catch up during race weekends when they did see each other, but it was brief. So yes, sue him, he missed hanging out with the kid, he was like his little brother, it always felt good to just do whatever. And Max was always on board with doing whatever.

“You would think it’s a sin or something to exchange gifts before Christmas,” commented Daniel to the crew working for FOM.

“I am not really a Christian,” Max told no one.

“Me neither,” replied Daniel, grin lopsided, “but we better not piss off the man above.” And pointed to the sky.

The press officer patiently explained they were instructed at the beginning of the season to pick a name out of a hat and draw a name to exchange gifts for Formula One’s 70th Anniversary.

“Do you think Kimi did this for the 50th anniversary?” asked Max, the serious tone of his voice only adding to the playfulness of it all.

The Aussie barked a laugh.

“Alright, gentlemen.” The reporter clapped her hands twice. "Shall we? You will receive a gift and you must try and guess who was the sender. You know the drill.”

Daniel had the misfortune of picking Hamilton’s name--he had no idea what to give the man. The theme was F1 itself, they were instructed to treat it with respect, no pranks like the usual exchange of gifts at the end of the season for Christmas. He was still tempted to fuck around, so he chose a t-shirt with the title ‘Suffering from success’ and below it said: when you can’t break any more records. He tried. He had one “April 1st? Every day is fool’s day with you” he won from a previous girlfriend he had a special attachment to, he liked to think he was successful in evoking the same sentiment.

“Can we tell each other about the gifts we bought?” inquired Daniel, extending his arms to grab what apparently was the gift he was supposed to receive.

They would follow alphabetical order, so Daniel would unwrap his first. It was a medium-sized box, crudely covered in cheap wrapping paper. He sensed a pair of curious eyes following his every moment, which gave him reason enough to carefully reveal his present.

He laughed maniacally as soon as he saw the gift inside.

“Aww you guys,” he squealed with a bubbly laugh, “what a nice representation.”

Daniel held what was a supposed Australian Grand Prix trophy that was a replica of his own nose. Everyone around him gasped and laughed when he put the thing close to his face and exposed his profile alongside it.

“For real,” the brunette continued, turning the gift around his hand, “I truly liked it! One of the nicest things I received in these games we play.”

“It looks heavy.” And Max was already taking the trophy out of his hand and throwing it up and down on his palm, testing the weight.

“It looks kinda expensive, too. Give it back, Maxy, you’re going to break it,” Daniel spoke, already snatching his gift out of Verstappen’s hand. When he looked up, he pretended to think hard, face twisted in a pensive expression, “hm… I think a lot of people could have done this, but,” he turned to Max and pointed out, “you were the only one here not surprised when I took the trophy out of the box.”

Max gaped. “What?!”

Daniel could see the red going up the Dutchman’s cheek. “Man, you are such a terrible liar! You were almost as excited as me as I unwrapped it. I bet we were paired up only so I could make fun of you. C’mon, it is you, isn’t it?”

The blonde nodded as the producers laughed at their little exchange. “Fine, fine, you are right. I picked your name again. This is like the third time, something must be wrong.”

“It is a rigged system, indeed,” he joked along. “But thank you, man. Might be the third time but this is the first one I will keep.”

Max snorted at the ever not so subtle sarcasm. “Fair enough.”

The press officer handed the second secret present, “Your turn now, Max.”

The box on top of their table was small and rectangular, neatly wrapped in red paper with a ribbon bow on top of it. The person had gone through the trouble to present the gift as nicely as possible, Daniel noticed. When Max ripped the paper apart with very little care, it was revealed to be a case, covered in brown suede, the fine material looking as expensive to the touch as it was to look at it.

The man himself was a bit surprised, Daniel caught in the corner of his eye.

The Aussie whistled. “Someone must really like you. What is it, a watch?”

Uncharacteristically silent, the Dutchman proceeded to open the box gently. It popped open, and there laid a bracelet; its sterling silver shining clear against the morning sun. Two thin chains connected a slender bar, that was adorned with two striking diamonds at each end, perfect for engraving.

Daniel squeezed his eyes, peering from Max’s shoulder--was there a message engraved on the bracelet?

“This is…” murmured Max, delicately lifting the bracelet out of the case. There was something carved on the bar indeed - a phrase. The man read the words to himself first, curling the words around his tongue languidly. He passed his eyes over the phrase one more time, the words this time being distorted by his smiling lips. “Holy shit,” he finally huffed under his breath, breaking the silence, clearly enamored.

Daniel felt the mood of the interview change all of sudden, people working with Formula One looking expectantly for the outcome, perhaps even uncomfortable with what could be written there. He felt self-conscious, so per usual, he had to break the ice.

“Nice one,” he forced a compliment.

Max seemed to finally understand he was being filmed, that he was actually not alone. He closed the lid with a loud pop.

“Oh, I know who bought me this, easily. Thank you, Charles, for this present,” answered Max straight away, comfortably enough, as if he had not been entranced by the present moments before.

Strangely, that made too much sense in Daniel’s head - of course it had been Charles. He sensed the press officer wanted to insist on knowing the message, and braced himself for the next words that came out of the woman’s mouth.

“Would you mind sharing the message with us?”

Damn her for being noisy. Couldn’t they read the room? It was obvious the message carried something private. He was about to defend Max from their prying eyes, only the Dutchman cut him to it, speaking first.

“Yeah, sure,” he complied nonchalantly.

Daniel felt his head whip to the side, eyes following Max opening the case again. It seemed to happen in slow motion, a disaster waiting to happen. He knew in his bones whatever Charles had written there, it would be dramatic and personal. He had no idea why the blonde said yes to the request in the first place.

Max’s lips stretched into a full smile as he read, “it says ‘Here’s to another 15, 20 years of racing together.” In the seconds of pure, agitated silence that followed, he smiled with contempt to himself. “Charles and I have known each other already for a long time,” he explained, supposedly unaware of any discomfort, if his tender demeanor was anything to go by.

The Aussie, on the other hand, was glad he was not the only one embarrassed by the display of emotions in front of him. He was not sure Max was mindful that the message sounded like a solemn promise, a fucking pledge to a life of racing together. It was for the better, then, to finish off the recording.

“Well, we guessed ours pretty quickly, didn’t we?” he exclaimed, cheeky, winking at the camera.

“Yes, we did,” agreed the Dutchman, voice soft-hearted, sounding far away.

His easiness was making Daniel’s skin crawl.

“That is it, boys,” the woman finally said, “thank you. You are free to go.”

If Daniel jumped immediately to his feet and practically dragged Max with him, the media crew working for Formula One was polite enough to look away. He also thanked them before quickly gathering his belongings. He wasn’t lying when he said he enjoyed the present.

“I am starving, can we grab something to eat or are you busy?” the Aussie inquired as they walked shoulder to shoulder to the outside of the small media pen they ended up recording the dynamic. Was Max even listening? “I am sure Red Bull--”

He stopped dead in his tracks when Max failed to match his steps. Whatever protest he thought of voicing died quickly in his lips when he understood why: the man was busy, brows furrowed in concentration, trying to pin the bracelet to his wrist using only one hand. That silly piece of jewelry (and by silly he meant only the message, as the thing looked fucking expensive), Max wanted to wear it immediately.

Confusion was so prominent on Daniel’s mind he had no idea where to begin. It was clear Max and Charles were good friends now - of the times Daniel saw Max around the paddock he was either with Alex or, to his surprise, with Charles. He used to think of them as polar opposites. He was aware of the history they shared as rivals in karting and how that lingered in F1 too; if they were now past those days, that was a good sign of their maturity. For their new formed friendship to blossom a confession like that one, however? That he was not expecting.

He knew he had no place to judge, he had done some weird, gay shit during their time together as teammates; honest to God though, that message was a bit too much, wasn’t it?

Cringing on the inside, Daniel patiently waited for the blonde to finally attach the bracelet to his wrist. What a pathetic image.

He put his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and burst out laughing as soon as Max joined his side. “Dude!” he accused.

The smile was simply frozen on Max’s face, it seemed, as he giggled, showing off the jewelry, “look how nice it looks!”

Daniel threw his head back, barking another laugh. “Mate, please tell me you are aware you just said ‘yes’ to Charles’ marriage proposal!”

The blatant way Max regarded Daniel that moment told him otherwise.

“Don’t you ever shut up?” It ended up being the Dutchman's reply. And because he was infused with little to no shame, he reasoned, “it was just a call-back to something I said once. Nice of Charles to remember it.”

The Aussie looked at him in skepticism, questioning every decision he made in life that got him to the point of having to explain the entire picture to Max. If only the man could stop beaming like a fool.

He knew Max swung both ways. But even he would have some boundaries and not fuck a fellow driver… right?

Daniel opted to just watch it as it happened; it was bound to be amusing.

“It was nice of Charles,” he repeated mischievously, words dripping with malice.

Daniel had always wanted to have a nemesis, what a cool shit to brag about. It sounded too cool to throw that away to befriend them in the end. He guessed one must go out like a man, then, take it up a notch and fuck your rival to solve the problem. He hoped whatever Max was trying to achieve here, he was successful.

Chapter Text

Sebastian watched the scene in front of him, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

For whatever reason, Max Verstappen was now a known presence around Ferrari’s team facility. Don’t ask Sebastian how that came to pass, the Dutchman was suddenly there one day, resting against the wall, apparently - and patiently - waiting for Charles to finish his battery of exercise. He was a remarkable contrast within all that red, it was difficult to miss.

You see, once met with his requirements, Charles would usually play some football to maintain his body temperature warm. He invited Seb to play with him sometimes, when the German was casually passing by and had nothing better to do than indulge the kid.

Seb was doing exactly that, passing by, when he saw Verstappen there, hips against the wall, scrolling through his phone. He was on the verge of asking Max if he was lost when Charles waved at him.

The kid cheerfully trotted in Seb’s direction, panting. “Seb! Let’s play some football!”

And he shrugged and went along with it, ‘cause if no one was going to question why a Red Bull driver was there, neither was him.

That time, however, Charles decided to drag another player into the game. Seb tried to iron his expression to something akin to disinterest, but nonetheless, his eyes followed Charles jumping to Verstappen’s direction, giggling silly and stopping in front of the young man. Max looked annoyed, Seb noted, but he calmly did what Charles wanted in any case.

The German was made aware of the newfound friendship a couple of months ago, deep in concentration in his side of the garage, working late to fix something - there was always something to fix in the car nowadays. Charles had been on his own side of the garage, studying and furiously writing along on his notebook.

Seb stretched his back, popping his bones, arms up, when he froze midway. He was sure the voice that came from Charles’ side was of Max Verstappen. He knew the kid well, he liked the kid so; his raspy voice was unmistakable.

The frequency of his voice was far and distorted, and Seb understood why when he approached Charles. He stopped before being seen; his teammate had a cellphone on speaker beside him, sitting on the floor and engrossed in a debate with the Dutchman.

“Mate,” said Max. And Seb could imagine the blonde sitting on his motorhome, tired but engaging with Charles at this time of night anyhow. “There was nothing you could have done better. I obviously don’t have all the information your team has of your own car, but some shit was messing with the downforce.”

Oh, so that was the discussion. Seb silently extended his consolation towards Charles; the team changed his set up after free practice to maximize the car aerodynamically, but it backfired messily when the fuel was lower for qualifying. They gambled and it cost Charles greater grid positions.

To each his own, Seb had his own fair share of problems to deal with, but he felt for the kid. His frustration was always palpable.

“So please stop trying to blame yourself,” Max continued. “You are going to have to work with that set up for the race, so focus on that first. Talk to your team again, be honest.”

Seb nodded along, feeling if he had time to pull Charles aside to talk, he would have said something similar. He might have that in common with Max: brutal honesty.

It was surprising to know he and Max likewise shared concern for Charles.

Charles sighed audibly. “Fuck. Fuck. I know.” Seb presumed the dismay in his voice matched his face. “Sorry, did not mean to curse.”

Max’s voice got sarcastic. “Oh sure, you talk my ear off for more than an hour and you apologize for that?”

More than an hour. The German imagined he had been too occupied to pay more attention to that fact. Still, Verstappen had been helping Charles out for that long a day before the race? More than surprised, Seb found himself bemused.

(And glad someone was talking some sense into Charles, God knows how much his teammate could get lost in his own head in disappointing moments like this).

True to form, Charles did not miss a beat. “You threatened to hang up a thousand times, Max. You have no one else to blame but yourself for being strung along. Besides, you called me.”

“Only because I was promised food after I won our bet today,” Max defended himself lamely. “Now you might have cried all over your shirt and pulled all the hair off your head. Although you should consider going bald, you have the worst case of constant bed hair I have ever seen.”

“Huh? My messy hair is actually one of my best qualities and you know it.”

“Oh Charlie,” the Dutchman said, condescending and awfully cheerful, “one day I am going to hold a mirror to your fucking face as soon as you wake up to prove to you your hair actually gets worse throughout the day. How is that possible? Don’t ask me.”

“Your point being? My hair has personality, Verstappen. Your hair wouldn’t know anything about that, since it hardly sees the light of the day under that awful cap.”

“Have you noticed your fringe is curling around the tips now?”

“What? That is not true.” His tone of voice was scandalized.

“I swear, Charles! Your hair is morphing into something,” he said between laughs. “It will get curlier and curlier until it forms a nest.”

Seb pressed his lips together, then his smile stretched and stretched, beyond pleased.

They were clearly flirting.

Noting he had been eavesdropping for longer than was acceptable, he cleared his throat before getting in Charles’ field of vision. He did not miss the way the Monegasque tried to hide the shamelessly large smile breaking his face in two when he noticed Sebastian. All in vain.

The same smile was stamped on Charles’ face now as he convinced poor Max to join them on a quick game of football, two against two. The unabashed shine on his eyes was telling of his intentions when he paired Sebastian up with Max, and Charles himself with his trainer, Andrea.

“You know I am not good at this,” Max was saying, being dragged by the hand by one Charles Leclerc. He offered no resistance at all for someone known for biting words and a no-bullshit demeanor; on the contrary, he looked completely relaxed.

“It will be fun, c’mon,” Charles pressed on, walking with his back turned. When he spun on his heels, facing the direction of Sebastian and his trainer, who at this point were simple spectators in the centre of their made-up field, he playfully added. “Besides, your lazy ass could use more training.”

“Fine, fine,” relented the Dutchman, although under his breath he said, “not that this is considered training.”

Only then his teammate let go of Verstappen’s hand, having been successful in winning him over.

He gathered them and said. “The rules are simple, almost everything is legal to block, you can touch the ball only twice before passing, the team with most goals wins in the end. Losers have to do 50 push-ups. Got it?”

He and Charles never played like that, mostly they would pass the ball along and try to keep it from touching the ground; it would be a disaster, Seb knew. But promising fun.

As soon as the dynamic started, Max pushed Charles hard on the chest to steal the ball from him. He stumbled back, surprised, as a malicious smile took over Max’s lips. They were bound to play dirty, all of them, so soon any form of distraction and blocking was used.

Max was the tallest and the strongest between them, but also the least coordinated. It became pretty clear to Sebastian the Dutchman was indeed not good at this, and that Seb was going to have to be the brains of their pairing up.

“Just keep Charlie away from our box,” said the German to the blonde after they were down 3-0, “I can steal the ball for us. When that happens, just make yourself free or run towards their area.”

Max nodded, and the fire in his eyes was both very funny and very endearing to Seb.

Charles’ trainer was his Achilles heel, as he did not have enough courage to go rough with Max, so Seb tried to tag Charles and let Max deal with the Italian. What became apparent very fast, too, was that the silly game was just an excuse for Max and Charles to touch each other, to playfully mess with one another at every chance they got.

Sebastian would just have to deal with it, apparently.

Charles spun around Max and kicked the ball in between his legs to score yet another goal. Seb had to laugh along, as Max got red with frustration.

“Close your legs, love,” the Monegasque spoke hotly, winking and walking back to his side of the field.

They tricked, they pushed around, Seb almost had his team shirt ripped apart, Max threw one of his boots at the ball to stop it from slowly crossing the line of their goal. Through better teamwork, he and Max managed to score 3 to 5.

With only two minutes left, the Dutchman finally scored one goal, too. “Fuck yes!” he celebrated viciously, fists in the air, tousled hair pointing at all sides. Seb had his eyes focused intently on Charles, whose gaze could not hide the heat behind it.

There it was.

“Great job, Max,” Seb interjected, as Leclerc probably swallowed down all the drool in his mouth, “let’s win this!”

Once the game restarted, he and Andrea were left to tag one another. If Charles’ trainer was aware of anything like Seb was, he hid it well. Still, the German smiled crookedly and pointed with his head in the direction of the pair, wiggling his eyebrows. Andrea shrugged, impassive. The man was defeated, Seb understood. He had seen enough of that, apparently.

What Seb witnessed before his very eyes left him grinning like a mad man. Charles was taunting Max with every move he made, and was making his way to pass the Dutchman to score what was possibly the winning goal. Only the blonde eagerly grunted, “not this time, mate,” and quickly caught up to Charles, circling one of his arms around his waist, dragging him against his chest and securing him in place.

“Let go of me, Max!” the Monegasque complained, struggling to get free.

Which only made Max tighten his grip around the slim waist he was holding, embracing him with both arms. “Nope,” he replied smiling.

“That--” he wiggled against the blonde’s abdomen, “is not”, tried to break the strong hold around his belly, getting squeezed in the process, “fair!”

“We never played fair.” And to everyone’s surprise, Max lifted Charles off the ground. The brunette yelped, was about to protest the brute way he was being manhandled, only to break into a fit of laughter when one of the Dutchman's hands started to tickle his tummy.

“Oh! Max--no, stop! Stop it, please” Charles begged, laughing and trying even harder to escape. “Where!” he stopped to cackle, “where are you going!”

Max started to carry Charles outside the field. He was enjoying it too much, by the satisfying grin he had on his face, holding up a Leclerc dissolving with laughter.

“You are playing dirty!” the Monegasque accused, at this point too tired to fight, his voice more a giggle than a complaint.

“Oh stop it, or I am throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you out of this damn track!”

When Seb snapped out of his trance, Andrea had scored for Charles’ team.

The Monegasque celebrated still locked in Max’s arms. “Yes, Andrea!” he shouted over the Dutchman's shoulder, “abbiamo finalmente vinto!”

Seb threw both arms up in defeat as Max let go of Charles, sighing. They both had to see the brunette crudely hopping to a silly celebratory dance once he joined Andreas’ side.

“We played well,” countered Seb, patting Max on the shoulder. The man was a bit too preoccupied being all smiles to Charles’ figure to be anything but elated.

“Now!” cried Charles, cutting in his celebrations. “Push-ups!”

Then Verstappen seemed to remember what was awaiting him, and his smile dropped instantly.

“Ah, fuck...”

With a shit-eating grin, Charles sat on the floor, crossed legged, as childish as they come. He pointed his finger at Max and called him closer. “It is time. Yes, you. Come here,” and patted the floor.

(Seb mentally shook his head at the fact his teammate completely forgot the German was on the losing team, too).

Max moaned as he prepared to kneel on the asphalt. “I swear Charles, you will pay me back for this.”

“Yes, yes, sure I will,” he agreed, rolling his eyes, grinning despite the threat. “I am going to start counting!”

Then Verstappen started his push-ups with Charles sitting right beside him. Sebastian looked at his watch and as interesting as it was to watch the pair, his time was up.

One.

Two.

Three.

“I have to go,” Seb announced, “I will see you later, Charlie, Andrea. Good luck, Max!”

The Monegasque waved at the German, Max only moaned again. Which made Charles say something to him very slowly.

Before leaving though, Seb showed them all his teeth. “You know Charles, you would look great bald,” he commented as if it was for himself, a fact he remembered and shared out loud.

He never waited to see their reaction, simply went his way. The German imagined they traded puzzled looks, but quickly ignored the old man in favour of getting back to their little bubble.

He suspected they might be shamelessly displaying affection while feigning ignorance, to hide it in plain view. Or they could be completely clueless, who knew. Seb didn’t for sure.

An insistent voice in his head, however, told him it was typical of Charles to play the part of the innocent.

Seb was once told he smiled a patronizing type of smile, as if he was hiding a secret only he knew but wouldn’t share. Perhaps that was true this time.

Chapter Text

Alex was confident his eyes were not playing any tricks on him. He rubbed them for good measure, and still, the image of Charles Leclerc leaving Max’s motorhome was fresh on his mind.

It was pitch dark outside, Alex could not tell what he was doing up. Apparently to catch a very slick Monegasque tiptoeing his way out of his teammate’s room. Being in each other’s motorhome was nothing to be suspicious of, far from it - but doing it in the middle of the night, that ought to raise some eyebrows around the paddock.

Still, Alex was never one to gossip and intrude. That was their business to deal with, whatever that was.

Alex felt a shiver go down his spine thinking of the scenarios (and got bit aroused, to be completely honest).

“Stop imagining things, Alex,” he murmured to himself, going back to his own room, a place he should have never left.

When it happened again, this time in the hotel they were sharing with Ferrari and other teams, the Brit paused on his tracks, checked both sides of the corridor and comically looked at his watch. He was trying not to let his judgment get in the way of his critical thinking; however, an uncomfortable elevator ride with Charles the next morning suddenly put things into perspective.

Alex had walked out of his room, accompanied by his trainer, when he heard a hurried ‘hold the door’ and fast footsteps approaching. He knew that voice, and a smart voice inside his brain kept telling him to ignore the call and let Leclerc face the cold, silver door, saving him, Alex, from having to analyze the situation any further first thing in the morning.

Another voice, one that sounded typically like his grandmother’s, screamed he shouldn’t be rude to others. So he stretched his arm long enough for Charles to slip inside.

“Alex! Good morning, mate!” said Charles, a tone too cheerful for that time in the morning.

The man looked content, grinning to himself, smelling of strong, citric perfume.

Would Alex have the courage to ask what he was doing on the 19th floor, also known as the floor Max, Alex and most of the RBR crew were using? The answer came as a resounding No when Alex noticed the purple marks on Charles’ neck - various of them, different colours, from pink, to brownish, to purple, tiny spots someone had probably sculptured with their mouth against that neck.

Yep, he was better off in the dark.

His curious mind almost drove him insane after that. He had always been a shy, introverted kid, he preferred to focus on himself and steer clear of distractions. He realized none of that mattered when faced with the question of whether his teammate was fucking Charles Leclerc. Alex would always catch himself staring too long, scanning, trying to grasp any glimpse of their routine, following everything Max said with special attention.

He was afraid of putting all the pieces together and seeing that he was right. And he usually was.

Against his own will, his mouth opened up as soon as he saw George Russell some days later.

“Georgie, how often would you say it is acceptable to visit someone else’s room?”

George, always quick on the uptake, answered sincerely, “dunno, Alex, depends on which room and what for.”

Perhaps George's clinical view would not offer much help.

“If you are in the hospital,” he continued, “once or twice a day is already enough. If you live with someone, I would rather no one entered my room. A hotel room? Well, only if you are invited.”

Only so Alex could indulge him, he shot back, “and our motorhomes?”

George showed him a lopsided grin, “well, that depends what for.”

What for? Hm… Intrusive images of Charles’ neck, sprinkled with hickeys, came to mind in seconds. Alex could visualize the hours of work put into such a creation, one Charles Leclerc laid down on the bed; small, lazy smile in place while Max had his face buried on the crook of his neck, body almost draped over the Monegasque. They would be touching everywhere, comfortable against one another. Alex imagined the weight Max’s body could put over someone’s body would be delicious and strong, warm.

Charles would hiss and moan at the lips against his raw skin, eyes rolling in pleasure--Alex’s head snapped up in alarm, terrified of the images his brain could conjure.

He felt George’s eyes on him.

“Never mind,” Alex murmured to himself.

The two of them spotted Lando Norris, finally.

“What for, Alex?” poked George when they approached Lando. “Someone has been visiting your motorhome too often?”

“Who is visiting Alex now?” asked Lando, which made Alex sigh in defeat.

“No one,” he said quickly, the same time George replied, “he does not want to tell me.”

Lando pointed his finger at Alex. “You denied too fast, mate.”

What was he thinking? The two would never be of any help or act with discretion, they would be loud and obnoxious as per usual. If Max ever caught glimpse of Alex gossiping about his personal life, Alex would be done for. He was older than the Dutchman, and taller, but the Brit figured it was understandable to, in some degree, fear the blonde. He was positive the two men in front of him would share his… apprehension given the circumstance (even if none of them would admit it out loud).

“So who is it? Do we--”

“That,” Alex cut in, saccharine sweet, “is none of your business.” His granny would pat him on the shoulder for the effort of being polite.

Lando and George shared a malicious glare between them before they dropped the topic.

The big question of what for stayed with Alex throughout the entire race weekend, obsessively so. Pathetically so.

He cursed George’s name twice when he approached, as slowly as possible, in quiet steps, the room in the team facility he knew Max was using. He had to know what they were doing, he just had to. If the outcome had him spraying bleach on his own eyes, he would only have himself to blame. And George.

The team was done with post-session debrief after the second free practice, and naturally, they would have some spare time to themselves - Alex and Max would often be on the simulator debating aspects of engineering regarding the set up for the following day. However, Max had finished his by the time Alex was free of team duties. If he incessantly asked around for his teammate in what he hoped was a neutral voice, no one in the Red Bull team batted an eye. Something was telling him the Dutchman wrapped his simulator time quicker than usual for a reason.

And when Alex entered the little storage room beside the one Max was using, glued his ear to the thin drywall separating the space, he heard a little giggle, one he knew well enough, and found out why. Red quickly coloured his features - he hated being right all the time.

How in the hell was Charles inside that room (Alex looked around himself and only saw yoga mats, pairs of boots and other clothing items). He was positive the Monegasque climbed through the window.

Some muffled conversation and another fit of laughter made Alex clumsily, painfully paste the side of his head to the same spot again, in a velocity of reaction it would put any other driver to shame.

Paying as much attention as he could, with only his quick breathing disturbing the quiet, he could brilliantly tell the conversation happening on the other side.

“Charles,” Max was speaking, “for all the shit I give you for being messy, your notes are impressively coherent.”

“You have absolutely no place to judge my notes anyway.”

Alex could lay out the scenario in his mind, hell he had been doing this quite often now, wasn’t he, imagining all the different situations Charles and Max would be in during race weekends. He imagined the two of them were sitting on the floor, back against a small bed, perhaps on a yoga mat like the ones he was surrounded by, thighs touching, faces in close proximity as they talked freely.

Charles continued. “Your handwriting is exactly as I was expecting, to be honest. Like the one of a 5-year-old. And all over the place, why can’t you follow the line? And what ‘GP will know’ even means?”

Alex had a good feeling about Max’s notes, he wrote very few and only when needed; most of the time he had facts ready on the tip of his tongue to voice them out anyway. He recalled previous team meetings with other drivers, race engineers, team principals, how one misjudgment would result in a petty look and some silent notes. No surprise, on the other hand, that Charles found them to be dry and inconsistent.

“It means exactly that, that GP will know when I speak to him,” the blonde explained unapologetically. “I don’t have to put down every thought that comes to my mind to remember them, as you seemingly do. Look at this shit, Charles, you doodled a fucking steering wheel to tell your team about a switch!”

His last words were followed by a sneering laugh, but as a light tease, fond and usual. Alex suspected they were used to talking to each other in banter when they were on their own.

He had no idea why in the world they were comparing notes though, it felt wrong, not to say borderline illegal, to show your rival that much information. Was that the reason they were getting together so often? Were they confabulating about their teams behind everyone’s back?

“I was only passing time!” the Monegasque defended himself, Max’s laugh still prominent. “Stop laughing, my drawing is excellent!”

“I am not really debating that, Charlie,” (Alex’s eyes grew comically at the nickname. In his brain he was sure they were even closer now, perhaps Max had hugged Charles’ waist, bringing them impossibly closer. He would lean in, resting his head against Charles’. His lips brushing Charles’ hair, and his breath hot on his scalp), “it is true you have many talents. Your handwriting makes me think you came out straight out of the Sixteen-hundreds.”

The Ferrari driver replied pompously: “It better, I had cursive writing practices all the time as a kid.”

“Why does that not surprise me,” (Max would be swinging his head one side to another, eyes glittering as he grinned down at Charles), “sometimes I forget your parents wanted you to be an artist.”

“Yes,” the Monegasque sighed, “they had high hopes I would still choose some other career for a while.”

“But Jules was always there,” completed Max, somewhat sad, nostalgic.

“He was,” Charles agreed easily, “and so were you.”

The Dutchman paused for a second. “What do you mean?” he breathed.

“Max, you were my main rival for so many years,” he said into the silence, “all I did as a kid was think about ways to improve and beat you.”

As to steer the conversation away from his shyness, Max joked, “Oh, baby, you did not do much of that in the end. Beat me, I mean.”

Charles snorted. “You were programmed since birth to race in karting, really, you should have been banned from any competition to make it fair.”

That was one way to put it, Alex pondered, thinking too of how unbeatable Max was as a kid competitor in karting, but also how racing had been beaten into him, wiring him into a fierce competitor.

“I told you this once,” Max started after a moment, “but you were the only one capable of winning against me at that time.”

That was a concession, even if Max was never short to praise people when deserved.

“I know,” Charles said gently, “and when I thought I was finally on equal footing, you went ahead and joined Formula One within the span of one year. It took me 3 more years to get there, but you showed me it was possible. You were so strong from the get-go,” his voice had a sheen of admiration, “that motivated me; the unspoken dream we both shared, you were living it. So I had to give my best to reach you again. So that we could share podiums again.”

Max was stunned into silence - Alex could always that tell from Charles’ side, their rivalry had been a tad more intense, it had meant more for Charles to race against Max, to make him see. He realised he was happy for these two friends of his to have finally put their differences aside. Everyone knew they would make great friends once they allowed themselves to put their rivalry aside.

The Brit could faintly hear some hushed breathing filling up the silence brought by the tender words laid between them.

“For two people that couldn’t stand each other,” the Dutchman said softly, quietly, “I think we turned out fine.”

For some reason, Alex could feel even from there how the air around them became softer. He realized they weren’t really speaking about racing as he expected, actually, not for one minute there they spoke about today’s session and tomorrow’s qualifying. They were purely passing time. Enjoying one another.

They were quiet for a moment, then:

“Do you really have to leave soon?” Max asked in a husky voice.

Some fumbling between them, noises against the floor. If they were indeed hugging, the Brit imagined that was the time to turn around and bring your partner down with you, hands on the lapel of the jacket. Max would lay almost on top of Charles, but still, support his weight on one of his elbows to have a better view of the man.

"Ah!" Charles inhaled sharply.

Alex held his breath in anticipation of kissing sounds, sloppy smacks, anything, any evidence that what he was imagining was truly happening in the other room. He did not dare to move one inch, muscles tensed, aching.

But nothing, not one audible peep came from the other side. What were they doing? His heart rate spiked up, he noticed he had almost all his body against the wall now. Were he a worse person, he could simply barge in there, apologizing and claiming he had lost his way and gotten into the wrong room.

Long stretches of silence followed suit. He listened to the sound of more fabric against fabric. They did not seem to be whispering, only perhaps they might be and he could not pick up.

Suddenly the ache in his legs was unbearable, and he felt utterly ridiculous pressing his ears against the wall, spying on his friends. The side of his face was cold; he sighed and rested his forehead against the wall instead.

He was losing it.

Could Max and Charles just be sitting together, a respectable space between them, each entertained with their phones, perhaps? For all the things Alex had been imagining, he himself had not seen anything compromising. As odd as it was for them to be so knit together, they were still good friends, the best of them apparently. And they were hiding due to their rivalry, weren’t they? In Alex’s mind it could make sense, the logical explanation would soon present itself.

(What for?)

The next thing he heard was almost enough to make him gag.

It was a murmur, one that made Alex press his ears tighter and tighter to the wall to understand. Charles’ voice was an octave lower, but it did not miss the same quality of flirting, languidly sweet and hot as it sent shivers down Alex’s spine.

“Your breath stinks of Red Bull, Max, for fuck’s sake.” (He would be saying against Max’s wet lips, warm puffs of air mixing between them.)

In that precise minute, his phone went off, an alarm.

The sound was shockingly loud for his ears. Heart anxiously beating against his chest, Alex fumbled to take his phone out of his jeans pocket and turn the damn thing off--one, two beats of silence before he heard steps on the other side, people getting to their feet, walking to the door. He was going to get caught.

With no time to waste, he ran to the window on the far end of the small room and climbed out.

Chapter Text

End of season always meant champagne, silverware for some, tears for most, happy or otherwise. For the drivers, it meant some time to finally let go, drink, party and fuck any sleep schedule. They still had a handful of races to go, but as religiously as breathing, there were all of them, celebrating Lewis Hamilton’s World Drivers' Championship. What number was it? Seven times? Daniel looked down at his drink - a beer, classical - and sneered. He had no idea, the man had one too many if you asked him.

They were together in a fancy club in Mexico, a whatever after-party Lewis had invited them. It was not that common to have that many drivers in one single club, contrary to popular belief. During race season, it was strict routines and diets. But fuck it, right, he did not drive a Mercedes anyway.

Sitting beside him were Lando Norris, George Russell and Alex Albon. He started to recount his steps, trying to understand how he got caught between three young Brits as they were paying attention to a video on Lando’s phone. Daniel peered over his future teammate’s shoulder and to his surprise, he was showing himself playing the guitar. George and Alex might have had enough to drink as they seriously paid attention.

“What a dweeb,” he said. Out loud, over the music, and whatever song Lando was playing since he was convinced none of them could hear the sound out of the speakers of Lando’s phone.

The young Brit swayed his glassy eyes to Daniel. “You can go suck it, I am still learning.”

That was apparent. Daniel followed the video for more seconds before pointing his fingers at the cell phone. “Why do you play it like that?”

Alex paused the video this time. “You know, I was about to say something about that, too. I don’t play the guitar but your hands…”

Lando puffed hot air through his noses. “Like what? I have to strum my fingers over the strings and I am clearly doing that.”

Daniel was quick to answer, “you look like you are playing the banjo, mate. You favour only three fingers,” before turning his head to the dance floor and finishing his beer.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Alex lean in and say, “have you tried using more fingers?”

The Aussie sniggered, and Lando and George found themselves laughing. Alex was tempted to hide his face on his hands, before putting them both up, “shit, alright. I did set myself to that one, I’ll admit.”

It was George who spoke over their bickering, lips forming a smile, gesturing. “Oi! Pierre!”

The Frenchman looked around before spotting them over a table. He approached the four, waving to each one. When his eyes last landed on Daniel, the older man smiled wickedly and loudly asked, “all alone? Where is your better half?”

Pierre rolled his eyes, albeit his lips curled to the side. He sat down, reaching for the first cup full of alcohol he could find. He ignored George’s protest of ‘that’s mine!’, drinking the content in one go. Cleaning his mouth with the back of his hand, he relented, “he is with Max.”

As to explain his defeated tone of voice, Pierre pointed to the direction of the dance floor, probably where he last was, near the corner, in a mezzanine. All pairs of eyes travelled up to where Max and Charles currently were - now it seemed obvious and remarkable that the people in deep conversation were their two friends. Alex had questioned his sight when he had first seen them, but in the end, he quickly made his way to another place in the club - the last thing he needed was Max and Charles acting strange.

“Oh…” it was Alex’s reaction.

“Yes,” agreed Pierre.

That was when Daniel looked around and it clicked: each and every person on that table was thinking the same thing.

Daniel had seen even less of Max since they exchanged gifts during the middle of the season, but nonetheless, he had seen enough to form an opinion. As had Alex and Pierre, perhaps Lando and George too.

He looked back at them one more time, and now Max had his face close to Charles’ ear, whispering something to him. They were leaning against the rail, hips sustaining their weight as they faced one another. Charles nursed a gin tonic, Daniel was sure of it, while Max drank any alcohol with Red Bull. The Monegasque threw his head back in laughter and instinctively Max put one hand on his back to keep him from falling.

When Daniel thought he could muster up words over the loud beat of the music, he told the men on the table just as it was, “those two want to fuck so bad.”

He was known to have little to no modesty. But perhaps he spoke too soon, his friends ought to be less drunk than they seemed, as his revelation was met with dead silence.

At their blinking eyes, Daniel lashed out.

“Oh come on, I know you have been thinking about it!” he accused. “Hell, they are making it impossible not to think about.”

Pierre was the first one to break. Heat rose high on his cheeks when Daniel looked at him pointedly, as if he was the one who had something to conceal.

Between their brief staring contest, Pierre stammered, “I-I--”

Lando then cut him, slamming his hand on the table. “I think they are going to dance now!”

Alex exchanged a knowing glance with Daniel, as the two on the table had witnessed, being teammates to Max now or before, the disaster the Dutchman was when moving his hips to any melody. The Aussie was going to have so much fun watching them.

“At least Max tries,” Alex offered lightly, defending Max from Daniel’s judging gaze. Yes, when he wants to get laid, Dan thought.

For reasons beyond their comprehension, and against their better judgment, the group found themselves engrossed in whatever courtship ritual was taking place between Charles and Max. The Dutchman was mostly swaying his hips crudely to the sides, hands lamely in motion as well. And oh, right, Pierre could never forget how clumsy Charles was as well. The Monegasque at least failed more graciously at it, leaning his body against Max’s chest, keeping his movements small and discrete.

It was George again who rustled loudly. “Fine, what is going on there?”

Daniel whistled, “don’t ask me… Ask him.” And pointed at Pierre.

The Frenchman gaped, incredulous. “What?”

“You are Charles’ best friend,” reasoned Lando, siding with the Aussie.

“So? Alex is Max’s teammate, why don’t we ask him? He sees Max more than I see Charles.”

Alex closed his eyes temporarily, flinching as if he was expecting a punch. “I don’t want to think about it, but... I might have heard something.”

Daniel looked at him, amused. “I knew it.” He drank beer out of his cup again with a shit-eating grin, feeling too proud of himself, bearing on maniac.

“Wait,” Lando said, voice high pitched, “you guys really think Max and Charles are into each other? For real?”

“All the evidence points to that,” replied Alex, sighing, all analytical and a tad regretful, as if it was a shameful fact, unavoidable.

“And you think they might be already sleeping together?”

“No, not yet,” Daniel admitted, “they are just friends for now, and Charles is simply clingy with Max, who is a big softie with Charlie, God knows why… But… I think they want to.”

Even with the weirded out expressions colouring all their features, it was an agreement they all seemed to have. Except for Pierre. And apparently so, as he avoided looking up, keeping his eyes trained in front of him.

“I don’t know!” Pierre bit out, answering the question they all silently pointed at him, “and I don’t ever wanna know.”

“Don’t be so repressed, mate,” said George, ever the peacemaker. “Let them snog a little, what is the big deal.”

Why was Daniel having so much fun with this? He noticed Pierre’s flustered cheeks from the other side of the table, and could not help himself. “You know, Pierre, they say jealousy is all the fun you think they had.”

And Pierre refused to imagine any form of fun between them. He simply refused. He was shaking his head, saying, “no way they are fucking. Just no way.”

"They might not even be aware they have been flirting all season long,” George tried to help.

The Aussie pushed himself up, getting comfortable on his chair before he leaned in. He knew how to make this even more interesting. “What if we bet?” he asked them.

“A bet?” parroted Lando. When Daniel nodded in confirmation, the Brit put a hand on his chin. “Sure. I bet... they will fuck each other by the end of this season.”

“That is way too far,” George weighed in, “I don’t give them another month of this."

Daniel clicked his tongue, thinking of himself as an expert on the subject. “Maxy is ready to attack there,” he said, and he smiled wider, to add effect to his next words, “I bet it will happen tonight.”

They all ignored the pained moan Pierre Gasly let escape from his crisped lips.

“Are you lot blind--”

“Why don’t we just ask them?” Alex asked, shutting everyone up right away. That was a stupid idea, Alex felt in his bones the trouble coming miles away. But was it curiosity that killed the cat? He felt he would die either way, anyway.

Daniel was never one to shy away from trouble though, so he agreed, took this phone from his back pocket and dialled Max’s number. What he hoped happened: the Dutchman felt his phone vibrate against his body and quickly checked the caller. Dan stood up to make himself visible and said to his former teammate, “come over here, mate. I need to speak to you!”

And because Max was a great lad, he did as he was told, no question asked. Daniel was always keen on the Dutchman because of that, the young man was chaotic and game for whatever madness he could come up with.

As the two approached the table, Alex could swear they had been holding hands, bodies too close, arms moving in sync, letting go of each other’s hand as soon as they were visible to curious eyes and better view.

“Dan,” Max greeted, as he clapped him on the shoulder, “I didn’t know you were already here.”

“Yes, the life of the party has been here for a while. Hi there, Charlie!”

Charles, who at this point would rather be anywhere else by the looks of it, caught himself in time and smiled down at his friends. “Hi, guys. Pierre,” he said to his best friend, mildly offended, “you abandoned us.”

The lukewarm smile Pierre had to offer was answer enough. Alex saw when Daniel stood up, taking the reins of the situation, as they thought he would.

“So Maxy,” Daniel slid up next to him, leaning against his shoulder. “How are you and Charlie doing?”

“We are fine,” Max said, regarding Daniel with caution.

Charles was suspicious, too. “What did you want, anyway?”

“Nothing,” he said nonchalantly, “we were just wondering if you will ever confess your undying love to each other, or something like that, any time during this season?”

The music inside the club was too loud now, as the drivers remained frozen in place, waiting for their answer.

Max blinked. “What?”

“Oh c'mon. When are you going to tell Charlie that, you know, you are into him?” Daniel asked, eyes staring intently, face too close as he kept his arm resting on Max’s shoulder.

Max shrugged, moving to the side and making Daniel lose balance. “What the fuck, mate?” he asked rather confusedly, if not insulted.

From Alex’s vantage point, he could pinpoint the exact moment they began to regret their decision to aggravate Max.

Daniel shifted awkwardly from feet to feet. “Well, you see, me, Alex, Lando and George made a bet about when you guys would get over yourselves and get together. I said it would happen tonight, actually. So. We just wanted to know when you both will grow some balls and act on it.”

Charles let out a humourless laugh. “You wanted to know when we would get together? Are you in fifth grade?”

When no one dared to say anything, perhaps waiting for the answer to Daniel’s question, Charles sighed. He looked up at Max, who simply shrugged, nodding along. Conceding something.

The Monegasque smiled sweetly. “Not that it is any of your business, but you are all wrong. Max and I have been together for over a year.”

The incredulous gasps around the table were more satisfying than expected, Charles noted, for a bunch of noisy fuckers who should be paying attention to something else.

Pierre stared at them, jaw on the floor. “What? How did I not know this?” he managed to spit out, still in shock.

Alex felt strangely better with the revelation, mostly because it made too much sense, and it would finally put to rest the images floating around his brain for all this time. He would, however, never tell Max he might have listened to him and Charles make out once or that he listened to them whispering around the paddock more times than he could count with one hand.

Charles felt slightly bad for his best friend, all the colour on his face vanishing so swiftly. Max however wasn’t so caring.

“Maybe because we never told anyone,” he replied impatiently.

“No way. You are fucking with us,” George declared.

“Wait,” said Alex, somehow laughing, “were you really hiding all this time? Because I have to tell you, you did a poor job of hiding for these last couple of months.”

“We were just sick of pretending,” the Monegasque explained, “so we tried to get away with some of it.”

For all the bravado and initiative, Daniel was strangely still shellshocked. He definitely did not see that one coming. What the ever fuck - they have been together for that long and he only noticed when the two allowed them to? By no means he was so wrong, he had actually been sure Max was still trying to get into Charles’ pants (and he was usually never so far off about sex-related topics).

“Nu-huh, that sounds fishy,” the Aussie spoke finally, unconvinced, eyes slitting, “George is right. I don’t believe you two.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You guys are such losers. We don’t have to prove--”

“Fuck this,” Max mumbled.

And to prove his point, Max kissed him. Because that was just Max, he would go all the way or he did not even start. Damn if people could be looking, he smashed his lips against Charles’ with a force to be reckoned with. Charles blinked, surprised for a few seconds. He felt Max’s hand run through the strands of hair on his nape, holding him in place, while his other hand braced his waist. He was practically locked in place, and he chuckled against those lips, thinking how typically Max this was. Possessive bastard.

Charles closed his eyes, finally, finally giving in, opening his lips to welcome the Dutchman's hot tongue, which quickly licked the roof of his mouth. The Monegasque could faintly hear their friends laughing maniacally and whistling like teenagers, but he was too occupied throwing his arms over Max’s broad shoulders, hugging his neck and bringing their bodies closer.

The heat was running all over his veins when he heard Pierre’s complaint.

“Ah, I did not want to see that!” said the Frenchman, his voice floating from somewhere far away.

Oh well… Charles was just glad Seb wasn't there.

“A place available for me to do a lobotomy?” Daniel chipped loudly as they kissed.

Without breaking the kiss, Max gave him the finger.

fin