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Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Champagne sprayed into the air like golden rain beneath the Abu Dhabi night lights—but to Carlos, it didn’t feel like victory. Not really. The lights sparkled, confetti drifted down like snow, and the crowd roared, but inside, he felt hollow. Numb. He stood on the second step of the podium, forcing a smile—the kind you practice in the mirror when you’re trying to hide the truth. It didn’t touch his eyes.

The noise, the fireworks, the smell of fuel and celebration—it all blurred together. None of it could drown out the ache in his chest. The sharp, bitter truth that this was the end.

His final race with Ferrari.

The team that once promised him everything—called him their future—had already made their choice before the 2024 season had even begun. Ferrari had decided to go in a different direction for 2025. They were moving on. He’d been pushed aside, just another name scratched off a list. And now, standing there in red for the last time, the weight of it all pressed down on him. He hadn’t expected it to hurt this much.

Next to him, Charles Leclerc smiled for the cameras, holding his third-place trophy. But his other hand stayed on Carlos’s back a moment longer than needed. A small squeeze. A silent “I know.”

Carlos wanted to resent him—for still being there, for not feeling the same hollow ache. But he couldn’t. Charles had always been a true teammate, someone he trusted, someone who understood him. And now, the thought of losing even that—the one solid bond he’d built—made his chest tighten with a deeper kind of pain.

It wasn’t just leaving Ferrari that hurt. It was the loneliness. The isolation. The feeling that everything familiar—his team, his friends—was already slipping away like a memory. This wasn’t just the end of a contract. It felt like the end of an era.

Above them, Lando stood tall, arms raised in triumph. His team had finally won the Constructors’ Championship. His joy was raw, real, and earned. Carlos wanted to feel happy for him—he tried to—but all he could think was:
This is the last time it will ever be like this.

The champagne burned on his tongue. His chest ached. He swallowed hard, trying to push the pain down—but it stayed. It choked him. And as the lights blazed around him and the crowd cheered louder, the truth hit harder than ever:

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Charles’ POV

Charles stood on the third step of the podium, holding his trophy, but his hands were shaking. The cheers, the flashing lights, the celebration—all of it felt far away. Distant. His focus was only on one person: Carlos.

Carlos, who had been his anchor for years, his teammate, his closest friend. And now, Carlos was leaving.

Charles could see right through the smile on his face—it was forced, fragile, not real. He’d seen that look before, but today it was different. Carlos wasn’t just hiding how he felt—he was barely holding it together. All weekend, Charles had noticed how quiet he’d become, how often he drifted off, lost in thought. He looked pale under the lights, detached, like he didn’t belong up there anymore. 

He’d seen the signs all season. The silence. The way Carlos disappeared sometimes, came back looking exhausted and distant. And now, with the season over, it felt like Carlos was already slipping away. Charles wanted to reach out and hold on to him, to stop it from happening—but he couldn’t.

They’d always leaned on each other in Ferrari. Through every high and every crushing low, they’d found strength in one another. When Charles felt overwhelmed, Carlos had been there. Carlos had been Charles’ calm in the storm. And now… it felt like the storm was all that was left.

Carlos was leaving for a new team, a new world full of people who didn’t know him like Charles did. Who wouldn’t see when he was struggling. Who wouldn’t understand the signs, the silences, the way Carlos hid his pain behind a practiced grin. Charles was terrified. Not just for Carlos—but for himself too.

Who would be there for Carlos now?
And who would be there for him ?

The thought of standing in that garage next season without Carlos next to him made Charles feel sick. It felt wrong. Empty. Like something essential was being ripped away.

They had always held each other together.
Now, Charles didn’t know how to do it alone.

He looked at Carlos—really looked—and the fear hit him like a punch to the chest. What if this was the last time they stood like this, side by side? What if he was already too far away?

Under the bright lights, with the crowd still cheering, Charles felt something cold settle in his chest. He didn’t know how to let go. And more than anything, he didn’t want to.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat alone in his driver room, the small, cold space inside the Ferrari motorhome feeling emptier than ever. The silver trophy from the race sat untouched on the floor, catching the harsh fluorescent light—but he barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the half-eaten sandwich beside him. He hadn’t touched it in over an hour. The thought of finishing it made his stomach twist.

It had started quietly, months ago. Just a small voice telling him to push the plate away, to train harder, to be sharper, leaner, better. To be perfect. But that voice had grown louder. Now it was always there, reminding him that no matter what he did, it wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t enough.

He hated it—hated how food made him feel guilty, how the hunger gnawed at him constantly. He looked at his reflection in the mirror across the room. His face was thinner. His features sharper. He barely recognized himself anymore. Just tired eyes and hollow skin. A version of him that looked like he’d already lost something he couldn’t get back.

His phone buzzed, breaking the silence. A message from Charles.

Charles:
“Hey, you did great today. But you know I'm always here for you, right? Don’t let the weight of everything get to you. I'll always have your back, even from a distance.”

Carlos stared at the words, a lump rising in his throat. Of course it was Charles—the one person who always seemed to know when he needed someone. The one who saw him when others didn’t.

And now, Carlos was leaving him behind.

That’s what stung the most. Not just that he was losing Ferrari, or his future in red—but that Charles was hurting because of him . Because of something he couldn’t control. Charles shouldn’t have to feel this way. It wasn’t his burden. But Carlos could see it in his eyes on the podium, hear it in his voice. And that made the guilt even worse.

His fingers hovered over his phone, trembling as he typed.

Carlos:
“Thanks, Charles. I’ll be okay. You don’t need to worry about me.”

A lie. But it was the only one he could manage—the only way to keep himself from falling apart completely.

He set the phone down and leaned back in his chair, the silence settling in again. The trophy still gleamed on the floor. But tonight, it didn’t mean a thing.

Charles’s POV

Everyone had left the paddock. The celebration hadn’t ended—it had simply moved on, shifted to the after party, where the lights were brighter and the music louder. But here, in the shadows left behind, the air felt heavier. Quieter. Like it knew something real was supposed to happen now.

Charles found Carlos in his driver room.

Alone.

Still in his race suit, half unzipped, Carlos sat slouched in on the cold floor like he couldn’t bring himself to stand. The sweat on his neck hadn’t dried, even though the desert night had cooled. He didn’t look up when Charles stepped inside. He didn’t need to.

Charles lingered in the doorway, eyes fixed on him. His chest ached. Carlos’s fists were clenched, tension etched into every line of his body like he was moments from snapping. His breathing was shallow, uneven—like part of him was still out there on the track, locked in a fight that hadn’t really ended when the checkered flag fell.

“…You’re not okay,” Charles said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Carlos didn’t reply, but his jaw tightened, a muscle ticking. It was a flicker—small, but enough. Charles knew better than to ignore it.

“I know you’re not,” he repeated, voice soft but steady.

Silence.

So Charles crossed the room and crouched down in front of him, bringing them eye to eye. He needed Carlos to see him. To really see him.

“You didn’t eat before the race,” he said gently. “You never eat when you’re like this. I saw you—just pushing food around on your plate.” Charles glanced at the half-eaten sandwich Carlos had set aside, ignored. 

Carlos parted his lips to say something, but no sound came. His face twisted, his composure cracking. Charles could see it now, raw and unfiltered—the pain Carlos had tried so hard to hide.

It hurt. Seeing him like this. The one who’d fought so hard for this team, who’d held it together more times than anyone gave him credit for—reduced to someone the world would never recognize like this. Someone unraveling when no one was looking.

“I thought I could handle it,” Carlos said, voice breaking. “Leaving. Starting over. I thought I was ready. But I—” His words faltered. He looked up, and in his eyes was something fractured. “I don’t know how to be alone again, Charles.”
It hit hard—honest and gutting.

Carlos looked away, searching the floor like it might offer answers. “I told everyone I was excited. That Williams believed in me. That I believed in me. But I lied. I had to. Because no one wants a driver who’s broken.”

The words landed heavy between them.

Charles slowly sank down beside him, stretching his legs out across the cold floor.

“You’re not broken,” he said softly. “You’re scared.”

Carlos let out a sharp, empty laugh. “Same thing.”

“No,” Charles said firmly. “Scared means you still care. It means you still feel.”

Carlos didn’t answer. Just kept staring at the ground like it might swallow him whole. Charles didn’t speak either. He just sat with him, letting the silence settle.

“I should’ve said something,” Charles finally whispered. “I should’ve fought harder to keep you here.”

Carlos shook his head, eyes still distant. “It wasn’t your fight. Ferrari had already made up their mind. They just waited to tell me—like I didn’t matter anymore.”

“You do matter,” Charles said, voice suddenly sharp. Fierce. “You matter to me. And you don’t have to pretend you’re fine just to make everyone else comfortable. Not with me.”

The weight of everything they hadn’t said hung thick between them.

Then, at last, Carlos’s voice came, barely audible: “I’m not okay.”

Charles nodded, heart aching. 

Carlos’ POV

The afterparty in Abu Dhabi was in full swing, loud and blinding, like it was trying to drown out anything real.
Carlos stood near the bar, the weight of it all pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe. His last night as a Ferrari driver.

He needed something—anything—to make it easier.
So he ordered a drink. Something strong. Something that might burn enough to remind him he was still here.
Charles was across the room, laughing, talking to people, a glass in his hand.
Pretending.
Carlos could see it. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, the way his shoulders were too tight, too tense for someone who was supposed to be celebrating.

Carlos sipped his drink and watched him. Watched the way Charles turned, almost instinctively, looking straight at him like he felt Carlos watching.
Their eyes met across the crowd, and for a second, the noise around them faded to nothing.

Then Charles was moving—pushing through the crowd without hesitation.
Stopping right in front of him.

"You good?" Charles asked, voice low, almost drowned out by the music.

Carlos forced a smile. Nodded. "Yeah," he said.
A lie, but easier than the truth.

Charles didn’t say anything. He just looked at him, really looked.
And then, without a word, he pulled Carlos into a hug.

Carlos froze for a second, surprised, before his body remembered what to do. He hugged Charles back, tight, feeling the way Charles was shaking against him.

"I just wish I'd fought more," Charles said, his voice breaking apart between them. "I didn’t want you to leave. We had a good thing here. And now…" He trailed off, choking on the words, not caring who saw him cry. "I’m always going to be one phone call away, okay? Please. Please reach out if you ever need to. I’m worried about you."

Carlos squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold himself together.
He hated this. Hated that Charles was sad because of him.
Charles should be happy. Should be celebrating everything he still had here. Not grieving because Carlos was leaving.

"It’s going to be okay," Carlos said, even though the words felt hollow in his mouth. A lie dressed up in good intentions.

Charles pulled him tighter, like he could somehow hold them both together if he just tried hard enough.
"But I’m going to miss you," Charles whispered.

Carlos felt the tears spill over, hot and uncontrollable.
"I’ll miss you too," he said, voice raw.

Charles pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy and red. "You’re going to find your place at Williams. It’s going to be alright."
Carlos wasn’t sure if Charles was trying to convince him—or himself.

"Yeah," Carlos said quietly, offering a small, broken laugh. "It’s going to be alright."

Neither of them believed it. Not really.
But it didn’t matter. Some lies were necessary tonight.

Charles didn’t say anything else. He just stayed there, holding onto him like he didn’t want to let go.
Like if he held on long enough, maybe none of this would have to happen.

Carlos knew better.
Tomorrow, he would be on a flight to Oxfordshire.
And Charles would be on a plane back to Maranello.

It was already happening.
The world was already pulling them apart.

"Never forget me," Charles said, voice thick, trembling.

Carlos smiled through the tears. "I won’t," he promised. "We’ll see each other on the grid."
He laughed softly, trying to lighten the moment. "This isn’t the last time you’ll see me."

Charles smiled back, but it was shaky. Fragile.

"You’ve been the best teammate I ever had," Charles said. His voice cracked on the last word.

Carlos swallowed hard, the burn of it worse than any drink could offer.
He didn’t say anything.
Just held on.

He didn’t know what would happen next.
He didn’t know if he would ever really feel at home again the way he had here.
But he knew one thing: Charles would be okay. He was strong enough to survive this. To thrive.
Carlos wasn’t sure about himself.

He didn’t know if he was strong enough to survive it this time.

But tonight, for Charles’s sake, he stayed quiet.
He stayed standing.
And he let Charles believe it would all be okay.

Even if it wouldn’t.

Charles’ POV

The morning after the party, Charles stood alone at the airport.

The buzz of the terminal—the chatter, the footsteps, the distant echo of announcements—barely registered. Everything around him felt muted, like he was underwater. Numb.

He stared at his phone. The last message from Carlos was still there, glowing on the screen like a bruise:

Thanks for always being there, Charles. I’ll figure it out. You don’t need to worry about me.

But Charles did worry. He couldn’t stop.

He kept seeing Carlos from the night before—sitting on the floor, quiet, distant, cracked open in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see. That wasn’t just about losing a seat at Ferrari. It was about everything: the pressure, the weight of never being enough, the fear of falling apart without anyone noticing.

Carlos had always held it together. Always pushed through. But now, Charles had seen it—really seen it. And walking away from him felt wrong in every possible way.

Now Carlos was going to face it all alone. With a new team. With people who didn’t know him like Charles did. And Charles was boarding a plane back to Maranello. Back to Ferrari. Back to the career he’d fought so hard to protect.

And yet, it felt like the wrong decision.

The plane doors hissed shut. Charles took a seat by the window and watched the tarmac blur past as they prepared for takeoff. He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the voice in his head, the one that had grown louder since last night:

You should’ve stayed.

Carlos had needed someone. Someone who could see through the silence. Someone who knew how to reach him when he started slipping.

That someone had always been Charles.

And now, he was leaving.

He told himself he had no choice—Ferrari needed him, testing was starting, the team expected him to show up. But none of that stopped the guilt from digging deeper. None of it eased the pressure in his chest.

As the plane lifted off the ground, Charles closed his eyes.

But all he could see was Carlos—tired, distant, and breaking quietly in the background of a world that kept moving on without him.

And no matter how hard he tried, Charles couldn’t shake the feeling that he had failed him. That when Carlos needed him most, he wasn’t there.

And he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for that.

Carlos’s POV

The moment Carlos boarded the plane to Oxfordshire, the weight of everything he was leaving behind settled over him like a second skin. This was supposed to be a new chapter—his reset with Williams, a chance to rebuild. But it didn’t feel like a beginning. It felt like running. And the emptiness followed him all the way to his seat, clinging to him as the plane lifted off.

By the time he arrived, the fresh start already felt stale. New engineers, new faces, new expectations. Everyone smiled like this was supposed to be exciting. Like it was an opportunity. But Carlos felt numb. Every corner of the hotel, every silent pause after testing, echoed with everything he’d lost.

Charles’s voice haunted the quiet. The way he’d looked at Carlos that night—concerned, soft, knowing—was etched into his memory. Carlos had told him he’d “figure it out.” But here, alone in a place that didn’t feel like home, he didn’t even know what that meant anymore.

This wasn’t just about Ferrari. It wasn’t just about Charles, or even the team that had once felt like family. It was about something darker. The way food had turned into something to fear. The way hunger became both punishment and comfort. The way it had crept in slowly—quiet, invisible. But now it ruled everything.

He was tired all the time. Testing left him drained, not just physically, but emotionally. His body was starting to betray him, and he could barely keep up the act. The self-control he prided himself on was slipping. Every pang of hunger, every skipped meal, wasn’t just about control anymore—it was survival. And he was losing the fight.

But it wasn’t the car, or the track, or even the pressure that broke him the most.

It was the loneliness.

After a long day at the circuit, Carlos found himself wandering the hotel lobby, hands in his pockets, head low. He wasn’t thinking about where he was going. He just needed to move. To do anything other than sit still and think. That’s when he ran into Alex.

“Oi, Carlos! You coming to join me?” Alex was already holding a drink, bright-eyed and grinning like the weight of the world had never touched him.

Carlos hesitated. The noise in his head was loud tonight. He didn’t want to be alone, but he didn’t want to pretend either. Still, something in him cracked. He nodded, said nothing, and followed Alex to the bar.

The drinks came fast. Too easy. Each one took the edge off—dulled the guilt, blurred the self-loathing. For a moment, he could laugh, even if it didn’t sound right in his own ears. Alex rambled on, oblivious to the storm inside him, and Carlos let him. Let the night swallow him. Let the numbness in.

But the truth lingered, even through the haze: this wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t recovery. It wasn’t healing.

It was escape.

And it was getting harder to come back from it each time.

Deep down, Carlos knew he was spiraling. He knew this version of himself—the one quietly unraveling behind the smile, behind the silence—wasn’t sustainable. He wanted someone to notice. He wanted someone to see him. But no one here did. No one here could .

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure he wanted to be saved anymore.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos and Alex were spiraling—side by side, yet worlds apart. Nights stretched into mornings, indistinguishable from one another, filled with drinks, distractions, and choices that felt less like rebellion and more like surrender. 

Alex’s loud, carefree energy was a contrast to Carlos’s silence, but it was a kind of silence that threatened to swallow him whole. He tried to drown the noise inside him with Alex’s laughter, but the harder he tried to escape, the more he realized that nothing was changing. If anything, the spiral only deepened.

Carlos wasn’t new to pressure, to slipping under its weight. He’d fought it for years, sometimes with defiance, sometimes with a forced smile. But this time was different. This time, he wasn’t just losing focus. He was losing himself. 

And he didn’t care. Or maybe he just didn’t have the strength to anymore.

Being around Alex, feeding off that reckless momentum, was like leaning into a storm just to drown out the one inside his own head. They were both trying to forget something. Carlos wasn’t even sure what he was running from anymore—his past, his body, the fear of failing again, the pressure to be someone he no longer recognized. Maybe all of it. Maybe nothing specific at all.

There had been a time when he felt in control. A time when racing gave him clarity. Now, even the track felt distant. The testing sessions were a blur of motion and numbness. Nothing lit him up. Nothing felt real . He was there, but only just.

And one night, standing in the quiet of his hotel room after hours of laughter and noise and drinks that didn’t help, it felt like he was drowning .

He had ignored everything for too long. Ignored the exhaustion, the cravings he didn’t trust, the mirror he no longer recognized. He had told himself he could handle it. That he just needed time. That once he settled into the new team, found his rhythm again, things would fix themselves. But they weren’t. And the longer he waited, the deeper he sank.

He didn’t know where to start. Didn’t know how to ask for help without feeling like he’d already failed. So he didn’t. He drank. He distracted. He pretended.

But in the quiet, when the walls closed in and the facade fell away, all that was left was the truth: he was alone in this.

And worse—he was afraid he might stay that way.

The pressure hadn’t gone anywhere. The expectations still hovered. But now, even his own reflection felt foreign. He was slipping, fast, and he wasn’t sure if there was anything left to grab onto. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Because it wasn’t just about the racing anymore. Or the transition. Or the team. It was about the part of him that had started to fade. The part that used to fight. The part that used to care.

Now, he stood in the dark of the hotel room, the city quiet beyond the window, and he realized the thing he feared most wasn’t failure.

It was that maybe… he had already given up.

Charles’ POV

The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac with a dull thud that seemed to echo the weight settling in Charles’s chest. The engines’ hum faded, but the pressure inside him only grew heavier. Even though the testing in Maranello was over, this feeling of unrest followed him everywhere.

Monaco’s familiar skyline appeared below, but instead of comfort, it brought a sharp reminder that things weren’t the same anymore. Nothing felt familiar. Not after Abu Dhabi.

His phone buzzed—probably Pierre checking in again—but Charles didn’t feel ready to respond. Truth was, he didn’t even know if he was okay. The drive home felt endless, the silence thick in the winding streets. He’d hoped that time away would clear his mind, but all it did was magnify the unease in his chest—the gnawing fear that maybe it was already too late.

He was worried about Carlos, the worry digging deeper with each passing day. Carlos was slipping away, and Charles wasn’t sure if he could reach him anymore. All he could do was stand by—watching, and worrying.

Back in his apartment, the comforts of Monaco felt hollow. Needing someone to talk to, Charles called Pierre without hesitation.

When Pierre arrived, Charles skipped the small talk. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed, his voice heavy with uncertainty. “I’m worried about Carlos, but I don’t know how to help. I just feel... helpless.”

Pierre listened closely, compassion in his eyes. “You can’t fix everything,” he said gently. “Carlos has to want to help himself. But that doesn’t mean you stop caring.”

Charles nodded, the knot of guilt tightening in his chest. “I’m scared, Pierre. Scared he’s being pulled into things he can’t handle.”

Pierre’s expression darkened. “You mean Alex Albon?”

Charles tensed. “Yeah. Alex. He’s had his issues before—his reputation, his wild side. But I didn’t realize how much he might be dragging Carlos into that mess.”

Pierre leaned forward. “They’re feeding off each other’s darkness. It’s not healthy. They’re creating a distraction that’s only making things worse.”

Charles swallowed hard, the worry knotting deeper in his gut. “Carlos needs stability. Someone to keep him grounded. But I don’t know how to do that.”

Pierre’s voice was calm and steady. “You can still be there for him. Even from afar. Don’t give up on him—not yet.”

Charles stared out at the Mediterranean, the quiet weight of the situation pressing down. He wasn’t close to Carlos, but that didn’t stop the fear—that Carlos might be slipping too far to come back.

And all Charles could do was hope. Hope it wasn’t already too late.

Carlos’ POV

Miles away in Oxfordshire, Carlos felt like he was sinking. The long hours at Williams’ testing sessions stretched on endlessly, but it wasn’t the work that wore him down. It wasn’t the cars, the engines, or the test laps—it was the deep, crushing loneliness that clung to him like a heavy fog.

He thought the move would be easier. He believed he’d eventually settle in and find some kind of belonging. But this wasn’t Ferrari. This wasn’t home. The faces around him were new and unfamiliar, like shadows passing by. The team was polite, the engineers skilled, but no one really knew him. The silence after each session felt unbearable. The support was there, but it wasn’t the same as the bond he’d had before. 

The loneliness was the worst. It settled deep inside him, a mix of sadness and physical ache that was impossible to ignore. The alcohol, which once gave him a brief escape, no longer dulled the pain. It was like trying to fill an endless hole—no matter how much he drank, the emptiness stayed. The numbness wore off too quickly, leaving him desperate for something to fill the void.

He had started pushing food away more and more often. Each time, the guilt bit at him, but the hunger never seemed to lessen. He was shrinking—not just in body, but in mind and spirit, becoming a shadow of himself. The mirror reflected someone he barely recognized. His body was fading, but what scared him most was that he didn’t seem to care anymore.

In those empty moments between testing, Alex showed up like a wild distraction. Alex was chaos—reckless, loud, and unpredictable. To Carlos, he was both an escape and a reminder that he wasn’t completely alone in his struggles. They’d go out drinking, trying to blur the edges of their pain. The alcohol never fixed anything, but for a little while, it made the world outside disappear.

They talked about everything and nothing—races, struggles, things they couldn’t share with anyone else. But there was something dark beneath it all. Alex’s wild energy and self-destructive habits only pulled Carlos deeper into his own darkness. It was like they fed off each other’s pain, two lost souls clutching to each other but dragging each other down.

Carlos didn’t know how to stop. It was easier to lose himself in the chaos, to numb the pain than to face it head-on. Easier to fall apart with Alex than to fight to get better. Every night, his thoughts spiraled louder, telling him there was no way out—that the darkness was all he had left.

Chapter Text

Charles’s POV

Charles stood frozen on the balcony in Monaco, eyes lost in the endless stretch of the Mediterranean. The waves crashed relentlessly against the rocks below, but they were nothing compared to the storm raging inside him. Pierre’s words echoed in his mind, over and over again, a warning he couldn’t escape. Alex. The dangerous path. The destruction Carlos was walking toward.

The weight of it all settled on Charles’s chest like an anchor. He knew, deep down, what he had to do. He couldn’t just sit back and let his friend slip away. Not again. Not when he had a chance to help. But even as that resolve built inside him, a knot of helplessness tightened in his stomach. How could he help?

The cruel irony was that he knew Carlos better than anyone. He had seen the signs—he had witnessed the cracks forming in Carlos’s resolve. And yet, with all the love he had for his friend, he had never been able to break through. Every text, every attempt to reach out felt like a hollow echo, as if the distance between them grew with each passing day. The guilt gnawed at him, sharp and insistent. Why hadn’t he done more? Why hadn’t he insisted harder, stayed longer, fought for Carlos when he should have?

But the truth was more suffocating. He was losing him. And no matter how many hours he spent at Ferrari, no matter how many meetings he attended, or how many laps he completed in Maranello, it was never enough. Ferrari needed him, but so did Carlos. And if he didn’t act now—if he didn’t do something—he would lose him completely. Forever.

The weight of that fear crushed him.

Charles’s hand hovered over his phone. He had sent message after message, each one full of desperation, each one falling into an empty void. But this time—this time he had to make it count. His fingers shook as he typed out the message, his thoughts frantic.

Charles: "I’m here, Carlos. I’m not going anywhere. Please reach out if you need me. You don’t have to do this alone."

He pressed send, the words hanging in the air like a prayer, but as soon as the message was gone, the emptiness returned. It didn’t matter that he had tried to reach out. It didn’t matter that he had put his heart on the line again, because Carlos wasn’t the same. He wasn’t the person Charles used to know—the one who would have leaned on him without hesitation. Now, Carlos was slipping further into something dark and unreachable, and Charles could only watch, powerless to stop it.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell the world how wrong it was, how broken everything felt. But there was nothing left to do but wait. Wait and pray that somehow, some way, Carlos would find his way back before it was too late.

Charles closed his eyes, feeling the coldness seep into his bones, a gnawing, aching reminder that some battles could never be won with just words. Some demons couldn’t be chased away with promises.

And as he stood there, staring out at the sea, a single tear slipped down his cheek, falling unnoticed into the endless expanse below.

He couldn’t save Carlos. But God, he wished he could.

Carlos’s POV

The lights of Monaco flickered beneath the night sky, a false promise of beauty, a cruel contrast to the darkness that had overtaken Carlos’s mind. His thoughts, heavy and twisted, tangled like the shadows that stretched across the quiet streets. It had been hours since he’d returned from the post-season testing at Williams, but the weight of his brokenness hadn't lifted—not even for a moment. He was here, but he wasn’t here. Monaco felt like a foreign place, a reminder of all the things he had lost—his place in Ferrari, his identity, his sanity.

He and Alex had wandered through the night, two ghosts searching for something they couldn’t name. The alcohol had been the easiest escape, though it no longer numbed the pain the way it once did. They drank to forget, to drown the weight of their broken careers—their broken selves. It wasn’t enough. It never would be.

Carlos had his phone in his hand when the notification came. A message from Charles. The simple words on the screen felt like an anchor pulling him down, deeper into the depths of his misery.

Charles: “I’m here, Carlos. I’m not going anywhere. Please reach out if you need me. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The words should have been a comfort. They should have made him feel less alone. But they didn’t. Instead, they felt like a cruel reminder of everything he had lost, everything he would never have again. He wanted to reach out to Charles, to fall into the safety of their friendship, but it felt impossible. The distance between them had grown too vast, too insurmountable.

Carlos didn’t even know who he was anymore. Ferrari had let him go like a forgotten toy, discarded after it had outlived its usefulness. The man who had once been Carlos Sainz, the driver to watch had become a shadow, a broken version of himself that could no longer even hold his own identity.

Alex’s laughter rang out beside him, pulling him back to the present. But it didn’t help. It only deepened the chasm inside him. He turned to Alex, his voice thick with the weight of the alcohol and the pain he was suffocating beneath.

“You know,” he muttered, voice barely steady, “Charles texted me.”

Alex’s smirk was quick, a flash of something sharp and knowing. He leaned back, eyes glinting. “Oh? And what did he say?”

Carlos showed him the message, each word on the screen making his chest ache in a way he couldn’t describe. It wasn’t just the kindness—it was the truth behind it. But there was no way to bridge that gap.

Alex snorted, his tone dripping with disdain as he took another swig from his bottle. “He’ll never understand,” he said, voice laced with bitterness. “Charles doesn’t get it, Carlos.” 

Carlos’s heart twisted in his chest. He hated that Alex’s words had an edge of truth to them. He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to believe that Charles was different—that his friend cared enough to fight for him. But in that moment, it felt like a distant fantasy. The longer he stared at the message, the further away it seemed.

“Maybe you’re right,” he murmured, his head spinning, the alcohol clouding his thoughts. He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know anything.

Alex leaned forward, his gaze fierce and intense. “Look, Carlos,” he said, voice low, like a secret being whispered between two lost souls. “Charles is the golden boy. He’s always going to be the one who gets the praise, the one they look to. And we? We’re the ones they toss away when they don’t need us anymore. You don’t need to pretend everything’s okay for his sake. You owe him nothing.”

The words cut through Carlos like shards of glass. They were like acid, burning in his chest. He wanted to deny them, to fight against them, but he couldn’t. Because it was the truth.

Before he could respond, Alex stood up, his movements quick and careless. He walked over to a nearby drawer, pulling out a small bag of white powder. His eyes gleamed with a reckless energy that sent a shiver down Carlos’s spine.

“You want to feel alive, Carlos?” Alex asked, his voice low, dangerous. He held out the bag, the temptation a heady mix of dark allure and reckless abandon. “This is how you take control. Just a little. You’ll feel unstoppable. You won’t feel like you’re falling apart anymore.”

Carlos stared at the bag, the world spinning around him. He knew it was dangerous. He knew it would destroy him. But the darkness inside him screamed for escape, for something—anything—to stop the crushing weight of everything he couldn’t escape.

With a shaky breath, he reached for it. The decision made itself, made in the haze of alcohol, guilt, and the hopeless exhaustion of it all.

Alex grinned, a wild, untamed expression on his face as he showed Carlos how to use it. And as Carlos felt the sharp rush of the powder flood through his veins, it was like the world fell away. The suffocating anxiety, the crushing sense of failure, the gnawing hunger—it all vanished in an instant. The fog that had clouded his mind lifted, replaced by a terrifying clarity. For the first time in months, he felt alive, in control.

He wasn’t thinking about Ferrari, about his place in the world, about the friends he had lost. None of that mattered in the fleeting euphoria.

For just one moment, Carlos felt like he could breathe again. Like he could escape from the hell that had become his life.

And that was the problem. Because at that moment, he didn’t want to remember how deep the fall had already been. He didn’t want to face how far gone he truly was.

But he would. Eventually. And when he did, there would be nothing left to save.

Alex’s POV

The night swallowed them whole as the yacht sliced through the quiet, empty sea. The darkness seemed to stretch forever, vast and suffocating, just like everything else. The wind tugged at their hair, a fleeting reminder that there was still something alive in the world, something that wasn’t as heavy as the weight pressing down on their chests. But even the sea breeze couldn’t clear the air between them. They were trapped. Both of them.

Alex's head felt like it was spinning. The mix of alcohol and something stronger had turned the edges of reality into a blur. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to care. He was on the edge, teetering dangerously close to something that would snap if he wasn’t careful. But there was something about this moment, this strange, broken connection with Carlos, that made him want to dive deeper into the madness. He didn’t have to think when he was this high. He didn’t have to feel the cracks breaking open inside him.

Carlos, still there beside him, wasn’t much different. They were both running from the same thing, both drowning in it. But the way Carlos was staring out at the water, lips pressed tight, it was almost like he was trying to disappear, like he was holding back something so much bigger than the space between them. And Alex… Alex didn’t know if he could hold back anymore.

Alex spoke before he could stop himself, his voice rough and empty. “It’s not just the teams that break us. It’s the whole damn sport. We give everything—our souls, our lives—and when they’re done with us, they toss us aside like we were never even here. Like we’re nothing but tools. You’re either in the right seat, or you’re out. Simple as that.”

He didn’t know why he said it. He didn’t care anymore. The words burned as they left his mouth, but it felt good to say them out loud, even if it was just for a fleeting second. He was so tired of pretending, of wearing the mask that kept the world from seeing the cracks in him. But Carlos was different. Maybe he saw it. Maybe he felt it, too.

Carlos didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned to face Alex, his gaze hard but real. “Yeah, I know,” Carlos said, his voice low, but not defeated. “I used to think I was something, too. Thought maybe if I just tried harder—if I proved myself, showed them what I could do—it would all work out. But now?” Carlos shook his head, his eyes a little darker. “Now, I feel like I’m just... waiting. Like any second, they’ll pull the rug out from under me. And I won’t even be surprised.”

Alex felt a cold shiver crawl up his spine. Carlos’ words stung. They were the ones he’d been afraid to say aloud, the ones that had been circling in his mind for months. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. The truth hung between them, heavy and sharp, but it was also a relief. A horrible kind of relief.

“You’re not wrong,” Alex murmured, his voice cracking. “We’re just... disposable. No matter what we give. No matter what we sacrifice. And when they’re done with us, they’ll just forget we ever existed or media will just twist everything, make it to something we aren't.”

Carlos met his gaze, the silence between them stretching taut like a wire ready to snap. There was something raw in Carlos’ eyes now, something that mirrored what Alex had been hiding for so long. That emptiness, that burning desire to escape.

Alex’s breath caught in his chest, and before he could think it through, before he could even care, he leaned forward. It was reckless, it was messy, and he didn’t give a damn. The kiss was all heat and chaos, a collision of need and desperation. It wasn’t pretty, wasn’t controlled—it was just the raw, ugly truth of them both. No more pretending. No more masks.

For a moment, Alex felt the fire between them, felt it rushing through his veins like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He didn’t feel the weight of everything, of the endless pressure, of the years of living a lie. For one second, he didn’t feel like a failure. He didn’t feel like everything he had been chasing had turned to ash.

But then, in the silence that followed, the whisper came—quiet and poisonous, like it always did. Fire burns. He could feel it starting already, the heat of it, the danger of it. And Carlos—Carlos didn’t pull away. Didn’t hesitate. His hands were on Alex, holding him closer, and there was something in his eyes that Alex couldn’t place. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t regret. It was something darker, something that pulled at him.

“I don’t know how long we can keep doing this,” Carlos said, his voice low and hoarse, barely a breath between them. “Playing with fire... it always burns, Alex.”

Alex looked at him, eyes wide and raw. He couldn’t answer. He didn’t know how to answer. The fire was already there, already raging inside him. Maybe it was already too late. But for the first time in so long, the flames didn’t feel like destruction. They felt like life. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t ready to put them out. Not yet.

Carlos’s POV

The light was unforgiving—bright and cutting through the haze of alcohol, the lingering effects of last night’s reckless abandon. Carlos woke up on the yacht, his body a battlefield of aches and bruises, his head pounding as though a thousand hammers were pounding against his skull. The world around him was a blur of half-forgotten memories, a cruel reminder of the chaos he had willingly drowned himself in.

But that hollow emptiness—the one he couldn't escape—was still there, eating away at him. He could feel it in his chest, heavy and suffocating. The alcohol, the drugs, the chaos with Alex… none of it had filled the void. If anything, it had made it worse. He had let himself be consumed by the very darkness he’d been trying to outrun, and now he didn’t know if he could ever find his way back.

A bitter laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside Carlos. What had he expected? To find salvation in Alex? In the madness, in the chaos? The thought felt laughable now, but the ache in his chest was very real. Alex had been his escape, his reckless companion, but all that had done was drown him further. In the process, he’d torn apart everything that made him who he was.

He didn’t know when it had crossed the line between escape and destruction. Maybe it had always been this way. Maybe he’d been playing this game from the start, pretending to be in control while he tumbled headfirst into the abyss. And now, looking at Alex—who had always been the embodiment of chaos, the force that matched his own brokenness—Carlos couldn’t help but wonder if Alex was as lost as he was.

Carlos closed his eyes, his mind spinning with the weight of it all. He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning.

The door to the cabin creaked open, and Carlos tensed. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know who it was. Alex’s presence was as familiar to him now as his own heartbeat, and it terrified him. He wanted to pull away, to run, but the pull of Alex’s chaos was magnetic. It always had been.

Alex stood beside him, quiet for a moment. His breath still smelled like alcohol, his movements sluggish from the high they’d both ridden the night before. But it was the silence between them that suffocated Carlos. The tension, the unspoken words, the weight of everything that had happened between them that neither of them could admit.

“You okay?” Alex asked, his voice rough, but it lacked the usual playful edge.

Carlos turned to look at him, and for the first time, he saw something in Alex’s eyes that he couldn’t ignore—something darker, something raw. Something that mirrored the emptiness Carlos felt in his chest.

“I don’t know,” Carlos muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands shook, but he couldn’t tell if it was from the leftover high or the overwhelming fear that was starting to settle in. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. With you… with all of this.”
Alex’s gaze softened, but it was an expression that Carlos couldn’t decipher. Was it sympathy? Pity? Or just the same desolation Carlos had been drowning in?

“You don’t have to know,” Alex said, his voice quieter now, his tone carrying a tenderness Carlos hadn’t expected. “Maybe that’s the problem—we’re both pretending we have it figured out, but we don’t. None of us do. We’re just two lost souls trying to find a way to survive.”

Carlos’s heart hammered in his chest as he looked at Alex. The words felt too close, too painfully real. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was sinking—and Alex, for all his recklessness and chaos, was the only thing keeping him from completely drowning.

But even that felt like a lie.

Carlos reached for Alex, his lips crashing into his in a kiss that was too messy, too full of desperation. It wasn’t passion. It wasn’t love. It was a lifeline, and Carlos grabbed onto it with everything he had left. Alex’s response was immediate—frantic, wild, a collision of two people who had long since given up on anything resembling control.

But in the back of Carlos’s mind, a voice whispered, cold and indifferent: You’re playing with fire. This is your destruction, not your salvation.

And yet, he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t pull away, not when the chaos in Alex’s touch felt like the only thing that could make him feel anything other than empty.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless and disoriented, Carlos’s chest tightened. He felt alive—yes—but it was the kind of alive that was burning him from the inside out.

He didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending this wasn’t consuming him. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep drowning in this toxic, messy romance, in this wreck of a life he was building with Alex.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe he was already too far gone to save himself.

And as he stared out at the calm waters of Monaco, all he could think was that no amount of high-speed thrills, drugs, or fleeting distractions could outrun the gnawing emptiness inside him.

He wasn’t just lost.

He was drowning—and Alex was the storm that was swallowing him whole.

Chapter Text

Carlos’s POV

Carlos stood at the edge of the rooftop terrace, high above Monaco’s glimmering streets. The city pulsed beneath him—vibrant, alive, everything he couldn’t feel anymore. The night air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. Inside, it was all static. Noise. Emptiness. He had turned away from everything that had once grounded him—especially Charles. Not out of cruelty, but because even kindness had become unbearable. Every message from Charles was a mirror held too close. A reminder of everything Carlos was failing to be.

But Alex... Alex didn’t ask him to be anything.

Leaning against the railing a few feet away, Alex flicked ash from his cigarette, the glow briefly lighting up the sharp lines of his face. “You wanna get out of here?”

Carlos didn’t answer, just nodded.

They moved quickly, descending the narrow staircase that coiled down through the building like a secret. The rooftop door clicked shut behind them, and the warmth of the apartment below was replaced by the electric hum of night. Alex’s bike was waiting outside the building, parked beneath the glow of a flickering streetlamp.

Alex straddled it effortlessly, like he was born for this kind of recklessness. He tossed Carlos a helmet without ceremony.

Carlos caught it, fingers tightening around it for a moment. A heartbeat. Then he pulled it on and climbed behind Alex, arms looping around his waist like it was second nature. Like falling.

The engine snarled as Alex revved it to life. A second later, they peeled off into the night.

Monaco blurred around them, nothing more than streaks of light and noise. The wind whipped against Carlos’s chest, the cold a sharp contrast to the heat building behind his ribs. He clung tighter, not to stay on the bike, but to hold on to that moment—that rush of speed and silence that felt almost like peace. It was easier to chase the illusion of control than sit with the truth.

The ride was fast. Dangerous. Perfect.

When they returned, the tires screeched softly against the pavement outside Alex’s building. Carlos stepped off first, helmet in hand, heart still racing, but slower now—like it didn’t know what to do with itself once the adrenaline faded. The world had gone still again, and all the noise in his head was flooding back in.

Alex didn’t say anything. He just nodded toward the front door, already pulling off his own helmet, hair messy and eyes shadowed with something unreadable.

They took the elevator up in silence.

The apartment was dark when they stepped inside, lit only by the spill of city lights through the windows. The door clicked shut behind them, and for a second, neither moved.

Carlos let the helmet fall to the floor and walked toward the living room, the familiar scent of smoke and expensive liquor clinging to everything. He dropped onto the couch like he was falling into it, like if he stopped moving he might come apart.

Alex passed him a drink, unscrewed the cap of something far too strong, and dropped down beside him. No words. Just the shared understanding of two people too far gone.

The ride had given Carlos a few stolen minutes of quiet. But it hadn’t chased the storm away. Nothing could.

And so, they drank. Like they used to. 

Not to celebrate. Not even to forget. Just to drown.

And the night stretched on.

Just them. Just this.

It was almost impossible to believe—they were Formula One drivers, teammates.

Alex’s POV

The apartment was quiet again. Too quiet.

Alex hated silence. It made everything louder—his thoughts, the memories, the shit he’d spent years trying to outrun. But tonight, it clung to the walls like smoke, thick and restless.

Carlos had been standing on the terrace for nearly twenty minutes, just staring out at the city like he was waiting for something to pull him off the edge. Alex watched from the kitchen at first, leaning against the counter with a glass in hand, telling himself not to interfere.

But that was a lie. He always interfered.

He crossed the living room and stepped into the open doorway, letting the cool night air hit his skin. Carlos didn’t turn around.

“You alright?” Alex asked softly.

Carlos didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. He just stood there like he was part of the view—silent, still, barely there.

“Yeah,” Carlos replied after a beat. “Just… figuring it out.”

Alex snorted quietly, stepping closer.

Carlos finally looked over his shoulder. There was a flicker of something behind his eyes—exhaustion, maybe. 

“Figuring it out?” Alex echoed, cocking his head. “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

Carlos didn’t argue. He never did when Alex said things like that. Maybe because he knew it was true.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Alex added, softer now. There was something sharp in his voice, something bordering on desperate, but he smoothed it over with a crooked smile. “I mean, misery loves company, right?”

Carlos looked at him then—really looked. There was a kind of rawness in his face that made Alex’s stomach twist. It was the look of someone unraveling. And Alex knew that look too well. He lived in it.

“You’re right,” Carlos said quietly. “It’s easier, isn’t it? To just keep running.”

Alex stepped closer, the smirk fading. “Yeah. Easier to stay lost than face everything we’ve fucked up.”

The tension between them settled into something heavier, something quieter.

He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against Carlos’s arm. It wasn’t quite a touch, but it was close enough to feel dangerous.

Carlos didn’t pull away.

“Let’s not think about it tonight,” Alex murmured. “Come on.”

He turned, walked back inside, not needing to check if Carlos was following. He always did.

The apartment was dim, the only light coming from the kitchen where a lamp hummed low and warm. Alex grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the counter and poured two drinks. No ice. No nonsense. Just burn.

Carlos dropped onto the couch, shoulders hunched like the weight hadn’t left him on the terrace. Alex handed him a glass and sat on the opposite end, one leg tucked under him, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.

“You’ve been off,” Alex said eventually. “More than usual.”

Carlos stared at the floor. “It’s just... everything.”

“No, it’s not.” Alex leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think I don’t notice? The weight loss, the way you barely eat when you’re here. The way you check your phone like you’re waiting for a lifeline you’ll never let yourself grab.”

Carlos didn’t answer.

Alex’s voice lowered. “Is it Charles?”

That name always hit like a bruise. Carlos stiffened.

“I saw the message,” Alex continued. “You left your phone on the counter earlier.”

Carlos flinched, eyes flashing with something between guilt and anger. “You went through my phone?”

Alex shrugged. “Didn’t need to. It lit up.”

“Right,” Carlos muttered, looking away. “Of course.”

Alex sat back, watching him with an expression that was hard to read. “He still thinks he can save you, doesn’t he?”

Carlos didn’t answer, which was an answer in itself.

“He doesn’t get it,” Alex said. “He never will. He’s not like us.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.”

Alex laughed bitterly. “It’s not. It’s just true.”

Carlos’s fingers tightened around his glass. “I gave everything to that team.”

“I know.”

“And it still wasn’t enough.”

Alex nodded slowly. “It never is.”

Silence again. This one deeper. He could feel the way Carlos’s breathing had changed—slower, heavier. Like he was sinking into something dark and didn’t want to fight it.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Carlos admitted, and the words cracked in the middle like they’d been waiting too long to come out.

Alex moved to sit beside him this time, not across from him. Close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there.

“You don’t have to,” he said eventually. “Not here.”

Carlos turned his head slightly, eyes meeting his.

There was no comfort in the look they shared. No promise of safety. Just mutual understanding. Mutual destruction.

“I’m tired,” Carlos whispered.

“I know.”

They sat like that for a long time—two broken people in the dim light, clinging to each other because there was nothing else left to hold.

Alex reached for Carlos’s glass and set it aside, his hand brushing against Carlos’s knee as he did. The touch lingered—gentle, but not innocent.

Carlos didn’t move.

“You can stay,” Alex said quietly.

“I always do.”

Carlos POV

The sunlight seeped through the thin curtains of Alex’s apartment, casting a harsh glow over Carlos’s face as he slowly stirred awake. His head felt like it was being split open, the pounding pain relentless, gnawing at him with each passing second. He was disoriented, the bed unfamiliar beneath him. For a split second, he had no idea how he ended up here, in this space that was neither home nor comfort. His mind spun, desperate to latch onto some memory, but everything was drowned in a thick, foggy haze.

His eyes flickered to the side, and he saw Alex still sleeping next to him, tangled in the sheets, a mess of limbs and loose hair. The scent of whiskey still clung to Carlos’s clothes, thick and suffocating, and his stomach churned at the thought of last night—the flashes of memories, the laughter, the reckless abandon. It was all blurry, nothing but a haze of self-destruction. But the emptiness, the deep ache in his chest, was crystal clear. That never went away.

Carlos sat up slowly, pressing his palms against his eyes as if he could rub away the pounding headache, the shame, the growing realization that his life had become one long string of mistakes. He wanted to stop. He wanted to find a way out. But it was too late now, wasn’t it? Too deep. The vicious cycle of alcohol, drugs, and empty distractions—he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop himself.

His gaze fell to the nightstand. There it was—a small line of cocaine, carelessly left behind by Alex. It wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t even the hundredth. He didn’t need to think about it. The instinct to ignore it—to walk away—warred with the desperate hunger that clawed at his insides. He wasn’t even sure what he was running from anymore, but he needed it. Needed the release. The feeling of being alive, even if it was fleeting.

Carlos didn’t hesitate. It was easy. Too easy. He bent down, inhaled the line, and felt the rush immediately, that sharp surge of energy cutting through the fog like a knife. For a second, he felt something. Not a lot, but just enough. It wasn’t happiness or joy—it was clarity. Like everything momentarily snapped into focus. But he knew it wouldn’t last. Nothing ever did. The high would fade, and with it, the emptiness would return, stronger than before.

He pulled on a random shirt from the floor, grabbed the first cap he could find—some Williams one—and shoved on sunglasses to hide the mess of his face. He needed to look normal, at least for a little while. He needed to pretend that he wasn’t spiraling out of control, that he hadn’t just ruined himself again.

The walk to the café was long enough for him to fool himself into thinking he was fine. He moved through the streets, a mask of composure barely holding together, his body buzzing with the aftereffects of the coke, but the emptiness lingered, gnawing at him. He walked through the crowd, eyes avoiding the stares, trying to focus on the simple task of getting coffee. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t want to make eye contact. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Not even Alex.

But even as he tried to focus on the mundane, his thoughts kept drifting back to Alex. The reckless, destructive force that was always just a step behind him, pulling him deeper into this mess. Alex was chaos incarnate. But it wasn’t just the chaos—it was the way Alex understood him. The way he saw the cracks in Carlos and didn’t care to patch them up, just let them grow. They fed off each other. They destroyed each other. But that was their bond, wasn’t it? Their twisted, unhealthy need for each other, for the fire, for the destruction.

Carlos could feel Alex’s presence even when he wasn’t around. Alex’s voice echoed in his head, the way he’d whispered in his ear last night, his fingers digging into his skin, the wild electricity between them. That kisses—the ones that had been messy and raw and full of desperation—it still burned in his mind. They didn’t even talk about it. They never did. They just let it happen, like everything else.

They were both spiraling, but at least they had each other in the fall.

The café loomed ahead, and Carlos walked in, the bell above the door chiming as he stepped inside. The barista gave him a quick glance, but Carlos barely noticed. His hands shook as he fumbled for his wallet. The high from the coke was starting to wane, and with it, the sharpness. The fog was coming back.

Charles’s POV

Charles sipped his espresso, the bitterness grounding him as he listened absently to Pierre’s voice drifting across the table. Monaco buzzed around them—quietly glamorous in the way only this city could be—but Charles’s focus was elsewhere. He wasn’t sure why he felt tense today. Just a hum beneath his skin, like something was coming.

Then he saw him.

Carlos.

Standing in line at the counter, sunglasses on even though they were indoors, posture taut like someone trying not to shatter.

Everything inside Charles went still.

Pierre kept talking—something about a sponsor dinner next week—but the sound faded as Charles watched Carlos scan the café. There was a brief moment where their eyes didn’t meet, and then—there. A flicker. Recognition. Hesitation.

Charles’s chest tightened.

It had been weeks since they’d spoken. Not properly, at least. Not since Carlos had started pulling away with that practiced detachment Charles had come to know too well. Texts unanswered. He had known something was wrong, really wrong.

But seeing him now, up close, in the flesh—it was worse than Charles had imagined.

Charles stood up before he could think better of it.

Pierre barely got out a confused “Where are you—?” before Charles was already halfway to the counter, his heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t name.

Carlos hadn’t moved. Just stood there, waiting for his coffee, sunglasses still on, his jaw tight. But now Charles was close enough to see the way his hand twitched slightly at his side. The shallow rise and fall of his chest.

His stomach dropped.

“Morning, Carlos,” he said quietly, carefully, like he might spook him.

Carlos turned toward him, too slow to be normal, too controlled to be natural.

“You okay?”

It wasn’t a casual question. Not anymore.

Carlos stiffened at the words. His mouth opened too quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just... tired from the testing, you know? Long days.” The grin he gave was lopsided, rushed—like a mask that didn’t quite fit anymore.

Charles didn’t smile back. He could smell the faint trace of alcohol on Carlos’s clothes. The artificial calm in his voice. He knew this version of Carlos. Or—no—he didn’t. That was the problem.

“You don’t look fine,” Charles said quietly, stepping a little closer. “You smell like whiskey. And your eyes—” He stopped, biting back the rest, but his voice came out tighter. “Carlos, what are you on?”

The words landed between them like a live wire. Carlos’s expression flickered. For one terrifying second, Charles thought he might admit it—might let something slip.

But then Carlos did what he always did when he was cornered.

He lashed out.

“I don’t need you to fucking analyze me, Charles.” His voice cracked a little at the edge, a bitterness creeping in that Charles hadn’t heard before. “I’m fine. Just drop it.”

“You’re not fine,” Charles said, his voice firmer now. He could feel the frustration bubbling under his skin, but underneath that was something softer. Something that ached. “Carlos, this isn’t you.”

Carlos’s nostrils flared, and Charles saw it then—just a flash of it—the panic, the desperation, the way Carlos’s hands trembled like they didn’t belong to him. His sunglasses slipped a little on his nose, and for the first time, Charles caught the full look in his eyes.

Red-rimmed. Wide. Frantic. Lost.

“You don’t get to say that,” Carlos muttered. “You don’t get to pretend like you still know me.”

“I never stopped knowing you.”

That made Carlos freeze. Just for a breath.

But then he tore himself away. Physically stepped back, like Charles’s words had burned him.

“I’m done with this conversation,” he said, sharp, final. “Seriously. Just leave it.”

And before Charles could reach for him again, Carlos grabbed his coffee, turned, and walked out—no, stumbled out—his gait uneven, his head ducked low, like even the morning light outside was too much for him.

Charles stood there for a moment, frozen in place. The coffee, the conversation, the rest of the world—it all blurred behind the ringing in his ears.

He felt Pierre come up beside him slowly.

“Charles?” Pierre asked, cautiously. “You okay?”

Charles blinked. Nodded once. “Yeah. Just... worried.”

He sat back down but didn’t touch his coffee again.

Because the truth was—he could still feel it. The weight of Carlos’s presence. The way he’d looked through him like a ghost.

Carlos wasn’t just unraveling. He was disappearing.

And Charles didn’t know how to save someone who didn’t want to be seen.

Not anymore.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos slammed the door with a force that made the walls shudder, the sound echoing through the apartment. His breath was ragged, chest heaving as the weight of everything he'd been avoiding hit him all at once. He couldn’t think, couldn’t process—he just felt. The buzz from the cocaine had dulled but still lingered in his veins, a sickening reminder of the mess he was making of his life. But the guilt was sharper now. It hit harder than any high.

His footsteps were heavy as he paced the floor, trying to outrun the suffocating pressure building in his chest. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. His mind was a chaotic spiral—Charles’s disappointed eyes, the sting of his words, the flicker of betrayal that Carlos couldn’t shake. He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready for anything.

“Carlos?” Alex’s voice cut through the thick air, groggy, unsure, but tinged with that irritating hint of concern. It was all wrong, everything was wrong. Carlos could already feel the anger rising, mixing with the shame, a toxic brew he could barely keep from spilling over. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Carlos stood frozen, back to the door, hands gripping the edge of the coffee table in Alex’s living room like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He couldn’t face him yet. Not like this. Not with the mess he had become.

“What’s going on?” Alex’s voice was sharper now, more awake, and that only pissed Carlos off more. Of course Alex wanted to know. Everyone wanted to know.

Carlos didn't respond right away. He couldn't. His mouth was dry, his mind in a blur, and the pressure in his chest was unbearable. He knew it was all coming apart. He could feel it. And all he could do was push the overwhelming urge to scream away.

“I ran into Charles,” Carlos muttered, his words coming out thick, like a weight pressing against his tongue. He didn’t want to look at Alex. Not yet. “He… he saw trough me. He knows.”

Alex swung his legs off the bed and approached, his hand landing heavy on Carlos's shoulder, his fingers pressing into his skin like he could ground him, like he could hold him together when Carlos was already falling apart.

“I get it,” Alex said, quieter now, the anger giving way to something that felt almost... caring? “You feel like you’re running out of options. Like nothing matters anymore. Like you can’t fix any of this.”

Carlos’s eyes flickered up to meet Alex’s. There was something in Alex’s eyes—a twisted reflection of the same chaos that was suffocating him. Alex wasn’t wrong. Maybe he felt the same. But it didn’t matter anymore.

“I need this, Alex,” Carlos’s voice cracked as he spoke, desperate, pleading for something to make sense. “I need to destroy everything. I need to feel something other than this numbness. I need to let myself fall apart. I don’t know how else to deal with it. I can’t... I can’t keep pretending.”

Alex’s eyes softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. The air between them thickened, heavy with words unsaid, with truths neither of them was ready to confront.

“Carlos, this... this isn’t healthy,” Alex said, his voice strained, like the words were too painful to say. “You and me, man, we’re just dragging each other down. This—” He waved his hand between them, like it could sum up the mess they had created. “It’s an endless cycle. We’re bringing out the worst in each other. We have a team to represent next year.”

Carlos felt like he was drowning in those words. Every bit of hope he’d clung to, every excuse he’d told himself—this isn’t healthy, Carlos—the voice echoed in his head and twisted like a knife. He needed something to hold on to. He needed to feel real. He needed Alex.

“No,” Carlos snapped, shaking his head, pushing away from Alex’s touch. His hands curled into fists at his sides, frustration and anger mixing in a volatile mess. “No, I need this! I need to feel something. I don’t want to feel fucking empty anymore.” His chest was tight with the words, the emotion spilling over and crashing into everything.

Alex stood there, silent, watching him, a slight furrow in his brow. There was something almost regretful in his eyes, like he was fighting a losing battle too. “I get it, Carlos. I really do.”

Carlos could feel the crack in his armor deepening, but he pushed it away. He had to. If he let the crack grow, it would swallow him whole. He wasn’t ready to fall apart. Not like this.

He looked at Alex, his words cold and sharp. “You don’t get it,” he spat, anger flooding his voice. “You think I want to be this way? You think I want to fucking ruin myself? But I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know what else to do, Alex. What the hell do you want from me?”

Alex’s expression softened, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of everything—the hurt, the anger, the desperation—collapsed in the space between them. There was a rawness in his eyes, an honesty that scared Carlos more than anything.

“We need to start thinking about the future,” Alex whispered, his voice softer now, but still full of conviction. “You just need to... want to. You have to believe you’re worth more than this.”

Carlos’s breath hitched. He didn’t know what to do with those words. He wanted to scream, to push Alex away, to deny it all. But the vulnerability—the raw, unfiltered truth in Alex’s eyes—it was enough to break him.

Before he knew it, Alex’s arms were around him, pulling him close, grounding him, pulling him back from the edge of the abyss. Carlos’s body trembled in his arms, the exhaustion, the pain, everything flooding him in waves. He let himself sink into Alex, letting his body betray him just for a moment.

And then their lips collided. It started soft, hesitant, a fragile touch, but quickly deepened. It was messy, frantic—full of raw need and buried emotions. It wasn’t love, not really, but it was something. Something real, in the chaos.

But as soon as it had begun, Alex pulled away, breath ragged, eyes wide with the same confusion and fear that mirrored Carlos’s own.

“This can’t be our answer, Carlos,” Alex said, his voice low but firm. 

Carlos’s heart felt like it was going to explode in his chest. He wanted to scream, to say everything was fine, that they didn’t need to face this. But the words caught in his throat. They both knew. Deep down, they both knew.

“You deserve better too,” Carlos whispered, his voice breaking. “I'm not the only one in the dark.”

Alex nodded, a sadness in his gaze. “I think that I don't deserve better, just like you think you don't deserve better.”

Carlos closed his eyes, his body heavy with exhaustion. In the silence, there was a flicker of something—hope, maybe—but it felt so far away. His mind was a whirlwind, but Alex’s arms around him were the only thing that felt steady. Even if it was broken, even if they were both falling apart—maybe that was enough. For now.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Carlos muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

“We’ll figure it out,” Alex said softly, pulling him closer. 

But Carlos knew the truth: they couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not until everything had burned.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

It was New Year’s Eve, and Max Verstappen’s apartment pulsed with the rhythm of the night. The lights were flashing, the music was thumping so loud it felt like the walls were trembling with every beat. The laughter, the shouting, the chaos of the party—it all felt like it was happening in another world, a world that felt as distant to Carlos as the stars outside. But tonight, he had a mask on, and he wore it well, even if the cracks were starting to show. He was laughing. He was drinking. He was high. And for now, that was enough.

Carlos leaned heavily against the bar, the heat from the room making his skin itch. His hair was wild, his eyes glazed, and a grin stretched across his face—but it didn’t touch his soul. The coke rushed through him in sharp, electric waves, but all it did was deepen the emptiness gnawing at his insides. The guilt. The guilt that had settled deep in his chest ever since he’d pushed Charles away, ever since his perfect little world had shattered. Another drink went down like water, his head spinning just enough to make him forget for a while.

"Cheers to another year of fuck-ups!" Carlos shouted, his voice loud enough to drown out the bass thumping through the speakers. He tossed the rest of his drink back, barely tasting it, barely feeling it.

Beside him, Alex was just as lost, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused, his grin too wide to be genuine. His grip on the bottle of tequila was too tight, fingers white from the strain, but he didn’t care. He was too deep in the haze, too far gone to feel anything except the need to keep the act up. To keep pretending.

“Carlos, you’re a fucking legend!” Alex hollered, slinging an arm around Carlos’s shoulders in an exaggerated show of camaraderie. They looked like they were having the time of their lives. They looked like the center of the universe. But deep down, Carlos knew. It wasn’t real. None of it. It was just two guys playing dress-up in a world that didn’t care.

Carlos smiled, but it was empty. “I know, mate. I know.”

The music thudded in his chest, loud enough to make him feel like he was drowning in it. He and Alex were pretending. Pretending to be okay. Pretending to be invincible. But no one saw what was beneath the surface. The loneliness. The fear. The constant ache. They didn’t see how desperate they were to outrun it all. To outrun the truth.

Laughter bounced around them, but it felt like a mockery. Alex grinned at him, pulling him into a drunken embrace. The countdown to midnight had already started in their heads, but they were too far gone to care. The crash was coming. They both knew it.

Across the room, Carlos noticed Charles Leclerc, standing with Pierre Gasly. His eyes flickered between them and then back to Carlos, watching him stumble, his steps exaggerated, his grin too wide. Charles knew. He knew something was wrong. He knew this wasn’t a celebration—it was an escape. But Carlos didn’t care. He was too wrapped up in his own fog, too far gone to care about anything except the rush that kept him upright.

Then, suddenly, Alex’s laughter cut off, his face draining of color. He swayed for a moment, before staggering and gripping Carlos’s arm for support. Carlos didn’t catch the tremor in his own body, his head spinning with the force of the drugs coursing through him. He was still drunk enough to laugh it off, to pretend nothing was wrong, but he could see Alex’s breathing become shallow, ragged. It was like the weight of everything they were both running from had finally caught up with him.

“Alex?” Carlos’s voice was sharp, almost panicked, but he tried to mask it with another laugh. “You good, mate?”

Alex didn’t answer. His eyes were unfocused, his grip tightening around the bottle, knuckles white. He shook his head slightly, but the look in his eyes was empty. Carlos didn’t even notice how his own hands trembled as he tried to steady Alex, his world spinning dangerously.

Then the rush hit harder, crashing into him like a wave. The world tilted, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not the way his heart raced in his chest, not the way his skin felt too tight, not the way Alex could barely stand beside him. They were both too far gone to care.

Suddenly, George Russell appeared in the doorway, his eyes darting between Carlos and Alex. He could see the desperation in both of them. The act was slipping, the facade crumbling as the two of them clung to the charade. 

“Guys,” George said, his voice sharp, cutting through the noise as he stepped forward, pushing through the crowd. “We need to talk. Now.”

Alex blinked at him, his smile forced, almost manic. "Talk? Why? We’re having the time of our fucking lives, George," he slurred, his voice slow and uneven. He let out a jagged, uneven laugh. “This is what we’ve always wanted, right?”

Carlos didn’t even try to argue. He just took another drink, the burn rushing down his throat, and turned to George with a wide, unsteady grin. “Yeah,” he said, too loud. “What’s the problem, George? This is... fun.”

But George wasn’t fooled. His gut twisted as he watched them both, the truth bleeding through the cracks in their masks. They were unraveling, but neither of them seemed to care. Or maybe they just didn’t know how to stop.

“Enough, Alex,” George said quietly, his voice firm but filled with concern. “This isn’t you. This isn’t fun. You’re killing yourselves with this shit.”

Carlos’s grin faltered for a moment, but he quickly looked away, unwilling to face it. He didn’t want to face the truth. Alex, however, wasn’t so good at hiding it. His anger flared, his face twisting into a snarl.

“You think you can fix this?” Alex spat, his voice bitter, full of rage. “You think you can fix us?”

Carlos flinched, but the anger between them was already there, building in the space between their words, swelling like the thumping music that had stopped being an escape and had become an anchor, a reminder of everything they’d lost.

“George, just leave us the fuck alone,” Carlos snapped, his voice sharp with fear and venom.

Alex’s fingers tightened around the bottle, his grip white-knuckled, and for a second, it looked like he was going to throw it. Maybe at George. Maybe just in frustration. But then the world spun again, and Alex staggered, his legs giving out beneath him.

Carlos reached out, clumsy, desperate to catch him, but they both fell, crashing to the floor in a tangled mess. For a moment, the noise stopped. No music. No laughter. Just the ragged sound of their breath, struggling to keep up with the chaos that had consumed them both.

The room slowly came back to life, the countdown to midnight starting again, but Carlos didn’t care. The party, the celebration, it all felt meaningless. They weren’t celebrating anything. Not tonight.

And the crash? It had already begun.

Max’s POV

Max Verstappen have had enough.

From the corner of the room, he’d watched it unfold—Carlos and Alex unraveling in real time. Slurred voices, glassy eyes, laughter that sounded too loud to be real. It was supposed to be a New Year’s Eve party, but it looked more like the aftermath of something broken. The kind of mess you didn’t just clean up—you carried it with you.

And they were his friends. Once, anyway. His old teammates. His people.

Max stormed across the room, jaw clenched, fury bubbling just beneath the surface. He hated this feeling. The helplessness. The disappointment. The fear.

His voice cut through the pounding bass and chatter like a blade. “Guys,” he said, low and sharp, “this is a fucking disaster.”

Carlos and Alex were on the floor, limbs tangled in exhaustion and intoxication. Alex looked up first, blinking slowly, like he couldn’t register what was happening. “Max,” he muttered, barely coherent. “You’re not gonna ruin the party just because—”

“Don’t,” Max snapped, sharper now. “You’re making a fucking scene. In my apartment. I’ve let you spiral for hours, and now you’re out of control. You need to get the hell out.”

Carlos tried to push himself upright, his expression flickering between anger and shame. “It’s just a party, Max. We’re just—”

“You’re done,” Max said, voice cold as steel. “This isn’t you. This isn’t either of you.”

But maybe it was now. That was the part that scared him.

There was a time when Carlos had been steady and grounded—the one Max could lean on when things got tough. And Alex had been all light and laughter, quick with a smile and a spark of hope in his eyes. Now, they were shadows of who they used to be—ghosts trapped in their own skin.

Alex staggered to his feet, swaying. “Fine,” he said hoarsely. “We’ll leave. But you think this fixes anything, Max? Tossing us out like trash?”

Max didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because no—he didn’t think it fixed anything. But it was the only thing he could do. He turned away from them, fists clenched at his sides, throat burning with words he didn’t know how to say.

Outside, the cold air hit hard. Carlos leaned on Alex like they were the only thing keeping each other standing. George followed them there, voice low but laced with frustration and concern. Charles followed a few steps behind, silent, tense.

“Don’t make this worse, Carlos,” George said. “You’re not the only one hurting.”

Carlos let out a dry, hollow laugh. “You don’t know what I’m running from.”

Max stayed by the door, silent, watching. Part of him wanted to grab Carlos by the shoulders and shake him until he remembered who he used to be. But the other part—the quieter, sadder part—knew he couldn’t drag him back. You couldn’t save someone who didn’t want to be saved.

George pressed on. “You’re not fooling anyone. Least of all yourselves.”

Alex didn’t argue. He just sagged under the weight of it all. Carlos looked at him, and Max could see it—he saw it. The brief flicker of something real behind the exhaustion. The anger wasn’t gone, but it cracked just enough for the regret to peek through.

Charles stepped forward, voice gentle but firm. “Maybe it’s time to stop pretending.”

Carlos didn’t respond right away. But something in him shifted. His shoulders sank. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “Fine. I get it.”

Max wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to believe him.

George nodded. “Let’s go before this gets worse.”

As they began walking, Max didn’t follow.

He stayed at the door, watching them disappear down the street to the parking lot, their figures swallowed by the night. For a moment, he just stood there, frozen, his breath clouding in the air. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to grow up, not fall apart.

He swallowed hard and turned around.

The music thumped on as he stepped back inside, lights strobing over the crowd like nothing had happened. Laughter filled the room. People danced. The countdown to midnight glowed above the fireplace, each second slipping away like a fuse burning down.

Max closed the door behind him.

And for the first time that night, he felt completely alone in his own house.

He had thrown Carlos out like he didn’t matter—just like Ferrari had. And the weight of that choice sat heavy in his chest. He felt sick about it.

George’s POV

The night air outside was cold, the chill biting at their skin as they stood in awkward silence in the parking lot outside Max’s apartment. Carlos had gone, stumbling off into the night with a half-hearted apology and a slurred promise that he’d be fine. But George’s attention was fixed entirely on Alex, whose weight was now draped against him as they made their way to George’s car.

Alex’s eyes were hollow, his movements sluggish, barely able to keep up with George’s steady pace. The buzz from the alcohol and drugs hadn’t fully worn off, but the haze had started to lift, leaving behind a sharp clarity that was as uncomfortable as it was overwhelming. The quiet, broken fragments of his life were suddenly too loud in his head.

“Come on, Alex,” George said, his voice gentle but firm as he opened the passenger door. “Let’s just get you home. You need to sober up.”

Alex didn’t respond, too far gone to argue. He collapsed into the seat, his body a heap of exhausted limbs. As George started the car and drove through the streets, the city lights blurred past them, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside the car.

When they arrived at George’s apartment, Alex didn’t move. His eyes were shut tight, his breathing shallow, like he was trying to shut everything out.

George helped him inside, guiding him through the door and toward the couch. He didn’t speak, just let Alex sit down, then disappeared into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He returned, sitting beside Alex and holding it out to him.

“Here,” George said softly. “Drink this.”

Alex took it in his hands, his fingers trembling slightly as he brought it to his lips. He drank slowly, the cool water doing little to quell the fire in his veins. He didn’t know how to stop the chaos. He didn’t even know if he wanted to.

“Alex,” George began after a long silence, his voice careful, “I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”

Alex looked over at him, his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed from too many nights like this. He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to face the truth, but something in George’s voice, the way he was looking at him, made it impossible to avoid.

“Do you need to go back into rehab?” George asked, his words slow, measured, like he was testing the waters. “You know I’ll help you, right? I’ll take you there. But you need to tell me if this is something you want.”

The question hit Alex like a slap to the face. His chest tightened, and the weight of everything he had been avoiding came crashing down. He swallowed hard, his throat constricting, as he suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“I—” Alex’s voice cracked, the words barely escaping him. “I don’t know how to stop, George.”

George leaned forward, his hand resting on Alex’s knee, his grip gentle but steady. “You don’t have to do this alone. You know that, right?”

Alex’s gaze dropped to the floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the emotions he had been suppressing for so long finally began to surface. The mask of bravado he had worn for so long, the laughter, the forced smiles, it all shattered in a single moment of raw, unfiltered pain.

“I... I’ve fucked up again,” Alex confessed, his voice barely audible. “I thought I could control it. Thought I could... just... just keep it in check. But I can’t. I can’t, George. It’s all falling apart.”

His breath hitched, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Alex let himself break. The tears came, silent and uninvited, but they came. His shoulders shook, and his hands curled into fists, as if trying to hold on to whatever shreds of control he had left.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said quietly, his voice rough with guilt. “I never wanted to let you down again. I didn’t mean for it to get this bad… but I don’t know how to stop. I don’t even know if I can.” He paused, eyes flickering with something hollow. “Watching Carlos get pushed out by Ferrari… it brought everything back. What Red Bull did to me—it just hit too hard. It was too much.”

George didn’t speak at first. He just sat there, watching Alex crumble in front of him, his heart breaking for his friend. He could see the weight Alex was carrying, the exhaustion, the fear, the hopelessness that was buried so deep beneath the layers of alcohol and drugs. He could see it all now, clearer than ever before.

“Hey,” George said softly, his voice quiet but firm as he reached out to touch Alex’s shoulder. “You’re not letting me down, Alex. You’re not. But you need help. You need rehab. And I’m going to help you get there. I’ll take you tomorrow. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

Alex looked up at him, his eyes filled with disbelief and a strange sense of relief. “You... you’ll take me?” he asked, almost as if he couldn’t believe it was real. “You’re not mad at me?”

“No,” George said firmly, shaking his head. “I’m not mad. I’m worried. But I’m not mad. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Alex’s chest hitched again, a sob breaking through before he could stop it. He buried his face in his hands, the tears coming harder now, like a dam finally breaking after years of holding it all in. The shame, the guilt, the fear—it all came crashing down, and he didn’t have the strength to hold it back anymore.

“I don’t know how to fix this, George,” Alex whispered, his voice trembling. “I don’t know how to fix me.”

“You don’t have to fix it all on your own,” George said gently, his voice warm and comforting, like a lifeline Alex wasn’t sure he deserved but was reaching for anyway. “You just have to take it one step at a time. And the first step is tomorrow. We’re going to get you the help you need, okay?”

Alex nodded, though it felt like the weight of the world was still on his shoulders. He wasn’t sure how he was going to make it through the next day, let alone the days after that. But for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone.

And that, in itself, was a start.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos stumbled through the city streets, lost in the darkness, his mind spinning like the wheel of a roulette that kept landing on empty. The fireworks exploded in the distance, their bursts of color a stark contrast to the dead silence inside him. People were celebrating the new year, dancing, laughing, high on the joy of beginnings, but all he could hear was the deafening echo of his own thoughts.

The world around him was alive. The world around him was bright. But not Carlos. He was fading into the background, a shadow stumbling aimlessly down the streets, swallowed up by the noise and the lights. Charles’s voice had faded away, lost in the chaos, just like everything else. Why did I leave? The question pounded in his skull, but he couldn’t go back. He didn’t deserve to.

Am I even going to make it through this year? Carlos couldn’t escape it. The thought clung to him like the bitter taste of whiskey still stuck in his throat. Will I make it through this month alive?

His legs carried him without purpose, his steps uneven, his body fighting against the weight of his own thoughts. The emptiness gnawed at him, relentless. Is this what it’s come to? He looked up at the skyline, the bright lights of the city mocking him, laughing at how small and broken he felt. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere.

His heart felt like a drum, pounding in his chest, drowning out the sound of the fireworks, the laughter. He wasn’t part of this celebration. He was outside of it, trapped in his own damn head. And in that moment, he was sure—he wasn’t going to make it. Not tonight. Not this year. Not any longer.

He found himself outside a bar, a neon sign flickering above the door. He didn’t think. He didn’t care. He just entered.

The dim light inside felt suffocating. The air was thick with smoke and regret, the hum of murmurs, of desperate souls trying to drown their pain in cheap booze and quicker fixes. Carlos slumped onto a stool at the bar, staring at the glass of whatever the bartender slid his way without asking. He didn’t need to taste it. He didn’t need to know. He drank it anyway, the burn hitting the back of his throat like a scream he wasn’t brave enough to let out.

And then, someone slid into the seat next to him. The stranger’s hand brushed against his arm, a touch that didn’t feel like anything. Not the way Alex had touched him. Not the way Charles had cared. It was just another touch—a fleeting attempt at connection. But there was nothing real about it. Not anymore. Not for Carlos.

“Rough night?” The man’s voice was smooth, effortless, like he knew exactly what Carlos needed—another distraction, another way to numb the pain.

Carlos didn’t say anything. He just let the man do the talking, feeling the weight of his own silence pressing down on him harder than anything the stranger could offer. The guy was offering more—more drugs, more numbness, more of the same endless cycle of trying to feel something, anything. But it wasn’t the release Carlos wanted. It wasn’t the escape he’d been chasing.

The man slid the bag toward him, but Carlos didn’t even hesitate this time. He grabbed it, his hands trembling, and let the drugs sink in, the world shifting, his body heavy, his mind lost. But this wasn’t it. This wasn’t the high he was searching for. 

It was just more emptiness.

Carlos closed his eyes for a moment, the haze of the drugs washing over him. But then, in the midst of it, something broke through the fog. 

Carlos pulled away from the stranger, his breath shallow. His pulse was racing, but it wasn’t from the drugs—it was from the realization that hit him harder than anything. The truth he’d buried beneath layers of alcohol and distractions.

Carlos couldn’t stay. So, he walked out of the bar, his mind a swirl of confusion and desperation. He had to find Alex. He had to see someone. Anyone. He couldn’t be alone with this anymore.

His feet carried him toward the marina, toward the yacht. Alex’s yacht. The one place where he used to feel something, like maybe, just maybe, the cracks in him could be filled. He needed that feeling again. He needed to believe that he wasn’t as lost as he felt. That there was still something left worth fighting for.

But when he reached the yacht, it was empty. The silence of it punched him harder than any punch could. There was no sign of Alex. No sign of anyone who cared.

Carlos called out, his voice hoarse, but the sound was swallowed by the empty night, lost in the distance.

“Alex!” The name broke from his lips, desperate, raw. But it was just another whisper in the wind. Another futile cry for help.

The cold was creeping in, the drugs still spinning in his veins, the world around him tilting like a ship on the edge of a storm. His knees buckled, his body giving in to the overwhelming darkness. He stumbled, tried to steady himself, but everything blurred. Everything was spinning.

Maybe this is it, he thought, his vision fading. Maybe I won’t make it.

And then, just like that, the darkness swallowed him whole. His body crumpled against the deck of the yacht, the last remnants of his will to hold on slipping through his fingers like water.

There was no more fight left. No more pretending. No more running.

Carlos didn’t know if he would wake up. He didn’t know if he even wanted to.

The night went silent.

And for the first time in forever, Carlos felt nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos woke up on the deck of Alex's yacht, the cold metal beneath him cutting through the haze of a night he couldn’t fully remember. His head was pounding, and his body felt stiff, as if he had spent hours lying there. The air smelled salty, the distant sounds of the city muted by the gentle sway of the water.

He blinked against the sharp light of the morning, his mind slow to process the emptiness around him. Alex was nowhere to be found. It made sense. Alex had his own demons, just like Carlos, but Carlos never expected the yacht to feel so... lonely. He had a vague recollection of stumbling around, of finding solace in the isolation, but now, with daylight breaking, it seemed like a dream he was waking from too slowly.

His stomach churned, the effects of the night lingering, and he stood up, unsteady on his feet, before deciding to head home. Home. The word felt strange, hollow. The last few days had blurred, and the chaos of it all had left him feeling untethered.

Carlos made his way off the yacht, staggering slightly as he walked, his thoughts heavy with nothing but the need to escape. He wasn’t sure what he was running from anymore. It was all too much—the party, the drugs, the emptiness. But for some reason, he couldn’t stop.

When he reached his apartment building, the familiar sight of it brought him no comfort. He was exhausted, broken, but still somehow unable to face whatever had been left behind.

And then he saw him.

Charles was standing by the entrance, leaning against the brick wall of the building, arms crossed over his chest, waiting. He had clearly been there for a while, and when he spotted Carlos, his expression tightened in concern.

Carlos could feel the weight of Charles's gaze as he approached. Charles’s eyes took him in—wild hair, dark circles under his eyes, the faint tremble in his hands. Carlos barely suppressed the urge to cringe. He knew what he looked like. He could see it in Charles’s eyes too.

“You look like hell,” Charles said, his voice surprisingly gentle but still carrying an edge of frustration. "Rough night?"

Carlos tried to force a grin, but it felt like something cracked inside of him when he did. “Yeah, you could say that.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “You know, one of those nights that doesn’t really end.”

Charles didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push either. Instead, he took a step forward, his gaze never leaving Carlos. “Do you want to talk?”

Carlos just shook his head, his exhaustion creeping through his tone. “Not really. But you can come inside if you want. Make yourself useful.”

Charles followed Carlos into the apartment, his eyes scanning the space as he walked in. The apartment felt too small, too tight—like a cage. Carlos felt like he was suffocating, and all he wanted was a little peace, a little silence.

Without saying another word, he made his way to the bathroom, where the cold tile floor greeted him like an old friend. He barely made it to the toilet before his body rejected everything inside it, throwing up violently. His stomach heaved, and the contents of the night before came up in a mess of alcohol, regret, and desperation.

He closed his eyes as he vomited, focusing on the sensation of it, as if the physical pain would make him forget the emotional ache. When it was finally over, Carlos rested his forehead on the cool porcelain for a moment, breathing heavily. He could feel something—a brief lightness, a sense of release, but only for a moment.

After a while, he slowly pulled himself together, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. A hollow shell. That’s all he saw. He barely recognized himself anymore.

He took a few steadying breaths, then opened the bathroom door, only to be met by Charles standing in the kitchen, his hands busy preparing breakfast. The sound of sizzling eggs filled the silence between them, but it felt too loud, too personal.

Charles didn’t look up immediately, but his voice was quiet when he spoke. “I made breakfast. Figured you might need something to eat.”

Carlos stood frozen in the doorway for a moment, then shrugged it off. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll eat later.”

Charles turned to face him, his eyes soft, yet filled with something Carlos didn’t want to acknowledge. “Carlos, we need to talk.”

Carlos didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to face the mess he had made. But he didn’t know how to say it without breaking.

"I'm fine," Carlos muttered, his voice lacking conviction. “Nothing to talk about, really.”

But Charles wasn't fooled. His eyes narrowed, watching Carlos with the same piercing intensity he always had. “You can’t keep pretending like this isn’t a problem. I know you. I know what you're doing.”

Carlos glanced away, suddenly aware of the sweat on his palms, the way his heart was beating too fast. But he didn’t want to deal with it, not now.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, this time with more force, though it barely held any weight. He wasn’t fine. But he didn’t want Charles to know that.

Ignoring Charles’s silent stare, Carlos turned and went back into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He felt the weight of Charles’s gaze even through the thick wood, but he couldn’t face him right now. He needed something to feel better. He needed something to clear the fog in his head.

The hot water in the shower felt like a comfort at first, the steam filling the room, blanketing him in temporary peace. But peace wasn’t real. Not for him. Not anymore.

Carlos reached for the small bag from his dirty clothes on the floor, his hand trembling as he unzipped it and quickly prepared another line. The sharp rush of it hit him like an electric jolt, and for a fleeting moment, he could breathe again. His thoughts sharpened, the fog clearing, and he felt the familiar buzz that seemed to give him the strength to keep going.

But as he stared at himself in the mirror, something inside him felt like it was dying.

He heard the sound of Charles’s footsteps outside the bathroom door, and his voice, cautious but firm. “Carlos, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Carlos’s heart skipped a beat, and he quickly wiped his nose, trying to act normal, trying to act like everything was fine. “I’m doing nothing” he said, his voice more defensive than he meant.

Charles’s voice softened, but there was an undeniable weight to his words. “Alex is on his way to rehab,” he said quietly, “He’s trying to save himself, Carlos. I need you to understand that. You’re not alone in this.”

Carlos's chest tightened at the mention of Alex. The words sparked a sharp anger in him, as though someone had lit a fuse inside him that was ready to explode.

“Don’t fucking tell me what Alex is doing, Charles,” Carlos spat, his voice low but seething with emotion. “You don’t understand. You don’t get it.”

Charles stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m trying to help you.”

But Carlos couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear any of it. The anger surged, mixing with his pain, and in a burst of frustration, he shoved open the bathroom door, brushing past Charles without another word. He grabbed his jacket and made his way to the door, not stopping to look back.

He had to get away. He couldn’t let anyone see how much of a mess he really was.

Without another word, he slammed the door behind him, leaving Charles standing in the middle of the apartment, unsure of what had just happened, but knowing that Carlos was breaking, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Carlos wasn’t ready to be saved. And he wasn’t sure if he ever would be.

George’s POV

The cold January morning settled over Monaco like a warning—gray, weighty, still echoing with the static of fireworks and bad decisions. The city looked hungover. So did the sky. And inside George Russell’s car, everything felt suspended, like even time was afraid to move forward.

The silence was thick. Only the soft hum of the engine filled the space between them, but even that sounded like it was bracing for the fall.

George kept his hands tight on the wheel, knuckles pale, eyes flicking toward the passenger seat every few seconds. Alex sat there, motionless. Hollow. His body present, but his mind miles away—still tangled somewhere back in the chaos of New Year’s Eve. Or maybe somewhere much darker.

George had seen Alex like this before. He’d seen the highs. The charm, the wild energy, the recklessness masked as joy. But this? This wasn’t just another party aftermath.

This was the edge of something dangerous.

Because George knew the signs. Knew the diagnosis. He knew Alex had bipolar disorder. And while the rest of the world had written off his manic streaks as eccentric or wild or "just Alex being Alex," George had watched with a kind of quiet horror. Because what came next wasn’t wild. It was silence. It was numbness. It was the fall.

And Alex was about to crash. Hard.

"You’re doing the right thing," George said quietly, trying to sound steady. “This... this is the right step.”

Alex didn’t answer. He didn’t move. His cheek rested against the window like he was trying to feel something through the glass. His breath fogged the surface in slow, shallow bursts.

Then, finally, his voice—barely audible. “I’ve never felt this far gone after a high.”

George swallowed hard. The weight in Alex’s voice—it was already sinking. The mania had burned fast and bright. And now it was dying out, leaving him scorched.

“You will come back from this,” George said, though it felt like a lie even as he said it. “You always do.”

But he didn’t believe it. Not fully. Not this time. Because Alex hadn’t just been manic—he’d been spiraling, untethered. George had watched him light himself up like a firework, and now the sky was empty, and the silence was starting to scream.

Alex blinked slowly. “I just keep thinking... Carlos saw it. All of it. Me at my worst. And he followed me down.”

George exhaled sharply through his nose, staring straight ahead. “You didn’t make Carlos like this.”

“No,” Alex said. “But I showed him how to fall.”

The words gutted George. Not because they were cruel, but because they were too honest. That was the thing about Alex during the comedown—no lies. No bravado. Just brutal clarity.

“You’re not responsible for his choices,” George said, gentler now, as if volume might crack Alex further. “Carlos was already unraveling. He was just waiting for someone to give him permission.”

Alex didn’t reply. His gaze dropped to his lap, shoulders caving in. George could feel it—his friend collapsing in on himself like a dying star.

“He won’t let anyone help,” Alex whispered. “Not even Charles. He’s too proud.”

“He’s not unreachable,” George said. “He just doesn’t know how to ask for help yet.”

Alex gave a small nod, but his face twisted like the words had only made things worse. “I won’t be there when he does.”

George’s chest tightened. There it was—what Alex wasn’t saying. The grief already setting in. Not for himself, but for the boy he’d loved and broken.

“You’re not losing him,” George said, steady as he could manage.

But Alex didn’t believe him. George could see it in his eyes. He was already mourning something he wasn’t sure he ever truly had.

As they pulled up to the rehab facility—a stark, pale building tucked against the cliffs—Alex flinched like the sight of it physically hurt.

“This isn’t just about getting clean,” he muttered, voice raw. “This is... everything. The crash. The emptiness. I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared, George.”

George cut the engine, sitting in silence for a moment before he spoke. “I know. But you’re not doing it alone this time.”

Alex turned his face toward him, and for a second, he just looked like a boy again. Lost. Fragile. Shattered.

“Promise me you’ll check on him,” Alex said, voice cracking. “On Carlos.”

“I already do,” George said. “But I’ll do more. I promise.”

Alex nodded. Then slowly, painfully, he opened the door and stepped out into the gray morning, the cold swallowing him like a warning.

George watched him go. And for the first time, he didn’t know if Alex was going to come back the same.

Because this wasn’t just a low.

This was the fall.

Charles’ POV

The air in Monaco felt thick, like it was pressing against Charles’s lungs with every breath. The walls of his apartment were too quiet, too sterile, even though his mind wouldn’t stop screaming. He hadn't slept. He couldn’t eat. His phone sat on the counter, silent and cruel—no messages, no missed calls. Just more proof that Carlos was still gone.

Then George texted.
“I’m coming over.”

Charles didn’t even hesitate. He’d already been pacing, already waiting for something—anything—to break the silence. He opened the door before George even knocked.

Charles didn’t say hello. Didn’t offer him a drink. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, eyes dark and burning with something close to fury. Or maybe grief. Or both.

“He’s gone,” Charles said flatly. “Carlo stormed out of his apartment this morning. No message. No goodbye. Just gone.”

George exhaled slowly. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Charles snapped. “Shit.”

He turned away, pacing like he’d been doing it all morning. Like his thoughts were too loud to contain.

“And don’t try to tell me this isn’t about Alex,” Charles said, whipping around to face him again. “Because we both know it is.”

George stayed quiet for a beat too long.

“He’s not the reason Carlos left,” George said carefully, choosing his words like every one of them might trigger a landmine.

Charles scoffed. “Don’t do that. Don’t defend him. Not to me.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” Charles cut in. “You always do. You cover for him like we’re all just supposed to forgive and forget while he wrecks everyone around him.”

George’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. “Alex didn’t make Carlos spiral.”

Charles laughed bitterly, but there was no joy in it. “He didn’t? He shows up, high and drunk, dragging Carlos into god knows what, and now he’s conveniently tucked away in rehab while the rest of us are stuck picking up the fucking pieces.”

George swallowed, hard. “It’s not that simple.”

“No, it’s exactly that simple,” Charles said, his voice rising, his hands trembling. “Carlos was holding on. Not perfectly, but he was trying. And then Alex came, and suddenly everything Carlos was afraid of became real. He followed him straight into the dark like it was some kind of escape.”

George didn’t flinch, but it hurt—he could see the pain in Charles’s eyes, the desperation.

“You think Alex wanted any of this?” he asked softly. “You think he planned to fall apart and take Carlos with him?”

“I think he didn’t care,” Charles snapped. “I think he was too far gone to even notice Carlos drowning beside him.”

George stepped forward, his voice low but firm now. “That’s not fair.”

“What is fair?” Charles asked, arms folding tighter around himself. “Because I’ve been here, watching Carlos unravel, and I’m sick of pretending like I understand how to help him. I don’t. He won’t talk to me, he won’t let me help him. And now he’s gone, and I don’t even know if he’s okay.”

His voice cracked at the end, and suddenly all the anger seemed to collapse into something smaller. Something raw.

“I care about him,” Charles said, quietly now. “And I feel like I’ve already lost him.”

George nodded slowly. “I know.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of everything sinking in around them.

“Alex is trying,” George said after a while, barely above a whisper. “I’m not asking you to forgive him. But I think he’s... I think he knows what he did. And he hates himself for it.”

Charles’s jaw clenched, and his eyes welled up, but he didn’t look away.

“I just want Carlos back,” he said.

“So does everyone,” George replied gently. “Even if it’s too late.”

Charles didn’t answer. He just stood there, staring out the window like maybe Carlos would come walking back through the door if he just wished hard enough.

But he didn’t. And the silence stretched between them—tight, bitter, unresolved.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos didn’t go home that night. There was no point. His apartment felt like a cage, suffocating him, full of reminders of everything he couldn’t escape. So, he did the only thing he could think of: he ran. He didn’t even know where he was running to, just that he had to get out. He had to prove something to himself, something twisted and ugly that he couldn’t even admit out loud.

He needed to prove that he didn’t need anyone. That he didn’t need help. That he could still be the man he used to be, the one who could hold it all together. Because right now, all he felt was a mess. A failure. A wreck of a person. And the only thing that helped him forget the pain—the relentless ache of his own brokenness—was the numbness. So, he ran from it all. From Alex. From Charles. From himself.

The airport was the first stop in his attempt to escape everything. He bought a last-minute flight to Oxfordshire, where Williams had its base. The thought of work, of training, of racing—anything, really—was the only thing that didn’t make him feel like he was drowning. Focus. Work. Repeat. That’s all he needed, right? It had worked before. He’d buried himself in the car, in the tracks, in the need to be better, to prove that he could handle it. That he could still be worthy.

The flight was a blur. The noise of the plane, the hum of the engine, all of it faded into white noise as his mind spiraled. He couldn’t focus on anything, couldn’t hold onto a single thought. His mind kept circling back to Alex, to the mess they had become, to the look in Max's, George's and Charles’s eyes when they realized just how far Carlos had fallen. It was too much. It was suffocating.

The flight attendants asked him if he wanted anything—water, food, a blanket—but Carlos just shook his head, too lost in his thoughts, too consumed by everything he was trying to run away from. The seat felt too tight, the air too thin, like he couldn’t breathe. The walls of his own mind were closing in on him, and no matter how much he tried to focus on something, anything, it was useless. The thoughts wouldn’t stop.

Just focus on the season, he told himself. Just focus on the car. Just focus on something that wasn’t falling apart around him.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

When Carlos arrived in Oxfordshire, the first thing he did was slip into the Williams routine, as if it were a second skin. The noise of the racing simulator, the buzz of cold, sterile machines—this was the only place where he didn’t need to think. Here, everything blurred together, and nothing required effort beyond the mechanical precision of his body. His mind, worn and tired, shut off. There was no room for thought, no space to care. Just numbers. Just track times. Just the machine.

He poured himself into it, pushing harder, faster, until his body screamed and his mind went numb. The data didn’t care about his past, the lies or the mistakes. It didn’t judge him. It was simple—just him, the track, the machine, and the cold distance between him and the world. The emptiness followed him, lurking in the shadows, never fully leaving. No matter how fast he went, no matter how hard he pushed, it stayed, silent and patient, just behind the next corner.

When the simulator stopped, he went to the gym. The weights. The treadmill. Anything that would exhaust him, anything that would force his body to feel pain—real, tangible pain—that almost felt like it mattered. Almost. But when the sweat dried and the exhaustion set in, he still felt it. The nothingness. The hollow ache inside that never went away.

Back at his rented apartment, he stared at his reflection. The face in the mirror was a stranger’s. The bruises under his eyes had deepened, and the tired, broken man staring back at him seemed like a ghost, one that had no right to be here. He didn’t recognize himself. He didn’t know how he had let it all slip away, how he had become this… mess.

A hot shower did nothing. It never did. He stepped out, skin warm, but inside—still cold. Still empty. The hollow feeling was a constant ache, and the silence was worse than the noise. It ate at him, gnawing at his resolve, gnawing at his will to keep going.

His body itched for motion, for something—anything—that might distract him from the suffocating weight of his own thoughts. So, he laced up his running shoes and hit the cold night air, as though the rhythmic pounding of his feet could outrun the darkness inside him.

He ran. Harder. Faster. Until his lungs burned, until his legs screamed for mercy. But no matter how much pain he pushed through, the emptiness never left. It was there, always there, just beneath the surface, waiting. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

He was running from everything. From everyone. From the man he had become. From the truth of who he was now—someone who couldn’t stop, couldn’t fix himself, couldn’t outrun the mess inside. And the harder he ran, the harder it became to breathe.

The truth gnawed at him: he was running out of ways to numb the pain. The drugs, lurking in the background, whispered their seduction. One more hit. One more escape. The craving surged in his veins like a poison he couldn’t shake. He knew it wasn’t the answer, but it was the only thing that could quiet the storm in his head, the only thing that could drown out the noise of his own destruction.

As he ran, the thought of it—just one more hit—settled into him like a dark, insistent whisper. And somewhere deep down, Carlos knew: he was already too far gone to ever outrun it.

Charles’ POV

Days had passed, and Carlos hadn’t answered a single message from Charles. No texts. No calls. Nothing. Each hour that dragged by felt heavier, suffocating, and the silence was becoming unbearable. It was as if Carlos had vanished completely into the darkness of his own mind, shutting everyone out, pulling away further with every passing moment. And Charles? Charles was left to stand on the sidelines, helpless, his chest tight with a growing knot of anxiety.

He tried to keep it together, tried to convince himself that Carlos would come around. But the silence was like an ocean, swallowing him whole, dragging him deeper into a pit of dread. He kept texting, calling, sending messages that felt like they were just disappearing into the void. Nothing came back. Not even a word. And the longer it went on, the more he wondered if he’d ever hear from him again. Where are you, Carlos? he asked himself over and over, the question gnawing at him.

Charles didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t force Carlos to open up. But the weight of the uncertainty was eating him alive. He could feel it gnawing at his soul, this constant ache that came from knowing the person he cared about was slipping further and further away from him—and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Finally, after days of spiraling into frustration and fear, Charles couldn’t take it anymore. His hands trembled as he picked up the phone, dialing George’s number without thinking. George had always been the steady one, the voice of reason when Charles was lost in the storm. He needed that calm now more than ever.

The phone rang twice before George’s voice came through, steady but laced with concern. “Hey, Charles. Everything okay?”

“No,” Charles responded, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking with the strain. "I haven’t heard from Carlos. I’ve been calling, texting, but nothing. He’s… pushing everyone away. I don’t know what to do anymore. I feel like I’m losing him, George. I’m losing him, and I can’t do anything about it." His words came out in a rush, choked with frustration and fear.

George’s silence on the other end wasn’t comforting. He was processing, and Charles could feel it. But then, George’s voice broke through, soft but understanding. "It’s not easy, man. Carlos has a lot going on, and sometimes… sometimes, no matter how much you care, you can’t fix it for them. He’s got to want the help. It’s hard. I know."

Charles ran a hand over his face, exhausted beyond words. “I know, I do. But I feel so fucking powerless. He won’t let me in. He’s shutting everyone out. I don’t even know where he is right now. He’s just gone. And I can’t even help him if he won’t let me. I’m just standing here, watching him fall apart, and I… I can’t do anything.”

“You’re doing what you can,” George said, trying to reassure him, but there was an edge of frustration in his voice, too. “But sometimes, you have to let them figure it out on their own. He’s going to come around eventually. Just be patient.”

Charles let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow. “Patient? How the hell am I supposed to be patient when every second he’s gone feels like I’m losing him more? I hate this. I hate feeling like I’m just standing by, watching him self-destruct. He’s slipping away from me, and I—” Charles choked on his words, his throat tight with a desperate kind of grief that he couldn’t control.

“I know it’s hard,” George said quietly. “But you’re not alone in this, okay? You’ve got me. If you need anything, you know where I am.”

Charles’s breath hitched. "I don’t know how much longer I can do this, George. I’m just so… tired. And I don’t know what’s going to happen if he doesn’t reach out. I don’t know what’s going to happen to him. To us. I can’t keep waiting around for him to come back. What if… What if I lose him? What if I lose him forever?”

There was a long, agonizing pause. Then George spoke again, his voice a little softer, but still firm. “I Know but Alex is doing better, Charles. He’s getting the help he needs. He’s going to be ready for the launch event. He’s doing okay. Maybe it is the same for Carlos”

The words hit Charles like a punch to the gut. The launch event. How had he even forgotten about that? That stupid, superficial thing that felt so far removed from the chaos in his life. He didn’t want to think about it. Not now. Not while Carlos was spiraling. “I don’t care about Alex or the damn launch event, George. Not right now. It feels… empty. Fake. It doesn’t matter.”

“I know,” George responded with a sigh. “But you know it’s part of the job. You can’t get away from it. And it’s not like the fans don’t want to see you. It’s a big thing for all of you.”

Charles groaned, the thought of the cameras, the flashing lights, the fake smiles filling him with disgust. “I don’t want to be part of it. I just want to focus on him. I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

“Maybe seeing us again will help,” George said quietly. “Being around everyone, maybe it’ll push him to reach out. Maybe that’s what he needs.”

Charles didn’t say anything at first. He just let the silence stretch between them, heavy and thick. “Maybe. But I’m not holding my breath, George. He’s already so far gone, I don’t know if anything can pull him back. I don’t know if I can.”

"Just take it one step at a time," George said gently. "Carlos has to want to get better. No one can make that choice for him."

Charles’s heart twisted painfully. “Yeah. I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier. I just… I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“I know, Charles,” George’s voice softened. “But we’re here for you. And Carlos. He’s not alone in this. He’ll come around. He’ll find his way.”

But Charles wasn’t so sure. And in that moment, all he could feel was the suffocating weight of helplessness—the fear that, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he loved Carlos, it might not be enough.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat across from James Vowles, the Williams Team Principal, in a sparse conference room lit by the dull, wintery light filtering through the cloudy windows. The air was heavy with tension, the kind that Carlos had grown too familiar with. The silence stretched between them as James folded his hands, eyes studying Carlos with a gaze that was both concerned and measured.

“I know it’s been tough, Carlos,” James began, his voice soft but direct. “I can see you’re pushing through, but I can also see it’s not easy. We’re all here for you, but I can’t help but feel... well, like you’re carrying something heavier than just adjusting to a new team.”

Carlos shifted in his seat, the weight of James' concern pressing against him. He’d never been good at hiding things—his emotions, his struggles—but this time, he had perfected the art of pretending everything was fine. A slight chuckle escaped his lips, though it lacked the warmth it should’ve had.

“It’s just... Oxfordshire, you know?” Carlos said, with a mock shrug, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “The weather is so much greyer than Maranello. I miss the sun. It makes the rest of it easier, I think.”

James smiled, clearly relieved to see Carlos trying to joke. He leaned forward, his tone shifting to something warmer, more familiar. “I get that. The cold, the fog—it does take some getting used to. But you’re doing well, Carlos. You’ve adapted faster than I thought you would.”

“Yeah it’s been difficult,” Carlos said, keeping his tone level. “But I’ll be fine. Just... need to get used to things. New environment, new team. It’s always a bit of an adjustment.”

James nodded, clearly not picking up on the underlying tension. “I get it. It’s gotta feel strange. But that’s part of why I’m so glad you’re with us now, Carlos. You’ve got the experience, the mentality to help the team. And we’re lucky to have you.” He paused, his gaze softening. “I think once the new car is out, it’ll give you a new focus. The launch event—it’s going to be a big day. I’m excited to show off what we’ve been working on, and I’m even more excited to show off the new driver-duo we’ve got. You and Alex are both together going to make an incredible impact. I’m really proud to have you both in the team.”

Carlos felt a strange mix of emotions swirl in his chest. Pride. Guilt. The emptiness from earlier seemed to settle deeper in his gut. He nodded, but it felt mechanical, like his brain was just going through the motions.

“I’m sure the car is going to be great,” Carlos said, his voice more distant than he intended. “It’s always about the car, right? Everything else will fall into place.”

James didn’t notice the underlying exhaustion in his words. He was too caught up in his own excitement about the future, about what they were building together.

“I really believe that this is the year, Carlos,” James continued, his eyes bright with passion. “We’ve got a solid foundation, a strong team, and we’re putting everything into making this car competitive. I know that with you and Alex, we’re going to make some serious strides. You two will push each other, help bring out the best in each other. I’m just really proud to have you on board.”

Carlos’ chest tightened, the weight of James’ belief in him almost suffocating. There was a part of him that wanted to believe it too. He wanted to believe that this was the fresh start he needed, that the team, the car, the future—it could all pull him out of the darkness that seemed to follow him everywhere. But every word felt like it was coming from a different world, one where he wasn’t so broken, so lost.

“I’ll do my best,” Carlos said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words hollow and empty as they left his lips.

James smiled, clearly reassured. “I know you will. You always do.”

But as the meeting wrapped up, and Carlos stood to leave, the cold air outside the conference room hit him like a wall. The numbness crept back in, the emptiness rising like a tide. He offered James a smile, a perfect mask of calm that hid the chaos underneath.

As he walked away, the words James had said echoed in his mind, but they felt distant, unreal, like they belonged to someone else. Maybe one day, he would believe them. But for now, the weight of everything was still too heavy.

Chapter Text

Charles’ POV

Charles sat in the oppressive silence of the jet Ferrari had booked him, staring out at the endless expanse of clouds below, his thoughts swirling in a storm of anxiety and frustration. He was heading to Maranello for the pre-launch preparations, but the trip felt like a cruel distraction. The launch event loomed on the horizon, a hollow affair that felt worlds apart from the mess he was leaving behind in Monaco. Every thought, every breath, was consumed by one thing: Carlos. He had tried to give him space, tried to respect his need for distance, but the silence had only grown more deafening. No texts. No calls. No sign of life. And with every hour that passed, it was like a weight was being added to his chest. The worry gnawed at him, relentless and suffocating.

As the plane touched down in Maranello, Charles was already mentally exhausted. He slipped into autopilot mode, burying himself in the never-ending demands of the job. The meetings, the photo shoots, the team briefings—it all blurred together in a haze of noise and expectations. The launch event was looming, but it felt like a far-off nightmare he couldn’t escape. There was no time for distractions. At least, that’s what he told himself. He had to focus. He had to shut everything out. But it was impossible. Carlos’s absence was like a shadow that refused to leave, no matter how much Charles tried to outrun it.

Charles wasn’t the kind of person to open up easily. He was known for being reserved, focused, almost robotic at times. His emotions were something he kept hidden, buried beneath the weight of his responsibilities. But there was one person who had managed to slip through his walls—Lewis Hamilton. It had started quietly, their bond formed not in loud conversations but in the shared comfort of silence. Both of them introverts, finding solace in each other’s presence without the need to speak. In the rare moments between training sessions and meetings, they would connect in the most unlikely ways—through music and art, through chess, through the simple act of being still together.

It was during one of their quiet chess games, after another grueling set of meetings, that Lewis spoke up. The game had ended, Charles barely scraping by with a win, and they sat in the stillness of the Ferrari lounge, the sunlight streaming in through the windows, casting long shadows on the floor.

“You don’t sleep enough, do you?” Lewis’s voice cut through the silence, low but laced with an almost unsettling level of observation.

Charles stiffened, startled by the question. He hadn’t expected that, especially from someone who rarely pushed for anything. But there was a kindness in Lewis’s eyes that made it impossible to brush off.

“What do you mean?” Charles asked, his voice caught somewhere between surprise and frustration.

Lewis didn’t look away, his gaze soft but unwavering. “You’ve been looking… exhausted. More than usual. Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

The words hit Charles like a punch to the gut. Exhausted. He felt it. The bone-deep weariness that had been creeping up on him for weeks, maybe even months. Between the endless schedule, the looming launch event, and the constant, gnawing worry over Carlos, sleep had become a distant memory.

“I’ve been… stressed,” Charles admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand ran through his hair, as if he could somehow shake off the weight of it all. “There’s someone I’m worried about. A close friend. And I just… I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Lewis didn’t push. He didn’t ask for more details. He just nodded, his eyes full of quiet understanding. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I’ve been in a similar situation before. It’s hard, watching someone you care about struggle.”

Charles’s throat tightened at the words. He hadn’t realized just how much he needed someone to hear him, someone who didn’t judge or offer empty platitudes. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Charles confessed, his voice barely more than a broken murmur. “He’s pushing me away, shutting everyone out. I’ve tried everything, and nothing seems to get through. It’s like I’m losing him, and I can’t do a thing to stop it. I don’t even know if he wants help anymore. And it’s like… I’m failing him. I can’t fix this, Lewis.”

Lewis sat back, his expression softening with a depth of emotion Charles hadn’t expected. He didn’t rush to offer advice, didn’t try to make it better. He just sat there, watching Charles, as if he could feel the weight of everything pressing down on him.

“You can’t always fix it for them,” Lewis said quietly, his voice steady but tinged with sadness. “Sometimes, no matter how much you care, they have to want to get better themselves. It’s not something you can control.”

Charles’s chest tightened, the words sinking in like lead. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the panic rising in his throat. “But what if they don’t? What if they never make that choice? What if I lose him, Lewis? What if I lose him and I never get a chance to help him?”

Lewis’s eyes darkened, the weight of his own past hanging in the air. “I had a friend. We were close, real close. But I couldn’t save him, no matter how hard I tried. I thought maybe if I had done more, said more, maybe he would have listened. But in the end… it was his choice. And I couldn’t change that. I had to watch him destroy himself, knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it. That’s… that’s the hardest part.”

Charles felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. The pain in Lewis’s voice was raw, and it mirrored the turmoil inside him—this suffocating helplessness that had been clawing at him for days, weeks, months. He could hear the unspoken weight of guilt in Lewis’s words, the way it lingered even now, a shadow that never truly left.

“I can’t just stand by,” Charles said, his voice shaking now. “Not when I know he’s slipping away. I can’t just watch him destroy himself. I have to do something. I have to try harder.”

Lewis’s gaze turned sharp, his voice low but firm. “You can’t force someone to get help, Charles. You just have to be there when they’re ready to take it. But until then, you have to take care of yourself too. If you’re not okay, how can you help him?”

Charles felt the weight of those words settle over him, and for the first time, he wasn’t sure how to breathe. How could he take care of himself when Carlos was spiraling, when everything felt like it was falling apart and there was nothing he could do to stop it?

He exhaled slowly, the air tasting heavy in his lungs. “Thanks, Lewis,” he whispered, the words barely more than a rasp. “I think… I think I needed to hear that.”

Lewis gave a small, understanding smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anytime, mate. We all have our battles. It’s how we fight them that counts.”

Charles nodded, but it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough. All he could do now was wait, hold on, and hope—hope that Carlos would come back, that he would reach out, that he would fight to get better. But with every passing day, that hope felt more fragile, and the fear of losing him altogether was becoming harder to ignore.

It wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough. And he couldn’t stop the spiral, no matter how hard he tried.

Alex’s POV

Alex sat by the window of the plane, watching as it descended into Oxfordshire. The morning light stretched across the runway like a pale, indifferent curtain. He drummed his fingers against the armrest, but the rhythmic tapping did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. The hum of the engines was a constant, but it couldn’t drown out the growing storm in his mind. Rehab had brought him down from the manic episode that had nearly torn him apart. It had been necessary—painful, brutal—but necessary. But now? Now, all he could feel was the weight of the aftermath that had followed.

He hadn’t expected it to hit this hard. He had hoped the rehab would stabilize him, give him the strength to keep his head above water. But now, as the plane touched down, he couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that he was on the edge of something much darker. Could he stay sober? Was he truly past the worst of it, or was this just a fragile moment of calm before the storm? The uncertainty gnawed at him, a constant reminder that everything he’d fought for could slip away in an instant.

The fear was heavy, but it was nothing compared to the guilt. The gnawing, suffocating regret over Carlos. His teammate. His friend. Their bond had always been messy, tangled in both good and bad. Alex hadn’t been there for him when he should have been. The last few weeks had been a battle to survive, and now that he was out of rehab, he was facing the consequences of neglecting the people who mattered most.

What if they fell back into their old patterns? What if the toxicity returned? He couldn’t shake the thought. He couldn’t help Carlos if he couldn’t even help himself.

Arriving at the Williams base only deepened the unease. The place was supposed to feel like home, but now it felt foreign. The memories of his past here—good and bad—clung to the walls, a constant reminder of everything he was trying to move past. He had to fake it. He had to pretend he was fine, for the team, for everyone around him. He couldn’t let them see the cracks. Not now, not when he was still trying to convince himself he was okay.

James Vowles was waiting at the entrance, bundled in a team jacket, his hands stuffed into his pockets, smiling like nothing had changed.

“Alex,” James greeted, voice bright. “Good to have you back. How was the time off? Get some rest with family?”

Alex paused, just a beat too long. “Yeah,” he said. “Took some time. Cleared my head.”

James gave a warm nod, satisfied. “Good. That’s important. It’s a long season ahead—you’ve got to take care of yourself too.”

Alex managed a smile, brittle at the edges. He kept walking beside James, every step toward the simulator feeling heavier than the last.

“Carlos has been solid,” James continued, “But I think he missed having you around. I think it’s been harder on him than he lets on.”

Alex blinked. “Harder?”

James shrugged, casual, like he was offering an observation and not unknowingly brushing against something fragile.

“He got here with you, remember? For the post-season tests. You two hit the ground running—felt like things were clicking right away. But then after the break, you weren’t here, and I think that shift threw him off more than he let on. It’s a new place, a big change… I think he just felt a bit stranded. But I’ve got faith. You two just need to settle back into the rhythm. You two really brought out the best in each other during the post-season testing.”

Alex looked away, jaw tight. Guilt flared in his throat.

“I’ll be around,” he said softly.

“I know you will.” James clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re lucky to have both of you. Genuinely. You’re a brilliant pair. Launch event’s coming up, the car’s nearly ready—we’ve got something to be excited about this year.”

Alex nodded, his smile automatic. “Yeah. I’m looking forward to it.”

They turned a corner, and Carlos appeared ahead, just outside the sim room. He looked up—just briefly—eyes brushing past Alex before flicking away. His face was unreadable.

“Speak of the devil,” James said. “He’s been putting in the hours. Quiet, focused. I think he just needs you around again to bring him out of that shell.”

Alex said nothing. He watched Carlos disappear into the simulator room without a word. His chest felt tight again, that dull, unspoken weight settling deep.

James didn’t notice. “Go say hi, yeah? The team’s missed you—but I think he’s missed you more.”

Alex gave a weak nod and started walking. The distance between him and Carlos felt impossibly far, even now, only a few steps away.

And James, still smiling, still full of faith in things he couldn’t see, called after him:

“You two—this year’s yours. I can feel it.”

Carlos’ POV

Carlos stood just inside the Williams garage, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, watching from a distance as Alex talked animatedly with one of the engineers. There was something unsettling about it. Not just seeing Alex again, but seeing him like that—grounded, almost effortlessly himself. Like he hadn’t disappeared for weeks. Like nothing had happened before that.

Carlos’s gut twisted, and he didn’t even know why.

He hadn’t expected to feel anything, really. Maybe a bit of awkwardness. Some discomfort. But this—this cold, unsettled churn in his chest—it caught him off guard. He didn’t know what it was. Anger? Relief? Jealousy? No. Not that. Just confusion. He didn’t know how to place Alex anymore. Didn’t know what they were supposed to be to each other now.

What they’d been before had never made sense either.

He used to think they understood each other better than anyone else. That their bond—whatever it was—ran deep, built from late nights and shared secrets and too many silences. But maybe that had just been a lie. Or worse, a game. Sometimes, Carlos wondered if Alex had ever truly cared, or if he’d just liked the way Carlos needed him. Liked being the center of someone else's orbit. Their friendship, if you could call it that, had always felt like a circuit with no off switch—charged, unpredictable, and impossible to hold without getting burned.

Alex wasn’t a bad person. Carlos knew that. He knew that. There were moments—rare ones—when Alex had been gentle. Thoughtful. When he had shown a kind of care that cut straight through the noise. But those moments were fleeting, buried under so much chaos, so many mixed signals. Sometimes, Alex had made him feel invincible. Other times, like he was nothing more than something to lean on and then discard.

Carlos didn’t know what any of it meant anymore.

He tore his eyes away, jaw tight. He didn’t want to analyze it. Not now. Not here. Not when everything in his life already felt like it was teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t name. It was easier to shut it all down—to focus on work, on the simulator, on the routine he’d built like armor.

But the sight of Alex laughing with the team, so easily slipping back into place—it lingered. And Carlos couldn’t help but wonder: had Alex changed? Or had he just been blind to what was always there?

He didn’t know how to be around him anymore. Didn’t know if he could trust the quiet parts of himself that still missed their closeness, or if those were just the scars of something toxic he hadn’t fully healed from.

Whatever it was, it left him off-balance.

The launch event was drawing closer, and it filled him with dread. The thought of standing in front of cameras, on a red carpet, the spotlight burning on him like a cruel joke—it was all too much. It reminded him of how everything in his life had to appear perfect, like some polished, flawless product. But inside, Carlos felt like nothing was right. He wasn’t right. He didn’t even know who he was anymore.

Chapter Text

Charles’ POV

Charles sat alone in the quiet of his London hotel room, the hum of the city outside muffled by the thick walls, but it did nothing to drown out the ache in his chest. He stared at his phone, his thumb trembling slightly as it hovered over the screen. After what felt like an eternity, he typed out a message to Alex, praying for something—anything—that would ease the tightening grip of worry in his gut.

Hey, how’s everything going? How was the arrival at Williams?

He stared at the message for a long moment, willing the words to be enough, willing them to bring some semblance of peace. But when the read receipt popped up and Alex’s response came through, it felt more like a weight than any relief.

Everything’s fine here. Carlos is... well, he’s surviving. He’s been training hard and eating, so no signs of anything reckless. He seems distant, but at least it seems like he's not spiraling.

The words were sharp, clinical. Detached. The kind of answer he’d expected, but not the one he’d hoped for. His chest tightened, the familiar sense of helplessness clawing at him. Carlos. The name was like a hollow echo in his mind, like a door that had been slammed shut between them. He wanted to believe everything was fine. But the emptiness in the message, the quiet desperation underneath, screamed louder than anything Alex had written.

So he is holding up okay?

The next message arrived almost immediately. Alex’s response was fast, but it didn’t feel reassuring. It felt like an admission of how little anyone truly knew about what was going on with Carlos.

He’s just focused on the work, trying not to let anything break him. But it’s hard to tell with him sometimes. I think he’s just putting on a mask.

Charles stared at the screen, his stomach twisting painfully. A mask. It hit him like a slap to the face. Carlos had always been good at hiding things, at pretending everything was okay when it was anything but. But this… this felt different. It felt like something deep inside Carlos had already cracked, and there was no one around who could stop the pieces from falling further.

He wanted to push for more, to ask Alex what he wasn’t saying, to demand to know if Carlos was really okay or just surviving the way someone does when they’re just trying to breathe. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t drag Alex deeper into this, couldn’t make him bear the weight of his own helplessness.

Thanks for letting me know. I appreciate it. I just... hope he’s okay.

The words felt hollow, empty, as if he were speaking to a ghost rather than to Alex. He set his phone down, fingers lingering on the edges of the screen like he could somehow draw a deeper connection to Carlos through a few simple words. But there was nothing left to do. Not right now. Carlos was slipping through his fingers, and there was no way to reach him, not when Carlos had made it clear he wanted to be alone.

The room around him seemed to close in. The events of tomorrow—the launch—loomed like a storm on the horizon. The buzz of excitement and anticipation should have been enough to distract him, but it was only another weight, another thing to add to the crushing pile of pressure already suffocating him. The launch event would be a spectacle, an opportunity to showcase Ferrari’s progress, to play the part of the star driver, the focused, driven professional.

But his mind wasn’t on the event. His mind was still on Carlos, on the distance between them, and the cold fear that gnawed at him every time he tried to picture his teammate. Every time he tried to imagine Carlos in the thick of his struggle, the space between them felt impossibly wide, the gaps in their connection too vast to cross. 

The night was a restless blur. Charles tried to sleep, tried to quiet the whirlwind of thoughts that ripped through his mind, but it was impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Carlos’s face—faded, distant, like a memory he couldn’t quite grasp. The tension in his body pulled tighter with every passing minute. When morning came, he felt as if he had never truly slept. The launch event was only hours away, and everything felt wrong.

He rushed through his morning routine, moving mechanically through the motions. Final rehearsals. Plans for the event. All the while, his mind kept drifting, kept slipping back to the same question: Is Carlos okay?

Meeting with Lewis in the hotel lobby did nothing to soothe the gnawing anxiety that sat heavy in his chest. They exchanged brief words, talked about the launch, and ran through their presentation of the car for the umpteenth time. But it was all just noise to Charles. The weight of the event, the expectations, it all paled in comparison to the fear of not knowing what was happening to his friend.

And when the car finally pulled up to the venue, when the lights and cameras started flashing, when the world outside was nothing but chaos and anticipation, Charles couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing Carlos. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The world around him buzzed with the frenzy of the event, but Charles couldn’t escape the crushing sense of isolation. He couldn’t escape the feeling that this, too, was slipping through his fingers. That maybe the connection they once shared, the closeness that had once been their anchor, was already long gone.

He had to focus. He had to perform. But every part of him screamed that it wasn’t enough. Not without Carlos. Not without the person who had once been the only one who truly understood him.

But maybe that person was already lost. Maybe they both were

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat in the sterile meeting room at Williams, trying to force his attention onto the words being spoken, but they felt distant, muffled. His thoughts were a tangled mess of self-loathing and uncertainty, swirling in a way that made it impossible to focus on anything but the crushing weight of what was to come. The team discussed the launch event, the media coverage, the expectations. But Carlos couldn’t hear any of it. Not really.

When the PR rep finally brought up the inevitable, he clenched his fists under the table, bracing himself.

"We’re aware the media will likely make a headline about you two," she said, her gaze flicking between Carlos and Alex. "The narrative is already out there—two drivers discarded by their top teams, Ferrari and Red Bull. You’ll get questions about that. You need to be ready. But remember, you’re more than just the headline. You’re here because you’re talented drivers. Focus on that."

Carlos felt the words cut through him like a knife. Discarded. Rejected. The very words felt like a brand on his soul, a mark he could never erase. Carlos Sainz, the Ferrari reject. The thought made him sick to his stomach. He could already hear the headlines screaming in his mind. Carlos Sainz, the discarded driver. Nothing else mattered to the world but that. No matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise, no matter how many hours he threw into training, the narrative had already been written, and he was stuck playing a role that never felt like his own.

The PR rep continued, oblivious to the war raging inside him. "The last thing I want is for these things to get to your heads. Don’t let the narrative control you. We’re bigger than that."

Carlos wanted to laugh. It was bitter, dark. Too late, he thought. The damage was already done. How could he ever escape it? The media would feast on his pain, magnify every crack in his armor, and they’d all watch, waiting for him to fall apart. And he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop them from seeing him as just that guy who failed. That broken man who wasn’t enough for Ferrari. He had been their golden boy once. Now, he was a shadow.

But the narrative wasn’t the only thing suffocating him. No. It was the one thing that had always been harder to face. The person sitting across from him. Alex.

They hadn’t spoken beyond the necessities since everything had crumbled. After everything they’d been through—how could they? There was a vast chasm between them now, one that neither seemed willing to cross. The pain was still raw, still fresh. Carlos wanted to say something, to ask how Alex was holding up, but how could he? How could he ever ask anything when he felt so fucking lost himself?

The meeting finally came to a close, and Carlos stood, his legs like lead. His thoughts were a chaotic mess, and he just wanted to escape—vanish into the background. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not when everything was falling apart around him.

Alex stood beside him, and for a brief second, their eyes met. The look between them was fractured—tired, distant. They had been through hell, but it felt like they were no longer even in the same world. Carlos turned away first, pretending to check his phone, just to avoid the suffocating silence. Words were pointless. They were strangers now, weren’t they?

As they walked to the car that would take them to the launch event, the weight of the day pressed down on him. He sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, trying to focus on anything other than the gnawing dread that twisted in his gut. The city passed by, but his mind stayed locked in the same place: trapped, stuck in a cycle of failure and uncertainty.

What the hell am I doing here?

The launch event was looming, and he wasn’t ready for it. He wasn’t ready to pretend to be someone he wasn’t, to be the polished, perfect driver the team and the media expected. I’m not that guy anymore, he thought bitterly. He was just a man drowning in expectations, forced to wear a mask of smiles and confidence. But he couldn’t do it—not without breaking.

The car pulled up to the event, and Carlos’s heart skipped painfully in his chest. The flashing lights, the sea of people, the pressure—it all rushed at him at once. He stepped out of the car, the weight of the moment crashing over him like a wave. The questions, the cameras, the smiles he was expected to wear... He couldn’t breathe.

Alex was right beside him, but it felt like miles apart. He forced a smile, a hollow shell of something that used to mean something, but it tasted bitter on his tongue. The press and fans swarmed, questions firing at him like bullets, each one another reminder that he wasn’t enough. Not anymore. Not to Ferrari, not to anyone. Just the guy who got discarded.

"How does it feel to be back in the spotlight, Carlos?"

Carlos’s eyes glazed over. He couldn’t hear the question, couldn’t process the words. His stomach churned, his chest tightening with each flash of the cameras, each voice shouting his name. He’d done this a thousand times before, but this time... it felt different. This time, it felt like he was drowning. This time, he couldn’t escape the reality that he was no longer the man he once was. The Ferrari driver. He was just... broken.

He glanced at Alex out of the corner of his eye, but it was almost too painful to bear. He wanted to ask, Are you okay? but the question felt too big, too dangerous. They both had too much baggage, too many wounds.

They stood there, side by side, playing the part, as the world pressed in on them, smothering them in its expectations. Flashes of light. The shouts of the crowd. The hollow questions. It was all a blur.

And for just a moment, Carlos allowed himself to breathe. Just a moment—but it wasn’t enough. It never would be. Because deep down, he knew that he was just pretending to be fine. Pretending to survive. Pretending he was still whole when all he felt was empty.

But for now... he’d keep playing the part. Because there was nothing else left.

Charles’ POV

Charles sat at the table, the weight of the event pressing down on him like an unbearable burden. The room buzzed with conversation, but all he could hear was the deafening silence inside his own head. He sat next to Lewis, who—despite the cameras, the glitz, the endless parade of smiles—seemed completely at ease, or at least expertly pretending to be. The two had arrived early, and Charles had tried to stay calm amidst the frenzy of the launch event, but it felt suffocating. The lights, the noise, the constant pressure—it was all too much. Too overwhelming.

He tried to focus on the conversation, but his mind kept drifting to Carlos and Alex, seated at a nearby table with their team. They were just a few feet away, but it felt like an eternity. Alex, composed as always, exuded an air of calm, but Carlos… Carlos was a ghost. He sat there, distant and cold, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the room, his mind seemingly light-years away. It was a stark contrast to the Carlos Charles had once known—the one who had been full of life, of fire. Now, he looked empty, as though something inside him had been swallowed whole.

Then, suddenly, Carlos turned his head, and their eyes met. Just for a brief moment, their gazes locked across the room, and something flickered in Carlos’s eyes. A softness, almost unrecognizable. It was so fleeting, like a shadow passing over his face. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the mask came back. Carlos forced a smile, quick and practiced, before turning away as if nothing had happened.

Charles’s heart tightened, and a cold knot twisted in his stomach. That fleeting moment, that unspoken exchange, left him uneasy. What was Carlos really hiding? Charles felt it—whatever it was, it was too heavy, too painful to carry alone. And yet, Carlos wasn’t letting anyone in. He couldn’t help but wonder, How much longer can he keep pretending everything is okay?

Before he could process his thoughts, Lewis, ever perceptive, patted him on the shoulder.

"Do you want to play chess?" he asked, pulling out his phone. The screen showed a chess app, and Lewis grinned like it was some sort of escape. "I don’t really like these events. They make me feel trapped. Chess is a good distraction."

Charles gave a small, hollow smile. "Sure," he said, grateful for something—anything—to pull him away from the dark thoughts spiraling in his mind. The game might help him focus, even if just for a few minutes. It would be a temporary reprieve.

But as the game progressed, the anxiety in Charles's chest never loosened. He could barely concentrate on the chessboard. His thoughts kept drifting back to Carlos and Alex, both of them carrying an invisible weight that no one seemed to notice. How much longer could Carlos keep shutting everyone out? How long could Alex continue pretending like he wasn’t exhausted from it all?

The event finally began, and the spotlight shifted to the stage. The speaker announced each team, and the presentation of their cars began. Charles couldn’t tear his eyes away when it was Williams’ turn. He watched Alex and Carlos step out together, their racing suits pristine, their faces an impassive mask. But Carlos… Carlos was broken.

He moved like a puppet on strings—his steps automatic, his expression blank, his eyes distant, as though he wasn’t even there. It was like he was just going through the motions, as though the real Carlos had disappeared somewhere in the shadows, leaving only this hollow shell. The crowd cheered, but to Charles, it was nothing but noise. It didn’t matter. Carlos wasn’t there. He was trapped somewhere inside himself, fighting battles that no one could see.

And no one seemed to notice. To the world, Carlos was just doing his job. He was the professional, the driver, the one who could be relied upon. But Charles knew. He could see the cracks, the hollow eyes, the weight that was suffocating Carlos from the inside out.

The presentation continued, and Charles’s nerves only tightened. His turn was coming. He had to be perfect. He forced the smile, stood up, and walked to the stage with Lewis, delivering his lines like he’d practiced, like everything was fine. But it wasn’t. Nothing felt fine. The anxiety twisted in his stomach as he stood in front of the crowd, the spotlight making him feel smaller, more insignificant than ever. The whole time, his mind kept flashing back to Carlos—his haunted eyes, the way he moved like a stranger in his own body.

When the event finally moved backstage, away from the cameras, Charles felt a fragile sense of relief. He could finally exhale, even if only for a moment. The other drivers were chatting in groups, catching up, exchanging pleasantries. But Charles’s eyes immediately went to Alex, Carlos, and George standing in a corner, talking quietly.

He hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t sure if he should approach them. But something in him, some broken piece of his heart, couldn’t stay away. Without thinking, he was already walking toward them.

Alex caught his eye first, offering the briefest of smiles. But it didn’t reach his eyes. It felt strained, like something was being forced between them—something neither of them could say out loud.

Carlos stood off to the side, arms crossed, posture still stiff and distant. It felt like he was closing off the world, and Charles wasn’t sure if he was pretending or if he was really just shutting everyone out.

"Hey," Charles said, trying to sound casual as he joined the group. "How’s everything going?"

Alex nodded, though his eyes were tired, haunted. “We’re making it work,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice. Charles could see it—the exhaustion in his eyes. It hadn’t gone away. It wasn’t going away.

Carlos didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at Charles, his gaze empty, unreadable. Charles waited, but the silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. It was as though Carlos was living in a different world, and Charles was too afraid to step into it.

“It’s a lot, huh?” Charles finally said, glancing between Carlos and Alex. “The event. Everything going on.”

Carlos’s voice came out low, almost too soft to hear. “Yeah. A lot of noise. But we’ll be fine. We have to keep going.”

Charles studied him, trying to read him, to find any sign of the Carlos he once knew. But Carlos was a master at hiding his pain, at burying his emotions under layers of ice. It was clear—Carlos wasn’t fine. He was barely holding it together.

Charles wanted to reach out, wanted to say something that would make it better, but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t fix this. Not when the person he cared about was so far out of reach.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos stood in the corner behind the stage, a shadow hiding from the chaos that consumed everything around him. The noise, the flashing lights, the incessant pressure—it all felt like a tidal wave crashing over him. He needed to find a moment of silence, to breathe, to escape. For a fleeting second, he felt a hint of relief being out of the spotlight, away from the eyes that expected so much from him. But it was brief, and soon enough, the suffocating weight of the world crept back in.

Alex had followed him, and before he could find any semblance of peace, George appeared, sliding into some meaningless conversation about the car and the media’s reactions. The words felt hollow, nothing more than background noise. Carlos couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. His mind was a storm, clouds swirling in a fog of exhaustion and numbness that swallowed everything whole. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t even try to listen.

And then, Carlos saw him.

Charles was walking toward them, as polished and put together as ever. His presence froze Carlos in place. His chest tightened painfully, and the knot that had been sitting in his stomach for days only grew. He hadn’t spoken to Charles since the night he had stormed out of his apartment, angry and hurt. Charles had crossed a line—seen too much—and Carlos wasn’t ready to face him. Not now, not with everything unraveling in ways he didn’t understand, in ways he couldn’t stop.

Charles reached the group and began the usual small talk, commenting on the event and how spectacular everything had become. The words were lost on Carlos. He couldn’t process them. He couldn’t process anything. All he heard was the drone of interviewers, the noise of people who had no idea what was happening in his mind. Charles, despite his best intentions, was just another voice in the sea of people who didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. And it felt like an intrusion. A reminder of everything he was trying to avoid.

Carlos couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t bear the constant weight of the world pressing down on him. He needed to leave. Now.

His eyes scanned the room. There it was—the fire exit. Barely visible, tucked away in a corner. A simple door. An escape. He looked around quickly, checking to see if anyone was watching. Without a word, without a second thought, he turned on his heel and walked away. He could hear George calling after him, but the voice sounded distant, as though coming from another life, another version of himself that no longer mattered. He didn’t turn back.

But Charles… Charles noticed. Carlos could feel it. His gaze was like a weight on his back, heavy, pressing in. For just a second, Carlos glanced over his shoulder, and there Charles stood, frozen in place, eyes locked on him. Concern flickered in Charles’s gaze, but Carlos couldn’t handle it. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want anyone’s pity or care. Didn’t want anyone trying to fix what was beyond fixing. The mess he had become was his to carry—and no one else’s.

He stepped through the fire exit and into the cold, biting night. The air stung his skin, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating heat in his chest. He walked down the street, the city alive around him, its pulse beating as loudly as ever. But he was a ghost, drifting through it all, unnoticed, uncaring. The world didn’t care about his pain, didn’t care that he felt like he was drowning in it. He could almost feel the weight of his own existence pressing down on him, suffocating him further with every step he took.

He kept walking, his thoughts a tangled mess. He didn’t care about the media, the obligations, the endless expectations anymore. He didn’t care about anything except getting away. All he wanted was to be alone, to be far from the world that had trapped him in this cage of lies and broken pieces.

He was tired. So tired.

Tired of pretending. Tired of fighting. Tired of existing in a world that felt more and more like a nightmare with every passing moment. The hotel room, once a refuge, now felt like a place he didn’t deserve. But it was the only place he had left. The only place where he could hide behind closed doors and pretend to breathe.

By the time he reached the hotel, the city had quieted, the buzz of the event fading behind him. He slipped through the lobby, unnoticed, like a phantom in the night. Each step felt like a weight pressing deeper into his bones, and when he entered his room, the silence enveloped him. For a moment, he almost felt at peace. Almost.

But the relief didn’t last. The moment his body hit the bed, the thoughts came crashing down on him like an avalanche—everything he had been running from, everything he had been numbing, came flooding back. His mind spiraled out of control, each thought sharper and heavier than the last.

Carlos couldn’t escape it. Not this time. Not tonight.

The world outside didn’t care, but inside him, the storm raged on.

Chapter Text

Alex’s POV

Alex watched Carlos disappear through the door, vanishing into the night without so much as a glance back. A sharp, hollow ache settled in his chest. He wanted to call out to him, to stop him, but the words caught in his throat. He turned toward Charles, who stood frozen, his eyes locked on the door like he was waiting for Carlos to come back—knowing, deep down, that he wouldn’t.

The tension between them was thick, suffocating. Alex knew Charles blamed him, even if it was unspoken. He’d been the one to push Carlos away from everyone. And now, here they were, standing in the wreckage, both helpless and too afraid to do anything.

Alex swallowed, then muttered, almost against his will, "You… you alright?"

Charles didn’t answer right away, his eyes still fixed on the door, distant and cold. Finally, he let out a sharp breath, the weight of it sinking into Alex’s skin. "No," he said quietly. "I’m not."

"I didn’t mean for it to go this way," Alex said quietly, his words faltering before they even left his mouth. "I didn’t want this... I never wanted this."

Charles didn’t look at him. "You didn’t want it? You dragged him into this, Alex. You let it happen." His voice was cold, cutting, and Alex could hear the anger laced through every syllable, even though Charles wasn’t yelling. Even though Charles wasn’t looking at him.

Alex’s stomach twisted. He didn’t know what to say—how could he? The guilt gnawed at him, and for a second, he wondered if Charles was right to blame him. He should have done something. Should have reached out. But now? Now it felt too late

"I’m worried too," Alex said, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a step closer, but even the movement felt wrong. The air between them was too thick, too charged. "I just… I don’t know if I can do anything, Charles. I don’t even know if he wants me to."

"You can’t fix people, Alex," Charles snapped, his voice harsh. "You can’t break them and expect to piece them back together when it’s convenient. You can’t just drag someone down into the darkness and think they’ll crawl back out when you finally decide to care."

Alex flinched at the truth in Charles's words. It was all too real. He had dragged Carlos down—slowly, unintentionally, but undeniably—and now Carlos was so far gone that Alex wasn’t sure if he could ever find his way back.

Charles’s eyes flicked back to him, and just shook his head, shoulders sagging in defeat.

"I can’t just watch him destroy himself," Charles murmured, his voice breaking, the emotion raw. "But every time I get closer, it’s like I’m pushing him away more. I don’t know what to do, Alex."

The silence between them felt crushing. Alex wanted to say something—anything—to defend himself. But the truth was, he couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come, not when everything felt like a lie. Not when he knew, deep down, that Charles was right. He had dragged Carlos into the darkness. He had been the one to pull him under, and now, Carlos was lost in a way that felt too deep to reach.

Alex’s voice was barely a whisper as he said, "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen."

Charles shook his head, looking away. "Sorry doesn’t fix anything, Alex. Sorry doesn't bring him back."

Alex didn’t have a response. How could he? There was nothing left to say. 

Charles’s gaze was hard, his anger still simmering, but there was something else there, too. Something raw, something tired. "You better figure this out. Fast. Before it’s too late."

Alex walked away from Charles with a strange kind of numbness pulsing through his limbs, like his body was moving on autopilot while his mind unraveled behind him. He gave George a half-hearted hug goodbye—empty words, hollow smiles—and then it was just him again. Him and the silence. Him and the mess. Him and the crushing ache he couldn't outrun.

Every step back to the hotel felt heavier than the last. Like gravity was stronger tonight, like the world was pulling him down on purpose.

The small vodka bottle in his jacket was still there. Still cold. Still too easy to reach for. He’d been sipping it like medicine all night, just enough to take the edge off the sharp corners in his chest. But now it was more than just the edge—it was the whole damn cliff. And he was dangling off it with nothing to hold onto.

His fingers fumbled for the bottle again, unscrewing the cap with a trembling hand. Just a little more.  Just enough to feel something—anything—to drown out the spiraling thoughts, the guilt, the pressure to fix Carlos when he had no idea how to.

The thought of Carlos was like a weight lodged in his stomach. A presence that haunted him even when they were apart. Even when Carlos was right in front of him, Alex felt a million miles away from him. Untouchable. And it tore him apart because deep down, he knew Carlos had already slipped from his grasp. Alex had let it happen, let it spiral, and now, he had no clue how to pull him back. But he couldn’t stop trying.

He couldn’t let this continue. He had to fix it. He had to fix him .

Alex knocked on the door to Carlos’s hotel room, the silence stretching far too long before it finally creaked open.

Carlos stood there, his eyes scanning Alex without any warmth—just a hard, guarded look. He didn’t move, didn’t invite him in. Just stood in the doorway, an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if Alex wasn’t even there.

“What do you want?” Carlos asked, his voice flat, impersonal. His gaze flicked briefly to Alex, but it wasn’t the gaze of someone who missed him. It was the gaze of someone tolerating his presence.

Alex swallowed, feeling the weight of the moment pressing against him. “We need to talk,” he said, his voice low. He stepped forward slightly, but Carlos didn’t move, didn’t open the door any wider.

“I don’t want to talk,” Carlos muttered, his voice colder now. “Just leave it.”

Alex’s chest tightened. “You can’t just shut me out like this, Carlos. And I’m—" he hesitated, the words heavy and hard to get out, “I’m worried about you.”

Carlos’s eyes flickered to his for a brief second, but it wasn’t a look that softened anything. If anything, it hardened. “I don’t care,” he said, his tone distant and final. “I’m fine. You need to stop acting like this is something.”

Alex’s heart clenched, frustration and helplessness flooding him. He tried again, his voice shaky. “You don’t even care, do you? After everything—this is how you want it to be?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. He just turned his gaze away from Alex, stepping back into the room and pulling the door half-shut. “Just go, Alex. I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Alex’s chest tightened. He wanted to scream. To plead. But instead, his voice cracked with quiet desperation. “I can’t keep doing this. Not when everything feels like it's falling apart. We need to talk about what’s happening between us—what’s happening to you.”

Carlos’s back was to him now, his movements slow, like he was trying to distance himself physically and emotionally all at once. “Not tonight, Alex. Sleep. It’s not good for you to keep pushing.” He gave a single glance over his shoulder, the words like ice, “You can sleep here. But that’s it.”

Alex froze for a moment, staring at Carlos’s retreating form. The words stung, sharper than he expected. He nodded, defeated. “Tomorrow, then?”

Carlos didn’t look at him. He simply muttered, “Tomorrow,” without any feeling behind it.

Carlos rummaged through his suitcase, pulling out clothes and scattering them on the bed. The mundane sound of fabric rustling felt like a thousand tiny pinpricks in Alex’s chest, each one a reminder of how far they had drifted apart.

Alex made his way to the couch, slowly and numbly, like he was moving in a dream. 

Across the room, Carlos was busy, scribbling something in a notebook, not once looking up. The quiet was suffocating. Every sound, every movement, only made the distance feel more pronounced. Alex turned on his side, pulling the blanket over his shoulders, but sleep didn’t come easy. It never did when the person you loved was still a few feet away, but felt like they were miles out of reach.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under, but it was a restless, haunted sleep—one filled with the quiet of Carlos’s absence, even when he was still in the room.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat in the dim, lifeless hotel room, consumed by the shadows that felt far too thick, as though they were closing in on him, suffocating him from every angle. The only sound in the suffocating silence was Alex’s quiet, shallow breathing, the rhythm of it a constant reminder of everything Carlos couldn’t say, everything he couldn’t fix. The weight of the night pressed down on him, heavier than it should have, crushing his chest with each shallow breath he struggled to take.

He stared at the ceiling, his mind racing, thoughts unraveling so quickly they felt like they were slipping through his fingers. It was all too loud in his head. Too chaotic. A cacophony of voices, of memories, of everything he’d done wrong. He was drowning in it—slowly, quietly.

He couldn’t look at Alex. Not after everything. The way Alex had stood in that doorway, vulnerable, his heart bared, his voice cracking under the weight of the words he so desperately wanted to say. The look in his eyes, desperate and open, had burned itself into Carlos’s mind, a constant ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away. But he couldn’t face it. He couldn’t face the damage he’d done. Not the way his hands trembled when no one was watching. Not the reflection in the mirror that barely resembled him anymore, a hollow shell of who he used to be. Not the fact that the people who still cared about him were the same ones he kept pushing away, just as he had pushed away everyone else.

He was broken. Shattered in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe. And the truth was gnawing at him like a rot deep in his gut: he wasn’t going to make it out alive. Not physically, not emotionally. This was the end. And no matter how much he tried to ignore it, it was pulling him under faster than he could breathe.

He moved through the room like a corpse, his movements mechanical, detached from anything resembling life. Every step felt numb. Every action felt like he was drifting further and further from his own body. He packed his things with shaking hands, his thoughts so far gone they didn’t even seem real anymore. He left a note on the bedside table, his handwriting a jagged mess, like his mind was too broken to form a coherent thought:

“I’ve left. Leave the key in the lobby.”

No name. No explanation. Just the act of disappearing. Of vanishing into nothing.

He lingered at the door for a moment, looking back at Alex’s still form, the way his face softened in sleep. He was peaceful. And Carlos hated it. 

So, he left.

Carlos didn’t know where he was going. Didn’t care. He just needed out—out of the hotel, out of the room, out of his own head. Out of the suffocating silence that clung to him like a shroud, threatening to swallow him whole. He stepped into the cab without a plan, no destination in mind, just the desperate need to escape, to run from the monster he’d become.

By the time he booked a last-minute flight to Barcelona, his hands were trembling uncontrollably, his mind too clouded to even think clearly. But the flight felt like the only option. The only escape.

Spain was familiar. Distant. Quiet. It was the one place he thought he could hide, where he wouldn’t have to face the reality of who he had become, of what he had destroyed. It was the place he could go to disappear, where maybe, just maybe, no one would notice that he had completely fallen apart.

As the plane took off, Carlos pressed his forehead to the cold window, watching the city lights below fade into the dark void of the night. His thoughts churned, never still, always circling—Charles’s disgusted stare, Alex’s broken voice, the crushing weight of expectations he couldn’t possibly carry anymore.

He wished he could tell them everything—that he was terrified, that he couldn’t stand to look at himself in the mirror anymore, that he was a hollow shell of the person he used to be, and the more he tried to fight it, the more it consumed him. But the words wouldn’t come. They were stuck, lodged somewhere in his chest, a pressure that he couldn’t release. So he said nothing. Like always. Because there was no point anymore.

The truth was clear, undeniable, and it twisted in his gut like a knife: this was the end. He wasn’t going to make it out alive. And maybe that was okay. Maybe it was better that way.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat in the dimly lit apartment in Barcelona, the silence pressing in from every corner, suffocating him in a way that felt almost physical. The world outside felt like a distant, unreachable place, far from the suffocating darkness that had consumed him. He was alone—truly alone—and as the hours stretched into the stillness, the weight of everything he had lost, everything he had ruined, became too much to bear.

He thought about it again—how much better everything would be without him. How much better they would be. Everyone would move on. They didn’t need someone who did destroy everything he touched. Carlos had already watched the way everyone had looked at him lately—like he wasn’t even there, like he was already gone. It was as if the world had already written him off, and now, he was just waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

He could feel the pull of the darkness again, heavier than before, a magnetic force pulling him closer. He had nothing left. No reason to fight. No reason to keep breathing. It was easier to think that maybe everyone would be better off, like they could finally move on without him dragging them down.

His phone sat in his hand, but he couldn’t look away from the emptiness of the apartment around him. The memories came flooding in uninvited, sharp and jagged, cutting through his thoughts like glass shards. He remembered the early days—the adrenaline, the excitement, the feeling of being alive when everything was new, when everything felt possible. But now, all of it felt hollow, like it was someone else’s life.

He opened his phone, scrolling through the photos, the endless pictures of times he would never get back. The smiles. The laughter. He passed through them like a ghost, numb to it all. But then, one picture caught his eye—a photo from a photoshoot Max and Carlos had done together when they were both so new to the sport, still wide-eyed, full of ambition and hope. Max was beside him, grinning, carefree, and for a moment, Carlos remembered what it felt like to be... normal.

Back when they were both rising stars, thinking they could conquer the world together. The photo was a memory now—a snapshot of a time that was long gone. A time when he still had something to prove, before everything came crashing down.

He stared at it for a long time. The silence in the apartment seemed to stretch on forever. He could almost hear Max’s voice in his head, teasing him, joking around, like they were still those kids with stars in their eyes. But that was so far from reality now. Max was gone. They both had drifted apart, leaving behind nothing but bitterness and regret. Still, the ache in his chest wouldn’t stop. The weight of what he’d lost gnawed at him relentlessly.

And then, before he could stop himself, his fingers were moving. He didn’t even think about it. Didn’t ask himself why. He just knew—he needed to do something. Anything.

He opened a new message, his thumb hovering above the keyboard. His chest tightened as his fingers shook, the weight of what he was about to do settling in. Max had thrown him out from the New Years Eve party. Max had seen him at his worst, the ugliest version of himself, and walked away. Why would he ever answer now?

But in the dark silence of his apartment, Carlos couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let it go. Not this time.

His thumb moved, typing the words slowly, each letter a small weight dragging him deeper into the abyss.

“Hey, Max. It’s been a while. I could really use someone to talk to. Things aren’t great right now. Can we chat?”

The message felt so pathetic. So small. He could almost hear Max’s voice in his head, asking him what the hell he thought he was doing, asking him why he couldn’t just get his shit together. And Carlos didn’t have an answer for that. He didn’t even know anymore.

He stared at the message, his chest tight, the regret settling in before he even hit send. But he couldn’t stop. His finger hovered, trembling, and finally, he pressed send.

It was done. The regret came like a tide, crushing him, drowning him in the knowledge that he’d just reached out to the one person who had seen him at his absolute worst. He wasn’t looking for comfort. He wasn’t looking for sympathy. He just didn’t want to be alone in this darkness anymore. But deep down, he knew there was nothing Max could do to fix him. No one could.

The phone buzzed once, twice, and Carlos’s heart nearly stopped. His pulse raced, but when he looked down, there was nothing. The silence was still there. It would always be there.

He wanted to scream. To throw the phone, to break something, to do anything to escape the crushing weight inside him. But he couldn’t. He just sat there, frozen, feeling the pull of the dark in his chest, knowing that the night was only going to get longer.

He closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair, the cool air pressing against his skin, and for a moment, he could almost hear Max’s voice from the new years eve party again, clear and sharp— “You’re a fucking mess, Carlos. Get your shit together.”

But that was the thing. He couldn’t. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to anymore

Max’s POV

Max was still half-drunk when he stumbled into his hotel room, the weight of the night sinking in like lead in his chest. The afterparty had been a blur of flashing lights, hollow laughter, and meaningless conversation—noise meant to drown out the silence in his own head. But it hadn’t worked. It never did.

His hands were shaking by the time he sat down, and when his phone buzzed, he almost ignored it. But something about it made him look.

Carlos Sainz.

He froze. It hit like a punch straight to the ribs. 

The last time he had spoken to him was on New Year’s Eve. Max had kicked him out of his apartment, too exhausted, too angry to deal with the mess Carlos had become— drunk, high, slurring, with a bottle in his hand, destroying himself in real time while pretending he was just "blowing off steam."

He opened the message with a strange tightness in his chest.

Hey, Max. It’s been a while. I could really use someone to talk to. Things aren’t great right now. Can we chat?

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

Carlos. Still unraveling. Still falling. And now... reaching out. To him.

Max had told himself he wasn’t responsible. That Carlos had made his choices. That some people just didn’t want to be helped.

But reading this now—after the mess of the launch event, after the way Charles had looked at him like he was already grieving someone still alive—Max knew. Carlos wasn’t just spiraling anymore. He was hitting the bottom. And this message? It wasn’t just a cry for help. It was a final, desperate whisper in the dark.

Without thinking, Max typed back.

Where are you?

The reply came instantly. Like Carlos had been waiting.

Barcelona. My apartment. Still here. Just barely.

Max’s fingers flew before he could stop himself.

I’m coming.

No hesitation. No second thoughts. Just raw instinct and something that felt a lot like guilt clawing at his throat.

He called his assistant, voice slurred. “Get the jet ready. Barcelona. Now.”

“Max—it’s two in the morning—”

“I don’t care,” he snapped. “Just do it. ”

He didn’t bother packing properly. He grabbed some clothes from the floor, a charger, threw it into a duffel, and was in the cab fifteen minutes later. He still reeked of whiskey and stale perfume. He hadn’t eaten. He didn’t sleep. But none of it mattered.

Carlos had messaged him.

Carlos had messaged him —the same person who had once looked him in the eye, broken and bleeding inside, and been turned away. Max had pushed him out when he needed someone the most. And now, even after everything, Carlos was still reaching for him in the dark.

Max remembered—how Carlos had been there for him when no one else was. How he’d seen him at his lowest: shattered over his father, drowning in the chaos after the 2021 championship, torn apart by the media. Carlos had never looked away. He’d stood by him through it all.

And now, if Max couldn’t do the same—if he turned his back when Carlos needed someone most—
What kind of person did that make him?

The jet ride was a haze of silence and bitter air. He didn’t speak. He didn’t think. He stared at the message over and over until the words blurred. When they landed, Barcelona was still asleep, the streets quiet under a heavy sky.

He knocked on Carlos’s door at 4:07 a.m.

When it opened, he barely recognized him.

Carlos looked like a ghost of the man he used to be—shoulders hunched, eyes bloodshot and vacant, like he hadn’t slept in days. Like he hadn’t been living in weeks. Just... surviving. Barely.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Max stepped in and pulled him into a hug. No words. Just the kind of desperate, clinging embrace that said everything they’d both been too proud to say for months.

Carlos didn’t fight it. He just leaned into the hug like he didn’t trust his legs to hold him up. 

Then, a whisper - small and ruined:

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Carlos…What happened?” Max asked quietly, pulling back enough to look him in the eye. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know,” Carlos whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know how to fix it. I’m just so tired, Max. I can’t breathe anymore.”

He broke down. Right there. The kind of breakdown people don’t come back from easily. Sobs ripping out of him like his body had been waiting for permission to collapse. Max guided him to the couch, sat beside him, and didn’t say a word.

“I ruin everything,” Carlos said, barely audible. “And I know I deserve it.”

Max shook his head, slow and heavy. “No. You don’t. You’re hurting. That’s not the same thing.”

Carlos looked at him like he didn’t believe him.

“I wake up hoping I don’t” he whispered. “Everytime I breathe, it hurts. I’m so tired, Max”

Max’s throat tightened. “I should’ve helped you. I should’ve seen it..”

Silence again. Thick. Unbearable.

Carlos stared down at his hands, like he didn’t even recognize them anymore. “I don’t deserve saving.”

Max reached out, resting a hand over his.

“Then let me sit with you in the dark,” Max said. “Until you can breathe again.”

Carlos didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away either.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos and Max sat on the edge of the balcony, their legs dangling over the side like they didn’t care if they fell. The night air clung to them—cold and sharp, biting like the memories they didn’t talk about. The skyline stretched out below, beautiful and indifferent, glowing like it didn’t know they were falling apart.

Neither of them had spoken in a while. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Tense. Like it was holding its breath with them.

Carlos nursed the same beer he’d opened an hour ago, fingers wrapped too tight around the bottle, jaw clenched like he was holding back a scream. Max sat beside him, equally still, but his eyes kept flicking over like he was trying to read Carlos without asking.

Carlos broke the silence and let out a breath that sounded more like a bitter laugh. He didn’t look at Max. “I feel like I’m bleeding out, but no one notices because I’m still smiling.”

Max went quiet. Then he took a long sip of his beer, like it could drown the lump in his throat. “Yeah. I get that.”

Carlos didn’t ask him to elaborate. He already knew. Knew Max’s history, the bruises that didn’t leave marks, the kind of trauma that follows you into adulthood and pretends to be strength. But it wasn’t strength. It was survival. And there’s a difference.

“I still hear him, you know?” Max said after a pause, voice raw around the edges. “Even now. Doesn’t matter how far I’ve made it. He’s still in my head, telling me I’m never enough.”

Carlos looked at him then, really looked. And something broke open in his chest.

“You don’t deserve that,” he said, barely above a whisper. “None of it.”

Max offered a half-smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Maybe not. But it sticks. Like tar. Like I’m still trying to outrun a shadow I was born into.”

Carlos nodded slowly, turning back to the skyline. “Yeah. I feel that too. Except mine’s not a voice. It’s silence. It’s people looking at me like I’m something, like I’m still the guy who’s got it together. But inside? I feel like I’m rotting.”

The words came easier now, but they felt like they were being torn out of him. “I can’t fake it anymore, Max. I see it in Alex’s eyes. Charles. Everyone. They know I’m slipping, and I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know who I am without the mask.”

Max didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “You’re not alone, Carlos. You never were. You just got really good at believing you were.”

Carlos scoffed, blinking back the burn in his eyes. “Yeah, well. When I showed up drunk at your apartment and trashed your party, you kicked me out.”

The words probably landed like a slap, but Max didn’t flinch. 

“I know,” Max said quietly. “And I think about that night more than I want to admit. I was angry. Scared. You looked like you didn’t care if you lived or not, and I... I didn’t know how to deal with it.”

Carlos swallowed hard, throat tight. “I didn’t care. Not that night. Not for a while after.”

A silence settled between them again, but this time it was heavier. More vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” Max said, and it wasn’t casual. It was broken. Real. “I pushed you away.”

Carlos finally looked at him, and the anger that had lingered in his chest softened—just enough to breathe.

“I didn’t know who else to message,” Carlos admitted. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Max gave a tired laugh. “Didn’t think twice. You said you needed someone. That was enough.”

Carlos exhaled shakily. “I don’t know how to fix it, Max. Any of it. I keep losing pieces of myself and pretending like I’m still whole.”

“You don’t have to fix everything,” Max murmured. “You just have to survive long enough to want to.”

That hit harder than Carlos expected. He blinked fast, then rubbed at his eyes like that might keep the tears from falling.

“You think it’s possible?” he asked. “That I can come back from this?”

“I think you already are,” Max said. “You just don’t see it yet.”

They fell quiet again, both of them staring out at the city like it held answers they were too afraid to ask for. When the silence broke again, it was lighter.

“Red Bull’s car is a nightmare,” Max muttered. “No grip. No balance. I swear it’s trying to kill me.”

Carlos huffed a laugh. “You’ve always said that.”

“Yeah, well. This time I mean it.”

Carlos smiled, just slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

“Williams is... not terrible,” he said. “We might surprise some people.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You gonna surprise me on track?”

Carlos looked over, eyes tired but playful. “Try me.”

For a little while, they were just drivers again. Just two wrecked men pretending the only thing that mattered was who was faster.

But when they finally got up and went inside, Carlos felt something loosen in his chest. The pressure hadn’t disappeared, but it had shifted. And when he lay down, staring at the ceiling in the quiet of his apartment, he realized he wasn’t dreading the next morning. Not tonight.

And maybe that was the beginning.

Not of healing—but of trying.

Chapter Text

Alex’s POV

Alex sat on the couch like he’d just been hit by something massive—but the worst part was, it wasn’t sudden. It had been building for a while. This wasn’t an explosion. It was a slow, quiet collapse.

The hotel room felt hollow. Like Carlos had taken the air with him when he left. All that was left behind was the note—creased, clenched, and shaking in Alex’s hand.

I’ve left. Leave the key in the lobby.

That was it.

No explanation. No apology. No softness. Just cold ink on paper that felt like a slap to the face.

Alex didn’t cry. He didn’t even blink. He just stared at the words like they might rearrange themselves if he looked hard enough. But they didn’t. They stayed sharp and brutal.

And the worst part?

He’d known this was coming. Had felt it like a splinter just under the skin. But knowing didn’t make it hurt less. It only made him hate himself more—for clinging, for hoping.

He stood too quickly, the world tilting beneath him, and stumbled down to the lobby like he was moving underwater. The desk clerk smiled as he handed her the key. She had no idea he was unraveling, quietly, violently, from the inside out.

Back in his own room, he sat on the floor with his back to the wall, cold seeping into his skin like punishment. He grabbed his phone. Not to text, not to call. Just to disappear into noise.

But then he saw it.

Carlos. Max.

Together.

Smiling like nothing had happened. Like Carlos hadn’t just walked out of Alex’s life without a word.

The caption was simple:

Ran into an old teammate today. 

Alex’s breath hitched. Vision blurred. He could hear blood in his ears. Max—fucking Max.

Of course it was Max.

It’s always Max.

Max, who had smiled at him like a friend, and then helped push him out of Red Bull like a pawn being sacrificed. Max, who played dirty and always won. Max, who was now the one Carlos ran to.

Alex’s throat closed. The room started spinning. The post wasn’t just a picture—it was proof.

The phone hit the bed with a thud, tossed like it burned. Maybe it did. Maybe it had just confirmed what Alex hadn’t wanted to admit.

It wasn’t about love. It hadn’t been for a long time.

He didn’t miss Carlos because they were good together. He missed him because Carlos had belonged to him once. Or at least, that’s what Alex told himself. He missed the idea of being the one Carlos turned to, the one Carlos needed.

And now he wasn’t.

Now Max had that place. And it tore Alex open.

He paced. Hands in his hair. Chest too tight. Eyes wild.

He’d told himself he wanted Carlos to be okay. To heal.

The knock at the door nearly made him jump. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs.

“Alex?” a voice called softly. “It’s George.”

Of course it was George.

Sweet, dependable George—always showing up when Alex was seconds from self-destruction.

Alex opened the door. George stood there with a tray of food—toast, coffee, fruit—looking like something out of a dream. Or a life Alex didn’t deserve.

“Thought you could use this,” George said.

Alex stepped back, silent. Numb.

The tray hit the table. The coffee steamed. The silence buzzed.

“You alright?” George asked.

Alex laughed, but it was hollow. Ugly. “No.”

He sat down slowly, like his bones had betrayed him.

George sat across from him, calm, steady, everything Alex wasn’t.

“It’s Carlos,” Alex finally whispered. “He left when I tried to talk to him.”

George blinked and looked surprised. “What?”

Alex nodded, staring at his hands. “He didn’t even say goodbye. Just… left a note.”

He couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“And now he’s with Max.”

George didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Alex’s laugh cracked in the middle. “I wanted to help him. And he still left. And not just left—he ran to the one person who fucked me over the hardest.”

It all spilled out, jagged and raw.

“I don’t even know why I’m this hurt.”

George didn’t try to fix it. He just listened.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“I just wanted to help,” Alex said softly, eyes glassy. “I wanted him to need me. And now I see him smiling with Max, and I feel sick.”

There it was.

The truth.

It wasn’t just heartbreak. It was ego. Possession. That twisted, bitter longing to be chosen—just once.

George reached across the table and rested a hand on his wrist.

“I think you cared,” he said gently. “But I think you also got used to the ache. And now that it’s gone, it hurts even worse.”

Alex looked away. His throat burned.

“I don’t think I matter to him anymore.”

Charles’ POV

Charles woke to the dull glow of early morning pressing against the curtains, his head thick with sleep he never really fell into. His muscles ached from tension more than exhaustion, like his body had spent the entire night fighting something it couldn’t name. He sat up slowly, heart heavy, and glanced across the room.

Lewis was still curled up on the couch, face relaxed in the rare calm of sleep. His presence had helped, in a quiet, grounding sort of way. Not because Lewis had said anything profound or solved anything—but just because he stayed. Because he didn’t ask Charles to explain the mess inside his head. He just existed beside it.

And that felt like something close to safety.

But the quiet didn’t last. The weight of what Charles hadn’t said, what he hadn’t done, came crawling back the moment he was alone with himself.

He rubbed his face, jaw tight. He hadn't stopped thinking about Carlos. Not since the silence between them had grown so wide it swallowed the room. Not since Carlos had looked at him like a stranger.

Maybe Charles deserved that. Maybe he had earned the distance.

He ordered breakfast with a voice that sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Two coffees. Croissants. Fruit. Eggs. Extra coffee, please.” The words felt hollow, like rituals you go through when you don’t know what else to do.

He didn’t even remember why he’d asked Lewis to stay last night. Maybe he just couldn’t stand the idea of being alone.

When the knock finally came, Charles answered it, wheeled the tray inside, and started laying out the food. The smell of warm bread and fresh coffee didn’t ease the sick twist in his stomach.

Lewis stirred, blinked sleepily, and pushed himself upright with a groan. “You always know how to treat a guy,” he murmured with a crooked smile, accepting the coffee Charles handed him.

Charles didn’t say anything—just nodded, trying to swallow the tightness in his throat.

Then Lewis looked down at his phone.

A beat passed. Then another. And then he paused.

“Hey... look at this,” he said gently, turning the screen toward Charles.

There it was.

 Carlos and Max.

 A selfie—arms slung around each other, beers in hand. Smiling.

Smiling.

The caption read: “Ran into an old teammate today.”

Charles’s chest went still. The image hit harder than he expected. Not like a punch—but like a bruise being pressed, slow and deliberate. It wasn’t the photo itself. It was the ease of it. The comfort. The lightness in Carlos’s face.

The same light Charles hadn’t seen in weeks.

He stared at the screen, then let his eyes fall away. “So he’s in Barcelona,” he said softly.

Lewis nodded, his tone careful. “Looks like it.”

Charles sat back, blinking hard. There wasn’t anger—not really. Not even at Max. Just... this aching hollow in his chest. He couldn’t blame Max. Max had always been complicated, guarded. But he wasn’t a bad guy. He had his own damage, his own defenses. And Carlos had always understood that about him in a way few people did.

“It’s probably good,” Charles whispered, mostly to himself. “Carlos isn’t alone.”

Lewis hesitated. “Max knows what it’s like. He’ll be there for him, in his own way.”

Charles nodded slowly, but the knot in his chest only tightened. He wanted to believe it was that simple. That it was good Carlos had found someone who understood. But part of him—the worst part—still ached at being the one left out of the frame.

Carlos had turned to Max.

Not him.

And that left a bitter taste Charles couldn’t swallow down, no matter how hard he tried.

They ate in silence, but not the easy kind. It was laced with everything unsaid, everything unraveling beneath the surface. Lewis tried to offer small comforts—gentle jokes, stories about testing—but Charles barely heard him.

His mind was stuck in Barcelona.

In that photo.

In what it meant—and what it didn’t.

He knew he couldn’t fix this. He knew he didn’t deserve to, not when he’d spent so long building walls instead of bridges. But he still wished he could take it all back. The coldness. The silence. The moments where he should have said something and didn’t.

Because maybe if he had, that smile in the photo would’ve been for him.

After breakfast, Lewis went to pack, and Charles did the same. He moved through the motions numbly, folding clothes with shaking hands, staring blankly at the zipper of his suitcase. Bahrain pre-season testing was next. The season was about to begin. Everything was supposed to feel like a clean slate.

But Charles didn’t feel ready. He didn’t feel clean. He felt haunted.

Still, he went.

He walked through the airport like a ghost in his own body, the noise around him blurred and distant. He tried to focus on the season ahead, on the car, on the competition. He tried to remind himself that he had a job to do.

But Carlos lingered like a shadow at the back of his mind.

And when the plane finally took off, Charles stared out the window, watching the world shrink beneath him—wishing he could shrink with it.

Because Max wasn’t the villain in this story.

Maybe no one was.

Maybe they were all just hurting in different directions.

And that made it worse.

George’s POV

George sat on the plane to Bahrain, his fingers curled into fists in his lap. The hum of the engines was steady, almost meditative—but it didn’t calm him. Not really. The sound couldn’t drown out the storm that had been building inside his chest since the launch. Since Carlos disappeared. Since Alex shattered and didn’t even seem to notice he was bleeding.

He glanced sideways.

Alex was curled into the window like he could disappear into it. Face blank. Eyes vacant. Like he was on another planet entirely. Like he was bracing for an impact that had already come and left nothing standing.

George swallowed hard.

He understood the facts. He’d read everything he could on bipolar disorder—textbooks, medical journals, Reddit threads. He’d even talked to someone, quietly, anonymously, once or twice. He knew the mood swings, the impulsivity, the crash after the highs. He’d learned how to spot the signs. And Alex—Alex was practically glowing with them lately. Irritability masquerading as charisma. Energy that came off as fire until it burned. The emptiness that followed.

But this—this thing with Carlos?

He didn’t understand it.

Didn’t understand the way Alex held onto Carlos like he was the last breath in a drowning body. The way he talked about him, thought about him, ached for him. It wasn’t just love. It didn’t feel like love at all. It felt like obsession. Like a wound Alex kept digging into just to prove he could still bleed.

It scared George. And he hated that it scared him.

“Do you like him?” he asked suddenly, not even sure he’d meant to say it out loud.

Alex didn’t move much, just tilted his head slightly, eyes still on the clouds. “Who?”

“Carlos,” George said, quiet but sharp. He couldn’t help the edge in his voice. “Do you actually like him? Or are you just—”

Addicted to the pain?

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Alex exhaled, slow. “We kissed last year. When everything was falling apart. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t... healthy.” His voice broke around the word like it didn’t belong in his mouth. “I don’t even know if I miss him. Or if I just miss what we were. The mess. The chaos. The way it felt like... at least we were burning together.”

George looked away. That shouldn’t have made sense—but it did. And that scared him even more.

“I don’t think it was ever love,” Alex continued, quieter now. “It was gravity. Like something pulling us together no matter how much damage it did. I think I just wanted to be seen. Wanted someone to stay when I was at my worst. And for a second, Carlos did.”

George’s chest ached. He just wished Alex had known—he would’ve stayed, even at his worst.

“You still talk about him like he’s the only thing that matters,” George said gently. “Even now. After everything.”

Alex didn’t answer. He just let the silence settle, let it thicken between them like fog.

George tried again. “You’re allowed to feel what you feel. I’m not saying that’s wrong. But... you don’t need to destroy yourself to hold onto someone who’s already let go.”

Alex flinched at that, and George almost regretted saying it. Almost. But someone had to.

“I’m not trying to shame you,” George added. “I just think... maybe this isn’t love, mate. Maybe it’s just the echo of a hurt you haven’t let heal.”

Alex turned, finally. Eyes glassy, but not wet. Not yet. “I don’t know who I am without the hurt.”

And there it was.

The raw, unfiltered truth.

George reached out without thinking and wrapped his fingers around Alex’s wrist. “Then maybe that’s what you have to figure out. Not Carlos. Not the past. Just you.”

Alex looked at him like he was hearing that for the first time.

George didn’t know if it would stick. He hoped it would. Because Alex deserved more than this constant collapse, this cycle of breaking and pretending he was fine.

The worst part wasn’t that Alex loved Carlos. It was that he couldn’t stop needing someone who didn’t know how to stay.

George leaned back in his seat and stared at the ceiling of the cabin.

He’d been so wrapped up in Alex lately that he hadn’t given himself time to breathe. He was tired. Bone-deep tired. Not just from the press, or the race calendar, or the expectations that came with being “Mr. Consistent.” But from caring this much about someone who didn’t even know how close he was to the edge.

He loved racing because it gave him control. It was the one place where instincts mattered more than feelings. Where chaos made sense. But here, 30,000 feet in the air, watching someone he cared about unravel inch by inch—there was no strategy. No pit stop to fix this. Just a helpless kind of waiting.

“Just... don’t forget who you are,” he said finally. “Outside of him.”

Alex nodded, almost imperceptibly. Like the words hurt more than they helped. Like he knew George was right, and that was the worst part.

Eventually, Alex leaned his head against the window, eyes closed. His breathing evened out, but George knew it wasn’t sleep. It was retreat. A truce with the storm, not peace.

He stared out the window, into the sky stretching endlessly around them. Maybe the answers were up there somewhere, floating in the space between takeoff and landing.

Or maybe there were no answers at all.

Just Bahrain waiting. Just the season ahead. Just a long, merciless stretch of tarmac where nothing could be hidden and everything would be tested.

George closed his eyes and let the silence settle.

For now, it was enough just to survive the flight.

Max’s POV

Max woke slowly, the late afternoon light slicing through the blinds and dragging him into consciousness. It was later than he’d meant to sleep, but neither he nor Carlos had probably been able to rest easily in the last few days.

He turned his head to find Carlos still asleep beside him, half-covered by the blankets, his back curled toward Max like he was still bracing against the world.

But something was different. There was a slight shift in Carlos’s body—a little less tension in his shoulders, a hint of peace in the way he breathed. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Max to notice.

And for a moment, he let himself believe that maybe his being there had made a difference.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

He stretched, every bone creaking like old wood. His body was stiff from sleep, but the heaviness in his chest wasn’t physical. He grabbed his phone, more out of habit than want, and the moment he unlocked it, his stomach sank.

Notifications. Missed calls. Press demands. Team updates. Endless noise.

He ignored all of it.

His gaze drifted back to Carlos. Still unmoving. Still unreachable.

Was this anything real? Or just a fragile, temporary shelter from the storm Carlos couldn’t outrun?

“Are you hungry?” Max asked, and his voice came out rough, scraped raw like he’d swallowed glass. Too much weight in too few words.

Carlos didn’t answer at first. The silence stretched, sharp and uneasy, before finally:

“Yeah. Sure.”

That was it. Two hollow syllables. A lie disguised as cooperation. They moved through the motions of eating like ghosts. No appetite. No laughter. Just silverware scraping plates like a metronome counting down to the next collapse.

Max watched him—watched him not be there.

He hated how good Carlos was at disappearing without leaving the room.

They didn’t speak until Carlos did, voice low, brittle.

“Do the media know how much of a mess I am?”

The words hit like shrapnel. Max felt them land, scatter, burrow under his ribs.

He looked up, fork forgotten. Carlos still wasn’t looking at him.

God, he wanted to lie. To tell him the world didn’t see the cracks. But they did. They always did. And they loved it. They fed on it.

“No,” Max said flatly, with more anger than comfort. “They don’t know anything. They don’t care to. They just want something to chew on.”

Carlos nodded, but it was hollow. Max didn’t know if he believed it, or just wanted to.

He hated how tired Carlos looked. Not physically tired—existentially tired. The kind of exhaustion that no sleep could touch.

Carlos started talking after that. Vague complaints about the press, the scrutiny, the way F1 polished you until you disappeared inside the shine. Max nodded, laughed once—but it came out wrong. Bitter. Like it hurt to even pretend to find anything funny anymore.

“They asked me once if I was jealous of Daniel’s family,” Max muttered, shaking his head. “Like they thought it was funny to dig that deep. As if they hadn’t already taken enough.”

Carlos didn’t laugh. Just gave him this haunted sort of smile, the kind that said yeah, same but also don’t go there.

It wasn’t just the press. It wasn’t just the cameras. It was everything. The expectation. The pressure. And Carlos was crumbling under it.

The dinner ended without fanfare, just a quiet transition into packing their bags. Max watched Carlos, trying to read his movements, the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking. He was slipping, slowly but surely, back into the routine. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. The only start they had right now.

Max’s thoughts weren’t exactly clear as they grabbed a cab to the airport. He called his assistant to prepare the jet, knowing the next leg of the journey was just as important—Monaco first, then Bahrain. But his mind wasn’t focused on that, not really. It was on Carlos. 

Max couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only temporary. That Carlos was only holding himself together because he had to. Because Max was there. He wanted to believe that everything was fine, that they’d be okay, but the cracks were still there. They hadn’t healed. Not yet.

When they landed in Monaco, Lando was waiting for them at the airport, all smiles and jokes. Max tried to play along, even though he could feel the weight of the conversation still lingering.

“Look at this,” Lando said, waving his phone around. “Fans are going crazy over you two. Versainz is making a comeback.”

Max rolled his eyes, but a small part of him wished it were that simple. If only. If only it could be as easy as just letting everything fall into place. But it wasn’t. It never had been.

Lando’s POV

Lando stepped onto Max’s jet with the kind of smile he’d perfected over the years—tight, practiced, the kind that fooled cameras but not people who really knew him. Not Carlos. Not Max. And probably not himself either, not anymore.

The air inside was cool, sterile. Private jets always had this strange quiet about them, like time moved differently here—slower, heavier. Max was already seated, scrolling his phone with that unreadable expression of his. Carlos sat nearby, hood up, gaze locked out the window like he could will the world into silence.

Lando’s stomach knotted.

He hadn’t seen Carlos properly since Monaco. Not like this. Not this up-close version—unfiltered, worn thin. The kind of quiet that had sharp edges. It was Carlos’s silence that rattled him the most. Carlos had never been loud, but this... this was different. Like something in him had cracked and never quite sealed shut again.

Carlos had always been the one to see through him, to notice when the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. And that was the problem now, wasn’t it? Lando couldn’t stop thinking about him. About the quiet devastation in Carlos’s gaze, about the slow decline he hadn’t noticed until it was too late. When Carlos had left McLaren, Lando had been proud of him—happy that he was moving up, getting the recognition he deserved. But now? Now, seeing Carlos looking so... lost, it felt like the world had flipped upside down. Ferrari had promised him everything, and yet, it seemed they had shattered him instead. And Lando was left wondering if there was something he could’ve done to stop this spiral. To save his friend before it was too late.

Lando sank into the seat across from them, trying not to stare. Trying not to let it show—that something inside him was unraveling, too. That seeing Carlos like this made him feel like he was thirteen again, watching someone he cared about spiral and not knowing how to stop it.

Carlos used to be the one holding him together. After bad races. Panic attacks. Long nights where everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers. And now... now Carlos was breaking in real time, and Lando hadn’t even seen it coming.

Had he stopped looking? Or just chosen not to?

The jet lifted off, smooth and quiet. Too quiet.

Lando kept waiting for someone to say something. To fill the void. But no one did.

Until Carlos spoke.

“You know,” he said, voice low and strange, like it was coming from somewhere far away, “I’m really happy you and Max are such good friends.”

Lando’s heart lurched. It was the kind of sentence that carried weight. That meant more than it said. He blinked, trying to catch up. “Of course we are,” he said, too quickly, voice light, fake. Defensive. “We’ve got each other’s backs.”

Carlos’s mouth tugged into a smile, but it didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. Lando couldn’t breathe properly. That look—it was a goodbye, almost. A soft surrender. And it terrified him.

“I mean it though,” Carlos said, more to the window than to either of them. “You guys are always just a phone call away. I know that for sure.”

And it hit Lando like a punch to the chest.

He’s slipping.

He’s saying things like he’s already gone.

Lando forced himself to speak. “You’ve got me anytime, Carlos. Don’t forget that.”

Max chimed in, blunt as always. “We’re here for you. Always.”

But it wasn’t reassurance Carlos needed. Lando could feel it, the distance between them, even in the words of comfort they offered. Carlos didn’t want comfort. He wanted something that none of them could give him. And Lando was starting to realize the truth he had been avoiding.

The truth was, Carlos was falling apart.

There was a pause, the kind that dragged on too long. And then, the words came, soft, burdened with the weight of something Lando wasn’t sure he could handle.

“The last few months... they haven’t been easy. It’s been... a mess.”

Lando’s stomach twisted. A mess. The understatement of the year. He’d seen Carlos through so much—the highs and the lows—but this? This was different. Something had shifted in him. There was a crack in Carlos’s armor, a fissure too deep to ignore.

Carlos paused, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the armrest. “You know about the mess with Alex, right?” He asked, his voice low, like he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to say it out loud. “It’s... it’s complicated. We got caught up in something we shouldn’t have. And now... I don’t know where to go from here.”

Lando felt his breath catch in his throat. Alex. The one person Carlos had always kept at arm’s length in the mess of it all. Lando hadn’t realized how deep it went, how far gone it had gotten. He’d seen the aftermath at Monaco—hadn’t really understood it—but now it was hitting him with full force. If only he had known sooner. If only he’d paid closer attention, maybe he could’ve helped.

But how could you have helped, Lando? His mind screamed at him. What could you have done when you couldn’t even save yourself?

He shifted in his seat, trying to find something to latch onto, something to hold his thoughts together. His mind raced as he remembered the way Carlos had always been there for him. When Lando had been struggling with panic attacks in his early days in F1, it had been Carlos who had stayed up late with him, talking him through the worst of it. He had been Lando’s constant, the one person who understood the weight of this sport better than anyone else.

And now, here was Carlos—broken. Crushed by the very thing that had once made him strong. Ferrari had taken everything from him, and Lando felt the anger build in his chest. How dare they?

Carlos’s voice broke through his thoughts, but it didn’t offer any relief. It was tired, worn, almost like he was saying the words to release some of the pain.

“I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought I could handle it on my own.”

Lando’s heart sank. He wanted to tell Carlos that he didn’t have to handle it alone, that he should’ve leaned on someone, anyone, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he reached out, placing a hand on Carlos’s shoulder. The touch was more for him than for Carlos, something to remind him that they were still here, that they hadn’t forgotten him.

"I had no idea, man. If I had known... maybe I could’ve done something," Lando said, his voice thick with emotion, the weight of his guilt dragging at him.

Carlos looked at him with a tired, hollow smile. It wasn’t the Carlos Lando remembered. The one who always had the energy, the drive, the cocky grin. This was a man broken by everything he had carried alone.

"It’s not your fault," Carlos whispered, his voice trailing off like a lost whisper.

Max tried to bring the mood back up, but the words felt hollow. “You’ve always liked doing shit on your own,” he said. “But even you’ve got to admit, you need people sometimes. And we’re still here. Even now."

Carlos chuckled, but the sound was empty, devoid of any real joy. He gave a small nod to Max, his gratitude evident in his eyes, but Lando knew it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what Carlos needed. He needed time. Time to heal. Time to process. Time to figure out how to untangle all of this.

And there was nothing Lando could do but be there for him, just like Carlos had been there for him when things had gotten tough.

Lando stared out of the window, the weight of his thoughts pressing in on him. They weren’t teammates anymore, but that didn’t matter. Carlos was still his friend. And Lando would be there for him, even if it felt like he was falling apart too.

No matter what.

Chapter Text

Charles’ POV

Charles stepped off the plane and into the open mouth of the Bahraini heat. It hit him like guilt—dry, relentless, familiar in the worst kind of way. His mind should’ve been sharp, tuned for the rhythm of laps and tire data, but it wasn’t. Everything felt off. Muffled. Like the world had been dipped underwater and no one had told him how to breathe.

Lewis walked beside him, steady, composed—his usual armor of calm untouched by the season’s weight. Their footsteps echoed through the terminal like reminders of what once was—when they all moved together, shoulder to shoulder, not with this silence stitched between them.

It was supposed to be a clean slate. A new season. But Charles couldn’t stop thinking about Carlos. The silence between them was no longer temporary—it was starting to feel like the default.

“You ready for testing?” Lewis asked, voice cutting through the stillness like a scalpel. His eyes flicked over, reading more than Charles wanted him to.

Charles offered a ghost of a smile. “Yeah. I guess. It’ll be good to get back to it.”

Lewis clapped him on the shoulder, warm but distant, like two friends pretending they were still the same. “Don’t let them get in your head.”

But they weren’t in his head. Carlos was. Or the absence of him. 

“Take care, Lewis,” Charles said, softer than he meant to.

Lewis nodded, then walked away, disappearing into sponsor meetings and photo ops. Charles stood there, alone again, letting the airport noise wash over him like static. His thoughts circled back, as they always did—to the last time he saw Carlos. How his smile looked rehearsed. 

He made his way through the crowd and into the heat. The sun pressed against his back like a burden he couldn’t shake. The drive to the hotel blurred by in beige and gold—desert, glass, sky—and Charles just sat in it. Quiet. Heavy.

He didn’t remember walking through the lobby, just the moment Pierre’s voice cut through like a firecracker.

“Well, well. Look who dragged himself in.”

Charles turned. Pierre and Jack stood there, heads shaved, grins in place. They looked like they belonged to a different world—one where people didn’t fall apart silently.

“What happened to your hair?” Charles asked, sharper than he meant. “Trying to join the army?”

Pierre laughed, rubbing his scalp. “Call it a statement. Clean slate.”

Jack gave a half-shrug. “Thought we’d try something new. You should too.”

Charles smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’d rather keep something familiar.”

Pierre’s grin faded into something softer. “How’ve you been?”

Charles hesitated. “It’s... getting easier,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. “I’m just worried about Carlos, as usual” 

He said it like he believed it. Like saying it enough might make it real.

They were all fraying at the edges. And no one noticed until someone bled.

“It’s hard,” he admitted. “We can never just be. Always performing. Always expected to be fine.”

Jack nodded slowly. “I’m just trying not to drown in it.”

Charles recognized the look in his eyes. The exhaustion. The quiet fear. He'd seen it before—in the mirror. In Carlos.

“You won’t drown,” Charles said, firmer this time. “Not if we hold each other up.”

Pierre clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “No one gets left behind.”

It was a nice thought. Too nice. Charles wanted to believe it, but belief had started to feel like a luxury.

“How’s Flavio?” he asked, switching gears.

Pierre groaned. “Still a tyrant. Yelling, pushing. Wants blood every time I visit the Alpine headquater.”

Jack sighed. “He keeps telling me to be harder. That I’m too soft for this.”

Charles looked at him, heart tightening. 

“You’re not weak,” Charles said. “You’re still here.”

And somehow, that had to count for something.

A beat passed. Then, like a spark in the dark, Charles spoke: “What if we got everyone together? A dinner. No cameras. No press. Just... us.”

Pierre lit up. “God, yes. It’s been too long.”

Jack smiled, small but real. “It would help. Remind us we’re not alone.”

Charles nodded, something easing inside him. It wasn’t enough. Not for what had already been lost. But maybe it was something. A start.

“One call,” Charles said quietly. “That’s all it takes.”

Alex’s POV

Alex lay motionless on the hotel bed, eyes locked on the ceiling like it held answers. It didn’t. The room was cold with artificial air, but he felt like he was burning under his skin. The silence wasn’t peaceful — it was loaded, loud in a way that gnawed at his nerves.

George sat slouched on the couch nearby, scrolling on his phone, not talking. Not asking. Probably felt the tension, but was smart enough not to comment on it. 

Alex couldn’t stop thinking about Carlos. Couldn’t stop feeling it. The closeness they used to have. The heat. The twisted comfort. The way Carlos had made the world slow down — not by pulling him out of the darkness, but by sitting inside it with him. By making it feel like the dark wasn’t something to escape.

Then it all went wrong. The lines got crossed, maybe on purpose. Maybe Alex pushed too far. Maybe Carlos let him.

A knock at the door.

Alex’s chest went tight.

George glanced up, then got to his feet with a lazy kind of caution. He opened the door — and Alex didn’t have to look. He felt it.

Carlos.

He was standing there like a memory made real. And worse — he looked calm.

“Hey,” George said, smiling faintly, already backing away. “I’ll… uh, give you two space.”

And just like that, they were alone. Again.

Carlos didn’t step in right away. He hovered at the edge of the room like he wasn’t sure he was allowed inside. Like maybe he already regretted coming.

Alex stayed on the bed, body rigid, eyes pretending to be fascinated by the ceiling again. He didn’t want this. He wanted this too much.

Carlos finally crossed the threshold and stood awkwardly at the end of the bed, his hands jammed in his pockets. Alex could feel his eyes on him, waiting, measuring.

“Didn't expect you to actually come,” Alex said flatly, voice cracking with something he didn’t name. “Thought you were too busy playing happy.”

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them. They hung in the air like smoke—ugly, bitter, toxic.

Carlos didn’t react right away. No flinch, no defense. Just that infuriating stillness, like he’d already prepared for Alex to self-sabotage this too.

“I came because I wanted to talk,” Carlos said eventually, his voice low. Careful.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” Alex muttered, but the words rang hollow.

Carlos just looked at him — calm, tired, like he'd already lived this conversation a dozen times in his head. “You didn’t have to.”

Another long silence stretched between them. Carlos moved to sit on the edge of the bed, but not too close. Just close enough for Alex to feel it.

Alex finally turned his head, eyes meeting his.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Alex said quietly.

“What thing?”

“Acting like you’re above it. Like you’re not part of this mess too.”

Carlos’s jaw tensed. “I am part of it. That’s the problem.”

Carlos came closer, sitting on the edge of the bed but not too close. Just far enough to make the space between them ache.

“It got weird,” Carlos said softly. “We made it… complicated. And I think you were hurting. Still are.”

Alex laughed, dry and mean. “Wow. Thanks for the diagnosis, Doctor Sainz.”

But Carlos didn’t flinch. “I'm hurting too.”

Alex swallowed hard. “Then why did you leave?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, full of something that wasn’t quite anger — maybe guilt, maybe regret. Maybe both.

"You know why," Carlos said quietly. "We need to focus on the season… and whatever this is—it’s not right. It’s not helping either of us."

“It felt good,” Alex shot back. “Don’t pretend it didn’t.”

Carlos exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah. It felt good. Until it didn’t. Until it started swallowing us whole.”

Alex sat up, slowly, the sheets crumpling around him. “You think I care if it was toxic? You think I haven’t been living in poison my whole life? At least with you, it meant something.”

Carlos shook his head. “No, Alex. It meant something because we were both too afraid to be alone.”

“I’m still afraid,” Alex whispered. “You’re the only person who ever looked at the worst parts of me and didn’t flinch.”

Carlos’s face flickered — pain, recognition, something deeper. “I didn’t flinch,” he said. “But I broke.”

Alex didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight.

“I used to think we were helping each other,” Carlos went on, voice lower now. “But we were just… making it worse. Feeding off each other’s damage. Pulling each other under.”

Alex leaned forward, too close now, too much. “Maybe I want to go under. Maybe I just want someone to go under with.”

Carlos closed his eyes, like the words hurt.

“You want me to say it?” Alex asked, quieter. “Fine. I still want you. Even if it’s a mess. Even if it breaks us again. I don’t care. I’d rather have the storm than the silence.”

Carlos opened his eyes, gaze meeting Alex’s. “And when the storm’s done? When we’re both wrecked again? What then?”

“I don’t know,” Alex admitted. “Maybe then we’ll finally understand each other.”

Carlos looked at him for a long time. Then, slowly, he reached out — not for a kiss, not for anything romantic. Just his hand on Alex’s shoulder. Grounding. Solid. Dangerous.

“I came here to make sure you’re okay,” he said quietly. “Not to go back to what we were.”

Alex nodded, but he didn’t believe it. And Carlos knew he didn’t.

Still, neither of them moved away.

“Just stay for a bit,” Alex murmured. “You don’t have to say anything. Just stay.”

Carlos hesitated. Then he leaned back slightly, just enough to rest against the headboard beside Alex, not touching, but there.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

The air between them pulsed with everything unsaid — want, guilt, memory, and something deeper. Something like grief.

Alex didn’t know what came next. But for now, Carlos was here.

Even if it wasn’t right.

Even if it was never going to be right.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos stood outside the restaurant, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, jaw clenched against the cool Bahrain breeze brushing past his skin. It wasn’t cold, not really—but he couldn’t stop shivering. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was his nerves. Or maybe it was just everything catching up to him again.

He should’ve gone home. Stayed in. Said no.

But Charles had texted. And Carlos had said yes, like he always did—like part of him still believed he could find something out here that would make him feel real again.

The others were already inside.

He inhaled slowly, forcing his lungs to cooperate. One breath at a time. In. Out. He wasn’t falling apart. Not tonight. Tonight, he had to look fine, sound fine, be fine.

Carlos stepped into the restaurant.

Warm lighting, quiet chatter, too many eyes that flicked toward him as soon as the door shut behind him. He smiled like it didn’t make his stomach twist. Like he belonged.

Lando was the first to wave him over, patting the empty chair beside him like it had always been waiting.

“Look who finally showed up,” Lando grinned. “I was starting to think you were gonna ghost us.”

Carlos forced a chuckle, his voice coming out hoarse. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He sat down, heart hammering. His eyes instinctively scanned the table—for exits, for faces he trusted, for him. But Charles was across the room, already deep in conversation with Pierre, his laugh a soft echo Carlos would’ve picked out anywhere.

He looked away too fast.

“Hey,” Lando said quietly, nudging him. “You okay?”

Carlos smiled again—too sharp, too polished. “Yeah. Just tired.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

The menus were handed out, drinks poured. Carlos flipped through the food options mechanically, pretending to read. His appetite hadn’t come back, not really. Some days he could force down just enough to keep people from asking. Other days, the idea of food made his skin crawl. He was somewhere in between tonight. So he closed the menu without ordering.

He was hoping no one would notice.

But Max did.

“Not eating?” Max asked, voice light.

Carlos shrugged. “Had something earlier.”

Max gave him a look—brief, unreadable—and let it go.

The conversation moved around him like warm water, and Carlos let it wash over him, nodding at jokes, laughing when everyone else laughed. It was easier this way. To pretend.

But every time he caught Charles’s voice drifting over the hum of the room, something in him tensed. He hadn’t spoken to him since... since it all fractured. Not properly, anyway. Not since he started believing that maybe Charles was better off—like everyone else—without him.

Charles had always been kind. That was the problem. The kindness, the way he looked at Carlos like he was someone worth holding on to. Carlos didn’t know how to carry that anymore.

He couldn’t even carry himself.

Max leaned in again, voice low this time. “You know... the dinner actually feels lighter with you here.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “You mean heavier.”

Max shook his head. “No. Lighter. You make people feel that way, even if you don’t see it.”

Carlos blinked.

Max smirked faintly. “You remember what they called it? ‘The Sainz Effect.’” He took a sip of his drink. “They weren’t wrong. Everyone smiles more when you’re around. Even Lewis.”

Carlos stared down at the table, his fingers tightening around the edge of his glass. It didn’t feel like a compliment. It felt like a ghost.

He wanted to say, Then why does it feel like I ruin everything I touch?

Instead, he nodded.

Charles’s voice cut through again, closer now. Carlos looked up—and there he was, standing beside him with that soft smile, the one that always made Carlos feel seen and exposed at the same time.

“It’s good to see you,” Charles said gently. “Really.”

Carlos opened his mouth, then closed it. Something sharp twisted in his chest.

“Thanks,” he said. “You too.”

They held the moment for just a second too long. Then Charles gave a small nod and slipped back into his conversation, leaving Carlos with a tight throat and an ache he couldn’t name.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur. Laughter. Stories. A toast from Lewis. Max whispering something stupid in his ear that actually made Carlos laugh for real. He felt like he was floating just outside of it all, playing the part of the man they remembered, the man he used to be.

But the truth was, he still couldn’t eat. Still couldn’t sleep right. Still couldn’t look in the mirror without seeing someone he didn’t recognize.

He thought maybe they’d all be better if he just... stepped back. Let them forget.

But they hadn’t.

And that made it worse.

Near the end of the night, as the plates were cleared and the drinks poured slower, Max raised his glass again.

“To the ones who showed up,” he said, voice steady, eyes locked on Carlos. “And to the ones still trying.”

Carlos hesitated—then lifted his glass.

It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t healing. But it was something.

And maybe that was enough for tonight.

Charles’ POV

The Bahrain night had cooled, a gentle breeze tugging at the hems of their jackets as Charles and Carlos stepped out of the restaurant. The city lights painted the pavement in soft golds and silvers, but everything around them felt muted—like the volume had been turned down on the world. The others had drifted off, voices fading behind them, leaving just the two of them walking side by side into the quiet.

Charles didn’t speak. Not at first. He just walked beside Carlos, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his brow furrowed ever so slightly. He kept glancing sideways—not obviously, but enough to keep track. Carlos hadn’t eaten. Barely touched anything. Charles had noticed. Of course he had. He noticed everything when it came to Carlos.

Carlos looked okay, if you didn’t look too closely. But Charles had never been able to stop looking closely.

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable. It was cautious. Fragile. The kind that follows something broken and not yet mended.

Carlos was the first to break it, his voice so low it nearly got lost in the wind. “I’m sorry, Charles,” he murmured, eyes fixed ahead. “For everything. For shutting you out.”

Charles’s chest tightened. He hated this version of Carlos—the one who sounded like he was still apologizing for existing. Still trying to make himself smaller.

“I know,” Charles said softly, but his throat felt tight, raw. “You don’t have to do all of this alone.”

Carlos gave a weak laugh, like the sound had been dragged out of him. “I don’t think I deserved help. That everyone is better without me.”

That was the part that hurt the most. That Carlos still thought he was better off in the shadows. Still believed everyone else was better off without him.

“I hate that you think that,” Charles whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “I hate that you still think we’d be fine without you.”

Carlos didn’t answer. He just kept walking.

Charles stopped.

“Carlos.”

Carlos turned to face him slowly, the glow of a streetlamp casting soft shadows across his face. He looked tired. Not just physically— exhausted. His smile was there, but it was too practiced. Too perfect. A mask Charles had seen a hundred times before.

“I’m trying,” Carlos said. “To get better.”

“I know,” Charles said. He stepped closer, voice trembling despite himself. “But I still worry. Every damn day.”

Charles watched as Carlos looked down, swallowing hard. His hands were shaking, barely, and he quickly shoved them into his jacket pockets like Charles wouldn’t notice.

“I can’t eat properly,” Carlos admitted, almost like it was a confession, like he was ashamed. “Some days it’s easier to just… not try. But tonight, I wanted to be here. I wanted to act normal. I thought if I could just fake it well enough, maybe no one would see.”

“I see you,” Charles said, voice fierce now, broken around the edges. “Even when you’re trying to disappear, I see you.”

Carlos’s eyes met his—haunted, unsure. Like he was waiting for the moment Charles would turn his back.

But Charles didn’t. He couldn’t.

“You don’t have to be fixed to be loved, Carlos.”

They didn’t need to say anything else. Not yet.

They kept walking, this time slower. Their shoulders brushed now and then, and neither of them pulled away. Eventually, they found a quiet bench tucked beneath a tree at the edge of a park, away from the streetlights, away from the world. They sat close—not touching, but near enough.

Time passed differently here. The conversation came in pieces. They talked about the season, about the pressure. About the media and the fans and the chaos they’d wrapped themselves in. But always—always—it circled back to Carlos.

“I hate how quiet my mind gets,” Carlos admitted at one point. “When I don’t have something to distract me, it just… turns on me.”

Charles didn’t say much in response. He just sat there, listening like it mattered, because it did. Because Carlos never let anyone see this far inside him—not unless he was breaking.

And Charles couldn’t stand to watch him break alone again.

“You don’t need to be okay to be here,” Charles said softly. “You just need to keep showing up.”

Carlos nodded, jaw tight, eyes wet but not spilling over. “I’m trying.”

And Charles, heart aching, whispered the only thing he could: “I know.”

Carlos’ POV

The first light of dawn began to creep across the horizon, soft streaks of pink and gold spilling into the sky. The world around them stirred slowly, the city waking up with its usual hum, but the park remained a quiet haven, untouched by the demands of the day.

Carlos leaned back on the bench, his gaze lost in the sway of the trees overhead, each branch swaying with the rhythm of a breeze that felt both calming and unsettling. “You ever think about what it’d be like if we weren’t... us?” he asked after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper. “If we didn’t have to live under all this pressure—teams, media, expectations. If we could just... be normal.”

Charles let out a soft chuckle, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared ahead. “All the time,” he said, his voice quiet. “Whenever everything gets too loud, I wonder what it’d be like to just vanish for a while. To just be two people, no spotlight. No race cars. No cameras.” He glanced over at Carlos then, a look of something unspoken in his eyes.

Carlos let out a slow breath, his voice quiet as he spoke again, the words slipping out with more honesty than he was used to. “Do you think we’ll always feel like we’re chasing something we can’t quite reach? Like we’re never enough... like no matter what we do, we’re always a little behind?”

Charles shifted his weight, looking up at the softening sky, the sun beginning to peek out from the horizon. “Maybe,” he said, his voice steady, like it was something he’d already accepted. “But maybe that’s okay.”

Carlos’s heart gave a little tug at that. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to smile—genuine, no pretense. For the briefest moment, the weight of the world felt a little less heavy. Maybe Charles was right. Maybe the distance didn’t matter as much as he thought.

They sat together in silence, but it wasn’t the kind of silence that felt like avoiding something. It was quieter now, more peaceful, the kind that came after two people said everything they were too afraid to say before. The kind of quiet that felt like progress.

Eventually, Charles nudged Carlos lightly with his shoulder. “Come on,” he said, standing and stretching. “Let’s find some coffee.”

Carlos chuckled as he pushed himself up from the bench beside him. “You and your coffee,” he teased, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

Charles grinned. “What can I say? It’s my second love. After you, of course.”

Carlos froze for a moment, caught off guard by the words. His chest tightened, but warmth spread through him—soft, quiet, and unspoken. He didn’t reply; he didn’t have to. Instead, he bumped Charles’s arm gently, a real smile forming on his lips. It reminded him of their days at Ferrari, the easy, timeless flirting that never turned into anything more.

They walked in the direction of the rising sun, their steps falling into rhythm. The distance that had been between them for so long was gone now, replaced by an easy closeness. 

There would still be hard days ahead, no doubt. Races to face, cameras to deal with, and hearts to protect and Carlos didn’t know if he could fix himself. Didn’t know if he could ever truly heal. 

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

The morning sun filtered weakly through the thin hotel curtains, casting pale gold light across the room, but it felt harsh against Carlos’s eyes as he blinked awake. The sheets were twisted around his legs, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat he didn’t remember sweating. Bahrain’s morning heat was already creeping in, but that wasn’t what had woken him. It was the knot in his stomach—the familiar tightness, like everything inside him was pulled too taut, straining at the seams.

He sat up slowly, elbows resting on his knees, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. There was a moment—a second, maybe two—where he thought it’s fine. I’m fine. But then the thoughts came, fast and quiet like they always did, sneaking in before he could stop them.

Pre-season testing.

Every lap is a statement.

Every second counts.

Eyes on you, Carlos. Always.

He didn’t check his phone. He didn’t need to. He already knew what the headlines would be saying, what the engineers would be expecting, what the team bosses would be watching for. There was no room for hesitation. Not now. Not ever. Not when every whisper in the paddock could turn into a storm, and especially not when everyone thought he was on his way doing okay again.

That was the part that cut deepest.

Because the dinner had helped. Seeing Max and Lando again, clearing the air with Alex. The way Charles had looked at him that night, with softness, with something real—it had done something. It had steadied him, at least for a moment. But it hadn't erased the pressure. It hadn’t silenced the voice in his head that told him, over and over, You don’t deserve this. Not anymore.

He walked over to the small hotel kitchenette, opened the minibar, stared at the selection of overpriced juices and energy bars, then closed it again. The thought of breakfast turned his stomach. His mouth was dry, but he couldn’t imagine eating. He didn’t want food. He wanted control. He wanted the one place he could still be himself, where everything else—feelings, fear, failure—fell away.

The car.

The car didn’t ask him to smile for the cameras. The car didn’t care how much he’d screwed up last year. It didn’t demand apologies or question his worth. It just responded. Precise, mechanical, honest. Every shift, every brake point, every corner—it was control in its purest form.

He needed that today. More than he could admit to anyone.

Carlos splashed water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked okay. Not great, but okay. Enough to pass. Enough to let the others keep believing he was back to normal, back to being the calm, composed version of himself that they all expected. And he would keep it that way. He had to. No one could know.

Not when he’d finally convinced them he was fine.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the nausea, forcing a few deep breaths. The suit was already laid out on the chair. The red looked too bold, too sharp. He reached for it anyway, hands steady even if the rest of him wasn’t.

He could feel it again, the tension rising in his chest like a wave, but he buried it. Pushed it down. Folded it neatly into the part of him that everyone saw—the racer, the fighter, the professional.

Today, he just needed to get in the car.

That was where he could breathe. That was where he could be.

And if the rest of it—the doubt, the fear, the pressure—never really went away... well, he’d find a way to live with it. Quietly. Alone, if he had to.

No one needed to know.

Not Charles.

Not Max.

Not Lando.

Not anyone.

Because Carlos Sainz was back.

And he couldn’t afford to let anyone think otherwise.

Lewis’ POV

The Bahrain sun was rising fast, blistering gold on the horizon, but the heat settling over the paddock had nothing to do with the weather. It was the kind that wrapped around Lewis’s chest like a vice—tight, relentless, suffocating in a way he hadn’t expected.

He walked through the paddock slowly, trying to feel something like belonging. The red Ferrari jacket hung heavy on his shoulders, crisp and new, but it didn’t feel like his yet. It didn’t feel like anything. Just a reminder. A reminder that he’d stepped into someone else’s skin. Into someone else’s dream.

This was supposed to be it. The final chapter, the one written in scarlet history and legacy. A boyhood dream, wrapped in gold laurels and old-world passion. He should have felt proud. Invincible, even.

But all he could feel was the hollow space Carlos had left behind.

And worse— his part in making it happen.

Carlos hadn’t just been another driver on the grid. He had bled for Ferrari. Fought for them. Stayed loyal when it would’ve been easier to walk away. He had carried that team with the kind of quiet strength that never made headlines but meant everything .

And the moment Lewis had expressed interest… they’d thrown Carlos away like he was nothing.

Lewis had seen it happen before. Contracts torn up in backrooms. Careers decided over espresso and smiles that never reached the eyes. But it hit different this time. Because this time, it was him. He was the one holding the match.

The paddock around him was alive again. Crew rushing past. Engines starting up like thunder in the distance. Photographers clicking through shutters like machine guns. The start of a new season. A new beginning.

But Lewis felt like a ghost in it all.

And then, through the blur of motion, he saw him.

Carlos. Standing near the Williams garage, helmet tucked under one arm, suit zipped up to his throat like armor. He looked composed, unreadable. The same way Lewis had seen himself in mirrors when everything inside was crumbling.

Something twisted in Lewis’s gut.

He hesitated, just for a moment, then walked toward him.

“Carlos,” he said, voice quieter than intended.

Carlos turned. That smile—polite, guarded—appeared almost instantly. Like muscle memory. “Lewis. Morning.”

Lewis nodded, standing beside him, hands in his pockets. “How’s it going? You settling in okay?”

Carlos’s answer came quick, too smooth. “Yeah. Better than I thought. The team’s solid. Hungry. Feels good to be somewhere that’s building something.”

Lewis nodded, pretending to accept it. But he saw it— felt it. The tension just beneath the surface. The way Carlos’s fingers tightened around his helmet. The slight twitch of his jaw.

“You look good out there,” Lewis offered. “Blue suits you.”

Carlos let out a soft laugh. “Yeah, well. Still getting used to it.”

There was a pause, one that pressed heavy between them. Lewis swallowed and said what had been burning at the back of his throat for weeks.

“You deserved more. What Ferrari did… it wasn’t fair.”

Carlos went still for a second, then turned his eyes to the circuit. “It’s Formula One,” he said, voice quiet. “Fair doesn’t really enter into it.”

It shouldn’t have stung the way it did, but it did.

Lewis wanted to believe that was it. That Carlos had accepted it, moved on, found peace. But he saw the shadow in his eyes. The way he wasn’t really here . Not fully. Like he was still driving through the wreckage of something no one else could see.

And suddenly, Lewis hated the silence between them.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said, voice lower now. “If I thought there was another way…”

Carlos shook his head, cutting him off gently. “You don’t owe me anything, Lewis. You’re a seven-time world champion. You were always going to get what you wanted.”

The words weren’t cruel. But they were sharp. Honest. And that honesty gutted him.

Lewis exhaled slowly. “If you ever want to talk… I’m around.”

Carlos finally looked at him again. The smile returned—but it was hollow, a mask fitted perfectly to his face.

“Thanks,” he said. “But I’m fine. Really.”

And that was the lie that hurt the most.

Lewis gave a short nod, then turned to leave. The engines roared louder now. The day was starting. But every step he took back toward the Ferrari garage felt heavier than the last.

This was supposed to be a dream.

Instead, it felt like he was standing on the ashes of someone else’s.

And no matter how fast he drove, he couldn’t outrun the guilt.

Alex’s POV

The Williams garage was buzzing, almost vibrating with energy after the first day of pre-season testing, but Alex felt strangely detached from it—like he was watching it all happen from somewhere just slightly removed. Like he was standing in the right place, saying all the right things, but not in it . Not really.

Carlos was the center of it all now.

He stood across the garage, surrounded by engineers and data screens, still in his race suit, the top half peeled down to his waist. He was grinning— actually grinning—as he scrolled through the telemetry on one of the monitors. His hair was a mess, curls stuck to his forehead, and his eyes were bright in a way Alex hadn’t seen in over a year.

And he deserved it. Every second of that joy. He had pushed that car harder than anyone today. More laps, more pace, more feedback. The Williams team was already talking about him like he was a fucking miracle. And maybe he was.

But all Alex could feel was the sour sting of guilt creeping up his throat.

Because he knew. He remembered .

The version of Carlos that had existed was a ghost—barely functioning, barely hanging on. A wreck inside a perfect facade. And Alex? Alex had been right there, handing him the bottle. Cutting the line. Made sure no one would see what they’d become.

It hadn’t started like that. It never does.

At first, it was just release—laughter too loud, drinks too strong, stolen nights where nothing mattered except the two of them and the feeling of not being seen. But it spiraled fast. Way too fast.

Whiskey blurred into tequila, and tequila blurred into things they swore they’d never touch. White lines across glass tables. Pills crushed beneath fingertips. Nights that disappeared into black holes of memory. 

They’d lost control. Both of them.

But Carlos? He broke. Cracked so violently that Alex could still feel the shatter. The panic. The cold sweat. The way he’d shut down, disappeared, stopped answering his phone. And Alex, too proud or too scared, hadn’t chased him.

And now here they were. In the same garage. Wearing the same team colors. Laughing again, even.

Carlos jogged back toward him, eyes lit up, holding out the data tablet. “Tell me I wasn’t flying through Turn 12. Come on. Admit it.”

Alex forced a smile, leaned in, bumping his shoulder against Carlos’s like it was all easy again. “Alright, alright—you were flying,” he said. “Even if your lines still look like they were drawn by a drunk.”

Carlos snorted, the kind of laugh that made the room feel warm for a second. But Alex watched him too closely. Saw the tiredness that clung just under the surface. The ghost of something still frayed inside him. Something unspoken.

But he was better. Doing better. Or… Alex couldn't really tell

But Alex couldn’t stop thinking: I did that. I pushed him there.

And even now, even after the forgiveness, after the long, quiet conversation that never quite addressed the worst of it— something still felt off.

Carlos acted like he had forgotten about those nights. About the self-destruction they’d both wrapped around themselves like armor. About the things they’d done, the lines they’d crossed—physically, emotionally. The kisses, the fights, the mornings they couldn’t remember and the nights they wished they could forget.

And Alex didn't bring it up.

Because if he did, he didn’t know what Carlos would say. And worse—he didn’t know what he’d say back.

Sometimes he missed it. That recklessness. That chaos. That intimacy born out of losing control together. And the guilt of missing it made him feel even sicker.

Now they stood in this new version of their lives. Colder. Calmer. Safer. And it was working—sort of. They joked. They trained. They pushed each other on track. Like the past had just been a bad dream.

But it hadn’t. It had changed them.

Carlos turned away, back into the group of engineers, and Alex was left standing alone for a beat too long, the laughter echoing behind him.

It felt alright.
Even though everything still wasn’t .
Even though there were nights Alex still woke up wondering how they’d made it out at all.

Maybe time would fix it.
Or maybe they’d just get better at pretending.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

The hotel room was too quiet.

Carlos lay on the bed, still in his compression shirt, sweat dried into the fabric, skin sticky with the salt of effort. The room was dim, curtains drawn against the blinding Bahraini sun that hadn’t quite disappeared yet. The sound of the AC hummed low, constant, but it didn’t help. It didn’t quiet anything.

His body ached. Not in a bad way. In a spent way. The kind of ache that came from giving everything—lap after lap, pushing harder, later braking, flatter corners, feeding every ounce of himself into the car until there was nothing left to give.

Everyone had been proud. The engineers, the mechanics, even James had clapped him on the back and said he’d reminded everyone what this car could do. What he could do. And Alex—Alex had joked with him, easy smiles in the garage, like they were okay again.

But Carlos didn’t feel proud.

Didn’t feel anything.

His stomach twisted. From something deep, something hollow. He couldn’t remember if he’d had breakfast. The thought of food made him nauseous. He’d lived off caffeine and adrenaline and whatever scraps of energy his body could wring out of itself.

He closed his eyes, but the darkness didn’t help. His mind kept spinning. Faster than the car ever could.

You’re doing better.

You’re okay now.

Everyone’s watching. Don’t fall apart again.

He hated how much of it was performative. The smiles. The banter. The nods when someone told him he looked strong again. He’d become an expert at looking fine. He was the comeback story now—the fallen soldier who’d dusted himself off and clawed back.

And then there was Lewis.

He hadn’t expected to feel anything seeing him. Carlos knew the game, understood the politics. He didn’t blame Lewis—not really. But seeing him in that red Ferrari shirt had twisted something sharp in Carlos’s chest. He could still feel the texture of that suit on his own skin, remember what it meant to wear that color. Ferrari had been his everything. His dream, his sacrifice, his blood.

And they had let him go like he was nothing.

He sat up suddenly, dragging a hand through his tangled hair, the strands sticking to his forehead.

He had to move.

Carlos laced his shoes with too-tight hands, threw on a hoodie and stepped out of the room like it was on fire. He didn’t bring music. No tracker. Just his breath and his feet and the rhythm of the pavement beneath him.

The air was cool against his skin. Bahrain had a way of quieting after sunset—less cars, less people, just wind and sand and silence.

He ran harder than he should have. His knees screamed. His lungs burned. Sweat slicked down his back, and still, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. If he stopped, the thoughts would catch him again.

He ran until the city blurred past him in streaks of orange streetlight, until the tight coil in his chest threatened to snap. And eventually—inevitably—his feet slowed, and he found himself standing at the edge of the park.

The same one.

The same bench.

It was stupid that he remembered it so clearly. That night after the driver dinner—when everything felt raw and complicated and on the edge of something unspoken. He and Charles had sat here for hours, just breathing beside each other in the quiet, finally not running for once. It was the closest Carlos had felt to peace in a long time. Like he was back in Ferrari.

He sank onto the bench now, chest heaving, hoodie clinging to him like a second skin. He pressed his elbows to his knees, hung his head between them, fingers gripping his hair.

He didn’t know what was worse—that he was still hurting…

Or that no one seemed to notice anymore.

Because now they thought he was fixed. They saw the lap times. The smile in the paddock. The jokes with Alex. They didn’t see the nights he couldn’t sleep. The meals he skipped. The constant need to keep doing, to keep proving.

He looked up, wiped his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, and stared out into the darkness.

Carlos wasn’t sure who he was anymore when he wasn’t driving.

And maybe that was the most terrifying part.

The bench creaked beneath him as he leaned back, eyes tracing the constellations overhead. He didn’t know how long he sat there, heart still pounding, sweat drying on his skin.

But for a moment, it was quiet. Not peaceful—but still. And that was something.

Max’s POV

Max was exhausted. He had just finished yet another endless sponsor meeting, and it was always the same—questions, smiling, media obligations that never seemed to end. By the time he'd managed to escape, he was drained, his mind fogged with corporate jargon and the same old headlines. He hated the media circus. It never stopped, always looking for a story, always looking for drama, never caring about the real stuff.

He needed a break. A moment of peace, away from the relentless scrutiny, and the paddock was buzzing more than ever as the season kicked off. Max didn't want to deal with the noise tonight. He needed to breathe. So, he started walking back to the hotel, the cool evening air of Bahrain a welcome change to the suffocating pressure that was always present in the paddock.

As he walked through the dimly lit streets, Max spotted a familiar figure sitting on a bench in the park. His first instinct was to keep walking—he didn’t really feel like talking to anyone. But then he saw who it was.

Carlos.

Max’s steps slowed, and his gut tightened. Carlos looked... off. He was slouched, staring at the ground, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion—it was the weight of something more.

Max hesitated for a moment, but then he walked over, sitting down next to him without saying anything at first. It wasn’t awkward. Just... quiet. Max could feel the tension radiating off Carlos, and despite the exhaustion, it was like the air between them had shifted, almost like they were both trying to outrun the pressure together.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” Max said, breaking the silence with a dry smirk. “I thought you’d be out celebrating your fastest lap today, not hiding in a park.”

Carlos chuckled, but there was no real warmth in it. Just the faintest sound of someone trying to put on a mask. “Celebrate? Nah. I’m just trying to make sure I’m still alive after all that.”

Max grinned at the joke, but there was a heaviness to it. "Honestly, the media's going to have a field day with that lap time of yours. They already think you're the second coming, and we both know they don't understand a damn thing about the real work behind it."

Carlos snorted. “Tell me about it. They’re already calling the Williams ‘the dark horse’ of the season, as if that’s how it works. It’s just a car that feels okay for a few laps. But sure, let’s make headlines out of it. I’m not even expecting to take points yet, but the pressure? It’s unreal.”

Max could tell that the media's expectations were weighing on Carlos, just like they weighed on him. But the way Carlos had said it—like he was almost resigned to the madness—struck Max. He knew exactly what it was like to have everyone around you, from fans to journalists, constantly pushing, constantly questioning if you were enough. That constant expectation, always hanging over you like a storm cloud, threatening to crack open and drown you in its intensity.

Carlos rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the thought. “If they want drama, let them have it. I’ll just keep trying to make the car work, keep grinding. Let them see if I can actually make it.”

Max couldn’t help but laugh, a harsh sound in the quiet night air. "Right. Because that's what the media gets excited about: drama, not the real shit. They want us to crash and burn, to give them something to talk about, but we just have to keep pretending we’ve got everything under control."

Carlos leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “We’re in the middle of it now. The expectations, the stupid headlines... it’s all noise, but it’s the only thing they seem to care about. The more they build it up, the more they expect us to deliver on it. We’re just part of the circus.”

Max gave him a side glance. “Yeah. And we get to wear the damn clown nose.”

Carlos cracked a grin, a little genuine amusement creeping in. “Honestly, it’s like we’re just toys for them to play with, and the second we break, they’ll throw us away and find someone new.”

Max leaned back on the bench, staring up at the sky. “Can’t say I didn’t expect it. But, you know... maybe we’re giving them too much power over us. The trick is to laugh at the chaos, not let it drag you down.”

Carlos let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “I like that idea. Just laugh. Like it’s all a joke we’re in on.” His tone was dry, but there was something about the way he said it—like maybe it was his way of holding onto control in the middle of all the madness.

Max turned to him, locking eyes with Carlos for a moment, his voice quieter now. “You’re doing great, you know. Despite what the media says or what they think. I see the work you're putting in. Just don’t let them decide your worth. You get to decide that.”

Carlos nodded, but the tension never fully left his face. “Thanks, Max. But it’s just hard, you know? The pressure’s not gonna stop. It never does.”

Max knew exactly what he meant. The pressure didn’t stop for anyone. But maybe, just maybe, laughing at the absurdity of it all—sharing this moment of honest, raw venting—was enough to make it feel like it wasn’t all on their shoulders.

“You’ll get through it. We all will,” Max said, trying to offer the kind of reassurance that he wished he had for himself.

Carlos gave him a small smile, then looked down, the smile fading quickly. “Yeah. We’ll see. One lap at a time, I guess.”

Max chuckled, leaning back into the bench. “One lap at a time. That’s all we can do.”

And for a brief moment, it felt like they could just forget about everything else—the media, the expectations, the pressure. Just two drivers, sitting on a park bench, joking about the circus they were both caught up in.

Charles’ POV

Charles sat in the quiet of his hotel room, the dim light of the lamp casting a soft glow as he absentmindedly scrolled through his phone. The day's events were behind him, but his mind kept returning to the same thing. The same name.

Carlos.

He couldn't avoid it. Everywhere he looked, there it was—headlines splashed across social media, news outlets buzzing about Williams’ strong start to the season, and how Carlos Sainz was the one leading the charge. It was everywhere. He saw articles that praised Carlos for getting the best out of the car, how he was driving beyond anyone’s expectations. Headlines that were louder and sharper than any criticism Ferrari could throw at him.

"Carlos Sainz Proves Ferrari Wrong with Williams’ Resurgence"
"Ferrari’s Regret: How Carlos Sainz is Making an Impact at Williams"
"Sainz Turns the Tide at Williams: Ferrari’s Mistake"

Each one stung more than the last. It wasn’t that Charles didn’t believe in Carlos. Far from it. He knew the level of commitment, the work ethic, the heart Carlos put into everything he did—more than most people could even comprehend. Carlos had always given his all to Ferrari, even when they didn’t deserve it. But to see those headlines, to see Carlos thriving in a team that had been the bottom of the grid... it made him proud and gutted all at once.

Charles’ fingers hesitated over his phone screen. He had been there through it all. He had seen Carlos at his lowest, when the pressure had crushed him, when the betrayal of Ferrari had been more than he could bear. And now, after everything, Carlos was rising from the ashes, like he always should’ve been allowed to do with Ferrari.

But it wasn’t just about the racing. Carlos was more than just a driver to him. Charles had always known what Carlos was capable of, what he had poured into his work with Ferrari. He had seen it firsthand: how Carlos would stay late with the engineers, how he relentlessly pushed himself to improve. Even when Ferrari let him down, Carlos kept giving them his best. And now, as he was starting fresh with Williams, the world was beginning to see it, too.

Yet, amidst all this pride, there was a knot in Charles’ chest. It was difficult not to feel some bitterness toward Ferrari. The team had thrown Carlos away after years of service. They had treated him like disposable talent, despite how much he had given to them. They hadn't even allowed him the chance to finish what he started. And now, here they were, watching him do what they had denied him: excelling. Proving them wrong.

Carlos deserved so much more than this. And Charles knew it.

But as proud as he was, there was also a part of him that couldn’t help but feel the weight of everything that had happened. Carlos had been so broken, so close to losing everything, and now he was slowly piecing himself back together. Charles could see that. He knew that recovery wasn’t just about results on track—it was about healing those unseen scars, the ones no one could see but Carlos and him. And it felt bittersweet, seeing Carlos rise up again while Charles had been standing on the sidelines, watching from afar.

And then, Charles thought back to their conversation, the night after the driver’s dinner, when they had sat on that park bench, both of them too scared to say what was really on their minds. Both of them too cautious to acknowledge the unspoken tension. But Charles had felt it, more than he wanted to admit.

Carlos was maybe healing. He was maybe finding himself again. But Charles was still afraid. Afraid that maybe, if they got too close, it would ruin everything. The last thing he wanted was to mess things up, to risk destroying what little they had left between them. What if it all crumbled again? What if he couldn’t be there for Carlos in the way he needed him to be?

He sighed, leaning back on the bed, running a hand through his hair. Despite it all—the pressure, the headlines, the mixed emotions swirling inside him—he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something else. Something soft. Pride, yes. But also hope.

Carlos was doing better. He was getting the recognition he deserved, even if it came too late. He was proving that he wasn’t defined by his past, and for that, Charles couldn’t help but feel a small sense of relief. Maybe, just maybe, they could both get back to the place where they didn’t have to hide everything behind smiles and casual conversations.

But for now, all Charles could do was sit there and watch. Watch as Carlos found his way again, from a distance. A safe distance. Because, as much as he wanted to reach out, Charles knew the risks. And some things were just too fragile to touch.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos stepped out of the car, his legs slightly unsteady as he made his way into the paddock in Melbourne. The buzz of the first race weekend of the year was all around him—the usual electric energy of teams setting up, drivers preparing, and the media crowds swarming, all with their questions and expectations. But Carlos didn’t feel it. Not the way he used to. There was no surge of excitement, no rush of adrenaline as the season began.

Instead, he felt a deep, gnawing weariness that weighed him down, a dizziness he couldn’t shake. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was the fact he hadn’t eaten enough again. But either way, the pressure was unbearable. The expectations had built up around him, even before he’d even turned a single lap. Media outlets were already drawing conclusions—“Carlos Sainz: The Star Who Will Bring Williams Back to the Front”—headlines that made him want to scream. They saw the speed he had shown in testing and immediately jumped to conclusions, picturing him as the one who could challenge for points and podiums in a car that was still a work in progress.

The thing was, he knew that wasn’t realistic. Not yet, anyway. Williams was making strides, but they weren’t there yet—not in a way that could compete consistently for podiums. But the media didn’t care about that. All they cared about was a story. And Carlos had become their hero, their comeback story. A driver who’d been tossed aside by Ferrari and was now somehow going to lead a mid-tier team to glory.

His footsteps slowed as he entered the paddock, the weight of all those expectations pushing down on his chest. He had wanted this—to be in a place where he could prove himself again, to be part of a team that would listen to him, that would value his input. And Williams had given him that. The engineers were great, and the team had welcomed him with open arms, making him feel like he was a crucial part of their progress. He felt heard, understood. It was the kind of environment he’d been craving for years.

But that wasn’t enough to quiet the doubts in his mind.

Because every time he thought about the way Ferrari had let him go—discarded him like yesterday’s news—it came rushing back, the memory of that cold, impersonal call, the hollow feeling of being replaced after everything he’d given to the team. At Ferrari, he’d worked tirelessly, dedicated himself to their cause with everything he had. And yet, when the team decided they needed someone else, all his loyalty, all his work, meant nothing. They had thrown him out like garbage.

Carlos shook his head, trying to push those thoughts aside as he walked through the paddock. He wasn’t there to dwell on the past anymore. He was here to move forward, to make something of himself again. But the comparison kept haunting him. It was hard not to see echoes of the same feelings now—at Williams, the gratitude was real, the support genuine. But there was that lingering fear. Would it last? Would he end up in the same position as before? Would they one day decide that he wasn’t enough and discard him, too?

The constant pressure to perform, to live up to the expectations the world had placed on him, felt like a suffocating weight. Everyone was waiting for him to prove himself, to make it all work in a car that still had so much potential but needed time. And Carlos wasn’t sure he had the strength to live up to it. Not today. Not this weekend.

He stopped in front of the team garage and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. There was no time to be weak. He couldn’t afford to show it. The team needed him to be strong, to be the driver they believed in.

But all he wanted to do was close his eyes and shut it all out, just for a moment.

Still, there was a small part of him that believed in this. That believed in Williams. Maybe it was the fresh start he needed, the chance to rebuild not just his career, but his faith in the sport. But that didn’t make it any less daunting. The ghosts of Ferrari still lingered, and they were hard to shake.

Taking another steadying breath, Carlos pushed through the door of the garage, plastering a smile on his face. The engineers greeted him, eager to hear his thoughts on the car, and he fell into the rhythm of work, trying to quiet the voices in his head. But deep down, he couldn’t escape the feeling that everything—every race, every lap—was part of a larger, unspoken battle. One that he wasn’t sure he was ready to fight.

But for now, all he could do was push forward. There was no going back. Not now.

Charles’ POV

Charles sat in the Ferrari garage, his body still heavy from the first two practice sessions. He’d put in a solid effort, ending the day with the third-fastest time in the first session and then topping the charts in the second. The engineers were pleased with the data they had collected, nodding at the results, murmuring their approval, their faces lit with the satisfaction of progress. Yet, Charles couldn’t shake the frustration that was bubbling beneath the surface.

He should be feeling proud. Ferrari had the pace, the car was good, and the sessions were productive. But all he could think about was Carlos.

Carlos. The man who had been discarded like a forgotten tool, tossed aside after everything he’d given to the team. Charles’ stomach tightened at the thought. How could they have done that to him? Carlos had been Ferrari's quiet backbone. He had always been the steady one, the one they could count on when it mattered most. His work behind the scenes—whether it was strategy, tire management, or feedback on the car—was invaluable. He made Ferrari better, not just as a team but as a whole.

But none of that mattered in the end.

Carlos had been cast aside without a second thought, all for a vision that Ferrari had convinced themselves would work. And Charles? He wasn’t sure why he had been chosen. Ferrari made him feel like he was their golden boy, but the anger that gnawed at him now made him feel like an imposter. The team treated him like the chosen one, but in his heart, he knew he hadn’t earned it in the same way Carlos had.

It wasn’t just about the performance on track. Sure, Charles had the speed, but Carlos had something else—something deeper. A connection to the car, to the team, to every intricate detail of the process. Ferrari never seemed to acknowledge how much Carlos had truly done for them. Charles didn’t understand the technicalities of the car the way Carlos did, not with the same depth, not with that relentless attention to detail. Carlos had always been the one who could talk engineering with the best of them, who could spend hours with the engineers tweaking the setup, finding ways to make the car better. Ferrari had taken that for granted.

And now, all Charles could think about was how they would falter without him. He couldn’t trust the team to get it right on their own. The strategies, the decision-making—they would fall apart. Ferrari had a tendency to mess up on their own, but now that Carlos was gone, there was no one to step in and fix it. There was no one else who would fight as hard for the team. Carlos would’ve been the one to save them when everything went wrong, but now it was Charles who would have to carry that weight, and he wasn’t sure he was ready.

Charles clenched his jaw, the anger churning in his chest. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. The team had built him up, given him a platform, a legacy—but they hadn’t done the same for Carlos. Why hadn’t they seen what he was truly worth? Why hadn’t they recognized the heart and soul he poured into everything he did? No one cared about that. No one noticed how hard Carlos worked, how much he sacrificed for the team. They had seen a driver who was no longer needed, a cog they could replace.

And yet, Carlos had always been the one to pour everything into the car. No one on the grid had the same kind of dedication, the same relentless drive to push himself and the team. Charles had always respected that about Carlos, admired it even, though he’d never said it out loud. He had seen it, though. He knew. Carlos wasn’t just another driver. He was the kind of person who gave everything, even when it wasn’t asked of him. Even when it hurt.

Charles took a deep breath, pushing back the emotion threatening to spill over. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He didn’t want to feel angry at the team that had given him everything—Ferrari had made him who he was. But how could he not feel this way when he knew what had been taken from Carlos? When he saw how much the team had failed him?

He looked down at the data in front of him, trying to focus on something, anything. But his thoughts kept drifting back to Carlos, to the quiet determination he had always brought to Ferrari, to the way the team had turned their back on him. Now, Carlos was at Williams, rebuilding himself. Charles knew he would make it work, knew that he would bring something to the team that no one else could. And that, in itself, made him proud. Proud of Carlos for fighting back, for choosing to get better. But it also broke his heart a little, because he knew it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Ferrari had let him go, and now they would have to face the consequences.

Lando’s POV

Lando was walking back to the parking area after the first day of practice. He felt good—McLaren’s car felt strong, responsive, and he was getting comfortable with it again. He was excited, the first race of the season was just around the corner, and the buzz of the weekend was alive in the air. He had been pushing hard today, but he could feel the momentum building. Everything seemed to be in place for a strong start to the season.

As he made his way to the parking lot, he spotted Carlos standing near one of the walls, leaning against it with a tired look on his face. Carlos looked… off. He was exhausted, that much was clear. But there was something else about him that made Lando stop in his tracks. Carlos looked lost, like he was still trying to find his footing after everything that had happened.

Lando’s first instinct was to walk over. He knew how well Carlos had done during the practice sessions. His time was strong, considering the car he was driving. Lando didn’t even need to see the results to know that Carlos was doing what Carlos did best—making the best out of a situation, getting the most out of a car no one expected to be competitive. He had always known how good Carlos was, but now it seemed like Carlos needed something more than just acknowledgment.

“Hey, man, how is it going?” Lando asked, trying to sound casual but still noticing the weariness in Carlos’ eyes.

Carlos looked up, a quick flash of recognition crossing his face before he masked it with a smile. “Hey, Lando. Everything’s fine,” he replied, his voice a little more upbeat than his appearance suggested.

Lando didn’t buy it, but he let it slide, not wanting to push too hard. They fell into easy chatter about the practice sessions, about the car setups, and how the weekend was shaping up. The weather was a topic that came up quickly—how it was likely to rain on Sunday and how that might make things a bit more interesting. The conversation shifted to that, lighter and more relaxed.

Lando smiled, knowing exactly what Carlos was capable of when the rain came. “You know, I’ve always thought you were one of the best drivers in the wet,” Lando said, his words honest. “I’m sure you’ll show us all how it’s done if it rains.”

But as soon as the words left his mouth, he noticed it. Something shifted in Carlos's expression. It was brief, like a flicker of something he couldn’t quite catch, but it was there. His eyes tightened, and his smile faltered for just a second—before he quickly recovered and nodded.

“Yeah… yeah, I guess we’ll see,” Carlos said, his voice flat for a moment.

Lando felt it then—the distance that momentarily opened between them. He wasn’t sure why Carlos reacted like that, but something told him it wasn’t about the rain. It was something deeper. It was almost as if Lando had touched a nerve, though he couldn’t figure out why.

But Lando didn’t push it. He knew how stubborn Carlos could be, and there was no point in pressing for answers when Carlos wasn’t ready to share. He just offered a smile, trying to lighten the air again. “Well, when it does rain, we’ll have to make it a race between us. You know, for old time’s sake.”

Carlos chuckled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and nodded. “Yeah, we’ll see. Definitely need to do something fun soon, huh?”

Lando smiled back, his instincts telling him that Carlos was holding something back, but he wasn’t going to pry. “For sure. You take care, alright? Hope everything is good, yeah?”

Carlos gave a tight nod, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, I’m good. Don’t worry.”

Lando lingered for a moment, unsure if he should push a little further. But he decided against it, trusting that Carlos would come to him if he needed to. With a final wave, Lando turned and walked to his car. As he drove out of the parking lot, a thought lingered in his mind. He hoped Carlos was really doing better. He hoped the things he was holding inside wouldn’t eat him up again.

The last thing Lando wanted was for his friend to spiral back into something he couldn’t come back from. He had seen too much of that already.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos laid awake in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing at a thousand miles per hour. The room was dim, the faint light from the street lamps outside casting shadows across the walls. He couldn’t sleep. His body ached, his head was heavy, and his heart felt like it was beating too fast, too hard.

He hadn’t eaten all day. It was becoming a familiar pattern, one he hated but couldn’t break. The thought of food—of putting anything in his stomach—felt wrong, like it was an act of weakness. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t. But it didn’t stop the gnawing emptiness in his gut, the hollow ache that had come to feel like an old friend.

Today had been good. Too good. The practice sessions had gone well—too well. He had set some impressive times, and everyone was talking about it. They were talking about him. The pressure to keep performing was suffocating. Everyone expected him to deliver, to keep pushing, to do the impossible with a car that wasn’t ready for it yet.

Even Lando had expected it. He had made some joke about the rain on Sunday, as if that would make everything fall into place, as if Carlos had some magic ability to perform in the wet. Maybe he had once. Maybe. But not now. Not in this car.

Carlos closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath, but it was like his body had turned against him. The pulse in his neck was loud, relentless. He could feel it in his chest, the steady thrum of anxiety building, suffocating. He hadn’t felt this tight, this trapped, in a long time. He couldn’t escape it. There was no outlet, no release.

The world around him seemed to close in, the noise in his head deafening. They were all waiting for him to take points. They expected him to take a podium. He could hear the whispers—"Carlos is going to surprise us", "He’ll be on the podium soon", and worst of all, the pressuring silence when they looked at him, waiting for him to live up to those expectations.

But what they didn’t understand was that he didn’t feel ready. He was still trying to find his place in this new team, with a new car, trying to make sense of the pieces that didn’t fit. He wasn’t ready to carry all this weight. Not yet. He didn’t even feel like he was in control anymore.

His body tensed, his breath shallow. He wanted to scream, to release the pressure building in his chest, but it felt like he was suffocating. Trapped in this cycle of pushing himself beyond what he could handle, beyond what was good for him.

Carlos turned over in bed, grabbing the pillow and clutching it tightly to his chest, as if somehow, the pressure might lessen if he held on to something solid. But nothing felt solid anymore. Nothing felt real. He had no escape. He had no way out.

The thoughts kept coming, one after another, relentless. The expectations, the weight of everyone’s eyes on him, the feeling of being replaced, of not being enough. The hardest part was that he couldn’t talk about it. He couldn’t tell anyone how hard it was, how much it was breaking him inside.

He was supposed to be fine. Everyone thought he was fine. The team thought he was fine. But he wasn’t fine. He was far from it.

His body clenched, a knot forming in his stomach as the thought hit him like a wave.

What if he wasn’t good enough anymore? What if he couldn’t do this? What if he failed? What if, after all of this, the end result was the same as before—being discarded, left behind, forgotten?

The pressure was too much.

His heart was pounding so hard now, it felt like it might burst. His chest was tight, suffocating under the weight of it all. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t escape.

For a moment, Carlos wished he could just disappear, drift off somewhere far away, where the expectations didn’t exist, where he didn’t have to prove anything. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t escape.

So, he just laid there. Alone, in the darkness of his room, consumed by the weight of it all, feeling like he was drowning in his own thoughts, unsure how much longer he could keep going.

Chapter Text

Alex’ POV

Alex was sitting in the Williams garage, feeling the familiar hum of anticipation in his chest. It was Saturday, and qualifying was just around the corner. The third practice session had gone well—really well. He had felt in sync with the car, and he and Carlos had been evenly matched. For the first time in a long while, Alex felt something that had been missing for years—confidence.

He listened intently as the engineers went over their strategy for qualifying, pinpointing the areas where Alex needed to improve, where he was still a little weaker on the circuit. They were clear, focused, and precise. It all made sense, and Alex felt the pressure slowly start to dissipate. He could breathe easier now. The weight on his shoulders was lifting. He wasn’t just racing for points; he was racing for himself. For the first time in ages, he was enjoying it again.

Williams had never felt so much like home.

A few weeks ago, he had been questioning everything, unsure about his place in the team. But now, it all felt right. The car was better—so much better. It had come a long way, and Carlos had been instrumental in that transformation. His experience, his input from years at the top teams, had made a huge difference. It was clear that Carlos was making an impact, and Alex couldn’t help but appreciate the value he brought to the team.

When it was time to get in the cockpit for qualifying, Alex’s nerves were still there, but they were familiar, manageable. He slid into the seat, adjusted the straps, and took a deep breath. The team had done everything they could to make the car ready, and now it was his turn. He wasn’t going to let them down.

Qualifying 1 went by quickly, almost too easily. He passed through to the next stage without any real issues. Confidence began to build in him, and with each passing minute, he felt more in control. By qualifying 2, he was really finding his groove. The car was handling beautifully, responding to every input. It was a feeling of pure joy—something he hadn’t had in a long time.

Then, when qualifying 3 started, Alex knew it was time to push. The rain wasn’t far off, but the track was still dry, and he had to give it everything he had. The adrenaline kicked in, and he felt the car respond to him in ways it never had before. He was pushing to the absolute limit, driving the car harder than he ever thought possible.

The lap ended, and as he crossed the finish line, the time was set. P6. Alex’s heart raced, and he couldn’t help but grin. P6. It wasn’t a pole position, but it was incredible—better than he had expected, better than anyone had imagined. He couldn’t believe it. It felt like a victory in itself.

The engineer’s voice crackled through the radio, congratulating him. "P6, Alex. Great job."

A rush of happiness flooded through him. This was it. This was the result of all the hard work, the hours spent in the simulator, the input from Carlos and the team. This was the payoff. He was right where he wanted to be, ready for the race tomorrow.

As he climbed out of the car, feeling the weight of his helmet lifted from his head, he turned to ask about Carlos. "How did it go for Carlos?" he asked, a part of him curious but also anxious. He hadn’t expected to have beaten him—he never expected to be ahead of his teammate—but the competitiveness had crept in.

"P10," came the reply.

Alex blinked, feeling a mix of emotions. Carlos had always been so strong, especially in qualifying. To see him at P10 stung a little. Carlos had been through so much, and seeing him struggle a bit on the timing sheets felt bittersweet. Alex had expected them to be on similar footing, but now he was ahead, and it didn’t feel as sweet as he thought it would.

Still, he couldn’t let it take away from the fact that he had done well. He had proven to himself and everyone else that he belonged at the front. P6 was a solid position for the race, and with the rain expected, anything could happen.

But as he walked back to the team garage, the thought of Carlos lingered in the back of his mind. He didn’t want to think about it too much. Carlos had come a long way, and Alex knew that tomorrow was a new day. A race day. He just had to keep his focus and be ready for whatever came next.

He glanced over at Carlos, who was talking to the engineers, his expression unreadable. For a brief moment, Alex wondered how Carlos was really feeling. He hoped that despite the result, Carlos wasn’t beating himself up. It was just one session, after all. Tomorrow was where the real challenge lay.

Alex turned away and refocused, the nerves bubbling up again. But this time, it wasn’t fear. It was excitement. He was ready for the race.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat outside the Williams garage, his head feeling like it was in a constant spin. The qualifying session had been hell. Every lap felt like he was fighting against his own body. The dizziness had hit him hard as qualifying progressed, and by the time he reached the final session, he had nothing left to give. He had barely enough energy to hold his focus. The result—P10—felt like a punch to the gut. He knew he could have done better. He should have done better. But in that moment, it felt like all the effort he had left was to just get through it.

Now, standing outside the garage, he was trying to summon whatever strength he could to get through the rest of the day. There was no time to rest; he had media obligations, and the last thing he wanted to do was sit through another round of fake smiles and forced enthusiasm. But it was a must. He and Alex had to record videos for Williams' YouTube channel. Carlos had always hated these sessions, especially when his mind was racing, and his body was begging for rest.

When he met Alex at the temporary studio Williams had set up, Carlos felt himself sinking into one of the chairs. The studio lights were too bright, and the heat from them made him feel even more drained. His eyelids felt heavy, and he tried to rub away the exhaustion that had built up throughout the day.

Alex was already there, seemingly unfazed by the media circus. He looked relaxed, maybe even a little excited for the video. But Carlos could barely muster the energy to offer a smile. He wasn’t in the mood to joke around or make small talk, but he forced himself to congratulate Alex on his strong qualifying result. P6 was impressive. Alex had earned it.

But Carlos didn’t feel like celebrating. Not after the disaster he had just endured.

"Hey, congrats on P6, man," Carlos said, his voice tired.

"Thanks, mate. You did great too, P10 isn't bad," Alex replied with a friendly grin, trying to lift Carlos' mood.

Carlos gave him a weak smile, but he couldn’t help the thoughts swirling in his mind. He felt like he was falling apart, and there was nothing anyone could do to fix it.

A PR person from the team walked in, clipboard in hand, and asked if they were ready. Alex said yes, and she handed them some cards with questions on them. Carlos immediately felt his stomach tighten. He hated not knowing what to expect.

These were supposed to be fun questions, lighthearted. But Carlos could already feel the tension building in his chest. He hated how unprepared he felt. The questions were simple at first—favorite food, favorite color—but something about it all felt suffocating.

When asked about his favorite color, Carlos answered "red," because it always had been. It was his favorite color, and no matter what team he was with, it had always felt like a part of him. But the PR person immediately corrected him, asking him to answer "blue" instead.

It was such a small thing, a stupid thing, but it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He understood why they wanted him to say blue, but it still felt wrong. Red was the color that had been part of his journey with Ferrari, and it felt like they wanted to erase that part of him. But it wasn’t about the color. It was about control, about trying to fit into a mold that he didn’t feel a part of.

The questions kept coming, mostly harmless, but Carlos couldn't shake the sense of discomfort. Then one of the questions came: Who is most likely to become a meme overnight?

Alex immediately jumped in and started recreating one of the faces Carlos was known for making during press conferences and interviews—those little moments when Carlos would get lost in his head, overthinking, feeling the weight of expectations bearing down on him.

Carlos chuckled, though the sound was hollow in his throat. He hated those faces he did when he zoned out. They were a reflection of how much he struggled to keep it together when the pressure was too much. And now, here they were, laughing at it. He wasn’t sure if Alex realized how much it stung.

The media, the fans—they only saw the funny side of the faces he made. No one seemed to understand that those faces weren’t just Carlos being awkward on camera. They were signs of something much deeper, something darker. He was lost in his own thoughts, his own fears, and no one knew how bad it really was. How badly he was falling apart.

He wished someone would see through it. Just once.

He let out a forced laugh, trying to hide the unease gnawing at him. "Yeah, I guess I’ve got some faces, huh?" He managed, his voice tight.

Alex laughed along, clearly enjoying the banter, not knowing how much it was hurting Carlos. Carlos tried to push the feeling down, but it lingered, like a shadow hanging over him. He wanted to scream, to tell everyone that he wasn’t okay, but the pressure to keep up appearances was too great. It was easier to just keep pretending. Pretending that everything was fine, when it was far from it.

As the session wrapped up, Carlos stood up, feeling more drained than ever. The weight of it all—the pressure, the expectations, the self-doubt—felt heavier now than it had before. He wished he could find a way to let it go, to escape the suffocating need to be perfect. But as the cameras flashed and the questions kept coming, all he could do was smile and hope that no one saw through the cracks.

Maybe tomorrow, he would feel better. Maybe the race would be different. Maybe. But for now, he was trapped in his own mind, and no one could hear him scream.

Charles’ POV

Charles sat across from Lewis in the dim, too-quiet corner of the restaurant, the low hum of voices around them drowned out by the noise in his head. The day had been long—draining, like they were already halfway through a season instead of barely arriving at the starting line. He poked at the food on his plate, appetite long gone.

They were both tired. Lewis spoke first, voice low, fingers curled around his glass. “The car’s weird,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s just me not clicking with it yet, or…”

Charles nodded before Lewis could finish. “No,” he said, eyes unfocused. “It’s not just you.”

The SF-25 didn’t feel right. It was twitchy, inconsistent, untrustworthy. And Charles couldn’t help but feel like he was the one who was supposed to fix it all now. The golden boy. The chosen one. But he wasn’t Carlos. He didn’t have that sixth sense, that brutal clarity in feedback. He didn’t speak the car’s language the way Carlos had. No one did.

And now he was gone.

Ferrari hadn’t just let him go—they’d thrown him out, like a problem they were tired of solving.

Lewis sighed, leaned back in his seat. “I can’t wrap my head around how they work, man. The strategy, the politics—none of it makes sense.”

Charles gave a hollow laugh. “Welcome to Ferrari. This is what it is.”

But the humor didn’t last. The silence that followed was heavier than any joke could lift. Charles could feel it in the pit of his stomach—that dull ache, that lingering guilt.

Lewis’s voice dropped. “I don’t feel good about what happened with Carlos. It was wrong. The way they used him and then just… cut him loose. It makes it hard to trust them.”

Charles stared at his glass, his reflection blurred in the wine. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It was wrong.”

He wanted to say more, but what could he say? That he should have defended Carlos harder? That he’d known something was breaking long before Abu Dhabi but stayed silent? That he’d watched Ferrari turn Carlos into something disposable and hadn’t done a damn thing to stop it?

The truth was, Carlos had broken under the weight of it all. And Charles had watched it happen.

Lewis tried to lighten the moment. “At least it’s not Red Bull,” he said, smirking. “Ferrari might be chaos, but they don’t chew you up and spit you out in half a season.”

Charles smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell that to Carlos.”

His thoughts flicked briefly to Alex—another casualty of Red Bull’s ruthless machine. But Alex was different now. Steady. Confident. Williams was a team on the rise again, and it was Carlos who’d helped build that belief.

Carlos had that effect on people. On teams. On him.

It hit Charles then, deep in his chest: Ferrari wasn’t just struggling because the car was bad or the strategy weak. It was something more. Something missing. Carlos had been the one who tied things together when everything started falling apart.

Now Charles was standing alone, trying to carry a legacy built on something that no longer felt real. Ferrari had been the dream—the holy grail of Formula One. And yet, sitting there across from Lewis, the weight of the red suit on his shoulders felt more like a curse than a blessing.

And even though he'd never say it out loud—not to the media, not to Lewis, not even to himself—Charles didn’t want to be where the dream used to live. He wanted to be where Carlos was.

Max’s POV

Max sat deep into the hotel room couch, one hand gripping the controller, the other absentmindedly holding a half-finished bottle of water. The screen in front of him flickered with movement—some chaotic multiplayer racing game that neither he nor Lando were really paying attention to anymore. They hadn’t said much for the last ten minutes. The low hum of engines and digital crashes filled the silence.

Max felt… calm. Not relaxed exactly, but focused. Confident. He knew the car. Knew the track. Knew the rain was coming and knew how to bend it to his will. He wasn’t afraid of what tomorrow would bring. Reckless? Maybe. But it was the only way he knew how to survive on a circuit where everyone wanted your blood. He’d be driving like every single person on the grid was the enemy.

Because that’s what he was taught. Enemies. Rivals. No friends.

His father had drilled it into him from the beginning. Karting is war. Don’t smile. Don’t trust. Don’t talk. And back then, Max hadn’t. He was a machine. Alone. Furious. A weapon behind the wheel. But now, older, more tired, maybe a little wiser, he’d chosen to ignore that voice in his head. He had friends now—Lando, Carlos, even Charles when the politics weren’t suffocating them both. Off-track, they weren’t enemies. Not to Max. It was a thing Carlos had taught him back when they where teammates in Torro Rosso.

He glanced over at Lando. Still quiet. Still gripping the controller too tight, eyes on the screen but clearly not seeing anything.

Pole position.

Max was starting P3, right behind him. And he could feel the nervous energy pouring off Lando like heat. Like he was trying to choke it down with every breath.

“Hey,” Max said, finally breaking the silence. “You good?”

Lando hesitated for a second too long. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Just thinking. Trying to not think.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a engineer quote.”

Lando laughed—just barely. “It’s stupid, I just… I know everyone thinks I’m going to mess up the start. Again. That I’m going to choke, that I’m not built to win.”

There it was. Raw and sharp.

Max leaned back, controller forgotten. “Media’s already written their headlines, huh?”

Lando nodded. “Of course. Saw them before I even left the garage. They’re ready to say I fumbled it. That I’m a disappointment. Again.”

Max sighed, jaw tight. “They do that to all of us. Assign us our roles like it’s some fucked-up play. I’m the villain, you’re the guy who always bottles it, Carlos is the hero for hire, Charles is Ferrari’s golden boy no matter how many times the strategy team screws him.”

Lando didn’t laugh. Just stared at the floor, his thumb twitching over the joystick.

Max’s voice dropped. “It’s bullshit. You know it is. But you can’t play their game. You go out there and you drive like none of them exist. Like it’s just the car, the track, and you.”

Lando rubbed at his jaw. “I wish it was that easy.”

Max nodded. “Yeah. I know. Me too.”

He thought about Carlos for a second—how the media had tried to turn him into a redemption arc, the tragic story of the guy who was thrown away by Ferrari only to come back and save Williams. Like it was some fucking movie. They didn’t see the cost. They didn’t care about the cracks under the surface. The hunger. The dizziness. The silence behind his eyes when the cameras were off.

And now Max saw the same thing starting again. With Liam. His new teammate barely out of the academy and already suffocating under expectations the media had invented for him. The next prodigy. The next Max Verstappen. And Max hated it. Hated what it did to people.

“This sport’s brutal,” Max muttered, more to himself than to Lando. “It doesn’t care what it takes from you. It just keeps taking.”

Lando glanced at him. “Then why do we keep giving it everything?”

Max paused. Then, quietly, “Because we don’t know how to be anything else.”

They didn’t talk much after that. Just let the game run in the background, lights flickering across the quiet room. Tomorrow, they’d be enemies again. But for now, they were just two tired kids playing pretend that none of it mattered.

Chapter Text

Lewis’ POV

The rain hadn’t stopped all day. It fell heavy and loud, soaking into everything—into the tarmac, into the cars, into Lewis’s bones. He stood in the garage, helmet in hand, watching the storm blur the pit lane outside. The first race of the season was about to start, and it didn’t feel right. None of it did.

He didn’t feel at home in the car. He didn’t feel at home in the team. The Ferrari red he wore felt more like someone else's skin than his own.

They’d gone over the strategy with the engineers, fine-tuning every detail. But Lewis couldn’t shake the unease in his chest. The SF-25 didn’t behave like he wanted it to. It fought back. He wasn’t sure if it was just the car… or if it was something deeper. Something broken between him and the team.

Still, he put on the helmet. Got in the car. Responded to the radio.

“Radio check.”
“Loud and clear.”

The formation lap began. The tires sliced through the standing water, visibility was nearly zero. It wasn’t a lap—it was survival. Every turn felt like a coin toss.

Then, the voice in his ear again.
“Red flag. Isack Hadjar’s off. He’s okay—but the car’s destroyed.”

Lewis swore under his breath. His stomach dropped.

Back in the pit lane, he climbed out of the car slowly. The rain still drummed down like it was trying to drown the world. He peeled off his gloves, the tips of his fingers cold. Numb.

He stared at the monitor above the garage. They were replaying the crash—Isack’s car losing grip, hydroplaning into the barriers at terrifying speed. Carbon fiber flying. Everything shattering.

Lewis didn’t blink.

His throat tightened as he watched the rookie stumble out of the wreck. His first Formula 1 race. His first goddamn formation lap. And it was already in ruins.

He knew what it took to make it this far. Not just talent. Not just time. Money. Sacrifice. Years and years of it. He’d seen it with his own eyes—kids like Isack and families like his own, scraping every penny together, giving up normal lives, burning through savings, chasing a dream most never reach.

He thought about Isack’s parents—if they were watching. What that must’ve felt like. Watching your son crash out before the race even started.

It hit Lewis like a gut punch, because he knew that pain. He remembered the sacrifices his father had made. How they’d slept in rental vans at karting circuits. How every race was make or break. He remembered being told, again and again, that he wouldn’t make it—until he did. And how it still hadn’t made things any easier.

He didn’t even realize his father had appeared beside him until he heard his voice.
“You alright?”

Lewis nodded, slow. “Yeah,” he said, but his voice was thin. Hollow. “It just… it hurts to see that. He worked so hard to get here. One lap. One chance. Gone.”

Anthony watched the replay silently. Then looked back at Lewis.
“I’ll go talk to him. Make sure he’s okay.”

Lewis nodded, his jaw clenched. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good. He needs to hear from someone who’s been through it.”

He watched his father walk off, then turned back to the rain-soaked pit lane. He could feel the engine humming again. Could hear the voices in his ear prepping him to get back in.

The start hadn’t been canceled. Just postponed. The race was still coming. And Lewis had to climb into that car again, bury all the feelings, and drive like the world expected him to.

But a part of him would still be thinking about Isack—about how fragile this all was. How fast it could be taken away.

He slipped the gloves back on. Pulled the helmet down over his head.

He didn't feel ready. But he never really had.

And still, the lights would go out.

And he would drive.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sank into the cockpit for the second time that afternoon, and the world tilted around him. His hands trembled slightly against the steering wheel. He hadn’t eaten—of course he hadn’t. Not properly, not enough. He’d been running on caffeine and pressure for hours, and now it was catching up to him. His body felt hollow, weak, and the car… the car felt heavier than ever. Every small movement was a battle.

It was supposed to be a fresh start. A new season, a new team, a second chance. But instead, Carlos felt like he was suffocating.

He stared straight ahead, eyes glassy beneath his helmet as the formation lap began again. The rain had started to ease, but the track was still wet, unpredictable—just like everything else in his life lately. His heart pounded hard, too hard, echoing in his ears like the thrum of an engine that’s about to seize. He gripped the wheel tighter and told himself to breathe.

P10. He was starting from P10. He needed to make this count. Everyone expected him to fight through the grid, to score points, maybe even make a miracle happen in the rain. They all thought he was doing better. But the truth was—he wasn’t. He was just quieter about it.

The lights went out, and Carlos hesitated. A second too slow. His start was awful—no grip, no instinct, no reaction. He was trapped in his head again, and the car felt like it was fighting him. Then his engineer's voice cut through, announcing a safety car. Jack Doohan had crashed.

Carlos barely registered it. He blinked, tried to focus. And then the world spun.

His car lost grip—his hands were too slow—and before he knew it, he slammed into the barrier. Metal crunched. Debris scattered. Shame bloomed instantly in his chest like a bruise. A crash under the safety car. It was humiliating. Pathetic.

The radio crackled. “Carlos, are you okay?”

He forced the words out, numb. “Yeah. I’m okay. I’m sorry.”

Sorry. He was always sorry. Sorry for not being enough. Sorry for being the one Ferrari could throw away. Sorry for pretending to be fine when he was falling apart.

He climbed out of the car in silence, each step feeling heavier than the last. He didn’t care who was watching. He didn’t even know where he was walking—just away. Away from the wreckage, away from the noise.

Carlos slammed the door of the driver room shut behind him, locking it with a sharp click. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if the weight of the entire weekend was pressing down on him. His hands shook as he pulled off his racing suit, each movement heavy, like he was shedding more than just fabric—he was shedding pieces of himself. He didn’t even bother to fold it. The suit hit the floor with a dull thud, the symbol of his failure sprawled at his feet.

Failure.

The word echoed in his mind, a constant, cruel whisper. He had disappointed everyone—his team, his fans, his family. Hell, even himself. And now, here he was, in the quiet solitude of the room he’d locked himself into, pretending to be fine, pretending that everything wasn’t falling apart. But it was. It had been for a while now. He couldn’t ignore it anymore.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Carlos? You okay in there?”

James’ voice was muffled, but Carlos could hear the concern in it. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Not now. Not when he felt so… broken. So small .

“I’m fine, James,” Carlos said, his voice thin, distant. “Just changing clothes. I’ll be out soon.”

He stood in front of the mirror for a moment, staring at his reflection. The face staring back at him seemed like a stranger—exhausted, defeated, hollow. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t let anyone see how much this was eating at him.

Quickly, he pulled on a pair of jeans and a simple white t-shirt, the comfort of something familiar. He grabbed the Williams team jacket, the dark blue fabric somehow grounding him, and threw it on. He didn’t care that it didn’t fit perfectly. It was just something to hide behind. Something to wear as he tried to slip out of the shadows of his mind.

Carlos took a deep breath before opening the door. James stood there, his expression unreadable, but there was no mistaking the way he was watching him—eyes searching, as if trying to catch a glimpse of the truth Carlos was hiding.

“You sure you’re okay?” James asked, his voice quieter now.

Carlos nodded stiffly. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

They walked together in silence, Carlos trailing behind James, his mind still whirling with doubt. As they approached the pit wall, he could hear the roar of the engines, feel the tension building. The race was still going on. Alex, his teammate, was out on the circuit, pushing the car to its limits. He had been doing well—better than Carlos had today.

Carlos glanced up at the skies. The weather had improved, the rain easing off, but the track was still slippery, still unpredictable. Alex had just pitted for slicks, the gamble that the track was dry enough to make them work. Carlos studied the weather radar on his tablet, a knot forming in his stomach as he saw the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

He turned to James, his voice sharp with urgency. “There’s rain coming. It’s not safe to be on slicks when that hits.”

James looked at him, his brow furrowing. “You think we should pit for inters?”

Carlos paused, feeling the pressure weighing on him again. Not yet, he thought. Wait a little longer.

“No,” he said finally, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. “Not yet. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

He hoped he wasn’t wrong. He had to get this right. He couldn’t afford another mistake—not with the team watching, not with everything hanging on this decision. The minutes felt like hours as the laps went by, and the clouds kept moving closer, darker. He could feel the weight of time pressing on him, the rain still holding back, but not for much longer.

And then, just as the first drops started to fall, Carlos stood up straighter, eyes fixed on the sky and the radar. It was time.

“Box, box, box!” he shouted, his voice clear and firm through the comms.

He watched as Alex’s engineer radioed in the call for Alex to pit for inters. Carlos stood there, a tight coil of uncertainty in his gut. He couldn’t watch. If he was wrong, if this was another mistake, he couldn’t handle it.

Without another word, Carlos turned and walked away from the pit wall. The voices behind him faded into the background as he left the paddock, his steps quick, driven by the need to escape, to breathe, to get away from the crushing weight of it all.

He needed space. He needed silence. Somewhere he could think, somewhere the pressure couldn’t reach him.

Alex’s POV

Alex was still buzzing from the race, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he peeled himself out of the car. The team had done an amazing job today. The call to pit for inters had felt like a gamble at first, the track still dry enough that he had doubts. But as soon as the rain hit, he knew they’d made the right decision. The tires had gripped perfectly, and the conditions had turned in their favor. He’d fought hard, pushed the car to its limits, and ended up P5—a fantastic result for Williams.

He grinned as he stood beside his car, the cheers of the team surrounding him. It wasn’t just his effort; it was everyone working together, getting everything right at the perfect moment.

James appeared from the crowd, his usual grin wide as he wrapped Alex in a celebratory hug. "Great job today, mate," he said, his voice full of warmth.

“Thanks, James,” Alex replied, chuckling. “I honestly thought you guys were mad when you told me to pit for inters. The track was dry! But I guess it worked out, huh?”

James laughed. “It definitely worked out. You had the pace, but you had some good help too."

Alex raised an eyebrow, curious. "What do you mean?"

James’ smile turned into something a little more knowing. “It was Carlos. He made the call for you.”

Alex blinked, surprised. "Carlos? Seriously?"

"Yeah. He saw the rain coming and acted fast. He’s been more involved with strategy lately. I think he’s been really focusing on the bigger picture, not just driving." James grinned. “I guess he’s got a good eye for it, huh?”

Alex’s surprise shifted into something else—a warm feeling of pride. Carlos ? He hadn’t expected that. He knew his teammate was sharp, but to step in and make such a big call—especially after the pressure he’d been under lately—showed a side of Carlos Alex hadn’t fully appreciated. It was a reminder that Carlos was not just a driver, but a thinker too, someone who cared about the team’s success just as much as he did.

“Yeah,” Alex said, a grin spreading across his face. “He’s definitely smart. I’m proud of him. I didn’t know he was getting so involved, but it makes sense. We’re all in this together.”

James nodded, but his gaze flicked around the pit, scanning the area. “Speaking of, have you seen him? I think he’s gone off somewhere. He’s probably somewhere here in the mess or congratulating someone.”

Alex’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a subtle shift in his gut. Carlos had been acting distant lately, and there was something about James’ casual comment that didn’t sit right with him. He shook it off quickly. Carlos was probably just doing what he always did—talking to the press, catching up with friends, or disappearing to clear his head for a bit. It was probably nothing.

“I’ll go find him,” Alex said, his voice carrying the barest hint of concern. “He might just need some space after everything that’s happened.”

James nodded, still looking around the pit. “Yeah, sure. Let me know if you see him. We should all celebrate together.”

Alex gave a small wave and made his way towards the drivers' room, his footsteps quick and purposeful. He was starting to feel that gnawing feeling again, that unease in his chest. Maybe it was just the high of the race, or maybe it was something else. He didn’t like the idea of Carlos being alone right now. Not after everything.

When he reached the door to Carlos’ driver room, he knocked first, then opened it slightly, peering inside. It was empty. He frowned and pulled out his phone, trying to call Carlos directly. It rang a few times before going to voicemail. He probably doesn’t want to talk to me, he thought, his stomach tightening. Carlos saw Alex as only a teammate, nothing else. Not anymore.

Alex left the room and walked back into the paddock, scanning the area again. He knew Carlos could be difficult to find sometimes, but this was different. 

Maybe he was just caught up in some post-race routine. But something told him that wasn’t it.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat on the edge of the couch in his hotel room, the room dimly lit by the streetlights filtering through the blinds. His mind was racing, a storm of self-doubt swirling around him, and he couldn't seem to stop it. 

His stomach churned with the thought of the race, of the crash under the safety car, the failure. I should've been better. He gripped the edge of the couch, staring at nothing, lost in the moment. The thought of food felt like a distant, almost foreign concept now, but he knew he had to eat. His dietician had left a meal in the mini-fridge, something he was supposed to eat to maintain his energy.

He opened the fridge and pulled out one of the plastic boxes, the same kind he'd seen a thousand times before—chicken, roasted vegetables, pasta, some sauce he didn't even recognize. His hands were trembling as he peeled back the plastic and popped it into the microwave. The hum of the microwave was a small comfort in the silence, but it didn't ease the chaos in his head.

When the microwave beeped, Carlos sat back down and began eating mechanically, barely tasting anything. It was the first proper meal he had eaten in days—real food, not the constant stream of caffeine and stress. The warmth of the chicken, the earthiness of the vegetables, and the soft pasta felt... comforting. For a brief moment, he thought he might actually feel something resembling relief.

But that feeling didn't last. As soon as the last bite of pasta hit his stomach, the anxiety came rushing back. The gnawing, twisting feeling that had been with him for so long, always hovering in the background, suddenly surged. 

He felt heavy. The food felt like a weight inside him, as if it didn't belong there, as if he wasn’t allowed to nourish himself, to just be .

In a panic, he stood up quickly, his head spinning, and ran to the bathroom. He slammed the door shut behind him, hands shaking as he leaned over the toilet. His stomach rebelled against him, and without thinking, his fingers were in his mouth, forcing everything back up. It was instant relief, like a small release of pressure, but the relief was short-lived. He felt worse, but also somehow better , as though he had gotten rid of some poison.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. He knew the behavior was wrong. But in that moment, it felt like the only way he could deal with it. The only way to cope with the crushing weight of failure and the thoughts swirling in his head. He deserved this. He deserved the darkness. The shame.

His phone buzzed on the counter, interrupting the moment. Carlos wiped his mouth, his heart pounding, and glanced at the screen. It was Alex. Several missed calls. Charles had also texted him, asking if everything was okay, telling him to reach out.

But it all felt so distant. So far removed from where he was, from what he was feeling. They don’t need me. They don’t need to see this. He couldn’t face them. Not after today. Not after the crash, not after everything.

He dropped his phone back on the counter, turning away from the buzzing device. He wanted to ignore it. He just wanted to be alone. Alone with the thoughts and the anxiety and the shame. Alone in the mess he had made of everything.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the bathroom floor, wishing he could escape from his own mind. Maybe I can just sleep this off, he thought, but he knew better. The darkness was always there, waiting.

He didn't deserve to sleep. Not yet. Not after everything. Not after failing.

Charles’ POV

Charles sat in the post-race media pen, his fists clenched under the table as reporters fired questions that felt more like daggers than inquiries. The race had been a disaster, and now, all he could think about was how badly everything had gone. He’d snapped at his race engineer—yelled at him, actually. The words had come out without warning, fueled by frustration that had been building for weeks, months. And of course, the media jumped on it, making it the focal point of their questions instead of the actual race.

He hated them for it.

He hated that his moment of weakness was now plastered across headlines, overshadowing everything else. But even worse was the hollow feeling that gnawed at him, the feeling that he was only a small part in the greater machine of Ferrari’s dysfunction. How long had he been trying to push past the frustration, trying to ignore how much it hurt to be here, to be driving for a team that was more concerned with their image than with supporting their drivers? How much longer could he keep pretending that everything was okay?

He didn’t even know anymore.

Charles knew he wasn’t alone in this. He’d heard Lewis had the same outburst, the same anger bubbling to the surface, and now the media was hounding him about it. All of them, questioning his commitment, questioning his relationship with Ferrari. He’d tried so hard to keep his emotions in check, tried to be professional, but it had become impossible. Ferrari had turned their back on Carlos.

Carlos.

His mind drifted back to his old teammate, the one person who had been through hell and back in this team. Carlos had crashed on the first lap, a stupid mistake during the safety car, and now? Carlos was nowhere to be found. Charles had called him, texted him, but it was like he’d disappeared into thin air. The more he tried to reach him, the more the silence grew. And the more Charles’ chest tightened, a knot of dread forming. Where the hell is he?

A voice broke his thoughts. He turned, seeing Max walking toward him, his expression a mix of exhaustion and frustration.

“Rough race?” Max asked, his usual cocky tone dulled by the weight of the day.

Charles exhaled sharply, fighting the urge to lash out. "Yeah. But the media after? It’s like they didn’t even care about the race. They just wanted to know about me yelling at my race engineer. Like that’s all that matters."

Max scoffed, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Media never changes, does it? Always looking for drama, never the actual performance."

Charles nodded numbly. "Exactly. It’s all they care about. They don’t care that Ferrari’s made a mess of everything. That they’ve thrown Carlos under the bus. They don’t care that I can’t even keep it together anymore. They just want their headlines."

Max’s eyes softened slightly, but he said nothing at first. Then he spoke, his voice quiet. "Have you seen Carlos?"

Charles froze, the weight of Max’s question sinking deep into his chest. Carlos. The thought of him, isolated and alone, made his stomach twist. "No. I haven’t seen him. I’ve tried calling, texting, but nothing. It’s like he’s just disappeared."

Max’s face darkened, and he nodded slowly. "He had a bad crash today, huh? A crash under the safety car, that’s... brutal."

"Yeah," Charles muttered, staring down at the floor, the guilt rising in his throat like bile. "I don’t get it. He’s so much better than that. He doesn’t deserve this."

Max shifted, his expression a mix of sympathy and something else—something Charles couldn’t quite place. "All drivers have bad days," he said quietly, his voice low but understanding. "Carlos will get through it."

But Charles wasn’t so sure. Not this time. Not when everything was falling apart around them. Carlos had been holding it together for so long, and now… now Charles didn’t know if he had anything left to give.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the exhaustion weighing on him. "I just—I don’t know where he is, Max. He needs someone. He can’t be alone right now. Not after everything."

Max seemed to sense the desperation in his voice, and after a long pause, he offered a suggestion. "Do you want to ride back to the hotel together? Maybe we can check on him. See if he’s hiding in his room, or maybe... maybe he just needs someone to talk to."

Charles looked at him, the offer almost too much for him to process. He wasn’t sure why, but just the thought of not having to search for Carlos alone, of not carrying this worry by himself, made the heaviness in his chest lighten—just a little.

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good," Charles replied, the words feeling hollow, but necessary. "Thanks, Max."

Max nodded, the briefest flicker of understanding in his eyes. "We’ll find him. He’s not going through this alone."

Max’s POV

Max gripped the steering wheel as he drove through the darkened streets, the rhythmic hum of the car filling the silence between him and Charles. The quiet was suffocating, each of them lost in their thoughts. Max couldn’t help but feel Charles’s anxiety— or was it his own worry? He wasn’t sure anymore. All he knew was that the weight of it was almost too much to bear.

He had spent the entire drive trying to distract himself, focusing on the road, trying not to think about what awaited them at the hotel. He knew Carlos was in trouble—he could sense it in the way Charles had looked when he first mentioned his name, the way his voice cracked with concern. But Max felt it too. The fear gnawed at him.

Carlos was on the edge again. Max could feel it. He had been doing better, right? But now, after the crash, Max wasn’t so sure. There was a darker side to this sport that no one talked about, a pressure that twisted you, a relentless machine that chewed you up and spat you out. Carlos had been in Formula 1 for so long, had waited for his moment to shine. Promises had been made to him—promises that never materialized. Ferrari had thrown him away like an old rag, and now he was here, stuck in a team that offered hope but had no guarantee of success.

Max understood better than most. He had seen Carlos’s potential, his hunger, his drive. But the pressure had a way of breaking people. Even Max, with all his victories, knew how easy it was to crack under the weight of it. But Carlos? He wasn’t handling it as well. And that scared Max.

He looked over at Charles, who was staring out of the window, his jaw clenched. This is too much, Max thought. Too many drivers, all carrying their own pain. So much pressure. So much expectation.

The Williams car was strong, no doubt, but Max knew the self-doubt Carlos carried with him. He had lost his chance at a championship, his dream shattered. And as much as Max tried to deny it, a part of him knew— Carlos might never get another shot like that again.

Max parked the car in the hotel lot, the engine dying with a soft thud. He stepped out, feeling the weight of the night settle over him. Charles followed, and the two of them walked into the lobby in silence, the tension between them palpable.

Finally, Charles broke it. "Hope we find him in his hotel room," he said, his voice tired, but laced with a desperate hope that Max could feel too.

Max nodded, his stomach tight. "Yeah. Me too."

The elevator ride was short, but it felt like it took forever. When they reached Carlos’s floor, Max led the way to the door. He knocked once, twice, before the door creaked open.

Carlos stood there, looking tired, his eyes dark circles underneath them. But despite everything, he forced a smile—an effort that Max could see wasn’t as genuine as it used to be. "Hey," Carlos said quietly, his voice hoarse. 

Charles’s frustration spilled over. "Why the hell weren’t you answering your phone? We’ve been worried sick about you."

Carlos gave a small, almost tired laugh. "Sorry, I just needed some time, you know? It felt bad to crash out on the first lap. I just needed a moment to... breathe.”

Max stepped in, trying to lighten the atmosphere, though he felt an unshakable knot in his stomach. "I get it," he said. "The confidence—it takes a toll, especially after a crash like that."

Carlos nodded, but his eyes seemed distant, like he was looking right through Max. Charles wasn’t buying it either. He took a step closer, his voice softer now, though still laced with concern. "Carlos, are you sure everything is alright?"

Carlos hesitated, and for a second, Max saw a flicker of something dark in his eyes. But then it was gone. He offered the same forced smile. "It could be better, but I’m alright," he said, his voice flat, almost numb.

Max didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push. Instead, he offered an idea that had been forming in his mind. "Hey, how about you come out with us? We’re going to celebrate Lando’s win. Maybe a change of scenery will help."

Carlos looked at him for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah. That sounds like a great idea. Let me just get ready first."

"Sure," Charles said, a small sense of relief washing over him. "We’ll meet you downstairs when everyone’s ready."

They exchanged a few more words, then parted ways, each of them retreating to their rooms. As Max walked down the hallway to his own room, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that had been bothering him all evening. Asking Carlos to come party—was that the right thing to do? Max knew Carlos shouldn't be partying. Alcohol might numb the pain for a while, but it wasn’t going to fix what was broken inside of him.

Max paused outside his door, his hand resting on the handle. Maybe we could’ve just stayed at the hotel, played some video games or something. Something that didn’t involve drowning the pain with booze. Maybe that’s what Carlos really needs right now—someone to just be there, without any expectations.

But Max shook his head. He couldn’t change the plan now. He had already made the offer, and Carlos had accepted. But deep down, Max couldn’t help but feel the heavy weight of regret. He just hoped he hadn’t made the wrong call.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos stumbled into the party, his mind still reeling from the alcohol already coursing through his veins. Max and Charles flanked him, both of them talking and laughing as they made their way to the bar. The room was alive with music, voices, and the clinking of glasses, but all Carlos could focus on was the numbness creeping into his limbs.

He found Lando at the bar, and despite the haze in his mind, he walked over and slapped him on the back. “Hey, congrats on the win,” Carlos said, his voice a little slurred but sincere.

Lando grinned, clearly already feeling the effects of the alcohol. “Thanks, mate! You should join me in celebrating.”

Before Carlos could respond, Max was already sliding up to the bar, ordering more shots for everyone. Carlos couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything that stayed down, but the alcohol felt so good —it was like a warm wave washing over him, dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. He didn’t have to think about the crash, the disappointment, the pressure—nothing. For the first time in what felt like ages, he was free.

The shots came, and they kept coming. Max was practically a machine at this point, ordering one after another. Carlos drank without thought, the world spinning around him, the dizziness a welcome distraction from the storm inside.

Lando was laughing, eyes bright, holding up his glass. “One more!” he shouted, clearly having lost count of how many they’d done.

Carlos barely even registered the shot in his hand before he tossed it back, the burn of the alcohol making his stomach lurch but also numbing the ache inside.

And then, just as he was starting to feel it, Charles showed up at the bar with Pierre, his expression half-amused, half-concerned as he surveyed the scene.

“Guys, maybe you should take it easy,” Charles joked, but there was something in his voice that made it clear he wasn’t entirely joking.

Lando, already well past his limit, just laughed. “Nah, I won a race! I’m celebrating, not taking it easy!”

He handed shots to everyone again, and Carlos just took it, not even caring. His head was spinning so much now he didn’t even know how many shots he was in. He didn’t care.

Charles, ever the responsible one, pushed his shot back toward Lando. “I’m driving tonight,” he said, but his tone was light, masking the edge of genuine concern.

Lando rolled his eyes, playfully dramatic. “Boring!”

Max, now visibly drunk, leaned in with a laugh. “Charles, you’re gonna be the one cleaning up the car after this night.”

Charles snorted and laughed, shaking his head. “This is just the first race, guys. We don’t have to get wasted already.”

But Carlos wasn’t listening anymore. His body felt heavy, the room swaying around him, and all he could think about was the urge to do something . He needed a distraction, something to keep the whirlwind of thoughts in his head from overtaking him. 

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Carlos muttered, his words slurring more than he intended.

He excused himself from the group and stumbled away, the noise of the party fading behind him as he made his way down the hallway. But he wasn’t headed for the bathroom. Not really. He had something else in mind.

He turned the corner, and there, almost like he was waiting for him, was Alex.

Carlos blinked at him, a drunken grin spreading across his face. “Hey, Alex,” he slurred, leaning against the wall for support. “How much have you drunk?”

Alex, leaning casually against the wall with a faint smile, looked amused. “I don’t know. Do you wanna get out of here?”

Carlos’s heart gave a small, desperate leap. Yes. He needed this. He needed to escape, to stop pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t. To do something reckless, to feel alive, even if it was just for tonight. He wasn’t thinking about the consequences.

“Yeah,” Carlos said, voice low. “Let’s go. Maybe we can do something fun.”

Alex’s eyes lit up, a spark of mischief flashing across his face. “Alright, then. Let’s go.”

And just like that, they were leaving the party behind. Carlos didn’t care what they did or where they went, as long as it was something different, something to drown out the noise in his head.

Tomorrow would come, and maybe it would be a mess. Maybe they’d regret it. Maybe the hangover would hit harder than the pain he was trying to numb now. But right now? All Carlos needed was to escape, even if it was only for a few hours. Even if, deep down, he knew he was only running from himself.

He could feel Alex beside him, the only person who seemed to get it, even if they were both in the same place of confusion, self-doubt, and loneliness. But for now, that didn’t matter.

Alex’s POV

They slipped out of the party like shadows, unnoticed. The door thudded shut behind them, muffling the laughter and music and all the pretending. The night was cold, and the silence between them was louder than anything that had come before.

Carlos was still laughing, his steps unsteady, his grin stretched too wide. He veered toward Alex, swaying, eyes bright with something sharp and reckless. Then—without warning—he reached into Alex’s pocket and pulled out the keys.

“Let’s take the car,” he said, triumphant, like it was the best idea he’d ever had.

Alex’s pulse jumped.

Carlos was drunk. Wasted. Shouldn’t be behind the wheel.

But Alex didn’t stop him.

He should have. He knew better. But he also knew that stopping Carlos meant ending this—whatever this was. And Alex wasn’t ready for that. He wanted the chaos. The spiral. The feeling of being wanted, even if it wasn’t real.

So he got in the car. Because Carlos wanted him there. And that was enough. For now.

Carlos drove too fast, the city lights stretching out like melting stars behind them. The music blasted, drowning out the thoughts in Alex’s head, and they both sang along—off-key, loud, screaming nonsense into the night. Pretending it was fun. Pretending it didn’t hurt.

But every time Alex looked over, he saw it more clearly.

Carlos wasn’t okay.

He was getting bad again.

Really bad.

His hands trembled on the wheel when he wasn’t gripping it too tightly. His laughter cracked at the edges. He was too thin—Alex hadn’t noticed it before, but now it was undeniable. His shirt hung off him like it didn’t quite know how to fit anymore. His body, once solid and sure, was vanishing in pieces.

Carlos turned off the highway and onto a coastal road, chasing the sound of the waves. The ocean greeted them in darkness, endless and cold. He parked haphazardly, killing the engine but not the music.

“Let’s take a night swim,” he said, already pulling his shirt over his head.

Alex wanted to say no. To wrap a blanket around him and drive him somewhere safe. But he didn’t. Because he wanted to follow. Because Carlos wanted him there.

Carlos stripped down, skin pale and ghostlike in the moonlight, and ran toward the water. Alex followed. Of course he did.

The ocean was freezing. Brutal. It bit at their skin, but they dove in anyway, shouting through the sting of it. They laughed, splashed, clung to the noise just to drown out everything else. They acted like this was freedom. Like this was some kind of wild joy.

But it wasn’t.

It was survival in disguise.

When they stumbled back to the car, soaked and shaking, Alex cranked the heat and they huddled there in silence. Wet clothes sticking to skin. Steam curling against the glass. The sun was starting to rise, painting the horizon in streaks of soft orange and pink.

Carlos leaned in, slow, eyes dark and unreadable.

And Alex didn’t think. He just kissed him.

It was breathless. Hungry. Desperate. It didn’t taste like love—it tasted like escape. Like please don’t leave me alone right now.

Carlos kissed him back, just enough to make it worse.

Because Alex knew this wasn’t love.

But right now?

Right now, Carlos was his.

For just a night. For just a few hours.

For this one fleeting, collapsing moment in time—Carlos was his.

And Alex would burn for it. He would pay for it in the morning, when they went back to the hotel and pretended none of this had happened. When Carlos turned away, like it meant nothing.

But right now, in this car, with the heat humming and the sea drying on their skin, with the sunrise brushing gold across Carlos’s face—Alex had him.

And God, it wasn’t enough.

But he held onto it anyway.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos’ whole world was spinning.

Not the fun kind of spinning—more like he was floating above himself, watching everything move too fast while his body stayed still. He felt disconnected, like he wasn’t really here. Like he was just a passenger inside his own skin.

But it felt good.

Because he didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to feel.

That was the best part.

The ocean was still clinging to his skin, his clothes damp against his body as he sat behind the wheel, hands trembling slightly. He started the car, the keys rattling too loud in the silence, and began to drive.

It was a mess of a drive. Slow, uneven, headlights blurring into smudges on the road. He could barely focus. His vision doubled sometimes, and he didn’t really trust his hands on the wheel—but it didn’t matter. None of it did.

He didn’t look at Alex, not even once.

But he felt him sitting there in the passenger seat. Quiet. Stiff. Distant in that way someone gets when they’re trying not to feel too much.

They had kissed again. Or maybe Alex had kissed him. Or maybe it had been mutual, but Carlos didn’t know what he was doing anymore, not really. He only knew that it made Alex ache. That the silence in the car wasn’t just silence—it was pain . The kind you don’t say out loud.

And the worst part?

He didn’t care.

Not tonight.

Because Alex let him escape. Let him unravel. Let him be a complete fucking mess without trying to fix it.

Carlos knew Alex probably saw through him now. The way his smile didn’t fit right. He knew Alex could see it . That he was getting bad again. Or how he never was getting good. Slipping.

Falling.

But Alex hadn’t stopped him.

And that almost hurt more than anything.

Because part of him—some quiet, lonely part of him—had hoped someone would stop him. Just grab his wrist and say enough . Say you don’t have to do this . Say you’re not alone . He didn’t know if he wanted to scream or cry or sleep for a week, but he just… wanted someone to hold him and tell him it would be okay.

But no one ever did.

And Alex… Alex had just kissed him.

Like that could fix anything.

Carlos pulled into the hotel parking lot. The car jerked to a stop, the tires bumping awkwardly against the curb. It wasn’t a good parking job, but he didn’t care. And Alex didn’t say a word.

Neither of them spoke as they got out of the car. Their footsteps echoed on the pavement as they walked side by side, cold air biting at their wet clothes. It could have been the end of the world, for all it mattered.

At the hotel entrance, they paused.

Carlos looked at the door. Alex looked at the floor.

“Night,” Carlos muttered, not trusting himself to say anything else.

“Yeah,” Alex replied, voice thin. Hollow.

They didn’t look at each other. Didn’t hug. Didn’t pretend this was anything more than what it was.

Just goodbye for now .

Carlos walked to his room in silence. The hallway was too bright, the hum of the lights too loud. His fingers fumbled with the keycard. Everything felt wrong.

He slipped into his room and let the door close behind him with a quiet click. The bed was too big, too white, too clean. He didn’t even bother to change.

He lay down on top of the sheets, clothes still damp, skin still tasting of salt and regret. His body was heavy. So heavy.

He closed his eyes and let the blackness take him.

Charles’ POV

Charles had left the chaos behind—Carlos, Max, and Lando loud at the bar, drinks multiplying by the minute. He didn’t try to stop them. He just walked away with Pierre, toward the quieter corner of the club where the music was just background noise, not something pulsing in his chest.

He figured he’d pick up the pieces later.

Pierre slid into the seat across from him, nursing a drink that hadn’t been touched much. He looked at Charles with that familiar soft kind of concern.

“You good?” Pierre asked.

Charles nodded, but the answer wasn’t honest. “Yeah. Just…” He sighed. “I don’t like how Max and Lando are pushing Carlos to drink.”

Pierre frowned. “Yeah. I noticed that too.”

“It’s not helping him,” Charles added. “Carlos, he drinks like that when he’s trying not to feel anything. And they’re making it worse.”

Pierre looked down at his glass. “I don’t even know why we’re all getting so wasted. It’s the first race of the year. Nothing’s happened yet. No one’s won anything.”

Charles gave a faint smile. “Lando did a great job today. He deserves to celebrate. But Carlos—he needed something different tonight. Something quieter. I should’ve taken him with me. Should’ve told him to come back to the hotel with me. Just… talk.”

Pierre glanced at him. “You think he would’ve come?”

Charles hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe. He used to. Back when we were in Ferrari.”

They both sat in silence, the weight of what wasn’t said settling between them.

Pierre finally broke it. “Carlos looks… thinner than before. Doesn’t look like himself.”

Charles nodded slowly. “I’ve been worried. I think he’s slipping again. I thought after everything this winter—after what happened—he was getting better. But now…”

“You don’t know for sure,” Pierre said gently.

“No. But I feel it. It’s hard now—we’re in different teams. I don’t see him like I used to. We don’t have the same mornings anymore. The same quiet time in the paddock. I don’t know where his head is at. And he doesn’t tell me.”

Pierre leaned back, expression unreadable. “Maybe he wants to, but doesn’t know how.”

Charles didn’t answer.

He didn’t want to say it, but he was scared.

Scared that Carlos had stopped reaching for help. Scared that no one would reach back if he did.

The music finally started to fade as the night bled into early morning. Pierre got up and gave Charles a tired hug.

“Good luck with the mess,” he said with a crooked smile.

Charles offered one back, forced but grateful.

He made his way back to the bar.

Max and Lando were still there—barely upright, voices hoarse from shouting over music that wasn’t even playing anymore.

But Carlos wasn’t.

“Where’s Carlos?” Charles asked, more sharply than he meant to.

They both blinked at him, confused, slow to process the question. Then looked at each other. Then around.

“Shit,” Max muttered. “I… I don’t know. I thought he was here?”

“He was just with us,” Lando added, brows furrowed. “Wasn’t he?”

Charles’s stomach dropped.

The club was nearly empty. Just the three of them left, and an aching sense that something had been missed.

He checked the bathrooms. Nothing.

He returned, jaw tight. “We’re leaving.”

Max and Lando staggered out, their mood dead, their guilt beginning to settle in.

“How didn’t we notice?” Max mumbled in the car.

“Carlos must’ve felt left out,” Lando said, slumped against the door. “We didn’t even see him leave…”

Charles didn’t say what he was thinking.

That Carlos had felt invisible. That he had wanted to disappear.

Instead, he said, “He probably just got tired of the noise. Went back to the hotel.”

He didn’t believe it.

They got back just after dawn. Charles dropped Max and Lando off at Max’s room, watched them vanish into the hallway like ghosts of the night they created.

He returned to his own room, but didn’t stay there long.

The shower was hot and blinding, but it didn’t do anything. The mirror fogged up and so did his thoughts. He stared at his reflection and didn’t recognize the calm expression he wore like a mask.

By 9 a.m., he gave up pretending he could sleep.

He got dressed again, slowly. His hands were cold.

And then he walked.

The hotel halls were quiet, almost eerily so. Just the hum of lights and the distant thud of some door far away. He moved on instinct. He didn’t even hesitate when he reached the door he hadn’t stopped thinking about all night.

Carlos’s room.

Charles raised his hand and knocked.

Softly at first.

Then again.

His heart beat too loud in his chest.

“Carlos?” he said, barely above a whisper.

No answer.

Just the silence behind the door.

And the slow, creeping dread pressing into his ribs.

So he knocked again.

And waited.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos heard the knocking like a distant echo through the haze. At first, he ignored it—hoped whoever it was would just go away and leave him in this half-conscious state of numbness. But then a voice broke through the dull ache in his skull.

“Carlos?”

It was soft, cracked.

Charles.

Carlos’s heart lurched.

Another knock. More insistent.

He groaned as he tried to sit up, the motion spinning the room in sickening circles. He stumbled out of bed, lost balance, and hit the floor hard, cheek slamming against the cold floor. His stomach turned. His head throbbed. The light cutting through the blinds felt like knives.

He forced himself up. Step by step to the door.

And there he was—Charles, standing in the hallway, face tight with worry.

“Where the hell have you been?” Charles said, and then pushed past him, walking into the room without waiting for an invitation.

Carlos blinked slowly. “I got tired of the party,” he muttered. “Came back to sleep.”

He kept his voice calm, steady. Like he hadn’t been out all night driving drunk, swimming in the ocean, kissing Alex like none of it mattered.

He lied and hoped Charles didn’t notice.

Charles turned to look at him. “Are you okay?”

Carlos nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. Slept really well actually. Helped to let loose a little bit. It was nice seeing everyone.”

Another lie.

And again, Charles didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at him for a moment like he was trying to see beneath the surface. Like he knew something was wrong but didn’t want to press too hard.

“Alright,” Charles finally said. “Want to grab some breakfast?”

Carlos nodded again. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

Charles walked over to the hotel phone and ordered room service, his voice calm and practiced. Carlos mumbled something about needing a shower and stripped off the clothes still damp with salt water and the stale smell of alcohol. They clung to his skin like reminders of everything he wanted to forget.

He stepped into the shower, let the hot water hit his back, and finally exhaled.

The anxiety returned almost instantly, crawling up from his chest and tightening around his throat. He hated lying to Charles. Hated pretending. Hated that his body had started trembling again, like it used to before everything got so dark.

How was he supposed to sit and eat with him like nothing was wrong?

How was he supposed to look at Charles?

When he stepped out of the bathroom, steam following him, the smell of food filled the room. Charles was sitting on the bed with the tray between them—croissants, eggs, sandwiches, juice, coffee. It looked like comfort. But it felt like pressure.

“Did you sleep okay?” Carlos asked, voice hoarse.

Charles rubbed his eyes. “Not really. Max and Lando were a mess. It got late.”

Carlos forced a small smile. “Was it hard babysitting them?”

Charles gave a tired laugh. “Yeah. They were the last to leave the club. On the way back, they both cried about not noticing you were gone.”

Carlos laughed too, though it felt like glass in his throat. “They don’t need to feel guilty. It’s fine.”

He grabbed a croissant, and Charles took the other. But Carlos couldn’t chew it slow. The anxiety sitting in his chest made it feel like if he didn’t eat everything fast, he wouldn’t eat it at all.

So he devoured the croissant. Then the sandwich. Then the eggs. Washed it all down with the juice. As if speed could trick his body into accepting the food.

Charles had barely made it halfway through his croissant when Carlos was already finished.

He could feel Charles watching him. Quiet. Concerned.

But he didn’t say anything.

Carlos’s stomach twisted violently. Maybe it was the hangover. Maybe it was everything else.

He stood up so suddenly the room spun again and rushed into the bathroom. Dropped to his knees. And vomited it all back up.

He heard Charles from outside the door, his voice raised.

“Carlos? You okay?”

Carlos wiped his mouth, forced his voice to sound casual. “Yeah! I’m good. Just—hangover. Must’ve drank more than I thought.”

He tried to laugh. It came out hollow.

He rinsed his mouth, washed his hands, stared at his reflection. His skin looked pale. His eyes sunken. The truth sat just beneath the surface, but he shoved it back down again.

He walked back into the room like nothing happened.

Charles had moved the tray to the side table. Carlos sank into the couch and picked up the coffee cup, wrapping his hands around it like it could ground him.

It felt better, having thrown up.

But it also felt worse.

The emptiness returned. The kind that wasn’t just physical. The kind that lived in his chest.

Charles didn’t say anything. But Carlos could feel his eyes. Watching. Not judging, but worried .

And that made it harder to breathe.

He took a sip of the coffee and stared out the window, trying to pretend that everything was fine.

Even when both of them knew it wasn’t.

Charles’ POV

Carlos sat slouched in one of the couches in the hotel room, legs curled beneath him like his body couldn’t quite hold itself upright anymore. He looked pale. Hollowed out. Tired in a way that sleep wouldn't fix.

When he’d opened the door earlier, the room behind him had been dim and thick with stale air. Carlos had smelled like sea water and alcohol, and though he’d said he came back early from the party to sleep, it hadn’t looked like sleep had ever touched him.

Charles had heard the dull, heavy thud behind the door just before it opened—he’d known, immediately, that Carlos had probably fallen trying to stand. But Carlos smiled through it. Lied, soft and easy. Like he’d rehearsed it.

And then breakfast.

Carlos had eaten so fast it made Charles’ stomach turn just to watch him. He hadn’t tasted it. Hadn’t even looked at the food like it meant anything. He just devoured it like he was trying to erase it from existence.

Then came the rush to the bathroom. The muffled sound. The unmistakable retching.

Carlos had blamed it on the hangover, tried to laugh it off with that same brittle voice that cracked around the edges.

But Charles had seen through all of it.

And he didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t want to confront him and then leave. That would feel cruel. Like forcing Carlos to admit he was struggling, and then abandoning him in the wreckage of it.

But Charles had a flight to catch. Team obligations. Ferrari had made the plans, and there wasn’t a lot of room for changes—at least not the kind that would let him stay here and make sure Carlos didn’t fall apart.

So he pulled out his phone and texted Max.

Can you take Carlos with you on the jet today? Just keep an eye on him. Please.

The reply came fast.

Of course. I’ve got him.

A moment later, Carlos’s phone buzzed. He picked it up with slow fingers, glanced at the screen, and answered. Charles tried not to listen, but it was impossible not to.

“Hey… yeah, I’m good. You don’t have to feel bad, it’s okay… yeah, that works… alright. See you later then.”

Carlos ended the call and set the phone aside. His face didn’t change, but his voice during the call had sounded so upbeat, so fake that Charles wanted to flinch. Whoever was on the other end of the line—probably Max—probably thought Carlos sounded fine. But they couldn’t see him.

Couldn’t see the dark circles, the way his limbs moved like they were heavy with something invisible, the silence that dragged behind every forced word.

Carlos stretched out on the couch, arms above his head like everything was normal.

“Max invited me to fly with him to China,” he said casually. “Now I don’t have to stress about the queues and all the safety stuff. I can just fly tonight.”

Charles forced a laugh, smiled. “Lucky you. I need to pack and get going—I’ve got a flight Ferrari won’t let me miss.”

Carlos grinned like it was all fine. Charles played along.

They said goodbye at the door. A quick hug. Nothing too long. Nothing too heavy.

Charles walked out of the room and didn’t look back until the door clicked shut.

His steps down the hallway felt too loud. The sunlight through the windows too bright.

He should’ve stayed.

He should’ve done more.

But he didn’t know how.

And the weight of that sat heavy in his chest as he boarded the elevator and texted his driver that he was on his way.

He told himself Max would keep an eye on Carlos.

He told himself they’d be okay.

But as the car pulled away from the hotel, and the city passed in a blur of gold light and exhaustion, Charles couldn’t shake the unease creeping up his spine.

Carlos was unraveling again.

And Charles didn’t know if he’d be fast enough this time to catch him.

Maybe after China, they could meet in Monaco. Maybe then, away from the chaos of the paddock and the noise of everyone else, Carlos would let him in.

Alex’s POV

Alex woke up feeling like the night was still clinging to his skin. His mouth was dry, head pounding, but it wasn’t the hangover that made him sick—it was the shame.

The anxiety was a vice around his chest. He lay there, staring at the ceiling of his hotel room, replaying every moment from last night like a film he didn’t want to watch again.

He hadn’t stopped Carlos.

He’d watched Carlos spiral—watched him laugh too loudly, drive too fast, strip down and run into the freezing water like he was chasing oblivion—and Alex hadn’t done a damn thing to stop him. He’d followed. Willingly. Because as long as Carlos was spiraling, he had him .

And that made Alex feel like the worst kind of person.

Because deep down, he knew the truth.

Carlos only ever came to him when he wanted to ruin himself.

And Alex let him.

Hell, he welcomed it.

If Carlos was happy—if he was stable, healthy, loved properly—he wouldn’t be with Alex. He wouldn’t kiss him with trembling hands, or sleep in his arms like he couldn’t bear the silence alone. 

But in the dark, Carlos kissed Alex .

And Alex let himself believe it meant something.

He sat up, the room spinning slightly. His hands were shaking as he reached for his phone, but he didn’t check messages. He didn’t want to know if Carlos had texted. He didn’t want to know if he hadn’t .

The guilt burned in his throat like bile.

He thought about how Charles, Max and Lando laughed with him, asked if he was okay, tried to pull him back to the surface when he was slipping. They cared.

But Alex—he wanted to pull Carlos deeper . He didn’t want him to get better, because that meant losing him. Losing the only time Carlos looked at him like he needed him.

He wanted Carlos in the dark.

And he hated himself for it.

But not enough to stop.

He didn’t even know why he wanted Carlos so badly. It didn’t feel like the stories described love—there was no sweetness, no comfort. No warmth. It felt desperate. Lonely. Like clinging to a broken mirror and pretending the shards didn’t cut.

Maybe it was because Carlos understood what it felt like. To be thrown away. To be told you were something, and then replaced. Like you were nothing.

Alex didn’t love the good in Carlos—didn’t fall for the determination, the grit, the brilliance. Those things belonged to the Carlos everyone else saw. The one who smiled in the paddock, joked with engineers, kept everything just light enough.

Alex only wanted the version no one else got to see. The fragile one. The one breaking apart quietly.

And maybe that made him awful.

But he already hated himself, so what did it matter?

He stood up and packed his things methodically, stuffing guilt and clothes into the same suitcase. His flight to China was in a few hours. He didn’t know if he’d see Carlos again before then. Didn’t even know if he wanted to. Not like this.

But he would.

Because this wasn’t over.

Carlos still had pieces left to break.

And Alex was still the one he called when he wanted to fall.

He zipped his bag closed, slung it over his shoulder, and left the room without looking back.

Max’s POV

Max sat still in his seat, the quiet hum of the jet a dull background to the louder noise inside his head. The leather was soft beneath him, the view out the window all clouds and light, but none of it settled him. Not when Carlos was slumped in the seat next to him, pale and drawn and looking like he hadn’t slept in a year.

Carlos was asleep now, head tilted to one side, one arm tucked awkwardly against his chest like he was protecting something invisible. Max tried not to stare, but it was hard. Carlos looked… wrecked. Hungover, obviously. But it was more than that. He looked fragile .

And Max hated himself.

The guilt hadn’t left since the night at the club. Since he’d turned around at the bar and realized Carlos was gone—and hadn’t even noticed when. He and Lando had been celebrating, laughing too loudly, too wrapped up in the glow of the podium and the drinks and the moment. Carlos had been quiet. But Max had assumed he was just tired. That he’d catch up eventually.

He didn’t.

And Max had failed him.

He’d apologized at least a hundred times since they boarded the jet. Every time, Carlos just gave him that same, tired half-smile and shook it off.

“It’s fine, Max. Don’t worry about it. I just wanted to leave early.”

But Max did worry about it. Because that was bullshit and they both knew it.

He wished they hadn’t gone out at all. Wished he’d kept Carlos back at the hotel, made him play Mario Kart or something dumb. Got him to open up, to talk. Maybe Carlos wouldn’t have been so desperate to run off into the night if Max had just seen him.

Lando had crashed on Max’s hotel couch last night, completely undone. The poor guy had cried himself into a panic attack, saying over and over how he was a terrible friend, how he couldn’t believe he hadn’t even noticed Carlos had disappeared.

Max had tried to calm him down, told him it wasn’t his fault. But it was hard when he felt the same. Exactly the same.

He looked over at Carlos again.

He looked so thin . So much thinner than he had last season. His cheeks had hollowed out, collarbones sharp even beneath the hoodie he wore. His hands twitched sometimes in his sleep, like his mind couldn’t even find peace when he was unconscious.

Max had seen this before. The slow unraveling of someone who was trying to hold it together and just… couldn’t anymore. And it scared the hell out of him.

But what scared him more was that he didn’t know what to say.

What could he say?

Carlos was proud. Private. He brushed things off with jokes and polite deflection. Max didn’t want to push him harder and risk sending him further down. But silence felt like its own kind of cruelty. Like watching someone drown and not throwing the rope.

He pressed his forehead to the window for a moment, the glass cool against his skin.

He couldn’t change what had happened.

But he could be better now.

He’d made a quiet promise to himself when he saw Carlos walk onto the plane looking like a ghost—next time, Max wouldn’t let him walk off alone. No more ignoring the signs. No more trusting Carlos’s fake smiles.

Next time, Max would sit with him in the dark instead of pretending there was nothing wrong.

The jet hit a soft pocket of turbulence, but Carlos didn’t stir.

Max glanced at him again, at the way his chest rose and fell too shallow, too quick.

And he whispered, almost to himself, “I got you this time, mate.”

Even if Carlos didn’t know how to ask for help.

Even if he didn’t want it.

Max would be there.

Lewis’ POV

Lewis leaned his head back against the headrest, exhaling slowly as the jet engines rumbled to life beneath them. The private flight Ferrari had booked was smooth, luxurious as always, but it didn’t feel like comfort. Not today. Not with everything hanging unsaid between him and Charles.

Charles was beside him, shoulders slightly slumped, eyes distant. Tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a long race weekend, but the kind that settles deep in your bones—the kind born from worry, from guilt. Lewis recognized it immediately. He’d seen it in mirrors too many times.

“You have a rough night?” Lewis asked gently, turning slightly toward him.

Charles let out a sigh and nodded. “Yeah. Carlos left the club and… Max and Lando were completely wasted. They didn’t even realize he’d gone. I didn’t realize he was gone. I was worried. I found him at his hotel room later. He said he just wanted to leave early.”

Lewis hesitated. “Yeah… I saw him leave. With Alex.”

Charles blinked, surprised. “Alex?”

Lewis could see the shift in his posture. Subtle, but there. Like something had just slid into place. Or cracked a little deeper.

“He didn’t mention that,” Charles said quietly.

Lewis immediately regretted bringing it up. He could feel Charles’s anxiety spike, even if he tried to mask it. He gave a small shrug, tried to downplay it. “I mean, maybe they were both tired. Just wanted to get back together. It’s better than Carlos stumbling alone through the city, right?”

Charles gave a small nod. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

But Lewis could tell he didn’t believe it. Not really. His jaw had tightened, and he’d gone quiet in a way that wasn’t just fatigue.

Lewis glanced out the window. Melbourne shrinking beneath them, the ocean stretching into sky. Then, needing to change the subject, to pull Charles out of that spiral before it dragged him under too, he shifted gears.

“You know,” Lewis said, “both of us snapped at our race engineers yesterday. The media’s already making it a whole saga.”

Charles gave a humorless laugh. “I know. I hate it. I have my issues with Ferrari, but I didn’t want it to be that obvious. I just… I was frustrated. And I hate how they treated Carlos. Like he was disposable.”

Lewis looked down at his hands for a moment. He flexed his fingers. “Yeah. Same. I hate that I’m part of it.”

Charles turned to look at him. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true,” Lewis said. “I took his seat. I didn’t know how bad it would get for him. I thought they’d at least give him a fair ending. But the way they just… shut him out after I signed? Like he didn’t exist anymore?” He shook his head. “I should’ve seen it coming.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty for being where you are,” Charles said, though his voice was strained. “You’re a great teammate. You deserve to be here. You didn’t steal the seat.”

“Still feels like I did,” Lewis muttered. “I always saw Ferrari as this dream, you know? The team you want to drive for. The red, the history, the passion. But now? I’m here, and I don’t even feel proud of it.”

Charles leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “I get it. It’s not the same anymore. I keep telling myself it’ll change, but…”

They both trailed off into silence. Nothing else needed to be said. They were both tired of pretending. Tired of smiling through press conferences and shaking hands with people they didn’t trust. Tired of seeing friends fall apart and not being able to stop it.

Lewis let the silence stretch. Just two drivers in red suits, caught in a machine too big to fight.

“Do you think Carlos will be okay?” he asked after a while, voice low.

Charles didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know.”

They both stared out the window after that, the blue of the sky too bright, too clean for the weight they were carrying.

They’d be landing in China soon.

Time to put on the masks again.

George’s POV

George watched the clouds pass slowly beneath them, his head resting against the cool plastic of the airplane window. The seatbelt sign blinked overhead, ignored. The hum of the engines filled the silence between them.

Alex sat beside him, still as glass. Eyes on the screen in front of him, headphones in but no sound playing. Just pretending. Going through the motions.

They’d done this flight a dozen times. Same cities, same faces, same numb routine. But today, George could feel it—something was shifting. Subtle, like pressure dropping mid-air. Like the storm was already brewing inside the cabin.

Alex hadn’t spoken since they boarded. Not even a sarcastic comment about the screaming baby in row 12, or the weird sandwich from the airport lounge. No smirk. No snort. No half-assed attempt at a joke.

Nothing.

George knew this quiet. Knew it too well.

It was the beginning of the fall.

He’d seen it before—when the light started to go, when the laughter faded too fast, when the world got too loud and too far away at the same time. When Alex stopped being sharp and funny and impossible, and started becoming… small. Fragile. Like he was shrinking into himself. Disappearing mid-flight.

Most people didn’t notice. Or they didn’t care to look.
But George did.

He always did.

He shifted slightly in his seat, glancing sideways. Alex’s jaw was tight, fingers twitching where they rested on his thigh. Not tapping to a song. Just... twitching. Unspent energy curling inward.

George wanted to reach out—say something, anything—but the words caught in his throat. What could he say that wouldn’t feel like pressure? Like weight?

Everyone else thought Alex was chaos. Too much. A problem that needed managing, not understanding. A risk. A threat.
But George knew the truth.

Alex wasn’t dangerous. He was exhausted.

He was trying so hard to hold it together.

And he was losing.

George looked back toward the window. The clouds were thinning now, soft light pouring through the cracks. A false calm.

He shut his eyes, not to sleep, but to breathe.

To brace.

Because the descent was coming—not just the one into the next city, but the one inside Alex. That slow, cruel unraveling.

He opened his eyes and whispered into the hush between them, “Just let it be a gentle landing.”

And beside him, Alex sat perfectly still—
already falling.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat across from Max at a shaded picnic table tucked away near the Red Bull motorhome. The spring sun over the Shanghai paddock was warm, but the weight on Carlos’s shoulders kept him cold. In front of him sat a carefully prepared meal — pasta, grilled chicken, roasted vegetables. High-calorie. High-protein. The kind of meal you only get when your team starts watching you closely.

Max was already halfway through his food, eating with the kind of relaxed hunger Carlos envied. Carlos pushed a piece of pasta around his box with his fork, not really tasting anything, not even trying.

“You’re not hungry?” Max asked carefully, trying to keep it casual.

Carlos didn’t look up. “No. The sprint quali went to shit, and my stomach’s just… off.”

Max gave a sympathetic nod. “I get that. I still don’t know why they think adding more pressure to a weekend helps anyone. Sprint’s a mess.”

Carlos smiled weakly. “I just want more time in the car. One practice session doesn’t give me enough to read the setup. I feel like I’m guessing out there. Everything is off — balance, braking points, tire temps… it’s just noise.”

“You’ve always been the setup king,” Max said, lightly. “You read the car better than anyone I know.”

Carlos’s face lit up for a second — not with joy, but with clarity. “I love it. I love the data, the debriefs, the work. When I understand the car, everything feels controllable. Predictable.”

Max watched him for a moment. “More controllable than… the rest of life?”

Carlos didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned back, letting his fork rest in the box. The silence stretched between them. Max didn’t push.

After a moment, Carlos turned the conversation. “You’ve gotten better at reading the car too. You’re starting to care about the boring parts.”

Max chuckled. “Guess I learned from the best.”

A voice from the Red Bull garage called Max’s name.

He turned over his shoulder and yelled back, “Coming!”

Max stood up, collecting his empty box, and looked back at Carlos. “See you later. Don’t overthink the sprint tomorrow. You’ve got this.”

Carlos forced a grin. “Thanks. Good luck to you too — not that you need it.”

They shared a quick laugh, but Carlos’s didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Carlos watched Max disappear into the Red Bull garage, his footsteps loud against the pavement before fading into the paddock noise. The moment Max was gone, the smile Carlos had managed to wear slipped from his face, leaving him with the dull ache that had sat heavy on his chest all day.

He glanced down at the tray in front of him—food untouched, just slightly picked apart to look like he’d tried. The pasta had gone cold, the grilled chicken looked dry, and the portion was huge . Too huge. His stomach twisted at the thought of even trying to finish it.

The doctors had called it “energy balance.” Words that sounded clean, clinical. Like it was just numbers. Calories in, calories out. 

They didn’t know how loud it got in his head when the plate was full. They didn’t understand the panic that bloomed in his chest the moment food felt like something he had to finish. The shame. The lack of control. They said he was “low energy.” But no one asked why.

Carlos stood up slowly, the world still slightly too bright, too sharp around the edges. His body felt foreign to him lately—sluggish and fast all at once. A weird paradox. Like it moved before he told it to, but never the way he wanted it to.

He picked up the tray and walked it over to the trash can, forcing himself to move casually, like he wasn’t about to throw away everything he was supposed to eat. He told himself he could make up for it later. At dinner, maybe. Or maybe at breakfast. Or maybe never, the darker part of his mind whispered.

He dropped the food in and kept walking.

The paddock buzzed around him, full of life, full of nerves before the sprint. But it all felt so far away. He couldn’t focus on the race right now, not when his skin felt too tight and his heart too tired.

What scared him more than the hunger was how much better he felt the moment he tossed the food. Like he’d won. Like the scale in his mind had tipped back in his favor.

But Carlos wasn’t stupid. He knew it was a trap. Knew this feeling of “control” was a lie that never lasted long. Because after the satisfaction came the guilt. The headaches. The shaking hands. The exhaustion. And the questions. Why are you always tired? Why are your reaction times slow? Why is your neck cramping in the corners?

He hated the answers. So he lied instead.

He walked back toward his team’s motorhome, sunglasses hiding his eyes now. He nodded at a few mechanics, smiled faintly at a camera crew. He was Carlos Sainz. Professional. Smooth. Charming. “Fully adapted to the new team environment.” That’s what the press kept saying.

If only they knew how much of him was hollow.

He sat down at the back of the hospitality tent, tucked away from sight. Pulled his data tablet into his lap, something to focus on. Something with rules, numbers, something that made sense.

Because the thoughts didn’t.

The way he’d been thinking about control, about food, about escape . The way the night in Australia had played out—leaving the club drunk, with Alex, not because he cared but because it was the quickest path out of his own mind.

It wasn’t fair to Alex. He knew that. It wasn’t fair to anyone. But he didn’t know how to stop.

The tablet screen lit up with telemetry graphs and corner speed analysis. Carlos stared at it, letting it swallow him whole. It was better than thinking about the way his chest ached or how empty he still felt, even now, even with a race coming.

The engineers called his driving style “precise.” But they didn’t know it was the only part of him that still felt in control.

And tomorrow, he’d get in the car again and pretend everything was fine.

Because Carlos Sainz always showed up when it mattered.

Even if there was nothing left of him when the helmet came off.

Alex’s POV

The air was thick in the cockpit, suffocating him. Alex could barely breathe as he sat in the car before the sprint. The helmet felt heavier than it ever had, as though it was pressing down on his skull, crushing everything inside. His mind was a fog, empty, clouded with exhaustion and an overwhelming sadness that clung to his bones. Every thought felt like a distant echo, too far away to grasp. His body moved on autopilot, each movement slow, sluggish, as if he wasn’t quite in control of it anymore. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt alive, when the fire had burned brightly enough to keep him going. Now, all he could feel was the weight of nothingness pressing down on him.

The sprint race was a blur. It was all a blur. The engines roared, the tires screeched, but inside, Alex felt like he was fading away, like the world around him was moving too fast, and he was trapped, stuck in slow motion. When he crossed the line and saw the P11 next to his name, there was no surge of relief, no sense of accomplishment. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because nothing mattered anymore.

Carlos had finished P17. Alex’s eyes flickered over to him, watching as Carlos climbed out of his car, his movements sluggish and defeated. He knew what was eating at Carlos, how much this race would tear him apart. But Alex… he didn’t care. Not anymore. Not right now. He couldn’t care. He was too lost in his own pain, his own darkness, to reach out and pull Carlos back from his own spiral. He couldn’t even pull himself out of it. Not anymore.

Alex didn’t want to face anyone, didn’t want to deal with the fake smiles, the pleasantries. He just wanted to disappear. He wanted to lock himself away in his driver’s room, close his eyes, and escape—if only for a little while. So that’s what he did. He didn’t bother changing, didn’t care about the sweat that clung to his racing suit. He fell onto the couch in his room, feeling the weight of his own brokenness sink deeper into his chest. His body was exhausted, his mind a wreck. He didn’t even have the energy to cry. He just wanted to turn off. To stop feeling.

Sleep didn’t come easily. It never did when the darkness was this deep. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling, pretending to sleep. But the thoughts wouldn’t stop. They never stopped. The guilt, the shame, the self-loathing that wrapped around him like chains. He had failed everyone—failed Carlos, failed himself, failed the team. And the worst part was that he didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know how to fix himself .

The knock on the door pulled him from his stupor. His body felt heavy, like it wasn’t his own. He wanted to ignore it, to curl up in a ball and disappear, but he knew he couldn’t. He didn’t have a choice.

James stood in the doorway, his face unreadable. "Hey, we need to talk about the car, prepare it for qualifying," he said, voice clipped, efficient.

Alex blinked slowly, his vision blurry. His mind was sluggish, and his thoughts were fragmented. He didn’t feel like he was in his own body. "Yeah," he murmured, trying to push himself up from the couch. His muscles screamed in protest. His suit felt like it was suffocating him, the sweat now sticky on his skin.

James paused for a second, his gaze lingering on Alex. "You okay?"

Alex forced a smile, a fake one, the kind he had perfected over the years. "Yeah, I’m fine," he lied. He didn’t even recognize his own voice. It was hollow, empty. "Just… tired." The words felt foreign in his mouth, but he said them anyway, not wanting to let anyone see how broken he really was.

James seemed to buy it, nodding and walking off. Alex followed, slipping into his racing gear without much thought, still feeling like a ghost moving through the motions.

He climbed into the car for qualifying, trying to focus, trying to push through the exhaustion and the pain. But it was impossible. His brain was too slow. His hands felt disconnected from the wheel. He couldn’t find the rhythm, couldn’t find the focus.

He barely made it through Q1. Carlos did, too, but Alex could see it in his eyes—the same emptiness he saw in himself. Carlos was struggling. Alex could feel the pull to reach out, to say something, anything, to help him. But he couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy. He didn’t have the strength.

In Q2, Alex made it through. But Carlos didn’t. He was P15. The weight of it hit him like a punch to the gut. He should’ve cared, should’ve been there for Carlos, but all he could feel was the overwhelming exhaustion in his bones. He didn’t even try in Q3.

P10. 

He climbed out of the car, his body heavy, his head spinning. The engineers were saying something, telling him he did a good job, but Alex barely heard them. He barely registered their words. All he could think about was getting away, getting back to the solitude of his driver’s room, where he could just disappear.

"Good job, Alex," one of the engineers said, but it sounded distant, like it was coming from far away.

"Yeah," Alex muttered, barely listening. "Thanks." He didn’t care. He didn’t care about the lap times, the positions, the cars. He didn’t care about the race anymore.

He didn’t care about anything.

All he wanted to do was go to sleep, close his eyes, and forget. Forget everything

George’s POV

George had been watching Alex closely all day. He had seen the hollow look in his eyes after qualifying, the way he struggled to even lift his head, how tired and empty he looked. It was like the weight of the world had landed squarely on Alex's shoulders, and George could feel the oppressive sense of exhaustion radiating off him. He knew exactly what this was—the depression had hit. It always did, sooner or later. And when it did, Alex was like a shell of himself, distant, withdrawn, as if nothing in the world could drag him out of the abyss.

George’s stomach twisted with the familiar ache he always felt when he saw Alex like this. He wanted to reach out, to pull him back from the brink, but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t fix Alex, no matter how much he wanted to. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to be there for him. Someone had to be. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be anyone else.

After his media obligations were done, George found himself walking straight to Alex’s driver’s room. He knocked softly, his heart pounding in his chest. The door creaked open slowly, and there was Alex, still in his racing suit, his eyes empty, devoid of any light. The usual spark in them was gone. He was a ghost of the person George used to joke with, laugh with, someone who could light up a room without trying. Now, it felt like the darkness had swallowed him whole.

"Hey," George said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Do you want to share a ride back to the hotel?"

Alex’s gaze flickered, and for a moment, there was nothing in his eyes. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Yeah... sure. That sounds good." His voice was quiet, hollow, like it had no strength behind it.

George gave him a small, forced smile. "I’ll wait for you outside."

Alex didn’t say anything else as George turned to walk back toward the exit. He stood there for a moment in the hallway, trying to calm the unease bubbling in his chest. He knew Alex needed help, but sometimes even the best of intentions couldn’t fix someone’s brokenness.

When Alex finally came out, changed into fresh clothes, he still looked drained. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, and his steps were slow, like each one was an effort. George didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. Alex didn’t need questions or probing, not yet. He just needed someone who was there. And right now, George was all he had.

In the back of the cab, the city lights blurred past the windows, but Alex didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were closed, his face pressed against the seat, and he was asleep. For once, George didn’t try to rouse him. He didn’t need to. It was clear that Alex’s body was craving something deeper than rest—he was escaping, if only for a moment.

The ride to the hotel felt like it took an eternity. George sat in the silence, wondering if Alex was even aware of how far gone he was. But Alex didn’t need anyone to fix it. He just needed someone to be there, someone who wouldn’t leave him in the darkness.

When they reached the hotel, they took the elevator up to their floor. George followed Alex down the hall, his footsteps echoing, heavy with unspoken words. When they reached Alex’s room, the door opened, and Alex shuffled inside, collapsing onto the bed. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even acknowledge George’s presence as he lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling.

George hesitated, watching him for a moment, before sitting down on the edge of the bed, the weight of the situation pressing on him. The silence was suffocating, but it needed to be broken.

“Alex,” George said softly, his voice tinged with concern. “Are you talking to anyone? A therapist or someone? Anyone at all?”

Alex blinked at the question, as if the words didn’t register at first. He looked up at George, his face tired, almost confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re seem down, Alex," George continued gently, his heart aching. "You’re not okay, and you’re not hiding it well." He hated saying it out loud, but Alex needed to hear it. “Don’t you realize that?”

Alex let out a sigh, his shoulders sinking deeper into the mattress as he turned his face away. “I don’t know… I’m just tired. So tired. I haven’t talked to a therapist since Rehab. I haven’t been taking care of myself like I should. I don’t care to fix it anymore.” His voice cracked slightly, the weight of everything spilling out in a moment of vulnerability that George wasn’t sure Alex was ready for.

George felt his own heart twist at the words. It wasn’t fair. Alex wasn’t weak. He was just… lost. “You don’t have to fix it alone, Alex," George said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’ll be here. I always will. You’re not alone in this."

Alex turned his head, his eyes slightly unfocused, as if his mind was miles away. He nodded, but it didn’t seem like he believed it. “Yeah, I know,” he said, though his voice was distant. “It’s just hard. It feels like no one understands.”

George’s heart sank. He wanted to say so much more, but words felt hollow, meaningless against the weight of Alex’s pain. “Maybe you should talk to the other drivers," he suggested quietly. "Let them in. Maybe they’d understand, maybe they’d be there for you.”

Alex sat up abruptly, shaking his head, his eyes wide with panic. “No. No one needs to know. It’s enough that you know. I don’t want anyone else to see me like this. Like the sick person I am. It's better they think I'm just a careless, reckless mess.”

George didn’t know how to respond to that. He just let out a quiet sigh, then leaned in, wrapping his arms around Alex in a tight hug. Alex stiffened at first, like he wasn’t sure how to respond, but then he melted into it, the weight of everything pressing down on both of them. George held him tighter, trying to offer what little comfort he could.

“It’s not something to be ashamed of, Alex,” George whispered. “You’re not weak, not sick. You’re just human. And I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.”

Alex didn’t respond. But in that moment, as he sat there, broken and fragile, George hoped that the words had made it through, even just a little. Because Alex needed to know he wasn’t alone in this fight.

Charles’ POV

Charles stood in the paddock, the hum of the weekend swirling around him. Media running around, mechanics focused on their work, and engines roaring in the distance—yet, none of it really mattered. His mind was stuck on one thing: Carlos.

Carlos had looked exhausted today. Physically drained, sure, but there was something more. His eyes, that hollow weariness—it wasn’t just about the race. It was something deeper. It wasn’t the kind of tiredness that could be fixed with a nap or a quiet weekend. It was the kind of tired that came from carrying a weight that only seemed to grow heavier.

And then there was Alex. Charles didn’t know the details, but he was sure of one thing: Alex had pulled Carlos into his chaos again. Reckless. Impulsive. Careless. Alex didn’t care about the consequences of his actions. And Carlos? Carlos always got pulled in, every single time.

Charles had seen it before—Alex dragging Carlos into his world of mess, like a magnet pulling him deeper into the dark. And Carlos? He always dropped everything to escape, no matter how much it drained him. And the worst part? Carlos didn’t even seem to notice. Alex’s influence was so subtle, so constant, that it was like a shadow Carlos couldn’t shake.

Carlos looked like he had been through hell today—and, in Charles’ mind, Alex was the one who had dragged him down again.

Charles caught sight of Carlos in the Williams garage. He was sitting with the engineers, his hands moving animatedly as he explained something. There was an energy about him, but it was different. It wasn’t the usual Carlos. His smile was there, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Charles could see it—the cracks. He wasn’t fooling anyone.

When Carlos saw him, his face lit up with that familiar spark. It was subtle, but it was there. "Hey, Charles! You paying a visit?" Carlos greeted, his voice warm but with an edge Charles couldn’t quite place.

Charles returned the smile, though his chest tightened. “Yeah, just thought I’d stop by. Looks like you’re in your element with the engineers.”

Carlos shrugged with a light laugh. “Yeah, talking tech is a good distraction. Keeps my mind off things.”

Charles could tell he was trying to force it. Trying to keep everything together. But it didn’t feel right. He could see through it.

“Let’s grab some food,” Charles said, his tone casual. “We can share something, if you’re up for it.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow but didn’t hesitate. “Sure, sounds good.”

They walked together to one of the food trucks in the paddock, the usual hum of race weekend filling the air around them. Charles ordered an Asian beef rice bowl—simple, nothing too complicated. Then, on a whim, he asked for an extra plate. It wasn’t about sharing; it was more like… making it easier for Carlos. He didn’t need to explain it. He just thought it would make things easier, less overwhelming.

They sat at one of the picnic tables, the noise of the paddock around them, but the moment between them felt lighter, easier. Charles ate slowly, not particularly hungry but doing his best to look natural. Carlos, however, was eating at a normal pace too. It was different from the way he had been earlier—his usual slow, deliberate way of eating seemed almost like a comfort today.

“So,” Charles began, breaking the silence, “Monaco after this, huh? I can’t wait to get home. Maybe take a week off and just relax a little.”

Carlos nodded, his eyes brightening for a second. “Yeah, sounds perfect. I could use some time away.”

Charles smiled, then, on a whim, decided to throw in a suggestion. “Maybe we can do something while we’re there. I don’t know… maybe play golf or something?”

Carlos laughed, shaking his head. “Golf? You? You can barely swing a club, Charles.”

Charles laughed too, feeling lighter. “Okay, maybe golf isn’t the best idea. But we should do something. I miss hanging out with you, it’s been too long.”

Carlos leaned back in his seat, his smile widening. “Yeah, it’s hard with us on different teams now, huh? Everything’s changed.”

Charles nodded, the weight of the unspoken truth lingering between them. It wasn’t just the teams. It was the change in everything. The pressure. The expectations. The growing distance, even when they were together. But Charles didn’t want to focus on that. Not now.

“Ferrari and I haven’t been in sync since you left,” Charles said, his voice quiet. “I’ve been frustrated. Lewis and I both yelled at our race engineers, and of course, the media is already spinning things.”

Carlos shrugged, a knowing look in his eyes. “The media always loves stirring the pot.”

Charles chuckled, though it was a little dry. “Yeah, they really do. But still, it’s hard when you’re not in there. Lewis did great today though. Won the sprint.”

Carlos gave a thoughtful nod. “He deserves it. Honestly, if anyone should’ve taken my seat, it was Lewis. He earned it.”

Charles met Carlos’s gaze, the weight of his words settling over him. There was a quiet acceptance in Carlos’s tone, a resignation that Charles didn’t know how to fix. But he wasn’t going to push. Not now. Instead, he offered a small smile.

“I’m fine, Charles,” Carlos said, looking down at his plate. “Really.”

Charles didn’t know if Carlos believed that, but he wasn’t going to pry. Not now. Not over a meal. Instead, he smiled, a small, genuine smile.

“Alright. Just know I’m here if you need anything. You’re not alone in this, okay?”

Carlos gave a small nod, his eyes softening, though the shadows were still there.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

It was Sunday, race day, and for the first time in a while, Carlos felt… good. He had woken up feeling lighter, the weight of yesterday’s thoughts still there but somehow manageable. He hadn’t had the best rest, but something had shifted when he and Charles had shared a meal the night before. It hadn’t been as bad as he’d imagined. In fact, it had felt kind of normal, in a good way. They had laughed, joked, and for a brief moment, it had been like nothing was wrong.

Carlos had even eaten breakfast this morning, something he hadn’t done in the past few race weekends. It was nothing extravagant, just a simple meal that gave him enough energy to get through the day. For now, he was pushing the negative thoughts away, focusing on the race ahead. The kind of tiredness he had been feeling was still there, lingering in the back of his mind, but it was easier to ignore today.

All he wanted was to finish this race, get back to Monaco, and just… relax. Maybe in Monaco, with some time to clear his mind, he’d be able to figure out what had been bothering him for so long. He just needed space to breathe, to think, and to reset before Japan. And then, when he returned to the paddock, maybe he’d come back stronger, more focused.

Carlos took his place on the starting grid, P15. It wasn’t ideal, but it didn’t bother him much. He had learned to accept the fact that he still wasn’t completely at home with the car. There was so much to understand about its behavior, its quirks, its strengths, and its weaknesses. It wasn’t going to happen overnight. And honestly, he wasn’t going to let the media dictate how he felt about it. He knew what they’d say, the same old story about him not performing, but it wasn’t about them. It was about him. He had to take his time, learn the technical side of things, figure out how the car responded to different inputs.

He had learned that lesson in Australia. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes. This time, he was going to be calm, patient, and not let the pressure get to him. Maybe, just maybe, that would pay off.

The lights went out, and the race began. Carlos got a decent start, nothing extraordinary, but it was enough to keep him in the game. He focused on the car—how it felt, how it responded when he tried to follow the racing line. The tricky corners, the balance, the little adjustments he had to make—it was all part of the learning process. He overtook a couple of cars, kept his head down, and crossed the line in P13. It wasn’t points, but he didn’t expect them. Not yet. Not while he was still figuring out how to make the car work for him.

The media wouldn’t get that, though. They wouldn’t understand that sometimes, it wasn’t about the result on paper. It was about the learning, the small improvements that, over time, would make a big difference. But Carlos didn’t care about that. He had done what he could with what he had. He felt like he had done a decent job, that he had learned something new about the car, something that would help him next time.

Now, he was looking forward to talking with the engineers. They’d go over the data, discuss the car’s behavior, and he’d get a better understanding of what was working and what wasn’t. After that, he’d grab his stuff from the hotel, hop on a plane with Charles, and head home to Monaco.

He didn’t know exactly what would come next, but for the first time in a while, he felt like he was heading in the right direction. It was a small victory, but it was enough for today. He could breathe. And that was all he needed.

Alex’s POV

It was Alex's birthday, and for the first time in a while, he felt a small spark of joy. The team had gathered around him, singing "Happy Birthday" with genuine excitement. The atmosphere was light, their energy uplifting. But it wasn’t just the celebration that made Alex feel good—it was the sense of belonging, the reminder that they really cared about him. After the ups and downs of the past months, moments like this felt like a warm reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Last night had been a turning point. When George left the hotel room, Alex had picked up his phone and called his therapist. The conversation had been long—sometimes therapeutic talks could feel like an endless journey, but this one was different. They had gone over everything: his struggles, his frustrations, his worries about the future. By the end of the call, Alex felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He had managed to get a decent amount of sleep and woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed.

But today wasn’t perfect. The race had been a bit of a letdown. P10 wasn’t terrible—points were points—but Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that he could have pushed harder, extracted more from the car. It bothered him. He knew the car wasn’t where he wanted it to be, but still, he always thought he could do better, go faster.

As he spoke with his engineers, reviewing the data from the race, something outside caught his eye. Both Ferrari cars were still parked in the pit lane, far too long after the race had ended. They were under inspection by the FIA.

"What's going on?" Alex asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and concern as he pointed toward the cars.

His engineer looked over and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know, but this doesn’t look good for Ferrari. The FIA doesn’t take this long to inspect a car unless something’s seriously wrong.”

Alex frowned, his eyes narrowing as he watched the FIA officials measure things, weigh the cars, and exchange concerned looks. They were moving with purpose, but their expressions spoke volumes. Something was definitely off. Normally, by now, Ferrari’s cars would have been in the garage, engines off, ready for post-race analysis. But the fact that they were still being scrutinized in such detail made Alex uneasy.

He looked back at his own car, and then at the Ferrari garage, trying to gauge the situation. His mind wandered for a moment, wondering what could be going wrong with the cars. He had been focused on his own performance, but now the thought of a potential issue for one of his competitors intrigued him. Maybe it would change the race results, maybe it wouldn’t, but the fact that the FIA was taking this long didn’t sit right with him.

Charles’ POV

Charles and Carlos had decided to catch a flight to Monaco together after the race, eager to leave the weekend behind them. They settled into their seats, both tired from the long day. Charles had finished in P5, which wasn’t bad, but it could have been better. A minor contact with Lewis had caused damage to his front wing, forcing him to change his driving style and strategy to compensate. Still, he had managed to finish without a pit stop for a new front wing, and that was something to be proud of.

They both sank into their seats, exhausted. As soon as the plane took off, their phones buzzed simultaneously. Without exchanging a word, both Carlos and Charles grabbed their phones at the same time, instinctively unlocking them.

Charles’ heart sank as he read the first few notifications. His chest tightened, and the anger began to build. The FIA had disqualified him. His car had been found to weigh too little. And to make matters worse, Lewis had also been disqualified for having a worn plank. The weight of the situation hit him all at once, and it wasn’t just the disqualification—it was the feeling of being let down by Ferrari. He had delivered, he had brought the car home, and yet it felt like everything had been taken away from him.

Carlos, glancing at his phone, didn’t need to ask what was wrong. He knew immediately. His eyes met Charles’ briefly, and his expression said it all.

Charles looked up at him, his frustration boiling over. "I can’t believe this," he muttered under his breath. "I fought so hard, and Ferrari failed me. It’s not my fault. I brought the car to the finish line. I did what I was supposed to do."

Carlos gave a sympathetic nod but didn’t say anything right away. He knew how much it hurt, but it wasn’t the time to dwell on it.

Charles shook his head, feeling the weight of the situation. "This wouldn’t have happened if you were still with the team," he said, almost as a reflex, his voice tinged with bitterness.

Carlos let out a small, dry laugh. "Maybe, maybe not. Ferrari has always had surprises like this," he replied. His tone was light, but there was a hint of understanding beneath it.

Charles let out a frustrated sigh. "Yeah, well, they’ve really outdone themselves today." He took a moment to process the news and then turned his attention back to Carlos. "Wait, if we’re disqualified, where does that leave you?"

Carlos looked down at his phone, scanning the results again. "P10," he said, looking up at Charles with a faint smile. "And Ferrari and Williams are now tied in the Constructors’ Championship."

Charles couldn’t help but laugh. "Wow, that’s actually amazing. Not the best for us, but for you and Williams? That’s huge."

Carlos nodded, but there was a hint of discomfort in his expression. "Yeah, it’s my first point with Williams, but… it wasn’t like I wanted to score it this way."

Charles softened. He understood. "I get it. It’s not the way you wanted it, but a point is a point, and you deserve it."

Carlos leaned back in his seat, letting out a small sigh. "Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s just a strange way to get it, but it’s a start."

Charles smiled at him, a genuine smile this time. "It’s a good start. And there will be more to come."

The two of them sat back in their seats, the quiet hum of the plane enveloping them. For now, they just needed to get through the next part—Monaco, and then Japan. Whatever happened, they both knew they’d keep pushing forward.

Max’s POV

Max sat in the plush seat of his private jet, the hum of the engines a constant background noise. Lando was sitting across from him, looking exhausted and uneasy. Max couldn’t blame him. The race had been tough on both of them, but Lando had it worse with the brake failure. Max had finished P4, just outside the podium, but he was still far from satisfied. The car had been tricky to handle, and it felt like every lap was a struggle.

Max glanced over at Lando, who was slouched in his seat, staring out the window. There was a deep crease in his brow. Lando wasn’t the type to show weakness, but Max could tell something was eating at him.

“How are you feeling?” Max asked, trying to break the silence.

Lando turned his head, but there was a far-off look in his eyes. “I’m okay,” he said, though his voice was tight. “I just can’t shake off that feeling of the brake failure. I’ve never felt that kind of fear in the car before. I couldn’t trust it. It was like I was just waiting for something to go wrong.”

Max nodded, understanding exactly how Lando felt. “I get it. It’s a nightmare when that happens. It messes with your head, and you don’t feel safe anymore. It’s not easy to bounce back from that.”

Lando sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, it’s awful. I’ve had nightmares about the brakes failing during a race, and then it happened for real. I’m just glad we’ve got a little break before Japan. I need time to process it.”

“Yeah, time off will be good,” Max agreed, leaning back in his seat. “McLaren will fix it. They’ve got good engineers. You’ll be fine.”

Lando managed a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I hope so. But what about you? What’s going on with your car?”

Max exhaled heavily, shifting in his seat. "I don’t know, man. I don’t know what the engineers are doing, or what Red Bull's PR management is doing. They’re blaming everything on Liam Lawson. The car’s a mess, but they’re acting like it’s his fault because he’s the new guy.”

Lando raised his eyebrows, looking surprised. “Wait, they’re blaming Liam? But you can barely drive the car yourself sometimes.”

Max’s frustration bubbled up. “Exactly. The car feels like it has a mind of its own. I’m fighting it every lap, and yet they’re just pinning everything on him because ‘Max can drive it.’ I can barely keep it together myself, and they’re acting like Liam’s the problem."

Lando shook his head in disbelief. “That’s brutal. I saw the media reactions. They’re making it seem like it’s all Liam’s fault. I really hope he doesn’t let it get to him.”

Max glanced out the window, his jaw tightening. “Red Bull isn’t doing anything to defend him. They’re even talking about kicking him out of the seat after only two races.” Max’s voice was full of disbelief. “Two races. It’s insane."

Lando was visibly shocked. “Already? After just two races? That’s insane.”

Max nodded grimly. “Yeah, and I’ve tried to defend Liam, but Red Bull doesn’t listen. They don’t care. It’s awful how they’re breaking him down like this. It’s not right.”

Lando leaned back in his seat, looking out the window as well. “Formula One is a ruthless sport,” he said quietly. “One mistake, and you’re done. No room for second chances.”

Max couldn’t argue with that. He’d been there before, in the early years of his career, when Red Bull was equally unforgiving with him. But this situation with Liam felt different. It wasn’t just about performance—it was about how Red Bull was handling things off the track, and Max didn’t like it one bit.

“Yeah,” Max agreed, his voice softer now. “It’s a brutal sport. And it’s even worse when your own team doesn’t back you up. I feel for Liam. I just hope he can keep his head in the game. But it’s hard when you’ve got the team and the media turning on you.”

Max shifted in his seat again, the weight of everything pressing on him. He knew he had to focus on the races ahead, but part of him couldn’t stop thinking about the situation with Liam. It wasn’t right, and it made him more angry than he wanted to admit. But for now, all he could do was sit in the quiet of the jet, knowing that the battle ahead wasn’t just on the track. It was off it too.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos had just arrived at his apartment, the door closing behind him with a soft click. He kicked off his shoes and tossed his bag onto the couch, the weight of the day pressing down on him like an invisible force. He tried to shake it off, tried to let go of the pressure that had been building ever since the race had ended. But no matter how hard he tried to relax, the thoughts kept coming.

He didn't deserve the points. He kept repeating it to himself, as if the words might somehow make him believe it. It felt wrong, almost like he had stolen them from Charles. Charles didn’t deserve to be disqualified. He’d driven his heart out, pushed that car to the limit, and yet, the result had been taken away from him. Carlos couldn’t shake the guilt.

It wasn’t the way he’d imagined earning his first points in the Williams car, certainly not like this. It felt hollow, tainted by the unfairness of the situation. Charles deserved those points—he had been the one who had earned them, who had fought for them. Carlos couldn’t help but feel that if it weren’t for him being so relaxed, so carefree, this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if he had been more focused, maybe if he had been the one disqualified, things would’ve turned out differently. It didn’t make sense. But the guilt gnawed at him, relentless, like a shadow he couldn’t escape.

Carlos didn’t understand his own mind. He couldn’t comprehend why he was torturing himself with thoughts that made no sense. But there it was, a wave of self-doubt that wouldn’t go away. Maybe it wasn’t enough for him just to be happy for himself, maybe it was the fact that others were suffering for his success, and he hated that. He didn’t want it to be like this.

He needed to escape.

Without thinking, he grabbed his running shoes, lacing them up tightly. He wasn’t sure where he was going, just that he had to move, had to do something to clear his mind. It was late, but the streets of Monaco were still alive, the air warm with the pulse of the city. As he started to run, the rhythm of his footsteps echoed in his ears, each beat trying to drown out the thoughts swirling in his head. The muscles in his legs ached, but it was a good kind of pain. The kind that made him feel something real. It was the only thing that could ground him.

He pushed harder, running faster, trying to outrun the guilt that clung to him like a second skin. His chest burned, but he didn’t slow down. He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to feel the confusion in his heart, didn’t want to feel the weight of what had happened. He ran until his body screamed, until he was sure his muscles would give out on him.

And then, without realizing it, he found himself at the dock.

Carlos stood at the edge of the dock, his body still aching from the run, but his mind far more exhausted. The cool night air did little to calm the storm swirling inside him. He needed to escape, to push away the constant guilt gnawing at him, but nothing seemed to clear the fog in his head.

His eyes landed on the yacht ahead, gleaming softly under the moonlight. His stomach twisted. He recognized it instantly. Alex’s yacht. The same one they had partied on back in December. The same one where they had been reckless, careless, completely self-destructive.

He could still remember the wild nights—endless drinks, loud music, laughter that felt hollow the morning after. They’d gone too far, trying to forget, trying to numb themselves with whatever distractions they could find. He could almost hear the echoes of that night—the shouting, the chaos, the way they’d fed off each other’s destructive tendencies.

It felt like a different life, a different version of himself, but standing here now, staring at the yacht, it was all too real. It was the kind of night that made him question everything, and the kind of night he’d been trying to bury deep in his mind ever since. And yet, here he was, drawn to it again.

Without thinking, Carlos walked toward the yacht, his feet heavy but determined. The moment his foot hit the gangway, the world seemed to go silent. The water below gently lapped against the dock, the only sound breaking through the quiet of the night. His heart raced as he stepped closer to the boat, the memories of December rushing back like a tide he couldn’t stop.

Carlos didn’t know what he was expecting—maybe he was hoping to find Alex, or maybe he just needed to be somewhere familiar, somewhere he could let go of everything for a little while. But as he moved onto the deck, he knew one thing for certain: he was looking for something to make the tightness in his chest ease, even if just for a moment.

Alex’s POV

Alex had landed in Monaco just a few hours ago, and despite the rush of the day and the P7 finish—thanks to Ferrari’s disqualifications—something in his chest still felt unsettled. It was a strange, persistent feeling, the kind that didn’t just go away with a good result. He didn’t know how to shake it off, so he did what he always did when things felt too heavy. He went straight to his yacht.

The quiet of the boat surrounded him, the soft creaking of the hull and the lapping of the water against the dock almost soothing. He needed something to numb the feeling, to stop the constant buzzing in his mind. His eyes scanned the cabin until they fell on the whiskey bottle he’d stashed away earlier. He grabbed it without hesitation, unscrewing the cap and taking a long swig. The burn was welcome, even if the emptiness inside him remained.

Alex lost track of time as he kept drinking, the world outside the yacht fading into the background. The race, the media, the pressure—it all felt distant now. But even in the haze, the nagging feeling didn’t go away.

Then he heard footsteps.

The sound of someone walking aboard the yacht was familiar, but it didn’t register at first. He thought it might be a crew member, but when he looked up, he froze. It was Carlos.

Carlos stood there for a moment, just watching Alex. He looked different—dressed in running gear, sweat still glistening on his forehead, as though he had just returned from a run. The sight of him, standing there in his training clothes, felt out of place on the yacht, but Alex didn’t question it. He didn’t want to.

Carlos said nothing at first. His eyes flickered between the whiskey bottle in Alex’s hand and Alex himself.

Alex couldn’t help but ask, “Do you want some?” It felt natural, like their nights in December, when they had both been reckless, both searching for something to drown out the noise in their heads. Carlos didn’t need to think about it. He just nodded, took the bottle, and took a drink.

There was something about that simple action that made Alex feel lighter. For a moment, the weight on his chest seemed to ease. He didn’t know why, but Carlos was here now, and that was enough.

Carlos didn’t speak for a few moments, his eyes scanning the space around them. Alex could tell he wasn’t just here for the drink; something was off with him too. Carlos was always so controlled, so composed. Seeing him like this, dressed in running clothes, made Alex realize just how much they were both trying to outrun their own thoughts. Carlos stopped drinking and looked at him.

“You got something stronger?” Carlos asked, his voice quiet, almost tentative.

Alex met his gaze. They were both trying to numb something. The thought hit him like a cold wave, but it wasn’t surprising. It was exactly what they both needed—escape.

Without a word, Alex rose from his seat, his movements almost automatic. He walked over to a hidden compartment in the wall, pulling out a small white bag. He’d kept it there for nights like this, when he knew he’d need something to take the edge off, to stop the racing thoughts and quiet the constant buzz in his mind.

Carlos watched him with quiet interest, but there was no judgment in his eyes. There was no need for it. He was just like Alex—running away from something. Alex opened the bag and divided the contents, the action so familiar, so routine.

They both took what they needed. Carlos didn’t hesitate, and neither did Alex. They fell into a rhythm, setting the music up in the background—something loud and energetic to drown out the silence. The sound of the beats filled the space between them, and for a while, it felt like nothing else mattered.

They spoke about everything but how they were feeling. It was a conversation without substance, a string of words to keep the distractions coming. They talked about the race, about the team, about anything that didn’t touch the real pain they were both carrying. It wasn’t right. Neither of them needed to be here, doing this. But in that moment, with the music blasting and the noise of the world temporarily shut out, it felt better.

It wasn’t healthy. They both knew it. They both should have learned it already at this point.

But sometimes, the night was long, and the weight of everything too heavy. And in those moments, numbing it all with anything they could find seemed like the only way to breathe.

Carlos’s POV

Carlos leans back, watching the stars blur above them. It’s nice, in a stupid, dangerous way. He feels light. Untouchable. He wants to chase that feeling.

He wants more of it. Wants to break whatever rules are left.

“Let’s do something,” he says suddenly, voice low, threaded with something restless. A dare dressed up like a thought.

Alex glances over. He looks tired—always tired—but there’s a flicker behind his eyes. Curiosity, maybe. Or surrender. “Like what?”

Carlos smiles without meaning to, sharp and boyish and wrong. “Take the car. Just drive.”

Alex tosses him the keys without blinking. “You drive then.”

No questions. Just trust—or something close enough to it.

Carlos slides behind the wheel like it’s second nature, like he’s done this a thousand times.

They take off with a snarl of tires, the convertible screaming into the night, the wind ripping through their hair like a warning. The stereo’s too loud, bass rattling the doors, some song they won’t remember in the morning. Monaco flashes by in streaks of gold and silver, neon lights and stone walls blurring like watercolors.

Carlos doesn’t follow the speed limits. Or the road signs. Or the voice in his head telling him to slow down.

Alex is laughing beside him, hair in his face, arms half-out the window like he could fly if he wanted. It sounds real. For once, it sounds real.

They break away from the city, wheels hitting the gravel road that snakes up into the hills. Streetlights fade behind them, replaced by moonlight and the steady thrum of adrenaline. The road narrows. Sharp turns, loose stones, shadows that shift in the corners of their eyes.

Carlos hits a bend too fast. Too much confidence, too little control.

The tires bite at nothing. The back end spins. The sky tilts.

Then—impact.

The crunch of metal. The snap of gravel beneath them. A violent, jarring stop.

The world lurches and stills.

The car settles in a shallow ditch, half-twisted, front bumper gasping steam into the night. Headlights glare out into the dark like dazed eyes.

Alex jerks upright, breath shallow. “Shit. Are you okay?”

Carlos nods, too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” But his hands betray him—they won’t stop shaking. He can’t tell if it’s fear or the high or just the crash inside his chest.

Alex scans the road, voice edged with panic. “We can’t leave it here. We can’t tell anyone.”

Carlos laughs, sharp and cracked. It bursts out of him before he can stop it. “We really fucked this one up.”

Alex doesn’t laugh.

He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a crumpled plastic bag—half-folded, dusty with the promise of silence.

He lays it on the dash like an offering. “Maybe this’ll help us think.”

Carlos doesn’t even hesitate. He leans in. Breathes deep.

The buzz hits quick. Everything clicks into place—and nothing makes sense.

Somehow, he gets the car to move again. Bent and groaning, it crawls out of the ditch like a wounded animal. Carlos drives without speaking. Alex doesn’t tell him where to go. They both know the way.

They coast through the sleeping streets, quieter now. No music. No laughter. Just the occasional scrape of metal against the road and the low, unspoken truth vibrating between them.

They pull into Alex’s garage like ghosts returning from something half-alive. He hits the button. The door closes. The wreck is hidden.

Evidence locked away. Like it never happened.

Carlos exhales for real this time, feeling the high and the guilt mix in his lungs like smoke. But it still doesn’t feel real. None of it ever does.

They collapse onto the battered couch in the corner, the kind of couch that’s seen too much. The air hangs thick with exhaust, fear, and whatever they’ve become.

Alex leans in, slow and unsure.

A kiss—brief. Questioning. Not sweet. Not tender. Just needed .

Carlos lets him.

It isn’t love. It never is. Just the illusion of closeness. A fix made of skin and breath and the need not to be alone.

They kiss like it’s another crash. Another mistake. Another bruise they’ll pretend not to feel in the morning.

Carlos doesn’t stop him.

Because in this moment—this numb, broken, breathless moment—it’s easier to fall into each other than face the weight of everything else.

Outside, the stars keep spinning.
Inside, everything’s come undone.

And they both know—

They’ve crossed a line.
And they’re not turning back.

Chapter Text

Carlos' POV

Carlos wakes up to silence so sharp it cuts.
His back screams from the couch, but it barely registers. The air reeks of old fuel and cold metal, like the night never really ended—just sank into something worse. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t care. Then his eyes land on the wrecked car still parked dead center in Alex’s garage. Bent frame. Flaked paint. A crooked, broken thing staring at him like it remembers everything he’s trying not to.

Alex is gone. Of course he is.

Carlos pushes himself up, slow and mechanical. His head throbs. His mouth is dry. Everything inside him feels dull and distant, like someone pressed mute on whatever’s left of who he used to be. The rush, the adrenaline—it’s long gone. What’s left is this heavy, gray static that wraps around his ribs and won’t let go. That familiar pit in his stomach starts to burn, slow and ugly. Shame, maybe. Or something worse.

He rakes a hand through his hair. Checks his pockets. No phone. Whatever. He doesn’t even feel the urgency to find it—it’s just a thing he’s supposed to do. Eventually he sees the screen glowing faintly in the wrecked car. A dozen missed notifications. He almost laughs.

One of them is from Charles.

"Hey, you want to do something today?"

Carlos stares at it like it’s in another language. His chest twists. How could Charles still want to hang out with him? After everything?

Still, Carlos types a reply. Fingers move on their own. 

"Yeah, come by my place tonight. Around 8?"

Send.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Doesn’t even try to guess. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s just noise to drown out the emptiness. Pretending to be someone who has a grip on his life.

He shoves the phone in his pocket and stands up. Doesn’t call out for Alex. They don’t talk when the sun’s up. That’s the rule. No debriefs, no confessions. Just silence and smoke and pretending none of it meant anything.

So Carlos leaves. Doesn’t look back.

Monaco’s streets hit too bright, too clean. He pulls his hoodie up, sunglasses on, cap low. The armor of someone who doesn’t want to be seen—but wouldn’t care much if he was. A few people glance his way, but no one stops him. Maybe they don’t recognize him anymore. Maybe they just don’t see him at all.

His apartment feels colder than usual. He locks the door behind him and just stands there for a second. Like if he doesn’t move, none of this is real.

The cap and glasses hit the counter. Then he catches his reflection—just a flash in the hallway mirror.

Dried blood on his forehead.

He leans in. Small cut. Still angry, still red. He touches it and winces. Can’t remember when it happened. The spin? The crash? Everything’s smeared and half-lost, like a dream slipping between his fingers.

His stomach knots.

He should shower. He should change. He should try. But the couch’s pull is stronger than any of that. He smells like sweat and regret and whatever they poured down their throats last night—but who cares?

He drops onto the cushions like a man being swallowed. Tells himself it’s just for a second. Just to catch his breath.

Closes his eyes.

Lets the nothing creep back in.

And the spiral takes him, quiet and patient. Like it always does.

Charles’ POV

Charles stood at the entrance of Carlos’s apartment, his hand hovering over the doorbell, eyes constantly flicking to the clock. It was almost 8 pm, and Carlos still hadn’t responded to his last message. Charles was used to Carlos being elusive, but tonight felt different. He had texted a few times, and each message had been met with silence. That wasn’t like Carlos. Not when they were in the same city.

Worry had started to gnaw at him. Something wasn’t right. He knew Carlos well enough to recognize when he was shutting down. And this… this felt like a shutdown.

Charles sighed and stepped back from the door, glancing around for a moment. He knew where Carlos kept the spare key to the apartment—under the mat, in the corner by the door. It wasn’t the most secure spot, but Carlos had always trusted him with that little piece of his life.

He crouched down, slipped his fingers under the mat, and retrieved the key. Unlocking the door felt strangely invasive, but he pushed the thought away. He needed to make sure Carlos was okay. That was all that mattered right now.

The door creaked open, and Charles stepped inside, immediately hit with the scent of stale alcohol. His eyes scanned the apartment before landing on Carlos, sprawled on the couch, looking small and fragile in a way that Charles had never seen before.

The dark circles under his eyes were a familiar sight, but it was the blood on his forehead that froze Charles’s heart. He swallowed hard, his stomach twisting with concern. What the hell had happened?

"Carlos?" he called gently, stepping closer.

Carlos stirred, his face crumpling in confusion. "Oh shit, I forgot..." he mumbled, rubbing his eyes as he tried to sit up.

Charles’s heart skipped a beat. He took a step closer, unable to hold back his concern. “What the hell happened to your forehead?” His voice rose, sharp with panic.

Carlos blinked, his fingers touching the cut on his forehead. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Umm... I don’t know,” he said quietly, his voice flat.

Charles felt a pang in his chest. Was he lying? Or was he really that out of it? He couldn’t tell. He wanted to ask more, to press harder, but the look in Carlos’s eyes—the way he couldn’t seem to focus on anything—made Charles hesitate.

Carlos stood, but his legs wobbled beneath him. He was swaying slightly, his steps uneven. Charles watched as his friend stumbled, his hand bracing himself on the couch for support.

"Have you been drinking?" Charles asked, his voice a little more urgent now, worry tightening his chest.

Carlos didn’t answer. He just looked at him with unfocused eyes, his expression distant and lost. It felt like he wasn’t even there.

“Hello? Carlos?” Charles asked, his voice strained.

“Yeah, what?” Carlos replied, his voice distant, like he was in another world entirely.

Charles could feel his frustration bubbling up, but he kept it in check. He didn’t want to make things worse. “Are you okay?” he asked, softer this time.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Carlos muttered, almost to himself. He didn’t wait for a response, just turned and walked toward the bathroom, leaving Charles standing there, unsure of what to do next.

The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut made Charles freeze. He didn’t know what to do. Should he be more worried? Should he call someone? He thought about calling George, maybe asking if he knew where Alex had been. But as much as he hated to admit it, he knew deep down that Alex was somehow involved in all of this. He was the one who always pulled Carlos down this path.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm himself. He had to stay focused. Carlos needed him now.

Then he heard it.

The unmistakable sound of Carlos vomiting in the bathroom.

“Carlos?” Charles shouted through the door, his voice filled with concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Carlos replied weakly, his voice muffled from behind the door.

Charles’ heart clenched. He didn’t know what had happened. Didn’t know what had caused Carlos to spiral so deep again this time. But all he wanted was for his friend to be okay.

A few moments later, the door creaked open, and Carlos stumbled out of the bathroom, his face pale but a little more composed. His clothes were damp, but his eyes were clearer, sharper, though still not fully present.

Charles studied him, unsure of what to say. “What do you want to do?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, though he couldn’t hide the concern in his gaze.

Carlos looked at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before shrugging, his posture limp. “I don’t know.”

Charles exhaled sharply, pushing his frustration aside. “Well, we could grab some dinner,” he suggested. “A late dinner. You need to eat something.”

Carlos looked like he was going to protest, but he didn’t. Instead, he just nodded, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. There was no fire in his movements, just a quiet surrender.

Charles didn’t want to press him. He wasn’t sure if Carlos was just exhausted, or if the weight of everything had simply crushed him for the moment. But he knew Carlos needed someone right now. And Charles was going to be there, whether his friend wanted him there or not.

They stepped out of the apartment, the door clicking shut behind them, and Charles led the way to his car. As they drove off into the night, Charles couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something bigger.

George’s POV

George laid in his bed, the weight of the day pressing down on him. He had spent the entire afternoon in back-to-back sponsorship meetings, his mind fried from the endless discussions and pitches. He just wanted to relax, but his phone kept vibrating incessantly on the bedside table.

Reluctantly, he grabbed it, swiping the screen. It was a message from Charles: Do you know what Alex is up to?

George frowned. Why would Charles be asking about Alex? He thought for a moment, then typed back a response: I don’t know, but he’s probably just at home here in Monaco. Why do you wonder?

Not long after, Charles replied: Found Carlos looking like a mess. Can’t help but feel Alex is involved in this.

George’s stomach twisted. He could feel the sting of Charles’s words, the undercurrent of judgment. It wasn’t surprising—Charles had always thought of Alex in a certain way, always suspicious, always angry when things went wrong. But Charles didn’t know what Alex was really dealing with. He didn’t understand the pain, the struggles that Alex kept hidden beneath his facade.

George knew Alex better than anyone, and he knew just how deep Alex’s pain went. It made George's heart ache every time he saw his friend trying to bury it beneath reckless behavior, hoping the distractions would numb the hurt.

George’s fingers hovered over the phone for a moment before he finally typed back: I’ll check on him.

He threw the phone down on the bed and sighed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this situation was spiraling out of control. He needed to see Alex, to figure out what was going on before things got worse.

He quickly got dressed and headed out, his mind racing. He knew exactly where Alex would be. Monaco wasn’t exactly full of places where someone like Alex could hide, not with his reputation and lifestyle. He drove to the docks, his eyes scanning the yachts lined up along the water. It didn’t take long to spot the one that was clearly hosting the party—the music blasting, the flashing lights, and the crowd of people milling around on the deck.

Stepping onto the yacht, George weaved through the noise and chaos, searching for Alex. He found him in the lounge area, seated with a group of strangers, laughing and chatting with a drink in his hand.

George’s stomach dropped when he saw Alex—bruises on his arms, a dark, swollen eye. His friend was clearly in no state to be out partying, but George wasn’t surprised. Alex had been spiraling for a while now.

"Hey, Alex," George called out, trying to get his attention.

Alex’s head snapped in his direction, and for a moment, his face lit up with a smile, though it looked strained. "Hey, George! You wanna join us?" he asked, sounding overly enthusiastic, like he was trying too hard to mask something.

George shook his head. “No, I need to talk to you.”

Alex’s smile faltered for a split second before he nodded and stood up, following George off the yacht and toward his car. The walk was silent, both men caught in their own thoughts.

Once in the car, George started to speak, but before he could get a word out, Alex’s composure cracked. He began to sob uncontrollably, his shoulders shaking as the tears fell freely.

"I fucked up, George," Alex choked out between breaths. "I did it again... I almost destroyed everything. I don’t know what’s wrong with me."

George’s heart broke for him. He reached over, placing a hand on Alex’s shoulder, offering silent support. He didn’t need to press Alex for details—he knew exactly what Alex meant. He had been here before, seen Alex crash and burn and try to pick himself up only to fall again.

"I know," George whispered, his voice calm and steady. "But you’re not alone, okay? You don’t have to go through this by yourself. You’re coming home with me. We’ll figure this out together."

Alex didn’t respond at first, but his sobs quieted a little, and he looked up at George, his eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and hopelessness.

George didn’t know what the next step was. He didn’t know how to help Alex stop self-destructing. But one thing was clear—Alex needed to face his demons. He needed help, and George wasn’t about to let him spiral any further.

Back at George’s apartment, he helped Alex into the guest room. He laid him down on the bed, tucking the covers around him, and then stepped back. Alex’s breathing was steady, but George could see the pain etched all over his face, even in sleep.

George lingered in the doorway, watching Alex for a moment, trying to figure out what to do next. He knew the therapist needed to be the next call. Alex hadn’t been going to sessions regularly, and it was time for him to face the things he had been avoiding.

But George also knew that he couldn’t fix Alex—no one could. Not if Alex wasn’t ready to take that first step himself.

After a long, quiet moment, George turned and headed to his own room. He tossed his keys onto the nightstand but couldn’t bring himself to lie down. His mind was racing—too many thoughts, too many worries. He didn’t know how much more of this behavior he could keep defending.

What if it was too much? What if Alex really did destroy everything?

George didn’t know the answers. All he could do was be there, try to help, and hope that Alex would eventually see he was worth saving.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall, the weight of his friend's mess sitting heavy on his chest.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night.

Max’s POV

Max doesn’t want to be here.

The restaurant is too loud, too polished, too full of people pretending they aren’t bleeding on the inside. He sits across from Lando, half-listening to him talk about something—he isn’t sure what. Maybe it was something about tyre degradation. Maybe he told a joke. It all blends together in a low, static hum.

Max stirs the drink he hasn’t touched. He hasn’t said much since they sat down. Lando notices, but he doesn’t press. He’s smart like that—he knows when Max is shutting down, and he knows better than to try prying him open.

Max’s jaw tightens as he glances around, every inch of him itching to leave. But Lando had asked, and Max had said yes, because pretending everything is fine is easier than explaining why it isn’t.

And then the door opens.

Max sees them before Lando does.

Carlos and Charles.

Charles caught Max’s eye and waved, his tired smile immediately noticeable. Behind him, Carlos followed, and Max could tell something was wrong. Carlos looked... lost. The kind of lost that made Max feel uneasy. There was something dark, something heavy hanging over him.

Max waved them over. "Hey, join us."

Charles smiled, and Carlos gave a small nod, though his eyes were distant. They took a seat, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries, they started ordering their food. But Carlos hardly touched his menu, and his eyes stayed glazed over. It was like he wasn’t even there.

Across from him, Lando talks —just noise to fill the space between their silences. All casual and careless the way only Lando can be. He’s scrolling through something on his phone, then laughs softly and shakes his head.

“Okay, you guys—wait. This is actually wild.” He leans in a little, like he’s about to drop something stupid and scandalous. “So Ollie—the rookie from Haas, yeah?—he sends me this video last night. Says he saw a car crash from his balcony. Middle of the night. Two drunk idiots apparently sent it off a gravel road near the harbor.”

Lando holds up the phone. “The footage is crap, but you can kind of see it. Look.”

He taps the screen and turns it toward everyone. The footage is grainy and shaky—clearly taken from several stories up. A car, headlights barely cutting through the dark, fishtails hard on a sharp bend. It veers off the road, skidding into the gravel before disappearing behind a wall of trees.

You can’t see the make. Can’t hear the engine. But it feels real .

Max’s attention sharpens. He sits up slightly, watching the replay.

And then—something shifts.

Carlos stills. Barely.

Max doesn’t miss it.

“Jesus,” Charles mutters, frowning. “Did anyone get hurt?”

Lando shrugs. “No clue. Don’t think so. Ollie said he didn’t hear ambulances or anything. Just saw the car lose it and vanish.”

Carlos doesn’t say a word.

Max watches him carefully. His fingers are tense on the edge of the table, knuckles white. His jaw is locked. And when he finally looks up, he avoids Max’s eyes—chooses the water glass instead, takes a sip like it’ll cover the way his hands shake.

Then Max sees it again. That cut. Faint. Barely scabbed over.

It clicks.

Not all at once. It comes in fragments—Carlos’s late replies. The hollow look in his eyes when he thought no one was watching. The way he flinched when the car spun in the video. The silence .

And now, here he is. Sitting across from Max, in the wreckage of another mess he thought he could outrun.

Max’s stomach twists.

Lando's still laughing a little, scrolling through something else now. Charles is distracted by something on his phone. No one else seems to notice the way Carlos has gone completely, unnaturally still.

But Max does.

He’s seen this before.

Carlos had promised. Said he was done chasing chaos. Said he was trying.

But here they are. Again.

Max doesn’t feel anger anymore. Just a kind of hollow disappointment, the kind that lodges in your chest and sits there like a weight. What do you do with someone who keeps breaking themselves over and over? Who keeps choosing the fall even when you’re standing right there, ready to catch them?

He doesn't have an answer. He’s barely holding himself together as it is.

Red Bull is a circus. A fast, loud, spiraling disaster masquerading as a team. The car is a joke—unbalanced, twitchy, slow off the line. It handles like a tractor on ice, and somehow, somehow , the blame falls squarely on Liam.

Max feels sick every time he hears it. The way they talk. Like Liam’s the problem. Like they didn’t strap their drivers into a car barely fit for Formula 1 and expect miracles.

And now the rumors are starting to leak into the paddock. Whispers behind closed doors, behind fake smiles and PR-spin interviews. Max knows how it works—he’s lived through it.

They’re going to replace Liam.

He hasn’t been told outright, but he can feel it. See it in the way Christian avoids eye contact, in the silence after a disappointing quali, in the way no one defends Liam in media briefings anymore.

And Liam?

He’s unraveling.

Max sees it in the way Liam carries himself—shoulders drawn tight, eyes clouded, voice quieter than usual. Like he’s already halfway out the door and just waiting for someone to push. The media’s been merciless. Headlines tearing him down. Socials buzzing with every mistake, every fraction of a second lost. And Liam’s cracking under it.

Max knows that look. Knows what it means to be young and drowning.

And now Carlos is spiraling again too.

Max doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t reach out. Doesn’t know what he could say that would make a difference anymore.

He’s tired. Of the noise. Of the silence. Of caring more than he wants to admit.

So he keeps his head down. Keeps driving the tractor they’ve handed him. Keeps pretending he doesn’t see the cracks forming around him.

Because fixing everything? Fixing everyone ?

He’s not sure he knows how anymore.

And he’s not sure he wants to try.

Chapter Text

Alex’s POV

Alex woke up with a headache that felt like a vice was tightening around his skull. The events from last night were still fresh in his mind, the tears he’d shed, the brokenness he’d revealed to George. It made him sick to think about it. He had acted so helpless, so weak. He had let George see the rawness of his emotions, and now, with the hangover and the looming reality of what he’d done, he just wanted to forget it all.

He heard George in the living room, speaking to someone on the phone. The voice was muffled, but Alex could hear the urgency in George’s tone, the seriousness. He didn’t want to deal with anything, least of all what had happened, but he knew he had no choice. George had seen him at his lowest, and now, he was here, dealing with the aftermath.

Alex stumbled out of bed, feeling sore in places he didn’t even know he could be sore. His muscles were tense, his mind scattered, but he forced himself to move. George had left a set of clothes for him on one of the chairs in the room—nothing fancy, just something to get him dressed. Alex put them on without a second thought, not caring that he looked like a mess. He just wanted to get through the day, even if he wasn’t sure how.

As he stepped outside the bedroom, he saw George talking on the phone. The conversation was quick, like George had been waiting for him to wake up.

“Oh, now he’s awake,” George said into the phone, his voice light but with an undercurrent of concern. “We’ll see you soon. Bye.”

George hung up and turned to look at Alex. He didn't even try to hide the worry on his face.

Alex frowned, confused. "What was that about?" he asked, his voice rough from sleep and emotion.

“It was your therapist,” George replied, setting the phone down. “I’m taking you to see her. You’re going to talk to her for real, Alex. You need to start working on getting better.”

Alex’s stomach twisted, and a wave of anger surged up within him. "But I’m doing better, I have already talked to her" he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though he knew it didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.

George shook his head, his gaze firm. “No, you’re not. You don’t even know when you’re manic or when you’re depressed.”

Alex felt the sting of George’s words hit him harder than he’d expected. George was right, but that didn’t make it easier to hear. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to face it. His emotions were already too overwhelming, and the thought of dealing with them—of unpacking everything he felt—it made him feel weak, like he wasn’t strong enough to handle his own mind.

Alex opened his mouth to protest, but George cut him off. “So let’s grab some breakfast. I’ll take you to your therapist. I’m with you every step of the way, Alex. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Alex didn’t know how to respond to that. He didn’t want help. But George was already here, trying to do what he thought was best for him. And Alex, even though he hated admitting it, knew George was right. He couldn’t keep ignoring the truth. He couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when it was so clearly falling apart.

With a sigh, Alex nodded. He couldn’t fight it. Not anymore.

“Okay,” he mumbled, his voice hollow.

George didn’t wait for another word. He led Alex out of the apartment and into his car. Alex barely registered the drive, his thoughts too tangled to focus on anything else. He knew he looked terrible—his hair a mess, his face drawn and pale—but he didn’t care. He didn’t have the energy to care about anything.

He just wanted to stop feeling everything. To stop the chaos in his head, to stop the hurt. But he knew it wasn’t that simple. It never was. The emotions, the ups and downs—they were a part of him. And no matter how much he wanted to shut it all off, it was impossible.

George was with him, though. And that was something. A small, but important something.

The therapist's office was quiet when they arrived. Alex felt a knot form in his stomach, the familiar dread of facing the truth creeping back. But this time, it wasn’t about trying to hide or suppress the feelings. It was about letting them out, confronting them head-on. The idea terrified him, but he knew, deep down, it was the only way.

As they walked in, George gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then stepped back. He didn’t need to say anything more—he had already done his part. Alex was going to do the rest, even if he wasn’t sure how. Even if he didn’t know what it would cost him.

George’s POV

George sat in the sterile, uncomfortable waiting room, his back pressed hard against the couch. His fingers were clenched into tight fists, a futile attempt to stave off the exhaustion that gnawed at him. He wanted— no , needed—to believe that today might be the day. The day Alex would finally get through to something real, something that could pull him from the wreckage. He wanted to believe this therapy session would mark the beginning of a long, painful, but necessary journey toward healing. But deep down, the quiet, relentless fear gnawed at him—that no matter how many times he pulled Alex back from the brink, no matter how much weight he carried, it would never be enough. It couldn’t be.

He watched Alex step into the therapist’s office, the door clicking softly behind him, and George’s chest tightened in a way he’d grown far too familiar with. This wasn’t the first time he’d sat in this damned room, waiting for time to crawl by while Alex wrestled with his demons—demons George couldn’t even begin to fight for him. He hated this. Hated that it always fell on him to pick up the pieces, to be the one who held everything together. Hated how much he had to carry for Alex, and how little Alex ever seemed to ask for help.

It was worse than before. Alex wasn’t just struggling with his own pain anymore—now he was tangled up in something with Carlos, something George couldn’t understand, something that felt like quicksand. The two of them—teammates, friends, whatever they were—had fallen into something toxic. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. But George had grown so damn tired of hearing Charles blame Alex. They didn’t understand. They didn’t see it. They’d forgotten— Charles had forgotten—that Carlos was already broken before Alex ever came into the picture.

George had watched it last year, before everything had shifted. He’d seen it when Ferrari signed Lewis for the 2025 season before even the 2024 season had started. Something had changed in Carlos after that. Carlos started the season weaker, more fragile, and in the second race of the season, he hadn’t even started. They said it was appendicitis, but George knew it was more than that. He’d heard the rumors—Carlos passing out, being rushed to the hospital, getting nutrition through a drip. George had seen the change after that—how much stronger Carlos came back, how he’d even won in Australia. But it wasn’t just physical strength that had returned. It was something darker, something deeper. Carlos had learned how to hide the pain better. And George had noticed the way Charles had started to look at him, worry written all over his face after every race, every debrief, every practice session.

Now, it felt like Charles had forgotten all that—had forgotten that Carlos had been falling apart long before Alex had come along. It was easier for Charles to blame it all on Alex, easier to point at him as the reckless idiot who was dragging Carlos down. George couldn’t stand it. Not when he could see the cracks in both of them, when both of them were just trapped . Alex, clinging to someone who understood the darkness in him, even if that someone was as broken as he was. Carlos, too lost himself to ever pull Alex out. Neither of them had done anything wrong. But it was killing George to watch it.

He could see the way Alex held on to Carlos—held on to him for some godforsaken reason that George couldn’t fathom. He saw the way Alex believed that Carlos was the only one who could truly understand him, the only one who could see him. But George didn’t see that. All he saw was a man, hiding in the dark with Alex, pulling him deeper into the abyss. Carlos wasn’t lifting Alex up. He was dragging him down with him. And George hated it. He hated seeing it. That wasn’t love. Love was supposed to lift you out of the darkness, not keep you there, crumbling together.

"Why can’t he see it?" George muttered to himself, his voice barely audible, like he was trying to convince himself more than anything. The emptiness in his chest expanded, filling him up with a heavy, unbearable ache. "Why doesn’t he see that Carlos doesn’t care about him the way I do?"

George felt the weight of the truth pressing on him, but he was trapped in this role, the one who picked up the broken pieces, the one who was always there to pick him up when Alex fell. He wasn’t Alex’s savior. He wasn’t his therapist. But every time he tried to pull away, to let Alex figure it out on his own, something inside him snapped. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let Alex fall when he was drowning. Not again.

The door to the therapist’s office opened, and Alex stepped out, his face pale and drawn, the shadows under his eyes deeper than before. But at least he was still walking. 

Alex’s POV

The therapy session had ripped through him like a storm. Every wall he'd built around himself crumbled under the weight of harsh truths. It felt like his chest had been torn open, and all the messy, tangled emotions inside him were laid bare in front of a stranger. He hadn’t realized how heavy it all was, how much he’d been carrying. The flood of rawness—fear, shame, anger—came crashing through him, unstoppable. It hurt, more than anything, but somewhere between the tears and the words, something inside Alex clicked.

He didn’t need the mask anymore.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Alex didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t have to hide behind the alcohol, the drugs, the reckless behavior. The therapist had pushed him, asked questions that made him uncomfortable, forced him to face the parts of himself he’d been running from. It burned, it hurt, but something in that pain made him see what he’d been blind to.

He had George .

George was the only constant, the only person who’d never made him feel like he was a burden. Never once had George judged him, not when his mind spun out of control, not when he was manic or drowning in his own depression. George had seen the worst of Alex and never flinched. He was a best friend, not a savior, and that made all the difference.

Alex stepped out of the therapist’s office, the door clicking shut behind him like a finality. He felt raw, fragile, like he’d just come through a battle he hadn’t been sure he could win. His chest was tight, his head still spinning, but something in him had shifted. He wasn’t going to keep pretending. He wasn’t going to keep repeating the same toxic cycles.

Carlos? That mess was over.

Alex had clung to Carlos, to that twisted connection, thinking it was something that could save him. But now, he saw it for what it was—a dark spiral. He’d let Carlos pull him deeper into the abyss, but that was done. He wasn’t going to hurt himself anymore, wasn’t going to keep feeding the darkness. And he wasn’t going to drag Carlos down with him, either. Alex had to let go, for his own sake. He could only hope Carlos would realize the same thing—maybe get the help he needed, just like Alex was trying to. Maybe they’d both get better, maybe they’d both find their way out.

Alex didn’t need Carlos anymore. He had George.

He glanced at George, standing there in the hallway, waiting for him. No words were needed. His presence said it all. George wasn’t going anywhere.

“How’d it go?” George asked, his voice genuine, his eyes soft with concern. Alex could tell George wasn’t asking because it was polite, but because he actually cared. He wanted to know how Alex was.

Alex gave a small, tired smile, looking up at his best friend. “It went fine... but it was hard.”

George’s eyes didn’t waver. He didn’t push, didn’t pry. He just nodded, his gaze steady, like he knew it wasn’t over yet. But he was here, and that was enough.

They walked out of the therapist’s office together and climbed into George’s car. As they drove through the streets of Monaco, Alex watched the world outside the window, people moving through their everyday lives, oblivious to the storm raging inside him. And for the first time in a long time, Alex felt a flicker of peace. A calmness he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in ages. Maybe he did deserve to be happy. Maybe he deserved the kindness George had always shown him. He certainly hadn’t deserved all the damage he’d done to his body—the alcohol, the drugs, the self-destructive spiral—but he could start making better choices now.

“I’m done,” Alex whispered to himself, the words slipping out before he even realized he’d said them. He wasn’t sure if he meant them for George’s ears or his own, but they felt like the truth.

George raised an eyebrow, a question in his eyes, but he didn’t ask for clarification. Alex knew he didn’t need to. George had been through it all with him—the mess, the breakdowns, the self-loathing. He didn’t need all the details. He just needed to know Alex was finally ready to stop spinning in circles.

“I’m going to get it right,” Alex said, his voice quieter but firm. It was about his bipolar disorder, about facing it head-on instead of running. He wasn’t going to ignore it anymore. He was going to take his medication, get the balance right, and stop letting his mind control him.

He wasn’t going to let the chaos take over.

And, for the first time in forever, Alex realized something that was painfully simple. The only thing that had truly mattered, the only constant in the wreckage of his life, was George.

George had been the one who made him laugh when everything else seemed so heavy. George had been the one who’d listened when Alex had needed to vent, to cry, to scream, without ever once judging him. George had never let him feel alone, even when Alex had been at his lowest.

“George,” Alex said, his voice almost breaking, softer now. He wanted to say more, wanted to thank him for everything, but the words weren’t coming. “You’ve always been there for me. You’ve never let me fall too far.”

George’s expression softened, and Alex caught the relief in his eyes, as though George had been holding his breath, waiting for this moment too.

“I’m not going anywhere, Alex,” George said, his voice steady. “I’ve got your back. Always.”

In that moment, Alex felt a weight lift off his chest. He didn’t have to fight alone anymore. With George by his side, there was hope. For the first time in a long time, Alex actually believed he could get better, that he could heal.

He wasn’t going to drown in the chaos. He wasn’t going to fall apart again. He was going to focus on what mattered. The racing, the car, the training... and most importantly—George.

The one person who had never let him down.

Chapter Text

Alex’s POV

Alex sat on the edge of the guest bed in George’s spare room, phone in hand, heart somewhere in his throat. The room was quiet, too quiet, the kind that made everything echo—his breath, the dull hum of blood in his ears, the words he wasn’t sure he had the courage to write.

He typed a message. Deleted it.

Typed again. Deleted that one too.

Everything either sounded too cold or too pathetic. Too final or too soft. None of it was right. Nothing ever was when it came to Carlos.

Eventually, he gave up trying to make it neat, or clean, or even kind. He just let it spill out. The truth. Ugly, bare, exhausted.

And then he hit send.

Alex’s message to Carlos: Hey. I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I need to be honest with you. I need to focus on my career right now. This is the best start I’ve ever had, and I can’t mess it up—not again. For once, I’m actually trying. Really trying. I’m trying to take care of myself properly, and part of that means cutting out the things that pull me back. 

I’m dealing with stuff I haven’t really told you about. I’ve struggled with my bipolar disorder for a long time, but I haven’t dealt with it. I thought I could outrun it, or drink it quiet, or distract myself with… everything. Including you. And that’s not fair to either of us. I need space to figure that out. Real space. No drama, no mixed signals, no running in circles pretending we’re just friends when we’re clearly not acting like it. 

I think I got attached to the part of you that matches the worst part of me. The reckless side, the part that doesn’t care if it crashes as long as it burns bright. But I can’t live like that anymore. I don’t want to. 

We’re not good for each other right now. I’m saying that because I care about you—not because I don’t. I need space. Real space. So maybe, one day, we can build something better. A friendship that’s real, not built on chaos.

I hope you understand.

The message was sent.

Alex stared at the screen like it might dissolve in front of him. It didn’t. It stayed, bright and undeniable, a timestamped confession he couldn’t take back.

He set the phone down, hard, then sat still for a second, the silence in the room suddenly deafening.

His chest felt tight. Hollow. Like he’d cut something out of himself and left it bleeding on the mattress.

It was the right thing, he told himself. Over and over, like a prayer. Like a lie.

Then his phone started to ring.

He didn’t even have to look.

Carlos.

The sound cut through the quiet like it was angry at him. Sharp and alive and everything he was trying not to feel.

Alex didn’t move.

He closed his eyes instead, jaw clenched, breathing shallow. The guilt crept in like smoke through the cracks, thick and suffocating. But he didn’t reach for the phone. He couldn’t. Not without undoing everything.

Eventually, the ringing stopped.

A few seconds later, a buzz.

Carlos: I get it. Thanks for being honest. Good luck, Alex.

Short. Clean. Too clean.

Alex read it twice. Three times. The ache twisted tighter.

He started typing. Stopped. Deleted. Tried again.

Alex: See you in Japan. Let’s not make it weird.

He sent it. No overthinking this time. Just… sent.

Then he flipped the phone face-down like it might burn him, stood up, and went to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water with shaking hands.

That should’ve made him feel better. He’d said what he needed to. Done the right thing. Taken the adult step.

But as he stared at the wall and sipped the water, something still felt broken.

How the hell were they supposed to stand next to each other in press conferences now? How were they going to race without all of this— whatever this was —clawing at their ribs?

Alex didn’t know.

He just hoped they could hold it together. For the cameras. For the team. For the sake of everything that was still salvageable.

The season was long. Japan was coming fast. He had to be ready.

He was doing the right thing.

…Wasn’t he?

Carlos’ POV

Carlos lay flat on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it might eventually cave in and put him out of his misery.

He hadn’t moved in hours. The bedsheets were twisted around his legs, heavy with sweat. The room smelled like stale air and whatever he’d drank last night—he couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to.

His phone buzzed again.

Charles.

He turned it to silent without even looking. The screen had lit up over and over all day—calls, texts, the kind of persistence that only came from someone who still believed Carlos was worth saving.

He wasn’t.

Earlier, he’d heard the soft knock at the door—gentle at first, almost hesitant, like Charles was still hoping this was just one of Carlos’s moods, the kind that passed if you waited long enough. But then it grew sharper. More urgent. Less patient.

Carlos lay frozen in bed, every thud echoing through the silence like it was rattling something inside his chest.

Then came the sound—Charles muttering under his breath, frustration creeping in as he started rummaging under the doormat.

Searching for the spare key.

But Carlos had already taken it this morning. Quietly. Like a coward.

Like someone who knew—deep down—that this wasn’t just a bad day. That something was ending. Maybe everything.

Just in case, he’d told himself.

He’d already decided to lock the world out before anyone could tell him to leave it.

Now, he was curled up in bed, fingers wrapped tight around that cool metal key. A pathetic little trophy. Proof that if he wanted to disappear, no one could stop him.

He didn’t make a sound when Charles stood outside the door.

Didn’t flinch when he heard him sigh, curse, walk away.

The silence that followed was louder than anything.

Then—Alex’s name flashed on the screen.

His heart stopped for half a second.

He opened the message, half-expecting something light, some half-joke, a crumb of the chaos they used to pass back and forth like a cigarette between bruised lips.

Instead, it was a full-blown gut punch.

Each sentence like a blade, not angry—but calm, almost peaceful. Which made it worse.

Carlos read it once. Twice.

The third time, the words started to blur.

Not cruel. Not even cold.

Just… done.

And somehow, that was what finally made his chest cave in.

He felt sick. Physically sick. The kind of twist in his stomach that made him press his palm against it like he could hold everything in. Like he could stop himself from shattering.

He didn’t think. He just called him.

There were no words ready. No plan. Just a desperate, ugly instinct— make him take it back .

But Alex didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Carlos stared at the screen, at the dull "call ended" notification, his thumb trembling against the glass.

He hated himself for trying. For hoping.

Then he typed:

I get it. Thanks for being honest. Good luck, Alex.

Cold. Flat. A shitty lie of a text.

He got a reply almost instantly..

See you in Japan. Let’s not make it weird.

It felt surgical.

Precise.

And final.

Carlos sat up slowly, his body aching like he’d been in a fight. The air in the apartment was suffocating—like he was breathing in guilt instead of oxygen.

He needed to get out. Away from this. From the four walls that now felt too loud with memories.

He threw on a jacket, didn’t bother with anything else. No phone. No plan.

Just walking.

By the time he stopped, he was downtown. The streets were dim, slick with old rain, neon reflecting off the pavement like blood under streetlights.

And there it was—the bar.

That fucking bar.

The one from New Year’s Eve. 

The neon sign buzzed overhead, half the letters dead, the other half flickering like they were mocking him.

He stepped inside.

The air was thick with smoke, spilled beer, and too-loud laughter. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions. That didn’t remember your name.

Perfect.

He ordered something dark, sharp, and numbing. Didn't ask what it was.

He took the first sip like it was medicine. Then the second like it was punishment.

In the corner, a group of strangers sat at a poker table, the green felt torn at the corners, the chips worn and sticky.

Their laughter sounded hollow, but familiar.

Carlos drifted over, said nothing. Someone nodded. He sat down.

He played without thinking. Without caring.

He kept drinking. One glass became three. Then five.

The cards didn’t matter. The money didn’t matter. His hands shook, but nobody noticed. Nobody cared.

They all played like losers. Like addicts. Like people who knew the house always won but played anyway.

So did Carlos.

By the time morning bled through the grimy windows, the bar was emptying out. The bartender was flipping stools onto tables. The music was still playing, but low now, like a heartbeat running out of rhythm.

Carlos stood, barely steady.

His wallet was almost empty.

He didn’t care.

He’d already lost what mattered.

He stepped out into the cold, blinking against the harsh light of the early sun. The world outside was painfully awake. Dogs barking. Coffee shops opening. People in suits rushing by with purpose.

Carlos stood there like he didn’t belong in any of it. A crack in the sidewalk. A shadow with a heartbeat.

He deserved this. All of it.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos woke up with a weight in his chest heavier than the pounding in his head. His apartment in Monaco was quiet — too quiet — the kind of silence that pressed in around him like thick fog. He blinked against the daylight bleeding through the blinds, dragging a hand across his face, skin sticky with sweat, regret, and the memory of cheap whiskey. Or maybe it was expensive. He hadn’t cared last night. He barely cared now.

He sat up slowly, elbows on knees, head in his hands. Everything hurt. Not just his head, not just his stomach turning on itself after barely eating the day before, but that deeper, dull ache that lived in his chest. The one that whispered lies. Or maybe they weren’t lies. Maybe he really did just ruin everything he touched.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table, persistent. He didn’t have to look to know who it was. Charles. Again.

He finally picked it up, just to make the buzzing stop. The screen lit up with a series of unread messages:

Charles: “Hey, just checking in. You okay?”
Charles: “You weren’t home last night.”
Charles: “You don’t have to talk, but at least let me know you’re safe.”
Charles: “Carlos.”

Carlos stared at the messages, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He wanted to respond. God, he wanted to. But the words didn’t come. Charles didn’t need this. He didn’t need him . Not when Charles already had enough on his plate with Ferrari. Carlos would only drag him down further.

He let the screen fade and opened Instagram instead. Anything to avoid the guilt, the worry etched into Charles’ words. Scrolling, aimless. A photo from Red Bull’s official account caught his eye. New driver announcement.

Yuki Tsunoda.
A Red Bull racing suit.
A headline: Red Bull confirms Tsunoda for remainder of season.

Carlos’s stomach twisted. So that was it. Liam was out — after just two races.

“Cruel,” he muttered aloud, voice cracked and dry. It was cruel. Two races? That wasn't enough. Not to learn the car, not to find rhythm, not to prove yourself. Not when every millisecond was a trapdoor.

He tossed the phone beside him and leaned back into the pillows. He hated this — hated how much of himself he saw in Liam right now. Replaced. Pushed out from a team he gave his all to. People didn’t realize how it stayed with you — the not-enoughness. The constant wondering if you were ever really good enough, or if you’d just been tolerated.

He should be focusing on Liam. Empathizing , not spiraling. But he couldn’t help it. Because it wasn’t just about Liam. It was about the stories swirling around Carlos too — the whispers in the paddock, the rumors in the press.

Carlos is fragile.
Carlos can’t handle the pressure.
Carlos is falling apart.

They weren't just stories. They were facts. He had tried to hide it for so long — the burnout, the self-doubt, the slow erosion of whatever armor he used to have. But the cracks had become too obvious. Everyone could see now. And that made him sick with shame.

Weak. That’s what they thought. Maybe that’s what he was.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, bitter at the taste of his own self-pity. He was wallowing. He knew it. And still, the sadness stayed. The guilt stayed. The stupid, aching loneliness wouldn’t let go.

But he couldn’t keep hiding here. Not today.

He had to pack. Japan was next.

Carlos dragged himself out of bed and padded toward the shower, shoulders hunched. He didn’t feel refreshed when the hot water hit his skin. He felt like he was trying to rinse off something that wouldn’t wash away. Still, he stood there, eyes closed, letting the water do what it could.

He would fly to Japan. He would put on the race suit. He would smile for the cameras.

Even if inside, he felt like he was falling apart.

Max’s POV

Max ended the call and dropped his phone onto the counter with a sharp clack . His jaw was clenched so tight it hurt, and his temples were pulsing with the kind of dull pressure that comes from holding too much in for too long. He hated calls like that — calls where someone from PR tried to tell him how to feel, what to say.

“Just say it's about performance. Say we need results. Keep it professional.”

They could all go to hell.

He’d liked one Instagram post. One. It was an old driver — someone who didn’t owe Red Bull anything — calling out the injustice of it all. Calling them cowards for ditching Liam after just two races. Max had liked it because he agreed. Because it was cowardly.

And now they were scolding him like a child.

He rubbed his hand over his face, then leaned forward on the kitchen island, knuckles whitening against the stone. It wasn’t even about Liam specifically. It was about the system. The way it chewed you up. If you weren’t producing magic on command, you were disposable.

Max could do it. He did do it. But that came at a price. A price they never liked to talk about.

He only knew how to drive a shit car because he’d spent his entire childhood learning how to survive sabotage. His father — relentless, cold — had rigged his kart more times than Max could count. Brakes, fuel, whatever. Just to teach him how to adapt. How to win, no matter what.

Max had learned. And he’d learned well.

But that didn’t make it right.

His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen.

Charles: “Are you on your way to Japan?”

Max typed back quickly:
Max: “Not yet. Still in Monaco. Leaving tomorrow.”

Another buzz.
Charles: “Can you check on Carlos? He hasn’t answered me since the dinner we had days ago.”

Max stared at the message, jaw tightening again.
Max: “Yeah. I’ll go.”

He tossed the phone onto the couch and grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair. The sleeves were still damp from this morning’s rain.

He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to see Carlos. He already knew what he’d find — the mess, the guilt, the self-pity curling in on itself like a dying star. Carlos was probably still in bed, ignoring texts, wallowing in a fog of hangover and doubt.

And still, Max would go. Because Charles asked. Because Lando would have gone. Because in some twisted way, they all still cared about Carlos, even when he was making it so damn hard to.

But it pissed Max off. Not just Carlos — not just the self-destruct mode he was always in when shit got hard — but the system that created this in the first place. Ferrari had broken Carlos. Quietly, gradually, but thoroughly. They’d built him up just to discard him. And now Red Bull was doing the same thing to Liam. Alpine, if the rumors were true, was already preparing to cast Jack Doohan aside like a used tire.

Max wasn’t stupid. He knew people talked about him like he was invincible. Like nothing got to him. But it did. This did. Watching people like Carlos fall apart — good people, talented drivers — while the sport chewed them up and spit them out?

It made him sick.

He shoved his arms through his jacket sleeves, stepped into the hallway, and pulled the door shut behind him. The walls of the building were too clean, too white. Everything in Monaco was like that — polished, expensive, pretending everything was perfect.

He hated that, too.

The walk to Carlos’s apartment wasn’t long. He didn’t know what he was going to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe he’d just sit down and make sure Carlos hadn’t completely collapsed in on himself.

Maybe he'd yell.

Because yeah, Carlos had people who wanted to be there for him. Charles would’ve crossed oceans if Carlos just asked. Lando carried guilt he shouldn’t have. And Max — Max felt something he didn’t want to admit. Not sympathy, exactly. But a kind of worn-out rage. Because he knew how this went. And he was tired of watching it happen again and again.

He reached Carlos’s door. Lifted a fist.

Paused.

Don’t lash out, he told himself.
But his hand was already knocking.

Carlos’ POV

The knock startled him.

Carlos had been sitting in the same spot on the couch for what felt like hours, phone face-down on the table, untouched. The buzzing had stopped a while ago, and the silence afterward had been almost comforting. Until now.

He blinked, sluggish from the lingering headache and the weight in his chest that never quite left. The knock came again — sharper this time. He stood slowly, half-expecting it to be Charles.

But it wasn’t.

It was Max.

Carlos barely had time to open the door before Max shoved past him, storming into the apartment like a tightly coiled storm.

“What the fuck is your problem, Carlos?” Max snapped, spinning to face him.

Carlos’s stomach dropped. Max didn’t yell like this. Not often. Not unless something had been building for too long. And apparently — it had.

Carlos’s shoulders tensed. “I don’t know,” he bit back. “Maybe my problem is that people care too fucking much.”

“Oh, right ,” Max snapped, eyes wide with disbelief. “What a nightmare , to have people care about you. To have people worried when you disappear.”

Carlos felt his voice rise before he could stop it. “Yeah, well maybe I don’t deserve that, okay?”

“Why the fuck not?” Max’s voice cracked, furious, frustrated. “You’ve always been there for us. For me. For Charles. For Lando. You’ve always had our backs, Carlos. You think we just forgot that?”

Carlos felt the words hit like fists to his chest. His throat was tight now. His eyes burned.

He yelled back, voice raw, “Because I’m a fucking piece of shit, Max! That’s why. I don’t deserve any of you!”

There were tears now. Hot and unrelenting.

Max was shouting too. “Yes, you do ! You do deserve us! Why is that so fucking hard to understand? Why is it so hard to admit that you're allowed to be down ?”

“Because I’m weak! ” Carlos shouted, his hands trembling as the tears spilled freely now. “I’m a fucking mess! A self-pitying, broken mess! ”

And then, without thinking, he grabbed the vase from the edge of the table and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the floor like a gunshot, ceramic shards scattering across the tile like ice.

Silence.

Max flinched — not from the sound, but from something deeper. He just stood there, staring at the broken vase on the floor. His breathing was shallow, his eyes wide. Not angry anymore. Just… stunned.

Carlos froze. The air shifted.

Oh fuck.

He knew. He knew. Max hated that. Hated the yelling. Hated when things broke. Not because of the object, but because of what it meant — what it reminded him of.

Carlos took a shaky breath. His voice cracked.

“I—I’m sorry. Shit. I didn’t—Max, I’m sorry.”

Max didn’t speak at first. His eyes were glassy now, too. He blinked hard, like he was trying to keep something down, but it wasn’t working.

“It’s okay,” Max finally said, voice low, hoarse. “It’s just… hard.”

Carlos stepped forward, over the broken pieces, over the pain, over the guilt threatening to drown him again.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”

He didn’t wait. He just pulled Max into a hug, arms tight, holding on like he was afraid they’d both fall apart if he let go.

And Max held him back. No words. Just the sound of two hearts beating too fast and breath that came in uneven gasps. Two broken drivers, clinging to each other in a storm neither of them had asked for.

The world outside could wait.

Right now, all that mattered was this.

Max’s POV

Max sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight they were going numb. Beside him, Carlos sat curled in on himself, staring blankly at the floor, tear tracks still drying on his face.

The broken vase lay in pieces on the floor, forgotten for now.

Neither of them had spoken since. They just… sat. Breathing through the weight of it all. It felt like trying to breathe underwater.

Max could still feel the echo of their fight ringing in his chest. The way Carlos had yelled, the sound of ceramic shattering. The flash of his father’s face in his mind when it happened. He hated that. Hated how easily the past crept in, how it clung to moments like this, like dust in sunlight.

He turned his head slowly, looking at Carlos — eyes red, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together with sheer force. Max looked probably the same.

Max exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

Carlos didn’t look at him right away. Then, softly, “Yeah. Me too.”

Max nodded once, grateful but still heavy with everything unsaid. He leaned back slightly, shifting his weight, then spoke again.

“Charles is the one who told me to check on you. He’s worried.”

Carlos’s eyes flicked over. “Yeah… I don’t know. I didn’t want to bring anyone down. Especially not him.”

Max sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Yeah. It’s hard. But Carlos…” He paused, picking the words carefully. “You’ve been strong for too fucking long. You’re allowed to feel like shit. You’re allowed to let go, man. Just for a moment.”

Carlos looked at him then, really looked. Their eyes met — a tired, broken kind of understanding sitting between them like shared air.

“Yeah,” Carlos said finally, voice low. “Maybe. But it’s hard.”

Max nodded. “I know.”

His phone started buzzing on the table, cutting through the silence. He picked it up without looking at the name — somehow, he already knew.

“Lando?” Max said, voice rough.

“Where are you? We were supposed to have dinner now?” Lando asked immediately.

“I’m at Carlos’s place.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then: “I’m coming.” Click.

Max blinked at the screen. No arguments. No questions. Just I’m coming .

He put the phone down and glanced at Carlos. “Lando’s on his way. I missed dinner with him.”

Carlos exhaled, the sound brittle. “Yeah… maybe it’s good he’s coming. Before we tear into each other again.”

“Maybe,” Max murmured, the word hanging like smoke between them.

There was another pause before Carlos added, with a ghost of a bitter smile, “Maybe I should try to be nicer to you guys. I was supposed to spend the week with Charles, but instead I just… fucked everything up.”

Max let his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut for a second. “Yeah,” he said bluntly, “you fucked up. Also — I know what you and Alex did with his car.”

Carlos’s head snapped toward him, panic flickering in his eyes like a match being struck. “You do? How? Since when?”

Max opened his eyes, met Carlos’s stare. Calm. Steady. “Take it easy. I’m the only one who knows. I figured it out at the dinner. When Lando showed the video — and you? You flinched. Put the pieces together after that.”

Carlos slumped, exhaling like the wind had been knocked out of him. “Since when did you get so fucking smart?”

Max’s lips twitched. “Since when did you get so fucking reckless?”

Carlos let out a choked laugh — more of a breath, really. Hollow. But it was something.

“Do you remember Barcelona?” Carlos asked suddenly, staring up at the ceiling like it had the answers he couldn’t say out loud.

Max turned toward him, something sharp pulling behind his ribs. “Yeah. I remember. Why?”

“I thought that was it,” Carlos whispered. “I thought I was done. That there was nothing left for me to live for. That I’d hit the bottom and it wasn’t going to get better.”

Max blinked. Something inside him turned cold. He hadn’t known. Not really. Not like that .

“Why did you text me that night?” he asked, unsure of anything.

Carlos shrugged, but the motion looked painful, like even that small vulnerability cost him. “I don’t know. I was going through old photos… found one from back when we were at Toro Rosso. And for a second, I just—” his voice faltered, then steadied, brittle and tired. “I wanted to say goodbye. Make peace with you, at least. One last thing I didn’t fuck up. But… you had other plans.”

“You don’t have to push us away,” Max said. His voice didn’t sound like his own. “We’re here. I am. I wish I’d known how bad it really was. Maybe I wouldn’t have screamed at you like I did.”

“It’s fine,” Carlos muttered, wiping at his face. “I didn’t want anyone to miss me.”

That cut deep. Max flinched, actually flinched, like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t ready for. He’d been angry. So fucking angry. Thought Carlos didn’t care. Thought he’d gone cold. But the truth was so much worse.

Carlos cared so much it hurt him.

“It’s heavy,” Max said. “But… what now? Are you gonna try? Get help?”

Carlos was quiet. Then: “I just want to race. I know it’s not healthy. But it’s the only thing that shuts it up. When everything else is too loud. And this sport? It doesn’t wait for broken things to heal. It grinds them down.”

Max nodded, slow. “If healing was something we could schedule, I would’ve done it years ago.”

His eyes drifted to the broken vase. All those jagged pieces. Like something important had been dropped and no one even tried to catch it.

Then he looked back at Carlos, something sharp in his expression.

“The teams is fucking poison,” Max said, voice hollow. “They push us until there’s nothing left—just dust and fractures. And when we finally break, they look at us like we failed them. Like it’s our fault we’re human and not fucking machines.”

Carlos looked stunned. Like something unspoken had just been named for the first time.

Max kept going, soft now, but not gentle. “We’re only worth what we give them. Points. Poles. Podiums. No perfection? No place.”

Carlos’s eyes glistened. His voice shook. “That’s why I can’t admit I’m falling apart. Because it doesn’t matter. I still have to smile tomorrow. Fly to Japan. Pretend I’m okay. And then fall apart when no one’s watching.”

Max didn’t answer. Just let the silence stretch out, thick and honest and awful.

It wasn’t hope. What settled between them wasn’t hope.

But it was real.

Even if the world didn’t care.
Even if the vase would never be whole again.

Lando's POV

Lando stepped inside slowly.

The apartment felt… off.
Like a memory stuck between two moments — not quite past, not quite present. The air was thick, like it had been holding its breath for hours. Lights dimmed, shadows stretching long across the walls. And on the floor — a constellation of broken glass, catching what little light there was. A vase, maybe. Or what used to be one. It looked like something had shattered and no one had moved since.

On the couch, Max and Carlos sat close. Not touching, not talking — just slouched , shoulder to shoulder, as if they’d both collapsed inward and landed beside each other by accident. But Carlos’s arm was around Max’s shoulders, heavy and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he was offering comfort or asking for it.

Both of them looked down.
Their faces were drawn. Eyes red, but dry now — the kind of red that comes after.
After yelling.
After crying.
After breaking.

Carlos looked wrecked — like someone had peeled back all his edges and left the rawest parts showing.
Max looked like he was still trapped somewhere behind his own eyes — like he’d seen something he couldn’t quite unsee.

Lando blinked. His heart stuttered.

This wasn’t them.
Not the way he knew them.
Carlos — always composed, sharp edges and calm control.
Max — fire and precision, always angry but never undone.
They were the ones who steadied him when everything got too much. They’d held him together when the weight of the world first started to press in. They never flinched. Never cracked. Never looked like this.

And now they looked like they’d hit the wall, full speed, and didn’t know whether to stand up again or just stay down.

Carlos gave a small shrug. It wasn’t sheepish — it was empty. Like this is what it is .
Max offered the tiniest nod, and that hurt more. Not an apology. Not an excuse. Just yeah. You’re seeing what’s left.

Lando froze for a second.

These were the two people who had always seemed solid to him. Not untouchable — but steady. The ones who held their ground when everything else got loud. The ones who never flinched under pressure.

And now they looked like they’d reached the edge of something and didn’t quite know what to do next.

“What the hell happened?” he asked softly, still near the doorway.

Max and Carlos glanced at each other. Their eyes met for a second, and that second stretched — a silent conversation that said everything they didn’t know how to explain.
Do we lie?
Do we protect each other?
Do we even have the energy to pretend?

Carlos exhaled. It sounded like it scraped its way out of his chest. “We had a moment.”

Max’s voice was lower. “We snapped.”

A beat. He glanced around the apartment like it was unfamiliar now. “Now we’re just… here.”

Lando didn’t know what to say at first. He just looked at them, really looked — and saw the cracks in the armor. The kind that come not from one big hit, but from too many small ones.

There was a beat of silence before Carlos gestured vaguely toward the broken vase on the floor. “That was me. Not proud of it.”

Lando’s throat felt tight. But he just nodded once.

Then, quietly, he turned toward the kitchen. Grabbed the broom. The dustpan. Walked back to the mess and crouched down.

He didn’t say anything. He just started sweeping.

The pieces scraped against the tile — sharp and grating.
Max and Carlos didn’t stop him.
But they both watched — silent, like they didn’t know how to say thank you without it sounding like guilt.

“You don’t have to do that,” Carlos said eventually.

“I know,” Lando answered. His voice was even now — not cold, just calm. “I just… want to.”

He moved with quiet focus, sweeping up the scattered pieces carefully, his movements methodical, deliberate. There was something grounding about it. Something steady. And maybe they needed that — something normal in the middle of the emotional static.

When he was done, he stood and said, “Do you want tea or something?”

Carlos gave a dry laugh. “What are you, my abuela?”

“Your abuela didn’t drive for McLaren,” Lando replied, deadpan.

Max actually smiled — barely — and shook his head. “Tea’s fine.”

Lando disappeared into the kitchen again, boiling water, moving like it was second nature. He wasn’t trying to fix anything. Wasn’t trying to dig into what had been said, or what hadn’t. He just showed up. He stayed.

And when he came back with the mugs, handing them over without comment, the tension had shifted. Just a little. Enough.

Carlos met his eyes, voice quieter now. “Thanks.”

Lando gave a small nod and dropped into the armchair across from them. “You don’t have to explain everything.”

Max held the tea between his hands like it gave him something to do. “We don’t even know what to explain.”

Lando leaned back, crossed his legs. “Then don’t.”

There was a pause — soft, almost comfortable this time.

And for a while, the three of them just sat there, surrounded by the fading echo of a fight, the heat of the tea warming their hands, the silence no longer feeling so heavy.

Chapter Text

Max’s POV

The jet was quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that meant peace, but the kind that meant no one had the energy to pretend. It hummed beneath them, smooth and steady, cutting through the sky on its way to Japan — another country, another race, another weekend of smiling like nothing hurt.

Max sat in the same seat he always did, back against the cool leather, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might crack open and give him a reason to breathe deeper. Across from him, Carlos sat with a hoodie pulled up, arms crossed, head leaning against the window. His eyes were closed, but Max could tell he wasn’t asleep. Not really.

Lando sat beside him, flicking through something on his phone. Probably a game. Or memes. Or just something to fill the silence.

Max’s jaw ached. He hadn’t realized how tightly he was clenching it.

He shifted, glanced at Carlos again. Still, that same stillness. Not calm. Not peaceful. Just… still. Like he was conserving energy for whatever came next.

Max hated this part the most — the in-between. The flight before the storm. When everything was waiting. Quiet. Heavy. Like the drop before the rollercoaster plunges.

Carlos hadn’t said much since they boarded. Just a mumbled “hey” and a nod when Max offered him a sandwich. He didn’t take it. Didn’t take anything.

Max hadn’t said much either.

Not since yesterday in Carlos’s apartment.

He knew too much now. Knew what Carlos had almost done. Knew how close everything had come to shattering in a way that couldn’t be swept up or glued back together. But what the hell was he supposed to do with that? Say it out loud? Force it into the open and hope it wouldn’t make things worse?

Carlos didn’t want that. Max knew that much.

So he stayed quiet.

Watched him out of the corner of his eye. Took mental notes of the small things—fidgeting hands, the way Carlos’s leg bounced every time the turbulence picked up. The way he flinched slightly when Lando laughed at something on his screen. Like joy was something foreign. Something too loud.

Max looked down at the bottle in his hands. Still sealed. No idea why he was holding it.

“You alright?” Lando asked suddenly, looking up from his phone. It wasn’t clear who he was talking to.

Carlos didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink.

Max cleared his throat, not looking at either of them. “Yeah. Fine.”

The lie was automatic.

Outside the window, clouds rolled past like slow smoke. The sun had dipped below the horizon a while ago, but the sky still held onto a dull, bruised light.

Max thought about what Carlos said yesterday. About how racing was the only time the noise stopped. And now they were flying straight into another race weekend. Another silence to chase.

He wondered if anyone else would notice. If the team would see past the smiles. If the media would pick up on the way Carlos’s shoulders curled in, the way he disappeared a little more each time they called his name.

They wouldn’t. They never did.

Max leaned his head against the window, eyes closing. Just for a second.

Carlos exhaled softly. Not asleep. Still not asleep.

Max didn’t speak. Didn’t ask how he was. Because asking meant answers. And neither of them were ready for those.

So he sat with the knowing.

Held it close. Like a secret. Like a burden. Like a hand outstretched that hadn’t yet been taken.

And the jet flew on — quiet, steady, full of unsaid things.

Charles’ POV

The plate of pasta in front of him had gone cold. Or maybe it was never warm in the first place — Charles couldn’t remember if he’d even taken a bite. He wasn’t paying attention. Not to the food, not to the quiet rhythm of the restaurant, not to the way Lewis tapped his fingers absently against the polished tabletop.

His phone had buzzed earlier. A message from Max.

Carlos is fine. You don’t need to worry.

Fine.

The word echoed in Charles’s head, dull and sharp all at once. Too clean. Too neat. Carlos didn’t do “fine.” He did dramatic exits in the middle of arguments, long silences that stretched into weeks. He did disappearing acts followed by reappearances like nothing had happened — like he hadn’t spent the time in between drinking too much, spiraling in the dark, chasing self-destruction like it owed him something.

Carlos didn’t do “fine.”

Not unless he was hiding.

Charles had replied anyway. Politely.

Nice to hear.

But it wasn’t. Not when it felt like a lie. And not from Max — especially not from Max. Max, who was blunt to the point of cruelty. Max, who once told Charles in front of four engineers that his sim setup was “utterly shit” and meant it as a helpful critique.

Max didn’t lie. He didn’t soften blows. And now he was the one texting he’s fine ?

No. Something was wrong.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Lewis said, nudging him lightly with an elbow. “Regretting letting me order for you?”

Charles blinked out of the spiral and gave a faint smile. “No. Food’s good. I’m just—” He paused, shrugged. “Thinking.”

Lewis didn’t press. Instead, he turned his phone screen toward him. “Seen this yet?”

It was an Instagram post. White text on a black background — the kind that usually meant apologies or vague PR damage control. But this one was different. This one had bite. An ex-driver Charles recognized instantly, calling out Red Bull for what they did to Liam. Two races. Then dropped. No explanation. Just gone.

“A bit late,” Lewis muttered, “but still.”

Charles scanned the caption. Harsh words. No names spared.

“Look at the likes,” Lewis added, tapping the screen.

Almost every driver on the grid.

Even Max.

Charles blinked. “Even Max?”

Lewis gave a dry laugh. “Yeah. Wonder how Red Bull’s PR team is dealing with that.”

“Yeah, they have big fires to put out right now,” Charles said, almost absently.

He reached for his phone, opened the app. Found the post. Hit the heart icon. Liked.

“What they did to Liam,” he said, quieter now, “was cruel. Just dropped him. It’s not fair.”

“It’s not just us and Ferrari with issues anymore,” Lewis replied, leaning back in his chair. “Looks like Red Bull’s starting to show cracks too.”

Charles nodded slowly. “Yeah. And who knows. There are probably more teams doing the same thing—just hiding it better. You don’t see it until it’s already breaking someone.”

Lewis gave him a long look, something knowing in his eyes. “Exactly.”

Charles looked down at his phone again, but he wasn’t really seeing it. His mind was back on Max’s message. He’s doing fine. Don’t worry.

He wondered how many other drivers were “fine.” How many were crumbling behind the curtain, pasting on smiles, hitting their marks, because they knew what happened if they didn’t. Knew the world wouldn’t wait for them to catch their breath.

He thought of Carlos’s voice the last time they spoke — quiet, clipped, like he was already halfway gone. He’d said he needed space. Said he was tired.

Charles had believed him. He just didn’t realize how deep the tired ran.

Maybe Max had heard more. Maybe Max wasn’t lying — maybe he just couldn’t say the truth out loud.

Charles pushed his plate away.

“Let’s get out of here?” he said, already reaching for his jacket.

Lewis raised a brow. “You alright?”

Charles nodded, too fast. “Yeah,” he said.

And then, quieter: “I'm fine.”

Carlos’ POV

The air hit like a wall as they stepped off the plane — thick, warm, heavy with humidity and something else Carlos couldn’t name. Maybe it was jet lag. Maybe it was dread.

He followed Max and Lando down the narrow stairs, squinting as the lights of the Airport’s private terminal flickered across their faces. They were barely twenty steps from the tarmac when he saw it.

The crowd.

Media. Cameras. Journalists. A wall of them, gathered just outside the checkpoint. Microphones already raised, lenses tracking their every step like heat-seeking missiles. Carlos felt his stomach drop.

They weren’t here for him. Not even for Lando.

They were here for Max.

Carlos slowed his pace, eyes cutting toward his teammate just as Max spotted them too. His face didn’t change — not much. Just a flicker, barely there. But Carlos caught it. The tension behind his eyes. The momentary clench of his jaw.

“Shit,” Lando muttered under his breath. “They’re out for blood.”

Max exhaled. Quiet. Controlled. “You two go ahead. Take the cab. I’ll book another one when I’m done.”

“Max—” Carlos started.

“It’s fine,” Max said, already squaring his shoulders. Already preparing the mask. “It’s me they want. I’ll deal with it.”

Carlos wanted to argue. Say something. But what was the point? Max was right. This was his PR disaster. And if he didn’t handle it now, Red Bull would eat him alive.

So Carlos just nodded, watching as Max walked toward the flashing lights, into the mess, into the mouth of the machine. Cameras clicked. Microphones crowded in.

“Max, why did you like the post?”
“Do you regret the statement now that Red Bull is under fire?”
“How do you feel sharing a team with Yuki, when Liam wasn’t given the same chance?”
“Do you still support your team’s decision?”
“Do you—do you—do you—”

Carlos watched Max plaster on a smile — one of those fake, PR-approved ones, all charm and zero substance.

“Sometimes the sport is like this,” Max said, voice perfectly modulated. “It’s not fair, sure. But shit happens. Liam’s talented — I’m sure he’ll bounce back.”

A lie.

A good one.

Carlos turned away before he had to see more.

He and Lando slid into the backseat of the cab, the driver barely glancing at them as he pulled away from the curb. Silence stretched out for a moment, thick and tired.

Lando was the first to speak.

“It’s cruel,” he said, staring out the window. “The way they’re dragging Max through all that. I mean… we never signed up for this . We just wanted to drive.”

Carlos nodded slowly. “Yeah. Wonder what it would’ve been like… if that’s all it ever was. Just racing. No media. No Netflix. No bullshit.”

They fell quiet again, the city lights of Tokyo blinking by in a blur.

“I mean,” Lando said eventually, “Drive to Survive changed everything I guess. The PR people figured out what fans actually want — drama. Meltdowns. Fights. Sad eyes. They realized pain sells.”

Carlos let out a bitter sound — not quite a laugh. “And all the money it brings in… it doesn’t go to us. Not really. It goes to the suits. The boardrooms. People who’ve never sat behind the wheel, never risked their lives at 300 kph.”

“Yeah,” Lando muttered. “Meanwhile we’re the ones unraveling on camera.”

Carlos leaned his head against the cool glass, eyes half-closed. “And people like it. The more fucked up we get, the more they watch. It’s entertainment to them.”

Lando didn’t say anything for a while.

Then: “You think Max’s okay?”

Carlos’s jaw tensed. He didn’t look away from the window.

“No,” he said quietly. “But he’ll say he is. And they’ll believe him. Because he’s good at it.”

Lando didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Outside, Suzuka City stretched on — a city that never stopped. Just like the sport. Just like the lie they were all living.

Carlos closed his eyes and tried not to think about the next morning. About the cameras. About the press conferences. About the weight of pretending to be whole..

Alex’s POV

The hotel lobby was hushed, dimly lit in that way that made everything feel slower — like time had slipped into something softer, heavier. The kind of stillness that only came with jet lag and too many unsaid things.

Alex sat low in a lounge chair near the front desk, legs stretched out, half-empty water bottle balanced between his palms. His phone sat forgotten on the armrest, screen dark. George was next to him, scrolling idly through his own feed, eyes glazed over — not really reading, just passing time.

The glass doors slid open with a quiet whoosh.

Carlos and Lando walked in.

And they looked wrecked.

Lando had that slightly shell-shocked look, shoulders tense, jaw working like he’d been clenching it for hours. And Carlos — Carlos looked like a ghost trying to wear a body. Hoodie pulled up, eyes sunken, mouth pressed into a line that tried to look neutral but couldn’t quite hold it.

Alex froze. Just for a second.

A low ache unfurled in his chest, bitter and familiar.

He hadn’t seen Carlos since—

Well. Since everything.

Since the nights that bled into each other they never remembered fully. Since whispered bitterness turned into bruised kisses and foggy mornings. Since Alex had handed him a thousand little ways to numb the pain, thinking it was comfort, thinking it was closeness — thinking, maybe selfishly, that misery shared was somehow less lonely.

He remembered the way he’d said things he couldn’t take back. You don’t need Charles. They don’t really care. You’re better off without them.
He remembered watching Carlos believe it.

He remembered showing him where the edge was —
And how to fall.

“You good?” George’s voice broke the silence, soft but direct.

Alex didn’t answer right away.

His gaze hadn’t left Carlos.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I just… can’t stop thinking that maybe this is my fault.”

George followed his line of sight. His eyes softened.

“It’s not,” he said, steady and sure. “You were both hurting. You still are. But that doesn’t make it your fault. You didn’t break him. You just didn’t know how to hold each other without cutting yourselves open.”

Alex’s fingers twisted the bottle cap tighter. He hadn’t even noticed he was doing it until it bit into his skin.

“I know,” he murmured. “But still. Part of me thinks… maybe I should be the one helping him pick up the pieces.”

“No,” George said gently, turning toward him. “Not now. He’s not alone — he’s got Lando, Max, probably Charles too. People who can help. Right now, you need to focus on picking up your own pieces. That’s enough.”

Alex didn’t reply.

He looked up just as Carlos and Lando reached the front desk. Lando was speaking quietly to the concierge, checking them in. Carlos barely said a word. He just stood there, weighed down, his hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie like he didn’t trust himself with them.

And then, as if pulled by instinct, Carlos turned.

Their eyes met.

For a second, the noise in Alex’s head stopped.

He gave a small smile. Quiet. Careful. Not expecting anything.

Carlos held his gaze. Really looked.

Then — the smallest nod. A flicker of something that almost resembled a smile.

And then he turned away, following Lando toward the elevators.

Gone again.

Alex exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath without knowing.

“You think he’ll be okay?” he asked, softly.

George leaned back in his seat, eyes tracing the ceiling like the answer might be there. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I hope so.”

Alex nodded.

He stayed there, letting the silence settle back around them. Sitting in the aftermath — of everything they were, everything they ruined, and everything they were still trying to unlearn.

Trying to believe that sometimes letting go was helping.

Chapter Text

Charles’ POV

Charles stood frozen in the middle of the Ferrari garage, like something inside him had quietly shut down. The red flag had been out for a few minutes now—Jack Doohan had gone off hard. Around him, the garage was already humming again. Headsets crackled, screens flickered, engineers talked in low voices, moving on with the ease that came from practice and routine.

But Charles couldn’t move.

He’d asked if Jack was okay. The answer had come fast—yes, he was out of the car, conscious, being checked over. But somehow, it didn’t feel like enough. It never did. The moment he’d heard the words “bad crash,” a chill had gripped his spine.

His body had stayed in the car.
His mind had gone somewhere else entirely.

Suzuka always did this to him.

This track didn’t just carry memories—it held them, wore them like scars in the asphalt. He hated every lap. Every corner felt too familiar, too rehearsed, like muscle memory haunted by something deeper. Jules had crashed here. Not in some dramatic blaze of impact. It had been quiet. Normal. A regular race, a regular moment—and then he never came home.

That was the part that stuck the most.
That it had all felt so normal .

Every time they came back to Suzuka, it was like reopening a wound that had barely begun to heal.

Charles reached up without thinking, tugging at the collar of his race suit, trying to loosen something that wasn’t physical. The pressure in his chest hadn’t let up since the start of the session.

And things were already bad— before today.

Carlos was falling apart. Everyone could see it. But nobody said anything. Max wouldn’t even acknowledge it. When Charles had asked, Max just lied. Said Carlos was fine. Like Charles hadn’t seen otherwise. Like he hadn’t found him hungover and wrecked, eyes empty, a smear of dried blood still clinging to his forehead.

Why had Max lied?

Charles knew he was hiding something. And maybe that was what hurt the most—that Max was protecting Carlos from him , like Charles didn’t deserve to know. Like he wasn’t allowed to care.

Then there was Alex—laughing, smiling, acting like he hadn’t been the one who lit the match and walked away while everything burned. George stayed close to him all the time now, like a bodyguard, or maybe like a shield. Like Alex needed protecting. Like he was the one who’d been hurt. As if they didn’t care—or even realize—that Carlos had been the one left behind in the dark.

Charles’s eyes flicked to the Williams garage across the lane.

There he was.

Carlos, standing with his team, laughing at something someone said. His body loose, easy, pretending. Like none of it had ever happened. Like they hadn’t torn each other open with silence and half-truths. Like the last time they spoke hadn’t ended with Charles dragging him to dinner, trying to put him back together piece by fragile piece, only for Carlos to pull away again.

“I’m tired,” Carlos had said.
“I need space.”

And now, earlier today, Charles had seen him again—this time with Max, the two of them smiling about something Charles hadn’t been invited into. He’d thought, for a second, about walking over. About pretending too. But something in him had hesitated.

Maybe he didn’t belong there anymore.

He hated how left out he felt.

A mechanic brushed past him, said something—maybe an update, maybe just a casual comment. Charles didn’t hear it. Didn’t try to. His ears were ringing. His thoughts were too loud.

Why couldn’t he breathe?

It was the same feeling from all those years ago—the silence after the crash, the lie that everything was fine, the hollow certainty in his gut that it wasn’t. Jules had crashed, and Charles had known something was wrong. Even when everyone else said he’d be okay, Charles had felt it.

And now that fear was back.

Not just for Jack. For all of them.
For Carlos. For himself.

For the version of their lives where everything hadn’t gone so wrong.

Where people didn’t lie.
Where Carlos didn’t look at him like a stranger.
Where grief didn’t follow him onto every circuit.

Where love didn’t feel like something that always ended in silence.

Carlos’ POV

The session was finally over. Jack had crashed. Fernando too. There had been grass fires by the runoffs, smoke drifting over the track like something out of a nightmare. Too many red flags. Too many reminders that none of them were untouchable.

Carlos stood by the Williams hospitality for a moment longer than he needed to, watching across the paddock. The sun was starting to dip, throwing long shadows over the asphalt. And there—just outside the Ferrari garage—he saw him.

Charles.

Sitting on the ground, back against the wall, helmet off, head bowed. Still in his suit, elbows resting on his knees, hands limp like even gravity was too much right now. There was something so small about him in that moment. Like he’d folded in on himself completely.

Carlos didn’t think. He just walked.

He moved quietly, stopping in front of him, not sure if he was about to be welcomed or pushed away. Charles didn’t look up at first. When he finally did, it was slow—like looking hurt. Like Carlos had torn a hole in something by just standing there.

His eyes met Carlos’s like he was seeing a ghost.

Carlos swallowed. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “How are you doing?”

Charles looked down again, fiddling with the cap on his water bottle. “Fine.”

A lie.

Carlos hesitated, then nodded, settling on the ground beside him, knees pulled up loosely. “I’m sorry,” he said after a beat. “I should’ve answered your calls.”

Charles let out a quiet breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. He didn’t look at Carlos when he answered. “Yeah.” Then, softer, “How are you doing now then?”

Carlos nodded again, automatically. “I’m fine.”

Another lie.

Charles finally turned his head, eyes tired and sharp all at once. “Yeah, well... we’re both lying, aren’t we?” He tilted his head back against the wall. “How can we be fine in a sport like this?”

Carlos stayed quiet.

Charles kept going, voice more bitter than Carlos had heard in a long time. “We only matter when we’re winning. When we’re fast. If we crash, if we’re slow, if we break—we’re disposable. And I feel like I’m the only one who gives a shit about that. You don’t care. Max doesn’t. Alex definitely doesn’t. Everyone’s just laughing like none of this touches us.”

Carlos felt the words land in his chest like stones. “It’s not that I don’t care,” he said quietly. “It’s that we’re not allowed to. What are we supposed to do? We have contracts. We’re supposed to show up, smile, say we’re grateful. Pretend we’re made of steel.”

He looked at Charles, and his voice dipped lower. “But I do care.”

Charles turned to him slowly. “I’ve tried to care about you for months. And you just keep pushing me away.”

Carlos looked down at the pavement. The words stung more than he’d expected. Not because they weren’t true—but because they were. He’d built a wall, and he’d told himself it was protection. He hadn’t realized until now that Charles had been standing on the other side of it the whole time.

“I didn’t want you to worry about me,” he said finally. “But I care. I do. And I know how hard it is for you to be here. In Suzuka.”

Charles let out a breath that sounded more like defeat than anything else. “Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe it’s just Suzuka making everything heavier. Maybe I just feel too much here.”

Carlos looked over at him—at the slope of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes were a little too glassy. He knew Charles was right. That the pretending wasn’t working. That they couldn’t keep faking being okay—not with each other.

And even if he wasn’t ready to say all the things he should, he could give Charles something real. Something small.

“I see that,” Carlos said. He shifted closer, hesitated for half a second, and then wrapped an arm around Charles’s shoulders.

Chapter Text

Max’s POV

He was done. With all of it.

The media circus. The fake smiles. The questions that weren’t questions, just knives disguised as curiosity. Every interview today had been about Liam. Liam’s exit. Liam’s failure. As if Max had the answers, as if he’d been the one to fire the kid. He hadn’t even known about it until the press did.

And that’s what pissed him off the most. Not the media. Not the speculation.
But his own team.
How they used Liam as a shield. Let the spotlight burn him to ash so no one looked at the car. So no one talked about the real issue.

The car was shit.

He’d said it—loud, clear, in more debriefs than he could count. The rear grip was inconsistent. The upgrades were inconsistent. The whole balance of the car was wrong. And yet no one listened. Because Red Bull was too busy playing PR games, too busy crafting headlines to sell the illusion that everything was fine.

Max knew it wasn’t.

It had been boiling in him all day, simmering just under his skin. By the time qualifying rolled around, he felt like he could punch a wall straight through.

He put on his helmet like it was a weapon. Climbed into the car like it was the only place in the world that still made sense. And then he drove.

Quali 1: aggressive.
Quali 2: ruthless.
Quali 3: violent.

He wrung every ounce of performance out of the car, like he was trying to punish it. Like if it gave out under him, at least it would be honest.

Pole.

His race engineer crackled over the radio, cheering, voice lit up like it actually mattered.

Max didn’t answer.

This car didn’t deserve pole. This team didn’t deserve celebration. It wasn’t good. He had just been angry enough to override the bullshit for a few laps.

He climbed out of the car, pulled off his gloves, yanked his helmet off. He ignored the reporters, the cameras, the wide-eyed media coordinator hovering nervously by the paddock fence. Someone called his name—he didn’t turn.

Let them fine him. Let them say he was ungrateful. He didn’t care.

He walked straight to the driver room, peeled off his suit like it burned, and changed into jeans and a hoodie in record time. No cool down room. No top three interviews. No press pen. No pretending.

He ordered a cab. Not a team shuttle. A cab.

Thirty minutes later, he was in the backseat, arms crossed, jaw clenched, staring out at the rain-slick roads of Suzuka. The adrenaline had faded, but the anger hadn’t. It still sat in his chest like a caged animal, ready to bite the first person who got too close.

He didn’t know what to do with it.

Punching something wouldn’t help. Talking wouldn’t help. Bottling it up would just make it worse. He hated feeling like this—like he was one wrong word away from setting fire to everything.

Maybe it was better this way. To stay quiet. To disappear before he said something he couldn’t take back. Because Max knew himself too well.

He didn’t want to break something he couldn’t fix.

Lando’s POV

It wasn’t unusual for Max to ditch media.
Wasn’t even that surprising to see him storm off with his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, looking like every question thrown at him was a personal insult he had to swallow.

But today felt different.
Wrong, even.

Max didn’t just look pissed at the journalists—he looked pissed at the world. Like he was hanging by a thread and everyone kept tugging.

Lando couldn’t stop thinking about that night in Carlos’s apartment. Max and Carlos, completely wrecked. Drained. Shattered in a way that didn’t leave room for more yelling because everything that needed to be screamed had already been said. He hadn’t meant to walk in on any of it. But he had. He’d seen the glass scattered across the floor, the broken vase, the wreckage of whatever “moment” they thought they had.

Whatever it was, it had left a scar.
And now? Carlos walked around the paddock pretending everything was fine and Max was storming off from media obligations.

Lando didn’t want to be here either.
But here he was anyway—still in his suit, sweaty, exhausted, standing just off the edge of the media pen while cameras clicked and PR people scrambled like ants.

He’d qualified P2. Oscar got P3. McLaren should’ve been buzzing.

Instead, Lando felt like a placeholder.
Like the headline had walked off without a word, and he was just the understudy shoved into the spotlight.

He scanned the paddock, eyes squinting against the low sun. No sign of Max. Just the growing hum of questions he didn’t want to answer.

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face. Someone needed to check on Max. Someone who wouldn’t make things worse.

Not Carlos— definitely not Carlos. That would just light another fuse. Two walking tempers with nowhere to put their fire.

But Charles… maybe.

Charles had a stillness about him, the kind that didn’t crack under pressure. He wasn’t dramatic. He wasn’t loud. He was observant, calm in the way that made people feel safe even when they didn’t want to be. If anyone could reach Max right now, maybe it was him.

And like he’d been summoned by thought alone, Charles appeared beside him, dabbing sweat from his forehead with a towel.

“Congrats on P2,” he said quietly.

Lando gave him a tired half-smile. “Thanks. Should be fun starting next to Max.” He glanced toward the empty Red Bull side of the paddock. “If he even shows up.”

Charles followed his gaze. “Where is Max anyway?”

Lando let out a breath. “Stormed off after quali. Skipped media. Classic.” He tried to sound light, but the weariness leaked through. “Guess who gets to make up for it?”

Charles raised an eyebrow, mouth twitching with a trace of sympathy.

Lando hesitated for only a second before saying what he’d been thinking. “You wouldn’t maybe… go check on him? I know it’s not your responsibility, but…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just think he might actually listen to you.”

Charles was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. We have some things to talk about anyway.”

Lando blinked at that—but it didn’t feel like a bad thing. It felt like something shifting. Something finally cracking open.

“Great,” he said. “Good luck.”

Charles gave him a small, knowing smile. “Good luck to you handling the media.”

Lando groaned as his PR manager appeared with that unmistakable we need to go now look.

“Right,” he muttered. “Here comes the real race.”

Charles let out a soft laugh and turned, walking away into the shadows of the paddock, towel slung over his shoulder like he was heading into battle.

And for just a second, Lando let himself hope.

Hope that maybe someone would actually say the right thing.
That maybe it wasn’t too late for everything to stop falling apart.

Before he could think more about it, he was being ushered toward flashing lights and microphones, the smile already being drawn back onto his face.

Charles’ POV

The cab ride was quiet, the only sounds the steady hum of tires against wet asphalt and the occasional flicker of the driver’s turn signal. Charles didn’t bother to look out the window. He wasn’t seeing anything, not really.

The paddock had been its usual chaotic self, but something had shifted when Charles overheard two journalists talking about Max heading back to the hotel in a cab. Without thinking, he’d called for his own ride and left—still half-sweaty in his race gear, his hands restless in his lap for the entire ride.

He hadn’t lied to Lando—he did have things to say to Max. A lot of things, honestly. But as the hotel loomed closer, his certainty started to crumble, replaced by something heavier. A sinking feeling that gnawed at him.

What if Max didn’t want to talk? What if Max didn’t want him there?

Lately, it felt like nobody was listening—not to him, not to anyone. Everyone seemed to either shout their frustrations or bury them, breaking down in silence, only to pretend nothing had happened. And that… that scared Charles more than he was willing to admit.

The cab dropped him off outside the hotel, and as he stepped out, the soft drizzle met him like an old, unwelcome friend. The air was thick with the smell of wet pavement, and something else—something tense, something unresolved. He tried to shake it off as he made his way into the lobby, but the frustration clung to him, a weight on his chest. He didn’t want to carry it upstairs with him, especially not with Max already angry. If he showed up with the same frustration, it would only make things worse.

But it was hard not to be angry.

Hard not to feel the quiet, simmering resentment that had been building for days now.

Because just days ago, he’d sent Max to check on Carlos, to be there for him. And now here he was, sent by Lando to check on Max. A twisted cycle. A loop they couldn’t escape, where they were all trying to prop each other up but none of them had the strength left to stand on their own.

One more crack, and someone was going to break. Charles wasn’t sure who it would be, but he was starting to fear it might be him.

He walked through the lobby, nodding at the concierge as he passed, and took the elevator up in silence. He didn’t even know what he was going to say to Max. He just knew he had to say something. Anything.

Outside Max’s room, he hesitated.

What if Max opened the door with that same angry look from qualifying still burning in his eyes? Or worse—what if he looked empty, like Carlos had in Monaco? Like Charles had after Jules. That hollow, aching look. The one that made you feel like everything inside had already broken.

Charles lifted his hand and knocked—three slow, deliberate raps. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to say, I’m here. Let me in.

And then he waited.

Waited, not knowing who—or what—would answer.

Maybe Max was just mad. But maybe, just maybe, he was falling apart too.

And Charles wasn’t sure he had enough of himself left to catch him.

Max’s POV

Max sat slouched in the hotel armchair, legs stretched out, eyes fixed on the rain streaking the window. Thin lines against dark glass. Normally, he liked the rain — it made everything quieter. But not here. Not tonight. Not in Suzuka.

Here, the rain was a weight. A reminder.

He wasn’t mad like he’d been in the paddock. The fire was still there, but banked now. Contained. It would come back tomorrow — with the meetings, the press, the questions about Liam, about Red Bull, about his mood. Same shit, different day.

When the knock came, Max didn’t move at first.

Could be a PR rep. Could be security. Could be no one.

But something tugged at him — that same stubborn curiosity that got him into half his worst decisions.

He pushed himself up and opened the door.

And there was Charles.

For a second, Max just blinked. Charles looked… unput. Hoodie thrown on over a t-shirt, sweatpants, hair a rumpled mess. Max didn’t ask why he was there. Didn’t need to. He just stepped aside.

Charles walked in, shutting the door behind him.

“Lando sent me,” Charles said, like it was a damn explanation.

Max let out a dry, sharp laugh. Shook his head.

“Of course he did. Fucking hell. We just… send each other to each other, don’t we?” He dropped back into his chair. “Little chain of misery. But I’m fine, thanks for stopping by.”

Charles didn’t argue. Just gave him a look — tired, unimpressed, but not unkind. “Yeah, yeah. Everyone’s fine, right?”

Max snorted, meeting his gaze. “Obviously. Look at us. Perfectly well-adjusted.”

And for a moment, the tension cracked. Charles smiled. Not a big one, but real enough.

Max tipped his head back, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “So what? You’re here to do a wellness check? Make sure I’m not about to smash a minibar?”

“Something like that,” Charles muttered, dropping into the other chair. He hesitated, then added, softer, “And to ask why you keep pretending Carlos is fine.”

That hit different.

Max sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Because it’s not my story to tell,” he said, low. “It’s his. If he wants to talk, he will. I can’t force it.” He hated it. Hated knowing, hated not saying. But the last thing he wanted was to take away the one bit of control Carlos had left.

Charles let out a breath — that tired, bone-deep sigh Max knew too well. The sound you made when you’d run out of rope and there was still too much distance left to fall.

“Yeah,” Charles said quietly. “But he won’t talk, Max. He never does. He breaks, he hides, and we pretend not to see it.”

Max didn’t argue. Couldn’t. “I know,” he said. “He’s not in a good place. But… are any of us? The media, the fans, Netflix — they’ve made us into cartoon characters. I’m the asshole. You’re the golden boy. And Carlos…” He didn’t finish.

Didn’t have to.

Charles knew.

A silence settled between them — heavy, but not uncomfortable. The kind that didn’t need fixing.

Charles looked down at the floor, jaw clenched. “I just—” he started, then cut himself off. “I love him,” he said finally, the words low and wrecked. “And I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know when it’s the right time to say something. Maybe there isn’t one.”

Max watched him. Something unspoken lodged itself in his throat. Then, for the first time all day, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You love him? Like… love love him?” Max asked, his brows drawn together. He hadn’t really considered it before—had always assumed Charles saw Carlos like a brother, a best friend. But there was something different in his voice. Something heavier.

Charles winced, his cheeks flushing. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud,” he muttered, eyes dropping to the floor. “It’s just… everything’s such a mess, and it hurts. Watching him fall apart. Watching everyone fall apart.”

Max looked away, a flicker of something tightening in his chest. 

“Yeah,” Max said softly, eyes on the rain sliding down the window. “Didn’t realize you felt that way about him.”

Charles groaned, face heating up. “I don’t know. I just… I miss him. I think I was in love with him back when we were at Ferrari. But I never said anything. I never did anything.”

Max gave a small smile, quiet and knowing. “Love is complicated.”

The rain kept falling.

And neither of them said another word.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

It was Sunday.
Race day.
And Suzuka still felt heavier than it should.

Carlos had woken before his alarm, the room faintly lit by the dull gray of an overcast morning. The rain had come and gone overnight, leaving the tarmac damp and the air thick, clinging to his skin like something that wouldn’t quite let go. There was always something about this place that stuck in his chest. Maybe it was the history he knew Charles with this place. Maybe it was just him.

Williams had done what they could this weekend. P12 in quali wasn’t a disaster — but then he’d managed to block Lewis on a cool-down lap, taken a grid penalty, and dropped to P15. Typical. In the back of his mind, Carlos knew what was expected now: a clean race, stay out of trouble, pick up whatever scraps might fall his way. No one was asking him to win here.

Not like they asked of Charles.

But somehow, that didn’t dull the sting.

Maybe that’s why, as he pulled on his suit that morning, he made a quiet, half-formed promise to himself — stick close to Charles today. Not for the cameras. Not for PR. Not for the usual pretend-they’re-best-friends content the teams liked to push. Just because Charles was here. Because Carlos did know how hard it was for Charles to be here at Suzuka.

When the call came for the drivers’ parade, Carlos lingered by the paddock carpet, pretending to check messages he wasn’t reading. The other drivers drifted out in pairs and groups. Lando had an arm slung over Oscar’s shoulder trying to prove they weren't enemies in front of the camera, Yuki was already cracking a joke at Isack’s expense, and Max stalked ahead, cap pulled low like he was daring anyone to try him.

And then Charles.

Ferrari hoodie pulled on over his race suit, hands in his pockets, hair an unholy mess like he’d run both hands through it too many times since the morning briefings. His face unreadable in that way only Charles could pull off — neutral, detached, like none of this touched him, even when Carlos knew it did.

Before he could overthink it, Carlos’s feet carried him forward.

He caught up, falling into step beside Charles, their shoulders almost brushing as they headed toward the carpet.

“Hey… can I make you company?” Carlos asked, voice a little rough, like it took more effort than it should.

Charles glanced over at him, surprised — and then that small, crooked thing his mouth did, not a smile, but something softer.

“Yeah,” Charles said quietly. “Why not.”

And that was it.

They walked together. Carlos ignored the cameras, ignored the fans waving from behind the barriers. He should’ve been smiling, waving, playing the scrappy underdog Williams wanted him to be. But instead, he started talking. About the car. About Turn 8 and the rear grip on high fuel. About how the softs would be dead ten laps in, no matter what the teams pretended.

None of it mattered.
But it was easier than saying the things that did.

Charles listened. Actually listened. Tipped his head toward Carlos, eyes steady, like he wasn’t a Ferrari driver with a world on his shoulders and a thousand people tugging at his time.

Like he was just Charles.
And Carlos was just… Carlos.

They reached the start of the carpet where the drivers climbed into the flatbed truck for the parade lap. The others were already ahead — Yuki laughing with Isack and Liam, Lewis having a quiet word with Fernando. But for a moment, it felt like Carlos and Charles existed in their own little space. The roar of the crowd dulled, the overhead sky stretching wide and low.

Carlos felt his muscles loosen in a way they rarely did.
Like a habit.
Like an old, familiar ache easing for the first time in weeks.

Like he was back in Ferrari.

“Thanks,” Carlos murmured, not even sure if Charles would catch it over the noise.

Charles turned his head, brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For letting me… be here. With you.” Carlos shrugged, instantly hating how awkward it sounded.

Charles let out a short, soft laugh. Shook his head. “You don’t have to ask, you know.”

Something tightened in Carlos’s chest.
He wished he knew what to do with it.

They climbed onto the truck. And instead of sitting where his team PR would’ve wanted him Carlos dropped into the spot next to Charles. Tucked into a corner like they could almost pretend they were invisible. Like it was just them.

Max’s POV

It was Sunday.
Race day.
And Suzuka felt like a pressure cooker about to blow.

Max sat in the car on the grid, visor down, jaw tight, every muscle in his shoulders coiled so tight it ached. He could still feel the phantom weight of the morning briefings, the empty PR words, the tight smiles from people who wouldn’t meet his eye.

The car beneath him wasn’t his. It was Red Bull’s. The team’s. The machine they built, painted, paraded. But once the lights went out — it was his.
And they didn’t deserve what he could do in it.

He didn’t care.
Not anymore.
Today was about burning the anger out of his bones, about breaking the silence in his head. About taking something for himself, even if it meant nothing when it was over.

The lights went out.

Max launched off the line like a bullet.
Clean. Ruthless. Unforgiving.

It had rained earlier — the track was dry now, but slick at the edges, just enough to make you second-guess every curb. Max didn’t care. He drove like it was personal. And maybe it was. Every apex was a knife. Every straight a scream. The car twitched, bit back, but he held it on the edge like he always did.

They couldn’t stop him.

And when it came — the moment, the flashpoint, the heat — it was Lando.

Mid-race, both of them dived for the pitlane. Split-second timing. Max hit the limiter, Lando right behind, both crews scrambling. Max’s stop was clean. Fast.
He rejoined just ahead — a heartbeat, a breath — but Lando’s McLaren came storming up his inside.

Max saw the move coming before Lando did.

And Max chose violence.

He squeezed him.
Left barely a car’s width between his Red Bull and the edge of the grass. Lando had no choice but to drive out to the grass, his car almost snapping sideways for half a second before he gathered it up and fought back onto track.

Max didn’t even flinch.
Didn’t look.
Didn’t care.

Because it wasn’t about Lando. It wasn’t about anyone. It was about the fire in his chest that wouldn’t go out unless he drove like this.

Lando recovered, still in his mirrors, furious, throwing his hand up, cursing down the radio no doubt. Max didn’t care. He buried his foot to the floor, took Turn 1 like a knife through flesh, and kept going.

The rest of the race blurred.

He blocked. He pushed. Every overtake attempt died in the dirt. Every time Lando came close, Max shut the door. Reckless, aggressive, ugly. And he didn’t care what anyone thought of it.

He crossed the line first.

His first win of the season.

The Red Bull pit wall exploded in celebration. Christian’s voice came through his radio, thick with manufactured joy:
“Yes Max! You’re back on top, mate! What a drive!”

Max didn’t respond.

Because he hated it.
Hated that it felt good for one second.
Hated that he still wanted it.
Hated that they’d plaster his face on the front pages tomorrow with their smug headlines and pretend everything was fine.

He slowed on the cooldown lap, watching the grandstands blur by. A weird, sharp ache twisted in his stomach.

Because they weren’t part of this shit. Not like him. Not anymore.

He parked up in parc fermé, killed the engine, and ripped off his gloves. He climbed out of the car, visor down, ignoring the cameras and the team clapping like they hadn’t tried to crush him under their bullshit all year.

His first win for the season.
And he didn’t want it.

But it was his.
And he’d taken it on his terms.

Lando’s POV

He felt it the second they went wheel to wheel in the pit exit.
Max’s fury wasn’t something you needed words for. It came through in the way he drove — sharp, brutal, like every corner was a punch and every straight a sprint away from something chasing him.

Lando had seen Max angry before. Hell, he’d raced angry himself. But this was different.
This wasn’t about Lando.
And he knew better than to take it personal.

He still fought though — because he was Lando Norris, because McLaren was finally back where they belonged, because this season had felt like catching lightning in a bottle and he wasn’t about to let go. He saved the car, dragged it back on track after that squeeze to the grass, and kept chasing. He gave Max hell, or as much as you could give a man driving like he wanted to break the world in half.

And when the flag dropped and Max won… Lando didn’t feel bitter.
He just felt tired.

Tired and weirdly relieved it wasn’t Red Bull as a whole that beat them. It was Max .
And there was a difference.

On the in-lap, Lando waved to the crowd, gave the cameras the big grin they wanted, but his eyes were on the Red Bull ahead. On Max.

By the time they parked up and climbed out, Lando already knew what kind of mood Max was in.
And still, he followed him.

Past the press waiting for their crumbs, past the over-eager team members. Into the cool-down room, where the air was too cold and the silence too loud. Max stood alone, helmet half-off, jaw clenched like he was expecting a fight he didn’t want to have.

So Lando did what he always did.
He stepped in.

“Hey,” Lando said, sidling up next to him. “You and me. Partying tonight.”

Max blinked.
Actually blinked like the idea hadn’t even entered his orbit.

Lando grinned. “No buts. No ‘I’m not in the mood’ speech. No ghosting. We’re doing it. Not for them,” he jerked his chin toward the Red Bull camp outside the glass. “For you. Your win. Not Red Bull’s. Just yours.”

For a second, Lando thought maybe Max would tell him to piss off.
But something flickered in his eyes. Something less hard, less sharp.

Max sighed. “Well… no point arguing with you, is there?”

Lando gave him a crooked grin. “Not unless you fancy losing against me.”

Max huffed a quiet laugh, and Lando counted it as a win.

“Well driven today,” Max said, voice low, and for once, sincere. “Thought the days of fighting McLaren were over.”

“Yeah, I never thought I would fight with a Red Bull again, you guys seem to have a shit car” Lando admitted. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, eyes flicking up to the screen replaying the finish. “I don’t know what’s going on, man. The car’s quick. The strategy’s on point. Pit stops are clean. It’s like… everything’s just working.”

Max’s gaze was steady. “Makes you nervous, doesn’t it.”

Lando let out a breath, surprised how easily Max had called it.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Like it’s all too good . Feels like something’s gotta go wrong eventually. But… I’m trying not to think about that. Trying to just… enjoy it, you know?”

“Good,” Max said, serious now. “Because it never lasts. Might as well take it when you’ve got it.”

There was something in the way Max said it that made the hair on Lando’s neck prickle. Not a threat. Not a warning. Just a truth from someone who knew better.

But then Max shrugged, and the weight lifted a little.

“Alright,” Max said, a small, rare grin tugging at his mouth. “Party tonight. But I’m not doing shots.”

“You are doing shots,” Lando grinned. “And you’re buying the first round.”

Max rolled his eyes. “I just won a race.”

“And I almost ended up in the gravel because of you. Fair’s fair.”

They both laughed then — a real one, something easy, something Lando hadn’t felt in weeks. And for the first time all afternoon, it felt like the world had stopped spinning quite so fast.

The cameras would be waiting. The interviews, the headlines, the drama.
But for now, it was just them.

And a promise to get very, very drunk.

Chapter Text

Max’s POV

The shots had made everything easier.

Not good, not clean — just easier.
The music had been too loud, the lights too sharp, but in that swirl of noise and sweat and laughter, he didn’t have to think. Didn’t have to feel anything beyond the burn of alcohol in his throat and the solid presence of Lando at his side, matching him drink for drink, reckless grin on his face.

For a few hours, they weren’t drivers. Weren’t rivals or teammates or enemies or whatever the hell the press wanted to call them this week.
They were just… Max and Lando.

And when the bar finally shut its doors, and the night air felt like a slap, they piled into a cab without even talking about it. The unspoken agreement between people who didn’t want to be alone yet.

Max’s hotel room looked like it had survived a small storm — clothes strewn across the floor, team notes and debrief printouts crumpled on the desk, an empty Red Bull can tipped over on the windowsill. He didn’t ask what Lando wanted to drink — just went straight to the minibar, grabbed the gin, added tonic, and handed over the glass like muscle memory.

Lando took it without a word, and they both sank into the armchairs like old men with tired bones

The silence wasn’t awkward.
Not with them.

Max sipped his drink, the ice clinking in the glass, then spoke before he could talk himself out of it.

“Charles was here yesterday.”

Lando glanced at him over the rim of his glass. “Yeah, I know. I sent him.”

Max huffed a soft laugh. Of course.
“Yeah, I know, I know. But… he confessed something. Said he’s in love with Carlos.”

Lando didn’t even flinch. Just let out a sigh, like it was old news.

“Yeah,” Lando said. “Kind of obvious, isn’t it? That Charles is in love with Carlos.”

Max blinked at him, confused. “You knew?”

Lando gave him a crooked, tipsy grin. “Max, you’re blind.”

Max shook his head, slumping further into the chair. “I always thought Charles saw Carlos like a best friend. Like a brother.”

Lando snorted softly, leaning in with a knowing look. “No, mate. Come on. Charles and Carlos were flirting nonstop last year. Everyone saw it. Maybe things are different now, but Charles still looks at him like he hung the stars.”

Max stared into his drink, the bitterness clinging to his tongue. “Yeah… maybe I am blind.”

Lando shrugged, then after a moment, his voice softened. “You know, when Carlos drove with me at McLaren… I was a mess. Full-on panic attacks every other night before a race. I thought I didn’t belong here. Everyone thought I was just the kid with the rich dad. But Carlos… he was there. Every time. Stayed up with me, made me laugh when I wanted to disappear. Reminded me why I wanted this.”

Max looked at him, surprised. He hadn’t known. Had never asked.
“It hurts to see him like this now,” Lando added. “Falling apart. After everything he gave to me.”

Max swallowed hard. Something in his throat catching.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “When I came into this sport, Carlos was my first teammate. Both of us new, both of us thrown into the deep end. I was just this angry kid trying to prove my dad wrong. And Carlos… he saw it. He saw how my dad treated me, saw the pressure, and he didn’t turn away. He… he made sure I wasn’t alone. That I didn’t believe I was a failure, even when my own old man told me I was.”

The room was quiet now, just the hum of the minibar fridge and the city far below.

Max ran a hand over his face. “He was the first person in this sport who showed me it was okay to have a friend. That you didn’t have to see everyone as an enemy when you left the garage.”

Lando exhaled, a long, shaky breath. “Jesus, mate. I didn’t know.”

“None of you did,” Max said quietly. “But Carlos did.”

They sat in that silence for a long time, both of them carrying stories they hadn’t told anyone else before. The weight of it heavy but somehow easier to hold between them.

“Crazy, huh,” Lando muttered, tipping his glass toward Max. “He’s been there for all of us. And now he’s the one breaking.”

“Yeah,” Max whispered. “And none of us know how to fix it.”

They clinked their glasses together softly, not in a toast, not really.
Just a small, wordless promise.

Lando’s POV

They were wasted. Properly, gloriously, stupidly wasted.

The gin and tonics had gone down too easy, and now Max was laughing at something Lando had said three minutes ago, his head tipped back, the sound loud and unfiltered. Lando couldn’t even remember what the joke was — didn’t matter. Everything felt light and ridiculous, the world spinning in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

He grinned, slouched sideways in his chair.
“Hey,” Lando slurred, pointing a finger at Max like he was about to say something deeply important. “Do you… do you know if Carlos is still here? Or did he… did he fly to Bahrain already?”

Max blinked at him, processing, then shrugged. “Uh… no, he’s still here, I think. Why?”

Lando’s grin widened, mischief fizzing under his skin. “Let’s go see him.”

Max barked a laugh, eyes crinkling. “What? Now?”

“Yeah, now,” Lando said, already half-standing, nearly tripping over his own foot. “He’d love some company.”

And somehow, impossibly, Max agreed.
“Yeah, why not.”

It was a terrible idea. The best kind of terrible idea.

They stumbled out of Max’s hotel room, giggling like idiots as they made their way down the hallway, shoulders bumping. The corridor swayed a little, or maybe that was just Lando, but it didn’t matter. He was too busy laughing at Max trying to read the room numbers.

“Which one’s his?” Lando asked.

“Uh… this one,” Max said, squinting and knocking on a door that probably wasn’t Carlos’s at first. Lando swatted his hand, pointed at the next one, and Max gave it a shot.

They knocked. And then knocked again. And again, like two drunk kids at a sleepover trying to wake up their friend at an ungodly hour.

When the door finally swung open, Carlos stood there — hair a mess, sleep-heavy eyes squinting against the light, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked so disoriented it made Lando burst out laughing all over again.

“What the hell are you guys doing here?” Carlos asked, voice rough with sleep.

“We wanted to hang out with you!” Lando grinned, throwing an arm around Carlos’s shoulders and pulling him into a sloppy hug.

Carlos stumbled back a step, caught off-guard. “Woah, okay — you guys are completely hammered.”

Max, leaning against the doorframe, shrugged. “Little bit.”

“Yeah,” Lando beamed, still hanging off Carlos. “And now it’s your turn.”

Max groaned, rubbing his face. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t drink anymore.”

Lando let go of Carlos and turned to Max, baffled. “What? No. The night’s still young!”

“It’s literally three in the morning,” Carlos muttered, rubbing his eyes, but there was a tiny, amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Exactly,” Lando grinned, lifting the bottle of gin and the half-full tonic he’d somehow swiped from Max’s room. “C’mon, Max — make three of your famous gin and tonics.”

Max stared at the bottle, then at Lando. “Wait — did you steal my gin?”

“Borrowed,” Lando said, all innocent eyes and crooked grin.

Max sighed like a man defeated by his own bad ideas, grabbed the bottle, and made his way to the little kitchenette area in Carlos’s room.
“Alright, alright — one round. And this is on you when we all feel like death tomorrow.”

Lando didn’t care. He dropped onto the edge of Carlos’s bed, kicking his feet up and grinning at both of them like the happiest idiot alive.

Carlos’s POV

The glass felt heavy in his hand. Gin and tonic — too sharp, too cold for the middle of the night, but it slipped down easy. Too easy. The room swayed a little, not from the alcohol, but from exhaustion tugging at him like a weight around his shoulders.

Carlos knew Max was watching him. Could feel those steady, perceptive eyes on him even through the haze. But neither of them had said no when Lando insisted. How could they? Lando’s smile was too bright, his mood too light. Carlos didn’t have the heart to dim it.

He took another sip. Let it burn.

Lando was rattling off some nonsense story, half-joke, half-complete lie, and both Carlos and Max laughed at the punchline, though Carlos barely caught it. It didn’t matter. The laughter felt good. It felt normal.

When his glass emptied, Lando pointed at it like it was a crime scene.
“Oh no, you’re empty — Max, refill!”

Max chuckled, shaking his head, and took the glass from Carlos. As he passed, he leaned in, voice low so Lando wouldn’t catch it.
“You sure this is okay? You feel okay?”

Carlos met his gaze for a second, and there was something steady there, a thread tying him to the floor, keeping him from slipping too far.
“Yeah,” Carlos said softly. “Let Lando have fun with us. It’ll do good.”

Max gave a small, reluctant nod and turned to fix the drink.

Then Lando, of course, had another idea.

“Maybe we should go find Charles,” Lando grinned. “Bet he’d join us.”

Max glanced at the gin bottle and pulled a face.
“Not enough gin for four of us.”

Carlos hesitated — he knew what he had. Knew he shouldn’t. But maybe, just tonight, it could be easy.

He bent down and fished under the bed, pulling out the bottle of whiskey he’d hidden there days ago. Max’s eyes caught it immediately, and the concern in them was sharp, clear as daylight.
Carlos saw the message in that look: We’ll talk about this later.

He held the bottle out anyway.
“Maybe this’ll do.”

Before Max could say a word, Lando snatched it from Carlos’s hand like it was a trophy.
“Perfect! And I bet Charles has some fancy-ass wine or something stashed away. Let’s go.”

And just like that, they were three idiots in the hotel hallway, hunting down their next victim. Lando was stumbling ahead of them, more drunk than either of them, grinning like a kid sneaking out past curfew.

Carlos walked beside Max, both of them shaking their heads, but neither of them stopping it. It was light. It was good. It was a break from the heaviness that clung to Carlos like a second skin.

They knocked at Charles’s door — a little too loud, a little too eager — and when Charles finally opened it, bleary-eyed and rumpled, he looked like he was trying to remember what planet he was on.

“What… what are you guys doing?” Charles muttered.

Lando, beaming, wasted no time.
“Do you have wine? ‘Cause you’re joining us.”

And before Charles could say anything, Lando was already inside.

Charles sighed, resigned in that way only a best friend could be.
“Yeah, I have some. But it’s expensive, so—”

“Called it!” Lando grinned. “Where is it?”

Charles gestured to a table with two bottles of red, and Lando practically skipped over. Max and Carlos dropped down onto the small couch, and Carlos couldn’t help but glance at Charles. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, skin soft and unguarded in the half-light of the hotel room.

God, he was beautiful when he was newly awake.

Carlos barely had time to think about it before Lando appeared with a glass in each hand, whiskey and cola sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He shoved one toward Charles, one toward Carlos.

Carlos took a sip. Nearly choked.

“Christ,” Carlos coughed. “Is there even cola in this?”

Lando cackled. Max laughed too.
“Yeah,” Max smirked. “Maybe we shouldn’t let Lando be the bartender.”

They all laughed again. The kind of laughter that cracked something open inside Carlos’s chest — something warm, something almost whole.

For the first time in a long while, it felt like a moment he didn’t have to carry the world alone. Just four idiots, in a hotel room, in the middle of the night, with bad drinks and good company.

Max’s POV

It was good company. Laughter in the middle of the night, drinks passed between hands, stupid stories traded like currency. On the surface, it felt easy. But Max couldn’t quite shake the gnawing feeling in his chest.

Alcohol shouldn’t be the answer for everything.

He knew it. Knew it deep in his bones, and yet here they were — Carlos pulling a bottle of whiskey from under his hotel bed like it was nothing. Max had told himself maybe it was for the odd glass now and then, something to take the edge off. God knew they all had their ways of coping. 

But Max wasn’t stupid. He’d seen what most people hadn’t. Knew what kind of place Carlos had been in. He knew about the nights Carlos hadn’t been sure he wanted to see another morning. Knew it hadn’t just been once. Or twice.

Charles didn’t know. Lando didn’t. Maybe they suspected Carlos was breaking, felt bad about Ferrari cutting him loose, thought he was just struggling to find his footing. But they didn’t know the depth of it. How close it had gotten.

And Max — for all his worrying — hadn’t stopped him tonight either. He hadn’t wanted to dim Lando’s mood, hadn’t wanted to see the worry crash across Charles’s face. He kept it quiet. For now.

Carlos was beside him now on the couch, while Charles and Lando were halfway through a bottle of wine, both of them drunk enough to be loud and ridiculous. It was harmless, and Max let them have it. God knows they needed it too.

He set his own drink aside, untouched for a while now. Carlos noticed and did the same.

They sat there in the hum of the room, and Max turned to him.

“You still okay?” Max asked, voice low, meant for no one else but Carlos.

Carlos hesitated, then gave a small, tired nod.
“Yeah. I’m fine. I just…” He sighed. “I don’t think it’s a good idea that I drink too much.”

Max gave a soft huff of a laugh, not because it was funny, but because it was honest.
“Yeah. You’re right.” He glanced at Carlos. “Why’d you have a whiskey bottle under your bed, mate?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. He looked down at his hands, fingers curled loosely, then gave a half-hearted shrug.
“You know why. Don’t act like you didn’t keep one too, back when we were teammates.”

Max exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.
“Yeah, I remember. I just… I’m still worried about you.”

Carlos shook his head, a small, sad smile playing at his lips.
“I know.”

Max looked at him, and something heavy and unspoken passed between them.
“I’m always gonna worry about you, man. I’ve always cared about you. You’ve been there for me for ten years. Through all the bullshit, through everything. We’re in this together.”

Carlos let out a slow breath, his shoulders sinking like the weight was a little less crushing in this moment.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m glad you still care. I still care about you too, you know. Even when I don’t say it.”

Max reached out, slinging an arm around Carlos’s shoulders and pulling him in, a rare gesture neither of them needed to explain.
“Good,” Max said quietly. “I’m glad you’ve been there for me all these years. And now it’s my time to be there for you.”

Carlos nodded against him, and for a little while, they just sat like that, the sounds of Charles and Lando laughing in the background. Max held onto it. Because this, too — the quiet, the weight shared between old friends — mattered. Maybe even more than the laughter.

Charles’ POV

Charles was way too drunk. The kind of drunk where everything was funny and nothing felt real. He was laughing at nothing, half-leaning against Lando as they both made some terrible joke about Max being a party pooper when Max stood up and said it was time to sleep.

Lando called him a party pooper again, then went quiet for a second.
“Maybe you’re right,” Lando admitted, his words slurred but sincere as he stood, swaying dangerously.

Max caught him before he could fall, and Charles burst into another round of laughter. Everything was hilarious at this point — the way Lando’s legs didn’t seem to work, the way Max looked like an exhausted babysitter, the way Carlos hadn’t moved from the couch except to sip his drink and look vaguely amused.

Max glanced over at Carlos.
“You take care of him?” he asked, meaning Charles.

Carlos gave a tired grin and a small nod.
“Yeah. I’ll handle him.”

Max shot him a look of grateful relief before guiding Lando toward the door, Lando still grinning and waving a sloppy goodbye.
“You guys are invited to travel with me to Bahrain tomorrow… or—” Max checked the clock, squinting at it, “I mean, later today.”

“Thanks, mate,” Carlos said, and Max was gone, Lando’s arm slung over his shoulders.

The room felt quieter without them. A little softer. Charles turned his gaze to Carlos, who was still sitting there like he wasn’t quite sure what to do next.

“You know,” Charles said, picking up the wine bottle, “there’s still some wine left. Want to taste it? It’s good. Expensive. Would go perfect with a charcuterie board.”

He knew he was flirting. Knew it was probably obvious. But the wine had loosened something in him, and he didn’t want to stop.

Carlos hesitated, then sighed with a small smile.
“Yeah. Maybe we should eat something.”

Charles grinned, grabbed the hotel phone, and ordered a charcuterie board at six in the morning like it was the most normal thing in the world. He could practically hear the person on the other end judging him through the phone line, but he didn’t care.

Carlos laughed, shaking his head.
“Pretty sure they can tell how drunk you are.”

“Maybe,” Charles said with a grin, opening the second bottle of wine and pouring them both a glass. He handed one to Carlos.
“Here. Try it. Tell me it’s not the best you’ve had all week.”

Carlos took a sip, and Charles watched him over the rim of his own glass. The way Carlos’ hair was a little messy, his face softer now that the sharp edges of the night had dulled. He was beautiful like this. And Charles hated that he didn’t know how to say it without ruining everything.

Before he could overthink it, there was a knock at the door. Charles stumbled over, took the charcuterie board from the unimpressed-looking hotel staff, and muttered a thank you before closing the door and praying no rumors would start about him being hammered at dawn.

He set the board on the bed and climbed up beside it, holding out another glass of wine.

“This is like a date now,” Charles teased, half-joking, half not.

Carlos laughed — really laughed — and for a second Charles thought he saw the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks.

“Yeah, a wonderful date,” Carlos shot back, raising his glass.

They both laughed, sipping wine and picking at the food, the world outside the hotel room forgotten. It was stupid and late — or early — and Charles didn’t know where any of this was headed.

Lando’s POV

Lando woke up on Max’s couch, and it felt like his head was trying to kill him from the inside out. The sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains was a personal attack. He groaned, his tongue dry and the taste of regret heavy in his mouth.

Max was sitting on the bed, scrolling his phone like it was a normal, non-apocalyptic morning.

Lando tried to sit up, failed, then immediately toppled off the couch and hit the floor with a thud.

Max looked up, grinning.
“Well, well, sleeping beauty finally decides to wake up.”

Lando just groaned, face smushed against the carpet.
“Kill me.”

Max laughed, standing up and stretching like he hadn’t also been drunk out of his mind six hours ago.
“I’m ordering food. You want something?”

At the word food , Lando’s stomach did a violent flip and he barely made it to the bathroom before emptying his soul into the toilet.
“I’ve never had this bad a hangover in my life,” he managed to wheeze out between dry heaves.

From the other side of the door, Max shouted, still laughing.
“Maybe it’s the red wine, mate. That stuff was fancy. You want a bagel? Bacon and chicken — I heard they’re legendary.”

Lando coughed, splashed cold water on his face, and stared at his sorry reflection in the mirror.
“You think I’m thinking about food while vomiting up my inner organs?”

Max didn’t miss a beat.
“Alright, bacon and chicken bagel it is.”

Lando flipped him off through the wall and sighed. His hair was a mess, his clothes reeked of stale alcohol, and his head was pounding.
“Do you have any clean clothes I can borrow?” he called out.

“Yeah, of course,” Max replied. “I’ll leave something outside the door.”

“Thanks, mate.” Lando peeled off his clothes, dumped them in a pile, and climbed into the shower. It was heavenly. Scorching hot water, washing away the worst night of his life — or maybe the best, he wasn’t sure yet. Either way, it helped.

When he stepped out, towel around his waist, he opened the bathroom door to grab the clothes. He looked down at the bundle and groaned.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Lando said, holding up a full Red Bull kit.

“Nope,” Max called out, grinning from ear to ear. “I promise you’ll look lovely in it.”

“You’re the worst.”

But Lando was too tired to fight it, and the clothes were clean and soft, so he tugged them on. When he walked out, Max burst into actual, doubled-over laughter.

“I swear, if your sponsors saw you like this—”

“I’ll get fined just for existing in this,” Lando muttered, flipping Max off again before collapsing on the bed.

A knock came at the door. Max opened it, said a quick thank you, and came back with two bagels in a paper bag.

Lando’s stomach growled despite itself.
“Wait, didn’t you order any juice?”

“Nope,” Max said, far too pleased with himself. He reached into the mini-fridge and pulled out two ice-cold Red Bulls.

“You are evil ,” Lando said, snatching one and the bagel.

“This is fun,” Max said, laughing again as he bit into his own.

Max’s POV

They’d finished their bagels — and while Lando still looked like death warmed over in a Red Bull hoodie, Max felt a little more alive now that there was actual food in his system. He wiped his hands on a napkin and glanced at Lando, who was sprawled across the bed like a hungover teenager.

“You reckon we should check on Charles?” Max asked, stretching his arms overhead. “He was just as wrecked as you were.”

Lando groaned but nodded. “Yeah, poor bastard’s probably dying.”

Max grabbed another Red Bull from the mini fridge and held it up.
“Bet he’ll need this.”

Lando pulled the hood up over his head, trying to sink into the fabric.
“I swear to God if anyone sees me in this…”

Max just laughed. “Too late, mate. This is going in the mental photo album forever.”

They made their way down the hallway, Lando sticking close to the wall like he was trying to avoid being seen by hotel security. It made Max laugh even harder. He knocked on Charles’ hotel room door and after a few seconds, it cracked open — Carlos stood there, hair messy, eyes puffy, and clearly just out of bed.

Max blinked.
“Did you… sleep here?”

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Lando let out a low whistle, grinning.
“Well, well, well.”

“How’s Charles?” Max asked, deciding not to dig into whatever that was right now.

Carlos stepped aside to let them in.
“Still sleeping.”

They stepped into the room and Max took a good look around — and what he saw made everything click together in his head like a jigsaw puzzle. Empty wine bottles on the floor, the whiskey bottle still on the table beside the now-finished gin, three wine glasses scattered on the table, and a half-eaten charcuterie board.

But the thing was — only Charles and Lando had been drinking wine last night. And they didn’t order that board. Which meant after he and Lando left, Carlos and Charles had carried on. Just the two of them.

Max raised an eyebrow but kept it to himself. Not his business right now.

“Let’s wake sleeping beauty,” Lando grinned, wobbling over to the bed and giving Charles a rough shake.

Charles shot upright like he’d been launched out of a cannon, his hair a disaster, face pale. His confused eyes darted around the room until he saw all three of them standing there.

“Where the hell am I?” he croaked.

“Feeling like shit?” Max asked, tossing him the Red Bull.

“Like death,” Charles groaned, cracking it open immediately. “God, I hope no one sees this. But I need it.”

Max smirked.
“Well, no one’s seen what Lando’s wearing yet.”

Carlos and Charles both turned to look at Lando properly for the first time — and then they lost it. Like, fully lost it. Charles doubled over with laughter, Carlos wiped tears from his eyes.

“You absolute traitor! ” Charles howled. “A Red Bull kit? Seriously?”

Lando groaned, sinking further into the hoodie.
“Stop it. It’s not that funny.”

But it was. Max was dying, tears stinging his own eyes.

“This is what happens,” Max grinned, “when you force everyone to drink till dawn.”

Carlos snorted, still laughing.
“This is fantastic. I hate that we can’t take a picture of this.”

“Oh, we can,” Max teased, holding up his phone. “We just won’t post it.”

“Don’t you dare,” Lando growled, but he was grinning now too.

And in that moment, hungover and exhausted in a hotel room littered with bottles and charcuterie crumbs, surrounded by his dysfunctional, ridiculous, chaos-loving little family — Max felt something warm settle in his chest.

Yeah. This was his lot. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Chapter Text

Alex’s POV

The quiet hum of the plane filled the cabin as it cut through the clouds, early sunlight spilling a soft glow across the seats. Alex sat by the window, his head resting against the cold glass, watching the sky shift from pale blue to a blinding white. Beside him, George lazily flipped through a magazine about luxury watches — the kind neither of them would ever actually spend money on.

His phone buzzed against the tray table.

Alex glanced down, thumb hesitating over the notification before opening it.
Meeting scheduled: Alexander Albon, Carlos Sainz, James Vowles. 16:00. Thursday 10th April. Bahrain paddock office.

His stomach twisted.

“Shit,” he muttered.

George looked up, one brow raised. “What’s up?”

Alex turned his phone so George could read it.
“It’s… a meeting. With Carlos. And James. Just the three of us.”

George frowned, lowering his magazine. “Huh. That’s a bit… sudden.”

“Yeah.”
Alex felt his throat tighten, palms growing clammy. He hated surprises — especially the kind that involved him. And Carlos. And everything still left unsaid between them.

Since Carlos had joined Williams, since those nights they never spoke about, since the last message Alex sent before Japan — it had all fallen apart. They handled media appearances like pros, smiled for the cameras, exchanged the necessary words. But off-track? Radio silence. Avoided eye contact. Booked separate hotels when they could. Took seats at opposite ends of the garage.

Alex had clung to George like a life raft.
And George — thank God — had let him.

“Probably nothing,” George said, his voice steady in that way that always settled Alex, even if just a little. “Might be about scheduling. Bahrain’s a weird one.”

Alex let out a humorless laugh.
“Or maybe it’s about how I wrecked someone’s life.”

George gave him a sharp look.
“Hey. Don’t do that.”

“It’s true,” Alex said quietly, fiddling with the ring on his finger. “I heard Lando and Charles in Japan — before FP1. Talking about how Carlos doesn’t reach out anymore. How no one knows what’s going on with him. And it’s my fault. I made him feel like no one gave a damn.”

George was quiet for a beat, then reached out and gripped Alex’s wrist — not roughly, but enough to pull his eyes up.

“Listen to me,” George said firmly. “Yeah, you hurt him. And yeah, you might’ve handled things badly. But Carlos shutting people out? That’s on him. Not you. And carrying this like it’s the only thing that matters in your life isn’t helping anyone.”

Alex swallowed, those words landing heavy in his chest.

“I just… I don’t know if I can face him,” Alex admitted, his voice cracking.

“You can,” George said. “And you will. And I’ll be waiting for you right outside when it’s done.”

Alex blinked fast, his eyes stinging, and managed a crooked, grateful smile.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

George shrugged like it was nothing.
“Always, mate. You know that.”

The plane hit a patch of turbulence, rattling their drinks on the tray tables. Alex looked back out at the endless sky ahead, trying to remind himself that every day it was getting a little easier to breathe. A little easier to say out loud that he wasn’t broken — just sick. And he could live with that.

He could learn.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat in James’ paddock office, nervously fiddling with his phone, opening and closing apps without really seeing anything. The hum of the air conditioning was the only sound besides the steady tapping of James’ keyboard. They’d made small talk earlier — something about how brutally hot it was outside — but James hadn’t said a word about the real reason they were here.

Carlos hated the waiting. Hated not knowing if someone had found out something they shouldn’t.

The door creaked open, and Alex stepped in. He looked tense, his shoulders tight, his face a little pale from nerves. Carlos felt a ripple of uneasy recognition — they were both thinking the same thing. Wondering if their reckless nights, the mistakes neither of them wanted to name, had finally caught up with them.

“Great,” James said, looking up with a tight smile. “Now that you’re both here, we can get started.”

Carlos’ stomach twisted.
Alex snorted, trying to sound casual. “Start talking about what, exactly?”

James chuckled softly, then his expression sobered.
“Yeah, I get it — it’s weird calling you in like this. But…” He paused, glancing between them. “I’m worried. Not just about you two. About all the drivers. The pressure in the paddock this season is heavier than I’ve ever seen it. And I’ve seen what that can do to people.”

Carlos felt his shoulders ease a little. Okay… maybe this wasn’t what he thought.

“Yeah,” Carlos admitted, leaning back in his chair. “It’s weird lately. The media’s relentless. It’s like they don’t care about the racing anymore — just drama.”

James nodded. “Exactly. Lately it’s all been about who’s fighting who, who’s getting replaced, who’s falling apart. Red Bull dropping Liam. Ferrari’s situation with Charles and Lewis. The Alpine rumors about Jack Doohan. It’s exhausting.”

Alex spoke up, his voice quieter. “Yeah. It feels like drivers take the hardest hits. Even when none of it’s about you directly, it weighs on you.”

Carlos felt his heart slow a little. James didn’t know.
Thank God.

“I don’t want us to be like those other teams,” James continued. “I want this team to be a place where you feel safe. Where you can tell us if it’s too much, and we’ll listen. Skip media if you need to. Take a day. Whatever it takes.”

Carlos let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “That means a lot,” he said honestly.

James gave a small smile. “Good. And… I’ve noticed you two especially seem under a lot of pressure. That’s why I thought it might help for you to meet with a therapist. Together. Just talk, no pressure.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Alex cut in quickly. “I mean… I feel fine.”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah. I’m good too.”

James sighed, clearly not buying it. “Maybe you feel fine. But I still think you should talk to someone.”

Alex shifted in his chair. “I get it, but adding another meeting feels like… just more obligation.”

Carlos agreed. “Yeah. It feels like one more thing we have to just push through.”

James looked at them both for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. I won’t push. But you know where to find me if you need to talk.”

Alex was already on his feet. “Thanks, James. See you later.”

Carlos stood too, slinging his cap back on, ready to bolt — but James held up a hand. “Carlos. Hang on a sec.”

Carlos paused. His pulse spiked again.

When Alex slipped out the door, James closed his laptop and sighed. “I had a chat with the team doctor. He’s worried about your weight. Your blood results didn’t look great either. Are you eating enough?”

Carlos rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah… I think so. It’s just been a lot. New car, new team, new routines. I guess I’ve let things slip a bit.”

James studied him like he was trying to read between the lines. “Okay. But if you need help, we can get you back in with the nutritionist.”

Carlos forced a small smile. “I’ll be fine. I just need to stay on top of it better.”

James gave a short nod. “Alright. But you don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”

“Thanks,” Carlos muttered, and made his exit.

Outside, Alex and George stood talking, their conversation low and easy. Carlos didn’t slow. He couldn’t. Not now. He shoved his hands in his pockets and headed straight for the simulator room.

Somewhere quiet.
Somewhere with no questions.
Somewhere he could pretend none of it was happening.

Charles' POV

The Bahrain sun hung heavy in the sky as Charles stepped out of the team car and into the paddock, the dry heat clinging to his skin like a second layer. He slid on his sunglasses, scanning the scene — the clatter of wheel guns, mechanics darting between garages, the familiar, sharp scent of fuel and rubber thick in the air. This place should’ve felt like home. It didn’t.

The flight over had been quiet. Too quiet.

Lando had passed out under his hoodie, Max lost in his phone, and Carlos… Carlos had spent the whole trip staring out the window, headphones in, eyes distant. And Charles — he’d pretended to read, flicking through pages without taking in a single word. The silence between them was deafening.

Neither of them had mentioned that morning in Japan.

The wine-soaked hours, the charcuterie board Charles drunkenly ordered, the laughter that came a little too easy, and the way Carlos had leaned in, too close, his face inches from Charles’. Charles could still feel the rush of his heartbeat in that moment, the way the air had thickened between them. And then — Carlos had pulled away. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, like he realized too late what he was doing. Like it was a mistake.

After that, they’d both just… slept. No conversation, no aftermath. Only an ache in Charles’ chest and a head full of questions he hadn’t dared to ask.

Now, it felt like it hadn’t even happened. Like some half-remembered dream he wasn’t sure was ever real.

And the worst part? Charles had no one to talk to. Lewis, his teammate, had grown distant. Focused, detached from the circus around them. He still cared, Charles knew that — the occasional game of chess, a quiet dinner here and there — but Lewis kept his world small, and Charles didn’t dare crack it open with something like this.

Because it wasn’t Lewis.

It was Carlos.

Carlos, who used to know him better than anyone. Who’d known when to push, when to tease, when to silently hand him a drink after a shit race. The one Charles had built his little world around without realizing it, until Williams pulled him away. And now Charles was left chasing shadows.

And how would he know? There was no room for moments now. No leaning across the drivers' room to mutter something under his breath, no late nights dissecting corners and tyre strategies over wine. No control over where Carlos was or what he was feeling. It gnawed at Charles in the quiet moments — like now, standing alone in the middle of the Bahrain paddock.

Lando’s POV

Lando sat cross-legged on the floor of Max’s hotel room, controller in hand, half-focused on the racing game they had going. The scent of takeout burgers filled the room, and the hum of the air conditioning was the only thing competing with the TV volume. Bahrain nights were always too hot.

He glanced at Max, who was demolishing him in the game, as usual.

“Hey,” Lando said, casually, like it didn’t mean anything. “Do you think Carlos and Charles… you know… did anything in Japan?”

Max paused mid-turn, eyes flicking toward Lando. “No,” he said, not even hesitating. “I don’t think so. They barely spoke on the flight over.”

Lando hummed in agreement, leaning back against the bed. He’d noticed it too — how Carlos had sunk into his seat by the window, headphones on, shutting the world out. Not even Max had been able to pull him out of it.

“Yeah,” Lando said, grinning a little, “I passed out halfway through that flight. I swear I’ve never been that hungover in my life.”

Max chuckled. “Yeah, you were a mess, mate. Maybe you finally learned your lesson.”

“Doubt it,” Lando laughed, then nudged Max’s shoulder. “But it was fun though, wasn’t it?”

Max gave a small smile. “Yeah, it was fun.” He hesitated, thumb idly moving over the controller joystick. “But I’m still worried about Carlos.”

Lando’s grin faded. He set his controller down. “Yeah, I get that. But maybe the best thing we can do is just treat him like normal, you know? Hang out. Joke around. Make him feel like himself again.”

Max sighed, setting his own controller down and leaning back against the headboard. “Yeah… but I can’t shake the feeling there’s something else. Like I’m missing something.”

Lando studied Max for a second. He knew Max and Carlos were closer than most people realized — closer than even he was with Carlos. Whatever Carlos let slip, it was usually to Max. And judging by the look on Max’s face now, there were things Lando wasn’t being told.

“You’ve talked about stuff, haven’t you?” Lando asked quietly.

Max hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot, Lando. More than I know how to deal with. Carlos isn’t okay. And part of me thinks… maybe I should tell someone. Like James. I don’t know.”

Lando leaned his head back against the bed. “Yeah, but… if you do, depending on what you say — they could do something about it. And Carlos might not forgive you for that.”

“I know,” Max said, running a hand through his hair. “That’s what scares me. I don’t want to betray him, but I also don’t want to be the guy who did nothing.”

They both went quiet for a while, the sounds of the game menu music looping softly in the background.

Lando sighed. “Look… if you really feel like it’s bad — like, bad bad — you should tell James. He seems like one of the good ones, you know? Not like some of the other team bosses.”

Max gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah. He is. I know.”

“But maybe,” Lando added, “it’s enough for now if we’re just there. Take him out for dinner. Get him to laugh a little. Sometimes it’s not about fixing it, it’s just about not letting someone be alone in it.”

Max looked over at him, and for the first time that evening, really smiled. “You’re not as dumb as you act, you know that?”

Lando grinned. “I try my best.”

They picked their controllers back up, the weight of the conversation still hanging in the room — but it felt a little easier to carry between them.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos walked the long, deserted stretch back to the hotel, the heavy Bahrain night clinging to him like a second skin. The distant hum of the paddock still followed, a ghost he couldn’t shake no matter how far he tried to outrun it. It wasn’t smart being out like this — Williams had sent a car, but he’d waved it off. Said he needed some air. What he really needed was space.

He’d stayed too long in the sim, chasing lap times that blurred together until the track lines smeared, until his head spun and his stomach turned. Skipped dinner, not because he wasn’t hungry — he didn’t even notice. Just restless. Frayed around the edges. Too much in his own head.

And no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t stop.

That morning in Japan wouldn’t let him go. Charles — lips stained with red wine, laughing at something Carlos couldn’t even remember now. The two of them cross-legged in Charles’ bed, a charcuterie board between them, clumsy fingers passing slices of cheese and prosciutto, mismatched hotel glasses resting on the nightstand, wine sloshing dangerously close to the edge.

It had felt... effortless. Familiar. Like no time had passed — and maybe like something was quietly shifting between them. Carlos had leaned in before he even realized it, caught in one of those moments that felt meant to happen.

But then, it shattered. Clarity hit him hard, cold and unforgiving.

He wasn’t leaning in because things were right now. He was leaning in because he missed what they’d had at Ferrari — the teasing, the tension, the comfort of someone who saw him. The flirtation that had never gone anywhere but had always meant something.

And that realization stopped him in his tracks.

And Charles’ face when he pulled away. Like Carlos had cracked something open.

He’d told himself afterward that Charles was too drunk to remember. That it was nothing. Just two lonely, overworked idiots and too much red wine. But Carlos knew better. Charles remembered. 

And then there was James. The quiet, careful words in the office, concern tucked behind polite professionalism. I want my drivers to feel safe… a lot of pressure on everyone… especially you two.

James saw more than he said. He always had.

And Alex.

Carlos bit the inside of his cheek, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Alex had sat through that meeting like nothing had ever happened. Like those nights hadn’t existed. Like Carlos hadn’t once needed him so badly it felt like drowning. Now Alex had George — constant, steady, always around like some goddamn loyal retriever. And Carlos hated how easily Alex pretended it never happened. Like it hadn’t left marks on both of them.

He hated all of it. The mess. The silence. The pretending. The months of bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms. The drinks. The pills and lines. The half-conscious mistakes. The desperate, reckless way they’d clung to each other when neither of them was okay. And now? Now they couldn’t even hold eye contact.

Carlos passed through the empty stretch of vendor stalls, the flickering glow of the circuit behind him, and reached the old bench. The one he and Charles had sat on last time they were here for pre-season testing. 

He remembered that night — how peaceful it had felt. 

He told himself it would be better tomorrow. It always was when he was behind the wheel. In the car.

Just him and the track.

Tomorrow was practice. Then qualifying. Then the race.

Carlos counted the days like a prayer

Chapter Text

Carlos' POV

It was Friday, and Bahrain felt like standing in front of a giant hairdryer. The heat clung to everything, thick and suffocating, sticking to skin and clothes like a second layer you couldn’t peel off. Carlos sat beside Max in the patchy shade of the hospitality tent, both of them watching the first practice session flicker on the monitors. Neither of them were out there today — they’d handed over their seats to rookies for FP1, and honestly, it felt like the smartest decision either of them had made all week.

No way in hell I’m driving in this.

Max was still complaining about his car. “It’s shit,” he muttered for what had to be the fifth time in the last twenty minutes. “The balance is shit. The grip’s shit. Everything’s shit.”

Carlos huffed a laugh, tipping his head back against the chair. “Yeah, mate, you’ve mentioned.”

Truthfully, Carlos didn’t mind his car these days. It wasn’t perfect — no car ever was — but little by little, it was becoming familiar. He was learning it, knowing when to push and when to ease off, what it liked, what it didn’t. It still wasn’t Ferrari, and that ache sat somewhere deep in his chest most days. But it was his now. And there was something satisfying about having to fight for every tenth, for every clean lap. No politics. No history. Just him and the machine.

He was about to tell Max that when a voice cut through the heat.

“Hey. You guys hiding in the shadows too?”

Carlos looked up. There was Charles, hair damp with sweat, a couple of curls sticking to his forehead, holding three slightly squashed energy bars like a peace offering.

Max perked up immediately. “Why aren’t you out there?”

“Loaned my seat to one of the juniors,” Charles said, tossing them each a bar. “Didn’t feel like melting in a race suit.”

“Smart,” Max said, already tearing into his.

Carlos took his as well, their fingers brushing for a split second. He managed a quiet, “Thanks.”

Charles gave him a small, lopsided smile and dropped into the seat beside them. For a while, they just sat there, watching the cars sweep through Turn 10, the heat shimmering off the asphalt, the steady drone of engines filling the gaps between words. And it felt… easy . No tension, no awkwardness. Just them, and the track, and the occasional gust of dry, hot wind rattling the tent.

“The McLarens look seriously good this weekend,” Charles said eventually, nodding at the monitor.

“Yeah, they’ve stepped it up,” Max agreed, leaning forward a little. “Look at that mid-corner speed.”

Carlos cleared his throat. “Ferrari’s still close to them though, yeah?”

Charles hesitated, then gave a shrug. “We were. Back when you were still with us, it felt like we were on the right track. But now… I don’t know. Lewis drives so differently. And it feels like the upgrades are going his way. Half the stuff we worked on’s been tossed out. It’s frustrating.”

Max grinned. “Is it fun having Lewis as a teammate, or do you miss Carlos?”

Carlos shot him a sharp look. Seriously, Max?

Charles let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. He kind of avoids everything. He tells the engineers what he wants, but he’s not… involved. Not like…” His gaze flicked to Carlos.

“Not like I was?” Carlos asked softly, his thumb worrying at the wrapper of his unopened bar.

Charles nodded. “Yeah. And now I’m stuck doing all the sponsor stuff too. Lewis ducks out of half of it. He’s nice, though. Kind. Just… not the same.”

“Yeah, sounds about right,” Max said, finishing his energy bar in two more bites. “Lewis has always been like that. He races, then vanishes.”

“I get it, though,” Charles admitted. “I wish we could all just race and skip the rest. But we’re not Lewis Hamilton.”

Max chuckled. “Man somehow dodges more media than half the grid combined. I get fined every time I try to pull the same shit.”

“Lucky him,” Carlos muttered, watching a Red Bull lock up into Turn 1 on the screen.

Another stretch of silence settled between them after that — not uncomfortable, not tense. Just quiet. The kind you could sink into. 

Charles' POV

Carlos looked exhausted.

Not the kind of tired that came from a long run or a bad night’s sleep. This was something deeper — a weariness that clung to him, settled behind his eyes and in the corners of his mouth. But even like this, he stared at the monitors like they were speaking in a language only he understood. Charles had always admired that about him — the way Carlos could read sector times, telemetry lines, and splits and somehow feel what those numbers meant inside the car. How he could watch another driver’s lap and instinctively know what it felt like through their hands, how the balance shifted, where the grip gave up.

And Charles could see him doing it now, watching the screens, mentally tracing every corner and braking point. The energy bar Charles had handed him earlier still sat unopened in his lap, his fingers absently fidgeting with the wrapper.

He still doesn’t eat properly.

Charles tried not to hover. He told himself it wasn’t his place anymore, that Carlos wouldn’t want him fussing. But it gnawed at him anyway, a quiet ache in his chest he couldn’t quite shake.

And it wasn’t just the food. It was everything.

Carlos might have slowed down with the reckless nights — mostly because George had pulled Alex out of it, breaking that toxic thread that used to bind the two of them. Charles found himself wondering sometimes what it was like now in the Williams garage, how Carlos and Alex worked as teammates with a history neither of them spoke about anymore. Charles didn’t know the whole story, but he’d seen enough, heard enough, to fill in the worst of the blanks.

Alex had dragged Carlos down back then. The endless drinks. The drugs. The desperate, self-destructive kind of chaos they fed off each other. And when George, steady and stubborn as ever, had pulled Alex back to safety — not once, but twice — he’d left Carlos behind. Alone in it. And now it felt like Carlos hadn’t quite found his way out.

Sure, he wasn’t reckless anymore. But he wasn’t okay either. He didn’t ask for help. Didn’t call. Didn’t let anyone get too close. He kept everyone at a polite distance and made them believe it was fine.

A voice from across the tent cut into Charles' thoughts.

Carlos sighed, pushing himself up from the chair. “Back to work,” he muttered, offering them both a tired half-smile. “Nice hanging in the shadows with you guys.”

And just like that, he was gone — leaving Max and Charles behind in the heavy, heat-thick air.

Max was still watching the monitors, then glanced after Carlos. “He really gets the technical side of it,” Max said. “The way his brain works — it’s insane.”

Charles nodded. “Yeah. It was a blessing having him in Ferrari.”

Max didn’t look away from the screen. “I get that.”

Charles let out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t you feel like he’s pushing us away? Like he’s here, but not really here.”

Max gave a small, knowing sigh. “Yeah. He’s opened up to me a couple of times. Real moments. But then it’s like it never happened.”

Charles hesitated, then asked quietly, “Did he ever… has he said anything about his eating?”

Max’s jaw twitched. He didn’t answer right away. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “But it’s more than that, mate. It runs deeper.”

The admission landed like a weight in Charles’ chest. He hated that Max knew things about Carlos that he didn’t. Hated it, and respected it at the same time — because Max wasn’t careless with it. He wasn’t gossiping. He was carrying it, quietly, like a good friend would.

“Yeah,” Charles murmured. “Whatever Carlos told you… I just hope it doesn’t eat you alive, trying to fix it.”

Max gave a dry laugh. “Nah. I just want to respect him. Let him keep what little control he’s still hanging onto. Feels like that’s all he’s got sometimes.”

Charles looked over at Max, something tightening in his throat. He reached out, gave Max’s shoulder a firm pat. “I respect you for that.”

Max cracked a lopsided grin. “Yeah, well…” A voice called out for Max across the paddock, snapping him out of it. He looked over, then back at Charles. “Time to prep for second practice. We got away with skipping the first, but no chance we’re dodging this one.”

Charles chuckled. “Yeah, maybe it’ll be a little less like racing on the surface of the sun.”

They both stood, the heaviness of their conversation settling into something unspoken. They walked toward their garages together, side by side — the weight of shared worry trailing behind them like a shadow neither of them quite knew how to outrun.

Max' POV

Max felt like he was going insane.

He lay on his hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled hum of traffic outside. The air conditioner buzzed in the corner, but it did nothing to quiet his thoughts. The Red Bull car was a disaster — and worse, no one seemed to be listening. It felt like every conversation he had anymore was just him saying the car is shit, the balance is off, the upgrades don’t work , over and over, until his own voice felt like background noise in his head.

There were rumors floating around the paddock now, whispers that Max was looking at other teams. He wasn’t — not yet, anyway. The thought crossed his mind more than it should, sure, but it wasn’t that simple. It couldn’t be. He had too much history with Red Bull. Too many ties. His own racing team carried the Red Bull logo. His sim team too. His face was plastered across their campaigns. He couldn't just pack up and leave and expect everything else to stay standing.

And he hated it. Hated how trapped it made him feel.

It wasn’t just the car. It hadn’t been for a while now.

It was Liam. It was Checo. It was Daniel before them.

God, what he wouldn’t give to have Daniel back. Danny Ric had been light in the kind of way Max didn’t realize he’d needed until it was gone. The kind of person who made a bad day feel like a joke you could laugh at. And Red Bull had driven him out too, same as all the rest.

Max blew out a frustrated breath and pushed himself up. Lying here, stewing in it, wasn’t helping. He grabbed a jacket and slipped out into the night air.

It was cold enough to bite, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of the day. The streets were quieter now, the chaos of the paddock packed up for the evening, though a few cars still slipped by on the main road. Max shoved his hands into his pockets and walked, no real destination in mind, just the need to move .

His feet carried him to a bench.

The bench, actually — the one by the water, half-hidden by a low stone wall, where he’d seen Carlos sitting alone a couple of months ago during preseason testing in Bahrain. Max remembered it too clearly. Carlos slumped over, head in his hands, the exhaustion practically radiating off of him. It wasn’t the usual race weekend fatigue, either. It was the kind of bone-deep, soul-tired look Max had only seen on a few people in his life.

Max dropped down onto the bench, the cold seeping through his jeans as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. The city lights danced across the water, and for a moment, he let his head empty out. No car. No contracts. No Red Bull politics. Just the quiet and the night air.

He didn’t know why it stuck with him so much — Carlos sitting here, looking like a man who’d lost everything, but still somehow getting back in the car the next day and doing the job. Maybe because Max recognized it. Knew what it was to be drowning in it and still show up.

He wondered what Carlos was doing now. Probably holed up in his own hotel room, fidgeting with a bottle of water or ignoring the food someone sent up. Max had told Charles earlier — yeah, Carlos had opened up a couple times. And then it would be like it never happened. No follow-up. No explanation.

And Max didn’t blame him for it.

Some things were easier to leave unsaid.

Max tipped his head back, staring up at the sky. It was too bright from city lights to see many stars, but a few stubborn ones hung on, faint but still there.

Carlos' POV

Carlos’ lungs burned, his legs aching in that good, punishing way as he pushed through the last stretch of his late-night run. He’d lost count of how many laps he’d done around the unfamiliar streets, the city blurring into nothing but movement and cold air in his chest. This was how he coped when it all got too loud — run until everything inside him felt like it was bleeding out through his skin.

When he finally slowed, sweat clinging to his back and his throat raw, he realized where he was. The bench.

That bench.

He almost laughed at himself. How the hell did he always end up here?

But this time someone was already there.

Max.

Sitting like a man unspooling at the edges, hunched over, staring out at the dark water with the kind of haunted look Carlos knew too well.

Carlos wiped a hand across his face and approached.
“What are you doing here this time?” he asked, a little breathless.

Max jolted like he hadn’t expected anyone — let alone him — then managed a crooked grin.
“I should ask you the same.”

Max shifted, making room, and Carlos sat down beside him, feeling the night settle around them.
“You know… clearing my head,” Carlos said. His voice sounded rougher than he meant it to.

“Yeah,” Max murmured, eyes still fixed ahead. “Maybe I’m doing the same.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The city lights shimmered against the water, the sound of distant traffic the only thing breaking the quiet. Then Max spoke again, softer this time.
“It’s beautiful here.”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah, it is.”

Max was quiet for a second, then nodded. “Everyone is worried about you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Carlos ran a hand through his damp hair, frustrated with himself. “I know everyone’s worried about me. But I didn’t ask for that.”

Max sighed, leaning back against the bench. “And how many times am I gonna tell you it doesn’t matter if you asked for it or not? People care about you, man. That’s not a bad thing.”

Carlos bit the inside of his cheek. He hated it. Hated being the one people worried about . He didn’t want to be looked at like someone fragile, someone who couldn’t hold his shit together.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Carlos mumbled. He forced a crooked grin, trying to steer them away from it. “Probably as many times as you’re gonna tell everyone the Red Bull car’s a piece of shit.”

Max barked a laugh, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
“Yeah, I do tend to repeat myself.”

Carlos watched him for a second. There was something in Max’s face — something heavy. It wasn’t just the car, and Carlos recognized it because it was the same thing that lived inside him.

“It’s hard,” Carlos said, more seriously. “Having a car you can’t drive the way you want. Can’t understand.”

Max turned his head, narrowing his eyes. “Have you ever had a car you didn’t get? Like seriously?”

Carlos shrugged. “No. Guess I’ve been lucky with that.”

“Yeah, or just smart,” Max muttered. “You’re smart, Carlos. Red Bull’s always been… Red Bull. I should’ve seen it sooner. You remember you did leave?”

Carlos smirked. “Yeah, I remember. But I didn’t have much of a choice. I knew I wasn’t their rising star. You were. I was just one of the others they were gonna toss when they were done.”

Max looked away, his jaw tight. “I never understood that. How it’s in their DNA to wreck drivers. To chew people up. I mean… I’ve been lucky, sure. Number one driver, face of the team. But after ten years, man… I’ve seen too much. Too many careers ruined.”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah. You’ve survived it. Not a lot of people do.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just the quiet hum of the city, the water lapping against the shore.

Carlos stretched his legs out and stood. “We should head back. It’s late. Quali tomorrow.”

Max groaned but stood too. “Yeah, you’re right. Still… it’s peaceful out here.”

Carlos smiled, a real one this time. “Yeah. It is.”

They started walking back together, side by side in the quiet, both of them carrying too much, neither of them saying everything they wanted to.

Chapter Text

Lando’s POV

Lando sat in the briefing room, his leg bouncing restlessly under the table, nerves prickling beneath his skin no matter how hard he tried to keep his expression calm. The low murmur of voices around him — engineers sifting through data, mechanics trading last-minute notes — blended into a steady, indistinct hum.

Third practice had been solid. Better than solid. McLaren had dominated every session so far.

On paper, it was exactly what he’d always wanted.
And yet, it felt heavier than it should.

Across the room, Oscar lounged in his chair like it was just another day at the office. Cool, unbothered, completely in control. Lando envied that about him — the ease, the quiet confidence. No drama, no headlines chasing him down, no public mistakes to recover from. Just a calm, calculated driver with nerves of steel and a spotless image.

It wasn’t that Lando disliked Oscar. Far from it. Oscar was a good guy, a solid teammate. They got along fine. But there was a part of Lando — that anxious, twitchy part he’d never quite managed to shut up — that hated how effortless it looked for him. How Oscar had stepped into the sport like it had always belonged to him.

And then there was McLaren.
No number one driver.
Stupid Papaya rules.

Sure, it was how racing was meant to be. Equal chances. Let the track decide. But it came with a kind of pressure Lando had never really admitted to anyone — a pressure he wasn’t always sure he was built for. Not because he wasn’t fast. He knew he was fast. As fast as Oscar, maybe faster when it counted. But because when no one picked a side, every lap felt like a trial. Every race a battle for recognition.

Sometimes, he thought about Red Bull. About how Max had it — the crown, the clear number one status, a team molded around him. No second-guessing. No quiet wars in debriefs. Mercedes looked like it was leaning toward George these days, despite Kimi’s stubborn pushback. Ferrari… well, who even knew what was happening there anymore. Their strategy team might as well be pulling names out of a hat.

But at McLaren, it was equal footing to the bitter end.
And it was exhausting.

Lando leaned forward, elbows braced against the table as the engineers launched into the final pre-qualifying briefing. Sector times, tire degradation, track evolution windows — the clean, sharp language of racing. He forced himself to focus, shoving the restless buzz of anxiety aside for the familiar weight of numbers and data.

Bahrain mattered.
This track was practically McLaren’s second home, and yet, it was a win they’d never taken. It would mean everything to claim it now. Not just for the team, but for Lando himself — to prove he wasn’t just there . Not just part of the grid. But a leader. A driver who could fight for it all.

Oscar was the biggest threat to that.

He snuck another glance at him, catching that same unreadable expression. Lando wondered what went on inside Oscar’s head. If he ever felt the pressure. If he ever doubted himself. If he ever wanted to scream.

The engineer’s voice snapped him back.
“Alright, gentlemen. Let’s get it done. Good luck out there.”

Chairs scraped back. Helmets lifted off tables. A room full of tension narrowing into cold, competitive focus.

Lando grabbed his helmet, the familiar weight grounding him as it always did.

Time to be fast.
Time to shut everything else out.

As they made their way toward the garages, Lando could feel it — the air thick with expectation, the weight of unspoken predictions. He knew the headlines were halfway written already. Knew no one would remember practice sessions if he crumbled now.

And he wasn’t going to crumble.
Not tonight.
Not here.

Max’s POV

Max wasn’t excited about qualifying. Hell, he hadn’t been excited about much this season. Not when he knew exactly how it would go before he even climbed into the car. He wasn’t fighting for pole. He wasn’t even fighting for the front row. The Red Bull was a mess — twitchy on entry, dead on traction, and impossible to predict over a full lap.

He’d made it through Q1 and Q2 more by luck than skill, if he was being honest with himself. Esteban’s crash and the resulting red flag had bailed him out when his first run had been nowhere near good enough. The tires had cooled, the track had changed, and no one else could string a proper lap together when it counted.

But Q3…
Q3 had been a nightmare.

The brakes were cooked, the tires had no grip left, and it was all Max could do to wrestle the car across the line without binning it. P7.
P7 in a car that was supposed to be fighting for wins.

When he climbed out of the car in parc fermé, he wasn’t even angry anymore. Just tired. Tired of pretending the car was fine. Tired of being ignored when he said it wasn’t. Tired of watching the team scramble in circles while the rest of the grid left them behind.

But what caught his eye wasn’t his own name on the board. It was Lando’s.

P6.
And Oscar — Oscar had put it on pole.

Max winced. Watching your teammate claim the top spot while you flounder in the midfield was a special kind of hell.

Carlos was already there.

Leaning on Lando’s car, one hand resting on the halo, talking to him softly. Whatever he was saying, Max couldn’t catch, but he didn’t need to. The look on Lando’s face was enough — a mix of frustration, disappointment, and the hollow ache of falling short.

Max made his way over as Lando finally peeled himself out of the car. His hands were shaking. His expression cracked.

“I blew it,” Lando muttered, his voice barely carrying.

Without a word, Carlos pulled him in for a hug. No bravado, no big show — just quiet, steady comfort. “Don’t let one quali wreck you,” Carlos said. “It’s not over. You’ve still got tomorrow.”

Carlos had always been good at that. Knowing when to speak and when to just be there.

Max offered a crooked half-smile as he reached them. “Listen to him,” he said. “One bad lap doesn’t mean shit. You’ve got 57 more to fix it.”

Lando gave a weak, humorless laugh. “You two… you’re the best, you know that?”

Max bumped his shoulder against Lando’s. “Yeah, we know. Now let’s get out of here before they drag us into those awful media pens.”

Carlos grinned, clapping Max on the back. “Finally, some sense.”

They kept their post-quali interviews short and forgettable. A couple of stiff smiles, some vague answers, and a few half-hearted “the race is tomorrow” lines before slipping out of the paddock and into the night.

Bahrain’s evening air was cooler now, thick with the scent of fuel and tire rubber, but it felt good against their skin.

“I’m ordering the greasiest pizza I can find,” Max announced. “And no one’s allowed to say the word ‘car.’”

“Deal,” Lando said, his voice already lighter, like a weight had been knocked loose. “We playing FIFA?”

Carlos grinned. “You’re both dead.”

And for a little while — just a little while — it wasn’t about lap times or titles or broken cars. It was just three guys, clinging to the last bits of themselves the sport hadn’t taken.

Charles’s POV

Charles watched from the corner of the media pen as Carlos, Lando, and Max slipped away into the night, dodging the cameras and microphones like fugitives. He’d seen it — the way Lando had climbed out of the car, hands trembling, face drawn and pale, how Carlos had been there instantly, no hesitation, and how Max had followed. It stung, watching it from a distance.
He wanted to be there too.

But here he was, stuck fielding the same recycled questions, offering the same measured answers.

“P3, Charles — what a result for Ferrari tonight!”

Yeah. It was good. It was better than good, actually. He hadn’t expected top five, let alone a front-row fight, not with how unpredictable the car had been all weekend. But in the end, the lap had come together. Maybe more luck than magic, but it counted.

Before he could sink too deep into his own head, Pierre appeared at his side, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Congrats on P3, man,” he said, grinning.

Charles offered a tired smile. “Thanks. You too — P5 in the Alpine, huh? What’s the secret?”

Pierre chuckled. “Car felt good. I’ve got the hang of it now. Wish I could say the same for my teammate, though.”

Charles glanced at the timing board. P11 for Jack. Not bad for a rookie. And after what he’d gone through in Japan — that brutal race, the footage of Esteban practically carrying him out of the car — the kid was still standing. Still fighting.

“P11’s solid,” Charles said. “I saw the video after Japan. Esteban helping him out of the car. That was rough.”

But Pierre just sighed, his grin turning sharp. “Don’t start with that. Yeah, he’s okay, but he’s weak. Crashed the car in Japan ‘cause he can’t understand a simulator properly,” he scoffed. “This isn’t kindergarten. If you can’t keep up, you don’t belong here.”

The words landed like a slap.
Charles blinked at him, caught off guard.

Pierre had always been one of the good ones. The guy who defended the rookies, who checked in on people when the pressure cracked them open. He’d sat with Charles after he had fucked up in Silverstone last year. Had pulled him aside multiple times after a bad weekend. He had listened when Charles had been worried about Carlos. Now this?

“Come on,” Charles said, voice low. “He’s new. We all struggled when we started. You know that.”

Pierre shrugged, unbothered. “Maybe. But this sport’s not for the weak. Jack should probably start looking elsewhere. And he’s not the only one.”

Charles felt his stomach twist, heat blooming in his chest.

What the hell had happened to him?

“We’re supposed to look out for each other,” Charles said, trying to steady his voice, to make Pierre hear him. “It’s brutal enough without us turning on our own.”

But Pierre didn’t budge. “We’re athletes, Charles. This isn’t a family. It’s competition.”

Charles stared at him, something sour rising in his throat. This wasn’t the Pierre he’d known. Not the guy who used to believe in protecting the people this sport tried to chew up and spit out.

He shook his head. “Since when did you get so full of yourself?”

And without waiting for a reply, Charles turned and walked away.

The paddock lights blurred around him, his pulse hammering in his ears. It wasn’t just disappointment. It was hurt — the kind that left a cold ache in your chest. Pierre was supposed to be a friend. Someone you could lean on when the pressure got too loud, when it felt like the whole world was caving in.

Now, Charles wasn’t sure what he was anymore.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat on the edge of Max’s hotel bed, controller loose in his hands, his player standing idle on the FIFA pitch while Lando and Max battled it out on screen. The room smelled like pizza grease and sweat — the usual scent of three exhausted drivers trying to forget what waited for them tomorrow.

He hadn’t touched the food. Max had noticed, Carlos could feel it. He kept glancing over between rounds, like he was trying to crack Carlos open with just a look. But Carlos wasn’t ready for that. Not tonight. The weight in his stomach made the thought of eating feel impossible.

It wasn’t even about the race. Not entirely. Sure, P8 in a Williams was something to be proud of. It was the best he’d wrung out of the car all season. But it wasn’t enough. Not when he knew he didn’t belong in this sport. Not when every mistake felt like it was written in permanent ink.

But what had really gutted him was the moment back in the hotel, less than an hour ago.

When they’d arrived, Lando had barely made it through the door before it hit him. Panic, hard and fast like a storm breaking over the ocean. Carlos had known immediately. He’d seen it before — years ago, back at McLaren when the pressure had started to crush Lando under its weight.

And just like then, Carlos had been the one to catch him. Pulling him into a hug, one hand on the back of his head, murmuring it was okay, that he was safe, that he didn’t have to hold it in. Max had stood there awkwardly, unsure, not out of a lack of care but because he didn’t know what to do with things he couldn’t fix with sheer stubbornness and speed.

Now though… now things were easier again. The panic had faded, replaced by laughter, the mindless comfort of video games and familiar company. Carlos knew this was how drivers survived — by pretending, by carving out hours where the world didn’t exist.

But the pressure never really left.

A knock at the door pulled Carlos from his thoughts. Max paused the game and stood, already grumbling about who the hell would be bothering them at this hour. The moment the door cracked open, Carlos saw it — Charles, standing in the hallway with his jaw set, his eyes dark with something Carlos couldn’t place.

Anger? Hurt? Both?

Lando looked up, saw who it was, and managed a crooked grin. “Now the family’s whole again,” he said, his voice light but tired, like it was stitched together with threads of old memories.

Carlos felt something tighten in his chest.

Charles stepped inside, and for a second, no one spoke. The air felt heavier than it had five seconds ago. Carlos didn’t miss the way Max glanced between them, always reading the room even if he pretended not to.

“Everything alright?” Carlos asked carefully, breaking the silence.

Charles shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. It was sharp, defensive. “Yeah. Just… needed to get out of there.”

Which meant something had happened. Carlos didn’t press. He’d learned over the years that Charles would talk when he was ready — or not at all. But he made room for him anyway, sliding over so Charles could drop onto the bed beside them.

Max tossed him a controller. “You’re taking Lando’s team.”

Charles gave a small, humorless smile, taking it without protest.

Max’s POV

They’d been playing FIFA for hours. The TV screen was still lit, cycling through idle menus no one had touched in a while. Pizza boxes sat abandoned on the coffee table, cans of Coke half-drained and forgotten. It felt good though — simple in a way nothing else had for a long time. Like for once, the world outside could wait.

As it always did during these late-night hangouts, the conversation shifted. From racing to life, to the things none of them could say in interviews or paddock briefings.

“Pierre’s an asshole,” Charles blurted.

Max glanced up, startled. Charles didn’t just throw things like that out. Lando’s brow shot up. “Wait — what? Aren’t you two basically best friends?”

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Charles said with a tired shrug. “But earlier… he called Jack weak. Straight up. And I thought — maybe I misheard it. But he kept going. Said he doesn’t belong in F1, that we’re athletes and competitors and there’s no room for looking after each other..”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Max felt his jaw tighten.

“Woah,” Max muttered, leaning back against the headboard. “That’s low.”

He’d never liked Pierre. Not even when they were teammates. People assumed it was about rivalry or tension at Red Bull, but it wasn’t even that deep. They just weren’t built the same. Pierre craved the spotlight, the attention. Max had always hated it.

“Yeah, kind of cocky,” Carlos agreed, his voice flat but laced with something darker underneath. “That’s gotta hurt — hearing it from someone you thought was a friend.”

Charles nodded, staring down at the bottle in his hands. “I don’t know what happened to him.”

“Maybe Flavio’s gotten to his head,” Lando offered. “The guy gives me the creeps.”

Carlos gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah, same. Had an offer from Alpine last season. Almost signed but the vibe felt bad. But even so — it doesn’t give Pierre the right to throw Jack under the bus like that.”

“Exactly,” Max said, the words sharp in his throat. “Jack’s a good kid. He hasn’t had a real chance yet. Hell, I haven’t even adapted to my car this season.”

Carlos gave a nod. “Williams is a nightmare to figure out, trust me.”

Lando spoke up then, his voice a little softer. “I saw the video — after the race in Japan, when Jack could barely get out of the car and Esteban helped him. That video went viral. It looked like Jack still was really wrecked after the crash from the second practice”

Max had seen it too. It struck a nerve — the parts of this sport no one talked about, the bits left off the highlight reels.

Charles let out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Makes me feel like an idiot. Maybe Pierre was always like this and I just didn’t see it.”

Max shrugged. “Could be. I didn’t like him at Red Bull either, but I figured it was just a bad teammate thing. Maybe it’s worse now.”

“Yeah,” Lando agreed quietly. “No one should talk about their teammate like that. Or anyone.”

Charles looked around the room, and something in his expression softened. The weight he’d been carrying since he arrived to the hotel room seemed to ease a little as he glanced between them.

“I’m glad I’ve got you guys, though.”

Max felt it — a warmth under the frustration, something solid and steady. He managed a crooked smile. “Yeah. We’re family. Messed up, stubborn as hell, but family.”

“Damn right,” Carlos said, knocking his fist lightly against Max’s.

Lando grinned, tired but genuine. “Guess we just have to keep having each other’s backs.”

And for a moment, Max let himself believe it. The sport would keep breaking them, the pressure would never really ease, and guys like Pierre would always exist. But here, in this room, it was quiet. Safe.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

The sun was already clawing at the paddock by the time the drivers’ parade was called. Heat clung to the asphalt, thick in the air, heavy on his skin. Inside the garage, the drivers were gathered like cattle, trapped in cold, stale air while media vultures circled outside, desperate for a glimpse, a headline, a scandal to feed on.

Carlos stood in the corner, half-shadowed, his shoulder against the pit wall beside Max. His head felt too light, the ground tilting in subtle, nauseating lurches every time he shifted his weight. It had started the moment he’d opened his eyes that morning — that sick, crawling dizziness, his stomach twisted into a tight, cold knot. No amount of water, no deep breath, no half-hearted attempt at calm had shaken it loose.

Max noticed immediately. He always did.

“You good to race today?” Max asked, his voice a low hum meant only for Carlos.

Carlos forced a nod, though it felt like his head wasn’t connected to the rest of him. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Max gave him one of those looks — the kind that stripped right through you, sharp and heavy, like he already knew the lie before it left your mouth.

“You haven’t eaten,” Max muttered. “That’s why you feel like this.”

Carlos swallowed hard, jaw tight. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Max didn’t push. He never did. Just dug a protein bar from his pocket and held it out like it was nothing. “Here. Not much, but better than nothing. Eat.”

For a second, Carlos hesitated. It felt like a trap, like a quiet admission of defeat. His head screamed at him not to take it, that he didn’t deserve it, that this was losing control. But his hands betrayed him, tearing the wrapper open and taking a bite. It tasted like cardboard. It tasted like failure. But it was something, and it meant more than he’d ever admit out loud.

Soon enough, it was time to head out. The air outside hit him like a wall — too loud, too bright, the noise of radios, fans, and cameras clawing at his frayed nerves. Max peeled off to join Gabriel, Ollie, and Nico, and Carlos was left on the fringe, and honestly… he didn’t mind. It was easier that way.

Further down, he spotted Lando and Jack, heads bent together in some quiet, serious conversation. Without thinking, Carlos drifted toward them, a moth to a barely flickering flame. Jack clocked him first, offering a small, tired nod. Lando managed a grin.

“How you holding up?” Lando asked.

Carlos shrugged, because lying was easier than explaining. “I’m alright. You?”

“Nervous,” Lando confessed.

Jack sighed, the sound brittle. “Under pressure. Big time.”

Carlos leaned on the railing as the truck began to roll, the rumble under his feet a reminder of everything waiting for them out there. He knew the feeling too well — that sick, gnawing dread, the sense that one bad race would be the thing to finally shatter the already cracking pieces of you. He’d heard yesterday what Charles had said about Pierre, about how things had gone to shit between him and Jack. And he are seeing it now too — how Pierre barely looks at Jack’s way now. It made sense that Lando was hovering, looking out for him. Someone had to.

“I get it,” Carlos said quietly. “Been there.”

Jack let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Feels like no matter what I do, it’s never enough. If Flavio decides I’m out… that’s it.”

Carlos met his gaze, something sour rising in his throat. “It’s brutal,” he admitted. “Always has been. But you’re not alone in this.”

“Yeah,” Lando added, bumping Jack’s shoulder. “We’ve got your back.”

Carlos nodded, meaning it. “Count on us.”

Jack gave a small, crooked smile — a flicker of gratitude, a spark in the wreckage. It hurt to see how much it meant to him. How little he must’ve felt it lately.

The three of them fell into a wordless quiet after that, leaning against the railing, waving half-heartedly to the roaring crowds. The sound blurred into static, the noise a wall against the ache inside. For a moment, it wasn’t about contracts or media vultures or cold, suffocating team politics. It was just them — a handful of worn-down drivers pretending to be alright, carrying each other through it the only way they knew how.

When the parade ended, they peeled off toward their garages. Back to the fight. Back to the pressure. Carlos still didn’t feel ready. The protein bar sat heavy in his stomach, a bitter reminder that he should’ve eaten more, should’ve taken care of himself, should’ve done a hundred things differently. But it was too late now.

Max’s POV

Max watched as Carlos made his way toward the Williams garage, shoulders caved in, steps dragging like every inch of ground cost him something he didn’t have left to give. He looked wrecked — skin too pale under the sun, eyes vacant, moving like a man running on fumes and spite alone. And Max fucking hated it.

Hated the sick twist in his gut, hated knowing Carlos wasn’t fit to race today, hated that he’d wake up tomorrow or next week and find some excuse for why this wasn’t a big deal. Most of all, he hated how useless it made him feel. Because what could he do? If he went to the team, Carlos would never forgive him. Pride was a vicious, stubborn thing — and Carlos’ was bone-deep.

At least he’d gotten him to eat something . A protein bar wasn’t much. Hell, it was barely anything. But it was a crack in the armor. And Max clung to it like it meant something.

A voice cut into his storming thoughts.

“He looks rough.”

Max glanced sideways. Charles stood there, race suit half-zipped, wind-tangled curls falling into his face, brow furrowed in concern. He wasn’t wrong.

“Yeah,” Max muttered, his gaze pulling back to Carlos like gravity. “I’m worried.”

Charles followed his stare, his own expression shifting, softening around the edges. “You talk to him?”

“Briefly,” Max said. “Got him to eat half a protein bar. Not that it makes a damn difference.”

Charles let out a sigh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The kind of sound people made when they were thinking of a hundred things they should do, but knew they probably wouldn’t.

“Maybe you should tell James.”

Max snorted, the sound dry and sharp in his throat. “He’d never speak to me again.”

“I get it,” Charles murmured, voice low. “Maybe after the race. When it’s over, when it’s quieter… we check in with him then. Might be easier once he’s not drowning in it.”

“Yeah,” Max agreed, though it felt hollow. 

His earpiece crackled to life — something about heading back to Red Bull for the pre-race brief. Max sighed, heavy and reluctant.

“Better go before they start chasing me down,” he muttered.

Charles gave a small, tired grin. “You staying the night after?”

Max shrugged. “Depends how the race goes, I guess.”

He didn’t mean just the race.

Charles gave him a wave and turned away, disappearing into the mess of people and noise. Max lingered for a beat longer, stealing one last look toward the Williams garage.

Carlos was already gone. Swallowed by the paddock. Out of reach.

Max exhaled, the weight of it pressing heavy in his chest. He didn’t know what would happen out there. All he could do was hope they both made it through the race. 

Carlos' POV

It was time.
Not that it mattered.

P8 on the grid — might as well have been dead last for all he cared. It was a number, meaningless in the hollow, howling space where his head should’ve been. His hands clamped around the wheel like a lifeline, fingers stiff and white under the gloves, the only tether keeping him from floating clean out of his own skin.

The lights above blurred, smeared streaks in his vision. Dizzy again. Always dizzy. A sharp, gnawing, sickly thing just beneath the surface, wrapping tight around his ribs, threatening to drag him under.
He couldn’t feel his stomach. Couldn’t tell if it was empty or just caved in.

One light.
His pulse hammered so hard it hurt.

Two.
Sweat cold and sour down his back.

Three.
A sour, metallic tang filled his mouth.

Four.
His chest clenched like a fist.

Five.
Lights out.

He launched, muscle memory more than intent. A decent start — whatever that meant anymore. The pack erupted around him, engines screaming like banshees, and for a flicker of a second, it was just the race . No dizziness. No aching hollow in his chest. No white noise in his skull.
Stay alive. Stay in it.

But the car was a coffin — heavy, dragging, uncooperative. He fought where he could, defended out of instinct, but the Ferraris and Mercs ate him alive in the straights and spat him out in the corners. His head spun. His body felt like it belonged to someone else.

A few laps in, it crawled back up his throat — the light-headedness, the too-slow hands, the half-second hesitation at 300 kph that could kill you.
His engineer’s voice snapped through the radio.

“Track limits warning — stop exceeding.”

“Copy.”
A dead word through gritted teeth, jaw aching from the tension.

Focus.
Tunnel vision.
Pretend you’re okay.

But every lap dragged heavier. The wheel was a cinderblock in his hands. His vision ghosted at Turn 10 — panic, sharp and immediate. Kimi Antonelli was in his mirrors, relentless. Carlos tried to defend, a heartbeat too late, locking up, forcing Kimi off if he didn’t want to crash into Carlos.

Shit.

Kimi saved it, somehow.
The radio crackled.

“You’re under investigation for forcing another driver off.”

Carlos spat a curse. His hands shook. He couldn’t get them to stop. Everything felt wrong. The dizziness clawed at his spine, his brain fogged, the numbers on his dash bleeding together like spilled ink.

A lap later.

“10-second penalty.”

He sucked in a breath that didn’t reach his lungs. Thought fast through the fog.

“Should we serve it now? Swap to softs?”

“Yeah — box, box, box.”

He dove in. Ten seconds in the pit felt like suffocating in slow motion.
The world carried on without him.

Fresh tires. Back out.
It didn’t matter.

His arms ached. His head throbbed. Every part of him screamed for mercy, and still, he kept going. Yuki’s Red Bull came fast, too fast, and Carlos was too slow, too late, too gone — when Yuki’s rear clipped his sidepod, the sickening jolt through the chassis made his stomach turn.
Power drop. Steering gone.

Not good.
Not good.

“Box, box, box — retire the car.”

And just like that, it was over. No protest. No fight left to give.
Just a numb, sinking kind of nothing.

“Copy.”

He limped back to the garage, ghostlike. Pulled into his spot and sat there too long while the race raged on without him, like he was a stranger in his own world. Watched the crew push the wreck away — terminal. Just like him.

Second DNF in four races.
And the shame burned hotter than the sun bleeding overhead.

He climbed out, kept the helmet on because whatever was on his face didn’t belong to anyone else. Marched to his driver room. Slammed the door hard enough to rattle the walls.

Didn’t care.
Didn’t care who heard.
Didn’t care what came next.

He felt like a ghost in a firesuit. A fraud pretending to be a driver. A cracked shell of a person clinging to a wheel, praying no one saw how badly he was breaking.
And right now… he wasn’t sure he wanted to be here at all.

Max’s POV

P6.
Fucking P6.

It felt like acid in his throat just looking at the timing sheets. Four rounds in, and this was the one that cracked him. The car had been a disaster from the first lap — brakes cooked after ten, tires overheating, the rear so unstable he felt like he was driving a goddamn shopping cart through a hurricane. Every time he tried to brake late, the thing slid like it wanted him dead. Every corner a fight. Every straight a gamble.

And the worst part? It wasn’t new.
It was never new.

He hated this car. Hated what it did to him. Hated what it did to his teammates. The stupid jokes. The media bullshit about ‘the second seat curse’ . As if it was some cute little Red Bull quirk — when really it was people’s careers getting shredded by a car designed to obey one driver and break anyone else who touched it.

Max wasn’t an idiot. He knew what they said about him. That he scared his teammates out, that no one could survive alongside him. But it wasn’t him. It was this fucking team. And no one ever said it out loud. No one else ever had to carry it.

But today, Max snapped.

He stomped through parc fermé without a word, peeled his gloves off like they were suffocating him, and marched straight into the media pen, his stomach still boiling from rage and frustration.

The questions came fast.
"What happened out there?"
"Can you talk us through your race?"
"Issues with the car?"

Max didn’t bother softening it. Didn’t dress it up.

“The car sucks,” he spat. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore. The brakes overheat, the tires fall apart, and the team does fuck all about it. It’s a clown show. Every time we have a problem, it somehow manages to turn into a bigger one. It’s hilarious, actually. A world championship team, running like an amateur hour sideshow.”

The reporters went dead silent, the weight of his words hitting like a punch to the face. Some of them blinked, unsure if they’d even heard it right. A couple tried to press for more.

But Max was already walking away.

As far as he was concerned, media obligations were over.

He wasn’t going back to the Red Bull garage. Not after that. They could strip the branding off his overalls for all he cared.

Right now, he had one priority.

He made a beeline across the paddock, ignoring the stares, ignoring his comms guy trying to call after him. The sun was starting to set, that weird burnt orange haze over the Bahrain circuit, but Max’s blood was still running too hot.

He found himself outside the Williams garage without thinking. Stopped for a second. Took a breath. Then pushed through.

The place was quieter now. Most of the crew packing up. A couple of the Williams guys looked at him in surprise, maybe even pity. He didn’t care.

“Where’s Carlos?” Max asked, his voice low, rough.

One of the mechanics pointed toward the driver room. Door shut. No one else around.

Max crossed the floor, stood in front of it for a beat, hesitating. He wasn’t good at this part. At showing up when someone else’s world was on fire. But he owed Carlos that much. More, probably.

He raised a hand, knocked once.
No answer.

Max tried the handle. It opened.

Carlos was sitting on the floor. Still in his suit, helmet discarded nearby. Head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, like he couldn’t even muster the energy to move. There was this rawness to him Max hadn’t seen in a long time — not on track, not in press conferences.

Carlos looked like something broken. Like he had looked in Barcelona.

Max stepped in, shut the door behind him.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet.

Carlos didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t move.

For a second, Max didn’t know what to say. He thought about telling him he’d DNF’d before. That it got easier. But that was a lie, and Carlos didn’t deserve lies.

So Max just sank down to the floor beside him. Sat there in the same silence.

Carlos' POV

The door creaked open, and Carlos didn’t bother looking up. He didn’t need to.
He could feel it.
Max.

A low muttered “hey.”
Carlos stayed silent. No words left in him. Not now.

He felt him more than saw him — a storm front blowing in. Heavy, tense, bitter. Max didn’t say a word as he sank down next to Carlos on the floor, still in his race suit, gloves half-off, hair a mess. The silence between them was sharp, thick with everything neither of them wanted to admit out loud.

Carlos could feel it in the air, in the way Max’s breathing was uneven, in the way his leg bounced restlessly against the floor.

“Are you mad?” Carlos asked, his voice rough, not entirely sure why he even spoke.

Max let out a breath that was more of a laugh, though there wasn’t anything funny about it. “I don’t know,” he muttered, yanking his gloves off and throwing them hard against the far wall. “I really fucked up with the media.”

Carlos turned his head, studying him. Max looked wrecked. Unhinged in that quiet, dangerous way he got when everything boiled over and there was no filter left, no corporate polish. Just raw fury and exhaustion.

“What do you mean?” Carlos asked.

Max gave a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I called my team clowns. Said the whole operation’s a fucking circus on live TV.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Now I’m gonna get dragged to hell for it.”

Carlos couldn’t help it — he laughed. Dry, sharp. It hurt in his chest, but he laughed anyway. “Is that why you’re hiding here?”

“Yeah, Exactly.”
A real snort this time, like for a second it didn’t suck so bad.
“Not stepping foot near the Red Bull garage. Might actually get murdered. Safer here.”

Carlos let his head fall back against the wall, the room thick with the kind of silence that only comes when everything else is too loud. A bubble, ugly and heavy, but still better than outside.

A knock at the door.
Neither of them moved. Neither said a word.
Whoever it was could piss off.

The door opened anyway, and Charles stepped inside, still in his suit, face flushed, hair wind-whipped. He looked about as strung-out as the rest of them.

“You two hiding in here?” he asked, shutting the door behind him like he needed to get away from it all too.

“Yeah,” Carlos sighed. “We both fucked up.”

“I saw you in the race,” Charles said, dropping down to sit on the floor with them like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Looked like you didn’t have control of the car.”

“I didn’t,” Carlos admitted. No point lying about it now. 

Charles nodded, like he got it. Then turned to Max.

“And you? You didn’t even get a penalty. What the hell did you do?”

Max smirked darkly. “Trash-talked my team in front of the whole media pen.”

Charles let out a low whistle. “That’s brutal. You’re gonna be buried in media training for weeks.”

Max shrugged like he didn’t give a shit — and Carlos believed him. He was past the point of caring. They all were.

“So what brings you here, mate?” Carlos asked, looking over at Charles.

Charles sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m sick of Ferrari. Everything’s about Lewis now. Every upgrade, every strategy, every briefing… all for him. I’m just expected to keep the car warm and clean up whatever mess he leaves behind. I came here to be a world champion. I thought this was gonna be my year.” His voice cracked a little at the end.

“It’s not fair,” Max snapped. “You’re getting better results than him even though the car’s built for Lewis. And they can’t even see it.”

“I don’t understand Ferrari either,” Charles muttered. “They dropped Carlos, brought in Lewis, and now it’s a disaster. Carlos and I, we had the same feedback, we worked well together.”

Carlos felt something twist in his chest. He forced a crooked smile. “Yeah, it was good while it lasted. But they decided I wasn’t worth it.”

“Honestly,” Carlos continued after a beat, “thank God for that. Williams is messy too sometimes, but at least it’s not… this. You two deal with too much drama with your teams.”

“Yeah.” Max let out a long breath. “Anyway — I’m getting out of here. Private jet to Monaco tonight. Do you guys wanna join?”

Charles groaned, rubbing his face.
“Can’t. Sponsor crap all week. Since Lewis skips half his shit, it all lands on me. Won’t even see Monaco before Saudi.”

“That’s brutal,” Max grimaced. “Carlos?”

Carlos didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah. I need to get the hell out of this place.”

For a moment, no one spoke.
Three drivers. Three disasters. Three versions of falling apart, all in the same room.

But for the first time that day, Carlos didn’t feel like he was drowning alone.

He looked at Max, then Charles — both exhausted, both ruined in their own ways.

Charles' POV

He watched them disappear — Max and Carlos, black hoodies up, heads down, moving fast like the devil himself was on their heels. Like they could outrun the wreckage they left behind. Slipping through the paddock shadows, probably straight toward Max’s jet, toward Monaco, toward some temporary kind of peace. 

And for a split second, Charles wanted to be reckless like that.
Wanted to follow.
Wanted to vanish too.

But Ferrari had him by the throat.
Not loyalty — that died a while ago.
Obligation. Expectation. That crushing, invisible leash they slipped around his neck years ago and never let go of. He was their show pony now. The one who stayed behind, cleaned up the mess, smiled at the cameras, made nice at sponsor dinners while every single decision gutted him a little more.

And what made it worse — he let them.

He used to believe in it. In the badge, the history, the promise that one day it would be his turn. Now? Now he wasn’t even a contender. Just a placeholder.
The Number Two.

To Lewis.

And look — Charles wasn’t blind. He’d never say Lewis wasn’t great. On paper, the man was a legend. Charismatic. Charming. Easy to laugh with over dinner. But as a teammate?
A fucking curse.

The kind who skipped briefings, bailed on meetings when the car was shit, disappeared the second the race was over. Who complained about everything — the brakes, the tyres, the setup, the team — and never stuck around long enough to fix a damn thing. Meanwhile, Charles was still there, burning through data at midnight with the engineers, begging for scraps of development that would never come.

And somehow, some goddamn how… Lewis’ word still weighed more than his.
The team bent to him. The upgrades tailored to his preferences. The strategy calls made to suit his race. Charles’ feedback? Smiled at. Nodded. Ignored.

And now, while Lewis was probably already in the air, gone without a trace, Charles was still standing here.
In his race suit.
In the fucking paddock.
Wired and restless, no podium, no answers, no one left.

If Carlos was still here…
God, if Carlos was still in red…

They’d be dragging each other through the sponsor bullshit together. Making jokes about the shitty coffee, swapping eye rolls in strategy briefings, breaking down setups until their eyes bled. It had been them — two against the world.

Now it was just Charles.

Always, always just Charles.

“There you are.”
A voice cut through his head like a slap.

He turned to see one of the PR vultures barreling toward him, clipboard in hand, expression already twisted with irritation.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You’ve still got interviews. And you’re still in your suit.”

Charles exhaled, scrubbing a hand through his damp, tangled hair.
“I was talking to the other drivers.”
Translation: I was trying not to drown.

“Well, you’ve still got interviews to do before you can head to the hotel. And you’re still in your race suit.” The PR rep gave him a pointed look. “Go change into a clean Ferrari kit. The cameras can’t see you looking like that.”
That.
Like exhaustion. Like defeat. Like a driver who was hanging on by a thread.

God forbid anyone see the truth.

“Yeah,” Charles muttered, already turning away.

The walk to the motorhome felt endless. Every cheer from the stragglers in the stands grated against his skin like static. He didn’t look at the garages. Didn’t glance at the Red Bull setup. Didn’t search for Max or Carlos. They were long gone.

Lucky bastards.

The Ferrari motorhome was a ghost town now — most of the crew either packing up or pretending today didn’t happen. Charles pushed into the driver’s room, letting the door fall shut behind him. For a moment, he just stood there. Back against the door. Eyes closed.

He hated this.

Hated what this team had turned into.
Hated what they’d turned him into.

The knock would come soon. Another reminder. Another obligation. Another camera waiting for him to plaster on a hollow grin and say the lines.

He forced himself upright. Reached for a clean team polo.

Time to play the part again.

Max’s POV

The steady drone of the jet engines filled the cabin, a numbing, low hum that made it easier not to think. Max leaned his head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling like it might hold answers he knew didn’t exist.
It never did.
Same shit, different city. Same ghosts, no matter how fast you flew.

He glanced sideways.
Carlos looked wrecked.
Not race-tired — world-tired. Shadows under his eyes, hollow in a way Max knew too well. It wasn’t about heat exhaustion or missed apexes. This was the kind of wear that came from carrying things too heavy, too long, with no one noticing.

Max felt something twist in his chest. It made him reckless.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

It came out low, sharper than he meant. Carlos blinked, turning his head like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

“What?”

Max clenched his jaw.
“I mean you can’t keep pretending you’re fine. Skipping meals. Faking it. Getting in the car with your head like this. You’ll kill yourself — or someone else.”

No sugarcoating. Max was done playing gentle.

Carlos looked away, his gaze fixed on some meaningless blur outside the window. Max could see it happening — the instinct to deflect, to joke, to build another wall.

“You coming up with some bullshit excuse right now?” Max asked.

A humorless laugh, thin and brittle.
“Yeah. But I’m too tired to deliver it.”

And there it was.
The crack in the armor. Showing again.

“I know I’m a fucking mess,” Carlos admitted, his voice low, rough around the edges. “I know I’m not okay. I just… I don’t know how to fix any of it.”

He raked a hand through his hair, and Max caught the way it trembled — just a little. But enough. Enough to land a hit right to Max’s chest.

“Then start talking about it,” Max said, harsher than he meant to, frustration bleeding through. “I’m so done hearing you say you’re a mess and then acting like everything’s fine five minutes later.”
It sounded useless even as he said it. Words always felt pointless when someone was drowning.

Carlos let out a humorless breath.
“Yeah, ‘cause talking’s gonna magically fix everything.”

“You haven’t even tried,” Max shot back. “And I’m tired of watching you crash and burn and pretend it’s not happening.”

Carlos looked away, jaw tight.
“It’s too much, Max. There’s too much in here to even start.”

The air felt thick, stretched tight with everything unspoken. Max didn’t care. He cut straight through it.

“What’s going on with you and Alex?”

Carlos stiffened. Max saw it — the flash of surprise, of something raw. Maybe Carlos thought no one noticed. But Max noticed everything. Especially how the two of them moved around each other like landmines.

“I don’t know,” Carlos sighed. “Or… yeah, I do. We fucked it up. And now we just… pretend it never happened. Unless it’s media obligations. Then we fake smiles.”

Max let out a sharp breath.
“That’s brutal. Not having a teammate you can lean on.”

Carlos shrugged, voice flat.
“You’re surviving.”

Max smirked, bitter at the edges.
“I’m used to it. Red Bull cycles through my teammates like phone upgrades. Never gave me long enough to build anything with anyone.”

A beat.
Then, before he could stop himself:
“I liked Alex, you know.”
It surprised even him.

“He was my teammate before they chewed him up too. And yeah — he’s intense. Bipolar’s a bitch. Some weeks he was flying, others he vanished into himself. When he finally told me… begged me to help… I didn’t know how. Left it to George.”

“Did you two ever talk after?” Carlos asked quietly.

Max shook his head.
“No. Never fixed it.”

Carlos scrubbed a hand down his face.
“I should talk to him. I just don’t know what to say.”

“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
And it was true. Carlos had this way of being everybody’s safe place — for Max, for Charles, for Lando. The guy who showed up when no one else did.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Carlos muttered. “Feels like I’m failing everyone. Like I don’t deserve any of you.”

Max let out a slow breath.
“The mind’s a bastard like that. Lies to you. Tells you you’re alone when you’re not. Yeah — maybe you need help. But I get why you haven’t done it. This sport… it doesn’t make it easy.”

Carlos huffed a laugh.
“It’s not easy pushing you assholes away, either. You always find me.”

“Damn right.”
Max grinned.

And for a second, it eased — the weight, the noise.

“I’m glad we have each other,” Max said. “You, Charles, Lando… it’s family. Might be fucked up, but it’s ours.”

“Yeah. Funny how we’re in four different teams now.”

“Four teams. Four disasters.” Max snorted.

Carlos’s gaze dropped.
“I’m worried about Lando. Oscar’s outperforming him, and Lando’s waited his whole life for a championship shot. It’s slipping away.”

“I know,” Max sighed. “He’s breaking.”

“And Charles… alone at Ferrari.”

Max’s voice went softer.
“You were his anchor there.”

“It was us against everyone.”

And for a while, neither of them said a word.
Two stubborn, exhausted idiots in the night sky.
Still holding on.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

The smell of bacon and eggs lingered in the air, thick and homey in a way that didn’t belong in the kind of life Carlos lived. It pulled him out of sleep before he opened his eyes, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the afternoon light slanting through unfamiliar curtains.

For a second, he couldn’t place where he was. Then the faint sound of a coffee machine, and Max swearing softly in the kitchen, cut through the haze — and it all came rushing back.

They’d landed in Monaco that morning. Both too wired and wrecked to speak much, trudging up to Max’s apartment in a blur and crashing almost immediately. He hadn’t even made it out of his clothes. Now it was… what, late afternoon? Maybe early evening? He could tell by the angle of the sun, the heaviness in his limbs.

He was still in the old t-shirt Max had thrown at him before they’d both collapsed.

Carlos dragged himself out of bed, hair a disaster, the ache of exhaustion clinging to him. He padded toward the kitchen, drawn by the smell and the low murmur of Max moving around like it was just any other day.

Max glanced up from the stove, offering a grin like none of it mattered — like the disastrous weekend, the fights, the press, and everything else waiting for them outside didn’t exist in here.

Carlos clung to that normalcy.

“Hey — you’re awake?” Max said.

“Barely. Smells amazing,” Carlos replied, surprised by how hungry he actually was. Or maybe it was just the smell tricking him. Either way, he decided to try.

Max served them both, and they sat at the small kitchen table like two completely ordinary people, like the world wasn’t waiting to tear them apart the moment they stepped outside this apartment.

“Oh — what do you want to drink? Coffee or Orange Juice?” Max asked, rummaging through a cupboard.

“Coffee. Definitely coffee.”

The food was good. Really good. Simple, greasy, real. Carlos started eating, forcing himself to ignore the voice in his head counting calories, the one that whispered about control and weakness. He focused instead on the conversation.

“Has Red Bull called you yet?” he asked, watching Max avoid eye contact.

“No, not yet. I feel like I’m going crazy waiting though.”

“You checked the media?”

“Nope,” Max admitted, moving around the kitchen, pretending to look for something. “I don’t dare.”

“I can check for you if you want.”

Max hesitated, then let out a breath. “Yes please. And don’t tell me if it’s awful.”

Carlos picked up his phone and scrolled through Twitter, Instagram, the usual chaos. It was bad. Of course it was. But also — not quite the disaster Max thought.

“Well,” Carlos started carefully. “Red Bull’s having an emergency meeting back in Bahrain.”

Max let out a humorless laugh. “Bet it’s about me. Bet they’re deciding if I’m worth the trouble.”

Carlos kept scrolling. “Actually… no. According to the journalists, it’s about how to make you stay. They’re panicking. They don’t wanna lose you.”

That made Max pause. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Carlos could tell he wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or furious.

“That’s… something,” Max said at last. “I’ll still get torn to shreds for my outburst though.”

“Yeah. Probably,” Carlos said with a wry grin. “But you’ll survive.”

He finished the last bite of eggs and instantly regretted it. The anxiety came crashing in before he could stop it — tight chest, nauseous heat in his stomach, head spinning. He stared at his empty plate, wanting to disappear.

Why was he like this? Why couldn’t he just be normal about food, about his body, about… everything?

“Hey,” Max’s voice was softer now.

Carlos looked up. Max’s expression had shifted — no teasing, no judgment. Just quiet concern.

“It’s okay,” Max said again, and Carlos almost believed him.

“It’s not,” Carlos muttered. He wanted to run to the bathroom, to undo the meal, to stop this feeling, but Max was here. Watching him.

“It’s okay that it doesn’t feel okay,” Max said. “Do you wanna talk about it… or maybe check out my sim rig?”

Carlos let out a shaky laugh. “Sim rig. Definitely the sim rig.”

Max smiled. “Good choice.”

He led Carlos to what was probably supposed to be a home office but looked more like a trophy room crossed with a teenage gamer’s dream. A Red Bull mini-fridge hummed in the corner, championship trophies lined the shelves, and the sim rig sat in the middle of it all — full triple screen setup, wheel, pedals, headset.

Max talked about it with the kind of passion he rarely showed outside a race car. How he’d specced the PC himself, what sim titles he liked, how he and Lando used to race online during lockdowns. Carlos let himself get pulled along by it, nodding, laughing, asking dumb questions about computers he barely understood.

“You should get one,” Max said.

Carlos laughed. “No way. I don’t get computer games.”

Max snorted.
“Yeah, you’re a dinosaur. It’s fine.”

They both cracked up at that, and for the first time in longer than he wanted to admit, Carlos felt something that resembled lightness. Max shoved the wheel into his hands, made him do a lap of Monaco, and Carlos was so terrible at it, Max nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

Carlos laughed too. Real. Unforced.

And for a little while, nothing else mattered. Not Red Bull. Not Williams. Not the headlines or the sponsors or the gnawing voice in his head. Just two guys, a sim rig, and Monaco’s digital night sky on a screen in front of them.

Carlos was grateful for that. For Max.
For this one good, ordinary afternoon in a life that didn’t have many of those.

Charles’ POV

The pale morning sun crept through the flimsy hotel curtains, casting a watery light across the mess of sheets tangled at his feet. Charles lay there, staring up at the ceiling, letting the familiar ache of loneliness settle in his chest like it always did in places like this. Another day in Bahrain. Another sterile hotel room, another stretch of hours spent too far from home, too far from the people who made this whole thing bearable.

He hated mornings like this. Waking up in a room that wasn’t his, surrounded by that cold, artificial scent of air conditioning and hotel linen. No one knocking on his door to drag him out for breakfast. No one. Just the weight of the day ahead and the long, silent stretch of sponsor meetings waiting for him.

With a sigh, Charles shoved the covers off and swung his legs out of bed. The cool tile floor bit against his bare feet as he crossed to the tiny closet. The motions were mechanical now — clean Ferrari kit, hair quickly finger-combed, that practiced press smile pulled into place like armor. He didn’t bother looking in the mirror before heading downstairs.

The hotel restaurant was nearly empty, save for the hum of soft background music and the quiet clatter of cutlery against plates. He grabbed a tray, picked half-heartedly at some eggs he already knew he wouldn’t finish, and scanned the room for a place to sit.

That’s when he saw him.

George, alone at a table by the window, half-eaten breakfast in front of him and his phone in hand. Charles hesitated for a second. He could’ve kept walking, stayed in his bubble of isolation. Especially after the last time they spoke — sharp words, tempers flaring about Alex, and the bitterness that hadn’t really faded since.

But loneliness has a way of making decisions for you.

“Is this seat free?” Charles asked, his voice rougher than he meant.

George looked up, surprise flickering across his face before it softened into something that looked a lot like relief.

“Yeah,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Company’s welcome.”

Charles set his tray down and sank into the seat, the strange comfort of being near another person settling over him. He hadn’t expected it to be George. But maybe that didn’t matter.

“Why are you still here?” Charles asked after a beat.

George gave a weary sigh, leaning back. “Meetings. Sponsors. PR stuff. You know the drill.”

Charles nodded, the weight of unspoken camaraderie threading between them. “Where’s your teammate?”

“Kimi? School.” George chuckled, shaking his head. “Kid’s still finishing high school. Gets to skip all this while I play the team mascot.”

Charles huffed a soft laugh. “It’s insane, isn’t it? Racing in F1 and still doing algebra homework.”

“Yeah, takes some strength to juggle both.” George’s gaze drifted for a second before flicking back. “I’m guessing Lewis left you with the sponsor stuff too?”

The mention of Lewis hit sharper than expected. Charles looked away, jaw tightening. It wasn’t exactly a secret. Lewis had flown off to god-knows-where as soon as he could, leaving Charles to smile for the cameras and sell the dream alone.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Not great at this alone thing.”

George let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You get used to it. Lewis was the same when we were teammates. Good guy, but never one to stick around for the boring parts.”

The air between them went still for a moment, heavy with memories neither of them felt like unpacking.

Charles sighed. “It sucks, doesn’t it? Not even having your teammate around for breakfast.”

“Yeah.” George’s voice was softer now. “It’s boring as hell. Eat alone, sit through meetings alone, then eat alone again. Rinse, repeat.”

Charles managed a small, crooked smile. “I’m going a little insane not seeing anyone. It’s like everyone vanished.”

“Same here.” George grinned faintly. “Honestly? I’m stupidly glad you came over.”

The warmth that spread through Charles’s chest was unexpected, dulling the edge of loneliness.

“Yeah… me too. Even if we’ve been idiots lately.”

George shrugged. “Water under the bridge, mate. Want to fix it? Dinner tonight?”

Charles blinked, surprised by the ease of the offer — and how quickly he wanted to accept.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Six o’clock?”

“I’ve got a late meeting, but I’ll be there,” George replied with a wink.

Charles let out an actual laugh, small and genuine. “Good luck today.”

“You too.” George grabbed his tray and stood. “And hey — you’ll figure out how to survive it.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Charles alone again in the quiet restaurant. But it didn’t feel quite so crushing this time.

Maybe there was something to look forward to.

Max’s POV

The seconds on the clock crawled, each one landing like a punch to his chest. Max sat slouched on the couch, fidgeting with his phone, flicking the screen on and off, reading the same unread messages just to give his hands something to do.

He hated this part. The waiting.

A text from Red Bull PR had come through earlier: We’ll call at 7pm. Please pick up.
Now it was 6:57.

He chewed at his thumbnail, gaze flickering over to the kitchen where Carlos was rinsing plates, humming some unrecognizable tune under his breath. It was strange how good it felt to not be alone. At first, Max had insisted Carlos stay over because he didn’t trust the guy to be left to his own spiraling — but somewhere along the way, it felt like Carlos was keeping him grounded too.

And then his phone rang.

Max’s heart dropped to his stomach. He grabbed it, thumb fumbling over the screen before answering.

“Hey, it’s Max,” he said, voice low, bracing himself.

A crisp, too-professional voice on the other end. “Hi Max, I’m calling from Red Bull PR management, my nam is Rickard.”

The kind of voice you couldn’t punch even if you wanted to.

“Hi, Rickard.” Max kept it flat, letting the guy lead. He wasn’t in the mood to do this dance longer than necessary.

“Yeah, so Max — you had a bit of a… heated interview after Bahrain,” Rickard started, all faux-sympathy, like they hadn’t spent the last 48 hours probably trashing him in their private email threads. “And it’s, well, caused some reputational issues for Red Bull. More than you maybe intended?”

Max let out a sharp breath through his nose. No, it was exactly what I intended.
But he bit it back. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that.”

He wasn’t sorry. Not really. He’d meant every word. And even if it’d been messy, even if he’d nuked half of his own bridges, it was the first time in months he’d felt honest.

“Right,” Rickard said, his tone all business now. “So, we’ve had a meeting internally, and we want to be clear — we really want you to stay with Red Bull. I hope you feel the same way. After all, Red Bull’s your biggest sponsor, your team’s backbone, and let’s not forget Team Redline — it’d be a shame to cut those ties, wouldn’t it?”

Max could practically hear the smugness oozing down the line. Snake.

“Yeah,” Max said, jaw tight. “I do want to stay with Red Bull.”

“Perfect,” Rickard chirped, already moving ahead like Max’s voice wasn’t shaking under the weight of those words. “So here’s what we need. There’s a meeting tomorrow in Monaco, we’ll go through your media strategy moving forward. Also — we’d like you to hop on a livestream with Team Redline this week. Just to show you’re still involved, still part of the Red Bull family. You get it.”

“Yeah, sure,” Max said, already dead behind the eyes.

“I’ll text you the details. You’re in Monaco now, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Alright, then we’re set. Meeting tomorrow, Max. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Yeah,” Max muttered, hanging up before the guy could fake another pleasantry.

He threw his phone onto the couch, the breath leaving his chest in a long, exhausted sigh. The weight of it all — the meetings, the PR bullshit, the carefully placed guilt traps — it settled on him like a concrete slab.

“Did it go well?”

Max glanced up. Carlos was leaning in the doorway, dish towel in hand, brow furrowed with quiet concern.

Max shrugged. “Yeah. Or, I don’t know. I’m stuck. Even if I wanted to leave, I can’t.”

Carlos gave a grim little smile. “Yeah, that sucks.”

Max rubbed a hand over his face. He hated how cornered he felt. Hated how even the anger had cooled into something worse — resignation.

“Wanna grab dinner? Somewhere out,” Max asked suddenly, needing the distraction like oxygen. “I think Lando’s in Monaco too. Maybe he’ll come.”

Carlos’s expression softened. “Sounds nice.”

Max reached for his phone again — ignoring the fresh message from Rickard that had already landed in his inbox with the meeting details — and shot a text to Lando instead.

You in Monaco? Want to grab dinner with me and Carlos?

He hit send, leaning his head back against the couch, eyes closing for a second. He didn’t want to think about Red Bull. Or PR. Or consequences. 

Lando’s POV

He hadn’t really slept.

Not properly, anyway.

The apartment was too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful, but the kind that pressed in around him — thick, suffocating, mocking. Every shadow in the corners felt heavier, every silence a reminder of how alone he was. He hadn’t left since landing in Monaco that morning. Walked through the door, dropped his bag, and shut the world out.

He didn’t want to hear one more thing about Oscar’s strong mentality. Or another headline about how Lando Norris cracks under pressure. Or how even though he was still clinging to the top of the championship, everyone was just waiting for him to fall.

Maybe they were right.

He hadn’t eaten anything since the plane — some cold, forgettable meal hours ago. Time felt blurry. Like a stretch of endless gray static.

His phone vibrated against the couch.

Lando stared at it for a long moment, heart hammering for no reason other than the thought of having to exist outside this apartment. He didn’t want to check it. He didn’t want to see some passive-aggressive text from Zak, or another stupid notification about some article trashing him.

But eventually, his fingers moved on their own.

It was Max.

You in Monaco? Want to grab dinner with me and Carlos?

For a second, Lando considered ignoring it. He wasn’t in the mood. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. But… maybe it would help. Maybe it would pull him out of whatever hole he was digging himself into.

His thumbs moved before he could second-guess it.

Yeah sure. Can’t we order takeaway instead? I don’t want any stupid paparazzi.

Max’s reply was almost instant.

Sounds great. We’ll be at yours soon.

And just like that, it was happening. Lando let the phone drop onto the couch beside him and leaned his head back against the wall. He thought about getting up. About taking a shower. Changing into something that wasn’t the same hoodie he’d worn since yesterday after the race. But the thought alone was exhausting.

So he just stayed there.

Time passed — he wasn’t sure how long — until a knock came at the door.

He dragged himself up, moving like someone twice his age, and opened it.

Max and Carlos stood there.

“Hey, guys,” Lando said, forcing a grin, trying to pull off the illusion that he was fine. That he hadn’t spent the last 12 hours mentally ripping himself apart.

But one look at their faces told him they saw through it immediately.

“Hey, Lando,” Carlos said softly, stepping in and pulling him into a hug.

And Lando broke. Again. Like the weak mentality he had. Everyone was right.

The tears hit before he could stop them, hot and angry and desperate. He clung to Carlos like some pathetic kid, hating himself for it but unable to let go.

“I feel like a failure,” Lando choked out between ragged sobs.

Carlos held him tighter. “No. No no no, you aren’t a failure, Lando. You hear me? You’re not.”

There was something about the way Carlos said no no no , his Spanish accent softening the words, that made Lando laugh through his tears.

Carlos pulled back, confused but still holding his shoulders. “What’s so funny?”

Max, who’d already kicked his shoes off and started tidying up the half-empty bottles and takeaway containers scattered around, turned too, concern etched on his face. “You okay, mate? What’s funny?”

“Nononono,” Lando repeated, mimicking Carlos’s accent.

Carlos blinked — then laughed, properly this time, shaking his head. “I thought you were losing it completely, man.”

Max snorted, pulling open the curtains and letting in a flood of late afternoon sunlight. It bathed the room in soft gold, chasing away some of the gloom.

“This place feels like a damn crypt,” Max muttered. “No wonder you’re going insane.”

Lando dropped onto the couch again, rubbing at his eyes. The weight in his chest wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t quite so crushing now either.

“I’m glad you guys came.”

“Of course,” Carlos said, sitting down next to him.

“Always,” Max added, flopping down on the other side.

For a moment, the room was quiet again — but it felt different this time. Less heavy. Less lonely.

Then Max broke it. “Alright, we’re ordering food. And not some sad salad shit, Lando. Actual food.”

Lando huffed a laugh. It wasn’t much, but it was real. “Yeah, okay. Something greasy.”

“Now you’re talking.” Max grinned, grabbing Lando’s phone off the table. “I’m ordering. No arguments.”

And for the first time since getting off that plane, Lando felt like maybe — just maybe — he wasn’t completely lost.

George’s POV

The day had blurred into a haze of handshakes, polite smiles, and meaningless small talk. Meetings bleeding into one another until George wasn’t even sure if anything important had happened. It was all noise.

Now, finally done, he left the last bland conference room and headed back toward the hotel lobby, feeling drained in a way he couldn’t explain. The kind of tired that settled deep in his bones, not just from a long day — but from months of carrying things unsaid.

Charles was already waiting in the lobby when he arrived.

“Hey, you came,” Charles said with a soft, almost surprised smile.

“Yeah, of course. Let’s grab something to eat,” George answered, grateful for the excuse to get out of the sterile hotel air.

They walked side by side through the cooling Bahrain evening, talking about their days — though it wasn’t really conversation. More like both of them filling silence with whatever nonsense came to mind so it wouldn’t feel so heavy. Both avoiding the reason they needed this dinner in the first place.

They stumbled on some tiny restaurant claiming the best Italian pasta in Bahrain. Charles raised an eyebrow.

“Kind of bold to state that.”

George grinned. “Yeah, let’s test it.”

They took a table by the window, ordered whatever house special the waiter recommended, and made jokes about food poisoning like it was the most natural thing in the world to be here, pretending everything was fine.

“I can’t wait till we’re in Saudi, and we can see everyone again,” George said between sips of water.

“Me either. I’m exhausted. I just want to get in the car.”

“Yeah. Didn’t exactly sign up for all this media bullshit,” George agreed.

Their food came — a steaming plate of pasta that was maybe the farthest thing from authentic Italian George had ever tasted. But it was good. Or maybe it was just because he hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast.

Charles took a bite and smirked. “Okay, this isn’t Italian, but it’s great.”

“You know your Italian food.”

“Been with Ferrari too long. They’d kill me if I didn’t.”

George laughed, leaning back in his chair. “What if they knew you were here eating knock-off Italian?”

“They’d hate it. But it feels good to be a little rebel sometimes.”

“Yeah.”

The conversation lulled into silence then, a pause that felt heavier than it should’ve. George felt it tightening in his chest — the thing they weren’t saying. The thing they both knew they needed to talk about.

And then Charles broke it.

“You know… I’m sorry I got so mad at you. When all you were doing was being a good friend to Alex.”

George looked up, surprised at the quiet sincerity in Charles’ voice.

“Yeah… but I get it. I know how you feel about Alex. And how you think it’s his fault… what happened to Carlos.”

Charles was quiet for a second, staring down at his plate, then spoke so quietly George almost didn’t catch it.

“Maybe I was jealous.”

George’s heart skipped a beat. He looked at Charles carefully, the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes flicked away like he regretted saying it already.

“You… you like Carlos?”

“I don't know,” Charles admitted, voice raw, gaze fixed somewhere past George’s shoulder. “I know about him and Alex. I know about what they did. The way they clung to each other when it all went to shit. I know it wasn’t healthy. It was… toxic. And I hated Alex for it. I still kind of do.”

George swallowed, the knot in his chest tightening. “Yeah… I get that. Alex regrets it. He regrets pulling Carlos down with him.”

“Do you… talk to him about it?” Charles asked.

George nodded. “Yeah. He’s doing better now. Slowly. I thought Carlos was too. Don’t you talk to him? Or Max? Or Lando?”

“Not really,” Charles sighed. “We hang out, sure. But it’s like… there’s a wall. He’s shut everyone out. Max talks to him, I think. But even Max says he doesn’t know what to do anymore. And we can’t tell his team principal — it would destroy his career.”

“Oh, God,” George muttered, feeling a pang of guilt so sharp it made his stomach turn. “I didn’t know it was that bad. I thought… I thought they were both healing.”

“Yeah, no. Or maybe they are and it’s just taking longer.”

“I feel like I left him there,” George admitted. “Like I pulled Alex out of the darkness and left Carlos behind in it. And I didn’t even see it.”

Charles was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was softer. “I blamed you for that. And Alex. For a long time. I guess I still do, a little. You pulled Alex away and left Carlos to drown.”

George looked down at his hands. It hurt. Because it was true.

“I’m sorry,” George said quietly. “I didn’t mean to. I was just… trying to save my best friend.”

“I know,” Charles said, and the edge in his voice was gone now. “It’s not your fault. None of this is really anyone’s fault. I just… it’s hard. I care too much.”

“Yeah,” George said. “Same. And it’s so fucking exhausting, isn’t it? Caring this much.”

“It is. I get why Lewis stays out of it now. Keeps his distance. Builds a wall.”

George let out a dry laugh. “Yeah. He’s smart. He knows too well what it does to you, letting yourself care about people in this sport.”

“Still feels unfair though, watching him move through it all so untouched. Like he’s figured out a cheat code.”

“He hasn’t had it easy,” George said. “People questioned him his whole career. Whether he belonged. He built those walls for a reason.”

Charles nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know. It’s just hard sometimes, wishing I could do the same and knowing I never will.”

They sat there in silence for a while after that. The restaurant humming quietly around them, the last rays of daylight fading outside the window.

Carlos’ POV

The apartment was quiet in that way it gets after a heavy conversation — not tense, not awkward, just... weighted. The coffee table was scattered with empty Thai food containers, and Carlos had been pushing his Pad Thai around for what felt like an hour without actually taking a bite. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want to feel the anxiety that had crept in during breakfast with Max. He didn’t want to stare at another empty plate, the sense of failure tightening in his chest. This was enough. It had to be.

He glanced at Lando, who’d at least showered and put on clean clothes. There was a bit of color in his cheeks again, his hair still damp. It made Carlos feel something like relief. If anyone deserved to show what he was made of in Saudi, it was Lando. The kid had it, even if the world loved pretending he didn’t.

Carlos shifted his gaze to Max, only to realize Max was already watching him — concern written all over his face, though he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. Carlos knew the look too well by now.

“Maybe we should go out drinking tonight,” Lando suddenly said, voice light, hopeful in that desperate kind of way.

“Yeah, sounds like a great idea when we all feel like shit already,” Max deadpanned.

“Okay, maybe not,” Lando mumbled.

“Why not?” Carlos found himself asking, his voice sharper than he intended. He was tired of sitting in silence, tired of feeling everything and nothing at once.

Max shrugged. “I just… don’t really like the idea of drowning everything with alcohol.”

“Yeah, but we need to survive,” Lando argued.

Carlos watched the way Max’s jaw clenched. He could feel it too — the pull toward something reckless. The ache to switch off, even for a night.

“Okay, maybe we shouldn’t pressure,” Carlos said, looking at Max.

Max sighed. “Okay, we can go out. But I don’t want anyone getting shitfaced just because they want to numb their feelings. It never ends well.”

Carlos smirked. “Now when you say it like that, alcohol doesn’t sound so thrilling anymore,” Lando said with a little sigh.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Max said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“But what are we gonna do then? Just sit here with our demons?” Lando asked.

Max opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I don’t know.”

Carlos pushed his food container aside, picking at the edge of the table. “So none of us actually knows how to cope with this mess without alcohol,” he said, lifting his gaze to them.

Lando snorted. “Yeah, seems like it.”

Carlos huffed a laugh through his nose. “We’re a bunch of messes.”

“Maybe we should book a group therapy session,” Lando joked, and for some reason it cracked them all up. Max laughed, Lando grinned wide, and even Carlos felt something uncoil in his chest as he joined in.

“You know,” Carlos said when the laughter faded, “James wanted me and Alex to go to a therapy session together. Said it might help with the pressure of the sport.”

Max’s eyebrows shot up. “James isn’t as stupid as I thought.”

Lando grinned. “Wait — you thought James was stupid?”

Carlos watched as Max shrugged, a little sheepish. “Not stupid, but… he was just an engineer at Mercedes. Didn’t think he could handle being a team principal at Williams, leading a team. But he actually gives a shit about his drivers.”

Carlos nodded. “Yeah, he does care. But I don’t like saying too much to him. Still… I know he’s noticed something’s wrong.”

There was a pause, the kind of silence that settles between people who understand too much about each other.

“I get that,” Lando said. “I like Zak and Andrea, but it’s hard with their stupid papaya rules. No number one driver. And Oscar deserves it as much as I do — maybe more. But it’s fucking hard, man.”

“Yeah, I understand that,” Max said quietly. “It’s weird, isn’t it? No matter how a team works, no matter what bullshit policies they have, the pressure’s still the same.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Carlos muttered.

And then Max sighed. “You know… it doesn’t sound so stupid with a drink anymore.”

Carlos cracked a tired smile. “Yeah, and maybe we don’t need to drink much. Just enough to forget for a little while.”

Lando leaned forward, grinning. “And we’ll take care of each other.”

Carlos met his eyes, and then Max’s, something warm flickering in his chest for the first time in what felt like weeks. He nodded.

“Yeah,” Carlos said quietly. “We’ve got each other.”

Charles' POV

The hotel room was too quiet. The soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional muffled voice in the hallway did nothing to fill the emptiness. Charles leaned against the headboard of his bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. Headlines everywhere. Max making waves with his media comments. Lando getting slaughtered by headlines about Oscar’s mental edge. Carlos being picked apart by pundits who thought Williams made a mistake trusting him.

Same shit, different race weekend.

He hated it.

Charles opened his contacts, thumb hovering over Carlos’ name. He pressed call. Three rings, voicemail. Maybe he’s asleep . It was late. He tried Max next. Same thing. His stomach twisted a little. Come on, someone pick up.

Finally, Lando.

It rang a little longer, then—

“Hello, it’s Lando!” Slurry. Laughing. Loud music in the background. Drunk.

Charles sighed in both relief and worry. Well, at least they’re alive.

“Hey, it’s Charles.”

“CHAAARLEEEES!!” Lando’s voice cracked in his ear, way too loud. Charles had to pull the phone back as the background chorus erupted — Max, Carlos, both clearly wasted too.

“Heeey Charleees, we miss you!!” they shouted in unison.

Charles couldn’t help but laugh softly, even as a heaviness tugged at him. They were trying to cope. Like always.

“Are you guys having fun?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah!” Lando yelled, then added, “Do you have fun with all your shit meetings?”

Charles smiled despite himself. “No, but I met George. He’s stuck here in Bahrain too.”

“That sounds… um… great,” Lando said, voice tipping somewhere between sarcasm and genuine. “Are you friends? I thought it was weird between you two.”

Right. Charles remembered talking to Lando. In Japan when he ranted to Lando about George — about how selfish it felt, how George pulled Alex out of hell but left Carlos stranded in it.

“Yeah,” Charles said softly. “Or… we talked about everything. I think we’re friends now.”

“That sounds great,” Lando said, quieter this time.

“It is.”

Charles could hear the music thump louder through the phone now, laughter and glass clinking in the background. He knew he was losing them to the night.

“What did you say?” Lando asked, shouting to be heard.

Charles shook his head. “That you guys should have a great night.”

“Yeah you too, goodnight!” Lando answered, already distracted.

“Goodn—” but the line went dead.

Charles stared at his phone for a long moment, then placed it on the nightstand. His chest ached in that dull, familiar way. He wished he was there with them — laughing, being reckless, drowning it all out for a little while. But more than anything, he wished they didn’t have to.

He knew what this was. Knew how each of them coped, how the media had sunk its claws in them after Bahrain, twisting every weakness, every misstep into a headline.

They weren’t okay. Not really.

Charles glanced at the clock. Two days. Two days and he’d be in Saudi Arabia. He didn’t know if he could fix anything — maybe none of them could. But at least he could see them. Sit with them. Be part of the mess instead of watching from the outside.

He counted the hours in his head.

Max’s POV

Max was wasted. Not falling-over, can’t-remember-your-name wasted, but the kind where your thoughts blur and the edges of everything feel softer. Carlos and Lando were the same — maybe even worse. But for now, it was good. For now, they were laughing. For now, the heaviness wasn’t crushing them.

Max knew it was temporary. One drink away, one wrong word, one memory too sharp — and it would all come crashing down.

The club’s lights dimmed as the night came to an end, and people started leaving. The three of them stumbled out into the cool night air, the sharpness of it cutting through the alcohol haze.

Lando was drunk-happy, singing some terrible pop song at the top of his lungs, dancing down the street like he didn’t have a care in the world. “We should go to your yacht!” he shouted out of nowhere, pointing wildly toward the docks where Max’s yacht was anchored. As he spun around to face Max, he nearly lost his balance, stumbling over the curb with a grin that said he couldn’t care less.

“I don’t know if that’s a great idea,” Max muttered, not because he didn’t want to — but because he wasn’t sure what version of themselves they’d find when it got quiet again.

“C’mon, we’ll sleep there,” Lando insisted, eyes wide, a drunken grin on his face. “We’ll watch the stars on the beautiful sky.”

Max glanced at Carlos. Carlos wasn’t even listening, lost somewhere in his own head, his gaze fixed ahead toward the docks, toward the yachts. Max followed his line of sight and saw it — Alex’s yacht sitting there in the distance, dark and silent. A ghost of something Carlos was still chasing or running from.

“Are you coming?” Lando called, already stepping onto Max’s yacht.

Carlos blinked like he was waking up. “Yeah.”

Max waited for him, his stomach sinking a little. He could guess where Carlos’s head was tonight. But now wasn’t the time.

They got on board, and Lando immediately sprawled on the couch, shouting, “Max! I want one of your famous gin and tonics.”

Max rolled his eyes but smiled. “Okay — one last one. Then it’s water, I swear.”

“Pinky promise,” Lando joked, slurring a little as he held up his pinky.

Carlos sat on the couch, staring around at the yacht like he was seeing it for the first time. “Your yacht’s really beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Max said as he started mixing the drinks. “Haven’t actually spent much time here yet.”

“It’s huge,” Lando said, half-laughing. “Your last one was tiny compared to this.”

“Yeah, figured I needed an upgrade,” Max shrugged, handing out the drinks.

“Lucky you, Red Bull pays you too well,” Lando grinned.

They clinked glasses. For a second, it was easy.

Then Carlos spoke, voice quiet but clear. “You know, I used to spend nights on Alex’s yacht. We’d drink, get high… we did some stupid shit.”

“What kind of stupid shit?” Lando asked, grinning like it was a joke.

Carlos hesitated, staring down at his glass. “One time we took his car out while we were drunk. Crashed it.”

Before Lando could respond, Max cut in, leaning back against the couch. “You remember that video you showed at dinner once? The one Ollie filmed from his balcony — the car spinning out on the gravel road near the harbor?”

Lando blinked, frowning. “Yeah…?”

“That was them,” Max said, nodding toward Carlos.

Carlos didn’t look up, fingers tight around his glass.

Lando’s grin vanished. “Wait. That was you and Alex?”

Carlos gave a small, almost ashamed nod. “Yeah.”

Lando looked between them, wide-eyed. “Holy shit.”

Carlos fiddled with the straw in his drink. Max could see his hands shaking, just a little.

“You know no matter how much you fuck up, you always have me,” Lando said, suddenly serious, leaning toward Carlos.

Carlos still didn’t look up. “Yeah, I know.”

“And you’ve got me too,” Max added. It wasn’t a line. It was a promise.

“We’ll survive,” Lando mumbled, laying down on the couch.

Carlos finally glanced up — just in time to see Lando completely passed out, mid-sentence, his head tilted against the cushion.

“Lando?” Carlos called softly, laughing a little.

Max grinned. “He’s done for the night.”

Carlos grabbed a blanket and threw it over Lando. “He’s gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”

“We all are,” Max said, finishing his drink with a shrug. He held the empty glass up. “But maybe one more before we call it?”

Carlos smiled, a little lighter this time. “Yeah. One more.”

Max made two Red Bull vodkas, handed one to Carlos, and they headed to the upper deck. The night air was cooler up there, the sky looked unreal—like someone had dimmed the world just to let the stars shine harder.

Max glanced at Carlos. “I just wish I could make you feel better,” he admitted, not meaning to say it out loud.

Carlos looked at him, eyes tired. “It’s hard. You noticed at dinner, didn’t you?”

Max nodded, still looking up at the stars. “Yeah. Why is it so hard to eat? I’m not judging you, Carlos, I just… I don’t get it.”

Carlos sighed. “I don’t even understand it. It’s like… if I eat, I lose control. And control’s the only thing I’ve got left.”

Max hated how much sense that made. “But you have to start. You can’t keep going like this, Carlos. You need to eat. You need to be okay. Your body… it needs fuel. You can’t drive without it. You can’t live without it.”

“I’ll try,” Carlos whispered.

Max hesitated, then said the thing he’d been scared to say. “You know… I’ve thought about talking to James. More than once.”

Carlos tensed, fingers tightening around the glass. But then he relaxed, just a little. “Is it that bad?”

Max didn’t lie. “Yeah. I’m worried about you.”

Carlos was quiet. Then: “Formula One is all I have, Max. If I lose that… I don’t know what I’d do.”

The words hit hard. Max felt them sink somewhere deep. He knew what it was like to tie your entire self-worth to the car, the sport, the numbers on a screen.

“We’ll figure it out. I’m not letting you go down like that.” he said, not because he knew how, but because Carlos needed to hear it.

Carlos smiled, just barely. “Breakfast helped. Talking about dumb shit. Playing with your sim rig. It distracted me.”

“Then that’s the plan,” Max said. “Distractions. Every meal, after every meal. We’ll find a way.”

They sat in silence, looking up at the sky. The stars didn’t seem so far away tonight.

“It’s beautiful here,” Carlos said after a while, voice softer now, more present.

“Yeah,” Max agreed. “Maybe I need to spend more time on the yacht. Not just keep it for show.”

Carlos smiled. But there was still so much Carlos wasn’t saying. 

They sat in the stillness, side by side, the ocean rocking gently beneath them. For now, they weren’t F1 drivers, or broken boys with headlines hanging over their heads.

They were just Max and Carlos. Two tired souls watching the stars, trying to believe in something brighter.

Together.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos woke up to the slow rocking of Max’s yacht, his mouth dry, head pounding like a drum. For a second, he didn’t even remember where he was. The walls were unfamiliar, the bed too narrow and clean to be his apartment. Then it hit him — the night out, the club, the drinks, the yacht. The last thing he remembered was sitting on the upper deck with Max, staring up at the stars, feeling like maybe things would be okay for a moment.

Everything after that was a blur.

He sat up, and instantly the world spun. His stomach lurched violently. Shit. He clumsily pushed himself up and stumbled out of the room, barely making it to the side railing in time before he threw up into the water below. The sunlight was brutal, too bright, too sharp for a morning like this. His head throbbed in protest.

Carlos wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing around, paranoid that someone might’ve seen — a lurking paparazzo, a nosy stranger, anything. But there was no one. The docks were quiet. Thank god.

He headed back inside. Lando was still passed out on the couch, mouth half-open, snoring softly. It made Carlos crack the faintest smile.

Carlos dragged himself upstairs to the upper deck, where he found Max sitting there, looking maddeningly fresh in clean clothes, hair damp from a shower, staring out at the horizon like he hadn’t just been wrecked last night.

“Good morning,” Carlos croaked.

Max glanced over, grinning. “Morning. How you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Carlos admitted, slumping into a chair.

“Yeah, I saw you puking over the side. Not the most beautiful view,” Max said, laughing lightly.

Carlos managed a weak laugh. “Lando’s still out cold.”

“Yeah, he’s gonna hate life when he wakes up,” Max smirked.

Carlos squinted at him. “When did you even wake up? You look… too put together.”

“A while ago,” Max shrugged. “Trust me, I feel like shit too. Took a shower, cleaned up, did the whole fake-it-til-you-make-it routine. I’ve got a meeting with Red Bull’s media team soon.”

Carlos winced. “Shit, I forgot. When are you leaving?”

“Soon. I figured I’d let you two sleep it off and maybe grab breakfast on the way back.”

Carlos sighed, leaning his head against the back of the chair. “I don’t even remember how I fell asleep.”

Max grinned. “You passed out up here. I carried your sorry ass to bed.”

Carlos let out a dry laugh. “Well… thanks for that.”

“Anytime, mate,” Max said, standing up and stretching. “You should probably try to get some more sleep. I gotta head out now.”

“Yeah, sounds good. Good luck at the meeting.”

“Thanks. Sleep well, Carlos,” Max said, patting his shoulder before heading down the deck.

Carlos watched him go, then dragged himself back down to the sleeping room, flopping into the bed again. He shut his eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. His mind was too loud.

He kept replaying that conversation on the upper deck in his head — Max gently confronting him about eating again, about control, about the way Carlos’s mind seemed determined to turn against him. Max wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed. And Carlos hated that it was obvious, hated that he couldn’t hide it like he used to.

Max was right though. If Carlos didn’t sort this out, he wouldn’t last in a Formula 1 car. He wouldn’t be strong enough. And God, the idea of losing the only thing that made him feel like he was worth something — it terrified him.

He hated that his brain twisted things like this, made him believe that staying in control meant being sick, that letting go meant failing.

Carlos pressed his eyes shut tighter, trying to will the thoughts away. He’d promised to try. He had to mean it. Not just for himself, but for Max, for Lando, for Charles, for the people who hadn’t given up on him.

He pulled the blanket over his head and let the steady, gentle rock of the yacht lull him into something close to sleep.

Max’s POV

Max sat in the meeting room, the dull hum of the air conditioning and the low, scripted voices of Red Bull’s media team grating on his already frayed nerves. In front of him was a glossy sheet of paper with carefully crafted PR phrases printed in bold letters:

“We’ll fix this car together.”
“Red Bull is amazing — they’re constantly developing the car.”
“We’ll see results soon.”

Max wanted to crumple it up and toss it in the trash. Lies. All of it. A clean-up job for the mess he’d made with his last interview when he, admittedly, hadn’t kept his mouth shut. This wasn’t his first media training — far from it — but that didn’t make it any less exhausting. The people in the room were spewing the same rehearsed advice they always did. Smile here, deflect there, say something vague and positive.

He could lie when he had to. But that didn’t mean he liked it.

When the meeting finally wrapped, Max got out of there as fast as he could, leaving the stale, over-air-conditioned room behind. Outside, the sun was blinding, and for a second he just stood there, letting the warmth cut through the headache still lingering from last night.

He had one mission now — breakfast. Or whatever the hell you called food at this hour when everyone was nursing hangovers and regrets.

He wandered toward the marina, scanning the streets, trying to think of what the others might stomach. Lando would probably inhale anything greasy without a second thought, but Carlos… that was the question. Last night’s conversation was still circling Max’s mind. Carlos had passed out mid-sentence under the stars, and when Max carried him down, it had struck him just how light Carlos felt. Too light.

He spotted a brunch place and ducked inside. A simple spread. Bagels. Tomato soup. Croissants. Enough options without pressure. He grabbed three of each, hoping it might be easier for Carlos to pick something if there wasn’t just one thing on the table.

He made his way back to the yacht, the world still spinning like it hadn’t paused for them. The city was waking up, cars threading through the streets, sunlight glinting off the water, and people moving on with their lives like nothing had happened.

In the kitchen area, Max unpacked the food, grabbed three Red Bulls from the fridge, and got the coffee machine going.

Then he headed down to the sleeping quarters. Carlos was curled up, dead to the world. Max gently shook him awake.

“Hey. I’m back.”

Carlos blinked, bleary-eyed and disoriented. “Meeting go okay?” he croaked.

“Same shit,” Max shrugged. “Come on, I’ll tell you about it over food.”

Carlos groaned as he got up, rubbing his face, and they both made their way to the main area. Lando was still dead to the world on the couch.

“Good morning, princess,” Carlos teased, shaking him.

Lando cracked an eye open and winced. “Ahh, the sunlight is trying to kill me.”

Max laughed. “Come on, I’ve got food.”

Carlos helped drag Lando upright, both of them groaning in unison as the hangover truly hit.

“My back’s destroyed from that couch,” Lando grumbled.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have passed out there like a corpse,” Max grinned, dropping a Red Bull in front of him.

They gathered at the kitchen table. Carlos eyed the food warily.

“You don’t need to eat it all,” Max said softly.

Carlos gave a small nod and reached for the tomato soup and a bagel. Max talked while they ate, pulling out the PR sheet from his pocket, laying it on the table.

“Check this out — the Red Bull special,” Max said, reading out one of the lines in a mocking voice: “‘We will fix this car together.’”

Lando snorted, then winced at the volume. “Damn, you really got scolded.”

“It’s always the same,” Max shrugged. “These meetings are like Groundhog Day.”

“Yeah, I’ve figured out if you actually say what you’re thinking, you’re screwed,” Lando said with a grin, cracking open his Red Bull. “Lie through your teeth and suddenly you’ve ‘handled the media with maturity.’”

“Media training’s the worst,” Carlos muttered, absentmindedly dipping his bagel into his soup.

Then, almost like he surprised himself by saying it, he added, “Williams isn’t really like that, though. They… kind of just want us to be happy. Figuring if we are, we’ll say the right things naturally.” He shrugged. “Only time they ever corrected me was when I said my favorite color’s red. They asked if I could say blue instead.”

Lando snorted. “That’s it?”

“Yeah,” Carlos said, a small smile flickering as he looked down at his bowl.

“Lucky you,” Max sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“Yeah,” Carlos echoed softly

Max noticed he’d finished the soup, the bagel too — left the croissant untouched, but honestly, Max hadn’t expected even that much. Carlos was staring at the empty plate, the same way he had at breakfast yesterday. That tight, uneasy look.

Before things could dip into silence again, Max spoke up. “I can show you guys around the yacht now that we’re all sort of alive.”

Lando perked up. “Hell yeah. I’m still impressed by how massive this place is.”

Carlos glanced up and gave a faint nod. Max caught his eye for a second. They both knew what Max was doing — another distraction. A reason to stay out in the sun, to stay moving, to stay in the world a little longer instead of sinking into their own heads.

Max didn’t care if it was obvious. If it worked, it worked

Charles’ POV

The late afternoon sun hung low over Bahrain, the warmth sitting heavy on Charles’ skin as he and George wandered through the quiet streets near their hotel. The back-to-back meetings were finally done — media prep, sponsor talks, debriefs — and soon they'd be off to Saudi Arabia for the next round.

Charles could already feel that itch in his chest, that restless excitement of getting back into the car. But even more than that, he was looking forward to seeing everyone again. The paddock chaos, the late nights, and the ridiculous conversations. The quiet camaraderie of it. It made the off days tolerable.

George was animated, rambling about setups and the car, already eager to race again. They found a bench along the promenade, a simple spot with a view of the water, and sat down. Both instinctively pulled out their phones, the silence between them comfortable. Charles scrolled through his calendar, moving meetings around, confirming dinner plans, trying to make his schedule in Saudi a little less impossible.

Then George swore under his breath.

“Oh, shit.”

Charles looked up. “What?”

George turned his phone, his expression a mix of disbelief and irritation. An article blared on his screen — bold letters screaming about how FIA’s favorite team McLaren was allegedly the subject of high-stakes bets in the paddock about them winning the Constructors' Championship.

A rumor, but one big enough to make headlines.

“It’s just rumors,” Charles said, though he felt his stomach tighten.

“Yeah, but damaging rumors,” George muttered, scrolling down. “They’re making it sound like it’s some massive conspiracy. That McLaren’s getting special treatment.”

Charles sighed, leaning back against the bench. The last thing Lando needed was this. Not after everything lately. “Hope it’s just this one article and it dies before anyone else picks it up.”

“Yeah, but you know how it works. One tabloid runs it, the others smell blood,” George said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe how these journalists think sometimes.”

Charles hated it too — how they spun nothing into scandal, dragged drivers into headlines for clicks and chaos. And it was always the drivers who carried it. Not the teams. Not the FIA. Just the guys who had to show up and drive with a thousand different narratives on their shoulders.

“Hope Lando and Oscar don’t see it,” George said. “Or if they do, they just laugh it off.”

“Yeah… wish media would take a break sometimes,” Charles muttered, feeling a bitter edge to his voice.

They both went quiet again, the tension settling between them as easily as the evening heat. Charles looked out at the view — the soft shimmer of the water, the stretch of sky turning pinkish-gold.

George’s voice pulled him out of the thoughts. “Hey — maybe we should head back to the hotel. Start packing. Our flight’s in a few hours.”

Charles blinked, nodding. “Yeah. Sounds like a good idea.”

They stood, heading back toward the hotel, leaving the bench and the unspoken things behind.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos lay stretched out on Max’s couch, the soft hum of the apartment filling the background. Lando had left hours ago to pack for Saudi, promising to meet them later for their flight on Max’s jet. Max, meanwhile, had disappeared into his sim room for a Team Redline livestream — some awkward PR move to show the world everything was fine between him and Red Bull.

Carlos had been watching the stream on Max’s TV, eyes flicking between the lackluster gameplay and the endless stream of comments flooding the chat. People speculated about Max’s future, questioning whether he’d leave, if Red Bull was falling apart, and whether this was the beginning of the end. Crane did his best to keep the mood light, hyping Max up like he always did, but even through the screen, it was obvious — Max wasn’t really feeling it. The usual spark wasn't there.

Carlos didn’t even get the game. Some chaotic first-person shooter where everyone was shouting into headsets. It looked more stressful than fun.

His phone buzzed — a meme from Lando in their WhatsApp group. Something ridiculous about goats driving F1 cars. Carlos looked over and saw Max glance at his phone too, a small smile tugging at his lips. It was brief, but it was something — a little crack in the weight of the moment.

Carlos let the stream run for a few more minutes, but the heaviness in his chest made it hard to focus. He turned off the TV and tossed the controller onto the table, letting his head fall back against the couch. The silence in the room felt deafening now. It wasn’t peaceful; it was the kind of quiet that made everything inside his head louder.

For a little while, Max had managed to quiet it. Distracting him with breakfast, teasing him about sleeping through half the day, just existing like it was normal. It helped. More than Carlos wanted to admit. But when the distractions stopped, it came back worse — those voices in his head. Telling him he was weak. That eating was failure. That he was losing control.

Carlos barely noticed Max finish up in the sim room until he heard the door open, and Max’s footsteps crossing the floor.

“I’m done now,” Max said, dropping down into one of the armchairs across from him.

“Was it fun?” Carlos asked, though he already knew the answer.

Max made a face. “No. Not how it should be. Felt like a chore.”

“I get it,” Carlos said quietly, pulling a blanket up over his stomach like it could shield him from the thoughts clawing at his head.

Max looked at him, his expression softer now. “How are you feeling?”

Carlos hesitated, debating whether to lie or not. But it wasn’t worth it — not with Max.

“Honestly? Like shit,” Carlos admitted, staring up at the ceiling.

“Why?” Max asked, leaning forward a little, elbows on his knees.

Carlos swallowed hard. “Because my mind is destroying me. I eat and for a second it feels fine, like it’s okay… then those voices come back. Telling me I’m losing control. That I’m a failure. That I don’t deserve it.”

Max didn’t look away. Didn’t wince or try to fix it with some dumb motivational quote. He just sat there, solid as always.

“The voices are gonna fade,” Max said, his voice steady. “The more you fight them, the more you push back. It won’t be forever.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Carlos murmured. “But it’s fucking hard pretending it’s okay to eat. Pretending like it’s normal.”

Max leaned back in the chair, resting his head against the back of it, looking up at the same ceiling. “You have to fake it till you make it,” he said quietly. “That’s what I’ve done with half the shit in my life. Pretend you’re fine until one day you are.”

Carlos let out a breath, a weak smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Not sure I’m as good an actor as you.”

“Then I’ll help you fake it,” Max said. “We’ll both fake it.”

It wasn’t a solution. It wasn’t some big, sweeping promise that everything would be okay. But it was something. And right now, Carlos would take something .

Lando’s POV

Lando slumped into the leather seat on Max’s private jet, trying to pretend the hum of the engines calmed him, but his head was a mess. The pressure was suffocating. He needed a perfect weekend in Saudi — pole, fastest lap, a win. Not just for the points, not just for the championship — but to prove something. To McLaren, to the media, to himself. That he was worth believing in. That he wasn’t just the kid who choked under pressure or the driver with a ‘fragile mentality,’ as they’d labeled him last season.

And now this new storm.

He scrolled through his phone again, the headline still there. “FIA Favoritism? Insiders Claim Big Bets Behind McLaren’s Rise to the Top.” It made his stomach twist. Rumors that the FIA had placed private bets on McLaren for the Constructors’ title, which, if even a fraction of it was true, would blow up the whole paddock. And even if it wasn’t — the damage was done. The media loved a scandal. And McLaren had already booked an emergency meeting for him and Oscar when they landed.

Lando hated it. Not just the rumors, but the fact that it was always something. If it wasn’t the media digging into his headspace, it was politics and drama he had zero control over.

He glanced across the cabin. Max and Carlos had both read the article too. Max called it bullshit , but Lando knew it probably hadn’t surprised him either. Max had been at war with the FIA since forever — the swearing fines, the constant PR policing, trying to make him fit a polished mold he never wanted. Carlos too — Lando remembered when he got fined for missing the national anthem at Suzuka because he was literally sprinting to the bathroom. The FIA had no chill. It was always a circus.

Max handed out sandwiches he’d made — chicken, bacon, and cream cheese, handing them over like some tired but stubbornly caring older brother.

“You’re acting like a mum,” Lando joked, taking one with a grateful grin.

“Yeah, someone’s gotta fill that role,” Max shrugged, smirking.

“Maybe,” Lando mumbled, the edge of his stress loosening a little at the normalcy.

Max perked up a bit. “So — are we excited to race Jeddah?”

“Yeah, it’s a fun one,” Carlos said, sounding way more casual than Lando felt.

“Fast as hell. I think McLaren’s really gonna show how quick we are there,” Lando said, and he meant it. At least, he hoped so.

“Could be,” Max nodded. “I think our car’s gonna handle Jeddah better than Bahrain too.”

Carlos shrugged. “No idea how the Williams is gonna be. Hell, I didn’t even drive there last year with Ferrari.”

“Yeah, you had appendicitis right?” Lando said slowly, memory flickering. He remembered the paddock whispers back then. Officially, it was appendicitis. Unofficially? People said Carlos had collapsed, malnourished and burnt out, overwhelmed by the news of his Ferrari exit. Lando hadn’t known what to believe then. Even now, hearing Carlos confirm the appendicitis story, it still sounded off.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Carlos said quickly.

Max glanced at him too, his eyes narrowing for a second. They’d all heard the rumors. But no one said anything.

“Well, this year you’ll finally get to race it,” Max said, like offering a peace treaty.

“Yeah,” Carlos smiled, more genuine now. “It’s gonna be fun.”

Lando grinned despite himself. “I just hope I get pole. Show everyone I can do it.”

“You might,” Max laughed. “But I won’t make it easy for you.”

They all finished their sandwiches, the tension easing into something that felt almost normal for the first time in days. Max launched into a story about last year’s Jeddah GP — his 100th podium, Oliver Bearman subbing in for Carlos, Magnussen getting that massive penalty, Nico snagging points. Lando barely listened. The exhaustion of everything finally caught up with him.

His eyes fluttered closed, Max’s voice a familiar background hum, the soft shake of the plane lulling him to sleep.

Charles’ POV

The plane touched down in Saudi Arabia, the soft jolt of the landing gear hitting the tarmac pulling Charles out of his haze. He glanced down at his watch, heart sinking a little. Max’s jet wouldn’t land for another two hours.

Beside him, George was shouldering his carry-on, already eyeing the way out of the airport.
“Aren’t you heading to the hotel?” George asked, frowning when Charles didn’t move.

Charles shook his head. “Nah… I think I’ll wait for Max, Carlos and Lando. They should be here in about two hours.”

George huffed a tired laugh. “Alright, have fun waiting, mate,” he said with a teasing grin before heading through the gates and disappearing into the crowd.

Charles stayed where he was, standing awkwardly in the arrivals area as waves of people poured in and out. He noticed a row of those sleeping pods you could rent for a couple of hours. For a second, the idea of crawling into one sounded perfect, but the paranoid part of him convinced him he’d somehow miss Max’s jet landing, or fall asleep and wake up to a hundred missed calls.

Instead, he dropped his bag by a corner of the waiting area and sat down among random travelers, ignoring the way a few heads turned his way. They probably recognized him. It wasn’t every day you saw a Formula 1 driver slouched in a public airport lounge like a lost kid.

Charles pulled out his phone, opening his flight tracker app. Max’s private jet was still over 2 hours out, cruising steadily toward Jeddah.
He sighed and opened Instagram, scrolling mindlessly through memes, funny animal reels, and team posts. Anything to distract himself from the ache in his chest.

Because it wasn’t just missing them — it was Carlos.

He missed Carlos like a phantom limb. And the thing was… Charles knew he was being reckless, knew he was being stupid. Because he was in love with him. Head over heels, stupidly, pathetically in love. And worse, he’d already confessed it to the worst people to confess things to — Max, Lando, George. It had just slipped out in conversations. A half-drunk admission to Lando at a party, an anxious rant to Max after the Japan qualifying, a quiet admission to George during their dinner in Bahrain.

The only person who didn’t know was Carlos himself.

And Charles wasn’t even sure if Carlos wanted to know.

There’d been signs — moments that felt like more. A lingering look, a hand on his shoulder that lasted too long, the way Carlos always found him in a room, the late-night phone calls. But Charles also knew his heart had a way of seeing what it wanted to see. And maybe for Carlos, they were just best friends. Maybe it was nothing more than that.

He stared out the window as another plane landed, the lights of the runway flickering in the distance. He just hoped the next two hours would pass fast. Because as much as it terrified him to be around Carlos, it terrified him even more to stay away.

Carlos’ POV

The jet touched down with a soft thud, and Carlos felt his body ache in relief. He was exhausted. He missed a proper bed — a hotel room with blackout curtains and room service, not Max’s yacht, not a plane seat, not a couch. As much as he appreciated Max’s effort and distractions, he was running on fumes now.

The three of them — him, Max, and Lando — stepped out into the arrivals area. The warm evening air hit Carlos immediately, that dry desert heat clinging to his skin. And then, there he was.

Charles.

It caught Carlos by surprise. Standing there casually in the arrivals lounge like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Lando grinned, immediately pulling Charles into a hug.

“I landed a while ago,” Charles smiled, “thought I could wait for you guys.”

Carlos blinked. He hadn’t expected that. And somewhere under the exhaustion and travel haze, something warmed in his chest.

“Yeah, how was your week in Bahrain?” Max asked, pulling Charles in for a hug too.

Charles grimaced. “No, no — I don’t wanna talk about it. It was awful. Lonely as hell.”

Max chuckled knowingly. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

“But George was there too for meetings, so we spent some time together,” Charles added.

And something about that made Carlos’ stomach twist. It wasn’t jealousy, not really… or maybe it was. It felt weird. Strange that Charles hadn’t told him. Or maybe Carlos was just being irrational.
He noticed Max glance over at him, sharp and too aware.

“Oh, so you guys talked things through?,” Max said lightly, but Carlos caught the weight in his tone.

“Yeah, we have,” Charles replied with a little smile.

What were they talking about? Why was Max looking at him like that?
Carlos felt like he’d missed something important — like a conversation had happened where his name had come up and he wasn’t supposed to know.

But before he could spiral further, Lando’s voice cut through.
“Look, they have my favorite iced tea!” Lando bolted toward a vending machine like a kid, Max following after him with a laugh.

And just like that, it was him and Charles. Alone.

It felt… weird. Carlos wasn’t sure what to say, how to fill the sudden quiet. It wasn’t bad, but it was charged — like the air before a storm.

“How are you doing?” Charles asked, voice softer now.

“Fine. And you?” Carlos answered, too quickly, too stiffly.

“Alright.” Charles offered a small smile. “Do you wanna share a cab to the hotel?”

Carlos let out a relieved sigh. “Yeah. I really need to sleep.”

“Hey!” Lando called from across the room, holding up a can of iced tea like it was a trophy. “We need to head to the paddock for a bit. Are you guys coming with us or?”

Carlos shook his head. “Nah, me and Charles are heading straight to the hotel.”

“Yeah, I don’t have the energy to deal with the media tonight,” Charles added.

“Alright, see you guys later,” Max waved, following Lando out the doors.

And just like that, it was the two of them again. Watching planes land against the dusky sky.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” Charles murmured, eyes on the horizon.

“Yeah,” Carlos agreed, not really looking at the sky — just at Charles.

They headed toward the cab line and were immediately intercepted by a welcome party — cameras flashing, flower bouquets shoved into their hands, officials giving the same polished speech about how Saudi Arabia welcomed them with open arms. Carlos smiled for the cameras, his face aching from it. But when he glanced at Charles, bouquet in hand, dark curls a little tousled, a soft pink dusting his cheeks from the attention — something tugged hard at Carlos’ heart.

It felt stupidly romantic.
Flowers. Evening sky. Just the two of them.

Inside the cab, Charles sighed like a man deflating. “What a welcome,” he muttered, tossing the bouquet onto the seat beside him.

Carlos snorted. “Yeah, the speech about how ‘beautiful this country is to visit.’” He laughed, shaking his head.

Charles let out a laugh too, then added dryly, “Shame their LGBTQ rules suck.”

Carlos blinked, caught off-guard. He wasn’t sure what Charles meant — if it was a general protest against injustice, or if there was something more, something personal in it. He didn’t ask though. He just laughed along, agreeing because it was easier.

The cab rolled through the streets, the city lights of Jeddah streaking by the windows. And Carlos, despite himself, kept sneaking glances at Charles.

He wondered if Charles knew.
If he felt it too — this electric, quiet, terrifying thing sitting between them. If he felt the feeling they have had in Ferrari.

Lando’s POV

The cab hummed along the road, neon lights blurring past the window, and Lando slouched further down in his seat, head tipped toward Max.

“Did you notice how it was a little awkward between Carlos and Charles?” Lando asked, breaking the quiet.

Max scoffed a little, smirking. “Yeah, it was weird.”

Lando chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to untangle the knot of thoughts in his head. “Carlos doesn’t know Charles and George had that argument about Alex and Carlos, does he?”

Max turned his head, brow raised. “No, you’re right… maybe that’s why Carlos looked so weirded out when I asked if they’d talked things through. I didn’t think about it.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Lando sighed. “You maybe shouldn’t have brought it up like that.”

Max shrugged. “Yeah I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

Lando ran a hand through his hair, leaning his head back against the cab seat. “I wonder what Charles and George were even talking about. I mean — last time Charles mentioned George to me, he was furious. Said George left Carlos to fend for himself while he was busy playing Alex’s knight in shining armor. Said no one realized Alex was the villain.”

Max let out a small, sharp breath. “Yeah… but I don’t know, mate. Alex isn’t the villain here. Both Carlos and Alex were a mess. They handled it differently, and it got ugly.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Lando murmured. He wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know Alex well enough to have an opinion, not like Max did. He trusted Max’s judgment — The Red Bull history meant Max had seen a side of Alex the rest of them hadn’t.

But still… things felt off. Too many half-spoken conversations. Too many rumors swirling around. The paddock was its own kind of battlefield sometimes, and Lando hated how it turned people against each other.

Max sighed, rubbing his face. “Why did we think it was a good idea to go to the paddock tonight?”

Lando snorted. “Because we’ve got obligations. And meetings. And PR people are losing their minds over how we’re supposed to handle the media storm.”

Max grumbled. “I wish we could just ignore them.”

Lando gave him a look. “Yeah, because it went so well last time you did that.”

That made Max laugh — a real one, not the tight polite ones they’d been passing around all evening.

“Fair point,” Max said, grinning.

The cab slowed, pulling up to the paddock gates, and the exhaustion hit Lando all over again. The glow of the floodlights, the bustling paddock staff still moving about even though it was late, the sound of crates being unloaded and set up for tomorrow’s sessions.

He just wanted to sleep.

They grabbed their bags from the back of the cab.

“See you after your emergency meeting,” Max said, giving Lando a wave as he started toward the Red Bull motorhome.

“Yeah — good luck to you too,” Lando called after him.

He stood there for a second, watching Max disappear into the glowing blue and white of the Red Bull building. Then he turned and made his way toward the McLaren motorhome, stomach sinking with every step.

He hated this part. Hated knowing he was about to sit through some overpaid PR rep lecturing them about media narratives, about rumors, about how to answer questions like puppets on strings. About how he and Oscar needed to smile and lie and downplay the absolute shitstorm of headlines about the FIA allegedly favoring McLaren.

It was always the drivers who took the hits. Never the teams. Never the FIA.
And now, it was his name on every headline again.

Lando Norris: mentally weak. Protected by FIA. A fraud.

He clenched his jaw, adjusted his bag on his shoulder, and pushed open the door to the motorhome.

Time to face it.

Charles' POV

Charles lay flat on his hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling, the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the room. The sheets were cool, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of the city lights outside his window — but sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight.

His head was a mess. His heart even worse.

He couldn’t stop replaying the conversation at the airport. The way Carlos had acted… not cold, not angry — but distant. Like there was a wall up between them now that hadn’t been there before. Charles could still feel the weight of Carlos’ reaction when Max had casually asked if he and George had talked things through. That subtle flicker in Carlos’ eyes, the slight shift in his stance. The way his face shuttered for a split second.

He doesn’t know.

Carlos didn’t know how Charles had fought for him. How he’d stood there, furious and raw, shouting at George about how he’d left Carlos alone when it mattered, about how George had picked Alex’s side like it was nothing. About how unfair it was that no one seemed to see what Carlos had been going through, how no one understood that the mess wasn’t one-sided.

He didn’t know that Charles had taken the heat, said things he maybe shouldn’t have, because all he’d cared about was making someone — anyone — realize how broken it had left Carlos.

And now Charles and George had somehow talked it through. Smoothed it over. Not perfect, but better.

His mind drifted to those stupid flower bouquets. The ridiculous welcome ceremony, the cameras, the speeches. It should’ve been annoying, awkward — but watching Carlos smile, bouquet in hand, evening sun catching in his hair, it had felt like something out of a dream Charles didn’t dare to admit wanting.

And then he’d done it again — let his mouth run faster than his brain. That dumb offhand comment about LGBTQ rights. Testing the waters. Trying to see if Carlos would flinch, if he’d pull away, or maybe — just maybe — if he’d reach for Charles the way Charles had been silently begging him to.

But Carlos had just laughed. Not cruelly, not awkwardly. Just… laughed. And Charles didn’t know what the hell that meant.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning softly.

That stupid, desperate part of him — the one that was in love with his best friend — kept messing this up. Carlos didn’t need romance right now. He didn’t need Charles flirting like some lovesick idiot. He needed a friend. He needed normal. And Charles needed to figure out how to be that, to lock all this other stuff away. Because it wasn’t fair to Carlos. Not now.

But God, it was hard. Lying there, Charles ached to go knock on Carlos’ door. To ask if he wanted to sneak out, grab some late-night food somewhere off the grid, talk about stupid things, let the world be quiet for a while. Show him what it could feel like — to be loved without conditions.

But he couldn’t. Not tonight. Not like this.

Charles exhaled slowly, closing his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through it.

Get it together, Leclerc.

Tomorrow would come. The paddock would be chaos. The media would circle like vultures. There’d be meetings, strategy sessions, tension in every hallway. He would be Charles the driver. 

Not Charles in love.

He could bury it. At least for now.

Chapter Text

Max’s POV
Thursday. Media day.

The part of the weekend Max loathed with a venom he rarely let show.
The part where everything felt the most fake. The most exposed.

He sat in the back of the cab like it was a holding cell, fingers twitching against the edge of his collar. The fabric was too stiff, too clean, like it didn’t belong to him. Nothing about this did. The smile, the script, the silence. None of it felt like his .

Outside, the circus was already spinning — camera flashes like gunshots, reporters vulturing near the barricades, waiting for a slip, a headline, blood.
And they wanted his .

Breathe. Pretend. Keep it together.

He’d rehearsed it all last night, wide awake in that too-quiet hotel room. Eyes burning holes in the ceiling, mind looping through answers, counter-answers, the PR-friendly bullshit Red Bull needed him to vomit on cue. It was like prepping for war with nothing but a toothpick and a fake grin.

Everyone was still talking. Bahrain hadn’t just been a bad race — it had been a crack in the mask. A public tantrum, they’d said. A tantrum from a man who was supposed to be composed. A champion.
Ticking time bomb. That was the favorite, wasn't it?
They had no idea how close they were to being right.

He didn’t need their gossip to remind him of the pressure. He felt it. Every second. Every breath.
Christian’s hand on his shoulder, cold like a shackle. The team radio, stiff with awkward silence.
The contract — God, that fucking contract.

Max clenched his jaw. He couldn’t just walk away. Not even if he wanted to. Red Bull wasn’t just a team — it was a noose with sugar on top.
They owned pieces of him. His sim racing team, the junior drivers he mentored, the esports stuff — all of it tied to them. Tied to this image. This version of him they helped build.

And if he left early?
He’d owe them more money than even he could shrug off. The kind of money that came with consequences. Headlines. Lawsuits. Maybe worse.

But more than that — more than the cash, the chaos — was the gaping void he didn’t want to name.
What the hell would he even be without them?

The cab slowed to a stop.
Time’s up.

Max stepped out. Like clockwork, the cameras turned, snapping rapid-fire. Questions hurled like knives.

“Max — are you still committed to Red Bull?”
“Did you really refuse the debrief after Bahrain?”
“Are you considering Aston Martin’s offer for 2026?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t break stride. Just gave them the smile. The one that felt like a muzzle. Tight-lipped. Controlled. Hollow.

“No, no. Just a bad weekend. We all get them, yeah?” he said. His voice came out smooth, measured — the PR-perfect version of him. “I was tired. Frustrated. That’s racing. I’m fully committed to Red Bull — they’ve always been my home.”

The words tasted like rust. They scraped down his throat like razors.
Liar.
But he kept walking. Because if he stopped, he might scream.

Inside the motorhome, the air was crisp, fake-clean. Sanitized. Like nothing could go wrong in here — just ignore the rot underneath.

A PR girl appeared beside him like a ghost in heels, her clipboard clutched like armor.

“How’d it go out there?” she asked, voice syrupy.

Max gave a clipped nod. “Fine.”
Liar again.

“Do you want someone with you for the sit-downs?”

“No.” Too fast. Too sharp.
She didn’t flinch. Just marked something off on her clipboard like they hadn’t both felt the tension crack the air.

He couldn’t afford a babysitter. He couldn’t afford anything . One wrong word and the dam would break. And then what? A meltdown? Headlines? Suspension?

Focus, Max.
Just get through the day.

He stalked off to his room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet finality. For a second, he just stood there. Breathing like it hurt. Back pressed to the cool wood. Eyes closed.

It smelled like new carpet, like detergent and control. His helmet sat under the lights, polished like a trophy, the Red Bull logo staring back like a brand seared into his skin.

He picked it up. It felt heavier than usual.

This is the only life you’ve ever known.
The only one they let you have.

He looked at his reflection in the visor — distorted, split, a stranger.
“Get through today,” he whispered.
“Keep it together. Play the game.”
Then maybe one day… you’ll figure out how to burn the whole fucking game down.

Lando’s POV
The walls of the McLaren motorhome felt like they were closing in.

Lando sat slouched on the worn couch in the corner, his phone gripped tight in his hand like a lifeline—or a ticking bomb. He scrolled mindlessly, again and again, hoping the glowing screen would somehow blur out the rest of the world. But the noise outside leaked through the thin walls—shouts from journalists, the snap of camera shutters, the hollow laughter of people pretending this circus wasn’t eating them alive.

Media day.
He fucking hated media day.

The second he’d stepped outside, they were on him like wolves—questions that felt like barbed wire coiled around his throat.
Are you struggling mentally, Lando? Is Oscar outperforming you? Do you think the FIA is favoring McLaren?
And no matter how composed he tried to look, every answer just made them hungrier.

His phone buzzed. The sudden jolt made his stomach twist.

Sebastian Vettel: “Hi, I’m around this weekend. You want to meet for a coffee?”

For a second, Lando just stared at the message, numb fingers hovering above the screen. Then his thumbs moved—fast, instinctive—like he was grabbing onto a life raft before he could think twice.

Lando: “Sure, say where and when?”

The reply was almost immediate.

Sebastian: “Now. I’m outside the McLaren motorhome.”

Lando blinked. A spike of panic hit his chest, then melted into relief. He shoved his phone in his pocket, grabbed his cap and sunglasses off the table, and jammed them on like armor. Like maybe they’d keep him from being recognized, or at least from being seen .

He slipped out through the side door, ducking his head. And there he was—Sebastian—leaning casually against the fence, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes soft and knowing. He looked untouchable, like someone who’d already walked through the fire and figured out how not to burn.

“Hey,” Lando said, breath catching halfway through the word.

Sebastian offered a small smile and pulled him into a quick hug. “Hey. How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” Lando lied. The word came out too fast, too hollow. He forced a laugh. “You know—media storm, existential dread, imposter syndrome. The usual.”

Sebastian chuckled, and it was warm, grounding. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. Find some air.”

Lando didn’t hesitate. “God, yes. Lead the way.”

Sebastian had already planned an escape. Of course he had. They ducked into a waiting car like fugitives, the engine humming softly as the paddock chaos blurred into the rearview. Lando didn’t let himself look back.

It wasn’t long before they found a quiet café nestled in a corner of the old town, far enough from the circuit to feel like another planet. No cameras. No questions. Just chipped coffee cups and the soft hum of a fan turning lazily above their heads.

Lando exhaled for what felt like the first time all week.

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, watching him closely. “What’s going on out there? I’ve seen it from the outside, but it feels heavier now. Sharper.”

Lando stirred his coffee, eyes unfocused. “It is. It’s different now. Drive to Survive turned the paddock into a stage. Everyone’s acting. Everyone’s wired. And the media? They don’t ask anymore—they provoke. They corner you. They want blood.”

Sebastian’s expression darkened. “I felt it coming before I left. But this…” He shook his head. “It’s something else now.”

“I’m tired, Seb,” Lando said, barely above a whisper. “Mentally... I feel like I’m being torn in ten directions. The team wants one version of me. The media another. And then there’s Oscar—who’s just... good. Quietly, consistently good. And people are starting to wonder if I’ve peaked. If I’m dragging the team down.”

Sebastian didn’t interrupt. He just let the silence stretch, safe and steady.

Lando kept going. “Max is in full PR lockdown after Bahrain. Carlos looks like he’s been hollowed out. Charles is cracking at the seams, and we all pretend like it’s fine. Like we’re fine. But I’m not. I’m so far from fine I don’t even know what it looks like anymore.”

Sebastian’s eyes were kind, but there was steel behind them. “I’ve seen it. The toll this takes. And I’ve watched too many good drivers drown in it.”

Lando swallowed hard. “They talk about us like we’re machines. They count milliseconds and mistakes like it’s math. But none of them know what it feels like to carry this... this weight every damn day.”

“You’re not alone in this,” Sebastian said gently. “You’ve got each other. That matters more than you think.”

“Yeah,” Lando muttered. “It’s the only thing that keeps me from going completely off the rails.”

Sebastian set his cup down with a soft clink. “Don’t let them tell you who you are. Don’t let their noise get louder than your own voice. You’re not weak, Lando. You’re surviving something most people couldn’t last a week in.”

Lando felt something crack open in his chest—maybe not relief, not yet—but something close.

Then came the click.
Then another.
The sharp, familiar sound of camera shutters.

He turned his head slowly.

A swarm of photographers had gathered outside the café’s front window, lenses pressed to the glass like eyes hunting for weakness. One of them knocked. Another shouted his name.

Lando didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But his shoulders tensed, breath hitching again.

“They never stop, do they?” he muttered.

“No,” Sebastian said, completely calm, sipping his coffee. “But you don’t have to give them what they’re looking for.”

“And what’s that?” Lando asked, bitterness threading through his voice.

“A crack,” Sebastian said. “A moment they can spin into drama. A breath they can twist into failure.”

Lando huffed out a bitter laugh. “They don’t need to spin anything. I am cracking.”

Sebastian looked at him—really looked. “No. You’re bending. And bending means you’re still standing.”

Lando stared down at his hands wrapped around the cup. They were shaking.

“I’m not like you. Or Lewis. Or Max. I feel like I’m always a second too slow. Like I’m chasing something I can’t catch.”

Sebastian leaned in, voice low and certain. “You don’t have to be them. You only have to be you . And who you are is more than enough. You’re here. You’ve earned your place a hundred times over. The rest is noise.”

The words landed like a weight and a balm all at once. Lando didn’t know what to say. He just nodded, slowly.

Then:
“You think it’s worth it? All of this?”

Sebastian smiled, soft and sad. “Only if you still love the feeling. The rush. The silence when you’re flying down a straight and it’s just you and the car and the circuit. If that’s still in you—then yeah, it’s worth it.”

Lando looked outside. The crowd was growing. One of the photographers had gone live. A mic tapped against the glass.
“Lando—just one question!”
Like he was some animal in a fucking tank.

Sebastian stood, tossing bills on the table. “Time to disappear. I always made sure to check if a back door exists.”

Lando stood too, pulling his hoodie up tighter. “You sure you don’t miss this?”

Sebastian laughed, warm and dry. “Not for a damn second.”

They slipped out through the alley behind the café. No flashes. No noise. Just fading footsteps and the rustle of leaves in the wind.

And for a few precious minutes, walking next to Sebastian Vettel, Lando felt human again.

Maybe even safe.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat alone outside the Williams motorhome, the evening air heavy around him. The last orange glow of the sunset stretched lazily across the Jeddah skyline, but it did nothing to ease the storm inside his chest. The paddock was finally quieting down, the incessant buzz of cameras and voices fading away as the city continued its march forward, indifferent to the men who had spent the day beneath its glaring spotlight. For once, he was invisible — a shadow, unnoticed, irrelevant.

After the DNF last weekend, he’d braced himself for another barrage of questions, another round of accusations, another pit of judgment. But nothing came. No media storm, no endless stream of eyes focused on him. Instead, they’d moved on. Max and Lando were the headlines now — drowning in rumors about team politics, FIA favoritism, and mental health issues. Carlos couldn’t help but feel guilty for them. Every time he’d spotted Lando today, the man had been boxed in by cameras, struggling to keep his composure. Max looked like he was on the edge of a breakdown, one question away from cracking under the weight of it all.

But here, with the silence wrapping around him, no one cared about Williams. No one cared about Carlos.

Carlos mindlessly scrolled through his phone, but his thoughts kept spiraling back to the same place. What was the point? The weight on his chest was heavy, suffocating, like a constant reminder of everything he couldn’t escape — the media, the expectations, the pressure to be something he wasn't sure he could be anymore.

Then — a sigh, a shuffle, and the scrape of a chair dragging across the tile beside him. Lando dropped down with all the energy of a deflated balloon, eyes dull and far too tired for someone still in his twenties.

Carlos didn’t even look up right away. “How’s your day been?” he asked, his voice low, almost brittle.

“Hell,” Lando muttered, head resting against the wall, eyes shut like he couldn’t bear to look at the world for one more second.

Carlos risked a glance. Lando looked… wrong. Wrong in a way that didn’t show up on cameras — pale, shadows under his eyes, mouth pressed into a line that had forgotten how to smile.

“Has Media been awful?”

“Media’s always awful,” Lando murmured, voice flat. “But yeah. Today felt like drowning.”

Carlos nodded, slow. He knew that feeling too well.

“They don’t care about Williams,” he said after a moment. “No one’s been near me all day.”

Lando gave a short, bitter laugh. “Wish I had that luxury.”

The silence that followed was heavy — not awkward, just thick with everything neither of them had the energy to say out loud. The lights of the paddock glinted on nearby fences like distant stars, but they didn’t feel like hope. Just noise. Just more weight.

Then came the sound of dragging footsteps, a familiar drawl in the voice that followed. “Hey... survived?”

Max.

He looked just as wrecked as the rest of them, his eyes shadowed like he hadn’t slept in days. His usual sharpness was dulled, replaced by something softer. Frayed.

Carlos scooted over without thinking. Max sank into the seat like gravity had won the fight today.

“Everything alright?” Carlos asked, though he already knew the answer.

Max chuckled, dry and empty. “Yeah. Now when the vultures finally left.”

For a while, they just sat there. Three broken outlines of men, shadows cast by a sport that never stopped to let them breathe. The buzz of equipment being packed away, the murmur of tired crew voices, even the hum of generators — it all faded into background noise.

“Why’s it so calm here?” Max asked suddenly, eyes scanning the empty terrace.

“I don’t know, man,” Lando said with a bitter laugh. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Maybe it’s the Williams energy,” Carlos said, managing a small grin despite the weight pressing down on him.

“If they need a third driver, they can call me,” Lando joked half-heartedly.

“And a fourth driver — me,” Max added with a wry grin.

Carlos laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t expect a big paycheck though.”

They were still chuckling when Max’s next question dropped, sharp and unexpected. “Have you talked to Alex yet?”

Carlos shook his head, his jaw tightening at the mention of his old teammate. “No, I haven’t seen him. But we’ve got media stuff tomorrow — recording some YouTube thing. Guess we’ll catch up then.”

“At least Williams lets you be real,” Lando muttered. “No scripts.”

Carlos nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s the only place that doesn’t feel like… a performance.”

“I miss the old days,” Lando said softly. “McLaren, when it still felt like fun.”

Carlos felt it too — that ache in his chest. “Yeah,” he said, voice like gravel. “Before everything became a headline.”

“The fans loved you guys back then. Carlando,” Max said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You mean we were icons. But don’t forget, you and Carlos had a name too — Versainz,” Lando teased.

“Yeah, fans always went crazy, no matter who Carlos’ teammate was,” Max added, his grin widening.

Carlos tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth barely moved. “Maxiel was better.”

Max exhaled slowly, like the memory physically hurt. “I miss Daniel.”

“Me too,” Carlos said. “He made everything lighter.”

Lando’s gaze dropped. “I never really knew him. By the time he got to McLaren, the pressure had already crushed the sparkle out of him.”

The silence that followed felt like grief.

Then, a new voice — warm, casual, too bright against the bruised mood: “Wow, you’re all here.”

Carlos stiffened. He didn’t need to look to know it was Charles.

But he did. And there he was — Charles Leclerc, smiling like he didn’t know how much he messed Carlos up just by existing. By looking at him like nothing had changed.

Carlos swallowed hard.

“It’s really peaceful here,” Charles said, easing down beside them.

“It’s the Williams energy,” Lando joked, though his voice cracked slightly.

“More like the Sainz effect,” Max grinned, nudging Carlos.

Charles laughed.

“Let’s get food,” Max said suddenly, like a lifeline tossed into deep water.

“Yeah,” Lando agreed, voice barely above a whisper.

They stood, wandered off like a band of ghosts trying to remember what it was like to be human. Jokes followed them. So did silence.

Chapter Text

Alex’s POV

Friday. Practice day. But before the engines screamed and the chaos of the track swallowed him whole, there was this — the part he hated even more. The fake part. The performative part. Another corporate smile for the cameras. Another episode of “Team Torque” like everything wasn’t falling apart.

The makeshift Williams “studio” was tucked into the back corner of the motorhome, all cheap LED lights and creased blue backdrops pretending to be polished content. It smelled faintly of coffee and stale air conditioning, with a chill that clung to Alex’s skin. A ring light buzzed faintly above him, static in the silence, while a tech adjusted camera angles with clinical disinterest. It all felt sterile. Scripted. Hollow.

Carlos was already there, lounging in one of the two armchairs like he belonged in a different scene entirely — relaxed, casual, like the pressure hadn’t cracked him yet. But Alex knew better. Carlos always looked fine on the surface. That was the trick — make the chaos inside look like composure outside. He was good at that. Too good.

“You guys ready?” came the familiar voice of a PR rep, clipboard in hand, eyes glazed with the thousand-yard stare of someone who’s asked the same question one too many times.

“Yeah,” Alex muttered, though he felt anything but. His voice came out rougher than he intended, like it had scraped against something on its way out.

He dropped into the other chair, back stiff, hands gripping the armrests like he was bracing for impact. The script — or whatever they were pretending wasn’t a script — sat between them on the table, laminated cards with dead questions waiting to be asked. Favorite corners. Dream team-ups. Rank your teammate. It all felt so pointless.

Carlos picked up a card and smirked. “How are you feeling?” he asked, off-script, voice laced with something more real.

Alex blinked. That wasn’t on the cards. That wasn’t part of the show.

Alex forced a laugh. “We have some questions to answer,” he said, deflecting. “Let’s just get through this.” He grabbed the first card and tried to steer the conversation back to the prearranged script. But Carlos wasn’t having it. He leaned forward, his gaze steady.

“I mean, really, how are you feeling?” he pressed again.

Alex sighed, a mix of frustration and exhaustion washing over him. He glanced down at the card in his hands, then back at Carlos. He wasn’t sure why, but something about the sincerity in Carlos’ eyes made him answer, even if it wasn’t exactly what he had planned to say.

“Yeah, it’s hard with a triple header,” Alex admitted. “It’s race five now, but it feels like we’ve already had 12 races.” He let out a dry chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. The last thing he wanted was to let it slip how drained he actually felt.

Carlos laughed, his face brightening for a moment. “Yeah, that’s true,” he said, clearly sympathizing. Then he paused for a moment, clearly thinking about something.

“Have you been home yet?” Carlos asked, his voice softer now.

Alex hesitated. The question was simple, but it hit like a punch. He stared at the table between them — the laminated cards, the tiny microphones, the cold glow of studio light.

“No,” he said finally. “Not since China.” His voice cracked a little on the last word, too soft for anyone but Carlos to hear.

Carlos winced slightly. “Ah, that sucks,” he said sympathetically, his voice more personal than the usual friendly banter.

Alex turned the conversation, desperate to outrun the weight building in his chest. “Let’s just move on to the fan questions.”

They read them aloud. Favorite tracks. First race memories. Dumb stuff about paddock superstitions. But the scripted parts blurred into something else — something real — like the dam had cracked and the truth was starting to leak through.

But as the conversation moved on, Alex realized something surprising. This wasn’t just a boring scripted exchange. They were actually talking. Really talking. About things that mattered, things they usually kept to themselves.

Carlos spoke freely about how much he loved the drivers on the grid. How, in his eyes, everyone deserves to be there, that everyone was the best of the rest, each one fighting for their place. It was rare to hear someone so raw about the competition, and for a brief moment, Alex could almost feel the weight of it all lifting.

Then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, Alex admitted that he didn’t feel like he had a home.

Carlos didn’t speak, just nodded, his face falling serious. No joke. No platitude. Just quiet understanding.

“I love Thailand,” Alex added, staring at his shoes. “But I don’t live there. I don’t live anywhere, really. I’m always just... in a hotel. In a car. On a plane.”

Carlos leaned back, his gaze dropping to the floor, voice low and distant. “People think it’s all podiums and champagne — like we’re living some flawless celebrity dream. But I don’t even feel like a famous person. I don’t see myself that way.”

He paused, as if searching for the right words, then added quietly, “It’s tough, you know? Everyone wants to be the best, but at the end of the day, we’re all just trying to stay sane in this crazy sport.”

It felt real. Not scripted. Not just a PR exercise. They were just two drivers, two people, talking about the things that no one ever asked them about. About what it was like behind the scenes, away from the cameras and the headlines.

Then the PR rep broke in — too loud, too cheerful. “That was amazing! So real!”

And just like that, the spell was broken.

Alex blinked, realizing that he’d completely forgotten they were recording. It wasn’t even about the fans or the YouTube channel anymore. It felt like Carlos and he had just shared something they hadn’t in months. He looked over at Carlos, and the surprise was written all over his face too.

As they left the room, Carlos kept pace beside him, quieter than usual.

“I think that was the first real talk we’ve had since we fucked everything up,” Carlos said, almost too gently.

Alex nodded, the weight of that admission hanging between them. “Yeah. It felt... nice,” he said. The word felt weird in his mouth, foreign. Like hope.

Carlos gave him a look. A real one. “It’s nice to have someone who gets it. Someone to lean on.”

Alex’s throat tightened. “Yeah. Maybe we should stop pretending we’re fine all the time. Maybe just... stop dragging each other down.”

Carlos’s smile wasn’t big, but it was honest. “Yeah. That sounds like a good start.”

They walked together through the motorhome corridor, both of them lost in the quiet shift that had just happened between them. It was a strange feeling, almost like a weight had been lifted.

Charles’ POV

The first practice session had gone fine. Not good. Not great. Just fine. And even that felt like a stretch.

Charles sat slumped on a worn folding chair in the back corner of the Ferrari garage, the fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly—loud enough to be irritating, soft enough to ignore if you were numb enough. He stared at the telemetry screen in front of him, lines of data blinking coldly back at him like a lifeline he was barely hanging onto.

He’d adjusted the seat, tweaked the steering, tried to tune out the ghost of Lewis’ setup changes that had butchered the car’s balance. Nothing about it felt like his car anymore. It felt like someone else’s machine—stiff, unfamiliar, twitching wrong at every apex. But he could make it work. He always did. Because what other choice did he have?

Still, there was a sour taste in his mouth, and no amount of data could rinse it out.
Pierre. Fastest in FP1.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was practice. Everyone ran different programs. But it did matter, because it was him . Because watching Pierre stroll past the garage, smug and untouchable, felt like acid in Charles’ veins. That empty kind of anger that comes from watching someone you used to know turn into someone you don’t recognize—someone who doesn’t even flinch when they throw others under the bus.

Pierre’s post-session comments still rang in his ears. Cold. Careless. Pierre had talked about how the sport wasn’t for the weak, how if you couldn’t handle the pressure, you were out. He had even mentioned Lando, dismissing his struggles with mental health as if it was some kind of weakness. Saying Lando needed to work on it if he ever wanted a shot at winning the Drivers' Championship. Like vulnerability was something to mock instead of respect. Charles had wanted to say something then, to call it out. But he hadn’t. He’d just clenched his jaw and looked away.

Now the silence of the garage felt suffocating, like everything unsaid was pressing down on him.

He glanced at the tablet again, zooming in on his sector times, hunting for an answer he already knew he wouldn’t find. Where was he losing time? In the chicane? Under braking? Was it the tires? The downforce? He wasn’t as good as Carlos when it came to deciphering this stuff, not instinctively. But he was learning. He had to.

Across the garage, Lewis was in yet another standoff with the engineers, his voice low but sharp, clipped with the same familiar tension that never seemed to leave him. Charles didn’t even flinch at it anymore. This was just how Lewis existed—teeth bared, walls up, forever in a battle that no one else could quite see.

There had been a time Charles thought maybe Lewis was just burned out from Ferrari politics. From the way they’d mishandled Carlos. But now... he wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe Lewis had always been like this. Always fighting. Always afraid of being replaced, questioned, doubted, no matter how many titles sat behind his name.

And part of Charles understood that, even if he hated to admit it. In F1, you had to build armor so thick, sometimes even you forgot what was under it.

George had let it slip during their dinner —that back at Mercedes, Lewis would vanish from media duties, leaving George to smile and carry the weight of the brand. Charles had wanted to ask more, but he hadn’t.

A cold draft crept into the garage as someone opened the main shutters. The scent of burnt rubber drifted in from the pit lane, clinging to the air like smoke from a dying fire. Charles pulled his jacket tighter around himself. It didn’t help.

He sighed, staring at the screen again. The day wasn’t over. He still needed to make adjustments, to work out the kinks. He wasn’t sure if it was just the lingering tension, or if it was something else that had been building in him for a while, but he needed to prove something this weekend. Not to anyone else—but to himself. He had to get it right. For once, he had to silence the doubts, the inner voices that told him he wasn’t enough.

No one said it out loud, but he could feel it in the way people looked at him now. With expectation. With impatience. With eyes that asked, When are you going to prove you still belong here?

He clenched his fists, then released them. It was just a practice day. He still had time.

He looked back up. Lewis had stopped talking. But the storm hadn’t passed. It was there, still, in the stiffness of his shoulders, in the tight line of his jaw. Charles recognized that posture—because he wore it, too.

They were all drowning in their own ways. Just trying to breathe without the world noticing how close they were to sinking.

And Charles? He wasn’t even sure what he was fighting for anymore. But he knew this: it wasn’t about winning. It was about not falling apart.

Not yet.

Max's POV

Max was on lap after lap in the second practice session, trying to squeeze out everything he could from the car. It was still shit, but it was easier to handle here than it had been in Bahrain. After all the complaining he’d done, the engineers had finally given in and tried adjusting the setup. He wasn’t one to make outbursts for attention, but sometimes, it was the only way to get them to listen. Now, the car felt a bit more alive—more responsive, at least. He was able to push it harder through the corners without fighting it every step of the way.

He pushed the throttle down, a grin forming despite the car’s flaws. This was the kind of driving he liked. He was feeling it. Just a few more tweaks and he could make this work.

Then, his race engineer’s voice crackled through the radio: "Red flag, Max. Yuki has crashed in the last corner."

Max's heart skipped a beat. He hit the brakes, easing the car off the throttle. "Is he okay?" he asked, as he was slowing down.

"Yeah, he’s fine," came the response.

Max exhaled, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He coasted through the last few turns, now focused on the crash site ahead. The wreckage of Yuki's car was sprawled across the track. Max could see the wreck from a distance. It was the same corner he’d crashed in four years ago. That tricky, sharp left-hander that had caught him out in qualifying 2021. It was a nasty corner. One that could catch even the best drivers off guard.

He passed Yuki’s car, but the memory of his own crash flared up. He hoped Red Bull wouldn’t be too harsh on Yuki for the mistake. It didn’t take much to end up out of the team in Max’s experience. He knew that Red Bull didn’t have much patience for drivers who didn’t deliver. He hoped Yuki wasn’t going to be the next casualty.

Max slowed to a crawl as he approached the pit lane, knowing full well that there would be no more running for the session. It was going to take too long to clear Yuki’s wreckage.

He parked the car and climbed out. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he saw Christian Horner walking toward him, an air of frustration hanging over him.

“It was a nasty crash,” Christian said, his face tight, trying to remain calm.

“Yeah, I’m glad he’s okay,” Max replied, his own voice tinged with relief.

Christian nodded but then sighed. "Yeah, but the mechanics and engineers are going to be working all night to get that car fixed."

Max couldn’t help but feel for them. He’d been there before. But then, he remembered something. Something that Christian might need reminding of.

"Yeah, do you remember when I crashed in the exact same corner?" Max said casually, almost as if it wasn’t a big deal anymore. He shot Christian a look, hoping to get his point across.

Christian raised an eyebrow but smiled softly. "Yeah, it seems like it’s a tricky corner for everyone," he said, before turning to head toward the pit wall to talk with the engineers.

Max’s gaze followed him, and he couldn’t help but worry about Yuki. It wasn’t easy being at Red Bull. Yuki had fought his whole career for this shot, for a chance to prove himself. Max didn’t want to see him go out like that.

With a sigh, Max walked back to his driver room. He was done for the day. He had no more laps to do. He didn’t need to push the car any further right now, especially with qualifying tomorrow. He could already picture it—the track, the feel of the car beneath him, the speed, the flow. He didn’t need to worry about the setup here. It was fast, and the corners weren’t as harsh as those on other tracks. He could handle it. The car would work here. He could feel it in his bones.

Max dropped his water bottle onto the chair and unzipped his suit, already looking ahead to what he could do the next day. He didn’t have time to dwell on Yuki’s crash or whatever drama was brewing in the Red Bull garage. Tomorrow was a new day, a new chance to get everything right.

Lando's POV

Lando sat back in his driver room, the hum of the overhead lights blending with the steady pulse of the paddock outside. It had been a long day, but the practice sessions had gone well, so he felt a sense of calm wash over him. He’d put in solid laps, and it was a relief that everything seemed to be coming together for the weekend. 

With a sigh, Lando leaned back in his chair and grabbed his phone. He opened the YouTube app and started watching the latest video from Williams' channel. It was a new episode of Team Torque, the podcast Carlos and Alex had with Williams, but this one was different. It was longer than the usual ones, and Lando could tell right away that it wasn’t the typical scripted fluff they usually put out. This episode felt real —like Carlos and Alex were just having an honest conversation.

Lando found himself hooked, listening intently. Carlos and Alex laughed through the conversation, talking about the grittier aspects of their lives on the road. The loneliness, the pressure to always be “on” for the media, how they struggled to find a sense of “home” when they were never anywhere long enough to put down roots. It was a side of the drivers Lando rarely saw in the public eye. They talked about how every driver on the grid deserved to be here, how they all fought tooth and nail for their spots. Lando agreed with everything they said—it resonated deeply with him. He knew exactly what they meant. And, strangely, it made him jealous.

Williams, it seemed, had a different philosophy than McLaren. There was no “us versus them” attitude, no favoritism between teammates. Carlos had spoken about how the team just wanted to take care of their drivers, how they didn’t care about playing the media game. They just wanted to be real. Lando couldn’t help but envy that. In McLaren, it often felt like it was just a competition between him and Oscar. Sure, they worked together, but there was always an underlying sense that only one of them could truly be the top driver. McLaren made them fight for every inch. But Williams? They were a family. He wanted that. He longed for that kind of unity, where it wasn’t about who could be the best, but just about being a part of something bigger.

Lando finished the video, tossed his phone into his bag, and grabbed his jacket. He needed to get out of his room for a bit. As he stepped into the corridor, he spotted Max, walking toward the garage. Lando waved him down.

"Hey!" Lando called, his voice echoing in the quiet hallway.

Max stopped and turned around. "Hey, you want to grab dinner?" he asked.

"Yeah sounds good, I saw Yuki’s crash earlier. Is he okay?" Lando asked, genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, I think so," Max said, his expression softening. "I think Red Bull's not too mad, mostly because they know they need to act better or maybe I get another outburst in an interview."

Lando grinned. "Yeah, that’s true," he said, chuckling.

As they stood there, Max looked over at Alex, who was walking nearby. "Hey, Alex!" Max called out, raising a hand.

Alex looked up, a little startled at Max’s shout. "Hey," he said, clearly unsure what Max wanted.

"Do you want to join us for dinner?" Max asked casually.

Alex paused for a second, his face a mix of surprise and hesitation. "Yeah, sure," he said finally, a small smile forming on his face.

Lando looked at Alex, noticing the uncertainty in his eyes. It was almost as if Alex wasn’t sure if Max was joking or not. But he seemed to relax when Max didn’t backpedal.

The three of them made their way to a food truck parked just outside the paddock and decided to grab a burger. It was a quiet moment, the tension of the day easing just a little. As they waited for their food, Lando took a bite of his burger and glanced at Alex.

"I saw the Williams YouTube video," Lando said, breaking the silence.

Alex’s eyebrows shot up. "You did? Was it awful?" he asked, clearly grinning, as if he already knew it was probably a little embarrassing for them.

"No, it was great. It was real," Lando said, his tone sincere. "I mean, it wasn’t like the usual media stuff we’re all used to. You guys actually talked about real things."

Alex’s grin widened. "Yeah, I don’t know, Carlos and I were just talking. We kind of forgot that the camera was even recording us."

Lando nodded, impressed. "Yeah, but it was uplifting—how you guys talked about the drivers, about how it really feels to be one. How we all sacrifice so much to be here."

Alex looked down for a second, a thoughtful shadow passing over his face. “Yeah… it’s hard,” he admitted quietly.

Lando nodded, picking at the fries on his plate. “Yeah. I get it.”

The conversation hung in the air for a beat — not uncomfortable, but heavy in a way none of them quite knew how to lift.

Then, Max spoke up, breaking the silence like he always did — direct and a little out of nowhere.

“Hey — you wanna join my flight after the race on Sunday?” Max asked, glancing at Alex. “I’m heading straight to Monaco. I think Carlos is coming too. Lando, obviously. You can ask George if he wants in.”

Alex blinked, startled by the sudden offer, his face shifting in surprise. "Yeah, sure, why not? If it doesn’t bother you," he said, a little unsure, but smiling nonetheless.

Max shrugged, waving it off. "No, it doesn’t bother me. You’re my friend," he said, grinning.

"Thanks," Alex said, his smile growing a little brighter. Lando noticed how the weight seemed to lift off his shoulders just a little bit. 

Alex’s POV

The night air was cooler now, the hum of the paddock quieter as the sun dipped lower and most of the teams retreated into their garages and motorhomes. Lando had left, off to deal with McLaren debriefs and whatever political nonsense came with it. Now it was just Alex and Max sitting at the worn picnic table outside the paddock, a couple of empty burger wrappers between them, the quiet settling in around them like a soft, uneasy blanket.

Max spoke first.

"You know, I’m sorry. About how your time at Red Bull ended."

Alex didn’t look at him right away. He stared at a scuff mark on the table’s surface, feeling a tightness pull behind his ribs. Part of him wanted to tell Max it didn’t matter anymore, that it was ancient history. Another part — the part that had never stopped aching from it — wanted to ask why it had taken this long. Why then, in the middle of all the noise and expectation, Max had looked away when Alex needed him most.

"You don’t have to be," Alex said quietly, almost by reflex. Because that’s what he’d trained himself to say — what people expected to hear. Move on. It’s fine. I’m fine.

But was it?

Maybe Max did have to be sorry. Maybe Alex wasn’t as fine as he pretended to be. He’d fallen so hard back then, spiraling in a way he never thought possible, and when he’d finally cracked and told Max the truth — about the bipolar diagnosis, about the panic attacks and nights spent staring at hotel ceilings begging for it to stop — Max had done nothing. Or at least, it felt like nothing.

He never wanted to bring it up again after that. It was easier if people just thought he was messy, reckless, too emotional to hack it. That was a story people understood. That was a weakness they could measure.

But then Max spoke again.

"But I am," Max said, his voice heavier than Alex remembered. "I just wish I’d helped you. I didn’t know how to handle it."

Alex finally looked at him. And for the first time in years, Max didn’t look like the untouchable, unshakeable World Champion. He looked… human. Tired. Regretful. Maybe not so evil after all.

"I don’t even know how to handle it," Alex admitted, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. "Still working on it."

Max gave a small, crooked smile. "I’m glad you have George," he said, and it wasn’t a throwaway comment. It sounded like he meant it. Like he actually cared.

"Yeah," Alex said, his chest tightening for a whole other reason. "He’s my anchor. I don’t know what I’d do without him. I didn’t think I was going to fall back again, I thought my time at Red Bull was the rock bottom"

"I just wish I’d been the anchor you needed back then," Max added, staring down at his hands. He wasn’t fidgeting, but his fingers were tense, curled slightly like he was holding on to something invisible.

Alex let out a long sigh. "Yeah. But… I made it out. I’m surviving."

"I see that," Max said. "You’re doing better now. And you and Carlos… you guys seem like you have solved your stuff?."

Alex hesitated, his throat tightening. "I don’t know. It was messy. I regret showing him how to cope with it all, you know? How easy it is to drown it out with alcohol. How easy it is to go numb with whatever you can find."

Max winced. "Yeah… but it’s not your fault. Carlos was in his own darkness. I think he’s doing better now though."

"Are you helping him?" Alex asked.

"I’m trying," Max admitted, his voice softer than Alex was used to hearing. "This is the longest he’s let me stay close without pushing me away. But I’m scared he will. Like he always does."

Alex nodded, because he knew exactly how that felt. "Yeah. I just… I hope we’re all on our way up. Feels like we’re not, though. Me, George, Carlos, Lando, Charles… and you."

Max laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I know. It sucks. But… maybe if I’m helping someone else, I feel better about myself too. Makes me feel like I’m not the same asshole I was in 2021."

Alex didn’t flinch at the year. He let it hang there in the space between them.

"You don’t have to forget yourself either," Alex said after a beat. "I keep telling George that. He’s done so much for me. But he needs to take care of himself too."

"Yeah, but it’s not easy," Max muttered, looking up at the darkening sky. "I blame myself for a lot. For how Abu Dhabi went down. For how you disappeared from Red Bull. It feels like if I help people now… maybe it makes up for some of the shit I did."

Alex exhaled, feeling the weight of it. The mess of everything they were carrying, the things unsaid for too long.

"Maybe," he said quietly. "But don’t let it break you too much."

For a second, neither of them spoke. The air between them heavy, but not as suffocating as it had been before.

Max gave a short nod. "I’ll try."

Max’s POV

The dim hum of the paddock outside his driver room felt distant now, muffled like it existed in another world entirely. Max lay on the narrow couch, staring up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, the soft pulse of the overhead light flickering in his peripheral vision. He knew he should head back to the hotel, try to sleep in an actual bed before qualifying tomorrow. But he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to face anyone else. Not after that conversation.

He hadn’t expected it. One burger by a food truck, a bit of small talk, and suddenly it had cracked open something inside him he’d been bolting shut for years.

All of it came flooding back.

Alex. 2021. Those long, empty weekends when Red Bull chewed him up and spat him out, and Max had done nothing. Just driven faster, won more, and left Alex drowning. And then Abu Dhabi. God, Abu Dhabi.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the memories pressed against him anyway. The safety car. The restart. The messages on the radio. That last lap. Lewis ahead, then not. The radio exploding in celebration while Lewis sat motionless in his car, the world’s cameras capturing the exact moment something inside him broke.

Max had tried not to think about it. People had told him not to. “You deserved it.” “It’s racing.” “The FIA made the call, not you.”

But it didn’t matter. It never had.

Because Max knew. He knew what should’ve happened. He knew Lewis should be an eight-time world champion, should’ve had that record, should’ve had his moment. And maybe then, Lewis wouldn’t have retreated so far, wouldn’t have built those walls so high, wouldn’t have turned his back on the paddock politics and friendships, and now leaving Charles to fight with Ferrari on his own.

Maybe Charles wouldn’t be hurting the way he was now. Maybe Carlos wouldn’t have fallen apart, discarded by Ferrari like he was never good enough. Maybe Lando wouldn’t be carrying his own storm cloud, convinced every show of emotion made him weak in the eyes of fans who wanted another stone-hearted lion like Max.

Max let out a long, shaking breath.

He hated how his mind worked. Hated how it clawed at things in the quiet like this, how it now dragged him down into these spirals of if only and what if and maybe if I’d been different, everything would be better . Rationally, he knew it wasn’t true. The sport was cruel. It always had been. And every single one of them carried their own ghosts.

But it didn’t stop the guilt.

Max rubbed his hands over his face, letting them drop heavily to his chest. The driver room was small, a sterile box with a couch and a mini fridge and a set of headphones on the table. And yet, it felt safer than anywhere else right now.

He thought about what Alex had said. About surviving. About not forgetting yourself while trying to save everyone else. 

He exhaled slowly, feeling the ache settle into something quieter. The couch wasn’t great, but it would do. He didn’t want to go back out there, to the hotel, to the endless eyes watching. 

He closed his eyes.

The drivers room wasn’t so bad.

Chapter Text

Lando’s POV

Saturday. Qualifying day. The kind of day where your pulse starts racing before you even wake up properly. The third practice had gone well — better than well. He felt good in the car, like it was finally talking back to him in all the right ways. His engineer had run through the data earlier, pointing out where he was weak, where he was fast, what corners to attack and where to leave a margin.

It was one of those rare weekends where everything felt possible.

And Lando knew he could fight for pole.

Oscar was hungry for it too, though. Lando could feel it. There was always a tension between them — not hatred, not quite — but something sharp and competitive that neither of them ever said out loud. Same car, same opportunity. No team orders, no safety net. At McLaren, it was survival of the fastest.

And Max… well, Max had gotten a second life out of that Red Bull this weekend. After moaning all through Bahrain, after his public outburst forcing Red Bull’s hand to fix the car, he was suddenly right there again. Fast. Relentless. Lando could practically hear the paddock pundits already spinning the narrative: ‘The lion roars back.’

But Lando didn’t care. Not this weekend. Not on this track. He knew the setup was finally dialed in. He knew he had the pace.

Quali 1 — easy. Through with one clean lap, no dramas.
Quali 2 — smooth again. His name lighting up in purple, fastest time. It was tight, but it felt good. The car felt alive.

And then it was time for Q3.

Lando went out after Oscar. But it was clean track ahead — just him, the car, and the lap that could put him on pole. He warmed the tires carefully through the first lap, feeling them come into the window, brakes biting perfectly into turn 3. He was pushing through turn 4, the rear stepping out wider this time. A little too much. The car oversteered. Lando tried to correct it, but it was already gone.

It happened in half a second.

He was a passenger now, watching the wall of turn 5 get closer and closer. No run-off. No save. Just a sickening snap and then the concrete barrier.

The car crumpled. The steering wheel jerked. His body jolted against the belts. The engine cut. 

He heard his engineer’s voice crackle through the radio, “Lando, are you okay?”

Yeah. Physically. He was fine. But his stomach twisted, and his throat was tight, and it wasn’t about the crash. It was about the moment he felt the car snap loose under him, the brief instant where instinct took over, and then — wall. That sickening, hollow thud . The way the front wing folded like paper, the steering wheel jerking in his hands, the barrier looming closer than it had any right to be.

He squeezed his eyes shut inside the helmet.

“I’m fine,” Lando answered flatly, already knowing how this would go. Already knowing the headlines. ‘Lando Norris crashes out of Q3, throws away pole chance.’ ‘Another error in high-pressure moment.’ ‘McLaren rivalry heats up as Piastri capitalizes.’

He hated how loud his own thoughts were. How fast they turned on him.

The medical car pulled up beside him, the doctor hurrying over, asking the usual protocol stuff — are you hurt, can you move, do you know what day it is. Lando nodded, yanked off his helmet, ignoring the smear of sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead.

He climbed out, forced a tight smile for the marshals, raised a thumb to the cameras. The performance of a driver who was fine.

But he wasn’t.

He was furious. At himself. At the car. At the whole damn situation.

The thing was — he knew he had it. He knew, in his gut, this track was his. The third practice had gone clean, the setup felt sharp, the feedback from the tires was perfect, he could brake later than Oscar, could carry more speed through the esses. And it should’ve been his.

But it wasn’t.

Lando hadn’t even set a time.

Max’s POV

He’d made it to Q3. The car was still a pain in the ass to drive — the brakes kept creeping into the danger zone, the steering felt like wrestling a wild animal in the slow corners, but on a place like Jeddah, it didn’t matter as much. It was a track made for sheer aggression, and Max could do aggression blindfolded.

He was on his warmup lap, weaving down the straight, feeling the tires come alive under him. The car twitched a little through turn 2 but held. He flexed his fingers on the wheel, took a breath, and lined himself up for the start of his first flying lap.

And then the radio crackled to life.

“Red flag, red flag.”

Max immediately backed off the throttle, slowing the car. “Why?”

He didn’t even need the answer because as he rolled into turn 4, he saw the mess — debris scattered everywhere like someone had dropped a jigsaw puzzle at 300 kph. And then turn 5.

There it was.

Lando’s McLaren. Or what was left of it. Wrecked, buried in the barrier, carbon fiber hanging off at awkward angles like broken limbs. Lando was still in the car.

“Lando’s crashed,” his engineer said in his ear.

Max’s stomach dropped.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s fine.”

But it didn’t matter. Not really. Because Max could feel it, could see it in his head — Lando slumped in that cockpit, head against the headrest, radio engineer asking him if he was okay, and Lando answering ‘I’m fine’ in that way people do when they mean I’m not.

And Max knew what was coming.

The headlines. The dissected telemetry. The desperate, bloodthirsty speculation about whether Lando was cracking. About whether Oscar was breaking him. About if he was too soft, too emotional, too honest for a sport that chews up people like him.

Max clenched his jaw, kept the car crawling back to the pit lane. His hands ached from gripping the wheel too tight.

He hated how helpless he felt. Hated how he knew Lando would be spiraling right now, hating himself more than anyone else could, locking himself away somewhere, replaying the crash in his head on a loop.

Max thought maybe this race was different. Maybe, after the Bahrain mess, things would start to settle down. That they could just race, be there for each other in the quiet ways drivers did. But now it was crumbling apart again.

And no one would see the real damage. Not the journalists. Not the fans tweeting memes and radio transcripts. The paddock might pretend to care for five minutes, then move on to the next drama.

Max parked the car in the pit lane, helmet still on, visor down. Just sitting there. The pit crew hovered around, waiting for the green light.

He thought about stepping out of the car, about finding Lando, about saying something — anything — but he couldn’t.

Not now.

He couldn’t afford to crack either. Not when pole was still up for grabs. Not when Red Bull was watching him like a hawk. Not when the whole grid expected Max Verstappen to be unbreakable.

He gritted his teeth, told himself to compartmentalize like he always did, like he was taught to do. He shoved the ache down into the pit of his stomach and focused on the steering wheel.

He’d find Lando later. When the cameras weren’t around.

But right now… he had to drive.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos should be in the Williams motorhome, celebrating a miracle P6 in Q3 with his engineers, maybe grabbing dinner with the team, pretending for the cameras that it was a good day. And it was — by all normal measures, it was his best qualifying session in a Williams car. But none of it mattered. Not now.

Not when he couldn’t stop thinking about Lando.

The crash had looked bad, not for the violence of it, but for what it meant. 

So Carlos had pulled on a clean Williams kit after the media and went looking for him.

McLaren’s motorhome was empty, no Lando. An engineer pointed him toward the garage, where the wreck of Lando’s McLaren was already being picked apart like vultures on a carcass. Zak Brown was there, putting on his usual cheery mask.

“Hey! Paying a visit to your old team?” Zak greeted him with that corporate smile.

Carlos forced a grin. “Yeah… thought about Lando.”

“He’ll be fine. I know Lando, and I know that car. He can do it tomorrow.”

Carlos nodded, though the words rang hollow.

“You know where he is?”

Zak’s expression slipped for a moment. A flicker of concern. “Think he went straight to the hotel.”

That was all Carlos needed to hear.

A cab ride later, Carlos found himself at Lando’s hotel room door, only to find Max already there, his fist tapping against the wood with growing impatience.

“He’s not opening?” Carlos asked.

Max shook his head. “Nothing.”

Without a word, Carlos tried the handle. It clicked open.

The room was empty. Lando’s race suit was thrown haphazardly on the floor.

Carlos felt his chest tighten.

“He went straight here after the crash,” Max muttered, confirming what they already knew.

They searched the room. Bathroom, empty. Balcony, empty. Closet, empty.

“Where the hell is he?” Max asked, the edge of frustration in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Carlos admitted, the knot in his stomach tightening.

Max ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room. “Maybe he went back to the paddock—”

“I checked. Zak said he came here. He’s not at the McLaren motorhome, not in the garage.”

Carlos watched the way Max’s shoulders dropped, the usual cocky edge draining out of him.

Without a word, Max pulled out his phone and dialed Lando’s number.

A faint buzzing sound broke the tense quiet. Carlos’s head snapped toward it — Lando’s phone, abandoned on the bed, the screen lighting up with Max’s name.

Carlos felt his stomach drop. A cold, uneasy weight settled in his chest.

“Fuck,” Max muttered, his face paling as he saw it too.

Carlos swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can sleep tonight not knowing if he’s okay.”

Max nodded, jaw clenched. “I was thinking… We can take one of the Red Bull rental cars, drive around. He might’ve gone out for a walk.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He left Lando’s empty hotel room. Max followed, not another word between them.

They would find him. They had to.

Max’s POV

The streets of Jeddah blurred by in streaks of yellow streetlight and shadow as Max drove, the city’s late-night hum too quiet in the background. The clock on the dashboard ticked past 2:30 AM. They’d been driving for hours — down the waterfront, through the quieter backstreets near the track, past the restaurants and cafés now long closed. Every street corner, every bench, every figure in the distance had made Max’s stomach clench for a second before realizing it wasn’t him.

He knew they should stop. He knew they had a race tomorrow. But what the hell did that matter if Lando was out there somewhere, spiraling? Max knew too well what it felt like to hit that point — to want to disappear, to stop being Max Verstappen the driver, the lion, the ruthless machine Red Bull built him into.

“Maybe we should go to my hotel room,” Max said finally, breaking the heavy silence. “I don’t know… Lando might show up.”

Carlos yawned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah… hopefully.”

Neither of them really believed it. But it was all they had left.

Max pulled into the hotel, killing the engine of the Red Bull shuttle. He tossed the keys to a sleepy-looking receptionist with a curt “Team will pick it up in the morning.” No explanation needed — it was Jeddah on a race weekend. Weird things happened. People came and went at all hours.

They headed up in silence. The elevator ride felt too slow. Carlos spoke as they reached the familiar hallway.

“We can check his room again.”

“Yeah.”

Carlos knocked softly this time, like maybe Lando would finally be there. No answer. He tried the door handle. It opened like it had before. The room was still exactly the same. Racing suit on the floor. Phone on the bed. No sign of life.

“He isn’t here,” Max said, feeling something heavy drop in his chest.

Carlos let out a long breath. “Should we… stay here instead?”

Max nodded. “Yeah.”

Neither of them argued it. Neither of them wanted to leave.

Max dropped into one of the armchairs by the window. Carlos took the other. No words, no more plans. The room was too still, the air conditioning humming in the background.

Max didn’t even remember when his eyes slipped shut, but exhaustion crept up on him fast now that he’d stopped moving. One minute he was staring at the racing suit on the floor, thinking about the way Lando had looked earlier that day — hollow, distant — and the next, his head was tipped back, body slumped, the weight of it all dragging him down into sleep.

Carlos had already dozed off, head against the back of his chair.

They waited. And somewhere between worry and weariness, they both let themselves drift.

Lando’s POV

He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He hadn’t meant for the crash, the way the car had buckled under him, how silence had filled his helmet before the screaming started. He hadn’t meant to walk away without saying a word to the cameras, to the team, to anyone.

But when the medics reached for him, he’d brushed them off. Like his body didn’t ache, like the world hadn’t just cracked sideways. He’d walked straight out of the paddock, helmet still in hand, the weight of it dragging down his arm like guilt.. He didn’t change. Still in the sweat-soaked race suit, ghostlike in a crowd of fans and flashing lights, he stumbled into the hotel lobby as if in a dream.

And that’s where Alex had stopped him. 

“Come with me,” Alex had said. No pity. Just that quiet calm he always carried, the kind that felt like a safe place in the middle of a storm. Lando hadn’t even answered — just followed.

Now, he was curled up at the edge of Alex’s hotel couch, his hoodie zipped up tight, the hood pulled low over his face, and sunglasses perched on his nose, even though the room was dim and the night had settled in. His racing suit lay forgotten somewhere back in his own room, discarded like an empty shell he had no intention of returning to. The helmet, still in his field of vision, sat on the floor—a silent, unyielding reminder of the day’s events, its gaze heavy and accusatory.

Takeout sat forgotten between them. Burgers. Fries. Neither of them really eating. They’d talked. Nothing important at first — dumb things about how crap the hotel WiFi was, how the curtains didn’t block the light. But slowly, the silence had cracked open, and something real had spilled through.

Lando hadn’t planned the question. It just slipped out, raw and jagged.
“Why do you care about me?”

Alex looked at him. There was something in his expression — not surprise, but weariness. Like he’d expected that question all along.
“Because I saw you,” he said simply. “After the crash. You looked like you wanted the earth to swallow you whole.”

Lando shrugged, trying to pretend it hadn’t landed deep. “But aren’t you supposed to be the reckless one? The one who ruins things?” He tried to laugh. It didn’t sound right. “That’s what they say, isn’t it? About you. About… Carlos.”

Alex flinched. He didn’t even try to hide it.
“Maybe I used to be,” he said quietly. “There’s a part of me that still wants to be. Chaos feels like home sometimes. But I’m trying, Lando. I’m trying not to be the thing everyone expects me to be.”

Silence draped the room again. The hum of the city outside was faint — too far to matter, too close to escape.

“Is it hard?” Lando asked, voice barely above a whisper. “To fight it?”

Alex’s laugh was thin, bitter. “Yeah. Every fucking day.”

“Why?”

Alex's eyes dropped to the floor, tracing invisible patterns in the carpet as if seeking some kind of answer buried in the fibers. He glanced at Lando briefly, then somewhere beyond him, as though trying to peer into a space only he could see, a place where his thoughts could take root. After a long, almost suffocating silence, he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, like the weight of his words could shatter the fragile air between them.

"Because I have bipolar disorder."

The words hung there, fragile, vulnerable, as if he were confessing something far deeper than just a diagnosis—something that had taken root in him long before either of them had ever known it.

Lando blinked. It was like puzzle pieces falling into place — the vanishing acts, the lightning-strike highs, the too-silent lows.
“I didn’t know,” he said.

“Yeah. I don’t talk about it. Feels like if I say it out loud, I become it. And then people start treating you like you're breakable.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Like you’re glass already cracking.”

Lando looked down, fingers knotted in the hem of his hoodie.
“Media says I’m weak every weekend,” he muttered. “I don’t even know who I am outside of what they say anymore.”

Alex leaned forward. “You’re not weak. You’re one of the strongest people I know. You get in that car week after week, even when it’s killing you.”

That hit somewhere deep. Somewhere that had been aching since the crash, since the weight of the world had pressed against his chest and refused to let up. He didn’t cry. He didn’t say thank you. He just nodded, slowly, like maybe — just maybe — he believed it.

They didn’t speak after that. Didn’t need to. Alex stayed half-sitting on the bed, scrolling his phone, humming along to the quiet TV buzz. Lando lay curled on the couch like it was a lifeboat.

He figured Carlos was probably pacing his hotel room by now. Max might’ve torn half the paddock apart looking for him. But he couldn’t go to them — not like this. Not when everything inside him still felt like broken glass and smoke.

Alex hadn’t asked for anything. Not answers, not explanations. Just space. Just the quiet.

The couch wasn’t comfortable. The room was too cold. The city too loud. But Lando fell asleep anyway, wrapped in borrowed stillness, the weight of the crash slowly slipping off his shoulders, one heartbeat at a time.

Chapter Text

Carlos´s POV

The shrill buzz of his phone tore through the silence like a knife. Carlos jerked awake with a sharp gasp, his heart pounding in his chest as if he’d been yanked out of a nightmare—only this one didn’t end when he opened his eyes.

His neck throbbed, stiff and sore from sleeping twisted in the same armchair he’d passed out in hours ago. His lower back screamed in protest as he shifted. Cold hotel light bled in through the curtain cracks, casting pale streaks across the white walls. He blinked hard. Where was he?

Then he saw Max, slumped across the opposite chair like a marionette with its strings cut. And it all came rushing back.
Lando’s hotel room.
The long night.
The search.
The silence .

His phone vibrated again in his hand.

“Hello?” he croaked, his voice unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else.

“Where are you?” James’ voice cracked through the line, forced calm barely hiding the worry laced underneath.

Carlos sat up straighter, every joint protesting. “Hotel,” he muttered, rubbing at his face like he could scrub the fog away.

“You were due in the paddock fifteen minutes ago,” James said, the concern now bleeding into impatience.

Carlos felt the guilt claw up from his stomach like bile. He pressed his thumb to his temple.

“I’m coming,” he said quickly. “I’m on my way.”

A pause. Then softer: “You alright? Everything okay?”

Carlos hesitated, the truth pressing against the back of his throat like it wanted to choke him. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say he’d barely slept, tell James everything about the night of searching, the empty hotel room. That the sick weight in his gut hadn’t left since yesterday. But there wasn’t time. And even if there was... he didn’t know how to say it.

“Yeah,” he whispered instead. “Just overslept.”

“Okay. Just get here before the pre-show.” Click.

Carlos let the phone drop onto the floor with a dull thud and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands pressed hard against his face. He sat like that for a long second, trying to steady his breathing, trying to feel normal . But his chest was tight. Every inhale caught on something sharp.

Across from him, Max stirred.

“Hey,” Carlos said, his voice rough as gravel. He reached out and shook Max’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

Max jolted upright, eyes wide and wild, like he hadn’t expected to still be here. “Fuck. Did we fall asleep?”

“Yeah,” Carlos said flatly. “James called. I was supposed to be at the paddock already.”

Max swore and fumbled for his phone. His eyes went wide as he checked the time. “I’ve missed, like, three meetings.”

They stumbled to their feet, stiff and disoriented, no time for showers or clean clothes, but luckily they’d been half-living in their team kits already. Carlos dragged his fingers through his messy hair and yanked his Williams cap down low over his eyes. Max grabbed Lando´s phone and put it in his pocket.

“Do we look alive?” Max asked, breathless as they jogged toward the elevator.

Carlos shot him a tired glance. “No,” he said. “But no one’s looking closely.”

Their laughter was thin, hollow. Not real. Just a reflex.

The cab ride was quiet. Outside, Jeddah rolled past in blurs of sun-scorched pavement and heat-rippled buildings. Carlos pressed his forehead to the window, the glass warm against his skin. His reflection stared back—eyes too dark, mouth set in a line that hadn’t moved in hours.

He still didn’t know where Lando was. That single fact gnawed at him like a splinter he couldn’t pull free. He didn’t want to believe the worst. But silence had a way of turning fears into monsters. And now every second that passed felt like a countdown.

Still, the world didn’t stop. Not for fear. Not for pain. Not even for the people you cared about.

They pulled into the paddock. The illusion had to go back on now.

Carlos and Max exchanged a silent nod and peeled off in opposite directions, both of them sliding back into their roles, into the armor. There was no time for grief. No room for uncertainty.

He tugged the brim of his Williams cap low, and forced something like a smile onto his face.

But it didn’t reach his eyes. It never did when the ache sat this deep.

And under it all, one thought throbbed like a bruise:
Please be okay, Lando.

Max' POV

Max sat stiffly in Christian’s office, his back and neck screaming in protest after another night spent twisted in furniture that wasn't made for sleeping. He hadn’t slept in a proper bed since Friday. The ache had settled into his bones now—familiar, like the guilt.

Christian stood over him, arms crossed, irritation barely contained.

“You missed three meetings, Max,” he said sharply. “We needed you there. The media needed to see you. You’re supposed to be the face of this team, not... hiding in some hotel room looking like hell.”

Max didn’t look up. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, his voice flat. “I overslept. I said I was sorry.”

Christian shook his head with a quiet scoff. “Yeah, well... go eat something. Clean yourself up. The media can’t see you like this.”

Max didn’t answer. He just stood, muscles stiff, jaw locked tight, and walked out without another word.

He grabbed a protein bar from a basket. He didn’t need food. He needed to find Lando.

The walk to the McLaren motorhome felt longer than it should have. The paddock buzzed around him, voices echoing, cameras snapping, but it all felt muted—distant. Like the sound of the world underwater.

And then he saw him.

Lando.

Sitting with Zak and Oscar at a table. Laughing.

Laughing.

Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t vanished for a full night. Like Max hadn’t torn through half of Jeddah looking for him, heart in his throat the entire time.

Max froze, barely noticing when Carlos stepped up beside him.

“He’s here,” Carlos said quietly, gaze fixed on Lando.

“Yeah,” Max muttered. “And he’s pretending like everything’s fine.”

Lando looked up then, his smile faltering when his eyes met theirs. He said something to Zak and Oscar and stood, walking toward them slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

“Hey, guys,” Lando said, his voice unsure.

Max didn’t even try to hold it in.

“Where the hell have you been ?” he snapped, louder than he meant to. His voice cracked with more than just anger—it was panic, frustration, everything he hadn’t been able to say all night spilling over.

Carlos hissed, trying to calm the moment. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Lando said quickly. “I didn’t want you guys to worry. I just... I left my phone in my hotel room.”

“Yeah. We noticed,” Max bit out. “We spent the night there . When we weren’t out tearing through the city trying to find you.”

He yanked Lando’s phone out of his pocket and shoved it into Lando’s hands, the movement almost violent.

"My back's still killing me from sleeping in your damn armchairs," he added, his tone laced with bitterness.

Carlos placed a hand on Max’s arm, trying to ease the tension. “It’s okay, Lando. We were just worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Lando said, guilt slipping into his voice. “I didn’t know you guys were looking for me.”

“But where were you?” Carlos asked, quieter, but no less serious. “I checked the paddock. We searched the hotel. Max and I drove through every street in Jeddah, it felt like.”

Max clenched his jaw and stayed silent. He had too much to say and no right words to say it with. He wasn’t even sure if what he felt was anger anymore—it was something messier, heavier. Like worry that had curdled into something sharp and sour.

“I stayed at Alex’s hotel room,” Lando said.

Max’s eyes snapped up.

“At Alex’s?” he echoed, voice disbelieving. “Are you serious ? What, did you get wasted and black out just for the hell of it?”

Lando flinched. “No. We didn’t. We just... talked.”

Max stared at him, searching his face, trying to find the truth in Lando’s eyes—but all he saw was the same closed-off look everyone is used to wearing to hide every feeling. The same distance. Max hated it. Hated that he was starting to believe Alex was dragging Lando down into the same shadows he’d pulled Carlos through.

“I promise, Max. We just talked,” Lando said, quieter now.

Carlos nodded. “I believe you.”

Max just looked at Lando. His jaw tightened, fists clenched around the half-crushed protein bar.

"Yeah, you know. Good luck at the race today," he said, voice flat, already turning before either of them could answer.

He walked away, leaving Lando and Carlos standing there. He didn’t look back. Didn’t want to see whatever expression was on Lando’s face—confused, apologetic, maybe even guilty. He didn’t know. Didn’t want to know.

By the time he reached the Red Bull garage, his jaw ached from how hard he was grinding his teeth. He tried to look calm, cool, collected—whatever the fuck Christian wanted him to be—but he was sure he still looked like hell.

He ducked into the back of the motorhome, dropped into the same crate he’d sat on yesterday. His muscles screamed in protest, his back locking up from the shitty sleep.

His head fell into his hands.

Alex’s hotel room.
That’s where Lando had been.

He wanted to believe it was just talking. That Lando was telling the truth. But something about it felt off . Not because he thought Lando had lied—no, he trusted Lando more than most people—but because Lando hadn’t thought to tell them. Not Carlos. Not him.

Not even a message.

Max had looked in every bar, every team room, every damn street corner in Jeddah last night, half out of his mind. And Lando had been curled up safe, talking in Alex’s hotel room.

He hated the way that name made his skin crawl now. Not because he thought Alex was a bad person, but because he’d seen what Alex could do when the darkness took hold. He'd watched Carlos fall apart piece by piece trying to keep up with someone who didn’t want to be saved.

And now it felt like Lando was orbiting that same black hole.

Max’s leg bounced restlessly. He peeled the wrapper off the crushed protein bar and took a bite he didn’t want. The taste was chalky, useless.

Why didn’t you just call me, Lando?

That was what burned most. Not the missed meetings. Not the sleep-deprived haze or the lectures from Christian or the stress headaches. Just the fact that Lando hadn’t reached out.

Not when Max would’ve driven through every damn street again if it meant bringing him back.

I would’ve picked up in one ring.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, let it fall into his lap.

There was a race today.
He had to focus. He had to lock in.
He had to pretend like nothing was wrong.

Just like Lando.

Max stood slowly, shoved the empty wrapper into the trash, and grabbed his race gloves. His hands were still shaking. Maybe from the adrenaline. Maybe from the crash of it all catching up.

He pulled on his helmet and walked out into the blinding sun.

If he couldn’t understand people right now, at least he could understand the car.

At least that still made sense.

Lando’s POV

Lando watched Max’s back disappear down the walkway, the slam of his footsteps echoing louder than anything he’d said. The guilt hit harder than expected. Not because of Max yelling—Lando had seen Max lose his cool before—but because he deserved it this time. Max and Carlos had been out all night looking for him while he’d been holed up in Alex’s hotel room, trying to quiet the storm in his head. It hadn’t been a reckless night, just a quiet one. A needed one. But he should’ve said something. Left a note. Anything.

Carlos stayed beside him, unmoving. Still watching the path Max had taken. He looked as stunned as Lando felt.

“Don’t worry, Lando. Max just means well,” Carlos said softly, glancing at him.

“I’m sorry,” Lando stammered, his voice cracking more than he wanted it to. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Carlos replied, with that calm warmth he always had when he wasn’t the one spiraling. “Just know that you have us. No matter what.”

“Yeah but…” Lando exhaled, rubbing his face. “I didn’t mean to make you guys worry. You have your own shit. And Max has his. You shouldn’t have to deal with mine too.”

Carlos gave him a tired smile. “Yeah, but we’re all in the same shit in the end.”

Lando let out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Their moment was interrupted by Zak stepping in, his face somewhere between patient and insistent. “Hey, Lando. You need to get ready for the race,” he said, glancing between the two of them.

Carlos checked his watch and nodded. “Yeah, I should head back to the Williams garage too.”

“Good luck today,” Lando said, trying to push some strength into his voice.

“You too,” Carlos answered, giving him a small nod before walking away.

Zak watched Carlos go, arms crossed. “How’s he holding up in Williams?” he asked, his tone casual but edged with concern.

Lando hesitated. “He seems okay. Like… like he’s found his place there.”

“Yeah, but he looks off,” Zak murmured. “He’s lost weight. A lot. I’m worried the Ferrari thing really did a number on him.”

Lando nodded slowly. He knew Zak wasn’t wrong. But explaining everything—Carlos’ late-night breakdowns, the way he sometimes disappeared into silence for hours, the way Max hovered near him like a protective shadow—felt like too much to get into right now.

“He’s getting better,” Lando said instead, carefully. 

Zak sighed. “Good. I remember when Daniel first came here. He had the same look. Pressure eats at you until there’s barely anything left. Carlos looks like he’s been swallowed up by it.”

Lando swallowed hard. “Yeah. But we drivers—we look after each other.”

Zak gave him a small smile. “I’m glad. Even though I’m the team CEO, sometimes I think it’s all too much. The politics, the pressure, the media circus. And you drivers—you’re the ones who end up carrying it all in the spotlight.”

“Is that why you’re always trying to steal it?” Lando joked, trying to lift the heaviness just a little.

Zak smirked. “Exactly.”

He gave Lando a pat on the back. “Now go. You’ve got a race to drive.”

“Yes, boss,” Lando said, managing a tired grin.

As Zak walked off, Lando turned and began making his way toward the McLaren garage. Each step felt heavier than the last.

He didn’t know how the race would go. Maybe he’d climb to the podium. Maybe he’d crash out again. Maybe he’d finish P10 and no one would care.

But one thing was certain — no matter what, he was going to give everything. Not for the headlines, not for the podium selfies, not even for Zak’s pep talks.

For himself.
For the kid who first dreamed about this life.
For the people who stayed up all night to fix his car.
For the friends who’d searched the streets when he disappeared.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat low in the cockpit, the harness tight against his chest, his hands already resting on the steering wheel as the grid buzzed around him. P6. Not a bad place to start, but he knew what the Williams engineers had told him. Don’t fight the big teams. Stay clean. Bring it home. It was practical. Logical. It was the right thing to do for the car he had under him. But logic didn’t stop the flicker of pride that threatened to burn every time he saw a Ferrari, a McLaren, or a Red Bull in his mirrors.

He exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the lights. He didn’t have to fight them—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to start strong.

The lights went out, and instinct took over. He launched cleanly, gripping the track like it was personal. For a brief second, it felt like maybe— maybe —he could hold this spot. But as the cars funneled into Turn 1, his mirrors flashed with chaos. A tangle of carbon fiber and smoke. Yuki and Pierre. The Red Bull and Alpine spun off, kissing the wall hard.

“Status on the crash?” he asked, voice low.

A beat passed before his race engineer replied, “Both drivers are okay. Safety car deployed.”

Carlos let himself breathe again, jaw clenched. Two less cars to worry about.

Just before the safety car came out and the yellow flags waved, Lewis had already slipped past. There was no point in defending—it felt pointless, like trying to swat at thunder. When the safety car finally pulled in, Lando shot by next, the McLaren’s smooth precision effortlessly pulling him ahead in a way that Williams simply couldn’t match. It was no point to fight it—not today.

But still, watching Lando glide past him stirred something unexpected in his chest. A rush of pride—he was genuinely rooting for him, hoping Lando would make it to the podium today. It was a strange feeling, one that caught him off guard but felt right.

As the laps ticked by, the pit window opened. Carlos stayed out as long as he could, climbing through positions as others dove into the pits. He was in P5 at one point. It felt good, even if it was temporary.

“Box, box, box,” his engineer said finally.

“Copy,” Carlos answered, already focusing on the entry.

He slid into the box clean—but the stop was slow . Seconds dragged like hours. He gritted his teeth.

“What happened, guys?” he said as he peeled back onto the track, now P15.

“Sorry, Carlos. Rear-left issue. We’re back on plan.”

He didn’t reply. He just put his head down.

Anger didn’t help. Regret didn’t help. So he drove.

He fought his way back into the top ten, one overtake at a time. By Lap 43, he was P8. The cars ahead were gone—20 seconds up the road—but he was alone now. No one ahead. Just track.

“Twenty seconds to the car ahead. Hold position. Don’t push,” the radio crackled.

“Copy,” Carlos replied, but he wasn’t done thinking. In his mirrors, he saw them—Alex, closing in. Isack in the Racing Bulls car right on his tail.

Carlos let off slightly, timing it.

“Tell Alex to stay close. I’ll keep him in DRS range.”

“Understood. Good strategy.”

This wasn’t about him anymore. It was about the team. If Alex stayed in DRS, he could hold off Isack. Williams could get double points. That mattered more than P7 vs P8.

He kept the pace just right. Alex tucked in. Isack couldn’t get close enough to try.

Lap after lap, they held steady. No mistakes. No lunges. Just strategy, executed clean.

“Excellent teamwork, Carlos. Excellent,” James said over the radio at the checkered flag.

Carlos let his head drop back against the seat for a second. Finally, a breath.

He pulled into parc fermé, unclipped everything with the practiced speed of muscle memory. He climbed out, stretching his aching legs just as Alex rolled up beside him.

“Wow , this was amazing!” Alex grinned, pulling him into a hug without hesitation.

Carlos laughed, surprised by the sudden affection but not minding it. “Yeah,” he said, voice quieter. “It was. Great teamwork.”

This—this was what he needed. Not podiums. Not headlines. Just racing. Smart, clean, connected. It was the first time in a long while that something had actually felt right.

Even if the world still burned a little behind him.

Max's POV

Max didn’t remember the last time he felt something other than this slow-burning anger. 

He leaned against the car, hands still gloved, helmet hanging from his fingers, as the heat of the race clung to his suit. P2. He should’ve won. Would’ve won—if not for that stupid penalty.

Five seconds. That’s all it took to unravel an entire race.

The FIA President approached with his usual smarmy smile, the kind that made Max’s skin itch.

“Congratulations, Max,” the man said, tone too measured, too rehearsed.

Max nodded stiffly. “Thanks.”

The president leaned in slightly, voice quieter. “Remember the guidelines. No comments that could damage the FIA’s reputation.”

Max gave a hollow smile. It wasn’t a reminder. It was a warning.

Charles wandered over, helmet under his arm, still flushed from the drive but smiling softly. P3. His first podium of the season. Ferrari needed that. Charles needed that. Max didn’t begrudge him.

“You did a good race out there,” Charles said, sincere.

“Yeah,” Max said, voice flat.

Charles glanced toward the media scrum. “They’re saying you got a penalty? What happened?”

“Dumb move on Oscar. FIA gave me five seconds.” Max didn’t explain further. He didn’t want to. What was the point?

“So you lost the lead because of that?”

Max just nodded.

Charles looked like he wanted to say something more but held back. Smart of him. No one needed Max snapping again. Not today.

“I should go do the interviews,” Max said, already turning.

“Yeah, good luck,” Charles offered.

The media was a wall of noise. Questions. Flashes. Microphones too close to his face. All of it felt like static. Max kept his answers clipped.

“I can’t comment on that.”

“I have to follow guidelines.”

“No, I don’t want to talk about the penalty.”

He walked off before they could push harder, slipping into the cooling room. The cold air hit his overheated skin, but it didn’t help. He dropped down in the corner, legs splayed, staring at the floor while Charles and Oscar talked animatedly a few meters away. Laughing, pointing at race footage, already dissecting everything.

Max tuned them out. He didn’t care. Or at least, he told himself that.

Then came the podium. He stood on P2, rigid. The rose water was lukewarm, fizzy in the worst way. He drank it anyway, pretending it was something stronger. Something that could dull all of this.

The cameras snapped. The crowd cheered. Max barely blinked.

When it was over, he walked off before the others were done celebrating. He didn’t want to be part of it.

As he made his way through the paddock, he passed by Christian mid-interview, waving papers around—freeze frames and angles showing why Max didn’t deserve the penalty. He looked unhinged. His tie was crooked. His voice, raised. Max winced.

So this is what we’ve come to.

He kept his head down and slipped by, staying in the shadows behind the camera crew. No one followed. No one noticed.

Max reached his driver room, shut the door, and locked it. He didn’t even take off his race suit. He just slumped into the chair.

The silence pressed in on him like a weight.

No adrenaline now. No crowd. Just Max—and that same, hollow rage.

He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing slow and heavy.

He wanted to throw something. Break something.

Instead, he just sat there. Letting the stillness consume him.

Alex's POV

The fireworks exploded above them like the sky was tearing open. Alex flinched, blinking against the harsh light as reporters shoved mics toward his face.

“Alex! Talk us through the strategy—did you know Carlos was holding off Isack for you?”

Another burst cracked overhead, louder this time. He could barely hear the question. Next to him, Carlos stepped back, covering one ear with his shoulder, muttering, “Fuck. ”

Alex glanced at him. Carlos looked off-balance, eyes darting toward the noise, shoulders tense. He wasn’t really hearing the reporters either—his face had gone blank, like he was completely lost.

Alex leaned in, close enough for Carlos to hear him over the thunder of the fireworks, his voice gentle but steady. “These fireworks are longer than the national anthem,” he said with a small, teasing smile—soft, not to mock, but to remind Carlos he wasn’t alone in the noise.

Carlos blinked, then looked over and let out a dry laugh, shaking his head.

The fireworks started to die down, the echo still bouncing off the pit buildings. Carlos clapped sarcastically, sharp and bitter, then turned back toward the reporters like he was switching back on, putting the mask back in place.

Alex did the same.

“We knew Isack was fast,” he said, forcing himself to focus. “The goal was just to keep clean air, work the DRS window. Carlos really brought the team points home today. It was great teamwork.”

They answered a few more questions—strategy, pit stops, tyre management, the usual post-race script—before they were finally released.

As they walked together through the paddock toward the Williams garage, Carlos shook his head. “I can’t believe I swore during an interview.”

“Yeah, FIA’s going to slap your wrist for that one,” Alex said, nudging him lightly with his shoulder.

Carlos let out a humorless laugh. “They’ve been on some kind of power trip this year. Max’s penalty today? Ridiculous. My fine in Japan? Just as bad. And we’re not even allowed to talk about it.”

“FIA is just another name on the long list of problems,” Alex said, sighing as they stepped into the cooler, dimmer hallway of the Williams motorhome.

Carlos rubbed his face, his expression faltering for a moment. “You saw Max after the race?”

“Yeah,” Alex said. “He looked ready to throw someone off the podium.”

“We’re all on the same jet tonight.” Carlos groaned and rolled his eyes. “That’s going to be fun.”

Alex made a face. “I’m not looking forward to that.”

They stopped at the split where their driver rooms forked off.

Carlos glanced down the hall. “See you in ten?”

Alex nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

Carlos smiled at that—brief, tired, but there.

They both disappeared into their rooms to change, already bracing themselves for the quiet storm waiting in the sky.

Chapter Text

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sits in the driver's room, he had changed into jeans and black shirt, scrolling through the group chat that’s blowing up. Max has just dropped the final word: flight leaves at 3 a.m. Lando wants to throw a party first, something about celebrating like there’s no race next week. Typical.

Carlos grabs his phone and steps out into the hallway, where Alex is already waiting by the Williams garage. “Ready?” he asks.

Carlos nods. “Let’s go.”

They walk to the parking area together. There, parked obnoxiously across two spaces, is a white stretch limousine. Max and Lando are leaning against it like it’s the cover of a bad album. Lando’s shirt is already half unbuttoned. Max has a bottle in one hand and plastic cups in the other.

“What the fuck?” Alex says, grinning.

“We’re going to party,” Lando says, arms open. “This night, we don’t give a fuck about anything.”

Max chuckles, already tipsy. He pours two shots of vodka into two red plastic cups and hands them to Carlos and Alex. “Welcome.”

George and Charles pull up at the same time, looking confused and mildly concerned.

“Did you guys seriously rent a limousine?” George asks, brows raised.

“Yeah,” Max says flatly, like it’s obvious. He pours two more shots and hands them over.

“Where are we even going?” Charles asks, eyeing the limo like it might explode.

“To a nightclub of course,” Lando says, climbing in first. “To get wasted .”

George shrugs. “Sounds great.”

They all pile into the limo, music already blasting through the built-in speakers. The seats are too plush, the lights too neon, and Max is already handing out more drinks.

The limo pulls up to a club glowing with blue lights and flashing signs. Max and Lando are first out, stumbling into the entrance like they own the place. Carlos follows with Charles, and behind them, George and Alex.

Inside, it’s chaos. The bass drops hard enough to shake Carlos’s chest. Max and Lando immediately head for the bar like men on a mission. George and Alex drift toward a table in the corner. Carlos and Charles are left standing in the middle of it all.

“Everyone’s a mess,” Carlos says, almost yelling over the music.

Charles laughs. “Yeah. But I’ve missed being part of this mess.”

Carlos nods. “Yeah, I have missed you too, it feels like you have a lot going on with Ferrari.”

“It’s been a lot,” Charles agrees.

Lando suddenly reappears, two drinks in hand, barely spilling any despite his wobble. He shoves one into each of their hands.

“Drink!” he says, beaming. “You need to catch up—we’re already five shots ahead.”

Carlos stares at his drink, then at Lando. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Lando grinned. “Nah, just trying to make you feel alive.”

“I don’t even know what this is,” Carlos muttered, raising his glass to eye level.

“Liquid recklessness,” Charles said with a grin, clinking his own glass against it.

Carlos downs the drink. It burns in his throat, but it’s the good kind of burn—the kind that means he’s letting go, even just for the night.

They follow Lando to the table, where Max is laughing at something George said. Alex is half-sprawled across the booth, drinks in both hands.

Carlos looks around at the chaos—his chaos, their chaos—and he smiles.

Whatever else is going wrong in the world, tonight, they're not alone.

Not even close.

Max’s POV

Max sat back in the corner booth, shoulders pressed into the sticky leather, head tipped just slightly so the club’s lights didn’t stab at his eyes. The air was thick with sweat, bass, and half-forgotten headlines. George, Alex, and Charles were across from him, hunched over the table like conspirators, taking shot after shot and laughing too loud. Carlos and Lando had somehow commandeered the small stage by the bar, slurring the lyrics to a song Max didn’t even recognize, microphones swinging like weapons in their hands.

They were all a mess. Gloriously, unapologetically wasted.

Max wasn’t even sure how this had happened. Why he’d said yes when Lando had knocked on his driver’s room door after the race. He should’ve told him to fuck off. But he hadn’t. He’d let him in. And they’d sat there on the floor tension like a storm cloud between them. They’d said sorry—quiet, clumsy, honest. Max had said sorry because he screamed and got angry at Lando. Lando had understood. Understood that it wasn’t anger, not really. It was fear. It was worry. It was too much.

This weekend… Saudi had been hell. He’d thought Bahrain was the low point, but this had dug deeper. The media hadn’t just criticized—they’d eviscerated. Picked at every mistake like vultures. Questioned his place in the team. His legacy. His heart.

He dragged his hand through his hair, jaw tight. Why the fuck had they thought it was a good idea to drown all that in liquor and fluorescent lights?

But then again… some good had happened too.

He remembered Carlos and Alex sitting in front of the camera for that Williams video—no scripts, just them talking. About pressure. About being human. About how this sport could hollow you out if you let it. We just want to be people. That stuck with Max. Because it was true. None of them had signed up to be gods or villains or headlines.

Carlos had always been good at that—speaking truth when it mattered.

And then there was Seb. Seeing Sebastian Vettel in the paddock had felt like seeing a ghost from a kinder timeline. Max hadn’t spoken to him, but he knew Lando had talked with him, Charles too. And then Seb had gone and done what Seb does—an interview, words that felt like balm. He'd stood up for Lando. For all of them. Told the world to back the hell off.

“Oi, you’re falling behind,” George slurred, waving a full shot glass in Max’s direction.

Max blinked, pulled from his spiral. “Yeah, alright,” he muttered, grabbing the shot with steady fingers.

He raised it in the air, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “To our messy fucking lives.”

They all shouted some version of "cheers" and downed it. The burn in Max’s throat was sharp but welcome. At least it reminded him he was still here.

The music kept pounding. Lando fell off the stage. Carlos tried to pull him back up with one arm and failed spectacularly. George was trying to dance in his seat. Charles looked lost in thought. Alex was filming all of it, probably to then send it in the group chat when everyone felt like shit.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos needed air. The heat of the club, the flashing lights, the laughter—too much. The alcohol was humming in his veins, making everything blur at the edges. His chest felt tight, and he couldn’t tell if it was the vodka or something else entirely.

“I need to get some air,” he said, voice hoarse.

Charles didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll come with you.”

They slipped out the back, the music muffled the second the heavy door thudded shut behind them. The night was cooler, quieter. The streetlights buzzed softly above them. They walked in silence, side by side, until they found a bench half-hidden behind a few trees, tucked just out of view like it was waiting for them.

Carlos dropped down onto it with a sigh and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We always end up on benches, don’t we?”

Charles sat beside him. “Seems like it.”

They both laughed, but it didn’t last. The silence after hung heavier than before.

Carlos glanced over. Charles was looking straight ahead, but his jaw was tight, and his hands were fidgeting in his lap. He looked beautiful like this—tired, a little drunk, lit by the faint glow of streetlights and moonlight. It made something ache deep in Carlos’ chest, something he had tried so hard to ignore. He was too beautiful. Too much.

He didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe it was the drinks. Maybe it was how quiet everything felt for once. Maybe it was the way Charles looked like he was holding something back too.

Before he could stop himself, Carlos leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t careful. It was raw and hesitant, like he was terrified of what might happen the second their lips touched.

Charles tensed under the kiss—just for a second. Then he melted into it. His hand brushed against Carlos’ cheek, soft and unsure. They kissed like they didn’t know if they’d get the chance again. Like they weren’t sure if they even should.

When they pulled apart, they were both breathing too fast. Carlos’ heart was thundering. The space between them was suddenly charged, electric. But Carlos could taste regret already forming in the back of his throat. His heart was in his ears.

Charles blinked at him, dazed. “Fuck.”

Carlos laughed once, bitter. “Yeah. Fuck.”

Carlos looked up at the sky like he was trying to make sense of the stars. Like if he looked hard enough, they might give him answers.

“I didn’t mean to…” Charles whispered, then stopped. Like he didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Carlos tried to breathe. The air felt too thin now, like the kiss had taken all the oxygen with it. His heart wouldn’t slow down, and the rush of it made everything tilt. The lights, the trees, the quiet hum of the street in the distance—it was all spinning.

He blinked hard, trying to ground himself, to find something steady. But his stomach lurched instead, violently.

“I—I think I’m gonna be sick,” he mumbled, barely getting the words out before he stumbled off the bench.

Charles was on his feet in an instant. “Carlos—”

Carlos barely made it to the bushes before he doubled over, the taste of whiskey and regret clawing up his throat. His hands gripped the edge of a low concrete planter as he heaved, chest shaking, stomach emptying everything he’d tried to swallow down—drinks, guilt, confusion, maybe even the kiss.

Charles’ POV

Charles stood stiff in the cold, arms tight across his chest, the night air sharp against his flushed face. The streetlight above flickered weakly, casting pale shadows over the quiet sidewalk. Behind him, the thud of bass from the club still pulsed faintly, but all of that felt far away now.

Carlos was hunched over by a low hedge, retching violently, hands braced against his knees. It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic—it was just messy. Drunk. Real. The kind of drunk that turns your stomach inside out and makes the world spin sideways.

Charles didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.
Just watched, heart thudding with something he didn’t want to name.

He should’ve been thinking about helping Carlos, steadying him, maybe getting water—but his mind was stuck somewhere else. Caught in the heat of a kiss neither of them understood.

“There you are!” Lando’s voice cracked through the silence like a firework, loud, drunk, and totally oblivious to the tension hanging between them. He stumbled out of the club, grinning, his cheeks flushed and his eyes unfocused.

Charles flinched, like he’d just been ripped from a dream he wasn’t supposed to be having. “Yeah,” he murmured, the word catching in his throat. It barely made it out. He didn’t take his eyes off Carlos, who was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, forcing a shaky laugh as Lando clapped him on the back.

“I think you need another drink now, mate,” Lando joked. “Get back what you lost.”

Carlos smiled.

Charles felt the ache grow in his chest, heavy and restless. He didn’t understand what had just happened. He didn’t understand why Carlos had kissed him—drunk impulse? Regret? Or something deeper? Something they’d both been pretending didn’t exist?

But all he knew, all he could feel right now, was that he didn’t want it to be over. He wanted Carlos to kiss him again. He wanted to pull him back in and ask, Did it mean anything to you too? But the words were buried too deep in his throat. And Carlos… Carlos was already pretending it hadn’t happened.

Max came stumbling out next, with George and Alex in tow, laughing too loud, their steps uneven.

“We heading to the jet or what?” Max slurred, waving a hand like he was rallying a squad of pirates. “Party’s not over yet, boys.”

Carlos straightened, pushed his hair back, and grinned. “Yeah, sounds like a great idea.”

Charles’s stomach sank.

“That’s how it should sound!” Lando whooped, throwing an arm around Carlos’s shoulder, already pulling him into the gravity of their group.

Charles watched Carlos laugh with the others, eyes dancing between Max’s swagger and Lando’s chaos. He looked fine. Like the kiss hadn’t cracked something open. Like it hadn’t left a piece of Charles behind.

Charles wanted to cry. Or laugh. Or scream. But Charles followed the others toward the limousine, his footsteps slow, his thoughts loud, and the taste of that kiss still lingering on his lips like something he wasn’t allowed to keep.

He knew the truth—he’d felt it in the way Carlos kissed him.

Max’s POV

The low hum of the jet engine had always been comforting to Max. Steady. Predictable. Nothing like the chaos of the last seventy-two hours. He leaned back in his seat, fingers loose around a half-finished glass of something dark and strong, and let his eyes drift lazily around the cabin.

Everyone was here. All of them, wrecked in their own way.

George was nursing a beer like it was his last hope for salvation, legs stretched out, talking to Alex in a low voice. Alex, in turn, looked exhausted, one leg bouncing, the tension never quite leaving his shoulders—even when he smiled.

Lando was trying too hard to be cheerful. Loud, laughing a bit too quickly, eyes glassy from the drinks. He kept making jokes.

Carlos wasn’t laughing though. Neither was Charles.

They sat near each other, but not with each other. Carlos stared out the window like there was something out there worth seeing in the black of night. Charles was still, statue-still, hands in his lap, eyes vacant. Max had seen this kind of silence before. He knew it intimately.

They were all trying to leave Jeddah behind, but the truth was, they were dragging something with them—clinging to their skin, soaked into their clothes, sitting heavy in their lungs.

“Two weeks until Miami,” George said, attempting lightness. “Maybe the media will forget we exist by then.”

“They never forget,” Max muttered, taking a slow sip. “They just reload.”

That earned a dry laugh from Alex, who shook his head. “You know what’s funny? When I read stuff about you guys, I know it’s bullshit. But when it’s about me…”

“It feels real,” Lando finished, softer now. “I get it. They call me too emotional, too soft. That I’ll never be a world champion because I feel too much.”

“They call me invisible,” George added with a half-smile. “A filler driver. Like I’m here to make up numbers.”

“Williams made a mistake signing me,” Carlos said, his voice flat. “That I’m past it.”

“Ferrari’s biggest clown,” Charles murmured. It was the first thing he’d said in a while. “A golden boy who rusted.”

“And me?” Max let out a humorless laugh. “I’m the villain. The bully. The stone-hearted bastard who’ll never care about anything but winning.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavy. Binding. A shared ache none of them could quite name.

“You know the media has it wrong about all of you,” George said, finally. “You’re not what they say.”

“Funny thing,” Lando said, quieter now, “I believe that about all of you. Just… not about myself.”

Max looked around at them—these broken, brilliant people he called rivals and friends. And then he looked at Charles, who wasn’t saying anything anymore, just staring blankly at the table.

There was something in his eyes. Something Max didn’t like.

“Hey, Max?” Charles said suddenly, so quiet Max almost missed it. “Can I go lie down in the sleeping area? I need to get away from all this. Just for a bit.”

Max blinked. “Yeah. Of course. Are you alright?”

Charles hesitated, then offered a faint smile that fooled no one. “Just tired of the noise.”

He stood and walked slowly to the back of the jet, closing the door behind him.

Max’s gaze drifted to Carlos. The way he looked after Charles—it wasn’t just concern. It was something deeper. Guilt. Regret. Something heavy. Something that hadn’t been said out loud yet.

Something had happened between them. Max wasn’t blind.

He leaned in slightly, voice low enough only Carlos could hear.

“You should go after him. Whatever happened between you two… fix it. Before it breaks something permanent.”

Carlos looked at him, startled. “How do you always see through everything?”

Max shrugged, tilting his glass. “I don’t. I just recognize damage when I see it. Go.”

Carlos stood, slow and hesitant, then followed the same path Charles had taken.

The door clicked shut again behind him.

Charles’ POV

Charles sat on the edge of the small bed in Max’s private sleeping area, his hands clawing at his hair, elbows digging into his knees. He was shaking. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that he could feel it in his bones. In his chest. In his jaw, clenched tight like it was the only thing keeping the rest of him from falling apart.

He hated how easily it all broke him.

The headlines, the silence, the kiss.

And him.

Carlos.

Charles flinched at the thought of it. Of him. Of how his body still remembered the press of Carlos’s lips, drunken and messy and real —then the way Carlos had laughed, puked, pretended like it had meant nothing. It had destroyed him. It was still destroying him.

He bit hard on the inside of his cheek just to feel something different. Just to stay in control.

The door opened.

Charles didn’t look up. Couldn’t. He knew who it was anyway.

“Charles,” Carlos said softly, voice slurred around the edges, a little broken. Drunk. More than drunk. He sounded like someone on the edge of blackout, and Charles hated how he still sounded gentle.

Charles let out a hollow, bitter laugh. “Should’ve stayed out there,” he muttered, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in his voice.

Carlos stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click . It still didn’t block out the sound of the others—George and Lando laughing, Max shouting something about tequila, Alex probably passed out in his seat. The world kept spinning, and Charles was stuck right here. Still. Cracked open.

“I didn’t want to party without you,” Carlos said. Low. Honest.

Charles didn’t reply.

He stared at the floor like it might split open and swallow him whole. But he saw Carlos’s feet step closer, slow and uncertain. Then Carlos sat down across from him, quiet like he was scared one wrong move might shatter everything.

“You know…” Carlos started, voice thick, “when we were teammates. We had something, I was sure we was going to become something one day.”

Charles let that sit in the air between them.

Carlos continued, like he had to say it before it slipped away: “But after I left… I was lost.”

Charles finally looked up.

His eyes were tired. Raw. “What do you mean?”

Carlos looked like he didn’t even know how to explain it to himself. “I don’t know. Didn't you feel the tension when we where teammates?”

Charles’s heart twisted. Because I have, he thought. But he said it aloud instead. “I’ve felt something for you for years, Carlos.”

Carlos didn’t look away. His eyes were too dark, too honest. “Maybe I was just scared.”

That cracked something open inside Charles.

He inhaled sharply, throat tight. “I’m so tired of this. Of not knowing where I stand with you. Of always being the one who feels too much.”

Silence.

Then Carlos leaned forward, close enough that their foreheads touched. Charles didn’t move. He just closed his eyes, letting himself breathe Carlos in—soap and sweat and something familiar. Something that felt like home and heartbreak at the same time.

Carlos didn’t try to kiss him. Didn’t push. Just stayed close, warm and grounding, as his fingers found Charles’s hand. The circles he traced on his skin were soft, unspoken apologies.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Carlos whispered. “Not like this.”

Charles opened his eyes. His voice came out quieter than he meant. “You don’t have to know.”

And then Carlos kissed him.

Not like earlier, not like something they’d pretend hadn’t happened. But real. Deliberate. Slow, and trembling, and aching. A question and a plea.

Charles kissed him back.

And it hurt—because it was everything he had waited for, and everything he had been terrified would never come. His fingers found Carlos’s face, brushing against the stubble and the edge of something that felt like truth .

When they pulled apart, Carlos looked dazed.

Charles leaned their foreheads together again, breath shaky. “You don’t always have to be strong.”

Carlos’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. “I’m sorry our first kiss wasn’t like this.”

Charles didn’t even think. “I don’t care. Not anymore.”

And this time, he kissed Carlos with everything he had. Not rushed—but hungry. Desperate. Weeks of glances that lingered too long. Years of words they hadn’t dared speak. It all came pouring out in a kiss that said please stay, please stay, please don’t go.

Carlos’s hands curled at Charles’s waist, pulling him in, grounding him. Charles straddled him without thinking, like it was always meant to be this way. Like their bodies had been waiting for this.

The kiss deepened. Turned messy. Turned real.

Carlos kissed like he was scared he’d lose him again. Charles kissed like he couldn’t bear another day of pretending he didn’t care.

And when Carlos’s jaw trembled, Charles kissed down his throat, gentle. Worshipful.

“You’re not lost,” Charles whispered. “You hear me?”

Carlos nodded, eyes shut. “I hear you.”

Charles cupped his face, searching him. “Look at me.”

Carlos did.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. His shirt hung loose on his shoulders, and Charles dragged it off, fingertips brushing hot skin. He looked fragile like this—not weak. Just real. Human.

“Tell me to stop,” Charles whispered, heart hammering.

Carlos didn’t say a word. He pulled Charles in again, lips brushing his as he breathed:

“Don’t you dare.”

And Charles didn’t.

The rest was touch. Mouth. Skin. Breathing in each other like salvation.

Outside, the world kept spinning. But in here, for once, everything stopped.

Landos’s POV

They were still drinking.

George, Max, and Lando. Just the three of them now. Alex had passed out a while ago, slumped sideways in his seat with a bottle still tucked against his chest like it might offer comfort. Definitely done for the night. Lights out. No chance of revival.

Charles and Carlos had disappeared maybe twenty minutes ago. Max had clocked it, Lando saw it in the way his eyes had narrowed slightly, how he’d tracked them as they moved through the jet toward the sleeping area like something in his brain was saying, hmm, that’s not nothing . But he didn’t move. Didn’t go after them. Max could be surprisingly patient when it wasn’t about racing.

Lando wasn’t worried, either. Whatever was going on between Carlos and Charles—it wasn’t his to fix. But it was impossible not to notice the tension. Something had definitely happened outside the club. Lando hadn’t meant to see it, but he did. Carlos bent over, vomiting into a bush like his body had finally given up on him, and Charles… just standing there. Frozen. Like he’d just been hit in the chest and hadn’t figured out how to breathe again.

Yeah. Definitely not nothing.

George, halfway through another beer and clearly buzzing hard, reached across the table and grabbed the black Sharpie they used for signing hats and merch. “Watch this,” he said, barely containing a laugh.

Lando watched with a grin as George leaned over Alex’s sleeping body and started drawing on his face—big, sloppy lines, something that might have once been a mustache but quickly morphed into complete chaos. Max lost it.

“Let me sign too,” Max said, giggling way too much for a four-time world champion. He took the pen and added his autograph across Alex’s forehead, then attempted to draw a lion on his cheek. Or a cat. Or a very confused blob with whiskers.

“That’s not a lion, mate,” Lando said, snorting. “That’s a sad hamster or something.”

“Shut up,” Max muttered, but he was laughing too hard to care.

The moment shattered with a loud bang from the sleeping quarters. They all froze.

George blinked. “Are they killing each other?”

Lando raised a brow. “I don’t know, but doesn’t it seem like they had a fight earlier?”

“Yeah,” Max said, suddenly more serious. “Something felt… off.”

Another thud. Then another. And then—Charles, his voice drifting through the wall in a breathy, trembling moan.

Not hurt. Not angry.

That was unmistakably a pleasured sound.

They all stared at each other, the realization slowly sinking in—this wasn’t fighting. This was something else. Something way more… intense.

“Oh my god,” George whispered, eyes wide.

Lando burst out laughing. “No. No way.”

Max leaned back, grinning. “Guys… they’re actually doing it. Joining the Mile High Club. On my jet.”

“I feel like we need to respect it,” George said with mock seriousness. “But also—kind of gross.”

“Finally,” Lando said with a smirk. “About damn time.”

Max looked vaguely offended. “Okay but can we talk about how they’re doing it before I’ve even used the bedroom on this thing? Rude.”

George slapped the table. “Yeah but who called it? Who said Carlos and Charles would get together after Carlos left Ferrari?”

“Not me,” Max said. “I thought they where just friends.”

George laughed. “Max, you are just blind. I thought the Ferrari garage would’ve burned down from sexual tension alone.”

Lando crossed his arms, proud. “It was me. I said post-Ferrari slow burn. Pay up.”

George groaned and fished a crumpled twenty out of his wallet. Max pulled a €50 bill from his back pocket and tossed it across the table.

Lando swept it up like a victorious gremlin. “Thank you. Drinks on me next race.”

Another bang. Another laugh from Max.

“They do know this jet isn’t soundproof, right?” he asked.

“Nope,” Lando said, grinning. “But honestly? Let ’em have it. After this weekend? They deserve at least one thing that doesn’t end in fire.”

They all fell into a kind of chaotic, drunken laughter. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that even in a sport where everyone was always pretending to be fine, right now, none of them were pretending.

And even if their lives were messy, even if they were splashed across tabloids and dissected by strangers—this, this moment of ridiculous, imperfect honesty with each other, felt like something real.

Even if it came with sound effects from the back room.

Lando leaned back in his seat, eyes tracing the faint lines of the jet ceiling like he could escape into them. He exhaled a laugh—tired, disbelieving, a little bitter.
"God, I love this fucked-up little sport," he muttered, half to himself.

Max didn’t say anything for a second. Then he reached for the bottle of tequila, hands steady despite the chaos. “One last shot before we give in,” he said quietly, pouring for all three of them. The bottle hit the table with a soft thud.

Lando lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the low cabin lights. “To the ones who keep driving, even when it hurts.”

“To the ones who are still here,” Max said, eyes distant, but voice firm.

“To the ones who get back up—bloody, bruised, and still smiling,” George added, softer than usual.

Lando’s voice was barely above a whisper now, the words sticking like they mattered.
“To the ones who never catch a break… but keep showing up anyway.”

No one said anything else. Just the soft clink of glass against glass before they downed it. The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It felt like respect. Like survival. Like maybe, just maybe, they understood each other better in the wreckage than they ever did on the podium.

Carlos' POV

Carlos lay there, tangled in the mess of sheets, their bodies pressed so closely together it felt like one. The hum of the jet was a soft murmur in the background, the only thing holding him to the present moment, to this strange, quiet world they had made for themselves. The small sleeping area was a disaster—pillows scattered across the floor, blankets crumpled in chaotic heaps. The air clung with the scent of sweat and something more—a trace of the madness that had unfolded just moments before.

Charles was curled against him, warm, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed to calm the storm inside Carlos. It was the only thing steady in a world that had spun out of control. His fingers traced the smooth planes of Charles’s bare back, moving slowly, deliberately, as if trying to memorize every inch of him. There was an urgency in the touch—gentle but hungry, as if Carlos feared the moment would slip away the second he stopped.

In the corners of his mind, the sound of Charles hitting the wall replayed like an echo, harsh and raw. He could still feel the pressure of his body against Charles' back, the reckless force with which he had pushed him, how good it felt when his cock was inside Charles, as though the world outside this cramped cabin didn’t exist. The thud of it. The stolen breath between kisses. It had been frantic, untamed, but it had been real. Like they were both running from something, and in that moment, they were together in it.

Carlos pulled Charles closer, his hand sliding along the smooth skin of his back, needing to feel him, to keep him there. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. It was as though, in the midst of the chaos, he was trying to hold onto something—someone—before it all slipped through his fingers.

Monaco was coming soon. The real world. The world where they’d have to pretend again. But for now, all that mattered was this—Charles in his arms, the weight of him anchoring Carlos in a way nothing else had ever done.

The quiet outside the sleeping area had settled. Max and Lando were still whispering, their laughter soft, as though they were careful not to disturb the peace that had fallen over the rest of the jet. George and Alex were probably asleep by now, the alcohol finally taking its toll. But Carlos didn’t care about any of that. His focus was entirely on Charles, the weight of him, pressing into Carlos’s chest.

Charles shifted slightly, his breath warm against Carlos’s skin, brushing over his collarbone. He looked up, hair tousled, eyes heavy with exhaustion but softened with something else—something that made Carlos’s heart ache in ways he didn’t know how to explain. That look—like Charles had found something worth staying for—nearly undid him completely.

“I think we were a little too loud,” Charles murmured, his cheeks tinged with pink.

Carlos smirked, a lazy, teasing grin that only Charles ever got to see. “You mean you were too loud?” he said, rolling over just enough to pin Charles gently beneath him.

Charles laughed softly, the sound warm and unguarded, his hand finding the back of Carlos’s neck, pulling him in. There was something impossibly sweet about him like this—vulnerable, lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Carlos looked down at him, and suddenly, all the emotions he’d been holding back spilled over.

Charles didn’t blink. He just stared at Carlos. And then, without hesitation, he pulled him in, kissing him—gentle at first, and then deeper, more certain.

Carlos sank into it. Into the taste of Charles, a mix of hope and tequila, and something else—something that Carlos couldn’t name yet. He didn’t want this moment to end. He didn’t want the world outside to come crashing in. In here, there were no cameras, no headlines, no expectations. Just them. But he knew this was just another escape for him. 

Chapter Text

Max’s POV

The jet landed with a soft jolt, and Max blinked against the harsh lights of early morning Monaco creeping through the windows. His head was heavy, not quite drunk anymore, but definitely still floating somewhere between tequila and reality. Lando, who hadn’t slept either, nudged George with a lazy elbow while Max leaned forward to get a better look at Alex, still slumped and barely breathing under the weight of his hangover.

“George. Wake up,” Lando said, voice rough from laughter and liquor.

Max stood and made his way to the door of the sleeping area, raising a knuckle to knock. A part of him didn’t want to interrupt—somehow it felt sacred, even if he didn’t know exactly what had happened behind that door.

“We’re coming,” Carlos called, voice muffled but unmistakably sheepish.

Max couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. And when the door finally opened and the two of them emerged—hair tousled, shirts thrown on like afterthoughts, cheeks pink with more than just residual alcohol—he had to bite his tongue not to laugh. They said nothing. Just sunk into the seats like they hoped no one would comment. Max decided not to. He liked the silence. It felt like something good had happened.

Alex let out a groan from his corner, mumbling some nonsense into his hoodie. Max raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll take him home,” George offered, standing and stretching with the kind of groan that came from being both hungover and too tall for private jets.

“Sounds like a great idea,” Max said, laughing as he noticed the smudged sharpie still decorating Alex’s face. The lion Max had drawn now looked more like a melted gummy bear or maybe a sad hamster like Lando had called it.

They all filed off the jet, the chill of the Monaco morning air hitting them like a quiet reminder that their little mid-air world had ended. Lando helped George carry Alex to a cab while the rest of them waited just outside the hangar.

“I miss a real bed,” Lando groaned, dragging his palms down his face with a yawn.

“Yeah, sleep wouldn’t be wrong right now,” Carlos mumbled, eyes half-closed.

“Did you guys draw on Alex?” Charles asked, squinting at Alex’s face as George loaded him into the car.

“Yeah, he passed out first. That’s the rules,” Max replied, smirking. He caught the faintest twitch of a smile from Charles.

“Can I share a cab with you, Max?” Lando asked.

“Yeah, sure,” Max nodded. Then turned to Charles and Carlos. “You guys getting home safe?”

“We’ll share one,” Charles answered softly, glancing at Carlos like the question had already been answered hours ago.

Max smiled, not even trying to hide it now. 

“Hey, Carlos,” Lando called, halfway in the cab already. “Don’t forget we’re playing padel this week with George and Alex.”

“I won’t forget,” Carlos called back, then gave a lazy wave before disappearing with Charles into their own car.

Lando slid into the cab next to Max, sighing like he’d just escaped a soap opera. “God. Charles and Carlos… they really are something else.”

Max let out a dry laugh. “You think they even realize we heard them?”

Lando snorted. “Oh, they definitely do. They came out of your sleeping area looking like they’d been caught robbing a bank. Did you see the mess they left behind?”

Max shook his head, smirking. “Yeah. Thank god it’s not my problem.”

Lando grinned. “Whoever has to clean that room deserves hazard pay.”

They both burst into tired laughter as the cab pulled away from the airport, the sky beginning to shift into that soft early light Monaco wore so well.

By the time they got to Max’s apartment, everything felt like a blur. Lando dropped his bag by the door and didn’t even argue when Max pointed him toward the guest room. Neither of them had the energy.

Max collapsed into his own bed, clothes still on, shoes kicked somewhere near the hallway. His head hit the pillow like a stone, the last remnants of tequila and adrenaline finally fading.

They were exhausted. Later today would be hell.

Charles’s POV

The door slammed behind them—loud, final, echoing like a starting gun in Charles’s chest. It wasn’t just entering a room; it was unleashing everything they hadn’t said, everything they hadn’t dared do in the narrow sleeping area of the jet. The plane, the soft sex, the taste of each other’s mouths high above the clouds—it had only lit the fuse. Now, there was no holding back. No more restraint. Just the raw pull of want, heavy in the air between them. 

Carlos didn’t wait. His bag hit the floor with no care, forgotten in the chaos. In the blink of an eye, he was on him, hands gripping Charles like a lifeline, desperate and untamed. His touch was frantic, his fingers biting into Charles’s hips as if he’d been starving for this, for him. And then, his lips crashed into Charles’s—wild, fierce, claiming.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a war, a battle, a declaration. It was a fight for the air between them, for the right to feel, to take, to burn.

Charles gasped, his back slamming into the wall with a dull thud, heart hammering as Carlos’s mouth consumed him. Carlos kissed like it had been building for lifetimes, like the entire world outside that room had been a series of meaningless races, empty podiums, and distant applause. His lips were demanding, his hands rough—touching, pulling, like he needed Charles in every way possible, like he couldn’t get enough.

Charles’s fingers dug into Carlos’s shoulders, gripping him with an almost painful urgency, afraid that if he let go, this—this animalistic need, this burning desire—would vanish. No words. No need for them. Not now. Everything was there, in the wild, desperate way Carlos kissed him, in the way he moved against him like he couldn’t get close enough.

Carlos pulled back, just enough to whisper, his voice ragged, deep, as though the words were tearing their way out. “Now we can be as loud as we want.”

Charles’s eyes fluttered open, hazy with heat, lips parted in a breathless smile. His voice was barely audible, a whisper on the edge of a moan. “Yeah?” he breathed, his body shivering at the thought. “I can be loud.”

Carlos’s grin was crooked, dark with something dangerous, and soft with something else, something that gnawed at him. “Good,” he growled, “I want the neighbors to hear you’re mine.”

That was all it took for something in Charles to crack open. Like a fault line finally giving way—sudden, unstoppable, inevitable. He barely felt his shirt being ripped away—didn’t even register the sensation. What he felt was Carlos’s hands, exploring him, learning him in a way that felt savage, but full of need. Slow, deliberate touches that were as much about claiming as they were about worship. But it wasn’t about discovery.

It was about remembering.

Carlos knew him—knew every freckle, every scar, every sigh. He touched him like he’d missed it all, like his body had been a void without these small, intimate details. And Charles let him, let him own him, let himself be consumed by this raw, frantic, undeniable connection.

Here, there was no one to see. No eyes to judge. No walls to keep love quiet. Just the two of them, together.

Carlos kissed him again, slow but intense—like it was a promise. Like the heat in his chest, the hunger in his hands, was all Charles needed to know.

They moved together like animals, desperate and untamed. Like they had done this a thousand times in their dreams, and this was the version of them that had always been waiting to be set free.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos kissed Charles like he was afraid he might wake up from this dream if he stopped, like the world could slip from his grasp in an instant. His hands, desperate and rough, roamed over Charles’s body, claiming him like he had never claimed anything before. And Charles—Charles kissed him back like he had been starving for this, like there had been a thousand lifetimes of waiting for this moment.

Their lips met again, and it was as if the distance of every mile, every race, every inch of separation had vanished. There was nothing between them now. No space. No barriers. Nothing but the heat, the chaos, and the unrelenting pull that had always been there, just waiting to explode.

Charles’s arms slid around Carlos’s neck, fingers digging into his skin, pulling him closer. Carlos’s hands found Charles’s thighs, lifting him with ease, and Charles’s legs instinctively locked around his waist. Carlos carried Charles to the bed with a kind of reverence, each step deliberate, like letting go would tear something vital from him. But the way Charles clung to him—urgent, restless—sparked a fire in Carlos’s chest, something fierce and aching, a need to claim and be claimed, to drown in the gravity between them.

Carlos could feel Charles’s heartbeat—fast, unsteady, but honest. A frantic rhythm that matched his own. His grip tightened around Charles, holding him like he was the most precious thing in the world. The bed beneath them was an anchor they never wanted to leave. But Carlos didn’t let go—not yet.

He lowered Charles onto the mattress like he was setting down something fragile, something he didn’t want to break. But even in the gentleness of the gesture, there was nothing soft about the way Carlos hovered above him. His breath came in shallow gasps as his eyes drank in the sight of the man beneath him—Charles, beautiful and wrecked and completely, utterly his.

Charles’s lips were swollen from the kiss, his chest rising and falling in quick bursts, his eyes wide and soft, yet there was something wild behind them, something he was letting Carlos see but not everyone else. Trust. Love. A quiet, vulnerable surrender that broke Carlos open. 

He leaned down slowly, pressing a soft kiss just beneath Charles’s jaw, feeling the warm pulse beneath his lips. He kissed the curve of his neck, tasting him like he was starving, and Charles tilted his head back, offering more without a word. There was something about that movement—so innocent, but so full of intent—that undid Carlos every time. Not because it made him feel powerful, but because it made him feel trusted . Like Charles was giving him something he had never given anyone else.

Charles’s fingers curled into the fabric of Carlos’s shirt, pulling him closer, like he was afraid the moment might slip away, like the world outside this room might come crashing down if he let go.

Carlos whispered the words, his voice rough and barely audible, but the weight of them hung heavy between them. “You are mine now.”

Charles’s eyes fluttered open, and there was a soft, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. His hand slid up into Carlos’s hair, his touch gentle but deliberate, like he wanted to keep him close forever. 

Carlos’s heart stuttered in his chest. The words, the weight of them, felt like a promise. He leaned down again, kissing Charles slow, deep, like the world outside didn’t exist anymore. Like time had no place here. It was just them. Their bodies, their hands, their mouths. The animalistic need, the chaos of it, only made it feel more real.

Carlos didn’t know what they were doing. He didn’t know what this was, he didn’t care. He was here, in this moment, with Charles. And nothing else mattered.

The kiss deepened, became more frantic, more consuming. Carlos could feel the wildness in the way Charles moved against him—urgent, relentless. It was like they were both testing the limits of this connection, pushing boundaries, letting go of the control they’d always kept so tightly wrapped around themselves.

And as Carlos’s hands tightened around Charles’s wrists, pinning him to the bed, a rush of certainty surged through him—Charles was his. All of him.

The way Charles arched beneath him, breath hitching, eyes blown wide with something between surrender and defiance, only made the fire burn hotter in Carlos’s chest. He leaned down, close enough to feel Charles’s shaky exhale against his mouth, but didn’t kiss him—not yet. He wanted Charles to beg for it.

“You feel that?” Carlos whispered, voice low and rough, his grip steady but sure. “No one else gets this. No one else gets you like this.”

Charles didn’t speak, but his body answered—hips lifting, fingers twitching in Carlos’s grasp, a tremble running through him like a wire pulled too tight. He was right there, barely holding on, already unraveling under Carlos’s touch.

Carlos kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then lower, trailing heat down the line of his throat, teeth scraping just enough to draw a gasp. He wanted to leave marks. Wanted Charles to wear them like proof—like memory.

“Say it,” Carlos murmured, lips brushing against Charles’s skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”

Charles’s voice broke, quiet and hoarse, but full of fire. “You. I’m yours.”

Charles reached up, his fingers brushing lightly along the edge of Carlos’s shirt, slow and careful—like he was touching something sacred. His hands were soft, almost reverent, as he pushed the fabric up over Carlos’s ribs, knuckles grazing warm skin, knuckles trembling just slightly.

Carlos stayed still, watching him with eyes heavy-lidded and dark, breath caught somewhere in his chest. He could feel every inch of Charles’s touch, every brush of his fingertips like it echoed inside him.

Charles didn’t rush. He peeled the shirt away like he was unwrapping something fragile, something he wanted to savor. His eyes followed the path of his hands, pausing at every part, every dip of muscle, memorizing him in silence. When the shirt was gone, he set it aside like it was something delicate, something that mattered, and then rested his palm over Carlos’s heart.

Carlos’s voice came out low, rough with emotion. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Charles smiled, gentle and soft, like it lived just beneath his ribs. “Because you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever touched.”

Carlos almost broke at that. He leaned down, forehead resting against Charles’s, breath shaking. “You ruin me when you’re like this.”

He dipped his head down to Charles’s neck, lips brushing soft against the warm skin there. He could feel Charles’s breath catch beneath him, that quiet intake that said more than any whisper ever could. Carlos smiled against his skin, just a faint, teasing grin, before he pressed his lips softly to the sensitive flesh of Charles’s neck, leaving behind a gentle bruise, a mark that spoke louder than words. 

Charles gasped, fingers tightening on Carlos’s shoulders, but he didn’t pull away. He tilted his head to the side, gave him more.

Carlos took it.

Another kiss. Another mark. He trailed them down—beneath Charles’s jaw, along the delicate line where neck met collarbone, slow and claiming. Each one darker than the last. Each one a word he didn’t know how to say out loud: Mine. Mine. Mine.

Charles let out a soft sound, almost a whimper, eyes fluttering shut as Carlos sucked another bruise into his skin.

“You like that?” Carlos murmured, voice thick, low in his throat as he kissed the newly darkened skin.

Charles nodded, dazed, lips parted. “Yeah,” he breathed. 

Carlos’s hands slid down his sides, firm and grounding. He kissed his way lower, slower, like he was drawing a path only he would ever know how to follow.

“You’re gonna feel me,” he said, between kisses. “When you look in the mirror. When you touch your skin. You’ll remember who you belong to.”

And Charles—helpless and glowing in the soft dim light—whispered, “I’ll never forget.”

Chapter Text

Max’s POV

Max woke up with a groan, the dull ache in his head making him wince. It was the kind of headache that made you regret every decision from the night before. His eyes flicked to the clock—3 p.m. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drunk this much. The memories of the night before were hazy, the kind of blur that made everything seem a little too surreal.

He could hear Lando snoring from the guest room, a sound that made Max roll his eyes. He reached for his phone, squinting against the bright screen as he unlocked it. Without really thinking, he opened the group chat and typed out a message.

“Is everyone alive?”

A moment later, George responded, and Max couldn’t help but chuckle at the message that followed.

“Yeah, but we feel like shit.”

Max’s screen lit up with George’s selfie—a half-smiling George with Alex scowling in the background, clearly in the middle of trying to scrub off doodles drawn on his face in Sharpie. Max burst into laughter, shaking his head. “No Alex, that was a look you pulled off really well,” he wrote, amusement still lingering in his voice. 

A few seconds later, Charles replied. “Yeah, both I and Carlos are alive, but the hangover makes me wish I wasn’t.”

Max stood up from the bed, still a little dizzy, and walked to the guest room door. He knocked gently. No answer. He opened the door cautiously, peeking inside. Lando was out cold, sprawled across the bed like a starfish.

Max pulled the curtains open, letting the sunlight flood the room, and caught Lando waking up, squinting against the harsh light in his messy, hungover state. Max quickly snapped a photo, sending it to the group chat with the simple caption: “Lando is also alive.”

Lando groaned, slowly lifting his head. “I’m never drinking again,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. He ran a hand through his messy hair, still half asleep.

Max grinned and held his phone up to Lando, showing him the group chat. "You look stunning," Max teased, already laughing at the groggy, annoyed expression on Lando’s face.

Lando squinted at the picture Max had sent of him, his frown deepening. "Max, that wasn’t nice," he said, shaking his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant grin.

Max laughed again. “When am I going to learn that I get the worst hangovers?” Lando sighed dramatically, pushing himself up from the bed.

Max shrugged. “No idea. But it was nice yesterday. Felt nice to pretend there wasn’t a tomorrow.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Lando agreed, rubbing his eyes.

“Maybe we should grab something to eat?” Max suggested, trying to shake off his hangover with a simple plan.

“Sure,” Lando replied, distracted as he picked up his phone. “Are we inviting the others?”

“Yeah, why not?” Max said, heading into the kitchen to grab two glasses of water. When he returned, he handed one to Lando, who was still scrolling through his phone..

“Charles needs to pack for Maranello, so he can’t come,” Lando said, looking up at Max.

Max nodded, sipping his water. “Ah, he has work this week.”

Lando sighed and nodded. “Yeah, must suck to drive for Ferrari right now.” He looked down at his phone again. “Carlos is joining us anyway.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? What about Alex and George?”

“They’ve already eaten,” Lando said, scrolling through his phone.

“So, just us three,” Max mused, smiling. “Like good old times.”

Lando laughed. “Yeah, seems like it. Dangerous.”

Max raised his glass of water in a mock toast. “I don’t think any of us has the energy to party tonight.”

They both laughed, the sound easing the weight of the hangover as they got ready to go out. The promise of food and a quiet afternoon together was a welcome break after the chaos of the night before. They dressed quickly, gathered their things, and prepared to head out.

Carlos' POV

Carlos and Charles laid still in the bed, the warmth of each other’s presence the only thing grounding them to reality. The silence felt heavy, as if it carried the weight of everything unspoken. Charles needed to pack for Maranello, and Carlos knew he should be meeting Lando and Max soon. But neither of them moved.

It felt like if they got up, if they left this bed, everything that had happened between them would fade into the background, like it was never real. Maybe it was for the best. They had both been drunk, lost in the chaos of emotions neither had fully understood, and now that the fog was lifting, Carlos couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe they had both been too confused to know what they were doing.

Carlos’ phone rang, breaking the silence. He sighed, reluctant to answer, but he knew he had to. "Hey man, where are you?" Max’s voice crackled through the phone.

"I’m still at Charles’ apartment," Carlos replied quietly.

"Okay, fine, we’re coming," Max said. There was no hesitation, no judgment. Just simple matter-of-fact.

"Yeah, sure. See you soon," Carlos muttered, hanging up.

Charles, still curled into him, lifted his head to meet his gaze. "It was Max," Carlos said softly, his voice filled with an unspoken sadness. "They’re on their way."

Charles sighed, the weight of their fleeting moment settling between them. "Yeah, that sucks," he said, his arms tightening around Carlos as if he, too, didn’t want to let go.

Carlos let out a breath, feeling the tightness in his chest deepen. He slid his fingers through Charles’s hair, grounding himself, trying to capture this fleeting feeling for just a little longer. "Do you have to go?" Carlos asked, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. It wasn’t a demand. It was a wish. A desire to hold onto this moment where everything felt right.

Charles nodded, his eyes soft but resolute. "Ferrari wants me to help Lewis settle in. They think I can make the transition smoother." His words were final, but they held an understanding Carlos couldn’t ignore.

Carlos didn’t argue. What was there to argue about? "It’s always about the team," he said with a quiet sigh, his fingers still caressing Charles’s hair. Even when it hurts, he thought, even when it feels like everything you want is slipping through your fingers.

Charles pulled back just enough to look at him, his face serious. "We won’t see each other until Miami."

Carlos closed his eyes, his heart sinking at the thought. "I know," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Charles looked at him with that vulnerable, almost fragile expression. "It scares me," he admitted. "That we’ll go back to being just... noise in each other’s lives. Glances in the paddock. Casual conversations on camera. Like none of this happened."

Carlos’s chest tightened. It felt like Charles had taken the words right out of his own mouth. He reached up, his hand cupping Charles’s jaw gently. His thumb brushed softly across his cheek, the gesture tender, grounding. It felt like a promise, something Carlos didn’t want to let go of. But he knew this wasn't going to end well. This was just them trying to be what the should have been when they where teammates. Before Carlos became this mess. 

And then the knock came.

Both of them froze, startled. It was a sharp reminder of reality knocking, both of them scrambling to pull away from each other and hastily getting dressed. Carlos watched Charles move toward the door, his heart heavy in his chest. For a moment, he just stood there, not sure if he wanted to face what would happen next.

Charles opened the door to reveal Max and Lando standing there, looking a little too cheerful for the kind of morning they had all just survived. Carlos gave a tight smile, still trying to shake the feeling of loss that had settled in his chest.

Lando’s POV

Charles was opening the door, his messy hair and the bruises of affection instantly giving away the aftermath of a morning well spent. Carlos stood behind him, equally disheveled, his posture relaxed but still holding that quiet intensity that Lando couldn’t help but notice. They both looked like they had just climbed out of bed, and a grin tugged at Lando’s lips. It was so obvious that something had happened between them, something that made the air between them feel heavier, more intimate.

"Good morning, sunshines," Max’s voice broke through the silence, cheerful and playful as always, as he and Lando stepped into the apartment.

"Yeah, good morning," Carlos replied with a grin, but his smile seemed a little too tight, almost like he was still processing what had happened.

Max raised an eyebrow, his attention immediately on Charles, who stood there rubbing his neck where the lovebites where.  "How are you guys feeling?"

"This hangover is killing me," Charles muttered, his voice low and rough, and Lando could tell he wasn’t joking.

There was a moment of quiet between them. Neither Carlos nor Charles mentioned what had happened the night before. Lando couldn’t help but feel that this unspoken thing between them, whatever it was, was something they weren't ready to put into words yet.

"Your hangover can’t be worse than mine," Lando said, half-smiling, trying to break the tension.

Charles chuckled, but it was a tired laugh. "Yeah, but you get to chill. I need to catch a flight in about two hours."

"Yeah, true," Lando replied, though his mind was still wrapped up in what he’d walked in on. It wasn’t his place to pry, but he had a strong suspicion about what had really gone down between the two of them.

Max, ever the curious one, jumped right into a topic that seemed to be more of a distraction. "I saw Lewis kind of break down in front of the media after the race. He was going on about how he didn’t trust the car at all, and—"

"Yeah, and he has the guts to go and cry in interviews about how he needs to cancel plans because he needs to work with the engineers in Maranello," Charles cut in, his tone almost angry, frustration evident in his voice. "It’s like he can’t get his shit together."

Lando raised an eyebrow. He knew there was a lot of behind-the-scenes drama going on, but hearing Charles sound so irritated? That was new. "Yeah, he isn’t a Carlos," Max teased, a playful smile on his face.

At that, Lando caught the flicker of a glance between Carlos and Charles. Brief, but charged—like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap. Like they were suddenly aware they might not be as subtle as they thought. Like they were asking themselves, do they know? The fear was there, tucked behind the softness in their eyes. And for a heartbeat, it looked like neither of them knew if that was relief… or regret.

"Yeah, Carlos is smart, kind of like an engineer," Lando added quickly, pinching Max in the arm to let him know to ease off. He didn’t want to poke too much at what was clearly still an unspoken thing between them.

Carlos gave a half-smile at the comment, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’m happy I don’t drive for Ferrari anymore," he said, his voice matter-of-fact. "It’s a mess."

"Yeah, it is a mess," Charles muttered in agreement, and the frustration was still there in his voice.

Lando let the conversation shift for a moment, the topic of Ferrari and their endless drama was too much. "I’m hungry. Are you sure you’re not coming to grab something to eat before your flight?" Lando asked Charles, hoping to lighten the mood.

Charles shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips. "No, I wish I had the time, but I really need to pack."

"Yeah, have fun with that," Lando said, a grin pulling at his lips despite the situation.

"See you in Miami, I guess," Max said to Charles, his tone light.

"Yeah, see you guys there," Charles replied, his smile faint, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Carlos grabbed his bag, and Lando couldn’t help but watch as Carlos looked at Charles. There was something in the way they stood there, both of them unsure, not knowing whether to hug, kiss, or simply say goodbye. It hung in the air for a moment, that indecision, before Carlos finally mumbled, "Bye."

Charles nodded, his voice barely a whisper. "Goodbye."

And just like that, the moment between them faded. No lingering embrace, no goodbye kiss—just a quiet, heavy silence. Lando wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed by the lack of any grand gesture. It felt like something was left unsaid, a possibility lingering between them that neither of them wanted to address yet.

Max, always the one to move things along, gave a nod, and the three of them walked out of the apartment. Lando glanced back once, catching a final glimpse of Charles standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

As they left, Lando couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between Carlos and Charles, but whether that shift was the beginning of something or the end of it, he couldn’t quite tell.

Carlos’ POV

Carlos sat slouched on the cushioned bench of Max’s yacht, the velvet hush of the late afternoon wrapping around him like a heavy coat he couldn’t shrug off. The sun warmed his back, golden light flickering across the waves, but it did little to touch the chill settled deep in his bones. His fingers absently toyed with the plastic fork still buried in the box of expensive takeout pasta—cold now, forgotten. He hadn’t eaten more than a bite. His stomach twisted too tightly around a storm he couldn’t name.

His head ached, a dull, insistent throb behind his eyes, but it was nothing compared to the weight pressing down on his chest. A hollow exhaustion carved into him from the inside out. He didn’t just feel tired—he felt emptied.

“Hey, you alright?” Max’s voice cut through the silence, casual on the surface, but laced with that too-familiar edge of perception that made Carlos feel suddenly, painfully seen.

Carlos forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

“Not gonna eat that?” Lando asked, nodding toward the forgotten pasta.

Carlos shook his head lightly. “Not really hungry.”

Max stretched, arms behind his head, as if trying to loosen something in his shoulders. “We all drank too much last night.”

“And now our sleep schedules are completely fucked,” Lando added with a half-hearted groan.

Carlos tried to laugh, but it came out thin, hollow. “How are we supposed to have the energy to play padel tomorrow?”

“Hopefully George and Alex are as ruined as we are,” Lando grinned.

Carlos turned to Max. “Why aren’t you joining us, anyway?”

Max gave him a smirk. “Meetings all day. And besides, you’re too good. I don’t enjoy losing.”

Lando snorted. “So it is about pride.”

“Obviously,” Max said with a grin.

Lando eventually stood, brushing crumbs off his shorts and slinging a backpack over his shoulder. “Well, this was fun. But McLaren calls.”

“Good luck,” Carlos said, managing a more genuine smile this time.

“See you tomorrow,” Lando called as he stepped off the yacht and disappeared down the dock, swallowed by the amber light of the setting sun.

Max’s POV

Carlos was leaning against the rail when Max stepped back out onto the deck, the night stretching wide and quiet around them. The sea below lapped rhythmically at the yacht’s hull, dark and endless. Carlos didn’t say a word—just stared out into it like he was looking for something he’d lost in the waves.

Max brought two beers, cracked them open, and passed one over without a word.

“The only kind of cure I still believe in,” he said, settling in beside him.

Carlos took the bottle with a nod. He drank it slowly, like he needed the bitterness to remind himself he was still here.

For a while, they stood in silence, the night draped heavy over their shoulders. The ocean rocked beneath them, and everything—the party, the noise, the flight home—felt like it belonged to someone else.

Then Carlos spoke quietly, his words almost reluctant, as if he hadn’t intended to say them at all but they slipped out anyway.

“I fucked Charles.”

Max’s reaction was delayed, a brief moment of stillness as he processed the words. He already knew—but he blinked once, his expression carefully neutral as he tried to keep his tone light. “You did?” He meant to sound surprised, but it came out flat, almost rehearsed.

Carlos didn’t look at him directly, but Max could see the subtle shift in his posture, the tension that had settled there. His gaze flickered sideways, something tired and unreadable in his eyes. He exhaled slowly, then muttered, “Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

Max let a crooked smile ghost across his face. “The plane isn’t exactly soundproof. And Charles had half a constellation on his neck when I saw him earlier.”

Carlos let out a groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuck. Sorry.”

Max shrugged. “I’ve heard worse. At worse times.”

Carlos took another swig from his beer, then stared down into the bottle like it held some answer. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

Max tilted his head. “How was it supposed to happen?”

“I don’t know. Slower. Safer. Less like I was going to explode if I didn’t touch him.”

A beat passed.

“Outside the club... we kissed. Then I panicked. Threw up. Real smooth.”

Max huffed a laugh. “That explains the storm cloud hanging over Charles’s head when we boarded.”

Carlos nodded, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to ease the tension that had been there for too long. “You told me to go after him. So, I did. It was like—there was no thought behind it. I just... acted.”

Max raised an eyebrow, his voice teasing but edged with something deeper. “Straight into the Mile High Club, huh?”

Carlos let out a low, rueful laugh, the sound bitter in his throat. “Yeah, something like that. And then again, after we landed. I... followed him home. Couldn’t stop myself. Didn’t want to.”

Something in his voice cracked a little. The mask slipped.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Max glanced over, the edges of his expression softening. “Maybe there’s nothing wrong with you. Maybe you’re just in love.”

Carlos went still, like the words hit too close.

He turned slowly. “Jesus.”

Max didn’t look away. “That far off?”

Carlos exhaled, a bitter little breath. “I don’t think it’s love.”

“Why not?” Max asked, quieter now.

Carlos didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, almost dull.

“Because I’m not who I was back at Ferrari. But when I’m with him… it feels like I am. And I can’t keep chasing that version of me. He’s gone.”

Max nodded, something like understanding flickering in his eyes. “And still, you’re here. Wanting him.”