Chapter Text
Lando became a ghost whenever he went numb in the car. The world screamed around him—the engine, the rattling cockpit, the fans, the loudspeaker, the fucking pit wall—but he couldn’t hear anything aside the noise of his own breathing.
Ragged breathing, panicked breathing.
The world began to darken at the edges of his visor as he headed toward the finish line a full forty-seven seconds off the pace.
“Lando—can you hear me?” Will asked. His voice sounded like it was coming from another room.
“I’m here,” Lando replied reflexively.
“I said Valtteri won,” Will repeated. “Max P2, Serigio P3, Charles P4, Lewis P5…”
Sound faded out again.
Lando wished he could scream. He wished he could floor his car into a wall and tear it apart with his bare hands.
Valtteri wasn’t supposed to have a car capable of winning. Max was supposed catch him easily, especially when the drizzle put everyone on inters.
Red Bull was supposed to pull away. Two hours of hard racing came down to the points at the end, and now Mercedes still had too many to give Max any breathing room.
“—Daniel took P13,” Will said. “You did great out there, mate. You handled it well.”
You didn’t lose your head like last time, Lando heard in the silence.
Lando said his thanks to the team as he pulled into the pit lane. The nose of Carlos’s Ferrari snuck into his mirrors before he pulled up beside him and parked.
Lando tried to breathe, but hopelessness overwhelmed him, pulling him back into the depths of himself. Ever since Wembley, he noticed he’d become more fragile. Small things set him off, even if he didn’t notice until hours later that he’d overreacted.
A gloved hand thumped against his helmet. Lando craned his neck to see Carlos standing above him, face hidden by his visor.
Carlos offered his hand and Lando took it as he crawled out of the car. Probably against regulation, but the FIA never looked further back than the podium.
“—okay?” Carlos asked, muffled in his helmet.
Lando knocked his visor up to get a better look at Carlos once he found his footing.
“Lando?” Carlos asked, patting his back. “Did something happen?”
Carlos flipped his visor up too, exposing his beautiful eyes to the world again.
Lando shook his head, but didn’t say anything.
Everything he said ended up being stupid or got him in trouble or made Carlos upset.
An FIA official started coming toward them and Lando pushed past Carlos to head toward the back of the grid, where Daniel had emerged from his car.
“Lando.”
He froze despite himself, his heart still too tangled up in Carlos to go against him.
Carlos approached him again and put a hand on his shoulder. He made the motion of a corner, swerving his hand left and right the way he used to explain his racing lines.
“Act like I’m explaining something to you,” Carlos instructed. “Act like you don’t agree.”
Lando shook his head and mimicked Carlos’s motion. “Is that good enough?”
The FIA official slowed, ultimately coming to a stop as Lando made more nonsensical motions.
“I know we need to talk, but I’m not ready,” Carlos said through his helmet. “Ferrari has—they fucked me over today. I was supposed to be right behind Charles, maybe I could have beat him. Instead I am stuck behind Pierre.”
“And me,” Lando added helpfully.
Carlos laughed softly—almost in pain. “And you.”
Lando’s smile quivered.
Ferrari had taken hold of Carlos, just like Lewis warned him.
Carlos used to stay up late with the McLaren mechanics, learning, digesting new info, running through simulations with them. He never talked about doing the same with Ferrari. His passion had changed to the political side of things—to appeasing his empire and making Charles shine brighter as crown prince.
Carlos deserved that shine, not fucking Charles.
“What happened?” Lando asked, trying to be as quiet as he could with a helmet on.
Carlos shook his head. “My pit stop. I’ll fix it. You don’t need to worry about it.”
We aren’t together, so it doesn’t matter.
“Your Royal Highnesses, you need to separate,” the FIA official said, finally approaching them.
“We’re discussing the move he pulled on me in Turn 5,” Lando snapped, completely bullshitting. “Can you give us some space? Charles is right there.”
The FIA official turned toward the front of the pit lane, where Charles stood at the fence, helmet off, watching.
Lando almost flipped him off. Almost.
“You have—”
“I said give us some space, mate,” Lando snapped at the official.
The man frowned, but backed off and headed toward Charles. Shit-stirrer.
“I’m not ready to talk,” Carlos said, repeating himself. Frustration clung to the window of his features visible through his visor.
A strange sense of calm washed over Lando as he stood there. Carlos had showed him how to remain calm in the face of the media. He accepted criticism, unfairness, and even sat by on the rare occasion someone yelled at him.
He only showed his anger to people he loved. People he trusted.
“Take as long as you want,” Lando said. “I’m not—You’re the most important person to me. I know I really fucked up and I keep doing it, but I love you. And, um, I’ll wait as long as I need to wait to have the chance to make it up to you.”
Carlos stared at him, eyes wide. Lando blushed hard, but didn’t back down.
Daniel said what he meant, no matter how sensitive or mushy or out of place. He made heart-shaped PB&Js and spent all of his free time trying to find ways to make Max happy—to make Lando happy too.
“Write me when you’re ready,” Lando said, patting Carlos on the shoulder.
He wanted nothing more than to ditch the helmets and kiss him, but he understood everything a bit better now. He still didn’t regret going to Ferrari, but he wished he could have handled his meeting with Carlos differently. He didn’t know how he could have, but still.
Carlos nodded once, teetering slightly with the extra weight of his helmet and HANS device. “Goodnight, Lando.”
Lando grinned behind his balaclava. “Goodnight, Carlos.”
He watched Carlos stride down the pit lane, shedding his helmet as he walked. Charles smiled softly as he approached and gave Carlos a kiss on the cheek.
Carlos nuzzled into his neck in return, and cameras swarmed.
Lando forced himself to look at the big screen as Charles murmured something into Carlos’s ear that caused his shoulders to sag. Charles held him close, swaying slightly in the warm sun. The crowd cheered as Valtteri stepped out onto the podium beyond, throwing up his hands in celebration.
Charles closed his eyes over Carlos’s shoulder.
When they opened again, Lando saw anger through the shade of his lashes, cool and dark. The kind Lando hadn’t seen in years.
“We had fourth place,” Lewis said in an icy tone. “Easily. Leclerc screwed up, man. That was my position and we still botched it.”
All of the cheer and celebration for Valtteri had vanished the moment Lewis stepped out of the camera’s view. George looked to the door of Lewis’s debriefing room, begging for a chance to escape.
Toto had asked him to come inside to discuss the trip with Alex. He neglected to mention that post-race Lewis would be part of the conversation.
“We will go over what happened,” Toto replied coolly. “I can assure you it won’t happen again.”
“You can’t,” Lewis snapped. “You can’t assure that.”
Toto soured. “Yes. There are unforeseeable things. Like running over mechanics.”
Lewis stilled, but his eyes turned to venom. “Every point matters. Every. Single. Point.”
“You think I don’t know his?” Toto asked, eyes narrowed. “I am fully aware.”
“I’m not losing this,” Lewis pressed. “I’m not. I’m fucking getting eight.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Toto growled.
Lewis grit his teeth. “Don’t fuck with me right now.”
George fought not to gape at both of them. He’d been snappy with Jost one or two times, but he’d never heard a prince speak to a head of government so rudely with a guest in the room.
A silent conversation passed between the two men before Lewis stood up from his chair.
“No more mistakes,” Lewis said. “I’ll hold up my end of the bargain. But if I catch wind of something off—”
“Do not,” Toto warned.
“I learned my lesson,” Lewis shot back. “You’re capable of anything.”
George stepped aside to allow him past. Lewis didn’t even look at him as he stepped out, leaving him and Toto in stunned silence.
Only one person ever elicited that kind of reaction from Lewis, but George feared that even thinking his name would beckon God to smite him off the face of the earth.
Toto cleared his throat after a moment. “Well. That is obviously not a conversation I intended to have with you here.”
George swallowed hard. “It’s okay. I, um, have to get used to it at some point.”
“Right.” Toto gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat.”
It felt strange to approach Toto without Lewis present, especially when it concerned Alex.
But all he had to do was think of Alex’s sleeping face in the hotel bed beside him, and his confidence returned. Alex needed him—he never said it out loud, but George felt it in the way Alex held his hand while they brushed their teeth in the morning, the way he hesitated in the doorway before he left.
“Miami,” George began.
“It’s a delicate situation,” Toto said, folding his hands on the table. “Red Bull wants information from you. We want information from them—information Albon does not have, not if Christian has any intelligence left.”
George didn’t want to trust Toto with Alex, but Lewis trusted him with Sebastian. That, and it wouldn’t do any good to start a scandal about Alex now that George had already been confirmed for Mercedes.
“I want to go,” George said quietly. “Two days with him? I can’t—How am I supposed to say no to that?”
Toto set his mouth into a hard line, eyes black. “You are incredibly easy to manipulate.”
George bristled, but said nothing.
Toto shook his head with a sigh. “I have been head of government for some time. I always think the next generation will learn from the last, but they never do.”
“I’m not like Lewis,” George argued. “I just want to see Alex.”
Toto flared his nostrils. “You are all the stupid parts of Lewis, so far.”
George fought down the urge to snap. Toto had control of whether or not he could see Alex, so he couldn’t say anything too rash. Even so, he hated enduring insult from anyone.
“I’ve done exactly as I’ve been told,” George decided to say.
Toto snorted. “Congratulations. Do you want a prize?”
“I want to see Alex.”
Toto leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You’ll have to give him information.”
George took a deep breath. “Yes. I’ll give him whatever information you want, but it needs to be true this time or Red Bull will figure it out.”
Toto rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me what Red Bull will do. I’m only telling you this because you need to understand that this is not a gift. There will be sacrifice involved.”
Two days in America with Alex didn’t seem like a sacrifice.
America was one of the few countries that didn’t care much for the FIA. Their respective empire systems were completely different. Racing was seen as entertainment instead of symbolism—probably because America’s military might hadn’t vanished after the second World War.
The FIA system was catching on, though. More races, more royal duties.
But in America, nobody watched for princes standing too close or whispering to each other or even holding hands. Rumors always circulated abut past couples enjoying freedom there—and no one ever had any pictures for proof one way or another.
“We have meetings too, you know,” Toto said. “This is not a peace offering—quite the opposite. Christian intends to do whatever he can to beat us. He is not above cheating. And Mattia?” Toto chuckled darkly. “Ferrari could not be bothered. They are not above cheating either—though I suppose it doesn’t count as cheating if the FIA allows it with a slap on the wrist.”
“I was appointed to—”
“We are on the cusp of disaster,” Toto snapped, too loud for the small room. “If that child wins a championship? God, if that’s the case, I hope he is as smart as Christian claims he is. He has the ruthlessness, but none of the tact.”
“Lewis will win,” George assured him. “He always does.”
“If Red Bull doesn’t lean on the scales, yes.”
George looked away. “Max doesn’t cheat.”
Max had plenty of opportunities to do so while they were growing up. Honestly, cheating might have evened the playing field a few of the weekends where Max had unexplained bruising and clouded thoughts. He could be a pain in the ass on track and way too aggressive, but no one could deny his talent behind the wheel.
Max would sooner exile himself than allow illegal alterations to his car.
Toto’s face set into a scowl. “You have no idea what princes will do when you threaten their legacy.”
Flashes of light from the TV danced over Daniel’s face where he reclined on the hotel room couch. His gently scratched up and down Max’s back, whispering into his ear. Max still had his eyes open, but Lando wasn’t sure he could actually see anything out of them his face was so glazed over.
Daniel had been trying to get Max to sleep for over an hour. Max paced the length of the hotel suite for the first thirty minutes after his arrival, crackling with adrenaline. Daniel had to catch him around the waist to get him to stop.
Lando’s phone buzzed and Max jerked awake with a gasp.
“It’s me, mate,” Lando explained, holding up his phone. “Instagram.”
Daniel shot him a look over Max’s shoulder before lifting a hand to Max’s cheek.
“Hey baby,” Daniel soothed. “Look at me.”
Max watched Lando as if he might lunge, eyes feral. He finally turned to Daniel.
“Hey,” Max croaked.
“You need to sleep,” Daniel murmured, brushing noses with him. “Lay back down. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“M’kay.” Max nestled against Daniel’s chest again, too obedient.
“You know I’m right here,” Daniel whispered into his hair. He wound his arms around Max, snuggling him like a teddy bear. “Relax. I’ve got you.”
“I could make some tea,” Lando offered. “It’ll probably be shit, but, y’know.”
“You want tea?” Daniel asked.
Max shook his head. “Don’t go anywhere, please.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Daniel assured him with a kiss to the head. “Sleep, Max.”
Lando shifted uncomfortably in his spot on the couch. He recognized the signs of a panic attack, but Max had never been the kind of person to succumb to stress.
“Daniel,” Max murmured, his voice warped by his accent and slurred by exhaustion.
“Right here, babydoll.”
“Don’t call me babydoll,” Max said, burrowing into his neck.
Daniel squeezed him again, peppering kisses into his hair. “Okay. Right here, sweet thang.”
“Don’t leave,” Max whispered.
Daniel rested his cheek on Max’s head. His eyes turned glassy as he looked at Lando. “I won’t leave.”
Lando couldn’t take it anymore. He crawled across the couch, dragging his throw blanket along with him.
“Here you go, mate,” Lando soothed, tossing the blanket over Max’s back. His shirt was damp. And hot. Lando looked up at Daniel, who gave a minute shake of his head.
Lando reached up, gently carding his fingers through Max’s hair, sticky with sweat. Daniel had to be roasting underneath him, especially with the blanket.
“Max, are you feeling okay?” Lando asked, leaning in to rest his cheek on Max’s shoulder. “Maybe we should call medical—he’s burning up, Daniel.”
Daniel shook his head. “This has happened before. Stress, post-race, sudden pressure release. He’s good.”
“Doesn’t look good,” Lando muttered. He pressed a little kiss to Max’s shoulder—a comfort kiss.
Daniel’s eyes softened. He lifted his hand from Max’s back to curl a finger under Lando’s chin with a loving little swipe.
They stayed like that for awhile, all three of them curled up on the couch until the TV chimed with the opening for the royal news broadcast.
“His Royal Highness Max Verstappen couldn’t clinch victory today in Istanbul, where the empires gathered in the wet for a thrilling race this afternoon,” the local news anchor said in a Turkish accent. “His Royal Highness Valtteri Bottas maintained the lead from pole position for a long-awaited win this season.”
Lando peered over Max’s shoulder to watch a video of Lewis embracing Valtteri, kissing him on the cheek.
“Red Bull filled out the podium, and His Royal Highness Charles Leclerc made an impressive P4 despite a bad call by the Monegasque prince that led to a late pit stop for inters after leading the race for a time.”
The video feed showed Charles flying in for a pit stop, Ferrari mechanics swarming the car.
“Luckily for Prince Charles, His Royal Highness Lewis Hamilton had troubles of his own, called in to pit on Lap 51 from third to emerge fifth.”
A radio clip of Lewis played as the screen showed Lewis’s black Mercedes tearing up ground.
“Why did we give up that place?” Lewis demanded, his voice grainy over the radio.
The feed cut to Lewis trailing far behind Charles, and another radio signal appeared on screen.
“I told you,” Lewis said,, sounding a lot like the Lewis who had cornered Lando in the briefing room.
“The anger didn’t stop there,” the anchor said. “His Royal Highness Kimi Räikkönen was particularly incensed when he was called in to pit after wanting to stay on his starting compounds.”
Max shifted against Daniel’s chest, but Daniel made a soft noise and he eventually quieted. Lando adjusted against him, trying to keep him from sitting up again. Fear nudged at the back of his mind as he looked over Max’s face—his eyes were still open, but he stared into nothing as he listened to the TV.
“—Highness Pierre Gasly tussled with His Royal Highness Fernando Alonso, who spun out after contact with the Frenchman. Prince Pierre ended up sixth, even after being served a five-second penalty for that incident that ultimately prevented Prince Fernando from making any moves toward a podium.”
Rain began to patter against the windowpanes, closing them in. Lando snuggled closer to Max, rubbing his bicep where it stuck out from the blanket.
Max adamantly avoided fragility. He pummeled it out of existence, actually. Even now as he did everything he could to keep himself together, he wore a face of stone.
But Daniel and Lando sensed the cracks forming in him in the silence.
“Prince Max leaves Turkey with a six-point lead in the championship. We’ll have a bit of a breather before we head to America, where Prince Max will have to hold off Prince Lewis for the next few races to earn his—”
Daniel clicked off the TV and tossed the remote on the couch.
“Championship,” Max finished softly.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Daniel scolded, rubbing Max’s back. “I told Checo I’d get you to sleep, don’t make a liar outta me.”
Lando’s stomach soured. Daniel watched Max the way Lando’s dad watched their first dog before he made the decision to put her down.
Max shifted, pushing himself off of Daniel’s chest to sit up. The front of his shirt clung to his broad chest, reminding Lando how powerful Max had become over the years—and not just in the car.
Max sat there and breathed. Big, shaky breaths that rattled through his whole body.
“Talk to me,” Daniel whispered, caressing Max’s fever-flushed cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Max’s eyes turned wet, but he didn’t cry.
He never cried.
When Max finally spoke, the word came out rusted.
"Cheesecake."
“George,” Nic hissed, jostling George’s shoulder. “Wake up!”
George blinked awake, flinching as the light of Nic’s phone screen burned into his retinas. Sunlight peeked in from underneath the blackout shades of their bedroom, but it seemed way too early for their weekend recap meeting.
“What?” George growled, burying his face back into his pillow.
Nic shoved him again—harder this time.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Nicky!” George snapped. He threw his pillow and smirked when he heard it thump Nic in the head.
A distant knock sounded from the front door of the royal apartment.
“Your Royal Highnesses?”
Kayla.
Cold adrenaline seeped into George’s blood as he shot up in bed. Nic’s face had no color as he handed over his phone.
Charles stood in front of a Ferrari podium, with the Ferrari palace looming in the background. Sunlight glimmered in Charles’s dark hair. It looked like he’d been awake for some time, even as his breath smoked in the chilly morning air.
He was wearing his royal suit.
“It this live?” George asked.
Kayla knocked again, more insistent.
“I think I’m like five minutes behind,” Nic said. “I just got the notification.”
Charles cleared his throat and looked dead into the camera, his light eyes almost colorless. George’s skin turned to gooseflesh as he rearranged himself on the mattress to watch more comfortably.
“Princes within empires have a duty to uphold the traditional values of the championship, and the image of the FIA,” Charles began. George could tell by his vocabulary that the speech had been written by someone else, but Charles delivered it with deadly precision. “Lately those values—that image—has been tarnished by the reckless and sometimes traitorous actions of appointed royalty. Such actions can no longer be tolerated.”
Everything stilled.
George stared down at the screen at the boy who used to launch spitballs at him through drinking straws as a kid, the teenager who blushed when he told them about his relationship with Max, the man he and Pierre fished from a gutter not that long ago in Monaco.
This Charles wielded the power of the most powerful empire in the FIA as easily as he breathed.
“Many years ago, Enzo Ferrari stood where I stand now and created balance between the empires and the FIA. This morning I am here to do the same,” Charles said. “I am here representing Ferrari, as crown prince, to invoke our power given to us in the Concorde Agreement.”
The blood drained from George’s face.
All of the empires and the FIA looked to the Concorde Agreement as their constitution of sorts. It dictated the rules of the royal game, the framework for the libraries full of regulations that had followed it.
As a reward for being only empire remaining from the conception of the FIA, Ferrari had been granted the unique power to force a summit of crown princes at any time, if threatened.
The reward went by an informal name among those in the royal circle: the veto power.
Mere whispers of the veto power sent shivers down the spines of empire leadership—Ferrari could even veto actions by the FIA itself if they put its image at risk. They rarely invoked it, designating its use for only the most dire of circumstances.
Charles lifted his chin, his confidence puncturing the camera lens. George always heard about how much Ferrari took hold of its princes, but it had never fully registered the scope until that moment.
“There is one caveat,” Charles continued. “Red Bull and Mercedes are not permitted to send their crown princes. Government representation is not allowed in their stead. Royal representation is required.”
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to bow the shoulders of the nine men he’d called to arms. George buckled under the weight, trying to control his breathing.
“Each empire will have twenty-four hours to respond favorably to our invitation or face the repercussions of refusal.”
George looked over at Nicky, who stared back at him wide-eyed.
Charles cocked his head, power burning in his every feature.
“I urge you all to come prepared to pay proper respect the traditions we swore to uphold.”
Alex would have to wait.