Actions

Work Header

fool's gold

Summary:

Pairs of Mercedes racecars lined either side of the hall, set on inclined pedestals that pointed their sharp noses at the entrant. History churned in each dead engine as George passed cars that used to belong to the legends of royalty: Michael Schumacher, Nico Rosberg, and—of course—Lewis Hamilton.
“I hope you understand the importance of this moment,” Toto said.
“I do,” George answered, boldly, bravely.
Power surged in him as he took the reins of his destiny into his hands.
----

Empires are helmed by two appointed princes, bound together by a royal marriage that has to appear real to the eyes of the public--regardless of true feelings.

Stray from the rules and face the consequences. Or learn to play the game.
 
Modern-Day!Arranged Marriage!Royalty!AU following the 2021 F1 season.
BOOK I: Chapters 1 - 51
BOOK II: Chapters 52 - 85
BOOK III: Chapters 86 - 110
BOOK IV: Chapters 111 - 155

Notes:

i was inspired by the (uncomfortable-looking) padel photoshoot of Leclerc and Sainz and made a joke to friend that turned into... this.

as a disclaimer: none of the relationships or scenarios are meant to represent anything factual, though many of them are based on real events.

also, if you're a mazepin or stroll fan...you're about to have a Bad Time so you may not wanna read this fic '^^

 

also please do not bring up this fic to any of them lmao.

 

FG now has a discord server! join 500+ fans for some plot speculation, sneak peeks, etc.
@redshoulderedblackbirds created this lovely chapter index so that everyone can find their favorite chapters to reread! it nly included up to book 3, so i'm taking it over to update it (spoilers included!) click here!

Chapter Text

           

The smell of warm asphalt made Charles’s stomach churn. It was only spring, but the tennis court was hot, and the extra camera lights trained on him did nothing to help things. But the marketing team wanted a fun and easygoing photo op of the two new princes of Ferrari.

Charles couldn’t stand to look at anyone on the marketing team at this point, not after the meetings over the summer where they talked about “young faces to represent the rapidly changing empire.” Binotto’s blank expression told him everything before Giorgio even said a word: Sebastian Vettel, the man he intended to lead with, to love, was being taken out of the equation.

Arranged marriages were seldom pleasant, and the ten empires made a mockery of it. Hasty engagements leading to marriages made official before the first race of the season, though any prince appointed to the crown was legally married to the other the moment his appointment was decreed. Each prince was handpicked by the Fellowship of International Affairs, the governing body between all ten empires that could overrule any government decision, no matter how detrimental.

Currently, detrimental himself was striding onto the court in a blue-grey athletic tee and navy ballcap. All Puma brand, and horribly mismatched against Charles’ custom Ray-Bans, white athletic tee and black shorts. Charles was dressed for an tennis photoshoot, Carlos was dressed for a morning jog.

“Afternoon, Charles,” Carlos greeted in his thick Spanish accent, turning “afternoon’ into three distinct syllables.

He looked like he was sweating already, uncomfortable before the cameras even started rolling.

Charles offered a tight-lipped smile in return. “Hey, Carlos.”

God, why him? Any other prince would have basked in the spotlight—they probably would have tried to steal it from him. Instead Carlos froze up, those big brown eyes wide under any kind of public scrutiny.

And Giorgio had said he would be great for social media.

“Okay, now Carlos, get your racket and toss a serve, will you?” a man with a Northern Irish accent called out from behind a wall of monitors.

“Ah, right,” Carlos said, turning on his heel to get his racket.

Charles swung his racket at his side, schooling his face to appear as casual as possible. He was going to marry an idiot. Sebastian’s genius had never been lost on him, but now that it was wholly absent, he found everyone in his life boring.

But at least his new fiancé wasn’t Lance Stroll, who only seemed to have a crown because the FIA was under his father’s thumb. The only person who had it worse than Sebastian was Mick Schumacher, betrothed to Nikita Mazepin—the only man on earth who could make Stroll look good by comparison. Nikita himself looked like a raw ham with hair. He acted the part of a pig too.

Mick had written him that the only saving grace was that Nikita never spoke to him beyond pleasantries, and Haas was in no place to be paying for marketing campaigns. Everyone in the empires knew that Mick would jump ship the second he got a better offer. And as the FIA’s golden prince, he would get one soon.

“I’m not very good at tennis,” Carlos said under his breath as he jogged up to Charles’s side.

“Really?” He blinked. “I thought they picked tennis because of you.”

Carlos shot him a look before tossing up a pitiful serve. The ball barely made it over the net.

Carlos let out a huff, shoulders sinking.  “See?”

“It’s okay,” Charles said, trying to emulate Sebastian’s ever-present encouragement. “It’s just for photos.”

“Mierda,” Carlos muttered.

Charles didn’t think he was ever in love with Sebastian Vettel. Not until he left.

“Come on, it’s not so bad,” Charles tried again, grabbing a ball from his pocket. “Watch.”

He tossed it in the air and twisted his shoulders back before levelling a blistering serve into the far fence.

Carlos frowned at him. Charles had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the way his slightly hooked nose made his frown look more comical than sad.

Evidently, practicing serves was all the marketing team wanted to see. More specifically, Charles teaching Carlos how to serve. There was nothing flirtatious about it, but the cameras would make it seem that way, he knew. The sun beat down on them, prompting makeup artists to come running up to dab the sweat from their faces. Exhaustion didn’t lessen the look of discomfort on Carlos’s face.

When the director finally called for the end of the shoot, Charles tossed his racket to the bench and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. Carlos joined him to grab his water bottle, dark curls sticking out from under his cap as he took a seat.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Charles asked as he slung the cooling towel around the back of his neck.

Carlos sucked on his water bottle and lifted his left hand, wiggling his fingers. The sunlight glinted off of the red titanium engagement ring on his finger.

So he was thinking about Lando.

Lando Norris and Carlos Sainz Jr had been the fairytale couple of the empires. McLaren was not an empire that anyone paid much attention to until they appointed two unknown princes: Lando Norris, who hailed from an aristocratic family, and Carlos Sainz Jr., already an heir in his own right with his noble lineage from his father’s side.

Within a year, Lando and Carlos became inseparable. Their rivalry in the field was purely professional. Charles remembered the jealousy that coursed through him as he watched them in Singapore, sipping champagne and joking around while he had to fight with the possibility of never seeing his husband again.

Charles offered his hand, tucking his left behind his back as though hiding his own ring might make this easier.

“Let’s get lunch,” he offered.

Carlos took his hand to stand up, but dropped it a moment later as they walked off the court.

Charles gave him space in the locker room as he showered off and changed into his own clothes: white sneakers, grey jeans rolled up to the ankles, and a white t-shirt that smelled like laundry detergent and not sweat. He clasped his Hublot to his wrist as Carlos emerged from his own section of the locker room, having decided to change in private.

Charles didn’t mind.

Carlos sported a soft orange polo with dark jeans, and leather shoes that looked way too nice for a casual lunch. Charles had been friends with Carlos since they were teenagers, but he’d only recently noticed that his fashion sense needed a serious update.

Though his long eyelashes, dark eyes, and chiseled jaw could make any outfit look good. Especially when coupled with his voluminous hair  that seemed to style itself.

“Lunch?” Charles prompted, gesturing for the door.

Carlos nodded and strode past.

Charles followed him out, slipping his sunglasses back on once they were on the street.

“Hand,” Charles said, gently slapping his knuckles to Carlos’s forearm.

“Right.” Carlos grabbed his hand, twining their fingers together.

Charles fought not to grimace at how wrong it felt. But holding hands was about the only form of affection they were required to show in public, thankfully.

The streets of Maranello were quiet, typical of a Tuesday afternoon. A few old women sat at an outdoor patio, sipping wine and talking in Italian so accented Charles couldn’t understand it, even though he’d lived here for years now.

They didn’t speak as they walked. Carlos had his jaw set, his eyes trained straight ahead. It felt like his head might snap off from the tension in his neck alone. He still hadn’t learned how to turn off his emotion, Charles thought. Or maybe he hadn’t reached the numbness stage yet.

“In here,” Charles said as they approached a quaint restaurant.

“Buongiorno. Prenotazione?” the hostess asked as they approached.

Even princes didn’t get special treatment in Maranello.

“Mi dispiace, no,” Charles replied, glancing up at the second floor. “Vorremmo il patio privato.”

The hostess nodded once and motioned for them to follow her.

Charles took the lead, dropping Carlos’s hand as they made their way up a narrow staircase. They followed the hostess through a doorway to a small private patio that overlooked the city streets.

“Grazie,” Charles said with a nod. Carlos echoed distractedly, then Charles ordered them a bottle of sparkling water and two glasses of wine.

He offered Carlos a seat before taking his own and sagged into it, his polite façade finally melting away.

“So tell me what’s got you upset this time,” Charles started, deciding it was best to hit heavy with these conversations. The faster they were over with, the easier it was to move on.

Every prince had a tough time getting over the last one, most of the time. Sometimes they leapt into a new engagement—like Mick would do once he escaped Mazepin.

Carlos hunched forward in his seat, elbows on his knees as he gazed out at the city, still working his jaw.

“He wrote me,” Carlos finally said. “About Ricciardo.”

Charles pushed out a sigh. Daniel Ricciardo, the Australian-Italian heartthrob loved by everyone in the empires for his comedic gold. Cameras loved him almost as much as the population of every empire he was appointed in. He’d even been with Sebastian for a year in Red Bull.

“What did he say?”

Carlos flinched as if struck. “Just how funny he is. How smart. How he’s learning so much.”

Charles’s heart twinged just imagining reading the same thing from Sebastian. Sebastian never had much of a relationship with Ricciardo—he’d already known he was leaving Red Bull when Ricciardo was appointed.   

But Ricciardo was dangerous. He’d been all but king of Red Bull before Max Verstappen showed up, and their power struggle for favor with the people and the FIA had been brutal by the end. The charming smiles Ricciardo always showed the cameras had a knife edge.

Thankfully, Lando was no threat to his power. But everyone had thought that about Max too, who now reigned in Red Bull, though he faced a challenge with the new hotheaded prince, Sergio Pérez.

“It’s bound to happen, Carlos,” Charles said, not bothering to tread lightly. “Better that than what happened to Mick.”

Carlos clicked his tongue. “No. You don’t get to tell me what’s worse. You don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand?” He scoffed. “Sebastian is with Lance, Carlos.”

“Yes,” Carlos cut, gaze snapping to him. “And everyone knows Sebastian outranks him by a mile. He isn’t about to be awestruck by Lance Stroll.”

Carlos hadn’t spoken this much in one sitting since arriving in Maranello.

“So Lando falls in love with Ricciardo—that’s what the people want. It’s better for him to be in love. You can’t deny they make a great team.”

Carlos swore under his breath, sitting back in his chair.

They didn’t speak for a long moment. Carlos stared out at the city, and Charles thought about Sebastian. How he might be teaching Lance how to play chess the way he’d taught him. How Lance might fall into the same play Lando was falling into.

Cars rumbled by on the street below, and the hostess returned with water and glasses. She didn’t say anything as she poured their water and wine, and hurried away instead of taking their order.

“We’re going to have to get used to each other,” Charles said evenly once she was gone. “They’re setting us up to be together for a long time. And this is Ferrari, not McLaren. When they say that, they mean it.”

“What, so you think we’ll love each other some day?” Carlos said, eyes still on the city.

No, Charles wanted to say. “Maybe,” he said instead.

“I know what love is,” Carlos said quietly. “I’ve tasted it. And I know I’ll never have it with you.”

Charles grit his teeth, eyes narrowed. “And you don’t think I know?” he shot back. “You can’t even begin to understand what Sebastian meant to me.” He sat up in his seat, leaning over the table. “And I knew the whole time that he would leave. I fought him, I screamed at him, I blamed him for everything wrong that happened. I told myself to hate him, and I couldn’t. And even when I won at races, when I gained power, I still couldn’t do anything to stop him from going away.”

“Because he chose to leave,” Carlos hissed. “He could have stayed, but he chose to go.”

“Yes.” Charles swallowed down the lump in his throat. “He didn’t want me to become another Bottas.”

Valtteri Bottas, a man who could have been a great king in a different lifetime, but was instead paired with Lewis Hamilton, a man so powerful even the FIA had to bend to his rule. A champion in every sense, so skilled in the races that he only lost when something went wrong mechanically. Bottas was stuck in a loveless marriage he couldn’t escape, trapped by his own skill, too good to lose but not good enough to win. Lewis’s dog.

“Except Vettel wasn’t winning,” Carlos said. “Though that did soften the blow, yes?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Charles growled. Carlos hadn’t seen the look of failure eon Sebastian’s face the night Binotto told him the news.

“I always thought I would retire. I never thought I’d be told to leave. I never thought I would want to go.”

He snatched up his wine and took a long sip.

The hostess returned and Charles ordered mushroom ravioli. Carlos ordered scallops.

“Has he written you?” Carlos asked.

Social media was the way to communicate with the people, but princes followed the tradition of handwritten letters. It also allowed for old-fashioned privacy. No one could hack paper, and letters were hand-delivered by FIA-sponsored couriers, secure throughout travel.

“Yes, I got a letter two days ago,” he replied.

A silence settled between them for a moment.

“And?” Carlos asked.

“He despises Stroll, but that’s nothing new. Told me a story about Alonso, how much he doesn’t like Esteban.” No one expected the Alpine princes to get along, but Alonso didn’t get along with anyone except the men who had raced with him in his youth, and whether those men liked him back was hit or miss.

“Esteban never should have been appointed,” Carlos said.

“Mazepin never should have been appointed,” Charles added.

Carlos nodded approvingly. “I won’t argue that one either. Have you heard from Mick?”

Charles shrugged. “He’s fine with it. They don’t speak, so he’s free to do as he likes.”

They danced around the topic of Bahrain, the first race of the year. The first race was always horrible for the princes who had just changed empires, as it would be the first time they saw their exes in the flesh. And every pair would be married by that time, a symbolic start to the racing season, to unify them to fight as one and represent their appointed empire.

The FIA would also ensure princes stayed completely separate after-hours, and everyone would have cameras trained on them for all other events.

Charles tried not to imagine how it would be to see Sebastian again. He was a brilliant actor. And Charles wasn’t yet sure if Sebastian’s ploy was to convince Stroll to be in love with him or if he would stay true to the course.

He told himself almost daily that Sebastian hadn’t meant what he’d said about coming back to him after he retired from racing, taking himself out of the appointment process.

“Are you going to kiss me at the wedding?” Charles asked, since he’d finally managed to get Carlos talking. Giorgio wanted to know how to set up the cameras.

Carlos didn’t look up from his scallops.

“Not on your life, Leclerc.”

Chapter Text

Desert heat sucked the moisture right out of George’s throat, even in the shade of the patio awning. He took another sip of his vodka soda, scrunching his nose at the taste. He’d asked the bartender for more soda than alcohol, but he supposed it was just as well.

Bahrain sprawled before him, swaths of sand eating up the horizon. George didn’t like Bahrain that much. Even as the first race in the season, it was too fucking hot.

“You should probably drink water too, yeah?” Nicholas asked as he returned to the seat beside him with two plates of ridiculously fancy appetizers that looked like fancy rice crisps, but had to be something more expensive.

George shrugged, picking up one of the crisps. “I think I’d rather be drunk for this.”

“Ah,” Nic said with a nod, popping a crisp in his mouth. “Me too.”

George let out a snort as he took a bite. Savory, definitely cooked with something smokey. Bizarre aftertaste. But he needed to eat something if he planned to finish his drink, so he reached for another.

“They’re going to do whatever they can to stop you from talking to anyone tonight,” Nic said around his mouthful of food.

“I know.” That wouldn’t stop him. After acting as regent during Lewis’s leave of absence the year before, every empire wanted him. George couldn’t think about that race without rage curdling in his gut at how close he’d come to winning.

“I’m gonna fucking miss you,” Nic said with a dramatic sigh. “Even though I’m living in your shadow all the time.”

George cracked a grin as he ate another crisp.  “Don’t say that yet, we still have to share a bed tonight.”

Nic laughed. “Yeah, right. You’re the one who tries to spoon me in your sleep.”

George nearly spit out his food to laugh, holding  a hand over his mouth.  He lifted his drink to that, and Latifi clinked his glass of water to it.

“We do have it pretty good,” Nic said around a sip of water.

“Hear hear.”

As far as appointed marriages went, George did feel decently lucky. Of course, he didn’t love Nic at all, and he knew full well that Nic complained about him after every race or royal appearance. But he also knew that was because if Nic didn’t find an excuse as to why he always lost, he would probably lose his appointment.

They made it work.

“I’m worried about Lando,” George admitted. “And Carlos. And Charles.”

“They’re all going to blow it,” Nic said.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

He pulled out his phone, where news notifications had already created a stream of banners on his lock screen.

“Interviews are out,” George said, skimming through. Vettel and Stroll. Ocon and Alonso. Raikkonen and Giovinazzi. He tapped on Lando’s interview and skipped past the first thirty seconds. No interview had anything of substance in the beginning.

“Oh fuck me,” George hissed.

Lando looked starstruck. All kiddish awe, positively glowing in Ricciardo’s presence.

“Any news about the wedding?” the interviewer asked.

Dan grinned, looking over at Lando in a way that made George’s neck prickle. The exact same way he used to look at Max. “Eh, nothing crazy,” Dan said. “Just traditional, right babe?”

“Oh no,” Nic groaned. “He fucking called him babe.”

George felt bile rise in his throat as Lando laughed like a schoolgirl. He had such a charismatic laugh that even the interviewer couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Yeah, traditional,” Lando finally echoed around giggles.

George had to close his eyes. Carlos was going to watch this—they all watched everyone’s interviews. It served as socialization, since they only saw each other in person at races and press events, and could only really talk privately through archaic handwritten notes or when approved by the FIA.

Carlos was not going to be okay.

“We’ve gotten on so well,” Lando continued with another look over to Dan. “And he’s taught me so many things already.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “He’s making me sound old. Though you did teach me about Fortnite—that’s what it’s called, right?”

“Oh my god,” George said. “He’s been playing Fortnite for at least three years!”

“Oh, oh, look at this.” Nic handed over his phone to show him Sebastian’s interview with Stroll.

Lance obviously hadn’t listened to the Aston Martin publicists, because he sat in his interview chair in a way only an exorbitantly wealthy brat could. Slouched, leaned back, smirking underneath his cap.

“—have any nerves about this weekend?” the interviewer asked.

Sebastian shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Of course Bahrain is always a challenge, particularly with new partnerships, but I’m confident in the team. We’ve made great progress in testing.”

“How do you think the fans will enjoy the new livery?”

“They love it,” Lance said, “almost as much as they love us.”

George fought not to flinch.

Sebastian smiled, but he noticed it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes.”

“And how are things on the marriage front?” the interviewer asked, leaning forward in her seat.

Lance cracked a grin, glancing over to Sebastian. “What’d you say to me the other day? ‘Just peachy?’”

“Oh fuck,” George whispered, grabbing the phone from Nic’s hand to get a better look at the screen. “Oh fuck.”

 


 

After a thorough watch of every empire’s interviews, George didn’t feel up to the FIA cocktail party. Of course, he had no choice in the matter, as the event was mandatory. Latifi didn’t seem bothered by it at all, but he never seemed bothered about anything, not really. And George envied that all of Nic’s friends were not royal, so he never had to get mixed up in drama.

Sebastian’s interview went over exceedingly well with fans, something George never would have expected with Stroll’s performance. Leave it to Seb to make something out of nothing. All of the older princes had a stealthy way of going about interviews; simultaneously exciting fans and relaying important information to the other princes. Fernando and Kimi were best at it, so good that George couldn’t even catch wind of most of what they said, but older princes stayed in appointments for good reason. George just had to figure out the proper strategy. Falling in love with someone sounded like the worst way to go about a career.

He adjusted the knot of his tie as the Williams FIA liaison, Kayla,  continued with her pre-party speech.

“—limit alcohol. While it is legal to drink here, it’s against Bahraini law to be drunk, so don’t be stupid.” She scrolled down on her iPad, her heels clicking on the tile as they walked toward the ballroom.

“What’s the protocol for socializing?” George asked. He didn’t really care about the rest of the rules.

“Only public discussion. There will be mics everywhere, so be careful. Private discussions allowed with approval, but no off-site meetings. You have to stay in the ballroom at all times, but there are privacy areas.”

So the restroom would be the only real place to talk. George let out a sigh.

Kayla shot him a knowing glance. “Restrooms will be monitored for safety reasons. Only one empire presence allowed at any one time.”

George scowled. He had to talk to Charles before he made an absolute idiot of himself.

“Rules for previous marriages?” he asked.

“Kubica lost his appointment, darling,” Nic teased.

“Hilarious.”

Kayla clicked her iPad off and slipped it back in her purse. “On approval,” she replied. “Of course, I’m sure there will be several. Fans are hungry, and there’s a lot of drama to be had.”

George quickened his pace.

Security parted for them when they reached the ballroom entrance, a room with high stone ceilings with skylights cut into the rock. Warm golden lights gave the ballroom a hazy glow in the evening light.

Kayla herded them to a photo backdrop, where George smiled for the camera and linked arms with Nic, pasting on his prince face. The gossip rags didn’t write about Latifi and Russell—he was pretty sure they didn’t even have a catchy ship name.

“Want me to play husband?” Nic asked once the photographer snapped enough shots.

“I need to catch Charles,” George said distractedly, scanning the crowd.

Representatives from every empire stood around talking, fancy coctails in hand. Bahrain made things a little easier, as most of the local men wore ghutras. He clocked Lewis chatting with Sebastian, cameras trained on them. Lance lingered nearby, nursing a glass of dark liquor as he talked to a member of the Aston Martin empire George didn’t recognize.

Lewis caught him staring and cocked a brow. George looked away.

Sure enough, Charles wasn’t far from Sebastian, and he looked absolutely horrible.

“Come on,” George said, grabbing Nic’s hand and tugging him forward.

He smiled at people as they weaved through the crowd, but made it clear he didn’t want to stop and chat. Pierre ruffled his hair as he walked by, but the look on his face said that he’d been planning to head to Charles too.

“Charles,” George greeted, slightly out of breath.

Charles had no color to his face, his eyes hollowed out and ringed with dark circles. Had no one on the PR team thought to put concealer on him? Maybe a bit of something to make him look a little less dead?

“George!” a man called from the crowd.

“I got him,” Nic said with a pat to his back before he turned around. “I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with me while he catches up with Leclerc, Damien.”

“I watched the interview,” George said.

Charles’s eyes snapped to him, but he didn’t move his head, like he was stuck in his body.

“Just peachy,” Charles said quietly.

George put a hand on his shoulder. “It was probably a slip of the tongue, Char.”

Charles’s nostrils flared, and George noticed his eyes got wet. “Don’t bullshit, George.”

“I mean it,” George insisted. “I doubt it’s a personal thing, just a marriage thing, yeah? I’m sure you’ve said things to Carlos you’ve also said to Seb.”

Carlos, who was noticeably absent.

Charles swallowed hard and nodded once. “Right. Silly of me.”

George gave his shoulder a squeeze, flashing a smile in case the cameras turned on them. “Not silly. Think they’ll let us talk it through? You don’t look so good, mate.”

“I need to talk to him,” Charles said. “I have to know if he meant it.”

Pity gnawed at George’s stomach. He thanked god yet again that he’d never fallen in love with anyone he’d been engaged to.

“Charles, you’ve got to shake it,” he warned. “Play the game. No offense, but Sebastian’s way better at it than you are. He’ll find you tonight, I’m sure of it.”

Nobody could stand being around Stroll for an entire evening, though he did wonder if Sebastian would try to make things easier by not talking to Charles, especially if he saw him like this.

“Where’s Carlos?” he tried.

Charles let out a pained noise. “Giorgio escorted him out already. He says he won’t talk to anyone until he talks to Lando.”

“Fuck me,” George groaned. “He knows that’s going to put him on the shit list, right?”

Charles shrugged. “Doesn’t care. I kind of envy him being that fucking stupid.”

“Is Lando even here yet?”

Charles shook his head. “Honestly, Carlos might get his way. Probably better they sort themselves out before they come in here.”

George let out a sigh. “Poor bloke.”

Charles set his jaw. “I don’t know. I think I’d rather have my ex husband blatantly falling in love with someone else instead of trying to hide it.”

“Oh come on, Char, you know Seb’s not falling for Lance. That’s a mismatch if I’ve ever seen  one—you’re mature in every way Stroll isn’t.”

But the truth of the matter still hung in the air. Just peachy. Sebastian’s code for I love you. The couples who actually loved each other had codes, just as friends did. Things to slip in interviews to indicate they needed to talk, something to look back on when the love was real.

Suddenly it didn’t seem much like a slip of the tongue anymore, as much as George wanted to believe it.

“Have a drink at least,” George urged. “Just one—take the edge off.”

Charles nodded stiffly and they headed for the bar.

“You think he’ll really pull me aside?” Charles asked as they walked.

George felt his throat close a little. “If he knows what’s good for him. Just remember, he’s been through this shit way more than we have. He knows the right time.”

Charles ordered an Aperol Spritz (George had to fight not to get on his case about becoming Italian) and leaned against the bartop. Sebastian had vanished from his earlier place.

Pierre ventured over, but an FIA official stepped in front of him.

“Can’t have the three of you talking here,” the official said.

George clapped Charles on the back and nodded to Pierre. “That’s all right, I’ll go.”

He made his way to the other end of the bar, chatting with sponsors and officials along the way. Nic still hadn’t resurfaced, but George never worried about him getting into trouble.

Verstappen joined the fray as George ordered another vodka soda, and most of the attention gravitated toward him as a result. Poor Perez got separated from him immediately, cast off like a second-rate prince. In all truth, he was. Everyone in Red Bull had to bow to Max first and the empire second.

“He makes me worry about my spot,” a voice said, surprisingly close.

George jumped, turning to find Lewis Hamilton beside him, handing over his glass of vodka soda.

“Thanks,” George said, taking it from him. He swallowed hard.

Lewis jutted his chin toward Max. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll beat him every time on the track, but he’s got the people on his side. Even when he’s an absolute ass.”

George took a long sip of his drink. Latifi, get the hell over here.

Lewis smiled at him, glancing down at his drink. “What is that, Sprite?”

“Half right,” he replied evenly. Original, a joke about his age.

Lewis gestured for the bartender. “I’ll take what he’s drinking.”

His every sense went on high alert—talking to Lewis was about the most dangerous scenario he could think of.

“I’m not friends with Max, if that’s what you’re asking,” George said.

Lewis made a face. “Nah. No princes are friends with Max. He chews them up and spits them out. Dangerous way to be, by the way.”

Now that piqued his attention. George knew full well he was viewed as one to watch, but he still felt clueless about the politics of princedom, how the elites could manage their appointment so effortlessly.

“What’s a good way to be then?” George asked.

Lewis smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

George told himself not to get sucked in by his smooth voice, the flawless skin. Maybe he should try being vegan, he had zits on his chin that wouldn’t go away and maybe a change in diet was all it took. It certainly seemed to help regrow hair. He shrugged, playing at nonchalance.

Lewis saw right through it.

“I know you’re friends with Leclerc. Has something happened? He looks rough.”

George swirled his drink.. “I thought you didn’t like gossip.”

“Only when it’s pertinent.”

They locked eyes.

He wouldn’t divulge anything about Charles’s personal life, and he had a sneaking suspicion Lewis didn’t really give a shit about it.

“Does Sebastian have dirt on you?” George dared to ask, cocking a brow. “Seems like he’s got you gathering intel.”

Lewis laughed, a charming sound. “Oh, you’re good. Toto wasn’t kidding.”

He froze for a moment. Toto Wolff had been talking to Hamilton about him?

George took another sip of his drink. His brain began to hurt from overanalyzing Hamilton’s every word for a double meaning, trying to figure out if he’d stepped into a snare.

“Fine, I won’t pry,” Lewis said around a sip of his own vodka soda. “But what about you? Can’t imagine what married life with Latifi is like.”

There it was. George looked Lewis over, cocking his head slightly. “I imagine it’s pretty similar to life with Bottas.”

“Ah.” Lewis grinned. “Except Bottas and I trade off wins. You and Latifi trade off—”

“Actually, we don’t trade,” George interrupted, though he knew it was dangerous to do so.

Lewis laughed, nodding. “Got me there. Fair enough—so you don’t trade. But you see what I mean.”

“Not sure I do.”

Lewis nodded, eyes down on his glass. He had nice eyes, dark and warm, though he struck fear into every prince without a win under his belt. George respected him immensely, even though he wanted out of this conversation.

“Bottas thinks he’d make a better crown prince,” Lewis said, looking up at him. “That kind of attitude has an effect on the empire. So I’m looking at my options.”

George laughed. “Sorry, Lewis, but Charles is not—”

“I’m not talking about Charles.”

George slackjawed, nearly choking on his own spit.

“What—”

“Oh, George!”

He and Lewis turned to see Mick approaching, looking smooth as ever in a neat navy suit, no tie. He was the crown prince of Haas by a mile, but arguably competed for the FIA title too. His father was beloved among all the empires before and after his accident, and it made Mick the most protected prince in the world. Saying anything bad about Mick Schumacher left a  permanent stain on your publicity record.

“How’s it going, Mick?” Lewis greeted coolly. He glanced over Mick’s shoulder, and George caught a glimpse of an FIA official edging toward them.

“Going great, how are you, Lewis?” Mick returned, shaking his hand. “Sorry mate, mind if I steal George for a minute? Got to catch up on a few things before this party’s over.”

George smiled even though he had absolutely no idea what Mick was talking about.

Lewis picked up his drink and waved him on. “Of course.” He nodded to George. “Think about it, George. We’ll talk soon.”

With that, Lewis slipped away into the crowd.

“Ah, yes, have you got a decent…fuck it, let’s just do a Pilsner, yeah?” Mick asked the bartender, who happily went about making one for him.

George blinked, still stunned.

Mick rested an elbow on the bartop, casual and collected. Raised to be a prince his entire life, with dazzling blue eyes and white teeth to boot.

“What’s going on?” George asked.

Mick smiled. “Saving you.”

He snorted. “Saving me?”

Mick nodded. “Yeah. Oh—thank you.” Mick nodded to the bartender as he took his beer.

“Mind clarifying?”

“Lewis is trying to trap a new prince,” Mick offered with a shrug. “I assume that was what he was talking about with you.”

George swallowed hard. “That obvious?”

“He tried it on me a week ago—diplomatic visit, before you ask. At his request, mind you.”

His request? George didn’t know that was possible. A prince requesting another prince for a visit? That had to be against the rules. Then again, Hamiltion was the reigning champion of the empires, so perhaps it wasn’t that far-fetched.

“He’s very charming,” Mick continued. “Does a lot of mirroring, I’ve noticed.” He gestured toward George’s drink with his glass.

“Does Bottas know?” George whispered.

Mick laughed. “Course he knows. Bottas was standing there while Lewis flirted up a storm with me. Thought I was easy pickings because I’m about to marry Mazepin.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

He shrugged. “Don’t be. I’m quite alright with it. Can’t tell you how nice it is to be hated for once.”

George smiled. So the rumors were true—not that he’d doubted it.

Mick drank his beer for a moment. “To be honest, I don’t expect to fall in love with anyone at all. I think it marks a champion.”

“Sebastian fell in love and he’s still a champion,” George supplied.

Mick bit down on his smile. “Yes, he is.”

“I agree, though,” George said. “Seems a lot easier not to fall in love.”

Mick stood up when the Haas publicist called for him, giving her a wave to acknowledge he’d heard. “Well, back to work, I suppose.”

“See you later,” George said with a nod.

Mick leaned in as he passed, his mouth unexpectedly close to George’s ear so that warm breath ran down his neck.

“Don’t fall in love with Lewis,” Mick said, his voice unexpectedly low, the cheery tone completely gone. “These fuckers are all snakes.”

“Wha—”

But Mick vanished into the crowd, leaving George to stare after him, the FIA officials already closing in to reprimand him for attempting a secret conversation.

What the hell is happening?

Chapter Text

Bubbles fizzed on Charles’s tongue as he watched Sebastian make his circles at the party. His blond curls stood out among the crowd, golden in the low light and set against dark grey stone. He looked every part a prince, every part a former champion.  

Charles took another drink of his spritz, debating on approaching Sebastian without requesting approval. He had nothing to lose now, not with Carlos stealing all of the hushed whispers in the crowd; embarrassing Ferrari, embarrassing him.  Charles could feel eyes on him, more every minute, every royal journalist and gossip rag writer licking their chops for a chance to pull him aside for an interview.

Sebastian wouldn’t meet his eye. Charles didn’t hide his staring, and each time Sebastian glanced at him, he looked away immediately before talking to Kimi or Lewis, Alonso or even Stroll. As usual, there was no shortage of people who wanted to talk to him.

Charles watched as Sebastian laughed, his hand resting on the shoulder of some local representative speaking with him. Charles’s stomach churned. The sickness of heartbreak was still affecting his abilities to be a proper prince. Ferrari needed a leader, and Carlos wasn’t in a place to do anything but wallow. Binotto even went so far as making threats about him racing (empty threats, because Ferrari couldn’t handle that kind of shame and they all knew it).

Kimi stumbled into Sebastian’s conversation, touting yet another drink. Any chance of catching Sebastian’s attention fell away as Kimi launched into a drunken tale.Charles left his empty glass at the bar and headed away from the party.  

Carlos didn’t get to hide away when the rest of them had to face the music.

Charles waved off the Ferrari liaison as he walked out of the ballroom and headed down one of the sleek marble-floored hallways leading to the restrooms. He assumed Carlos had been taken this way, as any other exit would have prompted the media to drop whatever they were doing to chase after a departing prince.

“—make it so obvious early on,” he heard someone hiss from around the corner.

Charles furrowed his brow, trying to place the familiar voice.

“Of course I’m being obvious, you idiot, I’m getting married!” another voice retorted.

Ricciardo.

Charles hugged the wall, curious. Princes barely ever got to hear private discussions among other princes, they only saw what was publicly available on social media or read about things in letters.

There was a pause, then the first voice came back quieter, and this time Charles recognized it as Verstappen: “You’re too good at it.”

“You only think that because you’re fucking horrible at it,” Daniel whispered. “Not that I blame you. Perez seems like to bite your dick off if you ever wanna—”

“Well you don’t exactly make it any easier,” Max whispered back.

Charles couldn’t place the emotion in Max’s voice, only that it wasn’t his usual anger or camera-ready happiness.

“Make what easier? The marriage part or the messing around with Perez part?” Daniel quipped. Charles could hear the grin on his face.

“Fuck you,” Max hissed. “What, have you—”

“Excuse me!” a loud voice interrupted. “No private discussions permitted without approval!”

FIA, always showing up at the best possible moment.

“Oh fuck off,” Daniel said. “I’m waiting for my fiancé, dickwad.”

Charles stepped out from hiding, fiddling with the cuffs on his sleeves as he turned the corner. When he looked up to meet them, he smiled. “Don’t you both look nice.”

Max scowled at him, his usual look. Ricciardo grinned, his usual look.

“If it ain’t Sharl,” Daniel greeted.

The FIA official cleared his throat. “There are to be no discussions—”

“Can you go get approval then?” Charles cut in, cocking a brow. “I’d really like to talk to my mates here.”

The official seemed to short circuit for a moment, realizing that getting approval would require leaving them alone. But everyone knew he couldn’t deny a reasonable request from a prince. FIA rules.

“I’ll be right back—no further discussion,” the official said as he backed away and headed for the door.

“Jesus Christ,” Max muttered, fussing with his tie. Bright blue silk with little red stripes. So Red Bull.

“Where?” Daniel gasped as he pretended to look around for Jesus. Max slapped him on the arm. “He hit me Sharl--quick, tell Esteban! He really can hit!”

Charles couldn’t tell if Daniel was trying to piss Max off as much as possible, but he was certainly succeeding. Max looked ready to throttle him.

Charles opened his mouth to diffuse the situation when Lando stepped from the restroom. He looked drained, a husk of the cheerful prince from the interview shot just that morning. Daniel offered his hand and Lando gripped it like a lifeline, tucking against his side.

“All good?” Daniel asked with a kiss to Lando’s hair.

Charles couldn’t fight his brows lifting in surprise at the gesture. Affection in private spaces was reserved for real relationships, not whatever Ricciardo was trying to pull.

“All good,” Lando echoed, when it clearly was not.

Max still looked ready to burst a blood vessel where he stood by Daniel, but Charles didn’t really care about dissecting his tiff with Ocon from years ago.

“Anyone seen Carlos?” he asked, but kept his eyes on Lando.

Lando looked pained, glancing back to the restroom door. “Yeah, he’s coming.”

Daniel tugged Lando toward the hall. “Come on, babe, we’ve got interviews.” He nodded to Charles. “Nice to see ya, Sharl. Come chat when you’re finished.” Then he looked to Max, offering a wide smile that made Charles think of chimpanzees showing their teeth in submission. “Maxie.”

Charles dipped his head to Max. “I’m going to go check on Carlos.”

Max didn’t seem to notice he’d been spoken to, or maybe he didn’t care. But after a moment he did finally look up, his face stone. “If Perez snuck in there, kick his ass out.”

The FIA official appeared at the end of the hall and came rushing toward them with colored lanyards, presumably to approve their talk. Max turned on him, and the man stopped dead, but the Charles slipped into the restroom before he could hear whatever barbed greeting the official was about to receive.

The restroom exuded opulence, clearly meant for royals only. Marble countertops, silk towels folded by sink faucets gilded with real gold. A bouquet of red and white flowers arranged to look like the Bahraini flag in the center of the counter. All of it untouched.

He expected to find Giorgio in the restroom monitoring whatever conversation had taken place, but instead Carlos sat on the floor alone, legs drawn to his chest. It took a moment for Charles to notice that he was crying. Carlos didn’t have ugly sobs, or even loud sobs. Just muffled gasps, quiet and heartwrenching. He looked small with his dark curls draped over his knees. Charles bit his lip.

After Ferrari informed him that Sebastian would not be returning, Charles hadn’t cried. At the time he’d seen the choice as a necessity of the empire, something he would have to get used to as he rose in the ranks. That is, until Sebastian’s focus began to turn to Aston Martin. Fewer lunches in Maranello, a distant presence in court, in the duties of a prince. His formal  announcement to leave had been a slap in the face to Ferrari and though Charles didn’t feel it to be a personal slight, he couldn’t help feeling like maybe he hadn’t been so important to Sebastian after all if he could just burn all of his bridges to what was then their shared home.

Of course, he had the luxury of Sebastian taking him to the Alps for a stunning vacation weekend to explain it all. The intricacies of public perception, how much he loved him, how he would return to Maranello after retirement to be with him, and no one would care because Binotto would be gone.

Carlos had none of that. He and Lando were both too young, too new to princedom to have any idea how it all worked long-term. Carlos made the choice to leave McLaren because he couldn’t pass up a Ferrari crown. But Charles suspected he had thought Lando would stay true to him—as did everyone else. Even Charles, if he had to be honest.

“Carlos, it’s me,” he greeted softly, crossing the room toward him. He sat down beside him on the floor and put an arm around him—something he wished he’d gotten when it finally dawned on him that Sebastian wasn’t coming back.

Carlos tensed, but didn’t stop crying. A man usually so bright-eyed, calm in the face of the stresses of the crown (except when it came to photoshoots), reduced to this.

“Come on, then,” Charles said quietly, giving him a gentle tug. “If you’ve got to cry, at least cry on your fiancé instead of ruining those Armani pants.”

A sound escaped Carlos’s throat so full of anguish that Charles found his eyes getting wet. Fucking hell.

But after a moment, Carlos did turn to him. Charles lifted his other arm to hold him as he cried into his shoulder.

They both signed away their rights as individuals to take up the merits of the crown. As a teenager, Charles never imagined he would fall in love with any other prince. Even when the thought did cross his mind, he imagined a life like in the stories he heard about in the paddock: princes who had non-royal lovers whom they waited until retirement to marry but kept around throughout their career. Princes who stayed in the same empire after finding their love so that they never had to be apart.

Everyone whispered about the FIA’s cruelty, about the crown becoming a burden. No one ever put it in context. No one ever told him he would be carding his fingers through a shattered boy’s hair in a bathroom in Bahrain. No one ever told him he would have to watch the man he loved talk to everyone else but him, for the sake of appearances.

“He said he didn’t expect it,” Carlos finally forced out. “That one day they clicked. Everything fallen—everything fell into place.”

Carlos pulled back, hurriedly moving to wipe his face.

Charles caught is wrist, then reached above them to grab a towel from the counter.

“Here,” he murmured, sitting up to gently dab the tears, snot, and spit from Carlos’s face. Devastation wasn’t as pretty as they made it out to be in movies.

Gracias,” Carlos murmured.  

Pas de problème,” Charles replied, pulling another towel down to get the last of the dampness from Carlos’s face. He then moved to his pants, dabbing there to at least attempt to take the wetness away.

Carlos looked up at the ceiling, lost. “I don’t know what to do. I love him.”

“Well, tonight we have to go to this party and look the part of a couple about to be married,” Charles said, trying to take a pragmatic approach. Sebastian’s approach. “You got to talk with Lando, which is more than I’ve been able to do with Sebastian tonight, so we have to look past it now.”

He cleaned his own shoulder with the towel, then got to his feet to toss both in the bin for cleaning. He offered Carlos his hand and when Carlos stood facing him, Charles noticed the way his tears had made his eyelashes sick together like bad mascara. He smiled, lifting a hand.

“May I?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” Carlos said, gaze already far off.

Charles gently held Carlos’s face to thumb over his eyelashes, returning them to normal. He dropped his hands just as quickly, offering a weak smile.

“Ready?” he asked, though he knew there was no “ready” for them.

“Yeah,” Carlos said, clearing his throat. He wiped his eyes once, probably out of habit, then offered his hand.

Charles blinked. Carlos had never been the one to offer his hand before. He took it, and led the way out of the bathroom. Max had left, presumably finding Perez, so they had the hallways to themselves as they walked.

“Remember to smile,” Charles said, though smiling wouldn’t take the redness from Carlos’s eyes.

Carlos turned on his smile as they stepped back into the ballroom, and Charles turned his face to him, grinning wide. Every journalist in the room seemed to collectively realize that Carlos Sainz had been missing for the majority of the party, and he was sure the rest of the princes were looking their way too.

“If you kissed me,” Charles said though his smile, “they wouldn’t—”

Suddenly lips pressed against his own. His brows went up in surprise, having fully expected Carlos to snap back at him that they would never kiss.

His lips were soft, slightly salty from all of the crying. He tasted like pain. Charles knew he probably did too as he brought his free hand up to rest on Carlos’s cheek again.

When they broke apart, Charles didn’t pull away immediately, resting their foreheads together to really sell it.

“I’m impressed,” he chuckled.

Carlos cracked a dangerous grin. “What? You’ve never heard that Spaniards make the best lovers?”

Maybe Carlos could be good at this after all.

“That’s not what I meant,” he argued.

Carlos kissed him again, a quick peck on the lips, then broke away and tugged him along.

Charles found himself lost for words, a strange warmth in his chest. Of course none of it was real—the dead look in Carlos’s eyes said that well enough—but for a moment the pain of losing Sebastian lost some of its bite.

“Have you had anything to drink?” Carlos asked as they walked, his gaze straight ahead.

“Yes,” Charles sputtered. “I had a—”

“Food, then?”

Charles stopped, pulling Carlos to stop with him.

“Carlos,” he said evenly. “Slow down. You don’t have to—”

“Don’t tell me what to fucking do,” Carlos whispered through a smile, his eyes wet again. “I’m doing this to survive this night.”

Charles pursed his lips, then entwined their fingers to better match that kiss. People noticed the little things.

“Come on then. Let’s get food.”

He led Carlos to the buffet table stacked with finger food. Most of it consisted of vegetables so pulverized Charles couldn’t tell what they were, and rice. Naan for scooping everything up. Further down the table they found samosas, kebabs, and sweet puddings. Charles recognized khanfaroosh and snagged two cakes.

“Have you had this before?” he offered.

Carlos shook his head, his jaw tightly shut.

Charles ladled up some warm honey and drizzled it over both desserts. Every eye in the party still watched them carefully, waiting to see if the façade would fall away.

“It tastes kind of like a doughnut,” he said, lifting a cake and offering it to Carlos. “Made with saffron. I’m sure this one cake alone is worth something ridiculous. You’ve got to try it.”

Carlos swallowed hard and gingerly plucked the cake from his hand. He took a bite, chewing for a moment.

Charles grinned when he saw the light return to Carlos’s eyes, if only for a moment.

“Fuck,” Carlos said around his mouthful of khanfaroosh. “That’s fantastic.”

Charles took a bite of his own cake and let out a hum. It tasted fucking amazing.

“Oh, yes, I know the phrase for this,” Carlos murmured, tonguing the inside of his cheek, brow furrowed in thought. “Bel hana wel she fa. I think. Like bon appétit. ”

“I think you sound like a Spaniard trying to speak Arabic,” Charles laughed. He held the plate under Carlos’s cake. “Don’t get icing sugar on your suit.”

“Always so worried about my clothes,” Carlos said with a roll of his eyes, but he kept his khanfaroosh over the plate.

He seemed better. Slightly. And Charles really did want to see that suit go untarnished. Carlos looked good in Armani.  

“Prince Leclerc,” a woman interrupted.

Charles turned to her, eyes set in a hard glare.

The woman held up a red lanyard, and her FIA badge glimmered in the light behind it.

“Prince Vettel requested a private audience with you that has been approved. Please come with me.”

Charles nearly dropped his cake. His breath left him and he immediately scanned the crowd for Sebastian, but didn’t see him. His heart pounded in his chest, all adrenaline and excitement and finally.

“Go,” Carlos said quietly. “I have to talk to Pierre anyway.”

Though Charles appreciated the permission, he didn’t give a rat’s ass if Carlos approved or not. But he nodded once, setting his cake on the plate before squeezing Carlos’s arm in parting as he headed off with the FIA official.

Carlos looked down at his suit after Charles walked away, a sugary thumbprint now marring the black of his sleeve.

Chapter Text

Charles couldn’t breathe as he followed the FIA official through the crowd. The room became a blur of warm tones: reds, yellows, browns. Everything went a little hazy, like he’d somehow gotten drunk between eating khanfaroosh and being led away.

He didn’t even know how he would greet Sebastian when he saw him. Letters could only explain so much, though Charles wrote him often—longwinded letters with thoroughly dissected feelings. Sebastian probably read them and laughed at a young boy trying to figure out himself. Charles usually regretted sending anything, but only after a few days when he didn’t get an immediate response. God, he was such a loser. Sebastian never sounded like a pining romance novel protagonist in his letters.

His heart caught in his throat as the FIA official motioned toward a privacy fence that separated the main party and whatever had been set up for these meetings. Giorgio warned them that they should assume cameras and mics were pointed their way at all times, but Charles didn’t care what sound bites they stole from him now. If Mazepin still had a crown, anyone could stay standing.

The official offered him the lanyard, but Charles didn’t take it. Instead he slipped past her and headed around to the other side of the fence.

A small jungle met him as he turned the corner, with a modern-looking stone fountain in the center of the space, barely visible with all of the plants surrounding it. Leaves brushed his face as he waded through the greenery toward where he caught sight of a silhouette.

Sebastian stood at the fountain, his arms crossed. He looked deep in thought, eyes lost in the gurgling water in front of him.

Charles felt the sudden urge to turn around, to run back to the party before he fucked this up. Maybe Sebastian was right in staying away from him all night. How could they possibly be close again knowing they were about to be married to other people?

No. You have to do this.

He emerged from the plants, his heart racing. He felt like he would burst if he moved another muscle, every part of his body screamed to either run forward or escape.

Sebastian turned, and his face shifted to one of quiet pain. “Charles.”

He loved the way Sebastian’s accent hung on the vowels, erasing the sounds between them.

“Sebastian,” he whispered.

They stared at each other for a moment, and Charles had to fight not to let go of his heart. He could see a change in Sebastian from where he stood, something indescribable but tangible. He was no longer the only one in his heart.

Charles rushed forward and Sebastian took him in his arms, squeezing tight. The urge to cry overwhelmed him as he buried his face into Sebastian’s chest, but he refused to ruin the precious moments they had together.

“I missed you,” Sebastian whispered.

“God, I missed you too,” Charles choked out, pulling back to look at him.

He looked happier. No more stress from Binotto’s impossible asks, no more shouldering the entire empire while the rest of the Ferrari government screwed up at every turn, making Sebastian look the fool. Now he looked rested, appreciated. Properly cared for like a champion.

Charles lifted a hand to touch his face, smiling at the roughness of his beard.

“You look good,” Charles said, thumbing Sebastian’s cheek.

Sebastian laughed, looking down for a moment. “I feel good.” He pressed a kiss to Charles’s forehead—a move incredibly dangerous for how very much in public they were.

Everyone knew princes didn’t magically dissolve their love for each other with a change in appointment, but displays of affection between previously married princes were strictly forbidden in the public arena.

“I’ve been trying to catch  your eye all night,” Charles protested. “You wouldn’t look at me.”

“Ah.” Sebastian smiled—a smile that said Charles hadn’t caught up. “I forget how new you are to this.”

“Oh don’t start that,” Charles muttered. “I’m still going to beat you on Sunday.”

“We’ll see,” Sebastian teased, ever a champion. They both knew no Aston Martin would catch a Ferrari.

“So you had better start explaining. Non farmi parlare come Binotto.”

Sebastian laughed again, then rested his forehead against Charles’s. “Fine, fine. Yes, you’re right, I ignored you. But that’s the way it is now. You have to start learning the art of loving this way.”

Loving. Charles’s lashes fluttered at the word. He wanted nothing more than to tip his chin up and capture a kiss, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop once he stole one.

“I don’t want to love you that way,” he murmured.

“Says the man who just made a show of kissing his new fiancé.”

Charles scowled. “You know that meant—”

“I meant that as a compliment,” Sebastian chuckled, giving him a squeeze. “Toujours un tel enfant.”

Charles grinned. “Pratiquer votre français que je vois. Très bien, as always.”

Sebastian smiled at him, and Charles had to focus every ounce of his being on not melting to the floor at his feet. 

“It reminds me of you,” Sebastian murmured. “Though you speak like you’ve forgotten half the words yourself.”

It reminds me of you. Charles wanted to bottle up that single sentence to savor it forever, to wear it against his chest so it would always be the closest thing to his heart. God, could he get any more pathetic?

“Let me kiss you,” Charles whispered, already tilting his head slightly. “Please.”

Sebastian clucked in disapproval. “You know I can’t let you do that.”

“Will you stop me?” he asked, only a breath away from his mouth now, so close that Charles could almost—almost—taste him.

“You know I can’t,” Sebastian replied, his voice a ghost of the confident game he’d been touting just a moment before. “But it will be better if you don’t.”

“I don’t care,” Charles said, their breath mixing. “You have no idea what it does to me to see you—”

Sebastian cut him off with his mouth, and Charles let out a small sound of happiness as he kissed back with equal passion. Carlos tasted like pain, Sebastian tasted like all of the joy in his life coming back to him. He cupped Sebastian’s jaw, his other arm hooked around the back of Sebastian’s neck as their kiss deepened, and he was fully prepared to do whatever it took to leave this party together if it meant having Sebastian one last time.

“Charles,” Sebastian said between kisses. His hand came up between them, gently pressing Charles’s chest.

“Don’t say something fucking stupid about rules,” Charles panted.

Sebastian gently pushed him away, his lips slightly red. Charles wanted to bite them, to make sure that once Sebastian walked back out into the party everyone would know—

“We can’t do this,” Sebastian said, his brow furrowed.

“We can,” Charles hissed. He tried to go in for another kiss, but Sebastian leaned away. “Princes do this all the time. You said it yourself.”

Sebastian frowned. “Yes, but you can’t go announcing it to everyone.”

Charles laughed breathily. “You really think I would say anything?”

Sebastian stepped away just enough that he couldn’t go in for another kiss. “You don’t have to. The look on your face is more than enough.”

“Because I love you!”

Saying it out loud made everything feel real again. Like they could go back to the party hand-in-hand and chat with the other princes, whisper to each other when drama started, comment on how things were going with everyone else.

God, he missed it. He fucking missed it.

“You know I love you as well,” Sebastian said, his voice low. “But I’m serious, you have to learn how to love in a different way. Every prince has to learn at some point or you will go mad.”

Charles sighed. “So how can I do that? By ignoring you at parties? Hearing Lance say ‘just peachy’ during his first interview with you?”

Sebastian winced.

“Yes,” Charles growled. “Don’t think I wasn’t watching.”

“That was an accident. In fact, I was describing our relationship when I said it.”

“You still haven’t answered my question—how am I supposed to love you now?” Charles asked. “I was barely able to love you in the first place.”

Sebastian went quiet for a moment, but he did reach out and take Charles’s hand. Though kissing was against the rules, handholding was a far bigger deal in the eyes of the FIA. Generations of princes marrying for empires, all symbolized in the linking of hands. Two separate men bound by duty, a sacred pact.

He loved that Sebastian didn’t care.

“We won’t be able to talk directly like this very often,” Sebastian began, staring at the fountain once more. “You have to take notice of forgettable things. Me standing next to you in line for the food, laughing at a joke while we are among friends. Only the barest of glances—yet they’ll come to mean more than this.” He gestured between them.

Charles snorted. “I doubt that.”

Sebastian smiled. “You’ll see, but you have to stop wanting this—the private meetings, the kisses. I know it sounds impossible now, but…”

He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

Charles nearly collapsed. “Are you—”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “I always knew you were a romantic, but you really think I would repropose to you when we’re both about to marry in two days?’

It would reassure me you aren’t going to try anything with Stroll, Charles wanted to say, but he bit his tongue, cheeks flushing pink.

“It’s a gift,” Sebastian said, extending the box. “And yes, I suppose it’s also a promise.”

Charles swallowed hard as he took the box and opened it to reveal a stunning timepiece. He immediately recognized it as a TAG Heuer, but it had a simple leather band and a gold face with silver backing, and gold accents.

“You don’t recognize it?” Sebastian laughed. “I suppose that’s just as well.”

Charles looked up at him, perplexed. “I’m sorry, I don’t…should I know it? Is it one of yours?”

“It was gifted to me after my first championship. From Alonso, if you can believe it.” He laughed. “Well, perhaps you can believe it now, but back then I thought he was coming to kill me when he handed it over.”

Charles carefully pulled the watch from the box, looking it over in the low light. It looked both brand new and vintage at the same time.

“It’s one of Senna’s,” Sebastian finally explained.

The air left Charles’s lungs. “What?” He hurried put the watch back in the box, angry at himself for even touching it. “Sebastian, I can’t—”

Sebastian’s hand folded over his own, looking him in the eye. “This is one of the ways, Charles. Don’t wear it tonight, wear it on days you think of me. That way I’ll know.”

He didn’t see any possible way he could wear one of Senna’s watches. He didn’t deserve the honor—and Sebastian was just giving it to him!

“And how will I know you’re thinking of me?” Charles sputtered, unable to properly put his gratitude into words.

Sebastian thought for a moment. “I’ll wear something red. A watch, a bracelet—something.”

“And that won’t be too obvious?”  Charles asked.

Sebastian shrugged. “Let them speculate.” He stepped back. “Now, back to the party.”

Sebastian tipped his chin up as though he were a pouting child. Charles couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“You’re in better spirits,” Sebastian teased. “You looked so sad before. Though I have to say the kiss was unexpected—I thought you said you and Carlos agreed not to?”

Charles slipped the box into his pocket and instinctively reached for Sebastian’s hand, then realized what he was doing and pulled it away again.

“Uh, yes. We agreed not to. But given the circumstances of him disappearing tonight, it seemed like a good idea.”

Sebastian nodded approvingly. “It was. A very nice play.”

They walked through the ferns together until they reached the privacy fence. Charles didn’t want to let go of this moment, but he knew he needed to start acting the part of a real prince, one who would stay among the ranks for years to come. Not one who would burn out after a few years.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he said quietly. “And for indulging me one last time.”

Sebastian smiled fondly at him. “Not the last time, but you’re welcome. I’ll see you out there.”

Charles closed his eyes as Sebastian stepped away. He waited there for several moments, long enough that whatever trail Sebastian made through the crowd would have closed up again.

When he stepped out from behind the fence he felt like a new person. Sebastian had solidified what he feared had been a waning relationship, and instead of more heartbreak, he merely had a new set of rules. Rules he could teach Carlos, so that if Lando changed his mind about Ricciardo, they could find the same peace.

Carlos approached him from the crowd, a thin smile on his face. “So, how did it go?”

“It was perfect,” Charles said, still in awe. He wanted to show Carlos the watch, but decided it might be better to keep that a secret from him. Just for now.

“I’m glad,” Carlos said, and it seemed genuine. “Giorgio said we only have to stay twenty more minutes. Let’s grab a drink and go, yes?”

Charles nodded, extending his hand for Carlos before they headed back for the bar. He wanted to focus on raceday now that he’d sorted things out with Sebastian.

Of course, he had to get married first, but the empire would plan all of that, and he doubted Carlos would even notice if he showed up distracted.

“You sure you’re all right?” Carlos asked a moment later.

Charles smiled wide, his heart warm in his chest. “I’m fine. I’m absolutely fantastic.”

Chapter Text

Weddings for an appointed prince were not the fairytale affairs that the photos painted them out to be. As George made his way down the aisle to find his seat, he remembered marrying Latifi, how beautiful the venue in Austria had been. He much preferred Austria to Bahrain, where the backdrop consisted of some marble pillars and flapping silk. The fountains and marble statues were nice additions, but no country really enjoyed the mockery of marriage that the FIA hosted every year. But so long as everything looked good on camera, the general public would eat it up.

“We got prime seats this year, huh?” George greeted as he sidled down the aisle toward Nic, careful not to spill the glasses of champagne in his hands. He handed one over to Nic and took his seat.

“We’re the old guys now,” Nic said. He reached over to tug at the lapel of George’s suit. “Still fits?”

George rolled his eyes. Every prince wore the same black suit to the wedding ceremony, differentiated only by their empire’s crest pinned to the lapel, and embroidered gold crowns stitched underneath for the princes who had been crowned champion in the past.

Some princes also had colored ribbons pinned beneath their crest to signify each empire they had represented in the past. George had none, because he had only ever represented Williams. But he saw that as a badge of loyalty.

“Think anyone’s going to pass out?” Nic asked around a sip of champagne.

George shrugged. “Probably not. Maybe Yuki—if I had to pick.”

“Stroll is my guess,” Nic said. “He’ll swoon himself into a blackout.”

George wrinkled his nose. He didn’t like to imagine Stroll pining after anyone, let alone Vettel. George would never say it, but he didn’t think Sebastian deserved all of the hype. His prime had come and gone. Now he haunted the track on race day and kept his place in royal circles thanks to his old friends and talk of the past.

“Do we have to do the photo op thing after?” Nic asked. FIA officials began to file into the venue, but George ignored them.

“Yes, we have to do the group photo, and I think Clarissa said something about our royal photos since we’ll we wearing the crowns.”

“Ah, fuck,” Nic groaned. “I forgot about the crowns.”

George smirked. “It’s only twice a year, darling.”

The crowns were more novelty than anything, an archaic symbol of the past when princes used to stay married for decades and controlled the empires as united partners, as true kings. Now, princes were pretty pawns for the gossip rags to salivate over, their duties reduced to races and performative politics.

George took a sip of his champagne, smacking his lips as the bubbles fizzed on his tongue. He and Nic both needed to get ready for the race. At least this year they didn’t have wedding PR to deal with after the ceremony, not that Williams could do much with that sort of advantage.

“Oh, we’ve got company,” Nic murmured, jutting his chin toward someone coming down the row.

George turned to see Valtteri Bottas making his way toward them, a kind smile on his face. He always looked kind and composed, even in the face of blatant infidelity, or so Mick had made it seem.  George wondered if Valtteri knew just how much Lewis wanted to get rid of him. 

“Afternoon, Valtteri,” George greeted.

Nic gave him a wave. “No champagne?”

Valtteri chuckled and shook his head. “I prefer caffeine.”

He took the seat beside George, and George let out a quiet sigh of relief. With Bottas sitting beside him, Lewis would have to be at least one person away. One person who probably wouldn’t appreciate hearing his husband flirting with another prince.

“Only three couples stayed the same, hm?” Valterri noted as Kimi dragged Giovinazzi down the other aisle toward the two empty seats next to Nic.

“A lot of changeup this year,” George agreed. “Makes things a little easier for us though, right?”

Bottas smiled, but it was thin.

George was about to pry when Lewis started down the row, a green smoothie in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. He looked…amazing in his suit, especially with the seven crowns embroidered under his crest that glimmered in the afternoon sun. He wore huge diamond studs in each ear, a gold chain fitted around his neck, and stylish sunglasses. He absolutely exuded confidence and class.

George had to shut his mouth when he realized it had fallen open.

“Here you go, love,” Lewis greeted Bottas, handing over his coffee. “Actually, mind if I trade places with you?”

George’s stomach dropped.

Valtteri didn’t show any trace of annoyance as he took his coffee and scooted to the next seat over.

Shit.

Nic elbowed him in the ribs, but George couldn’t even find it in him to react as Lewis sat down beside him. Mick’s warning echoed in his head, but it was difficult to think about that when Lewis smiled so genuinely. 

George swallowed hard. “Lewis, nice to see you.”

“Beautiful day, huh?” Lewis returned as he took a sip of his smoothie

“Uh, yeah.”

“I’d  much rather be sitting here than standing up there. It’s like they design this ceremony to be as annoying as possible.” He shot George a grin. “Sorry, maybe you liked your wedding ceremony. Austria, right?”

How the fuck did he remember that? George’s cheeks warmed. “Yes,” he answered dumbly.

“Next year will be Australia.” Lewis cocked his head as he sucked down more smoothie. “I wouldn’t mind getting married in Australia again.”

George glanced at Bottas, who leaned back in his chair, sipping on his coffee like he couldn’t hear a word. Except there was no way he couldn’t have heard what Lewis had just said.

“Hey,” George said, his voice low. “I respect Bottas, okay? I’m not going to stand for you treating him like this.”

Lewis bit his lower lip to contain a smile. He leaned in, and George was overwhelmed with the scent of Lewis’s cologne: wood and leather and some sort of flower George couldn’t place.

“Bottas is married,” Lewis said.

George furrowed his brow, unsure if this was a joke. “Uh, yeah?”

Lewis sat back again, looking him over. “Not to me.”

“What?”

Valtteri took another sip of coffee, contentedly unaware. Supposedly.

“Unofficially, of course,” Lewis said with a shrug. “To a very nice woman. She’s a competitive cyclist.”

For some reason it had never occurred to George that a prince might want to marry a woman during his appointment. Many princes—most, actually—retired their crowns and married women, but George had always assumed those relationships came after being royal. Though it sounded silly now that he thought about it.

It also made sense why Bottas didn’t give a shit that Lewis flirted with other princes, and why he might not care to lose his seat.

“Oh,” George finally said.

Lewis smiled. “But it’s nice to hear that someone respects loyalty around here.”

George glanced toward the front of the venue, silently wishing that the couples would come out already. He didn’t want to embarrass himself any more than he already had. In front of Lewis Hamilton, of all people.

“How are things with you and Latifi?” Lewis asked, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“We’re fucking fine, Your Royal Highness,” Nic answered for him. “And don’t worry, I’m not in love with him. You’d have a black eye by now if I did.”

George threw a smile over his shoulder and Nic tossed him a wink. Of all of the people he could have been stuck with, he was glad for a good teammate.

Music began to play to signal the start of the ceremony, but Lewis ignored it to lean in again.

“Probably not the best place to chat, I suppose,” Lewis said with a chuckle. “Can I steal you after the ceremony? I’d like to continue our talk.”

George chewed the inside of his cheek. If Bottas was really going to give up his crown at the end of the season, every prince in the empires would be vying for that spot. Securing it early would be the obvious move, but Mick has warned him of snakes. Maybe Hamilton only wanted him to think he was getting the appointment, when in reality it was all a ploy to burn his bridges with Williams and leave him without a crown. But he couldn’t see Lewis, the seven-time champion, deciding a Williams driver like him was any kind of real threat to his title.

Racing for Mercedes would be everything he needed to launch himself into the real royal circles, not the fabricated PR ones.

“Look,” George said as the music started to swell. “How about after the race? I’m not going to be able to focus tonight, Nic and I are going to be busy. I’m sure you and Valtteri will be too.”

Lewis cocked a brow. “You’re going to defer the crowned champion to after the race?”

George held his ground with a smile. “If I was a pushover, you wouldn’t be so interested.”

Lewis merely laughed and sat back in his seat. Victory.

The crowd began to whisper as the FIA officiant emerged. He wore a long robe made of black silk, embroidered with gold that made him look like a craft store had exploded on him. The getup had to be sweltering in Bahrain, but anyone from the FIA deserved a bit of suffering, in George’s opinion.

Lewis removed his sunglasses and tucked them in his pocket, likely at the urging of some unseen Mercedes liaison. George sat up straighter in his seat, eager to see his friends. None of them were marrying men they liked, so the wedding ceremony could only be so enjoyable, but he didn’t get to see all of them in one place very often anymore.

Well, not all of them.

George pushed the thought away as Alonso emerged from behind the white silk curtains, looking regal in his suit and crown. He walked arm in arm with Esteban, who looked swallowed by his. Alonso didn’t even try to share the spotlight with his soon-to-be husband and Esteban looked out of his depth, even though he’d been a prince before.

Vettel and Stroll entered next. George cocked a brow at the sight of a maroon watchband on Sebastian’s wrist that seemed oddly reminiscent of his time with Ferrari, the empire he’d spit on as he’d made his exit. Even the watch face was maroon, and George squinted to try to make out the watchmaker just based on the design.

“What the actual fuck is he doing,” Lewis said, and he didn’t phrase it like a question.  

Vettel turned his head to kiss Stroll’s temple. George let out a snort. “Nobody is going to believe he loves Stroll no matter how much he wants them to.”

Max and Checo entered next, walking stiffly. Max looked pissed (as usual) and Checo looked a little less than sober. George didn’t blame him, though he did like Max. Max was just…difficult sometimes. Or all the time.

George grinned when Pierre and Yuki stepped in. Yuki whispered excitedly, and Pierre smiled—something he didn’t do very often now. George knew for a fact that Pierre didn’t have feelings for Yuki, but it soothed him to see a friendship there.

“They’ll be good for each other,” Nic said with a nod.

“I think so too,” George agreed. “Pierre needs a chance as the head prince.”

Daniel and Lando followed behind them—the only couple who actually seemed more than friends. Lando hadn’t said much at the party when George talked to him, just that he’d spoken to Carlos and it didn’t go well. That whole situation sounded like a clusterfuck; all centered around Ferrari and the two princes who couldn’t seem to let things go.

Lewis leaned in closer to him as Charles entered hand in hand with Carlos.

“You never did tell me what was going on with Charles the other night.”

George shot him a look. “I think the tabloids did a decent job reporting on it all.”

A full page spread about Sebastian and Charles’s little private meeting, rumors about Carlos and Lando hooking up in the bathroom, and the Charles and Carlos kiss that had everyone talking. Ferrari had to be thrilled with all of the media attention.

“Besides,” said George, “I thought you weren’t interested in Charles?”

Lewis smirked at him. “I’m not. But he’s the talk of the town. There’s word of a love triangle. Or maybe it’s a hexagon at this point.”

George rolled his eyes. “Honestly, why does anyone care?”

“You don’t?”

“No!”

Lewis shook his head. “You probably should. I know all of this feels like pageantry, but it is until it isn’t. Knowing the truth about relationships can help you predict a lot of things.”

“Like what?” George asked. He didn’t see how Sebastian stringing Lance along could predict anything except an appointment extension from Lance’s father.

Before Lewis could answer, Mick entered with Mazepin. Mazepin’s suit looked like the tailor had been given the wrong sizes, but George doubted any suit could look good next to Mick Schumacher in that moment. Mick looked like he had been wearing a crown his entire life. The royal crowns were heavy, yet he wore his with grace, serenity, royalty. His golden hair made a perfect cushion, and his smile was the ghost of his father’s in a way that could inspire armies. He strode across the stage like he owned it. Mazepin bumbled along beside him, somehow separated from him even with their hands joined.

“Love gone wrong can destroy empires,” Lewis murmured as the FIA officiant began the ceremony—a longwinded tale of tradition and upholding the virtues of racing.

“Are you speaking from personal experience?” George asked carefully.

Lewis snorted, but something flashed in his eyes. “Of course.”

“Who?”

Lewis cut him a look. “The point is that you need to pay attention. You know the guys in your generation of princes, I know the guys in mine. When you’ve been around as long as I have, you start to see patterns. You start to see who makes it and who doesn’t and why.”

George narrowed his eyes. “So what do you think about me? Will I make it?”

“I think you have a shot,” Lewis replied, his voice even. “But you think you won’t fall in love.”

George scoffed, watching as Checo leaned over to whisper something to Max, his crown teetering dangerously. “You have no idea. I don’t fall for that stuff.”

“I said that too,” Lewis chuckled. “Next thing you know, someone ruins your life.”

“Someone, or the FIA?” George snapped. Something in him twisted, shoving him closer to the things he wanted to forget.

“Sometimes both,” Lewis said, his voice soft. “But it’s very hard to work this closely with people and not fall for someone. The best thing to do is to make sure you’re choosing someone dependable.”

George looked at Mick without thinking. These fuckers are all snakes.

“So why would I pick you?” he asked, keeping his voice low, though he was sure Nic was sitting there taking mental notes. “You have nothing to gain from me. I have everything to gain from you. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m retiring soon,” Lewis said. “When that happens, a lot is going to change. I want to make sure I’m leaving my empire in the hands of someone who can do something with it.”

“You sound like a brochure.”

Lewis shook his head. “Fuck, man. What’d they do to you?”

George stilled. Don’t. Don’t talk about him.

“Hey, Charles has a new watch,” Nic interrupted, jostling him with an elbow.

Charles had reached up to adjust Carlos’s crown and sure enough, a new watch glinted in the sunlight. Charles loved watches to the point that George knew all of his favorites. This one was not his usual taste. It looked old.

Lewis smiled beside him. “I know that watch.”

Both George and Nic turned to him expectantly.

Lewis kept his eyes on the stage.  “I keep trying to tell you, everything has meaning here.”

George wanted to know. Not just about the watch—he wanted to learn how to play the game. Like Sebastian did, like Lewis, like Alonso. Even Kimi played it, though he passed it off like he didn’t. Every other prince worth talking about seemed to already know how to score.

He needed an advantage, even if it came with whatever scheme Lewis was cooking up. When he found Mick on stage, they locked eyes. Mick knew the game. Blue eyes bored into his own, and Mick shook his head minutely, a movement masterfully small. Already a champion.

“Lewis,” George said, eyes still on Mick. “If you tell me about the watch, we can talk about next season. But only if you spend this season teaching me what you know. And I want to know everything.”

He didn’t care if Nic heard. Let him tell everyone. George could not lose his spot here.

Lewis stared straight ahead. Bottas was a statue beside him, his icy eyes distant. A prince already vacating the throne despite wanting it so badly. George would never be that.

“Find me at the reception,” Lewis said, “and I’ll tell you more than you ever wanted to know.”

Chapter Text

Charles looked out at the crowd beyond, praying that his crown stayed on his head. Sebastian’s watch felt snug around his wrist, warm and present. The desert sun filtered through the silkscreen awnings above, casting the venue in a soft glow. Carlos stood stiff beside him, their hands locked together uncomfortably. It was clear what was on his mind: Lando’s laughter had a habit of echoing, and Charles heard it twice before the heads of government filed in wearing their empire colors.

Binotto looked like a monk in his red robe, his dark curls and Harry Potter glasses only adding to the effect. Sebastian loathed Binotto, but Charles maintained a professional relationship with him that worked well enough.

Three cameras wandered the crowd, scanning the faces of the princes. Charles reminded himself to stay smiling, and squeezed Carlos’s hand. Only a few more minutes. The speeches were over, and those were the worst part of the whole ordeal.

When Binotto stood in front of them, he pulled a thick silk ribbon from his pocket. Each head of government produced a similar one, each to match the main color of their empire. Charles watched the red silk twirl in the light breeze, reminded of when he stood here with Sebastian not long ago, unaware of what they would become.

The FIA officiant began to drone about love and tradition as Charles lifted his and Carlos’s joined hands. He turned them so that his palm was on top, the traditional gesture of an existing prince of the empire. Binotto laid the ribbon flat over their wrists, then began to wrap it around both of their hands, tying them together.

Charles shot Carlos a grin—a fake one for the cameras. Carlos looked green. Because, of course, this was the moment that bound them as husbands. This was also the moment that bound Lando with Daniel, wiping away all trace of their marriage at McLaren.

Charles didn’t have to wait long for his nightmare to come true, as Sebastian and Stroll were first in the lineup to be wed.

“As the reigning body governing the empires, it is with that power that I hereby declare the marriage of Lance Stroll and Sebastian Vettel as the two princes appointed to govern the Aston Martin empire and claim victories in her name,” the FIA officiant boomed  from where he stood further down the line.

Charles kept his smile as he looked up at the giant screens showing the live feed of the ceremony. The officiant slipped wedding bands onto Lance and Sebastian’s fingers. The motion always looked a little awkward with both of the princes’ hands ribboned together, but fans loved that moment. Charles had seen beautiful paintings and drawings of his and Sebastian’s rings being placed on their fingers. Sebastian had said it was fitting that princes didn’t exchange rings—the FIA dictated everything, so of course they were the ones to seal a marriage.  

Sebastian smiled cheerfully, and Charles let out a breath, only to suck it in again when Sebastian kissed Lance. Hurt and betrayal lanced up his spine, and Charles averted his gaze from the screens. The rings and ribbon had already taken Sebastian away from him legally, but to see him kiss another man made it all feel a bit too real.

He’d thought Sebastian would go for the traditional kiss to the hand, or maybe even just a wave to the crowd. If only he could have been so lucky.

Carlos squeezed his hand, and Charles cleared his throat, forcing his smile back on his face without looking at him. He could do this.

The officiant moved down the line. Alonso opted for the wave after his marriage. Perez kissed Max’s hand, something even Max didn’t seem to expect. Pierre and Yuki followed up with a hand kiss, laughing at each other all the while.

Mick looked as regal as ever during his ceremony, and while Nikita looked away the moment they were announced as a couple, Mick gallantly kissed his hand. Charles raised his eyebrows, impressed at the gesture.

Mick would be dangerous in whatever empire he went to next.

“Oh fuck,” Carlos breathed as the officiant moved on to Lando and Daniel.

“Eyes up,” Charles said through his teeth. “Smile.”

Carlos stiffly followed directions. His brown eyes still looked enormously sad as he watched the monitor. Charles leaned into him, resting his chin on Carlos’s shoulder. His crown shifted a little, but Charles wanted the cameras on him, not Carlos.

“—McLaren empire and claim victories in her name.”

Ricciardo went for it. He lifted his free hand to cup Lando’s face, kissing him the way actors did in the most dramatic of romance movies. The crowd laughed, then swelled with adoration as the kiss continued—painfully long.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispered. Even he had to look away. If Lando didn’t wise up, he was going to have a serious problem on his hands.

“Our turn,” Carlos said, his voice hollow.

The officiant stepped in front of them, and Binotto handed over a red velvet box. Each prince’s wedding band was the same: simple gold. Each had the year and location of the marriage engraved inside, as well as the name of the empire and both appointed princes. Like collectable keepsakes, except once a marriage was annulled, they were not permitted to wear them in public. Some princes still wore them under their clothes if they loved the other prince enough. Charles kept his old ring in a box in his desk, too afraid to be caught with it as such a young prince. Supposedly Hamilton had been caught wearing a ring on a chain around his neck when he unzipped his driving suit several years ago, sparking rumors of whose it could be. No one ever found out, and the FIA never confirmed it was a wedding ring to begin with.

“As the reigning body governing the empires, it is with that power that I hereby declare the marriage of Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz Jr. as the two princes appointed to govern the Ferrari empire and claim victories in her name,” the officiant said. He nodded at them and Charles turned his face to Carlos with his best fake grin. Giorgio had even coached him on how to make it look more real—his lashes fell just enough, and his lips parted slightly, long before he made any move to kiss.

He kept it simple, as agreed. One kiss, the length of a few heartbeats to toe the line between lingering and professional. Charles drew away a moment later and Carlos flashed a smile, one that looked impressively real for a man with a broken heart. Charles smiled back, and they settling in for the closing of the ceremony.

The reception involved interviews throughout dinner, but afterward it became a royalty-only party. Charles tried to catch Sebastian’s eye a few times, but was flatly ignored. Figured, as Stroll was doing everything in his power to keep Sebastian interested in him.

“A drink,” Kimi said, leaning on the bar top as he offered Charles a glass.

Charles grinned and accepted it. “This is a bad idea. We have a race tomorrow.”

Kimi shrugged. “Bwoah. There is always a race. So long as you aren’t drunk in the car, no one gives a shit.”

“Yes, but being hungover doesn’t—”

“Shut up and drink, little boy,” Kimi instructed, cutting him off.

Charles obliged.

He drank two more cocktails that Kimi supplied,  but declined a fourth when the room started to dim with his buzz. He stayed close to Carlos to make sure he didn’t run off again. Daniel and Lando were acting like idiots on the dance floor, with Perez and Kimi acting as quite the background dancers.

Charles felt the moment Carlos decided to head for Lando and when he stepped away, Charles caught his wrist.

“It won’t make anything better,” he said quietly. He offered his drink to him. “It’s strong.”

Carlos hesitated for a moment, then took the drink.

He got them both another drink when Carlos finished his, and by the time his glass was empty, he knew he needed to leave.

“We have to be ready for tomorrow,” Charles said over the techno music blaring from the speakers (Bottas’s choice, apparently).

Carlos nodded once, tearing his gaze away from Lando.

They linked hands and made their exit to where Georgio waited. Once he ensured they didn’t look as drunk as they were, he shepherded them to their car. Camera flashes blinded them as they exited, and Charles did his best to look royal even though he felt like the world kept spinning around him.

 


 

Charles shed his suit jacket on the back of his desk chair in the hotel before hanging it properly on a wood hangar. He placed it in the suite closet and began to unbutton his shirt. His watch glinted in the low bedroom light, serving now as a reminder of Sebastian deciding to spend his evening with Stroll without so much as a glance his way. But Charles considered himself an adult, so he had to take Sebastian’s word for it that this was all part of the ruse. Duty to the crown.

He tossed his shirt on the floor, and his pants joined in a black puddle a moment later. Drink still made his vision slightly dimmed, a warm and pleasant buzz despite everything else.

“So, we’re married,” Charles said as he unclasped his watch and carefully returned it to its storage box.

“Yes,” Carlos answered from where he sat on the edge of the bed, working off his cuff links.

Now legally married, the empire wouldn’t be furnishing the with two bed suites. Charles was once again thankful that he didn’t have a teammate like Mazepin—he couldn’t imagine how Mick handled that situation. Then again, Mick could probably ask for two beds and the FIA would fall over itself to grant his request.

“You handled today well,” Charles said. “Better than I would have.”

Carlos smiled in a lopsided way, obviously still a little drunk. “Have to respect the sanctity of marriage.”

Charles laughed, thumbing the edge of the box. He could see Sebastian and Lance’s kiss every time he closed his eyes. He couldn’t think about what they were probably up to in the Aston Martin suite.

“Can we pretend?” Carlos asked suddenly, his dark eyes locking with his.

“Pretend what?” Charles returned, a little wary.

“Turn the lights off. Pretend I’m him, I’ll pretend you’re him. I want to.”

Charles knew the right answer was to say no, to make some claim about how it wasn’t healthy. Instead, he flicked off the bedside lamp, leaving only the weak light from the bathroom suite.

Let Sebastian be the jealous one, he thought.

He crossed to Carlos in a heartbeat, cupping his face in his hands. He imagined Sebastian’s face when Carlos kissed him, full of sweetness and passion. Hands wandered up his back and Charles found himself pressing closer, deepening the kiss, his own fingers tangling in Carlos’s curls.

“Is this okay?” Carlos whispered, and Charles shivered at the gentleness in his voice.

He thumbed at his cheekbone and kissed him again instead of answering.

Carlos tasted sweet, like fruit soda. Charles kissed him insistently, coaxing his lips to part. He felt reluctance at first, but after a few more kisses his tongue slipped past Carlos’s lips and he felt when Carlos relaxed against him.

Heat built between them as the passion intensified. Charles never imagined he would want to fuck on his wedding night when his new husband wasn’t Sebastian, but his brain no longer tried to imagine his ex. Carlos had a gifted mouth, and a talented tongue behind it. Charles had always been told he kissed well, but he knew he couldn’t match this.

Carlos pulled him into bed, and Charles willingly rolled to his back, taking the chance to run his palms over Carlos’s body. His shirt was still on, unbuttoned, and Charles didn’t think he’d ever seen anything hotter in his life, even though all he could really see was a silhouette. Carlos felt strong.  

Charles let out a soft moan when Carlos began to mouth down his neck, hitting every sensitive spot like he’d mapped them out beforehand. The stiffness and discomfort from the ceremony were gone, replaced with a cocky brand of confidence that Charles found himself helpless against.

“Up here,” he growled, tugging Carlos up to his lips again. Carlos let out a groan against his mouth as Charles captured him in a heady kiss. Fuck—had Carlos always been this good at kissing?

No wonder Lando fell so goddamn fast.

They paused for a moment to catch their breath, foreheads resting together. Charles’s lashes fluttered when Carlos settled between his legs. He wound his arms around Carlos’s neck, cracking his first true smile all day.

“Carlos—”

Lips pressed to his own, swallowing the rest of his thought. Charles allowed it, especially when Carlos ground his hips against him, eliciting a grunt of surprise as Charles fought to maintain any sort of control here.

He curled his fingers into Carlos’s hair, giving a warning tug.

Carlos froze for a moment, then ground against him again, mischievous.

When Charles let go, they pounced on each other, a tangle of limbs and tongue and teeth. Charles didn’t give a fuck if they had a race tomorrow. He could stay in this room all night if it meant—

“Lando,” Carlos breathed.

Charles immediately stilled.  “Lando?”

Oh fuck. He swallowed hard. He’d forgotten. Fuck, he’d forgotten.

Charles propped himself up on his elbows as Carlos drew back and stared down at him. The bathroom light caught his lips, now swollen and so fucking kissable it hurt to look at them.

Yet Carlos had been imagining Norris the whole time.

Charles cleared his throat. “Sorry, I—”

Mierda, no,” Carlos hissed, rolling off of him.

Charles missed the weight of him. He wanted to smack himself. He was still with Sebastian. Fucking Carlos would have been cheating.

Right?

“It’s fine,” Charles said. “Just threw me, that’s all.”

But it felt like a betrayal anyway. He was tempted to sit up and try for another kiss, but the moment slipped from him.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Carlos said, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Charles took a deep breath to try to settle himself, but his heart was clamoring for escape. “It’s okay. I would have done the same thing if you kept going like that. Fuck.”

Kiss me again. Kiss me as you.

Charles shut his eyes. He would never take a drink from Kimi ever again. All of this was because of him and his goddamn shots at the bar.

“I’m going to shower,” Charles decided, sitting up.

“Sure, yes, I’ll shower in the morning,” Carlos said.

Normally Charles would have argued that they wouldn’t have time to shower before they had to go to the paddock, but he didn’t care to correct him. Awkwardness didn’t afflict princes very often, especially in private.

Worst of all, he knew he had no reason to feel hurt or surprised. As he stepped into the bathroom, he closed the door behind him and started the shower.

As he waited for the water to warm, he grazed his tongue over his bottom lip, catching the remnants of the taste of Carlos’s mouth.

He stepped into the shower while it was still cold, sucking in a breath as the icy spray hit his chest. He couldn’t think like this. He loved Sebastian. He’d promised himself to Sebastian. And Carlos—obviously—loved Lando.

He still didn’t know Carlos well enough to know if he was capable to using a relationship against him, but Sebastian had warned him to be careful early on in their marriage. Carlos didn’t love him. Carlos never would—he’d said so just a few weeks ago.

Charles washed himself quickly, allowing the cold water to pummel sobriety into him before he returned to the bedroom, ready to explain himself.

“I hope you know I—”

Carlos lay asleep, curled on his side and facing the far wall, the comforter tucked to his chin. 

Charles set his jaw cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Right. Not a big deal. He collected a pair of sweats to slip into, then crawled into bed beside him, thankful that that mattress was large enough that they didn’t have to touch.

Perhaps Mick had the advantage in a partner he hated. 

Chapter Text

George never saw the appeal in the royal wedding reception. To him, it was a ridiculous waste of time that could be spent devising race strategy. Instead, they had to do mandatory appearances and interviews—after doing appearances and interviews at the post-ceremony photoshoot. Latifi kept him in decent spirits, but George wanted to talk to Lewis, learn what he needed to know, then head to the hotel room to prepare for the race. Williams had no chance of winning, but he needed to make a good show to catch the eyes of other empires.

The reception hall was as grand as it was every year, with domed ceilings reminiscent of the mosques—Arabic calligraphy infused with swooping lines that created an impressive masterpiece above the twinkling lights and clinking glasses. A string quartet played in one corner, but a proper sound system sat poised to start the dance music the second one of the princes let the alcohol go to his head.

George and Nic took up space on the outer edge of the action, away from the bar but not away from the party. He could feel Camilla from publicity shooting daggers into his back for not engaging with the royalty, but a private party meant he didn’t have to listen to their ideas on what would be best for the empire.

“I’m going to find Lewis,” George said after another Bartók concerto came to a close. Everyone was going to fall asleep before the party got started—not that George would mind except that he had been promised a meeting.

It didn’t take long to find Lewis. He stood with Bottas, Vettel, and Alonso, laughing at something Alonso had said. George took up a spot by the bar, noting that Kimi sounded a few drinks in as he demanded that Charles join him for his next.

Part of George wanted to interrupt the conversations of so many world champions, but even with Lewis’s promise, it didn’t feel right. Alonso, Vettel, and Hamilton stood in a class all their own. The crowns on their suits differentiated them from everyone else—even Bottas, a gifted driver in his own right, looked like a rookie standing in that circle.

George didn’t notice when Lewis clocked him, but a few moments later Hamilton slapped Vettel on the back and made a beeline straight for him.  Even his walk was cool, collected, unhurried by anything despite a looming race.

“I thought you were going to bail on me,” George greeted, his arms crossed.

Lewis smiled but didn’t answer as he leaned over the bar. “Two vodka sodas, please. With lime.”

“I don’t just drink vodka sodas, you know,” George said.

“On the attack tonight, aren’t we?” Lewis returned with a laugh, turning to face him. His dark eyes flicked over him, appraising, then met his gaze. George tried not to call him out for that too.

Lewis didn’t ask if he wanted something different to drink.

“So are we going to talk or are you going to buy a drink and blow me off?” he tried, attempting to sound practical and businesslike.

“I think the proper term is to suck you off, isn’t it?”

Lewis cracked a smirk, and George felt his face go hot, all the way to his ears.

Their drinks arrived before he could find another way to put his foot in his mouth. Lewis thanked the bartender and handed over his drink. George was all too happy to take a long sip from the glass.

“Let’s go outside,” Lewis said, jutting his chin toward an archway. Thin white curtains shifted in the breeze as they passed through them and out onto a secluded balcony. Beyond the railing, Bahrain sprawled before them in an ocean of lights twinkling against the moonlit sand. George hadn’t even known the reception venue had a balcony, and he was rather surprised no one had beat them to the spot.

Lewis wandered ahead to a place where the balcony pushed out for a better view. He propped his elbows on the railing and gazed out over the city, his glass dangling over the edge. He looked incredibly handsome, but George kept that to himself as he took up the space beside him, his back to the railing, his drink safely over the tile and not threatening any pedestrians below.

The breeze carried residual desert heat as it washed over them. The sounds of cars and parties and voices reduced to muffled nothings far below. George closed his eyes to absorb the quiet for a moment.

Only a moment.

“Tell me what you know,” he said.

“You need to tell me what you want to know first,” Lewis replied, still staring out at the city.

George pursed his lips. “Did you really go to Haas to try for Mick’s hand first?”

Lewis laughed. “That’s what you want to ask? Yeah, I did.”

“How did you arrange that?”

Lewis took a drink. “I’m the seven-time world champion, widely considered king of all the empires. Toto listens to me. You think I can’t visit another empire if I want to?”

George didn’t falter. “Mick said no to you.”

Lewis snorted. “He’s got his own ambitions. If I got him appointed to Mercedes, I’m sure he’d find a way to fuck things up before I leave.”

“He’d be a great pick,” George said. “The FIA loves him. They could get him appointed to Mercedes even if you don’t want him to be there.”

“I’m not worried,” Lewis said. “Mick is useless at Haas, and everyone knows it. That’s why they put him there, so he can’t cause trouble. Making Mazepin his husband was just the icing on the cake.” Lewis shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. “Ask a better question.”

George thought for a moment, taking in the quiet of the balcony to help settle his thoughts. He knew this might be his only chance to get information he would need to use in the near future, and though he wasn’t sure he could actually trust Lewis to tell the truth, even a half-truth would be better than nothing.

“What do you wish you would have known at my level?” he asked.

“Now that’s a good question,” Lewis said with a nod. He stood up, turning to mirror George’s pose. “You have to understand the fans and how they work with the FIA. The FIA can dictate a lot, but if the people want something bad enough, they’ll get it. That means you have to excite them—and just winning all the time doesn’t do that. Love triangles, rivalries, enemies to lovers. Have those and they’ll keep you forever.”

“You had those?”

Lewis smiled. “I made a point never to be publicly committed to a prince as a lover. But I definitely perpetuated the story about Alonso and I being together and having a terrible breakup. And Rosberg? The world is still convinced we had hate sex after every race.”

George remembered the constant tabloid articles, the news stories, the commentary. Everything in the empires had something to do with Lewis and Rosberg and what to make of their rivalry. George had been more focused on who would win the championship, but no one ever wanted to talk about that.

“Did you?” he asked.

Lewis grinned. “I don’t want to ruin your fun.”

He scowled. “You said you’d tell me whatever I wanted to know.”

Lewis looked down at his drink, a fond smile on his face.  “That I did. The answer is no. Rosberg and I were good friends once, but royalty affected both of us in ways we can’t change. We aren’t friends now. Back then we hated each other. But I still made sure to go to his trailer often, and he came to mine. We understood that we had to maintain speculation to keep in the spotlight.”

“So you never did anything with him?”

Everyone had assumed they were fucking. George remembered Vettel even talking about it during an interview, and Vettel didn’t seem to give a shit about anyone’s relationships aside from his own. George had even been under the impression that they were exes, if anything.

Lewis shook his head. “No. I always focused on winning races.”

George rolled his eyes. “How gallant.”

Lewis laughed. “I wasn’t a total square. I had my fun.”

George watched as Lewis’s eyes went distant for a moment, a rare show of emotion. He wasn’t sure Lewis even meant for him to see it.

“Were you ever in love with anyone?” George asked, tentative.

“Of course,” Lewis said. He didn’t add anything further. “How about you?”

George froze, swallowing hard. The night breeze suddenly felt much colder. “Once.”

Lewis watched him carefully. “Albon.”

Not a question, a statement.

George went red. Anger, embarrassment, and shame jumped up his throat, clambering for escape. Surely he hadn’t been that obvious.

Lewis nodded once. “I knew. Sweet guy, but he was never going to make it.”

“Don’t say that,” George snapped with all of the venom he could muster. His chest tightened painfully, a wound still raw inside him.

“It’s true, George. I know you don’t want to hear it, but he wasn’t cut out for a crown. He was too insecure and not confident enough to hide it. He had nothing to hide behind.”

“Thanks to Max.”

Max, who ignored Alex, fed him lies, pushed him to into stupid decisions on and off track and then had the gall to blame it on his own husband, who barely had enough time in the car to figure out the steering wheel before he was forced to race against princes who could win with their eyes closed.

Lewis chuckled around a sip of his drink. “Everyone gives Max too much fucking credit. He’s great on track, but he can’t hide shit.”

George furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

Lewis looked at him for a moment. Something was working behind his eyes, assessing him. George found himself straightening up a little bit in an attempt to meet expectations.

“Max is hopelessly in love with Ricciardo,” Lewis said after a moment, his voice soft.  “And Ricciardo is hopelessly in love with him. But Danny was smart enough to pick the crown over staying in Red Bull, though Renault was a horrible choice.”

George blinked stupidly. Max and Ricciardo? He assumed they had a rivalry at best, maybe a sibling type relationship, not love. He didn’t even think they liked each other anymore. His eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

Lewis grinned. “Did you see Max’s face when Perez kissed his hand today? Mortified. Max is all about tradition, old fashioned. He sees everything Danny Ric does as a betrayal. Ricciardo gets off by pissing him off, so he’s all over Lando. Why Lando lets him do that, I don’t know. It’s weak. Ricciardo’s making a fool of him.”

George couldn’t deny that Lando’s relationship with Ricciardo didn’t seem genuine, but he doubted that was because of Max Verstappen.

“The fans seem to like them—Lando and Daniel.”

“Yes,” Lewis said with a nod, “but that can get dangerous. The fans also adored Max and Daniel. And the old guard of ex-princes and the FIA don’t take kindly to people making the appointment marriages out to be a farce. That’s exactly what Daniel is doing.”

George rolled his eyes. Old guard of ex princes? He doubted the FIA listened to anyone who didn’t have a crown—they barely listened to the men with crowns.

“You’re lying,” George said. “Max would never be that stupid. He only focuses on racing and smearing whoever is unlucky enough to be his husband. I’m pretty sure he only loves his mother.”

“Pay attention, George,” Lewis said in a warning tone. “You’re believing what they’re telling the fans. I can assure almost none of that narrative is real.”

“Okay fine. But Max doesn’t approach Riccardo. Even at events like this where no one is around.”

He needed to figure out Lewis’s angle, why he would offer up this information that probably wasn’t true. Did Lewis think he might try to take Checo’s appointment?  Making it seem like Max was in love with an ex-husband and clearly a bad husband altogether because of it was a pretty good deterrent. George wanted a better empire, but he wouldn’t leave his relationship with Latifi for an asshole like Verstappen.

Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. “The FIA is always around. Start paying attention. Max and Dan have pretty much perfected their escape methods.”

George scraped his mind to try to think of a moment where Max wasn’t present at a royal gathering. He recalled him and Ricciardo missing at the Bahrain party, but Checo and  Lando had been missing too. He’d heard an FIA official ask about granting a private conversation between Leclerc, Ricciardo, and Verstappen that same night after Charles went looking for Carlos. But Charles would have said something to himby now if he caught Max and Daniel together.

Lewis caught his look. “Don’t believe me? Keep an eye out tonight. Daniel tries to hide it with his bravado, but he’s weak when it comes to Verstappen. He’s getting sloppier. Let’s go inside, time to see how good you are at spotting things.”

Lewis pushed away from the railing, stepping closer, riding the fence between too close and polite. George swallowed hard, trying not to stare at the championship crowns. Part of him wanted to run his thumb over the embroidery, just to feel what seven crowns felt like under his touch.

Instead he flicked his gaze up to Lewis, who stared right back.

“You really think we can just go inside together?” George asked.

Lewis smiled. “We’re outside together. That’s usually worse.”

George pursed his lips, his cheeks flushing pink. He had a point.

So he followed Lewis back inside. Pierre met his eye and cocked a brow at him, but other than that, no one seemed to notice their entrance together. At least, no one was making it obvious that they noticed.

They posted up at a cocktail table, Lewis still nursing his vodka soda. His eyes came alive in the warm glow of the venue, and the smile on his lips looked comfortable and genuine. George wondered if Lewis was the type to prefer being around people, or if he’d perfected looking like he did.

“Read the room,” Lewis said, glancing at him for a moment. “Tell me what you see.” Their shoulders brushed as Lewis settled closer. George kept his eyes firmly ahead.  

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Lewis rolled his eyes. “Let’s start easy. Yuki.”

George found him across the room, standing beside Pierre. Yuki already looked like he belonged in primary school even when he wasn’t surrounded by princes, but he looked even younger now, his eyes wide and puppyish. He clutched his drink with both hands, watching as Checo told a story. Checo looked like he’d been following Kimi’s lead a little too much, his hair damp with sweat and his cheeks slightly rosy.

“He’s uneasy,” George began. “Probably uncomfortable. I know he understands English well, but I can’t imagine he understands Perez’s English.”

Lewis cracked his neck, nonchalant. “Does he like Pierre?”

George examined Yuki’s closeness to Gasly, the way he stood slightly facing him, yet slightly tucked behind him. Like Pierre could physically defend him from Perez’s storytelling.

“Yes,” he decided.

“Alright, now Sebastian,” Lewis said. “He’s notorious for being difficult to read. Does he like Stroll?”

Sebastian stood at another cocktail table, an easy smile on his lips. He lifted a toast to Stroll, who was telling a story of his own. Even George could see the way Sebastian’s eyes kept flicking down to Stroll’s lips. He fought the urge to gag.

“He wants to sleep with him, but I don’t know that he likes him.”

Sebastian’s gaze flicked over to him as if he’d heard, but they were much too far away for that. His smile stayed on his lips, and George didn’t back off his staring. He  didn’t give a shit what Sebastian thought after what he’d done to Leclerc. Sebastian’s smile widened and he returned his gaze to Stroll, his eyes going slightly softer.

“No, he’s faking it,” George said quietly.

Lewis smirked. “You think so?”

“He barely knows Stroll. They don’t interact on the grid. Yet he’s acting like he’s been after him the whole time.”

He knows the cues to feed him, he wanted to add, but he didn’t want to give Lewis his entire train of thought. For some reason that still felt too risky.

Lewis cocked his head slightly. “You might be right. But sometimes it just takes being married for that attraction to come out.”

George let out a snort. “Like you and Valtteri?”

Lewis laughed. “No, not quite. Take Leclerc, for example. Didn’t want anything to do with Sebastian, now he’s making a fool of himself going after him. If I had to guess, Sebastian doesn’t like Stroll. But he’s setting the tone with Leclerc that he’s going to respect his appointment. You don’t have to be in love, but you have to have a working relationship. The occasional fuck can work out to make that happen.”

George soured. “The occasional fuck? With who—Stroll or Leclerc?”

Lewis shrugged. “Both maybe?”

Charles looked content enough talking to Carlos at the bar. At least they were a good match, though George didn’t think he would ever forgive Sebastian for stringing Charles along like he was, leading him to believe that he would retire and go be with him.

He scanned the room again, catching as Ricciardo lifted a drink high in the air, one arm slung around Perez’s shoulders as they sang some Spanish song. George clocked Max nursing a drink on the sidelines, eyes on his current and ex husbands.

“I don’t fuck Latifi,” George finally said, though he wasn’t sure what he was trying to get across with that statement.

“Friendship only works for people you can be friends with,” Lewis said. “You have to build a partnership: platonic, romantic, or strictly professional. Valtteri and I are pretty professional, but I’d say we’re friends when we’re not on track.”

George fought the urge to laugh. Bottas didn’t seem to like Hamilton’s company in any instance.

Lewis didn’t seem to notice his lack of response. “Mick is going to have a difficult season with Mazepin. So is Alonso, but he’s used to that; speaking as one of his ex-husbands.”

George bit his lip, hiding a grin. “Didn’t he demand a divorce in the middle of the season?”

Lewis shrugged, a smile on his face. “We had our differences. We respect each other now. At the time he couldn’t see that he was a fading champion.”

“I like Mick, though. I don’t think he deserves to be stuck with the likes of Nikita.”

“And Mick likes you,” Lewis said, leaning into him just enough that their shoulders pressed together. “He tried to warn you about me, didn’t he?”

George’s eyes went wide for only a moment before he schooled his expression. “Yeah. He let me know I was second  best, anyway.”

Which, now that he thought about it, was a master play if Mick was trying to get Hamilton to work harder for him. Stoking the fire for a love triangle always made for good news. But George couldn’t see Mick stooping to that level. He already had a silver spoon in his mouth, why stir up unnecessary drama?

“Second best? Not quite,” Lewis said.

“Second choice, then,” George returned, not skipping a beat.

“My first choice would have been a mistake.”

George looked away. Ricciardo stumbled off the dance floor, his drink replaced with a water bottle. A water bottle gushing water everywhere but into his mouth. Lando had doubled over with laughter, his arm now slung around Checo’s shoulders. Kimi toted another drink, and even Bottas had joined them, smiling and talking as though he was in an interview and not surrounded by friends.

“I’m gonna piss, then it’s over for you motherfuckers!” Daniel shouted as he tumbled out. His water bottle bounced on the floor, skittering to Lewis’s feet.

“Idiots,” Lewis muttered.

“Oh come on,” George said. “You’ve never gotten drunk with the guys?”

“I get enough shit just for wearing my hair in braids,” Lewis said, picking up the water bottle. “When I get drunk, it’s at my own place so no one can say fuck all about it.”

George grimaced. “Fuck.”

“I worked too hard to get where I’m at to ruin it by drinking myself stupid.” Lewis tossed the bottle. It flipped through the air in a clean arc, landing squarely in the nearby bin. Always perfect.

“So you think staging a relationship with me won’t tarnish that?” George asked.

Lewis blinked. “I’m not staging anything.”

George’s eyes narrowed. “You barely know me.”

“I keep telling you: part of being an elite prince is knowing people better than they know themselves sometimes.”

He doubted Lewis knew him well enough to want him as a husband. “So what’s your plan then?”

“You need to try a fake relationship before you deal with me,” Lewis said, ignoring the question. “Schumacher. He’s the perfect pick. He already likes you, and the media would love to see that love triangle since everyone knows you have nothing with Latifi.”

“Mick is my friend,” George growled.

“Then it’ll be easier for you to fake it.”

“And what will you do while I’m doing that?” George asked. “Try for Lando or Charles or someone else while you wait?”

Lewis leaned in, so close that George could see freckles on his cheeks he’d never noticed before. “I made my choice. I’m just making yours a little easier.”

He smiled that smile that made George have to hold himself together, then Lewis stepped away to Alonso, who had been walking toward them. George hadn’t even noticed. Alonso slapped Lewis’s back, grinning wide as they began to discuss something George couldn’t hear.

He took a long sip of his drink and scanned the dance floor as a new song started up. Ricciardo still hadn’t returned. His eyes wandered over the rest of the royals. Latifi was talking to Ocon. Perez stood with his arm still hooked around Lando, laughing obnoxiously.  Charles and Carlos must have left, because their spot at the bar sat open.  But the numbers didn’t match up. He counted heads again, subtracting Ferrari from the mix.

Then George realized that Max was missing too.

Chapter Text

Charles threw off his helmet as he entered the  Ferrari garage. He shoved it into the waiting arms of a disappointed engineer and stormed back toward the team office to try to make sense of what had gone so horribly wrong. Sixth place for Ferrari was an insult to the empire. Sixth and eighth was unforgivable. Charles knew it wasn’t the team’s fault--most of the blame rested with one man. The man who had been in charge of what turned out to be a horrific strategy.

“You want to explain to me what happened out there?” Charles demanded as he stormed into Binotto’s office. Binotto looked up from a stack of papers, squinting at him as though he didn’t recognize him.  

“What are you talking about?” Binotto asked, pen still poised in his fingers.

“Did you notice I placed sixth, or were you too focused on skipping the briefing?”

“I will try again. What are you going on about?” Binotto put down the pen, lips settling into a frown. “Of course it isn’t the result we wanted, but what can we do? Mercedes was built for Bahrain, we are not.”

The door opened beside him, and Charles shot a withering glare at the intruder until he realized it was Carlos, jaw clenched and none to happy. His hair was a mess without a cap on, mirrored by the stormy look in his eyes.

“So your solution is to sit back here signing papers?” Charles hissed, returning his attention to Binotto.

“Better than moping,” Binotto replied.

Charles fumed. “We should at least be head to head with Verstappen. Instead we’ve fallen behind Perez, not to mention Lando Norris in a McLaren!”

“It is the first race,” Binotto said as he began signing again. “We have the entire season to improve. You both earned points today, you should be happy. Go party or whatever you plan to do with your evening. We leave for home first thing tomorrow.”

“We leave when we get on our private jet,” Charles shot back. It wasn’t much of a comeback, but he hadn’t worked for an appointment with Ferrari only to be smashed in the races. Their standing as one of the most powerful empires would falter if they kept performing like a midfield kingdom.

Charles wheeled around to where Carlos blocked his exit. “Move,” he growled.

Carlos stepped aside to give him access to the door. Charles shoved it open and made a beeline for the press, eager to feed in as many insults to Binotto as he could get away with. He didn’t mind testing those limits.

“Charles.”

He paused midstep and turned as Carlos jogged up to him.

“Don’t talk to them,” Carlos said, gesturing toward the line of waiting reporters. “It’ll only bite you in the ass.” He shot him a wink. “And make me look better than you.”

Charles slackjawed for only a second before his scowl resurfaced. “Binotto is abandoning us. During the first race of the season. What do you think that means?”

“He’s an idiot,” Carlos offered, smiling. “Come. We can walk the paddock and see if you still think he’s worth yelling about by the time we’re back.”

The unspoken meaning: It’s our last chance to see the other princes before we’re trapped at home for three weeks.

Charles sighed. “Fine.” Teams were already beginning to pack up garages, and the podium finishers were probably still schmoozing with the FIA. “But doesn’t it bother you?”

“Of course,” Carlos replied. “But it has more impact if it bothers you during the weekday in those briefings. That way they know you have a level head. They think we’re young and stupid.”

Charles couldn’t deny that. So he took a breath and gestured for Carlos to take the lead on a paddock walk.

They waved to Kimi and Antonio where they lounged in beach chairs outside of their garage. Giovinazzi waved back, his other hand occupied with what appeared to be a mimosa. Kimi was using both hands to drink a pitcher of beer, but raise his eyebrows over his Ray-Bans in greeting.

The desert heat scorched Charles in his undershirt, especially around the waist where his driving suit rested unzipped, but he  didn’t want to go back to the air conditioning and end the weekend just yet. Returning to Italy meant it would be three weeks until they saw any other princes, and with the season now in full swing, he doubted Sebastian would have much time to send letters, or Charles to respond to them.

“Carlooooos!” Lando burst from the McLaren garage, running up to them with a crooked grin.

Charles noticed Carlos tense, but a moment later Carlos opened his arms and Lando jumped right into them for a full body bear hug.

No wonder Binotto thought they were children.

“Fourth,” Carlos greeted, spinning around once before depositing Lando back on the ground. “Congratulations, my friend.”

That soft voice again.

“Congratulations, Lando,” Charles added.

“Fucking crazy, right?” Lando exclaimed, releasing his hold on Carlos. “I can’t believe it!”

“What are you doing tonight to celebrate?” Carlos asked. Charles could see that his smile was cracked at the edges.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lando said, laughing. “Daniel said there’s this crazy building here with some ridiculous restaurant inside, so I think we’ll do that.  God, I wish you could come with us. Think we could convince the FIA?”

“Not unless our empires were both on the podium,” Charles replied, though he knew Lando hadn’t been talking to him. He also knew that Lando knew the rules like everyone else. He was just torturing Carlos. Again.

“That restaurant sounds fun,” Carlos said before Lando could respond.

Fun? Charles fought not to cock a brow. Carlos never used the word “fun” about anything.

“Want to look at the menu with me?” Lando asked. “We can see if they have that stupid spicy shrimp you like.”

Charles opened his mouth to reply, but Carlos stuffed an elbow into his stomach, effectively silencing him.

“Everyone knows Brits can’t order for themselves if they want to eat anything with flavor,” Carlos replied. He stuck out a hand. “Come on, let me see it.”

Lando grinned, pulling out his phone. He sidled up next to Carlos, too close, too intimate.

Charles took a step back. Carlos could make his own decisions, and he’d clearly made this one.  

Two garages down, the cool green of the Aston Martin livery beckoned him. Charles decided he had his own bad decision to make as he stepped away from Carlos and Lando. Neither of them noticed his exit as they parsed out the restaurant menu.

Sebastian stood at the front of his car outside the garage, still dressed in his full driving suit and helmet, despite the heat. Charles swallowed hard, hesitating a moment at the sight of him. He missed that face of pure concentration, those gears turning in ways no one else with a crown could match. Sebastian looked up as Charles approached.

“Not the result you wanted, hm?” Charles greeted, moving to stand beside him to pretend to inspect whatever Sebastian had been looking at on the car.

“Yours either,” Sebastian said, tugging at his gloves.

“No,” Charles said, unable to keep himself from smiling at the pinched-cheeks look that Sebastian’s helmet gave him.  

“Easy to tell why,” Sebastian said.

Charles cocked a brow, unsure of his meaning, and Sebastian grasped his wrist, turning his arm where his watch glimmered in the late afternoon sun.  

“A Pilot today?”

Charles tugged his wrist away, a playful smile on his lips. “I can’t wear yours all the time.”

Sebastian grinned under his helmet. “I’d allow it.”

“I know you would. I’m more concerned about the FIA.”

Sebastian tugged him closer, and they both knew that no cameras would be on them now, not when Hamilton’s first place champagne was still wet on the podium floor.

“Where’s Stroll?” Charles asked, raising his brows.

“Gloating.”

Sebastian reached up, tugging his helmet off. He nodded toward the interior of the Aston Martin garage and headed inside without another word. Charles glanced around before following him.

He assumed the rest of the team was still going through post-race reports, but they wouldn’t have long before mechanics and engineers returned, and Stroll could come back from his gloating at any time. Charles doubted Stroll would be thrilled to see him alone in the garage with his new husband.

“How was your wedding night?” Sebastian asked as he set his helmet on a workbench.

Charles smiled, though his insides shriveled at the thought of Carlos calling him by the wrong name. “Not like ours.”

“I figured,” Sebastian chuckled.

Sebastian had arranged a nice dinner. Wine, roses, a full simulator racing setup identical to the one Charles used to race with over the summers. Sebastian set a tone for a respectful and unhurried relationship, platonic or romantic. Charles spent that night assuming it would be the former. How wrong he’d been then. How stupid.

“I liked it though,” Charles made sure to say. Carlos didn’t deserve for anyone—even Sebastian—to think he hadn’t done what he could to make Charles happy. In a way, he’d been doing his best to make them both comfortable.

Sebastian watched him carefully. “Did you fuck?”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Did you?”

The look on Sebastian’s face told him everything he needed to know. Hurt lanced through Charles’s chest, even as Sebastian closed the distance between them, cupping his face in his hands.

“Char, you know—”

“Yes, I do know,” Charles said, stepping away. He could feel cold rushing in where Sebastian’s hands had been.

He was no better than Carlos. Hopelessly ensnared in this. Lost to a man he couldn’t have. But at least he and Sebastian were discreet. Though sometimes he did wish Sebastian made a public effort like Lando, just to show that changing empires didn’t necessarily change them.

“I should go,” Charles said. Better to leave before--

Sebastian closed the distance between them and kissed him, his lips light and comforting against his own. Charles closed his eyes on instinct, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. Sebastian still tasted the same as he always did after a race. Still smelled the same, felt the same against him.

But Charles found himself thinking of Carlos. The soft look in his eyes in the hotel room, the smile he’d flashed at the reception as he gently guided Kimi away from them both.

More than that, he thought of the Carlos he’d just abandoned in the paddock. The one who stood by his side while he yelled at Binotto, mute but powerful in the shadows. The mussed hair, dark eyes narrowed, the exact opposite of the sunny man they portrayed in PR stints. The Carlos in the garage had teeth, claws, and drive.

And beneath that, he was a good man, as Charles had begun to see.

He pulled away, gaze flicking over Sebastian’s lips once more. The want didn’t feel the same. Not when he knew Sebastian would be going right back to Stroll and flirting unabashedly. Carlos looking handsome in the paddock couldn’t tempt him away from Sebastian, but watching the man he loved pretend to love someone else? It drained him. Even more to see the giddy look in Stroll’s eyes—a boy no one thought could love anything but money and a crown.

“He likes you a lot,” Charles said, picking at the cuff of his undershirt. Sweat clung to his wrists even with the wicking fabric.

“I know he does,” Sebastian replied. “Stupid of him.”

Charles glanced up at him, head cocking slightly. Sebastian held his gaze, calm and collected.

Sebastian never seemed affected by any of the doubts that plagued Charles at night. Even in his letters he only spoke about their relationship, their respective empires, or the races. He never even crossed anything out when he wrote, like he had copied it from somewhere else.

Charles took a step back.

“You feel something for him,” Sebastian said, matter of fact. He didn’t even blink.

Charles looked away to the Aston Martin crest on the wall. “For Carlos? Yes. Pity, I think. He’s hopelessly in love with Norris.”

“That’s normal,” Sebastian continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “You spend a lot of time together, and everyone is doing what they can to encourage a real match. I’m not offended by it.”

Charles cut him a look. “Clearly.”

Sebastian smiled. “It took me so long to get past that thick skin of yours, and now you shut me out over Stroll? Tsk tsk.”

“I’m just considering the fact that we won’t be together for at least a year,” Charles said, able to meet Sebastian’s eye this time. “And then what, you’ll retire? I know you won’t. Not unless they force you out.”

Sebastian’s smile fell. “So you think I’ll choose the crown over you.”

“I know you will,” Charles said. His heart wrenched as soon as the words came out, because he wanted them to be untrue. He wanted Sebastian to stay with him in Maranello again, but he knew that would be torture for a man who had grown up with a crown. Charles would be the same way.

“It isn’t that easy,” Sebastian said quietly, pulling him in by the wrists. “Come here.”

Charles thought to pull away, but he had spent too many nights dreaming about having another chance with Sebastian again. So he tucked himself against Sebastian’s chest, grinning against the warmth of his driving suit.

“You smell terrible,” he murmured, but he nuzzled against him anyway.

“You think you smell any better?” Sebastian laughed, his arms winding tight around him. Charles kept his own hold firm, but he prepared himself to bolt at any moment should anyone come in. Judging by the cheering outside, he doubted that would be anytime soon.

“I want to be done with all of this hiding,” Sebastian said quietly, resting his cheek against Charles’s temple. “I’m tired of the FIA, of considering everyone else’s bureaucracy before I can life my own life. I’ve been doing this for too long.”

Charles could understand. “So you wouldn’t mind coming to Maranello to be with me?”

“No,” Sebastian chuckled. “I think I would like that very much.”

“You say that now, but what about when I’m acting as a prince and you’re not? And what about Carlos?”

Sebastian held him a little tighter. “I’m not worried about that. Plenty of other princes have done the same. It may be more difficult for me to get away with it since I’ll still be in the spotlight, but I will fade. And Carlos will only be a problem if he chooses to be.”

Charles wasn’t so sure. Carlos had proved to be earnest today, to do the best he could for Ferrari. He wasn’t sure that entailed allowing his new husband to keep an ex husband under the same roof. Or even inside the same empire.

“You doubt me,” Sebastian said.

Charles shook his head. “No. I just wonder about Carlos.” He leaned back, pressing a kiss to Sebastian’s cheek. “And Stroll. You’re being reckless having me here right now.”

Sebastian shrugged, grinning. “I spun out today. I needed something to savor before I’m attacked with memes.”

Charles smiled fondly, his chest growing warm with affection. “Spinning or not spinning, you’re still my favorite champion. No one even comes close.”

Sebastian laughed. “Don’t say that too loudly, Lewis might come crashing in.”

Sounds of someone talking reached their ears, and Charles quickly ducked out of Sebastian’s hold, adjusting his hat before folding his arms over his chest. He tried to appear as professional as possible as a few mechanics walked into the garage. Sebastian waved to them and they waved back, glancing at Charles, who nodded to them, before continuing their conversation about gearboxes.

“I should go,” Charles said, again. This time he wouldn’t be persuaded to stay.

“I’ll try to give Stroll a cold shoulder for you,” Sebastian said.

Charles rolled his eyes. “No you won’t.”

Sebastian smirked, his eyes mischievous. “Give one to Carlos for me?”

Charles smiled, shaking his head as he retreated from the garage. “You know I won’t.”

He took one last look at Sebastian, trying to etch the moment into his mind. It would be three weeks until they saw each other again. Three fucking weeks where Stroll would see him daily.

Sebastian winked at him and Charles ducked out before he could entertain the idea of running back and begging to stay in Aston Martin.

He would never give up his crown for anyone, not even Sebastian.

Charles found Carlos at the Ferrari garage ten minutes later, discussing the race with one of the team engineers. His gaze was too focused, his earlier paddock cockiness once again replaced with a kind of insecurity only visible to Charles in the tension of his shoulders and the downward tilt of his chin.

“Charles,” Carlos greeted, straightening at the sight of him. “I was looking for you.”

“You were?” Charles replied, slotting into place next to him, crossing his arms. “I’m right here.”

“Are you all right?” Carlos asked, his tone full of genuine concern.

Charles had expected questions about race tactics, or to be ignored entirely while Carlos spoke with the engineer. Not questions about his wellbeing.

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, brow furrowing.

Carlos looked at him for a moment too long. “No reason,” he finally said. Then he turned back to the engineer. “My apologies. You were discussing turn seventeen.”

Charles settled in to listen, but a moment later Carlos leaned into his side. Just slightly, so subtle that the engineer didn’t notice as she laid out the conditions of Imola’s speed trap just past turn seventeen. He glanced at Carlos, but the other prince kept his gaze firmly on the engineer. So it was intentional, then.

Charles swallowed hard and reminded himself that Carlos wanted Lando. Anything he did to suggest the contrary had to be part of some ploy. Some way to get him distracted from Sebastian, or the crown.

He stepped away at the next pause in the engineer’s analysis.

“I’ll see you both at the briefing. I’m afraid I have some press coverage to deal with.”

Carlos didn’t look like he believed him, but he smiled anyway. “Have fun. I’ll see you at dinner?”

Charles nodded. “See you then.”

As he headed back toward his trailer to shower, he fought down the lump forming in his throat. Three weeks. He had to manage it. Somehow, he had to manage it.

 

Chapter Text

“Bloody hell, they’re doing randomized interviews,” George said as he scrolled down in his email. He leaned forward in his lounge chair, straddling it as he continued to read.

The withered branches of an olive tree crackled in the spring breeze above where he sat with Latifi. Latifi lowered his sunglasses and leaned over to grab his own phone, his face slightly puffy from lack of sleep.

“Fuck. What’s that even mean?”

Nic sounded like he’d been napping, though they hadn’t been sitting—or, lounging—very long at all.

George couldn’t blame him, Tuscany was boring when they were trapped on the William’s consulate estate. Only Ferrari and non-royalty were allowed to venture out until the press conferences. The FIA liked to keep reunion drama as juicy as possible after such a long break, but they claimed it was a security concern.

“Oh fuck,” George groaned. “I’m in an interview with Stroll.”

Latifi laughed. “You mean an interview with yourself?”

George smirked. “You’re with Ricciardo. Good luck getting a word in.”

Nic’s smile vanished. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Read your email, asshole.”

Nic dropped himself back in his lounger, depositing his phone on the small table between them. “Great. If I’m lucky I’ll walk out with nothing. Otherwise I’m walking out as a meme.”

George laughed. “Come on, mate. It won’t be so bad. Everyone is going to be talking about Lewis and Sebastian anyway, they haven’t been interviewed together for years.”

He looked up as a young woman descended the steps onto the piazza, a two envelopes in hand.

“Let me guess, both of those are for George?” Nic asked, pushing his sunglasses back up.

“Uh, there are three,” the young woman said, extending them toward George. “But yes. I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

Latifi snorted. “Do you know what time press interviews are?”

The woman bit the inside of her cheek. “I believe yours it tomorrow at eleven. His Royal Highness Prince George has his directly following, with His Royal—”

“Just use their names,” Latifi groaned. “Permission granted, or whatever.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the woman said with a quick nod. “George’s interview is after yours, with Lance Stroll. Just after lunch tomorrow.”

“And what about Hamilton and Vettel?”

“Three o’clock,” she answered.

“Prime time,” George muttered. He nodded to the woman. “Thank you very much.”

She hurried away and he fanned out the envelopes. The first was a shimmering gold, with a red wax seal of Ferrari on the back, with “CL” beneath the rearing horse. Charles.

The next was a crisp white, with a blue wax seal—an encircled H with “MS” beneath. Mick.

George opened Mick’s first.

 

George,

 

Sorry to write so close to the festivities. Hope you’re well.

I was hoping to speak with you in the pit this weekend. I’m assuming your schedule is busier than mine, so come by when you have the chance.  

I’ll make time.

 

- MS

 

George folded up the letter and his eyes caught the cool silver of the final envelope he’d forgotten to look at. His heart leapt to his throat as he recognized Lewis’s crest in the black wax seal.

“Man, can you explain to me how you went from zero to three guys coming after you?” Nic sighed. “I mean, I love my girlfriend and everything, but if Gasly wanted to take a pass at me I’d—”

“Shut up,” George said with a roll of his eyes. “It’s only two, for the record. Charles is in love with Vettel.”

“Just Vettel?” Nic settled deeper into his lounger. “I’d say he’s got heart eyes for Carlos too. Ferrari is sending them on road trips together—did you see those videos? They’re hilarious. Sainz is so awkward and Charles is just—“ He shrugged. “Charles is a male model who also happens to be good at driving a car.”

George frowned. “He’s very good at being in front of a camera too.”

“You’re picking Lewis, right?” Nic asked.

George looked over at him, trying to discern his mood. “I’m not sure yet, why? Falling in love with me?”

Nic grinned. “You wish.” He reached up to lower his sunglasses again. “Lewis just gives me a bad vibe, that’s all. Something’s up with him.”

George narrowed his eyes. “ A bad vibe?”

Nic shrugged. “I mean, he’s not nervous around you. At all. When you actually like someone, you’re nervous, you know?”

George looked back at his envelopes. “I think he’s nervous. He’s just learned to show it in a different way. He’s a pretty private person.”

Now you’re talking out of your ass. He hadn’t spoken to Lewis since Bahrain, after the post-race party bartender brought him a goddamn vodka soda he didn’t ask for, only to see Lewis grinning at him from across the bar. Their conversation was short: congratulations on the win, see you in Italy. Professional. Succinct.

He opened the envelope.

 

George,

 

Been thinking about you. Got home three weeks ago and haven’t stopped really. Maybe that’s silly of me to say. Especially since I haven’t written you anything these past three weeks.  

This weekend will be tough. Keep your head down and press on. Williams should be proud to have a prince like you on their side.

Hope to see you very soon.

 

- Lewis

 

George swallowed hard, glancing over at Latifi to see if he’d been reading over his shoulder.

Nic grinned. “You can hand it over, you know. But I won’t pry.”

George stuffed the letter back in the envelope and hurriedly opened Leclerc’s, trying not to think about Lewis Hamilton thinking about him for three weeks straight.

“It was a very nice letter,” George said.

“I’m surprised there isn’t a room key with it, with the look on your face.”

He blushed harder, then shook it off and began to read Leclerc’s letter.

 

George,

 

Welcome to Italy. Thanks for the letter last week, sorry I haven’t written back. Press like crazy this week. I think you’re right about Pierre—can’t wait to see him (and you) this weekend. It’s so boring here without all of you.

I’ve gotten letters from Sebastian every few days or so. Must have really made him worried after Bahrain. He’s doing well, apparently they were even allowed a trip during the break. He said he went home to Germany. He sounded better after he got back. I miss him more than I think I should admit in writing.

Great to hear about you and Lewis, and I understand how it’s probably daunting, maybe doubt-inducing. If he really wants you at his side, let him do the work. It’s really no use trying things the other way around—Sebastian was the same. Play hard to get! I know it can be difficult.

As for Carlos, he’s okay. Whatever happened between us in Bahrain has fizzled out. Lando writes him every few days as well, and each time he reads a letter he’s more and more withdrawn. Please speak to him if you can. I’m worried Binotto will start to notice, but I know Carlos won’t hear it from me.

Three weeks feels like torture nowadays. I hope it’s better with a good friend like Latifi. Maybe Carlos and I will be as close some day, but right now I don’t even know what to say to him.

Anyway, hope you’re enjoying Tuscany.

 

-Charles

 

George stuffed the letter back into the envelop and got to his feet. He didn’t know how to handle Mick or Lewis at this point, but he knew he could at least try to make things easier for Charles. Much like Nic had a “bad vibe” about Lewis, George didn’t trust Sebastian’s warm smile and kind eyes worth a damn when it came to Charles.

“Where are you going?” Nic asked.

“I need to find Kayla. I can’t let Stroll beat me out in this interview.”

Nic groaned. “That means I have to ask her about Ricciardo.”

George offered his hand. “Yes, you do. In fact, I have a few questions that might help you come out on top of that one.”

 


 

George smoothed a wrinkle in his William’s polo as he waited to enter the press room. He wasn’t allowed to view the monitors to see what was happening with Latifi and Ricciardo, but he had to guess things were going well for Nic because McLaren publicity had been scurrying around, frantic. When he entered the waiting room, only one publicist had been huddled with the rest of the FIA officials around the monitor, staring disinterestedly at the screen as she listened to the interview through her headphones.

He’d watched the moment her gaze snapped to attention, and less than a minute later two more McLaren team members came into the room.

Now there were five, all of them texting and whispering. George smiled. He hoped Lewis watched the interview and caught on to what he’d been able to arrange. He could play this game. Assuming Latifi could follow through.

When the door to the press room opened, George looked up to see Ricciardo standing in the threshold, eyes blazing.

“Mind telling me what the fuck just happened in there?” Ricciardo snarled at the McLaren team, who collectively shrank back.

The original publicist stepped forward, extending a McLaren cap for him to wear on his walk back to the team garage. Daniel didn’t even look down at it before he stormed past.

George stood up, rushing to the press room door. Latifi had a smile on his face as he walked up, and George sighed with relief.

“I’m guessing it went well?” George asked.

Nic grinned even wider. “Everything happened just like you said it would. It was like I was reading off a script!”

Lewis would definitely see, and he would definitely know who to thank for a bit of extra drama to the weekend.

“Look at you,” George said, clapping Nic on the back. “Making waves.”

“Trying to. We’ll see what McLaren manages to get cut from the interview.”

“George!” Kayla, their publicist, called from inside the waiting room. “Time for final touches.”

“That’s my cue,” George said. “I’ll see you back at the estate?”

Nic nodded. “Have fun. But not too much fun. Stroll’s dad might kill you.”

Makeup and hair touchups didn’t take long. Stroll arrived fashionably late, on brand.

“Hey George,” Lance greeted. Like they were friends. Like they ever talked.

“Stroll,” he returned, tipping his chin up as his makeup artist applied the final dabs of foundation to his jawline.

“How was your break?” Stroll asked as his makeup artist hurried to him, her clear bag of makeup swinging under her arm.

George cast him a sideways glance. They weren’t friends.

Which meant Stroll wanted him to ask how his break was.

“Fine,” George replied. “Relaxing. Lots of testing, but nothing crazy.”

He paused, letting the silence linger for a moment as Stroll readied himself to ask something else.

“What about you?” George finally asked. “Anything fun?”

Stroll grinned. “Yeah, actually. I got to drive Sebastian’s Merc SL65. And his La Ferrari.”

George cocked a brow. “Nice. Did he take you out?”

“No, man. He let me drive them myself. Full pick of the garage.”

Something unraveled in George’s gut. “No kidding. He must really trust you.”

Lance’s grin threated to split his face. “You think? He’s fucking wrapped around my—"

“Prince George, Prince Lance,” and FIA official greeted, interrupting them. “It’s time to begin the press conference.”

“Thank you,” George replied when Lance, sitting closest to the official, said nothing.

They were herded into the press room, where two chairs had been set up for them. Reporters sat behind a velvet rope, scribbling furiously in notepads and clacking away on phone screens and a few laptops. Lance didn’t seem to notice the fervor as he took his seat in the chair, swishing water in his cheeks from his water bottle.

George fought not to grimace.

The questions revolved mostly around the race. If they liked Italian food, if they had plans to see the sights after the race. How the car felt, if they expected to improve from Bahrain. George answered each one with his typical PR responses, canned, funny when they needed to be. And he waited. And waited. Until the topic of marriage couldn’t be put off any longer.

“Now,” their main interviewer began, “I think it’s no secret that the fans want to hear all about how things are going in your marriages. George, any changes to report?”

George smiled, glancing at Stroll. “Come on, Mark. No one wants to hear about my marriage. Lance, how are things going with Sebastian?”

The reporters laughed. Stroll flashed that stupid grin again, readjusting himself in the chair in a way that exuded false confidence.

“They’re going really fu—" He paused, catching himself. “They’re going great.”

“Any fights?” the interviewer asked. “I imagine there are differences in opinion with a former world champion.”

“Nah, we don’t really fight.” Stroll shrugged. “He’s got a lot of good advice for driving, and we’re getting closer every day.”

“Do you guys go on dates?” George asked, fingers curled beneath his chin in a show of casual interest. “I’ve always wondered how that works. You know, with a former world champion.”

He could see Stroll’s body language change to something more relaxed. Stroll liked Sebastian. Maybe he was already in love with him. And he was too stupid to realize one of George’s closest friends had already been with Sebastian, so he already knew exactly what being married to him entailed.  

“Sebastian’s a real romantic,” Lance said with a chuckle. “I’m not used to it. He always finds these amazing places to go to in Aston Martin—places I didn’t even know about and I’ve been living here my whole life.”

“So, like, dinner by candlelight or something?” George tried, smiling.

The reporters stared, but George had Lance looking at him, not them. Just a conversation between two princes. Easy, carefree.

“Nah. Way more than that. The other weekend we rented a car and he drove me to this cabin in the mountains and we had a whole spread. Whole weekend to ourselves.”

George lifted his brows. “Like, off the grid?”

“Yeah. He’s a really good cook. Made all of this stuff—”

Potato dumplings, pulled chicken, gouda cheese sausage—

“—and this amazing apple strudel,” Lance finished.

“Sounds quite romantic indeed!” the reporter laughed.

“Latifi better shape up,” George joked.

Laughter from the crowd. An injection of confidence into Stroll.

“And when he went to Germany—"

“He went to Germany?” the reporter asked.

Lance blinked. “Yeah, he went home during the break. Went to see family.”

“Get on with the story!” George urged. Sebastian going to Germany was hardly news.

“Alright, alright!” Stroll laughed. “He went to Germany and I woke up to—"

A handwritten note, a fresh coffee, and the keys to his garage to take whatever I wanted out for a spin.

“I picked Mercedes SL65 AMG,” Lance finished. “What a dream.”

Equal parts dread and anticipation settled in George’s stomach.  He turned his gaze from Stroll to look directly into the camera, just for a moment, to drive it all home.

“What a prince, I think,” George said with a grin. “Latifi hasn’t even gifted me a cup of coffee from his family business. I think I’m going to file for divorce.”

More laughter. Stroll settled back in his seat, smug.

Of course, Stroll had no idea that his beloved husband had arranged the exact same weekend getaway, the exact same meal, and the exact same going away present for someone else. George hadn’t known it going into this interview, but he remembered Charles talking about that SL65. Sebastian never would have pulled out the stops for him. Recycling old moves, old dates, old presents, made everything easier.

Leclerc was getting played—just like Stroll.  

I’m sorry, Charles, George thought. But it’s time to move on.

Chapter Text

On Saturday morning, Charles watched Ricciardo and Latifi’s interview from the safety of his trailer. Thankfully, he’d chosen the same spot to watch George and Lance’s interview, or else the tears running down his face would have surely been caught on camera.

He refused to believe Sebastian did it with malicious intent. Sebastian had said himself that he should start looking for patterns, that these types of things were secret compliments. Secret ways of affirming that they were the ones still in love, not him and Stroll.

But it still made Charles sick to see Stroll so excited over the exact same details of what Charles had thought was a unique aspect of their relationship. Everything down to the goddamn cup of coffee.

His phone buzzed with a text from Carlos—the only person allowed to text him who wasn’t also paying him.

Are you okay?

God. Couldn’t he ask anything else, ever?

Yes, Charles responded instantly.

“—actually, I noticed you and Lando have really gotten on,” Latifi was saying through the phone speakers.

“Oh yeah, what a guy,” Ricciardo said. “Didn’t think we’d get along so well. Sucks you and George are just friends, mate. You’re really missing out.”

Latifi laughed. “George and I are great. I think even when we aren’t married we’ll still be very close. Like you and Max.”

Daniel’s smile flickered for only a second, but Charles knew him well enough to catch it. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath to settle himself. He had to watch every interview before he walked out into the paddock for qualifying.

“Yeah, Max and I still get along great,” Ricciardo said. “We had our differences, but it’s nice to see him at parties and all that.”

“How about Hulkenberg, or Ocon?” the reporter butted in. “Still get along with them?”

“Oh yeah,” Daniel said. “I just caught up with Esteban in Bahrain last week. Things are going great for him.”

Charles bit the inside of his cheek, watching as Daniel seemed to realize at the same time as everyone else that he’d blatantly lied. Everyone knew Alonso and Ocon didn’t like each other much at all.

Take whatever you want out for a spin. With love, S.

He still had that note in his nightstand in Monaco, tucked safely in a book.

“The wedding reception was killer this year,” Daniel said. “I was just—”

Daniel started dancing in his chair.

“I was just vibing, you know? Everyone was vibing.”

Everyone laughed. Latifi took a long sip of water before speaking. “Except Max. Him and I spent the whole reception together.

“You spent the evening with Max?” the interviewer asked. “I didn’t know you two were friends.”

Latifi shrugged. “We’re not ABBA fans. I tried to catch up on the Red Bull dirt.”

“Anything to share with the class?” the interviewer asked.

“Come on, you think—”

“Bro, what are you doing?” Ricciardo interrupted. “You were at the bar the whole party.”

Charles blinked, suddenly realizing that Daniel had abandoned his smile. He’d missed something earlier in the interview. Something set Dan off.

Nic blinked, looking surprised. “What? I was with Verstappen, man. He kept ordering a terrible wine.” He looked toward the audience. “He let me sip some.”

“I think Latifi had too much scotch,” Ricciardo said with an uneasy laugh. It didn’t suit him at all. “Max doesn’t drink wine on the road unless he’s in the jet.”

Latifi shook his head. “Maybe while you two were married. He was really downing—”

“Why are you lying, dude?” Ricciardo suddenly cut. Even the interviewer jumped.

Charles’s throat tightened.

Latifi didn’t look the least bit startled. Charles didn’t know what was happening, but he knew George had to be behind it. Especially after his interview with Stroll. Charles couldn’t understand what would make George do this, why he wanted to hurt people who cared about him.  Ricciardo wasn’t a friend of George’s, but he was a dangerous enemy.

“What?” Nic said. “I’m not lying. Max and I shared a glass of wine.”

“Oh really,” Daniel said, leaning forward in his chair. “When was that?”

“It was when you left,” Latifi replied.

“No it wasn’t,” Ricciardo said.

“Uh, yeah, it was. After you left. Bottas started putting ABBA on and—”

“It was not, Nic.”

“Daniel, it was,” Latifi said sternly. “You can ask him and I’m sure he’ll—”

“He followed me when I left. He was with me! You’re fucking lying!”

Of course, the expletive had been censored, but Charles could read lips well enough. Latifi’s mouth hung open, but his eyes didn’t read shock like the interviewer’s did.

Charles momentarily forgot his heartache in the few seconds of silence that followed. No prince, under any circumstances, was allowed to leave any royal function with a prince he wasn’t married to, unless it was for something specific and FIA sanctioned. Charles didn’t even think Lewis Hamilton could get away with sneaking out with another prince. And at the wedding reception?

Fuck, Daniel was going to get his ass handed to him by the FIA. Especially if they found out that Max and Daniel had been talking unsupervised in Bahrain before the wedding.

Their conversation held more weight now that Charles thought back to it.

It seemed even someone as distant from the drama as Max Verstappen couldn’t escape the same pain they all faced in this charade.

“I gave him a ride back to the Red Bull suite,” Daniel tried to amend, but it was no use now. “He wasn’t drunk, I was drunk—He tried to give me a ride—Fuck.”

“Daniel,” the interviewer began, but Ricciardo cut him off.

“The point is, you’re lying. Max was not drunk. He doesn’t do that.”

“Daniel, if that’s true,” the interviewer tried again. “This will have severe consequences. The FIA rules clearly state—”

“I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding,” Latifi butted in, lifting his hands in surrender. “There were a lot of parties going on. He’s right, I did drink a lot of scotch that night. Wrangling George is difficult at parties.”

No one laughed this time.

Charles paused the video. Only fifteen seconds remained, so he shut it off. He didn’t need to see Ricciardo dig his grave any deeper.

A knock sounded at his trailer door. Charles checked his watch only to remember he’d taken it off. He didn’t really feel like wearing Sebastian’s false promise watch. Especially if Stroll probably had the same one.

He took a breath in case it was Giorgio coming in for a quote about qualifying, and wiped his eyes before he opened the door.

Carlos stood at the base of the stairs, smiling up at him. He looked photo-ready, his dark hair perfectly tousled and his Mission Winnow quarterzip polo open just enough to toe the line between risqué and professional. He looked much better than he had over the past three weeks.

That meant he’d already seen Lando.

“Charles,” Carlos greeted.

Charles scoffed, looking away. Tears jumped to his eyes as he did so. He realized he’d been expecting Sebastian to be at his door.

Sebastian would have known what to say, how to make everything feel better, how to explain what was actually going on here. Something had to be going on. Sebastian was not a cruel man—he was warmth and goodwill in a mud pit.

Carlos started up the stairs. “May I come in, please?”

“Why are you here?” Charles asked. “You should be getting ready for quali.”

Carlos shrugged, nonchalant.  “I saw the interview.”

“And?”

Carlos shot him a look, frowning. “And I’m not stupid.”

Charles tensed, working his jaw.

“The FIA will find out about this,” Carlos continued. “So I thought it might be a good idea to look like you moved on.”

Charles couldn’t argue that. He stepped back into his trailer, allowing Carlos inside.

A prince’s trailer was better than most luxury apartments in the cities they parked in. Charles had opted for a modern look, but kept wood finishes and a touch of royal flair in the gold inlays on his coffee table and headboard.

He noted clumps of photographers snapping photos of them from the media fence before he shut the door.

“George was behind this,” Charles said, still standing at the door, fighting not to cry in front of Carlos. He had to be stronger than this. Sebastian would be. “He was part of what happed to Ricciardo, too.”

“Alonso told me,” Carlos replied. Charles heard him sit on the couch, and he could tell just by the sound that Carlos was still trying to be polite, even here. “Come and sit down. We need to decide what to do before the race.”

“What is there to talk about?” Charles asked, turning from the door. “How do you even know what’s actually going on? Who told you?”

Carlos looked at him for a long moment. His lips parted to speak, but nothing came out.

“Who told you, Carlos?”

“Ricciardo.”

For a moment, the name that left Carlos’s mouth didn’t match the expression on his face. He looked horrifically sad, like he’d just admitted to sleeping with Sebastian or that Charles was losing his crown.

Then he remembered.

Daniel and Sebastian had been married. Just for a year, but Ricciardo had gushed about the experience to any news outlet that would hear him when Sebastian landed his appointment with Ferrari.

“No,” Charles whispered.

Carlos stood up from the couch. “He didn’t say anything about you,” he clarified. “He said Sebastian did something similar. A weekend holiday, driving his cars. A note. It wasn’t the same, but I could see even he was hurt by what Stroll admitted. I hoped…” He swallowed. “I hoped maybe he had been different with you.”

Any resolve Charles had collected in his time processing the interview with Stroll collapsed in that moment. Tears spilled from his eyes and he brought his hands up to wipe them away, but Carlos beat him to it.

His hands were warm as they thumbed away the fresh tracks down Charles’s cheeks.

“I see he wasn’t,” Carlos whispered.

Charles turned his face away and Carlos dropped his hands.

“It was word for word,” Charles admitted in a whisper. “The same food, even. I fucking—I remember being so happy when I found the note. I wasn’t even in love with him yet, but that day—”

He cut himself off with a shake of his head.

All of that happiness soured in his memory. Where he used to imagine Sebastian writing him that note, extending the olive branch, trying to show that he wanted this to work, he now saw a man digging through old records to see what he’d written his past lovers. Maybe making tweaks depending on what worked and what didn’t.

“Did—What did it look like to you?” Charles asked suddenly. “Last year. Did it seem like we were in love? Did he seem like he loved me?”

“He seemed like he loved you very much,” Carlos said, his voice soft. “And that you loved him very much. That is why I couldn’t believe he would do the same thing he did with those two.”

Charles wiped his eyes again. “I need to find out. I need to know for certain.”

Carlos shook his head. “The FIA have already separated teams. They are making it very clear that no one is going to be seeing any exes until they investigate Ricciardo and Verstappen.”

“What fucking world are we living in?” Charles asked, exasperated.

Carlos rested a hand on his shoulder. “We have to play by the rules. Okay? But we can work within those rules to figure all of this out.”

“I don’t care about the—”

Suddenly Carlos’s eyes went dark. “You can’t see him, Leclerc. Your decisions affect all of our lives now. The FIA is waiting for a chance to ban us from seeing each other in Portugal.”

Charles let out a bitter laugh. “I understand now. You don’t give a fuck about me. You just want to make sure I don’t go running to Sebastian and ruin your chances of seeing Lando next race.”

The color drained from Carlos’s face. Fucking knew it.  

 “Get out of my trailer,” Charles sneered.

“That is not why—”

“I said get out!”

Carlos shrank back for a moment, surprised at his anger. Then he softened and shook his head. “I’m trying to help, Charles.”

“You’re not,” Charles snapped. “You’re just trying to make sure you can see him.”

“No,” Carlos said, his voice firm. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t fall into a trap.”

Charles wanted to hit something. More than that, he wanted to get on the next flight to Monaco and burn everything Sebastian had ever given him.

“I’m allowed to talk to Sebastian,” Carlos continued. “The FIA can’t put a ban in place if I speak to him, yes?”

“I don’t want you to talk to Sebastian,” Charles said. Something like jealously curdled in his gut, but he knew he had no reason for it. Carlos and Sebastian both loved other people.

“I just want to know—” He swallowed hard. “I just want to know why he’d—"

He closed his eyes.

Silence stretched between them, and Charles feared opening his eyes again, terrified that even more tears would spill when he was supposed to be focusing on winning their home race.

“Then I’ll talk to George,” Carlos finally said. “And I’ll find out why he wanted to hurt you this way.”

Charles expected him to leave, but suddenly Carlos had his arms around him.

Charles stiffened, momentarily fighting the hold. The past three weeks he’d tried everything at his disposal to find a way to keep Sebastian as his priority, to not lose the relationship they had fought to hard to keep.

Though Charles realized now that the sentiment hadn’t gone both ways.

“Why?” he asked as he finally sagged into Carlos. He smelled like cologne—a new brand, a new scent.

“I’m going to figure that out,” Carlos said with a little squeeze, before he stepped back. Carlos gave him a cocky smile, easy confidence. Charles was used to seeing it in the paddock, always associated with the car. Never about marriage or the crown, and especially not associated something as fragile as this.

But Charles actually believed him. Even if Carlos had misheard his question. He hadn’t been asking why George did this. He wanted to know why Carlos, who had been acting the part of a business partner more than a husband, would even bother doing any of this for him.

As he saw Carlos out, Charles couldn’t help but think that maybe he shouldn’t trust him either.

 

 


 

 

“Hamilton just spun out, keep an eye on track,” Heath’s voice crackled over the radio.

George cursed under his breath, the scream of the engine swallowing the sound. He braced himself for a tight corner, downshifting in a memorized pattern around the turn. His helmet sank into his shoulders, the weight familiar but still grueling.

He flicked the radio button as he punched the gas.

“Got it. Is he okay?”

He couldn’t think about Lewis.

George glanced in his mirrors as he rocketed forward. Bottas was too far ahead for DRS, not that he was in a DRS zone to use it. So he tapped the button for battery conservation and focused on the next corner.

“He’s okay, getting back on track now,” Heath said. “Your pace looks good.”

George let out a snort. Competing for the back of the midfield didn’t constitute “good” in his mind.

He tapped into battery power and dug in.

“Going after Bottas,” he said into the radio.

“Don’t ruin the tires, George.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Toto could watch his car take on Bottas and at least put up a fight.

He switched off the radio feed and rode another corner, gritting his teeth as the nose of his car inched closer and closer to Valtteri. He clocked the steward at the fence on his right, checking for any flags as he tapped through gears into the corner. Fenceline blurred at his right and as Bottas braked in front of him, George took the inside, stomping the pedal to pass.

For a moment, everything looked perfect. His overtake would be textbook.

Then he felt the slick of grass on his right two wheels.

The car jerked left, sending him straight into Bottas, who had cut over out of nowhere.

Everything blurred. Time couldn’t slow down as George saw flashes of black, then white, then heard the spray of debris and the crunch of gravel under the wheels. Even with his safety equipment and thick helmet, his head still jerked with the force of his collision, his brain bouncing around his skull.

George’s eyes squeezed shut reflexively, though some part of him knew it wouldn’t do anything. He knew this crash wouldn’t kill him—it would have already done so by now. But the body still clung to the threat of death, and he saw people flash before his eyes. His parents, his dad’s old dog, Charles, Pierre, Lando, Nic—

And Lewis.

The car finally ground to a stop, and George opened his eyes.

“George?” Heath asked. “George, are you okay, mate?”

He could still see Lewis clearly. His smile, his bright eyes as he laughed about George’s antics at the reception. He could taste vodka soda on his tongue, though in actuality it was only lukewarm water leaking into his mouth from his ruptured hydration tube.

“George?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he finally answered. He grabbed the steering wheel, running through the button release procedures to loosen it from the car.

Fucking Bottas. Any chance of impressing Lewis with an overtake had gone to shit, right along with his race. Latifi had to hold things down, and everyone knew how that would go.

Adrenaline was gas to the spark in him.

George wrestled himself from the car and stormed toward the smoking Mercedes.

“Hey, fucker!” he shouted. “What the hell was that?”

He rounded the front of the car.

“I could ask you the same fucking thing!” Bottas shouted back, still stuck in his seat.

George gritted his teeth and shot his hand out to whack Bottas’s helmet. The thwack sounded as silly as he felt the moment he made impact, but George didn’t care.

The adrenaline began to subside as he strode back toward the pit lane, ignoring the track volunteers trying to wave him down. The Williams garage sat pretty far from Mercedes, and he had yet to see Lewis in person since receiving his letter.

Maybe it was better he didn’t see him at all now.

Kayla found him faster than anyone else on the team, her glossy media badge flapping in the air at her side as she ran toward him.

“George!”

He ignored her too, putting up a hand to make sure she got the message.

“George, you need to go to the medical tent, just to make sure,” Kayla said.

“I’m going to my trailer,” George replied. “And I’m not coming out until after the race. That’s fucking final.”

 

 


 

 

Fourth place. Charles emerged from the car, pulling his helmet off in the next instant. The race could have gone better—it always could have gone better. But every time Sebastian’s name came up, or he passed that emerald green livery, it was like the entire world crawled. Carlos kept right behind him with a two second gap, which kept him alive, at least.

At least.

He set his helmet down and pulled off his balaclava, his earbuds coming out a moment later. Reporters swarmed, licking their chops to ask him about the rumors flying around the track.

An FIA official appeared in front of him, an older man with a sour face.

“I want to make it abundantly clear that communications with previous marriage partners will not be tolerated,” he said in a stern tone.

Charles continued pulling off his gloves, his eyes on the ground. He didn’t want to see Sebastian. He didn’t want anyone to congratulate him—in fact, he was glad he wasn’t on the podium. He couldn’t smile right now.

“Do you understand?” the FIA official said. “There will be severe consequences if the rules are ignored.”

Charles glanced down the line of garages, where Ricciardo sat on the nose of his car, head in his hands, his helmet still on. Mourning, And no prince should have been that upset when his husband landed a well-deserved podium.

“What’s happening to Ricciardo?” Charles asked instead of answering. “What even happened? I don’t know fact from rumor.”

He watched the FIA official carefully, the way his mouth pulled into a tight line. Charles’s gut twisted up, a deep kind of sympathetic—no, empathetic pain.

“We’re looking into suspected—”

“Yes, but what do you know?” Charles asked, venomous. “You can’t even prove anything. You can’t punish all of us because you think something happened.”

“Currently, we have seven instances within the past year alone where Prince Daniel and Prince Max were unaccounted for, for hours at a time,” the official growled. “That, and we have confiscated unauthorized cell phones from both parties.”

“No matter what, never buy a burner phone.”

Charles’s memories of ruling with Marcus Ericsson in Sauber (since renamed to Alfa Romeo) were few, but Charles always remembered that sole piece of advice and the haunted look on Marcus’s face when he said it.

“If you buy a burner phone, they always find it. Even if it never goes public. They always find it.”

Charles looked over to Riccardo, who still hadn’t gotten up. Every monitor around them showed Lewis spraying Lando and Max with champagne. Max looked happy—appeared happy, but Charles could only imagine the fear that gripped him behind that smile.

Stupid Max. Stupid Daniel.

Charles threw down his gloves and stormed away, headed straight for his trailer. Reporters charged him from all sides, but he ignored them all. The FIA would be falling all over itself warring about whether or not to fine him for ignoring press or thanking him for keeping quiet about the interviews.

Goddamn burner phones. He could only imagine what things would come out in the press if anyone found out about them. If anyone were to publish anything from them.

“Charles!”

He froze misstep.

Sebastian jogged up to him, his hair damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed and indented where his balaclava had been pressed to his face.

“Please wait,” Sebastian said, panting hard. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking spent.

For some reason, Charles didn’t register any shock upon seeing Sebastian so close. He spent the whole race with his heart in his throat every time he caught a glimpse of that car, every time he saw Stroll or heard that stupid laugh echoing in his head during the silence after his radio failed in the restart.

Sebastian looked horrible. Bags beneath his eyes, his hair a mess, his hat forgotten, his smile gone.

Betrayal lanced him like a hot iron. Tears rushed to his eyes, hot and acidic.

Traitor.

“You are a goddamn liar,” Charles hissed, his grip tightening around the handle to his trailer door. “Je n’arrives pas à croire que tu.”

“You have to let me explain—”

“No!” Charles shouted, so loudly that the crew working nearby looked up from where they had been putting away equipment. Charles lowered his voice, and it trembled with anger. “I am done with you telling me things after the fact. Covering up your lies with sweet nothings. How dare you. Vaffanculo.”

Sebastian stepped up a stair. “Allow me to explain—”

“Don’t come any closer,” Charles warned. “There is nothing to explain, Sebastian. The exact same weekend getaway, the same note, the same chance to go through your garage—”

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “Yes! That’s the point! I wanted to show you I still think of when we did that—”

“You’re disgusting,” Charles said, his voice thick with emotion. “You think I would ever fall for something like that? That I was supposed to take those things as a compliment? You got caught in your lie. Stroll—”

“Stroll talked,” Sebastian interrupted. “I knew he would. I planned to tell you here, so you would know to listen out for it. Charles, I love you.”

The dark blue-green of Sebastian’s eyes had once been so comforting. Charles still dreamed of them, but mostly that smile. Warm, considerate. Things he thought Sebastian to be. Lies, apparently.

“You can’t explain your way out of this one,” Charles said quietly. “Go away.”

“Listen to me—”

“Go away,” he repeated. “Do you understand? Comprenez vous? Verstehst du?”

Sebastian’s mouth set to a hard line, finally silenced.

Charles wiped his eyes, fully aware that cameras had to be on them now. He hoped Sebastian got fined for this, that the FIA would drag him away and create a spectacle for the paparazzi.

“I don’t understand why you would even pretend you still want me,” Charles forced out. “What’s the point? To torture me?”

“You know I’m not pretending,” Sebastian said, his voice soft. “I keep trying to show you how much I care. If you would just listen to me, I can explain.”

Charles shook his head. “I’m done listening. If you really care, then show me. But you won’t, because you can’t sacrifice your crown. I thought I understood that, but it looks like I don’t.”

“Char, Stroll was supposed to—”

“Except it wasn’t just Stroll,” Charles cut. “I know about Ricciardo too. And I’d be inclined to believe you pulled the same with Kimi, except I’m sure he would rather take a rally car for a spin in the wilderness than go on a retreat with you.”

Sebastian’s mouth fell open.

“Goodbye, Sebastian,” Charles said, his voice cold. “And get lost.”

He stepped into his trailer and slammed the door, but not fast enough to miss the look of despair on Sebastian’s face when he did so.

Chapter Text

George watched the podium ceremonies from inside his trailer, his chin buried into his collarbone where he slumped on the couch. Lewis looked elated, though George could see tension in his shoulders. Lewis wasn’t the type to enjoy looking out at the crowd from the right side of the podium. His smile looked real though, probably because Max couldn’t enjoy his victory with the onslaught of FIA briefings coming his way.

Ricciardo was probably already in his, and George couldn’t imagine what they were going over in there. What the consequences would be.

To be fair, he hadn’t known Max and Ricciardo were stupid enough to keep burner phones. What could have been a slap on the wrist now had to be a full investigation, all because Ricciardo couldn’t find enough control to keep his mouth shut during an interview.  

Whatever ended up happening, George knew for a fact that Max wanted to strangle him. He’d even said so over team radio. Bottas probably felt pretty similar, for different reasons.

George rubbed his neck as he sat up, still sore from the crash. Tomorrow would be worse, but he would be back at Williams with the full medical team ready to assist. And no more Tuscan estate to bore him to death in the meantime.

When he emerged from his trailer, Kayla met him immediately, looking flushed.

“George, we need to get quotes from you about the accident. About your thoughts on Bottas.”

George adjusted his cap, annoyed. “Bottas cut into me, I had no choice but to go in the grass. I tried to adjust, but it was wet. Could have been avoided if he just stayed on the racing line.”

Kayla frowned. “And what about what happened after the crash?”

George cut her a look. “The adrenaline was going. He ruined my race. Of course I’m going to be upset. Things got heated. Can I go now?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before he headed down to the garages. The sun burned through a few wispy clouds as it sank into the hillside beyond the team banners—the end to another race weekend. The start of another break, though this one would only be one week instead of three.

 The paddock buzzed with reporters, princes, and PR teams. Engineers and mechanics sifted through the fray, attempting to pack up the garages to return home.

No sign of Hamilton. George pushed past microphones and cameras, shooting a few smiles at pit crew but otherwise keeping his mouth shut. Kayla had her hands full already, and he didn’t feel like adding to what had become a chaotic weekend.

He didn’t expect his interview with Stroll to cause so much paddock drama, but he’d underestimated Sebastian’s stupidity and Ricciardo’s big mouth. For a man as detail-oriented as Sebastian Vettel, George had assumed he kept meticulous control of anything romantic in his life.

Evidently he did, he just reused the same shit.

At least Charles knew that now.

“George!”

George closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a sigh as he recognized Carlos’s accent. He turned around to see Carlos jogging up, his fire suit unzipped at his waist, his hair perfect, like always.

“Carlos, hey,” George greeted, extending a hand. “Good race today, mate. Ferrari had a great show.”

Gracias,” Carlos replied, but he didn’t smile. “Sorry to hear about what happened with Bottas.”

George shrugged. “At least we’re both okay. That’s what matters most, I guess.”

Get out of my way, I have to find Lewis, he thought. Carlos didn’t move along, and a beat of silence between them made it very clear that Carlos had no intention of leaving. He knew something.

“You made quite a few people very hurt today,” Carlos began.

George crossed his arms. “Look—”

“One of those people is my husband.”

George rolled his eyes. “Don’t get all knight-in-shining-armor on me, Sainz.”

“Charles is your friend,” Carlos said, scowling. “Why would you do that?”

“He needed to know,” George growled. “I knew something was off about Sebastian, and that interview proved I was right. I’m not the one to blame here.”

“Oh?” Carlos cocked his head, eyes narrowed. “And what about Ricciardo? You exposed him and Max.”

George shook his head. “Latifi did, not me.”

“Right, and I’m sure he did that all on his own. What is happening with you?”

Carlos reached over and tugged the bill of his cap down over his eyes. George swatted his hand away, furiously readjusting his hat. “Jesus fuck, Carlos. I’m trying to help Charles, okay? It’s not exactly a secret how he’s obsessed with Sebastian. He needs to move on.”

“Sebastian loves him,” Carlos said evenly.

George laughed bitterly. “You still believe that?”

Something flashed in Carlos’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything.

“Sebastian only cares about himself,” George said. “He’s a nice man and a good ruler, but a terrible husband. Charles needs to learn that before he becomes the next Verstappen.”

“I disagree, actually,” a new voice said.

George and Carlos both looked over to see Mick walking up, scrubbing his head with a cooling towel.

George’s heart leapt to his throat. He’d forgotten to find Mick before the race. “Mick. Hey.”

“Good race today,” Carlos greeted, extending a fist.

Mick bumped it, smiling. “Thanks, but we could have done better. Two laps behind isn’t exactly ideal. Congratulations are in order for you and Leclerc, though. What a great race.”

“Ah, don’t say that until we have trophies in our hands,” Carlos replied with a smile.

Mick smiled back. “Fair enough. Mind if I steal George away? The team is heading out soon.”

Carlos’s smile dropped. “Sure,” he said. “I have to speak to Alonso anyway.” He nodded to George in parting, but his eyes were unkind.

George waved goodbye, all too cheerfully. Then he turned his attention back to Mick.

“Sorry for not catching you earlier,” he began. “We had a lot going on with the car.”

“The car, yes,” Mick said with a dubious look. “So I hear.”

George’s cheeks grew hot. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’m here now. Wanna walk?”

He gestured toward the paddock and Mick led the way, slipping his towel around the back of his neck.

“Did Lewis put you up to that stunt?” Mick asked as soon as they stepped out of earshot of the remaining crew.

George laughed, flattered. “No. Like I was just telling Carlos, I did it for Charles. He needed to know about Sebastian.”

Mick side-eyed him for a moment. “Sebastian isn’t the person you think he is.”

“Come on, Mick,” George groaned. “You can’t think he’s genuinely in love with Charles when he orchestrated the exact same…date-thing with Stroll and Ricciardo. That’s a pattern.”

Mick frowned. A few fans waved at them, anxiously holding out photographs. Where George thought to pass them by, Mick strode right over, flashing his royal smile.

Goddamn.

George followed, putting on a smile of his own.

“And what’s your name?” Mick asked one of the fans, a girl.

“Sabrina,” the girl answered, her whole face red.

“Sabrina? Lovely name.” Mick signed her photograph. “I think we should take a photo, don’t you?”

Sabrina looked like she was going to explode. They took a hideous selfie together, and George signed the other fan’s hat, offering nothing more than a “thanks for coming” before they headed off again.

“Sebastian is one of the most genuine people on the grid,” Mick said once they had moved far enough away that the fans couldn’t eavesdrop. “But he’s German. Romance doesn’t exactly come naturally to us—not in the way most people perceive it.”

“Speaking from experience?” George asked, knocking him with his shoulder.

Mick chuckled, shaking his head. “No. But we are very similar. And Sebastian is very important to me and my family. So I have to say I was very disappointed to hear what happened in those—”

George let out a hiss if annoyance. “Why am I the villain? Sebastian is the one taking princes on identical dates.”

Mick shook his head, his sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes. “It’s not just about that, George. For some people, this isn’t a game. I know the FIA makes it out to be one, and yes, there’s some truth in how ridiculous all of this is. But sometimes there is real, genuine love. Two people who should never be apart, but have to be.”

“Says the bloke who told me that Lewis is a snake.”

Mick stopped abruptly, turning to him. “Some people do what you did. They make life hell for people already suffering.”

George scowled. “You’ve got to be—”

“Max and Daniel tried very hard to stay a secret,” Mick cut, his blue eyes blazing. “And I’m assuming you didn’t know it, but Max has already been caught. This summer. His father found out, and they weren’t even able to send letters to each other—his father ripped them up.”

“They had burner phones,” George said. “They didn’t need letters.”

“Who do you think bought them those?”

His brow furrowed. He hadn’t thought about how they got ahold of them. “I don’t know.”

“Exactly,” Mick said, jabbing a finger at him. “You did not think it through. You put other people at risk without realizing it.”

George wracked his brain, but he couldn’t think of anyone with connections to both Ricciardo and Max who could have gotten them burner phones.

“You don’t think of the past,” Mick said.

“Enlighten me, then!” George snapped.

Mick’s jaw went taut. “Only if you promise not to tell anyone. And especially not Lewis.”

George’s hands balled to fists at his sides. “I’m not one of the snakes.”

Mick didn’t speak for a long time.  They continued walking, both of them watching as the sun turned a fiery orange, painting the sky pink and pastel blue.

“Kvyat,” Mick finally said.

George made a face. “Kvyat? He has nothing to do with either of them.”

“You need to start paying attention, especially if you’re going to start playing Lewis’s game,” Mick said, sounding disgusted. He started walking faster and George kept pace, still trying to figure out how the hell Kvyat could be involved with getting burner phones.

“Max has been connected with Kelly Piquet, if you remember,” Mick began as they walked. He waved at Alonso, who nodded back.

George gave a little wave too, but Alonso just watched him pass, glaring.

Not good.

“She was also linked to Kvyat,” George said, suddenly remembering.

“Now you’re catching on.”

“But how does that connect him with Ricciardo?”

Mick grinned. “Back when we were in secondary school, Ricciardo was his teammate.”

“Oh fuck!” George butted himself in the forehead with his palm. “I forgot.”

Mick didn’t look pleased, and George had to fight the wave of embarrassment rising up in him.

“Still, why the hell would Kvyat buy them burner phones? To get his girlfriend back? Obviously Max isn’t really into her.”

Mick paused, staring straight ahead, severe look on his face. The sun cast haunting shadows on his features.

“Ask the right questions, and he’ll tell you.”

George furrowed his brow. “Who will tell me?”

Mick looked over at him. “Just don’t reveal what you know, George.”

“You and the cryptic—”

“Thank god!”

George froze midsentence as he recognized Lewis’s voice.

“I thought I missed you!”

Lewis stepped up to them with a wide smile, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

“Lewis,” Mick greeted, extending a hand. “Such a great race. Shame you didn’t get that win.”

“Always another chance,” Lewis replied cheerfully, hooking an arm over George’s shoulder as he shook Mick’s hand. “Hope I’m not interrupting?”

George couldn’t find it in him to move. Lewis had never put an arm around him before, much less in public. His weight was too much and far too little all at once.

“Actually, I did have to speak to George about something,” Mick said. “But I’m sure they want you for debriefs. It can wait.” He smiled and it looked real.

“I appreciate that, man,” Lewis said. His smile didn’t look real at all.  

“I’ll see if I can catch you before you go,” George offered.

“No worries,” Mick said. “If not, I’ll see you both in Portugal.” He frowned. “Well, hopefully. These sanctions sound like they’re going to be harsh.”

George still couldn’t discern Mick’s real smile from a fake one, he realized, as Mick shot them both smiles and waved goodbye. He figured Mick was faking it, because he didn’t seem to like Lewis at all, but there was no indication in his face to show anything less than goodwill.

No wonder Lewis thought he and Mick should try for a fake relationship.

“What was he talking to you about?” Lewis asked, slipping his arm from George’s shoulder once Mick had gone.

George shot him a look. “You told me to vet him for a fake relationship. I was vetting.”

He doubted Mick would go for it now, but George still had that letter, and they still hadn’t discussed it.

“Three weeks off really made you hungry, huh,” Lewis chuckled. He nodded toward the Mercedes garage.

George hesitated. “Are you sure I should go in there?” he asked.

“They’re all debriefing. Toto is pissed, so it’ll be at least an hour—and that’s just the part I don’t have to be there for.”

“You mean the part about Bottas’s crash,” George said, frowning.

Lewis’s smile softened. “It wasn’t your fault. I watched the video—he ran you off into the grass. There was nothing you could do.”

George shook his head. “He cut into my line.”

“Yeah, he ran you off the track,” Lewis said as he stepped into the shadow of the Mercedes garage. Someone from PR stood at a monitor, but one look from Lewis sent her scurrying off.

Once they were safely tucked away from wandering lenses, Lewis turned to him, his gaze steady. “Stroll and Ricciardo. Was that for me?”

George’s cheeks went hot. “Not for you, exactly. To show you I’m capable.”

Lewis laughed. “Yeah, you definitely proved that. Pretty sure Max was crying after his FIA meeting.”

George swallowed hard. “I didn’t know anything about the burner phones. I didn’t even mean to expose anything. Just wanted to get people talking, then Ricciardo blew up.”

“He tends to do that,” Lewis said. “Usually it works out for him. This weekend, it didn’t.”

Portugal would be a nightmare. George couldn’t imagine how a week off—a week for the media echo chamber to build—would turn his innocent motive into an FIA-wide mess.

“You did a number on Sebastian, too,” Lewis continued a moment later. His face was calm, but George knew better.

“On Sebastian?” George laughed. “You’re joking, right? Charles got his heart broken today.”

“You have to be careful,” Lewis said. “You went after big fish. Ricciardo is one thing, but Sebastian is another.”

“Come on, Lewis—”

“He’s also my friend.”

George’s mouth fell open, then shut again, his ears burning.

“And Charles is mine,” he finally grit out.  

Lewis tucked his sunglasses into his pocket stared out into the paddock for a long time. George tried to read his expression, but couldn’t discern it. He wondered if Lewis had wanted Mick to see that his smile had been fake, earlier.  

“You said you couldn’t stop thinking about me,” George said quietly.

Lewis’s eyes flicked to him, something intense in them now.

“Yes.”

“I did this for you,” George said carefully.  “For your attention.”

He kept Lewis’s gaze, though the butterflies in his stomach were threatening to turn to razorblades.

“I was thinking you should come to Mercedes during the break,” Lewis said. “I spoke to Toto about arranging a few tests. Since you already drove the car last year, it seems like the perfect fit.”

“I don’t want to talk about the break,” George said, noting those freckles again. “I want to talk about right now.”

Lewis bit his lip, and George thought he might die there on the spot. What the fuck am I doing here?

Suddenly, Lewis was only a breath away, and George inhaled the scent of champagne. All he could think about was that Lewis’s skin probably tasted like Ferrari Trento. Which—technically—was sparkling wine, and George found himself very eager to try to taste the difference.

“Let’s talk about right now, then,” Lewis murmured.

George glanced down at Lewis’s mouth. “Not so sure I want to talk anymore.”

He didn’t have to wait more than a heartbeat. Lewis’s lips pressed to his own, hungry. George fought not to make any stupid noises as the kiss deepened, but when Lewis’s hand cupped the back of his neck, he let out a soft moan despite himself.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed someone and meant it.

And the Ferrari Trento tasted pretty damn good.

“Come to Mercedes,” Lewis murmured against his lips.

George grinned, weightless. “I want to. But there’s no precedent. And I’m supposed to be going after Mick, remember?”

“Changed my mind about that,” Lewis said, and they kissed again. Softer, sweeter.

George couldn’t process thought for several seconds when Lewis broke away.

Fucking hell.

“We can’t start those rumors,” George said. “The FIA is already digging—”

“We had royalty come during the preseason,” Lewis said, thumbing at the back of George’s neck. “Even princes.”

George’s eyes fluttered closed, his lips still tingling, his heart still pounding.

Ask the right questions.

“Royalty? What’s that mean? Lawrence Stroll?” he teased, stealing another kiss.

Lewis laughed. “Few old friends. Grosjean, Kvyat—even Alonso was allowed to stop in. I’m sure Alpine just wanted to snoop, but technically he hadn’t been appointed yet.”

“Crafty. Sounds like Alonso,” George said, but his blood ran cold. Kvyat.

“I can get you on the list,” Lewis assured him, pulling back. “And no matter what sanctions we get, I’m sure I can arrange plenty of time for us to…you know, discuss everything.” He smirked. “In depth.”

George’s mouth went dry, forcing himself not to imagine all of the fucking amazing things that could mean.

“Okay, yeah,” he breathed out. “I’ll think about it.”

So much for controlling himself. But at least he’d found the link to Kvyat.

Lewis rested their foreheads together for a moment, their breath mixing. George wanted to move his hands from where they stayed pinned at his sides, but he didn’t know the protocol here. Lewis was the current champion—essentially the king of the empires. He doubted any mortal touch would be appropriate.

Lewis seemed to know what he was thinking and pulled away to press a fond kiss to his forehead.

“You should head back,” Lewis said.

“Yeah,” George said, swallowing hard. “Guess I should.”

But he kept thinking about Kvyat. Had Lewis orchestrated Kvyat to test at Mercedes just to enlist his help in getting Max and Ricciardo a few burner phones? It didn’t make any sense. Lewis had nothing to gain from the outing of a few princes who hardly had any accolades.

“And George?” Lewis asked.

George snapped back to the present. “Yeah?”

Lewis kissed him again, this time with desperation. George moved on instinct, his hands coming up to frame Lewis’s face as he leaned back against the kiss. He felt the brush of Lewis’s tongue over his bottom lip, sending electricity ratcheting up his spine.

He chased when Lewis tried to pull away, reeling him back in. Lewis groaned, pressing against him. George grunted softly when he bumped into one of the tool chests.

“Sorry,” Lewis slurred, but George pulled him in by the fabric of his fire suit. George’s hat fell off as Lewis’s hands went into his hair, and parted his lips to allow Lewis full access to his mouth.

Instead, Lewis moved to his neck, kissing along his throat.

“Fuck,” George panted out, his fingers curling into Lewis’s shoulders.

He felt Lewis’s teeth scrape join of his neck and shoulder. A teasing move, a suggestion.

“Say you’ll come to Mercedes,” Lewis growled, his breath hot against George’s skin.

George swallowed thickly, his blood so hot he could scarcely breathe.

“Say it,” Lewis demanded.

“Okay, yes,” George forced out. “I’ll—”

Lewis latched onto the same spot on his neck, and George’s vision blurred for a moment as Lewis sucked hard, marking him, claiming him.   

George became painfully aware that his jock strap was still on. He let out a moan, dropping his head to Lewis’s shoulder.

Lewis pulled off a second later, his lips swollen as he grinned. George saw the lust in his eyes and knew it reflected in his own.

“How am I supposed to leave now?” George asked breathlessly.

They kissed again—well, several times. Each one softer than the last, the burning heat slowly coming down to a simmer.

He already wished he could write a proper letter to describe all of the things he wanted to do when he arrived at Mercedes, but George figured it would be best to do that in person. He didn’t have the kind of prose to write something like that properly.

“They’ll come back soon,” Lewis murmured, but he stayed close.

George cleared his throat, his eyes still hooded with desire. “Have to save something for the trip, don’t we?”

Lewis grinned. “Keep in touch. Expect something from Toto soon.”

George nodded. He thought to lean in for just one more kiss, but bit the inside of his cheek instead as he stepped toward the garage entryway. The world seemed tilted around him, completely different than it had been just a few minutes before.

He could still taste sparkling wine as he walked back out into the paddock, cool night air washing over his warm cheeks.

He hurried off toward the Williams garage, unable to keep himself from grinning. His feet didn’t seem to touch the ground, either. All he could think about was the way Lewis kissed him, the way his hands felt against him.

Even the sight of Sebastian walking briskly toward him did nothing to alter George’s mood. Sebastian looked sour, but George smiled at him as he passed, too love drunk to care.

Sebastian didn’t even look at him.

George didn’t give a fuck.

He spotted Latifi standing outside the Williams garage not far off, texting.

“Nic!” George called, elated to see him. He didn’t think he would ever taste happiness like this again after losing Alex.

“Hey, loser,” Nic greeted, smiling wide. “Dig up any more gossip? Or is that my job now since you’re the paddock pariah?”

George slung an arm around Nic’s shoulder and pulled him into a side hug.  “Very funny, prick.”

Nic laughed, then tugged himself out of George’s hold. “Hey, hey, you’re the talk of the—"

Suddenly, Nic’s eyes went wide and he grabbed George by the shoulders.  George blinked in surprise, wondering what the hell--

“Holy fuck!” Nic burst into laughter. “Where the hell did you get a fucking hickey?!?”

Chapter 12

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

“I was thinking we should go on a trip,” Charles said that night, as he packed the last of his clothes into his leather Ferrari duffel.

Carlos looked up from where he’d been packing on the other side of the bed. “A trip?”

Charles shrugged, keeping his eyes on his bag. Anxiety fizzed in his bloodstream, equal parts heartbreak and excitement. He needed a distraction from Sebastian, but he also wanted to try to include Carlos in his life more. To start acting like a real husband.

He told himself it wasn’t revenge.

“Yes,” Charles said. “Just for a few days. If you don’t have any plans.”

They had an off-week before Portugal, and Charles knew that didn’t bode well for escaping sanctions. The more time the FIA had to uncover things, the more likely they would try to keep everyone from contacting each other. He doubted anything would come of Stroll’s comments about Sebastian, but they could easily start watching him and Charles more closely. Charles had a feeling the FIA knew more than they let on, but chose to turn a blind eye to most of it.  

A sanction meant Sebastian wouldn’t be able to corner him at any more races.

Which was a good thing.

“I planned to go to España for a few days,” Carlos said, still watching him. “But I can do that anytime.”

Charles swallowed hard before he finally met Carlos’s eye. “Great,” he said, forcing a smile. “Mind if it’s a surprise?”

Carlos flashed a cockeyed smile. “What isn’t, with you?”

Charles laughed, but he felt a prick of insult along with it.

You’re paranoid.

“I’ll talk to Binotto and the flight team,” Charles said. “Think you can handle luggage?”

“Should be able to,” Carlos teased, tossing him a wink.  “It’s easy.”

A lump formed in Charles’s throat.

No, he told himself. You’re not lying to him. This isn’t lying.

 


 

“Florence, eh?” Carlos said, staring out the passenger side window of their Ferrari F90 Stradale. A police motorcade drove ahead of them, clearing the way of tourists and other cars. Charles’s fingers itched at the wheel, still caught in the energy of racing. The bumpy streets of the Florentine suburbs felt like an insult to both the car he was driving and his ability behind the wheel. The night closing in around them made Charles feel reckless, maybe dangerous.

“Have you ever been?” Charles asked, glancing over at Carlos to avoid the temptation to dodge their detail and fly through the streets.

Carlos smiled as he shook his head. “Never. My mother came here when I was small. But I stayed home. I’ve only seen pictures.”

“Well, we’ll have to come back. Two days isn’t enough to see everything. Do you like museums?”

“I think I’d like going to them with you,” Carlos said.

Charles’s cheeks dusted pink. “I—”

Carlos interrupted him with a laugh. “Because you’re so interested. Piano, fashion, cars. I assume you like art and sculpture. Which means you know a lot about them, because you know quite a bit about things you like.”

The motorcade turned right, and Charles followed, pretending that driving had suddenly become insanely interesting. The headlights cut across old stone and uneven doorways, lopsided after centuries of weary feet passing through their thresholds.

“Yes,” Charles finally said. “There is  a lot of history here.”

“Did you come with Sebastian?” Carlos asked,  then he winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No, it’s fine,” Charles said with a shake of his head. “We did visit once. But only for a day—royal business. I visited two other times on my own.”

Unlike Sebastian, he had no intention of taking Carlos on a trip as a pawn in a nostalgic fantasy. He gripped the wheel as the street opened up a little more and toyed with the gas, letting the car announce itself.

He doubted the two princes of Ferrari would stay hidden for long, but Italians were quite kind to them in public. In Maranello they were only ever approached by tourists, and usually only if they were together.

They arrived at their hotel fifteen minutes later, and Charles reluctantly handed over the keys to a Ferrari representative before he met up with Carlos, who had collected their luggage from one of the cars in their security detail.

“Binotto has informed us to keep a light presence,” Antonello, their head of security, said from where he stood next to Carlos. “You won’t see or hear from us unless it’s an emergency.”

“Grazie,” Charles replied with a nod. “And tell Binotto grazie, anche.”

Antonello dipped his head and handed over two keycards with a slate texture, their names inlaid in gold cursive font, along with their crests, a sixteen for himself, a fifty-five for Carlos.

“Listas?” Carlos asked as Charles approached.

Charles offered him his keycard.

“Oh, fancy,” Carlos said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Charles smirked. “We’re royalty, remember?”

A hostess for the hotel led them to their room, clearly chosen to handle the other wealthy men who visited. Despite being married to a man, Charles couldn’t help but notice her hourglass figure and silky hair that swayed offbeat to her hips as she walked down the ornate hallways.

The royal suite lived up to the name—high ceilings and tall windows gave them a perfect view of Ponte Vecchio and the Duomo peeked out above the skyline. Charles’s heart swelled at the sight, and he abandoned his bag to get a better look out the window while Carlos handled their hostess.

Something about seeing old things made Charles ache. The feeling was similar to nostalgia—a longing for something no longer there. It reminded him of Sebastian, but more so of his childhood, where travel and relationships were by his own choice and not someone else’s.

Sebastian had told him that someday it would be that way again, but Charles didn’t know how that could be. Appointed princes lived life pumped full of adrenaline, synthetic marriages, and deep love that was then shredded with equally acute pain.

The Duomo had stood over Florence for centuries, unchanged. A towering reminder of the power of humanity before the marvels that allowed men like him to find meaning in their lives behind a wheel.

“I can’t wait to see it in the daylight,” Carlos said, stepping up beside him. Close, but not close enough to touch. A comfortable few inches away.

Charles could feel his uncertainty. Carlos didn’t know what this trip meant, and Charles didn’t know either. He wanted to be a better man and a better prince. He wasn’t yet sure which of those parts of his life this trip would serve.

“I sent for dinner,” Carlos said when Charles didn’t respond. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Charles shook his head. “Not at all. I’m too tired to walk around tonight.”

Exhaustion began to gnaw at his bones the moment he acknowledged it, but Charles knew he would be able to stay awake for a few more hours. Binotto and the race team would probably call in the morning to go over everything they had discovered since the debriefs after the race.

“Is everything—”

“Carlos, please don’t ask me if everything’s okay.” Charles sighed. He finally turned from the window to give him a weak smile. “I really don’t know how to answer that question. I’m glad to be here. We had a great race today, and I know I’ll sleep well. But I don’t know what’s going on in my head.”

Carlos nodded. “Okay. I’ll stop asking.”

Charles couldn’t tell by his face or tone if Carlos was hurt, but guilt nipped him all the same.

“Let’s make a plan for tomorrow,” Charles offered. “You can’t do things spur of the moment here. That is, unless you want  to have a boring trip.”

Carlos smiled, brighter than before. “Yes, sir.”

 

 

They woke late the next morning, Charles slumped against a mound of hotel pillows and Carlos flat on the mattress, snoring softly. Open brochures and travel packets took up the space between them on the bed.

No phone calls from Binotto, no texts from the racing team. Charles dropped his phone back to the bed and crawled over Carlos to get dressed. Carlos followed a moment later, his face scrunched against the morning light streaming in the windows.

Charles opted for a black half-sleeve t-shirt, slightly oversized. He slipped on a few leather bracelets and a silver chain necklace that hung down slightly below the dip in his collarbone. He chose a pair of distressed grey jeans and black sneakers, figuring it would be best to look more like a local than a prince.

As he styled his hair in the bathroom mirror, he glimpsed Carlos slipping into an olive green hoodie and Adidas sweats. Charles lifted a brow. Someone had been shopping—Carlos usually wore polos, button downs or sweaters on off days, or mismatched athletic wear.

Lando must have made a comment about it, Charles figured. Lando always wore hoodies and fitted sweats after races.

Charles grabbed his wallet and Ray-Bans and Carlos joined him in the doorway, still staying just close enough that he bordered between friendly and intimate. He certainly knew how to ride a fence.

“I like that outfit,” Charles teased, tugging at Carlos’s sleeve. “Very Italian local.”

“No it isn’t,” Carlos laughed. “Italian men wear cashmere scarves to go grocery shopping.”

Charles laughed and offered his hand.

When Carlos took it, he laced their fingers together. Charles glanced up at him, but Carlos was already looking ahead. Like it wasn’t unusual.

When they made it outside, Charles breathed in the early summer air and smiled. Buildings crowded above them, tall but cozy due to their age. He led the way toward Ponte Vecchio, pointing out a few pieces of old architecture or interesting outfits sported by tourists and locals alike.

Charles had lived in Italy for years now, but being able to listen to Italian speakers and understand them still gave him a thrill. The Florentine accent was harder to follow than the accent in Maranello that he’d grown used to, but he enjoyed snippets of conversation as they walked through.

“Aye, Pinocchio!” a man shouted from a bike as he screeched to a stop, narrowly avoiding a turning Vespa.

The man on the Vespa whipped off his helmet and started shouting back.

“Interesting way to start the morning,” Carlos commented with a smile.

Ponte Vecchio was already packed with tourists when they arrived. Crystal and gold shimmered in cases, echoing the history of Ponte Vecchio as a jeweler’s destination, though nowadays it seemed to be a place to sell overpriced, fake, or tacky gems to tourists who wanted a piece of history.

“We forgot to wear watches,” Carlos murmured as they passed a stand full of gold timepieces.

Charles smiled. “Want me to buy you one? Only four hundred euro here, for real gold.”

Carlos pretended to consider. “Another time, my love.”

My love. The words sounded completely different in Carlos’s accent than they did in Sebastian’s, but itsent a shiver through Charles all the same, even with the sarcasm.

Carlos’s brow furrowed. “Cold? Vuoi la mia felpa?”

For a moment, Charles considered taking up Carlos up on his offered hoodie, just to be able to drive Sebastian out of his head. But he shook his head.

“No, grazie. Andiamo.”

They wandered across the bridge and Charles veered them toward the Uffizi, where people crowded the piazza. Michelangelo’s David stood across the square, and a few other sculptures stood nearby.

“It’s not the real one,” Charles made sure to say as he led Carlos through the crowd, their hands still clasped tight. “But the Accademia is difficult to get into without advance notice.”

“We’re princes,” Carlos said once they arrived at the base of the statue, leaning against him slightly as they both stared up at David’s hand loosely curled around a stone. “If you want to see—”

“It’s okay,” Charles said. “I don’t want to be here as a prince.”

Carlos softened, and Charles looked over at him to find Carlos looking right back.

The longing in him welled up, pressing against his ribs as the commotion of the piazza died down in his ears and the morning sunlight warmed his shoulders. The feeling made Charles wanted to scream. Instead he smiled and tugged Carlos along.

They ate lunch at a pizza place near Ponte Vecchio and spent the afternoon in the Uffizi after Carlos decided he wanted to be a prince for at least part of their trip. Of course, that meant they received a guided tour of the museum by an overexcited official, but Charles didn’t complain. He didn’t think he could stand to take in each of the masterpieces for the length of time he usually did. The strange feeling in him kept growing, choking him, and he was grateful that he didn’t have to make conversation with Carlos during the tour as they walked through the art-lined hallways, surrounded by masterpieces. The life’s work of people long dead.

“I won’t ask,” Carlos said as they descended the steps back into the piazza some hours later. “But you’ve been very quiet.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said, and it was genuine. “Maybe I wasn’t as prepared for this trip as I thought I would be.”

Carlos frowned, suddenly looking defeated.

Charles squeezed his hand. “And it isn’t you,” he added quickly. “And it’s not Sebastian. I don’t know what it is. Something isn’t right.”

Carlos nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. “Let’s go to the church,” he said. “Let’s see if we can see sunset.”

They headed off, and Charles sucked in a breath when they finally reached the street leading to the cathedral piazza. Instead of seeing shops or homes, suddenly the end of the street was a wall of white and blue punching up into the sky, dwarfing everything around it. The Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore, the landmark of Florence, could not be properly captured in photos. Every time Charles saw it in person, it overwhelmed him that the structure had been created by human hands.  Intricate geometric designs made up façade, rich blue against white.

Mierda,” Carlos said under his breath.

They stared for a moment more before walking closer, the walls stretching higher above them with each step.

Charles was certain the church was designed to evoke the awe of God, and he could feel it as they finally settled in front of the massive doors—at least, as close as they could get to them in the crowd.

Evidently most of Florence had the same idea to watch the sunset. The line to climb the Duomo stretched around the church, and the piazza was full of tourists snapping photos, people sitting at outdoor tables having dinner, sipping drinks.

“There’s no way we’ll be able to climb today,” Carlos said as he watched the line. “They said that at the Uffizi, but I thought I wouldn’t want to climb all of those stairs.”

Charles couldn’t stop staring up at the walls, the massive window framed by dozens of  marble sculptures of various Biblical figures. He knew the interior was just as grand, with equally intricate stone flooring, arched ceilings, and stained glass, but he knew Carlos was right that they stood no chance of getting in, even as princes.

But they had other options.

“I have an idea,” he said, and he led Carlos toward a small building on the other end of the piazza.

 

 

As expected, the director of the cathedral tourist operations had no interest in closing down the Duomo for two princes to see it. People had paid a year in advance to climb the steps, and he would not be allowing any princes to skate by, but perhaps if they came back in a week. Charles calmly explained that they didn’t mind climbing the steps alongside tourists, but the director said he would not allow the crown to be disgraced in such a way.

Charles knew that would be his answer, and did his best to look dejected before he asked, “Well, that about the belltower?”

Just beside the Duomo stood Giotto’s Campanile, only a bit shorter than the Duomo. Charles had climbed it before on a previous visit without issue.

“Bene,” the director said, calling over an academic-looking man with a wisp of white hair combed over his bald head. “Luca, chiudete il campanile.”

Charles winked at Carlos, who grinned.

“Grazie mille, signore,” Charles said with a dip of his head.

The director shook his head. “I will do my best to serve the Crown where I can. I hope you understand.”

“Of course,” Charles replied, looking over to Carlos in what he hoped would be perceived as a loving expression. “And we’re grateful.”

Carlos returned the look with a smile. Charles realized Carlos had been smiling all day, even during a few longwinded explanations about stone tablet carvings in the Uffizi that even Charles had trouble staying awake for.

Carlos looked back to the director. “Truly grateful, signore. Grazie.”

The director huffed in a pleased sort of way and motioned toward the door. “Please head to the museum, we will collect you there once il campanile is vacated.”

“Is there wine?” Carlos asked. Charles shot him a look.

The director let out a snort. “Of course there is wine. You’re in Italy, Your Royal Highness.”

So they made their way to the museum near the Cathedral, where two glasses of wine awaited them.  Charles sipped from his glass and tried to slow his breathing as the strange feeling began to resurface after the brief interlude talking to the director. Carlos pointed out broken pieces of statues or interesting notes on the metal plaques, unaware.

He wondered if Carlos was only pretending to be interested in the history because of his comments in the car yesterday. But then again, he’d never asked about Carlos’s interest in history or art. He realized he never intended to get to know the man he’d been forced to marry. Of course, they had been friends since they were first introduced to racing, two boys on track for appointments from an early age, but the terms were loose.

His father warned him as a boy that he had to be careful making friends with future princes.

Charles froze, unintentionally holding Carlos back.

“What is it?” Carlos asked.

Charles looked up at him, and for a moment he saw the cocky teenage Carlos from their early racing days, running around their makeshift paddock to his own father, a royal of distant rally empires. Charles remembered his own—

“Nothing,” Charles answered suddenly, though he knew Carlos wouldn’t believe the lie.

God.

Charles pulled his hand from Carlos’s to hurriedly wipe the sweat from his forehead.  “It’s nothing,” he repeated.

“Your Royal Highnesses.”

They both turned to see a man at the end of the gallery hall who nodded to them both.

“Il campanile é aperto.”

“Grazie,” Charles replied with a nod. He bit the inside of his cheek as he took Carlos’s hand again for the walk through the piazza.

“I know you weren’t sweating,” Carlos said.

It took Charles a moment to process. “What?”

Carlos watched him carefully as they headed for the door. “You just wiped your face, but I know you weren’t sweating.”

Charles plastered on a smile, determined not to reveal what he’d actually been wiping away. “Well, we’re both about to be.”

 

 

The steps up the belltower were winding, but calming. Charles and Carlos separated as they ascended, as Charles liked to pause on each of the levels, taking in the city alone. But each time he entered the stairwell, he found Carlos waiting for him at the top, also quiet, before they continued on.

Charles hadn’t been alone in years, he realized. As an appointed prince, he was always surrounded by Ferrari or FIA or his husband. Even when Sebastian left for his trip to Germany, Charles only drove one of his cars for an hour before being called in for testing or to cut ribbons.

He hadn’t even spoken to his brothers since Monaco last year.  His own family had become a backdrop in his life compared to the cars, the marriages, the crown. His own family.

The wind picked up as they climbed, whisking the clouds away to allow the sun to begin to paint pastels across the sky.

When Charles reached the top, he found Carlos standing at the marble railing, looking out over the city. Florence sprawled before them. Great churches dotted the horizon, like pawns from different chess sets arranged in the same place.

Charles settled beside him against the railing, shoulder to shoulder.

The silence between them didn’t become tense like Charles expected it to. Instead, Carlos leaned against him and they took in the view together.

This time, Charles could do nothing to stop his mouth.

“Why are you so kind to me?” Charles asked, and it came out harsher than he intended.  “You still love Lando. I still love Sebastian. You don’t have to try to act like a husband to me.”

He immediately thought to take it back and apologize, but he didn’t. Something raw in him had been unearthed the moment they arrived at the hotel.

But Carlos didn’t flinch or draw away.

Instead he looked at Charles with a soft smile, his hair falling into his eyes in a way that made Charles think that maybe Giorgio was somehow crafting this moment and controlling Carlos like a puppet. Especially with the sunset behind him, the terracotta rooftops of Florence creating the perfect orange backdrop to compliment his dark features.

“When I came to Ferrari, I was so nervous. I’m sure I wasn’t very nice to you,” Carlos said. “Actually, I know I wasn’t. You had every reason to be cruel to me—I waited for it. To be backstabbed or hurt or—” He paused, shrugged. “Thrown under the bus.”

Carlos looked back out to the city. “But you never did. You could have lied to me like Daniel lies to Lando. You didn’t do that, either.”

 “I couldn’t—”

“I know,” Carlos said, cutting him off and turning back to him. “And I think that’s why—”

Carlos shut his mouth abruptly, and Charles furrowed his brow.

“Why what?” Charles asked. He found himself bracing for something. “Do you know something?”

Carlos barked out a laugh. “Yes,” he said. “I know you’re an idiot.”

He leaned in, and Charles parted his lips for a kiss that didn’t come. Their foreheads rested together, and Charles felt the heat of Carlos’s breath against his lips. He smelled like wine, hazy and sweet.

“Voglio baciarti solo se mi è permesso,” Carlos whispered.

I only want to kiss you if I’m allowed.

Charles nearly pulled away. He flinched, but Carlos brought a hand to his face as though to physically hold him together.  

“I don’t think I can be what you want,” Charles said, his voice shaking. “I can’t even be what I want.”

“Voglio baciarti solo se mi è permesso,” Carlos repeated. “I already know you’re what I want.”

Charles swallowed hard, fighting the ache in his chest that made his bones hurt.

“Okay,” he finally said.

The moment Carlos’s lips touched his, everything stilled. A quiet settled over Charles as Carlos pressed against him—all of the weight of the race weekend vanished. His fingers found their way into Carlos’s hair, and his lips parted to allow him full access to his mouth. Carlos took it, but gently, almost doting.

Once again, Charles remembered hearing the stories of Spanish lovers, usually jokes around the paddock whenever they traveled to Spain for a junior race. As Carlos kissed him, Charles thought back to the hotel on their wedding night, how easily he’d been swept up in him then.

This time, Carlos wanted him, not Lando. Charles stood no chance at maintaining control. He kissed hungrily, pouring himself into each press of their lips. The longing in him seared through his body, and Carlos met it all in kind, but never pushed. Even when Charles tried to force his hand, nipping his bottom lip, or moaning when Carlos’s fingers curled tighter in his hair.

Charles slipped his tongue past Carlos’s lips, and Carlos grunted softly—a sound that sent a shiver through every nerve ending in his body. Charles pressed against him until he felt Carlos bump the railing with his back.

Charles broke away, brushing noses with Carlos for a moment before he asked, “You okay?”

“You aren’t allowed to ask that,” Carlos teased, his voice husky. Charles shivered against him, then moaned as Carlos’s lips pressed to his throat, hot and wanting. “But yes,” Carlos added between kisses. “I’m more than fucking okay.”

Charles laughed, tucking his face into Carlos’s neck. Suddenly he couldn’t stop laughing.

“What?” Carlos asked, chuckling.

“I’m happy,” Charles blurted out. “I didn’t think that was possible after this weekend, but I’m so happy.”

Carlos kissed him again, and Charles smiled into it, fit to burst. He’d never done drugs before, but this felt like a high even narcotics couldn’t match.

“I know we still have things going on,” Carlos murmured when he pulled back. “But I want this to work. Us. As a team, and more.”

“Me too,” Charles replied, his voice equally soft.

He wanted a partner. Someone on his team who was honest—and Carlos had never hidden his lingering love for Lando Norris. They openly talked about their letters from their exes. No secrets to spare feelings.

“You spoke Italian earlier,” Charles said, still pressed to Carlos’s chest. “Why?”

Carlos grinned. “Because your Spanish sucks, and I can’t speak French.” He shrugged. “Besides--Italy, Italian. More romantic, no?”

Charles laughed as he looped his arms around him, resting his chin on Carlos’s shoulder. Carlos’s held him back and for a long moment they simply stood there. Charles took in the darkening skyline beyond and smiled when he realized they were standing on the side facing their hotel, a complete reversal of what he’d been staring at the night before.

The wind began to turn chilly, but Carlos was warm around him. Charles made no move to leave. When he felt Carlos move, he tensed, but relaxed a moment later when he felt Carlos tuck his chin over his shoulder to keep him close.

“You’ll get cold if we stay up here much longer,” Carlos said.

“I don’t want to go back down,” Charles murmured into Carlos’s shoulder.

Going back down meant returning to Earth, to their empire, to the crown. Charles didn’t want to lose this and face whatever had been seeping into him all day.

“Ça me fait peur,” he whispered after a long moment, knowing full well that Carlos wouldn’t understand.  

“There’s a movie we should watch,” Carlos said, as though Charles hadn’t spoken at all. “It’s horrible. Spanish movie, but we can watch with subtitles. It’s sort of a Romeo and Juliet.”

“You want to watch a bad romance movie?” Charles teased. “I figure you to be more of an action movie guy.”

“You have a lot to learn,” Carlos said with a laugh.

Charles reluctantly pulled back, trying to prepare himself to return to reality. The loss of Carlos against him instantly made his skin turn to gooseflesh with the next cold wind.

“Carlos, I—

Before he could finish, Carlos pressed a kiss to his lips, effectively silencing him.

“Whatever you want to tell me, we can wait until we’re back at the hotel, yes?”

Charles opened his mouth to protest, and Carlos kissed his forehead this time.

“Charles,” he murmured. “I’m saying this doesn’t end here.”

Carlos’s fingers carded through his hair, a gesture more calming than Charles could have imagined it to be. Carlos seemed so confident in this, in himself, in them.

Worse, Charles didn’t know when he’d lost that confidence in himself or how to find it back.

“You could have kissed me anytime today,” Carlos said. “Or yesterday, or the day before. This place didn’t make me want to kiss you.”

“I’m sure it helped,” Charles joked, but butterflies fluttered in his stomach.

Carlos gently poked him in the chest with his finger. “You are a good man, Charles. Too good for this circus and these people. But—” He brought a hand to Charles’s cheek. “You being here makes me better. A better prince, better driver, better person. Sebastian?” Carlos let out a snort. “He does not deserve you.”

Charles’s heart twisted up in his chest, torn between defending Sebastian and agreeing. Sebastian had done more for his future as a prince than Charles could ever repay him for—and all of that happened before Charles fell in love with him.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Charles finally said, and he headed to the stairwell before he could start defending a man who used him like a pawn.

At night, Florence became a normal city. Bars seemed to sprout from where tourist shops had been during the day, and people chatted around beers or gelato, or smoked in the narrow streets. Charles and Carlos walked hand-in-hand, hurrying along as Charles fought the chill and refused every offer of Carlos’s hoodie along the way.

When they finally made it back to their room, Charles slipped out of his sneakers and collapsed face first into bed, breathing in the scent of freshly cleaned sheets—Egyptian cotton.

His phone buzzed in his pocket just as Carlos dropped into bed beside him. Charles groaned, flipping onto his back as Carlos pulled up the comforter to cover him.

“It’s a text from Giorgio,” Charles muttered, unlocking his phone.

Sanctions to be announced tomorrow morning. Complete ban on socialization between princes of different empires. $50,000 fine per minute, per offense. Two offenses = disqualified.

Charles read the text aloud to Carlos, who cursed, slamming a fist onto the mattress.

What about Max and Ricciardo? Charles asked.

Giorgio replied instantaneously. Max is refusing to formally apologize. Ricciardo has been silent. Do you have a minute to chat? Need to speak to you privately.

Sebastian. Charles’s blood ran cold.

“I’m going to shower,” Carlos said, sitting up in bed. “Still want to watch the movie?”

Charles put on a smile and nodded. “Won’t fall asleep, promise.”

He watched Carlos pull off his hoodie, admiring his broad shoulders. He wanted Carlos to hold him again. He would need it after calling Giorgio.

Once he heard the shower running, Charles waited a few extra minutes before he dialed and pressed his phone to his ear.

“Buonasera,” Giorgio greeted. “Is Carlos with you?”

“He’s in the shower,” Charles said.

“Bene.” He heard shuffling on the line until Giorgio’s voice returned. “Lando is going to make a statement about his marriage tomorrow morning. Damage control.”

Charles blinked, trying to shift his brain from focusing on Sebastian, which was where he thought this conversation would begin.

“Is Perez making a statement?” Charles asked, sitting up.

“Perez has no comment,” Giorgio said. “You need to warn Carlos about Lando’s statement.”

“Why?”

“I can’t say much, but he’s going to say he’s moved on from Carlos, and it won’t be pretty.”

Charles swallowed hard and stood up from bed. He couldn’t sit for this, so he decided to pace by the windows. They couldn’t go one day without pain? One singular day? “Send me a copy of the statement so I can read it.”

“No can do,” Giorgio said. “Lando specifically requested that we saw it first, but the FIA has denied a pre-read for you.”

“Why the fuck did you involve them?” Charles hissed. “Send it to me.”

“Lando involved them, Charles. He’s doing this because Ricciardo could lose his appointment—that’s how serious this is. The FIA is not messing around. Fans are going crazy about love triangles, and they’re sick of it.”

Charles grit his teeth. “The statement. How bad is it?”

The shower cut off in the bathroom.

Giorgio cleared his throat on the other end of the line. “Bad enough that Binotto approved your trip. McLaren sent us the press release before you two were on the jet.”

“What—”

“And you are both coming back to Maranello tomorrow morning. That is how bad this is going to be.”

Charles didn’t have a chance to reply before the bathroom door opened and Carlos emerged, whistling a cheerful tune. He cocked a brow when he saw Charles on the phone, and Charles shook his head.

“I’ll talk to Binotto tomorrow,” Charles said evenly, holding Carlos’s gaze. “Consider it done.”

“Text me when—”

Charles ended the call. A pit formed in his stomach, but the worst part was not knowing how to prepare Carlos for whatever Lando would say. If Georgio had to call to warn him about it, it had to be much worse than what happened with Sebastian—and at least that had been mostly contained to the princes in the know.

“Portugal?” Carlos asked as he crossed over to his dresser.

Charles jerked when Carlos touched his waist on his way past.

Carlos paused, his hand lingering. “Too much?”

Charles pocketed his phone. Carlos smelled like nice shampoo, minty and refreshing, and he could feel shower steam brush his lips as he looked Carlos over.  

“What?” Carlos asked.

Charles reached a hand up to frame Carlos’s face. His eyes fell closed as he leaned in, capturing Carlos’s mouth in a kiss.

For a moment Charles considered not saying anything. Carlos kissed back, his arms winding around him in the way Charles had hoped for just a few moments prior. Their kisses turned messy, and Charles fought the urge to—

Carlos read his mind, pulling up the hem of his shirt. Charles grunted as he tugged it the rest of the way off, and became hyperaware that Carlos only had a towel around his hips and nothing else.

Charles didn’t have much time to appreciate Carlos’s body before Carlos kissed him again, his hands warm as they moved up Charles’s chest. Charles sucked in a breath around the kiss, digging his fingers into the base of Carlos’s spine.

Carlos groaned, and Charles made a note to try to coax that sound from  him as much as possible in the future.  Though it was hard to think of anything when Carlos was kissing him.

Merde. He had to protect Carlos, not sleep with him. And Charles didn’t even want to sleep with him—

Carlos pressed him against the window, and suudenly Charles could only imagine what fucking him would feel like.  

“Carlos,” Charles gasped out, and it ended up sounding more like a moan and not a warning. Their chests pressed flush together, more touch than Charles had experienced in almost a year.

Carlos already had damp hair, his skin already slick—

“Carlos,” Charles growled, and this time he pressed against Carlos’s chest to push him back.

Carlos immediately withdrew, his brow furrowed in concern. “Something’s wrong?”

Charles wound his arms around Carlos’s neck, holding him close, foreheads resting together. Carlos looked him over, and Charles felt his resolve slipping away with the fondness he saw in Carlos’s eyes.

“Did I miss something?” Charles asked. “Our wedding night you kissed me to forget Lando. When did that change?”

Carlos smirked before pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “I like you. You’re very cute.”

Charles laughed, thumbing the nape of Carlos’s neck. “Very cute? You just said that to roll your R’s like a Spaniard.”

“Correcto,” Carlos replied with a dramatic roll of his R’s.

They kissed again, but Charles broke it off to clear his throat. He couldn’t put this off any longer.

“Things are not good with Max and Ricciardo,” Charles murmured, swallowing down his desire. “Giorgio called me while you were in the shower.  McLaren has to pull damage control.”

At mention of McLaren, Carlos’s eyes snapped up from where he’d been staring at Charles’s mouth.

“What does that mean?” Carlos asked.

Charles’s fingers curled at Carlos’s neck on reflex as his throat began to close. “Lando is making a statement tomorrow. He’s going to denounce your marriage. I don’t know what he’s going to say exactly, but we have to go back to Maranello tomorrow, and it’s going to hurt. I’m sorry, but that’s all I was told.”

Carlos leaned back slightly, his eyes going distant. When he spoke, his voice didn’t tremble—it held no trace of emotion whatsoever:

“It’s alright. I know exactly what he’s going to say.”

 

 

Notes:

**the movie carlos is referring to is tres metros sobre el ceilo feat. my boi mario casas. very problematic movie but BOY is mario pretty

Chapter Text

 

 

“This is absolutely fucking ridiculous,” George snarled. He shoved back from the Williams conference table and stood up.

Jost Capito, the Williams head of government, sat across from him, chin in his hands. Early morning sunlight cast a milky sheen on the lacquered wood of the table. A subtle reminder that it was far too early for important conversations.

“I’m sorry your little vacation plans are ruined, but we do have a country to run,” Jost said.

George slammed a fist on the table. “Bullshit!”

The Williams board room used to be a place where princes longed to be. It had kept up with the times with its beautiful hardwood accents, leather chairs, and glass walls, but one thing had stayed the same: the FIA controlled fucking everything.

“This was agreed,” George hissed. “The FIA signed off on it—after the sanctions came out.”

“And they’ve since changed their minds,” Jost said, sounding bored.

“I want to know why, Jost. I know you would want an answer, because you’d want to make sure it wasn’t Mercedes pulling out on us.”

Jost flicked his gaze up from his phone. “And how do you know it isn’t Mercedes doing just that?”

 George narrowed his eyes.

“You see, George,” Jost said, locking his phone. “The FIA does this every couple of years. Some star-crossed couple makes a bit of a splash on the telly or in the gossip rags, and everything gets shut down. This is done to maintain order.”

“Oh fuck that,” George said. “Don’t tell me the FIA has you brainwashed too. What order? We’re puppet racecar drivers!”

Jost sighed, gesturing for George to sit down again. “I’m not going to sit here and stroke your ego. But you’re more than that.”

George scowled, but he had no other way to get answers. He yanked the chair back over to himself and sat down, folding his arms.

“I don’t envy you,” Jost began, adjusting his glasses at the bridge of his nose. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in an appointed marriage, swapped around at any given time. I don’t think I need to tell you that many princes suffer long-term effects upon retirement.”

Only idiots, George thought, but he kept his gaze steady on Jost. Many of the current princes had been raised for appointments. They all knew how they worked, and only the weak believed every man who said they loved him.

“But when princes start to stray from tradition—from the rules—things get very ugly very fast,” Jost continued, folding his hands on the table. “In the 1982, for example, so many princes openly loved princes from different empires that the season nearly came apart. Do you know why?”

“Because—”

“Because other royals with longtime loyalties to their empire suddenly saw no reason to continue that,” Jost finished. “The economies of three empires collapsed in the span of six months. Tens of thousands of people suddenly in poverty, currencies bottomed out, and several more empires would have followed had the FIA and us, Williams, not stepped in to assist.”

“Princes back then also smoked, drank,  and fucked anything that moved,” George retorted. “On television, and at the races. They didn’t give a shit about staying true or whatever the hell you’re trying to prove.”

Jost’s brow ticked up, amused. “I’ll give you that. They weren’t angels, even after the FIA cleaned up the mess. But millions of dollars went into studying what went wrong, and that data showed that princes are the guideposts. Even when their relationships are only for show.”

George bristled, but Jost spoke again before he could lash out.

“You are examples of what people strive to be. Business, commerce, and public affairs are much more controllable when the princes are staying loyal to their own empire. It’ been proven time and time again in our research—you think we want to be controlling the lives of grown men?” Jost scoffed, then shook his head. “Half the time you lot don’t even act like men—lately you’ve all been acting like you’re in primary school with a crush!”

“It’s our lives!” George snapped. “We’re just like you – we want to be happy. I want to race, I want to be a prince. I don’t give a shit about the romance bull—”

“Speaking of romance—do you have anything that might come out in this investigation?”

George shut his mouth instantly, stunned by the question.

“I need to know if you do, George.”

Lewis kept everything so close to the chest that George was certain no one knew the extent of their relationship. He’d made sure to keep the mark on his neck covered in public and around the team. Only Nic knew about it, and maybe Kayla, but she wasn’t the type to make any speculation without asking him first.

“No,” George lied.

Jost let out a snort. “It’s no secret that Albon is still in the lower courts in Red Bull. He was at Imola.”

George felt the air in his lungs turn cold. All of the fight and anger in him vanished in an instant. Numbness began to pulse through him, like his heart was pumping morphine into his bloodstream.

Don’t think about him. Do not think about him.

But Jost had dragged Alex from the place George had buried him.

No, he hadn’t known that Albon was at Imola. Alex stayed as far away from him as humanly possible, and George did the same. They were so good at it now that whatever had brought them together had flipped polarity—they avoided each other without even thinking about it.

“I didn’t know he was at Imola,” George said quietly. “And absolutely fucking not, Jost.”

The anger unleashed in him again, burning straight through the scarring he’d built up over the past year.

“I followed my fucking orders,” he snapped. “I did everything you and the FIA asked me to—without question. And so has he. So don’t ever even fucking mention him to me again, or I swear to God I’ll resign.”

Jost’s eyebrows flew up, and George reveled in his slackjawed expression.

“Well,” Jost finally said after a stunned silence. “That’s a little extreme, don’t you—”

George’s eyes darkened. “Don’t you fucking dare tell me what’s extreme, Jost.”

Jost set his mouth in a line. They stared at each other for a long moment, the silence digging its claws into the space between them.

George would leave a season halfway through if anything happened to Alex. If so much as a careless line in a social media post them together, there would be hell to pay.

Guilt sank into him like a knife’s blade, the same way it always did whenever Albon came up. He would never forgive himself for what happened, but he would make damn sure it never happened again.

“George,” Jost finally said, unclasping his hands and laying them flat on the table. “The reason you are not going to Mercedes isn’t because of the FIA.”

“Then what the hell is it?” George asked, his hand still curled to a fist.

Jost pulled out his phone again, tapped on the screen a few times, and slid it across the table.

An article filled up the screen, and George’s heart leapt to his throat. He immediately wanted to turn away from what was so obviously a photo of a moment not meant to be seen. A grainy photograph that wasn’t grainy enough to leave doubt as to who was in it.

Charles was pressed against a window, shirtless, and Carlos, also shirtless, stood between his legs in the midst of a passionate kiss.

George’s stomach churned. The article title proudly announced “LOVE IS IN THE AIR!  CHARLES AND CARLOS GET ‘STEAMY’ ON A SECRET TRIP TO FLORENCE!”

“Keep scrolling,” Jost said.

George swallowed hard before he scrolled down, where a few more higher-res photos showed closeups of Charles and Carlos with their hands all over each other, including one of Charles pulling his shirt over his head with Carlos staring at him in a way that seemed too explicit for print.  The steamy pun seemed to draw from the fact that Carlos looked freshly showered.

George skimmed through the article, where the writer gave details about a private day in Florence for the two princes, and how they seemed not to care if they were found out. It had so many details and insights into the developing romance between the Ferrari princes that George got the distinct feeling that someone in Ferrari had to have leaked information.

Or, he realized with a hard swallow, Charles or Carlos leaked it on purpose.

What looked like a harmless article about two married princes was anything but.

Oh fuck.

“Did you get to the part about you?” Jost asked.

George’s eyes went wide. “What?”

He nodded toward the phone. “Scroll down.”

George continued to scroll until he saw a picture of himself and Latifi in their racing suits, laughing with each other. George was doubled over, Latifi‘s hand on his back. It was a photo from last season, but George couldn’t discern what race.  He pinpointed his name in the article and began to read:

 

His Royal Highness George Russell was in a chipper mood following a decent show in Imola yesterday. It appears what has been widely seen as a platonic relationship between Russell and His Royal Highness Nicolas Latifi may be developing into something more! We snapped a few photos of an interesting mark on George’s neck that *ahem* looked rather more than friendly!

 

George looked up at Jost, who stared back cooly. Oh god. Oh fuck.

He scrolled down to a photo of him and Nic heading into the garage at Imola, illuminated by the track lights. George had an arm around Nic’s shoulders, and the way his shirt pulled at his own shoulder revealed the hickey on the join of his neck and shoulder, obviously fresh. 

The cameras on the track were much better than whatever was used to sneak shots of Charles and Carlos.

Another photo showed the bruising skin in all too intimate detail, enough that George could make out the teeth marks Lewis had left.

The color left George’s face as he continued reading.

 

Even His Royal Highness Mick Schumacher commented on the mark when he noticed our photographer!

“I’m not surprised,” said the dashing Haas prince. “George and Nic have always had a close relationship. It was bound to develop into something more. I’m happy for them.”

What do you think about the blossoming romances in Ferrari and Williams? Who are you looking forward to seeing in Portugal next week?

 

George shoved the phone back to Jost, who caught it before it flew off the table. He put his head in his hands, fingers curling in his hair as he fought not to scream.

“I’m not stupid,” Jost said. “I know you and Latifi are friends, and I know that little mark isn’t from him.”

“Does Nic know about this?” George asked, his eyes far away as he tried to imagine the fallout. “Has anyone prepped him on what to say when they ask?”

“I plan on meeting with him right after you,” Jost said. “He’s already in a meeting with Kayla, so I’m sure he’s at least aware of this article.”

George tried to control his breathing.

“You owe Schumacher some sort of life debt,” Jost added. “He spun this for you, away from what could have been devastating. The FIA haven’t reached out to us about it, but this could have been—”

“I’m aware,” George grit out, still pulling on his hair.

“So I need you to tell me who left that hickey, George.”

George closed his eyes. He could still feel the pleasure-pain from Lewis’s lips as he left that mark. Mention of it made it itch, and George had spent plenty of time admiring the way it had purpled in the mirror that morning. He had planned to write Lewis about it, but now he knew he couldn’t.

“You can’t guess?” George asked with a weak laugh, leaning back in his chair, bending his neck over the back of it to stare at the ceiling.

“I think you’ve played enough games recently,” Jost said. “Time to start telling the truth.”

George took a deep breath before sitting up. He cleared his throat.

“I think it’s no secret that Mercedes has been looking at me for an appointment.”

Jost’s eyes flashed, and George felt his ears burn red when Jost glanced at his neck.

“Lewis?” Jost asked, his tone suggesting disbelief.

George cut him a glare.

Before he could answer, there was a knock at the door. Kayla entered the room with a tablet in hand, Nic following behind her.

“Lando Norris is about to make a public statement,” Kayla announced. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to watch it. Preferably together, just in case.”

“Hey man,” Nic greeted, hop-stepping away from Kayla over to him. George reached out a hand and Nic hauled him up out of the chair into a tight hug.

“Hey,” George greeted. He lifted his hand to pat Nic on the back and realized he was shaking.

“I’m so sorry,” Nic murmured. “Promise we don’t have to make out on camera or anything.” He leaned back, and George tried to put on a smile for him. “You gonna be good?”

George nodded. “I think so, yeah. Thanks to Mick.”

“Right?” Nic let out a whistle. “What a fucking dude.”

“Boys,” Kayla announced as she plugged in her tablet. “Take your seats and focus. The next few minutes are going to determine how Portugal plays out.”

George forced himself to sit, and Nic found a chair and rolled it up beside him, focused on the conference room TV screen like Lando’s press conference determined the fate of the world.

For them, George thought, it just might.

 

 


 

 

Charles opened his eyes in the quiet of their hotel room, Carlos’s heartbeat steady in his ear. Sleep was too generous a term for the light rest he’d caught after watching Carlos’s ridiculous movie, Tres Metros Sobre El Cielo, but he felt refreshed anyway.

Even if the nerves were chewing up his insides.

“You awake?” Carlos asked, and Charles smiled at the low rumble of his voice and the vibration of it against his cheek.

“Mm,” he answered. “Haven’t really slept.”

“You were definitely asleep,” Carlos chuckled, kissing the crown of his head.

Charles’s eyes flicked open at the affection, momentarily surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t be. Carlos had proven time and time again how affectionate he could be over the last ten or so hours. Charles’s lips were still love-bitten and swollen, tingling pleasantly after a night spent kissing every inch of skin Carlos would allow him to touch.

“Bruto,” Charles muttered, quoting the movie.

“Feo,” Carlos returned, also quoting the movie. “Didn’t think you were paying that much attention.”

Charles grinned, tipping his head up to get a proper look at him. The sight that met him made his chest ache with fondness. Carlos’s hair looked absolutely debauched.

“I race cars,” Charles returned. “I can multitask.”

Carlos laughed. “Claramente.”

Charles yawned and moved to an elbow to reach across Carlos for his phone.

Carlos caught his wrist.  “I turned them off,” he said. “Georgio started texting both of us. I didn’t read them, but I don’t want to see anything about Lando until I’ve watched the press conference.”

Charles kissed him instead of replying. His lips hurt from their night together, but not bad enough that it caused him any pain.

Though he could taste exactly that when Carlos returned his kiss.  

“What can I do?” Charles asked softly as he pulled back. He lifted a hand to thumb over Carlos’s chin.

He watched Carlos’s Adam’s apple bob with a swallow. “I just have to watch it.”

Charles glanced at the bedside clock. They only had a few minutes, then.

“Turn on the TV,” Charles said. He leaned in again, this time feathering his lips up the column of Carlos’s throat.  Carlos shuffled around the covers for the remote, and Charles tried to empty his mind of anything that didn’t have to do with Carlos as he continued pressing kisses to his skin.

But the guilt clung to him, thick and impossible, like tar. Something about this still felt wrong, even if he and Carlos had only made out. Well, mostly. Hands had wandered, but nothing that would have upset Sebastian, who had already admitted to sleeping with Stroll and who knew what else. Charles could only assume Lando had similar sentiments.

As if reading his mind, Carlos turned his head and Charles broke from kissing Carlos’s bare shoulder to capture his lips again.

Carlos kept the kiss light, and Charles understood he might be wrong in showering him with affection.

The pain in Carlos’s eyes confirmed his suspicion.

“It’s okay, mate,” Charles said, though he felt shame begin to twist up with the guilt inside him.  He glanced over his shoulder to the TV, where an empty lectern took up center stage, a scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen reading: LANDO NORRIS EXPECTED TO ADDRESS VERSTAPPEN/RICCIARDO INFIDELITY RUMORS.

Carlos stared at the screen as he began to speak, “We knew late into the season that one of us would leave. I saw my chance at Ferrari, and Lando saw it too. Lando is much more intelligent than he lets on.”

That didn’t surprise Charles. Lando liked to act like a kid in front of the cameras. He touted silliness and ignorance innocently, but Charles had seen glimpses of a sharp wit and cunning in those eyes.

Charles repositioned himself  to rest against the headboard beside Carlos, still resting against him but without draping himself all over him. Though, both of them being shirtless didn’t exactly help to take away intimacy.

“We came up with a plan,” Carlos continued. “I’m sure it’s not original, but we wanted to make sure we always had a way to tell each other that nothing has changed. Er—” His lip curled like he was trying to find the right words. “Well, how to tell each other that we were still each other’s.”

Charles glanced at his bag on the floor, where Sebastian’s watch sat in its protective case.

“Smart,” Charles said.

“We tried to come up with every scenario,” Carlos said, scratching the stubble on his cheek. “For example, what to do if we had to read a script so we couldn’t use any codes. How to do something if it was for radio or a podcast and we couldn’t see each other.”

Charles opened his mouth to reply that he wished he’d done the same with Sebastian, when suddenly Lando appeared on the screen. He looked small in his suit, or maybe it was just his sunken eyes and ashy face. He looked horrible. Hadn’t anyone done a makeup check on him before he walked out onto every news channel in the empires?

Something felt very off. Charles shifted in the bed, his throat suddenly tight.

Lando didn’t look up as he set a few papers on the lectern. Charles clocked that his hands were shaking in the few moments they hovered in view of the camera.

The buzz behind the camera quieted, and Vlad, McLaren’s head of Public Affairs, stepped up to the lectern. Lando nearly knocked into him trying to move out of the way, clearly out of it.

“Merde,” Charles whispered. Lando looked drugged.

Carlos held part of the sheet between his hands, pulling it taut and then shoving it together over and over.

“On Sunday night,” Vald began, “the FIA announced sanctions in regards to alleged infidelity between His Royal Highness, Prince Daniel Ricciardo of McLaren, and His Royal Highness, Prince Max Verstappen of Red Bull.”

Vlad was stone-faced. Though, as a Russian, that look seemed permanent on his features. “The media has created a ruthless campaign tormenting the princes on both sides. And while Red Bull has chosen to stay quiet on the matter, we have not. We find it only appropriate to provide the truth.”

Lando looked dazed beside Vlad, his eyes empty and his mouth slack like he’d been unplugged from himself.

“Thanks to the endless harassment levelled at Prince Ricciardo,” Vlad continued. “He will be unavailable for comment at this time. But His Royal Highness, Prince Lando Norris, has chosen to speak in his place.”

Lando’s gaze snapped up, directly to the camera. Charles’s breath caught in his throat the coldness in his eyes.

Something’s wrong. He almost said it out loud, but didn’t want Carlos to get any more upset.

Lando awkwardly maneuvered around Vlad up to the lectern. His usual smile didn’t appear, not even out of nervousness as he read over his papers one last time. Then he looked up at the camera, and fire relaced the iciness from a moment before.

“When I first heard of the allegations against my husband, I thought it was ridiculous,” Lando began, his voice surprisingly steady. “But then I thought about myself and my ex husband, Carlos. And I thought, well, Carlos and I were much more affectionate on camera than Max and Daniel ever were. Everyone loved seeing the two of us together. Whenever we claimed a podium, the media only ever talked about our relationship and how we supported each other.”

Carlos’s fingers curled in the sheet, bunching it in his palms. Charles tried to discern what about his statement could be code or not. Lando certainly seemed to have it memorized.

“But that’s the thing,” Lando said, cracking a smile for the first time. But this smile was pitch black. “Carlos and I never really loved each other.”

Lando let that sink in, and Charles heard the media murmuring behind the camera.

“I know that’s hard to believe,” Lando said with an equally dark laugh. “We were best friends. Sometimes he felt like my only friend. And yes, we passed lonely nights together. We held each other’s hand when things got tough, and having someone to come home to after a bad day on the track made it more bearable, but we weren’t in love. We were just really good at faking it.”

Charles spared a glance at Carlos, but his face was unreadable. The sheets were still balled in his hands, his whole body still.

Lando folded his arms on the lectern like a cocky schoolboy, looking over what Charles presumed to be a crowd of media before him.  

“We’re princes selected by the FIA and chosen by the people. Marriage is a duty. Part of the crown. You’re expected to fall in love with your arranged husband. That takes years. And the princes who focus on love neglect their empire. Because the love doesn’t last, you know? You always have to get a new ring and a new husband when you’re an appointed prince,” Lando said matter-of-factly. “I don’t mean to upset anyone with that, but I think it should be obvious.”

Charles looked at Vlad in the background, and he didn’t seem at all fazed.

Even this part was scripted.

“Carlos is a mate,” Lando said. He looked at the camera. “I’m sure he’s watching right now.” Lando waved. “What’s up, Chili?”

The media crowd chuckled.

The color drained from Carlos’s face. He looked like he might throw up.

“Carlos?” Charles sat forward, folding a hand over one of Carlos’s.

Carlos’s eyes were vacant, and he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Charles pulled his hand away.

“The point is,” Lando continued, fully embracing his too-casual persona, the drugged look gone except for the dark circles under his eyes. “Daniel and Max? Nothing’s there. Nothing romantic anyway. Daniel hasn’t been married to him for years, guys. Between FIA rules and the schedule of being a prince, you don’t even have time to see your own family, let alone sneak around with someone who is also a prince—which we all know is basically illegal.”

Lando gestured to the crowd. “And look how many cameras are on us all the time. Daniel giving Max a ride back to the hotel? I mean, he told me he was doing that. Yes, he should have gotten approval, but how would you like to have to ask approval to give your best friend a ride home?”

Lando brought his hands to the podium and seemed to notice his notes for the first time. “Man, sorry for going off script there.” He shot Vlad a jokey smile. “Sorry, Vlad.”

Lando’s more intelligent than he lets on. Charles was beginning to see just how much.

Lando cleared his throat.

“So, anyway,” his voice had changed to something more canned. Like he was just reading off a page, though Charles knew damned well that everything had been on a script up to that point. “Today I’m here in support of my husband, Prince Ricciardo, who has been faithful to me since day one. We both believe that the FIA has chosen the right course of action given the circumstances, and we both agree to fully comply with all of the sanctions for Portugal.”

Lando tapped the papers to the lectern to straighten them, but Charles noticed his hands were still shaking.

“And, for the record, despite what I just said, I’m in love with Daniel. So.” He shrugged. “You can print that in your articles if you want. He treats me better than anyone ever has, and anyone trying to say he loves Verstappen hasn’t seen him in the bedroom with me.”

Lando’s grin turned devilish, and for the first time, Vlad’s eyes widened.

“Won’t be taking any questions today, but thanks guys,” Lando said. “I’d like to get back to my husband now.” He turned, and Vlad hurried up to take control again as the reporters started shouting questions anyway.

Vlad closed the press conference amidst the chaos, and Charles reached over Carlos and grabbed the remote to shut off the TV.  

Once it was off, he grabbed his phone and turned it on. Georgio was probably already en route.

“Carlos,” Charles started as his phone turned on, his voice even. “Lando warned us that he was making a statement about you. He wanted you to know so you could prepare for it. What he just said is total bullshit. You know it and I know it.”

Carlos shook his head. Charles’s phone began to vibrate with a slew of incoming texts from while it had been off. Twenty six messages from Georgio.

The most recent one, sent 42 seconds prior, read: DO. NOT. LEAVE. HOTEL.

“I’m going to make sure Georgio doesn’t bother us for awhile,” Charles explained as he opened up the text chain with Georgio. Most of the texts were asking him to call or demanding that they not leave the room.

Two made bile rise in his throat.  

The first, a link with a preloaded thumbnail. A photo of Carlos pressing him to the window, shirtless, from the night before.

Then the text beneath it: next time, call me before you decide not to shut your blinds.

“Carlos,” Charles stammered. His heart dropped through the floor. “You need to—"

“We also made codes for what to say when it’s over,” Carlos said, cutting him off. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he stared at the black TV screen.

 “Lando just used every single one of them.”

Chapter Text

“I want a press conference,” Carlos demanded, his face stone.

The Ferrari boardroom loomed around them, dark wood and high ceilings. Smooth metal accents evoked the aerodynamic lines of their cars, equal parts intimidating and serene. Charles leaned against the back of his chair, arms crossed, staring at Giorgio across the table. He looked grim, his dark curls unkempt from a night spent trying to manage one of the busiest stretches of Public Affairs drama in recent years.  Charles held no sympathy.

“Out of the question,” Giorgio replied with a shake of his head.

Charles glanced at Carlos, who gritted his teeth. Anger still churned in his eyes, so black and intense that it made Charles nervous—and few things had the capability to do that when he raced cars that topped 200 miles per hour.

Carlos hadn’t stopped being angry since they left Florence. He refused to talk about Lando or the press conference, electing instead to yell at Giorgio for the entire drive about the tabloid article.

God, the tabloid article.

“The publicity of this article is great for us,” Giorgio said evenly. “I don’t understand why you want to contradict that with a press conference. You’re married and very much in love.”

Charles’s cheeks burned, staring at a knot in the wood tabletop to avoid meeting Giorgio’s eye.  Anger simmered in Charles too, but he had no idea how to combat it, and no one to direct it on. He understood Giorgio’s point—just as he understood that Carlos wanted a press conference to save his relationship with Lando.

“It was a disgusting invasion of privacy at the very least,” Carlos snapped.

He had yet to sit down.

“Yes, it was distasteful,” Giorgio replied with a nod. “But it is exactly the kind of publicity we need right now with these sanctions. Verstappen and Ricciardo are still in hot water. Lando won’t have saved them from that whatsoever.”

“The article was perfect,” Charles said, his first time speaking since they stepped into the room over an hour ago. He looked at Giorgio, his eyes narrowed. “Did you plan this?”

Carlos stilled, eyes wide on Giorgio.

Giorgio scowled. “Of course not.”

Charles didn’t blink. “Did Binotto?”

Giorgio’s scowl vanished, and his eyes flashed. He didn’t respond.

“Qué mierda!” Carlos slammed the table. Charles saw him move before Giorgio had a chance to react, and jumped up from his chair, hooking an arm around Carlos’s midsection as he lunged across the table.

“You’re a fucking traitor!” Carlos shouted, scrabbling for Giorgio in Charles’s hold.

“Carlos!” Charles warned, putting all of his weight into holding back one of the fittest men with a crown.

Carlos didn’t let up. “You fucking knew exactly—Mierda!”

Giorgio stood up, bracing against the table as he leaned in, unafraid. Charles cut him a glare.

“Carlos, you cannot have both,” Giorgio said. “Lando will not be coming to Ferrari, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay right here. Assuming we choose to maintain your appointment.”

That earned another charge from Carlos, who jammed his shoulder right into Charles’s sternum, knocking the wind out of him. Charles let out a choked noise and he felt Carlos flinch, then finally relax.

Charles softened too, lifting a hand to rest his palm against Carlos’s cheek for only a moment before moving it to press gently to his own sternum, where pain radiated up his throat for whatever reason.

“Then I want to go to España,” Carlos demanded, no longer shouting.

Giorgio shook his head. “No travel. You’re both to stay in Maranello until we head to Portugal.”

“Why?” Carlos asked, and Charles looked over at the sound of desperation in his voice.

“No travel,” Giorgio repeated. “Now, both of you ought to find an acceptably public way to wait out the next week.”

 


 

Carlos did not find a publicly acceptable way to spend the week. He holed himself up in the royal apartment in Maranello—more specifically, the second floor terrace. Charles diligently sorted through paperwork and official documents, handling all of the government work while Carlos brooded in the Italian sunshine.

Charles kept tabs on him from inside the palace, but mostly stayed away, nursing his own wounds. He still had no idea what Sebastian felt about the article, and no letters had arrived to indicate he’d even seen it. But Sebastian most certainly would have by now—

Unless he had been keeping busy with Lance.

Florence had already become a distant, soured memory. Charles hated himself for missing Carlos, opting to sleep on one of the many sitting room couches in the apartment instead. Carlos never asked him to come to bed. He didn’t even say hello to him in the mornings when they passed each other.

Even seeing him at all had become rarer and rarer over the course of the week.

On Tuesday morning of race week, Charles signed off on yet another royal document at his desk. He tried not to stare at the empty signature line where Carlos was supposed to sign. Binotto had stopped asking why it wasn’t there.

The door to the suite opened, and Charles rubbed his eyes. The paperwork had been steady over the weekend as the team prepared for travel. As much as Charles loved to race, he despised the logistics involved in getting there. Especially wearing jeans around the paddock, for whatever reason. He much preferred his current outfit: soccer sweats and a Burberry t-shirt.  

“A letter from His Royal Highness, Prince Pierre Gasly,” a courier announced as she entered, presenting him an envelope with a blue Alpha Tauri seal.

Charles smiled, bleary-eyed, as he thanked the courier and pulled out his letter opener. Gasly had great handwriting for a guy who couldn’t be bothered to wear matching socks most days.

 

Char –

Mate, that article was fucking ridiculous. Just returned from France, had to write you. Everyone is talking about it. Have to ask, is that real? I feel like a fucking perv, mate, but it looked real. You and Carlos, huh? Anyone upset about that?

Saw Lando’s press conference as it happened. Didn’t put the pieces together until 20 minutes ago.

How fucked is all of this, yeah? You remember when we used to give Lando shit for being shorter than us? Well, I did—you just stood there because you’re Mr. Perceval Plaisant.

Been teaching Yuki French—fucking hilarious. Chercher la petite bête – I just laughed as I wrote that. Wish I could show you in person in Portugal but…damn.

I miss you, you know? And Carlos, George, Lando, Max, even Lance when he’s not being a dick.

Chin up, mate. Whatever happens, I’ll be around for you. Unless you turn into a backstabbing dick like Horner.

- Pierre

P.S. -  Tell Carlos he’s going to have to work out harder than that if he wants abs like mine.

 

Charles grinned as he read, the gloom of the week momentarily lifted. He pulled out a piece of royal parchment from the box at the head of his desk and picked up his pen to write a reply. God, he loved Pierre. Their friendship had faded a little from when they were stupid teenagers running around junior racetracks, but Charles friendships like that didn’t every go away too much.

His pen hovered over the paper, but as soon as he thought about writing, someone else’s voice echoed in his head.

“It’s very important to maintain friendships,” Sebastian had told him in this very room a year ago. “These men will be in your life for a very long time if you maintain your crown, so it’s important to build foundations with each of them based on mutual respect and healthy competition, no matter what it feels like on the track.”

Sebastian wrote letters almost every afternoon. Mostly to Lewis to discuss news and report on the happenings in other empires, but to Kimi, Alonso, Perez, and the occasional letter to younger drivers to offer encouragement.

“The best thing you can do? Beat them to the punch. A compliment is better received when it comes as an action, not a reaction. The same is applied to bad news. ”

Charles took a deep breath and wrote, but not to Pierre.

 

 

Sebastian,

  I want you to know it wasn’t real.

 

 

Lies looked more believable when written in ink.

He looked out to the terrace where Carlos sat facing away from him, his broad shoulders tugging his grey t-shirt taut across his back as he stared out at the alps.  Charles read the tension in his shoulders, Lando undoubtedly on his mind.  

Charles looked back to his paper.

How stupid of him to believe Carlos really felt anything for him. How stupid of him to want it.

Charles put his letter into an envelope and sealed it with red wax.

He couldn’t lose Sebastian too. If Carlos didn’t truly want him, he knew at least one man did.

Even if that man had reused a romance tactic on him. Or several.

Charles stood up, checking on Carlos one last time. No movement. The same as he had been for the past week. Charles didn’t understand how even a philosopher could spend so much time just thinking. He headed out into the main palace, not bothering to tell Carlos that he was leaving. He knew Carlos wouldn’t even notice.

Ferrari boasted one of the grandest palaces in the empires—modern architecture infused with old. Cathedral ceilings towered above him as he made his way through familiar corridors, waving to Ferrari government officials, mechanics, and engineers along the way. Race week send everyone into a steady stream of activity, comforting and familiar.  

When Charles arrived at the interior mail office, he found it empty.

A red box with the Ferrari crest sat on the desk, the royal mailbox for the use of princes only.

Charles flipped open the lid—

And saw an envelope already inside.

He recognized Carlos’s script immediately, the careful lines spelling out Lando on the parchment.

Charles glanced around before he picked up the envelope, surprised by how heavy it felt in his hand. There had to be six or seven pages inside—the seal strained to hold the envelope together.

Jealousy burned up Charles’s throat as he placed the letter back inside the box, though he knew he had no right to feel that way.

He didn’t even know when Carlos had left the apartments to drop this off, and he hadn’t seen a courier go out on the terrace at any point in the last day. The only think he could think was that Carlos had sent it at some point during the few hours he left to train each morning.

Either way, it seemed personal. Like Carlos didn’t want him to see it.

Charles swallowed down his hurt as he dropped his own envelope inside and shut the box.

“Your Royal Highness!”

Charles turned to see Fabrizio, the head of royal correspondence, at the threshold.

“Buongiorno, Fabrizio,” Charles greeted with a nod, putting on a smile. “I’ve put a letter in the box for you.”

Fabrizio bowed respectfully—always too formal for the occasion. “Grazie, signore.”

Charles tapped his fingers on the lid of the box. “Another letter to Lando?” he asked, taking his chance to see if—

“Whatever is bothering Prince Carlos, it does not seem to have let up,” Fabrizio agreed with a nod. “Writing does not seem to be helping. Prince Lando has yet to reply, but for the one time. Che triste.”

Charles kept his face schooled. Carlos had been sneaking letters under his nose for a week. “Sí, che triste. How many has Carlos sent now?”

Fabrizio frowned. “Still one each morning. I certainly hope he does not try to write two in one day. I fear that might have the opposite effect—they are such heavy envelopes by the time I receive them.”

“I agree,” Charles answered slowly, the hurt welling in him. “He can certainly put words to a page.”

“And I hear from Simeon—my counterpart in McLaren if you have forgotten, Your Highness—that Lando does not even take them. Has him leave each one on his desk. Though I suppose he does read them, as he tells me they are gone every morning.”

“Does Carlos know that?” Charles asked, suddenly feeling very cold. He held his arms to stop a shiver from running through him.

Fabrizio nodded. “I’m afraid it has only spurred him to write more.”

“Yes.” He smiled tightly. “Glad to see you, Fabrizio. Ciao.”

Charles set a brisk pace on his walk back to the royal apartment, not bothering to wave at passerby this time. How many times would he fall for the trap? Men told him kind things and he believed them every time. Too caught up in his want for love to look at anything beyond the fake smiles and warm touches.

When he entered the apartment, he locked the door behind him.

Their home did not fit the definition of apartment in the usual sense. It was larger than most Italian villas as a whole, and had an elegant but powerful style, once again evoking the classic-yet-cutting-edge style of Ferrari.

Charles leaned back against the door for a moment, trying to remain calm. He didn’t know that it was fair to attack Carlos when everyone else had already done that.

He’s been playing you, Charles thought. This whole time, he just wanted you as a distraction.

But Charles wanted a distraction too. So could he really be upset?

Yes.

He crossed the expansive living room and threw open the glass sliding door that led out to the terrace. Carlos hadn’t moved, still staring out in a daze, surrounded by opulence and shaded by an Italian-style wood lattice awning. He looked like he might be posing for a photoshoot that Charles intended to burn down.

Carlos turned as he neared, but when he saw who it was, he turned his head back to the mountains again.

“No,” Charles said, storming in, his trainers scraping along the concrete. “I’m not dealing with this anymore. You’ve had enough time to pout.”

Carlos whipped his attention back to him, startled.

“You’ve ignored me. After everything—” He let out a strangled noise. “After everything I thought we shared in Florence, you’ve thrown me out like nothing,” Charles continued, advancing on him. “Giorgio is right. Lando is not going to be appointed to Ferrari and you won’t leave. I told you months ago that we’re going to be together for a long time—that’s still true.”

His hands balled to fists at his sides, but hurt flooded him, not anger.

Carlos stared up at him, slackjawed and mute.

Charles’s eyes suddenly itched, but he was done fucking crying over men who didn’t give a shit about him.

“Am I really not good enough?” Charles demanded. “Not even enough for you to be good at faking it?”

“Did you not listen to that press conference?” Carlos finally said, standing up to be eye level with him. “I am in love with him. I told you months ago that—”

Carlos’s eyes widened as he cut himself off, and Charles curled his lip in disgust, the damage already done.

“I know what love is. I’ve tasted it.  And I know I’ll never have it with you.”

The words rang clear enough in his memory. Bile rose in his throat, bitter and terrible.

“I’m not asking you to love me,” Charles hissed. “But you have to respect me as your partner. Love Lando if you want, but he isn’t married to you. I am. Solo io.”

He stepped closer, until he could feel Carlos’s breath at the hollow of his collarbone. But Charles’s kept his gaze hard, unaffected.

“No more games,” Charles said. “You have to tell me what you want. And if that changes, you have to tell me. I’m not going to cover for you anymore unless I know you respect me.”

He pointed toward the apartment. “That means being in there. That means not avoiding each other because you’re heartsick. Tu as besoin de reprendre le dessus!” he shouted. “We’re both going to be heartsick until we get what we want, and that will not come for years!”

“Except he doesn’t want you, Charles!” Carlos fired back.

Charles’s eyes went wild, fury burning in him. “You have no fucking idea what he wants!”

Carlos grabbed him up by the front of his shirt, but Charles only smirked. He would have loved for Carlos to punch him—it might hurt less. And at least itwould feel like something.

“What did the letter say?” Charles asked, cold.

Carlos blinked, his mouth falling open again. Charles noticed the puffiness under his eyes. He’d missed that before.

“The letter, Carlos,” Charles continued. He laughed. “Did you think I didn’t know? That you’ve been writing him every fucking day?”

Charles shoved him back, and Carlos released his hold, eyes wide, horrified.

“Big, thick letters,” Charles said, his voice dripping venom. “Day after day, with only one response. What did it say?”

“Shut up,” Carlos said quietly.

Charles stalked closer. “No, I want to hear it. You haven’t said a word to me, but you’ve written him a book. Did you use the same lines from il campile? Tell him he’s a good man? ”

“Just because Sebastian is an asshole doesn’t mean I am,” Carlos snapped. “Stop taking after George. La crudeltà non ti sta bene.”

Charles laughed again. “So now I’m cruel? You’ve ignored me for a week. Snuck letters to you lover, thinking I wouldn’t know. Did you think I’d fallen in love with you? Or is that just what you wanted so I wouldn’t stand in your way?”

“Stop talking, Charles,” Carlos said, his eyes dark.

“No,” Charles snarled. “You answer me. Adesso.”

“And if I don’t?” Carlos asked, his voice dangerous.

Charles let out a snort. “It wouldn’t be wise to make an enemy that knows this place better than you do.”    

Carlos swallowed hard, but he didn’t look intimidated. They glared at each other for a long moment, and suddenly Charles felt his anger turning to something else equally blistering and unholy. He hated himself for feeling it.

“I did lie,” Carlos said slowly. His gaze flicked to Charles's lips.

Charles scoffed, locking eyes with Carlos and making a point not to look anywhere else.   “Obviamente, idiota.”

Carlos shook his head, the barest movement, their eyes still locked.

“I am in love with Lando,” Carlos said. “I think I always will be.”

“So don’t—”

“But I had to tell him that you and I are becoming more than what we were,” Carlos said quietly.

The floor vanished from under Charles’s feet. The room spun, but he regained himself with a single thought:

Liar.

“Potrai andare all’inferno,” Charles said bitterly. Wetness collected in his eyes and exhaustion suddenly swooped in, drenching him. “You think I’m some rookie? Someone who will believe that? Do you even know me?”

“I told him the photos weren’t staged,” Carlos explained, stepping back. “Do you have any idea how difficult that was for me? I won’t lie to him, but I know he wanted me to.”

Charles’s nostrils flared. “So you make yourself feel better by hurting me?”

“I don’t know how to feel!” Carlos snapped. “What I feel for you feels wrong. Does it feel wrong to you?”

“Yes,” Charles replied, without hesitation.   

Carlos looked away. The sunlight through the terrace awning dappled his face as wind rustled the ivy above, turning his eyes from amber to rich walnut and back again.  He looked suddenly helpless, hopeless too.

 “I love him.” Carlos’s eyes remained distant as he shrugged.  “I love him but I can’t be with him. And you are a good man—a great man. “ He gestured to the mountains overlooking the palace. “I’ve been sitting here thinking how I can love him and come to love you at the same time.”

“Did you ever stop to consider how I might feel?” Charles asked, not at all comforted. “You aren’t fooling me, Carlos. You have a way with words, but I live with you. You haven’t even said hello to me for five days.”

Carlos chuckled, not a mocking sound, but one of pain. “That is how difficult it’s been. It’s like I can’t do anything but think. About how Lando will feel seeing me with you, how you will feel seeing me with him.”

“Well,” Charles said. “Focus on Lando, then. Because I don’t think I want that with you anymore.”

Lying felt better than attempting to sort the pain, the hurt, and the damned part of him that knew Carlos truly cared for him. Charles ran a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh.

When he looked up, Carlos had a smile on his face.

“What now?” Charles snapped.

“Nothing,” Carlos said, still smiling.

Charles glared at him. “Continue thinking. I will be focusing on the race.”

He started to walk away, then turned back around.

He did his best not to start when he found Carlos looking him over.

“Yes?” Carlos asked, cocking his head.

Fuck. Charles swallowed thickly. “I’m sleeping in our bed tonight.”

Carlos raised a brow.

“And I don’t want you in it.”

 


 

Charles spent the rest of the afternoon immersed in meetings and debriefs—all of the things he’d been neglecting to make sure no one bothered Carlos.

 He tapped his pen relentlessly beside his keyboard as the engineers walked him through the weekend’s gear stack, and found it easier to lose sight of Sebastian and Carlos when he had to answer complex questions about wheel alignment and braking and how certain corners felt versus how they looks on course maps.  

He could tell engineers how to handle the car and he knew it would be exactly the way he wanted it on Friday for practice. No surprises that didn’t have a mathematical explanation. Something concrete and comprehendible.

“Good to see you’re back with us,” Binotto said from the head of the table. “Any idea when we can expect Carlos?”

Charles pulled off his headset, the white noise returning the moment his headphones left his ears. “No idea. Tomorrow, I imagine.” He shrugged. “I mean, that’s the last day he has, right? We leave tomorrow night.”

Binotto smiled for only a fraction of a second. Engineers began to exit the briefing room. When Binotto didn’t stand up to join them, they hurried, glancing at each other as they talked in hushed whispers on the way out.

Charles tried not to think about how many of them had seem the photos of him pressed against a window with Carlos between his legs.

“Charles,” Binotto began once the room was empty, “Carlos needs to fulfill his duties as a prince of this empire.”

“Then discuss that with him,” Charles said, beginning to tap his pen on the desk again.

“You are the senior prince,” Binotto said. “Part of your responsibility in this role is to secure…cooperation.”

Charles laughed, lifting a hand to cover his mouth a moment later. “Cooperation? Questa è bella detta da te,” he said.” You had probabilmente le foto più imbarazzanti—no, you had pornographic photos of myself and Carlos posted all over the internet—on purpose—and you expect us to accept that? To move on?”

Binotto rolled his eyes. “Do you know what would be worse?” he asked. “Allowing Lando to continue to undermine—”

“He’s not undermining anything!” Charles snapped. “Carlos is not the type of man to pine after Lando at the expense of Ferrari—or me. If you’ had spoken to me about this before you went and did the worst possible, most embarrassing, thing I can possibly think of, I’m sure we would have been able to come to an agreement.”

Binotto barked out a laugh. “Agreement? No. I am the head of government—”

“And I’m the senior prince,” Charles said. “And Carlos and I are the face of this government.”

He stood up, looming over Mattia. He hated being angry. He hated being threatening and sad and out of control.

“I was finally happy,” Charles said, his voice shaking. “After what you did to me, I was finally happy.”

He had spent countless hours in this boardroom. Sebastian used to sit right next to him and murmur the reasoning behind certain changes, teaching him. At first, Charles only wanted it to be the mentorship, but by the end he spent most of the meetings with his fingers laced with Sebastian’s under the table, smiling every time Sebastian laughed at an engineering joke Charles didn’t yet understand.

Binotto’s mouth set into a hard line.

“Hai fatto una cazzata,” Charles hissed. “I was so close to having what I wanted—what you wanted. Instead you’ve made him run back to Lando because you didn’t allow me to handle this.”

Binotto scowled. “The sanctions—”

“The sanctions have nothing to do with what we discussed pre-season,” Charles interrupted cooly. “I handle Carlos. I dictate what’s shared and what isn’t.”

“Charles—”

Charles slammed his palm flat on the table, the same way Carlos had the week before. The monitors rattled on the tabletop and Binotto flinched.

“I told you my terms,” Charles said. “They still stand. Carlos is mine when it comes to our relationship. Put him in front of the cameras and puppeteer him all you like for everything else, but do not interfere with what I’m doing. Understand?”

Binotto sat forward again, preparing a retaliation.

“Not one word, Mattia.” Charles lifted a finger to silence him. “Nemmeno una parola.”

 


 

When Charles returned to the apartments, the windows were blackened with the night sky. Low, golden light washed the room in warm tones, and the gas fire burned in the glass fireplace. No Carlos.

Charles scrubbed his face in his hands the moment the door clicked shut behind him, allowing his shoulders to sag in the quiet loneliness.

He wanted to return to Monaco. No, he wanted to be in Portugal, surrounded in the atmosphere of the racing weekend. Even with sanctions, he wanted to be able to see the flagship green of Sebastian’s racing suit at the far end of the pit lane, to overhear Ricciardo’s laughter or George’s banter with Nic in the distance.

The stillness and quiet of the royal apartments lingered, haunting.

He entered the bedroom, which felt even emptier than the living room. A few personal items sat on top of his enormously expensive dresser, crafted from figured Italian olive wood.

Sebastian’s Senna watch sat beside his mirror in its case. A photo of his family in a frame sat nearby, but several unframed trackside photos from various years took up the space around his mirror, taped there when he first arrived at Ferrari. All group photos, as the FIA wouldn’t allow him to have any just of himself and a previous or potential husband.

One showed Pierre with his arm hooked around George, sticking his tongue out at the camera. Lando had his face smashed between them, making a stupid face. Carlos had found a way into the frame, and Charles had popped his head up over George’s shoulder.

He didn’t even remember taking the photo, or what had made them all so happy that day.

Perhaps the newness of the crown. Back when the gold didn’t cut.

He needed to write Pierre.

Thought of letters made his chest ache, so Charles opted for sleep instead. His brain hurt, both from the emotional drain and from going through so much intensive work on the car.

He stripped down his boxer briefs and brushed his teeth in the bathroom mirror, eyeing himself. The dark circles under his eyes were a light lavender now, but he knew if he stayed awake any longer they would be much worse in the morning.

He needed to look somewhat acceptable for Portugal if they wanted anyone to believe they hadn’t staged those photos.

Carlos still hadn’t appeared by the time Charles finished checking through his phone for any updates on other princes. Social media feeds had gone quiet after the sanctions, as Public Affairs teams tried to figure out the best way to pretend their princes loved each other enough that any missteps could avoid a fine.

He crawled into bed and pulled the covers to his chin, but he already knew sleep wouldn’t come. He stared out into the darkness, and once his eyes adjusted, he watched the blue moonlight shift as the trees outside of the massive windows moved in the night breeze.

Charles told himself that sleep escaped him because of how horrible the day had been, but the real reason was somewhere in Maranello, staring off into the mountains and thinking about someone else.

The night stretched to the point where his eyes ached but refused to allow themselves to become heavy with sleep, though exhaustion pulled at ever other part of him. So much for looking well for Portugal.

Finally, he heard the apartment door open and the shuffling of feet. Charles’s eyes flicked open to the darkness, his breath catching in his throat.

When he heard the door to the bedroom click open, Charles closed his eyes to feign sleep. He didn’t want to talk to Carlos or see his face.

Carlos paused when he entered, and Charles heard the door shut again. For a moment he thought Carlos had actually decided not to enter at all, but then he heard him moving over to his own dresser, followed by the rustle of cloth.

Charles dared to open his eyes, only partly, because he wanted to see the man Carlos was when he thought he wasn’t being watched.

The look on Carlos’s face was easy to see in the light of his phone screen. Focused and calm, the way he usually looked in the garage on race day. His hair hung in his eyes as he unclasped his Richard Mille watch and carefully placed it on the dresser. He even adjusted where it sat a few times, making sure it rested perfectly. He needed a watch stand.

Carlos started to turn and Charles closed his eyes again.

“I know you’re awake,” Carlos murmured.

Charles stilled immediately, and then cursed himself for making it obvious that he’d heard.

“I don’t want to talk,” he said into the covers.

“Do you still want me to sleep on the couch?” Carlos asked.

Charles opened his eyes again, but Carlos faced the dresser, pulling on a shirt.

“How did you know I was awake?” Charles asked, ignoring the question.

Carlos shrugged into the shirt, then locked his phone. The screen went dark, making it impossible for Charles to make out his face.

“My grandfather told me once,” Carlos began as he leaned against the dresser, “that people who care about you wait for you to come home.”

Charles let out a snort. “Thought you might have run off to McLaren.”

He regretted speaking the moment the words came out, but he didn’t take them back.

“That’s how I knew,” Carlos said.

Charles furrowed his brow. “What?”

“That,” Carlos said. “You being cruel. To me, to Binotto as well, from what I hear.”

“Merde, can you get to the point?” Charles snapped, his voice thick with exhaustion.

“Your cruelty to me means you still care very much, but this is your way of trying to avoid it.”

Charles stuffed his face into the pillow, exasperated. He did not have the mental capacity to parse through that and prove it wrong. “Carlos, please.”

“You’re right,” Carlos said, and Charles heard him cross from the dresser to the bed, though he was smart enough not to crawl into it. “I got too busy thinking about Lando. And you, and that article, and those pictures. I’ve neglected you, the empire, the crown.”

Charles didn’t open his eyes. “Sputa il rospo.”

“I don’t want to head into Portugal apart,” Carlos said. Silence settled between them, but it felt like the air just before lightning struck. “So can I please sleep in bed with you?”

Charles didn’t move for a long moment. Then he turned his face from the pillow, surprised to find Carlos so close when he opened his eyes. He smelled like grass and summer heat.

Charles hated that it made him want to throw the covers aside and take him into bed. Yes, he wanted Carlos beside him. He wanted his closeness. But he wouldn’t be an idiot again.

“Fine,” Charles croaked, nuzzling into his pillow. “Come to bed.”

Carlos smiled, and Charles watched as he leaned down to kiss him. Time moved in slow motion, allowing him to simply assess as Carlos’s long lashes fluttered closed and his lips parted just slightly.

Imbécile.

It took Charles a fraction of a second to grab the pillow next to him and slam it into Carlos’s head with a satisfying thwunck!

Carlos fell straight off of the bed where he’d started to brace himself, and Charles relished in the sound of a heavy impact of body to wood floor--and the yelp from Carlos that came afterward. 

Charles turned over in bed, away from him. “But don’t touch me.”

Chapter 15

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Absolutely not,” George said as he stared at Kayla, who stood in front of a craft table. Four black Williams rubber duckies sat on the cardboard-like tabletop, surrounded by boxes of paint pens.

“It’s either this, or we film you two on a date night,” Kayla said, hand on her hip.

Nic laughed beside him. “What are we supposed to do, decorate them?”

“That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

“This,” George said, unamused, “is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He should have suspected something stupid when they were made to dress in their Williams polos, matching dark jeans, and white sneakers. Of course he knew they would be on camera, but he’d assumed they would be doing some kind of photoshoot. Something normal.

Kayla narrowed her eyes. “I can make restaurant reservations in five minutes, and you’ll definitely have to get a few kissing shot—”

“Christ, fine,” George said, waving her off. “Get the cameras or whatever.”

A gentle breeze blew through the courtyard as Kayla scurried away, lifting a salty scent to his nose. He’d forgotten how Algarve smelled like the sea. George didn’t particularly enjoy the ocean. The sea couldn’t be predicted, and he always felt safer on dry land, even when racing in a car at speeds that could kill him instantly if he crashed.

He must have inhaled, because Nic sucked in a big breath through his nose beside him.

“Kinda fits, huh?” Nic said, looking over at him.

George stared at the table. “Rubber ducks? Yeah, I guess.”

“No, dumbass. The sea.”

George furrowed his brow. “What?”

“You can smell it but you can’t see it.” Nic gestured to the massive courtyard they’d been set up in, devoid of any personnel not wearing a Williams team polo.

When the meaning finally dawned on him, George looked away.

The people they loved—really and truly—were somewhere in this network of buildings and hotels, hidden. Practice and qualifying had consisted of nothing more than a few glimpses of each other except on track.

The only positive was that the fans hated it as much as they did. The FIA put up privacy fences outside of each garage that would stay up when princes weren’t in their cars, preventing them from exchanging looks and potentially ruining their marriages or whatever the fuck the FIA thought they were doing.

“This whole thing is fucked, right?” George asked as Kayla headed their way with a camera crew and a few more faces from Public Affairs.

“Pretty sure prisoners get more freedom,” Nic said.

“At least we don’t have to make out.”

Nic grinned. “Yet.”

George shoved him, but Nic hooked an arm around his neck before he could get away. Despite being a short guy, Nic had a lot of strength—he claimed from playing hockey as a kid and getting the shit beat out of him on the ice.

“All right, boys,” Kayla said. “Can we at least try to look like husbands and not schoolyard pals?”

George responded by stuffing an elbow into Latifi’s hip.

“Playing dirty?” Nic teased, squeezing tighter on his head.

George laughed at the ridiculousness of it, but then heard his phone fall from his pocket, along with—

Lewis’s letter.

“You win, you win!” George hissed, and Nic let him go immediately, pointing at him.

“Did you hear that, Kayla? Tell me you recorded that.”

George stooped, snatching up the letter and stuffing it in his pocket. He’d purposefully taken it out of the envelope so no one would be able to recognize the silver Mercedes seal, but each prince had their own specific parchment for royal documents, and Lewis’s name was pretty prominent on the heading.

He knew the whole message by heart after reading it thousands of times over the past week. It was his favorite of the many short notes he’d gotten, most of which only concerned news and the weather at Mercedes.

 

George,

I’m incredibly sorry about what’s happened. Usually I can sway those things, but even Toto’s hands are tied. To be honest with you, I haven’t seen the FIA crack down on this type of thing in a long time. Definitely not this harsh. Must be punishing someone specifically, and I don’t think it’s Max and Daniel.

I’m upset, of course. I can’t stop thinking about you, and I know how immature that probably sounds. I’ve had to settle for press releases and that video of you and Latifi playing trivia. You two do seem like a good match.

Didn’t mean for you to get caught up in the news about…you know. Sorry. To be honest, I didn’t expect that to happen between us. I should have, but I didn’t. I’ll plan better next time.

I’m going to warn you now that I may seem cold this weekend. Know I feel the exact opposite. I’m doing everything I can to get past this so we can see each other properly. In order to do that, I have to be so far apart from you that the FIA doesn’t suspect anything.

Have to play things close to the chest. Stay strong, this will all relax by Monaco, I’m sure.

I really miss you.

 - LH

 

“George, come get your touchups,” Kayla called, snapping him from his daydreaming about the next time he’d be able to see Lewis and get a few more marks. He rubbed the spot on his neck as he headed over to the waiting makeup artist.

“Hey,” George said to Nic, who was already looking through a box of paint pens. “Any silver ones in there?”

 

 


 

 

It turned out that even the FIA had to buckle to the demands of the people, just as Lewis had told him in Bahrain.

On race day, George watched as FIA officials took away the privacy fences to the roar of the crowd, and tried to keep his smirk from earning him a fine. Officials still stood between each garage, but at least they could see each other now.

“Nice,” Nic said with a nod as they watched the Williams fences get tossed on the back of a utility cart. Nic nudged him with his shoulder. “How long you wanna bet it takes until Lewis to make some excuse to walk by?”

George shrugged, leaning back against the pit wall fence.  “I told you, he’s going to keep his distance.”

A herd of media personnel suddenly ran past—TV cameramen jogging, professional photographers sprinting ahead, and at least two reporters trying to ask questions as Lewis zoomed by on his electric scooter, sporting dark sunglasses, a beanie, and a shirt with some hashtag George couldn’t read.

George’s mouth fell open as Nic let out a cheer.

“That’s fate!” Nic laughed. “Oh my god.” George didn’t have time to react before Nic crawled partway up the fence, waving down the pit lane. “Hi Lewis! Lewis, don’t go! We have questions too!”

George grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him down, his face going red. “Are you trying to get us fined?!”

Nic threw an arm around his shoulders, grinning. “What’d you say, babe? Couldn’t hear you over the sound of my love.” He furrowed his brow. “Or maybe that was your love. It’s so loud—”

“You’re a piece of shit, honestly,” George snapped, but it held no heat. “We never should have picked you up from your coffee dynasty.”

“My dad wanted a real prince in the family,” Nic returned, releasing him. Other princes slowly began to poke out from their garages, but the usual waves, nods, and smiles were noticeably absent. The paddock felt quiet, even though the sound of car mechanics and engine tests punctured the air.

George watched as Mick talked to an engineer, Mazepin about fifteen paces behind him on his phone. George couldn’t imagine what their break week had looked like, especially with the travel ban just about every empire except Alpha Tauri had implemented.

He dared to look further down the pit wall, where the media that had been chasing Lewis were forced to stop, not allowed to venture into a prince’s home garage sector. George could make out the line of Lewis’s shoulders as he spoke to Bottas, and the tone seemed serious.

George once again found himself hoping for the day where Lewis would talk to him like that—sharing strategy and asking his opinion on things.

Nic elbowed him, pointing up at the big screen. “Incoming.”

The cameras were trained on Lando, who was walking with a group of McLaren reps down the pit wall. A quick glance to the real thing showed why Nic had caught his attention: Carlos sat right on the pit fence ahead of him, buried in his phone.

George’s stomach twisted.

Don’t do it, he thought. Don’t blow this.

One wrong move from Carlos or Lando and they would have sanctions until Abu Dhabi.

Lando stopped directly in front of Carlos, though they were perpendicular to each other—Lando facing the end of the pit lane and Carlos facing the garages. George glanced back and forth from the screen to reality as Lando pretended to be extremely focused on a clipboard in one of the engineer’s hands. Whoever stood next to him looked focused as well, but George felt the shift as the whole track seemed to collectively change focus to the two princes.

“Why aren’t they making him move?” George hissed.

Carlos hadn’t looked up from his phone, elbows on his knees and his legs wide, confident, his face hidden by the bill of his Ferrari cap.

“I do not want to be stuck at Williams another week,” Nic groaned.

Charles emerged from the Ferrari garage with a look in his eyes George had never seen before. It reminded him of a viper the moment before it struck, feral. Even from a distance, George could read the electricity in Charles’s body language as he headed straight for the McLaren group.

It was like watching a crash in slow motion: Charles striding right toward the crowd of McLaren reps, Lando still looking over the clipboard and saying things, undoubtedly to Carlos and unrelated to the paper in front of him.

George clocked Vettel in the threshold of the Aston Martin garage, arms crossed, Stroll popping up beside him. FIA officials turned at their posts, hands moving to their walkies. Every prince on the grid could only watch as the future of their season played out on the tarmac.

Carlos kept scrolling through his phone, seemingly unaware, but everyone in the world knew he had to be hearing whatever Lando was saying. They were just too close.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” George looked further down the and caught sight of Lewis staring at him knowingly.  He quickly glanced away.

No fucking time.

Charles stepped right into the group of McLaren reps, and they recoiled from him, bolting out of the way like Leclerc was carrying a flesh-eating virus.

Lando didn’t move.

The stage had been set, with the McLaren reps subconsciously forming a ring around the meeting. George held his breath, waiting.

FIA officials started running, their white polos appearing from every corner of the pit lane and heading right for them. Lando finally looked up fom the clipboard, pointed at something off in the distance, and kept walking like nothing had happened. George strained to see where Charles—

Lando turned sharply, eyes burning, as Charles glided past him. The McLaren rep he’d been speaking to pressed a hand to Lando’s back and gave him a push forward, but he resisted.

George clawed at his hair. “The fuck is Charles doing, mate?”

Instead of engaging, Charles kept walking. The cameras captured his easy smile as he greeted Carlos and swooped in to sit beside him on the pit wall fence.

Lando stood frozen for a moment longer before the FIA officials barreled down on him, red faced from their little sprint. He waved them off, then ignored them altogether as he continued on his walk.  Fans screamed from the stands, but it was hard to tell if they were cheering or booing.

“Think they’ll fine him?” Nic asked.

“Which one?” George growled. “Lando and Charles should both get fined. Fucking ridiculous that Lando could even get that close.”

Carlos finally looked up from his phone, but his hat shielded his eyes from the view of the camera. But George saw everything from his spot further down the fence. Carlos’s eyes were glassy, his face colorless. Charles—the fucking prince that he was—put a hand against Carlos’s cheek, effectively blocking the camera’s view of how pale he’d gotten.

The cameras continued to record the two Ferrari princes, and George wished he had the capability to rush over and demand they stop filming.

“We’re in a damned circus,” Nic said quietly, all of the humor in his voice gone.

Charles put an arm around Carlos and ducked his head, resting his cheek on Carlos’s cap. He stared directly into the camera, his face unreadable but intense all the same. A shiver ran down George’s spine.

When the hell had Charles developed the kind of grit to take on the FIA on international TV?

George glanced over at Aston Martin, where Vettel looked on, murmuring something to Stroll who had a hand on his shoulder.

“Actually, we’re in a zoo,” Nic amended. “God, just let the man cry in peace.”

“We should go over there,” George said, watching as Carlos shuddered. Charles, a goddamned genius, smiled wide and chuckled to make it seem as though Carlos had laughed instead. George had known Charles for over a decade. He knew a fake Charles smile when he saw one.

Nic grabbed his hand and headed straight for the Ferrari princes. “Come on, hubs.”

“We’re probably getting fined,” George warned as he hurried to fall into step beside him.

Nic didn’t skip a beat. “Tell them to put it on my tab.”

Nic had received an appointment thanks to his family’s royal connections, lobbying, and quite a bit of money. As George walked next to him, he wondered how parents who skirted the edges of the law managed to instill such an honest, earnest heart into their son.

When they reached Charles and Carlos, Nic dropped to his knee.

“Sorry, Georgie, gotta tie my shoe,” Nic said, though his shoe was already tied. George made a dramatic roll of his eyes and stood in front of the camera, blocking the view of the Ferrari princes.

FIA officials bristled on the sidelines, but George kept his back to Charles and Carlos so they couldn’t actually prove they were speaking to each other.

“Did he say shit to you?” George asked, looking down at Nic but speaking to the princes behind him.

“Didn’t hear,” Charles said, his voice muffled by the way he still had his cheek on Carlos’s head.

“Carlos?” George tried, putting his hands on his hips as Nic fiddled with his laces, tying and untying them because ‘the knot wasn’t right.’

“He has the right to be upset,” Carlos said in a shaky voice—something George nearly flinched upon hearing, because it was so out of character for the Carlos Sainz he’d grown up with.

He saw Pierre, helmet in hand, watching them from the threshold of the Alpha Tauri garage. He lifted brow, looking from George to Charles and Carlos. George shook his head minutely. Pierre set his jaw and turned back to Yuki, who stood at the monitors and gave Pierre a playful punch when he joined him.

“He doesn’t have the right to corner you like that in public,” Charles said. “I don’t know what he was thinking.”

“He’s angry,” Carlos replied.

“That’s not an excuse,” George said, lightly kicking Nic as though impatient with him. “Lando needs someone to knock him down a peg.”

Nic stood up, admiring his freshly tied trainers. George thought the Reeboks looked like his dad’s gardening shoes, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he could convince Kayla to shoot a shoe shopping video.

“Thank you, George,” Charles said. “And you too, Nic.”

“Yes,” Carlos said with a sniff. “Thank you.” George heard him clear his throat. “We have things to do, yes?”

“See you guys on the podium,” George said, grabbing Nic’s hand again. They headed down the pit wall without looking back, though George saw on the TV screen that Carlos looked much better when he stood up, his eyes dry and his smile returned.

“You sure those pictures weren’t real?” Nic asked as they both watched Carlos curl a finger under Charles’s chin, pulling him in for a kiss. Charles did a good job faking surprise before he leaned into it.

The cameras lingered for only a few more seconds before switching feeds to Kimi, who looked as bland-faced as ever as he sat in a neon pink lawn chair outside the Alfa Romeo garage. Antonio sat in a matching chair beside him, sipping a fruit punch, sunglasses perched on the end of his nose. The fans roared.  

“They were staged,” George explained as they kept walking, occasionally brushing shoulders with his husband. “Lewis said that Sebastian got a letter from Charles that it wasn’t real.”

Nic let out a whistle. “Damn. Then Ferrari lucked out with the two best actors in the grid.”

George laughed. “I mean, I’m sure some of it’s real, to be quite honest. Carlos could get anyone swooning back in the day.”

Nic cocked a brow. “You think Leclerc is going after him? Nah. Other way around.”

George’s smiled flickered. “I don’t think so.”

Charles had been destined for greatness since he first appeared in royal circles as a bright-eyed teenager. George hated him when they were younger. Charles, the born prince. Charles, the prodigy. Charles, whose family had just as much wealth and power as his own, but never got labeled as a pay appointment.

But that was the thing about Charles. People who hated him fell in love with him faster than anyone else. Especially when he wanted them to.

“Carlos is in love with Lando, mate,” George said. “It’s kind of disgusting just how much. And the worst part is that it goes both ways.” He stopped walking, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen Lando act the way he did with Carlos. It was like…I mean, it’s still like obsession.”

“You ever think you’re too close to him?” Nic asked, cocking his head. “Or, like, all of them?”

George gave him a puzzled look. “Uh, no?”

They started walking again. Nic stayed uncharacteristically quiet, and George tried to let the silence breathe.

But his patience verged on nonexistent these days.

“Gonna clarify?” he asked.

Nic’s lips twitched into a half smile. “You sure you wanna hear it?”

George let out an indignant snort. “I’m certainly not going to let you stand there and ask that and not tell me why.”

“It was a rhetorical question,” Nic said with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, come on then,” George said. He lightly punched Nic on the arm with his free hand. “What’s going on with you?”

Nic sighed, pulling at his polo to get a bit of air flow down the front. “You talk about them all like they’re this great group of people who would do anything for each other, but that’s not true—not from where I stand.”

George cocked his head slightly, looking him over. “Do you know something?”

Nic adjusted his cap, shading his dark eyes from the morning sun. “I know how I came to be a prince. I know what my parents did to get me here. I worked my ass off, but I know that doesn’t matter to people like you.”

“Nic—”

“I’ve been an outsider since I got here,” Nic continued. “Which is understandable. But it gives me a different perspective.”

George swallowed, unused to Nic speaking to him like this was a business meeting, something governmental. George wondered which version of Nic was the real one, and how they’d spent two years together without getting a glimpse of it.

“No offense, Nic, but you weren’t there with us,” George said carefully. “Just because don’t—”

“Wasn’t Albon in your group too?”

George’s blood chilled in an instant. Of course he’d told Nic about Alex, but only the barest details.

“You blame Horner and Jost,” Nic said. “You blame everyone except the one who has a track record for screwing people over.”

George bristled. “Oh really.”

Nic stopped walking and they both dropped each other’s hands at the same time. Nic’s mouth set into a hard line, alien when it replaced his usual smile.

“Yes, really,” he said. “Max is toxic. Ricciardo escaped with almost nothing, but he had experience and enough clout to keep an appointment. Pierre only made it out because Toro Rosso needed a European to do better in polling. Alex had no chance.”

Of course George knew that Max had more to do with Alex’s exile than he let on, but Max wasn’t easy to get along with unless he was off the track and removed from any cameras. After video of a drunk night with Daniel made it on the internet, Max trusted no one—but George understood that. It made sense. Max protected his crown and protected Red Bull.

“I think you’re forgetting that Daniel and Max still love each other,” George said, avoiding any discussion of Albon. “Horner made that call against—”

Nic let out a sad chuckle. “You’re so honest, George. You’re loyal. But you should have seen the look on Max’s face when they announced the exile.”

“I did,” George snapped. That goddamn day was burned into his brain. “He kept himself under control—that’s what we do.”

“Because it didn’t surprise him,” Nic said. “I’m sure he was told beforehand, but you can’t process that kind of thing until it happens.” He lifted a finger. “Unless you wanted it to happen. Unless you asked.”

“I’m sure he agreed with the exile,” George said. “But Max isn’t like that. He would never demand someone be exiled—not a friend, not when we worked so hard to earn our crowns.”

Nic shot him a look. “I knew you’d say that.”

George turned to look back down the pit lane. Both Red Bull princes has yet to appear, and he hadn’t seen Ricciardo either. Latifi could say what he wanted, but less than two years on the grid didn’t give him the authority to make assumptions about someone George knew better than some of his own family members.

Even if he hadn’t spoken to Max in something like six months.

Nic put an arm around his shoulders, leaning into him in a comfortably, casual way, like he always did. George leaned against him in turn, arms crossed, and for a long moment they watched the pit lane start to come to life. In a few hours they would be in their cars, driving for a win that meant nothing to anyone beyond the spectacle and an opportunity for extra government funding at the end of the season that Williams wouldn’t get.

He watched Pierre kick a soccer ball to Yuki, who instantly froze up and stopped the ball only because it had been aimed at his shins.

If anyone knew what Max was truly capable of, it was Pierre.

A rock lodged itself in George’s stomach.  

 Nic looked over to him, wistful. “I think the boys you grew up with don’t exist anymore, George.”

 

 

Notes:

um so @f1slash on tumblr drew an AMAZING fanart of this chapter!

click here to see it!

Chapter 16

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Charles knew Portugal would not be an easy race, but he never expected Lando to purposely make it worse. Charles also never anticipated nearly punching him in the face on camera in the pit lane.

His blood boiled every time he thought about the way Carlos sat there trying so hard to keep under control while Lando publicly berated him in front of the engineers of an empire they used to lead together.

“I bet you’re just jealous that we’re beating out the empire you abandoned us for.”

Seeing the tail end of Lando’s car for the last half of the race only stoked the rage in him, cutting the wick of an already short fuse.

Charles pulled off his helmet and balaclava, happy to escape the heat of the cockpit. Lando did the same only six feet away, silent despite placing fifth.

“Didn’t think you were capable of treating him like that,” Charles said, staring ahead.  He saw no use in pretending things had calmed just because Carlos happened to be further down the pit lane.

On the monitors in the driver’s area, the crowd roared for Hamilton as he hopped off of his car. Bottas grinned behind his helmet, but his eyes told the same story they always did: that should be me. Max and Perez knocked helmets in another shot, riding the high of second and fourth.

“Shut the hell up, mate,” Lando said, peeling off his gloves.

“Grow up,” Charles cut back. “Or start acting your age. Whichever suits you best. Because the teenage drama is getting stale.”

Lando let out a snort, dropping his gloves on his equipment stand. “Wish I could be like you,” he said as he grabbed his water bottle. “Standing around while the guy I love is screwing someone else, and still believing him when he says he loves me.”

Charles grit his teeth, fighting every urge to haul off and tackle him.

“Don’t play that game with me,” Charles growled, peeling open the collar of his racing suit. “First, I’m not fucking Carlos. Second, my partner and I actually communicate. And unlike you, I understand that the crown comes first and sacrifices have to be made.”

“Sacrifices have to be made,” Lando repeated under his breath, mocking him. “Sebastian’s running you like a sim, Charles.”

Charles pulled off his own gloves, glancing up to check for FIA officials. So far, none had come running, but that was probably because they all seemed focused on keeping the podium under control.

“Could have said the same thing to you about Daniel,” Charles muttered.

Lando slammed his earbuds onto the gear stand. “Yeah, mate. Just fucking love waking up and finding out my husband still fucks his ex, and that he’s been writing him letters every damn day since 2019.”

Charles blinked, startled. He looked over to Lando, who stared down at his pile of discarded equipment, his jaw clenched, eyes hollow.

Charles softened immediately. “Oh Lando…you didn’t know.”

Lando choked out a laugh, refusing to look at him as he undid his own racing suit. “Don’t say it like that, like you knew.”

Except he had. He’d known since Bahrain. Maybe before that, had he bothered to think on it. But Charles never saw anything dangerous in Max and Daniel, and yes, he’d assumed Lando would suspect a relationship like theirs wouldn’t just die out once Daniel traded crowns.

An FIA official began to approach.

Charles quickly unzipped his suit, revealing the white nomex underneath.

“Whatever Carlos has been writing you, you should listen. I love—” He hesitated. “You know who I love. And Carlos—”

“Excuse me,” the FIA official interrupted, stepping into their space.

“I’m discussing a race incident,” Charles said calmly. “Lando nearly sent me into the wall, and I’d like to discuss that with him.”

The official didn’t move. Charles gave him a tight smile before looking back to Lando.

“Like I was saying,” Charles said, clearing his throat. “I understand you nearly spun out, but you can’t forget your racing line when I’m right behind you like that. Stay the course, it hasn’t changed.”

Lando searched his face.

“Just think back to Bahrain,” Charles asked. “What you did this week? That’s what you did to him then. I know, because I got all of the debris from it.”

Charles still remembered the way Carlos cried in that bathroom, the streak of anguish in him that Charles had felt in his own chest that night.

Lando tongued the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Yeah, noted. Now piss off.”

Charles narrowed his eyes and turned away, heading back to the Ferrari garage for his post-race debrief. Carlos met up with him just as he entered the paddock, looking appropriately disheveled and out of breath for someone who had to jog up from parking in the eleventh place spot.

“Buen trabajo,” Carlos greeted, smiling.

Charles put an arm around him for a side hug, but the moment he touched him, he turned and embraced him fully. Carlos froze for a moment, then hugged back, his arms winding around him, familiar now.

“I won’t ask the question,” Carlos murmured.

“Thank you for always being honest with me,” Charles said. “Ça veut dire plus que vous ne le pensez.”

“Are we forgetting about the letters I hid from you?” Carlos said, sounding unsure. “I know it was wrong of me to hide them.”

Charles pulled back, lifting his hand to gently swipe his thumb across Carlos’s chin. “I am, yes."

He wanted to tell Carlos that Lando hadn’t known about Daniel and Max, that he was angry because of that, but Charles couldn’t bring himself to do it. Lando needed to tell Carlos himself, and—

“I spoke to Lando,” Charles said, his tongue betraying him, too caught up in the way Carlos kept glancing at his mouth.

Carlos froze, eyes flashing. “How? What did he say?”

“Just now,” Charles said. “Getting out of our race gear.”

“Did he say something to you?” Carlos asked, tensing. “He shouldn’t involve you in—”

“I spoke to him first,” Charles said, resting his hands on Carlos’s hips, where his race suit piled against his nomex undershirt. “I think you need to talk to him.”

Carlos snorted. “Yes, and how should I do that?

Charles frowned, looking behind Carlos to where the TV screens showed the podium ceremony.

“What is it?” Carlos asked, looking over his shoulder to follow Charles’s gaze to Hamilton spraying Verstappen in the face with champagne. But Charles only thought of Lando, of the secret he never should have shared to someone so close to the man he loved.

It was a strange thing to hold someone’s relationship in his hands. To Charles, it felt like holding a beating heart: disgusting, awe-inspiring, covered in blood yet slick with life. If he squeezed his fist, he could crush the cartilage. If he continued , he would be able to feel the panicked strength of the muscle before it finally quieted.

No wonder the FIA loved to destroy them. Just the taste of power made him drunk on it, like a shot hitting him minutes after he left the bar.

“The only reason Lando is upset is because he didn’t know Ricciardo loved Max,” Charles said.

Carlos whipped his attention back to him, eyes going wide for a moment before the cold realization set in.

His blood fizzed with the satisfaction of destruction. Suddenly he hated Lando. Suddenly he wanted Carlos to love him only and completely, to forget about the British asshole who traded him away the first chance he got.

“Daniel blindsided him too,” Charles continued, pressing his hand to Carlos’s cheek. “Now he’s coming back on you to try to salvage something, to keep someone around.”

Carlos’s brow furrowed. His face changed from confusion to hurt to defeat.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispered, but he wasn’t. He tipped his head up, kissing Carlos between his brows.

Carlos swayed against him, like he might pass out. Charles pulled him in, and for a long moment they simply stood there in the paddock, Carlos’s cheek resting on his shoulder, holding him.

Sebastian walked by with Stroll, pausing midsentence to gape at them.

Charles stared him down, his blood still thick with the high.

Stroll said something, tapping Sebastian on the shoulder, but Sebastian kept staring.

Charles’s lips curled to a smile.

Sebastian had wanted him to play the game. Now Charles was playing to win.

 

 


 

 

Carlos didn’t dwell on Lando this time. Charles felt the shift in him, avoiding his pain. He understood it—Carlos had written a dozen letters with only one response. Lando had dug his own grave without realizing it, assuming he still had his ex husband ensnared.

Charles let him drive their Ferrari Portofino back to the hotel, opting to watch the Portuguese landscape outside the window. He didn’t comment when Carlos passed the hotel entry point. As the evening descended, they drove along the coast, and Charles watched as beachgoers retreated with the daylight.

Then guilt began to coagulate the post-race rush.

He slid his gaze over to Carlos, illuminated in the pink and orange sunset, his Ray-Bans reflecting the dying sun. He had one elbow rested on the windowsill, his fingers lightly drumming the black leather.

“I shouldn’t have made assumptions earlier,” Charles said, finally breaking the silence. He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure that’s what Lando was thinking.”

Carlos shifted his drumming fingers to the steering wheel, and his other hand came to rest against Charles’s thigh, sending a pulse of heat through his entire being.

“It was good you told me,” Carlos said. “He would have kept it hidden.”

Charles glanced at Carlos’s hand before folding his own over it, melting when Carlos turned his palm.

He would protect Carlos with all he had, he realized. Even if it meant burning down McLaren, rooting out the rot Lando left in him, cauterizing a gaping wound.

Sebastian could watch it all and burn with them if he wanted to. Charles would sooner lose his appointment than go chasing after him when he seemed so fucking happy with Lance.

“Did you hear about Esteban and Fernando?” Carlos asked.

“Mm?” Charles rested his head against the window as they picked up speed and headed back toward the hotel after their drive by the sea.

“This week changed things for them,” Carlos explained. “Of course, I couldn’t speak to either of them, but I overheard an Alpine engineer speaking to one of our guys. Said he couldn’t believe how well they’re getting on.”

Charles smiled sleepily. “Wonder who broke the ice. Had to be Fernando. Esteban wouldn’t dare.”

Carlos laughed. “Esteban nearly threw a punch at Max. I think he’s capable.”

“He also lost an appointment for that,” Charles reminded him.

Carlos rolled his eyes. “Yes, because of that. Nothing to do with his ability behind the wheel.”

“Or under a crown.”

They both laughed, settling into comfortable silence afterward until they pulled up at the hotel, where Antonello met them to take the car. Carlos handed off the keys and took Charles’s hand.

“So,” Carlos said as they stepped into the VIP entrance that led to a separate lobby. “What should we do to cele—”

He cut himself off, and Charles followed his gaze to Max sitting on a bench in the lobby.

He looked on the verge of death. His eyes were ringed with purple, his cheeks blotchy yet pale at the same time, and he was trembling so violently that Charles thought to call for help.

“Max?” Charles asked, dropping Carlos’s hand to rush to him. “Max, what’s wrong?”

He fell to his knees, sliding a bit on the slippery marble tile right to Max’s feet. Max didn’t seem to hear him, or indicate he’d even noticed him at all.

Charles put a hand to Max’s forehead, his eyes going wide at how cold the skin felt against his palm.

“Carlos!” He turned, but Carlos was already there, resting a hand on his back as he knelt to look at Max. “Call—”

“Don’t call anyone,” Max forced out through gritted teeth.

“Max,” Carlos tried. “What’s going on? Did you take something?”

Charles passed Carlos a horrified look. No fucking way. Max would never—

“No,” Max said. He put his face in his hands. “God. They’re going to strip his appointment.”

Carlos swallowed hard and Charles felt the twitch of his fingers against his back.

Charles rested a hand on Max’s shoulder, moving up from the floor to sit beside him on the bench. “Did they say that, or are you assuming?”

“They said enough,” Max choked out.

“Did they—”

“I don’t even understand what they’re trying to prove,” Max said, his hands balling to fists at his temples. “He didn’t—” He let out a noise of despair that frightened Charles to the core.

Carlos sat beside Max on his other side, patting his back. “Max,” he said. “They won’t strip his appointment. They’ve already upset the fans this weekend, and everyone knows Ricciardo is one of the most liked princes in the empires. People would riot.”

Charles’s throat tightened. Though true, Daniel had no wins this season, and finished behind Lando by a decent margin so far. Speculation about his downfall had already begun.

Max shook his head. “I knew the phones were a bad idea. I knew they were, but…”

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. Charles knew exactly how he felt. Had Sebastian offered him the same when he left, he would have taken it without question.

“Excuse me!”

Charles instinctively moved closer to Max, protective, as he looked up to see an FIA official marching toward them, her heels clacking on the tile floor. She was older than most officials, her thin lips drawn in a scowl.

“Go,” Max whispered, rubbing his eyes. “Please. They have already fined me once today.”

“Excuse me,” the official snapped. “You need to separate immediately.”

“Señora, he’s clearly unwell,” Carlos said, his voice even and sure, though his fingers had curled around Charles’s wrist.

Charles ducked his head, so close to Max that his lips brushed his ear. Max didn’t shy away.

“You know I’m here,” Charles murmured. “If anything happens to him we’ll make sure the FIA reverses the decision.”

Max nodded once, eyes dead. “Thank you.”

Charles patted his back and stood, completely ignoring the official. Carlos kept her attention a moment longer, complimenting her necklace. She didn’t seem amused by the nicety, but waved them off without a fine.

“Prince Verstappen,” she began as Charles walked across the lobby toward the elevator, “do you need medical assistance?”

“Get the fuck away from me,” Max snarled. “I’m sick of you people.”

“Prince Leclerc?”

Charles slowed, locating the source of the voice. He spotted the hotel receptionist at the front desk waving at him. Carlos’s fingers brushed across his shoulders as he walked past to call the elevator. Charles fought not to show the shiver that ran down his spine at the touch.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Charles said to Carlos, who nodded.

“I’m happy to report your phone has been turned in,” the receptionist said brightly when he approached. She opened a drawer and handed him an iPhone.

Charles took it without thinking, but as soon as he felt the weight of it in his hands, he knew it wasn’t his. He’d handed his phone off to Giorgio for the weekend before practice on Friday to handle his social media presence.

He clicked the side button, unlocking the phone out of habit.

“This isn’t—”

He froze. The background photo was an unassuming house nestled in a forest. Spruces framed the exterior, with several wood beams criss-crossing the white paint.

 He knew that house.

“Thank you,” Charles breathed, pocketing the phone.

“So glad we were able to find it.” She shot him a wink. “Wouldn’t want that getting into the wrong hands.”

Charles smiled, his throat tight. “Yes, wouldn’t want that.”

He thanked her again, then hurried to the elevator where Carlos held the door for him.

“What did they want?” Carlos asked, punching the button to their floor. Second from the top, below Hamilton and Bottas’s penthouse suite.

Charles smiled at him before leaning over to capture his lips in a kiss. Carlos didn’t hesitate to return it, though he did make a soft sound of surprise.

“What’s this for?” Carlos asked, pulling away just enough to speak.

“Does it have to be for something?” Charles asked, his eyes dropping to Carlos’s mouth.

Carlos chuckled deep in his throat, a sound that demanded a kiss—one that Charles quickly gave. He parted his lips, and for a moment no one else existed except Carlos and his warm hands moving underneath Charles’s shirt.

The elevator opened directly into their suite, and Charles didn’t break the kiss as he backed into their room. Carlos guided him to the couch in the foyer, and when Charles felt the arm of the couch against the back of his legs, he perched on it, opening his knees so Carlos could settle between them.

Carlos’s dark eyes stayed glued to Charles’s mouth, but Charles gave the room a once over, checking for windows. They did not need a repeat of Florence.

“I checked last night,” Carlos said.

Charles cocked a brow, amused. “Did you.”

Last night they slept beside each other, but barely touched.  Quick kiss before the race, then that one perfect and unexpected kiss in the pit lane.

“I hoped it would be like this after the race,” Carlos admitted, smiling.

God, that fucking smile.

Charles tugged him in, and the next moment they were both tipping back into the couch cushions, a mess of limbs and warmth and Carlos’s stubble scratching the sensitive skin of his neck.

This time, no looming press conferences stood in the way. Carlos pushed Charles’s shirt up to his sternum, and Charles could no nothing but arch against his mouth as Carlos pressed kisses along the edge of his ribcage, his navel, and then traveled up to his mouth again.

Charles wanted more. He wanted everything. His fingers tightened in Carlos’s hair and he watched as Carlos froze, his eyes flying open, his swollen lips parted just before a kiss.

Six months. Over six months, actually, since Charles had been to bed with anyone.

He knew his eyes revealed his thinking, and he saw it reflected right back at him.

For a moment they simply stared at each other, two men on the verge of something they couldn’t reverse. Something that would rattle the foundation of everything he still felt for—

No.

He couldn’t do it.

Charles loosened his grip, decision made.  Carlos slid forward, his forearms bracketing Charles’s head. Their lips met for a kiss so soft and gentle that the ache from Florence returned with paralyzing force, so horribly bitter that Charles flinched, gently pressing Carlos back.

Carlos didn’t say a word. Instead, he feathered gentle kisses along his jaw, settling their hips against each other.

“You make feel like I’m going to rip myself in half,” Charles said in a shaky breath, unsettled.

“Is that good or bad?” Carlos slurred against his skin.

Charles shuddered under his touch. “Too good.”

“Oh?” He felt Carlos smile against his neck, and he dug his fingers into Carlos’s back. All muscle.

 Carlos found his mouth again and Charles basked in the attention, his shirt finally discarded after only a few kisses, abandoned on the floor. The heat pooled between them, even as Carlos kept his kisses somewhat tame. Polite, even, despite his persistent tongue.

“Sei bravo a scopare come a flirtare?” Charles asked when he had to pause for a breath.

Carlos pulled back, his lower lip tucked between his teeth.

Oh fuck.

Charles watched as Carlos’s lip freed, only for his mouth to curl into a smirk just as devastating. 

“Meglio,” Carlos said, gazing at him through his lashes. “Vuoi scoprirlo?”

Charles’s mouth went dry.

“Not yet,” he managed, though his body screamed for him to demand it. Every thought in his mind centered around what the next few moments could become, how Carlos would feel, how all of it would feel after so long.

Carlos smiled down at him. “Loyal,” he murmured, pushing back Charles’s hair.

“I feel anything but loyal right now,” Charles replied, his lips still tingling. He wanted more of that mouth. He needed more of that mouth.

“So,” Carlos said, his lips only a breath away, “don’t be.”

“Carlos,” Charles warned, but then their lips met and he could taste the want. Heat rushed to his cheeks, but Charles had to pull back.

Carlos didn’t press, but his eyes were dusky, almost wild with need.

“I want you,” Charles said, capturing his mouth for a heady kiss. “Merde, I want you.”

“But you want him more,” Carlos said.

“No.” Charles curled a finger under Carlos’s chin, gently guiding his attention up to his eyes and simultaneously preventing him from putting his lips to places where Charles couldn’t defend himself. “I want this. But I want it the right way.”

He saw the flexion in Carlos’s jaw, the only sign of anything other than control.

Charles smiled, pressing his palm to Carlos’s cheek, thumbing the spot. “Oh no. Have I upset you?”

Carlos fought to scowl, then burst into laughter. When their lips met for a kiss, Charles smiled against it. Their teeth knocked, and then they were both laughing again. 

“It’s like trying to fuck a nun,” Carlos teased as he moved back up to properly rest on his elbows. 

Charles tugged at his hair, watching as the desire lit up in Carlos’s eyes like he’d struck a match. “Find me a ruler and I’ll rap your knuckles, bambino.”

“Bambino?” Carlos burst into laughter again.

The sound smoothed the edges of his aching need, quieting the lust that screamed out in his head.

“Quit laughing and call some dinner for us,” Charles said, chuckling. “Unless you’d like me to move.”

“I don’t think so.” Carlos pecked his cheek as he fished his phone out of his pocket. Why Carlos opted to handle his own social media during race weekends, Charles would never understand.

Charles folded his hands behind his head as Carlos searched up the cheat sheet Giorgio had given them at the beginning of the weekend with all of their important phone numbers. Charles had his in paper form…somewhere.

“Yes, I’d like to place a dinner order,” Carlos said once he’d dialed, his thumb absently trailing along Charles’s collarbone. Charles cocked a brow. Carlos pretended not to notice.

“Sí. We quite enjoyed the chef’s choice last night—we’ll have that again. What is dessert?”

Charles caught Carlos’s hand and brought it to his mouth, brushing his lips across his knuckles.

Carlos watched him, his lips parting slightly.

“Yes, that sounds perfect,” Carlos said, meeting his eye. “Does that come with the whipped cream?”

Charles stilled, eyes going wide.

A sly grin spread on Carlos’s lips as he adjusted the phone against his cheek. “Excellent. Let’s see…I think six servings of the whipped cream would be good, yes?”

Charles’s mouth fell open, fighting not to laugh.

“Mm, yes,” Carlos said. “We have the…sweet teeth?”

Charles couldn’t take it anymore. He burst into laughter and Carlos abruptly hung up before following suit.  

“What the fuck was that?” Charles managed to get out, but his stomach pinched from laughing so hard, so breathing was difficult.

“I forgot the word!”

Sweet teeth?” Charles tossed his head back for a fresh round of laughter, wiping tears from his eyes. His ribcage threatened to split with the force of his laughter, and Carlos on top of him didn’t help. “Holy hell. I need a break from you, before you rub off on me with your bad English.”

“You punish me for ordering dinner?” Carlos protested, but he grinned as Charles wriggled out from beneath him.

“Yes,” Charles said. But he leaned down and kissed him before grabbing his Ferrari duffel from where someone on the Ferrari staff had dropped it in the doorway after the race. “I’m going to shower.” He turned around, walking backward toward the bathroom door. “And I only plan to shower once, so all of that whipped cream is for you, Sweet Teeth.”

Carlos flipped him off, biting his lip to try to contain his smile.

The moment the bathroom door closed behind him, Charles’s smile dropped. He tossed his duffel to the floor and fished the phone the receptionist had given him out of his pocket. The screen came to life, prompting him for a passcode. Charles typed in 1785 – Sebastian’s passcode for everything.

Seventeen, his age when he won his first ADAC royal championship,  ementing himself into competition for a crown.

Eight, his age when he started in kart racing, where it all began.

Five, the number on his crest.

Charles knew those numbers by heart.

The phone opened, revealing a relatively blank home screen with only one additional app installed.

Spotify.

Charles turned on the shower. Once the water started warming up, he leaned against the bathroom counter and opened up the home screen again.

He tapped Spotify before he could convince himself not to.

A playlist had been pre-loaded from the last person to use the phone.

The title: Für dich.

The description: You always wondered.  Maybe now you’ll listen. Ich liebe dich.

Fourteen songs, precisely an hour total. (Of course it was, Charles thought. Sebastian was incapable of misalignment on any scale.)

Eighties music, fourteen songs. The first, “The Lady In Red.”

He covered his mouth to keep from making a sound.

“If I had to describe you in a song…The Lady In Red.” Sebastian had said it once, slightly drunk, while they laid out under the stars in Maranello.

“So I’m a lady?”

“Forgive the pronouns. Have you heard it?”

Charles never listened to it. Back then, he thought Sebastian had been trying too hard. He hadn’t even remembered the conversation until the song stared him in the face.

He backed out of the playlist, and another had been prepared.

De vous à moi.

One song. Photograph, by Nickelback.

Charles choked back his laughter, but then backed out of Spotify altogether.

Sebastian never did anything just for humor.

He hesitated before tapping on the photos app.

A wall of pictures appeared. Their professional wedding photos stood out, and Charles tapped on one to get a better look. He smiled at the sight of himself in the photo, clearly nervous in his suit, Sebastian calm and confident beside him, laughing at something off-camera. Every wedding picture showed Charles with a tight-lipped smile, and he remembered the fear of joining such a prestigious empire and marrying a world champion.

But those were the only ones that showed any uncertainty. The rest were private photos taken on Sebastian’s phone, or his own. The occasional candid shot of the two of them at a race, Charles resting his chin on Sebastian’s shoulder to watch an onboard, or sharing a laugh at a debrief.

Always one step ahead.

Charles had no photos of them together. The FIA collected phones at the end of each season whenever a prince shifted to another empire, systematically erasing as much of their marriage as possible. Empire’s public websites and photo archives were cleaned, tweets deleted, Instagram posts diluted into sterile PR photos of two uncomfortable-looking princes from a marriage long past.

He never even thought to save any of the photos. Stupid. He should have known better. He’d been too lost in love to remember the consequences.

He flicked through more photos until he came across one he’d never seen before.

It was from a trip to the Alps, a cold weekend before Abu Dhabi when Sebastian insisted they go skiing. Charles much preferred boating to skiing, but he remembered holding his tongue because Sebastian looked so excited by the idea.

The photo was the night after their terrible ski adventure. Charles fast sleep in a recliner, a thick, furry blanket pulled up to his ears, orange firelight reflecting on his cheeks.

Somehow, that one photo captured everything he felt for Sebastian. The safety, warmth, trust. Certainty in an earned love with a German who didn’t give it freely.

A German he’d almost betrayed not ten minutes earlier.

He set the phone down next to the sink and closed his eyes, bracing himself against the bathroom counter.

The hiss of the shower masked any noises of Carlos outside, but Charles could feel his presence. Carlos made him feel stronger, better, equal. They won and lost together. They carried out the duties of their empire while putting each other first.

Most of the time.

Charles sighed, stepping back from the sink. His fingers brushed the phone and he watched as it flew off of the countertop and clattered to the floor, face down.

“Merde!”

He dove for the phone even though it was far too late to catch it. In the process, his forehead connected with the overhanging lip of the countertop.

Charles let out a surprised shout at the ferocity of the impact, one hand flying to his forehead while he snatched up the phone with the other.

He heard Carlos rush to the door.

Fuck.

“Charles?”

 Charles quickly shoved the phone into his duffel where it sat slumped against the sink cabinet just as Carlos threw open the door.

“Charles!”

Charles waved him off, wincing as he felt blood pool under his palm where he held his forehead.  “M’okay,” he muttered. “Just stupid.”

Carlos knelt in front of him, gently lifting his hand away.

“You’re bleeding. You’ve cut yourself,” he said.

“Yeah,” Charles replied, shivering as he felt a trickle of blood stream down the side of his face. “Bent down and…guess I left all my awareness on the track.”

Not his best excuse, but he didn’t have time to think of anything.

Carlos stood up, rummaging around at the sink. He crouched down a moment later with a damp washcloth and pressed it to Charles’s forehead.

When Charles looked up at him, he saw uncertainty in Carlos’s face. He looked apprehensive, and Carlos didn’t excel at masking discomfort in any situation.

“What’s wrong?” Charles asked, feigning ignorance. He reached up, resting his palm on Carlos’s cheek.

Carlos looked him in the eye and Charles felt the challenge in his gaze. He didn’t focus on it. Instead he looked over Carlos’s face, noting how beautiful his eyelashes looked at such close proximity, how his lips were still a bit swollen.

“You’ve been in here for a long time,” Carlos said. “And you haven’t even undressed.”

Charles looked down at the floor. A smile broke on his face, but it was weak. “I can change that,” he offered.

Carlos pursed his lips.

Charles thumbed at his jaw in an attempt to soothe the look away, letting his eyes go distant.

Play the game.

“I can’t get Max out of my head,” Charles murmured, leaning into where Carlos held the washcloth to his face. “Seeing him like that…” He met Carlos’s eyes. “Then coming up here and having you—it feels wrong to be this happy so quickly.”

Carlos softened immediately, his lips turning to a smile as he leaned in to press a kiss to Charles’s cheek that sent warmth rushing through him. His eyes fluttered closed, allowing Carlos to think he was relishing in the kiss when in reality relief flooded through him.

“Always in your head, Leclerc,” Carlos said, tilting his head to kiss along his brow bone, underneath the washcloth.

The shower continued to run, but Charles pretended not to notice as his fingers curled into Carlos’s hair, inviting him to kiss where he wanted. The washcloth fell away a few kisses later, and Charles leaned back to his elbows, gazing up at Carlos with hooded eyes.

“Kiss me,” Charles demanded.

Carlos was suddenly everywhere. Charles closed his eyes, sucking in a breath as his bare back pressed to cold marble, but Carlos quickly warmed him with his hands running all over his chest.

“Next week, I show you España,” Carlos breathed out between kisses. Charles’s vision blurred, dizzy with affection. Or maybe from the gash on his head. “No matter what sanctions they decide.”

 Charles didn’t have to fake this. Carlos brought something out in him that made him full of want. In another world—and maybe for a brief time in this one—he would come to love him for it.

But as he stared up at the mosaic on the bathroom ceiling, listening to the sound of Carlos’s kisses mixing with the noise of the shower, he could only think this is too easy.  

Only a taste of him, and Carlos could forget about Lando completely. A bit of coaxing, and Carlos stopped noticing the things he should be wary of, the knives poised at his back.  Too trusting, too breakable. If another prince came along with a kinder smile and wandering eyes, Charles would lose Carlos too. He liked to talk loyalty, but where was his loyalty to Lando?

Charles turned his head to look at him, taking in the dark pools of desire in Carlos’s eyes. No trace of doubt or guilt. Charles smiled into a passionate kiss, messy and perfect. So attentive, affectionate, selfless.

And weak.

Charles would protect him, maybe even love him, but Carlos would never, ever be enough.

 

 

Notes:

more fanart for this chapter!!

 

Sebastian's Full Playlist:

The Lady In Red - Chris de Burgh
Danger On The Track - Europe
99 Luftballons - Nena
Call Me - Blondie
Drive - (2017 Remaster) The Cars
Rebel Yell - Billy Idol
Run To The Hills - Iron Maiden
The Heat Is On - Glenn Frey
Heat of The Moment - Asia
The Winner Takes It All - ABBA
Making Love Out of Nothing at All - Air Supply
Hungry Eyes - Eric Carmen
Danger Zone - Kenny Loggins
Kickstart My Heart - Mötley Crüe
Far From Over - Frank Stallone

Chapter Text

A headache sprouted behind George’s eyes after only a day in Spain. Jost kept sending them out on royal functions, and George didn’t have a head for languages. Every Spanish conversation felt like he was putting his brain in a blender as he tried to keep up.

“It’s like you have to talk with a lisp,” George muttered from where he laid on his stomach at the end of the bed. He bit his lip as he copied the words on the hotel brochure into a translator app. “Hab-ih-ta-see-ohn.”

“That’s a lisp word,” Nic said where he rested against the headboard, scrolling through his phone. “Ah-bih-tah-thee-ohn.”

George scrunched his nose. “Fuck that.” He tapped out of the app. “I just want to tell them not to take my towels out of the room. I could write a note, right? That way I don’t have to pretend I’m learning Spanish.”

“Just put the towels in your bag,” Nic said.

“They’re wet, dumbass,” George shot back. ”Do you want everything we wear to smell like mildew this weekend?”

“Touché.” Nic threw a hotel pen cap at his head. “That’s French Canadian for shut the fuck up.”

George grinned, rolling onto his back, though his head still pounded from trying to keep a handle on the conversation at breakfast. Even with a translator, the royal officials in Spain seemed intent on leaving the non-Spanish-speakers out of the conversation entirely. But at least the food had tasted good.

“We should go,” George said with a quick check to his watch. “I think my interview is before yours.”

Nic clicked off his phone. He looked tired. George felt the same. Now that the sanctions had been lifted, every empire was cramming their schedules full of publicity events to try to make up for the radio silence of the week before.

That, and the FIA was desperately trying to fend off a public uproar over Ricciardo not having a single public appearance in Portugal. Worse, they didn’t even want to see him with Max, they wanted to see him with Lando. McLaren’s press conference had backfired, with fans and constituents alike demanding evidence of a happy couple.

Meanwhile, memes flew around the internet about Red Bull pretending to move out of Austria, with photoshopped pictures of the palace boarded up and abandoned. But George knew that once they made a post about race week, everyone would be back on board.

He shrugged into his Williams quarter zip and took Nic’s hand before they headed out of the hotel room. Nic led the way and George absently swung their linked hands as they passed through the lobby, his thoughts on the projected race conditions for the weekend.

Kayla met them at their shuttle van outside, and handed them their packets for media day.

George scanned the itinerary, but saw no sign that he would be near Lewis at all. Probably Josts’s doing, though he claimed he would never try to keep Lewis away from him. George didn’t listen to promises made by men with agendas and the power to tear away crowns.

“Any special rules?” he asked as the van rumbled down the road toward the track.

Kayla tapped away on her tablet. “Pre-sanction rules. But off the record? I think the FIA is hoping for a bit of drama to keep the people happy. They’ll be out for blood, boys, so be careful.” She lifted her head to look at both of them. “I think they’ll be lax on penalties if anything happens, but we don’t need any more fines right now.”

Nic let out a snort and adjusted his cap. True to his word, Nic’s father had taken care of the $100,000 fine they incurred from protecting Carlos. George would have asked the same of his parents, had Nic not beat him to it.

“How in love do we have to be?” Nic asked, skimming through his itinerary. “Well—how in love do you want us to be?”

Kayla shrugged, her short hair blocking her face as she looked back down at her tablet. “Keep it civil, not that you two have a problem with that.”

Nic smiled dotingly over at him. “Hear that, darling? We must refrain from smothering them with our affections.”

George rolled his eyes. “Been reading Pride and Prejudice again?”

Nic feigned offense. “Austen wrote more than one book, you know.”

Kayla smiled up at them. “See? You’ll do great.”

 


 

Breakfast with Spanish royals sounded like a vacation by the time George closed up his last autograph session. He always felt a little violated after listening to strangers tell him how much they wanted to rough up his hair, marry him, or lick his toes. Most people were normal and kind, but the ones who weren’t made him question why they had autograph signings in the first place.

He checked his schedule to confirm that, yes, he was indeed done for the day. Thank god. Cameras stayed on him as he walked from the media rooms and back to the paddock without Nic, who still had two interviews with Canadian press.

Other princes milled around the paddock, already finished for the day. Williams still saw media day as a necessary foothold to stay relevant. George figured that if the autograph lines  were any indication, the plan was working.

 He spotted Nikita on his phone, sitting against the pit wall fence, talking in rapid Russian. Beyond him, Giovinazzi shook out his hair at the Alfa Romeo garage, Alonso and Kimi beside him. They all burst into laughter as Alonso made a comment George couldn’t hear. Esteban jogged up with two water bottles and handed one off to Alonso before slotting between him and Kimi, a grin on his face.

The cameras ate it up, but all George could see was a bleach-clean, sanitized version of a normal media day. Tension clung to the faces of every prince.

George felt it the moment he caught sight of Lewis sitting inside the Mercedes hospitality tent, tasting Valtteri’s coffee. Mercedes Public Affairs had two cell phone cameras and one real deal camera trained on them, capturing every angle. Lewis wrinkled his nose around the rim of the cup, then offered the espresso back to Valtteri as he laughed.

The smile that formed on Lewis’s lips didn’t reach his eyes—George could tell even from a distance. He tried not to think about how easy it would be for him to take Valtteri’s place and make that smile real. George moved on, not wanting to dwell on impossibilities.

He caught sight of Lando sitting at the mouth of the paddock, using the tire wall as a bench. George watched as he chewed on the ribbed straw winding to his water bottle, his eyes vacant.

No sign of Ricciardo.

George pushed his sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose before he headed over, worry knotting in his gut. He hated seeing Lando like this, even if he didn’t agree with how Lando had treated Carlos in Portugal.

“Hey, mate,” George greeted.

“Sup,” Lando replied, but his face didn’t change.

George sat down beside him on the tire wall, lacing his fingers together in his lap. “You alright?”

Lando’s mouth curled to a half smile around his straw. “I fucked everything up, mate. Fucked everything up, and I have absolutely no idea how to fix it.”

“Well,” George said with a sigh. “You definitely fucked up, yeah.”

He noticed that they had the perfect vantage point into the Ferrari garage, where Charles sat facing them on a red utility cart, with Carlos between his legs. Charles scratched at the nape of Carlos’s neck, and they had their foreheads together as they spoke, the epitome of a couple in a honeymoon phase.

Lando had paled beside him when George pulled his attention back to him.

“How’s Daniel?” George asked, figuring it best not to discuss Carlos.

Lando shook his head, a few curls freeing from under his McLaren cap. “Can’t talk about it.”

George cocked a brow. “Come on, mate. Did they tell you that?”

“It’s complicated,” Lando said, haunted. “And it’s not like I even talk to him anyway. Last time I did, he didn’t even say sorry.”

George frowned, following Lando’s gaze back to where Charles laughed at something Carlos said, his wrists now linked at the base of Carlos’s neck.

“I was wondering about that,” George said, looking down at his hands. “It looked real. You and him.”

Lando snorted, chewing harder on his straw. “Yep. Got schooled.”

“You think…I mean, is there any way he wasn’t bluffing you?”

Lando shook his head. “They fucked like three times over three races. We—” Lando screwed up his mouth, his lips drawing back in disgust. “Nah. He lied the whole time.”

“At least you’re crown prince now,” George said. “Daniel’s gonna have a tough time crawling back from this.”

Lando leaned against him instead of replying, an action unexpectedly fond and vulnerable. George put an arm around him, rubbing his shoulder. Lando stared out at something invisible, lost in his world of hurt. George had heard that Lando had started spending more and more time in the factory, obsessive over the car and the empire in a way he used to be obsessed with Carlos.

Carlos, who had his hands braced on Charles’s knees, his back still to them. Probably on purpose—probably orchestrated by Charles, if he had to guess. George watched as Charles smiled again, but this time he noticed the fragility of it. Like it could fall away any moment, the second Carlos turned his back.

A smile he recognized from long ago.

George rested his cheek on Lando’s hat. “I’m always here for you, Lando. No matter what happens.”

Lando tilted his head down a little more, likely to cover his eyes with the bill of his cap in case any cameras wandered too close. George kicked his heels against the tires as he gave Lando a squeeze.

“Has Carlos said anything to you?” Lando asked.

The question didn’t come as a surprise. George gently shook his head against Lando’s. “Nobody’s really heard from him since the press conference. Seems like Charles is the only one he talks to these days.”

Charles was probably behind that, too.

“Everyone says they faked the pictures,” Lando said.

George rubbed his shoulder. “They were fake. Charles wrote Sebastian about it.”

“Yeah, well. Someone’s lying then,” Lando said, “because I have about a dozen letters from Carlos saying they were real.”

George stilled. Both Ferrari princes had turned to look at something on one of the monitors, Charles’s head resting against Carlos’s chest, Carlos’s arm loosely draped over Charles’s shoulder.

The smile had dropped from Charles’s face now that Carlos couldn’t see him.

“Or it was real to Carlos and it wasn’t real to Charles.”

“Fuck.” Lando drew away from him, putting the heels of his palms to his eyes. “I think that’s worse.”

George’s heart twinged. Carlos did look smitten, a lazy smile on his lips as he watched whatever was on the screen nearby. He wished he could say that Charles looked the same, but he looked…bored.

George knew that look too.

“You know Charles, Lando. He—”

“Hey.”

George flinched at the familiar voice, turning to see Max jogging up to them, sweaty from a track run. He immediately tensed, Max’s interview soundbite about strangling him running loops in his head as Max settled to a stop.  

Max didn’t even spare him a look. “Lando. Can I talk to you?”

Lando lifted his water bottle again, shoving the straw back in his mouth. “No.”

Max hopped up to sit on the tire wall beside him anyway. All three of them started looking for cameras at the same time, but all of the media attention was still trained on Lewis and Valtteri, and whatever was happening between Alpine and Alfa Romeo.

“I want to clear the air with you,” Max said, still scanning the paddock.

“You fucking lied to me, mate,” Lando hissed, the straw dropping from his lips. “I don’t know why I believed you—oh, maybe because I thought we were friends? So no, I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Max side-eyed him, and George noticed how sunken-in he looked, like he hadn’t eaten in a week. 

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Max said, his fingers curling against hot rubber. “I didn’t realize you actually loved him.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t realize he loved you, twat.”

Max flinched. His jaw flexed, the tendons pronounced on his gaunt cheeks. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“And way to go with the phones,” Lando cut. “Zak told me there’s six hours of phone sex—”

“Please,” Max said, closing his eyes. His eyelids looked lavender in the fading afternoon sun.

“Yeah, how did you even get those phones?” George asked. He didn’t really give a shit if Max wasn’t feeling on top of the world. He needed confirmation about Kvyat—that Mick could really be trusted. Anyone could lie, even the Schumacher heir.

“One of our friends,” Max said. “But I never thought—”

“Yeah, obviously,” Lando snapped.

“What friend?” George pressed. “Not a prince. None of us would be stupid enough—”

“Someone we both trusted,” Max said, finally looking at him. George saw the quiet rage in his gaze, frothing beneath the surface of those teal eyes. George met it head on. Max didn’t scare him.

“And someone we still trust,” Max continued. “The phones weren’t a good idea, but it saved us. I don’t regret having them.”

“Jesus Christ.” Lando put his head in his hands again.

Max frowned, leaning forward over his knees to be closer to Lando. George watched his hand come up, but it fell away a moment later as he decided against touching him. Wise move.

“What can I do?” Max asked.

Lando’s head popped up. “Since when do you want to fix this? You were fine fucking him behind my back.” He let out a dark little chuckle. “Let me guess, you want me to third wheel for you now? Be your cover?”

Max blinked slowly, assessing him. “I can help you get what you really want, Lando.”

“I don’t want anything from you except to beat your ass on Sunday,” Lando grit out. “Fuck you.”

George tried to catch Max’s eye, but Max kept his gaze firmly set on Lando, ignoring him.

Fine.

“Yeah, I’m still here, by the way,” George said, leaning over to wave his hand in Max’s face. “Remember me? We’ve raced together for like ten years?”

When Max looked at him, George internally braced against the heat in his eyes.

“This is your fault,” Max snapped. “I haven’t even started with you yet.”

George rolled his eyes. “Max, I had no idea about any of that shit. Burner phones? That’s textbook stupid—”

“Don’t talk to me about textbook stupid, George.”

He said in that voice. The same voice he used when he sat there in his press conference and assured the public that Red Bull had made the right choice in exiling Alex. “We had to do what was right for the empire.”

George flew off the tire wall, pushing past Lando to grab Max by the front of his shirt.

“You have something to say?” George demanded. He yanked Max forward, but the Red Bull prince stayed firmly rooted to his spot, a smirk unfolding on his lips.

“Hey, hey!”

George heard Checo shouting and felt as Lando pressed against him, trying to act as a wedge between them.

But this fight had been a long time coming. George could feel the blood rushing to his fists as Max slid from the tire wall, sizing him up. George had him in height, but he knew Max could pulverize him if he didn’t strike first.

Thankfully, he didn’t like to keep anyone waiting.

But Lando wormed his way between them before he could move. “Guys, hey—”

“Even if I meant for this to happen,” George growled, dodging Lando’s melon head to try to keep his eyes on Max. “It wouldn’t even touch what you did.”

Max’s hand flew up and George blinked, fully expecting an uppercut to the jaw. Instead, Max fisted the front of his shirt.

They’d fought before. A dozen times, probably. Wrestling matches that turned real. Dirt in their mouths, grass stains on new race suits, sweat and blood and black eyes. Part of growing up, back when all that really mattered was the car and the crown. No love to get in the way.

But now love poisoned everything. Anger became something permanent. Grudges cut in and left open wounds that didn’t scar over.

“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about,” Max said, his voice a bat wrapped in barbed wire.

“I’m going to find out,” George promised. “And when I do, and I find out you’re behind it, I’m going to do whatever it takes to fucking destroy you.”

He gathered his tongue in his mouth and spit square onto Max’s chest.  

Everything happened quickly after that.

Max lunged for him just as Checo’s arm hooked around his middle and hauled him backward.

Arms wrapped around George too, strong—too strong to be Nic.

Pierre. George could tell just by the sound of him sucking in a breath behind him.

Max didn’t let up. He threw elbows as he fought for purchase on the tarmac, unhinged. Checo struggled to hold him back, his dark eyes determined in a losing battle.

Part of George wanted to feel the bite of knuckles into his cheek, the cave of his stomach when a fist connected to his gut.

“Take a fucking number!” Max roared. “But if he loses his appointment—”

“I hope he does,” George said, his voice cold and even. “Then maybe you’ll understand.”

Max’s eyes went black as he charged again, driving an elbow straight into Checo’s sternum. Checo’s arms fell loose.

Suddenly Charles appeared, blocking Max before he could cross the gap between them. George felt Pierre tighten his hold in the same instant, but he didn’t feel an ounce of fear. He wanted this fight—needed it, even.

“Oh good,” George said with a bitter laugh. “Always protecting Max first, huh Char? Just like old times.” He looked over to Carlos, who had his arms wrapped around Lando, but Lando stood limp. If anything, he looked closer to crying than fighting, his eyes wide and his hands trembling where his fingers wrapped around Carlos’s wrists.

“Carlos knows, right?” George asked, sliding his gaze back to Charles.

“Don’t bring him into this!” Lando snarled. Lando charged forward, but Carlos had a quick reaction time and managed to hold him back, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing. Probably true.

“Don’t say another word, George,” Pierre hissed in his ear, pulling him away from where he’d instinctively tried to go for Lando.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Max shouted, still trying to claw free from Charles.

George saw Nic out of the corner of his eye, his cap about to fall off as he tumbled to a stop just outside the fray. He also noticed the white polos of FIA officials dotting the background, but George knew they wouldn’t try to break this up until it ended. A dogfight wasn’t a spectacle without carnage.

“Max.”

Daniel’s voice chilled the atmosphere like liquid nitrogen. All eyes turned to the Australian, and he did not disappoint.

Ricciardo looked like a corpse walking. Hollow cheeks, dark purple under his eyes, a grey pallor to his normally glowing skin. Everything about him looked washed out—even his curls looked limp and waxy.

Carlos released Lando immediately, sending him stumbling forward, nearly to his knees. A moment’s shock on Carlos’s face turned to anger a second later when he looked at Charles, who still hadn’t let go of Max.

Max took his chance, launching forward. Daniel’s hand shot out in front of him.

George saw the contact, Daniel’s palm barely brushing Max’s collar.  

Yet Max stilled like time had stopped.

“Max,” Daniel said again, his voice softer and weaker than the first time.

Checo caught up a second later, cuffing Max around the waist and yanking him back, and Max did nothing to stop it.

“Daniel,” Max choked out. “What are they doing to you?”

George snapped back to Daniel, this time clocking how thin his neck had gotten, how his shoulders sank in.

“Babe, let’s go.” Daniel’s voice sounded like a pre-recorded sound effect as he reached for Lando’s hand, not even looking in Max’s direction to acknowledge he’d been spoken to.

Lando yanked his hand away, but he turned and fell into step beside Dan a moment later.

“Max,” Checo warned as Max began to struggle again. Charles had a hand fisted in Max’s hair, all of his weight against him, his face buried in his neck in a way that made George’s stomach twist.

Daniel!” Max’s scream echoed down the paddock, reverberating his brokenness through every empire’s garage. The sound shook George to the core—something hardened and brittle and capable of inflicting wounds so finite that it would be impossible to trace the source of the bleeding.

“At least you can see him,” George said, because he couldn’t help himself.

“Would you shut up?” Pierre snapped, squeezing him so hard that George saw stars for a moment as his ribs fought not to break.

But Max hadn’t listened anyway. His eyes were wet with tears as he watched Daniel walk back down the line of garages, offering a wave at the cameras that George doubted would produce any usable footage because his face looked so fucked up and skinny-bloated.

“Charles,” Carlos said in the same tone that people used to call dogs.

It took a moment for Charles to release Max, long enough for Pierre to lighten up on crushing George.

 When Charles stepped away, he walked right past Carlos without taking his hand.

“Vamos,” Checo said as he put a hand on Max’s shoulder. His hair fell in his eyes, damp with sweat and far from the usual polished look Sergio liked to sport on track.

“You too,” Pierre said, finally letting George go. “Now.”

George shrugged him off.

When he turned to face his husband, Nic stared at him like he didn’t know him. George was tempted to flip him off, or maybe spit in his face for no reason at all. He wanted to kill something, hurt someone—anyone.

“It’s media day,” he said instead, eyes cutting to Pierre. “The FIA will confiscate all of the footage. They can’t put any sanctions on Monaco. They can’t do a damn thing.”

“You can’t fix this here,” Pierre warned, always the calm in the storm.

“You can’t fix it anywhere,” George replied. “You know that better than anyone.”

Pierre’s mouth fell open, lips shaped around words that wouldn’t come. Then he grit his teeth and shook his head, his perfect posture bending into the slouch George remembered from childhood.

“I need to talk to him,” Max said from behind George, his voice hoarse.

“Max, this is why they won’t even let us out of the garage,” Checo said. “You can’t—“

“They’re hurting him. They’re doing something.”

The world spun as George’s anger mangled into something sickly and debilitating.

“I can’t listen to this,” he whispered, pushing past Nic and Pierre.

Max’s voice sounded too familiar. The last thing he needed was to feel sorry for someone who—according to all of the evidence he had so far—had probably betrayed him in the only unforgivable way George could think of. Someone who had ruined the life of the one person he--

George sucked in a breath, knees buckling as it occurred to him that Alex might be here. Might have seen. Might know.

An arm suddenly blocked his way, the starched white sleeve announcing who it was before George even had to think about it.

“Not so fast,” the FIA official said.

Bile rose in his throat as he straightened up, eyes glazing over. He’d reached the end of the chain.

The official shouldered in front of him, tense like George might run for it. Like princes had a place they could actually run to.

“You’re coming with us,” the man said.

George’s nostrils flared, and he focused on the heat of the tarmac coming up through the soles of his shoes, the hot sun on his back.

“Yeah,” he finally said, tipping his head up to the faded blue sky. “Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter 18

Notes:

Before you read this chapter, it will make more sense if you know that Charles's birthday is in October.

I've also included a timeline in the end-of-chapter notes so you don't have to research everything like I did. :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Charles chewed the inside of his cheek the entire drive back to the hotel, alone. He drove the Stradale, Carlos took the Portofino. Giorgio had taken one look at them when they walked into the garage and correctly deduced that putting in the same car would probably end in a ruined Ferrari and maybe two ruined princes.

Charles watched the sky as he drove, where clouds began to crowd the horizon, promising rain.

The low hum of the Ferrari engine unnerved him, but Charles couldn’t bring himself to peel out and fly down the motorway in a car built for people who saw sharp corners on tarmac as nothing but a curve in the road.

His body knew racing better than he did. Lately, Charles only felt fully alive in the cockpit. Outside of the car, he did things without thinking. George had proved as much in front of everyone they knew.

Max’s face kept flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked. That scream prickled the hair on the back of his neck, a sound he never wanted to hear again. He revved the engine at a stoplight, willing the throaty rasp of the rev limiter to drown out the echoes.

Charles knew the FIA wasn’t actually torturing Ricciardo like Max implied. Daniel looked rough, but Charles recognized heartbreak when he saw it. He hadn’t looked much different over the winter.  

But the FIA knew how to destroy men in different ways. The black stain of exile never washed out, and the history of the monarchies had plenty of missing pages.

Charles pulled up to the hotel just as a Ferrari official drove away in Carlos’s Portofino. He hesitated before he turned off the ignition, momentarily tempted to burn rubber and leave again, to make a show of it, to feel something other than guilt and anger and pain.

But the thought of Carlos alone in the hotel made him clench his jaw, somehow protective of a situation that didn’t exist. Carlos didn’t need him. Carlos probably wanted time alone.

And maybe that was why Charles wanted so badly to ruin it. His skin itched and burned as he tossed the keys in the console and left the car and headed toward their hotel villa.

Wind rustled the ferns as Charles headed to the VIP housing, where Spanish-style stone walls separated miniature villas complete with gardens, pools, and cabanas. A storm brewed in the sky above, the clouds churning, biding their time.

Charles didn’t miss the irony as he swiped his keycard for the front door.

Carlos met him in the entryway, a jaguar poised for the kill. As Charles recalled from the nature documentary they’d watched the night before, that meant 2,000 psi of bite force stood waiting to crush his throat.

But Charles ignored Carlos’s glare as he locked the door and tossed his wallet and keycard on the entryway table beside him.

“What was George talking about?” Carlos demanded.

Charles passed a hand over his face. “Carlos, please.”

“No,” Carlos snapped. “I’ve had enough of your secrets.”

Charles froze, immediately thinking of Sebastian’s phone still tucked into his duffel. He’d turned it off—he wasn’t stupid—but Carlos could have found it.

Charles crossed his arms, already working through thirty different scenarios to handle the fallout if Carlos had discovered it. The same way he played chess.

“Let’s talk, then,” Charles said. “What about what George said?”

A risky play to deflect if Carlos had been referring to the phone, but Charles needed to know how treacherous this conversation would be.

“He asked if I knew about something,” Carlos said.

Charles frowned. His eyes hurt, strained from squinting into the bright lights from the media interviews all afternoon. “Yes, I heard that.”

“Are you—?” Carlos swallowed hard. He suddenly looked puppyish, strangely bashful.

Charles cocked a brow, startled by the blush that reddened Carlos’s cheeks around his scowl.

“You and Max,” Carlos said. “Have you been together?”

Charles blinked. “Have we…been together?”

Carlos cleared his throat. “Have you been fucking.”

Charles ignored the delightful way it sounded when Carlos swore in English. He laughed, relief flooding through him. Safe. Carlos still didn’t look beneath the surface. This wasn’t about the phone.

But he sound of rain caught Charles’s attention before he could answer. The lights outside the window smeared with the coating of rain that scoured the glass in sheets, right on time.

Sebastian loved storms. Where Charles liked to curl up on the couch with a thick blanket and an even thicker book to wait one out, Sebastian always left the palace to walk in the rain. He always returned joyful, and his lips tasted like the world when he inevitably crawled onto the couch with him, much to Charles’s half-hearted protests about getting soaked.

“Charles.” Carlos said, snapping him from his memories.

He didn’t sound like he would ask again.

“You don’t remember,” Charles said with a soft smile. A dull pain twinged in his chest, a soft warning.

Too easy, Carlos.

The tension in Carlos’s shoulders fell away for a moment as confusion crossed his face.

Charles gestured vaguely. “Max. Me. You seriously don’t remember?”

Carlos’s mouth fell open, but not in recognition.

“We were together,” Charles clarified. “Almost a year.”

The words tumbled from his mouth with his usual ease, but Charles’s heartbeat quickened in his chest. The twinge twisted into something sharper. Stop thinking.

“When?” Carlos asked, his dark eyes still level and unconvinced.

Charles chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “It was a long time ago.”

When?” Carlos repeated.

Charles didn’t like to think of that year. Once again, the feeling from Florence festered in him, but this time it tasted different—like a cake too rich to put in his mouth. His stomach roiled.

“It ended in 2014,” Charles said.

Carlos went still, and Charles could tell they were both one breath away from puncture.

“When in 2014?” Carlos asked, wary.

Charles let his gaze slip over him, away.

He remembered the lights of Sochi, pink and blue on Max’s face. The taste of shitty vodka mixed with orange juice that tasted like freezer burn. His birthday cake demolished on a hotel countertop, Max’s lips on his skin. Gulping down more alcohol, nerves bundled in him, thinking is this what it’s supposed to feel like?

“July,” Charles lied. He sucked in a quick breath, replacing the stale air in his lungs. He smiled. “He already had his eye on you, I think.”

Carlos’s brows pinned together. Charles caught a subtle jerk of his fingers at his sides, like Carlos had to paddle through gears to navigate his own memories. “He never said anything.”

Charles waved it off. “I know. You didn’t kart with us. All our mates knew—George knew, obviously.”

“Is it difficult to talk about?” Carlos asked, his voice suddenly gentle. Charles admired the way Carlos’s voice could envelope him like an embrace without him having to move.

Charles let out a chuckle and closed the gap between them, pecking Carlos’s lips. “Like I said, it was a long time ago.”

His nose brushed against Carlos’s in a fond nuzzle, but memories sharpened their claws against his insides.

“It isn’t like I thought.”

He remembered the way the light caught Max’s face in halves as he drove through Sao Paulo a month after Sochi, dark shadows, pink skin. The way his fingers hung over the steering wheel, so casual. Charles remembered aching to be more like him.

“Then we’ll adjust,” he’d replied. Casual, cool.

Stupid, stupid.

Charles pulled back from Carlos and from the memory, looking him over. His long eyelashes gave him a sleepy aura when his lips turned up at the corners, halfway between a smile and a smirk.

Charles used to see photos of that same look on a younger face. Back then, it made him want to rip the brake lines out of Carlos’s Toro Rosso and watch him explode against a track wall.  

Charles’s brain couldn’t abandon the well-worn track it had started down, a rollercoaster on greased lines.

Brazilian neighborhoods blurred in the window, and the faint beat of a hundred different nightclubs pulsated through the floorboards with the buzz of a royal race weekend.

“I have to devote more time to him, and to the empire,” Max had said, eyes on the road.

“In that order?”

Shadows punched the contours of Max’s face when he turned to look at him, and Charles had seen the answer without the need for words.

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“George brought it up to hurt you,” Charles said quickly, forcing the memory from his head.  “I’ve never seen him act like that before.”

The George he knew sent wine back at restaurants and stuck his tongue out in selfies. He pushed off the idea of studying anything other than math and loudly complained about how lemon La Croix was superior to any other flavor.

That George didn’t backstab. That George didn’t go digging up old pain.

Carlos kissed Charles’s forehead, quick but meaningful. “Then he’s like you.”

Charles shot him a look, hackles rising.

Carlos grinned. “Cruel when you care,” he clarified.

But his grin faded too soon, and Charles knew that was his fault.

He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Carlos’s neck. He hated that Carlos had to focus on something so stupid from six years ago when this would be his only chance to be home until August, outside of the weekend trips they never really had time for.

“Was I cruel today?” Charles tried, genuinely unsure. Stopping Max from killing George didn’t seem like something cruel to do.

Carlos didn’t answer immediately.

“Why didn’t you just tell me at the track?”

Charles furrowed his brow. “I—”

“We drove home separately,” Carlos said. “I was angry, you looked angry. I didn’t want to assume anything, but the longer I waited, the worse I began to think.” He sighed. Exasperation looked unfairly beautiful on his face. “Quindi è difficile crederti.”

Charles lifted the mask of his pain for only a moment. He had to sell it. He had to keep playing his game. His vision blurred and his fingers curled around Carlos’s forearms, momentarily overwhelmed.  

“I may have lied,” Charles said. “About it not being difficult to talk about.”

 He remembered the way the wind tasted like gasoline when he rolled down the window as they flew down the empty motorway.  

Max kept gassing it, pushing the limits of his Honda NSX Concept. Charles watched the road, silently begging for an unexpected corner, for a car to pop out of nowhere, for the lights to stop streaking in his vision.

Where am I supposed to go?’” he asked. “Nobody’s even supposed to know I’m here.” Brazil suddenly swallowed him, his closest friends across an ocean, his boyfriend halfway through carving an ‘ex’ in front of his name.

“I called in a favor,” Max had said.

Charles ripped himself from his own head.

“I haven’t thought about that time in my life for a very long time,” he said.

The rain continued slamming against the glass, demanding entry. Carlos didn’t feel as warm anymore. Charles felt himself straddling the past and present, fighting to keep his head above water.

“Charles,” Carlos murmured, resting a hand on his cheek.

Charles leaned his head away, but gave Carlos’s arm a squeeze. “Sorry, it’s just—” He shook his head.  “I had no idea what an appointment meant. I didn’t understand, so it made it hard.”

Carlos moved to pull him in, but Charles stepped back. Guilt threatened to strangle him as he ran a hand through his hair. “God, I’m sorry. But—lui ha lasciato per te.”

The realization seemed to finally hit as Carlos’s eyes blew wide.

Back then, Carlos had been a cocky 21 year-old who wore snapbacks backward and tossed winks at passerby, just for fun. Charles remembered he even winked at the camera in his official wedding photo with Max.

“Charles, I had no idea,” Carlos said. “If I did something—”

Charles shook his head, looking down at the floor. “I didn’t know you then. You didn’t know me.”

Max’s favor had ended up being Esteban Ocon, eighteen and gangly, a shock of black hair under the sign for departures. Once Max’s biggest rival in the lower Third Court, but passed over for a crown.

Charles didn’t even remember getting out of the car that night. He could only remember thinking: he already had my luggage packed in the trunk.

Esteban didn’t say much until they landed in Monaco seventeen hours later.

“Au moins, tu as appris maintenant.”

Charles never asked him what he meant. Paparazzi snapped photos of the FIA Third Court champion when they left customs together, and no one questioned why he had been traveling with Charles, who had recently announced his move into the Third Court himself.

A genius move on Max’s part, really.

Charles hadn’t ever given him credit for that.

“You loved him?” Carlos asked, swimming through the haze that blocked Charles’s vision.

Charles blinked. The word love always made him regain himself a little. Muscle memory from lying so many times on camera to assure the public that he loved his husband, whoever it had been at the time.

“I thought I did, yes,” Charles said, still a little distracted. “But no.”

Love didn’t involve sneaking through track security and putting his career at risk when Max could have just met him at a hotel.

Love didn’t involve watching from the grandstands while his boyfriend put an arm around a handsome Spaniard and announced to the world that they would become princes of Toro Rosso together in just a few short months.

Love didn’t involve finding out about that at the same time as rest of the world.

Max had been right. Charles couldn’t have hoped to understand the thorns that lined a crown. Not then.

But he knew now.   

After all, he had his ex-husband’s phone hidden in a duffel bag fifteen feet away from Carlos, who looked at him like he actually gave a shit if he made it home safely. Carlos looked like he would send a text, and if that went unanswered, he would make a call before he got in a car and came looking for himself.

Carlos wouldn’t wait two full weeks to reach out after sending him home on a plane with an acquaintance, only to like an Instagram photo of piano keys.

“I would have told you about Max if I still felt that way about him,” Charles said.

“I know,” Carlos replied, his gaze steady.

“I honestly thought you knew.”

Carlos cocked his head slightly, his eyes dim with fondness. “I know.”

“But at least you got to see Lando, right?” Charles asked suddenly, deflecting.

He watched the surprise flash in Carlos’s eyes, then the hurt.

“It felt good to hold him, didn’t it?”

“Perché fai sempre così?” Carlos hissed.

Charles soaked in the anger in Carlos’s voice, a strike of flint to kindling.

“Cosa?” Charles asked. “I’m not trying to start anything.  I’m asking. I think it’s good to talk about.”

“Not like this,” Carlos muttered, turning away to disappear into the living room.

Charles followed him, entering into the spacious room, one wall made up of two massive sliding glass doors that led out to their own private courtyard—all of it drenched grey with rain. Wooden slats made up the ceiling, adding a touch of warmth to an otherwise sleekly modern style.

Carlos sat down on the edge of the huge sectional that took up the middle of the room, elbows on his knees and knuckles tucked under his chin as he stared out at the storm. Charles the blowing ferns for a moment before moving up until he stood a few feet away from Carlos, resting against the back of the sectional behind him.

They listened to the storm for a long time. Charles watched puddles form in the concrete outside and fought not to think about the night they all crashed at Pierre’s after a race, brash and crude and horrible until their stolen wine had disappeared and he found himself stuffed between the couch and Max, George’s iRacing setup stuck on the main menu, reflecting grey-white light on Max’s face as they stared at each other in the dark. They stayed that way, wine drunk but not drunk enough, until he could feel Max’s heartbeat through his hoodie and Charles took his chance, pressing their lips together.

“He still loves me,” Carlos finally said, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I could feel it. I could see it. I didn’t—I never doubted it, but I thought—”

“It gets easier,” Charles said, but his eyes were still far away. “One day you wake up and when you see him, nothing happens. He’s just another person again.”

Carlos bowed his head between his shoulder blades. A rumble of thunder filled the silence.

“The person you loved isn’t there, Carlos,” Charles said. “He left you for Ricciardo and now he’s changing tack because how found out that Ricciardo didn’t feel the same.”

“It’s not like that,” Carlos snapped, but he didn’t sound like he meant it.

“Yes it is,” Charles hissed. “It’s exactly the same. If he really loved you like you think he did, his head wouldn’t have turned.”

Charles’s chest wrenched so tight that he thought his sternum might crack as he watched Carlos’s ribcage stretch with a deep breath.

“Max—you loved him, and then it just went away?” Carlos asked, his voice far away.

“Yes,” Charles said, fighting the shake in his voice.

He remembered four years after, Ericsson trying to stop him on his way to Max and Daniel at the bar, charged up on a fresh shot of really good liquor that had probably actually been something watered down and overpriced.

“Max!”

Charles couldn’t imagine how stupid he must have sounded.

Max had turned to him, his eyes unfocused and cheeks blotchy red.

All those years fighting for a crown, yet Charles remembered wanting that moment almost more than his appointment. Finally equal again, finally together.

“Daniel,” Max had slurred, proud, slumping into Daniel’s side.  “This is Charles Leclerc.”

Daniel’s eyes lit up and for a moment Charles had tasted the sweetness of knowing Max had talked about him.

Sharl La-Fuckin’-claire,” Daniel had greeted, his face about to tear apart with his smile. Even the memory of Daniel leaning in—prompting Charles to lean in too—made Charles shiver with the force of his revulsion.

“Did you really give Max a handy on Gasly’s couch?”

Charles stood up from against the sectional and out of the memory, but the tarry consistency of unearthed shame seemed to clog every one of his airways.

 Carlos hadn’t turned around, his hands still in his hair, thinking again.

“Would you tell me how it happened?” Carlos asked.

Charles held his breath, beating himself into stillness.

“It’s not very interesting,” he finally said.

Carlos looked over his shoulder, then jumped up from his spot when he caught sight of him. “Charles?”

Charles couldn’t reply. It didn’t even hurt that badly. Max was still his friend. Charles understood now. No one should have expected Max to just stay the same when he’d been given a crown at seventeen. No one survived that, not fully. And Charles loved the Max he had now, just in a different way.

He understood.

“Sorry,” Charles choked out, blinking hard, as though forcing his eyes open might loosen the thread he’d pulled too tight around the tender muscle of his heart. “Merde.”

“Ehi,” Carlos soothed—when the fuck had he moved? But Carlos stood right in front of him, pushing back his hair, ducking a little to meet his eye.

For a fraction of a second, Carlos wore Daniel’s face, and Charles could smell the hops on his breath that made bile rise in his throat.

He liked Daniel. Daniel wasn’t a bad person. It was just a—

Carlos gently knocked their foreheads together. “Che succede lì dentro?”

Charles blinked. He shook his head. “Too much, I think.”

Carlos’s hands framed his face and Charles closed his eyes. He reached up to grip Carlos’s wrists, silently holding him in place. The warmth of Carlos’s palms kept him from returning to that fucking place.

“Don’t listen to me,” Charles finally said, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter. “About Lando, don’t listen to me. He probably does still love you.”

“Charles, open your eyes,” Carlos said, in a voice so sure and confident that Charles had no choice but to listen.

Carlos didn’t have any alcohol in his system, no new crown to blame things on, no secret feelings for his ex-husband. Only sobriety, well-worn gold, and honesty.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Carlos said, carding his fingers through Charles’s hair again. “Yes, it was good to see Lando again, but this is where I want to be, okay?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I was married to Max for a year,” Carlos said. “I liked him. I still like him. But the fact that he was with you and never mentioned it—it pisses me off.”

Charles shook his head. “We were teenagers, it didn’t—”

“Don’t say it didn’t matter,” Carlos interrupted. “It did matter. It mattered to you, and it matters to me now.”

Charles swallowed hard, but the truth kept welling up. He cheated on you. With me. And I wanted it to happen.

But the words wouldn’t form on his lips.

He thought back to Florence, the wind on his cheeks as he stared out at the city over Carlos’s shoulder.

“Ça me fait peur,” Charles whispered, so quietly he wasn’t even sure he’d spoken.

Carlos pulled him close, arms wrapping tight around him until Charles could feel the catch of the tacky ink of the sponsorship logos on their polos as they pressed together.

When Carlos spoke, his accent made his words almost unintelligible. But Charles knew his voice so well that he could spell out the language of Carlos phonetics in his head and read them like thoughts: “Eh bien peut être que ça n’a pas à l’être.”

Charles furrowed his brow, turning his face into Carlos’s neck. His voice came out muffled when he asked, “Tu apprends le français?”

“Some,” Carlos said, thumbing the nape of his neck. “Pour toi.”

The storm continued outside, but Charles didn’t feel any desire to curl up with a book. This time, he was already exactly where he wanted to be.  

 

 

Notes:

Third Court = Formula Renault 3.5 / Formula 3 / GP3 (if you're going to go fact checking me!)

TIMELINE (this is the real timeline, with definitions adjusted to the context of FG, of course lol):

August 2014 - Carlos + Max are announced as Red Bull Jr Team's newest members. Six days later they're announced to be teammates for Toro Rosso in 2015 aka engagement announcement.

October 3-5 2014 - Max participates in practice for the Japan GP, essentially making him part of the official royalty of Red Bull (but not formally a prince yet)

October 10-12 2014 - Russian GP in Sochi. Max is there because he's now part of the royal family so he goes where the empire/team goes. (In real life he was actually in Italy beating Esteban's ass in F3 but gimme a break here).

October 16 2014 - Charles's 17th birthday :')

October 19 2014 - F3 Season ends aka Ocon has nothing to do now and Max is full time into royalness.

November 7-9 2014 - Brazilian GP. Ocon flies in and flies back out.

March 2018 - Australian GP - Charles is officially a Sauber PRINCE baby.

Chapter Text

Rainclouds darkened the sky as George emerged from the FIA track office. Jost continued negotiating inside, demanding a fine reduction. But George knew it would be no use. Someone had to get punished. Red Bull would pay fines without batting an eye. Williams would be forced to pay the same amount, but it would be a much bigger hit.

He would have to call his father. The FIA made it clear that none of the footage would leave the paddock, and George didn’t know how to explain what happened without revealing more than he was allowed to. Even family—maybe especially family—had to stay removed from the inner workings of the royal circle.

Kayla didn’t come looking for him. His phone had two texts from Nic:

back at the room. towels are safe.

text me before you come back so I can call up your dinner. it’ll be ok, george.

His feet carried him through the hospitality tents and media areas, where photographers and cameramen handed over their equipment for thorough checks to ensure all footage had been deleted. It helped that the only recording equipment allowed on the premises belonged to the FIA.

Anger still churned in him—a sour kind, a hurt. Anger toward Charles for defending Max, toward Max for a thousand reasons, and toward Daniel for fucking it all up with burner phones.

George didn’t understand why it was so goddamn difficult to just sneak visits during races like everyone else. Pretending, playing the game. Daniel had years of experience on them, yet he had fallen for the same stupid shit.

George kicked a chunk of loose tarmac, watching as it skittered along the ground.

When he arrived at Lewis’s trailer, he glanced around for any officials. But the trailer parking had emptied of FIA hours ago. Lewis had probably left with everyone else, eager to escape any chance of being caught up in the aftermath of the fight.

George knocked on the door and stepped back onto the tarmac, eyes unfocused.

He hoped McLaren got fined too. And Ferrari. Charles and Carlos both deserved it for stepping in on Max’s side.

The trailer door swung open, revealing Lewis in a loose-fitting white t-shirt and the most ridiculous camouflage pants George had ever seen. Lewis’s mouth fell open for a second, surprised.

“George?”

“Present,” George replied, still stuck on the pants. Except they weren’t pants. They were some kind of overalls, but the straps had been unbuckled so everything hung from Lewis’s hips like a jungle canopy of haute couture.

Lewis smirked. “Didn’t think they would let you out of a hearing that fast.”

George slid his gaze up Lewis’s right arm, taking in the tapestry of ink and the way it shaped itself over muscle.

“Nothing happened, technically,” George said, doing his best to sound bored with it all. “Unless Pierre giving me a bear hug counts as an incident.”

Lewis cocked a brow. “Toto showed me the raw footage. You’re all lucky that didn’t make it on TV.”

“Oh, I hope it finds it way there,” George said, locking eyes with Lewis. They stared at each other for a moment.

George felt the pieces of himself start to realign, but sharp edges jutted against crushed ones, mangling themselves inside him. He couldn’t go back to the hotel now. He couldn’t even stop himself from walking right up to the World Champion’s trailer.

“Can I come in?” George asked.

“Uh, yes,” Lewis said. “Just give me a second.”

“Yeah.” George shifted his weight to his heels, tipping his head back to stare up at the ominous clouds overhead.

The wind carried the promise of a storm, and George felt the pressure drop in the air around him. A tiny little thing his mum used to point out as a kid. People could feel storms coming, but no one could ever really explain how until they discovered the correlation between air pressure and weather changes.

Know the cues.

George looked back to the trailer as the door opened, and his eyes went wide as Toto Wolff emerged, his eyes steel and his tall frame seemingly built to instill fear in every royal on the grid.

George’s breath caught in his throat as he dipped his head and stepped back.

Toto didn’t say a word before he stalked off. George didn’t know whether to be thankful or terrified.

Lewis appeared in the door with a warm smile. “Come on up.” He caught the look on George’s face and laughed. “Trust me, you’re safe. He’s just pissed he has to cover for me at dinner.”

George hurried inside, startled to find a very home-y looking motorhome.

White lights illuminated different aspects of the walls, including a shelf for several pairs of sneakers. Lewis led him into a kitchen, and George tried to think about the trailer from the outside, because it seemed impossible that a room so large could fit in a trailer parking space. A massive white sectional couch took up one side of the room, and on the other stood a black granite countertop bar and a small, but fully functional kitchen.

A woman’s purse sat on the bar, next to a toiletry bag and an unopened baggie of hair ties.

“Angela’s,” Lewis explained. He motioned toward the sectional. “Have a seat wherever you like. Make yourself at home.”

Everyone in the paddock knew Angela Cullen, but George hadn’t interacted with her much.

“Does she live here?” he asked, taking in a giant TV on the far wall, surrounded by more lit shelving full of motorcycle helmets, video game consoles, and pairs of expensive headphones.

“We both do,” Lewis said. “I don’t like staying in the hotels unless I have to.”

George looked at him over his shoulder. “What about Valtteri?”

Lewis smiled. “He stays in the hotel, I stay here.”

“That’s allowed?”

Lewis laughed. “Come on, mate. I’m World Champion.”

George smiled, then turned back to the TV. His dark reflection stared back, a mess of shadows and light.

He wondered if Lewis would stay here like this when they got married.  If George would stay too, or if he would be resigned to a room alone like Bottas.

“So,” Lewis said, opening a cabinet. “What was that fight about?”

George shrugged, still staring at himself in blank screen. Keeping his weight in check for racing was part of the job, but he looked like a teenager.

“Doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “Everything that set off Portugal is still in play. That’s all that really matters.”

Lewis let out a little hum behind him.

“I actually came to talk about something else,” George said, turning from the TV. “I think you know what’s going on with Charles.”

Lewis turned around, eyebrow cocked but fighting not to smile. “All this time apart, and that’s what you want to talk about? Charles Leclerc?”

“Yes,” George lied. He knew Lewis could see right through it. “Please.”

He couldn’t talk about the fight anymore.

Lewis’s eyes dimmed with affection. “Okay. Let’s have something to drink, though.”

George sighed. “Do not make me a vodka soda.”

Lewis laughed. “I was thinking tea.”

Lewis Hamilton didn’t seem like a tea drinker in the slightest, but George suddenly wanted just that. A hot black tea with milk. He could already taste it, and suddenly ached for home so badly that he couldn’t answer.

Lewis’s smile softened.  “Hey, just sit. Don’t worry about anything, okay?”

George nodded and made his way to the couch. He sat on it thinking it would be the usual too-springy feel of expensive furniture, but instead he sank comfortably into the billowy white cushion. It felt like a hug, and George needed one of those more than he cared to think about.

Lewis pulled a teapot and a kettle from one of the cupboards and fiddled with the stovetop. George watched, fascinated, as Lewis hummed a tune while he prepped. George almost never made his own tea anymore, and he was pretty sure Nic still thought tea time was a bizarre occurrence in everyday life at Williams. The fact that Lewis, the reigning World Champion, even remembered to brew it seemed incomprehensible.

“Press that button on the wall there,” Lewis said, pointing toward a panel that looked like a light switch near the edge of the couch. George sat up and pressed it, then jumped as the whole wall changed right before his eyes—into a massive bay window.

“What the fuck?” George pressed a finger to the wall, but it wasn’t cold like glass.

“Like it?” Lewis asked as he scooped some loose leaf tea into the teapot diffuser. “It’s called glass membrane. They’re not really windows, just a camera feed from outside. So you can have full view of everything, but no one can see you.”

George still couldn’t believe the sight of the parking lot, the Spanish hills beyond. It almost seemed like he could hear the—

No, he could.

“There’s also speakers behind them,” Lewis supplied. “I like listening outside. Not to people or anything, just nature. No one’s stupid enough to talk shit right outside my house.”

George grinned, watching as a few engineers walked in the distance, hurrying inside and away from the dark clouds above.

Technology like this had to cost a fortune. George couldn’t imagine installing glass membrane in a motorhome.

A few minutes later, Lewis had a tray—an actual tray—with a teapot, two little pitchers of milk (labeled almond and whole), and two mugs that he set down on the coffee table. George reached for a mug, but Lewis playfully swatted his hand away.

“Ah-ah. You’ve got to wait another three minutes,” Lewis said.

“What?”

“Trust me. It’s really fucking good tea, but you have to let it steep.”

“Some Brit you are,” George muttered.

Lewis smiled. George noticed that he sat just far enough away that their knees didn’t touch. He wondered if it was intentional.

“So, Charles,” Lewis said.

Definitely intentional.

“Charles,” George repeated. He looked down at his hands where they sat folded in his lap.  “He’s acting…off. I don’t know how to explain it.” He met Lewis’s eye. “Sebastian is one of your best friends. I assume this has something to do with him.”

“Gonna have to define ‘something,’” Lewis said.

George furrowed his brow. “I mean, one minute Charles is facing down Lando Norris on international TV, defending Carlos. The next minute he’s…”

He remembered Monaco, five years earlier, Charles sitting on the deck of George’s family yacht. He had sat there for hours staring at nothing, vacant, so lonely that George had called Alex that night, just to hear his voice.

“He’s what?” Lewis asked, a gentle interruption.

George didn’t reply right away. “The look in his eyes. I’ve seen it before.”

“Being secretive isn’t going to help you,” Lewis said, reaching forward for the teapot. “Do you put your milk in before or after?”

George shot him a look and grabbed the teapot himself. “Give me that.”

He poured them both mugs, and added milk to his after.  He left the almond milk abomination to Lewis.

He lifted the mug to his lips and closed his eyes as he took his first sip. The sweet, earthy taste coated his throat as he swallowed, and the slight texture from the milk soothed his tongue—his whole body.

It was really fucking good tea.

“You can trust me, George,” Lewis said, his gaze lingering on George’s lips for a second too long.

George rolled his eyes. “Right. Because I have nothing to lose with you.”

Lewis went from soft to serious in an instant. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened with Albon?”

Hearing Alex’s name with the taste of black tea in his mouth made George’s heart wring itself, and it didn’t have much left to empty.

“I think the media did a fairly decent job,” George said before he took another long draw from his mug.

“Must’ve missed the part where it explained what turned you cold,” Lewis said.

George set the mug down on the tray with a harsh clatter, fighting to keep himself steady.

“I loved him,” he said. “I guess. I don’t know if it was really love now. Everything was fine when he was in Toro Rosso. Went to shit when he went to Red Bull. You know the fucking story.”

George turned his face to look out the window—or whatever the fuck it was. “Horner knew about us. Max knew. Pierre too. Then Horner offered me Alex’s appointment.” He closed his eyes. “I was so stupid. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. I said no, obviously. But I didn’t tell Alex. I guess I thought he  already had a deal Alpha Tauri and Pierre would stay—I don’t know.”

Lewis stayed quiet. George appreciated the silence. He didn’t want to be touched, to have yet another person tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t have prevented it.

The ill effect of public cruelty was that it poisoned the bystanders too.

“After they—” George swallowed hard. “After the exile was announced, I got called in to see Jost. Except Horner was there too. They blindsided me. Started spouting all this bullshit about Alex betraying them.”

If he closed his eyes, he could see Horner’s fucking little smile, Jost’s disappointment. Words like ‘delicate situation’ and ‘potentially catastrophic’ bouncing around in his head that completely mismatched the goofy, loving, generous person George had loved. Maybe still loved.

No. Not anymore.

“They said if I ever made contact with him and they found out about it, he would never be appointed again. Horner fucking—they delegated him to be an errand boy. Now he’s Red Bull’s little show pony—I don’t even know. I haven’t seen him in a year.”

He finally dared to look at Lewis, and his expression made George stiffen.

Lewis looked ready to strangle someone, his dark eyes searing with rage.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Lewis said, his voice pinched.

George narrowed his eyes. “Save it.”

Lewis didn’t flinch. “I think you know that wasn’t completely Horner’s call, George.”

George let out a dry laugh. “You sound like Nic.”

“Then Nic is smarter than I thought.”

George clenched his jaw. Lewis didn’t get to talk about Nic like he knew him. No one did. No one claimed Nic would ever be a World Champion, but—

“And I thought you were supposed to know everyone,” George snapped. “Nic has done more for me as a prince than anyone else. Full stop.”

Lewis blinked in surprise, and George saw the gears turning behind his eyes again. It felt like he’d failed a test somehow, but he didn’t care. Not when it involved Nic, who stood by him at times where George wasn’t sure he would have stood by himself.

“What is Sebastian doing to Charles?” George asked, back on task.

Lewis took a long sip of tea, his eyes distant. Then he leaned in, and the closer he came, the more George found his anger slipping away.

Fuck.

Lewis’s brow twitched. “Between us?”

“Always.”

George picked up his tea again, inhaling notes of vanilla. Maybe a few minutes of steeping actually did something.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Lewis said.

George shot him a look over the rim of his mug. The tea wetted his lips, but he licked it off as he pulled the mug away. “You don’t trust me.”

Lewis shook his head. “Not to tell Charles? No.”

“So he is up to something,” George said.

“Sebastian is probably the only person who isn’t up to something,” Lewis replied.

“So then what’s he not up to?”

Lewis wanted a confidant. George could see it in the way his fingers pressed against the side of his mug, white filling the underside of his nails. As pissed as George could get at Charles sometimes, he would never withhold knowledge from him.

He knew what happened when he held his tongue with people he cared about.

Lewis sighed. “I was hoping our first time seeing each other after Portugal—”

“Want me to suck your dick?” George asked, eyes flinty. “I will, if you tell me what the hell is going on with Charles.”

He didn’t give a fuck if Lewis wanted to draw out some kind of game, fuck him, or be fucked. The thought that he might be standing on the edge of the truth about Sebastian,  that he could maybe prevent one person from being royally fucked by the FIA, or keep someone like Charles from yet another heartbreak—

George hardly felt like himself anyway. He didn’t mind becoming currency in a transaction. Hell, the FIA did that years ago.

Anger flashed in Lewis’s eyes. “Never talk to me like that again.” The cheerfulness in his voice turned dangerous.

George took another sip of tea, but it didn’t taste like home anymore. The milk left a film on his tongue, and the tea itself had gone bitter in his mouth.

He slid his gaze over to Lewis, eyeing the Loyalty tattoo on his forearm. “What, like—”

“I want you as my husband at Mercedes because I genuinely care about you,” Lewis said. “Hearing you talking like that—like all I want from you is—”

“Then help me!”

George’s shout echoed strangely, reverberating in a way that told his brain you’re enclosed but he was surrounded by the grey light of the waning afternoon and the storm clouds threatening to burst above. He set down his mug, putting his head in his hands—not unlike Lando had just hours before. “I need to know what’s happening to one of my closest friends. I can’t sort out Max, or Pierre, or Alex—but I can do this. I have you. I need you—I need your help.”

He heard Lewis set down his mug and felt the couch cushion dip beside him before Lewis put an arm around him.

George didn’t relax, even if the balmy scent of Lewis’s cologne made him a little less dizzy.

“Relax,” Lewis soothed. “I’ll tell you what I know. And I don’t want anything in return. I don’t need anything other than you being here.”

George wished he could trust that. A part of him wanted to. He wanted to believe in the safety Lewis offered, to go back a few days and still be swept up in his letters. Now everything felt like a trap waiting to be sprung. And George already had a fist wrapped around the bait, and that the tiniest gesture would end in a snapped neck or severed limb.

Lewis’s hand moved across his shoulders, back and forth with a light but meaningful touch. Like he knew how to do this, how to actually care for another human being. George reminded himself that this was the same man who brewed him a perfect tea by memory, who lived in a motorhome during race weekends, who had a PlayStation and toppled sneakers on the floor.

He gave—just a little—and leaned into Lewis, allowing himself one thing to savor that didn’t hurt.

Yet.

“Sebastian is very…pragmatic,” Lewis began. “He doesn’t always see what his actions will do. I think he underestimated Charles, and didn’t anticipate Sainz shucking Norris and digging his claws into Leclerc.”

George stayed quiet, closing his eyes as Lewis’s thumb came up to circle at the base of his neck, rubbing away the tension there.

“Sebastian told me he sent Charles something discreetly, and it got past the sanctions in Portugal. Whatever it was, it was enough to remind Charles that he still cares.”

George cleared his throat, his head still bowed. “So what happens to Carlos?”

Lewis’s thumb paused on his neck. “Has he been acting different too?”

George shrugged. “Not really. I mean, it’s pretty clear he likes Charles now.”

Lando’s face appeared in his memory, ashen. “I have a dozen letters from Carlos saying the pictures were real.”

“But you said Charles changed,” Lewis said.

George nodded. “Yeah.”

“How, exactly?”

George lifted his head. “You can see it in his eyes,” he said distractedly. “I recognize it. A long time ago, he fell in love with a guy and then one day it was like it he didn’t matter anymore.”

He remembered half-sliding, half-wrestling into a booth with arm around Pierre, who plucked off his brand new Oakleys and nearly snapped them in half trying to keep them out of his reach. Charles sat across from them, the spot next to him noticeably empty, as it had been since Max left for Japan months prior.

George remembered ignoring him, still struggling for his sunglasses, until Pierre froze. He followed his gaze to Charles, finally noticing a look on his face that could only be described as empty.

George had never seen anyone so disconnected to the world around him, so detached.

“Max isn’t coming back,” Charles had said. “He’s gone.”

“Suddenly it became Charles’s whole life to find a crown,” George continued, a shiver running through him at the memory. “He left all the time to try to make allies in the royal courts, and he always came back worse than before.”

Ignoring texts from him and Pierre. Secretive dinners with people all around Monte Carlo, but not secretive enough to avoid rumors. Vacant eyes and vapid smiles in every photograph. Lando, Alex, and Callum Ilott texting him to ask why the fuck Charles Leclerc was in Hungary having dinner with Kimi Räikkönen instead of prepping for the Second Court race.

“He wanted that crown,” George said. “And Charles always gets what he wants.”

 Lewis watched him carefully, the diamond stud in his nose twinkling in the light.  “What do you mean?”

“Everyone who hates him ends up falling in love with him,” George said with a shrug. . “I mean, isn’t that how it went with Sebastian?”

Lewis nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. They had rough spots. But now…Seb’s trying harder than I thought he would, honestly.”

“What did you think he would do?”

Lewis sat back against the couch, resting his head against the window.

“I don’t know, actually,” he finally said. “Charles is a weird one. Sebastian doesn’t say much about their relationship.”

“Does he talk about Stroll?” George asked, finally sitting up.

Lewis shrugged. “I guess. When we talk, we’re always talking about other things. He doesn’t come up. Our marriages don’t really come up at all, actually. We’ve been part of this for too long.”

Rain began to patter on the roof, and George took a breath before he looked up to the fake glass ceiling. Raindrops jumped on the panels, as though they were really bouncing off of the glass. He liked the idea that this little enclave suspended reality—no, warped it—into a place where he didn’t have to think about rules or sanctions or anyone getting hurt.

He didn’t want to leave.

Lewis leaned forward and slipped his hand under the lip of the coffee table, retrieving a sleek remote. He turned on the TV, and George finally relaxed. Lewis wasn’t going to ask him to leave.

“Watch your feet,” Lewis said, pressing a button on the wall.

George lifted his feet as the sectional began to expand, a cushioned panel rising up from the floor to turn the couch into some kind of bed.

George wondered how many people—

“I don’t fuck on my couch,” Lewis said, as he continued rummaging around. Like he was talking about his dietary preferences or the weather. He flipped up one of the sectional arms and pulled out a throw blanket, tossing it to George.

The fabric looked like it would be itchy, but as soon as George felt it against his skin, he scolded himself for ever thinking so low of Lewis’s choices. The blanket felt like cashmere, but somehow more comfortable.

George kicked off his shoes and didn’t look at Lewis as he gently tossed them toward the kitchen. They landed in a heap right alongside a pair of Lewis’s sneakers.

They looked like they belonged.

Lewis reached into the compartment again, grabbing for another blanket.

“We can share,” George said, trying not to let the warmth in him spread to his cheeks.

Lewis smiled, and George had a hard time comprehending rain when the man beside him was so full of sun.

Lewis began to flick through channels on the TV and George threw some of the blanket over Lewis before moving closer.

He’d watched Lewis’s onboards since he found out how to access them online as a kid. He knew the way Lewis liked to steer, how he liked to sit a little further back than everyone else, and had the best peripheral vision on the grid. A champion, through and through.

It felt sinful to touch him without permission.

Lewis put an arm over the back of the couch-bed and made a point not to look at him. To let George figure it out on his own.

George finally settled in beside him, and Lewis immediately adjusted so that his arm hooked around his shoulders, almost protective. George rested his cheek against Lewis’s chest, awed by the steady beat of his heart.

They settled on a documentary about sommeliers, but turned the volume low enough that they could listen or talk. Typical Lewis: always perfect, balanced on the knife-edge between success and failure.

“Can you please talk to Sebastian?” George asked, warm against Lewis’s chest.  

Lewis rested his cheek against his head, and George sucked in a breath in surprise—and immediately felt his ears start to burn.

“What do you want me to say?” Lewis asked, diplomatic as ever. George didn’t think he’d ever been so comforted by someone ignoring something about him.

“Tell him to be honest,” George said. “And to take care of Charles, please.”

Lewis leaned his head back to look down at him. “Was he in love with you, before?”

George laughed, watching as a sommelier swirled wine in a glass on the TV screen, staring at it like the purple liquid could explain itself.

“No,” he said. “I had a crush on him when I was like twelve, maybe. Then he ran me off the track three times in one weekend.”

Lewis laughed, and the sound reverberated in George’s chest too. A smile leapt to his mouth, unrestrained.

“But I do care about him,” George said.

He loved the boy who wore bandanas like sweatbands and spent nights muttering in broken Italian while the rest of them raced in the sim. The boy who yelled at race stewards when Max almost hit a distracted volunteer who stumbled out onto the track. The boy who abandoned what should have been the best night of his life after his first win to be with all of them in the darkest night of theirs.

“I can see that,” Lewis said, pulling George from that horrific weekend. “Not many people stick up for their friends around here.”

George cleared his throat. “Speaking of which—I don’t want Carlos ruined by this. Whatever Sebastian has going on. He’s a good guy. He’s—”

“I’ll handle it,” Lewis assured, pressing his lips to George’s temple.

God, why did he have to think about Belgium?

He nestled closer to Lewis, resting his ear properly against his chest until he could hear the blood pumping along with the beat of his heart. Anything to drown out the sounds of Pierre screaming, of Charles sobbing uncontrollably in the darkness when all of them were supposed to be asleep, but instead had their chests torn open, gaping and bleeding into each other, a mess of blood and bone.

Lewis pulled him in a little tighter, like he knew, somehow. Lewis felt strong, and the scent of his cologne reminded George of where he was, who he was with. That Belgium was all in the past now.

They watched the documentary as the rain picked up outside. The temperature dropped, but George hardly felt it where he lay snuggled against Lewis under the soft blanket.

He loved Nic, but hanging out watching movies with him didn’t touch this moment. George’s eyelids grew heavy, his body too.  Between the sound of Lewis’s heartbeat and the beat of rain, he felt himself slipping.

“Don’t let me fall asleep here,” he murmured.

Lewis pressed a kiss to his forehead this time. “I’d wake you up. Falling asleep means you feel safe.”

“’Course I feel safe,” George slurred. “You’re the only person who can actually do what he says he can.”

He smiled into Lewis’s shirt, his eyes falling closed as Lewis gave him a squeeze.

Just before he slipped away, he jolted at the feeling of Lewis’s phone vibrating between them.

“Shit, sorry,” Lewis said.

George let out a groan as Lewis fished around for the phone, forcing him to peel away from where he’d been so comfortable against his chest. He kept his eyes open long enough to see on the screen that it was Bottas calling before George found his comfortable spot again.

“Hey,” Lewis greeted. “Yeah, I’m good, love. Thanks.” A pause. George made out the tinny rhythm of Valtteri’s voice.

“I have company—If you could have Celia send two meals, I’d really appreciate that.  How are you?”

George nearly fell asleep the moment Lewis’s finger started tracing patterns on his back, but the thrill of it kept him just awake enough to pay attention. Though, if he opened his eyes he was sure he’d see everything in a pink, hazy light, or maybe even see a goddamn unicorn standing in the kitchen. Nothing could surprise him anymore.

“That’s good,” Lewis said. “No problems, yeah? Tell Tiffany I say hello. We’ll sort everything out by Sunday, I’m sure.”

Lewis said his goodbyes and clicked his phone off.

“Sorry about that. We call each other every night,” Lewis said.

George let out a hum. “You really care about him.”

He felt Lewis shrug against him. “He puts up with a lot of shit for me. Too much for his own good, honestly. I’ll never have  husband like him again.”

He felt Lewis’s lips against the crown of his head and snuggled even closer.

“That’s a compliment to you, by the way,” Lewis murmured.  

For all of the flirting and fantasies George had entertained during their time apart, finally having Lewis like this—no pressure, warm, and safe—was somehow better than any of that could have ever been. They could lay on the couch together, watch a documentary, and just be together.

The rain picked up even more, sheets of it raking across the roof.

“Fuck,” George groaned, suddenly remembering his own phone. “I gotta text Nic.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and adjusted himself against Lewis. He didn’t mind keeping his phone screen visible as he pulled up his text thread with Nic—and he could see Lewis looking at it. Good.

cover for me, George texted.

tell lewis I said hi, Nic replied immediately, followed by a kiss face emoji. smooches for lewyyyy

i hate you, George replied, smiling.

George knew he should have already left, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like a normal person, and Lewis didn’t seem to have any intention of ending this, even as night crept up on them.

Dinner arrived and Lewis met who George assumed to be Celia at the door, taking both meals and bringing them back to the couch. Dinner looked like gourmet bibimbap, complete with edible flower garnishes and sprigs of herbs.

“Thanks,” George said, rubbing his eyes. “Really. I haven’t had a night like this since—”

When Lewis kissed him, everything in George’s mind went dark. Flat out black.

For a moment he felt suspended above himself, scattered apart, then made a quiet noise as his entire being slammed back into his body all at once.

His hands immediately moved to Lewis’s shirt, tugging him down on top of him, lips parted and pliant. Heat rushed into every part of him, burning away the exhaustion in an instant.

Lewis pressed against him, insistent but gentle with each kiss. George thought back to the garage, the stolen kisses there, how badly he’d wanted this. He tilted his head back without thinking, exposing his throat, silently demanding that Lewis leave another mark on him. He didn’t give a fuck who saw it this time.

Lewis’s teeth scraped the crook of his neck and George sucked in a breath, grinning as lightning flashed outside.

A rumble of thunder shook the motorhome a moment later and Lewis’s head shot up.

George blinked stupidly beneath him, lips still parted, confused.

“Fuck,” Lewis hissed. He pressed a quick kiss to George’s still-open mouth. “I’m sorry, give me a second.”

Lewis crawled off the couch bed and grabbed his phone where he’d left it on the countertop.

George slowly came down from the moment, staring at the ceiling as Lewis called someone. He sat up when Lewis walked back down the hall, speaking in a low, urgent tone.

“—go for a walk? Okay, good. I’m sorry, I totally forgot to call you,” Lewis said. “No, I’m sorry. I was away from my phone. Okay, yeah. Call me next time, love. Thank—Yes, thank you.”

Lewis appeared a moment later, brows lifted as he pushed out a sigh.

“Roscoe hates storms,” Lewis explained, slipping back onto the couch bed. “Angela has him and I told her I’d call her when Toto left. Oops.”

George fell back into the plush cushions as Lewis moved back over him. “He alright?” George asked.

“Yeah,” Lewis laughed, kissing him sweetly. George hummed at the warmth of his lips. “Next time I’ll introduce you two properly. He can be a brat in the paddock. Second he gets those headphones on, he owns the place.”

George laughed, trying to imagine a bulldog snuffling around the tire warmers in custom track headphones.

“Introducing me to the family already?” he teased.

Lewis grinned, and when they kissed again, George tasted the surety in him. He chased it, hoping that maybe he could capture some for himself.

But happiness was a damn good placeholder.

 

 

Chapter Text

 

 

Charles arrived at the Ferrari basecamp with his earbuds in and without his husband. Carlos had press lineups until the start of the race—his choice. Giorgio loved the opportunity to shove Carlos in front of the cameras, and Charles had gone over several pre-scripted questions with him the night before. They talked about where Carlos would accidentally make a reference to him, or stop himself from speaking mid-sentence when they asked where he planned to travel during the break.

“Just say it,” Charles had said.

Carlos had worked his jaw, clearly annoyed. “Which way?”

“Firenze,” Charles had supplied. “You’re a Ferrari prince. Don’t call it Florence.”

Charles greeted a few of the Ferrari staff as he stepped up into basecamp, but didn’t remove his earbuds. He headed toward the team kitchen and glanced down at his phone, where Lando and Lance sat in their press conference.

Lando sat back in his chair, but Charles read the tension in him easily. He looked like he might burst apart if someone nudged him wrong. Stroll sat on the right, cocky as ever, though Charles had noticed him picking at his nailbed throughout the interview.

“—you learned a lot in Portugal last weekend. Can you tell us about that?” a reporter asked Lance.

“Oh, yeah,” Lance said. “We had some difficulties with the car coming out of Imola, but we tried a few new things and figured out some answers last weekend. Looking forward to finding more out this week.”

Charles stepped into the kitchen and settled in front of the espresso machine. He moved methodically as he turned the grind dial and selected his dosage, drumming his fingers on the countertop as the machine ground the beans. A quick glance to the left showed a laminated paper crammed with type—every team members’ dose and grind. Everyone in Ferrari treated coffee like a sacred drink. Even a whisper of changing blends could send the entire government into uproar—Charles included.

It had taken him three months to pull his first decent shot.

“—had a few hiccups at the beginning of the weekend,” Lando said in his ear. Charles watched as Lando looked directly at the camera for a split second. “But with that out of the way, I’m feeling good about the car.”

The interviewer cleared his throat, and the tiny smile that came to Lando’s lips told Charles that the entire press team knew about the fight, and that they weren’t allowed to ask about it. Not that he hadn’t already guessed as much.

“Anyway,” the reporter said. “Now a question from a fan.”

Charles pulled the freshly filled portafilter basket from the espresso machine and propped his phone against his mug while he shaved away the excess coffee into the catcher, already half filled with leftover grounds from the rest of the empire on track.

“Hello! Have you ever driven a motorbike?” a little girl asked via videochat. “Bye!”

Charles smoothed the top of his basket of grounds and grabbed the tamper. He set the portafilter down on the countertop to hold it steady and lifted the tamper, leveling it over the grounds in preparation for an even press.

He took a breath, calming himself, calculating how much pressure he wanted to use for an even bed and perfect extraction.   

“Oh, I love bikes,” Lance said in his ear. Charles stilled just before he pressed down. “I have several at home.”

“Any particular favorite?” the interviewer asked.

Charles grit his teeth.

Sure enough, Stroll smirked and looked directly into the camera for a moment.

“BMW R nineT,” Lance answered.

Charles pressed down on the tamper, hard, until he felt the grounds hint at resisting.

“It’s such a versatile bike,” Lance said. “Retro but modern, tons of horsepower. And so fun to drive.”

 Charles spun the tamper before lifting it off—the bed perfectly even except for a few stray grounds on the rim of the basket.

Sebastian’s BMW R nineT was one of his prized bikes. His favorite to drive around in Maranello.

A bike Sebastian never shared.

Not even with him, and Charles owned a custom Husqvarna 701 Lance wouldn’t be able to sit on without pissing himself in fear.

“It’s such a clean ride,” Lance continued, eyes dead set on the reporter now, making a point not to look at the camera. “Weaves in and out of traffic like nothing. I feel like I could get away with anything on that thing, you know?”

Charles twisted the portafilter back into the machine and placed an espresso cup under the drip before he punched the button for a double shot. He tapped his phone screen, noting the timestamp on the video as the espresso machine stirred to life.

“And you, Lando?” the interviewer asked.

Lando laughed, almost nervous. “Nah. I think I’d injure myself if I got on a bike right now, honestly. It’s something I want to try, but, yeah. Right now I’m trying to stay focused.”

“Maybe Ricciardo can give you some lessons over the break,” the interviewer asked.

Lando’s smile fell flat. “He likes dirt bikes.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him out on them a few times,” Lance said with a nod.

The espresso machine gurgled, and two streams of coffee began to pour into the cup. Charles tapped his screen again. Exactly twenty-five seconds.

“So dirt bikes, then,” the interviewer chuckled, clearly taking his chance. “Will we see you on one of those?”

You’re an idiot, Norris, Charles thought as he watched the dark coffee fill the cup, already separating into the crema. Taunting press always backfired.

Lando shrugged. “Maybe,” he said in a voice that made it clear he had no interest in Daniel’s dirt bikes. “We’ll see.”

“Prince Leclerc?”

Charles straightened, turning to see a royal courier grinning at him. He pulled out an earbud, but his face didn’t change.

“For you, Your Royal Highness.” The courier dipped his head all-too-formally and extended a letter.

Charles pursed his lips, staring at the envelope for a moment before he took the it.

Sebastian.

“Thanks,” he said, returning his earbud into place.

The courier hesitated, lips parted to say something else, then wisely decided to leave him.

Charles pocketed the letter and picked up his espresso. He took a sip immediately, washing his tongue in the smooth but bitter taste of his raceday coffee.

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, savoring the flavor, then headed out  to the garage. Not his original plan, but Sebastian sending him a letter right before a race only meant one thing.

He downed his espresso in a few swallows. On race day he preferred a bitter twist to his coffee to avoid too much time spent dwelling on taste. Other priorities.

Like Sebastian, who stood in the shade of the Aston Martin basecamp.

Charles squinted in the morning sunlight as he took a long sip, trying for the last of the crema lingering against the ceramic.

“Sebastian,” Charles greeted, handing over his mug.

Sebastian gaped at him for a moment, then took it. “Charles?”

Charles didn’t felt like playing any mind games before a race. He pulled the unopened envelope from his pocket and opened it right there on the warming tarmac.

“Meet me in ten minutes,” Charles read aloud. He glanced at his Senna TAG Heuer and let out a noise of disapproval. “Mm. Early. Should I come back?”

Sebastian fought not to smile. “No, I think you’re right on time.”

Charles held up a finger. “Ah, I also have something you lost.”

“Not here,” Sebastian said before he could reach in his pocket for the phone.

Charles felt eyes on them, and he knew it would have been risky, but carrying around another prince’s cell phone bordered on traitorous, even if he knew the phone he had wasn’t Sebastian’s personal cell. The fact that Seb had a spare iPhone unnerved Charles enough already.

“I want to clear the air,” Sebastian said, thumbing the handle of Charles’s espresso mug.

“Oh?” Charles said, inspecting his wedding ring that he should have taken off already. Oops.

“This is shit—get out of my face.” Charles glanced toward the sound of Kimi Räikkönen facing off a cameraman, who frowned when Kimi flipped him off and kept his hand up, forcing the media crew to move on. Charles made a mental note to try the same thing the next time cameras got in his face.

“I thought you said ten minutes?” Kimi greeted, fist bumping Sebastian.

Charles cocked a brow.

“Well look, you’re here,” Sebastian returned.

“Yes, but I’m here without—is that Ferrari espresso?” Kimi asked, reaching for the mug still in Sebastian’s hands.

Sebastian held it away from him. “There’s nothing in it.”

“Yes, I have eyes,” Kimi muttered. He looked at Charles. “You?”

Charles opened his mouth, but no words came out.  He didn’t know how to respond to what sounded like an accusation about coffee.

“Let’s go inside,” Sebastian said. He dipped a finger into the espresso mug and scooped up remnants of crema.

Charles short circuited when Sebastian popped his finger in his mouth and sucked off the foam while staring right at him.

Sebastian grinned around his finger, then pulled it from between his lips and headed for the Aston Martin garage. Kimi followed in step beside him, knocking shoulders with him as they walked.

It took a moment for Charles to remember himself before he hurried after them.

An FIA official met them at the door.

“Private meetings are—”

“Not allowed, I know,” Sebastian said, putting an arm around Kimi. “But this isn’t a private meeting. Prince Leclerc is with us.”

Charles waved at the official from behind them.

Waving? Seriously? How fucking stupid are you?

“Yes, I see that,” the official said. “But—”

“The official mandate following the Portugal sanctions specified no two previously married princes can have a private audience without prior approval. There’s nothing in the rules about three,” Sebastian said.

The official soured. “I think the meaning is quite—”

“Clear?” Sebastian finished. “Yes, to me as well. So please, stop blocking access to my garage.”

Charles didn’t have to see Sebastian’s face to imagine the cocky smile there, and he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as the official reluctantly stepped aside and let then through.

The Aston Martin garage sat empty, but Charles could see the hominess in it. Tools left in neat little stacks for each mechanic, a few post it note jokes stuck on monitors and a pair of shoes left by one of the work benches.

Kimi took one of the barstool chairs, slumping back into it before he pulled off his sunglasses—giving Charles a rare glimpse at his light eyes. Kimi yawned before propping his head up with a hand against the bench.

Sebastian leaned against a desk opposite from Kimi, and gestured for Charles to stand beside him. Charles tried not to allow the wariness to rise up in him as he moved between them. He wanted to ask why Kimi had to be here, why they couldn’t just talk alone like they usually did.

Sebastian reached out, taking Charles’s wrist in his hand. Heat immediately rushed to Charles’s cheeks at the touch, and he glanced to Kimi—who had his eyes closed and looked asleep already.

Sebastian lifted Charles’s wrist to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the tendon on the underside. Charles’s mouth went dry when Sebastian met his gaze.

He gently pulled his wrist away.

“You said you wanted to clear the air,” Charles said.

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “But I wanted to see you first. We haven’t spoken since Imola.”

Charles fished Sebastian’s phone from his pocket and pressed it to his chest. He let his hand linger as he felt the thrum of Sebastian’s heartbeat through his nomex.

Back at the palace, Charles had a micro flashdrive with all of their photos tucked into the back of his dresser drawer, and a new playlist added to his Spotify—renamed, of course.

On the phone, he’d added his own songs to the playlist Sebastian had created for him to fill. He kept Photograph, though he had no pictures to share of his own.

Well. He had a few.

Sebastian’s hand folded over his own and Charles‘s stomach twisted up with anticipation, dread, and excitement all at once.

“I still love you,” Charles whispered, and it hurt him to say it.

“I know,” Sebastian whispered back,  taking the phone and putting it in his pocket.

Charles couldn’t stop imagining Lance Stroll on Sebastian’s bike, slicing through the streets of Silverstone. Laughing, maybe doing a few tricks with it or testing it out on the track.

“I slept with Stroll,” Sebastian said.

Charles snapped from his thoughts, simultaneously horrified and hurt.

Sebastian tightened his grip around his hand just before Charles tried to pull it away.

“You wanted me to be honest with you,” Sebastian said. “I’m being honest, so you don’t have to find out in interviews.”

“Like how I found out you let him ride the R nineT?” Charles quipped.

Sebastian smiled. “I knew you’d catch that.”

Charles’s nostrils flared. “I’m finding out—”

“You let him ride the R nineT?” Kimi interrupted.

Charles jumped, wrenching his hand from Sebastian’s.

Sebastian ignored Kimi, his eyes still on Charles.

“I’ll sleep with him again,” Sebastian continued, changing the subject back to Stroll. “Because my appointment replies on it.”

Charles curled his lip in disgust, and his skin crawled. “Can you please stop talking about this with him in the room?”

Kimi scoffed. “Please.” He gestured to Sebastian. “We fucked. Wasn’t that bad. But Gio—” Kimi’s eyebrows lifted. “Way better.”

“Kimi!” Sebastian hissed.

Charles’s ears threatened to burn off of his skull.

“What? You make sounds like a girl,” Kimi dismissed. “Ah, ah--!”

“Kimi!”

Charles backed away, mortified. “I’m done listening to this.”

“Charles, wait,” Sebastian said, catching his arm.

Charles grit his teeth, but stilled.

“I know this is difficult for you. I know—honestly, Kimi, do you really have to be right here? There’s a whole garage.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off,” Kimi said, slipping out of the chair to head over to the car, where it sat in the darkness of the empty garage.

Charles closed his eyes. He wanted this entire conversation to end. Thinking about Sebastian and Stroll was disturbing enough, but thinking back to Sebastian and Kimi, what that might have looked like—he shuddered.

“The point is,” Sebastian said, “I want to be completely honest with you, going forward. I know we can’t tell each other everything, but I think we both know what was important to us.”

“I haven’t slept with Carlos, if that’s what you’re asking,” Charles growled.

Sebastian’s palm came to rest on his cheek, gently turning his face toward him again.

Charles closed his eyes. “I feel like I can’t trust you,” he whispered.

Even now, as much as he wanted to fall into the comfort he knew, it felt different somehow. Like a childhood bed with a new mattress. Technically correct but no longer the same.

When he opened his eyes, the Sebastian looking at him had all of the features Charles remembered. The same gorgeous eyes, kissable lips, blonde curls peeking from under his cap. But something about his own feelings felt muffled.

“You have every right not to trust me,” Sebastian said. “I have to earn back what I ruined. And the way to do that is to start being honest with you, even when it hurts. If you’ll let me.”

Charles thought back to the hotel, how Carlos looked so horrified that he might have hurt him six years ago. How Carlos fought to make things better even when Charles was the one who wronged him.

But he nodded slowly, nuzzling into Sebastian’s hand before finding a place to rest his head on Sebastian’s shoulder.

“So will you kiss or can I go get my coffee?” Kimi asked loudly.

Charles smiled and leaned back, eyes dim with fondness.

“I hate him,” Sebastian murmured as he leaned in.

Charles remembered what love tasted like the moment their lips met.

 

 


 

 

Charles hated that Ferrari was getting used to midfield performances. Fourth place stung, but he finished his post-race interviews with a smile. Carlos probably wasn’t happy with seventh, but they had a lot to learn in their debriefs about what they needed to fix. The season was far from over.  

Charles wiped the sweat from his brow and looked at the big screen, where Carlos stood in the shade of the pit lane balcony in the middle of a hug with his father.

Charles had never asked Carlos about his life growing up as royalty, an heir to a rally empire. Rally empires were smaller, but the people who lived in them were fiercely loyal to the crown, and the royal circles of rally were almost impossible to attain without paying in blood. Partially because rally princes—though really, they were kings—stayed in the same empire for a decade or longer. Carlos’s father, also Carlos, had kept his crown for almost forty years.

Charles could see the admiration in Carlos’s eyes as he talked excitedly, his mother and sisters pressed close, ruffling his hair as they joked.

He looked away before the want could well up in him.

“Nice race, Char,” Pierre greeted, patting him on the back before hooking his arm around his shoulders.

Charles grinned. “You too. Made it in the points, nice work.”

Pierre rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, thanks. Love being stuck in the back with Ocon and Stroll.”

“How’s everything going?” Charles asked as Pierre stepped away from him and they began to walk together.

“Fine so far,” Pierre replied with a shrug. “Looking forward to Monaco.”

Charles let out a hum of agreement. “Two weeks is going to feel long.”

Pierre nodded as he waved to fans. Charles followed suit with a smile and the crowd cheered.

“You and Carlos okay?” Pierre asked as he continued waving.

“Yeah,” Charles replied. “Yuki?”

Pierre laughed. “Love this kid. Seriously, I love him.”

Charles hoped Alpha Tauri kept both of themf or the coming year, and that Pierre kept his crown much longer than that.

“Do you know anything about what’s going on with George?” Charles asked, figuring he wouldn’t have a chance later. “Or Max?”

Pierre’s smile twitched. Charles loved Pierre, and he credited a lot of his calm demeanor in the face of scrutiny to him. Pierre shouldered hardships Charles couldn’t imagine and yet always found a way to stay in the fight.

Pierre shrugged. “C’est toujours la même merde.”

“Didn’t seem like the same old shit,” Charles said.

Of course he knew about Albon and why George hated Max for what happened. But everyone knew Horner ruled Red Bull with an iron fist, and he didn’t put up with halfhearted performances. Franz Tost, Alpha Tauri’s Head of Government, unofficially took cues from Red Bull too. Everyone knew it. Once Horner decided Alex was out, Alpha Tauri had no choice but to listen.

“I haven’t talked to him much,” Pierre admitted. He nudged Charles’s shoulder. “Haven’t talk to you much, either. Write me back, bitch.”

Charles groaned, knocking himself with the heel of his hand. “Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry.”

Pierre laughed. “All good, mate. You’ve had your hands full, I’m sure.”

“Still, I should have written something.”

Pierre dunked Charles’s cap over his face. “Yeah, you should have.”

Charles returned the gesture with a hit to Pierre’s ribs, causing him to double over with a dramatic cry that made them both crack up.

Once Charles stopped laughing, his face sobered. “And Max?”

The scream still echoed in his mind, and he’d woken that morning with the sound of it fading along with the image of Max’s face contorted in pain.

Pierre shook his head. “Je ne l’ai pas vu.” He let out a snort. “Je ne crois pas en avoire envie.”

Charles frowned. “It’s still bad between you?”

Pierre cut him a glare that answered his question well enough, but he added, “It’s going to be bad between us for a long time, Charles.”

He supposed he should have guessed as much. Charles sighed and the crowd roared again as the big screens showed Carlos waving out at the fans.

“You still miss him though,” Charles said, watching his husband on screen. “You said that in your letter.”

Pierre took a long time to answer. “It’s fucked, mate,” he finally said.

Charles looked over at him. Pierre had a distant look in his eyes, staring through the screen.

“I don’t know how you can…” Pierre shook his head. “He’s not the same person anymore, you know? I miss him. The real Max.”

Charles chewed his bottom lip. He remembered the way Max hugged him goodbye at the airport in Brazil, hurried and meaningless.

“I think he’s been gone a long time,” Charles said. “Or maybe he’s always been this way, we just never saw it.”

Pierre shook his head as the screen changed feeds to Hamilton hoisting up his trophy once again. “That’s not how I see it. He went to shit when he married Carlos.”

Charles bristled unintentionally. “Well, then that’s Max’s fault—”

“And Ricciardo brought him back,” Pierre finished.

Charles doubted that. If anything, Ricciardo probably recognized Max’s favor with Horner and did what he could to use it to his advantage. Despite him getting tripped up in George’s bullshit, Charles knew Daniel had a lot of brain behind his goofy smile and stupid jokes.

“And I don’t know what the fuck happened between them,” Pierre continued, “but I know what happened with me and Alex was a direct result. I fucking know it, mate.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “How?”

Pierre glanced around, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “I was there. A lot of shit happened I’m not allowed to talk about, but that whole situation was so—” His lip curled, and a dark look washed over Pierre’s face before he locked eyes with Charles. “Do you still love Vettel?”

Charles  jumped a little, not expecting the question. “Yes,” he said, but it didn’t feel like the right answer.

“And Carlos?”

Charles pursed his lips.

“Carlos and I—”

Vamos!

Charles didn’t have the chance to finish his sentence before Carlos tackled him from behind, lifting him off his feet. Charles let out a strangled noise of surprise as Carlos spun him around, and he nearly fell over when the hug suddenly ended and he was on the ground again.

“Carlos?” Charles couldn’t think to say anything else.

Carlos pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You did so well!”

Charles reached up to—well, he wasn’t sure what he would have done, because Carlos vanished from behind him.  

“Alonso!” Carlos called. Charles followed his gaze to where Alonso stood signing things for fans. He paused to wave at Carlos, but Carlos ran to him like a kid on a sugar high.

Pierre crossed his arms. “Just be careful, Char.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Charles said, watching as Carlos hooked an arm around Alonso and yanked him into a side hug. He’d never seen Carlos so excited about anything, but he knew how intoxicating being home could be.

“I think you have a plan, “ Pierre said, “but les plans tournent au vinaigre.”

“Because of Carlos or Sebastian?” Charles asked, nodding toward the garages to nudge Pierre to follow.

Pierre grabbed the sleeve of his racing suit where it hung around his hips and gave it a tug as they walked. “Mon choupinou,” he clucked.

“Assez, Pierre,” Charles said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “Lequel?”

“Both,” Pierre replied, flapping the end of Charles’s sleeve between them like the wing of a dying bird. “We’re still new. And that means we’re vulnerable.” He gave the sleeve another tug to get his attention. “And you’re one of my favorite people on this planet, so I feel like it’s part of my job to protect you.”

Charles stopped walking, stunned by such an unexpected compliment.

Pierre gave him a smile—the fond kind, the kind that always greeted him from across the table whenever they all packed into a booth at whatever mediocre restaurant they took over during race weekends as teens.

“Tu mets du cœur dans tout ce que tu fais,” Pierre continued. “It’s why you were appointed to Ferrari, and why you deserve your crown. But you also give your heart to people  who don’t deserve it.” He made a face. “Okay, you give it to people who are going use it to hurt you.”

“Carlos won’t hurt me,” Charles said. “And Sebastian—” He hesitated and Pierre tugged the sleeve a few times, his own little ding ding ding.

Charles shook his head.

“Sainz is a good guy,” Pierre said with a nod. “But he’s got secrets too. They all do. You have to stay on top of them, or things go to shit really fast.”

Charles smiled. “Yeah, well. Carlos tells me pretty much everything. Too much, actually.”

Pierre looked over Charles’s shoulder. “Yeah. Sometimes they do that.”

Charles turned to see what he was looking at. In front of the McLaren garage, Carlos’s mother had Lando locked in a hug, peppering his face with kisses as he laughed in her arms. Charles had to think for a long time before he remembered her name. Reyes. Royalty.

Carlos’s sisters ruffled Lando’s hair the same way they had with Carlos, and even Carlos’s father had a wide grin on his face, clearly proud. The look made Charles feel a little sick.

“That’s how you know they’re good,” Pierre said, his voice quiet. “When they hide their secrets in plain sight.”

Chapter Text

Watching the track disappear in the rearview always left Charles with a bittersweet taste in his mouth. They had two weeks until Monaco—two weeks to figure out how to improve the car, and two weeks to catch up on the other empires before he could finally go home. 

But first, Carlos had plans to show him Spain.

Charles longed for Maranello, the Italian voices he knew and understood instead of the oddly accented Spanish he had struggled to comprehend all weekend, leaving him mentally exhausted. His brain demanded sleep, and the gentle rocking of the Portofino lulled him toward acceptance, even though he knew he should be asking Carlos about his family and what he should expect from a royalty in the rally empires. 

Charles told himself he would only close his eyes for a minute.

A second later, everything went dark and warm and perfect.

A second after that, he heard the tires crunch on gravel and jolted awake.

 “This is la granja,” Carlos announced, tapping Charles’s knee.

Charles sat up with a yawn, bleary-eyed. He wasn’t sure how long they had been driving, but a quick glance to the dashboard clock showed it was afternoon already. He rubbed his eyes, wiping the mental cobwebs from his brain.

“How long was I asleep?” Charles croaked.

Carlos shrugged. “An hour?”

Charles furrowed his brow, still trying to find his bearings. The car hummed around them, quiet aside from the engine. “Did you listen to music or something?”

Carlos smiled. “Sometimes silence is nice.”

Charles shook his head, finally taking a moment to look out the window. He assumed they were in some outskirt of Madrid, but it looked a lot like Tuscany. Yellowish grass, scrubland, dust-covered and ancient. Gnarled olive trees lined the hills, framed by tied fences that sagged in the afternoon sun.

“What did you call it? La grania?”

“Granja,” Carlos corrected, turning onto a gravel road. Charles fought not to flinch at the sound of rocks against the underbelly of the Portofino.

“Granja,” Charles repeated, hanging on the hah sound. “What does it mean?”

“Fattoria,” Carlos supplied.

Charles always thought farms had to have animals. Sure enough, as they continued down the drive, he spotted goats.  Their jaws circled like gears as they chewed their cud, lifting their heads at the sound of the car. 

“Never took you to be a farmer,” Charles said, smiling over at Carlos.

Carlos laughed. “I’m not a very good one. But I prefer to be out here. The cities are nice, but this is where I feel most at home.”

Carlos parked the Ferrari by a nondescript shed. Or maybe it was a barn. Charles didn’t know what size made it one or the other, but regardless, it wasn’t a palace.

“Where are we?” Charles asked, rubbing his eyes again as he got out of the car. The air felt thinner and cooler, like they'd climbed in elevation. 

“Did you bring the extra suits?” Carlos asked in lieu of an answer, popping the hood.

“Yes, why?”

Carlos opened the storage compartment in the front of the car, pulling out two folded race suits. Carlos tossed one at him, and Charles caught it before it hit the dusty ground at his feet.

“Put it on," Carlos said.

“What, here?”

Carlos blew a wild strand of hair out of his face. “Da quando sei cosí modesto?”

Charles scowled. “You know what I meant.”

Carlos smirked at him before pulling off his polo in one movement, like he’d been practicing it.

Charles averted his eyes, catching only a glimpse of the way the sun made Carlos’s skin turn honey-gold. He focused instead on his Senna watch, but that only made him think of Lance and Sebastian.

He set the racing suit on the car before pulling off his shirt. Unlike Carlos and his rumpled polo, Charles took a few seconds to fold his Burberry crewneck before he placed it on the passenger seat. He made a point to ignore Carlos staring at him.

“I don’t have racing boots,” Charles said as he tugged down his jeans.

Carlos zipped up his suit and fastened the collar. “Your shoes are fine.”

“Gloves?”

“I have some extra,” Carlos said. “But they won’t match. Will you be okay?”

Charles shot him a look, then noticed a huge shadow looming behind Carlos, a short distance away.

“Is that a deer?!?” Charles asked, fighting down his fear as he recognized that it wasn’t some kind of deadly country carnivore.

A buck stood at the nearby fence, its tines puncturing the pale blue sky behind it. The buck watched Charles for a long moment, flies buzzing around its head in a halo of white flecks in the sunlight. Charles straightened a little, like the deer might be judge him if he didn’t.

He could immediately see why so many royal crests boasted stags.

“We have several,” Carlos explained, waving at the buck.

It flicked its ears, finally shifting its gaze from Charles to Carlos before wandering down the fenceline.

“Ce n'est pas une ferme, c'est un domaine,” Charles muttered, stepping into the legs of his suit—right foot first, always. For luck.

Once he had his sneakers back on, he zipped up the suit. It felt a little strange without nomex underneath, but it reminded him of karting days when they used to run around shirtless until the last minute to save their suits from getting dirty.

Carlos emerged from the shedbarn with two pairs of racing gloves, both black, with his father’s crest emblazoned on the backs of the palms.

“Vamos, this way.” Carlos extended a pair and jerked his chin back toward shedbarn.

Well, garage, as Charles found out when he rounded the side.

A pristine rally car—some kind of Renault—sat waiting for them. It gleamed even in the low light, the silhouette plain and civilian, but it was so clearly not upon closer inspection. Like a golden retriever with dragon's teeth. 

He looked to Carlos. “Are we going to drive that?”

Carlos smirked. “I am. You’re going to co-pilot.”

Charles's heartbeat quickened in his chest. Royal racing on circuits was dangerous enough, and they raced on closed tracks. Rally racing was an entirely different beast—rallies were held on closed public roads in any condition, for thousands of kilometers. Days of hard racing, full on in the elements, with anyone or anything capable of springing up in the road at any moment.

Co-pilots watched the road and shouted out course notes--upcoming turns, their severity, and any dangers ahead. Any missed call, and both driver and co-pilot could die.

He remembered Henri Toivonen, a Finnish rally prince of Lancia, who had driven off the side of a mountain and punctured his fuel tank in the 1980's, engulfing his car in flames.

Race suits prevented serious burns for one minute. Henri and his co-pilot remained on fire until there had been nothing left to burn, leaving only the metal skeleton of the Lancia’s roll cage. Which meant that for almost a minute, both men inside knew they were going to die and could only wait for it to happen as they burned alive.

Charles remembered watching the grainy video footage as a kid, unaware at that time that he would ever be a prince of his own empire.

He suddenly longed for nomex.

“You’ve never been in a rally car,” Carlos observed, pulling on his gloves.

“No,” Charles said. He slipped his hands into his own gloves, right hand first, and secured them around his wrists extra tight.

Carlos offered him a helmet. But before Charles took it, Carlos pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose.

“You have nothing to be afraid of," Carlos said.

“I’m not afraid,” Charles growled, snatching the helmet. “Allons-y.”

He rounded the car and hopped inside, settling into the passenger seat. It felt like sitting in a normal car, not the reclined position he was used to when he raced. Carlos pulled on his own helmet and hopped into the driver’s side, handing over a notebook.

“Course notes,” Carlos explained. Then he smiled. “Not that I need them. I’ve been driving this track my whole life.”

Charles flipped through the notebook. Symbols and letters crammed every page, listing out distances and probably the types of hazards, but Charles had no idea what any of it meant.

Carlos started the car and the engine let out a low rasp, a completely different sound from their Ferraris on track and the ones they drove on a daily basis. Charles buckled in and Carlos helped him turn on his built-in helmet headset so that they would actually be able to hear each other.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Carlos said as they slowly drove toward a tree with a white ring spray-painted around the trunk.

“I’m not scared,” Charles snapped, but his heartbeat pounded so loud in his ears he was sure Carlos could hear it over the radio. Carlos didn’t look the least bit frightened as they came to a stop next to the tree—presumably the start line.

Charles’s stomach clenched with every breath.

Carlos revved the engine and it emitted an angry cry, and Charles curled his fingers against the side door handle.

“Do you trust me?” Carlos asked.

Charles looked over at him, and for a moment he couldn’t believe he was married to the man beside him. Carlos looked like a prince out of a storybook, his brown eyes wild with anticipation in the face of danger, his smile wide and brave. Dark curls stuck from the edges of his helmet in a way that looked designed to cultivate surety. Charles didn’t even know how swaths of hair could instill confidence, but Carlos had found a way.  

“I trust you,” Charles said, and he meant it.

Carlos curled his fingers around the gearshift and Charles turned his attention to the dashboard window.

Carlos worked the throttle and counted down. “Tres, dos, uno—¡vamos!

The car burst from the line with an angry roar, throwing Charles against the back of the seat. His stomach slammed against his spine, the air shoved from his lungs as they kept accelerating, eating up the dirt road at a speed that made it seem impossible to react to anything that might pop out in their way.

Charles’s notebook dropped to the floor within the first three seconds, totally abandoned. His eyes blew wide when he saw no way to brake in time to avoid an embankment.

“Carlos, Carlos—Carlos!” Charles didn’t realize he’d started yelling until the words were already out, but Carlos just let out an excited shout before he kicked up the throttle, wrenching the car sideways with one hand as he downshifted with the other.

Charles grabbed onto whatever he could inside the car as he felt the tires glide across the dust like ice, and he suddenly understood how Carlos could drive so well with old tires as they swooped around the first corner, never leaving their racing line.

Carlos punched the gas and they surged forward again. Charles had quick reaction times on track, but the rally course felt like listening to a new language for the first time. He couldn’t even comprehend a turn before Carlos moved the wheel, and they flew through S-curves faster than any Ferrari ever could.

Whatever the language of rally was, Carlos seemed to know it better than any other. Charles—when he had a second to look past the ice-cold terror in his veins—couldn’t help but be captivated by Carlos’s complete focus,  perfectly balanced with obvious excitement and pure joy as they flew through the course so fast Charles couldn’t predict where his organs would end up by the finish.

“Hold on,” Carlos said, and his voice held no fear, only happiness.

Charles wished he could speak at all. Instead, he let out a choked noise as he slammed against the restraint of the seatbelt, the car whipping into a hairpin turn.

The engine went quiet for a moment as they hung suspended in first gear around the corner. Time finally slowed, allowing Charles to take in the light in Carlos’s eyes, the dust cloud billowing in the rearview, the expanse of the estate beyond—a sepia photograph dotted with green.

Merde,” Charles gasped once he realized they had been climbing a hill the whole time. Now they both stared at a breakneck downhill.

Carlos hit the gas and they charged forward.  

But this time, Charles swelled with excitement. Just a glimpse of the course below allowed him to actually see, to prepare himself for the G forces ahead.

“This is amazing!” he cried. The adrenaline soothed his racing heart, and his cheeks began to hurt from smiling as they sliced through the dust.

“Incredible, no?!” Carlos shouted in reply.

Gravel sprayed from the tires as they carved their way down the hill. Trees whipped past, but Charles kept his eyes on the road. He spotted a dark shape in the sand.

“Rock, hundred meters!” Charles warned.

He guessed Carlos already knew it was there, but he had to contribute somehow as a co-pilot.

“Mierda, you’re right!”

Carlos turned the wheel and the car swished as quick as a cat’s tail, expertly avoiding the rock without Carlos so much as skimming the brake pedal.

Charles couldn’t fight the grin off his face if he tried.

In that moment, he trusted Carlos with everything he had. He made it easy with his complete confidence behind the wheel, that warm smile that always appeared right when Charles needed it.

For a moment they were free, two drivers and one car, no crowns or countries or guilt. Man and machine, the road nothing more than a map to this.

As they flew past the finish line and slowed the car, Charles felt himself begin to come down from the high along with it. His hands shook uncontrollably, but Charles wasn’t afraid anymore.

Once they stopped and the engine cut out, Carlos pulled off his helmet and shook out his hair. “So, how was your first rally lap?”

Charles slumped back into his seat with a laugh. “Fucking amazing, mate. Terrifying, but amazing.”

Carlos let out a chuckle. “Unfortunately I could only convince Binotto to allow us one. But we can come next year.”

Next year.

Charles pulled off his helmet and set it in his lap, closing his eyes. He took a moment to soak in the feeling of freedom before it slipped away.

The car still seemed to be moving though it sat still beneath him, his body settling back into itself, shifting him from just another human on the knife edge of death and back into a prince full of formalities and bound by a legal marriage contract that had a clause forbidding rally racing.  

 Once the adrenaline began to still in his blood, he opened his eyes again. Carlos stared at him, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Does it feel like that every time?” Charles asked.

“Most times,” Carlos replied, grinning.

He wanted to tell Carlos to take another lap, to chase the freedom again. Instead, he unbuckled his seatbelt, and Carlos did the same.

Charles sat up in his seat, leaning slightly forward to examine the gearshift. It looked like it didn’t belong in the car, like a farce of what a gearshift should be--a long stick and no fancy console to plant it in.

Rugged and unflinching compared to the sleek and composed cars they usually drove in.

“What do you think?” Carlos asked, watching him carefully.

Charles saw the want in the dilation of Carlos’s pupils, and the adrenaline came surging back.

He didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly they crashed together in a heady kiss. Charles’s helmet fell to the floor and Carlos shoved his off his lap a moment later as Charles tugged him closer, then cursed when he realized he still had on his racing gloves.

He pulled back and tore them off. Carlos must have done the same, because when they kissed again, Charles felt his fingers at his collar, unsnapping the button of his race suit.

Charles pulled back slightly, an instinctual reaction. Carlos’s hand immediately stilled.

Sebastian lingered in Charles's mind, and so did Pierre’s comment about Carlos keeping secrets in plain sight. But Pierre never saw these moments, the moments where Carlos looked at him like he was the only thing on earth that he cared about. Patient, gentle, but never hiding his intentions.

Charles reached across the space between them and thumbed open the button clasp of Carlos’s race suit. He heard Carlos’s breath hitch, and the sound brought a devilish smile to Charles’s lips.

“I think it’s my turn,” Charles said.

He caught Carlos’s mouth in a kiss and shoved him back against his seat before fighting his way to the driver’s side, never breaking from Carlos’s lips. Carlos tasted like the golden hills of his estate, and the sizzle of sweat against Charles’s tongue made him think less about looking sexy and more about Carlos’s mouth as he clambered over the parking brake and around the gearshift.

Charles laughed into their next kiss when the seat jerked back, giving him enough room to fit so that he didn’t have to cram himself against the steering wheel.

“Done this before?” Charles teased.

“Never like this.” Carlos brushed their noses together before kissing him again, eager.

Charles wanted to scold him for wearing his heart on his sleeve, but instead he nipped at Carlos’s lower lip, fighting not to grin at the way Carlos shivered.

He pulled back, meeting Carlos’s eye for only a moment before he unzipped the front of Carlos’s race suit, exposing his chest.

Charles saw Carlos shirtless multiple times a day, but rarely like this. Warm skin, tan and blush red from the thrill of the drive. When he did see Carlos shirtless, or wearing no clothes at all, he didn’t let his gaze linger. Married or not, they weren’t that kind of couple. They both had parts of themselves reserved for other people, doors locked tight.

Opening one felt like a sacred thing, and Charles didn’t take it lightly.

He stared for a moment, eyes wandering the planes of muscle, the hollow of his throat, the prominent collarbones and the hair on his chest. Watching Carlos breathe was like watching a sculpture in the Uffizi suddenly come to life.

Charles smoothed his palm over Carlos’s sternum, shocked to feel an erratic beat against his fingers. Carlos kissed him and Charles met it slowly, working against his mouth. He kept his hand over Carlos’s heart, feeling every kick in the beat when their kisses reignited, though Carlos stayed gentle throughout.

Thoughts of the race and of the crown fell away as Carlos unzipped him in return, and Charles let the thick fabric slip down his shoulders to drape at his elbows. Each kiss tasted more familiar than the last, like he could finally learn who Carlos was, even though they had kissed many times before.

Carlos’s hands moved across his back, down his ribcage, and over his stomach, learning him too. Charles usually balked at the thought of opening up to anyone, but he knew there were no games here.

He kissed his way up Carlos’s throat, his tongue occasionally darting across stubble like a match strike. Carlos’s fingers dug into his hips, and Charles couldn’t fight off the moan that escaped him.

Heat built between them as Charles found Carlos’s mouth again for deeper kisses, hot and passionate and everything he needed. He curled his fingers into Carlos’s hair, yanking him closer, and grinned against his mouth when Carlos gave a firm tug to his hips, allowing him to feel just how wanted he was.

Charles broke the kiss, sliding his hands to Carlos’s jaw. He rested their foreheads together and closed his eyes, taking in the moment. The heat pooled in him and escaped his unzipped race suit. He had Carlos half naked underneath him, the evening sun warming his back and illuminating Carlos’s face with a glow that shot flecks of amber into his brown eyes. A beautiful contrast to his kiss-reddened lips, swollen and suckable.

“You have freckles,” Charles murmured, thumbing over the splatter of dots on Carlos’s cheekbone. “Do they come out when you’ve been in the sun?”

Carlos smiled, and Charles moved his hand to thumb over the corner of it.

He pressed a kiss to the curve of Carlos’s brow, just to feel the soft hair against his sensitive lips, a caress of velvet.

“Are you going to answer my question?” he breathed against warm skin.

He pulled back and Carlos stared up at him with eyes half lidded, lashes fanned like a spread paintbrush, jet black against gold. Carlos tilted his chin, and Charles’s smile turned so full of happiness that he felt his heart threatening to burst apart in his chest. Carlos’s eyes wandered his face, and his palm came to rest against Charles’s cheek. Charles went still when he saw the look in Carlos’s eyes. He knew that look.

Oh god, he knew that look.

“Charles,” Carlos whispered, his accent tumbling over his name the way it always did. “I’m in love with you.”

 

 

Chapter Text

The evening sun hung low in the sky, orange bruising to blue and purple behind the clouds. A pregnant silence hung there too, ticking by, seemingly infinite but only a second long.

He hated saying goodbye.

“I love you too.”

George gripped his phone a little tighter once the words were out of his mouth.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” his mum asked. “It’s not like you to just schedule a call like this.”

George picked at the side of his sneaker, where a smudge of dirt marred the white leather.

“I know,” he said. “I think I just…I don’t know. I missed you. I missed home.”

“Oh, George.” His mother let out a soft noise, touched. “We miss you every day. We’re so proud of you. What’s going on? Have you spoken to Alex?”

George closed his eyes. His parents knew mostly everything about the events of Alex’s exile—all of the public stuff, anyway. The private too, but only the before. How much George had loved him back then, how much he thought they would always be able to make things work.

“Alex is fine, Mum,” George said, though he had no idea if he was lying or not. He wasn’t allowed to ask anything about him, and his mother probably assumed they still talked. He wasn’t allowed to tell her otherwise. He wasn’t really allowed to tell her anything.

“And Nicky?”

A little smile broke on George’s lips. “He’s great. He’ll be mad at me for talking to you without letting him say hello.”

“Where is he?” his mum asked.

George tongued the inside of his cheek and looked down the paddock. Charles sat against the pit wall fence with Pierre, talking.  Lando stood nearby, covering his head and ducking out of the way as Carlos swatted at him playfully while Alonso continued their conversation around it. Esteban watched from beside his husband with a distant look in his eyes, bored.

“Nic’s in a meeting, I think,” George said.

“Those rumors aren’t true about you two, right?” his mother asked. He heard the clink of dishes in the background.

“You know how the media is,” George said.

“That’s what I thought. And you’re happy?”

“Yeah, Mum,” he murmured, tucking the phone against his shoulder to fiddle with the laces of his sneaker. It wasn’t a lie.

His skin still radiated with warmth where Lewis had left about a dozen new marks on him—all very much hidden this time. His lips still tasted like sparkling wine from Lewis’s post-podium kiss in the back of the Williams garage, where he’d showed up to escape the media attention for a few minutes.

“You sound a little sad, darling, that’s all.”

George laughed. “I guess I’m a little sad too. You know how it goes after a race.”

Saying goodbye to Lewis would kill him, if he even got the chance to speak to him at all. Two weeks apart sounded like torture, especially when Monaco sat on the horizon—the race where the FIA turned a blind eye to almost everything as long as it didn’t get out of hand.

Movement caught his eye and he spotted Mick heading toward him, his white racesuit unzipped to the waist, empty sleeves swishing in time with his stride. George’s nostrils flared reflexively, annoyed that Mick lived up to every fantasy of an FIA prince just by existing. Even with his hair sweaty and mussed, Mick looked like he belonged in a seaside cologne ad.

“Well, I have go,” George said, tilting his chin toward Mick in greeting. “Love you, Mum.”

“And we love you,” she said. “We’ll see you as soon as we can.”

Not soon enough.

“Cheers.” George ended the call and scrubbed his face with his free hand.

“Did I interrupt?” Mick asked as he plopped down beside him on a  piece of steeldeck left behind from one of the media setups.

George shook his head. “I scheduled a call with my parents and forgot to reschedule it,” he explained.

“You have a good relationship with them?” Mick asked, pulling out a gum packet. He offered a piece to George, but he shook his head. He wanted the taste of Lewis’s champagne to stay in his mouth as long as he could keep it.

“My mom, yes,” George said. “My dad too, but sometimes he treats me like I’m some kind of investment. You know how it goes.”

Mick’s smile twitched, and George’s stomach dropped.

“Oh, god, Mick—”

Mick shook his head. “It’s really okay, George.”

Michael Schumacher’s presence over the empires hadn’t dimmed over the years. George often forgot about him as a prince, and he still kept Mick and his father in two separate places in his brain.

Mick kicked his heels against the metal scaffolding and looked up at the sky. “He has big expectations for me,” he said. “But not as a prince. He wants me to be a good person. That’s always been more important to him than any of this stuff.”

Mick gestured out to the emptying paddock, where only princes remained, soaking up their last few moments of being together.

When Mick’s hand returned to the edge of the steeldeck, George noticed the way his knuckles turned bloodless.

“And he’s not dead, you know? Everyone always talks about him like he’s dead.” Mick looked over at him, a few unruly strands of blond cutting over blue eyes. “So don’t apologize. I’d rather you say something like that about him. I doknow how it goes.”

Guilt settled in George’s gut like a hot coal. Everyone did talk about Michael like he’d died after the ski accident. He was always past tense in George’s mind, even when some part of him knew he wasn’t actually gone. Well, physically.

“How often do you talk to him?” George asked, praying it wasn’t a stupid question.

A smile lit up Mick’s face. “Once a week or so—video calls. Mom says he’s always in a better mood after we’ve talked, so I try to call whenever I can.”

George’s heart clenched. He couldn’t discern the emotion in Mick’s strained smile—it wasn’t sadness, but it wasn’t anger either. Just something bottled up, a crack in his polished veneer that would quickly disappear.  

“Anyone would be in a better mood after talking to you, mate,” George said with a nudge to Mick’s shoulder.

Mick laughed—a golden, perfect sound. “Thanks, George.”

“How’s everything going with Haas?” he asked, watching as Lando grabbed Carlos’s Ferrari hat and swapped it out with his McLaren one. Charles didn’t look over, but George saw the way his jaw tightened mid-conversation with Pierre.

“It’s going,” Mick replied. “I knew it would be tough, but man, sometimes it’s really tough.”

Nikita. Mick didn’t have to say any his name for George to know exactly what he meant.

“You and Lewis seem to be getting along,” Mick said after a moment.

George instantly knew that Mick had approached him for a reason.

He sighed. “All right, I’ve been putting this off for too long, haven’t I?”

Mick laughed again. “You could have written me back, mate.”

George winced. “I know. It’s not like I meant to forget. I just…I got caught up in some shit.”

“So I hear. Picking a fight with Verstappen takes some balls.”

George worried his bottom lip. “Yeah.”

Mick nodded. “They hit you with a fine, didn’t they.”

“Yeah.”

A silence settled between them. Each second that ticked by held more weight, unraveling a tightly held secret that Mick already seemed to know. George looked down at his feet and Mick looked out at the empty stands.

“It’s very dangerous, what you’re doing,” Mick said.

The hair prickled on the back of George’s neck. “Horner ruined my life. Max helped him do it. I can’t—”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

George stilled before he looked over at Mick, who stared back calmly.

“Then you’ll have to explain,” George said, his voice a little weightless.

Mick cocked his head, and something glinted silver in his eyes. “Did you ask him to pay your fine, or did he offer?”

Fear sewed up George’s spinal column in the space of a breath. Lewis promised not to tell anyone. George hadn’t spoken a word about it except to tell Jost that the debt was settled.

“How did you--?”

“I wanted to talk to you at Imola to warn you about this kind of thing,” Mick said with a sigh. “Royalty is very different for World Champions. As soon as you earn that crown on your jacket, you join a new world.”

Lewis had power, but George had spent every second of free time he could find on track learning that he had so much more to him than that. A side Mick would never see.

“He offered,” George said defensively, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I just—I couldn’t ask my dad because he would ask why, and I’m not allowed to tell them about—”

He closed his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn’t assume Mick knew about Alex.

 “And Nic’s family paid for the fines we got in Portugal,” he continued. ”And it’s like, I know my family could pay it but—”

“George,” Mick said softly. “You don’t have to explain.”

George willed the wetness in his eyes to dissipate and shook his head.

“All I meant to say is that there’s a different level of communication once you’re World Champion,” Mick said. “The FIA sees you as a necessity, not a commodity. So you have access to more information. I have access to a lot of it because of my dad.”

A lump formed in George’s throat. “Did Lewis tell someone?”

Mick shook his head. “No. The only reason I found out is because I decided to dig a little. I saw him spending time with you, and I heard Williams got hit with a big fine. But you didn’t look upset, and neither did Jost. I got a bad feeling, so I looked into it.”

“Fuck.” George wiped his eyes. “Please don’t tell anyone. Please, Mick.”

“I already buried it,” Mick said, his voice even. “Actually, I connected the payment to one of my dad’s companies. So even Lewis can’t prove he paid that fine.”

The lump didn’t leave his throat. George watched Mick with a new wariness. “And why did you do that?”

Mick’s jaw flexed. “You can’t leave paper trails, George. Letters are usually okay, but that’s about all you can get away with, and that’s even gotten people burned. Lewis Hamilton making a direct payment to get rid of your fine? That was a message.”

“You still haven’t explained,” George cut.

Mick tossed him a look. “I don’t like the way Lewis goes about things. And I don’t trust him. So I didn’t want him to have any leverage on you.”

“You’d rather be the one with the leverage,” George growled, suddenly understanding.

 Mick frowned. “Think what you want, but I’m trying to protect you. You’re in love with him, so you’re blind.”

George scoffed. “I’m not in love with him.”

Mick cocked a brow. “Yeah, okay, Russell.”

Heat spread all the way down his chest, past about four hickies. He swallowed hard.

“Contrary to popular belief, I have a brain between my ears,” George snapped. “I know how fucked it is that Lewis Hamilton wants me at Mercedes with him next year. I know something is up with that, but I’m learning that maybe not everything is a trick.”

“It’s only a trick if you don’t see it coming.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to figure out, Mick,” George snapped, but even as the words left his lips, he knew he’d lied.

He didn’t think Lewis had a sinister endgame. The man he’d spent the weekend with knew how to make a good cup of tea and played PlayStation until too late into the night before a race. Lewis won because he was the best, and destiny made way for him. But behind all of that was a person George cared about, very much.

Guenther Steiner emerged from the Haas garage, looking pissed, as usual. He started scanning the paddock and Mick sat up a little.

“Think that’s my cue,” he said, putting a hand on George’s shoulder. “Look. If anything ever goes south, you can always come to me, okay?”

“How about you don’t mess with my life without asking?” George shot back.

Mick stood up and offered his hand. “Deal.”

Of course. Only Mick Schumacher would take an insult and turn it into a proposition for friendship. One that even George couldn’t refuse.

George shook Mick’s hand, but Mick tightened his grip a moment later instead of letting go.

“I mean it, George,” Mick said, his eyes flashing. “Be careful with him. And don’t fall so hard you can’t get back up.”

George yanked his hand away.

But it did feel good for someone to know. Someone aside from Nic.

“See you in Monaco,” George said, because ehe didn’t want to get into another disagreement.

Mick beamed at him, and the world turned a little brighter. “See you in Monaco.”

George waited for Nic to appear once Mick left, but a quick text to Kayla revealed that he was caught up in an unidentified gearbox issue with the engineering team, so he would be staying until the garage packed out.

George’s blood hummed with nerves as he watched the paddock. Charles linked hands with Carlos as they made their exit, probably headed back to Maranello. Esteban had Alonso laughing at some joke as they headed into the Alpine garage, and Pierre passed a soccer ball with Yuki outside Alpha Tauri, but they looked ready to leave too.

Ricciardo had finally emerged from the McLaren garage, and he sat on the asphalt with Lando, hands on his knees, discussing something. Lando kept his eyes on the track, never once looking at Daniel when he spoke.

Perez stepped from the Red Bull garage as the track lights came on, shrugging on his team jacket. George caught sight of Max just behind him, but he stayed in the shadows…watching Daniel.

Of course.

George hopped up from the steeldeck and made a beeline for the hospitality suites to wait for Nic in his driver room. He wanted to see Lewis, but the Mercedes garage sat dark, the equipment already gone.

There were no guarantees that they could see each other. George knew that.

He cut through the Williams garage into the hospitality area, eerily empty after it had been brimming with people just a few hours before. Now, only a handful of team personnel stood in clumps, discussing teardown or waiting for their empire’s prince to finish with publicity engagements.

He wished he could text Lewis. Walking all the way out to his motorhome would be worth it, but only if Lewis was inside. Otherwise, it would be too risky, considering he’d spent way too much time there over the weekend.

Snorf.

George froze at the unfamiliar noise.

Snorf, snorf, snorf.

He turned, brow furrowed, but the stretch of asphalt behind him sat empty.

A sound like a wet slap cut through the air at his right, and George wheeled around just in time to see a shadow leap at him from the darkness between two hospitality suites.

Roscoe collided with his already unbalanced legs, and George fell flat on his ass with a whump. Somehow it jarred him more than his crash with Bottas. And smelled worse, too.

Roscoe snuffled at his face, all wrinkly bulldog skin and a big pink tongue that painted his face with dog drool.

“Roscoe!” Lewis scolded, emerging from the dark. “No jumping!”

Roscoe made a gurgly, snorty noise and bolted away as George wiped dog slobber off his face with his sleeve.

“God, I’m sorry,” Lewis said, offering a hand. “He’s supposed to be trained not to jump on people.”

Roscoe pranced in a circle around them, his butt wiggling like mad. He had a mischievous smile on his melty face, though George didn’t really buy into the ‘dogs showing human emotions’ thing.

“It’s okay,” he said, taking Lewis’s hand and getting back to his feet.

Once he found his balance, he leaned down to Roscoe and scratched him behind the ears. Roscoe’s butt wiggling intensified.

“Like that, buddy?” Lewis asked, his eyes fond. He looked comfortable in an oversized black hoodie and cargo pants that tucked into an expensive-looking pair of wellies.

Roscoe barked in reply, scurrying from George and over to Lewis, who knelt down and scooped him into a hug.

George had never been jealous of a dog until that moment.

“I thought you left already,” George said, keeping his voice low.

Lewis didn’t look up from snuggling Roscoe. “I told you I’d find you, didn’t I?”

George smiled. “Yeah, but I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

Lewis set his chin on Roscoe’s head and smiled up at him. “You’re more important than that shit, trust me.”

He stood up with a final scratch to Roscoe, and started walking, motioning for George to join him.

George fell into step beside him, and Lewis pulled a key from his pocket when they reached the empty Mercedes garage. He slipped the key into the lock and entered without even checking to make sure no one had seen them. George looked, but the only people outside were engrossed in conversation at the other end of the hospitality section.

Lewis flicked the house lights on, and the second Roscoe saw the open space, he launched forward, stubby legs splaying on the smooth garage floor between strides.

When Lewis locked the door behind them, George finally relaxed.

He barely had time to suck in a breath before Lewis gathered him in his arms for a passionate kiss. All of the tension from talking to Mick and seeing Max melted away as George pressed against him.

“Wasn’t going to leave without that,” Lewis murmured when he pulled back. “Had to at least talk to you.”

Their breath mixed together as George grinned something stupid. “I was going to be pretty fucked up without it, yeah,” he agreed.

Have you spoken to Alex? George tensed for a moment as his mother’s voice echoed in his head, but he wasn’t sure why. Nothing about being with Lewis reminded him of Alex. Lewis was practiced in keeping them hidden, and he walked around with a cool confidence Alex would never master. He didn’t know why he ever thought they would last.

Lewis cocked a brow and thumbed at his cheekbone. “Something wrong?”

George kissed him instead of answering, slipping his hands up the back of Lewis’s hoodie. He let out a hum of appreciation when he felt warm skin and no shirt to deal with underneath.

“Something’s wrong,” Lewis said, muffled against his mouth. He pulled back and kissed George’s cheek. “Spill.”

George let out a halfhearted snort. “I forgot to reschedule my call.”

Lewis nodded once before looking him over, like he could find all of the discomfort in him by sight alone. “I see. Did it go okay?”

He didn’t want to talk about his family, and part of him doubted Lewis really cared about his answer at all. A small part, one he’d thought had left him—until an hour ago.

“Did you pay the fine in your name?” George asked.

Lewis’s thumb stilled at his cheek. “Why? Did someone say something to you?”

Wariness began to climb up George’s vertebrae, stiffening up where Lewis had made him soft all weekend. He could tell by the look in Lewis’s eyes that he felt it.

“I wanted to send a message,” Lewis said with a peck to his lips. “I paid with my own money. I wanted it clear that it wasn’t a Mercedes decision.”

Guilt crawled up George’s throat before he spoke, but it didn’t stop him. “You don’t even know me that well, Lewis.”

“George, who talked to you?” Lewis asked, an edge to his voice.

“I want this,” George said. “I think—Fuck, I think maybe I need it. But there’s a reason we hide. Publicly paying a—”

“It wasn’t public,” Lewis interrupted. “Which is why I’m concerned.”

George was no rat. He bit the inside of his cheek. “I told you. The only one who has anything to lose in this is me. Until I’m at Mercedes, I can’t give you everything.”

Lewis stepped back from him, and George found himself tempted to grab him, to stop him from leaving like an overly dramatic actress in an old movie.

“There aren’t many people who have access to that information,” Lewis said, eyes narrowing. “Tell me it wasn’t Sebastian.”

George would have laughed, but fear of Lewis leaving kept him from doing it. “Sebastian hates my guts, in case you forgot.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Lewis hissed. “Whoever told you, they obviously want to drive a wedge between us.”

George gestured between them. “Looks like it worked, huh?”

A whole weekend of happiness veered toward total destruction because of one hiccup. He wanted Lewis to be on his side, and he wanted to trust him, but George didn’t know how he could do that when Mick had just proved he was still ignorant to too much.

“Hey,” Lewis said, closing the space between them. His hand came to George’s face, but George lifted his chin away.

“I should  have just called my dad,” George said, shaking his head. “I never should have involved you in this.”

“I paid that fine because I wanted to,” Lewis said. “I care about you. This weekend…I don’t know. It made me think about a lot of things. About how much I want this permanently.”

George wanted so badly to believe him. “That’s nice,” he said, stiff.

Lewis frowned. “So me paying the fine—something I told you I would do—just made you lose all of your trust in me?”

“I don’t know,” George confessed. “I feel—”

He cut himself off, trying to find the words. He took Lewis’s hand in both of his own, looking over the Metatron Cube inked over the back of his palm, a spiderweb of circles and lines both geometric and unshaped at the same time.

It was George’s favorite tattoo. Mathematically complex—his side—and spiritual in meaning—Lewis’s side.

“I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop,” George said. “One weekend isn’t going to change that. I don’t even think a contract will change that, because contracts have an expiration date.”

Lewis gently freed his hand and brought it to George’s cheek, warm. The too-sweet scent of sparkling wine had been replaced with cologne, the scent of drinking tea and working through problems together, as a team. As partners.

“I want you with me,” Lewis murmured, resting their foreheads together. “I’ll wait as long as I need to. And if Max starts shit again, I’ll pay whatever fines they put on you. Public or private, however you want me to do it.”

“Lewis—”

“Hey,” Lewis shushed, pressing a quick kiss to George’s lips that made him shiver. “I want to do it. I want you to know I’m always with you.”

George nodded once, then tucked his face into Lewis’s neck. Lewis’s arms wrapped around him, strong and secure.

“This is our life,” Lewis whispered into his hair. “We can’t let other people take it away from us.”

George squeezed him tight. “Thank you,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of him. Two weeks apart would kill him, but he would make the time to write as many letters as he could.

He relaxed into Lewis’s hold when he felt Lewis’s fingers at the back of his neck, scratching the short hair there, soothing him.

Roscoe fought his way between their legs a moment later and splayed out, using their shoes as a mattress for his belly as he panted loudly between them.

“You can tell Roscoe the secrets you can’t tell me,” Lewis joked. “I’m always looking for a new dogwalker.”

George laughed, but he didn’t pull away like he probably should have. He didn’t want this to end. He didn’t want to sneak out of the Mercedes garage, alone, and return to the hotel, alone. He didn’t want to wait for Nic, order pizza, and then avoid telling him about the fine and Lewis and Mick.

“We’ll have Monaco,” Lewis murmured into the shell of his ear.

George hoped it would be enough.

Chapter Text

Many things had arrived in Charles’s life before they were supposed to.

His first pet—a goldfish, who lasted all of two months in a glass bowl on his desk. His first piano lessons, where he stewed in front of the keys with no appreciation for the instrument at his fingertips. His first win in karting, achieved with dangerous maneuvers on track that could have injured but thankfully didn’t.

His first experience with a death without dying. Seeing Jules’s Maruissa crumpled on the side of the track, thinking where’s the top of the car, why is it so flat, why hasn’t he gotten out.

Nine months later in a hospital room in Nice—his first time knowing he would be alone with someone he loved for the last time.  

The first time Max said he loved him, a blurted confession at the start line of a race, at the worst possible moment.

Saying goodbye to his father.

Not having the chance to do the same for Anthoine.

Everything always happened before it was supposed to.

Sun dappled Carlos’s face, and the air was thick with yet another thing that had arrived too soon.  

Love and loss were made of the same material. Charles knew the weight of it now. How to let it warm his hands before it fell away again—lost, stolen, or replaced by something new.

Carlos stared up at him so full of hope that it made Charles sick with himself for not loving him back.

Longing choked him, and the draw of the game told him to say he did love Carlos, to walk into the lie with hooded eyes and parted lips.

Instead, he dipped his tongue into cruelty’s venom.

“At least you got my name right this time,” Charles said quietly.

Carlos’s mouth fell open, then his brow furrowed with hurt that wounded Charles more than any response could have.

His hand still cupped Carlos’s cheek, allowing him to feel how deep the hurt sank into him. People always carried pain in their cheeks, in the lack of a smile, in the tightness of their jaws.

“You don’t mean that,” Carlos whispered.

Charles pulled his hand away as his throat began to close.

“You don’t mean that.”

Carlos shifted beneath him, sitting up a little more and forcing Charles to lean back, jutting the bottom of his spine against the curve of the steering wheel.  

He opened his mouth to argue that he meant every word, but Carlos kissed him before he could get anything out.

Charles struggled to find something vile about Carlos’s lips, still warm and soft and tinged with sweat.

But he still tasted like a happiness that Charles didn’t deserve.

“Don’t say it back if you don’t want to,” Carlos murmured. “I wanted you to know. Tutto qui.”

“No,” Charles forced out between kisses, and—fuck—he had something he wanted to add to his refusal, but he couldn’t remember it when Carlos pulled him back down, capturing his lips in a way that made his lungs burn.

His thoughts tangled in his head, a string of barbed wire that sliced and punctured whenever he tried to pull himself free. The only way to make it stop was to give himself up, to sit in the passenger side again while someone else sat at the wheel. Again.

Charles pulled back, his entire body trembling as he sucked in a breath that made his stomach cave, turning his ribs to folded wings against his spine.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Carlos said, just like before.

Charles’s eyes flew open, and Carlos stared up at him with the same kindness, but his eyes held something more powerful than confidence, an emotion that couldn’t be named, only felt.

Carlos reached up, carding back his hair. “Do you still trust me?”

Charles clenched his jaw, holding himself together by his teeth. He blinked once. Twice.

“Yes,” he finally ground out. “I trust you.”

And—damn it all to hell—he did.

 

 


 

 

The sun bled as Charles started the walk back to the house, his Burberry crewneck once again snug around his shoulders, his hands swallowed by the sleeves as he followed behind Carlos, who jogged ahead with his wire-haired setter, Piñón.

Charles’s eyes felt heavy and swollen in his skull, though he hadn’t cried. His body felt hollow too, his insides scraped out and left behind in the dust for the vultures to eat. He knew he would be okay enough to meet Carlos’s family by the time they made it up the rise to the main house, but he walked slowly anyway, bringing himself back under control.

Carlos had the sense to leave him alone to do it.

But Charles still watched him as Carlos faked lunges, earning him a few warning barks from Piñón before the dog bolted off into the long grass.

Carlos could have lived a happy life here without a crown. Or he could have followed in his father’s footsteps in the rally empires to become a longstanding champion, just like him.

Instead, he’d chosen a life full of people who would love and leave him. Half-truths and sidesteps, hidden phones and open devotion to other people.

Charles wondered if Carlos brought Lando out to the rally track too, but he knew asking would start a fight about Sebastian reusing date ideas. Normally Charles would have asked anyway, but he felt too raw to pick any more fights.

Carlos disappeared over the hill, giving Charles a few minutes by himself to make his way up the gentle incline of the stairs.  He folded his sleeve-covered hands over the railings and tried to remind himself how to act around parents. Around fathers.

When he reached the top of the stairs, Carlos stood waiting for him. Piñón lay sprawled on the concrete porch, panting in the fading evening light.

Charles offered a polite smile for practice as Carlos opened the door for him.

As he stepped inside, the house opened up before him, all smooth lines of stone and wood, with low, golden light to match the surrounding hillside. A subtle kind of beauty. A house lived in, not for show.

And silent.

Charles picked at his thumbs as he wandered deeper into the entryway. The kitchen sat empty, a dining table clean of place settings.

“Where’s your family?” Charles asked, tilting his head up to admire the high ceilings.

“What do you mean?” Carlos asked, shutting the door behind them.

Charles turned. “They aren’t here.”

Carlos cocked his head, then nodded once. “Ah. You don’t know the rules.”

Charles tried not to take that as an insult.

Carlos cleared his throat. “I saw them at the race, but as long as my dad still has a crown, we’re not allowed to interact outside of FIA sanctioned leave. Holidays, approved breaks.”

The sting of insult hit Charles from a new side, unexpected. “You didn’t introduce me.”

But Lando had gotten ruffled hair and hugs. Complete adoration.

Carlos ran his fingers over the back of one of the dining chairs, downcast.

“Binotto approved the trip and the rally lap. But not them.”

Convenient, Charles thought, but Binotto had made his hatred of rally empires staunchly clear over the years. Even so, Charles couldn’t see him putting up that much of a fight if Carlos had chosen to argue.

“Ci ho provato,” Carlos said, as if reading his thoughts.

Charles chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before he straightened up. No used dwelling, especially when he felt more relief than anything else. “Can I get the tour?”

“Certo,” Carlos replied, a wary smile breaking on his lips.

Carlos extended his hand, and Charles thought back to those early days in Maranello, where Carlos had to be prodded into holding hands for the cameras.

Charles took it, twining their fingers together. An easy motion now, reflexive.

Carlos led him through the house, past family portraits and framed photographs of Carlos and his sisters as children. A wedding photo of his mother and father, black and white. They walked through the living room with its incredible view of the countryside, no neighbors in sight.

Nothing like Charles’s home in Monaco, his flat stacked on top of a dozen others, each pointed toward the harbor for a glimpse of blue that sent the prices skyrocketing until another development sprang up to block the view.

The house matched Carlos—modern in thinking, but traditional in nature. Wood and concrete, metal and stone. Tasteful sculptures and high ceilings, but an overall sense of home. Carlos explained everything with just enough detail to keep his interest, his talent for speaking on full display.

The emptiness from Florence came back again as they passed a corkboard pinned full of family polaroids and sidestepped a pile of dirty boots stacked by the back door. But this time it didn’t consume Charles quite so fully.

“And this is my room,” Carlos announced once they reached a door the end of the hall.

“Finally,” Charles joked.

Carlos grinned, then opened the door with a flourish.

Charles expected a room as grand as the rest of the house, but the one that met them was small. Carlos’s bed took up most of the space. A desk crammed itself into a corner, and a giant TV hung on the wall across from the foot of the bed. A small closet, a wall of windows and a massive sliding door out to a shared terrace Charles had seen earlier.

Dark grey paint on the walls, dark furniture. White sheets. Charles got the distinct feeling that Carlos hadn’t decorated this room. It didn’t feel like him—it felt more like someone took a piece of him and blew it up too large.

Charles paused at the nightstand, where a framed photo of Lando and Carlos sat proudly on display. Both of them stood in the paddock, hair damp with sweat and champagne, a bottle of Carbon tucked against Lando’s side. Carlos had a trophy in his hand and Charles knew he should probably recognize the race, but he didn’t. The point of the photo wasn’t the win, but the kiss, perfectly framed to accentuate the extension of Lando’s neck as he leaned into the press of their lips. George always used to make fun of him for having the proportions of a ballerina, but it was hard to find any flaws in Lando's pose. Carlos looked a little stunned in the photo, eyes half-lidded but eyebrows raised.

Beside the frame, a watch sat in an open display case. A Richard Mille, blue with orange accents. A prototype.  Underneath, an inscription in the metal display:

heart eyes 4 u

Charles averted his gaze to an open jewelry box, navy blue, a gold ring nestled in velvet.

Carlos closed the display case, hiding the inscription.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve come here,” he explained, but his voice was thick.

Charles knew his bedroom in Monaco looked the same. Trinkets from Sebastian, his old wedding ring, a collection of handwritten notes. But not an illegal photograph.

Carlos cleared his throat. “What do you think about hamburgers for dinner?”

He still hadn’t moved his hand from the watch box.

Charles smiled, but it felt dead on his lips.

“Perfetto.”

 

 


 

 

The lingering scent of cooked beef remained in Carlos’s bedroom long after they devoured their hamburgers. Their plates sat empty on the nightstand, reflecting the flashing light of the TV.

“Senori, é questo un vecchio amico mio, Colonnello Hans Landa della SS,” Dian Kruger said on screen. Brad Pitt, Eli Roth, and Omar Doom stood beside her in center frame, all of them dressed in black tie outfits.

Inglourious Basterds. Carlos’s choice.

Charles sat against a few pillows stacked against the headboard, Carlos a heavy weight against his chest.

Carlos had a drawstring from his hoodie between his lips, fingering it, utterly engrossed in the movie. Almost childlike, somehow.

“Bawn-jorno,” Brad Pitt said, and Carlos mouthed every syllable, right on time.

Charles carded his fingers through Carlos’s hair, amused.

It didn’t seem like Carlos had confessed to loving him just hours ago. Not when an illegal photograph of him and Lando still sat on the nightstand, unmoved. Not when Carlos hadn’t so much as hinted to the conversation since.

Charles knew the latter was probably his fault, and his throat closed up just thinking about it.

“Dominick Decocco,” Carlos said in time with the movie.

Charles laughed, lifting his hand from Carlos’s hair to stifle it.

“Comè?” Christoph Waltz asked on-screen.

Carlos flipped over in his lap, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Dominic De-co-cco,” Omar Doom repeated with pinched fingers, though Carlos’s face blocked Charles’s view of the screen.

“Bravo!” Carlos said in time with the film, before pressing a kiss to Charles’s lips.

Charles tasted the slight tang of ketchup—though Carlos would refer to it as a smooth tomato brine or something equally as ridiculous. Charles smiled against his mouth, and Carlos broke the kiss only to begin feathering his lips down Charles’s neck.

“Keep doing that and we won’t finish the movie,” Charles murmured, finger closing around the drawstrings at Carlos's collar and giving them a tug.

Carlos laughed against his skin, his breath washing over the thin fabric of Charles’s shirt.

“You haven’t been watching it anyway.”

Charles scoffed, pretending to be ninsulted. “I was!”

Carlos pulled back with a dangerous smile. “Prove it.”

Charles bit his lip, fighting not to laugh. He cleared his throat.

“Oui, duex strudel. Un pour moi et un pour la mademoiselle,” he said, mimicking Christoph’s French accent.

“Non è guisto,”  Carlos said, laughing. “I don’t know enough French to correct you.”

“It’s totally guisto,” Charles said with a smirk.

The TV cast light on the underside of Carlos’s jaw, shaping the lines of his cheekbones.  The moment held none of the exhilaration of finishing a rally lap, but Charles wanted to kiss him all the same.

Even though he knew he was only filling Lando’s shoes.

Lando, who would have looked perfect with his bronze curls bouncing in the sunlight among the olive trees, his fingers wrapped around a wine glass.

Carlos kissed him softly, pressing Charles back into the pillows. Heat pooled from Carlos’s lips, but Charles could only think about the wrong name spilling from them, especially here, especially with heart eyes 4 u just a few feet away.

“You want to ask me something,” Carlos murmured against his lips.

Charles laughed despite himself. “Am I that obvious?”

Carlos pulled back, cocking his head. “No, but I make it my job to be observant.”

Charles lifted a brow.

“So, ask,” Carlos said.

Charles hesitated. Something shifted in the air, some imperceptible thing that whispered this is a trap, this is a trap, this is a trap.

“What’s your plan, Carlos?” Charles asked evenly. “What do you want?”

Carlos sat back on his knees, looking down at him with hooded eyes. Charles couldn’t decipher the emotion in them.

“What are you really asking?”

Charles pursed his lips and grabbed the remote, turning off the TV with a click.  Darkness swept in, but Charles preferred blindness to being scrutinized.

“Dai, Charles. I’m not picking a fight with you,” Carlos said.

He felt the bed shift, Carlos’s breath ghosting his cheek as he leaned over him to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. Yellow light replaced the dark, and Charles sank deeper into the pillows. Carlos leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheekbone that Charles had half a mind to smack him for.

“Ask me whatever you want,” Carlos murmured.

The whispering grew louder in Charles’s thoughts.

“Is your plan to be with Lando?” Charles asked. “Or to become the World Champion? Both? Something else?”

Carlos blinked, then looked to the ceiling, thinking.

“I just want to keep racing,” Carlos said. “It’s all I’ve ever known—and all my family knows how to do.”

Except Carlos could race for the rest of his life outside of the FIA. The WRC, the governing body of the rally empires, would welcome the legacy.

“So it has nothing to do with the championship.” Or Lando, but Charles knew that would be too far.  

Carlos smiled. “Of course I’d like to be champion. You don’t race as hard if you don’t want to win it all.” He shrugged. “But I worked so hard to be here that as long as I’m in the car, it doesn’t matter that much.”

Charles tongued the inside of his cheek, unconvinced. Carlos did work hard, but that answer sounded rehearsed.

Carlos settled down on the bed again, rolling onto his side beside him.

“I grew up in a royal family,” Carlos said. “Rally is more stable than the FIA, but the games are just as cruel.”

Charles turned his head to look him over, and found pain in Carlos’s eyes.

“What happened?” he asked.

When Carlos didn’t immediately answer, Charles reached over, caressing the line of Carlos’s jaw with the backs of his fingers. He didn’t know much about the world of rally, but princes who had dabbled in those empires always seemed a little…off when the spoke about it. And he didn't like seeing Carlos hurt unless he knew how the pain arrived there. 

“All of it happened when I was young. But I saw what it did to my dad,” Carlos said, his eyes distant. “He said he changed when he met my mother, and that he doesn’t do those things anymore. I wanted to start like that. I never wanted anyone to call me a liar.”

Charles tucked the words away for later, just in case he had to use them. Once again, he felt the sensation of a trap closing on him. Like Carlos was leading him like a lamb to slaughter. He had to turn the tables before the snare tightened.

“Have you told all of your husbands that you love them?” Charles asked suddenly.

Carlos didn’t skip a beat. “No.”

Wind rustled the olive trees outside, a hissing, ancient noise that drifted in through the open windows. Charles, I’m in love with you.

“Which ones did you tell?” Charles asked.

Carlos rested his hand against his chest, but Charles could only feel the weight of it, not the warmth.

“I’ll answer you if you tell me why you want to know. The real reason, Charles.”

Crickets sang in the long grass outside, and if Charles closed his eyes he could imagine they were in Maranello, somewhere he knew, somewhere safe. Except—as much as he loathed to admit it—he still felt safe here in Carlos’s room, surrounded by things given to him by someone else who loved him, someone Carlos loved in return.

“I have to understand you,” Charles said quietly. “I have to know what kind of person you are.”

Carlos frowned. “I’ve been showing you.”

Charles shook his head. “You’ve been doing exactly the right things with not one single flaw. And everything bad that does happen, I can’t trace it back to you.”

Carlos’s brows knitted together. “I don’t know what—”

“You’ve had a crown a lot longer than I have,” Charles said, sitting up a little. “But I’ve felt the consequences since the day you were appointed to Toro Rosso.”

Max’s words echoed in his head. “I have to devote more time to him."

“I know people like you,” Charles continued, watching the way Carlos’s eyes searched his face, looking for a clue, “and the people who say they aren’t liars always are.”

Carlos’s gaze locked with his.

“Max, Lando, and now you,” Carlos said.

Charles blinked, confused. “What?”

“Those are the only people I’ve told that I loved.”

Charles's eyes narrowed. “And how many times did you mean it?”

“Every time," Carlos said, completely sure. 

Though it had been six years, Charles still felt the blade slip into his skin upon hearing that Carlos had told Max he loved him. Max never mentioned that—not that Charles had ever asked. They never seemed like they were in love. Max left him, then the next time Charles saw him outside of TV screens, he was hooked on Ricciardo.

Or maybe that was just part of another ruse.

“Do you still love Max?” Charles asked, and he tried to keep the fear from his voice.

“No,” Carlos answered, resolute.

“Lando?”

“Yes.” Also resolute.

Charles’s nostrils flared. “So what if it comes down to a choice between me and him?”

Pain flashed in Carlos’s eyes. “It won’t.”

“I think it will,” Charles said. “Maybe not this year, but next year. Or the year after that.”

They weren’t even halfway through the first season of their marriage, and they had seen relationships crumble. Charles had felt the strain of his relationship with Sebastian, only hanging on because Sebastian knew how to worm his way around sanctions.

Instead of replying, Carlos beckoned him closer. “Vieni qui.”

Charles didn’t want to, but he moved anyway, slotting himself against Carlos’s side as he rolled onto his back. His position on Carlos’s chest gave him a perfect view of the kissing photo.

“I couldn’t make a decision today,” Carlos admitted, the truth of it rumbling through his chest. “Or tomorrow, or next week. But things change so fast. Four months ago, I thought we wouldn’t even get along—wouldn’t even be friends. But you’re—”

“Do not call me a good person, Carlos.”

Carlos frowned, then brought a hand to his face. Charles only hesitated for a fraction of a second before he leaned in for a kiss.

He still tasted ketchup.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Carlos whispered. “But I do love you.”

The snare tightened a little more, and Charles left his chest begin to constrict. “You don’t even know me.”

Carlos stilled. Everything else stilled with him. “Is this about Sebastian’s phone?”

The snare pulled taut, as fast and carnal as snapping bone. Charles’s eyes blew wide.

“Or that you sneak off to see him every race and don’t tell me?” Carlos sat up on his elbows, looking down his chest at him. 

No. Terror seeped cold into Charles’s blood.

He had no protection here. No escape. They were truly alone, and the only way out sat in the driveway, and the keys for it were somewhere only Carlos knew.

He remembered Max, his face cut with yellow in the light of the departures sign, pushing the handle of his suitcase into Charles's palm, the incessant mantra on repeat in his head: he already had my luggage packed in the trunk.

Carlos had a knife pressed to his ribs and Charles hadn’t even seen it coming.

“I love him,” Charles forced out, because it was all he could think to say.

“Lo so,” Carlos said calmly. He didn’t move. “I’m not stupid, Charles. I know every trick in the damn book. I didn’t…I knew nothing about Max, I’ll admit, but I wasn’t as observant six years ago.”

Charles needed to get out. He sat up, wracking his brain for any memory of where Carlos had put his wallet and keys.

Carlos put a hand on his forearm, but Charles could only feel the strength waiting behind his grip, ready to hold him in place.

“Questo è tutto un gioco, sì,” Carlos said. “But not everything in it has to be.”

Charles wrenched his arm away before he lost the chance. “Stop. You think I believe you? You’re telling me you knew everything I’ve been doing and—”

“Still fell in love with you?” Carlos finished. He moved closer and Charles leaned away.

“I know you love Sebastian and may never love me back,” Carlos said, shrugging. “La mia solita fortuna.”

“Then you don’t know everything,” Charles snapped.

Something darker swam in Carlos’s eyes. “Let's see. Your deal with Mattia?”

Charles’s stomach dropped through the floor. Wind rushed in his ears, like the dull roar of the engine on the track.

No. This wasn’t happening.

“Why do you think I was so miserable when I moved to Maranello?” Carlos leaned in, his face too calm. A tiger before sinking its teeth into cornered prey. “Alonso mi ha detto tutto, Charles. Before I even formally accepted my appointment, I knew what you negotiated.”

Ferrari needed one longstanding prince to carry the crest. Charles had allowed himself to be that prince, but only after Mattia agreed to his terms. “I handle Carlos and anyone who comes after him. I tell the story. You let me learn him, on my own. And when the time comes, I’m the one who crushes his crown.”

Charles began to tremble. He raced cars for a living—he’d spun out and seen his life flash before his eyes several times. He’d seen the other side of the coin, when people didn’t walk away from the barrier wall. None of that frightened him as much as the thought of losing his crown for one mistake. For a fucking playlist.

“How?” he breathed. “How did you know?”

Carlos touched his face and Charles flinched as if struck. He didn’t want to be touched, he didn’t want anything but answers, yet Carlos seemed intent on fucking touching him all the sudden.

“Mattia does nothing alone,” Carlos said, pulling his hand away. “That’s how government works—he has to tell someone. And he did, and Fernando is always keeping tabs on Ferrari, so he told me immediately.”

Carlos talked to Alonso at almost every race. Charles never thought anything of it. He still didn’t. Of course Alonso looked out for him.

Hiding secrets in plain sight.

“And before that, I spent every second here learning,” Carlos continued. “You all get here from the lower courts and then only focus on the car because it’s all secured. I work for this every single day: training, studying. Not just the car. You, Mattia, the team, the other princes—everything.”

“Then what’s your angle?” Charles hissed out.

Carlos leaned in, gently knocking their foreheads together.  “I just want you to know you’ll always have someone on your side.”

Charles shoved him, hard. Carlos barely moved back.

“You say that now,” Charles snapped.

Carlos gave him a look so full of pity that Charles wanted to scream. “Charles, non puoi toccarmi. I know you don’t want to believe it, but I’ve always had the upper hand.”

Some part of Charles knew he was telling the truth, and that realization made him both furious and terrified. Even as crown prince of Ferrari, he couldn’t get ahead.

“I know you think you’ve been protecting me,” Carlos said softly. “You defended me with Giorgio, protected me with Mattia. And you saved me when Lando tried to do his worst.”

Charles laughed bitterly. “And yet you still love him.”

“Of course I do,” Carlos replied. “I know him, and I know he only did that because he wanted to control something.  Because he lost control of Ricciardo.”

“And I thought I was naïve,” Charles spat.

“Siamo tutti ingenui nei confronti sulle persone che amiamo,” Carlos said, like it was a normal thing to expose hideous flaws so openly.

“Well I don’t love you,” Charles said flatly, “so I still have a clear head.”

Words were the only weapon left in his rapidly depleting arsenal.

Carlos smiled, warmth in his eyes. “Okay.”

In that moment, Charles hated him. “Okay?”

Carlos flopped back onto the mattress, his hair falling into his eyes. “Mhm. Want to finish the movie or…do something else?”

The way Carlos cocked his brow under a curtain of hair made Charles want to strangle him.  Part of him wondered if he’d accidentally spoken in French, if his meaning had been somehow misconstrued in a translation error. I don't love you. 

He wanted to see Carlos hurting, not smiling up at him like everything was fine. Because it couldn’t possibly be fine. No prince in his right mind ignored things like hidden phones and secret meetings. Not even a prince who supposedly loved him.

“You aren’t kicking me out?” Charles asked, and he immediately grimaced.

He remembered Esteban sitting in the plane seat beside him as they landed, Charles’s whole world back in Brazil. “Au moins, tu as appris maintenant.”

“Why would I do that?” Carlos asked, pushing out his lower lip to blow the hair out of his face.

Charles couldn’t tell if Carlos was purposely trying to piss him off, or was just stupid. Maybe both.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Charles cracked. “I can think of a few reasons.”

Carlos shrugged, twirling the remote in his hands. “I can’t think of any.”

“Don’t you at least want to know about the phone?” Charles asked, because he couldn’t think of any reason why Carlos would be so nonchalant about all of this. If he told Mattia about the phone—if he told anyone about the phone—Charles and Sebastian would never be able to see each other again this season. At the very least.

Carlos looked up at him through his lashes, then shook his head. “You had that phone for a week.” He reached up, brushing the backs of his fingers against Charles’s cheek.

Charles closed his eyes and fought the urge to smack his hand away.

“I don’t think you used it,” Carlos murmured. “Because I know you.”

Charles opened his eyes again. 

“I didn’t use it,” he agreed softly, startled by his own sincerity. 

Carlos smiled and sat up again. “See? Non sono preoccupato.”

“Lo sono,” Charles whispered, his eyes blank. No one escaped from things like this unscathed. Carlos had laid out his cards with no motive, and Charles suspected they weren’t all of his cards. That scared him more than what Carlos had already admitted to knowing.

Carlos curled a finger under Charles’s chin, tilting his face up before he pressed their lips together for a kiss that Charles didn’t respond to right away. Carlos leaned in, gentle but insistent, and Charles thought back to the rally car. The sun on his back, Carlos all around him, the complete trust. The trust that stayed even after Charles turned him down.

The trust that now eased back into his chest, seeping through the walls he’d thrown up to defend himself a hundred times before.

Carlos kissed him again, sweeter, softer.

“Don’t be worried,” Carlos finally whispered. He pecked Charles’s lips once more. “But enough talk. We should sleep.”

“Yeah,” Charles said, still rattled.

Fear stayed nestled between his ribs even after they settled into bed. Charles kept his back to Carlos, distinctly uncomfortable being surrounded by the scent of him. Carlos had to be plotting something. This was the false slip, the knowledge given to make him comfortable, to make him trust before Carlos pulled the rug out from under him and plunged the knife into his back.

Charles just didn’t know how to return fire. Not yet.

It took hours, but he finally dozed off, only to wake a few minutes later as Carlos moved up behind him. Charles went rigid where he lay curled in Carlos’s thickest blanket, now suffocatingly hot but the only protection he had.

Carlos put an arm around him, murmuring incoherently before nuzzling into the back of his neck.

Charles’s heart drummed against his chest for a full minute before he finally accepted that Carlos was really asleep, not just waiting for a chance to speak. When he closed his eyes, he felt the steady beat of Carlos’s heart against his spine, the security of his hold.

He knew it was wrong to feel comforted. To slip the snare around his own neck, on purpose. But he did it anyway. 

And then morning came, too abruptly, white sunlight and screaming birds.

Charles groaned as the light clawed at his eyes. His whole body felt sore, probably from the rally lap, but something else too. Holding himself together throughout the night left him more tired than not sleeping at all.

The bed beside him lay empty, the sheets rumpled and cold.

The car.

Charles shot up in bed. Carlos would not have taken the car. It didn’t make any sense for him to take the car. But where—

Piñón launched himself into the bed, tackling Charles with a barrage of licks to his face. Charles quickly—and probably too forcefully—shoved the dog away a second later, his heart threatening to blow apart in his chest with the force of his fright.

Merde, he hadn’t been this jumpy in years.

Carlos hurried into the room with a breakfast tray—a fucking breakfast tray—and stuck his foot out to try to drive Pinon away.

“Me dispiace,” Carlos said. “Piñón, ¡quitate! ¡Abajo!”

Piñón stole one last lick to Charles’s face before rocketing out of the room.

“Sorry,” Carlos said. “We went for a walk and he’s still excited.”

Charles wiped his face with the blanket. “You could have woken me up,” he grumbled. “I would have come with you.”

Carlos laughed. “Yeah, right. You love sleeping in.” He extended the tray. “Here, breakfast.”

 A full spread of breakfast foods packed the tray. Fruit, oatmeal, sausage, cheese, pastries, yogurt. A steaming cappuccino.

Charles took the tray, waiting for the bad news. The apology. The punchline.

Instead, Carlos sat on the bed beside him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “We leave in an hour.”

Charles stared down at the food, simultaneously starving and nauseous. Carlos rubbed his back, his palm sun-warm and comforting, though Charles hated himself for feeling that way.

He looked up, swallowing hard. Carlos looked rested upon first glance, but Charles saw the puffiness to his cheeks a moment later, the darkness under his eyes.

He parted his lips, but no words came out.

“What, should I eat some first so you know it’s not poisoned?” Carlos teased. He stole a sausage link from the tray and took a bite, grinning.

But Charles stared past him, eyes on the nightstand.

All of Lando’s things were gone.

 

 

Chapter Text

George stared at himself in one of the mirrors in the building lobby. His button up straddled between tacky and fashionable, but he was pretty sure Lewis would love it. The slate blue, deep red, and light grey of a repeating Dior logo gave it a sophisticated pattern, and the Hawaiian cut made it casual.

“You look exactly the part of a Hamilton plaything,” Nic said, patting his shoulder.

The concierge directed them to an elevator, and George took out his phone as they stepped inside.

“Selfie,” he instructed. “Kayla’s orders.”

Every empire was already on damage control. A Thursday practice meant an entire Friday of twenty princes with nothing to do at the only race where the FIA didn’t have complete jurisdiction.

He held up his phone and Nic threw an arm around his shoulders, sticking out his tongue for the camera. George gave a little smirk at the lens and took the photo.

“Gorgeous,” George said, glancing at himself in the reflection of the elevator window, a final check.

“I figured out what you’re missing,” Nic said, reaching over.

George looked down as Nic’s hand came to rest at the dip of his collar. He undid one button, looked him over, then undid another.

Nic admired his work with a smile. “Perfect.”

George fucking loved Monaco.

The heavy thumps of a bass reached their ears before the elevator slowed to a stop on the top floor. George grinned, soaking in the noise and the lightness of his shoulders with no FIA rules to think about, no eyes to pry except those of royalty.

Invitations to the championship party weren’t exclusive, per se, but it was the only party all year that the FIA allowed but didn’t attend. No scheduled media events, no interviews—just a  chance to experience a night of freedom and a nasty hangover on Friday morning.

George couldn’t wait.

The doors opened to reveal a penthouse suite, open and beachy like an oversized luxury cabana. The salty scent of the Monaco harbor laced the gentle breeze as he and Latifi stepped out into the glow of strings of fairy lights.

Lewis, Vettel, Alonso, and Räikkönen sat at a hightop on a platform that overlooked the party. The four hosting champions.

“I fucking told you, mate,” Nic said beside him, laughing. “Two buttons.”

Lewis had on a black button up, two buttons open, his Powerful Beyond Measure script peeking out in pieces as he ducked forward to laugh at one of Kimi’s jokes. A cluster of white gold chains hung fitted around his neck, resting against the line of his collarbone.

A flashy ring covered in diamonds twinkled on his hand, his Mercedes wedding band completely overshadowed.

“Glad he’s keeping it reserved,” Nic teased. “No earrings.”

George elbowed him in the ribs.

Sebastian, Kimi, and Fernando weren’t quite so dressy. Vettel had on a maroon polo, Alonso sported a grey t-shirt and a leather jacket, and Kimi sat with sunglasses on despite the darkness, and a black t-shirt clean of any sponsorships.

Other princes milled around the space, making it look surprisingly packed despite there only being twenty of them.

Plus a few guests.

“Oh shit,” George said as they headed for the bar. Bottas stood with a woman on the other side of the room, all smiles.

“Is that—?”

“I think so,” George said.

“Dude,” Nic said. “Monaco.”

George nodded. “Yeah.”

“Man, I wish I would have known we could bring our lady friends. My girlfriend could have come,” Nic muttered. “I totally could have convinced Lewis too. Now I have to cockblock him all night out of spite.”

“You absolutely are not doing that,” George cut. He caught the bartender’s attention and ordered a vodka soda for himself and an old fashioned for Nic, his favorite.

“With Michter’s,” George added, spotting a bottle of it on the shelf.

“Have I ever told you that I love you?” Nic sighed. “Because I definitely do.”

George cracked a grin. “Only every day, sweetums.”

They took up spots at the bar. Williams didn’t have a lot of lot of clout among the empires, and George now knew the value of information by observation—and that everyone in the room still wanted to act like he’d attempted to murder Max and Daniel with his bare hands in Spain, so they probably didn’t want to chat.

Charles and Carlos sat on a couch nearby, listening as Checo told a story. Carlos had an arm around Charles on the back of the couch, and Charles leaned into him—a different look on his face from a few weeks ago. Not much of an improvement, honestly, but not vacant.

“I’m not a baby,” Yuki said from behind Nic, making a beeline for the bartender. “Hello! Bar guy! A shot!”

“Yuki, chill out,” Pierre muttered beside him. “We’ve got all ni—”

“Two shots!” Yuki called.

George caught Pierre’s eye down the bar and laughed as Pierre just shook his head.

“I swear to god, mate,” Pierre said, ruffling Yuki’s hair. “I’m not helping you if you puke all of this up later.”

“Fuck off,” Yuki said. “I can drink you stupid, under the table.”

George lifted his gaze to where the champions maintained their oversight of the party at their table. Alonso had switched with Kimi to sit closest to Esteban, who had pulled up a chair. Lance lingered behind, grinning like a fool as he talked to Antonio about something that involved a lot of wild hand motions.

“Oh hell,” Nic said, nudging George’s shoulder. “They’re letting anyone in here.”

Lando stepped out of the elevator in a hoodie, hood up, a grin pulling at his lips.

Callum Ilott walked behind him, dressed in an olive bomber jacket and white shirt. George had grown up with Callum,  though they hadn’t been in touch very often since their careers branched off. Seeing him now made George realize how much the crown changed them—Callum looked young and gangly in comparison to the rest of them, his hair a little unkempt, his neck a little thin, his shoulders a little scooped out.

“You know that guy?” Nic asked.

“Who, Call—?”

George cut himself off as he noticed someone else on Lando’s other side. He saw the styled hair first, dirty blond and too long on the top. Wide jaw and a dimpled chin, thin eyebrows George knew from somewhere.

Right. Fourth court champion. Not very confident. Definitely not fit for--

“Max Fewtrell,” George said the moment he remembered the name. Lando used to talk about him sometimes, but Fewtrell hadn’t been in the news in at least a year, and definitely didn’t have any royal backing.

Questions for tomorrow.

Fewtrell tugged Lando’s hood down with a smirk, and Lando gave him a playful shove as Mick approached them, grabbing Callum’s hand and tugging him close to pat him heartily on the back. Callum returned the gesture, and the introductions started.

“Oh my god, it’s Max!” Yuki blurted out from down the bar. He downed another shot like nothing, then grabbed Pierre by the shirt and yanked him toward the new guests.

Fewtrell noticed Yuki immediately, and greeted with cringeworthy fist pumping only befitting of TikTok influencers.

Definitely not royal.

“He’s basically a nobody,” George explained to Nic as their drinks finally arrived. “I’m definitely asking how he got an invite.”

“Please do,” Nic said around a sip of old fashioned. “My girlfriend is way cooler than him, whoever he is.”

The song changed to something more pop than party. Hors d’oeurves began to emerge: trays full of shrimp, finger sandwiches, cheese, and fruit—each tray had a different theme, all of it in line with Monaco’s exorbitantly expensive everything.

Nic swirled his cocktail. “So are you coming back tonight or getting laid?”

George nearly spit out his drink, and slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from dribbling vodka soda all over his Dior.  

When he regained his ability to breathe, he shot Nic a glare.

“It’s not like that.”

Nic sucked his lips between his teeth as he fought not to laugh. “Oh yeah?”

“Excuse me,” George said,  calling the bartender. “Can we have two shots of whiskey, please?”

Nic grinned. “Whiskey? Georgie’s ready for a wild night.”

“No,” George muttered. “I just need to be a lot more drunk to handle you right now.”

“Me, or Lewis? He’s been staring at you for the past five minutes,” Nic said, happily accepting the bartender’s whiskey shot.

George made a point not to look over, and drained the remainder of his vodka soda before picking up his own shot and toasting Nic. “Cheers.”

Their eyes met as they clinked their glasses, then both of them burst out laughing before they could even get their drinks to their mouths.

“Don’t smile at me like that!” George fought out.

“You’re wearing Dior, mate,” Nic managed between laughs. “I can’t help it. The buttons!”

George put up a finger, still bubbling with laughter, and tipped back the shot, screwing up his face as it burned down his throat. He shook his head once it was down, smacking his lips.

Nic followed suit, but took his shot without any grimacing, slapping the glass to the bar top before grabbing his old fashioned to chase it down.

The party picked up around them, music blaring and conversation echoing from every corner.  It sounded like a normal party. No clicks of camera lenses or reporters waiting to talk to them.

“You really like him, hm,” Nic said after a moment, and this time his voice didn’t hold any teasing.  

George looked down at his empty shot glass, where a drop of amber still clung to the edge.

“I do,” he finally said.

Nic let out a hum. “And he likes you.”

George nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “I think so, yeah.”

“C’mere.” Nic hooked an arm around him and ruffled his hair.

George fought to escape the hold, smacking Nic’s shoulder. He didn’t give. “What’s the Dior for if my hair’s going to look mad?”

Nic finally released him and George yanked himself back, patting his hair back into place.

If he did leave for Mercedes next year, he would miss Nic more than he cared to admit. He doubted he would ever have such a strong friendship with a husband, not even with Lewis. With Nic, they were truly equals, and he could trust that Nic would always, always look out for him.

George cleared his throat before he could tear up. Whiskey and vodka made quite the combination in his bloodstream.

“Do not leave this party without me,” George warned as the party hummed on. “I mean it. I can’t be late for lunch tomorrow.”

Nic took another sip of his old fashioned and tossed him a wink. “Sure thing, hubs. No leaving without my man.”

George let the alcohol continue to settle in as he took another look around the party.

Yuki had found a cocktail waitress, handing out shots to anyone close by. Currently that consisted of Fewtrell, Mick, and Callum, with Pierre trying to wave the waitress off in the background.

George watched as Callum down his shot, then ever so slightly held his glass out to Mick, mid-conversation.  Mick poured the contents of his glass into Callum’s as he spoke to Fewtrell—a practiced move, effortless. Like everything Mick did, really.

In the far corner of the penthouse, Daniel camped at a high top with a bowl of penne pasta and a glass of red wine. Max stood glued to his side like a crutch, his cheek resting against Daniel’s shoulder, eyes on Checo, who had moved from sitting with Carlos and Charles, openly taking the hit of a husband who didn’t love him.

“Glad to see Max and Daniel are kicking off the rulebreaking,” George muttered with a nod toward them.

Daniel didn’t even pretend to listen to Checo as he ate, and George saw the dark circles under his eyes even with the distance and the dim light.

Nic turned to look, then shook his head. “I dunno, mate. I think you should give them a break.”

“He never gave me one,” George said bitterly. Pain shot through him, aided by the liquor. He would never forgive Max, and this weekend would be a slap in the face over and over again to remind him why.

“I know,” Nic replied, his dark eyes full of sympathy. “And I know you won’t forget about Albon, but look at what you have compared to Max.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder toward Lewis, though George didn’t look.

“Lewis Hamilton is behind me giving you bedroom eyes that you’re ignoring—which I think is just turning him on, because it’s starting to creep me out how much he’s staring—and you’ve probably got a great marriage on the horizon with that.”

George’s lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile. “I’ve already got a great marriage, I’d say.”

Nic laughed, then gave him a playful swat. “You get what I mean though, right? Max’s life is shit right now. Because of you and me, arguably, but also because he majorly fucked up before we said anything.  He fucked it up with Albon, Pierre, and Daniel. Not to mention you.”

George nodded once, though he didn’t think Max deserved any consolation for getting caught up in his own shit.

 He caught sight of Lando on the couch, slumped back into the cushions, his hood back up. George also noticed his knee against Carlos’s, their legs crossed at the calf. Carlos still had an arm around Charles, but Charles had his gaze elsewhere. Up toward the champion’s table, and George didn’t have to guess who he was looking at.  

Speaking of, he had his own champion to watch.

George finally allowed himself to look at Lewis, and jolted a little when their eyes finally met.

Lewis’s eyes burned into his, so fierce and bright that everything else seemed to go dark around them.

He felt every moment of their two weeks apart slam into him all at once.

“Oh baby,” Nic teased, cracking up. “You’re done for.”

“Shut up,” George muttered, but he didn’t look away.

Lewis smiled, probably reading his lips, then tilted his head, glancing away and then back again. When he looked away a second time, George followed his gaze to a closed door he hadn’t noticed on the far side of the penthouse.

Ten minutes, Lewis mouthed.

George’s mouth went dry, and he nodded back even though he could hardly feel himself do it.

“I’m gonna—”

Nic plugged his ears. “La la la. Just get outta here. I don’t need your dirty thoughts until after.”

George didn’t even smack him this time. Thoughts had vacated his brain.  He just stumbled out of his chair and made his way through the party.

Past Lando tugging at a stray curl of Carlos’s hair. Past Charles with both hands now folded over one of Carlos’s in his lap, his attention on Sebastian, who had his lips pressed to Lance’s temple.  

Past Pierre shooing away the cocktail waitress and holding Yuki by the back of his shirt to keep him from falling over. Past Fewtrell with his hand over his mouth, laughing. Past Mick offering to help, and Callum staring at him just a little too long.

Read the room.

He’d been practicing.

George reached the door and glanced behind him to check if anyone was watching, but every prince in the room seemed totally absorbed in someone else.

The door opened into a lounge that looked like a strange mix between a nightclub and a living room, and a hallway split off to his left. Red chandeliers hung from the ceiling over comfy couches with scuffed leather. Well-loved books sat on a coffee table, books about old cars, pop stars, and farm animal photography. Lit candles flickered at the bar—every room with windows was kept as dark as possible just in case the paparazzi had a vantage point.

Several paintings hung on the walls, all of them curated from Lewis’s flat—or so the letters from him had described. Graffiti on canvas, a painting of a saxophone made of only orange and green. An impressionist painting of choppy lake water in a violent thunderstorm, a black and white photo of a snarling lion in a cage. Completely different tones that all seemed to match in a way only Lewis could—

“I can’t fix anything if you don’t tell me.”

George froze. Max’s voice.

It took him a moment to spot them, but he caught sight of Daniel’s mint green t-shirt in the shadow of some kind of industrial sculpture made of corrugated metal. Daniel sat on something George couldn’t see, and Max stood between his legs.

“Babe,” Daniel pleaded.

The muffled noise of the party grew louder as the door opened. George flinched, expecting to find Lewis, but a cocktail waitress entered instead and turned, heading down the hallway with an empty tray.

George guessed that the staff using the doorway had covered his entrance, or maybe Max and Daniel just didn’t care. He turned back to them, settling himself into the darkness so he could stay hidden.

Max had a hand on Daniel’s face, thumbing his cheek.

For as much as George had seen them on TV as a married couple, he’d never seen them together in person. Not like this.  Max didn’t look anything like himself. He looked like before. The way George remembered. Softer eyes and no edge to his voice.

“What did they do?” Max asked.

“Babe,” Daniel repeated, and he sounded different too. No smile in his voice, it had been replaced with something so intimate that George felt a little sinful listening in.

Not enough to stop, though.

Daniel swung his feet, resting his forehead against Max’s.

“I don’t wanna talk about this,” Daniel said. “I just want you.”

“And I want all of you,” Max murmured. “This isn’t all of you. You haven’t cracked one stupid joke since we got here.”

Daniel pulled back, smirk on his lips. “Then you weren’t listening. I told Checo he had a small dick like five times. That’s what pene pequeño is.”

Max furrowed his brow, lips parted in a soft “o.” Another look George hadn’t seen on his face since Pierre blew his mind with his first sim setup, and after Alex kicked his ass in iRacing  three tracks in a row.

“Penne is a pasta,” Max said, thoroughly confused. “I thought you were talking about pasta because you were eating pasta.”

Daniel tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and fought not to laugh. “That was part of the—fuck, I love you.”

George flinched a little, startled by the words.

He hated when Nic was right.

Daniel wound his arms tighter around Max as they met in a long kiss, and George saw the new Max return.

The new Max held Daniel to him, protective. Nothing like the Max who blushed red when he stole a peck to Charles’s cheek during dinner or got caught making out with him during a night out.

Max pulled back abruptly.

“How much weight have you lost?” he breathed. “Shit, I can feel each of your ribs, Daniel.”

Daniel smiled, dopey. “That’s what the penne is for.”

Max’s face hardened to steel. “I know something happened. Since the day you left me, I knew this was bigger than you. Tell me.”

Daniel shook his head, comically brushing noses with Max as he did so. “Won’t. Can’t.”

“It’s me,” Max murmured in a voice too soft and gentle for George to stomach.

“Which is exactly why I can’t tell you,” Daniel replied.

“You’re not protecting me.” Max shook his head, curling his fingers into Daniel’s shirt. “Not when I can’t even see you.”

“If I tell you anything, it’s over,” Daniel hissed, suddenly more serious than George had ever seen him. He looked scared. “They made that pretty fuckin’ clear.”

“It’s not—”

“Right here is why,” Daniel said, strained, pressing a kiss to Max’s forehead. “We have this. If I say anything, I’m done. Big fat exile. You can’t save me from that, even if you win the championship.”

Max shook his head again. “I would get you appointed. All I have to do is say the word.”

Daniel closed his eyes. “Don’t even think that shit, Max. I’m telling you, you have no idea how big this is.”

George couldn’t imagine why the FIA would even keep Daniel around if he had a secret that big, but he tried to etch every moment into his memory to debrief with Lewis later.

“Daniel—”

“Nope, we’re done,” Daniel said, cutting Max off with another kiss, loud and sloppy. “I want you drunk off your ass, then I want to go back to your place—”

“Checo has my place tonight,” Max said, a small smile returning to his lips. “That was the deal.”

“Well fuck. My place, then,” Daniel amended. “But I’m pretty sure it’s a mess right now, but—hey, hey.”

Max tucked himself against Daniel, hugging him so tight that George saw the compression of Daniel’s shoulders underneath Max’s forearms.

“Don’t start with that,” Daniel soothed. “You’re gonna make me cry too, goddammit.”

At that moment, George no longer cared if their conversation had any value to the empires. His stomach twisted with empathy. He knew Max’s pain—except with Alex, he’d never gotten the chance to share it with him.

George retreated, stepping quietly from his hiding place and back toward the party.

He rested his hand on the door handle just as it turned, and he stepped back just in time to avoid getting hit in the face as the door swung open.

“Oh, hey.”

The music poured in through the open door where Lewis stood in the threshold, a grin on his face. The reddish light of the lounge reflected off his skin in a way that made him look somehow more handsome.

Lewis gave his shirt a little tug. “Dior, huh? Was this for me?”

George didn’t care who saw when he pulled Lewis into a kiss.

He had to keep this. Maybe Lewis would only stay for a few years, but George wanted to make the most of it. To have a husband he didn’t have to worry about losing.

Lewis lifted a hand to his face, gentle, before he pulled away.

“Wow,” he chuckled. “Everything all right?”

“Now it is,” George said with a grin.

Lewis thumbed his cheek before he dropped his hand, only to take George’s a moment later. “C’mon, this way.”

George prepared himself to pull Lewis back to the party to give Max time to leave, but thankfully Lewis led him down the hallway instead.

They arrived at a nondescript door further down the hall, where the music barely reached.  

Lewis nodded to the door. “In here.”

George cocked a brow before he turned the handle and opened the door into—

A break room?

George paused, brow furrowing. A pleather couch sagged on one wall opposite a shitty TV. A vending machine hummed in the corner next to a utility sink and a fridge plastered with notes, a calendar, and some kind of schedule.

Lewis locked the door behind them, even going so far as to fasten the chain lock—and why a break room needed a chain lock, George couldn’t begin to understand.

“I know it’s not my usual style,” Lewis said with a laugh when he saw George’s expression. “But this is literally the only room in this building without cameras. And I’m above using bathroom stalls.”

George turned to him with a smile on his lips, shaking his head. “It’s Monaco. I figured even you would let loose a little.”

Lewis closed the distance between them, sweeping him into a heady kiss that sent George reeling. Two weeks apart felt like a lifetime, even with the letters and the cheeky social media posts about taking every day for granted between race weekends.

“I let loose sometimes,” Lewis countered before another kiss.

George grunted as Lewis moved him backward, hands roaming, mouth everywhere. He could hardly keep up—but what else was new?

“Afraid of a little kissing for the cameras?” George teased, though he understood. Lewis had a lot of enemies, and so did George. Everyone probably knew about their relationship by now, but no one could really prove anything with any evidence.

When Lewis pulled back from the kiss, his eyes were dark with want. George had to swallow down a noise brought on from his gaze alone.

Suddenly Lewis shoved him backward, and George gasped before he hit the surprisingly plush cushion of the couch. His eyes threatened to pop right out of his skull when Lewis straddled him, his diamond ring catching the light as he unbuttoned his shirt, exposing inked skin and hard muscle that George couldn’t hope to defend himself against.

Then—oh, fucking then—Lewis dropped from the edge of the couch and onto his knees.

George had no air left in his body as he stared, slackjawed, as Lewis looked up at him, his eyes dangerous and his lips even worse.

George finally remembered to move and he leaned down, finding Lewis’s mouth. Warm hands made quick work of the buttons Nic had so helpfully started undoing earlier in the evening.

George shrugged off his shirt a moment later, pupils blown and lips parted, every part of him burning or melting or both. Lewis’s hand on the inside of his thigh did not help matters.

Then Lewis looked up at him in a way that made George regret telling Nic not to leave without him.

“No,” Lewis said with a smirk. “Not worried about getting caught kissing.”

 

 

Chapter Text

 

 

For almost an entire day, Charles had believed that Monaco—home—could smooth over the cracks in his life. Practice went better than expected for both himself and Carlos, and lunch with Binotto afterward had actually been pleasant. Not to mention he got to sleep in his own bed in his own flat, with no disturbances from Ferrari.

Then they had gone to the champion’s party, where the cracks turned to fissures.

First, Lance had kept himself glued to Sebastian the entire night.

Worse, Sebastian let him do it.

But the worst part? Third wheeling with his own husband, left to watch and listen as Lando cracked jokes and flirted with Carlos, who had reciprocated all of it.

Charles ran his tongue over the pad of his thumb before flipping the page in his book, the paper almost glowing in the morning sun.

He liked to refer to his living room as a reading room, because it fit that description better. Sunlight reached almost every corner, warming the wood floors and worn Persian rugs.

He wriggled his head against Carlos’s side, moving the flat knot of his bandana sweatband to a better spot. Carlos absently thumbed the corner of his jaw in response, his arm draped over Charles’s chest.

The sounds of the city barely reached them here. Instead, he had the sound of Carlos’s breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest against his skull to add a rhythm to Charles’s incredibly dull choice of literature—Volume 57, No. 3 of The Art Bulletin. It contained almost 500 pages of “leading scholarship in all aspects of art history.”

The article about Michelangelo’s’ unfinished works seemed interesting until he had to parse through sections of untranslated, archaic Italian.

Not the kind of thing to read when he wanted to forget about the hour where Carlos disappeared the night before. With Lando. For a chat.

Charles shut his book with a loud thunk, and contracted his abs as the book fell backward onto his navel with a heavy thud.

“I knew you were faking,” Carlos teased, his palm spreading flat over Charles’s collarbone. “You want to talk.”

Charles set his jaw. He hated being known.

“You were gone for an hour,” Charles said.

Carlos locked his phone with a click, and set it aside. “What do you want me to say? We agreed this weekend wasn’t about us.”

“It isn’t,” Charles agreed. “But you need to tell me when you’re going to be gone for half the party, instead of acting like you would be right back.”

He heard Carlos sigh.

“If you don’t want me to be with him this weekend, you need to say it,” Carlos said. “You can’t get upset when we talked about this.”

The people of Maranello—of Ferrari as a whole, actually—had no idea what to think about their two princes now. Articles in local Ferrari papers told stories of a honeymoon phase, no doubt fueled by Giorgio. Some news outlets claimed they were faking. Others spun tales of a dashing Spanish prince intent on destroying the empire from the inside. Or made up stories about Charles wrecking the Ferrari crown in some kind of revenge, though they never seemed to agree on what he was avenging.  

But all of them noticed that something had changed since their return from Spain.

“I’m not jealous,” Charles clarified. “I just don’t want to be in the dark about what’s going on.”

Spelling out the terms and conditions of Monaco had been a dialogue through the entire two-week break. They would do nothing so public that paparazzi would see, but they didn’t need to hide if cameras did appear. No sex unless they told each other first—and that had to be kept completely secret to avoid the wrath of Roman Catholics back in Italy.

No sleeping over with another prince—Ferrari’s only rule for the weekend. But Charles and Carlos had agreed to cover for each other if something came up.

“I’m seeing him all weekend,” Carlos said. “And you said yourself that you don’t want all of the details. And I don’t want to hear what you do with Sebastian.”

“Yes, but we were at that party together,” Charles countered. “I don’t want to know what you did, but I also don’t want to sit around waiting for you when you have no plans to come back.”

Carlos leaned over him, a grin on his lips. “Fine.”

 He pulled Carlos to him for a gentle, perpendicular kiss. Carlos still tasted like coffee and pastries from breakfast. Charles didn’t mind it.

When the kiss broke, Charles reluctantly sat up and pulled off his glasses to scrub his face with a hand. As much as he enjoyed lounging around in an old t-shirt and basketball shorts, he had to get ready for lunch.

“Any plans?” he asked Carlos around a yawn.

Carlos shrugged. “Pranzo con Sergio.”

Charles let out a hum. “Lonely husbands go to lunch. Ah-dor-hable.”

He slipped from the couch and wandered into his bedroom to rifle through his closet. He picked out a black Armani zip-up jacket, a black Henley, and black jeans—offset with white sneakers to complete look. His glasses came off and his bandana was laid to rest on his desk while he changed.

He slipped on his Senna watch, then decided against it because the brown and gold would clash too much, and chose a black Richard Mille instead.

A quick check to his phone told him he would still be on time if he took his Husqvarna.

“Carlos,” he called as he clasped the watch to his wrist. “You have the spare key, yes?”

Carlos appeared in the threshold with another cup of coffee in his hands. “Sí.”

Charles grabbed his wallet and his key ring, double checking that Antonello had actually left him the Husqvarna keys before he made his way toward the door—

And right into Carlos’s arms.

Charles smiled, pressing a kiss to his lips.

He still wasn’t sure what to call the change between them. Comfortable ignorance, maybe. They had settled into the spaces between themselves and now moved about their lives half blind. Easier that way.

“Lock up when you leave,” Charles said when he pulled back. He grabbed his helmet on the way to the door, a familiar weight in his hands. “Ciao.”

Carlos took a sip of his coffee and smiled. “Tell everyone I said hello. Ride safe. ”

Charles stepped out into the hall and shut the door, smiling at the scent of sea breeze and fresh flowers from the building terraces. He headed down the stairs, twirling his keys as he went.

When he reached the garage, he realized that maybe this was what normal people felt like—a kiss goodbye to their husband, separate plans with separate friends.

Normalcy didn’t really suit them.

He kicked up onto his bike and it came to life with a raspy growl. Charles grinned at the sound, and with a glance to his watch, he peeled out of the garage, leaving blacks streaks on the pavement in his wake.

 

 


 

 

Charles parked his bike at Steakout with two minutes to spare. Which—with this crowd—meant he was last to arrive.

Max, George, Lando, and Pierre waited for him out front, each of them in a different brand of sunglasses and no fashion sense to share between the lot of them. Pierre looked like a yacht club YouTuber, Lando like a loungewear model. Max had on entirely too much denim, and George looked like he’d arrived from a GQ photoshoot and forgot to drop his ego on the way out.

“Took you long enough,” Pierre greeted. “You smell like gasoline.”

Charles grinned, moving down the line to greet each of them with a fist bump or handshake. Even Lando, who looked entirely too happy to see him.

“Table’s waiting,” George said as he took the lead.  He didn’t seem at all upset to have been standing right next to Max.

Charles glanced at Max, who shrugged, just as confused.

Steakout anticipated their arrival every year now—ever since they all decided that spending Fridays in Monaco with arranged marriage husbands could be fucking annoying, even if they did love each other.

“Right this way,” their hostess greeted as they stepped inside.

Fifty phone cameras trained on them as they walked through the restaurant—young princes who had once been just a group of friends too poor to even breathe the air at Sass down the street, Monaco’s premiere dinner venue.

Steakout had grown over the years, but the tables in the back still had old coffee stains and laminated menus that stuck to the table if left alone for too long. The booths peeled and the pleather oozed stuffing in a few places, but those blemishes were fewer and fewer every year.

Their table sat tucked in the far corner of the restaurant. The rest of the tables were vacant in their section, with temporary privacy screens set up to keep other patrons from spying on them while they ate.

Sass would have seated them front and center—as they had several times before when Charles went out to dinner with friends or managed to find Max on a free night where they were both home.

“Merci,” Pierre said with a nod of his head as Max slid into the booth. Charles took the seat beside him, an old habit. George sat opposite, Lando next to him, and Pierre slotted himself next to Charles—everyone in their usual spots.

Except one.

Alex’s spot in the booth sat glaringly empty.

Odette, Steakout’s owner, appeared and  greeted them with a little cry of joy. “C’est si bon de vous voir tous!”

“Te es plus belle que jamais, Odette,” Pierre returned with a sly smile.

Odette petted her white hair and smiled wide, her pink lipstick stretching thin as she did so.  

“You boys are still too kind,” Odette said with a laugh.  “I’ll have the kitchen start straight away—we bought everything special for you!”

Now that they were princes, they had to adhere to strict diets during the season, so the days of chocolate milkshakes, American-style steakburgers, and thick-cut American fries were over—though Odette often snuck them a few treats and didn’t tell their nutritionists.

“Thanks, Odette,” Lando said, and the rest of them echoed the sentiment before she scurried away to instruct the staff on keeping cameras away.

Pierre set his phone on the table, face down, and motioned for them to do the same.

“Come on, all of you.”

Each of them produced their phones and silenced them before stacking them on top of Pierre’s.

“Nothing leaves this table,” Pierre reminded them. “No crowns here. Am I right to assume we all still know the rules?”

George raised his hand.

Pierre’s face soured. “George?”

“Yes, thank you,” George said. “I’m just wondering if the rules still apply, considering Max sat here last year and then completely fucked Alex over a few months later.”

Charles felt Max tense beside him, ready to fight. He slipped his hand over Max’s knee under the table to call him off. Max didn’t soften, but he didn’t bite, either.

“It’s tradition,” Charles said. “Not all of us have been here every year, we have to make it work. That’s the point. At the end of the day, we’re here for each other.”

Everyone at the table froze at that, even Charles.

Maybe the rules really didn’t apply anymore.

Max moved first, looking away.

Charles caught eyes with Lando, and immediately bristled when his lips curled into a very punchable smirk before he put an arm around George.

“You think I haven’t had my life fucked over?” Max suddenly said, leveling his gaze back on George. “That Charles hasn’t? Pierre? Lando?”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Lando cut. “I’m on George’s side.”

Charles gritted his teeth. Once upon a time, they came here with dreams, bloodthirsty for a crown. They sat at Steakout and discussed the current season, if they had any luck securing an appointment—even stupid things like Fuck, Marry, Kill with the princes of the time, though those conversations definitely never left the table.

They used to be innocent and ignorant and blissfully, wonderfully happy.

Now they could barely sit at a table together.

“Alex isn’t here,” Pierre said quietly. “And he isn’t coming. And Max isn’t married to Dan and Lando isn’t married to Carlos, and Charles isn’t married to Seb.”

Charles flinched. Lando caught his eye again, his smile gone.

Their food arrived—plates of baked chicken, leafy greens, a measly pile of cooked potato skins meant to substitute fries. Then came the bowl of triple cheese mac, a golden vat of guilty pleasure.

They all reached for it at the same time, clambering for the serving spoon.

Max snatched it first, holding it above the table with a victorious cheer. Charles glanced at Pierre, who gave the slightest nod.

Just as Max leaned in to scoop his portion of mac n’ cheese, Charles pounced, digging his fingers into Max’s ribs.

“Fuck!” Max yelped out as Charles shoved him into the corner of the booth. Max kept the spoon high, but Pierre crawled up Charles’s back to snatch it, effectively wedging him into the brunt of Max’s shoulder.

“Are we really doing this right now?” George groaned from across the table.

“Got it!” Pierre cried as he moved off of him, but Charles got a few extra digs into Max’s ribs, earning him a cuff over the head.

Pierre scooped a generous portion of mac n’ cheese onto a plate and handed it to Charles before scooping some for himself.

“Teamwork,” Lando said, a shit-eating grin on his face. “You should try it, Maxie.”

Charles shot a hand out to grab Max by the sleeve, fully prepared for him to launch across the table to grab Lando by the throat. But Max, still breathing hard from the tussle, leaned back into the corner of the booth with a smile. George, for all of his complaining, had a grin on his face across the table.

Maybe the crown hadn’t taken everything from them. Not yet.

They could still fight over spoons and sneak cheat meals. Lando could flick potato skins at George and Pierre could smile with cheeks full of food and Max could steal a bite of his mac n’ cheese and tangle their legs under the table and Charles could smile instead of hurt.

“Okay, okay,” Lando said, ducking as George fought to mess up his hair. “Should I start then? Since Pierre’s got mac in his face.”

Pierre gave a close-lipped grin, his cheeks still buldging with cheese.

“Things are getting better,” Lando said quietly, a confession.

The table quieted. Charles speared up a few noodles, watching as the cheese stretched enough that he could twirl it around his fork like linguini.

“Think we all know how royally fucked I got—thanks to you two asshats.” Lando definitely meant it as an insult, but his voice didn’t have a hostile edge. “But I have Carlos back this weekend, so it’s all good.”

Charles felt all of the boys look at him as he chewed his mac n’ cheese. He smiled, then nodded to Lando.

“He’s excited,” Charles said, easygoing. “But I’m sure he’s already told you that.”

Lando smiled back at him, but his eyes darkened. “He tells me a lot of things.”

Charles swallowed his food. Anxiety curled in his gut, but he knew that everyone would find out eventually, and he didn’t want Lando spinning the news.

“Carlos told me he’s in love with me. In Spain.”

Lando’s lack of reaction confirmed that already knew. Charles had suspected as much, though it made him slightly ill to think about what Carlos might have said or written.

George frowned and Pierre shook his head. Max rested a hand on the small of his back, a hidden touch, but far worse than any facial expression.

Charles laughed down at his plate, fighting the sting of insult. “Well. Looks like I don’t need to clarify that I didn’t say it back.”

“Fuck me,” George said with a shake of his head, slumping back against the booth. “I’m sorry, mate. To both of you.”

Charles’s lip twitched. “Why are you sorry? We should be sorry for him. He’s the one who has to be with me when Lando actually loves him back.”

Lando smiled—a real one this time. “He’ll be okay. He can take hits. And from what I hear, you’re dishing out plenty, mate.”

Charles set his jaw. Could Carlos keep his damn mouth shut about anything?

“How’s Daniel?” Pierre interrupted in a clear attempt to diffuse.

Lando cocked his head, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Max, how’s Daniel?”

Max shrugged, pulling his hand from Charles’s back to prop his elbows on the table.

“A lot better now,” Max said, nonchalant.

“Sleep well?” Lando pressed.

Max smiled, dark. “Hardly slept.”

“Oh, can it,” George muttered. “Lando, seriously, mate. You could have asked literally any one of us and we could have told you Daniel still loved Max. You should be happy you still have Carlos after that press conference bullshit you pulled.”

Pierre nodded. “And I hope you know none of us believed that horse shit about you not loving him.”

“That was the fucking point, mate,” Lando snapped. “And yet the public ate it all up. Couldn’t believe I’d say that. ‘Oh, Ricciardo must really be suave if Lando loves him despite everything’—give me a break.”

“Was the bedroom thing a joke too?” Charles asked, genuinely curious. Carlos didn’t talk about his codes or rules with Lando very often. Despite Carlos acting to the contrary, he couldn’t imagine him agreeing to Lando fucking around with Daniel.

Lando shrugged. “He’s a good lay. Not better than Carlos, but—oh, you wouldn’t know, would you?”

Charles went red, both with fury an embarrassment.

“Wait,” George said. “You and Carlos haven’t slept together?”

He was going to kill Carlos when he saw him again.

Charles cleared his throat. “Telling someone you don’t love them back doesn’t exactly lay plans for a good fuck.”

“Did you ever sleep with Seb?” Pierre asked, brow furrowed in thought. His lips curled in disgust a moment later. “I don’t think I actually want you to answer that.”

“No, I didn’t,” Charles growled. “I was an idiot. Didn’t realize how I felt until he was gone. We almost did a few times, but…I mean, I knew he was leaving, so it felt cheap, I guess.”

“Not even a quickie in the garage?” George asked, shocked. “Since when are you a prude?”

Charles did everything he could not to look at Max, who had gone still beside him.

Pierre laughed.  “Who are you fucking in the garage, George?”

George crossed his arms, smirking.

Lando’s mouth dropped open. “No way.” He slapped the table. “No fuckin’ way, mate.”

George tipped up his chin.

“Hamilton,” George finally blurted out, his grin threatening to split his face. “That’s right, gents.”

Pierre shot out of his seat. “You’re not serious.”

It wasn’t exactly a secret among the princes that Hamilton had been spending time with George—Lewis spending time with anyone aside from other champions and Bottas  always turned heads. Charles had assumed it was Mercedes playing mind games with the public again, or Lewis toying with the media for his own gain.

“Totally serious,” George replied. “Okay—we haven’t actually fucked yet, but we’ve done pretty much everything else, as of last night.”

“I still can’t believe this,” Pierre said, pacing. “You and Hamilton? I thought that was some media bullshit.”

“Do you love him?” Lando asked, still laughing.

George shook his head, triumphant. “Nah. But what’s a bit of fun, eh?”

Lando fistbumped him as Max put his head in his hands.

Charles tried not to feel how Max looked. He knew George already saw him as too sympathetic to Max, but in reality, Charles didn’t really have a side in the situation with Alex and Pierre. The Max he knew wouldn’t call for Alex’s exile or for Pierre to almost lose his crown. Max could be ruthless—Charles knew that side of him well—but he respected the rules of the empires.

But George pulling Lewis Hamilton into the equation didn’t sit well with him, either.

“And Bottas is okay with all of this?” Max said, lifting his head.

George laughed. “Maybe if you hadn’t been so wrapped up in Ricciardo, you would have noticed Bottas brought his lady last night.”

Max glanced at Charles as he sat back, but Charles kept his gaze ahead.

“George,” Charles began gently. “I know you’re smart, and I know this is probably fun right now, but messing with Lewis is dangerous. Even Seb tried to keep him at arm’s length.”

“Everyone knows Bottas isn’t invested in the crown anymore,” George replied, waving him off. “And if the Mercedes crown is up for grabs, I’m taking it.”

“He’s not going to let you win the championship,” Pierre said, finally sitting back down. “I hope you know that.”

George shrugged. “At least I’ll have a chance in Mercedes. And I’m going to be around longer than he is—he’s going to retire soon.”

Max shook his head. “You shouldn’t count on that. He can do a lot of damage between now and then.”

George let out a snort. “I’m well aware of how fast things can go to shit—thank you for teaching me.”

Max stiffened, but didn’t fire back.

“Max has a point,” Pierre agreed. “It’s always dangerous for us to get involved with the older princes.”

Charles nodded. “Seb was a good husband even before I had feelings for him, but I still—”

“Even someone like Carlos can be dangerous,” Max interrupted.

Lando set down his fork, eyes narrowed as he chewed a bite of baked chicken.

George leaned in, balancing his chin in his hands. “Oh? Care to share with the class?”

Charles knew Max better than anyone at the table. Even better than Pierre, who had been married to him for the handful of months when Red Bull nearly collapsed from changing princes so many times.

So he could read the tension in Max’s shoulders, the truth fighting to come out.

“Carlos has more influence than he lets on,” Max said. “He depends on people overlooking him.”

“Maybe when you were married to him,” Lando said. “But he’s definitely not like that anymore. Right, Char?”

Charles stared down at his plate. Carlos never hid his royal lineage or that it helped his career. He lived and breathed for his crown, he just wasn’t as obvious about it as Max or George. Not to mention what he’d revealed in Spain—a revelation Charles still had nightmares about when he thought about just how much power Carlos really had.

“Carlos has his secrets,” Charles agreed. “But he’s not malicious. He wants to be here like all of us, but he cares. I trust him.”

“Even if he’s sleeping with Lando behind your back?” Pierre asked.

Lando threw a wadded up spinach leaf at him.

Charles shook his head. “He’s not. But he doesn’t hide what he does with Lando. We’ve discussed it.”

Lando opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. A lightning fast reaction, so miniscule that Charles almost missed it.

Almost.

His fingers curled around his fork.

“Well, since I know you’ve all been waiting to hear,” Pierre said sarcastically, leaning in. “Yuki and I are fine. Kid gets on my nerves and he’s batshit crazy, but he’s manageable for now. Doesn’t know que dalle about what’s going on in the paddock or in court, but he’s smart. He’ll learn.” He looked to Lando. “I was happy he had a friend last night.”

“Yeah, Lando, what’s the deal with bringing Callum and Fewtrell?” George asked, seemingly pleased to avoid any more conversation about Lewis, despite his pride.

Charles didn’t like that, either.  

Lando shrugged. “Alonso said I could, so I did. They were both in town and we had dinner.”

Alonso. Of course Alonso would allow Lando to do whatever he wanted.

“But Fewtrell?” George asked.

“You should try having some non-royal friends,” Lando snapped. “You can actually be friends with them instead of waiting for them to stab you in the back.”

“You know,” Charles growled. “I don’t think it’s fair that you’re all going after Max.”

Pierre, Lando, and George collectively glared at him.

Charles scowled. “You can’t honestly think Max was behind all of the decisions that affected us.”

“Us?” Lando laughed. “How the fuck did they affect you, Charles?”

“Stop being naïve,” Charles said. “Everything affects everyone.”

“I can argue for myself,” Max said.

“Well, you haven’t been doing a very good job,” Charles muttered.

Max speared up some of his chicken and lifted his fork to examine it. “Something is going on that none of us know about. Something with the FIA, or close to it.”

Pierre rolled his eyes before focusing on his salad.  

“Daniel left Red Bull because something happened,” Max continued quietly. “He won’t talk about it, and Horner won’t give me anything. They want to spin it like Dan got fed up and wanted out, but that’s not true.”

“Or maybe it is true and Daniel doesn’t really love you,” Lando said.

“That’s like saying Carlos doesn’t love you,” Max snapped.

“He doesn’t love just me anymore, apparently.”

Charles tried not to imagine Carlos at his flat, figuring out his coffee machine, putting books away, making their bed. Loving him in ways he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—reciprocate.

“I think we should stop talking about it,” Max said. “Nothing good ever happens.”

“You could say sorry,” George hissed. “To Alex, at least.”

“Or me,” Pierre chimed in. “Isn’t exactly great to have a divorce record.”

Max shook his head. “I’m not going to apologize for something I didn’t decide. I did exactly what all of you would do. Horner presented me with the plan, and it was best for the empire.”

“Do not.” George leaned over the table, stabbing his fork at Max. “You chose what was best for you.”

“Best for me would be having Daniel,” Max said evenly. Charles couldn’t fathom him being this calm in the face of such an onslaught. “When Daniel announced he was leaving, I learned that no matter how important you are—no matter how much power you think you have—someone always has more.”

He set down his fork, the chicken untouched.

“I begged,” Max continued. “I sat across a table and begged Horner to offer him whatever he wanted. I even offered to give up my residency here, told him I sign whatever agreement he wanted. I thought Horner could reverse any decision, but he couldn’t. He just walked me out of his office and shut the door in my face.”

Charles rested his knee against Max’s under the table. Max moved it away.

“We sit here and talk about love and crowns, but none of that means power,” Max said. The only way to have power is to win. And when I win the championship, I’m getting Daniel back, and I’m going to find out what the fuck is going on.”

Sebastian always spoke about the power older princes earned through the years. Winning World Championships opened up a new world of opportunity. Security. Charles wanted both. The FIA always had the final say, but Charles could see in Max’s eyes that they maybe had more of a hand in things than even he knew about.

“So much for not talking about the crown,” Lando muttered.

George scooped up more mac n’ cheese, his face unreadable.

“Fine,” George said. “No more crown. But if we’re really looking out for each other, I think we need to follow Max’s lead. If any one of us wins the championship and finds out what’s going on, we have to tell each other.”

“Nothing is going on,” Lando sighed. “Seriously, you guys love conspiracy theories. Sometimes people just don’t love other people. Sometimes they’re just selfish. And beyond that, we’re princes who drive cars and wave to the cameras. We’re never going to have any power.”

“Spoken like a true rookie,” Charles said.

Lando tensed. “Watch it, Charles.”

The thrill of danger seeped into his blood, just like last time. ”Or what? You’ll start loving my husband even harder?”

Pierre leaned into his side, a warning. A warning Charles ignored.

But Lando only smirked. “Whatever. I said my piece. If I win the championship before all of you and find out the FIA is actually run by lizard people, I’ll give you a call.”

“The sooner you stop being ignorant, the better it will be for all of us,” Charles snapped.

“Char,” Pierre said quietly. “Assez.”

Pretending they all played by the same rules put everyone in danger. Especially Carlos, since he was closest to Lando. And Charles would not allow Lando’s warped sense of purpose to drive the knife even deeper into his marriage with Carlos.

“Can we eat this mac n’ cheese now?” George cut in, stabbing some up from his plate. “I’d rather talk about Esteban’s dance moves from last night than beat myself bloody on this brick wall. I came here to forget about this shit, and I think I’ve don’t a great job at playing civil, and I deserve a reward.”

“Anything to get you to shut up,” Max said under his breath.

“I heard that, and I’m going to exercise my continued civility,” George said around a mouthful of mac n’ cheese. “Your Highness.”

Pierre slapped the table with both hands, alerting their waitress.

“Drinks,” Pierre announced when she approached. “Steakout specialties only. And club soda for Mr. Purity over here.”

Lando wiggled his fingers, eyebrows jumping in the most sarcastic excited face he could muster.

“And make them strong,” George chimed in.

“Really strong,” Max agreed. “Please.”

The waitress hurried off with a smile.

Charles watched as Lando popped another potato skin in his mouth and bit down on it with a crunch, a smile curled at his lips. The dopey, distant kind.

The smitten kind.

Pierre turned back to them with a devilish grin.  

“We are so fucked,” he said.

Charles could not have agreed more.  

 

 

Chapter Text

 

Things settled after drinks hit the table. They rehashed the party—whether or not Kimi or Gio slept in the same bed. How Mick could survive Nikita. If Gio would ever cut his hair. When they last talked to their families, if anyone had any good letters to quote.

By the time they got through three rounds of shitty cocktails, Max and George were trading jokes and kicking each other under the table and Lando was laughing at every punchline, even though he was only drinking soda. Pierre leaned into Charles more with every drink, telling tales of Alpha Tauri and how much Charles would love it if he visited. Charles carded his fingers through Pierre’s hair all the while, teasing him for his tacky pomade, but not too harshly.

As usual, Steakout smoothed the frayed tensions between them. Something about the faded colors and worn booth seats didn’t allow royal barbs to stick long.

The alcohol probably didn’t hurt either.

Charles basked in his buzz, and ordered another Steakout cocktail, bartender’s choice. Trying to name the liquor in the drinks placed before them only asked for disappointment.

Odette snuck them dessert—chocolate lava cake with hot fudge and vanilla ice cream. Way too much sugar, but alcohol helped them overcome their good sense.

Pierre sat up to cut him a piece, and Charles admired the way his fingers curled around the knife, the smooth movement of his wrist as he made a clean slice through the immaculate frosting.

“For you,” Pierre said cheerfully, placing a plate of cake in his lap a few moments later.

Charles scooped up hot fudge with a finger and popped it in his mouth. The fudge had the perfect consistency—sweet, textured, and not too runny.

“You are not learning German,” Max laughed, rumbling against him where Charles’s head wedged between Max’s chest and shoulder.

Charles pulled his finger from his mouth and watched as Pierre began to stack toothpicks on his plate, using baked chicken as a foundation for his tower. Pierre was definitely drunk, and Charles could feel that Max was also drunk—his body always ran hotter when intoxicated.

“Mate, mate,” George tried to explain across the table, slurring his words. “It’s like, bigger than that. Learning German is bigger than that.”

Charles couldn’t focus on specific things except Pierre’s intense eyes, the pinch of his lips between his teeth. The warm reds and yellows of Steakout décor, and the clunk of his plate of lava cake as he set it back on the table, heavy.

“It’s like—It’s kinda like space,” George continued. “All together it’s one thing—German. But then you look at every star and there’s like, constellations, mate. Verbs and sentences and bloody meaning.”

Charles turned his head, lashes fluttering at the softness of Max’s denim jacket against his cheek.

“You aren’t making any sense, George,” Charles teased, tossing a straw wrapper at him.

“Because you’re not thinking critically,” George argued.

“It’s alright, mate,” Lando said, chuckling. “We’ve got the spirit, I think.”

Charles lifted a hand to tug at the lapel of Max’s jacket.

“What’s this, anyway?” he asked. “Max Jean Bleu.”

His lips curled to a smile as Max softened against him, adjusting himself into the corner of the booth so that Charles had less bone and more muscle to rest against. Max felt a bit like Carlos, but he smelled like cinnamon and cheap liquor instead of sun and cedarwood.

“You don’t like it?” Max asked, lifting his arm to drape it over Charles, a little drunk, a little messy. Charles felt the change that the years had made in him, the heavy muscle and confidence where he’d once been insecurity and hesitation.

“He’s trying to say it looks stupid,” Pierre said, stabbing another toothpick into place.  

“It looks nice!” Max protested.

“It looks like Daniel picked it out,” Lando cracked.

Max scowled, his cheeks blotchy. Drunk.

Charles’s grin turned sloppy in Lando’s direction. “Daniel definitely picked it out.”

Max’s forearm pressed against Charles’s face as he bent his arm to check his watch. Charles glared up at him with smushed cheeks, and Max’s lips twisted to a smirk before releasing him.  

“We should get moving,” Max announced. “Can’t waste all day here.”

But Charles liked being drunk in the middle of the day in Monaco, crammed in a booth with two of his favorite people, with two more sitting just across the table.

They used to be this way all the time, before love and crowns and betrayals.

Now they were pinned with the undercurrent of worry—worry about George and Lewis, about Pierre’s appointment, about Alex’s absence. Lando and Carlos, Max and Daniel.

If they stayed longer, they wouldn’t have to face all of it again.

Max tapped his cheek, and Charles let out a growl, reaching blindly above him to tap at Max’s face in return.

Max still felt like a safe place, despite everything. Max loved him but wasn’t in love with him, and Charles could stomach that much easier than the man he would sleep next to tonight.

Pierre squeezed his ankle. “Très bien, montez.”

“Fine, fine,” Charles groaned, using Max’s thigh as a push-off point to sit up. He made sure to dig his elbows in as much as he could.

The room swam around him, everything spinning and whirling and warm.

Lando started handing out phones as they shuffled out of the booth, and helped to steady a teetering George.

“Je suis vraiment saoul,” Charles slurred, nearly toppling as he slid to the edge of the seat cushion.

“Yes, you are,” Pierre laughed, holding his shoulders up. “You’d better be going home.”

“I rode my bike,” Charles muttered.

“Checo’s coming,” Max said, scrolling through his phone. “I’ll have him bring Carlos. I forget—he can ride a bike, yes?”

“Yeah,” Lando said at the same time Charles said, “Not really.”

Charles blinked sluggishly as Pierre helped him up out of the booth.

“You good?” Pierre asked, framing his face with his hands. “You can walk like a normal person?”

Charles straightened with a smile. “I’m not blasted after three drinks.”

“Four,” Lando corrected with a snicker. He handed over Charles’s phone. “Don’t forget this.”

“Merci.” Charles pocketed his phone and made sure he had his wallet and keys.

“Come on, I’ve got him,” George said, slinging an arm around his shoulders. He leaned in, lips to Charles’s ear, and whispered, “Don’t fall over, or I’ll definitely fall over.”

They managed to walk out of Steakout without too much fanfare, though Lando couldn’t stop laughing, claiming they definitely looked drunk in the middle of the day and that everyone would know it.

They grouped up on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant, and security shooed away fans that tried to pester them. Everyone but Lando cursed the bright sunlight and muttered about hangovers that hadn’t even started.

A Lotus Evora GT flew around the corner a few minutes later, and it screeched to a stop in front of them.

The passenger side window rolled down to reveal Latifi in a pair of pink cat-eye sunglasses, techno music fading out.

He grinned at them, then tore off his sunglasses with dramatic flourish.

“Whaddup, bitches?”

All of them burst out laughing, and Charles had to hold onto a trash can to keep from hitting the sidewalk when George’s arm slipped from his shoulders to double over.

“That’s my fuckin’ man,” George said proudly once he’d gotten himself under control. He popped open the passenger door, wavering a little on the slight incline of the hill.

He turned back to them and his smile flickered. Charles swore he saw wetness in his eyes.  

“This was fun,” George said. “I miss you guys.”

Charles’s chest went tight, and he suddenly wished he still had George’s arm around his shoulder to give him a proper hug goodbye.

“We aren’t going anywhere, mate,” Lando said, smiling wide. “See you tomorrow.”

Latifi honked the horn. “Enough talking to the enemy! We have a coffee tasting!”

“Yeah, yeah,” George said, climbing inside.

The window started to go up, but not before they heard Latifi say, “Holy shit, are you drunk?”

As the Evora sped away, Charles wondered if he would ever be in a relationship that carefree. He didn’t even know if he wanted one.

He didn’t know what he wanted anymore.

Pierre stepped up beside him, pressing his hand to Charles’s back. “You alright?”

The salty air from the harbor beyond smelled the same as the party last night, when he’d stepped out to the balcony to watch the lights come on in the city below and the sea beyond.

“Hey Lando,” Charles asked, ignoring Pierre. “Did you and Carlos fuck last night?”

Pierre’s fingers curled at his back. “Charles,” he whispered. “Why?”

Lando stared at him for a long time. Wind ruffled his curls, and the look in his eyes made Charles hurt. Cars honked in the distance, and the low blare of a boat horn echoed up the street in the silence. Lando visibly warred with himself, but no answer came.

Charles nodded once, finally understanding.  “Did he tell you not to tell me?”

“Yeah,” Lando admitted quietly, looking away. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. And I’m not…I’m not trying to hurt you, Charles. That’s not—”

“It’s okay,” Charles said, his voice equally soft.  “S’probably good. For him. And for you.”

Lando crossed to him, extending a fist. “We’re good?”

No, Charles was not good. But he bumped Lando’s fist anyway. Because he loved Lando too.

Days like this reminded him how much of his life revolved around his crown and his empire, instead of the people he cared about. Lando wasn’t an enemy. Lando was still the guy who helped him fix his kart when he busted the chassis after a hard qualifying as kids. Everyone else had left for the day, but Lando and his dad stayed behind to make sure he had dinner and a kart to race the next day when his own father couldn’t be there.

Lando never complained. Not then and not now. Not even about Carlos, not really. Charles knew he could have made like hell for them, but he’d chosen not to. Probably for Carlos, but maybe for him too.

An Audi RS5 Coupe growled into view around the corner, heading toward them.  

“I’m sorry,” Charles suddenly said. “I didn’t lead him on or anything.”

His stomach twisted up, equal parts guilt and nausea. His mind felt so muddled with alcohol that he didn’t even know if he was lying.

Lando ruffled his hair. “You know—"

The Audi screeched to a stop beside them.

Charles glanced over to see Yuki in the driver’s seat of the Audi, Fewtrell in the passenger side, throwing up a peace sign.

“Dude, look at this car!” Yuki cried as Lando abandoned whatever he’d been about to say to play punch Fewtrell.

“Max!” Pierre called, hooking an arm tight around Charles. “Take care of Char, yeah?”

“I’ve got him, I’ve got him,” Max said, stepping in to take Pierre’s place with an arm around his shoulders.  

“Where’re you going?” Charles asked Pierre, sagging into Max.

Fuck, he was way too drunk for midday.

“Casino, baby!” Yuki answered instead.

Lando extended a fist to Max. “Bring Dan back at a reasonable time, yeah? We’ve got shit to go over.”

Max bumped him, smirking. “We’ll see.”

Lando frowned.

Max rolled his eyes. “He’ll be back. Monaco is his pride and joy, he’s not gonna let me keep him all night no matter how much he loves me.”

Pierre slapped Charles on the back. “Drink lots of water and take care of yourself, Char,” he said. “You’ve gotta win it this year.”

Charles smiled, patting Pierre’s shoulder a few times. He only missed once.

“Have fun at the casino.”

“You two can join if you want,” Lando offered, opening the passenger side door.

Charles started to stumble forward, fully intent on joining, but Max pinned him in place at his side.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Max replied.

“Bye guys,” Charles said, and it came out way too loud. “Have fun.”

Pierre and Lando waved goodbye once they got in the car, then Yuki gassed it too early and Pierre nearly smashed his face into the side of the open window before ducking back inside to start yelling at him.

For a moment, Charles just stood there slumped against Max, entirely too drunk. But the breeze felt nice, and with Max’s sun-warm jacket against his cheek, he didn’t feel a hangover on the way.

“You alright, Charles?” Max asked into his hair.

Charles pulled back, smiling. “Oui.”

Max wore his concerned face when he looked down at him.

“Don’t look like that at me,” Charles said, fumbling his words.

“You’re very drunk,” Max said.

“Mm,” Charles replied, returning his cheek to Max’s shoulder. “It’s very nice to be drunk.”

He liked the fuzziness of his thoughts, the way he could actually forget the things he didn’t want to deal with. Like Carlos lying by omission, or Lando sitting across the table from him, loving Carlos and not apologizing for it. Sebastian all but ignoring him.

“You really haven’t slept with Carlos?” Max asked a moment later.

Charles snorted out a laugh. “Stupid, huh.”

“Not stupid,” Max said softly, rubbing his back. “It’s not stupid.”

Charles pulled away, rubbing his itchy eyes.

“Am I still the only one?” Max asked.

Charles laughed. “No, Max. Come on.”

Fucking didn’t intimidate him. George could call him a prude all he wanted, but Charles didn’t like to waste time fucking strangers, though he did it occasionally. He didn’t even like fucking his own husbands, really. Sex complicated things. It always did, even with people who meant nothing. It only took one loose tongue to topple an empire. .

Charles heard the distinct rumble of an NSX prototype and smiled.

“Checo is here,” Charles announced, as if Max didn’t know.

“Carlos too,” Max reminded him.

He patted Max’s jacket and tugged at the lapel again. “I like this jacket.”

Max smiled, a little sly. Charles heard the crunch of tires on asphalt behind him.

“I hope so,” Max murmured. “It’s yours.”

The memory slammed into him like an impact to the barrier wall. He knew the feel of that denim because he’d picked it out in Milan almost a decade ago. Back then it had been oversized and ridiculous—exactly his style.

He didn’t even remember giving it to Max. Or why he would keep it.

Charles stared at him, his fingers still curled into the jacket.

Max smiled at him, and for a moment Charles wondered If any of this was real. The light hit Max in a way that made him look like a different person. Someone happy and proud of his life.  

Arms wrapped around him from behind, and Charles recognized Carlos by touch alone, long before the scent of him hit his nose, or when Carlos’s lips brushed his neck.

Checo greeted Max with a pat on the shoulder.

When Max turned his head, the light went out.

“Good lunch?” Checo asked.

Max’s response sounded like nothing. Gibberish.

“Carlos,” Charles murmured, but he couldn’t get his eyes to focus.

“Oh, you’re very drunk,” Carlos chuckled, his breath hot in his ear. “Sergio wasn’t kidding.”

Charles folded his arms over Carlos’s and leaned back into him. He tried not to think about how Carlos could have fucked Lando in the space of an hour with no clues left behind.

“Don’t wreck my Husqvarna,” Charles muttered, turning his face into Carlos’s neck.

Carlos kissed his temple before looking to Max. “Thanks for making sure he gets home safe.”

“No problem,” Max said, but his gaze didn’t linger before he knocked shoulders with Checo and they headed to the car. “Is Daniel up and moving?”

“He better be,” Checo replied. “Like hell I’m going to walk in there and check on him. I’ve seen too much of both of you already.”

Charles watched them go, uncomfortable. Carlos’s hold felt smothering, too enveloping, almost like Carlos wanted to swallow him whole.

He really wanted to know why Max still had his jacket, but the NSX peeled out before he could come up with a plan to ask.  So he fished his keys from his pocket and tapped them to Carlos’s arm.

“Andiamo,” he said.

Charles didn’t feel that drunk on the walk over to where he’d parked his bike. A few fans posed in front of it, then quickly ran out of the way when they approached. Carlos gave them a wave, then handed over Charles’s helmet.

Charles shook his head. “You should wear it.”

“Mm, no,” Carlos said, putting the helmet on Charles’s head and pulling it down snug.

Charles readjusted his sunglasses and frowned. “You put it on funny.”

Carlos grinned, and for a moment Charles forgot that Lando loved his husband and leaned in to kiss him.

Carlos met the kiss happily, then pulled away laughing. “You taste like alcohol.”

That made sense, as Charles could only taste liquor and fudge when he ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth.  He stepped back to give enough room for Carlos to get on his bike, though he hated the thought of someone else riding it.

Carlos slipped onto the bike like he’d been riding all of his life, though Charles knew he didn’t like motorcycles that much, and he definitely didn’t like Husqvarnas. 

Charles climbed on behind him, a little off balance and definitely leaning on Carlos too much as he did so. He wrapped his arms around Carlos’s middle and took a breath when Carlos wrapped his hand around the throttle—

And eased into it, gliding into the street like they were riding a Vespa around Maranello and not a jet black monster with fangs for gears.  

The moved down the street at a leisurely place that made Charles want to scream.

“You can accelerate, you know.”

He only caught the corner of Carlos’s grin before he wrung the throttle and they tore through the streets.

Charles found he did not like someone going fast on his bike either.

“Carlos,” he growled.

“Ehi, you said I could accelerate,” Carlos teased, only slowing down a fraction.

Charles pressed his face between Carlos’s shoulders and groaned, nausea welling up in him.

As he always did—somehow—Carlos seemed to sense it and slowed back down to Vespa pace.

The sidewalk went from a twisty line of color to a blurry but recognizable path. Charles relaxed, sinking into the rhythm of Carlos’s breathing, feeling the way his chest expanded and contracted in his hold.

Carlos began to hum something under his breath, vibrating against Charles’s touch. It took Charles a moment to recognize the tune of Gran Vals. Charles began to hum along with him as they wound up the twisting streets back toward his flat, his mind buzzing along with the engine.

“Playing piano?” Carlos asked.

Charles stilled his fingers where they had begun to play chords on the keys of Carlos’s ribs, his cheeks going hot. He merely hummed in reply and adjusted his hold so that it wasn’t quite so tight.

They pulled into the garage a moment later, the sunlight disappearing behind concrete.

“Wait,” Charles said as the engine quieted and Carlos cocked the bike.

Carlos stilled.

Charles’s body thrummed as though the engine was still on, and adrenaline spritzed his blood, though he didn’t know the trigger.

“Are you going to throw up?” Carlos asked.

“No,” Charles said, closing his eyes. “I just need a second.”

He needed to feel Carlos in his arms, the warmth of him, the draw of his breath. The movement of his muscle as he reached up to place a hand over one of his, thumbing his knuckles.

All of that love and affection, wasted on him when Lando deserved it all.

Charles finally leaned back and swung his leg over the bike, only losing his balance a little bit once he got to his feet. He blinked a few times to correct himself, then unclipped his helmet and secured it on the back of his bike.

Carlos put an arm around him, but Charles could only think about Carlos fucking Lando and then telling Lando not to say anything about it.

Worse, he knew Carlos only told him to stay quiet so the news would come from Carlos himself. At the perfect time. Like always.

“I’m not drunk,” Charles suddenly announced, sounding very drunk.

“Okay,” Carlos chuckled, swiping them into the elevator instead of taking the stairs. A wise choice.

“I need to sit down,” Charles said, pulling from Carlos’s hold once they entered the elevator. He didn’t want to be touched anymore. Not unless he could be back in that booth with Max and Pierre, or falling against George on the way out of Steakout.

“I don’t—”

Charles dumped himself on the floor. The cool tile felt nice against his back, but he sat up a moment later, figuring that lying on the floor would be a little too ridiculous for this level of drunk.

So he opted to lean back against the wall instead, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. The elevator started to move, and he felt all of the liquid parts of himself sink toward the ground.

“I really fucked up, mate,” Charles whispered, eyes opening to slits.

“Uh oh,” Carlos teased, crouching down to his level. “And what horrible thing have you done?”

Charles was so drunk that he couldn’t even name just one. Abandoning his family came to mind. Hurting Lando, hurting Carlos, hurting every one of his friends. Not trying hard enough for Seb. Centered every one of his goals on a crown that could shatter with a hard enough impact.

Everything in him sloshed back into place as the elevator slid to a gentle stop.

He needed to refocus. He needed a clean slate. Again.

Carlos extended a hand and Charles took it, allowing Carlos to pull him to his feet.  

He swayed a little as he made his way to the door and gave the handle a tug before realizing Carlos had the keys.

“Not going to tell me?” Carlos asked, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he stepped past to unlock the door.

Charles felt soft denim against his fingertips, the warmth of Pierre’s legs under his knees, the balled up laugh in his throat from George’s bad jokes—all of it already fading into a mirage. Another blip in time they would forget about until next year, a memory crushed with competition, slander, and whatever lies they could dredge up to convince themselves to be less human and more king.

Once they were inside, Carlos set down the keys and turned, his brow furrowing in concern. “Charles?”

Charles stood there and listened to the sound of his own breathing, eyes unfocused on Carlos, just trying to imagine how and when and where it had happened with Lando. If Carlos asked for it or if Lando did. If it started with lips or hands or one sweet word.

Charles shook his head, and his sunglasses fell to the floor.

“Fuck,” he muttered, staring down at them as Carlos laughed.

When Carlos pressed the sunglasses back into his hand, Charles had to process for a moment before he realized that Carlo’s lips were on his. He kissed back, beyond late, and Carlos laughed again.

“Sit down,” Carlos said with a gentle ruffle to his hair. “I’ve got a smoothie recipe that will make sure you don’t have a hangover tomorrow.”

Charles swallowed hard, finally calling up Carlos’s only hint. He’d taken a shower immediately when they got home. Changed with the door closed, and he never did that.

I know you fucked Lando.

The words danced on the tip of his tongue, fighting to leave his mouth, but Charles said nothing. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

“Perfetto,” Charles said absently, but he didn’t go to the couch.

Instead, he followed Carlos to the fridge and pulled his hand away from the handle and up to his lips.

This time he tasted the tang of metal from Carlos’s ring. A band as meaningless as their marriage could have been. As it probably should be.

Charles didn’t move his lips from the backs of Carlos’s fingers, and though he knew he’d spent too long just standing there drunk off his ass in his kitchen, he couldn’t find it in him to move.

“He makes you happy,” Charles finally murmured, pulling back.

Carlos sighed. “Charles—”

“He was happier today than I’ve seen him in a long time,” Charles continued, his eyes sliding past Carlos’s face. Everything blurred at the edges of his vision. “And you deserve to be that happy too.”

Carlos captured his lips in a kiss and pulled his hand free to gather Charles into his arms. He felt the warmth and the security, but suddenly it felt a bit like cheating. Lando deserved this, not him. Lando knew exactly what Carlos wanted and how to give it, and Charles could only play a part like an actor in a movie. He liked his role—an Oscar contender, really—but some day the movie would end and Carlos would leave and he would not be looking for Charles on the other side of the curtain.

“I am happy,” Carlos murmured into his neck.

Charles smiled, wriggling free from Carlos’s hold to frame his face in his hands.

“Oh-kayeee,” he said in an exaggerated Italian accent, thumbing over Carlos’s cheeks—maybe a bit too hard. “That’s very nice of you, Cah-los.”

He rested his forehead against his husband’s for a moment, then a laugh bubbled out of him. Carefree, the way Latifi laughed with George.

“Che c’è da ridere?” Carlos asked, laughing with him.

Charles shook his head, pulling back to look Carlos over. Oh yes, he was very drunk. Drunk enough to want to prevent Carlos from making that smoothie, using only his mouth.

“You,” Charles answered before he let his thoughts go down that path. “And Lando. He loves you so much.”

Carlos’s smile dropped.

Charles pecked his lips. “S’okay. It’s Monaco. He’s at the casino tight now with Pierre. And Yuki—and Fewtrell. You should see him.”

“I’d rather—”

Charles cut him off with a finger pressed to Carlos’s lips. “Ah-ah. No lying to me.”

He lifted his finger to tap Carlos on the nose, then slipped past him toward the couch. He dinged his hip on the edge of the counter on the way and cursed under his breath as the pain radiated, then numbed. He had to at least attempt self-control, and he couldn’t do that standing in his kitchen with Carlos’s lips all over the goddamn place.

Once he settled on the couch, Charles pulled out his phone, half-expecting to find a barrage of texts from Max, George, Pierre and Lando until he remembered they were princes now and didn’t even have each other’s numbers anymore.

But he did have Carlos’s, and the most recent text in their thread wasn’t one Charles had sent.

“He texted you from my phone,” Charles slurred, lolling his head toward where Carlos still stood in the kitchen. Charles smiled. “That's really cute.”

A single emoji. Harmless and undetectable if the FIA confiscated his phone.

Heart eyes.

Carlos hadn’t responded to the text, but Charles only ever sent heart emojis when Carlos agreed to make him an espresso. He knew.

If Carlos wanted Lando, then he deserved to have him without someone else in the way.

Charles just needed to make sure he didn’t lose Sebastian too.

 

 

Chapter Text

“He’s going to be fine,” Nic said around a bite of Nutella-covered graham cracker as George pressed himself against the pit wall fence to get a better look at the big screen.

George frowned as he watched a replay of Charles pulling himself from his damaged car. He looked okay, but the car’s front wing bent at an angle, and the crash replays showed a damaged front right tire. Not promising for the race tomorrow, though the commentators announced that Ferrari didn’t think anything was damaged beyond repair.

“Charles is going to be pissed,” George muttered.

“You mean Lewis,” Nic teased.

Lewis had qualified seventh thanks to qualifying being red-flagged after Charles’s crash.  

George shot him a look. “No, I mean Charles. Lewis is just going to pout. He’s come back from worse.”

A red blur shot out from the Ferrari garage as Charles hopped out of the safety car in the paddock, his steering wheel and helmet in hand, eyes narrowed and hair a mess.

Carlos sprinted down the pit lane with his helmet still on, but Charles shot him such a venomous look that Carlos pulled up early.

“Oh shit,” George murmured.

“What?” Nic asked, squinting to try to make out the Ferrari princes.

“Lunch stuff,” George said.

Nic groaned. “Again with the lunch stuff.” He gave George a little shove. “You know it’s bad marriage etiquette to keep secrets from your husband.”

George lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, trust me. I know.”

Charles blew right past Carlos, stalking toward where most of the Ferrari engineering team stood outside the garage.Carlos hurried after him, but did a nice job of looking intense instead of shafted.

“Actually, I don’t really know how much of it is lunch stuff,” George amended, watching as Charles handed off his helmet and wheel to a Ferrari team member before the group of engineers swallowed him, leaving Carlos in the lurch. “He’s really pissed.”

“Think he’ll drive tomorrow?” Nic asked, scooping up more Nutella on a piece of graham cracker.

“Dunno. Probably. Ferrari needs a win.” George plucked the graham cracker from Nic’s hand and took a bite.

Nic sighed at his empty hand, then pulled out a new piece of graham cracker from the sleeve.

“If he doesn’t,” George said, “then Lewis will be a nightmare with Bottas on pole.”

Nic nodded. “You should invite him to the yacht party.”

George had considered it, but he wasn’t really sure where their relationship stood now. Lewis sent him a few quick notes that arrived during yesterday’s coffee tasting, but he never asked to meet up. George figured that was because the media absolutely hounded Hamilton in Monaco, and they didn’t need cameras on them. But Lewis had said they would have Monaco, and so far that had amounted to a whole lot of nothing.

“He’ll be on the podium,” George said with a shake of his head. “That party will be way better than ours. No offense.”

Nic took another bite of his snack. “Mm. I think I’d rather be at our party. We actually get to pick who’s there.”

George couldn’t disagree with that. Monaco’s most exclusive party was the podium afterparty—though calling it a party was a bit of a stretch. Anyone on the podium could invite one guest, royal or not. Husband, or not. It was essentially the FIA’s free pass for a night on a yacht entirely too large for six people.

Even exiles could attend if asked, though George never allowed himself to think about that for too long.

“Lewis already told me he’s going to take Sebastian,” George said. “And I’m sure someone in Mercedes has plans for him if he doesn’t get a podium tomorrow.”

Nic smiled at him. “You think he won’t want to come.”

George’s cheeks flushed as he shrugged. “I don’t really know what he’d do hanging out with us.”

“I do,” Nic said with a mouthful of graham cracker. “You.”

“I’m going to kill you,” George hissed, but Nic extended an offering of Nutella-covered goodness he couldn’t refuse.

“Ask him,” Nic said. “Sebastian’s cool and everything, but he’s not sucking Sebastian’s dick in break rooms.” He screwed up his face. “At least, I hope not.”

George popped the cracker in his mouth before folding his arms, looking down the paddock to see if he could catch a glimpse of Lewis’s black race suit. He’d probably taken it off already, as the sizzling tarmac was hot enough when wearing white.

He only saw Alonso and Ocon under the shade of an Alpine shade umbrella, laughing as they watched something on Alonso’s phone. Esteban looked smitten, and George couldn’t help a little smile. Esteban deserved to be happy.

Sebastian walked by with Lance, arms around each other, a maroon watch on Sebastian’s wrist that George recognized from Bahrain. Lance pressed a kiss to Sebastian’s cheek as they walked, way too lovely dovey for George’s liking.  Not only because Charles  talked about Seb like he couldn’t possibly have eyes for anyone else, but because Lance didn’t seem to notice or care what Sebastian did with Charles. Usually that meant the common denominator was spinning tales on both sides.

“I’m going to look for Lewis,” George said.

Nic gave him a thumbs up. “Keep it civil, babe. Leave the pornographic stuff for the yacht like a real prince.”

George flipped him off, smiling, as he headed off.

Lewis never stayed around the paddock long after qualifying even when he took pole, but George walked past the Mercedes garage just in case. Engineers gathered at monitors and Valtteri huddled with them, likely replaying Charles’s crash to try to get insight on the damage to the car.

Toto caught him staring, and George hurriedly looked away before ducking into the McLaren garage to avoid any chance of a conversation happening there.

Orange-clad engineers stared at him as he entered, and George gave an awkward wave.

“Hey gents, just passing through. Where’s the back—”

A sour-faced engineer pointed directly at a door at the back of the garage.

“Thanks,” George said, and jogged toward it.

The hospitality lane buzzed with reporters. They had Max cornered by the Red Bull motorhome, and he looked uncharacteristically calm as he answered questions.

He traveled down the line of team motorhomes, watching as Max smiled and laughed at something a reporter said, and it made George want to find Lewis even more.

For as much as he still hated Max for what happened to Alex, he hoped Daniel knew how lucky he was to have someone who would take on the world for him.

“This isn’t a joke.”

George stopped walking at the sound of Carlos’s voice. It came from the tiny space between the McLaren and Alpha Tauri team motorhomes, and George glanced around before stepping closer, until he could lean against the outside of the McLaren motorhome. He whipped out his phone to pretend to text, and pulled the bill of his cap down further to eliminate any sign that he might want to talk to the media.

“I know it isn’t a joke,” Lando’s voice replied. “Did I say anything to make It sound like I was joking?”

“I would like to know what you said, for starters,” Carlos growled. “I specifically told you not to say anything to him.”

George blinked. Him? He had to assume they were talking about Charles, but he also knew assuming things asked for trouble when it came to royalty.

“And I already told you, Carlos. I didn’t tell him,” Lando said.

“Then how does he know?” Carlos sounded furious, angrier than George had ever heard him. Not that he really cared to listen to him that often.

“We’ve been friends since we were kids,” Lando shot back. “He’s not stupid, baby.”

George wrinkled his nose. Baby? Really, Lando?

 “You said something. It only could have been you, because I told no one,” Carlos said.

Lando sighed loud enough for George to hear. “He guessed. He asked me if we fucked—what was I supposed to do, lie? One, he knows me too well, and two, I don’t ever want to lie about you again.”

George looked up, doing another check to see if anyone else might be listening as his stomach wrung itself and his throat went tight.

Fuck.

Charles said he didn’t love Carlos, and George believed he meant it. But he also knew how Charles dealt with abandonment.  He’d seen the lights go out in his eyes after Max dumped him, and the tabloid photos of Charles leaving high-profile places hand-in-hand with people who didn’t give a shit about the person behind his pretty face.

Lando had also seen all of that. They used to talk about it. They used to try to help.

George grit his teeth.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Carlos growled out. “Mierda. Lando, do you have any idea—”

“I don’t care!” Lando interrupted, loud enough to startle George. Then, quieter, “I don’t give a flying fuck about Charles being jealous. You can love him all you want, but he doesn’t love you. He announced it to the whole fucking table, like he was proud of it.”

Anger began to simmer in George’s gut.

“He…What did he say?”

George curled his fingers tight around his phone, threatening to crush the screen. Proud? Charles had looked utterly lost, from what George could remember. Defeated, confused, maybe even hurt—definitely not proud.

“He said you told him you loved him,” Lando said. “Then he said that he didn’t need to clarify that he didn’t say it back. And he laughed while he said it.”

George heard the sound of a kiss.

“I wanted to kill him,” Lando said, barely audible.

George wanted to kill Lando. Violating the lunch rules was one thing, but twisting words about someone they both cared about shot right past treason and into complete betrayal.

“He wouldn’t do that,” Carlos said, but he sounded distant.

“You wrote me letters about him saying worse,” Lando said. A pause. “Stop. Stop.”

More sounds of kissing. Another pause.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lando suddenly snapped. “Why are you mad at me?”

“The text,” Carlos said. “He knows it was you. He saw the watch.”

“So what? You should have worn it this weekend,” Lando said.

George strained to listen when they went silent, then spotted Lewis walking down the hospitality lane, hood up and headphones on. Lewis caught sight of him, but didn’t head over right away. George bit his lip. Fuck fuck fuck.

“How long have you been wearing that?” Lando finally asked, but it didn’t sound like he was talking about whatever watch they’d been discussing.

More kissing. Then a few quiet words he couldn’t make out.

George wanted to throw up.

“Don’t hurt him, do you understand?” Carlos said, sounding angry again. “No texts, no telling him things, none of it.”

“Maybe you should stop hurting me,” Lando countered.

Lewis turned to look at something, and George realized it was Sebastian, his arm hooked around Charles as they walked, leaning in far too intimately to whisper something in his ear. Charles grinned, and for a moment George thought they were going to kiss right there in front of everyone.

His phone buzzed with a text from Nic.

Leclerc officially has pole.

George glanced up from his phone again, only to find Lewis looking right at him. He smiled, instantly giddy.

“—spend all morning with him instead of getting breakfast,” Lando said.

“Just because we’re in Monaco and I can see you doesn’t mean I’ve stopped—”

“Do not say loving him. God, why are you an idiot? I’m telling you I love you—which you know is fucking hard for me—and you keep talking about Charles fucking Leclerc. ”

The door to the Alpha Tauri motorhome slammed and George looked over to see Pierre striding out into the crowd, headphones on, oblivious.

Shit.

George glanced at Pierre, then back at Lewis before shaking his head.

Lewis stopped walking toward him and nodded, mouthing ‘I’ll circle back.’

George almost wanted to stop him, just in case Lewis got tied up in interviews and they were separated again, but he had to get to Pierre.

George liked Nic’s text before leaving his eavesdropping spot, taking only a quick glance down the narrow alley between the motorhomes to catch a glimpse of Carlos holding Lando’s face, speaking quietly.

George felt for Lando, but lying about Charles was a low blow.

Maybe Carlos really did love Charles—that was the only reason George could think that would cause Lando to get so nasty. And honestly, it wasn’t a good enough excuse.

“Frenchie!” George called.

Pierre turned, sliding a headphone off one ear. When he saw George, he pulled his headphones all the way off.  “Yeah?”

George jogged the distance between them until he came to a stop at Pierre’s side.

“I just heard something big. Lando and Carlos—”

“Fucked at the champion’s party, I know,” Pierre said. He shook his head.

George stammered for a moment, trying to think if he’d been drunk enough to miss something at lunch. “How do you know?”

Pierre frowned. “Charles asked Lando about it after you left. While we were outside.” He cocked a brow. “How do you know?”

George threw a thumb over his shoulder toward the McLaren motorhome. “Just overheard the lovebirds mid-makeout.”

Pierre’s eyes went wide. “In public?”

“Thankfully they aren’t completely stupid,” George replied with a shake of his head.

They both caught sight of Charles and Sebastian up ahead, posing for photos together. Though they could only see the backs of them, George could tell Charles had a grin on his face by the lift in his cheeks.

“I’m worried about him,” Pierre said quietly, nodding to Charles.

“Me too, mate.”

Sebastian thumbed the back of Charles’s shoulder, out of view of the cameras. Charles returned the gesture a moment later, just once.

“Should we talk to Max?” George asked, still watching.

Pierre let out a snort. “What good would that do?”

Nothing, probably. But Max seemed to be the person closest to Charles, aside from Carlos and Sebastian. If the body language yesterday was any indication, at least.

“You should go talk to him, then,” George said.

Pierre stared ahead, eyes distant.

George never asked about Pierre’s relationship with Charles. It was the kind of thing that seemed like a tripwire on a landmine. Once wrong move and suddenly everyone would be missing limbs.

“I don’t think I would be any help, either,” Pierre finally muttered.

“If you don’t talk to him, I will,” George said. “I’m not going to let Charles get fucked over aga—”

“You think I want that?” Pierre snapped, suddenly vicious.

George took a step back, startled.

“God—sorry.” Pierre ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just—He does this to himself. All the time. Ever since Max. And that was six years ago, mate. They were seventeen and he’s still fucked up from it.”

“Well, that was pretty fucked,” George argued. “Max dumped him at a bloody airport, and the next day Max is on the front page of every tabloid with Carlos’s tongue down his throat.”

Charles never talked about it, not even back then. Every time someone mentioned Max, he shut himself off behind the eyes and if he had any alcohol in him, he started acting fucking crazy.

George knew he’d been lucky to have Alex, even back then. His mum always called them a quiet relationship, because they didn’t need fancy vacations or time away. The best times they had together were at each other’s houses, junk food grocery shopping, or walking around whatever city they were racing in. Even long distance didn’t affect them like it seemed to affect other people.

George always knew Alex would be waiting for him when he came home, and that he would wait for Alex.

“When stuff like that happens that young, it sticks,” George continued. “Good or bad.”

Pierre grit his teeth. “He’s going to run back to Sebastian, blow up everything with Carlos, run to Carlos, blow up everything with Sebastian. He’s a fucking idiot, mate.”

George didn’t disagree.  But he also understood how the circumstances didn’t give Charles much of a choice, and that made his heart hurt. Lando didn’t have it easy, either.

Sneaking around with Lewis only worked because Nic was his best friend, and because he wasn’t with Alex anymore.

He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if Nic caught feelings while Alex waited for scraps at every race. Worse, if Alex had to pretend to love someone else, or somehow did fall in love with someone else while they were still a couple.

George pushed the thought from his mind before he could think about who Alex might be in love with now. He was too kind to not be with anyone. George loved that about him—his generosity with everyone he met. His ability to laugh at himself, even in the tough times.

“So we should be the guardrails,” George said, watching as Sebastian left Charles to join up with Lance, who didn’t seem to notice that he’d missed a display that essentially constituted media PDA.

“Guardrails?” Pierre asked, strangling the word in his accent.

“Yeah. You know, like on the road. So instead of flying off a cliff, he just gets a little dinged up.”

Charles turned toward a reporter, his hand on his wrist, fiddling with the watch Lewis said came from Ayrton Senna.  

George nudged Pierre with his shoulder. “Just don’t get sucked in, yeah?”

Pierre laughed, but his eyes stayed in a dead stare. “I always get sucked in.”

George felt himself nearing the tripwire. He placed a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “It’s not your responsibility to help him at your own expense. I can handle this if it’s easier on you.”

But then he clocked Lewis standing not far off, hood still up, headphones still on, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He didn’t want to put him off anymore, not when he’d been waiting all weekend to see him.

Pierre let out a snort. “I don’t let other people deal with my shit anymore,” he muttered. He reached over to tug down George’s cap with a little smile. “But thanks.”

George grinned, swatting his hand away. “Say what you want, but I’m here for you, mate.”

Pierre put his headphones on and nodded to him. “See you tomorrow. I’ll deal with Char.”

George gave his shoulder a little punch in parting, then made a beeline straight to Lewis. He weaved across the media lane, dodging a few journalists and narrowly avoiding a camera interview.

“Hey,” he greeted once he reached Lewis, surprised at the way his own voice softened.

Lewis slipped his headphones down and smiled in a way that made George want to melt. Fuck. Every time he saw Lewis after any stretch of time, he fucking always felt like melting.

“Can I steal you for dinner?” Lewis asked, cocking his head. “I have a charity event at eight, but I want you to see my place.” He flashed a cockeyed grin. “Too crowded here anyway.”

George’s heart leapt to his throat, flying and falling all at once. “Sure,” he managed to say. “I just have to text Nic.”

 


 

George had seen Lewis’s flat on Instagram  several times, but nothing matched the view in person. Floor to ceiling windows with a perfect view of the sea, a gleaming piano in one corner, a marble sculpture in the other. Tasteful bookshelves, racing memorabilia, haute couture photos and a few framed pieces of clothing beside featured magazine covers.

The place felt like a polished version of Lewis. The man he wanted to show other people and not the one George knew.

More paintings hung in the kitchen, including one raw canvas with abstract shapes that George recognized as tracks painted in thick, deliberate lines. Gestures of wheels and liveries.

“Have you ever painted?” Lewis asked from the dining room, where he set out their meals. Cauliflower rice, some kind of grilled vegetable, and teriyaki tofu. Or something. George had been too busy watching Lewis’s mouth to gather much of what he’d said when he explained it.

“Back in school,” George replied. “I liked it.”

He’d hated it.

“Is this yours?” he asked.

Lewis chuckled. “I’m impressed. How did you know?”

George lifted his hand, but didn’t touch the canvas.

“The lines,” he murmured, traveling through the tracks in his mind. His fingers twitched on reflex, up and down the gears, and the yowl of the engine played in his head. “There’s something intimate about them.”

He followed the straight at Suzuka painted in textured purple, sucking in a breath to prepare for G-forces that weren’t coming as he neared Turn 1.  

“You’re the only person that’s ever said that,” Lewis said, sounding a little off. “Aside from me.”

George turned to find Lewis staring at him from where he stood at the table, a fork balanced in his hand.

“Uh oh,” George teased, though his chest swelled. “Can’t have anyone claiming I’m in your head.”

He left the painting and crossed into the dining room to Lewis’s side. He put an arm wound him and pressed a tentative kiss to his temple, though initiating anything with Lewis always felt like attempting to befriend the snarling lion inked on his pec.

 Not to mention his head still whirled with the memories of Alex. Every corner he turned in Monaco revealed a another one. They jumped from shadows, hid in his duffel, slipped from the sheets in the middle of the night.

He looked back at the painting. The broad brushstrokes, thick with paint but deliberate, knowing. Purples, blues, blacks, and whites making what looked like nonsensical lines to anyone but the men who drove those tracks.

It suddenly hurt to look at, and before that moment, George had always thought people crying over art was bullshit.

“You missed someone,” George said quietly. “When you painted it.”

He felt Lewis tense against him, then soften.

“I thought it might be dangerous to bring you here, but I underestimated you,” Lewis teased, but George sensed honesty in it that made him shiver. Everything in Lewis’s flat looked like it could have easily been in a museum of him, except that painting. So far, that one canvas told him more about the man who lived here than any of the magazine covers or the expensive furniture.

“Some princes love Monaco,” Lewis said. “But you’ll notice that the longer they’ve had a crown, the less you see them here.”

Lewis had told him in Bahrain that he’d been in love before. But he’d also explained how he kept the media guessing, perpetuating stories about him with other princes but never committing to one publicly.

Yet the look in Lewis’s eyes mirrored his own. A longing for something lost.

“For all of the reasons Monaco is a favorite for the young guys like you,” Lewis continued, “it’s deeply painful for us.”

George turned to him, lifting a hand to rest it on Lewis’s cheek before he leaned in for a gentle kiss. Lewis met it, but George could tell he was distracted. George couldn’t claim to be in the best headspace either.

Sitting at lunch the day before only reminded George that pain had an exponential curve among royalty. Every race brought fresh stories, heartbreak, love. All of it tangled in thorns that either caressed or punctured depending on the week.

He couldn’t imagine what it was like for longtime princes, who had to deal with years of changing husbands, different heads of government, and growing FIA control.

George pulled back just enough for a breath, and wound his arms around Lewis’s waist. They both needed closeness to fight off their demons.  

“I know you’ll be on the podium tomorrow,” George murmured. “But if you decide you don’t want to hang out with whoever else finishes with you, Nicky and I are throwing a yacht party.” He swallowed. “And I, um. I’d really like it if you came.”

Lewis smiled, his eyes fond. “Asking me out?”

George cocked his head. “Is that allowed? Or do I need a championship first?”

Lewis pressed a kiss to his lips, and George tasted the pain in it, even if Lewis tried to hide it by sliding a hand up his shirt.

“Unfortunately when I win, I’ll have to deal with people all night,” Lewis said when he broke the kiss, resting their foreheads together. “That’s the only reason I’m bringing Seb to the party. Between the two of us, we can usually deflect the media shitstorm and focus on figuring out what’s going on with the FIA.”

Max’s warning rang in George’s ears.

“Are they up to something?” George asked, brow furrowing.

Lewis laughed, pulling away to offer George his seat at the table. “They’re always up to something. I try to stay ahead of it if I can.”

George took his seat, rather pleased to find that his meal smelled delicious for being entirely vegan. Nic already took the liberty of saving him a filet mignon from the hotel restaurant for when he got back, just in case.

He noticed Lewis moved his bowl to sit across from him instead of beside him—keeping his back to the painting.

“I’m not really worried about the FIA right now,” Lewis said as he stabbed an unsuspecting brussel sprout.

George chewed on his cauliflower rice, watching the way Lewis’s mouth dipped at the corners.  

“What are you worried about, then?” he asked.

Lewis twirled his fork, rotating the brussel sprout like a teriyaki-dipped globe.

“Someone much more dangerous,” Lewis replied, lifting the brussel sprout to his lips. “Mick Schumacher.”

George tried to keep his face schooled as he forked up more cauliflower rice. “He hardly seems like a threat. You said him being at Haas meant he was pretty much useless.”

Lewis shrugged as he chewed. “He’s privy to things most princes aren’t.”

George mixed the ingredients of his rice bowl with his fork. He knew that Lewis wouldn’t have to dig far to find that Mick had covered the fine payment with one of his father’s companies, but George refused to offer that information up until prompted.

“Maybe,” George said. “But I don’t see how that’s going to do much right now. He can’t make any plays from Haas.”

Lewis nodded in agreement. “You know him better than I do. What kind of person is he?”

George knew a test question when he heard one. “You can’t find a better prince anywhere,” he said, unflinching. “He’s kind, thoughtful, and he looks out for everyone. He saved me with that article after Imola.”

He doubted Lewis even remembered that article with everything that had happened since. But George could still feel the blade against his throat, a near miss that could have started speculation about Alex and affected him in his exile.

Lewis stared down at his bowl for a long moment. “You asked me to look into Sebastian and his plans for Charles.”

George stopped chewing. A pit formed in his stomach as Lewis looked up at him, eyes heavy.

“I think I know what’s going on,” Lewis said. “And Mick is part of it.”

George closed his eyes. It made sense, as much as he hated it. Mick adored Sebastian, and they talked probably more than Sebastian talked to Charles. George never suspected a relationship between the two of them, and he doubted that was what Lewis was referring to.

“I haven’t figured it out yet,” Lewis continued, his tone softening. “But I’ve been gathering details from Sebastian’s side.”

“And?” George pressed, though he didn’t want to.

Lewis frowned. “I know you guys have rules. If I tell you this, you can’t tell Charles, or we won’t be able to stop it. If any hint of this gets out, Sebastian can make big plays. Plays that will make Albon look like a walk in the park.”

George tightened his grip around his fork. He had to protect Charles—this weekend had already revealed that things were not as they seemed in Ferrari, and he stood a real chance of losing Carlos to Lando.  If Sebastian was a dead end, George couldn’t allow Charles to lean on him when it all went to shit.

“Tell me.”

Lewis ran his tongue over his bottom lip as he set down his fork.

“Charles is staying at Ferrari for a long time. But that second crown went to Carlos because Sebastian and Alonso worked together to convince Binotto to make it happen,” Lewis said. “But that crown was always planned for Mick, and it’s going to him as soon as he’s ready.”

That sounded right. Nobody expected Mick to stay at Haas any longer than he had to.

“They didn’t anticipate Carlos getting along with Leclerc as well as he has,” Lewis continued. “And from what I’ve heard from this weekend alone, Carlos is in deep.”

George wanted to tell Lewis that Charles didn’t love Carlos, but he kept quiet. He had to keep at least some of his integrity. So he just stared down at his food.

“Mick doesn’t spend much time with Charles, so Charles won’t anticipate him knowing anything, but Sebastian’s been feeding him pretty much everything he knows,” Lewis said. “And Alonso is working Carlos from his side.”

George could already see the plan forming. Carlos made no secret of hanging around Alonso, and Charles made no secret of loving Sebastian. Two perfect suckers.

“So what’s the plan, then?” George asked. “And how do we stop it?”

Lewis shook his head slowly. “I don’t know the plan yet. Sebastian and Alonso are keeping it pretty contained. But I know Mick is the trigger point, and unless we find a way to block him, he’s going to cut Charles off at the knees.”

George grit his teeth. “And you think Mick knows about this? It sounds like something Sebastian is orchestrating and using Mick for.”

“I’m sure Sebastian knows more than Mick does,” Lewis agreed. “But do you really think Mick is in the dark about this? He’s smarter than that.”

“But Mick—”

“Mick’s legacy is at stake,” Lewis interrupted. “Schumacher and Ferrari are synonymous. Carlos can’t get in the way of that. Charles has a big say in Carlos’s departure, and Mick won’t wait forever.”

Lewis’s finger danced around the rim of the pepper shaker by his plate, eyes flashing as he worked through the plan aloud.

“And if I had to guess, once Mick’s established as a prince of Ferrari, Charles will be close to the end of his appointment. Mick will make his play at the perfect time.”

Lewis flicked the pepper shaker and it toppled, throwing black and grey flecks across the table like confetti. 

“Then Charles will be out, and the Schumacher legacy will go uncontested.”

George couldn’t picture Mick plotting for a Ferrari crown, not the way Lewis implied. But he remembered the conviction in Mick’s voice, the way he talked about his father and wanting to make him proud.

“If Sebastian and Alonso are involved, it’s not just them,” George said, his heartbeat picking up in his chest as the truth settled over him. “Who else?”

Lewis pursed his lips. “George.”

“Lewis, I need to know how deep this goes. I know all of this shit is connected,” he said. “I know Mick getting a Ferrari crown is more involved than two ex-Champions playing games with my friends.”

“I can’t tell you that because I’m not sure yet,” Lewis said evenly. “But I can tell you that it’s not just champions. Your little lunch club isn’t the safe place you want it to be.”

George swallowed hard. Telling everyone about Lewis felt like the right thing to do, but now he realized it may have been more dangerous than telling the entire paddock.

He didn’t regret it. Not yet.

George took a breath. “If it all goes to shit, are you going to have my back?”

Lewis met his eye, determined. “I’ll let all of them burn before I let them fuck up what we have.”

“Even Sebastian?”

Lewis’s lip twitched. “Especially Sebastian.”

Chapter Text

Charles woke to the vibration of his phone underneath his pillow. Even with blackout curtains, his room could never completely eliminate the light of the city that filtered in. And nothing helped against the noise. Monaco never really slept, and on race weekend the parties didn’t stop until well into Monday.

He felt Carlos shift beside him on the mattress, but he didn’t really care if the noise woke him up.

Charles shoved his hand under the pillow and answered the call, rolling onto his back.

“Charles?”

He knew what the phone call would be about the second he heard Binotto on the line.

“Fuck,” he groaned, then remembered who he was talking to. “Sorry—yes, Mattia, it’s me.”

“We found a previously undetected crack in the left rear driveshaft,” Binotto said, cutting right to the chase. “There isn’t enough time to fix it. You will not start.”

Anger threated to burst him open, but Charles swallowed it down. Another year of the Monaco curse. Another year where his own home didn’t want him to achieve the one goal he set for himself—to bring home a win as a Monegasque prince.

“Thank you for letting me know,” he forced out, trying to stay calm.  “You should all get some sleep.”

He could feel Carlos staring at him in the dark, but he kept his gaze on his dresser, where he’d stuffed his old wedding ring and Sebastian’s handwritten notes.

Handwritten, but not original.

“I’m also giving you the day off,” Binotto said. “I know you won’t be able to avoid the race, but you’re formally released from duties for the day. I understand these things can be painful.”

Understatement of the century. Nausea battled rage inside him, and a wet blanket of hopelessness over that. The fact that Binotto thought he could benefit from time away from the track meant Charles had been too open about his emotion. Too wrapped up in his personal life, in his failure, and not enough attention on the car and the crown on his head—though he realized that the day before he’d felt the opposite. He just couldn’t win.

His life loved to prove that to him, time and time again.

“Grazie,” he finally said, his jaw rusted.

“I hope I didn’t keep you awake,” Binotto said.

“No, no. I thought this might happen.”

Charles sat up, and the nausea intensified. Even the darkness swirled around him, spinning and mixing the greys and blues and blacks.

“Well, enjoy yourself tomorrow,” Binotto said with unusual softness. “Mi dispiace.”

Charles swallowed hard. “Tell the engineers thank you for their hard work.”

“Rest well, Charles.”

The call ended, leaving him in deafening silence.

How fucking perfect. Carlos would race for Ferrari in his hometown, with all of their people behind him. People who would cheer him on to a victory Charles still hoped for, if only to salvage some of his pride.

Charles threw the phone across the room as hard as he could. It hit the wall with a loud crack and bounced off, clattering to the floor. He hoped it shattered beyond repair, the insides so mangled that even the cloud wouldn’t be able to put Lando’s text back in his inbox.

He never thought about locking his phone. All of his texts were professional, even with Carlos, even before. Maybe the occasional flirty banter, but Charles learned early that those things were safer in person.

Not to mention Giorgio had access to his phone every race weekend, and turning off his passcode never seemed like a vulnerability until yesterday.

Now he couldn’t stop thinking about Lando scrolling through his conversations with Carlos, picking things out that Charles couldn’t see—and seeing a side of Carlos that Lando didn’t have access to anymore.

Handing Carlos over to someone who was supposed to be his friend no longer felt like it could be the carefree thing he envisioned when Carlos took him home on his bike. Sobriety put the saturation back into the world, returning the colors he’d muted for the sake of friendship back to full value.

 Carlos hadn’t even responded to that text, but Charles still loathed him just for receiving it.

He put his face in his hands.

“Charles?” Carlos murmured, his voice rough with sleep. The mattress shifted again.

“Do not touch me or I swear to God I will throw you out on the street,” Charles snapped, and he meant it. He would drag Carlos out by the hair and leave him to sleep in the team garage if he dared to try and fix this with some meaningless comfort.

“I heard the call,” Carlos  said, quiet.

“Good for you,” Charles said. Anger clawed up his throat. He wanted to scream at Carlos, to throttle him and demand to know what the hell he’d been talking about with Lando after qualifying, tucked away in between motorhomes, and why he was evening pretending to play the role of a husband when it was clear he wanted to be someone else’s.

Carlos sat up in bed, his hands bunched in his lap. “Can I do anything?”

Charles laughed bitterly. “Don’t ask me that fucking question.”

Charles made the choice last night not to speak Italian with Carlos anymore. It would be a subtle shift, but one Charles maintained because he’d decided that no matter what course of action he chose with Carlos, he had to draw a line in the sand. They could be teammates and professional partners, and the FIA required English to be spoken for FIA events unless otherwise specified. Professional.

“I’d give you my car, if I could,” Carlos said.

“Shut up, Carlos,” Charles growled. “Just shut up. The less you talk, the more time I have to think about how I’m going to deal with—”

He cut himself off before he perjured himself. They had discussed Lando in advance. They talked about this. He didn’t have a right to be angry, but he couldn’t differentiate between anger toward Carlos and anger toward the race.

He didn’t have to look at his husband to know Carlos had hurt written all over his face—something Charles still didn’t understand. Carlos had Lando . He had to see how that kind of love was better than the one-sided whatever they had going on.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Carlos offered.

“No,” Charles said, reaching out to stop him. “Sleep. You have a race tomorrow. You need rest.”

Ferrari could succeed without him. He trusted Carlos enough to know that.

“Will you come?” Carlos asked.

Charles scrubbed his face in his hands, physically fighting the urge to scream.

He threw off his blankets and stood up out of bed. He couldn’t sleep here—if he could sleep at all.  

“Probably not,” he said, then stopped. “No, definitely not. I want you to win, but the last thing I can handle right now is seeing you on the podium in Monaco when I got pole and just had my race stripped away from me.”

Charles stood there for a moment, willing himself to calm down. It didn’t work.

“Have a good race,” he forced out. He made his voice soften, because he didn’t want Carlos to feel like he was jabbing. He didn’t want to jab. He had to be professional. “I know you’ll be just fine. And we both know you’ll have someone to celebrate with when you win.”

“Charles, you’ll be coming with me if I podium,” Carlos said, his voice even. “Lando doesn’t change that you’re—”

“Don’t do that to him,” Charles cut, turning to face him. “I can tell you from experience that it feels like shit when the person you love tells you they’re taking someone else to that party, no matter what reason they give.”

A shaft of light broke through the edge of the blackout curtains, creating a contour line of milky blue that cut down Carlos’s body where he sat up on the bed, his shirt hanging low and hair wild, a glimpse of silver at his neck.

“Charles, please,” Carlos whispered. “I don’t understand what’s changed.”

He hated hearing the pain in Carlos’s voice. But Charles knew this was for the best. Trying to pretend they could be a couple while they loved other people seemed stupid now that Charles thought back to it.

“I’m really—” Charles closed his mouth. His race was already ruined, and he needed time to be by himself to think. Not to stand around in the middle of the night discussing obvious things.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Charles said, stealing the words from Lando’s mouth in the hope that Carlos might listen to them this time. “But I misjudged this. Us. About what I can handle. I never thought about what it might be doing to Lando—and his been my friend since we were kids.”

Carlos slipped from bed, crossing to him, but Charles stepped back when he saw Carlos’s hand coming up, shaking his head once.

“He’s been nice about it, all things considered,” Charles continued. “But when it comes down to it, he’s the one you should be with.”

Carlos scowled. “Sebastian said someth—”

“No,” Charles said firmly. “For once, this is my choice. Nobody said anything to me.”

Half of him still had the childlike want of Carlos’s arms around him, just to provide some kind of physical security in the face of uncertainty. He shoved that thought away.

“I’m not saying that I won’t be a good husband,” Charles continued. “And I’m sure when Monaco is over we’ll…” He searched for the word. “Find each other again. In some ways. I do trust you, and we get along well.”

Carlos closed his eyes, his jaw taut with pain. Always in the cheeks.

“It’s okay, Carlos,” Charles whispered. “It’s better.”

“How is this better?” Carlos hissed, eyes flying open. “I can’t touch you, I can’t—”

Charles reached up, his fingers numb against Carlos’s skin as he pushed aside the collar of his shirt and found the slender silver chain that had been peeking from the fabric when he first sat up in bed.

Carlos turned his face away as Charles pulled out the rest of the necklace and allowed the pendant—a ring—to fall against Carlo’s chest.

A gold wedding band.

The wedding band that had been sitting in a velvet box on Carlos’s nightstand in Spain.

“He loves you, you love him,” Charles said quietly.  “It should be that simple. Except I got in the way, and I don’t even—”

He stopped himself from saying I don’t even love you, and took a moment to breathe instead. He needed to rein it in. Pierre had pointed out his inability to stick with decisions earlier in the paddock, and it had gnawed at him ever since.    

“If I don’t see you before the race, good luck,” Charles finally amended. He couldn’t do this right now, not with his entire race gone.

Carlos chewed the inside of his cheek, but didn’t reply. His hand came up—but not to touch Charles. Instead, he tucked the necklace back under his shirt, and Charles started looking for his shoes.

 


 

He didn’t see Carlos before the race. He ended up sleeping in the hotel Ferrari had provided them for the weekend, in a king-sized bed that swallowed him. He woke up cold several times in the night, despite all of the blankets. Sleep usually came easy to him, but every time he closed his eyes he saw the cockpit of his smoking car, his hopes of a victory spewed across the asphalt on front of him.

The sound of starting engines would kill him, but he couldn’t bear the thought of watching Carlos getting dressed and driving for their empire while he just sat there. He couldn’t do it.

And yet he found himself putting on his Puma sneakers in the morning, donning a Ferrari cap, and making it to the lobby before he turned around and slumped into an pleather hotel chair. All of the race teams were already at the garages, and Carlos would be there too. Preparing without him, listening to his pre-race playlist and going over potential problems with their engineers.

“Prince Leclerc,” a voice said.

Charles closed his eyes. Of course a fan would be camped out in the lobby when the race was about to start.

“A letter for you, Your Royal Highness.”

Charles’s eyes snapped open. He turned to see a royal courier blinking at him, looking uncomfortable in an Alpha Tauri polo. The girl offered a letter to him with Pierre’s crest, slightly warped from a hurried seal.

“Thanks,” he said as he took the letter, but the words hardly registered in his brain. He opened the envelope and a badly folded letter fell out onto his lap.

 

Char –

I just heard about the car. Je suis tellement désolé. Wanted to make sure you’re okay, even though I can’t really do that from a hotel room.

I also wanted to tell you to come to the race, if you were planning on pulling a Kimi.  I know it hurts. But you need to be there, for yourself and for Ferrari and honnêtement? For Carlos.

You don’t have to be in love with him. But you can’t destroy what you have because of whatever is going on in that stupid head of yours. I don’t have time to write all of this but the point is: LÂCHER PRISE.

Be there for your empire—do NOT give them something to use against you, trust me. Suck up your pride and be there. Forget Lando, support Carlos. Show up.

Votre chou garçon,

Pierre

P.S. – Just fuck one of them. Or someone. You need it. It doesn’t have to mean anything unless you decide it does.  

P.P.S. – I better see you soon.

 

Charles thumbed over the ink, smeared slightly where Pierre had hurriedly moved his pen across paper. Votre chou garçon. Originally a stupid nickname for Max and his cabbage-shaped head and a play on choupette, a French term of endearment, it had developed to Pierre’s over the years, but Charles hadn’t called him that since before their appointments.

Long ago, they dreamed of being here as princes. Charles would have killed for a day stuck in the garage as a prince over jamming themselves into friends’ apartments for a look at a sliver of track.

He pocketed the letter and stood up from the chair.

 


 

When he arrived at the Ferrari garage, the race was well underway. The cry of engines echoed off of the skyscrapers crowded around the pitlane—an entirely different atmosphere from the tailor-made circuits they raced on most of the season.

The pit crew grinned when he walked in, and he greeted each person by name. He missed one—Damiano—but Charles took it in stride and made a note to force Carlos to study with him so they would know everyone’s names without hesitation for Baku.

“How is he doing?” Charles asked Riccardo, Carlos’s race engineer.

Riccardo stood posed at the monitors, lost in whatever was flowing through his headphones speakers.

Charles plucked a spare pair from the wall and tugged them on over his ears.

“—heating up a bit too fast.”

“Then power them off for five minutes. I don’t see what the problem is.”

He flicked from the pit crew channel to Carlos’s channel, silent, and settled in front of one of the monitors to watch. Max had the lead, unsurprisingly, with Bottas in second, and Carlos just behind him. Charles stuffed down the jealously that welled in him and forced himself to smile.

He eyed Carlos’s onboard feed, moving through the gears with him, but he hated the view—too removed from what it really looked like to sit in the cockpit.

Lando tagged right behind Carlos on track, but Charles barely paid the McLaren any attention. He knew Carlos could out maneuver Lando in Monaco without issue unless something happened with his tires.

“What’s the gap with Lando?” Carlos asked over radio.

His voice made Charles jump, as he wasn’t used to hearing it in a race setting. He really only spoke to Carlos before and after races.

“One point six,” Riccardo replied. “Sector two, you were slower. Keep him out of DRS, Carlos.”

“Bottas?” Carlos asked, muffled by the sound of the engine as he downshifted into turn ten.

“One point eight-five,” Riccardo replied. “He’s lengthening that gap, but don’t push yet.”

Charles chewed the inside of his cheek as Bottas put another purple sector in, faster than Carlos and cutting through the turns like butter. Perez charged behind Lando in fifth, and Charles noted the razor-thin margin he left between the tire wall and the barrier when he sliced through the chicane.

But as the race continued, Charles began to focus on the inner workings of the team instead of the race itself. He never saw the way the pit crew prepared for a stop outside of practice, or the tension in the faces of engineers as they scoured data for anything to report as Carlos maintained a podium spot.

Then Bottas came in to pit. Charles heard his car grind to a stop, and watched the TV feed. The pit crew jumped in, expertly removing the wheels—

Except one.

Charles heart leapt to his throat on reflex, watching as the poor pit mechanic tried to unscrew the wheel to no avail. Seconds ticked by as the gun was removed and replaced two times over.

“It’s crossthreaded,” Riccardo muttered beside him.

Charles leaned in to look at Riccardo’s monitor. “How can you tell?”

“That’s the only—Charles?”

Charles smiled as Riccardo finally recognized him.

Riccardo opened his mouth to say something, grinning wide, but then tuned back into his headset. He did reach over to give Charles’s shoulder a firm slap that felt better than any verbal compliment.

He needed to thank Pierre somehow.

“Bottas is retiring,” Riccardo said over the radio channel. “Problem with his tire in the pit. You’re P2, Carlos. Keep it steady, but push here, please.”

“Getting interesting, eh?” Carlos replied, and Charles could hear the grin in his voice. It made it heart hurt, even though he swelled with pride.

The race continued, and Carlos deflected Lando from entering DRS, even with Perez swallowing up the gap behind Lando. Max held P1 with his typical calm under pressure, and Charles didn’t say it, but Carlos would never catch him even if Max ran into traffic lapping the likes of Mazepin and Schumacher.

Pierre held sixth place behind Perez, but as the race came to a close, it became clear that Pierre wouldn’t catch fifth. Still, a good result for Alpha Tauri.

Max crossed the finish line and Carlos followed close behind, securing their first podium of the season. The garage erupted in cheers, and Charles let one out right alongside them, high-fiving Riccardo.

“That’s P2, P2, Carlos!” Riccardo shouted into his mic. “Congratulations!”

“Vamos!” Carlos cheered over the mic. “Grazie, ragazzi! A very tough day, but we came together and  got a good result. Everyone pulled their weight and—”

Charles pulled off his headset and hug it on the wall. He could only handle so much.

He patted Riccardo on the shoulder as he headed out into the pit lane toward the podium with the rest of the team. Discomfort nipped at his heels as he walked along the tarmac in jeans and a Ferrari polo, his shoes too thick compared to the flexibility of racing boots, his shirt too thin compared to nomex.

But he allowed himself to be swept up in the excitement of the podium, the wild cheers and jubilation from the entire team as they made a swarm of red and sifted into place at the base of the podium, where three bottles of champagne sat waiting.

He caught sight of Carlos as he emerged from the car, pumping a fist into the air and running straight to Lando, knocking their helmets together. Charles smiled, then turned his attention to Max, who already had his helmet off, soaking in the win. He looked absolutely elated and it made Charles that much happier to know he would be able to see Daniel officially at the post-race party, and the FIA could do nothing to stop it.

“Happy to see you here, Charles.”

A hand came to rest on his shoulder and he turned to see Binotto and his wild hair, thoroughly pleased.

“Binotto, buongiorno,” Charles greeted.

“I thought you would stay away.”

Charles shook his head, watching as Lando hooked an arm around Carlos’s middle, helmets practically glued together as photographers swarmed.

“I was going to,” Charles admitted. “But I’m glad I didn’t.”

Binotto smiled. It didn’t hide the bags under his eyes from staying up all night working on the car, but a podium would give them breathing room leading into Baku. Carlos bought them all a bit of safety—they were headed in the right direction.

Champagne sprayed out over the crowd not long after that, before Max turned on Lando and Carlos, the three of them thoroughly drenching each other in sparkling wine.

Throughout it all, Lando kept looking at Carlos, and Carlos kept looking back. Each time, Carlos’s smile would turn a little higher, his eyes a little brighter in the golden mist of champagne.

Max stared down at him a moment later, and Charles held his gaze long enough to smile at him before he looked away, back to Carlos and Lando arm-in-arm, posing for a podium photo. After a few poses, Max walked past them to head inside, must have said something to Carlos, because Carlos whipped his head toward the crowd.

Charles’s throat closed when Carlos started scanning, and all of the air vanished from his lungs when Carlos finally found him.

The crowd seemed to go silent around him, like the rest of the world had darkened and a spotlight flicked right onto Charles, scorching and heavenly bright.

Carlos’s grin exploded on his face, and he left Lando’s side to rush to the decorative railing at the edge of the podium.

Professional. Be professional.

Charles did his best to subdue his smile, and he didn’t step forward. He knew Lando would be watching him, expecting him to show up to that podium party—but he made the decision in that moment not to go.

He lifted his hand, offering Carlos a thumbs up. Carlos’s grin didn’t fade.

Professional.

Max stepped back out onto the podium with a reporter in tow, and Lando grabbed Carlos in a side hug and tipped his head up to say something to him, still laughing.

Charles saw the moment Carlos instinctively moved to kiss him—a moment everyone in the crowd probably saw too—but stopped himself at the last second and stumbled back.

If Lando noticed, he didn’t show it before he grabbed Carlos’s arm and tugged him inside.

Max crossed his arms as his interview began, but his usual sour face didn’t return. He kept looking into the crowd too, and Charles found himself looking for Daniel along with him.

“Go meet Carlos,” Binotto said, nodding toward the podium entry. “We’ll need photos of you together.”

Charles nodded once, and made his way to the front of the crowd. An FIA official stood at the ready to stop him, but once she recognized him, she lifted the security rope and allowed him to duck underneath.

“Charles!”

He looked ahead to see Giorgio near the entryway to the podium, waving him over, his dark curls bouncing in the sun. The crowd seethed at the edges of the security fence as he approached, full of grinning faces and pumping arms.

“I heard a rumor you were here,” Giorgio greeted, shaking Charles’s hand.

“I broke my phone,” Charles said.

Giorgio laughed. “I know that, too. Carlos brought it in this morning. We’ll have a new one by the end of the day.”

We. Because nothing was actually his anymore.

Charles plastered on a smile. “Thanks.”

He glanced up at the podium, where Max still answered interview questions and Carlos and Lando had been inside for far too long. Or maybe it always took that long to weigh in and hand off trophies and he just didn’t remember it in the moment.

Charles cleared his throat. “Binotto says we need a picture?”

“Yes,” Giorgio shouted over the noise of the crowd. “We were thinking a video, actually—we’ll be taking photos too. If you could greet Carlos with a romantic gesture, I think it would really do well for the public image.”

“A romantic gesture?” Charles cocked a brow. “Like what?”

Giorgio gestured vaguely. “You tell me. Something fit for two princes deeply in love.”

Charles didn’t miss the insinuation that they might not be. “Deeply in love,” he repeated. “That’s the narrative we want to portray?”

Giorgio laughed, clapping him on the back. “What else would we want to portray, Your Royal Highness?”

Charles shot him a glare. “I don’t know, I thought that was my decision.”

Giorgio’s smile faded and Charles moved past him to have a better view into the podium stairwell. He crossed his arms to wait, doing his best to ignore the roars of the crowd.

Max’s voice echoes over the crowd, warring with the cheers and the shouts of “super Max, super Max!

No sign of Carlos and Lando.

Charles tried not to look impatient, smiling at fans, giving a few waves before he turned his attention back to the empty threshold.

When Carlos appeared, he looked like something out of a film about racing. His hair fell into his eyes, wet from champagne but still infuriatingly handsome as he jogged down the stairs. His lips parted slightly, shimmering even in the comparatively low light of the stairwell, and the front of his race suit was slightly unzipped, waiting to be peeled off the moment he left the media area.

Charles glanced at Giorgio, who stood poised beside two Ferrari cameramen and a videographer, and uncrossed his arms.

Deeply in love. He could do deeply in love.

Carlos noticed him on the last step, his gaze flicking up just as he strode into the sunlight—again, like a goddamn movie. His tan skin lit up honey gold, and his eyes mirrored it, caught in a perfect ray to turn brown pools to amber for a perfect photo op.

Charles turned on a grin just as Carlos yanked him into a terrifyingly perfect kiss.

Charles’s eyes fell closed as he curled his fingers into Carlos’s race suit, tugging him close. Carlos’s hands cupped his face, holding him there like something lost found again.

He tasted like sweat, champagne, and someone else.

Charles pressed closer, breath spilling hot when Carlos’s tongue brushed his parted lips—and Charles had no memory of parting them.

Damn Carlos and his stupid mouth.

“You came,” Carlos breathed when he broke the kiss, nuzzling against him.

Charles kept his smile as he moved his hands to wrap around Carlos’s wrists, gently pulling Carlos’s hands from his face. Carlos twined their fingers together a moment later, oozing happiness, warmth, and the adrenaline of the win.

“I’ll always be here for you,” Charles said, resting their foreheads together.

He looked into Carlos’s eyes for a long moment, but when Carlos leaned in for another kiss, Charles turned his face away. He stepped back and cleared his throat.

“Was that enough?” Charles asked over the noise of the roaring crowd.

“Perfetto!” Giorgio said, clapping from where he stood by the security fence. “Beautiful!”

Carlos’s grip tightened in his own, and Charles offered him an easy smile.

“You have interviews,” Charles said.

Carlos gaped at him, but Charles gave him a peck on the lips to stop the inevitable hurt that would leap into his features if given any more time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked.

He really didn’t want to be around when Lando inevitably showed up.

“Come,” Carlos managed to say. “Please. I won’t—”

Charles shook his head. “I don’t want to go. You deserve a good night with Lando, and I’m not getting in the way of that.”

“And what if I want you there?” Carlos asked.

Nothing could be simple when it came to Carlos.

“I asked you what would happen if you had to make a choice between the two of us,” Charles said evenly. “And you couldn’t decide, so I know the answer isn’t me, and I’m glad it isn’t.”

He pushed on, even as he saw hurt shimmer Carlos’s eyes.

“I see you every day, he doesn’t. This isn’t a hard decision, in my eyes,” Charles finished quietly.

Carlos looked down at his hands and nodded once. “I’ll stop by the flat after the party,” he said.

The implied before I leave again hung in the air between them like a baited hook, just asking for Charles to bite it.

Instead Charles smiled. “Great, just be sure to lock up when you go.”

As if he would spend the night sitting in his flat alone during his only weekend at home.

Giorgio pulled Carlos for interviews, and Charles made his way down the paddock toward Alpha Tauri’s garage when he spotted Max waving him over. Reporters still surrounded him, but they started retreating as Charles came closer.

“Congratulations,” Charles greeted, but the words felt like shards of glass coming up his throat. He tugged down the bill of Max’s cap before Max caught him in a side hug, followed by a chorus of camera shutters.

“You should have been out there with me,” Max replied.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if I had been,” Charles laughed, but it hurt. Carlos getting a podium could only offset his bitterness for so long.

Max smiled sympathetically, then jerked his chin down the paddock. “Let’s walk.”

He knew that tone, and it sent a shiver down Charles’s spine.

They left the cameras behind as they headed down the paddock, and Charles stuffed his hands in his pockets, eyes ahead.

“It’s about Carlos,” Max began.

Charles sighed. “Max, I really don’t want to discuss Carlos right now.”

The paddock hummed around them, a flurry of activity as garages began to pack up and princes wandered around to find out who was doing what and where, soaking up their last night of freedom before they all returned to their empires.

“I need you to tell me what you actually feel for him,” Max said. “And what you really feel about him being with Lando.”

He hated that his whole life had become tethered to Carlos Sainz. Nobody ever asked these questions about him and Sebastian. Rightfully so, for the most part, but even when they developed feelings for each other, no one else in the paddock seemed to care.

“Let me guess, Carlos and Lando were all over each other as soon as they left the podium.”

Max wouldn’t be asking about his “true feelings” unless he had something on his mind. Something to tell him, which always meant something bad.

Max’s throat went taut.

Charles laughed. “Well?”

“Yeah.”

Charles clenched his jaw for only a moment. Of course they kissed—Charles had tasted it on Carlos’s lips just moments ago. But hearing it confirmed allowed him to know, reaffirming that his imagination wasn’t so imaginary.

Yet Carlos had kissed him without knowing they were doing it for PR. Charles couldn’t understand how he could kiss Lando one minute and him the next without questioning it.

“Look,” Max said. “I know you think—Actually, I won’t pretend to know what you think. But I can tell you how it feels to be up there, on top of the world, and not have the person you want beside you.”

“Except he had Lando beside him,” Charles muttered.

Max gave him a little smirk. “You love him, Charles.”

“Oh my god, seriously?” Charles snapped. “I don’t. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

“Oh come on,” Max said. “Even I loved him.”

“Yes, I distinctly remember that,” he snarled.

Max flinched, looking away. “I--Sorry.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Oh please. You’re six years too late.”

Just saying it aloud felt like a release, a hole in the dam he’d built within himself.

Max’s mouth set in a straight line as silence wedged itself between them.

Charles wanted to say more, but he knew he should be over it. He was, except when he had to think about Brazil, or Max and Carlos together, or how much Max was willing to sacrifice for Dan but couldn’t even keep him around in secret.

“Have you seen Sebastian this weekend?” Max finally asked, changing the subject.

Charles shook his head. “We’ve both been busy. But I’ll see him tonight, I’m sure.”

Max cocked his head. “You aren’t coming to the party?”

“Don’t really feel like being a fifth wheel, no,” Charles said.

“Lando could invite Sebastian,” Max said.

Charles blinked. He hadn’t thought about that. But trying to imagine Sebastian in the same room as Lando, Daniel, Max, and Carlos didn’t make for a great time, in his mind.

“I’d rather just be with him,” Charles said. “Full offense, I really don’t want to be trapped on a yacht with all of you.”

Max’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You know Sebastian’s fucked Lance, right?”

Charles let out a sigh. “Yes. How do you know that?”

“Everyone knows that. And he wants everyone to know that. He’s keeping you hidden, and that should worry you,” Max said.

Charles grit his teeth. “Oh really.”

Max stopped walked, turning to him. “I hid you.”

Tears leapt to his eyes unexpectedly. They used to think it was fun and exciting—stealing away at the different tracks on weekends where lower courts raced with princes. He remembered the thrill of hiding in Max’s room while he talked to the team outside, the way Max used to feel so warm and soft against him when they tangled up in each other at night in a bed too small for them both, a shitty throwaway hotel only theirs for a few hours before he left again.

“Yeah, and we’re past that” Charles said. “At least, I thought we were.”

Max held his gaze, his expression softening. “It’s not like I just erased you.”

Charles let out a snort. “You certainly tried though, right?”

An arm came around his neck, making Charles jump as Pierre appeared beside him, pulling him to his shoulder.

“Man, everyone’s trying to fuck with Charles today,” Pierre greeted, eyes dangerous.

Max scowled. “Stay out of this.”

“Nah. You’re ring’s not on my finger anymore, bitch,” Pierre said cheerfully.

Charles looked between Max and Pierre, stunned. They had gotten along so well at lunch that the anger between them felt sudden and strange.

“Pierre?”

Pierre shot him a smile. “Don’t listen to him.” He turned his attention back to Max. “Go on, then. Say hey to Ricciardo for us.”

“Fuck you,” Max snarled. “Charles, just think about it.”

Charles nodded, but he’d done quite enough thinking for one day. Max retreated toward the McLaren garage, where Daniel stood signing autographs for a few fans. Daniel tracked him immediately, like he could tell when Max was close by feel alone. A soft smile spread on his face, one Max mirrored.

Deeply in love.

“Thank you,” Charles said, “for the letter. I needed that.”

Pierre ruffled his hair before stepping away, smiling. “I’m glad it helped.”

Pierre looked happy, despite how deadly he’d been just a moment ago. His eyes were bright, his cheeks rosy from racing but also from a weekend in the sun.

“How are you?” Charles asked. “You look…great.”

Pierre laughed, and Charles noticed his cheeks turn a few shades redder. “Ah, thanks, Char. I feel good.”

Charles smiled. “What’s going on, mon chou garçon?”

Pierre rolled his eyes. “Don’t start. You’re not better than the tabloids.”

“Oh, dodging the question,” Charles teased. Curiosity nudged at him. Not because he really thought Pierre had something hidden, but because he hadn’t seen a smile that big in Pierre’s face in a long time. Not that Charles could remember, anyway.  “Someone special?” he pressed.

Pierre cracked a sly grin. “Same old same, Char.”

“Yeah?” he dug his fingers into Pierre’s ribs, hard. Pierre ducked away, only to charge back a moment later, knocking his Ferrari cap down over his eyes before hooking him around the neck in a headlock.

Charles jerked in his hold, struggling to free himself amidst his laughter.

For a few brief minutes of wrestling, he lost his crown. It slipped right off, melting into the tarmac, buried beneath his failure. He twisted, throwing elbows, poking ribs, Pierre’s laughter echoing in his ears.

This was Monaco, for Charles.

This was everything he thought he’d lost, back for one miraculous second.

He finally freed himself and snagged Pierre’s Alpha Tauri cap off his head in victory.

“Not fair,” Pierre panted. “I raced, you didn’t.”

Charles grinned. “Gonna cry?”

Pierre lunged for his hat and Charles yanked it back with  superior reaction time. As usual. But Pierre had height on him, and rolling forward onto his toes to pluck the cap right out of his grip, like nothing.

Pierre grinned at him, close enough that Charles could see the gap in his front teeth, the depth of his dimples. The depth of his happiness.

Pierre put his cap on—backwards this time, wisps of dirty blond poking out from above the buckle. Charles wished P6 could make him that happy. Though today it probably would have, given the current alternative.  

“Like I said,” Pierre murmured, eyes bright. “Same old same.”

He dunked Charles’s cap one more time, plummeting his vision into maroon-tinged darkness.

When Charles readjusted his hat, Pierre had his back to him, headed toward the Alpha Tauri garage. Yuki popped out of the crowd to meet him halfway, talking excitedly and looking ridiculous in a pair of oversized sunglasses.

A royal courier approached, and Charles smiled at the sight of a teal green seal on the letter extended to him. He glanced around for Sebastian, but the paddock was overrun with people.

The letter had only a few words, written in a nice pen and ink. A port number, a time, and plan to stay late.

Chapter Text

“He’s coming,” George said into his phone, squinting down the street to look for the yacht lights. He stood in front of one of the premiere high rises in Monaco, surrounded by marble fountains and manicured hedges. Lewis’s flat was right near the harbor, yet somehow he was still late.

“So go and get him!” Nic said on the other end of the line.

“I can’t,” George said. “I don’t have the code to get buzzed in. He said he’d be down in a second.”

He adjusted the collar of his white muslin shirt and wondered if he looked too stereotypical for a British kid about to host a yacht party. A party on his family yacht, no less. He hoped Lewis didn’t ask about it.

“I can only keep people away from this champagne for so long,” Nic said. “If you don’t get here soon, it might be gone.”

“Tell them Lewis Hamilton is coming to the bloody party and they better not touch it until he gets there,” George snapped.

He wanted this to be a perfect night for them. He wanted Lewis to see that not getting podium didn’t have to be a horrible thing—though Lewis seemed surprisingly okay with it after race, once all of the emotion died down. He’d agreed to come to the party, and George had to make sure he didn’t regret it. Everyone who was anyone wanted Lewis Hamilton at their party, but Lewis had chosen to come with him.

He jolted when the front doors swung open, revealing Lewis in an oversized black hoodie, gold chain necklace, massive diamonds earrings, and white cargo pants crossed with black nylon straps. Hideous on anyone else, but the outfit made Lewis the epitome of fashionable streetwear, once again. He looked comfortable yet fashionable, ready for a date at a party but also maybe ready for an afterparty curled up in bed together watching Twitch streams or a bad movie.

“Sorry I’m late,” Lewis greeted, reaching over to thumb along the line of his jaw.

George leaned into the touch, all of the anxiety melting away the moment the heat of Lewis’s had pooled against his cheek.

“I was worried you might’ve found something better to do,” George said, only half joking. Lewis Hamilton had no reason to be hanging out with him, no reason to—

Lewis pressed a soft kiss to his lips, unexpected in such a public setting. George made a soft sound of surprise before he kissed back.

“What was that for?” George chuckled.

Lewis smiled, his eyes warm. “No one’s taken me out on a date since I got my crown.” He shook his head. “Not a proper one, anyway.”

George laughed. “No shit. I don’t believe that.”

He took Lewis’s hand, emboldened by the compliment. Lewis’s fingers twined tightly with his, and George gave a firm squeeze.

“It’s true,” Lewis said, his cheeks a little ruddy, just a dusting of color on his dark skin. “Usually someone’s planning everything. A manager, a PR team—always someone else. Or I’m in charge of planning it. People always put it on me, for some reason.”

“Well, I hope you like this one,” George said as they started down the street. “It’s just Nic and a few friends. Mostly Nic’s friend, really.”

He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. They did have one hitch.

“And, um. Nic invited Mick, and I invited Callum Illot—but I told Nic to wait to confirm Mick.”

George still didn’t know what to think about Mick. Stealing a Ferrari seat didn’t feel like it matched Mick’s personality—growing in in karting together, Mick kept the Schumacher name out of the equation as much as he could. He’d wanted to earn his crown like everyone else, as impossible as that was for a kid with spun gold hair, blazing blue eyes, and his father’s face.  

But none of that involved Michael, and as much as George hated to admit it, he suspected Lewis had a point about the Schumacher legacy. George knew the weight of destiny, even if his had been slung over his shoulders over only the past year.

Despite lunch, despite seeing Max acting normal and like the person George once knew, it didn’t change that he would destroy Red Bull for what they did to Alex. He would see Horner crushed under yet another Mercedes World Championship. He didn’t care if he became Lewis’s dog, a constant second place finisher. He would have Lewis as a partner, strength in his empire, and a real relationship to come home to after every race weekend.

 And if and when he found evidence that Max was really behind Alex’s exile, he would destroy everything Max too, without hesitation.

All of that for Alex.

So maybe it wasn’t so far-fetched to think Mick would flatten any competition from Ferrari. No one would have suspected George to become someone who started fights in the pit lane.

It made him sick to think Alex might be surprised too.  

“Mick knows about us, doesn’t he?” Lewis asked, swinging their hands as they started into a steeper downhill.

“I mean, yeah,” George said. “But Nic invited him before we had dinner.”

“He should come,” Lewis said with a nod. “It’s okay, George. He had his chance to expose us early on and he didn’t take it. And he doesn’t know that we know about his plan.”

George shook his head. “He’s gotta know something. He, uh, doesn’t really approve of you.”

Lewis laughed, but his eyes didn’t change. “Yeah, him and the rest of the FIA. Nothing new.”

Something sour trickled down George’s throat at the way Lewis just accepted the hatred of their entire governing body. Lewis traversed a world entirely different from his own. Lewis saw shapes in the shadows, veiled threats and insults where George only heard friendly banter.

George squeezed Lewis’s hand a little tighter, reassuring. He couldn’t do much as a prince of Williams, but he hoped he could at least give Lewis one person in his corner.

“I don’t want him there if he feels that way about you,” George said decidedly.

Lewis nudged him with his shoulder as they walked. “Let him come. Taking away his invitation would be suspicious, and I’ve kind of given up on hiding us.”

George’s cheeks went hot, suddenly embarrassed that he’d been so obvious in such a public place. Monaco never felt all that public, but he knew that was a dangerous way to think.

“Sorry,” he said.

Lewis laughed. “Sorry? About what?”

George shrugged, glancing down at their hands. “You know. Being in public like this. I didn’t really think about it because of Monaco.”

Lewis shook his head. “I would have said something if it made me uncomfortable.”

He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of George’s palm. His lips were incredibly soft, petals against his skin. George always expected Lewis to be rough or cold, and he always proved to be the opposite.

For a World Champion who placed seventh, Lewis didn’t seem fazed about the future.

“I like being with you,” Lewis said as he dropped their hands again.  Low light from the streetlamps danced across his face, throwing blues and yellows across his skin. “Doesn’t matter what we’re doing or who’s there.”

George kept his grin until they reached the harbor. Fairy lights twinkled along the side of the shared dock, and gold and white silk swayed in the evening breeze where it hung suspended along the sides, guiding them to the boat.

The Russell family yacht didn’t command the same presence as the others nearby, but in any other harbor, it would have dominated. Wood accents against gleaming white, with blue trim added after his appointment to Williams. Three floors including the sub level, and room for almost a hundred people on board excluding crew.

“George!” Nic greeted from the balcony, waving down at them.

George waved as Nic bowed so low that he became hidden by the railing. When he popped up again, he had a smirk on his face, and George immediately rolled his eyes.

Nic cupped his hands around his mouth. “I would like to announce the arrival of Seven Time World Champion, Unofficial King of the FIA, His Royal Highness, Lewis Hamilton!” Nic shouted.

“I’m so sorry,” George whispered, but Lewis just grinned beside him and ran his thumb over the side of George’s palm. He didn’t seem affected at all—in fact, he seemed pleased.

The smattering of attendees cheered—most of them hidden from view up on the balcony.

“There’s champagne for you,” Nic shouted down to Lewis. “I know you don’t drink, but George has been a real bitch about it all night.”

Lewis threw George a wink that nearly ended him right there. “I think I can bend the rules for a glass of that.”

Nic let out a cry as he turned back to the guests on the balcony. “Ladies and gentlemen, George Russell has corrupted the king!”

George pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand and took a deep breath. With that introduction, everyone at the party would be trying to talk to Lewis all night, and George would be charged with fending them off just to get a little time together.

Lewis squeezed his hand. “Show me around.”

“You sure this is okay?” George asked as he led him toward the stern. “Me and you?”

Lewis didn’t seem to hear him. “What’s in there?” he asked, nodding toward a doorway right off the gangplank.

“Oh, we can start there if you want,” George said, pivoting to the door. He pushed it open into a small hallway, and a sliding door to the right opened automatically to reveal one of the guest bedrooms.

As far as yachts went, it was a small room—enough space for a full-sized bed, a small bookshelf, two entry doors on either side, and a TV. Tinted one-way glass showed a view out to the pier and the next boat over.

George nodded toward the window. “It looks really nice when you’re out on the water,” he said. “This was always my room when, um, we went on vacations.” He grimaced. “I know that sounds posh. I—uh. Yeah.”

Lewis’s face caught half shadows where he stood at the window, staring at the yacht docked next to them.

“You don’t have to be ashamed of your upbringing,” Lewis said. “You can’t change the family you’re born into. And you love your family—you’re luckier than most.”

Heat sprouted at the back of George’s neck, a hot shame. He did love his family. And honestly, he liked indulging in their wealth. Wealth allowed him to fight for a crown, and now he had the chance to lead an empire with Lewis by his side.

“Still feels like cheating sometimes,” George murmured.

“That’s what I like about you,” Lewis said in an equally soft tone, reaching over to the door. “You see advantage and disadvantage in everything.”

Lewis turned up the handle, locking them in.

George’s breath caught in his throat.

“Take your shirt off,” Lewis said, dropping his hand.

George fought to smirk, but his spine started to melt. “I’m supposed to wine and dine you first,” he said.

Lewis shot him a cockeyed smile. His gaze raked down George’s front, lighting up his body from the inside out.  “Shirt. Off.”

George made quick work of his buttons, and Lewis shed his hoodie in one motion. Lewis shoved him into the mattress before George had time to kiss him, leaving him to gasp in a breath of air instead as he hit the comforter. A few goose feathers shot from holes in the silk, and then he had Lewis on top of him, mouthing at his pec.

George fought not to explode when he felt the warm wetness of Lewis’s tongue against his nipple.

“Lewis,” George hissed, “they’re going to wonder—”

“They’ll know,” Lewis murmured against his skin, palming the flat of his abdomen. “I want them to know.”

George reached down, gently cupping Lewis’s jaw to force his attention up to him.

“What happened to staying secret?” George asked, breathless.

Lewis paused, then moved up to capture his mouth in a passionate kiss that sent George’s head spinning. He wrapped his arms around Lewis’s neck, groaning into the chemical heat of the kiss, the sizzling against his lips, the hoodie-warm feel of Lewis’s bare chest against his own.

“You wanna be secret?” Lewis asked when he broke the kiss.

George pulled him back in, nipping at his bottom lip, savoring the taste of him before it became muddled with Nic’s champagne.

“Feels dangerous,” he whispered, and the cold truth made him shiver.

Lewis pulled back slightly, brow furrowed. “Dangerous?”

George chuckled, cheeks burning. “We’ve talked about this, Lewis. I’m the only one who gets shafted if shit happens.”

He searched Lewis’s face for some indication of how he felt about that answer, but Lewis merely stared down at him.

“What do you want to do?” Lewis asked, brushing noses with him.

George smirked. “Right now?”

Lewis cracked a smile. “About us. I know what you want right now.”

George cocked his head. “Do you?”

Lewis’s eyes darkened, and desire shot white hot into George’s blood.

“I can take a guess,” Lewis said, his voice low and mischievous. George loved the sound of it, the heat of him—everything about this.   

“I love guessing games,” George replied, his heart beating so hard in his chest he knew Lewis could feel it against his palm.

Sure enough, Lewis’s smile turned sly. He leaned in, but George caught him by the jaw again.

“Ten minutes, then we’re going to my party,” George murmured. Lewis turned his head, taking George’s thumb into his mouth. George shivered at the warmth of Lewis’s tongue against the pad of his finger, but he was not about to sit out the party he’d spent two weeks planning. He wanted to show off his new relationship, this new and uneven thing they didn’t have a name for yet.

George pulled his hand away at sat up on his elbows. Lewis adjusted in kind, moving up his chest to latch onto his neck, sucking a fresh mark that would definitely be visible. The pleasure-pain got a moan out of George as he sank back, his hands finding their place at Lewis’s shoulder blades.

“Ten minutes,” Lewis whispered against his neck, washing his chest in hot breath.

George nodded once, turning his head to press a chaste kiss to the corner of Lewis’s mouth before he grinned.

“Do your worst.”

 


 

By the time George stumbled from the guest room with Lewis, it had been eleven minutes, but he was not going to complain about what transpired in those final sixty seconds. Lewis knew how to do things to him he didn’t think he ever would have discovered on his own, and certainly never would have tried.

Nic burst out laughing when George and Lewis finally made it up the balcony together, and Nic made a point to ask what had taken so long in a very loud, very obnoxious way, with plenty of cracks bout George’s sudden hairstyle change and dopey smile.

Not to mention the new hickey on his neck.

“How many more are under that very flimsy shirt you’ve got on?” Nic asked with a grin once Lewis stepped away to find drinks.

Nic tugged up the hem of George’s shirt, and George slapped his hand away.

“Do not,” he hissed, but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.

Nic laughed, his eyes bright. “Oh, you looooove him.”

His chest swelled, but George didn’t reply.

Not necessarily because he didn’t want to deny how he felt about Lewis—his didn’t trust his brain to make rational decisions at that moment anyway—but because he spotted movement on the next boat over.

“Holy shit,” George murmured. He grabbed Nic’s arm and hauled him over to the edge of the balcony. “How did we get the port right next to the podium yacht?”

Lando looked smart in a long sleeved shirt and stylized sweats, with Carlos hovering just behind him in a proper suit. George’s stomach turned as Carlos leaned in to nibble at the shell of Lando’s ear as they walked.

No Charles. George hoped that it was Charles’s choice not to come, and not Carlos’s.

Lando laughed, his grin so big it threatened to split his face in two. He turned, kissing Carlos properly. The both stopped on the bow, a quick kiss turning to something more, until Lando turned around to face Carlos properly, hands coming to his face.

“Get a room,” Nic muttered.

George shushed him as Daniel walked right into Carlos from behind, purposely knocking Calos and Lando into the side of the yacht. Lando flinched, bringing a hand to cover his mouth before he shot Dan a glare over his fingers.

Max appeared behind Daniel and kept a hand on him as he moved past. Then he put a hand on Lando’s shoulder, guiding him inside.

George noticed Carlos glance at Dan not once, but twice as Lando slowly took Max’s lead.  Nither Carlos or Dan moved to go inside.

“Can’t hear anything from here,” George muttered. He slapped Nic’s back. “Handle Lewis for me if he comes back.”

He hurried toward the inner stairwell, blood still humming with aftershocks of his time with Lewis in the guest bedroom.

“Did you just tell me to handle Lewis Hamilton?” Nic called after him, but George didn’t look back.

He practically jumped down the stairwell and into the side entrance to the guest room.

The bedsheets were still a mess as he ran to the window and clicked it open, tilting the glass inward just a few inches.

Daniel and Carlos still stood alone outside the door into the main part of the podium yacht.

“—more than you could possibly know,” Daniel said, his shoulders slightly hunched.

Carlos put a hand on his arm. “I know a little bit,” he said, and George thanked everything in the universe for a still harbor. He could hear them as if they were standing right next to him even though they were across the dock.

“Yeah, well. Never properly thanked you,” Daniel said. “And I know he won’t.”

Carlos shrugged. “No need to thank me. It was no problem. And besides, it was only temporary.”

Daniel shook his head. “Nah, mate. Meant the world. And I know you risked a lot.”

“That is the nature of love, no?” Carlos said. “To do whatever it takes.”

Adrenaline pumped through his bloodstream as George tried his best to figure out what the hell they were talking about. He wracked his brain for anything useful, any hint, but none came.

“Yeah,” Daniel said. “But he’s going to tear himself apart if he keeps going at it this way.”

Carlos patted Daniel’s arm. “Ehi, you have tonight. It’s important.”

“You need to talk to him,” Daniel said. “I mean, Charles does. No offense mate, but he’s not gonna listen to you as much as he’ll listen to Leclerc. Did you see those pictures?”

George squinted to try to make out Carlos’s face better in the low light.

“He was very drunk,” Carlos said stiffly.

“Yeah,” Daniel said. “That’s what should worry you.”

“I should be worried?” Carlos asked, his voice verging on dangerous.

“About Max?” Daniel let out a snort. “Fuck no. Well, maybe. But not that way.”

“What way, then?”

George pressed his ear to the window crack, holding his breath as the wind started to pick up.

“—influence—way you don’t want,” Daniel said, his voice chopped up by the breeze.

Fuck.

“—conversation you should have,” Carlos replied.

“Goddammit,” George hissed under his breath.

“—against you,” Daniel said. “You gotta know—looks—right?”

Carlos’s response completely fell away to the wind.

George tried to read lips, but couldn’t. He could only see Carlos smile tightly, his eyes narrowed until Daniel ruffled his hair. Whatever Daniel said made Carlos soften, then Max pulled the door open.

George watched as Max grabbed Daniel by the front of his shirt and pulled him into a deep kiss that Daniel happily lost himself to, but he also saw the way Carlos squeezed the back of Daniel’s neck as he passed behind him into the warm light of the yacht interior. The motion didn’t look entirely friendly.

George scrambled back up to the top deck, just in time to catch Lewis laughing at something Nic said.

“He returns,” Nic said, grinning. “My lovely husband.”

George slotted himself against Lewis’s side, smiling warmly when Lewis pressed a doting kiss to his cheek. He wasn’t drunk, but he felt the same hazy, muffled affection that came with intoxication. Lewis’s lips pressed to his ear, warm and soft.

“Anything interesting?” Lewis whispered. “Saw our neighbors.”

Of course. Lewis probably recognized the podium yacht the second they walked up to the gangplank.

George turned his head and gave him a kiss. “We’ll talk later.”

“You guys are gross,” Nic said, offering George a flute of champagne. “Have some decency.”

“Speaking of decency,” George said, resting his head against Lewis’s. “Can we have the master suite, you take the hotel?”

Nic nearly choked on his champagne. “Woah, are we getting into real infidelity territory here?”

Lewis’s arm tightened around George’s middle. “Hey man, I’m married.”

Nic’s mouth fell open, glancing between them both. “Are you—is Lewis joking with me?”

George folded his hand over Lewis’s at his hip. “Nic, focus.”

Nic threw up his hands in surrender. “Hey, hey, it’s not my yacht. Your yacht, your rules. I’ll head back to my lady’s hotel and we’ll say we both got blackout if anyone asks.”

“It’s Monaco,” Lewis chuckled. “No one asks.”

George lifted his champagne, Nic lifted his, and Lewis lifted his ginger ale can.

“Cheers to that,” George said, clinking glass against aluminum, then with Nic’s glass.

Nic took a long draw of his champagne and smacked his lips. “Now, can we actually start the party?”

Chapter Text

Charles adjusted the cuffs of his suit for the thousandth time as he stepped out of a Ferrari Italia at the edge of the harbor. Yachts loomed with the promise of an unforgettable night, and nerves gnawed at Charles’s insides.

Antonello wished him a good evening, and drove away before Charles noticed that he hadn’t responded. Antonello probably preferred that, as he didn’t seem at all pleased to be taking Charles anywhere without Carlos.

He swallowed hard. The yachts that lined the harbor buzzed with parties in full swing. Sebastian’s yacht was a loan from Aston Martin, and Charles ignored the very likely scenario that it was actually Lawrence Stroll’s yacht. The thought made him feel dirty, even though he knew Sebastian didn’t feel anything for Lance.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”

Charles looked away from a particularly wild top deck party to see Sebastian standing at the gangplank of the Aston Martin yacht.

“It’s been awhile,” Charles replied, doing his best to hide the shake in his voice.

Sebastian looked handsome as ever with his cocky smile, though Charles had to say he looked better in red than he did in his green cable knit sweater. Or maybe that was because Charles just missed him.

Seeing Sebastian without the fanfare of royal life, cameras, or the paddock circus made everything feel like a mirage. They never had the chance to see each other like this anymore. Charles had almost forgotten what it felt like to have Sebastian’s complete attention, to have him in quiet moments.

“It does feel like a first date, hm,” Sebastian agreed with a nod. “A bit thrown together, I have to admit. Can’t say I expected to be able to have this time with you, but I’m glad for it.”

“I was beginning to think we wouldn’t see each other at all,” Charles replied with an edge to his voice. It didn’t escape him that Sebastian hadn’t reached out all weekend.

Sebastian seemed to read his tone and crossed to him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Charles closed his eyes. Sebastian’s lips against his skin reminded him of a simpler time, when he followed Sebastian’s lead in Ferrari and didn’t have to handle it all himself as a crown prince.

Charles enjoyed the challenge of leading a kingdom, and Carlos was a good prince to have at his side. But he missed the wisdom Sebastian brought, the calm in the face of chaos.

“You’ve had a bad weekend,” Sebastian said.

Charles sagged against him, tucking his face into Sebastian’s neck. Familiar arms came around him, enveloping him in a hug he desperately needed.

Sebastian understood him, at the very least. He saw their relationship for the fact that it was equally personal and political.

“Things were easier with you,” Charles murmured.

“But this is good for you,” Sebastian said, nuzzling against him. “You’ve already grown so much.”

Charles didn’t feel he’d grown at all. He felt raw, stripped down to the quick.

He stepped away from Sebastian with a small smile. “What’s the plan for our night? I planned to stay late—what’s that mean, ten o’clock?”

Sebastian laughed. “I’ve barely seen you and you think I’ll leave that early?”

Charles smiled. “Most princes don’t consider the night started until midnight.”

He took Sebastian’s hand as they headed up into the yacht. Charles knew his way around yachts as a prince from Monaco, but he still didn’t understand why people bought them. Boats seemed so wasteful—then again, so did race cars.

“I hope you haven’t eaten,” Sebastian said as they headed up an exterior flight of stairs. Charles took in the sight of the packed harbor, lights flickering among the yachts. Distant cheers echoed from other parties, and Charles heard the distinct pop of a champagne bottle from somewhere nearby.

In typical Sebastian fashion, the top deck of the yacht had been decorated like something out of a magazine. A small table had two place settings and a cluster of candles already lit. Ornate lattice fencing covered in ivy created privacy walls, shielding them from view of stray cameras or other partygoers. Charles let out a quiet breath of relief at the sight. Sebastian thought of everything.

“What’s for dinner?” Charles asked.

“I let the chef decide,” Sebastian said. “I’m no good at picking meals.”

Except the preplanned ones he had made for their weekend in the Alps.

Charles tried not to think about that as he moved to take his seat. But as he pulled out his chair, Sebastian grabbed his hip, stopping him in his tracks.

“What’s going on?” Sebastian asked quietly.

Charles steeled himself, immediately tense. “There’s nothing going on.”

Sebastian frowned, his hand firmly in place. “I know that’s not true.”

Charles exhaled through his nose, trying to relax. He didn’t know how to discuss anything with Sebastian, who always seemed to think of everything in the context of the future, some long term thing that Charles only marginally understood.

“This hasn’t been easy for me,” Charles finally grit out. “At all.”

Sebastian’s grip softened. He nodded once, then pulled out Charles’s chair. “Sit down and we’ll figure everything out.”

Classic Sebastian with a problem-solving approach. Charles certainly didn’t know how to solve this one on his own. He had no idea how to put words to feelings, how to explain the tangle of things in his head—especially not to someone he loved, who he knew he would hurt in the process.

But he took his seat anyway.

“Are you fighting with someone?” Sebastian asked once he’d taken his seat.

He furrowed his brow. “Why would you ask that?”

Sebastian cocked his head. “You’ve been abnormally quiet. That’s usually how you are when you’ve had a fight with someone. Especially when you think you’ve affected them personally.”

Charles sighed. “Why does everyone think they know me?”

Sebastian smiled. “I’d like to think I do. Am I wrong?”

Charles wasn’t even sure how to answer that.

“There’s tension,” he finally said. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like when you stroke a cat’s fur in the wrong direction.”

Sebastian nodded, his eyes flitting around, his thinking face. “About us?”

Charles looked down at his place setting. Fine silk napkins and real silver utensils.

“You told me in the beginning that it would feel different,” Charles said quietly. “But instead it feels like you don’t even love me. A grand gesture once in a while is nice, but I don’t even know what’s going on in your life anymore.”

Something flashed in Sebastian’s eyes that looked like an echo of warmth.

“You haven’t exactly sought me out.”

“Because you told me not to,” Charles said evenly, meeting his eyes. “Remember?”

Sebastian frowned. “You’re upset with me.”

“A little, yes,” Charles said, then he shook his head. “Or upset with myself. Or everyone—I don’t even know anymore.”

A waitress stepped out from the interior of the top deck with two platters in hand. Charles didn’t feel like eating, but he thanked her for the plate of what looked like flan drizzled in balsamic vinegar. She poured them two glasses of merlot and left the bottle on the table. Masseto.

“So what’s upsetting you right now?” Sebastian asked. “In this moment. Something has to be on the forefront of your mind.”

Charles thought for a moment before answering. He caught sight of the red watch on Sebastian’s wrist, still there from earlier in the day.

“When I get in the car, I know exactly what the expectations are,” Charles began, using his fork to cut through the flan. A spoon would have been a better choice, he realized, but he scooped up a bite anyway. It tasted a bit like mashed potatoes, but fluffier. Fancier.

“I know how to navigate every problem with the car. I can drive one handed if I have to. It’s simple. I don’t have to think about it.”

Charles sliced up more flan, but didn’t eat it.

“And then the race ends. I get out of the car, and I have no idea what’s going on. Carlos wants me to be a good husband while he fucks someone else, you want me to love you while you fuck somebody else, and what I think doesn’t matter.” His lips curled to a dead smile. “That’s good, too, because whatever I do think ends up fucking everything up somehow.”

“We still have each other,” Sebastian said softly. “That hasn’t changed.”

Somehow that didn’t feel like an answer.

Charles shook his head. “Everything’s changed, Seb. Every race we reset the chessboard.”

Sebastian gently pulled the fork from his hand where he’d used it to pulverize the rest of his flan. Charles let him do it, and didn’t resist when Sebastian took his hand.

“I’m never going to lie to you, Charles,” Sebastian assured him, thumbing the side of his palm. “You’re in a vulnerable position. You’re in the appointment everyone wants—every prince wants to be a Ferrari prince, even if they don’t say it. I think Lewis is the only one who would say no to Binotto.” He let out a little snort. “Lewis would probably spit in his face.”

The warmth of pride flickered to life in Charles’s chest. “I miss you being there,” he admitted.

“I miss it too,” Sebastian replied, squeezing his hand. “And I wish you didn’t have to take it on by yourself.”

Charles shook his head. “I’m not. I have Carlos.”

 It felt like a sin to say it out loud in front of Sebastian, but they promised each other to be honest.

“And yet you’re sitting here with me instead of celebrating a podium with him,” Sebastian said.

Charles didn’t miss the intended insult. No, it sliced clean through him, a serrated blade through his chest.

“We’re working through it,” Charles forced out. “I need someone, Seb. Just like he does.”

Sebastian looked doubtful as he spooned up some of his flan.

Charles squeezed his hand, begging for a change of subject.

“We’re here to be together,” Sebastian murmured, returning it. “I’m here for you. Which is why we need to talk about George.”

Charles closed his eyes. Nothing could be simple anymore. Date nights had to double as business meetings, as policy discussion.

“I don’t need you to confirm any rumors,” Sebastian said. “I already know he’s with Lewis.”

Charles took a long draw of the glass of wine he’d been neglecting.

“I also don’t think I need to tell you how dangerous it is to have Lewis involved in any of this.”

“This?” Charles asked, running his tongue through the tannins of the merlot. It had a sweet, fruity aftertaste that made his cheeks feel a little swollen.

“Yes, this,” Sebastian said, gesturing around them. “George is nothing more than Lewis’s toy and you know it.”

Charles swallowed his wine. “Are you sure about that?”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t look so loving anymore, and Charles felt himself tense in kind. “Yes. Absolutely sure.”

Charles shrugged. “George is smart. He knows what he’s doing.”

“He has no idea what he’s doing.”

“Or maybe you’re out of the loop,” Charles replied, cold. “That’s what happens when you’re a prince for Aston Martin and not—”

“Lewis will use him to hurt you,” Sebastian interrupted, his eyes blazing.

Charles thought of Max, the look on his face at lunch, the way he tried everything to be with Daniel. Perez probably hadn’t even seen Max aside from public appearances. Max used every ounce of his power as crown prince to get exactly what he wanted. Sebastian had the same power in Aston Martin, complete with the power of four World Championship crowns, yet he hadn’t even written him a letter.

The grating, unsettling feeling intensified inside Charles. He loathed the turmoil, the writhing nothingness inside of him that had appeared at the beginning of the season and never seemed to go away.

“Lewis doesn’t have to use George to hurt me,” Charles said. “Life is doing a pretty decent job all on its own.”

Sebastian set down his fork. “I love you, Charles. But I can’t protect you if you don’t listen. Lewis is very good at convincing people to play his games.”

Charles pulled his hand away.

“I don’t care,” he growled. “Alright? I don’t care. George can handle himself, I can handle myself. Unless you have some specific threat—”

“He’ll go after Carlos,” Sebastian said quietly.

Charles’s words died on his tongue. The air left his throat and he immediately reset himself, blinking only once.

“Carlos has Alonso to protect him,” Charles grit out. He took another bite of flan and welcomed the sour taste of balsamic on his tongue.

Sebastian’s jaw went slack for only a split second, but it was enough.

Charles’s nostrils flared with hurt. “You knew.”

“Charles, there are—"

“How many times are we going to do this?” Charles asked, cutting him off. He loved Sebastian. Even now, with his heart twisting up, wringing itself into nothing but sinewy braids in his chest, he loved him.

Charles gestured to the table, his smashed flan and two glasses of red wine, barely touched. “How many times are we going to sit down and you tell me how much you love me, only for me to find out you’re hiding something else?”

He tossed his fork onto his plate with a loud clatter that made Sebastian flinch.

“You talk about honesty, but you’re only honest about things I sleuth out on my own,” Charles said.

Sebastian looked down at his empty hands, a rare look of defeat on his face.

Charles wished he could find some kind of sweetness in finally beating him at something.

“You have your friends, I have mine,” Sebastian finally said.

“Mine aren’t planning on hurting you,” Charles replied.

Sebastian laughed. “Oh really.”

Charles bristled. “Spit it out. If you really want to be honest, now’s your chance.”

The ivy leaves rustled in the night wind, and the sounds of other parties carried through the air as they stared at each other. Charles felt his world shrivel around him.

“Verstappen is the only one who has a chance at the championship this year,” Sebastian explained. “He’s already proved to be a handful when things don’t go his way. He exiled Alex Albon, and George was in a relationship with him.”

“None of that has anything to do with me,” Charles said around another sip of wine.

Sebastian frowned. “Whose side are you on? Lewis’s or Max’s?”

Charles shrugged. “Neither.”

 “Well, you need to pick one. A neutral party in this kind of war gets decimated.”

Charles blinked. A chill ran through him at the gravity in Sebastian’s voice, though he did his best not to show it.

“It’s not a war,” Charles murmured.

Sebastian shook his head. He rarely looked troubled, but concern clouded his features, turning his light eyes stormy. “Yes it is. Just because they haven’t gone to battle in front of the cameras doesn’t mean it’s not a war.”

Long before his first appointment, Charles wanted to be World Champion. He wanted a crown embroidered on his suit, he wanted the prestige, he wanted the power. The proof of his skill, that all of this was worth it. Lewis’s domination had closed the door on many would-be champions, including Sebastian, who nearly clinched a fifth title, only to lose it to Lewis in the final moments.

The only man to ever beat Lewis during his reign had been all but obliterated from the face of the earth. The name Nico Rosberg was only spoken in hushed whispers, and his sudden retirement was rumored to be an exile, or maybe something worse.

Now Max stood in Lewis’s line of fire. Charles never thought about the championship as a battle against one person. Each race was a fight against the track, working with or against the car, coordinating with Carlos to make the best choice for the team. Even in an intense fight on the ciruit, he never thought about the prince in the car except when he had to recall his driving style to find the best way to defend or pass.

“Whose side are you on?” Charles asked.

Sebastian sipped on his wine as two waitresses emerged this time. One took their plates, the other placed two platters of tagliatelle in front of them. Charles wondered if the chef just assumed they would both want Italian food because of the Ferrari connections or because it was a safe bet that they could both handle pasta without complaint.

“I don’t particularly trust either of them,” Sebastian finally said once they were alone again.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Lewis is your best friend.”

“And there’s a reason I’ve never been married to him,” Sebastian said. “Like I said, Lewis is dangerous. It takes a certain kind of ruthlessness to maintain a championship streak like that.”

Charles twirled his tagliatelle around his fork, but he really didn’t feel like eating.

“So you’re on Max’s side,” he said.

“Max doesn’t have a—”

“Just tell me who you’re supporting,” Charles snapped, surprising even himself with his ferocity.

Sebastian set down his wine glass.

“Lewis,” he said quietly. “But I’m not going to directly involve myself.”

Charles pulled his fork from his pasta and placed it beside his plate before standing up. He would choose Max, without question. There was no world where he would ever side with Lewis over one of his closest friends.

Max could easily rise to meet Lewis’s ruthlessness, but Charles felt sick at the thought of what that might do to him. Lewis hadn’t always been the dangerous man he was now. Something had turned him that way.

“I need some air,” Charles explained, scrubbing his face with his hands. “Where’s the washroom?”

“Down the stairs, first door on the right,” Sebastian said, his voice even and measured the way it always was under stress. “Take all the time you need.”

Charles dropped his hands, shoulders sagging. Sebastian’s eyes were heavy with concern where he watched him from across the table.

“I’m sorry,” Charles added softly.

“Don’t be,” Sebastian replied with a shake of his head. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

Charles nodded, then headed for the stairs. The night air washed over his face as he walked, cool and calming. Fireworks burst over the water from a yacht across the harbor, sending showers of glimmering sparks across the surface of the waves.

A flash of movement caught his eye in the yacht beside theirs and Charles paused on the staircase when he caught sight of a familiar—

He swallowed hard.

His angle on the staircase gave him a perfect view into the main living space of the adjacent yacht. A massive room with comfy leather couches, polished wood floors, and warm lighting.

And Carlos on his back on one of the couches, his fingers carding through Lando’s curls where Lando straddled him, his shirt rumpled and Carlos’s suit jacket discarded on the floor.

Lando didn’t even look like himself. Even from far away, Charles barely recognized the intensity on his face, the parted lips and lust-dark eyes, the want in him.

He no longer regetted revoking their rule about telling each other if they were going to sleep with anyone.

He stood there in the shadow of the staircase and watched as Carlos sat up to meet Lando’s lips, the way they both collapsed into the kiss. Lando moved without any hesitation as he did away with Carlos’s shirt, fingers tangling in fabric, then dark hair. A ghost of an expression came to Lando’s lips—a private, magical little smile that made Charles feel sick inside.

Maybe he’d never been in love with anyone at all.

Carlos’s returned smile oozed affection, unfiltered and raw. Charles never realized how much of it had been muted around him until now. Lando yanked off his shirt but it got stuck at his jaw, and Charles didn’t have to hear the laughter—he saw the adoration on Carlos’s face as he helped get it off, his McLaren wedding ring still glimmering on the chain around his neck.

Then they were on each other again, skin-to-skin, Carlos’s hands wandering Lando’s back. But Lando paused suddenly, and Charles saw the rivets of his ribcage as Lando took in a deep breath and settled on top of Carlos, tucking his face into Carlos’s neck so that Charles could only see the top of his head and the corner of Carlos’s jaw when he turned to nuzzle him, his hands stilling and opting instead to simply hold him close.

Charles suddenly felt like his skin had accumulated a layer of grime in the span of time he’d spent standing there. Something like guilt and shame welled up in his throat at the thought that he might have come between something like Carlos and Lando.

Charles now knew the difference between the way Carlos loved Lando and how he supposedly loved him. He saw no comparison, not even when Carlos had stopped his heart in his chest in that rally car.

He forced himself to look away and pushed his way into the bathroom.

The man who met him in the mirror looked like a specter, a half-truth of himself with hollow eyes and something in his face that said look twice, just in case he didn’t really exist.

Charles splashed water on his face, staring down into the bowl of the sink as droplets fell from his clumped lashes and damp skin. He breathed in the scent of the expensive air fresheners and felt the low boom of a nearby firework as it burst in the night sky outside.

So Carlos didn’t actually love him. Big deal.

Sebastian seemed to be fading away from him. Fine.

He used to be someone who could handle his aloneness. He wore independence with pride, forged his own destiny without having to think about anyone else.

Pierre had it right. He didn’t have to love Carlos, but he had to support him. And he needed to let go. Not everything had to mean something. It obviously didn’t for Carlos.

Charles patted his face dry with a hand towel before he steeled himself.

He could do this.

He stepped from the bathroom and back out onto the deck. He started up the stairs and turned when he was halfway up, taking one last look to burn the image into his brain so he never had to question himself again.  

Except Carlos stood alone, still shirtless, but Lando nowhere in sight. He leaned against the back of the couch, his back toward Charles and his hands braced on the frame. Charles couldn’t really read Carlos from the slope of his shoulders alone, but he looked a little hunched, maybe a little lost.

Maybe Lando had left. Maybe they got in an argument in the few minutes Charles had been occupied.

Carlos tipped his head back to look at the ceiling, but Charles couldn’t see any of his face with the way his hair piled up in a perfect, tousled—

A hand snaked out from behind the couch, fingers digging bruises into Carlos’s bare hip. One of Carlos’s hands moved in front of him and Charles saw a glimpse of Lando’s hair when Carlos reached down to fist it.

No, Carlos was not alone. Lost, yes, but not for the reason Charles suspected originally.

Nausea crashed into him harder than any seasickness ever could have.

He turned abruptly and made his way back up the stairs, fighting not to run straight back to the bathroom to throw up.

Sebastian stood waiting for him, and Charles didn’t have to say a word before Sebastian’s arms wrapped around him.

They stood together for awhile. Charles regained his sanity by breathing in the scent of Sebastian’s sweater, and he thought back to the cabin in Austria, curling up on the couch in a warm blanket with a good book, listening to Sebastian making dinner in the kitchen. Simple, kind, steady.

“Can you promise me you’ll tell me if Lance ever becomes someone more to you?” Charles asked, finally breaking the silence.

Sebastian’s hold tightened around him. His stubble roughed against his temple where he placed a fond kiss.

“Is this because I told him I loved him?” Sebastian asked.

Any happiness Charles had sparked in the kindling of Sebastian’s hold immediately snuffed itself out.

No wonder Lance had been so smitten with Sebastian all weekend. Charles had to fight for two conversations because Lance just wouldn’t leave him alone. It made sense now.

“Do you love him?” Charles asked, and he nearly didn’t get the words out.

He didn’t want the answer.

Carlos’s honesty always came at the right time, soft and sure. Sebastian’s always seemed designed to hurt.

Sebastian kissed his temple again.

“I care about him,” Sebastian said. “Don’t you care about Carlos?”

Rays of sunlight glowed against the backs of his eyelids as Charles found himself in the rally car again, choked with longing and disgusted with himself for denying someone who so clearly adored him.

His stomach roiled.

“A little,” he murmured.

Sebastian smiled against his temple. Charles pulled back to look over his face, to wander the scruff of his beard, the fullness of his lips.

Sebastian looked down at him through blond lashes, a smile curling to life on his features. He always looked so happy, so genuine. Even in moments where Charles wanted nothing more than to throw something at the FIA or Binotto or even his husband, Sebastian always met them with kindness.

“That’s a good thing,” Sebastian whispered, reaching up to hold his jaw while he pressed a kiss to Charles’s forehead. “Enjoy it, Charles. It makes everything sweeter later.”

Charles furrowed his brow, discomfort flaring in his gut at the way Sebastian implied that Carlos didn’t matter. Carlos wasn’t a ploy or a joke. Charles genuinely cared about him, genuinely trusted him.

“Doesn’t it affect you at all?” Charles asked.

Sebastian pursed his lips before shaking his head. “Why should it? I know you love me, and that’s all that matters.”

“Yes, I love you, but you’re telling someone else you love him when you don’t,” Charles countered.

Sebastian cocked a brow. “Haven’t you told Carlos?”

Charles could only think about Carlos’s fingers in Lando’s hair, the smile on Lando’s lips as he looked down at him like nothing else mattered in the entire world except Carlos Sainz.

“No,” Charles said, his thoughts still elsewhere.

He didn’t expect to see Sebastian so stunned by the admission.

“Really? I assumed you had,” Sebastian said. “He’s wrapped around your finger.”

Currently, Charles wanted to say, Carlos had Lando’s lips wrapped around his cock.

He cleared his throat instead.

“We both have people we don’t want to lose.”

“You won’t lose me,” Sebastian  murmured. His thumb swiped over Charles’s lower lip, prompting him to look up just in time to meet his kiss.

But this time it didn’t give him any comfort. Charles no longer felt part of Sebastian’s life, not when he would return to Lance with an excuse about where he was (one Charles didn’t want to hear) and assure him that he was loved. Lance deserved the truth, no matter how difficult it was to hear.

Meanwhile, Charles would return to his empty flat and spend the night alone. Carlos would come back in the morning with an excited smile and talk about everything except Lando and somehow that would hurt more than a detailed admission. They would sidestep the weekend and enter back into the blind spots they set for themselves.

“You should tell Lance,” Charles found himself saying once they returned to their seats, holding hands across the table.

He’s keeping you hidden.

Charles hadn’t thought about it that way until Max mentioned it.

Sebastian frowned. “I just told him I loved him. I can’t tell him I’ve had you all along.”

“It’s the truth,” Charles said, forking up pasta. “You really should have told him from the beginning.”

“It’s never helpful.”

Charles let out a snort. “Better than thinking someone loves you when they don’t.”

Sebastian cocked his head, watching him from across the table. “Is it?”

Charles froze mid-bite.

“Yes,” he said, slowly. “Because when you know you don’t really matter to someone, you can make decisions with a clear head.”

“You can also make decisions with a clear head if you don’t love them back,” Sebastian said.

Charles set down his fork. “Carlos isn’t a threat. But if Lance finds out about us—and I refuse to believe he doesn’t have some kind of idea—things could end badly for you.”

Sebastian smiled. “I’m a four-time—”

“I mean personally, Seb,” Charles said, and the words sounded hollow in his throat. “Living a lie like that affects you.”

“Convincing yourself you don’t matter to anyone also affects you,” Sebastian replied evenly, squeezing his hand. “You have to make decisions based on yourself, Charles. Doing everything because of how other people feel is only asking for pain.”

Charles opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out.

“That’s also living a lie,” Sebastian continued. “And it’s diminishing yourself. Look at Carlos. He should be falling at your feet. You’re a prince of Ferrari. Lando Norris might be a name to watch, but he’s not you. And yet you’re letting Carlos walk away with him.”

“Because he deserves to be happy,” Charles said.

“And so do you,” Sebastian replied. “Let Carlos handle the decisions about who he wants to spend time with. I hate seeing you fold.”

Charles bristled, but he knew he didn’t mean it as an insult. “I’m not folding.”

A little smile came to Sebastian’s lips. “Seems like it. You don’t think you can win against Lando.”

Charles scowled. “I don’t want to win against Lando. I don’t love Carlos, I love you.”

Sebastian kissed the back of his hand, his lips soft in contrast to his stubble. “I know that. But I think it would be good for you to see how much power you have, Charles. Not everything in royalty is won on the track.”

Once again, Sebastian talked like Charles didn’t care about Carlos at all. But Charles did like the newness of a challenge, the spark of competition. It was engrained in him to want victory, no matter the context.

“Try it,” Sebastian offered with a squeeze of his hand. “You won’t be hurting Carlos, trust me. Alonso doesn’t tell me much, but he told me how much Carlos wants to mean something to you.”

He does mean something to me, Charles wanted to say, but stopped himself.

He let out a sigh. “This weekend has taught me Carlos tells everyone all about me. The good and bad.”

“Then use that to your advantage,” Sebastian said. “If you want to be a World Champion, you have to prove to all of them that there are no chinks in your armor.”

“There aren’t any,” Charles growled.

Sebastian smiled. “There’s one. He’s a little British kid who gets everything he wants, even when he doesn’t deserve it. I’m not saying you can’t play that narrative, but make sure Carlos knows who holds the leash.”

“Carlos thinks he has the upper hand,” Charles muttered, twirling up more pasta.

Sebastian laughed. “He’s a smart guy, but we both have the same flaw.”

Charles cocked a brow, tagliatelle dangling inches from his lips.

Sebastian’s eyes went soft. “We both love someone more powerful than we are.”

Heat rushed to Charles’s cheeks. He broke eye contact, wholly startled by such a meaningful compliment.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Sebastian said. “But Carlos would drop everything for you.”

Charles doubted that. Not when he’d just seen Carlos completely enamored by the British kid who got whatever he wanted.

“Maybe,” he said.

Sebastian watched him for a moment, a smile still curled at his lips. “Let’s finish eating so we can get on with the real evening I have planned.”

Charles bit the inside of his cheek. “Don’t tell me we’re going on jetskis. I hate jetskis.”

 “I’ll leave those to Lewis,” Sebastian said with a laugh. “No, we’re too refined for that. I was thinking wine and painting.”

Charles gave him a dubious look. “Are we also going to get tipsy and discuss Love Island with all of the other menopausal moms?”

“Eat your dinner,” Sebastian chastised with a devilish grin. “We’ll see what you think after.”

Chapter Text

Champagne tasted so much better than sparkling wine. George loved the punchy bubbles on his tongue, the rasp in his throat after his sixth flute, and the way it tasted mixed with Lewis’s lips against his own.

Party music thumped outside on the deck, but only the last few stragglers were still outside, finishing drinks before they headed to afterparties. Nic left for the hotel forever ago, and the champagne bottle George had saved for Lewis sat empty on the nightstand beside them.

“You can sleep here, you know,” George murmured as he kissed up Lewis’s neck.

Lewis let out a noncommittal noise in reply, still only half coherent after orgasm. If Nic wanted to save his sanity, he would keep his ears plugged for the entire flight tomorrow. George couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he found out they’d finally fucked.

The musky scent of sex clung to the air even as the state-of-the-art air conditioning systems caressed them with a cool breeze. George shivered a little as the sweat dried on his skin, but not enough to stop mouthing every inch of Lewis’s skin.

Champagne fizzed in his blood, but George knew he wasn’t drunk. His head was a bit fuzzy, but he would be able to remember every moment, every moan, every word that spilled from Lewis’s lips.

George didn’t put a lot of stake in sex. As fun as it was, he didn’t think he was all that great at it, especially for someone like Lewis Hamilton, who could fuck probably anyone on the planet if he flirted hard enough.

George treated sex like an extension of conversation, Lewis treated it like an art form.

“Or we could go another round?” George offered, raking his teeth over a spot on Lewis’s shoulder.

Lewis smiled, his eyes still closed. “Remind me to be rougher next time,” he murmured. “You’re still too energetic.”

“When’s next time?” he asked, rolling off to rest on his side, still pressed close.

“Mm. I think Azerbaijan will be boring enough that we’ll have plenty of time,” Lewis said drowsily.

George loved the way sleepiness looked on him. All of the hard lines of Lewis’s paddock mask had fallen away to reveal something softer, younger, more innocent. George kissed the freckles on his cheekbones even though he couldn’t see them in the dark, and Lewis brought a lazy hand up to frame his face before they met for a deep kiss.

Champagne could never make him as drunk as kissing Lewis did.

Usually George wanted to be part of all of the action, especially at a Monaco party. Mick showed up not long after Nic texted him that the party was still on, and George barely spoke to him all night. They would have time to chat in Baku—if George bothered to waste any free time he could be spending with the man beside him.

“You good?” Lewis asked softly when they broke apart.

“Mm?” George shifted on the mattress, resting his cheek on Lewis’s shoulder.

Lewis caressed his cheek with the backs of his fingers, warm and doting. George didn’t think he’d ever experienced this level of sated and happy since his first time with Alex when they were both stupid and young and figuring out life together.

He supposed Lewis was helping him figure out life too, in a different way.

“Just checking on you,” Lewis murmured, pressing a kiss to his nose. “Wanna see where your head’s at.”

“M’okay,” George replied softly. “Better than okay, actually. Fucking amazing.”

“I wish I could spend the night,” Lewis said, disappointment leaking into his voice. He sounded different with all of the fanfare stripped away. Without cameras in his face or creeping around corners.

But Lewis was a World Champion, and World Champions did not spend the night on a Williams yacht to get captured taking a walk of shame in the morning. George wished it didn’t matter, but he knew how important it was to do this right.

“It feels different with you,” George said, closing his eyes. He inhaled the scent of Lewis’s cologne that still clung to his skin.

“Good different?”

“Mhm.” George pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “I’m glad you came to the party. That…it really means a lot.”

Lewis let out a little grunt as he turned over onto his side and draped and arm over George’s middle.

“Every time I see you, I leave feeling a little more scared,” Lewis whispered.

George looked up at him, brow furrowed in concern. He reached out, spreading a palm over Lewis’s chest.

“Why?” he asked, fingering the heavy chain of Lewis’s necklace.

The corner of Lewis’s mouth turned up in a half smile, a little dazed, a little wistful.

“I forgot what this feels like,” Lewis said.

George didn’t dare to assume what he meant. “What what feels like?”

Lewis captured his lips in a kiss, gentle but full of affection.

When they broke apart, Lewis looked down at him through his lashes, his nose ring twinkling in the moonlight, echoing the shine in his dark eyes.

“You know,” he said. “Falling for someone.”

 


 

The paparazzi had called it a night, or so George assumed as he walked Lewis back toward his flat with no cameras in sight. His shirt clung to his freshly-showered skin, and his neck was littered with fresh marks he hoped stayed forever. Lewis really liked giving hickeys, and George found he really liked receiving them. They were little gifts, reminders that this really happened, that maybe—just maybe—Lewis Hamilton really was falling in love with him.

George wanted to believe that, but he knew better than to trust post-coital words. Even if everything else matched up.  

Lewis tugged him down side streets to take the long way back. Stars glimmered in the sky above, and the building windows glowed yellow in kind as parties continued to rage in the night.

“When do you fly back to Mercedes?” George asked as they walked, kicking a stray rock down the sidewalk.

“Nine,” Lewis replied. “Toto wants to have a meeting on the flight, which means I need to get breakfast with Valtteri beforehand. He always wakes up at six.”

George smiled. “And what time do you usually wake up?”

Lewis shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. “A little later.”

“What time?” he pressed, nudging against him. “If I start adjusting my sleep schedule now, maybe we’ll sync up by the time I’m there.”

He expected Lewis to react, or at least hesitate to respond about their future together. Instead Lewis leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Seven,” he said. “And I work out before I eat anything. Sometimes I have a bullet coffee if I’m not feeling well—vegan butter, obviously. And I mix a some MCT oil in. But don’t drink that without starting on a low dose. You’ll be sorry if you do.”

George laughed, but the image of Lewis sleepy in the kitchen making himself a coffee made him want. He loved when Lewis let down his walls and allowed him to see the hidden parts of himself.

“I’ll start dosing up now then,” George said. “I thought you didn’t drink coffee? You never drink any with Valtteri.”

Lewis shrugged. “Like I said, only when I really need it. That kind of caffeine hit makes me anxious. Tea caffeine kind of mellows me out.”

“Do you ever—”

Lewis pulled up abruptly, and George instinctively shut his mouth and dropped Lewis’s hand.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” a voice said nearby. He heard the scuff of shoes on concrete.

George’s brow creased as he tried to make out the source of the voice, but Lewis caught him around the waist and pulled him toward a courtyard gate.  George hurried inside, ducking under leafy fronds of some kind of tropical plant.

Lewis tugged his hips and George spotted a dark enclave that he quickly ducked into.

Darkness washed over him as Lewis pressed snug against him, chest to chest, ensuring they both stayed shadowed.

George froze when he saw Max step into the courtyard, Daniel’s tall frame taking up the space behind him. Daniel’s eyes looked damp with sleepy drunkenness, and Max looked beaten down.

“You don’t want a crown anymore,” Daniel said, his voice slurry.

“Daniel.”

Max sounded annoyed.

“I dunno how you can even pretend—”

“It’s very difficult,” Max said, turning to him. “You make it difficult.”

George was thankful that he was the only one with a view into the courtyard. Daniel’s face looked heartbroken—a far cry from the happy, dopey smile he’d been sporting on the yacht.

Lewis rested their foreheads together, pressing even closer. George flashed a ghost of a smile, glancing at Lewis before he loosely wrapped his arms around his waist.

“Try watching you win and knowing I can’t fuck you afterward,” Daniel said.

“I won, and here you are,” Max replied softly in the that voice that made George feel guilty for listening.

“You’re getting a mouth on you, ever since I left,” Daniel growled, but it sounded fond.

“Not your mouth, unfortunately.”

Daniel looped his arms around Max’s middle, hauling him close. “Stop,” he said. “Can’t fuck you here, it’s publicly indecent.”

George jerked when Lewis’s thumb suddenly brushed across his lower lip. He saw the desire in Daniel’s eyes matched in Lewis’s and his lips twisted to a sly smile, parting his lips slightly but not offering a kiss.

“Is Perez any good?” Daniel asked.

Max pulled back slightly, smirking. “What do you think?”

“Wanna hear you say it. Color me curious.”

Daniel nosed against Max, fighting for a kiss that Max dodged with a smile. “Pretty big demands for a second-seater in McLaren.”

Daniel pressed Max to the wall, fingers suddenly in his hair, wrenching Max’s head back. Max shot him a breathy smile that faded to a moan when Daniel’s mouth came to Max’s neck.

“You want to give Checo a call to come deal with blue balls, Maxie?” Daniel asked, his voice low and rough.

“No,” Max grit out. “I want you.”

“You better.”

“Fucking always, I want you.”

George looked away as they started into a heavy makeout session, pink dusting his cheeks. Lewis bit his lip, amused by his reaction.

George jabbed a thumb into Lewis’s back, earning him  lips at his neck, teeth grazing his already sensitive bruises.

Nic wasn’t going to be able to get on the jet back to Williams, he would be laughing so hard the second he saw him. George was pretty sure he’d look properly fucked out for a solid week after tonight.

“Inside,” Max said.

“Already? Let me lube up first, babe—”

“Oh my god.” Max rolled his eyes and gave Daniel a shove. “Get off of me.”

George watched as Max slipped from Daniel’s hold only enough to turn around. Daniel stayed attached to his back, arms still loose at Max’s hips as they walked to a nearby door. George glanced up at what he could see of the building, but from his angle he didn’t know whether it was Daniel’s place or Max’s.

He assumed Max’s with the ease Max swiped his keycard to get inside, but he also knew Max and Daniel probably walked around each other’s places as if they were their own.

Daniel leaned down to nibble at the nape of Max’s neck as they headed inside, disappearing when the door shut behind them.

George relaxed just in time for Lewis to press a kiss to his lips.

He held him close, thankful once again that this wasn’t something that could be ripped away from him by the powers that be. No one would exile Lewis. No one would pull him from the appointment ranks and ruin his life just because they felt like it.

Best of all, Max couldn’t do anything to him, even if he wanted to.

“You’d think they would try to be more subtle,” Lewis chuckled.

George shook his head. “Everyone knows. No reason to hide.”

Lewis nodded once, then stepped away from him. George took his hand and once they made sure the coast was clear, they both headed back out to the street.

“Max seemed upset,” George said as they started back toward Lewis’s flat. “Do you think it had anything to do with what Ricciardo was talking to Carlos about?”

Lewis thought for a moment. “Maybe. But I don’t think Ricciardo has much to do with this. Can’t say the same for Max.”

“Daniel mentioned that Carlos should talk to Max,” George said. He didn’t say that Daniel really meant for Charles to talk to him. Some secrets were better left untold.

“Alonso might have been behind whatever they were talking about,” Lewis said. “Or Seb. Or both of them.”

“Why? I still don’t get what Sebastian or Fernando would use Carlos for.”

“Carlos used to be married to Max,” Lewis reminded him. “Having him on their side—even indirectly—could be useful. Carlos is a good entry point.”

George swallowed hard.

If Lewis thought Carlos was a good entry point, Charles had to be the Holy Grail. But only if Sebastian knew about Charles and Max—and George was pretty sure he didn’t. Charles never spoke about their relationship to anyone. He was pretty sure Carlos didn’t even know about it.

Actually he knew Carlos didn’t know about it, given that Carlos caused the breakup in the first place. Charles would never forgive him for that. In fact, Max was probably the reason Charles would never love Carlos Sainz.

“All of this for Mick having a seat at Ferrari?” George asked.

 “You really think this is just about a Ferrari seat?”

Heat rushed to George’s cheeks. He hated failing tests, and he especially hated sounding stupid and failing a test at the same time.

 “It’s about forgiveness for Seb and Fernando,” Lewis said quietly. “And paying tribute to someone who shaped them.”

Lewis’s eyes were distant as they approached his building, and George tugged his hand to get his attention, stopping them both.

“And what about you?” George asked. “You don’t feel the same?”

The smile on Lewis’s face chilled to ice.

“I made my peace a long time ago,” Lewis said. “I took Michael’s place. I’ve spent my entire time as a prince in his shadow and no matter how successful I am or how many World Championships I bring, they always find something to say about him being stronger or more tactical or a better leader.”  

The look on Lewis’s face echoed the expression he’d worn when he looked at the painting in his kitchen: forlorn and haunted. George squeezed his hand, but it had no effect.

“We respected each other,” Lewis said. “Michael stepped away from his crown because of his confidence in me. I always took pride in that, but he never treated me the same way he treated Sebastian or Fernando or—”

He cut himself off, his jaw flexing hard as if the name that had been about to leave his mouth physically hurt him. George could only think of one name with that power. Nico.

“So no,” Lewis continued, “I don’t have to atone for anything—my entire life is a comparison to him. If Mick wants a Ferrari crown, he has to earn it. The way I did, the way you did. I’m not cutting down some French kid and his Spanish boyfriend to give Mick a chance at something he needs to prove he deserves.”

George gently pulled his hand free to cup Lewis’s jaw, bringing him close until their foreheads rested together. He thumbed at the corner of Lewis’s pained grimace, and they stood together in the quiet confines of the gated driveway of his building.

He didn’t know how to comfort someone who experienced the world so differently. Michael Schumacher was a deity in George’s mind—not a real prince someone could actually race against, let alone beat. And Lewis stepped in to take his place at Mercedes, to wear the crown of a legend.

Lewis was just a person. A talented, handsome, wonderful person. He deserved his acclaim, but it also turned him into someone who people thought couldn’t be hurt.

“I can stay,” George offered.

Maybe he couldn’t do anything to help in the realm of royalty, but he could at least comfort the man he’d come to care for so much.

Lewis smiled and shook his head. “You should get back. I’ll see you in Baku.”

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

Lewis pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m sure. Thank you for tonight. I, um. It meant a lot to me.”

Every part of George’s body suddenly turned warm and glowing.

“Of course,” he said with a kiss of his own. “Write me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lewis replied. “Goodnight, George.”

They carefully pulled apart from one another, and George watched until Lewis disappeared behind the tinted glass doors of his building. Lewis never looked back when he left—something George thought he would hate but now appreciated. Saying goodbye meant saying goodbye. No drawing it out to make it more painful.

The hollowness of being alone settled on George as he took a few more seconds to stare at the door, the night air cold against the palm of his hand where it had been linked with Lewis’s.

He pulled out his phone when he turned to leave and texted Nic: dropped lewis home. see you bright and early.   

He doubted Nic would respond, but he didn’t like to keep him out of the loop on anything. They had yet to discuss Mick, but George no longer felt like he understood enough of that scenario to comment on it. He needed to talk to Mick.

A letter, then. Hopefully he would have the time.

As he wandered down the empty street, he passed sports cars of varying luxury. A Lamborghini Aventador, a Corvette Stingray, and even a Ferrari F40. Only in Monaco would people trust their supercars to be parked on a curb in the elements.

He yawned as he navigated his way back down the hill, only to find a Williams courier standing at the gangplank.

“Prince Russell,” the courier greeted, scurrying over to him with a bright red envelope in hand.

“Jesus,” George muttered. “The hell does Charles want?”

Exhaustion began to pull at his eyes, but he thanked him and opened the letter.

We need to talk. My place.

George let out a groan.

“Can you get me a car?” George asked the courier, who whipped out his phone. “And a coffee. Maybe two.”

 


 

George knew the way to Charles’s place by heart. He punched in the gate code and buzzed himself in, his second coffee still warm in his hands. So much for sleep.

When he arrived at the door, he only had to knock once before Charles answered.

He looked horrible, his hair wet and uncharacteristically flat to his head. George could see the definition of his eye sockets, sunken in. His skin looked pale, almost clammy, like he’d fallen ill.

“Hey,” George greeted, his voice soft with concern. “What’s going on?”

Charles stepped aside to let him in, swallowed in an oversized hoodie.

Charles’s apartment looked eerie with only the kitchen lights on. George noted Carlos’s sneakers piled by the door, his jacket hanging on the coat hook, but the man himself very much absent.

“I, um.” Charles shrugged. “I didn’t invite Sebastian back here. And I guess I didn’t want to be alone.”

A pang of empathy ripped through George as he nodded. He offered his coffee. “Want some? Latifi dynasty special.”

Charles gave him a weak smile before he took the cup and sipped. George noticed a smudge of orange on the underside of his jaw.

“Is that paint?” he asked, reaching over to swipe at the mark.

Charles brought a hand up to swat George’s away, a blush creeping to his cheeks. “Yeah. Long story.”

It didn’t seem like Charles wanted him to ask, so George just smiled.

“I could put some tea on,” he offered.

Charles shook his head. “Carlos is coming back soon. Before he leaves again.”

His eyes looked dead, like the rest of him. It reminded George of the weeks following his breakup with Max.

“Did he say something?” George asked. He looked over to the couch. “Let’s sit down, yeah?”

Charles didn’t seem to register that he’d spoken until George reached over and ruffled his wet hair.

“Char,” he said. “What happened?”

Charles Leclerc didn’t cry in front of people. George had only seen him in tears during moments that would destroy other men. But suddenly Charles’s eyes were glistening, and George felt a tug at his own tear ducts in kind.

“I saw them,” Charles choked out, hurriedly wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “Carlos and Lando. We were docked next to them.”

George blinked, suddenly realizing that the yacht on the other side of the podium yacht had looked familiar for a reason. Lawrence Stroll’s—once a Williams yacht, not long ago.

“We?” George asked, but he already knew the answer.

“Sebastian and me,” Charles replied, taking a shaky breath.

George didn’t feel like the proximity to the podium yacht was an accident, especially if Sebastian was involved. Anger flickered to life inside him as he put an arm around Charles and guided him to the couch.

“We were the yacht on the other side,” George said. “I saw them too.”

Charles froze in place, his mouth twitching in a way that made George want to find Carlos and punch him square in the jaw.

“Max and Dan were with them,” George continued, trying to soften the blow.

The haunted look returned to Charles’s face. “Not when I saw them.”

George gently pushed Charles to the couch and grabbed a blanket from a nearby basket to drape over his friend.

“So,” George said, choosing his words carefully. “Are you upset because of what you saw or something else?”

Charles swallowed hard, which was answer enough for George.

“Does Sebastian know?” he asked, taking a spot on the couch beside him and pulling the blanket up over Charles’s shoulders.

Charles shook his head, hand emerging from beneath the blanet to hand his coffee back. “I’m so sick of hurting people, George.”

George already suspected that Charles hadn’t told them the truth at Steakout. He always spent time with Carlos in the paddock when he didn’t have to, and the way he’d defended him from Lando in Portugal wasn’t an action of a prince defending his empire.

“It’s not wrong, you know,” George said quietly. “What you feel is what you feel.”

Charles let out a choked noise and turned his face away to stare out the nearby window, where the yacht lights of the harbor still twinkled in the early morning hours.

Normally George took a pragmatic approach with these things, but he didn’t feel like that was the right thing to do here.

Maybe because he knew it wouldn’t work on himself. If he had to face Alex right now, he wasn’t sure he could do it. He didn’t think he would be able to handle the guilt—just thinking about Alex seeing him on TV with Lewis someday as a Mercedes prince made his stomach turn.

“I didn’t want this to happen,” Charles finally said, his voice almost inaudible. “I thought I’d only love Sebastian for the rest of my life.”

George closed his eyes, trying not to shudder. If Carlos and Charles became a real couple, Fernando and Sebastian would have both of them under control, whether or not they realized it.

A perfect plan, really. Charles would fall in love with a man who already loved someone else. Lando would burn his bridges with anyone who supported them, leaving an unstable foundation for the moment Mick sprung his trap. Carlos idolized Fernando, so one timely rumor from a mentor could probably trigger a complete implosion that—even if it didn’t last—could send Charles into a place so dark that Mick would only have to graze him with a blow to remove his crown.

George shifted a little closer, suddenly afraid.

“Do you still love Sebastian?” he asked.

Charles chewed the inside of his cheek as he nodded. George’s heart sank.

“But it’s like Seb wants me to be with Carlos,” Charles murmured.

Because he does, George thought.  

“I kept waiting for him to say something,” Charles continued. “To fight for me or try to tell me Carlos isn’t worth my time. Instead it’s like he wants me to just…”

Charles trailed off, his eyes going vacant.

“To what?”

“Take advantage of how much Carlos already—” Charles’s mouth stayed open, but no more words came out. Then his brow creased. “To take advantage of how much he already loves me.”

Every time George thought he could predict the game, someone made him second guess himself. Sebastian absolutely knew what he was doing—more than even Lewis seemed to know.

He wanted to ask Charles about Daniel and Carlos, if they were close, but he didn’t want to add any acid to Charles’s already salted wound.

“I don’t think loving him back is taking advantage of him,” George said quietly.

Charles flinched. “He loves Lando. He wants Lando. I don’t fit into his life, George.”

“You’re married to him,” George said, bumping his knuckles to Charles’s knee. “And yeah, maybe it’s not meant to be. But this is the only opportunity you have to figure it out. As long as you go into it knowing what could happen, I think it’s okay.”

Charles deserved to be happy. George would rather have him happy with Carlos than Sebastian, and once he had a Mercedes crown and Lewis at his side, he could stop Mick from ruining them and expose Sebastian for the snake he was.

“What am I supposed to say?” Charles asked. “That I don’t want him to be with Lando, but I don’t want to stop being with Sebastian?”

George frowned. “It’s a start. It’s being honest. I’m sure he doesn’t want to stop being with Lando, but being honest about what you want at least shows him how you really feel.”

Charles hunched his shoulders as he shifted on the couch, obviously uncomfortable.

“Look, I’m with Lewis now,” George said, and a rush of pride filled his chest that he tried to stifle. “I’m happy with him. Like, really happy. But I know in the back of my head that…I mean, it’s obvious I’m a pawn, you know? Or at least a placeholder.”

Charles snapped his gaze over to him, startled.

George smiled, his eye going soft. “But it’s okay. Because I’m happy now. And honestly, if Lewis never loves me, that’s okay too. He’ll never take Alex’s place for me anyway. I think a part of me is always going to wait for him to come back.”

Because they always waited for each other. Someday George would see him again, and someday he would be able to fall asleep listening to Alex’s laughter and wake up to his stupid alarm song and put three packets of stevia in his coffee before they left the house—four on a bad day.

“Lewis won’t keep me around, and I’m falling for him anyway,” George admitted. It hurt to say it that way, but he didn’t care because eit was true. “It’s never wrong to care about someone. That can look different for everyone, but Carlos really loves you, Char. You just have to figure out what loving him back is going to look like.”

Charles’s phone vibrated on the coffee table. Given that it was almost three in the morning, it had to be Carlos.

“If you don’t want to put it into words tonight, that’s okay,” George said.  “But you should think about asking him to stay. Lando’s had his fun, trust me.” He lightly punched Charles’s thigh. “Now it’s your turn, yeah?”

Instead of smiling, Charles’s eyes started to shine again. George wanted to give him a hug, but their friendship wasn’t like that in moments like this. George knew Charles well enough to know that a hug from him wouldn’t help, and would probably only make Charles feel like he had to toughen up.

“Should I wait?” George asked. “I can go to that all-nighter bar and get us something to eat while you talk to him.”

Charles shook his head. “No, but thank you.”

George frowned. “You shouldn’t stay here alone tonight.”

Charles wiped his eyes again, then ran his hand through his hair in an attempt to style it the way he usually did. Then he picked up his phone and blue light cast a ghostly pallor on his already pale face. “I’ll be okay. We leave in the afternoon so I’ll just sleep.”

When Max broke up with him, George thought he’d seen the worst of Charles. This part came first—the despair. But then came the recklessness. Getting kicked out of clubs, picking fights with guys twice his size, disappearing with strangers without telling any of them where he was going.

George couldn’t allow that to happen again, especially not when two World Champions and the son of another were looking for ways to hurt him.

“I don’t want to see you in pain anymore,” George said quietly. “I’m worried about you, and so is Pierre. Max too, probably, if he could get off Daniel’s dick longer than three seconds.”

Charles’s lips twitched in a half smile, but it faded fast.

George handed over his coffee. “Keep this. I know you won’t sleep, but at least you’ll be warmer. You look like a corpse, mate.”

A real smile finally breached Charles’s face. He took the coffee and George stood up to go.

“I don’t ever want to have to pick you up from some shithole again,” George said, his voice stern. “Promise me you’ll find me before that happens.”

Charles’s smile fell away.

“I mean it, Charles. That’s not happening this time. We’ll do whatever we need to do.”

“That won’t happen,” Charles said, but he didn’t sound very confident.

George had to hope that Charles at least wanted to stay intact this time. He reached over to ruffle his hair, still damp, then made his way to the door.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked.

Charles adjusted himself on the couch to look at him and nodded. “Thanks for coming by.”

George shook his head. “No need to thank me, mate. I’m here for you. We all are.”

He lingered for a moment more before he finally stepped out of the flat. Leaving Charles alone didn’t feel right, but if Carlos was coming home, George had to hope that the guy wasn’t completely stupid and stayed with Charles anyway. Lando could deal with it. They all knew the rules.

He slipped through the entry gate and headed back toward the harbor, his blood tinged with caffeine but only enough to make his exhaustion sharp-edged behind his eyes. His hand still felt empty without Lewis’s, and the stars above seemed to drench him with the pulsing promise of something good.

When he finally trudged into the master suite on the yacht, he pushed aside the bedsheets they’d dirtied and found a spare set in a storage drawer under the bed. But even with Lewis gone, the scent of him still clung to the remaining blankets, and when George laid his head on the pillow, he found more there.

He closed his eyes. For the first time since Alex, he let himself dream about waking up next to someone else.

Chapter 32

Notes:

sorry friends, explicit content in this chapter. not too much and you can skim or skip it pretty easily.

Chapter Text

 

 

Charles didn’t move from the couch for a long time. George left and the flat fell to silence in his absence, the momentary comfort of company slipping away between the floorboards. He drank the rest of George’s coffee even after it went cold in his hands, waiting.

Carlos said he would be back in twenty minutes, forty minutes ago.

Charles checked the text three different times, just to make sure he hadn’t read it wrong.

He didn’t see the point of Carlos even stopping by the flat at three in the morning if he was just going to leave again. Maybe Carlos thought the same.

Charles thumbed the cardboard sleeve of the coffee cup, staring at an indistinct point on the floor where the rug met hardwood, worn and ratty. Sleeping alone felt like an absolute defeat, but staying up late waiting for someone who wasn’t coming home felt even worse.

The abrupt noise of keys scraping at the lock jolted him from his thoughts a few minutes later, and Charles’s blood chilled with fresh adrenaline as he braced himself to face his own husband.

Carlos stepped inside and immediately looked toward the bedroom door, dark and ajar. Only the kitchen lights were on, and they played white and blue on Carlos’s face as he slipped out of his suit jacket.

“You need to get that dry cleaned,” Charles said from his spot on the couch.

Carlos jumped, a hand clapping to his chest in surprise. “Fuck, you scared me. What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

“Hanging it up won’t take the wrinkles out, I can see them from here,” Charles added, ignoring him.

Carlos stood there and stared at him, his gaze unreadable. He looked defensive somehow, like he really was a cheater coming home in the dead of night. Which meant Charles was the stewing housewife, and he probably looked the part at the moment, even if he wasn’t actually angry.

“And how was your night?” Carlos finally asked. He hung the suit jacket on the hook by the door in direct opposition to Charles’s advice.

“I painted,” Charles said.

“Cosa?”

“I painted,” he repeated, louder, pulling at a loose thread on the throw blanket. “Drank wine, ate a nice dinner. A perfectly romantic affair. Candles and everything.”

Carlos cleared his throat. “That’s good.”

“Yeah. It was good.” Charles glanced over at the side table, where his copy of The Art Bulletin sat neglected from earlier in the weekend. “How’s Lando?”

He didn’t really want to know, and Carlos didn’t answer right away.  

“Where are you off to?” Charles asked instead, changing the subject and pushing himself to his feet. The throw blanket pooled on the floor around him as he shuffled toward the kitchen. He was glad for the darkness—that way he wouldn’t have to see any evidence of Lando Norris in his house.

He wanted Carlos to be happy.

He stepped into the kitchen and tossed the coffee cup in the trash, careful to avoid looking at Carlos, because that would make it easier to pretend he hadn’t visited at all, that this moment was just a sleep-deprived, caffeine-induced dream.

“I know I’m late,” Carlos said quietly.

It wasn’t like him to give excuses. It also wasn’t like him to be late. Love made people act like someone else.

Charles shrugged. “S’okay. It’s Monaco.”

“I didn’t think you were here,” Carlos continued. “You never texted me back.”

Charles let out a sigh, his eyes dull an unfocused as he stared at the bedroom door.

Sebastian called him powerful, but Charles knew what power felt like, and this sopping, ugly wetness in him was not that.

Since Carlos seemed rooted in place, Charles headed for the bedroom, hoping to silently prod him to get his clothes and leave. It made sense that he would have to come home to change, if only so the paparazzi didn’t think he’d stayed in one place all night.

He should have taken a bottle of Masseto back with him. Maybe he would be asleep by now instead of stuck awake because he didn’t want to miss the chance to see Carlos.

Maybe he liked to torture himself. Or remind himself that nothing in his life was just his. The crown, the empire, Carlos Sainz.

Carlos’s arms wrapped around him and Charles jolted in surprise. He should have expected Carlos to grab him, but still caught him off guard. He smelled like something old and woodsy. Soft.   

“Fucking hell, Carlos,” Charles hissed, shouldering his way out of the hold.

Carlos flicked the lights on a second later and Charles winced, squeezing his eyes shut to hide from the light.

“Do you really have to—”

Warm hands pressed to his cheeks and Charles froze in place, his fingers still curled in an attempt to defend himself from the shards of light threatening to blind him.

He kept his eyes closed. He knew it was childish, but Charles didn’t think he could stomach the sight of Carlos when he knew the same hands at his face had been fisted in Lando’s hair just a few hours ago, that none of this was real, none of it was for him, it was just a rehearsal or an echo or maybe both.

“What did he do to you?” Carlos asked, and his voice made the hair on Charles’s neck prickle.

Charles still didn’t open his eyes. “Can you please turn the lights—”

“Charles, what did he do? He obviously did something if you can’t even look at me.”

A broken laugh burst from Charles’s lips and he yanked his face away from Carlos’s hold. He turned the lights back off to save his vision.

And his heart, but he chose not to acknowledge that.

“He treated me with respect,” Charles said. “Wined and dined me, kissed me goodnight.”

He dared to look at Carlos then, just the shadow of him. Moonlight didn’t allow for a complete blackout of his features, but Charles found he could stomach the shine of his eyes, the way Carlos’s lips wavered between a snarl and a frown.

“He also told Lance he loves him,” Charles added quietly. “But before that, I saw you and Lando.” He attempted a playful shove to Carlos’s chest, but ended up merely running his fingers over the buttons of his shirt. “Guess you still haven’t learned your lesson about windows.”

Carlos closed his eyes.

“Sebastian didn’t see,” Charles clarified. “Just me. So you’re safe.”

Professional. Sebastian wanted him to use Carlos, but Charles refused to do that to him. He could keep things civil and polished, and talking about Lando would be a necessary part of—

“I had no idea you were there,” Carlos said. “Mierda, Charles—”

“Don’t apologize,” Charles said, glancing over Carlos’s shoulder to his dresser. “Are you going to grab your stuff?”

Carlos hesitated, but Charles knew better than to think Carlos would make the decision to stay with him over returning to Lando.

Sure enough, Carlos turned and made his way to the dresser. He unbuttoned his shirt and Charles caught sight of the necklace once again and tried to stop the room from spinning.

He could have told Carlos he loved him back, in Spain. He could have lied and kept him, but now he had this. A future of feeling like he was encroaching, of guilt pricking his palms every time he thought about the softness of Carlos’s skin, the way he tasted, the way he laughed.

Charles posted up in the threshold to watch for a minute as Carlos changed into a polo and jeans. He slipped his shoes off only to put them right back on again. He always dressed with some kind of practiced ease, like he’d been drilled on it as a child.

Charles didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until Carlos gathered him in his arms, smelling like freshly sprayed cologne and a place to go.

Charles didn’t allow the silence to breathe, even if he didn’t resist the embrace. He had to take what he could out of these moments while he still had the chance.

“What time will you be back?” he asked against Carlos’s shoulder.

Carlos waited a moment before he answered. “We have a lunch reservation.”

He knew that ‘we’ referred to Lando and Carlos, not him.

“Mm. So I’ll see you on the jet.”

Carlos pressed a kiss to his temple, unexpected enough that Charles’s eyes flew open where they’d been sluggishly half-lidded.

Charles cleared his throat and pulled away. He walked back into the hall, leading the way to the door before Carlos could change his mind.

“Antonello said they’ll do a full sweep tomorrow when they pack up, but if you leave anything here, Giorgio can grab it before we leave.”

Carlos didn’t reply.

And of course, he hesitated in the doorway. He turned and Charles took a half step back, offering a pasted-on smile.

“I’m sorry you saw that,” Carlos said, his voice strangled.

Not sorry you did it, Charles wanted to say.

“Stop worrying about it. Over and done,” Charles said, because he knew his thoughts were unfair. He told Carlos to spend the night with Lando. He chose not to go to the podium yacht.

Carlos swallowed hard. Tension still held in his shoulders like he might reach for him again, and Charles prepared himself to bolt.

The lamp outside his door finally illuminated Carlos fully, and Charles was surprised to see that he looked drained. Not the glowing, buzzing aura he’d expected after a night spent with the person he loved most.

But the ring around his neck did all the shining for him.

“Goodnight, Carlos,” Charles said quietly but firmly. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Saying it with no intention to follow through sounded appropriate. Carlos never called him. Charles also never called Carlos. They would exchange a quick text and call it a day.

Charles shut the door abruptly, because for a moment it looked like Carlos might lean in. He wasn’t sure he could say no to that, and he had to salvage some of his pride.

He rested his forehead against the door and listened until he heard Carlos’s shoes scuff against the concrete in the breezeway.

His dress shoes, Charles realized, because Carlos’s sneakers were still sitting beside his own.

Idiot.

Charles grabbed Carlos’s suit jacket off of the hook with a huff. Carlos knew better than to hang a suit. Wrinkled or not, it still deserved care.

He held it up by the seams of the sleeves to fold it and the scent of Carlos’s cologne washed over him so fiercely that Charles half expected to find him standing there when he lowered the jacket.

He laid it on the flat surface of the countertop, where the spices Carlos had set out for yesterday’s dinner of lamb and risotto still sat in a neat line by the stovetop. Where Carlos’s coffee mug sat dirty in the sink, along with his rinsed oatmeal bowl, the spoon half submerged in filmy water.

They had only lived here for four days, but pieces of Carlos had snuck into his flat like they belonged there.

Something insufferably hot wedged its way into his core—a heat like being too drunk on a summer day, sticky like a crowded club, lingering like cigarette smoke. Loneliness treaded close to grief, and Charles knew the latter well.

Missing someone cut a line between both, a knife edge he didn’t want to balance on anymore.

Charles abandoned the jacket on the counter and rushed to the far window in the reading room, fully expecting to see the red taillights of Carlos’s Stradale peeling down the street.

Instead, Carlos stood at the passenger side of the car, arms folded over the roof.

Charles unlocked the window, his heart in his throat. His fingers lingered at the glass, his heart warring with him to just accept that Carlos wasn’t his and never would be.

Carlos took a step back from the car with purpose, the same posture he used before approaching Binotto after a race. He couldn’t hear what Carlos said, but he was talking to someone. Charles squinted to see if he could make out another person in the car, until he realized Carlos was talking to himself.

“Che cosa fai?” Charles called down into the empty courtyard, grinning when Carlos nearly jumped out of his skin.

It took a minute for Carlos to find him in the window, but Charles used that time to solidify his composure, to smooth the frayed edges of himself that wanted to beg or scream.  

“I was just leaving,” Carlos called back, doing a horrible job at feigning nonchalance.

Pierre told him to let go. Sebastian told him to let Carlos handle his decisions on who to spend time with. George told him this was his opportunity to discover what they were.

Charles finally wanted to find out.

“Stay with me,” Charles said, and his voice didn’t shake, even if his hands trembled at the windowsill.  “Don’t go.”

Carlos grinned so wide Charles could see it from six floors up. “I was going to say your couch looked very comfortable.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile didn’t leave his face. “Get up here.”

Carlos took off running toward the gate like an overexcited dog—embarrassingly open, as always.

Charles’s whole body hummed with promise as he closed the window, locking it once again, probably not to be disturbed until summer break—if he even had the time to visit.

He wanted this, and that realization terrified him as much as it excited him.

Carlos threw the door open before Charles had the chance to reach it.

They stared at each other for the space of a second—Carlos with his chest heaving from running like an idiot, and Charles still resisting the onslaught of fondness that pummeled him when he saw the unfiltered love in Carlos’s eyes. Different from the way he looked at Lando, but unmistakably affectionate.

Charles closed the space between them, hooking his arms around Carlos’s neck like he should have done a long time ago.

Carlos kissed him the same way he had at the podium, confident and dizzying. But this time, Charles meant it when he pulled him closer.

Carlos didn’t taste like anyone else.

“I thought you left,” Charles whispered against his parted lips.

“No,” Carlos replied, tucking his face into Charles’s neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Heat rushed to Charles’s cheeks, and he was glad Carlos couldn’t see the guilt that flashed across his face.

“Won’t he be waiting for you?” Charles asked, tilting his head to rest it against Carlos’s.

“He knew that when I left I might not come back,” Carlos said. “That’s why I was late.”

Charles tensed, but let it pass. Carlos could make his own decisions.

So he let himself be held, soaking in the way Carlos’s lips gently pressed to his neck while they stood in the dim light of the entryway. Charles knew he still looked stupid with his wet hair, basketball shorts, and oversized hoodie, but Carlos wanted to stay anyway.

“Let’s go to bed,” Charles murmured, drowsy.

“Okay.” Carlos kissed his cheek before he pulled back, and Charles reluctantly unwound himself from his husband before shoving his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie to wait while Carlos toed off his dress shoes.

For some reason, watching him made Charles smile, like maybe this could be their life back in Maranello. Stacks of shoes by the door, Carlos hopping around to get his socks off, Charles standing around in an outfit only fit for a thrift store.

“Okay Sleepy,” Carlos said, looping an arm around him. “I’ve kept you up late enough.”

The hoodie suddenly felt too warm as Charles let out a chuckle. Carlos never allowed for much personal space, but this time Charles wanted him as close as he could get him.

They shuffled into the bedroom together and Charles did his best to stifle a yawn as Carlos pulled his polo over his head. He began to hum a song to himself, off-key and in the wrong language, with a smile on his face.

Charles tugged his hoodie off and laid it over the back of his desk chair while Carlos shimmied out of his jeans, relegated to boxer shorts that made him look less like a dad and more like someone who knew he looked better the less clothing he had on.

Charles didn’t hide his staring as Carlos opened his dresser drawer in search of a new shirt. He would pick something soft—a jersey fabric, probably. Something Charles could press his face into without discomfort.

But Charles didn’t want that.

He reached out—his heartbeat so loud in his ears he was sure Carlos could hear it—and folded his hand over Carlos’s forearm.

Carlos froze, his song cutting short.

They had one opportunity to get this right.

Charles pressed a kiss to Carlos’s bare shoulder, his lips just brushing the smooth skin there.

He knew he didn’t have it in him to bring back the golden, wonderful thing between them in Spain. He also knew Carlos loved someone else, had probably fucked someone else just before arriving here.

Charles had no more smiles to give. No more laughter or sweet words or quips. Just the exhausted, hurting, hollow-eyed thing that kept looking back at him in the mirror.

“Take the necklace off,” Charles whispered. “Please.”

Carlos finally moved, turning to face him.

Charles worked his jaw, fully aware that Carlos was analyzing him, taking in his sallow skin and the dark circles under his eyes that wouldn’t leave for at least a week.

Carlos lifted his hands to the back of his neck to unclasp the necklace, giving Charles a very intimate view of the muscle of his chest and triceps as he did so.

Charles didn’t look away like he normally did, even though he felt more exposed than ever wearing nothing but his basketball shorts.

Once the necklace was unhooked, Carlos collected it in one hand and set it on top of the dresser.

They could have had this so many times, Charles thought. In Florence, in Portugal, in Spain.  Maranello too, on many occasions.

He wished things could have been different, and he knew the blame for the fact that they weren’t rested solely on his shoulders.

Two fingers gently brushed the underside of his jaw, and Charles flicked his gaze up  from the hollow of Carlos’s collarbone to finally meet his eyes. Fear filled him when he did, icy cold in his veins. His skin turned to gooseflesh, betraying his emotionless façade.

He’d told Carlos they would find each other again, after Monaco. That they would wander blindly back into their relationship until the next time they faced the people they really loved.

“Seeing you with him made me afraid,” Charles whispered, half expecting his breath to smoke with how cold he felt. “Because I know I won’t ever be able to take his place, but I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

Something noxious worked its way up his throat, choking him.

Carlos bumped their foreheads together, but his face twisted up with pain.

Charles readied himself for rejection. He could feel it in the silence between them because he’d waited too long. He’d let the wick burn through and sat there while the flame sputtered out in his hands.

“I love you, Charles,” Carlos said, quiet but firm.

Charles blinked in surprise, fully expecting something about Lando to come out of his mouth instead.

“Still?” he blurted out, unable to stop himself.

Carlos kissed him instead of replying. His lips carried heat, an all-encompassing burn that seared straight through him. Charles’s hands braced against Carlos’s chest on reflex, fully prepared to shove him away—

But for what? Loving him?

Charles broke the kiss but didn’t pull back.

“I know this is terrible,” Carlos whispered, his hands settling on Charles’s bare hips. “And I’m sure it feels like I’m lying. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to love both of—"

“Carlos,” Charles interrupted. “I know you aren’t lying. You’re the only person who always tells me the truth.”

Charles initiated the kiss this time, open-mouthed and inviting. Carlos tensed in momentary surprise before melting into him, his body sun-warm even in the dark. Charles let him take the lead to gather his own courage, and Carlos wasted no time. His hands roamed, as did his tongue, and Charles’s exhaustion fell away to a quiet want that started to grow louder with each kiss.

Each press of their lips drew something closer to the surface that he’d spent months burying down.

When Carlos’s thumb brushed over his nipple, Charles sucked in a breath. Carlos smirked at him, eyes alight with mischief.

Charles leaned back with a sly smile of his own.

“Don’t tell me I’ve gone too far,” Carlos whispered.

Charles thought for a moment, allowing his gaze to wander over Carlos’s broad shoulders, his bare chest, the flat plane of his abs, the cut of his hips that could only be described as chiseled.

His lips, kiss-swollen and perfect. His cheeks, where those freckles hid in the dark.

“Too far would be that whipped cream, Sweet Teeth,” Charles teased.

Carlos burst out laughing, and for a fleeting moment the happiness came flooding back, a surge of power Charles pounced on. He allowed himself to card his fingers through Carlos’s hair, to remind himself what it felt like. He ignored the way Carlos stared at his mouth, even though he desperately wanted to kiss him again.

The moment he saw Carlos open his mouth to speak, Charles gave a firm tug to his hair. Probably too hard, but Carlos’s eyes flashed, and a gasp left his throat instead of whatever quip he’d been about to unleash.

Though it was almost impossible to make out Carlos’s pupils in the dark, Charles didn’t have to see them to know they were blown wide with desire, electric and simmering. He felt it in the way Carlos braced himself, probably preparing for the typical evasiveness Charles always presented when they came to the edge of nothing and something.

He hooked a thumb into the waistband of Carlos’s boxer shorts, fitting it into the curve of his pelvic bone. Carlos had such soft skin where the sun didn’t touch, like satin. A little smile came to his face when Carlos inhaled shakily, his usual confidence replaced by stillness, maybe a bit of fear.

Valide, Charles thought. If Carlos tried anything, he might call the whole thing off.

He leaned in, his eyes falling closed as he met Carlos’s lips for a quiet but definitely not innocent kiss. Carlos tentatively responded, parted lips against parted lips, more tasting each other’s breath than kissing.

Charles gently eased his thumb down, his other hand still firmly locked into Carlos’s hair.

“You can help,” Charles murmured.

Moonlight played beautiful tricks in the shine of Carlos’s eyes, streaked with black from his eyelashes. Charles knew his heightened breathing betrayed his calm, but Carlos didn’t seem to notice as he folded a hands over his and helped him do away with the last of Carlos’s clothing.

Charles kept his hand in place at Carlos’s hip once he couldn’t reach down any further, and closed his eyes when Carlos feathered kisses down his neck, over his collarbone, down his pec. Once Carlos tossed the boxers aside, Charles gave his hair another tug—affectionate this time.

“Bed,” Charles said, nodding toward it.

He released his hold and Carlos stumbled back until he hit the mattress, and Charles closed the space between them again, but he stayed standing, looking down at Carlos through his lashes.

“I remember when you wouldn’t even change in front of me,” Charles said.

A close-lipped smile broke on Carlos’s face. “To be fair, you were—”

“I advise you don’t finish that sentence,” Charles warned, settling himself between Carlos’s legs.

Carlos flashed teeth as warm hands settled his waistband, waiting for permission. How well behaved. Charles lifted a hand, thumbing carefully along Carlos’s cheekbone, watching him for a moment.

Then he nodded once, and tried not to think about how many ways this might qualify as a betrayal. Carlos tugged down his shorts to reveal nothing underneath.

“We could have done this twenty minutes ago, if you would have been on time,” Charles said, though in reality, he never planned for this to happen.

Carlos lowered his gaze, staring at his dick like he was in a stupor.  Immature idiot. Charles curled a finger under his chin and forced his head up.

“Pay attention,” he said.  

“Paying attention,” Carlos choked out immediately, eyes wide.

He looked somehow more beautiful when completely overwhelmed.  Charles savored it as he moved in. Carlos gave him space as he crawled into bed to straddle him, cheeks flushed.  Being naked around Carlos didn’t bother him—this wasn’t the first time. But it was definitely the first time in this context, and Charles told himself over and over that he could trust the man beneath him, whose arms looped around the small of his back and held him securely.  

Charles swallowed hard. He didn’t give a rat’s ass if Carlos had fucked Lando already. Charles knew Lando, and he also knew that whatever tricks Lando tried in bed, Carlos had probably taught his virgin ass.

That would not be the case with him.

Charles tilted his head down, lips lingering just above Carlos’s mouth. Carlos tried to steal a kiss, but Charles dodged it with a breathy smirk.

He thumbed the line of Carlos’s jaw, appraising him.

“You’re in my flat, my country, my bed,” Charles murmured. “And I haven’t forgotten you spent tonight fucking someone else.”

He didn’t want Carlos thinking this would fix anything. Or that he wasn’t factoring in all sides of their lives. But he did want this. For once in his life, he actually wanted to be in bed with someone he lived his life with.

Charles pulled back. There was one condition to this. Something he had to make clear before Carlos got any ideas.  

“I don’t want to be cherished,” Charles whispered.

Carlos’s brow furrowed. “Che cosa—”

“No Italian,” Charles growled.  

Carlos swallowed thickly. “What do you want?” he amended, his voice weighty with desire.

Charles smiled into a kiss and closed his teeth around Carlos’s bottom lip for a firm tug that sent a shiver through him that Charles could feel. Caffeine and adrenaline and nerves made a wild cocktail in his nervous system, but Charles had practice in creating confidence out of less.

He gently released Carlos’s lip from his teeth and stared down at him.

“If we’re going to do this,” Charles murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Carlos’s parted lips. “You better fucking impress me, Carlos.”

Charles stood no chance. The moment he relaxed, Carlos had him on his back, covering him in kisses, bites, and the sweetest kind of bruises. The buzz of power—his bluff—fell away to the needy desperation he’d been ignoring since Carlos kissed him the second time in Bahrain—that quick, nothing kiss that took the words out of his mouth.

He did his best to stay restrained, but Carlos far exceeded his already high expectations in bed. His stamina was frightening, his strength dizzying, and Charles slipped from himself every time Carlos slowed to kiss him, to sate the hidden part of him that wanted more than just a good fuck.

A part he flatly ignored when he pulled Carlos’s hair or sank his teeth into his shoulder, coaxing him for more force or speed or anything but tenderness. He told himself Carlos could fuck all of the want out of him, that if he just let it hurt and rode out the pleasure-pain, he could forget everything else.

“Wait,” Charles panted out some time later, so close he could already see stars behind his eyes. His lungs fought against his ribcage as he scrambled up to his elbows, a moan tumbling from his lips as Carlos bottomed out inside him. Everything in him ached and burned and he tried to find sweetness in it to keep the tears from pricking his eyes.

“Charles?” Carlos asked, out of breath himself.

He knew if Carlos caught sight of the pain in his eyes he would stop, and Charles did not come this far for it to end prematurely.

So he cupped the back of Carlos’s skull and pulled him down into an obscene kiss, all tongue and teeth and fire.  Carlos hesitated a moment, and Charles dug his fingers into his back. He would not lose this.

“Ma baiser,” Charles grit out. “Je veuz jouir.”

He rutted his hips, earning him a grunt from Carlos. Carlos only needed the slightest coaxing to lose himself, and Charles wasn’t far behind him.

When he came, it was with Carlos’s name on his lips, moaned out into his mouth, wet and hot and everything Charles needed it to be but pretended it wasn’t. He felt like bursting apart, like his sternum had cracked open and he had to somehow stop his heart and lungs from falling out.

Carlos kept trying to kiss him, love drunk and overpowering like an affectionate tiger. Charles just tried to regain his breath and kept his eyes closed, too afraid of the look in Carlos’s eyes. His body shook, humming with release and pleasure, like a hive of bees in his blood.

Carlos cleaned them both off with a damp washcloth he’d procured from the bathroom, though Charles had no memory of him getting out of bed to grab it.

He kept trying to focus himself, but every part of his body vibrated with the force of his aftershocks. He would never admit it out loud, but he’d never been in bed with anyone half as talented. Words didn’t come to mind to describe Carlos in bed, and Charles realized that instead of using this to burn out a flame in him, he may have just struck the match.

He heard the washcloth drop to the floor before Carlos crawled back into bed, back over him, and collected Charles into his arms. Charles felt like a ragdoll, and when Carlos kissed him, he became putty in his hold, a quiet noise escaping from his lips.

Exhaustion bore down on him like a freight train, and Charles only had time to bury his face into Carlos’s neck before the sounds and stickiness and warmth distilled to the quiet beat of Carlos’s heartbeat against his ear.

 

 


 

 

Charles woke to the incessant buzzing of his alarm a few hours later. He groaned, feeling around for his phone. Instead, he found himself wrapped up in Carlos, slightly suffocated by his chest.

Odd.

Charles forced his eyes open to slits, wincing against the shafts of sunlight that leaked through the blackout curtains. His vision collected to the underside of Carlos’s jaw, the angular lines of his throat, his parted lips.

And a very obvious bite mark on his shoulder. One Charles suddenly remembered tasting.

He froze. The memory of the night before—only a few hours before, actually—crashed into him all at once. Flashes of Sebastian, George, but mostly Carlos zipped through his mind. Then, only Carlos. And the rest of his body remembered him too.  

His phone continued to buzz.

Charles swallowed the lump in his throat as he carefully untangled himself from Carlos’s sleep-heavy arms. Soreness radiated through his body, and he wished he could blame it on a race.

Dieu de merde.

Carlos didn’t shift. He lay fast asleep, his hair completely debauched and his body marked with bruises Charles knew would match his fingertips, but he didn’t dare to touch him.

Panic began to set in, and he wracked his brain for any memory of saying something completely stupid like I love you.

Plenty of other embarrassing things came to mind from his memory, but Charles could at least mark those up to a fit of passion.

Passion. The word alone made him shudder.

Charles scrubbed his face with a hand as he slipped from bed and snatched his phone from the floor. A notification lit up the screen, a calendar reminder.

He was going to be late.

He ducked into the bathroom and showered off in five minutes flat, wiping himself clean of any evidence of the night before and any scent of sex or Carlos or anything else that might remind him of his stupidity.

He had plenty of marks, but none that would show once he dressed.

Carlos hadn’t moved by the time Charles brushed his teeth and made his way back into the bedroom, pulling on a pair of black jeans and a blue Burberry t-shirt. He tugged on a black bandana sweatband and hesitated in the threshold, taking one last look at Carlos draped across his bed, sound asleep and peaceful.

Fear swept over him, because he didn’t know what this meant now, but he knew it wasn’t good. He’d broken his own rule, and he didn’t know how he would be able to look Sebastian in the face after this. Or Carlos. Or—god—Lando.

He swiped the keys to his bike on his way out the door, confident in the decision that when Carlos woke up alone, he would understand that this didn’t change anything. He still had Lando. He still had all of the parts of his life that he wanted.

 

 


 

 

“Can you stop being a shit for five seconds?” Charles snapped an hour later, his voice crackly with exhaustion.

“You’re a real ass,” Arthur shot back from behind his open dessert menu. “Come to think of it, ever since you got that Ferrari crown, you’ve been extra ass-y.”

Arthur didn’t look like his brother upon first glance. Arthur had dirty blond hair, a longer face, and rounded edges to his features where Charles’s were pointed. But their eyes were the same, and their expressions uncannily similar when they traded smirks across the living room before pulling a prank on their older brother, Lorenzo, who wasn’t present.

Currently, Arthur also looked like a spoiled brat in an unbuttoned white Ralph Lauren polo and matching LXH cap.

Charles reached across the table and plucked the menu from Arthur’s hands. “Don’t pretend you need to look at that.”

They ate at the same café, Sevens,  every year on the Monday after Monaco. And before their appointments, it used to be a weekly reservation.

“Maybe the menu changed, Prince Ass,” Arthur said as he snatched the menu back. He quirked his lips as he looked over the offerings. Again. “Think that’s where they got Princess from? Prince Ass, Princess.”

“Only if you butcher it in that accent,” Charles muttered. “And what’s this I’m hearing about you calling yourself French?”

Arthur smirked. “You heard that?”

“Yes, I heard that,” Charles shot back, taking another sip of his cappuccino. His second round of espresso, and he would need a third before he faced Carlos again.

Arthur shrugged. “Monaco is posh, Charles. Nobody really buys it when a kid from Monaco says he has to work hard for something.”

Charles set his jaw. “What, you think I got my crown handed to me?”

A morning breeze lifted from the harbor, and Charles tried not to think about the way Carlos panted into his neck just a few hours earlier. Every damn thing seemed to remind him of last night, from the brush of the silk napkins against his wrist to the numbness in his fingertips from his boiling hot coffee mug.

Arthur abandoned his menu. “I know you worked hard, but look around. Monaco is full of stuck-ups. Next pay prince is coming from here, I’m calling it now.”

“Careful,” Charles warned. “You’ll give yourself bad luck.”

Arthur slumped in his seat and rolled his eyes.

He looked older now. Charles hadn’t seen him in months beyond glances of him on the TV screens for his lower court races.  The FIA kept different courts very separate to prevent any negotiations or romances—new or old.

“You still have a few years before you fight for a crown,” Charles said. “Are you getting any dessert or were you memorizing that menu for no reason?”

“I saw those pictures of you at Steakout,” Arthur said, ignoring him and biting down a laugh. “Tu étais ivre mort.”

“I’m going to take that as a no,” Charles muttered, occupying his hands with his cappuccino mug.

He hadn’t seen any photos, but if Giorgio hadn’t called him about it, he doubted they were anything worth talking about. His memory was a bit fuzzy on that lunch.

His phone buzzed on the table. Charles ignored it.

Arthur grabbed it instead.

Right. He’d forgotten he was eating with his brat of a brother, who had no table manners.

“Give me—"

“Oooh,” Arthur said. “It’s Carlos.” He fanned himself dramatically. “Carlos Sainz.”

Charles grit his teeth. “Arthur.”

Arthur puckered his lips. “What’s your passcode?”

“I’m not giving—”

“Got it. Dad’s birthday? Come on, Charles. Be more original.”

Only his brother could get away with a statement like that. And only his brother could say it in a way that made Charles smile and not commit murder.

“Aïe,” Arthur said, frowning at the screen. “You’re a real loser, you know that?”

Charles’s mouth fell open. “Quoi?”

Arthur wiggled the phone. “Not one raunchy text in here except for a stupid heart eyes emoji. After those Florence pics? Was that all fake?”

Charles scowled and reached across the table to take his phone back.

“Oh, they weren’t fake!” Arthur laughed, handing it over.

“La ferma,” he growled, looking down at his phone.

Where are you?

Typing bubbles appeared and Charles thanked God that Arthur no longer had his phone.

We need to talk, Charles.

More bubbles.

Please text me back.

“You’re paying for this breakfast, by the way,” Charles said distractedly as he typed out  a response.

“Tu es un idiot,” Arthur said, pelting him with a crumpled sugar packet. “Ça compte. We’re royalty, in case you’ve forgotten.”

At breakfast with my brother. Have fun at lunch, see you at the airport.

Charles sent the text and locked his phone.

He took a long look at Arthur, and the fear gripped him that one day his brother would be embattled in the barbs of true royalty. Maybe even as part of a rival empire during his own reign.  Worst of all, his brother might love someone who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—love him back.

Arthur’s smile softened as he stood up from his seat.

“I’m doing great, Char,” he said as Charles rose to meet him. “Don’t start worrying.”

Charles pulled him into a tight hug that Arthur returned. “I’m always worried about you.”

They stood together for a moment, as if holding their embrace could make up for all of the missed ones.

Arthur finally pulled back. “Why me? You’re the one wearing a bandana like it’s 1983.”

Charles promptly elbowed him in the ribs, and Arthur responded by pulling off his bandana. After a bit of squabbling that earned them contemptuous looks from the other café-goers, they finally made their way out front, where a black SUV waited for Arthur.

“Tell Mom hello,” Charles said, clapping him on the back. “And Lorenzo, if you see him.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Yeah right. He’s on a Tuscan vineyard somewhere forgetting about both of us.” He smiled. “But I’ll let him know. And Mom.”

They said their final goodbyes, and Charles waited until the SUV turned the corner before he pulled out his phone to see two new texts from Carlos.

I was thinking of cancelling lunch.

Can we please talk.

He didn’t want to talk. Not in Monaco. He didn’t even know what he would say.

Go to lunch, Charles texted. You can tell him.

A horrible idea, but Charles knew Carlos would tell Lando anyway. 

Carlos replied immediately. I don’t know what I’d be telling him.

Then don’t say anything and just go to lunch.

Charles pocketed his phone with a huff and slipped on his Ray-Bans. His Husqvarna waited for him at the edge of the street, mismatched among the vintage bikes and scooters. He hopped on and merged with the sluggish traffic, weaving between cars as he made his way toward a less-crowded section of the harbor. The one away from the tourist attractions and casinos, where tall privacy fences blocked the views of Monaco’s most expensive residences.

He parked his bike only about a mile from the café, just in case someone from Ferrari needed to see him for something.

At least, that was the excuse he gave himself as he headed toward the water.

Choppy waves licked at the edge of the harbor, seawater frothing against rusted metal, hinting to the steady wind.

Charles gingerly took a seat on the edge, grateful that last night’s parties meant almost no one was out on their boats. He figured he still had an hour before the hungover masses emerged from their hotels and he wouldn’t be able to find a moment’s peace, but he would be at the airport by then anyway.

The concrete warmed him where he sat, and the morning sunshine dappled his cheeks in the shade of a lone, scraggily palm potted next to him. He fussed at the leather bracelets on his wrist and did his best to look back through his evening with the same analytical gaze he used to go over races.

He only made it through his flan with Sebastian before thoughts of Carlos began leaking in. The heat of his mouth, the possessive way he held him, the roughness of his voice as he ground out curses in three languages.

The way he always salved his bruises and bites with his tongue or a gentle kiss.

Charles had said he didn’t want to be cherished. Yet Carlos found a way to do just that, even in the lust-drenched debauchery Charles had brought on them both, simultaneously wounding both of their outside relationships with one stupid idea.

A runner passed behind him, sneakers plocking on the pavement.

Charles wished he had the clarity of mind to go for a run on such a beautiful morning. Or the energy. Exhaustion clawed at the backs of his eyes, and he couldn’t even go home. He had a man at his house who wanted to talk about feelings or whatever the fuck Carlos wanted to discuss.

This was exactly why he never had sex with anyone he was married to.

Another runner came by in the other direction, but stopped before they passed him.

Charles closed his eyes. God, could people just leave him alone?

“I thought I’d have to write you a letter.”

His eyes flew open and he turned to see Max smiling down at him, cheeks flushed and hair damp with sweat.

Charles sighed, tipping his head back. “You’re up on a run? Can you be less professional for once?”

But seeing Max wasn’t a surprise at all. He ran the same route every morning at the same time when he was home.

Max slipped into place beside him, dangling his legs over the side. He smelled faintly of sweat, and the damp heat coming off of him made Charles grimace.

“Here’s me being less professional,” Max said. “What’s got you melodramatic this morning? Bad night with Sebastian?”

Charles shook his head, watching the water.

Max relaxed beside him, leaning back on his hands. For a moment they sat in the morning quiet, listening to the noises of the harbor, the rustle of palm leaves in the breeze.

“I slept with Carlos,” Charles confessed, and as soon as he said it he hoped the wind carried his voice away so Max didn’t actually hear him.

“Ah,” Max replied. No judgement, no grand speech about trusting his instincts or wielding power or going after what he wanted. “And how was it?”

Charles tugged at one of his bracelets. “How was your first time with Daniel?”

Max laughed. “Drunk and sloppy. He had a lot of ego to climb down to get to my level.”

Charles looked over at him, the fond smile that played on Max’s lips, his eyes distant and fond.

“Good, though?” Charles asked.

Max’s smile faded to something almost pained. He met Charles’s eye with a steady confidence that reminded Charles how different Max was from the boy he’d been with so long ago.

“Like everything I ever lost had come back to me,” Max said. “I don’t even remember the fucking, honestly. But I can’t forget everything before and after. One of those things that could be a blessing or a curse someday.”

Well. Charles didn’t feel anything like that. If he had to pick a something, he felt ashamed. Sleeping with Carlos meant betraying Sebastian, hurting Lando, and maybe damaging the only good thing he had in this mess of an appointment.

“He loves Lando,” Charles said.

Max rolled his eyes. “He wouldn’t shut up about you when he went to lunch with Checo.”

Charles blinked, heat rushing to his cheeks. “He shouldn’t be talking to Checo about me. Seems like all he does is talk behind my back.”

“If that’s talking behind your back, then Daniel should hate me by now.”

“That’s textbook talking behind my back,” Charles muttered.

“Not when he’s gushing about you,” Max chuckled. “I honestly thought Checo was lying, even though he was basically appointed to feed me information.”

Charles cocked a brow. “You chose him for that?”

Max flashed a mischievous smile. “And he’s pretty good in a car.”

Charles shook his head and Max leaned against him, still too warm from his run, but welcome all the same. For a moment Charles felt like screaming, just to rid his body of the pins and needles feeling that spread up his back every time he thought too long about how he’d single-handedly destroyed the only decent thing he had left in his marriage.

“Carlos is a good one, Charles,” Max murmured, as if reading his thoughts.

“I know,” Charles replied almost too quickly. He watched as a yacht rolled into the harbor, a French flag flapping at the mast. “But like I said, he loves Lando. I’m never anyone’s priority.”

“Is anyone ever your priority?”

A smile flickered at Charles’s lips, sad and distant. “You were.”

He’d risked his entire future just to see Max for five minutes at a race, emptied his bank account for personal flights and shitty hotel rooms just to spend the night with him even though he never should have been allowed to travel that young on his own. He talked his way through anything back then. For Max.

When it ended, he couldn’t ever bring himself to treat anyone else the same. Total devotion asked for total loss in the end.

Max stared down at the water. “I don’t know what to say.”

Charles rested his hand on Max’s knee and nudged him with his shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything,” he assured. “You got an appointment. We thought we knew what that meant.”

He returned his hand to his lap.

Charles’s smile twisted sour. “I see the way you love Daniel, the way he loves you. When I first met him, I could see it in both of you.”

“Appointments still come first,” Max said quietly. “Daniel left me. He never told me before he announced it. I found out with everyone else.”

Charles knew what that felt like.

“I thought you two hated each other by that point,” he said.

“No.” Max ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Something happened to him. I don’t even remember when it started, but one day it was like he was a different person. He wouldn’t talk to me, could hardly look at me. Then he said he didn’t love me anymore.”

Charles nearly choked on his own spit. “What? He said that?”

Max nodded once, his throat contracting in a swallow. “He didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t mean it. I could see it in his eyes that he was afraid. Then two weeks later he took the appointment with Renault. And I barely spoke to him until he walked out.”

“Is this what you were talking about? With the FIA?” Charles asked, pressing closer to give Max something to ground himself with.

When Max didn’t answer, Charles took his hand.

Not the way they used to when they were together—a tangle of fingers and sweaty palms from a day spent in racing gloves. Just a firm grip, hand over hand, somehow a perfect representation of whatever they were now. Whatever this world had made them.

“Carlos could be your Daniel,” Max finally whispered as his eyes came back into focus.

Charles let out a noncommittal hum. “I don’t think so. Daniel only ever wanted you.”

Max laughed bitterly. “I wish.”

The look on Charles’s face must have matched his internal confusion, because Max shrugged, pain tugging at the corners of his lips.

“He didn’t like me at all in the beginning,” he said. “I wanted him so much and he wanted nothing to do with me. Slept around—other princes, girls, whoever. Hated the marriage thing. I fell in love with him while he still wanted everyone but me.”

Guilt lanced through Charles, even though he knew his relationship with Carlos was wholly different. He didn’t sleep around, and Carlos had only slept with Lando here in Monaco, or so Charles hoped.

“I guess I’m Daniel in this equation,” Charles murmured. “It’s not that I don’t care about Carlos though. I do.”

And god, it terrified him to say it out loud.

Every time he blinked he caught a flash of the way Carlos stared at him in the dark, awestruck, mesmerized like they were seeing each other for the first time.

“And maybe he’s as good as I’ll ever get,” he continued, borw creased. “And he’s good.”

Carlos always knew how to ground him, how to push him when he needed it and hold him when he needed comfort. They had a good life together in Maranello, but it was a fantasy. Without crowns they never would have crossed paths. Carlos would be with Lando, and Charles would have stayed with Max while a tall Australian party boy lived his life none the wiser. Sebastian would have married a nice German girl and they would probably have a few kids by now, happy and far away from this world.

“When he says he loves me, I believe it,” Charles said. “But we’re princes. All of this is only as real as our role in government.”

Max gently pulled his hand free to bring it to the crook of Charles’s neck and shoulder— his usual hold with people closest to him—and thumbed the nape of Charles’s neck.

The effect was similar to a kitten held by the scruff, even if the nostalgia of it threatened to choke him.

“You are the last person who should ever feel like they need to settle,” Max murmured.

Charles scoffed, kicking his heels against the edge of the pier.

“Just because I’m focused on Red Bull and Dan and all of this FIA shit doesn’t mean I don’t pay attention to you,” Max continued. “I love you, Charles. And so does Pierre, and George and even Lando somewhere beyond all of this.”

Charles closed his eyes. “Don’t start with the platonic versus—”

“It’s not all platonic.”

Max’s touch fell away and all of the residual pain inside Charles lit on fire.

“Jesus, mate,” Charles hissed out.

“Don’t,” Max said. “I know you feel the same thing. I felt it at Steakout.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket, three distinct vibrations reserved for Antonello, Binotto, or Giorgio. Charles ignored it.

 “I know I treated you terribly back then, and it doesn’t excuse anything I did,” Max said. “But I did what I thought was better for the future.”

“You abandoned me, Max,” Charles grit out, eyes going hot. He knew he was too angry to cry, but emotion welled in him all the same. “You threw me out of a plane with no parachute.”

Max wasn’t good with emotion. He hid it all behind his eyes, his expressions usually ranging from vapid to annoyed except when something good happened to him. Charles used to be able to read everything he didn’t say, but that skill had faded over the years.

“We’re over and done with, obviously, but what I feel for you didn’t just vanish,” Max murmured. “Maybe it will someday, but until then, I’ll always have a little too much of myself reserved for you.”

Charles shook his head, turning his face back toward the water. He thought back to the yacht, how Sebastian asked him who he would side with and he couldn’t even pretend he would hesitate to side with Max.

“Fuck,” he forced out. “It sure doesn’t feel like it.”

Max took his hand this time, the same hold that straddled the memory of them and the present.  

“You were the first person I ever loved,” Charles admitted, though Max already knew that. “And I wish I didn’t feel any of that anymore, but you’re right. I should hate you, probably, but instead I’d still throw myself to the dogs for you.”

He pulled his hand away, but leaned against him, his cheek mashed against Max’s shoulder. He smelled like their childhood—the sickly-sweet scent of exercise, and the warmth of sun on cotton.

Max’s arm came around him again, but this time it slung low and loose, a semblance of a hold. An exercise in restraint, Charles guessed.

They sat like that for too long. Boats wandered by, clouds passed over the sun, and the weight of the weekend finally came to rest on Charles’s shoulders, heavy and difficult.

The new and raw thing between them took up the silence and Charles allowed himself only a few seconds of daydream.

This could have been us. In any other life, it would have been.

Instead, he wasn’t in love with Max and Max wasn’t in love with him. But they slotted themselves into their old places like two ghosts haunting their past selves. A cruel and twisted joke.

Charles’s phone began to buzz insistently with a phone call and he sat up to see who it was.

Giorgio, of course. He rejected the call and read the text Giorgio had sent earlier.

Wheels up in two hours. Confirm you’ve seen this and head to the airport for check-in. Antonello will handle the bike.

Charles liked the text and locked his phone again.

“I have to go,” he said.

Max nodded once, something heavy in his eyes. “Bye, Charles. I’ll see you in Baku.”

Charles slowly got to his feet and squeezed Max’s shoulder, trying not to wince at the ache in his muscle. “Thanks for staying with me.”

He didn’t wait to see Max’s reaction before he jogged off toward his bike, where Antonello waited by a Portofino, keys dangling from his fingers and a deadpan look on his face.

Charles didn’t look back.

Ferrari’s airstrip buzzed with activity when he arrived after his security check, a new cappuccino in hand. He planned to nap on the flight both to try to catch up on sleep and to avoid having to stare at Carlos while they sat surrounded by all of the key players of Ferrari government.

“Don’t expect anything in Baku,” Giorgio said as Charles followed behind him out onto the tarmac. “Most of the gossip about the weekend won’t drop until tonight. We’ll spend the next two weeks analyzing the political implications of what happened this weekend, and I hope you aren’t involved in that.”

Charles sipped his coffee but didn’t reply. He hadn’t done anything worth writing about. Not compared to other princes, anyway.

He licked crema from his lips as he caught sight of Carlos standing beside a transport van. Carlos straightened the moment they locked eyes, and Charles chilled his gaze. Carlos looked battered, with dark circles under his eyes that made him look ten years older.

“Buongiorno,” Charles greeted cheerfully, moving his coffee aside to give Carlos a one-armed hug even though he didn’t want to. “Sleep well?”

Carlos slackjawed for a moment, and Charles covered for him by pecking his lips.

Keep it together, Carlos.

“I was worried about you,” Carlos blurted out.  

Charles smiled and moved to walk past him, but Carlos caught him by the arm.

“We need to—”

Charles gently tugged his arm free and lifted his hand to give Carlos’s cheek an affectionate pat.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he said. “Let’s go.”

He lowered his hand but held it out for Carlos to take. Photographers for Ferrari and news media were positioned all around, and they had to start remembering the rules.

Carlos took his hand, twining their fingers together and squeezing hard.

Charles’s smile flickered at the edges as they started up the steps together, bumping shoulders. “How was lunch?”

“Fine,” Carlos said stiffly.

Charles smiled at him, enjoying the frustration in his voice. He hoped Carlos regretted last night too—that could make things easier.

They took their seats beside each other and Charles put his coffee in his cupholder. Carlos radiated nervousness beside him, and he looked physically ill when Charles cast him a questioning glance.

Giorgio slipped into one of the seats facing them, a pen between his teeth and a tablet in hand.

Charles gave Carlos’s hand a squeeze to get his attention.

“Giorgio,” Charles said, not looking over at his husband. “When we land, Carlos and I are going to our apartments, and we’re not discussing this weekend until tomorrow. Clear our schedules for the rest of the day.”

He saw Carlos looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

Giorgio frowned, but Charles knew he couldn’t say anything to deny them. Especially not when it came to Carlos.

Charles finally turned his gaze to Carlos, softening his look to something he hoped looked dopey and fond. Carlos stared back, an unasked question in his eyes but a smile forming on his lips, tentative and so very Carlos.

Giorgio narrowed his eyes.  “And what am I supposed to tell the rest of government? Haven’t you two had enough….fun this weekend?”

The familiar iciness of royalty began to seep back into him. Charles straightened in his seat and took a long sip of his coffee before offering it to Carlos to sip.

“We’re deeply in love, Giorgio,” Charles said, the words poison on his lips. “I think we can spin that, don’t you?”

Chapter Text

“You’re severely dehydrated,” Luca said, frowning. Life as the physician for Ferrari princes was not an easy job, but Charles liked Luca. He didn’t fuss over nothing, and he hardly looked like a doctor with his shoulder-length blond hair and strips of leather tied in a necklace around his neck.

Charles gripped the edge of the examination table, eyes heavy. He’d started feeling dizzy after his second espresso on the jet, and while caffeine usually made him shaky, he couldn’t stop trembling. His heart kept racing, and by the time they landed, Giorgio demanded he go to the medical wing.

“I’d expect this if you raced this weekend—”

“Please,” Charles sighed. “I don’t need to be reminded.”

“Well. I was going to say that you’re also very fatigued,” Luca said. “Your blood pressure isn’t where I want it to be, either.”

A headache pounded behind Charles’s eyes, and the familiar tug between hunger and nausea battled in a stomach only full of coffee and the strawberry crepes from breakfast.

“So what’s the solution?” Charles asked, irritated. He wanted to sleep, or to at least close his eyes and shut off one input into his body.

“Depends on how fast you want to feel better.”

Charles shot him a glare and Luca smiled.

“I can hook you to an IV right now—that’s the fastest option—but you need to stay here for that. Regardless, you need to eat something, drink more fluid, and I suggest you don’t drink any alcohol until the weekend. You need to take it easy.”

Charles let out a snort. They had to catch up on the weekend, get the cars ready for Baku, and had all of the usual royal engagements to deal with in the meantime. Giorgio made it seem like he would be lucky to find time to train, let alone sleep.

“And what’s the alternative?” Charles asked, closing his eyes.

“You can spend all day with a headache, drinking electrolyte water, and probably complaining about it,” Luca offered cheerfully.

Charles groaned and extended his arm. “Fine. Do the IV.”

Luca laughed. “Get down from there. You can at least have a comfortable seat.”

The comfortable seat ended up being a weathered leather lounge chair, probably thrown into the medical wing after years of use in one of the other rooms throughout the palace. But it lived up to the description, and Charles barely noticed when the IV needle slipped into his vein.

The chill of the solution in his arm made him uncomfortable, but not enough to stop him from dozing off. He lingered between awake and asleep for too long, his headache pushing him back into consciousness every so often. But finally the rehydration began to take effect, and he slipped into sleep.

He woke to the thud of a door closing. Luca appeared when he opened his eyes, carefully unhooking the IV.

“Lunch will be waiting in your apartment, and I believe all of your engagements have already been pushed to tomorrow,” Luca explained.

Charles let out a hum to confirm, then rubbed his eyes once his arm was free of tape and tubing.

“Grazie,” he finally said, his voice raspy with exhaustion.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” Luca chuckled. “You have a visitor.”

Charles groaned. “Can’t he wait five minutes for me to walk across the—”

“I don’t want to have this meeting either, Charles.”  

Charles lifted his hands from his face to see Binotto staring down at him, eyes narrowed.

Merde. Not a good sign.

“I already told Giorgio I’m not discussing anything about the weekend until tomorrow,” Charles growled.

He noticed as Luca made a swift exit, thickening the tension in the room.

“Ah, yes, il nostro piccolo accordo,” Binotto muttered, pulling over a folding chair. It scraped on the floor with a sound that made Charles shiver. “But this has nothing to do with Carlos.”

Charles snuck out a breath of relief as he sat up. The last thing he needed was some lecture about sex from Mattia Binotto. The very thought made him want to call Luca back in so he could vomit with medical supervision.

“So what is this about?” Charles asked, swinging his legs over the side of the lounge chair to face Binotto properly.

“Ferrari holds itself to tradition,” Binotto said, and he did not sound pleased. “Other empires play by different rules, because they do not have heritage.  There is nothing to uphold in an empire not even old enough to attend primary school.”

“If you’re going to scold me, do it,” Charles muttered, but he didn’t meet Mattia’s eye.

“It was a risk to appoint you,” Binotto cut, adjusting his glasses.  “Someone so young. Talented, yes, but apparently unaware of the true meaning of his crown. Do you have any idea what you’re subjecting us to?”

“Not at the moment, no,” Charles snapped.

Binotto scowled, dark eyes flashing. Charles’s appointment couldn’t be contested for another four years, but fear surged through him anyway. Sometimes the ridiculous glasses and unmanaged mop of curls made it hard to remember that Binotto had the power of the entire Ferrari government behind him.

“Drunk in the middle of the day,” Binotto hissed. “Drunk enough that you can’t even stand on your own. Hanging off of other princes in broad daylight. Not attending the party after Carlos’s first podium. Carlos, who is supposed to be your husband.”

“Perez wasn’t at that party either,” Charles snapped.

“Yes, and that is because Verstappen is spitting in the face of the FIA and wanted his time with Ricciardo,” Binotto returned. “Something he can’t be punished for, but consequences will come nonetheless.”

He leaned in, and Charles forced himself to stay still and not lean away.

“Non sono uno stupido. You were one yacht away with Vettel.” He said Sebastian’s name like it was made of poison. “And Carlos continues to kid himself with Norris. If he were smart, he would devote himself to you, if only to secure his future.”

Charles snorted. “He’s devoted to me. He follows after me like a puppy.”

“And your contemptuous attitude toward the foundation of this government does not go unnoticed,” Binotto continued, ignoring him. “Carlos is playing his part, and you are turning him—and Ferrari—into an embarrassment.”

Shame felt like a smack to the face. Charles grit his teeth.

“I’m still not sure where this is coming from,” Charles finally said, locking eyes with Binotto. “I’ve committed everything to this empire. I held my tongue when you sent Sebastian away. I attend every event, smile at every race, and when you intervened in Florence, I played along despite the fact that I could have blown that up in your face.”

Binotto glanced at his arm, where a pale band-aid marked the spot where the IV had been inserted. He let out a huff.

“We will discuss this tomorrow, in detail. Until then, I suggest you speak with Carlos and decide one way or another what you’re choosing to be.”

Charles scoffed. “What, se ne va? I get a scolding and now you’re leaving?”

Binotto shook his head, anger clear in his eyes. “You were photographed, Charles. Though I think that was the intention, wasn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?” Charles asked. “I didn’t do anything!”

Meeting Sebastian on Sunday night was by far the most incriminating thing he’d done, and nothing happened beyond a few kisses until they were inside the yacht. Even then, making out with Sebastian while covered in paint hardly compared to Carlos getting a blowjob in full view on the next boat over. Unless—

“Were there cameras on the yacht?” Charles asked.

Binotto winced. “No. Though I do not want to hear about that.”

“Then tell me what the hell is—”

“You were caught, Charles,” Binotto snapped. “Hiding it won’t do you any favors.  There is evidence.”

“Non ho fatto niente, Mattia!” Charles shouted. His whole body hurt, running on nothing but saline, electrolytes, and residual caffeine. He coudln;t handle anger too.

Binotto’s eyes flashed. “Then perhaps something even worse has happened, and the media has started creating stories for you.”

“Then they must be—”

“Or,” Binotto interrupted, “the more likely scenario—given that you seem to be so in the dark—you have been used. And I sincerely hope it’s the former.”

He didn’t give Charles a chance to reply before storming out of the room, leaving Charles to gape in his wake.

Nothing came to mind that could have been spun in a way to hurt Ferrari. Even if someone managed to get photos of them in Steakout, leaning against Max and lying practically on top of Pierre while drunk at a café couldn’t possibly make Binotto that angry, and Giorgio would have said something before qualifying.

Charles stood from the lounge chair in a daze. His stomach growled, prompting him to head back toward the royal apartment, though he didn’t feel much like eating.

As he walked, he decided that whatever Mattia was upset about could be explained away, because he hadn’t done anything to hurt Ferrari, only himself: still bruised, still sore, still fighting off fatigue with every step he made his way down the cathedral-esque halls of the Ferrari palace.

When he reached the royal apartment, he  pushed open the door and slipped inside. Clouds gathered over Maranello, making the living room darker than usual as he navigated toward the dining room, where he heard the clink of silverware against ceramic, then the scrape of a chair.

“You’re back,” Carlos greeted as he settled in the threshold, quiet and hesitant.

He nodded, looking down at his arm. “Yes. They, uh—I needed fluids.”

Carlos looked better than he had on the tarmac, but concern still shadowed his gaze and his lips were drawn in an uncertain line—a sketch of his usual confident demeanor. He’d changed into sweats and a t-shirt, a subtle reminder that they had no plans for the rest of the day.

“My lunch is here?” Charles asked.

Carlos blinked, then set himself into motion. “Ah, yes. It’s still warm.”

Charles followed him to the table, where Carlos’s meal sat half-eaten. Pizza, as usual. Charles took his seat and forced himself to do it quickly, though his body screamed in protest at the sudden movement.

He removed the lid from his platter to reveal grilled chicken, cooked carrots, and pumpkin risotto. Evidently Massimo had been notified about his sensitive stomach.

Carlos sat down beside him. “Are you feeling better?”

Charles shrugged and spooned up some risotto. He liked the texture and temperature better than Carlos’s, version, but it did feel strange to have spent the weekend eating Carlos’s cooking only to return to their world of personal chefs. They didn’t even have a proper kitchen of their own, just a small kitchenette for nutritionist-approved snacks they had to log.

They ate in silence.

Charles nearly fell asleep on his plate on two separate occasions, but he managed to get down the carrots and risotto, and half of the chicken breast. 

The moment he set down his fork, Carlos stilled.

“I really don’t want to talk about last night,” Charles said quietly. “It was obviously a mistake, and—”

“A mistake?” Carlos let out a laugh full of hurt. “It was not a mistake.”

Charles wished he still had his fork in his hand, but instead he  had to make a fist and hope not to damage everything further.

“That isn’t how I wanted it to happen,” Charles said, staring down at his plate. Shredded chicken stared back at him. “I thought—I don’t know. It should have happened in Spain, I guess.”

“Wait—what?”

Charles stood up, shame running hot in his blood. He was so sick of feeling ashamed. Carlos pushed out of his seat, effectively blocking the path to their bedroom.

They had to choose what they would be. It didn’t matter what Charles wanted. He had to consider the facts, the realities. What he was willing to sacrifice and what Carlos would be willing to sacrifice.

“We have to talk about this,” Carlos said quietly. “Please.”

Charles nodded once. He knew he couldn’t avoid this conversation forever.

They both hesitated a moment. Carlos looked at him and Charles looked right back.

Time to choose.

Carlos kissed him, an unasked question against his lips. He tasted like melted cheese, with a little zing of fresh tomato. And chili sauce, because he always ate pizza with damned chili sauce.

Charles hated that he remembered that. He also hated that he didn’t mind what Carlos tasted like as long as he was kissing him.

He cleared his throat as he pulled away.

“If I asked you not to be with Lando starting today, would you do it?”

Carlos set his jaw, and silence settled between them. Charles knew what the answer would be, but he needed Carlos to accept it. To say it, so he would have the memory to fall back on.

“No,” Carlos finally said, looking away. “I wouldn’t.”

Charles nodded.  “Okay. That’s what I thought.”

“But I’ve told you, Charles, that doesn’t mean I don’t—”

“I wouldn’t stop trying to be with Sebastian,” Charles interrupted, deciding it best not to let Carlos finish his sentence. “You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

Even if it felt like Sebastian had already slipped through his fingers without him noticing.

“Binotto cornered me in the medical wing,” Charles continued, thumbing at the collar of Carlos’s shirt. “Apparently there are some photographs of me coming out of Monaco that are pretty serious, though I don’t know what they could be, because I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos rested their foreheads together and lump formed in Charles’s throat in the shape of betrayal.

“If you didn’t do anything, then there’s nothing to hide,” Carlos murmured. “We’ll move past it together, like we did in Florence.”

Together had a new meaning now. Too intimate for what they were, though Charles supposed he had no right to say that now that they’d fucked. He’d laid himself bare and he couldn’t take it back.

It was like everything I ever lost had come back to me, Max had said.

Charles just felt like he’d lost everything.

“The conversation tomorrow will be about us,” Charles said. “So we need to actually decide what we’re going to be. And if we aren’t going to be each other’s only, then this is the relationship that should be fake.”

Carlos stilled against him.

“No,” he said. “I’m not doing that. Not after last night.”

“Last night should not have happened,” Charles forced out. “I don’t regret it, but it can’t happen again.”

Carlos thumbed circles at the small of his back and Charles fought not to wince as the inflamed muscle let out a harsh protest.

“Why?” Carlos asked. “Because we love each other?”

A sucker punch would have had less effect. The feral side of  Charles swept in with hackles raised, fully prepared to sink his teeth into that vulnerability. He forced it down, because he had the very real threat of Binotto giving chase.

“Because it’s very unhealthy,” Charles whispered. “Ferrari is what is most important to me. And apparently I put that in jeopardy, so I need you by my side for whatever’s about to happen.”

“I’m already by your side.”

Charles swallowed hard.  “And I need to be able to trust that, which means we should move forward as partners in a political sense and not as a couple.”

Carlos didn’t react right away. He looked over Charles’s face, and Charles loathed the way it made him think about the night before, how he’d liked it so much then and didn’t want it now.  

“A political sense,” Carlos finally said. The sadness had come back to his eyes, deep and dark. “What does that mean?”

Charles shrugged, ignoring it. “How it was in the beginning. We tell the story they want us to tell, but in reality we’re both committed to other people. Wholly committed.”

“Do we fuck?” Carlos asked. “Is that part of the story?”

Charles let out a choked noise “Are you serious? No, we don’t fuck.”

“If it’s a political partnership, don’t I get a say?”

“We’re not fucking,” Charles growled, his cheeks flushing pink. Having sex with Carlos might have been the worst decision he’d ever made as a Ferrari prince.

Carlos smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “How about I’m with Lando during race weekends, but with you otherwise? And you do the same?”

“Yes, that’s kind of a given, Carlos,” Charles said. “That’s what we’re already doing.”

“I mean officially. As in, Lando agrees to it and you agree to it.”

The nausea began to creep up his throat. He’d heard of sister wives in America—men with multiple wives who spent certain days of the week with different wives. This felt all too similar.

“You and I will play the part,” Charles said. “For Ferrari, for the FIA, for the other princes. But you won’t be with me, you’ll be with Lando. So no, fucking does not factor into that.”

Carlos kissed his nose, and Charles jerked back.

“And stop doing things like that,” Charles hissed.

Carlos didn’t look offended. In fact, he smiled.

“Do I make you happy?”

Once again, Charles felt a snare dropping around his neck. He watched Carlos carefully, the way he kept searching his face, the hint of desperation in the way he held his jaw a little too tightly closed, like maybe this actually hurt.

Charles chilled his demeanor. “It would make me happy if you agreed to the terms.”

Carlos’s smile twitched only once before he nodded.

“I have three conditions, since this is a negotiation.”

Charles licked his lips. “Fine. What are they?”

“First, we speak Italian again. I hate thinking in English all the time,” Carlos said. “And two, I have to talk to Lando. If he agrees, you both need to determine what that means for you. And it won’t be Monaco again—you need to tell him what you actually think.”

Charles curled his fingers into Carlos’s shirt. “The only one who lied was the two of you,” he said, the venom returning to his tongue. “We had a rule to tell each other before we fucked anyone, and you broke it on the first day, Heart Eyes.”

He relished in the anger that shot to Carlos’s eyes, the way Carlos’s fingers dug into his back, the niceties abandoned.

“What’s the third?” Charles asked, a dare.

“Say you love me.”

Charles went slackjawed, then it twisted to a snarl. Carlos had too much power over him. “I don’t.”

“I don’t care if you don’t,” Carlos said, still dangerous. “I want you to say it. And I want the cameras to hear it too. And Binotto.”

The snare drew tight. Charles shook his head, his heartbeat loud in his ears.  “Not a chance.”

“There’s no story if we don’t love each other.”

“I’m not saying it on camera,” Charles snapped. “I’ll agree to the other two, but not that.”

He couldn’t have Carlos painting him as a desperate idiot won over by one romp in the sheets.

“Once, then,” Carlos said, tugging him a little closer. His eyes blazed, searing into him in a way that made Charles want to call off the whole thing. “Say it to me right now. Even if you don’t mean it.”

“I don’t mean it,” Charles hissed. “Why the hell does it matter if I don’t mean it?”

Carlos’s arms suddenly dropped, and Charles nearly stumbled when Carlos abruptly stepped away, the fire extinguished in his eyes. Something changed in him—something small, but Charles noticed the shift in his stature immediately, even if he couldn’t place the source.

“You’re right,” Carlos said quietly, his voice void of emotion. “It doesn’t matter.”

Carlos brushed by him with the impassiveness of a ghost, and headed for the bedroom. Charles took a step after him, then stopped.

“So?” he called, willing his voice not to shake. “Is that an agreement?”

Carlos froze, and the look in his eyes when he turned around made Charles feel like this moment had ruined them, and not the night before.

“Yes,” Carlos said in the same tone he used in briefings when dealing with engineers who still thought he didn’t know what he was talking about. “I agree to the terms.”

Carlos walked away without another word, leaving Charles to tongue the taste of chili sauce from his lips in the gaping emptiness that always settled in whenever Carlos left a room.

 

 


 

 

“It’s no use being frustrated,” Nic said from across the kitchen island as George poured orange juice into a glass.

“At least if I’m frustrated they’ll try changing a few things,” George muttered. He lifted the orange juice carton and wiggled it. “You want some?”

Nic shook his head, still reading on his phone. “I’ll take a coffee though, if you’re being domestic.”

George rolled his eyes, but set about finding the AeroPress. People could say what they wanted about him and Nic not being true husbands, but George wouldn’t make coffee for just anyone.

Williams wanted to start planning for next year. Things were going well in the empire, and Jost wanted them even better for 2022. George wholeheartedly supported the goals set out in their most recent government meeting, but he felt the weight of choice on his shoulders. He’d proven himself here: as a leader, diplomat, friend, and husband. He could play the game of royalty, but he did care about their people, about bringing back the prowess Williams used to enjoy.

Unfortunately, it just wasn’t growing fast enough.

He tossed coffee beans into the grinder and turned it on, drumming his fingers on the granite countertop. Their first meeting of the day would be with Kayla, to go over the events of Monaco and see what they needed to take into consideration for Baku in two weeks.

“You know I’ll back you up in there,” Nic said, as if reading his thoughts. “If anything came out about you and Lewis—”

“It’s okay,” George said, shaking his head. “I spoke to Lewis about it in Monaco. I don’t think we’re hiding anymore.”

Nic smiled. “Well, that’s good. That way people won’t question it when you jump his bones the second you see him in the paddock.” He pressed a hand to his chest and turned on an overtly ridiculous British accent. “Ey Lewis, gonna leave me a batch’a new hickeys, mate?”

George screwed the end on the AeroPress and shot Nic a glare. “Watch yourself, mate, I can still poison this coffee.”

Nic laughed. “Fine, fine. I’m just happy you’re happy.”

God, he would miss this. Carefree mornings where they could joke around and trade quips before they had to face the government. Someone who always had his back, and someone he wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice everything for.

“How’s your girlfriend?” George asked.

Her name was Sandra, but they never talked about her by name. Pretty much everyone in Williams knew about her to some extent, but so far Nic had managed to keep her out of the media. George hadn’t even met her in person, though Nic had been with her for almost a year.

“She’s good,” Nic said, smiling around an apple slice. “Kicking ass at her firm, looking beautiful all the time—she’s really the whole package.”

George cocked a brow. “Think she’s the one?”

Nic shrugged. “I try not to think about that, honestly. It could always go up in smoke, you know? Especially if anyone finds out.”

George dumped the coffee grounds into the AeroPress. “Other princes have done it. Hell, Michael Schumacher did it and no one dared to give him shit.”

“I more meant on her side,” Nic said. “I don’t think anyone’s prepared for the kind of scrutiny she’d be up against. It’s already hard enough for her, you know? She barely sees me.”

George put a kettle on, chewing his bottom lip.  He wondered how Alex was doing—things had to be better for him on the outside. At least being exiled meant he didn’t have to keep fighting to come back to this fucked up world of crowns and appointments because the option wasn’t there.

“Ah,” Nic said, looking down at his phone. “Kayla wants us in ten.”

“You want a traveler mug?” George asked.

“A venti, please. No, no, I think a grande will do,” Nic said, pretending to think. “Can you add some sugar free caramel to that? And I’d like to use stars to pay.”

George rolled his eyes, pulling a thermos from the cabinet. “You’re too American. Aren’t you supposed to like Tim Horton’s or something? Or is that a conflict of interest?”

The kettle began to hiss and George pulled it from the heat conductor to pour hot water into the AeroPress.

Nic pointed an accusatory finger at him. “First off, I would never disrespect Timmy’s by turning it into a joke. Second, we only distribute in Italy and America. Do your research, Mr. PowerPoint.”

George eased down the stopper on the AeroPress, watching as the coffee began to trickle into the mug. He wasn’t very good at most things in the kitchen, but he had breakfast drinks down. Kind of. He definitely couldn’t make tea as well as Lewis, but he’d actually practiced.

Once Nic’s coffee was done, he offered him the thermos. “You’re going to have to do your own creamer, mate. Unless you want to clean up.”

Nic bowed his head before accepting the thermos with both hands. “Thank you, Barista George.”

“That’s Prince George to you, Starbucks.”

He took a sip of his orange juice as Nic headed to the fridge. They only had one night’s sleep away from Monaco, but the reality of their world had already set in. George felt every mile between Williams and Mercedes, but he also felt the absence of his closest friends. He couldn’t call any of them, obviously, and no one would be writing any letters until they were briefed on the weekend. Not because they weren’t allowed to write, but half of the gossip in the paddock found its way into ink long before the races, and no one wanted to get it wrong.

“What’s your opinion on Carlos Sainz?” George asked after a moment, thinking back to the conversation on the yacht.

Nic took a tentative sip of his coffee, wincing as the heat hit his tongue. “He’s cool, I guess. Seems like a manwhore, though. And kind of an asshole.”

George laughed. “Why do you say that?”

“He’s all over Lando one minute, then Charles. Like, all over them. Does that guy know how to kiss without using his tongue?”

George nearly choked on his orange juice as he burst out laughing.

“I’m serious though,” Nic said. “He seems nice at first glance, but he’s almost too nice, you know?”

George grabbed his phone from the kitchen island and finished off the last of his juice. Time to go.

He shrugged as Nic fell into step beside him as he headed for the door. “I don’t think Charles would fall for it if Carlos was a liar like that.”

Nic let out a snort. “Okay, so Carlos just loves two guys?”

George made a face as they entered the main hall at the palace. Williams revamped to a modern style a few years prior, full of glass and steel, with a royal apartment probably considered quaint compared to an empire like Ferrari.

“Polyamory’s a thing, right?” George asked. “Maybe they have some kind of deal going on.”

“You really believe that? After you said Charles looked like absolute shit on Sunday?”

George frowned. Nic was right, of course. And after Steakout, it was pretty clear Lando and Charles were both turning a blind eye to each other.

“It’s so fucked,” George muttered, waving at a few engineers as they passed.

“Ricciardo though,” Nic said, “he’s the one I worry about.”

“Really?”

“Well, I mean, obviously something happened with him and Carlos,” Nic said as a group of royal staff practically threw themselves against the wall to avoid walking in their path. George sighed. Williams still had a lot of old royalty traditions that wouldn’t die.

“Yeah, but that sounded like it had to do with Max,” George said, thinking back through the conversation. He’d relayed it to Lewis and Nic, but even Lewis didn’t seem to know what they could have been talking about.

“Carlos was good enough to keep it hidden from everyone,” Nic said. “That’s pretty tough.”

George wasn’t surprised.

“Okay, so we know Max and Carlos were married, obviously,” George said, tapping into his analytical mindset. “It seemed like they really loved each other, but I’ve never really asked Max about it. And Max doesn’t really seem to give a shit about whether Carlos is with Lando or Charles, so I don’t think there’s anything residual there.”

They walked out into the main hall of the palace, a canopy of glass overhead that reminded George of a grand train station or the Singapore airport. Clouds bottled up in the sky overhead, threatening rain.

“Carlos was never with Daniel—” Nic stopped himself.

“But he was with Toro Rosso,” George finished, casting Nic a knowing look. “That’s as close to married as you can get without being married.”

They would have had plenty of time to talk and plot and plan there. Carlos handed Max off to Ricciardo, and if they really were in love, that probably hadn’t felt very good when Max drooled all over his new teammate right away.

“But why would Carlos want to help them?” George asked. “If he wanted Max, why do anything with Daniel at all?”

“Any chance Carlos and Max are together?” Nic tried.

George wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think so. Unless they’re so secret even Dan doesn’t know about it. And Carlos seemed more concerned about Charles, not Max."

Carlos had enough men on his plate to serve half of the FIA.

“There has to be a bigger connection,” Nic murmured, lost in thought. “There has to be a reason they kept Max and Lando out of it too.”

They had to be missing something. George could feel the answer staring them in the face, but he couldn’t see it.

“Carlos said something about it only being temporary,” George murmured as he spotted Kayla waiting for them outside of the meeting room. “Daniel said Carlos risked a lot for something temporary. And whatever it was, it had something to do with love.”

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing.

“What is it?” Nic asked.

George slowed so that they stayed out of earshot. Kayla tapped away on her tablet, oblivious.

“Carlos said ‘that’s the nature of love. To do whatever it takes.’ And when he said it, I thought he was talking about Daniel doing whatever it takes.”

Nic’s eyes flashed.  “But Daniel didn’t take any risks.”

“And then Daniel said Carlos should be worried,” George continued. “That something could influence somethingin a way Carlos wouldn’t want. Something about Charles.”

He furrowed his brow. The puzzle pieces in his mind began to shift, assembling into something closer to the truth.

“There you are,” Kayla greeted, marching over to them. She looked stressed, her neck taut as she beckoned them into the briefing room. Nic grabbed his hand and tugged him along as George kept working the pieces together in his mind, threading together a tapestry in real time.

“Sit down,” Kayla said in a much sterner tone than she usually used with them.

George stared into space, frozen in his spot. Nic stood beside him in solidarity, crossing his arms.

“Fine, then don’t sit,” Kayla  huffed, tapping on her tablet. A screenshare started on the TV and three photos took up the screen.

The first was Max and Charles standing outside Steakout. Charles had Max by the lapel of his jacket, and Max had an arm around him. They were both looking at each other like a lovestruck couple, and Charles had his lips slightly parted, clearly having just pulled away from a kiss. Max had sunlight in his hair like a goddamn renaissance painting, eyes half-lidded and a smile sprouting on his lips.

The second was a photo of Lewis kissing George in the courtyard of his building. The photographer definitely wasn’t a professional, because the image was grainy and dark, but they were recognizable nonetheless.

But the third photo made George’s hands curl to fists at his sides.

Charles looked horrible. Absolutely horrible. Dead-eyed and just as bad in the daylight as George had seen him the night prior to the picture. It had to be from Monday because George didn’t recognize Charles’s outfit and it didn’t have anything Ferrari on it, which meant it wasn’t part of the racing weekend. Charles had his cheek on Max’s shoulder and Max had an arm around him again. Their hands weren’t linked, but they might as well have been with how close they were.

They sat on the edge of the water, slightly shaded by a palm, and the photographer must have been on a boat because George knew that stretch of harbor and there was no pier that far out.

When it finally clicked, an ugly anger resurfaced in him, sticky and thick like hot tar in his gut.

“Did you know about this?” Kayla asked, eyes dead set on him. “I’m talking about Verstappen and Leclerc, obviously. I have a feeling you know about the second one.”

George grit his teeth.

Max sat across the table from him at Steakout and talked about Daniel like he would burn the world down to get him back. George believed that. But he’d forgotten that Max didn’t give a shit about who he hurt—who he used, who he destroyed—to get what he wanted.

Any softness he’d regained toward Max vanished in an instant, swallowed up by hatred.

To prey on Charles at his weakest, to blatantly take advantage of him—it made George physically ill.

Your little lunch club isn’t the safe place you want it to be.

“It might not be real,” Nic murmured beside him, nudging his shoulder. “Those pictures don’t prove anything.”

But Nic didn’t know the history. Nic didn’t know how Charles still couldn’t get over Max, and how Max had to know it.

“It’s real,” George grit out. “It’s fucking real.”

Chapter Text

The media onslaught that followed Monaco started an all-out war between news outlets to see who could create the most sensational story about all of the photos that leaked. Pierre playing a harmless game of blackjack turned into a story about spending government money to gamble. Esteban shaking hands with a supermodel turned into a meme thanks to a photo taken at the moment he glanced down at her breasts, the space between him and the girl creating a perfect frame around a bored-looking Fernando. Carlos and Checo at lunch, Lando heading to the champion’s party with Fewtrell and Callum in tow, Valtteri and Kimi sipping coffees with identical frowns.

But the two breadwinners were of course the photos of Lewis and himself, and the photos of Max and Charles. One photo of Charles and Max might have been tucked under the rug, but two created a story. Two created something to sink teeth into.

Rumors of a secret alliance between Ferrari and Red Bull sent every empire into madness. Some citizens in Ferrari wanted Charles murdered for treason, and even the Ferrari media was performing mental gymnastics to try to justify why Ferrari and Red Bull together could be a good thing. Alpha Tauri government leaders, presumably with Red Bull behind them, accused Max of being a security risk for intellectual property, and Ferrari further inflamed things by claiming that Red Bull had nothing worth stealing.

Most of the anger seemed directed at Charles and Max, while George and Lewis received articles about new-age infidelity, memes about Valtteri losing out on both championships and Lewis’s dick, and curious speculation about whether or not they were the real deal or a PR ploy.

George received letters almost daily from Lewis during the break, coordinating how they wanted to play this. He could feel Kayla judging him every time he didn’t tell her what Lewis had written, but he didn’t want anyone to know their game plan. Max had just made it very clear that even the people closest to him might still try to put a knife in his back.

“The FIA is not happy about this,” Kayla said as they headed out of the hotel lobby in Baku. “You two are on damage control. Half the paddock is on damage control.”

“They should be used to it by now,” George muttered. “It’s Monaco.”

Warm sunshine greeted them as they stepped outside, and George slipped on his sunglasses as fast as he could. Baku didn’t have the same throat-sucking dryness of Bahrain, but George’s British sensibilities hated the lack of humidity and he had to keep his sunglasses on almost constantly or the brightness of a cloudless sky burned his retinas.

The Flame Towers—aptly named for their environment—loomed on the horizon like glass shark fins. At night they became multicolored beacons, changing colors for no discernable reason. Few places showed the convergence of new and old like Baku—12th century fortresses meshed with ultra-modern architecture on every dizzying street.

“Did you hear some girl on Twitter figured out that Max’s jacket was actually one of Charles’s jackets?” Nic asked as they came to a stop under the valet awning in front of the hotel.

“People are insane,” George said. “That’s definitely not true.”

“It looked pretty convincing to me,” Nic said. “Look.”

He handed over his phone, where someone had screenshotted a Twitter thread and posted it to Instagram. The tweet had a photo of Charles as a teenager, swallowed up in a denim jacket and wearing a pair of ridiculous sunglasses. Beside it, a zoomed in photo of the label on the jacket—black, red, and white stripes stacked on top of each other. He swiped right to a photo of Max’s jacket in front of Steakout, adorned with the same logo.

“Maybe they just have the same jacket,” George said, unconvinced.

“Keep going.”

He frowned and swiped again.

A tweet read LOOK. AT. THIS. followed by a zoomed in photo of a bleach mark in the denim, a splotch on Max’s left breast pocket. Identical to the mark on the jacket in the Charles photo, which the tweeter kindly stitched together into one side-by-side picture.

He spotted a reply beneath the comparison photo: seriously? they grew up together, they probably shared clothes ffs. nobody writes an article when my best friend wears my high school musical shirts from 7th grade.

okay but then why is Charles holding onto it like it’s made of diamonds??? another commenter replied. he definitely knows that’s his jacket and max definitely knows it too

He scrolled down to where more comments flooded below the Instagram post, and he was surprised to see that the account profile pictures varied from middle aged men to teenage girls.

are we forgetting max just got caught with a secret cell phone to talk to prince dan or is that just me

dude look at the other pictures, leclerc was on him like max just f*cked his brains out

binotto about to punt charles into the stratosphere

where is the photo of them actually kissing???

why is prince charles the royal slut and where can I apply

i hope dan kicks charles’s ass

George handed the phone back to Nic with a shake of his head. He’d only received one letter from Charles since the news hit. A quick note to say he was sorry that a photographer had snuck a photo of him and Lewis, and that the photos with Max were taken out of context. Nothing happened, supposedly, but Charles didn’t outright deny kissing him. Lewis taught him to read between the lines, to find the truth where things weren’t said.

“George, I’m not going to pretend I can stop you from breaking the rules,” Kayla said, bringing him out of his thoughts. “But you need to lay low. If I catch you anywhere near the Mercedes garage, I’m going to make you wish you’d kept it in your pants in Monaco.”

Nic stifled a laugh with his hand, and George blushed hard.

“You’re not safe either,” Kayla scolded, pointing a finger at Nic. “You two get to kiss this weekend.”

Nic’s smile fell off his face. “C’mon, Kayla. I don’t want Lewis germs.”

She shook her head, ushering them into their transpo van. “I can let you get away with one on the cheek, but the other two have to look convincing.”

George wrinkled his nose. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes. Half of the empire thinks you betrayed Nic, and we can’t have that.”

Nic grinned at him, and George immediately frowned. He didn’t understand how anyone could think he and Nic had a romantic relationship. Then again, they didn’t see things like the rest of the empire did. The empire saw a curated image, FIA approved. And they did love each other, so maybe it wasn’t so unbelievable to think it was romantic if they only saw the PR crap.  

“Does this mean I get to guilt trip you on live TV?” Nic asked, still grinning.

“Not if you know what’s good for you,” George replied tartly.

Nic pretended to wipe his eyes, sniffling. “It’s just…I thought we were soulmates. I was so shocked to see those photos. To think he would leave me for Lewis Hamil—”

“Shut up,” George groaned, wedging an elbow into Nic’s side.

“We’ll do a photo during your track walk today,” Kayla said with finality. “I hope you packed chapstick.”

 


 

Kissing Nic didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t feel like anything, actually. They had to kiss occasionally for press things, and George always treated it like the act it was. They had fun with it—like the time Nic used tongue without warning him and George nearly fell apart from laughing so hard. Those pictures were some of their best.

Kissing Nic during the track walk turned into a game of chicken to see who would laugh first. They stared into each other’s eyes, both trying to keep it together while cameras from every media outlet on the grid snapped photos.

“You’re totally going to laugh first,” George said under his breath as he looped his arms around Nic’s waist. Nic had pretty eyes—big and black-brown, and always kind somehow. Sandra probably loved them.

“No way, I’m not the one with a guilty conscience,” Nic replied, batting his eyelashes.

George’s lips quivered, but he stopped himself from smiling.

“Anytime now,” Kayla said impatiently from where she stood next to the Williams photographers at ethe side of the track.

George curled a finger under Nic’s chin and tilted his head up, which looked incredibly stupid, since they were almost the same height. They both had to take a second to stop themselves from cracking up.

“You know if we laugh she’s going to make us do this again,” George said through his smile. “Don’t blow it.”

Nic hooded his eyes, feigning desire. “Keep talking dirty to me and I will, babe.”

George choked down a laugh. The camera shutters went haywire.

“Hurry up. Your hand is sweaty,” Nic said, leaning in.

“Wait, wait,” George murmured, only a breath away. He smelled mint. Nice. “If we really sell this one, then maybe we won’t have to do another one. Just, like, pretend we’re talking all romantically.”

Nic’s brow twitched in momentary confusion, but then he brought his hands up to George’s chest and splayed them there. A little smile came to his face, flirtatious and obviously fake to George, but the cameras wouldn’t know the difference.

“How’s that?”

George let his smile go slack, gazing down at Nic through his lashes.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” George whispered as the cameras shutters seemed to grow even louder.

Nic cocked his head his head, leaning in again. “Only thing that’s ridiculous is the amount of this dick you’re about to get tonight, babydoll.”

George burst into laughter just as Nic’s lips connected with his. He held the kiss for as long as he could—only about half a second—before he had to swerve and double over. Nic exploded into laughter too, and George’s stomach hurt as he tried to get air that wasn’t coming, hands braced on his knees.

“Oh my god—what is wrong with you?” George choked out, wiping tears from his eyes.

Nic hadn’t stopped laughing. “Dude, you walked right into that one!”

“Can we be serious? For once?” Kayla snapped from the sidelines, but they ignored her.

He almost recovered, but then Nic caught his eye and they both cracked up again, George clutching his stomach and Nic squatting on the tarmac to keep himself from falling over.

“Boys!” Kayla shouted. “Honestly!”

“All right,” George wheezed, offering a hand to Nic. “One for the cameras, yeah, yeah.”

Nic took his hand with a knowing grin as George hauled him up from the ground, right into another kiss. The cameras went nuts. George pretended to stumble backward when Nic threw his arms around his neck—the picture-perfect couple.

They pulled apart a second later and George avoided eye contact to stop himself from another fit of giggles. Nic caught his hand and they hurried from the middle of the track, both of them grinning stupid.

Kayla met them with a glare. “You’re lucky you two are cute.”

“You love us,” Nic said cheerfully.

She shook her head and gave them a dismissive wave.  “That’ll do.”

“Thanks, Kayla,” George sing-songed as she handed back their phones.

“Lewis just gave an interview,” Kayla said. “And Charles just arrived. It’s important you both keep on top of the news this weekend. If any fires start, you two are not allowed to get burned.”

She nodded toward the big screen and George followed her gaze to see the live feed, where Charles entered the paddock hand-in-hand with Carlos. He looked stoic and unaffected, despite writing to George that Binotto had reamed him out in front of Carlos not even a week ago.

George just hoped Charles hadn’t written Sebastian the same thing, but he knew how stupid that was. Sebastian probably had Mick’s marriage contract prepped and ready to shove in Mattia’s face the moment he had the chance.

On screen, Charles paused to speak with someone in Ferrari. Carlos hovered close, listening in. They glanced at each other before Charles said something inaudible and Carlos smiled, tugging him in to press a kiss to his temple.

Playing the game.

“C’mon,” George said, tugging Nic toward the hospitality lane. Other empires littered the track, mostly engineers and race officials, but they waved to Lance as they passed. Lance didn’t wave back.

Nic let out a little hiss, wrinkling his nose. “Oh, that’s right. We kind of ruined his life, didn’t we?”

George clapped a hand over his mouth to hide his snort of a laugh, and used his other hand to whack Nic on the chest, causing him to flinch away with a smile.

They posted up in the Williams hospitality motorhome when they arrived a few minutes later, with a bag of veggie straws to share while George set up the TV so that they could watch the Lewis interview.

“Did he tell you what he’d say?” Nic asked, chin tucked to his chest where he lounged on the couch. A pose he’d picked up from George.

“Pretty much,” George replied as he pulled up the interview link on his phone.

The video popped up on the TV screen showing an image of Lewis smiling, leaning slightly forward to hear whatever the journalist was saying. Not the best thumbnail.

“Ready?” George asked.

Nic lifted the bag of veggie straws in reply.

He pressed play and settled back onto the couch.

Lewis stood in his Mercedes polo, his hair braided and lighter than George remembered it being a few weeks prior. He sported three earrings on each ear—a diamond encrusted hoop with a slightly smaller version one hole up, and a diamond stud to cap off the line.  

“He was wearing double denim earlier,” Nic said, nodding toward the screen. “What a power move. If Max didn’t want to kill him before, he definitely does now.”

George tossed Nic a look, but he was right. Lewis was an expert at the stealth kill. He did everything for a reason, from his outfits to his track strategy.

“Now, I think you know what I’m going to ask you about,” the journalist began from off screen. “Those photos of you and Prince George made a splash around the world. A lot of people are very upset with you for seemingly—well, perhaps not even seemingly—betraying your husband, His Royal Highness Valtteri Bottas.”

Lewis’s smile flickered. “I think it’s a little unfair to claim I’m betraying Valtteri. Everything gets a little wild in Monaco, and quite frankly, it’s the only time of year where princes feel comfortable expressing their intentions.”

“You’re going to have to clarify that for me.”

Lewis’s smile crept toward condescending. “As I think the whole world has seen by now, George made it clear he’s interested in pursuing a Mercedes crown. Which I don’t think is a surprise to anyone after he acted as regent for me last year when I got sick.”

George chewed the inside of his cheek, scanning Lewis’s face for any indication of his motive.

“Come on now, Your Highness. It seems pretty farfetched that Prince George would plant one on you without knowing if it was reciprocated—and it looked like it was.”

Lewis laughed. “He’s a confident guy. I like him, and I like that bravery.”

“Oh boy,” Nic chuckled as George’s chest swelled with pride.

“And what does Prince Valtteri think?” the journalist asked.

“He’s an adult,” Lewis said with a shrug. “These things happen in royalty. We’ve talked about it, and we’re as strong as ever.”

“Will he say the same when we interview him?”

“Why don’t you ask what you want to ask?” Lewis challenged, eyes flashing.

The journalist laughed nervously. “Okay then: should we expect you to marry George Russell next season?”

Lewis clucked disapprovingly. “Come on. You know I can’t answer that. Try again.”

“All right—who do you want by your side next year?”

Lewis didn’t skip a beat.

“Valtteri and I have a relationship unlike most on the grid,” he replied coolly. “You see these younger drivers—this younger generation—so devoted to romance. I think it’s a sign of how things are changing. Back in the day, marriage was a partnership. You either worked well together, or you didn’t. Romance didn’t factor in.”

George sat up a little straighter, and he noticed that Nic had stopped chewing beside him.

Nice glanced at him. “Is this part of the—”

“Shh,” George hissed.

“Valtteri is probably my best friend,” Lewis continued, smiling. “He’s certainly who I spend the most time with. We love each other too, obviously, but—”

He trailed off in thought, then shook his head.

“Look, George is a talented leader. But he’s young and inexperienced. He wants the royal fairytale we all dream about when we think of princes. Sometimes that doesn’t work out—look at Mazepin and Schumacher, for instance.”

“Ouch, hope Haas has some ointment for that burn,” Nic muttered, and George waved him off.

“I don’t think I’ve heard an answer yet,” the journalist pressed, and George had to agree with her.

Lewis let out a chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. Cheeky this weekend, huh?”

I can’t predict what I’ll say. I can’t throw Valtteri under the bus, and we have to plot this carefully. I don’t want to rock the paddock—we need the pressure on Max to close the door on Sebastian.

George swallowed hard. “He won’t say me.”

The bag of veggie straws crinkled as Nic sat up on the couch.

“I admire George for making his intentions clear,” Lewis said. “But I’m married to Valtteri, and I take that vow seriously. We may not have this new-age relationship where half-naked pictures of us leak to the press every other week, but we’re devoted to each other. I would never turn my back on him like that.”

“I can’t tell if he’s insulting me,” George muttered. It certainly felt like it.

Nic pursed his lips. “I dunno. He’s not saying no to you.”

“But, you know, ultimately it’s Toto who makes that decision for next year,” Lewis continued. “I’m sure all of you will know long before I do.”

“And what if Toto does choose Prince George?”

Lewis thought about it for a moment, rubbing the stubble at his chin.

“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“Lame,” Nic booed from the couch.

“Not lame,” George said. “That was pretty genius, actually. He avoided the question but made them think he didn’t.”

Silence breathed for a moment, and George thought he could hear an irritated sigh from the reporter.

“Well, Your Highness, thank you for speaking with us today,” the journalist finally said. Lewis stepped away from the mic and waved goodbye before heading down the hospitality lane. The video ended, and suggestions popped up on the screen.

George spotted another interview thumbnail of Lando and Daniel, side by side, newly posted. He selected it and sat back in as Nic offered him the bag of veggie straws. He plucked one out and took a bite.  

“The two McLaren princes together again,” the journalist announced in thick English accent. “Safe to say you’ve resolved your differences?”

Daniel had an arm slung around Lando’s shoulders, and Lando looked like he was trying to will himself to disappear.

“We’re great,” Lando said stiffly.

“Better than ever,” Daniel added with his trademark grin.

“Now, Prince Ricciardo, I’ve got to ask—those photos of Prince Verstappen and Prince Leclerc, what are your thoughts?”

Daniel quirked his lips and turned his head to Lando. They exchanged a glance, but George didn’t see any emotion in their eyes. A planned response.

“Unexpected, I guess?” Daniel replied.

“Very unexpected,” Lando agreed with a nod. “I honestly thought Charles and Carlos were the real deal.”

Very subtle, Lando, George thought, fighting not to roll his eyes.

“Well, Prince Norris, you arguably know Prince Sainz better than anyone else in the paddock—how did he react to those photos?”

George grit his teeth as Lando’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“I haven’t actually spoken to Carlos yet, but I did write him,” Lando said with a shrug. “All I can say is that, I mean, no one wants to see their husband kissing someone else.”

Daniel’s smile twitched beside him and George wondered if it was because Lando meant that as a dig at Daniel for being with Max, or a dig at Max for kissing Charles. Or both. George had to hand it to him for the double-edged meaning.

“Yes, I’m told Prince Leclerc didn’t even attend the podium afterparty with him,” the journalist replied. “Can you confirm?”

Lando shot her a look. “I think everyone’s seen the pictures. Everyone knows who was there and who wasn’t.”

“Charles is so fucked,” George murmured. He tapped Nic’s knee. “Look to see if Max did an interview.”

Nic swiped his phone from the coffee table, abandoning the veggie straws. “On it.”

“I love me some Sharl,” Daniel said on screen, “but I would not want to be in his shoes right now.”

“And how do you think Prince Verstappen is feeling?” the journalist asked.

Daniel shrugged, but George saw something almost fearful in his eyes before he spoke. “Max is a pretty self-contained guy. He handles pressure well, and probably doesn’t care about the media attention, quite frankly. Sucks to get caught, but maybe don’t kiss someone in broad daylight, y’know?”

“So you’re saying those photos are real?”

Daniel laughed. “I dunno, ma’am. I’d believe you either way.”

“He’s in on this,” George whispered, mostly to himself. “He wants the attention on Max and Charles.”

“I’m not seeing any interviews with Max,” Nic said distractedly, scrolling through his phone. “Or Charles.”

“That means Lando must be in on it too,” George continued. He cocked his head. “Which makes sense, I guess. He wants Carlos all to himself. The real question is whether—”

His breath caught in his throat.

A group of people stood huddled in the background of the shot, dressed in navy blue polos. One stood taller than the others, his head bowed as he looked down at something.

George knew the slope of those shoulders. He knew that the slight hunch meant the man they belonged to was nervous.

Alex.

Daniel’s voice faded out as he continued speaking. George tried to commit every fuzzy line of Alex’s body to memory as he watched, trying to pick out any detail of him that might indicate how he was doing.

Nic waved a hand in front of his face. “George?”

But George was back in Lynn, staring at those same shoulders from where he sat on his bed, the rest of his family gone for a weekend away.

“I’ll miss your little baby ears,” George said, wrapping his arms around Alex from behind.

Alex leaned away, a smile on his face, but details were fuzzy. Part dream, part memory.

George remembered the scent of damp skin and fresh body wash, the sound of Alex laughing when he nibbled his earlobe, and then it slipped away.

The memory always slipped away.

When he blinked, the TV screen displayed a panel of interview thumbnails, Daniel and Lando long gone.

Alex was in Baku. George knew they had been at the same races before, but never had concrete proof. He never even looked at the schedules for the lower courts, to save himself the pain of it.

Nic ruffled his hair. “Hey, you okay?”

George nodded quickly, clearing his throat. “Yeah, yeah. Got in my head a little, sorry.”

“There’s nothing on Verstappen or Leclerc,” Nic explained, and it didn’t sound like that was the first time he’d said it. “Not even a statement from Red Bull or Ferrari. Maybe the pictures were real.”

“I’m going to look for Charles,” George said, standing abruptly. “I’ll see you in the garage.”

Alex could still be in the paddock. If he hurried, maybe he could catch a glimpse. Something. Anything.

“George, what the—"

He didn’t wait for Nic to finish his sentence before he left, bursting out into the hospitality lane. Media crews swarmed, clogging the lane in a sea of color. He searched for someone taller. For that big forehead he loved to kiss or Alex’s stupid haircut he never put enough pomade in, even after George bought him S2 as a stocking stuffer two years in a row.

He spotted Fernando hand-in-hand with Esteban, both of them looking content as they walked and talked, eyes shaded with stylish sunglasses. Alonso stared at him for a moment too long, but George didn’t pay him any attention as he weaved through bodies and dodged cameras.

“George,” a journalist prompted. “Can we—"

“No,” he said firmly, still searching through faces. Lower courts still had to do interviews, although the audience was mostly contained to the empires funding them.  Alex would be closer to the Red Bull motorhome, past McLaren. Daniel and Lando’s interview couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen minutes old—editing went out the window on weekends like this.

He only wanted to see him in person. One glimpse and he would know. He would see if Alex had lost weight, if his smile looked the same, if it reached his eyes, if he still wore his stringy bracelets on his right wrist.

George used to play with them when they sat through briefings. He still remembered what the frayed ends felt like against the pad of his thumb.

The crowd began to grow, and he saw nothing that indicated any lower court officials were anywhere nearby.

George grit his teeth so hard tears pricked in his eyes—well, he told himself that was the reason.

All he wanted was one look. For Alex not to be a smudgy figure in the background of an interview video.

He stopped walking before he reached McLaren, because he knew in his gut that Alex wouldn’t be there. Red Bull would have locked him away again. Their little circus animal.

So he turned his attention to a collection of reporters in front of the Ferrari motorhome. Usually Ferrari didn’t allow any kind of presence to linger without express approval.

“Hey, George!”

He looked over his shoulder to see Pierre jogging up in a navy blue long sleeve and—

“Is that a Louis Vuitton backpack?”

Pierre grinned, swinging his shoulders so George could see the bag a little better. “You like it?”

“On a pretentious douchebag? Yeah,” George teased, and Pierre jabbed him in the stomach.

He looked good. Rested and ready for a weekend of racing, his ridiculous news story probably long forgotten in Alpha Tauri. George tried not to be jealous.

“What’s going on here?” Pierre asked, nodding toward Ferrari.

He shrugged. “I dunno. Just got here.”

Pierre frowned. “I wrote Charles a bunch of times. He only wrote back once.”

“I only got one letter too,” George said. “He’s been drowning in them, I’m sure.”

Pierre eyed the glass door of the motorhome, where the horse on the Ferrari crest stared down at them, maw gaping and hooves curled to strike.

“I think something happened to him,” Pierre said. His lips barely moved, like he didn’t even realize he was speaking.

“He told me Binotto reamed him out in front of Carlos. Totally humiliated him,” George said with a nod.

None of the media personnel had moved on, which meant they had a reason to be there. A scheduled reason. Something they knew but everyone else didn’t.

“Yeah, he told me that too,” Pierre said, glancing at him. “Do you think Ferrari stopped him from writing back?”

George shook his head. “They’re too old school for that. Letter writing is like—” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “You know. Too sacred or whatever.”

The doors to the motorhome slid open, and the crowd shot to attention. Cameras started going off, and George craned his neck to watch as Charles and Carlos emerged, hands linked, like before.

Charles looked leagues better than he had when George last saw him in his flat. His cheeks had color again, and his easy smile didn’t look fake. Carlos lifted Charles’s hand to his lips once they stopped at the top of the stairs, and pressed a kiss to each of his knuckles.

The gesture felt off somehow, even though Charles laughed.

The Ferrari Public Affairs team filed out after them, and the head guy—George could never remember his name—stepped up to them with lapel mics. Once fitted, Charles and Carlos made their way down the few steps to the asphalt, and the cameras made an impenetrable wall in front of them.

But the big screens had all changed to a live feed of the two Ferrari princes as Charles closed his eyes for a makeup touch-up. A full on show, an official public interview. Rare for most empires, nearly unheard of for Ferrari.

Everything quieted until the makeup team stepped away, and the head of Public Affairs gave a nod to the press.

The crowd surged, mics thrust into the air, cameramen vying for spots.

“Prince Leclerc,” a reporter called, extending a mic. “I think it’s fair to say those photos of you and Prince Verstappen were the bombshell of Monaco. What was your reaction to seeing those?”

Charles chuckled, and Carlos unwound their hands to put an arm around his husband.

“Max and I have been very close since we were children,” Charles replied, matter-of-fact. “He’s still very close to me. In both instances, he was comforting me. Of course, the implications of the photos might look strange out of context, but they weren’t romantic.”

“Oh? That picture of you in front of Steakout looked pretty clear to all of us.”

Charles shared a look with Carlos, the perfect picture of lovers in their own world. Charles looked like he needed support, and Carlos looked like the perfect man to give it with his warm smile and doe eyes.

“If it’s so clear, why isn’t there a picture of a kiss?” Charles asked, finally turning his attention back to the reporter. “It’s because there wasn’t one. I’ll admit I was intoxicated at the time, but we didn’t kiss.”

“Then why was Max wearing your jacket?” another reporter chimed in. “That doesn’t seem a little romantic to you?”

Charles shrugged, and George couldn’t read a thing in his eyes. “Monaco is a nostalgic place for us. It’s home for me. Maybe he meant to wear it, or maybe he picked it subconsciously. I have no idea, I’m not Max.”

George found himself jealous of the way Charles breezed through this so effortlessly. Ferrari—Charles’s own empire—had people in it who wanted him dead for this, and he wasn’t batting an eye.

He would need that kind of calm to go up against Max.  

“You didn’t attend the podium party,” another reporter butted in. “Why not? It’s customary for a prince to attend an event like that—especially given it was Prince Carlos’s first podium as a prince of Ferrari.”

George narrowed his eyes, watching as Carlos stared at his husband with a bit too much intensity. Then again, Carlos liked to do that to most people, but he seemed especially prone to it with Charles.

Charles nodded thoughtfully, chewing the inside of his cheek. His smile dropped, and the light in his eyes fell away with it.

“I failed to race,” Charles said, suddenly dead serious. “It’s different when you begin a  race and don’t finish, but something else entirely when you don’t even start. In Ferrari there is a heritage to uphold, traditions that don’t align with attending a celebration for a race you had no part in.”

George blinked and looked over at Pierre, who had his jaw clenched beside him. Charles missed the party for  a date with Sebastian, but it was good cover.

“But,” Carlos chimed in, still fucking staring at Charles as he spoke, “Charles came to the race even when he didn’t have to. He supported me, and I’ll never forget that.”

Charles’s smile returned, fond, as he held Carlos’s gaze. The sight made George a little sick with his own bittersweet affection for someone else.

“Carlos is an invaluable part of Ferrari now,” Charles said. “Supporting him—I didn’t have to think about it. I knew if roles were reversed, he would have been in the garage all race, supporting me too.”

The reporters stood silent for a long moment, a rare pause in their usual barrage of questions.

Charles hadn’t explained anything in his letter about what happened when Carlos came back. George didn’t expect him to talk about it when they had written to each other about the photos, but this definitely didn’t seem like the sad, aching boy George left in that flat.

“So,” a reporter finally piped up. “That’s all well and good in supporting the empire, but what about your marriage? Carlos, you didn’t leave the party early when you could have. And Charles, you haven’t explained how you spent your Sunday night.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “I was on a yacht with some of my closest mates after my first podium with Ferrari—you honestly expect me to go home early?”

A few people laughed, but all eyes turned to Charles.

“We’re adults,” Charles said. “Of course I wanted Carlos to enjoy his night.”

He looked the reporter dead in the eyes, and Charles’s lips curled to a smirk.

“And he did,” Charles continued. “At his little yacht party...and after.”

Carlos went beet red beside him as the reporters began a frenzy of whispering, scrambling to find some kind of follow-up.

“Merde,” Pierre breathed. “He’s telling the truth.”

George tried to speak, but no words came out. Charles hadn’t even been ready to confess his feelings, despite his assurance otherwise. Charles wouldn’t say anything unless it was pried out of him, and after seeing Carlos with Lando, there was no way—

“Don’t look so shocked,” Charles laughed, knocking Carlos’s shoulder. “Was I not supposed to tell them?”

Carlos sputtered for an answer, and cameras clicked furiously, capturing every millisecond of action.

Charles reached up to rest his palm on Carlos’s cheek. His eyes went half lidded, his smirk shifted to something alluring,  and he drew Carlos in for a deep kiss. As usual, Carlos responded to it with all of the obscenity he usually did—with lots of tongue.

“Yeah, they were busy all right,” George said with a snort as the Public Affairs team hissed for the two of them to get it together.

The kiss broke, but Charles stayed close, resting their foreheads together.

It was almost gross how perfect they looked, and George couldn’t help but smile.  He liked the two of them together—well, he just liked seeing Charles happy. He still wasn’t sure what to think about Carlos, but Nic didn’t like him anymore, and that meant something to George. But if Carlos made Charles happy, he could set that aside. For now.

The Ferrari PR guy stepped in to start answering the typical pre-race questions while Carlos led Charles back inside the motorhome.

“Was that so bad?” Carlos asked quietly, but they all heard it.

“Lapel mic, idiot!” Pierre hissed, eyes flashing with panic.

George’s heart leapt to his throat as he turned his attention to screen. The tinted glass took some of the color out of them, but they still came out clearly in the feed where they stood behind the glass door, Carlos with a hand on Charles’s cheek. Charles smiled, but without the charm and charisma he had in front of a camera. He looked overwhelmed.

George remembered the way Alex used to crumble in front of the media. His sharp wit and mischievous humor melted down to insecurity and mumbling. He used to wish they were on the same team—for many reasons, but one being that he could stand beside Alex in those interviews and hold his hand. Just to remind him that he could do anything he wanted, that he’d earned his crown.

“Thanks for standing by me,” Charles murmured, and the tone of his voice reminded George of the way Max sounded with Dan at the champion’s party.

The Ferrari PR guy lifted his head mid-answer, turning toward the screens and finally noticing his two princes were wearing hot mics.

“You said it best,” Carlos replied. “I’ll always be here for you.”

The camera picked up Carlos’s smile as it appeared, the way his damned perfect hair fell in his eyes like they were filming Pride and Prejudice right there in the Ferrari motorhome lobby.

Nic would be so sad to miss it live.

Charles rested the back of his head against the wall with a soft thud. His smile went a little dopey—it reminded George of the wine-drunk smiles Charles used to give him right before he suggested they sneak onto the roof or host a mixology competition using only the contents of their hotel fridge.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Charles said, fond.

The Ferrari PR guy abandoned his post, rushing back toward the motorhome.

But it was too late.

Charles left the wall to give Carlos a wanting, lingering kiss that the entire paddock heard with all too much clarity.

“I love you, Carlos,” Charles whispered, the words wet on his lips. “So much.”

George felt a sudden pressure at the base of his nose that leaked hot down the back of his throat, like inhaling warm saltwater.

He just wanted to see Alex one more time. God, it made him sick to think about, but hearing Charles finally say what he felt made George think of being stuck at JFK, slumped in plastic airport chairs, sleep ringing his eyes, his hoodie pulled snug around the edges of his face.

“Hey,” Alex had said, his eyes closed and his head tilted back over the back of his seat.

“Hey,” George had repeated, opening his eyes to slits to see if Alex needed anything.

“Remember when we landed six hours ago, and you said they’d never cancel a flight for a thunderstorm?”

“Remember when you shut up?” George muttered in reply.

The corner of Alex’s mouth ticked up in a half smile. “I thought of something when you said that. Because you always say stuff like that—absolute bullshit stuff, mate.”

“This oughta be good,” George snorted, tired-drunk.

He remembered Alex smiling then. How they weren’t even touching, but they still had the quiet comfort of being together in a country they barely knew, facing it as a couple. Two lower court halfwits trying for crowns. A pipe dream back then, but they never let the doubt creep too far in.

“Yeah,” Alex said, his voice strained with exhaustion. “Just made me think, y’know. Hearing you say it’ll be fine when the whole place is shaking and there was so much lightning we barely landed—”

“Get to the point, Albon,” George warned, burying his chin into his collarbone.

 “I’m in love with you, that’s all.”

He could remember the way Alex said it, the sound, but he couldn’t remember his face anymore.

Now he had to be happy with background photos and shared air but nothing else. Listening to his friends fall in love with other people, to Lewis maybe falling in love with him, and knowing he could never give himself away to anyone else. Not all the way. Never like that.

The sound cut off as the Ferrari PR team caught up with their princes, and George could practically hear the drool splatting on the asphalt as all of the reporters gaped at the screen.

Then everyone moved except him and Pierre, a storm surge of bodies and mics, lights and cameras.  He and Pierre stood locked in place, locked in their own histories. George didn’t have to see Pierre’s face to know.

But when he did look, Pierre’s expression gave nothing away.

“Il fait semblant,” Pierre said, but his lips barely moved.

George wasn’t fluent in French by any means, but he’d grown up with Charles and Pierre as friends, so he could understand a fair amount. Enough.

“That didn’t look fake, mate,” George said gently. “They didn’t know they were on camera. They definitely didn’t know we were listening.”

Pierre cleared his throat.

“Good for him, then.” He adjusted his backpack on his shoulders, his momentary numbness exchanged for a smile, bracketed by his trademark dimples. “He deserves it.”

George smiled back, but the concern didn’t leave his eyes. “Are you good, though?”

Pierre laughed. Sunlight glittered in his eyes like ribbons on ocean waves, a photograph in a travel brochure.

“I’m good, George,” Pierre assured him, thumbs hooked on the straps of his bag. But his smile faded after a moment, and a crease formed between his brows. George knew that look. “Hey, uh, I just thought you should know—”

“Did you see him?” George asked. He made no effort to hide his desperation.

Pierre nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, I saw him.”

If he would have been just a few minutes earlier, he would have seen Alex too.  He could have left as soon as he spotted him and told Nic later. He could have seen him.

“How does he—”

“He’s okay, George,” Pierre said quietly, eyes downcast. “He looks okay.”

Not good. Not like he was happy or thriving.

“Did you say anything to him?”

He knew the answer would be no, but he asked anyway.

Pierre shook his head.

George swallowed down the anger that climbed up his throat, the acid that seeped from some deep part of him and leaked out from between his teeth and the spongey marrow of his bones.

“Max did this on purpose,” George hissed, wetness collecting in his eyes. “He took Alex away and now he’s doing this to Charles.”

He didn’t know how Max could talk about taking on the FIA for Daniel, only to inflict the same punishment he feared for himself onto someone else.

He didn’t realize Pierre had pulled him into a hug until he had his cheek pressed against Louis Vuitton. But hugging someone felt good. It made him feel like hurting this bad could be temporary, like the pain when Pierre squeezed him so tight his ribs threatened to slip out of place in his chest.

“It’s a long game,” Pierre said as he relaxed his hold and pulled back, swiping his thumb across George’s chin like a mock punch, turning his face slightly.

George had a feeling it was a touch meant to disguise the want of a softer one from someone else.

“We can’t fix anything in one weekend,” Pierre murmured. “We need to see how this plays out.”

George nodded, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I’m not stupid.”

But if he saw Alex here, he might be. He might throw it all away just to—

“We don’t have to worry about Charles fucking this up, at least,” Pierre said, but he was already looking down the hospitality lane like he had somewhere to be. “I’ll try to talk to Max.”

“You don’t need to talk to that traitor,” George growled, wiping his eyes.

“Hey, we don’t know what those photos were about,” Pierre said.

“I’m sorry—did you see them?” he asked. “We were at Steakout. Charles was calling him Max Jean Bleu or whatever the fuck, and Max was letting him. In Max language, he might as well have been making out with him right there.”

“I left Charles with Max after you left,” Pierre reminded him.  “Charles tried to get in the car with us. He was drunk, mate.”

“Exactly.”

The reporters whispered into their iPhones as they finally began to disperse, and he noted that all of them were headed down the lane toward Red Bull.

His phone buzzed in his pocket with a text from Nic.

charles did an interview. max is next, says kayla.

i’m standing outside ferrari, George texted back.  thx babe.

Nic sent back a winking kissing face emoji.

“Red Bull is about to do an interview,” George said as he locked his phone.

Pierre frowned, tugging at the straps of his bag. “You coming?”

George shook his head. “I can’t see that asshole or I’ll kill him.”

“George—”

“I told you I saw Charles on Sunday night. Fucked up doesn’t even begin to describe it,” George said, keeping his voice low in case they had any eavesdroppers. He glanced around, but the only person anywhere close was Giovanazzi, talking in rapid-fire Italian on his cell and making a lot of hand motions.

“He was so bad I could have kissed him and he probably would have been all over me,” George continued. He didn’t miss the way Pierre flinched, though he couldn’t tell if it was because it was painful to hear about Charles in a state like that, or something else.

“He wasn’t in the right frame of mind,” George murmured. “I tried to help. The only reason I left him there was because I knew Carlos was coming back.”

“And now they’ve fucked,” Pierre said, like that meant something.

George blinked. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“You left Charles when he wasn’t in the right frame of mind, and now they’ve fucked.”

George drew back, surprised. “What—you think Carlos took advantage of him?”

A chilly, gross wetness spread through him that made George shiver. Carlos could be a stubborn asshole, but he wasn’t that kind of person. Lando would have sniffed that out immediately—he had a knack for it.

Pierre made a face. “I don’t know if he meant to, but he had to realize something was wrong. He had to know something.”

“That doesn’t—”

“And you saw the pictures the next morning?” Pierre interrupted, knowing full well George had seen them. “He looked worse. If he really wanted to be with Carlos, why the hell would he be photographed going to breakfast with his brother five hours after you saw him, then get caught snuggling up on Max an hour after that?”

“I told you not to get sucked in, Pierre,” George said.

“He’s my best friend,” Pierre snapped.

Anger looked different on Pierre. People like Max wore it with a snarl, all teeth. Pierre became vibrant color, like the acid pools in Yellowstone. Beautiful to look at, but one misstep and your skin would be boiled off your bones in the span of a few seconds.

George toed the tripwire.

“He’s happy,” he said firmly. “Let him be happy.”

“If Carlos—”

“Let him be happy, Pierre,” George repeated, turning his tone softer. “If Carlos really did something, I’ll help hold him down while you cut his balls off, yeah? But don’t go twisting the narrative just so you can be his knight in shining armor.”

Pierre let out a disgusted snort, turning away. “Fuck you, George.”

George caught him by the handle of his dumbass backpack, and for a split second he thought Pierre would wheel around and deck him across the face. Instead, he went still.

“What,” Pierre spat, refusing to face him.

“You and me are the only ones who haven’t betrayed him,” George said, releasing his hold. “And I’m with Lewis now, so one way or another, I’m probably going to fuck that up.”

He loved Charles, but friendship didn’t stand up to the demands of an empire. If he found his way into a Mercedes crown, a day would come where he faced off with Ferrari and went for blood.

But he would make sure he faced Charles when that time came, and not Mick Schumacher and whoever Sebastian and Fernando had ready to shove into the throne next to him.

Pierre shrugged his bag back onto his shoulders and stormed off. He walked like royalty even in his anger—George envied the way Pierre could turn up his nose to the world and be admired for it.

That was probably the reason he still had a crown on his head and Alex had to live in the margins of their world.

George turned against the crowd making their way toward Red Bull. He didn’t care about Max’s interview. He didn’t want to think about Alex or Charles or Pierre, either. The Mercedes crest loomed ahead, beckoning him.

Lewis could make him forget, if he wanted.

But before he made it there, a familiar head of blond hair emerged from the Haas garage to stick another knife into his bloody fucking morning.

“Hey George,” Mick greeted with a smile that probably made angels cry. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Chapter Text

 

 

Charles turned away from the door the moment Giorgio cut the audio feed. He unclipped the mic at his collar and unthreaded the wire from his shirt, wrapping it around the battery pack. Giorgio snatched the bundle from his hands and did the same to Carlos.

“That was quite enough,” Giorgio snapped, but his voice held no heat. Just in case.

Charles didn’t bother to look at Carlos before he headed up the stairs.

I love you, Carlos. The words rotted in his mouth.

Binotto stared at him when he emerged from the stairwell, arms crossed and face unreadable where he stood at the threshold of his office.

“Good enough?” Charles asked.

“We’ll have to see if they believe it, but at least things went to plan,” Binotto replied.

Charles couldn’t even breathe a sigh of relief. He knew he had nothing to be thankful for yet, that every threat hurled at him throughout the past two weeks was still poised for a kill shot.  Even Carlos wasn’t safe for him anymore.

Charles slept every night next to someone he wasn’t sure he could fully trust, because Carlos always put the empire first, and Charles was now a threat to that empire.

“There’s someone on the phone for you,” Binotto said, nodding toward his office.

Charles swallowed hard, staring at the retro-style desk phone on Binotto’s desk.

He glanced at Binotto as he passed, but the dark eyes that stared back held no emotion whatsoever. Any traces of pride in him were long gone, erased by a few photos. Kiss or no kiss, Charles had been close with the crown prince of Red Bull one too many times over the weekend in Monaco.

He sat on the very edge of Binotto’s chair when he took his seat, taking up as little space as possible. The phone sat off the hook, the receiver face down against the desk.

Binotto took one of the seats across the desk from him, hands clasped and face sour.

Charles picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

For a moment, nothing happened, but then a rustling sound picked up on the other end.

“Charles,” a voice said.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut. Max said his name so distinctly that he would know his voice anywhere, though he hadn’t talked to him on the phone in over half a decade.

The door clicked open and Carlos entered, his smile gone, replaced by a stoic expression that had become his default over the past two weeks. Ever since Binotto gave Charles the ultimatum: publicly love Carlos, or face personal sanctions.

Personal sanctions was just a nice way of saying exile-while-appointed.  He would lose all of his support in government, be ignored by the media and Public Affairs, and have no chance at maintaining a crown when his appointment term came to an end.

He had no choice.

“Why am I talking to you?” Charles asked into the phone, keeping his gaze firmly set on Mattia’s pen holder.

“Horner is here,” Max said by way of answer. “And Marko.”

“Binotto and Carlos,” Charles replied, not looking at either of them.

“I see.”

Max sounded too professional to be himself.

Charles cleared his throat. “They could have spoken to Binotto.”

“I think the point is that you and I come to an understanding,” Max said.

“We could have come to an understanding in writing,” Charles muttered.

It had taken Charles a few days to realize that the lack of replies to his letters weren’t because the people in his life no longer cared about him. A taste of the future if you don’t learn to put the crown first, Binotto had warned.

“So that’s why I haven’t heard from you,” Max said. He sounded weaker for a moment. Only a moment.

“I’ve been busy,” Charles said, deadpan.  “Ferrari hasn’t slowed down over a few photos.”

“I’m going outside to do an interview,” Max said, blowing past his insinuation.

Red Bull never forced Max into Public Affairs issues. He had a habit of blowing them up.

Charles’s throat tightened. “Is that why you’re calling me?”

They sounded like two strangers, completely separate from the once-lovers who sat at the edge of the harbor in Monaco.

“I’m going to tell them the truth.”

Charles’s pulse quickened. “I already told them the truth. That nothing happened.”

“But we said things we shouldn’t ha—”

“No,” Charles hissed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He saw Binotto out of the corner of his eye as he exchanged a look with Carlos, who stood up and left. Charles didn’t tear his focus from the pen holder.

Max’s voice went cold. “You said you’d throw yourself to the dogs for me.”

Terror welled up in him, and he knew it showed on his face. Binotto sat forward as Charles sucked in a breath, in and out, too fast.

They couldn’t talk openly here, and he knew that was the point. He also knew they probably had officials tapped into both sides of the conversation, listening, analyzing, trying to figure out what to prepare for.

Organized phone calls between princes of different empires was one step away from war negotiations. Of course, the empires couldn’t actually go to war, but princes were meant to symbolize combat on track, and historically, two empires being openly hostile to each other didn’t bode well for the princes in the cars.  

“Why are you doing this?” Charles asked, eyes hot. “Were you lying to me in Monaco?”

Max didn’t answer. Charles pulled the phone from his ear to see if maybe they’d disconnected, but he didn’t hear any kind of dial tone.

“Max—”

“I wasn’t,” Max grit out. “I meant what I said. But I told you what comes first.”

“Then we need to figure this out,” Charles said.  

Carlos stepped back into the room, this time with Giorgio in tow. They spoke in hushed Italian, and Charles couldn’t speak English and translate at the same time, so they might as well have been speaking in Chinese.

“I have my directives, and so do you,” Max said.

“Directives?” Charles let out a scoff, but fear laced his blood, coiling tight around his throat. “What the hell is talking about that going to do for you? We need to bury this.”

“Does Carlos know?” Max asked.

“Know what?”

Giorgio leaned down to whisper into Binotto’s ear, and Charles gripped the phone so hard he feared he might break it.

“About what happened after I was announced for Toro Rosso,” Max answered.

Charles had never blacked out from fear alone, but stars burst behind his eyes for a moment as he tried to comprehend. It didn’t matter that they were stupid teenagers back then—Charles had broken rules in both the lower courts and the royal court to see Max on several occasions. Nosy reporters would be able to sniff out flight tickets, maybe even photos of him in the stands when Max and Carlos were announced as a couple. They didn’t know how to hide then, not like they did now. Nobody knew about them because no one cared about Max Verstappen until he proved his wins weren’t flukes—until he married Daniel, really.

Evidence would be easy to find, and Ferrari would have grounds to reconsider his appointment if Binotto really wanted to.  

“You promised,” Charles choked out. “You fucking promised me.”

The world started to spin.

Carlos stood up again, this time rounding the desk. Charles shoved a hand out to stop his advance and ended up half-punching, half-slapping him in the chest. The dull thud of the impact came just before the rough noise of air forcing its way out of Carlos’s throat.

Carlos stumbled back and Charles turned away, slumping over the desk with his eyes squeezed shut. He knew he looked childish as he brought his free hand up to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t look at anyone anymore.

“I don’t want to do it,” Max said, and he didn’t sound so calm either.

“Max, don’t,” Charles begged. Begged. “You can’t do this to me.”

“They’re forcing my hand.”

Charles fisted his hair.  

“I can’t survive that, Max!” he snapped. “You can, but I can’t.”

Charles didn’t have wins like Max did. He had Monza, but a win from two years ago—even at Ferrari’s claimed track—lost value every day.

Binotto’s look of disappointment turned dangerous.

Charles breathed hard, but his lungs didn’t seem to catch any air. His future, so bright only a few weeks ago, looked bleak now. A few photos in Monaco could be explained away, but the world finding out about him and Max, about how long they were together—he would lose  everything.

“They’re going to go after him if I don’t,” Max whispered, so quiet that even Charles could barely hear him.

Always Daniel. Charles should have known he was the real reason. Blowing the lid off of their old relationship would give the world a scapegoat.  Charles would fall and the drama would fade away from Max and his beloved McLaren prince.

“If you still have anything close to love left for me, you won’t do this,” Charles whispered back, pleading. “Please, Max. Please don’t do this. Stay on the phone with me and we’ll figure something out, together.”

He didn’t care that he had a crowd. Pride went out the window weeks ago when Binotto degraded him in front of senior Ferrari officials, in front of Carlos. When Binotto chastised him like a child and made Carlos out to be the future of Ferrari. Carlos, the analytical thinker, the one who read books about cars and history and had royalty in his blood. A proven lineage, and a clear understanding of all aspects of princedom.

Charles heard rustling on the line, a few breaths from Max, and muffled voices.

Finally, he heard the phone settle in place.

“Like what?” Max asked.  

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think. Survival instinct kicked in—a very real version of it, because anything less than perfection here would end with his crown taken away.

“Depends on what they want from you,” Charles said, stalling.

“They want to focus on Mercedes,” Max said. “Not this. And they don’t want anything like this coming up again. And if I tell them about what happened back then, everyone stops thinking this is a new thing.”

“It isn’t a thing at all,” Charles snapped.

“Oh don’t,” Max replied, frustration leaking into his voice too. “Telling Carlos you love him on live TV doesn’t make anyone believe you.”

Charles laughed bitterly. “Oh, so you think it’s still you?”

“I know it’s not him.”

Anger boiled in him, but Charles knew screaming into a phone—screaming at Max at all—wouldn’t get them anywhere.

“Then who does that leave?” Charles replied, venomous.

“He doesn’t give a shit about you,” Max cut. “If you pulled your head out of your ass, maybe you’d see that.”

“And you’re chasing after someone who is never going to be on a throne with you again,” Charles shot back. “And you might lose your crown if you keep doing—”

“Me? I’m not doing anything!”

“Don’t blame this on the FIA—”

“I will blame it on whoever I fucking want to, because it’s true,” Max snarled with finality. “I think we’re done here.”

“Wait,” Charles broke in. “Wait, please.”

Carlos’s hand settled on his shoulder. Charles fought the urge to shrug him off.

Max claimed to put Red Bull first, but Charles knew the only way to get through to him now would be to make it about Daniel—Max’s one glaring weakness.  

“If you want him to stay here, you need support from his husband too,” Charles murmured. “I can help with that. You know nobody believes them anymore. And you know his husband hates you right now.”

Lando would watch Max burn if he could. Most princes in the paddock would probably stand and watch with him.

“Then what do I say?” Max asked, unconvinced.

“Tell them the truth. What we talked about. How Carlos talked to Checo about me.”

Carlos’s grip twitched on his shoulder.

“That’s not going to be enough.”

“It has to be,” Charles said, pressing his thumb against the surface of Binotto’s desk, watching it turn bloodless.  “Please.”

He finally looked up at Mattia, who at least didn’t look furious anymore.

“How did it feel to finally tell Carlos you loved him?” Max asked, his voice cold again.

But Charles knew Max. He knew that he was trying to save face for Marko and Horner.  

“Like nothing,” Charles replied in the same tone, straightening in his seat. “And it means less and less every time I say it.”

“Good,” Max said. “Now you know why he says it to you so much.”

The line went dead.

Charles’s lips parted to speak, even though he knew Max wasn’t on the other end of the line. Hurt burrowed into his chest like a serrated blade, a war between white-hot pain and numbing confirmation.

Charles stood abruptly, nearly knocking Carlos back as he did so.

“Well?” Binotto asked, expectant.

Charles shook his head, hanging up the phone. “I can’t predict him. But if my gut is right, he won’t make this worse for us.”

“Can you give us a minute?” Carlos asked, folding his hand over Charles’s forearm. Charles stiffened immediately, completely rigid under the touch.

Binotto stood up from his chair and nodded. “We’ll be watching the press conference—hopefully you know Verstappen as well as those photos suggest.”

Charles wanted to burn himself alive. Anything to escape the constant disappointment, the shame, the anger in the eyes of people who respected him just a few weeks ago.

The moment the door closed, Carlos dropped his hand.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Charles didn’t scold him for asking that question. He had no power here, and he knew it. “I have a headache,” he muttered. “I need to see Luca.”

“You know what I mean.”

Charles lifted his chin, avoiding eye contact. “No. I think it’s safe to say that I’m not okay.”

He scrubbed his face in his hands and took a deep breath, trying to release at least some of the tension.

He almost asked Carlos if he still loved him, but bit his tongue. Two weeks was apparently enough time for the whole world to turn on him. Their relationship was no different.

Despite agreeing to Carlos’s terms about being a couple during the week, they didn’t act like one unless they were around people. The royal apartment had become a shared living space between two roommates, not husbands.

They shared an intimacy, though. Charles still waited to sleep until Carlos joined him in bed. They joked about the less painful Monaco gossip, shared meals together every day. But touching him no longer induced adrenaline, even though Carlos could and would touch him in places Charles never used to allow on camera. Charles didn’t even notice it now, and when he did, he felt like a won prize. He’d given himself to Carlos, and there wasn’t any way to take it back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Carlos asked, leaning against Mattia’s desk.

“We’ve talked about it enough, I think,” Charles said, rubbing his eyes with the base of his palms.

He cleared his throat when he removed his hands from his face. “Did you get approval for dinner on Sunday?”

Carlos nodded. “Mattia talked with Zak. He doesn’t like the idea, but he agreed with you about being seen with Daniel.”

“And Lando knows—”

“He knows,” Carlos said.

He could tell Carlos wanted to ask about something, and Charles knew what the something was, but didn’t prompt it.

“Please don’t make dinner difficult for me,” Charles said. Because even if he couldn’t completely trust Carlos with his life anymore, he could trust him for some things. “I don’t want to have to defend myself in our private life too.”

“I’ll make sure,” Carlos promised.

He sounded so different without affection in his voice. Charles still wasn’t used to it.

“You did a good job out there,” Charles said, straightening up. “Getting embarrassed about Monaco—that was good.”

Carlos shrugged before folding his arms. “Do you think it was good enough?”

 “That depends on Max. But I think we sold it. Unless you think something else?”

Carlos just stared at him. The expression on his face was one Charles saw almost daily now; somewhere between pain, confusion, and nothing at all. Like they were meeting for the first time and Carlos had been told something bad about him.

Charles jerked his chin toward the door and stuck his hand out for Carlos to take.

“I think it was convincing enough,” Carlos finally said, leaving his spot against the desk.

He took Charles’s hand, and they walked out into the main room of the second floor, where Binotto, Giorgio, and the rest of the Public Affairs team sat at the meeting table and watched Max on TV.

Max was wearing a Red Bull polo and his usual cap, as if this was a normal interview.

“—everyone wants to hear the story about that jacket,” a reporter was saying. “Charles said to ask you about it.”

Max blinked. “He didn’t say that. You think I didn’t watch the interview just before this?”

The reporter cleared her throat. “Then will you tell us about it?”

“It’s a jacket made of denim,” Max said with a shrug. “It looked nice.”

His face looked outwardly calm, but Charles knew him. He saw the way Max’s nostrils flared slightly as he answered every question, the way his throat bobbed during every pause. He was just as scared as Charles.

“Did you know it was Prince Charles’s jacket?” the reporter asked.

Max shrugged again. “Yes, I did. He gave it to me when we were younger. He looked so ridiculous in it back then, but now it actually fits the person wearing it. I don’t understand why this is news.”

“A source told us you and Prince Charles may have been more than friends—”

“This is ridiculous,” Max said with a noise of disgust. “Yes, I was friends with Charles growing up. We’re still very close friends. I care about him, and the photo you all claim was some romantic thing was me assuring him he hadn’t upset Carlos by not attending the party.”

Charles could hardly breathe. If Max put one foot wrong, the story would crack, and he would lose everything anyway.

“I had lunch with Carlos on Friday,” Checo said, cutting in. “He spent the whole time talking about Charles. I told Max about it.”

“And I told Charles,” Max finished. “He has a very difficult time accepting that anyone loves him, because all of you twist everything into something it isn’t. We hear these stories too—who is thinking of Carlos here? How do you think he feels sitting in Ferrari next to someone everyone else thinks loves someone else?”

Carlos shifted uncomfortably beside him, and Charles’s throat went tight. Now you know why he says it to you so much.

But Charles also saw the pain in Max’s eyes just before it leaked into his voice.  

“You see pictures and hear stories over and over—do you know what that does to someone? You begin to wonder if it’s true. People compile photos of you taken at the exact moment you look at someone—and for a second you might be tired, or happy about something else, and now it looks like that person is the reason," Max continued. His cheeks began to flush with anger and hurt.

He wasn’t talking about Carlos anymore.

“It affects you. Charles now has to convince Carlos he wasn’t unfaithful, and Carlos has to look at the so-called evidence you’ve put together and find it in him to believe you—to believe Charles—over what his own eyes see. What he hears in the news.”

Checo put a hand on Max’s shoulder, a warning. Charles held his breath.

“But Charles does love him, and instead of being happy, he has to watch the person he loves hurt instead, because of an imaginary story. It’s cruel—all of you are cruel.”

Max advanced on the microphone, pointing a finger into one of the cameras.

“And so is the FIA, for allowing this speculation to go unchecked. We are human beings. You’ve done the same thing to Lewis today—accusing him of wrongdoing when you don’t know the conversations between couples.”

“Prince Verstappen,” a reporter cut in. “Is there someone you hurt because of those photos?”

Max’s face went blank, completely caught off guard by the question. Checo kept glancing between Max and the reporter, too much time passing for Max to dare trying to claim Checo as his wounded lover.

“No,” Max finally choked out, but the answer was clearly the opposite.

“Max,” Charles breathed, his chest going tight.

Carlos squeezed his hand as a new camera angle showed Horner shoving his way forward on the screen, looking like he might strangle Max right there in front of the press.

Charles saw the moment that Max clocked him, and everything around the TV screen went dark.

The feeling only compared to barreling toward a wall with no brakes. Charles usually had time to pick out flags in the crowd, the curled edges of the chain link fence behind the tire wall, the blue sliver of sky he could see in his visor.

He always noticed little things right before a crash.

Now he noticed the gauntness of Max’s cheeks, the shrinking of his pupils, the soft way his mouth opened because he was afraid. All of the lion in him vanished for a singular moment, captured there on live television, only decipherable by maybe three people. Two of them stood hand in hand in the Ferrari motorhome, and the other was probably watching, terrified, with the rest of McLaren.

But only Charles knew what Max did when he felt the walls closing in.

He shut his eyes and waited for the blow.

He didn’t know how he would be able to convince Carlos to stay with him when he found out about how long he and Max had been together. Especially finding out like this, after Charles had already lied about when it ended.

“I did wear the jacket for a reason,” Max said suddenly, before Horner could reach him. “I wore it because it belonged to Charles. We didn’t kiss at Steakout—we never kissed. But when we were sitting by the harbor I told him that he wasn’t just my friend, and he told me to go to hell.”

Charles’s eyes flew open just in time to watch as Horner stormed in, blocking Max as the cameras started flashing and the audio became a feeding frenzy of reporters out for blood.

He couldn’t believe it. Binotto turned to stare at him, and every other person in the room followed suit. On screen, the Red Bull Public Affairs team hauled Max away, but he stared right at the camera, daring the reporters to say something about it.

“He protected me,” Charles whispered as his heart caved in on itself, blood mashing with tissue and cartilage.

“I meant what I said.”

Carlos collected him in an embrace, smothering Charles against his shoulder. Charles moved to pull free, but then heard the click of Giorgio’s phone camera. Of course they were being recorded. He would have to pull back in a matter of seconds and kiss Carlos like he meant it, like their trial had come to a close, like the doubt Max had cast on their perfect love had been lifted.

Max had chosen the only option where both he and Daniel wouldn’t be hurt.

Max had thrown himself to the dogs.

 

 


 

 

Red Bull returned to their tight-lipped antics after that. Charles didn’t catch a glimpse of Max on the grid during any of the practice sessions. Perez played his role of guard dog, deflecting press and other princes for the handful of minutes Max spent in public.

“That’s pole, Charles—red flag, red flag,” Jock Clear, Charles’s race engineer, said over radio.

Charles still had the steering wheel in a vice grip as he clicked down the gears into Turn 1. He couldn’t find it in him to speak with the emotion that lodged itself in his throat. Adrenaline still filled his blood even as he slowed the car and began to hear the wild cheering of the Ferrari supporters in the crowd. Red Ferrari flags seeped into the stands as posters and polos sprouted from the spectators, but then he could only see buildings again, looming and more ancient than Monaco would ever be.

“Great work, Charles,” Binotto said over the radio when he didn’t respond.

“Thank you,” Charles finally said, and he knew he didn’t sound as happy as he should be. His lap had been a piece of shit. “Tomorrow is the race, that’s where it counts. Great job today. Grazie tutti.”

Pole meant nothing. It wouldn’t secure him any favor with anyone in charge of his fate—only a win would sway that. Getting pole because of a red flag meant he would have Lewis and Max breathing down his neck from the start. But he had a better chance than expected to secure a win. If he didn’t blow it.

“Where is Carlos?” Charles asked.

Jock didn’t answer right away.

“Jock, where did Carlos finish?” he asked again, in case the radio had cut out.

“He’ll start fifth,” Jock replied.  “Tsunoda crashed right in front of him and he went off track and nipped the barrier wall.”

“Is he okay?” Charles asked as he eased into another corner, flatly ignoring Lando’s thumbs up for pole as he drove up beside him.

“He’s not happy, but he’s okay,” Jock said.

Charles swallowed hard. “Okay, that’s good. Tell him I love him, I’ll see him soon.”

He wanted to throw up. Again.

“Of course,” Jock said. “Come on home.”

Charles used the rest of his lap to muster up excitement for a meaningless pole while balancing the fact that he should probably be worried sick about Carlos, even though he never worried about Sebastian the too-many times he spun out when they were married.

He parked the car and pulled himself from the cockpit shortly after, offering a double thumbs up to the camera.

The sound of his own breathing echoed in his helmet, a much needed buffer from the real world as he spotted Max emerging from his car.

“Charles! Congrats, man.”

He turned to see Lewis, also still in his helmet, extending a fist. Charles met it and nodded his thanks, but he saw the look in Lewis’s eyes: you didn’t deserve that.

Max approached next, and Charles almost backpedaled. They weren’t supposed to act like—

Max gave an affectionate smack to the side of his helmet, forcibly jarring Charles from his thoughts. He reflexively returned the gesture, then Max moved on. A simple interaction, but Charles knew it would be plastered all over the internet in a matter of minutes.

“Charles!”

He clocked Pierre rushing up to him just before they knocked helmets. Pierre wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug, lifting him clear off his feet.

Charles couldn’t help but laugh—his first real laugh of the weekend.

“It’s not like I really earned that,” Charles said, still chuckling.

“On s’en tape,” Pierre said with a grin, cuffing him over the head. “You deserved it.”

“Thanks, mon chou garçon.”

Pierre’s gaze lingered on him, and Charles knew he wanted to ask about Carlos. He’d already tried twice after practice, but Binotto made it clear he couldn’t speak to anyone about the rules in place for the weekend.

“Toujours muselé?” Pierre asked, cocking his head.

He always knew.

“Thank you, Pierre,” Charles said, with a bit more force this time.

Pierre’s eyes softened a little. “Enjoy it, Charles. I’m coming to kick your ass tomorrow, so soak it up.”

He spotted a flash of red emerge from the Ferrari garage and waved goodbye to Pierre and made a beeline for the equipment table. Carlos wasn’t technically in sight yet, so Charles knew he could avoid a callout for ignoring him.

He peeled off his gloves and then his helmet, setting them on the table. Ferrari team members removed his belongings as fast as he produced them. He thanked them, then remembered that the cameras were on him and shot the lens a wink. High pitched screams followed.

He pulled his earbuds out and tried not to wince as sound came back in full force, always too loud at first. He set the earbuds on the table and leaned his head to one side so that he could work a kink out of his neck, but then Carlos wrapped his arms around him from behind, squeezing tight.

Charles shut his eyes and forced a smile at the same instant.

“Congratulations,” Carlos said into his newly-freed ear.

Charles could only feel the sweat on Carlos’s chin, the dampness on his cheek because of it.

“Thanks,” he said, leaning back into the hold because that was what a lover would do.

Then he remembered Carlos had crashed.

Charles turned abruptly, framing Carlos’s face in his hands. Carlos blinked in surprise between his palms, and Charles turned on the most worried expression he could muster.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, loudly in case any mics were turned on them.

He didn’t wait for an answer before he pressed a kiss to Carlos’s lips.

He tasted like sweat and warm car water.

“Uh, no, I’m not hurt,” Carlos said, stumbling over his words.

I’m faking, idiot. Charles toned down the worry in his eyes, and Carlos recovered.

“Good,” Charles said. “Maybe you should go to the medical tent, just in case.”

“I glanced off the wall, Charles,” Carlos said, rolling his eyes. “I’m absolutely fine.”

Carlos looked it. Charles could see some residual anger in the flexion of his jaw, but that was about it.  Even so, he knew a crash could rattle even a mentally tough driver like Carlos.

“Let’s go see Lando,” Charles offered, playfully ruffling Carlos’s hair.

“We don’t have to,” Carlos said.

Charles shot him a look. “Oh really.”

He took Carlos’s hand and waved to the crowd with the other, offering his most royal smile. Fans cheered, and the sight of so many Ferrari flags and red shirts made him feel like maybe he’d salvaged this. If everyone just believed in his marriage with Carlos, they could move on and this could be forgotten.

They walked down the pit lane together toward McLaren. He waved to George and Nic as they passed, and George gave him a wide smile and a thumbs up in return. A little excessive, but Charles accepted it all the same.

Carlos spotted Lando first. Charles felt it in the way his hand twitched, relaxing just a fraction like he felt guilty for holding his husband’s hand. A few weeks ago, Carlos might have gripped him tighter. Charles followed his gaze to where Lando sat on a pile of used tires outside of the McLaren garage, one knee drawn up, his other leg swinging mindlessly as he chewed on a ribbed straw attached to his water bottle

“Crashed and I still beat you,” Carlos called, cupping his free hand around his mouth.

Lando’s vacant look turned into a wide grin. He hopped off the tires and rushed toward them.

Charles pulled his hand away so Carlos didn’t have to.

Lando crashed into Carlos with a thump, hugging him tight. Charles smiled right through him, just in case any cameras were trained on the exchange. He watched the way Carlos nosed into Lando’s damp curls, the way his whole body relaxed when Charles hadn’t even realized he’d been tense.

“Careful,” Carlos teased in a gentle murmur, “you’ll upset my injuries.”

“Sod off,” Lando laughed, jerking him closer. “You aren’t injured.”

Charles turned his gaze down the paddock and caught sight of Sebastian standing outside of Aston Martin with what looked like a coffee cup in hand.  Kimi leaned against the garage beside him, blatantly ignoring the red-faced FIA official demanding they stop talking to each other.

This will be the hardest test you’ve faced, Sebastian had written. Remember that you matter. Remember that I’m on your side.

Charles hadn’t written back. He’d tried to follow Sebastian’s advice, to flex his power enough to take back his own husband for a night—what should have been a simple task.

Instead, he had to listen to Lando talking to Carlos in a dopey, soft voice like he wasn’t standing right there.

“Zak said Mattia approved dinner,” Lando said, now standing as close as humanely possible to Carlos without actually touching him. “I’m sitting next to you.”

“Hi Lando,” Charles greeted forcibly.

Lando smiled at him, but his eyes crinkled just a little too much. “Hey, Char. Tried giving you a thumbs up in the car—too busy thinking about something else?”

Charles tongued the inside of his cheek before he flashed a momentary smile. “I had a lot on my mind.”

Lando didn’t look the slightest bit exhausted. His smile could only be described as effervescent, and his skin glowed with that unexplainable aura Charles had seen on the yacht. Experiencing it firsthand made him simultaneously sick, angry, and wanting.

Lando was still the little British kid who got whatever he wanted. Even though pictures from the yacht party could have damaged him so much more than any photo of Charles and Max.

“Charles, you got a second?” Daniel stepped right up to Lando and Carlos, practically shoving between them to get Charles’s attention.

At least someone recognized the ridiculousness of all of this.

“Sure,” Charles replied. “Carlos, let’s head in, yeah?”

He extended his hand, but Carlos didn’t see it. Instead, he slung an arm around Lando’s shoulders and tugged him to his side in a move that could easily be seen as friendly. Lando leaning into him like a lovestruck teenager? Not so much.

“Sucks, doesn’t it,” Daniel said, glancing down at his hand as Carlos and Lando headed into the garage.

If Lando was love and happiness, Daniel was depression and numbness.

Charles snapped his hand back to his side and shoved it in his pocket for good measure.

“It’s humiliating,” Charles finally replied, watching as Carlos’s mouth fell open in surprise at whatever Lando was showing him inside the garage.

“How are you holding up, mate?” Daniel asked.

Charles blinked in surprise.

He didn’t talk to Daniel much. They weren’t friends. They were separate halves of Max’s life, and Charles knew his half was the forgotten one. Or at least the one Max stepped over just for the chance to be this close to his beloved Ricciardo.

“Great,” Charles said flatly.

Daniel let out a snort, but the little smirk on his face indicated he knew the truth well enough.

“Did they threaten to take your crown away?” Daniel asked, folding his arms over his chest. “That’s what they did to me.”

“Everyone knows what happens to princes using burner phones,” Charles said tartly.

Daniel shrugged. “Everyone thinks they know.”

He cocked a brow.

“Oh come on, Char. We only know about the princes who got caught,” Daniel said, watching him. Watching him like he was trying to read something in him.

Charles didn’t consider Sebastian’s phone a burner. He hadn’t even checked the contacts list to see if Sebastian’s number had been put in. And there was no way Daniel knew about that phone.

“Did you know that burner phone purchases are flagged in every empire?” Daniel asked, cocking his head, still watching.

“No, I didn’t, because I don’t use one,” Charles growled.

“Makes them really hard to get,” Daniel continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “There’s even a rumor that the phones themselves are tagged. So every time you use one of those bad boys close to a palace, a little ping goes off.”

Daniel brought the sides of his fists together and made an exploding gesture, complete with jazz hands. “You learn all kinds of things when you’re in front of the FIA, fighting for your goddamn life.”

Charles’s breath caught in his throat. Binotto had only mentioned going in front of the FIA one time, a threat as to what would happen if it turned out he and Max really were together. Monaco was supposed to be a safe place, but apparently some stories transcended their supposed free pass.

“Get to the point,” Charles said, glancing back at the McLaren garage. Carlos stood beside Lando, leaning against a tool cart. Charles could tell they were holding hands, even if they were trying to hide it.

“Someone knew we had burner phones the whole time,” Daniel said. “I think even Red Bull knew. But no one did anything until Imola.”

Charles continued to watch as Carlos doubled over laughing, and Lando turned his face away to laugh too.

“That was because you fucked up in your interview, mate,” Charles muttered distractedly.

“C’mon, Sharl,” Daniel said, and Charles turned to face him at the desperate tone of his voice.

Daniel’s smile had disappeared, replaced by something almost fearful.

“Imola, now Monaco. Critical thinking,” Daniel said earnestly. “What’s the common denominator?”

Charles parted his lips, but no words came out. “I don’t—”

“Max won,” Daniel finished, keeping his voice low. “He wins, something bad happens after. Sure, yeah, I fucked up in that interview with Latifi, but princes have done a lot worse and got a fine and a stern talking to. They tried to strip my crown from me. After the race, not before.”

Charles let out a snort, but didn’t avert his gaze. “If you’re trying to blame Lewis for that—”

“I’m not. I know Lewis doesn’t give a fuck about him right now,” Daniel said, glancing around. “But everyone knows Max is the only one who could take a championship from him this year. And I don’t think the FIA wants another Word Champion in the club when they already have four on the grid.”

Max had wanted to blame the FIA on the phone. He already blamed them for taking Daniel away, though Charles always wondered if Daniel made that choice himself.

“I didn’t tell Max to say anything about the jacket,” Charles said. “And he didn’t tell me he wanted to be more than friends. He made that up.”

“Yeah, I know,” Daniel said, sounding very much like he hadn’t known at all.

Charles realized that Max must not have been able to see him since the interview came out.

“He said that to protect me,” Charles admitted quietly. “Red Bull wasn’t letting him brush past it. Max said they would come after you next, and he was going to ruin me to save you.”

Daniel bit his bottom lip, pain washing over his face. “Fuck.”

Guilt twisted in Charles’s gut. He had no idea if Daniel knew the truth about him and Max, how bad things could have been. “Yeah,” he said. “Fuck.”

Daniel ran a hand through his hair, and for a moment he looked like he might cry. But when he shook his head, the expression vanished.

“That’s what I don’t get,” Daniel said, brow creasing. “We weren’t hiding in Monaco. I’m sure there are photos of us doing a lot worse than snuggling by the water. And I know there are photos of those two.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at Carlos and Lando, who were looking at something on Carlos’s phone. “But someone picked you and Max, and Lewis and George to make a fuss about. Shit that should have been big news wasn’t.”

“You and Max aren’t exactly big news anymore,” Charles said, peeking over Daniel’s shoulder. “Carlos! Andiamo, Binotto ci cercherà.”

“Arrivo!” Carlos called back, but he didn’t look away from Lando.

Daniel stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Carlos just as he leaned in to steal a kiss. Charles huffed out a breath, annoyed.

“Max is right about the FIA, Charles,” Daniel said. “This shit is bigger than all of us, and whatever is happening, now you’re part of it.”

“This about Max,” Charles said. “This isn’t—”

“I’m telling you to watch your back, Leclerc,” Daniel warned, unnervingly serious. “I tried warning Max and this happened. You have to—” Daniel cut himself off with a grin as Carlos approached with Lando.

“Cameras behind you,” Lando said through his smile.

“Fun visiting?” Charles asked, looping an arm around Carlos’s back . He pressed a kiss to his cheek that Carlos smiled against before putting an arm around him, too.

“Good to catch up,” Carlos said, his eyes going fond as Lando tucked up next to Dan.

“What about you two?” Lando asked. “Swapping Monaco stories about Max?”

Charles grit his teeth as Daniel flashed a fake smile.

“Nah. We’ve got bigger problems, mate.” He ruffled Lando’s hair. “Race winner stuff, y’know? You’ll understand someday.”

Charles bit his cheek to stop himself from laughing as Lando gave Daniel a withering glare.

“Dai,” Charles said, gently tugging Carlos back toward the paddock. “We’ll see you both at dinner tomorrow.”

“Hopefully my podium celebrations don’t cut in,” Daniel teased.

“Aw, you’d celebrate with me?” Lando asked sarcastically.

They headed back toward their garage, looking more like a couple than they had for the past few races, though they both loved other people. Charles found himself a little envious.

“Thanks for doing that,” Carlos said as they walked away.

They dropped their arms from around each other at the same time, and took each other’s hands instead.

Charles shrugged. “I figured you needed it. Even spinning out can affect your mindset.”

Carlos nodded, but didn’t say anything.

They walked most of the paddock in silence, watching as media and empire officials skittered around between garages. He only saw one prince, Mick, sitting alone outside of Haas, waving at his phone, smiling in a way that made Charles want to smile just from seeing it. But it also made him hurt, because Mick had to be talking to his family. There was no one else he would really be allowed to call.

“Do you feel ready for tomorrow?” Charles asked as they approached the Ferrari garage.

“I do now,” Carlos replied with an easy smile. “What about you?”

Charles smirked. “Should be easy.”

But he knew it wouldn’t be, and now he also knew that if Max won, there was a chance the Monaco nightmare was just beginning.

Chapter Text

“This is a load of bullshit, Jost,” George hissed as he stormed out of the briefing room. “This whole race, complete shit.”

First, Lance nearly died in a nasty accident after a completely unexpected tire failure. Then Max blew his tire on the third to last lap, prompting a race restart because of tire concerns. Tire concerns. They couldn’t drive their cars properly if they had to worry about tires spontaneously exploding.  

But George didn’t even get the chance to blame the tires on his poor performance, because he fucking lost power before the race restart and had to drop out of the fucking race.

“We’re going to figure out what happened,” Jost said, patting his shoulder.

“Even if we figure that out, we had no chance at points today,” George muttered. “I want to be scheduled into all of the development meetings this week. Nicky too, if he wants to be. There’s a solution to this. We have the pace—both of us.”

Jost smiled. “I know you do. We’ll figure it out.”

George huffed out a breath, then spotted Nic discussing with engineers by the monitors. They met eyes and George crossed to him, tugging him into a hug.

“Nice job, mate,” George greeted, patting his back.

“You too. Heard about the power unit—you okay?”

Nic held him by the shoulders as he leaned back, looking him over.

“I’m pissed,” George replied, working his jaw. “You did good out there, held it down for us.”

Nic let out a snort. “Yeah, last is really holding it down. Love the thirty second penalty they tacked on too. Real spiffy.”

He grinned. “Hey, at least you finished, yeah?”

“Is that what you tell all of your partners?” Nic teased.

George shoved him playfully, and Nic braced for it.  “Fuck off, mate.”

As much as he wanted to stay with Nic, he had to find Lewis. Lewis had arguably the worst race out of anyone, with a lockup on the restart that sent him from first to…well, almost last.

He glanced at one of the garage monitors to see Charles grinning wide, holding Pierre by the shoulders as he said something that looked encouraging. Pierre’s returned grin threatened to split his face.  He had to be over the moon with his podium, and George felt his own mood brighten a little at the sight of it. At least someone had a good race.

Sebastian was right behind Charles in the shot, bumping against him—probably purposely—celebrating his second place finish. George’s mood soured again.

“Have we seen Max?” he asked with a nudge to Nic, who had returned to his discussion with the engineers.

“Yeah, he’s there,” Nic replied without looking,  “I think Horner forced him to be out there for Perez, but he seems okay.”

George chewed the inside of his cheek. As if on cue, the camera panned to Max as he held Perez in a hug. The smile on his face looked real. Like, really real.

What are you planning? George thought, narrowing his eyes at the screen.

He didn’t know what to believe with the Charles situation. He had a feeling Charles might have been the one admitting feelings in Monaco, that Max had twisted the real story to keep Charles from the wrath of Ferrari. But that felt too sacrificial for Max Verstappen, the same prince who exiled Alex without a second thought.

If he had to guess, Max wanted Charles to owe him one. He couldn’t think of many debts bigger than the one Charles just received from that interview. Everyone would be focused on Max, and Charles was now the innocent, perfect prince again.

If the story held.

“Hey,” Nic said, nudging him. “Go find your guy. Text me if I need to come save you.”

George smiled, nodding his thanks. “Love you.”

Nic batted his eyelashes. “Not as much as I love you, darling.”

George shot him a wink before he made his way into the hospitality lane, mostly empty with the podium still ongoing. He hurried toward the Mercedes hospitality motorhome only to find Valtteri standing outside, scrolling through his phone.

George pulled up short, unsure how to proceed. He hadn’t spoken with Valtteri since Monaco, and even though he knew the guy already had someone, it was also pretty clear now that George wanted his crown.

“Hi George,” Valtteri greeted pleasantly. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

George glanced at the doors, then back to Valtteri. “Why not?”

Valtteri frowned. “He’s very unhappy.”

“Well yes, I figured that much,” George said, but he didn’t put any bite in it. He had no reason to be angry with Valtteri when, so far, he hadn’t done anything to prevent him from having time with Lewis.

“Is he okay?” George asked, nodding toward the motorhome. “I mean, y’know. Given the circumstances.”

Valtteri gave him a little smile that somehow seemed unkind, though George couldn’t see anything specifically wrong with it.

“Lewis does a lot of things for show,” Valtteri said, waving at a few Mercedes personnel who walked by. “But when he’s truly angry, it’s best not to bother him.”

The thought of Lewis truly angry intrigued him. George wanted to see how a pissed off Lewis acted, if it gave any insight that might be useful for a future as his husband.

“Besides,” Valterri said, looking him over. “You aren’t allowed inside.”

He was right, of course, but hearing him say it didn’t make George any happier. He frowned.

“And he doesn’t come out of those doors,” Valterri added with a chuckle. He pointed up, and George remembered that at Mercedes, nothing was just for show. A spiral staircase led up to a terrace on the second floor, the alternative entrance he’d seen Lewis use before when escaping media crews on TV.

Sorry Valtteri, George wanted to say. I’m used to spending time at his personal motorhome.

Instead, he flashed a less-than-pleasant smile. “Well. Tell him I stopped by, yeah?”

“Sure,” Valtteri replied, containing a laugh. “Will do.”

George scowled the moment he turned away. Bottas barely had any power in Mercedes. He was sitting outside the fucking motorhome—even Roscoe had stayed inside where the real busines was being conducted.

George decided not to head back to Williams and walked straight toward the backlot, where he knew Lewis’s motorhome would be parked.

A few journalists shouted questions at him as he wove through the crowd of track personnel and a smattering of fans. He said hello to some of them, and signed a few hats just to avoid making eye contact with the journalists, who never approached when princes were dealing with the general public on track.

He breathed a sigh of relief once he moved past the media checkpoint and into the backlot, glad to have escaped any Monaco questions. Lewis had made him into an overeager, Puppy Love Prince (as a gossip rag so kindly called him) in the span of one interview. But he took it, because it was better than whatever the hell was happening at Red Bull—all of which Max deserved.

Letters would be flying over the next two weeks.

He spotted Fernando and Esteban by a trailer, but hanging out in the track backlot wasn’t typical for princes so soon after a race. Alonso had taken sixth too—a pretty big achievement for Alpine.

“Hey,” George greeted with a wave. “Avoiding the crowd?”

Fernando pocketed his phone from where he’d been showing something to Esteban, and a charming and totally fake smile spread on his face.

“Hi, George.”

His name always sounded weird in a Spanish accent. Gee-ohr-geh.

Esteban at least gave him a real smile and extended a fist that he met happily.

“Anything fun happening back here?” George asked.

“Not unless you like soccer,” Fernando replied.

“Soccer’s cool.”

It was only the most boring sport on the planet. Except for baseball, maybe. But he’d never actually seen a baseball game. Unfortunately, his dad had season tickets for the Wolves, so he used to be forced to show face at the pitch.

“What are you doing back here, George?” Esteban asked, thankfully changing the subject.

He shrugged. “Escaping. Press won’t leave me alone, and I don’t really need to watch Perez dumping champagne all over everyone. Not a Red Bull fan—long story.”

The joke earned him a smile from both princes.

Esteban nodded. “I was escaping too. Only driving for three laps is pretty humiliating.”

“Try retiring before the restart,” George groaned. He wasn’t really friends with Esteban. He and Alonso together made for the strangest looking couple on the grid: Fernando with his perfect Spaniard locks and silver fox stubble stood a head shorter than Esteban, who looked about 16 on a good day.

“An unlucky day for both of you,” Fernando said. “But these things happen. The nature of the sport.”

Esteban sighed. “Sorry to hear they’re going after you, George.”

George shrugged. “Any publicity is good publicity, right?”

Fernando grinned in reply, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Dick.

“Anyway, I’ll catch you guys later.”

George really didn’t feel like sticking around, especially when he was obviously unwanted. So he waved goodbye and headed off down the line of trailers—

And promptly slipped into the space right behind the trailer Fernando and Esteban were standing in front of. They looked way too suspicious, and it wasn’t like Lewis was going to be headed to his trailer anytime soon.

“See, I really don’t want all the publicity,” Esteban said after a pause. George heard him scuffing his racing boot on the asphalt.

“You need it,” Fernando said, his voice softer now. “Davide may extend your appointment, but it won’t do anything for you if you haven’t made a name for yourself.”

“Trying to make a name for myself here seems like trying to drain the ocean. The only way I can even think to do it is by hurting you somehow—all anyone cares about is relationship drama.”

“They also care about victories,” Fernando corrected. “You’re too new to see it, but we have a good car. We’re capable, but vous devez croire.”

Esteban laughed. “You mean you’re capable. If I drove half as well as you do, I’d—”

George rolled his eyes when he heard them share a kiss.

“What Pierre is asking is not dramatic,” Fernando said a moment later. “He’s offering you a chance to be seen. And if the FIA agrees, you can’t find a better way to do it.”

“It feels like a trap,” Esteban muttered.

George narrowed his eyes. Pierre wouldn’t touch Esteban with a ten foot pole. Pierre claimed not to hate him, but he certainly didn’t like him, and George had tried not to let that rub off on him, but it wasn’t like Esteban ever made an effort to try to get to know them.

“Don’t think of it as a personal gesture,” Fernando said. “It’s true that he probably means to use you for something. But you can seize the opportunity.”

“You don’t understand him,” Esteban cut. “We used to be close, until he decided I wasn’t enough. Then he started spending time with them—the George Russells and Charles Leclercs.”

A golf cart buzzed by, and George ducked into the shadows just in time to see Lewis’s physio, Angela, sitting in the front seat with Roscoe in her lap. Lewis sat on the back of the cart wearing sunglasses and looking more angry than George had ever seen him. His lips were drawn to a snarl like the lion on his chest currently covered by black nomex. His sunglasses hid the probably murderous look in his eyes, but George could read it in the curve of his shoulders, in the way he leaned forward, hands on his knees.

“At least Charles was always nice to me,” Esteban continued. “Max just used me for his dirtywork, but he never tried to hide it, and he knew I couldn’t say no.”

He let out a noise of frustration.

“That’s what I hate. I could never say no. I could never afford it—literally.”

“You think too much of the past,” Fernando soothed. “Now you are a prince. You even lost an appointment and came back, a nearly impossible feat.”

George bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to think about Alex, who would never have the chance to fight for a crown again. Not unless Max, Checo, and several reserve drivers all managed to injure themselves at the same time. And even then, he doubted Horner would ever allow himself to turn back on a decision. A decision Max had supported.

“I want to be more,” Esteban said, so quietly that George almost didn’t catch the words. “Even now, everyone looks at them and sees future world champions. No one ever says that about me.”

“Este, you can be a champion,” Fernando murmured. “But you will need to work twice as hard. No opportunity wasted. I was given only one chance at a position in the lower courts, and I turned it into a championship.”

George pursed his lips. Esteban wasn’t a good enough driver for a championship. Alonso had superhuman skill on track—he basically created his own ABS with his unmatchable driving style. Esteban didn’t have that kind of talent.

But George made a mental note anyway, just in case.

“Well,” Esteban sighed. “I guess we have to wait and see what the FIA says, then. But I’m warning you, je n’aime pas ça.”

Fernando laughed—a sound George didn’t think he’d ever heard from him.

“That’s a healthy fear. You’ll have to be careful, but we have weeks to practice.”

They decided to go back to the hospitality lane, and George waited for their voices to fade before he stepped out from between the trailers and made his way to Lewis’s motorhome.

He knocked on the door once he arrived, but didn’t wait to hear an answer before opening it. Sleeping together changed things, and George hadn’t seen Lewis since walking him home in Monaco, so he didn’t feel like waiting.

Angela stared at him as he stepped inside, slackjawed where she sat on the couch with Roscoe.

“Hi Angela,” George greeted. They’d met before, but never in a private setting.

Lewis emerged from the kitchen, his race suit now unzipped and his sunglasses gone, revealing the full intensity of his anger—anger he directed at George.

“What the hell are you doing here, man?” Lewis snapped. “Just walking into my fucking trailer?”

George folded his arms, unfazed. “Checking on you, Lewis.”

“I don’t need to be checked on,” Lewis said through gritted teeth.

Angela had to know about them. She was the closest person to Lewis out of anyone in Mercedes—probably closer to him than Valtteri was. She kept staring at him, one arm wrapped around a now-wriggling Roscoe.

“Well, I’m here,” George said, keeping his voice even. “I’m not leaving Baku without seeing you, and I don’t really care if you had a shitty race or not. So did I.”

“The championship isn’t on the line for you,” Lewis seethed.

George didn’t flinch. He was bringing Williams to the forefront in a car that, five races ago, everyone said was unequipped for anything other than last place.

“That’s true, but the race is over. You can’t change what—”

“I don’t need a fucking lecture!”

“Lewis,” Angela said gently as Roscoe whined in her lap. “He has a point.”

“Fuck this.” Lewis turned around and headed back into the kitchen. “George. Leave.”

George looked at Angela. Her white-blonde hair sat in a ponytail at the crown of her head, matching the sophisticated look of her black Mercedes polo. For a woman in her mid-forties, she looked like she could probably still beat the shit out of him if she really wanted to.

She smiled at him, then set Roscoe on the ground.

Roscoe immediately sneezed, then tossed his head up and barreled toward George, tongue lolling and paws splaying out on the slick floor.

George squatted to meet him, then ended up sitting on the floor and using his arms to create a barrier so that Roscoe didn’t get his slobber all over his face.  It only half worked.

He watched as Angela stepped into the kitchen, speaking in a low tone he couldn’t hear with all of the heavy bulldog breathing. George decided to trust her and set about giving Roscoe scratches instead of trying to eavesdrop.

Sure enough, when Angela stepped back into view, she had a leash in hand.

“Okay Roscoe,” she said with a wide smile. “Big walk?”

Roscoe’s butt wiggled so hard he nearly tossed himself down the stairs with the force of his excitement. George smiled, leaning back on his hands as Angela clipped the leash on Roscoe’s harness. Her smile faded a bit when she looked at him, but it didn’t seem malicious. More of a warning.

George wasn’t scared.

Silence fell over them the moment the door shut. George stayed on the ground, waiting. He understood anger, especially around races.

Lewis finally emerged from the kitchen again, much calmer this time. He definitely wasn’t happy, but he had a mug of tea cupped to his chest. George thought he looked awfully handsome standing there in the low light, staring down at his tea. Silent anger looked damn good on him.

“I really don’t like people coming into my space unannounced,” Lewis said quietly. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you, but it really bothers me.”

George pushed himself to his feet and dusted the little Roscoe hairs from his jeans. “I did knock,” he said, smirking.

Lewis’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile.

George eyed the mug. “Any more tea back there?”

“Wasn’t planning on company.”

But he extended the mug, and he might as well have told George he loved him. Lewis never shared food. Ever. Supposedly he was a germaphobe guy, which George didn’t understand with how dirty racing could be.

He crossed the room and gently took the mug before lifting it to his lips.

The tea tasted like last time. Sweet and earthy, a hint of tartness. It coated his throat as he swallowed, and he caught the nutty aftertaste of almond milk, which wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be.

“I saw Alex on Thursday,” George admitted quietly as he handed back the mug. “On TV. Just the back of him, in the background of a video.”

Lewis’s anger slipped from his face as he hooked an arm around George’s middle, pulling him close.

“Hey, you okay?” Lewis asked, kissing his forehead. “Fuck, let’s take a minute, yeah? Sit down.”

George shook his head. “No, no, I wasn’t saying that to derail this. I just…”

He shook his head again, unable to find the words.

He hadn’t seen Alex all weekend, but the ghost of him in that interview haunted his dreams. Every night, he woke up just before he grabbed Alex’s shoulder, just before he turned around.

“That’s why you didn’t leave even when I yelled at you,” Lewis said. “Which—I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, Lewis.” He used Lewis’s name more often now. It felt right. “Emotions get high after a race, and you’re right. I’m not fighting for a championship, so it isn’t the same.”

Lewis traced the line of his jaw with his thumb and brought the mug up between them. George closed his eyes at the heat that washed over his face just before Lewis took a sip.

Everything with Lewis felt easy. The way they locked eyes when he lowered the mug, the way George lifted his hand to press his palm to the other side of the ceramic for his own sip. The curl of Lewis’s lips just before they met for a tea-warm kiss.

“Thank you for barging in,” Lewis murmured. “I, uh. Needed you more than I thought.”

George smiled. “Don’t start getting sappy on me.”

But he needed it too. The weight of that realization made him suddenly dizzy, his vision darkening just like it had when he caught sight of Alex.

“George?”

“I just miss him so much,” George breathed, closing his eyes. He hated saying it, he hated giving over that power to anyone who could use it to hurt him, but he couldn’t stop himself. Nic didn’t even know how deep it went, how much he still waited for Alex to come running up in the paddock, how sometimes he swore he caught the scent of Alex’s house when he walked into a room for the first time.

Lewis kissed his forehead then stepped away, setting the mug on the counter.

“How long were you together?” he asked when he returned, this time pulling him into an embrace, warm and sure.

George ducked his head to rest it against Lewis’s shoulder. “Since forever, really. We were teenagers—we were always together. I don’t know when it turned into more. We just were.”

Lewis rubbed his back and George nearly burst into tears because the last time someone rubbed his back, he was a lot shorter and a lot more stupid. Lewis always found the simplest ways to make him feel loved.

“He was here for a race or something?” Lewis asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t really keep up with that stuff anymore.”

“Yeah,” George replied into Lewis’s shoulder. “He’s stuck in the lower courts, but he doesn’t even have a secure spot there. Like I told you, he’s their show pony.”

He finally brought his arms up to hold Lewis in return.

“You were right, though,” George said. “Max definitely had something to do with it.  He still hasn’t apologized, and he had the chance in Monaco. Instead, he made it about him.”

Lewis pulled back, gently smoothing back George’s hair. “He’s a good victim. People actually like it when he ruins people. I wear the wrong shirt and they crucify me.”

George swallowed hard. “He wasn’t always like this.”

“Everyone says that about princes with power,” Lewis said. “Max is smart. He’s doing the right thing by setting fire to the bridges he wants to burn before he gets a championship. He just thinks he’s getting one this year, and he isn’t.”

“If I’m in Mercedes with you, he won’t get a chance,” George said.

Lewis bumped him with his nose. “That’s the hope, mm?”

George sighed. “I didn’t come to talk about this, but has Toto said anything?”

“I’ve brought it up a few times,” Lewis said. “It’s difficult to balance. Valtteri is a fantastic leader, a good driver, and a great husband. I want to make sure he’s taken care of when he goes. I won’t kick him out on the street.”

“Does he know that?” George teased. “He didn’t look happy with me when I tried to find you in the hospitality lane.”

Lewis chuckled. “Hey, no one’s happy when they lose a Mercedes crown. And we’ve been together for a long time. It’ll be an adjustment for both of us.”

It was interesting to hear Lewis speak about Valtteri. The media made it seem like Valtteri was nothing but Lewis’s lapdog—a narrative George himself had believed until this year. Everyone rooted for Valtteri when he bucked the system and pulled off wins…but George was beginning to wonder if all of that was manufactured too. Mercedes always won, whether people rooted for Lewis or for Valtteri.

“If we’re talking business, I saw you took a track walk with Mick earlier in the weekend,” Lewis said, nodding toward the couch. “Wanna talk about that?”

He didn’t, but George knew they had limited time, and he couldn’t waste it being sad about Alex. So he nodded and stepped away, retrieving Lewis’s—their—mug of tea before he took a seat on the couch.

Lewis dropped onto the cushion beside him as George took another draw from the tea, allowing the warm steam to soothe him as he tried to collect himself.

“I can’t wait until we can actually be together full time,” Lewis said, folding his hands behind his head as he leaned back against the couch. “Every time we make plans to see each other over a weekend, we don’t get the chance.”

 “I appreciate any time I get to spend with you,” he murmured, lips damp with tea.

Lewis smiled at him slightly open-mouthed, like he’d really been caught off guard by the compliment.

Seeing it salved the Alex-shaped wound made raw in him. George offered the mug and Lewis accepted it.

“Mick wanted to talk,” George began. “He said he was worried about me because I didn’t really talk to him at the yacht party. I told him I was a little preoccupied. Which I shouldn’t have said, because it came out too mean, but he didn’t seem to care.”

He met Lewis’s eye. “He’s worried about me and you. He says you have a lot of secrets.”

Lewis let out a snort and shook his head. “How vague.”

George looked down at his hands. He’ll avoid talking about it, Mick had said.

“He implied what we have isn’t real,” George said. “Which, I mean, part of me knows.”

Lewis stilled beside him. “Part of you knows? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on, Lewis,” George said with a weak chuckle. “Before I stepped in for you last year, you didn’t even know me. Then suddenly you’re pulling me aside in Bahrain, sitting next to me at the royal wedding ceremony, and—”

“You think I’m faking this?” Lewis asked. “Are you serious?”

George stared at him for a moment, trying to see if he could sus anything out in Lewis’s face aside from his perfect skin. 

“I don’t think you’re faking all of it,” he said. “But you said you don’t fall in love with other princes. Then in Monaco you said you were falling for me, so something isn’t lining up.”

Lewis set the mug down on the coffee table and leaned against him.

“I didn’t intend to,” Lewis admitted. “Toto said this could be Valtteri’s last year. I wanted to make sure I found someone who could take his place, but who could also lead Mercedes when I left. The way Michael left it to me.”

“You don’t have to say something to make me feel better,” George said hurriedly. “I care about you. Obviously I don’t see you as just a…friend, or what have you.”

Lewis pressed a kiss to his cheek, then nosed against him, fond. “I tried finding someone else. I looked at Mick first, out of respect. But he’s nowhere near ready. Everyone kept talking about you, and I didn’t want to pursue it. I didn’t want to fall prey to all of the hype.”

George let out a little laugh. A flicker of pride ran through him at the thought that people would talk him up to Lewis Hamilton, but he knew talk was cheap around the paddock.

“Then I started to get to know you,” Lewis said. “You don’t put up with bullshit. You weren’t afraid to give me shit and most princes won’t even look me in the eye. But what really struck me was your loyalty.”

Lewis turned his wrist, exposing the Loyalty tattoo inked along the side of his forearm. George gave him a stuffed up smile and Lewis laughed.

“Yeah, yeah, corny. But loyalty is important to me. Hearing you so adamant about protecting Leclerc, not budging on your friendship with Latifi—it’s so rare now. So many princes are willing to throw everything away just for a crown.”

Lewis grimaced a little. “And I shouldn’t say now. It’s always been a thing. But it used to be expected. Some princes existed just to be a rival to another prince, basically. Now everyone pretends to be friends until they gut someone.”

George noticed the way Lewis’s eyes went distant as he spoke, an echo of the look he’d seen in his flat in Monaco.

“Is that one of your secrets?” George asked carefully.

“It’s no secret,” Lewis chuckled, but it went dark. “Rosberg was my best friend growing up.”

George swallowed hard. Lewis never talked about Nico. In Monaco, he couldn’t even say his name out loud.

“Marrying him was like a dream come true,” Lewis said. “It was a dream come true, actually. We were like you and Latifi, but closer. We knew everything about each other. And then he turned it all against me.”

“For a championship,” George finished.

“No. For Niki Lauda.”

George parted his lips to speak, but couldn’t form any questions. Niki Lauda was arguably one of the most famous princes to ever walk the paddock, doubly so after surviving a horrific car fire and returning to royalty after recovery.

“I didn’t know it, but Niki was gaining more influence at Mercedes, and Nico saw it before I did. And I’m sure it wasn’t hard to convince him that I was only winning because of the car—everyone just loves to attribute it all to anything but skill,” Lewis muttered, eyes haunted. The tattoos on the back of his hand made new shapes as he flexed his fingers in and out of a fist.

“Then one day I find out that Lauda bet it all on Nico to carry Mercedes. Nico pretended like it was a total shock, and I believed him. For months, I believed him.”

Lewis grit his teeth, eyes blazing.

“He actually sat with me to try to figure out how to keep me on the team,” Lewis forced out, jaw rusted with the words. “He stayed up with me every night for a week, acting like he would rather have me be Lauda’s pick. All the while, Mercedes started changing. My opinion mattered less, Nico’s word became law. But I fucking believed in him because protected me growing up. ”

George had never been on a team with someone better than him. That might have been his competitive nature talking at some points, but he always proved it on track. Lewis would be the first teammate and first husband to challenge that.

Everyone knew the story of Hamilton and Rosberg. They were the token example of love lost to the burden of the crown—romantic love in the eyes of the media and most of the world, but George knew better now.

He took Lewis’s hand and squeezed tight.

“You won out, though,” George murmured. “He’s gone and you’re here. And you’ve proved everyone wrong. All you have left to do is beat Schumacher’s record.”

Lewis leaned back against the couch again. He looked like a different person in race gear. George hadn’t realized how tailored his fashion choices were until the clean lines were gone, replaced with a normal nomex undershirt and firesuit piled at his waist. The contrast had to be intentional. It was as if Lewis didn’t want to be seen as a driver at all, only a prince, only golden.

“I only found out because I overheard Lauda talking about it one day when he thought I had my earbuds in,” Lewis said. “Nico told him everything he need to know, he said. Laid it all out in black and white—excuse the fucking pun.”

George flinched.

“Nico didn’t deny it when I cornered him, I’ll give him that. He always knew when to tell the truth.” Lewis let out a snort, staring out at some memory George couldn’t ever hope to know.

“He tried to take everything away from me and now he thinks that because he doesn’t have a crown anymore, I’ll just let him in my life again.”

George blinked. “He’s contacted you?”

Lewis rolled his eyes. “Yes. You didn’t see the photos? He rode up to my yacht on a jet ski on Monday after Valtteri and I extended our stay in Monaco.”

“What?!”

The fact that anyone could even approach Lewis Hamilton’s yacht seemed unreal. No one came near Lewis unless he allowed it.

“Special privileges,” Lewis explained bitterly. “He stole one world championship from me before he left, and it gave him a pass to haunt me for the rest of my fucking life.”

Anger twisted in George’s gut. He’d only met Nico once, as a kid at the very beginning of his career. The same day he met Lewis for the first time. He remembered thinking Rosberg was a bit of an asshole just by the way he stood there with one hip cocked out, signing hats and posters with a smile closer to a smirk, his long blond hair hiding his eyes from onlookers.

He barely remembered Lewis that day, but he did remember him talking to Nico, taking off Nico’s cap at one point and signing it like he was a fan. He remembered Nico pushing his hair back out of his face and rolling his eyes like Lewis was being immature, and he remembered it bothering him.

And when George finally made it to the front of the line, extending his poster and Mercedes book, he remembered reading the fresh sharpie marks on Nico’s hat as he tilted his head down to sign.

Britney - XOXO, LH44

He didn’t get the joke until years later when Max accused Pierre of “acting like Britney” during a Gran Turismo race on PlayStation 3, when Pierre t-boned him and sent them both off the track. A stupid nickname just because of Nico’s hair, but it stuck.

Lewis didn’t have the same lightness to him as he had that day. His smile didn’t come easy, and his eyes still hadn’t softened the way they usually did when they were alone together.

“The point is that what we have is real,” Lewis finally said, squeezing his hand. “I think being cautious about it is the right move, and I understand where you’re coming from.”

George leand back and rested his cheek against Lewis’s shoulder. He didn’t reply right away. For a few moments they just took in the quiet together, both of them reeking of gasoline and burnt rubber, even though George had been out of the car a lot longer.

“And what about Mick?” he finally asked.

Lewis kissed the crown of his head. “Let him keep talking. Once we have a way to pin him, we can find a way to stop him.”

George nodded but didn’t reply. He wanted to stay here, but he could tell by Lewis’s tone that he would have to leave soon for another two weeks apart.

“And listen to me,” Lewis murmured, gently pulling away to frame George’s face in his hands. “I’ll see what I can do about Albon, okay?”

George’s brow creased as he leaned away. “No, please don’t do that. Horner’s not stupid. If you sniff around Alex he’ll send him away to the Indycar empires or something just to spite me.”

Lewis worked his jaw, momentarily desperate. “Let me try.”

“No,” George said firmly. “Please. I can’t risk it. Besides, it’s better that I don’t see him.”

Just catching a glimpse of Alex had affected him so much he could hardly sleep. Seeing him in person, up close, might actually kill him.

“I disagree,” Lewis said, resting their foreheads together. “It’s hurting you, I can see it.”

“Of course it’s hurting me,” George whispered, pulling away. “We never even got to say goodbye to each other.”

“So let me see if I can give you that,” Lewis said, thumbing the side of his palm. “And I’ll arrange it so that you can be with me for as long as you need after.”

George’s heart twisted with guilt. He would have Lewis to run to, Alex would have no one. But he cracked a smile. “So you’re going to marry me midseason?” he joked, but his voice cracked a little.

Lewis smiled back before he pressed their lips together.

George grunted into the kiss, unexpectedly intense for such a soft movement into it. Heat sparked in his chest and he let Lewis push him back into the plush couch cushions. He tried to think about anything other than Alex as Lewis coaxed him into deeper kisses, making up for lost time.

Always making up for lost time.

“I’d marry you right now if I could,” Lewis breathed, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

George laughed. “Fucking absurd that we marry people before we even love them.”

Lewis hesitated for a fraction of a second, but long enough for George’s eyes to flick open completely.

“Who says I don’t?” Lewis murmured.

George chewed the inside of his cheek. Lewis moved up to look down at him, and he lifted his hand to Lewis’s jaw, following the movement.  “C’mon, Lewis.”

“Are you afraid of me saying it?” Lewis asked, eyes on his mouth.

“I’m fucking terrified of you saying it,” George blurted out, thumbing his cheekbone. “We’ve barely had any time together. You can’t possibly—”

“George, relax,” Lewis soothed, leaning down to press a softer kiss to his lips. “I’m not going to put any pressure on you. I think you have enough of that.”

Lewis didn’t love him. George knew he couldn’t possibly love him, and he didn’t want to be lied to. He didn’t want Mick to be right about anything involving Lewis because—

Fuck. Maybe he was a little bit in love with Lewis Hamilton.

“Can we take this to your room?” George asked.

“Something wrong with my couch?” Lewis teased with another kiss.

He smiled into it and reached around him to run his hands down the back of Lewis’s nomex.

“Yeah,” he finally said. “You said we can’t fuck on your couch. Your rules.”

Lewis tensed under his hands and George relished in the ability to bring that out in him. He needed this.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Lewis said, but his voice had lowered, and he wasn’t saying no.

“Well, I don’t have a lot of patience,” George replied, grinning. “And I want you at least once before I go home.”

He slipped a hand into Lewis’s firesuit, where he met heat and damp fabric. Lewis jerked under his touch, but didn’t ask him to stop. George caught the hitch in his breath just before Lewis tucked his face into his neck.

“You need it,” George whispered, turning his face so that his lips brushed the shell of Lewis’s ear as he spoke. “And you told me to remind you to be rougher this time.”

Lewis sat back, pupils blown wide with desire. George savored it, just like he savored the way it felt when he hit Lewis’s mattress a few moments later, the way Lewis’s tattoos tasted under his tongue when he turned the tables and crawled on top of him in bed.

But when he finally snuck out of the motorhome thirty minutes later, he didn’t feel any better. Lighter on his feet and a little love-drunk, but he still saw Alex in every shadow, heard his voice in every distant conversation.

Lewis never should have mentioned getting him back. George knew he would spend the next two weeks turning the thought over in his mind, imagining it, anticipating it.

“Did something happen?” Nic asked that evening as George stared out of the window of their private yet, watching as Azerbaijan twinkled beneath them, the shark fin buildings glowing pink and blue.

“I don’t know,” George said softly. “I just feel sad.”

Nic hopped from his seat and moved to the one beside him. “That’s okay, you know? Not every day is rainbows and butterflies. Here, have one of these.”

He offered George a sandwich cookie filled Nutella. Of course.

A little smile came to George’s face as he grabbed it and took a bite.

“There you go,” Nic said, smiling at him. “Should we turn the lights off and watch a movie?”

“I’m not Netflix and chilling with you, Latifi,” George teased around a mouthful of cookie.

Nic smiled and grabbed the remote from the center console. A TV screen began to descend from a compartment in the ceiling, and then George’s seat started to extend out into a lounger.

“Excuse me,” Nic said into the intercom on the console between them. “Can we have some popcorn back here? And—what do you want? Tea?”

He liked seeing Nic acting like the rich pay prince he was.  

“Nah,” George said, readjusting himself in the seat. “Vodka soda.”

“Oh boy. Prince George would like a vodka soda, and I’ll take an old fashioned. Thanks much.”

“Thanks much?” George asked cocking a brow.

Nic shooed him away. “Lay off, Eeyore. Pick a movie or else we’re watching Pride and Prejudice. The BBC version, which is like seven hours, so that means I just booked our whole flight, basically.”

George pulled out one of the complementary sleeping blankets and started to unwrap it. “Let’s watch it,” he said with a shrug. “It’s about time I see what all of the hype is about.”

The light that came to Nic’s eyes made it all worth it, and suffering through seven hours of BBC drama sounded much better than arguing over a new movie every two hours anyway.

“If you cry, I’ll pretend it’s just about your life and not because of the poetic cinematography,” Nic said jokingly, but George read the fondness in it.

He settled into his seat and looked over at Nic as he searched the TV, tongue stuck between his teeth like a startled cat. George’s chest tightened up at the thought that Lewis used to have this with someone too, long ago. Now he had a ghost instead.  

“Thanks mate,” George said after a moment. “I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Chapter 37

Notes:

trigger warnings for this chapter: domestic violence + (i guess?) graphic depictions of violence (no blood)

Chapter Text

 

Charles woke to an empty bed. Morning sun painted the curtains white, and a streak of light illuminated the thick goose down comforter of the royal bed—Carlos’s side still unmade. That meant he hadn’t left for training yet.

Sure enough, Charles heard the click of ceramic from the kitchen, then the dull thudding of bare feet on hardwood as Carlos returned to the bedroom, humming to himself, balancing two cups of coffee on a tray.

“Le prince se reveille,” Carlos greeted, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. His hair fell in his eyes, and for a moment Charles forgot they weren’t supposed to be together anymore.

“Pour moi?” he murmured, taking one of the coffees. “Mercí.”

“Bien sûr, mon amour,” Carlos said with a nod.

The rasp of a distant engine filtered in through the open windows, another Ferrari leaving the factory for a test drive. The sound brought a smile to his lips, as did the taste of Carlos’s perfect cappuccino.

“Que faisons-nous aujourd’hui?” Charles asked around another sip.

“We have plenty of time,” Carlos said. A little smirk curled at the corners of his lips, mischievous.

Charles smiled, shaking his head. “Carlos, Carlos, Carlos.”

He finished his coffee and set it back down on the tray, admiring the Ferrari crest inlaid in the ceramic. Everything had a place here. Even them. Maybe especially them.

Charles laid back in bed and admired the view as Carlos set the tray aside. Sunlight washed over his bare shoulders, the carved lines in his back. He wanted to reach out, to touch him just once without it meaning anything.

“Qu’est-ce qui t’arrive?” Carlos asked once he’d turned back around. He crawled into bed properly and Charles didn’t make space for him like he usually did.

“Do you still want me?” Charles asked, the words barely breaching his lips.

Carlos held his gaze, all warmth and soft morning sun. His hand came to rest on Charles’s cheek, cradling the side of his head.

“Toujours,” Carlos whispered as he leaned in.

Charles parted his lips for a kiss, eyes falling closed, but met only air instead.

When he opened his eyes, Carlos’s gaze had gone cold.

“I know what you did,” Carlos whispered from only a breath away, his voice like venom.

Charles’s eyes blew wide just as Carlos’s hand caught around his throat and shoved him into the mattress. Stars burst in his vision and he tried to suck down air, but Carlos’s grip was built to wrangle steering wheels with four Gs of force fighting back.

Charles scrambled, throwing knees and clawing for Carlos’s face, but he couldn’t find any purchase, only smooth skin and a tangle of sheets.

Carlos squeezed tighter around his throat, and Charles’s windpipe made a wet, heavy noise as it crushed shut. The muscle of his neck spasmed as it bruised, blood rushing to purple it with marks that would stay long after someone found him here.

Carlos just kept staring at him, lips curled in a snarl, eyes black and devoid of any affection whatsoever.

Now you know why he says it to you so much.

For all of his physical training, Charles found himself helpless as he punched at Carlos’s arm, kicked at his stomach—he even tried to choke out a stop, stop, but he couldn’t speak without air. Darkness began to burn into the edges of his vision and his body strained to take a breath that wouldn’t come.

Unconsciousness wrapped its fingers around him and pulled hard, as though physically dragging him out of his body. But his eyes remained set on Carlos’s face and the blatant hatred he saw there.

There’s no point, he wanted to say, but his tongue was dead in his mouth, already lost to him.

His throat hurt so much he couldn’t form any more thoughts. Pain forced the blackness onto him. It didn’t feel like a crash. His life didn’t flash before his eyes. It just hurt.

But the second he gave in, Carlos pulled his hand away.

Charles launched up from the bed, his vision still dark. His chest heaved, lungs burning and throat sore. A horrific noise ripped from his lips, like a wounded animal. Fitting, he realized as he choked down air, panic and relief crashing head on inside him.

Carlos’s hand landed square on his knee and gripped tight.

“Fuck!” Charles shouted—the sound so loud it frightened even him as he slammed his fist down on Carlos’s hand with all of his might.

Carlos tried to kill me. Carlos tried to kill me.

Charles scrambled backward, fumbling with all of the blankets and pillows—why the fuck did they have so much bedding for two people? Sheets wrapped around his wrists, and the comforter pulled taut at his knees, ensnaring him as Carlos lunged for a finishing blow.

“Charles!”

He froze at the sound of Carlos’s voice, rough with sleep and much lower than it had been just a few seconds ago.

A dream.

A fucking dream.

“Charles, che cosa cazzo fai?” Carlos rasped, fighting with the sheets himself. “Who the fuck—what’s happening?”

Charles brought a hand to his throat, feeling at the skin there. The burning, bruised sensation slipped away underneath his fingertips like melting snow.

Carlos finally reached him, and even in the dark Charles could see the panic in his wide eyes as he looked him over.

“I’m okay,” Charles mumbled, but he knew he didn’t look it.

Carlos cupped his face and Charles instinctively smacked his hand away, fear flooding him anew.  That was how it always started: with Carlos touching his face.

“What happened?” Carlos asked, still breathing hard. He looked around the room like someone might be there, waiting in the shadows. “Will you please answer me?”

Charles swallowed hard.

“A nightmare,” he explained quickly. “It was just another fucking nightmare.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his heartbeat still wild in his chest, but embarrassment caught up quicky. Another mark in his book, another thing Carlos could report to Binotto. Words like mentally unstable, off the rails, unreliablecame to mind.

Carlos finally relaxed, but not completely.

In the week since Baku, Charles kept having the same two dreams over and over. The first, where Carlos found out about him and Max and attempted to kill him. The second, where Max told the world about them like he’d intended to do in Azerbaijan. Sometimes with pictures, sometimes with old videos—videos Charles didn’t have anymore, but Max might.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said, shaking his head. “Is your hand okay?”

He reached out with a trembling palm and took Carlos’s hand to inspect it.

“Va bene,” Carlos said quietly, turning his grip. “Charles, I think you need to see—”

“No,” Charles interrupted, snatching his hand away. “It’s getting better.”

Carlos laughed, pained. “This is what you call better?”

Anger burst in him, fueled by his residual fear. Charles threw off the blankets and stood up out of bed. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“Stop being dramatic, Charles,” Carlos sighed. “Come back to bed.”

“Being dramatic?” Charles let out a snort and stumbled on his way to the door. Great.

“Ehi, I didn’t mean about your dream,” Carlos amended, sitting up. The blankets pooled around him, and the moonlight played blue on all the places where sunlight had played white in the nightmare. All too eerily similar for him to contemplate getting back into bed.

Charles crossed his arms, discomfort ratcheting up his spine. He took a deep breath, then another, trying to look at things rationally. Carlos had not actually tried to kill him. He hadn’t done anything close to malicious. It was just a nightmare.

“Go to sleep, Carlos,” Charles finally said.

Carlos sighed into the dark. “Fine. But don’t sleep on the couch, please.”

“I won’t,” Charles promised. He had no plans to go back to sleep.

Carlos shifted in the blankets and Charles watched as he fluffed up the pillow before flopping into it. Normally, Carlos would never let something like this go, but that kind of Carlos was different than a tired one.

Charles stepped into the bathroom to grab his robe so he didn’t freeze to death from his cooling sweat.

The master bathroom was as ornate as the rest of the palace—white marble and warm lighting, with wood beams in the ceiling that matched the hardwood in the bedroom. Their shower took up the far side, big enough for about six people and complete with two showerheads. A tub—also made of marble—overlooked the dark Italian countryside, and their robes hung on hooks beside it.

Charles pulled his robe free—a matching red to Carlos’s—and slipped his arms into the sleeves. He shrugged it on completely and tied the sash, glancing at himself in the mirror. Want of sleep crowded under his eyes, and his skin looked as clammy as it felt.

Carlos was right that things weren’t getting better. The past few times, Charles had woken with a start, but nothing else. None of his previous nightmares had blurred the line between dream and reality so badly.

Charles tilted his head to the side. His neck looked normal, not even a hint of redness to it. But he could still feel the way his throat closed in the strength of Carlos’s grip, shutting out any possibility of air, the crunch of cartilage. He didn’t understand how his brain could come up with something so real when he’d never experienced the feeling in real life.

Charles slipped out of the bathroom a moment later and heard the sounds of Carlos’s gentle snoring from the bed. Binotto would be happy Ferrari’s new favorite prince was getting enough sleep, at least.

He made his way into the living room, where his writing desk sat covered in ripped open envelopes from various empires. Practically everyone on the grid has written him, and Binotto finally released all of the letters he’d withheld—a reward for good behavior, like he was a dog. Charles supposed he was, at this point.

He slipped on his glasses and took his seat. He sifted through letters from Sebastian, Mick, George—even one from Lewis offering sympathy about the Monaco photos. He still had to write back to almost everyone, but picking up a pen always seemed too difficult.

He pulled the first letter from the stack—Max’s.

 

Charles –

I’m fine. Stop asking. If I had trouble under pressure, I wouldn’t have a crown. Everyone is happy here because Checo won, and I’m happy too. I heard dinner was interesting. Dan always has the best opinions. I’m sure you would hate them though, because most of them were about you.

Thank you, by the way. For telling him the truth when I couldn’t be there. I didn’t have to waste time talking about the pictures after the race. Every second counts, you know that.

Horner said the same as Binotto. It’ll be fine. We never talk at races anyway—I felt the same on the phone.

And yes, I meant what I said about Sebastian. Carlos was for show. But I’m glad you’re figuring things out on your own.

Busy week this week, but you can always write me. See you in France.

- Max

 

Charles plucked his parchment from the head of his desk and retrieved his pen from the drawer. He’d delayed long enough in writing back, and they left for France in two days.

 

Max,

Dinner was fine. Carlos and Lando both behaved, but I can’t say the same for Daniel. I’ve never seen someone drink that much wine in one sitting, and we have an extensive wine list in Maranello.

He’s worried about you, Max. So am I. I understand you want a championship, and I won’t deter you from that. But going after the FIA seems reckless when you’re being so blatant. The closer you come to beating Lewis, I think the worse it will get. They have a history of siding with him, that’s no secret. You need to be careful.

And thanks for your vote of confidence with Seb. I don’t know what you expect me to do with that.

- Charles

P.S. – I don’t care what Binotto and Horner decided. I need to talk to you in France. Keep having nightmares—that’s between you and me.

 

He almost scratched out the postscript, but decided to keep it. Max had put everything on the line for him in Baku, and he was now one of two people Charles knew he could completely trust. Part of him knew it was dangerous to put faith in Max, but he didn’t have many options anymore.

Once the letter was sealed, he scribbled Max’s name on the envelope and set it aside. One letter down, several to go.

He pulled out Lando’s next, and tried not to think about the way Lando shared every glass of wine with Carlos at dinner and made a face each time he took a sip, like he hated it.  Or the way he used the wine sipping as an excuse to lean against Carlos at the table, or the way Carlos’s voice turned soft and low to murmur things to Lando so quietly that Charles couldn’t even hear him from where he sat on the other side of him.

 

Char –

Thanks again for dinner. I know I was kind of a dick all weekend. I don’t know how to deal with this shit. Carlos should have stayed at McLaren, but he’s always wanted to wear that stupid horse on his chest. And I guess he looks good in red (but don’t tell him I said that).

Pierre told me that George saw Alex in Baku. I guess he was behind me and Dan during our interview. Really fucked him up I guess. I used to think he was being ridiculous for being so hung up on him. I don’t think that now.

Hope everything’s good with Seb. He looked butthurt when you buddied up with Pierre and not him on the podium. Maybe that was what you wanted—I can never tell with you anymore.

Wanted to check in with you about what you want to do for France. I know McLaren has a bunch of press stuff, but I’m gonna let Dan handle that. All he has to do is say “enchanté” and everyone loses their shit. Maybe we could meet up for coffee. I think I can convince Dan to come if you get some info from Max. Please? Zak isn’t going to let me hang out with you by myself. If that’s too risky or whatever, I’ll have Carlos do it. But, you know, I’m supposed to ask you first. Right? Isn’t that the—

 

Charles tossed the letter aside without finishing it. Lando had been appointed only a year after him, but some days that gap swallowed their entire friendship. George too, on occasion. One year as a prince was enough to strain any relationship—he felt every second of difference between his and Max’s appointments.

He decided not to write Lando back. He’d seen Carlos writing something a few days ago, and the fact that Carlos stopped writing it when he walked in was enough for Charles to know that Carlos had probably already taken care of it.

He didn’t want to go to coffee. He didn’t want to sit at a table in the early morning at Paul Ricard and listen to Lando’s giggling when he could be asleep instead.

The slight sheen of Alpha Tauri parchment pulled him from his thoughts, and he plucked Pierre’s letter—one of many—from the pile.   

 

Charles,

Fuck, I’m still high off of that podium. Can’t wait until we’re actually up there together—me in first, of course. Your day is coming soon, I know it.

Anyway, I’m with you about Max. Maybe he does have some humanity left. Or he wants you to owe him one. That kind of secret shouldn’t ever be weaponized. And you’re the only one who will get hurt from that—I can tell you from experience that Horner would kill his own family before he laid a finger on Max. And he’s married to a Spice Girl.

Don’t think I didn’t hear about you going to dinner with Lando and Daniel. I know you didn’t agree to that because you love ton chérie Carlos “so much” and wanted to rub it in Lando’s face. I have a feeling it was Lando doing the rubbing, si vous voyez ce que je veux dire.

Tu te sens mieux? I’m only like two hours away, I’m sure I could sneak you some Advil if your ancient Ferrari medicine stops working. You do have Advil, right? Or do you spend all of your money on an engine that barely gets you P4? ;)

À la semaine prochaine,

Pierre

 

Charles smiled as he set the letter aside, exhaustion suddenly clawing at his eyes.  Grey smeared the windows as dawn approached, and he knew Carlos would wake up any minute to go and train. Charles would have yet another visit with Luca before he hit the gym himself. Not to mention he had a few hours slotted for the sim, then an afternoon of meetings after that.

He needed coffee if he wanted to make it through the day alive.

Their espresso machine was identical to the one in the Ferrari hospitality motorhome, though the coffee grounds were slightly different. Charles preferred a stronger blend and Carlos had never complained about it.

While he prepped the coffee, he thought about Faenza, Alpha Tauri’s capital, only an hour or so away by car. Faster if he took a Ferrari.

Of course, he would never be permitted to go there, but a few days with Pierre would probably cure him of the constant fatigue plaguing him at the moment.

Pierre never seemed bothered by any of the blows he’d taken over the past few years. George hated Max for Alex’s exile, but in Charles’s mind, Pierre had far more reason to loathe him. Yet Pierre held George back from punching Max in the face in Portugal, sat in the same booth with him in Monaco, and any insults were tame compared to the ones George hurled at any given opportunity.

The espresso machine hissed as it expelled coffee, and Charles set about prepping the steamed milk. He wasn’t very good at cappuccinos, but what he lacked in fern-shaped designs in the cream, he made up for with taste. Hopefully, anyway.

He wished he could send Pierre something that would get to him in time that they could meet halfway between their empires. They could pretend it was an accident, both of them heading into the same café at the same time. Two princes out for a drive, looking for a way out of royal life for just a few hours.

Pierre would know what to say. Charles still couldn’t tell him about the rules Ferrari had imposed about acting the part of a doting husband, but he’d already seen through it. Him, Max, Lando, and Daniel seemed to be the only ones who saw the falseness of the hot mics play. Even Sebastian smiled too cheerfully at him when they walked the paddock, like he was proud of him for admitting feelings that weren’t there. He’d even duped George, who now wanted to know everything that happened on Sunday night in Monaco.

Or maybe Lewis was making George forget the parts of his life that made him.  

Charles remembered the fear of losing Sebastian for good when Ferrari announced they would be taking away his crown—a fear that was George’s reality with Alex.

Charles had always assumed his relationship with Max would parallel George and Alex. Both had similar tracks: friends since they were kids, karting together, a jumble of feelings turning into something more on some nondescript night in their teenage years. Even as those stupid teenagers, George and Alex walked the world together like they’d been together for a century, from the way George paid for Alex’s food without asking, to the way Alex always found a blanket and tucked him in whenever George fell asleep on the couch.

But every fairytale had to end. And in their world, no one got a happily ever after.

Charles poured the steamed milk, holding his breath as it foamed up nicely in each cup, though his attempt at design turned into abstract art instead of something nice. He doubted Carlos would mind.

He placed both cappuccinos on saucers and headed into the bedroom just as Carlos’s phone started to play a piano melody. Carlos immediately let out a groan.

“Le prince se reveille,” Charles greeted softly.

Carlos rubbed his face, his hair a mess of silky black against the pillow. Charles sat down on the edge of the bed and watched as Carlos blinked the sleep from his eyes.

“Caffè?” Carlos croaked, cocking a brow.

“Mhm.” Charles extended a cappuccino as Carlos sat up, his brow furrowed in morning confusion, like he hadn’t quite figured out where he was. He took the cup and saucer though.

Charles tapped Carlos’s phone and stopped the alarm, allowing blessed quiet to settle over them.

He lifted his own cappuccino to his lips and took a sip. It tasted decent, but not as good as the cafes in town. He pretended not to notice Carlos watching him as he looked out at the terrace through the space between the curtains, watching as the sun punched pink into the horizon.

“Thank you,” Carlos finally said, his voice thick from a fresh sip.

“Non c’è di che,” Charles murmured, licking foam from his lips.

They took in the morning together without speaking, the silence only punctured by the click of ceramic when they returned their cups to their saucers. Carlos finished his cappuccino first and placed his dishes on the nightstand. Charles expected him to leave, but he didn’t.  Instead he laid back down, hands folded behind his head as he closed his eyes.

Charles finished his coffee and set it aside before shifting a little closer. He reached out with a tentative hand, steeling himself before he rested his palm at Carlos’s cheek.

Carlos’s dark eyes flicked open, locking with his. Charles thumbed sleep-warm skin and his chest twisted, hollowing itself with a feeling he couldn’t name.

He lowered his hand, keeping his eyes on the line of Carlos’s jaw as his palm slipped from it to still at Carlos’s neck. Stubble scratched at the underside of his thumb as he smoothed it over the swell of Carlos’s throat.

He never realized how vulnerable they allowed themselves to be around each other.

A hard press of his thumb, a determined grip, and he could change that forever.

Charles already knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end, how whole and complete terror could be.

“What are you doing today?” he asked, still staring at Carlos’s throat. He shifted his thumb, hiding it away under the corner of Carlos’s jaw.

“Training,” Carlos answered. He hadn’t moved, his eyes still searching his face. “Then we have a simulator session. After that, I was thinking of lunch, maybe playing some football with the mechanics. Then meetings until dinner.”

He said it like an invitation, almost.

Charles slipped his hand away completely, returning it to his lap.

“Busy day,” Charles said.

His schedule was pretty much the same, but if he missed his meetings, he doubted Binotto would notice or care except when it came to punishing him for it.

Carlos pushed himself up from the mattress and Charles wondered if he remembered waking up earlier. He hoped Carlos had chalked it up to a dream of his own, that he wouldn’t mention it during football or in any of his meetings.

Max had saved him from a complete demise, but Charles still found distrust in the eyes of most of the engineers. As if they thought every discussion of downforce, engine conservation, or any number of other things would get back to Red Bull. As if he would betray the empire he’d signed his life to for a prince who left him to rot. A prince who—

Carlos’s lips pressed to his, tasting of sleep’s sweetness and frothed milk. A morning kiss, soft and simple. No passion, but it filled him with unexpected warmth all the same. Or maybe that was just the coffee.

Charles pulled back a little abruptly, brows lifted.

“What was that for?”

Carlos’s parted lips turned up in a smile. He shrugged, nonchalant. “It felt right.”

Charles frowned, trying not to feel guilty when he had a letter from Lando sitting on his desk unanswered. Though technically a kiss during the break was well within the rules.

“It was just coffee.”

“Yes,” Carlos replied, reaching over to him. Carlos pushed his glasses up from where they’d fallen down his nose a little.

Charles fought the urge to slap his hand away, but leaned back instead.

“You’re going to be late to the gym,” he warned, narrowing his eyes.

“Will you walk with me?” Carlos asked as he hopped out of bed.

“No,” Charles replied almost too quickly. “I have a meeting first, then training.”

“Mm.” Carlos pulled a t-shirt over his head and started digging in his sock drawer, evidently deciding his current shorts were gym acceptable. Mismatched, as usual.

Charles decided to change too, opting for a black Puma athletic undershirt and matching fitted sweats. He abandoned his glasses and got his hair in order while Carlos called someone from the bathroom, bouncing back and forth between Italian and English—something about a schedule change.

Charles returned the coffee cups to the kitchen and washed them out while he waited for Carlos to finish, He didn’t want to start his day before him, just in case Binotto was waiting outside of their apartment. He was known to ambush unsuspecting princes first thing in the morning—it seemed to coincide with bad days at Ferrari.

“Well, football is cancelled,” Carlos said as he emerged from the bedroom, tugging his Richard Mille snug on his wrist. “Evidently the car changes aren’t going well. None of the engineers are happy about how things are looking.”

“Perfetto,” Charles muttered, grabbing his phone from the countertop charger and pocketing it. “Ready?”

Carlos took his hand and they made their way out into the main palace hall.

Ferrari wasn’t quite awake. Most of the offices were dark, but several staff members walked briskly through the halls, probably headed to the racing operations building across the street.

He started to pull away, but Carlos squeezed his hand before he could take a step.

Charles held his breath when he realized Carlos intended to kiss him. He met it reluctantly, but made sure he didn’t look it, in case anyone was watching from below.

“Thank you for coffee,” Carlos murmured.

Charles smiled, lifting his chin slightly for a half-lidded look into Carlos’s eyes. “You don’t need to thank me. I love you. Making coffee is the least I can do.”

The warmth in Carlos’s eyes fizzled out. His smile cooled too, and they dropped hands almost immediately.

“I’ll see you at the simulator,” Carlos said, suddenly all business.

Charles bit the inside of his cheek as he nodded. “See you there.”

He waited until Carlos disappeared down the staircase before he headed off in the opposite direction. As he walked, he made a mental note to never have coffee in bed again.  

Chapter Text

George jolted awake as the jet hit the tarmac, his cheek mashed against the hard and very uncomfortable curve of Nic’s shoulder.

“Shit,” George slurred, lifting his hand to rub at his cheek. He figured it had to be permanently indented—it felt like he’d used a cricket ball for a pillow. Sleep clung to his eyes as he sat up properly, blinking the world back into existence.

Nic was still fast asleep beside him, slumped against the side of the seat.

“Nicky. Up.”

“Fuck’ff,” Nic growled, nuzzling into the leather.

The flight into Marseille was only the length of a bad movie (Armageddon, this time) , but they hadn’t slept more than ten hours over the past three days. Royal engagements in London kept them awake day and night. Brushing elbows with aristocrats, sponsors, and citizens in Williams ranged from early morning visits with the factory team to attending a stargazing festival. Why anyone planned a stargazing festival in England was beyond his comprehension, but they had sat there and looked at the empty sky when they could have been in bed.

“Come on, mate,” George sighed, patting Nic’s hand. “Think we’re going to straight to the hotel.”

That earned him a grunt, and a moment later Nic’s eyes slitted open. His dark irises swam in pink, both eyes weepy with exhaustion.

George knew he didn’t look any better.

“I hate this,” Nic croaked.

It was rare to see Nic in a bad mood. But they were both beaten down, and the weekend hadn’t even started. George tried to be strong when Nic couldn’t be, but today he only wanted to get to the hotel.

They stumbled from the jet and straight into their waiting town car. Nic fell asleep within five minutes, this time using George’s shoulder as a pillow. A little smile came to George’s lips at the gesture, once again thankful that he had a husband he could feel safe around, and that Nic could feel safe with him too, even in a country that wasn’t home.

George liked France just fine, and the cloudy atmosphere made it look more like home than usual, but he never felt totally comfortable in a different country. His French wasn’t great despite being able to understand it, and the food in every country was always slightly off compared to Williams. Even track catering differed based on a country’s food availability.

So he stayed awake for the drive from the airport, though the gentle rocking of the car made his eyelids heavy. Nic’s phone buzzed with a call awhile later, but his snores stayed on a steady rhythm, unaffected.

When his own phone started to ring, George brought it to his ear.

“Hey,” he greeted.

“I tried calling Nic, where is he?” Kayla asked, her voice muffled by the sounds of a crowded airport.

“Asleep,” George replied, glancing down at him.

“Asleep? Are you guys still in the plane?”

“No, town car.”

“Thank god. At least something is on schedule.” He heard the sound of a roller bag clattering on the floor. “Press conference lineups are out, have you seen them?”

George sighed. “No. Who am I with?”

“Prince Charles,” Kayla said. “The FIA claims they don’t like the drama, and yet here we are.”

George brightened a little. It would be nice to hang out with Charles for a bit—he hadn’t been very talkative in their letters over the break.

“And what about Nicky?” he asked.

“He’s with Mick,” Kayla replied.

George blinked. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

“Interesting? Jesus—George, is something going on with Nic and Mick?”

He laughed, but tried to contain himself so he didn’t wake Nic on his shoulder. The image of Mick Schumacher and Nic was about as unnatural as his himself and Nic as a real couple. “No, no. Just gossip—you know.”

“No, I don’t,” Kayla returned. “Promise me we won’t have another Ricciardo incident.”

“I’m not Nic, but I can promise as much as Nic’s husband can that you don’t have to worry.”

“Good. Now, when you get to the hotel you have two hours to freshen up before we head to the track, understand?”

“Yeah, yeah,” George said, grimacing. Two hours was hardly time for a nap. “Hey, who is Pierre with? And Max?”

Kayla shouted for someone to follow her, then returned to regular volume. “Uh—Max is with Lewis and Pierre…with Lando.”

Max and Lewis. George swallowed thicky. Lewis knew how to keep himself contained, especially on camera. Max…not so much. He wasn’t sure if he could watch that interview, but he knew he had to in case something came up about the Monaco pictures.

“Great,” he said hurriedly when he realized he hadn’t responded. “Thanks, Kayla. We’ll talk to you soon.”

“Two hours, George. Cheers.”

The call ended and George rested his head against the car window. Buildings began to creep higher and higher as they wandered into Le Castellet, and it reminded him of Monaco—which wasn’t far away, actually. People clustered at cafés, sipping coffee with friends. George missed that, even though he was married to a coffee dynasty pay prince who also had the best personality on the grid.

If the FIA wasn’t so oppressive, he could call Lewis about problems instead of trying to sneak time with him at the track. They could meet for coffee at one of those cafés and have a real date, in public, and not have people jamming cameras in their faces or sneaking photos from afar that could hurt their appointments.

Instead he had letters in his backpack and the looming threat of the unknown.

 


 

The blinding stripes of the Paul Ricard runoff lines normally made George a little dizzy when he walked the track, but the day was so overcast that the deep blue paint actually calmed him. A two-hour nap had done more than anticipated for his mental stability, and Kayla’s eyedrops cured Nic of his hungover look in a matter of minutes.

“I’m just saying to be cautious,” George said as they strolled around the hairpin corner of Turn 15.

“Mick hasn’t ever done anything to me,” Nic said, adjusting his cap. “And he hasn’t done anything to you either, George.”

“He’s planning on hurting my friends,” George returned. “That’s enough for me.”

“You don’t even know that for sure. You’re just going off of what Lewis told you.”

“I asked him to find out what’s going on with Sebastian, and he—”

Nic stopped walking and turned to face him. “From what you told me, Mick has only ever stood up for you. He covered for you in Imola and that would have been worse than what happened in Monaco.”

“Because he’s not going after me,” George retorted. “He’s going after Charles. And probably Carlos too.”

“Sounds like Sebastian is going after Charles, George,” Nic said gently. “And isn’t it a little convenient that Lewis wants to pit you against a Schumacher once you make a name for yourself?”

“I’m getting a Mercedes appointment, Nic,” George said. “I’ve talked to Lewis about it. You’re right, this is Sebastian going after Charles, but Mick’s smart. He knows what’s going on and he’s letting it happen.”

Nic sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “You have a very different view of this world than I do.”

His eyes softened, and George instantly softened in kind.

“Sometimes people are just genuine people,” Nic said. “I mean, I like to think I’m pretty genuine, and I don’t really give a shit about all of this appointment drama. I’m just glad to be here. And yeah, I want to be the best, but I’m not cutting someone down to do it. If I do it, it’ll be because of talent, like you.”

George looked away, his cheeks going hot. “Thanks, Nic.”

Nic prodded his chest with a finger, hard. George shot him a look.

“You’ve got a good heart in there, George,” Nic said. “Everyone in Williams loves you, including me. You make us all better because you work so hard. Some day you and me are going to start getting points, and that will be because of you leading the way—and I’m not ashamed to admit that.”

“I wouldn’t be able to do this without you,” George said quietly. “Really. You’re the best husband I’ll ever have.”

Nic beamed, and it made George feel like a better person to know he put that smile there.

“Hey, look at you,” Nic said, cuffing his shoulder. “See, this is the George I know. You don’t need to take anyone out. You can do this all on your own.”

George wished he could believe that, but he wanted a championship, and he knew that didn’t come without spilling a little blood.

They started walking again, but neither of them spoke. George watched the grey clouds overhead and the dots of empire staff in the distance at turn one. Media crews were filing into the podium area closer to them, prepping for the Thursday press conferences.

It wouldn’t be like this with Lewis. Lazy walks around the track, joking and screwing around, the cameras all focused on other people. Lewis barely ever walked the paddock anymore because the cameras followed him in droves.

They linked up with Kayla in the pit lane and went through makeup for final touch-ups before they were directed into the royal waiting room, where most of the FIA princes had already gathered. Two rows of director’s chairs lined the far wall, all facing the door into the studio where they would have their interviews. A few monitors hung on the walls, all of them currently showing a feed of two empty chairs and the microphones in front of them.

France was one of the only races were they had the chance to watch the press conferences live, but that meant they moved fast, with only a few questions per prince. There was something of a security risk in having every prince in the same room.

Lando stood with Pierre by the studio door, talking quietly as they waited to enter for their interview. Pierre already had his white cap turned backward, looking the part of a guy at uni searching for his next kegger. Even his half-sleeve white and navy polo was a stark contrast to Lando’s papaya orange and charcoal hoodie and matching cap that faced the right way, like a proper Brit would wear it. Lando’s blue Richard Mille flashed on his wrist as he adjusted his hood, nodding at something Pierre was saying.

 The single FIA liaison in charge of them led Nic and George to their respective seats, assembled in order of their interviews.

“Now, I know everyone knows the rules, but I have to remind you—there is to be no interacting with princes other than your interview partner and your husband,” the liaison announced, gripping tightly to her clipboard. She had to know how pointless her little announcement was, because they would all be talking the second she led Pierre and Lando out of the room.

“You are to stay seated until you’re called over the speakers for your interview. Violations can result in a fine of up to ten thousand euros per minute.”

George took his seat in the second to last row, in front of Esteban and Fernando, the only married couple to be interviewed together, in honor of Paul Ricard being Alpine’s claimed track.

Nic sat two rows up, greeting Mick with a clap to his back and a compliment to his necklace—a black cord with some kind of shiny pendant George couldn’t see. Mick wore it often, but usually his polos weren’t low enough to expose it.

Sebastian and Checo sat in front of them, and Yuki and Daniel beyond that. George caught a glimpse of Lewis’s braids over Yuki’s shoulder as Lewis leaned in to listen to something Max was saying, and he eyed the barest glance of Kimi’s tattoos in the space between Max and Lewis, with Bottas beside him.

Of course Lewis got to be right behind his husband to cover any outside conversation. George would have to go past Nikita and then make it through Lance and Antonio before he could get to Nic, so it would probably be easier just to text.

George figured he probably had the worst seat in the house—he couldn’t see past Mazepin’s giant fucking head to get a proper look at anyone who wasn’t standing up. But he could see Pierre and Lando by the door, and they were arguably the most interesting duo in the room at the moment.

Lando looked to be in good spirits, Pierre less so. Pierre looked tired, and something Lando said made his smile fall away for a second.

Both of them looked over as the side door opened, and every other prince in the room followed suit, just as they had when George and Nic came in.

Charles entered first, tugging Carlos along by the hand, both of them in matching Ferrari polos and hats. George drummed his fingers on his armest, trying to gauge Charles’s expression, but it was unnervingly placid. The FIA liaison led Charles and Carlos to their seats—Charles next to him, Carlos next to Nikita.

George clocked Lando craning to try to get a look at Carlos, but Carlos seemed focused on Charles with the same look Nic wore when he watched a Jenga tower.

“George,” Charles greeted with a curt nod as he slid into his seat.

Conversation resumed around them, but George kept his eyes on Charles.

Something looked off. He couldn’t figure out what it was, but something was off.

“Hey, mate,” he finally greeted. “How was your break?”

Charles shrugged, but a smile unfolded on his lips. “It was fine.”

George decided to cut to the chase. “So. Wanna tell me about what happened in Monaco?”

Charles picked at something on his sleeve, but George didn’t see any dirt on it. He sat silent, watching and waiting for a response. Charles kept his eyes trained on the tips of his fingers, evidently very invested in whatever he saw there.

George leaned in, eyes hard. “Want me to get whatever it is?”

“No,” Charles muttered, and George realized that he wasn’t faking his determination to avoid a conversation. He genuinely seemed to think something was there.

“Mate, it’s clean,” George said, gently plucking Charles’s hand from his shirt to reveal a spotless red sleeve. “See? Nothing there.”

Charles blinked sluggishly. It reminded George of nights he’d rather forget, where Charles’s long lashes fluttered with every sip of his drink, fighting the insistent tug of a blackout.

George looked to Carlos, but Carlos had turned his attention to his phone—anything to escape talking to Mazepin, probably.

“You okay?” George whispered, fighting the panic in his voice.

“Yes,” Charles replied, and his smile came back. “What did you ask me before?”

“About Monaco, mate,” he tried again, but he had no heart in the question now—he was too focused on assessing Charles. He couldn’t smell any alcohol, and no Ferrari rep would have let him through the door if he’d somehow gotten drunk at noon on a Thursday. “You never told me what happened after I left.”

“I talked about it in my interview in Baku,” Charles said, his voice plain. His eyes were vacant, like he was being puppeteered. Fucking hell. “Did you watch it?”

“Yeah, I did,” George said gently. “Are you okay, Char?”

“I already told you, yes. You sound like Carlos,” Charles chuckled. He shook his head. “We slept together. That’s what happened after Monaco.”

Not exactly the fairytale George had been anticipating. Pierre’s insinuation lingered in his mind. “Okay…so was it like, good and everything?”

They had enough distance from Carlos that George didn’t feel too self-conscious asking in a normal tone. And honestly, if Carlos could hear them, his reaction would probably reveal more than Charles and his empty eyes.

“It was everything,” Charles said cheerfully. Cheerfully. “I wish Monaco could have lasted forever.”

“Charles, what’s going on?” George demanded, because this couldn’t be real. He knew Charles, and Charles never talked like this. He leaned in again, lowering his voice in case Charles thought Carlos could hear them. “Mate, you’re scaring me.”

Charles’s smile dimmed with affection. He reached up, carding his fingers through George’s hair. “I’m fine, George. I’m very happy.”

He couldn’t read any fear in Charles’s eyes, but that sounded like something a kidnapper would force him to say in a hostage situation. Not to mention Charles never touched his hair—that was reserved for Max and Pierre.

“Carlos,” George said loudly, so Carlos couldn’t pretend not to hear him.

Carlos froze for half a second before he turned. Carlos didn’t look vacant at all— his big brown eyes brimmed with panic that probably matched his own.

George jabbed a thumb at Charles, his heart jumping to his throat. “You want to tell me what the fuck is going on with him?”

“He’s asking about Monaco,” Charles supplied. “About us sleeping together.”

Carlos’s jaw went taut.

“I don’t know,” Carlos said stiffly. “Is something wrong, Charles?”

Charles shrugged. “Evidently George thinks something is wrong.”

George bristled. “You can’t possibly think nothing is—”

“Prince Norris and Prince Gasly, please enter the studio,” a voice said over the shitty speakers installed in the ceiling.

“Good luck, Pierre!” Yuki called from his seat next to Daniel, offering a thumbs up.

Pierre shot him a wink, returning the gesture. Lando playfully knocked into Pierre’s shoulder as they headed in together, still talking. George pursed his lips. So much for catching Pierre’s attention.

He looked back to Carlos, who was staring at Charles too. “You have to know what’s going on here.”

“George, stop talking about me like I’m not sitting right here,” Charles said.

“Only if you stop acting fucked up, Charles,” George hissed.

“Hey,” Esteban said, tapping George on the shoulder from behind. “Est-ce que tout va bien?”

“Oui,” Charles assured him in that same cheerful tone. “Evidently George just isn’t satisfied hearing that I’m happy with Carlos.”

George frowned. “Char, you’re not—”

“Shh, the interview is starting,” Charles interrupted, turning his attention to the monitor to their right.

George grit his teeth. Something was definitely wrong, but there was nothing he could point to except Charles’s eyes, and that wasn’t exactly something a doctor would believe. He glanced at Carlos, who had his attention on the monitor. On Lando, probably.

Pierre was right. Charles had been faking it in Baku.

“You two escaped the drama of Baku unscathed—how are things going in McLaren and Alpha Tauri?” their interviewer asked on screen.

Pierre and Lando looked at each other, and Lando burst out laughing a moment later.

“Things are stellar, mate,” Lando said as he recovered, wiping his eyes. “Really, just—” His smile threatened to break his face, and he gave a little shrug so cute that even George had to smile a little. Dork. 

“Things are good,” Lando finished.

Pierre bit back his own laugh, hand over his mouth.

“I don’t know how I can follow after that,” Pierre chuckled. “But things are good with us as well. I’m looking forward to this weekend very much.”

“You are?” Lando teased, smirking. “Because you get to speak French with your friends? Is that why?”

“Maybe, is that funny?” Pierre asked with an open-mouthed smile, glancing at the camera like it might be in on Lando’s joke.   

Charles scooted his chair forward enough that he could rest his chin on Carlos’s shoulder.

“Stellar,” Charles whispered, a breathy smile on his lips.

Carlos side-eyed him, but didn’t say anything.

“I’ll follow up on that—Prince Pierre, any special plans for the weekend at home?” the interviewer asked.

Pierre kept looking at Lando, smiling as he shook his head. “Yeah, I’ve got a few things planned. I love Marseille and Le Castellet. I’m going to take Yuki out to show him a bit of France, spend time with friends. Yes, speaking French with them.”

“And you, Prince Lando?”

Lando chewed his bottom lip in thought. “Might do a nice dinner somewhere, if Pierre has a recommendation. I’ll let Daniel handle the French part.” He reached over to tug Pierre’s sleeve. “Any suggestions, mate? I know you’ve got a place.”

Pierre’s smile flickered. “We’ll talk after, don’t need anyone finding my secret spot.”

The interviewer started talking about the race, but George stopped paying attention when Daniel stood abruptly. Checo popped up after him from where he’d been sitting directly behind him, and George cursed himself for not paying better attention to what was clearly an argument.

Max was on his feet a second later, eyes wild as he wheeled around to face Checo

“Max, don’t,” Checo warned.

Daniel’s face had no color when he turned away from Max and into George’s view. His usual goofy, lighthearted look had been replaced with a hollow emptiness that even seemed to suck the vibrance from his orange McLaren jacket.

Lewis stood up from beside Max and turned, levelling his gaze on Daniel.

“Do we have a problem?” Lewis asked.

Checo fumed where he stood, but George couldn’t tell if he was directing his anger at Max or Lewis.

“Guys, we don’t need to argue,” Sebastian interjected, sitting back. “This doesn’t need to escalate.”

“What did you say?” Max bit out, but George couldn’t tell who he was talking to. Fucking Mazepin wasn’t even paying attention, he was just blocking the way and still messing around on his goddamn phone.  

“It’s nothing,” Daniel said. His stillness was unnerving—George had never realized how much Daniel moved until he stopped doing it.

“Obviously not,” Max said.

Daniel turned his head, and whatever look he gave Max melted the anger right off of his face, revealing something wounded under his snarl.

“Are we good?” Lewis asked, watching Daniel carefully.

George hated how much he loved the way Lewis commanded a room.

“He said it again,” Charles whispered too loudly, lips against Carlos’s ear. It didn’t seem like he’d even noticed the shitshow brewing on the other end of the room. “Stellar.”

Carlos grimaced. “Charles, please.”

Charles pressed a kiss to his cheek and leaned back, eyes still on the TV.

“Hey,” George hissed, nudging Charles. “Are you watching this?”

Charles finally slid his gaze over to where Checo was taking his seat again. Charles’s lips set into a disapproving line, appraising the situation like it bored him. He shrugged.

“Prince Räikkönen, Prince Bottas, please enter the studio,” the speaker announced in a tinny voice.

Kimi and Bottas stood, all too happy to leave as Lando and Pierre reentered. Lando was still buzzing, diffusing the tension in the room as he walked through it—straight past where he was supposed to sit.

Lando caught George’s eye and lifted his chin toward him as he walked. “Hey, are there cameras in here?”

George furrowed his brow. “Uh, not that I’ve seen.”

Lando looked like he might burst with joy. “Awesome.”

Pierre hurried after him, panic in his eyes. “Lando, wait.”

Lando’s grin turned sly, completely ignoring Pierre as he kept walking. George sat up to meet him, cocking a brow.

“What’s going on?” he asked. Lando had no reason to come talk to him. They had nothing—

Lando stopped in front of Carlos and hauled him up by the collar of his Ferrari polo—no easy feat. Carlos’s hat fell off as his eyes went wide and the whole room seemed to go still as they stared at each other, Lando grinning and Carlos utterly bewildered.

Carlos finally moved to lift his hands, folding them over Lando’s wrists.

“I’m sorry,” Lando said, but he didn’t look sorry at all. “But I miss you too much.”

Lando pulled Carlos down into a kiss, right in front of every prince in the empire. Carlos resisted—for about half a second, then he cupped Lando’s face like a goddamn romance novel love interest.

George’s mouth fell open, mirroring Pierre where he stood over Lando’s shoulder. George wasn’t used to seeing Lando like this up close. Even when he’d been married to Carlos, they kept their physical affection at a minimum in front of the cameras. Lando always said he didn’t like the display part of PDA, because Carlos wasn’t a trophy.

George and Pierre both looked at Charles at the same time, and George’s first thought was to thank God that Max was here to keep Charles from completely going off the deep end.

But Charles just stared ahead, the same bored look on his face.

Lando broke the kiss, fully confident and fully consumed in Carlos. George recognized the look in his eyes, and hurt clawed at him. He used to look at Alex the same way.

Carlos swallowed hard, clearly overcome. “You should not have—”

Lando’s grin widened before he kissed him again, cutting him off.

“Lando!” Pierre snapped, shoving him off. “What the fuck, mate?”

Lando stumbled, gripping onto Carlos for support. He didn’t look the least bit upset. He looked like he was on another planet.

“Pierre, it’s fine,” Charles said, bland. “Though, Carlos, you could at least pretend to be conflicted.”

Carlos certainly looked it to George. He couldn’t tell if Carlos was angry, embarrassed, or doped up on Lando endorphins.  Maybe all three.

“I’m telling you it’s fine,” Charles said calmly, still looking at Pierre. When he turned his gaze to Lando, his eyes didn’t change. “Lando, fuck off. You had your moment.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lando kissed Carlos’s cheek before finally releasing his shirt. “Thanks, Char.”

George didn’t know how to name the disgusting feeling that crept over him. The whole room was staring, and when he met eyes with Nic, Nic glanced to Charles and back, a silent question in his eyes. George shook his head minutely. I don’t know.

George wished he had the guts to kiss Lewis in front of everyone, even if it might ruin him. Lewis held his gaze for a beat before looking away, his face unreadable. George’s heart clenched, but he didn’t dwell on it.

“Oh stop staring,” Lando said to the room as he walked back toward his seat with a satisfied smirk. “It’s not like this is a surprise to any of you.”

Guilt finally registered on Carlos’s face as he turned around to face Charles.

“Charles, I didn't plan that.”

“It’s fine,” Charles sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“It’s not fucking fine,” Pierre snarled. Anger simmered in his eyes like it had in Azerbaijan, acidic pools of blue. “It’s not fine, Charles.”

“Pierre,” George said, trying to ease him down. “Let’s chill out, yeah?”

He stood up, passing in front of Charles to Pierre. He began to gently guide him away, before Pierre could decide to deck Carlos for the fun of it. 

“Don’t do this,” George whispered. “Not here.” He waited for Pierre to look at him. It took second, but he finally did. “Something is wrong with Charles, okay? You and I need to focus on figuring that out. Forget about Carlos and focus on that, okay?”

Carlos had his back to them, trying to talk to Charles, but Charles kept leaning away like he was drunk and Carlos was some creep trying to get his number.  

The FIA liaison stepped back into the room and immediately hurried toward him and Pierre.

“Don’t,” George warned when he felt Pierre tense.

“I’m not going to watch him get humiliated,” Pierre snapped. “I don’t care what I have to do. How the fuck is he supposed to keep going when shit like this keeps happening?”

“Take your seats, please,” the liaison demanded with a pasted-on smile. “Prince Pierre, you’re invited back to the hospitality lane. Prince Lando as well.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. George squeezed Pierre’s shoulder. The muscle underneath his hand was still rigid.

“Pierre,” he tried again.

Pierre shook his head. “No. Fine me if you want, I’m not leaving.”

George knew better than to try to stop him. He released his hold as Pierre pushed past him and marched right back over to Carlos.

“Move,” Pierre cut. He slapped his hand to Carlos’s shoulder with audible force. “I won’t ask again.”

Carlos straightened, nose-to-nose with Pierre. George wasn’t sure who would win that fight, they were so evenly matched in bulk. But he’d seen Pierre absolutely wreck a guy at a bar with three punches when they were fifteen, so he had his money on Pierre.

“You’re going to get all of us fines,” Carlos said evenly.

“Call Papa and tell him to get his checkbook ready, then,” Pierre spat.

All politeness vanished. Carlos looked like he might strangle Pierre right there in front of the world.

“Both of you, cut it out,” Charles muttered, still sitting in his chair. His limbs looked liquid, spilling out over the armrests, his feet bent inward at his ankles.

“Everyone back to your seats!” the liaison demanded, furious now.

George couldn’t take another fine. He couldn’t handle another situation like Portugal.

“Carlos, come on,” George said as he stepped in, resting a hand on Carlos’s shoulder. Okay, Pierre might be in trouble if Carlos threw a punch. Carlos had a lot of muscle back there.

For a moment it seemed like they were a breath away from the fight. Pierre’s glare seared into Carlos’s, and both men already had their hands in fists at their sides. George knew that Pierre’s competitive side veered well into dangerous, and he wouldn’t back down.

Thankfully, Carlos had always proven to be smarter in that regard. Carlos worked his jaw for a moment, then stepped back to his seat beside Nikita, was still texting.

The moment Carlos cleared away, Pierre crouched in front of Charles, scanning his face.

“Ça va, hm?” Pierre asked quietly, reaching up to ruffle Charles’s hair—but his ruffling was so gentle it was more like a strange caress. “Parlons, Char.”

“Pierre, tout va bien,” Charles said flatly. “And I really don’t need any more dramatics. I keep telling you I’m fine et tu n’écoutez pas.”

George pulled his seat closer to Charles before sitting down. The rest of the room had started talking again—tentatively—though Max was still standing next to his chair, watching. 

“J’écoute,” Pierre assured him. “But it doesn’t match what I’m seeing, Char.”

Charles lips twisted to a smile that made George’s blood go cold. It looked real. Everything about it said it was real, but it wasn’t. George could only think that this was what demon possession looked like, and it was freaking him the fuck out. The person sitting next to him was not Charles Leclerc.

“There,” Charles said, sounding exactly like himself. “How is this? Better? Will you leave me alone now?”

“Charles—”

“Je suis fatigué,” Charles interrupted, suddenly annoyed. “I don’t want to be here, but we have to be. I’ve been awake for the past twenty-three hours trying to solve problems, and so has Carlos. Once I sleep, I’ll be fucking fine.”

“Time to go,” George urged with a nod to Pierre. The FIA liaison had started tapping on her phone, either texting or dialing. Both bad options. “We all need sleep. Let’s chalk this up to that, yeah?”

Pierre chewed the inside of his cheek, unconvinced. George felt the same, but they couldn’t deal with this now, not with the FIA crawling all over the place.

“Get some rest, then,” Pierre said as he backed off. He elbowed Carlos on his retreat—not hard, thank god. “Make sure he actually sleeps, okay?”

Carlos had his head in his hands, but he nodded once.

“Prince Hamilton and Prince Verstappen, please report to the studio,” the loudspeaker announced.

George watched as Lewis left with Max, both of them talking quietly to each other. Max glanced back once, his gaze slipping from Charles and onto him. George shook his head. Ferrari was falling apart all around him. Max pursed his lips before turning back to Lewis and disappearing into the hall.

Daniel stood with Lando off to the side, talking hurriedly. He looked slightly better than a few minutes ago, but the exasperation was easy to read on his face. George pulled out his phone to text Nic.

something’s in the air.

He watched as Nic’s head bowed to read the text, and a moment later his phone buzzed in his hand.

mick said the same thing. he looked freaked just now.

about what? George asked, watching Charles out of the corner of his eye as he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

not sure, Nic replied. he was talking to seb in german.

any clues???

Nic turned around in his seat to give him a look.

sure. you got a translation for garb larbin wurschel schnitzel?

George sent an annoyed face emoji.

Nic replied with a smiley face surrounded by hearts.

“—said it wouldn’t be like this,” Carlos whispered where he’d turned around in his seat.

George pretended to text as he listened.

“I haven’t slept, Carlos,” Charles protested. “Puoi darmi un attimo di tregua? Per favore?”

“I’m not upset with you,” Carlos clarified, the anger gone from his eyes. “I’m worried. Penso che tu debba parlare con Luca.”

“I need to sleep.”

“Non farmi parlare con Mattia,” Carlos whispered, pained. “I’m not going to let you get in the car tomorrow if you’re still this way.”

Charles scrubbed his face with hands as George fiddled with his email app, pretending to look through the weekend schedule he already had memorized.

“Ho solo bisogno di dormire. If it’s still like this tomorrow, poi andrò.”

“Bene,” Carlos said, reaching out for him. He took Charles’s hand, but it seemed like a weak hold. “I’m sorry about Lando. And for how I reacted.”

Charles groaned and pulled his hand free. “Stop. I don’t care, Carlos. I really don’t fucking care right now. I just need to get through this so we can go back to the hotel.”

George swallowed hard, angry at himself for ever believing what was clearly a fake scenario in Baku. He used to be able to tell when Charles was faking things, but apparently that wasn’t the case anymore.

It hurt to see that a part of his life had been ripped from him without his consent.

“—good to finally have the two of you together,” the reporter on screen said to Max and Lewis. “Will we see a good fight this weekend?”

An awkward silence followed as Max and Lewis looked at each other before they both started snickering.

“Everyone’s just full of giggles today,” George muttered, still feeling utterly lost.

“I hope there will be a challenge,” Max said, finally taking over. “If we fight, we fight. But we race clean, and both of us will do our best.”

Lewis smiled beside him, and it looked real enough to pass for George.

“It’ll be a good race,” Lewis said. “It’s all about the team. Mercedes has been working hard to prepare the car, and Valtteri and I are more than ready to fight for that win.”

“Yes, and how are things in Red Bull and Mercedes?” the interviewer asked. “Rumors are still flying, as I’m sure you’re both aware.”

Max’s smile didn’t fade, but his eyes darkened. “As I said before, I think it’s all ridiculous. Checo and I have a fantastic relationship, and nothing has changed with my relationship with Charles.”

“Sounds a little vague,” Lewis said, his nose ring glinting in the light as he cocked his head.

Max’s smile disappeared. “Would you rather us discuss George? I’d like to see how vague you can be about that.”

Lewis laughed in a way that somehow lorded authority. “You must have only been watching the Ferrari press conference last week, then. I already discussed my relationship with George.”

“Oh right,” Max said sarcastically. “You’re already been vague about it.”

“Whatever, man,” Lewis chuckled. “If you wanna talk about Monaco, we can go there. I don’t have anything to hide.”

George’s heart lodged in his throat, cut on the knife edge of Lewis’s implication that Max definitely had something to bury. Max had no idea that he and Lewis had seen him in the courtyard with Daniel. George didn’t really give a fuck if Lewis exposed that, but if Max got caught in one lie about Monaco, the situation with Charles could crack wide open.

Lewis, please be smart.

Max turned his attention back to the interviewer. “Always trying to start gossip, isn’t he?”

“It’s not gossip if it’s true,” Lewis countered, leaning back in his chair.

“Hearsay, then,” Max said, rolling his eyes.

“Mm. Not if I saw it myself,” said Lewis. “But, you know, you can never be sure late at night in Monaco. Things happen in the strangest of places.”

“For fuck’s sake, shut up,” Daniel groaned loudly, gesturing at the TV as Lando put a hand on his arm and said something in a low voice.

Max smiled, all fangs. “Yes, they do, don’t they. Sometimes right in the middle of the street.”

George’s cheeks went red.

Lewis folded his hands in his lap, turning a cold stare to the interviewer. “Great. I think we’re done here, yeah?”

George’s mouth fell open for the second time that day. Lewis never admitted defeat, ever. Everyone else in the room stared at the screen as Lewis stood up from the chair, pulling off his mic without waiting for an answer. Max followed suit. The conspiratorial whispering was nowhere to be found as they exited the stage.

“Prince Tsunoda and Prince Ricciardo, please report to the studio,” the announcer said hurriedly over the speakers.

Daniel ruffled Lando’s curls before he stepped back and headed for the door. Lewis blew through first, not-so-accidentally shouldering Dan on the way by. Valtteri narrowed his eyes, and one jerk of Lewis’s chin had him rushing right over.

Max came through next, and the second the door shut, he had an arm around Dan. But Max’s eyes stayed locked on some distant point ahead, even as Dan tugged him in and brushed his lips against the crown of Max’s head on his way past. Yuki stumbled after them, head down, likely scared shitless—and George couldn’t blame him.

“What is the point,” Charles muttered beside him, watching the exchange.

George had to agree. Lando and Max were being absolutely stupid being so public. Just because they only had one FIA representative in the room didn’t mean these little incidents would go unnoticed. His phone buzzed.

i wanna go home, Nic texted. this is giving me the creeps.

agreed. i need to lay low, George replied, glancing over at him.

Nic read the text and nodded once.

“On doit seulement le faire croire au public,” Esteban said, finally piping up from behind them.

“Yes, but if every prince knows, how long until it’s not a secret to the public anymore?” Charles replied, and George assumed it was meant as a jab at Carlos because he said it in English.  

Sure enough, Carlos flinched in his seat.

George made a point not to look at Lewis as he fidgeted in his chair. He tried to be calm—after all, it wasn’t like it was any secret that he wanted a Mercedes crown. But an overeager prince could rub Toto the wrong way, and his appointment was far from confirmed. He hadn’t even spoken to Toto about it yet, and it was getting late in the season not to start those conversations.

He watched as Sebastian turned in his chair to speak to Mick, who leaned forward to hear him better. George flicked his gaze to Nic, who shook his head and mouthed, “German.

Great.

Why did Lando have to be an idiot? Now any balding blond could see a perfect entry point into Ferrari, they just had to catch Carlos and Lando in the act outside of this room.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him back, Carlos,” George said, propping his head on his hand.

“I hope that isn’t a threat,” came a voice from behind him.

George turned to see Fernando staring at him, eyes black. The back of George’s neck prickled with unease, but he didn’t cower. He’d stood up to a pissed off Lewis--he could handle Alonso.

“It’s not polite to listen in to other people’s conversations,” George said, narrowing his eyes.

Fernando leaned in, and a knowing smile crept to his face that made George regret opening his mouth. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

Chapter Text

“Today could have gone better,” Giorgio sighed as they stepped into the hotel elevator.

Charles let out a snort as he settled against the back wall, his eyes falling closed. Everything in him felt fuzzy, too warm, and dulled. A headache pounded at his temples, but he could hardly feel it. He couldn’t even register the rich colors of the elevator wallpaper or the striking red of Carlos’s polo in the low light.

Carlos hadn’t spoken much since his interview. Media day as a whole was a blur in Charles’s mind, rubbed raw by his exhaustion.

Their cars were not up to speed, literally. He’d spent every night that week next to Carlos, poring over data, trying new things out in the sim with all of the new adjustments. They couldn’t make time. Dozens of coffee cups littered the royal apartment back in Maranello, and their bed hadn’t been disturbed since Friday night, after Charles woke up from yet another night terror—this time of Max.

Sleep came in fleeting bursts, slumped over the dining room table or even in the simulator cockpit after a few dozen laps.

All for nothing.

“Today could have gone much worse,” Charles murmured. “I’d say it went better than expected.”

“I don’t think we instilled much confidence in the car,” Giorgio muttered.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to lie?” Charles returned.

He felt Carlos shift beside him where their arms rested against each other, but he kept quiet. Charles could feel the anger in him. Where Charles shut down when he was tired, Carlos continued burning his wick with frustration.

“You both need rest. I’ve cleared your schedules until Friday evening, so take your chance to recover tonight,” Giorgio said.

Charles’s throat went tight. He loved sleep, but now the thought of lying down in an unfamiliar bed made him start to sweat. He couldn’t even find comfort with Carlos because Carlos touching him pulled his nightmares into reality.

They arrived at their floor and Carlos took his hand before they stepped out of the elevator, lacing their fingers together. Charles kept his eyes closed for a few seconds as he followed, not ready to start functioning again.

“Grazie, Giorgio,” Charles murmured offhandedly when he realized he hadn’t responded.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow. Rest well,” Giorgio replied. Charles opened his eyes to catch his wave and waved back with his free hand.

“I think we shouldn’t do this,” Carlos finally said as he swiped the keycard into their suite. “If Lando hadn’t—” He cut himself off.

“If Lando hadn’t kissed you, it would still be dangerous,” Charles said as they dropped hands. He immediately headed for the bedroom, eyes heavy and itchy. He wanted out of his polo and into clothes that didn’t make him feel so trapped by his crown.

“He wasn’t supposed to do that,” Carlos said as he followed.

“You didn’t seem to mind,” Charles muttered, wiping his eyes. It didn’t help anything—it never did.

“I did mind,” Carlos snapped. “He put us all at risk.”

“Only if people talk,” Charles said, pulling his shirt over his head. “And nobody cares about Lando—no offense. There are bigger things going on. Like Max being absolutely stupid grabbing Dan like that.”

He decided on a Givenchy hoodie in hopes that the thick fabric would somehow remind him that he wasn’t getting strangled or torn apart on TV.

“You know as well as I do that even small things can cause big problems,” Carlos said as he tugged his polo off at the dresser beside him.

Charles tossed his polo on the floor and hopped out of his jeans and into a pair of silky basketball shorts. Having the afternoon off was starting to feel better and better.

“You need him,” Charles said, blunt with truth. “You need a break from this, and you need to get your focus back. Daniel already agreed to it, and we have plenty of leverage now if he decided to tell someone. And you know exactly who’s going to come running the second Lando leaves.”

He passed behind Carlos and back into the kitchen, where a welcome basket sat brimming with their favorite (healthy) snacks. Charles avoided it and headed for the living room.

“Are you going to sleep?” Carlos asked as he stepped into the threshold.

Fear licked at Charles’s heels where he stood in the middle of the room.

“On the couch, I think,” he said by way of answer. He had to at least try. “Is that going to be a problem?”

A knock at the door interrupted them before Carlos could answer. Charles glanced at his Richard Mille. Five minutes to spare.

Charles headed to the door while Carlos slipped back into the bedroom.

“Hey Char,” Lando greeted when he opened it, his face half-hidden in the shadow of a white hat and a black hoodie. His smile would make him recognizable anywhere, but incognito wasn’t really possible for princes to begin with.

“Glad you could make it,” Charles replied, trying to make himself sound pleasant.

He stepped back, allowing Lando inside. He glanced around the hallway to see if anyone might spot them, but the only person in the vicinity was Daniel, who nodded once before he disappeared into the open elevator doors.

At least one thing had gone right today.

“I brought popcorn,” Lando announced once Charles locked the door. “What are we watching?”

“Whatever you want,” Charles said, passing a hand over his face. “When’s Dan coming to get you?”

Probably not the best thing to ask a guest who had just arrived, but he wasn’t thinking straight.

Lando shrugged. “He said I should stay all night, but I think that’s because part of him wants me to get caught.”

“Or he wants more time with Max,” Charles muttered.

Lando frowned. “Nah, mate. Max said no.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “What?”

He’d assumed that the only reason Daniel agreed to this was because he had alternative rule-breaking plans. And Daniel only had those with one person.

“Yeah. Said it’s too dangerous,” Lando said. “I guess Checo saw the FIA camped out on their floor this morning, and Horner booked the whole floor for Alpha Tauri and Red Bull. Dan said he did it on purpose, to make sure he couldn’t see Max.”

There weren’t many acceptable hotel choices for royalty near Paul Ricard, so they were all mashed onto five floors. Some empires like Williams and Haas didn’t even get suites, just nice rooms. No one really seemed to mind though—it allowed for them to feel a little more relaxed, even if being in Le Castellet made Charles long for home.

“Fuck.” Charles shook his head. “I was hoping he’d be able to have some kind of consolation.”

Lando laughed as he pulled a plastic baggy of microwave popcorn from his hoodie. “I think he wants alone time. I ruin his vibe, or whatever. It’s not my fault he listens to shitty music on blast in my space.”

Charles smiled. He couldn’t really imagine Dan and Lando living together, but Lando seemed more grown up as he walked over to the microwave, so maybe Dan was actually a positive influence on him. Somehow. Lando didn’t seem nervous that he could be sanctioned for being here, though the threat was very real.

Charles had accepted the risk because Carlos truly needed the distraction before he started taking the car apart to try to find where speed had hidden itself inside.

It felt good to be able to give Carlos something he actually wanted. It also helped to ease the guilt for waking him up almost every night—back when they were actually sleeping in bed together and not passing out at the table.

“He’s in the bedroom,” Charles said with a nod toward the bedroom door.

“I figured,” Lando said, popping open the microwave. He put the popcorn bag inside and punched a button to start cooking it.  Land turned to face him and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I’m not just here to see him, you know.”

Charles laughed. “Sure.”

“You look terrible, mate,” Lando said quietly, his dark eyes softening. “You have since Monaco.”

Charles looked away. “It’s getting very annoying to hear how horrible I look every day.”

“Yeah, well, I know it’s partially my fucking fault,” Lando said, fussing with his sleeve. “I didn’t ask for this, you know? I hate feeling like you and I aren’t close anymore, because of this.”

Charles didn’t want to have this conversation with exhaustion so close at hand.

Popcorn started popping in the microwave, punctuating the silence.

“I can’t be like you,” Lando said, still not looking at him. “I can’t sit there and take it. And I get why you do that, because every time I do something, it bites me in the ass.”

“You’re still new to this,” Charles reminded him, finally finding it in him to speak. “Though yeah, some subtlety would be nice.”

Lando pulled off his cap and tossed it onto the counter, revealing his mess of curls. He looked older and younger at the same time with his sharpening jawline and baby-round cheeks.

“I get really angry,” Lando said quietly. “Seeing you and him. Seeing him happy with someone else. I wanted him to hate you.”

“It’s not everything it looks like,” Charles said.

“Yeah, it’s worse,” Lando chuckled. “He trusts you. You guys actually do things together, you’re a real team.” He gestured vaguely. “Daniel does his own thing and expects me to follow, even when I kick his ass every weekend. I thought he’d be used to it from Max, but I guess I was wrong.”

Charles opened his mouth to say that working well with Carlos didn’t mean they worked as a couple, but Carlos shuffled in from the bedroom before he could speak, wearing the same olive hoodie he’d worn in Florence—his only one, from what Charles had been able to tell from his brief trips to Carlos’s closet in search of a misplaced jacket or pair of shoes.

“Hey cabrón, “ Carlos greeted. He looked to be in physical pain at the sight of Lando in his kitchen.

A soft smile came to Lando’s lips, but he didn’t rush over like Charles expected him to.

“I deserve that today, huh,” Lando greeted. He opened his arms in a subtle invitation.

Carlos took it, of course. Charles averted his eyes as they embraced, focusing instead on the microwave as it dinged.

“Popcorn?” Carlos asked as Lando pulled away and turned his back to rest against him.

“Bella felpa,” Charles said instead of answering him.

Carlos glanced down at it. “Oh, grazie. I guess we all planned the same.”

Florence felt like a lifetime ago. The thought of Carlos holding him, of that kiss on top of the belltower—he couldn’t imagine how it would go now if they returned. Back then he thought maybe they could be something. Now he knew otherwise.

“We should start the movie,” Charles said. “Carlos, want to get the popcorn ready to serve?”

Carlos looked happy to be involved. He lifted a hand, swiping his thumb gently at Lando’s cheek before he moved past. Lando preened at the touch, then headed toward the living room, Charles in tow.

Lando visiting had been Charles’s idea. He thought of it one night when Carlos left for a run to blow off steam after a long session in the sim that accomplished nothing. Carlos could keep focus much longer than Charles could in the face of impossible math problems, and Charles didn’t know him well enough to snap him out of it in a helpful way. But he knew someone who could.

So far, it wasn’t as awkward as he’d anticipated.

Though he hadn’t hung out with Lando very often since becoming a prince, he fell into the familiarity of him as he crawled onto the couch. Lando rummaged up blankets from the storage ottoman—they all knew hotel rooms better than their own palaces at this point in their careers.

“What movie?” Lando asked as he tossed a few blankets at him.

Charles pulled his hood up and sank into the cushions. “You can pick. I’m going to try to sleep.”

“Carlos, what about The Bourne Identity?” Lando called.

“Sounds good to me,” Carlos said from the kitchen where he was pouring popcorn into a bowl.

The smell made Charles’s stomach churn. “Can you bring me a water?” he asked.

“Certo,” Carlos said, immediately opening the cupboard to grab a glass.

Lando hopped onto the couch, surprisingly close. He even rested against Charles’s side where he’d decided to take up the whole corner section, intending to give Carlos and Lando their space.

“Here.” Lando unfolded a blanket and threw it over him so they could share.

Charles cocked a brow where he had his cheek pressed into the couch cushion.

“You don’t have to play nice,” he murmured. “I know three’s a crowd.”

Lando shrugged. “Told you I’m not just here for him.”

Carlos stepped in with the popcorn and a glass of water that Charles gratefully took. As he leaned over Lando, he caught the familiar scent of, well, Lando.  He smelled slightly earthy, but in a comforting way that meshed well with the scent of laundry detergent. Charles instantly thought of nights in London, running under buzzing fluorescents as they raced to grab candy and snacks to take to the karting track the next day.

He sipped greedily from his glass just as his phone began to buzz with a call. Charles set the water aside to answer when he saw it was Luca.

“Dimmi,” Charles said, retreating back to his corner of the couch as Carlos and Lando discussed their own drinks.

“Carlos texted me,” Luca greeted in a reserved voice.

Charles glared at Carlos, but he didn’t notice. “Did he.”

“Yes. Evidently you were showing concerning behavior at the press conference.”

“I’ve explained to just about everyone that I’m exhausted.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Luca said. “But I’ve told you about what can happen when—”

“Well, I haven’t slept,” Charles snapped. “That isn’t exactly my fault.”

“Have you been eating?”

“Yes,” Charles lied. He’d eaten a few bites of an omelet before the flight, so really he wasn’t lying.

“Have you been hungry?” Luca tried, seeing right through his ruse.

Charles tugged the blanket a little higher on his chest as Carlos headed back into the kitchen. “No.”

“Okay, any feelings of anxiety, shakiness, or agitation?”

“Davvero?” Charles let out a laugh. “You do know I’m a prince, right?”

“Headaches? Have they gone away?”

Charles swallowed, trying to ignore the pounding in his temples still plaguing him. It was so commonplace now that he could ignore it most of the time. “No. Haven’t gone away.”

“I think you should see me before practice tomorrow,” Luca said.

“Absolutely not.” The last thing he needed was rumors starting about his health. “If I still feel the same, I’ll call you. Otherwise, no. Ciao, Luca.”

He hung up before Luca could respond.

“You texted Luca?” Charles asked as Carlos returned with two more glasses of water.

Carlos frowned. “I asked him to check in on you tonight.”

“Well he decided to do it now.”

“Who’s Luca?” Lando asked.

“No one,” Charles and Carlos answered at the same time.

Lando lifted his eyebrows. “Okay then, sorry I asked.”

Carlos handed Lando his glass of water and turned off the lights before he sat down on his other side. Charles tried to avoid looking at him, to avoid comparisons. They didn’t have time to watch movies together very often, but he remembered Spain, how it felt to have Carlos against his chest.

“Let’s watch,” Carlos said, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

Lando picked up the remote and started the movie. A stormy night on the sea began to play on screen and Charles settled into the couch a little more, but he could tell the angle was going to hurt his neck if he stayed in the same position for long.

His vision blurred with itchy heat as he tried to keep watching, but panic welled up in his throat every time he closed his eyes.

Sailors hauled Matt Damon out of the sea on screen as Charles adjusted himself against the cushions…then adjusted again a few minutes later when the boat’s medic started pulling bullets out of Matt’s back.

He moved a third time and Lando shifted too, though Charles didn’t realize it until he found himself with his head slotted against Lando’s chest.

“Sorry,” Charles muttered, only half awake. He moved to lean away, but Lando snuggled a little more against him.

“Just sleep, Char,” Lando said. His voice went soft, and Charles nearly choked on the memories that slammed into him all at once.

Lando howling with laughter, filmy lake water, Pierre taking a draw of a cigarette and immediately turning green. Max looking at him a little too long, before he realized what it meant.

His eyes continued to burn even as he closed them, slumped against Lando’s chest. He didn’t think he’d ever slept on him before—usually he wound up slung over Pierre after a night drinking or, later, with his nose pressed against Max’s sternum.

But it felt okay. Better than okay, really. Lando even draped an arm over his chest a few minutes in, and Charles fought and failed to stay awake when the steady beat of Lando’s heartbeat pulsed against his ear, accompanied by the quiet draw of his breathing.

 

*****

 

When Charles woke up, he knew he was dreaming. An empty field sprawled before him, crisscrossed by clotheslines. White sheets blew in the wind, carrying the scent of Lando’s laundry detergent. He caught glimpses of shadows he recognized—Pierre, Max, Lando, Alex, George—but no one said anything and he didn’t speak to anyone.

The only sound was flapping fabric and rustling grass, and for some reason it made him feel full up, like the world might not be his place anymore.

He curled his fingers into one of the sheets still damp from the wash. The fabric reminded him of flower petals. He gently pulled the cotton to his nose and inhaled.

It smelled like flowers, like greenery. Something lush.

When he opened his eyes, the sheet had changed to a bouquet of peace lilies. Their drooping stems created a waterfall of white and green that spilled out like the train of a wedding gown. White bulbs began to unfurl in the grass, pooling and growing, overwhelming him with their scent.

He blinked, and cathedral ceilings suddenly arched above him, the flowers gone. The church was empty, and he could tell it was morning. Dust filtered through the air where the sun knifed through stained glass windows.

An organ played, but it sounded like it was in a different room.

He knew this church.

“Te voilà enfin,” a voice said, soft as spring.

Sunlight dappled his fingers as he spread his palms in front of him.

Wake up.

 

*****

 

Charles opened his eyes to a dark room. Weight pressed against his ribs, and it took a moment for him to realize it was Lando using his hip as a pillow. Charles had apparently used Lando’s thigh as his.

He blinked a few times in an attempt to get his bearings. The TV had been turned off, and it was definitely dark outside, the afternoon gone. Sleep still tugged at him, but he did his best to ignore it.

“Carlos?” he whispered, a little lost. He remembered Lando sneaking in, but he didn’t remember much else. They were in…France. Right. The hotel.  

“Hm?” Lando shifted on top of him and Charles began to stretch out, still dazed.

“Oh,” Lando croaked. “We slept.”

They had. For Charles, it had been his first restful sleep since Baku. His first without a nightmare.

Charles carefully untangled himself from Lando and rubbed his eyes. “Wha’time is it?”

Lando glanced at his watch with a yawn. “Like 21:30.”

Fuck. He’s slept for almost six full hours.

Charles furrowed his brow. “Hey, shouldn’t you be back in your room by now?”

“Probably,” Lando said, his voice sticky with sleep. “Where’s Carlos?”

Charles looked around the room, like he might have missed a handsome Spaniard sitting somewhere in the vicinity. He grabbed his phone from the ottoman and saw two unread texts.

grabbing dinner. Forty two minutes ago, from Carlos.

difficulty with french. be back soon. Six minutes ago.  

“He’s getting dinner,” Charles said.

Lando’s face glowed blue above him as he squinted at his phone. “Shit. Daniel texted me two hours ago.”

He lifted his phone to his ear and Charles heard the sound of the line ringing.

“Dude, you could’ve given me a heads up that it was going to be this long,” Daniel said when he answered.

“Yeah, uh, I fell asleep,” Lando mumbled, rubbing his face with the butt of his palm. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I told Pete you were asleep. Guess I wasn’t lying.”

“Carlos is coming back with dinner. Think I can eat here or should I head up?”

“Think it’s safe to stay,” Dan replied. “Text me when you’re done and I’ll swing by. Remember, leave room for Jesus.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “Cheers.”

“Use protection, like I taught yo—”

Lando hung up, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

Charles smiled sleepily. “It’s fine.”

Fine. The soundtrack of his weekend so far.

“I think I’m going to go to bed,” Charles announced, getting to his feet. He ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers just to make sure he didn’t feel any more flower petals.

The front door opened before he could exit, and Carlos shouldered his way inside with a plastic bag full of food boxes.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Carlos greeted, blinking at them in the low light of the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Charles replied, running a hand though his hair. “I was just headed to bed, actually.”

Lando gently nudged him from behind before he slipped past. Carlos set the bag of food on the counter and put an arm around Lando when he pressed close to nose into his neck. Charles didn’t think they’d even kissed yet, but Lando looked completely content.

“Did something happen?” Carlos asked, uncertain.

Charles knew his face probably looked like it had, but it wasn’t because of a nightmare.

“No,” he said. “Just tired. You don’t have to save any food, I’m not hungry.”

Lando snuck a look at him, and Charles wanted so badly to hug him, just one time, just to thank him for keeping the horrible things from his head.

“See you tomorrow, Lando,” Charles said. The only gift he could give was to leave them be, and he knew it.

He gulped down his guilt—guilt for keeping Carlos from this for so long, for hoping Carlos would change his mind and only want him instead.

He made it three steps into the bedroom before someone caught his wrist.

“Merde, Carlos—”

But the arms that wrapped around him were too lean and came with the scent of London and summer and growing up.

Charles turned around and stuffed his face into the folds of Lando’s hood where it draped at his shoulders, hugging him back.

Stellar. That was the word Lando had used twice during his press conference.

I’ll say “stellar” if I get the all clear. Carlos will know.

He squeezed Lando a little tighter.

“Thanks for being here,” Charles whispered. He never expected to say those words and mean it.

“Always,” Lando blurted out, like he’d been holding back from saying it. “Sorry for being a shit friend.”

Charles pulled back. “You were being a prick,” he agreed, but a smile crept to his face. “But I think we were both caught up in the wrong things. And Carlos is a bit of an idiot, so he didn’t help.”

Lando laughed, his eyes crinkling a little. “Yeah, he is.”

Charles nodded toward Carlos where he waited in the kitchen, and it only hurt a little. He didn’t look at Carlos’s face. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Lando flashed a smirk. “Me? Never.”

Charles gave Lando a playful shove—maybe a bit harder than intended—and let him go. He saw Carlos in the corner of his eye, a familiar shadow, but he didn’t look at him before he closed the bedroom door.

He couldn’t find sleep again as he dozed on the bed, but it was better than the fear keeping him wide-eyed and restless.

He thought of Max, the anger in his eyes when he stood up in the waiting room earlier. The way Daniel looked physically ill, the way Sebastian watched it all with the same expression he’d slapped on for the remainder of his time at Ferrari, after Binotto informed him he wouldn’t be staying. He caught the anger in Sebastian’s eyes too, and the way he silenced Sergio with only a glance.

Charles was falling behind.

His chest filled with more guilt, because he hadn’t spoken so much as two words to Sebastian since Monaco. But seeing Lando and Carlos in the kitchen made him think maybe that needed to change.

Carlos came to bed just when dreams started dancing in the shadows of their dressers.

“Ehi,” Charles murmured, nuzzling his pillow as he rolled over to face his husband.

Carlos didn’t say anything as the mattress dipped with his weight. Charles blinked slowly when he felt Carlos pull up the covers to tuck him in.

“Are you leaving?” Charles asked, voice rough with drowsiness.

“No,” Carlos whispered. His lips were kiss-swollen—Charles could see the line of them in the fractured moonlight. “Just going to get dressed.”

“Wait,” Charles said, snaking a hand out from under the blanket to grab the hem of Carlos’s hoodie. “Don’t.”

Carlos waited a moment before he moved back down on the bed. Charles could feel the hesitancy in him even though he couldn’t see it clearly. Lando was gone. Now it was just them, alone in the dark.

He gently pushed Carlos onto his back until he could rest his head on his chest.

Carlos cleared his throat beneath him, rigid. “I thought you didn’t want me to—“

“I know,” Charles said, closing his eyes. “But tonight I do.”

Carlos finally relaxed. Charles nuzzled into his chest and listened. A slow, steady rhythm met his ear. Calm, collected. The Carlos he knew.

Then he breathed in the scent lingering on Carlos’s hoodie.

London, lake water, growing up.

When he dreamed he heard organs, and peace lilies fell from his hands.

Chapter Text

“He threatened me,” George said in a low voice. “He knows something.”

The French sunshine didn’t reach the space between the Mercedes hospitality motorhome and the Williams motorhome. He didn’t like stowing away in such a public place, but he had no choice. Nic was pissed for losing out on Q3 by two thousandths of a second, and George wanted to give him air, and he deserved the team’s full attention.

Lewis stared at the wall in front of him, chewing the inside of his cheek. He’d qualified second, and George knew he didn’t want to be talking right now, but this couldn’t wait.

“And what do you think he’d expose?” Lewis asked, finally looking at him.

George threw up his hands. “I don’t fucking know, Lewis!”

“Calm under pressure, George,” Lewis said evenly. “Alonso is getting under your skin. Did you see where he placed today?”

Fernando qualified seventh—ahead of Daniel’s McLaren. Not that placing in front of Ricciardo was that much of an accomplishment at this point.

“Two can play that game—is Max getting under your skin?” George hissed.  “He shut you down during the press conference.”

Lewis’s eyes hardened. “I was protecting you, George. It’s one thing to get photographed sharing a kiss and something else entirely to know we walked home together hand-in-hand.”

George couldn’t shake the fear that had coiled around his spine since media day. But the nature of winning didn’t allow for fear. So yes, he supposed that—in a way—Fernando was getting under his skin. Something was on the horizon though, George could feel it in his blood. A heat like fire in the next room over, growing, burning. Except no one seemed to want to do anything about it until it burned through the walls.  

“Fernando is protective,” Lewis explained, one foot resting against the Mercedes motorhome. He looked like he ought to have a cigarette in his mouth, but ihe was left with the sleeves of a classy Tommy Hilfiger jacket to mouth instead.  “He’s always made it very clear that he’s going to protect Carlos. I personally think he would even sacrifice Ocon to do that.”

“Of course he’d sacrifice Ocon,” George said with a snort. “You can’t even compare the two.”

Lewis smirked. “I guess. But Ocon is malleable because he’s vulnerable. Sainz is established, and that makes him resistant to change.”

George rolled his eyes. Carlos and Fernando talked after every race, and Carlos always stared at him like his word was gospel.

“Esteban will be with Alpine for years,” George said. “Someone thinks he’s a good investment.”

“He is, for Alpine,” Lewis agreed with a shrug. “They can turn him into whatever they want. He’ll never be a champion, but he’ll be the face of the empire. For an empire like that, sometimes that’s more valuable than a winner.”

“I’d rather be a champion and the face of my empire,” George said. “Like you.”

Lewis smiled, but his eyes were somewhere else. “You have to sacrifice things if you want that.”

“Like what?” George asked, allowing his voice to drop a little as he stepped closer. Approaching Lewis still felt like stepping out of place when they weren’t in the safety of Lewis’s motorhome.

“Relationships,” Lewis replied, closing his eyes as their foreheads rested together. “Trust in people. You always think people are like you, and that’s what messes you up.”

“Do you trust me?” George asked, genuinely curious.

“I’m starting to,” Lewis replied, ever pragmatic.

George didn’t take offense. Lewis wasn’t the kind of person to give out trust, especially not to a prince with only a few years of experience. It went both ways—George still couldn’t confidently say Lewis would go out on a limb for him if it meant damaging himself.

“I should get back,” Lewis sighed. “I can’t be gone too long. We have a lot of work to do before tomorrow.”

They kissed, but George could taste that Lewis was still in the car, not at all focused on the world outside of it. He understood.

“I’ll see you soon,” George said, because putting a timeline on it didn’t seem helpful, since it never worked out.  

He watched as Lewis snuck out of their hiding place and tried his best not to think about his promise to help Alex, because George had known those words weren’t a foothold the second they left Lewis’s mouth.

He waited almost a full minute before stepping out from the shadow of the motorhomes. The sun kissed his forehead as he exited, the same way Alex used to greet him in the morning after a long night out.

He missed Alex like hell. Almost seeing him in Baku opened a chasm in him he didn’t know how to bridge.

The Williams garage looked too empty for Nic to be done with what had to be a painful debrief, so George continued on down the hospitality lane. Media crews still hovered outside of Red Bull, where Max stood with his arms crossed as he spoke to reporters and Checo looked as furious as he had during the press conference, though this time George knew why he was angry—P4 never felt good in a Red Bull.

“George Russell, alone? I don’t believe it.”

George wheeled around to see Mick jogging up, handsome and charming as ever. His eyes were the color of the clear sky behind him, and his hair lived up to its spun gold description. George wondered what it felt like to walk around being so conventionally handsome all the time. Especially when Mick was married to a husband who looked like someone read a Mick Schumacher recipe and fucked up every step.

“Two races you’ve caught me,” George replied with an easy smile. “Must be a record.”

“Shouldn’t be,” Mick said, bumping into his shoulder. “But hey—some media day, huh? Jeeze, talk about trapped.”

George honestly wondered if Mick was just some 50’s TV character stuck in the wrong dimension, except Mick actually respected women.

“Do you know what happened up there?” George asked as they weaved through a cluster of McLaren staff. He spotted Lando leaned up against the motorhome with Daniel, talking something over that had them both smiling.

“I was hoping you might know,” Mick said. “Sebastian was asking Lewis questions about you.”

George couldn’t hide his surprise. “What? What kind of questions?”

Mick shrugged. “To be very honest, I was speaking to Nicholas at the time. Seb asked Lewis about if he planned to do anything with you. Lewis said…” He trailed off, frowning. “Maybe I shouldn’t gossip.”

George rolled his eyes. If Sebastian was training Mick to be his little spy or something, he had a lot of work to do.

“We live by gossip, Mick,” George reminded him. “Might as well say it.”

Mick’s frown deepened. “Well, Lewis said he had no plans with you because he didn’t have time for interruptions.”

George didn’t even blink. Valtteri had been sitting right by Lewis at the time, and Lewis didn’t need half the grid to know about their relationship when they’d already put out the Monaco flames.

“Don’t see why that would get Sergio and Daniel pissed off,” George said.

Mick waved to a few fans stuck behind temporary fencing. George offered a smile but diverted Mick away from them. He didn’t feel like signing any damn posters.

“I know you know more than what you’re saying,” George said. “I really don’t get why you’re protecting Sebastian. The guy isn’t trustworthy, Mick.”

“I trust him,” Mick countered. “I’ve told you before, he is very close with my family. He’s not—” He took a breath. “He isn’t what Lewis is making him out to be.”

George let out a snort. “Look, I get why you trust him. I can’t see Sebastian ever turning on you. But just because he protects you doesn’t mean he doesn’t completely fuck over other people. I mean, just look at what he did to Charles. What he’s doing to Lance.”

Mick sighed. “There are a lot of things you don’t understand.”

“So you recognize that Sebastian is a complete dick?”

“He isn’t.” Mick made a vague gesture, rolling his hand through the air. “It’s like a urinal cake.”

George made a face. “What?”

Mick laughed, all sunshine and fucking rainbows. “A urinal cake. The things they put in—”

“I know what a urinal cake is.”

Mick laughed again. “Okay, well, when I was a child, my dad took me into the restroom with him—I don’t remember this, but my mum says it happened.”

George didn’t miss the pain that leapt to Mick’s eyes, and remembered why he hated talking to him now. He didn’t see how he was supposed to step in front of Mick’s dreams when he saw that kind of anguish lingering just beneath the surface of his seawater blues.

“Apparently,” Mick said, “all I wanted was to eat the urinal cake. It must have looked tasty—I kind of remember that part. It was blue, so I probably thought it was a candy. But my dad wouldn’t let me have it. I was so upset. I cried and screamed and he still wouldn’t give it to me, because he knew what it really was, and I didn’t. But I wanted it so bad.”

“Nice metaphor, but Sebastian is still lying to Lance at the very least—”

“You don’t know that,” Mick interrupted.

George shut his mouth, opened it again. “What, so Lance knows Sebastian’s still pining after Charles or whatever?”

He didn’t really know what the hell Charles was doing with all of the men in his life.  He still hadn’t unpacked all of the shit he’d heard and seen with Carlos at the press conference.

“Lance understands he’s temporary, yes,” Mick said, looking uncomfortable. “But that doesn’t mean Sebastian doesn’t care about him. I’m sure Lewis is similar—world champions see all of this differently. A temporary marriage can still be happy. Like what Lewis said in Baku. It’s a partnership.”

Lance didn’t seem like he thought it was just a partnership. George gave Mick a dubious look.

“A partnership doesn’t have to be strictly professional,” Mick continued. “You’re allowed to be happy, find happiness in someone else. For some princes, that means helping your husband see who he really loves. For others, it’s finding happiness together, only under the crown. The goal is to have the best leadership—the most wins, the best functioning government.”

“Says the rookie,” George teased, but it was fond. “But we’re sidestepping the question. What made Daniel get so pissed?”

Mick shook his head, his blond hair catching the sun like God had designed for it to be an earthly halo. “Sebastian was explaining that interruptions can be good. Lewis disagreed. He said that it scatters focus. That it creates too many connections, a web. Did you know that spiders can get stuck in their own webs?”

George guided Mick away from a mass of FIA officials, who watched them carefully as they walked by. George smiled pleasantly, delighting in their scowls.

“I didn’t know that,” he finally replied once they were in the clear.

“Yeah, they make certain parts of the web sticky, and leave a path they can walk on that isn’t sticky,” Mick explained.

“Huh. Guess I should have paid attention in science class.”

Mick smiled wryly. “Or ask Lewis—he’s the one who said it. He said a distraction could make the spider forget where it made its path. Then Sebastian said one string, no matter how strong, can’t trap anything. But with a web, all a spider has to do is wait.”

“God, they love symbolism, don’t they?” George muttered. World champions always talked like that. From encoded messages in press conferences, to double meaning metaphors about spiders and webs.

Of course Sebastian considered himself a spider. The description of an eight-legged, eight-eyed insect suited him. Add a forked tongue, and they would really have a clear picture.

“Then they started talking about mazes, and I kind of zoned out,” Mick admitted. “Something about cheese and walls and repetition. But whatever they said—that’s what got Daniel angry.”

“Something about mazes?” George asked.

Mick shrugged. “I guess. And then Lewis mentioned something about Daniel and a yacht.”

George’s blood went cold. “What about a yacht?”

Mick frowned. “He said Daniel seemed to enjoy the view from the lower deck. That’s when Daniel stood up.”

Lewis had to be talking about when they spotted Daniel and Carlos talking in Monaco. But Lewis hadn’t actually heard the conversation, only what George could remember to retell him later. Maybe that part didn’t matter.

Mick nudged him. “Hey, who’s that with Charles?”

George followed his gaze to Charles walking quickly down the empty hospitality lane, eyes shaded by impenetrable Ray-Bans. A man walked beside him and all George could think was that the guy looked like he belonged in seedy pub singing cover songs. He had shoulder length blond hair tied back in a low ponytail, an unbuttoned waistcoat and a decidedly Italian button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.  

“No clue,” George muttered, mostly to himself. The guy also had a pair of Ray-Bans and an official Ferrari lanyard, so George could confidently say Charles wasn’t getting kidnapped to be forced into EuroVision with Mr. Waistcoat.

Both men disappeared into an unmarked hospitality suite.

“I’ll catch you later, Mick,” George said, heading toward it.

Mick shook his head and fell into step beside him. “Yeah right. I’m coming too.”

George froze for a second and almost considered abandoning his plan. But if Mick found out what Charles was doing and he didn’t, it would give Mick an advantage George couldn’t afford for him to have.

So they walked together into the suite.

It was set up like a sleek modern office with weirdly-shaped furniture and a curving glass reception desk. Much like Lewis’s motorhome, it looked much bigger on the inside—except this suite was evidently attached to the existing track structure.

The receptionist blinked at them.

“Prince Russell? Prince Schumacher? Can I help you?”

George caught the flash of one of Charles’s red racing boots as it disappeared around the corner in the hallway behind her.  

“Um, yes,” George said. “I need to show Mick something in the back.” He nodded toward the hallway.

The receptionist swiveled in her chair to look down the hall. “You—Do you have an appointment?”

“I need an appointment?” George asked.

“Yes, Your Highness,” the receptionist replied. Her lipstick spread thin on her false smile. She clearly thought they were entitled dickheads. George couldn’t really blame her, given how terribly they were playing this.

“Ah, you’re right,” Mick said. “Gunther said he booked me. I believe I’m late.”

The receptionist blinked at him, her eyes narrowing. “No, you don’t have an appointment, Your Highness. Any visits to the medical suite are coordinated between empires and the FIA on a case-by-case basis.”

“This is the medical—?”

Mick threw an arm around George’s shoulders and hauled him in, effectively cutting him off. Mick flashed his most princely smile and George watched the woman’s resolve slip away like Hell’s fire in the face of God.

“Not a medical appointment,” Mick said gently, using a voice George had never heard before—probably because it could convince forest animals to start talking. “But confidential all the same. Mercedes business—Gunther said there would be a secure room to use here.”

“Your Highness, I can’t—”

“Just two minutes at the end of the hall?” Mick asked. “I’m sorry to ask, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but it’s important.”

The receptionist pursed her lips. “Fine, but stay in sight. I don’t want to get fired.”

Mick winked at her and George swore he saw fireworks explode behind the woman’s eyes.

Mick kept his arm around him as they walked down the hall and every step reminded George of how dangerous this could be if they were caught. Walking the hospitality lane in plain sight didn’t catch any eyes, but the medical suite had implications far beyond tabloids. Stories from the medical suite almost always sparked concerns about a prince’s capability to lead. Being spotted inside could mean a death sentence.

So why the fuck was Charles strolling in with some stranger? And where was Carlos?

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” George said quietly as they passed empty exam rooms.

“Shh.” Mick shook his head minutely. “I just want to make sure Charles is okay.”

George knew that was a goddamn lie. Mick wanted to know if his seat was any closer.

“There’s always only one hall with no exit out of the back,” Mick whispered. “So Charles must be in the last one on the right.”

George was starting to feel like the rookie here.

Privacy curtains served as doors, but only one was completely closed—the last one on the right, just as Mick predicted.

They carefully arranged themselves in place. Mick kept his back to reception and George rested his side against the wall closest to the curtain. Guilt began to swallow him up from the inside, but he stuffed it down. He had to do this to protect Charles.

“—begin during the off season,” a voice said in some kind of Yorkshire hybrid accent.  

“I understand that,” another voice said, and George assumed it was Mr. Waistcoat, because he sounded Italian. “But we received special approval directly from Masi in order to prevent any further—”

“I understand the conditions for the approval,” Yorkshire said. “But we received a report from within your own empire that things have not improved. That, in fact, they may be worsening.”

“Carlos?” Charles asked, incredulous.

“Anonymous reports are just that,” Yorkshire said indignantly.

“It hasn’t been affecting my ability to drive,” Charles said, using the same voice he pulled out in royal decrees and important interviews. “I think today showed that quite clearly.”

“This time,” Yorkshire countered. “But we need to be completely sure this is not impeding your capabilities behind the wheel.”

“As his appointed physician, I think I’m qualified to make my own judgement,” Mr. Waistcoat said.

“Qualified, yes. But the FIA always has the final decision making power, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Yorkshire said, dripping with condescension. “Ferrari has proved more than once that the win is more important than doing the right thing.”

Mick went still. George glanced up at him, jarred by the fury in his eyes.

“I’m here in good faith,” Charles growled. “If you want to do tests, do tests.”

“It hasn’t come to that yet,” Yorkshire said, and now George had no doubt he was an FIA medical steward. Probably one of the stuffy executive ones, if he had to guess. “But it hasn’t escaped our notice that you’re an increasing liability the longer these…symptoms persist.”

“Oh please,” Mr. Waistcoat scoffed. “Symptoms? Do you even have a medical degree? It takes weeks to—"

“Luca, tranquillo,” Charles interrupted. “I disagree, but I understand. We’ll adjust. If the FIA wants to be more involved, fine. But I won’t be threatened when absolutely nothing has happened to suggest I’m putting anyone at risk other than myself.”

“Putting yourself at risk puts everyone on track at risk,” Yorkshire snapped. Every FIA official sounded exactly the same: like they had a six-foot pike shoved up their ass.

“I would love to see Massi try to argue that I’m a bigger risk than Mazepin. Truly.”

George’s lips quirked in the beginnings of a laugh he quickly silenced. Nice, Char.

“Well, this was completely pointless,” Mr. Waistcoat—Luca, apparently—said. “We’re going.”

“Shit!” Mick and George whispered at the same time.

George glanced around, but there was no way in hell they could run the length of the hallway in time without being caught. George shoved Mick backward, pointing at the unoccupied exam room just behind him.

“The medical review board has asked that you increase the frequency of assessments,” Yorkshire said. “Detailed reports three times a week during race weeks, five days a week for off weeks.”

“You can’t be serious,” Charles said with a disbelieving chuckle.

Mick backed into the exam room and George kept an eye on the curtain as he followed, carefully pulling toward them.

“Easy!” Mick hissed when an awful scratching noise sounded above them. George flinched, but kept moving the curtain until there was only a slit to peek though.

“The point of this is to be discrete,” Charles snapped, only slightly muffled. Leave it to the FIA to install paper thin walls in the most vulnerable building on track. Classic.

“Three people know about this outside of the FIA,” Luca tacked on. “Two of them are in this room.”

“That isn’t my problem,” Yorkshire said pleasantly. “Fail to provide reports and we will have no choice but to redact our decision.”

“And what if someone finds out?” Charles asked, panic leaking into his voice. “If the public finds out?”

“Again, not my concern.”

“Charles, we’ll handle it,” Luca said tartly. “Thank you for your time.”

“Yes, thank—”

George made a strangled noise as Mick grabbed his collar and hauled him backward with impressive force as they heard the curtain of Charles’s exam room swish open. He slid his hand over his mouth to keep from coughing, but his eyes were watering from the fabric digging into his neck.

He caught a flash of red as Charles walked past the closed curtain and suddenly realized that—had he stayed in place—his feet would have been clearly visible underneath the damn thing. God, Lewis would have skinned him alive if he’d been here to witness that.

“This is Carlos,” Charles spat, furious, his voice fading as he walked away down the hall. He said something about Mattia, but George didn’t understand the Italian around it.

The FIA medical steward shuffled down the hall a moment later, humming to himself.

George jerked as a cough tried to escape his throat. He shot a glare at Mick—

Who was wide-eyed beside him, hands over his mouth.

Both hands.

George’s blood ran cold.

The grip tightened at the back of his neck, truly choking him as he fought not to make any noise. Mick sputtered beside him, an odd sound leaving his lips that he tried hard to stifle.

“Of course it’s you two,” a voice said, so close that George could hear the rumble of it through the back of his neck.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

“Always making trouble for the rest of us.”

Mick stumbled forward as he was released, eyes wide. George tumbled after him, clutching his throat as he fought for air, a war between fear and physical pain.

Mick felt at his collar beside him and they both noticed at the same time that Mick’s necklace was missing.

Then George caught the movement of the silver pendant swinging from Kimi Räikkönen’s closed fist.

Kimi’s unnervingly light eyes cut through both of them as he seethed in front of them. George had never seen Kimi truly angry at anyone, not even the press he hated so much. It scared the living shit out of him.

“There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed,” Kimi snapped, but he had his gaze set on Mick.

Mick seemed to shrink into nothing. “We weren’t trying to—”

“You could have left. You stayed,” Kimi scolded, silencing him.

“You stayed too,” George shot back, his voice mottled as his throat tried to find shape again.

“Shut up,” Kimi said, turning his eyes on George. “I’m supposed to be here. And I don’t need to listen to stupid conversations about Ferrari. I don’t give a fuck about Ferrari.”

“Prince Schumacher?” The receptionist’s voice carried through the hall. “Prince Russell?”

Fuck.

George looked at Mick, but Mick sat paralyzed, totally focused on his necklace still in Kimi’s hand. Fear had swallowed up his usual angelic demeanor, leaving him unnervingly mortal. His golden hair suddenly looked brittle and pale and his deep blue eyes had turned grey.

“Kimi, please,” Mick whispered. “Please give it back.”

“We have to go, Mick.” George curled his fingers around Mick’s wrist. Mick didn’t budge. George frowned, looking toward the curtain. “We’re coming!”

“I was as young as you both when I was given my crown,” Kimi said in a low voice. George wasn’t used to hearing him talk in a tone that wasn’t an attempt to get cameras to leave him alone. “These things they tell you are important—they are not worth it.”

Kimi turned his palm and held the necklace out to Mick. George noticed for the first time that the pendant wasn’t entirely silver, the center of the quatrefoil contained a white-gold starburst that Mick thumbed over, his eyes still drained of color.

“All I will tell you is that if you plan to stay, you have to focus on a championship,” Kimi said. “The faster you are champion the less they can do to kill you.”

George flinched as Kimi’s hand shot out—but he only ruffled Mick’s hair affectionately.

Right, Kimi used to be close with Michael. Maybe still was.

“You still have things to protect, yes?” Kimi asked.

His softer tone was somehow more disturbing than his angry one.

Mick nodded once, on the verge of tears.

“Leave the stupid games to the stupid,” Kimi said, looking pointedly at George, who soured.

“Thanks, Kimi,” George muttered.

Kimi didn’t smile—he never smiled—but his lips did turn up a little at the corners.

“Don’t thank someone for calling you stupid,” Kimi supplied helpfully.

George shot him a look before he pulled Mick out of the room.

“Oh, there you are!” the receptionist gasped from her spot at her desk. “I thought you guys had run away or something.”

“Just needed some privacy,” George replied, rubbing at his neck where his skin still burned. He put an arm around Mick’s shoulder, returning the favor from earlier. Mick still hadn’t looked up from the necklace. “Someone gets a little emotional talking about Mercedes.”

Not the best thing he could have said, he realized, but Mick didn’t seem to be listening anyway.

George waited until they were back outside to turn to him.

“Hey, what’s going on? I’m not saying anything about this to anyone, okay?”

Whatever was going on with Charles had to stay a secret, but George felt the walls closing in already. Luca had said only three people knew what was going on, outside of the FIA. The number had just doubled, even if they didn’t have all of the details.

Carlos was a liability, Mick was worse, but George didn’t even know how to tabulate the risk Kimi posed. He had no idea how to approach stopping the one guy on the grid who said being a prince was nothing more than a hobby.

Mick finally looked up, still turning the necklace in his fingers. “Me either. We should have left. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, I’m the stupid one, not you,” George teased gently. The pendant glimmered in the sun, throwing light into the starburst to make it glow bright against Mick’s palm. “That’s special to you, huh?”

Mick closed his hand and put the necklace in his pocket.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. The light still hadn’t returned to his eyes. “It’s my dad’s.”

Chapter 41

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Charles could still taste pills in his mouth as he slammed the door of his Ferrari Stradale SF90. The smell of hand-stitched calfskin welcomed him home, but he couldn’t appreciate the car when his entire life was now in Carlos’s hands. And he knew that meant it wouldn’t stay a secret for very much longer.

So he screamed at the dashboard. A full-on shout of pure fury that tore his vocal chords and didn’t breach the soundproof interior.

Mattia had assured him no one would know. They took every precaution, thought of every possible way to ensure Carlos never found out. Jean Todt, the head of the FIA, even called Mattia personally to reiterate how seriously they were taking this, how they would never allow a leak.

Charles struck the steering wheel with the heels of his palms, his lungs burning in the aftermath of his outburst.

Even following orders hadn’t stopped the worst from happening. Carlos knew, and he’d reported it to the FIA, which was probably just a polite warning to Charles to prepare for the end of his time as a prince.

Maybe Lando knew too. Maybe that was why he’d been so kind when he visited—so normal. Softening the blow, petting the lamb on its way to slaughter.

The car unlocked just as Charles thunked his forehead to the curve of the steering wheel.

Carlos opened the door in a hurry, and Charles heard him breathing hard from running down the hospitality lane to catch up to him.

“Hey, hey—Charles, what is going on?”

Carlos put a hand on his arm and Charles wrenched away from the touch with all of the force he could muster.

“Sit the fuck down,” Charles snapped. He stomped on the gas with his other foot still on the brake and the car yowled awake, startling the Ferrari staff clustered nearby.

Carlos buckled his seat belt, but said nothing. He seemed to recognize this was not the time to pretend to fuss over him.

The tires squealed as Charles rocketed them backward out of the parking spot, and the rubber smoked when he floored it away from the track. The Stradale purred under his hands as he blew past security checks and narrowly avoided hitting people trying to cross the road. He didn’t care. Let the FIA watch him and see how he could handle a goddamn car.

As soon as they hit the main road, Charles let it rip. The engine roared in approval as they blasted down the straight, weaving around civilian traffic at a breakneck pace. He kept his eyes dead set on the road ahead, flicking his way up the gears as Carlos pressed back into his seat beside him.

“Are we going to ta—”

“Shut up,” Charles cut, slipping around the side of a bumbling van. The compression of his ribs from the G forces soothed him back into a feeling of control.

They barreled toward a kink in the road and Charles simultaneously calculated his latest braking point while anticipating oncoming traffic. He gripped the wheel tighter on the approach, trying to will the horsepower up through his fingers.

He tapered pressure on the brake, riding the sensitivity of the Ferrari with a lighter touch than he needed to—he was too used to the punch braking of their race cars to trust himself to put the right amount of force behind his foot so soon after driving on track.

Charles clocked the apex of the turn while still on the straight, then lifted his foot off the brake in the same millisecond he turned the wheel. They hung suspended in first as they cut into the turn, slicing past an oncoming truck that blared its horn at them on the way past.

Charles picked up second gear before turning again, taking another ninety-degree corner to the left, pointing them straight at the mountains.

“Ci ucciderai,” Carlos hissed.

“I’m a better driver than that,” Charles replied through gritted teeth, stomping on the gas again. The rear tires wiggled slightly against the cooler asphalt, but he held the wheel steady.

He kept a tight line as they seared past Le Castellet Park, dodging empire vehicles, civilian cars, and even a few police officers who knew better than to go after a Ferrari on the weekend of the French Grand Prix.

Driving a car was like riding a horse—each one had a different personality, even if it was the same breed. This Stradale had a stickier brake than the last one he’d driven, and didn’t shift as smoothly. The steering was fluid though, and the engine didn’t strain even as they pushed altitude and drove uphill.

Charles knew Le Castellet from racing at the circuit during his time in the lower courts. As a child, the Paul Ricard track meant a big race—a real race. As a teenager, he’d found all of the nooks and crannies in the mountains where he knew they wouldn’t be found.

The grassy hills browned outside of the window, and rocky earth began to punctuate the countryside as they wound up the hills. Carlos stayed quiet in the passenger seat, looking at him and not at the approaching cliffs.

Luca had called it a preventative measure. A way to stop feeling like his life was leaking out of him like blood from an open wound. A solution conveniently offered at his lowest point since—

Since many things. But age made him softer, even though he knew he wasn’t old.

He wasn’t old, but he still couldn’t handle his own life.

Charles pumped the brake then kicked up the throttle as they veered off of the tarmac and onto a dusty road. Gravel flew from the tires as they navigated the twists and turns of the mountain path, and ferns brushed the sides of the Ferrari with each one.

When they passed the remains of a signpost, Charles hit the brakes hard, throwing both of them forward. Carlos closed his eyes beside him as he hung from the seatbelt, relaxing himself instead of tensing, like they were trained to do when they expected an impact.

Charles jammed the car into park and killed the engine.

The craggy mountainside of Le Castellet opened up before them, giving them a view of the Mediterranean beyond. A few clouds dotted the sky, but otherwise it was a perfect summer afternoon.  

“I don’t know when you found out,” Charles began, cutting through the silence. “But I know you told the FIA I was getting worse. And I need to know who else you told.”

Carlos unbuckled his seatbelt. “Charles, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Charles shouted, slamming his hand against the steering wheel again.  Carlos jumped and lifted an arm to defend himself from a strike that didn’t come.

“I think we should get out of the car,” Carlos said after a moment, after his hands had returned to his lap.

Charles curled his fingers around the wheel. “Tell me how you found out first.”

“I didn’t find out anything,” Carlos said, staring out of the dashboard window. “I woke up to it every night. First it was tossing and turning, then it was you screaming with your mouth closed. Then the dreams didn’t end even after you woke up.”

“I’m not talking about the nightmares and you fucking know it,” said Charles, forcing the door open to get out of the car before he decided to drive it off of the cliff with both of them in it.

He took a seat on the wheel well near the hood. A cardinal sin for everyone but a Ferrari prince.

“Were you in my stuff?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“No,” Carlos said as he rounded the front of the car and came to a stop a few paces in front of him.

“So Luca told you, then.”

“No,” Carlos repeated, watching him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. “When I talked to Luca it was only to tell him that I thought you were getting sick.”

“I already am sick!” Charles snapped, eyes igniting. “That’s the whole fucking point of the pills!”

Carlos went still. He wasn’t moving much to begin with, but Charles noticed the way his entire body quieted all at once.

“Pills?” Carlos asked quietly.

Several things became immediately clear. One, that Charles was an idiot. Two, that he’d actually been very smart until this exact second. Three, he had just jumped headfirst into his own grave.

Charles turned his face away and closed his eyes. He had to find a way to salvage this, but much like during his phone conversation with Max, his brain seemed to move in slow motion, drained by the headache his blood thinners hadn’t yet vanquished.

“Who else did you tell, Carlos?” he asked, quieting the anger in his voice.

Carlos didn’t reply. Charles kept his gaze firmly planted on a section of mountain to his left.

“Mattia asked me how I felt about you,” Carlos finally said. “If things were improving. He seemed to think we were not getting along.”

“Fairly accurate, I think,” Charles muttered.

“That isn’t how I felt.”

Charles shot him a look.

Carlos’s frowned deepened. “Non lo è. This was after our discussion when we returned from Monaco.”

“Our agreement, vuoi dire.”

Hurt flashed in Carlos’s eyes. “Sure. I told him I was happy with the decisions we made, perché ero."

Charles’s lips twitched into a half smile. “You were just happy to have Lando back.”

“No,” Carlos said firmly. “I never lost Lando. I did lose you, but that was your decision. I thought this was what you wanted?”

Charles blinked slowly. “We’ve been tolerating each other since Monaco.”

“Tolerating?” Carlos let out a snort. “You are closing your eyes to your own world.”

Charles’s heart hardened in his chest, buffeting the insult.

“There,” Charles said bitterly. “That doesn’t sound like getting along does—”

“Are you dying?” Carlos asked, suddenly serious.

It took a minute for Charles to connect that Carlos was talking about the sickness and not making a joke.

“No,” he said. A part of him wanted to make the joke that they were all dying, but he had long since learned not to toy with the idea of terminal illness.

A dark thing in him shifted. He took a breath to still it again.

“Monaco was the last straw,” Charles explained quietly. “After the meeting where Binotto essentially told the government I was unfit for the crown, I met with him privately.”

He picked at the crook of his arm, staring past Carlos to the wisps of seafoam in the waves in the bowl of the valley beyond. The wind chilled him in his Ferrari polo, but he didn’t allow himself to shiver.

“After that meeting, Mattia spoke to the FIA, about approving me for—”

He swallowed hard, fighting not to let the words leave his throat.

“About approving me for antidepressants. They did, obviously. So every day, Luca makes me take a pill. Ecco perché lo vedo ogni giorno prima di allenarmi—the headaches are because of the pills. I have just about every side effect because our schedule is so erratic.”

The wind carried his words away, but not far enough. The wind couldn’t hide his shame, or the cold and ugly fear that settled in his gut.

Carlos pinched the bridge of his nose. Charles didn’t hear his exhale, but he saw it in the way Carlos’s shoulders dropped.

People always talked about love as some magical, unstoppable thing. Charles saw it differently. One hairline fracture to a support beam could topple even the most impressive structure. And it would  collapse just as fast as a slapped together façade—the only difference was the amount of rubble left behind.

“Luca says the side effects should go away by Austria,” Charles continued, on the defense now. “And I’m trying. It’s—I can feel it helping. The irritability is a side effect, and I know that isn’t ideal, but I haven’t been—”

He wanted to say me, but stopped himself.

“Things have been easier for me,” he amended. “And once the side effects are gone, it’ll be better.”

“Charles, tu non mangi,” Carlos said, dropping his hand from his face. “You barely sleep. You have headaches more than you don’t, and on Thursday I sat watching your interview terrified that you would collapse on stage because you weren’t present.”

Carlos ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head.

“So yes, gli avevo detto che ero preoccupato. But when Lando asked, I said nothing. I told him not to worry, because how could I tell him the truth when I did not even know it?”

Charles ignored the emotion in Carlos’s voice. “Bene, ora lo sai. Are you going to tell him?”

Carlos curled his lip. “You think that little of me?”

“You tell him everything. And you haven’t answered the question.”

“No. I would never tell a secret like that,” Carlos said, his disgust evident.

Charles let out a snort. “Not even to Alonso?”

Carlos set his jaw. “No.”

Charles nodded once. He let the silence grate at them, brittle and uncomfortable. The engine continued to tick beside them, still coming down from the drive.

“You said you trusted me,” Carlos said, breaking through the quiet. “Hai mentito.”

“I didn’t lie,” Charles said. “There are just some things you can’t tell anyone.”

The moment Mattia offered his solution—his sentence, really—Charles locked the truth away as tightly as he could. Quick visits to Luca under the guise of a data analysis pre- and post-workout, though no one ever asked. Swallowing pills dry, training with the horrible feeling in the back of his throat like fingers pressing to his esophagus, the ghost of capsules no longer there.

 “I’m very upset with you,” Carlos said through gritted teeth. “But I’m trying to understand.”

A distant part of Charles marveled at the sight of Carlos so conflicted. His dark eyes seemed electrified, then dead, like a switch flicking on and off. The tension had returned to his shoulders, and his brow sat in a permanent crease.

“You don’t have to understand everything, Carlos,” Charles said, drumming his fingers at his elbow. They had to get back to the hotel before Binotto started putting the pieces together.

“No, but I do need to understand you,” Carlos said. “At least some of you. You’ve been hiding your own health from me for weeks, in pain both physical and mental—”

“And my performance hasn’t suffered,” Charles finished coolly.

“I don’t care about your performance!”

Charles moved to his feet and wiped the dust from his jeans. “Andiamo, we can talk in the car.”

“Stop avoiding my feelings,” Carlos snapped, crossing the space between them to move between Charles and the car.

Charles withdrew into himself on reflex. He slowed his breathing as he took a half step backward, inhaling calm, exhaling control.

“I’m not avoiding your feelings,” he said.

But he was absolutely avoiding Carlos’s feelings, because he didn’t give a shit about them. Carlos was his politically arranged husband and in love with one of his childhood friends.

“You are,” Carlos countered, moving close again. Close enough that Charles could smell newness of his polo and see the freckles on his cheekbones.

Charles stepped back again. “Fine. Tell me about your feelings, Carlos.”

“You wanted me once,” Carlos said, his voice shaking slightly. “For one single hour in Monaco, you wanted me. We found happiness in each other—”

“We fucked,” Charles interrupted. “Don’t turn it into something else.”

“It was something else,” Carlos growled. Charles ignored the dampness of his huge brown eyes, the emotion swimming in them. “That was the happiest I’ve been since taking this appointment. I fell asleep and dreamed of you, poi mi sono svegliato da solo. No note, nothing to explain. I thought maybe you had gone for a walk. I showered. You didn’t show up. I waited. I made breakfast for us. I waited again. And when I finally saw you hours later at the airport, you treated me like an acquaintance at best.”

Carlos’s lips parted again, but no sound escaped them. His eyes trailed, like he was reading a screen Charles couldn’t see.

“Then when I finally had the chance to talk to you after you looked so ill on the plane, you told me it was all a mistake. That the happiness, the love—e era amore—we found was a mistake.”

Charles didn’t pull his gaze away or allow any heat to lift to his cheeks. Emotion came slower to him now. He could think through things before flying off the handle and putting the empire in jeopardy again.

“Well, that’s how I felt,” Charles said. “E come mi sento ancora.”

“Is it really because of Lando?” Carlos asked suddenly, his eyes fully wet now, his voice sticky. “Is it guilt? I would understand, but since Monaco I’ve seen you fall further and further from yourself and—and—"

Carlos sucked in a breath and Charles watched with awe as tears spilled from his eyes. He’d never seen Carlos start to cry before, he’d only seen the during while in the bathroom in Bahrain, when he’d gotten tears all over his Armani pants.

Now Charles watched saltwater pearls drip from his lashes, clumping them together on both sides as one tear trickled down each cheek.

He inhaled calm, exhaled control.

He reached forward to thumb one of the tears away, to be the husband he was supposed to be, but Carlos jerked backward and wiped them away himself.

“I will do whatever I need to do to stop you from getting worse,” Carlos said quietly, his voice wrecked. “If that means making up a story, or even exposing that I still love Lando, I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want me to do if it will help.”

Carlos need a haircut, Charles thought absently. He liked how Carlos’s hair looked in the mountaintop wind, but soon it would hang down in his eyes. And Carlos’s eyes were one of Charles’s favorite things about him.

He inhaled calm and exhaled control.

“The side effects will subside in a few weeks,” Charles said, keeping his voice even. “I appreciate that you’re willing to do that for me, but it’s unnecessary. Lando would also kill me, I think.”

“Stop,” Carlos croaked, wiping his face again. The beauty of his crying was turning ugly. “Stop talking in that voice like you don’t care.”

Charles didn’t change his tone. “I care. Voglio che tu sia felice. Right now that means Lando, and I don’t want it to involve me beyond the fact that we’re friends who are married because that’s what life has thrown at us and we don’t have a choice.”

He pulled open the car door, a reminder that they were on borrowed time.

“If you really want to help, don’t mention this to anyone and cover for me when I have to take these fucking pills,” Charles said. “The FIA just mandated that I have to have three weekly assessments during race weeks and five during off weeks until Ferrari can build a case and prove I’m stable.”

You are turning Carlos and Ferrari into an embarrassment.

He had to prove Mattia wrong.

Carlos threw up his hands then slapped them to his thighs, finally defeated. For once, Charles didn’t relish in beating him.

 

 

They didn’t speak on the drive back to the hotel. Carlos cleaned away any evidence of his crying and his face settled into an impassive expression devoid of any feeling. Charles did his best to mirror it.

Antonello met them at the valet area, furious that they had gone on an unauthorized excursion.

“Binotto ha chiesto di vederti immediatamente, Charles,” Antonello said as he snatched both sets of keys from them.

“Certo,” Charles said with a nod.

Carlos took his hand. “I’ll go too.”

Charles tried to subtly pull his hand free, but Carlos tightened his grip even when he shot him a look.

“Just Charles,” Antonello said. “You’re to go back to the room.”

Carlos scowled with so much fury in his eyes that even Charles leaned away from him.

“I’m going too,” Carlos said, defiant

Antonello muttered several colorful phrases in Italian as he stormed back to the car, evidently through with arguing.

It didn’t take long to find Mattia.

He had commandeered a conference room off the hotel lobby and didn’t look at all surprised to see them enter together. Charles read amusement on Mattia’s face as he adjusted his glasses and smiled up at them.  Giorgio chewed on the end of his pen beside him, lost in thought.

“Charles, you’ve received an invitation,” Binotto said by way of a greeting. “The FIA has approved a small dinner for yourself, Prince Ocon, and Prince Gasly as part of a Public Affairs effort to promote our French princes.”

Charles soured. “But I’m not French.”

Binotto shrugged. “You speak the language, and Monaco is close enough.”

“By that logic, so is Spain, so Carlos should come too,” Charles said dryly.

“Carlos doesn’t need to redeem himself,” Giorgio chimed in, glancing between the two of them.

Carlos squeezed his hand. “Charles is right. That’s erasing his—”

“This is free publicity, and Charles will attend as the sole representative of our empire,” Binotto said decidedly. “You’ll be filmed eating some French dishes, talking to your friends, having a joyous time. Drink wine, enjoy the evening, and come back ready for the race tomorrow.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Drink wine,” he repeated.

Mattia’s eyes didn’t change. “Yes. Or beer, though I don’t know of many people who come to the French countryside for beer.”

“An easy win for you,” Giorgio added.

Carlos thumbed the side of his palm and Charles quickly pulled his hand away. He didn’t care that Mattia and Giorgio saw it.

“Fine,” Charles said. “What do I need to wear?”

 


 

Charles immediately recognized La Cantine de l’Ours as they pulled up, and memories came rushing back. He’d only eaten there a few times, but Pierre always recommended it for privacy, as it looked like a small house and not a restaurant. The landscaping made it feel like they were in the middle of nowhere, as did the vast, bleeding sky above that painted the black exterior with an orange wash. Golden lights glowed from within, but the property was otherwise empty except for a few cars marked with FIA insignia, an Alpine, and an Acura NSX.

“Will you stay?” Charles asked as he stepped out of the Stradale.

Giorgio slipped out of the passenger side, shaking his head. “I only get access to the editing room afterward. Make sure you speak in English as much as they’ll let you. French fans are not your primary demographic.”

Charles smoothed the lapels of his suit, inspecting it for anything that may have gotten on it during the drive. Giorgio checked his back before Charles handed over the keys.

“Make sure they give you mascara,” Giorgio said, giving Charles’s hair with a few pats here and there. “Ma non troppo. A bit of concealer for your chin.”

Charles ducked away. “Sí, sí, grazie.”

“Looking sharp, Charles!”

He turned to see Pierre standing on the porch, backlit in pink from the sunset sky behind him. Charles could see his dimples all the way from the parking lot, and the comically French outfit he’d chosen— a white turtleneck sweater and dark blue suit jacket. How Pierre Gasly—the big-eared, wild-haired goofball from his childhood—found a way to grow up handsome had to be one of God’s miracles to mankind.

“And you look like a French stereotype,” Charles shot back. “Have you told them all I’m not actually French?”

Pierre grinned wider. “Do you want to have dinner or not?”

“Va bene,” Giorgio said with a nod. “Keep up that banter through dinner and we’ll have plenty to work with.”

Charles shrugged. “It’s Pierre. He doesn’t even like Ocon, so it’ll be easy.”

“Do you like Ocon?” Giorgio asked.

“I don’t dislike him,” Charles said, cocking his head slightly. “Pierre can’t stand him. But he’s done a lot for me over the years, so I won’t be rude to him.”

“You three are certainly the strangest bunch of characters I’ve ever seen slapped together for one of these,” Giorgio muttered, pulling out a compact. “Hold still, I don’t think they have any makeup artists here. Typical.”

Charles closed his eyes as Giorgio tapped his chin with some kind of brush.

He had to agree it was strange to put the three of them together, especially when this was Alpine’s flagship race and Alonso also spoke fluent French. Esteban was an obvious choice, as was Pierre, but Charles didn’t see himself as any more French than Fernando, but he supposed that since French was his native language, maybe that tipped the scales.

“Open your eyes and look up,” Giorgio instructed.

Charles did so, barely flinching when Giorgio swiped his lashes with a mascara wand a few times.

“Okay, you’re free to go. Don’t stay out too late.”

Charles rolled his eyes. It was only dusk and they had a race the next day. He couldn’t see anything about an empty restaurant that would entice him to stay any longer than he had to, especially if he had to play the neutral party between Pierre and Esteban all through dinner.

Charles adjusted his red Richard Mille as he stepped up the embankment to the porch. Pierre only looked happier the closer he got, and Charles had to smile as he approached. The anger from his meeting with the FIA and the disappointment in himself for accidentally telling Carlos the truth melted away as Pierre caught him in a tight hug.

“Can’t believe this is the first time I’m seeing you this weekend,” Pierre said, not letting go. He seemed to know Charles needed it.

“Tu m’as manqué,” Charles said, quiet with truth. “The past few weeks have been really hard.”

Pierre rubbed his back and gave it a few pats. “Je sais. We’ll make up for lost time, yeah?”

He pulled away and offered a warm smile that loosened the hard knot in Charles’s chest.

“Will we?” Charles asked. “You’ll behave with Esteban?”

Pierre pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and put them on with flourish, puffing out his chest. “I will make the sacrifice, yes.”

“T’es un idiot,” Charles laughed.

The sunset atmosphere plunged into dark luxury as they stepped inside. Black walls and dark hardwood floors set the tone. Aged black leather accented with golden light that refracted from crystal centerpieces on empty tables. A wall of windows opened to the exterior deck, where the valley opened up to give a perfect view of the track below.

Charles waved to Esteban, who looked miserable where he sat at a table in the center of the restaurant. Cameras were positioned all around them, making it very clear that this was anything but a private dinner between friends.

“Good evening, Your Royal Highnesses,” an FIA liaison greeted with a dip of his head. He began to lead them toward the table, motioning toward the kitchen on the far side of the restaurant. “Tonight you’ll be served five French dishes courtesy of Christophe Bacquié. Plan for five courses, plus a few blind taste tests. We ask that you speak French for the majority of the meal. Please note that everything will be translated before release for worldwide viewers, so avoid using dialect-specific phrases that may be confusing in other languages.”

The liaison showed them to their booth and Charles immediately took the same spot he always sat in at Steakout, and Pierre sat beside him, slinging an arm around his shoulders, a comfortable weight that eased the tension there.

Esteban grimaced across the table.

“Hey, Esteban,” Charles greeted in his kindest tone. “Ne t’inquiètes pas, je suis là pour que Pierre n’agisse pas comme un connard.”

That earned him an uncomfortable smile, but he saw Esteban start to relax, though he didn’t take his eyes off of Pierre.

Their server stepped up to the table and Charles had to wonder if he was an actor or if he really worked there. He had a striking face with sharp cheekbones and golden hair, darker than Mick’s but not as dark as Pierre’s, with light eyes and blush lips.

“Prendrez-vous un apéritif ?” the server asked.

Pierre’s arm slid from his shoulders as he looked through the wine list. “A bit difficult since I don’t know what we’re eating—just pair me with whatever wine you think is best.”

Esteban cleared his throat. “Même chose pour moi. And a glass of water—still, please.”

“Water for me as well,” Charles said.

Pierre cocked a brow. “Juste de l’eau?”

“One of us has to be responsible.”

In reality, he couldn’t mix alcohol with his medication. Doing so made him sleepy and wide awake at the same time, and the feeling persisted for hours. He couldn’t afford any mistakes tomorrow.

Their server left them alone, and Charles reminded himself that they were being filmed as he unfolded his napkin over his thigh. “So, Esteban, how has it been this weekend?”

Esteban put on a rehearsed smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ça se passe très bien. Everyone here is very kind. Mais je suis quand même bien fatigué, on a vu beaucoup de journalistes ce week-end.”

“Same here,” Pierre said. “I showed Yuki around Le Castellet after FP2 and they filmed us the whole time.”

Esteban nodded. “It gets a little annoying after awhile, but I try to enjoy it. Fernando déteste être devant les caméras quand on est pas sur la piste ou en obligations protocolaires. Ça l’embête vraiment.”

“C’est pour ça qu’il n’est pas là?” Charles asked.

Before Esteban could answer, rectangular plates of what looked like deep fried tiger lily buds were placed in front of them.

“Fluers de courgetti farcies,” the server explained. “Stuffed zucchini flowers served over broth.”

“Have you ever had this before?” Charles asked under his breath as he took and experimental stab at one of the stuffed flowers.

“C’est bien,” Pierre promised, popping one in his mouth.

Esteban clicked his tongue a few times as he chewed, making a face. “That’s…not what I expected.”

With that encouragement, Charles took his first bite. The delicate skin of the zucchini flower broke easily against his tongue, filling his mouth with an explosion of familiar flavor—although it was in a paste-like form that was, yes, unexpected.

He caught the taste of cooked tomato, onion, garlic, and a hint of ginger. Then eggplant, red pepper, and zucchini. Flavorful, spiced perfectly to accent the overall flavor that Charles could only describe as homey.

“C’est comme à la maison,” Pierre said around his mouthful. “And it looks like a tiger lily bud.”

Charles put the back of his hand over his mouth to laugh. “C’est exactement ce à quoi je pensais. Tiger lilies.”

Their drinks arrived and they toasted to good luck, Charles with his water and Esteban and Pierre with their wine.

The rest of the meal was completely FIA friendly. The blind taste tests ended up being a fig and goat cheese appetizer and a few bites of squab pigeon that made Esteban turn green when he figured out that squab pigeon was just a fancy way of saying baby pigeon. Charles and Pierre fought over the rest of it, because it really had been cooked to perfection, and the tender meat was unlike any other bird Charles had ever tasted.

They were asked stupid questions about France (Have you been to the Eiffel Tower? What’s your favorite place to visit? Favorite French meal?) where Charles made sure to mention Monaco in every answer.

Pierre and Esteban kept things civil, though the more wine they drank, the longer their stares became and the darker they turned. Charles kept the mood as light as he could, but by the time their dessert landed on the table, Esteban no longer looked in the mood to keep playing along.

“Fernando has been amazing in that car,” Pierre said as he looked down at his cup of chocolate mousse. “Really something.”

“Yes,” Esteban replied coldly. “On améliore bien la voiture, et Fernando s'implique beaucoup dans le processus.”

“Is he teaching you things?” Pierre asked, almost like a dare.

Charles shot him a look, but Pierre pretended not to notice it, so Charles hit him with his heel under the table. Pierre’s lips twitched, but he didn’t look over.

“Plenty,” Esteban replied. “It’s nice to have a world champion for a husband. I’m sure Charles can relate.”

“It is nice,” Charles agreed amicably. Guilt dragged its claws over him as he remembered once again that he’d barely seen Sebastian all weekend.

Pierre shrugged. “I prefer being the crown prince. I find I learn more through teaching.”

“I’m sure that’s what it feels like,” Esteban replied with a false smile.

Charles had yet to touch his dessert. The thought of sugar made him feel slightly ill, as had most of his meal. One stuffed zucchini flower seemed to be enough to fill him.

“I think I prove it on track,” Pierre said, cocking his head. “I don’t have to stare at Yuki’s rear wing all race and try to learn lessons when there are points on the line.”

Esteban ignored the dig and turned his gaze to Charles instead. “How are things with Carlos, Charles? Or I guess I should ask how things are with you—some days I think Fernando loves your husband more than me.”

Charles couldn’t suss out an insult in his tone, but Esteban was definitely making a statement with that question. He swallowed hard, running through every possible secret Carlos could have spilled that would work in Esteban’s favor.

Surely Carlos wasn’t stupid enough to tell their personal business to Fernando. Lando made it difficult enough.

“On s’en sort bien,” Charles replied with an easy smile. I just made him cry about three hours ago. “I’d call it a honeymoon phase, but I’m not sure it’s a phase anymore. I think it’s just us.”

Pierre let out a snort and scooped up another spoonful of mousse to cover it.

“That’s good,” Esteban said. “Il faut dire que je ne m’attendais pas à ce que vous tombiez amoureux.”

“Tout n’a pas été simple entre nous,” Charles admitted. “But yes, I love him very much.”

The words felt like cotton on his tongue.

“Do you love Fernando?” Pierre asked, eyes flashing.

Charles knocked him with his heel again. They were on camera, and a question like that was reserved for private conversation unless already public knowledge.

Esteban dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “I do. I can’t imagine marrying anyone else at this point.”

“That’s good,” Pierre said with a smirk thinly veiled in a half smile.

“J’imagine que tu es très heureux aussi,” Esteban, setting his napkin on the table. “Yuki doesn’t have any connections to anyone of importance and he’s completely dependent on you. That’s basically your ideal relationship.”

Pierre’s eyes narrowed, but he kept calm as he always did in the face of insult.

“Yuki’s from an entirely different background than anyone on the grid. English is something like his fourth language, and he gets up every day and takes the world head on, no matter how many times he falls flat on his face,” Pierre said. “I admire him. He can be a little shit, but it’s either because he’s frustrated with himself or the car. Otherwise he’s trying his best to put a smile on your face.”

Pierre spooned up more chocolate mousse, but didn’t eat it.

“He wakes up every day braver than I am, and someday everyone’s going to realize it. He’s also really fucking good in a car, but it’s hard to do that in a car made for me.”

Charles blinked, a little stunned by such a powerful defense. He knew Pierre liked Yuki, but admired him? Suddenly Charles felt like maybe he’d vastly underestimated Yuki’s power.

Esteban’s nostrils flared across the table, and fury momentarily won out from his polite demeanor. He stood abruptly, sending the camera operators scrambling to put him back in frame.

“C’était fun,” Esteban said, laying on the sarcasm. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Charles swallowed. “Yeah, I should probably—”

Pierre squeezed his knee under the table, effectively silencing him.

“Nice to talk, Este,” Pierre said. “See you tomorrow.”

Esteban’s smile evaporated at the nickname. “I’ll wave to you when I pass.”

“I’m only in the pit lane for about twenty five seconds, so you’ll have to be quick,” Pierre replied cheerfully.

“Okay, we’ll cut there,” one of the crewmembers called out.

“Tails!” another called, and a woman on the camera crew stepped into view with a clapper. She held it upside down in front of the camera and snapped it shut.

“Prince Ocon, you can come with me,” the FIA liaison said. “Everyone else start striking, yeah? I want everyone out of here in an hour.”

Everyone on the crew started moving. Lights turned off that evidently weren’t part of the restaurant, and the flurry of activity somehow made Charles more calm. No one was focused on him and Pierre anymore, and with Esteban on the way out, he didn’t have to play mediator.

“You haven’t eaten your mousse,” Pierre said, pointing at his untouched mousse cup.

Charles pushed it toward him. “Not hungry. Tu le veux?”

Pierre spooned some up and held it out to him. “It won’t ruin your precious Ferrari diet, I promise.”

Charles glared at him a moment before taking the bite. Pierre pulled the spoon from his mouth with the same care he would use to feed a child, a soft smile on his face.

Charles ran the cold chocolate cream over his tongue. Sweetness flooded his senses, a fluffy, caressing kind that reminded him of his childhood for some reason. Unbridled joy, shrieks of delight, a sound converted to taste.

He let out a hum of approval. “S’good.”

Pierre popped an upside-down spoonful of mousse in his mouth, pink lips dragging over silver, holding eye contact. Charles narrowed his eyes and Pierre flashed him a smirk before setting the spoon down again. 

“Prince Gasly, do you need me to call a car for you?” a young woman asked, holding  a walkie at the ready.

“I drove here,” Pierre replied, turning to her with a smile.

The woman frowned as Pierre pushed his wine glass toward Charles. A bit of caramel-colored dessert wine remained that turned gold under the light. Charles decided one sip wouldn’t hurt.

“I don’t think I can allow you to drive home when we’ve recorded you drinking four glasses of wine,” the woman said.

Charles brought the glass to his lips and drank. The wine tasted like summer. Hazy like sun-red skin, cool like ocean spray, sweet like burnt sugar.

When he swallowed, the taste was gone and the glass was empty.

“Oh, that’s no problem,” Pierre said, hooking an arm around Charles. “Prince Leclerc can drive me back to the hotel. I mean, assuming that’s approved. Seems wasteful to call a car for him and me when he can just drive mine.”

The woman gave them a relieved smile. “Thank you. Yes, that will work.”

Charles licked the remnants of wine from his lips, watching Pierre’s face for a moment. No one representing Alpha Tauri or Ferrari had been allowed at the media event, and that meant there was no one to tell them that Charles was absolutely not allowed to be seen driving an NSX prototype with a Honda engine, and he certainly couldn’t drive up to the hotel with it.

Even the FIA knew that rule, but this film crew didn’t seem to actually be FIA. They had all of the insignia, but the real FIA media crew was probably off for the night, preparing for the biggest day of the weekend.

“Well, let’s leave them to pack up,” Pierre said, hopping out of his chair.

Charles followed. They both thanked the crew before stepping out onto the porch. An Alpine A110S peeled out of the small parking lot and out into the night. The cry of the engine faded to cricket song, accompanied by long draws from cicadas.

“Guess they don’t care how much Esteban’s been drinking,” Pierre muttered.

Charles held his hand out for Pierre’s keys. “Ils auraient cédé pour toi mais t’as pas assez insisté,” he said.

Pierre smirked and dropped his keys in Charles’s hand. “C’est pas faux.”

Gravel crunches under their feet as they walked to Pierre’s car—a shark grey Acura NSX with black accents.

“You also know I can’t take us back to the hotel in this,” Charles said as he opened the door.

“Oui,” Pierre said as he did the same thing on the passenger side.

The car smelled brand new. Charles adjusted the seat slightly and noted the position of the paddle shifters, the brake, the gas pedal. Definitely not a Ferrari, but a sexy car nonetheless. New blood compared to Ferrari’s old.

“So where are we going?” Charles asked once the doors closed and the silence overtook them.

“You know the answer to that question,” Pierre said, looking straight ahead.

Charles’s heart beat a little faster. “Pierre.”

“We’ve got time. Dinner was shorter than they planned, but not shorter than I planned.”

Charles turned to look at him. “Than you planned?”

Pierre grinned wide. “You think I would willingly agree to have dinner with Ocon if I didn’t plan it?”

Danger prickled in his fingers as Charles started the car. Ferraris sounded like big cats—lithe, all muscle and fang. The NSX sounded like a wild beast, feral and unpredictable, but nonetheless terror-inducing. To most people. To men like them, it sounded like a challenge.

“Did you bring—”

Pierre rolled his head toward him, eyes hidden in a curtain of unruly blond. “I did.”

Pierre held up his left wrist. The notches of his Casio Edifice watch face glowed in the dark.   “Ready when you are, petit calarmardo.”

If Charles had been unsure where they were going before, he knew now.

They pulled out of the parking lot and Charles only had to drive a few kilometers before they reached a familiar stretch of road. He stopped the car in the middle of the street. The NSX growled low, fighting not to idle. Charles revved the engine a few times, allowing the engine to scream out into the night.

“Ready?” Charles asked as Pierre positioned his fingers at the edge of his watch.

“Oui.”

They didn’t need a countdown. Charles punched the gas and they tore from the unofficial start line and into the dark. The headlights sliced through only a few meters of road in front of them, but Charles didn’t need to see. He knew these roads just as well in the dark.

Pierre laughed in the passenger seat as they tore along the tarmac. The tires were grippier than the Stradale’s, and Charles pushed the limit, dancing at the edge of every corner even when the headlights only caught black air and the occasional guardrail at the edge of the cliff.

His record was 1:25.97, but that had been three years ago in a mediocre Porsche 911 Carrera 4 GTS. The NSX had teeth.

He clocked the lights of Paul Ricard out of the passenger window as he trail braked the wide right turn that paralleled the track border fence. The turbo kicked on with a punchy hiss that sent him back into his seat as they found even more speed on the straight.

“What’s your name?” Pierre asked.

“Charles,” he answered immediately.

“What’s my name?”

“Mon chou garçon.”

Pierre let out a snort. “How fast are you going?”

“Over two hundred.”

“How fast?” Pierre asked again, a warning.

“Two hundred seventeen and rising,” Charles replied as he found another gear.  

“Are you happy with your life?”

Charles didn’t hesitate to answer. “No.”

“Is that because of someone?” Pierre asked, his smile gone. The light from street lamps flashed over his face in rapid succession, blurring with speed.

“Yes.”

“Who?” Pierre asked.

Charles flicked down the gears as they slowed into a tight corner. He saw Pierre close his eyes where he slouched back against the seat, totally at ease.

“Max, Carlos, Lando, Sebastian,” Charles answered as he stepped on the gas again and they started to climb the moutain.

“Do you still love Max?”

“A little.”

Shapes blurred in his vision out the dashboard window. Blacks, greys, pale yellows.

“Sebastian?” Pierre asked.

“Not sure.”

His heartbeat kept time with the pistons as he pushed the car faster. He still had thirty seconds, maybe less if he really—

“Carlos?” Pierre asked, and Charles knew he intentionally timed the question with the braking point of the hardest fucking corner in the course.

Charles broke too early, losing speed with a shitty entry and a botched apex.

“En quelque sorte,” he finally grit out as he tried to make up for the mistake with a faster exit.

“Why is Lando making you unhappy?” Pierre asked, unaffected.

“Because he’s still sleeping with Carlos.”

Pierre adjusted himself in his seat. “Do you want to sleep with Carlos?”

Charles downshifted into a wide corner. Trees loomed overhead, black shadows that blotted out the stars. The engine snarled behind them, hungry.

“Yes,” Charles said after a few seconds.

“Because you love him or because he’s a good fuck?”

“Not sure. What time?”

“Ten seconds,” Pierre said, sitting up. A second passed. Then another. “I saw you staring earlier. Do you want to kiss me when you stop the car?”

“Yes,” Charles replied instantaneously as he carved up a beautiful uphill s-curve.

“Do you feel guilty about that?” Pierre asked, even-keeled like always.

Charles spotted the finish line and floored it. “Yes.”

They blazed past the marker and he pulled off the throttle.

The spell broke as the adrenaline stopped pumping full force, as soon as the race ended ad the competition faded from view. A smile came to his lips as the car slowed.

“You got 1:14.56 flat,” Pierre said with a smile.  “New record. Beau travail.”

Charles took them off the main road, easing them slower as he came down from the high. Every part of his body felt charged, dangerously so, yet he still felt in control of himself. He could decide how to unleash what was in him, the same way he could decide how to maneuver a car he’d never driven to claim a new record.

“Max is going to be pissed,” Pierre laughed, breaking the silence.

“You can’t tell him until we leave,” Charles said playfully. “I mean it, he’ll skip the race.”

“Don’t you want that?”

“No! I don’t need to see Lewis taking another win from me,” Charles laughed. “At least when Max wins I can give him shit for it.”

They slowed to a stop and for a moment Pierre’s earlier question hung in the air between them. But, as usual, Pierre handled pressure better than anyone he knew. He popped open the car door without a word and stepped out into the dark.

There were three rules to unofficial hot laps. The first was that the passenger could ask whatever he wanted. The second was that the driver had to answer truthfully with no hesitation. The third was that they weren’t allowed to talk about the questions or answers once the course was complete.

That is, unless they both agreed to.

Charles followed suit and hopped out into the cool night air. The sound of rushing water harmonized with the chorus of insects as he rounded the car to where Pierre had opened the trunk.

He knew Pierre wanted to talk about it. Charles could see the unasked question clouding in his eyes, lit red in the taillights. In his hesitation, in the fact that he still hadn’t reached into the trunk.

Charles leaned against the back of the car and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“We can talk,” he said, looking over Pierre’s face. “Do you want to?”

Pierre nodded once, teeth gritted.

“Fuck,” Pierre hissed. He slammed the trunk shut with a loud thud and turned away to the looming oaks. “Fuck!”

They raced for a living. They were the best in the world at staying ahead of everyone else.

But the past always, always caught up.

Notes:

a big thank you to @thechestnuthead and @tarmaclicious on tumblr for their invaluable assistance in translating. some translations i took on by myself, so if something looks wrong it's probably one of mine.

Chapter Text

French-accented conversation echoed off the walls of the pit lane viewing deck. The empty track sprawled before them, cloaked in darkness and already dreamlike with the twists of blue and red that disappeared into the shadows where the track lights couldn’t reach.

“Time to celebrate,” Nic announced, holding up a fizzing champagne flute. “You beat a Ferrari!”

George laughed from across the hightop table and held up his own flute to toast him. The clink of their glasses brought a smile to his face—it felt pretty good to have any kind of victory after placing twelfth.

Charles had a horrible race, all the way back in sixteenth. George tried his best not to think of the consequences of that with the FIA, but Charles didn’t look any more upset than usual when he got out of the car, and he didn’t look numb either.

And beating a Ferrari in a Williams was too big of a deal not to celebrate.  

“Almost caught Carlos too,” George added with a bubbly tongue.

Nic lifted his glass again. “I’ll drink to that.”

The post-race cocktail party at Paul Ricard was a sad affair compared to the opulence of Bahrain, but George was thankful for any chance to see his friends without the weight on an upcoming race on his shoulders. All of the guests and sponsors had returned home, and the racing teams were packing up the garages for the trip to Austria, where they would spend the next two weeks for two more back-to-back races. Triple headers were always tough, but at least they stayed at the same track for the next two.

Unfortunately, that track was the Red Bull Ring, meaning Max would have extra sway to do whatever he wanted.

“The fuck are you drinking to?” Lando asked as he approached. His curls were still mashed from an afternoon in a helmet, but he looked rested, which was more than George could say about himself.

“Whatever I want, asshat,” George replied.

They bumped fists and George put an arm around him a second later, dragging him in for a headlock. Lando wriggled free pretty easily and met Nic with a fist bump too.

“Have you guys seen Carlos?” Lando asked once all of the greetings were exchanged.

“Not since I almost kicked his ass,” George replied around another sip of champagne. “I don’t think Ferrari’s coming to this. Pretty sure they’re going straight to Austria.”

Most of the empires were, but George had negotiated a breather back in Oxfordshire to recover from their miserable week leading up to France.

“Ah. Maybe I’ll have to wait to see him there,” Lando said distractedly, scanning the crowd. His eyes were vacant, glowing amber in the low light of the venue but nonetheless dull.

George passed Nic a look and he immediately gave a two-fingered salute.

“I’m going to find us something to eat,” Nic announced—unnecessarily, as Lando didn’t seem to be paying him any attention.

“Love you,” George sing-songed in parting, and Nic threw him a wink over his shoulder.

Once they were clear, George nudged Lando out of his stupor. He blinked, eyes snapping back into focus, but he barely moved otherwise.

“Wanna talk about what’s going on?” George asked, leaning against the high top.

Lando frowned. “No, not really.”

“I think we should. You kind of already failed at keeping things under wraps at the press conference.” The grid had been surprisingly quiet about it all, but oncoming triple headers had a way of silencing petty drama before it even began. George expected Lando to grimace when he brought it up, but his face didn’t change.

“Fine,” Lando said, posting up beside George and swirling what looked like orange juice in his glass. “But you have to promise this is just between us.”

It wouldn’t be, but George nodded anyway.

“Carlos and I kind of…I don’t know. Last night was weird,” Lando said with a noncommittal shrug that betrayed him.  

He used to do the same thing after losing at the karting track, before launching into an all-night staring contest with his kart like it would come to life and explain to him why it hadn’t won.

George cocked a brow. “What do you mean?”

He loved Lando. Seeing him upset in any way always upset George too, and he could see sadness in the corners of Lando’s lips, the way his eyelids hung just a little lower. Lando didn’t look terrible, but he didn’t look good either.

“I don’t know, something just felt off. Charles went to some FIA thing with Pierre and Esteban, so I hung out with Carlos and he was quiet almost the whole time.”

Lando ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake life back into the mess.

“I don’t know how to describe it,” he continued, still swirling his orange juice. “I could tell he needed me, but he didn’t want to talk, you know?”

George nodded. Alex used to get that way after a tough weekend. Dead silent and furious, but George never left him alone unless he had to. Before their appointments, it was easy to bribe him out of a bad mood with takeout and an it’s-the-thought-that-counts shoulder massage.

“So we just didn’t talk,” Lando continued. “We always talk and we just didn’t. When I get that way, he always knows what to say. Then when it happened to him I just sat there like a fucking idiot.

George shook his head. “Don’t beat yourself up over that. Everyone handles things differently.”

“How’s—Um, how’s you and Lewis?” Lando asked, clearly trying to change the subject.

George shrugged, allowing it. “We’re okay, but I’m playing it by ear, I guess. He’s pretty difficult to read.”

Lando nodded. He kept picking at his watch strap, tugging at it occasionally.

“Lando,” George said gently. He waited for Lando to look at him. “Carlos is fine. You’ll see him in a few days at most.”

Pain flashed across Lando’s eyes, heat lightning in oncoming clouds. “Yeah, but I couldn’t help, George. I didn’t even know how. He wasn’t mad at me or anything, but he wasn’t himself.”

George didn’t know Carlos all that well beyond observation. He got a dickish vibe from him most of the time, but Charles and Lando both seemed in various states of infatuation with him, so he had to assume Carlos was a decent guy.

“I might be able to help if I know what’s going on with you, him, and Charles,” George offered. “Because, honestly, it seems a little fucked up to me.”

Charles was fucked up enough to need continuous assessments with the FIA.  George saw too many similarities between the Charles in the press conference waiting room and the one he and Pierre had fished out of scummy puddles in several countries.

“Charles is the one who put all of this together,” Lando explained.  “Carlos and I get to be together on race weekends, and Charles and Carlos fake it during the week, but if anything happens between them that isn’t fake, that’s allowed as long as they tell me.”

That did not make George feel any better. He instantly searched the crowd for Pierre, but only found Max, who conveniently had his back to Daniel, their shoulders brushing as they carried on conversations with members of their respective empires.  

“Lando, Charles is not good right now,” George warned. “He’s like post-Max-breakup bad.”

“Yeah,” Lando said after a moment, his voice soft. “I know.”

George’s chest twinged. “What do you know?”

Lando chewed his bottom lip. “I can’t say.”

“Bullshit, it’s Charles,” George hissed.

If Lando knew about the medical problem, that meant Carlos had told him. That meant Carlos knew, and that put Charles at a huge risk. Mick having some kind of idea was bad enough, but at least Kimi had scared the living shit out him.

“We’re not in Monaco,” said Lando. “The rules don’t apply.”

“This goes beyond the crown, mate. We’re still friends even though we’re not in Monaco.”

Lando grit his teeth.

“I’m on Charles’s side, Lando,” George added quietly. “I’m trying to help.”

“He’s just fucked, okay?” Lando snapped.

Laughter broke out nearby and they both turned to look at Sebastian cracking up, knocking into Fernando. Lewis had a hand over his mouth, stifling his own laugh. Even Kimi had a semblance of a smile on his face.

George still longed to be part of those conversations, but he wanted to make sure his friends were right there with him. Someday they would be the world champions, and they wouldn’t be the backstabbing assholes like the current crop.

“Well, are things better with Daniel at least?” he tried. Lando needed help too, not just Charles. Charles was just the one who could implode half the grid if he went off the rails.

Well, further off the rails.

Lando nodded. “Yeah, we’re fine now. He’s still kind of a dick, but whatever. We’re good.”

“Is he close to Carlos?” George asked, trying to keep it casual.

Lando cocked a brow. “I mean, they were basically married back in Carlos’s Toro Rosso days, and they’re on good terms. But I don’t think they write each other or anything.”

George chewed the inside of his cheek. He waited for Lando to mention something about the yacht, but he just sipped his orange juice. Lando had been in his interview during the mess in the waiting room, but evidently no one told him anything.

The silence stretched between them. George thought about saying something, but Lando seemed to be in a rough spot already, and he didn’t actually know anything about the yacht conversation to point fingers.

“Hey,” Lando finally said, staring down at his glass. “Have you decided if you’re going to Mercedes next year?”

The way he asked made George’s insides twist.

“It’s looking that way, yeah,” he replied carefully. “Why?”

Lando looked him over, something uncertain in his eyes. “No one else has approached you?”

George’s stomach roiled. “No.”

The sounds of clinking glasses and easy conversation faded away as he focused solely on Lando and his rapidly depleting glass of orange juice. He could see the conflict in Lando’s features, the way he warred with himself about whether or not to speak. Secrets lived among their crowns, as prevalent as the jewels that adorned them. Choosing to let one out always came with consequences.

“Red Bull contacted me before Monaco,” Lando said quietly, staring toward the gathering of world champions still making jokes. “They offered me an appointment.”

Lando obviously hadn’t taken it because he’d announced an extension to his appointment during the Monaco weekend, but the fact that Red Bull was searching for a new prince made the hair rise on the back of George’s neck.

“Does Max know?” George asked, because he couldn’t think to ask anything else.  

Lando shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’d be doing everything to get Daniel back.”

“Unless he can’t,” George murmured, mostly to himself. “You heard Max at Steakout. Horner slammed the door in his face. The only ones with power over a head of government are the FIA and they could be preventing him from asking."

Lando's face didn't change. “Or Red Bull did approach Daniel and he said no."

George let out a snort. “Yeah right. Daniel didn’t leave Max’s side once during Monaco.”

“I live with him,” Lando said, keeping his voice low. “And I know you all think I’m fucking stupid for getting swept up in him at the beginning of the season, but I still don’t know if he was faking it.”

“Christ, Lando,” George sighed. “You got duped, mate.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t love Max,” Lando said, shifting in closer. “But something’s really fucked. He won’t even say Max’s name. I talk about Carlos all the time—Dan’s in on everything I’ve talked about with Charles. He’s been covering for me to see him this weekend. But he never mentions Max. Never asks me to return the favor.”

George watched as Max moved his arm slightly, ever so subtly resting his elbow against Daniel’s back. Daniel kept talking to someone George didn’t recognize from McLaren, but leaned back almost an imperceptible amount.

“They’ve been doing this for a long time,” George said. “And Max probably isn’t Daniel’s first cross-empire romance.”

Lando continued to worry his bottom lip.

“Dan’s a good guy,” Lando said quietly. “Annoys the shit out of me most of the time and I hated his guts for what he did, but he’s a good person. And I think…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “Nah, you’re probably right.”

George drank down his last swallow of champagne. “Come on, Norris. Tell me what you think.”

Pain crossed Lando’s face, but George noticed that it didn’t look like personal pain. He’d seen that look a few times over the years. It had been directed at him once, last year, when Lando found him crumpled in a dark stairwell in Abu Dhabi, barely able to breathe.

He followed Lando’s gaze back to Daniel, who cracked a joke they couldn’t hear and made a face to get his conversation partner doubling over with laughter.

“I think he wanted to love me,” Lando murmured. “That’s why I fell for it. I think he genuinely wanted to move on.”

“He loves Max, though,” George reminded him, trying to keep things gentle. He wasn’t even trying to be combative, but he had a stupid part of himself that always had to make his point known, that always had to prove he’d been ahead of things.

Lando looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “And you love Alex, right?”

George flinched hard, thankful his champagne glass had nothing in it to spill.

He didn’t like to think about Lewis and Alex in the same part of his life. They belonged to two different compartments of his life. Alex was a dimmed light, Lewis was sunshine. One he basked in, the other he retreated to at the end of the day.

“Yeah,” George choked out.

Lando abandoned his glass on a high top and put an arm around him for a side hug. A rare act of physical affection from him, one that George fucking needed.

“They condition us like this,” Lando said. “The FIA. They restrict us to their world and the only way to be happy without being afraid is to turn your back on the person you really love and fake it with someone else.”

“We knew what we signed up for,” George said, desperately trying to sew up the new tear in his heart.

Lando gave him a little squeeze. “No we didn’t. We were kids. We still are, I guess. I thought I’d be able to keep Carlos forever, you know? But I don’t think I can.”

George shook his head. “If he’s going to all of this trouble to be with you, you’re keeping him.”

Lando looked away. “Yeah, on race weekends when I’m supposed to focus on McLaren.”

A pang of guilt ran through him. George loved leading Williams, but he’d already turned his attention to Mercedes more than he should. He spent race weekends checking boxes for his current empire but longing for another.

“When Red Bull offered me a crown, I thought about what my life would look like,” Lando said, retrieving his glass. “Marrying Max would suck, obviously, and being second-best would also suck. But being less important to my empire would mean I’d get to see Carlos more. So I didn’t say no right away, even though I knew the right choice was to stay with McLaren.”

George tried to imagine Lando in red, yellow, and blue, and the image looked photoshopped even in his head. Lando didn’t have the temperament for Red Bull. Helmut Marko would devour him and throw him out in a year, tops. Or they would turn him into a different creature, like they did with Pierre. No more smiles, a darkness in his eyes the moment interviews started.

Lando ran a hand through his hair, pulling at a few springy curls. “I have a front row seat to what Red Bull did to Daniel, and a part of me still wanted to say yes just for Carlos.”

“Lando, that isn’t a bad thing to think,” George said. “Red Bull did—”

His eyes widened.

Red Bull did the same thing to me before they exiled Alex.

“Red Bull did what?” Lando asked.

George shook the thought from his head. Everyone knew Checo’s crown wasn’t safe, but if Red Bull was looking for a new prince, there was a chance—a tiny, miniscule chance—that Alex had a shot.

The thought of Alex going back to Red Bull made him sick, but anything was better than exile.

“Nothing,” he finally said, looking over at Lewis, who was still smiling as he talked to Kimi and Sebastian. “I just fucking hate them. You’re sure Max doesn’t know about this?”

“I don’t think he’d be just standing there if he thought there ws a chance Daniel could be his husband again,” Lando muttered. “Hey—George, don’t.”

Lando’s fingers dug into his ribs to pull him back as George started toward Lewis—he hadn’t even realized he’d moved.  

“What?” George asked, blinking stupidly.

“Don’t drag Alex back in," Lando said.

Anger flared hot in him. He turned sharply and Lando recoiled, eyes going wide.

“Don’t talk to me about wanting Carlos when you get to see him all the fucking time,” George snapped. “I haven’t seen Alex since they took him away from me.”

Lando swallowed hard, regaining his composure.

“That’s what I’m trying to explain to you,” he said gently. “If we want to be world champions, we need to focus on that, not other princes. You’re doing the right thing focusing on Lewis and going after a Mercedes crown. Wasting energy on Alex is only going to make it take longer for you to get power.”

“Wasting energy?” George snarled. “Maybe you don’t really love Carlos then, because I don’t know about you, but I can’t go five seconds without missing him. I can’t look at Lewis without thinking about him. And it’s my fault he’s gone—it’s my fucking fault, Lando.”

Lando frowned and they were back in the stairwell. George tasted tears and phlegm and snot and all of the other ugly things that came with heartbreak that they didn't show in the movies. 

“George, it wasn’t your fault,” Lando said. He reached out, resting his hands on George’s shoulders. “It wasn’t. Max decided to exile him.”

“I could have warned him, but I was too stupid,” George forced out. The guilt surged in him, pushing up his throat. “Red Bull offered me his crown before they exiled him. I didn’t put the pieces together—”

"That doesn’t make it your fault,” Lando said firmly.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

George closed his eyes at the sound of Lewis's voice. An arm came around him a second later, adding a physical weight to the sick feeling in him.

Lewis looked stylishly comfortable in his white Mercedes polo, white cargo pants, and white hightop sneakers. A graffiti design peeked out from the seams of his pants, spilling color onto a blank canvas. It somehow matched his hair--free braids with lighter color tied in instead of his usual ponytail.

Lando watched him carefully before turning on a smile. “We’re just—”

“We were talking about Alex,” George choked out. He blinked away the moisture that had collected in his eyes, unbidden. “Sorry Lando. I didn’t mean to get worked up.”

Lando’s smile widened. “Hey, it’s okay.” He looked over George’s shoulder at Lewis. “Take care of him, yeah? I’m not a world champ, but I can still beat someone up if they hurt him.”

Lewis’s arm tightened around him, tugging George to his side. “Won’t be much left of them after I’m done.”

Lando’s smile quirked before he took a sip of orange juice and walked back toward Dan, who greeted him with a fist bump and a smile. Nic met him on the way with two plates of hors d’oeuvres, a little startled. He spotted George and sighed, shoulders sagging.

George met his eye and shook his head once, but Nic started toward him again anyway.

“Hey Lulu,” Nic greeted coolly, extending a plate of hors d’oeuvres to George. “Here. You should eat something.”

George wiped his eyes, feeling all too exposed as he took the plate.  He didn’t even have the heart to give Nic shit for calling Lewis by a nickname. “Thanks, Nic.”

“Wanna go talk somewhere?” Lewis asked softly. 

“Yeah,” George whispered, staring at the fig and goat cheese ensemble on his plate. His stomach twisted at the thick, sweet scent of it.

His nausea must have showed on his face, because Nic took the plate out of his hands.

“Go on,” Nic said with a lift of his shoulder. 

Lewis started to guide him away but George dug in his heels before he could stop himself.

“Wait just—can you please not touch me for a second?” George asked as gently as he could, but it came out strangled.

Lewis didn’t skip a beat and dropped his arm. “Yeah of course.”

The room felt like it was closing in on him. Maybe Lando was right. Maybe he was moving on from Alex and just telling himself he had this under control, that he could balance Lewis as a romantic partner but still hold out for his soulmate. 

Fuck this. Fuck Max. Fuck the FIA.

“Fuck,” George hissed, because he had to say it out loud too. He steeled himself, then met Lewis’s eye. “I want to talk to Toto. Now.”

Lewis’s smile fell. “George, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t care. I need to know if this is happening.”

Lewis grimaced, and George’s heart plunged.

“There’s nothing on the table, is there.”

Everything in him turned inside out, and he only realized that Nic had stepped in when he dropped his champagne glass and Nic caught it.

“Hey man, are you serious?” Nic asked, taking a protective step between him and Lewis.

Lewis’s jaw flexed. Anger flashed in his eyes for only a second. “Latifi, this doesn’t—”

“Don’t say it doesn’t concern me,” Nic growled. “If it concerns George, it concerns me.”

“We lost today,” Lewis said. “Toto is not in the mood for negotiating an appointment.”

“Valtteri didn’t podium, so I’d say it doesn’t matter if he’s in the mood or not,” Nic countered. “George would have been up there. Hell, George might’ve been the one to put you in P2.”

Lewis blinked, a small smile curling at his lips. “Maybe so. But I know Toto, and I know when he’s in the mood to talk. Today isn’t it.”

George grit his teeth. “You’ve said that before, Lewis.”

He wouldn’t get screwed. He wasn’t going to get strung along.

“I don’t want to have this discussion in front of the whole grid,” Lewis said evenly. George felt all of the pairs of eyes on them, particularly Max’s. As much as he wanted to put Lewis on blast, he didn't exactly want the entire grid to know that the Mercedes crown could still be in play. 

He patted Nic’s back. “I’ve got this. Thanks, Nic.”

Nic didn’t look like he believed him, but he stepped aside anyway.

One his path was free, George blew right past Lewis toward the nearest doorway and Lewis jogged after him, hugging close.

As soon as they breached the door into an empty hallway, George turned on him, furious.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” George hissed. “Coming in like you’re going to save me only to tell me you haven’t done shit for me all this time?”

Lewis carefully closed the door and offered his hand. George ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tempted to spit on it.

“We’ll go to Toto,” Lewis said. “He’s downstairs right now.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” George said, hands still at his sides. “Why couldn’t you just say that in there? Too open for you?”

Lewis’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t drop his hand. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to him, which is what I said. But if that’s what you want to do, I’ll go with you.”

“Am I in contention of not?”

“Of course you’re in contention. You’re the only one in contention right now outside of Valtteri.”

Anger simmered under his skin, but mostly George just felt overwhelmed. He ached underneath his anger, and the exhaustion from earlier in the week fueled his overemotion in a way he didn’t know how to combat.

“George, I know you haven’t been very involved up to this point,” Lewis said, his voice softening. “And it’s fucking frustrating. But I’m advocating for you, and Toto knows I don’t want anyone else.”

“Yeah, but you have to see how I can’t trust that, right?”

He wanted to trust Lewis. His heart told him to trust him completely, but the rational part of his brain warned him otherwise. Nothing mattered until it was written in ink.

“Is it okay if I touch you now?” Lewis asked, stepping closer.

George nodded almost imperceptibly and Lewis’s hand came to his face a moment later. Warmth spread over his cheek. The softness of Lewis’s skin never failed to amaze him. It fit, he supposed. He would never describe Lewis’s hands as delicate, but they didn’t have calluses from wrenching the wheel around. He only drove as much as he had to, and he still outclassed them all. A true king among princes. 

George’s hands were rough at the fold of his palm, under his pinkies. Even now, he could feel that the skin there was still red from the race, from holding an inferior wheel in line.

“I want an official letter from Toto,” George said quietly, finally meeting Lewis’s eye. He found more warmth there, a comfort like home. “I need something to show Jost. Please.”

Lewis leaned in, pressing a kiss to his other cheek. “Absolutely. I’ll have him send it tomorrow.”

“Make sure,” George said, still tense. “No excuses.”

Lewis thumbed his cheekbone. “No excuses.”

Lewis’s touch calmed him, but not enough to shake the residual sickness, the exhaustion.

“I didn’t forget about Alex, by the way,” Lewis murmured. George squeezed his eyes shut.

He didn’t need any more hope. He didn’t need any more dreams to fill his head every night, more memories with Alex’s face too fuzzy to recognize except by feeling.

“You were right about Horner keeping him under his thumb, but—”

“Red Bull is trying to find a new prince to replace Checo,” George blurted out.

Lewis’s eyes flashed. “What? Since when?”

George shook his head. “I don’t know. But they’re asking around.”

“Did they ask you?” Lewis asked, his hand falling from George’s face.

“No. But I heard they might’ve asked Daniel.”

Technically, that was still keeping his word to Lando. 

Lewis didn’t seem surprised. “And he didn’t take it?”

“Do you know why he wouldn’t?” George asked. “Does that have anything to do with mice and mazes?”

It was a long shot to connect Lewis’s conversation with Sebastian to Red Bull—to Daniel—but he also knew Lewis wasn’t stupid, and he would definitely know if Red Bull was sniffing around for a new prince.

He didn’t expect the proud smile that came to Lewis’s lips.

“You’re getting better at this," Lewis praised. 

George fought not to smile. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Lewis pecked his cheek before pulling back. “I don’t think Red Bull would offer Ricciardo a crown. He’s a distraction to Max. They’ll keep Perez for another year, because no one in their right mind would touch that spot.”

George swallowed hard. “I know someone who would.”

Lewis’s smile fell away. “George, no.”

He gently gripped Lewis’s arms. “You could put in a word with the right people. Alex could handle it for a year, we could find—”

“You don’t want him in Red Bull if you’re in Mercedes.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” George grit out, tears jumping to his eyes again. “Fuck, Lewis, I don’t care where he is, as long as he’s back.”

“You say that now, and I know you mean it, but listen to me on this one,” Lewis said. “I know you don’t fully trust me, but you can never fully trust someone in Red Bull if you’re in Mercedes. Once you have power, every relationship goes out the window with them. I couldn’t trust Seb for shit back then, he was a two-timing asshole—even worse than he is now, if you can believe it. I couldn't be in the same room with him, it was like we were never friends.”

George chuckled darkly. “Sounds just like Max.”

“Sounds exactly like Max,” Lewis agreed. His dark eyes held hard-win power, the kind that came from prowess, not connections--though Lewis had those too.  “I’m still working on Alex, but I’m not going to advocate for him to go to Red Bull.”

George’s heart beat in his throat, fear and hope twisting up inside him. Guilt too, because he knew that this might be hurting Lewis. He couldn’t imagine what it felt like to fight for the return of your future husband’s ex.

Ex. George shivered at the word. Alex still didn’t feel like an ex. They were paused, because they had to be. They didn’t have an end.

“Don’t do anything without talking to me first,” George pleaded. “I’m not in the right place to think about this.”

“Okay, I won’t,” Lewis promised. He reached up to smooth back George’s sweat-slicked hair. “How about some good news? We have two full weeks in Austria. I wanted to see if you’d let me take you on an overnight to make up for Germany. I think I can get it approved.”

George couldn’t think about a getaway with Lewis when his mind was on Alex, Red Bull, and the fact that he’d barely slept leading up to this race.

“I need the letter from Toto first,” George said. “Jost needs to know if he should be looking for a new prince.”

Lewis nodded thoughtfully. The cool light of the hallway played white over his tattoos in a way that made them look blue instead of black, submerged in dark skin instead of painting it. George hated how much he wanted to wrap himself in Lewis’s ink, to drown in it.

“That makes sense.,” Lewis said, completely oblivious. “How about this: I’ll have Toto send a letter to you and Jost, and I’ll also have him send a formal request to the FIA about giving us a night together.”

“And what happens when they don’t approve that?” George asked. The FIA wouldn’t just allow them to have an overnight. If he did, Max would request a night with Daniel every race.

“They will,” Lewis said. “Wiliams and Mercedes already have a relationship. If Toto writes a formal letter to express interest in you and requests a trip at the same time, they’ll basically see it as a formal courting request. Archaic, yeah, but the FIA loves old-school.”

George had nothing left in him to argue with. He nodded slowly. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry, it’s just—”

“It’s okay, George,” Lewis said. “Go home and get some rest. Let me handle this. And if you change your mind, that’s okay too.”

“I won’t change my mind,” George assured him, taking Lewis’s hand to thumb over the sacred geometry there. “I’m just exhausted. And I haven’t figured out how to feel about all of this.”

“I'm not asking you to have everything figured out,” Lewis said. “I’m not in a hurry, and I don’t ever want you to feel rushed.”

He didn’t deserve this type of kindness. Not when he still loved Alex so much he was willing to ask for Red Bull to give him a seat again.  

“We should probably get back inside,” George said before the guilt could turn him inside out. “Nic might kill you though, just warning you.”

“Shit, I don’t think I can fend off Latifi and Norris,” Lewis teased.

A bit of light returned to him as George laughed. He moved to head back inside, but Lewis caught his wrist, a smirk on his face.

“Am I allowed to ask for a kiss before you leave me for a week?” Lewis asked.

A smile finally returned to George’s lips right before he pressed them to Lewis’s for a well-deserved kiss. He tasted like safety, power, and everything George knew he would need to stay afloat.

And maybe it would even be enough to bring Alex back to him.

Chapter Text

The night air cut right through Charles’s suit jacket as he watched Pierre disappear into the trees. Pierre’s anger lingered in his wake, but Charles didn’t feel the panic or anxiety  that usually came with upsetting a friend. Because this was Pierre, and Charles knew him better than he knew himself at the moment.

He opened the trunk. It was tiny, as they were in most supercars, but had plenty of room for a bottle of champagne and a thick blanket clearly stolen from the hotel. Two blankets, actually, as Charles found when he tucked them under his arm.

He used his phone flashlight as he started onto the trailhead after Pierre. His dress shoes didn’t do well against the silt under his feet, but he didn’t fall down as he hiked up the gentle incline.

The trees broke away into a small clearing, where a mountain stream carved its way down the ridge. Pierre sat on flat slab of rock, illuminated by his phone flashlight, though the moon was bright enough that Charles could see his silhouette without it.

Charles wordlessly laid out one of the blankets beside him, but Pierre didn’t move to make room. He set down the champagne with a dull thunk of glass on rock and draped the other blanket over Pierre’s shoulders to trap his body heat. Charles sat down beside him, but faced Pierre, not the water.

“It isn’t any different, is it,” Pierre said quietly.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Charles replied, leaning back on his hands. He rested his palms at the edge of the rock, shivering a little as freshwater spray misted over his fingers.

Pierre met his eye. “Yes you do. You just don’t want to break my fucking heart again.”

Pain slashed at Charles’s insides as he tipped his head back to look at the stars. Being so far away from the world allowed them to see the sky in its full array of beauty. Dots of white light took up the whole canvas of it, so vivid that he could see the subtle washes of the galaxy itself.

“You said you feel guilty about wanting me,” Pierre said, hurt leaking into his voice.

“You know why, Pierre.”

“So what, I’m not allowed to be hurt?”

Charles slid his gaze from the stars.

Pierre leaned forward and Charles tilted his head to meet him before he could stop himself, but they didn’t kiss.

“I don’t want this for the right reasons,” Charles admitted in a whisper. “I’m not going to do this to you.”

“Je m’en fiche,” Pierre said.

“You do care. C’est  ça le problème, and that’s why I won’t do it.”

Ever since they set on track to become princes—ever since the pathway became more than just mirage—he and Pierre had danced around this. Around them. They blurred the line of friendship and something more. Twice they stepped right over it, and both times were things Charles wished he could take back.

“Sauf votre respect, I’m not you, Char,” Pierre said. “I can actually respect boundaries. If you don’t want it to be anything more than amis avec des avantages, it’s fucking okay.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “You just made me talk about three men in my life who are all less than a mile from here, wondering the same thing you are.”

Pierre laughed, but it was a broken sound that made Charles wish he’d never taken on a hot lap and exposed himself.

“So you have commitment issues, fine. On ne va pas se marier.”

Charles bristled, but held his tongue. Inhaled calm, exhaled control.

“You know it’s not like that,” Charles said with a lump in his throat. “So no, it’s not any different. It’s the same fucking thing.”

“So you want it to be like Abu Dhabi.”

“Ne parle pas d’Abu Dhabi, putain.”

“Tu ne peux decider de ça,” Pierre growled. “I’m the one who got burned there.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about, mate? No one found out, no one got burned.”

Pierre swallowed hard. “J’ai fait. You fucking acted like it never happened. You forgot about me and je ne pouvais pa arrêter de penser a te.”

Charles’s cheeks warmed and he was glad for the darkness to keep the blush from showing on his face.  “That was a long time ago.”

“No, a long time ago was Belgium,” Pierre said.

Guilt wrenched his insides. Charles could still remember that night, the way want overwhelmed him, the way he let it.

“C’est pour ça que je n’y arrive pas,” Charles whispered. “I fucked it up before we even started.”

Pierre laughed bitterly. “You’re just obsessed with the past, aren’t you?”

“That isn’t something—”

“Do you want me or not, Char?”

“Pierre—”

“Dis-moi, c’est une question simple,” Pierre said. “You don’t have to answer it to make me feel a certain way. I just want the truth. You know I can fucking deal with the truth.”

Wind rustled the leaves in the canopy above them, carrying the sweet scent of summer, flourishing undergrowth, and the echo of loneliness.  

“It’s not the want you feel,” Charles finally said. “We’ve always been close. I’ve always been more comfortable with you than almost anyone else. I’ve never had to worry about touching you too much, going too far.”

Even though they’d done both. Pierre just never expected it again once it was over. He didn’t try to catch his eye or throw flirty lines at him to see if Charles would bite. He wasn’t like Carlos, who made breakfast in the morning after they fucked and waited for him to show up like they were something more than they were.

“And, look, I know how that sounds,” Charles added. “But I don’t know a better way to say it.”

Pierre folded a hand over his knee and even that touch wasn’t a question or an invitation.

“You said you wanted to kiss me when we got out of the car. Tu le pensais vraiment?”

Charles fought the urge to say it was just a spur of the moment thing, that driving fast with a beautiful boy in the seat next to him always led to kissing, so it was just a Pavlovian response.

“Oui,” Charles said. Saying it felt like speaking with a mouth full of water, messy and slippery and cold everywhere.

“So just kiss me,” Pierre breathed, and Charles felt the words more than he heard them.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Charles said, shaking his head. “I won’t do it to you again.”

Pierre kissed him anyway. Charles didn’t refuse it, not at all. PIerre tasted the same as he did back then, heady like dark chocolate but slightly sweet, like a candied orange. He tasted the dessert wine too, still lingering on Pierre’s soft lips and spreading to his own with each kisses.

Pierre always treated him gently, with reverence. Trailing touches to his jawline, waiting to introduce tongue until Charles invited him with parted lips. Always patient. Always so fucking patient.

Pierre never had to say he loved him. Charles knew it from a brief moment in Paris when they were holed up in a tiny café, waiting out a miserable rain. The seats had been made of aged wood with peeling lacquer, the walls had been painted dark green. Charles had sat there complaining about how fucking stupid his hair always looked when it got wet. Pierre sat at the table across from him, arms crossed over the back of his chair. Charles could still remember his cocky smile then, the smile that didn’t match the fondness in his eyes.

“I like it. It makes you real.”

He might as well have said it then. Charles never returned that look, never said the words. At the café, he’d flicked cappuccino cream at Pierre’s face with his stirring spoon and they turned their attention back to the rain, watching the way it created rivers in the street.

He’d meant to say it, once, but the words stayed balled in his throat until they turned to razor blades and shredded him from the inside out.

Long ago, Max called Pierre his shadow. Charles laughed at the time, but less than a year later and Pierre became exactly that: a secret, horrible ache in him he never addressed, never spoke about.

Pierre became the thing behind Max’s eyes when Max bought him the wrong flavor of birthday cake in Sochi—vanilla when they talked about chocolate. Pierre was the bundle of nerves in his stomach that wrenched when Sebastian told him they would always have each other, after Mattia told them Sebastian didn’t have a place at Ferrari anymore.

Pierre was the burn of liquor in his throat when Max stopped texting him back after Brazil, and the first number he called when his knuckles were split and he nearly broke his  invaluable hands, bleeding all over the concrete. 

He was also the one who smiled when he saw them, clucking in mock disapproval (“Tu as frappé comme je t’ai appris?”) and cleaned his wounds in the restaurant bathroom next door with gentle swipes of a washcloth and tenderness in his words as he assured Charles he could still drive, still win, still race.

Pierre wrapped his sheared knuckles in terrycloth, like the boxer he was, and didn’t kiss them even though Charles could see he wanted to. His touches never lingered even though they could have. He never stared when Charles would have stared back.

Charles pulled away from the kiss, sucking down a breath like he’d been drowning.

“How can you still want me after I hurt you so much?” Charles choked out, his voice wet. “Pourquoi tu ne me désteste pas?”

Pierre had every right to want him gone. Some things were unforgivable on their own, but to do them twice, to use someone second time—

“I’ve wanted to, before,” Pierre said, running the pad of his thumb over Charles’s bottom lip, gently turning his face like he was still inspecting for wounds. “But what I feel for you beats it every time. I can’t even think straight around you. I could never marry you, because I’d stop racing. I’d never be able to do anything else but be with you all the time.”

Guilt twisted in him like a wet sponge, wringing him into nothing but stringy tendons and mangled bone.

“Pierre, je ne peux pas,” Charles whispered.

“I know,” Pierre said, because he always knew. “I know, Char.”

Charles ducked his head into Pierre’s stupid turtleneck sweater. Soft cashmere caressed his face as Pierre gathered him in his arms. He smelled faintly of cologne, maybe one spritz of it, like an afterthought and not an intention.

“The thing is, it doesn’t matter to me if you feel the same,” Pierre murmured into his hair. “I’m not walking in blind, Charles. I’ve lived my whole adult life knowing you love someone else. C’est bon. I accepted it a long time ago.”

Charles wrenched himself away, shaking his head. “God, qu’est-ce qui va pas chez toi? Why the fuck would you say that?”

Pierre laughed. “Because it’s true? We’ve had a lot of almosts. After the second time, I kind of knew we’d never really have anything.”

Something opened in him. Charles let out a small noise of anguish, not for himself, but for Pierre. The world had given him one good thing, one good person, and Charles was incapable of giving him even the smallest kindness.

Pierre’s palms came to his cheeks, kindly forcing him out of himself to focus on the way the moon played in Pierre’s windswept hair, the way the blond strands hung over his eyes but never in them. Imperfectly perfect, like he’d always been.

“Not everything has to be painful, mon chérie,” Pierre whispered with a kiss to his forehead, just a peck. “My feelings haven’t changed. Just because you don’t love me doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

Charles squeezed his eyes shut. “I do love you,” he said, his voice mottled with pain. “Just not the way that you want.”

“Ne parle pas à ma place,” Pierre said.

Charles shot him a look, eyes wet.

Pierre kissed him again, sweetly, with too much fucking love, a waterfall when he’d asked for trickle.  Charles grimaced, pulling away.

“You love me, that’s all I want,” Pierre said.

“Je ne suis pas amoureux de toi.”

“I didn’t say that. I said you love me, and je ne cherche que ça.”

Charles put his head in his hands. The back of his suit was already damp with spray from the creek, and he began to shiver the second he noticed it.

He remembered staying up too late at Pierre’s house, running his fingers through Max’s hair while he slept and listening as Pierre told sleep-drunk stories about girls, about other drivers. Never implying anything, though Charles already knew. Never stealing glances. Charles told him everything, touched him without fear of strange looks—Pierre allowed him to be a full person. A confident person. Pierre made him without even knowing it.

“I ruined us,” Charles said. “From the very beginning.”

Pierre gently tugged Charles’s hands from his face, exposing his damp cheeks to the cold.  “You did not. If we’re talking about guilt, on est quitte. I knew what I was doing. I’d do it again if you asked.”

Charles flinched. “Don’t say that, please.”

“Both times,” Pierre added. “I knew exactly what I was getting into.” He gave Charles’s hands a squeeze.

“You’re fucking stupid,” Charles bit out.

“Ah, yes,” Pierre said with a cock of his head, smiling. “What do they say? The heart wants what it wants?”

Nausea welled up in him. The memories were always tinged red in his mind, though in reality there had been no red at all. It was like in the movies during a flashback murder scene, except Charles had been murdering himself.

Pierre’s keycard poised in his hand in Belgium, waiting to swipe as Charles snuck out of his room and stared. Pierre stood there and waited, like he’d been anticipating it, though he couldn’t have.  

The words always echoed in his head like someone else’s voice. I need you.

“Stop torturing yourself for something that happened half a decade ago,” Pierre soothed, as though reading his mind. “You always find a way to make things hurt.”

“Parce c’étair ma faute.”

“Il faut être deux por danser, calarmardo.”

“Yeah, but I initiated.”

“Fuck, I would have if I thought I had any chance in hell. Both times. Way more than that.” He laughed and Charles could hear genuine happiness in it.

“I’m such a piece of shit, Pierre,” Charles whispered, his voice sticky.

Pierre shook his head. “You needed someone. I’m glad it could be me and not someone who fucking hurts you like those two.”

“That’s not an excuse to cheat.”

The word hung in the air between them. It made Charles fucking sick to hear it echo around his head.

The mind always found ways to justify its own actions. Charles told himself he deserved to have happiness both times. The told himself that if Max really wanted him, he wouldn’t be gone chasing a crown all the time and he would find a way to be with him even when it was difficult.

Age didn’t change that part of himself, because he’d told himself the same thing five years later. That Sebastian was probably in love with someone else, or already looking for his new husband, flirting and fucking around. FIA marriages didn’t count. Feelings weren’t real. The world owed him, Max owed him, Sebastian owed him—everyone owed him, but he didn’t owe anyone else.  That he deserved to be happy, no matter what it cost or who it hurt.

Max had only been three doors down in that hotel in Belgium, sleeping soundly before what would end up being his last race as a lower court driver, while Charles snuck out of their shared bed fucked their best friend.

Sebastian had been putting together their final post-race evening as husbands, kindly sidestepping any implications of sex while Charles moaned Pierre’s name in the back of an SUV with blackout windows, parked thirty feet from Sebastian’s personal Ferrari he’d brought just so Charles could drive it.

“You’re allowed to want this,” Pierre said, breaking him from his thoughts. “You can’t let Max and Sebastian hold you back. We both made bad decisions, but punishing yourself for it now doesn’t make any sense. Max doesn’t give a shit about your feelings, not anymore. Sebastian doesn’t either, Char.”

“Now there’s Carlos,” Charles said, deflecting, because he didn’t want to start an argument about Max or Sebastian right now.

Pierre let out a snort. “You can’t love someone who loves someone else. Je te connais.”

“I did, though,” Charles choked out, tears wetting his eyes again. “I fucking—I fell in love with him.”

Saying the words for real felt like vomiting, but with none of the relief after. Just a twisted up throat, a phlegmy burn in the back of his mouth, stomach acid dripping back down to where it belonged.

“But you never told him,” Pierre said. He didn’t sound hurt at all—he never did, no matter what Charles told him, no matter how painful. And Pierre wasn’t George, he didn’t have to ask whether or not Charles ever told Carlos, he just knew.

“No,” Charles whispered, blinking the moisture from his eyes. “It felt like I would be giving him too much, that he’d take it away the second I gave in. So I didn’t give in.”

“It shouldn’t feel like that,” Pierre murmured, shifting closer. He pressed his lips to Charles’s knee where he’d drawn it up to his chest. “Char, it should never feel like that.”

“Well it did,” Charles bit out. “Because I always fucking knew I’d never be first for him. So what’s the point, you know? Why say it when he can’t possibly—when he won’t—”

He cut himself off and turned his face away. He willed the antidepressants to stop him from crying, but they didn’t.

“You feel so much,” Pierre said, reaching up to thumb his tears away.

“I feel fucking sorry for myself too much,” Charles said with a bitter laugh, closing his eyes to allow Pierre to wipe everything away. “Here I am talking about this, hurting you again.”

“It doesn’t hurt me to hear you love him,” Pierre said as he pulled back.

Charles opened his eyes just in time to see Pierre lean over him, draping the blanket over his back instead, protecting him from the water.

“How can it not?” Charles asked.

Pierre smiled and moved next to him, shrugging the blanket over his own shoulders so they were both covered. Charles leaned into him without thinking, seeking out his warmth.

“Well, you loved me first, for one,” Pierre said, putting an arm around him. “And, I dunno, I don’t want ownership over you just because of the way I feel. It’s never been like that. Knowing I have you in my life is enough. Knowing I’m important to you. Yeah, maybe after all of this, you’ll marry someone who isn’t me. And I’m talking real married, pas ces conneries. And I’ll go to your wedding, and even that won’t hurt because I’ll just know.”

Charles curled an arm around Pierre’s thigh where he’d pulled his knees to his chest, Charles’s head on his shoulder. “Know what?”

Pierre kissed his temple. “Well, I’m only coming to the wedding if you’re really in love with the guy. And when I see you that day, I know it’ll all be okay for you. He’ll take care of you for the rest of your life. And hey, maybe I’ll get married too. And one day our kids will grow up together and think they want this, and je ne sais pas. I just imagine looking up at you, and all of this is going to snap through our minds in an instant and—”

He shrugged—gently, so as not to jostle Charles too much.

“And I guess that’s enough for me,” he finished. “To know we had this, on avait tout ce. That we had this time together and we didn’t let it destroy us. So maybe our kids can have that too.”

Charles never imagined life after royalty. He imagined parallels, the way his life could have been without a crown, but never the inevitable end of representing an empire.

Of course, statistically, he had only ten years left, maybe twenty if he proved to be the prince everyone thought he could be.

He never thought about kids. About his own family, what he might want after this.

“I never think about what happens after,” he said quietly.

“You’ve never had to,” Pierre said, nuzzling against him. Charles’s hair snagged in Pierre’s beard, and he hugged his arm a little tighter around Pierre’s leg.

Pierre had been in danger of losing his crown too many times, but he’d finally asserted himself as a champion prince with a win in Monza, a win Charles didn’t feel guilty about giving away from the medical tent after his fucking stupid accident.

It was better that way, to not have competed. To be able to watch Pierre win without the taste of blood in his mouth, the coppery tang of loss.

“So what happens now?” Charles asked into the quiet.

“What do you want to happen?” Pierre returned, carding his fingers through Charles’s hair.

He remembered lying in Pierre’s bed in Belgium, after. Gasping up at the ceiling, totally consumed with the pleasure that still radiated everywhere, the bursting warmth that made him want to scream just as much as it made him want to beg for more.

Mostly, he remembered never wanting Max the same way. Never being satisfied, always thinking of Pierre—not the physical things he’d done, but the way he laughed during, the way they kept up the same banter until the want burned the joking out of them.

The way Pierre didn’t try for any more kisses or touches when it was over, he just gave Charles one of his own shirts back and didn’t even walk him to the door, but smiled at him from his bed, blankets tucked to his chin.

Max left him two months later, so he didn’t have to hide for long.

And then, the year before. The dry heat of Abu Dhabi that lingered even in darkness, the way Pierre didn’t joke that time and still gave him everything he wanted and more. The way Pierre took all of the pain and fear in him and made it tangible, something he could fuck away, and then let him.

And Pierre never asked for anything else, not even when Charles left that SUV and refused to look at him until Sebastian was no longer his husband.

Selfishness didn’t even begin to cover it. Charles knew that.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Charles whispered. “And trying to be anything more than what we are means risking that.”

“You couldn’t lose me if you tried,” Pierre assured him. “You’ve already tried, and je suis encore là.”

Pierre deserved the person Charles wished he could be, the man the people saw on screen, so totally unlike the real thing.

“I know you aren’t in love with me,” Pierre added. “But if there’s a chance, I want to take it. There won’t be a ‘right time’ for us, I know that. But if…”

The silence that came after Pierre trailed off made Charles pull back, only to find Pierre’s face completely devoid of the smile he usually found there.

Pierre swallowed hard, and Charles ached when he saw the sadness in him—a well of it. Deep, vast pain accumulated over a lifetime. Charles knew loneliness because it looked him in the mirror every morning. He saw it etched into Pierre’s face like an engraving, impossible to buff out.

“I really, really wish you’d love me once,” Pierre said quietly. “I can handle it if you don’t, but god, I wish every day that I could change your mind.”

The stream hissed and frothed behind them, a sound to accompany the emotion welling up as Charles leaned in and kissed his best friend.

This time, Pierre’s lips tasted like salt-sprinkled despair, a cold night neverending, all of the things he drove away from Charles with a well-timed letter or soft touch.

Charles broke the kiss after a moment, too overwhelmed with the sadness of it.

“I want to try,” Charles breathed, resting their foreheads together. “But I have to make sure I can do it right. I can’t promise you you’ll have all of me. I wish…I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Even now he was too selfish, too scared.

Pierre’s fingers curled against his shirt and Charles folded his hand over Pierre’s, holding it to his chest.

“When I see you in Austria, I’ll tell you what I can give,” Charles said. “Will you let me do that?”

“Always making me wait,” Pierre murmured. His smile returned, but it was broken, the lights flickering where they usually glowed. “But yeah. You know how to find me.”

 


 

When Charles stepped back into the Ferrari hotel room, he saw two empty bowls in the sink, remnants of whatever Carlos must have cooked for Lando. Carlos didn’t mention Lando would be visiting, but Charles excused the misstep without a second thought. In fact, relief flooded him, because Carlos hadn’t spent the evening alone.

He shrugged off his suit jacket on the way to the bedroom, where he could hear the soft sounds of Carlos’s breathing where he slept slumped against the headboard, an open book in his lap.

The low light of the nightstand lamp painted shadows on the hard lines of Carlos’s jaw and the gentle curve of his lips, the slight hook of his nose. His hair was disheveled, and Charles could imagine how often he’d run his hand through his while reading, pretending to focus. His cheeks still looked blotchy. Irritated from crying, maybe.

He did love Carlos, he realized. Except it wasn’t really a new feeling, it just had a name now.

Tragedies only earned titles after they ended. This one was no different. Charles loved Carlos, Carlos loved Lando. Same story it had always been, but Charles had already given him away, and he didn’t dare to take him back.

Loved. Past-tense. There. A better description.

Charles finished undressing and hopped into a pair of more comfortable boxers before approaching the bed. He gently took the book from Carlos’s sleeping hands—Chess Mastery, Vol. I.

A little smile curled at Charles’s lips as he set the book aside and leaned in, pressing a kiss to Carlos’s forehead. His skin was warm, his hair soft against Charles’s lips  where he’d forgotten to brush it away.

Carlos woke with a soft noise. His hands immediately lifted, going flat against Charles’s bare chest, seemingly on reflex.

“Charles?” Carlos croaked. “V’tutto bene?”

“You fell asleep sitting up,” Charles soothed, thumbing his cheek. “I’m going to brush my teeth. You should lie down. Can’t have a stiff neck tomorrow.”

Carlos grunted in reply, too sleep-drugged to comprehend much beyond the suggestion. His hands fell away and he retreated down into the blankets, eyes falling closed.

Carlos had such long eyelashes. Charles marveled at the way they fanned over his cheeks, black and beautiful like they’d been inked there.

They were nothing like Pierre’s blond-tipped lashes, which were just as long but not nearly so prominent.

Charles made quick work of his bedtime routine. He replaced the taste of Pierre with toothpaste, thankful that they hadn’t actually popped that bottle of champagne. Once he’d washed his face, he headed back to bed and shut off the lamp as he crawled over Carlos’s sleeping form.

“Charles?” Carlos murmured.

Not sleeping, it seemed.

“Yes?” Charles asked as he pulled up the covers.

“Did you have fun?” Carlos asked, slurry with sleep. His eyes still hadn’t opened.

Charles smiled into the dark and moved closer, tucking himself against Carlos’s back. Carlos tensed against him for a moment, clearly surprised, then leaned back into him, a steady weight.

“I did,” Charles replied, letting his lips brush against the nape of Carlos’s neck, his arm hooked over Carlos’s middle. “I hope you had fun too.”

Carlos answered him with a snore, his body going slack.

Charles nuzzled against him, drinking in the warmth of his sun-kissed skin, the scent of his shampoo.

Playing at love was so much easier after losing it.

Charles closed his eyes.

When he slept, he dreamed of Carlos, but the one he met crushed his trachea and held no love for him. And the Max he woke to had hateful knowing in his eyes and Pierre’s terrycloth wrapped around his knuckles.

Charles didn’t have time to think before the punches began, blessedly merciless.

 

 

Chapter Text

The FIA enjoyed touting their princes as celebrities. They signed autographs, attended events, and shook hands with officials, all the while puppeteered by their heads of government, the FIA, and their Public Affairs team.

But princes did have power. As George smoothed the lapels of his royal suit, he felt the hum of it in his hands, as real as the weight of the gold crown nested in his hair.

Williams had a fairly simplistic crown, an homage to their founding status in the FIA. Short tines adorned with sapphires and white diamonds almost inlaid in the gold, small enough to be missed but breathtaking when it caught the light.

George examined his reflection in the dressing room mirror and didn’t recognize himself. His jaw looked different, his shoulders more square. A tailored suit did wonders, but nothing compared to the bestowed beauty of royalty.

“I know I don’t need to tell you this, but this is a big deal,” Kayla said, stepping up beside him. She looked like a different person in a fitted blue dress—much fancier than her normal race weekend attire—complete with a bit of jewelry of her own.

“Yeah, I kind of gathered that,” George said with a smile.

Kayla patted his shoulder. “This is very special, and I think there’s no better prince they could have chosen to show that.”

The FIA was certainly making an example of him. He’d spent the last few days in protocol briefings with the FIA, with Jost, with Nic. Even something as simple as a handshake came with a page-long document on the hows and whens of it all. Eye contact needed to be measured, formalities observed, and if he took one step out of place, the FIA would strike this supposed tradition from their constitution.

Even though an official courtship request was technically within the rules, it hadn’t been exercised in recent history, and the FIA made it clear that the eyes of the empires would be upon him.

Two knocks announced Jost’s arrival. George watched him through the mirror as he entered, wearing a suit of his own with the Williams crest pinned to his breast.

“They’re ready for you,” Jost announced, stepping up beside him on his other side.

George held his chin a little higher, closing off the smiling, cheery prince he played in the paddock most weekends. The man looking back at him in the mirror was his true self—cunning, focused, strong.  He had royalty in his blood, infused there with the reek of motor oil, the heat of scorched rubber.

“I’m ready,” George said. He had Williams behind him, an empire he would leave better off than when he’d first taken the crown.

George stepped out beside Jost into a large hallway, where a dozen members of the Williams government stood waiting. A Mercedes representative stood at the head of the group and when he caught George’s eye the man dipped his head.

“Your Royal Highness,” the man greeted with a slight German accent.

George didn’t nod back.

“This way,” the Mercedes representative said before turning on his heel.

The Mercedes palace opened up before them as they stepped into the main wing. Williams had definitely taken some cues from Mercedes in the remodel of the their palace, and George could see it in the modern architecture, the cutting lines of dark metals and glass.

The floor gleamed black, every inch of it spotless as they came to a set of grand doors, two stories tall. Stained black wood with gold and silver leafing framed carved depictions of cars, crowns, and various important landmarks of the Mercedes empire.

Two footmen bowed their heads as they came to a stop, and George’s mind quieted the same as it did when he saw the lights flick off on the starting grid.

The hall stayed silent as the footmen opened the doors, revealing the most terrifying room George had ever seen.

Pairs of Mercedes racecars lined either side of the hall, set on inclined pedestals that pointed their sharp noses at the entrant. The silent, empty cockpits gaped at them as they walked down the black granite tiles. The iconic silver arrows that symbolized Mercedes as much as its tri-star crest glimmered on each car’s livery.

History churned in each dead engine as George passed cars that used to belong to the legends of royalty: Michael Schumacher, Nico Rosberg, and—of course—Lewis Hamilton.

The black liveries of the more recent cars were more intimidating than the trophies that lined the walls behind them—a sea of silver and gold with pops of color from the more daring trophy designs.

No empire boasted the win ratio of Mercedes. Ferrari had double the trophies but an extra sixty years of racing. Only Red Bull’s newer blood had any skin in the fight, and they only really had Max as a surefire winner, where Mercedes had—

Lewis and Valtteri.

George had to remind himself not to stop walking as he caught sight of the two Mercedes princes at the end of the hall. They stood on either side of Toto Wolf, who looked as emotionless as ever as he stared ahead.

Lewis and Valtteri wore black velvet cloaks over their royal suits, each one adorned with thousands of silver tri-stars, fastened together with diamond chains at the collar.

Most empires opted for a show of gold in their crowns, but Mercedes used silver and affixed so many diamonds to it that even in low light a Mercedes crown glowed ethereal. Each tine in the crown was pointed in the shape of an arrow, piercing the air in a thicket of razor edges, a crown of thorns.

The Lewis standing at the end of the hall was not the man George knew. Even Valtteri looked darker, sterner, more powerful.

George came to a stop a few paces from Toto. Jost took one step past him and dipped his head respectfully.

“Jost,” Toto greeted with a nod of his own. His cold gaze turned to George. “Your Royal Highness.”

George gave only the slightest nod. “Toto.”

Despite the importance of the event, only a few cameras were present. Royal affairs were still entrenched in tradition, intimate ceremonies reserved only for those deemed closer to divinity than everyone else.

George felt the eyes of God on him every time he got in the car. Every time he put a crown on his head and carried an empire on his shoulders.

Jost and Toto shook hands, symbolically affirming the arrangement.

Toto looked over his shoulder at Lewis while George kept his gaze ahead and unfocused. Lewis stepped forward, his face unreadable, until George had no choice but to look at him.

Neither of them softened when they met eyes. Lewis seemed to stare through him, no recognition in his gaze. George returned the look, cold and numbed.

This was yet another test, and George intended to pass it.

“Your Royal Highness,” Jost greeted with a bow of his head. “As the Williams head of government, it is my honor to formally accept your request of courtship with His Royal Highness, Prince George.”

Even with all of the gleaming metal and glossy carbon fiber in the grand hall, George felt as if they had stepped back a few centuries, when princes weren’t princes, but kings. He suddenly understood why there were no cameras, why the archaic language kept over centuries.

Tradition held power. Ceremony assured longevity.

Lewis wanted him to understand.

“Thank you,” Lewis said, his crown throwing shards of light across the floor as he acknowledged Jost. “I think I speak on Toto’s behalf to say we’re happy to bring our empires together.”

Valtteri stepped forward and both Jost and Toto stepped back, allowing the three princes to stand on their own.

George lowered his gaze as Valtteri extended his left hand. His wedding band twinkled in the light, accompanied by a silver engagement ring. His gaze was vacant—so vacant George knew it was a mask over the insult this had to cause him, the hurt.

Valtteri wanted to make sure George knew his place, just as much as the FIA did.

George kept his eyes on the black velvet that pooled at Valtteri’s feet as he slowly sank down on one knee. He kept his back straight thanks to hours of practice over the past week, and his crown didn’t jostle even when his knee came to rest on the granite.

A prince’s hands were his most valuable asset, and therefore the most royal part of him. That was why they adorned their wrists with expensive watches, their fingers with rings, and sealed marriages with ribbons around interlocked hands.

George reached up, taking Valtteri’s extended hand. He closed his eyes as he tilted his head to press his lips to the cool metal of Valtteri’s rings.

One, two, three.

Once the appropriate amount of time had passed, George carefully pulled away, balancing on the knife edge of supplication and severity.

He understood the intention was a subtle humiliation for Valtteri’s benefit, a way to give him dignity in the taking away of his crown, but George didn’t feel the slightest bit of shame.

Valtteri pulled his hand away, with probably more of a jerking motion than intended, but George kept his head slightly bowed for a moment longer before moving to his feet.

He turned to Jost, who fought back a smile.

Success. Not a single misstep.

“We’ll see you on Friday,” Jost said.

George suddenly wished he’d said more in the dressing room. That he’d thanked Jost, made sure Nic was going to be okay traveling alone. They hadn’t traveled apart from each other since the end of the racing season last year, and the short flight to Germany had been so tense that George didn’t have time to focus on the loneliness of it.

The Williams representatives filed out of the hall, leaving George alone with Toto, Lewis, Valtteri, and a smattering of Mercedes officials standing by.

No more cameras, no more microphones.

“I do hope you understand the importance of this moment,” Toto said.

George was one of the tallest princes on the grid and Toto was easily the tallest head of government, but George still felt small standing before him.

“I do,” George answered, boldly, bravely.

Power surged in him as he took the reins of his destiny into his hands.

He would be a Mercedes prince. And when that day came, he would bring Alex back and ensure Red Bull never saw victory again.  

 

 


 

 

A Mercedes official showed him to the guest apartments in the palace, where Kayla took a few photographs of him as he wandered through the luxurious accommodations that were bigger than his and Nic’s royal apartment back home. the Mercedes apartment even had a courtyard with a small koi pond, packed full of plants to highlight the Mercedes green initiatives Lewis headed.

Skylights provided enough light that he didn’t feel the need to turn the lights on—he liked the dusky, cozy atmosphere of black furniture and dark wood.

this place is nuts, he said in a text to Nic along with a few photos.

pretty sure we don’t even have guest suites, Nic joked.

wish you were here. seriously. way too quiet.

Nic replied with a smiling emoji surrounded by hearts.

Once his photos were taken, George carefully removed his crown and a Public Affairs team member locked it away in a velvet-lined case. He changed into a blue-grey button down and jeans, a William’s crest pinned to his chest that had to remain there for the duration of his visit. As if anyone would fail to notice him.

“Your flight is tomorrow morning at 8:00AM,” Kayla said. “Once you land in Austria, a Mercedes security liaison will drive you and Lewis to your destination separately. No social media updates, no location information posted anywhere. No personal photos—your phone will be subject to confiscation by the FIA upon your arrival at the track. You’re allowed to text Nic, but you are not allowed to send any details of your whereabouts or what you’re up to. Failure to do so will result in fines and personal ramifications.”

George nodded once. “I understand.”

Kayla cleared her throat, scrolling down on her tablet. “Furthermore, no details may be shared during press conferences, personal posts, or with other princes while on FIA property. Failure to do so will result in fines and personal ramifications.”

“Understood,” George said as he rolled up his sleeves.

“If absolutely necessary, you may exchange contact information with His Royal Highness Lewis Hamilton only for the purposes of communication in the event of an emergency such as a natural disaster, terrorist attack, or assassination attempt.”

“Way to keep it light, Kayla,” George muttered.

Kayla frowned, but continued, “In the event of such an emergency within the Williams empire, arrangements will be made for your immediate removal from this event, including and not limited to your removal from the race as well.”

“Understood.”

Of course, no one had ever managed a real assassination attempt on a prince, but popularity among the empires was growing exponentially, and Nic was currently the easiest target while alone.

George didn’t want to think about it.

“If you have any questions, call me,” Kayla said. “I’d rather you talk to me than do something that’s going to get you in every tabloid in Europe.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to explain that I’m taking this seriously,” George said. “I know what this means—not just for me, but for everyone else.”

Other princes would undoubtedly use this strategy to see their former husbands. George just happened to be in the perfect spot for the FIA to approve it: he’d never been married to Lewis, Valtteri’s appointment term was closing, and Lewis wanted a new husband with no previous ties to the empire.

“And before I go, a letter arrived for you,” Kayla said, pulling a blue envelope with a red seal from her pocket. Red Bull.

“Thanks,” George said as he took it from her, noting Max’s seal. Why the fuck would Max be writing him?

He said his goodbyes to the team and once the room was empty, he tore open the envelope to see that it was indeed Max’s handwriting.

 

George,

I know you don’t want to hear from me. I don’t give a fuck.

Two things.

First. Carlos contacted me yesterday about Charles. I’m not sure what you know, but I hope you know enough not to mention this to anyone else. Carlos begged me for help getting him through the next two weeks. You, Lando, Pierre and I need to find a way to be with him Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Or some kind of combination.

Second. Don’t play dumb. I know you had a run-in with Kimi at the medical suite, and I know Mick was there too. Use your fucking head and don’t trust Kimi. He pretends like he doesn’t give a shit, but he absolutely does and he has different priorities.  

Don’t piss him off.

And don’t fucking say anything about what you heard, or I’ll fucking kill you where you stand.

Learn who the real enemy is, before you marry him.

MV

 

George tore the letter to pieces the second he finished reading it, quivering with anger. Max didn’t get to ask for help and turn around and insult Lewis like that. Fucking idiot.

But fear rang through him too. If Max knew about the medical suite, that meant someone told him. Only six other people could have possibly known about them: the receptionist, the FIA medical person, Luca, Charles, Kimi, or Mick. Charles didn’t make sense as the culprit, though it would be just like him to go tell Max the second he left. But Charles couldn’t have known Kimi was there unless he somehow saw him on the way in.

The receptionist never wrote down their arrival, but Max could have asked somehow. The FIA seemed secretive about the whole thing, so George couldn’t see them admitting to anyone that three princes were sneaking around the medical suite, which left Luca, Kimi, and Mick.

Luca could easily be a mole for Sebastian. It made sense on paper, but George couldn’t see Charles’s personal doctor blabbing about failing at his job, not even to a world champion.

Max warning him about Kimi could be a red herring, George figured. But he never saw Max and Kimi talk to each other in the paddock, and Giovinazzi never left Kimi’s side. But it wasn’t like George kept tabs on Antonio during the race weekends.

Mick seemed too terrified to say anything after Kimi snatched his necklace, and that only gave more credence to Max’s warning.

But Mick might just be a good actor, George thought.

Whoever was at fault, Max being involved was an angle he hadn’t seen coming.

George stuffed the pieces of the letter into his luggage, because he knew better than to throw away such a sensitive document into a Mercedes trashcan, even if it was torn up.

As angry as he was, he worried for Charles too. Whatever was happening to him seemed to be getting worse. Carlos reaching out to Max about it seemed like a last-ditch effort, a Hail Mary attempt to save Charles from whatever was chasing him.

George snapped to attention when he heard the sound of a door closing, but when he looked toward the door that led out into the palace hall, it was still firmly shut.

Somehow he knew when Lewis stepped into the room. George turned, and sure enough, Lewis stood there in a black t-shirt and white cargo pants, black sneakers on his feet that looked like shoe-shaped puddles of black tar.

“There are a lot of secret passages around here,” Lewis explained with a fond smile. “I’d love to show you.”

Happiness burst in him. Every ounce of tension, calm, and excitement over the past 12 hours suddenly manifested into pure joy at the sight of Lewis, alone. No FIA watching, no rules to break.

Max could go fuck himself.

“Lewis,” George breathed. “This is amazing.”

He practically ran across the room, straight into Lewis’s arms. George hugged him tight, burying his face into Lewis’s neck. His warmth spread through George’s chest, and all of his worry about the overnight melted away.

“Sorry about all of the pomp and circumstance,” Lewis chuckled, nuzzling against him. “You did such an amazing job. And you looked hot as fuck.”

George laughed. “You looked terrifying. In a hot way.”

“Oh?” Lewis purred, brushing noses with him.

George grinned. “Yes. Don’t act like you didn’t know it.”

Lewis kissed him and George had to break away to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Lewis asked with a little laugh of his own.

George gestured to the room, to Lewis. “You. This. Being here.”

“I told you I’d get it approved.”

George smoothed his palm over Lewis’s t-shirt. “I like this,” he murmured. “Soft.”

Lewis’s lips brushed his cheekbone. “I’m not all silver arrows and cut diamonds.”

“I beg to differ,” George murmured into a kiss.  

Falling in love after so long didn’t feel as scary as he thought it would. With Lewis, it was like wading into a hot spring—jarring at first, but wonderful after he adjusted to it.

“Did you get some sleep?” Lewis asked, lowering his arms to loop them at George’s waist.

“Mhm.” He ran his hands up Lewis’s bare arms, ever appreciative. This Lewis looked like a husband—George realized now how much he carried with him to every race weekend because all of it was gone from his face now.

“I picked one of my favorite spots for us tomorrow,” Lewis said. “Up in the mountains. I try to go every year to relax before the race. You’ll like it.”

Lewis knew him now. George pressed a kiss to his forehead in quiet thanks, and Lewis gave his hips a gentle tug.

“Valtteri has been kind enough to swap rooms with you,” Lewis annouced.

“He—what?”

George hadn’t been expecting the chance to sleep with Lewis for two nights. In fact, he’d been mentally preparing to be alone in bed for the first time since the end of last season, and packed Nyquil to help him sleep because of it.

Lewis laughed, his teeth flashing beautifully white with his smile. “Come on. You really think I’d fly you out here, go through that ridiculous ceremony, and not have you in bed with me tonight?”

George’s cheeks burned scarlet. “I mean—the whole thing is just—”

Lewis cut him off with a kiss, and George tasted the love in it. He let out a soft noise as he staggered, overwhelmed.

“Oh my god—are you hungry?” Lewis asked suddenly, pulling away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to offer you anything. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

George still hadn’t processed the kiss. “Um. Yeah, actually. Hungry. Yes.”

Great. So much for dignified royalty.

Lewis smiled at him, warm. “Come on. We can cook up whatever you’d like. I’ll have someone on staff grab your luggage later.”

 

 


 

 

Dinner consisted of a delicious grilled vegetable sandwich with some kind of magic sauce that made George drool the second he tasted it. He ate two of them, along with a fruit salad and a yogurt dessert that seemed to have serotonin infused into it. Or maybe that was just Lewis, laughing and telling stories about what he used to get up to back in the day.

George noticed throughout the conversation that Lewis never mentioned Nico Rosberg, but George felt his presence anyway. Like a face scratched out on a photograph, there but unrecognizable.

“Vacation time used to be better,” Lewis said as he led George out onto a beautiful balcony. The sun hung low in the sky, painting it hues of pink, purple, and red. “Especially in the lower courts. I went to Greece for three weeks straight.”

George couldn’t imagine a vacation that latest longer than a week. Even during summer break they only had time for whirlwind trips between visiting family, friends, and maintaining a presence as a prince.

“You went to Greece with him, didn’t you?” George asked, thumbing along the side of Lewis’s palm.

Lewis froze—only for a moment. “Yes,” he replied stiffly. “How did you know that?”

“He talks about it a lot,” George said.

Nico still wandered in FIA spaces. He commentated on races, officially and unofficially, even as an exiled prince. Retired, technically, but everyone knew Nico could never come back to a crown, even if they didn’t know why.

“Does he,” Lewis muttered. “Trying to make me look like a charity case, I bet.”

George furrowed his brow. “Charity case?”

Lewis smiled faintly. “Yeah. His parents gave their little future prince everything he wanted, and when he wanted his best friend to go to Greece, they paid for everything because my parents couldn’t afford it.”

Both guilt and respect stabbed George simultaneously. He swallowed hard.

“Speaking as someone who’s done that for someone I care about…it’s not charity.”

Lewis winced. “Fuck. I’m sorry, George.”

George squeezed his hand. “Don’t be.”

“It was different with us,” Lewis said. “We weren’t in love or anything. We were best friends. But I was so jealous of him, even then. I wanted the money and the power. Winning on the karting track meant nothing, no matter how many times I did it. Winning never gave me either of those things, just a shiny trophy to stuff into my parents’ tiny flat.”

George knew he couldn’t speak on this as a kid who’d grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’d never had to want for anything except wins—and even that came easier when his parents paid for the best karting equipment, private schooling, and exposure to amazing coaches.

But he remembered when Nico won his championship—every prince did. The rivalry between Lewis and Nico spurred the FIA into countless rule changes, marriage protocols within empires, and a story still shrouded in mystery five years later.

“I finally beat him,” Nico had said. “He’s always been able to edge me out, even when we were small in go karts. To take a world championship away from him…it feels phenomenal.”

But Nico had been a broken man sitting at the press podium that day, so utterly destroyed that it made international news.

“Will you ever tell me what happened?” George asked, watching the way the fading sun painted Lewis’s face in orange and blue.

“It’s not a story anyone wants to hear,” Lewis said quietly. “We were best friends, now he’s nothing to me. And he thinks he can reverse years of abuse just because he can’t threaten me with a crown.” He snorted. “I’d spit in his face if I ever saw him again. Wouldn’t even hesitate. He was lucky he was on a fucking jet ski in Monaco, too far away for me to throttle him.”

George leaned over and pressed a chaste kiss to Lewis’s cheek. “Enough talk about losers,” he said. “I want to see your room.”

The royal Mercedes apartments were more homey than George imagined them to be. Soft greys, whites, and creams made up most of the décor, and there were plenty of photographs of Lewis and Valtteri, which George hadn’t expected at all. Most of them were silly, with Valtteri sticking his tongue out and Lewis peering over his sunglasses frames directly into the lens.

They had a corkboard one wall with concert tickets and VIP lanyards pinned to it—always doubles—and tiny polaroids of the two of them arm-in-arm at red carpet events over the years.

The kitchen had an exquisite coffee machine and various jars of loose tea leaves, and the fridge had a white board where someone—presumably Valtteri—had drawn a crying stick figure with no milk written underneath.

For the most powerful couple in the empire, George never expected them to be so…normal. Lewis said his and Valtteri’s marriage had no romance, but George saw their love for each other everywhere.

Lewis led him through the apartment toward the only room they hadn’t visited on the tour, but George gently tugged him to a stop in the middle of the living room, where a gas fireplace burned low in the glass-pebbled hearth.

“Why don’t you show people how close you are?” George asked, nodding toward a poster-sized photo of Lewis in all black, posing next to a lethal-looking Ducati, holding a handmade sign that said GO VALTTERI. Valtteri was blurred in the right side of the frame, making a peace sign and pursing his lips at the camera in dramatic fashion as he biked past, a racing bib pinned to his chest.

Lewis shrugged. “We keep our private life private. It’s easier on both of us that way.”

George never figured Valtteri to be so joyful. During race weekends he always looked reserved, and everyone touted him as Lewis’s—

“Hey, where’s Roscoe?” George asked as Lewis stopped at the bedroom door.

Lewis laughed. “Valtteri gets him for the night. Couldn’t let him sleep alone.”

He opened the door to probably one of the fanciest bedrooms George had ever seen. The same glossy stone flooring from elsewhere in the apartment extended into the bedroom and up the wall at the head of the bed before it spread up to the ceiling, coming to a stop a little ways past the foot of the bed. A paper chandelier hung at the end of the bed, casting soft white light over the dark comforter.

The headboard was made of the same stone, and above it was what looked to be yet another gas fireplace with a trembling line of white flame low in the hearth. A TV took up a large portion of the wall at the end of the bed, but the real centerpiece was the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the far wall.

The sun had dipped behind the hills, creating a deep blue sky as a backdrop that looked like something out of a movie. Hillsides made up the horizon, and a small lake glimmered in the dying light.

George’s luggage sat next to a massive closet door, and he caught a glimpse of the master bathroom where a huge jacuzzi tub lay waiting.

This was true royalty.

“You like it?” Lewis asked, a cocky smirk on his lips.

“This is something else,” George murmured, still taking it all in.

A few framed photos sat on the TV stand. George walked over to it, smiling as he recognized the old press junket platforms.  The first photo was from the 2013 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, where younger versions of the princes he knew smiled, arms around each other. Lewis, Sebastian, and Alonso took up the front row, heads together and grinning. Behind them, Valtteri and two since-retired faces, Romain Grosjean and Adrian Sutil, piled on top of each other to fit in the photo.

All of them had youth in their eyes, thinner frames, and brighter smiles.

“That was a good race,” Lewis said, smiling fondly. “Not for me as a driver, but it was one of those days where nothing special happened, and yet that’s what made it special.”

Beside that photograph was a recent one of Lewis and Valtteri bundled in winter gear, sitting in what looked like a ski lodge. Lewis and Valtteri toasted their mugs of steaming somethings toward the camera. A woman had her arms around Valtteri’s neck, but her face had been cropped out except for a swath of blond hair.

“That’s Tiffany,” Lewis explained. “It’s the only photo of her we’ve managed to sneak in.”

George had only a few photographs in their apartment. He just never thought to take pictures of things when they had social media accounts with professional photographers sticking lenses in their faces all the time.

He made a mental note to take more, to have memories like this that he could look back on.

The only other frame was an official royal photo from the beginning of the current season. Lewis and Valtteri both stared at the camera with a sense of superiority, dressed in their black velvet capes and razor-sharp crowns. The black backdrop made both of them pop, fiercely beautiful.

“I’m glad I’d never seen the cape before,” George said with a grin. “Would’ve been all over you.”

Lewis laughed, eyes sparking with mischief. “It’s in my closet. Want to try it on?”

George’s mouth went dry. “You’re joking. That’s a royal Mercedes cloak or whatever. Isn’t that like, a sin or something?”

Lewis pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Stay right there and close your eyes.”

George did so, anticipation thrumming in him as he listened to the closet door opening, the sound of a hangar sliding off a rack, Lewis’s footsteps approaching.

“Keep them closed,” Lewis murmured, his voice lower now. George heard the want in it and fought not to shiver.

Sound ceased when he felt the thick weight of the velvet on his shoulders. He knew velvet was heavy, but the cape was even heavier than expected. It pulled his shoulders toward the floor and trapped the warmth of his body heat against him as Lewis fastened the diamond chain at his neck. Breathing became hard-won, and thought centered around holding himself upright.

Even royal attire at Mercedes demanded perfection from the person wearing it.

George’s eyes flicked open without prompting to find Lewis staring at him, full of desire.

“How do I look?” George asked, barely above a whisper. He lifted his chin, gazing down at Lewis through his lashes.

He belonged in this cape. It melded to him, turning him into an ink-black reflection in the glossy stone at his feet.

Lewis sank to his knees before him, so confident in himself that the act of kneeling before a false-prince didn’t even flag his ego.

“Powerful,” Lewis finally answered.

George parted his lips to speak, but nothing came out as Lewis’s tattooed hands had his fly undone in a few deft movements.

“Wait,” George said just before Lewis tugged his pants down.

Lewis froze immediately, casting a questioning glance up at him.

Royalty was humanity’s closest thing to God. Without a crown on his head, George was just a mortal playing prince, a kid with a crest pinned to his chest and nothing more.

He turned his wrists, catching both sides of the cloak before pulling it around himself, enveloping Lewis in folded wings of black velvet, shielding him from divine scrutiny.

George took a shaking breath and set his eyes on his reflection in the window glass, a black shape that glimmered silver with each settling movement of the velvet with its thousands of silver stars.

“Okay,” he whispered, shivering as Lewis freed him of clothing, even though the velvet did so well at trapping heat.

He held the cloak closed with one hand and fisted Lewis’s braids with the other.

When George’s head fell back a few moments later, losing himself to the pleasure of Lewis’s mouth, he kept his eyes fixed on the royal photograph, on the nest of silver arrows that bristled at Lewis’s temples.

I was born for this. I was born to be better than all of them.

His breath caught in his throat, and he clawed a moan back down into the depths of himself as Lewis showed off the talents of his tongue.   

And soon, George thought, still transfixed by silver tines, I’ll be better than him too.

Chapter Text

The heatwaves of the summer sun bent the air over the Fiorano tarmac. Ferrari was one of the few empires to still maintain a private test track, too entrenched in tradition to destroy it. In an effort to maintain fairness amongst the empires, the FIA no longer allowed private practice sessions with current racecars, but Charles and Carlos still tested cars from previous years to stay sharp.

The wail of Carlos’s struggling engine echoed over the yellowing grass, a call to arms for the pit crew.

“Now, it’s a very important job to hold the jack,” Binotto said beside him, motioning to the trolley jack. “Carlos si fermerà proprio sul marchio, so you can’t be even a centimeter off.”

Charles took the handles and tugged the jack toward the lines outside of the garage. The rest of the pit crew assembled with their wheel guns, poised at the ready.

“Where’s my helmet?” Charles asked, but everyone kept rushing around, getting into place.

“Time to beat is three seconds flat!” Binotto called. “Charles, andiamo!”

Charles pulled the jack toward the line as the nose of Carlos’s car came into view, maroon and black, a red shark on the tarmac.

He stopped the jack in place, a few centimeters from the painted lines that marked where Carlos would stop the car.  He didn’t know much about working on a pit crew, but Carlos looked like he was coming in pretty fast.

No one on the ground seemed worried though, so he loosened his vice grip on the handles and took a breath.

Then one of the mechanics looked at him in a way that made his blood go cold. Charles knew that look better than most. It was a look that said this will be the last time I see you alive.

He heard Carlos kick up the throttle, and the engine sang as the car accelerated, and 752 kilograms of hot metal and carbon fiber rode up the jack like a flight ramp. The jack handle punched into Charles’s diaphragm before the weight of the car sent it to the ground, crushing his legs beneath it as the front wing skated  seared toward him at blinding speed.

He smelled burning rubber before he felt the life burst out of him like juice from a smashed orange.

Charles woke to an incredibly loud shout—one he realized was his own a second later. He clapped a hand over his mouth as he wrenched his head back, still fighting to try to escape the crushing weight of the car.

He kicked out, his feet slamming against something hard.

Charles furrowed his brow, still hyperventilating. Something wasn’t right.

The car. He was in the car.

Charles bolted upright, his mind scrambling to reconnect to his consciousness.

No, he was not in the car. Thank god.

His legs were stuck bent, like they were in the cockpit, but he had no helmet on. And he knew this room, but couldn’t process where it was. And his head really fucking hurt.

He heard the sound of bare feet and suddenly Carlos took up his vision, leaning over a…ledge?

“You’re in the bathtub,” Carlos explained, reaching down to smooth his hair back.

Charles instinctively leaned away from the touch, fear leaping up his throat.

“Tutto bene,” Carlos soothed. “It’s really me, I’m not here to hurt you.”

The last pieces of his mind fit together.

“I’m in the bathtub,” Charles whispered stupidly, looking over himself.

Fuck.

He hadn’t slept through the night since Lando’s visit. Luca upped his medication dosage two days prior, and the nightmares had changed to new, unpredictable terrors. Carlos crushing him with a car, Max drowning him in the Monaco harbor.

He’d become a danger to Carlos. He’d hit him in the face on accident the day before, and he would not allow himself to do it again.

But sleeping on the couch didn’t work because he could roll off of it and risk injury to himself. So he’d settled on the bathtub. They’d lined it with pillows and blankets but—obviously—it didn’t do anything to stop the problem.

“I’m sorry,” Charles sighed, shaking his head.

Austria. They were in Austria.

Carlos frowned. He hard dark circles under his eyes, and his skin looked ashy in the bathroom light.

“You're getting worse,” Carlos said, swallowing hard. “And if you won’t let me help you, we need to find someone who can.”

Charles sank back into the pillows that were damp with his disgusting sweat. They had two races here, and if he couldn’t sleep beforehand, he would fail as miserably as he had in France.

Worse, Carlos would keep waking up to check on him, and he would suffer too. Ferrari would not tolerate both of its princes putting on a shitty performance two weeks in a row. Three in a row and they would both risk being dethroned.

Charles stared up at the drooping bathroom light, arranged like weeping yellow flowers made of glass and iron.

“Max,” Charles said quietly, though his voice still echoed between the acoustics of the tub and the bathroom itself. “I told him about the nightmares. He doesn’t know about the pills.”

Hurt rippled across Carlos’s face. Charles tried hard to ignore it and not comfort him. Carlos had Lando for that.

“If you reach out to Max, he’ll know what to do,” Charles continued. “It’ll involve Lando, Pierre, and George, I’m sure.”

He made sure to hide Pierre’s name in the middle. Still his little secret. His cloth-wrapped dagger that could end everything in one swipe of the blade.

“What will Max be able to do that I can’t?” Carlos asked, unable to mask his hurt.

Charles set his jaw. He didn’t even know the answer to that question. He hadn’t slept in the same room as Max Verstappen since the hotel in Brazil, and maybe once or twice over summer breaks with the group of them, but not alone.

In fact, Max had every possibility of being worse for him than Carlos, because Charles knew the full breadth of Max’s ruthlessness, how easy it would be for him to actually batter his skull with his fists.

“I don’t know,” Charles finally admitted. “But he’s the only one I trust to make sure I stay protected.”

Carlos’s lip curled into an expression Charles could only read as disgust. He prickled with discomfort.

“He loves Daniel. You know that, right?”

The old, hardened pain of his teenage years rattled around in Charles’s chest. He looked away, cheeks turning pink. “Obviously.”

“He will do everything for Daniel,” Carlos continued, as if Charles didn’t already know that full well. “He’ll cut anyone down, even you.”

“Carlos,” Charles warned.

“Trust me,” Carlos said, his voice crackling with exhaustion. “You are not an exception.”

“That’s enough,” Charles cut.

“You need someone to tell you,” Carlos said. “Trusting him is foolish.”

Charles sat up sharply, nose-to-nose with Carlos and his brown eyes ringed with red from sleeplessness.

“I grew up with him,” Charles hissed. “I know him. You know a version of him.”

Carlos looked him over, his gaze lingering too long on Charles’s mouth. For a man who claimed to love Lando more than him, he certainly seemed sour that Charles had distanced himself from him.

“You can only trust him until he decides you’re a risk,” Carlos said quietly.

“Same with everyone,” Charles returned. “Wouldn’t you do the same for Lando?”

Carlos darkened further. “Who would you do it for?”

Charles smirked before reclining back into the pillows.

“Get some rest, Carlos,” he said. “I don’t want to fight with you when we’re both this tired.”

He shut his to the anger and pain on Carlos’s face and told himself this was for the best. Sleeping in a bathtub wouldn’t make the news, but falling asleep at the wheel of a priceless single-seater racecar certainly would.

He needed Max to help him, and Carlos would just have to accept he couldn’t do everything.   

 

 


 

 

The Red Bull Ring  and its massive metal bull sculpture sat nestled among the Austrian alps. Spielberg, the town outside the track, knew motorsports and royalty better than most, and Red Bull made their presence known on every street corner. Loyalty to Max sat in every window, in stuffed lions in local shops, and speed limit signs changed to 33 kph in a nod to Max’s driver number.

The weather was not so welcoming. Rain clouds hung low over town, and media day turned into a soggy affair with grey skies and disgruntled reporters. Charles’s fogged brain matched the mist that churned in the pit lane, and Giorgio put them both in jackets for the first time since Bahrain.

If anyone noticed Charles and Carlos’s exhaustion, they didn’t comment on it. All attention was on Valtteri Bottas and Nicolas Latifi, the two abandoned princes left to fend for themselves while Lewis and George partook in the FIA’s first official courtship event since who knew when.

No one stayed on track longer than they had to, and by the time Charles returned to the hotel, the rain had started coming down in a steady rhythm on the windowpanes.

He remembered Portugal, the way Carlos watched the rain then.

“Vado a farmi una passeggiata,” Charles announced after lunch.

Carlos looked up from his phone, then out the window. “Now?”

“Yes. I need to clear my head.”

I need to see Max.

Carlos pursed his lips. “I don’t appreciate when you lie to me.”

Charles’s cheeks flushed.

Nothing had been the same since France. Which was only five days ago, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Carlos acted like he cared more, but it didn’t translate to his face, his actions.

“I’m going to see Max,” Charles amended. “I just figured you probably didn’t want to hear that.”

Carlos set down his fork, his plate of pasta hardly touched. “I don’t. But I’d still like to know.”

“Do you need help sneaking Lando in?” Charles tried.

Mentioning Lando only seemed to make Carlos more upset. “No. I already have it arranged.”

“Oh. Good.” Charles swallowed. Of course he did. “Do you want me to text you before I come back?”

Carlos soured further. “Not everything is sex, you know.”

The upped dosage of antidepressants at least gave Charles more of a buffer over his feelings. If he focused on himself for a few seconds, he could feel the way the medication smoothed over the cracks in himself, like rocks rounding in whitewater. All of the jagged parts pummeled into clean lines.

“No, but you like sex,” Charles said absently. “E una settimana è un lungo periodo.”

“I don’t know why you do this,” Carlos snapped. “But fine. Certo. Text me before you come back.”

Charles grabbed an umbrella on his way out and didn’t look back.

Thunder rumbled through the hotel as he took the elevator down to the ground floor. He nodded to a few Ferrari officials chatting by the front doors and opened up his umbrella as he stepped out into the town.

Ferrari’s chosen hotel was one of the nicest in Spielberg, but from the outside it looked like the other houses crammed on the narrow streets. The mountains swallowed up the horizon, and with the rainclouds so low, Charles felt enclosed in his own world as he headed toward the lakeshore.

Austria always made him feel small, in a good way.

Red Bull had taken over the grandest residence in Spielberg, the same one they always commandeered during their flagship races. It had a nice view of the valley lake, from what Charles remembered of it from the party they’d thrown after Max’s first Austrian GP win in 2018.

As he walked down the street, Sebastian emerged from a building—presumably another hotel.

The air left Charles’s lungs. For a moment he stayed silent, but then he cleared his throat.

“Seb.”

Sebastian froze before wheeling around to face him.

They were the only two people outside in the gloom, and rain had already started to mat down Sebastian’s blond curls, turning them brown.

“I thought you might be headed for a walk,” Charles said, though he hadn’t thought about Sebastian much at all over the past few weeks.

Sebastian smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes. Some things haven’t changed.”

Charles lifted his umbrella a little higher. “Want to share?”

The invitation fell from his lips before he could stop it.

Sebastian nodded once. “Sure. Where are you headed?”

“Does it matter?”

Sebastian let out a snort. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

Sebastian fell into step beside him as Charles continued down the hill. The patter of rain filled the silence between them as they walked, and every second of quiet reminded Charles how quickly love could fall away.

A year ago, he barely tolerated Sebastian at this point in the year, but by the time they reached Silverstone, he’d been swept up in him, fighting like hell to keep his crown and returning to their bed at night with a full heart and hope for a long-lasting rule.

Stupid of him, really.

Even so, Sebastian was hardly ever this quiet around him. He kept his eyes to the ground, and his smile had vanished within two steps.

“Is it Lance?” Charles asked, keeping his eyes ahead.

Sebastian chuckled, but it had no joy in it. “No. Lance is fine.”

“I guess I don’t get to ask what’s making you upset anymore, do I,” Charles said, hefting the umbrella a bit higher.

“I was going to say the same.”

Charles let out a hum. “I’m not upset.”

“You look it,” Sebastian said. “Carlos not turning out to be your fairytale?”

“He was never a fairytale,” Charles said with a noncommittal shrug. “I tried to listen to your advice, you know. In Monaco. And look what happened.”

Sebastian clucked in disapproval, sidestepping a puddle. “That was because of Max, not Carlos. You could have reached out to me. I would have gladly been there for you.”

Sebastian didn’t know about his relationship with Max, and Charles intended to keep it that way.

“I was having a bad morning,” Charles deflected. “Nobody paid any attention to me having breakfast with Arthur, but four seconds of leaning on Max and suddenly I’m a traitor.”

Sebastian smiled. “Yes, that’s how it works. Wait until Binotto starts thinking you’re wrong about everything.”

“He already does,” Charles said, and for a moment he felt the handle of the jack in his palm instead of the umbrella.

The lake came into view at the bottom of the hill, a tapestry of ripples as raindrops collided with the glassy surface. They both stopped walking at the same time to admire it, still in tune with each other despite it all.

Tree branched sagged with the weight of the water, their leaves bobbing up and down as they released drop after drop to the earth below. The smell of earth rose from the ground, cold but welcoming somehow.

“Is this how it feels?” Charles asked, watching as a sluggish car bumbled down the road on the far lakeshore.

“Sometimes,” Sebastian said quietly. Charles never needed to clarify for him like he did for Carlos or Pierre or Max. Sebastian always knew. “It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it isn’t even painful.”

Charles looked over at him, the paleness of his cheeks, the lack of feeling in him.

“Is it painful for you?” he asked.

Sebastian’s eyes were more grey than Charles remembered, or maybe it was because of the atmosphere.

“I knew in Monaco,” Sebastian said quietly. “I was hoping maybe I was wrong, but I knew.”

Guilt stuck in Charles’s throat. He shook his head, though he wasn’t sure why, because Sebastian was right. As usual.

Not long ago he’d been ready to arrange his entire life around Sebastian, around keeping him. Now he knew he would never do that, and that when Sebastian finally stepped away from his crown, Charles would be with someone else. The whole time, their whole end at Ferrari, he’d been speaking lies.

You’re pathetic. No wonder no one can love you.

Charles swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Sebastian shook his head. “Don’t be. I didn’t make enough of an effort. I let things go unspoken for too long.”

He thought you were stronger.

Charles tightened his grip around the umbrella handle.

He wanted to tell Sebastian about the nightmares. He wanted to force intimacy back into them, but he knew the risk was too great. Sebastian had too much outside of him, too much power to make things worse.

“I could have done better too,” Charles admitted instead.

Sebastian pushed out a sigh. “No. You’re young. These years will be the best for you, even if they feel like they might be the worst. When you’re older, you lose track of time too easily. Things go cold before you realize it.”

The rain picked up, and another rumble of thunder growled through the valley.

Charles’s phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket to see Carlos’s name on the screen.

He’s here. Be safe.

Charles locked his phone and put it back in his pocket.

Lando was probably delighted to find out he had Carlos to himself. Charles could imagine the grin on his face, the sparkle in his eyes as he laughed against Carlos’s chest the way he used to in the paddock.

You’ll never have that. No matter how much you want it.

“Why do you always go for walks when it storms?” Charles asked.

A real smile sprouted on Sebastian’s lips, the first since they’d started walking. “I’ve made them into a sign. Each time one comes, I remember why I’m here. How far I’ve come.”

Charles smirked, but his eyes felt made of lead. “But do you really have to walk around in them? Outside?”

He chuckled. “I like a bit of rain. And as long as it makes me happy, I’ll keep doing it.”

Charles rolled his eyes, oddly warm. “You always were strange.”

“Watch it,” Sebastian teased. “Someday you’ll be an old prince and a young man will say the same to you. We all have our reasons for things.”

Charles smiled. “Well, I guess I should let you get soaked then. I actually have plans.”

Sebastian touched his elbow, a touch as meaningful as it was small. “Take care of yourself, Charles.”

Even if they didn’t love each other anymore, Sebastian still knew him.

“I’m trying,” he said.

Sebastian ducked from the shelter of the umbrella a moment later, without a kiss. Charles watched the dapples of rain begin to dot Sebastian’s shirt as he headed out along the lake and away from town.

A headache started at Charles’s temples as he began to walk in the other direction. Exhaustion was a close friend now, but he could feel the effects of it particularly well in the higher altitude. He longed for the jacket that he’d forgotten to bring, but the Red Bull estate wasn’t far off.

When he spotted a member of Red Bull security standing at an iron gate, he approached without fear.

“I’m here to see Prince Max,” Charles announced to the startled security officer.

The officer frowned at him and pulled out a walkie to say something in hurried German. Or maybe it was Dutch.

Charles took in the old gate, rust-edged cast iron and strangely medieval for a town that had been nothing more than a patch of farmland before Red Bull staked it out for their home track.

The officer’s walkie crackled about a minute later, and the man finally remembered to bow his head.

“This way, Your Royal Highness,” he said in strangled English.

Max ruled Spielberg during Austrian races. Not even Christian Horner or Helmut Marko could stand up to him here—except where it concerned Daniel, probably. The FIA probably had eyes on the McLaren hotel, ready to pounce on the Australian prince if he so much looked in the direction of the Red Bull estate.

The security officer led him through a smaller personnel gate, an into a swath of meticulously preserved gardens full of ferns and flowers. The house—if it could be called a house—loomed beyond, covered in lichen and surrounded by more lush greenery.

They arrived at a small wood door that had an iron latch that clanked when the officer shoved it open to reveal Max standing at the door, a soft smile on his face.

Some love would always be painful when it left.

Charles felt the gaping hole where it used to be as he stepped inside and the security officer shut the door behind him, casting both of them into the dark of the interior hall.

“Hi,” Charles greeted, still holding tightly to his umbrella.

Max smiled wider. He looked rested, still flushed from his win in France. “Hello. Are you going to put that down?”

Charles glanced around, searching for a weapon. Anything Max might use to kill him, even though he was pretty sure this wasn’t a dream.

Every time he tried to sleep, it became harder to differentiate between reality and nightmare. Currently, a medieval palace-house in the middle of Spielberg didn’t exactly lean toward reality.

Charles closed up the umbrella and set it by the door, his hold lingering for only a moment—in case Max decided to strike while his back was turned.

Nothing happened.

This is probably real. Usually  a dream Max would have bludgeoned him by now.

When he turned back to Max, he was still smiling. Charles peered over his shoulder and down the hall.

“Is Daniel here?”  he asked, because Max didn’t smile often—unless Daniel was around.

“No,” Max said with a shake of his head. “I was hoping you’d come by, though.”

Charles cocked a brow. “Were you expecting me?”

He shrugged. “Not particularly. But you have perfect timing. Perez just left for training, so it’s just us.”

That phrase used to mean everything to him back when they were sneaking around. Now he could only think of Belgium, of slipping back into bed beside Max after fucking Pierre, the guilt clinging to his mind after discussing it in France after so many years dormant.

“Do you want to try sleeping?” Max asked.

Charles immediately tensed.

“Or we can just…I don’t know. Sit down?” Max tried, sensing his aversion. “I’m not sure what you had in mind.”

“I…didn’t really have a plan.”

Max laughed. “Well that doesn’t surprise me in the least.” He jerked his chin over his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go to the suite.”

Charles sent one furtive glance at his umbrella before he followed Max through the hallway. Old photographs lined the walls, all consisting of people he didn’t recognize. The Red Bull crest decorated a few doors, each one with carved script indicating a hall or kitchen beyond. It smelled strange too, like an old fire.  

Maybe this was a dream.

Max hummed to himself as he walked, occasionally reaching out to trail his fingers along the wood trim on the wall. He seemed too happy. Too much like Charles remembered him from their past.

His headache intensified, pounding at his temples.

Charles stopped walking when the floor stared to slant.

“Max,” he breathed.

Max was with him in a heartbeat, holding his shoulders. “Hey, hey. What’s happening?”

Charles blinked a few times, steadying himself. “I’m dizzy.”

He relaxed when he saw fear in Max’s eyes. No dream Max would ever show fear—it was rare even on the real one.

“I can call my doctor,” Max said. “We can come up with a story later.”

Charles shook his head. “Please don’t. I just need to sit down.”

Luca would skin him alive. Binotto too. Hell, Giorgio would drink his blood with dinner.

“Come on then,” Max said gently, moving to his side. He hooked an arm around Charles’s middle, stronger than Charles remembered him being. “It’s right up here.”

“You don’t need to hold onto me,” Charles growled. “I’m just dizzy.”

“Oh shut up. Honestly, Char.”

He pretended like he didn’t lean into Max as they walked. The patterns in the stone at their feet started to make shapes. A horse, a dragon, a steering wheel.

 They reached a nondescript door that Max pushed open to reveal an oasis of a suite, but Charles didn’t have time to take it in before Max directed him to a bedroom.

“Lie down,” Max instructed. “You’re going to sleep.”

Charles resisted as the bed opened its maw to swallow him in navy blue sheets. “I won’t be able to.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’m having trouble figuring out if I’m even awake right now,” Charles murmured.

Surely real life wouldn’t be so easy. No FIA presence, no problems at the front gate. Max standing there waiting for him, like they’d planned this. It was all too perfect.

“How can I prove it to you?” Max asked.

Charles tried to think, but his brain seemed stuck, tripping over itself. Bile started to creep up his throat.

“I think I might throw up.”

“Get in bed or I’m picking you up and putting you there,” Max demanded, and Charles thought he heard panic in his voice.

He nodded once. “Okay. Just—just don’t touch me.”

He didn’t even take off his shoes as he crawled onto the mattress, his head pounding so hard he could see the veins of his eyes in the corners of his vision. Blood rushed to his skull and the room spun as he hit the mattress.

“You’re fucking scaring me,” Max whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He reached out, his fingers slightly curled, tense, ready to make a fist in an instant.

 Charles shot his hands up to defend himself, snapping his head to the side to avoid the hit.

The hit that never came.

“Jesus Christ,” Max whispered. “It’s me.”

But Max didn’t say it as a comfort.

Charles didn’t lower his hands.

“Your nightmares are about me.”

Charles quivered with effort as exhaustion warred with his muscle, begging him to put down his arms, to stop bracing himself for a punch.

The mattress shifted as Max stood up . Charles only turned his face after several seconds, fully expecting Max to lunge at him, for a hand to come to his neck or something to connect with his skull.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Charles,” Max hissed—his voice full of horror, not anger.

Charles finally lowered his hands. Max stood at the door, his face gaunt and his eyes hollow.

“Tell me what you dream about,” Max demanded, desperate. “Is it—Is it Brazil?”

The blood drained from Charles’s face. “No.”

“You need to tell me. I can’t help unless I know what I’m fighting.”

“I just came to see you,” Charles said pathetically. “I just needed to get out of the room for awhile.”

“Charles. You’re terrified of me. This is fucking scary. I feel like—I feel like a murderer or something.”

Charles’s heartbeat walloped his throat with each pulse.

“It’s always different,” he began, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “First it was just you telling everyone about us in Baku. Then, um. Then you started punching me to death. Or, like, strangling me. And now I can’t—Now every time I sleep it feels like real life until you start killing me. And I can never predict when it’s going to start.”

“Fuck!” Max shouted, and Charles flinched hard at the sudden volume. “What started this?” Max asked, lowering his voice. “When did—What caused it?”

Charles shook his head. “It’s not just you. It’s you or Carlos.”

“There has to be a reason,” Max said. “This doesn’t just happen to someone.”

Charles’s eyes burned, but not with tears. His head felt like it was boiling his brain inside it. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be fucking dealing with it.”

“I would never—ever—hurt you, Charles.”

“You say that sometimes before you break my jaw.”

 Max scrubbed his face with his hands. “Jesus fuck.”

“I still know you,” Charles said. “So you’re real in my head when I’m dreaming.”

His eyes fell closed, succumbing to the desperate pleading of his throbbing head. His body was giving up, shutting down. He had a feeling it was Max’s fault, too.

Max’s hand brushed his, folding over it. Charles didn’t even have the strength to flinch.

This is real. You’re awake. You’re so fucking pathetic and you’re awake.

Max lifted his palm, brushing his lips against the backs of Charles’s fingers.

“You’re making this difficult to tell if it’s real,” Charles whispered.

Max squeezed his hand, and Charles imagined himself back at Max’s flat in Monaco. A smaller one back then, but no less impressive. Stuffed full of pizza and lying on their backs in the middle of his living room, surrounded by PlayStation controllers, empty pizza boxes, and a few beer bottles. Greasy fingerprints all over his skin.

“Do I do this in the dreams?” Max asked softly.

“No,” Charles said, his voice shaky.

He remembered the way Max smiled at him then, the same way he’d smiled at the door. Except back then he didn’t have the broad shoulders and chest, nor the stubbled jawline.

“How long do I have you?” Max asked against his knuckles.

“Awhile,” Charles said. “If you want.”

He didn’t mention that Carlos would be grateful for the time apart, that Lando was currently in their flat, probably having a great fucking time. A great time fucking. Fucking hell, Charles couldn’t organize his own mind.

Max kept ahold of his hand as he moved back onto the bed, thumbing the back of his palm.

“I can stay right here and make sure nothing happens to you,” Max offered.  

Charles tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were too heavy.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he breathed.  “My own body is fighting me, Max. My own head. I’m tired.”

“You need sleep,” Max said. “You’re overwhelmed right now. Sleep will help.”

Charles knew it would, but he had no idea how to sleep peacefully anymore. Convincing Luca for sleep medication wouldn’t be a possibility until after the races were done, and even then, he would have to request approval from the FIA.

“Would you hurt me if it meant saving Daniel?” Charles asked, his hand going limp in Max’s hold.

“No.”

Charles’s lips twitched. “Come on, Max. Hurt me and you get Daniel for the rest of your life. You wouldn’t?”

Carlos’s question lingered. “Who would you do it for?”

Max settled down on the bed beside him. Charles felt his breath blow back at him off of Max’s chest, but he still couldn’t open his eyes.

“I love Daniel more than anything else in my life,” Max murmured, the same way he used to late at night when they started talking about stupid things like marriage and buying a house and what car they would drive a kid around in. Who would handle karting schedules and who would make sure they had food on the table and a life outside of racing.

He’d half-lied to Pierre. Charles did think about his future, once upon a time, but only before he’d been given a crown, and only with one person.

“What did Carlos tell you when he wrote you?” Charles slurred, teetering on the edge of sleep.

“He lied to me,” Max muttered, close enough that Charles felt the vibration of his voice. “You’re way worse than he said.”

A smile flickered to Charles’s lips, his closed lashes fluttering as sleep took another swing.

“He’s jealous,” Charles whispered.

Max’s chin rested gently on the top of his head. “Of what?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Charles said. “Everything that happens doesn’t matter.”

Max shifted closer, but Charles didn’t nuzzle into his chest like he knew Max wanted him to.  

“If he ever found out about you and me, he’d kill me,” Charles murmured, delirium already taking hold. “He’s got very strong hands.”

He smelled the scorched grass of Fiorano.

“—cheats on everyone,” Max said, distant.

Sun warmed his shoulders. No helmet.

“Max,” Charles slurred, fumbling forward in the dark. No, the sun. Heat licked at his heels and he recognized the scent of Maranello.

An engine cried out. Charles held tighter to the jack in his hands, waiting, Binotto’s eyes on him.

Carlos’s car crested the hill, a red shark on tarmac. Charles thought he looked like he was going too fast, but no one else on the pit crew looked worried.

“God, you’re stupid,” Max said, hauling him by the fabric of his race suit away from the pit crew. “At least put this on.”

Charles barely had time to blink before Max shoved a helmet on his head—Max’s helmet, actually.

“I can’t wear this,” Charles said,, slapping at it, his cheeks mushed. “Doesn’t fit.”

The symphony of wheel guns blasted behind him as Carlos stopped on his mark.

“Great, I missed it!” Charles snapped, but Max had vanished.

Pizza.

Charles opened his eyes, carpet fibers digging into his back. The curtains shifted in the breeze, carrying in the scent of the harbor, salty air mixing with the heavy scent of gooey cheese and pepperoni.

“My parents should know about you,” Max said. “About us. I think it’s time.”

Charles laughed to offset the nerves that spun to life in his stomach. “Okay. Why now?”

“Don’t wake up,” Carlos whispered in his ear, his breath hot.

Charles furrowed his brow and the color in the room started to drain out. “Max, who is Carlos?”

“You’re crazy,” Max replied, laughing hues back into the world.

“It’s going to rain,” Charles said, lolling his head to the side to look at Max, whose face was upside down because he was laying the other way. Max’s turquoise eyes sparkled like polished gemstones, breathtaking.

“Do your parents like me?” Charles asked, his whole body warm.

“Yes,” Max said, his eyes soft and his voice slightly louder than it needed to be. “They’ve always liked you.”

Anticipation bundled in his stomach at the thought of Jos Verstappen approving of him as Max’s boyfriend. But he wanted to be with Max more than anything, and if they’d come this far, they could keep going.

He looked up at the ceiling as Max took his hand. Maybe he loved him. Probably. Definitely.  

“Okay,” Charles said, trying to instill confidence in both of them. “Let’s tell them. I’ll tell my parents too.”

Dad is dead, you fucking idiot.

Charles ran his hand along the back of an dining room chair in Spain, taking in the vastness of Carlos’s family home.

“Where’s your family?” Charles asked, tilting his head up to admire the high ceilings. “They aren’t here.”

“Ah,” Carlos said, cocking his head, the word love still fresh on his lips. “You don’t know the rules.”

No, he did know the rules. He knew the rules.

“You didn’t introduce me,” Charles said, firm. He heard Lando snicker in the living room.  

He didn’t have the car keys.

“You can drive mine,” Pierre said with a knowing smirk, faceless in the passenger seat of the NSX. “Do you want to kiss me when you get out of the car?”

Charles shook his head. He was in Spain, not France. Spain.

Carlos pulled a knife from the block, a tube of ground beef on the countertop. Low light played over the granite as the sun turned the sky to blood.

“Is this real?” Charles asked.

Carlos turned the knife in his palm, testing the weight and balance. The cold steel flashed in warning.

“You’d better wake up now,” Carlos said.

Charles stared at the knife. “Carlos, no.”

A low growl sounded behind him when he took a step back. What the fuck was the dog’s name? Pinecone? Pepper?

Carlos flipped the knife in the air and caught it by the handle. “Wake up, Charles.”

He had maybe two seconds, and every driver knew that was far too big of a gap.

Wake up.

Charles gasped out as he surfaced from the dream. His lips parted over warm skin, and he braced against a familiar chest as arms wound tight around him.

“Tranquillo, tranquillo,” Carlos whispered into his hair. “You’re safe. Sei al sicuro.”

Charles slumped against him, his mind fogging with the cobwebs of deep sleep, fear still pulsing despite. He breathed hard into Carlos’s shoulder, shaking, but he knew where he was, that he was indeed safe.

“How--? What day is it?”

Carlos continued to hold him tightly. “It’s Friday morning. You’ve been sleeping since yesterday afternoon.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “What? That doesn’t make any sense.”

The sun hadn’t yet risen. pre-dawn blackness sank into his bones as he struggled to comprehend.

“What do you remember?” Carlos asked into the dark.

“Sebastian,” Charles muttered, trying to think. “Then I walked to Red Bull and saw Max.”

“Well, I don’t know about Sebastian, but yes, you did see Max.”

He remembered Sebastian walking alone in the rain, the sound of it on the umbrella fabric, the quiet knowing between them.

“You fell asleep there,” Carlos continued. “Max used your phone to call me to come pick you up. Nobody got any photos, and you didn’t wake up.” He pasued. “I don’t think you woke up anyway.”

“Fuck,” Charles groaned, his headache ramping up again. “My head is full of stuff.”

“Go back to sleep,” Carlos murmured. “We have a few hours.”

Carlos relaxed his hold and Charles shifted back slightly, though his still had his face pressed to Carlos’s chest, so there wasn’t much he could do to back off. The steady beat of Carlos's heart soothed his fraying mind, repairing it again.

He heard when the rhythm picked up a few seconds later.

“You were right,” Carlos said quietly.

Charles nuzzled against him, eager for more sleep. “Mm?”

“About Max. You know him, I only know a version of him.”

He stilled. “Did he say something?”

“No,” Carlos said.

For a moment, Charles thought that would be the end of it, even though Carlos’s heart rate picked up even faster. Then Carlos’s chest lifted with a breath to continue.

“Checo met me at the door,” Carlos said in an empty tone. “Max didn’t leave your side until I carried you out. He didn’t let go of you hand until the last moment. He never would have done that for me.”

 

 

Later that morning as they changed into their track-appropriate outfits, Charles felt something in the pocket of his jeans before he took them off.

He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper—a receipt. Rushed words written in pencil. Max’s handwriting, he realized.

I remember that pizza too.

Chapter 46

Notes:

i realized the FG discord link was broken, so here it is again (and it's been updated on the main page as well)

Chapter Text

George woke in silk sheets and luxury. Every muscle in his body tingled with a beautiful cocktail of pleasure, warmth, and complete relaxation. His limbs were jelly, his smile light and easy even as the pale light outside the windows dimmed with deepening fog.

Lewis knew how to treat a man. That much had been made abundantly clear.

He didn’t even know what to call their place. It was far too modern to be called a cabin, yet it was cozy, small, and incredibly intimate. Sleek metal and dark wood accents reminded him of his guest room at the palace, though the floors were wood here, and the sculptures arranged throughout the place were way too abstract for the cutthroat precision of Mercedes.

Their bedroom hung over the edge of a mountain, nestling them in the canopy of lichen-covered pines and whispering oaks. They lived a magical day above the world, completely isolated from the stress of the upcoming race, their empires, and their husbands.

George missed Nic more than he’d expected to. Lewis arranged plenty of stress-relieving activities for them: massages, acupuncture, soaking in a hot tub on the deck that extended out over the valley underneath the master suite. Several activities were more…primal in their relief techniques, but nonetheless effective.

He groaned softly as he shifted in bed, stretching out on the cool sheets to where Lewis should have been.

Lewis didn’t seem to enjoy cuddling all that much, George had discovered. George wasn’t exactly the most touchy-feely guy either, but he at least stayed in bed with his partner after a night of some seriously good sex.

Not Lewis.

Even after their night at Mercedes, Lewis had been awake for a 7AM coffee with Valtteri and a few meetings with the Mercedes brass before they left for Austria. George had assumed leaving to see Valtteri was just husbandly guilt, but waking up alone on what was supposed to be a romantic retreat made the cold and fog permeate his skin a little more than he liked.  

He slipped from bed and tugged on a pair of Lewis’s sweats from where they had been discarded on the floor from the night before.

He rubbed his eyes as he stepped into the kitchen, shivering as the cold air brushed his bare shoulders. Morning had yet to truly reach the valley—fog covered obstructed the view, cocooning them in a wash of grey and white that pressed against the window glass as if trying to escape the oncoming sun.

“Ah fuck,” Lewis laughed when George entered the kitchen. “I was hoping to surprise you.”

Lewis stood at the stove, dressed in flannel pajama pants and some haute couture fuzzy slippers that looked both comfortable and pretentious.  He twirled a spatula in his hand with the finesse of a gourmet chef before returning to a brown concoction in a clay pan.

“It’s injera,” Lewis explained with an amused smile. “Ethiopian.”

The food looked like a poor attempt at a pancake, porous and bubbling in the heat of the stovetop, but Lewis looked like husband material. 

“Ethiopian what?” George asked, crossing the kitchen to him.

Bowls of chopped vegetables, diced vegan meat, and a few saucers of a mysterious cream sauce sat on the countertop in an artful arrangement—typical Lewis, making everything as perfect as possible.

“Technically it’s a flatbread,” Lewis replied, leaning into him as George settled behind him and pressed a kiss to Lewis’s shoulder.   

“Good morning, by the way,” George hummed, watching as the injera started to form up in the pan—though form was a loose term, because it had only evolved from a botched pancake to a botched crepe.

Lewis turned his head to give George an apologetic peck on the cheek. “Morning. Sorry—I thought you’d sleep in. I wanted to do breakfast in bed.”

“We still can,” George offered with a fond nuzzle. The thought of climbing back under the covers for a short nap together sounded heavenly. 

“Hey, are you wearing my pants?” Lewis laughed, using his free hand to give George’s waistband a tug.  

“Maybe. They’re a little short on me, which is unfortunate,”

Lewis smirked and gently moved the injera from the pan to a waiting plate.

“That’s okay, they won’t be on much longer.”

George snorted out a laugh. “In Monaco you said I had too much energy.”

Lewis turned to face him, barely giving George time to close his eyes before their lips met. He caught the taste of cucumber, remnants of tea, but no trace of sleep. That meant Lewis had probably been awake for hours, and it was only nine.

“You don’t like snuggling much, do you?” George murmured when their kiss broke. He brought a hand up, trailing the backs of his fingers over Lewis’s cheek. The word 'snuggling' definitely put him in the millennial category, but he couldn't think of any better way to describe it.  

Lewis’s smile went a little sheepish. “Fuck, I’m sorry, George. It’s not that I don’t—”

He cut himself off and George recognized the flash of shame in his eyes.

“Lewis, it’s okay,” George soothed, gently rubbing Lewis’s arms. He tried not to get lost in the way his pale fingers traveled over black ink and dark skin “I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. I just noticed, that’s all.”

Lewis curled his lip. “When you’ve been a prince this long, it’s—I mean, nothing ever feels real. It does, but it doesn’t. It’s hard to explain.”

George’s heart twinged in sympathy. Pain read so clearly on Lewis's face, even when he did his best to hide it. 

“You can try, if you want,” George murmured. “We can have, uh, whatever these things are that you made, and you can tell me.”

Lewis stared through him, down to the floor.

George pulled him close, lips ghosting over the freckle on Lewis's cheek--now his favorite place to kiss. 

He could imagine the next few years of his life in moments like this. A different kind of intimacy than he had with Nic, but nonetheless potent, nonetheless stabilizing for his psyche. They already depended on each other. George sought Lewis after races, and thought about him whenever they were apart.

Lewis looked over his face, his lips slightly parted in a way that made him look younger than all of them, a childlike wonder in his brown eyes. George's heart started beating faster in his chest and his breathing stilled as the world seemed to slow around them. 

“I love you,” Lewis whispered, and it almost sounded like he’d said it accidentally.

George jerked in surprise, but he didn’t pull away.

“I, uh. I love you and I really don’t think I should,” Lewis added.

“Don’t think you should?” George questioned, because obviously that was the correct reaction to a love confession.

Lewis Hamilton loved him.

Of course, every prince had a warped perception of love, and the word had a bit less value when the media made it seem like you fell in love with a new man every couple of years, but this wasn’t a publicity stunt. Lewis looked genuinely conflicted, sadness clouding his eyes, and George didn't know what to do about it.

Lewis sighed. “I don’t mean to sound so uncaring. I’ve been struggling with this over the past few weeks—it’s not an easy thing to admit when you’re in my position.”

George nodded, though he didn’t really understand. Lewis loved him.

“Emotion wasn’t supposed to come into it,” Lewis continued. “You were the best choice for Mercedes. But now things are different. I can’t just—I can’t make decisions based on the most logical thing. I’m taking your feelings into account, my feelings, how much it might hurt you to—”

“I love you too,” George interrupted, cheeks going beet red.

Guilt and shame welled up in him along with the nerves. Pretending he wasn’t in love with Lewis wouldn’t fix anything, even if he hated himself for feeling it. He’d fallen in love with Lewis too fast, he knew, but Lewis didn’t give him much choice with his bold flirting and the way he always made time when he had none to give.

“I may not understand what it’s like to be a world champion yet, but I do understand not wanting this—” George gestured between the two of them, “—and falling into it anyway.”

Alex would become a smaller and smaller part of him, shoved further and further back into his heart to make room for this. A love where he didn’t have to risk anything, because he would have Lewis’s power and a crown to share with him.

“You don’t have to take it easy on me,” George said. “I can handle you choosing Mercedes over me. I may not like it, but I can handle it. I want to be your partner, and as a prince that doesn’t mean we live happily ever after, even though that’s what all the storybooks say. We just have to be there for each other when the cameras are off. The way you are with Valtteri.”

Lewis nodded distractedly. “I’m not in love with Valtteri, though.”

George rolled his eyes. Now he sounded like Charles. “He’s basically your life partner right now. Just because you don’t fuck doesn’t mean it’s anything less than what we have.”

He missed Nic’s laughter the way he missed Alex’s. He found himself waiting for a jab to the ribs the way he used to find himself waiting for Alex to kiss the bridge of his nose before they went to sleep.

“You’re making me sound like I’m the inexperienced one,” Lewis laughed.

George’s eyes dimmed as he shrugged. “I got really, really lucky early in my life.”

He grew up loving and being loved. He grew up with a kind and gentle boy who became a kind and gentle man, who never put a foot wrong and lost his crown because Max didn’t mind stomping on him despite promises otherwise.

George set his jaw. “But luck runs out. You move on and make it work.”

Lewis frowned. “I don’t want to be something  bad for you”

George rested their foreheads together. “You’re giving me everything I want. I know it won’t always be easy, but I’m okay with that.”

A small smile found its way to Lewis’s face. “See, this is the problem. You talk like this and I start thinking about how it’ll be next year when I’m supposed to be sad about leaving Valtteri.”

George grinned. “If I even think about leaving Nic I’m going to cry, so let’s not talk about that.”

They shared a kiss that tasted like promise, then Lewis set about crafting a texture-deficient breakfast wrap. George expected to hate it, but the sponginess of the injera gave the vegetables a savory flavor and held the cream sauce better than expected.

Lewis kept looking out the window throughout breakfast. Their cars would be picking them up in an hour or so, and when they arrived on track they would have to avoid the media shitstorm to make it to their garages for practice.

Rain began to tap at the windowpanes halfway through their meal, first in a drizzle, then a downpour.

“Do you like driving in rain?” Lewis asked, his eyes still on the forest beyond.

George shrugged, his cheek swollen with a bite of breakfast wrap. “I don’t prefer it, but I like the challenge.”

The great equalizer. Rain made every car the same beast, and separated the good from the great.

George drummed his fingers on the tabletop, itching to talk to his engineers.

“It’s not supposed to rain on track,” Lewis assured him. “Maybe a sprinkle, but it’ll be clear for us.”

He nodded once. “That’s good.”

Silence hung between them, the magic of the morning lost to the pull of competition.

Right now Nic would be in the garage, headphones on, deep in it with the engineers as they assessed the weather and talked about changes to the power units. How the new tweaks might be affected by rain. Nic would have a few hours’ head start. More time to wrap his mind around any adjustments he would need to make to his driving. Nic would have an edge.

“Should I call our cars early?” Lewis asked, still looking out the window.

“Yeah,” George replied without hesitation. “I think you should.”

 


 

A pair of Mercedes G-Wagens arrived at the house less than twenty minutes later. The growls of their engines echoed through the mountain in a ghostly duet, giving George and Lewis plenty of time to gather their suitcases and share a few more kisses.

“Should I say I love you?” George teased when his blue G-Wagen parked in the drive, followed closely by Lewis’s black one with the Mercedes crest emblazoned on the hood.

“If you want,” Lewis said, gripping a little tighter to his luggage handle.

“Okay,” George said with a smile. “I love you, I’ll see you on track.”

The words jumbled in his mouth like a foreign language, but he remembered feeling the same way with Alex when ‘love you’ turned to ‘I love you’ after that stormy night in the JFK terminal.

“I love you too,” Lewis said, his words jumbling too. “And thank you. For—I mean, for everything. You know. Being able to talk to someone about things, about…”

“About Nico,” George finished.

Lewis’s smile twitched. “About all of it.  It means a lot.”

“Well, it means a lot to me that you trust me that much,” George said, warmth spreading in him. He wanted to be Lewis’s confidant, his partner. They would be an unstoppable team. Lewis would teach him to be the champion he knew he could be, and they would have moments like this between it all.

“Try not to miss me too much,” George joked as he hefted his luggage off of the porch step.

“We’ll see each other soon,” Lewis promised, leaning in.

Their lips brushed in a parting kiss that was over too soon. George hurried to the car afterward, eager to get in touch with the team, with Nic, and with Kayla.  

He put up the privacy shield between him and the driver as the car started forward past Lewis, who greeted his driver with a fist bump and a smile, the real Lewis wiped away and replaced with the always-jovial, always-performing champion.

Excitement buzzed in George as he fished out his phone, Lewis’s soft  ‘I love you too’ playing on loop in his head.

But as soon as the trees enveloped them on the mountain path, he couldn’t find it in himself to dial. His phone screen stared blankly at him, and he watched as his thumb trembled over the numbers.

Salty heat ran down his cheeks before he realized he was crying. The moment he noticed it, his whole body began to shake.

You’re abandoning him. He’s waiting for you and you’re leaving him behind.

George flicked to his speed dial list, hurriedly wiping his eyes as guilt bubbled up his throat, dislodging the happiness he’d thought would stick.

“Tell me you’re calling to announce a royal engagement,” Nic greeted, his voice choppy with the mountainside cell service.

“Hey,” George croaked out, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I, um, just wanted to call and, um, see how things are—” A sob threatened to overwhelm him, but he stuffed it down. “Is it going to rain hard?”

Nic didn’t speak for a moment. George watched the rain streak on the car windows as they carved their way down the slope.

“We missed you,” Nic said instead of answering his question, his voice soft. “I missed you a whole lot. Do you know how fucking annoying it is to miss your fake husband more than your actual girlfriend? Worse, do you know how annoying it is to miss your fake husband--who is also a doofus--more than your actual girlfriend?”

George laughed brokenly, but more tears dripped from his eyes like a leaking spicket.

“I missed you too,” he finally said. “Like, a whole fucking lot. And you’re right, it’s really fucking annoying.”

Nic laughed genuinely on the other end of the line and George’s mind flashed through a thousand moments just like this one.  Nic beside him, a steady weight, a constant in a sea of uncertainty.

“I don’t need to beat him up, do I?” Nic asked.

“No.” George said, cradling the phone tighter to his cheek. “Um. I just—Have you ever been in love with someone before?”

They didn’t really talk about the intricacies of their past relationships. Nic knew about Alex, but they never discussed him in-depth, Nic was just good at reading him. They really never spoke about Nic’s prior girlfriends because it wasn’t tactful, and he preferred the FIA to stay out of his business.

“I’ve loved a few girls,” Nic said after a moment. “But I don’t think I’ve been madly in love or anything. It’s not their fault. You can’t really be obsessed with someone when you only get to see them like once a quarter.”

George swallowed, staring out at the blurred undergrowth on the side of the road.

“I told Lewis I loved him,” he said quietly.  “And I do. But it feels so different. Almost like I’m forcing it but I’m not. I do love him. But—”

He cut himself off as the truth wedged into him, slipping between his ribs like a blade.

“You love Alex more, huh,” Nic said. Not accusatory, not judgmental.

“Yeah,” George whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as pain seized his insides in a horrible wave.

He covered his mouth and sobbed into his hand, the phone still tucked to his ear. All of the softness, love, and tenderness Lewis had filled him with turned sour inside him, fleece to barbed wire.

“I just wish I could say sorry,” George choked out, muffled and sticky-lipped. “I don’t know how to do this—I never thought I would have to. He’s waiting for me and—”

“Georgie,” Nic soothed. “Hey mate, hey. Listen to me, okay? Are you listening?”

His body jerked with silent sobs as he nodded, then realized Nic couldn’t see him.

“I’m listening,” George said. “I’m listening.”

“You’re trying so hard for him. You’re keeping the lantern lit in the middle of a fucking hurricane, mate. And I’m telling you it’s okay to feel something, okay? It’s okay to fall in love with somebody else.”

“No it’s not,” George argued.

“Yes it is,” Nic said firmly. “You are not with him anymore, George. I’m sorry, but you’re not. You haven’t spoken to him in almost a year, and he’s exiled—he isn’t coming back.”

The greenery outside of the window seemed to lose color, like the printer ink for the universe had run low.

“I know you’re always going to save a piece of yourself for him, and that’s fine,” Nic said gently. “But you can’t deny yourself this wonderful, amazing thing because Alex might be waiting for you.”

“He is waiting for me.”

“Sweetheart—my darling doofus husband—you don’t know that. You can’t assume that.”

“You don’t know him.”

“Well unless he’s an alien, I know enough,” Nic said. “He’s a human. I mean, look at you. You’re beating yourself up over it, but you’re still moving on. It’s okay, George. ”

Sick and twisted guilt roiled in him, turning his stomach to a pit inside him and swallowing up everything he’d cultivated over his time away.

“I have to go,” George whispered.

“Tell mw when you're close, okay? There's—”

He hung up before Nic could finish and tossed his phone onto the seat beside him, then he put his head in his hands and sobbed fully.

Mornings with Alex had always been quiet, uneventful things. Waking up to the lingering scent of curry on his dark skin—or whatever takeout they’d ordered the night before. Soft pecks as Alex inevitably crawled out of bed first, a brush of fingers across his forearm when it was really time for him to go.

He couldn’t even remember the last time they slept beside each other. The Red Bull announcement came so suddenly—one minute he had Alex on race weekends and letters in between, the next Alex's seat sat empty at Steakout, and Max said things just happened and they had to get past it.

Hate stung like a wasp, over and over again.

George cried for the entire forty minutes it took to make it to the track. Not sobbing, not all the time. But tears leaked from his eyes so steadily he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to stop.

The blackout windows shielded him from view from the fans crowded the track entry, screaming his name and waving signs. The carpark was already full as they arrived, and the driver slowed to a stop in front of a nondescript concrete building that led into the pit lane grandstands, where everyone who was anyone would be standing around waiting to rub elbows with royalty after practice.

George stayed in the car, watching the drizzle but not actually watching it at all.

In his mind he had Alex’s hand in his, fingers twined together as they watched Pierre dive into green lake water, Lando making a face at the edge of the dock as Charles threatened to pull him in. The sun on their backs, popsicle juice dripping down their chins.

The car continued to idle and George started dabbing his eyes, though his shiny cheeks and salt-crusted lashes would give him away the second he stepped from the car.

He reached forward and pulled open the privacy divider.

“Can you take another lap around the carpark, please?” he asked, his voice weathered.

“Certainly, Your Highness,” the driver answered in a gruff German accent.

George closed the divider as car rolled forward. He set about calming his breathing and wiping the snot from his face, the spit from where it had collected at the corners of his lips. Grieving never looked pretty in real life. 

The tips of the Red Bull sculpture’s horns pierced the sky in the distance, a massive and terrifying testament to the ruthlessness of this fucking place and that fucking empire.

His breaths finally started to calm as they weaved around a few idling cars—none of them royal. He stared through the faces in the windows as they passed: a Red Bull engineer on the phone, an FIA liaison in a stupid white polo, a Red Bull official with a Red Bull crest and PUBLIC AFFAIRS written in gold on her cap.

He recognized a few faces as a group exited the pit lane building, but his mind was still in King's Lynn. Even so, his brain kept tripping, jarring him back to the present even though he didn’t want to be there.

A strange feeling churned in his stomach that finally pulled him from his daydreams.

He recognized Jack Aitken first, the British-Korean lower-court prince backed by Williams, supposedly in contention for a crown if George chose to leave, though George had yet to discuss that with Jost.

Jack tucked his sunglasses into the front of his shirt and stepped off the curb toward a waiting FIA van, where other lower-court princes gathered, bumping fists and exchanging greetings.

George’s throat closed. The lower court practice session had probably just ended and the drivers were probably headed back to their non-royal hotels for waffles and beer or whatever the hell Austrians had for lunch.

Jack veered left and George nearly lost his injera breakfast when he recognized the tall frame Jack playfully knocked into.

Alex. Even from a ways away, George could see that his jaw had changed a little, his neck thicker, his shoulders a bit more broad but the exact same shape he’d seen in the video in Baku.

A breaker flipped in him, and everything inside George shut down at once. His vision blackened except for the slightly darkened view of Alex’s face thorugh the window, the reflection of his smile in the light as he poked Jack in the stomach, ducking when Jack fired back.

George begged his body to do something—to scream, to stop the car—but he couldn’t move. Alex settled into conversation with Aitken, bobbing and weaving his head, probably talking about a drive or a track or maybe he’d finally picked up breakdancing like he always joked he would.

Jack doubled over laughing, leaning into Alex with the force of it. Alex’s shoulders shook as George memorized the stupid lines of his ears that he’d forgotten, the fringes of his silly haircut, still as bad as ever.

Come back, his brain screamed, but it came out in a whisper. Come back, look at me.

But Alex wouldn’t be able to see him through the blackout windows.

He wanted to do all of the things he’d told himself he would do if he ever saw Alex again. Instead his body quieted, and the fear threw a wet blanket over any attempt to get Alex’s attention.

If he rolled down the window or stopped the car or was somehow photographed through the tinted window even looking at Alex, any chance of properly reuniting would vanish in an instant.

It was like God wanted him to look Hell in the face, for his heart to burn in it.

As the Mercedes inched forward, George’s view through the window shrank to a sliver until it became nothing but a bit of glass reflecting the cloudy sky.

Just like that, Alex slipped away from him again. It hurt so much more than seeing him on TV.

George tried to remember Alex’s face, to burn it into his mind for safekeeping, but adrenaline had scrubbed everything away except the feeling of Alex’s smile, the vague shape of his ears. No specifics. A ghost.

Numbness crept over him as he sat back against his seat.

This was what life would be for him if he didn’t get Alex back. Blurry, half-glimpses of his face, the memory of someone he thought he would spend the rest of his life with, though maybe he should have known better. Soulmates didn’t mix with royalty.

The car slowed to a stop. He spotted Nic standing in the shade of the far end of the pit lane structure, arms crossed and face downcast underneath the brim of his Williams cap.

George didn’t even thank the driver as he forced his way out of the car. His luggage cracked into his ankles as he hit the parking lot tarmac, but George didn’t notice.

Nic didn’t say a word before pulling him into his arms for a tight hug.

“I saw him,” George whispered, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears from coming back. “He’s right back there.”

Nic lifted his chin off of George’s shoulder to look, then patted his back soothingly.

“I was hoping you would miss them,” Nic said. “You hung up before I could warn you. I thought the chances were too small to call you back.”

The despair in him curdled into something foul—a sticky, devastating truth.

George pulled back from the hug and wiped his eyes, though most of his tears had already been spent.

“He’s looking this way,” Nic whispered, frowning,

It’s time to choose.

George couldn’t pine for Alex forever, and fighting for his return didn’t involve putting them both at risk for a glance from across a parking lot.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, taking Nic’s hand. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

He had Lewis on his side. He would succeed the right way.

Nic’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t protest as he pulled off his cap and put it on George’s head.

“You looked a little disheveled,” Nic explained, but there was no humor in his voice.

George headed toward the paddock without a word, and he didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Grey skies dulled the cockpit view as Charles stared at the line of cars in front of him. Not many, as he’d managed a decent qualifying session to take seventh. Placing really didn’t matter unless it involved a podium. Even then, he only wanted first.

He woke every race day with the taste of victory’s kiss on his lips. A dream he needed to make reality.

Normal people did not understand racing. Some argued that it was a waste of money to stake empires on a few flashy racecars, that the government leadership should engage in proper military service to serve them, not drive in circles.

Charles wished they could all step into a cockpit and feel what he did. Though, much like war, he was glad most people didn’t.

As soon as his helmet went on and the sounds of the grandstands dulled to background noise, all of the gold and power faded away. It became him and the car, the tight hug of the cockpit, the metal at his feet. He became nothing but an extension of the car—not a person, not a lover, not a friend.

Winning became the only priority, no matter the expense.

The engine rumbled around him as he watched the grid lights glowing above. His vision became nothing but red dots, his foot poised to punch the gas, his fingers curled and ready to fly up through the gears in time with the engine, which involved listening to the rev limiter and flicking the paddle just before it began to whine, but not a moment earlier.

The lights began to tick off, one by one. Charles settled back into himself, a feeling that bordered on spiritual. One with the car, separate from the world.

The lights went black. He punched the gas pedal in the same instant, as though he and God had conspired to make it so.

The car launched from the start line and his focus became the car in front of him. He jockeyed for position among the swelling crowd of back and midfielders swallowing up tarmac, glancing at his mirrors for only a fraction of a second before charging up on an Alpha Tauri around the outside as they approached Turn 1.

The first turn decided a race, more often than not. Failure there and only a few princes could recover.

Charles saw wheels close on his right side and steered only slightly away, staying parallel even as the other car continued pushing him out.

Charles did not appreciate being pushed.

He eased the car back over to the right, feeling every marble of dirty rubber collecting on his tires as he fought back.

Only one Alpha Tauri knew how to combat him. Pierre.

They brushed tires, a rub on his front right. At these speeds even a touch could be catastrophic, but Charles refused to let Pierre knock him off track around the corner when he’d already fucked up the apex so much he barely had to turn the wheel to get around it. Not without a retaliation.

Pierre stayed right on him throughout, and started getting ahead.

Because he fucking pushed me off for an advantage.

Charles shifted up to fourth, eating up RPMs by the thousands as he accelerated out of the corner. The long straight into Turn 3 opened up before them. He turned his wrist just slightly to cut in—

He felt impact on his right rear, a sputtering gasp from the car followed by the sound of snapping carbon fiber as Pierre’s front wing splintered.

Casualties of war.

Charles floored it, leaving Pierre in his mirrors as he took Turn 3 with a much better apex, even though he still had traffic on his right.

“Front wing damage,” Jock said in his ear, pulling him from his focus just a little.

Charles moved up to sixth toward Turn 4 and felt the slight resistance in the front of the car as the wind smashed into a misplaced piece of carbon fiber.

“Do I need to come in?” Charles asked. “Feels okay. I can manage it, I think.”

“You need to box. Too much damage.”

Charles grit his teeth, anger surging in him. Fucking Pierre.

The fight had changed from a fight for the win to a fight for maintaining seventh in the span of three turns. All of the sleep in the world couldn’t change that, though Charles had managed plenty over the past few days.

“Copy box,” Charles finally replied.

Coming out of the pit lane in last lit a fire in him. Charles used every lap to claw his way up from the back of the pack, overtaking and defending throughout.

Adrenaline started building as he came into tenth place, back into the points. He found more and more speed in every corner, losing himself to the drive. The world became nothing but high octane fuel and a handmade metal engine, the power and tradition of the Ferrari empire pulsing through the pistons, pulsing through Charles too, like holy blood.

He finally caught sight of Carlos in the distance, the red Ferrari livery sticking out amongst the gloomy atmosphere.

Beating Carlos would be icing on an already sweet cake, but Jock warned him that he had to keep his tires, that Carlos had his own battle to fight with Hamilton to unlap himself.

Ultimately, Carlos finished ahead of him, but managed to stay ahead of Lewis. Charles stopped the car behind him in seventh, basking in the moment for a few seconds, his whole body vibrating as it slowly unraveled from the thrill of the race.

Normal people didn’t understand. Any man who fought for victory in a car knew that bullets and swords were a coward’s tools.

Charles emerged from the car and replaced the steering wheel in its socket, his entire body a live wire of adrenaline and lust for a win he didn't get. Even though he'd driven his heart out for his position, he could have done better. In the future, he would. 

He headed to where Carlos stood by his own car waiting for him, his helmet still on.

Charles patted Carlos’s helmet affectionately as they reunited, and Carlos slapped his back, his words of praise muffled behind his balaclava. His eyes were happy though, and Charles smiled when he saw the joy in them. A good race for both of them. 

They hooked their arms around each other as they walked back toward the weigh station. Max stood proudly in front of the media, a wide smile on his face, his eyes still frenzied from the win. Lewis and Valtteri stood nearby, helmets tucked under their arms as they spoke to each other. Lewis didn’t look pleased, but Valtteri beamed. 

Once Charles returned his helmet to the Ferrari engineer waiting in the weighing room, he began to look for Pierre as the other princes came filing in.

Lance walked in with Sebastian at his side, clearly in the middle of a race story as his hand swam in front of him, carving out a turn. Sebastian watched thoughtfully, finger curled at his lip in thought.

He spotted Yuki talking to an FIA official, his black hair wild and his eyes wide with concern.

“Hey,” Charles said, gently tugging Carlos’s wrist. “Did you hear anything about Pierre?”

Carlos followed his gaze to Yuki and frowned. “No. È successo qualcosa?”

Charles watched as Yuki nodded quickly and followed the official back out into the paddock.

“I tangled with him on Lap 1,” Charles explained. “Damaged his front wing and he damaged mine.”

“Guarda,” Carlos said, nodding toward a big screen.

The footage showed his car next to Pierre’s, then switched to his onboard as he cut in too early and collided with Pierre’s front wing in what was obviously bad driving on Charles’s part.

Pierre dropped out of view and the camera angle changed to a pile of blue, red, and white as an Alfa Romeo and an Alpine caught up with Pierre and sent him into a spin.

He recovered, but Charles noticed his cockeyed steering wheel as the camera angle changed to Pierre’s onboard. Pierre’s hands stayed on the wheel, and Charles’s stomach dropped.

“He’s hurt,” Charles whispered.

Pierre always had it in him to flip people off when someone crashed into him, even with a steering issue.

“He DNF’d,” Carlos said, looking at a nearby monitor. “George too. Power unit failure.”

That was the problem with combat. Humanity disappeared in the thick of it, but came back compounded.

Carlos ruffled his hair affectionately. “He’s okay, Charles. Probably in medical to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion.”

“Sono passate quasi due ore,” Charles murmured. “He can’t still be there.”

He stared at the spot where Yuki used to be, his stomach tying itself in knots. Nobody around them looked concerned, but most of the princes probably didn’t know about the collision.

Carlos took his hand. Charles nearly pulled away from the touch before he remembered he was married to Carlos, and they were probably on TV right now.

“Do you want to go check?” Carlos asked.

Charles caught his gaze and saw genuine concern in Carlos’s eyes. He often forgot that Carlos had a relationship with Pierre too, a connection from their Toro Rosso days.

“I’d like to, yeah,” Charles said. “I have to head that way anyway. Vuoi venire con me?”

Carlos didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

They bumped fists and slapped shoulders with other princes as they headed into the paddock, waving at fans and media and playing their part as Ferrari princes.

Nothing looked out of place--except one interaction. While Carlos spoke to Lando and Daniel, Charles watched Max.

Max, who was tucked away from the rest of them, right up in Kimi’s face.  Kimi scowled behind his sunglasses, which was actually different than his normal expression. Charles could see Max’s anger in the way he held his head slightly forward, the tension in his back.

Kimi said something that made Max snarl, then they backed off from each other and headed opposite directions.  

Max returned to Checo, who frowned, but cheering fans caught Charles’s attention as he continued on his way down the paddock, Carlos at his side.

He broke away from him only once to sign a little girl’s cap, but Carlos found his way back to him a moment later, arms winding around his midsection, lips brushing the nape of his neck as a camera moved in close.

Charles kept his smile even though Carlos was way too warm against his race suit and he had a feeling the affection wasn’t just for Public Affairs.

Charles made a mental note to talk to him about that later.

Giorgio took a few photos of them as they passed the Ferrari garage on the way to the medical suite. They smiled, shared a kiss, waved to the fans back home for a short video. Once Giorgio okayed the footage, Charles took his phone back to text Luca that he would go to his FIA appointment with Carlos. He decided that if he really needed an excuse, he could say that he had a headache--which was true, the more he thought about it.

Sleep didn't fix everything. 

Media surrounded the front doors of the medical suite. Bright lights illuminated reporters talking in half a dozen languages, all of their faces grim or concerned.  Charles’s blood turned cold at the sight.

The grey skies and oncoming rain reminded him of Japan, of watching TV with a grainy picture, asking when Jules would come out while his father spoke in hushed whispers on the phone.

“This way,” Carlos said, gently guiding him by the hips toward a neighboring suite.

An FIA official met them in the lobby and Charles calmly explained he had an appointment with the medical staff next door.

“Thursday’s assessment sufficed,” the official said flatly. “Your obligation for this week has been met, and your next appointment is Monday.”

They didn’t want him to see Pierre.

“I want to see that in writing,” Carlos said, firm and commanding. “Official documentation.”

The official grit his teeth and pulled out his phone. “One second.”

He headed deeper into what looked like an office past the lobby, but Charles couldn’t focus on details.

“You know where I’ll be.”

He’d barely spoken to Pierre since France. Between lack of sleep and trying to maintain a training regimen, he hadn’t been in touch with anyone really.

“It always happens like this,” Charles said, mostly to himself. “They always die when it’s been too long since I’ve talked to them.”

“He’s not dying,” Carlos said, turning him by the shoulders. “Ascoltami, Charles. This was not a life-threatening impact. He drove the car afterward and he made it to the pit. He may have a concussion, but he’s not dead.”

Carlos’s eyes held a heavy weight Charles didn’t know the origin of, but he found comfort in it all the same. Carlos knew how it felt, somehow.

“Red Bull does this kind of thing,” Carlos explained. “This is probably for the drama, to ramp up the anticipation for next weekend.”

But the seed had already burrowed inside Charles’s chest, taking root in him. A life without Pierre.

No more letters, no more kind words right when he needed them, no more jokes in the paddock, another empty seat at Steakout.

His heart drained of blood, suspending him in a state where he couldn't feel and felt too much.

He began to shake as Carlos started to pull him in, but he braced himself against Carlos’s chest to stop him, eyes wide and unseeing.

“If something happens to him, I’ll never forgive myself,” Charles whispered.  

Carlos didn’t try to force him closer.

Charles used to hate when Carlos invaded his space. Discomfort used to seep into him every time Carlos touched him, but now he was as comfortable as family. Even with their disagreements, Carlos had proven time and time again that he didn’t double cross.

“Let’s finish up here, and we’ll keep an eye on the news, yes?” Carlos offered, rubbing his arms. “I’m sure we’ll know something by then.”

The FIA official returned with a notarized document that Carlos took from Charles’s hands to read over thoroughly, because he knew Charles couldn’t.

“Is Pierre okay?” Charles asked.

The official’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not authorized to disclose medical information regarding—”

“When will he leave the medical suite?” Carlos asked as he pocketed the paper.

The official narrowed his eyes. “Within the hour.”

Charles couldn’t hide his surprise as he gaped at his husband, who had a smirk curling on his lips.

“You just have to know the right questions to ask,” Carlos explained with a shrug. “The FIA has rules, just like we do. Technically, they serve the princes.”

Charles stumbled from the suite behind Carlos, unable to fathom how effortlessly he had navigated what seemed like an impenetrable defense from the FIA. It never even occurred to Charles to try to navigate a medical issue with any kind of strategy beyond keeping it hidden.

More importantly, Pierre would be released within the hour. Which meant he had no life threatening injuries, and yes, was probably fine.

“Carlos.”

Carlos stopped immediately, turning to face him with rapt attention.

Charles didn’t think about it before he leaned in and pressed a grateful kiss to Carlos’s lips.

A part of him knew it was wrong to thank him that way, to indulge Carlos the way he obviously still wanted, but Charles could think of no better way to show his thankfulness. Besides, they were married. Kissing was a part of their daily life, whether they wanted to or not.

Carlos blinked in surprise as Charles pulled away, his cheeks turning ruddy.

“Thank you,” Charles said softly.

Carlos smiled wide before he turned away, tugging Charles with him.  

They didn’t have to speak to each other, sometimes.

“I wanted to see if Lando could stay tonight,” Carlos asked once they were back in the relative safety of Carlos’s driver room in the hospitality motorhome. Charles hadn’t used his personal trailer since Portugal. They shared space now without thinking much about it.

He kicked his heels against the side of Carlos’s day bed, watching as he fiddled with his Richard Mille, trying to close the clasp.

“Here.” Charles held out his hand. Carlos extended his wrist, holding the watch in place with his other hand.

Their fingers brushed as Charles took over control of the watch strap, the touch somehow more intimate than holding hands all through the paddock.

Charles carefully tugged the strap through the clasp, fully aware of Carlos’s eyes on him.

He didn’t mind.

Moments between them hadn’t disappeared since their arrangement. Charles sometimes felt the tug of Carlos’s warmth, found himself pausing in the halls, waiting for Carlos to catch up so they could walk side by side to their government events, and slept tucked against him most nights, when he wasn't terrified of falling asleep. 

They were married. They spent every minute of their lives together and were contractually obligated to do so for another few years.

His thumb traveled over the tendons that rose on the underside of Carlos’s wrist and he found himself tempted to kiss them, even though he couldn’t stop thinking about Pierre, still in the medical suite, alone.

He fastened the watch strap with a click, but didn’t let go.

“I think Lando coming over is a great idea,” Charles said absently, watching as Carlos flexed his fingers one by one, but didn’t pull his hand away.

“Or we could wait,” Carlos said. “Abbiamo tutta la settimana."

Charles didn’t miss the implication in his tone.

He thought about it. He thought about staying in, reacquainting himself with Carlos after weeks of sleeplessness and fear, how it would feel to have Carlos kiss him passionately again, to have sex again, to address the want both of them still had for each other.

But when Charles thought about lips on his skin, they were Pierre’s.

“No, he should come by tonight,” Charles finally said, meeting Carlos’s eye. “The FIA will have a bigger presence during the week. We still have to be careful.”

Carlos nodded once, and the moment passed.

“I’ll help you sneak him in, then I think I’ll go see Pierre. Just to make sure he’s okay,” Charles said.

“Will you stay the night?”

Charles’s blood chilled, then he realized Carlos didn’t mean it as an insinuation of anything except concern for a friend.

“Non so,” he replied, getting to his feet. “If he’s in bad shape, I’ll stay. If Yuki lets me.”

He still wasn’t sure how he would navigate that. He liked Yuki just fine, but he couldn’t trust him with something as important as Pierre.

“Yuki will let you,” Carlos said, laughing. “Though I’m sure he’ll ask to play PlayStation with you all night.”

Charles smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, probably.”

He wasn’t lying. Not yet.

 


 

Lando arrived shortly after midnight smelling like wet leaves, a few of which fell from his hair as he shook the rain from it in their entryway.

“It’s really fucking dark out there,” Lando greeted, brushing raindrops from his jacket. He smiled as Carlos approached, tipping his head up into a sweet, lingering kiss.

“I almost caught you today,” Carlos said. "In case you forgot."

Lando rolled his eyes. “Sure sweetheart, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Lando and Carlos both cringed when Lando realized what he’d said, but Charles just laughed.

“Good to see you, Lando,” Charles greeted, giving him a hug.

“Hey, Char,” Lando replied as water seeped through Charles’s t-shirt from Lando’s rain jacket.

“Have you heard anything about Pierre?” Charles asked as he stepped back again, allowing Carlos to help Lando out of his jacket.

Lando shook his head. “I mean, I heard he’s okay. Red Bull is keeping it quiet, as usual. Everyone’s speculating, but if it was a real problem, we would know by now, I think.”

Charles swallowed thickly. He should have written something, but he didn’t want his first words to Pierre after France to be handwritten, especially when they were already so late.

“I’m going to see him,” Charles said. “You two will have the place to yourselves for at least a few hours, but I might spend the night there to make sure he’s okay.”

He didn’t see an ounce of suspicion in Lando’s eyes when he smiled.

“Okay, good. Makes me feel better that he’ll have one of us there,” Lando said. “I mean, Yuki’s cool, but he’s also Yuki. How are you getting in?”

“Max,” Charles said. “He’s got it figured out. I’m actually heading down to meet him in a minute.”

Lando’s smile flickered. “I know you trust him, but keep your wits, yeah? Even if you can trust Max, Red Bull pulls shit all the time. They’re staking out Daniel. He can’t leave the house without some Red Bull assface tagging him.”

“I know. I’ll be careful.”

Charles didn’t stick around long. Guilt still lingered whenever he saw Carlos with Lando, even though they had all agreed to this.

He slipped out into the hall a few minutes later with a rain jacket tucked under his arm. He didn't want to garner any attention from the FIA official standing by the elevator, half asleep. Charles took the emergency exit stairwell Lando had just used, following his mud tracks down the stairs and out into a tiny, smelly alleyway. He tried the door once it shut behind him and it didn’t budge, locked tight. So far, so good. 

Charles shrugged on the jacket and headed away from the hotel, back toward the lakeshore. The asphalt and cobblestone reflected the greens, reds, and yellows of traffic lights as he wandered, finally spotting headlights at the bottom of the slope. No locals in Spielberg were still awake at this hour. If they were, they were probably still at the Red Bull Ring, where parties would go one all night.  

Sure enough, Max hopped from the backseat of the waiting car and sent it off before hurrying across the street to where Charles waited in the darkness, head ducked to avoid the rain.

“I’ve been waiting for like twenty minutes,” Max grumbled when he finally reached him. 

“Hard to coordinate when I can’t text you,” Charles replied, sidestepping the fact that he’d been waiting for Lando to arrive.

“Here,” Max said, extending an umbrella. “You left this.”

Charles blinked before taking the umbrella from his hand, trying not to think about pizza or the note Max had left him. He opened the umbrella above them, and Max hugged close to stay out of the rain. Unlike Sebastian, he actually preferred not to get wet.

“Have you heard anything?” Charles asked as Max started leading the way toward the Alpha Tauri hotel.

“Gasly’s fine,” Max said with a shrug. “Being a bit of a baby about it, I think. But Red Bull loves their stupid stories, and so does the media. It’ll take the eyes off of all of us for a few days, until the next thing blows up.”

Relief flooded through him, but he knew better than to completely trust Max’s opinions on injures.

“Hey, I saw you talking to Kimi earlier,” Charles said, changing the subject. “What was that about? I’ve never seen you talk to him before.”

Max smirked, but his eyes narrowed in the low light of a street lamp. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Charles knocked him with his shoulder. “Come on. Tell me.”

Max didn't reply right away. He felt Max's weight shift in his next stride, resting against him more fully, reminding Charles too much of the days where being this close made him crazy. 

“I’m protecting someone who needs to be protected right now,” Max finally said, his voice different in a way Charles didn't know how to categorize. “Someone being targeted for no reason. Kimi needed a few things explained to him.”

Charles frowned. That wasn’t an answer. “You’ve always been able to talk to me.”

Max let out a chuckle and Charles caught the edge of a smile in the yellow light.

“It’s safer if you don’t know.”

It was still hard for Charles to remember that the Max he’d fallen in love with was dead and gone. Prince Max fiercely defended his empire and upheld the ideals of a prince with unwavering rulel. He could be cold and cruel just as easily as he could be boisterous and charismatic.

He was a very dangerous friend to have. Perhaps even more dangerous as an ex.

“How are you sleeping?” Max asked in a softer tone, veering them from princely topics.

Charles let out a hum, deciding against starting an argument. “Better. I woke up right before the nightmares started the past two nights. Carlos has one of Lando’s hoodies and I guess the smell helps my brain—I don’t know—feel protected. Or normal. Or something.”

Max laughed. “Want some of mine? I can give you that stupid jacket back.”

Charles’s heart twinged. “The one you stole from me? No thanks, thief.”

Max laughed loud enough that he had to cover his mouth to stifle it.

They walked together for a few more blocks before Max nodded toward a very tiny alleyway between two old buildings. Charles squeezed into it after Max, and it gradually widened the deeper they ventured into the shadows.

Max stopped in front of decrepit door and knocked on the damp wood three times, paused, then knocked a fourth.

The door swung open immediately and Yuki burst out, grabbing Max in a bear hug that had Charles blinking in surprise.

“You came!” Yuki whisper-screamed. “I thought you were kidding! This is awesome! Movie night!”

Max shot Charles a look over Yuki’s shoulder—which was not a difficult task.

“Movie night?” Charles asked, cocking a brow.

“I figured Pierre could use a break,” Max explained, patting Yuki’s back in a not-so-subtle attempt to get him to back off. “And I assumed you didn’t want to be stuck playing PlayStation all night.”

Charles couldn’t read Max’s face in the darkness, but panic rushed through his veins all the same.

Max didn’t know. There as absolutely no way he knew what happened in Belgium. He would have said something earlier, shut him out, or punched him in the face. Even the new, royal Max wouldn’t be able to stand by and be cheated on.

“Good thinking,” Charles managed to say.

“Yuki,” Max said with a hard slap to Yuki’s back that sounded like hitting a sack of flour. “Tell Charles how to get to the room.”

Yuki finally pried free from Max, beaming. “Go up one floor, turn right. It’s a really small hallway, and there’s only one door on the right. It’s red. Says three-two-five. That’s our room. The door isn’t locked—unless Pierre locked it behind me, but he never does.”

Charles swallowed down his anxiety. Getting caught here could be explained away with concern for Pierre…but less so at one in the morning.

“Thanks,” he finally said.

“We’re going to make a scene,” Max said, nodding to him. “Wait two minutes. No one will be there.”

Charles pressed himself against the wet brick to let them by and nearly flinched when Max’s fingers brushed his knuckles as he passed.

“Night, Char,” Max whispered. “Sleep well.”

“Thanks,” Charles spluttered for the fiftieth time that day. “Be safe, Max.”

“Always am,” Max replied, giving Yuki a good-natured shove.

Charles set his watch and waited.

He heard Yuki let out a shout thirty seconds later, then he heard the screeching of tires and the yowl of a sportscar, followed by several other shouts and two more cars screeching away. He glanced at his watch as the final seconds ticked down, then slipped through the door into a tiny stairwell.

He turned right when he reached the next floor. The hallway looked miniature compared to the high ceilings of Ferrari’s chosen hotel, and the carpet smelled as old as it looked.

Definitely not a Red Bull estate.

He found the red door and turned the handle, but it was locked.

Shit.

Charles glanced around before he knocked, trying to keep quiet but also trying to sound urgent.

He didn’t hear anything from inside. Every second ticking by put him more and more at risk.

He knocked again, rapid little knocks in a steady beat.

Come on, Pierre.

Muffled footsteps reached his ears, and the doorknob began to shake as it unlocked.  

“Have you learned your fucking lesson?” Pierre growled, but his voice was muffled and it sounded like he had food in his mouth.

The door opened a second later and Charles went still.

Everything in him quieted as he took in Pierre where he stood in the doorway wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants, hair debauched, a toothbrush shoved in his mouth, toothpaste foaming at his lips.

But Charles couldn’t tear his eyes from Pierre’s side.

It looked like someone had splashed red wine on him—or jam. Purple, pink, and furious red made up a massive bruise on his ribs so large that Charles had to steady himself in the threshold at the sight of it.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

The bruising took up half of Pierre’s ribcage, darkest above his hip bone but reaching up as far as the underside of his pec—and it looked to be spreading.

Pierre yanked the toothbrush from his mouth, dumbfounded. “Charles? Where’s—Did Yuki do this?”

“Max,” Charles whispered, eyes still wide.

“It looks worse than it feels,” Pierre tried to explain, but Charles didn’t believe a word of it. “Entre, let me spit this shit out.”

Charles moved on reflex, stepping inside and watching the colors move on Pierre’s body as he reached past him to shut the door. The bruising was fresh and angry, and Charles could feel the heat of it as Pierre shifted away.

Thought escaped him as he stood there, not even registering as Pierre stepped into the bathroom and rinsed his mouth of toothpaste. The sound of rushing water mimicked the roar of blood in Charles’s ears, the terror in him, the guilt.

“Charles, je vais bien,” Pierre said softly when he returned. “I got thrown around in the car on impact. Something knocked loose in the cockpit, they said. Rien n’est cassé, I’m fine.”

“I did that to you,” Charles said.

Pierre’s fingers curled under his jaw, tilting his head up to face him. “Nothing a bit of time won’t heal,” Pierre murmured. “I’ll be fine for practice on Friday.”

“Pierre—”

His voice died in his throat when Pierre’s thumb brushed over his bottom lip.

“We were racing,” Pierre said, moving closer. “I could have easily done the same thing to you.”

Charles wanted so badly to hold him, but he feared that doing so would make things worse, that he might fracture already bruised ribs, that he would cause Pierre even more pain.

“Je reste ici ce soir,” Charles said, because he couldn’t just stand there. “Yuki is staying with Max and Checo.”

Pierre blinked, his blue eyes flashing beautifully as his pupils contracted in surprise. “You—toute la nuit?”

There wasn’t much left of the night to begin with, but Charles nodded anyway.

“God, I want to hold you,” he blurted out, his voice taut with emotion. He reached up, but his hands were shaking too hard for him to trust himself to touch gently enough.

“You can,” Pierre soothed, his eyes fond. “Just be gentle.”

He took one of Charles’s shaking hands and brought it to his bruised ribs. The skin burned, irritated and swelling under his touch.

Charles carefully moved in, slipping his arms around him, fitting himself against Pierre’s chest. He was so strong now, and always carried himself like a true prince with his proud chest and straight back, but Charles could feel the way the pain manifested as tension in his muscle. 

Pierre’s chin tucked over his shoulder before he abandoned that idea and buried his face into the join of Charles’s neck.

Pierre’s lungs shuddered in his hold and Charles fought the urge to squeeze.

“Mon chou garçon,” Charles whispered, his voice as delicate as Pierre felt under his hands.

He couldn’t live life without Pierre. Charles had only survived this long because of him. Pierre was the only one who understood the pain of devastating loss as intimate as his own, the only one who knew how to pull him out of it, the only one he could trust who hadn't hurt him. 

“Ça fait mal,” Pierre grit out. “I’m sorry, but I can’t lie to you. I’ll be okay, but ça fait mal.”

Guilt gnawed at his bones, whittling them down to the marrow already spongey with regret.

“I’ll take care of you,” Charles promised as he eased himself back, careful not to touch or press anywhere that might hurt.

He lifted his hand to Pierre’s face, thumbing his stubble that was technically a beard, but Charles didn’t want to give him the credit for it.

“Venir là,” he murmured, and he pulled Pierre in for a kiss.

Their lips knew each other well, even if Charles had to reacquaint himself with the taste of him, now mixed with a bite of spearmint from Pierre’s toothpaste.

He wouldn’t lose this.

He slid a hand over Pierre’s uninjured side, smiling as he felt Pierre’s skin turn to gooseflesh under his fingers.

Pierre kissed him more intently, but Charles leaned away slowly, brushing their noses together.

“Je ne pars pas," Charles whispered. "Lie down, I’ll help it hurt less.”

He scratched gently at Pierre’s stubble, and that seemed to be the only cue Pierre listened to as he pulled away and moved to the bed.

The suite was much nicer than the hallway outside, though the wood floors were worn and the wallpaper peeled at the corners. The bed looked plush and comfortable, the covers soft, and the TV threw neon all over the room a movie Charles didn't recognize played on screen.

Charles held his breath as Pierre turned around, revealing even more bruising, purple fingers reaching for Pierre's spine.

“Pierre,” he breathed.

Pierre tossed him a look over his shoulder, his eyes heavy. “Come make me feel better.”

Charles followed him to the bed even though he’d planned to go straight to the bathroom for a cool towel. He couldn’t find it in him to leave Pierre’s side, not now, not with him injured.

Pierre gingerly lowered himself onto his back on the bed. Once settled, a warm smile came to his lips, one that made Charles feel more at home than any place ever could.

“How hurt do I have to pretend to be to get you to kiss me again?” Pierre asked, reaching out for him.

Charles crawled into bed after him and their lips found each other in the same movement, Pierre's hands running over his chest, remembering him. 

Charles savored the soft moan that fell from Pierre’s mouth, warmed that he could bring it out of him even when he hurt.

Charles deepened the kiss when he brushed his fingers over the bruises, and Pierre’s lips parted, his breath shaky as Charles ran his tongue over hisbottom lip.

To think something as stupid as a vie for seventh place could have cost him this.

Charles broke away, looking up at Pierre through his lashes as he moved down his chest.

“Char—Fuck, Charles—” Pierre gasped out when Charles ghosted his lips over the bruising. The skin tasted coppery, like blood fighting to surface.

He pressed the softest kisses he’d ever given to each of Pierre’s ribs. The heat radiated from him, and he listened to the way Pierre's breath hitched with each one, softening when his breath turned sharp. Once Charles was satisfied that no ribs were broken, he ran his tongue over the darkest mark, a deep purple, shaped like a crescent moon.

“Quit that or we’ll end up fucking,” Pierre said, his voice pinched with want.

Charles smirked against damp skin. “That would be bad?”

Pierre’s fingers brushed across his shoulder blades. Charles shuddered at the touch, even though he still had a shirt on. He’d felt that touch twice before: once in Belgium as Pierre drew pictures on his back in a different hotel bed, another time while he sat up in the back of the SUV, Pierre still sprawled across the seat behind him.

“I’ll be a secret,” Pierre said. ”But I don’t think I should be. I don’t want to do that to Carlos.”

Charles closed his eyes, guilt lifting in him. But not guilt about Pierre.

“No,” he murmured with a kiss to Pierre’s navel, the soft fuzz of recently-waxed hair tickling his nose as he did so. “I don’t want you to be a secret ever again.”

Pierre froze, and Charles’s heart beat so loudly he was sure Pierre could hear it.

He wasn’t going to hide this. Not when Pierre loved him enough to keep his own heart under lock and key, for him.

Charles moved across Pierre to his uninjured side and snuggled against him, pressing a few kisses to his shoulder just to remind himself that Pierre was actually there and healthy enough to want this. The sight of media in front of the medical suite still seared his mind, as did the jerk of his body when his tire collided with Pierre's front wing. 

Things could change too quickly for them to stop it. 

“Today I realized I can’t live life without you in it,” Charles admitted quietly, resting his cheek against Pierre’s chest.

A rapid heartbeat met his ear. Charles laughed when he heard it.

“Oh fuck,” Pierre said, laughing too. “C’est si moche?”

“Feel mine,” Charles offered, plucking Pierre’s hand from where it rested on his stomach and placing it over his own heart where it jumped under his shirt.

“Aw, Char,” Pierre teased, but he heard the sincerity in it. “Je te rends nerveux?”

“Fuck you,” Charles muttered, but he curled his fingers, fitting them between Pierre’s over his chest.

They laid like that for a long time, making conversation with their hearts alone. Pierre squeezed his hand every so often and Charles always squeezed back.

The TV continued playing, but Charles didn’t notice the colors, the noise, or the flashing screen. He had Pierre. He had the one thing in his life he couldn’t lose.

Charles realized maybe his definition of being in love didn’t actually exist: that his perfect person would come strolling in, they would look at each other, and the rest would fall into place.

Sometimes love had to be earned over a lifetime. In the cleaning of wounds in a restaurant bathroom, inside a Paris café in the pouring rain, in a shared look in a hotel hallway even though they both knew it would drive a knife into someone they both cherished.

But Charles still couldn’t say the words. Even though he felt them, he couldn’t say it.

Once spoken, love always burned out. He’d learned with Sebastian, confirmed it with Carlos.

Carlos, who still wanted him, just not as his only. That part of him would die out soon enough, Charles knew. Spaniards weren't the type to dwell on unrequited feelings. 

“I’m going to tell Carlos,” Charles said.

Pierre’s heartbeat didn’t change. “That you love him?”

Charles made a choked noise, completely caught off guard.

When had he become someone so selfish? So reckless with his feelings that he could only hurt the people he cared about most? That they always had to assume the worst of him and his decaying brain?

Pierre loved him selflessly—the only time he ever eve spoke about wanting something for himself had been in France, when Charles had beaten him bloody by talking about all of the other men he had feelings for.

Why can’t you ever decide anything? Why can’t you ever stick with it when you do?

Every prince answered the same way: because I’m afraid to lose.

Charles lifted his head from Pierre’s chest and pushed himself up to capture his lips in a desperate kiss, full of want and hurt and guilt.

“No,” he promised into Pierre’s mouth. “That you and I are together. You’re never going to be my secret again.”

Pierre whacked his head against the headboard as he pulled back.

Charles’s hand flew up to cradle the back of his skull, eyes blowing wide. “Pierre?”

“I’m fine,” Pierre managed, dazed. “Charles--I just want to make sure you’re not saying this because of France. I said things I shouldn’t have, made you feel guilty about everything, probably.”

Pierre turned his face away, giving Charles a profile view of those gorgeous eyes.

Gorgeous eyes that now matched his body, though Charles wouldn’t say that out loud either.

“I let myself get too tangled up in you,” Pierre admitted. “J’en ai trop dit, and when you said you had to think about it—I mean, ce n’est pas bon. That means you want to let me down easy, because if you loved me you’d—”

“Show up at your hotel room in the middle of the night, begging to hold you?” Charles finished, his heart in his throat.

Pierre’s eyes snapped to his. “Oui. Something like that.”

Charles shrugged, but he knew Pierre could see the panic in him.

Their next kiss had heat. Charles crashed into it knowing full well that if he didn’t control himself, he would end up falling into the same trap, fucking Pierre and feeling guilty in the morning. Running off, doing something stupid, testing the strength of his pills as he fought self-hatred and tried for Carlos’s forgiveness by pushing Pierre out of his life.

Stop, he told himself as his shirt came over his head and Pierre’s hand traveled up the inside of his thigh.

Stop or you’ll lose this, he thought as he moaned Pierre’s name into his neck.

He wanted so much.

He wanted to lick cappuccino cream from Pierre’s lips. He wanted to wake up beside him on a sunny Monaco morning and only feel warm skin. He wanted to open his eyes ten years from now and hear Pierre’s laughter in another room.

He wanted to wake up and know love. He wanted to wake up and feel it.

“No,” Charles choked out, though every muscle in his body screamed for him to tell Pierre to keep going, to beg for more.

Pierre froze, eyes flicking open, hand going still.

“Not like this,” Charles said, straining to sound normal and not like he was half hard with Pierre palming him through his jeans, fingers dangerously close to his waistband.

“What—”

“Carlos and I promised we’d tell each other before we slept with anyone else,” Charles said. “He broke that promise, but I won’t.”

He thumbed that column of Pierre’s throat where he’d already marked it with a few enthusiastic hickies.  

“I’m not going to feel guilty about you anymore,” Charles continued. “Je ne le ferai plus.”

Pierre smiled up at him, his cat-eye lashes dimming the love in his eyes to a low flame. He knew the look from somewhere, from...

God. Fuck. It reminded Charles of the rally car.

“Let’s sleep then,” Pierre offered, his voice still thick with desire. “Ça me suffit.”

Charles pecked his kiss-swollen lips before he moved from bed, toeing off his forgotten sneakers, and pulling out of his jeans. He rummaged through Pierre’s upturned suitcase on the floor until he found another pair of sweats to put on.

“Arrête de regarder,” he muttered, cheeks flushing as he tugged up the waistband.

“At your dick or at you in general?” Pierre hummed, smirking.

Charles knew his boxers weren’t hiding anything, and the sweatpants wouldn’t either, but it helped that he could be smug about something as he crawled back into bed—under the covers this time.

“Don’t make me stick my fingers into your ribs,” Charles warned.

“No way. I want you to stick your fingers other places,” Pierre returned, and Charles very nearly poked his bruising for that one.

Bruising he’d caused in the first place.

He kissed Pierre again, softer this time, caressing his cheek as he did so. 

“It was racing,” Pierre murmured when they broke apart, because he could always read him.

Charles nuzzled against him, draping his arm over Pierre’s chest to keep him close. Pierre shifted, wincing slightly as the movement of his hips caused pain to flare.

“Doucement,” Charles soothed. He reached over and turned off the bedside lamp just as a text lit up on Pierre’s phone. “Yuki texted you.”

“This’ll be good,” Pierre said, his voice sleepier already. Charles handed over the phone and settled against Pierre’s shoulder, sharing his pillow to look at the screen together where a photo appeared on screen.

Max had clearly taken it, because Yuki took up center stage, curled up with Checo on Max’s couch, PlayStation controller in hand. Checo did not look amused, but he had a controller too.

“Can’t help but love him,” Pierre chuckled, setting the phone aside. The screen went dark and the light in the room went away with it, except for a blue square of it coming in through the thin curtains.

“Êtes-tu à l’aise?” Charles asked as he adjusted himself to be even closer, running his fingertip up and down Pierre's flat stomach, wary of his injury.

“Oui,” Pierre replied in a whisper, kissing the crown of his head. “Goodnight, calarmardo.”

“Goodnight, mon chou garçon,” Charles whispered back.

 


 

When he slept, he didn’t dream.  There was only blackness, potent and restful.

 


 

Charles woke to a low groan against his ear. He immediately thought of Carlos, brow furrowing at the odd scent of him. He almost never heard Carlos wake up, even when he fell asleep on his chest.

“Cette pluie ne s’arrêtera jamais,” a low voice rasped.

Pierre.

Charles curled closer, burrowing into Pierre’s chest  as rain battered the windowpanes. Cold nipped at every inch of his exposed shoulder that wasn’t pressed against Pierre, and the thought of getting out of bed sounded absolutely awful.

When he opened his eyes, Pierre was looking down at him, his eyes so warm that Charles no longer felt the chill.

“Good morning,” Charles mumbled, closing his eyes again, a smile on his lips.

“Good morning,” Pierre replied, thumb trailing down his spine. “What time do you need to go back? Yuki said Horner gave him permission to stay with Max all day if he does a stupid Honda promo with me tonight.”

“If you can hand me my phone, I’ll tell you,” Charles replied, voice mottled from sleep.

Pierre plopped his phone on his cheek a moment later.

Charles grunted, then pulled it from his face and blinked his way to waking again.

He had two texts from Carlos.

He’s gone. Sent at 5:50AM.

Tutto bene? 7:07 AM. Twenty minutes ago.

Everything’s good, Charles replied, mindful of Pierre’s eyes on his screen.

Carlos started typing immediately. Do you need help with directions?

They had to be careful talking about sneaking around, just in case the FIA ever confiscated their phones. Asking about directions meant Carlos was spooked about the FIA. Lando always made him a little paranoid when he left.

“Carlos est nerveux,” Charles sighed. “I don’t think I can stay.”

“I feel worse than I did yesterday,” Pierre muttered. “Will that convince him?”

I’ll find my way, Charles replied before tossing his phone down the bed. He sat up on his elbow and carefully drew the covers from Pierre’s chest.

The bruises had turned from wine to poison. Black, green, blue and violet made a gruesome impressionist painting on Pierre’s body, much larger than the night before, and painful just to look at.

“You’re not getting out of bed today,” Charles said, swallowing hard.

“I have to.”

“Please don’t.” Charles leaned in, trailing kisses up Pierre’s sternum, chasing the warmth still left on his skin.

Pierre caressed Charles’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, his cockeyed smile framed with dimples Charles couldn't help but kiss. “Stay for breakfast and I’ll think about it.”

Charles stayed for breakfast. He stayed in Pierre’s arms, more specifically.

They shared kisses throughout their meal of fruit and cinnamon pastries. Charles licked sugar glaze from Pierre’s fingers and held strawberry stems in his teeth for Pierre to bite the fruit from, laughing when severed strawberry chunks splattered on the white sheets.

Later, the morning news replayed highlights from the race that Charles didn’t hear from the entryway, where he stood pressed against the wall with Pierre’s lips on his neck, his thigh between Charles’s legs.

“Told you to stay in bed,” Charles scolded, digging his fingers into Pierre’s shoulder as teeth grazed the corner of his jaw.

“Can’t do that if you’re over here,” Pierre murmured, drowsy with lust.

His phone buzzed with yet another text from Carlos. Charles sighed, running his hand down Pierre’s side, over muscle and strength and unbruised skin before finding his lips again, where he still tasted sugar and cinnamon.

“Je dois y aller,” Charles said, their lips only a breath apart. “I’ll see you soon.”

 “You better.”

They kissed one final time, a kiss so deep and perfect that Charles’s lungs began to burn as he fought to hold it forever, only pulling away when his vision started to spot behind his eyes.

Pierre’s thumb brushed over his bottom lip as Charles forced himself to step away, his heartbeat wild in his chest, his cheeks flushed.

He snuck out of the room without detection and amde his way back down the stairwell Yuki had showed him. He found his umbrella in the alleyway where he must have dropped it the night before and popped it open against the downpour. After checking for any suspicious cars or people, he pulled out his phone and stepped out into the street.

Just saw Sebastian walking around by himself in the rain, Carlos had written. Ti sta cercando?

No, he’s just weird, Charles replied. Headed back.

He remembered Sebastian’s eyes when he returned from his rainy walk in the mountains on their little vacation the year before, the way he crawled onto the couch with him while Charles read his book, damp and cold but so full of life.

Charles folded up his umbrella and pulled down his hood. Rain began to wet his skin, each drop reminding him of Pierre’s lips. He let his hair flatten against his skull as he walked and remembered the way Pierre loved his wet hair, even when it looked horrible, the way Pierre said it made him real.

He finally understood why Sebastian loved to walk in the rain. He longed for the next time Pierre saw him, the way it might feel to have raindrops mingling with their kisses, Pierre’s skin damp and slippery against his own.

Charles floated up the hill to the hotel, blood buzzing and eyes sparkling like the world around him had finally woken up.

He opened the door to their suite smiling, cheeks pink with cold and something else much, much sweeter.

“You’re soaked!” Carlos called from the living room couch as Charles slipped out of his sopping wet Pumas in the entryway. 

“Yeah,” Charles laughed, putting his umbrella away. “It’s okay though.”

Carlos hopped up from the couch and into the bedroom, only to emerge a few seconds later with a thick towel that he promptly wrapped around Charles’s shoulders and head, ruffling his wet hair.

“You look very happy too,” Carlos greeted with a smile, tunneling Charles’s vision with the way he held up the towel.

Charles threw his arms around Carlos’s neck, nearly toppling him with the force of his hug. Carlos grunted as he caught him, then squeezed back tight and pressed a kiss to Charles’s temple.

God, he could fight the universe.

He had Pierre. He had the world.

“Pierre and I are together,” Charles said over Carlos’s shoulder, before he could turn back on his word. “Next time I’m with him, we’re sleeping together. We didn’t last night, but this is me telling you that we will.”

Carlos’s hold went slack. Charles closed his eyes and held him tighter, soaking the rain through his skin, gathering the magical feeling that had brought the words to his lips and praying it would be strong enough to endure breaking his husband's heart a second time.  

Chapter Text

George didn’t like seeing his face in photographs. His eyes always looked weird, and his nose came off dented, like whoever sculpted him pinched the bridge too hard and forgot to fix it.

Of course, the FIA chose the photo of him kissing Valtteri’s hand as the official photo of the event, a subtle jab at every likeminded prince that they would be subject to just such a photo if they chose to exercise the same right.

“It was a rousing success,” Jost said, setting down his tablet at the end of the table. “Fans absolutely loved it. The FIA is very pleased—you may have started a new tradition, George.”

George ran a finger over the end of his nose. It didn’t feel dented.

“I’m glad,” he said, but he knew he sounded the opposite.

He felt sick to his stomach, honestly.

Jost frowned. “Something the matter?”

George pasted on a smile. “I’m fine, but thank you.”

Jost clearly didn’t believe him, but he nodded. “Did Toto speak to you?”

He shook his head. “Not really. He told me what a great opportunity this was. Did a lot of implying.”

Toto still scared the shit out of him, so George didn’t push it. Lewis said that Toto liked him enough to let him come, and that was more than anyone else had ever gotten.

He desperately wanted to be happy about it, to feel the same excitement he’d felt when he stepped off the jet in the Mercedes empire, but all of it had been tainted by the sight of Alex. The knowledge that they were in the same city—again—and couldn’t see each other beyond a fucking horrible glimpse made him want to go home and leave the race behind.

“I think they’ll make a formal offer soon,” Jost said. “And you know you have an offer from us too. We would love to keep you.”

“Thanks, Jost,” George said with an appreciative nod. “If it was any other empire other than Mercedes, I would stay. I love Williams, and it’ll be really hard to leave.”

Jost smiled. “Have you given any thought to who you’d like to replace you?” 

“Alex Albon would be the best choice,” George said. “I stand by that.”

Jost sighed. “You know I have no authority to touch him. He’s completely tied up in Red Bull, not to mention I don’t see Williams leaders agreeing to sign on an exiled prince.”

“Not even if he’s the better driver?” George challenged.

Alex could certainly outdrive Jack Aitken, and he had a way with people few princes did. Alex could get the most sour faces to smile. He’d even done it with Helmut Marko, once upon a time. The people would love him. If they knew how much George loved him, they would love him more.

“We might be an old empire, but we’re not powerful enough to reverse an exile. Besides, I’m not sure Alex is the—”

“He’s the right choice,” George interrupted, firm. “I know Alex better than anyone. We grew up together.”

“I’m well aware.”

He knew that tone. The don’t make this difficult for me tone.

George set his jaw. “I’m not biased. Alex earned a crown on his own, and he’s better than Aitken, if that’s who you’re considering.”

Jost clicked off his tablet. “We’re considering Valtteri, actually. He’s still beloved here.”

It made sense. Valtteri was a great driver, and he’d clearly been in the second seat too long. He knew how to lead and needed somewhere to flex his power. A Williams crown would be perfect for him, especially when he already knew the empire from his time as a Williams prince before he left for Mercedes.

George tried not to look at too many similarities between himself and Valtteri beyond great driving.  

“No offense, but Valtteri is used to going for the win,” George said. “Alex knows how to fight from the midfield. His learning style is similar to mine, and he’s always been better at strategy than me. He’s more patient than I am too—he can do things for Williams I never could.”

Jost looked like he disagreed, but didn’t say anything—which was a win in George’s book. That meant he would actually think about it.

“That’s my official opinion,” George finished. “And you might find Mercedes receptive to the idea, if you ask.”

But Mercedes wouldn’t vouch for Alex over Valtteri for a Williams seat if Valtteri wanted it. Lewis wouldn’t stand for Valtteri losing a crown altogether, no matter what he’d promised.

Jost chewed the inside of his cheek. “I’ll think on it.”

 

 


 

 

Spielberg was too small for princes to properly avoid each other, though the FIA seemed to be trying their best to make sure they did. George spotted three different FIA officials on his way down to the lake. Each of them eyed him suspiciously, and one even made a phone call after he passed, like he was reporting his location. 

The lake served as the only entertainment in town, and George knew full well that nightfall made it perfect for all kinds of romantic meetings. There were plenty of places to hide along the walking path—which was precisely why security details combed the place once every hour.

He hoped that a morning walk wouldn’t earn him a scolding.

George waited at the entrance to the forested portion of the lake trail, doing his best to look preoccupied with his phone as Lando talking with an FIA official higher up the hill, his hoodie almost over his eyes and his British brat whining voice on full display, though George could only hear the long notes of it and not the actual words.

His phone buzzed in his hand with a text from Nic.

it was max fewtrell, Nic said. I just saw him again

Nic’s idea of a pleasant morning involved waking up at the crack of dawn for a coffee and dragging George with him. Normally George didn’t indulge his stupidity, but he knew he would miss mornings like this, even if he complained the whole time about the fog and the puddles and the watered-down espresso.

They certainly hadn’t expected to see Max Fewtrell at the café, buying a right heap of bread and pastries. His face had been mostly hidden by his hood, but he didn’t look like he’d been trying to hide.

spicy, George replied. let me know if you hear anything

Nic never heard anything. He didn’t care to listen in the first place.

“You would think they’d lay off a little,” Lando greeted, brushing off his shoulders like the FIA had somehow contaminated his garish orange hoodie.  “We’re stuck in this town that’s like, what, two kilometers across? What do they think we’re going to do around here?”

“Nice to see you too,” George greeted. Lando caught him in a side hug a second later.

Lando pulled away abruptly, making a dramatic show of cowering. “Oh fuck—am I allow to touch you? Or is that Mercedes silver going to burn me alive on contact?”

George rolled his eyes. “Look everyone, got a joker over here.”

Lando jabbed him in the stomach before George could react. Bastard. “Seriously though, nice photos. You looked like a medieval murderer or something.”

George furrowed his brow. “Thanks?”

They started down the walking path, both of them groggy under the dappled sunlight filtering in through the trees. George saw exhaustion in the puffiness under Lando’s eyes, the way he’d already adjusted his hood twice in the span of a few paces. Lando fidgeted under the weight of  stress, he always had.

“So how was breakfast?” George asked, watching as a duck skimmed the surface of the lake before plopping into the water with a dull splash.

Lando rubbed his eyes with a sleeved hand. “What’d’you mean?”

“We saw Fewtrell at the café this morning,” George said. “You’re the only one who even likes him, so—”

“Hey,” Lando warned, voice crackling. “Don’t start shit with me.”

George turned to face him. “Oh come on. Nobody even knows him. Don’t act like he’s not here with you.”

Lando waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, fine. He’s visiting. Didn’t realize it was a fucking crime to have friends visit.”

“He’s not here on accident,” George said, knocking shoulders with him. “I know you.”

“And I know you,” Lando returned, his voice flat. “This whole smiley-but-wanting-to-go-for-a-walk act isn’t hiding jack shit from me, mate.”

George grinned, but it fell off at the edges as the crippling, airless feeling of seeing Alex crashed into him all over again. A shiver ran down his spine, but he pretended it was because of the chill coming off of the water.

They watched the ducks as they paddled around, seemingly immune to the cold mountain morning, though it was almost afternoon now. They kicked rocks and stuffed their hands in their pockets, silent but making conversation all the same. He was used to this with Lando. He kept to himself, and George had always thought he would be the only prince to never fall in love with anyone, if only because he never made an effort to get to know anyone.

Until Carlos.

“My shit was all over the news,” George said once they started up the backstretch of the lake path. “So let’s start with you.”

He couldn’t talk about Alex yet.

“Well, I got caught by the FIA on Monday morning, for starters,” Lando said. “So that blows.”

George cocked a brow. “And they still let you talk to me?”

Lando shrugged. “They couldn’t prove where I was. They just caught me coming back into the hotel. Mostly because I was an idiot and came in the front door. I was really fucking tired.”

“Yep, definitely sounds like something an idiot would do,” George teased.

Lando shot him a smile. “Worth it. Thankfully Few was already in town, so I used him as an excuse. Won’t work again though.”

“I can’t tell if this courtship thing will make the FIA worse or better,” George said. “Jost told me everyone loved it, so there has to be something there for the FIA to chew on.”

“People love the star-crossed lover thing,” Lando said, flapping the end of his sleeve. “It’s like TV. A steady marriage is boring. They want the drama. They loved me and Carlos, but now they really love us. Except Ferrari is never going to allow a courtship request or whatever. They’ve got an image to rebuild—that’s what Carlos says.”

George pursed his lips. “Or he knows Charles will never forgive him for that.”

Lando tossed him a look. “Charles is fine with us. I mean, yeah, there’s probably something still there, but they haven’t fucked since Monaco.”

“Am I stupid?” George asked suddenly, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets and leaning back into his collar. “I always thought Charles was, like, the opposite of a prude.”

“The word your looking for is slut,” Lando supplied.

George wrinkled his nose. “Slut? I guess.”

Lando shrugged. “I think he knows he gives off that impression. Certainly seems to attract princes. But he made Max wait like a year to take his virginity or something."

“Well yeah, I knew that,” George said.

“And then he imploded after Max left him. That’s probably where he got the reputation,” Lando said. “But he’s never actually been like that, you know? I’ve talked to him about it before. He takes sex really seriously.”

George let out a snort. “Lando, you weren’t there when Pierre and I fished him out of a literal gutter.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, excuse me for winning a karting world championship.”

“He didn’t give a fuck about anyone back then. I swear I saw him leave the club with four different people that night—that night, mate.”

“Sleeping with strangers isn’t the same thing.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Oh come on.” Lando elbowed him. “Never?”

George shrugged. “Never had to, never wanted to.”

He liked sex, he enjoyed sex. Lewis was the second person he’d ever slept with, but nobody needed to know that.

“So Lewis was…?”

“A conscious choice,” George finished, narrowing his eyes. “We weren’t just fucking around. There was a purpose behind it.”

Lando smirked. “Nice. That’s a power move, literally. Trading yourself for—”

“I’m in love with him,” George said, and the words burned his mouth as he spoke them, white-hot with guilt.

Lando blinked stupidly. “You’re—what? Really?”

“Yeah. And he’s in love with me. He said it first, actually. On our trip.”

He saw the disbelief in Lando’s eyes. George understood it. Half the time he thought he’d dreamed their whole trip. Lewis wrote him a total of one letter since, and then they were back to radio silence. Again.

“That’s awesome,” Lando managed to reply.

They both stared at each other, smiles falling flat.

Guilt twisted in him again, and that blurred, sun-washed memory of Alex filled his head, the edge of his smile, his stupid hair, his stupid ears.

“Yeah,” George finally said. “It’s good.”

Tears leapt to his eyes—a fucking common thing since seeing Alex in the flesh. George couldn’t predict when a thought would make him cry or when it wouldn’t affect him at all.

Lando put an arm over his shoulder and George shook his head, fighting back tears.

“I saw Alex,” he explained, and Lando nodded in understanding. “I didn’t talk to him or anything, but I fucking—I saw him. Fuck. I don’t want to talk about it, honestly.” He choked down a sob. A fucking sob. “I’m trying to just move on, you know?”

Lando patted his shoulder, somehow stopping him with the gesture as George spluttered.

The sun lit Lando’s face amber, his breath smoking in the cold. “If it makes you feel any better, I kind of think Carlos is going to ditch me.”

George laughed, wiping his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

Lando didn’t seem to hear him. “Not for Charles, necessarily. But he’s like…captivated by Ferrari. He feels like he hasn’t earned his place there, even though he’s been kicking Charles’s ass all season.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s going to leave you,” George assured him, glad for the change of subject. “Alex basically drowned himself in Red Bull wanting to prove something. I know I got really involved at Williams too—you have to learn trust and balance. It’s difficult, but I never doubted Alex loved me, even when I went like a month without seeing him outside of the paddock.”

And I know he still loves me even though we haven't talked in almost a year.

Lando let out a noncommittal hum. “Yeah, but Carlos isn’t a rookie. I know how dedicated he is to his empire, and this feels different.”

George cast him a glance. For as grave as Lando sounded, he looked almost detached as he spoke.

Do you want him to ditch you? George thought to ask, but didn’t. Lando and Carlos were one of the few rock-solid relationships on the grid. Everyone knew that. Kind of.

“Maybe you should organize an event,” he offered.

“Yeah, like the FIA is going to let Carlos and I have an FIA-sponsored date,” Lando said with a snort.

“Well you can’t be that obvious,” George said. “You have to think about it like the FIA would. Like—okay, you said Ferrari needs to rebuild its image. Best way to do that is to give the public a glimpse into what ‘real life’ is like in Ferrari. So it can’t feel like a Public Affairs thing. Has to seem real.”

Lando thought a moment. “Carlos said he wants to golf here, maybe we could golf?”

“That’s a start,” George said with a nod. “Is Dan any good at golf?”

Lando laughed. “Uh, no. He hates golf. I definitely can’t convince him to do that.”

“So then make it about Ferrari,” George said. “Carlos and Charles go on a golf date—I’m pretty sure Charles can’t golf worth shit, so the proposal should come from Carlos. Then you can make it into a competitive thing. Carlos versus Charles, and you and someone else be caddies.”

“Because that’s not demeaning,” Lando muttered.

George cocked his head. “Don’t you play golf? A caddy is usually better at golf than the player, logistically. They do all of the math and know the clubs and distances.”

Lando tugged on the drawstrings of his hoodie. “Yeah, obviously I know that,” he said, though it sounded like he didn’t know that at all. “But normal people don’t.”

“Normal people aren’t going to care as long as you can Carlos are together,” George said. “If they really do love the two of you, that is. And if they don''t, they see Charles and Carlos. Everyone sees what they want to see.”

“Alright genius, then you’re coming too,” Lando snapped, but it had no heat.

The air left George’s throat the moment he opened his mouth to say yes.

He used to love stooping on the green, inspecting the manicured grass and listening to the country club owners as they talked shop with Alex and explained their watering techniques, grass genetics, and grading.

He could play golf, but only the way Alex played.

He could talk about golf, but only about the things Alex loved about golf.

“Golf was always Alex’s thing,” George said quietly. He cleared his throat. “Bring Pierre. He’s better at golf than he lets on, and we shouldn’t introduce anyone we don’t trust when Charles is still in rough shape.”

“I still think you should come,” Lando said, his curls bouncing as cocked his head with a grin. “We’ll make it fun. Turn something sad into something good, yeah? It won’t be like when you played with Alex, that’s for sure.”

George smiled, already imagining Lando punting a ball into a lake, Charles whiffing a hit, Carlos with glazed eyes, wondering how the fuck he ended up there.

Heshook his head. “I think I need to be sad for a bit. I’m coming to terms with how I feel about Lewis, and I don’t want to be distracted from that process.”

“I think hanging out with friends isn’t a distraction,” Lando said softly. “I literally brought Fewtrell here so I could hang out with a normal person.”

The only “normal person” George wanted to hang out with was specifically forbidden from seeing him.

“I just want him back,” he sighed. “Not even for me anymore, though of course I still want that. I mostly want to see him happy again. He deserves to be here.”

Lando hooked his arm around him again and gave him a squeeze. “I know.”

Gratitude didn’t begin to cover what he felt about having someone like Lando in his life. Someone he could trust who knew his whole story—who lived it with him.

George screwed up his face as the tears threatened to spill again.

“It didn’t have to happen like that, you know? Max could have done something else. He could have turned him into another Pierre—he didn’t have to exile him. And if Max gets a world championship, what the hell is he going to do next? He could come after any of us.”

Lando swallowed hard. “He won’t. He won’t even come after you.”

George choked out a laugh. “What makes you so sure? We don’t have any protection. We have the same promise Alex did.”

“Alex didn’t have the pull we do,” Lando replied. “And you’re with Lewis now. That’s power.”

“It’s not power until I have a crown.”

“George, people don’t look you in the eye anymore. You’ve got power.”

George blinked. He hadn’t noticed.

Maybe this was what Lewis always talked about. One day, everyone he thought he knew would be different. When he won his first world championship, he would automatically gravitate toward other princes with embroidered crowns on their chests. Simply being a prince would no longer be enough.

The thought unnerved him.

Lando stared out at the lake, ribbons of sunlight dancing on the water as the sun lifted higher in the sky, burning away the morning mist. For a moment, he looked lost.

“In a way, I kind of understand why Charles still loves Max so much,” Lando murmured. “He’s always had that leadership quality—what’s it called?”

“Charisma?”

Lando nodded once. “Charisma. And, like, a good heart or whatever. Even when he was a fucking dick, we all knew how he really was. No matter what Max did on track, when he calmed down he always made sure we were good.”

“He didn’t do that with everyone,” George muttered.

“He did with us, though."

George remembered the first time Max found him after a race to shake his hand. Back then, a handshake seemed like the most mature and princely thing in the world, and when George met Max’s eye, he felt the call to princedom through his whole being. Every race after that, he made sure to shake hands with everyone, even the guys who beat him.

He remembered staring at Max in awe when he approached FIA scouts, so calm and unaffected when none of the other boys even dared to look at anyone in a white uniform.

He also remembered later, when Max lost by less than a second. When he hurried out from underneath the grandstands right into George, who had been trying to call his mom on his brand new cell phone.

That cell phone had been knocked from his hand, but Max caught it before it hit the ground and gave it back to hi. 

He remembered the calm look in Max’s eyes—the same one he’d had talking with the FIA—except this time there were tears there too, glistening and unshed.

And a fresh welt at his jaw, his ear angry, red, and swelling.

Max never said anything about those marks, and they faded before he showed up at the next practice. But the look in his eyes had stayed for every interview since.

“Charles made him better,” Lando said into the silence George had accidentally left between them. “He used to be so wild when went out.”

Then Charles had soaked up every reckless thing he’d improved in Max and spewed it over half of Europe.

“Max had every opportunity to stick with us,” George growled. “He blew it. I was honestly surprised he even showed up to Steakout. Seems like all he cares about anymore is the championship and—hey, did you ever figure out if Red Bull reached out to Daniel?”

Lando’s eyes darkened. He stiffened up a little, and George found himself glancing around, looking for some hidden attacker.

 “If they did reach out, it was to threaten him,” Lando said, keeping his voice low. “He’d never go back at this point. He hasn’t even left the hotel since the race, and he’s a grown ass man, mate. He’s terrified. Again.”

“Again?”

Lando’s lip twitched. “You were probably too busy being a dick to notice, but Portugal, remember?”

George scowled. Of course he fucking remembered Portugal. Daniel’s gaunt face and hollow eyes hadn’t exactly been his primary focus, but he remembered it.

“Max won on Sunday,” Lando reminded him.

“Yeah, I watched from the fucking garage,” George snapped. Fucking power unit failure, stripping away his first chance at points.

Lando bit down a smirk, gloating for a moment before he spoke again. “Daniel is convinced that every time Max wins, something bad is just around the corner. He says me getting caught by the FIA was a warning.”

Lando’s voice sounded like he didn’t buy into that idea, but his eyes glinted with fear.

“You really think they’d target you because of Max?” George asked.

“I don’t know, mate. But I don’t want to go down for something because of him. He’s changed. He’s not the guy I know. If it comes down to picking sides, I’m with you.”

George’s cheeks warmed. Lando adored Max—or, he used to. Max made a point to see him after every race, and they used to hang out all the time. Used to. George couldn’t think of the last time he saw them together.

“That—” George cut himself off, swallowing down the emotion that welled in him. “Thanks, Lando.”

Lando smiled at him, tinged with sadness.

Choosing one friend over another hurt like a bitch. George knew that better than most. He didn’t want to hate Max—in fact, he’d always thought they would remain friends through championship battles, that they would take each other on with healthy competition and respect.

But some things were unforgivable.

“I have to be careful,” Lando said, kicking a stone as they walked. “I can’t let Carlos get caught up in this. Ferrari is safe, but anyone with Mercedes or Red Bull backing isn’t. Anyone caught up with Max definitely isn’t—Daniel too.”

Then it’s a little late for Carlos, George thought, but he kept his mouth shut. And Ferrari isn’t safe.  

“Do the golf outing,” George said. “The FIA will love to see all of the major empires represented—assuming you bring Pierre.”

Lando frowned. “But if I bring you, it’ll show I’m more committed to Mercedes.”

George shook his head. “It’ll show that Ferrari is siding with Mercedes, and they’ll shoot it down. Pierre is a balance.”

Lando made a face. “You trust him?”

“Pierre?”

 “Yeah.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Lando shrugged again. “He’s too quiet for me. He doesn’t have a motive. It’s like he’s just here to chill out.”

George’s eyes narrowed. “Pierre is playing his own game, but he’s not our enemy, Lando. I trust him more than I trust Lewis.”

He’d seen Pierre on his blackest nights. He knew the man Pierre was, and he didn’t backstab. If anything, he self-sacrificed too much.

Especially when it came to one Monegasque basket case they all knew and loved.

 

 


 

 

Their Austria hotel room was a step down from the palace, but George kind of liked the worn floors and old-school glaze on all of the wood furniture. The red upholstery made it feel like a movie set for a film about a royal family, but it was comfortable enough to fall asleep on, as George found out when Nic gently woke him when he passed out on the couch.

“So you do nap,” Nic teased, lifting George’s legs to lay them over his lap. “I thought you just went through equations in your head in your free time.”

George groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Was’happening?”

“Nothing, I just know you hate messing up your sleep schedule once you’ve adjusted to the timezone,” Nic said with a shrug, covering them both in a blanket.

“Austria is only like an hour ahead,” George croaked. “Wait—it’s nighttime?”

“Mhm.” Nic lifted his hips, digging in his pocket. “Oh yeah, you got this.”

He handed over a silver envelope.

George’s heart rate kicked up in his chest as he tore it open.

 

George,

I don’t want to start this letter with an apology, but I owe you one. I’m sorry for not writing sooner.

The good news is that the reason I haven’t been able to write is because I’ve been in talks with Toto and the rest of government. The courtship ceremony was a huge success, thanks to you. Valtteri wanted to extend his thanks as well—it was a difficult few days for him, but your respectfulness throughout made it much easier on him than it could have been.

Mercedes will take this slowly, as you know, but you’re officially top of the list. Valtteri is the only potential setback—I told you I’m going to make sure he’s okay before I make plays.

I hope you’re as excited about this as I am. I can’t stop thinking about you.

I love you. I hope you’re having an amazing day, and I can’t wait until I get to share them with you.

Yours,

LH

 

Warmth filled George’s chest as he thumbed over Lewis’s signature. The parchment smelled like him, George realized as he absently brought the envelope to his lips in thought.

“Good letter?” Nic asked, patting his knee with one hand and lifting a spoonful of Nutella to his mouth with the other.

George nodded. He had power now. Lewis loved to see him wield it, and Mercedes bestowed it for a reason.

“Darling, where’s the letter writing stuff?” he asked.

Nic licked Nutella off his spoon. “Call it quill and parchment, and I’ll grab it for you, dearest.”

He cleared his throat and turned on his most posh accent. “Ah yes, Lady Austen will be so pleased to see you honor her so dutifully. Might I have that quill and parchment, my love?”

Nic fought back a grin as he set his spoon aside. “Sure, asshole. Who are you writing?”

George smiled against the edge of the envelope. “I think it’s about time I set a meetup with Mick, instead of the other way around.”

Chapter 49

Notes:

you will need a translator. i suggest DeepL!

Chapter Text

The night pressed around Charles as he laid in bed beside Carlos, staring at the ceiling. Carlos’s usual warmth didn’t reach him, even though Charles was close enough that he could feel Carlos’s breath on his shoulder. Charles had noticed that Carlos liked to sleep on his stomach when the weather was colder.

The nightmares came back full force after he told Carlos about Pierre. Except now they involved Pierre being taken from him: Max finding out about Belgium, Sebastian finding out about Abu Dhabi. Charles never anticipated being more terrified of Sebastian than Carlos, but an angry Sebastian had the power of four world championships and countless wins behind him. He found plenty of ways to ruin his life.

Thankfully, the nightmares didn’t end with him waking up screaming anymore, but Charles had a feeling that would start again the second Carlos stopped wearing Lando’s hoodie to bed.

Carlos’s breath hitched, and a moment later Charles heard him suck in a breath too long to be a sleeping one.

“I’m awake,” Charles murmured, absently turning his hand to stroke Carlos’s elbow with the backs of his fingers.

Carlos grunted before turning onto his back. “Now we’re both awake.”

Needles started stabbing Charles’s stomach as they laid in the silence together. The past few days had been more silence than he ever wanted to experience in a marriage.

“I wish you would tell me how you actually feel about it,” Charles said.

Carlos sighed. “I told you.”

“You said it was fine. You didn’t say how you felt.”

Carlos wore pain all over his face. He showed it in his action too—in the way he hesitated to touch him, the way he stumbled over his words and couldn’t remember what language he’d been speaking when Charles entered the room.

“Did you cheat on me?” Carlos asked.

Charles’s mouth fell open for a moment, his sleepy brain reeling.

“No,” he finally said. “I told you I didn’t sleep with him.”

“I didn’t ask that. I asked if you cheated on me.”

Charles set his jaw. “We aren’t together, Carlos.”

“Siamo sposati. We’re together whether you like it or not.”

Charles turned his head to face him. “Don’t change the rules because you’re upset. If you’re going by normal people logic, we’ve been cheating on each other since before we got married.”

Carlos didn’t care about him at all in the beginning, beyond respecting the crown. Charles didn’t even like Carlos back then. He’d been fully committed to Sebastian, and Carlos to Lando.

“First Sebastian, then Max—”

“I didn’t cheat in any sense with Max,” Charles snapped.

“You were asleep on his chest when I picked you up,” Carlos returned, anger leaking into his voice.

“I also fell asleep wrapped up in Lando the other day, and you aren’t accusing me of cheating on you with him.”

Carlos sat up on an elbow, his eyes flashing in the moonlight.

“Dimmi di Pierre.”

Charles’s blood ran cold, fear pulsating through him in a way he wasn’t used to experiencing outside of his nightmares.

“Cosa vuoi sapere?” he asked carefully.

“How long have you been together?” Carlos asked, still tense but not so threatening.

“Since Sunday night.”

“Non mentirmi.”

Charles rolled onto his side to face him. His hand went to Carlos’s face on reflex, but it was too late to pull back by the time Charles realized he’d rested his palm on Carlos’s cheek, thumbing over his scowling lips.

“He kissed me in France,” Charles confessed. “He’s kissed me before, but not for a long time. It never meant anything beyond the physical—at least, I didn’t realize it did until Sunday. I didn’t even talk to him until then after he kissed me in France—I had to figure out what I wanted.”

“Between him and me,” Carlos said.

Charles’s throat tightened. When he put it that way, it sounded cruel.

“I don’t think it’s any secret that I care about you,” Charles murmured, but he dropped his hand from Carlos’s face.

I loved you. The words came so close to spilling out, but Charles knew they would make everything worse.

“Pierre puts me first. He always has, no matter what,” Charles said quietly. “If you weren’t with Lando—”

He closed his eyes.

“Ah. Non importa, because you are.”

“I’d still like you to say it,” Carlos said into the inky blackness. “If you don’t mind.”

Charles knew he was venturing into dangerous territory, but he also knew Carlos would never leave Lando by choice. Hypotheticals were just that.

And even as he laid in bed beside his husband, Charles ached for Pierre’s arms again, for jokes and sugar-frosted kisses.

“If you weren’t with Lando I think we’d be in love,” Charles said. “And, honestly, I think we would be very happy. I would be, anyway.”

Florence lingered in his memory, and so did Spain. They could have had something, in different circumstances.

He knew the profile of Carlos’s face like his own. His hooked nose, his swollen bottom lip. The way his front teeth were cut short, but that it was only noticeable from certain angles. His sharp jaw, his eyelashes, his stubble, his eyebrows—his whole damn face.

“I would also give too much of myself to you, I think,” Charles mused. “I would never be able to see the end coming.”

And it would come.

He watched Carlos’s throat bob with a hard swallow.

“Pierre ti rende felice?” Carlos asked, his voice thick.

Just hearing his name brought warmth to Charles, and made his smile wider. He couldn’t wait to see Pierre again.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”

“He’s felt this way for a long time, yes?” Carlos asked.

“Yes,” Charles replied.

“Did you know?”

Charles took a breath. “Not in the beginning. And when I found out, I didn’t lead him on. I just knew. He knew I knew. Nothing changed.”

“Have you slept with him?”

Charles sat up on his elbows, shame burning in his gut. He didn’t want to lie anymore, and he loathed lying to Carlos in particular.

“Yes. Twice. But please don’t tell—”

“I won’t,” Carlos assured him, finding his hand in the dark.

“You’re still my husband,” Charles said, absently thumbing the side of his palm. “Ferrari is still my empire. But I want this, Carlos. And I’d like to have it without hurting you.”

Carlos flopped back down onto the mattress, pulling his hand away. “You already have. You cheated on me.”

Charles bristled. “I did not.”

“I’m not kissing anyone else aside from you and Lando,” Carlos said. “I don’t have any former lovers hiding in the shadows.”

“He was not my lover,” Charles growled. “We’re best friends. He’s still my best friend.”

“Have you kissed anyone else?” Carlos asked. Normally that question would make him angry, but Charles didn’t hear an accusation in it, only hurt.

Guilt seeped into his heart. Charles honestly wondered how he hadn’t reached total saturation at this point. He didn’t see many scenarios where he could possibly feel more guilt in his life than the guilt surrounding Pierre.

“No,” Charles said quietly. “Just Sebastian, you, and Pierre.”

“Okay.” Carlos reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “So the rules stay the same. Except now you have Pierre on weekends too.”

Charles didn’t want to agree to that. Pierre only lived an hour and half away at Alpha Tauri. Maranello’s rules were much more relaxed than the FIA during race weekends. If they played it right, he could see Pierre at least a few times during off weeks.

“If there isn’t a way for me to see Pierre during the week, then yes,” Charles said.

Carlos didn’t speak for a long time. He wasn’t stupid, and he’d been in Alpha Tauri back when it used to be Toro Rosso. It didn’t take much to put it together.

“Okay,” Carlos finally said in the exact same way he’d said it a moment before. “Buonanotte, Charles.”

He turned away before Charles could reach out, and Charles felt every inch of cold air between them as he curled into the blankets.

 

 


 

 

Giorgio looked relieved after Carlos presented his plan for a golf outing. Charles acted the part of an excited and supportive husband—which didn’t involve much acting once Carlos told him that Pierre would be his partner for the event.

Their venue was an Austrian golf course not far from Spielberg, nestled in rolling green fields, with a breathtaking view of the Alps beyond. It felt completely isolated from the world, the breath of fresh air they all needed after a week stuck in the same small town.

A blue and white Honda NSX slid into the country club parking lot. Charles bit down his grin, forcing it into a polite curl of his lips as he waited for Pierre to emerge.

Lando joked with Carlos nearby, the Ferrari social media iPhone trained at him as Carlos discussed strategy on the green.  

Yuki waved from the driver’s seat and Charles waved back, but when Pierre leaned forward in his seat, all focus went straight to him.

He was so handsome. Charles had noticed Pierre’s growth into himself as a teenager, but now—knowing Pierre was his—he couldn’t stop staring at the way shadow caught the hard lines of his jaw, the effortless way he carried himself, the muscle in his forearms as he hauled his Louis Vuitton backpack from the car.

Chrome sunglasses hid Pierre’s eyes and his hair swept out of the hole of his backward Alpha Tauri cap. A dark navy Pilot with a white gold face glimmered on his wrist where he held his backpack strap at his shoulder, and his white Alpha Tauri polo hugged the impressive musculature of his chest in a way that made Charles’s mouth go dry.

Pierre’s face lit up in an easy smile, definitely reserved, in case cameras were watching.

“Hi Charles!” Yuki shouted through the open door. “Can I come next time? I’m way better at golf than him!”

“Shut up,” Pierre said, but he hadn’t looked away from Charles.

“Sure,” Charles said absently. He hadn’t looked away from Pierre.

Pierre crossed to him and Charles wanted nothing more than to meet him with a kiss, but he knew they were still in too public of a place, and probably would be all day. Anyone could be on the course with a camera in hand.

“Hey,” Pierre greeted. He dropped his backpack and pulled Charles into a tight hug.

Charles buried his face into Pierre’s neck, sucking in the scent of him like he needed it to breathe. His skin was warm and familiar, his arms—

“Char.”

Charles immediately let go when he felt Pierre tense in his hold.

The bruises.

 “Merde, sorry—J’ai oublié. Are you okay?”

Seeing Pierre’s smile up close—those damn dimples and that adorable little gap in his teeth—made Charles weak in the knees. He wanted to ditch everything and go back to the hotel, spend the afternoon together, relearning each other.

“I’m okay,” Pierre assured him, ruffling his hair. “I’m better than okay now.”

“Smooth,” Charles teased, but his eyes dimmed with fondness.

Pierre leaned in until their lips were only a breath apart. Charles ached to kiss him, but they had to—

“What the actual fuck is going on?” Lando shouted from where he’d stepped away from Carlos.

Carlos put a hand on Lando’s chest as Pierre pulled away, their moment gone to the thin mountain air.

“With what?” Pierre asked, his voice completely changed from just a second before.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lando hissed. “Charles what the fuck is your problem?”

Charles blinked, shame burning through him even though he had no idea why Lando was so upset.

“Watch it, Lando,” Pierre warned.

Lando slapped Carlos’s hand away, marching across to Charles. “What’s this? You and Pierre? What the fuck?”

Charles blinked, trying to catch up. “Uh, yes? Did Carlos not tell you?”

Lando wheeled around. “You knew about this?”

“Hey,” Yuki called from the car. “Should I leave?”

“Yes,” all four of them snapped at the same time, trading glares.

Yuki didn’t even wait to roll the window up before the NSX sped away with a throaty growl. Charles glanced at Pierre, but he shook his head in a way that said that they didn’t need to worry.

 “Yes, Charles told me,” Carlos finally answered. “But it wasn’t my news to tell.”

“I think I’m an exception to that rule,” Lando snapped.

“You’re not, actually,” Charles said.

Lando whipped his head to face him, anger sparking in his emerald eyes.

“Why are you upset about it?” Pierre asked, sounding bored. But his glare told a different story.

“Because I think it’s relevant information, considering I meant to set this up as—”

Lando cut himself off, floundering for a moment.

“You wanted to rub Carlos in my face?” Charles tried, eyes narrowed.

“The opposite of that, actually,” Lando growled.

Pierre reached forward, patting Lando’s curls. “Shit out of luck, my friend. But Charles is with me, so you have Carlos all to yourself. What a good thing, yes?”

Charles warmed as Pierre settled beside him again, hooking an arm around his shoulders in a way that looked friendly on the outside, but Charles felt the closeness of it, the love in the way Pierre’s fingers flexed lightly against his arm.

“Ehi,” Carlos interrupted, gently tugging Lando backward by the hips. “Why are we fighting? Charles and I discussed this, and we both agreed to it. I didn’t realize Pierre was going to set you off.”

Lando relaxed, but not much. He kept glaring at Charles in a way that made Charles’s skin crawl.

“What?” Charles demanded, stepping free from Pierre. “Do you and I need to walk away to handle this?”

Lando’s eyes narrowed, accusing. “How long ago did this start?”

Charles remembered when he and Max announced their relationship, the way Alex and George high-fived because they’d both bet on it already, the way Pierre rolled his eyes, the way Lando said ‘that’s it?’ because apparently everyone already knew it would happen.

“Sunday,” Pierre said from behind Charles. “Though I don’t understand why that matters.”

“It matters,” Lando said, leering at Pierre.

“Sunday,” Charles confirmed.

Lando looked to Carlos, who nodded. He saw tension in Lando’s shoulders, a fear in him. He’d seen Lando nervous before, and seeing him this way reminded Charles of the way he’d acted when he first told them about Carlos.

“Well, he got me,” Lando had said, “that pretty idiot.”

“This is going to be miserable,” Lando snapped. “Remind me not to fall in love with you, Leclerc. Fucking unreal.”

“What the hell is your problem, Lando?” Charles snarled, hurt spurring on his fury.

“Charles, doucement,” Pierre murmured, putting a hand on the small of his back.

Lando was only a McLaren prince. Second-rate Mercedes, competitive this year, but next would be a different story. Not to mention Charles had given up his chances with Carlos because of Lando. Charles had to stand there and take it while someone he was supposed to love loved someone else with his whole being.

“Don’t you feel like this is a little fast?” Lando asked, turning on Pierre now. “One second he’s all over Sebastian, then Carlos, now you? Not to mention you-know-who is the skeleton in Charles’s closet that—”

“Shut up, Lando,” Pierre snapped. “You don’t know what Charles and I have.”

“Exactly. No one fucking does. You two have always been best mates, now this? I think both of you are forcing it, if you ask me.”

“I don’t understand why my personal life matters so much to you,” Charles said. “It never did before.”

“You’re picking Red Bull,” Lando hissed.

“No, I picked Ferrari,” Charles said. “Same as Carlos. I can separate my friends from their empires.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I’d throw myself to the dogs for you.”

Charles shook the thought from his head.

He didn’t miss the implication that Lando would side with Mercedes if it came down to it. Lewis and Max dueling for a world championship didn’t bother Charles—he’d watched from Sauber as Sebastian took Lewis on in 2018 with Räikkönen at his side. Max was younger and arguably more lethal in the driver’s seat, but no one had made the battle between Ferrari and Mercedes into a potential FIA-splitting catastrophe. Ending Lewis’s reign was of course a big deal, but one world championship wouldn’t give Max the sway everyone seemed to think it would.

Charles didn’t miss the rumors on the paddock. He had the crown he wanted, so he didn’t really care who George was sleeping with or whether or not Mick Schumacher wanted his seat. He’d earned his crown, and he intended to do whatever it took to keep it. Plots from a Haas prince, real or imagined, were not going to be his downfall.  

Evidently, he was his own worst enemy in that regard, and Charles knew he still hadn’t recovered from that self-inflicted wound.

“Max is important to me, if that’s what you’re circling around,” Charles said. “And yes, I’d back him over Lewis. Because Max is my friend, and Lewis isn’t. I don’t care about Red Bull or Mercedes, I care about my friends.”

“And what about when George moves to Mercedes next year?”

“What about when Carlos and I beat you and Daniel every weekend next year?” Charles returned. “Racing is racing.”

“See, it isn’t,” Lando cut, pointing at him. “When you win, things happen. Doors open that were shut. When you get a world championship, you get to ask for things you wouldn’t normally get.”

“How would you know? You haven’t won.”

“Charles,” Pierre warned, thumbing at his back.

“He needs to learn,” Charles muttered. “We did.”

“That’s enough arguing,” Carlos said, hooking an arm around Lando’s middle. “Today we’re golfing. We’re going to have a fantastic time. If you want to argue, you’ll have to do it when we’re finished.”

Carlos leaned in, whispering something in Lando’s ear that Charles couldn’t hear, but read the effect well enough as Lando’s eyes went wide for a moment, then softened as he swallowed hard.

Charles extended a fist to him as Carlos gave Lando a kiss to the cheek. A peace offering.

 “Come on,” Charles said. “This is stupid.”

Lando hesitated a moment, but Carlos kissed his cheek again and he finally bumped Charles’s fist afterward.

“Are we good?” Charles asked.

Lando nodded stiffly. “We’re good. Just keep it in your pants, yeah?”

Charles laughed. “Didn’t realize my mom was here.”

“Didn’t realize my mom was here,” Lando parroted, screwing up his face. He gave Charles a look up and down. “You look like a douchebag, by the way.”

Charles brightened. Insults were the closest thing to an apology from Lando. Though Charles did have a letter proving that wasn’t necessarily true anymore. “Thanks.”

Lando set his eyes on the front door to the country club as he started forward, and suddenly all four of them were looking at it too.

The door was probably twenty meters away. Less if they cut through the rock garden lining the curve in the path.

Slight uphill, but nothing too taxing.

Lando glanced at Carlos, who tensed, and Pierre and Charles followed suite.

Pierre burst into a sprint at the exact same time Lando did, with Carlos and Charles only a heartbeat behind as they all raced toward the door to see who would get there first.

 

 


 

 

The owners were kind, and the staff were also kind. They all took photos and Charles signed about a dozen hats, a few work uniforms, and even the back of a cell phone. He stood beside Carlos all the while, making sure to share looks and laughter, even posing for a few photos together. They took a group photo too, and Charles bit down a noise when Pierre’s finger traced the line of his spine in a quick swipe as he stepped away after the photo was taken.

Ferrari provided their golf bags, Ferrari golf carts, and black horse head club covers that reminded Charles of a particular scene in The Godfather. Carlos had his personal set of clubs to play with, but he made sure Pierre recorded video of him giving Charles his favorite driver for good luck.

It didn’t help much, because Charles was horrible at golf.

Nine holes in, and Charles didn’t even want to look at the scoresheet.  But Carlos could make everything fun, and he had Lando and Pierre laughing at his dry humor every time Charles bunted a ball or missed it altogether.

At the ninth tee, Charles swung hard, but the driver only nicked the ball, sending it  almost parallel to the ground before landing only a few meters away. He let out a sigh of defeat, and handed the club back to Pierre.

“Better that time,” Pierre praised, though he looked like he was holding back laughter. He gave Charles a peck on the lips—a kiss Charles wanted to extend, but didn’t. He still had nine more holes to play.

“Lando, record,” Carlos said, beckoning Charles over. “Come here, I’ll teach you to swing properly.”

Charles knew what that meant.

Giorgio didn’t lay out many requirements for their outing, but one of them was the classic golf lesson.

Pierre laughed, giving him a playful shove forward. “Best of luck paying attention, Calarmardo.”

Charles shot him a look over his shoulder. Pierre met it with a wink, and happiness flooded through him anew.

Pierre knew how this worked. He knew Charles still hadn’t let go of Carlos completely—that they were still married and still had something—but he also knew that while Carlos wasn’t a choice, Pierre was.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid,” Charles said when he reached Carlos.

“Fix your polo, Carlos,” Lando said, watching the viewfinder. “You’ve got grass on it.”

“I’ve got it,” Charles said, reaching up to brush a few blades from Carlos’s chest. He kept his lashes hooded and his lips slightly parted all the while, trying to act the part of devoted husband, of deeply in love.

“Grazie,” Carlos said, turning on his soft-and-affectionate-husband voice.

Charles widened his smile and hiked his golf club up over the back of his shoulders, loosely holding it with a hand on either end.

“Ready, Lando?” Charles asked.

“Ready,” Lando replied, putting his thumbs up in front of the camera.

Charles made a show of releasing the club, twirling it back into a normal hold.

“It’s very easy,” Carlos said, extending a hand for the club.

Charles handed it over and Carlos took the club in both hands. “Light but firm hold, yes? And when you swing, swing from the hip.”

He demonstrated, and Charles kept his eyes locked with Carlos and not on his hips.

“And you keep your arm straight—this is where people make mistakes. Arm stays straight until you hit the ball, then curve,” Carlos explained.

He executed a perfect swing, and Charles noticed that his arms did indeed stay straight until contact with the ball.

“My turn,” Charles said, stepping in, completely invading Carlos’s personal space.

Carlos leaned back, but didn’t take a step. He looked down his nose at Charles, smirking.

Real heat pooled in Carlos’s eyes, and Charles matched it as he took the club from Carlos’s pliant hands and turned around to face Pierre, who had a smile on his face as he shook his head.

“Now, remember what I said,” Carlos said, settling behind him.

Charles nearly closed his eyes at the sensation of Carlos’s breath on the back of his neck, but quickly reminded himself that they were on camera.

“Hips,” Carlos instructed, pressing his fingertips into Charles’s hip bones.

He knew Carlos felt the shiver that ran through him, because Carlos’s chest was flush with his back, leaning over him slightly, maintaining more contact than necessary.

Of course it brought back memories of Monaco—Monaco was the last time Carlos held his hips with any kind of force.

“Hips,” Charles repeated, trying to stay focused.

“Arms,” Carlos said next, moving his hands from Charles’s hips and sliding both palms down the lengths of his forearms.

Charles tensed under the touch—the only action he could think of that wouldn’t show up on camera but would warn Carlos that he was verging on too much as warm hands folded over his own.

“Lower your grip,” Carlos said into his ear.

Charles turned his face slightly, shooting Carlos a sidelong glare as he moved the club handle up through his palms. Carlos stared down at their hands, making a point to ignore him.

“Remember, arms straight,” Carlos said. “Now swing.”

Charles shifted his feet, balancing his weight. He looked down the green, though he had absolutely no idea where the hole was that he was supposed to be aiming for.

“Four hundred meters, just over the hill,” Carlos murmured, lips brushing the back of his neck.

Charles was fairly certain his entire face was the color of a tomato.

He took a breath and cocked the club over his shoulder, bringing Carlos’s arms with him.

He swung, though he didn’t realize Carlos intended to correct him until suddenly Carlos took over when Charles tried to bend his arms during the swing. Charles didn’t think as he let it happen, though he made sure to turn his hips and follow through.

The sound of the hit finally reached his ears once he stopped moving—a loud crack! that startled him a little.

“Beautiful hit,” Carlos praised, and suddenly his arms were around Charles’s waist. Charles stayed in position for a second longer, trying to find thoughts in his brain as he watched the little white ball disappear behind the far hill.

He cleared his throat, his twisted position collapsing instantly as he recovered himself. He turned to face Carlos, a little shaky in his movements but regaining his confidence all the same.

“Great teacher,” Charles murmured, brushing noses with him. “Thank you.”

Carlos caught his mouth in a kiss and Charles returned it, pleasantly surprised that everything still felt so easy after a few days of tension and discomfort.

I could have loved you.

The thought slipped through Charles’s head so quickly he almost missed it as he opened his eyes. Carlos stared back at him and Charles swore he could read the same thought in his eyes.

“Aaaaand, cut!” Lando shouted, a bit forced.

Charles smiled as he pulled away. Carlos’s hands lingered around his waist, but fell away a moment later when Lando approached.

“Very romantic,” Lando purred before pressing a passionate kiss to Carlos’s lips.  Charles cringed internally at how desperate it looked, but reminded himself that of all of them, Lando was the least mature, so it made sense that he would go overboard.

“Je t’ai perdue pour toujours?” Pierre teased as Charles crossed to him. They didn’t need forced kisses. They had years of knowing each other, trust built over a lifetime. Pierre cupping his jaw filled Charles with more confidence in them than any kiss ever could.

“Il faisait de son mieux,” Charles replied with a smile.

“Je peux voi que ça a marché au moins un peu,” Pierre laughed, thumbing his burning cheek.

Charles blushed harder. “Il est très bon dans ce domaine.”

“Back to the carts,” Lando announced. “I hope someone remembered where those balls went, because I didn’t.”

“Lando, that’s your job,” Carlos sighed.

Lando planted a kiss on his cheek. “Kept staring at you, idiot. Try being less hot in a polo and I’ll reconsider my duties. Now get with Charles for the walk back to the carts before we split off. Gotta get a nice walking away shot.”

Charles turned his head to kiss the inside of Pierre’s wrist before he stepped away. Pierre bit his lip, eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses but nonetheless fond. Charles could tell from his eyebrows alone.

“É geloso?” Carlos asked as they linked hands.

Charles laughed. “No. Carlos, non so se qualcuno te l’ha mai detto, ma sei bello. E siamo sposati. Scusami se mi sento un po’ sottosopra quando mi stai troppo vicino.”

Carlos grinned—the cocky grin he wore when he was on track trying to prove himself. Usually it masked frustration, but this one just looked arrogant.

“Non montarti la testa,” Charles muttered, squeezing his hand.

“Vorrei solo sapere il mio posto,” Carlos said.

Charles rolled his eyes. “Ti piace solo vincere.”

Carlos’s smile flickered. “Non sempre. A volte voglio solo analizzare. Verdere dove ho sbagliato.”

The words sucker punched Charles’s carefree contentment.

“Te l’ho già detto,” Charles hissed, keeping his smile. “E onestamente, sei irrispettoso.”

“Io?” Carlos turned to him, wrinkling his nose as though Charles had said something too adorable not to react to. “Non sono io quello che ha tradito. Sto cercando di accettarlo perché so cosa ti ho chiesto, ma devo ammettere che mi sembra comunque affrettato. In effetti sembra che tu lo stia facendo apposta per ferirmi.”

“Di cosa stai parlando?” Charles growled as he leaned in for a quick kiss.

He very nearly kept his eyes open for it, and tasted the anger in Carlos’s mouth when he deepened it unexpectedly.

Charles pulled away, eyes dangerous but smile playful.

“Andare dietro a qualcuno a cui ero molto legato,” Carlos said, keeping his voice low. “Non eravamo sposati, ma la Red Bull mi piazzò Pierre più vicino di ogni altro Principe di corti minori mentre lo preparavano alla corona. Eravamo molto legati e lo sapevi. Prima Max, ora—"

“Charles e io cresciuti insieme,” Pierre interrupted, slinging an arm around Carlos from his other side. “E io che pensavo fossimo amici, Carlos. Ti prego, non rovinare questo.”

Carlos went slackjawed and Charles let his smile fall. The fans would think he didn’t like Pierre invading Carlos’s space.

Pierre shrugged. “Parlo italiano, zio. Non lo ricordavi? Se l’hai dimenticato fa lo stesso—hai smesso di parlarmi quando sei passato in Renault. Non ti biasimo, però. So che Cyril sa essere prepotente su queste cose.”

He patted Carlos’s back.

“Pierre, you’re ruining it,” Lando shouted from the bottom of the slope. “I have to cut this part now. Move!”

“Mi ricordo molte cose,” Carlos growled through a pasted-on smile.

Charles cleared his throat as Pierre leaned even closer to Carlos, returning his false grin.

“Se lo fai stare male per questo, userò ogni straccio d’influenza che ho per assicurarmi che vivrai rimpiangendolo,” Pierre said, low and dangerous. He squeezed Carlos’s shoulder, hard.

Carlos jerked away and Pierre backed off to turn to Lando, waving his arms.

“How about now?” Pierre shouted.

“Piss off, I’m trying to do a good job so we can do this again!” Lando shouted back.

“You can’t possibly think this is a good idea,” Carlos muttered once they were alone again.

Charles narrowed his eyes, anger burning up his throat as he tugged Carlos forward.

“You don’t get to choose how I feel,” Charles said under his breath as they approached the carts. “And if me choosing Pierre is making you think about jumping ship from Lando to try to get me back, don’t even think about it. Don’t even fucking think about it.”

The very thought made him sick inside.

“I would never do that,” Carlos snapped.

Charles turned to him, eyes half-lidded and smile soft for the nonexistant camera. “Then stop being an asshole when he’s trying as hard as he possibly can to keep you.”

“Questo non è—”

“I’ll choose Lando over you,” Charles cut in, clocking as Lando and Pierre came into view again over the swell of the hill. Pierre had Lando in a headlock, teasing him in French, Italian, and some language that sounded like German but definitely wasn’t right.

Charles turned his gaze back to Carlos, eyes venomous. “My loyalty isn’t won over a few months of marriage, not when it comes to them. If you pull a move like that, it’s not going to work out the way you want.”

Carlos’s eyes ignited.  “If I wanted to do that, I would have done it when I fell in love with you. I love him, and he’s everything to me. But I’ve already explained how I feel about you, and suddenly Pierre is here and it’s as if you’ve been together for years. I don't buy it. ”

Charles watched as Pierre’s sunglasses fell from his face as Lando swiped at him, both of them tumbling to the grass a moment later. They laughed, and Charles suddenly saw them on the shell-flecked beach of Lake Como, Lando burning under the sun, Pierre wet with lake water, flicking algae at him to the point where Lando almost retched when a wet clump of it hit him in the chest.

George and Alex basked in the sun on matching beach chairs that they’d shoved together so that George could rest his head on Alex’s stomach while Alex read Pride and Prejudice to him out loud.

He remembered brushing his lips against Max’s sunburned shoulder, watching as he slept in the shade of their beach umbrella, finally at peace.

All of that before Carlos entered any of their lives. 

“Allez,” Pierre said, taking his hand.

Charles blinked back into the present to find that Carlos and Lando were already driving away in their golf cart, Carlos’s arm around him, Lando’s head on his shoulder.

Pierre took the driver’s side and they started down the road.

“What were you thinking about?” Pierre asked after a few moments of silence.

Charles shook his head. “Lake Como.”

Pierre nodded in understanding.

Carlos and Lando’s golf cart had vanished from view. When Pierre made a left turn at a fork in the road, Charles furrowed his brow.

“I don’t think this is right,” he said. “We should have gone right.”

Pierre tossed him a look. “I’m the caddy, remember? Or did you memorize the course map too?”

Charles glared at him, but scooted closer as the cart jolted over gravel.

When they entered a patch of forest, Charles shook his head.

“We’re lost.”

Pierre swore under his breath. “Could’ve sworn it was left. Hold on.”

Charles gripped the edge of the seat as they veered off the path and into a grassy section that looked like it must have had a road on it at one point, because there was a path through the trees too wide to be natural that ended at a chain-link gate.

Pierre stopped the cart.

“Pourquoi es-tu—?”

Charles didn’t finish his question, because Pierre’s lips made it suddenly difficult to continue speaking.

Oh. Oh.

Charles had to turn his face to laugh at his own stupidity. Pierre laughed too as he moved over, but Charles stopped when Pierre settled on his lap.

He reached up, pulling off Pierre’s sunglasses, revealing his impossibly beautiful eyes. Charles couldn’t deny they reminded him a bit of Max’s, but Pierre had more gold in his, gilded turquoise in the sun, dappled blue in low light.

Charles leaned forward to set the sunglasses in the empty cupholder, which of course brought his lips just a breath away from Pierre’s.

“You’re so beautiful,” Pierre whispered. His hands settled at Charles’s face, holding him like a holy thing. “I’ve always thought that, but…tu es si beau.”

Charles kissed him, settling his hands at Pierre’s hips as he did so.

Lando could think what he wanted about them rushing into this, but he had no idea. Kissing Pierre felt like finally becoming real, like he could actually ground himself in the world. Charles wanted more, he wanted to soak it all in. It didn’t feel like kissing Max, which felt like learning, or Carlos, who felt like heat and happiness. Pierre was the world, all of the beautiful things he only noticed when he slowed down.

“Are you okay?” Charles asked when they broke apart, noses brushing, foreheads pressed together. He ran his fingers up and down Pierre’s back, gentle.

“Carlos t’aime,” Pierre said quietly.

“I know,” Charles said, closing his eyes. “Je suis désolé.”

Pierre kissed the corner of his mouth. “Désolé? Pourquoi?”

Charles opened his eyes again, brow furrowing. “Je suppose que je ne sais pas pourquoi. Because that can’t feel good for you, I guess.”

Pierre’s lips met his and Charles let out a soft sound of pleasure against them, silently begging for time to stop so they never had to leave this moment.

“I’m glad he loves you,” Pierre murmured. “That means he’ll protect you when I can’t.”

Charles laughed. “Why does everyone think I need protecting? I can handle myself.”

Pierre clucked softly. “You can protect yourself from everything but yourself.”

Charles’s smile died on his lips. “Pierre—”

Pierre silenced him the way he always could—by running his thumb over Charles’s bottom lip. Charles shivered, and warmth ran through him when he saw the pride in Pierre’s smile.

“How have you been sleeping?”

Charles tried to kiss him, to change the subject, but Pierre’s hand stayed in place, preventing him from leaning in.

“Now my nightmares are about losing you,” Charles whispered against the pad of Pierre’s thumb.

Pierre closed his eyes.

“I dream about Max finding out about Belgium, about Sebastian finding out about Abu Dhabi. And sometimes I wake up from those nightmares in my bed and Carlos says I was saying things in my sleep, and then he kills me. It’s like they’ve all been waiting for a reason to turn on me and nothing else matters except one—”

He stopped himself, taking a breath.

“One mistake?” Pierre tried.

Charles met his eye, his heart wringing itself in his chest. “Oui.”

Pierre’s lips brushed his, but Charles captured his mouth before he could pull back. Pierre made a noise of surprise before responding in kind, fingers nesting in his hair.

Charles tugged Pierre’s polo from where it had been tucked in to his waistband and ran his hands over warm skin, planes of muscle he still needed to learn in detail. Pierre’s breath stuttered against his parted lips and Charles found himself wanting only to give Pierre complete pleasure, to leave him boneless and sated and fully happy like he deserved to be.

I love you, I love you.

Charles’s eyes flicked open, the thought so loud in his head he swore he’d spoken it.

Pierre must have felt his hesitation, because his eyes opened a moment later and their kiss broke with a soft ending.

Charles drowned himself in blue and gold. His fingers curled at Pierre’s chest, outside of his shirt now, thin fabric balling against his palms.

It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t say words everyone else could. Pierre deserved to hear them, even if Charles wasn’t sure they could ever be completely true. Not just for Pierre, but for anyone. The only person he’d ever really been sure about saying them to had been Max, and that was only because he’d been ignorant and stupid. Curse of knowledge.

Now he couldn’t say the words because he knew how fast things changed, how quickly his own heart could turn on him if he turned his gaze for only an instant.

Pierre’s hands folded over his, and Charles almost fought the hold, his whole body rigid with the force it took to stuff his stupid heart back down his throat to where it belonged.

He wouldn’t even believe you. No one would. Two weeks ago you said you didn’t—how can anyone ever trust you?

Sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves, throwing a halo of light around Pierre that turned him into the wonderful and perfect thing he was.

You would just be saying something you think you feel. Have you ever thought about how much it will hurt him when you take it back in a week?

Charles’s heart ached as he wrapped his arms around Pierre, and Pierre did the same. Even Pierre’s strength couldn’t beat back all of the self-disgust Charles willed upon himself for his cowardice.

Max was right to leave you. He saw everything you really are.

He buried his nose into Pierre’s neck, trying to breathe the thoughts away.

When Max finds out about this, he’ll tell Pierre and you’ll be glad you kept your mouth shut.

Pierre kissed his cheek before tucking his chin over his shoulder.

“Ne t’en fais pas,” Pierre soothed, his voice rumbling through both of their chests. “I love you too. No matter how many mistakes you think you make.”

“But I didn’t say—"

“You didn’t have to.”

This, said a kinder, softer voice in his head. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Charles pulled back, and when he claimed Pierre’s lips with his, he focused solely on making him happy, on giving him what he deserved.

The sun drenched them in its warmth, and the insects sang in the forest around them, only interrupted when Pierre made noises he couldn’t hold back. Charles coaxed plenty of them from his lips, using only his invaluable hands. Hands that still had scars on the knuckles from wounds only Pierre had cared to mend.

 

 

Chapter Text

George no longer enjoyed the antics of practice day in Austria. Constant traffic and nothing but grey sky overhead made it almost impossible to differentiate between tarmac and sky out of his helmet visor.

And he was tired of being cold. If he had to be cold, he wanted to be cold at home.

Silverstone was two weeks away, but preparations would begin the second he and Nick stepped off of their jet. He needed to make an impression in front of his people, to make it known that he was the best fit to be a Mercedes prince.

“Isn’t it supposed to be summer?” Nic asked, huddling against the corner of the garage.

“I heard if it doesn’t rain on Sunday, we’re going to roast,” George said absently.

“Awesome,” Nic replied sarcastically. “Fat lot of good that does me right now.”

George kept scanning the paddock for Mick, who had neglected to respond to two letters so far. George tried not to take it as an insult, considering he’d been guilty of the same thing not long ago.

Finally, he caught sight of a white Haas undershirt and a mop of blond hair as Mick danced his way through the paddock, blue racing boots tapping on asphalt as he sidestepped reporters and other princes.

“Mick!” George called, but Mick didn’t stop.

“He totally heard that,” Nic said with a snort. “Iced out by a Haas, that’s a new low.”

“Shut up,” George muttered. He patted Nic’s shoulder. “I’m not letting him get away this time. Hold down the fort.”

“Already did that while you were on a vacation with your lover, darling,” Nic drawled in reply.

George shot him a look over his shoulder as he hurried out into the paddock and took off after Mick.

If Mick wanted to avoid him, he needed to try harder than that.

“George!” Lando called over the crowd.

“Not now, mate!” George replied, hopping up to catch sight of Mick as he turned toward the Alfa Romeo garage.

“This is a now thing, dumbass!” Lando hissed, grabbing him by the arm.

Mick stopped to talk to Kimi Raikkonen, and actually looked over his shoulder once to check for him.

George glowered at him. Okay, now he had to get to Mick.

“Pierre and Charles,” Lando whispered. “We did the golf thing and they were all over each other.”

George sighed. He could not deal with this right now.  He’d warned Pierre against this, not once, but twice. Why did nobody listen?

“Great,” he growled. “I’ll talk to Pierre if you handle Charles.”

“What? No, you’re not understanding—”

“Then catch me up later,” George said, stepping forward. “Sorry mate, I have to handle this.”

He watched as Mick ducked into the Alfa Romeo garage, trying to escape. George swore under his breath and broke into the crowd. Lando tried to chase after him at first, but a Ziggo reporter effectively cut him off with a well-timed question about Daniel’s lack of appearances in Spielberg.

Just when George moved to enter the Alfa Romeo garage, Kimi stepped in front of him, looking bored. As always.

“Did Mick go in there?” George asked, trying to peek over his shoulder.

“Who are you?” Kimi asked sarcastically.

“Ha ha. Real funny, mate. Did he go in there or not? I need to talk to him.”

Kimi’s expression didn’t change behind his sunglasses, but he stepped aside.

“Thank you,” George said, rushing in.

The Alfa Romeo garage was deserted. Antonio’s car sat idle, gleaming white and dark red in the middle of the floor, its driver also missing. Lunch then. Or a full team debriefing.

George headed for the door out into the hospitality lane, hoping like hell Mick moved at the same speed as his car on track. Cutting through Alfa Romeo wasn’t a terrible idea—George wouldn’t have caught him if he’d decided to stake him out at Haas, which had been his original plan.

George moved to open the door, but the handle didn’t budge. Locked.

He furrowed his brow. Who the hell locked the garage when post-practice media was still in full swing?

“How do you feel?”

He froze at the sound of Mick’s voice, close.

George glanced around, but didn’t see anyone.

“Mi—”

“I keep shaking,” another voice replied, and George‘s words died in his throat.

The voice was muffled by a balaclava, but the cadence of it sounded familiar. He knew that voice.

“Yeah?” Mick said with a laugh. “That’s how I felt the first time.”

“This felt like my first time,” the other voice said, chuckling. “Portugal was terrifying outside of the car, so driving felt like the safest place to be.”

A cheer erupted in the grandstands outside, giving George cover as he snuck back to the monitor wall in the middle of the garage, closer to the voices.

“Not seeing you was the worst possible way I could have imagined it going,” the other voice said.  “Let me get this thing off. Can you help me?”

George really fucking hated being a spy, but it was finally paying off. Whatever was going on here had the potential to finally give him leverage on Mick.

Real leverage, not threats from Kimi about a necklace.

“I wasn’t going to let that happen again,” Mick said.

George peeked through a wall of warming tires and finally caught sight of Mick still in his racing gear, standing at one of the mechanic carts—

Between Callum Ilott’s legs.

Holy fucking shit.

Callum was a reserve driver for Alfa Romeo. He’d driven in practice today. George actually fucking knew that and hadn’t put it together. Read the room, dumbass.

Callum looked the same as he had in Monaco. Reddish hair a bit too long, stupidly pale skin, and delicate features that looked unaccustomed to the needed muscle for racing.  

Callum had his hands crossed at the wrists at the nape of Mick’s neck, his hair damp with sweat where it mingled with Mick’s blond, their foreheads rested together.

Fuck.

He remembered the way Mick hand handed off that shot in Monaco at the champion’s party, how Callum didn’t even have to look at him to take it, a silent language between them that George should have immediately known was too intimate to be friendly.  It had caught his attention enough to notice it at the time, but he’d never heard any rumors about them. George hadn’t even seen them hang out together at the yacht party outside of the group of Nic’s friends they ended up talking to.  

“God, I miss you,” Callum whispered, his voice sticky. “Every day I don’t see you, it kills me.”

“Callum,” Mick tutted affectionately, smiling that beautiful princely smile that probably made angels faint. “You’ll be with me soon, I know you will. You’re impressing everyone, and today went so great.”

One of Callum’s hands moved to Mick’s jaw, tilting his head up for a kiss that made George’s insides twist in empathy. He knew what it felt like to live in secret. To love in secret.

“You’re just such a perfect person,” Callum laughed when he broke the kiss, but George heard the ragged emotion in his voice. “You’re so optimistic all the time. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

George closed his eyes as he slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He wouldn’t have leverage without proof.

“How can I not be, when you’re so amazing?” Mick replied with a little kiss. “I love you so much. Some days I wake up and I’m just like, oh man, you know? You make me the happiest person in the whole world.”

God would secure him a spot in the deepest level of hell for this, he knew. George lined up his phone camera into the space between the tires and winced as he pressed the recording button.

For Charles, he reminded himself. And only if I have to.

Callum had tears in his eyes as he laughed, thumbing at Mick’s cheek.

“See? Perfect.”

They kissed again, long and slow and completely incriminating.

George felt sick as he ended the recording and put his phone away. He didn’t need anything more than that.

“Can I see you tonight?” Callum asked once the kiss ended. “Is it safe?”

“No,” Mick said softly, and the sadness in his voice made George want to drop to his knees in anguish. “The championship fight has every empire on edge, way more than usual. We’ll have to wait a little longer. Can you do that?”

“If I have to,” Callum said, kissing Mick’s forehead. “Whatever keeps you safe.”

“We don’t have much time,” Mick said. “George has been looking for me all afternoon. I need to talk to him about a few things.”

George’s heart beat in his throat at mention of his name.

“Is he going to Mercedes next year?” Callum asked.

“Looks that way,” Mick said. “He’s going to have way too much power, Callum. He’s not ready for what’s coming.”

George bristled. Not ready? He’d already tasted the wrath of Red Bull. He already knew Max’s cruelty firsthand, so crushing him in the championship next year would be easy. He wouldn’t have to think about Max’s fucking feelings. And as long as Max stayed stuffed down as many places as George could stomp him, he didn’t give a fuck who won and who lost.

“Are you?” Callum asked softly, caressing Mick’s cheek.

“There’s so much I wish I could tell you,” Mick whispered, but George still heard it plain as day.

“Don’t,” Callum soothed. “I don’t need to know everything. I just need to know you’re okay. That you’re going to be okay, and that you’re safe.”

Mick wrapped his arms around Callum a little tighter. “Sebastian will always make sure I’m safe.”

Callum smiled, watery-eyed. “I worry, you know that. Not being able to see you, knowing you’re around him all the time.”

Mick smiled. “Please don’t mention him.”

Callum laughed. “Okay, I won’t. Kiss me again so I forget I even asked.”

Mick caught his mouth in a kiss that could only be described as overjoyed.

“Like that?” Mick asked.

Callum grinned wide, but didn’t say anything. George watched, confused, until Callum started quivering.

“You should go,” Callum whispered, stroking Mick’s hair.

Mick didn’t protest like every other prince would have. He didn’t insist he could stay, argue that he was a Schumacher, that he could do anything. He didn’t ask for five more minutes.

No, he was Mick Schumacher, and he was perfect and wise beyond his years.

Even if it was too late this time, and five more minutes would have kept him in ignorance that much longer.

Mick did the gallant and royal thing as he pulled Callum’s hand from his face and kissed the back of it.  

“I love you,” Mick said. “Remember I always want you to be the happiest you can be, okay? Whatever that means, I don’t mind.”

“I’m crazy for you,” Callum said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

George looked away, tears welling in his own eyes.

He would give the world for the chance they had. For the risk they had the ability to take.

“I’ll see you soon,” Mick said, pecking his lips. “You did so great today. I’m going to look up every article they write about you and read them all.”

“Hey.”

George looked back again as Callum grabbed Mick’s hand where Mick had walked a few steps away.

“Good luck this weekend,” Callum said. “I watch your onboards every race.”

Mick smiled and it was so dazzling even George felt dizzy in the presence of it. He didn’t see how Callum could remain conscious in such close proximity.

“Hearing that just made me the happiest guy around,” Mick said. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

George stepped away from the tire wall, folding his arms.

A coward would run out. A coward would spy and take a video and slip away into the paddock like a snake.

George refused to be a snake. He was a prince, and if there had to be a war, he wanted to give his opponent the respect he deserved. He stared at the entrance to the garage, where sunlight glinted in the gleaming white, smudging with shadows as people walked by in the paddock outside.

“George?”

George closed his eyes at the sound of his name.

When had he become this?

“Mick,” he greeted, turning to face him.

That princely smile had vanished. Mick’s face was bloodless, his blue eyes wide with the same terror George had seen in the medical suite.

“What are you doing here?” Mick asked.

“I came to find you for our meeting and you ran away from me. So I followed you.”

Mick’s brow twitched. “You just walked into another team’s garage?”

“Oh no,” George said gesturing toward the door, “I asked permission. Kimi didn’t say a word.”

Mick smiled, but George saw that this one was false.

“You sure Sebastian will always protect you?” George asked, cocking his head.

Cruelty came too easily to him. All he had to do was lift the casing over his heart, the pandora’s box of rage and malice where there used to be only love and magic.

“I don’t know what you saw—”

“I saw everything,” George said, firm.  

Callum appeared behind Mick, his face equally pale.

George grit his teeth, trying to remain calm and in control as Callum stood there, frozen in place.

“Callum, stay back and stay quiet,” Mick warned. “He doesn’t have any—”

“I have proof,” George said, swallowing hard. Tears welled in his damn eyes anyway. “I had to make sure.”

Mick let out a quiet noise that made George want to drive a stake through his own heart.

“I forced him,” Callum said, his voice shaking. “I assaulted him back here when I caught him—”

“Callum,” Mick hissed. “Don’t.”

Callum was no prince.  He still had so much to learn.

George nodded toward the locked door at the rear of the garage. “Leave us alone, Callum. If anyone catches the three of us here, it won’t turn out very well for you.”

Callum didn’t move.

“He’s right,” Mick said, his voice stronger. “Go.”

“Mick, I’m not going to stand here and let this happen when it’s my fault,” Callum protested. “I was the one who said I had to see you. I made you come here, I—”

“I love you so much,” Mick whispered, still staring down George with tears wetting his eyes. “I’ll fix this, Callum. But you have to leave before it gets to a place where I can’t help. Please go.”

Callum shut his mouth, before he glared at George with enough loathing  to melt the tires he’d been hiding behind. Then he pulled a key from his pocket and opened the back door, glancing back at Mick on final time before rushing out.

Mick flinched when the door slammed behind him.

“I’m only doing this because I have to,” George said when the silence settled around them.

Mick let out a snort, and the movement caused the tears to  finally roll down his cheeks.

George’s vision began to swim with his own tears. “You’re going after Charles. You heard what happened in the medical suite. I can’t let you have that on him. I’m not losing another friend.”

“It’s not my life you’d be destroying,” Mick croaked. “I think we both know the playing field, yes? Ferrari wouldn’t exile me. I’m untouchable.”

George’s nostrils flared, glancing at the closed door. “He’s not.”

Mick’s throat went taut.

You’re a monster.

George broke eye contact, fighting the urge to vomit.

“I thought we were friends,”  Mick said.  

“Princes don’t have friends,” George said, but it sounded like someone else’s voice. “I thought we were friends too, until I found out that you want to strip Charles of his crown. And now I don’t have to guess why you couldn’t be happy with sharing the throne with him.”

“That’s not—”

“You forced my hand,” George snapped, his own tears spilling out. “I don’t want to do this. You’ve saved me already this season. I wish I could say I’ll delete this video, that we’ll be even, but I can’t. I can’t.”

He spat the words, horrified at himself but unable to stop.

“I have no idea what kind of dirt you have,” George continued. “This video is my only card to play to stop you from hurting my friends, so I have to keep it.”

Mick took a step closer, and George pulled out his phone, holding it away.

“I already have a text drafted to Nic,” he warned. “Don’t get any ideas. Or I’ll send it, and then I can’t control who knows.”

A bluff, but he couldn’t risk Mick deleting the only evidence he had.

“I’ll end you,” Mick snarled, but George could see he didn’t mean it. Sadness won out over anger in his eyes.

“I still want to be friends,” George said. “I know how that sounds, but I mean it. I look up to you so much. I admire you so much. But I won’t watch you take Charles’s whole life away. He’s too far gone, Mick. He can’t live without this.”

Mick shook his head. “I don’t want to take anything away from him. I already told you I want to earn it.”

George laughed, a cold sound. “You’re the Schumacher legacy. Ferrari is going to make sure you never earn anything here.”

Mick’s eyes burned. “That’s not true.”

“And Callum? I like him, but he’s not royalty,” George said. “I think you know that. Unless he wins the lottery and becomes a pay prince, he won’t be with you unless you make him part of your deal.”

He hated his own intelligence sometimes. Mick looked away, more tears following the trails already staining his cheeks.

“He’s trying as hard as he can,” Mick said quietly. “He just doesn’t have a royal lineage. They said that without a bloodline, he’s not good enough. That he doesn’t have the guts or guidance.”

George grew up with Callum coming up behind them as the next big name in karting. Callum’s parents were good friends with his own,  and George remembered the way the media treated Callum like the next Max, shoving him into single seaters, a wide-eyed kid with no royal connection to back him. No royal father to teach him.  

No, Callum didn’t have the guts or guidance. Callum had a family who gave him hugs when he lost out on a podium, while Max came back from a second place finish with dead eyes and light bruising.

“They won’t give him a chance without blood or money,” Mick said. “I won’t live without him. I’m going to make sure he’s here, no matter what I have to do.”

George swallowed hard.

“I won’t stand in the way of that,” he said. “Trust me, I know how hard it can be in that situation. Just don’t hurt Charles in the process.”

Mick curled his hands to fists. “You know I can’t promise that. I can try, but none of us know how the cards fall.”

“A risk we’ll have to take, then.”

George pocketed his phone and took a step forward, extending his hand.  

“What are you doing?” Mick asked, looking down at it.

George cleared his throat. “I promise not to do anything with this video unless you give me no choice. And if it comes to that, I’ll give you a warning so you can…do what you need to.”

Mick furrowed his brow.

George knew the question he wasn’t asking.

“There’s nothing you can do to me,” George said quietly. “My Callum got taken away from me by someone I thought was my friend. And I think if he would have warned me, we’d still be friends. Turns out he didn’t care about either of us.”

He held his hand a little higher.

“I do care about you. And Callum.”

Mick licked his lips, choking down his emotion.

This is what you’ve become. Saying you’re not like Max doesn’t make it true.

Mick took his hand and shook it once.

They met eyes, and George saw hatred reflected back at him. He wasn’t sure if it was Mick’s or his own.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Mick said as he pulled his hand away. “What you just started.”

George set his jaw. “Nothing, I hope.”

“If you touch him, George, I swear,” Mick choked out. “If anyone finds out—”

“This is between you and I until it can’t be,” George assured him. “And I hope it doesn’t come to that. I won’t even put up a fight if you come after me. You can beat me to a pulp if you want. I know it’s what I deserve.”

Mick’s lip curled to a snarl, and it took everything he had not to step back at the sight of that kind of darkness in Mick’s eyes.

“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” Mick hissed. “I’ve been trying to tell you and you won’t listen. You’re fighting the wrong person.”

George squared up, unafraid. “Okay, then tell me you aren’t planning to go after Charles’s crown.”

Mick shoved him backward, but not hard enough to topple him. George stumbled, but kept his footing as Mick stormed away, following Callum out into the hospitality lane.

George doubled over the second the door shut, bracing his hands on his knees as he gulped down breaths and tried not to cry.

He couldn’t stay here.  

George wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his undershirt and hurried out into the paddock.  

Kimi still stood by the door, sipping a coffee.

George rammed into him, sending coffee spraying all over the asphalt.

“What the fuck!”

“You two-faced son of a bitch!” George snapped, shoving him again.

Kimi caught his arms before George even realized his shove never connected.

“Watch your mouth,” Kimi hissed. His eyes were colorless and terrifying up close, but George didn’t give a fuck.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” George spat, clawing for purchase on Kimi’s polo.

“Ehi, cosa cazzo?” Antonio said, hooking an arm around him and yanking him backward with impressive force.

“Don’t touch him, either of you,” Lewis said, his voice cutting through the chaotic roar that had started in George’s ears as people and lights and cameras started surrounding them.

Kimi put his hands up in surrender and backed off with a scowl, and Antonio released him immediately, dropping George to the ground.

He tipped forward, but Lewis caught him, righted him, and hauled him away in one smooth move.

George hiccupped as he followed, trying to regain himself.

“Your Royal Highness,” an FIA official began. “I have to—"

“Get out of my way, man,” Lewis growled. “Or find me a place to talk to George. Those are your options, understand?”

“Yes—this way.”

George blinked, looking up from the asphalt as they started moving again.

Of course Lewis could order the FIA around.

“Come here,” Lewis said, turning back to face him, eyes full of worry. He collected George at his side, holding him close. “Stay with me and we’ll get this sorted out.”

George shook his head but didn’t stop walking. “No, I’m fine. I don’t need all of this.”

“You don’t look fine.” Lewis nodded toward the FIA official. “In there?”

George followed his gaze to an unmarked garage. FIA seemed to appear out of nowhere, fanning out in front of them to make the way clear of reporters.

Lewis pointed toward a mass of cameras. “I want that footage deleted. All of this goes away, do you understand?”

The FIA official swallowed hard. “I’ll have to discuss with—”

“We’re having the discussion,” Lewis cut. “You can bring Masi over if you want confirmation. Get them out of here.”

George bit the inside of his cheek. Toto would kill him for this. Any chance of a Mercedes crown was out the window now, and Mick wouldn’t need to do anything to end him.

But he couldn’t just walk by Kimi after knowing Mick had trusted him. He knew how it felt to have trust betrayed like that. Mick wouldn’t make the same mistake twice, but he didn’t have to. It was already too late.

Lewis guided him into the dull light of an empty garage. When the door shut behind them, Lewis pulled him in close, wrapping his arms around him.

“Are you okay?” Lewis asked into his ear. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

George collapsed into him, trying to find the will to speak.

“Kimi’s a horrible person,” he finally managed. “He’s fucking horrible.”

Lewis pulled back, cupping George’s face in his hands. “Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you?”

George shook his head. “He hurt one of my friends.”

Kimi knew that Mick and Callum had been inside. With the way Mick reacted, Kimi had probably promised to cover for them, only to purposely allow George inside to see them. To find out about Callum.

“If you tell me, I can fix it,” Lewis soothed.

George burrowed against Lewis’s chest.  “I can’t tell you, I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t.”

Lewis kissed his forehead. “Okay. That’s okay. How can I help? What can I do?”

George looked at him, finding only love and worry in Lewis’s eyes. He got to have this, while Alex had nothing.  While Mick hid someone he loved in secret, someone who would never have a crown unless everything went perfectly.

He took a step back. He didn’t deserve Lewis’s affection. Not after he’d just ruined Mick’s perfectly kept secret. He couldn’t shake Callum’s face from his mind. It meshed with the blurry images of Alex he still had left, creating an image of him that filled him with panic, as though he’d caught himself somehow.

“I’m so sorry,” George choked out. “I can’t do this right now. I—I need to—”

Lewis took his hand and squeezed. “George, talk to me. I can’t stand seeing you upset like this.”

He looked to the closed door. “I love you, but I need some space. My heads all over the place and I—I can’t—”

He couldn’t talk, apparently.

“Did Kimi do something to Alex?” Lewis asked.

George gently pulled his hand away. “No. Not intentionally. I saw Alex though, when I came back from our trip.”

“Oh my god,” Lewis breathed. “George, I had no idea.”

It was getting hard for George to see. “I didn’t tell you. I’ve been trying to think everything through. I know I need to get over him. It’s just taking time. And seeing him made it real for a second.”

He took a shaky breath.

“It was harder than I thought, and I only saw a glimpse of him.”

Lewis stared at him, eyes soft. George could see that he wanted to approach, but he didn’t.

“I have to go,” George managed to get out. “I’m sorry.”

“Before you do, please promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” Lewis asked. “Can you promise me that?”

“No,” George said, and he threw open the door.

It took all of twenty seconds before George saw Pierre walking down the paddock. His eyes were up, taking in the sky, slowing down and looking at the world like only someone in love could do. 

Hate twisted up in George’s throat.

“Pierre,” George called, his voice rough and his eyes heavy.

Pierre smiled a little before looking at him. Then his smile fell.

“George? Are you okay?”

They both started toward each other, Pierre with concern, George with something else.

The flat of George’s palm connected with Pierre’s sternum as he fisted Pierre’s shirt at the collar.

“I told you,” George snarled, eyes wet. He couldn’t find any feeling in himself except ugly hurt. “I fucking told you not to get sucked in.”

Pierre’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t retaliate.

George twisted his fist, wringing the fabric like he could actually kill it.

“He’s not okay, Pierre.”

“I know that,” Pierre said calmly, folding a gentle hand over his wrist.

Someday soon a version of himself would stumble on Charles and Pierre in a team garage, or at a hotel, or somewhere else they weren’t supposed to be. Charles would lose, and Mick would have one more foothold to taking his crown away.

“He’s sick, Pierre,” George whispered, his voice wet. “He’s not well, and you’re taking advantage of it.”

“Hey, what the fuck?” Pierre snapped, fingers curling tight around his wrist. “I’m not taking advantage of anyone, George.”

The acid began to fill Pierre’s eyes. George relished in it.

“Yes you are. This is all for you, whether you want to acknowledge that or not. You’re the only one who gains from this. If you get caught, he loses. He could lose everything because of you.”

Pierre wrenched his wrist, but George didn’t yield as he leaned in closer.

“George, get off of me or I’m going to bash your fucking head in,” Pierre growled, his voice low and his teeth glinting.

“Bite me,” George whispered, a smirk on his lips.

Pierre lunged forward, effectively shoving George back with his chest, but George didn’t relent.

“He’s sick in the head, Pierre,” George said. “You’re getting in that sick head, that’s all. In a month it’ll be someone new and you’ll have nothing. Or maybe you’ll last longer than that because you dump everything into him and you always have, even though he gives you nothing back.”

Pierre snarled, but no words left his mouth. He knew. He knew as well as George did.

Charles needed to stay with Carlos, he needed to stay with his crown and not cross into enemy lines, for his own safety. If Pierre truly loved him, he would fucking listen.

“You want to be his knight in shining armor? Fine. But he’s the fucking dragon, Pierre. Max, Sebastian, Carlos—you’re another fucking name on his list. I know he doesn’t mean to, you know he doesn’t mean to, but that’s what sick people do.”

“He isn’t sick, he’s just hurt,” Pierre said, shoving him again.

George’s eyes went dead 

“Does Max know about you two?” he asked, cocking his head.

Pierre’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t reply.

“Lando knows, so Max is going to find out,” George said. “And when he does, you’re going to fucking learn, I promise you.”

Pierre rolled his eyes, but George caught fear in them. “Max doesn’t give a shit, mate.”

George shrugged, finally releasing Pierre’s shirt. “Maybe not, but Charles will believe whatever he says, because he always does. That’s why you were supposed to protect him, not let your feelings get in the fucking way.”

Pierre looked like he might hit him, but balled his fists at his side instead.

“Fuck you, George. Honestly, fuck you. I want him to be happy. I lo—”

“Don’t fucking say it,” George hissed. “You have no idea how many people are watching. If you think you can go undetected, fine, but I’m telling you right now it’s already too late.”

Pierre swallowed hard. “I’m not losing him. I don’t care what I have to sacrifice.”

Tears spilled from George’s eyes that he hadn’t realized had welled up.

“Yeah, that’s what I said too," he said with a bitter laugh. "Too bad it never works out that way. He’ll end up gone and it’ll be your fault.”

He reached out, this time to pat Pierre’s shoulder. Then he leaned in until his lips were at Pierre's ear, his voice low and dangerous. “I hope you’re ready, because you carry that guilt the rest of your life, and it never stops growing.”

Chapter Text

The second Charles stopped his car, he started wrestling with his HANS device to get the hell out of it. July sun beat down on the car, and his whole body dripped with sweat as he emerged, but none of that matched the heat in Charles’s eyes as he stalked down the grid past Daniel, who sat with his head in his hands, taking the blow of Lando’s third place finish.

“Perez!” Charles barked, yanking off his helmet as he spotted Checo jogging up toward the front of the grid, presumably toward Max.

“Char!” Pierre called from behind him, muffled by his helmet.

Charles ached to turn to him, but he couldn’t let Checo slip away. He shot a glare at Carlos, then looked pointedly at Perez.

Carlos proved to be as smart as Charles thought him to be. He stepped from his spot and caught Checo by the shoulder, giving it a firm pat. Checo smiled at him, but that smile disappeared when Charles caught up.

“Want to tell me what the fuck you were doing back there?” Charles snapped. “You ran me off twice!”

“You ran me off,” Checo replied, eyes narrowed.

“I defended my position, I didn’t run up on you and nearly get in a collision!”

He’d nearly lost his front wing twice, and could have easily hit debris and ruined his entire race. All because Perez fucked up. Twice.

“We didn’t get in a collision though,” Perez said mock-cheerfully. “Good racing. Too bad you lost.”

“Tranquillo,” Carlos warned, stepping closer.

“It wasn’t good racing when I was going off track to avoid you,” Charles snapped.

Checo finally turned to him, arms crossed, his helmet dangling from one hand.

“It was within the rules.”

Charles snorted. “Oh? And how many rule-following penalties did you get this race, Checo?”

“Don’t talk like you didn’t get any,” Perez said, eyes flinty. Charles wanted to punch him in the face, but kept his hands at his sides.  

“We all did,” Carlos said. “Everyone except Mick and Max.”

Checo’s smile turned dangerous. “Of course. Not them.”

“Afternoon, Checo,” Pierre greeted, swooping in from Charles’s left. He hooked an arm over Charles’s shoulders, thumb brushing over the seam of his sleeve. “Totally forgot to say fuck you, so fuck you for cutting me off.”

Checo grinned. “My pleasure, Gasly.”

Charles stood still, not leaning away but not leaning in. Cameras were probably all over them already.

Carlos seemed to sense the same thing and stepped closer, taking Charles’s hand, still gloved.

“Seats getting a little hot, mm?” Pierre jeered. “Unfortunate that Horner hasn’t extended your appointment. Princes do all kinds of things when they’re desperate.”

Charles glanced at him. Pierre’s eyes were wild, electric blues and golds swirling in his irises. They reminded Charles of a poisonous animal, vibrantly warning of lethal venom to come.

Perez’s eyes darkened. “They do, yes.”

A pit formed in Charles’s stomach as the two men glared at each other, watching an unspoken conversation unfold between them.

“Charles, time to go,” Carlos said. He pressed his thumb hard into the side of Charles’s, and Charles squeezed back once to indicate he understood.

“Tell Max congratulations,” Charles said diplomatically.

Checo broke his gaze from Pierre and smiled falsely. “I will.”

Pierre slid his arm from Charles’s shoulders and looked down the paddock.

“Catch you later,” he said with a pat to Charles’s back before he headed down the grid toward Yuki. His gaze didn’t linger, and neither did his touch.

Charles spotted George one place higher on the grid, still in his helmet, sitting on the wheel of his car with his head in his hands. Latifi sat crouched in front of him, also still in his helmet, talking to him.

“Come on,” Carlos said, giving his hand a tug.

Charles didn’t move right away. He watched Pierre ruffle Yuki’s hair before they executed a choreographed handshake right in front of the Williams princes.

Pierre didn’t look at George once.

 

 


 

 

“We did well today, all things considered,” Carlos said as they rode the elevator in silence.

You did well today,” Charles muttered.

He could have had that apex had Checo not forced him off, and that would have put him ahead of Carlos by the end of the race, easily. He had more speed in every sector fighting from the back of the pack. Carlos had done a good job in securing more points, but Charles could have gotten more, he was sure of it.

And overanalyzing the race made it easier to avoid thinking about Pierre, how they wouldn’t see each other for two weeks unless they found a way to devise a plan to see each other beforehand.

“L’ho visto a malapena,” Carlos said, leaning his head back against the wall as the elevator slowed. “He podiumed and I only said congratulations before they took him away.”

Charles leaned against him. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but maybe not seeing them is a good thing. We can put out focus on Silverstone. We have to do better than this, Carlos.”

He felt like a hypocrite, because he wanted to see Pierre more than anything. But having Carlos at his side wasn’t a punishment, and this weekend had allowed them to smooth over a few wrinkles in their relationship.

“Our best nights were always after a podium,” Carlos murmured. “Lando can be so hard on himself, but when he has a trophy, he sees that he is good enough. He’s himself like that—mierda, I miss it.”

Charles wanted to joke that they should want their own podiums first, but kept his mouth shut. He remembered watching Sebastian podium in Turkey the year before, the bittersweet but mostly bitter taste of loss in his mouth taking fourth right behind him.

Charles never liked seeing anyone beat him.

Maybe Carlos was a better person than he was.

“You two really supported each other,” Charles said as the elevator dinged and they stepped out into the hall.

He took Carlos’s hand on reflex as they swiped into their room, though there were no prying eyes.

“Of course,” Carlos said. “I love him. Seeing him happy always makes me happy. Losing a race to him is never pleasant, but that’s my own lack of skill. If he beats me, it is because he’s the better driver that day. And seeing the confidence it puts in him makes it easier to lose.”

Charles smiled, but it was weak. He still had a rock in his stomach over Carlos beating him today, and while he knew it was good for the team, it was just another strike in his ledger that Binotto would be tracking.

Carlos was definitely a better person.

“Dovremmo scrivergli?” Charles asked as he kicked off his sneakers in the entryway. “I think they—”

He stopped himself as he saw a navy blue envelope sitting on the kitchen island.

Carlos let out a halfhearted snort. “He is quite the romantic, no?”

Charles smiled, squeezing Carlos’s hand. “You can be romantic too.”

He meant it in the sense that Carlos could write Lando a letter too, but Carlos’s eyes dimmed with affection.

Charles let him have the compliment the way he interpreted it, because it was true. Carlos planned the rally lap, the quiet night in his family home, the perfectly timed kiss on the belltower in Florence. He knew just what to say, where to put his hands, just how long to glance at his lips to silently ask for a kiss.

Charles pulled his hand free and grabbed the envelope.

“Write Lando,” Charles instructed.  “Vorrà sentirti più di chiunque altro.”

He waited for Carlos to slip into the bedroom to grab his official parchment before Charles settled down on the couch to read.

 

Char,

One of those days. I hoped for more time with you, like I always do. Keep an eye on Perez – I try to look out for you as best I can on the Red Bull side of things, but I don’t get any of the good info anymore.  

I wanted to talk to you about the next two weeks, but Yuki was having a tough day. Didn’t want to leave him alone with Marko stalking around. I thought I could catch you on the way off track, but I guess you were already gone.  

God, tu me manques déjà. Je suis désolé.. I’d kiss it better if I could.

I’m also sorry for what I’m about to say, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to see each other in Italy between now and Silverstone. Max is on edge about Lewis, and Mercedes has made it clear they aren’t playing nice. I don’t want to put you at risk if they decide to dig for dirt.

Two weeks sounds like an eternity, but I’ll make it up to you, calarmardo. I’ll write you as many dirty letters as you want, but I bet they’ll make you laugh more than they’d turn you on. Writing about licking you doesn’t really do it for you on paper, I bet. But I still remember what it did to you when I hit that spot under your ear.

Bref.   Enjoy your time with Carlos. Remember you don’t have to feel guilty about that, pas avec moi.

Votre chou garçon

PS – Bruising is mostly healed. But next time I see you, I wouldn’t mind a few more. ;)

 

Carlos’s laugh brought Charles from his stupor as he read the letter over and over.

“Dirty?” he asked, eyes glinting with mischief.

Charles smiled with beet red cheeks. “A malapena.”

But his skin turned to gooseflesh thinking about the way Pierre’s breath ghosted hot over his skin, impossibly close, the wet heat of his tongue grazing the curve of his jaw just beneath his ear.

He shivered, folding up the envelope.

“Are you writing a dirty one?” Charles asked as he tossed the letter onto the coffee table and laid back on the couch.

Carlos let out a hum. “Not too dirty. He makes fun of me if I do that. Ma so che gli piace.”

Charles smiled. “You know, I always thought he would be like Lewis. Not loving anyone publicly, and probably not loving anyone privately, either. He’s always been…qual é la parola in inglese. Inward?”

“Internally focused?” Carlos tried.

“Yeah,” Charles replied, drawing pictures in the pattern of the ceiling above. “But I always knew that was a front, though. A way to defend himself. If you weren’t so pushy, he never would have admitted to liking you.”

Carlos laughed as he continued to write. “I didn’t push. I nudged.”

Charles rolled his eyes, extending his arms over his head to rest them on the arm of the couch. “Yeah, I’ve experienced you nudging, mate. You’re pushy.”

“Pushy implies it’s unwanted,” Carlos said distractedly. “I’m very good at reading signs.”

Charles slid his gaze over to him and found Carlos watching him rather intently.

“Cosa?” he asked.

“Your shirt is riding up,” Carlos said, bland, then continued writing.

Charles’s heart jumpstarted, but he kept his expression schooled. He watched as Carlos continued to write, his hair falling in a curtain so his eyes were shielded from view.

“Does that bother you?” Charles asked slowly. “My shirt?”

Carlos stopped writing and looked up at him. “A little, yes.”

“A little?”

A smirk curled at Carlos’s lips. “Don’t flirt with me, Leclerc.”

Charles laughed, easy. “You started it.”

Carlos returned to writing and Charles noted the way he used two fingers to hold his pen instead of one. For a man intent on efficiency, Charles thought for sure he would have read the studies about how using one finger made for a more efficient stroke.

“I wasn’t trying to make you jealous on the golf trip,” Charles found himself saying. “I want to be with Pierre.”

“You’ve told me this,” Carlos said, still writing.

“You seemed upset though.”

“Ti ho detto perché.”

You’re forcing it.

Charles didn’t agree with that. He felt more in control of himself than ever between the antidepressants and his personal life. Especially right now, with the pills fresh in his blood, balancing the chemicals in his brain that fought so hard to hurt him.

He heard the scrape of Carlos’s pen on the paper, the familiar rhythm of his signature. Charles looked over at him again, and Carlos met his eye just before running his tongue along the seal of his envelope.

Charles kept his gaze cool and allowed it to linger on the ruddy pink of Carlos’s tongue, Pierre’s note still echoing in his head.

Want always unsettled him a little bit when it came to Carlos. Even though they were married, it still felt like a sin to desire him, even when he had Pierre’s blessing.

Maybe because he knew he didn’t have Lando’s, even if he said the words.

Carlos set the sealed envelope inside and stood up from the barstool he’d been sitting on. He shed his Ferrari quarter zip and tossed it on the armchair in the living room.

The jacket slid to the floor. Charles sucked in a breath as Carlos climbed onto the couch with him. He became acutely aware of how vulnerable he was, arms over his head, ribs stretched apart, legs haphazardly bent in a way that provided no protection if Carlos went for his throat.

“Pushy,” Charles teased, turning his face away. He shifted toward the edge of the couch, making space for Carlos’s considerably bulkier frame.

“Pushy would be kissing you,” Carlos tutted, reaching over him for the remote they had discarded on the coffee table the night before. Charles breathed in the scent of Carlos’s cologne and for a moment he wished this could be his life. Tucked into the couch with his husband, all of the hurt in him momentarily suspended.

“When did you know you loved Max?” Charles asked abruptly, eyes running over the curve of Carlos’s lips.

He watched the way Carlos’s lashes lifted as his eyes momentarily widened before they trained on him, too close for two men involved with other people.

“I was younger then,” Carlos replied quietly.

“That’s not an answer.”

Carlos turned on the TV, where the movie channel they’d been watching the night before came back to life on the screen, playing a film Charles didn’t recognize.

“Non ricordo esattamente,” Carlos added, settling back into the couch.

Charles adjusted to let Carlos put an arm under his head. Usually Carlos took a hot bath after a hard race, readying himself for a flight home and a lot of media to deal with over the coming week. Ferrari had a huge event planned, one Charles hadn’t yet read about on their social calendar other than that it was a royal engagement in Maranello.

But tonight Carlos seemed to want this instead, and Charles knew it was because he wanted Lando, but Charles wanted Pierre too, so it worked.

“Eravamo già sposati,” Carlos began. “He was so fiery. Everything had to be the best. He stuck his teeth in everything, like a wild animal. I hated it, at first. But I knew it was because of something else.”

“Max isn’t the same person on track,” Charles agreed. He could always tell Max’s mood from his eyes, the set of his brows. It was usually better to avoid him right after a race.

“He’s a very lonely person,” Carlos said, setting down the remote. “I acted the way I always do—pushy, as you say. But on track I was gentle with him, though I would never tell him that. I let him tear at me all he wanted, but I wasn’t affected. That ate him up. He hated me for that.”

Charles could imagine Carlos’s calm confidence in the face a furious, reckless Max. Back then Max lived for reactions, for crushing his opponents, destroying anything in pursuit of the win.

But Charles also knew the Max after the bravado, the one who held him by the back of his shirt and asked him to come over to discuss the race, to compare notes Charles didn’t want to give. The one who went rigid at the sound of his name when his father spoke it.

“Red Bull threw a party late in the season,” Carlos continued. “Our families were invited. I was so happy to introduce Max to my parents—so I guess I loved him then. But when he introduced me to his parents, his hand began to shake in mine. His father said a very cruel thing to him. He said, ‘You have nothing to celebrate. You haven’t won anything worth this.’ I couldn’t believe it.”

In the language of Jos Verstappen, words like that were a kindness.

Charles remembered when Max finally did tell his parents about them. Jos had looked Charles up and down and smiled pitifully at him, with disappointment in his eyes.

“I finally got angry,” Carlos said, his lips curling even at the memory. “I got so angry my own father had to pull me away—I kept yelling. I might have punched him—Max’s father—had I stayed there. I wanted to kill him for putting so much pressure on someone so young. Max worked so hard. His ability in government astounded me. He could be so angry on track, but when it came to people, he cared so much. I told his father, and his father said that public support did not win championships.”

Charles never would have dared. He kept Max’s secret that wasn’t really a secret. Max made him promise never to tell, and he’d kept that promise, even when panic ate him up inside every time Max lost, every time he took too long to text back.

He’d been a stupid kid, and Charles didn’t know how to face a father so unkind. The best he could do was ignore Max’s marks and nod when he made excuses for them.

“I wish I could have done that,” Charles murmured. “Avevo troppa paura.”

“You were young,” Carlos dismissed with a shake of his head. “He is a horrible man, and intimidating. And Max still loves him very much, even though he won’t speak to him now.”

Charles knew that too. Max would continue to try to impress his father until he couldn’t anymore. He loved him, even though that love was twisted and Max knew it. Max hadn’t been to Charles’s father’s funeral, but every kid counted their blessings when their friend’s father died, even if their own father was an absolute asshole.

“Anyway,” Carlos said, adjusting to stretch his neck out. “That night I understood why Max acts the way he does. I learned how to support him better, how to love him in a way he could understand. We cared very much for each other, and I loved him, but when he moved to Red Bull, I knew he wouldn’t try to continue it. I think he loved me too, but in the way that doesn’t stick.”

Max deserved a man like Carlos. Someone who could actually defend him from Jos, who had the confidence and sureness Charles would never have.

“You did more for him than I did,” Charles said.

“No,” Carlos said with a shake of his head. “Ora capisco. You were the first one to choose him. The first one he chose back. He must have loved you very much.”

Charles smiled placidly. “Until he didn’t.”

The TV continued to play upbeat music, a montage of someone walking down a street, smiling cheerfully. Carlos drew a breath.

“What about Lando?” Charles asked before Carlos could speak. “How did you fall in love with him?”

Talking any more about Max would only end with Carlos drawing a knife—either in real life or in his next dream.

Carlos laughed. “I thought he was cute. Spoiled and picky, like a child. But I quickly saw it wasn’t immaturity in that sense, as he’s very mature in many ways—he just holds on very tightly to things. He’s very afraid of change in his personal life. Even about things as simple as food.”

“We made the mistake of going for sushi once,” Charles said with a laugh.

“Ah yes, I did that too,” Carlos chuckled.

Charles nestled in a bit closer, wandering back through memories of simpler times. Lando wrinkled his nose at things, making facing and complaining about all kinds of food. Laughter echoed in his head—Pierre’s, Max’s, Alex’s, George’s.

“Lando was never with anyone before me, yes?” Carlos asked, looking down at him through his lashes.

Charles shook his head. “No. I mean, sometimes he would take a liking to someone, but I can’t think of anyone he even went on a date with. He really didn’t like that stuff.”

Carlos nodded thoughtfully. “He said the same. But as I started to love him I noticed things. He closes himself up very quickly sometimes.”

Lando tended to stay on the fringe of their group compared to the rest of them. He could be boisterous and a troublemaker, but he kept to himself otherwise. He never paired off with any one person, even as a friend. He preferred the family of their friend group, or himself for company.

“Are you sure you should be telling me this?” Charles asked. “I don’t want to cross any lines.”

Carlos sighed. “I guess not. He probably wouldn’t like it.”

Charles swallowed. “Unless—I mean, you’re not saying you think he was abused or something, right?”

Carlos stiffened. “No, no, no. I think he was in love before, that’s what I mean.”

Charles frowned. “I don’t know about that. I’m sure he had people he liked a lot, but he would have told us. We told each other everything. He would have said something.”

Carlos shrugged. “He was very, very afraid of me being kind to him. Flirting with him was like flirting at nothing, even though I saw the way his cheeks would turn pink. I like that very much—when his cheeks turn pink.”

Warmth spread in Charles’s chest at the soft look in Carlos’s eyes, the way he so obviously loved Lando with his—well, with most of his heart. Supposedly.

“But he always made a joke of it,” Carlos continued, brow furrowing. “He always tried to offer me an excuse as to why I might care about him. He had such creative excuses—I could tell he’d used them before, on himself. He could always convince himself I didn’t actually care.”

Carlos’s eyes went distant for a moment. Charles wished he could see the memories playing in his head, the way Carlos knew Lando, so different than the way they knew him.

 “He is still cruel to himself,” Carlos murmured, eyes still vacant. “I think he acts bratty and childish at times because he tells himself that makes him unlovable, so he can control that someone doesn’t like him, because he doesn’t like that part of himself either. That is my opinion, anyway.”

The heavy weight of realization sank into Charles as he laid there. A cold wetness enveloped his heart, and his mind recalibrated a thousand memories of Lando being an absolute dick to people, times where the rest of them had chastised him or rolled their eyes at his antics.

Maybe Lando had loved someone before Carlos.

“He’s in his head too much,” Charles agreed quietly. “But he’s changed, since you. The fact that he even bothered with Daniel at all is proof of that.”

Carlos’s smile twitched. “Sí. I told Lando that Daniel would be good for him, and I still think he is. Daniel lives so boldly. I always admired that about him.”

“Right, I always forget you were at Toro Rosso when Daniel was with Red Bull,” Charles murmured.

“Yes,” Carlos said with a yawn. “I know Daniel well. It still surprised me that Lando took to him so much at the beginning, but I’m not stupid. I think Lando wanted to make me jealous, to hurt me for pushing Daniel on him—or so he probably thought. But Daniel has experience, and he is very good at all aspects of royalty.”

The name Daniel Ricciardo still brought bitterness to Charles’s mouth, even if he didn’t want Max anymore.

Charles turned his head, nosing against the dip in Carlos’s collarbone. The warmth enveloping them was the perfect balance of comfort and security, and Carlos’s gentle breathing made him sleepy.

Carlos shifted against him until Charles’s could hear his heartbeat against his ear.

Carlos’s lungs expanded, pressing his chest closer.

“Should we—”

“Do you remember our wedding night?” Charles interrupted gently, his eyes flicking open where they had fallen closed.

Carlos went still. “Yes, I do.”

Of course Max and Lando fell in love with Carlos. Charles had felt himself slip into vulnerability on their wedding night, even though Carlos called him by the wrong name, even though that was supposed to be the point.

What a perfect metaphor for how things had turned out.

Anyone would be attracted to someone so fucking handsome, but Carlos also had so much charisma that speaking to him made everyone feel stronger. He treated people close to him with tenderness. He loved unabashedly, without flinching. He didn’t care about admitting it, about cursing himself that way.

Charles thought to ask him to try again, to turn the lights off and pretend they were other people.

But he knew he would fall prey to Carlos once more if he did, and looking at Pierre would be harder than it needed to be when they finally saw each other at Silverstone.

“Mi stavi solo chiedendo,” Charles finally said. He let out a grunt as he pulled himself up to sitting, abandoning the warmth Carlos always gave.

“Aspetta,” Carlos said, gently tugging him backward.

Charles reclined again, but kept his eyes on the ceiling this time. “Hm?”

“When did you fall in love with Max?” Carlos asked, draping an arm over his chest.

Charles let out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

Charles shook his head once, swallowing down the memories that rose in his throat like bile. “I don’t want to talk about it. It was a long time ago.”

His lips stuck as he pursed them, sticky with the memory of champagne.  

Carlos leaned back into the couch, relenting. “Sebastian then.”

“I’d rather not talk about him, either.”

Too stable, too easy. One slow kiss.

“Pierre? Or is it too soon?”

Charles opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.

You skipped one, he almost said.

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” Charles said instead. “People say ‘I love you’ all the time. I can’t.”

He could see Carlos watching him out of the corner of his eye, but kept his gaze firmly planted on the ceiling.

 “Many of the people you’ve said it to are gone,” Carlos said quietly. “It makes sense that saying it means so much to you.”

“Yes,” Charles said. Some mornings he woke up and forgot Jules, his father, Anthoine. Sometimes he lived a whole day without thinking about them, and it tore him apart inside when he realized he’d forgotten.

“So are you afraid that if you say it to someone, they’ll be gone too?”

Charles swallowed. “I don’t know. It’s just easier not to say it. Things change, you know. Like you with Max. Sometimes it doesn’t stick.”

Carlos let out a hum that Charles felt through his shoulder. “I’ve never regretted telling someone I love them. Even if they don’t love me back.”

“Good for you,” Charles said, and it came out sounding bitter.

Carlos ignored the insult in his voice, as usual.

“You say it so kindly when you do say it,” Carlos murmured. “Even when it isn’t real.”

Charles sat up again, discomfort settling in him. Carlos moved his arm out of the way immediately.

“Riscriverò a Pierre,” Charles said. “You should take your bath. Early flight tomorrow.”

Carlos brushed the backs of his fingers along Charles’s lower spine, back and forth.

“Are you alright?” Carlos sked softly.

Charles grit his teeth. “Yes, why?”

“We’ve never had a conversation like this, that’s all.”

Charles rested a hand on Carlos’s knee. Touch wasn’t so difficult for them now. “It’s probably the pills. And the fact that I slept well.”

 Carlos ran his fingers over his back again. “Maybe. Want to take a bath with me? The tub is giant.”

Charles laughed. “Lo so, ci ho dormito dentro.”

“Ah, right.” Carlos shifted to his elbows behind him. “I’m glad that’s over.”

Charles looked at him over his shoulder. “Yeah, me too.”

Carlos met his eye, steady and warm as ever. “I think you would like taking a bath with me. It’s very relaxing to have someone else wash you.”

Charles could feel his cheeks heat up. “No, grazie. I prefer showers.”

“It doesn’t have to be something like sex,” Carlos said. “Not everything is sex.”

“So you keep telling me,” Charles muttered, moving to his feet.

He grabbed Pierre’s letter and held it in both hands, looking over the seal. Loneliness swept in with the chill of Carlos’s absence, and the knowledge that he wouldn’t see Pierre for almost twelve days.

He needed something. He needed to figure all of this out while he still had Pierre’s permission.

“Nothing sexual,” Charles murmured. “No flirting. Understand?”

Carlos’s hand folded over his calf, squeezing once. “Understood.”

 

 


 

The bathwater smelled of rose petals. Foamy bubbles protected him from Carlos’s wandering eyes, and Charles willed himself to relax, to stop thinking about Max, Sebastian, and especially Pierre.

He could have said something. He could have touched Pierre there on the grid, leaned into him, whispered something in French in a way that sounded friendly but would be anything but. Something Pierre could carry with him for the next few weeks.

He wanted to know what Pierre was doing, just to know. Just to have something to imagine in his head as warm bathwater eased his aching muscles the way Pierre’s arms could.

He tried to imagine Pierre bundled in blankets on his bed in the hotel, watching TV with Yuki but thinking of him. Charles replayed their night together, drowsy and everything he wanted love to be. Waking up with the rain pattering against the windows, nuzzling into the heat of Pierre’s body, the scent of him everywhere.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” Carlos sang to himself, off-key, as he stepped into the bathroom in his Ferrari bathrobe. “Everywhere you go.”

Charles lifted his head so that his lips were no longer submerged in rosewater.

“State cantando musica natalizia?”

Carlos smiled as he lifted the small bench on the far wall that acted as a storage space for their towels.

“Never too early for Christmas.”

“Yes it is,” Charles muttered, closing his eyes.

“Wet your hair,” Carlos instructed as he took a seat at the side of the tub.

Charles cocked a brow. “Aren’t you joining me first?”

“You said you didn’t want sexiness,” Carlos replied matter-of-factly,

Charles opened his eyes, casting a dubious look. “Are you wearing anything under that bathrobe?”

Carlos laughed. “So you’re allowed to flirt?”

“I was asking a reasonable question.”

“Well, I decline to answer,” Carlos said, pushing up his sleeves. “Now wet your hair.”

Charles tipped his head back, his heart rate lifting as he realized Carlos could easily dunk him and hold him under the water.

This isn’t a dream, Charles reminded himself.

Water muffled sound as he sank deeper, submerging his head. He lifted it a moment later and looked to Carlos for further instruction.

“Now rest against the end of the tub,” Carlos said, a soft smile on his lips. “I’ll wash your hair.”

Charles prickled with discomfort.

Carlos paused. “Is that okay?”

No one had ever washed his hair before, only his parents when he was a kid, and his barber. Carlos said he wouldn’t try anything, but something didn’t feel right.

“Why do you want to wash my hair?” he asked, wary.

Carlos blinked at him with those big doe eyes.

“Because I love you,” he said, as if it was an obvious thing.

Charles bit his lip. “Carlos—”

“Let me try,” Carlos said. “If you don’t like it, I’ll stop. I won’t do anything to you, Charles. It’s just washing your hair, I promise.”

“I’m being stupid,” Charles sighed. “Fine. Yes. Wash my hair.”

Carlos smiled at him. “You are not stupid. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop. The point Is to relax you.”

Charles cracked his neck and settled back. “Okay. Sono pronto.”

Carlos adjusted himself at the end of the tub and Charles closed his eyes, trying to stop his rising heart rate. He didn’t know why getting his hair washed made him so fucking nervous.

He heard the pop of a cap, then the sound of Carlos lathering up the shampoo between his palms. Then Carlos’s fingers nested into his hair and Charles fought the urge to flinch.

Carlos began gentle circles with his fingers, working foamy shampoo into his hair, massaging his scalp. The slow rhythm lulled him toward relaxation, every limb going heavy, then weightless.

Tension fell away as if he’d been drugged. Charles sank back into Carlos’s palms without thinking. His hands seemed to be made to cradle his skull.

Charles had never surrendered to anyone so fast in his entire life, but he felt himself completely succumb to Carlos’s hands in a matter of seconds.

“Come ci si sente?” Carlos asked.

“Incredible,” Charles murmured, dopey. His lashes fluttered as Carlos’s fingers curled against his scalp, soapy with lather.

Washing a partner’s hair never occurred to him before. Charles washed his hair every day when he showered, but he did it to clean himself and nothing more. Wash out the dirt, get on with his day.

Carlos washed him like worship—it did feel spiritual. Charles’s entire body stilled in the water, suspended inside himself. Everything became warmth and love and such an overwhelming sense of togetherness that his throat began to close up.

Carlos loved him. Charles felt it in every movement of his hand, in the quiet, off-key humming of It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas that echoed in the acoustics of their bathroom.

Carlos barely had to put pressure on him to move him forward when it was time to rinse.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Carlos said softly. The side of his palm pressed to Charles’s forehead before warm water fell over his head, keeping his eyes shielded from shampoo.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to have someone who loved him this much.

Carlos continued humming as Charles sat up a little more to give him better access to rinsing.

He blinked his eyes open when Carlos’s thumb swept under his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Carlos said the moment Charles realized he was crying.

“I know,” Charles said, his throat tight with emotion. “No one’s every washed my hair before, that’s all.”

Carlos’s fingers returned to his scalp, scratching there lovingly in a way that made him tingle all over, and more tears jumped to his eyes without him noticing.

“It’s nice, eh?” Carlos said, low and fond.

Charles swallowed thickly. “I don’t want anything to change,” he whispered.

Carlos’s fingers slowed and Charles stared up at the ceiling, his body boneless, his heart and mind melted into one thing there in the bathroom of their Austrian hotel suite.

“I want to be with Pierre, and I want you to be with Lando,” Charles said, his voice swollen.

Carlos scratched at the short hair at the nape of his neck, coaxing him somehow, more tender than a kiss.

Charles breathed in the scent of roses, warmth, and the clean scent of his favorite shampoo.

“But I love you. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say it again, but it’s how I feel, and It’s how I’ve felt since Spain, I just couldn’t tell you.”

Carlos’s fingers stilled.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut. “And being with you in Monaco isn’t the way it should have gone, and I’m sorry for that. But I can’t do this. I can’t share you, and I can’t see Lando hurt because of me, and Pierre makes me feel loved too. So I’m choosing him, but I wanted you to know that you weren’t imagining it and—”

“How did you want Monaco to be?” Carlos asked, calm and steady and completely unlike Charles expected. He started massaging his scalp again, gentle and sure in the same way he’d done it before.

Charles took a breath. “I wanted it to be like Spain. I wanted you to see my life outside of this, the person I was before this. I should have known not to expect you to want to be with me when it was your only chance with Lando. But that’s what I wanted. I wanted it so bad.”

Instead Carlos fucked Lando without telling him, hardly six hours into their trip.

“And I understand what desire feels like with someone you haven’t seen in a long time, so I don’t even blame you for not telling me about fucking Lando at the champion’s party. It felt like that was why I was so hurt, but it was actually because you wanted to be with Lando at all.”

Carlos abandoned his massaging. Warm arms wrapped around him and Carlos’s head came to rest beside his, Charles’s damp cheek against Carlos’s dry.

There wasn’t anything Carlos could say.

“I fell into the stupid trap,” Charles said, staring at their reflections in the pinkish water. “I wanted a fairytale and I forgot that those don’t exist.”

Carlos held him a little tighter, but didn’t speak.

Charles took a shaky breath, watching as the water rippled on his exhale.

“But it’s okay,” he said, lifting a hand to wipe the salty burn from his eyes. “I’m good. What we have now is what I want—well, this is a little much, but—I mean, I think it was needed. Obviously. I, um—”

He wiped his eyes again.

Get it together before you hurt him again.

“So thank you,” Charles finally said. “Even if you can be an ass sometimes. Thank you. Silverstone is going to be tough, and we have so much left of the season, but I’m really thankful to have you with me.”

Carlos pulled back a little, only to rest his cheek on the crown of Charles’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos said, his voice rough. “There isn’t much to say other than that. I’m so sorry.”

Even though Charles was surrounded by the warmth and safety of a warm bath and Carlos’s arms, he was still horribly exposed, naked in a tub, trying to accept that Carlos would never love him only, no matter how much he wanted it, even if he admitted it out loud.

He wanted Pierre. He ached for him, but he still loved Carlos too, and now Carlos knew it. Charles had vomited out all of his emotional insides, and now he had to accept the strange combination of hollowness and grief that came afterward.

Because Carlos didn’t love him back, not fully. Even though Charles knew that all along, the pang of worthlessness hit hard.

“Thank you for telling me,” Carlos murmured into his wet hair. “I thought maybe I’d done something wrong.”

“You definitely did,” Charles said with a chuckle. “Like I said, you can be an ass.”

Carlos let out a snort, and the water wrinkled, warping their faces.

“I thought maybe I hadn’t read you right,” Carlos amended. “But now I know.”

He leaned back as Charles’s reflection began to resolidify. His hair laid flat to his head, and his eyes carried so much sadness, even when he felt normal.

But Pierre looked at the same face and saw beauty.

Carlos looked at it and saw someone he loved.

Charles saw a could-have-been. He could have been Ferrari’s true crown prince. He could have been a winner, a man who loved one person and that person loved him back with everything. He could have been so much more, but years were already slipping away. He’d been working for his crown since childhood and he’d made nothing of it now that he had one.

Destined for royalty, they said.

Now that he had a crown, he could only think about all of the things he never had time for in his youth. He couldn’t focus on the car, the racing, the leadership required of him, all because a handsome Spaniard sat next to him and touched him too much and slept wrapped around him at night.

He couldn’t focus on cutting off tenths and securing podiums because of the way sunshine played in Pierre’s hair, the way his lips tasted like wine and happiness, the way he always smiled so big whenever Charles said his name.

“I want to be the best, Carlos,” Charles said, but he was staring into his own eyes. “I want to be world champion, and I want to become world champion in a Ferrari.”

Carlos’s fingers glanced across his exposed shoulder as he walked away toward the counter. Charles watched as Carlos braced against it, his hair falling in his face again, but this time Charles could see his eyes, the understanding in them.

“Well then, future world champion, we have a lot to accomplish together.”

Chapter 52: BOOK II

Chapter Text

“I think it’s very clear that Red Bull intends to use any means necessary to secure victories,” Toto Wolf said, his voice slightly fuzzy over the car radio.

“Are you implying they may be cheating?” David Croft asked. Crofty was the FIA’s primary Public Affairs representative, and official commentator for races.

“Look, I’m not implying anything. We’ve been hindered by these new pit stop regulations, and they’re clearly favoring Red Bull. It’s difficult to compete when your opponents are lobbying the FIA for unnecessary changes in the middle of the season under the guise of safety.”

“I think Christian Horner would argue the same,” Crofty said.

Toto laughed. “Yes, well, follow the money. We have no need to lobby. We put our money into our cars and into our government. We’ve developed the best team on the grid headed by the best two princes—using legal means. We plan to win on track, not through political games.”

A little jingle played, indicating a switch to another radio interview.

“Did he really say that?” Christian Horner said, his voice cutting over the jingle. “Well that’s interesting. I seem to recall Mercedes making no secret of being in bed with the FIA last season. Lewis is a seven-time world champion, that automatically gives him a massive influence with the FIA that no other princes have.”

“Even so,” Crofty said. “Is there any truth to the allegations? Lobbying for pit stop changes to slow them down?”

Christian laughed, almost the same way Toto did. “God no. Why would we do that? We’ve consistently had faster pit stops. It slows us down, and Toto is trying to twist the narrative, as usual.”

“So do you—”

An engine growled as a GT clicked up into fourth, weaving through standstill traffic behind the blue lights of a police escort.

“—affect Silverstone?”

“We intend to win Silverstone,” Christian said calmly. “We go to every track intending to win. Prince Max is strong here—he’s strong everywhere—but Silverstone is a fun track for him. Prince Sergio will be right there with him, so we have two strong candidates for a win.”

Sirens warped as the GT passed a police checkpoint, downshifting into second as it settled in behind a jet black Aston Martin Vantage equipped with flashing blue emergency lights.

Another jingle.

“He says I’m twisting the narrative?” Toto said, chuckling. “Of course he does. If you notice, Red Bull loves to play the victim. It is the same as the people who say Prince Lewis has only earned his championships because of the car. Those poor empires, how can they compete against such a superior car? Please. Our car is certainly better, but it requires superior driving to win with it. Red Bull has talent in Max, but instead of relying on his supposed superiority, they make cheap shots with the FIA.”

"And there you have it,” Crofty said, his voice clearer than the interview audio. “Christian Horner had nothing kind to say after hearing that little tidbit. So it will be quite the race this weekend, I’m sure.”

“Understatement of the century," Martin Brundle replied with a laugh as he came over the radio waves. Martin has once been a prince, now he was an FIA commentator. A rare changeover from royalty to FIA. “Stars of all kinds will be in attendance, and the party has already started here in Silverstone. We still have three days until the other princes arrive.”

“Indeed,” Crofty said. “What makes Silverstone so special is that it’s shared home turf. McLaren, Aston Martin, and Williams all share this track, and it makes for great competition and plenty of events for fans to attend.”

“And speaking of Williams,” Martin said, “all eyes will be on Prince George this weekend. He’s expected to announce his appointment to Mercedes any minute now. He even posted a cheeky photo of himself washing a Mercedes the other day.”

“I did hear something about that,” Crofty said, laughing. “Careful, lad. Everyone knows an appointment isn’t official until the ink has dried.”

“Honestly, I’d be concerned about Prince Lando for that spot had he not already committed to staying with McLaren,” Martin said.  

“I agree. Prince Lewis made sure to pay him quite a few compliments in Austria after his podium.”

Police officers waved the GT through another checkpoint, toward a parking section labeled VIP. People mingled, and all eyes turned to the car as it approached. Cameras appeared from pockets, and more bodies started to appear from behind various sports cars, all watching intently.

“Yes, I did notice that,” Martin said. “He’s paid more compliments to Prince Lando than the man we anticipate becoming his new husband.”

“So much for track romance, eh?” Crofty jeered. “If you want my opinion, this is a replay of 2017, Martin. This time Prince Lewis is softening up for a younger generation, playing the romance card. But I haven’t seen him do much beyond a political statement with that courtship ceremony and what could have easily been staged photos in Monaco.”

“And I would say Prince Charles stole the show in Monte Carlo,” Martin said, amused. “What a disaster. Ferrari: mediocre on track and a willy-nilly prince at the helm.”

“Maybe Ferrari should be looking at Prince Lando,” Crofty joked.

“Like hell McLaren is going to give him up when they have Prince Daniel making a—if I may be frank—piss-poor show of leading. Honestly, could not have expected him to be a bigger disapp—"

Lando turned off the car.

Daniel sat in the passenger seat, running a thumb over his bottom lip. White light illuminated his face, washing it out and making him look much older than his thirty two years.

“Did Mercedes reach out to you?” Daniel asked over the tick of the dying engine.

Lando unbuckled his seatbelt. “Nah, mate. They always wanted George.”

Daniel nodded once, eyes distant.

They were rarely present, actually.

Lando slapped his arm playfully. “C’mon. Don’t listen to them, it’s all bullocks.”

Daniel gave him a shadow of a smile. “I know. We know. But you have to be careful, because the public listens to them.”

Lando shrugged. “Fuck them. Tonight we make a little show, whatever. Then everything’s all good again.”

He patted the center console with finality, then popped open the driver’s side door. Zak had decided to let him drive, given that—technically—he was the crown prince of McLaren, and Silverstone was his personal home track. But it was also an acknowledgement of Daniel’s lack of performance, and they both knew it.

Daniel’s gloom disappeared with the lights of cell phone cameras as he emerged from the car. The deadness in his eyes turned to jubilance to match his smile—a perfect fake. One Lando wished he could copy.

Instead, everyone could always tell when he didn’t want to smile. His eyes didn’t crinkle right when he faked it.

Lando adjusted his Richard Mille on his wrist so that it settled correctly and took in the warmth of the metal against his skin, reminding himself that this was supposed to be fun, that it would be fun.

He linked up with Daniel on the other side of the car and pulled out his phone as they joined hands. Fans pressed close, and he recognized a few celebrities trying their best not to look interested as their small security detail cleared the path to lead them away from the parking lot.

Night sky made a velvet backdrop over Wembley Stadium, making it look like a modern day coliseum. Cheers swelled as they approached the VIP entrance, and the sounds of the pitch began to take shape around them.

“You like football?” Lando asked as they walked into the underground tunnel.

Daniel shrugged. “I like sports, so yeah, I guess. But American football is more my thing.”

Lando didn’t know a thing about American football. The concept of the game was a little fuzzy, even. He was pretty sure the ball had to get from one side to the other, and it was kind of like rugby with more padding. Or something.

Daniel waved at a few workers who smiled and basically melted to a puddle as they passed. Lando continued his rapid scrolling through Instagram, searching for anything vibrant red.

I count the days until I see you next. I could tell you a thousand ways that I love you, and I don’t think I would describe it well enough.

He’d read Carlos’s letters so many times he could recite them all by heart. He even pictured the words in Carlos’s neat handwriting, and he liked to imagine the focus on his face when he wrote, especially when he had to write in English.

Lando glanced around before he tapped on the official Ferrari Instagram account, only to see no new posts. Carlos’s account had nothing new either.

He pocketed his phone before Sophia threw a fit about too many photos being taken of him looking down at it instead of looking adoringly at Daniel.

They were led to a small freight elevator, and Lando smiled when he heard the crowd roar around them, so loud that the elevator vibrated slightly when he stepped inside.

Daniel’s smile fell in the privacy of the compartment, and he closed his eyes.

“Chin up, mate,” Lando said, tapping his ankle with his foot. “This game is a big deal.”

Daniel offered a lopsided smile, closed-lipped.

“He didn’t post anything new, by the way,” Lando added.

Daniel’s eyes flicked open. Talking about Max always had that effect on him. Lando used to hate that, but now he understood. He’d be just as desperate if someone took Carlos away from him.

He absently thumbed the side of his watch face as the elevator ground to a halt.

“Has he said anything to you?” Daniel asked, taking his hand as they stepped out into a sleek hallway lined with signed jerseys and football memorabilia. Several people stopped walking to gape at them. Lando offered them a smile he knew looked as uncomfortable as he felt being stared at.

For all of the fighting he did to become a prince, he’d somehow neglected to realize just how fucking annoying it was to be one. He just liked racing. Racing and talking about racing. And solving government problems, because he treated those like racing too.

“He mentioned coming early,” Lando said. He rolled his eyes at the immediate smirk that spread on Daniel’s face. “Really? Grow up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Daniel laughed.

A stadium rep met up with them a few moments later and guided them to the royal box, where they had a perfect view of the pitch, an endless buffet, and a private open bar.

Lando sighed at the sight of all of the alcohol.

“Fuck yes,” Daniel said. “Want a drink?”

“I’m good.”

Daniel would be drunk before the half. He lived in a perpetual state of intoxication when he didn’t have a car to be in. Lando often wondered how his organs kept up with cleaning alcohol toxins out of his system while also handling an intense workout regimen.

Everyone just ignored the fact that a McLaren prince couldn’t find it in him to deal with his own life while sober. Everyone just laughed at the jokes about drinking and believed it when Daniel talked on and on about mixology and high-class bourbon being his favorite hobbies.

Alcoholism was classy when it afflicted a prince, but Daniel was just a guy. He didn’t have magic powers to save him from alcohol poisoning or depression or the very obvious gaping hole in his chest where Max Verstappen fit perfectly.

But nobody cared.

“Mate, how about we wait until the half?” Lando tried. “Bad luck to get shitfaced before the first goal.”

“Is it?” Daniel asked, already reaching for an offered pint. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

Lando’s shoulders sank. “Dan, c’mon. It’s just you and me in here.”

“It’s one drink, mate,” Daniel laughed. “Calm your shit.”

 

 


 

 

One drink turned to five, then seven, then it turned into shots. Leeches started coming in with Daniel’s invitation. Celebrities, rich people—everyone Lando despised being around. He sat in a leather chair right up against the biggest window overlooking the field, trying his best to close himself off from conversation by looking at his phone.

Carlos had posted a short video to his Instagram story, a two-second clip of the lapel of his royal suit. Lando couldn’t stop staring at the little orange bar, the permanent symbol of the years they spent together.

Married. He’d already been married to someone. Now he was married to someone else.

Lando watched the video one last time and pocketed his phone again before running his fingers through his curls. Official photos of their arrival at Wembley would be coming out any minute, but Sophia probably wouldn’t give him access to the post analytics to see if Carlos saw them.

To make things worse, England was going to lose. The game was close, but Lando could see from the faces of the coaching staff that this wouldn’t end well, and they were already in extra time. McLaren security and Public Affairs had started whispering about an early escape.

Lando hated crowds. He really fucking hated them. And even from the safety of the royal box, he could see that things were shaping up to get ugly.

Italy scored another goal, another nail in the coffin. The crowd seethed. Several bottles were thrown that Lando could see from his vantage point, and the nerves began to gnaw at his stomach.

Carlos would have insisted they left already. He would have taken one look at him and known that sticking around wasn’t worth the stomachache Lando was about to have.

He pulled his phone out and texted Sophia.

I want to get out of here. Now.

The text might as well have gone out to the entire security team, they pounced so quickly. They began to move people out of the room and Lando got to his feet, marching over to Daniel.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” Lando said, sticking out his hand.

“Jesus fuck, why? Game’s not over,” Daniel replied. His voice barely had a slur, but Lando knew that any hint of one meant he was trashed, and he heard plenty enough to tell that Daniel was obliterated.

He hated alcohol. What it did to people who were perfectly good without it.

“I don’t like how it’s looking out there,” Lando said honestly. “I want to go home.”

Daniel sighed, but he seemed sober enough to hear the genuine nervousness in Lando’s voice. “All right, let’s go.”

They linked hands and Lando squeezed tight, keeping Daniel with him as he followed the McLaren security detail back toward the elevator. People seemed to crowd closer than before, and he had to pull Daniel along several times when he tried to start conversations.

A few people started to get pushy, and the security team ushered them both into the same small elevator they’d arrived in, leaving them alone, presumably to meet with the rest of security once they reached the ground floor.

No one met them.

Lando decided not to wait around for an escort that might not come, and tugged Daniel back toward the parking lot. His gut twisted with unease, and the hair on the back of his neck started to stand up as he walked.

Something wasn’t right.

By the time they reached the tunnel, the full force of the danger faced them in the form of drunk English fans crowding at tipped trashcans, beers in hand and scowls on their faces.

Daniel straightened up beside him, and Lando saw clarity come to his dark eyes. That was the thing about Daniel—as blasted as he could get, he seemed to have some innate ability to push aside the effects of drunkenness when he needed to.

“Stay close,” Daniel said. He pulled Lando into an enclave, away from the lingering stares.

Lando took a breath as Daniel tugged his black Supreme hoodie over his head in one deft movement and offered it to him.

“Put this on, pull the hood up,” Daniel instructed.

Lando didn’t need to be told twice. His heart beat in his throat as he tugged on the hoodie, but his hands started shaking so much he could hardly work them through the oversized sleeves.

He heard a beer bottle smash and the sound echoed.

Daniel helped him pull the hood up and smiled at him, warm and reassuring.

Lando couldn’t smile back.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Daniel said. “They’re going to notice me. You’re gonna walk out first, I’ll come out after—”

“Where’s security?” Lando demanded, his stomach wringing itself. “Where did they go?”

Daniel’s smile didn’t change. “A lot of people are trying to get in and out of this place at the same time,” he explained. “They’re probably clearing a path to the car or something. Not a good move, but this went south fast. We’ll manage it, promise.”

Lando nodded quickly. “Okay, yeah. Sorry. Keep going.”

Daniel took a deep breath. He looked relaxed. His eyes were bloodshot, but he looked completely chill. Thank god someone was.

“You should walk out first. They won’t be looking for you in my hoodie. Keep your head down, but keep your wits, yeah?” Daniel gave his sleeve a reassuring tug. “Go straight to the car. I’ll meet you. And if I don’t meet you in one minute, drive.”

Lando shook his head. “No way. I’m not leaving you—”

Another beer bottle smashed against concrete, closer. Lando jumped, his body flooding with panic.

Daniel settled his hands on Lando’s shoulders. “I can handle myself, Lando. I have a black belt in jujitsu.”

Lando furrowed his brow. “You—what? Really?”

Daniel laughed. “No. But I’m a crafty, lanky bitch. I’ll be okay. You just get to the car. Number one priority, alright? Team orders.”

Lando did not appreciate any likeness to a race in this moment.

“Can we please just walk out together?” he pleaded.

Daniel shook his head. “If we walk out separate, it’ll take them a minute to realize who we are. We need those seconds.”

Lando’s throat went tight at Daniel’s subtle acknowledgement that this would not end well.

The grandstands shook above them, vibrating with boos this time, and the cheers started to turn to vicious insults.

Lando squeezed his eyes shut. He hated, hated, hated crowds.

Daniel curled a finger under his chin and lifted his head. “Look at me, Norris.”

Lando forced his eyes open.

“You’re going to be fine.”

“But you’re not,” Lando blurted.

Daniel shrugged. “Like I said—crafty, lanky, bitch. Those three things are a lethal combo against the English. Plus, Australian accent. They’ll automatically assume I’ve got some wild prison shit in me. I got this.”

Lando remembered the first time Daniel kissed him, that same confidence dripping from his lips. He’d been so into it at the time, happy and excited for the start of a new era. Stupid, too. Ignoring every sign he should have picked up on.

But Daniel was a good guy. Lando firmly believed that, even now. Maybe especially now.

He nodded once, gathering what shreds of confidence he could.

“Be care—”

Daniel kissed him, a quick peck on the lips that had Lando reeling as he pulled away, thoroughly confused.

“What the—?”

“Go,” Daniel commanded, turning him around and giving him a shove. “Walk fast.”

Oh. Lando’s nerves had been effectively numbed by the kiss, replaced with surprise and confusion that allowed him to get his bearings as he walked quickly from their cover.

Daniel was a fucking genius.

The crowd had swelled. It took up most of the tunnel now, but Lando saw the glow of parking lot lights outside. He kept his head down and followed behind a group of drunks heading out, sidestepping a pile of broken glass.

He caught a few shoulders as he walked, but Lando kept his focus firmly on the concrete and didn’t engage.

“That’s fuckin’ Prince Ricciardo!” he heard a man shout, and Lando’s heart sank straight to his stomach.

“Oi! Pretty boy! The fuck you doin’ here?” another person shouted.

“Ey lads,” Daniel greeted. “Lemme get home in peace, yeah? Already had my ass kicked today.”

You idiot. Lando felt the shift in the air as the dots finally connected.

“Right! This fuckwit’s Italian!”

Get to the car, get to the car, get to the car.

“Australian, mate. I’m not Italian until I drive a Ferrari—ah man, I’m breakable, let’s not shove, yeah?”

Lando could hardly see as he burst out of the tunnel. He spotted the McLaren GT parked right where he left it and started into a jog.

If he kept the doors locked, he could drive into the tunnel. People would have to move. He could scare the shit out of them with the horn a few times. The paint would probably get fucked up by beer bottles, but he could probably make it to Daniel without real damage.

Oh fuck, Daniel was going to get hurt. Fucking fuck.

Lando blinked tears from his eyes as he approached the car. He grabbed his cell from his pocket, already speed dialing Sophia as he reached for the door handle.

A large, bearish hand clapped to his forearm before he could open it.

Lando let out a yelp and his phone clattered to the ground as a another pair of hands gripped his shoulders and shoved him face-first into the side of the car.

“Going somewhere, Your Royal Highness?” a rough voice said. If he had to guess, it was Bear Hands doing the talking.

“Please, mate, I don’t have anything on me,” Lando said, his voice surprisingly calm despite the terror that had taken over him.

“What’s this then?”

Lando flinched when the man yanked up his sleeve, revealing his blue Richard Mille.

“No, please,” Lando begged, squirming against the car. “Please.”

mi lago mi leche

Four stupid words he always kept flush against his skin. He always fastened the watch so tight around his wrist that he swore the engravings would make indents when he kept it on too long, something he could carry around even when Carlos wasn’t with him.

He tried to yank his wrist away, but the man’s hand didn’t budge as he ripped the watch off.

“What’s this thing worth?” the man laughed, dangling it in Lando’s face. Light glinted off the metal, but he couldn’t even make out the inscribed words for one last glance at them.

“It’s not worth anything,” Lando said. “It’s a prototype, you can’t sell it. Everyone will know it’s mine.”

The man holding him down let out a laugh. “That’s kinda the point. I’m sure you’ve got a rich fan somewhere, yeah?”

“Think we should take the car?” Bear Hands asked.

“I don’t think so.”

Lando jerked at the sound of Daniel’s voice.

“Oh fuck, it’s Ricciardo!” Bear Hands said with a laugh, turning to face him. “Big fan, mate.”

“Aw, thanks,” Daniel said, calm and cool. Lando couldn’t make him out more than the shape of his grey t-shirt, the silhouette of his frame. “I’d appreciate if you let my husband go, though. Before I bash your fuckin’ skull in.”

The guy behind him laughed, but it cut off when Daniel emerged from the dark, a broken beer bottle in hand.

His face was absolutely covered in blood. His hair was caked in it too, the curls clumped and matted down.

“Just took out about twenty of your friends,” Daniel hissed. “One on two is easy odds for me, mate. Fuck off.”

The guy holding Lando loosened his hold.

Lando took his chance and yanked the door open, then kicked it to send it slamming into Bear Hands. He pitched forward and slammed into the ground, hard.

“Daniel!” Lando shouted as he dove in and slammed the door shut. It didn’t close all the way, and the bloodcurdling scream that followed alerted him to the fact that he’d just smashed the other thug’s fingers in the door.

Motherfucker.

Lando threw the door open again and slammed it even harder. He heard a popping noise followed by another scream. Daniel threw his beer bottle at Bear Hands where he’d staggered to his knees. The glass connected with a sickening noise Lando heard through the crack in the door and Daniel hopped in the car.

“Drive, Lando,” Daniel instructed.

Lando considered doing just that and dragging the guy currently stuck in the door with him, but he didn’t.

Instead, he continued pulling the door shut.

“Give me my fucking phone,” Lando snarled to the man whose face was still mostly covered by a hood.

“Forget about the phone!” Daniel hissed.

“Give me the phone or I’ll slam the door again,” Lando said. “Give me the fucking phone!”

“Fuck! Okay, okay!”

Lando pushed the door open just enough to let the man pull his hand free.

“Get the—”

The door slammed shut, and Lando caught the strangely earthy scent of hot blood, and a lot of it as Daniel leaned over him, his hand still on the door handle.

“Lando, fucking drive,” Daniel said, his voice slurry. “I need the hospital. I need the fuckin' hospital.”

Lando stared at the leather stitching on the interior of the car door as though he could see through it to where his phone was still sitting on the asphalt. Daniel went slack for a moment, a heavy weight against his chest, then recovered again.  

Lando looked down at him as a warm wetness began to spread over his thigh. Daniel’s eyes were distant again, but this time he looked fucking dead, not dazed and heartbroken.

“You are very strong,” Carlos said once, tripping over the words in his stupid accent. “Do you remember how to say this?”

“Soy fuerte,” Lando whispered. His hands shook so hard he could barely use them as he pressed the ignition and the McLaren growled to life. The interior lights flicked on, illuminating Daniel in true color. There wasn’t much to see other than shades of red and black.

Lando touched Daniel’s cheek, slick with blood. Normally he’d be vomiting by now—he hated blood more than he hated crowds.

“Stay with me,” Lando said. “I’m not gonna tell Max I got you killed, hear me?”

Daniel’s eyes fluttered closed and he swallowed hard.

Lando felt a fresh wave of blood pool at his thighs. He reach over and adjusted the car settings to put it in automatic, pretending not to notice the red smear he left on the button.

“I’m a black belt,” Daniel whispered.

“Yeah, mate,” Lando said, keeping his voice quiet as he eased the car forward, careful not to jostle Daniel as he headed for the exit. More blood kept wetting his jeans, so much that he felt when it started running down the back of his calf as he finally punched the gas.

He kept one hand on Daniel’s cheek, cradling his head.

“Max,” Daniel slurred.

“Not Max,” Lando said. “It’s me. It’s Lando.”

“You’ll tell him?” Daniel asked, clearly somewhere else.

Lando thumbed his cheek as he wrangled the car one-handed through traffic, beelining it for McLaren. Zak would kill him if he brought Daniel to a public hospital, especially when they were so close to home.

“I’m not telling him anything,” Lando said. “You’re gonna tell him, mate.”

Blood started seeping into his Nikes.

“Just hold on,” Lando begged quietly. “We’ll be home in just a second.”

But Daniel went slack again, and this time he didn’t recover it.

Lando swallowed hard.

“Soy fuerte,” he said under his breath, but tears started welling up in his eyes. “Soy fuerte.”

 

 

Chapter 53

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Charles smoothed the lapel of his royal suit before picking a few pieces of fluff from the black. The tailor said his shoulders were wider than they had been on his wedding day, that his waist was thinner. More lean muscle, he said. Charles knew it was actually his lethargy that had persisted over weeks of mental sickness, but took the compliment graciously.

“We’re going to try to steer conversation toward English,” Giorgio said as he eyed Carlos’s makeup artist. “But this is a Maranello event, a Ferrari tradition, so Italian will be the primary language spoken. Though I’d prefer if you both use English as much as possible on camera.”

Charles sighed. His head already hurt, and swapping languages throughout an important event wouldn’t help things. Not to mention the lights were hot, beating down on his face and melting the makeup that had just been applied to his cheeks and deflating the perfect volume he’d managed in his hair.

Carlos looked like he belonged in a cologne ad, as usual. His hair was a bit more wild, a tousled mess of black, and his stubble created perfect shadows on his already impressive jawline.

Charles’s stubble had a decent look to it, but his cheeks were bloated and puffy—yet another goddamn side effect of his medication.

But he’d been sleeping regularly, finally. The nightmares weren’t gone, but waking up next to Carlos didn’t scare him anymore.

“Can you explain to me again?” Carlos asked in the midst of recording himself on his phone. Charles could always recognize his filming face. Carlos was perfectly handsome just standing there, but when he stood in front of a camera he always turned on a weird pinched look and cocked his eyebrow.

To Charles, that look was the only indication that Carlos wasn’t the completely confident man he portrayed himself to be. Confident people didn’t feel the need to perform.

“Which part do you need explained?” Giorgio asked, snapping his fingers to catch the attention of a hairstylist, who rushed over to Charles a moment later.

Carlos ended his recording and pocketed his phone. “This event. It’s a restaurant, so why crowns?”

“Ristorante Cavallino is not just a restaurant,” Giorgio scolded. “It has a rich history within Ferrari. These renovations have been a meticulous undertaking to preserve the sanctity of the space while modernizing it—a living example of how we intend to bring Ferrari into a new age.”

“It was originally the food hall for the entire empire,” Charles explained as his hairstylist applied more product. “Enzo wanted to keep it modest. He preferred it to be a casual, family place.”

“Not casual,” Giorgio corrected. “Intimate, but professional. Families from within the empire are always welcome, but it is a representation of Ferrari.”

“Certo,” Carlos said with a nod. “I didn’t mean any disrespect in asking, but I’ve never heard of it before.”

“It’s been under renovation for awhile,” Charles said, offering a smile. “I’ve only eaten there a few times.”

“This is also a ceremonial event,” Giorgio said. “We’re officially welcoming Massimo Bottura as our Royal Executive Chef.”

“Oh, Massimo?” Carlos said, grinning. “I thought that was already decided?”

“It was,” Charles replied. “This is just the official welcome. He’ll be our host tonight.”

Carlos brightened the way he always did when it came to food.

But as soon as Giorgio stepped out to round up more Public Affairs staff, Carlos’s smile dropped and he let out a sigh.

“How do you know all of this?” he asked.

Charles shrugged. “I’ve been here for two years, and Maranello isn’t that big.”

Carlos frowned. “I should have researched more.”

He hated seeing Carlos upset, especially over something so trivial. Ristorante Cavallino was an important part of Ferrari history, but winning races was more important. What Carlos did on a daily basis far exceeded the contribution of a royal restaurant.

Charles pressed a kiss to his cheek and slid a hand under his jacket, thumbing over his ribcage.

Carlos short-circuited, eyes going wide and lips parting in surprise.

“Don’t worry about it,” Charles said, smirking. “Tonight is about looking royal and having fun.”

“Siamo pronto?” Giorgio said, appearing in the doorway. He cocked a brow. “Or should I leave you two and have the makeup team come back to touch you up in twenty minutes?”

“Carlos has more stamina than that,” Charles drawled as he pulled away, inciting a choked noise from Carlos beside him. “Andiamo. Are the crowns ready?”

“Right this way, Your Royal Highness,” Giorgio said with a dip of his head, gesturing toward the door.

Charles took Carlos’s hand as Giorgio led them back to their royal apartment. The room seemed to have rearranged itself to properly accentuate the newest occupants—the two Ferrari crowns, side-by-side on wooden pedestals in the middle of their living room.

The sight of his crown always made Charles a bit nostalgic. Tourists saw it more often than he did, when they visited the Ferrari crown jewels during guided tours through Maranello. To Charles, that was how it should be—the people of Ferrari deserved access to the crown more than he did.

Gold spires reflected in the light, intricately cut and shaped to evoke the movement of a prancing horse with each curved tine. Canary diamonds took up the center of each section of crown, and one massive ruby dotted the front—every giant jewel adorned with smaller diamonds all around.  

Miniscule designs were hand-tempered into the gold, ranging from horses to the shield shape of the Ferrari crest. Calfskin leather piping made up the base of the headpiece, handstitched with gold thread where it rested against their hair.

A Ferrari crown weighed more than any royal crown in the empires, but Ferrari princes were expected to carry hundreds of pounds on their necks with every corner on track, so no adjustments would be made to lighten the weight for any prince.

“Should we put them on now?” Charles asked.

Giorgio nodded. “Yes, they’re ready for you.”

Charles dipped his head as an official lifted his crown. The world took on new shape as it came to rest on his head, heavier than his helmet and sharp on his skull, though perfectly balanced.

He straightened his spine, making it easier for his body to adjust to the weight of the crown, and looked over to Carlos, still surrounded by Public Affairs.

Carlos’s eyes glimmered with the same intensity as the diamonds in his hair. He looked perfect. He looked like a real and true king, not a paltry prince.

Carlos met his eye and smiled. Even that was royal and brave.

“Sei pronto?” Carlos asked.

“Sí,” Charles replied.

“You look like a king,” Carlos murmured as their entourage fanned out in front of them, giving them adequate room to move freely. As soon as the crowns were on, no one would look them in the eye. No one was allowed to unless addressed.

“I thought the same of you,” Charles replied, keeping his eyes ahead.

Love welled up in him, but he stomped it down as they walked hand-in-hand through the main hall of the Ferrari palace. Heads bowed, and several people dropped to one knee—older people, Charles noticed—as he swept his gaze through the room.

His crown teetered slightly as they stepped down the front steps of the palace and out into Maranello, where a red carpet had been rolled out, emblazoned with the Ferrari crest in the center of what was usually a public street.

“You’re kidding me,” Carlos muttered. “I walk by this every day.”

Ristorante Cavallino had been designed to remain nondescript. The entrance looked like one of any Italian home in Maranello—ivy creeping over garden walls, pale yellow paint cracking over stucco and concrete, fresh but already peeling.

A new front gate had been installed, stained wood and iron, the Ferrari crest split in half, one side for each door. Two Ferrari representatives opened the doors for them, heads bowed and eyes averted.

They were met with a quaint garden courtyard. Candles flickered on each table, and ivy and greenery curled around dark wood lattice that created an awning over the outdoor dining space.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” a server greeted, dressed in a black suit. “Welcome to Il Ristorante Cavallino.”

Charles lifted his chin, but didn’t respond. There were protocols to be followed.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” a new voice said, deeper, kinder.

Massimo wasn’t a new face—his silver hair and thick-rimmed glasses were recognizable throughout the palace. He bowed respectfully and Charles almost laughed at the sight of him in formalwear, a little Ferrari pin on the breast of his suit.

“Massimo,” Carlos greeted. “We’re looking forward to this.”

Massimo grinned, his glasses falling down his nose a little as he straightened.

“Carlos is certainly excited,” Charles said, turning on a fond look to glance at his husband. Camera shutters made a chorus around them. “What do you have planned for us?”

Massimo dipped his head in greeting to Charles before answering. “We’re prepared a special meal I feel cultivates the region. It will be a perfect start to the new Ristorante Cavallino. It will be paired with wines from vineyards in these very hills, you may even recognize some of them.”

Charles’s throat tightened, but kept his smile.

He hadn’t thought to ask Luca about wine. He had no idea how much he would be able to drink before it started mixing with his medication.

“Please,” Massimo said, gesturing for them to enter the restaurant. “Come inside.”

The walls of the entryway were an explosion framed photographs. He recognized the faces of many princes—Alonso, Vettel, Schumacher, Räikkönen, Massa—and photos of old Ferraris carving up racetracks worldwide. Some were black and white, others were grainy color shots.

Carlos squeezed his hand. “Guarda, é tu.”

Charles didn’t look at the photo Carlos nodded at. He already knew the shot, a low angle from underneath the podium as he clutched his Monza trophy, champagne spray splattering the blue sky behind him, his face half-hidden by his hands as he cried and cheered and celebrated in the same breath.

He could still taste that champagne if he closed his eyes. The tears too.

“Andiamo,” Charles murmured, tugging Carlos after Massimo.

The interior of the restaurant was quaint but stylish. Maroon prancing horses patterned the walls—an interesting wallpaper choice, but it matched the terracotta tiles on the floor. The same pale yellow of the garden wall painted the walls behind the pattern, and in lieu of traditional art, old Ferrari engines sat on pedestals and low walls to make up the interior décor.

Charles actively avoided looking at the back wall of the restaurant, where he’d already seen a familiar flash of red.

“Cosa?” Carlos asked. “Whose—”

“It’s mine,” Charles said. “From Monza.”

His front wing had been mounted to the wall the way most monarchies would hang a stag’s head, sweeping and beautiful and everything 2019 had been for him. He’d been happily alone then, no princes to bother him, his only focus on the championship.

Charles only glanced at it before heading toward the staircase opposite a closed door.  

Walking up stairs was difficult while wearing such heavy crowns, but both Charles and Carlos managed it without having to touch their heads. Cameras flashed the moment they entered the private dining room at the top and they posed for a photo session, fingers entwined, smiles set.

“They adore you,” Carlos whispered as they were herded toward an opulent table with several platters of food already waiting, covered in fancy silver hoods.

“They’re grasping at the last win that mattered,” Charles said under his breath as he took his seat. “No one should be that proud of a win from two years ago.”

Carlos squeezed his hand. “I am.”

Charles smiled back, but it wasn’t real. “Of course you are, you’re my husband.”

Cameras snapped away, so many that Charles had to squint for a moment just to see where his fork and knife had been placed.

“Now,” Massimo began. “For the first course we have a succulent cheese custard with a balsamic glaze. The cheese comes from thirty kilometers from here, a small dairy farm with only twenty cows. Go on, taste and tell me what you think.”

Carlos grabbed his spoon, his grin threatening to break his face. Charles stared at the bottle of wine coming toward them and prayed for a small pour.

 

 


 

 

Three courses in, and Charles was having a difficult time swallowing. He hadn’t allowed himself a single sip of wine, only fake tastes enough to wet his lips. If anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything. Glasses of wine kept changing, as did the food in front of him.

Every course tasted like a culinary masterpiece. Massimo had a talent for unexpected flourishes and flavor, and even though Charles had been eating his food for almost a year now, no meal ever tasted the same.

Carlos salivated in anticipation before every new course, and he sat enraptured by each of Massimo’s stories about the origins of the food and how it was made. Charles listened appreciatively, but he had no real interest in gourmet cooking.

The crown had started digging into his scalp, but he knew they had two more courses to get through before he could take it off.

“And have you noticed a real difference between the cattle here and in Tuscany?” Carlos asked, carefully forking up a bite of braised beef.

“A very subtle difference, yes,” Massimo replied, pinching his fingers. “I’ve tasted—oh, pardon me.”

A Ferrari representative had approached their table without Charles noticing—crowns gave him horrible peripheral vision because he had to keep his head so straight. The official leaned down to whisper something to Carlos, who reached up to hold his crown in place as he leaned over, his first time touching it all evening.

Charles felt Carlos’s entire body go taut a second later.

“Has he been injured?” Carlos asked. His serious tone cut through the murmurings of the gathering and Charles knocked his knee under the table in warning as Massimo’s eyes went wide with concern.

Carlos cleared his throat, recovering. “Thank you, you were right to inform me immediately.”

His eyes were dead. His whole face leaked color until only a husk of Carlos Sainz remained in the seat beside him.

Charles glared the Ferrari representative, but his stomach twisted with worry.

There were very few instances where a prince would be interrupted at a royal function to be told about someone being injured.

Carlos’s father was still royalty in the WRC empires. Rally certainly had more risk of injury than their racing, and family members certainly fit in that category.

“Giorgio,” Charles called, and it seemed like sound itself stepped aside for his voice.

Giorgio appeared in an instant.

“Clear the room, please,” Charles instructed calmly. “We’d like to finish our meal alone.”

A few women on staff looked like they might collapse from swooning. A few men, too.

Carlos found his hand under the table and held on.

“And please, I love the crowns, but we’re done with photographs for the evening. You can take them away,” Charles added.

The team made quick work of following his requests. Charles thanked Massimo for the meal and promised to meet up with him afterward for a more in-depth discussion of the food. Carlos sat rigid beside him, staring blankly, completely different from just a few moments ago.

Charles thumbed the side of his palm and prepared himself for a conversation he didn’t want to have. He didn’t know how to give advice on ailing fathers.

But Carlos would look to him and he would have to give it, even though he had no idea how he’d managed it himself, let alone how to guide someone else.

Giorgio approached, followed by a Ferrari official who held a carbon fiber box with a silver prancing horse mounted on the top.

Charles dipped his head once Giorgio put his hands on the crown, and tried not to take a breath of relief when the weight lifted from his head. A responsibility laid within the gold and jewels, and he refused to squander what he’d earned.

Once the crowns had been returned to their boxes and the room emptied, Charles turned to Carlos and took his hand in both of his own.

“Tell me what happened,” Charles said.

Carlos pulled free, leaving Charles to hold nothing but air. Carlos blinked a few times, then buried his head in his hands as his elbows thunked on the table.

“Do you know anyone who owns a plane?” Carlos asked, muffled by his palms.

Charles swallowed hard before he scooted closer. He reached over to rub Carlos’s back in an attempt to soothe.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” Charles asked.

“Lando is in the hospital,” Carlos said.

Charles pulled his hand away on reflex, as though Lando had just walked into the room.

“Lando?” he asked, still not understanding.

“I don’t know,” Carlos said, curling his fingers in his hair. “They just told me he’s been assaulted at a public event and that he’s in the hospital with Daniel.”

Charles’s stomach dropped. “What? Did they say what happened?”

Carlos shook his head. “It was direct from Binotto. That was all she said.”

Charles already had his phone out. He had to be the strong one, even though he had no idea why Binotto would inform Carlos about an ex-husband. Frankly, it wasn’t right for him to do so.

“Dimmi,” Binotto greeted after one ring.

“Ciao,” Charles said, putting his hand on Carlos’s back again. “Carlos was just told about what happened. What other information do you have?”

“That’s all I was told,” Binotto said. “Zak Brown called me directly to tell me to contact Carlos about Lando. I agreed, as I’m sure everyone will know about it in the next few hours.”

“He didn’t give any update about their condition?” Charles pressed.

“No. I was told they’re both in the hospital and that police are investigating an incident that occurred at the Euro Cup. Which Italy has won by the way.”

“Yes, Giorgio said something about that,” Charles replied, though he wasn’t sure why he bothered. Football didn’t matter right now, not even if Italy took home a trophy. No one would catch him saying that, though.

“Zak wanted to make sure you knew as well,” Binotto said, even-keeled. “He said your name specifically.”

Charles thumbed Carlos’s shoulder blade.

Realization set in, thick and black like tar.

“So am I supposed to tell Max?” Charles asked carefully.

Binotto didn’t say anything for a long time. “I’m discussing that. My answer would be no, but I have to see what the FIA says.”

Charles cleared his throat. “Well, we should go to Silverstone early. Tonight.”

“Absolutely not,” Binotto said.

“Mattia, this is serious—”

“Do not lecture me about what is serious,” Binotto cut. “I’m fully aware of the implications here—are you? We are currently facing a national security threat. Two princes were just attacked at a public event for reasons unknown. Everyone is going on lockdown until further notice.”

“The race is in less than a week,” Charles said. “Why can’t we lock down at Silverstone?”

“Because that’s where the culprits are, Charles,” Binotto said dryly.

Charles grit his teeth.

“Well, Carlos should go,” he said. “I think it’s important that—”

“I’m not entertaining that notion,” Binotto snapped. “Siete principi Ferrari. Siete sposati l’un l’altro, non con qualcun altro.”

Carlos sank further, his hands folding over the back of his head.

“Fine,” Charles said. “But I want all of the info you receive. And I’d appreciate it if you asked Zak for a status report on their injuries. If I call Max and tell him Daniel is in the hospital but don’t tell him why, he’d going to lose it.”

Binotto let out a snort. “If he chooses to be a child, then fine. That isn’t our concern, and it shouldn’t be yours.”

“It is my concern,” Charles growled. “He saved me in Baku. The least I can do is tell him what’s going on with Daniel.”

It was a surreal feeling to discuss Daniel with Binotto, as if he was a commonly known part of Max’s life. Of course, he was, but Charles didn’t like the fact that everyone knew it.

“I’ll look into it,” Binotto muttered. “You both should finish up there and come back to the palace immediately. I don’t want to raise any alarms yet, but I’ve contacted Antonello to heighten security.”

“Capito,” Charles said.

When he hung up, Carlos still hadn’t recovered. He sat hunched over the table more distraught than Charles had ever seen him. He looked close to breaking down completely—the thought of Carlos coming undone terrified him. He already knew what it looked like from his nightmares, and this was too close.

“Carlos,” Charles said, leaning in close. “Carlos, look at me.”

Carlos reluctantly sat up, his eyes stuck wide, his lip trembling.

Charles brought his hands to Carlos’s face, thumbing over his cheekbone.

Charles loved the face in front of him, even if he hadn’t said it since Austria. They were starting to find common ground, figuring out which touches meant the right things, how much affection they could bear before it started to hurt too much. They were learning each other in a way Charles hoped he would never have to, but they were learning all the same.

“You have to stay here,” Charles said calmly. “We will figure this out, insieme.”

Carlos shook his head and pulled away. “No. Lando’s in the hospital. He’s alone.”

“He isn’t alone,” Charles assured him. “He’s at home. His family is there, they’ll all be with him, I’m sure. We don’t even know what his injuries are.”

“He’s injured, though,” Carlos hissed. “He’s hurt and I’m here. I have to go.”

Charles reached out to grab Carlos’s arm, even though he’d made no move to leave.

“Please don’t,” Charles said.  “We’re finally in a place where—”

“None of this matters if he’s hurt,” Carlos snapped, turning on him.

Charles balked on reflex, blinking stupidly as Carlos glared at him with more malice than he’d ever seen.

Hurt quickly sank in, the venom after the bite.

Carlos softened. “I’m sorry, but—”

“If you have to say ‘but,’ you’re not actually sorry,” Charles said, stiffening up.

Carlos put his face in his hands again. “Charles, I love you. That isn’t what I meant.”

Charles flinched anyway.

“If I were with him and something happened to you, I would find a way to get to you,” Carlos said. “I’m sure Pierre would be here in five seconds—wouldn’t you be there for him? For me?”

Charles didn’t answer, because his answer was no. The crown came first, always. It had to, especially in situations like this.

“I understand this is emotional—”

“How could you understand?” Carlos cut, fingers nested in his hair.

Charles’s nostrils flared. “Oh I don’t know, Carlos. I’ve already said goodbye to three people I loved. Credo di poter capire.”

Carlos’s spine sank between the wings of his shoulder blades as he collapsed against the table once more. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight, but I have to see him.”

The words kneaded at Charles’s heart, and not in a good way. Carlos claimed to want a Ferrari crown. Every week he worked hard with the engineers, in his training, and in saving his husband from himself. Charles loathed that he had to rely on anyone, but Carlos had been there for him when most would have left him to suffer.

This day had always been on the horizon, though. Charles had predicted it in Spain when he asked Carlos who he would choose.

“This is your choice,” Charles said. “If you want to throw this away, fine. I have a friend in Monaco who can loan you a plane. And if you go through the door at the bottom of the stairs, you get to Enzo’s private dining room. There are two fireplaces. On your left there’s a sliding glass door and a Ferrari on standby with the keys inside. Security protocol.”

Convenient for Carlos, as everything was.

“Charles—”

Charles put a hand up to stop him from speaking, his eyes cold.

“Take the car, back it out, drive. If you drive fast, it’ll take you four hours to get to Monaco,” Charles said. “The jet will get you to Silverstone in about an hour from there.”

Carlos lifted his head, lips still parted to argue something Charles didn’t want to hear.

“But if you do this, I can’t save you,” Charles said. “You’re publicly choosing him over me. You don’t come back from this.”

Carlos got to his feet and turned to him, his eyes sad.

“I love you, Charles,” Carlos said.

Now you know why he says it to you so much.

“Don’t,” Charles said, rising to meet him. “You don’t get to say that to me right now.”

Carlos closed the space between them. Charles’s heart began to jump in his chest, but he turned his face away to avoid an inevitable attempt to kiss him.

“I can’t stay here,” Carlos said. “He needs me.”

“You don’t know what he needs,” Charles argued. “You could at least wait until we know. I’d fully support you leaving if he’s really hurt, but he could be fine.”

“They wouldn’t interrupt us if he was fine,” Carlos said. “Charles, please.”

Charles faced him again, but stepped back when Carlos leaned in. “I’m not going to stop you, but I’m not going to protect you from the fallout.”

Carlos’s jaw flexed. “Ti ho protetto.”

Charles’s eyes threw sparks. “Hai protetto la Ferrari. And if you’re referring to Pierre, I’ve been doing the same for you and Lando, so we’re even.”

Carlos opened his mouth. Charles saw an argument form on his tongue just before he closed it again, thinking better of it.

Charles’s eyes narrowed. “What.”

Carlos took a step back. “Nothing. It wouldn’t help anything to speak.”

“I don’t have to call my friend with the plane,” Charles growled. “I’d call that support. So what were you going to say?”

Carlos shook his head. “I don’t need to put things in your head before I leave.”

“So it was something about me.”

Carlos sighed. Charles planned to step past him, but Carlos caught his mouth in a kiss.

Charles didn’t react right away, aside from falling into it. By the time he remembered he was supposed to be hurt, Carlos had already pulled away.  

“That’s what I wanted to leave you with,” Carlos murmured.

Charles let out a soft sound of disgust. “I don’t want you to leave me at all.”

He found it easier to say what he really felt, especially when he knew Carlos wouldn’t change his mind. Charles still adored his cruelty.

But the problem with telling Carlos he loved him was that when Carlos took a hit, Charles felt it too. His own words turned on him when hurt came to Carlos’s eyes.

“I wish I could stay,” Carlos murmured, his goddamn lashes falling over his eyes. “But I have to be there with him. If the places were reversed, I would do the same for you.”

Charles crossed his arms. “Dovresti uscire. Antonello will send someone up here any minute.”

Carlos held out his hand. “Will you walk me down?”

Charles looked down at Carlos’s palm, the glint of gold on his ring finger. He thought of their tennis photoshoot, how reluctant Carlos had been then, his thoughts entirely consumed by Lando.

Not much had changed, he supposed.

Charles met Carlos’s eye and shook his head.

“You’re on your own now, Carlos. Drive fast.”

 

 


 

 

By two in the morning, Charles no longer felt like defending his fugitive husband. Binotto, Giorgio, and Antonello took turns screaming at him for his part in allowing Carlos to leave, an echo chamber of livid Italian.

A security detail had been dispatched and the border closed, but Carlos had evidently slipped through the checkpoint because he’d made it to Monaco undetected.  

Charles sat at Enzo’s table in the Cavallino, his back to the now-empty courtyard where Carlos had taken the Ferrari, his eyes heavy despite the doubleshot espresso he’d managed to secure between scolding sessions.

“He’s landing at the auxiliary airport at Silverstone as we speak,” Giorgio announced bitterly.

“We’ve got to have someone there who can detain him,” Antonello said.

“It’s too late now,” Charles said, tipping his back against the back of his chair. “You have to say he’s there officially, or the FIA will find out our security had enough of a gap for a prince to escape during a lockdown.”

Antonello looked like he might burst.

“Non so perché l’hai fatto questo,” Binotto snapped.

“Non ho fatto niente,” Charles repeated for the hundredth time. “He was going to go no matter what I said. I asked him to stay. So I protected Ferrari by ensuring he had the safest passage I could get for him.”

“E come mi suggerisce di spiegare perché un principe della Ferrari ha usato un jet private non affiliato alla Ferrari?” Binotto asked.

Charles shrugged. “As you said, we’re under lockdown. Carlos had to move under the radar.”

“That doesn’t explain why he’s flying in the first place,” Antonello argued. “Especially from Monaco. Le date non coincidono.”

Charles shrugged. “Siamo principi. You can say I was with him, that we flew to Monaco together in an unmarked plane, and I felt it was safest to fly the rest of the way with Charlotte.”

Binotto scowled. “That would only work if you were also in Silverstone.”

Charles leaned back in his chair. “Put me on a plane, then. Ho suggerito questo. The drama of it all could have been avoided if you listened to me.”

“We are under lockdown!” Binotto snapped, his black curls bouncing wildly. He looked ridiculous when he was angry, but Charles never laughed because he knew there was immense power behind the stupid glasses.

“You also should have asked Zak for injury reports before you told Carlos,” Charles shot back. “All of this was for no reason since they’re both fine. A stolen watch wasn’t worth this.”

Binotto set his jaw. “As soon as we find him, we will be sending him back to Ferrari. Things will be different from now on. We will not be tolerating any more forays.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Not sure what you mean.”

“Non siamo ciechi,” Antonello cut in. “You may be hiding from the FIA, ma non da noi.”

Charles blinked slowly, unaffected. He figured Ferrari probably knew about Lando sneaking in and out. Pierre was probably still under the radar. Maybe.

“I think that’s the wrong approach,” Charles said. “If you want peak performance, give Carlos an outlet. Those forays keep him sane. This will be the first of many incidents if you tighten the leash, fidati.”

“Our agreement is being strained,” Binotto said, drumming his fingers on the table. “This transgression far exceeds what we can allow.”

“È innamorato di me,” Charles said. “I don’t know what more you want.”

Giorgio laughed. “Ah, sí. I’m sure my wife would say the same if I flew across Europe to be with my old girlfriend.”

Hurt burned hot in his belly, but Charles kept himself still.

“I don’t care if you understand or not. The point is that Carlos does love me, and he’s committed to Ferrari. He thought Lando was on his deathbed. Allow him to see Lando and I’m sure he’ll come home.”

Binotto chewed the inside of his cheek in silent fury.

Charles didn’t need to be scolded. The humiliation of Carlos leaving him for Lando was a punishment no words could match. Especially if it became public knowledge.

“If you can ensure that, we’ll make this go away,” Binotto said. “For you, not for him. He will face penalties.”

Charles pulled out his phone.

Mattia says that he can arrange for you to see Lando if you agree to come home immediately after. Yes or no.

The response came before Charles could even lock his phone.

yes.

Charles tossed his phone onto the table.

“Era d’accordo.”

Antonello swore under his breath as Giorgio threw up his hands. They’d both been trying to contact Carlos for hours.

Binotto stood up, pointing to both of them. “Provvedi. I want this kept completely confidential. Charles isn’t to appear in public until Carlos is back here.”

Charles’s phone buzzed again. He plucked it from where it had landed to see another text from Carlos.

Tell them I have no plans to announce myself. I have friends in London who will keep it quiet.

Charles hated this. Organizing secret visits in hotel rooms was one thing, but this? If he’d done the same, Binotto would have removed his crown already. He would be on the way to Monaco in the back of a van, waiting to be thrown out on the side of the road.  

“He’ll be in London,” Charles said. “He has friends who will keep him from being caught.”

Antonello let out a snort. “Now we’re trusting civilians with a prince?”

And thank you for the help, Carlos texted.  Charlotte was very kind. You know her well?

Charles glowered at his phone. Very well.

Typing bubbles appeared, then vanished.

If you really love me, Charles added, don’t get caught.

A soft knock at the door caught their attention, and the same Public Affairs rep who had told Carlos about Lando stepped inside, looking nervous.

“Prince Verstappen is on the phone,” she announced, extending a cell phone.

Charles looked to Binotto, who clenched his jaw so tight Charles half expected his teeth to break.

“Sembra che la FIA l’abbia deciso senza te, Mattia,” Giorgio muttered, snatching the phone.

“I want the room,” Charles said, sitting up. “No one listens in.”

His stomach tied itself in knots as Giorgio rounded the table. Charles stood to meet him, taking the phone as if it might shatter in his hands.

“Giorgio, get Masi on the phone,” Binotto barked as he stood. “Vorrei sapere perché me lo sta dicendo un interno e non la FIA.”

Giorgio looked at him, his dark eyes unusually soft.

The hair on the back of Charles’s neck prickled in response.

“Be careful,” Giorgio warned as Antonello left the room with Mattia. “The FIA allowed this for a reason. They could be looking for something else to splash on the newspapers to mitigate.”

Charles gripped the phone a little tighter and nodded once. “Grazie.”

 He waited until the room emptied to unmute the phone, and brought it to his ear.

“Max,” he greeted, his voice as gentle as the breeze sifting through the leaves in the courtyard outside.

“Hey,” Max returned. He sounded normal, thankfully. “Are you okay?”

Charles hugged himself with his free arm, watching the way moonlight played on the windows.

“I think I’m supposed to ask you that question,” Charles said.

God, he wished Max had become more difficult to talk to. Silence breathed between them, but instead of driving up tension, it melted it away.

“Horner said he’s fine,” Max said. “They’re investigating the crime, but he’s okay. I see no point in worrying.”

Charles smiled, relieved. He’d expected Max to go on a rampage on principle alone. “Sometimes you sound really insensitive, you know that?”

Max laughed loud in his ear. “Yes, I guess that does sound insensitive. But I know Daniel, and he’ll be okay. Once I see him, he’ll be okay.”

The low lights of Enzo Ferrari’s private dining room made Charles feel like he was really and truly alone in Maranello for the first time since the agonizing day between Sebastian’s departure and Carlos’s arrival.

“So confident,” Charles said softly. Too softly. Too much fondness.

Wasn’t he always that way when it came to Max?

“Pierre is confident too,” Max said.

Charles jerked despite himself, despite knowing that Max had to know by now.

“Is that the real reason you called?” Charles asked, smoothing his hand down the front of his slacks.

Max didn’t answer right away.

“You don’t get to stake a claim on me,” Charles said into the silence.

“I know. Is Carlos there with you?”

Right. Max had no idea he was alone in a dining-room-turned-war-room.

“No,” Charles replied. “Just me.”

Silence breathed again, slow and lazy.

“Pierre isn’t the reason I called,” Max said.

His heart was already bruised enough. Charles didn’t know if he could take any more in one night.

“Don’t make me ask why,” Charles murmured, running his thumb along the edge of the table. He had a feeling Carlos would know what type of wood it was, and why it was significant, even if he hadn’t known about the restaurant itself.  

“Horner said I had approval for a call, so I called.”

“That’s not a motive, Max.”

“Are you sleeping?”

There it was.

“Currently? No. I’m good at multi-tasking, but not that good,” Charles replied with a smirk.

“Don’t be an ass,” Max growled, but Charles heard the smile on his lips.

“Yes, I’m sleeping,” he said. “Nightmares aren’t gone, but it’s not like it was.”

“Good.”

Charles pushed himself off from where he’d leaned against the table and took his seat again, this time staring at the fireplace, faint embers glowing in the hearth from Binotto’s insistence that they at least start a fire so as not to bring bad luck.

“We’re not doing a lot of talking,” Charles said.

Max laughed, but it sounded drowsy this time.

“Tell me a story,” he said, and Charles heard shuffling on the other end of the line. “I think that would help.”

“Help with what?”

“I don’t know. Everything.”

This was too intimate. A low flame had sparked in his chest, spreading warmth through him where Carlos had left him feeling cold and useless.

“I don’t have any stories worth telling,” Charles said, resting his cheek on the leather of the back of his chair.

“A song, then. How about that French one? About the girl losing her virginity.”

Charles laughed, putting a hand over his mouth.

“Let me see if I remember it,” Max said, and his voice sounded slightly mushed, like he was lying on his back. Charles used to be able to tell his position just by listening, especially back in the days when most of their conversations happened over the phone.

“Do not try to sing,” Charles said, still laughing. “My ears are important to me.”

Sous les feuilles d’un chêne,  je me suis fait sécher—fuck, is that right?”

Max pretended he wasn’t good at French, but Charles heard the fluency, the cadence to his accent that matched his own, learned over countless hours spent in Monaco, countless hours with Charles’s fingers on his skin, words whispered in his ears.

Sur la plus haute branche, un rossignol chantait,” Charles finished, barely putting a tune behind his words.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Max murmured.

“There, you’ve got me singing,” Charles said, picking at the leather seam.

Don’t make me sing the rest.

Il ya longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai,” Max sang, off key and definitely offbeat.

“Max—”

“It’s just a song, Charles.”

Embers swirled in the hearth, kicked up by a pop from the burning kindling.

“Nothing is ever ‘just’ something with you,” Charles said quietly. “You can’t do shit like this. I’m with him now.”

He didn’t dare say Pierre’s name over the phone, just in case someone was listening, though it wouldn’t be hard for anyone to put it together. Sound bites were all the FIA needed to make a story, so he had to keep it as vague as he could.

“I’m not trying to change anything,” Max said.

“Kind of sounds like you are.”

“Ah, you’re upset about something.”

“Seriously?” Charles growled. “I swear, it’s like you just forget what you did to me sometimes. What it did to me after—or maybe you don’t even know. It’s not like you talked to me.”

“I was seventeen, Charles.”

“Well I still haven’t heard an ‘I’m sorry’ for that, Max,” Charles snapped. “I know that’s not in your vocabulary, but I’ve been an exception to pretty much everything else with you.”

“I got scared, okay?”

Charles closed his eyes. “Yeah, well, I was scared the whole time. I was the one risking everything. But I loved you, so it was all worth it. Then you threw it away. I trusted you fully, and—”

“And I never let my side down,” Max said, his voice crackling with exhaustion. “Nothing happened. We both made it. We’re both here, we survived.”

“Surviving isn’t a victory, Max.”

“In my book, it absolutely is. Appointments are only about survival.”

For a moment, Charles imagined the leather against his cheek as Max’s body. He used to fall asleep on his chest, or Max would fall asleep on his. For years after, he woke craving that intimacy, drowning in the want of it.

“You can think what you want about me, Char,” Max said. “But I did what I had to do to protect you, so I won’t apologize. Yes, I could have done it in a better way, but I didn’t know how. I saw the walls closing in and I panicked. I was trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” Charles scoffed. “I’ve never been lower than that, Max. You destroyed me.”

“That isn’t how I see it. I made sure you could still have a crown. Could you imagine what would have happened if we slipped up? You wouldn’t be where you are now and we still wouldn’t be—”

Max cut himself off, likely realizing that they were being too open on the phone.

J’ai perdu mon ami san l’avoir mérité,” Charles whispered.

“We’re pathetic,” Max laughed, tinged with emotion now. “Singing songs to each other like girls.”

Charles let out a snort. “So now you don’t want to sing.”

Je voudrais que la rose fût encore au rosier, et que mon doux ami fût encore à m’aimer,” Max finished quickly. “Happy?”

“Not really, no.”

Max sighed.

Charles drew his knees to his chest, curling up in the chair like a child. He adjusted his grip on the phone, tucking it closer.

“How does it feel to be close to a championship?” Charles asked quietly.

“No different than normal,” Max replied. “I want to win, of course, but if it doesn’t happen this year, it’ll happen soon. The FIA wants Lewis to win right now, which I guess I understand. He’s too powerful, and eighth championship will usher him toward retirement. They’re supporting him to get him out.”

“Mm. You’ve changed your tune since Monaco. You were ready to kill.”

“I still am,” Max said. “But it doesn’t help to get angry in the media. They’ll always side with him, so what’s the point? I have to win on track.”

“Or let Horner do all of the talking for you,” Charles muttered.

Max chuckled. “Yeah, that too.”

This time the silence weighed heavy.

The embers in the hearth began to turn to snowy ash.

“I think I should go,” Charles finally said.

“Yeah,” Max replied.

Neither of them hung up.

He used to fall asleep with Max on the other end of the line, but the call always ended by the time he woke up because Max had to hang up when Carlos came to bed. Or maybe he just got tired of listening.

“I’m glad you called,” Charles murmured, because he just had to say it.

“Me too. Goodnight, Char.”

The line went dead.

Charles stayed in his spot for a long time, the phone still pressed to his ear, his cheek stuck to the leather, the dying fire cloaking him in darkness.

When he did stir, he pulled his personal phone from his pocket. The sound of voices began to leak in through the closed door as Charles opened up his notes app, squinting into the blue light of his screen.  

He copied the number Max had called from.

Daniel’s warning echoed in his head, but his phone wasn’t a burner. Calling Max from his personal cell might ping Ferrari, but the FIA didn’t have jurisdiction on his data unless they confiscated his phone, and for that they needed cause.

When Binotto returned to the room, Charles handed over the phone he’d been given and Antonello escorted him back to the palace with a full security detail, even though it they were less than two hundred meters from the palace entrance.

Charles wandered through the empty apartment without turning on the lights, the floor illuminated by the moon alone.

He wandered through their bedroom, taking in the blessed quiet. Carlos’s things sat where he’d left them: an open suitcase, clothes neatly folded inside, ready to go for Silverstone two days early.

Charles ran his fingers over the top of Carlos’s dresser where he kept his cologne, his watches, and a pair of cuff links in a velvet box—a gift from his father after his first podium, Carlos had said.

A picture of his family laid flat on the wood, dotted with a few water stains.

A stack of letters sat in a neat pile on the far corner of his dresser, tied with a red ribbon. Part of him wanted to read them, to see how Carlos spoke to other people, but he knew that kind of trust couldn’t be regained once lost.

So he crawled into the cold blankets alone, but not lonely. Carlos could love who he liked. Charles refused to devote himself to a man who couldn’t make a decision, even if he did love him.

He loved someone else too. Someone who wrote him letters despite a grueling schedule, who knew just what to say, who didn’t mind waiting for him to catch up, so long as they arrived at their destination hand in hand.

Pierre didn’t need ultimatums. He didn’t give half-baked suggestions about what they might be. He knew. He accepted what they were, and what they would become. He waited patiently, because he knew the reward would be worth it.

Maybe they were moving too fast, but Charles didn’t know any other way.  

And it sure as hell beat being married to a man who said he loved him before choosing someone else.

 

 

Notes:

the description of ristorante cavallino is accurate, I’ll have you know. if you're in maranello to pick up your new ferrari, you can drive it across the street to the cavallino courtyard and look at it while you eat in enzo's private dining room (and charles eats there all the time lol). but if you’re a normal person and you ask very nicely, they’ll show you enzo’s dining room and let you touch charles’s front wing.

p.s. – do the 5 course meal. it will be the cheapest massimo bottura meal you ever eat and is worth every penny. and let them pick the wine for you, just do it.

p.p.s. - i am also proud (jk) to put massimo in his first fanfic i'm so sorry

p.p.p.s. - the song is À la claire fontaine

Chapter Text

“Is it just me or does it seem stupid to announce next year’s cars when most of the empires aren’t even here?” Nic muttered as he fussed with his tie. “I’m choking to death in this thing, by the way.”

“You look nice,” George said. He smiled, but it was cheap.

He hadn’t been able to smile properly since Austria. In fact, he’d felt sick pretty much every day since practice, and everyone kept asking why, but he didn’t know what to say.

Most assumed he was still upset about having his first points ripped from him at the last second by a rampaging Alonso in the final few laps of the race, but that was just insult to injury. In fact, he was thankful Alonso had taken those points so he had nothing to celebrate.

He couldn’t get the image of Callum out of his head. He couldn’t stop hearing Mick’s destroyed voice, the panic in him that George felt in his bones.

He’d hidden the video in a password-protected hidden app that looked like a calculator until he entered the right code, just in case the FIA ever confiscated his phone. They would undoubtedly find the app, but they wouldn’t be able to access it without him, and that would give him enough time to wipe his phone remotely through Nic’s phone if he needed to.

“This whole scenario is an example of how empires and the FIA are completely disconnected,” Jenson Button said through the pair of AirPods he and Nic were currently sharing in the backseat of their Mercedes S-Class.

Jenson used to be a prince, and he’d made a name for himself in other empires outside of the FIA’s jurisdiction since his retirement. He used to be a prince of Williams back in the day, before moving on to empires that couldn’t hold up. Many people considered him one of the best-looking princes to ever grace the empires, and he had a string of prestigious husbands from his time in the royal circle.

Including Lewis.

“Prince Norris and Prince Ricciardo never should have been alone,” Jenson continued.

He still looked awfully handsome for a prince four years out of royalty. Blond hair and a nice jaw that would stick with him. Like Fernando’s—who was also one of Jenson’s husbands. Most ex-princes sank into the shadows, only to return shriveled and loud as they complained about new princes and government operations.

Lewis probably fucked him, George thought. Crofty shifted in his interviewer’s chair beside Jenson, brow furrowed in concern.

“I mean, back when I was appointed to McLaren, regular people could come up to me at any time,” Jenson said. “I didn’t mind, of course, but in terms of security, that’s incredibly dangerous.”

“I’d say it was a different era,” Crofty argued. “This is one of the only times I can think of in recent history where someone’s had the balls to attack a prince.”

Jenson frowned. Even that looked pretty. “That’s not the point. There shouldn’t be an opportunity for anyone to corner two princes, especially at an event as public as the Euro Cup finals.”

“Well, thankfully they were both unharmed,” Crofty said “Though I can’t say the same for English pride.”

Jenson nodded. “Yes, incredibly lucky. I just hope that McLaren and the other empires take this as a warning. This could have been bad.”

“Wise words from a world champion,” Crofty agreed. “You’re quite close with Prince Ricciardo, yes?”

George watched Jenson’s reaction as he flashed a smile. He’d always suspected something had gone on between Daniel and Jenson back in the day—they used to be on the cover of the Sun all the time. Some conspiracy theories came up too often to be coincidental.

“We were good mates while I had a crown, yeah,” Jenson said. “I was able to catch up with him in Monaco this year. He’s really loving it at McLaren.”

“Did you give him any princely advice?” Crofty joked. “Or would Prince Hamilton gut you for that?”

Jenson laughed. “I could give him all the advice in the world and I don’t know that it would be enough to touch Lewi—pardon me, Prince Hamilton. He’s really exceptional this year.”

Nic nudged his shoulder. “Spicy.”

George shot him a teasing glare, but cold ate him up.

“Really though, I hope Prince Norris’s watch is returned,” Jenson said. “And I sincerely hope he and Prince Riccardo are able to shake this. That mental space can’t be good before a home track weekend.”

“We’re here,” Kayla announced, turning around in the passenger seat. “You both have your phones?”

“Kayla, does this tie look stupid?” Nic asked, tugging at it again.

“It looks handsome,” George said before she could respond. “I like it.”

Nic beamed at him as he pulled out his AirPod, pausing the video. “Aw, babe. Stop being cute.”

George plucked the AirPod from his own ear and gave it back to Nic before he straightened up in his seat.

“Both of you need to be on your best behavior,” Kayla instructed as the car filed in behind a few other VIP sportscars. “Do not go off of the grounds, do you understand? We’re still on very tight security, and you didn’t hear it from me, but there are problems at Ferrari right now too.”

George’s stomach dropped, eyes going wide.

“Oh god, nobody’s hurt,” Kayla quickly clarified, reaching back to pat his knee. “I’m sorry, I should have led with that. I’m saying that rumor has it there’s been a lockdown infraction.”

George grit his teeth. Pierre. Fucking Pierre.

“Was it Charles?” he asked.

Kayla shrugged. “Didn’t hear. But the FIA will make an example out of them if it’s leaked publicly. Basically, whoever steps out of line first is going to have hell to pay.”

“And Lando and Daniel will be here tonight, right?” George asked.

“Yes,” Kayla said, swatting at Nic as he started flapping his tie at the window where fans pressed against barriers, trying to get their attention. “Jost said that they’re both already here.”

George picked at the side of his thumb, nodding distractedly. Lando hadn’t responded to his letter asking if he was okay. It had only been a day since the attack, but Lando didn’t have a lot people close to him on the grid at the moment. George figured out of everyone, he would at least get a letter. After Carlos, of course.

Something didn’t feel right.

The car stopped, and Nic hopped out to the roar of the fans. George slid out after him, pasting on a smile. He grabbed Nic’s hand as they headed down the red carpet (though in this case, it was a white carpet) toward the front doors of the Silverstone event venue.

Normally he never paid attention to fans, but the high-pitched screams and shouts of their names made him uneasy this time.

“They’re just people,” Nic said, reading his mind. “Prince mentality, baby. We’re in this for them.”

George bit his lip as they headed inside.

Williams needed a prince like Nic, not one like him.

 

 


 

 

The FIA loved their parties. The main event space at Silverstone had been transformed into a luxurious show of wealth and prestige. Tulle draped from the ceiling, littered with crystals to create a blizzard of light above their heads.

Nic swung their hands, marveling at the sparkles above them. “Damn, they really went all out, huh?”

George noted security at every door, bulky men with holsters at their waists and grizzled faces.

“It’s Silverstone, of course they did,” he said.

The FIA headquarters was also in Silverstone, so it was the unofficial hub of all of the empires. The fact that two princes had been involved in an attack here made it especially bad for the FIA, to the point that all of the princes had been on lockdown for the past 24 hours, with all public events cancelled. The FIA claimed they were utilizing all resources to sleuth out the people involved in the attack, but George doubted they were really going to search for criminals who could very well be McLaren citizens.  

The crowd parted for them as they walked through the main lobby. Women stood dressed like expensive Christmas trees, dripping with diamonds, pearls, and gold. Men wore equally expensive outfits with silk ties worth more than some of the cars in the security lineup out front, and George caught sight of way too many pairs of Gucci horsebit loafers.

Posers.

“Hey, there’s Dan,” Nic said, nodding up toward the second floor that overlooked the party.

George followed his gaze and caught sight of Daniel’s orange McLaren cap—the only cap in the crowd.

“Did someone not tell him this was black tie?” George muttered.

Dan stood by himself at the railing, swirling what looked like a martini.  

No sign of Lando.

They made their way up a twisting staircase to the party’s second floor. More security milled around, and several pairs of eyes snapped to them as they approached Daniel, but no one said anything.

“Hey,” George greeted stiffly. He and Daniel weren’t friends. “How are you, mate?”

Daniel looked like he had nothing left in him as he pulled his gaze from his empty glass.

Nic’s hand suddenly went tight around his own, and George was pretty sure he squeezed back, equally frightened.

Daniel’s face was oddly bloated, but bloodless at the same time. Every bit of color on him looked artificial, like he was a creepy wax figure of himself and not a real person.

Whatever happened at Wembley, Daniel was not fine.

“Evenin’ gents,” Daniel greeted, eyes dead. “I’m good. Everything’s good.”

George thought he’d felt sick before, but seeing Daniel nearly made him run to the bathroom to vomit.

“Where’s Lando?” he asked, barely able to get the words out.

Daniel blinked and looked around like he’d just noticed his husband wasn’t there. “Oh. Uh. He had something to do.”

“Something to do?” Nic asked slowly.

“He’s here, I mean,” Daniel said. He kept blinking, and George was pretty sure he had a dilated pupil, but his hat hid his eyes so he couldn’t tell. “Somewhere around here.”

George passed a glance to Nic, who had gone pale.

“Daniel, is everything alright?” George asked, stepping closer in case someone was listening.

Daniel stepped back, turning on a smile that even a chimpanzee wouldn’t even believe. “All good, mate, like I said.”

Nic cleared his throat. “Should we, uh, get drinks?”

A glint of life returned to Daniel’s eyes. “I’d love one. Would you mind grabbing me an old fashioned?”

“Man after my own heart,” Nic replied with a weak smile.

“Daniel, where is Lando?” George pressed.

Daniel shrugged in a way that looked painful somehow. “Ah, probably screwing off somewhere with Lance. I dunno. But we’re good.”

George stared at him, unsettled. He didn’t like Daniel that much. The constant smile and immature jokes seemed fake to him. Daniel had kept a crown for a decade, and men far stronger than him, like Jenson Button, had failed to keep theirs. Daniel had something that kept him in, and it wasn’t dick and balls jokes.

“Nobody’s going to believe that when they see you two,” George said. “I hope you know that.”

Daniel’s smile stayed firm, and that turned out to be more unnerving than him dropping it.

“Let’s go get those drinks,” Nic diffused. “Back in a jiffy.”

George rolled his eyes dramatically, trying to follow suit. “What are you, eighty years old?”

A massive bar took up a wall of the second floor, and the wall of windows that made up half the building gave the bar a backdrop of stars. There wasn’t much out in Towcester aside from Silverstone—mostly sheep farms, shooting ranges, and hunting grounds for rich people to stalk on.

The closest landmark was Milton Keynes, home of Red Bull’s palace. A bit confusing, considering Red Bull didn’t claim Silverstone as a home track, but their presence loomed anyway, even if George was pretty sure the FIA was only allowing McLaren, Williams, and Aston Martin to send princes for the opener event.

Definitely for the best. If Max saw Daniel right now, he would probably hunt down and kill everyone with a ticket to the Euro Cup, Kill Bill style.  

“He’s absolutely fucked,” Nic said under his breath as they approached the bar.

“Big time,” George agreed.

“He’s keeping that hat on for a reason too.”

George glanced back at Daniel, who had resumed his position at the railing, looking out over the crowd. He looked half alive, even from a distance.

“I have to find Lando,” George said.

Nic sighed. “You always have to go find people. Can’t you just wait for Lando to come back? He can’t hide forever, this is a very public event.”

“I’m sorry, did you see what I just saw back there?” George hissed, resting his elbows on the bar as he leaned back, surveying the crowd. “Lando’s one of my best mates. I can’t see Daniel looking like that and not go looking for him. I know this place. We basically grew up here, I know all of the hiding spots.”

Nic propped his head in his hand and looked him over with obvious disappointment.

“Don’t leave the grounds.”

George offered his pinkie. “Swear I won’t.”

 

 


 

 

Silverstone had a lot of hiding spots. Brits had a passion for court drama, and the track venue seemed designed to provide an accessible escape for anyone looking. It also provided a lot of great listening spots.

George used to sneak around here with Alex, even though it hadn’t been against the rules to be together then. It was definitely against the rules to make out with your boyfriend trackside when you were supposed to be running test laps, though. Their driving coaches always screamed at them that they would never be princes if they kept missing session time.

But they managed to find a balance that worked out well.

Until it didn’t.

Lando knew these halls as well as he did, and there were only a few places truly private in the entire venue. Even fewer places where security wouldn’t think to look.

George entered a showroom that he liked to call Narcissism Central, because it wasn’t a showroom for cars for sale, but cars owned by the current guests, picked from parking by Silverstone’s Head of Operations. Car aficionados foamed at the mouth for a chance to have their car shown at a Silverstone FIA event.

Old men in crispy suits and their too-young girlfriends crowded the showroom, too invested in their wealth circle jerk to notice a Williams prince slipping past them.

George made it past half the lineup of rotating cars before a bright red livery caught his attention.

The clean lines of a Ferrari F40 were hard to miss, and the wide spoiler always turned heads, but George didn’t really care about the looks. F40s were a very limited release. Ferrari didn’t let them go to just anyone, and the FIA never showcased a car owned by an FIA representative. He was pretty sure he recognized the car too—something about it said royalty.

George squinted at the car one last time before arriving at a utility door at the far corner of the showroom. A small sign announced that it was a security office, but in reality the door opened to a hallway.

He glanced around once he slipped through, but there were no security guards in sight. George made a beeline for the first door, an unmarked office known for—

“Don’t,” Lando said, his voice ragged. “Go away. Please.”

George set his jaw and rolled up his sleeves, ready to deck whoever was behind that door.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

George froze with his hand on the knob.

Carlos.

Carlos?

Realization snapped to him as he realized that Kayla’s Ferrari tip wasn’t about Charles at all.

No, this was much, much worse.

He opened the door.

Lando flinched so hard he nearly fell over, but thankfully a handsome Spaniard already had his arms wrapped around him, holding him close.  Carlos’s eyes turned nearly black as he glared at George coming in.

George supposed he did look rather ready for a brawl.

“Lock’s still broken, I see,” George said, jiggling the door handle behind him.

“You,” Carlos snarled. “What are you—”

“Stop,” Lando said, pushing against Carlos’s chest. “It’s okay. George is okay.”

Lando didn’t have a cap on, at least, though George couldn’t see his face where it was buried into Carlos’s shirt.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” George said. “But Daniel’s upstairs looking like the fucking undead, Lando. I thought maybe I’d find your fucking corpse down here.”

Lando finally turned and George let out a sigh of relief.

He looked unhurt. Pale, a little gaunt, but unhurt.

“I’m okay,” Lando said shakily. “I mean, like, physically I’m okay.”

George put his hands on his hips solely because he had no idea what to do with them otherwise. “I’m going to need more than that. The FIA is saying you’re both fine, and Daniel seriously looks like he’ll melt if you put him too close to the sun. Oh, and you’ve got Carlos here—”

“I do not ‘have’ Carlos here,” Lando snapped. “I didn’t know he as here until five minutes ago.”

“Ferrari knows I’m here,” Carlos explained, but he didn’t look as relaxed as he should have for an official visit no one seemed to know about.

George cocked a brow. “Oh? And how about the FIA?”

Carlos’s jaw went taut.

The FIA never would have put an F40 in Narcissism Central if they knew it had been driven to the event by a Ferrari prince.

“Fuck, Carlos,” Lando hissed, giving him a little shove. “You’re hiding from the FIA?”

Carlos looked Lando over. “I had to see you. Binotto said you were in the hospital, I couldn’t—”

Lando fisted Carlos’s shirt. “You don’t think!”

“Hey, is that one of Charles’s shirts?” George asked, recognizing the dizzying pattern. He distinctly remembered giving Charles shit for it the year before, because it looked like something a nightclub owner would wear. “That’s like, the dumbest shirt he owns—wait a minute, were you in Monaco?”

Charles always blew off comments about his high fashion choices, but George had never seen him wear the same dumb outfit twice. The nightclub shirt definitely would have gone back into the closet—and not the one at Ferrari.

Carlos looked like he might punch him. He’d seen Carlos pretty pissed before, and seeing it again meant he’d hit the mark.

“I thought I recognized that shirt,” Lando said, his voice already distant.

“I get it now,” George said with a nod. “You ran off. Ferrari knows you’re here, but they didn’t send you here. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Lando shook his head, taking a step back.

Carlos followed him, his hands never leaving Lando’s arms. “Lando, please.”  He cut a glare at George. “Do you really need to be here?”

George folded his arms. “Yeah, mate. You’re the intruder.”

“George, please,” Lando said weakly.

“Security is crawling all over this place,” George said. “They’re going to be looking for you if they aren’t already, Lando. You can’t stay here. Well, you can, but Carlos can’t.”

“Yeah, I fucking know,” Lando snapped. “Daniel’s supposed to cover for me.”

“Daniel doesn’t look like he even knows who he is right now.”

Carlo’s brow furrowed, finally putting it together. “Daniel was hurt?”

George shot him a look. “No, I just described him as a zombie to be funny.”

“But the FIA said—”

“They said a lot of things,” Lando interrupted. “I’m not allowed to talk about it. I want to, but I can’t, okay?”

George had seen Lando freaked out plenty of times. The guy couldn’t watch a scary movie without losing his mind at least once. But he’d never seen Lando so obviously worked up, especially at a public event. He kept flinching every time Carlos moved his hands, like a feral animal caught in a cage.

“Were you hurt?” George asked carefully, scanning for something he may have missed.

“I can’t talk about it,” Lando repeated, lifting trembling hands to wipe at his eyes. “Jesus, I came here to be alone, and now I’m getting double-teamed. Carlos, you need to go. It’s way too dangerous—I don’t know why you came in the first place.”

“It’s okay,” Carlos offered in a soft tone, rubbing his arms. “It will help if I hold you for a little while. You need to relax.”

“Stop!” Lando snapped, so loudly that even George startled. “Stop touching me, Carlos. This isn’t a joke, okay?”

Carlos immediately released his grip, his fingers splayed and eyes wide.

Lando sniffed, adjusting his suit jacket. “You shouldn’t have come here. It isn’t cute. It isn’t fucking romantic when you’re going to get laid out for this. I’m fine. I’ve been fine the whole time, but you just had to make everything dramatic.”

Carlos kept blinking, almost like Daniel upstairs, unable to process. George felt a bit bad for him—he probably would have done something just as stupid for Alex.

“Lando, he’s here to help,” George said in quiet defense.

Carlos gave him a tentative but grateful look.

“Well he isn’t helping,” Lando muttered, taking another step away from him. “You’re making this worse. Go home. Go back to Ferrari and try not to get your head cut off when you walk in the door.”

Lando hugged himself tightly and George noticed a tan line where his watch had been. McLaren could have easily supplied Lando with another one, but he had a feeling that it was intentional.

Fuck them.

“You are not okay,” Carlos murmured, his hands still stuck in place. Carlos probably didn’t know what to do with them if he wasn’t allowed to touch someone. “Two minutes. It will help. I promise it will help.”

Lando squeezed himself tighter. “I’m about to throw up right now,” he said. “That’s how fucking freaked out I am. Not because I got mugged, but because you’re standing here. Think with your head for once, Carlos.”

Carlos frowned, but George saw a glimmer of mirth in his eyes. “I thought you didn’t like me thinking with my head because you said—”

“Shut up,” Lando hissed, but he had his eyes scrunched shut and he didn’t sound as upset. “Why do you always do this? You should have stayed home. Or at least waited.”

“After hearing you’re in the hospital?” Carlos shook his head. “No.”

George steadied himself on his feet as Carlos approached again, fully ready to jump in if Carlos tried to touch him again without Lando’s consent.

Lando opened his eyes and took a shuddering breath.

The silence only lasted for a few seconds, but George’s chest swelled with the urge to speak just to break it.

Finally, Lando let the stopped air from his lungs. “Okay then, don’t just stand there. If you’re gonna hold me, hold me.”

Carlos kissed his forehead first and George watched as each press of his lips seemed to unlock the tension from whatever they touched. Carlos looked a little ridiculous in Charles’s too-small shirt, but once he had his arms wound around Lando again, George allowed himself to take a breath he’d apparently been holding.

“Look, I don’t mean to be a third wheel here, but the longer we stay, the worse this is going to get.”

“I know,” Lando murmured, his voice much softer now, his eyes closed against Carlos’s chest. Carlos pressed kisses to his hair, rubbing his back without a word.

George tried his best not to tap his foot as he stood there. Obviously Lando did need this, but sometimes princes didn’t get what they needed. The FIA would have their heads for this if they found out, and George didn’t know if he could take a blow from them right now.

“George,” Lando said, his shoulders sinking down from where they’d been hunched. “Come here.”

Getting closer seemed like approaching a bear with the way Carlos held Lando so protectively, but George stepped in anyway, leaning down a little. Lando kept looking at him expectantly, so George glanced at Carlos before moving in even closer until he could feel the heat of Carlos’s shoulder against his cheek.

Holy hell, he was even wearing Charles’s cologne.

Lando’s eyes were pink and glassy, and George noticed that he had makeup caked on just like Daniel, but Lando’s seemed to be there to give his face color, not to hide any bruising.

“What’s up,” George said, keeping his voice low, even though obviously Carlos could hear them.

Lando snuggled into Carlos a little more. “Does Max know?” he whispered.

George cleared his throat. “Um. I’m sure he knows. But Red Bull’s statement was the same as everyone else’s. Nobody’s heard from—”

“Charles told him,” Carlos interrupted.

Lando went rigid. “What?”

“Zak called Binotto. Mattia said he was told to tell me about you, but that Charles was going to tell Max. I talked to Charles this morning, he said Max knows, that he was okay. Charles said he was probably hiding nerves, but he wasn’t worried.”

“Then they lied,” Lando said. “Someone lied.”

“Obviously,” George muttered.

“I think they did it on purpose,” Lando said, pressing himself so tight against Carlos that George heard a soft exhale from him.

“What, not telling Max?” George said. “Well, yeah. Max would be here with a knife to Masi’s throat.”

“Not that,” Lando said. “It think this—I think—”

Carlos kissed Lando’s temple when he couldn’t finish. “You need rest. You and Daniel both do.”

Lando swallowed hard, staring at George so intently that he swore he could read text in his irises, though he didn’t speak Lando so he didn’t know what it meant.

Finally, Lando’s lips moved, but the word he spoke was silent.

Mercedes.

George mouth fell open, his blood going cold.

“Yeah, rest,” he found himself saying, because he didn’t want Carlos to notice.

There was no way. Mercedes had no reason to attack princes of an empire they already had a hand in controlling. Toto had already said he intended to win the championship on track, and it wasn’t like Daniel or Lando were putting up any kind of threat toward Lewis.

The FIA just wanted to save face. They didn’t want to admit that empire security was so bad that one of their star princes could get maimed.

But as infuriating as Lando could be sometimes, he was a cautious thinker. Major decisions were never made without careful thought, and he liked to tackle problems with the forethought of an engineer.

He definitely wasn’t the type for conspiracy theories. In fact, he hated them.

“Carlos, you need to go,” Lando murmured, straightening up again. He pressed his palms to Carlos’s cheeks and gave him a kiss that Carlos sank into like he needed it to live.

George bit the inside of his cheek. Why the fuck did everyone get to have their goddamn happily ever afters except him?

“Okay,” Carlos replied before another kiss. “Write me? Tell me whatever you can. I’m going to be back tomorrow night on the Ferrari plane. I’ll be here.”

“This weekend isn’t the weekend for sneaking around,” Lando warned. “Promise me you’ll get back safe.”

“I will,” Carlos assured him, carding his fingers through Lando’s hair, inspecting it as if he might ask Lando how much he’d like to get trimmed.

“I’m going to walk back with George,” Lando said. “If we’re seen together it won’t be as weird.”

“Good idea.”

“I love you,” Lando said, his voice so soft it seemed breathing might cover the sound.

Carlos smiled, brushing their noses together. “I love you too. I’ll get you a new watch, yes?”

Fear flashed in Lando’s eyes for only a second. “Mi lago mi leche.”

Carlos laughed. “No, you would say tu lago tu leche. You are mine, I’m not your lake or your milk.”

George did not want to know what that was code for.

“Mi lago mi leche,” Lando said defiantly.

“No, Lando, that is not how—”

Lando cut him off with a kiss, his back arching into it, so desperate that it pulled the air from George’s lungs just standing there beside him.

“I’m not going to say thank you for coming,” Lando whispered when he pulled away. “Be safe getting home.”

Carlos stole one last peck before Lando turned to George. His eyes weren’t so glassy anymore, and he lifted his chin with purpose, seemingly ready to take on the party.

George and Carlos exchanged a look, but didn’t say goodbye to each other as George opened the door and Lando stepped out into the hall. Carlos knew he’d been stupid to come here, and George didn’t feel like upsetting Lando more by informing Carlos that his car was currently center stage for all of the party guests to gape at.

They walked quickly toward Narcissism Central as Lando jammed his hands in his pockets and George pulled his sleeves back down.

“It doesn’t make sense,” George murmured.

“Look, I fucking know it doesn’t,” Lando said under his breath. “But all of this has been giving me the creeps. Right before this happened, Daniel was freaked. He didn’t come out of our hotel once in Austria. He said something always happens to Max after he wins, and nothing happened for two races. Then this happened at our first public outing.”

“The FIA has no reason to—”

“I could have ended up like him,” Lando hissed, glancing around as they approached the door. “Easily. I should have. But only Daniel got—”

He cut himself off.

“I only got my watch stolen,” Lando finished. “I think it was a fucking warning. That watch was from Carlos. I never hid that, but I didn’t announce it either. And then Carlos fucking—you’re telling me Ferrari couldn’t catch him? He had time to get to fucking Monaco before—god, I can’t talk about this. I’m seriously going to be sick.”

George put an arm around him. “Take a breath, mate. We don’t have to solve this right now.”

But it made a lot of sense. Going after Max would be way too obvious. But Daniel? Hurting him would affect Max way more than hurting Max himself.

Max literally knew how to roll with the punches. He’d been doing it most of his life.

Lando pushed open the door to the showroom and held it for George as he passed through.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” George said, patting Lando’s back.

Lando jerked away, throwing up his hands in frustration. “Fuck! Sorry—just, the guy grabbed me from behind. I don’t want anyone touching me right now.”

George blinked. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

Lando might have been physically unharmed, but George saw the mental damage as visibly as Daniel’s covered wounds.

“This is way bigger than us,” Lando said, fidgeting with his suit. “Dan kept saying that but I didn’t believe him. Nothing’s ever that big, you know?”

George stopped walking. “We shouldn’t talk about this here.”

Narcissism Central was a big room, but people were scattered everywhere, and the best listeners were those who pretended like they didn’t listen at all. Eyes were starting to find them, and Lando couldn’t stand still. He paced in front of George like a smoker without a light, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Carlos is going to get caught up in this,” Lando said, ignoring him. “Charles too. Fuck.”

George shook his head. “Look, Pierre’s fucking stupid sometimes, but he’s publicly gone against Red Bull before, and he’s still on their side. He can protect Charles.”

“Yeah, from Red Bull,” Lando whispered, stepping in close. “This is way bigger.”

“Charles also has Sebastian,” George reminded him. “And Carlos has Alonso, right? You’re the only one at risk, and maybe that’s why this happened. Max isn’t powerful enough to protect you—not that he even would—and Daniel doesn’t really have any championship alliances.”

“Yeah, but who would organize it?” Lando asked.

George caught the implication in his question and set his jaw. “He wouldn’t. Say what you want about Lewis, but he’s a good person. He wouldn’t put out a—”

He lowered his voice further.

“He wouldn’t put out a hit on Daniel.”

 Lando stared at him for a moment, assessing. “You’re sure? You don’t know him that well.”

“I’m fucking sure,” George snapped. “He wrote me last week that he spent a four hours staring at the wall because he accidentally hit a squirrel on his drive into Mercedes last week. He wouldn’t hurt someone.”

Lando worked his jaw. “Then who?”

“I wouldn’t put it past Toto. But I think we’re forgetting that Red Bull also has a bone to pick with Daniel. Doesn’t this feel a little fucking familiar to you?”

People started approaching. George shot daggers at them before nodding back toward the main party.

Lando turned, heading off with George following behind. They greeted people as they passed, but didn’t linger, insisting they had to get back to their husbands.

Security whispered into earpieces as they approached the main doors, and George was sure half the detail in Silverstone breathed a sigh of relief as they reentered the main lobby.

“Second floor has fewer people,” George said, waving to Jost standing by the downstairs bar. Jost waved back with a smile, and Zak Brown turned around from beside him and gave one too.

“This is like Alex all over again,” George finally continued as they started up the stairs together. “Max says he doesn’t know anything, then when Red Bull drops the bomb he doesn’t even looked shocked.”

“That was Alex,” Lando said. “This is Daniel.”

“Alex grew up with us,” George snapped.

Lando shot him a look over his shoulder. “Alex was better friends with Charles than Max. Pretty much everyone was.”

“Okay fine,” George said as they reached the top of the stairs. “But let’s look at the facts, yeah? Red Bull tries to recruit you, but they don’t recruit Daniel. Now Daniel gets hurt, but you apparently don’t.”

Lando stopped walking and George collided with his back, swearing under his breath as he righted himself.

Christian Horner stood at the bar, giving Daniel’s shoulder a hearty pat. Daniel had a fresh old fashioned in hand, his smile slanted as he laughed. It looked painful for him, his shoulders lopsided and his cheeks too pinched.

“Max writes me all the time,” Lando murmured, transfixed. “For Dan, you know. Last week he said he’s okay if he doesn’t win the championship. If he doesn’t get it this year he’ll get it next year. I thought it was weird.”

Daniel teetered a little, in a way that reminded George of someone just about to vomit. Horner still had a hand on his shoulder, but Daniel’s weight shifted, his spine wrenched a little even though George couldn’t see Horner putting any pressure into his hold.

“Hey!” Lando called as he strode forward.

George followed right behind him, watching as Horner turned a completely fake smile toward them. The guy always looked dead behind the eyes, a barren icy tundra of nothing in in his skull.

“Hey babe,” Lando said, softer, as he approached, his demeanor completely changed from the panicked and fidgeting boy George had just been talking to.

“Oh hey,” Daniel greeted. The angle of the light caught his cheek and George saw how grossly swollen it was, almost bulbous.

“Come here,” Lando said, completely ignoring Horner and sliding between them.

Horner blinked and removed his hand rather dramatically as Lando took his spot.

Typical Red Bull, always putting on a show.

Lando planted a kiss on Daniel’s lips, long and slow and realistic enough that even George had to remind himself that Lando had just been kissing Carlos ten minutes ago.

“Woah,” Daniel chuckled when the kiss broke, looking down at him through his lashes. “Hello there.”

“Good to see you, Christian,” George greeted in an icy tone. “Sorry to butt in.”

He made sure to sound like he wasn’t sorry at all.

Horner’s eyes narrowed before he dipped his head. “Your Royal Highness.”

“Is Max here?” George asked nonchalantly, looking around.

“Ah, no,” Horner replied. “It’s such a quick trip I decided to stop by. I’ll tell him you said hello.”

“Yes,” George said. “Please give him my kindest regards.”

Horner let out a little snort and turned  away.

“—hurts so much,” Daniel was saying as George returned his focus to Lando.

Lando had a hand on Daniel’s face, his fingertips only brushing the skin.

“We don’t have to stay much longer,” Lando assured him. “Once they announce the cars, we can go. Do you need to sit down? You okay?”

Suddenly Nic appeared beside George, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“Sebastian incoming,” Nic warned through his smile.

Lando turned, panic in his eyes.

“Hey, Norris, I think I’m gonna puke,” Daniel said, his voice thick. “Like actually really.”

Nic stepped in and took Daniel’s sloshing old fashioned as Lando put an arm around his husband and headed for the bathroom.

“Hey, is Daniel feeling okay?” Lance asked, clapping a hand to George’s back.

George turned to see Lance and Sebastian, both of them looking absolutely stupid in teal-emerald ties and pale green button downs beneath their black suits.

“He looked like he wasn’t doing so well,” Sebastian added, brow furrowed in concern.

Every time George looked at him, he couldn’t understand how someone like Charles Leclerc even found the guy attractive. Maybe four world championships added attractiveness points, though he needed more than four, in George’s opinion.

Maybe seven. Or eight.

But of course, Lewis didn’t need any help in the looks department, so his were just a bonus.

“Hospital food,” George explained with a smile, tugging on Nic’s earlobe with the hand at his shoulder, a silent thanks for the warning. Nic dug his thumb into George’s ribs in reply.

“Ah,” Sebastian said, nodding. “Yes, that will do it.”

“Especially mixed with liquor this good,” Lance added, holding up a martini. “Look, they even gave me a green cherry for Aston Martin. Pretty cool.”

George wanted to smack him, but grinned. “Special service, eh? Nic, don’t you get blue coffee at Lavazza?”

Nic rolled his eyes. “You wish.”

Sebastian straightened a little. “Oh, right—George, can I speak with you for a moment?”

Nic’s arm tightened around him as George scanned Sebastian’s face for a motive. They mostly avoided each other on the grid. He doubted Sebastian liked him for a host of reasons, but the one he probably hid behind was that he was Lewis’s best friend. The young, hot boyfriend never made the best friend feel good about himself in these situations.

“Sure, mate,” George agreed with a smile.

Sebastian headed for the bar and George followed, glancing back at Nic, who was already inspecting Lance’s tie and comparing it with his own.

“What’s this about?” George asked when Sebastian didn’t say anything.

Sebastian leaned against the bar and smiled politely at the bartender, ordering a beer. It looked like no one had bothered to prepare him for an event at all. His blond curls were mussed and a little damp from the overhead lights, and he wore sweat like a German—not well.

“Vodka soda,” George said when the bartender looked at him.

“I have a request,” Sebastian finally said, turning to him. “From a friend of ours.”

George didn’t react. “Oh? Which friend?”

Sebastian laughed and George decided he hated the sound. “Come on, stupid doesn’t suit you.”

Only Sebastian Vettel could make a compliment into an insult.

“What’s the request?”

Sebastian’s beer arrived and he took a long draw, getting beer froth on his upper lip. “You know, this mugging has everyone on edge for no reason. Security won’t change anything. Princes will still seek other princes, life will stay the same. If the FIA really wanted to stop it, it would be easy.”

“What’s the request, Seb?” George asked again, not hiding his annoyance.

Sebastian smiled as he licked the froth from his lip. “If you’re very quick, he’d like to see you before the new cars are announced.”

It took George several seconds to comprehend what he’d just been told. “Lewis is here?”

Sebastian shot him a disappointed look. “Subtilty is a learned art, I see.”

George soured.

“Of course he’s here,” Sebastian said around another sip of beer. “You think the world champion wouldn’t be invited? I suppose he wanted it to be more of a surprise. Didn’t count on you being oblivious.”

George rolled his eyes. “Where is he?”

Sebastian chewed the inside of his cheek. “He said you would probably know. Behind the showroom. He said everyone here knows about the broken lock?”

George smiled, but everything in him went cold.

The bartender set his vodka soda on the counter.

“He’s there now?” George asked.

Sebastian shrugged. “I assume so. I saw him just a few minutes ago and we were near the showroom.”

“Thanks,” George said, his heart racing.

Carlos had to have made it out already. There was no way he’d still be hiding there.

“Don’t run,” Sebastian muttered, eyeing him. “He takes about a thousand years to get ready for any kind of public event. You won’t miss him.”

 

 


 

 

When George pushed the door open to the abandoned office, Lewis stood with his back to him, headphones on. His black shirt was definitely haute couture, perfectly tailored to his body and clinging in all the right places. Paired with silver pants that somehow sailed past tacky and right into sophisticated, George didn’t know which to stare at first.

Lewis jumped a moment later, then burst into laughter as he tugged his headphones down. “Fuck, man, you scared me. How long have you been standing there?”

George smiled wide, his heart threatening to burst at the sound of such easy laughter.

“Not long,” he said, crossing to him. “Maybe not long enough, honestly.”

Lewis laughed again, turning around to face him. He kept his smile as his eyes hooded.

“Hi,” he greeted softly, and George nearly melted.

“Hey,” George returned.

Lewis’s lips tasted like cane sugar. The two weeks they’d spent apart slammed into him as George’s hands smoothed up Lewis’s back, his skin hot underneath the fabric of his shirt.

“I thought Seb was going to forget to tell you,” Lewis chuckled when they broke apart.

“On purpose, you mean,” George teased, finding his mouth again.

“Mm, maybe.”

George grinned. “How long have you been hiding out in here?”

Lewis shrugged. “Not long. Did all my media stuff first, came in here for a break before the ceremony. The new cars look like shit, by the way.”

Thank god.

Carlos wouldn’t have stuck around this long. And if Lewis caught him, he definitely would have said something.

“I was worried about you,” Lewis admitted. “Hearing about Lando and Daniel made me uneasy.”

“They’re both here tonight,” George said.

Lewis shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anything after something like that. The FIA doesn’t give a shit if you’re in a bad place,, you have to come to this or people panic.”

George held Lewis a little tighter, leaning in to rest his head on Lewis’s shoulder. Lewis tensed for a moment, then wound his arms around him.

Next year, he’d get this after every race.

“You okay?” Lewis asked.

“Lando’s in rough shape,” George murmured. “Seeing him like that kinda freaked me out.”

Lewis nuzzled against him. “He’s okay though? Like, he’s not hurt?”

George shook his head. “Not that I could see.”

He breathed in the familiar scent of Lewis’s cologne, the warmth of his skin.

He wanted to ask what Lewis though about the attack, if he thought Red Bull could be behind it. He just didn’t know how to phrase it in a way that wouldn’t give Lewis a clue as to what he was thinking.

“I have a hotel tonight,” Lewis said, running his thumb over George’s shoulder blade. “I can request approval for you to stay. Would that help?”

George pulled back enough to press a kiss to Lewis’s cheek.

If Red Bull was behind the attack, staying at Lewis’s hotel room would put Nic at risk, especially if his stay was announced publicly. He doubted Red Bull would stop at Daniel if they wanted to wreak havoc before Silverstone.

“I don’t want to leave Nic alone,” George said.

Lewis let out a hum. “Of course. Figured I’d offer—I’m here for you.”

“I know,” George murmured, pulling back fully.

God, he could kiss that face forever. Every inch of Lewis’s skin looked kissable all the damn time.

“I love you,” George said with a soft kiss. “But I should get back. I’ve barely spent any time with my own husband. Unless you needed me?”

Lewis shook his head. “Just needed this. Write me if you change your mind. I can send you a keycard in no time flat.”

He nuzzled into Lewis’s hand when it came to his face.

“You looked rested,” Lewis said softly, thumbing his cheekbone. “I’m glad. I didn’t like where we left things in Austria.”

“I feel better,” George agreed. “I’m getting better. This helps.”

Lewis smiled before kissing the tip of his nose. “Go on and have your fun. I’ll see you in a few minutes. Promise me you can look past the eyesore of the new cars and find me on stage?”

George laughed. “You’re very hard for me to miss.”

Lewis grinned. “It’s the pants, isn’t it?”

“Definitely the pants.”

He loved the sound of Lewis’s laughter. He also liked the way it tasted.

“Cheers, love,” Lewis murmured, brushing noses with him. “I love you, and I’ll see  you out there.”

George filled with warmth and happiness—a welcome kick after the panic and unease that had plagued the evening so far.

A few moments later, he returned into Narcissism Central—again—and made his way back toward the party.

But just as he reached the door to the main venue, he caught sight of the Ferrari F40. It was further down the line now, turning slowly on the high-class conveyor belt of luxury sports cars, no Ferrari representatives in sight.

Carlos was smart, George told himself as he made his way back into the party.  Carlos knew how to make a getaway. He’d been a prince longer than both he and Lando combined. He wouldn’t slip up—he never did.

Besides, George had no proof that it was Carlos’s F40 anyway. Some Ferrari VIP could have easily brought theirs.  

Lewis would have told me if he saw him, George thought as he headed up the stairs. Lewis would have told me.

 

 

Chapter Text

Pierre,

I think what you suggested is the best idea. Mattia seems to think we’ll be off of lockdown by qualifying. Je fais la réservation.

I won’t be offended if you don’t feel safe doing this. I know it’s an even bigger risk than we thought it would be. Bien sûr, je veux te voi, but if we can only see each other at the track, je vais me débrouiller.

Max seems okay. I think he was nervous, but he didn’t do anything stupid that I know of. I’ve been a bit in the dark the past few days though, I’ll admit.

Toi aussi, tu me manques, mais tu le sais.

Fuck, mate, I’m actually excited for a race weekend again. Depuis Monaco, il a été difficile de—

 

Charles looked up from writing when he heard the sound of footsteps. The royal apartment was dark except for the warm light of the lamp beside the couch and the glow from the stars outside, but he spotted shadows moving under the door.

He capped his pen and folded up his parchment before sticking it into a royal envelope. Pierre probably wouldn’t get his letter until tomorrow night anyway if he was flying into Silverstone on the morning.

Carlos entered the apartment looking younger than Charles remembered. His hair seemed longer, his eyes unfocused compared to the intensity Carlos usually carried.

He was also wearing one of Charles’s shirts. The one George made fun of him for in Bahrain last year.

“Welcome back,” Charles greeted, setting his letter on the side table by the couch. He didn’t stand to greet him. “How was it?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away as he rounded the couch and took a seat on the other end.

“You were right.”

Charles cocked a brow. “Not surprising. About what?”

Carlos blinked. His mouth opened then closed again, and he finally just slumped back against the back of the couch.

“I don’t think I should have gone,” Carlos admitted.

The urge to say ‘I told you so’ welled up in him, but Charles said nothing. He knew he didn’t really have a right to speak. Since Carlos left, Charles realized that as much as he wished he could put the crown first, the reason he wouldn’t have gone to Silverstone after someone he loved wasn’t because of his appointment.

He just would have been too scared of the consequences.

“Has Binotto sentenced you yet?” Charles asked, folding his hands in his lap.

Carlos shook his head. “I think they’re waiting to see if I was caught.”

“Were you?”

Carlos ran a hand through his hair. “No. Not that I know of, anyway.”

They sat together on the couch for a moment as Charles searched for something to say.

“I also wanted to say that I am sorry,” Carlos said, looking down at the floor. “I’m not afraid to admit when I am wrong, and I should have listened to you. And I wanted you to know that it meant a lot to me that you helped me get to Silverstone when you didn’t have to.”

Charles’s cheeks burned. He was glad for the darkness to hide it.

He couldn’t find it in him to be angry, though he’d intended to lecture Carlos at some point about how stupid he’d been.

“I didn’t want you to get in any more trouble,” Charles said. “You’ve covered for me a hundred times over.”

Charles could have been hung out to dry if Carlos decided to tell someone about the phone Sebastian gave him. He wouldn’t have made it past Monaco.  

“I think it was good that I went, but I don’t think I should have,” Carlos said distractedly. He had his hands on his knees, rubbing nervously. “Lando was upset when he saw me, and he was already very upset from the attack.”

Charles shifted on the couch, scooting closer to tuck Carlos’s hair behind his ear. His hair was awfully long, but he didn’t want Carlos to trim it yet. He liked an unkempt look on him.

“I only saw him for a few minutes,” Carlos continued softly. “He didn’t want me there and told me to leave. I’ve never seen him so frightened.”

Charles rested his chin on Carlos’s shoulder. “It’s a scary thing. When people experience something like that it isn’t easy to get over. I’m sure he was just overwhelmed.”

Carlos nodded, but his leg started to bounce. “It didn’t feel good.”

Charles let out a hum. “Didn’t feel good to be left behind.”

Carlos grimaced, genuine pain on his face. “I’m sorry.”

Charles lifted his head to press a chaste kiss to Carlos’s cheek. They had a long weekend ahead and a busy day tomorrow arriving on track. The media firestorm would be in full force, and they would get a lot of questions.

Carlos put an arm around him and Charles tucked himself into his side, thankful for the comfort. He smiled as he ran his fingers over the silky fabric of his shirt.

“How was my flat?”

Carlos let out a groan. “Oh, I’m sorry about that too. I meant to text, but—”

“It’s okay,” Charles chuckled. “I’m genuinely curious how it was.”

He missed home. Mostly he missed having a place of his own, a place where he could invite Pierre over and not have it be a public betrayal.

“Very clean,” Carlos said. “And quiet.”

“I’m glad you found something to wear,” Charles teased, plucking the fabric.

Carlos laughed. “Yes, George recognized it.”

Charles blinked. “George saw you?”

“Yes. He came looking for Lando. But he won’t tell, I know he won’t.”

Charles didn’t like that someone else knew that Carlos had been in Silverstone. George could be trusted, but he was also close with Lewis, and with Red Bull and Mercedes looking for any excuse to make trouble, any slip up could be costly.

Carlos pressed a kiss to his creased brow.

“There is something else you should know,” Carlos said, lowering his voice. “It’s about Daniel.”

 

 


 

 

There was no way Daniel would be able to get in a car on Friday. Lando watched as he laid in bed, his face garishly bruised and swollen to the point that Lando didn’t even think it would fit in a helmet.

“If Felipe can race with a steel plate in his head, I can race like this,” Daniel said.

“Felipe didn’t race the day after they put a plate in his head,” Lando argued.

“Physician said I’m good. They’ll drain all the shit tomorrow morning and we’ll be great.”

Lando wanted to know just how much Zak had paid a real live doctor to sit in front of Daniel and say he was fine to race. His pupils didn’t even match—one was blown out from a concussion. Even Lando knew the signs, and he had no medical experience beyond patching up his sister’s scrapes as kid so their mum didn’t find out they’d been wrestling in the garden again.

“You’re not good at all,” Lando said. “You’re horrible, actually.”

“I’m flattered, really,” Daniel teased, turning his head on the pillow.

His cheek was so swollen that it made his eye almost closed.

Daniel patted his thigh comfortingly. “I’m okay, Lando. Once they do the drain thing, I’ll be good as new.”

All Lando could think about was how this was his fault. He’d chosen to leave the stadium when they did. Waiting would have allowed everyone to have a better grasp on the situation. They could have stayed in their box, safe from harm. Daniel would have a clear head and a real smile, not the collection of muscle contractions he kept forcing his face into.

He’d given someone the perfect chance to hurt them, to hurt Daniel specifically.

Lando had a feeling Daniel knew who was behind it. He wouldn’t tell anyone what happened in that tunnel, and he hadn’t asked any questions to the investigators about if they were close to finding the culprits. It was like he already knew.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Lando asked, crossing his legs on the mattress.

Daniel’s lashes fluttered lazily. “What do you think? Some soup, maybe?”

Lando didn’t like soup. Anything in broth seemed like perfectly good food floating in liquid snot for no reason.

“Craving anything in particular?” he asked.

Daniel grunted as he sat up and Lando watched in real time as the blood rushed to his head. Daniel’s eyes went wide as he adjusted, steadying himself on the mattress.

He cared about Daniel a lot. Of course, the cloud of Daniel’s lie hung over them, but Lando didn’t really fault him for it now.

Sometimes it was easier to pretend. To fall into the role of a prince and love the husband assigned to him—though Lando used the word ‘love’ pretty liberally. He wasn’t like Charles, who stuffed up affection and had some vendetta about saying what he meant, but the only person Lando told he loved and meant it was and always would be Carlos.

But Daniel was a good substitute, and a caring person. He dealt with things like an adult and had an innate ability to step back and understand everyone’s perspective before he made decisions.

“I’d fuckin’ kill for some chicken noodle,” Daniel said, hunching over his legs.

His face looked so much worse up close.

Lando scooted across the mattress to his side, reaching up to inspect the stitches hidden in his curls.

Lando used to think Zak really cared about him. Zak was one of the kinder heads of government in the empires. He bragged about Daniel and Lando without being pushy about it, and always had nice things to say even when they had a bad race.

But he’d also forced the McLaren medical staff to stitch Daniel’s head wound without shaving his hair, putting him at risk for all kinds of shit. Lando overheard Daniel’s doctor explaining that there could still be shards of glass embedded in his scalp, that hair could have gotten into the wound and that it might cause an infection.

“Chicken noodle then,” Lando said, his stomach twisting up in revulsion at the sight of the wound. The stitches looked like an infestation of spiders.

“How’s it look?” Daniel asked.

“A little better,” Lando lied. “But I don’t know how you’re gonna put a helmet on.”

He brushed his fingers over the swollen flesh of Daniel’s cheek, bile rising in his throat as the skin dipped with the consistency of a water balloon.

“Ow,” Daniel muttered, leaning away.

“Sorry.”

“Touching it won’t make it heal faster, babe,” Daniel said, offering him a lopsided smile.

Lando smiled back. Daniel didn’t use ‘babe’ as a romantic thing, just a familiar thing. It helped keep up appearances, and Lando was used to it now.

“Stay in bed,” Lando instructed as he slipped off the mattress. “I’ll get that chicken noodle.”

A quick phone call to the kitchen secured Daniel’s soup in a matter of minutes.

Daniel didn’t listen—as usual—and shuffled from the bedroom a few minutes later, blinking exhaustion from his eyes. Well, he attempted to.

The McLaren royal apartment wasn’t the nicest place Lando had ever lived, but half of the coolness of royalty was the fact that all he had to do was pick up the phone in the front hall and he could have anything he wanted in no time flat.

 Orange-gold light lined the underside of the kitchen cabinets, a nice accent to the cherry wood all over the place. Whoever designed it had too much of an affinity for white and navy blue, but Lando didn’t really care that much as long as he didn’t have to host any parties in his living space.

“Soup’s coming,” Lando said.

“Sweet,” Daniel replied, opening the fridge.

Lando closed his eyes at the sound of beer bottles clinking.

“We have press tomorrow,” Lando said, turning around to face him. “Please don’t drink. I really fucking hate it when you drink this close to getting into the car.”

Daniel set his unopened beer on the countertop.

“It fuckin’ hurts, mate. A beer will take the edge off.”

“No it won’t,” Lando said quietly. “One beer doesn’t even do anything to you, and I’d like to go one day without you doing this.”

Daniel’s long fingers stayed wrapped around the bottle, but he didn’t move to open it. Lando watched as he warred with himself, and the depth of his alcoholism showed in the way he struggled to choose what to do.

The small moments were where Lando saw the person Daniel used to be. That version of him strived so hard to be upstanding and right, to be a beacon of warmth and goodwill for the whole grid.

Lando saw that version of Daniel fighting to put the beer back in the fridge, fighting to be a good husband and prince.

Lando reached out, resting his hand over his husband’s.

“I can do it,” he offered quietly.

Daniel swallowed hard, staring at the bottle.

“Man,” he laughed. “This is stupid.”

Lando softened. “It’s not stupid. It’s allowed to be hard. You’ve been through a lot.”

Dan laughed again, broken and forced. “Okay, mate. Take it.”

Lando carefully pulled the bottle from his grip and returned it to the fridge.

“You can talk to me about things, you know,” Lando said as he faced Daniel again, leaning against the fridge doors. “I know you think I’m basically a kid or something, but I’m not some dumbass.”

Daniel jammed his hands in his hoodie pocket as he leaned against the counter. His swollen face made him look like he was pouting, but Lando didn’t find any humor in it.

“Some things you can’t talk about,” Daniel said.

“Well keeping it in sure isn’t working,” Lando replied dryly.

Daniel looked down at his bare feet. “Do you think Max knows?”

Lando could never tell if Daniel was trying to give him hints when he changed the subject like that.

“He definitely doesn’t know,” Lando assured him. “I mean, do you think Horner would tell him?”

Daniel shook his head slowly. “He said he’s going to do everything he can to keep Max away from me before the race.”

“If you want to see him I’ll cover for you, you know.”

He didn’t consider himself friends with Max anymore, but he cared about Daniel. And a part of him still hoped that one day they would all be back together again, undamaged and complete.

And yeah, maybe he liked giving people a chance to be happy.

Daniel let out a breath. “I don’t want to distract him.”

Lando smiled, cocking his head. “I think he’d like a distraction. I mean, he’ll kill me first for not telling him, but then I think he’d like it.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t kill anyone,” Daniel replied, but he sounded tired. “He’s gonna be okay.”

Sometimes Lando wondered if Daniel knew Max at all.

“I don’t know if I’d be okay,” Lando said. “Seeing you like that.”

They didn’t flirt. Ever since Lando found out that Daniel had been sneaking off to fuck Max before they were even married, things kind of fizzled out in that department. Lando didn’t even know if was possible for him to actually be attracted to someone who wasn’t Carlos.

But sometimes he said things that came out differently than he meant it to, and he liked the new meaning. It was like his body new how to do things his brain couldn’t.

Daniel’s eyes found his and the unsteady thing they had settled between them.

Lando knew full well Daniel didn’t love him. Max ruled his heart as forcibly as he drove his car.

But maybe a part of Daniel loved him.

And maybe if Lando could disassemble himself and put things together that had fused in the wrong places, he would find a piece of himself that loved Daniel too.

Except experience taught him time and time again that loving someone usually ended with a fuck ton of pain.

“You’ve managed pretty well,” Daniel said.

Lando ignored the weight in his voice. “Yeah, because someone’s gotta take care of you. Otherwise you’d be getting sloppy on the carpet making an even bigger ass of yourself.”

Most people threw him looks for his insults or clapped back with a sassy comment (read: George). Some people simply told him he ought to be slapped.

Daniel never did any of that. His smile just went tight-lipped and he always did a little nod. Just one.

That reaction usually pissed him off. Usually.

“Lando, someday you’re going to learn something about someone and it’s going to make you feel like king of the world,” Daniel said. “You’re gonna look at your life and everything leading up to that moment is gonna feel like it’s been worth it, just for that one thing.”

Suddenly Lando could only see the white walls of his driver room in the McLaren hospitality suite, Carlos’s fingers tapping a beat against his thigh, the tinny sound of too-loud headphones invading the perfect silence.

“And everything and everyone is going to tell you you can do whatever you want with what you have,” Daniel said. “And you’re probably gonna believe them. You’re gonna think you finally found the missing piece.”

Milk dripped from Lando’s eyelashes. It coated his hands and face in white film, and yet all he remembered thinking about was how he’d never heard Carlos laugh so hard and that he’d dump a bowl of milk on himself every day if it earned him that. Even moving at a hundred miles an hour, he could still pick out—

Daniel’s fist slammed on the countertop and Lando jumped so hard he hit his back on the fridge door handle, sending a shockwave of pain up his spine.

“Jesus—!”

“Poof,” Daniel spat, his voice sticky. “That champagne turns to poison so fast you won’t feel it until it’s already taken everything away from you. And guess who put it in there? It was the people who gave it to you. What you thought was protection wasn’t anything at all. And then you’re fucked, forever. Forever, mate.”

Lando had lifted his hands to defend himself without realizing it. He lowered them slowly, taking in the well of moisture in Daniel’s eyes.

“Is that what happened to you?” Lando asked, shaking thoughts of Wembley from his head.

But Daniel was no longer there. He had that distant look in his eyes again, clouded over and long gone.

Lando stood leaned against the fridge for a few moments before he noticed Daniel’s hand shaking.

“C’mon,” Lando soothed, stepping from his spot to scoop Daniel’s hand from the countertop. “You should be in bed anyway.”

Daniel’s palm was ice cold. Lando brought it to his lips without thinking. A husbandly thing to do, he told himself as his mouth moved over Daniel’s scabbed knuckles.

 

That night Daniel slept with a belly full of chicken noodles and an ice pack on his face that Lando changed out every few hours. Daniel slept soundly and peacefully in a way only drugs could accomplish, but the FIA was happy to supply those if it meant keeping their secret.

Lando laid on top of the covers, arms folded on the mattress, and watched Daniel sleep. He thought about Carlos, who was probably with Charles, feeling very similar.

Well, not totally, because Carlos was actually in love with Charles and wasn’t afraid to say it out loud to his own boyfriend. Or ex-husband, though that made it sounded like they’d ended, and they hadn’t.

Carlos just loved someone else. And him. Together.

Daniel groaned in his sleep. Lando waddled closer on his elbows before laying his hand over Daniel’s twitching wrist.  His face looked even worse, and Lando could see his pulse in the vein of his temple.

“You’re good, mate,” Lando whispered, his eyes itchy and heavy.

Usually he fell asleep immediately when he went to bed—hell, he fell asleep on tire warmers if left alone too long. But he didn’t know how to sleep when Daniel would wake up in pain, probably confused, and definitely drugged.

Max needed to see him, but not like this.

Lando gave Daniel’s wrist a squeeze and sat up.

He had a letter to write.

 

 


 

 

By the time the medical team finished with Daniel’s face, Lando no longer trusted humanity. The man who walked out of the medical wing was not the one who walked in.

All of the swelling had disappeared. Daniel had a band-aid on his cheekbone and his eyes were a little puffy, but he looked completely normal otherwise.

Well, except for the constant blinking and off-kilter eyes. They even took his goddamn stitches out and replaced them with some kind of tissue glue so his head wound wasn’t visible, even to Lando standing next to him.

They took a team carpool to Silverstone instead of a McLaren, which was fine with Lando. He had no interest in driving a McLaren GT ever again.

He spent the drive wrapped up in his hoodie, curled into the corner of his seat while Zak spoke quietly to Dan, who didn’t look like he understand half of what was being said to him.

“These press conferences are key,” Zak explined. “We have to make sure nothing looks amiss. Otherwise, people will panic and we’ll have the FIA down our throats. Do you think you can do that?”

“Easy,” Daniel replied. “Who am I with?”

“Sophia, who is Daniel with for his press conference?”

Sophia pulled off her headphones in the passenger seat. “Lance Stroll.”

Lando flicked his gaze back to Daniel just in time to see what little color he had in face leak right out.

“What about me?” Lando asked.

Sophia smiled sympathetically. “Lewis.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lando muttered, burrowing deeper into his spot. “We have that private waiting room, right?”

Sophia nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Lando winced. “Don’t call me Your Highness, Sophia. Come on.”

Their plan was pretty simple. Lando had used anxiety and post-mugging PTSD as an excuse to get himself and Daniel a private waiting room for media day. Max would meet them right after his interview, and they would find a way to make it out of the encounter alive--the latter part being Lando’s objective.

“Who’s in the first interview?” Lando asked.

Sophia pulled out her iPad. She tapped it a few times and fiddled around while Daniel leaned back in his seat, probably willing his fresh dose of pain meds to kick in.  

Sophia smiled brightly as she turned to look at him.  “Prince Max and Prince Pierre.”

Lando sighed. Awesome.

 

 


 

 

“I think this weekend will be very important for the championship, as every race is,” Max said on TV, looking as lost as he usually did in an interview chair.

Lando still didn't understand how so many people loved him. Max was an asshole most of the time. Even to Charles back in the day—way before he became a publicly recognized asshole for dumping him.

“Lewis and I race hard, but we race fairly, so it is annoying when you ask me these questions like we hate each other. I race to win, like everyone else. At the end of the day we are all friends.”

Lando put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

Pierre shifted in his seat on screen, legs splayed, hands folded in his lap.

“Yes, that’s what’s often forgotten here,” Pierre said. “Off track we’re all very close.”

“Pierre and I have been friends since we were small,” Max tacked on. “We’ve both been Red Bull princes during different—”

“He’s forgetting we were married,” Pierre cut in with a smirk. “It was a pretty short marriage, so I don’t blame him.”

“Oh shit,” Lando said, cackling from his spot on their waiting room couch.

Max rolled his eyes, turning to look at Pierre. “I did not forget.”

“You did, mate,” Pierre teased, but Lando saw the danger in his eyes.

Max turned back to the camera, smiling. “We’ve been through a lot together, as you can tell. We still share things.”

Pierre’s jaw flexed. “Sister empires.”

“Other things too, yes?” Max said, leaning back.

Lando’s face fell.

“What’s he talking about?” Daniel asked.

Pierre cocked a brow. “Do we? I can’t think of anything.”

“He’s giving him shit,” Lando murmured, but his heart kicked up in his chest.

Well. Max knew about Pierre and Charles, that much was clear.

Lando was pretty sure Daniel knew at least something about Max and Charles, but a lot of people did. The difficult part was the time period where Charles had been a lower court prince and Max a real one. That part stayed hidden from pretty much everyone.

Lando had no problem throwing Max under the bus and telling the truth, but he wouldn’t do that to Charles or Daniel. Max could be a two-faced dick on his own time.

Max shrugged. “Alpha Tauri and Red Bull are very close, that's all. Sometimes there is overlap of resources. So we share.”

“Resources?” Pierre laughed. “Yeah, mate, I think our coffee’s from the same place. Good point.”

“So, Prince Max,” a reporter cut in as Max’s smile turned sly. “Anything you’d like to say to Prince Lewis this weekend?”

Max shrugged again. “What I have to say to him, I’ll say in person.”

Daniel let out a sigh as the interview finished up. Some of the swelling had returned to his face, but not enough to be that noticeable. As long as he looked good on camera, they would be okay.

Lando nudged him with his foot. “Hang in there.”

“Yeah,” Daniel muttered, eyes closed. “Tomorrow’s gonna be fun, that’s for sure.”

“Cheer up, your one true love will be here any minute,” Lando joked, reclining against the armrest.

“You don’t mind being third wheel?” Daniel teased.

Lando rolled his eyes. “I grew up being third wheel for two different relationships, mate. I’m pro.”

Daniel laughed, then moved to his feet. Lando could understand why someone wouldn’t want to be sitting down when Max entered a room. Especially if there was a pretty big possibility Max would be furious.

Lando decided he didn’t care if Max strangled him, he was so tired that the thought of moving seemed way worse than anything Max could inflict. He closed his eyes, but opened them almost instantly when he heard the door creak open.

Seeing Max outside of the royal spotlight always made him look like a kid again. The round cheeks and big eyes of childhood Max were long gone, but he had the same hunch to his shoulders, like he was hiding from something.

Someone, actually.

That hunch disappeared the second Max closed the door behind him.

He went completely still and so did Daniel, both men silently assessing each other.

Lando saw the moment Max realized he’d been lied to.

His face contorted into pain first, then anger, then escalated to silent rage. His eyes seemed to explode with color, a blue cloud of chlorine gas behind his pupils.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Daniel said softly.

That was probably the worst thing he could have said, because even Lando heard the lie in it.

For a moment their age difference seemed swapped—Daniel looked the part of the younger prince, scared and helpless in a royal world, and Max looked like the reigning king, all power and might.

And a fuck ton of anger suddenly directed at Lando.

“You lied to me,” Max spat, and Lando shriveled on the couch. Maybe standing up hadn’t been such a bad idea.

“Max, don’t,” Daniel said, sidestepping to block Max’s path. “Lando did what I asked.”

“I’m going to fucking—I don’t even know what!” Max roared, eyes wild. “Was this Zak? Did he tell you not to say anything? Fuck, Horner said he fucking saw you at the party last night—what the fuck happened!?”

Daniel lifted his chin the way someone might do before shushing a barking dog.

“Max, calm down.”

“Calm down?” Max’s face went red. He threw his cap against the wall where it hit with a loud thwap. “You want me to look at you and calm fucking down?”

“Shh,” Daniel said. “Come here. It’s not that bad, babe. I promise it’s not that bad.”

Max’s chest heaved with the force of his breathing, still struggling not to attack someone—that someone being Lando, obviously.

“Baby, come here,” Daniel soothed, crossing the distance between them.

His hands came to Max’s face, a movement as dangerous as cupping the jowls of a lion.

Except Max’s violent bravado died the moment Daniel’s fingers touched his skin. Everything reversed in a split second, so fast that Lando struggled to comprehend how Max could fall apart that quickly.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Max choked out, his voice cracking.

“I’m okay,” Daniel whispered, pressing kisses to his forehead. “They checked me out, I’m all good. I’m all good.”

Tears burst from Max’s eyes and Lando sat up a little in his seat, frightened at how quickly he’d gone from furious to bawling. Who the fuck was this guy and what had he done with Max Verstappen?

“This is my fault,” Max said. “Look what they did to you.”

“This is why I didn’t say anything,” Daniel murmured. “I needed to see you in person, so you’d see I’m okay.”

“Okay?” Max screwed up his face. “You’re hurt. And you’ve got one pupil bigger than the other—do you have a concussion?”

Yes, Lando thought.

“The docs cleared me,” Daniel assured him, which wasn’t a lie. The doctors were just paid off. “You don’t have to worry.”

“Tell me what happened,” Max demanded, tears still streaming down his cheeks.

“Max, I can’t—”

Tell me!” Max shouted, so loud that Lando nearly fell off the couch. Then Max zeroed in on him again, all fire. Lando didn’t know how to make himself any smaller. “Does Lando know?”

“Max,” Daniel warned, still cupping his face with one hand. “I didn’t tell him what happened either. You need to listen to me.”

Max’s lip curled into a snarl, but his eyes were pink and glassy. “I’m done listening. I’m done.”

“I decided to keep this hidden,” Daniel said. “Me.”

“Don’t start lying to me now,” Max snapped. “This was the FIA. Them and Lewis.”

Daniel shook his head. “You can’t start assuming things like that. You can’t pick fights with—”

“Then tell me I’m wrong,” Max hissed through gritted teeth. “Look me in the face right here and tell me you don’t think they’re involved in this.”

Lando saw Daniel’s shoulders shift as he swallowed hard.

“That’s what I thought,” Max said. “Well I’m fucking done standing here turning a blind eye. This is too fucking far.”

“Max, there’s a chance Red Bull did this,” Lando piped up. He knew Daniel wouldn’t be able to say it—he could barely find the courage when it came to sticking it to the FIA, and certainly not when it came to Red Bull.

Lando cleared his throat and scooted to the edge of the couch.

“You might not trust George, but I do. I talked to him at the party last night and I told him I thought it was Mercedes. He said there’s no way Lewis is behind this.”

“George is fucking Lewis,” Max shot back. “Of course he doesn’t believe he could do something like this.”

“Hey, I thought the same thing,” Lando said, lifting his hands in surrender. “But think about it, mate. They’ve got you saying you don’t care about the championship, that you’ll get it someday. Then Horner was at the party last night, saw Daniel, didn’t say anything to you.”

“They would never do this,” Max snapped. “I’m their best asset. I’m their only chance at a championship.”

Lando nodded. “Exactly. And your biggest distraction is married to me.”

Max’s snarl fell away as the realization set in. Daniel’s arm wound around his waist in an attempt to comfort, but Max didn’t return the gesture. In fact, he didn’t move at all.

“Is that what you think?” Max finally asked, turning to press his nose to Daniel’s shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Daniel admitted, brushing his lips at Max’s temple.

“Tell me what you think, then,” Max said, wrapping his arms around Daniel in kind.

Daniel shook his head. “Max, I can’t.”

“Daniel, I don’t see how things could get any worse than what just happened,” Max said, his anger bubbling to the surface again.

Daniel pursed his lips. “It can.”

“I have power now,” Max argued. “I can stop this, Daniel.”

Lando bit his lip, watching as Daniel started to retreat into himself. The point of sneaking Max in to see him had been to help, not hurt.

On TV, Charles sat next to Valtteri, both of them focusing intently as an interviewer asked them about their predictions for the weekend. Lando could already tell from Charles’s face that he had a boxed answer about Ferrari ready to go.

At least he didn’t look fucking depressed.

“I told you to stop thinking like that,” Daniel hissed. “You don’t have power. This is a perfect example of how much you don’t, Max.”

A buzzing sound took the place of Max’s answer. Max fished his phone out of his pocket and frowned.

“Horner,” Max explained. He rejected the call with two clicks to the side button.

Lando swallowed down his mounting anxiety. He doubted Max would actually get in any trouble for meeting Daniel here—he never got in trouble for anything, it seemed—but Lando and Daniel would not be so lucky.

“It’s all three,” Daniel said, his voice shaky.

Max stared at him. “What do you—”

“Don’t make me say it again, ‘cause I won’t.”

Lando’s throat started to close.

Max shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense."

Being a career third wheel meant Lando knew how to withstand eye fucking conversations, and Max and Daniel started into one so loud that he almost announced himself to remind them he was still sitting there.  Instead, he melted onto the couch, limbs strewn dramatically over cushions.

“You need to go,” Daniel said after a long moment.

Determination settled on Max’s face. “I’m going to make sure nothing like this ever happens again. I’ll fucking kill them. If anyone touches you again I’ll go after everyone. This whole fucking place. I don’t care what happens to me.”

Daniel frowned, an expression so rare Lando nearly took his phone out to photograph it. He would have if it didn’t make him feel so sick inside to see Daniel upset.

“I care about what happens to you,” Daniel said, lifting a hand to thumb over Max’s cheekbone. “So fucking much.”

Lando rolled his eyes when Max moved in for a kiss like they were in a teen romance flick.

Honestly. Carlos blew them both out of the water with his flirt game. Nobody on the grid even came close.

“Fuck,” Daniel grunted, his voice muffled by Max’s mouth.

Max’s hand snapped from Daniel’s face. “Oh my god, did I hurt you?”

Daniel’s eyes squeezed shut. “It’s fine, just—it’s okay.”

“Time to say bye,” Lando called, twirling his phone in his hand. “Charles has his escape face on. Kissy kissy and go.”

“Lando,” Daniel warned as Max threw him a glare.

Lando tucked his chin into his collarbone and smirked. He gave a little wave. “See ya next time, mate. Don’t forget your hat.”

Daniel laughed as Max prepared to beat the living hell out of him, eyes blazing.

Lando grinned. He couldn’t let everyone else have all the fun.

“Hey, back to me,” Daniel murmured, his smile back at full force.

Max followed directions for once. Lando scrolled through Instagram when he saw Daniel’s tongue come out during the next kiss. He definitely didn’t need to see Max’s.

He stayed intently focused as they traded goodbyes about a thousand times, each one quieter than the last.

Max’s phone buzzed again. Lando glanced at the TV as Mick stepped into frame, smiling like a goddamn fairytale.

“Fuck, Checo’s interview is about to start,” Max muttered. “I have to take this.”

“Be safe, not stupid,” Daniel said.

Max smiled softly—and god did that look fucking weird. “I will. I love you.”

Words he'd never said aloud to Charles in public, not unless he thought everyone else wasn’t paying attention.

“Love you too,” Daniel returned.

They shared a final kiss—or so Lando hoped—and Max answered his still ringing phone.

“I’m on my way,” he said, all of the softness gone from his voice.

The door closed with a satisfactory click and they were alone again.

Lando tossed his phone and caught it. “Happy?”

Daniel laughed. “Jealous?”

Lando shot him a smile. “Hardly. Kissing Max is probably like kissing a seal. Blubbery lips and—”

“Hey,” Daniel scolded playfully. “He’s a better kisser than you think.”

“Yeah, I prefer not to think about it,” Lando clapped back with a smirk, pocketing his phone.

“It’s not like kissing a seal,” Daniel made sure to say as he returned to the couch.

Lando lifted his eyebrows skeptically. “Kinda seems like it’d be kissing a seal.”

“Then by that logic, kissing Carlos must be like kissing a horse. His lips are huge.”

Lando burst out laughing. “Fine, fine, you got me. It’s not like kissing a horse.”

Daniel grinned as he lifted Lando’s legs to sit down. “I’m surprised you didn’t fall asleep.”

Lando smiled, his exhaustion tugging at his eyelids just from him mentioning it. “Had to make sure he didn’t kill me.”

Daniel squeezed his leg. “You’ve got tiny ankles, mate.”

Lando would have shoved his Nikes into Daniel’s face if it hadn’t already been so messed up. “Gee, thanks.”

“Like a ballerina.” Daniel hoisted up his ankle to inspect it.

Lando brought his knee to his chest to keep it away. “Is that supposed to be a compliment? Doesn’t sound like one.”

Daniel looked like he was debating grabbing his leg again, but thought better of it, mischief in his eyes.

Mercedes, the FIA, Red Bull. All three. Daniel’s confession hadn’t evaded him, but Lando knew better than to try to make him talk about it again. He agreed with Max—it didn’t make sense. Daniel was a good prince and a great driver, but he hardly had any power worth sabotaging him for. Even Max didn’t seem like a big enough pull—Max didn’t have any championships, he only had Red Bull’s devotion. Except apparently not.

“It was a compliment,” Daniel finally said, his eyes covered with his hood as he leaned back against the couch.

Lando extended his leg again, resting his ballerina ankle on Daniel’s thigh.

“Wake me up when it’s time for your interview,” Lando murmured. “I don’t wanna listen to Checo.”

A warm thumb circled his ankle bone. “Sure thing, Aurora.”

Lando thought to make a crack about Daniel touching his ankle like that—because who the fuck did that—but the simple motion was somehow totally intimate and relaxing as hell. It made him feel safe, for some reason. Like everything really would be okay.

His eyelids drooped as Daniel continued and he fell into sleep about thirty seconds later.

Thankfully, he didn’t dream about kissing any seals.

Chapter 56

Notes:

okay okAY. explicit content in this chapter.

pardon my french also (actually though).

i have also never played FIFA so smile and nod and pretend i'm right.

Chapter Text

Charles stepped out of the car sucking down the strongest drug he’d ever known: perfect synchrony between man and machine. God anointed him with the reward of speed for his good work in keeping himself focused for the weeks leading up to Silverstone.

Usually placing fourth in qualifying didn’t appease him, but Charles couldn’t shake the promise that welled in him, the full confidence that if he’d been given just one more lap, he could have cut enough time to beat Bottas.

Binotto didn’t agree, but he couldn’t complain about fourth. He had Carlos to worry about, who placed a dismal eleventh behind the likes of George and Esteban.

Carlos disappeared into a briefing immediately after exiting the car—partly because he was furious, and partly because Binotto had laid down the law, no longer allowing Carlos to linger in the paddock, and certainly not anywhere near McLaren.

Charles cranked his headphones to full volume as he strode down the line of garages, a grin on his face. Tomorrow the race would be his. He felt it in his bones, predestined.

God, he loved winning. His glimpse of victory wet his tongue, sweet and heavy like honeyed wine.

“Charles!”

He blinked from his glory to see Mick waving at him from across the pit lane.

Charles tugged down his headphones and extended a fist. “Hey Mick, long time no see.”

They bumped fists and Mick settled at his side, waving at a few Haas engineers who walked past.

“Some weekend, huh?” Mick asked.

Charles liked Mick. Even though they hadn’t spoken in months beyond a few polite letters, he always talked like distance never did anything to them.

“Not a great start,” Charles agreed. “But it’s not horrible for us. I almost feel bad for the home track princes.”

Lockdown was still in full effect with no hint of ending. But because the princes weren’t permitted to leave their hotel, they were allowed free reign to visit each other—so long as they didn’t visit ex-husbands.

“Ah yes,” Mick said with a nod. “I hung out with Esteban last night. I didn’t have to ask permission or anything. I felt like a normal person for a second.”

“Did you play FIFA?” Charles asked, though he already knew what the answer would be.

“Heck yes!”

Charles laughed. “Who won?”

“Esteban, which isn’t fair,” said Mick. “He practices with Alonso like every day.”

Charles had spent the evening with his engineering team, going over every last feature with the car that they could possibly improve. He left Carlos to sulk in their room after Binotto informed him that he would not be permitting any outside visitors to the Ferrari suite, regardless of the FIA ruling.

Evidently Carlos didn’t utilize alone time well. Ferraris were better than eleventh.

Mick nudged his shoulder. “Hey, um, could I actually talk to you for a second?”

Charles cocked a brow. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yes. It’s not for me. I’m trying to help a friend.”

Anyone else saying that would have made Charles wary, but Mick was one of the few people he could trust to be genuine. Even his supposed plot to take a Ferrari crown wasn’t really a secret, and Charles had to believe that was purposeful. He couldn’t imagine Mick Schumacher keeping a secret from anyone, really. He wore his emotion too openly.

Most people did when they had nothing to fear.

They found a spot near the pit lane entry, far from the media presence and away from other princes.

“Okay, what’s up?” Charles asked as he took a seat on the barrier wall, lifting his water bottle straw to his lips.

“I have to get back to the garage, so I’ll cut to the chase,” Mick began, his leg bouncing. “I wanted to talk about you and Sebastian.”

Charles bit down on his straw before he pulled it from his mouth. A coldness swept through him, damp and wet like rain.

“What was it like when he left?” Mick asked. “I still have your letters, but I’d like to understand better. My friend is going through something similar, and I don’t know what to tell him. I’d like to give him some hope.”

Charles nearly laughed. Instead he tipped his face up toward the sun, as if physically holding his face toward the rays would keep the guilt from chilling him to the bone. It didn’t/

“I’m afraid I don’t have much hope to give,” Charles said. “I’m surprised Seb hasn’t already told you.”

Mick’s grip loosened. “Oh—no, I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

Charles shook his head. “Don’t be. We haven’t told anyone. Technically it isn’t even officially over. Which is probably why he didn’t tell you. He’s probably waiting for a signed contract or something.”

Mick laughed, but Charles didn’t hear any joy in it. “Yeah, probably.”

“I didn’t want it to end,” Charles admitted, swinging his heels against the concrete. “It wasn’t intentional. I think we both got busy. I used to write him almost every day, and then all of a sudden I hadn’t written him in a month. That’s the scariest part—I didn’t even notice it happening.”

“Was it like that with Max?” Mick asked.

Charles’s mouth dropped open, his brain scrambling. “Max?”

Great. Solid. Not suspicious at all.

Mick blinked sat him. “You both dated before his appointment, yes?”

Charles laughed as relief flooded through him. “Oh—yes, we did.” He gestured vaguely. “I thought you were talking about those Monaco pictures.”

He didn’t dare close his eyes, because he knew the darkness of the São Paulo tunnels would meet him if he did. Max’s fingers loose around the steering wheel, neon streaking in his eyes as he drove the barbs into his heart and ripped them right back out.

“No,” Charles said. “It wasn’t like that at all with Max.”

“Could you, um—Could you tell me what it was like?” Mick asked, his thumbs tumbling over each other where he’d folded his hands in his lap.

Charles had the distinct feeling that Mick wasn’t asking to be a listening ear to a friend.

“He blindsided me,” Charles said quietly, looking down at his racing boots, the hum of promised victory still tucked away in him. “One minute we were in love, the next minute he dumped me for the crown. I watched him marry Carlos and move on without me. I never got closure because I wasn’t even allowed to talk to him. That kind of breakup does things to you that can’t be repaired.”

He pursed his lips.

You’re talking too much.

Mick drove a thumbnail into his knuckle.

“Do you hate him?”

Charles look up from Mick’s hands to his face, where tears welled in his eyes. Suddenly it clicked—Mick didn’t give a shit about his personal problems, he wanted a blueprint. A prediction for his own life.

“Who is it?” Charles asked.

Mick shook his head once, and a broken noise vibrated from his throat even with his mouth closed.

“Don’t ask,” Mick hissed once he’d finally recovered. “Just please answer.”

Charles looked away, pain welling up in him just as suddenly as it had for Mick. He braced himself against the barrier wall, a thousand memories playing through his head in the time it took to blink.  

“I wish I hated him,” Charles finally said. “But even at my darkest, I only wanted him back.”

Mick sniffed, hurriedly wiping his eyes. Charles couldn’t think of a worse sound than Mick Schumacher crying.

“And when you saw him again, what was that like?”

Charles tried to think of who Mick loved. Mick had shirked the tabloids since birth—Michael made sure of that. Charles seldom saw Mick outside of the track when they did cross paths in their youth, and he never had anyone. He never spoke of anyone, never even gave anyone looks that seemed anything close to amorous.

Charles should have been taking notes about Mick, not the other way around.

“When I first saw him after getting my crown, I finally felt like I’d become enough for him to love me,” Charles said. The truth had a knife edge that cut deep. “And in the span of a minute I found out that he was in love with someone else, and I’d become a punchline. A funny story to tell the boys. Fuck.”

Charles wiped his own eyes under his sunglasses.

The logical follow-up question would be to ask if he still loved Max, but Mick stayed quiet beside him.

“And you don’t hate him?” Mick asked when he finally did speak. “Even though he did all of that to you?”

“No,” Charles said with a shake of his head. “I should, I think. But I just wasn’t enough for him without a crown, and when I got one, it was already too late.”

Mick shook his head, swallowing hard. “You were enough.”

Charles didn’t refute that, not because he believed it, but because he knew Mick was speaking to someone else.

Mick looked at him, eyes red. “Do you think it helped you get a crown faster?”

“It made me sick inside,” Charles said, irritated. “Sick everywhere, Mick. I nearly lost all of my friends. It ruined me.”

“I’m sorry,” Mick said, and he looked it. “But I also remember you had all of those dinners with Kimi, with Ferrari, with the FIA. Before Max broke up with you, you never did any of that.”

Charles worked his jaw for a moment. He barely remembered any of those dinners. He’d just sat there, completely numb, while Kimi arranged meetings and calmly explained his next steps. While the FIA told him he had their eye, while Maurizio Arrivabene, Ferrari’s head of government at the time, said he had royal potential.

“I would have become a prince either way,” Charles said. “Instead I had to suffer. I know you have pain in your life, Mick, but I’m telling you that sort of pain is nothing like the kind you’re used to.”

He bit the inside of his cheek as Mick put his head in his hands beside him.

“I lost myself,” Charles continued, watching the heatwaves blur the tarmac in front of them. “And I mean I actually lost myself. I had to recreate everything about me. I’m never going to be that person again.”

Mick stood abruptly, stumbling a little as he did so.

“I hear you,” he said, his voice thick. “But what if it wasn’t his fault? What if he didn’t have a choice?”

Charles shook his head. “He had a choice. Max Verstappen doesn’t get boxed in.”

“Fuck, Seb’s coming,” Mick hissed, hurriedly wiping his eyes as Charles spotted Sebastian walking toward them, his eyes hidden behind his Ray-Bans, his hair wild the way it always was after he got out of the car.

“You have a choice too, Mick,” Charles said.

“I’ll be right there!” Mick called, stopping Sebastian in his tracks. “Just wait there for me, I’m coming!”

Charles held Sebastian’s gaze until he noticed the flash of red on his wrist. He’d almost forgotten about Sebastian’s IWC, where before he would have sought it out every single day of the race weekend.

Sebastian wanted to talk to him, but Charles knew he wasn’t ready for that. Not this weekend, not when he had plans with Pierre tonight that were almost as important as the race.

“I’m going to do better than Max did,” Mick promised, turning to face him. His eyes blazed with what Charles could only describe as righteous fury.

“I hope you do,” Charles replied.

Mick nodded firmly. “I will. I’m not going to make the mistakes.”

Charles smiled weakly.

“It was cruel, what he did,” Mick said.

Charles shrugged. “He was getting married to Carlos, I was a lower court prince. I should have seen it coming.”

Mick cocked his head slightly. “I think you would have seen it coming if he actually broke up with you before he married Carlos, but we both know he didn’t do that.”

Charles grit his teeth in the face of his panic. Mick didn’t have any proof, or any leverage. And he’d already shown his hand.

“Yes, that would be cruel, if it was true,” Charles said evenly, eyes narrowed. “But it isn’t. Max left me for the crown, not after he got one.”

Mick smiled a little. “Sure, Char. Thanks for talking with me.”

He headed out and met up with Sebastian while Charles willed the good feeling from earlier back into his bloodstream.

Sebastian looked back at him twice on the walk back to the garages. Charles didn’t pretend like he wasn’t watching.

Falling in love with Sebastian had been unexpected.  Easy, yet painful because back then it still felt like a betrayal to move on from Max.

Now he had Carlos to come home to and Pierre to miss. And Sebastian’s ghost to think about whenever it rained.

 

 


 

 

“I’ll try not to have too much fun,” Charles said as he wriggled into a Burberry pullover.

Carlos rolled his eyes from the dining room table. “Yes, I’m sure. Pierre will bore you to death.”

Charles smiled and crossed to him, leaning down to press a kiss to Carlos’s cheek. “You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be better if I get a real kiss,” Carlos purred. “If I may.”

Charles cocked a brow but didn’t move away as Carlos curled a finger under his chin.

Their lips met, soft and gentle in the way Carlos always kissed him goodbye. Charles’s hands settled on Carlos’s chest, thumbing over the thin fabric of his Ferrari polo. Unexpected heat welled up in him—evidence of how long he’d been without proper touch.

They moved with each other, no different than the way they worked seamlessly with the team. Carlos turned his chair to face him, hands at his waist, and Charles moved into his lap, fingers brushing over Carlos’s stubble before they tangled in his hair.

He knew Carlos. He knew the way he liked to kiss, the way Carlos liked to hold his hips and always made a soft noise just before he started using tongue.

Charles pulled away just as Carlos’s lips parted, but he stayed close.

“Real enough?” Charles asked, brushing noses with him.

“Too real,” Carlos groaned. “Did Binotto put you up to this torture?”

Charles laughed as he stood up. “No. I’ll see you later.”

“No sleepover?” Carlos teased.

“Not right before a race,” Charles replied. “Text me if you need anything—you know, aside from me.”

Flirting came easily when it had no weight.

 

 

Pierre stood outside his and Yuki’s hotel room when Charles made it up the elevator. His hair was perfectly tousled, a windswept mess over striking eyes and shaped brows that reminded Charles how far he had yet to go in his personal grooming.

“Waiting for me, mon choupette?” Charles greeted softly. He almost didn’t want to speak for fear of ruining the perfect picture in front of him.

Well, until he saw that gap-toothed smile and the way Pierre’s cheeks flushed pink.

“Burberry,” Pierre said with a nod to his pullover. “Classic. Have they sponsored you yet? How much more posh royalty can you be?”

“I could be English,” Charles cracked, settling his hands at Pierre’s sides.

“You should wear Givenchy,” Pierre murmured, tugging him closer. “Burberry sounds like something is dripping out of your mouth.” He leaned in, his breath ghosting Charles’s cheek. “Givenchy sounds so much better.”

Charles turned his head, eyes half lidded. “I thought you’d like the sound of something dripping out of my mouth.”

Pierre yanked him into a bruising kiss. Charles gasped into it, arching against him, fully aware they were still technically in public.

But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t find it within himself to pull away when he’d been waiting for this for two weeks. Thirteen days of everything except Pierre’s hands on his skin, Pierre’s lips against his.

“Pierre,” he breathed, fighting not to moan as Pierre’s scruff rubbed against his neck where he’d started kissing.

Charles’s fingers curled tight into the jersey knit of Pierre’s shirt when Pierre’s teeth grazed the sensitive spot at the corner of his jaw. Need slammed into him, prompting Charles to press him back against the wall, his hands wandering lower until he slipped them under Pierre’s shirt, then tugged at his waistband.

“You did miss me,” Pierre teased, but his voice was thick with need.

Charles caught his lips in a kiss before he could speak further, and Pierre’s hand slipped between his legs, pressing at the innermost part of his thigh in a way that had Charles seeing stars already.

“Tu vas me tuer,” Pierre laughed between kisses.

“Oui, I’m about ready to,” Charles growled, tempted to reach down and drag Pierre’s hand to where he wanted it.

Pierre let out a hum before he pulled away, his lips swollen and red already. Charles wanted to bite them. Then he wanted Pierre to take him inside and fuck his brains out until he—

“We’re having a little gathering,” Pierre said, almost apologetic.

Charles blinked rapidly, trying to catch up. “I’m sorry—un quoi?”

“Yuki was supposed to play FIFA with Esteban, but he cancelled. Pas surprenant, but I couldn’t just kick Yuki out.”

“Oh,” Charles said, swallowing hard. “No—that’s okay. It’s okay. He shouldn’t be kicked out because of us. As long as I get to spend time with you, that’s what I care about.”

He also really, really cared about Pierre not wearing any clothing. Preferably as soon as possible.

“Tu es un mauvais menteur putain,” Pierre chuckled into a kiss.

Charles chased it for all he was worth.

“I’ll figure something out, though,” Pierre promised. “I don’t care if I have to sneak you into a fucking supply closet.”

“We could find that supply closet right now,” Charles offered, pressing his hips against Pierre’s.

Pierre let out a grunt, furrowing his brow. Charles decided he’s never seen anything hotter in his whole fucking life.

Pierre’s hands settled at his hips and gently pushed him away.

“You know I want that more than anything,” he whispered. “But I want our first time to be better than that. It’s bad enough you can’t sleep over. Je ne veux pas qu’il y ait d’autres similitudes avec avant.”

Charles cupped his face for a searing kiss, but he didn’t press anything further.

“Nous allons attrendre, alors,” he murmured. “Whatever you need.”

Pierre took his hand, that gap-toothed smile returning full force as he led Charles into his hotel suite.

It looked identical to Charles’s suite, though Pierre and Yuki had already pretty much destroyed the place. Just about every cabinet door sat open, and clothes littered the floor along with toppled pairs of sneakers, some Nike crew socks, and even a torn box of protein bars.

“Immaculate room,” Charles said, laying on the sarcasm.

Pierre tickled his ribs, and Charles jabbed him in the stomach in a counterattack.

“Charles!” Yuki greeted, walking out of the bedroom wearing a pair of Gucci sunglasses, his phone pressed to his ear. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Yuki,” Charles greeted, bumping fists with him.

“Yeah, mate, that Charles,” Yuki said into the phone. “I need you! So you have to come now.”

Charles cast Pierre a look, but he shrugged.

“How can you play FIFA with three people?” Yuki asked into the phone, adjusting his sunglasses. “I will drink if you drink. But Horner say I—”

“You’re not drinking,” Pierre said. “We have a race tomorrow.”

Yuki pulled his sunglasses down his nose. “Yes, you hear right. That was Pierre being a bitch.”

Charles grabbed Pierre around the waist before he lunged, stilling him with a kiss to the nape of his neck, a smile on his lips.

“You hurry up,” Yuki said, returning his sunnies to their proper position. He listened for a moment. “Great idea.”

Yuki turned the phone up so his mouth was further from the mic. “Pierre, you’re going to be on my team first so you actually play.”

Pierre tensed to lunge again, so Charles nibbled at the back of his neck instead, then brought his lips to the shell of Pierre’s ear.

“Je te sucerai sit u gagnes,” Charles whispered.

Pierre went completely still.

“Et si je gagne, you wear one of my hoodies to the track tomorrow.” Charles lowered his voice even more. “Un Bur-berry.” He drew out the name, slow and liquid in his mouth.

“Deal,” Pierre managed to choke out. One of his hands gripped Charles’s thigh.

Charles nuzzled into the dip of his shoulder blades, perfectly content to just stand there with his arms around Pierre in his hotel kitchen.

“Great, see you soon,” Yuki said into his phone. “Bye.”

He ended the call and put his hands on his hips.

“Was that Fewtrell?” Pierre asked. “I thought Lando said he couldn’t get him a room.”

“He couldn’t,” Yuki said with a shake of his head. “So I am totally kicking your ass.”

“That doesn’t clear anything up,” Pierre said, sounding annoyed. “And you also said you were going to check with me before you invited someone.”

“That is not what you say,” Yuki replied with an accusatory finger. “You say I had to check with you to make sure no one finds you and Charles.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Pierre said.

Charles rested his chin in Pierre’s shoulder, smiling softly when Pierre began to thumb at his thigh, protective.

Yuki shrugged. “That is no problem. You said Max already knows.”

Charles froze and Pierre’s grip tightened.

“You called Max?” Pierre asked, furious.

Yuki smirked. “Fuck yeah. He’s one of the best FIFA players in the world. And besides, Horner say we have to—”

“You invited Max, Yuki?” Pierre asked again.

“Pierre, doucement,” Charles soothed. He slipped a hand under Pierre’s shirt, smoothing his palm over the flat of his stomach in an attempt to calm him. “This was going to happen eventually. Autant le tuer dans l’œuf, mm?”

“Call him back and tell him to fuck off,” Pierre snapped.

Yuki’s brow furrowed. “What, are you mad at him?”

“Yes,” Pierre said.

“No,” Charles said at the same time.

Yuki frowned.

“It’s fine, Yuki,” Charles said. “Max is our friend, so it was good to invite him.”

Pierre stepped out of his hold and wheeled around to face him. “Good to invite him?”

Yuki glanced between them. “Um. I’m going to start the PlayStation. I’m sorry, Pierre.”

Yuki scampered off to the living room as fast as his short legs could carry him.

“Pierre, we need to face this,” Charles said.

Pierre shook his head. “I don’t think we do. I know what he does to you. This is supposed to be about us. This was supposed to be our night.”

“It still is,” Charles soothed, stepping to him. He wound his arms around Pierre’s neck. “Max needs to see us. He needs to learn he doesn’t have a hold on me anymore.”

Pierre’s jaw flexed. “Char, he still does. I know he still does.”

“I want you,” Charles said, resting their foreheads together. “Mon chou garçon.”

Pierre pulled him into a tight hug, tucking his face into Charles’s neck. Charles rubbed his back, providing what comfort he could.

“He didn’t mean it, right?” Pierre asked suddenly. “About sharing you?”

Charles gave him a squeeze. “Il pense que je suis toujours amoureuse de lui. But he’s living in the past, Pierre. I don’t want to be with him, I want to be with you. The only person you’re sharing me with is my husband, and I still chose you.”

Pierre pulled back to look at him. “You’re not still in love with Max, right?”

Pierre wasn’t Mick, he asked the questions he meant to.

Charles shook his head. “No.”

Pierre kissed him, and he tasted like fear.

“I adore you,” Charles whispered, scratching at the nape of Pierre’s neck. “Everything about you. I trust you, and I want you to trust me. Tu as tout de moi.”

“I see I’ve arrived at the perfect time.”

Charles jumped and Pierre instinctively held him tighter as they both looked to see Max standing in the threshold of the kitchen with a sly smile. He held up a giant bottle of Blue Frost Gatorade and a bag full of snacks.

“Hey, Max,” Charles greeted.

“Hi, Char.”

“You’re a bastard,” Pierre snapped. “You knew exactly what you were doing when Yuki called.”

Max shrugged, unaffected as usual. “I didn’t know Charles would be here. Honestly, Checo is shit at FIFA and Yuki is better. I wanted practice.”

“Don’t fucking lie,” Pierre growled.

Max dug into the snack bag and pulled out a Toblerone. He hit it on the edge of the counter. “I’m not lying. In fact, I was surprised Yuki even called. I had forgotten Horner gave us phone access to each other. Scared the living shit out of me.”

“But you had enough time to buy snacks?”

Max rolled his eyes. “I always have snacks. Get over yourself, Gasly.”

“Come on,” Charles urged, guiding Pierre toward the living room. “We’ll see you in there, Max.”

Pierre took his hand and they walked into the living room together, where Yuki sat in front of a massive TV, scrolling through FIFA ’21 settings.

“We will do tournament,” Yuki said distractedly. “Me and Pierre, Charles and Max.”

Pierre took a seat on the floor and Charles sat down beside him, wishing he had the words to erase the discomfort in Pierre’s face.

Max was unusually quiet as they picked teams. Yuki made him pick the worst player lineup possible, and Max didn’t throw out even one complaint. Charles couldn’t play FIFA to save his life, but managed a few good picks, including Denze Dumfries.

Max didn’t even congratulate him for a decent grab.

“That’s some bullshit, mate,” Charles laughed later, as Pierre effortlessly blocked what felt like a perfect shot.

“Thank you, Navas,” Pierre said, grinning.

“I don’t think it’s physically possible to jump that far in that amount of time,” Charles jabbed. “You cheating?”

“It’s very important to me that I beat you, yes,” Pierre replied with a devilish grin.

Charles rolled his eyes even as Pierre slid a hand over his thigh. His touch didn’t linger though, because Max sent a searing pass to the opposite side of the pitch, sailing over Yuki’s pitiful attempt at offense.

“Not fair,” Pierre called as Yuki started up a vicious string of curses.

“I take advantage of distractions,” Max said with a smirk. “Charles, take it home, please.”

Charles managed to pick up the ball, moving down the pitch as best he could with Pierre chasing him down. Even though it was just a harmless game of FIFA among friends, Charles fell into the tunnel vision of competition as he neared the net. He managed to get the ball into the box, but Pierre swapped players and headed toward him at a full sprint.

“You know what to do,” Max said, the same way he used to when Charles was ready to quit in the sim, convinced that he needed to reconfigure settings if he ever wanted to shave off those finals tenths.

Charles flicked his thumb and shot.

The ball flew by the goalkeeper and puckered the net.

“Nice!” Max said as the crowd roared on screen.

Charles turned to Pierre with a coy smile.  “You were saying?”

 

 


 

 

One tournament turned to two. Yuki went batshitwhen he managed to score a goal on Max, yelling so loud that Pierre threatened to call security to get him dragged down to the hotel basement if he kept it up.

The tension between Max and Pierre fizzled with the excitement of the games, and Charles got the distinct feeling that Max had planned this somehow.  He could see that Max purposely avoided any real confrontation—the ball always happened to be with Charles when something infuriating happened. He smiled and laughed at jokes even at his own expense, and didn’t react when Pierre lodged digs at him that were meant to hurt.

“I don’t understand how you can do free kicks that fucking good,” Yuki muttered as Max put another ball in the next.

“Practice, mate. And a bit of technique. I can teach you, if you want,” Max said.

“What! Really?”

Max smiled. “Sure. But I’m not teaching you with this shitty controller. That’s part of your problem. You should come up to my suite, I have my setup ready to go.”

Yuki nearly fell over where he sat. “Oh my god, yes.”

Max set his controller down. “Let’s go, then. Unless you and Pierre think you can score five goals in three minutes.”

Pierre set down his controller too. “Nah, I know when I’m beat.”

Charles leaned against him, hooking his arm around Pierre’s bent leg, keeping him on the ground.

Max got to his feet as Yuki handled shutting off the PlayStation. The sky outside glowed a deep lavender, though it felt like it should have been midnight.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Max said. “I’m sorry if I was a wet blanket.”

Charles looked up at him, startled to hear any sort of apology.

“You weren’t a wet blanket,” Pierre said when Charles couldn’t speak.

Charles released his hold when Pierre moved to stand, and followed him up.

“Handle this, I going next door,” Yuki said, shooting them a wink. “Hurry up, Max, or I’ll bother Checo.”

Max glowered at him.  “If he’s watching a telenovela, you better leave him alone for I’m not teaching you anything.”

“That’s why I say hurry,” Yuki cackled, and he wisely hurried away before Max went after him.

Once Yuki left the room, Max sighed.

“That’s all I had to say, really. I needed a distraction.”

Daniel. Charles wanted to smack himself for not thinking of it earlier. It explained everything—Max’s reservation in picking teams, his quietness, his bag full of snacks.

“He did great today,” Charles said. “He’s getting through this, Max.”

Max laughed bitterly. “Yes, until it happens again when I win.”

Charles stepped forward and collected Max into a hug. Max went rigid at first, then relaxed, but didn’t hug back. Charles held him anyway, his wrists pressed to Max’s shoulders, his hands curled over his shirt but not nestling into the fabric.

Max pulled free after a moment, his face stone. “Hugs don’t fix what happened.”

Hurt licked at his heels, but Charles tried not to take offense. “Maybe not, but they might help you.”

“I don’t need help,” Max muttered. “I need Daniel to be safe. And the only way I can do that is to keep winning until they have no choice but to leave him alone. And if they touch him again they’re going to find out how fucking far I’m willing to go.”

Pierre settled into place behind Charles, resting a hand on the small of his back.

“None of us are going to stand for what happened to Daniel and Lando,” Pierre said. “We’re with you. George too.”

Max let out a snort. “George doesn’t give a shit about me anymore. That’s fine by me as long as he protects Daniel.”

“He will,” Pierre assured him. “This won’t happen again.”

“Yeah, I’ll make sure of that,” Max said.

The way he said it sent a shiver up Charles’s spine. Pierre scratched at his lower back before tugging him closer, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Be safe, Max,” Charles said.

Max nodded once, noncommittally. “I’ll keep Yuki upstairs as long as I can, but I’m going to bed at ten.”

“Thanks,” Pierre said genuinely.

Max glanced at them, and guilt twisted up in Charles, though he knew it shouldn’t. “Goodnight.”

They walked him to the door and said their goodbyes. Charles watched Max leave and thought to call out just to try to get him to smile again, but the door closed before he could.

“That went better than I thought,” Pierre said into the silence.

“He must be really bad,” Charles murmured.

“He’s okay, Char,” Pierre said, curling his fingers under Charles’s chin. “He would have been a huge asshole tonight if he wasn’t.”

Charles opened his mouth to reply, but Pierre’s thumb ran over his bottom lip instead, and his body quickly reminded him that he had two weeks to make up for in the span of a few hours.

“It’s not fair that you’re so good at distracting me,” Charles growled.

“It’s not fair that you won,” Pierre countered. “You had an internationally ranked FIFA player on your team.”

Charles cracked a smile. “Want a consolation prize?”

Pierre kissed him instead of answering. Charles groaned at the taste of his desire, hot and wet and everything.

“Bedroom,” Pierre breathed when he pulled back.

Charles lead the way, pleasantly surprised to find the bed made and no trace of Pierre or Yuki anywhere to be seen. He didn’t want any reminders that doing this was going against the FIA, his marriage, his empire. He just wanted Pierre.

A part of him recognized that fucking in a king-sized bed in a room he’d never been in before with a boy who was already in love with him should instill some kind of awkwardness, but Charles didn’t feel any as he sank to his knees at the foot of the bed.

“Que fais-tu?” Pierre asked with blown pupils.

“Consolation prize,” Charles explained, pulling off his sweatshirt. As much as he loved Pierre, he would never allow bodily fluids to ruin his clothing if he could help it.

“I thought you wanted me to fuck you,” Pierre said, stumbling through the words as he shed his joggers and pulled his shirt over his head.

Charles laughed. “All your clothes off already?”

Pierre grinned. “Je préfère ne pas perdre de temps. This is nothing new.”

But it was. Charles had never seen this Pierre naked—all sculpted muscle and confidence, tan all over and warm to the touch. Everything about him dripped with masculinity in a way Charles didn’t know how to process except by staring.

Holy fuck, he had bigger pecs than Carlos. And actual abs, not just the flat stomach of the Pierre he’d fucked in Abu Dhabi just a year before.

Charles wanted to undo him. He wanted to suck that grin right off his face.

“Sit,” Charles instructed, jerking his chin toward the bed.

Pierre sat. Charles settled between his splayed legs and Pierre carded his fingers through his hair, gazing down at him with those cat-like eyes Charles couldn’t stop seeing when he closed his.

“When’s the last time you did this?” Pierre asked.

Charles smirked. “I’ll tell you after.”

The truth was that Charles didn’t remember, not fully. He’d been pretty drunk at the time, itching for sex after a string of good races and no one to fuck after. Sebastian certainly tried to get his attention back then, but Charles had wanted attention from someone who wouldn’t stop pining after Daniel.

It took all of five seconds to get Pierre making all kinds of noise.

“Comment as-tu appris ça—” Pierre cut himself off with a groan, one hand fisted into Charles’s hair, the other in the comforter. “—bordel? You better fucking ease—Charles.”

Charles liked to be above average at everything he bothered to learn. Blowjobs were not different than racing lines. Each driver had a different one, and learning it helped to beat them. Or, in the case of sucking someone off, getting them to cum.

Pierre was also needy, desperate for pleasure, and in love with him. Charles could have sent him over the edge with nothing more than heavy breathing on his dick if he’d really wanted to.

Pleasure looked better on him than Charles remembered. Flushed cheeks and sweat running down the column of Pierre’s neck, slicking his belly—he couldn’t get enough.

Charles pulled off with a wet noise before Pierre could finish, unbothered by the bitter taste of precum on his tongue. He stood up and pulled off his sweats in the same motion, exposing himself fully, half-hard and much too pale for summer.

“I’m never gonna stop thinking about this,” Pierre panted, staring at him with lust heavy in his eyes.

Charles trailed his fingers along Pierre’s jaw as he crawled into bed. Pierre followed right behind him, pressing his legs wide when Charles moved to his back. Pierre scrambled over to the nightstand to retrieve a small bottle of lube as Charles sank down into the mattress and stretched.

Anything languid in him vanished the second Pierre started prepping him.

Charles had forgotten the skill of his fingers, maybe because Pierre never showed it to him before, not completely. Even with a fully hard dick and Charles naked before him, he took his time, turning Charles into a flushed and whining mess in a matter of minutes with delicious teasing and a fucking honing device on his prostate.

“Arrête de me doigter et commence à me baiser,” Charles growled, but it tapered off into a moan as Pierre’s fingers curled inside him.

“Needy,” Pierre teased, but he pulled out.

Charles squirmed with the absence of him, panting hard. He took himself in hand as Pierre settled over him properly, all honeyed skin and tight muscle.

“Quand est-ce que tu es devenue si chaude, putain?” Charles asked. Pierre knew him through and through, he didn’t have to hide behind any guise of composure.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this horny,” Pierre laughed, but Charles lost any hope of responding when Pierre pushed inside him.

He arched up into him with an unabashed moan. As with everything involving pleasure, Pierre moved slowly, allowing Charles to feel every inch of him as he moved.

“Tu aimes ça?” Pierre asked hot in his ear.

Charles could only whine in response. A stupid sound, really, but he couldn’t focus on anything except how he felt full up. He dug his fingers into the muscle of Pierre’s shoulders before dragging them down his back.

Pierre bottomed out when Charles caught hold of his hips, trying to drive him deeper. His limbs started to regain feeling as he wrapped his thighs tight around Pierre’s waist, coaxing a low moan from Pierre that made Charles warm all over.

“Je t’aime,” Pierre panted out, his scruff rubbing at his neck, burning in all the right ways.

Charles nested his fingers into Pierre’s hair when Pierre’s teeth dragged at the corner of his jaw.

“Je sais,” Charles gasped out just as Pierre started to rock his hips. “But I need you to fuck me a lot harder than that if you want me to say anything nicer.”

Pierre rolled his hips, languid even though Charles could feel the tension in him, how close he had to be.

“How hard?” Pierre asked, his voice low and throaty with desire.

Charles bucked his hips up, brow furrowing as he chased more friction but didn’t find any. “I don’t want to be cherished.”

He’d said the same to Carlos, and it had taken him weeks to lose the color in all of the bruises. He wanted that again, from Pierre.

Pierre fucked into him again, nosing into his temple as Charles wriggled in search for more. Pierre’s lips were warm at his ear.

“No,” he said.

Charles’s eyes flicked open. “The fuck do you mean, no?”

Evidently profanity had found its place in this bedroom.

“I am going to cherish you,” Pierre murmured. One of his hands settled at Charles’s hip, pinning him in place.

“Ce n’est pas ce que je veux,” Charles snapped.

Pierre stilled and Charles almost went blind with need at the loss of what little friction he’d had.

“Then we won’t do this,” Pierre said. “I’m making love to you, you’re not just a body to fuck.”

“Pierre, c’est quoi ce bordel,” Charles hissed, clawing into his back. “Pierre!”

“You want me to do that because you think that’s all you deserve.”

Charles threw his head back, gritting his teeth. “I’m going to murder you. I don’t—”

“My way or we stop, because I don’t feel comfortable treating you like that. Not for our first time.”

Charles could not understand how Pierre had the ability to speak in full sentences while fully inside someone.

“Fine,” Charles grit out. “Fuck me your way, but je te jure Dieu que si—”

His sentence dissolved on his lips when Pierre started fucking him again in a slow but firm rhythm. Pierre’s hand cupped his cheek, turning his face for an open-mouthed kiss.

Charles reached down to take himself in hand again, but Pierre caught him.

“I’ll make you come without it,” Pierre promised, lacing their fingers together. “Relax, mon amour. You’re tense, I can feel it.”

Charles wanted to argue that the tension came from the fact that he was getting fucked at a sloth’s pace and he’d intended on something much rougher.

Pierre pinned his hand on the mattress and found his mouth for another kiss, coaxing and pliant. Charles sighed into it, figuring it best not to resist if the alternative was no sex at all.

Something strange happened when he let himself go slack. He expected the sensation of pleasure to fall away with lack of engagement, that Pierre might change his mind because it would feel like fucking a warm, wet hole that didn’t have a person attached.

Charles had fucked and been fucked plenty of times. He and Carlos had been in love with each other when they fucked in Monaco, and Charles thought about that night way too often. Before that, the last time he’d had sex with someone he loved romantically had been in Russia with Max six years ago, fumbling around in a hotel bed. A little painful, but mostly good. Teenager sex was never that great.

But this was entirely different.

Time and space slowed, churning around him as he laid there wrapped around Pierre but not resisting him. Everything dimmed to low light and warmth like a hot bath after a long day, twilight out the windows.

Charles heard himself making noises, saying things—in French, mostly, but plenty of English and Italian thrown in—but he couldn’t hear the words or remember the meaning of anything. His brain disconnected from his body, leaving him suspended in a nebulous, fizzing, perfect thing he couldn’t name.

He felt Pierre everywhere and nowhere at the same time, yet inexplicably connected to him like they were one thing. Pleasure flooded every part of him from his feet to the tips of his fingers.

Charles saw Pierre’s pleasure from outside of himself—the crease of his brow, the bead of sweat sliding down his sternum, the sound of his name on Pierre’s perfect lips. The feeling ticked up higher in intensity, building within him.

Suddenly everything in him burned so white hot Charles thoughts his skin might melt off.

Searing didn’t even begin to describe it as he cried out, the sound muffled by Pierre’s mouth a moment later. Every molecule of energy within his body gathered between his legs, pulling everything from him all at once/

He slammed back into himself as he came, shuddering into Pierre’s waiting hand. Strings of nonsensical words spilled from his mouth. Charles found himself holding tight to Pierre because gravity felt like it was turning on its head, like food slipping from a wet plate. His vision went white, throwing him out of orbit as he struggled to regain control of himself.

“You’re all right,” Pierre soothed, hot breath in his ear. “You’ve got so much for me, hm?”

Right. His abs were still contracted, his body involuntarily pushing more release from himself as Charles scrambled for purchase.

“Pierre,” he finally gasped out, startling himself because he’d actually come up with a word. “Pierre.”

“Right here,” Pierre replied just before their lips met.

Charles grunted when Pierre slid out of him, and shivered at the sensation of Pierre’s release inside of him—he didn’t even remember feeling Pierre’s orgasm, or when it had happened.

“Pierre,” Charles moaned again, quieter. He couldn’t come up with any more words.

Pierre kissed down his neck, his collarbone, then his sternum. Wet, lazy kisses that made Charles turn into even more of a puddle on the mattress.  Then Pierre kissed his burning cheeks, though Charles started losing seconds with the aftershocks.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” Charles slurred, still trying to blink his way back to normal.

Pierre laughed. “I didn’t learn how to do anything. That’s just how it feels when you’re in love with the person you’re with. When they love you too.”

Charles swallowed hard, suddenly frightened that Pierre might leave too early. He still couldn’t place himself in his surroundings, but he didn’t need to as Pierre gathered him in his arms.

“Tu vas bien?” Pierre asked, stroking his damp hair.

Charles looked over his face, his mussed hair, his flushed cheeks, his beautiful, beautiful eyes.

“Ooh,” Pierre chuckled, and that goddamn smile appeared. “J’ai compris maintenant.”

Charles couldn’t stop staring at him. He wanted to bite his lips, taste the sweat on his skin, kiss him until the world ended.

“I want this for the rest of my life,” Charles whispered.

Pierre laughed, blushing harder. “Damn, that good, eh? Charles Leclerc—”

“I’m in love with you, Pierre,” Charles interrupted softly.

Pierre’s smile dropped to a look of pure shock.

They stared at each other for a long moment, breathing hard but also not breathing at all. Seas moved behind Pierre’s eyes, lightning too. Perfection, perfection.

“I’m in love with you too,” Pierre said.

Their lips met in a dizzying kiss that had Charles seeing spots in his vision as he moved his way up Pierre’s body. Charles felt no pain in saying he loved Pierre. No guilt chased him as he ran his hands over Pierre’s chest, and he gave a hoarse laugh when Pierre thumbed tears from his cheeks he’d apparently shed during sex.

He never wanted to leave. He never wanted to be apart from Pierre for the rest of his life.

 

 

Of course, the FIA had other plans, and so did his crown. Charles returned to the Ferrari suite two hours later, shower damp and quivering from two more rounds in bed just as exquisite as the first. His blood hummed with residual pleasure, as potent as an opiate, as potent as a win.

Carlos noticed immediately, the second he emerged from the bathroom to find Charles lying on their bed, staring up at the ceiling with a grin he couldn’t erase.

“Hello there,” Carlos greeted, tossing a wet towel at him.

The towel thwapped against his face. Charles burst out laughing before tossing it back at him. He heard Carlos’s feet patter on the wood floor as he dodged.

“I don’t think I have to ask what you did,” Carlos said, scooping up the towel and settling in front of his closet.

Charles admired the view when Carlos dropped the towel at his waist and pulled on a pair of boxer briefs. He didn’t even care that Carlos caught him watching.

“Do you mind if I don’t wear a shirt?” Carlos asked. “It’s hot.”

“I don’t mind,” Charles said, dopey and spent. Every move came with the ghost of Pierre’s hands on his skin, his mouth.

Carlos crossed to their bed and crawled onto it, smiling down at him.

“You do have to sleep, you know,” Carlos said, reaching down to thumb his cheek.

Charles smiled against his palm. “Carlos, era perfetto.”

Carlos’s eyes dimmed with fondness. “It looks like it was perfect.”

Happiness overflowed in him, streaming out of every pore. He couldn’t contain it if he tried.

Charles hoisted himself up and leaned in, pressing a kiss to Carlos’s lips that he hoped tasted like he felt.

“I love him,” Charles confessed as he rested their foreheads together. “I can’t even think straight, Carlos. I just love him.”

Carlos pressed a kiss to his temple and pulled him in. Charles happily snuggled into his chest as Carlos pulled the sheets over them. His body was warmer than usual being fresh from the shower, like a heated blanket made of comfort.

“Well I had a lovely night,” Carlos said, teasing. “Reading books, listening to the silence, not having sex with anyone.”

Charles laughed and pressed a kiss to his chest.

They settled into the mattress, and Charles couldn’t believe that he got to have a husband like Carlos, and a man who loved him who wasn’t intimidated by his relationship with him.

“Am I being too much?” Charles asked, moving up to an elbow to look at Carlos.

Carlos shook his head, his smile fond. “It makes me very happy to see you so happy,” he murmured. “But I do wish it could have been me.”

Carlos hid pain well, but Charles felt it in the way his fingers had stilled against his shoulders.

“You make me better,” Charles said softly, brushing his thumb over the line of his jaw. “Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to tell him. I would have kept it bottled up again.”

Carlos smiled, but the pain truly leaked in then. “So I was a lesson.”

Charles pressed their lips together, allowing this kiss to linger, for Carlos to take what he wanted from it.

“You’re not a ‘was,’ Carlos,” Charles said against his mouth. Carlos moved against him and Charles laid back, allowing Carlos to kiss down his neck, for his hands to slide up the jersey knit of Pierre’s shirt that Charles had stolen.

“What am I, then?” Carlos asked against the hollow of his throat.

Charles let out a hum, turning his face to nuzzle into Carlos’s arm where it had come to rest by his head.

“Ti dirò un segreto,” Charles purred, bringing his hands to Carlos’s face.

“Okay,” Carlos said through slightly squished cheeks.

Charles’s sex-drunk smile returned. He released his hold on Carlos’s cheeks and lifted his head from the mattress to settle his lips at Carlos’s ear.

“I like coming back home to you,” Charles whispered.

He wanted life with Pierre. He wanted to be back in bed with him, and couldn’t wait to experience every high and low together. But they were princes of different empires, and he wouldn’t have the chance to sleep beside Pierre for weeks, maybe months.

His love for Carlos was still there, a glowing ember in his chest that he couldn’t snuff out. Having the chance to have this, with Carlos, and for it to be okay made him feel like he’d somehow traded all of his bad luck in life for this one good thing.

“I like being your home,” Carlos replied, settling into bed beside him again.

Charles snuggled into his chest, suddenly warm all over because Carlos caught what Charles hadn’t been able to, even though he’d said the words.

Home wasn’t Maranello or their palace apartment or their hospitality motorhome. Home was their shared bed in a dozen different countries, collapsing on the couch together after practice and picking through onboards, Carlos cooking dinner or Charles overriding him and ordering something from the hotel if he saw Carlos rubbing his palms too much, sore from fighting the wheel.

For the next year at least, home was Carlos. Home was the man beside him and all of the love and strength he offered.

 

 

Chapter Text

Pre-race rituals were important. Many drivers believed in the supernatural power of routine before every race. Some swore that rituals only had power when they were secret. Some drives had good luck charms stuffed in their race suits, others only entered the car from a certain side.

Lando tried not to develop any, mostly because he knew he’d forget about them and end up with more bad luck than good.

So far, he had a pretty decent race record without any crazy traditions.

He liked to nap before a race if he could, but it didn’t matter if he couldn’t find the time. He also liked to eat a square of dark chocolate just before he stepped into the garage, so the engine-hot water would turn hot chocolatey in his mouth when he took a drink.

Daniel liked to listen to music up until the last possible second. He started with slower beats about an hour before a race. The jokes stopped and the warmups started. Stretching, yoga, catching tennis balls. Short sprints and shadowboxing.

Well, usually. This weekend, the music stayed, but the medical team didn’t permit anything else. That seemed counterintuitive to Lando, considering they were about to throw him in a car to face 5 Gs in the corners and put a boiling hot engine right behind him in the cockpit.

Lando stood in the garage, avoiding the sun as long as possible while the mechanics prepped the car on the grid. He tapped his foot on the tile floor and drove the track in his mind, quizzing himself on what gear he would be in for what corner, how he wanted to approach the altitude changes if it ended up raining—though they seemed to have found the one sunny weekend in England’s history to race.

Daniel stood in the corner of the garage like a fucking ghost in a horror movie. His headphones gave his skull a weird shape, and his dark curls created a strange halo all around him. His eyes looked stuck wide, though at least his pupils weren’t mismatched anymore.

No, he just had headaches and didn’t sleep well and sounded like a dying animal when he took a shower and thought Lando couldn’t hear. Like an actual dying animal—soft, guttural noises, not screaming and moaning.

The crowd seethed, a rainbow that only consisted of empire colors.

Nerves bundled in Lando’s gut, cold and slippery. He chewed on the straw of his water bottle and stared out at the grandstands. Every seat was packed, and suddenly the chain link fences that outlined the tarmac seemed flimsy.

An all too familiar tension hung in the air. Lando felt sick as the crowd roared low and loud. Lewis appeared on the big screens, waving at the stands, Silverstone’s unofficial king.

Lando tapped his foot faster as the crowd roared, boisterous and frenzied.

He wanted Carlos, who he hadn’t seen since the fucking launch party for the race weekend. He wanted Carlos’s arms around him, just for a few minutes to drive away the sensation that he was going to get attacked again, that Daniel would get hurt.

Because the fact was that they were getting boxed in. If people decided they wanted to get on the grid, they could. The open blue sky outside was a false sense of security.  

“Fuck,” Lando muttered, rubbing his arms. “Fuck.”

 

 


 

           

George’s left shoulder buckled with a loud pop. He let out a hiss as Aleix, his physio, jammed a thumb into his quivering muscle. Aleix didn’t say anything, but George heard his disappointment anyway. How he ought to have scheduled more massages, that he needed to relax, that maybe he should actually speak at some point this weekend.

Relief tingled through the muscle in his shoulder as Aleix worked apart a knot that had been bothering him since FP2 on Friday. He’d thought to find Aleix then, but things kept coming up. Videos for media, game night with Nic, then movie night with Nic after he couldn’t focus on Connect Four, and Lewis. A lot of Lewis.

As usual, lockdown rules didn’t apply to the world champion. Lewis visited him twice, both times to check in on him. He made tea, they took walks through the palace grounds, they talked for a very long time.

Yet George couldn’t remember much of his visits. He couldn’t even remember what he’d eaten for breakfast two hours ago.

“Okay, that’s good,” George said, moving off of his massage bench.

“I suppose I don’t get a say in that,” Aleix muttered once.

George didn’t smile. “Sorry, mate.”

He left the drivers room before he had to make any more conversation. Nic stood at the espresso machine, cranking out coffees for the team the way he usually did on race mornings. Well, after he made George an americano at the crack of dawn and started talking his ear off about race nerves.

“He’s back!” Nic greeted, toasting his arrival with a fresh cappuccino.

George walked over to him as Nic handed off the coffee to one of the Public Affairs crew. She thanked him for the drink as George settled at the edge of the stainless steel countertop beside his husband.

“I was hoping a massage would help turn that frown upside down,” Nic said, poking the corner of his mouth.

George looked down at his hands.

Something bad is going to happen today.

He almost puked out the words, but kept his mouth shut, because bad feelings were infectious in motorsport, and they had a habit of ending in tragedy.

Behind Nic, a TV screen played Lewis’s interview from the day before after qualifying. He had a smile on his face, the thrill of pole position in his eyes.

“Great pace out there today,” Lewis said.  “I mean, look at Lando. Just impressive, man.”

 

 


 

 

When Charles woke up, he thought that soreness might affect his drive, or that his thoughts would only revolve around Pierre for the rest of forever. Maybe both.

He should have known better. The crown would always assert itself.

The moment he entered the garage with Carlos, his body fell into the race day rhythm of warmups, checking in with the engineers, and going over final strategy plans. The track brimmed with a sense of urgency, and the cars seemed alive as they were pushed onto the grid, surrounded by mechanics.

The formation lap went by in slow motion, a taste of the fight that left Charles itching so bad to race that he started sweating before he even reached his grid position. Excitement sizzled in him, smoothed out by a quiet calm the moment the red lights came on, flicking out one by one.

The moment they went black, everything changed.

Charles seared through the gears, eating up tarmac behind Max’s Red Bull even as it pulled away toward the first corner. Charles knew distances, and the one between him and Max wasn’t as insurmountable as it looked.

They sliced through corners, but Charles didn’t even have to look in his mirrors to know how close Lando was, how Daniel waited just behind to clean up if Lando he and Lando touched wheels.

Charles downshifted twice as he headed into the Loop. Lando downshifted three times.

It wasn’t much of a difference, but races were won in the margins.

He edged out Lando and found himself close to Lewis’s, swerving out of his dirty air as the crowd went into a frenzy, cheering so loud that Charles felt the vibration in his tires.

He settled into the cockpit, riding the Gs into the next turn and stomping on the gas. The car growled in approval, finding speed with no strain to the engine.

This car would win today. Charles felt it in every breath, every perfect corner.

Lewis and Max traded jabs in front of him and Charles kept up the pressure.  Lewis didn’t make many mistakes, but he hadn’t been wheel to wheel with someone like Max in years.

And very few people had ever been next to Max in a car while Max had fury in his veins. Charles had. He knew that a single push could spark the keg, and he would pick up the pieces when Lewis found out the hard way.

They came pushed down the straight into Copse and sure enough, Lewis inched wide as he went up in the inside. Max held firm on his line for a fraction of a second before he turned slightly in to make a move toward the apex.

The cars touched, knocking each other in opposite directions, but not much. Charles stopped looking when they slowed down, because they both had gone wide off the line, leaving him a heavenly expanse of clean air.

He took his chance. He took the lead.

 


 

Lando liked racing Charles, even if he was an unpredictable bitch behind the wheel. Daniel stayed right on his ass as he fought for position, which was a double insult not only because Daniel was driving with only half a brain, but his engine was eating only dirty air and still managing to keep up.

Lando didn’t need the team to tell him that his pace was shit. He had a rule that no one was allowed to talk to him during the first lap unless the car needed to pit or there was an emergency.

Charles blocked his teasing attempt at an overtake, so he swerved left, prompting Charles to swing left too.

He tried to get a glimpse up the field where Lewis and Max duked it out, but he could only see the red flash of Lewis’s battery charging light and the rear end of a Ferrari blocking the way.

He checked his mirrors and saw the blood red of Carlos’s front wing fighting for position behind Daniel.

Fuck.

Lando flicked down gears without having to think. Silverstone was his home track—he could probably drive it blind.

When he turned his attention back to the corner, to Copse, he saw a plume of white smoke. Max’s car slid out into the gravel, throwing rocks in its wake that Lando had to swerve to avoid. Lewis’s car followed Max to the berm before turning back in, quick as a shark and just as deadly.

Lando punched the gas and closed the gap, taking over Lewis before he had a chance to accelerate. Only Charles lay in front of him, and Lando knew full well a McLaren could catch a Ferrari. Even if Charles had been putting on a good show for the weekend, a souped up tractor was still just a tractor.

Lewis appeared in his mirrors, but Daniel cut him off rather aggressively, fighting the good fight.

Nice one, mate, Lando thought.

He didn’t see Max. He didn’t care to.

 

 


 

 

George wrestled with his wheel, cursing under his breath as power continued to leak from his car. He had the ass of an Alfa Romeo way too close to his nose for his liking. Even if he did pass, the pack wouldn’t thin out for at least five laps.

He took a calming breath, reminding himself that while some races were won on the first lap, it only took one bad pit stop or a tire puncture to get him in the points.

And he really fucking wanted his first points to be at Silverstone.

But the car fought him. His steering wheel seemed like it had been screwed in wrong, which was impossible. But he couldn’t seem to get his bearings.

Aleix would blame it on his lack of physical care, but George intended to prove everyone wrong about that.  He could manage this. He could keep his emotion—his personal life—out of the cockpit.

But as he rounded Copse, his personal life appeared in a heap of metal at the tire wall.

Cars were just machines to most people, but to him—to any prince, really—they were almost a family member. They were the product of hundreds of minds, hundreds of hands that belonged to people who loved their work and what it symbolized. Cars were soldiers, athletes, and protectors all at once, wrapped in a slick carbon fiber package.

Seeing one mangled was like seeing a champion racehorse with four broken legs. George only glanced at it for a second, but long enough that he saw a crowd of white FIA uniforms standing around the car like maggots waiting to infest the rot.

The scene passed as fast as a blink and next thing he knew George had to fight to keep his head level through another turn.

“Is anyone hurt?” George asked over radio. “Who was that?”

The radio stayed silence for almost five full seconds, enough for him to make it down to the Hangar Straight.

“No info yet,” James, his race engineer, said.

George knew a lie when he heard one.

The cold feeling from before the race returned. His stomach acid turned to ice chips, and he willed himself to focus back on the track in front of him.

“Update me, please,” he said.

“Sure thing, mate. Keep your head down, we’ve got a long race ahead. Let’s go get ‘em, yeah?”

“Yeah,” George replied, flicking on his battery recharge as he headed into the speed trap.

Please let Lewis be okay, he prayed. His mum always told him to leave his worries with the man upstairs. Someone had to handle it, because he couldn’t.

He gripped tighter to the wheel, until his palms started to ache.

People couldn’t usually discern a lie by omission, but God probably could. But praying for one person and not the other wasn’t a lie, right?

The car answered him with a whine as he careened wide into a turn, losing valuable time.

He bit down on his water straw, fighting the urge to cry out. He hated being smart. He hated having a calculating brain. He hated being able to read between the goddamn lines when Lewis warned of consequences.

Don’t kill him, George begged. Even though he’s a horrible person, don’t send him to Hell just yet.

 

 


 

 

 Even in pain, his perfect car could not be stopped. Even as Charles saw the black shadow of Lewis’s Mercedes creeping into his mirrors, Charles held his line until it just wasn’t possible with an engine that kept flickering out. He had one hand on the wheel, the other finding new buttons to press, new engine presets to try as the team funneled information into his ear.

“Lewis will pass, Lewis will pass,” Jock said. “I’m sorry, Charles.”

Annoyance tugged at the base of his spine that Jock would give up so easily, but a part of Charles knew the reality. He would take second, and Lewis would take first. But everyone would know who really won—who had worked the hardest to get a podium, who had wrestled a car most drivers would have been too scared to push.

“Charles, you had an excellent, excellent race,” Binotto said two laps later when Lewis crossed the finish line in P1 and he limped across the line behind him. “You should be proud. You can come home proud, Charles.”

Anger surged in him for several seconds. Rage at the car, the track, the race, even the team. The race had been his. It was supposed to be him on the top step.

“Thanks guys,” Charles said, shoving the anger aside. “Grazie mille. I thought we had it today—we should have. But we have a good result.”

“P2 is a great result,” Binotto replied. “Lewis P1, you P2, Bottas, Lando, Daniel, Carlos P6.”

Charles allowed the energy of the podium finish to sweep over him once the radio went quiet. The car lumbered toward the pit entry, as the adrenaline kicked up inside him. Finally. A podium. Ferrari could finally have something to celebrate back home.

He’d earned his way back into Binotto’s good graces. Charles planned to soften Carlos’s punishment, to convince Binotto to allow him to see Lando this weekend. They both needed to go into the next week happy and rested, and Charles now knew just how restful love could be.

He couldn’t wait to see Pierre.

The car rolled to a stop behind the P2 stand. Charles thought he’d already experienced the high, but as soon as he saw the crowd of red at the base of the podium, he smiled so hard his helmet started to hurt his cheekbones.

He peeled off his gloves, glancing up at a TV screen where Lewis paraded a Mercedes flag around track. The crowd roared for him as Charles pulled off his helmet.

“Congratulations,” Carlos said as he approached, voice muffled by his helmet.   His hand came to Charles’s ribs, squeezing gently.

Charles smiled wider. “Thank you.”

He looked up to the waiting podium as he embraced his husband, then rushed off toward the team. He leapt into their collective embrace, Carlos at his back, the sun in his sweat-soaked hair.

Happiness tasted like sweat, motor oil, and balaclava fibers.

 


 

Lando hopped from the car, every limb shaking. Fourth place wasn’t horrible, but he couldn’t shake the fact that Max never caught up with him and Will, his engineer, never said anything about a retirement. Not that he usually did, but something seemed very, very off.

 He dumped his HANS device into the cockpit and walked quickly to Daniel’s car, where he had his visor pressed against the halo, shoulders slumped.

Lando tapped on his helmet and crouched beside him.

“Dan, we have to get to the garage,” he said, because he knew this wasn’t caused by post-race defeat.

Daniel careened backward, but managed to unhook his HANS device and got out of the car. Lando took off his helmet and grinned, allowing the adrenaline to burn the fakeness out of it as he put an arm around his husband.

Daniel collapsed against him, way too heavy.

Cameras flashed as they embraced, but Lando nearly fell over in an attempt to hold him up.

“Help me out here, mate,” Lando grunted. “I can’t fucking carry you.”

Daniel found it in himself to stand and Lando al but dragged him toward the McLaren garage as Lewis, Charles, and Valtteri basked in the Silverstone sunlight for the end of the Mercedes anthem.

He heard the distinct pop of champagne as Daniel stumbled, and fear clasped Lando’s heart as several FIA officials started jogging away from the podium—

Right past them.

Lando watched as they continued on down the grid until the heatwaves from the tarmac started blurring their white sneakers.

The crowd erupted as Lewis hopped up in the railing.

The further they walked from the podium, the smaller the smiles became. Excited chatter turned to nervous glances and too much nodding. Eyes slightly too wide, thumbnails in mouths.

The crowd kept getting louder.

He looked around for Carlos, because Carlos always knew the source of a problem long before everyone else. But Carlos stood smiling under Binotto’s arm, staring up as Charles doused them both in a champagne rainfall.

He looked around for George, for Pierre, but couldn’t find a single prince.

Not good, not good.

“Lando,” Daniel croaked, and Lando realized he’d started walking too fast, pushing the pace too much.  

“Sorry,” he said, swallowing hard.

Lando’s hands kept shaking. Daniel kept sinking.

 

 


 

 

Charles stepped down from the podium drenched in champagne, still charged with adrenaline. Binotto met him at the base of the stairs for a proper hug, and the world seemed right side up again. A win would have been so much sweeter, but there would be a next time. He would find victory again, it was only a matter of time. They had so many races left.

“You’ve made Ferrari very proud,” Binotto said, ruffling his hair. “You would not believe the noise they are making back home. They say it’s shaking the palace.”

Charles grinned as the crowd swarmed around them. He expected Giorgio to stick a camera in his face first thing, to be forced into yet another dramatic kiss with Carlos to post all over the internet in a few hours.

He wouldn’t mind it this time.

Giorgio didn’t appear, and Carlos left for the motorhome before the ceremony had ended, so he figured Giorgio wanted to take the photos there.

A sea of Ferrari red churned around him as they walked back toward the garage. Hands clasped to his shoulders or thumped his back, people shouted his name, fists bumped with his own.  

He thought of Monaco, the pride he’d felt for Carlos coming home with a trophy. Carrying the torch when he couldn’t, and now he’d returned the favor. Maranello would sing his name again. Maybe he would sing back this time.

He waved to fans who screamed from the paddock club above the garages, waving flags and hopping up and down in their Ferrari team polos.

Binotto guided him into the garage when he thought to stop. His touch wasn’t forceful, but it was firm.

Charles unzipped his race suit enough to breathe better in the heat. Chapmagne dulled the need for water, but his body temperature still felt too high. He looked around for an ice vest when he realized something wasn’t right.

The garage stood empty around him. Not a single engineer, not a single mechanic. Not even a face from Public Affairs for an interview.

When Charles turned back to Binotto, his smile had died and rotted to a look that plunged Charles’s thrill straight into darkness.

 

 


 

 

George stood by as Lewis continued his celebration, elated and sparkling as bright as the diamond in his nose. He went through every pose in the book, a choreographed dance of power, excitement, and pride. Valtteri would be lucky to make it into one photo.

More and more FIA personnel kept walking in the wrong direction of the celebration. Well, now it probably counted as more of an afterparty.

Lewis stood for photos, soaked in champagne, braids glistening in the sun, his skin even more dewy than usual. He looked the part of a king, the people’s favorite, widely loved all around the world. Every prince wanted to be him. George wanted to beat him, but he wanted to love him too. Both sides of himself—prince and person—wanted Lewis beside him.

George had never seen Toto so happy. His smile looked like it had been photoshopped on, yet looked genuine somehow. Angela looked like she might burst with happiness over Lewis’s shoulder when he hugged her tight. She said something to him, something long and probably uplifting.

George waited his turn, his insides blending themselves. He simultaneously wanted Lewis’s embrace just as much as he wanted to push him away.

Lewis threw the Mercedes flag over his shoulders, wearing it like a cape as he strode toward him. The sight reminded George all too much of the real Mercedes cape, and those memories didn’t belong here. George kept his eyes trained on the simmering asphalt at his feet.

Lewis wouldn’t kiss him. Not even the rush of victory could bring him to do something so reckless. But George had a feeling they would hug, and it would make for a photo op that fueled the tabloids for weeks to come.

If Mercedes decided to spin things that way.

George straightened when Lewis approached, but he couldn’t make himself smile.

“Congratulations,” he said, forcing himself to sound like a living human and not a corpse. “You did great, Lewis.”

Lewis smiled at him, warm and jovial as always. “Thanks, George.”

He walked right past, leaving George with only a whiff of the sticky scent of dried champagne.

Well.

He turned to watch as Lewis threw his arms over his head, lifting the flag.

The crowd exploded with deafening noise, and Lewis let out a cheer that sounded more like a battle cry. Silverstone became an electric hive, filled to the brim of screaming fans and tripoint crests.  

Lewis’s power echoed off of every grandstand, absolute. The noise pounded relentlessly against his eardrums, his throbbing temples.

George vomited into the first trashcan he found in the Williams garage.

Evidently breakfast had been an omelet.

When he wiped the string of phlegm from his lips, hollowed, not a single person turned to look at him, including Nic.

No, all eyes were on the garage monitors, on the cable feed, where the screen showed a Red Bull slamming into a tire wall so hard that tires burst free and flew out into the gravel.

Max didn’t get out of the car.

 

 


 

 

The Ferrari garage seemed darker without people in it. Charles’s fingernails bit at the inside of his palms, trying to stay calm.

“Max has been involved in a racing incident,” Binotto explained, his voice deadpan. “We have not been updated on his condition.”

The world went negative. Whites became blacks, blacks became whites. Colors popped and burst and leaked everywhere, and purple spots whirled behind Charles’s eyes whenever he blinked.

He remembered the flush of white smoke, taking the open gap. He couldn’t focus on an accident, he had to race. Casualties of war.

Except it was Max.

“He’s been taken to the Red Bull medical center at Milton Keynes,” Binotto continued. “We don’t know his condition.”

Charles knew that line. It meant that Max was critical or dead and they didn’t want to say it until they stuck him with enough needles or finally quit pulverizing his heart with electricity in an attempt to restart it.

Max. His Max.

Charles couldn’t even remember the last words Max said to him. But he did remember thinking to call out to him and deciding against it, too focused on Pierre, on stupid shit like sex instead of the wellbeing of one of the most important people in his life.

They hadn’t even taken him to the medical suite on site. He was bad enough that they took him to the palace, which was always a last-ditch effort to shield the inevitable news from breaking until Red Bull wanted it to.

“Why are you telling me this?” Charles asked, his stomach turning.

Binotto had no obligation to tell him anything unless Max was already dead, and Charles hoped he would have come out and said that if it was the truth. They certainly didn’t need to be having this conversation in an empty garage.

“Charles, you are going to have to make some very important decisions—”

“Mattia. Why. Explain.”

Binotto frowned. Annoyance flashed across his face for only a second before he replied, “Because he’s listed you as his NOK.”

Charles blinked. “His knock?”

“Next of kin, Charles.”

Something both warm and sickening flooded him as he stood there.

If a crown was sacred, the designation of next of kin was the ribbon wrapped around their hands at the royal wedding ceremony. Symbolic yet hidden, and incredibly personal to each prince.

So personal that the FIA only knew who had been designated when the time came for a next of kin to be called upon.

“Not Daniel,” Charles said, his tongue thick in his mouth.

Binotto shook his head. “No. You.”

Charles inhaled deeply. The sweet scent of champagne had been replaced with that of stale sweat and burning rubber.

“We aren’t together, Mattia,” he said, because he had to clear that up before he sank right back into the pit he’d just crawled out of.

“Now is not the time to discuss these things,” Binotto said, and the softness in his voice made Charles want to burst into tears.

But he knew what was required of him in these situations. He knew what cold hands felt like in his own, that he had to stare at a dead person’s face for at least five whole minutes to ensure that his brain could send signals through his synapses that the person was actually gone, so the grieving process was that much shorter.

Max probably picked him because Charles knew his way around wakes, funerals, and all of the planning. He had a better relationship with Jos, with Sophie—though that wasn’t saying much.

As usual, Max picked the logical choice. Daniel was most important to him, but he had too much brightness in him to be able to handle the pitch black of death and everything that surrounded it.

Binotto put a hand on his shoulder. “You need to go to Red Bull. Christian will meet you there with further instructions.”

Charles nodded once, pushing all thoughts of Max from his mind. He glanced down at himself, all of the Scuderia red and stark white.

“I should change,” he said. “I’ll head there in a second.”

He didn’t wait before he turned around and headed to the drivers room in the hospitality motorhome just behind the garage. The celebratory atmosphere had started to quiet as the news spread, but Charles kept his eyes firmly ahead. Max probably didn’t want anyone to know.

Usually princes picked family members as next of kin. Charles had his mother listed, and Lorenzo, his older brother, as a secondary. It never even occurred to him to list a prince—even now, he wouldn’t change his choice to Pierre or Carlos no matter what happened.

He didn’t have to wonder why Max hadn’t listed his family, though not listing his sister was a bit of a surprise. Then again, she’d danced on the periphery of his life ever since he’d been appointed. And assigning any family member would pretty much guarantee Jos intervening and taking over.

“Oh,” Charles said, startled to find Carlos already inside the drivers room, his race suit unzipped to his hips and his nomex already removed, all tan skin and dark hair.

“Hi,” Carlos said stupidly, blinking at him. He clearly wanted to say something, but didn’t know if he could.

Charles turned to his closet and plucked a Ferrari polo from the drawer.

“Binotto just told me,” Charles said, quickly unzipping his suit the rest of the way and changing out of his nomex and into the athletic fabric of the polo.

“Is he okay?” Carlos asked hesitantly

Right. Carlos loved Max once upon a time.

Charles shucked off his race boots and peeled out of his race suit completely, tossing it to the couch nearby. Carlos stood close enough that Charles could feel his body heat against the backs of his legs as he shimmied into his jeans.

“No,” Charles replied, sitting down on the couch to pull on his Puma sneakers.  

He didn’t have anything more to say than that.

When he stood up again, he took a deep breath before meeting Carlos’s eyes.

“I’m going to meet with Red Bull, then probably going to Milton Keynes.”

Carlos set his jaw. “You’re his NOK.”

Charles didn’t know how everyone else already knew that goddamn term, but he nodded once. “Yes. Please keep that between us for now. I didn’t know until a minute ago.”

“Aspetta, your collar is folded,” Carlos murmured. He reached out, fingers fumbling at Charles’s neckline. Carlos’s usual warmth didn’t reach past his skin. “There.”

“Grazie,” Charles said. “I’ll see you later.”

They shared a quick kiss goodbye, not long enough for Charles to feel any guilt for delaying his mission.

He headed out of the motorhome and walked quickly toward the imposing glass and carbon fiber fortress of the Red Bull motorhome, where a giant red bull charged along the side.

Charles had never been interested in being a prince of Red Bull or any of its sister empires. Ferrari had always been his goal, ever since Jules pulled him aside at Christmas an unveiled a glossy Ferrari pin, boxed in velvet. A cheap keepsake from a tourist shop probably, but Charles had treated it like the crown itself back then.

Une promesse, Jules had said, de choses à venir.

But Max chose Red Bull. Well, they chose him. And as a seventeen year-old, he took whatever was offered. Driving for Torro Rosso became a way to leave home on a high, to leave behind everything that hid in the shadows on Monaco and forcing Charles to hide in the shadows of his new life instead.

Charles stepped inside without waiting to be escorted.

The walls were all white, glossy and reflective. Giant canvases of Max and Checo took up some of the wall space—black and whites with only the blues, yellows, and reds colored in.

Pictures of trophies, podiums, and a few photos of the race team made up the rest of the artwork. Red Bull personnel rushed from room to room, several talking on the phone, some signing paperwork, others simply standing there with blank expressions, utterly lost.

It reminded him of Anthoine’s death. So much running around, so much hurry, thinking why is everyone running? Because back then Charles thought it wasn’t possible for them to die anymore. Safety improvements, track adjustments—they were supposed to be safe now.

“Excuse me,” Charles said to a passing man.

The man looked up at him, eyes going wide when he recognized who was standing there.

“Your Royal Highness,” the man greeted, dipping his head. “You’re here to see Horner?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “Right away, please.”

The man led him up a narrow staircase in the center of the motorhome, much like Ferrari’s. A dozen people gathered at a board room table on the second floor, all of them dressed in team polos. FIA officials stood by, pointing things out on a screen jam-packed with data Charles didn’t understand.

The man led him to an office and knocked once before opening the door.

Christian Horner sat at his desk, his greying hair still in place, his icy eyes set on the desk in front of him. Checo stopped in the middle of the room, mid-pacing.

“Ah, Charles,” Horner said, offering him the seat in front of the desk.

The door closed behind him as soon as Charles stepped inside, descending them into soundproof quiet, safe from the noise outside.

“Do you know how this works?” Horner asked, cutting right through the bullshit when Charles didn’t move.

“Depends. Is he dead?”

Saying it out loud didn’t jar anything in him. People died. Princes weren’t immune. Max, try as he might, wasn’t immune either.

Horner watched him carefully before shaking his head. “No, he isn’t dead.”

Charles knew better than to be relieved.

“You will be the first person to hear news about his condition,” Horner said. “Including if he…passes away. Which seems very unlikely, I might add. But you’ll be the first to know. And you will be the deciding factor for medical decisions he can’t make himself.”

Checo kept staring at him, motionless. His arms were crossed over his chest, his black hair wild.

“For example, you’re permitted to bring one other person with you to the medical wing. We’ve locked it down, of course, but the FIA is very particular with these things.”

Horner motioned to Checo. “I am officially advising you to take Prince Sergio with you. He can handle communications between—”

“But I get to pick,” Charles interrupted.

Horner’s face didn’t change. “Yes. But Red Bull’s official—”

“Daniel Ricciardo,” Charles said. “He’s my pick.”

He expected for Horner to get angry, to scream at him, to make his advisement into a proper threat. Not that it would have changed Charles’s decision.

Max needed to see Daniel just as much as Daniel needed to see Max.

Max chose him to make the decisions best for his health. Daniel was the best choice for his heart, his emotional wellbeing, his calm.

To his credit, Horner simply nodded. “Can’t say I’m surprised. You’ll have to go get him form McLaren, because we are not going to be involved in that whatsoever. I’ll inform security at Milton Keynes, but Charles, Daniel does not have the same permissions. I want you to understand that now.”

Charles nodded. “Thanks for the heads up.”

Horner smirked at him, a sign of respect Charles didn’t expect to see.

Checo stepped forward. “Anything you could tell us would be—”

“I’ll make sure everyone is informed,” Charles said.

He thought it was pretty ironic that Checo was so worried when he easily could have put Charles in the hospital only a few weeks ago.

Charles thanked them both and left, wiping the photos of Max from his mind as he stepped out into the sunshine. Cameras flashed when he exited—the media had caught the scent.

Charles squinted against the flashes as he pressed forward toward the bright orange of the McLaren motorhome.

He didn’t see a single prince as he walked.

Max is alive, he reminded himself as he stepped through the glass doors at McLaren.

But being alive only meant his heart was still beating. Being alive did not mean Max was conscious or capable of thought. He could very well be in a sleep he wouldn’t wake up from, or broken in so many places he wouldn’t have the ability to drive again.

McLaren staff proved to be much more attentive than Red Bull. They stuck themselves to the walls as Charles entered, and a kind woman point toward a door marked with a black spraypainted crown that dripped down the face. Obviously a Daniel choice.

Charles opened the door to see Lando curled in a fetal position in the corner of the room, swaddled in a hoodie, his race suit still on underneath. Daniel’s head rested at his feet, an ice pack on his temple, his lips slightly parted. His unzipped race suit made him look like he’d been flayed for surgery. His dark skin stretched tight over bone, revealing his ribs so completely that Charles was sure a doctor would be able to pick out the grooves in his bone if they looked close enough.

“He’s dead, huh?” Lando croaked before putting his face in his knees to sob. “Holy fuck, he’s dead.”

Daniel’s one eye opened that wasn’t covered by an ice pack.

“He’s not dead,” Charles soothed. “It’s okay, Lando. He’s not dead.”

“Fucking lead with that next time then!” Lando snapped, muffled by his legs, arms wrapped tight around his shins.

A crack ran through Charles’s resolve when Lando continued sobbing.

Lando didn’t know loss like the rest of them. He knew Anthoine, of course, but not the way Charles, Pierre, and George did. Lando wasn’t there that night where Charles honestly wondered if it was possible for a person to die of grief as he held Pierre in his arms, as George folded over him, as Alex stared out the window and said nothing.

Charles crept around Daniel and moved to the floor beside Lando to collect him in a hug.

Lando resisted at first, then toppled into him. Charles rubbed his shoulder and rested his cheek against the crown of Lando’s head as Lando shook violently, sniffling and trying to catch his breath.

“I’m going to text Binotto to make sure you have Carlos with you tonight,” Charles murmured. “How does that sound?”

Lando sucked in a breath. “Don’t say shit like that. You can’t do that.”

“He’s Max’s NOK,” Daniel murmured form his spot on the floor. “He’s basically the most powerful person aside from Lewis right now.”

“His what?” Lando asked.

“Next of kin,” Charles explained, thankful he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t known.

Lando went a little slack. “So, what, you two are a thing?”

“No,” Charles said. “I’m not really sure why he picked me.”

Lando didn’t say anything for a long moment, then shook his head.

“I can’t see Carlos. I’m staying with Daniel.”

Charles slid his gaze to where Daniel laid, his eyes on the ceiling, his body splayed out like he planned on making a snow angel in the carpet fibers.

“That’s’ not an option,” Charles said. “Daniel’s coming with me to Milton Keynes.”

Every ounce of color drained from Daniel’s face. Not the reaction Charles expected.

“I get to take another person,” Charles continued as he rubbed Lando’s shoulder. “I picked Daniel.”

Daniel coughed, sending a spasm through his frail body. Daniel didn’t seem like a frail person, yet lying on the floor he probably looked more like a corspe than Max did.

“Horner is never gonna—”

“Horner already knows,” Charles said. “You’re coming with me.”

“If fucking hate Milton Keynes,” Daniel breathed in reply.

“Well if you want to see Max, you have to go,” Charles said, trying to fight the edge from his voice. He could do this alone if he had to, but he didn’t know how he would explain to Max that Daniel refused to come with him even when he had the option. Not in a way that didn’t hurt Max even more.

Daniel sat up, holding the ice pack to his face. “Let’s go before they come up with some rule, then.”

Charles ruffled Lando’s hair as he stood up. “I’ll make sure you get to be with Carlos as soon as possible.”

Lando nodded quickly. “Can you, um.  Can you text him to meet me at the spot?”

Charles ignored the prickle of hurt in his chest as he nodded. “I’ll do it as soon as we get out of here.”

He didn’t want to leave Lando in the room alone, but Max needed him now, and Charles couldn’t comfort anyone when he didn’t even know what was going on.

And FIA official met them before they had the chance to step out, thrusting two black suits at them. One had a Ferrari pin, the other a McLaren.

“You need to put these on before you exit,” the official. “A designated FIA car will be taking you to Milton Keynes. Once you arrive at the medical center, your cell phones will be confiscated.”

Charles shook his head. “I don’t have mine.”

“Me either,” Daniel said.

“Good. Now please change. We need Prince Charles at the medical center as soon as possible. I don’t think I need to emphasize the urgency.”

Frost collected at the tips of Charles’s fingers as he took his suit. Daniel’s face paled even further.

They crowded into the closest room and changed side by side, both of them lost. Charles thought of the booth in Monaco, touching the lapel of the denim jacket. The thick scent of pizza, the way Max’s hand found his during intense points in a movie, or sad ones. The way he said, I don’t know, everything, when Charles asked what telling a story would help with.

He buttoned up his shirt and tucked it into his slacks. His white sneakers looked a little silly, but he doubted anyone would notice.

He thought of Max as he pulled his phone from his discarded jeans and Daniel grinned before taking out his and wiggling it for him to see.

“Same page,” Daniel said as he his his phone in his shoe.  

As if Charles would let the FIA take his one lifeline.

He unlocked his phone and sent of a text to Carlos.

Heading to RB. Word from him, meet at the spot.

He put his phone on Do Not Disturb and put it in his sneaker, following Daniel’s lead. He just hoped he didn’t crack eth screen and cut his foot open somehow.  

Once they were both fully dressed, Charles looked at Daniel. He cleaned up well, even if one cheek was puffier than the other and he had a small scar on it. He didn’t look nearly as bad as Carlos led him to believe.

“Are you ready?” Charles asked.

Daniel’s eyes were lighter than Carlos’s, but carried sadness just as well.

“You know why they’re doing this, right?”

Charles nodded. “I know.”

They exited the room and the lone FIA official had mutated to five people who spritzed them with hairspray and cleaned up their brows. They would be painted like dolls and sent out into the world to be the face of this crash.

Their pictures would be on every magazine cover in Europe and beyond as they walked to that van, likely the very last photos of them as normal people. As Pre-Knowing people.

In an hour they would be with Max, and Charles would have to step into a role he didn’t want to be in, but knew he could handle.

He didn’t even remember saying goodbye.

They left the motorhome and Daniel stayed silent beside him as they walked, cameras flashing all around them.

“He’s actually alive, right?” Daniel asked under his breath as they stepped off a curb.

Charles nodded. “Yes, I wouldn’t lie about that. Not even for Lando.”

“Fuck,” Daniel replied.  

His lack of optimism gaped between them like an omen.

 

 

Chapter Text

George didn’t pay attention for most of his post-race debrief. He kept turning his hotel keycard in his hands, letting the thin metal dig into his throbbing palms. No one had any news on Max, and Jost didn’t allow live TV feeds in the briefing room. According to him, news channels were designed to keep viewers watching, and they didn’t have time for “speculative garbage.” Once real news came out about Max, they would all hear from the FIA. George tried not to roll his eyes at that one.

His car performed as expected during the race—meaning it was expected to be pretty much shit. Except George usually took that shit car and turned it into a midfield player. But even with a bad show, he’d beaten both Alfa Romeos and finished just behind both Alpha Tauris, which would put a much-deserved thorn in Pierre’s side.

Pierre had written him that he and Charles were better than ever, but George didn’t believe it. Charles wasn’t mentally well. He couldn’t make choices rationally. George had a feeling it was an attention thing, and the moment he felt secure enough in his appointment again, he would drop Pierre and embrace the Ferrari narrative. Of course, Charles would look pretty while doing it, but Pierre’s heart would shatter regardless, and it would be worse than all the times before when Charles had sidestepped romance with him.

Not to mention Charles had a hot Spaniard to run back to whenever he felt lonely. Pierre pretended he could handle that, but George had his doubts.

He loved Charles, but goddamn, what he wouldn’t give to be drooled over like that by so many princes in the paddock.

Maybe if he looked like Charles, Lewis wouldn’t have steamrolled him on the grid with a paltry ‘thanks’ as he walked by.

Conveniently enough for his ego, a photo of Charles and Daniel showed on the TV screens in the garage when George finally exited the briefing room. A ticker scrolled beneath the photo that read BREAKING NEWS: PRINCE LECLERC AND PRINCE RICCIARDO HEAD TO RED BULL - PRINCE VERSTAPPEN’S CONDITION REMAINS UNKNOWN.

George swallowed hard as the crash played again on screen. He watched the impact into the tire wall, the way Max’s head lolled against the halo.

An engineer turned up the audio feed.

“—very, very difficult to say anything about what might have happened,” Jenson Button said, voicing over the video feed. “What you have to remember is that the adrenaline is really going. So as you see Prince Verstappen grab the halo here, it’s actually very dangerous that he tried to pull himself up.”

Max struggled to pull himself from the cockpit, then slid back down, cracking his helmet against the back of his seat.

“If he has any kind of spinal injury, any kind of neck injury—any broken bones, really—your body is too full of adrenaline to realize it,” Jenson explained. “It happens in any sport. Footballers will break their legs and not even realize it until they try to run and fall on the ground.”

“Your Highness,” Kayla said, pushing her hair behind her ear as she approached. “I hate to pull you, but the FIA is requiring an appearance with you and Prince Lando for an interview.”

George swallowed hard. “Is there anything new about Max?”

She shook her head. “Last I heard, Prince Charles and Prince Daniel arrived in Milton Keynes, but that’s all we know.”

He nodded once, taking it in. Max must have designated Daniel as his NOK. He couldn’t see any other reason that he would be allowed to set foot in the Red Bull empire. But the pick to take Charles seemed too smart for Daniel to put together with his head only half screwed on.

Which meant Max picked Charles as his NOK, and Charles took Daniel with him.

Fucking Max. Fuck him. Fuck. Him.

“So what’s the interview about?” George asked, fixing his hair in the reflection of a dark monitor.

“Talking about your experience in the race. They’d like you to avoid speaking about the crash, but mentioning anything you may have seen from the cockpit is fine, since anyone can access your onboard.”

“Can Nicky come?” George asked, glancing around for him, but his briefing room door was still closed.

Kayla shook her head. “You and Prince Lando were specifically requested. You’re the most popular princes not currently occupied.”

George’s lip twitched. “What’s Lewis doing?”

“Waiting, I presume,” Kayla said.

“For?”

She pursed her lips. “Red Bull has yet to publicly comment about the accident. We anticipate it will not be friendly. Mercedes has to play this exactly right—fans are already upset about Lewis’s celebrations and they need that wave to ebb.”

“None of us knew,” George said, jumping to the defense. “It wasn’t like Lewis knew he put Max in the hospital. I didn’t even know until I got back to the garage.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “I know. But the fans don’t understand that. This interview will be a way to keep the attention elsewhere for a bit. Are you ready to go?”

George nodded and they headed out into the paddock.

“So why me and Lando?” George asked as they walked. “And don’t bullshit me about popularity—no offense, Kayla.”

Kayla sighed as she typed on her phone. “You both represent Mercedes as affiliated empires. They asked us for a favor, and Jost agreed. Zak as well, obviously.”

“So we’re the test run to see how Mercedes will be perceieved,” George muttered. 

“Yes. Unofficially, of course.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

Lando and the head of McLaren Public Affairs—Sophia, he was pretty sure—stood outside the McLaren garage as they walked up. Lando had his hands in the pockets of his McLaren softshell jacket, eyes heavy and skin far too pale.

“Hey, mate,” George greeted, tugging Lando in for a hug.

Lando hugged back, lightly patting his shoulder as he did so. “Good to see you.”

Even though the sun was still beating down on them, George had goosebumps as they followed their reps. He didn’t know what to say.

“How’s Daniel?” he decided to ask, though he knew he wouldn’t get a real answer with Public Affairs so close.

Lando lifted his chin. “He’s great. Team’s really happy with his performance today.”

“He’s great, huh,” George said, laying on the sarcasm.

“He was great,” Lando amended. “You know, before he found out.”

They slowed their walking speed until they were a comfortable distance behind Kayla and Sophia, out of earshot.

“Who do you think is interviewing us?” Lando asked. “Crofty and Brundle left already for special news coverage or something.”

“I bet it’s Jenson,” George said as they walked, shoulders brushing. “He was commentating today, right?”

Lando nodded. “Yeah. That’ll be interesting. I wish we could ask him real questions, you know? None of this stupid stuff.”

George felt the same. They seldom had the chance to meet previous princes during an appointment, and certainly not in a private setting. The FIA claimed it was to prevent corruption between past and present princes, but George and everyone else knew it was more likely because they would start to see things about royalty that they shouldn’t.

“This way, boys,” Sophia said as she guided them to a hastily erected pair of mic stands. “We’re going to wire you—Nadhir, can you get them wired, please?”

George cleared his throat as a man approached him with a lapel mic. George threaded the wire up through his Williams polo and stuck the offered battery pack into his pocket once connected.

The grandstands were still full, except now the crowd consisted mostly of Red Bull supporters staring at the big screens as the news played the crash over and over again.  

“Yes, we’re ready,” Sophia said as Nadhir adjusted George’s mic on his collar. “Prince George, please step up to this mic, would you?”

George turned to see just which mic, but stopped dead when he caught sight of a pair of burgundy, orange, and navy blue sneakers that looked like they’d been dipped in the trashcan he'd thrown up in.

Those stupid shoes used to find their way into his travel duffel way too often.

Alex stood right in front of him, not two feet away, wearing a Red Bull polo and a warm smile.

Seeing him up close made their previous encounter seem like he’d only seen Alex in a dream. His skin glowed, the color of caramel in the sun. He had more muscle than George remembered—bigger arms and sculpted calves that looked strong, not lanky like many other princes’. George had a good view of those calves too, because Alex was wearing navy blue shorts to match his Red Bull polo, clearly with no intention of being on camera.

His lips were a mix of mauve and berry colors, exactly the way George always pictured them in his daydreams. They looked as kissable as ever, soft and gently parted like they were waiting for him.

“George,” Alex greeted, measured.

George nearly went deaf at the sound of his voice. His name was made for Alex’s mouth. George knew every iteration of it, the way Alex’s lips moved, his tongue.

George knew the taste of it too, a thousand ways—morning, noon, and night.

The rest of Silverstone fell away until it was just the two of them. Alex and his perfect self, that soft smile on his face, those full lips, those brown eyes George loved so fucking much it hurt him just to look at them.

His entire world stood just behind a flimsy mic stand.

Alex had finally cut his hair properly too, George noticed, and the sight brought tears to his eyes--he even had a bit of stubble on his jaw that didn't look completely stupid.

Every part of him wanted to take Alex into his arms and hold him for hours. No speaking, no conversation or kissing or anything, only the sound of his breathing and the feel of his body and the realness of it.

“Alex, hey,” Lando greeted, shattering George’s vision. “What’re you doing here, mate?”

Lando bumped Alex’s fist before pulling him into a one-armed hug while George stood there, utterly frozen.

Alex laughed and George’s heart began to bleed into his chest cavity, filling up his lungs, drowning him right there in the sunshine.

“Uh, yeah, I guess you guys are stuck with me for an interview,” Alex said, holding up a few cards with questions printed on them. He had such beautiful fingers, elegant and refined. “I have no idea what I’m doing, so sorry in advance. Everything’s a bit loony.”

Loony. George didn’t think he’d ever heard Alex say loony once in his entire life.

“Hi,” George suddenly blurted out, way too late and way too loud.

Alex blinked at the volume of his greeting, then smiled softly. “Hi, George.”

Did they fucking brainwash you? George wanted to scream. It’s your George. It’s me, Alex. It’s fucking me!

Lando settled into his side, rubbing his elbow down George’s ribcage like he was playing a xylophone.

The reality finally settled on him. Alex was supposed to be a prince, not an interviewer. But of course Red Bull would send him to do their dirty work while the rest of the world focused on Max. Typical to throw Alex to the shittiest position possible.

This is a test run.

Alex looked good though. He looked happy, rested, and so much better than George remembered. He didn’t look like a hostage.

“How are you?” George asked. His voice cracked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “How—are you good?”

“I’m good,” Alex said, eyes crinkling above his smile. “I’m not as happy as I could be, but I’m happy.”

George trembled where he stood. Lando leaned into him a little harder to keep him upright.

“Have you bought any new cars?” George asked, because he had to fucking know why Alex looked so jubilant.

Every couple had codes, if they were smart. He and Alex developed theirs long before their appointments. Buying a new car was code for finding someone else. Falling in love with somebody else.

Alex stood there like he hadn’t heard, waiting. He shuffled his ugly shoes. Behind him, Max crashed into the tire wall for the millionth time. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, and his eyes dimmed with a fondness George barely recognized. He was used to that fondness being directed at him, so seeing it for someone else in Alex’s eyes made George feel more invisible than finishing last in a goddamn race ever could. And he would fucking know.

“It’s pretty special,” Alex said as George’s vision started to darken. “Not what I’m used to, not the one I thought I wanted. But it’s a great car.”

George could hardly stay standing. The pain tore at every ligament--it severed every tendon in him, every artery.

His entire life, he’d loved Alex Albon. His entire life, he’d thought of him every morning when he woke up, even sharing a bed with Lewis. He went to bed imagining Alex was already asleep beside him, pretending Nic’s sleep murmurings were that of the boy he would always love.

He’d been living the past year around the space Alex left behind.

And now Alex had someone else.

“That’s awesome,” George forced himself to say. “Good—yeah, man. Good for you.”

Alex cleared his throat. Lando abandoned his xylophone playing and put an arm around George.  

Alex lifted the cue cards. “I guess we should start with some questions, yeah?” 

“Yes, let’s,” Kayla called from where she stood next to Sophia.

George teetered as the cameras moved into place. Numbness scooped everything out of him as he stared at Alex’s shoes again.

Those were his fashion shoes, as he used to say. Athletic but edgy. He said they were shoes Pierre or Charles would wear, maybe.

George called them the puke shoes, but Alex just claimed he wouldn’t know high fashion if it bit him in the ass. Then George would make a joke about ass biting that would turn to lip biting that would turn to knocking things over as they fumbled to remove clothing from each other.

They were definitely puke shoes though. George had just seen the return of his breakfast omelet, so he could confirm.

“Great, let’s do this. George, do you want to take us through your start?” Alex asked.

George blinked a few times. “My…start?”

Lando laughed, forced. “Mate, he basically started last. Why are you asking him that question?”

Alex cringed. “Come on, I’m just reading the card.”

George was instantly back in his bedroom at home, half asleep against the headboard next to Alex, books open across both of their laps.

“Take me through this again,” Alex said around a yawn. “Because what you just said makes no sense to me, love.”

Love was the little pet name Alex only used when he was bordering on sleep.

“It’s basic calc,” George had muttered, dozing off. “You’re finding the derivative to get velocity. You could do this blindfolded, you’re just tired.”

Warm lips at his forehead, the gentleness of sleep.

“My start,” George repeated with more confidence, finding his footing in reality again. “Uh, it was fine. Had a bit of waiting at the start, then had a go of it and, all in all, had a decent race.”

“Mine was much more exciting,” Lando tacked on. “Char really put the moves on me, and I had Daniel and Carlos right behind. And, of course, I wanted to go for that gap and managed to keep Lewis behind for a bit, which was a nice rush.”

“And how did the tires feel?” Alex asked.

Lando laughed genuinely this time. “Gonna ask me how the weather was next?”

Alex blushed and George nearly collapsed on the tarmac.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t stand here.

“The tires were fine,” Lando finally answered. “George, were yours fine too?”

George glanced at Lando, and found an intensity in his gaze that went beyond the interview.

"A bit finicky," George said. "But yeah, fine here too."

Test run. They had to do this right.

So George answered Alex’s questions, no matter how stupid. So did Lando.  

All the while, George engraved every pore of Alex’s face into his brain for safekeeping, even as his heart shredded itself in his chest. Each time he cut himself with the truth, the reality,  he shrank away only to come back to it again the next time Alex spoke or laughed or smiled, and sliced a new part of himself wide open.

Alex loved someone else. Alex moved on without telling him.

Not that he could have. But maybe he could have waited a fucking second. Or tried harder.

Like you did? George thought as Lando bumbled through a question about DRS zones. I didn’t see you making any effort to tell him about Lewis.

Lewis was not Alex. George never put him in the same place in his heart. Not even close. Lewis was new and volatile, sweet and kind, but not his soulmate. Lewis didn’t make him forget himself the way Alex could with just a look. A few months of new love couldn’t hope to replace a lifetime with the boy in front of him.

But Alex probably didn’t see it that way. When Alex learned about Lewis, he probably felt the same way George felt now, or worse. Because there was always, always worse in exile.  

“Uh, that’s my last question,” Alex said, folding his final card. “I mean, unless you guys wanna talk about next year’s regs or something.”

Kayla and Sophia both shook their heads in the background.

“Sorry, mate. Gotta get back to the team,” Lando said, stepping forward for another hug. “So good to see you.”

Nadhir approached them, unthreading their mics from their polos.

George couldn’t move. He couldn’t fucking walk away from Alex another time. He just couldn’t fucking do it.

They stared at each other, and George thought maybe they would have to be forcibly removed from their spots.

Alex moved first, wrapping his arms tight around George, squeezing as hard as he could.He had a lot more strength than George remembered. He loved it. He savored the way his lungs crushed against each other in his chest.

A year. He'd spent a year without this. 

“I miss you so fucking much,” Alex whispered into his ear.

The fear in his voice drove a stake right through George's mangled heart.

He buried his face into Alex’s neck, lips brushing his skin. He took in the scent of him, the tang of freshly applied sunscreen.

“I’ll wait forever,” George whispered back. “I love you so much.”

Alex pulled away abruptly, leaving George to suck down cold air where Alex’s warmth had been only a heartbeat before. The mask dropped for half a second, revealing a look of pain on Alex’s face so acute that George had to force his organs to stay in place lest they burst from his mouth like his breakfast.

Alex’s face shifted to calm in a flash, perfectly schooled. It terrified George that he could do it so well that it looked real even to him.

“Take care of yourself, George,” Alex said. “Don’t get caught up in the mirrors, mate. I hear there’s a really nice Mercedes coming out soon.”

I don’t love you anymore, was what George heard.

Tears welled in George’s eyes, though he swore he wouldn’t cry. It was like Alex didn’t even want to remember him. Like he was something bad and ugly and cruel.

Stop doing this why are you doing this do you love me back I need you to say it—

“I like the cars I have,” George forced himself to say, unable to speak any louder than a whisper.

Alex smiled, but the corners of his lips quivered. “The problem with that is that sometimes cars break down.”

“Then I get it fixed,” George said. “Whatever it costs, I get it fixed.”

“George, some things can’t be fixed,” Alex said softly. He looked like he wanted to reach out and George found himself waiting for the touch of Alex’s fingers to his cheek, the gentle caress he always used to give whenever George was upset.

“I won’t give up on you,” George promised, emotion leaking into his voice. “I never will, no matter what.”

Alex stared at him blankly and George couldn’t tell if it as real or fake.

“Your Highness, it’s time to go,” Kayla said, patting his shoulder. “Come on.”

She had to know. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew he couldn’t leave.

“Come on,” Lando echoed, slinging an arm around him. “Maybe we can we go for some ice cream at the place on track?”

“Can Alex come?” George asked before anyone could stop him, eyes still locked with Alex’s. “Please?”

“No, he can’t,” Kayla said, edging on commanding. “But I think it would be lovely if you and Prince Lando got some ice cream.”

Alex cocked his head and smiled. “That sounds like it’ll be fun.”

He said it like he was going to leave.

“Please don’t do this,” George choked out. Lando’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “Alex, please. Alex, I lo—”

“Dude, we have to go,” Lando cut. He waved at Alex, but it was more like shooing him off.  “See ya later, mate.”

Alex backed away, offering a little wave. “Bye, guys.”

“Alex, please—”

“George, stop it,” Lando hissed, yanking him away. “You can’t do anything. You can’t push it or you’ll never see him again, and I know that’s not what you want.”

As if on cue, Christian Horner appeared at the mouth of the Red Bull garage just behind Alex’s spot, staring right at him.

George wanted to march across the pit lane and strangle him with his bare hands.

This was Red Bull’s fault. This was fucking Max’s fault too. If they never would have exiled Alex, he wouldn’t have fallen in love with anyone else. He wouldn’t be settling, he’d be happy with his fucking person.

Hate burned in him so hot he swore he could breathe fire if he opened his mouth.

George stormed toward Horner, ready to melt him down to nothing.

Lando appeared in front of him, cold hands pressing against his cheeks.

“Get out of my—”

“Mate. I’m gonna lose my shit if you attack Christian Horner,” Lando snapped, eyes as vicious as George felt. “You’re better than this. This is what they want—don’t you see that? If you go over there, you give them an excuse to start an all-out war.”

George shoved out of Lando’s hold, breathing hard, but he didn’t push past.

Alex finally reached Horner, who gave him a hearty slap on the back as he passed. All of the air left George’s throat when Alex looked back, his eyes completely dead and different from a moment ago. But he looked away again before George could discern just what the look meant.

Even so, a flicker of hope sparked in him.

“Do you think he was lying?” George asked quietly, unable to take his eyes off of the lines of Alex’s shoulders, the same line he’d recognized from the background of that interview in Baku.

Lando frowned. “I don’t know, mate. A year in exile does shit to people, especially when he’s not coming back. He might have moved on. You have to be ready for that.”

George flinched as Alex slipped back into the shadows of the garage, but Horner kept watching him, a small smile on his face. A gloating smile. Like he fucking knew exactly what he was doing--using Alex as a pawn to incite a reaction, to ruin George's chances at Mercedes.

Chances that Toto had yet to talk to him about, and Lewis had yet to mention since arriving at Silverstone, even though the world had assumed George would announce his appointment this weekend.

Even George had expected to at least know something by now.

“They did this to shake you,” Lando said.

“I know.”

“You can’t let this—”

“Did Lewis talk to you this weekend?” George asked suddenly, turning to him.

Lando’s mouth hung open for a moment before he shut it again. He took a shallow breath. “He met up with me after qualifying, yeah. Just to say that I did a good job.”

George’s eyes narrowed. “That’s all he said?”

Lando bristled. He reminded George of a hissing kitten, hackles raised and spitting with tiny little teeth.

“What, I’m not allowed to talk to him because he’s your boyfriend?”

George glanced at Sophia and Kayla, who quickly looked away and pretended like they weren’t listening.

“I think you should tell me when the current world champion talks to you, yeah,” George said. “Especially since he hasn’t done it before yesterday.”

Lando wiggled his left hand in George’s face, his wedding band glimmering in the sunlight. “I’m married to Daniel for another year, mate. Or did you forget about that?”

“Don’t get cute,” George snapped. “Mercedes has pawns in play too, and just because I trust Lewis doesn’t mean you should.”

Lando’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh, yeah. They definitely have pawns.”

George scowled. He reminded himself that Lando had no idea the true depth of his relationship with Lewis, the amount of time they spent together, how much Lewis trusted him with his personal life.

“Look, he didn’t say anything relevant. He just gave me advice,” Lando said with a shrug. “Stuff I already knew, you know? I know he just did it for the PR tidbit, to show McLaren and Mercedes are on good terms. Didn’t realize I had to tell you everything about my life.”

George turned back to the Red Bull garage. Horner was gone, replaced by mechanics scurrying around, packing up their equipment to prepare for the team move.

Don’t get caught up in the mirrors.

He refused to believe Alex had moved on. Maybe he’d given up hope on becoming a prince again, but George never would.

“Kayla,” George said, any idea of getting ice cream with Lando forgotten. “I want to see Lewis. Tonight. He said he could meet with me.”

Kayla frowned, but nodded. “I’ll speak with Mercedes.”

Lando shook his head. “You really think it’s a good idea to meet with Lewis when the whole world is about to blame him for hurting Max?”

“Max is going to be fine,” George said, though he had no idea if he was lying or not. “He’s probably sitting in Red Bull playing PlayStation right now, laughing at us.”

“Mate, shut up,” Lando hissed, eyes wet. “This isn’t you. Don’t fucking talk like that.”

“You think Christian Horner would be standing around sending Alex to talk to us if Max was on his deathbed? They want to blame Lewis for this. They’re playing it up so Max looks like the victim when we both know Max was pissed after what happened with Daniel—which could have been just a mugging, Lando. We don’t know anything except what they’re telling us. For all we know, Max was the one who tried to kill somebody today.”

Lando pursed his lips. He looked like he was going to be sick, and George didn’t feel much better. He still had the warmth of Alex all around him, imprinted on his body, the scent of him still lingering in his nose, the faintest taste of his skin still on his lips where they’d brushed against his neck.

“Right now all I care about is getting Alex back.” George pointed at the Red Bull garage. “Max is Red Bull, Lando. He’s not our friend anymore. He’s their dog.”

Lando closed his eyes for a moment before he spoke.

“George, what if Max isn’t okay?” He lowered his voice, glancing at Sophia and Kayla, who were too far away to hear now. “I mean, Daniel drove an entire race with a concussion today. They might make Max out to be fine, but what if he isn’t?”

A chill ran down George’s spine. Max was more than capable of driving through intense pain, sickness, and emotional turmoil. He became a machine behind the wheel because he’d been forced to be one just to survive his own household.

“He’s not going to lose his appointment either way,” George said, his voice softer now. “Just watch, mate. Charles is going to walk out of Red Bull in love with Max again. Pierre’s going to tear himself apart because of it and probably go after Max because all of us know exactly why Max picked Charles as his NOK, and it wasn’t because he still loves him.”

Lando laughed brokenly. “You don’t know that. You’ve only ever had Alex. Sometimes people break up and they don’t hate each other after. Max isn’t a fucking role model for that shit, but he cares about Charles. If he didn’t, he would have ruined him in Baku.”

George let out a snort. “Or he’s waiting for a better time.”

Lando threw up his hands. “Whatever, man. Max isn’t a great guy, but I never want to see him hurt. You shouldn’t either. He’s half the reason we’re all appointed right now. He proved you can be a young prince and still do well. He paved the way for us.”

“Remind me to kiss his hand next time I see him,” George snarled. “And I’ll give him a kiss with my fist for Alex right along with it.”

He knew he’d gone too far the moment he said it, but he didn’t take it back. He couldn’t, not with Alex so close, forced to play show pony, turned into a Red Bull pawn.

Lando took a step back, disgusted. “I’ll talk to you later. You need some time, clearly. Maybe shut your fucking mouth before you say something like that in front of the cameras.”

Guilt filled George’s stomach as he watched Lando walk away, hands jammed in his pockets.

He did want Max to be okay. He also wanted him to stop hurting Charles, and now Pierre.

“I take it that means no ice cream,” Kayla said as she stepped up to him.  

George shook his head. “Let’s go back.”

He needed to see Nic, to see someone who wouldn’t throw history in his face in an attempt to maim him. Then he needed to see Lewis and figure out what he was trying to do with Lando.

He also needed the image of Alex out of his head before it strangled his dreams for the rest of his fucking life. Victory sex with Lewis would have to suffice, if he could even get it up.

The Ferrari garage was still open as he passed by it, and he saw Binotto talking with Luca, the man George had seen in the medical suite. Luca spoke in heated Italian, though George knew better than to think angry-sounding Italian was actually angry.

Binotto kept shaking his head and Luca kept getting louder, using more exasperated hand gestures. He caught the words Red Bull a few times, but otherwise it was way too fast for him to understand.

It took him a second to notice Carlos behind them, squeezed into a space between tool carts. He stared right through the two men, eyes unseeing.

George couldn’t imagine how it felt to see Charles not only with Pierre, but now running back to the prince who only ever abused the shit out of him. A prince Carlos used to be married to, so he knew the extent of Max’s control on an intimate level.

“Oh good,” Kayla said beside him, looking down at her phone. “Prince Lewis's team confirmed for a meeting this evening. You’ll have a half an hour between his FIA press and his flight back to Mercedes. Does that work?”

George nodded, and his stomach turned.

“Perfect," he replied, eyes dead. "Tell him to have tea ready, it'll be a quickie."

 

Chapter Text

Charles had never seen Red Bull or Milton Keynes in person, but he recognized the names of things they passed: the National Bowl, Furzton Lake, Fomrula Fast Karting. When Max first started hunting down a Red Bull appointment, his father took him on countless trips to see the empire and the surrounding areas. Max used to text him  pictures and videos constantly, and somewhere in Charles’s long-gone personal phone, he had about  a thousand selfies of Max in front of many of the things they were driving past.

As soon as he saw a sign for Caldecotte Lake, Charles’s heart began to work its way up his throat.

The lush green fields that they’d seen most of the drive were torn from the car windows, replaced by the dark blue waters of Caldecotte Lake, full of boats, canoes, and shores smattered with fishermen.

It was strange to see the lake in person after seeing it so many times in Max’s videos, always the final step before the pictures of Red Bull started rolling in. Seeing it now felt like a memory.

“You would love it,” Max used to say, carding his fingers through Charles’s hair after his return to Monaco. “You can bike everywhere, everything’s walkable. And green. And in the fall it’s beautiful with all the trees.”

Charles used to dream of a world where he could be with Max publicly. They could walk the paths Max sent videos of during his runs, or lay out a blanket at the amphitheater and watch whatever was happening, or just listen to the music and stare at each other instead.

“I fucking hate this place,” Daniel muttered, staring straight at the privacy shade ahead of him. He had yet to move once since sitting down.

Suddenly the Red Bull palace appeared before them in all of her glory.

The rounded point of the palace’s front entrance reflected the blue sky in the glass windowpanes, and two painted black bulls charged at the corner from either side of the building.

Red Bull was a newer empire that had asserted itself into the ranks by force, taking on a sister empire before most empires even recognized Red Bull as a threat. Their palace reflected both power and modernity— it was sleek and nothing like the aged beauty of Ferrari.

Media crowded the palace gate. A sea of cameras flashed so brightly that Charles turned his face away front the window to avoid being blinded. Reporters screamed questions muffled by the bulletproof windows of the car, and Charles finally looked at Daniel, his stomach made of lead.

“Can you do this?” he asked.

Daniel worked his jaw, haunted. “I swore I’d never set foot here again. I actually fucking swore.”

The car stopped at the front gate. Security began to move in to break up the crowd and stop anyone from following them inside.

“So no,” Daniel said. “But I’m going to, because it’s him.”

Charles nodded in understanding.

Two marble bulls lunged at each side of the car as they headed inside. Their white eyes were pupilless, yet they seemed to watch them all the same.

He couldn’t imagine Max ruling a place so cold. Everything about the palace looked designed to intimidate—bull horns, sharp metal, curves that evoked the same lethality as a blade.

Jos had picked this place for Max, that much was clear. Red Bull needed a new, hungry talent, and no boy had been more starved than Max Verstappen.

Charles ached at the thought of Max showing up here so young, cutting Daniil Kvyat out of his throne, abandoning Carlos, joining Daniel. Yet Max never seemed fazed. He took every interview back then—Charles had watched them all. He never backed down from a question, never read the scripts they gave him. He faked answers left and right, of course, and he won the love of the people with his bluntness. Those people now held him above any other prince, and they would be lost without him.

They drove down a narrow road in front of palace. Armed security stood every few meters or so, watching them as they passed. Daniel’s eyes closed as if in physical pain.

Charles leaned against the window, trying to absorb what he could. Visiting another empire’s palace was a rare chance to see how things worked in other governments.

And thinking about espionage helped distract him from the fact that Max could be dying.

The car finally stopped, and they climbed out to see a wisp of a woman standing in a smart blue pantsuit, her hair chopped in a severe cut, eyes narrowed.

“Prince Leclerc, Prince Ricciardo,” she greeted, bowing her head. “Welcome, your Royal Highnesses.”

Daniel tongued his teeth, irritated. “Jean. Lovely to see you. Except, y’know, it isn’t.”

The woman—Jean, presumably—gave a thin smile before she looked to Charles. “Jean Harrington, Royal Physician and Head of Red Bull’s medical staff.”

“Pia—Nice to meet you,” Charles said hurriedly. “Thank you for the work you do.”

Jean’s smile became a little more real. “Here are the rules. Prince Leclerc has unlimited access to Prince Verstappen’s hospital suite. He will be making any and all medical decisions in confidence should Prince Verstappen be incapable of doing so.”

Charles shifted on his feet, grounding himself in the feel of his phone against his arch.

“I want to see him immediately,” Charles said. “With Daniel.”

Jean’s smile fell away completely. “Ah, yes. Visitation rules are very strict in these circumstances, especially considering Prince Ricciardo is no longer Prince Verstappen’s spouse.”

“Get to the point,” Daniel cut.

“Prince Ricciardo will only be allowed visitation during daylight hours. Prince Verstappen needs rest, and too much commotion could complicate things further.”

Further. Charles steeled himself, running through the preparations he would have to make if Max was in a coma or incapable of getting back in the car. Now he would have to factor in how to get Daniel to leave at sundown so he avoided FIA sanctions, yet another thing he didn’t want to deal with.

“Of course,” Daniel laughed. “Knew you’d look out for me, Jean. Always do.”

Jean’s eyes narrowed. “Evidently not. It seems you have a cut on your face.”

Daniel flashed his trademark grin. “You can see that far? Not as old as you look.”

Charles cut him a glare, but Daniel kept right on smiling.

“I want to see Max,” Charles said. “Now, please.”

Jean nodded. “Let’s go then.”

She led them through a nondescript door on the side of the palace into a hallway that reminded Charles of the Red Bull motorhome. Glossy white floors and walls, except this time there were no pictures. No smiling Max, no victory poses.

Royal medical suites were hidden in each palace where no guests were intended to visit—a matter of security for events like this, meant to keep wounded princes from further harm.

A headache began to form behind Charles’s eyes as he followed Jean down the halls. He had to stop himself from taking Daniel’s hand a few times. He was too used to walking everywhere with Carlos at his side

Carlos would probably be able to face all of this with complete calm.

They stopped abruptly at an unmarked door and Jean turned to face them.

“We have yet to determine the extent of his condition,” she explained. “He’s been given a light sedative and a muscle relaxant to help him deal with the shock of the impact. He was very resistant to any kind of treatment.”

“Sounds like him,” Daniel muttered, but his face had lost all color.

“He’s sleeping now,” Jean said. “We’re waiting on the results of his CAT scans and x-rays. There is a slight possibility he’s fractured vertebrae in his neck, and we’re monitoring swelling along his spine.”

Charles suddenly found it difficult to stand.

“Again, nothing is confirmed,” Jean said. “But it is a possibility these injuries are long term.”

Max had to be scared. Doctors never stayed quiet in these situations. They always talked loud enough for the patients to hear. And the families, if they chose to listen.

Charles always listened.

“I’d like two minutes alone with him,” Charles said, glancing at Daniel. “Please.”

Daniel nodded and wiped his eyes quickly. “Okay, yeah. That’s…yep. Let’s do that.”

Jean opened the door a few inches and motioned for Charles to enter.

The royal hospital suite wasn’t some enormous display of wealth and prestige. It had the same white gloss as the rest of the wing, some flowers in a vase by the dormant TV, and big windows that cast green dapples across the tile as trees swayed in the summer breeze outside.

The lights had been turned off so Max could rest, painting everything in shadow except for the green peaks of Max’s heart monitor and the glowing lights of various hospital equipment. Charles didn’t follow the tubing of Max’s IVs or anything else.

Charles stared at the trees outside the window instead, gathering his courage. He listened to the rustling leaves, the whisper of summer outside. The droning insects, the heat and sweat.

He thought of Lake Como, kissing sunburnt skin, wondering how his life could possibly be this good.

Now he had to find a way to explain to another man that Max—Daniel’s beloved Max—might never get back in a car again.  

Two minutes wasn’t long enough to prepare for that.

Charles took a deep breath, and then he looked.  

Max sat like crumpled paper. Bent in at all the wrong places, hollowed and sunken and shadowed, his skin white as milk.

A neck brace clung to Max’s throat where he‘d been propped against the bed. His eyelids were a soft lavender, and as Charles stepped closer he saw the tributaries of thin veins all over them, delicate as spider legs.

Charles perched on the side of the bed, taking careful note of the heart monitor’s steady rhythm.

Max’s arms were folded like wet bird wings, spindly and unnatural where they crisscrossed his belly.

“Max,” Charles whispered, his voice shaking. He didn’t want to wake him, but he also wanted to make sure Max was really conscious, that he hadn’t been lied to.

Charles reached up, combing Max’s hair back with his fingers. People always had an easier time stomaching these things when the person looked as normal as possible. Daniel didn’t need even more of a fright.

The heart monitor started to beep faster, and Charles noticed movement behind Max’s eyelids.

“Charles?” Max said, his voice thick with sleep.

“It’s me,” Charles replied, keeping his voice soft.  

“Thank fuck,” Max whispered, slumping back against the mattress. “Fuck, thought my dad…”

Charles thumbed Max’s temple, watching as he continued to struggle to open his eyes.  “No, it’s me.”

The heartbeat monitor kept ticking up. Charles thumbed away the crease between Max’s brows, trying his hardest not to cry at the sight of Max so weak. He looked like he’d lost fifty pounds in the space of a few hours.

“So they did change my NOK,” Max slurred.

“They did.” He couldn’t stop looking over Max’s face, taking him in.  

Max’s eyes opened to slits, a red-ringed sliver of turquoise.

“Oh,” Max whispered, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You thought I was dead.”

Charles laughed, but the moment the sound escaped his lips, he burst into tears.

Max smelled like a hospital, and Charles only knew how to associate that sterility with death. So even as he buried his face into Max’s shoulder and cried into a warm body, a part of himself sprang to life to spare him from the full weight of grief.

He wouldn’t want you to cry.

He’s gone, but he’ll always be with you.

You made him happy for a short time in his life, doesn’t that count for something?

“Charles,” Max murmured. “M’right here. S’okay.”

Max shifted, and Charles clawed to his shoulder. “Don’t move,” he said, sucking down a breath right after. “Please don’t move.”

“Pretty hard to stop you from crying if I can’t hold you,” Max mumbled, but he relaxed.

Charles wiped his nose on the sleeve of his suit before he pressed a tearstained kiss to Max’s cheek, then his temple, then his browbone—just to make sure he was real and breathing.

“You fucking scared me,” Charles said shakily. “Don’t ever do that again. Don’t ever.”

Max’s eyes had closed again, but they fluttered and a tiny smile came back to his lips. “Don’t you know how much I love drama?”

Charles let out a snort and sat back, wiping his eyes. He didn’t have time to cry yet.

He took Max’s hand—the one that wasn’t connected to an IV—and massaged it with his thumbs.

“I brought someone to see you,” Charles said quietly. “Can he come in?”

Max’s hand went slack in his hold. Sleep took him away before he could answer.

Charles turned to the door.

“Okay,” he said, louder. “I’m ready.”

Daniel stumbled through the threshold a moment later, eyes wide and already wet.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, rushing over. “Fucking hell, fucking hell.”

Charles moved from the bed and Daniel took his place immediately, hands coming to Max’s face.

“He’s sleeping,” Charles explained. “He was awake a second ago. He’s okay.”

“Fuck,” Daniel choked out, pressing his nose to Max’s forehead.

“Be careful,” Charles warned, resting a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Don’t jostle his neck.”

“Dan-yel,” Max slurred, turning his name into two separate syllables. His brow furrowed. “Wait…”

“It’s me, babe,” Daniel soothed, caressing his cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You’re a fucking dumbass, you know that? What were you thinking? What the fuck were you thinking?”

A smile twitched to Max’s lips and he let out a low hum. “Worrier.”

“Fuck you,” Daniel said with a half-laugh, half-sob.

Max’s smile widened a little. “Not ri’now.”

Daniel looked like he might smack him, but started peppering Max’s face with little kisses instead, and Max’s heart monitor started ticking up as his smile became more and more normal.

“What’re you doing here?” Max finally asked, lifting a fragile hand to Daniel’s face to pause his kissing. “How?”

“Horner said I could bring a guest. I picked Daniel,” Charles explained. “He can’t stay the whole time, though. He has to leave tonight, but he’ll stay close by.”

He had no idea if they would make Daniel go back to McLaren, but Charles wasn’t about to tell Max that.

“How do you feel?” Daniel asked, leaning onto the mattress.

“I’m good,” Max said. “I could finish the race if I had the car.”

Charles rolled his eyes as Daniel clucked his disapproval.

“You don’t have to impress anyone right now,” Daniel murmured. “You scared the shit out of me, you know that? Fuck.”

Max let out a breath that sounded more like a wheeze.

“Did my dad say anything?”

Charles tensed at the same time Daniel did.

“I don’t talk to that cunt,” Daniel replied with quiet fury.  He shifted closer, reaching to rub Max's shoulder. “You survived a gnarly crash. Nothing else matters except that you’re—"

“Ow,” Max groaned, his face twisting up with pain. “Ouch, fuck. Daniel—”

Charles grabbed Daniel by the back of his shirt and hauled him back so that he wasn’t touching Max anymore. Probably overkill, but spinal injuries were nothing to sneeze at. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Daniel rasped, approaching slower. “Where does it hurt?”

Max just groaned again, trying to turn his face.

 “What did I do? How—Jesus fuck. I’m sorry. Max, I’m sorry.”

Charles gently pressed his palm to Daniel’s arm. His heart dropped into his stomach as Max continued to squirm. “Let’s call the doctor.”

Daniel stepped away abruptly as Charles pressed the call button on the side Max’s bed. He didn’t even have to look for it—most hospital beds were the same.

Jean entered a moment later, a nurse at her side.

“What’s wrong with him?” Daniel asked, chewing on the side of his thumb as he began to pace. “Was it me?”

Jean started reading data from Max’s hospital equipment and looked to Charles. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose anything about Prince Verstappen’s medical—”

“Daniel can know,” Max grit out. His heart monitor kept climbing, and Charles saw as sweat began to bead on his forehead.

“Do something,” Charles snapped. “He’s in pain.”

“Fuck, what did I do?” Daniel demanded.

Charles swallowed hard but remained calm. “Daniel, panicking doesn’t help. We’re going to figure out and make him better. Look at me, okay?”

Daniel’s nostril’s flared and tears ran down his cheeks, but he did look at Charles. He looked horrible. Every part of what made him a heartthrob on track had vanished, this Daniel had no sun.

“Max is in the safest hands he can be in,” Charles said. “Can you please repeat that back to me?”

Jean started fiddling with Max’s IV drip and said something to the nurse that Charles couldn’t hear.

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe it,” Charles added when he saw resistance in Daniel’s gaze. “Just say it back to me so I know you heard.”

“Max is in the safest hands he can be in,” Daniel repeated.

Charles found a way to smile. “He’s going to be okay.”

Daniel faltered as Max let out another noise behind him. “I can’t—”

“He’s going to be okay, Daniel,” Charles said, firm.

Don’t make me keep doing this.

Daniel swallowed hard. “He’s going to be okay.”

Max’s breathing started to even out, but Charles caught the look on Jean’s face when she stepped away from the IV drip.

“Do you think—sorry, I don’t know your name,” Charles nodded toward the nurse.

“Nishima, Your Royal Highness,” the nurse replied brightly.

“Nishima, thank you,” Charles said with a nod. “Nishima, would you mind taking Daniel to get a hot chocolate for Max? I think that would help.”

“It’d help if you put Bailey’s in it,” Max said through clenched teeth.

Charles smiled apologetically. “Please.”

“Hot chocolate,” Daniel repeated. “Yeah.”

People on the brink of a breakdown needed tasks. Daniel could fly off the handle at any second, and a stupid mission to get hot chocolate—which would be pretty damn hard to find in summer—would allow him to process and come back calm.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Nishima said, nodding to Daniel. “Shall we?”

Charles expected Daniel to dig in his heels the second the actual opportunity to leave presented itself.

“Shall we,” Daniel replied blankly, and he followed her out without a word.

Charles began to think maybe Daniel needed a checkup.

When the door closed behind them, Charles allowed himself to relax, but only for a moment.

“What’s going on?” Charles asked Jean, crossing his arms.

She sighed.

Max was still breathing hard, flinching every so often. Not physically, but Charles could see it in his eyes.

“The good news is that your neck isn’t broken,” Jean began. “But you have swelling and compression around your spine where we thought you might have a fracture.”

Charles didn’t allow himself to relax.

“And the bad news?” Charles asked.

Max looked at him intently, but he ignored it.

“You have a broken rib. Two, actually. One is a hairline fracture, one is…larger.”

“Fuck,” Max hissed. He tired to shake his head and winced. “No. I’m still racing.”

“Max,” Charles warned.

Jean stayed stone-faced. “The concern is that if you’re thrown around in the car, the rib could move and puncture a lung. The fractures are in the front of your ribcage, workable, but not ideal.”

Charles gaped at her. “You’re not seriously considering allowing him to race with two broken ribs.”

“Charles, shut up,” Max growled. “Thank you, Jean. Tell Horner what he needs to know. Don’t mention the lung thing.”

“Max, are you insane?” Charles hissed. “You’re not—”

“You don’t get to decide,” Max shot back, completely tense against another bout of pain.

Charles grit his teeth. “I do, actually. You picked me to make choices for your health. I’m not letting you get in a car with a broken rib.”

“Too bad,” Max said. “You think Horner is going to listen to you? Yeah right.”

Anger seethed in him, flooding every vein. Charles turned to Jean before he snapped completely. “What’s the treatment? How are you approaching pain management?”

Jean blinked at him. “Well, we plan to do several cortisone injections in the neck and spine to help with inflammation there. As for the ribs, there are several options.”

“He has a race in two weeks,” Charles said. “He needs the option that keeps him safe in the car.”

“Rib plating is an option,” Jean said. “It requires surgery, using a titanium plate to secure the ribs in place.”

“So that would prevent lung injuries?” Charles asked.

“If it does, then we’ll do that,” Max said.

Charles cut him a look.

“Yes,” Jean said with a nod. “It’s just very invasive for the type of injury we’re dealing with.”

“He is not getting in a car with a broken rib,” Charles said. “How long would the procedure take and when could we do it?”

“He’s our crown prince. We can perform the surgery in a few hours.”

Max looked at him, searching for an answer Charles didn’t have. He expected to be making decisions about Max’s funeral arrangements, or deciding what to do about a braindead prince, how to tell the world.

Plating a rib seemed too easy.

“Let’s think about it,” Charles said, meeting Max’s eye. “You need some time to rest, and Daniel needs time with you.”

Max softened at the sound of Daniel’s name. “Okay. Yeah.”

 


 

Daniel returned calmer than before, two mugs of hot chocolate in hand. He took his place at Max’s side while Charles retreated to a pleather chair in the corner of the room.. Dehydration pulled at every one of Charles’s muscles, and Daniel looked no better off with his wild hair and shaking hands.

But he found hot chocolate.

“Did you put Bailey’s in it?” Max teased as Jean removed the neck brace and let left them alone again.

“Only in mine,” Daniel said, lifting his mug.

Max smiled, utterly besotted. “How about a sip?”

Watching Max with Daniel hurt more than Charles expected it to. Daniel unfolded Max’s food tray and set it over his lap before plopping a straw into Max’s hot chocolate. Charles had no doubt Daniel’s hot chocolate was actually spiked, especially when he didn’t allow Max that sip. Smart for a concussed man. Charles might have tackled him if he tried.

“They’re giving me shot in my neck,” Max told him, reaching up to graze the backs of his fingers over Daniel’s scarred cheek. “It’s not broken, though.”

“Yeah, I kind of hoped it wasn’t broken when they took the brace off,” Daniel joked, turning his face to kiss Max’s palm.

Charles watched them through hooded eyes as sleep threatened to take him over. He did manage to retrieve his phone from his shoe, where several texts form Carlos waited for him.

Please let me know what you learn.

I miss you.

Charles glanced up from his phone screen as Daniel pressed a delicate kiss to Max’s lips, bringing color back to Max’s cheeks and sending his heart monitor into a rapid staccato. Daniel broke off laughing a moment later and made a dirty joke that had Max stifling his own laugh, though Charles saw the pain flash in his eyes when he did so.

He looked back at his phone. He wanted to tell Carlos not to text him things like that, but it made his heart too big in his chest, too sore with affection.

Charles didn’t regret being here with Max, but he wished Carlos could be here too. Carlos always knew how to handle difficult situations with a sense of braveness Charles didn’t have.

Max is going to be okay, he wrote. Spread the word.

He sent the text and contacted Mattia next.

Carlos should be with Lando. I’ll sign off on a formal request with the FIA if needed. I do not want Carlos to be alone tonight, or Lando. Spin it how you’d like.

Mattia’s read receipt flashed on the screen almost as soon as Charles sent off the text, but he didn’t respond. Charles doubted he would.

He opened his text conversation with Carlos.

And I miss you too.

He tried not to think about his love for Carlos. Even though it surrounded him every time he walked into the royal apartment or settled down into a Ferrari beside him.

Nothing would take Carlos from Lando. Charles repeated that to himself every time Carlos smiled at him, every time Carlos kissed him, and especially when Carlos said he loved him.

Pierre made everything easier. He could close his eyes and remember the way Pierre cherished him, the way he laughed, the warmth of his hands everywhere Charles needed them. And he knew Pierre wouldn’t be sharing him with anyone else. His love was whole and complete and he didn’t care that Charles wasn’t in a place to give all of himself back. Not yet.

Someday soon, he hoped to be able to. Even with his heart pulled in a million different directions, Pierre was a safe place to be himself, to be known.

“—should go back to McLaren tonight,” Max said softly.

Daniel shook his head. “No way.”

“Daniel, I know you don’t want to be here and I don’t want to think about you being alone at Red Bull again. It’s not safe and you know it.”

“I can manage. You should’ve seen me at Wembley. I was like Keanu Reeves, babe. John Wick shit.”

Max’s eyelashes drooped as sleep started to stake a claim on him again. “You shouldn’t’ve had to. It was my fault.”

“No,” Daniel said with a shake of his head and a kiss to Max’s cheek. “It is not your fault. You’re winning, you’re challenging Lewis and Mercedes. Don’t ever feel bad about that.”

“Somebody hurt you because of me,” Max rasped. “How’m I supposed to live with that?”

“You didn’t hurt me, Max,” Daniel said. “I know you never would.”

Words welled up in Charles’s throat, but he didn’t speak. He believed Max wouldn’t hurt Daniel, and it drove a blade right through him, because Max never made that promise to him. He’d always just assumed it was true because they loved each other, but Max cut him out of his life like he’d never really been there in the first place, with no remorse. Not even an apology.  

Charles watched as Daniel nuzzled into the crook of Max’s neck, gently, carefully, so it didn’t disturb his injuries.

Charles didn’t understand what Daniel had that he didn’t. The only thing that came to mind was immaturity, and Charles hardly saw that as a positive trait.

Yet Max looked at Daniel like he’d hung the moon and stars. A love so big it leaked out everywhere.

“Go back to McLaren,” Max murmured. “Or have McLaren put you in a hotel in Milton Keynes, but don’t let Red Bull touch this.”

Charles must have missed something. He didn’t exactly trust Binotto to do what was best for him in terms of his relationships, but he would never even think to be wary of Ferrari physically hurting another prince because of him.

Maybe Carlos had been right, he was still naïve to this world.  

“Okay,” Daniel relented. “I’ll get a hotel or something. They still have that karting track around here, right? Maybe McLaren has something around here already. I’ll be close, though. I’ll be so close.”

Max smiled, but his eyes had fallen closed. “I know. I’ll be okay. Char will make sure.”

Daniel’s gaze slid over to him and Charles’s insides twisted up at the look on his face, one that wasn’t entirely friendly. It reminded him of the bar in 2018, when Daniel grinned before humiliating him in front of everyone, even if it had only been Max around to hear.

Charles had grown so much since that day, but in that moment he felt like a rookie again.

Max fell asleep soon after that.

Charles dealt with the medical staff when they came in with dinner for the three of them. He organized the cortisone shots and made sure Daniel ate his food when it arrived. Max hadn’t touched his hot chocolate.

When it came time for the shots to be administered, Charles sat on one side of the bed, Daniel on the other. Max flinched in his sleep for each of the two shots and let out a whine for the second, but didn’t wake up.

They both sat in silence afterward, watching Max’s face for any sign of pain.

Jean came into the room as soon as the sun set, offering a phone to Daniel.

“I have Zak Brown on the line,” she said. “You asked for him?”

Daniel ignored her, gently thumbing at Max’s cheek until his eyes opened a little. Charles wanted to scold him for waking him up, but he knew Max would be upset if woke up to find Daniel gone.

“I’m leaving,” Daniel told him. “If you need anything, I’ll find a way to get to you.”

“Okay,” Max murmured, eyes skittering around like he was fighting demons just  to stay awake. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Daniel replied.

Charles watched Jean, who didn’t look the least bit surprised by the interaction.

Daniel pressed a kiss to Max’s lips that Max barely returned, then stood up and faced Jher, holding his hand out for the phone.

“Zak,” Daniel greeted when he pressed the phone to his ear. “Yeah, I’m good. Wanted to talk to you about a few things. No, he’s good. He’s gonna be fine.” He pulled the phone from his ear. “Thanks, Charles.”

Charles had been too busy watching Max fall back asleep to notice Daniel looking at him. He blinked, then nodded once and ignored the part of himself that said Daniel should be more grateful than a simple ‘thanks.’

Quiet pounced the moment the door closed.

Charles looked over Max’s sleeping face, so different than he remembered. His cheekbones were no longer hidden in baby fat, and his hair was longer, more adult. He looked like a real prince, even in sleep. Now he carried a toughness with him wherever he went.

Max loved to sleep. Charles remembered being annoyed by it when they went on trips together because Max wasted half the day in bed and tried to take naps all the time.

He wished he would have taken those naps too, that he would have soaked in all of the love Max had to give him back then.

Now it could only be tainted with the foulness of Brazil, the bite of heartbreak.

 


 

Max didn’t wake up until almost ten at night, his stomach growling for the dinner he hadn’t eaten. Charles called for the nurse on duty, and within in minutes Max had a freshly-cooked meal of baked chicken, couscous, and grilled vegetables.

“Are you feeling okay?” Charles asked from where he sat at the side of Max’s bed.

Max’s smile hadn’t returned since Daniel left. Pain sat heavy and dark in his eyes, and the purple rings beneath them were dark as bruises. Or maybe they were bruises.

“It really hurts,” Max admitted.

“I know. I can see it on your face,” Charles said.

Max didn’t love him anymore, not in the way he used to. He loved Daniel so much he didn’t want to hurt him, but Charles saw the truth under the smiles, behind his laughter. Max didn’t bother hiding the pain from him.

“The surgery will help,” Charles said, and he hoped it was true. “You’ll feel a lot better.”

Max nodded stiffly.  “You’ll stay here, right?”

“Of course,” Charles assured him. “I’m not going anywhere until you’re all patched up. I scheduled it for morning, so you can rest more.”

Max looked down at his food but had yet to touch it, so Charles scooped up a spoonful of couscous for him.

“You don’t need to fuckin’ feed me,” Max muttered, but he didn’t lift his hands to grab the spoon.

“Don’t make me do the airplane noises,” Charles said, a smile playing on his lips.

Max rolled his eyes, but opened his mouth for the spoon.

Charles didn’t poke fun at him beyond that. Feeding someone in this kind of situation was a privilege, in his eyes. Especially when someone as stubborn as Max allowed him to do it. He cut up Max’s chicken into bite-sized pieces and talked about his race as he offered bites of food.  

Max ate every last bite, but exhaustion darkened his eyes further by the time he finished his meal.

Charles lifted the tray off of Max’s lap and set it aside for the nurses to grab later.

“We should sleep,” Max muttered, blinking sluggishly.  

“You can sleep,” Charles said, smoothing back Max’s hair where it had fallen in his eyes.

“I said we.”

Charles let out a little snort. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not. You’ve got your scowly look,” Max said. His lips ticked up in a half smile and Charles had to smile back when he saw it.

“My scowly look?”

Max shifted a little on the mattress, his first time moving anything but his head, aside from a very painful trip to the bathroom.

“Lay down,” Max instructed once he’d moved to one side of the bed. “You’re not sleeping in that chair.”

Charles thought to protest, but he knew he would be in the simulator for most of the week and meetings for the rest of it. A sore body wouldn’t help anyone.

So he kicked off his shoes and carefully climbed into the hospital bed.

He hated the smell of sterile sheets and the scratchy fabric of the blanket. All of it reminded him of his dad, but more so of Jules. With Jules he’d spent so much time watching him, waiting for some kind of movement, anything.

“Comfortable?” Max murmured.

He sounded different this close. Charles didn’t know if Max changed his tone with proximity or if his voice just echoed in his chest in an odd way.

Charles rested his cheek against Max’s shoulder, careful not to move him in a way that would aggravate his ribs, but the painkillers seemed to be working well enough.

“Now I am,” he said.

“I bet I smell,” Max joked sleepily.

“A little,” Charles replied with a smile. “But I hate the smell of hospitals, so it’s good.”

Max’s hand found his under the covers, slightly sweaty and very warm, but good. Charles laced their fingers together without thinking and pressed a kiss to the thin fabric of Max’s hospital gown.

He watched Max’s lips part and felt as his body went slack with sleep for the third time that day. Max was incredibly tough, but even he couldn’t compete against a crash of that magnitude. He was lucky to have gotten out of the car at all.

Charles thumbed over the side of Max’s palm.

The FIA touted handholding as the foundational sign of togetherness in married couples. Charles used to think that was a stupid setup made so that princes who didn’t love each other didn’t have to make out all the time, but over the years he’d learned otherwise.

Holding someone’s hand didn’t seem like much in the beginning. He remembered feeling like a kid in his first marriage, almost a head shorter than Ericsson as they bumbled through events together. He remembered hating it when Sebastian took his hand, until he didn’t. He remembered forcing Carlos to remember to do it in the beginning, and now he sought it even when Carlos wasn’t there.

Holding someone’s hand meant giving up a weapon and a defense, and using it instead as a connection. Poetic.

God, he was tired.

Charles closed his eyes, and sleep took him before he could think to put up a fight.

 


 

He woke to a blaring, continuous noise. He furrowed his brow, trying to place the sound of the alarm. Carlos like to listen to a piano melody to wake up, and Charles preferred guitar. Neither of them listened to something as brash and annoying as a monotone.

Charles blinked awake to the sight of Max, head tipped forward, dead asleep.

The hospital.

He realized what the sound was the second the door flew open and three nurses charged into the room at full speed.

Charles shot up from the bed and turned to face a waking nightmare: the flat line of Max’s heart monitor, the source of the noise.

“Max?” He ignored the nurses and leaned over him, taking Max’s face in his hands. Max’s brow furrowed. “Max!”

Hands came to his shoulders, gently but firmly pulling him back.

“Defib, defib!” one of the nurses shouted.

“I have it!” another one answered.

“Let go of me!” Charles shouted, fighting against the hold around him.

Max could not be dying. There was absolutely no way.

“What the fuck!”

Everyone in the room froze as Max sat up, eyes wide.

The heart monitor continued to scream, and Charles’s heart pounded so loud in his ears he couldn’t even hear what the nurses said in response as Max winced, bringing a hand laden with wires up to his neck.

Charles jerked free from the nurse and rushed back to Max’s side, framing his face in his hands.

“Max? Are you—what the hell is going on?”

Max groaned softly. “I don’t know but my fucking neck hurts.”

A nurse threw the covers off of him and pulled out small piece of plastic from the mess of blankets. She glared at both of them and Charles glared right back, already protective.

“It seems you removed your monitor, Your Highness,” the nurse said blandly.

“Oh,” Max said drowsily. “I guess I took it off. I forgot what it was.”

Charles warred between fury and relief. “Yes,” he cut. “Obviously.”

His heart wouldn’t stop crashing around his ribcage like a bird fighting to escape.

The nurse clamped the piece back in place around Max’s finger, and the heart monitor started beeping normally again. She turned down the volume and sighed.

“Well, I don’t think I need to tell you not to remove that again,” she said, hands on her hips.

“Sorry,” Max mumbled.

Charles just stood there while the nurses filed out, trying to calm his rampaging heart. Anger didn’t mix well with fear and exhaustion.

“It’s like you exist to—” He shut his mouth, trying to find the words. “I don’t even know, Max. I don’t even know!”

“It was an accident, Charles,” Max said with a sigh, running a hand over his face.

“So was the collision. So is everything, all the time.”

Max stared up at him, eyes narrowed. “What, you think I caused that collision?”

“I don’t know what to think, Max!” Charles snapped. “I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. One minute you’re the Max I knew, the next you’re doing all of these shady things and—”

“Shady things?” Max laughed and immediately flinched, clutching his side. “Fuck.”

“Yes, shady things,” Charles hissed. “Burner phones, for starters. Picking fights with Sebastian and Lewis in France. Then you’re picking fights with Kimi, and you haven’t said a word defending Checo even though everyone is talking about him losing his crown because Red Bull won’t decide. Everyone knows it’s you who hasn’t decided.”

Max opened his mouth to speak, but Charles didn’t let him.

“Daniel isn’t coming back, Max. He isn’t. You should have seen him on the ride in. It makes him sick just to be here.”

Hurt flashed across Max’s face. Charles hated causing any pain while Max was so vulnerable, but they were on limited time, even if it didn’t seem like it. Binotto wouldn’t let him stay forever.

Charles softened. “You can’t keep trying to make a spot for him that he doesn’t want.”

Max set his jaw, staring straight ahead.

Silence drew a sharp breath between them until the air went stale.

“Would you lay down?” Max finally asked, but it was more of a demand.

Charles moved back to the side of the bed and sat down. His heart rate started to calm when he took Max’s hand in his, still overly warm. Still living. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Max’s forehead.

“I’m sorry for blowing up. You fucking scared me. Again. I didn’t want—”

“I don’t think you have any idea what you do to me, Charles,” Max said, his voice tight with emotion.

Charles pulled back, confused. He’d expected an offhand comment about Daniel, or some kind of dig. Definitely not sadness in Max’s eyes.

The heart monitor flashed at Max’s bedside, zig-zagging peaks closer and closer together the longer they stared at each other.

“I regret pretty much everything,” Max admitted in a whisper. “The way I treated you, the way I hurt you so fucking bad. I had a lot of distractions back then, but every fucking day hurt without you.”

Charles shook his head. “I don’t need to hear this.”

“Yes, you do,” Max said, squeezing his hand. “If I knew what I know now, I never would have done that to you. Honestly, we would still be toge—“

“Don’t say it,” Charles snapped, tears jumping to his eyes. “I’m past this. I’m so fucking past it.”

“You are not,” Max argued. “And I’m not either. We’re good at being distracted—I love Daniel and I know you love…fuck, maybe I don’t know who you love. But I meant what I said. I still have too much of myself reserved for you.”

Once upon a time Charles would have killed to hear this. Literally. He would have murdered another human being—Daniel or Carlos, back then—just to hear Max say something like this.

“You’re too late,” Charles whispered, wiping his eyes with his free hand.

“So you don’t ever think about it?” Max asked, and he sounded genuinely curious, not like he was trying to manipulate an answer.

“About what, being with you?” Charles shook his head.

“About anything,” Max said softly. He swallowed hard, glancing down at the bed. “Would you please lay down?”

“I think about you too often,” Charles admitted, ignoring the question. “But I know I’m only thinking about the good things we had.”

He reluctantly laid back down and carefully slotted himself back into place at Max’s side, ever careful of his injuries. Even angry, even hurt, Charles couldn’t put space between them.

“When you were with me in Austria, you talked about that pizza,” Max said quietly.

The heart monitor continued at its rapid pace, and Charles felt the strength of Max’s heartbeat against his side. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a nervous Max up close.

“Yeah. That was one of the good times, Max.”

“So you don’t ever think about…”

Charles lifted his head, eyebrow cocked. “What, having sex with you?”

The heart monitor escalated.

Charles smiled. “Mon cheri, you weren’t that great. You were seventeen.”

Max burst out laughing, but it choked off with a sound of pain that Charles felt in his bones. He leaned in, pressing his lips to Max’s cheek, resting a hand on his sternum to hold him steady.

He didn’t think about the kiss, he only thought about doing what he knew to bring Max a sense of calm and love. Yes, it started when they were together, when he saw just how desperately Max needed and craved real love, not the shit his father gave him under the same label.

“Can you please kiss me for real,” Max whispered, and suddenly their noses were brushing, and Max’s lips were a hairsbreadth from his.

Charles pulled away, but his cheeks burned too hot for him to hide that he’d been thinking about it.

“I’m with Pierre,” Charles said.

“Okay, but that doesn’t mean you can’t kiss me once. I know you still fuck around with Carlos or he’d be pouting.”

Charles propped his head on his hand, looking down at him. It was awkward on the incline of the mattress, but more so because they were still too close. “What do you want from me?”

The light of the hospital equipment cast a blue glow over Max’s face, cutting up the planes of his jaw, his cheekbones, his low brows.

“I don’t know,” Max confessed, staring up at him in the quiet. “I’m trying to fix my wrongs. I guess kissing you would mean I didn’t lose everything with you, not if a part of you still wants what we had.”

Max’s eyes were so beautiful, even in darkness. Everything else about his face had changed over the years except the pools of blue and turquoise that Charles used to sink into after a day of karting or messing around with the rest of the boys. He wasn’t much of an artist, as Sebastian knew, but he figured he could paint Max’s eyes by memory.

A kiss wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t mend what had already broken inside him.

“It seems like you’re making more wrongs,” Charles murmured, thumbing over Max’s collarbone. “Lewis, Sebastian, and now Kimi. Let me guess, Fernando next?”

A small smile ghosted Max’s lips. “Fernando’s on my good side.”

“Yeah?” Charles asked, all too aware of how close he was to that smile. “Can I get in on the secret?”

“Why? You’re on my good side too.”

Max’s lashes dipped and Charles’s lips parted ever so slightly, already falling into a habit as old as any love he knew.

Pierre might forgive loving Carlos, but he wouldn’t forgive this, even if it didn’t mean anything. Charles knew that. He knew that.

“I know you can’t forgive me for what I did,” Max said, his breath washing over Charles’s neck. “But I’m doing the right thing this time. It won’t be like Alex.”

Charles pulled back a little. “What do you mean?”

Max’s smile slipped away. “You’re not stupid, Charles. I know you know George hates my guts.”

“I think everyone knows that. But I know you, and you wouldn’t choose to exile Alex. He was one of us. Marko and Horner decided—everyone knows that except George, apparently.”

Max looked at his mouth again, working his jaw.

“It was either Alex or Pierre,” Max said quietly. He shook his head. “Actually, no. Nobody held a gun to my head. Horner asked me if I wanted Alex as my husband. I said no, and I meant it.”

Charles frowned. “Well, that’s not exactly a fair question. You couldn’t have known—”

“Charles. Horner told me point blank that he wouldn’t put him back with Torro Rosso.”

“Then another team—”

“I knew you still loved me,” Max interrupted with a broken laugh, soft and fragile. He tipped his head back, chin jutting to the ceiling. The expanse of his throat seemed to be a physical show of vulnerability, though Charles could only think about putting his mouth to the soft skin there and he hated himself for it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Charles said, trying to keep his voice level.

Max turned his head, staring at him through slitted eyes.

“George was always going to go to Mercedes, Char. Alex was always going to stay at Red Bull. I couldn’t have either of them knowing anything about me that they could pass on to Lewis.”

A shot of cold ran up Charles’s spine.

Everyone likened Max to a lion. Charles always laughed at the comparison—he considered Max more of a fat housecat: he liked to eat, sleep, and lay in the sun.

But now he stared into the dripping jowls of a beast far bigger than the stories foretold.

“We always make excuses for people we love,” Max murmured. “Even when they tell us the truth.”

“I defended you,” Charles hissed in disbelief.

“I know.”

“I told George he was overreacting. I told him there was no possible way—”

“I know you did,” Max said. “I’m trying to fix it.”

Charles sat up, disgusted. “Fix it? You ruined George’s life. He’s our friend, he’s like a brother to all of us and you exiled Alex. ”

Max tilted his head a little more, carefully stretching his neck. “I did what I had to do.”

Charles wanted to throw up. Things had soured in their group, but they all still cared about each other—or so Charles had thought. Carlos had said once that Max wasn’t a rookie. He had years of experience none of the rest of their group had. Thet e shouldn’t be trusted.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” Max said. “I’m telling you because I’m trying to make things right. That starts with being honest, so just listen to me, okay?”

Max’s fingers curled around his wrist, thumbing at the protruding bone.

Charles wanted to yank his hand away, but the video feed of the crash played behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

“I don’t see how you can fix any of this,” Charles said. “Alex is exiled. No one comes back from that.”

“Lewis has Mercedes sniffing after him,” Max said. “I’m making that possible. That’s for George, not Lewis, and I definitely don’t have to do it. I’m also opening the door for Pierre—for you and for him. Whether or not you make it is up to the two of you.”

Charles bristled, defensive. “We don’t need your help.”

Max smiled as if Charles had just said he loved him. “You only think that because you already have it, Char.”

“That’s called being a friend, then,” Charles snapped. “It doesn’t wash away what you did.”

“I know that. But we aren’t the only ones who tried to be together between crown and lower court,” Max said. He shifted on the mattress, then sucked in a sharp breath. “Ow. Fuck.”

“Stop moving so much,” Charles said, softening way too quickly. Seeing Max in pain after thinking he was dying of cardiac arrest just a few minutes ago had a way of influencing him toward fondness.

“The point is that I’m trying to use what I have for good. It’s working too. Enough that the FIA is trying to hurt people I love, which tells me I’m on the right path.”

When they were younger, Max used to stew after bad races. He would sit and stare at the track for hours, going through every corner, every straight, preparing to defend himself against his father. Jos summoned him like a steward, made him fight to justify every point in a race where he lost time.

Any failure resulted in punishment, and the worst part was that the fear of being hurt turned Max into a better driver than all of them.

He knew how to work through a plan. He didn’t like playing chess or being philosophical, he observed and evaluated in real time. Max liked everything coming at him to be new, something to adapt to. Then, after, he analyzed and came back stronger the next time.

Charles saw the same look in his eyes as he uncurled himself from his pain.

“It isn’t your responsibility to meddle,” Charles said. “Let people live their own lives.”

Max let out a snort. “Char, we don’t have that choice. If I wasn’t here protecting all of you, who knows what would be happening right now.”

“We have our own power now,” Charles reminded him. “All of us have been learning, just like you. We have less, yes, but we’re going to have to learn at some point.”

“Nothing happens within the FIA’s jurisdiction without someone pulling strings,” Max murmured. His eyelids were heavy again, his words a little slurred.

Charles pressed a kiss to Max’s brow. “Let me help, then.”

“You’ve already helped,” Max said, his smile returning at half power. “You’re the reason I want to make this place less horrible.”

“So let’s make it less horrible together,” Charles said, nuzzling into their shared pillow.

Max stared at the ceiling for a long time. So long that Charles thought he might have fallen sleep with is eyes open.

The trees whispered outside, throwing moonlight through the shadows of leaves to dance on the far wall of the hospital room. Charles nestled a little closer, tucking his nose against Max’s shoulder.

“What I tell you can’t leave this room,” Max finally said. “I’m offering you the chance to back out now. I know you, Charles. I know you don’t really want to do this.”

“It’s about time I stop getting what I want,” Charles murmured. “This is about us, our future. The people we care about. Whatever is going on, you could use help from Ferrari.”

Max didn’t reply right away.

“George has a video he shouldn’t have,” Max said quietly. “A video that hurts Mick. I’m trying to find a way to get rid of it before Lewis figures out about it.”

“No more secrets,” Charles said, finding Max’s hand where he’s rested it on his stomach. “What’s the video?”

Max swallowed hard. “Mick is with a lower court prince. George caught them because Kimi let him by when he was supposed to be their lookout.”

Charles blinked. Kimi loved Mick. He didn’t make it obvious, but everyone in Ferrari who whispered about Mick Schumacher always followed with Kimi or Sebastian in the same breath.

“Lewis has something on Kimi, but I can’t figure out what,” Max continued, furrowing his brow. “But he orchestrated the whole thing, I’m sure. Something went wrong, because George blew up on Kimi right after, but Lewis was right there to cover the whole thing up.”

“So, what, George took a video of Mick and…?”

Max slowly turned his head, fighting back from flinching. “I’m keeping that secret as long as I can.”

“Max—”

“I’d want someone in my position to do the same thing if it was you.”

Everything suddenly clicked into place. Mick’s fear, his knowing the truth about Max, how it really happened.

“What if it wasn’t his fault? What if he didn’t have a choice?”

Charles lifted his head, unable to hide the realization from his face.

“What really happened in Brazil, Max?” Charles asked, barely able to speak.

Max’s eyes dimmed. “I already told you. I did what I had to do to protect you. ”

“You were enough.”

Charles wracked his brain, trying to think back to the car, any sign that Max was frightened or nervous, but he couldn’t think of anything. His memory was too fogged with hurt.

Max didn’t even check on him to make sure he was okay. He didn’t even reach out once.

“Now we have to protect Mick from the same thing,” Max said with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “I need to get that video from George. He, um, he has this app. It looks like a calculator, but it isn’t. You have to type in a code. It’s 4372, unless he changed it.”

“How do you know that?” Charles asked. Max wouldn’t look him in the eye.

Max cleared his throat. “He used to save pictures for me.”

Charles didn’t want to think about what they might be. “What pictures?”

Max looked away completely, wincing at the neck movement. “You know. After my dad would…I mean, you know. He said I should have proof in case something went really bad. He deleted them all once I was appointed, but I bet he still has the app.”

Charles gaped at him, his heart plummeting through the floor. “You were a kid,” he whispered. “You were little.”

Charles had been focused on tricking out his kart and beating Lando and Pierre in the rental leagues on off days. Max had apparently been preparing for his own murder with George, who had always been a step ahead of them in the intelligence category, but Charles never suspected he was that far ahead.

“I’ll find the video and I’ll delete it,” Charles promised. “And I’ll make sure all of the photos of you are gone too.”

Max bit the inside of his cheek. “Thanks, but you don’t have to. If George still has them, it’s for a reason. He might be a piece of shit, but he would never use them against me, I don’t care how far gone he is.”

Charles couldn’t stop thinking about the way Max always shrugged off the bruises and marks, the way he never let Charles worry about them even though he saw the way it hurt to move sometimes.

“Was it ever bad enough that you wanted to use them?” Charles dared to ask.

Max’s lashes fluttered. “I think I’ve told you enough secrets for one day.”

Charles lifted his hand from Max’s and brought it to his face. He thumbed his cheek, everything in him churning, boiling hot. It hurt to look at him. Charles had wanted to hate him so much after Brazil, but something in him always said not to. Everyone else claimed he was just hung up on a memory of someone who didn’t exist anymore, when in reality that person had still been there all along, trapped.

“Then answer one last question,” Charles said. “I don’t need to know names, I don’t need to know any details. Did someone force you to end us?”

Max’s jaw flexed against his hand, and his heart monitor began to pick up again.

“Yes.”

Tears pricked Charles’s eyes, so salty that they burned. Hate filled him, but not toward Max.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Charles asked.

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk you having any hope,” Max said. “I’m fixing it. So Mick doesn’t have to do what I did.  Even if it’s literally the last thing I do, I’m going to make it right.”

Charles pressed their lips together in a soft kiss, no longer afraid of what it might do. The world painted Max as a ruthless person, cutthroat and unaffected. But Charles knew the truth. The brave, loving man behind the steel walls he built up around himself.

Max’s hand came to the back of his neck as he deepened the kiss, and Charles parted his lips when Max’s tongue wandered. He didn’t taste the same, he didn’t feel the same.

No spark burst in him as they moved against each other. Charles kept his head and didn’t put pressure on Max’s ribs as he braced himself over him, though a sound did escape his lips when Max thumbed over the spot at the corner of his jaw he loved so much. A spot Max had figured out, and Pierre had learned after.

“I’m always going to be in love with you,” Max breathed. “I know we can’t be anything anymore, but I’m always going to wish I’d been stronger.”

Charles squeezed his eyes shut as they brushed noses. “You’re the strongest person I know, Max. We can still be something. Not the same thing, but something. Starting with Mick, we’ll make everything right.”

Max closed his eyes, and Charles knew he wouldn’t open them until morning. He’d tasted the sleep in him, the drugs.

“Thank you,” Max whispered. “I wanted that for so long.”

Charles pressed another kiss to his forehead, lingering there.

“I never stopped loving you,” he murmured against Max’s skin.

But Max didn’t hear it, he folded into sleep’s embrace instead.

Chapter 60

Notes:

explicit content ahead. again. 😑

Chapter Text

 

“Mate, it’s a fuckin’ hoodie,” Max Fewtrell said through Lando’s phone where it sat propped on his dresser.

Lando looked at himself in the mirror, wrinkling his nose. The bedroom loomed around him without Daniel, and he checked his phone way too often for updates. Daniel texted that Max was okay, but he never knew if he could trust anything written down.

The news channels replayed the crash over and over, juxtaposed with Lewis’s post-race celebrations. The narrative was taking shape, and Red Bull and Mercedes supporters were already arguing like crazy on every social media platform—or so Sophia told him.

“I don’t know, does blue seem too colorful?” Lando asked, tugging at the fabric of his teal blue hoodie.

“You know you were already married, right?” Few replied, rolling his eyes. He had on one of Lando’s Tommy Hilfiger hoodies and it made his face even darker in the low light of Lando’s gaming room at home. Well, at his old home.

“Yeah, but like, Max is in the hospital, mate,” Lando said. “I don’t want to be disrespectful.”

“You’re having a date with your ex-husband that literally no one is gonna know about except me,” Few said dryly.

“Carlos notices that kind of stuff though.”

“Carlos is only gonna notice your face, your dick, and your arse, mate,” Few muttered.

Lando shot him a look, butterflies coming to life in his stomach.

It was one thing to have an FIA-approved date with an ex-husband. It was another entirely to have an FIA-approved date with an ex-husband in their old royal apartment. Lando had no choice in the matter, but he wished they could have gotten a hotel. He didn’t want Carlos to see him living with someone else, to see Daniel’s things where his had once been.

He tried to clean up, but cleaning was not in Lando's skillset. He couldn’t really organize anything except racing data and governmental duties.

“I don’t know if I want it to be like it was, or if I should treat it like a real date,” Lando said, pulling off his hoodie. “I’m going with black, by the way.”

“Treat it like a real date,” Few offered, adjusting his glasses. “Spice it up. It’s a special occasion, so treat it like one, you know?”

“Yeah,” Lando said, selecting a black BOSS hoodie from his drawer. He touched his wrist without thinking, but met only skin.

His phone buzzed and he peered at the screen.

Getting a hotel in MK. Max is good, Charles is staying with him.

Lando let out a sigh of relief.

“Daniel?” Few asked with a yawn.

“Yeah.”

Few didn’t ask anything else, because he knew Lando couldn’t tell him anything.

Lando wiggled his arms into the sleeves of his hoodie and looked himself over. Yeah, black was the better choice. It gave his face some more contour or whatever. He looked like a proper person, not a kid.

“Carlos legit does not care, Lando,” Few drawled. “You look like a hot piece of ass.”

Lando’s cheeks burned. “Shut up.”

He looked like he was trying too hard.

Lando turned to the dresser and rummaged through the drawer until he found his glasses.

His vision wasn’t horrible, but he liked the world to be a little clearer when Carlos was around.

“Sexy librarian,” Few teased once he put them on.

“Shut up, mate.”

“It is Carlos coming over right? Not some, like, secret lover you’ve got?”

Lando tugged at the collar of his hoodie, trying to look as casual as possible.

“He’s with Charles all the time now,” Lando said. “Charles has the whole ‘hard to get’ thing. Everyone loves it. Like, everyone. And Carlos is competitive and he wants to get what no one else has, so.”

He shrugged. Sure, Charles supposedly had Pierre now, but Lando didn’t see that as a lasting thing. It didn’t make sense that Charles would just pick Pierre all of a sudden when he had years to do it earlier.

He’s sick in the head, George said. 

“You are not getting self-conscious about Charles Leclerc,” Few tsked. “Lando, that guy is like a fuckin’ Barbie doll. He’s not real. He’s like…I dunno mate, but you’re like a million times better than him.”

“No I’m not,” Lando said. “Statistically, he’s faster. Talent-wise, he’s got more. He got appointed to Ferrari after a year. They’ve never picked anyone as young as him.”

“So what?” Max sat up, adjusting his headphones. “He’s got a stick up his ass and lives in a different universe. You’re a real person.”

Lando opened his mouth to reply, but a knock at the front door interrupted his thoughts.

“Carlos is here,” he said, his heart leaping to his throat. “Gotta go.”

“Use a condom,” Few said. “I don’t wanna know what STDs a Barbie doll has and—”

Lando hung up on him and pocketed his phone.

He rushed out of the bedroom into the living room—

And promptly fell on his ass when his socks slipped out from under him on the wood floor.

“Fuck!” Lando hissed, scrambling to his feet.

Carlos knocked again.

“I’m coming!” Lando called, shuffling to the door.

He fixed his glasses and adjusted his hoodie one last time before he opened it.

Carlos took up the whole doorframe. He wore a purple shirt that hugged his broad chest, and a pair of black sweats that made him look perfectly casual and perfectly hot at the same time, even with his downright stupid-looking white trainers that a fucking dad would wear to shovel manure in the rain.

“Hi,” Lando greeted awkwardly, trying to find a way to arrange himself in the doorway to be a little more sexy.

“Hi,” Carlos returned with a soft smile. He looked tired and rested at the same time. Carlos was full of contradictions like that.

Lando cleared his throat and stepped aside to let him in. “Should I say welcome back?”

Carlos stepped inside and wandered into the entryway as if it were his first time visiting. Lando locked the door behind him and turned around, watching as Carlos stared up at the wood beams in the ceiling, the warm Edison bulbs that hung over the kitchen island.

Lando pressed his back to the door, too nervous to move.

He didn’t really know how to do dates. He knew he was an awkward person, and people called him weird a lot. Introverted, strange, odd. All words for the same thing: he didn’t know how to interact with people unless it was for his job.

He definitely didn’t know how to do dates with Carlos, especially now that they weren’t together. They usually had an objective—movie night, dinner, or sneaking coffee. They met at a neutral place like a hotel room or between hospitality motorhomes or in the streets of Monaco.

“It looks nice in here,” Carlos said as he inspected the living room couch. “Did Daniel design or you?”

“Daniel,” Lando answered quickly, still pressed to the door.

Carlos smiled to himself as he ruffled the faux fur of one of the throw pillows.

“He’s better at that stuff,” Lando added.

“Mm.”

Carlos looked at him and Lando’s heart really started going. His cheeks turned pink in a millisecond, and he looked away.

“So, uh, I think we have sparkling cider in the fridge,” Lando announced, heading into the kitchen. “Do you want some?”

“Are we celebrating?” Carlos asked.

Lando winced. Good one, idiot.

“That’s not what I—No, nothing to celebrate. Obviously. I mean, except that Max is okay, which is obviously good.”.

Carlos smiled at him as he entered the kitchen. “You are nervous.”

Lando froze, then bristled. “I am not.”

“Why are you nervous?”

“I’m not nervous, Carlos.”

Carlos stepped closer and Lando stumbled back.

“See?” Carlos smirked. “Nervous.”

Lando soured. “Do you want cider or not?”

He had half a mind to crack open one of Daniel’s beers instead.

Carlos looked up at the ceiling again, the filament of the Edison bulb reflecting gold coils in his dark eyes. He looked like a movie star. A person too beautiful to exist, to be interested in a weirdo like him.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Carlos asked. “Around the grounds, I mean. I know we can’t leave. I’d like to go for a walk.”

Anything to avoid spending alone time with you, Lando translated.

“Sure,” he replied. “You’re the guest. Honored guest.”

Carlos chuckled. “Visitor is what they called me.”

Lando dipped his head dramatically. “My apologies, your Royal Highness.”

Carlos made a move for him, but Lando slipped by without getting caught in his arms.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Do you need a jacket? Daniel has some in your closet.” He frowned. “His closet, I mean.”

Carlos shook his head. “I’m okay.”

He looking at him for too long. The skin prickled on the back of Lando’s neck as he unlocked the door.

Then he locked it again.

“Um, maybe we should stay here,” Lando said, turning around to face him. “I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, you know? Seeing us walking around to—”

He pressed his back flat to the door as Carlos settled all around him, effectively cornering him. Heat rushed everywhere and Lando sucked in a breath of surprise, eyes blowing wide.

This used to be their home. Lando remembered being excited to come back here, to have Carlos all to himself for hours. They played videogames, card games, watched movies, laughed so hard his stomach hurt in the car the next day.

Happiness didn’t feel like happiness anymore, not compared to that.

“We can do whatever you want,” Carlos said, resting their foreheads together.

Lando gulped.

“You’re the visitor,” Lando managed to say. “It’s your pick.”

“I like your glasses,” Carlos said. “I missed them.”

Lando cracked a smile. “Yeah right. I look like a librarian.”

“You look sexy,” Carlos said.

Lando pressed his palms to Carlos’s chest in an attempt to push him away, but found himself curling his fingers into the fabric of his shirt instead.

“I missed you,” Lando whispered, looking down at Carlos’s perfect, movie star mouth.

“I missed you too,” Carlos replied. “I don’t understand why you are nervous.”

A lump formed in Lando’s throat. He turned his face away, but Carlos’s hand came to his cheek and turned him back.

“Did I do something?” Carlos asked.

“God no,” Lando said. “I don’t know. I mean, no.”

“You mean no,” Carlos repeated, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Lando sighed. “I’m in my head.”

“I can see that.” Carlos wiggled a finger. “All of the swirly things in your brain.”

Lando shot him a look, but it melted when it met ristretto. “I don’t know, Carlos.”

He couldn’t find a way to properly express how he felt other than that, because he really didn’t know.  

Carlos’s hands settled just above his hips, a dip made just for him that warmed Lando everywhere whenever he touched it. He sighed, dropping his face against Carlos’s shoulder.

“Do you want to talk me through it?” Carlos asked against his neck.

“No,” Lando said. “There isn’t anything to talk through.”

He didn’t want to plant a seed in Carlos’s mind that Charles might be the better choice.  Charles had power, maturity, and some alien way of going through things with extreme calm and utter precision.

Lando likened his career to digging in the sand. Easy at first, then almost impossible, then the tide came in and he had to work doubly hard for half the result. Carlos could pretend to know what it was like, but he wasn’t a McLaren prince anymore. Things were different than a year ago.

“I guess I don’t know what to do,” Lando said, a little sheepish. “Like, tonight. I didn’t plan anything. I didn’t think they’d actually let you come.”

“That’s okay,” Carlos said, ever the easygoing Spaniard. “I’m glad to be with you.”

Lando frowned. “See, that makes me feel worse.”

Carlos pulled back to look at him. “Worse? Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I should have to try or something.”

“Try for what, Lando?”

He shrugged again. “To make you happy, I guess. I don’t know.”

Stop saying that.

Carlos curled a finger under his chin, but Lando turned his face.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see the pain of rejection on Carlos’s face. “I’m feeling really weird.”

He loved Carlos. He loved Carlos with everything, and that was the problem. Lewis warned him about keeping such close contact with Ferrari, that Ferrari had a habit of brainwashing even the strongest princes to see only Scuderia red. He felt the shift in Carlos, the pull of Charles Leclerc, the pull of Ferrari, tugging him away.

“Because of Max?” Carlos asked, thumbing at his waist.

“I guess, yeah,” Lando replied, staring at the wall. “And George. He saw Alex Albon today for the first time since his exile. It was horrible, and I was part of it because Red Bull made Alex interview us, and they totally knew what they were doing.”

Carlos’s fingers flexed. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck. It was awful, Carlos. George is so bad right now. I’ve never seen him this bad.”

“So you feel guilty for being with me."

Lando made himself look at Carlos again. The freckles splashed on his cheeks, the shadowy lashes, the perfect jawline and that downright kissable set of lips.

“Yeah, I do,” Lando admitted, eyes lingering on Carlos’s mouth again. “I mean, look at you. You could have anyone you want. You’re perfect, and now you’re a big shot prince like you always wanted to be. And I…I wanted that for you. I still do. But someday they’re gonna make you choose.”

“Charles, you mean.”

Lando shook his head. “Ferrari. Ferrari will make you choose, and you already said how important it is to you that you stay loyal to them. This isn’t loyal. I’m not loyalty.”

Carlos shook his head. “You are everything. I would choose you over Ferrari.”

Lando slumped. “See, you didn’t though. You chose them, or you would be here.”

“It’s not that simple and you know it,” Carlos replied. “We discussed this.”

“Long term, I know, I know,” Lando dismissed. “But, I mean, how many more years will it buy you, Carlos? Five, tops? We could have gotten you five here. Then we’d still be good.”

Carlos frowned. Hurt looked so fucking miserable on him that it made Lando hurt more.

“We’re not good?” Carlos asked.

“No, we’re not good,” Lando said, digging his fingers into Carlos’s shirt. “You have to get permission to be here. I don’t get to see you every day. I don’t get to hear your voice when I wake up and I hate it. I hate living without you.”

First loves were dangerous. First requited loves, anyway. Lando knew that, but he’d never felt safer than with Carlos at his side. Nothing about them seemed breakable. He was older, more experienced, wise in all things on and off track in a way Lando wished he could be.

“One night isn’t enough,” Lando continued. “I love you. Like, a lot. I thought pretending things hadn’t changed would make it easier, but then it hurt way, way more.”

“I know,” Carlos soothed, pulling him in.

Lando sank into his hold, enveloped by his warmth and sureness. Carlos pressed his lips to his temple and Lando nuzzled closer.

If he could stop time, he would have. He would lock himself in this moment forever so Carlos never had to leave.

“Like, I want—I want you,” Lando forced himself to say, heart pounding. “I have, like, sex dreams about you and stuff and I wake up and I just want you. But then when you’re here I think about Monaco and how good it was and then how horrible it was after and—”

He cut himself off, taking a few deep breaths of Carlos scent.

“Did you try with Daniel again?” Carlos asked, emotionless. An emotionless Carlos sounded like a dead one.

Lando nodded. “Yeah. It was fine. I mean, he’s got enough experience that it better be good.”

“So it was good or fine?”

Lando squeezed Carlos tight, feeling the curve of his ribcage, his lungs and heart. “It was fine until I started thinking about you, then it was good.”

“Very diplomatic answer,” Carlos chuckled, but it sounded off.

“I mean it, don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not. That was a compliment,” Carlos assured.

What Lando didn’t say was that having sex with Daniel and pretending he was Carlos was actually better than having sex with Carlos. Because he woke up next to Daniel after and had a body to warm up with and share stupid jokes with even if they weren’t intimate. Daniel didn’t walk out and sleep next to someone else.

“Do you want me now?” Carlos asked. “I’m staying the whole night. I’m not leaving this time.”

“I don’t—Yes, I want you. But I also don’t want to feel like this is a booty call. You’re not a prostitute or something to me.”

Carlos laughed. “I would be your prostitute.”

Lando’s cheeks turned beet red. “Stop it.”

Carlos kissed his cheek before he loosened his hold and they separated. Lando took his hand, lacing their fingers tight together before he led him back toward the living room.

“Sit,” Lando said once they stopped in front of the couch.

Carlos sat.

Lando pushed up his glasses and took a breath. “We’ll try,” he said. “But if it gets weird again, we’re stopping. I’ll blue ball you into next week.”

His nervousness eased when Carlos grinned up at him. “Okay.”

Lando pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t be weird.”

Carlos laughed. “You can’t say that. Now I’m going to be weird.”

He was going to kill this man before he ever got around to fucking him.

“Eyes closed,” Lando instructed.

He hated the beginning of sex stuff. He felt so gangly and weird as a human being, and presenting that to another person as something that was supposed to be desired felt like trying to say a bagel and a doughnut were the same thing.

Okay, there had to be a better analogy than that, but he couldn’t think of one.

Carlos closed his eyes and Lando slid down his sweats, then his boxers. He kept his hoodie on, because being completely nude in his living room just wasn’t going to happen.

“Keep them closed,” Lando warned as he pulled off his socks.

He rode Carlos a lot when they were married, usually because they never really waited to get to a place like a couch or a bed where they could get properly horizontal. Sometimes Carlos rode him, but he was heavy as fuck, so it didn’t work quite as well.  

Switching, it was called. He was pretty sure anyway. He didn’t really have time to go looking up sex terminology between racing and running an empire.

He straddled Carlos’s lap and lowered himself down onto Carlos’s thighs, desire instantly running up through him at the familiarity.

“When was the last time with Daniel?” Carlos asked. He stayed completely still. Well trained until Lando dropped the leash, like always.

Lando shrugged deep enough that he knew Carlos could feel the bounce. “After we got back from Austria. I blew him, he gave me a handy. Nothing special. You?”

He forced himself to breathe as Carlos shrugged back, eyes still shut.

“I think he would prefer it if I didn’t touch him at all,” Carlos said.

Lando almost laughed, but he saw the hurt in Carlos’s face. “Oh my god, you’re serious. You haven’t done anything since Monaco?”

Carlos’s cheeks turned ruddy, hiding his freckles. “This is very immature.”

Lando laughed, unable to stop himself. “Okay, open your eyes.”

He didn’t expect watching Carlos’s eyes open to be such an erotic experience, but what the hell, there he was. Lust drenched Carlos’s gaze, turning his eyes almost black as Lando shifted closer, lips parting on instinct.

“Hey,” Lando greeted. His mouth got stupid when he started getting hard.

“Can I touch you?” Carlos asked, batting his goddamn lashes like a fucking model or something.

“Yeah,” Lando murmured. He brought their lips together and moaned ridiculously loud when Carlos’s hands went right to his ass.

Daniel had a lot of experience, but Carlos had a lot of experience in Lando. Literally and figuratively.

Lando always forgot about lube, so there was an awkward moment when Carlos had to run to the bedroom to get some, but he came back in less clothing than before, so Lando didn’t really notice.

The comfort of home actually helped, Lando found, and when Carlos pushed inside him he didn’t feel the kick of guilt he’d felt in Monaco. Instead he moaned into his mouth and ground down on him, eyes squeezed shut against the burn of pleasure.

“Fuck,” Lando panted out as he began a rhythm, thighs already trembling.

“I wish I could still have video of this,” Carlos gritted out, guiding him at the hips.

Lando whined when Carlos found a sensitive spot, bracing himself against his shoulders. “Me too.”

Sex was still pretty new to him, but he saw that as an advantage because fuck if Carlos wasn’t the best at it—like he was the best at everything.

“ Good?” Carlos asked, his voice low and honeyed.

A moan shuddered out of him as Carlos rubbed the head of his cock in the exact right spot inside him, like he’d been waiting.

“Yes,” Lando hissed out. “Really good. Fuck.”

He wriggled his hips once he’d fully seated himself on Carlos’s lap, curling against him, open-mouthed at his ear.

“You’re going to ruin that jumper,” Carlos purred.

Lando bounced on him, and they both grunted against the force of the pleasure.

“I forgot how big you are,” Lando gasped. His mouth always ran during sex. He hated it, but in the moment it always seemed right. “Is this enough or you wanna fuck me hard?”

“Mierda,” Carlos said in a strangled voice, thrusting up into him.

“Tell me,” Lando coaxed, resuming a slow, methodical rhythm. “I can tell you want more, love.”

Carlos sank his teeth into the fabric of his hood at Lando’s shoulder.

Lando turned his head, a devilish smirk curling at his lips. “Fuck me like you miss me.”

 

 

 


 

 

 

Carlos fucked his brains out. Like, almost literally. Lando lost thought before they even finished on the couch, and by the time they made it to the bedroom he didn’t even know what year it was.

He lost the hoodie somewhere, and his glasses fell off when he mashed his face into the mattress and drooled all over it like a fucking idiot, but Carlos was just that good.

He couldn’t even come down from it. He just kept staring out the window, his brain running through the same track like the end of a record: Carlos, Carlos, Carlos.

Every part of him hurt, ached, and quivered. He didn’t know what time it was, but the sun wasn’t up yet, so they at least had some time before—

Carlos’s lips pressed to his hip and started making their way up his side, between each rib, marking every freckle on his back.

Lando groaned as he rolled over, allowing Carlos to settle on top of him again.

“I hope that’s not an invitation,” Lando mumbled as Carlos’s spine dipped between his shoulder blades and he caught him in a kiss.

Kissing hurt, his lips were so swollen.

“No,” Carlos said with a smile. “You were very good. You behaved for me.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “Like you gave me a choice. You’re a right menace.”

They made out for awhile, hazy with the residual desire for each other. Lando did try to get it up again, but failed miserably and nearly knocked himself out trying.

“Let’s shower,” he muttered once his vision returned to normal. “I’m all sticky.”

Carlos hummed, sitting up on the edge of the mattress, his hair a complete mess. Carlos’s sex hair was about the hottest thing on the planet.

 Lando caught his hand and Carlos hauled him up from bed onto shaky legs.

And then the shame hit with the force of a freight train when he caught a look at himself in the mirror.

There were marks all over him. Hickeys, bruises, bite marks. Red spots that would probably develop into something equally damning. He had abs now, at least, but everything about him was so disproportionate. In the moment he loved Carlos's mouth and hands marking him up, but when reality came back into play he didn't see why Carlos would ever want...well, him. 

“Come here,” Carlos murmured, appearing behind him, hands coming to his waist to turn him around.

Lando swallowed hard, shrinking away from the touch. “I’m good.”

He plucked his robe off of the bathroom door and shrugged it on, wincing at the stickiness between his legs, the tacky wetness that pretty much always made him regret having sex. Kind of. He didn’t really regret it, but he kind of did.

Nothing made sense in his weirdo brain.

He turned on the shower as Carlos entered the bathroom with him, and Lando was immediately embarrassed about all of Daniel’s stuff everywhere. Daniel basically took up the whole countertop with skincare bottles, hair product, and shaving stuff.

“I didn’t have time to clean,” Lando lied.

Carlos shrugged, nonchalant. “Why would you? It’s not dirty.”

Lando avoided looking at him. Carlos had so much muscle everywhere and all of his skin was that beautiful tan. His love marks looked like carefully placed tattoos.

“I could order us some food,” Lando offered, his blush running down his neck at the hoarseness of his voice.

“I will always eat McLaren food,” Carlos said, stepping closer. “Can I hold you?”

Lando looked down at his offered hands. “I want to be clean first.”

Carlos nodded once and leaned against the countertop. He never seemed to mind being completely nude. Lando had walked into the apartment more than once to find Carlos completely naked, just watching TV or even playing PlayStation. Like clothes just didn’t occur to him.

With a body like that, he supposed that made sense.

“It’s okay that I shower with you, right?” Carlos asked.

Lando turned back to the water and nodded. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

He dropped his robe and stepped under the warm water. Heat soothed his aching muscles, and he began to clean himself off with an all-natural sponge from some Australian company Daniel was obsessed with.

“I don’t like this,” Carlos said as he stepped into the shower with him and shut the sliding glass door. “It feels like you are afraid of me.”

Lando continued scrubbing his inner thigh. “I’m not afraid of you, Carlos. It’s just weird. You’re leaving as soon as Charles comes back and I won’t see you again until Hungary. Then after that it’ll be like a month.”

“I planned to visit friends in London,” Carlos said, squirting some body wash onto his hands. “I was hoping to see you then.”

Lando frowned as he straightened up again. “Okay, then what? We get a few days together and then you leave until Belgium.”

“I don’t know what you are saying,” Carlos said. He reached out to start lathering body wash on Lando’s arms. “You don’t want me to see you?”

“Sometimes I don’t, yeah,” Lando murmured, water running down over his lips. “I don’t want things to get like this. Good sex then you leave. I don’t want that. I want to be married to you. We don’t even have time to fight anymore.”

They never really fought to begin with, though one of Lando’s better talents was getting under Carlos’s skin and pissing him off. The teasing and banter was his favorite part about them, and lately all they had was meaningful conversation and ‘I miss you’s. Lame.

“Cabrón,” Carlos teased, cupping his face in this palm. “Te amo, cabrón.”

“See, that’s not fighting,” Lando muttered, but his heart jumped. “Calling me an asshole in your sexy voice isn’t a fight.”

“My sexy voice, eh?”

“Stop,” Lando said with a roll of his eyes, flicking water in his face.

Carlos kissed him, stealing the nerves right out of his throat as he melted into it. Lando wound his arms around Carlos’s neck, stepping closer until their hips pressed together and Carlos let out a little sigh against his mouth.

“I needed that so much,” Carlos admitted through wet lips.

“I know,” Lando soothed.

They huddled close enough that both of them shared the shower spray, swaying back and forth under the water in their own little world. Carlos felt more human while soaking wet. His voluminous hair laid flat to his skull, his lashes clumped together, his chest hair made little rivulets down to his navel like any other human being.  

“I hate being difficult,” Lando murmured a minute later, still swaying under the water.

Carlos smiled, eyes hooded. “No you don’t.”

Lando’s let out a snort. “Okay, I don’t. But I don’t like making you doubt. I do love you, and I do want this. I’m just trying to figure out a way to do it that doesn’t hurt so much.”

Carlos kissed him sweetly. He tasted a bit like shampoo. “I have some gifts for you that might help. But first, sleep.”

 

 


 

 

The unwound from each other once Lando didn’t want to stand anymore, and made their way back to the living room couch. Daniel had no updates on Max, and the news repeated the same shit. Lando fetched blankets from the closet and they curled up together for a nap, since Lando didn’t want to waste time sleeping fully and Carlos didn’t either.

He woke up two hours later with his head in Carlos’s lap and very insistent fingers scratching at his scalp.

“What,” Lando muttered, his whole body still boneless from the ungodly amount of sex. Carlos had stamina far beyond human potential in that department.

“First present,” Carlos greeted.

Lando opened his eyes to cobalt blue.

“Carlos, you can’t,” he said, looking up at him. “I gave that to you. You can’t regift.”

Carlos smiled warmly. His lips were still swollen. “I can’t wear it right now, but you can. I want you to. You can give it back to me when it’s time.”

“When you come back,” Lando corrected, threading his fingers through the band of Carlos’s custom McLaren Richard Mille prototype.

heart eyes 4 u

The whole idea of inscriptions started as a joke, but Lando never anticipated feeling the loss of the four words on his wrist like the loss of Carlos himself. It didn’t feel right to take the watch he’d picked for Carlos, but the flat metal against the back of his wrist soothed him as well as any touch.

“Thank you,” Lando said quietly once he fastened the band. “What’s the second one? You obviously didn’t save the best for last.”

Carlos shifted and Lando sat up to give him room before abandoning that plan and crawling into Carlos’s lap instead, curling against him.  Sometimes he got a little needy after sex. Sue him. 

He tucked himself against Carlos’s collarbone as Carlos dug in the pocket of his sweats and pulled out Lando’s phone.

“What are you showing me?” Lando asked, snaking a hand up the front of the hoodie Carlos had borrowed—his roomiest one. He scratched at Carlos’s stomach, earning him a satisfied hum. “I’m not playing Angry Birds again. Nobody plays that anymore.”

Carlos tapped on the screen, but Lando’s background had changed to a sweating bottle of Carbon, Interlagos blurry behind it.

Carlos’s old phone background.

Lando cocked a brow. “Okay, I’m confused. You changed my background?”

“This isn’t your phone,” Carlos said, smoothing his fingers through Lando’s hair.

“Uh, is this a riddle?”

Lando grabbed the phone and typed in his password.

None of his apps were there, and the phone was in airplane mode.

He threw the phone the moment it clicked in his brain. Carlos caught it in midair.

“Are you fucking crazy?” Lando snapped, grabbing up a mound of blankets as he moved to his feet. “You brought a fucking burner phone?”

“Lando, sit down,” Carlos soothed. “It’s not trackable right now. GPS is off, everything Is off. I wanted to talk to you about it.”

Lando stared at the phone, indistinguishable from his real phone. Carlos even picked the right case—his new case that he’d gotten just a few days ago with his replacement phone.

“I saw what happened to Daniel after shit went down,” Lando said, clutching the blankets tighter. “We’re not doing this.”

“I want to talk about it,” Carlos said, reaching forward to gently squeeze his thigh. His thigh that was still trembling from fucking Carlos into oblivion just a few hours ago, Lando reminded himself.

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Lando said. “No.”

“You’re assuming,” Carlos said. “Let me tell you about it.”

He couldn’t imagine Carlos looking like Daniel had when the FIA confiscated that phone. They stormed into their drivers room without even knocking, manhandled Daniel like a criminal, and tore through both of their bags, throwing things everywhere until they found a stupid flip phone Daniel had hidden in his luggage.

“Does Charles know you have that?” Lando demanded.

“Mi amor, sit down, please,” Carlos coaxed.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

Carlos set his lips in a straight line. “This won’t work if Charles knows. He chose Pierre, and they have their things they keep secret. This can be ours. Let me tell you about it.”

Goddamn Carlos and his stupid brain. Too intrigued to shut down the conversation, Lando plopped down on the far end of the couch.

“This better be good, or I’m kicking you out on the street and erasing all of the sex we just had from your memory,” Lando muttered.

Carlos set the phone on the coffee table. Lando watched it until the screen went black.

“When I found out you were hurt, I felt so helpless,” Carlos began. “We have to have a way to contact each other in emergencies, especially if Max is really being targeted by the FIA.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Lando reminded him.

Carlos motioned for him to come closer. “I know. Excuse me for loving you as much as I do.”

Why did Carlos have to be so perfect all the damn time?

Lando scooted closer, ignoring the growing soreness in every limb as he tucked himself against Carlos’s side. Again.

Burner phones were the ultimate temptation within the FIA’s jurisdiction. Scandals came out every couple of years about suspected phones or found phones, but Lando didn’t remember any consequences as serious as Daniel’s.

“This is too dangerous,” Lando said, finding his confidence. “How did you even get this?”

Carlos’s demeanor changed as he met his eye. They were one thing when they were alone together, but as soon as work kicked in, they both changed. Carlos became a bit cold and commanding, Lando turned more bratty than everyone already thought he was. They worked well together somehow—he challenged Carlos and Carlos challenged him.

The Prince Carlos appeared on the couch, and Prince Lando rose to meet him.

“This isn’t my first time handling these,” Carlos said evenly.

Public Affairs did a fantastic job only capturing Carlos’s touchy, lovey personality. Even in times of frustration during team challenges, they made Carlos’s irritation into a cute part of the game.

Lando loved that part of Carlos, but he loved the unyielding, overtaking, powerful version of him even more. And Lando loved being the evasive, teasing little shit that captured Carlos even when he didn’t want it to be caught.

“Okay,” Lando said slowly. “That doesn’t answer my question though.”

Carlos smiled down at the phone. “It’s safer if you don’t know. What is important is that I know this one won’t be detected as long as you only use it to contact me.”

Lando frowned. “I’m sure that’s what Daniel thought too.”

Carlos shook his head. “They were caught because Daniel admitted his relationship on live TV and the FIA had to search. I explained how they worked very clearly.”

“Wait, you—Hold on, you gave him those phones?”

He didn’t know whether to be pissed, shocked, or horrified.

“Lando, there are a lot of things you don’t understand,” Carlos said, as if they were talking about setups and not fucking burner phones. “And that’s good. I protected you from these things before, and I still try to protect you now.”

“Okay, so you didn’t think it was important for me to know that my husband was fucking Max Verstappen and sexting him all the time off a burner?” Lando snapped.

 Carlos’s face didn’t change. “I thought you knew. Everyone knew.”

“I didn’t know,” Lando shot back, blood boiling.

“Well, I didn’t know what you felt about Daniel was real,” Carlos countered. His shoulders tensed and Lando wanted to scream, but bit his tongue for once.

He’d never been in a relationship with anyone before Carlos. Not seriously. A few crushes here and there on holidays, sneaking a kiss or two late at night by the beach with some pretty girl or nice boy. A few missteps with his heart, but never a full and real love.

Daniel walked into his life joking and laughing and keeping up all the banter they used to have on the grid before they were forced to ge married. He did nice things like breakfast in bed and knew all of the sights in every city, and their first kiss took about a million years to happen, yet Daniel never seemed to care that Lando couldn’t get it together.

Everyone wanted a cool, laid back Daniel Ricciardo to fall in love with them, whether they said it or not. Lando fell into the trap just as easily as Max probably did. Daniel talked like he drove—smooth.

“I told you everything,” Lando said. “I still tell you everything.”

“You used the codes, Lando.”

“Yeah, because you fucked Charles and the whole world saw!”

Carlos shook his head, his damp hair falling in his eyes as he did so. “We didn’t fuck. I explained this to you.”

“Well you might as well have,” Lando said. “That’s what everyone thought and still thinks.”

“What matters to me is if you think it,” Carlos replied. “Charles and I made love in Monaco, that was all.”

“Do not call it that,” Lando hissed, thumping Carlos’s shoulder with the butt of his palm. “Stop being a romantic Spaniard. It wasn’t making love, it was fucking.”

Carlos frowned. “We didn’t do anything in Florence except kiss.”

Lando hated Charles. Hated him.

Lando hated that he looked at Carlos’s face and only saw love reflected back at him, even when he talked about Charles. The fact that Charles probably saw the same fucking thing when he talked to Carlos infuriated him.

“You realize this means you hurt me, right?” Lando asked. “You gave them the fucking phones that burned everything down. I had something good with Daniel before that. We were cool. Then all this shit came up because you broke the fucking law!”

Carlos’s eyes sparked as he lifted his chin. “You were falling in love with Daniel and he didn’t love you.”

“You don’t know that,” Lando snapped. “You weren’t here. You were falling in love with Charles.”

“Based on the truth!”

“I thought I was living the truth!”

Lando’s chest heaved. Anger surged in him, but he still couldn’t find it in him to be mad at Carlos. Carlos had some innate ability to deflect bad things.

Carlos’s hand came to his cheek, caressing him with a touch soft enough to melt Lando right there on the couch.

“You left me,” Lando whispered, tears wetting his eyes. “Early. You chose Ferrari so early. You didn’t even give me a chance to convince you to stay.”

“You are the love of my life,” Carlos soothed. “I left because I knew we could survive it. And it’s okay that you loved Daniel. What isn’t okay is that you didn’t tell me.”

Lando pulled his face away. “I didn't love him. But trust me, sometimes telling someone hurts more.”

Charles, Charles, Charles. Lando had a real time progression of their relationship in a stack of letters in his dresser. Carlos and his absurdly open way of dealing with love cut Lando deeper than most things.

“This phone has a Ferrari SIM card,” Carlos explained, brushing past his insult the way he always did. “As long as you only text me, it won’t raise any red flags with the FIA.”

Lando snorted. “Yeah, a Ferrari number texting from McLaren won’t set off any alarm bells.”

“It doesn’t work like that in their system, from what I understand. It flags calls and texts from different empires to other empires based on the SIM. I researched.”

“And I’m sure that wasn’t tracked or anything,” Lando muttered, staring at the phone.

“I’m very careful,” Carlos growled. “I would never put you at risk.”

“You have a burner phone in my fucking apartment,” Lando said. “I think that puts me at risk.”

“This SIM card was very, very difficult to get,” Carlos said. “It is from Portugal. I saved it all this time and waited for someone to notice it went missing, but they never did. It was a very clever trick.”

Lando stared at him, trying to read through Carlos’s concentrated face.

“We’re above this,” Lando said. “I trust you and you trust me. I’d find a way to let you know everything is okay. You didn’t have to risk your crown coming to see me.”

Carlos thumbed the side of the phone as he picked it up.

“Sometimes I want to tell you goodnight,” he confessed quietly. "I want to be able to call you and tell you goodnight.”

Lando’s heart wrenched in his chest. Carlos Sainz--Ferrari prince, genius, able to secure illegal phones and bypass FIA security measures--wanted to risk it all to tell him goodnight.

“You are the biggest sap on the planet,” Lando said, leaning in for a kiss.

Their lips met, soft and quiet.

“If we’re going to do this, I need to know how you got the phone, Carlos. I can’t be in the dark about any of this. Daniel’s probably going to find out, and you have to tell Charles. This isn’t the kind of secret you keep from your husband.”

Carlos nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. You’re right.”

Lando kissed him until his frown turned to a soft smile.

“Te amo,” Lando murmured. “Estemos bien.”

“Est-ah-mos,” Carlos corrected, eyes fond.

“Whatever.” Lando hugged in closer. “I still don’t trust this. Daniel said every time you use a burner phone, it pings the FIA.”

Carlos sighed. “Yes, under normal circumstances. If you go out and purchase a burner phone, it will absolutely alert the FIA. The SIM card is most important.”

“So you had the wrong SIM cards for Daniel and Max then, Carlos,” Lando said, gently taking the phone from his hand.

“No. I explained this to them—those phones were both from Mercedes, so they would not ping.”

Lando glared at him. “Carlos, you’re not involved with Lewis. Tell me you’re not—”

Carlos pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “No, mi amor. Alonso visited Mercedes prior to the season, he got them. He gave them to me, I gave them to Max and Daniel. Lewis wasn’t involved.”

“So Alonso is backing Max,” Lando murmured, his heart sinking.

Carlos shook his head. “No. He owed Max a favor. He said it was part of a deal.”

Lando nuzzled into Carlos as Carlos put an arm around him, squeezing him tight.

“I don’t like that. He put you in danger.”

Carlos shrugged. “He put himself in danger for me many times. It wasn’t hard to do this for him.”

“Your heart is too big,” Lando said, nosing into Carlos’s neck. “Muy muy lago.”

He needed about a week to process this—right now he was too love drunk to put everything in perspective.

“Grande,” Carlos corrected, just like Lando knew he would.

Honestly, he didn’t want to take a burner phone, but Lewis’s warning about Ferrari echoed in his head.

“I don’t want to be part of all of this drama,” Lando admitted into the quiet that settled between them. “You and me have always been safe from that.”

“Then you can use it for emergencies only,” Carlos said with a kiss to his temple.

“But I want to call you and tell you goodnight sometimes too,” Lando murmured. “I miss you so much. I miss nights like tonight, but I miss everything.”

“I miss everything too,” Carlos said softly.

Lando closed his eyes, pushing his nose into the underside of Carlos’s jaw, relishing in the burn of his stubble.

“Can…Can you make love to me?” Lando asked, heartbeat wild in his chest.  Making love was a weird fucking concept to begin with, and it sounded weird just to say it out loud, but if Carlos ‘made love’ to Charles, then Lando was getting more than just crazy good sex. Carlos didn’t get to withhold the real stuff from him. “We’ll have to shower again, but that’s okay.”

He set the phone aside as Carlos turned to him, already mouthing at his neck.

The nerves and longing slid away as Carlos’s hands ran over his body, removing clothing, pressing, touching, feeling. Lando sank into the cushions, wrapped himself up in the comforter and in Carlos, and let the world fall away.

“Goodnight,” Lando whispered into Carlos’s ear, a smile playing on his lips.

Carlos laughed low in his ear. “Goodnight.”

Lando said it over and over, until words vanished and thought became nothing more than the taste of Carlos in his mouth, the warmth and love and happiness that made up for every second when his Carlos was away at a place that wasn’t where he belonged.

 

 

Chapter Text

 

 

George took a deep breath at the door of Lewis and Valtteri’s hotel room. He’d been taking deep breaths ever since leaving the track, overloading his brain with English summer air. His throat hurt from throwing up, from not eating, from clawing it at it when he got back to the motorhome and curled up in a ball next to his bed. His body refused to make tears for some reason, so he just sat there for a solid hour, head pounding, eyes straining but not watering.

Coldness ate him up. He couldn’t find any part of himself. Every time he tried, it slipped away, leaving only Alex and his smile as he said how special his new lover was.

The longer George thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Alex had been lying.

He just wanted to know who took him away. Jack Aitken, maybe. They looked awfully happy together the other day.

George knocked on the hotel room door, eyes throbbing in their sockets. He was pretty sure his lips were blue. He kept shivering, unsteady on his feet.

It couldn’t be Jack. Alex probably wasn’t around anyone associated with Williams outside of the track. Red Bull wouldn’t allow it.

Lewis swung open the door with a soft smile and no shirt.

George’s heart plummeted, unable to smile back.

“Hey, come on in,” Lewis greeted, ushering him inside. He gestured to his bare chest. “Sorry about the shirt situation, got caught up in a workout.”

George couldn’t find anything to say, so he stepped past without a word.

Mercedes certainly didn’t skimp on accommodations. The suite was probably twice the size of what he was used to sharing with Nic, complete with a massive deck out back that seemed to wind around the whole floor.

“Valtteri isn’t here, in case you’re wondering,” Lewis said, resting a hand on his back as he passed and headed into the massive in-suite kitchen. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“We don’t have a lot of time,” George said. He couldn’t get color to come back into his vision. Even Lewis’s tattoos looked washed out.

Lewis glanced at him over his shoulder, a diamond cross swinging beneath his ear that threw shards of light over the dark countertops.

“Yeah, I changed my plans,” Lewis said. “Wanted more time with you. It’s been too long, I think.”

George stared at the flecks of quartz in the black granite. His thoughts kept trailing, sliding around in his head. Alex knocked his gravity off-kilter, misaligning everything in him as he tried to settle.

He didn’t understand how Alex could have someone else. How he could have found anyone to fall in love with so fast, enough to wash their love away. George couldn’t allow himself to love Lewis fully, and he would be married to him soon. Probably. Maybe.

“You got it?” Lewis asked.

George looked down to find a mug of tea in his hands. He blinked down at it, flexing his fingers against the ceramic. He couldn’t feel the heat.  

Lewis cupped his hands around his, adding ink, gleaming silver, and a flashy IWC to George’s sorry collection of knobby fingers.

George still couldn’t cry, but god, he wanted to. He wanted to rip himself apart. He wanted to claw his own heart out of his chest and stomp it into the earth.

He didn’t know how long he stood there staring down at their hands, at the tea, at all of the things he should want but didn’t.

“There’s a jacuzzi outside,” Lewis said. “I think it would help you warm up a little.”

Did Alex like tea? George searched his memory, but more and more black spots kept eating up his mind, like old film reels burning up in the projector. Sounds went first, ripping away the joy in Alex’s laughter. Then smell, the scent of his cologne before a big event, the familiarity of his laundry detergent. Soon he’d lose touch, then vision, and Alex would be out of his life for good. For forever.

Water lapped at his knees. George stood in an infinity-pool jacuzzi, staring out a bland English sunset. He didn’t remember moving.

“Don’t you have to leave?” George asked.

Lewis frowned at him, the blessed tattoo behind his ear half submerged where he’d sunk into the water.

“George, you should sit down. Want me to call Angela?”

Smog curled over the distant skyscrapers, greenish and ugly against burnt orange.

George flinched when Lewis took his hand, unintentionally splashing him in the face with the force of his recoil.

Lewis lifted himself from the water, his skin slightly darker where it had been submerged, rivers running down lines of ink and muscle.

When the fuck had he changed? George stared down at himself, his shirtless frame, a pair of black Tommy Hilfiger trunks clinging to his hips.

“Where’s my tea?” George blurted out. “What’s—Am I on drugs? Did I—is it still Sunday?”

“Look at me,” Lewis soothed, bringing a hand to his face. George ducked back, startled by the touch even though he saw it coming. He locked his gaze with Lewis’s dark eyes, hidden in the shadow of the setting sun behind him.

“You’re in really bad shape, babe,” Lewis said. “You drank the tea, remember? Then we decided to come out here. Do you remember any of that?”

George opened his mouth, helpless. “What’s happening to me?”

Lewis’s thumb ran over his cheekbone, stroking there. “Someone broke your heart, I think.”

A low and horrible sound burst from George’s throat. He sagged forward and Lewis caught him in a lightning fast reaction—probably the only person on the planet who could have done so in time.

George thought he knew heartbreak. Watching Alex leave him forever on live TV, unable to say goodbye, unable to share any codes or a last I love you—that was supposed to be the worst pain of his life.

But this pain sank into him deeper than fangs, thicker than poison. This pain was an evil, possessive kind that tore and tore. It ached like hunger, emanating from the soft spot at the joining of his ribs, just below the sternum.

Lewis lowered them both into the water until it lapped at the nape of George’s neck. Palms pressed to his back, but George could no longer tell if they were real or memory.

Alex chose someone else. No one forced him. He didn’t have a ring on his finger and a crown on his head, a husband tied to him by force. He chose because he wanted to, because someone else walked into a room and took his breath away.

It was worse than cheating. Cheating had a culprit. This had only softness, a gentle pulling away he hadn’t noticed until too late.

“I’m sorry,” George choked out.

Lewis shook his head where he’d tucked his chin over George’s shoulder. “Don’t apologize. I’m right here.”

“I can’t love you like I love him,” George said, because he might as well burn both of his relationships down. Get all of the pain over with all at once.

“I know that,” Lewis said softly. “I’m not asking you to. We love different people different ways. It doesn’t make our love any less valuable to the person holding it.”

All George could think was that maybe Alex wasn’t holding his love anymore, then. Maybe he’d dropped it on his way out of Red Bull. How big was a decade? How much space did it take up on the sidewalk for other people to walk past?

I miss you so fucking much. Liar.

Liar, liar, liar.

He didn’t even have any of Alex’s clothes anymore. He didn’t even have the scent of him to chase, to bury his nose in when he wanted to die.

“How…How am I supposed to keep going?” George croaked, and tears finally burst from his eyes.

Lewis’s arms tightened around him. “One foot in front of the other. Every second, every hour. You claw your way out.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

A crown was just a hunk of metal and some shiny rocks. Power only lasted until it didn’t. Love didn’t last any longer than an appointment.

“You can’t give up,” Lewis murmured, nosing against his cheek. “You mean so much to so many people. George, I don’t know how the new generation of princes would cope without you.”

George almost laughed. A choppy sound made its way out of his throat instead.

“They all hate me now. I can’t talk with any of them without someone getting pissed off. They all love Max, they talk to me like I’m crazy for seeing who he really is. I’m not fucking crazy.”

Lewis let out a low hum that rumbled through George’s empty chest.

“Max is young,” Lewis said. “He’s been a prince for a long time, but his growth on track doesn’t match the growth as a person. I get it. I was youngest prince to ever become world champion back when I won, and I was a shitbag.”

A tiny spark inside him said to laugh, but George couldn’t even get his eyes to move from the shimmering ribbons of light playing on the water.

“Then I lost,” Lewis continued. “And lost and lost and lost, for six years. There were times I thought I wouldn’t get out of it. It humbled me in a lot of ways, but it also ruined my life for awhile. Some days it was really hard to get up, even after I started winning.”

Nico’s name took shape in the silence, even though Lewis hadn’t mentioned a single thing about him.

“I guess what I’m saying is we all have a journey. Max has his, you have yours. Revenge is really tempting—trust me—but you reap what you sow,” Lewis said.

“I want to be a Mercedes prince to win,” George snarled, anger writhing in him. “That’s not revenge. Winning is the only thing that he listens to. It’s the only thing he gives a fuck about.”

“Yeah, think about how sad that is,” Lewis said, his voice as calm as the water around them. “You have Williams and everyone loves you there. You have Latifi, who adores you and tries his best because you’re with him. You’ve got Lando, Charles, and you always have me. Max doesn’t have anyone.”

George let out a halfhearted snort. “He has Charles and Pierre. And don’t forget Daniel—and Lando still thinks they’re friends.”

“I don’t know much about his relationship with Charles, but I don’t think Pierre is on his side any more than he has to be. He’d leave Red Bull’s control in a heartbeat,” Lewis said. “And Daniel is a very different person outside of the paddock. I think they were in love, before, but I’m not so sure now.”

George blinked slowly. “No. Max loves him. I mean, he’s at Milton Keynes right now.”

Lewis ran his fingers down the dip of George’s spine. “I have no doubt Max loves him. But Daniel’s been in the game a long time. He’s very good at manipulating people. He plays up the goofy immaturity thing, but the older he gets, the more people have started realizing it’s not real.”

“He didn’t seem very goofy at the launch party,” George muttered. He started to feel the warmth of the water, slowly but surely. His first time feeling anything but cold since seeing Alex.

“Yeah, well, he’s not a machine,” Lewis said, leaning his head away to stretch his neck. “He thought leaving Red Bull for Renault was a good idea. Not the brightest guy.”

George sighed. The lights started coming on in the city beyond, speckling the horizon with yellow.

“Daniel loves him,” George said. He had no doubt in his mind. Maybe Max loved Daniel more than Daniel loved him, but no prince risked everything unless they had feelings behind it. "He's trying to win the championship to get Daniel back."

“Max will win a championship someday,” Lewis said, pulling back until George caught the glint of his nose ring in the light. “But it's a sacred thing. It changes people. You start that day as a no one and end it cemented in history. Nothing can prepare you for that.”

He liked when Lewis explained things to him. His voice changed to something kind and wise, truly loving in a guiding way. The change probably had something to do with their age difference, but Lewis never made him feel inferior.

“How did it feel the first time you won the championship?” George asked, untangling his arms from around Lewis to run his fingers over the wedge of his collarbone, across eagle wings and a lion’s mane.

“Feels amazing. You’ll feel it one day,” Lewis said, eyelids drooping as he looked down at George’s finger. “But you learn very quickly that you can’t trust people the same way anymore. It’s hard to explain. You think you're on a pedestal as a prince, but when you’re a world champion, the whole world shifts into your orbit.”

The implication of a championship washed over George, there and gone again in an instant. He didn’t see the point in becoming world champion later, when Alex had already left. He didn’t need glory when he had no one to bring it home to.

“Well, Max doesn’t trust anyone already, so he’ll be fine,” George said, absently thumbing at the fangs of the lion inked on Lewis’s pec.

Lewis smiled. “It’s not all doom and gloom. You’ll love it.”

Again with the compliments.

George chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“Can I sleep here?” he asked. “I think Nic needs a break from me.”

Lewis laughed. “That’s it? What am I, chopped liver?”

George would have smiled if he’d been capable of it. “You’re not a tea man, that’s for sure. Almond milk. Gross.”

“It was oat milk this time,” Lewis corrected. “Cut me some slack, I had a race to win. Didn’t have time to run to the market.”

His lips brushed George’s forehead, their first kiss since George stepped inside the hotel suite. The first kiss he could remember anyway.

“Of course you can stay,” Lewis added. “I have to leave for a bit for some press, but I’ll push my flight. Kind of nice you don’t have to get on a plane, yeah?”

George wanted nothing more than to put as many miles as possible between himself and Silverstone.

“Can we talk about what happened today?” George asked, sickness twisting up in him again. “You and Max.”

Lewis let out a sigh, a sound George knew masked irritation.

“I know what happened on track. He cut in on me, like he usually does, and I didn’t let him get away with it. He knocked me and sent himself off. It was a racing incident, but of course I’m the one getting crucified for it.”

George didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. He’d seen the crash a million times. Knowing Max and knowing Lewis, he really didn’t see who acted and who reacted.

Of course, the world would see it whatever way Red Bull and Mercedes wanted to spin it to their respective camps.

“I have no reason to knock some kid off track,” Lewis said, an edge in his tone.

“I’m not accusing you,” George said. “I know Max is probably playing up the hospital visit.”

“I have no doubt,” Lewis said dryly. “Red Bull could have updated us by now. If it was a real injury, they would have. That’s how this works.”

Unless Max died, or it looked like he was going to die. None of the commentary seemed to say that the crash looked fatal, but they were careful not to say things like that anymore on national television.

Usually you could hear it though. George knew what a fatal crash sounded like. The way the crowd gasped, the way the silence echoed and echoed.

Max wouldn’t die.

“Fuck, are you okay?” George asked suddenly, realizing he hadn’t even asked.

Lewis smiled, bright as ever.  “I’m great. I won at Silverstone—there’s no better feeling than that.”

George hoped to find out some day.

Time came back into focus once they left the jacuzzi. George took a long shower, washing the sweat and chlorine from his body, willing the scalding water to burn life back into him.

Lewis carefully avoided too much intimacy, always able to find the perfect balance he needed. George wanted love but not touch. He needed time. He needed more time than Lewis could give him.

Lewis showered next. He didn’t make any comment about George walking around his hotel suite in just a towel—something George didn’t even realize until he had the sleek hotel phone at his ear.

“Yes, hi,” he said into the phone. “Do you have vegan cupcakes?”’

 


 

They did, of course. No hotel housing the world champion of the FIA would be caught without vegan options for everything.

Mellow beats drifted from the bathroom from Lewis’s Bluetooth speaker, occasionally interrupted by a notification.

George cursed under his breath when the shower turned off, desperately trying to get the lighter working that he’d found in one of the cabinet drawers.

The cupcake looked delicious, at least. Vanilla frosting painted silver, dark chocolate cake. He wasn’t sure if it would taste any good, but that was the risk with veganism, he supposed.

“Ah, fuck,” Lewis said, his voice muffled in the bedroom. “George, did I leave my shaving kit out there? It’s a Balenciaga toiletry bag.”

Of course it was.

George spotted the black leather bag on the opposite end of the counter.

“It got it,” George called. “Two secs.”

He nearly broke his thumbnail flicking the lighter, but finally a tiny flame burst from the end. He ignored his burning thumb as he lit the wick of the lone candle he’d been able to secure.

“Fuck,” he hissed, forced to let go when his finger really started burning.

But the wick stuttered into a flame.

A flicker of light sparked in him too, but George still couldn’t smile as he grabbed the bag with one hand and balanced the cupcake plate in the other.

He toed the bedroom door open to find Lewis at the mirror, returning his rings to his fingers. George admired the intricacy of his back tattoo, the twisting lines, the cross made up of negative space in the ink.

Lewis caught sight of him in the mirror first and turned to face him, his smile threatening to break his face.

“What’s this?” he asked, laughing.

So it wasn’t the romantic thing in the world. They were both wearing towels around their waists, wet from separate showers, but George didn’t want to be passive anymore. He couldn’t let someone else slip away from him.

“I wanted to congratulate you on winning,” George said. “I was kind of…well, you know. Not with it, earlier.”

The candle flame reflected in Lewis’s eyes as George wandered closer.

“Where did you even get a cupcake that fast?” Lewis asked, taking it from the plate as if it were made of gold.

George realized that maybe a candle was too birthday-y, but Lewis didn’t seem to mind as he blew it out.

“Did you make a wish?” George asked. He still couldn’t smile, but he tried to.

Lewis smiled enough for the both of them. “Of course I made a wish. Thank you. I love it.” He cocked his head slightly, eyes fond. “I love you too.”

Heat reached George’s cheeks, but didn’t color them.

“You deserve it,” George praised. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more supportive.”

Lewis swiped some icing up with a finger and popped it in his mouth. He extended the cupcake with a hum that sounded like a question mark.

George shook his head. “It’s all you.”

Lewis’s gaze flicked to his lips for only a fraction of a second, but it was long enough for George’s heart to seize. He didn’t see how Lewis still wanted to kiss him after he’d spent the whole evening moping.

“I appreciate it, but you don’t want to do that right now,” George said. “I think it’d be like kissing a dead fish.”

Lewis laughed around another finger of frosting. “I don’t think it would be, but it’s okay if you need time.”

“Maybe when you come back,” he offered, though just saying it made his stomach feel wet and slimy.

Maybe Alex felt the same with his new person, at first. Maybe he just had to force his way through this until—

Lewis’s fingers curled around his wrist, gently drawing him closer. George resisted slightly, keeping his eyes averted to make sure Lewis didn’t think they were going to kiss.

“Nothing has to happen tonight,” Lewis said. “I want you to know that. I don’t need physical reassurance, okay? I’d just like you to be here and I’d like you to feel comfortable. But if you don’t, that’s fine. I certainly couldn’t do what you’re doing right now.”

“Have you ever had to?” George asked.

Lewis’s smile twinged. “I told you I’ve been in love before. I’ve had heartbreak too. It’s a part of life, unfortunately.”

“If I could just talk to him, I could figure everything out,” George said, voice pinched. “But I can’t even talk to him. I can’t even see him. This is so fucked up--why can’t I see him?”

His job was solving problems. He knew racing, he knew government, he knew how to be a good prince. He also knew how to love someone—how to love Alex specifically.

Lewis’s gaze softened. “It’s not fair,” he agreed. “I’m trying to help as much as I can.”

“Yeah, but why do we even have these rules? Royal marriage, fine. I get the symbolism, whatever. But why can’t we talk to lower court princes? Why the hell does that matter?”

He couldn’t even talk to his own family without approval. He had no friends outside of the royal courts. Lando at least had Max Fewtrell, but he’d started in the courts and bombed out.

“I’m not saying it’s right, but they have their reasons,” Lewis said. “We’re part of a machine. The FIA governs us, we don’t govern them.”

“You do,” George countered. “You have so much influence over them.”

Lewis frowned, licking remnants of silver frosting from his lip. “I wish I could explain it. There’s added responsibility to being champion. It’s a very, very powerful thing, but there’s a balance. You can’t go changing everything just because you want to.”

George swallowed hard. “You could, though. Change things. You could.”

Lewis nodded as he took a bite of cupcake.  “Theoretically. But any changes have to apply to everyone. If I convinced the FIA to off the no-contact rules for you and Alex, it has to apply for everyone. That opens up way too much risk.”

It made sense. The logical part of George understood perfectly, and he knew that if it wasn’t Alex, he would see the reason in it.

But Alex changed everything.

“Risk of what, loving someone?” George asked. “Why is that wrong?”

“It’s not wrong to love someone,” Lewis replied. “But you can’t do a magic love test to see if an exiled prince and a current prince are in love, or if they’re conspiring. People live in our empires, their livelihoods are at stake. As a prince we have to take on royalty and its burdens.”

“It’s not fair,” George said, because he couldn’t find any other argument.

This was why he’d vowed not to fall in love with anyone again. He would never regret falling in love with Alex, but hell if it would have made things easier now if he hadn't.

George never ever wanted to break up with him, but even that would have been better than this.

“I don’t mean to be eating a cupcake during a hard conversation,” Lewis said around another bite.  “But I’m starving, and they want me downstairs in ten minutes. I want to talk about it more when I come back.”

George shook his head. He wan't offended. “No, I got it. It just isn’t fair. Go ahead and get ready.”

He decided to sit on the end of Lewis’s bed to watch as Lewis prepared for his press event. He cleaned up his beard—not that it needed it—and plucked his eyebrows without even flinching. George didn’t think he’d ever even thought to pluck his eyebrows before. Lewis even dabbed concealer on a mark George hadn’t noticed, but when it vanished Lewis looked completely and utterly perfect.

Lewis shrugged into a low cut purple shirt with holes in it (George still didn’t understand haute couture), a black denim jacket, and a pair of black jeans that weren’t skinny, but weren’t baggy, and they had chains that looked like barbed wire hanging from each pocket.

George had no doubt they were intentional.

Watching Lewis get ready was strangely intimate, a peek into the world of the human being behind the champion. He spritzed himself with cologne and pulled a pair of Balenciaga sunnies from a leather case, then opened a wooden tabletop chest to reveal the most expensive watch collection George had ever seen.

He didn’t say anything as Lewis looked over IWCs, Hubelots, Rolexes, even a few TAG Huers.  One spot sat empty, but Lewis placed the watch he’d been wearing before his shower right back in the slot, leaving a perfect array of black, silver, and gold.

Lewis selected an IWC, an all-black number with vibrant red accents on the watch face.  It looked as lethal as he did.

“You good to wait for me?” Lewis asked once he’d fastened the watch on his wrist.

“I’ll be okay,” George said, marveling at him. The man standing in front of him didn’t look a think like the man who’s been excited over a vegan cupcake just a few minutes ago.

“Can I kiss you goodbye?” Lewis asked, fiddling with the watch to move it into place.

George stood up from the bed and crossed to him. He didn’t hesitate, and Lewis didn’t either. Their lips met in a soft but chaste kiss, and then George backed away again.

“I’ll see you soon,” Lewis murmured. “Order whatever you want for dinner, mess up the place if you want. I should be back in an hour.”

George followed him to the door, a little nervous to be left alone in a Mercedes hotel room by himself. They said goodbye and George watched as Lewis jogged off to where Angela waited at the end of the hall.

He called Nic in the first five minutes alone.

“Hey buddy,” Nic greeted. “Everything okay? Pretend I’m Jost if I have to come pick you up.”

“I feel a lot better,” George said as he sank into the plush mattress of Lewis’s bed. “You were right.”

“Well, that’s not a surprise.”

George rolled his eyes. “I’m spending the night.”

“Oh, spicy. Love that for you, darling,” Nic said, but George caught a strange pull in his voice.

“You okay, Nicky?” he asked, tucking a pillow to his chest. “You sound weird.”

Nic didn’t reply right away. “I’m good. But all of this shit with Max has me thinking about dumb things.”

“Like?”

He could feel Nic’s shrug through the phone. “Next year. Stuff like that.”

George’s heart twinged. “We’ll still be able to talk, you know. I’ll be writing you constantly, probably.”

Nic laughed, but it sounded like an avoidance tactic.

“I will write you,” George assured him. “You’re my best friend.”

“I should hope so,” Nic said.

George only liked to think about Lewis and Mercedes next year. He purposely avoided thinking about leaving Nic, because he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to leave the one person he knew he could trust with absolutely everything.

“Do you want me to come home?” George asked quietly.

“What? No way. You need time with Lululemon.”

“Yeah, well, he’s off at a presser,” George said. “I could play hard to get.”

Nic barked out a laugh. “Right, with all the leverage you have? Sorry, mate, you’ve got a pretty face and that’s about it.”

A real smile came to George’s lips, completely uninvited but wholly wanted. “So you think I’m pretty?”

“Shh, don’t tell. Can’t have anyone thinking I’m in love with you or anything.” He heard fumbling on the other end of the line. “Hey, you want to get coffee tomorrow?”

“First you compliment my pretty face, now we’re going out for coffee?” George teased. “Wow, Nic, I’ve done a number on you.”

“Alright Mr. Darcy,” Nic shot back. “Have your alone time, I’m not giving up any more info.”

“Does that make you Elizabeth Bennet?”

“Fuck you for remembering that,” Nic said, but George could hear his smile.

“They only said her name like fifty million times in the show,” George drawled.

Alex tainted so many of his memories with Nic. George needed to change that with the time left they had in the season.

“I’d love to go for coffee,” George said after a moment.

“Awesome. Call it espionage. My dad wants me to try this new place out.”

George still forgot that Nic was a pay prince. Most pay princes were assholes—and George included himself among those ranks.

“It’s a date, love,” George said. “I’ll be there at like seven thirty or something. Lewis wakes up way too damn early.”

They traded goodbyes and George slipped from bed to investigate the TV across from the end of the bed. The remote looked like something out of a spaceship, and when he found the power button the screen showed a Ferrari onboard. Monza 2019, to be exact, as George read from the video description. He pressed play and Charles began Turn 1, kissing the curbs as gently as his kissed the dozen boyfriends in his ever-growing collection.

He caught sight of the watch collection, the chest still open where Lewis left it on the vanity table. Every watch gleamed, even in the low light of the bedroom. No fingerprints smudged a single face. The designs were all breathtaking, and George wasn’t much of a watch connoisseur beyond the usual royal interest and their connection to racing.

He recognized a few—a matte black custom IWC, the one-of-a-kind watch created just for Lewis. A bright orange TAG Heuer from his McLaren days, a smart-looking gold Rolex with a leather band. George wondered how he chose which watches to bring to races, as these were probably a miniscule portion of his full collection.

George didn’t dare to touch any of them, but drew his finger over the velvet cushions supporting each one until he felt a flap of velvet.

He didn’t know a lot about watch boxes, especially not any of this magnitude. He gave an exploratory tug to the flap, and the whole casing jumped, shifting every watch slightly cockeyed and lifting the velvet base from where it had been seated in the box.

Shit.

George pinched the flap, lifting it gently this time until he had enough room to grab the side of the velvet casing. He lifted it carefully, holding his breath as he did so, trying to level it so that it would sit properly in the box again.

He probably had well over a million dollars between his hands, and George was well aware that so much as chipping one of Lewis Hamilton’s watches would result in a debt no man on earth could pay.

He ever so gently loosened his hold, but the base settled even more lopsided, and George had to catch the whole fucking thing before it launched itself off the vanity.

He let out a hissed string of curses as he balanced the base in his hands and lifted it again, setting it off to the side.

Something sat in the base of the box. A lot of somethings, actually.

George peered down at a clear plastic case that housed two small IWCs. One was made of titanium with a black carbon fiber face that George instantly recognized as identical to the patterning of carbon fiber on their cars. The hour and minute hands were black with white tips, as were the notches for every hour. All in all, a very simple watch, complete with a titanium watchband.

The other was very similar, also titanium, but had a cloth band—black with white stitching. The watch face was silver, but the hands were the same white and black. The second hand, however, was neon yellow, as were the hands of the flyback dial on the upper half of the face.

They were clearly part of the same collection, but George also noticed that the black watch was ticking, calibrated to their time zone. The other sat at 18:35, the secondhand dead center on the 26 mark.  George made note of the numbers, because Lewis never left anything up to chance.

Scraps of paper littered the bottom of the box, but those weren’t random either. Some were torn, others were cut. Pieces of poetry, a doodle of a sun, a tiny photo of an eagle carefully ripped from a magazine. Slivers of paper with pen writing, fractions of words indistinguishable from coffee stains, warped and aged parchment.

He lifted a yellowed postcard that had a picture of an empty street illuminated with a hazy golden streetlamp. He flipped it over, and the inscription printed on the back indicated that it was a photo of Central Park at night.

Thinking of our deepest fear.

The words were stamped, not written, and the postcard didn’t have any postage or address, so it was either never sent, or hand delivered.

George ran a finger through the paper scraps, churning up pieces of receipts, ticket stubs, even a fragment of an empty sticker sheet.

He decided to open the plastic case. If Lewis wanted to cut his head off for snooping, George would at least die knowing.

He carefully lifted the black IWC Ingenieur from its mount and nearly dropped it when he felt a piece of paper taped to the inside of the flattened band. He turned it over.

Black sharpie on white parchment.

LOSER.

He lifted the watch to get a better look at the paper, only to see Lewis’s personal crest staring back at him from the underside of the face.

Inscriptions encircled the crest in a band of silver: LEWIS HAMILTON. SEASON 2014. PART OF THE RACING CAR.

More inscriptions circled that band: TWO OUT OF 250. A serial number. A fish symbol. 12 BAR. IWC. INGENIEUR. LEWIS HAMILTON.

George stared down at the other watch, and the yellow stared back.

He knew that yellow.

He returned Lewis’s watch to its place, careful to put it exactly where he’d found it in the mount. The second hand continued to tick, a tiny heartbeat against his fingertips.

A part of him knew he shouldn’t pick up the other watch. In the depths of himself, he knew.

But he picked it up anyway, with all the care he would show a wounded butterfly in his mum’s garden.

He turned the watch over and sure enough, Nico Rosberg’s personal crest had been engraved the carbon fiber base, exactly like Lewis’s. The same two bands of text encircled it, obviously with Nico’s name instead, and ONE OUT OF 250 instead of two.

Nico wore a yellow helmet throughout the 2013 season. George only remembered that because the helmet was stolen out of Nico’s garage one weekend, and George had devised a plan with Pierre to sneak to Nürburgring to find it, daydreaming about the chance to impress a prince and be the heroes of the paddock.

He set the watch back in its place, overcome with a strange sense of grief. The symbolism of the dead watch didn’t escape him, the same way the immense pain of this terrible little place he’d found plunged straight into the spot where he was already hurting.

George closed the case, tears already brimming hot in his eyes.

Lewis’s watch continued to tick. Loser, loser, loser.

No wonder Lewis kept it hidden away.

He reached for a scrap of newer-looking paper. The text was all in German, handwritten, but George could tell it was something fond. He’d been studying as best he could to prepare for next year in Munich—not that it did him any good now. Something about the handwriting made him feel that the words were positive, maybe even loving.

He put the scrap back into the pile and spotted Alonso’s name on a torn piece of newspaper, curled up from age.

VORCE? ALONSO TELLS A

Probably from the McLaren days.

There had to be a thousand pieces of paper creating the confetti lining of the box. A thousand different memories, perfectly decipherable to Lewis, but unintelligible to anyone else.

The work of an absolute genius.

George carefully positioned the plastic watch case into the center of the paper bedding, burying it slightly so that it didn’t create a lip. He picked up the velvet base, but as he lifted it from the vanity he caught sight of a flash of silver.

A ribbon dropped from the underside of the base and slipped onto the floor. George carefully set the rest of the watches down and stooped to pick it up.

It wasn’t a wedding ribbon, but it looked just like one. One end was badly frayed, and the whole thing was marred with water spots.

He placed the ribbon back in the box, nestling it carefully around the watch case.

The base went back into position without a hitch, and George reset every watch in perfect order. The lone sound of the 2014 IWC was lost in the chorus of Lewis's other watches, buried from prying eyes, an unmarked grave only Lewis knew.

He thought back to the Mercedes apartment, all of the lanyards and ticket stubs and photos with Valtteri, mementos that could easily be shredded and added to the pile when the time inevitably came.

George sat down on the bed, eyes unseeing as Charles silently ran up to the podium in Monza, confetti exploding, drowning him in red, green, and white.

He wanted to know what the time meant, why Lewis chose to lock 18:35:26 into eternity. He wanted to know if Nico had the first of Lewis’s watch, why loser, why German, why a postcard from Central Park.

Why Nico. Why this.

Because as much as George knew he should assume the worst, Lewis insisted he and Nico were never in love. They were best friends, through and through. The collection of things in that box didn’t feel like an ode to a lover, either. They felt like loss, the knife of grief, the clean slice of betrayal—all reminders not to trust or love or anyone else.

A thousand pieces of Lewis, all of them dead and shredded. And he carried them with him everywhere. He changed the time on a watch still ticking beside one that would never work again.

George buried his head in his hands and wept.

 


 

When Lewis returned that night, George met him at the door and buried his face into the etched eagle feathers on Lewis’s neck. He smelled like perfume, champagne, and a party no prince wanted to be at.

“Woah,” Lewis chuckled, wrapping his arms tight around him. “Did you miss me that much?”

George didn’t understand how Lewis could be so warm and caring and powerful all at the same time. He knew loss and carried it, he didn’t crumble. Not once, not ever.

“I love you,” George said, his voice sticky.

Lewis relaxed in his hold, nuzzling close. He squeezed him a little tighter. “I love you too.”

George closed his eyes and decided not to think about Lewis spending race weekends apart from Valtteri, his only company that horrible, horrible box.

 

 

Chapter Text

The empty Italian countryside blurred out the window to the soundtrack of a purring Ferrari engine.

“First you run away, now burner phones?” Charles snapped, ready to explode in the passenger seat of their borrowed Stradale.

“Only for emergencies,” Carlos clarified. Again. Charles didn’t believe a word of it.

“You’re in love with him,” Charles hissed. “I know you better than that.”

Carlos could not keep feelings to himself. If he had an avenue to talk to Lando, he would take it. He couldn’t keep things in, especially not love. Charles loved that about him most of the time, but it came with consequences.

“This is the single most dangerous thing you could do,” Charles continued. “Binotto is already angry with you. Now I’m angry with you too. Non è giusto.”

“È in pericolo,” Carlos replied, keeping calm. He accelerated, weaving around a rusty yellow Peugeot. “This weekend proved that the threats are real.”

“It didn’t prove anything.”

“It proved plenty,” Carlos growled, finally allowing some anger to leak out.

Carlos didn’t have to say Max’s name for Charles to understand he wasn’t talking about the burner phones.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

Carlos let out a snort, leaning back in his seat. “You make it very difficult to defend you sometimes.”

Charles bristled in silent rage for several moments, glaring at him. “You can’t be serious. Me? Sono io il problema?”

Carlos cut him a look. “Then tell me what happened with Max at the hospital.”

“You don’t get to do this,” Charles said. “This isn’t a negotiation. You decided on burner phone without telling me—”

“One burner phone—”

“Which is worse,” Charles said, leaning forward in his seat. “You’ve put both of us at risk without discussing it with me. You’re right that I never would have allowed it. For both you and Lando’s sake.”

“And I explained to you that I researched this and I know what I’m doing,” Carlos said, reaching over to squeeze his knee.

“Col cavolo che lo fai,” Charles snapped, plucking his hand away. “Carlos, every prince knows not to use burner phones. There are other ways. We can think of something together.”

“I only had one chance, and I took it,” Carlos said. “If you were in my position you would do the same.”

“There you go assuming again,” Charles said shaking his head. “I would never use burner phones. That’s why I returned the one Sebastian tried to give me.”

Fighting hurt more, now. Charles suspected it might after making his stupid admission, but he didn’t expect anger and care to mix. He wanted Carlos to be safe, but he also wanted to smack him for being an idiot. The whole thing was Carlos’s fault anyway, Charles knew Lando could never tell Carlos no.

“It looks like a Ferrari phone,” Carlos explained, again. “It won’t trigger anything. I have that on very good authority.”

“Fernando’s authority,” Charles muttered.

“Sì. Very good authority.”

Charles had no relationship with Fernando. He respected him as a champion, and no one could dock Fernando’s outspokenness against FIA penalty rulings, nor his ability to outdrive most of the grid in a worse car.

But Carlos worshipped him, and that left room for blindness.

“World champions play by different rules,” Charles reminded him. “What works for Alonso may not work for you.”

“It will work.”

“You realize how ignorant that sounds, yes?” Charles propped an elbow on the window ledge, staring out at the distant farmhouse estates that dotted the Emilian countryside.

“If something happens, I’ll take the blame,” Carlos said.

Charles grit his teeth, stuffing down his anger. “I know you will. Questo è il problema. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

He cared about Lando, of course, but he didn’t live with him. He didn’t love him.

Carlos looked at him for only a second, but a second was an eon in their trade. His dark eyes searched Charles’s face, no doubt looking for dishonesty. So much for trust.

“Prometto che sarà solo per le emergenze,” Carlos said.

Charles looked back out the window. “You’re setting yourself up for failure, because now you’re lying to me instead of just hiding it.”

He had other things to worry about, like his own risk. And Pierre—who he cared about far more than himself.

Charles had written several letters since their arrival from Silverstone four days ago. Pierre only responded to one, agreeing to meet at Manaresi Vineyard, just outside of Bologna. Carlos agreed to come with him, and Ferrari didn’t protest the trip so long as they returned within four hours and Antonello and his team were allowed to stay within a five minute drive.

He had no idea what to say about Max. Especially when every part of him wanted to be back in Milton Keynes, supervising every moment of his recovery from surgery. Plating Max’s ribs went well, but he could only drive in the simulator, no testing or driving at speed until his stitches healed.

Red Bull swore Charles to secrecy about the procedure, threatening to send him back to Ferrari early if he didn’t sign an NDA. One look at Max’s nervous smile and Charles signed whatever they put in front of him. Horner claimed that he had Max’s best interests at heart, hovering around the hospital room like he was waiting for Charles to leave.

Charles kicked him out twice. Both times, he saw fear in Max’s eyes—just a hint of it, but any trace was enough to cause Charles to bring out his power as Max’s NOK. Horner despised it, but Charles didn’t give a single fuck.  

Max said in private conversation that he didn’t remember much of the crash, but evidently 24 hours away from Charles changed his mind. First came a criticism of Lewis’s celebrations via an Instagram post, next came accusations from Horner and the revelation that Alex Albon had been pulled in to recreate the collision on track in an attempt to prove Lewis intentionally hit Max.

They want a reaction out of me, George wrote in a letter to him just the day before. They’re publicly degrading Alex so I’ll say something. Not to mention what they’re doing to Lewis.

Charles had yet to make up his mind. He didn’t trust Red Bull, especially not now that Max had admitted to being forced to end things with him. Red Bull loomed over every decision Max had made since coming into an appointment. They’d given Max a ticket out of his home life, and he owed them everything. They owed him a lot too, but Charles knew full well that the ledger was always in favor of the empire, not the prince. Jos sold Max as a prince Red Bull could count on for life.

That did not include loving a prince of Ferrari.

Max could have warned him. He would have at least understood why. He would have been able to take it.

When the hand painted sign for the vineyard announced their arrival, Charles took a few calming breaths and tried to wipe the memories from his mind. One kiss in particular.

“Whatever happened, I’m on your side,” Carlos said, still looking out the dashboard window.

He loathed that Carlos knew him.

“You’re so condescending,” Charles muttered.

Carlos furrowed his brow. “How?”

“You just are. You say things like you’re better than me and you’re not.”

Carlos blinked at him. “Cosa—”

“I hid Sebastian’s burner phone from you, but I never used it. I didn’t trust you then and I still protected you. If we get caught, we’ll both face Ferrari’s wrath,” Charles said. “I don’t know what would even happen to us, but it would be unprecedented with what we’ve already done this year. We’re supposed to put Ferrari first.”

Carlos turned down a gravel road, away from the main building. A navy blue Honda NSX sat in the shade of a tin-roof garage, Pierre leaning against the back.

Charles saw the pain in him even from a distance.

Pierre had dark grey Ray-Bans perched on his head, black jeans that hugged tight to his legs, and a cream-colored pullover. His hair was in its usual disarray, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, his white trainers already covered in silty vineyard earth.

“Stop the car,” Charles said, reaching over to glance his fingers against Carlos’s stomach.

Carlos eased onto the brake, lulling them to a gentle stop.

Pierre looked over to them. His face didn’t change.

Fuck.

Charles looked down at his lap for a moment, collecting himself. Max said he wouldn’t tell Pierre about the kiss. Charles still wasn’t sure he would say anything to Pierre about it, because that kiss hadn’t been romantic. He didn’t consider it cheating, because what he felt for Max wasn’t a continuation of what it had been in their past. He loved Max—too much, yes—but he didn’t plan to pursue him in any sense. Max had Daniel, Carlos had Lando, Charles had Pierre.

“Tornerò presto,” Charles said as he unclipped his seatbelt. “I’ll meet you back here.”

Carlos’s fingers brushed his as Charles pulled his hand back and ducked out of the car.

Pierre looked back down at his shoes and stayed that way as Charles walked up the road to meet him.

The grape leaves made a strange sound as they flapped in the summer breeze—like wet paper. The greens were blindingly vibrant, perfect harmony against the rich black-purple of merlot grapes bunched on the vines. The smell caught him off guard, thick and sweet.

Pierre stood up from where he’d been leaning against the car to meet him. Charles brought his hands to Pierre’s face as Pierre’s arms wrapped around him.

Charles couldn’t fight the ache in his chest at the look on Pierre’s face, the pain in the draw of his lips, the slight slump to his usually-perfect posture.

“I missed you so much,” Charles whispered, curling his fingers against Pierre’s scruff.

“Don’t,” Pierre breathed, eyes glassy.

“Mon chou garç—”

“Charles, don’t,” Pierre said, pulling back.

Charles didn’t allow fear to eat him up. He knew Pierre, he knew his heart wasn’t indestructible and that Max had held a knife to it more than once in their lives. He needed time. He needed care and love and Charles wanted to give it.

“Marchons,” Charles offered, rubbing Pierre’s arms.

“Il est oblige d’être là?” Pierre snapped, looking over his shoulder toward the Ferrari. “You didn’t tell me he was coming—I want to talk to you, not him.”

“We had to make a cover,” Charles soothed. “He’s not tagging along, Pierre. I’m here to be with you only.”

Pierre stepped away from him and started away from the garage. Charles fought the urge to glance to Carlos for reassurance—partly because he didn’t think he would find any.

Charles took Pierre’s hand, but Pierre yanked it away.

“Pierre, please,” Charles said. “I don’t even know what you’re upset about.”

Pierre laughed outright, a bitter sound that hit like an insult.

“Let me rephrase,” Charles amended, maintaining calm. “I don’t understand why you’re this upset right now.”

“Max is in love with you,” Pierre snapped, spinning around to face him. “He told me. He called me and told me he loves you.”

Charles stumbled to stop and blinked stupidly. “Max called you?”

Pierre leered at him. “That’s what you’re focusing on? Oui, il m’a appelé. The FIA doesn’t give a shit if Red Bull wants to patch one of their princes through to us.”

Charles set his jaw. “He shouldn’t have told you that. I told him I wanted to speak to you first.”

Pierre’s eyes burned with pain. “So you said it back.”

The decision to lie hung before him. All Charles had to do was open his mouth and say no. A half-truth, because he didn’t love Max the way he did before. But Pierre was his closest friend, and now he was the person Charles had chosen to be with. Someone he loved. Love didn’t involve lying.  

“Max loves Daniel,” Charles began quietly. “When he told me—”

“Did you say it back or not, Char?” Pierre hissed.

Frustration bubbled in him, empty and gnawing like hunger. “It isn’t like that. I said I loved him, but not like this. Not like you, Pierre.”

“Je ne peux pas te croire.” Pierre shook his head, his whole body caving with hurt. “You knew how scared I was that this would happen. I told you he still has a hold on you.”

“I’m not going to be with Max again,” Charles said, stepping in close. “I’m not. He doesn’t even want that.”

Pierre stormed away, leaving Charles to rush after him before he disappeared among the gnarled vines. Grape leaves brushed his arms as he weaved around Pierre to stop him. Pierre pulled up to a halt, but his eyes threatened leaving.

“Tu m’aimes?” Charles asked, trying not to let his voice shake as he searched Pierre’s face.

“Bien sûr que je t’aime,” Pierre snapped, lips curled in a snarl. “That’s why this hurts to fucking much, Charles.”

“Well, we need to talk about it then because I don’t see what I’ve done to hurt you,” Charles argued. “I’m not leaving you for Max.”

“Yet,” Pierre croaked, turning his face away.

Hurt lanced through him, but Charles refused to fight. He rocked up to his toes for a kiss, but Pierre leaned away.

Sun made his hair look so much lighter, spun gold with chocolate, all warmth. Nothing like the rest of him, paling almost into nothing. Even his eyes were grey, his lashes faded.

Fear finally began to seep in at the thought that Pierre might leave and not come back.

“Please talk to me,” Charles said. “I can’t fix this if—”

“Did you do anything with him?” Pierre asked, hands curled to fists at his sides.

“I’ll tell you everything I’m allowed to tell you,” Charles promised. “But I want to talk about it. I’m not going to be able to see you until Hungary and then it’s summer holiday. I don’t want to go into any of that like this.”

Pierre worked his jaw, blinking too often for Charles’s liking. He wanted to go back to the hotel room in Silverstone, sharing soft kisses in the low light, Pierre touching him everywhere he needed.

He couldn’t stand to see Pierre walk away from him.

“Okay,” Pierre finally said, nodding once. He offered his hand. “Parlons-en.”

Relief washed over Charles as he took Pierre’s hand. Pierre twined their fingers together and Charles squeezed tight, just in case he changed his mind.

They started down the row of trellis, Charles’s heart thumping against his ribs. The sun warmed his shoulders, hot enough that Charles knew he would probably get a burn on the back of his neck by the time he made it back to Ferrari. Pierre kept pace beside him, reserved. Afraid.

“Max is someone I’m never going to be able to get rid of,” Charles began, thumbing the side of Pierre’s palm. “Our lives are too intertwined. I know it might not be healthy, but I can’t help it. I do love him. I can’t stop—but it isn’t the way I love you.”

Pierre kept his gaze ahead, green and gold reflecting in his eyes as the vines swayed in the breeze.

“Max asked me to kiss him,” Charles said carefully. He realized it wasn’t unlike the way Pierre had spoken to him in France. “I didn’t. Then he scared me to death. I thought he was going to die right in front of me. So I did it. Je l’ai embrassé.”

Pierre stopped walking, eyes falling closed.

Charles turned to face him, staying as close as he dared. “I didn’t feel anything except…Je ne sais pas. I guess it was comfort. But it wasn’t passion or romance.”

Pierre tipped his face to the sky. “I knew something happened. He started talking about the FIA. About changing rules and shit. He’s on one of his stupid missions.”

Pierre and Max barely talked about their time as a married couple. They seemed to pretend it never happened, and Charles had no idea if they ever tried anything close to a relationship. Pierre had seen Max at one of the lowest points in his life—not even Charles knew what that looked like.

 “I know,” Charles said. “But he’s doing it for a good reason. He wants to help people.”

Pierre shook his head, looking back down at him. “No, Char. He wants to help himself. He wants Daniel back. That’s all he’s ever wanted.”

Charles shook his head. “No—I mean, yes, that’s part of it. But he’s trying to protect—”

“Qui, Charles?” Pierre asked gently, reaching up to caress his jaw. “Because he’s not protecting you. He’s going to use you because he knows how much you care about him.”

“Il m’aime,” Charles murmured. “He wouldn’t hurt me. I know that’s hard to believe from your perspective. I know Max, I know him better than anyone—even Daniel. He’s doing this for the right reasons, Pierre.”

Max never even wanted to hurt him in the first place. If their world wasn’t so cruel, they never would have had to learn what life apart felt like.

Pierre held doubt in his eyes, but his face softened slightly. “So, what, he told you he’d break the chains of the FIA and be with you again or something?”

Hurt stung him unexpectedly, right in the tenderest parts of him.

“No,” Charles replied, nostrils flaring. “Why does everyone always assume things like that?”

Pierre stroked his cheekbone. “Because everyone can see that all you want is love like that.”

Heat crept up Charles’s back, prickling the skin in its wake. “Well it isn’t. Not with him.”

He knew fairytales didn’t exist. Max wasn’t going to use his championship for him, he was going to use it for Daniel. The only thing that would fix them was a time machine, and as far as he knew, the FIA didn’t have one of those in their life-destroying arsenal.

“Je voulais tourner la page,” Charles said. “I found something close to closure. We care about each other and we’re always going to. But I’m not going to be with him.”

“Okay, and what if something happens down the line and you’re both princes in the same empire?” Pierre asked.

Charles shook his head. “That won’t happen. He won’t leave Red Bull, I won’t leave Ferrari.”

“I think Seb said the same thing before Arrivabene called,” Pierre muttered. “Regardless, you’re going to have to choose one day, Char.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “I did choose. I chose you.”

Pierre frowned. “You’re still in love with Carlos, and Sebastian is asking around for you all the time. Now Max. I’m trying to be okay with that parce que je te fais confiance, but you make it hard sometimes.”

Carlos’s voice echoed in his head. “You make it difficult to defend you, sometimes.”

“Ce n’est pas juste,” Charles growled. “I’ve been honest with you about everything. I can’t help the way I feel.”

“Je le sais,” Pierre replied, looping his arms around Charles’s waist. Sadness lingered in his eyes. “But there’s a trend, Calamardo. You leave everything open-ended. You make it so everyone thinks they still have a piece of you.”

“They do,” Charles protested shame clawing at his insides. “That’s not my fault either.”

Pierre sighed, resting their foreheads together. Charles soaked in the feeling, gently holding Pierre’s arms, keeping him close.

He won’t leave, he won’t leave, he won’t leave.

“Maybe that’s not the best analogy,” Pierre said. “You leave doors open, mon amour. You need to shut some of them.”

The uncomfortable truth wormed its way into Charles’s gut.

He didn’t want to shut any doors. Shutting the door on Sebastian cut off an invaluable asset, a world champion at his back. Shutting the door on Max locked him out of knowledge he needed in order to navigate the future. Shutting the door on Carlos—

He couldn’t even think about that.

“Why can’t you be happy with the way I am?” Charles asked, his voice weaker than he wanted it to be.  

“I am,” Pierre returned earnestly, massaging the small of his back. “I love you. Yes, hearing about Max fucking hurt, but I trust when you say it didn’t mean anything to you. Max was just being Max, I guess. Rubbing my face in it.”

Charles would have plenty to say to Max in Hungary—if he even got the chance.

He tipped his chin, capturing Pierre’s lips in a doting kiss that Pierre finally returned. He tasted like summer, and the scent of fresh grapes mixing with his cologne made Charles melt a little.

“Max didn’t get anything close to this,” Charles murmured between kisses.

Pierre cupped his jaw, holding him close, reminding him that he was good enough, strong enough, loved enough. He tried to give the same feeling back, allowing Pierre’s tongue past his lips, moaning quietly when it felt right to do so.

Grape leaves tickled his cheeks just before Pierre broke the kiss, letting out a quiet string of curses in French as a vine trellis knocked his sunglasses off his head and grapevines caught in his hair.

Charles laughed as he helped to untangle him, only for Pierre to hook him around the hips and lift him in the air.

“Put me down,” Charles laughed, bracing his hands on Pierre’s shoulders. “If I get an injury, this is on you.”

Pierre grinned up at him. “So you’ll out our secret meeting?”

“To get you in trouble? Absolutely.”

Pierre laughed—a real laugh this time—and gently dropped Charles to his feet. “You get me in enough trouble,” he said, and kissed him again.

They walked through the vineyard, kissing where they could, talking, walking hand in hand. Charles’s face and neck were completely pink by the time he returned to Carlos. Saying goodbye didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, though he held Pierre for a long time in silence, listening to the insect songs and the rustling leaves, Pierre’s breathing at his ear.

“I’ll see you soon,” Charles promised with a final kiss.

“Be safe,” Pierre replied, tickling his jaw. “I love you.”

Charles savored the words and tucked them away for when that fear inevitably returned. Enough remained that he couldn’t tell Pierre he loved him back, even though it was so true it hurt him to walk back to the Ferrari.

Carlos jolted awake when Charles opened the passenger side door.

“Cazzo, ho pensato che stavo per essere ucciso,” Carlos mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Come é Pierre?”

“Meglio.”

Carlos smirked, taking him in. “Sunburn?”

“Shut up,” Charles muttered, dropping into his seat. A little smile crept to his lips anyway.  “Andiamo.. Should we stop somewhere to eat?”

The Ferrari woke with a throaty growl.

Carlos’s eyes lit up as he finally processed the question. “Pizza?”

 

 

 


 

 

 

Lando’s arms ached all the way down to his fingertips. Darren warned him about not using gloves in the sim, and a smashed fingernail proved him fucking right when he clicked up into fifth and somehow jammed a finger between the paddle and the wheel. It really fucking hurt, but he walked it off and definitely didn’t look over to Darren smirking from behind his data monitor.

A Ferrari envelope sat waiting for him in the kitchen when he arrived back at the apartment. He plucked it from the counter, wincing at the ache in the crescent of his palm when he did so.

“The FIA has got to do something about this,” said a news commentator on TV. “I think everyone can see that the rules aren’t being applied fairly. I mean, what’s the punishment for anything anymore? Prince Ricciardo and Prince Verstappen were caught with burner phones for God’s sake, and we’re just okay with that? It’s a national security issue.”

Another commentator laughed. “I don’t think they were discussing anything of national importance, if you know what I mean.”

Lando wandered into the living room to find Daniel sprawled on the couch, his eyes bloodshot, his face sagging with drunkenness.

“I thought you were supposed to train today,” Lando said, deadpan. He didn’t suppose. He knew Daniel had a physio appointment and a strength training session that was supposed to be ending in five minutes.

“Head hurts,” Daniel slurred.

Six empty beer bottles sat on the coffee table. Six. Lando didn’t know how anyone could drink that many alone in such a short time. It made him sick to think about.

“This weekend will tell us what really happened,” a commentator said. He had white hair and a crusty face. “Prince Max’s performance in Hungary will show us the extent of these injuries.”

“Alleged injuries,” the other commentator said, a younger guy with crazy hair. “I think Red Bull is really taking this to another level.”

Max’s now-infamous Instagram photo showed on screen. Charles sat beside his hospital bed, head propped in his hand, looking at something off-camera. Max gave a thumbs up to the camera, Horner posing with him as he took the photo.

“If we thought Silverstone was bad, s’bout to get a lot worse,” Daniel said, eyes stuck on the TV.

“You’re drunk, Daniel,” Lando growled. “That’s what we’re talking about right now. Not this media shit.”

“—Lewis is really just asking for it though, isn’t he?” White Hair asked. “Celebrating like that, taking press conferences afterword like nothing was wrong.”

“The royal circle has more information than we do,” Crazy Hair reminded him. “He probably knew Max was fine.”

“Still, it’s distasteful. And disrespectful.”

“So is not inviting your own husband to your hospital room,” Crazy Hair said.

Daniel’s throat bobbed with a thick swallow. “Two weeks they’ve been talking about this shit.”

“Do I need to call Dr. Lock?” Lando asked, ignoring his comment. “You can’t be doing this anymore, mate. Max is fine. He’s racing this weekend. Are you?”

“Fuck you,” Daniel muttered.

Anger sank its claws into his stomach.  Lando fucking hated alcohol.

He pulled out his phone—his actual one. His burner stayed off in his dresser drawer, hidden under a box of condoms he definitely didn’t use.

“Don’t,” Daniel snapped, sitting up. His eyes slid all over, unable to focus. “Don’t fucking call him.”

Lando’s finger hovered over Dr. Lock’s contact.

“You need to realize this is a problem,” Lando said, gesturing toward the beer bottles. “You’re fucking drinking instead of training. You realize what happens if we don’t beat Ferrari this year? We’re going to be stuck back with Alpine and Aston Martin begging for scraps. We both need McLaren to be better than that.”

He needed Carlos back, and Daniel needed power if he ever wanted a chance to be Max’s husband again. If he even wanted that.

“I’ve been doing this longer than you,” Daniel said, scrubbing his face with his hands.

“What, getting drunk off your ass in the middle of the day, or getting outclassed by your younger husband?” Lando cracked.

Daniel shot him a scathing look as he lowered his hands, but Lando knew he didn’t have a response.

“You’re old, mate,” Lando continued. “You and Checo are buying time. Maybe literally, I dunno.”

“Fuck you,” Daniel said, flopping back on the couch. “Just fuck you, mate.”

Lando softened a little at the anguish in his voice.

Goddammit.

He picked his way through the living room and moved the beer bottles aside to sit on the coffee table in front of Daniel. He set Carlos’s letter aside.

No one could fault Daniel on his ability to be upbeat when he needed to be. He always had a smile for the cameras, always joked with everyone and brought a bit of cheer to the paddock even when things were tense.

But Lando saw the real Daniel. The one who couldn’t lift himself up, the one who drank himself to vomiting, the one who couldn’t seem to get out of his own head, haunted by things he wouldn’t explain—not even to Max.

“No more drinking,” Lando said softly. “We’ve got to get your footing back. Get you set up so you don’t slip.”

Daniel refused to look at him, his eyes dead set on the ceiling.

“You have no idea what the fuck we’re dealing with,” Daniel said.

“So tell me.”

Daniel rubbed his eyes and sighed. “I fucking can’t. Why do you think I drink?”

Lando rested his elbows on his knees. “You could at least tell me what happened at Wembley.”

Daniel chuckled. “There’s no story, mate. I fucking ran. Took a beer bottle to the face on the way out. They would have merc’d my ass. Excuse the play on words. But no one wants to hear that you ran, so they make up stories about you fighting twenty guys off. Which, I mean, hell yeah.  But no, that’s not what happened.”

Lando’s eyes dimmed when he noticed Daniel’s hands shaking. He instantly felt for Carlos’s watch on his wrist, thumbing over the edge of the face. His thumb ached with the movement, but he didn’t care.

He couldn’t think about that stadium without chills running up his spine. Without the memory of Daniel’s blood leaking down his leg, the police photos he had to take, that same blood all over his jeans.

Daniel thought about it too. Lando felt when he woke up in the middle of the night, afraid. Lando always woke softer, a gasp, a little jolt in bed. Same fear, though. The same mute terror.  

“I just wanted to get back to you,” Daniel said, looking up at the ceiling again. “I knew if I was fucked, you’d also get fucked. And you don’t need to be involved in this.”

Lando frowned. “It’d help if I knew what ‘this’ was.”

Daniel gave a minute shake of his head. “We’re not doing this. M’not telling you, so stop asking.”

Alcohol made Daniel meaner, and Lando hated that he liked that better than the Daniel who made sex jokes during press conferences.

“I like you, but you can’t act like this, not tell me anything about why, and expect me to support you,” Lando said, softening his voice. “We have an empire to lead and races to win. You have to hold up your end of this marriage thing.”

“You are so fucking annoying,” Daniel hissed.  “You’re a rookie. Not literally, but you are. You have no fucking idea.”

“Yeah, yeah—shut up,” Lando retorted. “I’m the only one working for McLaren right now. You’re drunk on the couch avoiding what you were appointed to do.”

Daniel groaned. “I’m not fuckin’ avoiding anything.”

“Skipping, then,” Lando tried. “Ditching.”

Daniel’s eyes opened to red slits, watery from exhaustion.

He said that Max was okay, but Lando noted the way Daniel watched TV way more often, the way he scrolled Instagram constantly, the way he asked if there were any letters from Charles or Pierre or anyone else. Max hadn’t sent letters to anyone apparently, except maybe to Charles, but Lando had yet to hear from him. Not that he’d written.

He had a burner phone in his dresser so that no one could do to him what they’d done to Daniel.

“We’ll get through it, you know?” Lando moved the beer bottles further away, trying to find something to do with his hands. “I’ll help you. I’m not going to just, like, abandon you or whatever.”

He grabbed Carlos’s letter when Daniel ignored him and started watching TV again. Another story about Max’s potential injuries, grainy video of him standing outside of the Red Bull palace, talking with Horner, then a clip of Charles stepping into a Ferrari, sunglasses on, avoiding the cameras as a Ferrari rep drove him away from the palace.

 

Lando,

Quiet here. I miss you very much.

I’ve been talking to Charles. We’ve agreed to spend at least part of holiday together. Giorgio insists we need to improve our image in the eyes of the empires, and a holiday will help that.

I plan to visit London after. I would like to see you. I know it isn’t the same as last year, but please don’t let that stop you. We need to take the time we can. I don’t think that will ever be a mistake.

Charles still hasn’t told me all of what happened with Max. I’m not sure he ever will. I think he forgets that I care about Max too.

Anyway, what are your plans for the break? Oh yes, I’m also going home. If Binotto approves, of course. I’m still not sure he will. My father says I should stop expecting favors. As if I have not given Ferrari enough for a few days home.

I hope Daniel is feeling better. Charles didn’t say much about him, but he seemed worried.

I love you.

CS

 

Lando folded the letter and returned it to the envelope, standing firm against the wave of longing that swept through him. He had to bite his lip hard enough to feel it swell against his teeth to get Carlos’s face out of his head, that warm smile and warmer laugh.

“Fine,” Daniel said.

Lando opened his eyes. He’d squeezed them shut.

Daniel stared at him, gaze laden with a numbing kind of sadness Lando recognized in himself sometimes. More often now.

“I’ll stop drinking,” Daniel slurred.” But I’m drinking if I podium, and you can’t fuckin’ stop me.”

Lando knew better than to trust an alcoholic to quit cold turkey, but he smiled anyway, weak though it was. “Cool. Can I write Max and tell him that?”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “No. Tell him that and he’ll drive over here to make sure you’re not holdin’ me hostage.”

Australian pronunciation was so weird.

Lando offered his fist. “Deal.”

Daniel lined up his hand with a bit too much care, knocking their knuckles.

Lando cleaned up the beer bottles and put them in recycling. He wiped up the bit of spill from the table and made a mental note to tell Carlos that yes, sometimes he did clean his own apartment on his own, thank you. He turned the TV off next, and brought in a blanket from the bedroom when Daniel passed out on the couch.

Then he called the housing staff and informed them not to stock any more alcohol. He texted Dr. Lock that Daniel had agreed to sober up, for now, and emptied the fridge of two cases of Redback beer imported from Australia. He left a glass of water and two aspirin on the coffee table and turned the lights off before heading to bed himself.

Being an adult sucked. Lando hated it.

He put Carlos’s letter on the stack with the others.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

He wondered what Carlos was doing, if he was with Charles.

He opened the dresser drawer.

He lifted the box of condoms.

He pulled out the burner phone.

The metal and glass were cold in his hands, smooth and reflective. Carlos’s fingerprint still marred the corner of the screen, and Lando’s heart wrenched at the sight of it just before he turned it on.

Interlagos met him a moment later, that bottle of Carbon that tasted so sweet on Carlos’s lips. He remembered the tingle on his tongue as they traded sips, sharing a podium even though he didn’t earn it. Carlos gave. He shared everything, even when no one else ever had. Even when no one thought he should.

He dialed the only number in the list of recent calls.

The dull ringing echoed through Lando’s skull as he waited, holding his breath.

“Dimmi,” Carlos answered.

Lando sank to the floor.

He didn’t know how he was supposed to handle an existence without Carlos. To think a few taps could give him this—a living, breathing person at the end of the line.

“Hi,” Lando breathed, already overcome. He clutched the phone to his ear, taking in the rustling, the grunt as Carlos adjusted the phone.

“I think so,” Carlos said, faking conversation. “Give me one moment, please.”

“Come back,” Lando whispered, unable to stop himself from saying it. “Carlos, I need you back here, please.”

Carlos clucked on the other end of the line. “Ah-ah. That’s not what we discussed—Adesso? Non penso che posso—Merida. Fuck. No, I need a minute, please.”

Lando couldn’t tell who he was talking to, if he was making up conversation or trying to speak to him in code.

“Spiacente.”

Lando heard the thud of a door, followed by a beat of silence.

“I’m here,” Carlos said, his voice entirely different, entirely soft. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Lando said, picking at a loose thread on his training sweats. “I just had to hear your voice.”

Carlos sighed with relief. “We said—”

“I know what we said,” Lando interrupted. “Did you tell Charles?”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. “Yes. It did not go well. I told him we would only talk if there was an emergency.”

“Well, there’s an emergency,” Lando said. “I’m going to die if I don’t talk to you right now.”

“Okay,” Carlos replied with a little laugh. A bit of rustling made his voice clearer. “What does my Lando need?”

“So now I’m property?” Lando teased, a smile springing to his lips. He did belong to Carlos. Heart and soul.

“Forgive me, my English is not so great sometimes,” Carlos replied, thickening his accent.

“You’ll come round,” Lando said, ramping up his own. “Where are you right now?”

“Outside,” Carlos said. “We have a terrace. I come out to read, sometimes to think.”

“So were you talking to Charles just now?” Lando asked, resuming picking at his sweats.

He kind of liked the danger of it all, knowing that Carlos was willing to risk everything just to talk to him. Power felt nice in his grip.

“I was,” Carlos replied.

Lando wiggled his eyebrows. “Ooh. Am I interrupting?”

Carlos chuckled and Lando wished he could record the sound and keep it forever. “Discussing what beach we will visit in Greece. His face is sunburned already and we haven’t even left Italy, yet he thinks he will be fine in Mykonos.”

Lando laughed. “Oh my god. He used to bring an umbrella to the beach—and he wore hoodies all the time too, and he still got burnt.”

“Are you going anywhere?” Carlos asked, changing the subject.

Lando rested the back of his head against the dresser. “We haven’t talked about it much. Zak already said Daniel can’t go to Australia. I think we’ll do some press stuff in Monaco, then I’ll be home.”

“Will you—”

“Yes, I’ll go to London,” Lando said.

He already wanted Carlos’s arms around him again. He wanted his complete attention for days, not hours.

“I should go,” Carlos said, lowering his voice. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“I love you,” Lando whispered. “Goodnight.”

He heard the smile on Carlos’s voice when he replied. “Goodnight.”

 

 

Chapter Text

George kept dreaming about Lewis’s box. He would wake up in a room filled with torn pieces of paper, Lewis’s watch ticking in its case, Nico’s silent beside it. Sometimes Alex was there holding him, sometimes Lewis. Sometimes no one. The dreams weren’t nightmares, but George woke up sad every time.

This time George woke up to sunlight on a mound of white blankets. He’d curled into a ball in his sleep and abandoned his pillow altogether, face burrowed in the mattress. He blinked moisture from his eyes, residual from another night of lying with his head in a dream Alex’s lap.

Their hotel in Hungary was nice. The comforter had real goose down, and the mattress was real memory foam, not the imitation stuff that made Nic toss and turn in the night. The colors weren’t garish, and the complimentary toiletries were salon quality. Supposedly.

“Morning,” Nic greeted from his side of the bed. “You good?”

George nodded and wiped his eyes. “I’m good. Thanks, Nicky.”

Nic didn’t look like he believed him, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately.

George snuggled against the mattress, pulling the comforter up to his chin. “What’s on the schedule today?”

Nic brought his cup of coffee to his lips and took a sip before answering. “We have to film that video for Public Affairs.”

George groaned. “The challenge thing?”

“Yep.”

George groaned again, louder this time.

Nic adjusted his silk bathrobe, covering his chest where he’d dripped coffee on himself. “Then you’re meeting with Charles, right?”

“Shit, you’re right.”

He still had the letter on his nightstand. Max seemed to be fine, but Charles said he wanted to talk, and George knew he didn’t make that request lightly. Every prince seemed leery of breaking the rules, though the FIA had stayed conspicuously silent in the aftermath.  

The media was a different story entirely. They wouldn’t shut up about Mercedes and Red Bull, Lewis and Max. They brushed aside the humiliation of turning Alex into the face of Red Bull’s criticism, sending him out on track at Silverstone to follow racing lines or whatever shit they made him do to try to prove Lewis purposely ran Max off.  No one seemed to care that Alex never should have been allowed to practice on an FIA track in a current FIA car.

Meanwhile, Max posted shit on Instagram about Lewis’s unsportsmanlike conduct. No one cared about the obvious implication that Lewis had been gloating, and the FIA seemed to have their ears plugged tight when Horner actually went on air and said an attempted murder investigation might be more appropriate than Toto’s telemetry emails.

George spent most of the two week break speaking to the royal psychologist under the guise of “mandatory” couples therapy for his courtship ceremony—not that he could actually say anything truthful. But it helped Nic feel calmer about everything, and George had to admit that it was nice to have some kind of template for how to proceed when his heart kept getting ripped out, shredded, and handed back to him.

“We should probably get ready,” George sighed. “What kind of dress?”

Nic tilted his head up to the ceiling, savoring another sip of coffee. “Team polo and jeans. I think we even have to wear matching trainers.”

They both looked at each other.

“Cute,” they both said in unison.

George grinned as he crawled out of bed and did his best not to think about the dream Alex carding his fingers through his hair. Nic made that a bit easier when he whipped him so hard with a towel that George saw stars.

 

 


 

 

Charles decided to be late to their meetup, as usual. George commandeered a table by the Paddock Club reception area, tucked away from the crowd but still in plain view so that the FIA didn’t get any ideas.

Also as usual, Charles didn’t apologize when he arrived ten minutes after their meetup time, sporting Ray-Bans, a water bottle, and a Ferrari ice pack vest that looked like it had been stolen out of a blood donation center.

“Nice to see you,” George said, bumping his fist. “You’re late.”

He didn’t like when people wasted his time, and Charles was no exception.

Charles took a long sip from his water bottle. “I was busy.”

“We’re all busy,” George muttered. He noticed a hickey on Charles’s neck, peeking out from his nomex, still red and darkening fast. He nodded to it. “Pierre or Carlos?”

Charles cleared his throat and tugged up the nomex.

Pierre, then.

“Is that why you’re late?”

“I said I was busy,” Charles said, cheeks going pink.

George took a deep breath. Irritability came up often in couples therapy. His outbursts, his attempt to physically harm other princes. Nic said he needed to be careful, that he needed to remember people cared about him aside from Lewis, that he needed to stop being self-destructive.

So George swallowed down his frustration. “Okay, fine. How are you?”

Charles’s mouth opened to speak, then he closed it again and thought for a moment.

“Better than I was,” he finally said.

Half of the royalty in the empire looked at Charles and saw someone they wanted to marry or someone they wanted to fuck. George didn’t deny Charles’s prettiness, but he knew too much about him to ever be attracted to Charles Leclerc. The Charles he knew struggled, warred with himself, fought to hold up the tenants of an archaic empire that had a habit of turning on its princes.

Charles looked down at his hands. “Silverstone was difficult.”

You have no idea, George wanted to say, but he didn’t. He stayed quiet, waiting for Charles to elaborate.

“First, Max makes me his NOK and doesn’t tell me,” Charles said. “Then seeing Daniel…I don’t want to know how he looked when you saw him at that party.”

Lando didn’t talk about Daniel in his letters beyond the fact that Daniel wasn’t handling Max’s hospitalization well.

It’s scary how much Red Bull has a hold on him, Lando wrote. Going back there made him into something else.

George didn’t have to imagine the lengths Red Bull would take to abuse their own if they wanted to.

George frowned. “He was still bad?”

Charles nodded. “Most of the time he was okay. But sometimes he’d freak out. Panic attacks, speaking nonsense, getting confused. It was horrible. And seeing Max really affected me. I really thought he’d be like—"

He cut himself off, but George knew the name he almost said.

“Like Jules,” George finished.

Charles nodded once, eyes flashing with emotions George chose to ignore for his own wellbeing. “Yes.”

“So how are you doing now?”

Charles’s face changed for a split second—like something glitched out for his character model. For a split second, George saw his own face reflected back at him, broken and overwhelmed with nothing left to give. But it vanished in an instant, over so fast that George wasn’t sure he’d actually seen anything, or if he had projected himself onto Charles.

“I’m happy Max is okay,” Charles said, shifting in his seat. “But ever since we landed here, something’s felt off.”

George understood completely. “I feel the same. This fight between Red Bull and Mercedes is getting out of hand.”

“Even Mick seems out of it,” Charles said. “Usually he’s so calm, but he looks nervous every time I see him.”

George’s blood ran cold with guilt. “Maybe he’s just anxious to get out of here. I know I am. Summer break can’t come fast enough.”

Charles smiled down at the table. “I don’t mind being here, but that’s just because I can see Pierre.”

George fought not to roll his eyes, for Nic. “How’s that going?”

Nic told him to be nicer. Here he was, asking about a relationship he didn’t give a shit about. He was honestly surprised they were still together after Charles spent so much time with Max.

“It’s going good,” Charles said. “I won’t bore you with details.”

George pushed out a breath, smile on his lips. “Thank god.”

Charles met his eye. George always forgot how wild Charles could be, how beautifully vacant those eyes were. It was something about his pupils—too small, maybe. He always looked like he was somewhere else, seeing things the rest of them couldn’t.

“How is Lewis?” Charles asked.

Something about the way he phrased it put George on the defensive. Charles spent a lot of time with Max, and he absolutely believed Max would manipulate Charles into becoming his personal informant.

“He’s great,” George replied with a false smile. “I mean, I assume. He doesn’t pay attention to the media and their bullshit.”

Charles nodded slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek. That broken look started to creep onto his pretty features again.

“Char, did Max say something to you in Milton Keynes?” George asked. “Don’t tell me you believe this shit about Lewis trying to kill him. You know that isn’t true.”

“Max said a lot of things in Milton Keynes,” Charles replied quietly. “Some of them I wasn’t ready to hear.”

He couldn’t think of a single thing Max could say that Charles hadn’t already anticipated except I love you, and if he said that—well, Pierre stood no chance. George had tried to warn him.

“He told me about the photos,” Charles said.

George’s heart started to pound in his ears, but he played it cool. Charles probably assumed he knew whatever he was about to tell him. Monaco, probably.

Of course Max leaked those pictures of him and Lewis. He probably hired—

“I had no idea Jos beat him that badly,” Charles whispered, tears wetting his eyes that he quickly blinked away.

The flood of memories hit George as hard as any punch to the face. Blurry flip phone photos, then smartphone photos on a basic iPhone. Welts on Max’s face, bruises on his arms, his jutting ribs. Gashes from being thrown against tables, knocked into his kart, the way his ribs stuck out so bad one winter that even George’s father noticed, and he usually didn’t look up from his checkbook at the karting track.

There were even worse photos, but George refused to even think about those.

An evidence log, just in case Max ever wanted to press charges. George knew he never would, but he came close several times when the knife of loss on track coincided with the worst of his abuse, a negative feedback loop Max couldn’t escape.

He remembered waiting by the phone more than once, praying that if someone did call, it wasn’t to tell him that something happened to the Verstappen kid.

“He didn’t want anyone to know,” George said quietly.

There was a reason Max wouldn’t shut up about food and sleep in interviews. Everyone loved to talk about how much of a kid he still was, a teenage boy who could eat you out of house and home and slept in until noon.

George knew the truth.

“I, um. I also owe you an apology,” Charles said.

George furrowed his brow. “An apology? For what?”

Charles sniffed, hurriedly wiping his nose with his sleeve. He glanced at George’s phone where it sat face down on the table.

“I don’t think it would be safe to say it out loud,” Charles said. “Can I see your phone?”

“Um, sure. Yeah.” George flipped it over and tapped in his passcode, handing the phone to Charles.

He tried to think about what Charles could possibly want to apologize for as Charles swiped through his phone.

“Where’s your notes app?” Charles asked. “I’ll write it there and you can read it later. Don’t read it until you’re back at the hotel tonight, okay? Promise me.”

“I promise. It’s in a—”

“Found it,” Charles said, tapping at the screen.

“I wouldn’t do anything stupid if you just told me,” George said.

Charles frowned as he tapped away. “No offense, but I can’t really trust that.” He looked up, eyes sad. “I know you haven’t been doing well. I know I haven’t been very involved.”

“You’ve had other things to deal with,” George said. Like not dying from whatever medical condition he was trying to hide. Like dealing with Carlos and Sebastian and now Pierre. Juggling Lando and Daniel and fucking Max, who probably lied through his teeth for a while weekend in Milton Keynes, feeding Charles stories of their past to soften him up for slaughter.

Charles shook his head. “That’s not an excuse. I heard that you saw Alex. I can’t imagine how that felt.”

George had to take a breath when the image of Alex popped up in his head again. He’d made it almost two hours without thinking of him.

“I’ll manage,” George managed to say.

“I know,” Charles murmured, eyes dimming. “We all manage. I’m tired of managing.”

George furrowed his brow. “What, you and Pierre?”

“Me and Pierre, Carlos and Lando, Max and Daniel,” Charles said with a nod. “Think about how much we could avoid if we were just allowed to be with who we’re supposed to be with.”

George frowned. This wasn’t Charles. Charles abided by tradition, always. He never stepped out of line in any way that might upset Ferrari. The fake photos of him and Max apparently drove him to need medication, and he hadn’t done anything wrong.

Charles had ambition in Ferrari. He didn’t have ambition to take over the FIA.

But Max did.

“It isn’t that simple,” George said, fully aware he was now Lewis in the conversation he’d had two weeks ago in Silverstone.

Charles leaned in closer. “It could be.”

George remembered sitting on a lounge chair on his parents’ yacht, staring up at a much younger Charles over the top of his sunglasses.

“Max is my boyfriend.”

He said it the same way, inspired, defiant.

Maybe Pierre wasn’t his goal after all.

“We have the numbers,” Charles continued.

“We?” George asked, narrowing his eyes.

Charles paled. He never could hide his cards.

“Jesus, Charles.” George put his head in his hands. “He’s manipulating you.”

“No he isn’t.”

“That’s what everyone says who’s being manipulated.”

Charles set his jaw. His phone buzzed on the table. “Do you really think you’re not being manipulated by Lewis? Max cares about you, George. Lewis is pitting you against him.”

George let out a snort. “Lewis isn’t against Max, Char. He’s a seven-time world champion. Red Bull is doing all of the instigating on this one.”

“I know that’s not true. I know you’re out to hurt Mick, for one, because you think he wants to steal my seat.”

“Because he does,” George snapped.

Charles handed back his phone with a sigh. “George, I know you mean well. I know you have a good heart. But this is something I need to handle on my own.”

“With Max, you mean,” George said. He shook his head. If Max got involved, he would find out about Callum and Mick, and that meant that if Mick put one foot wrong, he’s be exposed.

Charles looked out at the paddock. He looked so much older now.

“Don’t involve Max in this, Charles,” George said, pocketing his phone. He stood up and put his sunnies back on, throwing the world into a darker, more comfortable place. “Maybe you love him, but he does not love you. He just wants to win, and currently you’re the best avenue to get him a victory somewhere.”

“George—”

He backed away when Charles tried to grab his arm. “I’ll protect you no matter what. I want you to think about whether Max can really say the same. Like, actually think about who’s been there for you when it really mattered.”

Charles swallowed hard. “He didn’t have a choice.”

That was the thing about being a prince. They could always make excuses everyone believed because they wore gold crowns twice a year and millions of people liked their posts on Instagram. Carlos could sneak a private jet to Silverstone without ounishment, yet Max couldn’t even show up to Charles’s dad’s funeral. Or Anthoine’s.  

George grit his teeth. “Think. Think about how much you and I get away with every weekend, Char. He had a choice. He always has a fucking choice, and he doesn’t choose us.”

He shoved his phone in his pocket and headed off to find Nic. Words meant nothing compared to action. The sooner Charles learned that, the better off he would be.

 

 


 

 

“Charles.”

Charles looked up from his helmet, where he’d been inspecting a smudge of smashed bug right above the visor.

Sebastian walked toward him, sporting a pair of Ray-Bans that made him look simultaneously older and younger. An Aston Martin cap hid his curls, sharpening him. The set of his jaw reminded Charles of the days closer to the end of his appointment. He used to pace for hours with that face, trying to think of ways to save his crown.

“Sebastian,” Charles greeted, not standing up from his seat on the pit wall. He used a gloved hand to pick at the bits of fly wing, avoiding a return to the garage, where Binotto would undoubtedly be waiting to discuss a lackluster practice session.

The heat didn’t help. Tarmac sizzled under his boots, and the tires proved the shitty relationship between rubber and sun. Sixty two laps between him and Carlos had drained him of every ounce of his energy, and that included the energy to avoid Sebastian Vettel.

Sebastian took a seat on the pit wall beside him. He smelled like the car—adrenaline and motor oil.

“I thought we might have a chance to talk,” Sebastian said.

Charles flicked bug wing off of his gloved fingertips. “Looks like we do.”

Part of the reason he stayed away from Sebastian was to avoid the comfort he always brought with him. The comfort that reminded Charles of what they’d been before.

He owed Sebastian more than he would ever admit. Falling in love with him had been so easy and uncomplicated.

Charles missed that.

“I guess I’d just like to know where I stand,” Sebastian said. “We haven’t actually spoken about our relationship.”

Charles flinched, glancing around for FIA. Speaking so closely with an ex-husband normally caught their attention before Sebastian even had the chance to say a word.

“I asked for a favor,” Sebastian explained, reading his mind. “Even old world champions still get those every once in awhile.”

Of course.

 Charles set his helmet aside. “So let’s talk.”

He winced at the harshness of his own voice. Sebastian didn’t take any offense. In fact, a smirk unfolded on his lips—his usual response to conflict. A champion still lived behind that calm façade.

“I’ll start, since I’m not sure you’ve ever had to do this before,” Sebastian said, clearly amused. “I assume you’ve decided on someone else. Carlos?”

Shame ran hot up the back of Charles’s neck. “So far you aren’t doing a great job for someone so experienced.”

The unspoken joke about Ferrari hung in the air waiting to be snatched, but neither of them acknowledged it.

“My apologies,” Sebastian said with a chuckle. “I’ll start slower. Do you still love me?”

Usually Charles had difficulty saying the words, but this time not saying them was the part that felt wrong.

“Can we talk somewhere else?” Charles asked. Anyone could come up to them at any time, and Sebastian deserved his full and real attention. Charles couldn’t give that when he knew any prince—Pierre in particular—could be watching.

Sebastian’s smile turned sad. “I’m afraid we don’t have that luxury.”

Charles nodded, looking down at his helmet. Pierre told him to close doors. He didn’t want to, but he also never wanted to see Pierre that hurt again.

“I don’t know how to answer,” Charles said honestly. “You’re…I don’t know how to explain it. Everything was so easy with you. When I fell in love with you it didn’t feel like being exposed. I didn’t feel scared to tell you. You were the first person I fell in love with since before I earned my appointment.”

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand. At least, based on my own experiences.”

A bead of sweat ran down Charles’s back, sticky and uncomfortable. “When you left I thought we really had a chance,” he admitted quietly. “I missed you so much I thought I would die. I hated Carlos, I wanted you. I think back to Bahrain and how desperate I was just to see you.”

Sebastian chuckled, settling in a little closer to him. “I told you, no? I said it becomes easier. I have to admit I didn’t expect you to change so quickly, but Binotto is not a stupid man, though he does stupid things very often. Carlos was a conscious choice.”

Charles looked at him, assessing. “I’m told it wasn’t entirely Binotto’s choice.”

Sebastian’s grin returned. “No, of course not. No appointment is. There are a thousand layers.” He cocked his head. “So it is Carlos.”

Charles thought back to Portugal, tumbling onto the couch with Carlos, flirting and kissing and Sweet Teeth. Hiding in the bathroom with Sebastian’s phone, the white hot pain of betrayal.

Then Spain, the country that washed all of it away. Watching the world fly by from the passenger seat of a rally car, happiness, the thrill of living, breathing, of racing cars. If he closed his eyes he could still see the golden shaft of sunlight on Carlos’s cheeks, the smatter of freckles against black lashes, that look on his face.

“No,” Charles said quietly. “I mean, it was, yes. But he—”

Charles shut his mouth. He trusted Sebastian, but he didn’t want to give away any information that Carlos might not want out in the paddock, even though it wasn’t hard to guess. Lando kissed Carlos in front of everyone back in…fuck, he couldn’t even remember what country, the drugs has been so overwhelming.

Sebastian’s eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses, but Charles read concern in them anyway.

“He doesn’t feel the same?” Sebastian tried.

Pain lanced through him, sudden as a knife.

If only Carlos didn’t love him. If only Carlos had never ventured from the early days when they tolerated each other but only shared conversation about their lost loves.

“No,” Charles confessed. “Not in the ways that would make it work.”

Carlos’s love for Lando appeared all over their lives. Charles did his best to pretend he didn’t see it, to pretend Carlos thought about him more than Lando, even though it wasn’t true.  

He still couldn’t get over the look on Carlos’s face when Charles had dragged himself back into Ferrari, completely exhausted from days at Max’s bedside, worn and ragged, only to see Carlos glowing, excited, high on life, finally sated and satisfied in a way Charles he’d never seen before.

“That’s surprising,” Sebastian said, his bottom lip sticking out in a bit of a pout. “I thought he was rather obsessed with you.”

Pain raked its claws over his heart.

You have Pierre, he reminded himself. You have what you want and what you need.

“He’s dedicated to Ferrari,” Charles said with a shrug. “He’s traditional in the sense that he believes spouses should love each other in a royal marriage. We do love each other, but there isn’t any passion.”

“Right,” Sebastian laughed. “You and your celibacy.”

Charles’s cheeks went red. “I’m not celibate.”

“Oh? So you’re having sex?” Sebastian asked, teasing.

“Yes,” he replied defiantly. “I’m not a prude.”

Guilt tore into him as he reminded himself he hadn’t even been a prude when he’d been with Sebastian.

“Oh, I see now,” Sebastian hummed. “You’re having sex, but not with Carlos.”

Charles’s mouth fell open.

They used to play chess to pass the time. Sebastian taught him how to play. Not just what pieces went where, but how to enjoy the game, how to see it as a logistical, tactical exercise. Every time Charles thought he might have the upper hand, he found out only a few moves later that Sebastian planned for his confidence and laid a perfect trap.

The same feeling swept over him, and Charles gritted his teeth.

“You don’t have to tell me who,” Sebastian said, laughing. “I can guess.”

Something about the way he said it made Charles uneasy.

“It isn’t Max,” he said.

Sebastian looked at him for a long time. “Hm. Then maybe I don’t know.”

Charles dug his fingers against the concrete.

“Am I the only one this happens to?” he asked suddenly. “Or am I just stupid? I’m not trying to fall in love with anyone. I’m trying to win a championship, yet everything in my life seems to revolve around my relationships.”

Sebastian smiled. “No, you’re not the only one. You do have a unique situation—you’re young and relatively inexperienced, yet you are a Ferrari prince. Ferrari likes to choose older princes to avoid this kind of gossip and scrutiny, and now they have the two of you.”

Charles didn’t think Carlos fit in the same category as him, being three years older, almost four.

“When I was a prince at Red Bull, they were a new empire,” Sebastian continued. “They welcomed scandal—anything to put them in the headlines. I had my fun and all but ignored whoever I was married to. Red Bull made it very clear that they didn’t care, that my winning was the priority.”

Charles remembered tabloids of a young Sebastian, baby-faced and lanky, grinning in clubs, hair wild, alcohol hoisted above a crowd of reaching hands. That person seemed nothing like the Sebastian he knew.

“Now, things are different,” Sebastian said. “When they chose Max, they started caring about tradition. Success buys you in, but longevity comes with following the rules. Max was always intended to be the proof that Red Bull is coming to stay. If he wins the championship, it will begin a new era. Or so Red Bull hopes.”

Charles looked over at him. “Do you think Max would actually have any power to change anything if he won?”

And that was a very big if. Lewis earned his championships time and time again, against all odds. This year he seemed even calmer, even more secure in himself despite the looming changes in the coming year.

Sebastian shrugged. “I would like to see change. People are beginning to see the cracks in our little show. I’m not sure what would be different, though. The rules are in place for a reason.”

Charles noted the wistfulness in his eyes, the softness in his voice.

“You think we would have made it,” Charles said quietly.

Sebastian laughed, a little blush coming to his cheeks. “I forgot how well you know me. Yes. I think we would have.”

Charles’s heart twinged. “So you still love me?”

When Carlos first told him he loved him, Charles felt power over him, like Carlos had shown his weakness. When Pierre admitted his feelings, Charles wasn’t sure what to feel, what to do with them.

But Sebastian—Sebastian made him hurt.

“I do,” Sebastian said with an even gaze and an even voice. “I think I will for quite some time.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles breathed.

Sebastian shook his head. “Don’t be. It’s a part of life.”

“Maybe for other people. I hate being this way. I hate having to hurt people all the time because I don’t know how to handle myself,” Charles said. “I know how to race. I know how to drive, and I know how to be a prince. Everything was fine until this year. Now I feel dirty. It’s like—I don’t know how to say it in English.”

“Italiano?” Sebastian tried.

Charles shook his head. “I love more than one person.”

“That’s not a—”

“It is a bad thing,” Charles said adamantly. “I don’t feel good about it. I don’t feel good about myself most of the time. I feel selfish. Everyone says it’s okay, that it’s normal for princes to feel this way, but that doesn’t really excuse it. I’m still a person, you’re still a person.”

Sebastian smiled at him. His smile always looked mischievous upon first glance. To Charles, it showed that Sebastian was not the passive man many thought him to be.

“Well, you aren’t dirty,” Sebastian assured him. “Most princes love more than one person, in my experience. What matters is that you care, that you aren’t leading them to believe something that won’t happen.”

Charles’s cheeks heated up. “So don’t do what I did to you.”

Sebastian’s eyes softened. “Ah. So there is no hope for us.”

Charles’s tongue thickened in his mouth. “Seb, I didn’t want this to happen.”

Loving Sebastian would have been so much easier than the mess he found himself in. Carlos could have been perfect. Pierre could be too, if only Charles could stop being attracted to his husband.

“I can’t do anything to sway you, can I?” Sebastian asked.

Charles shot him a look. “You want to sway me now?”

Sebastian rested their knees together. “If I have a chance, yes.”

“You’re not listening,” Charles growled. “This is what I don’t want.”

“Ah, yes. You want something complicated and painful, where you have to second guess yourself,” Sebastian drawled sarcastically.  

“I don’t second guess myself,” Charles argued. “I’m just trying to navigate loving multiple people.”

Sebastian put a hand over his heart in dramatic fashion. “And I can’t be one of those people?”

Normally a conversation like this would be painful. Charles couldn’t believe it when a laugh burst from his mouth instead, when a feeling of relief flooded his bloodstream instead of guilt.

“I think we’re past that,” Charles chuckled, but his eyes were fond.

Sebastian held his gaze, a smirk on his face. “This is the part where you tell me you still want to be friends.”

Charles noted the space closing between them, but he hadn’t forgotten they were still in plain view on the pit wall.

“I care about you very much,” Charles said, lowering his voice as he lifted his chin in a clear show that he wouldn’t be breaking any rules.

“I’ll give you one more chance to say it,” Sebastian teased. “If you can’t, I suggest we have another talk where we can discuss in detail. Somewhere—”

Charles flinched when something whipped across his face. He clapped a hand to his cheek where it stung.

“Well, fuck,” Sebastian muttered.

Lance marched toward them, hair wild without his cap. His cap that had just hit Charles—and probably Sebastian—in the face.

“Seriously?” Lance snarled on his approach. “In public?”

Charles kept his face schooled, rubbing his cheek. “What exactly did you think was happening in public?”

Lance didn’t even look at him. “I’m not talking to you.”

“I told you what we were going to talk about,” Sebastian said, his voice completely different.

“That did not look like the conversation you said it would be.”

“Oh, it was,” Sebastian deadpanned. “He was dumping me, I believe.”

Charles bit his lip to keep from laughing.

He found himself waiting for Pierre to sweep in the way he usually did, saving him from humiliation, insult, or pain.

“Charles, weren’t you about to tell me you still want to be friends?” Sebastian asked as Lance fumed between them.

Charles smiled politely. “I don’t think I need to entertain this conversation.”

Lance stepped closer, cutting off his exit. “Nah, I think you do. I’ve had enough of this shit. Stay away from Sebastian.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes so hard that Charles could see it from behind his sunglasses. “Lance, that isn’t necessary.”

“I think it is,” Lance snapped. “You’re making me and Aston Martin into a joke. My father runs this empire, and we still have to make decisions about next year.”

Charles tensed. Lawrence Stroll wouldn’t dare to kick out a world champion, but everyone had said that about Ferrari too. Lawrence wasn’t even the head of government in Aston Martin, but nobody particularly cared about Otmar Szafnauer when he had no real say in the workings of the empire beyond what Lawrence told him to do.

“Lance,” Sebastian said, softening his voice. “This isn’t what it looks like. Charles is devoted to Carlos, which is what he was just telling me.”

“He’s right,” Charles said. “I didn’t mean to make it seem like something else.”

Lance gave him a sour look. “Uh huh. I’m sure. Not like you to be two-faced.”

Charles blinked at the insult.

“Stay. Away,” Lance hissed.

Charles stood up and grabbed his helmet, eyes narrowed. “Sebastian can do whatever he wants. I know you’re used to buying your way into things, but maybe you should focus on being a better husband to a good man. Putting someone on a leash doesn’t exactly spur true love or whatever it is you’re looking for.”

He shoved past Lance and walked off, heading back toward the Ferrari garage. He found Carlos explaining something to the engineers, downcast. One look at Charles and he broke away.

“Charles?”

Charles waved him off. A strange feeling wrung his insides that reminded him of what it felt like before he started his meds. Sebastian still loved him. Sebastian wasn’t supposed to love him anymore.

George’s misguided warning hung in his mind.. Max did love him. Charles knew that. He only had to think back to the night in the hospital to remember the way it felt to be with him, the softness in his voice, the pain. But he hadn’t seen Max since, despite coordinating with him to delete the video off of George’s phone.

 A video he didn’t watch, though he’d wanted to. Whatever the video had been, he deleted it. Everything had been exactly like Max described, but he didn’t find any photos of Max in the app.

That didn’t make him feel any better.

Charles jumped in surprise when Carlos’s hand pressed to his hip.

“Did something happen?”

Charles shook his head as he turned around. Carlos looked over his face, those dark brown eyes full of concern. He wondered how many secrets Carlos held behind those eyes, how many times he pulled favors for people he cared about.

Charles let out a grunt of surprise when Carlos kissed him. He pulled back abruptly, blinking hard.

“Why did you just kiss me?” Charles asked.

Carlos’s mouth fell open. “You were looking at me the way you always do before we kiss.”

Charles shook his head. He couldn’t deal with Carlos on top of everything else. He pressed a hand to Carlos’s chest to push him away.

“Sorry, you’ll have to find Lando if you want someone to kiss,” Charles said.  “I want to be left alone.”

He winced, curling his fingers against Carlos’s polo.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, that was mean.”

Carlos offered a small smile, backing off. “It’s okay. I can tell you’re stressed. Let’s go back to the hotel. Want me to wash your hair?”

Charles shook his head. When he inhaled, he smelled rosewater and his scalp prickled with the memory of Carlos’s fingertips. “Not this time.”

 

 


 

 

George looked up from his phone as Nic stepped back into the suite, two plates of steak dinner in tow.

“For good luck,” Nic explained, setting a plate in front of him. “We’re gonna do great tomorrow, I can feel it.”

George set his phone down as the smell of buttered peas and steak sauce hit his nose. He wanted to throw something. Or punch a wall, or march into Lewis’s hotel room to scream at the top of his lungs. He squeezed his phone so hard he thought it might shatter. If it did, he’d use the pieces to cut Max to shreds.

Nic glanced at his phone and pulled up his chair. “You okay?”

George grabbed his fork. “I was right.”

Saying it made the feeling dissipate, but only slightly.

Nic patted his arm. “Right about what, mate?”

George stabbed his steak hard enough to rattle the plate.

“Max exiled Alex on purpose." 

Chapter Text

Outqualifying Charles usually felt good, but Lando couldn’t be happy about it when he had to look at the rear wing of Pierre’s Alpha Tauri coming in, six thousandths of a second behind.

“Chin up, mate,” Will said into his earpiece. “You did great out there. Daniel was bumped out in Q2, he’s P11 on the starting grid. You did well.”

Lando swore under his breath. He’d been wondering why he didn’t see another orange livery out on track, but he’d asked Will not to inform him of Daniel’s position unless he was a threat.

Thinking about Daniel distracted him, and he needed to perform.

Someone had to.

“Thanks everyone,” Lando finally said over radio. “We’ll get ‘em tomorrow. Great work, sorry I couldn’t do better for you today.”

He rolled into the pits and extracted himself from the car, absolutely soaked in sweat. Part of his training involved ignoring the elements as much as possible while in the car, but the second he stepped out of it, everything hit him full force.

He freed himself from his helmet and balaclava as quickly as possible, and someone handed him a towel to wipe the sweat from his face so it would stop pouring into his eyes.

“Everyone’s good, right?” Lando asked Will as he patted his back. “Carlos is okay?”

“He’s okay,” Will replied.

Lando lowered the towel from his face and sucked in a breath of relief. He’d seen Carlos’s Ferrari bunched against the barriers during Q2, but he’d seen spinning tires too, which meant Carlos hadn’t been injured. No one said anything during the red flag while Lando kept the music pumping in his ears, refusing to look at the screens.

Qualifying carried on, so he assumed that Carlos wasn’t in a hospital somewhere.

All in all, he thought he did pretty damn well at keeping focus.

Lando swiped his water bottle from a nearby cart and squeezed a stream of water into his mouth.

And promptly spit it back out, coughing and sputtering at the rancid taste.

“Lando?” Will asked, crouching as Lando doubled over, spitting globs of white dehydration saliva on the floor.

Vodka. Not a lot, but enough.

Lando glanced at the water bottle and Daniel’s driver number stared back.

“I’m good,” Lando said, coughing. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and shook his head. “I’m good, mate.”

He stumbled away, grabbing his real water bottle and taking Daniel’s with him. He sucked down as much water as he could, trying to wash the disgusting taste from his mouth.

He knew alcoholism was a serious thing. In the back of his mind, he knew that. But they were princes. They drove fast cars and trained hard and honestly, how hard could it be to just not drink for a goddamn day?

The midday sun beat down on him as Lando marched down the grid toward the media pen. George stood at the end of the line, one hand on his hip, discussing his qualifying run.

Lando brought Daniel’s water bottle to his lips and took a small sip, enough to wet his tongue. He licked his lips. He flinched at the burn of alcohol, but didn’t stop as he walked right up to Daniel mid-interview.

“Look who it is,” Daniel greeted with a smile. “Sup, babe.”

“Got a little worried about you,” Lando said, smiling back. He was getting better at faking. “Don’t miss out on Q3 again, love. I need you with me.”

Daniel’s eyes flashed, but his smile didn’t change, even as Lando tugged him into a kiss he knew Daniel couldn’t refuse on camera.

He felt the moment Daniel tasted the vodka, the way his whole body went rigid. Lando didn’t let up, turning anger into fake passion as he grazed his tongue against Daniel’s. Taste it, you piece of shit.

“Boys,” Sophia warned. “Boys.”

Lando pulled back with a wet sound that almost made him gag. He shoved his water bottle into Daniel’s chest and kept his smile pasted on as he stepped back.

“See you soon, babe,” Lando said in what he hoped sounded like a loving voice. But when he smacked Daniel on the back, he smacked him hard.

He blew past the reporters and back toward the garage, his duty done for the day. Until he had to make the decision about whether or not to report his husband to the FIA for fucking drinking on the grid.

He didn’t even make it past the Alfa Romeo garage when George stepped in front of him.

“Not in the mood,” Lando snapped.

How the fuck was he supposed to do this? Daniel swore he would never drink before getting in the car, and Lando believed him. But Daniel was also a fucking alcoholic.

“I don’t care if you’re in the mood or not, we have a serious fucking problem,” George growled.

Lando looked up at him, jaw set. George’s eyes were dark, his posture somehow threatening, though Lando had never felt threatened by that lanky-ass frame once in his life.

“Fine,” Lando hissed, finally unfastening his race suit at the collar and unzipping it. He shimmied out of the sleeves to escape the heat as he followed George down the paddock. FIA officials watched them as they walked, but Lando was more focused on the residual vodka taste in his mouth.

He unscrewed the cap on Daniel’s water bottle and dumped the contents into a drain at their feet, ignoring the looks he got when he did so.

Fucking Daniel. The right thing to do would be to report Daniel to the FIA, but he would lose his crown immediately, probably without trial. He didn’t deserve that, even if he was putting them all at risk. Lando saw the real Daniel too often to believe he’d been totally lost.

George headed straight for the Mercedes garage. Lando cleared his throat in an attempt to get his attention, but George pressed on. Mercedes personnel looked up at them as they approached, and Lando felt Lewis’s presence like a shadow over the place.

“George—”

“Shut up,” George snapped.

Lando pulled up sharply. He was not about to go into Mercedes. 

“Mate, we’re not—”

He didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence before George grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him past the Mercedes and into the breezeway to the hospitality lane. Lando kept his lips set in a tight line. He wanted his phone. He wanted to see if Carlos texted him, if he was really okay or just faking it.

They texted almost every night now, since they didn’t always have the chance to talk. Charles still hated the idea of burner phones, and Lando elected not to tell Daniel about it in case he got drunk and blabbed.

He kind of liked having a secret. It made Carlos feel more like his.

Lando hopped along on his toes to keep up with George’s longer stride, avoiding the stares from FIA personnel. He wished he had his cap to hide his face.

George slipped into the space between the Alpine and Aston Martin hospitality motorhomes. Lando waited several seconds before following him. He didn’t like being wedged between two rival empires, but Red Bull and Mercedes probably had listening ears around rival camps.

“This had better be good,” Lando muttered once George finally turned to face him. His eyes were glassy, his nostrils flared.

They stared at each other for a moment. Lando’s annoyance slipped away, replaced with a feeling similar to seeing Carlos’s car in a dented barrier.

“I had a conversation with Charles before FP1,” George began. “He said he owed me an apology for something, but didn’t want to say it out loud, so he asked for my phone to write me a note to read later.” He shook his head in disbelief. “He fucking—At the hospital, he—”

Lando frowned, stepping closer to put a hand on George’s arm. He didn’t speak—George didn’t like it when people tried to coax bad news out of him.

“Max told Charles he exiled Alex on purpose,” George grit out. “Charles and Pierre made me feel crazy. Everyone made me feel fucking crazy—but I was right, Lando. I was fucking right.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

He loved Alex. He didn’t make much of a show of it. Friendship was harder to maintain in exile than a romance. Seeing Alex affected him too, of course, but they didn’t have anything left unsaid between them, and he knew that if Alex walked up to them right now, they’d still be friends.

Max used to look to Alex as an example. Lando remembered the way Max used to watch him and George with envy in his eyes. Lando did too. Alex and George were the couple everyone wanted to be, even if the rest of them pretended they only wanted to fool around with strangers.

Lando spent enough time third wheeling with both couples to see the things Max copied on Charles. A scratch to the back of Charles's head when he approached from behind, massaging oil into Charles's palms after a long day at the track. Takeout from the one good Japanese place in Monaco after a bad day, adding on green tea ice cream as a dessert. Lando only remembered seeing similarities in the beginning, back when Max had no idea what he was doing, fearful that boys as pretty as Charles Leclerc wouldn’t wait for him to learn.

“Fuck,” Lando whispered.

The worst part was that he could understand Max’s line of thinking. Him and Max were both quiet, observational people—contrary to what PR and their empires liked for everyone to thing. Max had a knack for saying stupid, inflammatory shit to the media, and Lando made wisecracks that usually did more harm than good to his public image.

Alex had charisma, charm and a rock-solid love with George that superseded everything else.  He couldn’t drive as well as Max, but he would have beaten him in the media pen, and sometimes that mattered more. Daniel didn’t win anymore and he still commanded the popularity charts.  

Alex would never be completely loyal to Red Bull, not when George wore a Mercedes crown.

“And now Max is going to frame me,” George said, fussing with the sleeve of his nomex. “He used Charles to fucking set me up.”

Lando cocked a brow. “Gonna have to explain that one to me.”

George glared at him. Lando winced—there he went, saying things without thinking about how they would come across.

“I had a video on my phone,” George explained. “I can’t tell you what it was, but it was the best piece of leverage I had to make sure no one tries to take Charles’s crown.”

Lando frowned. “I think I need—”

“Charles didn’t just write a note. He accessed an app I used to hide the video and fucking airdropped it to himself. He did it right in front of me and I didn’t even notice.”

“Okay mate, this is getting a little out of hand,” Lando said, trying to maintain calm. “First off, why do you have an app to hide stuff in? Second, how the hell does Charles know how to access it?”

George chewed his bottom lip as he shook his head. “Max.”

“Max?”

“I used to keep photos for him—not those kind of fucking photos, Lando,” George said, leveling a glare at him when he scrunched up his nose.

Lando threw up his hands. “Sorry, what the hell else am I supposed to think?”

“Photos in case he ever decided to press charges against Jos,” George explained.

Jesus fuck. Lando grimaced, his gut twisting up at the thought of what those pictures might show. Max hid his injuries well, and Lando had been late to the party in the karting division behind them, so he didn’t see Max very often on track, where all of the abuse supposedly happened.

But he did remember seeing huge swaths of red and purple on Max’s ribs when he stretched his arms over his head and his shirt lifted too high. He remembered Charles moving closer, tucking his face into Max’s neck a moment later.

He never understood how Max and Charles got along, let alone fell in love.

“So Max told him how to find the video,” Lando murmured, fitting the pieces together. “But, I mean, couldn’t it be Charles trying to use the video for something?”

George shook his head. “Charles never should have known about the video. Max shouldn’t either. Only three people on this planet knew I took that video, and one of them was me.  So someone else told Max I had it.”

Lando sighed. “This would be a lot easier to help you with if I knew what the hell was going on.”

“I caught someone in a secret relationship,” George said stiffly. “I took a video so I’d have leverage.”

Lando made a face. “Doesn’t that seem a little fucked up?”

“Of course it’s fucked up,” George hissed, crossing his arms with a huff. “I never intended to use that video, but I needed it to protect Charles. Now Charles has it, and I bet he’s sent it to Max by now.”

Lando found it difficult to be stressed about something when he didn’t know the stakes. Unless George found Sebastian Vettel murdering puppies in a team garage, he didn't think a video of a secret relationship would make news at this point. Unless...

“Carlos isn’t involved, is he?” Lando asked.

He felt silly asking, because Carlos was always truthful with him. But Lando knew that when people dug themselves a hole, sometimes they kept digging instead of crawling out.

George sighed. “No. But this video can’t get out. I made a promise.”

Lando leaned against the side of the Aston Martin suite. He needed to get Daniel under control, he needed to talk to Carlos, and now he needed to talk to Max.

“I need you to talk Max out of—”

“I know,” Lando said, tipping his head to the sky. “I have to talk to him anyway.”

He never thought being a prince would include all of this bullshit. Taking secret videos of secret relationships. Keeping burner phones to have secret conversations with the man he loved. Navigating old friendships to salvage others. Carlos changing his mind and going to Ferrari. Max exiling Alex on purpose.

“I'm sure he’s gone already,” Lando said, lolling his head to face George. “I’ll have to catch him tomorrow.”

George extended his phone. “I think you should read the note first.”

Lando thought about doing the upstanding thing and saying no. Charles wrote the note for George, not him. But jealousy always had a way of reminding him that choosing not to engage meant he would fall behind. Lewis Hamilton kept his rule because he’d perfected the craft of knowing everything.

Lando took the phone.

 

Max and I spoke at the hospital. He told me that he chose to exile Alex. I could only think of how I defended him with you. Words can’t express how sorry I am. I didn’t think he would do that. Apparently there are a lot of things I didn’t know.

Max wants to fix the things that are wrong with this system. I’m going to help how I can, because I want that too. That means taking advantage of your trust right now, but I’m going to get Alex back as part of this mission.

I lost Max once, I won’t lose him again. I won’t lose Carlos either. We all have a journey, and I’m choosing to take mine with them.  

I’m sorry. I hope you can understand.

 

Lando shoved phone back at George.

“He doesn’t have Carlos,” Lando spat. Hurt welled up in his throat. “He has Pierre--who he didn't even mention. Carlos is coming back to McLaren.”

He’d never said it out loud before, and it wasn’t like Carlos even confirmed he would, but Lando had to have something to hope for.

George frowned. He looked haunted. “Make sure Max doesn’t release this video. Then we can work on making sure Carlos comes back.”

Lando nodded once. He didn’t say anything as he rushed out of the hiding space, too afraid that he would say something he couldn’t take back. Like that maybe Max wasn’t the problem, Charles was.

Because Charles had always been the fucking problem.

Sophia found him before he even made it to the McLaren motorhome.

“Thank god,” she said. “I was about to start looking for you at Ferrari.”

Lando pasted on a smirk. “Why would I be there?”

She shot him a look, then handed over his phone. Four texts from Daniel, six missed calls.

We need to talk.

Lando, I’m fucking serious.

Don’t say anything to anyone, listen to me first.

I’m going to the hotel. Don’t fucking say anything. Please.

He flicked through the texts without responding.

“Can I get back to the hotel?” Lando asked. “I’m not feeling up for press.”

“Well that’s good, because media is already packing up for the day,” Sophia said sarcastically. She nodded toward the motorhome. “Go get properly dressed and we’ll take you back. But you’re doing double duty tomorrow, Your Highness.”

Lando flashed a smile, but he could only think about Charles whispering sweet nothings in Carlos’s ear, pulling him back into Ferrari for another appointment, convincing Carlos to love him only, the way Lando thought he had.

George was right about Charles being used, though. Lando had no doubt Max only wanted Charles for his agenda. A Ferrari ally with a connection to the last Red Bull champion--a connection strong enough to make Lance Stroll go on an Instagram bender posting pictures of his relationship--made for a powerful addition to Max’s team.

Lando locked the door to the drivers room once he made it inside and beelined for his bag.

All of the hurt and guilt and stress melted away the moment he saw unread texts from Carlos waiting for him on the burner. Lando snuggled into a pile of McLaren clothing and opened the thread.

Nothing is wrong with me, the first text read. The car, not so lucky. I could have kept driving, but my wing got caught underneath.

I want to see you. Do you have five minutes now?

You must not be near your phone. Or I am being greedy. Both?

We’re going back to the hotel. Charles and I are going to dinner. Won’t be able to call tonight, but I hope I can see you tomorrow? Please, I don’t want to wait until London.

London. Lando took a deep breath, reminding himself that in two weeks, he would have Carlos all to himself for five whole days.

Sorry I missed you, Lando wrote. Had to handle some things. I’ll tell you tomorrow when I see you. heart eyes 4 u.

Carlos responded immediately.

 

What were you doing?? I thought maybe I had lost you to the Hungarians.  

Handling things, like I said. You’re able to read, right?

Are you OK?

Yes. Wish I could have seen you, though. Are YOU okay?

Are YOU able to read? Yes. Not even a bruise.

Have to go to hotel. I’ll think about you when I shower. 😍

 

Carlos responded with an overheated emoji that made Lando laugh. He couldn’t imagine Carlos sifting through emojis to send him, but he thought it was sweet anyway.

Texting off a burner still felt a little off—he was too afraid to write things, like how much he loved Carlos. Sometimes he thought about sexting, but definitely didn’t trust himself to take a half decent photo of himself.  (Of what, even? His dick? No thanks.)

So they settled for stilted conversation, and Lando soaked in every word before he turned off the phone and picked himself up off the floor. He hadn’t sat down since leaving the car, and he wanted to go back to the room and sleep, but he knew he would have Daniel waiting for him, probably drunk.

He changed into a McLaren polo and sweats and headed back out to meet up with Sophia.

Fuck my life.

 


 

Lando took his time heading up to the hotel room. He lingered in the lobby to talk with Public Affairs about the kiss with Daniel in the paddock, which seemed to be going over well. Enough that it made up for his lack of a press showing.

He ate dinner at the hotel restaurant and FaceTimed Fewtrell, catching up on all the nothing happening at home. Few’s one job was setting up the flat for Carlos’s visit, and finding himself a place to stay for a week during. Few called it the king of all sexiles, Lando reminded him who was paying rent.  Few then reminded him that technically he paid rent because Lando only made money off his tax dollars. To which, of course, Lando asked what paycheck he was getting taxes taken out of.

Pretty normal conversation when it came to them. Between that and a nice dinner, Lando found it in himself to approach Daniel with an open mind, with calm. Relative calm, anyway.

The strength of that feeling was tested the moment he stepped into the hotel suite and found Daniel sitting on the kitchen counter, kicking his heels against the cabinet doors in the most annoying rhythm Lando could possibly imagine. He had his hood up and headphones on, head bopping to a beat Lando couldn’t hear.

“Daniel,” Lando said loudly.

Daniel continued bopping.

“Daniel!”

Daniel stopped hitting the cabinet doors and leaned forward.

“Lando?”

“I hope so, who else would it be?” 

He took a deep breath. He had to stop being an asshole. Especially now that he knew Charles intended to run off into the sunset with Max and Carlos.

Daniel tugged his headphones down to hang around his neck, but kept his hood up and his cap on. Probably to hide his drunkenness.

“I tried calling you like fifty times,” Daniel said. He used the same tone he used with the engineers. “You never texted me back, either.”

“I know. I didn’t have my phone for awhile after qualy. By then you were already back here, and I figured I’d let you sweat for a bit. Figured you might need it.”

So much for being gentle.

“You wasted a lot of time then, because I’m not drunk,” Daniel growled, leaning back against the counter.

“So I could call the FIA and test you right now?” Lando asked, crossing his arms.

Daniel pulled down his hood and tossed his cap on the floor.

“Look at me,” Daniel said. “I’m serious, look at me. Do I look like I drank today?”

“You drink every day, so it’s hard to tell,” Lando muttered reflexively, but he regretted it the moment it left his mouth.

Daniel’s eyes were hooded, his eyelids slightly purple to match the bags under his eyes that were big enough to carry groceries in. His skin had a sallow undertone, and his eyes were so red and irritated Lando didn’t know how he could keep them open.

Worse, Lando could almost see the weight of his heart in his chest, how it slumped him forward at the sternum and pushed at his ribs.

A drunk Daniel was a happy Daniel, and this Daniel didn’t have an ounce of joy in him.

“Okay, I believe you,” Lando said, swallowing hard. He didn’t want to look at Daniel’s face anymore.

Daniel laughed softly. “I used to be a stud,” he joked. “Promise.”

Lando balanced his fingers on Daniel’s knee. “You’re just going through a hard time right now. But you’re doing it, and that’s what counts.”

Daniel tipped his head back and looked down his nose at him, his version of rolling his eyes. Carlos did the same thing.

“Nice way of telling me I’m ugly as fuck,” Daniel slurred—from exhaustion, not drunkenness.

Lando lifted his chin, looking over his husband with something like curiosity. Attraction wasn’t the right word. The attractive parts of Daniel were the parts that reminded him of Carlos—his dark eyes, his tan skin. He wanted to think it was just loneliness, but it wasn’t that either.

“I still think you’re handsome,” Lando said cooly. He sounded like his mum. “Not that that means much.”

Daniel smiled at him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nah, can’t have two insecure people in this royal family.”

Lando let out a snort. “My boyfriend’s married to the paddock heartthrob and my husband faked a relationship with me for like the first four months of our relationship. So, like, how the fuck am I supposed to feel good about myself when nobody wants me?”

The truth came out of his unexpectedly, and it pulled from a part of him that fucking hurt.

Daniel leaned forward, his smile softening to one much more real than the grin he showed off in the paddock.

“Pretty sure Carlos still wants you pretty damn bad,” Daniel said.

More color crept to Lando’s cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “He wanted to put his dick in me, yeah.”

Daniel clucked softly. “Don’t start thinking that way. Eats you up. Turns real ugly real fast.”

“It’s already ugly,” Lando muttered. “Carlos is in love with Charles.”

Daniel let out a snort. “Try being in love with a guy whose first love was Charles.”

A darkness churned in the pit of Lando’s stomach. He looked away.

Daniel nudged his hip. “Right, you were around for that. Man, I would pay to see what Max was like back then.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Lando said. “Trust me.”

Prince Max bleached his past clean of the memories he didn’t want. Lando didn’t know all that much about Daniel and Max’s relationship history, but when Daniel talked about the past like this, Lando got the sense that he had no idea what Max’s dad used to do to him.

Lando liked to forget about the bad parts of his past too. If people thought he was weird now, he couldn’t imagine what they would have thought of him as a kid. Carlos probably never would have even looked at him.

“Oh, touched a nerve,” Daniel murmured.

“Shut up, mate,” Lando said, but it came out in a whisper.

Daniel hooked a finger under his jaw, lifting his head.

“I was faking at first ,” Daniel said with a nod. “I thought we’d make a good show. Kinda thought that was what you were doing too. When I realized that you, uh, thought it was real, I wanted to stop it. I was gonna tell you before the wedding. I was all ready to do it, to let you down easy and shit.”

Daniel cocked his head slightly, eyes trailing down to Lando’s lips.

“Then I didn’t. You showed up with sparkling grape juice and—I dunno—I didn’t want it to end. It felt good. I love Max—I’ll always love that motherfucker—but I wasn’t totally faking it with you.”

Lando narrowed his eyes. “Easy to say that now.”

Daniel wrinkled his nose affectionately. “Deffo. Everyone wants an alcoholic has-been on their—”

“Stop talking bad about yourself,” Lando cut. “Instill look up to you, you know. Everything you’ve done on track, the way you interact with everyone on the team. It’s cool. Like—you get what I mean. Nice.”

Daniel smiled. “Keep trying to explain it.”

Lando’s cheeks burned. “You get what I mean. And you can stop touching my face now.”

Daniel’s finger fell away, but his gaze lingered. “You look up to me, huh.”

The air thickened with the innuendo. Lando tried his best to ignore it.

He didn’t want to like Daniel. He really fucking didn’t. But Daniel had a personality that made him feel like maybe he didn’t need to be a perfect person. Daniel had all kinds of flaws—all kinds—and everyone loved him. He spread his likeability around, like the heat of a fire.

“Don’t make me say something mean just to balance things out,” Lando said.

Daniel leaned closer, and Lando reflexively brought his hands up to cradle his face—the same way he might hold an injured animal.

“You’re not in any state to be flirting.”

Daniel let out a hum. “Is it working?”

The want in Daniel’s eyes startled him, but not in a way that scared him. Carlos’s lust always surprised him, made him feel like a fraud, like he’d tricked the most beautiful man in the world to love him.

Daniel saw him on even ground. Lando saw Daniel the same way.

They weren’t in love. They could have been, maybe. You know, if Carlos didn’t exist.

“You brought a water bottle spiked with vodka to the garage, Daniel,” Lando reminded him. “You could have lost your crown for that. Anyone could have—”

“I know,” Daniel interrupted. “I know. I didn’t drink any though, I swear. That’s why I put it on your side of the garage. I’m fucking balls deep in stress, but I’m trying.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Lando said, gently easing Daniel back upright, sliding his palms from his face to press at his chest. “But don’t you think Max needs to know you’re trying too? What if something happens, you know? He needs to know.”

Daniel clutched at his polo, leaning back just enough to look him in the eye.

“If he finds out, I become a big risk. I know I’m gonna fuck up—I know I will. And if he knows and then I fuck up?” Daniel’s breaths started to go shallow, picking up speed against Lando’s palms. “You’re married to me and you still wanted to drop me today. If he finds out how much I’ve been drinking he’ll—I mean, fuck, anyone would—”

Daniel just himself off to gulp down more air.

Lando saw his own face reflected back at him. The same face he made when he saw sex bruises on his body and prickled with shame, in the way he avoided eye contact with Carlos so he wouldn’t have to see the comparison in his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to drop you,” Lando said, sliding his hands up to Daniel’s shoulders to massage there. Or something. He didn’t know how to give massages, but it always worked on him when Carlos did it.

“I was really pissed, yeah,” Lando continued. “And if you were drunk, I wasn’t gonna let that slide. But I wouldn’t drop you. You can be a fucking pain in the ass sometimes, but I—”

He swallowed hard, his fingers curling in the fabric of Daniel’s hoodie.

“I thought I’d never be happy again after Carlos left. But when you aren’t being a dick or getting drunk in the living room, you—fuck, mate. You make things, like, bearable. Or whatever.”

He cleared his throat. “Max loves you. That means he likes you more than me. Like, by a lot. So if that’s really how he feels, he’d never drop you over something like this either. And if he did, then fuck him, because that means he never really loved you.”

His mum would probably be crying if she heard all of that sappy shit flooding out of his mouth. George would probably slap him upside the head or something. Carlos would have laughed before—

Daniel’s lips pressed to his. They tasted like cherry, and nothing like alcohol. Lando’s breath stuttered in his chest, heart pounding in his ears. Kissing Daniel didn’t feel like a performance, he had nothing he needed to maintain. They were open and honest because they loved other princes they couldn’t see every day.

Daniel’s lips brushed against his, and his knees pressed against either side of Lando’s hips.

No nerves festered in Lando’s gut. No tension ratcheted up his spine, and he had no desire to slip from Daniel’s hold to grab a drink from the fridge or to offer a snack or to reset and enter into foreplay the right way.

Lando kissed him next, probably too hard, because Daniel chuckled against it, softening him with a little tease of fingers up his shirt.

Lando told himself it was practice as his fingers nested into Daniel’s hair. He told himself he would be better for London if he let himself relax against Daniel’s mouth, his fingers, between his thighs.

He pulled off his polo and laughed when Daniel panted like a dog at the reveal.

He was still laughing when Daniel kissed him again, and this time he wrapped his arms around him and slipped from the counter, guiding Lando back toward the bedroom.

Practice and stress relief, Lando decided as discarded clothing made a trail to their bedroom.

And a reward. For both of them, because sex with a sober Daniel turned out to be way better than sex with a tipsy one.

 

 

Chapter 65

Notes:

in case you didn't see...

fool's gold now has a cinematic trailer by @recidivae

@redshoulderedblackbirds also created this lovely chapter index so everyone can find their favorite chapters (spoilers included!)

Chapter Text

 

 

The moment Charles pulled off the road and into the track entrance, he knew something had happened. Swarms of cameras and reporters shoved their way through the waiting fans. Most media outlets didn’t have track access, but if local news was already involved, Charles feared what they may be driving into.

Carlos waved at fans, but his smile was pinched. They exchanged a glance, confusion evident in both their eyes.

A thousand possibilities rushed through Charles’s head. Max telling the world about their kiss, someone leaking a story about him and Pierre, photos of their walk in the vineyard or Pierre getting him off in the garage before qualifying after he told Binotto he wanted time alone on the track the day before.

Or someone found out about Carlos’s burner phone.

Everything clicked into place.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Charles whispered through his smile. He waved politely at a few girls screaming his name.

“Giorgio avrebbe detto qualcosa,” Carlos muttered, evidently thinking the same thing.

“Not if they want to punish you for Silverstone,” Charles said.

Carlos swore under his breath as their Stradale purred beneath them, weaving through the checkpoint cones and leaving the crowd behind. He wanted to drive the knife in, to remind Carlos that he’d warned him about this. Burner phones always showed up. Marcus Ericsson didn’t care much about Charles when they were married, but he did give him that advice long ago, and it proved true every time.

“I checked,” Carlos said. “I researched.”

Charles eased the car to a stop in their parking spot. Media personnel started pointing at them and began to rush over, and Charles knew they would be surrounded in a matter of seconds.

“Hey,” Charles murmured, resting a hand on Carlos’s knee. “Focus on the race, then we’ll worry about this.”

Carlos frowned. “But if they know, then they know about Lando.”

“And if McLaren wants a shot at winning today, they’re going to tell Lando the same thing,” Charles replied.

He watched the flexion in Carlos’s jaw as the cameras surrounded the car. No reporter dared to touch a Ferrari, but they jostled just a few inches away, cameras flashing so often that a steady stream of light filled the car.

“I’m with you,” Charles said, lifting his hand from Carlos’s knee to take his hand. "Ne verremo a capo."

A part of him was relieved that the phones had been found out so fast. Jealousy had burrowed into him since Silverstone, since seeing Carlos so carefree and happy in their living room after Charles had left Max alone at the hospital.

He knew what it meant when Carlos left the bedroom at night for a “bit of air” on the terrace. He’d noticed the way Carlos checked his phone more often, texted more often.

It hurt. It hurt more than Charles expected it to.

Before the burner phones, he believed Carlos truly wanted to spend time with him. Now he found himself with a distracted husband, and sometimes an absent one.

“Grazie,” Carlos said, and he opened the door before Charles could reply.

Charles slipped out of his side of the car and waited for Carlos to join him. They linked hands, but Charles pulled him in before he could walk off.

“Carlos,” Charles sad assuredly, “I’ll make sure it’s okay.”

He caught Carlos's mouth in a kiss for all of the cameras to see and warmed when he felt Carlos relax against him. He deepened the kiss without really meaning to, caught up in the way Carlos’s hand came to rest on his waist, the way his lips still held a hint of powdered sugar taste from his breakfast.

“Prince Charles!” A journalist’s low voice burst from the barrage of sound around them. “Can you tell us about your feelings for Prince Sebastian?”

Charles’s eyes flew open, and he found his entire field of view taken up by warm brown eyes and dark lashes.

Their kiss broke, but only just.

“Any comments on Prince Vettel’s statement this morning?” another journalist cried.

Carlos searched his face, but Charles had nothing to offer. He gave a minute shake of his head, thoroughly confused.

“We should go,” Carlos murmured, pecking his lips before tugging him forward. Charles stumbled along after him, glad that at least someone had the wherewithal to move.

“Prince Charles! Prince Charles! Do you still have feelings for Prince Sebastian?”

“Any response to his statement today?

“How has your relationship changed since the end of last season?”

Questions flew at him as they walked, and Charles checked his phone yet another time for any kind of update from Giorgio, but nothing had appeared.

“At least it’s not what we thought it was,” Charles muttered as they broke into the hospitality lane.

Pre-race hubbub made for a packed scene, jammed full of reporters, fans, and special guests. Eyes kept turning to them—no, him.

Fear crawled up Charles’s throat, but he tried to keep himself focused on the race, on what he needed to go over in the car before he stepped inside it. They needed a few tweaks to the camber and toe angle after qualifying, and he wanted to make sure everything happened as it was supposed to.

“Char?”

Charles snapped from his thoughts at the sound of Pierre’s voice. He stood wedged between a mass of microphones and cameras looking lost, mirroring the way Charles felt.

For a moment he wanted nothing more than to bury his face into Pierre’s chest, to drown out the sound of shouted questions about the man he thought he’d  left behind.

Instead he just stood there, grip tightened on Carlos’s hand, staring at the man he was committed to but not married to.

They were in way too public of a place to say anything meaningful, but Charles tried to convey his confusion in a glance.

But Charles had forgotten that Pierre abandoned protocol for him. He watched as Pierre shoved through the crowd and trotted up to him with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, slipping an arm around Charles’s shoulders.

"Tu l'as vu?" Pierre asked, keeping his smile.

“Pierre, je n'ai aucune idée dece qui se passe,” Charles whispered back.

“Can we speak Italian so I can understand?” Carlos chimed in.

"Hai parlato con Sebastian dopo l'allenamento, vero?" Pierre asked, not bothering to look at Carlos. 

Charles’s brow furrowed. Cameras pressed in. “Uh, oui. Sí.”

“We can’t stay here talking,” Carlos said low in his ear.

It took every ounce of willpower for Charles to keep himself from shivering. Having Pierre and Carlos on either side of him was a recipe for disaster.

“Pierre, we have to get in inside,” Charles said. “But thank you for coming over.”

Pierre looked at him for a moment, and Charles saw a sharpness to his gaze he hadn't noticed before. Pierre's arm slid from around his shoulders. “I didn’t come here to comfort you. I came here to find out if it’s true.”

Charles blinked. He meant to answer, to tell Pierre that he had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but Carlos tugged him away. Charles made to reach for Pierre’s hand, but thought better of it. There were too many cameras.

So he turned his attention back to his husband, only to find Carlos’s eyes wild with fury.

“What?” Charles asked.

How could everything always go so wrong for him in such a short amount of time?

"Lo sa meglio di così," Carlos growled, and Charles realized his anger was toward Pierre, not him. His apprehension fell away to comfort for only a second before reporters started shouting in his ear again. 

“We need to figure out what the hell is going on,” Charles said.

“Yes, but to come up to you like this—durante questo—and all but threaten you? He needs to learn to trust you or he will have a very difficult time.”

Charles pushed down the guilt that welled in him. Pierre had every reason not to trust him. Pierre was the reason Max and Sebastian never should have.

“It’s fine,” Charles murmured.

Carlos wheeled around, eyes still sparking.  “Stop. It isn’t fine. Don’t say it’s fine when someone treats you like that."

Charles leveled his gaze. “I’m saying it’s fine because it is. Pierre has a reason to be upset, but that’s between us.”

Carlos shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You’re about to race, and you might not see him until the hiatus is over. I would not want something like that to be the last thing I said to Lando.”

“Good thing you have other ways to talk to him,” Charles snapped.

He couldn’t help it. He wished he could text Pierre. He wished he could call and listen to his voice instead of straining to listen to things Carlos said to Lando just to see if they were different.

Carlos frowned at him. He did that a lot lately. Charles hated it, hated that he was always the cause. At this point, he would rather go to Mykonos with Pierre. Planning a trip to the beach with Carlos—choosing the villa, the restaurants, the amenities and tours—felt too much like a honeymoon to be sharing it with Lando and his stupid phone.

Especially when Carlos’s trip to “see friends” in London would mean a week with Lando, even if he didn’t say it. Charles was for more insulted that Carlos tried to hide it from him than he would have been if Carlos just admitted what he was doing.

Binotto met them on the second floor of the hospitality motorhome, sour-faced and fuming.

"Hai sentito?" he asked.

“No,” Charles replied. “Show me whatever he said.”

“He said plenty,” Binotto growled, “but he said it without words.”

He handed over a phone, and Charles’s heart plummeted before he even looked at the screen. When he finally looked at the photo, his heart shot right back up into his throat.

Sebastian stood on the track, smiling jovially at the camera and even offering a wave. Effortless charisma perfected over four championships. He didn’t always photograph well, but this photo looked magazine worthy.

And it would be, because he had a shirt on that would become infamous.

Along the shoulder seams were the colors of every empire, dripping down into a collective rainbow to create the words LOVE IS NOT A CONTRACT.

It was a direct jab—no, an attack—against the FIA, the empires, the entire establishment.

Only Sebastian Vettel could make that kind of statement and keep a crown on his head.

“Where was this posted?” Charles asked, ignoring Carlos’s stubble scratching his cheek as he invaded his personal space, as usual, to look at the photo.  

“Ovunque,” Binotto muttered. “Instagram, Twitter, and stories are already beginning to hit in recognized newsfeeds.”

Charles handed back the phone. “So why are all of the reporters asking me questions about him?”

Carlos fished out his phone and began to search. Charles watched his screen, where more photos of Sebastian populated, including several closeups.

This time, Charles noticed the maroon watch peeking out from his nomex sleeve.

Charles’s Senna watch sat on its stand back at Ferrari, where it had stayed for over a month now. But no one knew about the meaning of the watches. He had a feeling Carlos had guessed, but Charles never confirmed anything.

“He was questioned by the FIA this morning,” Binotto explained. “Part of that conversation was leaked—though, knowing Sebastian, I have a feeling he did the leaking.”

Charles tongued the inside of his cheek. “What did he say?”

“I found it,” Carlos said, tapping on an Instagram reel.

A photoshopped image of himself and Sebastian holding each other in the moonlight served as the backdrop for the audio clip, and Charles had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the old Sauber photo of him the creator decided to use.

“What is the reasoning for this outfit?” an unfamiliar voice asked, labeled "MaFIA" by the creator of the video.

“I think it’s very artistic, no?” Sebastian said, and Charles could hear the smile on his lips.

“It seems to me—to the FIA as a whole—that you are attempting to send a message.”

“Oh? Who would I be sending a message to?” Sebastian replied.

A different photo of Sebastian appeared on screen, an old Ferrari photo of him looking directly into the camera with a smirk.

“I think it’s quite obvious,” the FIA voice said. A pause followed. “Charles Leclerc.”

“Ah, yes. Very good,” Sebastian said. “Will you make sure it gets to him?”

Funk music began to play, and a pair of pixelated sunglasses drifted into frame to land on Sebastian’s nose.

Carlos let out a snort and Charles fought not to laugh. Binotto scowled at them, so Charles made sure to put an arm around Carlos, resting his cheek on Carlos’s shoulder to watch him continue to scroll.

A new text popped up on the screen from an unknown number.

you don't have to make bfast EVERY day. just...

The text cut off, but Charles managed to read it before Carlos flicked the text away to hide it.

“Sorry,” Carlos murmured, but Charles stepped away, dimly wondering when Carlos had texted Lando since leaving the hotel.

He looked at Binotto, lifting his chin. “So, what would you like me to do? I didn’t ask Sebastian to do this, and I had no idea this was his plan. Certamente non l'ho incoraggiato."

Binotto glared at both of them. “You must understand what this means. A world champion making a statement like this? Non sarà trascurata. He will be punished, and we have to ensure Ferrari is not punished as well.”

Charles set his jaw. “Everyone knows I love Carlos. I’m not trying to change the way things have played out.”

Binotto’s eyes narrowed. “Carlos? Can you say the same?”

It was a rare thing for Charles to feel relief in the path of Mattia’s anger.

Carlos pocketed his phone, gaze determined but respectful.

“Mattia, I’ve proven my loyalty,” Carlos said. “I chose Ferrari.”

“You know that isn’t what I’m referring to,” Binotto replied evenly.

“I love Charles,” Carlos said, stepping close to put an arm around him again.

Charles couldn’t stop thinking about Lando’s text. He wanted to see what Carlos said. If he talked about how torturous it was to live with a husband like him.

He shook the thought from his head. Carlos did love him. He’d felt it throughout the season, in that bathtub in Austria, the rally car in Spain, in Florence.

“But do you love only  him?” Binotto asked.

The smart thing to do would be to lie. Charles knew the moment the words left Binotto’s mouth that he would lie about Pierre. He would never be able to face it if Pierre came under fire from Ferrari because of him.

But Charles knew Carlos, and Carlos was loyal to a fault. Protective to a fault.

“No,” Carlos said. "Non amo solo lui."

 

 


 

 

Max had always scared Lando. Not in a way that actually made him feel fear, but saying that Max merely made him nervous didn’t capture the effect Max had on him. When Daniel was around, Lando could ease back into himself, take a backseat while Daniel turned Max into a soft and loving thing that only showed teeth when Daniel was threatened.

When Lando saw Max alone, he saw a version of himself. Or maybe what he wanted to be, a long time ago. There had been a time where he admired Jos’s hard rule, wishing his own father would stop being so fucking encouraging all the time. Fear of punishment made for faster learning, Lando thought, but his dad was never even disappointed in him for losing. He merely smiled, sometimes let out a whistle, and said, “You’re so fast, Lando.”

But both he and Max had made it to royalty, somehow—though they both had different demons.

Lando spotted Sebastian as he walked down the hospitality lane. He’d seen his shirt on Instagram already (he had no idea how early Sebastian had showed up on track, but it felt like a full news cycle had passed since he’d been photographed), but seeing it in person sent a wave of anxiety through him.

Sebastian talked to Britta, his personal Public Affairs rep—one of the only people allowed to follow a prince through his transitions between empires.  She talked with intensity that Sebastian didn’t mirror as he swung a sweat towel at his side and nodded thoughtfully.

The FIA would be furious about this. The leaked audio made them look bad, so Lando anticipated that there would be hell to pay when they returned from summer break.

Much like Monaco, summer hiatus involved relaxed rules, to an extent. As long as nothing incriminating got posted by fans or news outlets, the FIA tended not to care who they chose to spend time with.

But Sebastian might have just ruined that for everyone.

Lando couldn’t even find it in himself to be angry. He wished he had the strength to wear a shirt like that. He would, for Carlos, but he would also be crucified for it. He would lose his crown, even though anyone with eyes could see Daniel loved someone else.

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t so obvious. It hadn’t been to Lando a few months prior.

He stepped up to the Red Bull hospitality motorhome and waited for a team member to appear. It didn’t take long—papaya orange had a way of sticking out.

The sliding glass doors opened and a woman in a Red Bull polo stepped out.

“Can I help you, Your Highness?” she asked, puzzled.

“Yeah, I need to talk to Max,” Lando said, nonchalant.

She blinked at him. “I’m sorry, but Prince Verstappen is busy at the moment.”

Lando leaned to try to look over her shoulder. “But he’s in there?”

The woman hesitated, clearly unsure whether or not she was supposed to tell him. “Um, yes. He’s inside.”

Lando flashed her a smile. “Cool. Can you tell him I’m out here? I know he’s got his pre-race ritual thing going on, but I’m royally asking you to tell him I’m here.”

He didn’t like to wield his authority on people, but he couldn’t carry this shit around for an entire race.

The woman grimaced before nodding once and heading back inside. Lando stepped out of the way of the doors and crossed his arms, watching the sea of people passing by.

I won’t lose Carlos either.

That sentence haunted him since he’d read it on George’s phone. So did the part about not losing Max, but that one wasn’t much of a surprise to him. Fucking Charles. He always had to stick his pretty nose into everyone else’s lives.

“Lando?”

He spun around to see Max in the threshold, hands at his ears as he pulled his earbuds out.

“That was fast,” Lando greeted.

Max smiled, and Lando thought back to the days where they used to be close, when he used to see that smile all the time. Now it came as a surprise.

“I figured you wouldn’t come find me just to say hello,” Max said, pocketing his earbuds. “What’s going on?”

Lando jerked his chin over his shoulder. “Got time for a walk?”

Max nodded once. Lando waited for a comment about making it fast or a warning that they couldn’t talk for long, but none came.

“Okay then,” Lando said. “Let’s go.”

Max kept pace beside him as they headed toward the track crossing still open for the VIP attendees. Max kept his gaze high as they walked, always looking over everyone else’s heads.

Hungaroring was one of the few tracks with a mostly-untouched track interior. Spruces and cedars forested the space, making it nice place to walk to avoid crowds. He and Carlos took more than a few walks along the track fencing in their time as husbands. They used it as a way to unwind after qualifying the year before, at least.  

Shadows patterned Max’s face as they entered the treeline a few minutes later. Not one complaint so far. Lando was almost impressed.

“I’d really like to know what you’re doing,” Lando began, snapping a twig under his trainers. “I know you, Max. Enough to know that you wanted all of us to find out that you exiled Alex on purpose.”

Max’s face was a blank canvas dotted with two turquoise eyes.

Lando stopped walking. “Doesn’t it bother you to see George like this?”

“I don’t pay attention to George,” Max replied immediately, matter-of-factly.

Lando shook his head. “Don’t lie to me, mate. You can lie to all of them, but don’t lie to me.”

He kept Max’s biggest secret. Kept him safe, and now he kept him sober.

Max blinked vapidly at him, then shrugged. “Yes, I exiled Alex on purpose. Is that what you wanted to know?”

Lando started walking again, eyes on the path in front of him. Last thing he needed was a twisted ankle right before the race.

“I know you had Charles delete a video off of George’s phone.”

Max froze mid-step.

Lando turned to him with a frown. “You should know better. Charles is the worst at that stuff.”

Dapples of sunlight moved over Max’s frame as he stood there. His shoulders were so broad now. Lando remembered hugging him as a kid, how he could almost touch his elbows on either arm. Now he probably couldn’t even cross his wrists behind Max’s back if he tried.

“Fuck,” Max whispered.

“And Charles now has that video, I hear,” Lando said. “So I assume you have it now?”

Max didn’t answer.

Disappointment felt a lot like hurt. Lando crossed his arms. “What are you doing, mate? This isn’t you.”

He and Max used to be close, but Lando hesitated to call them friends. It always felt like something different, because they’d never been on even ground. Lando was always a year behind, a series behind, a second behind.

But he knew Max. The real one, the one that Charles didn’t know, because Charles had never met a version of Max who didn’t love him.

“I don’t know who’s on the video,” Lando said, “but I’m asking you to pull your phone out and delete it. Right now, so I can see.”

Max kept staring at him, watching him.

“I can’t do that,” Max finally said.

“Max—”

“I can’t do that because I don’t have the video. I never asked Charles to steal it, I asked him to delete it.”

Lando cocked his head. “So Charles took it without you knowing?”

He suddenly needed to know who the video exposed.

Max shrugged, but Lando saw panic in his eyes, though it was well hidden. “I guess. I’ll get him to delete it.”

Lando let out a halfhearted snort. “He really does anything you want, huh?”

A smile broke on Max’s face. It made Lando sick inside. He wondered if Daniel knew how deep things went between Max and Charles. If he knew Max still loved Charles in the present tense.

“He’s with Pierre, Max,” Lando growled.

Max laughed. “Right.”

Lando stifled the urge to say more, but this little scene was getting all too familiar. He looked away, back toward the track.

“I’ll have Charles delete it, you have my word,” Max said. “Make sure George knows. Don’t let him do anything fucking stupid, okay?”

Lando’s nostrils flared. Fuck fuck fuck. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking memories from his mind. It was like trying to plug a leak with a sponge.

So he thought of Daniel instead. His happy smile, his dance moves in the hotel suite that morning, sliding across the wood floor in avocado-patterned socks, nodding his head in time with music Lando couldn’t hear as he sat curled in a ball on the couch, sore and not in the mood for dancing.

Wind sifted through the pine needles, creating a soft sound, like a whisper.

Lando blinked moisture from his eyes and looked up into the towering spruces.

“He’s in so much fucking pain, Max,” Lando whispered.

Max’s face fell. “Who? George?”

Lando shook his head.

“Charles?”

No, Daniel didn’t know the extent of it. Max would never tell him anything that could break his heart.

“Wait—Are you—Daniel?

Max said his name so softly.

Lando looked at him properly. “I told him I wouldn’t tell you about it, but he needs…fuck, he needs more from you, okay?”

Max rushed up to him so fast that Lando nearly thought to raise his hands to deflect a blow that never came.

“Tell me,” Max demanded, eyes wide.

Lando shook his head.  “I promised I wouldn’t.”

“No, tell me what he needs,” Max clarified, gripping his arms.

Oh. Lando assumed they were about to get into a fight about marital secrecy.

He cleared his throat.

“Just, like, make sure he knows he doesn’t have to do this alone,” Lando said. “He’s carrying a lot of shit. He won’t tell me about any of it, but it’s destroying him. You need to be with him over the hiatus, Max. Like, the whole time. He really needs you.”

He made the mistake of having this conversation where no one could see them, so he had no reason in the back of his mind to stop the pain from welling up in him. Old pain—past pain—hurt just by moving within him.

Seeing Max’s eyes so full of emotion threw him back to a place he swore he would never go again.

Better to forget it ever happened. That was what he told himself. For years. It worked to resolve half of the problem, but not the half that hurt.

Lando grit his teeth. “Stop pretending you and Charles still have something.”

Max frowned. “I wish it was just pretend.”

He said everything so stupidly, like a dictionary with half the words missing. His accent added and air of aloofness to everything too, and it always had.

“What is with all of you?” Lando snapped. “It isn’t that hard to pick someone. You can’t love multiple people that way. You just can’t. Someone always gets the short stick—always.”

Max’s brow furrowed. “That’s not true. I love both of them.”

“Don’t change your tune now,” Lando spat.

Max blinked, then his cheeks colored with realization.

“Daniel is literally killing himself for you,” Lando said, shoving Max backward. He didn’t budge. “He loves you so much. You’re all he thinks about, mate. He can’t stop, even when he wants to. Even when he tries to—he just loves you too much.”

For the first time ever, something Lando said made Max soften into the thing only Charles and Daniel had been able to create before.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love him,” Max said quietly.

“So stop bringing Charles into it and just be happy!” Lando snapped, shoving him again. This time, Max caught his wrists.

“It isn’t that simple,” Max said.

“Yeah, well, you need to figure out how to simplify it, or Daniel won’t be around to hear the answer,” Lando said, lip curling in disgust.

“You’re projecting.”

Lando did his best not to punch him across the face. “I am not fucking projecting, mate. Daniel does everything for you. He puts everything on the line for you and then you start talking about Charles again after six years? What the fuck?”

Max wasn’t stupid. He had an amazing long distance relationship with Daniel that he maintained despite everyone trying to put an end to them. He knew how fast word traveled, and he knew what the media was making of Charles visiting him in the hospital.

Max’s grip loosened on his wrists before he dropped them completely. “Daniel and I talk about everything. He knows how much I love him.”

Lando shook his head. “He doesn’t, though. Whatever you think, whatever you tell him, it doesn’t mean anything the minute he finds out about whatever you told Charles to get him to do all of this.”

“Daniel knows,” Max growled.

Lando snorted. “No he doesn’t, Max. Deep down, you know that.”

Max worked his jaw, fighting the urge to speak.

Just a few hours ago Lando woke up naked in his hotel bed next to an also-naked Daniel, who apparently hadn’t slept. His hair was still damp from the shower, his eyelashes matted together as he stared up at the ceiling, completely still.

The last time they fucked, in Bahrain, Lando woke up to room service bringing in a breakfast platter, sending Lando straight under the comforter to hide while Daniel laughed. They ate that breakfast in that blanket tent—fresh fruit and cheese with honey.

This morning could not have been more opposite, but Lando didn’t regret it. He didn’t feel any shame, either.

“Now you’re projecting," Max said, weaker this time.

Lando looked away. “Yeah. Empathizing too. Don’t do what Carlos is doing to me.”

“Don’t tell me you doubt Carlos,” Max said, disbelieving. “He loves you.”

Lando wrinkled his nose. “See? That’s what I mean. People keep saying stuff like that—even Carlos says stuff like that—but it gets harder and harder to believe the more I see him with Charles.”

Max didn’t speak for a long time. Noises from the track drifted through the trees, and that meant they needed to get back to prepping for the race. The thing they were actually here to do.

“You’ll spend time with him over the break, right?” Max asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Time together will be good. You won’t have to think this way.”

“I'm telling you, whatever your plans are, make sure all of them include Daniel," Lando said with a smile, but his eyes stayed dead. "Anything less just isn’t good enough.”

Chapter 66

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Sometimes starting from the back of the grid had advantages. Hungary proved to be a race where it was nice to be in the back.

First off, the bit of rain just before the start had everyone scrambling to change tires, though George stared at the clouds and didn’t see more rain coming, evidently the weather team did. The track was wet enough that the tires sprayed mist during their out lap, so every team allowed themselves a breath of relief that their choice to change hadn’t been for naught.

None of that mattered after Turn 1, though. George wasn’t sure who started the pileup, but from his angle, half the cars on track seemed to be driving on glass. Cars slid off into the gravel, and George flinched involuntarily as flecks of carbon fiber hit his helmet. He even felt the sting of some embedding into his arm, slicing through his suit like nothing. He decided not to say anything on radio and pushed thoughts of fire out of his mind as he weaved through the carnage.

He saw a McLaren, a Ferrari, and an Aston Martin piled up on the side of the road, and what had to be Bottas’s Mercedes. Lewis would never crash out from pole.

“That’ll be a red flag, but keep pushing until they call it,” James said into his ear. “Ah—yellow, yellow.”

George set his limiter, adrenaline flooding through him anew. Four cars out that he could see, two Hasses behind him. Their chances for points had just skyrocketed, and George intended to earn them.

“When they call red, I want to meet with Jost and Nic,” George said. “We need a team strategy. I want those points, lads.”

 


 

Charles sat in his Ferrari for several moments just staring at the tire wall. The car had already been turned off, and the team knew he was okay, but he had no desire to move.

He’d seen Lance in his right mirror just before impact, and when he looked again, he had a car wedged into his chassis. Smoke plumed from Perez’s car as it coughed out the last of its exhaust before cutting out. Valtteri was already out of his, fiddling with the steering wheel to lock it back in place.

He waited until the urge to kill Lance settled into “good idea” territory instead of “absolutely necessary,” then started freeing himself from the car.

When he finally put his boots on soft gravel, he thumped himself on the helmet and took a seat on the mangled chassis. He prayed the engine hadn’t been damaged, but he’d fought back against penalties before.

Once again, luck wasn’t on his side. Except Charles never factored luck into any performance, though it was easier to say that in front of the cameras. Luck did not exist. Penalties had reason behind them. Slower laps could be accounted for with data. The chemical imbalances in his brain that made him irritable and shittier behind the wheel could be balanced with drugs.

A car could only be a car. They weren’t like people, they didn’t change opinions day by day. The car didn’t love or hate him, no matter how much of himself he poured into it.

He’d failed his car. He’d failed his empire, again.

Stewards began to salvage the car as a red flag began to fly along the fence line. He watched Lance’s onboard as it replayed on the big screens and he noticed the way Lance didn’t even try to correct himself as it glided toward him, the nose of his car punching through the ribs of his.

The cars weren’t alive, but Charles still had to look away when metal innards started flying.

“You deserved it.”

Charles looked up to see Lance standing in the gravel a few paces from him, his visor flipped up, his cheeks pinched in his helmet. His cattish eyes narrowed to slits as Charles flipped up his own visor and marched toward him.

“What the hell is your problem?” Charles snapped.

Lance laughed. “My problem? I’m not the one stringing along multiple guys.”

Charles bristled, but couldn’t find it in him to respond. After all, Lance was right. He couldn’t decide on one person. The fairytale he’d always been waiting for never materialized the way he thought it would. He had bits and pieces of what he wanted with the love of his life, but they all came from different sources. Different men.

“I didn’t ask Sebastian to wear that shirt,” Charles said. “I didn’t—”

“Exactly!” Lance gave him a shove so hard that Charles fell right on his ass, throwing pebbles. “You didn’t do anything. You didn’t tell him it’s over, but it’s over! You let him keep believing in something that isn’t going to happen!”

Charles stared at him, pain radiating up from the base of his spine. He tried to speak, but no words came out between the anger and guilt warring in him. Smoke wafted between them, and he heard the choked sounds of engines waning.

“You’re right,” Charles said.

The words hung in the air between them. Lance absorbed them slowly, his anger melting to a pain Charles knew well.

“But I’m not trying to take Sebastian away from you,” Charles said, finding his way to his feet. He brushed the gravel from his suit. “Nobody steals anyone away, Lance. No one steals a husband who doesn’t want to leave.”

Lance recoiled as the truth rang clear.

Charles wouldn’t go back to Sebastian. Even seeing that shirt and knowing it was for him, didn’t change his mind. Sebastian wanted a simplistic life when his appointment ended. He wanted his cottage in Switzerland, his home in Germany, tucked away from everyone else. When he left the royal circle, he wanted to live the rest of his life undisturbed with a husband who loved him.

Charles thought he wanted that, but he knew now that the allure of the crown would never leave him, not fully. He would raise his children to race. He’d teach the same lessons his father taught him and he would try to be as kind, but he would raise his children to win.

The acrid scent of burning rubber infiltrated his nose, but Charles barely noticed.

Someday he would see Lance and his children at those tracks. He would see Pierre and he would see Max. Others too, but definitely those three. Carlos would only be there if his children wanted to be, he would never ask it of them. Charles would.

If Charles ever had the chance, he would ask a retired prince what it was like, after. But they all seemed to disappear after their royal exit. They returned with wrinkles and age and a distaste for the world they used to drown themselves in. Kimi Räikkönen was one of the few who left and came back better.

“You’re the worst of all of them,” Lance spat, advancing on him again. Charles met his eye, fully aware of the stewards staring at them from the fence line, silently begging them to leave the track.

“I don’t try to be,” Charles said, sounding as weak as he felt.

“You’re like—you’re like poison! You just take everything away from people—it’s like you do it for fun!”

Charles thanked god for the guise of his helmet to keep his face from showing the shame in him.

“I know,” he said, in a whisper this time. Drugs could only do so much.

Lance threw up his hands. “Fuck you, Charles.”

His name came out mangled and strange from Lance’s mouth, hanging there like a gnarled tree limb as Lance stalked toward the stewards to start shouting at them too.

Charles kicked at the gravel. When he stepped off of the track and into the emergency lane, he saw Checo curled against the wall, his helmet wedged between his knees, hands folded over the back of his head.

Charles knew all too well what it was like to fear walking back to a garage after failure. He ignored Checo’s trembling shoulders and continued walking, allowing him his peace.

 

 


 

 

“Your call, George,” James said into his ear as George gunned it.

“Get me up to speed, what’s going on?” he asked, glancing up at a big screen. He caught the flash of an Alpine livery, but he had no idea what was happening on track.

A red flag and a tip that the weather would stay away (as he’d predicted) resulted in a tire change for everyone except Lewis. George took his chances and came out of the pits in P2 with a crafty move in the pit lane, but the FIA demanded he give the places back. Not exactly an unfair call, but George had taken the risk anyway.

“Six cars out of the race,” James said. “Max and Daniel are suffering from damage after the Lap 1 collision. Max is losing pace fast, doesn’t look like he’ll even stay in the points.”

“Why’s everyone cheering?” George asked as he stomped the brake, flicking down the gears as he entered Turn 4 and into Sector 2. His delta looked consistent when he checked the screen under the steering wheel, but he couldn’t read the thing while he was turning because Williams opted to put their money in things other than an in-wheel display.

“Alonso is fending off Hamilton,” James said. “He’s been holding him up for almost eight laps.”

“Holy fuck,” George murmured. “In an Alpine?”

No wonder the crowd was going nuts.

“And Ocon still has the lead,” James said.

The engine roared as George flew around Turn 11. He loved Hungaroring—it was built like a karting track, making it one of his favorites, though driving a car through the swooping corners was much different. He somehow loved it more this way.

If Esteban could hold onto a lead here, George definitely could have if the FIA had just given him a fucking break.

“We’re running out of time,” James said. “I need a decision so we can get you both squared.”

James was always straight with him. He didn’t mind putting pressure on, but he always had a good word when things went well. George would likely lose James in a move up to Mercedes, and he would miss him terribly.

George didn’t need to think on the answer. Nic was ahead of him, driving like an absolute legend. His own chances of getting points were getting slimmer with every lap, but Nic would be able to keep the car where it needed to be. He could spend a few more laps on shitty tires if he had to.

George pressed the radio button, a smile on his lips.

“Prioritize Nicky.”

 

 


 

 

Lando’s heart lodged in his throat as he watched Carlos fight to keep P3. He knew Carlos was one of the cleanest drivers on track, and Hamilton never put a foot wrong—okay, he rarely put a foot wrong—so if there had to be a track battle, Carlos and Lewis were two of the best candidates to respect each other.

Unlike Max, who had nearly taken Mick out twice in the space of a few corners.

After Daniel started losing so much pace that Zak started taking about his vacation plans on the pit wall, Lando headed into his briefing room to watch the rest of his race. He had the burner phone pressed to his stomach, pinned in place by his legs, knees drawn up to his chin.

“Just keep fighting, mate,” Tom said over Daniel’s radio feed. “Focus on Kimi.”

Don’t focus on Max, Tom didn’t say, but Lando heard it anyway.

Max had somehow managed to hold on with a battered car even though Lando had to retire during the red flag for some bullshit damage—all thanks to Valtteri not even bothering to put on the brakes, ramming into the back of his car at the worst possible point in the fucking corner entry.

Daniel could drive with his damage, but no, not him.

He watched as the nose of Carlos’s Ferrari swoop right up against Lewis’s chassis, nearly touching it as they vied for position. Carlos would never give up a spot without a fight, not unless the team told him to. Lando used to think he was weak for that.

“I will fight team orders if I feel they are wrong,” Carlos had said. “For my car, I know more because I drive it. For your car, I listen. You should too.”

Good advice, but Lando barely remembered the words, he’d been so busy staring at Carlos’s mouth. That was back in the days where he only wanted Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. Every thought revolved around taking his clothes off or playing tonsil hockey or both.

He didn’t know how he’d gotten anything done.

Okay, he did. Carlos loved messing around with him, but only after work hours, and work hours took up most of the day for him back then. Lando thought he’d been doing his best to put McLaren in the running, but he’d actually been putting on a show for Ferrari.

“Boys, I can’t catch him,” Daniel said, talking loud over the roar of the engine. “I’m losing time every sector. It’s time for damage control.”

Daniel sounded completely different in the car. He had authority, wisdom, and a no-nonsense attitude when it came to data and track analysis. He got that way in briefings sometimes, and Lando had to catch himself more than once to stop his mouth from falling open.

Daniel pretended to be the jockish, mellow guy the cameras turned him into, but he had teeth in that smile and venom in his mouth when he needed it. he also had a hel of a brain when it wasn’t drowning in hops.

“Mick is behind you,” Tom said over radio. “Your tires are good. You can push as much as you want to take you to the end.”

The main camera feeds left Lewis behind to focus on Sebastian and Esteban. As much as Lando thought Esteban could be a brat on track, he had to admit he was impressed at the way he’d managed to keep Sebastian at bay. Of course, Fernando was the real hero for Alpine, securing Esteban’s win with a legendary defense against Lewis that would definitely make it into the tabloids with some quip about ex-husbands fighting it out.

Lando could only think about how he could have won his one. He could have escaped the carnage and secured a podium easily—every major threat had been sidelined except Lewis and Carlos.

The crowd roared as Esteban flew across the line. The sound vibrated through the stands, shaking the floor under Lando’s racing boots.

His cheers. They were supposed to be his.

“That’s Ocon P1, Vettel P2, Hamilton P3,” Zak announced on the main channel. “Excellent job out there today, everyone. Luck wasn’t on our side, but we have a long break to enjoy. I know we’ll come back with some fire.”

Lando twitched with annoyance. Daniel hadn’t even finished yet and the team was moving around like they were in line to board a plane back to McLaren.

He stood up, searching through the radio buttons to press Tom’s direct line. Definitely not allowed during a race, but if Zak wanted to pretend it was over already, Lando would to.

“Tom, it’s Lando,” he said. “Tell Daniel I said he did great. I’m headed off to do the press stuff.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “Uh, and tell him I love him or whatever.”

Nice, definitely not a weird save.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Lando tried not to cringe. They had to pretend to be a happily married couple, didn’t they?

“Er—I’ll do that,” Tom said, clearly confused. “Thanks.”

A few seconds later, Daniel’s radio light went on.

“Daniel, Lando said to tell you that you did an excellent job. I agree. He also said he loves you very much, mate.”

Lando did cringe then.

Daniel laughed. “Sweet. Love him bunches. Great work today, gents. Today was a tough one.”

Lando dumped his headset and headed out of the garage and into the pit lane where he spotted Carlos pulling off his helmet. Lando’s cheeks were already warm as Carlos tugged off his balaclava, freeing his mess of black hair that—infuriatingly—settled into a perfect state of tousled after Carlos shook it out.

“Brilliant drive, man!”

Lando turned to see Lewis grabbing Sebastian in a tight hug nearby.

“Some race, eh?” Sebastian replied with a laugh, slapping his back.

“Good to see you on the podium again,” Lewis said. “Missed you, man.”

Sebastian chuckled, eyes bright. “No you didn’t.”

Beyond them, Fernando had Esteban in his arms, twirling him around as the crowd screamed. Everyone in an Alpine shirt had tears in their eyes, smiling, hugging each other, overwhelmed.

Lando itched for that feeling. His first win was so close he could taste it. Sometimes he woke up with the stickiness of champagne on his tongue, the residue of Interlagos the sight of so many people below.

“That will be you soon,” Carlos said, knocking him with his hip.

Lando jumped, nearly sending the burner right out of his hoodie pocket.

“Hi to you too,” Lando greeted with a smile, turning to face him “You did great out there.”

Carlos laughed bitterly. “Fernando holds Lewis off for half the race, I can’t even manage half a lap.”

“You would have been able to hold him off for half the race if you were protecting my win,” Lando replied.

Carlos’s eyes dimmed with fondness. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Lando was tempted to greet him the way they used to after a race. A long hug to remind each other that they’d both made it, and then a fleeting kiss before press took over the rest of their afternoon.

“Shit,” Lando muttered under his breath as he looked over Carlos’s shoulder. “Keep in touch, yeah? Will I see you tonight?”

“Find me before you leave,” Carlos said. “I have plans tonight—personal, not with Charles.”

“Didn’t ask,” Lando said too cheerfully, trailing his fingers over Carlos’s stomach as he passed. “I’ll find you.”

He hurried down the pit lane toward where Daniel and Max sat facing each other, sitting on the tires of their respective cars. They weren’t speaking, just looking at each other.

“Look at you two,” Lando greeted, settling beside Daniel and putting an arm around his shoulders in case any cameras were on them.

Max wiped his face on his sleeve and looked away.

“Hey,” Daniel croaked in a delayed greeting, hooking his arm around Lando’s legs for a little side hug. “You okay? Didn’t hear much about the car.”

Lando carded his finger through Daniel’s curls without thinking. He offered a shrug. “Car’s a mess, but I’m fine. Bottas is a real asswipe, that’s about all I got out of today.” He glanced at Max. “What’s going on over here?”

“Busy makin’ plans,” Daniel sang, but Lando didn’t know the song. Probably country, judging by the twang.

“Oh?” Lando asked with a pointed look to Max.

Max stood abruptly, eyes on Daniel. He looked either pissed or devastated—they both looked the same on him.

“The answer is yes,” Max said. “Just tell me what you want.”

Daniel’s fingers curled against Lando’s hip. Suddenly Lando’s thoughts snapped back to the night before, the same touch in a very different context.

“Think about it,” Daniel said.

Max shook his head. “I don’t need to. That’s my answer. It won’t change, but it’s up to you. I won’t force you.”

Daniel chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “Okay. I land tomorrow at seven. I’ll have an answer then.”

Lando watched Max carefully, but couldn’t read anything in his gaze before he turned away.

He didn’t make it three steps before Kimi Räikkönen appeared out of fucking nowhere, stopping him in place. Lando stopped breathing as Max slowly looked up, and the stalemate that followed made Lando want to get the fuck away from this track. Max had the fire of a sun, Kimi had the icy frost of whatever they called those planets that were so cold they could shatter diamonds.

Kimi said something Lando couldn’t hear, and Max snarled something back. They both moved to leave at the same time, so fast that Lando could only think of the slow motion clips on the nature channel of snakes lunging at unsuspecting mice.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Max growled, loud enough that Lando could hear this time.

Daniel stood up, but didn’t look over.

“Come on,” he said, guiding Lando back toward the garage. “Trust me, you don’t want to see this.”

“I think I do, actu—”

Daniel caught his mouth in a kiss. Lando nearly shoved him back, but then Daniel’s tongue flicked across his bottom lip, rendering him useless for another full second before Daniel pulled back.

“Thanks for the radio shoutout,” Daniel said, offering a nonchalant grin. “People are gonna love that.”

Lando swallowed hard, then remembered to smile back. “That? Yeah, easy. Almost forgot the ‘I love you’ part. Figured it wasn’t very husband-like to leave it out.”

Love you bunches echoed in his brain as Daniel bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Daniel took his hand and pulled him along. FIA had already swarmed Max and Kimi, who seemed to be telepathically beating the shit out each other, as neither man had moved.

“Okay, you have to tell me what that’s about,” Lando said, skipping along to catch up with Daniel—yes, skipping. Daniel had a big stride.

“I’ll give you some advice,” Daniel said as he winked at a few Public Affairs girls from Ferrari. They all turned as red as their polos. “Let people figure out how to protect themselves. Don’t go sticking your nose in someone else’s shit.”

“Not fair. That doesn’t tell me anything. That’s code.”

Daniel dropped his hand as they stepped into the garage. He nodded to Tom, who stood next to the open door to Daniel’s briefing room. Lando swiped Daniel’s water bottle (he’d already checked the contents) and handed it over.

Daniel took a long sip before smacking his lips.

“Want the cypher?” Daniel asked with no smile and want in his eyes.

He’s thinking about Max, Lando reminded himself. He’s still high on seeing him.

“Depends on how I can get it,” he replied. He was getting better at the flirting thing. Sort of.

Daniel grinned dirty. “I’ll think of something.”

 

 


 

 

George stood at the base of the podium behind the crowd of Alpine and Aston Martin team members that drowned the Mercedes crew. He watched Lewis, marveling at the way he could be so happy taking third.

Nic stood beside him, both of them drenched in champagne from a victory celebration of a different kind: Williams’ first points, made all the sweeter by a double points finish.

“We have it good, man,” Nic said, grinning wide as Esteban hoisted his trophy in the air. The crowd cheered, and George imagined it was for him and Nic too. He gave Nic’s shoulder a squeeze, his arm already wrapped around him.

“We do,” he agreed.

As horrible as things had been for him lately, George took the time to appreciate what they had here. Williams, an empire who took care of its princes and listened to two young guys when they didn’t need to. Nicky, his best friend who he was lucky enough to have as a husband, who helped him take on all of the shit the world was throwing at him.

Lewis posed for the podium photo, grinning wide with an arm around Esteban, Sebastian flanking his other side, looking like the Sebastian George remembered from the Red Bull era.

There wasn’t a dry eye beneath the podium, except Fernando’s. Fernando looked proudly up at his husband, a wide smile on his face. George suspected he’d escaped a murder because Lewis managed a podium, enough that he’d seen Lewis give him a slap on the back in a wordless show of respect for his ability to hold him off.

The cloudy skies above couldn’t dampen the mood as the Alpine anthem played through the speakers. George inhaled the scent of fuel, champagne, and sweat, savoring it.

Taking a month away from driving would be strange—it was always a war between relaxing and fearing a loss of skill. They would have the simulators, of course, but Jost had already warned them that they had to go on a real holiday. Croatia, Nic had decided.

“Ready for a break?” George asked.

Nic tipped his head back to yell, “Hell yeah!”

George laughed. For a moment he forgot about Alex. He forgot about the fact that Lando had taken Max out right at the start of a race he was slated to win, how Bottas forgot to brake, how Daniel limped across the line, how Sebastian managed a miracle despite the FIA trying to stomp him down, how Lewis managed a podium through it all, even if he didn’t win.

George and Nic returned to the garage, offering thank-yous to the team. They gave hugs and took photos, signed things and someone even brought cupcakes from somewhere.

By the time Jost announced that they would be having a team dinner in Budapest, George was sticky with dried sugar and alcohol, and he had icing all over his nomex after Nic shoved a cupcake in his face. He rinsed off with some wash towels in the hospitality motorhome, using the sink as a shower to get champagne out of his hair.

Someone knocked at the bathroom door.

“Yeah?” he called, scrubbing at some stubborn blue icing on his jaw.

“Your Highness, Prince Schumacher is here to see you,” Kayla said through the door.

George turned off the sink. Water dripped from his chin as George stared at himself in the mirror, his stomach wrenching. Lando said Max wouldn’t release the video, but George new better than to trust that. Max did things for himself. Sometimes he pretended to do things for other people, but the root of the reward was always, always himself.

Mick would never believe him if he tried to convince him of the truth. George understood that. If he were in Mick’s shoes, he would believe the same.

George patted a towel to his face before curling his fingers into the cloth and squeezing with all of his might. Water dribbled over his knuckles, and George prepared himself for the loss of someone he considered a friend.

Some things were unforgivable. George knew that when he took the video.

“Be right out,” he finally replied.

Once he had a proper shirt on—though usually that didn’t stop him—George stepped from the bathroom to see Mick standing in the entryway. George greeted him with a nod.

“Hi,” Mick said with a tight smile. “Can you come with me?”

George wordlessly followed Mick back out into the emptying hospitality lane. Mechanics and engineers were carting equipment back to the shipping bays and the sky had begun to darken with the rainclouds that had stayed away for the race.

“I know you won’t believe me, but I can explain,” George began.

Mick shook his head. “You don’t need to explain anything. I took a risk. I risked Callum because I thought I could trust someone, and it turns out I never should have done that.”

“Kimi, you mean,” George supplied.

A sad smile came to Mick’s lips. “Yes. He’s so close with my dad and he’s always looked out for me. He said he would help and I believed him. Now Callum is…”

George grit his teeth against the onslaught of guilt. “Mick, I never released it, but I know who did. I know how horrible—”

“No one released it,” Mick corrected, leading them toward the FIA suites.

George stopped walking. “Wait, what are you doing? Don’t tell me you’re about to self-report or something stupid.”

Mick laughed. “I may seem sweet, but I’m not that noble, George. We just need a place to discuss this civilly, and I’m running out of people I can trust.”

George frowned as he picked up the pace to walk beside him again. “The FIA doesn’t seem like a good place to start.”

“I disagree,” Mick said. “These suites are probably the only places on track where the FIA doesn’t have ears.”

Conspiracy theories about FIA surveillance had been around since the beginning of the empires, but George didn’t believe any of that. Princes were smart about cars more than they were smart about personal privacy. Love was a potent thing, and it was impossible to hide among princes. No secret was ever really a secret here because no onw knew how to properly hide them.

“Did Kimi say why he let me past?” George asked.

Mick swallowed hard. “He doesn’t think Callum deserves a crown. He does. He absolutely does, he just—” He took a deep breath to settle himself. George watched the way his eyes moved under closed lids and wondered how often Mick had to do this to keep himself in such a cheerful mood all the time.

“If I had enough pull to get Callum a crown in any empire outside of Ferrari control, I would,” Mick said. “But he has to be here and that’s the only avenue I have right now. I can’t do another year without him here.”

There were too many players in the game. George didn’t see any spots opening up that Callum could take. Valtteri would have a hard enough time finding a crown and he’d helped turn Mercedes into a winning empire.

Mick shoved open the door to one of the FIA suites. A few employees looked up as they entered, but resumed talking a moment later.

“I don’t want to be a prince unless he’s with me,” Mick continued quietly. “So you and I need to figure out how this is going to work. I know you want Alex Albon back, and I want Callum. There’s a solution for both of them.”

George stumbled as he turned a corner. “How do you know about Alex?”

Mick shot him a look over his shoulder. “Google, mate. There’s still pictures of your two everywhere if you just search it. Pre-appointment, of course.”

The room started to spin, but George forced himself to calm. Everyone had pictures with previous lovers somewhere in the world. Hell, Lewis and Fernando had photos together from McLaren sill floating around.

Mick stopped in front of a door. “We need to be on the same page. If we work together, we can find a way to do this that doesn’t hurt Charles or Callum or Alex or anyone else we care about.”

Mick opened the door an motioned for him to step inside.

George searched his face before stepping past the threshold. He didn’t see how they could find a way for two seats to open, but reminded himself that Mick probably had information from Sebastian that Lewis didn’t.

“I’m really sorry, George,” Mick said.

George cocked a brow. “For what?”

His brain caught a problem before he could register it properly, like a record tripping at the end of the vinyl.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Mick said, eyes full of sadness. “But you left me no choice.”

He shut the door right in George’s face.

George moved for the handle because doors didn’t fucking lock from the outside—then froze as he realized he wasn’t alone.

Fear lanced through him, a cold that traveled out from his chest all the way to the tips of his fingers.

“I have to say, I have been waiting to meet with you for a very long time, George.”

George whipped around. A conference room table sprawled before him, lined with leather chairs, all unoccupied—except one.

Nico Rosberg sat at the end of the table, chin resting on his folded hands.

“Please,” Nico said politely, a smile on his face. “Have a seat.”

 

 

Notes:

the song Daniel is referencing is Busy Makin' Plans by Ronnie Milsap

also I know Lewis was like exactly the opposite of this on the Hungary podium but since COVID doesn't exist in the FG world, i made the man happy instead :)

Chapter Text

Binotto didn’t say anything about the FIA wanting to speak with him, but Charles noticed the way officials kept glancing in his direction as he finished checks with the race team to make sure he’d done everything possible to help the damaged car.  Sebastian’s statement permeated the air, and fans were already hoisting up posters with LOVE IS NOT A CONTRACT hurriedly painted onto white paper.

Charles watched the race in his briefing room, rather stunned to hear Nico Rosberg commentating. He didn’t know Nico, but every prince straightened whenever his name was mentioned. He was the only prince to ever beat Lewis in an identical car, but he lost everything else in the process. Nico and Lewis were a cautionary tale for every empire—even bitter relationships like that of Sebastian and Mark Webber didn’t compare.

He had a feeling that the FIA knew exactly what they were doing calling Nico in after a race where Lewis had been accused of atrocities.

Carlos didn’t manage to pull off third. Charles let out a soft sigh of relief, though he knew he shouldn’t have. He couldn’t handle a repeat of Monaco.

Frustration burned in Carlos’s eyes when he entered the garage, his hair a mess and his racesuit unbuttoned at the collar, partially unzipped. Sweat glistened on his skin as he spoke with Binotto and a few engineers, shaking his head.

“You did well,” Charles said when Carlos finally approached him.

Carlos blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. “I could have taken third.”

“I think losing a podium to Lewis is the most respectable way to lose one,” Charles replied with a smirk, arms crossed.

“Stai bene?” Carlos asked, shrugging out of his fireproofs. “You weren’ hurt, yes?”

“My ego needs a few weeks to heal,” Charles joked. “Era una cazzata. Lance ran into me on purpose, whether he wanted to admit that or not. He locked up and he could have taken himself out in a better way, instead he hit me.”

Carlos kissed his forehead. “We’ll have to make sure he’s nowhere near you next race, then.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “I would rather not think about Lance Stroll again until I have to. I just wish we could have gone into the holiday on better terms—the empire, I mean. I don’t give a shit about Lance.”

Carlos laughed. “I knew what you meant.”

Charles could already see the narrow walkways of Mykonos, the hot sun on his back. The purple glow of neon reflecting in blue water at night. He allowed himself to daydream about Carlos too, sometimes. The way he might taste of chlorine or saltwater, the way his hands would feel on his bare skin.

Charles doubted it would come to that. A vacation to Greece wouldn’t change the fact that they both had people waiting for them, though Charles still wasn’t sure he would see Pierre. Pierre had a trip planned to Ibiza that Charles wouldn’t be able to manage—not that Pierre had asked. Milan was their best bet.

“Carlos,” Charles began, clearing his throat. “I was hoping that when we go to Mykonos you would consider—”

“Charles! Carlos!”

Pierre appeared over Carlos’s shoulder, standing at the open garage bay.

Charles shook his head and offered a polite smile. “Never mind. We can discuss it later.”

Or not, because he didn’t think Carlos would actually stop talking to Lando on their trip. He didn’t want to go into Mykonos fighting.

“Okay, on the plane tomorrow?” Carlos asked before offering Pierre a wave to show he’d heard. He smiled and Charles fought the urge to kiss him.

“Sure,” he replied. “Non era importante.”

They crossed to Pierre, who was basking in the afterglow of P6. His gap-toothed smile made Charles smile too, overwhelmed with affection as he caught Pierre in a hug. As horrible as it was not to finish, Charles was happy for the men in his life—though he hated that he had multiple.

You’re the worst of all of them.

“Tu vas bien?” Pierre asked, lips against his ear as he teetered side to side in an attempt to accentuate friendliness in their embrace.

“Happy for you,” Charles answered, smiling against his damp skin. He smelled like sweat and engine fluid, but Charles didn’t mind. “You did such a good job.”

He almost kissed Pierre’s cheek when he pulled away, but Pierre leaned back too quickly, ruffling his hair.

“Congratulations,” Carlos greeted before pulling Pierre into a hug too. Carlos slapped his back, giving one last squeeze before they separated.

“Feels stupid to be this happy when I was so far behind Fernando,” Pierre laughed. “But it’s good to feel good in the car. And with Yuki right there? We did great today.”

“I saw George and Nicholas even got points,” Charles said.

“Did they?” Carlos let out a laugh. “Good for them. The must be so happy.”

“I saw a lot of champagne in the Williams garage,” Pierre said, but his smile wasn’t as wide anymore.

Interesting.

“Anyway,” Pierre said, slipping on his sunglasses. “We’re still good for dinner, yes?”

Charles blinked. “Dinner?”

But Pierre wasn’t talking to him, he was looking at Carlos, who smiled.

“Yes, Giorgio booked a place I think you’ll like. Unless you would prefer seafood?”

Pierre made a face. “Too far from the Adriatic for me to trust that.”

Carlos rolled his eyes.

“We’re going to dinner?” Charles asked, making a point to butt in.

Pierre looked at him, confused. Carlos slapped his forehead with his palm.

“Fuck,” Carlos said. “Spiacente—I forgot with all of the Sebastian things. Pierre and I are going to dinner.”

Pierre’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on, you didn’t tell him?”

“I just said I forgo—”

“Why are you going to dinner together?” Charles asked, cutting him off.

Carlos glanced at Pierre, who glanced right back.

Anger sparked in Charles’s gut. “Pierre.”

“To talk,” Pierre said hurriedly, glad to be called on. “I asked if Carlos would come to dinner with me so we can talk as friends. To make sure things are good.”

“Without me,” Charles said dryly.

Pierre smiled. “Yes, Calamardo.  Je t’amie, but I think it’s important for Carlos and I to speak clearly to each other.”

“Like you and Lando did,” Carlos offered helpfully, putting an arm around Pierre.

Charles soured. “And I’m supposed to be fine with you two going to dinner to talk about me?”

Carlos looked at Pierre and they smiled brightly at each other. It pissed Charles off, and he didn’t even know why.

“You will be part of the conversation, yes, but it’s also been awhile since we caught up,” Carlos said.

Pierre gave Charles’s polo an affectionate tug. “It’s approved by the FIA. Please don’t be upset.”

Charles scowled. “Too late.”

Pierre sighed, stepping from Carlos’s hold. “Tu veux en parler? Je ne voulais pas que ce soit un secret. J’ai dit à Carlos de te le dire.”

“I heard my name,” Carlos said with an accusatory look.

Pierre gave him a playful shove that Carlos made a pitiful attempt at blocking.

“Je veux te voir,” Charles blurted out. “Je ne comprends pas pourquoi tu as prévu de dîner avec lui et n’as pas essaé de me voir.”

Pierre’s eyes dimmed, a pleasant ocean blue. “Je sais. J’ai une chambre d’hôtel à Budapest—I wanted it to be une surprise, but the Spaniard—” He said the said the Spaniard pointedly, "—was supposed to pretend it was going to be a night for the two of you. He’s staying down the street.”

Charles’s stomach churned, glad that Pierre’s plan had gone to shit. He didn’t know how he would have reacted in the moment, but he was pretty certain it would have ended up worse than this.

He took a deep breath.

“Let me guess, Lando is staying down the street too?”

Carlos shook his head. “He’s going to Monaco, actually. He’s looking to buy a place there.”

The good news just kept on coming. “Since when?”

“Depuis qu’il a compris ce que sont les taxes, probablement,” Pierre said cheekily.

Charles fought not to react. He loved Lando, and having him as a neighbor during off season would be a good thing, normally. Now Charles knew he would be taking his bike out more often than he needed to just to go by Lando’s place and look for signs of Carlos.

It’s like you do it for fun.

“Good for him,” Charles said. “Is Fewtrell still living in his place by McLaren?”

Carlos shrugged. “He didn’t say what Fewtrell was doing.”

Pierre nudged him with an elbow. “So what do you think of la surprise?

Charles put on a smile. “Ça a l’air bien, mon chou garçon. Merci.”

He needed to recenter himself with Pierre. He needed to make fucking decisions.

 


 

Carlos took the Stradale to dinner right from the track, but Charles decided to stay longer. He didn’t want to go back to the hotel room by himself, left only to think about what kind of conversation Carlos and Pierre might be having about him. He prayed Pierre kept his head—he didn’t want Carlos to know any bedroom details about them.

Antonello warned him to stay within the grounds, so Charles decided to head into the inner section of the track where he knew there was a walking path. He took an umbrella with him and zipped his rain jacket up to his chin to fend off the cold and wet as a drizzle began to fall.

He saw Max leaning against the track fence, arms crossed and eyes distant. Charles knew he shouldn’t go over—he knew cameras would find them—but he also loved Max, and he hadn’t spoken to him in almost three weeks.

“You’re going to get soaked,” Charles greeted, offering his umbrella.

Max waved him off without looking up.

Charles settled beside him close enough that their shoulders touched, the umbrella shielding them from both the rain and wandering lenses.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Charles said, watching a bead of water trail down the curve of Max’s jaw. “You even scored points.”

Max let out a groan. “Jesus fuck, can everyone just shut up about racing?”

An amused smile curled to Charles’s lips. He waited for Max to say something else, but the only sound was that of the rain on the stretched fabric of the umbrella above.

“Daniel?” Charles asked.

Max closed his eyes, which was answer enough.

Charles wanted to take his hand, to fold their fingers together and assure Max that Daniel would be okay.

“Did you take the video off of George’s phone?” Max asked.

Charles blinked, not expecting the question. “Yes, I deleted it. I told you that.”

“That isn’t what I heard.”

Charles blinked. “Heard from who?”

Max looked at him, his eyes hard, assessing. “George told Lando that you stole a video from his phone. That you Airdropped it to yourself.”

Charles wished he had. When he saw the thumbnail of the video, the telltale signs of the Alfa Romeo garage, he’d wanted to take the video and watch it, just to see if Mick Schumacher was the person he thought he was.

Charles shook his head. “I didn’t.”

Max held out a hand. “Let me see your phone.”

“What?”

“Show me. Prove it isn’t there.”

Charles stared at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” Max replied, cold.

Charles flinched at the lack of emotion in his voice. “You don’t trust me.”

“No, not currently.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Not currently?”

Max wiggled his hand insistently.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Charles snapped.

“Just give me the phone,” Max growled. “I can’t have you hiding things from me. There’s too much riding on this.”

Charles pulled his phone from his pocket but held it away when Max grabbed for it. Max leaned over to make another grab, and suddenly their faces were close enough that he could feel Max’s breath on his neck, and his vision was ribbons of sunlight on turquoise seas.

“I wouldn’t hide anything from you,” Charles said quietly. He didn’t move away. He knew Max wouldn’t kiss him.

Max pursed his lips and stared at him until Charles pressed the phone into his outstretched hand.

Max gave him an icy smile. “Merci. Now, passcode.”

Charles shot him a look. “Stop being an asshole, Max.”

The words acted like a spell. Max froze, then relaxed, blinking back into a face Charles knew. The face Charles loved.

“Sorry, they—Lando talked to me and—” Max shook his head. “Daniel isn’t doing well. He thinks he is, but he’s hiding things from me so I don’t get worried.”

Charles leaned in, pressing to Max’s side as he typed in his passcode.

Max flicked though his apps, no doubt looking for something like George’s calculator app, then opened up his photos. Pictures of the car, of his helmet, of him and Carlos took up most of the recent ones in his album—Giorgio had been in charge of social media photos for the day. He scrolled up while Charles fought the urge to tell him to stop.

“Did Lando tell you what’s going on with Daniel?” Charles asked.

Max shook his head.

“How are your ribs, by the way?” he added, keeping his voice low.

Max let out a snort. “They’re fine. Everyone keeps overreacting.”

“That’s not exactly hard to do with what you’ve been saying about Lewis,” Charles chastised. Max started scrolling up into photos he didn’t need to see. Charles snatched the phone away.

Max smirked at him. “Was that—?”

“Stop,” Charles hissed.

Max’s smirk stayed put. “He does have nice hands.”

“Don’t make me elbow you in the plates,” Charles warned.

“I have a nice scar, wanna see?” Max cocked his head, eyes mischievous. “Maybe you can take a picture.”

Charles’s face went red. “You were talking about Daniel.”

“Ah, right.” Max leaned back against the fencing as the rain picked up. “I’ll fix it, don’t worry. I know the play I have to make.”

“A play for what?” Charles asked, pocketing his phone.

“Let me handle the games, Char,” Max said. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Max!”

Charles lifted the umbrella to see Checo standing with his own umbrella. He looked better than when Charles last saw him, but that wasn’t saying much. Several cameras pointed right at them as Max waved.

“At least write me,” Charles said. “After Mykonos I think I’ll be alone most of the break. We should come up with a plan for the rest of the season.”

Max pushed himself up from the fencing. “Don’t make excuses, Charles. The plan is for me to beat Lewis, and it has always been that.”

Charles straightened to say goodbye, but Max pulled him into a hug instead.

“If you want to talk to me, just tell me,” he whispered, breath washing hot over Charles’s ear. Max pulled away quickly, but his smile remained. “I’ll always make time for you.”

Charles schooled himself as Max jogged up to Checo, greeting him with a hug as well—though he held that one much longer. The rain continued to pick up and the sky continued to darken, turning the garages into squares of yellow light along the pit wall that made Charles think of nights at Fiorano, testing into the late hours, pulling himself from the car only to find fifteen engineers asking him to recall every fraction of a second on track.

He headed into the forest as he’d originally intended to, breathing in the fresh scent of pine. He liked the sound of raindrops through the needles, the way they muffled the oncoming storm.

His phone buzzed in his pocket with a text from Binotto.

Sebastian may be disqualified. Carlos may be P3. Waiting to hear.

Charles’s throat went tight. DQ’d?? For what??

Fuel issue.

No one in their right mind would believe that. A disqualification was a hell of a statement, and no doubt a punishment for Sebastian’s actions prior to the race.

His phone buzzed with an article from Giorgio a second later.

More info, Giorgio texted.

Charles tapped the link, scrolling through.

 

Prince Sebastian eventually finished second and said in the FIA post-race show that he would happily be disqualified for his gesture.

“It’s because I chose to wear a certain shirt,” he said when quizzed on why he was called to the stewards. “I’m happy if they disqualify me. They can do whatever they want to me, I don’t care. I would do it again.”

Prince Sebastian ultimately escaped a penalty—that is, until the end of the race. A suspicious call from the FIA claims that the Aston Martin prince finished the race with too little fuel, a rule even Otmar Szafnauer raised his eyebrows at.

“It’s a bit strange,” Szafnauer said. “The timing is certainly strange.”

Aston Martin will no doubt protest if their prince is disqualified. An announcement is—

 

Charles looked up when he heard the sound of snapping twigs, only to see Sebastian himself, already drenched.  Of course. Thunderstorm.

“Oh,” Sebastian said, coming to a stop. “Hello there.”

Charles frowned. “I just heard about the disqualification. Well, potential disqualification.”

Sebastian shrugged, a smile on his face. “They will disqualify me. I’ve already prepared for it. Though I must say I did not expect to be disqualified from second place.”

“Don’t they realize they’re creating an even bigger problem by doing this?”

Sebastian attracted enough attention with the shirt itself, but now the whole world would be talking about the FIA stripping a prince of an earned podium because of his speaking out about royal marriages. Once again, Charles would watch someone hurt because of him.

“Sebastian—”

Sebastian lifted a hand, stopping him. “I know what you’re going to say. It isn’t your fault. I chose to wear the shirt.”

Charles frowned. “Because of me.”

Sebastian smiled. “Because the words needed to be said.”

“The FIA isn’t going to change,” Charles said.

Thunder rumbled through the trees. Charles offered his umbrella, and this time Sebastian accepted it.  They began to walk along the path Sebastian had just come from, toward the innermost section of the Hungaroring.

Sebastian sighed. “It isn’t the FIA, Charles.”

Charles whipped his gaze over to him.  “What do you mean? Of course it’s the FIA.”

Sebastian smiled as he shook his head. “It’s Lewis.”

Charles laughed outright. “I’m sorry Seb, but what the hell would Lewis care if you scored a few points today?”

“It isn’t about points. It’s about sending a message, making a show.”

Anger burned in Charles’s gut. “So you’re just letting him do this?”

“There is a lot you do not understand. Lewis wanted the conversation about Silverstone to fade, and it has. But a shirt would not change much. But a shirt and a punishment for it? That’s news.”

Charles soured. “At your expense.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Like I said, I already expected to be disqualified. It is no shock to me. Sad for the empire, but for the greater good.”

Guilt gnawed at him. Charles reached out, gripping Sebastian’s sleeve. The maroon watch shimmered in the low light for only a moment before Sebastian gently tugged his wrist away.

“People have small minds, Charles,” Sebastian explained. “It is very easy to spin a narrative. Show people what they want to see, and they believe it.”

“Lewis is using you, Sebastian,” Charles reminded him.

“He is not being particularly kind, but this much publicity makes my message all the louder.”

They met eyes and Charles thought back to Bahrain. The same feeling of longing welled up in him, though now he thought of Pierre. If princes didn’t have to worry about marriage rules, he could be happy with him. They would be able to see each other, love each other, and he wouldn’t have to worry about Ferrari finding out.

Sebastian’s eyes changed with a flash of lightning overhead.

“Are the last two numbers of your phone number six and seven?” Sebastian asked.

Charles furrowed his brow, confused. “What?”

“Your phone number. Are the last two numbers six and seven.”

Charles thought for a moment. He didn’t even know his current phone number—he never had to give it to anyone anymore. “Uh, no. No. Why?”

Sebastian nodded once. “That’s what I thought.”

Charles stopped walking. His heart rattled in his chest. “What are you talking about?”

Sebastian stared at him. They assessed each other for a long moment. Charles saw the gears turning behind Sebastian’s eyes, the knowledge fitting into place like pieces of a puzzle.

Sebastian let out a hum. “So he told you about it.”

Charles went still. Dread clawed up the back of his throat like bile.

Sebastian shook his head. “Carlos told you about the burner phone and you allowed it.” He looked off into the trees. “Charles, I told you about this, I warned you.”

Charles’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t speak—no words would come to his lips. There was no way Sebastian could know. Even with Ferrari connections, Carlos never gave his phone to anyone. He had an eight-digit passcode, he made sure to keep his phone activity secret.

“He said he researched,” Charles began pitifully. “He said—"

Sebastian’s eyes flashed, electric. “Do you know how he got that phone, Charles?”

Charles’s mouth fell open, but no words came out.

Sebastian grit his teeth. “He stole the SIM card from the phone I gave you in Portugal. Did you know about that?”

His face must have said his answer, because Sebastian shook his head.

“Well, I know you didn’t try to use it to contact me because it wouldn’t have worked without a SIM.”

“I don’t think you used it,” Carlos said that night in Spain. “Because I know you.”

Charles swallowed thickly, overwhelmed. That same day Carlos had said he loved him for the first time while he had a stolen SIM card for someone else.

“I did allow it,” Charles said. “I can’t control him, Seb. You told me to put a leash on him but I can’t. He’ll do anything for Lando. He does everything for Lando and I’m second pick.”

Another bout of thunder shook the ground. The wind turned the rain to sheets that pelted the umbrella and soaked the legs of his pants.

Sebastian’s eyes softened as he stepped closer. “I see.”

“He’s only using it for emergencies,” Charles said, ignoring his tone. “That’s what he told me. Only for emergencies.”

His voice shook in his throat as he said it, and Charles realized his whole body was shaking too.

Sebastian’s arms came around him, but Charles could hardly feel it. He stared blankly over Sebastian’s shoulder, an unfamiliar pain ripping him open at the sternum.

“Unless every day is an emergency, he’s lying to you,” Sebastian murmured, nosing against this temple. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Charles could only think of the night before they left Maranello, sitting at the dining table across from his husband, watching Carlos smile at his phone screen while they ate.

“Yeah,” Charles said, and it came out as a sob. Sebastian squeezed him tighter, but Charles could only feel what it did to his insides—the press of his bones and muscle.

“Please don’t say anything,” Charles begged. “I’ll make him stop. Please.”

“It’s my SIM card, Charles,” Sebastian said.

“I know. I know that. I’ll get it back to you, I’ll—”

“I’m not going to tell the FIA,” Sebastian assured him.

Charles relaxed into his hold. “Thank you.”

“But I am putting an end to this.”

Charles shook his head. He didn’t want to know what that meant. “Please don’t. I’ll handle it. Let me get the SIM and I’ll—”

Sebastian pressed a kiss to his temple. Lightning flashed in the sky beyond.

“I’m sorry,” Sebastian said, “but it’s a bit too late for that.”

Chapter Text

 

 

The conference room had been set up for a business meeting that would probably never happen. George doubted he FIA would ever use the fancy boardroom table or the TV mounted on the wall. Ferns sat by the tinted floor-to-ceiling windows, but the view was only that of a concrete wall beyond. Nico sat at the head of the table, watching him.

He looked different from the photographs. Nico’s entire presence was a contradiction: eyes that were both light and dark, calm and intense, knowing and clueless. His posture said nonchalance, yet commanded authority in a way only royalty could.

When George met him as a child, Nico had gold spun hair that framed his face, a thinner build, a squarer jaw. He hadn’t aged badly—quite the contrary. But age had evolved him into a different person. He had lines in different places and a softness in others.

“Well?” Nico asked, gesturing to a chair beside him. “Are you going to join me?”

His accent swung though a half a dozen countries in the span of a sentence. George tried to follow, but his brain kept tripping up. Nico Rosberg was sitting down at table across from him. Nico fucking Rosberg.

“I’m not sure I want to,” George said in a bland tone, though his heart was slamming against his chest.

Nico smiled with a set of beautiful white teeth, celebrity perfect. “The door is open. As you already know, they don’t lock from the inside.”

George sucked in a breath. The air thickened around him, heavy with the weight of Nico’s presence. He looked so…pleasant. Unnervingly so. And common. Nothing about his physical features screamed royal bloodline, even though he had one. His handsomeness came from the way he carried himself.

“But I don’t think you want to leave,” Nico continued after a long pause. “If you leave, you will never know the things you want to know. And the fact that you haven’t started screaming means that I’ve caught you before Lewis has fed you all the lies about me.”

George’s eyes narrowed to slits. “He’s told me plenty. I know all about you and what you did to him—what you’ve been doing since you were kids.”

Nico rolled his eyes. “Come. Sit. History is written by the victor, yes? Well, in this case the victor still lost.”

His fear began to leak away. Nico was just a bitter, defeated man. Consumed by the past, chasing after some semblance of royalty after leaving the royal circle.

George walked down the line of chairs and took the one closest to Nico, unafraid.

He even smelled pleasant. Like some kind of flower George couldn’t name, and a hint of wood and leather—

The exact same scent of Lewis’s cologne.

George's stomach churned as he sat back in his chair. “Let me guess, you’re here to tell me Lewis is a horrible person I shouldn’t trust, and that I should run away from Mercedes as fast as I can.”

Nico laughed and the room brightened—disturbingly similar to the way Mick seemed to bring sunlight with him whenever he did the same.

“I would never tell any prince to run away from Mercedes,” Nico said. “And Lewis is not a horrible person. But good people can do horrible things.”

“Well he thinks you’re pretty horrible,” George growled.

Nico’s smile didn’t change. He curled his fingers one by one, as though inspecting his nails after a manicure.

“Lewis and I grew up together,” Nico began.

“Yeah, he told me.”

Nico let out a snort. “I had royal heritage, he didn’t. I had wealth, he didn’t. I assume those are the things he’s stuck to that are the worst things about me.”

George thought back to all of the times Nico came up but wasn’t named, the way Lewis’s face hardened, the way his eyes lost color.

“You also conspired with Niki Lauda to strip his crown,” George said. “Don't forget that one.”

Nico flinched hard enough that his watch clacked on the tabletop. George smiled, relishing in the pain on his face. He couldn’t wait to tell Lewis about this, about how he’d been able to throw Nico's past back in his face—for him.

Nico withdrew his hands from the table, setting them in his lap.

“Do you know what the greatest motivator for any prince is, George?” he asked.

George let out a snort. “A world championship.”

Nico tsked him. “Wrong.”

Annoyance flared in George’s gut. “His empire.”

“Wrong again.”

“Losing his crown," George grit out.

Nico’s eyes twinkled. “I can see why he chose you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He hated this guy, he’d already decided. He could not imagine Lewis ever being friends with the snobby asshole sitting beside him.

Nico cocked his head. “Think about yourself. All of your actions—what motivates them?”

George blinked. “I already told you. I want a world championship, I want to help my empire, and I never want to lose my crown.”

Nico gestured vaguely—that seemed to be his default. “So…you attack Kimi Räikkönen because of these things? Max, in Portugal? Explain this to me.”

George hated being cornered, and he knew he was backing into one.

“How do you know about Portugal?” he asked instead of answering.

Nico clucked at him. “Please. I may not be present, but I am informed. As a world champion I know many things—many more now that I’m no longer part of the empires.”

George set his jaw. “I did those things because they deserved them.”

Nico sucked a breath through his teeth. “You are so close, George! Why did they deserve them? This is the greatest motivator of all.”

Remembering the anger and pain of Portugal allowed his mind to wander the track, for the ghost of the feeling to come back to him. How much he wanted to kill Max, how every fiber of his being focused on inflicting pain.

He forced himself to think of Lewis, when they shared tea afterward, but Alex’s face kept slipping in. His smile in Silverstone, the way he said his name so softly, like they’d never been apart at all.

“You’re thinking it right now, I can see it,” Nico said. His voice tore apart the memories, leaving George to blink away the pieces.   

Nico splayed both palms flat on the table and leaned in. If he didn’t move so casually, George would have suspected he was actually clinically insane.

“It’s love,” Nico said.

George barked out a laugh, slapping his hand to his mouth to stifle it a second later. Nico kept grinning at him, and his eyes were dim with knowing. Something in them plucked a part of George he hadn’t thought to defend, a needle instead of the machete he’d been expecting.

Tears jumped to his eyes. Fucking tears.

He’s right. He’s fucking right.

“You understand now,” Nico said quietly.

“I don’t understand anything,” George snapped. “You’re just talking in riddles.”

“Every prince’s greatest motivator is love,” Nico explained patiently, ignoring his tone. “We create these stories of royal espionage, empires at war, create the bad guys. They talk about the racing, but that is nothing. Some princes never win, yet they are still here because of the people they love. Not always the kissing and the romance—it is not always that, but that love is just as powerful.”

George had half a mind to think Nico was on hard drugs to combat his clinical insanity.  But the moment he mentioned platonic love, Nicky came to mind. He would do pretty much anything for Nic, and he knew that went both ways.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized Nico was right. He did everything to protect someone he loved, or to bring them back. Nic, Lando, Charles, even Pierre—he would protect them all. But Alex superseded all of them, and so did Lewis.

“Lewis told you the truth,” Nico said. “I did work with Niki Lauda to strip Lewis of his crown. It was the wrong thing to do and I even knew that at the time, but sometimes we do things we know are wrong, because we feel we must.”

George broke his gaze, guilt racing through his nervous system. Mick wouldn’t have told Nico about the video. Even if he did, what good would it do? The video was gone.  He never would have released it anyway, despite his threats. He wasn’t Max, he couldn’t destroy someone like that.

“I could not handle hating the person I loved,” Nico finished.

George snapped back to him, analyzing his face. Nico’s lashes hung low over his eyes, and his smile had disappeared.

“As a friend,” George said, slowly.

The words hung in the air, and he saw the anguish well up in Nico’s face, the way it flooded out of every invisible pore. George knew the look. He’d seen it in the mirror so much lately that it freaked him out to see it on someone else—he’d thought it was solely his to bear.

“No,” Nico said. He cleared his throat.

“But you weren’t in love. Lewis said—”

“I will explain in due time,” Nico interrupted, and the sternness to his tone made George flinch. He was no pushover, despite what his cheery smile led everyone to believe. World champions were never kind and caring all the time.

“No, I want to know now,” George pressed.

He wanted to know why Lewis wore Nico’s cologne, why he still had Nico’s watch in his drawer, what the time meant.

Nico’s eyes were no longer blue when he looked at him. They had become a dark, brackish grey, burning and cold wet all at once. More contradictions.

“Tell me about your exile—or retirement. Tell me what really happened," George said.

Nico shrugged. “I won.”

George scowled.

“They lead us to believe all of these beautiful things,” Nico murmured, turning his gaze to the glossy walls of the conference room. “They make it seem like when you become World Champion, you can do everything. The world is quite literally yours. But it’s not true.”

He sighed, folding his hands on the tabletop. George watched his face, waiting for more.

“Ah, the story is not worth much. We did hate each other by the time I won.” Nico screwed up his face. “It was…surface level. Very shallow hate. Enough to cover the problems.”

“Problems?”

Nico shot him a look. “I’ll tell you things, but not everything.”

George soured, but didn’t say anything else.

“We agreed to do everything together. He was—he is—the best there ever was. The best there ever will be. I was right there with him, always in his shadow. I wanted to win once, just once. He wouldn’t let me. So I—Ah, there I go.”

Nico chuckled, shaking his head. A few strands of blond fell out from where they’d been pushed back, but he didn’t move to fix them.

The devastation in him was so palpable that George felt the urge to rub at his sternum to ease his own pain. He didn’t know how Nico could talk so calmly—George couldn’t even think about Alex without—

It’s because he’s lying, dumbass. He never loved Lewis.  

George swallowed hard. He wanted to believe it, but he didn’t think anyone could act that well.

“Anyway. I finally won.” Nico lifted his hands, wiggling his fingers in a mock celebration. “I achieved what I wanted. Finally, it was over. I became champion, and…I can’t explain it. You lose trust in people.”

He described it almost word-for-word the way Lewis had.

Nico shook his head. “I no longer wanted to be part of it. I saw no future in it. I did what I came to do. I came back to our—I came back to Mercedes after I had been crowned and I remembered crying for days. There is so much emotion.”

It was strange to hear Nico talk about his past the same way Lewis talked about his. They talked around each other, only saying their names when they had to, but otherwise outlining the shape of the other person and nothing else.

He wanted to know what Lewis did when he saw Nico crying for days. George couldn’t imagine him holding Nico the way he held him—he couldn’t even imagine Lewis and Nico in the same room.

“We build relationships and make sacrifices for other princes,” Nico went on. “This is the way it is. Once you accept a crown—well, you know. Things that are unforgivable in the real world are commonplace here.”

George cocked a brow. “Not sure I follow.”

“We betray each other all the time. I betrayed Lewis, as I said. I wanted to break up our marriage in order to love him again, which I could not do at the time. We fought so hard—we fought about everything. Win, win, win. There is no end to it. We could not even have dinner together without something becoming a competition.”

A scene began to form in George’s mind, but the edges were fuzzy, like trying to remember a dream. He could almost make out muffled voices, hear the echoes in the halls of the Mercedes palace. A younger Lewis, a younger Nico.

“So you became world champion, I know that part,” George said, shoving the daydream away. “Get to the part I don’t know.”

Nico didn’t speak for a long time. A rumble of thunder sounded outside, rattling the pen cup on the middle of the table. The hiss of rain began against the roof above them.

Nico rubbed his face, pushing color back to his cheeks, but his hair stayed unkempt.

“Lewis came up with the idea,” Nico said quietly. “We were going to leave together. Tell the FIA we wanted no part of this twisted world. Two world champions stepping away because we wanted to put each other first. I could not believe it. I had my sunshine back.”

“Your sunshine?”

Nico’s smile turned fond, and it was just as arresting as Mick’s. “They called me Britney, Lewis was Sunshine.”

Bile rose in George’s throat. The room started to spin, but he kept his gaze firm, though Nico’s face kept going in and out of focus. He’d found a doodle of a sun in Lewis’s box, one of the few whole things he’d preserved, even if the sun had been torn off of another piece of paper.

It’s not true, it’s not true. Lewis warned you that he’s a good liar. You can’t listen to him.

“I was so stupid,” Nico chuckled. “Really, an absolute idiot. I loved him so much, though.”

He talked like Lewis had died, like they were recounting the best things about his existence.

 “When we arrived at the banquet I stood right up, alone, to shock the world,” Nico continued. “I cannot tell you how happy I was to stand there and tell them all I was never coming back.”

George couldn’t stop thinking about sunshine. The description fit, he knew it did, but the Lewis he’d fallen in love with never really reminded him of sun. He was cooler, more tangible, like the sea itself. But something in him said that was because of something that turned him colder. Someone.

“And I looked to Lewis, and the spotlights came on, and the whole world held its breath as Lewis stood up—” Nico sucked in a breath for emphasis and George fought not to scream at him to just tell the rest of the fucking story, but then he noticed Nico’s eyes were too shiny for the amount of light in the room.

Nico smiled slightly. “And he clapped and said he was proud of me, that I was so brave. I had been tricked. I exiled myself—and what a move! I never saw it coming.”

George closed his eyes.

A perfect trap. Nico had walked right into it like a lamb to slaughter.

There was no return to royalty after telling the FIA and the rest of the empires that he was leaving for good. He’d probably said things the FIA would never be able to forgive—George would, if he were in his place.  

“So Lewis is a snake. Is that the moral here?”

It was a beautiful story, but it was Nico’s story.  Awfully cut and dry, and of course it made Lewis the cruel, coldhearted bitch.

Nico’s lips quirked. “Do you love him?”

“Yes,” George said. “And he loves me.”

“Ah.”

Something about the sound made George shiver.

“I get the skepticism,” George said. “But you’ve been out of this for a long time. I don’t think Lewis and I are soulmates, but we do love each other. He chose me to take on the mantle after he retires, which will be soon.”

Nico laughed. “Is that what he told you? And you believe him?” He shook his head. “He will only retire when the FIA forces him to leave, he dies on track, or he’s offered to head the FIA. Which do you think will happen first?”

George flared his nostrils, shooting him a glare.

Nico’s eyes turned deadly. “He may care about you, but he cannot exist without a crown. He will do whatever it takes to keep it. I used to be his everything—or so I thought. Now I am the mascot for exiles.”

Five years could kill a man. George saw death in every line of Nico’s perfectly moisturized face.

He wanted to ask about Central Park, the postcard, about thinking of our deepest fear. He thought to bring up the watch sitting dormant in the underbelly of Lewis’s display case, surrounded by the tattered remnants of his past.

But it wasn’t his place. George had gone and stuck his nose into everyone’s life, but coming between this felt like it would be worse than anything he had ever done. He’d pressed his ear to the door for too long.

He didn’t know who was telling the truth. He didn’t even know if the truth was possible to find anymore. Lewis talked about Nico with so much hate, but George only saw a broken, desperate man sitting next to him. Maybe he’d been horrible back then, but George no longer believed Lewis was as innocent as he claimed to be.

“It’s not true then,” George said, breaking the silence. “Love isn’t the greatest motivator because Lewis is the best and he doesn’t love anyone.”

Nico ran a hand over his face and George saw a decade flash by, an entire war. He clearly lived a life full of luxury with his white Patek Phillippe timepiece and his tailored cotton shirt, but George saw a hollowness in him that chilled him to the core.

He saw Alex in him. Just a glimpse, but it was enough.

“I disagree,” Nico said with a dignified sniff. “I think he loves more than any other prince, but not in the way everyone else does. That’s why he’s so successful. He beats everyone because he does it differently.”

Nico lifted his chin, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. A sharper rumble of thunder tore through the silence, loud enough that it made Nico flinch.

“I have no idea why he did it,” Nico murmured. “He loved me. I knew it. It isn’t something you can explain, the how you know. He loved me and he doesn’t love you.”

“Are you trying to convince yourself or me?” George asked, but it came out quiet and genuine instead of the quip he wanted it to be.

Nico turned his chair, slumping back in his seat to watch the rain hit the pavement outside. The silence made him younger, reminding George that they were only a bit over a decade apart. When it came to life, that wasn’t much of a gap.

“He won’t speak to me. He will say words at me, but he won’t speak to me,” Nico said, so quiet that George had to scoot his chair closer to hear him properly. “I do not think it was because of Niki Lauda. I know half the reason, but not the half that matters to me.”

“Which half do you know?” George asked. He watched the white spray of raindrops jump from the ground, the methodic way the sheets swiped along the asphalt like nature’s broom.

Nico shook his head. “I would never tell that secret. I wished I never found out.”

“Don’t you think I should know?” He was getting tired of cryptic half-truths. “I’m about to marry him.”

Nico let out a hum, dragging a finger across his lips in thought. “Are you? Have you signed a contract?”

George bristled. “Not yet, but Toto said—”

“Don’t listen to Toto. The fact that they’ve waited this long to give you a contract means they are considering someone else.”

“Lewis doesn’t want to drop Valtteri. He said he’s waiting for Valtteri to find a spot.”

Nico spun the chair back around. “How sweet of him. In your opinion, whose crown is most vulnerable to be lost?”

George thought for a moment. He appreciated the opportunity to think about something that didn’t have to do with love and betrayal.

“Gio,” he said. “Maybe Yuki, but I think his supporters in Alpha Tauri have too much sway.”

Nico pursed his lips. “I agree. Yuki has too much power behind him. Antonio has much less, but he has support from Kimi.”

George cocked a brow. “He does?”

Nico looked at him like he’d just dropped a hundred IQ points. “They are very much devoted to each other, George. But I suppose if they are not making waves, you don’t notice these things, hm? Not your style?”

He still has your watch. George stared Nico in the eye, the words bubbling up to be spewed out. He wears your cologne, he has sunshine in his drawer, he has a postcard from Central Park.

But he could only imagine Alex sitting there, waiting and hoping for George to love him again. George didn’t even know if Alex actually wanted him, but he knew how cruel it was to allow someone to hope. Lewis would never go back to Nico. Age, time, and experience had done nothing to bring them closer.

Something made Lewis turn his back on a man he might have loved more than anyone. George saw that now—how deep the scarring went, how much Lewis must have loved him then.

It made sense that he would lie about it. George might have done the same, in his shoes. He didn't blame Lewis for protecting himself from hurt.

“No, not my style,” George said distractedly, looking back out at the rain.

“Think on it,” Nico said. “Though I imagine you won’t have to think long. The board is already set, and Lewis is ten moves ahead of Verstappen, whether Max chooses to believe it—ah, maybe I said too much.”

George didn’t think for a second that Lewis meant to oust Max as a real play.

“Do you still love Lewis?” he dared to ask.

The question shocked the smile right off of Nico’s face—but only for a moment. When it returned, it had maturity to it that George wished he had.

“Of course I love him,” Nico said.

“No, I mean like, are you still in love with him.”

Nico laughed. “I understood what you meant.”

George blinked, slackjawed.

Nico laughed again, then leaned back to reach into his pants pocket. “You young princes are so afraid of this word. I understand, love is weakness. But only if you cannot defend it properly.”

He extended a folded piece of paper to him. George took it without thinking, but didn’t open it.

“You are talented, George, and some day you will be powerful.” Nico moved to his feet, brushing nonexistent dirt from his grey jeans. Yes, the guy wore jeans as an FIA-sponsored attendee. “But your only goal right now should be to join Mercedes. Things will move very quickly after the break. If you ever want Alex to return from exile, you need to make plays. You will have to hurt people, but that is the nature of the game.”

George stood up to follow, but Nico put a finger to his lips. It didn't necessarily surprise him that Nico knew about Alex, but he didn't get to bring him up and leave.

“Hey—”

“No more,” Nico shushed, now using his finger to give a little point at him. “And if you are smart, you won’t tell Lewis about anything other than what I handed you.”

Nico walked to the door with purpose, joy. Clinically fucking insane.

But how did a person come back from that kind of betrayal? George couldn't even process Max, and he'd never been anywhere close to in love with him. Lewis redacted everything from the pages of their history just to function. Nico had to continue living a life on the outside, surrounded by opulence but not much else. 

“Mick,” Nico greeted once he’d opened the door. “Schön dich zu sehen. Oh! I meant to tell you, dein Englisch wird besser.”

“Danke,” Mick replied. He said something else George couldn’t hear, but he’d stopped listening anyway.

He opened up the paper, a folded index card. Alex’s chickenscratch decorated the parchment, a tapestry of shitty lines that might as well have been Lewis’s painting back in Monaco.

I love you because you love everyone. Hearing about what’s happened this season scares me. Don’t become them. I want to still love you when we see each other next. Okay I mean I will still love u, but I want to love the real george, not what they changed u 2 b. runningoutofspce iloveyou

George brought the paper to his mouth, brushing the ink across his lips. He could still smell the hazy scent of sharpie as he fought back tears. The note was freshly written.

He would apologize to Alex later. He didn't care if Alex hated him when he did, as long as he hated him with a crown. 

Chapter Text

Daniel stepped into his briefing and Lando allowed himself a second to breathe. Even though he’d only driven a grand total of three laps, adrenaline still buzzed in his blood as he paced the garage. A storm brewed on the horizon, and Lando felt one brewing in him too.

He would see Carlos in London, but he wanted to at least say goodbye before he hopped on a plane with Daniel to go to Monaco.

Lando didn’t really know why he was moving there, but everyone kept talking about safeguarding assets, making sure he had everything in order for when royalty inevitably ended. Princes populated the city, both past and present, yet Charles never mentioned ever seeing any of them in all of the time he’d lived there.

Lando liked that part. The anonymity. He’d have to pay an arm and a leg for even the most basic flat there, but his dad said he’d have no problem affording what he wanted, and that it was really just a one-time deal since there weren’t any property taxes.

Carlos refused to move there. They talked about it once, and he made a point to say he didn’t like it there. No culture, he said, just wealth.

Well, Lando could do fine without weird food and traditions. Someday Carlos would have to move in with him anyway, and Monaco would be safest. Lando didn’t want to move to Spain.

He changed into proper clothing while Sophia briefed him on the different media outlets he’d be speaking to, but he wasn’t worried. Nobody wanted to talk to him except to hear his thoughts on the pileup. They wanted to know about Sebastian and his shirt.

“There wasn’t anything I could do,” Lando explained later, a foam microphone too close to his lips. “I decided to brake like a normal person, Bottas decided not to brake at all.” He shrugged. “It’s Valtteri’s fault.”

“Thanks.”

Lando jumped when he noticed Valtteri stepping up to him, smiling with those nonexistent lips.

“Yeah, no problem,” Lando muttered, though his heart was pounding so loud he was sure Valtteri could hear it. He stepped away to allow him through, shooting Sophia a glare as she giggled at the end of the press line.

Nicholas Latifi beamed at the next press station, adjusting his cap on his head.

“I mean, wow. It’s emotional,” Nic said. “I know most empires consider it a bad weekend to get only a few points, but for us—I mean, George and I have worked so hard all year. And we’d never be anywhere without our team. Everyone at Williams has the same goal, and we work toward it every day.”

Lando rolled his eyes. Big deal. Nobody gave a shit about Williams points. He was happy for George and everything, but it hardly deserved media attention.

“I can’t even see straight,” Esteban laughed from one space down. “It’s everything I’ve ever wanted.” He wiped his eyes, sucking in a breath. “It’s been a dream of mine since I was a kid, you know? And Fernando made it possible. He did an amazing job today. I can’t—I’m—”

Fernando swooped in, grabbing Esteban up in a hug. Lando bit his lip to keep from laughing—Fernando was so much shorter that it made Esteban look like a blowup noodle about to cave in the wind.

He looked back to Sophia to see who he needed to speak to next, but she’d vanished from her spot. Lando scowled. He didn’t get why Public Affairs couldn’t just stand with him in the press lane.

Lando decided talking to four outlets was enough, and headed out. He avoided eye contact with Valtteri on his way toward the garage to grab his real phone.

When he saw Carlos and Pierre walking down the pit lane together, he froze.

Pierre was laughing at something Carlos said, and Carlos continued with whatever joke he was making, a smile still curled on his lips.

Carlos spotted him almost immediately, and both he and Pierre looked at him before waving.

Lando walked over to them, but he knew he kept looking at Pierre too long. They hadn’t really talked since the golf trip, and that hadn’t exactly ended on good terms. Lando had made it pretty obvious that he was siding with George about the Max and Lewis thing, and Pierre would back whoever Charles backed—and Lando knew it wouldn’t be Lewis.

“Hey,” Lando greeted, extending a fist.

Pierre bumped it with a static smile.

Carlos tugged him into a hug that was too short, but at least gave Lando the scent of him to carry for a few more minutes.

“Where’s Charles?” Lando asked.

“Back at the garage,” Carlos said. “Pierre and I have dinner plans.”

Lando’s heart plummeted. “Oh.”

Carlos said he wanted to see him before London, but here he was going to dinner with Pierre instead. It didn’t take a genius to guess who they would be talking about.

“Saw you with Max before the race,” Pierre said. “What was that about?”

Lando shot him a glare. “Personal.”

Pierre’s eyes flashed. “I see.”

He didn’t press further. Pierre had always been smarter than George and Charles when it counted.

“So, do I get to hear the consensus on Charles or whatever the hell you two are going to discuss?” Lando asked, turning his gaze to Carlos.

Carlos frowned. “Do you want to talk?”

Lando shrugged. “Well, you said we were going to talk, now you’re going to dinner with Gasly. So I guess the question is if you want to talk, Carlos.”

Pierre glanced between them. “I’m gonna go find Yuki. I’ll meet you at the restaurant, Carlos.”

Pierre slipped away, but Lando headed for the garage. He didn’t want to talk to Carlos. It was pretty clear what his intentions were, and a few days of fucking around on vacation wouldn’t be enough to make this work. He didn’t want to become Daniel, stuck pining after a man who couldn’t give him anything. 

“Lando, please,” Carlos said, rushing after him. “Don’t run off.”

“Why not?” Lando snapped, turning to face him. “You were about to leave without saying anything. If you hadn’t seen me, I would have texted you and we wouldn’t have been able to hang out anyway.”

Carlos glanced toward the garages, then grabbed Lando by the wrist and tugged him—

Right into the Red Bull garage.

Max and Checo blinked at them where they stood by Checo’s car, but Carlos didn’t hesitate pass right by them to open the door to what looked like a team coat room.

Why the fuck did Red Bull get a team coat room?

“You’re welcome,” Max called.

Carlos flipped him off. Lando had to drag his jaw off the floor to follow him.

The room was littered with overflowing duffel bags, sneakers, and various pieces of clothing from the pit crew. Carlos poked his head out.

“Let everyone know this is occupied,” Carlos said.

“Is everything okay?” Max asked, appearing in the open door. He looked at Lando and pursed his lips.

“Just cover for us, please,” Lando said.

Max held his gaze as he nodded in understanding. “If Checo walks in, that means FIA is snooping and you should hide. The walls are temporary, you can take them apart and get into the Alpha Tauri garage if you really try. I think.”

“Thank you,” Carlos said with a grateful nod, then he shut the door.

Lando deflated, but Carlos caught him before he could sink to the floor into what looked like a comfortable pile of extra pit crew uniforms.

Carlos’s lips tasted strangely herbal, like he’d been drinking tea. But they were warm and familiar, and Lando melted into him without having to think about it. He loved kissing Carlos. Kissing Daniel could be fun at times, but it didn’t feel like this.

“Now tell me what’s going on,” Carlos said.

Lando buried his face into Carlos’s neck, wrapping his arms around him to hold him close. He hadn’t spoken to him in person since Carlos had spun out in qualifying, and the unease of that moment swallowed him up.

“I feel like I’m losing you,” Lando whispered. “Even when we see each other it feels like next time is going to be worse.”

Carlos’s hold tightened around him. “Lando, when did you start to feel this way?”

“You know when,” Lando said. “Every time I see you two together I feel worse about everything. It feels—It feels like you don’t actually love me anymore.”

Carlos stepped back, bringing his hands to Lando’s face.

Oh god. Carlos had tears in his eyes, and the sight of them made Lando want to take it all back.

“I love you so much,” Carlos assured him. “I miss you so much.”

Lando swallowed hard. “Then come back. I don’t want to wait anymore, I just want you back.”

Carlos rested their foreheads together. “Lando—”

“No excuses, Carlos,” Lando whispered. “If you want to stay because of Charles, you owe it to me to say that. I mean, it’s pretty clear.”

Saying out loud made all of his senses dull as he prepared for the knife.

“There isn’t a place for me in McLaren right now,” Carlos said.

Lando grimaced. “That was an avoidance answer. Just say you want Charles more and save me the fucking trouble.”

“Lando that is not what I’m saying,” Carlos said, firm. Carlos thumbed over his cheeks, his hands still hot from driving even though he’d been out of the car for almost an hour. “I wasn’t aware of this.” He gestured between them. “When we talked in Silverstone, I thought we addressed these things, but now it seems like we absolutely did not.”

Lando chewed the inside of his cheek.

He knew it was fucked up, but he kept thinking about Daniel. His dopey smile, the way he laughed and made stupid noises in bed and never tried to be sexy, he just was.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Lando admitted. “I don’t want to compete with Charles anymore.”

Carlos opened his mouth to argue, but Lando silenced him with a peck to his lips.

“He doesn’t want Pierre, Carlos,” Lando said. “He wrote a note to George about the future and he only mentioned wanting you and Max.”

He hated—hated—the look that crossed Carlos’s face when he said it. Carlos’s eyes went soft and his hands did too, like he was fucking flattered.

Lando’s nostrils flared with disgust.

“Ehi,” Carlos soothed, thumbing his cheeks again. “I told you before, you’re the love of my—”

“Don’t,” Lando hissed. “Charles always gets what he wants. I’ve been friends with him long enough to know that. Even Daniel knows that if Charles really wants Max, he could take him. That’s how he fucking works. He’s a disease.”

Carlos’s eyes darkened. “Lando—”

“Don’t defend him!” he hissed.

“I’m not,” Carlos soothed. “But he isn’t a disease. He’s a person. He’s your friend. I wish I could tell you I don’t love him, but I do, so you can't talk about him that way around me.”

Lando shook his head. He couldn’t deal with this. He didn’t have time to fight in circles again, and he didn’t want to. He just had to make London unforgettable, he had to win Carlos back for good.

“You are the world to me,” Carlos said, lowering a hand to gently grasp Lando’s watch—Carlos’s Richard Mille. “When we are in London, we will sort all of this out the right way. I won’t leave until you’re happy.”

Lando swallowed hard. “Okay. But you’d better be ready for what that means.”

Pain leaked into Carlos’s eyes, but he nodded. “We’ll discuss it. In the meantime, I love you.”

“I love you too,” Lando said, but the words tasted stale.

Carlos kissed him, arms winding around him again, and Lando let himself out to sea, the same way he did with Daniel. He made soft noises when Carlos’s tongue stole past his lips, and laughed when they ended up falling into the pile of uniforms to create a little nest of athletic fleece.

But it couldn’t last, and Lando knew it.

“You should go,” Lando whispered against Carlos’s mouth. “We’ve been in here too long.”

Carlos didn’t disagree. “l’ll text you. I’ll extend my stay in London and we’ll work on—”

“No, call me,” Lando said, sitting up.

Carlos kissed him sweetly. “Okay. Tonight. We can talk all night.”

They stood and kissed each other goodbye. Carlos left first while Lando smoothed out his clothes and tried not to think about Pierre. Didn’t anyone care about him? Wasn’t anyone going to warn him that the boy he loved didn’t actually love him back?

Lando knew it would have to be him. Charles would never admit it to himself, and George would turn the words into a weapon if he hadn’t already.

The door swung open and Lando braced himself for Carlos to return, but Max appeared instead.

“Hey,” Max greeted softly. “Doing okay? You’ve been in here for a minute.” He gave Lando a once-over. “Figured you probably didn’t fuck that fast, so I came to—”

“I’m good,” Lando said, but his voice cracked.

Max stepped inside and closed the door.

Thunder rolled through the grounds. Lando clenched his fists at his sides and shook, teeth gritted.

“He looked pretty happy, but you don’t,” Max said.

Lando stared at frayed embroidery on one of the pit crew jacket sleeves. Tears burned in his eyes, but he didn’t allow them to fall, because they weren’t allowed to, not until they spend hours discussing in London only to come to the conclusion that Carlos loved two people and Lando couldn’t handle it.

He didn’t know how he could handle being unhappy for the rest of his royal life either.

We’re going to break up.

He almost said it, but even thinking it made bile rise in his throat.

He couldn’t do it. He would never be able to tell Carlos he didn’t want to be with him anymore, because it would never be true.

“What happened?” Max asked, stepping closer.

Lando tore his gaze from the jacket. “Nothing I want to talk to you about.”

Max winced.

Lando moved for the door, then stopped himself.

“Never tell Daniel how much Charles means to you,” Lando said. “I don’t care if you feel guilty for not telling him. Don’t do it.”

Max stepped in like he was going to block the door and Lando poked him in the chest for emphasis.

“Don’t.”

Lando might as well have slugged him. Max doubled over, letting out a shout of pain that made Lando think maybe he’d somehow stabbed him with a finger-turned-knife.

“Max?” Lando asked, horrified.

“I’m okay,” Max grunted out, but he leaned on the wall for support. “Jesus fuck.”

“What—Max—” Lando stepped in, putting a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Do I need to call a doctor?’

“No,” Max rasped, taking a shuddering breath.

Lando rubbed his back, trying to help. He had no idea what he’d done, and it looked like Max needed medical help. “Should I get Checo?”

Max’s breathing started to even out. He looked up, and suddenly Lando was back in a place he didn’t want to be. Max stared at him for a moment, and Lando could see the memory in his head like Max’s eyes were just windows.

“Stop,” Lando whispered wit the last of his resolve.

Max cleared his throat. “Bruised rib,” he explained, gesturing to his chest. ”From Silverstone.”

“Still?” Lando asked, grateful to change the subject.

Max nodded. “Don’t tell Daniel. Please.”

“I won’t, but he’ll find out,” Lando replied. “Especially if you can see it.”

Max finally straightened up again, but his hand lingered on his chest. “He’ll find out when we’re together. He’ll be okay.”

Lando could only imagine how much Daniel would drink when he learned Max still had bruised ribs painful enough that a playful jab—okay, a jab with the force of a playful one—could have him doubling over.

“You should relax too,” Lando found himself saying in a voice too soft. “You always carry too much, Max.”

Max chuckled. “You tell me Daniel’s falling apart, then tell me I need to relax and stop worrying about things?”

“Daniel won’t fall apart if you’re with him,” Lando said. “He’s falling apart because he isn’t with you.”

Max looked down at his shoes. Lando fixated on the freckle on his top lip, one of the few things that hadn’t changed about his face over the years.

“Thank you,” Max said. “For always being honest with me about him.”

Lando didn’t expect the gratitude. He leaned away from it, suddenly wary.

“I’m gonna go,” Lando said. “I’ll, um, see you tomorrow probably. Right?”

Max opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Right,” he finally said. “Yes. Tomorrow. But Lando—”

Lando shook his head. He didn’t need to share personal information with Max, no matter how genuine he seemed. Lando had fallen for that one too many times. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He clapped Checo on the shoulder on his way out of the garage, offering a thanks. Checo gave him a wide smile in return and looked particularly happy for a guy who’d crashed out on Turn 1.

Summer break had a way of putting smiles on even the most sour faces.

Rain pelted down as Lando hurried back to the McLaren garage, hands shoved in his pockets. The icy sheets swept away the ghost of Carlos’s lips, and Lando was drenched by the time he stepped into the safety of McLaren. A group of mechanics played cards while they waited to move the car, too engrossed in their game to even look up at him as he passed.

He stepped into his briefing room and immediately moved to pull off his soaked shoes. He hopped on one foot as he undid the laces, fighting with his Nikes.

“It’s really coming down out there, huh?”

Lando froze.

Lewis Hamilton stood at his briefing table, running ringed fingers over a stack of papers. Probably post-race data sheets with only three laps of data. Useless.

He couldn’t read Lewis, but something about his state of calm made Lando want to turn and run, literally. His blood seized with the force of his adrenaline, and every muscle in him prepared for flight. There was no fight against Lewis that he could win.

“What are you doing here?” Lando asked. He didn’t actually have a reason to fear Lewis, he realized, but every instinct said otherwise. “Didn’t think you were allowed in a McLaren garage.”

Lewis smiled down at the papers. “I’m allowed to go wherever I want, quite frankly. And McLaren? Come on. I have more power here than I do at Williams, I think.”

Lando backed toward the door.

“Don’t even think about it,” Lewis said, low and warning.

If Lando had been scared before, he was terrified now.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Lando said. “You seem mad at me, and I haven’t done anything.”

Lewis’s eyes narrowed. His nose ring glinted in the dim fluorescents, the sparkle sharp as a blade.

“That’s strike one in this conversation,” Lewis said. “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid. You do that again, and we’re gonna have some real problems, man.”

Lando swallowed hard. He didn’t know how George could kiss this guy.

Lewis nodded toward a chair. “Now sit the fuck down.”

Lando’s throat went dry as he clambered into one of the rolling chairs, shoes untied and hair dripping. He glanced at the door, praying for—

“No one’s coming to save you,” Lewis said. “Daniel’s in his briefing, and your mechanics are watching the door for me.”

The color drained from Lando’s face.

“I have no fucking idea what you’re on about,” Lando stammered. “Honestly. I swear.”

Lewis gathered the papers and straightened them with a few clacks against the table. “You can’t think of one reason why I might be here?”

Lando shook his head. “Something to do with George?” he tried.

Lewis’s eyes flashed. “No. Indirectly, I guess, but what you’ve done affects everyone indirectly.”

Lewis extended him the stack of papers. When Lando didn’t take them, he shoved them within an inch of his nose.

Lando grabbed them, hands shaking as he inspected the first page.

It was a list of phone numbers, dates, and timestamps. He moved to the next page. Phone calls were hardly something worth cornering him over.

goodnight, a grey text bubble read.

goodnight, a blue bubble said in response.

Do you have time for a call?

can’t. daniel’s making me watch a movie.

Lando’s thoughts tangled in his head.

There was a photo of cheese covered tortellini, a cappuccino in the back of the frame.

Lunch today, the grey text bubble said underneath it. Very good. What are you having?

Lando tossed the stack of papers onto the table as if they’d turned molten.

Every page was full of texts. His texts. Carlos’s texts.

Everything in the room went dark. Blood roared in his ears, blocking out every other sound as he stared sightless down at the stack of evidence that could cost him a crown.

Daniel barely recovered from burner phones. He’d been so scared of being harmed that he’d slept in the goddamn shower for two weeks straight. He still started to sweat if Lando asked if he wanted to write anything to Max, even just a word on paper for him to include in his letters.

“Where’s the phone, Lando?” Lewis demanded.

His cell phone—the real one—clunked to the table.

Lando started to hyperventilate. He’d seen Daniel have panic attacks—he’d had a few himself after Wembley—but this took him over like he’d been shot.

“Hey,” Lewis said, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “Focus. You can panic later, understand? Right now you and I are having a discussion.”

Lando blinked himself back to the present and shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket, retrieving the phone. He winced as he handed it over, as though Lewis might strike him.

“I don’t think you’re a stupid person,” Lewis said as he started fiddling with the phone case. “Love makes us do really stupid things sometimes. But this was textbook idiot, man.”

The case popped off into Lewis’s hand and he turned his palm. He used a ring shaped like an eagle’s head, slotting the tip of the beak into a tiny indent in the side of the phone. A small tray popped out and Lewis retrieved the tiny SIM card.

He took the seat beside Lando and placed the SIM card on the table. His dark eyes looked inviting somehow, though all Lando wanted to do was pull up his hood and hide under the table.

“I’m going to assume Carlos gave you this,” Lewis said, holding up the phone.

Lando nodded. He couldn’t speak if he tried.

Lewis pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully. “And you just took it? After what happened to Daniel?”

Lando tried to calm his breathing.

“No,” he forced out, his voice wobbly. He sounded like he was about to cry, but his eyes were bone dry. “He—he said it had a Ferrari SIM. He said the FIA wouldn’t be able to track it.”

Lewis smiled. “Clever.” He turned the phone in his palm, the ink of his tattoos jumping with the bones of his hands. “That’s right, you know. The FIA didn’t pick it up.”

Lando choked on his own spit. “What?”

Lewis ignored him. “Did he say where he got this SIM card?”

“Um. No.”

Lewis lifted his chin, looking down his nose at the phone. “So you weren’t entirely stupid. That’s comforting. You at least knew about the SIMs.”

“Please,” Lando whispered. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Lewis chuckled. “Yes, you did. These are illegal, Lando. I think that’s strike two.”

All of the blood seemed to vacate Lando’s body.

“I thought Carlos was smarter too,” Lewis said, disinterested. He set the phone back on the table. “Alonso trusted him with the burners for Max and Daniel. I didn’t think that was a good idea, but he told me Carlos had a mind for this stuff.” He lifted his brows and pushed out a sigh. “Guess that wasn’t true, huh?”

“I made him do it,” Lando blurted out. “I kept bothering him about Charles and he wanted a way to—”

“I read the texts, Lando,” Lewis said. “For emergencies only, right? This had nothing to do with Leclerc.”

Lando shut his mouth. He didn’t want to find out what a third strike meant.

“But you and Carlos didn’t think,” Lewis said, eyes deadly. “Carlos stole this SIM card from a phone given to Charles. Charles was smart. He knew better than to leave any evidence—he didn’t even use it. But maybe if he had, he’d have realized that Carlos found the phone and stole this little thing.”

He wiggled the SIM card against the table with his finger.

“Seriously, did you think you could just use a phone for free?” Lewis asked with a disbelieving chuckle. “What, royalty doesn’t have phone bills? And you left it connected to the cloud? Did either of you think?”

It never even occurred to Lando that someone had to be paying for the goddamn phones. His brain started to blend itself in his skull. You’re an idiot. An absolute idiot.

“You put Sebastian at risk,” Lewis continued. “He was kind enough to come to me to deal with it, because he knows that I have high hopes for you, Lando.”

The anger in Lewis’s voice turned to disappointment and that hurt worse, somehow.

“I’m sorry,” Lando said. “I didn’t—You’re right, I didn’t think.”

Lewis sighed. “Sebastian and I agreed to keep this between us, but verbal agreements only have so much backing. I’m about to get him disqualified from this race, so let’s hope he loves Charles as much as he says he does—that’s the only reason you’re not facing the FIA right now.”

Lando flinched. Daniel had come back from his hearing looking like a corpse. He’d stopped eating, he’d almost passed out in the car because he stopped drinking fluids too.

He couldn’t do that to Carlos, even if this was his fucking fault. They were both equally to blame. Lando had protection within McLaren, but he doubted they could weather the blow of both of its princes being caught with burners in the same fucking season.

“Thank you,” Lando whispered. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

Lewis drummed his fingers on the table around the SIM card, not touching it once. A seemingly involuntary movement executed with lethal precision.

Lando closed his eyes.

He knew what was coming. Nothing in this world came for free. Especially not things like this.

“Now you’re starting to understand,” Lewis murmured, watching him. “Not only was this completely stupid, you threatened Sebastian. A world champion. If this did ever get on the FIA’s radar, that phone would link back to him. After his little stunt today with the shirt, you think the FIA would tell the truth about what they found?”

He leaned in, and Lando shrank in his chair.

“Not a chance,” Lewis growled. “They would takes snippets of these conversations and present it as Charles and Sebastian sneaking around. Seb could have lost his crown for this.”

“I know,” Lando whispered, but he didn’t know.

“That’s a big fucking deal,” Lewis snapped. “He should have exposed you, but he’s too smart for that. Instead, he brings it to me as a favor. Do you know why he did that?”

“No,” Lando bit out.

“Speak up, man.”

“No, I don’t know why he did that,” Lando said, louder. He wondered how much it would hurt to get punched in the face by someone wearing rings. He’d probably have an eagle indented in his skull forever.

“To make me look bad,” Lewis said. “This makes me fucking look bad. I vouched for you, Lando. Publicly. If this came out—and it would have, one way or another—my integrity’s called into fucking question.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Lando said, fingers curling around the arms of his chair. “I’m sorry, okay? I just—I missed him. I couldn’t keep watching Charles take him away from me.”

Lewis scowled at him. “It’s time to grow up. If you want to be a champion, you need to start thinking like one. I defended you this once, to show you I’m in your corner. I do believe in you, but you’ve got to stop doing shit like this, man.”

Lando swallowed hard. “Okay. Okay, I won’t.”

Lewis shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t take your word for it. You just proved I can’t do that.”

Lando furrowed his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means things are about to be different for you,” Lewis said, lifting the SIM card between two fingers. “That’s for your protection and mine. I’d call it insurance, but I don’t need any.”

A rumble of thunder shook the room, rattling the empty phone case on the table.

Lewis looked up as though expecting rain to start falling inside. He glanced at his watch and frowned.

“Gonna have to cut this short. Roscoe is going to tear a hole in my couch,” Lewis said, as nonchalant as if they’d been discussing their summer break plans. He moved to his feet, pocketing the SIM card but leaving the phone.

“Don’t do anything to Carlos,” Lando said, finding it in himself to sit up straighter. “Please. He was doing this for me.”

Lewis ruffled his damp hair, a smile tugging at his lips. “Carlos is going to get what’s coming for him.”

Lando shot to his feet, slapping Lewis’s hand away—something he realized was probably a criminal offense only after he’d done it. Oh well.

“Carlos is doing all of this for me,” Lando hissed. “Don’t punish him for trying to help.”

“I didn’t say anything about punishment from me,” Lewis corrected with an amused look. “Those who sow trouble reap the same.”

Lando grit his teeth.

Lewis’s eyes chilled to obsidian, and the surge of confidence that came with protecting Carlos fizzled in him, damp fingers to a wick.

“You and I aren’t settled,” Lewis said slowly. “I protected you from this, but it comes with a price.”

Lando clenched his hands to fists at his sides. “Name it.”

Lewis laughed, flashing white teeth in the gloom. “That’s not how it works. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s an even trade.” He patted Lando on the shoulder. “In the meantime, enjoy your summer break. Hopefully London isn’t too miserable.”

Lando stood frozen as Lewis stepped out into the garage. The panic came back full force, blacking out his vision until he remembered that he had sheets of paper with illegal texts sitting out in the open with a phone that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Texts Lewis had read, and maybe Sebastian too. Texts locked away in a SIM card Lewis now had, and stuck in a goddamn cloud somewhere.

He gathered up the papers and stuffed them in the shredder by the door, thankful that McLaren always erred on the side of caution when it came to physical documents leaving briefing rooms. At least he had one fucking victory today.

He turned on the phone and heaved a sigh of relief that his texts were still saved on the internal hard drive.

you don’t have to make bfast EVERY day. just days where we don’t leave.

His text to Carlos from that morning.

so every day, Carlos had replied. you have to buy the groceries then. ;)

He scanned the thread but on the bottom he saw a set of texts he’d never seen. He glanced at Carlos’s watch—the timestamp read that the texts had been sent twenty minutes prior, probably when they were in the coat room. They were texts he’d never sent, but according to the text chain, they had come from his phone.

ask pierre about abu dhabi :)

he never paid his parking ticket

Chapter 70

Notes:

french speakers and italian speakers, feel free to correct me, i gave up lol

Chapter Text

Charles stood at the bar inside of the hotel Carlos had booked, glancing at his watch for the thousandth time. His drink—a Coca Cola—sat untouched and watered down on the bartop in front of him, but his blood swam with the intoxication of terror.

Sebastian already had pieces in play, and he couldn’t get ahold of Carlos, no matter how many times he texted and called. He’d been waiting for half an hour and though Antonello assured him Carlos was still at dinner with Pierre, Charles could only hear the ticking of the clock, the impending danger.

His phone buzzed against his thigh and he brought it to his ear immediately, nearly gasping with the force of his relief.

“Carlos,” Charles breathed. “Dove sei? I’ve been texting you, I’ve been—”

“Spiacente, I had my phone away for dinner—what’s going on?” Carlos asked.

“I’m at the hotel, ho detto ad Antonello di portarmi.”

“At the hotel?” He heard a muffled noise on the other end of the line. “Pierre. It’s Charles.”

“Carlos, I don’t want to talk to Pierre, I need to talk to you,” Charles said, trying not to sound as panicked as he felt.

“He’s at the hotel already,” Carlos explained, still talking to Pierre, his voice distant.

“Carlos!”

Everyone in the hotel bar looked at him, startled. Charles’s cheeks went red, but he focused his attention on his drink, stirring it with his straw.

“Pierre is with me,” Carlos explained, his voice clear again.

“Listen to me,” Charles hissed. “I need to talk to you. You need to come here, now.”

“What—”

“Carlos, I need you. Please. Ho bisogno di te adesso.”

The pause that followed made Charles wonder if Sebastian’s threat had already come true.

“Me? Or both of us?” Carlos asked.

Charles tried to fight down his fear, but he had no idea what Sebastian was capable of doing. He was smart, he was a champion, and he’d survived this long with more than just speed in the car.

“I’m at your hotel, Carlos,” Charles said. “I need you. I‘ll meet Pierre later, ma addesso ho bisogno di te.”

“Okay,” Carlos replied, his voice a little lower, a little softer. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. We’re down the street. I’m coming. Are you safe?”

“What?” Pierre asked in the background.

“I don’t know,” Charles confessed. “That’s why I need to talk to you.”

Carlos would know how to fix this. Somehow he always knew. He would smile easy and put his hands on Charles’s cheeks and kiss him warm. His voice would be sure and smooth and they would find a way to protect themselves from this.

“Charles, qui est-ce?” Pierre asked, getting on the phone. “Who the fuck is—”

“Je te le dirai ce soir,” Charles said. “This is between Carlos and me.”

The words felt cold and lifeless in his mouth. The silence that followed gnawed at his bones, stripping them down the marrow as he waited for the hurt in Pierre’s voice, the rejection.

“If you’d feel safer spending the night with him, that’s okay, Char,” Pierre finally said. “I just want to spend some time with you. We could have breakfast tomorrow.”

Charles heard an edge in his voice, but he couldn’t place the emotion behind it. He wished he could see Pierre’s face to make sure, but he sounded genuine. Maybe unsure, but genuine.

“Je veux être avec toi,” Charles said.

Pierre gave him a different kind of strength. He never had to wonder if Pierre was thinking of someone else—those blue eyes were always on him, captivated. Full of love for him and him only.

“I just have to talk to Carlos first, then we’ll—”

“Do whatever you need to do to feel okay,” Pierre said. “I have to hand the phone back to Carlos now because we’re almost there.”

“I’ll feel okay when I’m with you,” Charles said, and he meant it.

Pierre laughed, but it tapered off too fast. “Je suis toujours là pour toi. I don’t care who I have to kill, Calamardo. You’re always first.”

Charles opened his mouth to reply, but the phone rustled again and he knew Pierre was no longer on the other end of the line.

You’re always first.

“I’m coming inside,” Carlos said, his voice clear again.

Charles looked to the main entrance, where Carlos had his phone tucked to his ear as he pushed through the revolving door. Pierre stood outside, eyes hidden by his sunglasses and a worried look on his face. The lights in front of the hotel made golden ribbons in his hair, and Charles wanted nothing more than to run to him, to turn a blind eye to all of this.

Carlos hung up, but Charles kept his phone to his ear as he slid from his barstool. Sand-colored stone reflected the red of his Ferrari polo as he hurried across the lobby.

He didn’t even know what to feel seeing Carlos in person. Too many emotions welled up in him, good and bad.

Carlos pulled him into a hug when they met, using his chin to gather Charles’s head closer to his chest.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Carlos demanded, running his hands up and down Charles’s back. Normally the motion would be comforting, but not when Carlos unknowingly had the threat of a world champion hanging over him.

Charles shook his head. “Not here, let’s go to your room.”

 

 


 

 

The hotel room was nothing like the royal suite they were staying at a few miles away. The view was obstructed by the building across the street, a wall of windows and concrete. Cars honked on the street below, and the occasional shout of an angry bicyclist reached where Charles stood at the window.

“I don’t know what it means,” Charles said as he finished telling Carlos what happened. “But I was married to Sebastian for two years. I trust that he won’t go to the FIA, ma non ho idea di cosa fará.”

Carlos hadn’t spoken since Charles started explaining everything—which he’d managed to do quite calmly, given the circumstances.

Charles turned away from the window to face his husband, who sat on the edge of the bed, eyes glazed over.

“You hid the truth from me,” Charles said, and this time he let the hurt leak in. “I never even thought to ask where you got that SIM card. I figured you had some connection with Alonso to get them since he keeps tabs on Ferrari—or so you told me after Florence.”

Carlos shook his head. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought.”

Carlos could think ahead when it came to racing, but long term strategy was still difficult to him when it came to things outside of driving. He didn’t budget well—his time or his money. A prince didn’t require responsibility with either.

“And he knew you were lying to me,” Charles continued, crossing his arms over his chest. “I knew you were lying, obviously. But the fact that you kept saying it was going to only be for emergencies and then talked to him every day—that hurt.”

Carlos put his head in his hands.

Charles shook his head. “This isn’t working, Carlos. It’s obvious you want Lando more, so we should stop pretending.”

Carlos let out a noise of frustration. “Lando said the same thing to me about you just before dinner. He thinks I no longer love him. I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.”

Charles cocked a brow. “Davvero. You don’t see a single thing wrong with how you’ve been acting lately.”

A part of him turned warm at the thought that Lando saw him and Carlos getting closer when Charles thought they had been drifting apart—or maybe they were stagnant. He wasn’t sure.

Carlos flopped back on the mattress, doe eyes fixed on the ceiling.  “I can feel the pinchers pinching.”

Charles nearly burst out laughing at the way his accent turned the words to peenchers peenching, but cold dread wiped it away.

“I thought something was strange,” Carlos murmured. “Lando is very specific about what he wants. When he says he will text, he texts. If I call him, he doesn’t answer. The same in reverse—if I text, he will not answer until I call. Today he told me to call, and then he texted me ten minutes later.”

Charles moved over to the bed. “When was this?”

Carlos turned his head to look at him, lashes drooping over his eyes. He looked debauched just lying there and it made Charles angry that Carlos could be so attractive in such a normal setting.

“Just after the race. I was leaving with Pierre and he saw me. We spoke because he was very upset with me. Then he said he would call, then he texted. Avevo un brutto presentiment.”

Unease crept up Charles’s spine. “What did the text say?”

Carlos watched him, calm but intent. “I don’t think it was Lando texting me.”

“What did it say, Carlos.”

“Non si trattava di te,” Carlos said with a shake of his head. “It was about Pierre. But sometimes it is better not to ask, I think.”

The unease unfurled within him, blossoming to real fear.

“I know Pierre better than anyone,” Charles said. “If Sebastian knows something about him, I need to know. Everyone knows Pierre’s always been closer to Lewis, but if Sebastian thinks he might back Max, it’s because of me. And he might be using Pierre to—”

“Does he know about you and Pierre?” Carlos asked.

Charles searched for a response, ultimately deciding to shrug. “Non lo so. I don’t think so, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s very observant and he knows…he knows I’m sleeping with someone that isn’t you.”

Carlos pushed air from his nose—almost a snort, but not quite.

“He just guessed, non gli ho detto,” Charles growled. “He thought it was Max. And it’s not hard to believe that he still has ears in Red Bull.”

“So why would he use Pierre? If he wants to hurt Max, you’re the obvious choice.”

Charles looked down at his hands. “I don’t know about that. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I haven’t been close to Max in a long time.”

He could feel Carlos’s eyes on him. “But you want to be, again.”

Charles shook his head. “I love him. I’ve accepted that won’t go away. Max says a lot of brave things, but I know if it came down to me and Daniel, he wouldn’t pick me. I’m nostalgic to him, and I think…” He swallowed hard.

He’d thought a lot about Max since the hospital. Carlos had given him time to himself almost every night since Silverstone when he snuck out on the terrace to talk to Lando.

Maybe Max did love him. Charles believed that much. But there was a difference between the way Max looked at Daniel and the way Max looked at him.

“I can’t love him the way I did before. I could never trust him all the way. He’s a different person now,” Charles said.

Carlos didn’t say anything for a long time. He stared up at the ceiling, allowing Charles to watch the way his chest rose and fell in the quiet.

“I’m going to see Lando in London,” Carlos said.

Charles chuckled. “I know. It won’t be hard for anyone else to guess, either.”

“He’s going to make me choose.”

Charles went still.

“Well,” he finally said. “I did tell you this would happen.”

Carlos shook his head. “He will give me an impossible choice. He wants me to come back to McLaren, and I can’t do that. I need to be at Ferrari. He doesn’t understand.”

Charles didn’t allow himself to hope. Carlos needed to choose Lando anyway—Charles had Pierre now.

“Carlos, it’s okay if you choose him,” Charles said. “I think it’s better if—”

“I swore loyalty to Ferrari, Charles,” Carlos said quietly. “I take that very seriously. Lando knows this, yet asks me to come back to McLaren. I told Binotto at the beginning of the season that I would stay as long as he’ll have me. Daniel and I will not swap places. I need to win. I am so sick of not winning.”

Carlos approached every team meeting with the intent to win. Charles did too. They never doubted themselves in the car, even on bad days. They were chained by the limits of their machine, but next year was their chance at greatness.

“Lando thinks McLaren loves me so much that they would want me back,” Carlos continued. “I know this isn’t true. I came to them because I could not stand Red Bull anymore. Red Bull chose Daniel, then Max, then Pierre. McLaren took me because they wanted my head—my brain. Not me. Lando doesn’t see that.”

Charles didn’t want him to keep talking. It felt like they had started sliding over the crest of a slope only to see at the last second that it was actually a cliff.

“They loved me there for making Lando stronger. I’m happy for that—that I showed them how he really is. But they never planned to make me crown prince. I am always second. Except here. Here, we’re equal. You’re a favorite because of who you are and what you’ve already done.”

Carlos looked at him, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Charles swallowed hard.

“But I’m catching you. They’re letting me catch you. I’m respected here. Most importantly, you don’t think you’re better than me.” Carlos laughed. “Okay, I know that is what you think, but you don’t act that way. When a problem comes up, we talk. I’m the only one hiding things.”

Guilt was a rare sight in Carlos’s eyes, but it clouded there heavily, thick like humidity. Charles didn’t allow himself to think that the guilt was entirely for him.

“Lando shouldn’t expect you to put his empire over yours,” Charles said. “But you can still put him first over me.”

Carlos sighed. “You say you want to be first in my heart, then won’t let me do it.”

A sizzle of anger cut through him, but Charles kept his face schooled. “Sono crescuito con Lando. I told you before that—”

“And I told you I’ll always love him, and that hasn’t changed,” Carlos interrupted. “But Lando needs to learn that we are trying to love each other over decades, not a few seasons. No prince only has one love over their time in royalty. They design it this way. Everyone hates it, but I’ve never understood that. Love is not a finite resource.”

Charles lowered himself to the mattress, propping his head on his hand. “So what are you going to do?”

Carlos shrugged. “I don’t know yet. But I do know London will not be what I wanted it to be. I think I will leave there alone. I have to accept that possibility.”

Charles absently trailed a finger up Carlos’s forearm. “You won’t be alone.”

A smile spread to Carlos’s lips, tentative but real. He let out a sigh.

“I have a lot of work to do,” Carlos said. “I have to find out what Sebastian plans to do, and I have to protect Lando. He may think otherwise, but I will always love him, and I’m sure he’s frightened.”

Charles leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to Carlos’s forehead. “Let me know if I can help. But please be careful.”

Carlos let out a hum. “It may sound silly right now, but I always am. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Charles considered staying. Carlos feigned confidence, but Charles could see fear in the reaches of those brown eyes. He’d been too still for too long, and had yet to touch him since the lobby.

Charles also knew that staying would make him believe stupid things about their relationship. Lando needed Carlos, and Charles didn’t want to sway him in any way that Lando could blame him on.

“You really don’t want to be with Max?” Carlos asked, eyes wandering down to his lips.

Charles sat up quickly. “Max needs Daniel, not me. He’s just as confused as I am, but he’s very easy to read. He’s so in love with Daniel that he wants to fix us.” He shrugged. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s Max. He wants to be a better person because that’s who he thinks Daniel deserves.”

Carlos’s eyes dimmed, but he didn’t reply.

Charles didn’t want to decipher the emotion he saw there. Sometimes it was better not to know.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Charles said, slipping from the bed. “Want me to meet you here?”

Carlos grunted as he sat up, hair falling in his eyes like a goddamn model. “I check out at noon. Will you be awake?” he teased.

Charles grinned. “I’m not sure I’ll sleep.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “Ci vediamo all’aeroporto. Be safe, Charles.”

“You’re the one I’m worried about,” Charles said. “I mean it. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t leave here without Antonello and please don’t meet up with anyone.”

Carlos nodded once. “I’ll have a new phone by the time we’re in Mykonos. I may have been stupid about this, but I do know how to clean up my messes.”

 

 


 

 

Charles woke the next morning to Pierre lying naked at the end of the bed, arms crossed under his chin as he stared out at Budapest. Their room had a magnificent view, and the misty morning made it feel like they were in a mountaintop chalet instead of in the heart of the city. Grey light made Pierre’s skin look like marble, his own personal masterpiece. Charles longed to run his fingers over the sculpted muscle of Pierre’s shoulders, the dip of his spine. He wanted Pierre’s lips on his, more lovemaking, calling for breakfast in bed.

“Good morning,” Charles greeted, his voice rough with sleep.

He watched the corner of Pierre’s mouth curl up in a smile just before he turned his face. “Bonjour, mon amour.”

Charles continued to admire him, wondering once again how a gangly teenager could turn into this.

Next time they saw each other, Pierre would probably be darker than Carlos—he had a vacation planned that involved only sunshine and saltwater.

“À quelle huere est ton vol?” Charles slurred as he rubbed his eyes. “Viens ici, I’d like to kiss you good morning.”

He heard Pierre grunt, then felt the dip of the mattress as Pierre crawled up the bed toward him. Charles opened his eyes just in time to see Pierre’s lips part, then there was only the warmth of him, the caress of his mouth.  His lips ached into the kiss, still swollen from the night before. Well, the hours before.

“I leave in two hours,” Pierre murmured a moment later, settling his weight properly between Charles’s legs.

Charles let out a hum. “We have time, then.”

Pierre smiled into the next kiss, and Charles marveled at the way Pierre could cultivate heat between them in the most gentle moments. He melted into the pillows, soft noises escaping his lips that he didn’t try to prevent. Pierre worshipped every part of him.

“Mm, I have a present for you,” Pierre murmured, pressing kisses down his chest.

“Does it involve your mouth?” Charles asked running his fingers through Pierre’s hair.

“No,” Pierre laughed. “My hands.”

Charles’s mouth went dry.

But instead of moving down into the covers, Pierre pushed himself up and leaned over him to grab something. Charles didn’t look, he was too busy admiring Pierre’s pecs—a sight that brought absolutely filthy thoughts to his head.

“Close your eyes, Calamardo.”

Charles grinned as he closed his eyes.

He heard a soft clack, then felt as Pierre settled into place, their bodies flush together. Charles blindly reached up, rubbing his palms over Pierre’s broad shoulders.

“I love you,” Charles whispered, overwhelmed by the feeling.

Pierre’s lips found his, and Charles relished in the sensation of kissing him without knowing it was coming.

The kiss broke and Pierre shifted on the mattress.

“Open your eyes.”

Charles fluttered them open to see a small silver box in Pierre’s hand.

“What is this?” Charles asked, blinking in surprise.

Pierre flashed that gap-toothed smile. “Open it.”

Charles shifted to sit up, but kissed Pierre before he took the box. Pierre laughed, but returned it enthusiastically.

He loved this man. Charles could drown in this warmth, this feeling of being cherished.

He popped the box open.

A coal-black ring sat nestled in white velvet. It had a thick band and a matte finish, a statement piece that matched the bracelets Charles never took off.

“I’m not asking you to marry me,” Pierre teased as Charles gently pulled the ring from its cushion. “It’s an Oura ring.”

Charles furrowed his brow as he noticed the flash of circuitry on the inner circle of the ring.

“They track sleep,” Pierre explained.

Charles shot him a look. “The nightmares are gone, mon chou garçon.”

Pierre kissed the tip of his nose. “Let me finish.”

“Haven’t heard that before,” Charles teased, laughing when Pierre dug his fingers into his ribs.

“They pair with your phone so you can see your sleep patterns. It’ll even tell you if you have a fever or something,” Pierre said, thumbing at his sides. “But that isn’t why I bought it.”

“I was going to say, I have a doctor for that,” Charles said, turning the ring in his fingers. He slid the ring onto his right pinky to find that it fit perfectly.

“I have one too,” Pierre murmured, smiling down at his hand. “And I thought that we could pair our rings to each other’s phones. We can’t talk to each other, but this way we could still check in on each other.”

Charles smiled. “I love that idea.”

The FIA had a rule against communication outside of letters, but this wasn’t communication. This was nothing more than health data, and the thought of knowing whether or not Pierre had a good night of sleep comforted him somehow.

“Try it out,” Pierre said. “And if you don’t want to pair it to my phone, I understand that. I just thought that since I don’t see you—”

“Pierre, I love it,” Charles assured him, leaning in to kiss him. He pulled away only to kiss him again. “I love you too.”

Pierre let out a sigh of relief. “Okay, good. I was worried. I didn’t know if you’d think it was too much.”

Charles shook his head before he set the box aside and reclined into the pillows again. The ring fit snug on his finger, and Charles knew it would be a reminder of their perfect night together every time he looked at it.

Pierre produced his own ring from the nightstand, identical to Charles’s in thickness and shape, but his was silver. He fit it onto his left pinky and Charles wondered if he’d planned that part too, or if they just thought the same way.

“Handsome,” Charles murmured, reaching up to feel over the metal.

Pierre smiled, but his eyes were distant. The dull gleam reflected in his irises, silver on blue.

Something was off. Charles could see it in his body language. He felt it in the way Pierre leaned into his touch, in the silence between them.

Charles moved his palm to Pierre’s face and thumbed his cheekbone, brow furrowing with concern. “You’re upset.”

They would be spending a lot of time apart starting in just a few hours.

Charles couldn’t be seen in Ibiza, Pierre’s chosen vacation spot, especially not when people would know Carlos was in London without him. Charles in Spain without his Spanish husband and Carlos in London near his ex-husband would cause a media wildfire.  

“I love you,” Pierre whispered, nosing against him. “Dis-moi que tu sais ça.”

Charles kissed the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip tingling form the rasp of Pierre’s beard against the tender skin. “Of course I know.”

Pierre’s eyes suddenly changed. They became a little less warm, a little less loving. Barely perceptible, but Charles had been taught to catch signs ever since he’d missed all of them with Max.

All of a sudden Charles knew what Pierre was going to say. Not the exact words, but he knew.

“I have always been for you,” Pierre began. “Since before Paris, since forever.”

Pierre kissed him, but Charles tasted bitterness on his lips, stinging and icy like a drop of venom on his tongue.

Pierre never invited him to Ibiza, Charles realized. He told him about it, but never made any suggestion to plan anything together. Never talked about stopping by Monaco or taking a day trip to see each other in Milan at his flat. Pierre was going to Cap Ferret too, so close that Charles would barely have to leave his house to see him, and Pierre hadn’t implied a visit, not once, all night.

Don’t assume, Charles scolded himself. Don’t say anything that could ruin this.

“But there’s…” Pierre ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “I haven’t just been waiting for you to change your mind about me. I went crazy after Belgium. I went crazy after Abu Dhabi too and—”

Pierre stopped himself, at a loss.

Charles grit his teeth so hard he thought they might crack.

He knew he was being irrational, so he said nothing. Pierre had someone else. Charles could see him thinking about that other person right there in their bed, as if he’d opened the door to their suite and invited him in to sit down for a chat.

No one could expect Pierre to be some earnest, pining lover waiting for Charles to come around. In their teenage years, he’d been open about experimenting and seeing who he could land. He fucked, he partied, he made out with strangers when the cameras were turned away.

But he never talked about other princes. Charles knew full well that he probably wasn’t the only prince Pierre had ever fucked. Daniil Kvyat had been all but adhered to him during their time at Toro Rosso. Pierre never talked much about Brendon Hartley, but Charles knew there was probably a reason for that too.

Hell, he could have fucked Carlos. He could have fucked Max.

“Who is it?” Charles asked quietly.

Pierre sighed, burrowing his face into Charles’s neck. “Don’t. Don’t judge me like this.”

“Who is it, Pierre?” Charles asked again.

He had to know or it would eat him alive.

Pierre pulled back, kissing his forehead. “Mon amour, please.”

“You can’t say that to me and not expect me to ask. J’ai besoin de savoir. He kissed the underside of Pierre’s jaw. “Please.”

Pierre didn’t respond right away. Instead, he moved back under the covers to lay beside him, nestling against him until their bodies were flush together.

Charles felt the walls beginning to close in on him, but he turned to face Pierre anyway, brushing noses with him as he prepared for the worst.

“Him and I aren’t together,” Pierre murmured, their breath mixing in the warm space between them. “But there…we’ve always been there for each other. Fuck. Je ne sais pas comment l’expliquer. What I’m saying is that it isn’t anything like this. J’ai toujours voulu ça, Char. I just thought you’d never want me, so I did my best to—”

 “We weren’t together,” Charles murmured. “I do know how this works.”

His teasing soured in the air between them.

“We’ve been doing whatever we’ve been doing since 2018,” Pierre continued, swallowing hard. “We both knew it was going to end at some point. He wants a life I don’t want.”

Charles suddenly felt like he didn’t know the man in bed with him. Pierre had been seeing someone for three years. Charles had never been in a relationship that long. He didn’t really know how to be.  But he couldn’t imagine seeing someone for three years and not having something more than whatever Pierre was trying to claim they were.

“Do you love him?” Charles asked.

“No,” Pierre whispered, kissing his cheeks. “Stop thinking what you’re thinking.”

Charles closed his eyes and took a breath.

“Have you been seeing him while we’ve been—?”

“No, Charles,” Pierre assured him. “I would never do that to you. I reached out to him about going to Ibiza and he agreed to come. That was always our deal—that we’d plan a trip to Ibiza if I found someone else.”

Pierre said he always put him first, but it didn’t feel like that anymore. The warmth and love he’d woken up to had washed out already.

“So this is your…what do you expect me to do, let you fuck someone else?” Charles asked.

“It isn’t like that—”

“But that’s what you’re going to do, right? Fuck him?”

Pierre sighed in frustration, his jaw flexing.  “I’m not planning to, no. But—”

“But? But what—you want to?”

When they met eyes, Charles’s nostrils flared in disgust.

“I want to say goodbye in a way he deserves,” Pierre answered, his voice quiet.

Hurt sank deep. Charles recoiled from it, but Pierre kept close, placating him with kisses to his cheeks.

“He got me through 2019, Charles,” Pierre explained, moving over top of him again. “Daniil was off the grid, which I understood. You were new at Ferrari, you had so much going on and I know you tried, but he was actually there. Anthoine was too, until—”

They both looked away.

“We’re friends. He’s my friend, Charles.”

“So tell me you don’t feel anything for him,” Charles said, bracing his hands against Pierre’s shoulders.

“I’m not in love with him. I’m allowed to have friends outside of you,” Pierre replied.

Charles let out a snort. “How many of your friends do you fuck?”

“Would you stop? I’m not going to Ibiza to fuck him. I’m going to say goodbye—he deserves that.” Pierre sat up, the blankets pooling at his hips. “The FIA runs our lives. I don’t even get to talk to him without an approval, and when I see him it’s only for a few hours at best. All of us learn how to deal with royalty in different ways. That was my way, okay? I couldn’t trust Max, I couldn’t get your attention, and Anthoine was dead. I didn’t have anyone—I couldn’t even keep the same fucking husband for a season.”

Charles didn’t see Pierre angry with him that often, but he wasn’t frightened. He didn’t know what to feel.

Pierre threw up his hands. “So yes, I found someone to fuck who understood at least part of what was going on, because I didn’t even know. On n’est pas amoureux. Sometimes it’s just—” He gestured vaguely, as though trying to waft the right words toward his mouth. “A fake relationship is better than nothing at all.”

“You act like I ignored you,” Charles said. “I was there every weekend, Pierre. I saw you, I was there.”

Pierre’s eyes went soft. “No, you weren’t. Anthoine—”

“Arrête de le dire,” Charles hissed, suddenly furious.

Pierre leaned down again, tucking his face into Charles’s neck. His neck was still raw from the burn of Pierre’s beard, and marked all to hell with evidence of their night together.

They stayed like that for a moment until Charles settled, his rage quieting. He couldn’t think about Belgium for many reasons, and it was already looming on the horizon after summer break.

Pierre nuzzled against his collarbone. “We all dealt with it in different ways. I had him, you had Ferrari.”

Charles opened his mouth to argue, but he couldn’t because Pierre was right. He’d sunk himself into the empire, closed himself off. He’d won that race at Spa, and Monza, after. The thrill of victory had been a temporary high, morphine to the wound in him that had reopened in Belgium.

He remembered sitting in the simulator, driving without gloves until his palms started to bleed and doing it on purpose so he would have evidence of how hard he’d worked. He treated Sebastian like shit, taking every chance to remind him who won in Monza, who had captivated the masses at their home track.

He’d been a cruel and bitter person, and yet all of Ferrari spoke of that year like he’d walked the earth with divine power.

Charles didn’t know how to deal with the fact that the best version of himself always birthed from loss.

“Dis-moi ce que tu veux,” Charles said, like they were negotiating. They were now.

“Charles,” Pierre soothed.

“Pierre, fucking tell me what you want.”

“I don’t want you to be pissed at me,” Pierre growled, sitting back up again. “I love you. That hasn’t changed—I told you about this because there might be pictures and I didn’t want you to start assuming things like you always do.”

“This isn’t helping get what you want, then,” Charles snapped.

Pierre narrowed his eyes. “It’s Stoffel Vandoorne.”

Charles’s eye blew wide.

Stoffel had been a McLaren prince alongside Alonso, but lost his crown after lackluster performance. He was older than them, with a long, angular face that gave him a disinterested look as a default.

He also lived in Monaco while he lurked around the lower courts, searching for a way back in that would never come.

They used to be friends. Charles had found solace in Stoffel’s French—his multilingualism made him a place to rest for a lot of princes back then. Max used to rant at him in Dutch, which was why Charles had started talking to him in the first place.

He tried to be close to anyone who had been close to Max, back then.

But Stoffel had always been Pierre’s friend first. His quiet, calm demeanor brightened around Pierre. Charles remembered talking with them both and he’d even remarked on Stoffel’s smile only appearing when Pierre showed up.

Now he knew why.

“Since 2018,” Charles said.

Pierre’s face didn’t change. “Oui. I need you to be okay with that. You don’t get to be angry at me when we weren’t together.”

“I was still your best friend,” Charles said, sitting up himself. Cold washed over his back, but he didn’t care. “You didn’t tell me about this for three years, Pierre.”

Pierre grit his teeth. “Yeah.”

Charles noticed his lip quiver, but only for a second.

“I didn’t tell you because I thought that if I did, you’d do exactly what you’re doing now,” Pierre said. “You’d think I didn’t love you and that I was happy with someone else so you wouldn’t have to care about me anymore.”

Tendrils of cold wrapped themselves around Charles’s heart. He couldn’t live life without Pierre. He didn’t want to. Imagining a future with him was frighteningly easy—too easy, almost. He never had to try for Pierre’s attention or his love. Most people saw that as a comfort, but Charles saw it as something that could go stale.

“Je t’aime,” Charles said, but that didn’t sound like the right answer. “But you never asked me about going on a trip with you. I could go to Cap Ferrat without anyone caring, mais tu n’as même pas demandé. Is that because you didn’t think to ask or because you’re already planning to spend time with him there, too?”

“Je passe toute l’année avec toi,” Pierre said. “I’m spending two weeks with him before I stop seeing him, maybe for good. I’m not going to fuck him. It isn’t some romantic getaway.”

Charles threw off the covers and started searching for his clothes. “Maybe it should be.”

“You wouldn’t have come to Cap Ferrat and you know it. Tu aurais trouvé une excuse—”

“Now you sound like you think I don’t love you,” Charles snapped, finding his boxers and sliding them on. “Tu n’as jamais demandé, Pierre. I’ve been waiting to see you, to spend time with you so we can figure out how to be together. But I see you in Italy and you accuse me of loving Max—"

“Because you told me you did!” Pierre shot back. “You kissed him, Charles!”

“And you told me you loved Stoffel and I assume you kiss him when you fuck. Yet you expect me to be fine with it!”

“I never said I love him,” Pierre corrected, hopping out of bed. “You’re being so hypocritical.”

“No,” Charles growled out as he stuck his head through the collar of his shirt. “You told me to close doors, I did. I shut the door on Sebastian. He wore the shirt in a last ditch effort but there isn’t anything there anymore aside from—”

“Friendship?” Pierre tried. “Like I have with Stoffel?”

“Except I never hid Sebastian from you.”

Pierre made a noise of disgust and pulled his robe from the hook by the bathroom, shrugging it on. “Ne pars pas.”

“Oh, I’m leaving,” Charles growled. “Now I have to sit through summer break while Carlos and Lando fuck in London and you’re in Cap Ferrat with Stoffel Van-fucking-doorne.”

“Stuck in Monaco with Max,” Pierre said.

Charles shot him a glare. “Don’t even go down that fucking road, Pierre. I love you. Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean—"

“I know what it means,” Pierre snapped. “I thought you would be mature about this.”

“Maybe you should have asked me first!” Charles retorted. “You spring this on me the morning before we leave? Sérieux?”

Pierre shook his head, hurt. “I’m not going to fuck him. I’m not ruining us.”

Even in just a robe, Pierre looked older than his years.  His mouth set in a hard line, his eyes a flurry of bright color.

“Then you and I are going to meet in Monaco before the break is over,” Charles said. “And you’re going to tell me the truth of what happens. I’ll tell you mine. And we’re not going to hide things anymore. Once we do that, you can decide what you want to do.”

“We,” Pierre hissed. “We decide. Together.”

Charles tugged on his jeans. “Sure, we. But I’m already committed to you, so I don’t have to fucking decide anything.”

“We’ll see,” Pierre said, like he knew something Charles didn’t.

A certain Spaniard, more like.

Charles waved him off with a snort. “Have a great time in Spain, mon chou gar—”

“Do not poison that,” Pierre cut.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“I love you,” Pierre said, slightly softer. “I’ll write you.”

“I love you too,” Charles said with a sigh. “But please don’t.”

Pierre bit the inside of his cheek. “Can I kiss you goodbye then?”

Charles nodded once.

Despite a blowout argument, Pierre held his face like he was breakable. Charles tried to hold onto his anger, but Pierre kissed him with more love and affection than he expected.

This was all so fucking stupid.

Pierre tasted like he had the night before—like baked apples and possibility. His fingers scratched at the nape of Charles’s neck, sending a wave of comfort down through him that reached all the way to his toes.

Charles tugged the knot loose at Pierre’s waist, allowing the robe to fall open, exposing all of him.

Pierre grinned against his mouth. “Tu as changé d’idée?” he teased, soft and playful.

Charles knew this conversation would haunt him for the next month. He knew he would wake up tomorrow and use Carlos to fight the memory away. But after Mykonos he would have to face it alone, though his mind was quick to remind him that Max was less than a mile from his flat in Monaco and Charles still had his number.

“Bed,” Charles commanded, already pulling off the jeans he’d just put back on.

Pierre kissed him again, more passionate this time, but Charles ended it with a hard nip to his bottom lip.

“Ouch,” Pierre laughed. “That—”

“If you want to fuck, I think you should shut up,” Charles said, giving him a gentle shove.

Pierre made a show of running his tongue over his bottom lip, eyes hooded. He stepped backward, dropping the robe from his shoulders before he sat on the edge of the mattress.

He cocked his head and lifted a brow, taunting him.

Charles accepted the challenge. He accepted the challenge because he knew that if he did leave without doing this, he probably wouldn’t have Pierre to come back to.

Chapter 71

Notes:

this very special chapter is brought to you in part by @tarmaclicious who drew these fantastic pieces for me when i came to them with a wild idea about summer break. thank you for being a fantastic friend and giving me support day in and day out! FG would not be the same without you.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

A GQ magazine cover depicting George Russell wearing the Williams crown and the Mercedes cape. The background is black at the top, fading into a burst orange, embers floating up from the ground. The headlines read as follows: 

GEORGE RUSSELL: HEIR(OW) TO THE THRONE

SPECIAL STYLE  PREVIEW: PIERRE GASLY TELLS US HOW TO LOOK ONE STEP AHEAD OF THE PACK 

ROOKIE OF THE YEAR? WE GET YUKI TSUNODA DRESSED FOR ROYAL SUCCESS

WHY IS RED BULL FREAKING OUT?
LEWIS HAMILTON JUST BECAME THE NEW MICHAEL SCHUMACHER

LIGHTS! CAMERA! DRIVE TO SURVIVE!
HOLLYWOOD’S SMASH SERIES TAKES ON THE CROWN

SPECIAL REPORT: BURNER PHONES - WHAT THE F&%K IS GOING ON?

“THAT” CRASH: THE FIA HUNT FOR WHO’S AT FAULT

 

GEORGE RUSSELL: HEIR(OW) TO THE THRONE

BY JACKSON SLADE

PHOTOGRAPHY BY MARIO TESTINO

 

George Russell is ready to take on the mantel of the infamous Silver Arrow crown. He has yet to be formally announced for the Mercedes lineup next year, but rumors are flying around the paddock, and all of the gossip points straight to the 23 year-old King's Lynn native.  

Though we have yet to see him in the real Mercedes cape, photographer Mario Testino photographed him in a top-notch replica courtesy of Netflix, borrowed from the set of the Drive To Survive, the hit series currently filming its fourth season. The crown, however, is the real deal from Williams.

I caught up with George on the first weekend of the summer hiatus. Most princes elected to travel, but Prince George and Prince Nicholas decided to stay at Williams for the first week of break, and plan to return one week early from a planned vacation in Croatia. “Williams is an empire that requires our utmost attention,” George informed me, looking dapper in a Dior button down you may recognize from the ultra-exclusive Champion’s Party in Monaco earlier this year. True to the spirit of Williams, he’s a firm believer in zero waste. “I’m also not much of a fashionista,” he added.

Lovingly compared to Handsome Squidward by fans around the globe, George is certainly growing into good looks fit for royalty. He has an easy smile and plenty of jokes too, including one about my tie. Apparently you’re not supposed to wear red around a Williams prince.

He played off my compliments, but not in a way that said he didn’t believe them. I figure a prince can’t go about life without a healthy dose of confidence in himself.

I led with a few questions about his time with Williams.

“I really love it here,” George said. “There’s a spirit of hard work and ingenuity at Williams that you don’t see in other empires. What Jost and the rest of the empire have been able to achieve these last few years is remarkable.”

“That’s very humble of you, but I’d say you were a big part of that success,” I said.

He gave me a cheeky smile. “It’s a joint effort. I wouldn’t be anywhere without Nicky.”

Nicky, of course, is Prince Nicholas Latifi, George’s husband and partner in crime. Regarded as a pay prince, “Nicky” has shown he’s more than just a blank check. Their relationship has been something of a sensation among fans worldwide, and now they’re one of the top couples of the FIA empires.

“We’re incredibly close,” George told me. “We spend all day together. We race against each other, but we have a shared goal to do the best for Williams.”

“Any animosity between you two?” I asked.

“All love,” he replied with a grin bordering on cheesy.

I may be a lowly journalist in a royal world, but he did seem genuine. However, I had to get to the tough questions sooner or later.

When I asked about Prince Lewis, George didn’t shirk away.

“Lewis is a class act,” he said. “I really enjoy racing with him, and he’s such a role model as a seven-time champion.”

“What do you think his chances are for an eighth?”

I was strictly warned by both Williams and Mercedes liaisons that questions about Silverstone would not be tolerated. The air changes the second anyone catches a whiff of Prince Verstappen in these halls.

“If anyone can win eight championships, it’s Lewis,” George said. He could tell I wanted more than that, and indulged me with the utmost diplomacy by adding: “But Max is a very good driver, and he’ll put up quite the fight, I’m sure.”

If you’ve been paying attention to any sort of news outlet recently, you’ve probably heard the rumors about a feud between George and his old karting buddy turned Red Bull Prince, but when I asked about it, George shook his head.

“Max and I grew up together. We’ve had plenty of rows over the years. Hard to get in a tussle with someone when he’s at the front of the pack and we’re second to last.”

(He, of course, had to make sure I quoted “second to last,” lest anyone think Haas had an advantage on them.)

“Maybe I can off him when he laps me,” George joked. Williams Public Affairs did not find it as funny as I did.

I was briefed prior to my interview about what would be permitted in terms of conversation about Mercedes. Williams offered no hints as to George’s appointment for next year, but I was given a rare opportunity to ask about Mercedes and that sensational courtship ceremony.

“I can’t thank Mercedes and the FIA enough for the opportunity to make a bit of history,” George said with noticeable pride. “I can’t say much about it, but Mercedes was incredibly welcoming. I had a lovely time.”

“A lovely time?” I asked, emphasizing the love in lovely.

“A lovely time,” George repeated with a sly smile.

“Come on, I have to know more,” I pressed.

Prince George showed his princely qualities in the way he leaned back in his chair to regard me like the lowly peasant I am—and that’s not an insult to George. He’s really perfected the look of lackadaisical authority.

“He showed me the Mercedes palace, we had a bit of dinner, visited awhile. Of course, I slept in my own room, which was wonderful. Germany is absolutely beautiful. I even had a roommate!”

That roommate turned out to be Roscoe, Prince Lewis’s adorable bulldog who has more Instagram followers than I ever will.

George was even kind enough to show me a selfie of the two of them. It was very, very cute.

“I was very happy to see Nicky when I arrived in Austria though. Distance really reminds us of who we want in our lives.”

Cue the melting hearts, everyone. This is real love.

But our time was drawing to a close, and I have to earn my paycheck somehow. A bit of small talk about Germany, and then I served a scorcher:

“Do you know where you’ll be next year?”

George laughed. “I have a pretty good idea of where I’ll be next year, yes.”

No snipers got me, I’m happy to report. All in all, George seems ready to take on whatever challenges might come his way. Leaving Prince Nicholas might break more than just George’s heart, but I think I can speak for most of the residents in the FIA empires when I say that Lewis and George would make a hell of a duo.

I’ve interviewed a lot of princes over the years, including Lewis, and I have to say George is one of the kindest I’ve met. I’m sure he was hiding half of the facts from me, but he did so with a pleasant smile and a even prompted a few questions I’d forgotten to ask!

Starstruck? Maybe, but that’s just the kind of person George is. Did I mention he’s a genius? Because he is. I promised I’d say that, because he was kind enough to sign my GR63 2021 Model helmet.

Time will tell if George joins the ranks of the Silver Arrows, but I have a feeling this may be the last time we see him in a Williams for awhile.

“I’m proud of the work we’ve done at Williams this year,” George said at the end of our interview. “But we still have a long way to go, and Nic and I are going to do everything we can for our family here, for as long as we have left.”

 


 

 

r/FIAnews Posted by u/maFIAbaby_throwaway 7 hours ago 

Did we just forget about the illegal Maxiel phones? Cool.

Two of the most popular princes in the empire exchange literally 6,000 text messages and 6 hours of RECORDED conversations and phone sex and you guys are just….ignoring this? I’ll save you the trouble of looking at my post history: I don’t like Daniel. I think he’s a fake asshole. He sucks at driving and Lando is pulling all the weight at McLaren right now and has been since the start of the season, but especially after Portugal. 

None of that matters. I live in McLaren and it seems like nobody even gives a fuck here that one of our princes got caught red handed with an illegal phone. yea they didn’t find anything bad in his texts but would the FIA really release anything if they did?? Daniel could have told Max stuff about Mercedes and maybe that’s part of the reason Red Bull is so close in the championship? I hope Zak is smarter than that but he also simps after Daniel so hard it’s annoying. 

I guess because it’s Daniel Ricciardo nobody cares? Can someone remind me the last time he won anything? I guess hype buys you get out of jail free cards. I mean obviously Red Bull isn’t going to do shit to Max, but Max has nothing to lose. 

Not to mention the FIA doesn’t shut up bout the sanctity of royal marriages and yet Daniel just goes to a hearing and everything is resolved, no consequences? Pretty sure he didn’t even apologize, and you can see on Lando’s face that HE definitely noticed that too. IMO Lando really did love Daniel and now he has to help repair his image even tho he got cheated on??? Wtf??? Everyone is fine with this???

I’d love to see the actual FIA investigation into this. I feel like as a McLaren citizen with MY taxes going toward paying that asshole to sit in a car I should get to see whether or not he violated FIA laws?? Oh wait, he did! HE HAD AN ILLEGAL PHONE. Why have rules if it’s okay to break them? 

Daniel simps can fuck off. I don’t care if you think he’s hot, HE BROKE THE LAW. It’s one thing to still love someone after your break up (just ask my ex gf) but I’m pretty sure Lando still loves Carlos and yet he didn’t use burner phones??? Probably because they are ILLEGAL???

The FIA needs to start following through. So does McLaren tbh. IMO Max and Daniel should have been punished for this BIG TIME. Or, you know, punished AT ALL?? Little things add up—I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Maxiel gets away with this in Portugal at then at Silverstone the FIA says they don’t need to investigate when a prince could have died?? I don’t think “racing incident” is a good enough answer. Either Max turned in too early on purpose or Lewis stayed wide on purpose. IGNORING PROBLEMS DOES NOT FIX THEM, FIA!

 


 

WHERE IN THE WORLD ARE OUR PRINCES?

BUZZFEED FIA SUMMER FEATURE

 

Summer break in the royal racing season always leaves FIA citizens feeling a little lonely. We’re so used to seeing royalty on every social media outlet that something feels off when we don’t see Prince Charles’s face plastered on our Instagram feeds or hear Prince Lewis’s morning motivations. Sometimes we don’t hear from our princes until we return to racing! (Looking at you, Prince Sebastian!)

Wondering where your favorite royal is spending his holiday? Don’t worry, we’ve got you covered.

 

HRH LEWIS HAMILTON & HRH VALTERRI BOTTAS

Not much is known about Prince Hamilton’s summer break plans this year. In the past he’s gone to his mountain home in Colorado, stopped by his Manhattan penthouse in New York City, or spends time at his home in Monaco. This year he’s rumored to be staying at the Mercedes palace near Stuttgart to focus on the second half of the season. Some say it’s a political move by Mercedes to keep him out of the spotlight that’s turned a little harsh lately after that “accident” with Prince Verstappen.

Fans spotted Prince Bottas at the airport just after the Hungarian GP, headed to Finland. He typically returns to his home country during the break, though the past few years he’s also traveled to Australia to visit friends. As much as we wish these two would give us some couples content from Mercedes, we hope Prince Bottas enjoys time with family and friends—with plenty of coffee!

 

HRH LANDO NORRIS & HRH DANIEL RICCIARDO

Prince Norris was spotted in Monaco with Prince Daniel just after the Hungarian GP. Sources say they were enjoying their time together, and that Prince Norris is looking to move closer to his husband so that they can be together in the off-season too. Aw! We’ve loved watching their relationship develop this season—remember that cheeky comment about certain bedroom activities? Scandalous! Prince Norris seems happier than ever, so we’re happy too! 

Prince Ricciardo has been seen out and about on his own too, enjoying the nightlife and time on the water. According to our sources in the city, Prince Norris has been staying at Prince Ricciardo’s flat and they’ve been spending a lot of alone time together.

“Daniel is adamant about his privacy,” our source said. “He’s been focused on making Lando his priority ever since the story about the burner phones came out. It took a huge toll on their relationship, but they’re working through it.”

McLaren has upped security around both princes since they were attacked at the Euro Cup earlier this summer.

“They’re both still affected by it,” our source revealed. “It’s horrible, but that moment really brought them together.”

 

HRH SEBASTIAN VETTEL & HRH LANCE STROLL

Every year we try to track down Prince Sebastian, and every year, we fail. The most elusive prince in the empires is rumored to be at his home in Switzerland, but we’ve seen no evidence to back that claim. Other rumors say he returned home to Germany to be with family.

“He just doesn’t like to be bothered,” a close friend told us last year. “He’s never been the type to go on fancy holidays. He’d rather be with family.”

The FIA continues to face backlash for Prince Sebastian’s disqualification following the Hungarian GP, supposedly due to having too little fuel at the end of the race. However, the disqualification came after Prince Sebastian wore a shirt that said “Love Is Not a Contract”—prompting fans to believe the FIA disqualified him as a punishment for protesting royal marriage rules. Opinions are mixed on the issue—some say that princes are aware what they’re signing up for when they enter into the royal circle, while others claimed arranged marriages should be a thing of the past.

For a prince who says he likes to stay private, the four-time champion has certainly served the drama this season!

Perhaps taking after his new husband, we don’t know where Prince Stroll has opted to take his summer break. There are rumors of him in Paris, but until we see pics, we’re assuming he’s honeymooning with Prince Seb.

Prince Lance’s father, Lawrence Stroll, said before the break: “Lance and Sebastian have had their differences this season, but we’re confident that we will finish strong. We’re looking ahead to next year, and they are both determined to bring Aston Martin back to the top.”

And on the marriage front?

“Couldn’t be happier,” Lawrence told Sky. “It’s a breath of relief for all of us.”

 

HRH MAX VERSTAPPEN & HRH SERGIO PEREZ

Red Bull has made no secret of their princes' summer plans: Prince Max is currently spending his summer in Monaco with Prince Perez! Our favorite couple was even seen on a double date with the McLaren princes. So far, they’ve been the most active couple on social media—which is normal for Prince Max, but less so for Prince Sergio.

“Checo is having his best summer since getting a crown,” says a friend of the Mexican prince. “When I spoke to him, he was excited for his future with Max and determined to finish out the season at the top.”

We’re hoping this means Red Bull has reached an agreement on Prince Perez’s future with Red Bull, which has yet to be announced. Either way, we’re excited for what the future holds!

Prince Max, on the other hand, has faced his fair share on controversy this season, from being found with illegal burner phones to the suggestion of foul play involved in the infamous crash in Silverstone (where it was discovered that he elected Prince Charles as his next of kin and not Prince Perez—ouch).

Speaking of burner phones…

“Things are over between him and Daniel,” a close source tells us. “Max doesn’t like to hang around people who can’t perform on track. That’s just how he is. And Daniel just hasn’t been meeting expectations. It’s pretty clear to Max that Daniel is on the way out, and it’s just not worth pursuing.”

Get the tissues, Maxiel stans. It’s going to be a long summer…

 

HRH CHARLES LECLERC & HRH CARLOS SAINZ JR

Prince Charles and Prince Carlos will be spending their summer holiday in Mykonos, Greece, Ferrari reported. There have been a lot of rumors surrounding the couple, thanks in part to a conspiracy theory first posted by Maria Xanadu, an Instagram influencer turned YouTube star.

“Call it a hunch, but these two are each other’s beards,” Maria said in a now viral video that included dozens of photos of Prince Pierre and Prince Charles spending time together in the paddock before races, and several shots of Prince Carlos and Prince Lando doing the same.

The video now has four million views, but past the shock value, fans aren’t eating up the hype.

“Charles and Max, Charles and Sebastian, now Charles and Pierre?” one person commented. “He’s allowed to hug his friends. Everyone knows Pierre is still in love with Daniil anyway. Stop making s*** up for shock value.” (Daniil being the exiled Daniil Kvyat, who used to be a prince of Red Bull and Torro Rosso.)

“Since we’re throwing s*** at the wall - what about Carlos and Daniel? At least they’re almost the same age,” said another comment with over 5,000 likes.

Leave us a comment and tell us who you think Prince Charles really has an eye on!

 

HRH KIMI RAIKKONEN & HRH ANTONIO GIOVANAZZI

Prince Kimi and Prince Antonio have elected to spend their holiday together in Tuscany, and are expected to visit Prince Antonio’s home region of Puglia. Alfa Romeo has even suggested they’ll head off to Finland for a bit of time on the lakes!

The royal duo of Alfa Romeo have maintained a quiet relationship so far this season, but they’re some of the most popular royals on TikTok, thanks in part to Prince Raikkonen’s apparent cluelessness about the app. Alfa Romeo has capitalized on the social media fame with their Ride With Romeo campaign, a post-race recap that always ends up with citizens learning more about Prince Kimi’s “interesting” methods to avoid traffic on public roads and Prince Antonio’s Spotify playlists than anything to do with the race.

“I never expected Kimi to fall for someone this late into his career,” a source in Alfa Romeo told us. “But they truly adore each other. It really lifts the whole empire to see them so happy together.”

Alfa Romeo’s beloved royal couple seems to be a match made in heaven—fitting for the prince affectionately dubbed “Italian Jesus” by fans. Enjoy your time together, you two!

 

HRH GEORGE RUSSELL & HRH NICHOLAS LATIFI

Okay, these two are our real favorites. Prince George and Prince Nicholas have been voted as the strongest couple in the empires heading into summer break, according to the most recent FIA fan poll. They’re living up to expectations on their trip to Croatia together, where Prince Nicholas posted on Instagram that they “can’t stay away from each other.” Talk about cute!

Our sources say Prince George even flew in Prince Nicholas’s longtime friend, Sandra Dziwiszek, to help throw a surprise birthday party for his Canadian hubby. Sandra told friends that Prince George felt bad about not having a proper birthday celebration for “Nicky” in June, so he made up for it in a big way by inviting Prince Nicholas’s friends and family for an all-expenses-paid weekend at their chosen resort.

“George loves Nicky more than anyone else,” a close source tells us. “Nobody even comes close.”

As if we needed another reason to love them!

 

HRH MICK SCHUMACHER & HRH NIKITA MAZEPIN

Similar to his mentor, Prince Vettel, not much is known about Prince Schumacher’s holiday destination. We do know he’s elected to spend at least a week of it at Haas to assist with development on next year’s car—but sources say he’s specifically requested to be separated from Prince Mazepin during that time. Safe to say relations haven’t improved between these two!

“Nobody says they have to get along,” Guenther Steiner, Head of Government at Haas, told us in July. “To be quite honest with you, I don’t care if they get along. I care about what we are doing for the empire—which is f***ing nothing right now. But at least Mick is f***ing trying.”

Yikes.

To make things worse, Prince Mazepin has elected to spend his entire holiday in St. Tropez and in Russia to prepare for the Russian GP. Not that anyone is really looking for him. (Yeah, we said it.)

 

HRH FERNANDO ALONSO & HRH ESTEBAN OCON

Following a sensational win in Hungary, the Alpine Princes are off on their own adventures—for now.  Prince Esteban has been sighted poolside in Monaco, soaking up some rays. Prince Fernando is in Asturias, Spain, checking in on the karting world and paving the way for future princes. Alpine representatives assured us the princes have a holiday planned together in France, perhaps visiting the Le Mans circuit for Alpine’s rumored appearance?

Sharp-eyed fans have reportedly seen them duking it out on FIFA online during their time apart—with guest appearances by Prince Max, Prince Yuki, and Prince Lando on the virtual pitch!

Safe to say distance makes the heart grow fonder for our Alpine royals.

 

HRH PIERRE GASLY & HRH YUKI TSUNODA

Dubbed the “sleeper hit” of the royal paddock, Prince Pierre and Prince Yuki are causing a bit of an uproar among Alpha Tauri citizens after it was revealed via Instagram that Prince Yuki returned home to Japan without his royal Frenchman. Prince Yuki has been sighted at some of the most exclusive nightclubs in Japan, surrounded by some of East Asia’s hottest stars, who are flocking to see the only Japanese prince in the paddock. Alpha Tauri may have their hands full…some pictures that have come out have shown that Prince Yuki sure does!

Prince Pierre has taken an FIA-approved holiday with what social media is referring to as a “hot boy harem” (we’re just reporting the facts!). The most notable faces are Tom Blomqvist, son of the 1984 WRC Empire champion, Stig Blomqvist, but everyone is talking about Stoffel Vandoorne. Yes, you read that right. The McLaren prince of the 2018 season—that Stoffel Vandoorne. Currently, Stoffel is racing in the lower courts in several competition types, most notably alongside Nyck De Vries in the electric formulas. Stoffel’s appearance as a fixture in Prince Pierre’s summer holiday has everyone asking—what the heck is going on at Alpha Tauri?

 

 


 

 

 tumblr post by tonyslilnoodle: every day i sit in quiet thirst for love remembering how (PRINCE) alex albon knew he was going to be at torro rosso when he did that 2018 interview with sky where he said “george is my soulmate” and never ONCE said otherwise even when (!!!) horner tried to make him say he loved max  and in his VERY FIRST lower court interview after exile he said #and I quote #’it’s very hard to love someone who you can’t see anymore but that feeling never leaves you’ #pretending to talk about max #BUT EVERYONE KNOWS THE TRUTH #DONT EVEN TALK TO ME ABOUT SILVERSTONE #SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP

 


 

An official imperoferrari instagram post featuring Carlos and Charles sharing a plate of carbonara--sharing a single noodle, more specifically (think Lady and the Tramp!). The post reads: it’s a “bella notte” for these two (kiss face emoji) #essereferrari #HRHCharles16 #HRHCarlos55  the post has been liked by pierregasly, landonorris and 114576 others with 4729 comments

 


 

 

HRH Charles Leclerc and HRH Carlos Sainz Jr…spotted getting STEAMY in Mykonos club!

TMZ EXCLUSIVE

AUGUST 8TH, 2021

 

The two princes of Ferrari have been living it up in one of the most sought-after villas in Mykonos, Greece – the same villa favorited by Kendall Jenner and Leonardo Dicaprio. Interested in checking it out for yourself? Good luck—this place is booked out years in advance and costs about $5,000 a night!

But the princes aren’t staying locked away in paradise. GenGunKelly on TikTok caught the royal couple at VOID, one of the most exclusive nightclubs in the picturesque city.

“I always thought maybe something was fishy about the arranged marriage thing, but oh my god, they were all over each other,” GenGunKelly explains in a now-viral TikTok. “I was on the third floor by accident trying to find the bathroom. All of a sudden I see all of these Ferrari security guards and stuff and I was like, holy s***! I was like—It was like walking in on a porn shoot or something!”

GenGunKelly goes on to explain that there were only a few people around, likely close friends of the Ferrari heartthrobs.

“[VOID] is set up so you can’t, like, see anyone on the third floor if they’re in the booth, but they can see the dance floor. They were in the back of a booth, I only recognized them because my sister is like obsessed with Prince Carlos’s nose, and like, he does have a really weird nose, you know? So all of a sudden I’m seeing this and I’m like ‘I know that guy!’”

She didn’t capture any video, but sources confirm that Prince Charles and Prince Carlos were both at VOID that night.

“There was a lot of tongue,” the TikToker gushed when we reached out to her for comment. “It was like—oh my god. I couldn’t even see Prince Charles’s face, but I saw [Prince] Carlos’s and let me just say…FILTHY.”

We haven’t seen much of the Ferrari princes’ personal lives this season (except their literally steamy makeout session Florence), and everyone’s still talking about those photos of Prince Charles with Prince Max and the denim jacket scandal. But it looks like things have been smoothed over, to say the least!

 

 


 

A tweet posted on August 10th, 2021 by sharlando aka tifftiff_785 that says: so I just found out that max & charles were dating during the CIK-FIA championships in 2013 and afterward they went to watch lando’s jr race?? and when lando got p4 max comforted him?? lestappen dads confirmed im unwell

Notes:

all photos have embedded descriptions for those who may need auditory assistance when reading!

Chapter 72

Notes:

thanks again to @tarmaclicious for drawing these beautiful boys.

if anyone comes at me about any of these graphics i will destroy you, my eyes are bleeding.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

An instagram post by Max Verstappen posted on August 15, 2021 with the caption reading - enjoygin the last few days of summer break with @schecoperez!. The photo depicts him standing proudly inside Sass Cafe in Monaco with a pair of pink star-shaped sunglasses. In the mirror we can see the reflection of the photographer, also blurry and hard to make out. two comments are underneath the photo. The first is from Jenson Button, reading DANNY? DANNY BOY? DAN DAN?, and the second is from Lando Norris reading wet tshirt contest?

 

 


 

 

La Distillerie de Monaco - NEWS

www.distilleriedemonaco.com

 

Prince Daniel Ricciardo, a Monaco resident when he isn’t ruling McLaren, came by the distillery this week. A self-proclaimed mixologist and lover of all things artisan and alcohol, Prince Ricciardo was right at home among our hand crafted premium liqueur, carruba, and gin. We sat down with him to get a taste of the royal life—with plenty of cocktails to try in the meantime!

 

H: Your Royal Highness, welcome to La Distillerie de Monaco.

DR: Happy to be here. I’ve had, like, everything you guys make, but never made it out here. Awesome venue.

H: Thank you!

DR: Really beautiful backdrop too. Great view of the water.

H: Conamine is gorgeous this time of year.

DR: Oooh, what’s this?

H: Can’t have a conversation without a drink! Starting off with the basics, here we have a refreshing Monaco Spritz, featuring L’Orangerie, our premium liqueur.

DR: I wish I spoke better French so I could sound like you when you say that.  This looks amazing.

 

And indeed, it did. I explained to Prince Daniel that our L’Orangerie is the first premium bitter orange liqueur from Monaco. Handmade using oranges that grow in this extraordinary Principality, it is as unique as it is rare.

Our first drink, the Monaco Spritz, is chilled L’Orangerie mixed with Prosecco.

 

DR: Really bubbly. Just enough orange flavor, but the Prosecco doesn’t get lost. This is really good.

H: We think so too.

DR: And the oranges are from here?

H: That’s right. So, Daniel what brings you back to Monaco this summer break? Why not travel somewhere a bit more exotic?

DR: More exotic? Nah, I get plenty of exotic during the season. It’s relaly nice to be home, y’know? I can relax, hang out with my mates—

H: And we hear your husband, Prince Lando Norris, is also in town.

DR: He was, yes. Just left for the UK today to visit his family. We had a great time while he was here. Plenty of these.

 

He held up his drink, and the sun caught both his face and the glass in a way that can only be described as dazzling. Given that royalty doesn’t have much time for press over the holiday, we didn’t want to keep him long (though Daniel insisted he’d just go back to his flat to be lonely). Next, we brought out our Carruba.

 

H: And here is a signature Monaco drink.

DR: I know Carruba when I see it!

H: Good eye! Our Carruba is created from  local carob—

DR: Love the way you say that. Car-ohhh-buh.  (Reader’s Note: That is not how I pronounced it!)

H: Yes, carob.  We like to try to bring out the chocolate flavor in the Carruba using a specialized technique developed by the distillery.

DR: Woah, that’s rich.  I’m tasting like…coffee and caramel too?

H: You really are a mixologist!

DR: I’m good with my tongue.

 

This McLaren prince can’t be stopped.

 

DR: And the orange peel is a nice touch. Do they serve this stuff at Sass?

H: It’s served all over Monaco, sometimes combined with L’Orangerie to create a special drink called a Black Orange.

DR: Yep, that’s it. Love those.

H: Carruba makes a great digestif too.

DR: Good to know. Limoncellos are not my thing. Sorry to my Italian side.

 

Next up was our Gin aux Agrumes, a citrus gin that unites juniper berries with fragrant and bitter oranges, lemons, limes an grapefruit.

 

DR: Holy ****! This is amazing. Can I have a case of this?

H: We’ll make sure you don’t go home empty-handed!

DR: So much flavor. I didn’t know gin could taste like this. The tonic water just heightens it somehow, usually it tastes watered down. What are the other flavors?

H: We use bergamot, citron, and lemon thyme to add that extra punch.

DR: Wow. Amazing stuff. I know someone who is going to lose his mind over this.

H: I thought Lando doesn’t drink? We would have invited him!

DR: No way, I want the special treatment all to myself! Lando drinks, he just doesn’t do it much. But this gin and my gin and tonic skills? Yeah, he’ll drink it.

H: We’ll make sure to send you home with the best. Will you two be going anywhere else for your holiday?

DR: To be honest, we haven’t planned anything. We’re both kind of go-with-the-flow people. Lando might come back to Monaco for a day or two at the tail end, but he’s been missing home a lot.

H: Have you met his family yet?

DR: A few times, yeah. They come to a lot of the races, but we don’t get to interact with them too much. They’re wonderful. But if he comes back to Monaco, we’re coming back here for another tasting.

 

That’s a gold star from Prince Ricciardo – can’t get much better than that!

 

 


 

THE NATIONAL ENQUIRER

CORINNA: DON’T COME HOME

MICK SCHUMACHER HOLDS SECRET WEDDING WITH LOVER!

Wife of 7-Time World Champion tells Prince Mick to stay out following explosive marriage rumors!

 

Summer break comes to a sizzling climax with reports that Corinna Schumacher has thrown Prince Mick off of the Schumacher estate. Horrified Corinna learned that Mick has been involved in a tumultuous love affair with former lower court teammate Robert Shwartzman!

During the fiery showdown with his mother, Mick desperately defended himself against accusations of a secret wedding ceremony. Michael Schumacher, who is still recovering from a tragic brain injury, has been “devastated” by the news of his son’s betrayal, says our royal source.

“Robert never expected the new to come to light,” our source told The National ENQUIRER. “The Schumacher family has forced him into silence.”

Corinna threatened to have the Russian blacklisted from the FIA, our source then revealed, stripping away any chances to join his beloved Mick.

“Corinna screamed to Mick: ‘Stay out! You’re no son of mine!’”

 

 


 

Carlondon? Ex-husbands HRH Carlos Sainz Jr and HRH Lando Norris caught in London!

TMZ EXCLUSIVE

 

Hold the phone, Carlando supporters. Sharp-eyed fans saw Prince Carlos trying to avoid paparazzi near the Ritz-Carlton in London, where sources say Prince Lando has rented out the royal suite. The juicy part? No room listed for Prince Carlos!

Everyone knows that Prince Carlos snubbed his new Ferrari husband HRH Charles Leclerc for the podium yacht party in Monaco earlier this season, so it should come as no surprise that the Carlando flames haven’t died out.

Ferrari government officials have indicated they are “aware” that Lando and Carlos are both in the city, but flatly deny that the princes have seen each other, citing the FIA marriage rules.

Governments rarely confirm the location of a prince on holiday, so maybe there’s a Ferrari/McLaren collab in our future? Rumors are kicking up about lesser empires like Audi and Porsche sniffing around for a McLaren buyout as they vie for a chance at FIA recognition as an official empire—maybe Ferrari is trying to beat them to the punch.

If these two are trying to stay hidden, both princes need to work on their espionage skills.

Stay tuned, this could get spicy! Subscribe to news alerts to stay updated on all of the royal summer break gossip.

 

 


 

 

A letter from the FIA that reads: FELLOWSHIP OF INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT  For Immediate Release August 16th, 2021  STATEMENT FROM PRERSIDENT JEAN TODT ON ROYAL COMMUNICATION  Paris, France – Effective immediately, written royal communication between empires is suspended following a series of intelligence reports indicating sensitive information concerning rival empires may have been transmitted via official royal mail.  I am saddened by this abuse of our law that has been upheld without issue for over 70 years.  Summer holiday is not an excuse to sacrifice the safety of FIA citizens. I am well aware of the intricacies of our laws and I will no longer turn a blind eye to the grey areas concerning royal marriages.  We do not, have not, and will not read private communication between royals unless the FIA has found a royal guilty in the court of law and it is deemed necessary to read correspondence in order to rectify wrongdoings. That is not the case at this time.  Suspension of royal communication in this case is to serve as a warning. Summer break is a time to enjoy family and friends—within the law.  Official royal correspondence will be allowed to resume on August 27th, 2021 upon arrival in Belgium. Empires found in breach of this declaration will be fined Є100,000 per occurrence that will be deducted from the 2022 budget cap for princes with appointments extending into 2022, or Є500,000 per occurrence removed from the budget cap for the new empire of princes changing empires for 2022, or paid in full as a personal expense for princes without an appointment for 2022.  I wish you all safe travels and a restful holiday as we near the end of our break.   Respectfully,   Jean Todt President, FIA

 

 


 

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

CC: [email protected]

Date: Aug 16th, 2021  20:03

Subject: CONFIDENTIAL | Case#105

 

Jean,

I have attached a formal request for amendment to Case #105. Changes have been reviewed by Dr. Luca Vannella M.D. (CC’d here) and determined to be necessary for immediate implementation.

Summary of changes:

  • Increased monitoring of patient by Ferrari medical personnel
  • Reduction in testing by FIA officials pursuant to Medical Code 150.1.44F to designate current medication as “long-term”
  • Significant increase in medication dosage as defined by Medical Code 233.3.1B

Please note medication dosage has already been increased from the initial request, but did not qualify as a “significant increase” as defined by medical regulations, so it was not disclosed.

 

Thank you,

Mattia Binotto

Head of Government, Ferrari

 


 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

CC: [email protected]

Date: Aug 17th, 2021 08:24

Subject: Re: CONFIDENTIAL | Case#105

 

I thought this was under control? Constant changes like this make me question if this affects race safety and performance.

-J

 


 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

CC: [email protected]

Date: Aug 17th, 2021 09:12

Subject: CONFIDENTIAL | Case#105

 

President Todt,

Safety and performance are the reasons we are requesting an increase in dosage. As stated in our initial documentation, it can take months or years to determine the correct dose, especially with the demands and unpredictability of the patient’s schedule that affects sleep, eating habits, etc. An increase in dosage will have no adverse effect except to better regulate the patient’s overall health.

The body can create resilience to medication over time. We are still sorting out the correct dose to ensure we are combatting this effectively.

I would like to stress the importance of immediate approval. The longer we wait, the less time the patient will have to adjust to the modifications. These adjustments will not affect race safety or performance, but could create discomfort for the patient once traveling resumes.

Respectfully,

Dr. Luca

 


 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

CC: [email protected]

Date: Aug 17th, 2021 11:33

Subject: Re: CONFIDENTIAL | Case#105

 

Approved.

-J

 

 


 

TWEET: LITERALLY JUST SAW PRINCE LANDO BUYING GROCERIES AT SAINSBURY’S?? MFER THOUGHT HE COULD JUST WALK IN AND BUY TIMTAMS LIKE A PEASANT BITCH???

TWEET THREAD: TWEET #2: I got so overwhelmed I didn’t say anything, but he had an actual list, bless him. Had absolutely no fucking clue what he was buying so he def didn’t write it (did we expect him to). Asked for “steak” and did not elaborate further. Sainsbury’s does not have a deli counter.  TWEET #3: I peeked at his list it was so cute. Bell peppers, “coookies,” steak x2, brown sugar, onion. There was more but I couldn’t see. He was so nervous he was literally shaking rip me. bby I know but the rest of us have to do this every week hunny. Did I mention I love him.   TWEET #4: clueless cashier didn’t recognize him and directed him to the deli down the street. I wish u luck lando  TWEET #5:  OMG HOW COULD I FORGET TO TYPE THIS EXCHANGE??  Employee: how are you doing today? Lando: bad Employee (awkward af): what can I help you with? Lando: I need steak Employee explains why that is not something they can help with Lando (im serious he said this): cheers, now my day is worse

 


 

FIA WORLD NEWS

Date published: August 18th, 2021 – Carter Valentine

 

The newly-crowned Royal E World Champion, Nyck de Vries, has been linked to a possible move to Mercedes for 2022. Though Prince George Russell is widely regarded as the top choice for the Silver Arrows, Mercedes has been noticeably silent about their decision for next year. Prince George was expected to announce his move ahead of Silverstone, but no such announcement was made.

Few in the royal circle think that Prince Bottas will maintain his crown, but it is unclear where he would be moving to next year. Some speculate he will swap with Prince George, returning to Williams to be married to Prince Latifi for next season.

Bringing De Vries into the mix adds an unexpected element to the appointment season.

Mercedes Head of Government, Toto Wolff, said recently that he feels De Vries and fellow lower court prince Stoffel Vandoorne (recently sighted spending the summer break with Prince Pierre in Ibiza and Cap Ferrat) “deserve” to have crowns, and he hopes they can find places in the paddock.

Wolff was in the Mercedes-EQ garage at the dramatic Royal E finale in Berlin this past weekend, as the empire won the race and the season title on Sunday.

“I heard what Toto said about me, and I am honored that someone of such stature links me to a crown,” De Vries told FIA World News.

“On the other hand, I also know that you cannot control whether you get a crown there next season. Has this title brought me closer to a crown? I hope so. But I have won two major championships in three years. That means something to me, but at the same time I’m quite modest and I would prefer to put the titles aside and continue to focus on my future.”

The 26-year-old has driven in several different types of lower courts over the years, ranging from Le Mans to the Endurance empires. When it comes to his target for next season, he’s sure in his answer:

“I want to drive, I want to lead,” he said. He is keeping his options open for a crown, but gave no hints as to whether or not Mercedes has extended him an offer.

“Ultimately, becoming a true prince will not be enough in itself,” he admits. “I will always be looking for new challenges, even with a crown.”

 


 

An instagram post from August 19th from Lewis Hamilton, showing off a new Mojave Desert Storm IWC watch and the steering wheel of a Mercedes. His geo tag states he's at the Mercedes Palace and the caption reads,  living each day thankful for the people in my life and the opportunities I have. don’t let doubts creep in, you are right where you are supposed to be. looking forward to seeing everyone soon. Two comments are underneath, the first from iwcwatches that reads, timing is everything, make the most of it! and a second from a random person that reads, yo is that a black series amg??

 


 

Oura ring notifications from between Aug 20 and Aug 21 that read, Pierre, we noticed youre having difficulty getting to sleep. Take a look at our Rest Full series for insight into helping you sleep better.   Pierre, your stress levels have increased dramatically. This may be cause by lack of sleep. Check out your current sleep score for insights and recommendations by our experts.   Your wellness score indicates you may be getting sick. Want to contact a physician? Weve found a few nearby.   Pierre, please consider contacting a physician. You need rest.    Congratulations! You exceeded your daily workout goal.   Pierre, take a deep breath. Follow along our guided breathing sessions to lower that resting BPM.  Congratulations! You exceeded your daily workout goal.

More Oura ring notifications from Aug 23 to Aug 24 that read, Pierre, we’ve noticed you’re having difficulty getting to sleep. Take a look at our “Rest Full” series for insight into helping you sleep better.    Congratulations! You exceeded your daily workout goal.   Congratulations! You exceeded your daily workout goal.   Congratulations! You exceeded your daily workout goal.  Congratulations! You exceeded your daily workout goal.  Congratulations! You exceeded your daily workout goal.    Your weekly sleep report is here. Your restful sleep decreased by 100% this week. Take a look at your breakdown to see where you can improve.    Pierre, your Oura ring is due for a charge.   Congratulations! You exceeded your daily workout goal.  Congratulations! You exceeded your daily workout goal.    Pierre, we’ve noticed you’re having difficulty getting to sleep. Take a look at our “Rest Full” series for insight into helping you sleep better.   Pierre, your Oura ring has four hours of battery life remaining.   Congratulations! You exceeded your daily workout goal.  Pierre, your Oura ring will stop collecting data if not plugged in soon.

 

 


 

 

STEAKOUT...FOR SUMMER?

BUZZFEED FIA – AUGUST 25th

 

MONACO, MONTE CARLO – Steakout is out of place in the luxurious atmosphere of Monaco. Peeling pleather seats and linoleum tile make it look like something out of a bad American 1950’s flick.  But one weekend a year, it becomes the most sought-after restaurant in the world.

Fans, journalists, and celebrities alike flock to the diner to catch a glimpse of the collection of princes who gather for lunch there during the royal Monaco Grand Prix weekend.

However, it looks like “The Boys”—as fans call the group—have decided that the current season calls for two meetings—and this one seems a lot more exclusive.

Prince Pierre Gasly was first to arrive this Wednesday, but he didn’t wait for his fellow royals before heading inside (what seems to be a tradition during Monaco weekend, at least). He was joined by Princes Max Verstappen and Lando Norris shortly after, both of whom arrived separately.

Where were Prince George and Prince Charles? That’s the question being asked around the world. The FIA could not be reached for comment about the gathering, implying that the rules were bent for the meeting. Of course, Prince Gasly and Prince Verstappen meeting together would qualify as an act of treason as they have been married before, but the addition of Prince Lando nullified the law—a loophole the FIA may be keen to close in next year’s regulation changes.

Prince George was seen at the Williams palace today, indicating he may have been tied up in royal duties.

However, media outlets are beginning to wonder if Prince Charles has been ousted from the group, as he is currently believed to be at his residence in Monaco, yet did not show up to the meal.

Prince Charles has been in the news quite a bit this season, with speculation of infidelity following him wherever he goes. Maranello has tried to quell the growing criticism for his treatment of Prince Carlos, and perhaps therein lies to key to his lack of an appearance: during the Monaco GP weekend he was spotted twice with Prince Max, both times in rather compromising moments.

Prince Charles appeared in public this evening boarding a royal flight back to Maranello, but he did not stop for autographs or engage with citizens. He also had a significantly larger security detail than normal, a possible indication of the future norm after the events at Wembley.

As all eyes turn to Belgium for the first race back after the break, we hope to get just a little glimpse into what may have unfolded here at Steakout today.  

 


 

An instagram post from Carlos. Charles is in a fitful sleep, tucked in at teh ferrari palace on Carlos's side of the bed. He looks horrible. The post is dated Aug 26th with the caption, Home safe. the post has been liked by Pierre and Max.

 


 

RED BULL CONFIRM PRINCE PEREZ TO MAINTAIN HIS APPOINTMENT FOR 2022

FIA.COM

 

Red Bull will field an unchanged set of crowns for 2022, after announcing Thursday that they have decided to retain Prince Sergio Perez.

Perez has made a strong start to the season. He is currently chasing Prince Valtteri Bottas for third in the championship, keeping up the fight with Mercedes as the two empires duke it out for the empire and driver championships.

“Prince Perez offers a wealth of experience to the empire,” said Red Bull Head of Government Christian Horner. “His integration into Red Bull has been seamless and we have been impressed by his performances both on and off track. Next year we move into new regulations and cars, so his experience with different racecraft will be invaluable as we navigate the transition.”

Prince Perez added: “I’m happy to maintain my crown with Red Bull into a new era of racing. I want to be fighting for the championship next year, and Red Bull will allow me to do that.

“Max and I have so much more to achieve together, and we still have a great challenge on our hands this season. I want to support his championship bid and fight for my own, so I hope we finish the year on a high and carry that momentum into next year.”

Red Bull citizens and fans have praised Prince Perez for his cooperation with Prince Max Verstappen, who has landed in hot water twice this season following a burner phone scandal and incriminating photos of himself and childhood friend and fellow prince, Charles Leclerc.

“Max and I work together on everything,” Prince Perez told us. “We’re strong as a couple because of how we face obstacles. He is younger, and therefore makes mistakes we all do when we are young. I bring balance and understanding with these issues. It does not dimmish my appreciation for him in the slightest.”

We look forward to seeing what Red Bull has in store for the rest of the season as the princes—minus Ferrari—land in Belgium today for the next grand prix in the schedule.

 

 

Notes:

audo descriptions are embedded in each image description!

Chapter Text

Clouds gathered above the hospitality lane as Lando stood in front of the wall of media personnel with Daniel at his side. Sophia stood nearby, all but breathing down his neck, watching him as he put on a convincing fake smile and rested his cheek on Daniel’s shoulder.

“We had an awesome time together,” Lando said. “It was the best summer break I’ve ever had.”

Summer break could not have gone worse.

“And what about Prince Carlos being spotted in London? Supposedly staying at the Ritz under your name?” a reporter asked, eyes hard on him. Her makeup was running, creating black dandruff under her eyes.

Lando shrugged nonchalantly. He didn’t have to fake that one. “Ferrari confirmed that Carlos was in London. Not sure why he was there, though. He used to live there, so I would assume to see friends.”

“That doesn’t answer my question about the hotel.”

“Oh, right.” Lando lifted his cheek from Daniel’s shoulder, offering a gentle smile when Daniel thumbed a his hip. “Look, I love my flatmate, but I wanted to have my own space for a bit. The hotel was for him.” You can check the security cameras, he wanted to add, but Sophia told him that was too much detail, even if it was true. Too much detail would make the media more suspicious.

As if Few hadn’t fucked up enough already.

“So you didn’t see Prince Carlos at all?”

Lando shrugged again. “I saw my family and friends. Wasn’t much time for anything else.”

And he considered Carlos family, so that wasn’t a lie either.

“I think that’s enough,” Sophia cut in before the reporter could ask another question. “We’ve stayed too late as it is. Time to head back to the hotel.”

Lando tried not to let his relief show on his face. He shrugged his jacket a little tighter around himself, glad that was weather was shitty enough that he didn’t have to make an excuse for wearing one. Wearing a polo and sweats would have made him feel too exposed. He still felt too exposed, even in all of his layers.

If he had his way, he’d be curled up in the darkest corner of his closet in the McLaren palace and he would never come out.

Daniel took his hand and laced their fingers together, easy and carefree--and so hopped up on blood thinners that he might start levitating at any given moment.

“Doing okay?” Daniel asked as they started back toward the parking lot where an orange Artura waited for them.

“No,” Lando said flatly.

Daniel nodded once, but didn’t press further.

The rock in Lando’s chest rattled a bit as he inhaled, carefully avoiding looking in the direction of anything Scuderia Red.

They didn’t talk on the drive back to the hotel. Lando liked the quiet between them now. Daniel put on their newly-created joint Spotify playlist and tapped along to the beat of a Daft Punk song as he drove. The Artura created a growling undercurrent to the music, and the grey sky reminded Lando too much of London, rain on the windowpanes, the pink light of his gaming room reflecting in Carlos’s eyes.

Rain started to fall by the time they pulled into their estate. Daniel handed off the keys to the new head of security for McLaren, an Irishman who went by Butcher and only Butcher. He looked like to type to chop people up. Lando hated him. Of course, that meant Daniel loved him.

“Lookin’ sharp, Butchy,” Daniel greeted.

Bucher’s mouth twitched, a tectonic shift in a wall of rock. Butcher liked Daniel too.

Daniel took Lando’s hand and led him up the stairs of the beautifully restored manor-turned-hotel. Lando let him do it—he wasn’t really there anyway. He had three missed calls from Fewtrell he didn’t plan on returning and if he thought about it for too long a tingly feeling started running up his spinal column that made him want to throw up.

He braced himself as they turned every corner, fully expecting Carlos or Pierre or Charles to appear in the hall, an unavoidable confrontation he didn’t want to have. Every set of princes except Red Bull and Mercedes had booked a room at the estate, citing security concerns. Nobody seemed to know where Mercedes and Red Bull had booked. Daniel said  they were probably staying in motorhomes on the track grounds, that he’d done it before when he was a prince of Red Bull.

The décor in their room was a little eccentric for Lando’s taste, and he loathed the fact that they didn’t have an en suite kitchen. Sophia encouraged them to dine at the restaurant in the hotel, but Lando didn’t want to be seen by anyone.

“Yeah, this is Prince Ricciardo,” Daniel said into his phone, jarring Lando from his thoughts. “I think Michael called about dinner? Yeah, we’re ready for it. Great. Cheers.”

Lando cocked a brow. “Since when do you say ‘cheers?’”

Daniel grinned a him. “What, you want me to say Auf Weidershen?”

Lando opened his mouth to shoot back a reply, then stopped himself. He didn’t actually care what Daniel said. It didn’t fucking matter how he said goodbye to hotel staff.

So he shrugged and headed over to the bed, where his suitcase had spilled its innards all over the mattress.

Daniel didn’t skip a beat. “Want a Gatorade?” he asked, starting toward the fridge.

“Sure.”

Daniel needed the electrolytes. Lando didn’t ask about what had happened when his medical team found out about the drinking, but Daniel had been gone until just before they left for the track. He came back washed out again, all of the color and happiness from Monaco wiped out in the space of a “medical exam.”

Lando was pretty sure he got his stomach pumped, and maybe something else to flush all of the booze from his system.

The worst part was that Lando only felt bad that Daniel had to go through something like that to get sober. He didn’t even care about the drinking.

Daniel hummed to himself as he pulled two blue Gatorades from the fridge. Lando shed his McLaren publicity getup for a BOSS hoodie, fleece-lined sweats, and his favorite pair of house socks.

Well, his second favorite pair. He left his favorite pair back in London.

Dinner arrived on a rolling cart like it did in the movies and Lando watched as Daniel went to work prepping the meal for their little breakfast nook. Butternut squash soup, baked chicken with crushed almonds, and a greens salad with only the barest drizzle of balsamic. Race weekend food.

Daniel moved differently with Max, Lando had learned. He went about life in a completely different way. Lando had stayed at Daniel’s place for his two-week stint in Monaco, and Max lived with them the whole time except when he had to show face with Checo for the media—which wasn’t that often.

It was a little fucked up to have a front row seat to arguably the strongest relationship in the empires, only to go to London to face the cracked and broken thing that was his relationship with Carlos.

London was supposed to take five days. It took nine.

Lando took a deep breath, staying in the present.

Daniel was a sensitive guy—way more than he let on. Creative too. He planned little surprises for Max every day of their month-long holiday together. Some days it was a little note tied with a bow around the base of Max’s toothbrush. A dessert flown in from a bakery in New York that Max had talked about a year ago. A heart-shaped PB&J Daniel made by hand to deliver to Max while he practiced FIFA and streamed online sim racing events.

Other things too. Lando noticed the way Daniel constantly touched Max when they were in the kitchen together, sharing tastes of food, Daniel’s hand brushing Max’s shoulder as he passed behind him, leaning against him when they stood back-to-back at different parts of the kitchen to make meals.

Carlos liked to cook. Lando had never wanted to join in. But when he watched Daniel and Max make dinner, he saw how food fostered a kind of love he didn’t have.

Of course, it wasn’t all perfect, but Lando already knew that about Daniel. Lando stopped going out with them after four days of standing around in clubs sipping Shirley Temples until his stomach hurt from all the grenadine. Nobody in Monaco cared about two princes making out in the middle of the dancefloor. No one cared when Max pulled Daniel into the bathrooms at Sass and came out way later with mussed hair and bitten lips.

Every night, Daniel came home drunk. Every night, Max pretended it was just because of summer and held Daniel’s face and slurred how much he loved him until they both disappeared into Daniel’s bedroom and Lando went to bed down the hall.

He wished it hurt. He wished he felt excluded.

Instead, Max and Daniel always made a plate for him. He helped scramble eggs in the morning and Max didn’t say anything when Daniel rested his chin on Lando’s shoulder and hovered behind him to make sure he didn’t burn the eggs again.

Max ruffled his hair and invited him to play FIFA and showed him how to travel down the pitch better. Daniel made them both heart-shaped PB&Js. Daniel never sexiled him, though Lando had fully expected it. To be completely honest, Lando wasn’t entirely sure Max and Daniel even had sex in the flat. He assumed they did, but he never heard them. By the time Lando emerged from bed in the morning Max was usually on his daily run, and Daniel didn’t look all that hungover when he greeted Lando with breakfast and a wide smile and a full heart.

“Bone apple teeth,” Daniel announced, presenting the meal with flourish. “Can I interest you in sucre de pomme?”

“I don’t know much French, but neither of those were right,” Lando said as he took his chair at the breakfast nook. He actually chuckled—maybe for the first time since landing in Belgium.

Daniel beamed, proud of Lando’s hard-won smile in a way Lando could feel from across the table.

 

 


 

 

Media day after summer break was always a shitshow. George weaved through the crowd of press after his seemingly endless interview sessions. He could deflect questions about Mercedes in his sleep at this point. No, he didn’t have a contract. No, he didn’t know when or if he would get one. No, he hadn’t spoken to Toto over the holiday. He hadn’t even spoken to Lewis beyond letters from the first week of break, before Croatia distracted him and the letter ban put a halt to any hope of seeing him.

“Pretty stupid,” Nic sighed as George tugged him along. “The FIA has to be loving this. Everyone is acting like letters are the only way we communicate. They do know we have Instagram, right?”

“That’s different and you know it,” George laughed, though he agreed.

They weren’t allowed to exchange private messages with anyone on social media. Public Affairs had access to all of their social media pages, and someone was always logged in to monitor. Public comments were about all they could get away with, and even those were deleted sometimes.

Not having letters for two weeks hadn’t been much of a loss for George since Lewis didn’t have time to write him very much anyway, but it did feel strange knowing the line of communication had been cut.

Especially when he found out from a fan that Pierre, Lando, and Max had lunch at Steakout without him. More importantly, without Charles. And Carlos posting an Instagram photo of Charles looking like death warmed over in a Ferrari bed made George sick to think about.

“Have you seen him?” George asked for probably the fifth time, using his extra height to try to see above the crowd.

“If you haven’t seen him, I haven’t seen him,” Nic said, hopping up on his toes to look. “Maybe he left already?”

“Alpha Tauri is on damage control, they wouldn’t have left yet,” George replied.

“So is McLaren, and Lando’s already gone.”

George frowned. He supposed he could try to find Pierre at the estate, but Kayla seemed to think they would have a hard time catching other princes there and George caught the hint that maybe the FIA had extra ears in the building.

He didn’t know what the hell had happened to piss them off so bad. No one seemed to know.

He spotted Max standing at the back of the Red Bull garage, safely tucked behind the TEAM ONLY signage, scrolling through his phone. He looked exactly how George expected him to look after spending the whole summer break with Daniel, the worst kept secret in the empires.

“Don’t even think about it,” Nic said, following his gaze. “You did good over break. You get into a fistfight now and that’s down the drain, buddy.”

George stuck out his bottom lip and gave Nic his best puppy eyes. “Darling, please.”

Nic shook his head, but George felt his resistance giving way.

“It’s Charles,” George added.

Nic rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with him too.”

George elbowed him in the ribs. “Only have eyes for you, babe.”

Nic gestured toward Max. “Off you go. I’m watching you though. Don’t make me come save you.”

George blew him a kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” Nic singsonged back.

George made his way through the small crowd between himself and Max, who didn’t look up until he’d stepped past the yellow lines painted on the asphalt, marking where the Red Bull turf began.

They met eyes and all of George’s confidence splattered to the tarmac between them.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

Max looked horrible. Pale, eyes sunken in, lips bloodless.

Silence stretched as George fought to keep his balance. Max pocketed his phone and sniffed.

"You...you told me once before how Charles acted when, um. After Brazil.”

“Oh my god,” George repeated, a little louder this time.

Max’s lips quivered even as they pressed together in a flat line. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”

George nodded. He glanced back at Nic, whose face fell the moment they locked eyes.

He slipped an arm around Max, and Max put an arm around him in turn. As much as George fucking hated him, he couldn’t find any of that hate now.

They didn’t speak as they walked down the hospitality lane together. Max kept his eyes on the ground in front of him. They used to walk the same way after karting sometimes, on days where Max feared going back to his father and didn’t want Charles to know.

“Come on,” George said, turning them toward a collection of Alpine shipping containers that hadn’t been picked up yet.

They weaved between the blue metal boxes until they were safe from prying eyes.

“Jesus fuck,” Max gasped out, breaking from him to crash to the ground, burying the heels of his palms into his eyes.

George sat down beside him, elbows on his knees, and tipped his head to the darkening sky. It would start raining any minute.

Max let out a ragged sob. “Sorry,” he choked out after. “I just—I haven’t had time to process it really. I—”

George carefully draped an arm over his shoulders and squeezed tight. Max turned into him unexpectedly, pressing his face into his shoulder to cry.

He didn’t think he’d seen Max sob since…God, he couldn’t even remember. He didn't want to.

“Hey,” George murmured, shifting so he could put both arms around him. “Can you tell me what happened? I heard about Steakout.”

Max stayed quiet for a long moment before he sucked in a breath and righted himself. He furiously wiped his face, beating himself back into calm though his eyes were pink and irritated.

George frowned. “Max, you don’t have to—”

“I knew something was wrong,” Max admitted through sticky lips. “Pierre called me on Sunday and said something was going on with Charles. He asked me to check on him, so I went over there. He was fine. He…” He shrugged helplessly. “I mean, he was happy. I didn’t think to be suspicious of Charles being happy. He asked me to stay for lunch and I said yes. We had lunch, nothing special. He told me how much he loved Mykonos and that he and Carlos had an incredible time. That’s what he said, incredible.”

Unease prickled at the back of George’s neck. He squeezed Max’s shoulder.

Max drew up his knees and buried his face in them. “He told me Arthur was coming and they were going to a party. He was…he was so excited. Really excited—he wasn’t faking it. He didn’t fake it or I would know.”

George suddenly felt sick.

“Daniel and I went out the next night. Monday,” Max said, taking a ragged breath. “Charles was there at the club. He was drinking—I saw him with a drink and it was never the same one, but every time I tried to get to him he’d just disappear. I was fucking drunk and I thought I was dreaming or something.”

“Max, what did he do?” George asked, but he already knew. He knew this story too well.

He remembered Charles back in the day. Dark eyes, lips curled into a seductive smirk that always worked as he threw out French and English and sometimes even Italian lines, though he sucked at Italian back then. He was cocky and unattainable in a way that drove everyone mad. All Charles had to do was hold eye contact with anyone and he had them ensnared.

“We were leaving,” Max said, hugging his legs tighter to himself. “I had to take a piss. And I fucking—I—”

George closed his eyes.

“He was in there with someone. I fucking heard him. I knew it was him. I fucking know what he sounds like, obviously.” Max lifted his head just enough to wipe the snot trail from his mouth with the back of his sleeve, then hid his face again. His body started to tremble under George’s arm.

“I broke the door in and it was him and some other guy,” Max said, his voice muffled by his pants. “I didn’t know what to do so I just fucking punched the guy. I think I broke his nose. I dunno. Doesn’t matter. Charles wasn’t himself. He was drugged, I’m pretty sure. Someone must’ve snuck something in his drink. He started trying to kiss me, saying all this weird stuff like the other guy wasn’t even there. I’ve never seen him like that.”

George had. Not the drugged part, but a heartbroken, drunk Charles acted pretty similar.

Max finally lifted his head, setting his chin on his knees. “I didn’t want Daniel to find out so I had him call Lando and I talked to him.  Daniel had some mates out and we couldn’t leave together, so I had them take him home—Daniel was fucking drunk too. And Charles is all over me the whole time and he kept saying things—”

Max cleared his throat.

A few heavy drops of rain landed in George’s hair, a warning of more to come.

“I got him home. I called Pierre and told him to get the fuck to Monaco,” Max continued. “I wanted to have you there, but I didn’t have a way to contact you. I told Lando to come back too, through Daniel—sorry, I keep talking.”

George let out a soft noise and rubbed Max’s arm. “I want to know everything. I can’t help if I don’t know.”

Max took a shaky breath, settling himself as a drizzle started to coat them with droplets.

“Charles tried to leave twice. To go back to the nightclub. I would tell him no and he’d start trying to get me to fuck him. It was so fucked. But he wasn’t—he wasn’t sad, you know? He seemed normal except he wasn’t normal. You know?”

George began to think that maybe this Charles was a different monster than the one he and Pierre had fished out of the gutter as teenagers. This one had experience, years of playing a royal game.

“He kept taking this ring off, saying Pierre didn’t have to know," Max's brows pinned together, completely devastated. "I didn’t get it until Pierre explained he has this sleep tracking ring that he bought Charles, but it’s connected to Pierre's phone.”

“I know about those rings,” George said. He’d been the one to show them to Pierre, though he didn’t wear one. He hadn’t thought Pierre was listening at the time.

Max sat back, slumping against the metal of the shipping container.

George worried his bottom lip. He didn’t even know what to say. A cold, wet feeling of dread settled in him that felt a lot like helplessness. A meeting at Steakout couldn’t fix this. Other princes couldn’t fix this.

“So we went to lunch at Steakout,” Max said, detached. “Pierre lost it, obviously. He can’t keep it together for shit. He said Charles must have been doing this since at least Friday, based on the ring alerts. And Lando was already upset about shit going on with Carlos—”

“Shit going on with Carlos?” George asked.

Max shook his head. “He wants to tell you. I’m not going to say anything.”

The dread worsened in him. The rain began to fall harder.

Not Lando too.

“I didn’t tell Pierre that Charles tried to sleep with me. I didn't tell Lando either,” Max added quietly. “So please don’t—”

“I would never do that to PIerre,” George said, shakind his head. “Even though I fucking warned him this would happen.”

A buzzing noise sounded from Max’s pocket and he extended his legs to fish out his phone. He frowned before answering it.

“Yeah, I’m on the way,” Max said. “Give me a minute, I’m by Alpine. Yep. Bye.”

He hung up and got to his feet, extending a hand.

George would only retreat to childhood so much. He stood up on his own and brushed himself off.

“I’m scared of Charles driving tomorrow,” Max admitted, returning his hand to his side.  “Lando said he would explain everything to Carlos, and the fact that Ferrari isn’t here yet—”

“He’ll be okay,” George said, shaking the rain from his hair. “Binotto might be a clown, but he wouldn’t risk Charles’s life for a practice session. Even if he did, Carlos wouldn’t allow it.”

Max stared into nothing, lost in something George didn’t want to know about.

He put a hand on Max’s shoulder.

“I don’t think we’ll ever get along again,” George said in an even tone, “but when it comes to our friends, you can trust me to help.”

Max slid his gaze over to him, eyes wet. “But not when it comes to me?"

George's eyes went dark, and his worry for Charles veered toward anguish over Alex. He had to course correct, fast. “I told Nic I wouldn’t get in a fight with you. You know what you did, and I know you did it on purpose. I'll never forgive you for it."

But it still hurt to watch Max flinch. It still hurt to see him so overwhelmed as he hurried away without a word. 

George took a breath before he followed Max out, eager to get back to the hotel and away from all of this.  

 

 


 

 

Lando managed to eat half of his dinner, which was more food than he’d eaten in the past few days combined. Not even Steakout had convinced him to indulge.

Daniel turned on a podcast when it was clear they weren’t going to make conversation, and Lando listened to a story about the history of Barbies and why they were important to the feminist movement. Sort of. He didn’t actually remember the part about why Barbies were important for the feminist movement.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Daniel asked once they started cleaning up from dinner. Lando didn’t usually bother, but it was habit now. They’d made dinner themselves almost every night in Monaco because Max couldn’t be seen with Daniel too often. Evidently people noticed dinner outings, but not partying until dawn.

He couldn’t think about nightclubs.

Lando scrubbed the remainder of butternut squash soup from his bowl and shook his head.

“Okie dokie, how about a bubble bath then?” Daniel offered.

Lando blinked before looking over at him. “A what?”

Daniel’s smile returned. “Bubble bath. You know what those are?”

“Of course I know what a bubble bath is,” Lando snapped, returning to his bowl. He kept scrubbing even though it was already clean.

Daniel took a dramatic breath. “Nothing like a bubble bath on a rainy afternoon. Warm water, bubbles, sparkling juice in some champagne glasses, what’s not to love?”

“That tub is not big enough for both of us,” Lando muttered.

“If we can fit in our cockpits, I’m pretty sure we can both fit in that tub. Especially since you’ve barely eaten anything all day.” Daniel pinched at his stomach. Lando swatted his hand away.

“Fine,” he said, placing his bowl in the sink. “Start the water. I’m taking a nap.”

Daniel hummed to himself while Lando pretended to sleep on the couch. Then he sand country songs out of tune as the bathwater roared from the faucet. After a few minutes, Lando caught the scent of oranges and something floral. He emerged from his cocoon of blankets and rubbed his eyes as he padded to the bathroom doorway.

“Oh hey,” Daniel greeted with a nod. “Just in time. I was about to come wake you up.”

Their bathroom was the kind of massive that screamed bad planning instead of opulence. A giant jacuzzi tub sat too far away from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the grounds, though Lando supposed that was a good thing. The walls were red with white trim, both of which were badly painted, but less noticeable in the low light. Lando noticed, though.

Mountains of foamy bubbles piled high in the tub, steaming and fizzing like the sparkling grape juice that sat in two champagne flutes on a charcuterie board Daniel must have stolen from their dinner cart. Candles flickered around the edge of the tub, providing the sweet mix of scents. Lando almost turned and walked out.

“Does this work on people?” Lando asked sharply, folding his arms over his chest.

“Dunno what you mean,” Daniel replied, turning off the water.

Lando narrowed his eyes and gestured toward the tub. “This. Where’s the roses?”

Daniel laughed. “Oh, this.” He shrugged. “It’s not about romance, babe. It’s just nice to make things nice. Otherwise it’s just a bathtub with some bubbles in it. Life is cooler than that.”

It infuriated him that Daniel could circumvent his insecurities without even trying. Lando didn’t want a romantic bath with Daniel. But he could do a nice bath. A nice bath wouldn’t remind him of anything. Anyone.

Daniel slipped out of his clothes without fanfare. Lando did the same while Daniel sank into the tub and immediately started crafting a bubble beard. Daniel didn’t watch him undress, his gaze didn’t linger, he didn’t even look over except to offer a hand when Lando nearly fell into the tub upon entry. He allowed himself to use the offered support, though his cheeks turned pink when Daniel’s thumb stroked once over the side of his.

The hot water gave welcome relief. Lando let out a breath as he lowered himself into the scented bathwater, his legs tangling with Daniel’s in a familiar way as the heat soothed the cold of loneliness from him.  

“Tunes?” Daniel asked.

“Yeah.”

Lando rested his head against the edge of the tub, listening to the popping bubbles until bluegrass began to play from Daniel’s phone speakers.

“This album is called The Goat Rodeo Sessions,” Daniel announced. “One of my favorites.”

Lando let out a hum but didn’t reply, letting the sound of strings fill the silence. He didn’t allow himself to think about Carlos, only that Carlos would probably hate bluegrass.

“Turn it up,” Lando murmured.

The music turned louder. Daniel’s thigh came to rest against his calf, the inked lips of a female driver pressing to his skin. Lando pretty much knew all of Daniel’s tattoos now. He liked them, though he didn’t think he’d ever get one himself. Daniel said he thought the same thing until he got his first one. Afraid of needles, he’d said.

Ironic, considering he’d allowed doctors to shove a needle in his face to suck out the swelling after Wembley.  

For Max, Lando reminded himself. It was always for Max.

“Red Bull signed Checo for another year,” Daniel said too quietly.

Lando opened his eyes, peering down his nose at Daniel on the other side of the tub.

His smile had vanished. He had such big eyes. They went unnoticed most of the time because they were always pinched with the force of his grin. Probably because seeing them hollow could suck the heat out of someone, even if they were in a piping hot bubble bath.

“I heard,” Lando said carefully.

Candle flame danced in the dark pools of Daniel’s irises as he moved his finger along the surface of the water, clearing circles in the bubbles.

“Max cut a deal,” Daniel murmured. “If Checo agreed to let him stay with me and covered for us, Max would tell Horner to keep his appointment.”

Lando furrowed his brow as he sat up. “What?”

Water sloshed up Daniel’s neck as a sad smile flickered to his face. “Checo’s a nice guy, but he’s not a doormat. He had an offer from Alpine to replace Fernando he was thinking about taking, and there was no guarantee that Checo’s replacement would be as tolerant, no matter how much power Max has next year.”

Lando swallowed hard. He liked Checo, mostly because Carlos did. Checo got along with Max too—an achievement, honestly—and when they all went to dinner together in Monaco everything felt pretty damn normal. He actually had fun.

“I had no idea,” Lando breathed. Obviously.

Daniel’s smile twitched. He leaned back against the side of the tub, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. “I didn’t either. Max told me yesterday, right before they announced. He knew I never would've let him do it otherwise.”

“I’m telling you, whatever your plans are, make sure all of them include Daniel. Anything less just isn’t good enough.”

Lando shifted in the tub, glad to be partially obscured by a mound of bubbles.

Max had not only bartered a Red Bull crown to be with Daniel, he’d also managed to call a Steakout meeting on short notice during a letter ban to save Charles from himself. Again.

Lando’s stomach turned.

“We’re, um.” Lando’s eyes started to itch and burn. “Carlos and I, we’re—”

He didn’t want to say it. Saying out loud made it true.

Daniel held his gaze, calm and soothing somehow, even though he had pain written all over his face too.

Lando licked his lips and tasted rosewater. “I told him we needed to take a break, starting when we landed here.”

He really didn’t want to cry, but tears spilled from his eyes quietly, as if trying to escape his notice.

“I, um, also told him I didn’t want it to be permanent, and I don’t. I love him. But I can’t keep doing this.”

And now Charles needed Carlos more than ever. Pierre was about to go off the rails, but Charles escaped the blame for that too. Drugs, Max had said. And maybe something that involved the FIA medical staff, according to something Max had heard in France.

Coming back to London after Steakout only confirmed Lando had made the right choice. Carlos couldn’t focus the rest of the night after hearing how Max had found Charles at that club, and considered driving to Monaco himself when he couldn’t get a plane.

Carlos wanted to leave, but he stayed. That was the only thing Lando had left to cling to.

Daniel waited for him to say more, but Lando wiped his eyes instead.

He wanted Carlos so bad. Having him in London felt like home, even if he’d totally fucked things up before they found out about Charles. Waking up with Carlos in his bed, kissing him to sleep every night, making out on the roof and doing things they shouldn’t have all around London—it made him want to leave the FIA altogether, just to have that life.

But he knew how childish that sounded. He also knew Carlos would never leave, not until he had a championship or lost his appointment against his will.

Ferrari is my best chance, he’d said.

Lando should have known he couldn’t compete with the dream Carlos had been chasing all his life. Ferrari really did turn men against themselves. Lewis tried to warn him.

“Don’t worry,” Daniel said softly.

Lando scoffed and more tears leaked out, mixing with the bathwater.  

“I know what that sounds like,” Daniel continued. “But a break can be a good thing. I think it’ll be good for you. Max and I took a break and it was the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But it helped us both grow into what we are now. Changes your mindset, yeah? Now we’re stronger than we’ve ever been.”

Daniel’s knuckles brushed the inside of his knee under the water.

At what cost?  Lando wanted to ask. At what fucking cost?

 

 


 

 

Charles woke charged with adrenaline. His blood tingled with anticipation for practice, eager to get back in the car after so long away. Carlos snored quietly beside him, smelling faintly of sweat and sex and shower water. In that order, actually. Charles turned his face to inhale more of it. He swore he could also smell the sunshine still embedded in Carlos’s dark skin, despite almost two weeks under London’s overcast skies.

He pressed a kiss to Carlos’s shoulder, then another at the edge of his collarbone where he’d sucked a mark the night before.

Carlos let out a sleepy hum that made Charles melt.

“Réveille-toi,” Charles whispered against sleep-warm skin, unable to keep the smile from his face.

He watched in awe as Carlos’s lashes fluttered before revealing those big brown eyes. A drowsy smile formed on Carlos’s lips, prompting Charles to kiss him. He just couldn’t help it.

Carlos let out a faint noise of surprise before kissing back, warm and pliant and everything Charles wanted him to be. Belgian sunlight had yet to breach the clouds outside, though the grey light at the windows signaled the day had already begun.

Not theirs. Not quite yet.

Charles deepened the kiss, but Carlos pulled back a little.

“Are you okay?” Carlos croaked in greeting, trailing his fingers down Charles’s bare body under the sheets.

Joy welled up in him, bright and wonderful.

“I don’t think I’ve ever woken up happier in my entire life,” Charles purred into another kiss. He moaned softly when Carlos rolled him onto his back, his beautiful black hair falling in his eyes in a way that made Charles want so bad he knew Carlos could feel it.

The little smirk on Carlos’s lips confirmed his suspicion.

“Davvero?” Carlos teased, eyes wandering over his face, down the column of his throat. “Again?”

Charles curled his fingers against Carlos’s shoulders. “Please.”

He decided not to take it personally when Carlos didn’t move right away, still watching him.

You chose me, Charles thought.

He parted his lips slowly, looking up at his husband through his lashes, voice lowering to a whisper. “What, have I finally exhausted you?”

Desire sparked to life in Carlos’s eyes, and Charles knew he’d won. Carlos never could back down from a challenge.

Chapter Text

Thick fog cloaked the tarmac, creating a ghostly aura all around the Spa circuit. Charles appreciated the silence, the way voices muffled in the haze. The sun had another hour or so to burn through, but the entire paddock was already buzzing about whether or not to use inters. His bike tires gripped well, but they were made for all terrain. Charles made a mental note to ask Carlos was his plan was. He always seemed to know the weather better than their own engineers.

The ground swelled before him, and the track writhed along the steep incline ahead until it disappeared into the fog.

Charles slowed to a stop. He stared up at the looming hill, as powerful and dangerous as an old god, and just as unforgiving.

Radillion.

Shadows gathered at the top of the corner, marking the spot where Anthoine finally came to rest. Already dead, the medical staff said later, though they didn’t declare it so until he reached the hospital. Charles remembered seeing the top of his helmet, slumped and sticking out of a cockpit that had been sheared open by the nose of Juan Manuel Correa’s car—a lower court prince who nearly died in the same collision.

Charles balanced his bouquet of calla lilies in one hand as he started up the incline, glad that cameras wouldn’t be able to see through the gloom. He hated the idea of being photographed while remembering a boy he’d once considered a close friend.

He welcomed the burn in his calves as he biked up the hill. Biking demanded more from the body, a willful pain instead of the passive ache of keeping his head righted and his foot on the pedal. Driving up Radillion was oddly freeing—the incline sucked him square into his seat, an odd sort of hug.

At least, when it wasn’t raining.

Rumors had already started in the garage that practice would be delayed, but the FIA had made it clear they intended to proceed no matter what. Fans and empire citizens alike were hungry for racing. The show would go on.

Piles of bouquets sat at a yellow marker on the barrier wall at the top of the hill. Some had been wrapped with burlap, others with plastic. Almost every prince had paid tribute already. Most were simply gestures—Anthoine hadn’t been a true prince, only a lower court champion with a bright future snuffed out too early. Most princes barely knew his name until his face appeared with every headline, in memory of.

Charles rested his bike against the barrier wall, away from the memorial so as not to disturb it. He inspected his flowers, making sure any dried leaves or mottled stems had been removed. He inhaled the scent, faint but lush. Calla lilies didn’t smell particularly wonderful, but the addition of jasmine created a sweet scent that carried.

Charles walked straight to the memorial, avoiding the small crowd standing nearby. His Ferrari jacket would identify him immediately, but he didn’t want to be bothered.

“Désolé, je suis en retard,” he greeted, keeping his voice soft.

He knelt next to the pile of flowers and carefully rested his bouquet on top.

Two years. Two years since the weekend that tried to tear him apart. He could still remember Anthoine’s mother holding his face after his win, hollow with loss but still smiling.

Bitterness filled his mouth, the same way it always did when he had to spend time with ghosts. Charles didn’t believe in the supernatural, but he did feel closer to people who had passed when he visited places like this.

Which was exactly why he tried to avoid them.

Anthoine would probably laugh at him if he were still here. Nothing ever got under his skin. He always smiled and joked and told Pierre when he was being a douchebag.

He loved to steal American slang and use it in the wrong context just to see if anyone noticed. He watched murder mysteries while he studied track maps and had always wanted a pet poodle, though he never explained why.

If Charles closed his eyes, he could almost feel Anthoine sitting amongst the flowers. Is this all for me? followed by a joke that would make everyone laugh.

Anthoine always listened too, when all of the jokes were done. Pierre always talked to him about everything, and Anthoine always replied with thoughtful nodding and taps to his lips when he puzzled out advice he wasn’t actually qualified to give.

A shadow filtered through the haze in the corner of Charles’s vision.

“Tu étais là en premier,” Charles said, fixing his gaze on the bouquet of peace lilies that spread at the base of the pile, swaths of green leaves fanning out in a blanket.

Pierre always chose peace lilies.

“Je ne pensais pas que tu serais le dernier,” Pierre said, crouching beside him.

The fog pressed around them, insistent in the silence.

Charles drew a finger over the tarmac, feeling for the wetness of it. It would probably be too dry for inters, assuming it didn’t rain before practice.

“Can we talk?” Pierre asked. “Please?”

 Charles rested his chin on his knee, balancing on the balls of his feet. “We’re talking.”

“Charles—”

“Je préfère ne pas faire ça devant Anth,” Charles muttered.

“Alors, quoi? You’re going to avoid me?” Pierre said. “I can’t handle that. I love you, and the things I’ve heard scare the fuck out of me.”

Charles let out a snort. “So you’re talking to other people about me?”

“I talked to Max and Lando because I was scared,” Pierre whispered moving closer to him. “You never answered my letters, and then I started seeing that you weren’t sleeping and by that point I couldn’t write you anymore.”

Charles reached out, tracing the petals of his calla lilies. The FIA liked to pretend they had no part in the accident that killed Anthoine, when in reality everyone knew Radillion to be one of the most dangerous corners in the world. And the safety measures that could have saved him had been “under review,” only to be implemented in the season following his death.

Charles flinched at the sound of a distant camera shutter.

The media loved to take photos of them grieving. They loved a shallow kind of pain they could force-feed their readers, a palatable story everyone could relate to. Everyone knew the pain of loss, and the only villain was death itself.

So they plastered Pierre’s despair all over magazine covers, because he was the prince who had been closest to Anthoine. They bombarded him with questions about how Pierre planned to remember him, if he still thought about him, if he was still affected by the accident. They turned him into a zoo animal, the face of the tragedy when it should have been Anthoine.

Charles moved to his feet and Pierre followed, eyes wet.

“Please, Charles,” Pierre whispered, taking his hand and squeezing hard. “I don’t care what you did. I still love you. I only want to make sure you’re safe.”

Charles liked the new meds. The increased dosage made it a lot harder for him to delve into his own darkness. When he did, it didn’t stick. He woke up the next morning refreshed and unburdened. No nightmares this time. They gave him a numbness too, one he could tap into when he needed to protect his heart.

Charles tugged his hand away.

Pierre had changed after Anthoine’s death. He kept to himself more, retreated into a shell whenever too many people started crowding around. He’d only recently started to return to something like himself. Charles knew how fragile these moments could be.

So he wrapped his arms around a startled Pierre, smiling softly when Pierre buried his face into his neck and held him for a desperate embrace. Anthoine would have wanted him to make sure Pierre was okay, no matter what had happened over break. No matter what excuses Pierre inevitably tried to make.

Charles knew the truth. The real truth, not a version of it.

Charles tucked his chin over Pierre’s shoulder, swaying gently. He kept his eyes on the memorial, the furled white petals of Pierre’s peace lilies.

Pierre’s lips parted against his neck.

“Don’t,” Charles said, low and quiet. “We can talk after practice. Not now.”

Pierre squeezed him tighter, fingers curling in the water resistant fabric of his Ferrari jacket.

“I love you,” Pierre whispered. “I missed you so much. Je vais m’assurer que tout va bien.”

People always clung to the things already gone.

 

 


 

 

The fog lifted, but the track stayed damp for the first session of practice. Charles managed to keep within two tenths of Pierre for a magnificent P4 performance—though practice didn’t mean much. Carlos stayed right within a tenth of him and Binotto praised both of their performances as they readied for the next session.

Session two started dry enough for softs, allowing Charles to get a true feel for the track. Despite the horrible memories that haunted the tarmac, Charles had good ones too. He’d won his race here in 2019 just before winning Monza and cementing himself as a Ferrari prince for as long as he wanted to be.

At least, he’d believed that at the time.

Regardless, Spa was an exhilarating drive. The elevation changes, the wildly fast corners and sharp hairpins—he loved every second on track. The cool, damp air made it comfortable to in the cockpit too—well, as comfortable as their cars could be.

Charles seared down the Kemmel straight, easily taking the car into eighth as he approached the right hander of Les Combes. Charles took a deep breath just before punching the brake, clicking down into second and grazing first a he took a wide line for a better exit into Malmedy, a tight corner.

He eased into the throttle the same way and the moment he found traction, he shoved his foot forward. The car surged—

Then he felt the slight slip in the rear and instinctively snapped the wheel to correct, but the car was already moving too fast.

He avoided the gravel trap, aiming for the grass in an effort to save the underbelly from as much damage as possible.  Unfortunately, the car still had a mind of its own and continued to understeer until he clipped his front left tire into the barrier wall, snapping the supports.

He didn’t feel the whiplash until he saw the car crumple in front of him, like the impact had delayed itself so he could watch. His training taught him to relax without having to think about it.

His seatbelt clawed at every point where it touched his body, and his helmet rolled, his neck protected from overextension by his HANS device.

“Are you okay?” Jock said over radio once  Charles had regained himself.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he muttered. “Sorry guys.”

He could almost hear the collective sigh from the team as they began to prepare themselves for a night of inspecting damage and determining the best course of action.

“Glad you’re good, mate. Boss says you should go for checks, just in case. That looked a little rough. We’ve got a red flag, so you’re safe to get out.”

Charles knew better than to think Binotto only wanted him to go because of the crash.

“Thanks. Yeah, I will.”

He untangled himself from the car as the medical car approached, but he waved them off and insisted he would walk to the medical building on his own. The medical suite had a nice view of the track, and it would give him a place to hide from the team for a minute. He could only handle so much embarrassment.

Charles slipped through the fence and onto the safety road, carrying his helmet in hand as he made his way toward the chalet the FIA had turned into a medical suite for the weekend.

He made it all of ten steps before his vision started to swim and his stomach roiled.

Shit.

Charles moved slowly, just in case any cameras were on him. He crouched by the barrier wall, dropping to his knees a moment later as he retched into the gravel. Rocks bit into his palms as he fought to catch his breath and ended up vomiting twice more, though he had very little left in his stomach to throw up.

Motion sickness didn’t affect him normally, but Dr. Luca had warned him that he might be more prone to it as his body adjusted to the medication.

Charles wiped the phlegm from his mouth with the back of his sleeve and stood, kicking a swath of pebbles over his sick before he continued on down the road, shaking and hollowed out.

He didn’t have the time or patience for sickness.

 

 


 

 

“I know you’re feeling good, but your body needs to adjust,” Dr. Luca said twenty minutes later as he peered at the screen on his thermometer. “You don’t have a fever, so that’s a positive.”

“Sto bene,” Charles said absently, watching as Sebastian tore past the window in his Aston Martin. “Can you ask them about putting a TV in here? I’d like to watch.”

Luca sighed. “I’ll see what I can do, ma devi riposare, Charles.”

“Yeah, lo faro. I just want a TV,” he muttered, pulling up a chair beside the window. He sighed before turning to Luca with a smile. “Thank you, by the way.”

Luca smiled, but I didn’t reach his eyes. “Prego. I’ll get a TV.”

Charles watched him go, releasing the tension in his shoulders only when he was alone in the medical room. The throaty call of cars echoed off the walls as Charles took his seat, crossing his arms on the windowsill to watch all of the other princes continue their practice session. He smiled when Carlos drove by, watching the way his helmet shifted in the cockpit as he prepared for the corner.

He already missed Carlos’s hands on his skin, the warmth of his breath against his neck and the safety of his arms. When he inhaled, he drew in the scent of the Aegean, the taste of saltwater on Carlos’s lips.

Pierre could keep Ibiza. He could keep Cap Ferrat too.

Charles lost himself to memories of Mykonos, the call of engines, the ghost of Carlos's hands, until he heard the door open behind him.

“Did they find a TV?” he asked, waiting for the next car to come. Everyone must have pitted. Maybe rain was on the way.

“Oh good, that means at least one person didn’t see me go ass-first into Malmedy.”

Charles turned to see Max closing the door behind him, a soft smile on his face.

“Hey,” Charles greeted, hopping out of his chair and rushing to him. “You crashed? You’re okay?”

He brought his hands to Max’s face as he nodded.  His cheeks were blotchy with residual anger, but none of it remained in his expression--only kindness, only love. “I’m okay. Wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t. Pretty sure they just ended the session.”

Charles wanted to kiss him, but wrapped him in a hug instead. He loved Max hugs, and Max gave him one a moment later, palms flat on his back, nosing into the corner of his jaw.

“Are you okay?” Max asked, rubbing his back.

“Yeah,” Charles said, pressing his face into Max’s neck. “They might have to replace my chassis, but I’m ready. It’s gonna be fun tomorrow. Might even steal pole from you.”

“In that shitbox?” Max let out a good-natured snort, breath warm on his shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

He pulled back and Charles could only smile at him. He looked so handsome—and happy. Seeing Max happy made him happy too.

“How are you feeling?” Max reached up to swipe a thumb over his jaw. Charles could tell he wasn’t talking about Belgium.

Charles rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re holding one night over my head like that. I’m fine.”

Something flashed in Max’s eyes, but he couldn’t make out what it was.

Charles didn’t want to talk about that night. He couldn’t, actually, because he didn’t remember it. Only smudgy visions and feelings. Red lights, sweat, Max saying he loved him. He woke up the next morning with his head on Max’s chest, but all of their clothes were on, so he had no idea if they’d fucked. He assumed no, or else Max probably would have complimented how much better he was to sleep with. They probably would have fucked again. Max would have stayed for the day, at least.

“Do you even remember that night?” Max asked, carding his fingers through his hair. “It didn’t seem like you knew where we were.”

“I remember you being a pain in the ass,” Charles said, watching to see if Max’s lips curled to a smirk at his potential play on words. He wasn't that mature, even if he pretended to be.

Max’s mouth stayed flat. “Have you talked with Pierre yet?”

“Have you talked with Daniel?” Charles challenged.

Max flinched. “Charles, I’m not stupid. I know you, and I know this was caused by something.”

“Why, because I can’t do anything for myself?” Charles shot back, cocking his head. “Honestly, Max. Maybe you like having a tag-along for your relationship, but I don’t.”

Max’s eyes darkened. “Pierre doesn’t have a tag along.”

Charles laughed bitterly, squeezing Max’s arms. 

“Pierre is really upset, Char,” Max said gently. “I didn’t even tell him that you tried to sleep with me.”

Okay, so they hadn’t slept together. Good to know.

Charles smiled. “Why not? You should be honest with him. He could take notes.”

Max blinked at him and Charles saw the moment it finally clicked.

“Hold on. You—This was because of Pierre, wasn’t it?”

Charles brought a finger to his lips and delighted in the way Max’s eyes trailed down.

“Not so loud,” Charles whispered. “He still thinks he got away with it.”

He let his finger drop away as Max’s forehead came to rest against his.

“Tell me, Charles,” Max murmured, their lips way too close.

Carlos wouldn’t appreciate seeing him like this.

But he would understand.

“He made a very stupid mistake,” Charles whispered, closing his thumb over the flat of Max’s zipper. He gently pulled it down, revealing the nomex underneath his race suit. Max didn’t stop him. Didn’t say anything to suggest he might not want this.

Poor Daniel. Love never really lasted anyway.

“What mistake, Char,” Max coaxed. Max’s hand folded over his own, preventing him from unzipping him all the way.

Max shivered against him when he pressed close, a crack showing in his armor. Charles tilted his head up until his lips brushed at Max’s ear.

“He forgot who I was married to.”

 

 


 

 

George had mixed feelings about Spa. He liked the track, but the crowd unnerved him. People stood right up against the fence in some places, and one piece of shrapnel could easily tear through the chain link and right through them too.  

Fuck, he hated thinking about people dying.

Royalty at least allowed him to stay busy enough to block entire sections of George’s life from his memory. Alex used to worry about Anthoine being stuck in the lower courts, frustrated alongside him. George used to pore over track notes with him, running through strategy scenarios while Alex dictated how he would counter. Anthoine used to test setups in the sim and call out problems while they mixed up protein shakes and complained about training regimens.

Used to, used to, used to.

Nic agreed to handle the majority of the press post-practice, and Jost helped take some of the heat off by slipping a hint that Nicky would keep his appointment—as if anyone thought otherwise. Mercedes still hadn’t sent him any notification of an offer, and Jost didn’t say it, but he was getting nervous about not having the appointments confirmed for next year.

George decided not to think about it.

Mick’s golden hair stuck out in the dreary atmosphere. He stood with a few Haas engineers, smiling encouragingly as he made a swimming motion for whatever story he was telling. George called out to him against his better judgement.

“Oi, Mick!”

Mick lit up like a Christmas tree, bouncing over to him with his usual smile.

“George,” Mick greeted with a fist bump.

George returned it, but didn’t make a move to be any more friendly.

“Hey, have you heard any update about Charles?” he asked.

Mick nodded. “He’s fine. Binotto said he just needed bit of rest, so he stayed in the medical suite.”

Nothing seemed off in Mick’s eyes when he said it, reassuring George that at least Charles’s idiocy had been contained to Steakout, though he doubted it would stay that way for long.

“Do you always talk to Binotto after practice?” George asked, trying to keep it casual and failing miserably.

Mick chuckled. “He talks to me, George. Usually to ask about my dad. I’m not going to throw away the chance for information.”

Mick had a sharper edge now, ever since Nico.

George let out a snort.

“Hey, Mr. Schwartzman!” Esteban called from behind him. He would recognize that accent anywhere.

George cocked a brow as Mick rolled his eyes. Esteban caught Mick in a hug that looked strange with the height difference. The everything difference, really.  

“Very funny,” Mick replied. “Ha ha. Hear me laughing?”

“Did you tell your mum she’s kicked you out?” Esteban teased, poking him in the ribs.

George glanced between the two of them. “What are you two talking about?”

Mick laughed. “Oh, you didn’t hear? I’m married.”

George tried to put the joke together. Nikita had to be the butt of it—he always was. But Robert Schwartzman was Russian too.

“What, you swapped Russians?” George tried.

Esteban cracked up, doubling over. Mick’s laugh made a perfect harmony, somehow turning Esteban’s horse laugh into a melodic thing.

Fucking Mick.

“That’s a good one,” Esteban choked out in his accent, still laughing. Awfully chipper for someone who spun out so bad they couldn’t even show the whole incident on TV because it took too long.

“Well, it’s good to know you don’t read the trashy newspapers like this one,” Mick said, slapping Esteban on the back. “An article came out saying that I’d run off to marry Robert Schwartzman. That my mother disowned me—I think she’ll show the article to Todt next time he comes to visit. She thought the ‘quotes’ were funny until she called our lawyers to tear them to pieces for slander.”

Esteban slung an arm around Mick’s shoulders. “It was hilarious. Little Mick, running off to get double married to his true love: Robert Schwartzman, lower court prince.”

Mick held George’s gaze for a little too long.

Wrong prince.

“Because that’s totally legal,” George said, face unchanging.

“But Schwartzman, really?” Esteban wrinkled his nose. “Callum would have been way more believable.”

Mick’s smile froze.

“Ilott? Yeah right,” George chuckled, taking over. “Though I guess that would make a good Cinderella story. He just needs a fairy godmother to turn a pumpkin into a McLaren.”

Esteban laughed, but George could see that he’d cut a little deep.

“Hey, if I can do it, he can do it,” Esteban said.

“Yeah, but you’re you,” George replied, allowing Esteban to take it as a compliment.

Everyone in the empires can smell the desperation in that three-year appointment.

“Ilott definitely has a shot,” Mick agreed, his eyes placid. “But I agree with George. It would take a little magic.”

Esteban shrugged, sunlight dancing in his inky too-straight hair. “Hate to say it, but who cares? If I don’t have to think about the lower courts for the rest of my life, it’ll still be too soon.”

“Yeah,” Mick said evenly. “Who cares.”

“You still up to try having dinner tonight?” Esteban asked, patting Mick on the back.

“I’d love to,” George gushed dramatically.

Esteban shot him a look.

Mick bumped Esteban on the chest. “Sure. Just you?”

“Well I’m not turning into a double date, if that’s what you’re asking. Full offense to your husband.”

George let out a snort.

Mick nodded to him. “George, you’re welcome to—”

“I’m good, thanks,” George said with a shake of his head. “I’d bring Nic, and you guys aren’t ready for the amount of class we’d bring to the table.”

Esteban raised his very large eyebrows is disbelief. “Yeah, I’m sure we couldn’t handle it. Mick, just let me know what’s going on. See you both at the hotel. Or something.”

Mick and George both waved goodbye. The second Esteban left earshot, Mick let out a sigh, shoulders slumping.

George swallowed hard. “You and Callum didn’t—”

Mick made a face. “No, George. I’m not stupid.” He glanced around, crossing his arms. “The article was a warning. No one took it seriously because it was in a stupid tabloid, but my mum told me not to see him until she figures out where it came from.”

George’s heart twinged. “Did you see him during the break at all?”

“I had a very busy break,” Mick said by way of answer. “I’m trying to get him a crown. I can’t do that by going on vacations.”

George soured, sensing an insult.  “I thought you did your scheming before the break.”

Mick frowned at him. “I brought Nico in to help you, George. Nico hasn’t always been the best person, but he’s different about Lewis.”

“Untrustworthy, you mean.”

“No,” Mick said. “There’s this theory in history about embarrassment—people who admit to being humiliated are usually telling the truth. Nico could have easily pretended he never loved Lewis and left Mercedes on some kind of power trip. He could have made life hell for Lewis outside of the scrutiny of the FIA.”

“He already does,” George muttered. “Didn’t you see those pictures in Monaco? Nico basically ambushed Lewis while he was on a yacht with Valtteri.”

“I doubt Nico showed up to pick a fight,” Mick argued in a gentle tone. “He probably just wanted to talk to him and got desperate. I think most people would have trouble accepting the love of their life betraying them so publicly. I mean, come on. Does it actually make sense that Nico Rosberg would just retire after winning his first championship?”

“Yeah, it does,” George growled. “He knew he got lucky and that he’d never be able to do it again. Now he gets to say he beat Lewis in the same car and Lewis never had a chance to fight back and prove otherwise.”

Mick shook his head. “My dad was married to him for two years. Obviously my dad didn’t care about being seen as a devoted FIA prince, because he already had me and my sister. Nico could have done whatever he wanted and the FIA wouldn’t have been able to say anything.”

Lewis rarely spoke about Michael, but George remembered Monaco, Lewis saying he respected him but that Michael never treated him the same.

“Nico used to come visit during the holidays,” Mick said. “Obviously I was quite young, so I don’t remember much of it. But he was nothing like he is now. Very quiet, shy. I didn’t really understand then, but I think he was embarrassed that he was the one legally married to my dad and my mom wasn’t. But maybe I’m reading into it.”

Mick shrugged again, worrying his bottom lip. George saw the anxiety in him in the way he kept moving, looking around. He was thinking about Callum—George knew that look. He'd seen it in the mirror ever since Alex lost his crown.

“The point is,” Mick continued, “I believe it that Nico always loved Lewis, and I know he still does. I can’t imagine what it does to someone to have to see them living such a great life without you and to not know why it happened.”

George shifted on his feet.

“I know half the reason, but not the half that matters to me.”

“Look what we have here. The younger generation follows the old.”

Mick broke into a smile as George turned to see Sebastian and Lewis walking up, shoulders knocking as they walked.

George smiled at the sight of Lewis, his first time seeing him up close since returning from the break. His skin glowed—as usual—but his eyes had new life in them. He looked rested and recharged. A weight lifted from George’s shoulders he didn’t know he’d been carrying.

God, he’d forgotten what being in love felt like.

“Hi George,” Lewis said around his water bottle straw, tossing him a wink.

“Hey,” he replied stupidly, his heart tossing in his chest.

Mick gave Sebastian a tight hug, absolutely beaming.  “I took your advice on Fagnes, it really helped.”

Sebastian smiled. “Good. I told you the line is tricky when you do it right. I saw your times—I think you can still find two tenths if you work on your rotation. You still do too much work with your feet—let the car take you.”

Mick absorbed the information with the excitement of a golden retriever puppy. “Got it, less feet.”

Lewis settled beside him, just enough contact that George could melt into him a little.

“How was Croatia?” Lewis asked, still chewing on his water bottle straw.

“A blast,” George said too fast. “Really, it was great. The only thing that would have made it better is having you there.”

Lewis grinned. “Don’t make me blush, man.”

“You had amazing pace out there today, George,” Sebastian said.

The compliment came unexpectedly, so much that George braced himself as if it had physically hit him.

“Um, thank you.”

Lewis laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Careful, he’s only genuine when he wants something.”

“I would be interested in knowing your setup,” Sebastian said with a smirk.

“Hey, that’s a Mercedes secret,” Lewis countered.

“Exactly. Or has Aston Martin changed engines without telling me?” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” George said. “I don’t think you’re allowed to get a podium before Lance. Oh that's right--you didn't.”

Sebastian’s grin went cockeyed as he looked over to Lewis. “He has more wit than I thought.”

“I’ll swap engines with you,” Mick offered. “Who doesn’t want Ferrari’s rejects?”

Sebastian ruffled Mick’s hair. “It’s bad luck to talk bad about Ferrari.”

“Then I should be in last place,” Lewis murmured just loud enough for George to hear.

George smiled at him and for a moment he forgot they couldn’t kiss in public. Lewis’s eyes flicked down to his mouth, but he didn’t move closer, though his smile did widen.

“What did you end up doing over the break?” George asked, ignoring Mick and Sebastian.

Lewis took another sip of water. “Work, mostly. But I did take a few days off. Saw the beach, but mostly stayed in Germany.”

“Any interesting rumors about me in Mercedes, or are those reserved for De Vries now?”

Lewis laughed and even that sounded livelier. “I was wondering if that article got to you. Nice GQ spread, by the way.”

“Oh, you saw it?” George’s chest warmed with pride.

“I may have a copy or two for safekeeping,” Lewis said, licking a bead of water from the end of his straw.

George tried to remind himself that Mick and Sebastian were standing right next to them, but that was getting more difficult, even with Sebastian rolling his eyes so hard the asphalt threatened to buckle beneath him.

“Well, looks like Charles had a nice holiday,” Mick said, cocking a brow.

George followed his gaze to the entrance to the Ferrari hospitality suite, where Charles cupped Carlos’s jaw mid-kiss.

“Ouch,” Lewis tsked. He reached out, gently squeezing Sebastian’s forearm. “Sorry, Seb.”

Sebastian’s smile twitched. “Please. I saw it coming a mile away.”

“Still,” Mick chimed in, patting Sebastian’s shoulder when Lewis dropped his hand. “Just because you saw it coming doesn’t mean it can’t hurt.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Sebastian chuckled. “How many relationships have you been in?”

Mick turned red and George burst out laughing. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Mick blush so hard.

“George!” George looked in the direction of the voice to where Nic had his hands cupped around his mouth. “Time to go!”

George nudged Lewis playfully as Mick furiously tried to argue that yes, fictionalized romances could actually be turned into life advice. George didn’t even have to listen to the words Sebastian was saying to know that he was toying with him.

“When can I see you?” George asked, glancing back over at Charles and Carlos. Charles had a dopey look on his face, showing Carlos something on his phone as if Carlos might hold the keys to heaven itself. Carlos didn't even glance at the screen, too caught up in Charles's eyes.

Fuck.

“I’m hoping after qualifying," Lewis answered, recentering him. "Depends on the weather. If there’s rain in the forecast for the race I’ve got a lot of changes to make."

“Do you?” Sebastian said, cutting in. “I’d love to hear exactly what changes.”

Lewis flipped him off without even looking at him, his gaze completely focused on George.

“And if not?” George asked.

“Then definitely after the race,” Lewis assured him. “You can mark it in your calendar. Toto might even join us.”

George choked on his own spit. “For the love of god, please no.”

Lewis laughed. “Okay, okay, not for the whole time.”

But George hadn’t missed the hint. The sparkle in Lewis’s eyes held a promise.

Lewis’s fingers danced over his own—just a brush of his hand, but it was enough.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” George said. The world had become Lewis, and he didn’t want to leave it just yet.

Lewis smiled warmly at him, full of love and happiness.

Sunshine.

“See you tomorrow, George.”

Chapter 75

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Lando tried not to be stupid in social situations, but he wasn’t very good at it. His entire life, he’d been able to argue for himself in the car, but not for himself as a person. He could do better in business situations, but he didn’t negotiate well in topics he didn’t know much about. Like real estate. And relationships.

“It’s a decent counter offer,” Daniel said over his shoulder, looking down at his phone screen. He had a PDF of housing information crammed into one page, listing a lot of numbers Lando didn’t understand about interest rates and down payments.

Lando frowned. “I don’t know. It feels expensive. There isn’t even any furniture in there.”

Daniel tugged at one of his curls. “It’s cheap for Monaco, babe. And it’s still in development, which means you get a say in the way it’s designed.”

“Yeah, I don’t want that. I’m not good at design.”

He heard the muffled conversation of McLaren personnel as they walked down the cramped hallways of the hospitality suite, gearing up for a practice session that was pretty much guaranteed to be delayed with the storm rolling in. If not practice, then definitely qualifying. 

“That’s why you hire someone,” Daniel said. “I mean, a couple hundred thou isn’t going to break the bank, and you’re paying for the view.”

Lando tilted his head up, the edge of his hood obscuring Daniel’s face a little. “Did you like it?”

Daniel smiled down a him. “The view? Hell yeah. It was gorgeous.”

Lando didn’t know how he felt about living so high up. Everyone said a sign of wealth in Monaco was to have a view of the harbor, but he never really got the point of having water out the window. A forest he could understand, but the ocean was just the ocean and he didn’t want to get to a point where he could recognize Jeff Bezo’s megayacht by sight alone.

“It already felt expensive before,” Lando murmured, scrolling through the PDF again.

Daniel slipped from his cot and down to the floor beside him.

“Let me see,” Daniel instructed, holding his hand out for the phone.

Lando handed it over and curled into him, grateful for his oversized hoodie and warmth. He also didn’t mind when Daniel took over things he didn’t want to do.

“Okie dokie,” Daniel said, hooking an arm around him and giving his shoulders a little squeeze. “Here’s the thing. It’s just an offer. Once you offer, it starts a due diligence period. Which is…yikes, two days. That’s not going to work.”

Lando groaned. “So I have to pull out?”

“You never have to pull out for me, darlin’,” Daniel teased.

Lando rolled his eyes, thumping him in the stomach with a sleeved hand. “I’m being serious.”

“I know, I know.” Daniel cleared his throat. “No, you don’t have to pull out. It’s negotiable. Given who you are, I’d say they’d be more than willing to give you an extended period. They want you to buy this place—if you buy it then they get to tell everyone else that a McLaren prince lives in the building.”

“So then I should come back with my same offer,” Lando said. “They’re already going to use me for clout, so why would I let them take more money from me?”

Daniel grinned. “There you go. See? You’re learning.”

Lando smiled against his shoulder and settled in to listen about the process, though he really just wanted to hear Daniel’s voice so it drowned out the memory of Carlos’s.

The rain started into a dull roar against the side of the hospitality suite. Lando entertained himself with the notion that he and Daniel might take another bubble bath after qualifying to rid themselves of the cold.

Once Daniel started going off into the differences between citizenship and residency, Lando decided he needed to be on his feet.

“Hey,” he said, gently knocking Daniel’s arm. “This is incredibly interesting, but I’m going for a walk.”

Daniel laughed. “I wondered when I lost ya. Want company?”

Lando smiled at him, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll find some. But thanks.”

Daniel cocked a brow. “Not Carlos, right?”

His heart went fuzzy, like it had fallen asleep inside him. Lando shifted uncomfortably as he shook his head. “Not Carlos.”

He grabbed his rain jacket and a golf umbrella before stepping out into the sopping wet hospitality lane, mostly empty except for a few journalists with no place to go who stood huddled by the back of the garages.

Lando fought the urge to hop in the puddles as he made his way down the lane, hoping to see Pierre or George. He didn’t want to see Max—he didn’t want anything to change from the carefree way they’d been up until Steakout.

Instead he found Charles.

Charles stood at the end of the garages, staring out into the gloom toward Radillion. He didn’t even have his hood up. His eyes were wide—saucers big enough to collect rainwater--and grey.

He wasn’t even moving to breathe, his body completely still.

Lando liked it better when he didn’t have to see Charles. When he could hate him for taking Carlos away without feeling the suck of loneliness that always emanated from Charles ever since Max dumped him in Brazil. Lando knew that was just the start of Charles’s tragedies, and no prince would have made it out from those pits and into a Ferrari crown. Only one.

“What are you doing out here without a hood?” Lando greeted, flicking Charles in the back of the head before yanking his hood up and over his soaked hair.

Charles didn’t flinch. He always flinched when caught off guard.

“Hey Lando,” he greeted softly, blinking once.

Lando’s throat closed. Charles had looked horrible in France, but this was a completely different kind of awful. This Charles had all of the parts of a normal person, just not himself.

“Hey, do you want to go for a walk?” Lando asked. “I wanted to stretch my legs.”

Charles blinked at him. Again. “You don’t like the rain.”

“I like the rain,” Lando argued.

“You like driving in the rain,” Charles said, smirking.

Lando immediately thought of Daniel after Wembley, how his smile looked so familiar and so grotesque at the same time. A wax figure of the man he knew.

“I like driving in the rain, and I like being in the rain too—as long as we’re by a track.”

“Okay, okay,” Charles chuckled. “Let’s walk then.”

Land shook his head. “Not until I see that hood on properly.”

Charles gave him a ghostly smile as he tugged his hood in place and zipped up the front of his jacket until it hid his chin.

“Am I good enough?” Charles asked, cocking his head, that smile still there and completely creepy.

Lando smiled weakly. “You’re always good enough, Charles.”

Charles’s eyes crinkled with a laugh.

“Come on,” Lando said, twisting the umbrella so that rain spiraled around it. Charles blinked raindrops from his eyelashes before stepping up beside him.

“Let’s go see Eau Rouge,” Charles offered, nodding toward Radillion.

Lando allowed Charles to lead the way to the stream under the base of Radillion—the real Eau Rouge. People liked to refer to Radillion as Eau Rogue, but George had quashed the arguments in their friend group in an all-too-detailed series of texts about the history of Spa back in their teenage years.

“You doing okay, Char?” Lando asked, glancing over at him.

Charles’s eyes were still slightly too wide.

“Me? I’m fine. Why, do I seem not fine?”

Lando frowned at him. “No, Charles, you don’t seem fine at all.”

Charles rolled his eyes, knocking shoulders with him. “Alright then. What’s off?”

“You. Everything. Everything about this is off.” Lando gestured between them. Unexpected emotion welled up in his throat, pulling at the backs of his eyes.

He loved Charles. Not in the same way everyone else did, but Lando didn’t think his kind of love was any less than theirs.

He’d seen the changes in Charles’s life in snapshots. He didn’t live through everything in Charles’s life because he’s always been a half step behind him, Max, and Pierre. George, Alex, and him were always closest, but they bridged the gaps between each other and it helped them all be more successful princes.

Lando saw Charles at karting pretty often, but even that was every few weeks or so, and they raced in different leagues. He remembered Charles’s father always being there, until he wasn’t. Until he was here every other race, until he was replaced by Lorenzo, then his mother who held herself together with prayer beads and pashmina scarves that forced her to keep her head up.

Then Jules died. Then Charles’s father. Then Charles started trying to do everything himself and Lando and Max wouldn’t let him.

“I feel better than I have in a long time,” Charles said. “Really.”

Lando twisted the umbrella handle in his palm. “See, I don’t believe that. Max was freaked the fuck out after he saw you. He cried at Steakout—well, he Max cried. And Pierre was losing it, he was so worried about you.”

Charles’s expression didn’t change. He nodded thoughtfully and looked out at the track.

“See! This is what I’m talking about. It’s like you don’t even care that all of us literally skirted a letter ban for you.

Charles kept looking out at the track. “I didn’t ask you to do that," he said absently.

“I know,” Lando hissed. “We did it because we love you.”

Chares stopped walking. Lando stumbled to a stop to keep him from getting rained on.

Charles continued to stare out at the track.

“Charles!” Lando snapped, but it had no heat. “What the fuck are you doing?”

A smile curled to Charles’s lips as he finally looked back over at him. “What are you so worked up about?”

Steam threatened to blow from Lando’s ears.

He’s sick in the head, George had said once.

Lando forced himself to calm down. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that Charles wasn’t trying to be difficult.

We’re all just trying to be happy, Carlos had said.

“Do you want to talk about…I dunno, anything?” Lando asked. “I can think of a few things we should maybe talk about.”

Charles blinked again. “Oh. Carlos.”

“Yes, Carlos,” Lando said, trying to keep himself in check.

He didn’t really want to talk about Carlos at all, but he acknowledged the fact that he should probably discuss something about him with Carlos’s current husband. And, you know, his close friend.

Charles started walking again, close enough that their elbows brushed with each stride.

“I love him a lot,” Charles said quietly.

Lando’s heart twisted up on itself. Even though he already knew Charles loved Carlos, hearing it out loud hurt so bad he had trouble seeing for a moment.

“I’m really sorry,” Charles added, slowing down to match his stunted pace.

Lando shook his head. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

But he wanted Charles to be sorry. He wanted him to feel even a fraction of what Lando felt in that moment as the ground fell away.

No matter how many times he tried to do the right thing, make the right choice, stick up for the right people—none of it helped. He still lost Carlos. He couldn’t beat Charles, not ever.

“But what about Pierre?” Lando blurted out, because he couldn’t always be the good friend.

Charles’s brow furrowed. He didn’t speak for a long moment.

Rain pattered on the umbrella, a tiny orchestra just for them.

“If you had everything you ever wanted and then found out you were dreaming,” Charles said, “would you wake up?”

Lando couldn’t stop thinking about how Charles’s eyes had turned grey, almost like they’d turned into windows pointed at the sky. When the fuck did his eyes ever look grey?

“Uh. I don’t think I’d have a choice,” Lando said.

“Say you have a choice,” Charles replied, looking ahead. “You have everything you ever wanted. It feels real and it is real, it’s just in your head. You can live in your perfect world forever if you decide not to wake up.”

Discomfort festered in Lando’s stomach. He didn’t like this metaphor one bit.

“I think we should turn around,” Lando said instead of replying.

“Good idea.” Charles turned on his heel as if he’d been waiting for permission.

Lando began to feel worse.

He thought about what his perfect life would entail. He would have Carlos. They would be happily married and living in London, maybe. And Carlos would be happy to live there. They would drive for a living but they wouldn’t be caught up in the bullshit. Maybe they would have a kid or two—Carlos wanted a big family. In their perfect life they would have perfect kids, so Lando wouldn’t mind a chunky baby that didn’t cry or throw up on him. Especially if Carlos did all the parent stuff.

He would still be friends with Max, Charles, Pierre, Alex, and George. Fewtrell would finally get a girlfriend and maybe start racing again. They would all see each other all the time and they would all love it. And Carlos would love him, and he would never fall in love with anyone else and never ever ask Lando to share him.

“I don’t know,” Lando finally answered as they neared the pit lane. “I think waking up would be the right thing to do. Staying would be hiding, don’t you think? You can’t hide forever.”

They veered right through a tiny personnel gate and entered the hospitality lane. Lando led them toward Ferrari. He wouldn’t stay to see Carlos, but he wanted to make sure Charles didn’t run off.

“What about you?” Lando asked. “Would you wake up?”

Charles tucked his face into the high collar of his jacket, eyes blank.

The rain picked up, falling in sheets now—so intense that they scraped across the umbrella in waves.

Charles lifted his head suddenly, stopping in his tracks. Lando froze with him, in sync. Worry knotted in his gut.

“Char—”

“Shh.” Charles lifted a finger to his lips before using the same hand to grab Lando’s sleeve, tugging him toward the Alpha Tauri motorhome.

Oh fuck. Lando could not do this right now.

“Charles,” Lando hissed, trying not to make a scene in case anyone was watching. “We can not go see Pi—”

“—trust him.”

Carlos.

Technically it had only been a few days since Lando last saw him in a private setting. He’d seen him in the paddock too, little glimpses here and there. He heard his voice over the intercoms during the media interviews. Being a prince made it so they all had two sides—public and private. Lando tried to pretend all of Carlos was the public side now.

“I don’t know him, that’s where I have a problem with it.”

Max? Lando glanced at Charles, whose eyes had narrowed at the space between Alpha Tauri and Red Bull.

“I don’t know him that well either,” Carlos admitted. “But there is a different kind of respect in the other empires. He wouldn’t have reached out to me to stir drama. He doesn’t want to be a prince.”

Carlos sounded so different. Lando curled his fingers around Charles’s wrist, locking him in place in case he decided to ruin this by running in there.

“But he’s close with Pierre,” Max countered. “And look what this caused. He has no real connection with any empire, so he has no reason to go against Pierre like that.”

“You don’t understand,” Carlos said in a voice Lando knew well. Carlos was frustrated—no, stressed. “He did this to protect me. After Pierre told me at dinner, I reached out to him—”

“What?” Max snapped. “You had him spy for you? Are you fucking insane?”

“I wanted to be sure,” Carlos growled. “Pierre has a good heart, but he isn’t perfect. And Charles is so fragile right now, I couldn’t leave anything up to chance.”

“It would have been nice if I knew this,” Max said. “So do you have any proof, or am I about to beat Pierre’s ass for no reason?”

“You aren’t going to beat anyone’s ass,” Carlos said in that calm but confident voice that always made Lando feel like everything was okay.

“He fucked somebody else,” Max snarled. “He finally got Charles and he fucking cheated on him.”

All of the muscles in Charles’s arm went slack. Lando looked over to him, fully expecting to see tears in his eyes, a mangled mouth of anguish. Instead, Charles had only parted his lips to sigh, his eyes still vacant.

“I don’t know the circumstances,” Carlos said. “But yes, I told Charles as soon as I heard. I don’t lie to my husband.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Max muttered. “You need to keep him under control. If you told me what’s going on with him, I might be able to help.”

“I already told you no. I’m handling it.”

Max laughed. “You’re not. He tried to fuck me in the medical suite yesterday, Carlos.”

That got a reaction. Charles flinched hard, wrenching his arm from Lando’s grip.

Anger bubbled up in him as Lando watched the shame bleed red onto Charles’s cheeks. Charles had what Lando wanted—a perfect, wonderful man who loved him more than he should—and yet he’d still tried to fuck his ex who loved somebody else way more.

“Well, did you?” Carlos asked, as if that knowledge didn’t affect him at all.

“No,” Max snarled. “He’s not himself right now.”

“So if he was ‘himself,’ as you say, you might have?”

“I just spent the last month putting Daniel back together,” Max said. “I’m not going to fuck his biggest insecurity.”

Lando’s anger grew at the implication that Daniel’s insecurity might be the only reason he would say no. As stupid as Charles was, Max had a point. Charles wasn’t himself. He couldn’t make healthy choices. Lando looked over at him again. Each time, he seemed smaller.

He knew they should stop listening, but he huddled closer and reached up with his free hand, gently brushing his fingers at Charles’s cheek.

Charles startled, looking at him with wide, too-light eyes.

It’s gonna be okay, Lando mouthed.

“You have to keep Charles under control,” Max said. “If he goes after me, that’s fine. But if he goes for Sebastian it could fuck up my entire plan.”

“You’re running thin margins,” Carlos warned. “Charles saw Sebastian right before break.”

Lando’s blood ran cold at the memory of Lewis. Sebastian knew about the burners, and Lando had a debt to the most powerful man in the empires because of it.

“I’m almost ready," Max said. "Zandvoort—it’s the best chance I have if I get caught.”

“Fernando hasn’t said anything,” Carlos said. “He was with them last night, I guess Esteban went to dinner with Mick at the hotel.”

“You trust him too much."

“He hasn’t betrayed me yet,” Carlos replied. “You could use some. Trust.”

“I trust you,” Max said quietly.

Suddenly Lando was fourteen again, sitting in a sweaty race suit, helmet balanced on his lap in the karting garage, watching Max Verstappen—his friend Max Verstappen—hold the hand of a bright-eyed Spaniard with a royal lineage and announce that they would be married.

“Charles is not a pet,” Carlos said. “I won’t leash him. But I’ll do my best to give you what you need.”

“This has to go right, Carlos,” Max said, lowering his voice.

“You don’t have to explain the terms to me,” Carlos replied. “I understand the game we are playing.”

“I should get back,” Max said. “Oh—I’m sorry about you and Lando. He didn’t really say anything at Steakout, but I could tell. You’re not seeing each other anymore, right?”

Lando’s heart started beating madly in his chest.

“Not by choice,” Carlos said, and Lando heard the hurt in his voice. “He wanted me to choose him over Charles and I told him I couldn’t do that because I love both of them.”

Max groaned. “You know, sometimes it’s better to lie. Just a little bit.”

“Not in my experience.”

Charles grabbed at Lando’s jacket and jerked his chin back toward the hospitality lane.

He didn’t look the least bit upset. Lando assumed this was all new information to Charles too, yet he didn’t seem to give one shit that Max had a plan big enough to involve Fernando Alonso and Carlos. Lando could hardly see past the fact that Carlos would still defend Charles after finding out he tried to fuck Max he day before.

Max's plan had to involve going against Lewis. And knowing Lewis, he probably already knew about it, and he probably had his counterattack ready to go in the form of Carlos using burners.

Fuck.

“Come on,” Charles whispered.

They hurried away, but Lando turned back just in time to see Carlos step from between the motorhomes, his arm around Max’s shoulders.

He looked away before Carlos could notice him.

“Hey,” Lando said once they were nearing the Ferrari motorhome. He grabbed Charles’s sleeve when he didn’t stop. “Charles, hey.”

Charles turned to him with a soft smile. “Yeah?”

Emotion welled up in Lando again. He didn’t know how to describe it, but it felt like he'd learned about a cancer diagnosis Charles didn’t know about yet. As if they’d all agreed to hid the truth from him, like giving treats to a dog before putting them to sleep.

“Would you wake up?” Lando asked, a little desperate. "You never answered."

Charles leaned in close, ever so gently bumping foreheads with him before he pulled back again.

Lando didn’t know what terrified him more: Max’s secret plan or Charles not giving one single shit about hearing at least five things that should have devastated him.

“I’ll see you later, Lando,” Charles said, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “Good luck today.”

As Charles rushed off to Ferrari, Lando looked further down the line of suites to the Williams motorhome.

He only knew one person who could find out if Lewis planned to hurt Carlos.

 


 

Nobody expected free practice to happen, but they managed to get through it. Green tires lined the pit lane as everyone took on the inters for a rainy session that ended with Max and Checo taking the top two spots. Lando tried softs for a bit of a show, and it worked. He did love driving in the rain.

“Be careful, Lando,” Will said into his ear as he neared the finish of his first Q3 outlap. The rain continued to pour and Lando could hardly see out his visor, but he knew Spa.

“How’s the rain looking?” he asked.

“Steady. Be careful. Sebastian’s not far behind.”

“Yeah. A little slippy, but I’ve got it,” Lando assured him.

Lando punched the gas and headed out for his first timed lap. A red flag loomed on the horizon, and he knew he had a shot at pole if he did everything right and beat the storm. He could beat Max in the rain. He could beat anyone except maybe Sebastian—and that was only if Sebastian was in a much better car than the one he was currently driving. 

He grinned beneath his helmet at the sight of Radillion. The hill leered at him as he blazed toward it, his body already preparing for the dance of the winding corner flat out. He knew exactly how it would feel in the rain, exactly how it felt last lap.

He eased forward on the throttle, glancing at his steering wheel display for a second as he swooped into the first corner.

Smooth like butter.

Lando settled in, easing the car back left. Cold adrenaline seeped into his blood, the quiet euphoria of the drive coming to him like he’d been anointed. Pole was his. Pole was fucking—

Everything turned to glass under his tires.

Lando didn’t know Anthoine very well in the scheme of things, but he’d always liked him. In the days after his death, Lando had seen his parents so upset he didn’t know if he could keep an appointment if his father would have to go throw up every time he got in a car.

A morbid part of him always wondered what Anthoine’s last moments were like. If he felt the impact, if he felt any pain.

Lando hit the wall, but the barrier only acted as a launching pad.

His McLaren spun with the ferocity of a G-force flight rig. His elbow crashed against the side of the cockpit in the first spin before he remembered to keep his limbs contained.

He just kept spinning. Time went slow and fast the same time. He could feel every beat of his own heart, and though he could feel the muscles in his neck straining to keep his head from rolling off, he didn’t feel the burn.

He thought of his mum and dad, the way his mum’s clothes always smelled like home whenever she hugged him after a hard race as a kid. The way his father cheered loudest on the sidelines.

God, he hoped they wouldn’t suffer too much.

After a few spins, Lando wondered at what point he’d entered the afterlife. Maybe he’d been sent to hell, left to spin until he got sick in his helmet. Or maybe heaven would—

Fuck. Sebastian was right behind him and he was on track again.

Perfect setup, just like Anthoine. Sebastian wouldn’t even have time to notice him before it was too late.

Wasn’t life supposed to flash before his eyes? He thought he was supposed to see Carlos, to take his hand and walk into the afterlife with the soul version of him or whatever.

Instead he saw the McLaren royal apartment, overflowing with blood red roses, crosses, letters of sympathy. He saw Daniel on the couch thinking he could have done more, hands in his hair, surrounded by a toppled collection of empty bottles.

Lando blinked and he was back on the tarmac, staring at a tire that had landed on the nose of his car. He continued to slide, and he heard the siren scream of Sebastian’s engine approaching.

Awesome. He wouldn’t even see death coming thanks to a stupid tire.

Lando closed his eyes. His fingers flexed at the steering wheel and he took a breath.

He wasn’t afraid. That would come later, he knew.

Well, it wouldn’t. If he lived, it would come, but he wasn’t going to live.

He saw Carlos then.

He’d only visited the Sainz ranch twice, but he saw Carlos there, stooped in front of a scrubby patch of wildflowers. Lando saw him from behind, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt.

Then he was lying on the ground next to him, looking up at the way the sunlight danced in Carlos’s hair.

“Want to smell?” Carlos offered, holding out a purple wildflower.

He inhaled, and it smelled like his mother.

The sunlight got brighter.

“Carlos,” Lando said, squeezing his eyes shut to keep them from burning out of his skull.

“What,” Carlos said in that playfully annoyed tone of his. “Don’t you like it?”

The sunlight started to sear his skin, white hot. He shielded his face with his arm, but the sun burned through it like a hot dog on a spit.

“Lando!”

Lando blinked and the sunlight had vanished, replaced by the blinking white screen of his steering wheel. His neck relaxed, head lolling forward against his will.

“Give me a thumbs up, Lando. Give me something,” a muffled voice said.

Rain tapped insistently on his helmet.

I died. I’m dead.

“Lando, please.”

He opened his eyes again, unaware he’d closed them.

A shadowy figure crouched at the edge of his cockpit. A figure with a big round head.

“I’m okay,” Lando lied. “I’m good.”

He lifted his arm and bit back a cry when pain lanced through his elbow.

The figure ripped its own head off.

“Don’t move your head. The medical car is almost here, I can see it.”

Lando furrowed his brow. He couldn’t move his head if he tried, it was way too heavy.

“Thumbs up,” he said, trying to focus. The world was still vibrating, but a face materialized—just not the one he expected. “Sebastian?”

“Thank god,” Sebastian said. “Yes, Sebastian. Can you tell me what hurts?”

“Um.” Lando tried to think. “I don’t know.”

Sebastian had very blue eyes. Or maybe they were green.  They were certainly wild, especially when framed by his white balaclava.

“Can you feel your fingers and toes?” Sebastian tried.

Lando wiggled his toes, vaguely aware of Will screaming in his earpiece. He flexed his fingers.

“Yeah, I can feel them.” He tapped the radio button. “Will, I’m okay. Can you please stop screaming?”

Sebastian slumped against the side of his car. “Okay, good. I’m going to stay right here until they come get you.”

“Be careful,” Lando heard himself say. “Cars on track.”

Sebastian pulled off his balaclava, revealing a mess of blonde hair. “That’s okay. I'll stay right here.”

Lando blinked slowly, trying to stop his brain. Maybe it was still spinning in his skull. That was probably bad for his nerves. Would the doctors be able to untwist his brain stem, or would it spin itself back?

“Hey,” Lando said, suddenly remembering. “You’re an asshole. I just wanted to tell Carlos goodnight.”

Sebastian smiled fondly. “Be more creative next time, then.”

Lando’s eyes trailed closed. He heard the sound of screeching tires and tensed.

“It’s just the medical car,” Sebastian soothed.

“Fuck you,” Lando muttered. Will was still screaming in his earpiece. “Max is going to get you for that, you twat.”

Sebastian laughed. “Is he?”

Anger flushed with the adrenaline. Lando felt like he might throw up. “Don’t sleep in Zandvoort. I’m going to beat your ass for ruining my life.”

Wait, was he Max?

No, Pierre.

Wait.

Fuck.

“He’s talking,” Sebastian said, speaking to someone else. “He’s not all here, though.”

“Fuck you, I’m here,” Lando snapped. He started fighting with his HANS device, but his neck and arm screamed for him to stop moving.

“Easy,” Sebastian said. “We’ll get you out. Easy.”

Lando didn’t take it easy. He wrestled himself from the car—

And promptly fell face-first into the tarmac. His helmet made a plunk noise when it hit the ground.

“Jesus Christ!” a heavily-accented voice said from behind him.

“I’m fine!” Lando snapped, pushing himself off the ground.

Everything was still spinning. His elbow hurt, bad.

“Come, get in the medical car,” Sebastian said, appearing in front of him again. “You need to stop moving.”

Lando took his arm without realizing it, only noticing when Sebastian pulled it away and he found himself sitting in a strange car.

Heaven really fucking sucked so far.

Notes:

yeah yeah, seb didn't really get out of the car for this, but for a minute there he def thought about it

Chapter Text

Charles found a spot in the garage that allowed him to see the monitors for Q3. Neither him or Carlos managed to make it out of Q2, and Charles didn’t feel like going over the reasons why just yet. His mind was still dissecting the drive, watching the lines others were taking. Lando had edged him out by a full second, and he couldn’t blame everything on his new chassis.

“Sebastian is absolutely right,” Carlos muttered where he stood beside him, arms crossed. “This session should be red flagged.”

Charles watched him as he spoke, the way his bottom lip carried his sentences when he was upset. He’d never kissed an angry Carlos before. Every time their lips touched, he always softened.

Charles reached out, gently taking Carlos’s hand and giving a little tug.

Carlos glanced down a him where he sat tucked into the space between a few tool carts, looking him over.

Charles tugged his hand again, until Carlos got the hint and leaned down for a kiss.

Their lips met, but the annoyance had already slipped from Carlos’s mouth by the time Charles tasted him. He tasted the same as he always did, and his lips put up no resistance as Charles deepened the kiss just to see if he could.

When Carlos pulled back, he regarded him with those dark eyes, and this time his lips turned down at the corners.

“What was that for?”

Charles smiled, eyes half lidded. “You looked upset.”

Carlos kissed his forehead. “Thank you. Can I sit with you?”

Charles barely had enough room for himself in the little space, but he nodded anyway, only for Carlos to lift him up as easily as one of the tools sitting beside him. Charles didn’t make it any easier for him by going slack, but he sought the warmth of the exposed skin of Carlos’s neck the moment he came to rest on his lap.

He loved the smell of Carlos’s aftershave.

“Tired?” Carlos asked when Charles closed his eyes.

Always, he wanted to say.

But he smiled and pressed a kiss to Carlos’s jaw instead.

“Comfortable,” he murmured, adjusting himself on Carlos’s lap. He looked back at the monitor just in time to see Lando spin at Radillion.

He hoped no cameras found them. It was embarrassing as fuck to be curled up on his husband’s lap like a baby needing held.  But Carlos thought of him as a helpless, weak person, so he had to act the part.

Charles settled in as Carlos put his arms around him and looked back at the monitor just in time to see Lando spin at Radillion.

Fuck, he thought as Lando whipped around in circles, all too familiar. Fuck.

 

 


 

 

“Holy shit,” George said, looking down at his steering wheel screen. “Is that—did I go purple? Is that—”

“That’s pole, mate!” James shouted.

“Yes!” George screamed into his mic, body flooding with adrenaline. He didn’t care if he still had Max and Lewis finishing their laps—he’d earned a fucking pole in a fucking Williams.

His hands were still shaking from his perfect lap, his synchrony between mind and machine. He knew this car. He’d turned this shit car into a masterpiece, something that could beat a Red Bull, even if only for qualifying.

He’d spent his whole life chasing moments like these. He’d spun out tens of thousands of times, trying to find the limit of every corner. He’d paid for karting tires out of his own allowance money (inflated though it was) after failing to learn his lessons on tire management. He knew the scent of burned rubber better than the scent of his own home.

All for this.

“This one was for Williams,” George said. “We showed them. This is us, guys. This is for everyone here and everyone back home. No matter what happens, we showed them today.”

Thank you, Anthoine.

He didn’t pray often—and George wasn’t sure it qualified as praying to thank a ghost, but as soon as the thought left his head he had to blink a few times to keep tears from welling up. Anthoine deserved to be here with them.

Max beat him a few second later, but George didn’t care. He finished his lap and pulled into the P2 spot, still buzzing over the fact that Max had only beaten him by three tenths.

George had never been so happy to take second in his life.

He jumped from the car to find Max waiting for him.

“George!” Max shouted loud enough to be heard over the roar of the crowd, pulling him in for a tight hug as the rain started up again.

George doubted Max would be half as excited if he’d managed to keep that pole, but he accepted the hug anyway. If anyone asked, he would blame it on the adrenaline.

“Good job,” Max said, slapping his helmet. “You did amazing out there.”

“Thanks,” George laughed. He almost said you too, but didn’t. “We’ll see about tomorrow, eh?”

Max tapped his helmet again before breaking away to head toward his team.

Crowds sounded so different when they were cheering for him. George soaked in the feeling, savoring it.

Next year, he would feel this every weekend.

Lewis strode toward him, cheeks bunched from his helmet, but also from the force of his smile.

“George, that was—"

“Fuck off!”

George was suddenly airborne, clacking helmets with someone he couldn’t see. Arms wrapped around his waist, spinning him in circles.

“You fucking did it!”

George laughed, full of joy as he recognized the voice. “We did it, Nicky!”

He wrapped his arms around Nic’s helmet until Nic finally lowered him to the ground, where George hugged him properly and let the tears come. Hugging was always a bit awkward with helmets on, but George didn’t care. Nic squeezed him tight, and—

Yep, they were both crying.

“You did it,” Nic said, his voice thick with emotion.

“We did this together,” George replied. “Don’t give me all the credit.”

He never wanted to let go. He didn’t want to let go of his moment, of his fake relationship husband who he’d ended up loving more than the world itself. The fake relationship husband who always made him laugh, who rolled his eyes when he acted uppity, who was content so long as he had graham crackers and a tub of Nutella.

“I love you,” George said, choking on the words.

Nic laughed and it rumbled through his chest. “I love you too. But you do know this is just qualifying, right?”

George laughed, his balaclava itchy from sweat and tears. “Let me have my moment.”

“I’d give you a big ol’ kiss if I could,” Nick said, knocking helmets with him instead. “Go have your moment. Doesn’t count if it’s not on camera.”

Nic slapped his ass before running over to the team, who were all too happy to accept him as he leapt into their outstretched arms. It didn’t matter what place Nic ended up in, every victory and every loss was a team effort.

George finally pulled off his helmet and freed his face from his balaclava, sucking down the humid, rainy air. The track was dark with oncoming rain, but George only saw color and light.

 When he turned, he found more in the rainbow tint of Lewis’s visor. Lewis put a hand on his shoulder and gave a polite, friendly shake.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Lewis said with a certainty that made George weak in the knees. “You did fucking amazing, George.”

He searched past the visor to try to catch a glimpse of Lewis’s eyes and found them glowing with pride. His throat went dry. “Okay, yeah. See you tonight.”

 

 


 

 

Lando kept himself together as his mind started to clear. He listened to the staff’s instructions at the medical suite and tried to pay attention to the TV behind them to see what the hell was happening on track, but he couldn’t hear anything over all of the noise.

“Do you think it’s broken?” Zak asked one of the doctors over speaker phone.

Lando’s elbow hadn’t stopped hurting since he got out of the car.

“It’s hard to tell without x-rays,” the FIA doctor said, holding a little light up to his eyes. “We’ll have to take him to the hospital to get it checked out.”

“Please don’t,” Lando said. “Everyone is going to freak out.”

“Lando, we have to see if it’s broken,” Zak said.

“Then I can go after the session,” Lando argued. “I don’t want anyone thinking I’m dead.”

Carlos. He didn’t want Carlos thinking he was dead. Carlos would tear apart the entire hospital if he found out he’d been sent there. Ferrari would have to tighten the noose on him, and Lewis would have yet another piece of ammunition. He couldn’t let that happen. If Lewis wanted to come after him, fine, but he needed Carlos to be okay. One of them had to be.

“I’m going back to the garage when I’m done here,” Lando said. “We can stop by the hospital later, but I don’t want it to be a big thing. I can still drive.”

He hoped he could still drive. Every time he moved his elbow, he saw stars.

Lando waited for the medical team to finish examining him. The McLaren medical team performed his concussion test, and though Lando didn’t feel like he should have passed it, he didn’t think they would lie when the FIA was standing right there.

The doctors gave him ibuprofen and an ice pack for his elbow that he promptly threw in the trash on his way out of the chalet. He agreed to make the medical car back to the garage because he knew he needed rest if he was going to be able to drive tomorrow. Walking didn’t seem like a great option.

“Daniel got P4,” Sophia said on the drive back.

Lando watched drops of rain streak on the window Fans pressed to the fence, trying to look into the tinted windows. Thoughts of Wembley flashed in his mind.

“Did Sebastian really stop to help me?” Lando asked.

Sophia patted his knee. “He did. You don’t remember?”

“I thought I was dreaming.”

If he closed his eyes he could still catch a whiff of Carlos’s flower, the warm touch of his hand.

“He was called to the stewards for that,” Sophia told him. “But I doubt he’ll get in any trouble. Everyone wanted to know you were okay.” She sat up. “Looks like we’re here.”

A headache had formed behind Lando’s eyes even with the blood thinners. His neck ached horribly, and his mood soured with every step. But he put on a smile as he followed Sophia into the back of the garage.

Lewis had eyes in here. Lando knew that now.

When they entered the garage, Daniel’s head shot up from where he’d been huddled at the monitors. He leapt over the nose of his car and danced around tools and people in a show of athleticism, light on his toes.

“Hey, hey,” Daniel greeted, immediately bringing his hands to Lando’s face. His palms were still warm from the car, but not sweaty. “That was gnarly. Are you okay?”

Lando nodded. It hurt to do so. “M’okay. Congrats on P4.”

“Had to get back to the garage quick,” Daniel said with a peck to his forehead. “Had to make sure you were good.”

Lando groaned softly as Daniel’s hand moved to the side of his neck, warming the muscle. “Keep your hand there,” he murmured. “Feels good.”

Daniel thumbed at the back of his skull in response. A calming gesture, not a massage.

“Let’s get you back to the suite, yeah? So you can lie down.”

Lando furrowed his brow as his neck stiffened up as if all of his muscle had turned to rock.

“Hey Mikey,” Daniel called. “Can you get that rice thing?”

The hospitality suite was maybe a three minute walk away, but Lando couldn’t fathom moving with his neck so fucking stiff. He’d been fine in the medical car, but something about standing up had definitely tweaked something.

It really fucking hurt.

“Dan,” Lando said, and it came out forced.

“Relax,” Daniel soothed. “I can feel you tensing up.”

“I’m trying,” he whispered, wincing.

“The pain is making you tense up more, which is causing more pain. Take a breath, okay?”

Lando tried to follow instructions. He inhaled and tried to think of yoga class, but that only made him think of the hardwood floors in the yoga studio back in London, which made him think of Carlos’s bare feet on the living room floor at McLaren, which made him think about how much easier this would be if he had Carlos to hold him.

He exhaled and winced again as his muscles pinched.

“Here we go,” Daniel said. “Thanks.”

Lando heard something that sounded like a maraca, and then suddenly something warm and slightly damp wrapped around his neck, instantly soothing the tension.

He reached up to hold it in place, fingers tumbling against Daniel’s.

 “Feel any good?” Daniel asked.

He nodded, and it didn’t hurt this time.

Lando’s tunnel vision widened out, and his hearing turned back on. He heard the radio chatter from open headphones, the sound of shouting and rain and tools clanking as the mechanics prepared for the arrival of Lando’s car.

Fuck, he needed to apologize.

He moved to head toward Will, but Daniel stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“Carlos is out there,” Daniel said quietly. “He’s been trying to come in here since you crashed.”

“Fuck.” Lando didn’t want to see him.  

Daniel shifted closer. “Yeah. He’s kind of freaking out. I, uh, told him I’d check in with you. I didn’t make any other promises.”

Carlos had been in the empires for years, yet Daniel still outclassed him in all of the nuances of princedom. He never made decisions on Lando’s behalf, or offered things he couldn’t guarantee.

“Thank you,” Lando said, curling his fingers into the fuzzy material of the rice bag. He swallowed hard. “Um. What do you think? Should I see him?”

Daniel’s eyes softened. “You don’t have to. If he sees you walking around, he’ll probably be okay.”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Lando murmured, holding his gaze.

“I know,” Daniel said with a sigh. He swayed his head a little. “I’m deflecting because yeah, I think you should see him. He’s really scared, and I’ve only seen Carlos like that a few times.”

Lando didn’t know what pieces of his heart he even had left, but they all squeezed. He hated that he had to be the bad guy. He hated that he had to be the one to end them because Carlos was content to play halfsies with him and Charles. He knew that part was his fault too, because he just wasn’t good enough to hold his attention completely.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Daniel offered.

“Yes,” Lando said, too quickly. “I don’t want the FIA getting any ideas.”

Good save.

He took Daniel’s hand, twining their fingers together. Daniel’s fingers felt so different from Carlos’s, and Lando grounded himself in that as they approached the garage opening.

Carlos stuck out in his bright red jacket and hood across the pit lane, but Lando noticed his eyes first. So much white. So much fear.

Carlos sprinted from his spot, splashing puddles with each stride. He looked fucking stupid running in the pit lane like that, but Lando had to smile.

That idiot used to be his.

“Lando,” Carlos said, breathing hard as he skidded to a stop in the wet.

Lando adhered himself to Daniel’s side. Their hands came apart only for Daniel to put an arm around him.

“Told you, he’s fine,” Daniel said, rubbing Lando’s arm. His voice had an edge of authority—a rare sound ever since Portugal. Rarer still after Wembley.

Carlos gulped down a breath, his chest still going, eyes still wide. “I was so worried. You scared me. You’re sure you’re okay?”

Lando couldn’t look at him anymore, so he focused on the pit wall monitor behind him. “I’m fine. I just wanted you to see that I was fine before you did something stupid.”

Even without seeing him, Lando could sense when Carlos advanced. He shrank against Daniel, turning his face away.

“Carlos, don’t. There are cameras everywhere.”

“Don’t do this,” Carlos whispered, close enough that Lando could feel his breath against the side of his face.

Tears welled up in Lando’s eyes. He had the sense that Carlos wasn’t talking about this specific moment.

“I have to do this because you can’t make a decision,” Lando snapped, looking at him again.

He didn’t expect to see Carlos so close.

Because of Carlos, he had to live life in halves—half himself, the other half pretending that he could be happy with his current life in McLaren. In London, he told himself that he would be okay without Carlos. He’d lived all of his life up until his appointment without a boyfriend. His first real relationship was an arranged marriage.

He should have been able to walk away from it unscathed.

“I’m okay,” Lando lied. “I don’t need you standing here making me look guilty of something. Get lost.”

“Please,” Daniel added politely.

“I love you,” Carlos said, touching his elbow.

“Get the fuck away from me,’ Lando spat, so loudly that he frightened himself—but his elbow exploded with pain, and he couldn’t let Carlos see it.

“Buddy, it’s time to go,” Daniel warned, stancing up beside him.

“I’m not leaving—”

“Carlos,” Daniel snapped, using the same voice he’d used at Wembley. “Get going. He’s okay, and I’m going to make sure he stays that way.”

“I can speak for myself, you know,” Lando said, shrugging Daniel off using only one shoulder.  “Carlos, go. I came out here so you’d see me and leave. So leave.”

Carlos furrowed his brow. “I want to see you. At the hotel, we can—”

Lando scowled at him, equal parts pain and anger twisting up on his face. “I don’t want to see you. You picked Charles, go be with Charles. Stop coming back to me.”

“I didn’t pick Charles,” Carlos argued, but he sounded strangled. “I told you this, I was honest with you because I can’t lie to you. Because I—”

Lando turned away and marched back into the garage before he could finish. Daniel hurried after him, resting a hand on his back as he walked. He could feel Carlos’s eyes on him when he turned, using his good arm to reach up and pull Daniel into a searing kiss. He kept it going long after their kisses normally ended, parting his lips and practically begging Daniel to use tongue.

Despite his initial surprise, Daniel didn’t hesitate to follow through, because he knew the importance of acting the fucking part.

When Lando finally pulled away, slightly out of breath, he looked over to see only shadow where Carlos had been.

Lando told himself that was what he wanted, but only heartbreak answered.

 

 


 

 

“Charles, you really shouldn’t sit on the ground,” Binotto said. “Much less in the rain.”

Water had already seeped through his race suit, but Charles no longer cared. Wet and cold were trivial things. They didn’t affect his driving, and they didn’t affect his mind. He actually liked the rain here, the way it shrouded him from the camera lenses and the prying eyes of his fellow princes.

Like now, for instance. He could feel Pierre staring at him, though Charles had no idea where he was.

The rain created new shadows and reflections, glints of light and foreboding dark. Charles stared into a puddle just beyond the lacquered floor of the garage, where darkness churned with each drop of rain that marred the surface.

“I’m fine,” Charles said.

“I know that. But I’m saying it does not look good to see a prince sitting in oily puddles,” Binotto replied.

Charles nodded once, but made no move to get up.

Carlos had been gone for five minutes. Maybe ten. Charles lost count while staring at the rain. He was probably putting Lando back together, saving him from the demons biting at his heels. Carlos could save everyone from their demons, even when he didn’t mean to.

Paper thin rainbows danced with the movement of the water, but the developing current started sending the oil down the tarmac and away. The swirling colors reminded Charles of VOID, the overhyped nightclub Carlos insisted they go to for a night more exciting than fancy dinners and strolls by the water on their private beach.

He reached out, carefully puncturing a puddle with the tip of his finger. Oil swirled around it, and the water swelled where his finger blocked the current, sending rivulets downstream.

His ankles ached where they touched the hard ground, only protected by the thin layers of leather from his race boots that were shrinking in the wet.

He heard Carlos before he saw him. He knew the cadence of his feet, even as they stomped toward him.

“What are you doing on the ground?” Carlos asked, stooping down beside him.

Charles tilted his head up to smile at him. Carlos looked so handsome with wet hair. “Sitting. It’s nice.”

“You’re getting all wet,” Carlos said with a frown.

“Everyone keeps saying that. It’s just rain, Carlos.”

Carlos sighed above him. Charles expected him to leave, to go back into the garage to continue arguing about what changes needed to be made to the car for tomorrow if the rain stayed.

Jock already said the rain would stay. Charles didn’t need to hear anyone else’s opinion.

He blinked when he suddenly felt the weight of Carlos’s thigh against his own. Carlos had taken up the same cross-legged position beside him, close enough that their shoulders were almost touching. Somehow it was more intimate with negative space between them.

Charles supposed that was fitting.

“Is Lando okay?” he asked, finally pulling his finger from the water.

“No,” Carlos said, folding his hands in his lap. “He’s hurt and he’s upset. He wouldn’t see me alone, and he wouldn’t let me touch him.”

He’s stronger than me, Charles thought.

He hooked his arm around Carlos’s bent leg for a bit of touch.

“Did he say what hurt?” Charles asked.

Carlos shook his head and Charles watched as water droplets sprayed from his hair. He wanted to catch one on his tongue.

“I think his elbow,” Carlos said. “And he had a thingy on his neck.”

“A thingy?”

Carlos gestured at his neck. “I don’t know the word. The…the…la almohada para el cuello.”

“I understood ‘neck’ and that’s it,” Charles said with a chuckle.

“Un cuscino,” Carlos tried. “But around the neck and full of rice.”

Charles laughed. “You should have said the rice thing first. I know what that is.”

He searched Carlos’s face, finding only worry and fear. Carlos made no secret of still loving Lando. Charles didn’t ask him to hide it anymore. He could handle it now. He knew the terms, finally.

“So worried,” Charles hummed, leaning in to nuzzle him. “Lando wouldn’t have come back to the garage if he was really injured. He’ll be okay, Carlos.”

Carlos’s arm came around him, holding him close. “I’m not sure.”

“You broke his heart,” Charles murmured with a kiss to his cheek. “He needs time.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Carlos said, leaning into him. “I went to London to fix things. I did everything I could.”

Sometimes it’s better to lie. Just a little bit.

“Lie down,” Charles said, reaching up to scratch at Carlos’s scalp. “Take a minute and listen to the rain. It’s like music if you listen close.”

Carlos looked at him for a long moment and Charles saw the wariness in his gaze.

You think I’m fragile.

Charles smiled at him with all of the warmth he could find.

Carlos finally relented, easing himself down so that his head rested in Charles’s lap, using his thigh as a pillow. Charles carded his fingers through his damp hair, admiring the way the water made his lashes stick together, turning them darker and more beautiful.

“I love you,” Charles whispered.

Carlos’s eyes flicked up to him. “I love you too.”

“So close your eyes,” Charles scolded fondly. “Listen to the rain. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Carlos closed his eyes. Rain spray freckled his cheeks, so Charles used a hand to shield him—a small kindness Carlos had given to him in the bath so long ago.

Charles felt every breath Carlos took, watching the rise and fall of his chest. It took several for him to actually relax, and Charles did what he could to coax more calm.

Everyone thought he was stupid, that his drugs made him naïve and impressionable or absent. In reality, the upped dosage cleared his mind of all of the sick and clutter he’d been unaware of.

He could focus on Carlos, all of the good things they had that would go away when he left Ferrari. They didn’t have a lot of time left together, no matter how their appointments ended up.

Carlos had chosen him for now, but he wouldn’t choose him forever.

No one ever did. Not even when they said they would.

At least Carlos didn’t lie to him about that part. Carlos never promised himself for the rest of their lives, though it felt like that at first.

Charles traced a finger along the sharp lines of Carlos’s face. He began to sing in a whisper, so quiet he didn’t think even Carlos could hear.

“À la claire fontaine m’en allant promener, j’ai trouvé l’eau si belle que je m’y sui baignée. Il ya longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai…”

He settled his hand at Carlos’s cheek, where some of the raindrops turned warm against his palm. He pretended not to notice.

Sometimes it was better to lie, just a little bit.

 

 


 

 

George was soaked by the time he made it back to the hospitality motorhome, still riding the high of his P2. Press questions buzzed in his head, all of them making the connection that his performance was worthy of Mercedes, that he and Lewis were destined to be.

Once he made it to the drivers room, he gave Nicky a big hug without everyone watching them, sharing in the moment one more time.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Nick said, ruffling his wet hair. “It’s embarrassing for me, you know that? I’m in the same car and you’re up there with Red Bull.”

“You’ll be up there soon,” George assured him, gently patting his cheek.

Nic smiled at him, wide and sure.

Many husbands would be jealous, either publicly or in private. Every couple had their disagreements about races. Very few were a united front, even though they were supposed to be. Sometimes George even wanted Nic to stick up for himself more, to fight for better position.

But no one could deny Nic was truly a perfect husband. George didn’t see Nic as lesser just because he didn’t always race as fast. Nic did everything George couldn’t do—most of which just happened to be off the track.

“I’m going to meet Lewis,” George said once he’d changed into dry clothes and proper rain gear. “I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“No hickeys,” Nic scolded. “I’m not a whore.”

George punched him in the arm. “Fuck you.”

Nic grinned before pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Hurry up, I want to go back to the hotel. Lance said there’s a pretzel bar. I’m not missing a pretzel bar, you hear me?”

George rolled his eyes as he left the room and hurried out of the motorhome and into the cold rain. He headed for the Mercedes hospitality suite, dodging puddles until he heard a familiar snuffling noise.

“Lewis?” George called. “Roscoe?”

A delighted bark answered him from the dark between the Mercedes and McLaren hospitality suites.

“Don’t just stand there,” Lewis laughed.

George grinned as he hurried into the alleyway. His eyes took a moment to adjust, but the shape of Lewis and Roscoe gradually appeared before him. Lewis sat crouched on the ground, wearing a navy blue and white Balenciaga tracksuit—one George had mistakenly thought was an Adidas getup before he remembered who he was looking at—and a tan Gucci x Balenciaga cap already two shades darker from the rain.

Roscoe greeted him in full Gucci dog poncho, butt wiggling with joy.

“Hey big guy,” George greeted, crouching down to give Roscoe pats and scratches.

“Bubby, stop getting mud all over George’s nice pants,” Lewis said when Roscoe started trying to climb on him. Lewis grabbed Roscoe around the belly and carefully lifted him off as he wriggled around to try to get back to him.

“It’s okay,” George said, patting Roscoe’s wrinkly head. “They’re just extra decoration.”

George had never really cared about having pets, but he really liked Roscoe. He also liked the thought of having a dog around the palace at Mercedes, and the domesticity of having a dog to care for as Lewis’s husband.

Lewis stood up and George followed, both of them moving in sync until their lips met and Lewis pushed him up against the side of the Mercedes suite.

“I can’t believe you beat me in a Williams,” Lewis laughed when the kiss broke. “Fucking unreal, man.”

George looped his arms around Lewis’s waist, eyes dimmed with fondness. “You’re not upset with me?”

“Upset?”

 Lewis kissed him, hard. The way they first kissed in the Mercedes garage, when George had thought all of this would be a game he played while he waited for Alex to come back.  He never expected to actually fall in love with Lewis. He never expected to safeguard his secrets and to feel an overwhelming need to protect him, even though he knew Lewis didn’t need to be protected.

Actually, George didn’t know if that was true.

“Hey,” George murmured against Lewis’s mouth. “I need to talk to you.”

Lewis let out a hum. “Uh oh.”

“Yeah, uh oh. Can we find somewhere quieter?”

Lewis nodded. “I’m on a tight schedule though, just so you know. I’m about to be up with the guys for most of the night—I’m proud of you, but if a Williams is beating my car, we need to make some adjustments.”

George laughed. “I’m not offended.”

Lewis offered his hand and George cocked a brow.

“It’s okay. I want them to see,” Lewis said softly.

George couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as he took Lewis’s hand and followed him back out into the hospitality lane.

Lewis’s hands were strong and sure, callused from years of holding wheels, but soft too, a stark contrast to the cool metal of his rings.

It was pretty stupid to be so happy about holding someone’s hand, but George’s whole chest filled with warmth and a sense of security that Lewis always brought. Roscoe ran in circles around them, huffing and puffing until he tried to lap water up from rain puddles. Lewis scolded him for drinking dirty water, prompting Roscoe to launch into zoomies, evidently delighted by the reprimand.

They didn’t see anyone as they walked, all of them deterred by the rain.

“I heard you were staying in the motorhome,” George said when he recognized Lewis’s motorhome in one of the parking lots.

“Yeah. Unfortunately my neighbors are Red Bull princes,” Lewis teased, nodding toward the motorhome next to his. “Oddly enough, I haven’t seen them.”

George rolled his eyes. “Max is probably at the hotel, sleeping in Daniel’s closet.”

Lewis unlocked the motorhome and opened the door, but caught Roscoe by the back of his poncho before he could rush up the stairs.

“Hold on, hold on,” Lewis muttered, stooping in the tiny doorway where a towel sat waiting. He carefully wiped Roscoe’s paws. Roscoe whined but stayed still, remarkably well behaved for the dog who had been stealing licks of oily puddles a few minutes earlier.

Once Roscoe’s paws were clean, Lewis unfastened his raincoat and let him run up the stairs.

Lewis wiped his hands on the towel. “Honestly, he’s a good boy most of the time, but when he gets in a mood—”

Roscoe blazed past the top of the stairs, and George heard the sound of claws skittering on hard floors before a loud thud, immediately followed by loud panting and a dog sneeze.

“Roscoe!” Lewis scolded, toeing off his sneakers and carrying them up the stairs.

Another flurry of skittering and Roscoe bolted past the stairway again, tongue lolling, snorting with every stride. George laughed as he shed his jacket and shoes, leaving them by the door as he followed Lewis up.

“It isn’t time for zoomies, man,” Lewis said, ignoring Roscoe and heading for the kitchen. “Want anything to drink, George?”

“I’d love some of that tea,” George replied as Roscoe started into another sprint down the hallway and into Lewis’s bedroom. “But I think I should talk to you first. Tea might not be the right drink.”

Lewis glanced at him. “Is this something that’s going to ruin a celebration?”

“Yeah,” George said, his voice tight. “Nico found me in Hungary.”

Lewis stilled. George expected anger, something hot and dark and sizzling like magma. Instead Lewis turned to liquid nitrogen—bone-snapping cold.

“What.”

George’s lungs shrank with the chill, his blood going viscous with fear.

“I didn’t want to tell you in a letter,” George said quickly. Lewis’s hands were awfully close to his knife rack. “But he cornered me. I couldn’t get out.”

Lewis curled his fingers against the granite. George couldn’t tell which was more unforgiving—his hands or the stone.

“Nico found you—cornered you, and you didn’t think you could put that in a letter?”

“I handled it,” George said. “I—”

“What did he say to you?” Lewis demanded.

George swallowed hard before he pulled out his phone. He popped off the case in a practiced motion and pulled out a now-weathered and slightly water stained paper. Alex’s note.

“He gave me this, from Alex.”

Lewis held out his hand. “Give that to me.”

George didn’t move. “Lewis, he didn’t write it. It’s Alex’s handwriting.”

“George, give me the fucking paper.”

George had seen Lewis angry once before, and he’d navigated that. But Nico anger was  different, hardened and sharpened to a diamond point that would sever arteries as easily as dropping the clutch.

“Promise me you won’t do anything to it,” George said weakly.

Lewis’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I would never do that to you. I just want to see it.”

George crossed to him, taking up the space beside him at the counter before handing it over.

Lewis looked over the note, reading it several times. George saw the gears turning behind his eyes as his thumb came up to brush over his lips in thought.

“He just handed you this?” Lewis asked.

“He also tried sweettalking me,” George said, reaching over to trace the faded logo on Lewis’s shirt.

“Have you been in touch with Alex at all?”

Lewis caught his eye and George tried not to let fear eat him up. “Um. No. I didn’t want to risk anything after Silverstone.”

Lewis handed the note back to him. “So you haven’t seen him. Alex.”

George shook his head and tucked the note back into his phone case before he clicked it back on.

“Fuck,” Lewis whispered, lightly rapping his knuckles on the counter. “Nico’s been fucking with him. Now he’s using Alex to try to manipulate you. This is really all he did? He handed you this note and left?”

George swallowed. “Lewis, he was insane. Like, clinically. He was wearing your cologne for god’s sake. He was talking like I’m not going to Mercedes.”

Lewis’s eyes flashed. “He’s trying to make you doubt.”

“Well he did a decent job,” George blurted out. “I thought for sure Toto would appoint me at Silverstone. Now we’re through summer break and I don’t have anything. I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

Lewis rested a hand on George’s hip, thumbing gently. “It’s my fault,” he admitted. “I hit a snag. But I’m working it out right now, and—”

George sighed. “Can you just tell me? If we’re going to be married, why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

Lewis smiled before pecking him on the cheek. “Because you have a bad habit of trying to beat people up armed with only half the facts.”

George’s cheeks flushed. “Yeah. So maybe having all of the facts would be better.”

Lewis laughed. “Touché.” His gaze dropped to George’s lips.

“Oh no no no,” George clucked. “You don’t get to start kissing me and not tell me anything.”

“Hmm. So you make the rules now?” Lewis asked, settling against his hips.

George smirked as he lifted a hand to Lewis’s face. “I did beat you today. In a Williams, if you remember. I think that entitles me to whatever I want.”

“Entitles you?” Lewis teased into a kiss that made George run hot all the way to his toes.

“Lewis,” George growled, gently pushing him away, even as his body begged for more. “I absolutely, definitely, totally want to have sex with you right now, but this is more important.”

Lewis cocked a brow, eyes lust-drenched and really fucking inviting.

“Please,” George whispered. “Tell me what’s going on. I love you, and that doesn’t seem to be enough for you to trust me.”

Lewis looked down at the space between them, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

“I found a crown for Valtteri,” Lewis said. “And I might’ve found a crown for Alex too.”

George’s eyes started to itch.

He didn’t allow himself to hope. As long as he kept Alex locked away, he could manage to keep going. If he turned his mind away from him and focused on Williams, he could stop the guilt from slowly killing him.

Nico was wrong about him. He wasn’t smart enough to get Alex back. He couldn’t make plays—he was too afraid.

“Don’t tell me I have to choose between one of my friends and him,” George choked out.

“The friends who didn’t invite you and Charles to Monaco,” Lewis countered. “Those friends.”

George’s lip curled in disgust. “Don’t do that. Don’t make Nico right about you trying to manipulate me.”

George might as well have slapped him. Lewis went rigid, sucking in a breath he didn’t let out.

“He’s still in love with you,” George said into the deathly quiet. “He’s still so in love—”

“Stop,” Lewis hissed.

George shook his head. “You told me you were never in love. You lied to me. What else are you lying about? Don’t tell me you’re about to rip Pierre’s crown from his hands for Alex. Don’t tell me you’ll hurt Lando or Charles—”

“Or Max?” Lewis’s nostrils flared, his eyes electric.

George’s lip quivered. “You loved Nico and you lied about—”

“I used him, okay?” Lewis snapped, pushing off the countertop. “I know—it’s not some romantic love story. I never loved him, but Nico was obsessed with me. He still is.”

George shook his head again. “I saw his face, Lewis. It wasn’t the face of someone in love with their best friend who didn’t know it.”

A strange smile came to Lewis’s face.

“Look at this place,” he said, gesturing around them. “Do you think a kid with nothing gets to a place like this just because he works hard and wins a lot? I won everything and it still wasn’t enough for these people. But the second Keke Rosberg’s son starts bringing me around, the doors flew open. I knew Nico liked me. I liked him too. He was the first boy I ever kissed—that doesn’t mean we were fucking soulmates.”

George’s insides started to knot.

Lewis narrowed his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. He didn’t abuse me. He was my best friend, but he didn’t want to be friends. So my choices were to play along, or have all the doors shut in my face again. And yeah, maybe there was a third option, but I was a kid. My parents staked their lives on me, and I couldn’t let them down.”

Lewis made headlines before he turned ten. A serious expression on a baby face, intensely focused on a remote-control car race in someone’s backyard. He couldn’t think of a single picture of a young Lewis smiling…except in photos with Nico.

George might have been on his laptop too much during the break.

“Nico told me he loved me before we turned sixteen,” Lewis continued. “I…Fuck. I loved him, but not that way. He was my only friend. He fought battles for me he didn’t have to fight and just—he just took the pressure off sometimes. Back then, I thought that was love. Someone taking the weight off.”

George stepped closer, tentative until Lewis allowed him to rest their foreheads together.

“You don’t have to talk about Nico,” he murmured.

Lewis sighed. “No, you’re right. If we’re going to get married, you should know.”

George blinked into an unexpected kiss, but he gave himself to it, just in case Lewis needed his strength.

“We both got our crowns,” Lewis continued when they parted, his voice soft. “Nico was still in love with me even though he got his first. I was appointed to McLaren and I had power, but not enough to contend with him if he turned on me. I barely had to do anything and he stayed in love with me. So I let him believe it. I said things I knew had double meanings.”

Lewis stepped away from him and headed for the living room. Roscoe skittered in from the bedroom and hopped up onto the couch to meet him. Lewis immediately took him in his arms, resting his cheek against Roscoe’s shoulder.

George carefully made his way from the kitchen to follow, but sat on the far edge of the couch. He dimly wondered if Lewis had a dog because a dog couldn’t betray him.

The thought made his heart heavy in his chest.

“Then he turned into a lying piece of shit, and I fucking hate him,” Lewis said, his voice slightly warped from the way he kept his cheek against Roscoe. “But I’m not too proud to admit that he broke my heart when he betrayed me. He was the one person I could always trust, and then he turned out like everyone else.”

Lewis pressed a kiss to Roscoe’s fur, his eyes vacant.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”

George moved closer. He didn’t know how much to touch, so he settled on resting his hand on Lewis’s knee and thumbing over the fabric.

Roscoe wriggled in Lewis’s hold, turning around and stomping his big paws way too close to George’s balls for his liking. He licked George square on the cheek, effectively ruining the moment in the span of a few dog-breathy seconds. George patted him anyway.

“Tsunoda,” Lewis said, finally meeting George’s eye. Sadness lingered there, deep and dark. “Red Bull wouldn’t let Alex go to a Mercedes empire, but they decided he performed better than Yuki, so they agreed to make the swap.”

George’s mouth fell open as Roscoe sprawled out across his lap and rolled onto his back to offer himself up for belly rubs.  Lewis leaned over to scratch Roscoe’s tummy.

George caught his mouth in a kiss.

“Maybe I still don’t have all the facts on Nico,” he murmured, lost in the way Lewis wore surprise. “But I’ll kick his ass next time I see him, and that’s a promise.”

Chapter 77

Notes:

big things are coming to FG! for sneak peeks and unhinged theorizing, join the FG discord here! it's the best way to get a heads up on chapter updates and will eventually be the source for FG explanations once this fic is finished (lol long ways away).

you'll definitely want to be involved over the next month or so, that's all i'll say!

Chapter Text

 

 

Rain beat against the windows by the indoor pool, fogging the glass as humidity clashed on either side. Charles nestled into the warmth of the jacuzzi, taking in the quiet sounds of water lapping at the edges, the low hum of jets.

Binotto would kill him if he found him out of his room so late, but Charles had a hard time sleeping in Belgium. Memories mixed with dreams, and even Carlos’s arms around him couldn’t fight the past away.

He wanted Max, for some reason. Even though Max had been absent from everything involving Anthoine. He claimed Red Bull demanded that he make no comments on the incident, but Charles knew better. Max nearly killed Kimi in the same corner during the first lap of the race the day after Anthoine died, and all he could think to say was that he had “mixed feelings” about the weekend, while urging the FIA not to change things too drastically because of a fatal accident.

Max didn’t see the way Pierre grieved, unable to stand or speak. Max didn’t see the way George hugged his knees and rocked, staring out at nothing as Alex put an arm around him and whispered things in his ear that had no effect.

Max chose not to see.

Of course, Max didn’t appear at the pool. He was at the track, living in a Red Bull motorhome. At first, Charles thought stuffing him away in a motorhome had been Red Bull’s choice in order to monitor him after a sloppy attempt at hiding Daniel in Monaco.

Now he knew better.

Max wanted to be secluded, because he had to build a strategy.

Charles used to be the only one allowed into Max’s space when he set about planning. He liked to lay things out on the floor—track maps, cards with notes on turns and which gear to be in, but the closer Max came to an appointment, the more he began to create maps of people and empires. News stories with highlighted quotes, entire histories of certain empires and who might still have influence.

Even with all of his planning, Charles never considered Max to be calculating. He could be riled up too easily, thrown off with a single look. Charles used to use that to his advantage—he loved that he could let his gaze run over Max’s body and stop him in his tracks.

Max had matured, though. He still wasn’t calculating, but he always succeeded by way of brute force or unexpected moves. He’d learned that no one could throw him off course if they didn’t know where he was headed in the first place.

Charles leaned his head back, extending his body to float slightly, allowing the jets to pummel the sore muscle in his lower back, the tightness in his shoulders. Lightning turned the sky to lavender for a few moments, and thunder followed soon after.

Charles was almost positive Max wouldn’t be caught in whatever he was planning. He evaded the rules every day with Daniel. He’d spent his entire summer in Monaco just to be with him, save for one night.

The door slid open from the hotel hallway. Charles glanced over to see Pierre stepping into the room, dressed in an oversized Alpha Tauri hoodie, sweats, and Adidas sliders.

“I was about to start knocking on your door,” Pierre greeted, balancing two bottles of water. “Your body temperature went so high so fast I thought maybe Carlos was fucking you in a sauna.”

Charles smiled. He actually liked that idea, even if Pierre meant for it to hurt.

“He doesn’t really like fucking on the night before a race,” Charles hummed, turning his attention back toward the windows. He lifted his hand out of the water, inspecting his Oura ring. His invisible leash.

“Here.” Pierre moved to sit at the edge of the jacuzzi and offered him a water bottle.

Charles took it and started to drink, purposely allowing the water to slip from the corners of his mouth as he downed swallow after swallow.

Pierre’s eyes darkened with desire, but he kept his hands in his lap.

“Can we talk now?” he asked.

Charles shook his head as he drank. He pulled off from the bottle a few moments later and set it on the edge.

“Come join me and we can,” he offered, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. “Until then, no.”

Pierre let out a snort. “This is the only outfit I have left to sleep in.”

Charles didn’t open his eyes. “So take off your clothes. We’re the only two people awake at this hotel.”

“Yes, and why is that?” Pierre asked.

“A few reasons, I guess,” Charles said.

You fucking cheated on me.

He flinched when Pierre’s lips pressed to the crown of his head. Pierre pulled away immediately.

“Désolé—je ne voulais paste faire peur.”

Charles finally opened his eyes as he turned around to face him.

He understood why Stoffel wouldn’t want to let Pierre go. Tanned skin, bright eyes, hair that fell in his eyes in such a handsome way. He also had a soft smile and warmth, infectious happiness and fierce protectiveness. It hid brokenness—that much was easy to see—but Pierre didn’t necessarily try to hide that.

“Come in,” Charles coaxed. “I’m not getting out in the cold.”

“I’d warm you up,” Pierre said, smirking. “You can come up to my room. Yuki’s asleep on the couch. Didn’t want to go to bed.”

“Mm. I do have to sleep tonight,” Charles said. “Mais c’est très tenant.”

I’m not Stoffel. I won’t come crawling to you whenever you ask.

Pierre sighed. “What happens if I don’t get in the jacuzzi?”

Charles shrugged before turning away again. “Nothing. You go to bed, I go to bed later.”

He heard the soft noise of a sweatshirt hitting the concrete, then sweats, then the sound of Pierre’s bare feet. 

Charles made a show of admiring Pierre’s body as he rounded to the stairs and waded in naked. He did have a beautiful body. Stoffel probably liked that most about him, considering their little arrangement started as nothing more than a release for pent up feelings—or whatever Pierre tried to claim.

“Le soleil t’a fait du bein,” Charles hummed as Pierre waded closer.

Pierre’s elbows came to rest on either side of his head. Charles sucked in a breath, his body reacting to the closeness and familiarity without consulting his head. He lifted a hand, running a finger along the line of Pierre’s collarbone.

“Are you sure you want to talk?” Charles asked, pulling back slightly when Pierre leaned in, allowing him to give chase.

Kissing Pierre in Belgium felt like a sin. Any kind of happiness with him felt like a sin, actually, though Charles knew he would find no happiness in this.

No, he could only see himself as Stoffel Vandoorne—a man Pierre said he didn’t love but fucked in Ibiza and tried to hide it. Stoffel was probably sitting in Monaco right now, fully convinced Pierre loved him too.

“Don’t play with me,” Pierre murmured. “I know Carlos has been fucking you like a rabbit.”

Charles smirked. “Jaloux?”

“Absolument,” Pierre hissed, lifting Charles’s weightless body into his lap. “But I didn’t find you here to fuck you. Je veux parler.”

“Tu m’as manqué. Carlos isn’t you,” Charles whispered, looking down at Pierre though his lashes.

He’s a thousand times better.

Pierre tugged him flush to him, and Charles made his breath hitch, eyes fluttering in false pleasure.

“So why didn’t you meet up with me in Monaco, mon amour?” Pierre asked, their lips brushing as he spoke.

Charles looked away, biting his lip. “I got scared after Max found me. Obviously I was…” he trailed off. “I just assumed you wouldn’t want me if you found out.”

Pain flashed across Pierre’s face just before they kissed.

“Talk to me about that,” Pierre said. “Que s’est-il passé? Max said you were completely out of it.”

You cheated, Charles thought. You’re a fucking snake and you cheated on me.

“I got in my head,” Charles explained with a tentative nuzzled Pierre returned before kissing his cheek. “I was drinking and I was alone. Carlos was with Lando making me feel worthless, and you were happy on your vacation with Stoffel.”

“Baby, you know how much—”

“Baby?” Charles asked with a laugh. “I’m ‘baby’ now?”

Pierre grinned. “Don’t like it? Désolé, Calamardo.”

Charles kissed him sweetly, melting himself into it. I bet that’s what you call him.

“Fuck me,” Charles breathed against Pierre’s damp lips.

Pierre let out a hum, his hands moving down Charles’s back.

Carlos would be so upset with him, but Charles loved to see jealousy in his eyes. It was starting to be part of their game now. Carlos got to be possessive with him, making sure he stayed out of trouble by distracting him with great sex. As long as he needed to be distracted, Charles could safely call Carlos his.

“I wanted you with me the whole time,” Pierre said.

Even when you went with him and left everyone else behind? Charles wanted to ask, but nested his fingers in Pierre’s hair instead.

“You have me now,” Charles whispered into a languid kiss, rolling his hips.

“Charles—”

Charles groaned. “Do you really want to talk? You’re naked, I’m basically naked—de quoi veux-tu parler?”

Pierre pulled back abruptly. “What is going on with you?”

Charles stared at him, a thousand memories running behind his eyes in the space of a second. A thousand feelings surging through his bloodstream, clotting in his arteries—poisoned by one stupid trip.

Pierre was supposed to be his rock. Max had Daniel, Carlos had Lando, he was supposed to have Pierre.  All Charles could think about was how loved Pierre made him feel, how cherished, how strong. Pierre had loved him for years—Charles had always been able to reach out and feel him there.

No one had ever cheated on him before. Royalty warped his definition of cheating, but Pierre cheated.

They made mistakes together, they won and lost together, they navigated grief and triumph as a team.  

Yet Pierre chose to fuck Stoffel Vandoorne.

The worst part was that Pierre didn’t even lie about it, technically. He never said he wouldn’t fuck Stoffel,  only that he wasn’t planning to. A loophole Charles hadn’t thought to close because he never saw it.

Charles thumbed over Pierre’s browbone, slow and gentle. “If you had everything you ever wanted and found out you were dreaming, would you wake up?”

Pierre pressed a kiss to his neck, grazing his teeth over the soft skin there. “Would I have you?”

Charles fought the urge to laugh as their bodies pressed together. “It’s your dream. Would you have me?”

Pierre looked up at him with those beautiful eyes, but Chares only saw the face of a liar.

“We wouldn’t be here,” Pierre whispered. “We would be in France—Grasse, or maybe Normandy. I would make you happy and you would make me happy and we wouldn’t need anything else.”

Charles smiled into the kiss Pierre offered, though he wanted to slap him.

They wouldn’t be together in Grasse or Normandy or anywhere else.

“We wouldn’t have to hide anything about ourselves,” Charles murmured, running his thumb over Pierre’s bottom lip. “Would we?”

Pierre smiled into another kiss. “No. We don’t have to hide anything now, either.”

Charles curled his fingers into Pierre’s hair and gave a firm tug. Fucking liar.

“Ouch,” Pierre teased, wincing. “What was that for?”

“Sorry,” Charles said, chuckling. He wasn’t sorry at all.

Pierre’s eyes turned darker, knowing. “I still love you, Charles. I love you with everything I have. I don’t know everything about what happened in Monaco, but all I need to know now is that you’re safe. I want to talk about it.”

“Well, we aren’t fucking, so I think that means we’re already talking,” Charles said dryly.

Pierre ran a finger down the length of his spine. “Max already told me what he found you doing. You can tell me the truth.”

Charles tried to put on a face of discomfort, though he felt none. He’d already explained Monaco to Carlos, Luca, Mattia, and Giorgio. He didn’t have any shame about it. Pierre fucked Stoffel when he said he wouldn’t, and Carlos still wanted Lando back. Sex with strangers meant less than either of those.

“You know the story,” Charles said. “Except last time it was you patching me up, not Max.”

Pierre’s brow furrowed. “Wait, you were hurt?”

Charles shook his head. “I was being metaphorical.”

Pierre pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead. His lips were soft and warm, but it was only skin deep.

“Did Carlos do something in Mykonos?” Pierre asked. “It doesn’t make sense to me that you loved Mykonos so much and then did this when you went back home.”

No. Home had gone to London without him.

Charles replayed their last night in Mykonos every time he thought about meeting Pierre in Monaco or driving out to Cap Ferrat to surprise him like he’d planned. He could still see the way Carlos’s face changed from normal to distraught as Tom Blomqvist spoke in his wild three-pronged accent on the phone.

Carlos offered to have Tom watch Pierre on the first night of vacation when he noticed the way Charles kept spinning his Oura ring and didn’t eat dinner.  Maybe it was wrong for Charles to enlist a spy, but it took a cheater to know one. Pierre had agreed to Belgium while knowing Max was right down the hall.

“I did love Mykonos,” Charles said. “Nothing happened.”

Pierre let out a sigh. “Obviously something happened.”

Charles shook his head. “I guess I just can’t handle being alone. I couldn’t talk to you or Carlos or Max, and all of a sudden I felt like I’d lost everything. Total imbalance.”

He remembered the way Carlos kissed his temple, leaning in close enough for Charles to hear Tom on the phone.

Pierre had a boat in Ibiza for their trip. They took the boat out every day, and every time they left the coast, the prying eyes and cameras, Pierre moved to sit next to Stoffel. They held hands, they told jokes to each other, and by day three, they made out every chance they got.

And then Pierre took the boat out for the whole day with only Stoffel.

“When they came back, they had sunburn everywhere,” Tom said. “And I mean everywhere. And they weren’t subtle about it.”

Charles’s nostrils flared at the memory alone, fighting back the choking pain of betrayal.

“How as your trip, by the way?” Charles asked. “Did you have fun with Stoffel?”

He couldn’t see a trace of guilt in Pierre’s eyes as they fell closed for a kiss. Charles kept his open as they lips touched, watching with morbid curiosity as parts of Pierre’s face went slack while other’s tensed. He wondered what things Pierre had said during their little boat trip. If Stoffel really thought they were over, if Stoffel really thought he was better than il predestinato, the Ferrari crown prince, the future World Champion.

Evidently Pierre thought so.

“C’était très douloureux,” Pierre murmured when he opened his eyes again. “He didn’t take it very well.”

Your dick or you breaking up with him?

“So you’re over,” Charles said, bland.

Pierre nodded. “Yeah.”

“It didn’t look painful,” Charles tried. “J’ai vu vos photos sur Instagram.”

Three years. Pierre ended a three year relationship for a chance to be with him.

Except Charles no longer believed he ended anything.

“They talked about Mercedes,” Tom had said. “A lot.”

Pierre shook his head. “Instagram is all fake, Charles. Tu le sais.”

He rarely had the chance to look a liar in the face so close.

“Did you sleep with him?” Charles asked.

Pierre’s pupil’s pricked as he jerked in surprise. “With Stoffel?”

Not an answer.

“Oui. Did you sleep with Stoffel.”

Charles saw the truth surface in Pierre’s eyes, in the blood that colored his cheeks.

“I told you I wouldn’t,” Pierre said.

Not an answer.

“I think you did,” Charles whispered. “Or you would be fucking me right now, the first time I asked you to.”

Pierre pulled back. “No, Charles. You’re not something to fuck. I love you, and when I heard about Monaco—who cares about having sex when you’re in pain?”

Not a denial.

Charles smiled. “Do I have a reason to be in pain, Pierre?”

“No,” Pierre replied, adamant.

Charles let him avoid answering the question. The question he still had yet to answer.

He still loved Pierre, despite his backstabbing. And Pierre would be a useful ally. All he had to do was keep him in line, remind him just what he would be giving up.

“Then fuck me,” Charles hissed. “Because you might not have missed it, but I did.”

 

 


 

 

“Dov’eri?” Carlos asked when Charles returned to their bedroom an hour later, towel wrapped around his body to keep out the chill.

“The pool,” Charles replied nonchalantly.

“In the middle of the night. During a thunderstorm.”

Carlos’s hair was wild, his eyes ringed with dark circles, his lips turned downward. He didn’t wear worry very well.

Charles smiled and dropped the towel into the hamper. He stripped out of his trunks before crawling into bed. He smelled like chlorine, but he knew Carlos wouldn’t mind as long as that was the only thing he was wearing.

Carlos’s frown deepened. “You’re all wet.”  

Water dripped from Charles’s hair and Carlos wrinkled his nose when a drop landed on his forehead. Charles reached down, taking one of Carlos’s hands and placing it on his thigh.

He didn’t want to go to bed with the memory of Pierre fucking him fresh in in his head.

“I have to shower, but I’m not dirty,” Charles purred, watching as Carlos finally started to understand what he meant.

“Abbiamo una gara tra nove ore,” Carlos growled, but it was weak.

Charles caught his mouth in a kiss, groaning when Carlos’s hands came to his ass.

“I hear you like to stay up late,” Charles whispered into the shell of his ear. “Wanted to see if I could keep pace.”

Carlos kissed him long and slow. “You need to sleep,” he whispered when the kiss broke. “We can have all the sex you want after the race. But not everything is sex, remember?”

“What if that’s what I want right now?” Charles asked.

Carlos smiled as he sat up with Charles on his chest, adjusting the blankets to pull them up over both of them.

“Sometimes it’s good to wait,” Carlos said with a peck before lowering himself back down in the bed.

Charles rolled his eyes, but relief washed over him unexpectedly. He nuzzled into Carlos’s chest, taken in by his slow breathing. Carlos’s fingers danced at the nape of his neck, lulling him toward sleep faster than he wanted to go.

“Te amo,” Carlos murmured into the dark.

Charles wriggled closer, tucking his face into Carlos’s neck. “I love you too.”

He meant it.

 

 


 

 

George shook his head as he got out of the car. The rain had soaked through his race suit in the space of a formation lap, and the car had given him two warnings that this race would not be won by a Williams. He only had Max in front of him and the rooster tail of spray blinded him for the whole lap. Even skill in the rain meant nothing when all of the tarmac was covered in a sheet of water too thick for inters to puncture.

A sick feeling knotted in his gut, lacing his bloodstream with the same fear he’d felt in Silverstone.

He didn’t want to get back in the car.

“They’re going to delay,” James said as soon as George made it over to the team. “I have a hard time believing we’ll be back on track.”

George put an arm around Nicky when he approached, giving him a squeeze. “You okay?”

Nic gently knocked their heads together. “I’m okay. Daddy might’ve paid for my crown, but that doesn’t mean I can’t drive.”

Jost emerged from Nic’s briefing room, shaking his head, a team of engineers behind him.

“It’s dangerous. It’s reckless, and I want Masi to know that’s my official opinion. I’m not risking the lives of our princes for a show,” Jost said into his phone. “Honestly—has he looked out the window? This is suicide. Yes, you can quote me.”

George let out a quiet breath of relief. Jost always had their back, but he knew other princes weren’t so lucky with their heads of government. Max was the only one who had any sway with Horner, for example. And that was mostly because him and Max agreed on just about everything.

“Settle in, Your Highnesses,” Kayla said as she exited the briefing room behind Jost and his crew. “We’re not going to be racing anytime soon.”

Nic gave his arm a squeeze. “Is it weird that I’m thankful for that?”

“Definitely not,” George said.

 

 


 

 

“There’s no way we’re racing,” Daniel said, watching as the lip of their garage started to cave with the force of the rain. “Not unless they want someone dead.”

Lando thought that was precisely why Daniel needed to stay out of the car. Lando laid curled up on a set of tire warmers, listening to the downpour and trying to catch up on his sleep after a night of restlessness. His mind wouldn’t stop buzzing after the crash, all too aware of how close he’d been to joining the ranks of princes killed on track.

He watched the big screen outside of the garage, where Sebastian was already playing football with Mick in the Haas garage, delighting the fans with an impromptu game. The overhead light seared his eyes, burning a headache into being.

“Can you stop watching the rain and be a pillow?” Lando groaned, grabbing up the tire warmer he was using as a blanket. “Or shut up so I can sleep. Those are your options.”

Daniel laughed and chucked his empty water bottle at him. “You’re cranky this morning.”

“It’s afternoon, first of all,” Lando muttered. “And yeah, I am.”

He closed his eyes, nuzzling into the tire warmer. Ever since he left Carlos, he couldn’t get warm. No matter how hot he turned the shower water, no matter how many blankets he curled up with.

He kept thinking about their firsts.

Their first kiss sucked. Lando wished he could redo it. Just thinking about it made him cringe, so of course his brain kept bringing it up.

He couldn’t even remember the movie they chose to watch. Some war movie on Netflix. Lando still hadn’t been used to the idea of an arranged marriage, even though he’d been raised hoping to have one. He never expected to be attracted to his husband—he thought he’d be stuck with some crusty old veteran. And, unlike Charles, he would not fall in love with a crusty veteran.

And then Carlos showed up in his life, full of wisdom and patience and affection for him. Lando thought it was a trick. He played Charles’s game of avoidance, even though Carlos’s kind eyes started making him feel a little dizzy right off the bat.

Anyway. War movie.

They weren’t sleeping in the same bed back then. Lando didn’t like the idea, and Carlos lied and said he preferred the couch anyway. They had graduated from handholding to cuddling during movies. Big deal.

Except it had been, for him. Lando hated himself for falling for a man who could never be interested in him. He didn’t get to have men like that—important princes everyone adored. And everyone at McLaren adored Carlos.

He remembered Carlos left to grab something from the kitchen When he returned, he crawled over him to get back to the other side of the couch, but Lando kissed him instead.

Just a peck. A peck Carlos hadn’t planned on and hadn’t invited—Lando just misread him.

“You gonna make room for me or what?” Daniel said, tugging his orange beanie over his ears as he sank to his knees beside him.

Lando closed his eyes, but held the tire warmer up so that Daniel could snuggle up beside him. Daniel never seemed to mind whether he was big spoon or little spoon. Lando kind of liked being big spoon with him. It reminded him that he wasn’t the only person missing someone, even if his limbs were a lot ganglier than Max’s.

“Comfy?” Lando asked as Daniel tucked them both in.

“Thought I was supposed to be your pillow?” Daniel replied, turning onto his back. “C’mere. Want me to turn my music up?”

Lando rested his head on Daniel’s shoulder and didn’t answer. Something about the alignment of his neck set off a chain reaction of calm, locking him into a state of absolute comfort.

“Don’t move,” Lando muttered. Sleep clawed him toward the depths, even as Daniel ignored his command and pulled the tire warmer further up his shoulder. He put an arm over Daniel’s chest, hesitating when he realized his hand had gone underneath his open jacket and against his nomex.

Daniel’s heart thudded in a steady beat against his palm, so close that Lando’s eyes fluttered in momentary surprise. Carlos was thicker in the chest—Daniel’s sternum barely had any muscle over it, allowing his heart to beat closer to the surface. Lando liked the feeling, the vulnerability of it.

He hated that he understood how Max had fallen in love with him.

“Wake me up if something starts happening,” Lando slurred. He fell asleep before Daniel could answer, led away by his heartbeat.

 

 


 

 

“Checkmate,” Charles muttered from his nest of extra Ferrari team jackets.

“Stronzate,” Carlos growled next to him. Only his nose stuck out between his beanie and his jacket collar.

Charles smiled, resting his head against him as he locked his phone. They’d played three games of chess, and Carlos hadn’t won any of them. Part of Charles thought Carlos might have let him win, but then he remembered who he was playing against. Carlos got competitive about who walked through doors first.

“You don’t seem to remember what rooks do,” Charles teased, pressing a kiss to his nose.

“That should be illegal,” Carlos said. “You moved over too many tiles—isn’t that a rule?”

“You think the app would let me break the rules?” Charles laughed.

“You hacked it,” Carlos said, pulling his beanie down further over his face.

Rain attacked the front of the garage, spraying on the front wing of Carlos’s car. The engineers were wired, a sea of tapping feet and nervous eyes. The FIA had yet to make a decision on the race, leaving everyone in limbo for however long it would take them to figure out an answer.

Charles caught sight of a weather radar screen on one of the monitors, and a sea of blue and teal took up the whole map, no end in sight.

“You should see Pierre,” Carlos murmured, chin tucked against his chest.

He had no desire to find Pierre in this mess, but Giorgio had tossed him a letter Pierre had written from a few garages over. Giorgio seemed much happier with the letter ban in place.

Charles rolled his eyes, though he knew Carlos couldn’t see it. “And do what? Accuse him of cheating?”

“Something like this, yes,” Carlos said. “I would. Would you like me to do it for you?”

Charles elbowed him. “No, I would not. He’s going to tell me himself.”

Carlos’s hand emerged from the mess of jackets they were using as blankets, twining with his own. “Non hai bisogno di lui, Charles.”

“He’s still one of my best friends. And I still love him.”

Carlos sighed. “He cheated—”

“I know he cheated,” Charles said. “But I’ve cheated before too. Technically sleeping with you is cheating.”

“We’re married,” Carlos said, nestling closer to him. “I love you, you love me. Pierre knows about that and he accepts it—that isn’t cheating.”

Charles looked up at him, pushing Carlos’s beanie up and away from his beautiful eyes.

He was falling into the trap again. Carlos only had to look at him and Charles started to soften. He loved the way Carlos approached life wholeheartedly, and protected him with the ferocity of a lion.

“You’re staring,” Carlos said, lips quirking up into a smirk.

“There’s a camera on us right now,” Charles whispered, glancing over Carlos’s shoulder as he moved on top of him. Not a single camera in sight.

“Should we give them a show?” Carlos asked, brushing noses with him.

Charles kissed him instead of answering. He meant for it to be a kiss for the cameras, polite but romantic. But Carlos deepened it, pushing him back into the stack of jackets and tire warmers they were using as a makeshift couch.

Desire frightened him. Having sex with strangers didn’t involve the pull of attraction, the warm, festering thing in his gut that sent rational thought fleeing from his brain. He was already married to Carlos—all of the usual relationship milestones had already passed for them. Yet he wished he could unravel it all and catch the thread in a different place. In Singapore, in 2018, when Carlos—then a prince of Renault—had approached him while he stared out at the neon lights of the city.

Back then he’d still been so focused on Max, who had been focused on Daniel. When Carlos introduced himself, Charles passed him off as a temporary talent puked out of the Red Bull machine because he couldn’t keep up.

Now he knew Red Bull didn’t deserve him.

Charles’s coat and beanie were getting awfully hot as Carlos’s tongue slipped past his lips, coaxing a soft sound from his throat he didn’t mean to let out.

Charles still saw Pierre in his future, despite everything. But Carlos had started slipping in. More cappuccinos in bed, days starting and ending with the taste of Carlos on his lips.

Carlos broke the kiss, staring down at him with the same look he’d given him in the rally car. Except this time there was no sun to bring out Carlos’s freckles, to turn his eyes to gold. The clouds and gloom brought out the London in him instead, the part that wanted the love of a boy who deserved him too.

“Is there anything I can do?” Charles asked.

Carlos shook his head and smiled. A bit of sun came back. “This is perfect.”

 

 


 

 

 “I think Boardwalk can wait five seconds while I go take a piss,” George said.

Nic scowled at him from across the table. “I’m going to roll for you.”

“You are not going to roll for me,” George cut with an accusatory finger. “Just because you have a hotel on Tennessee doesn’t mean shit.”

“He did almost bankrupt you,” Jost drawled, head propped in his hand.

A Monopoly board sprawled across the table in George’s debriefing room. Nic already had a monopoly on orange, and he had a hotel on Tennessee Avenue threatening to knock him, Kayla, and Jost off the map.

George shot Jost a look. “Head of Government isn’t supposed to take sides.”

Jost rolled his eyes. “I’m elected so that we don’t have two children running this country. My side is reason.”

“At least tell me if you’re planning to buy it,” Kayla said.

“With what money? My husband just cleaned me out,” George replied, wagging his tiny stack of fake bills at Nic before tossing them back on the table.

“Great, so it goes up for auction,” Kayla said, relieved.

“I’d love to buy Boardwalk,” Nic chimed in. “In fact, I’d be delighted to buy Boardwalk. My lovely husband just gave me $950 to use. How much will it be?”

George patted his money on the table before backing away. “I know exactly how much is in this pile, and nobody rolls for me until I get back.”

“No promises,” Nic said, smirking. “Hurry up.”

“Jost,” James said, popping into the room. “I’ve got a call for you out here. Direct line.”

Jost huffed as he stood. “If they’re trying to continue this race, I swear to God I’m going to the stewards.”

George headed for the bathrooms, trying to plot the best way to leverage his collection of shitty properties into something that could take on Nic’s orange monopoly. Alex would already have a strategy worked out, and probably at least one secret alliance to utilize if he ever got into trouble. Alex loved board games. He always played as the Scottie dog. George always played as the top hat, an homage to an unfortunate Halloween costume in primary school.

George rekindled some of his love for board games in Croatia, though it as more difficult to play without Alex. Monopoly was Sandra’s favorite, so now George also understood that it meant something when Nic asked to play.

He continued through back hallways of the garage area that were full of dozing team members waiting out the delay.

As a prince, George had the best of the racing situation, even if it exhausted him. He flew on Wednesday nights or early Thursday morning, depending on the location. Thursday was a few hours of press and preparing the car, then he left while the mechanics and race team implemented his decisions. He lounged in a hotel with Nic and complained about publicity while the team worked twelve hour days tweaking and reworking setups—not to mention the travel team that built the hospitality suites over the course of the whole week leading up to the action.

The racing world didn’t treat anyone kindly, but the alternative was actual warfare, and nobody wanted that. Racing was absolutely a show of power and a form of distraction from real issues, but George happily served Williams to do his part.

Once he finished in the bathroom after jostling shoulders with half of the empires trying to find a spot at the urinals, George washed his hands and emerged back into the hallway to find Pierre standing with a group of Alpha Tauri team members, chewing on what looked like a bratwurst.

Pierre immediately stepped away from his guys upon seeing him, offering a hesitant smile. “Hey mate.”

“Hi,” George greeted, wary. “Want to walk with me? I’ve got a meeting I have to get back to.”

Pierre gave him a dubious look and took another bite of sausage. “Sure.”

They brushed shoulders as they walked back toward the Williams garage, where George was sure Nic had rolled for him and sold off all of his properties.

“Are you doing okay?” George asked. “I talked to Max. He said it was rough for you at Steakout.”

Pierre let out a snort. “That’s an understatement. My boyfriend slept with half of Monaco in the span of two weeks. And while I don’t think Charles would ever do drugs, Max insisted he was on drugs.”

George shivered. “He wouldn’t. But someone could have spiked his drink.”

“Every night?” Pierre shook his head. “He’s acting like he did after Max, but I saw him last night and he said he freaked out because he was alone and that’s what caused it.”

George frowned, sidestepping the legs of a sleeping Alpine engineer. “Do we buy that he’s self aware?”

“Absolutely not,” Pierre said. “But he seemed normal. He seemed kind of happy—I don’t know. He was joking around. Something was off, but I don’t know what it is.”

George stared at a bull logo on the door as they passed the Red Bull garage. “Have you told Max about this?”

Pierre narrowed his eyes. “Max is already too involved with our relationship. It didn’t escape me that he just so happened to be at the exact same club as Charles and took him home.”

“Max isn’t going after Charles,” George said. It’s the other way around.

Pierre laughed, stopping in front of the Williams garage. “Exactly. Max doesn’t have to. He just has to show up, say something halfway nice, and Charles caves. Max does it on purpose.”

“I don’t think—”

“He does it to fuck with me,” Pierre cut, spearing his last bit of sausage. “He hates that Charles picked me. Yeah, he loves Daniel, but we both know he’s never been good at sharing. He wants Charles in his back pocket.”

George swallowed hard. As much as Max seemed genuine when he broke down outside of Alpine, he didn’t think Max was as innocent as he claimed to be about the situation. He probably did feel horrible about Charles—they all did—but Max had other plans. George could smell the betrayal in the air, waiting to be served.

“Does Max have something on you?” George asked.

Pierre shook his head. “Just Charles. Which is what scares me.”

“He wouldn’t hurt Charles to get to you.”

Pierre popped the sausage in his mouth and chewed, watching him. “Of all people, I figured you’d be the one to know that’s not true.” He glanced at the door behind him. “He’s pulling strings, George. And it isn’t because he cares about us. He just wants us to think that.”

George curled his hands to fists at his sides. “I know.”

Pierre’s eyes sparked with something he couldn’t name. “No, you don’t. But you’re going to learn.”

“What the hell is that supposed to—”

The door opened, nearly hitting George in the face as a group of Williams mechanics hurried out, talking about a treat stand in the hospitality lane. Pierre took a few steps back, then held up his empty plate in a toast before he disappeared down the hall.

“Fucker,” George muttered as he stepped back into the garage.

Jost stood outside the door to his debriefing room, arms folded across his chest and a sour look on his face.

“Are they restarting the race?” George asked. “Or did Nicky roll for me when I told him not to?”

Jost closed his eyes for a moment—a rare response. He looked overwhelmed.

“Jost?”

“I’ll be in in a minute,” Jost said. He reached out when George approached, resting a hand on George’s shoulder.

George furrowed his brow. “Did something happen?”

Jost gave him a weak smile. “Not yet. Nic’s in there waiting, I’ll join you soon.”

George glanced at the monitors, where the cameras were panning over soaked fans, muddy hillsides, and increasingly angry faces. A red banner at the top of the screen indicated they had another fifteen minutes for the weather to clear before the FIA inevitably decided to extend by another fifteen minutes. Tension leaked through the screen, charging the atmosphere around the whole circuit.

George pushed open the door to the briefing room and stepped inside before it could throw off his mood.

The Monopoly board sat out as he’d left it, but Kayla was gone. Nic sat at her spot, leaning back in his chair, eyes vacant.

“I found it!” a voice said from under the table.

George’s throat started to close when brown fingers appeared at the end of the table, pinched around the Scottie dog token George had hidden in the box so no one would use it.

Nic stared at him, at a loss.

 Alex emerged from under the table, standing up. “It was underneath the extra money tray. But I won’t play unless—Oh my god. George.”

George stood frozen, his entire body going dark.

“What are you doing here?” George breathed as Alex started toward him.

He kept waiting to wake up, or for the building to explode, or for Alex to run right through him like a ghost or any of the other things that usually happened when he saw Alex in his dreams.

“What are you doing here?” George asked again when Alex didn’t slow down.

He looked to Nic, who immediately turned his face away, his eyes glistening. Pierre’s face burned into his brain, washing out all of the colors of the Monopoly board as George reflexively took Alex into his arms, the weight of him familiar but wrong.

You’re going to learn.

Chapter Text

George kept waiting to wake up as Alex hugged him tight with stronger arms than he remembered. Alex smelled like home, though. George turned his head to inhale the scent of him and began to shake, overwhelmed.

None of it made sense. He’d only been gone for a few minutes, and somehow Alex had snuck into not only the Williams garage, but his debriefing room. George closed his eyes, drinking in the moment so that he could savor it when it inevitably ended. Even if it didn’t feel right.

As much as he wanted Alex in his life, George sensed a trap. Alex wasn’t allowed to wander outside of the lower courts. He certainly wasn’t allowed in a Mercedes-affiliated empire’s garage.

“How did you get in here?” George whispered.

“I walked,” Alex cracked, his voice thick with emotion.

George squeezed him tighter.

“I’ve got you,” George soothed. “I’m right here.”

Alex’s body jerked with a sob and George‘s whole body contorted to shelter him. They both moved to their knees without one leading the other, still in sync despite a whole year apart.

He didn’t even know if Alex cried when Max exiled him. They never saw each other—any hope of avoiding pain had been ripped from them as fast as Red Bull had kicked him into the lower courts.

Alex had been his whole life up until a year ago, yet George didn’t quite remember how to act with him. He never had to think about it before. No one had to think about how to be with the other half of themselves.

George couldn’t even cry. Emotion welled up and hit a wall in him, some dam he’d created without realizing it. He kissed Alex’s hair and began to rock him gently.

“M’sorry,” Alex gasped out, nuzzling into his shoulder. “I’m supposed to be calm and stuff. God.”

“It’s been a long time,” George said quietly.

“I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”

George rubbed his back. “Okay. That’s okay. I’m right here for whatever you need.”

“Alpha Tauri is going to offer me an appointment,” Alex blurted into his neck. “Marko told me.”

George shuddered with relief. “Alex, that’s grea—”

“Don’t say great,” Alex hissed. “Don’t say it.”

George flinched. “What?”

“I can’t do it,” Alex choked out. “I can’t be in Red Bull again, George. I don’t know what you did, but I’m asking you to stop.”

George pulled back. Alex’s face was streaked with tears and snot, so George used his nomex sleeve to wipe his face, cleaning him up to be perfect again.

“Come on love, you can’t let that scare you,” George said. “Any appointment is good. Then you’ll be back and we’ll be together again.”

Alex shook his head, his face twisting up like a child’s to cry.

“Darling,” George soothed, slipping back into his old self without having to think. “We can do anything, do you hear me?”

He took Alex’s hands in both of his own, bringing his curled fingers to his lips and pressing kisses along Alex’s knuckles.

“You don’t understand,” Alex said, blinking tears from his eyes. “They’re only going to offer a one year appointment.”

“That’s okay,” George said between kisses. He squeezed Alex’s hands. “They’ll see how good you are, or someone else will. You’ll be able to prepare this time.”

Alex stared at him, desperate. “They’re going to make me spy on you. Helmut said it’s my mission—that’s the word he used—to collect as much information on Mercedes as I can. From you. They know about us. Max told them.”

George paused, pressing the flat of Alex’s fingers against his nose. “I don’t think we were that much of a secret.”

“I have been living in hell,” Alex gritted out.

A dark, sickly feeling churned in George’s gut. Alex never complained. He never admitted to pain or weakness or anything but improvable circumstance.

“The things they make me read about you, the things they tell me—I know they aren’t true,” Alex explained. “I tell myself that every day, but when I can’t see you or talk to you, their word starts to become the only reality I know.”

George released Alex’s hands to touch his face. He had more muscle in his shoulders and neck, but his face was the same. The same smooth skin, the same berry pink lips, maybe a bit more angle to his jaw.

“I have never stopped loving you,” George said. “I won’t ever stop. I don’t care if you really did find a new car, that doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

Alex leaned into his touch, brown eyes ringed red. “I love you too.”

George almost collapsed even though they were already sitting down. “I’ve waited a whole year to hear that. I wasn’t sure if that note was real.”

Alex blinked in surprise. “You got it?”

George nodded. “Nico Rosberg gave it to me.”

Alex’s face didn’t change. “Good. He said he would.”

Shit.

“What the hell are you doing hanging around Nico?” George hissed. “He’s probably the worst person—”

“He’s the only person we have,” Alex said, cutting him off.

“We?”

“Exiles. Nico literally heads the program to reintroduce us to real life.”

George could not think of a worse person to have that job. “I hope you weren’t listening. He’s fucking horrible, Alex. The things he did to Lewis—”

“Do you love Lewis?” Alex asked. He asked like someone who cared about him, who wanted him to love Lewis.

George almost broke as he stared into those perfect eyes so full of love for him.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his voice shaking. “But not as much as I love you.”

Alex smiled. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to George’s forehead.

“He makes you happy?” Alex asked.

George nodded  as tears finally welled in his eyes. “But you make me so much happier.”

Alex looked down at his hands. “I think that maybe we shouldn’t do this, then.”

“What?” George croaked.

Alex met his eye and George only saw devastation. “I don’t want to be back in this world if I have to be against you. I can’t do that.”

“You won’t be against me,” George assured him, reaching over to take one of his hands. He had to touch him. He had to make sure this was still real. “We can spend next year working on how to get you out. We can work with Lewis—he brought you back in because I asked him to.”

Stress, fear, and sadness carved new lines into Alex’s face.

Max made this happen,” Alex said.

George blinked. “Hold on, Max brought you in here? He came in the garage?”

“The FIA approved it,” Nic said from the other end of the room, hidden where he sat at the table by their angle on the floor. “That was the phone call Jost got as you left.”

Alex nodded. “He didn’t do it to be nice. This is a play, George. He wants me to owe him—you know how Red Bull is. If they think I’m feeding them false information they’ll exile me again. It’s a miracle I even have an offer this time, I can’t do it again.”

George swallowed hard. “So what are you saying?”

They never lied to each other. They had been through difficult conversations through the years, but none that George ever got stuck on. He trusted Alex completely.

“I’ll do what they ask me to do,” Alex confessed quietly. “You have no idea what it’s like. It’s a fucking pressure cooker—they put your head in a fucking pressure cooker and I can’t do it anymore.”

In all of their years together, George had never seen Alex break. He buffeted insults, being ignored, people overlooking his talent because he didn’t have the right money or the right skin color. But he never backed down. He never believed any of it.

 “I thought I wanted this, but now that it’s happening, I don’t. I can’t. It’s going to turn me into someone I don’t want to be.”

“You have to come back,” George pleaded. “I don’t think I can take not having you with me for the rest of my career.”

Alex gave him a pitiful smile. “So you’d want me back as your enemy?”

“You’ll never be my enemy.”

Alex’s eyes went wet. “You have no idea what they do to people.”

“So tell me,” George coaxed, thumbing the tears away as he scooted closer. “I’ll fix it. tell me so I can fix it, love.”

Alex leaned in, pressing their lips together.

It had been more than a year since they’d kissed. George didn’t expect it, but returned it with everything he had. Alex tasted like life itself, like everything he’d been missing over the past twelve months had plunged back into him in the space of a second.

“I love you so much,” Alex whispered. “I’m never going to put that at risk.”

They kissed again, softer this time. Sweeter.

George began to float away from himself, from all of the nerves and stress and fear.

“I’m not coming back, George.”

His wings ripped out of their sockets and George crashed into the earth, Icarus and his heavenly sun.

“Alex, you have to—”

“I’m not coming back.”

George curled his fingers into Alex’s shirt, pulling away to look at him. “I need you. I need you back.”

“If I come back, I have to go against you. If I don’t go against you, I go against Red Bull.”

“So we’ll get you into a different team,” George countered.

Alex shook his head. “Look what they did to Kvyat, to Pierre, to Brendon Hartley. You don’t leave Red Bull.”

“Sebastian did,” George argued. “Daniel did.”

Alex’s eyes went dark. “You don’t leave Red Bull, George.”

“I have Lewis,” George said. “He knows how I feel about you. I’ll work something out, I promise.”

The briefing room door opened and Jost entered, frowning down at them.

“No,” George said, tightening his grip into Alex’s shirt. “I’m not leaving him.”

“I’m afraid you have a podium to attend,” Jost said. “They’re awarding half points to the top ten in qualifying. I’m about to announce to the team that you’re P2.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Nic said from across the table. George couldn’t tell if he was pissed or excited.

“Alex can’t be here when I make that announcement. A Red Bull official is outside,” Jost added.

George bristled. “No—”

Alex cut him off with a desperate kiss. A goodbye kiss.

“Don’t go,” George begged. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to, love,” Alex murmured between kisses to his cheeks, his nose, his forehead.

George followed him to standing, clinging to him. “Please.”

Alex hugged him tight and George buried his face into his neck, wishing he’d spent less time talking and more time loving him.

“I won’t go back to Red Bull,” Alex whispered in his ear. “But I’ll come back anywhere else.”

He pulled free too quickly for George to process grabbing him. When George did move, Nic caught him with an arm around his middle, holding him back. Alex stepped out into the garage, giving a weak smile to a stone-faced Red Bull official flanked by the FIA.

He wanted one more kiss. He needed one.

“Alex!” George screamed as the door slammed shut. He didn’t care who heard.

Nic held him tighter, keeping all of the pieces of George from falling apart.

“He’s gone, mate,” Nic said into his ear. “He’s gone.”

 

 


 

 

Lando watched the podium from the hallway underneath the stage, Daniel pressed up close beside him. George had tears in his eyes as he grinned, throwing up the trophy like he’d actually won something—though Lando did think he deserved something for putting a Williams in P2, even if it was just for qualifying.

“I don’t like this idea,” Lando said for the third time as Max waved to the fans on screen, champagne froth trickling over his fingers at the neck of the bottle.

“You said that already,” Daniel said, shifting on his feet.

Lando rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Yeah, well, we’re still standing here.”

“It’s my last chance to see him before Zandvoort.”

“Which is like four days from now.”

Daniel stuck his hands deeper into his pockets. “I want to see him.”

The door opened at the top of the stairwell and Max appeared, his laughter echoing as he headed down the stairs. His face lit up when he saw Daniel, almost like he hadn’t been smiling at all the second before.

“Daniel,” Max greeted softly, eyes sparkling with victory.

“Hey handsome,” Daniel replied with a rare close-lipped smile reserved for only the most tender of moments.

Max shoved the trophy into Lando’s chest with a dull thud. Lando grabbed it without thinking, scowling when he realized what he’d done.

“Seriously, mate?”

Max didn’t hear him—he was too busy shoving his tongue down Daniel’s throat, a move Daniel happily reciprocated.

Lando rolled his eyes and inspected his warped reflection in the silver of the trophy. He didn’t even have a tan from summer holiday. At least he looked rested. Maybe too rested. He frowned.

“Sorry I didn’t visit,” Max murmured when their kiss broke. “Too dangerous, I think.”

“S’okay,” Daniel replied before they devolved into kissing again.

Lando made sure to dig the curved edge of the trophy into Max’s hip when they started leaning against him mid-makeout. He avoided his ribs, just in case.

Lando was pretty used to being third wheel. People making out next to him never really bothered him. It was a relief in some ways. Nobody expected anything from him when they were sucking face with someone else.

He dug the trophy in a little harder and smirked when Max let out a grunt.

The stairwell door opened again and Max pulled away abruptly, grabbing the trophy from Lando in the same motion.

“I love you,” Max whispered with a dopey smile and a kiss to Daniel’s nose.

“Love you too,” Lando cut in sarcastically, scrunching his face like a child. “Where’s my kiss?”

Max laughed, and suddenly there were lips pressed to his cheek.

Sound ceased, then came back as high-pitched ringing in Lando’s ears. He watched without seeing as Max hurried down the hall and back out into the paddock.

Boiling anger flooded him, a seething rage that would have burst from him if Max had stayed in view.

Fucking prick. Fucking goddamn prick.

“Lucky you,” Daniel laughed as Lando blushed bright red.

“Shut the fuck—"

A loud noise interrupted him, and both of them looked up to see Lewis shoving George against the wall at the top of the stairs.

Lando moved to help, but Daniel clapped him back to the wall with one impossibly fast reaction. All of the mirth in his eyes had vanished in an instant, replaced by a look that could cut ice.

“Promise me,” George said, fisting Lewis’s race suit.

“I won’t promise something I can’t guarantee,” Lewis replied.

Hearing Lewis’s voice in a private setting made Lando’s lungs shrivel with the memory of the debriefing room.

“Your mechanics are watching the door for me.”

George yanked Lewis into a searing kiss—brutal and as angry as Lando felt watching it happen. Everything in him soured at the sight of George softening himself into the kiss the same way he used to with Alex, and Lewis responding in kind.

“I have something for you,” Lewis said against his mouth, loud enough for them to hear. “Come with me.”

Suddenly Daniel grabbed his face. Lando jerked away—or, he attempted to, but Daniel pinned him to the wall and kissed him hard, pressing flushed against him as if they were about to fuck in the middle of the hallway. Lando thumped him on the chest, but Daniel didn’t let up.

“Excuse us,” Lewis chuckled. Fear paralyzed Lando at the sound of his voice so close. Lando felt Daniel go rigid against him, but he didn’t stop kissing.

He tasted different, Lando realized. He tasted like what Max probably tasted like.

“Stop,” Lando whispered, muffled by Daniel’s mouth.

Daniel paused, but waited a moment to pull away. His eyes were huge, mirroring Lando’s terror.

“I’m so sorry,” Daniel breathed, his voice shaking as he glanced around. He stroked Lando’s hair back and peeled himself away. “We needed a cover—I’d never—”

“I know,” Lando assured him. He gave Daniel a real kiss, one of forgiveness, but kept it quick as his stomach somersaulted. “It took me a second to understand. But thank you.”

Daniel watched him carefully, an unasked question on his lips.

He hadn’t told Daniel about Lewis finding the burner phones. Daniel didn’t even know about the burner phones to begin with. He didn’t want to give anyone leverage to hurt him any more than they already had.

“He would have put it together. Me waiting here,” Daniel explained, eyes still wide. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

“Oi.” Lando playfully knocked Daniel’s temple with the base of his palm. “I understand, okay? It just took me by surprise.”

He lowered his hand to Daniel’s cheek, smiling up at him.

Max loved Daniel so much. Daniel loved Max so much. Even now, with Max long gone and back at the Red Bull garage, with Lewis almost spotting them, Daniel had a softness to his features that would linger for another hour or two.

Lando kissing him would make it go away, he knew.

He let out a snort and gently shoved Daniel away with a smirk.

“I did tell you it was a bad idea.”

 

 


 

 

George walked the rest of the way to the garage with Nic at his side, his trophy already handed of to Kayla for photos. Nic twined their fingers together, but it didn’t help. Alex had gouged new wounds in his already mangled heart, and Lewis shaped the shreds into something that resembled an organ but didn’t work like one.

“The whole thing is fucked up,” Nic said when George didn’t speak. “Max bringing Alex in like that. Totally fucked. I thought about making him leave, but I couldn’t do that to you.”

George squeezed his hand, fighting not to break.

A part of him wished Nic would have turned Alex away. He didn’t know how he was supposed to continue his appointment knowing that Alex going to Alpha Tauri would be sending him to hell.

Lewis said he couldn’t do anything. Valtteri already had the Williams seat once George announced his move, and he wouldn’t turn Valtteri to Red Bull—probably for the same reasons Alex refused to go back.

Rosberg told him he had to make plays, but once again, George had no idea how to do that in a way that didn’t hurt someone he cared about.

“There has to be something we can do,” George whispered.

Nic nudged him with his shoulder. “I’m sure there is. We just have to figure it out.”

George’s lips twitched with a semblance of a smile.

“I mean, you have Lewis Hamilton on your side,” Nic continued. “Even if you totally blow it, he’ll make sure you’re okay.”

“I don’t know about that,” George said. “I’m not worth him sticking his neck out for me. Not until I have a contract.”

Nic tugged him to a stop, smiling at him in that carefree way only a pay prince could.

“Trust me, you’re worth it.” He leaned to the side, looking at something over George’s shoulder. “Lewis thinks so too.”

George turned to follow his gaze, only to see Toto Wolf standing at the door of his briefing room.

He loomed above everyone in the garage, dark hair mussed from a stressful day of hurry up and wait. His presence commanded attention even as he laughed at something Jost said. His smile looked false, full of fangs.

George curled his free hand to a fist around the tiny key Lewis had given him. He let the metal dig into his palm, reminding himself that the key was a promise. Lewis was finally letting him in, literally. He could go to the motorhome whenever he wanted.

“Do you need me?” Nic asked. “I’ll go in there with you, just say the word.”

Toto clocked them at the edge of the garage. His shoulders settled, body stilling like a panther just before the kill. George could feel the power emanating from him as he stepped inside, the vulnerability Toto struck in him as he waited for the crushing jaws to close around his throat.

George shook his head, never breaking Toto’s gaze. “I’ve been ready for this day my whole life.”

 

 


 

 

Charles stared down at Pierre’s head in his lap, running a finger over the lines of his chin and jaw. Stubble tickled his skin as he traced, reminding him that this was indeed real life and not a dream. Pierre’s blond-tipped lashes fanned over his cheeks as he looked down his body to the partly open garage door, watching what was visible of the rainfall.

Charles didn’t need to ask how Pierre had managed to secure an empty garage. Max smiled at him too wide in the hallway, the look he always had when he was about to bestow a gift.

“Si je pense à lui, je commence à me sentir coupable,” Pierre admitted quietly. “I just spent three weeks on a beach with my friends and he couldn’t be there.”

The original plan had been to walk Radillion after the race, while the tarmac was still hot with a fresh coating of rubber, another race survived in memory of someone who didn’t.

“Il adorerait ça,” Charles said, trailing his thumb along the edge of Pierre’s jaw again. “He loved seeing you happy. He was always proud of you.”

Pierre once said that Anthoine was the first one to write him after he’d been forcibly divorced from Max and sent back into Alpha Tauri midseason. Even Charles had never dug into what that had done to Pierre’s mental state.

Pierre’s lashes fluttered before those soft blues turned up in his direction. “I just think about how if he would have gotten the appointment instead of me, maybe he’d still be here.”

Charles curled over himself to press an upside-down kiss to Pierre’s lips. Not the best kiss he’d ever had, but still fond.

“And maybe you’d be the one we’d be here remembering,” Charles said, nosing against Pierre’s cheek.

He smelled faintly of sausage, and tasted like it too. Charles didn’t mind.

Pierre’s fingers curled against his skull, gently holding him close.

Charles trembled, though he didn’t want to.

He didn’t understand how such a good man could betray him.

“Je ne pourrais pas le souffrir,” Charles whispered, his voice mixing with the sound of the rain. “A life without you. I can’t even think about it.”

Pierre kissed him, and for a moment Charles forgot to be hurt, lost in the way it felt to be loved.

Even if that love was only a veneer around a heart that belonged to someone else.

 

 


 

 

Jost’s in-garage office was less of an office and more of a closet. Toto’s impressive frame barely fit behind the desk, and he made the whole room look smaller just by standing inside. Jost patted George on the back just before he stepped in, but said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say to a prince about to leave an empire.

“Forgive me for ambushing you,” Toto began as he offered George the seat across from him, the low timbre of his voice filling the room. “But I don’t think I need to explain how delicate this is.”

Everyone already knows I’m coming to Mercedes, George wanted to say. Instead he nodded and took his seat, still gripping the key to Lewis’s motorhome.

“As Head of Government for Mercedes, I am pleased to extend an offer of appointment to you,” Toto said. His tone portrayed disinterest, but his eyes were intense. “Of course, this offer is dependent on Prince Bottas taking your place at Williams, which Jost must agree to.”

George stared ahead, looking through Toto to the bare wall behind him.

“And what if Lewis finds a better crown for Valtteri?” George asked.

Toto’s lip twitched. “Depends on which McLaren prince you’re threatening.”

George’s insides seized, but he kept himself from shivering. Lewis told him he had to be completely calm no matter what Toto said. That Toto hated princes who flew off the handle.

Toto leaned back in his chair. “Contrary to what you may believe, Lewis is not the end all be all in my empire.”

“News to me,” George replied, deadpan.

Toto cracked a venemous smile. “Mercedes will continue long after he’s gone. I do my best to secure what he wants, of course, but I have to look long term. Would you say you have a long term perspective for Mercedes?”

George nodded once.

“Good. So let’s be frank with each other, yes?” Toto leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “I am offering you a one-year guarantee. We plan to have you with us for many years, but I don’t have time for a prince who can’t keep pace. If you fail to meet expectations, this gives us room to find a replacement.”

Ever since his father introduced him to karting, George had wanted to be a prince. And when Lewis Hamilton started winning championships and tearing apart anyone who stood in his way, George wanted to be just like him.

He’d always dreamed of driving for Mercedes. He’d met Toto as a teenager and spent two whole days picking over every word of their conversation with Alex, dreaming of a world where they were both princes, both winning races, both sharing championships.

Obviously, that dream could never become reality. Two princes couldn’t both win a championship. There weren’t two race winners. And just because they both became princes didn’t mean they would stay princes. They were lucky to have had time together at all.

George had gotten lucky with Nic. They took awhile to warm up to each other, but now he had a husband who enjoyed life and royalty. A husband who played board games and loved espresso and always picked up the phone.

Lewis loved him, but Lewis wouldn’t coddle him. He wouldn’t offer support when George took second place and Lewis took first—they would sit down and work out strategy instead. And that was only if Lewis felt like sharing.

“If we’re being frank,” George said. “Will I be on even ground with Lewis, or are you going to fuck me over?”

Toto let out a snort. “Lewis will always be our priority, so long as he is driving a Mercedes. We intend for you to be second on the grid with him every race.”

“What about—”

“Team orders will be implemented whenever the opportunity arises,” Toto continued, answering his question before he asked it. “You will be expected to comply. Failure to do so will have consequences. Potentially far-reaching consequences.”

George thought of Daniel, waxy-faced and sickly at the Silverstone event, throwing up in the bathroom after Christian Horner touched his shoulder. Lando’s stories of Daniel living life terrified. Alex telling him no one left Red Bull, not even Sebastian.

Red Bull was known for cruelty to current princes, but Mercedes didn’t need that reputation. Their Princes were simply kicked out of the FIA. Michael Schumacher retired, Nico Rosberg exiled, Valtteri would be cut loose, keeping a crown only because he had Lewis’s blessing.

Williams never expected him to step into the ring with Nic on raceday. Mercedes intended for him to not only silence the competition at the expense of himself and his car, but also to allow Lewis to take the final knockout punch.

He should have known that being Lewis’s lover wouldn’t save him from the fate of coming second, but the truth stung anyway.

“So, those are the terms,” Toto said. “Do we have an agreement?”

“I want to know who else is in consideration for the crown,” George said. “Officially.”

Toto pushed out a sigh. “De Vries, Vandoorne, We’ve briefly considered Gasly as well, but I would rather not taint our lineup with Red Bull blood, and Lewis had been adamant about you.”

George narrowed his eyes. “And you want to please Lewis, right?”

Toto’s gaze settled on him like a lead weight. It took strength just to hold his stare.

“Yes,” Toto said. “That is my intent here.”

George thought of Nic standing outside the door, arms crossed and worry on his face, wondering how he would face a season with a new husband and what would happen with their friendship when George left for Lewis.

No more Lavazza coffee in the AeroPress. No more fighting over who showered first because they definitely weren’t sharing. No more getting his cap dunked so that Nic could beat him to the door.  No more bad singing in the car or watching Pride & Prejudice on the flight home and sleeping on Nic’s shoulder.

George cleared his throat. “Well, I need to think about it.”

Even Toto couldn’t mask his surprise. “Excuse me?”

George got to his feet, thumbing over the teeth of Lewis’s key. “Now that I have the details, I need to think them over. See how they fit in the long-term. That’s what you’re looking for, right?”

Toto cracked a smile, a real one. He stood from his chair, nodding once. “Yes, that’s exactly what we’re looking for.”

George flashed a false smile. “I’ll talk to you in Zandvoort. I should have an answer then.”

 

 

Chapter Text

Charles didn’t take the insult Mattia offered by throwing a birthday party for Carlos in front of the whole palace. Charles was too busy running his fingers over lavender cashmere, watching as Carlos stumbled through a speech in Italian, wisps of smoke still spiraling from the birthday candles on his cake.

"È stato un piacere essere un principe della Ferrari," Carlos said with a nod to Mattia. He always stiffened up in front of crowds, even though he was a prince. Charles had learned to read his awkwardness—the way he smiled with a closed mouth and way too often. But really, Charles should have known Carlos was going to be uncomfortable the second he put on a button down underneath his sweater.

A sweater in summer. Only his husband.

"Non vedo l'ora di passare molti altri anni qui, con la mia famiglia," Carlos said, putting an arm around him.

Charles’s eyes dimmed when they looked at each other, and he melted completely into the kiss that followed.

“I love you,” Charles murmured with another kiss to his nose. “Buon compleanno, Carlos.”

The whole palace cheered when Carlos turned to wave, Charles nestled into his side. Sometimes he forgot about the people they ruled. They were always so focused on training and driving, sitting in on meetings to stay up to date with government goings-on, they didn’t see the masses very often.

Charles waved alongside his husband, perfectly content. He could spent the rest of his life as a prince with Carlos at his side.

After a few more minutes of photos and greeting important people, Mattia finally let them go.

They didn’t make it ten steps down the hall before Carlos pushed him into the first open door they found. A small office, its occupant probably downstairs with everyone else in the palace.

“You’re going to kill me,” Carlos growled, backing him into the desk.

Charles smirked, opening his legs for Carlos to settle between them.

Their lips met for a passionate kiss that had Charles reeling, all of his thoughts mixing into a cocktail of pure desire that only Carlos could pull him into.

He slipped his hands under Carlos’s shirt, groaning into his mouth when hot skin met his palm.

“I have a present for you,” Charles whispered when Carlos started kissing down his neck.

The desk shifted underneath him as Carlos rocked his hips. Always so eager. Charles loved to indulge him now—he couldn’t remember why he waited so long.

"Se non è questo, non lo voglio," Carlos said as he tugged down Charles’s jeans.

Charles didn’t even remember unfastening them, but he wasn’t going to complain. He caught Carlos by the jaw before he could start kissing again, thumbing over that luscious bottom lip of his.

“It’s better than this,” Charles purred. “You’re going to play golf with Lando in Zandvoort.”

Carlos stilled, eyes wary.

Charles shrugged. “Well, you don’t have to actually play golf. You have all afternoon at the country club to do whatever you want. I reserved the whole place. Mattia was kind enough to get FIA approval for your birthday. ”

Only one thing could distract Carlos from sex, and his name was Lando Norris.

“Charles, you shouldn’t have done that,” Carlos said.

“Mm, I think it was needed,” Charles countered. “Lando agreed to it. He said not to expect anything, but that he’d be there. He might bring Daniel though. He hasn’t decided.”

"Hai parlato con lui?"

Charles shrugged. “Gli ho scritto. I figured he would say no if I asked him in Belgium.”

He leaned in to kiss along Carlos’s jaw and tugged him closer by his belt buckle.

Carlos nested a hand in his hair, yanking him into a kiss that forced a soft moan from him against his will. Charles didn’t know how they were supposed to accomplish anything anymore—they kept falling into bed with each other any chance they got.

“Good present?” Charles panted when the kiss broke.

Carlos sank to his knees, looking up at him through his lashes in a way that almost made Charles whimper like a fucking dog.

“Very good,” Carlos replied, voice thick with lust. “Let me show you.”

Accepting that he would never be anyone’s priority came with perks.

Charles fisted Carlos’s hair as his mouth went to work, moaning out Carlos’s name like he only had Carlos and Carlos only had him.

It was easier to lie to himself, just a little bit.

Lying made life easier to bear.

 

 


 

 

Everyone in the empires knew Zandvoort belonged to Max. Practically every street corner had a Red Bull flag hanging from the balcony. Speed limit signs were changed to his driver number, and cardboard cutouts of him stood in every shop window. Belgium liked to pretend they were also a home race for Max, but no one topped the Netherlands.

And the citizens of Zandvoort were not kind to enemies.

Charles hadn’t forgotten about Silverstone, but seeing Mercedes flags with red paint splattered on them reminded him of just how catastrophic it had been in the media. The air carried a sense of unease, crackling tension that burned the nose like scorched rubber.

Amsterdam beckoned, but the FIA had made it clear that princes would not be leaving assigned spaces. Binotto warned that though Jean Todt’s threats over summer were mostly for show, all efforts would be taken to punish those who left the designated perimeter—just a few square miles outside of the track.

Even Binotto seemed nervous. He flew them in at the middle of the night, and actually had a security detail on the tarmac waiting for them when they landed, car headlights casting ghostly rays in the dark.

Carlos made Mattia look reserved. He kept scanning the sidewalks as he drove them through the streets of Haarlem in a provided Stradale, headed for the track.

Carlos knew what was coming.

“You need to tell me if you go anywhere,” Carlos said—again—as he followed their police escort onto a country road. “You know I would rather you didn’t see Pierre, but you need to tell me if you do.”

“We’re all going to be locked in our cage,” Charles muttered. “What does it matter?”

“It matters here,” Carlos said, reaching over to fold a hand over his knee. “For you especially.”

Charles took his hand, lacing their fingers together. “It would help if you told me what’s going on.”

Carlos lifted their hands, pressing a kiss to Charles’s knuckles before lowering them again. “I can’t do that. I made a promise.”

“A promise that affects me,” Charles said.

“A promise that protects you,” Carlos corrected. “And no offense, but you are not in a place where I can trust you. That isn’t your fault, but it’s true.”

“It’s antidepressants, not alcohol.”

Light flashed across Carlos’s face in the dark as they passed streetlamps. He kept his eyes on the road, lips downturned.

“Well, you mixed the two in Monaco. I don’t think you understand how much that scared me.”

Charles laughed bitterly. “Not enough for you to get on a plane like you did for Lando.”

Nighttime changed him in certain ways. Charles suspected it had to do with the medication burning out in his system. A sense of clarity came back to him, but it usually brought pain and unearthed things he didn’t know if he could take unless he tapped into the numbness.

“I came back as soon as I heard the extent of it,” Carlos said.

They entered a small town and Carlos slowed the car. Red and blue lights flashed against the buildings around them, illuminating handpainted signs for Max that Charles didn’t understand. Some words were close enough that he didn’t need to translate.

A banner with Lewis’s royal photo, the eyes spray-painted black with red, dripping pupils. MOORDENAAR spray-painted in red underneath. Lewis looked horrifying in the dark.

They rolled to a stop at an intersection and Charles noticed an illuminated shop window with a massive framed photo that glowed in a window display like a shrine to Virgin Mary, complete with fake candles flickering in the dark. Daniel hugged Max tight in the picture, squeezing him to his chest for a smiley, smushy kiss to the cheek. Charles had forgotten how vibrant Daniel could be. Max laughed in the photo, cheeks rosy red and eyes crinkled with joy. Charles had forgotten how vibrant Max could be.

Flowers surrounded the frame in a heart-shaped wreath, and a painted piece of wood sat at the base that read FOREVER.

“This is creeping me out,” Charles whispered.

The streets were dead, already cleared in advance to prevent any security issues. Everyone’s shutters were closed, and no light leaked through. The low purr of the Ferrari did nothing to eat away the eerie silence.

They turned a corner and Carlos squeezed his hand tightly.

“What?” Charles asked, squinting to try to see shapes in the moving lights ahead.

Then he saw it.

Something orange and burning fell from the sky and landed on the windshield.

Charles jumped, but suddenly Carlos was pressed to his chest, leaned over in his seat to cover him.

Heat seared through the window as Charles opened his eyes, arms wrapped tight around Carlos in a feeble attempt to protect his protector.

A denim jacket burned against the glass. Stitches peeled and frayed as they blackened in the flames, but Charles still recognized the haphazard bleach marks and what they were supposed to represent.

Max’s Monaco jacket. His Monaco jacket.

“Drive, Carlos,” Charles hissed.

“Are you—”

“Drive!”

Carlos shot into action, expertly gaining traction in the few meters they had between the police car in front of them, enough to swerve around it up onto the sidewalk, though the low underbelly of the Ferrari ground against the cement in an unholy sound.

Carlos accelerated hard and the jacket gradually began to move, but not enough.

“Wipers!” Charles snapped, reaching over to flick the paddle down.

The wipers flicked on, tossing the jacket from the car, leaving smears of black as Carlos floored it down the road.

“You’re okay?” Carlos asked over the roar of the engine  as soon as they were free of the town. The GPS indicated they were two minutes from the hotel.

“That was for me,” Charles said in disbelief.

He loved Max. Max loved him.

“Don’t go anywhere alone,” Carlos snapped, glancing in the side mirrors as one of the police cars began to follow them.  “Do you understand me?”

“Why do they hate me?” Charles stammered. “What did I do?”

Carlos found his hand again, gripping tight. Charles returned the gesture, trying not to shake.

“People here only want to see Max with Daniel,” Carlos said, glancing in the mirror again. “It’s been this way since Daniel left.”

“Stonzate,” Carlos hissed. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Carlos shot him a look. “You’ve never been affiliated with Red Bull.”

“I’m still not.”

Carlos shook his head. “You were picked to be Max’s NOK over Daniel, Charles. Whether Max knew it or not, he put a target on your back.”

 

 


 

 

Charles woke the next morning to a loud banging at the door of their hotel suite. He groaned, nuzzling in between Carlos’s shoulder blades. Carlos shifted, turning in bed to face him so that Charles could nuzzle into his chest instead.

“Your Royal Highness?” someone called from outside.

“Which one?” Carlos called.

More knocking.

Charles smiled but didn’t open his eyes. He trailed his lips up Carlos’s sternum, tasting sleep on his skin. Carlos’s arms came around him, holding him close.

“Prince Leclerc,” the voice called.

Charles let out another groan, louder this time.

“It’s too early for this,” Carlos muttered.

Charles finally opened his eyes to see Carlos’s sleep-smushed face in the pillow, brow creased in annoyance. His heart warmed, caught up in the sight of the man he got to call his husband.

Images of the night before flashed across his mind—the bright flame smoldering on the hood of the car.

“Stay in bed,” Charles whispered, moving up Carlos’s chest as he rolled onto his back. “I’ll see what they want.”

“Grazie,” Carlos mumbled, already nodding off.

Charles settled on top of him, lips quirking in amusement when Carlos’s lashes fluttered at the feeling of their bare skin flush together. He pressed a kiss to Carlos’s cheek before moving off of him and getting to his feet.

He slipped into his bathrobe, red silk with the Ferrari crest. He rubbed his eyes as he made his way to the door, where their visitor was still knocking.

“Stop banging,” Charles muttered as he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

An FIA official stood at the threshold, her face pained.

Sebastian stood behind her, lips pressed to a tight line, eyes charged.

“Get changed. We’re leaving,” Sebastian said.

Charles’s mouth fell open, unable to process so many things so early. “Um—”

“Now.”

Charles shut his gaping mouth. He glanced at the FIA official before looking back to Sebastian. “Okay. Why don’t you come in?”

Sebastian shouldered his way past the official and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Do you want a coffee or something?” Charles asked, looking him up and down.

Sebastian didn’t exactly enjoy fashion. He tried—he’d gotten better at it even in the time Charles had known him—but he kept to simple, neutral tones. Grey sweats and a white t-shirt with a pink cap that didn’t match anything. In Sebastian fashion terms, this was haute couture.

“I’m not here to visit,” Sebastian said, firm. “Go change.”

“What are you doing here?”

Charles turned to see Carlos standing in the doorway to the bedroom, eyes narrowed. And completely nude.

Sebastian assessed him slowly, unimpressed.

“Well. I supposed that’s what all the fuss is about.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Wait here.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Carlos growled.

“Charles and I are rather pressed for time,” Sebastian replied. “We have an FIA-approved event to go to.” He glanced down. “And good morning, I suppose.”

“Seb,” Charles warned.

“What? If he wants to walk around with his dick half hard, that seems like his problem.”

Charles’s face turned red as he stalked to the bedroom and swatted Carlos back inside.

“What is he doing here?” Carlos hissed once Charles closed the bedroom door.

“I have no idea—but did you really need to walk out without any clothes on?”

“This is my home,” Carlos muttered. “He isn’t supposed to be in our home.”

“The FIA let him in,” Charles said. “They’re standing outside right now.”

Carlos gently grabbed his arms, holding him in place. “Don’t go with him. I’m asking you not to.”

Charles shook his head. “Something big is going on. Seb wouldn’t do this unless he had a reason.”

“Or it’s a trap.”

Charles sighed as he crouched to dig proper clothes from his luggage. “It isn’t a trap.” He dug through his collection of t-shirts. “Hey—I should be back in time for us to leave, but if I’m not, can you bring my media stuff?”

He selected a black Burberry shirt and grey jeans. He only had his white Puma trainers, but they would match well enough.

He pulled on the shirt, a pair of boxer briefs, and slipped into his jeans before he realized Carlos hadn’t answered him.

“Carlos—”

He turned to see Carlos staring down at his phone.

“Look at this,” Carlos said.

Charles shot to his side, staring down at Carlos’s phone screen.

A photo of Kimi took up his feed, his crown perched on blond hair—hair nobody saw anymore outside of official photos. GOODBYE TO A LEGEND: KIMI RAIKKONEN ANNOUNCES RETIREMENT.

“That can’t be real,” Charles whispered, but the post was from the official FIA Instagram. “He was supposed to retire with Sebastian.”

Sebastian considered Kimi as one of his best friends. He talked about their marriage fondly, and Charles owed his crown in part to Kimi’s guidance. They didn’t speak often, but Charles respected him as a competitor and fellow prince. He owed a lot to Kimi.

“I guess that explains why Sebastian is in a hurry,” Carlos said.

“Shit.” Charles returned to his luggage to find his socks. “Shit, Carlos. Something isn’t right about this.”

He tugged on his socks as fast as he could, brain working overtime to come up with a reason why Kimi would retire. As far as he knew, things were going well with Antonio—everyone seemed to love them together. It didn’t make sense that Kimi would leave…unless someone forced him out.

He paused. Back at that the hospital, Max had mentioned Lewis having something on Kimi.

And if Lewis truly meant to hurt Kimi, he wouldn’t have told Sebastian, even if they were best friends.

Shit.

Carlos at least had his robe on by the time Charles had his trainers on. He rushed to get back out into the living room, but Carlos caught him around the waist.

“Ehi, ehi,” Carlos said. “You can’t leave yet.”

Charles tugged at Carlos’s arm. “Carlos, I’m not going to—”

“Your medication,” Carlos said, keeping his voice low.

“Merde, you’re right.” Charles pressed a grateful kiss to his lips, ignoring the worry in his eyes as he passed by him and into the bathroom. Carlos followed him, hands coming to his hips as Charles tapped out two pills from a nondescript metal cannister in his toiletry bag.

He ignored how much he loved Carlos being so protective. He didn’t need protection.

Charles pressed the pills to his tongue and swallowed them dry. Carlos gave him a look of disgust over his shoulder.

“Dry? Charles, per favore—”

“If you want to help, you can grab me something to eat from the kitchen while I fix this.” He gestured to his hair, mussed from a night in bed with his husband. “Something simple,” he added. “I have to leave.”

His stomach would hurt all day if he didn’t eat something with the pills.

Carlos nibbled the nape of his neck before he left.

Charles took only a few minutes to style his hair. He grabbed his Ray-Bans on the way out of his bedroom to find Sebastian leaned against the counter, arms crossed as he watched Carlos putting together his breakfast.

“I said simple,” Charles sighed, but he smiled at the sight of what looked like an egg sandwich made with a croissant.

“This is simple,” Carlos said. “I didn’t cook bacon with it.”

Sebastian cocked a brow at him, but Charles ignored it.

“Guarda, it’s ready for you, my love. Simple.”

“Yes, time to go, my love,” Sebastian tacked on, deadpan.

Carlos presented his creation, complete with a foil wrapping to keep it warm.

“Grazie.” Charles gave Carlos a kiss that he broke off with a laugh when Carlos tried to use tongue. “I can tell you’ve been testing my food.”

“Certo. I had to make sure—”

“Charles. We need to leave,” Sebastian cut in.

Charles pecked Carlos’s nose before he nodded to Sebastian. “Andiamo.”

 

 


 

 

The FIA watched them as they left, but said nothing. While Sebastian didn’t intimidate anyone with his clothing choices, he was a terrifying force when angered. And Sebastian was furious.

Crisp morning air washed over them as they headed toward a campground at the far end of the field next to their hotel. For a man who drove cars for a living, Sebastian hated driving to get anywhere except around a lap.

Charles struggled to keep pace with him as they hurried along scrubby grass and sand, still sore from the night before—the only downside to the newfound happiness in his marriage.

“Does this have to do with Kimi?” Charles asked, adjusting his sunglasses.

“Of course it has to do with Kimi,” Sebastian snapped, shoving his hands in his pockets—a movement that somehow prompted him to walk even faster.

Charles jogged up beside him. “So I take it this wasn’t planned.”

Sebastian didn’t answer, but Charles had a feeling the look behind his sunglasses could kill a man.  

The North Sea glittered on the horizon, the beaches vacant except for a few people fishing from the shore. Charles made a mental note to talk a walk with Carlos along the beach at some point in the weekend, to remind him of Mykonos. Probably after he spent the afternoon having makeup sex with Lando at the country club.

“You once told me that you wanted to be taken more seriously as a prince,” Sebastian said. “You’re about to have that chance. I suggest you don’t blow it.”

Charles bristled. “Might be helpful to know what I’m walking into.”

“A very important meeting,” Sebastian replied. “And you’re returning a favor. So stay quiet unless you have something meaningful to add. Understand?”

He nodded toward a motorhome far too fancy to be part of the campground.

“In here.”

Sebastian opened the door to the motorhome and stepped aside, motioning for Charles to head in. He jogged up the stairs into a sleek motorhome full of pale colors and nothing remotely personal. Clearly a rental.

Kimi stood by the window, arms crossed and steely-eyed. He looked strange in his black weatherproof jacket and sweats—Charles almost never saw him in regular clothes.

“Hey Kimi,” Charles greeted with a respectful nod.

Kimi didn’t reply. He didn’t move at all until Sebastian appeared at the top of the stairs, and even then he only lifted his head.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Kimi grit out. “I swear to fuck, I will.”

“Easy,” Sebastian soothed, moving to stand near him. “We’re going to figure this out.”

Kimi glowered at him. “What is there to figure out? That bag of shit weaseled his way in right under my nose.”

“Yes, he was rather crafty, I’ll give him that,” Sebastian said. “We didn’t see it and we should have.”

Kimi waved his hand dismissively. “We couldn’t have predicted this. Vasseur wasn’t supposed to care about fucking money.”

“Hard to anticipate stupid,” Sebastian agreed. “But this does give us an opportunity.”

It was always mesmerizing to watch two world champions interact.  Something about the way they spoke gave a sense of complete control, even if they had both been caught off guard.

Charles wanted to know who “he” was, but it seemed like neither Sebastian nor Kimi felt like letting him in. He stayed quiet, intent to learn on his own. If he had to guess, he would say Lewis, but Sebastian seemed too nonchalant to have been betrayed by his best friend, and Kimi didn’t seem suspicious.

“So what is going to happen?” Sebastian asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall next to the window.

Kimi soured further. “Vasseur told the FIA I’m too ill to compete in the race. Unfortunate timing with the announcement, he said. He was even kind enough to rent me this fucking place to recover in.”

Kimi wore rage like armor. It molded to his every muscle—even fit over his eyes, turning them clear and terrifying.

“So now they have to bring in the boy,” Kimi explained. He said the boy like a curse.

Sebastian’s eyes darkened. “Well. We can’t have that. Though once again—very crafty plan. Horner’s teaching him well.”

Charles’s blood ran cold. Sebastian caught his reaction, watching him carefully.

“It’s shit,” Kimi spat. “The whole thing. Shit.”

Sebastian shook his head. “There’s our opportunity. Vasseur wants money, yes, but he wants power more.”

“Obviously,” Kimi said. “And now he has it, because I won’t be here.”

Pain crossed Sebastian’s face—his first emotion other than anger in the whole conversation. “Kimi, we’ll find a way to—”

Kimi put up a hand. “No. I don’t care anymore. This whole place has become hell. I’m tired. Now is the time to protect Antonio, to make sure Verstappen doesn’t get any more leverage into Ferrari.”

Charles couldn’t believe it. Max didn’t have a championship. His power hadn’t reached the level of FIA recognition, yet somehow he’d orchestrated a way to remove Kimi Raikkonen’s crown.

“This can work,” Sebastian said, running a finger over his lips in thought. “It isn’t what we planned, but it can still work.”

“Kubica,” Kimi offered.

Sebastian nodded slowly, gears turning behind his eyes. Charles could see a solution solidifying there in real time. “Yes…Kubica works. Fernando can speak to Mattia.”

Kimi shook his head. “No. Me. Fernando will not do it right.”

Sebastian shrugged. “Fair enough. You speak to Mattia. He still feels bad about Kubica anyway—should be easy to get his support.” Sebastian tapped his lips. “I think this works. Vasseur may have been stupid to listen to Max, but this could be the solution we were looking for. Lewis would prefer for Valtteri to be in a better empire than Williams, and Alfa Romeo will be a much better place for him.”

Kimi worked his jaw, then nodded once. “Antonio will do okay with him. I think.”

Sebastian offered a genuine smile. “Two soft souls. I think they’d be happy. Save you from worrying about him.”

“Hey,” Kimi warned, but his lips hinted at a smile.

Charles blinked, trying to absorb everything despite being completely overwhelmed by all of the information. Max had worked out a deal to get the Head of Government of Alpha Romeo to backstab its crown prince not once, but twice. And now Sebastian planned to work with Lewis to put Valtteri into Kimi’s place—and they spoke about it as if they were rearranging furniture.

“Gasly wants to keep Yuki at Alpha Tauri,” Sebastian continued. “Lewis mentioned wanting to have Pierre on our side. I’m fine with that.  Tsunoda is harmless at the moment. The pressure is getting to him—he will probably crack in the next few years. Marko will chew him up and spit him out on the street.”

“If Lewis is so concerned, he should be here,” Kimi growled.

Charles thought he might disintegrate if Lewis Hamilton walked into this meeting.

He wished it surprised him that Pierre was making plays to keep Yuki. The two Alpha Tauri princes were definitely friends, but Charles knew Pierre too well to assume he’d asking to keep Yuki out of affection. Yuki wasn’t a threat to his growing power in Red Bull. Any prince in Pierre’s place would do the same.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Lewis is figuring out how to keep his silly promise to George.”

Kimi let out a snort. “Since when does he care about keeping promises?”

“Since he started going soft for a British boy—country calls,” Sebastian drawled, raising his eyebrows.

“Nobody gives a shit about Albon,” Kimi said. “Nobody wants him. Where would he go?”

Charles blinked, thinking he’d misheard. Surely Alex wasn’t in any kind of consideration to return from exile. Max had spoken about it, but Charles didn’t think he actually had any power to follow through. Certainly not enough to bring Alex back to Alpha Tauri.

“I agree Albon will be useless,” Sebastian said. “But what’s a year?”

“The blood is tainted,” Kimi muttered. “We need fresh.”

“I know. Everyone knows,” Sebastian said. “Albon is a bargaining chip, but a false one. Tsunoda will stay, Albon will go. The only place for him is Williams, and Wolff has made it clear he won’t make that offer. He isn’t stupid enough to sign a spy into Williams.”

“But Lewis could outweigh Toto, right?” Charles asked.

Both Kimi and Sebastian looked at him, but he didn’t wither. He’d been married to Sebastian for two years, and they still had affection for each other, even if it was different now.

“Easily,” Sebastian answered. “But he poses a massive risk to Mercedes and, frankly, it isn’t a risk worth taking. He needs someone he can build.”

“Mick wouldn’t be a bad choice for Williams,” Kimi said, staring out the window again. “The other one won’t be leaving any time soon. What’s his name. Lefty.”

“Latifi,” Sebastian supplied. “And I am not going to send Mick into a Mercedes empire. I have a hard enough time keeping him out of trouble now—I certainly don’t need him with Lewis. He isn’t even up for an appointment anyway, thank god.”

“If we’re talking about appointments, let’s talk about mine,” Charles said. “Kimi leaving opens me up to threats.”

Sebastian cocked a brow. “You’re actually worried about that? I’m not going anywhere. You’ll have a Ferrari crown as long as you’d like.”

Charles regarded him carefully. This meeting was a test. He had a feeling not all of the information he was getting was true, that Kimi and Sebastian wanted to see if he would let any of it slip.

“And what if I want Carlos with me?” he asked, holding Sebastian’s gaze.

“Fernando would be very happy,” Kimi muttered.

“Carlos is less certain,” Sebastian replied, lifting his cap to push his hair back before he resettled it on it head. “His loyalties are split all over the empires. That isn’t good.”

“Sounds like that means it isn’t good for you,” Charles returned.

Sebastian smiled, unaffected. “Carlos is a dealmaker, Charles. He’s very good at negotiating. Look at him now—he’s turned a lackluster career into a Ferrari crown. That doesn’t happen by chance or because of talent he doesn’t have.”

Charles stiffened. “Carlos is talented.”

Sebastian laughed, rolling his eyes. He pushed off from the wall and stepped closer. Kimi didn’t divert any of his attention from the window, focused as a cat on the prowl.

“Carlos is a good man,” Sebastian amended in a softer tone. “But for someone so smart, he’s an idiot. He’s part of this plot, you know. The one that just lost Kimi a crown? That was him and Max.”

Everything fell into place. Carlos speaking with Max between motorhomes, offering to help, saying he knew how thin the margins were.

“No,” Charles snarled.

“Yes,” Sebastian replied, crossing his arms. “He had Fernando checking in on us too often.” He shrugged. “Sometimes these things happen. They hurt, but once you’re world champion, you’ll understand. Everything comes out in the wash.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “Wait. Fernando was spying on you, you know this, and you’re not even angry at him?”

“I’m angry,” Kimi said. “But I know the reason why he did this. He had no other choice.”

Charles glanced between them, utterly lost. “Someone needs to clue me in, then.”

Sebastian frowned. “Alonso owes Max a very big debt. But I imagine that’s been paid now.”

“Stupid,” Kimi tacked on. “Waste of a play.”

Sebastian turned back to him, shoulders softening. “You’re worth much more than this, Kimi.”

Kimi shook his head, but said nothing.

“We’ll take care of Antonio,” Sebastian added.

“I will do that,” Kimi said quietly. “And I will speak to Valtteri.”

“After you speak to Mattia,” Sebastian said. “Callum can’t even be in consideration for that crown. I don’t care if the news reports otherwise. He isn’t going to ruin this.”

“Callum Ilott?” Charles asked, still thoroughly confused.

His head started to pound as memories came flooding back. Max in the hospital talking about fixing things for Mick and a lower court prince. Mick asking about how he felt when Max left him, tears in his eyes and his voice twisted with grief. The video on George’s phone.

The lower court prince was Callum Ilott.

“Sebastian, what did you do?” Charles breathed.

Sebastian’s eyes turned icy. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Charles stared at him in disbelief.

“There are rules,” Sebastian said. “One is that princes do not involve themselves with lower court princes.”

“Says the man who wore a ‘love is not a contract’ shirt,” Charles hissed.

“That is not the same thing,” Sebastian cut. “You and I are both princes. We’re on the same level. A prince involved with a lower court prince is a breeding ground for corruption.”

“Mick is trying to get Callum appointed!”

“Exactly. He’s using Michael’s influence—influence he didn’t earn—to salvage royalty from a boy who isn’t equipped for it.”

The boy.

Charles swallowed hard, but anger kept welling up in him. He didn’t know Callum particularly well, but he knew what it was like to be in love with a prince married to someone else, what it was to lose him. The kind of pain it could inflict—total and never-ending.

The kind of pain that ruined someone forever. The kind of pain that poisoned them to a permanent second place in the heart of any man who loved him.

“It’s not your place,” Charles grit out.

Sebastian’s face softened to one he knew well from their time as a couple. 

“It’s not your place to dictate someone’s life like that,” Charles said. “Let Callum race for Kimi this week, let him try for himself—don’t decide for him.”

The heat of the burning denim warmed his cheeks, even in memory.

He barely remembered that jacket. He remembered trying it on in Milan and buying it, but it never had any significance until Max wore it to Steakout and showed their past to the world.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, Kimi,” Charles threw in, “but maybe you shouldn’t have interfered with something that isn’t wrong.”

Kimi cut him a glare so cold he couldn’t stop himself from shivering.   

“Don’t talk about things you don’t know about,” Kimi snapped. “You know one side, not the other. You are the example of what happens when it goes wrong.”

Charles could smell the jacket, warm from the Monegasque sun. Then the scent of it being scorched away, glowing on the windshield, the flames throwing light all over the cockpit like the tunnels in Brazil.

Of course Kimi knew about Max. He’d been the one to take Charles to dinner shortly after the breakup, guiding him back toward dreams of Ferrari when he’d nearly lost his way. Someone like Sebastian could have put it together without much thought.

“It didn’t go wrong,” Charles said, clenching his fists at his sides. “Someone made it wrong. Someone forced it to go wrong.”

Sebastian said nothing, he only stared with sad eyes. Even Kimi flinched slightly.

“What?” Charles asked, but he already felt his heart heading toward the churning teeth of reality.

Sebastian looked away. White light from the morning reflected in his eyes, a thousand memories Charles couldn’t see.

“You have a very good heart, Charles,” Sebastian said. “People will take advantage of that.”

Kimi shot Sebastian a look, his eyes steel. “They already have.”

“Stop being vague,” Charles snarled, losing his grip on control. “Fucking talk to me if you’re going to include me in this.”

Sebastian glanced at Kimi. A silent conversation took place in the space of a second, and Kimi nodded once before exiting the trailer, leaving Charles and Sebastian alone for the first time since Hungary.

“Will you sit?” Sebastian offered, gesturing to a couch that looked unforgiving.

Charles stood there for a moment, overwhelmed. He didn’t want to hear any of this. He’d finally managed to sculpt some kind of normalcy for himself, and now he could feel the cracks forming.

He sat down, fisting his hair. Sebastian sat beside him, gently placing an arm over his back.

“Just tell me,” Charles whispered. “Don’t draw it out anymore.”

Sebastian thumbed his shoulder. “I know how hard you work,” he began softly, rounding his accent in a way that comforted him against his will. “I know this season has been very difficult for you, both in the car and out.”

“You’re drawing it out,” Charles said, staring at the grain in the fake wood of the coffee table in front of him. “Is it Carlos? Has this all been a lie?”

He never got to have anything good. Even now, he couldn’t see the deception in his own husband. He thought Carlos loved him.

“I don’t know what he’s said to you, but I don’t think he’s been lying,” Sebastian said. “I do think that’s the problem, though. Look at you, Charles. Anyone who knows you can see you aren’t well.”

Charles took a deep breath and tried to settle himself. He didn’t like drugging himself into normalcy. He didn’t like the feeling of swallowing pills dry and living in fear of the next hit to his heart, of asking Luca for more medication. He just couldn’t stop slipping.

“You’re the only person who just accepted me,” Charles choked out. “You didn’t have anyone else and that didn’t matter to you. I’ve never seen that. You were happy without someone.”

“You weren’t?” Sebastian asked, settling closer. “Don’t tell me you and Ericsson were—”

“God, no,” Charles said with a pitiful laugh. “I wanted Max. That whole year I thought I would be able to get him back. And then Ferrari took up so much time I didn’t think about anything else. Then I had you to deal with.”

Sebastian laughed. “Yes, you did.”

“But it was good,” Charles said. “I didn’t have to be anyone for you.”

He never woke with pressure to perform, pressure to be the crown prince, pressure to be a good enough lover to keep someone’s attention. He won races back then.

“I mean, you reused the same date ideas,” Charles said, scrubbing his face with a hand. “That was awful.”

“To be fair, that was blown out of proportion,” Sebastian said. Typical. Typical and honest. “I took you to a place I love and made food that I love. I wrote a note because it’s kind to write notes. And I have a lot of cars I don’t let people drive, but it isn’t very kind to restrict a spouse from my garage.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Charles said. “I still respect you, Seb. You were always a soft place to land.”

Sebastian laughed again, leaning back against the couch. “That almost sounds like an insult.”

Charles looked at him over his shoulder. “It wasn’t. But you still haven’t told me what’s going on. Don’t think I forgot.”

Sebastian smiled at him, eyes fond. “You think I’m a tyrant for doing this to Mick. I know it seems that way. I’m sure he does love Callum. I’m sure Callum loves him. Mick knows I don’t approve of the match, his mother knows too. It's for the best right now. The whole family agrees.”

“That isn’t what I was referring to and you know it,” Charles said, settling back into the couch with him. Wisps of blond stuck out from under Sebastian’s cap, giving him a boyish look. Charles reached over and tugged a curl, smiling when Sebastian wrinkled his nose.

“Carlos is not for you,” Sebastian said. “Max—whatever he is to you now—is dangerous for you. Pierre is even more dangerous.”

Charles stilled.

“Oh please,” Sebastian chuckled. “You had sex in a jacuzzi last weekend, for one. And the way you look at men you love isn’t very subtle.”

Blood rushed to his cheeks as Charles looked away. Fuck.  

“No one else knows,” Sebastian added. “I wish I hadn’t seen it. I just wanted a chocolate bar from the vending machine, and they didn’t even have it. Scarred for life, for nothing.”

“Sebastian,” Charles growled, ears burning.

“All of them are taking advantage of you in different ways. You let them treat you like a commodity,” Sebastian continued, as if he hadn't spoken. “You’re crown prince of Ferrari, Charles.”

Charles always dreamed of being Ferrari’s crown prince. He honestly thought the title alone would be enough for him.

“They aren’t taking advantage of me,” Charles said. “I know they don’t really love me, but it feels like they do. Sometimes lying is good. Just a little bit of lying is good. I get to live in a dream and never wake up. That’s good. Everyone wants that.”

Sebastian sat up and looked at him.

“If this is your idea of a dream, I’m sorry for you.”

Charles laughed, picking at the side of his thumb. “It’s enough for right now.”

Sebastian took his hand and squeezed. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, just intimate.

“What happened to you?” Sebastian asked in the same gentle tone he used when he damaged his car and stared at mangled parts.

Charles shrugged nonchalantly and decided to tap into the numbness. When he closed his eyes and breathed in, he imagined all of the aching in him as a physical thing he could peel away. He stopped thinking about Sebastian, about Max, about Carlos, about all of the things he still didn’t have answers for.

“Your plan won’t work,” Charles said after a moment. “If Callum is still in Europe, your plan won’t work. He’ll find ways to sneak in. I did. And Mick loves him more than Max ever loved me, so he won’t let it die.”

Sebastian’s hand dropped away as Charles stood up.

“Charles, I think—”

“Send him somewhere else,” Charles said, brushing himself off. “The Asian empires. Better yet, American.”

Sebastian cocked a brow. “I don’t understand. A minute ago you were ready to kill me for this.”

Charles tried to think of how it all could have gone differently if Max hadn’t been so close all the time after Brazil. The constant torture of seeing him but not seeing him, watching him and knowing  quick flight or a train ride would bring them together again.

And all that time he’d spent thinking, wishing, waiting, Max had been in bed with Daniel, making a love story so profound that the people of Zandvoort were ready to kill him for standing in the way, even though he'd loved Max first.

“I want to be taken more seriously,” Charles said, straightening up. “I don’t approve of what you’re doing, but I know my reasons won’t sway you. So send Callum away. Distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder as a prince." He looked up, meeting Sebastian's eye. "I think we can both agree on that."

Chapter Text

Zandvoort welcomed Daniel like a king. The infamous Orange Army lined the streets all the way between the track and the hotel. They let off their trademark smoke bombs, creating a haze of orange smoke so thick that Lando could hardly see anyone’s faces on the side of the road. Banners, posters, and flags hung from balconies and lined the cobblestone, all of them depicting Daniel and Max. Some had McLaren and Red Bull flags cut in half and sewed together to create a mashup of papaya and blue.

The crowd cheered louder when they turned a corner, and Lando flinched hard in his seat when fans started stepping into the road, blocking the way.

“You okay?” Daniel asked, turning his attention from the crowd.

Lando shook his head, holding onto the side of the car. He had Carlos’s watch packed in his suitcase, but he wished he had it on. Twisting the skin on his wrist didn’t provide any comfort.

“They’re obsessed with you and Max,” Lando said, instinctively leaning away when people neared the window. “Can you drive faster?”

“This is nothing like Wembley,” Daniel said, reading his mind. “Wanna hold my hand?”

Lando glared at him. “And get burned at the stake by these people for touching you? No thanks.”

Daniel offered his hand anyway, palm facing up, fingers splayed. “I promise it’s okay.”

Nothing about this was okay. Carlos warned him about Zandvoort two years before, back when he was pissed at Max for doing better than him and too insecure to tell his own husband that maybe he liked him as more than friends.

Any missteps with Max in Zandvoort and there would be hell to pay.

And any kind of affection toward Daniel could easily result in Lando finding the severed front wing of his McLaren in his bed in the morning. Or something.  

He couldn’t imagine what Mercedes was doing. Behind all of the orange smoke and Max and Daniel posters was a whole collection of offensive and downright sinister threats against Lewis and against Mercedes as a whole.

Not even Charles was safe. Lando had seen at least three people wearing denim jackets splattered in fake blood, and the Monaco photos with Charles’s face crossed out. Someone even called Charles a slut. Lando didn’t know grammar well enough know if the term slut could actually be applied to men, but it did fit. Though, of course, Lando would never admit that out loud. 

A older woman stared him down from the edge of the road, eyes narrowed. His skin started to turn to gooseflesh.

“Daniel, get us out of here,” Lando whispered, shivering. “I really, really don’t like this.”

He hated saying it. He hated asking Daniel to leave when these people were breathing life back into him. Daniel had never looked happier, not even with Max.

The Daniel in Zandvoort had no demons at his back.

“Okay,” Daniel said, revving the engine so people would get out of the way. “We’re going to our place.”

“The hotel,” Lando clarified, glancing at him.

Daniel smiled at him and flicked on his turn signal. Away from the hotel.

People scrambled out of the way where they had been standing blocking the road, waving furiously, all of them bouncing up and down with excitement.  

“Daniel, we can’t—”

“Babe, we’re fine,” Daniel assured him. “Max has a place for us so we don’t have to stay in that stupid hotel with everyone else. Zandvoort is four days a year where I don’t have to worry about shit. And that means you don’t either.”

Lando wrung his wrist, aching for Carlos’s watch as they sped down a two-lane.

“I’m not the same as you,” Lando said. “These people could hate me any second. If they catch us doing anything, they’ll—”

“Max is going to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Daniel said. “People got pissed at Hulk when he made a joke about me here a few years ago. Max stepped in and said the joke was funny, everything chilled out. There is no way you’re gonna to get caught in the crosshairs.”

Lando shot him a look. “The same way there’s no way you and Max would get caught with burner phones? That same way?”

Daniel laughed. It was probably the first time he’d ever laughed about the phones, ever.

“That was the FIA,” Daniel said. “Max is a god here, babe. This year more than ever. You’ll see, just trust me.”

Daniel offered his hand again, wiggling his fingers.

Lando focused his attention out the window, but took his hand. Daniel’s hands were warm and safe, and the orange smoke stayed in the rearview.

 

 


 

 

They pulled up to an absolutely extravagant mansion. It was the type of place that Lando saw in booklets about modern luxury homes, but never seemed to exist in person. Elongated squares of architectural marvel made up the façade, burning white against the blue sky.

Manicured shrubs and tropical ferns decorated the front yard, where a navy blue NSX prototype sat parked in a covered, cabana-style carport. None of it looked Dutch, but all of it looked expensive.

Max emerged from a second-story entrance barefoot and shirtless, sunglasses shading his eyes. He waved at them as Daniel parked, but all Lando could think about was how his suitcase was back at the hotel and--oh yeah--Max had fucking kissed him in Belgium.

“It would have been nice for you to tell me we were doing this,” Lando muttered as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

Daniel gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry. Had to play it by ear. Try to plan anything in advance and the FIA finds a way to block it. But once we land here, no one can do anything to us.”

Nobody ever did anything like this for him and Carlos in Spain. People smiled and whispered about them, and Spanish news articles took candids of them together in the paddock, but no one there would have thought to literally pave the way for them to be together.

“How did I beat you here?” Max asked with a laugh as Lando stepped out of the car. His accent had thickened after speaking Dutch in so many interviews.

“Had to show face for the victory parade,” Daniel called, grinning. “Besides, I think you always beat us now.”

Max laughed again, eyes full of joy.

“I can go, you know,” Lando said, quiet so only Daniel would hear. “You guys can have a couples weekend or whatever.”

Daniel furrowed his brow. “No way. You’re part of the deal. I wasn’t gonna come if you didn’t come.”

The cynical part of Lando wanted to call Daniel a liar. He didn’t measure up to Max in any sense. But he also knew how Daniel sounded when he lied about alcohol—which was the same way he lied about anything—and he didn’t hear deceit in his voice.

“Do you…want to go back?” Daniel asked, popping the hood.

Lando fought the urge to nod. He knew he only wanted to be back at the hotel because Carlos was there, and if they were both at the hotel there was a chance they would bump into each other. Come to think of it, maybe Charles would somehow magically disappear and Carlos would take him in his arms and leave Ferrari for McLaren. Same chances for either scenario.

“No, I guess I don’t,” Lando said, wringing his wrist again. “But, I mean, this is a you-guys thing. If you want to have this weekend together, I can stay in the room.”

Daniel pulled their luggage from the storage compartment under the hood, smiling when Lando's face changed.

“I didn’t pack well, but I packed your stuff. Everything’s in here,” Daniel said, offering him his bag.

Lando blinked. “Uh, thanks.”

“You two are taking forever,” Max said as he made his way down the stairs.

Daniel cupped his hands over his mouth to yell. “Nice tits!”

Max flipped him off as he brushed past Lando, picking up speed. Daniel swept him up in a hug, squeezing him so tight that Max let out a grunt.

“Hi baby,” Daniel mumbled into Max’s neck.

“Hi,” Max returned with a nuzzle. “I missed you.”

Lando rolled his eyes and grabbed his luggage. “I’m going upstairs.”

He left the loverboys to make out while he hauled his roller bag up the stairs, letting it thunk against every step on the way up. He glanced back down, fully expecting to see Daniel and Max with hands and tongues all over each other.

Instead, Daniel still had Max locked in a crushing hug, and Max was returning it with equal force. Daniel’s shoulders shook, and Lando didn’t think he was laughing.

He decided to give them some privacy.

When he stepped inside, the beauty of the sunset over the North Sea took up the far side of the house through a wall of windows. The waves were purple, orange and pink—smeary colors too beautiful to be so close to a royal racetrack.

An opulent living room sprawled before him, complete with blue flames licking at stones piled in a definitely-not-child-friendly interior fire pit. Candles flickered on every table, and the lights had been dimmed to further accentuate the sea on the horizon.

The balcony out back had glass fencing and loungers piled with soft cushions and comforters, all encircling a smaller version of the interior fire pit. Lando headed off into one of the wings in search of his bed, and did his best not to think about how much Carlos would love this place.

Media day in Zandvoort hadn’t been the easiest. Sophia freaked him out with a warning about only mentioning Max and Daniel in a positive light, so he got nervous pretty early on and stumbled through his answers. It certainly didn’t make it easier to get in a car with Daniel afterward while wearing his wedding ring.

Lando took a shower to soothe the discomfort and didn’t think about the tropically scented bubbles from his bath with Daniel or the way it made things a little better to soak in a tub together.

He took his time drying off and changed into clothes he could sleep in. Distant sounds of music echoed off the walls as he unpacked a few things he would use for the night. He did not unpack Carlos's watch.

Lando was stalling, and he knew it.

He messed around on his phone until he smelled something savory wafting in from the kitchen. His stomach growled pitifully.

“Yeah yeah,” he muttered, tossing his hood up as he picked himself up off of the floor and headed into the kitchen.

Max stood at the stove, mixing something that looked like casserole from what Lando could see of the pan. Daniel stood beside him, singing off-key to a country song that threatened to make Lando’s ears bleed.

He watched them for a moment, once again transfixed by the way they moved as one thing. Daniel reached across Max for the salt, pecking his cheek as he did so. Max lifted his mixing spoon for Daniel to taste, smiling when Daniel smacked his lips approvingly.

“Dance with me, darlin’,” Daniel said in an American country accent as a new song began to play.

“Daniel, I need to—Daniel—Daniel—” Max protested, but stepped away from the pan as Daniel plucked the spoon from his grip and replaced it with his hand. His free arm looped around Max’s waist for a proper ballroom dancing position. 

“Never felt a feelin’ quite this strong,” Daniel sang way too loudly and way off key as they began to sway. “I can’t believe how much it turns me on—just to be your man.”

“You are stupid,” Max laughed, but his cheeks had turned red.

Daniel rested their foreheads together, locking them in their own little world.

“There’s no hurry, don’t you worry, we can take our tiiiiime,” Daniel sang, but his voice turned softer. “Come a little closer—” He tugged Max tight against him, ignoring his laughter. “Let’s go over what I had in mind.”

They continued to sway, but Max caught Daniel’s mouth in a kiss, doing the world’s eardrums a service.

Carlos used to sing when he cooked. Usually Spanish songs Lando didn’t know the meaning of. And Christmas songs. Carlos really, really liked Christmas songs for some reason.

They never danced in their kitchen. Carlos never treated him the way Daniel treated Max.

“You remember the word I taught you?” Max asked, winding his arms around Daniel’s neck.

“Zakkenwasser? Miereneuker?” Daniel tried. He pretended to think. “Oh—kloothommel! My favorite.”

“Dat weet je allmaal nog, maar je weet niet meer hoe je ik hou van jou zegt,” Max said, deadpan. Then again, most Dutch sounded deadpan.

“That’s German,” Daniel said.

Max groaned.

Daniel’s eyes softened to something that Lando could only liken to the sensation of the caramel melting on his tongue.

“Gezelligheid. I remember,” Daniel murmured. “And kou van jou.”

“You just said I’m cold,” Max chuckled, but his eyes dimmed. He smiled up at Daniel, suffocatingly fond. “Ik wil je nooit meer kwijt.”

Daniel cocked a brow. “That’s new, what’s that one?”

Max kissed him slow. “It means leave the Dutch to me," he said when they parted. "Now let me back to my stroganoff.”

Lando cleared his throat and they both turned. Their smiles didn’t fade when they saw him—not even Max’s.

“Did you take a nap?” Max asked, returning his attention to his pan.

“Kinda,” Lando replied with a yawn. “What’s for dinner?”

“Beef stroganoff,” Max announced proudly. “Delicious. The egg noodles are homemade by a woman in the city."

“Home-mate by a whoo-man in de city?” Lando teased, copying Max’s accent.

“Fuck off,” Max replied, using the spoon to flick beef sauce at him.

“Hey, I just showered!” Lando protested. He plucked a paper towel from the roll to clean himself.

“Want me to lick it off?” Daniel tried, grinning.

“If you’re going to lick that off him, I’m putting all the sauce on me,” Max said with an accusatory point of the spoon.

“Oh baby. Don’t tempt me with a good time,” Daniel purred, raising his eyebrows. “I’d love to lick beef sauce off those tiddies.”

“Oh my god,” Lando groaned, but it devolved into laughter as Max cracked up at the stove, slapping a hand over his mouth in a feeble attempt to contain himself.

Daniel posted up at Lando’s side, loosely slinging an arm around him as Max resumed cooking amidst residual giggles. Daniel leaned in, lips brushing over the shell of Lando’s ear. “Max gets nervous when you watch him cook,” Daniel whispered.

“I heard that,” Max said.

Daniel threw Lando a wink. “Performance anxiety. Happens to him all the—”

A rain of meat sauce splattered both of their faces. Lando couldn’t even find it in himself to be angry as he leaned against Daniel and Daniel leaned against him. 

 

 


 

 

Dinner tasted delicious. Once Daniel and Max had a few beers in them (beers Lando silently begged Daniel not to drink), they all decided to go outside to watch the stars. Lando’s anxiety went through the roof at the scent of alcohol on Daniel’s breath, but Daniel kept it to two bottles and actually refused a third, insisting he wanted to be good for the drive in practice tomorrow.

They shared stories about past races in Zandvoort, but the comforters were plush and the fire was warm, so Lando didn’t last long after settling on his belly on the lounger they all decided to share. Max also had a very monotone story voice.

Daniel’s voice was nice though. It carried through his dreams of tulip fields and soft cats he could pet. They were Max’s cats—he didn’t have to ask to know that—and they purred against his neck when he held them. He lifted one up to his face, laughing at its grumpy expression. He bumped noses with it, only for the cat’s lips to draw back, ears pinned as—

Waves hissed and frothed, coaxing Lando from where he slept with his back pressed to Daniel’s side. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, and insects sang in the reeds below to make up a perfect summer night.

“He likes you a lot,” Max said in a quiet voice, one meant to not wake him.

Lando kept his eyes closed and his body still, but he had no intention of falling back asleep.

“I like him a lot,” Daniel said in the same soft tone.

Lando’s heart started kicking up in his chest, glad that he hadn’t fallen asleep on Daniel in such a way that he’d be able to feel it.

“But I’m still your favorite,” Max teased.

“Yeah, you’re still my favorite,” Daniel chuckled just before the sound of a kiss.

“Is he doing okay?” Max asked.

“He’s really nervous,” Daniel replied. “Crowds freak him out now, ever since Wembley.”

Daniel’s fingers settled in his hair, gently carding through his curls in a way that nearly made Lando fall back asleep against his will.

“There’s other stuff too, I think,” Daniel said. “He beats himself up about Carlos in particular. Doesn’t think he’s good enough.”

Max let out a hum. “I used to think that about you.”

Lando couldn’t imagine Max thinking he didn’t deserve someone. He charged his way through life, knocking down walls and fences and anyone that tried to deter him. Only Charles had ever managed to soften him up, to turn his head away from racing to focus on something better.

“You got over that pretty fast,” Daniel said with a quiet laugh. They kissed again, then once more. Daniel continued scratching his scalp, making dizzying sleepy circles with his fingers that had Lando teetering on the edge of consciousness.

“I didn’t think I’d ever be fine with this,” Max said. “But I don’t mind the two of you together. I actually like it. Of course, only if I stay your favorite.”

“I was surprised by that too,” Daniel said. “Usually you’re a dick to people.”

“Well I grew up with Lando, so maybe that’s why,” Max said. “We’re closer than I am with a lot of other people.”

The conversation paused for too long.

“I know that look,” Daniel murmured.

“It’s nothing,” Max said. “Not my place to say.”

Lando used to be a different kid. He lived life to the fullest extent that a prince-in-training could. He loved karting, racing, chasing girls, playing soccer. He liked stuffing his face with pizza at George’s house and trying to see if he could make soda come out of his nose by drinking it upside down.

When they played truth or dare, Lando was always the one asking for a pint at the local pub or buying a pregnancy test at the corner store to see the cashier’s reaction. He would do anything anyone asked him to, because it was fun. No risk, all reward.

When he met Max, they got along immediately. They hung out all the time: fixing karts, watching royal races, talking over strategy. They turned books into steering wheels and raced each other in their minds when they couldn’t drive for real. Later, they built sim rigs and raced each other online.

He could still feel the thrill of seeing Max’s PSN name popping up on the corner of his screen, the rush of joy when a Call of Duty invite followed soon after. They used to spend hours talking, barely playing the game.

That was the start of it. Whenever Lando thought back to the beginning, he remembered lying on his couch, smiling at the ceiling as Max told him stories about places he’d never been through the shitty headphones of his PlayStation mic.

And then one day Max did what he’d done a thousand times before. The chicane at Imola—Lando still remembered the corner. He kept taking it too tight and oversteering on the exit.

So Max—then a proper lower court prince—sat behind him at his sim wheel and folded his hands over Lando’s to show him out to do it right.

He could still smell the scent of his shirt and feel the heat of Max’s breath on his neck, the way his voice shook through his ribcage and left him aching in a way he’d never felt before. Max guided him through the corner, flicking down the gears, but Lando could only think about what it would feel like to hold his hand, how close their fingers were to lacing together.

“So…is there history?” Daniel asked.

“Daniel.”

“I think I should know. He’s never mentioned anything happening between you two—that definitely changes the dynamic of the three of us.”

Daniel always approached conflict with a casual tone that had serious weight. He joked, but Lando had seen the ferocity in him. He wouldn’t have made it out of Wembley without Daniel's protection.

“You should ask him about it,” Max said, using that soft tone he only had around Daniel.

“Baby, I love you more than this whole world,” Daniel whispered. They kissed soft. Lando’s lashed fluttered when Daniel’s fingers went slack in his hair. “You and I are gonna make it through everything, I promise. But I don’t want Lando getting fucked up over something because I didn’t know about you and him.”

Lando’s eyes started getting hot and itchy under his eyelids.

Don’t say it. Don’t tell him.

Daniel liked him. Daniel knew the real him and liked him.

“He’s sleeping right next to you,” Max whispered. “That’s fucked up.”

Daniel’s fingers started moving again, sending goosebumps down Lando’s back, warm and tingly.

“I care about him,” Daniel said. “He’s still figuring things out. He just made a really fucking hard decision to step away from Carlos and I’m his husband, Max. I’m gonna support him through this. And…”

“And what?” Max asked.

Lando opened his eyes to slits, watching the blurry flame in the firepit and the moonlit waves beyond.

Max used to be at every race. Not just on the weekends where he was competing in the karting league above him. He would always stand at the side of the track and give him pointers after the race when Lando was sweaty-faced and smiling.

Max’s pride meant more than his own father’s. Lando drove to make Max proud, to impress him. He improved more in those few months than he ever had before in his tiny career toward princedom.

“Max, if he needs to be away from you right now, I’m with him on that,” Daniel said.

Hot tears slipped from Lando’s eyes and seeped into the comforter at his cheek.

He would never ask Daniel to step away from Max. Not when he’d just proved he was a better man than anyone else in the paddock.

“I just don’t feel right telling the story,” Max said after a long moment. “It was a long time ago. I was stupid.”

“A little,” Daniel teased.

“Shut up. This was a different kind of stupid.”

Max being with Charles did nothing to his feelings. Maybe that should have been a clue, but Max was always different with him. His smiles were always softer, his eyes kind. Max didn’t need to touch him so much, but he did, back then. And he still came to Lando’s races he didn’t have to be at, even when he was dating Charles.

The year before Lando won his karting championship, he came in fourth. Fourth. Not even a podium. Max took first place in his division, Charles in second, and everyone wouldn’t shut up about how Max would be the youngest prince to ever take a crown.

Instead of celebrating his win with his boyfriend, Max came to find him, the boy in fourth place. Lando had tucked himself into the corner of his garage, behind stacks of tires and equipment. Max unearthed him from the debris of a botched championship weekend, leaving everyone else to come comfort a loser.

What was he supposed to think?

“He was in love with me,” Max admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I mean, I knew. I don’t know.”

“C’mere and snuggle,” Daniel murmured, and Lando felt the lounger shift as Max nestled in. Daniel’s fingers slipped from his hair and Lando closed his eyes, squeezing out more tears as he did so.

“Sounds like you were a dick,” Daniel said. “I think that’s what that means.”

“Yeah,” Max whispered.

Lando didn’t hang on to the past. He wasn’t Charles—but he knew he could have been. They were young back then. Impressionable, malleable. Charles and Max had been the ones forced to grow up fastest, and even Charles had shattered when Max left him.

Lando would have broken so, so hard. Whenever he picked up the pieces of Charles, he saw himself in them, how much worse his pieces would have been.

But it still hurt. Thinking about it still hurt.

“I guess I led him on,” Max admitted. “I’m not even sure if I meant to. I loved being around him—we were friends. We were teenagers. Of course things happen. I don’t know.”

Lando wasn’t used to hearing Max with no walls thrown up. He sounded just as insecure as Lando felt in his head.

“I’m reserving judgement until I hear the charges,” Daniel murmured with a kiss.

Max sighed. “We kissed. Once.”

Lando tried not to shake as the humiliation barreled into him.

Adrenaline usually wiped out memories, but not this one. Misreading Carlos for their first kiss wasn’t the first time he’d done it. He should have learned his lesson the first time.

It played out like a movie. Max finding him during his worst moment, leaving his supposed true love, abandoning the parties being thrown in his honor to find him. Just him. No one else around.

Max knelt down among ruined rubber, smiling at him with all of the warmth Lando needed in that moment. And then he leaned in. He fucking leaned in.

So Lando kissed him, because every movie he’d ever seen went just like that.

He remembered Max’s lips were soft and tinged with sweat.

He remembered Max kissing back.

“I kissed back. I don’t know why. Just for one kiss and then it was over,” Max tried to explain. “I was with Charles. I loved Charles, I didn’t love Lando that way, but I guess he thought I did. I don’t know. He kissed me and I kissed back. It was like—it was a reaction, you know? I have no idea why I did it.”

Lando couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t stand the thought of Daniel knowing how desperate he’d been back then, begging Max to want him, crying in the corner of a karting garage and asking Max to change his mind about Charles and love him instead. Actually whining and crying, like a baby.

He also couldn’t stand relistening to Max letting him down easy, saying he didn’t feel that way, that he was sorry, that the fantasy Lando had been living in was just that—a stupid fantasy. Max never wanted him. Max never loved him. He loved a pretty Monegasque who actually knew how sex worked and how to kiss like a lover.

“I hurt him really bad,” Max whispered. “I mean, I’m pretty sure he picked four as his driver number because of—"

Max shut his mouth when Lando shifted against the mattress and made a soft noise.

Not the driver number. Max wasn’t supposed to know about the fucking driver number.

Daniel’s hand moved to his back, rubbing gently. “You waking up, honeybunch?”

Lando groaned in response and rolled over, pressing his nose to Daniel’s ribcage.

“’M going to bed,” he muttered.

“Don’t wanna sleep out here?” Daniel teased.

Lando peeled himself up from the mess of comforters and rubbed his eyes that were way too wet. “See you guys in the morning. Cheers.”

He probably could have made a more eloquent exit, but Lando couldn’t make himself function correctly with the warring feelings of past humiliation and Daniel’s warm hand on his back.

He made his way down the hall into the bedroom where he’d chucked his luggage and fished out his toothbrush. His eyes were puffy and red as he brushed his teeth, and he didn’t realize he was still crying until his toothpaste started tasting salty.

He didn’t mourn the loss of Max. He didn’t really care all that much that they never became anything. But that feeling of a crush had been so magical—he’d lived every moment in bubbly anticipation, waiting for Max to appear, to send him a PlayStation invite, to teach him how to do something in the sim. Every little reciprocation felt like winning the lottery.

Carlos never felt like that. Carlos flirted and touched to the point where Lando didn’t have to wait for it. Their first kiss sucked, but at least Carlos meant it when he kissed back.

Lando spit his toothpaste in the sink and rinsed his mouth, then washed his face to  get rid of any evidence of his crying.

Lando jumped at the sight of Daniel sitting on the end of the bed when he walked back into the bedroom.

“Come to grab your stuff?” Lando asked, shrugging his blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“No,” Daniel said. “I was thinking I’d sleep in here tonight—if that’s okay and everything.”

Lando shifted uncomfortably. “I thought the point of coming here was to be with Max.”

“He’s in race mode. I put him to bed, don’t worry,” Daniel said with a smile.

Lando cringed. “I don’t want to know what that means.”

Daniel laughed. “He’s a big baby. He needs snuggles and kisses and then he’s out like a light. It gets annoying sometimes. He’s already asleep.”

Lando doubted that. Max would probably stay awake all night just to stare at Daniel’s eyelashes or something. Not that Lando knew what that was like.

“So is it okay if I sleep in here?”

“It’s your life,” Lando said, crossing to his luggage. He shed his hoodie and changed into a loose tshirt, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. When he crawled onto the bed and made a point to keep distance from Daniel.

“You were awake, huh,” Daniel said into the dark.

Lando didn’t answer.

“Fuck,” Daniel pushed out. “I thought the timing was too good. I’m sorry, Lando.”

Lando nuzzled into the comforter balled at his chin. “S’okay. I know why you asked.”

“Do you want to go back to the hotel?” 

Lando shook his head. He wasn’t even sure Daniel could see it.

“Okay. D’you wanna talk about it? I know that was only Max’s side of the story.”

Lando squeezed his eyes shut.

He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to do anything but drive. Everything in his life would have been easier if he didn’t make moves on people who didn’t care about him.

“I liked him, he didn't like me,” Lando said. “It’s pretty simple. I was also like thirteen and not very smart, so everything I thought and everything I wanted was just—”

He cut himself off.

“It was just a crush,” Lando finished. “A big crush, but I wasn’t in love with him.”

An absolute lie Daniel could probably see in the dark. Lando had made Max his whole world and yet somehow only lived in the footnotes of Max’s.

Daniel nestled closer until his side pressed against Lando’s back.

“I did the same thing once,” Daniel said, nonchalant. “Except I didn’t even have the excuse of being thirteen. It sucks. It’s like…you think you can’t be wrong. There’s no doubt, but there’s no confirmation either. So you shoot your shot.”

Lando couldn’t imagine anyone saying no to Daniel. Well, pre-Max Daniel.

“Yeah,” Daniel said when Lando didn’t speak. “I bought flowers, I had this whole thing planned. Really went all out—candles and everything. And he took one look at it and I just knew. His face said it all. He started talking and I just blacked out, man. Someone turned the lights off in my head.”

The thing that had been squeezing Lando’s heart began to loosen its hold.

“Nobody was ever as nice as Max was,” Lando said quietly. “I mean, we had our friend group, but Pierre and Charles weren’t coming to my races and hanging out in the garage after. I dunno. I thought it meant something, but he was just being a good friend. I even got it wrong with Carlos at first. I mean, kinda. He liked me, but I was mean to him. I don’t know.”

There he went, talking too much.

“I get it,” Daniel said. “I kind of did the opposite. I focused on having fun—whatever that meant. Well, basically it meant fucking anything that moved. I guess I figured if I indulged the sex right away, I’d get bored. And usually I did. Makes you feel really empty though.”

Lando rolled over. Daniel didn’t even look at him as he adjusted on the mattress, allowing Lando to rest his head against his shoulder.

“Can you come to golf tomorrow?” Lando asked quietly. “I think it’d be better if you were there. And Max too, if you want.”

Daniel’s fingers trailed across his shoulders. “I’d love to go. Can’t golf for shit, but I bet I can beat Max’s ass in a golf cart race.”

Lando pressed his palm to Daniel’s sternum, feeling out the beat of his heart. Steady and calm, as always.

“And Lando?”

“Mm.”

“I do really like you," Daniel said. "No one is ever going to mean more to me than Max, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you in a romantic way. But if it’s too weird or whatever, just tell me and I’ll tone it down. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Lando smiled against Daniel’s shoulder, warm all over. Daniel could have let him down easy, like Max did. He could have used vague terms or a catch-all.

But Daniel cared about him in a romantic way. Daniel Ricciardo cared about him in a romantic way.

“So lemme guess,” Lando murmured. “The candles in the bathtub weren’t just to make it look nice.”

Daniel chuckled warm and fond, and it seeped through his bones like magic.

“Two birds, one stone, babe. Two birds, one stone.”

Chapter Text

George hated the Orange Army. They didn’t listen to reason, and they didn’t understand reality. And George was beginning to think the stewards at Zandvoort were being manipulated. Hell, the whole FIA seemed to be under Red Bull control for the weekend.

“It’s not just me, right?” Nic asked as they both changed out of their race suits. “You feel it too?”

George nodded. “Something is definitely wrong, mate.”

First, Kimi announced his retirement. George didn’t expect to get news from Ferrari empires, but no one in the paddock seemed to have known Kimi planned to retire. Then Sebastian had an engine failure in FP1, and he seemed more pissed about the situation than his smoking chassis. Lewis managed to edge out Max for the lead in FP1, but he was met with boos from the crowd when he emerged from the car.

Lewis had an oil system issue five minutes into second practice. George asked for updated on his status, but James quickly informed him that Lewis would be done for the day, effectively ending any challenge to Max’s lead.

Until Charles showed up.

The crowd seethed as Charles and Carlos sliced their way up the timesheets. When Esteban managed to clinch third, the crowd turned their anger on him. No one in the Orange Army would ever allow Esteban any glory, not after Max nearly killed him on live TV a few years ago.

Max ended up in fifth, and by the time George got out of the car, the FIA were scrambling to come up with a plan to get princes back to the hotel safely.

“Did you find out if Lewis was okay?” Nic asked, nudging him back into the present.

George shook his head. “Didn’t want to say anything else on radio. Jost said it’s safer for both of us if we keep some distance.”

Lewis never looked nervous, but George saw the way his eyes turned cold as he smiled through all of the booing. The booing Max didn’t even bother to condemn.

Charles insisted Max didn’t think Lewis tried to cut in on him in Silverstone, yet Max never came out to say so. He let the whole Dutch population call Lewis a murderer and passed off comments about abuse toward Lewis as something that wasn’t his problem.

Max didn’t even say anything remotely kind about Kimi, even when Public Affairs clearly tried to sway him to do so. Max only commented on how long Kimi had maintained a royal appointment, and moved on.

George knew an avoidance answer when he heard one. ‘”Maybe turn the telly on?”

Nic made a face before he clicked the remote. Their small TV lit up to show  Carlos standing next to Max in the media pen, wiping sweat from his face.

“I did see Prince Lando, yes—you saw the pictures, so why do you ask me?”

“Was this a birthday golf trip?” a reporter asked.

Carlos chuckled. “Yes, it was. I saw that he dragged me over the coals on social media. Usually he isn’t a sore loser.”

He traded smiles with Max, sending  ripple of unease down George’s spine.

“Oh no, I know that look,” Nic said with a sigh. “Don’t tell me, you need to go find Mick.”

George threw his sweaty race suit at him. “Lando, actually.”

Nic frowned at him. “Shouldn’t you be finding Lewis?”

“I was thinking I’d write him instead. I don’t want to cause any problems, you know? He’s being targeted.”

Nic cocked his head. “Yeah. Your boyfriend is getting targeted. A letter will definitely fix everything. No one would want some cuddle time with their boyfriend or anything.”

George blushed before he could stop himself. Guilt rushed in too, because every time he closed his eyes he felt Alex’s fingertips on his skin and heard him saying he wouldn’t come back to Alpha Tauri.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” George said, pushing the though of Alex away. “I’ll write Lewis, and we’ll see what’s going on.”

 

 


 

 

The Zandvoort hotel was similar to Spa in the sense that the rules were more relaxed about seeing other princes. The FIA seemed to be throwing out approvals left and right,  but George knew they were just trying to appease them for the few days they were here. Jost warned of a crackdown, and George could feel the air thickening with tension.

After dinner, George headed down to the hotel gym to get a run in. Nic wanted to watch the new episodes of Drive to Survive he’d missed, and George had no desire to look at the actor they’d chosen to play him—some kid who looked about twelve years old. Nic said the resemblance was uncanny, and that lost him his DJ privileges for the drive to qualifying in the morning.

George entered to gym to find Pierre and Charles tangled up in each other between two treadmills, and his blood ran cold. Pierre had his arms around Charles, fingers digging into his back, lips latched to the join of his neck and shoulder. Charles had his eyes open, staring at the wall, completely glazed over. George’s stomach knotted at the sight.

He hadn’t spoken to Charles at all in Spa, and hadn’t spoken to Pierre since he’d cryptically warned him about Alex before he’d been ambushed. He didn’t particularly want to talk to either of them, but he couldn’t just stand there.

“Uh, hey,” he greeted loudly.

Pierre jumped in surprise at the sound of his voice, eyes blowing wide as he pulled away. Charles merely blinked, then smiled at him.

“Oh, George,” Charles greeted, turning in Pierre’s hold to lean back against his chest. “I thought nobody used the gym here.”

George glanced at Pierre, whose cheeks had turned pink.

“Came for a run,” George replied. Nausea swept over him at the sight of Charles so distant. Pierre didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he didn’t care. “Sorry to interrupt.”

Charles smiled, reaching up behind his head to nest his fingers in Pierre’s hair. “You’re lucky you didn’t come in five minutes later.”

George looked at Pierre again, but his face hadn’t changed from embarrassment.

“You guys were seriously going to fuck in the hotel gym with all the lights on?”

Pierre cleared his throat. “Maybe.”

“Okay, are you trying to get caught?” George snapped, directing the question at Pierre.

“We got a little carried away,” Charles said. He said it sweetly, but his eyes were steel.

George had only seen Charles step into the game a few times. The first was after Max dumped him, when Kimi Raikkonen was suddenly taking him to dinner and rumors started flying about him becoming the youngest Ferrari prince.

George cleared his throat. “Can I speak to Charles, please?”

Pierre’s hands linked at Charles’s navel, protective.  George absolutely hated that. “You can’t talk to me at the same time?”

He narrowed his eyes. “No, actually. I’d prefer Red Bull to be out of the room, if you don’t mind.”

Charles turned his head, lips dancing at the shell of Pierre’s ear as he said something George couldn’t hear.

Pierre caught his mouth in a kiss and George found the bile rising in his throat at the way Charles returned it physically, but something about his body didn’t match up emotionally.

Pierre pulled away after the kiss, reluctantly stepping away. George stiffened up as he passed, doing nothing to hide the way he felt about watching the two of them interact.

When the door closed behind Pierre, Charles folded his arms, any trace of affection suddenly gone.

“Charles,” George began in the same tone he might use to speak to someone holding a gun to his head, “is everything okay?”

Charles snorted. “Everyone always asks that. Are any of us okay?”

George swallowed hard.

Charles nodded toward the door. “Did you know he’s cheating on me?”

Oh fuck.

“Charles, Pierre wouldn’t cheat on you,” George said. “He’s been in love with you since we were kids.”

Charles’s eyes flashed. “That’s what I thought too. Then he takes a trip to Ibiza and I figure out he’s been fucking Stoffel Vandoorne for three years. And guess who was on his trip, glued to him the whole time?”

George knew Stoffel, but only by name. They’d talked maybe once or twice, but he had no memory of him except his crooked smile an sharp nose.

He certainly had no idea that he’d been in any kind of relationship with Pierre.

“Are you assuming this, or do you have proof?” George asked. He motioned to the floor. “I think we should sit.”

Charles hesitated a moment, then moved to sit. George crossed to sit beside him, leaning up against the wall. Tinted one-way windows gave them a view out to the hotel lobby where Nicky sat with Lance and Yuki, pointing to the lobby TV screen that they couldn’t see. Pierre stood by one of the lobby pillars, his back to them.

“The whole world has proof he was with Stoffel,” Charles finally answered. “And Pierre told me right before he left that he’d been fucking him on the side since 2018. He said it wasn’t a real relationship, but they’ve been friends for years. I don’t believe it for a second.”

“Wait, Pierre told you he’s been fucking Stoffel, like, while you’ve been together?” George asked.

He couldn’t imagine it. He’d always seen the way Pierre went weightless around Charles, the way his eyes dimmed whenever Charles accidentally leaned into him or when they shared food at restaurants. He also saw the way Pierre struggled to accept it when Charles insisted he only ever wanted to be with Max, and how stupid in love he’d been when Charles decided he wanted him instead.

“He said that they hadn’t seen each other since we decided to be together,” Charles said, crossing his legs. “But Tom Blomqvist was with them, and he called Carlos and told him that Pierre took Stoffel on a full day boat trip—just the two of them. And they didn’t come back looking like a couple that had just broken up.”

George ran his thumb over the edge of his sneaker. “But do you have any proof they fucked? Or are you doing that self-sabotage thing you do?”

Charles smiled down at his hands, turning his black Oura ring around his finger. Right. They had those now.

“Does it even matter?” Charles asked. “He should have told me about Stoffel before this. He didn’t—not to mention he never denied that they fucked. I asked him three times. He avoided answering every time.”

Fuck. He looked over at Charles, whose face had turned to stone.

“Okay, fine. Let’s pretend he fucked Stoffel and we know that. Why the hell are you still letting him fuck you?” George asked.

Charles met his eye. “The same reason you fuck Lewis. He’s useful.”

He wanted to snap back, but refrained.

“Char, I don’t fuck Lewis because he’s useful. I love him, he loves me. We’re a couple.”

“I love Pierre,” Charles returned. “But that’s not enough here. For princes, that is not enough.”

He didn’t like this version of Charles. It was becoming very clear why Max had totally freaked out at Steakout, why Pierre and Lando looked war-torn in Belgium after talking about him.

“So you’re using him,” George said. “That’s what you’re doing, Charles. He clearly thinks everything’s fine. His rose-colored glasses are blood fucking red right now.”

“Yes,” Charles said, cold. “It’s so much easier than I thought it would be.”

George blinked. “Uh, what?”

Charles smiled at him. “Faking it. It’s like passing a lie detector—if a part of it is true, you can get away with the rest. I love Pierre, but I don’t want to be with him anymore. It’s the same thing Carlos does to me.”

“Woah, hold on. Carlos is lying too?”

Charles laughed, gently knocking their knees together. “He always has been. I don’t think he does it intentionally. I do think he loves me, but he’ll always go back to Lando. I’ve started to accept it. As long as I can keep his attention, I can predict him.”

George remembered Charles sitting up in the dark, ready to spend the night alone without Carlos in Monaco, broken because his love had been too big to carry.

“So what about me and Lando?” he asked, annoyed. “Please tell me I’m a queen in your chess game. I think I get a promotion from pawn for not being in love with you.”

“You’re not a pawn,” Charles agreed. “I hear you’re making moves all on your own. Using Lewis to get Alex back.”

George darkened. “Who did you hear that from?”

Charles grinned. “So you don’t deny it? You’re lecturing me for using Pierre and you’re doing the same thing.”

“No,” George snapped. “Lewis is the one who offered to help get Alex back.”

“Ah, so he’s using you. I see.”

“He is not using me,” George hissed.

“Sounds like he is,” Charles said. “And it sounds like he’s doing a good job. You think Pierre thinks I’m using him?”

George straightened up from the wall, fuming. “Of course Pierre doesn’t think you’re using him. He’s in love with you and has been since forever. He’s been waiting for you to finally see him, and now that you have, you really think he’s going to do anything to put that at risk? You can talk shit about him sleeping with Stoffel all you want, but you’re the one sleeping with Carlos and trying to sleep with Max. How do you think that makes Pierre feel?”

Charles’s eyes went wide for a moment, but hardened again soon after. “I haven’t hidden anything from—”

“Oh really?” George asked. “Because Max told me about Monaco. I know you weren’t in the right mind that night, but you tried to sleep with him. He protected you because you were sick—he never told Pierre about that. So you did? You told Pierre you begged Max to sleep with you?”

Charles opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.

George let out a snort. “I thought so.”

Pierre was an idiot for getting involved with Charles, but they all did stupid things. The only real relationships were ones started outside of their appointments, George knew that. What he had with Alex was real, what he had with Lewis was real for their current reality. There was a difference.

“And then you’re all over Carlos, hurting Lando. Sending him into Daniel, which means you’re sending him to Max. Max might love you, but he doesn’t love you more than Daniel, and he doesn’t love you more than winning. Maybe he did a long time ago, but that kid is gone.”

“You’re tied up in this too,” Charles hissed, as if he hadn’t been listening. “It’s no secret to anyone that you want Alex back. That makes you vulnerable.”

“Don’t talk to me about vulnerability when you’ve slept with half the fucking grid and you insist you’re in love with all of them,” George snapped. “Do you ever think about how you sound? Do you actually think you’re healthy right now, Charles? Honestly?”

“I’m not the one—”

“I know you’re on medication,” George said, effectively shutting him up. “So does Kimi and so does Mick. We were in the next room over in the medical wing in France. Kimi threatened to kill us or something if we told anyone. I would never do that to you, because you’re my friend. I also know you’re actually in love with Carlos, but you just refuse to fucking admit it to yourself because you know deep down he won’t pick you. That sucks, and I’m sorry, but playing this game with yourself is not going to fix anything.”

Charles’s jaw flexed as tears welled in his eyes that he tried to blink away. George hated to see him cry, but the truth fucking hurt sometimes.

“Pierre actually does love you,” George continued. “And I’m not saying you have to love him back, but using him like this is going to make him an enemy sooner or later. You can’t convince everyone to be in love with you forever. Max and Carlos and Pierre won’t come save you every time.”

“I’m not on medication,” Charles snapped. “That was temporary.”

George shook his head. “Don’t lie to me. If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s reading the fucking room. You’ve been fucked up for a long time, Char. I’m glad you’re getting help, but don’t tell me the FIA approved medication for you for a few months and then just dropped it. Not when you’re still pulling this shit.”

Charles glared at him for a long time, shaking. George let him do it, unaffected.

“I told Carlos I loved him,” Charles said. “I’m not hiding it from him anymore.”

“So you’re letting him use you,” George said gently.

“Yes,” Charles said, his voice wet. “You’re right, he’s always going to pick Lando. So I’m just taking what I can get.”

“Have you ever tried just having a good friend?” George said, exasperated. He loved Charles—probably more than he should with how little they actually interacted nowadays. “You ever think maybe you deserve someone who puts you first regardless of if you’re sleeping together?”

Charles stared at him, cold and completely different than the boy he’d seen with Pierre a few minutes earlier or the prince in the paddock earlier in the day, on top of the world.

“I’m done with this,” Charles said, getting to his feet. He stopped before walking away, looking down at him.  “Your plan isn’t going to work, you know. Max just ousted Kimi and Bottas is going to take his spot. Yuki’s staying in Alpha Tauri because Pierre asked Lewis and Lewis said yes. And he’s not going to give the Williams crown to Alex. He won’t have a Red Bull spy in a Mercedes garage.”

“When did you become a world champion?” George shot back, rising to his feet.

Lewis wouldn’t choose Pierre over him. He promised to get Alex back. He promised.

“I didn’t,” Charles said.  “I just found one who actually loves me.”

“Oh my god,” George groaned. “Listen to yourself—Sebastian sees you as an asset, not a person.”

“And Lewis doesn’t see you as an asset?” Charles asked.

“We’re not soulmates,” George said. “That’s always going to be Alex for me. I’m aware that I’m useful to him, but we do love each other. He’ll do what he can to protect me, but I understand that has limits.”

Saying it out loud hurt a little. He believed Lewis would protect him, but bringing Alex back wouldn’t save him from anything. They still wouldn’t be married, and he would still leave Nic.

Lewis wasn’t Max. He wouldn’t cut world champions out of the picture and sabotage others at this stage in his career. Max didn’t care who he stabbed in the back. Max had loved Charles more than anything in the world and still dumped him at the airport with Esteban in the middle of the night. Daniel couldn’t possibly have that much of a hold on him. Max only did things for himself.

“And you call me sick,” Charles said into the quiet. “Maybe I’m stupid about all of them, but at least when it’s good it’s amazing.”

“It’s never going to be amazing all the time,” George said, the anger fading from his voice and turning into something like pity. “You remember how it was with Max. You guys fought all the time. Alex and I had fights too—it’s a part of a relationship. You can’t play pinball and jump from boy to boy whenever it gets hard.”

“Pierre cheated on me,” Charles snapped. “And Carlos wants Lando.”

George met his eye. “Yes. Those are big problems. You can’t fix either of them in one weekend. It’ll involve a lot of conversations you don’t want to have, but if you want to keep either of them around, you need to start talking.”

“I have to keep Carlos around,” Charles said. “He’s my husband for at least the next year.”

George nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. But you don’t want him to be with Lando if he’s with you—anyone can see that. Lando hasn’t even talked to me about it ,but I know he’s not with Carlos right now. Did you ever think about how much that had to hurt him? To give up and let you have a shot with Carlos? And look what happened. Carlos still wants Lando.”

Charles quivered where he stood, and George realized he’d likely severed a nerve instead of touching one.

 “Yeah I know,” Charles bit out. “No matter what I do, it’s always the same.”

George frowned. “Have you tried putting your money where your mouth is?” he asked gently. “If you really think Carlos is the one, have you treated him like he is?”

He crossed his arms.

“No Pierre, no Sebastian, no Max. No one else. I know you’ve got game, Charles.” George gestured vaguely. “Everyone comes running to you without you even trying. If you actually showed Carlos what you really think about him, maybe you’ll finally know for sure.”

Charles wiped his eyes. “I can’t just dump Pierre.”

“Pierre’s been fine with you fucking Carlos for this long. Tell him you need a break to focus on Ferrari after what happened over break. He’s not completely stupid—he’ll know what that means.”

“And what if it doesn’t work out?”

George shrugged. “As fucked up as it is, Pierre will always wait for you. And I think if you came back to him after giving it a real go with Carlos, he wouldn’t be upset.”

Movement caught his attention over Charles’s shoulder. An FIA official stood in the lobby, looking completely frazzled. Her ponytail was a mess, her cap cockeyed as she rummaged through an official FIA mail bag.

She dropped a letter as she handed one to Pierre, but George couldn’t see the color of the seal. She handed another letter to Lance, then offered one to Yuki before taking it back and handing it to Nicky instead.

The FIA official didn’t see it, but Nic glanced toward the gym. That meant it had to be a letter from Lewis.

“How do you know Alex has been faithful to you?” Charles asked, pulling George from his staring.

He shrugged. “I don’t. Maybe he met someone, maybe he slept with someone. I don’t think he did, but it doesn’t matter. I did worse to him with Lewis.”

“But it does matter,” Charles said.

He shook his head. “No, Char, it doesn’t. This royal world is totally fucked, mate. If we didn’t have all of the FIA rules, Alex and I would be married by now. I think we’d probably be talking about adopting a kid or maybe we’d have a dog or something.”

Except Alex wanted a cat first. He wanted a grey shorthaired Persian with amber eyes, to be more specific.

George always imagined them living in a completely impractical cottage in the English countryside. He didn’t even like cottages, but he always imagined Alex walking around on worn hardwood, fixing up an elaborate breakfast for a flock of chickens they didn’t have. Alex had never mentioned wanting to live in the country and George definitely didn’t want chickens, but his daydreams hadn’t changed since royalty started to pull them apart.

He let out a sigh. “Look, I know you’ve had a very different experience than me. I know there are reasons for the way you approach this stuff.  But some day you’re going to have to accept either being alone or taking the chance.”

He put a hand on Charles’s shoulder and gave it a little shake.

“And honestly Charles, I really hope you take it.”

Charles looked like he might speak,  but slipped out the door instead. George watched as he approached Pierre, pressing a hand to his back and whispering something to him before heading to the elevator.  Pierre watched him go, but once the elevator doors closed he hopped onto the couch with Yuki and hooked an arm around his neck, yanking him close and pressing a kiss to his temple. It looked like compensating.

Nicky stepped into the gym, wary.

“You good?”

George nodded, offering a small smile. “I’m good.”

Nic extended the envelope bearing Lewis’s seal. George opened it immediately and a small key fell out with a tag attached that had some nonsensical numbers and a barcode.

 

George,

Come find me after qualifying. Temp motorhome for the weekend—safety concerns. Tell Jost when you want to come see me, he knows where it is.

Thank you for your letter, by the way. I’m doing fine. Stuff like this doesn’t worry me. Are you okay? This is probably your first time experiencing it directed toward you. I’m here if you need anything.

Don’t worry about me. Max doesn’t have the power he thinks he does, even if it’s better for everyone’s safety to let him have a win here.

Keep safe. I love you.

LH

 

 


 

 

Charles returned to the hotel room to find Carlos in bed already, reading a book about Dutch history that had probably been provided by the hotel, if the yellowed pages indicated anything. His hair was wet and spiky in places and he had his bathrobe closed tight, his chin resting on the soft fabric.

“Early night?” Charles greeted, leaning against the doorframe.

Carlos jumped at the sound of his voice, pulling an earbud out. “Mierda, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Charles cocked a brow. “Dutch history?”

Carlos shrugged. “È interessante.”

Charles had left only an hour ago, but he didn’t smell any remnants of a meal, and there weren’t any dishes in the sink. Carlos always cooked dinner when he had the time. He said it helped him prepare—something about putting all of the ingredients in place. Carlos loved to cook, and Charles never felt more cared for than when Carlos brought him a homemade snack after a long training session. He always seemed to know exactly when his blood sugar started to dip. And unlike Pierre, Carlos didn’t have an Oura ring to alert him.

“What’s interesting about it?” Charles asked, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Carlos frowned at him. “Dutch…things.”

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, carefully arranging Carlos’s hair with his fingers so it wasn’t all over the place.

“Dutch things,” he murmured. “Sembra davvero interessante.”

Carlos nodded stiffly and propped he book up on his lap to continue reading. “It is. Davvero interessante.”

“Have you eaten anything, il mio storico?” Charles asked.

Carlos turned a page instead of answering. “I wish we could go to Amsterdam,” he said. “I like Amsterdam.”

Charles leaned in, pecking Carlos’s forehead before he stood up. “I’ll leave you to your studying.”

Carlos didn’t look up from his book. “Grazie.”

George had a point. Charles tried with Carlos once, in Florence. A surprise trip, exploring the city together. But ever since then he’d done what he wanted to do and hoped for enough leverage on Carlos to keep him around.

That wasn’t love. That wasn’t putting Carlos first.  And he couldn’t really expect Carlos to want to be with him only if he didn’t treat him like his partner. They knew each other like only spouses could.

And right now, Carlos was scared.

Charles knew what it was like to fear the car. In interviews they always talked about how you couldn’t race with fear, but that just wasn’t the truth. If the brakes failed or a vibration started up in the wrong place, suddenly the car became a stranger. Losing trust in the car meant fearing the car, especially when it came to brakes. A mechanical failure followed by a crash instilled distrust and fear of the machine they were supposed to mesh with.

It took Charles a long time to relay what he wanted to the hospital staff. He had to pull out all of his royal charm to convince them to bring up three uncooked hamburger patties, and even more to convince them not to tell their nutritionists.

Twenty minutes later and Charles had three burgers grilling in a pan on the stove. He already messed up by greasing the pan with a dab of butter, but considering he had to use lettuce instead of bread as a nutritional compromise, a little more flavor couldn’t hurt.

“Merde,” Charles hissed as boiling beef juice sprayed from the pan onto his arm. No one would ever call him a cook, but he could hold his own at the stove.

Kind of.

He flipped the patties and prepped the toppings: cheese, lettuce, pickle and tomato. The same toppings Carlos used when they had burgers in Spain.

Once the patties were seared on the edges and a little pink in the middle, Charles scooped them from the pan with a spatula and placed them on their respective lettuce buns. He carefully arranged the topping lettuce, tomato, and pickles, then took some artistic liberty and added a ketchup smiley face on one and a wobbly heart on the other.

It was probably the most American thing he’d ever cooked.

He plated his own burger and poured them both glasses of electrolyte drinks—red for Ferrari, of course. Chips were out of the question because of the starch, but snap peas were an approved healthy alternative, so Charles put a handful on each plate before carrying his meal into the bedroom on a breakfast tray.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Charles greeted as he pushed the door open with his foot.

Carlos sat right where Charles had left him, staring blankly at the pages. He pulled his earbud out and finally looked up.

Despite what George thought, Charles didn’t have game. He knew how to get people in bed with him, but all of his real relationships were reactionary. Max kissed him on Pierre’s couch. Sebastian asked him if he’d like to be something more, and Carlos…well, Charles didn’t really know at what point they became them. They had so many points of could-have-beens.

Charles brought the tray over and carefully set it on the middle of the mattress before crawling into bed. Carlos couldn’t seem to decide whether to stare at him or the food.

“What is this?” Carlos asked.

“Hamburgers,” Charles said, completely butchering the word in his accent. “I couldn’t convince them to give me bread. Which doesn’t make sense to me because we’ve definitely eaten cheese tortellini before qualifying before.”

“That’s pasta, this is burgers,” Carlos said.

Charles laughed. “Sì, sono due cose diverse.”

“You cooked them?”

“How can you tell?”

Carlos lifted part of his lettuce bun, revealing a now-muddle heart. “I can tell.”

Charles smiled proudly, his chest filing with warmth, but suddenly Carlos was fighting not to laugh.

“I can tell because you didn’t use seasoning.”

Charles blinked stupidly, his cheeks going pink. “I used seasoning.”

Carlos cocked a brow. “Davvero? What kind?”

“The kind it comes with.”

“Beef doesn’t come with seasoning.”

“I used butter in the pan,” Charles argued, lifting his own lettuce-wrapped burger.

Carlos smiled at him, still trying not to laugh. “Grazie. I’m sure it tastes great.”

Charles glared at him. “That was sarcasm.”

He took a bite for emphasis, and it tasted perfectly fine. Definitely not the most flavorful burger he’d ever tasted—it verged on refreshing. Kind of like a veggie burger.

Charles frowned as he swallowed.

“Okay. It could use some seasoning.”

Carlos laughed before taking a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, grinning all the while. Charles found himself leaning in, eager to hear his opinion even when he knew it didn’t taste all that good.

It must have showed on his face, because Carlos took his hand and squeezed once.

“Could use more spices,” he said, “but it has the most important ingredient.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Do not say—”

“Love,” Carlos finished and Charles hated the way his cheeks burned.

Charles shrugged, trying to stay nonchalant. “I was just thinking how maybe I haven’t been the best husband. I couldn’t even think of the last thing I’ve done for you. You’ve been taking care of me and—”

He paused, thumbing the side of Carlos’s palm. George, Mick, and Kimi knew about his medication. That meant Sebastian had to know from Kimi, and Lewis might know from George, even though George said he hadn’t told anyone. Hell, Kimi could have told Lewis.

And if it ever came out, he would have blamed Carlos. No one would have been able to convince him otherwise. He would have ruined them over something Carlos didn’t even do.

“Are you okay?” Charles asked.

Carlos took a giant bite of his burger. Charles gave him time, occupying himself with snap peas. He saw the way Carlos’s eyes stayed distant, as if mentally forcing himself away from the crux of the question.

Charles wondered if his face was the same whenever Carlos asked the same question.

Carlos lifted his hand, but Charles caught it before he cough reach his mouth. Dark eyes found his, pupils blowing wide as Charles sucked the remnants of hamburger juice from Carlos’s fingers. Not the sexiest thing he’d ever done, yet somehow it seemed more intimate than any of their encounters since Mykonos.

“I shouldn’t be frightened,” Carlos murmured as Charles ran his tongue over the pad of Carlos’s thumb. “I know the team will fix it. But there was a moment—suddenly nothing worked. I had no control.”

“It’s scary,” Charles said, letting go of his hand. “Ma tu sei qui.  A little bruised I bet, a little sore, ma tu sei qui.”

Carlos nodded, but his face strained with discomfort. He took his second burger and ate it within two bites while Charles sipped his drink. He watched thoughts fly through Carlos’s eyes and hated that his first thought was to use his body as a distraction. It would absolutely work and the sex would be good, but he didn’t want that.

So they finished dinner in relative silence and listened as other princes walked the halls outside. One voice sounded like Antonio, which would make sense considering the Ferrari -affiliated empires were in the same wing.

Antonio had probably never had a night to himself since becoming a prince. He probably didn’t want this one. Charles still had to talk to Carlos about Kimi, but hadn’t found  the right time. He needed to talk to Max first.

Carlos set their tray  of dishes on the floor to grab in the morning—or to step in when he woke up. Charles kissed him on the cheek before slipping from bed to grab it and returning it to the suite kitchen. Carlos usually cooked and cleaned up after. Charles never thought anything of it before.

He returned to Carlos with his hands clasped, rolling his thumbs over each other.

“How about we watch something?” Charles asked as he changed into a sleeping shirt and shed his sweats. “C’è un film che vuoi vedere?”

Carlos shook his head. “I was thinking sleep might help. Normally I would train, but I can’t be more tired for tomorrow.”

So the soreness had already set in.

“Where does it hurt?” Charles asked as he crawled into bed.

Carlos shifted uncomfortably and didn’t answer.

“I know it hurts somewhere, Carlos.”

“My neck,” he finally said. “Traps. Shoulders, base of my spine.”

Charles motioned to the bed. “Lie on your stomach. I’ll massage you.”

Carlos stared at him.

“My hands are warm, and maybe the beef grease will be like oil, eh?”

Not the best line, but Carlos smiled a little and it made Charles feel warm all over.

“Are you good at giving massages?” Carlos asked.

Charles shrugged. “Max used to think so. But maybe he was just trying to fool around with me, since that usually happened after.”

Carlos cocked a brow. “Is that what will happen after with us?”

“Probably not,” Charles replied. “You need rest.”

“Now you sound like me.”

“I’m trying to, yeah.”

Carlos looked at him again with wide eyes that softened to something suffocatingly affectionate. Charles smiled at him, trying to ignore the way butterflies started fluttering in his stomach.

Carlos shed his robe to reveal bruises on his neck and shoulders in the shape of his safety belt. Charles hadn’t thought his crash was that severe, but sometimes the ones that didn’t look all that hard on camera left the worst marks.

“Carlos…has anyone looked at this?”

Carlos let out a snort as he laid on his belly. “And what would they do? I’ve seen worse bruising on you. You didn’t go to Luca for them.”

Charles didn’t have an argument for that, though he felt like reminding Carlos that most of his bruises were from him and his possessive fingers.

He carefully moved to sit on the backs of Carlos’s thighs, all too aware of how little clothing they had between them. Carlos had none—typical—and Charles only had his briefs.

No fucking. Stop fucking people.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?”

Physios gave them massages often, so he trusted Carlos to know good pain from bad pain. Charles wasn’t a professional by any stretch, but he trusted that Max would have made at least one snarky comment about it if he wasn’t good.

He started at Carlos’s neck, drawing down into his shoulders. His first physio from karting—he didn’t even remember his name—had described massage as painting with the hands.  Building color and taking it away, using heat and pressure as mediums.

He turned on the TV to give Carlos some background noise as he teased the tension out of his neck with his fingertips. For a man who allowed so much of life to roll over him, Carlos carried a surprising amount of tension.

Charles counted silent victories in his head each time a knot loosened. Carlos’s muscle reminded him of fireworks—a dull pop signaled the demise of another problem point, then he would shudder as the loosening muscle spasmed with relief.

Max never asked for one of his massages. Charles used to do it to stave off boredom when they were sitting trackside waiting for cars to come back around to their viewpoint.

Well, that was what he told himself, because the alternative was admitting he had a huge crush on one of his best friends.

He could always sense when Max needed a massage—usually when Jos was lingering. He remembered how bony Max’s shoulders used to be, how his neck was always so thin compared to the rest of them so he looked like a turtle with big ears.

Carlos let out a quiet groan when Charles worked around a bruise. The muscle was already hot under his palm as blood rushed to repair the damage.

“Too much?” Charles asked.

Carlos nodded once, his eyes closed.

Charles leaned down and pressed a kiss to the bruise, feeling out the heat with his lips. It would get darker by qualifying, and more painful.

“Carlos,” Charles murmured against his skin. “Have you iced this?”

“Was going to,” Carlos replied, muffled by the mattress. “Then got distracted by Dutch history.”

Charles kissed his bruise again before he sat back and circled his thumbs at the base of Carlos’s spine. “You need chiropractic before you get in the car. I can feel all kinds of tension here.” He dragged his thumb up the right side of Carlos’s spine, causing him to shudder involuntarily.

“Okay,” Carlos grunted. “Chiropractor.”

“Now stay still.” Charles positioned a hand at the base of Carlos’s spine, bracing the bone and muscle.  He curled his other hand into a fist and dug his knuckles just behind Carlos’s hip bone. The muscle began to flex. “Ah-ah. Stop fighting me.”

Carlos quivered under his fist, still resisting.

“Cah-los,” Charles purred, amplifying his accent. He felt a little give, but not enough.

Max used to hate this part. Half the time they devolved into making out by this point, partly because Max could never get himself to relax enough for the pain to stop.

Charles put more pressure into his knuckles and gave them a little turn. Carlos started to resist more as Charles leaned down, fighting, fighting—

Charles licked a stripe up the two vertebrae closest to his mouth.

Carlos jerked underneath him, reflexively going slack with shock. Charles’s fist found give in the same instant, and suddenly Carlos made a very whorish noise. Charles felt the relief ripple through Carlos’s body as he sat back to admire his work.

Carlos’s eyes were wide, his lips parted in a way that could only be described as filthy.

“You licked me!” he gasped out.

“You didn’t relax,”  Charles countered with a chuckle as he lifted off of him. “Did that feel good?

“Where did you learn that?” Carlos panted, still recovering. “It’s…all of the pain is gone.”

“It’ll come back in a few hours, trust me,” Charles said as he hopped out of bed. “But it’ll help you get to sleep.”

“Dove stai andando?” Carlos asked, sitting up.

“A lavarmi I denti,” Charles said. “You want to come along so I don’t smell unseasoned hamburger all night?”

Carlos joined him in the bathroom and they looked at each other through their reflections in the mirror, smiles full of toothpaste foam. Charles finished brushing first, and made quick work of rinsing his mouth and returning to the bedroom.

He crawled under the covers and opened his arms for Carlos to join him. He didn’t expect it when Carlos pressed against him so fully, chest to chest, and nuzzled into his neck.

“Bonjour,” Charles said with a laugh, resting his cheek against his head. He looped his arms around Carlos’s frame, brushing his thumb over the bruising as though it might soothe the marks away.

“You are very good at massages,” Carlos mumbled against his chest.

“I haven’t given one in awhile, so I’m glad to hear that,” Charles said.

He was pretty sure he’d given his last massage in Brazil, just before Max decided he wasn’t worth staying with. He dimly wondered what Callum would give Mick, not knowing he was already living through their lasts.

Charles held Carlos a little tighter, fully aware of the possible irony. They were far from a perfect couple. Carlos was scared of the car, but Charles’s fear was nestled on his chest and getting heavier with every breath toward sleep.

He wanted to be better. He didn’t want Carlos to be carrying all of the weight anymore.

Maybe he wouldn’t ever have Carlos’s whole heart, but he had some of it, and he’d been neglecting that part for too long.

He could be that boy again—the one who learned to massage for a boy who had never met kind hands before him. He could be the boy who treated every kiss like a treasure, who loved without an end goal. He could be the boy who looked loss in the face and kept on going.

Carlos went slack against him, lips parted and face soft.

Charles loved him so much that it made him ache. He gently touched their foreheads together, taking in the quiet. Fear welled up in him unexpectedly—a whole and debilitating terror almost as lucid as the nightmares had been.

He had to talk to Pierre.

Chapter 82

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Lewis held the door open to an unfamiliar but equally luxurious motorhome, dangling a key for him to take as he passed.

“Toto decided it was too dangerous to stay in mine,” Lewis explained as he followed George inside. “So he picked this fucking tiny thing for the weekend. Angela can’t even stay with me—I don’t know if she’s happy about that or upset.”

George glanced around before ducking in, still surprised that Toto would agree to stick Lewis in such an…undignified place. The smell of campfire smoke leaked in through the propped windows and the sounds of drunkenness crowded all around, though the closest tents were a hundred meters away.

The motorhome was small compared to Lewis’s real one. The kitchen could only fit two people if they faced each other, and George would only feel comfortable squeezing in that close with Lewis or Alex.

“How’s Nic?” Lewis asked, motioning him toward the small living room. A corner couch took up most of the space, and it didn’t seem nearly as inviting as Lewis’s other couch. And instead of hi-tech windows, they only had an old lady painting of mustard colored flowers to look at.

Nic had crashed in Q2, and George had never been more thankful to be away from the TV screens. Alex had given him a heart attack enough times over the course of his short-lived appointment—Nic wasn’t supposed to crash out.

He came back to the garage understandably rattled, enough that George sat with him while he used a mechanic’s phone to call his girlfriend—something he’d never done as long as George had been married to him.

“He’s okay now,” George said with a nod. He knew Sandy better since she visited them in Croatia—he knew she went by Sandy and not Sandra, at least—and it made him ache to see how quickly she calmed Nic down from his panic. Sandy should have been there. George offered support where he could, but felt rather useless compared to the way Nic always made him feel better in his darkest moments.

“Took him a minute to get out of the car,” Lewis said, grimacing when his shoulder knocked against some storage cabinets.

“They really couldn’t give you a bigger place?” George asked. “Where’s your bed?”

He didn’t see any room for a bed, or any doors to a bedroom.

Lewis smiled at him over his shoulder. “The bed’s pretty cool. Watch this.”

He opened a small panel in the wall and pressed a button. A mechanical whirr started up and the cabinet door opened and slotted into the wall, allowing the ladder to push out.

“It’s a loft,” Lewis explained, motioning for him to climb up. “Have a look.”

George smiled as he passed and crawled up into probably the coolest loft bed he would ever see in his entire life. The mattress melted away under his hands, cool and unbelievably plush. Fairy lights made up the perimeter—a little university, a little girly, but George didn’t mind it. Pillows made inviting piles to snuggle into, but the real centerpiece was the giant window that made up the ceiling, giving them a gorgeous view of the sunset hues overhead.

“This is beautiful,” George said, keeping low so he didn’t knock his head on the ceiling. All of the tension of the race, the situation between Mercedes and Red Bull seemed to fade away into the quiet.

Lewis’s face appeared at the top of the later. “Relaxing, huh?”

“Come up here,” George said, scooting over. “I want to watch the sunset with you.”

He hadn’t seen Lewis in ages. It always felt like that, but with everything going on, he seemed especially far away. Lewis climbed up with him, but laid down on his side instead of looking up at the sky.

“I missed you,” Lewis murmured, reaching out to touch his jaw.

George brushed noses with him. “It’s been a hard few weeks, huh.”

Lewis let out a snort. “Nothing I can’t handle. There’s always something.”

He admired the way Lewis could deflect challenges so easily. He didn’t seem affected by any of the drama that seemed to swallow George’s world.

“Are you actually doing okay, though?” George asked, pressing a kiss to the base of Lewis’s palm. “The things people are saying, the posters…I can’t believe the FIA isn’t doing anything. Nobody is doing anything.”

“The FIA never does anything,” Lewis replied, finally turning onto his back. “They never have. Spain in 2008 was one of the worst moments for me—people were so fucking cruel, man. I mean, I’ve grown up with it, but it was just blatant racism. Blackface and everything. Nobody did anything. They showed the people on TV, but nobody did anything.”

He folded his hands over his stomach. George noticed he wasn’t wearing any rings—he wondered if he’d even brought his usual luggage. He wondered if he had his watches.

“Then afterward they come out and say things like how they condemn it or whatever. But nobody kicked those people out, you know? Nobody told them to leave. I had to deal with it all while those people stayed in the stands.”

George kept silent, unsure of what to say. Pretty much anything that came out of his mouth would sound like it came from a super rich British kid, so he just nestled closer until their arms touched, watching pink clouds float above the window.

“Sometimes I think about how it would have gone differently if…” Lewis trailed off, a rarity in his speech pattern. “That was a really difficult time for me. Everything was so fucked in McLaren—they wanted me out, but I kept winning. They blocked me every time I tried to find some kind of comfort.”

“The FIA wanted you out?” George asked, turning his head.

Lewis nodded. “I didn’t have royal blood or connections. They called me a fluke, they called me a risk. Only one person ever defended me, and he didn’t ever do it publicly. Not even that day in Spain.”

“Nico,” George said quietly.

Lewis didn’t speak for a moment. The clouds reflected in his eyes as they passed overhead.

“Yeah,” he finally said, almost too soft to hear. “Nico.”

George pressed a kiss to Lewis’s shoulder in silent reassurance.

They laid beside each other for a long time, watching as the sky bruised into night.

“He wasn’t bad then,” Lewis said into the silence, keeping his eyes fixed on the appearing stars. “We were both different people. I had a lot less confidence than I do now, and I tried to compensate in unhealthy ways. Nico saw it.”

He pushed out a sigh and shifted to put his hands behind his head. He shifted closer so that George could properly rest against him.

The scent of Lewis’s cologne washed over him, and George wondered once again whether Lewis had started wearing Nico’s scent or the other way around.

“My first year as a prince was great on paper,” Lewis continued. “But it destroyed me mentally. I had a lot of success in the car, but Fernando was the fucking worst, man.” He worked his jaw. “I didn’t understand royalty yet. I didn’t understand how much Fernando could manipulate the media and the world’s perception of me. I mean, I got a divorce my first year as a prince. The only thing that saved me was that I almost became a rookie champion.”

“I don’t understand how you and Fernando can be in the same room,” George muttered.

Lewis chuckled. “Honestly, I was a pretty shitty husband. But I did get him to stoop to my level—which I see now as a form of respect. I was a brand new prince, but I was in a fight with a world champion on even ground.” He smiled.  “We’re okay now. We both learned to respect each other.”

George couldn’t imagine having a relationship so horrible that it ended in divorce and growing to respect the person. The closest comparison he had was Max, and George would never—

Well, maybe.

Maybe.

“Anyway, Nico saw me in trouble at the end of 2007,” Lewis said. “When Fernando chose to leave for Renault, Nico offered to take his crown. Williams refused to allow it. Apparently Frank Williams tore up the appointment proposal within two minutes of receiving it. Nico never thought to ask him if it was okay—he acted on emotion. He saw me in trouble and wanted to help.”

George didn’t like how easily he could imagine Nico squaring up to Frank Williams, the Head of Government who had turned Williams into an empire worthy of his name. Williams still gushed about Nico’s time with them, and citizens saw his years as their prince as the foundation for countless government improvements. Nobody denied Nico’s genius behind the wheel or his analytical thinking in government situations.

“Help ended up being Heikki Kovalainen," Lewis continued. "Nico pulled strings—his father pulled strings on Nico’s behalf, really.” He let out a snort. “I didn’t ask him to, but—as usual—Nico made my life his problem to fix.”

George didn’t remember much of Heikki, only that he was Finnish and never performed well enough to be considered someone to remember. He’d stayed in the empires for awhile though, so he must have been decent.

“Did you like Heikki?” George asked.

Lewis cocked his head. “He was a way better choice than Fernando for a first husband, but I know it bothered him that he was appointment to McLaren because of Nico and his dad. He had a Finnish temperament, so it worked to balance me. I gained a lot of confidence because I didn’t have to worry about my husband playing games.” He looked at George out of the corner of his eye. “Little did I know.”

George turned onto his side, slipping a hand under Lewis’s shirt to scratch at his stomach. “You had no idea how your future was going to play out.”

Lewis smiled. All of his vulnerability vanished in an instant, the shutters closed tight. “Always so wise,” he teased, pressing a kiss to his nose.

George nuzzled into his chest. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Hm. Max? I heard he’s got some mansion he’s renting with Daniel and Lando.”

“I don’t know what’s going on with that,” George admitted. Something definitely seemed up with Lando, but George assumed that he’d been seeing Carlos in secret or something. He didn’t seem heartbroken at all.

“Maybe I should talk with Lando,” Lewis murmured. “Do you think that would help?”

“Help with what?”

Lewis blinked at him. “The obvious? They’re isolating him.”

“Isolating him?” George laughed. “I’ve never seen Lando this confident. He’s not being isolated.”

Lewis looked at him, eyes flickering in the dark.

“Max is good at what he does. Daniel is better. Right now Lando’s thick in the honey trap. They’re making him feel good, inviting him everywhere. If I had to guess, Daniel’s doing everything right—not too much, not too little. He’s always been good at reading people,” Lewis said, eyes on the stars again.

“I don’t think Daniel’s making plays,” George said. “He already has Max, he doesn’t need Lando too.”

“You’re not paying attention, George,” Lewis clucked. “Think about the little Monaco meeting over break. Max was able to get everyone in the same room during a letter ban, and none of it was against the FIA rules. That was a rehearsal.”

“It wasn’t a rehearsal,” George said quietly. Max never cried about anything, but he’d burst into tears about Charles. Whatever he saw that night had scared the shit out of him.

“All I know is that Lando went to London thinking he’d get Carlos back, then he showed up in Belgium and didn’t want anything to do with him.”

George rolled his eyes. “That’s because of Carlos, not Daniel.”

Lewis rolled over, settling on top of him with a smirk. The stars glimmered behind him, and George wished he could capture the way the purples and blues illuminated his skin.  

“Like I said,” Lewis murmured.  “Max is good, Daniel is better.”

 

 


 

 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Daniel asked, close enough that Lando could feel the heat of his breath on his collar.

Daniel had spent the night in bed with Max, despite saying that Max didn’t do well sleeping with a partner when he was in “race mode.” As usual, Daniel seemed to be the exception to the rule.

“Let me guess, you’re still secretly in love with Max,” Lando said dryly as he smoothed the silky fabric of Daniel’s cape. He smiled when Daniel pecked his lips, but it faded when the roar of the crowd permeated their drivers room, throwing memories of blood and broken beer bottles into his brain.

“Hey hey,” Daniel soothed, pulling him in. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Lando kept his eyes open, watching the TV over Daniel’s shoulder that showed the source of the cheering. Max stood with Checo, waving to the crowd. Max looked entirely different from the sleepy, affectionate boy he’d seen at breakfast who wouldn’t leave Daniel’s side. Here he looked stiff, almost cold.

“What’s the secret?” Lando asked.

Daniel pressed his nose to his hair and gave him a squeeze.

“Max is scared.”

Lando could see it. Max’s smile looked fake, and he was moving more than usual.

“What’s he scared of?” Lando asked.

“Same thing you are,” Daniel said into his ear. “Them.”

The TV screen showed a sea of orange. Posters dotted the stands, and none of them were kind unless they were for Max or Daniel. They expected Max to win. Anything else, and they would riot. Lando and Daniel knew that no one was safe in those moments of rage, not even Max.

“Wait—how do I look?”

Lando turned as Daniel spun around, an orange silk cape swirling behind him, edged with black velvet. Lando had no idea where Daniel had gotten it, but he had a feeling it was from Red Bull because it was way too nice to come from a gift shop. A black velvet lion roared on the fabric with Dutch flags on its cheeks, smeared like war paint. A provocative symbol, and Max’s unofficial crest.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Lando asked.

Summer break had breathed new life into Daniel, but Lando was pretty sure whatever was haunting him hadn’t left because Daniel still wouldn’t talk about it. He still held his beer bottles a little too tight, even if he didn’t sling them back by the six pack anymore.

They would leave Zandvoort tomorrow morning, and Lando had a feeling all of the light in Daniel would burn out. He feared the cold that would creep in after, the stress of living with someone terrified of being alive, who flinched at every noise and seemed to be afraid to turn corners in case someone might be lurking around the other side.

He liked this Daniel. The one who smiled at him and lived life quieter because he had nothing in his head he had to drown out.

“Does it look good or not?” Daniel asked, gripping the edge of the cape to flutter it around.

Lando swallowed. “It looks good.”

That brought a grin to Daniel’s lips, and Lando took his hand to avoid staring at him for too long.   

As soon as they hit the paddock, the cameras all turned their way. Lando liked to pretend he was used to being royalty—real royalty for a real empire, not some barely known province nobody knew or cared about. McLaren had a name and a history. It had power and was gaining more year by year.

Daniel exuded all of that power as he strode through the growing crowd, sunglasses on and smile beaming. Lando hurried along behind him, chin lifted, eyes bright.  No wonder Max fell for him so hard, so fast.

A group of princes stood at the base of the podium area in their pre-race media outfits. Charles looked dead—as usual since summer break—with sunglasses shading his eyes. Pierre stood close to him, chewing on his bottom lip. Lando recognized it as a stress response. George worried his water bottle--he looked way too anxious for a guy fighting for 18th place. Okay, maybe he’d graduated to 17th.

Max looked terrified, though. His eyes were huge and he had a sheen of sweat that the cameras hadn’t picked up on TV. His race suit hung at his hips, his nomex wet at his armpits and visible in direct sunlight.

“What are you wearing?” Max asked with a laugh as they approached. “Is that a cape?”

Daniel spun around, and Lando stepped aside to allow the cape to swish properly.

Max stared for a moment, slowly putting it all together.

“Daniel,” he finally puttered out. “What is this?”

“A good luck charm,” Daniel said, turning back around.

The crowd started screaming. Kiss, kiss, kiss!

Lando moved to take Daniel’s hand, but decided against it. Both Charles and Pierre noticed, but neither of them said anything. Max kept gaping at Daniel, and Daniel kept smiling back.

Lando clocked Christian Horner not far off, glaring at Daniel with so much anger that Lando no longer feared the crowd.

“Please don’t,” Lando whispered. “Daniel, please don’t.”

Kiss, kiss, kiss!

Daniel cocked his head and shot Max a wink. The crowd screamed. More cameras kept appearing all around them, swarming like flies. 

Lando’s heart started beating its way up his throat. If he touched Daniel, the crowd would turn on him. If Charles touched Max, the crowd would turn on him. If Max so much as looked at either of them, the crowd would turn.

“Win or lose, I’m still yours,” Daniel said, as if no one else was around. “Just wanted to let you know.”

Max’s eyes turned wet, but he nodded.

“You’ll win,” Lando said, offering a smile.

Max smiled at him. “Thanks, Lando.”

Lando could feel George staring at him, but Daniel took his hand before he could make himself look. He didn’t really give a shit what George thought. George didn’t see Max with Daniel—and he definitely didn’t see Lewis the way Lando did.

Lando wasn’t about to side with Lewis. He had nightmares about Lewis gouging his eyes out with that eagle ring. He had no idea Lewis imagined his debt to be, but he didn’t want to find out.

He squeezed Daniel’s hand as they continued toward the garage. Daniel glanced back at him, eyes still happy, still full.

Sebastian passed them, but paused when he saw Daniel’s cape.

“Daniel,” Sebastian greeted, gesturing to the cape. “I see it’s the right size.”

Lando knocked into Daniel’s shoulder when he stopped abruptly, letting out a grunt.

“Right size?” Daniel asked.

Sebastian shrugged. “Of course. I didn’t want to send you one too small.” He reached out, pinching the cape and pulling a part of it out with a smile. “What do you think?”

Daniel squeezed Lando's hand so hard his finger bones threatened to snap.

“Hey, ow!” Lando hissed, jerking his hand. Daniel didn’t let him go. “Daniel, you’re hurting me.”

Sebastian adjusted his Ray-Bans on the bridge of his nose, brow furrowing. “You’re hurting him—what’s gotten into you?”

Daniel released his hand immediately, turning to him. “Lando—sorry, I’m sorry.”

His eyes were wild, pupils pricked and cheeks leaking color.

Lando shook out his fingers, glancing at Sebastian.  He stepped closer to Daniel in an attempt to shield him a little. “You got Daniel the cape?”

Sebastian smiled at him in a way that made his skin crawl, blond curls slipping out from under his cap. “Of course. Love isn’t a contract, Lando. Daniel shouldn’t be afraid to let the whole world know.”

When Lando looked at Daniel for some kind of clue, his husband had vanished. Instead he found a shell of a man, all of the goodness in him hollowed out.  

 

 


 

 

Charles could feel Max’s anxiety manifesting into determination as Daniel walked away. Max’s whole body seemed lighter—both in weight and warmth.

It still hurt to see him so in love with someone else. Charles had to take a deep breath to steady himself. He didn’t want Max anymore, but jealousy raged in him despite.

He wanted to be loved like that. He knew how it felt to have Max’s whole heart, how powerful it made him feel. George thought he was stuck in the past, but how could he leave it? Some of his best memories were with Max.  As friends, as something more. When Charles thought about intimacy, he thought about lying on the floor in Monaco, the scent of pizza lingering in the air. He thought about cool nights huddled against each other, warm kisses in the dark.

Max was still the only person who loved him before.

“Max,” Charles said.

Max looked at him immediately, same eyes, same grin. “Yeah?”

“Good luck out there.”

Daniel was a better man than he would ever be. A man brave enough to wear a cape that spat in the face of his empire and the FIA, for Max.

Charles couldn’t even keep himself off of medication long enough to form a thought on his own.

“Thank, Char,” Max said. “Do you feel good about today?”

Charles didn’t think he was actually asking about the race. No one ever cared about his driving anymore.

“Calamardo,” Pierre cut in, gently nudging him with his elbow. “I’m headed back to the garage. I’ll see you after?”

Charles nodded and offered a smile as Pierre stepped away, his stomach wringing itself. He never should have allowed himself to go down this road with him. He’d broken Pierre’s heart twice before, once in Belgium, once in Abu Dhabi. This time would be worse than both of those combined, and if Pierre had any sense, he would cut all ties with him.  

“He still calls you that?” Max asked. “Squid or whatever?”

Charles cocked a brow. “Of course he does. He’s mon chou garçon.”

Max looked after Pierre, his gaze almost stern. “Be careful, okay?”

Anger stirred in him. Up until Stoffel, Pierre had done everything right. Everything. Charles couldn’t find one fault in the way he always protected him, stood up for him when Max chose not to.

“I don’t need to be careful with Pierre,” Charles said, turning his Oura ring with his thumb.

“Speaking of careful, what’s going on with you and Lando?” George asked, butting in.

Charles blinked—he’d forgotten George was standing with them.

“Me and Lando?” Max replied. “Nothing is going on with me and Lando.”

George narrowed his eyes. “So he’s totally fine living with you and Daniel. Not feeling left out or anything.”

Max flexed his jaw. “That’s private.”

A sick feeling bubbled up in Charles’s stomach, thick like tar.

“We’re princes. We have every luxury except privacy,” George said, his voice chilled.

“Lando is fine,” Max said. “I’m not keeping him in the dark about anything about Daniel and me, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

George let out a snort. “I doubt that.”

Charles watched Max’s face, searching for the truth. Max had learned how to hide himself from the eyes of the world, but Charles still knew him.

Max always cared for Lando. Back when they were teenagers, Max took it upon himself to look after Lando’s karting career, and Charles always felt warm at the sight of Max sharing his techniques after being so defensive of them years before.

Max would never abuse that. Not when Lando looked up to him so much.

“Talk to Lando then,” Max snapped. “I don’t need to talk about this shit with you.”

Charles bumped Max’s shoulder, jarring him from his anger. “I’m going to head back to the team. Both of you stay safe.”

“I’m not sticking around with the dictator,” George said, irritatingly pleasant. “See you both…whenever.”

“Charles—”

Charles took a step back, lifting his water bottle in a goodbye. He didn’t—couldn’t—stay behind to hear whatever Max had to say. He needed to stop putting himself in situations where it would hurt.

He spotted the thin frame of Robert Kubica standing with Antonio by the Alfa Romeo garage, a splinter of a smile on his face. Kubica had once been heralded as a future champion and set to be a crown prince of Ferrari. He even had an appointment, but ruined it all in a fraction of a second during a rally race that nearly killed him when he went into a guardrail. Ferrari had learned its lesson about allowing princes to race outside of their royal duties.

Charles sometimes wished they wouldn’t have allowed Carlos to take him on that course in Spain.

“Oh dear, you look melancholy.”

Charles sighed as Sebastian fell into step beside him. “What do you want?”

“I’m worried about you,” Sebastian said. Charles noticed a flash of red on his wrist. It clashed horribly with the green of his Aston Martin getup. He looked like a Christmas tree. Sebastian laughed at him. “Don’t give me that look. I followed suit.”

Charles followed his gaze down to his wrist, where the Senna watch hugged tightly to his skin.

You’re losing your mind.

He didn’t remember putting on the watch, nor its significance. His own mind had betrayed him. Again. Even with the medication.

“I forgot,” Charles murmured, mostly to himself.

Sebastian put a hand over his heart and made a show of wincing.

Charles stared at his open garage up ahead, the nose of his car poking into view as he walked.

His mind began to reel.

If you can’t even remember Sebastian’s watch, how will you remember the track?

You’ll kill someone, then everyone will know how weak you are, what’s in your system.

Charles swallowed hard.

Carlos appeared at his garage, headphones on and eyes focused on the horizon. He looked ready, no longer nervous about the car that had been fixed in plenty of time by hands he trusted.

Carlos thinks he should be afraid of the car, he thought. He should really be afraid of you.

 

 

 


 

 

 

George wanted to scream. He’d been in the perfect place to catch Fernando, but he’d fucked up too many times, and ultimately succumbed to a fucking gearbox issue. They’d come back off of points finishes right back into duds.

Max won again, of course. Another hit to Lewis’s championship hopes that Lewis didn’t seem the least bit worried about as he smiled through the booing.  The reporters didn’t care about that–they were falling all over themselves trying to get answers as to why Daniel Ricciardo wore a Max Verstappen cape to the race, as if it wasn’t obvious. Lewis’s brilliant drive was relegated to the background once again.

George decided enough was enough. Lewis deserved love and attention, and George had been given the key to his motorhome for a reason. Nic couldn’t have Sandy around, but Lewis could have him. Nic even helped him get ahold of some flowers.

Clouds darkened overhead as George hurried to the campground. He knocked before he entered though all of the lights were off inside, and made sure to look around for any prying Red Bull eyes. He figured Lewis would be involved with media for at least another hour, so he decided to make himself comfortable. He slipped out of his sweats and set them in the closet with his rain jacket, and set his shoes beside Lewis’s.

It felt a bit like being married, and very different from the visions of him and Alex.

He crawled up into the bed, burying himself in the comforter and pillows to watch the clouds. He tried not to think about Alex or the fear in his eyes when he’d begged not to go back to Alpha Tauri.

He wondered if it was really because of Red Bull, or if Alex had someone he didn’t want to leave. Someone normal. Someone he could actually have a life with.

Rain began to pour on the window above him, creating a smudgy view of the dark clouds gathered there. George turned off the fairy lights to absorb the feeling and sound of the rainstorm, and smiled when a gentle bit of thunder rumbled through the motorhome.

He’d set his bouquet of flowers on Lewis’s side of the bed, wrapped in cloth instead of plastic to be more environmentally friendly. They could only find yellow flowers and daisies, but George figured the sentiment was there. He hoped so anyway. Or Lewis would call him a flower murderer.

Nic said it would be fine.

It would be fine.

After awhile, George heard the muffled sound of Lewis’s voice outside the motorhome and sank into the covers a little deeper, smiling wide. They were finally taking the steps toward being real husbands.

“I’m going to be upset about this,” Lewis growled as he stepped into the motorhome. “I am absolutely upset.”

“Which is why I want to talk to you about it,” another voice said.

George froze. Sebastian.

He wasn’t naked (though he had definitely considered it), but his boxers and t-shirt combo didn’t exactly say friendly visit. And his pants were in the fucking closet.

Sebastian undoubtedly knew about them, but George never wanted to assume anything. Lewis liked to keep certain things private, and George having a key to his motorhome seemed like one of those things. He had a feeling Sebastian didn’t know the extent of their relationship, if his side eyes and suspicious looks said anything.

Nice one, idiot.

“We don’t need to talk about it, Seb,” Lewis said, throwing his rain jacket on the couch. “You’re not doing it.”

George squeezed his eyes shut. He could hear the sounds of them taking off their shoes, and a flash of lightning ripped through the sky above in an ominous warning.

The thunder that came afterward was so loud that George used it to move, curling up in the far corner of the bed so that he wouldn’t be seen unless Lewis made his way up the ladder.

Sebastian stepped into the kitchen and right into George’s view, his t-shirt dotted with rain spatter.

“Help yourself,” Lewis said sarcastically when Sebastian started opening cabinets.

Sebastian shot him a cheeky grin.

“If you want something to eat, I can make you something,” Lewis offered stiffly. “Vegan omelet?”

“As much as I love fake egg, no thank you,” Sebastian replied, ignoring Lewis’s obvious annoyance.  

“It tastes like real egg,” Lewis muttered, finally stepping into view to open the tiny fridge. He pulled out a tub of spinach and a jug of what George guessed was liquified fake egg. Sebastian’s face mirrored his when he saw it, but he didn’t say anything as Lewis pulled out more ingredients, a pan, and a cutting board.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Lewis said.

Sebastian crossed his arms and leaned into the corner of the cabinets. “I promised Kimi.”

“I don’t care.”

Lewis dumped the bundle of baby spinach onto the cutting board and pulled a knife from the rack. He began cutting methodically, punctuating the rain with chop, chop, chop. Sebastian kept watching him, and George could feel Lewis noticing it even though Lewis’s face hadn’t changed.

“There’s a faster way to cut spinach,” Sebastian said.

George wanted to smack him.

Lewis kept cutting in the same rhythm, but his shoulders tightened. “I know how to do it.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed for a moment.

“When Kimi came back, I told him—”

“I need you, okay?” Lewis snapped, the knife frozen in mid-slice. “I just fucking need you to be here.”

Sebastian’s features softened. “You don’t need me, Lewis. You never have. You’ve proven that time and time again.”

Lewis’s knife began to wobble against the cutting board, the intricate details of his tattoos dancing in the light.

“I want you, then,” he said quietly.

Sebastian nodded once. “Okay. But you can do this without me. I want you to know that.”

Lewis shook his head, still staring down at the spinach. “I don’t want to.”

Sebastian moved from the corner, invading Lewis’s personal space—not hard to do in that kitchen. His chin settled neatly at the join of Lewis’s neck and shoulder and his hands traveled down Lewis’s arms over tapestries of ink, down to his hands. He gently realigned Lewis's hands on the knife, and guided Lewis’s other hand over the spinach.

George’s stomach plummeted straight to Hell.

“I told you to stop wearing that,” Lewis said softly, but the sound carried in the confined space.

Sebastian ignored him and squeezed Lewis’s hand, balling up the spinach and moving the knife closer to start chopping again.

“Ball it up, like this,” Sebastian instructed. “It makes it easier to cut.”

“It’ll bruise,” Lewis muttered.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Have you ever seen bruised spinach?”

George’s brain couldn’t compute what was happening in front of him. Lewis and Sebastian were moving as one thing, not a shred of resistance between them, even though Sebastian was being a German asshole and Lewis hated it when people acted like they were smarter than him.

Lewis bunched the spinach and started cutting faster.

“See? Much easier,” Sebastian murmured.

Then he turned his face and pressed a kiss to Lewis’s jaw.

George left his body. Feeling, time, and space turned into nonsensical things as he watched the way Lewis’s lashes fluttered at the touch of Sebastian’s lips.

Lewis and Sebastian were best friends. Everyone knew that. Everyone saw it every single time they were in the paddock together.

This isn’t real. You fell asleep in Lewis’s bed. You fell asleep.

Lewis squeezed the knife, his knuckles going bloodless.

“They’re calling me a murderer, Seb,” Lewis grit out. “Because that fucking kid cut in on me, they’re calling me an attempted murderer.”

George had never heard so much emotion in Lewis’s voice, not even when he spoke about Nico.

“This is fucking ridiculous. Look at him! Is anyone else fucking seeing this?” Lewis hunched over the counter, anger in every muscle. “He rented a mansion for him and Daniel. And the FIA is making him take Lando as some kind of stupid way to save face—what the fuck? He’s never won a championship. When I tried that with Nico they fucking shut the door in my fucking face!”

Sebastian folded his arms, but said nothing.

“I had a championship!” Lewis hissed, eyes suddenly wet. “I fucking had a championship and I was never allowed to see him!”

“And then you beat them,” Sebastian said quietly.

“No,” Lewis spat. “I got a gift I didn’t want. I didn’t want that.”

The knife trembled, and lightning reflected in the blade.

“Come here,” Sebastian soothed, pulling the knife from Lewis’s pliant hand and setting it aside. Lewis turned around, burying his face into Sebastian’s neck. Sebastian hugged him tightly, his maroon watch glowing in the kitchen light as he cradled Lewis’s head to his chest.

Lewis’s shoulders heaved, but George didn’t hear any actual noise of sobbing.

“I just thought maybe you were ready, that’s all,” Sebastian said, swaying. “You have always been able to do this on your own. I’m always here to support you.”

“I know,” Lewis choked out. “I’m just—fuck, I can’t—”

“I’m going to stay with you tonight,” Sebastian said, rubbing his back. “Storm or no storm. What luck though, hm? The weather on our side for once.”

Thunder rattled through the motorhome as if in answer.

Sebastian pulled back, his eyes indescribably fond as he looked over Lewis’s expression that George couldn’t see.

“We always make it through these things,” Sebastian assured him, looking down through blond lashes. “We’ll do it this time too, yes?”

Lewis nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

“Verstappen is not the first to come after you,” Sebastian continued, thumbing Lewis’s cheeks. “He won’t beat you. But say he does—oh well. It will crush him. We both know he’s built a web too big. One year will not make a difference. It never has before.”

Lewis shook his head before tucking his face into Sebastian’s chest again. “He took out Kimi. What if he goes after you next?”

Sebastian laughed. “I have three more championships.  Kimi was on his last legs—I think he’s just sour he didn’t get to announce it his way. He wanted to be with Antonio.”

“That wasn’t what you said a minute ago."

Sebastian rested his chin on Lewis’s braids. “I know. I did hope we’d retire together, but I also understand that might have been futile. You don’t seem to stop winning.”

“I just need one more championship,” Lewis said, his voice thick. “You know that.”

“I do,” Sebastian said. “Though you know how I feel about—”

“Sebastian, do not start talking about Michael,” Lewis cut, but it had no malice.

Sebastian laughed. “Okay, fine. You know how I feel.”

Lewis pulled back and they stared at each other for a moment. George was still scrambling to catch hold of anything to ground him in reality, to find some kind of lie in the way they looked at each other.

Sebastian lifted a hand, but Lewis caught his wrist.

“Do I need to make you give this back?” Lewis asked, looking down at the watch. “You’re being too obvious. Even Leclerc is going to notice.”

Sebastian smiled. “I don’t care. I want you to know where my heart is, always. Didn’t you say it was clever?”

Lewis released him. “It was, until Charles dumped you.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “He did not ‘dump’ me. He still won’t say to my face that we’re over. Yes, I don’t think he loves me anymore, but I like this new relationship better.” He curled a finger under Lewis’s chin. “I know you do too.”

Lewis narrowed his eyes. “You were dumped, love.”

“I did appreciate you comforting me in Silverstone,” Sebastian said with a smirk.

“You mean when I had to pull strings to get Lawrence off your back for driving the F40 to an Aston Martin event? That time I comforted you?” Lewis returned, brow cocked.

Sebastian grinned wide. “What can I say? It’s a much faster car. You certainly took advantage of the extra time we had.”

George’s stomach roiled at the memory of Sebastian’s damp hair in the low light of the bar, of Lewis putting on his clothes when George surprised him in the office with the broken lock. That fucking F40 had been Sebastian’s, not Carlos’s.

Oh fuck. He’d seen an F40 in Monaco too. He fucking remembered it parked outside of Lewis’s fucking apartment. The same fucking car.

He had to be dreaming. He had to be fucking dreaming.

“I was in a good mood that night,” Lewis said. “I’m not in a good mood right now.”

Sebastian cupped his face just before kissing him square on the mouth.

Lewis jerked in surprise, then made a soft noise before kissing back, hands pressed flat to Sebastian’s chest.

“Better?” Sebastian tried, his smile turning sly.

“You’re really pushing my buttons, man,” Lewis growled, but he had a smile on his lips too.

“Yes, I tend to do that,” Sebastian chuckled into another kiss, long and slow and so intimate that George wanted to throw up.

“Fucker,” Lewis said against Sebastian’s mouth, and they broke their kiss to laugh.

Lewis suddenly looked happier than George had ever seen him, and he thought he’d seen him at his happiest. Lewis nuzzled into Sebastian’s chest, swaying with him as Sebastian’s arms came around him again, holding him close in a quiet, comforting way only lovers could.

“You can’t stay, Seb,” Lewis said after a long moment.

“Yes, I can.”

Lewis closed his eyes. “No. Max still has eyes everywhere. Toto found a fucking camera in here, just like I told you he would.”

“You’re kidding,” Sebastian said, his voice sharpening. “A camera?”

“Yes. And I’m sure they have cameras outside. You can’t be in here that long.”

Sebastian kissed his forehead, steely anger in his eyes. “But I haven’t had my omelet.”

“Monza, love,” Lewis promised, pulling back. He lifted his hands to Sebastian’s face. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll have my motorhome back, or we can find a place in Milan. I want every night with you while we’re there.”

Sebastian kissed his nose—a movement way too cutesy for someone so old and gross.

“If it makes you too nervous, I can always come to Germany after,” Sebastian said. “I think Lawrence prefers me gone. He thinks it will give him some kind of power while I’m away.”

Lewis pulled him in for a proper kiss. “You’ve been to Germany too much lately, sweetheart.”

“You can never be home too much,” Sebastian countered, caressing his jaw.

Lewis melted against him. “I have to go to New York right after. Met Gala.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “The fashion thing?”

“Yes, the fashion thing. It’s important.” Lewis rubbed Sebastian’s arms before he stepped away. “Now, let me get my umbrella. I’ll walk you back.”

“What should be my excuse this time?” Sebastian asked, stealing a few grape tomatoes from the counter and popping them in his mouth. “And yours? You don’t have Roscoe to make excuses with.”

Lewis walked right up to the bed, disappearing from view. George’s heart pounded so loud he figured the motorhome would start shaking any second.

“Same as always,” Lewis replied, grunting as he rummaged around in a nearby cabinet. “You like storms.”

Sebastian smiled around another tomato. “I love storms. Very, very much.”

“Found it,” Lewis announced, and the tip of an umbrella came into view. “Ready?”

“Mm, I actually did have some business,” Sebastian said. “Never got your decision on the Williams crown.”

Lewis sighed. “Seb, I really don’t want to talk about appointments right now.”

George curled his fingers into the comforter.

“I’m trying to take care of it for you,” Sebastian said. “Yuki stays at Alpha Tauri, Valtteri goes to Alfa Romeo. We need a taker for the Williams crown.”

Lewis fiddled with the umbrella at the top of the stairwell. “Who does Kimi want?”

George blinked, the blood draining from his body.

He’s playing the game. He’ll pick Alex.

“Someone new,” Sebastian said. “Can I at least tell him we can start looking?”

Lewis stayed silent for a moment. “Fine. Someone new. I’ll tell George that Max blocked Albon at Alpha Tauri, and that will set him on the warpath. How long can you delay Marko’s announcement?”

“Depends on how long you can keep Pierre from making trouble,” Sebastian said.

Lewis gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ll put Stoffel on it.”

“That’s still going on?” Sebastian asked.

Lewis shrugged. “Apparently. Enough that I’d be tempted to give him the appointment if I thought he could handle it. Stoffel can start saying he might be coming to Williams. You let Charles catch wind of that, and Pierre will be way too focused on those two to think about Tsunoda’s appointment.”

Sebastian wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like that plan. Charles is barely recovered as it is, Lewis.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Fernando’s, actually,” Sebastian quipped. “He put Carlos there. Speaking of which, I saw him naked this weekend.”

Lewis started down the stairs. “I do not want to hear about that.”

Sebastian grinned before following him down. “You sure?”

The door slammed shut behind them, and George let out a half gasp, half sob into the comforter. Shock and anger overwhelmed his heartbreak, but he knew that would come after.

Fucking played. Lewis fucking played him. Every kiss, every letter, every kind word—all lies to coerce him into going after Max, into doing Lewis’s fucking bidding. A distraction while he had Sebastian in the shadows, sneaking around during fucking thunderstorms.

He wasn’t going to be anyone’s fucking dog.

George pulled on his sweats and made his way down the ladder. Lewis hadn’t noticed his shoes neatly stacked next to his own, but George would make sure he found the fucking flowers later.

He was going to get Alex back. If Lewis wanted to play ball, he would step up to plate with a fucking bat.  

George yanked his raincoat from where he’d put it in the closet and stomped down the stairs past the abandoned jug of fake egg and scattered spinach.  He didn’t lock the door behind him.

Rain pattered against his hood as he stalked toward the track. Tears threatened to well up, hot and acidic. He wanted Alex, not Lewis. He wanted Alex.  

George pulled out his cell and speed dialed Jost.

Jost answered immediately. “George? Is everything okay?”

“Tell Toto I’m coming to talk to him,” George snarled into the phone. “Tell him he shouldn’t have taken that camera out of Lewis’s motorhome.”

“What is that—”

“Now, Jost!” George shouted, tears leaking from his eyes against his will. “My briefing room—turn the fucking lights on, turn everything on right fucking now. If he gives you any shit—and I mean any shit—” He lowered his voice. “You tell him I’m coming for his champion and that I know enough to burn him to the fucking ground.”

Notes:

behold...The Chapter, 82 chapters in the making.

Chapter Text

 

 

Lando flinched as a fleck of boiling oil hit his forearm. He jerked back, hissing to himselfbefore he glanced once more at the glass lid that Max said not to use with the cooking pan. He had no idea how to cook chicken properly, but Max made it pretty clear he didn’t want anyone to bother them at the house, and that included food delivery.

Daniel hadn’t recovered from seeing Sebastian, and their dismal race results didn’t help things. Lando saw the nerves bundled in Daniel’s stomach, the way he kept pacing, the way he put his headphones on and put his head to his knees, trying to escape the draw of alcohol. Lando didn’t have to ask, he knew what temptation looked like on his husband’s face.

He felt it in himself too. Every time warm air brushed across his skin, he thought about the way Carlos moved past him at the golf course. He could feel words welling up in his throat every time they saw each other, and his daydreams consisted of asking Carlos to come back, for Carlos to kiss him and say he never left.

Instead Lando had the excruciating memory of Carlos acting like he saw him as nothing more than friends. Lando knew it was an act, because he knew Carlos and Carlos couldn’t hide the want in his eyes. But Carlos didn’t try to talk about it and didn’t try to kiss him and didn’t try to hold his hand. All things that Lando had listed out in his requirements for the golf outing, but he didn’t actually expect Carlos to follow the rules.

Daniel said that it was a bit toxic of him to tell Carlos one thing but expect another.

Daniel wasn’t exactly in a place to give advice, in Lando’s opinion.

He curled his fingers a little tighter around the spatula.

Okay, maybe he was a little toxic.

“I can’t help if you don’t talk to me,” Max said from the living room. His accent had thickened again, both from drinking and speaking Dutch in post-race interviews.

Max had taken one look at Daniel after the race and cancelled his attendance at every single engagement that evening. Lando was pretty sure Horner was pissed at him, but no one was really allowed to deny a winner anything unless it violated FIA law.

“And I told you I don’t want to talk about it,” Daniel replied.

“Do you know how much it scares me to see you like this?” Max asked. “Baby, I will fix anything that’s wrong.”

Lightning flashed outside as Lando continued staring at the chicken, wondering if he’d be able to tell the different between golden brown and burnt. Max said it would be easy, but Lando had attempted chicken before and Fewtrell described the texture as “chewy cedar.”

 “I just want to be here while I can be here,” Daniel said softly.

Lando glanced into the living room where Daniel sat curled up on the couch, cocooned in blankets that had to be stifling, even in the evening chill. Max had shifted to hold Daniel against his chest, which still struck Lando as odd. He always expected Max to be the big spoon in their relationship, but actually seeing it didn’t look right. Lando saw Daniel as a man strong enough to hold his own—older and wiser than Max. He turned Max from a lion to a housecat, yet Daniel was always so…needy around him.

Okay, maybe needy was strong word—but so was toxic.

“You’re shaking,” Max murmured, pressing kisses to the backs of Daniel’s fingers. “How can you expect me not to be worried?”

“It’s just temporary,” Daniel explained. “I got a little spooked. It’s nothing.”

“Then tell me about it.”

Daniel met Lando’s eyes for a split second. Lando quickly looked back to his pan of cooking chicken, intently focused on the olive oil that probably wasn’t supposed to be spewing out of the pan.

“I just need to come down from it, yeah?” Daniel said with a kiss. “Stop worrying. It’s all pent up stuff. Got…what’s the word. Triggered?”

Max sighed. “Don’t call it that.”

“Think that’s what it was, though.”

Lando lifted his gaze to see Max smoothing back Daniel’s curls. “You can’t use words like that around here,” Max said. “They’ll put you on something.”

“What if I need something?” Daniel asked, and it sounded disturbingly desperate.

Lando absently moved the chicken around on the pan and flipped each breast, grimacing when the edges appeared blackened.

“Is it that bad?” Max asked softly.

“I don’t—” Daniel cut himself off, his mouth still hanging open. “I don’t know. Sometimes—sometimes it is, babe. Sometimes it is.”

“Jesus Christ,” Max whispered, pulling Daniel tight to his chest. He pulled up the blankets, making sure Daniel’s shoulders were covered. “What, like…like anxiety shit? Or like—I mean is it—”

Jos Verstappen didn’t believe in pills as a cure for anything. He saw pain as weakness leaving the body or some shit. Lando was pretty sure Max had never even taken aa blood thinner until he became a prince.

“I don’t know,” Daniel replied, tucking his face into Max’s neck. “Can we stop talking about it?”

Max had never looked more relieved. “Yes, sure. I’ve got you. Want the TV on?”

“Yeah, I think that might help. Lando, how’s dinner?”

Lando flushed at the sound of his name. “Uh, grand,” he replied. “Really good.”

“He’s burning it,” Max muttered into Daniel’s hair.

“I heard that!”

“Fuck,” Daniel muttered, readjusting on the couch and pulling out his phone. He frowned at the screen. “It’s Zak. I’m gonna take this and go wash up for dinner.”

“Okay,” Max said, a little awkwardly. He looked lost as he held Daniel’s hand while he stood, staring at his face. “Daniel, are you—”

Daniel kissed him, long and slow. Lando watched Max’s shoulders relax.

“Look at that,” Daniel said against his lips in a way that made Lando blush. “Missed his call. Have to call him back now.”

Lando returned his attention to the browning chicken breasts in front of him and decided they were probably cooked enough. He moved them around the pan a little more just in case.

“Don’t even think about it,” Max said, suddenly close.

Lando jumped, looking up to see him standing in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen.

“Eight minutes,” Max reminded him. “It’s been five. Trust me, they aren’t cooked through. You just left them on the one side for too long.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando muttered.

“Have you cooked the peppers yet?”

He shook his head.

Max moved to stand beside him, leaning to grab a pan from where it hung on the wall. Lando stayed focused on the chicken.

Silence wedged between them, stuffing up Lando’s throat. He wanted to know how Daniel was doing—how he was really doing—and only Max really knew. But asking about him felt wrong.

So they made dinner in silence. Max cut up peppers while Lando watched the clock and tried not to flinch when olive oil sprayed onto his skin.

Then Max leaned over and grabbed the glass lid he’d said not to use and placed it over the pan.

“Don’t burn yourself,” he said, and Lando could only smell the scent of his bodywash, minty and fragrant.

“Hey,” Daniel greeted from behind them.

They both turned to find Daniel in a black hoodie and fitted sweats. His eyes had dark circles underneath them, and his cheeks looked puffy. Lando wanted to call the McLaren doctors again, just to make sure he was okay.

“I’m gonna go for a drive,” Daniel announced.

“No,” Max said firmly, crossing his arms. “You can’t go driving around here in a McLaren by yourself. If someone sees you, it’ll start a mob. They’re all drunk now, and—”

Lando started breathing harder, fear coursing into his blood. He swore he could hear the distant sounds of bottles breaking, a hundred accents clashing as he left Daniel behind.

He left Daniel behind.

“Daniel—”

“I need to clear my head,” Daniel explained. “I need to drive. Not race, just drive. I just talked to Zak, I’ll have a security detail.”

“Like the one we had at Wembley?” Lando asked, knuckles going bloodless around the spatula.

Daniel frowned. “That was different.”

“I’d prefer if you had a private security detail, not empire supplied,” Max said, as if he scheduled them all the time.

“No way, mate,” Daniel replied with a shake of his head. “I’m not asking permission, by the way. I’m going.”

Max didn’t move for a moment, then crossed the kitchen and gently tugged at the drawstrings of Daniel’s hoodie. “Be safe, then. You have your phone?”

“Yessir,” Daniel said with a smile just before he pecked Max’s lips. “Love you.”

Max returned the kiss, but then pulled Daniel into a bear hug—the kind only Max could give. Lando used to know them.

Daniel hugged him back, squeezing his eyes shut as he rubbed the space between Max’s shoulder blades.

“I love you so much,” Max said. “Be really safe, okay? Anything looks weird or feels weird, call me.”

“I will,” Daniel promised, leaning back to smooch Max’s temple.

“I’ll walk you out,” Lando offered hurriedly.

Daniel smiled at him. “I’d love that.”

Lando tried not to take the response to heart as he left Max to handle the chicken and took Daniel’s hand. Daniel gripped tight.

That should have been the first clue.

Lando breathed in the wet air as they stepped out onto the front porch balcony, rain wetting both of their hoodies as they headed down the stairs toward where their bright orange McLaren sat covered.

“Hey,” Lando said once they both reached the safety of the garage. “What did Zak call about?”

When Daniel turned to face him, he had the same look on his face as he’d had in the paddock that morning. His irises seemed to shrink in the whites of his eyes, and Lando stepped up to him, brows furrowed.

“Dan, tell me what’s up,” Lando said, quiet but stern. “Don’t tell me you’re about to drive to a pub. I swear to god I’ll call the cops. I swear to god I will.”

Daniel laughed pitifully. “Babe, I’m not going to a pub. Zak wants to chat with me. I don’t know what that means, but I don’t imagine it’s good.”

“Then let me come with you,” Lando offered. “You know he always puts on a smile for me. Trying to be cool and all that. I’ll soften the blow of whatever it is.”

Daniel swallowed hard before shaking his head. “You need to stay here with Max. Make sure he doesn’t come after me like I know he’s gonna try to do. Zak said I might be gone a few hours.”

Lando blinked. “A few hours? What the hell does he want to talk about for a few hours?”

Daniel looked out at the rain, his eyes vacant. “I don’t know. I’m guessing it has something to do with the FIA. I guess everyone found out about where we’re staying. People are pissed. I don’t know.”

“Okay, so I should come. I agreed to—”

“Lando, you’re not coming,” Daniel snapped, startling him. “You’re staying right here with Max.”

Lando grimaced. “Tell me you’re at least getting a security detail.”

Daniel smiled as he opened the car door, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “A good husband never lies, babe.”

“That’s not a good answer.”

Daniel’s smile fell away as he slid into the driver’s seat. “And I never said I was a good husband.”

 

 


 

 

Jost looked disheveled as he marched into the empty Williams garage, face red.

“Do you want to explain yourself?”

George hadn’t seen him angry in a long time, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen Jost angry at him. He always figured he would care about his Head of Government yelling at him, but he didn’t give a shit.

“Did you get the briefing room ready?” George asked instead of replying.

Jost scowled at him.  Usually Jost was pretty carefree. He could be stern with the racing team, but George had never seen him so pissed before.

“Answer me when I asked you a damn question,” Jost spat. “You are an appointed prince. I run the government. And I want an explanation as to why—”

“Ah, I see the party has started.”

George’s blood ran cold as Toto’s voice rumbled into the garage, low like thunder.

Jost must have told him something stupid to bring him in, because he didn’t look the least bit concerned. Or he was good at saving face. Probably the latter. Toto didn’t leave the comfort of Mercedes amenities for just anyone.

Toto put a hand on Jost’s shoulder. “Thank you for the call. I’ll speak to George alone, if you don’t mind. Much to discuss.”

Jost blinked, stupefied. “Just like that?”

Toto gave him an icy smile. “Just like that. I’m sure we’ll be speaking shortly.”

Sure will, George thought. He still hadn’t figured out what exactly he wanted out of this exchange.  A Mercedes crown, definitely. And he wanted Alex back—in Williams. Alex and Nicky had already raced together in the lower courts, and Nic was the only person George trusted not to fall prey to the temptations that might come from Mercedes or Red Bull.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Jost said, eyes charged. “Because the look on your face says you don’t.”

George sneered at him. “Now really isn’t the time to piss me off, Jost.”

Jost gave him a look of disappointment that would normally cause him to stumble, but not today.

“George.” Toto gestured toward the briefing room. “Shall we?”

“I invited you here,” George reminded him. “Not the other way around.”

He stalked past Toto, who shut the door behind them.

All of the monitors and Williams insignia from the race day had been stripped from the room, leaving nothing but a long line of white tables and plastic chairs tucked in close. Toto pulled one out and sat down as if they were about to share a coffee.

“Now, what is this all about?” Toto asked. “Jost sounded very concerned.”

George’s eyes flashed.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking know.

He pulled out the chair beside Toto’s, plopping down into it with a smile.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” he asked, cocking his head. “I love storms. So unpredictable.”

Toto looked like he might laugh. “We’re here to talk about the weather?”

George leaned back in the chair. “Do you know where Lewis is right now?”

Toto shrugged. “I’m sure he’s close by.”

“Oh, I know he is.”

Toto hesitated for only a second. “That makes me think you might be angry with him.”

Anger didn’t begin to cover it. George wished he was only angry. Anger was white hot and boiling, ready to spew acid on whoever came near. A quick burst of emotion that could be ended with a punch or a scream.

This wasn’t anger.

“I want you to listen to me very closely,” George began, leaning forward. “I want my appointment. Now. Today. And you’re going to call Jost after our meeting and he’s going to appoint Alex Albon to Williams.”

Toto let out a snort. “Careful, George—”

“I saw them,” George cut. “Lewis and Sebastian. Lewis must’ve forgotten he gave me a key. Just now they were in Lewis’s trailer together and—”

“Don’t say another word,” Toto growled, but his face had gone pale.

“Don’t say what?” George teased. “How they’re—”

“They’re both World Champions? Yes, they are,” Toto gritted out.

George smiled.

So Toto did know about them. He figured as much. After all, Toto did have to arrange Lewis’s security, his separate motorhome, his reasoning as to why he never slept in the same hotel room as his own husband.

George liked Toto. Toto never needed things spelled out.

“A part of me is impressed,” George said, leaning back and folding his arms over his chest. “Mercedes always has a way of solving every problem.  Thankfully I’m a team player, just like you asked me to be. So I’m approaching you with the solution to this problem already laid out.”

Toto swallowed hard. The man probably never looked completely afraid, but this had to be close.

“You understand you’ll be signing a non-disclosure agreement,” Toto said. His dark eyes held no emotion, but the lines around his mouth carried plenty.

George shrugged. “That’s fine. I have no intention of telling anyone…I mean, unless you find some way to weasel out of this and twist my words.”

Toto glared at him.

Snakes. Mick had been right in Bahrain.

“I’m going to be at Mercedes as a prince, not a prisoner,” George growled. “And Alex will be at Williams, and you’ll do whatever you have to do to get Horner to agree with it.”

“That doesn’t sound—”

“And if I even so much as suspect Alex is being threatened in some way, I’m telling the whole fucking world. I know all of the evidence now,” George said. “I can connect all the fucking dots.”

What little color Toto had left drained from his face.

Power felt good. George had never been tempted to use drugs before, but he imagined this was what it felt like.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Toto said.

George shook his head. “Nah. Done playing that game. You’re going to get that contract right now, and we’re going to have a little signing party. Unless you’d like to wait on that non-disclosure agreement?”

Toto’s flared his nostrils as he stood. “I’ll be back in a moment, then.”

George smiled at him, all teeth. “Thank you ever so much.”

Toto glared at him on the way out of the room, and the second the door shut, George sank back, relieved.  Once he had the contracts, everything would be easier. Alex would be coming by Williams to prepare for his crown, and George would be able to oversee everything to make sure Alex had protection and care. Since Alex didn’t currently have a crown, he would go through an induction process full of press events to begin assimilating him to the empire and they would finally have time together again. 

George barely had time to breathe before the door burst open, slamming against the wall so loudly that he nearly fell out the chair.

Sebastian stormed into the room, shutting the door behind him with so much force George had to wonder how it didn’t fall of the hinges on impact. Well, he would have wondered that if he had the space or time to think before he had a face full of pissed-off world champion.

He shoved the chair back in an attempt to escape, but Sebastian grabbed the armrests in a flash reaction and shoved, resulting in George hitting the table with the back of his chair and blinking up into frothing blue.

“I always knew you would be trouble,” Sebastian snarled, breath hot on his face. “As soon as Lewis told me he was considering you, I told him it would be a mistake.”

“Should’ve picked someone stupider?” George cracked, though fear had curled tight around his insides.

Sebastian looked like he was one second from strangling him. “Someone with some fucking sense.”

“I think I have plenty of that,” he replied. “Which is exactly why I’m not letting you take Alex away from me.”

He’d never really paid attention to Sebastian. Back when Vettel had been synonymous with Red Bull, George had been focused on his karting, rolling his eyes every time he heard some story about the blond German prodigy being the next Michael Schumacher. He liked Sebastian’s driving, his knowledge of the car, but his four championships never impressed George that much. They seemed like givens, a great car given to a good enough driver.

Sebastian wasn’t Lewis. He couldn’t make any car into a championship car. He couldn’t lead a government with the skill and—

He snapped himself out of his thoughts. Lewis cheated on him. Lewis fucking cheated on him.

“You really think you’re something, don’t you,” Sebastian said. He leaned closer, and George leaned back. He didn’t want to be up close and personal with Sebastian’s lips, especially now that he might know what they fucking tasted like.

The thought made him want to throw up.

“What’s his greatest fear?” George asked, trying to act unaffected. “You wrote him that postcard, didn’t you? Central Park?”

Sebastian blinked, then leaned back and stepped away.

George took his chance. “I assume it was you, anyway. There was also a handwritten letter—German. Couldn’t understand it. but that was you, wasn’t it?”

Sebastian just stared at him.

“Ooooh,” George laughed. “It wasn’t yours. That makes sense. You know, because Nico’s watch was in there too.”

He saw something akin to pain flash in Sebastian’s eyes, but he thought he’d seen the same thing when Sebastian left Charles in Ferrari.

“You think Nico is a secret?” Sebastian asked, pulling out the chair Toto had been sitting in. The calm in his voice unnerved him. George shifted in his seat, but kept his gaze level.

“From a guy like you? No, I don’t think he’s a secret. But Lewis does all kinds of things without people knowing, doesn’t he?”

Sebastian’s eyes flashed. “You have no idea what you’re starting.”

George laughed outright. “Actually, I do. I had a front row seat to your little comfort session. Thanks for the tips on cutting spinach.”

Sebastian offered a mocking smile. “Anytime.”

“He has a little Nico shrine in his watch case,” George said. “You know, the one he brings everywhere? Did you know about that?”

“If you’re using this as a tactic to get information out of me, don’t waste your breath,” Sebastian drawled, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

“I don’t need information,” George snapped. “I have plenty of fucking information on the two of you.”

“Oh? What’s your proof?”

George bristled. “My proof? All I need is for someone to follow you the next time it storms. Or someone to dig a little deeper in your phone records. I’m guessing you two don’t write any letters—wouldn’t want to leave a trace.”

“So you have none,” Sebastian said with a nod.

“Maybe not yet, but I’m also friends with Max,” George said.

Sebastian froze.

“Maybe we’re not that close anymore, but I’m sure he’d love to hear about this. And you and I both know how nosy Red Bull can be. And I know a few empires that would love to see Mercedes crumble.”

Sebastian exploded from the chair, eyes wild.

“You even think about doing something that ridiculous—"

The door opened, stopping Sebastian in his tracks. Anger looked different on him than George had expected—Sebastian was fire where Lewis was ice.

Lewis cocked a brow at Sebastian as he entered.

“Didn’t expect you to get riled, Seb,” he greeted. He looked to George. “Now I’m curious to hear what you said.”

Sebastian fumed where he stood, but didn’t speak.

George folded his arms, grinning. “I told him about your watch collection. And your little Nico shrine.”

Lewis’s mouth twitched. “Ah. Yes, I suppose that would do it.”

“This dummkopf thinks he can come in here and decide whatever he wants about us,” Sebastian snapped. “You said he was smart. I’m not seeing that. I’m not seeing that at—”

“Easy, love,” Lewis said, reaching out to glance his fingers against he curve of Sebastian’s jaw. Tension melted from his body as if Lewis had injected him with something at his touch.

“You’re too soft for him,” Sebastian hissed.

George’s heart prickled, warring with pride and hatred all at once.

“Maybe,” Lewis murmured, eyes trailing over his face. “But this was my mistake, so I’m going to fix it. I appreciate you defending me, but I can handle this.” He stroked Sebastian’s cheek again. “Toto’s waiting for you outside. We’re bringing Albon to Williams.”

George fought not to grin. It was one thing to pick a fight with these two, another to gloat around them. Even he knew that.

“Don’t do this,” Sebastian said. “Give me two hours and I’ll come up with a better solution.”

Lewis chuckled. “You Germans always think more time is the answer. I’ve got this, yeah? Go meet with Toto. Christian’s only going to listen if you make that call.”

“Okay,” Sebastian said. He cleared his throat, glancing down at the floor before returning his gaze to Lewis. “Am I allowed to say—”

“I love you too,” Lewis finished. He looked strained all of a sudden, like saying the words physically hurt him. “And I’m sorry about—”

“No,” Sebastian interrupted, shaking his head. “You don’t need to explain anything to me. It doesn’t change anything between us.”

“Jesus Christ,” George groaned. “Get on with it. Have your little kiss and go, will you?”

“We’ll talk about it once I’m finished,” Lewis said to Sebastian, ignoring him. “I’ll explain it all.”

George expected them to kiss, or maybe embrace, but Lewis merely stepped aside to allow Sebastian to pass by him. They didn’t even look at each other as Sebastian made his exit.

“At least one of you is smart,” George muttered.

Lewis turned on him so sharply that George instinctively flinched before he could remind himself not to.

“I advise you shut up,” Lewis growled.

George was used to seeing him relaxed and happy. Soft edges with a bright smile and a twinkle in his eye.  He never looked tired or puffy-faced or worn down. Even when George had seen him angry before, he realized now that he’d only seen Lewis angry on the surface.

The Lewis standing in front of him was the man whispered about in the lower courts, the one the heads of government scurried away from, the one who bent the will of the FIA with a single look.

Everything about him changed in an instant. George thought he’d planned for this. He had a plan that was logical, a plan that made sense. Yes, blackmailing two world champions was a bit of a gamble, but he had proof. He had fucking proof.

Lewis yanked Sebastian’s chair toward him and flipped it around. He folded his arms over the back of the seat as he sat, eyes black and emotionless. Actually emotionless. Not a single good or bad thing in them. George thought he’d seen a dead expression on Charles, but this was so unnatural it made his skin crawl.

“I got your flowers,” Lewis said once the silence began to suffocate him.

“Fuck you,” George whispered, tears jumping to his eyes.

Lewis nodded once, deadpan. “There are two ways we can do this. We can be adults, or you can turn this into a teen drama.”

“Fuck you,” George repeated.

Lewis lifted his hand, curling his fingers beneath his chin in a display of total nonchalance.

“Alex is coming to Williams,” Lewis finally said, slightly muffled by the position of his fist against his jaw. “But not because you asked—though it is your fault.”

George grit his teeth. “You can’t do anything to him. I told Toto that if anything happens to Alex, I’ll tell everyone about you and Sebastian. You don’t have any leverage on me.”

Lewis let out a snort, peering at him out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll admit this was unexpected. A perfect storm—pardon the pun. We’re very good at hiding at this point. But this isn’t the first time we’ve slipped up.”

George rolled his eyes.  He didn’t believe a word Lewis said anymore.

Lewis tapped his chin. “Let’s see. Toto knows, of course. Kimi found out pretty quickly –that was Seb. If I had my way, he never would have found out.”

Toto made sense. Kimi didn’t. George couldn’t imagine Kimi bothering to look into where Sebastian might have disappeared to—maybe precisely why Sebastian told him.

“And Nico knows, I bet,” George challenged.

Lewis wrinkled his nose. “Right. Nico does know. But he doesn’t really count, in my opinion. There’s someone else too…oh damn, who was it?”

George leered at him. “Stop fucking around.”

Lewis lowered his hand and stared him in the face. “Gladly. Alex is mine now. If you tell anyone about what you saw today, or if you fuck up in a way that might lead someone to believe things about us, Alex pays the price. I have no problem exiling him. He has no ties here, and Red Bull obviously doesn’t give a shit about him. He’ll be easy to throw away.”

“If I tell everyone about you and Sebastian, you won’t have a leg to stand on,” George snapped. “So stop threatening me.”

Lewis smiled at him, ice cold. “That’s cute. You think your word has any power here, man? Even if you had proof—which you don’t, I checked—you’ll never get anyone to believe you. Gossip rags take gag orders when I want them to. Otherwise they don’t get access to anything. And the other princes? Like they care about what Sebastian and I do behind closed doors.”

“Don’t undervalue yourself,” George taunted. “Max would love to know.”

“Wouldn’t he,” Lewis chuckled. “Trust me, I’ve thought about it. He’s trying so hard to defend Mick and Callum. Nostalgia does that. Especially nostalgia about love.”

George blinked, and suddenly it all made sense. Max’s letter when he visited Mercedes, how he knew that Charles had been in the medical wing. Why he’d fought with Kimi in the paddock after Kimi stepped aside and allowed George to find Mick and Callum in the Alfa Romeo garage.

Mick had been feeding Max information. Mick, who knew that Lewis paid his fine in Portugal, who always warned him not to trust Lewis.

His head started to pound.

“I can promise you, you’ll regret it if you tell anyone about this,” Lewis said evenly. His skin glowed in the low light of the empty briefing room, and the diamond studs in his nose and ears turned lethal in the shadow of his face.

“No,” George snapped. “I’ve made up my mind. You aren’t going to muzzle me. Not after what I just saw—and by the way, a fucking apology would have been nice.”

Lewis blinked at him. “I’m not apologizing for anything I’m not sorry for.”

“You’re not sorry for being a fucking liar?”

“Our relationship wasn’t a lie, if that’s what you’re referring to,” Lewis said.

George scoffed. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Well, I’m not in love with you, so I guess there’s a bit of a lie there.” He tilted his head. “But can you honestly say you were in love with me? Really, George? We barely spoke. I blew you off for weeks between races and we saw each other only once or twice during race weekends.”

George looked away. He’d made excuses for Lewis every time. It wasn’t hard. Lewis was the reigning champion. He was always busy between the team, the FIA, the people of Mercedes. He wondered how much of it was actually just him with Sebastian.

“I’m not keeping your secret,” he hissed, voice full of pain.

“Then you’ll lose your crown,” Lewis said in a warning tone. “Toto is headed to Jost right now to appoint Alex, but we don’t have to appoint you. Do you really think Alex will last here without you? Especially when Seb and I don’t want him here?” He let out a hum of disapproval. “If you thought 2019 was bad, you have no fucking idea what’s coming for him.”

George leaned in, furious. “I don’t care. I’ll gladly watch you take on a new teammate intent on making your life hell. I have connections too, jackass.”

“Connections like Max?” Lewis asked. “He was the one who exiled Alex, remember.”

“Probably because Sebastian forced him to!”

He had no idea how deep this web of lies traveled. He wanted nothing to do with any of it.

Lewis smiled. “Wouldn’t it be nice to pin every problem on us.”

A series of soft knocks sounded at the door.  Lewis glanced at his watch, as if he had somewhere to be. Fucking ridiculous.

“Come in,” Lewis called.

Sebastian stepped inside, but held the door open behind him. “I’ve brought a guest.”

Daniel appeared in the threshold. He wore a black BOSS hoodie that George recognized as Lando’s, and a pair of sweats that covered the leg tattoos he always seemed to be showing off. His eyes were vacant, his posture reserved. He looked nothing like the man George was used to seeing in the paddock.

Lewis tapped his temple with a finger and smiled. “Right, Daniel. That’s the name I was forgetting. Welcome in.”

George gaped at Daniel, but Daniel didn’t seem to acknowledge his existence as he pulled out a chair and took his seat. He kept his eyes fixed to the table the whole time, and kept himself unnervingly still.

Lewis stood and patted Daniel’s shoulder before looking to George.

“I’ll have a contract for you to sign when you leave,” Lewis said. “Understand this isn’t personal. You knew as well as I did that we weren’t the only ones in our relationship. And I do care about your success. I hope you can see that.  And I guess I do love you, in a way. Just not the way you apparently wanted me to.”

Lewis didn’t linger. He put an arm around Sebastian and gave him a small squeeze before dropping his hand and stepping out with him, neither champion saying a word.

The door clicked shut and Daniel finally met his eye. His pupils shrank to nothing, and the whites of his eyes began to swallow up the color there, shaping Daniel into a thing consumed with fear.

“You aren’t telling anyone anything, mate,” Daniel whispered, his voice so shaky that George had trouble understanding him. “Or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Chapter Text

Charles sat at the base of the stairs in front of the hotel, trying to will himself into calm. Clouds billowed overhead and thunder growled in the distance, but Charles paid no mind to it. In fact, he wouldn’t mind if rain soaked him through.

The sandy soil of Zandvoort piled around his finger as he drew patterns in the dirt, waiting. He’d left Carlos upstairs in their room to analyze his race results and talk over yet another issue with his mechanics. Charles knew he should be focusing on the race too, but—as usual—his stupid feelings got in the way of everything.

The low purr of a Ferrari Stradale accompanied the crunch of quartz gravel. Charles looked up to see his car rounding the front of the hotel, the windows so dark he couldn’t make out the driver.

Antonello emerged from the car once he’d put it park, his curls bouncing in the low light. He paused when he saw Charles sitting alone.

“Your Royal Highness,” Antontello greeted with a dip of his head. “I thought Prince Carlos would be joining you?”

Charles smiled politely. “Non questa volta. Too focused on the fact that he finished two places behind me.”

Antonello handed over the keys with a skeptical look. “And usually you are focused on the fact that you didn’t win.”

Yet another tally to add to all of the things wrong with him.

Charles shrugged. “I think they call that growth.”

“Well, the windows have been tinted, per your request. I agree that it’s a necessary safety measure, but I encourage you not to stop the car for any reason.”

“Vado solo a fare un giro, Antonello,” Charles said, offering a charming smile. People used to comment on his dimples, the way happiness looked so good on him. No one ever commented on it anymore.

“A Ferrari will not go unnoticed here,” Antonello made sure to add.

Charles wished he could request another car, but Binotto wouldn’t allow to him to drive something that wasn’t a Ferrari when he was supposed to represent the empire.

A blue Honda Civic Type R pulled in with an FIA security representative behind the wheel, eyeing Antonello with distaste.

“What an ugly car,” Antonello muttered.  He turned to Charles one last time. “There are checkpoints if you divert from the main road. Don’t do anything foolish, please.”

Foolish. Charles wanted to laugh. His whole life was a farce, a play put on for people who didn’t care about anything except the photos he smiled for and the car he drove. Everyone wanted his life. He’d wanted his life once too. Now he couldn’t go a day without shoving pills down his throat and that didn’t stop the hurting.

He watched as the taillights of the Civic carried Antonello away to the FIA building nearby, where all of the security teams were stationed for the weekend. He was fairly certain each empire had a security room in the hotel too, but Antonello liked to give the illusion of being hands off.

An ominous wind rustled the leaves in the trees framing the hotel, a whisper of a weather to come.

“Vous êtes là.”

Charles lifted his head at the sound of Pierre’s voice. His heart seized, twisting up tight in his chest.

“Brooding?” Pierre teased as he dropped to sit beside him, resting their shoulders together. His body heat permeated Charles’s shirt, and he suddenly wished he could stop time. He wouldn’t mind being stuck in the misty greys and greens of an oncoming storm, Pierre by his side, unsuspecting and unknowing.

“Thinking,” Charles replied, leaning against him.

Pierre put an arm around him, but didn’t kiss him. “I still don’t know how you managed to get this approved.”

“Technically it wasn’t approved,” Charles admitted. “Technically I’m just going for a drive and Yuki left you behind.”

Pierre laughed. “This means I’m never going to hear the end of it if we’re late.”

You’ll wish you never left, Charles thought, putting on a smile.

“I agree it’s a bit of a strange situation,” Charles replied. “Êtes-vous prêt?”

Pierre nodded. “Handed my luggage off to Yuki, so we’re all good.”

Charles got to his feet and helped Pierre up. Pierre’s grip lingered on his arm and Charles told himself not to want.

He doesn’t want you anyway. You’re doing him a favor.

He motioned to the car and Pierre shook his head at the sight of it.

“You’d think Ferrari and Alpha Tauri would have some kind of peace agreement—think we could arrange that? Swap cars for a weekend?”

“That doesn’t sound like a fair trade,” Charles said, reflexively going for the joke as he opened up the driver’s side door. Pierre glanced around before slipping into the passenger seat.

“Carlos est d’accord avec ça?” Pierre asked, feeling out the leather of his seat.

Pierre had been in a Ferrari before, but Charles understood how a new one could be a bit breathtaking. He remembered the first time he sat in an NSX, how much he’d wanted to have a car just like it as his disposal. Now he made fun of them.

Pierre’s hand folded over his thigh. Charles stared down at it for a moment, caught in a memory of long ago. A different hand, a different life.

He shut the door.

“Je peux t’embrasser maintenant?” Pierre asked, grinning at him.

Charles smiled and leaned in. Their lips met and Charles could taste remnants of a powdered sugar pastry, and what he guessed was the warmth a coffee Pierre must have just finished.

“You taste like breakfast,” Charles laughed as he pulled away and wiped his mouth.

“It’s the breakfast I wasn’t allowed to have before the race,” Pierre replied. “This flight is going to kill me. Somehow the short ones are the worst.”

Charles pulled out of the roundabout driveway and onto the main road.

“My flight might get canceled,” Pierre said, thumbing Charles’s thigh as he watched the darkening clouds up ahead.

Charles tried not to stare at him as he drove. “I doubt it. A private jet is much more flexible.”

“Can I stay with you if it does?” Pierre asked, smirking. “Seeing as I’m checked out and all.”

Charles’s stomach churned. “je pense qu’on peut s’arranger.”

He was going to throw up. He was going to actually throw up.

The private airport they used to fly in wasn’t far from the hotel. He had maybe five minutes.

Charles flexed his fingers around the wheel, trying to understand. None of this made it any easier. Pierre’s thumb at his thigh comforted him when it was supposed to disturb him. The car wasn’t supposed to smell like Pierre—he wasn’t supposed to want to bury his nose into Pierre’s hair and inhale the soft scent of him. He wasn’t supposed to want to stop the car and beg for forgiveness.

A sign for the airport indicated it was only five kilometers away.

“It isn’t like I thought,” Charles said, easing on the accelerator.

“Zandvoort?” Pierre let out a laugh. “Yeah. Understatement. Cet endroit est complètement fou.”

No. Not Zandvoort.

Reeds and beach grasses blurred in the windows as they flew down the open road together. The scent of the beach lingered, the warning, the saltwater warmth in his eyes and the churning clouds overhead.

“I have to devote more time to Carlos, and to Ferrari,” Charles said, staring ahead.

Pierre turned to look at him. “What?”

“I can’t do this anymore, Pierre. I thought I could, and I wanted to be able to, but I can’t.”

Pierre kept staring at him, assessing. He had to have known.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Charles said weakly.

Rain started on the windshield. Thick drops that splattered like bloodspray.

Pierre squeezed his thigh, then slid his hand away. “No, I understand.”

Pain clenched Charles’s heart. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, fighting the urge to scream. Max didn’t feel any pain when he ended them. He didn’t grip the wheel or cry or do anything on that whole drive to the airport.

“Charles, c’est bien,” Pierre soothed, but hurt laced his voice. “I knew this would happen. I kind of expected it sooner.”

Each word hit like splintered wood, the sharp edges of snapped tree limbs, pieces of wood waiting to embed in soft flesh.

“Did you sleep with Stoffel?” Charles dared to ask, his throat closing as he spoke.

Pierre shook his head as he stared out the window. “No. But you think I did, and that’s something we aren’t going to get past.”

Charles wanted to argue. He wanted to say he believed Pierre, but he didn’t. At least the drugs didn’t make him stupid.

He doesn’t even want to try. Nobody wants you.

“You could have visited,” Charles said. “You had time to go to Steakout but you didn’t have time—”

“Don’t blame this on me,” Pierre snapped. “I told you everything. I was scared to death when I got the notifications from your ring. I tried to get to you, but Max said I had to meet him at Steakout first. Then he said I shouldn’t go see you. He said I would make things worse.”

“Belle excuse,” Charles said.

Pierre flinched. When he spoke next, his voice was soft, “You’re sick, Charles. You’re very sick right now. I thought you were better, but you’re not.”

“I am not sick!” Charles hissed, kicking the car into sixth. “You went on vacation with your secret lover you never told me about. Trois ans, Pierre. How can we be best friends if you’ve been hiding someone from me for three years?”

“Je t’ai dit pourquoi,” Pierre said,  returning to calm. “Yes, I could have said it earlier, but you were already on the fence. You’ve been looking for a way out since we started. I don’t want to be a in a relationship like that.”

He doesn’t want you anymore. He never did, he just wanted to see if he could get you.

“I love you,” Charles said, clenching the wheel. “And I still see life with you after this. But right now I can’t do it. So I’m putting an end to this for now so I can focus.”

Pierre shook his head as he stared out the window. Rain streaked on the glass, throwing shadowy lines on his cheeks.

“So you’re dumping me on the way to the airport,” Pierre said quietly. “You’re doing exactly what Max did to you, but you’re totally healthy. Nothing’s wrong.”

Shame burned Charles’s cheeks.

“I’m not a teenager in a foreign country on my own,” Pierre continued, looking back over at him. “What Max did to you was terrible. I don’t know why you’re trying to do the same thing to me. I actually love you, and I know you actually love me. So why are you doing this?”

Charles’s vision swam until he blinked, then the salty wetness of tears ran down his cheeks. Pierre leaned over, wiping them away with a touch so careful that Charles had to stop himself from crying harder. Fuck, he hated crying. He hated being like this all the time.

“Maybe Max did it right,” Charles said, clearing his throat. He could barely feel the car, the growling engine behind them. “He just cut me off and I had to learn how to be without him. I would have gone crazy if he said he still loved me back then. I would have thrown everything away.”

“He completely fucked you up, Char,” Pierre said. “He made it so you can’t be with anyone because you’re so scared it’s going to happen again.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” Charles snapped. He wished the road fucking curved. Any kind of corner—anything would be better than a damn straight line. The exit appeared on the right, a two-lane to freedom.

“I patched you up,” Pierre argued. “We almost had something back then, but you ran away every time we came close. I’m not going to leave you, Charles. Not even after this, not unless you tell me to go.”

Charles wanted to laugh, but he was too angry. “You left me for Stoffel. I wanted to spend summer break with you. Je voulais ça. But you spent it with him.”

“You never asked me what my plans were. I knew you were going to Mykonos and—”

“I shouldn’t have to ask! We’re together, tu devrais juste me le dire! I think it’s something that should have come up in fucking conversation, Pierre!”

Pierre set his jaw, frustration finally evident on his face. “You haven’t been in a place where I could tell you. Yes, I waited too long, but I waited because I was scared of this, and now it’s happening anyway.”

“Yeah, it is,” Charles snarled, gunning it toward the private entrance. A taxi honked at him, but he didn’t even glance over.

Pierre sighed as Charles pulled past the gate, where a few security guards waved them through without even bothering to check who was at the wheel.

Silence forced its way between them as Charles pulled up to the waiting jet, where Yuki paced at the base of the stairs. He breathed a visible sigh of relief at the sight of the car.

Pierre sniffled, and Charles realized he was crying.

“I just want you to be okay,” Pierre whispered, his lips wet. He wiped his eyes and leaned forward in his seat to regain his composure. His eyes looked so blue when he was upset, somehow color charged into them with emotion. It made him more of a person, where Charles shrank into nothing in his sadness.

“That’s all I want,” Pierre said, clearing his throat. “Whatever I have to do to help you be okay. Right now I guess that means being with Carlos and Ferrari. So I’ll do that. I’m not leaving you alone with this. I don’t care if you break up with me.”

Charles kept his gaze fixed on the Ferrari emblem on his steering wheel, his warped reflection in the silver.

“I just want to focus on my job,” Charles said. “I don’t want to have to sneak around anymore. I don’t want to have to guess and wait and hope you’re telling me the truth.”

“If you don’t trust me, then yes, we shouldn’t be together,” Pierre said, sniffling again. “But I want you to leave this conversation knowing that I still love you, and you don’t ever have to hesitate in telling me anything. And you can always call me, no matter what.”

“Pierre, don’t act like—”

“No,” Pierre interrupted, adamant. “I love you. I’m in love with you too. Quoi qu’il en soit.”

Charles searched his face for dishonesty, but found none.

“Stop making this harder,” Charles breathed. His eyes ached from trying to squeeze out tears.

Pierre’s palm came to his cheek, warm but not sweaty. Charles nuzzled into his hand without thinking, lulled by the promise of comfort. He didn’t flinch when lips pressed to his forehead.

“Carlos is a good person,” Pierre murmured against his forehead. “I hope he makes you happy.” Pierre gave him another kiss—to his temple this time.

“I’ll see you in Monza,” Pierre said with finality. “And you can always write me. I’ll write you.”

Charles nodded slowly. “Your luggage is in the trunk.”

Yuki handed it off  to him when Charles caught him in the lobby.

You’re just like Sebastian. Copy and paste.

“Okay,” Pierre said, like he didn’t see the significance. But he knew.

He already had my luggage packed in the trunk.

Charles popped the hood and Pierre got out of the car without a word.  Yuki stopped pacing to watch with a worried expression, holding tightly to a golf umbrella. Charles considered getting out of the car, but knew that wasn’t a good idea. He had to stick by his decisions now.

Pierre clicked the hood back in place and stared at him, though Charles knew he couldn’t actually see him. Charles avoided his gaze anyway.

But he watched when Pierre walked away, pulling his roller bag behind him.

Yuki held the umbrella tighter, and Pierre gave a single shake of his head as he approached. Suddenly Yuki dumped the umbrella and hugged him tight, and Charles had to look away when he saw Pierre’s shoulders heaving with the force of his sobs.

He peeled out of the airport, but even his Ferrari didn’t move fast enough to outpace the panic rising in his throat. His vision started to swim as he drove, fighting the pain that erupted inside him.

Pierre isn’t coming back. You just broke his heart.

And Pierre had every right to leave him.

He drove past a billboard with Max’s royal photo plastered on it, stern-faced and so unlike the Max he knew. The Red Bull crown glowed in the red backlight of the photo, turning Max’s eyes almost black.

Everyone here hated him. They saw him as a threat to Max and Daniel—and at one point, Charles wished he could have been that.

You’re going to be alone forever.

Panic closed his throat at the revelation, the same way it had his first night alone in Monaco. Silence pressed its fingers to his flesh, waiting to draw blood.

The tires squealed against asphalt as Charles veered off the road, trying to breathe. Oxygen vacated his blood, even as he sucked down breaths and hunched against the steering wheel, the car still running.

He pulled out his phone with trembling hands, somehow managing to put the car in park in the process of grabbing it.

The screen glowed in the dark as Charles found his notes app and tapped the only number he had saved there.

The line started to ring.

 

 

 


 

 

Max stood at the door when Lando stepped back into the house, arms folded as he watched Daniel pull out of the driveway, flooring the McLaren at a speed that would worry most people. Hell, it worried Lando, who was still shaken by the way he left.

“Is he good?” Max asked, nodding toward the McLaren taillights at the end of the road.

Lando considered lying and saying he was fine, but he knew Max.

“Not really. Zak called him back for a chat.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “A chat?”

Lando shrugged helplessly. “I dunno, Max. That’s what he said.”

“Do you believe him?”

Max looked at him out of the corner of his eye, his gaze heavy. Lando hated the way the past flared up between them so fucking often now. Lando understood why—Daniel’s feelings for him definitely influenced Max in some way, the same way Daniel’s feelings about Max influenced Lando. Love radiated. Usually it left Lando feeling like a third wheel, feeling lonely, feeling sorry for himself.

Daniel never really let that happen.

“I believe he’s going to talk with Zak, yeah,” Lando finally replied.

Max nodded once before turning from the door. “Dinner, then. I salvaged your shitty chicken. Vegetables should be ready in a minute.”

Lando clucked his disapproval. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to leave food cooking on the stove?”

Max put a hand on his back as they walked toward the kitchen. “Nah. But Carlos did.”

Lando froze.

He could hear it—Carlos’s scolding tone, followed by laughter, sweeping Lanod up into his arms in a hug before devolving into a wrestling match that  devolved into something else.

“Fuck,” Max said immediately. “I’m sorry.”

Lando shrugged him off. “Are you serious?’

“I forgot.”

“You forgot. Yeah, sure you did,” Lando snapped.

Max blinked at him, stunned. “I did forget—I’m sorry, Lando.”

Only Max and Pierre had been at Steakout when Lando explained that he and Carlos were taking a break. Except anyone with a brain would have been able to see that it was a breakup, not a break. They weren’t putting their relationship on pause, even though Carlos said that’s all he wanted it to be.

No one put a relationship on pause with someone they wanted to be with forever. Nobody agreed to focus on their other option when they really wanted to be with the guy they were breaking up with.

“Lando, I’m sorry,” Max said again. “I was trying to make a joke and I ended up being a dick. I’m sorry.”

Lando lifted his chin. “Are you, though?”

Max didn’t flinch. “When it comes to you? Always.”

Anger crept out from the depths of him, seething up through Lando’s bloodstream.

“Stop,” Lando growled. “You start talking like that and I’m going home.”

“Start talking like what?” Max asked, continuing into the kitchen.

Lando grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back.

Max turned on him, spinning around so quickly that Lando didn’t have time to react before Max slammed against the threshold, drywall digging painfully into either side of his spine. Fear crashed into Lando just as hard as the hit, but he saved face, staring down his nose at him. Max wouldn’t hurt him. Max wouldn’t dare.

Sure enough, Max loosened his hold in an instant and remorse jumped to his eyes.

“Goddammit, Lando,” Max breathed. “Don’t grab me like that. Don’t ever grab me like that.”

Max took a step back and flexed his fingers as though willing the violence from them. “Let me get this pan off the stove, okay? Jesus Christ—I’m not running away from you, we’re sharing a house.”

Lando swallowed hard as Max stepped away, fighting not to rub his back where the drywall had dented the muscle there. The race had been exhilarating and exhausting, but he didn’t need to add back pain to his list of aches. He supposed he deserved it though, for grabbing Max in a way he knew would get a reaction.

Maybe Daniel was right, he was toxic.

Maybe vengeful.

Maybe both.

Max didn’t say anything as he pushed the cooking vegetables around the pan, then lifted it off and scooped them into a bowl too big for two people.

“Sorry,” Lando mumbled.

“It’s fine,” Max said stiffly. “Just because my dad used to hit me doesn’t mean I should do stuff like that to people I care about.”

Lando blinked in surprise. He’d never once heard Max admit to being hit by his father. Everyone knew—everyone saw—but Max never said anything about it anyone. Not even Charles. He never named what happened to him.

“It’s like turning a corner,” Max continued, completely focused on the pan. “Your feet just move, your hands just move. You can do it with your eyes closed. Someone grabs me and I just don’t want to get hit again.”

Lando didn’t know what to do. Speaking felt wrong, but so did staying quiet.

“You don’t have to talk to me about your dad,” Lando said, keeping his voice even. “We’re mates. I know you. I know what a prick he was—still is. You don’t have to talk about it.”

Max stopped rearranging the vegetable in the bowl, clenching his teeth for a second.

“I just want this to work,” Max said. “You, me, Daniel. You’re the only person I’d ever share him with.”

Heat rushed to Lando’s cheeks, burning hot.

“So stop being weird,” he said.

Max looked up from the veggies, his gaze darker than Lando remembered, but not unkind.

Lando shifted uncomfortably, withering under that look—all of the feeling behind it, the emotion lingering. He’d seen it a lot lately in Max’s eyes. Both of them traveled back to that karting garage too often, ever since Daniel became a part of both of them.

Max still had such pretty eyes. Lando hated that he still liked them.

“Was I really that bad of a kisser?” Lando asked, his heart twisting up with shame. “I always wondered, you know. I always thought that was why.”

“No,” Max replied quietly. “Lando, no.”

Lando crossed his arms, trying not to squirm as heat built up in his eyes. “I guess I don’t get it then. I mean, besides the fact that you were obviously with Charles. Duh. But like, you weren’t being a friend, mate. You never treated me like George or Alex.”

Max cleared his throat. “I wanted to be you.”

Lando furrowed his brow, sure he had misunderstood.

“You didn’t care the same way everyone else did,” Max said. “Charles had to prove something to his dad, to Jules.  I had to prove something to my whole family. Pierre was the same, George too. Alex wanted a way out, you just wanted to be there racing.”

Lando never thought about it that way. He just liked being in the car, chasing down a better lap. He liked shaving off tenths, tuning the machine that encased him into something faster and more dangerous.

“Your parents came to every race,” Max continued. “I remember your dad always said he was proud of you. I always remember that. I always hoped I’d find you before he came over, just so I could hear that.”

Lando hurriedly wiped his eyes before the saltwater could make his cheeks even more red. His heart ached in his chest, squeezing so tight he wanted to pull out his ribs to alleviate pressure.

So Max just wanted to see his dad, not him. All of those times he’d waited with helmet in hand for Max to come find him, he just wanted to find a word of praise from a father.

“I did love you. I do love you,” Max said, eyes distant. “We’re so similar, I think. I think I’d be like you if my dad wasn’t so fucked up. Instead I’m…”

He trailed off and Lando stepped forward, touching Max’s elbow. He kept it gentle. He didn’t want to scare him again.

“Instead you’re a better person than I am,” Lando said quietly. “I mean, look mate, I’ve got the social skills of a doorknob. I’ve never won a race. I’ve got—”

“See how we do that?” Max interrupted, turning to him with a sad smile. “Winning doesn’t make you a better person, but we always treat it like that. I don’t understand. I like to win, yes, but it doesn’t make me better as a human being.”

Lando stood there with his mouth open, trying to formulate a response.

“Daniel makes me better,” Max said. “Daniel. Not winning, not the car, not the crown. Daniel is everything to me. And when he first told me about you…” He swallowed hard and shook his head.

Lando stayed quiet, but kept his hand on Max’s arm.

Max looked away. “Maybe it’s completely fucked, but I want Daniel to love you. Because if he loves you, that means he’d still love me if I grew up to be who I wanted to be.”

Max didn’t deal compliments often, but when he did they came organic and unexpected. The words sank into Lando in a way he didn’t know how to name, but it made him whole and warm all over.

“So what’s it say about me then?” Lando asked softly. “I wanted to be you.”

He gently poked Max’s chest, careful not to touch anywhere near his injury from Silverstone.

“Daniel’s gone for you,” Lando said. Max’s chest was much warmer than Lando expected it to be. “If Carlos loved me half as much, I think I’d be happy the rest of my life. Instead he just loves me…well, half.”

Max’s eyes flicked to his lips. Just for a second, but a long enough time that Lando’s whole body went rigid, completely immobilized by the war of emotion within him. He looked at Max’s lips too, that little freckle that he’d always wanted to—

Max’s phone buzzed loudly on the countertop, causing both of them to jump.

Max snatched the phone from the counter and glanced at the screen. Lando looked too, his heart beating in his throat. The call was from a number Max didn’t have saved in his contacts.

Max lifted the phone to his ear, but didn’t speak.

“Max?” a tinny voice asked on the other end of the line. Lando strained to hear it, but he couldn’t get much.

“I’m here,” Max said, his voice suddenly softer—the same voice he used with Daniel.

“I need…”

The line went quiet. Max gripped tight to the phone, his jaw taut.

“What do you need?” he asked.

The line stayed quiet.

“Where are you? Are you hurt?” Max asked, pushing off of the counter. He glanced at Lando and motioned to the food.  Lando nodded, but made no move to grab a plate. Max stepped away into the shadowy expanse of the living room and Lando moved to the threshold, tucking close to listen.

“Don’t hang up,” Max said calmly. “Can you tell me where you are?”

Rain pounded the windowpanes, creating sheets of white against the glass. Lando moved more into the doorway to look at Max—he didn’t care if Max saw him.

Despite Max’s calm tone, every part of him had turned to granite as he listned to the phone. He worked his jaw in the silence, staring out at the rain as though he could will it to stop with his thoughts alone.

The person on the other end of the line said something that made him close his eyes as if in pain.

“Stay with me,” Max said, eyes still closed. “Please stay with me. I’ll fix it if you tell me where you are.” A pause. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll fix everything. I’m going to make it okay.”

Fear curdled Lando’s blood. It had to be Daniel. Max never spoke that way with anyone except him. He certainly never begged.

Max stood abruptly. “Get out of the car, alright? No. Do not drive anywhere. Stay right there and I’ll come get you. I’m coming right now, I’m five minutes away. Less for me, I drive fast.”

He started to walk toward the kitchen, then stopped, taking in whatever was being said. He glanced at Lando, but his expression didn’t change.

“I won’t call him,” Max assured. “It’s just you and me. And then you’ll go to the doctor, okay? Once you’re feeling okay. Yes, I know. I’m grabbing my keys right now.” A pause. “Of course you can talk to me. Of course you can.”

Max started to move again, tucking the phone against his shoulder. He pulled on a pair of worn Nikes  and stepped past Lando into the kitchen to grab his key fob.

“It’s okay to lie down, just not in the road,” Max said.

Lando waited for the punchline, but Max’s expression was completely serious.

“Shh,” he soothed, closing his eyes again. “It’s okay. I’ll bring blankets. I’ll make sure.”

“Max, what the fuck is going on?” Lando whispered as Max passed him again, this time to grab an armful of throw blankets from the couch.

Max froze. “No. No, no. Please, please don’t—”

He pulled the phone away from his face and the color drained from his cheeks.

“Fuck,” Max whispered.

“Max, what the hell was that?” Lando demanded, no longer staying quiet. “Who was that?”

“I have to go,” Max said, hefting the blankets higher on his hip. “Tell Daniel I’m going to visit Checo.”

There was no way in hell Max had been talking to Checo. Lando rushed forward before he could leave, blocking him from the door. Max pulled up just in time to avoid knocking into him, his expression blank.

“Tell me where you’re really going,” Lando asked, his voice quiet but edged with warning. “I’m not going to lie to Daniel if he comes back and you’re not here.”

Max went still. For a second he looked like he might burst into tears, but then he just nodded once.

Lando soured, realizing Max wouldn’t tell him. “The idea is that you tell me where you’re really—"

Max’s lips pressed to his, effectively cutting off his sentence and just about every semblance of thought or function in Lando’s body.

Max’s lips were soft, warm, and made for kissing. Lando didn’t mean to react to it—he honestly didn’t—but then Max’s hand came to his face and he went boneless, lost to the touch. It was the kind of kiss he spent his younger days dreaming about—a golden, perfect kiss, drenched with emotion and meaning and everything that made him hurt and heal at the same time.

Max broke the kiss with the gentlest movement Lando had ever experienced from another human.

“Thank you for being a better person than me,” Max whispered. “Daniel deserves you.”

Max’s thumb brushed against his jaw, a match strike that lit a flame in him.

“Tell me where you’re going,” Lando breathed, though actual thought had yet to come back to him.

Max stepped away, face unreadable. “Eat your dinner,” he said. “Tell Daniel I’m getting cheesecake. He’ll know.”

Lando touched his bottom lip, awestruck.

Cheesecake. He had to remember cheese—

Max kissed him again, soft this time. Lando left the ground, weightless, his heart beating so fast he was pretty sure it was powering his liftoff.

Max moved away to open the door. Rain swept in with the cold and Lando took a reflexive step back to shield himself from the misty spray.

“You weren’t wrong,” Max said, rain soaking his shoulders. He suddenly looked smaller, like something Lando wanted to protect. “I meant to kiss you that day. I shouldn’t have done it and I know that and I swore I’d go to my grave with that, but I can’t do that to you. I’m really fucking sorry.”

Lando couldn’t find it in himself to speak, so he just nodded. The world still worked in a vignette, dark and hazy except for Max’s flushed face.

Max hesitated for a moment. “Are you going to be okay by yourself? Should I call Checo?”

Lando shook his head. “That wouldn’t make a lot of sense to tell Daniel you’re with him when he’s here.”

A half smile came to Max’s lips, but his eyes were sad. “Thanks, Lando.”

He turned and headed down the stairs to the covered garage, and Lando had only just shut the door when the NSX yowled out of the driveway.

As soon as he locked the door, he slid down to the floor and tugged his knees to his chest, hlding tight. Max meant to kiss him that day. He wasn’t stupid or ignorant or any of the things he told himself for years.

Yet Lando wasn’t angry. In fact, he completely understood—more than he ever expected to.

He rested his cheek again his knee, staring out at the rain.

Max wouldn’t ever ask it of him, but Lando forgave him anyway.

Chapter 85

Notes:

tw: implications of suicidal thoughts

Chapter Text

New princes were taught to emulate the habits of successful royalty before them. Kimi’s calm in the face of the media. Lewis’s consistency on track. Alonso’s unique driving style. Sebastian’s encyclopedic knowledge of the task at hand.

Daniel Ricciardo was known for his popularity.

Daniel showed the power of kind eyes and wide grin. He always had a joke, a smile, a wink—and he knew how to deploy each one to win favor. He consistently polled higher than every other longtime prince except Lewis, and Daniel had no championship win to boost him.

But the man who sat across the table from George told a very different story than the social media posts.

Fans affectionately called Daniel The Honey Badger—a nickname Daniel happily took on. Honey badgers had a fearless defense mechanism and savage tendencies toward anything perceived as a threat. George had a feeling Daniel accepted the nickname as a dream of what he wanted to be, not the man he was.

Every muscle in Daniel’s body had gone tense. His eyes were a depthless brown—indecipherable.

“I never took you as someone who could keep a secret,” George said, ignoring Daniel’s threat about killing him. He didn’t believe that for a second.  “Not with the way you run your mouth all the time.”

Daniel had known about Lewis and Sebastian this whole time. He’d known the whole time and said nothing while George fell in love with Lewis, while Charles fell in love with Sebastian the year before.

George couldn’t exactly blame him for that—they weren’t friends. But he and Charles were both friends with Max, and Daniel kept no secrets from him.

“How long has Max known?” George asked, folding his hands in his lap.

Daniel just stared at him, eyes vapid. This version of him was somehow worse than the waxy one George had seen in Silverstone, fresh from the Wembley attack.

“You have no idea, do you?” Daniel asked, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

George glared at him. “That’s why you’re here, dumbass. I found out about Sebastian and Lewis.”

Daniel’s smirk appeared fully, but it sent goosebumps up George’s arms to see that look with no emotion behind it.

“Oh baby, you’re in for a real fucking treat,” Daniel said, shaking his head. He lifted a hand, picking absently at a mark on his cheekbone George had never noticed before.

An uncomfortable silence settled over them, one George couldn’t take.

“I have places to be,” George hissed. “So whatever you’re coming in to threaten me with, I suggest you cut to the chase.”

“How do you plan to do it?” Daniel asked, dropping his hand.

George narrowed his eyes. “Plan to do what?”

Daniel shrugged. “You know. Tell the world about Sebastian and Lewis.”

He said it like telling the world about Sebastian and Lewis wasn’t the equivalent of unleashing a nuclear weapon on the general public, on the FIA.

“You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?” George snarled. “What, I’m going to tell you my plan right here and now so you can thwart it?”

Daniel let out a snort. “Thwart? Nice one, Shakespeare. You don’t have a plan.”

George bristled. He didn’t have anything against Daniel personally until about five minutes ago. Now he wanted to punch him in the face.

“Now that I know, it won’t be hard,” George said. “If I want to tell the world I can just—”

“Take a video?” Daniel tried, cocking his head.

George paled, but kept his face schooled otherwise. If Daniel was Lewis and Sebastian’s little spy, he had to know about Mick and Callum. “Not necessarily.”

Daniel nodded once. “Connecting the dots isn’t that hard once you know them.  The whole thunderstorm thing. You could set up someone to follow them. Drop a hint to the FIA. Or go to Red Bull and pave the way for Max to become champion after the FIA rains sanctions down on Lewis—see what I did there? Rain, like a thunderstorm?”

George took a breath and his hands started to tremble. He couldn’t explain where the fear was coming from, but it settled into his gut, cold and dead.

“Or you can go to Jost,” Daniel continued. “Williams could get some power back.”

“If Jost doesn’t already know, I’m not going to—”

“Or you can tell Alex,” Daniel said, ignoring him.

He’s trying to scare you, George thought.

It didn’t surprise him that Daniel knew about Alex. He wasn’t exactly a secret among the princes, not that anyone really cared enough about either of them to go snooping. Besides, he’d done nothing wrong since Alex’s exile. Every time they’d seen each other had been organized by the FIA in some way—Daniel had no foothold there.

Daniel’s smile returned, but this one was rancid.

“I mean, of course you’ll tell Alex. He’s the love of your life, obviously. Lewis isn’t. Whoops. Hope that didn’t hurt too much—him not loving you at all.”

Pain curled around George’s heart and pressed in on all sides. A part of him still wanted to argue that Lewis did love him. They’d shared so much together. The hot tub, the cabin, the quiet moment sin his motorhome, countless other moments. Lewis couldn’t fake it that well. Nobody could.

Tell that to Nico, he found himself thinking.

“So, is that what you’re gonna do?” Daniel pressed. “Tell Alex?”

George grit his teeth, fighting down the urge to scream. He wanted Alex’s name out of Daniel’s mouth. He wanted Alex’s name away from all of this.

“I don’t keep secrets from Alex,” George said quietly. It felt like a lie. He didn’t keep secrets because he didn’t speak to Alex enough to hide anything from him.

“You’ll learn how,” Daniel growled, picking through each syllable. He swallowed hard, and the malice in his face contorted to fear. His voice shook when he spoke next. “They’ll fucking wreck your life if you don’t.”

George let out a snort. “They’re two princes, they aren’t gods. They’re still subject to the FIA, even if the FIA turns a blind eye.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Daniel murmured, lifting his hand again to pick at his cheekbone scar. “I was like you in a lot of ways, before I knew. Except I was cooler and better at driving and people actually liked me.”

George glared at him. “I’m going to be a Mercedes prince next year. I’ve been this competitive in a Williams, if I—”

“And I was a Red Bull prince,” Daniel interrupted, eyes narrowed. “I was a crown prince, Georgie. Sebastian’s protégé. We had a good marriage. Like you and Lewis would have if you never found out. Seb cared about me very much.”

George vaguely remembered watching Daniel on TV back then. Youthful, bright-eyed. The young prince set to continue the Red Bull legacy.

But he could never make the grade when it counted.

“Sebastian chose me,” Daniel said. “Same as Lewis chose you. I thought I earned it—being appointed to Red Bull. Everyone told me I did. And, like I said, I was a better driver than you are at the same age.”

George rolled his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Daniel ignored him. “I had it all, mate. Crown prince, Red Bull, Sebastian’s approval after he left. Christian Horner was wrapped around my finger, you know? I was all set to win the championship. Everything going my way.”

Daniel tipped his head back over the back of the chair, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes leaked life all over the floor.

“It started in Monaco,” Daniel whispered, so quiet that George had to lean in to listen. “I won that race—2018—and I had the world in hand. Jumped in the pool, drowned myself in champagne, was so deep in love with Max I couldn’t come down from it.”

George shifted in his seat. Daniel never really spoke about love, not really. He only showed it. He said stuff for the cameras, but it sounded the same when he talked about Max as it did when he talked about Lando.

Daniel smiled up at the ceiling, broken.

“Went looking for the bathroom at some point and caught Sebastian with his tongue down Lewis’s throat when I walked into the wrong room. Fuck, man.” He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t even care that it was them. Nah, first thing I thought was that I was gonna win big. I was gonna blackmail the shit out of them to get the championship, and my idiot ass told them so.”

He lifted his hand.

“And then—”

He snapped his fingers.

“Just like that, my whole life disappeared. Like magic.”

George swallowed hard, his throat sticking as he did so. Unease crept up his spine, making scaffolding out of his vertebrae.

Daniel sat up again, this time with a dead, lopsided smile that reminded George of contorted roadkill.

“Sebastian ripped my limbs off, one by one,” Daniel hissed. “You think you’re powerful—you think you have at least something to combat them with, but you don’t.”

“I’m not you,” George said. “I have friends who are actually my friends. They can’t wipe out half the grid.”

Daniel laughed, adjusting his hoodie. “They totally can, mate. Except they don’t have to. They’re more clever than that.”

“More clever than you, you mean,” George growled.

Daniel gave him a pitiful smile. “They hit you from all sides. First, Sebastian talked to Horner and suddenly my car couldn’t get a podium. A fucking Red Bull. I was lucky if I could finish a fucking race.”

“Then Horner tells me my appointment is gone, but I’m not allowed to tell anyone,” Daniel continued. “I start trying to talk to other empires, you know the way it goes. Then...” He trailed off. “Well, Seb and Lewis have Ferrari, Red Bull, Mercedes and every empire in between. So I had to play my own games.” He flicked his gaze over to George. “Hey—does Alex love his family?”

George blinked rapidly, startled by the question.

“Yes,” he answered quietly, though he knew he shouldn’t have answered at all.

He remembered lazy summer days at Alex’s family home, the smell of dinner wafting in from the kitchen as he laid under the ceiling fan in Alex’s room and prayed for cool night air. Buying Christmas presents for Alex’s mother, his sisters, his younger brother, sharing holidays between the Albon and Russell households.

He remembered watching Alex talk with his extended family, explaining to them that he would be royalty soon. George remembered being so proud of him, so—

“Would you ever use Alex’s family against him?” Daniel asked.

“Never,” George answered immediately.

Daniel clucked softly. “Pretty horrific, right? What a douchebag thing to do, right?”

George searched his face for some kind of answer. Max loved his family. He even loved the father who beat him senseless, still hellbent on impressing him, earning his respect.

Something dark crawled into Daniel’s eyes. “We all do things we didn’t think we were capable of when we’re cornered.”

George stared at him, trying to understand.

“Lemme be clear,” Daniel continued, leaning over the table. “Jos Verstappen is a cunt. I hate him. But he’s got power, and he’s still got leverage. Getting smaller every day, but back then Renault still loved him enough to give me what I wanted—until fucking Fernando ruined it.”

George’s blood began to curdle in his veins at the mention of Jos’s name. A deep hatred welled in him, a rage born of helplessness, of watching the boy who was one of his closest friends pull himself together after being beaten by a man who claimed to love him. A boy who sat on the curb outside a gas station in a country he didn’t know, nursing a soda he’d managed to buy with his last few euro, freezing in the cold after Jos dumped him there because he didn’t win. He wanted to teach me what happens when I lose, Max had said while George tried to warm him up in the back of his parents’ car, watching as his mother and father exchanged looks in the front seats.

“What the fuck did you do?” George demanded.

“Played ball, George,” Daniel snapped in reply. “Took all of two seconds to get Carlos kicked out of Renault—I didn’t need any help doing that, because everyone knew I was hot shit and undervalued. Sebastian and Lewis didn’t have any power there. I earned that seat myself until Fernando fucked it all up!”

George had never heard Daniel shout before, aside from yelling crass lines across the paddock or screaming for shots at the bar.

“They are always ten fucking steps ahead,” Daniel hissed. “Listen to me—listen to me!”

George flinched at his volume, momentarily frightened of the wild look in Daniel’s eyes.

“Fernando made the sacrifice play,” Daniel continued. “I never banked on that. No prince wants to lose their crown, but he did it. He gave up his fucking crown at McLaren for Carlos, then turned around and used his pull at Renault to block the seat I already had. They were going to give it away to someone who didn’t deserve it. I fucking earned that crown—I had no fucking choice!”

George barely remembered Fernando stepping away from McLaren. He’d been focused on trying to secure his own crown. But he did remember the murmurs that floated around the royal courts about Carlos turning his back on Red Bull, that Fernando had him under complete control.

“What did you do, Daniel,” George grit out.  

Daniel stared at him, shaking.

The rain continued to pound on the roof above them, creating a dull roar that rattled through George’s bones. His stomach turned as he watched a man he’d once seen as jovial and powerful in his own right crumble to nothing before his eyes.

“I did what I had to do to stay with Max,” Daniel whispered. “I did what had to do to keep my crown.”

 

 


 

 

Charles choked down rain where he laid on the grass on the side of the road. Not a single car had driven by since he stumbled out of the car, unable to breathe. He’d hoped the fear of drowning would spur some kind of primal response in him, but his lungs were still solid blocks of stone in his chest.

The logical part of him knew me must be breathing somehow because he hadn’t died yet, but he couldn’t remember taking a single breath.

He felt a car approaching before he heard it. The tarmac under the base of his skull began to tremor. Charles closed his eyes, letting the rain beat on his face and hiss in his ears, begging for relief.

Tires snarled against the pavement a moment later, and the heady heat of exhaust hit his face just after.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Max shouted once the door opened, panic in his voice.

Charles didn’t open his eyes.

Just because he showed up doesn’t mean he’ll ever love you again.

He never should have called. He regretted it the moment he dialed.

“Charles? Charles—god fucking dammit, what the hell are you fucking doing!?”

He felt the jolt when Max’s knees hit the pavement and managed to suck down half a breath just before Max yanked him up off the ground, scrabbling to get him off the road.

Max was so much stronger now. Charles loathed the fact that he never got to see Max grow. The boy who abandoned him returned to his life as a man.

“Open your eyes,” Max demanded, patting his cheek harshly.

Charles winced before following directions.

Max’s hair was already soaked, sticking to his forehead and turned dark brown. His skin was pale and flushed at the same time, and his eyes were wide with fear—an open sea of turquoise that reflected in the trees above him and the sky beyond.

“Are you fucking stupid?” Max choked out, cradling his face in one hand. “Putting your head on the fucking road like that?’

A little smile twitched at Charles’s lips, but he still couldn’t breathe. He did start to shiver, though.

“Are you hurt?” Max asked, thumbing his cheek insistently. “Charles, are you hurt?”

Charles’s eyes began to burn. The rain continued to hit his face, cold against the heat.

He nodded once, then again, then burst into tears.

“Oh fuck,” Max whispered. “Fuck, come here. Come here, I’ve got you.”

Max hauled him up into his lap as easily as he lifted one of the many cats that always wandered his flat as a kid. Charles collapsed against him, pressing his face into the join of Max’s neck and shoulder.

You weren’t enough for him. You still aren’t. You’ll never be enough for anyone.

Charles fought to breathe, but only succeeded in a singular convulsion of his body that caused Max to hold him tighter.

“I’ve got you,” Max whispered into the shell of his ear, his breath hot and damp. “Talk to me, please. Please talk to me.”

Charles had no words to say. He’s used them all up building this horrible trap for himself, driving away every man who ever claimed to love him.  He tried to speak, but a deep, burning pain welled up in his sternum every time he tried.

“There’s blankets in the car,” Max said. “I want to warm you up. You need to warm up, Charles.”

The faster he fixes you, the sooner he gets to leave.

Charles dug his fingers into the soaked fabric of Max’s shirt, stilling him.

“It’s over,” Charles finally managed to breathe into Max’s wet skin. “I ended it. Pierre and me.”

Max went slack. Rain trickled from Charles’s chin in a steady stream before Max nuzzled into his shoulder.  “I’m going to fix this, okay?”

“You can’t fix this,” Charles said, all of Max’s warmth slowly fading. “The ‘this‘ is me, Max.”

A fierce wind tore into them where they sat on the side of the road. Max kept both arms around him, cradling him to his chest.

Charles had no idea how to fix any of the things wrong with him. Doctors didn’t help. Medication didn’t help, distraction didn’t help. He was rotted through. Damaged goods, broken beyond repair.

“Come on.”

Max shimmied out from under him, then lifted him bridal style in a way that made Charles feel a thousand times worse.

“Put me down, Max,” Charles whispered. Max kissed his forehead before easing his feet back to the ground, but he kept hold of his back.

Charles wiped his eyes once he found his balance. Max tucked close to him, resting their foreheads together.

“They hate me,” Charles said, nearly drowned out by the sound of the downpour. “I was never even married to you.”

Max didn’t say anything. He took Charles by the wrist and led him to the NSX still parked in the middle of the road, light beams cutting blades into the gloom, the drivers’ side door wide open from where Max had jumped out.

“Get in the car,” Max said, calm and collected.

Charles shook his head. “I didn’t call you to come save me.”

“Yes you did,” Max replied, tugging his wrist. “Car. Now.”

Charles had to turn his face away to keep the despair from bubbling out of his throat.

The rain painted the tarmac in sheets.

“When do you give up?” he choked out, trying his best not to sob. “I think I’ve done enough damage. At what point do they take my crown away?”

Max stepped up to him with blanket tucked under his arm, cupping his jaw and pulling his face back toward him. “No one is taking your crown away.”

Charles met his eyes. Those beautiful, safe eyes that still met him in his dreams sometimes.

“You don’t love me,” he said quietly. “You love Daniel.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t love you,” Max replied, as if expecting this.

“You couldn’t wait to leave in Monaco,” Charles continued. “Carlos too. He went straight to London. And Pierre never came to see me even though he said he would. He said you told him not to visit.”

Rain dripped from Max’s clumped lashes as he stared at him. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.

“In two weeks we go to Monza, where everyone will expect me to win in a car that can’t win,” Charles continued. “So what if I lay down in the road? Who cares? Let a car come, let it—”

“Don’t you dare,” Max snarled, but it had no venom. “Don’t you dare talk like that.”

Charles lifted his chin, defiant. “It isn’t your fault that you broke me, but I’m still broken. I’ve tried everything and I can’t fix it. I can’t even find someone who loves me enough to—”

To share life with. To trust he isn’t with someone else. To trust he isn’t thinking about someone else whenever I’m gone.

He swallowed hard and the bile churned in him.

“Pierre said I’m sick,” Charles whispered. “George says I’m sick, Lando looks at me like I’m sick. You only came out here because you think I’m sick. Carlos only came back after break because everyone said I was sick—why do I have to be sick to get anyone to care about me?”

He couldn’t keep taking drugs. He couldn’t keep asking for more and hitting the threshold in a few weeks. Constant ups and downs—no routine, no steady weight to guide him.

Max still hadn’t spoken. Charles searched his face, helpless.

“You were my first love,” Charles said softly. “I just want to know why you left me. I just want to know what makes me so repulsive. What made it so easy for you to drive me to an airport and not speak to me for years. I still trust you enough to tell me the truth.”

Max’s bottom lip trembled, but no tears came to his eyes. His hand came to Charles’s face, touching him with reverence, like he’d become something new.

“Why, Max?” Charles pressed. “Why did you leave?”

“I told you at the hospital,” Max finally said, his voice mottled. “I loved you. It wasn’t my choice.”

Charles let out a snort. “We always have a choice. You just chose the crown. I was never going to be more important than that, was I?”

Max rested their foreheads together and for a moment Charles was back in Brazil—the Brazil before that car ride. The Brazil where Max stood on the balcony with him in the sticky heat and held him just like this.

And he already knew then that he was going to dump you.

“We were bred for this,” Max said, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.  Max tugged him in until Charles could feel the frantic beat of Max’s heart against his ear. “I was four when my dad put me in a kart for the first time. When I won my first race, it all made sense.  This is what I’m here to do.”

Charles made a quiet sound of pain against Max’s collarbone. The blanket started to press in on him, weighed down by the water collecting in the Sherpa fabric.

“You changed everything, Char. I only wanted to win until I met you. My dad said you were a distraction and thank god you were. I would have fucking died without you, you know that? There were so many times where you were the only thing keeping me here.”

But you still left.

Max pressed a kiss to his temple, and Charles felt a shiver run through Max’s body.

“You’re going to be a champion one day,” Max whispered. “I’ve known it since I met you. I always knew it’d be you and me eventually. We’d get in each other’s way.”

Charles pulled away, pins and needles in his heart.

“So you left me because of a maybe?” he asked, pain clenching him so tight he could barely see. “You ruined my life because of that?”

Max swallowed thickly, shaking his head. “I had no choice. We would have gotten caught. We would have—”

 “You picked the cruelest way,” Charles forced out. “It was cruel. I bet you don’t even regret it.”

“I regret it every day,” Max replied, firm. “Every single day.”

Charles turned his face away.

“But you love Daniel more now. So I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“Charles,” Max sighed, full of hurt.

Charles snapped his gaze back to him. “You’ll never choose me again, not while he’s around. Right?”

Max stared at him, but the love in his eyes wasn’t for Charles.

Max never could lie to him.

“Well,” Charles said, choking on the words. “At least—” He swallowed hard. “At least you won’t—”

A deep, burning cold crept up his throat like frostbite.

Max caught him on the way down, and a horrific sound escaped Charles’s mouth, deep and dark like grief. His vision darkened to nothing between the obstruction of his tears, the rain, the fabric of Max’s shirt and the blanket that wrapped around him after.

The truth settled cold in his heart, icing out the stinging in his fingertips and the ache in his teeth as he sobbed into the shoulder of a boy who probably never loved him at all.

You’ve never been worth it.

 

 


 

 

Lewis told him once that he wasn’t sure Daniel actually loved Max. George never really believed it, but seeing the feral, desperate creature in front of him made him reconsider. He didn’t know Daniel well enough to read the emotion in his eyes, but he knew a cornered animal when he saw one.

“Jos used to race for Renault, back when they were Benetton,” Daniel said.

“Yeah, I know,” George said. Jos had about a million framed pictures of himself on the walls, and had Benetton crests all over an entire section of his office. George had only been in Jos’s office twice, and he knew for a fact that room scared Max more than any other place on earth.

“Max was having a shitty season in 2018—Sebastian wanted to teach me how far I could fall. My car couldn’t make it across the line, Max couldn’t keep it from crashing into other princes,” Daniel said. His Adam’s apple bobbed uncomfortably, and George grimaced at the sight. “I was still crown prince, though. I still had more access to things than he did. And Jos knew I loved his son, so it wasn’t hard to get him to believe me.”

George gripped tight to the edge of his seat. Max had been pretty much alone back then. Charles and Pierre were too new to their appointments to provide any sort of comfort or defense. Max only had Daniel.

“I gave that cunt a call,” Daniel explained, lip twitching in disgust. “Told him Horner wanted Max out, that we needed to get him the seat in Renault. But I knew how he treated Max, so I told him to keep it a secret. Said Max couldn’t handle the mental strain, so it was just between us. Tricked his ass. I took the seat for myself when he secured it. Jos was so pissed—he never told Max. He never will.”

George looked away, rage festering in his gut. He didn’t give a shit if Jos had been tricked, but to do it behind Max’s back like that made him sick inside. Max still loved his father. George wasn’t sure he would ever forgive someone using a member of his family, even if they used the shittiest person in it.

“Sounds like you only wanted to save yourself,” George said. “You used Max. You don’t use people you love.”

Daniel leaned in, hands splaying on the table. “That’s where you’re wrong, mate. If you aren’t using the person you love in this fucked up place, you’re gonna lose ‘em.”

George scowled. “I officially think you’re a piece of shit.”

“I did what I did to stay with Max,” Daniel snapped. “You can choose what to believe, but it worked.”

“Max told me you said you didn’t love him anymore just before you went to Renault.”

Daniel nodded, unaffected. “I knew he wouldn’t actually believe that, but Sebastian already had him thinking things. I’m telling you, when you’re on their bad side—and you’re on that side now—they will make you wish you died.”

“And I think you’re being dramatic,” George said, deadpan.

Daniel cocked his head. His curls looked limp in the overhead light, his eyes devoid of color.

“I want you to imagine a little scene,” Daniel said. “We’ll play pretend, m’kay?”

George set his jaw. “No thanks.”

“Too bad,” Daniel cut, his voice pitch black. “Put Alex in Max’s place, and you’re in mine. You’ve got this secret you can’t tell—two secrets now.”

Pain flickered in his heart again, an echoed memory of Alex holding the Scottie dog,  hugging him tight. The scent of his shampoo, the darkness of his skin mixed with his own as their hands found each other.

He could never keep a secret from Alex.

“Alex doesn’t know what’s happening, and Lewis and Sebastian have a knife to your throat. The love of your life is suddenly doubting you. Then you find out your new appointment is about be terminated because Alex’s abusive dad is cutting the strings he pulled for you when you duped him. But every time you see Alex, you can’t say anything or they’ll take your crown away.”

Daniel leaned in, lip curled in disgust. Self-disgust—George recognized it now.

“You love him so much that suddenly it doesn’t matter if you lose your crown, so they start going after his,” Daniel whispered, eyes wet. “He can’t understand what’s happening, but suddenly the empire is turning on him in little ways. They suddenly wanna bring daddy in as a consultant. Then they want to look at options, just to see if he really deserves his crown. But you know the whole time—the whole fucking time—that it’s Sebastian Vettel fucking with you.”

George flinched as if struck. He already knew what that looked like—Alex, confused, doubting himself. Wondering why he suddenly wasn’t good enough.

He remembered the rumors about Max leaving Red Bull back in the day. A demotion to Toro Rosso, bringing in an older, more experienced prince if he continued to fuck up. George remembered being stunned at the way Max’s demeanor started to change—he’d thought it was fear at the time, but now he knew the reason behind that fear. There was no worse punishment, no greater threat, than Jos Verstappen in the Red Bull garage evaluating Max’s performance.

“Do you think Alex would try to save you?” Daniel asked.

George tried not to breathe, too afraid he would gasp.

“Yes,” he finally choked out.

Daniel’s sick smile faded away. “Yeah. Max tried to save me. He got desperate. That’s when I realized how deep it all goes. He went to Lewis and asked for help—he had no reason to think not to. Lewis liked him back then. Fernando had just gotten Carlos a spot in Ferrari, and Max asked to put me in McLaren to take Carlos’s place.”

It shouldn’t have surprised him, but George felt shock all same. He couldn’t imagine Max asking anyone for help, let alone someone like Lewis.

“Sebastian and Lewis brought me in, told me everything. Gave me my script and my fucking lines. I watched the whole thing play out like a fucking movie.”

Daniel stood abruptly, his chair screeching as he did so. He stuffed his hands in his hoodie pocket and began to pace.

“Lewis came up with the plan. He had the connects at McLaren. He told Max he’d get a seat for me at Red Bull if Max exiled your boyfriend. Lewis was already planning to make a play for you, and he knew he couldn’t do that with Alex around.”

The floor fell out from under him. George’s vision went black. His insides shrank up, his blood stopped flowing.

Daniel pulled up the chair closest to him, but didn’t sit down. His knuckles turned white against the plastic.

“Then Sebastian stuck Checo in that seat instead and pretended it was a punishment for Max going to Lewis for help. Worked like a charm—Max hates Lewis. So then Lewis lets Max catch wind that Fernando wants to come back for a crown and lets him think he’s going to give the McLaren seat to his old hubby.”

Daniel crouched down, almost eye-to-eye with George. George wrinkled his nose at the scent of alcohol on his breath.

“Max did what he had to do, just like me. Called daddy and used his pull to put Fernando back at Renault—Alpine, by then—which was actually Lewis’s plan all long. Fernando pretends it’s a big deal, that he’s got this debt to pay to Max now, lets Max feel safe in an ally.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” George asked, leaning away.

“So you’ll understand,” Daniel growled, eyes deadly. The scar on his cheekbone looked too clean-cut to be an accidental wound. It looked like a fucking incision.

“Max goes to Carlos, who has influence as the prince on his way out. Suddenly I have the seat.” Daniel let out a snort. “But we both know it’s not that easy. Lewis let it happen so he can keep an eye on me. Made it easy for Carlos to give us burner phones so he can track everything, giving him an easy way to pull the plug when Max gets too powerful.”

“Hold on—Carlos got you the burners?” George asked. “He’s in with Lewis and Sebastian?”

Daniel shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s how they work—you never know how they’re testing you. But everything’s a fucking test. If they even think you’re going to say something, they hurt someone you love. Maybe they have shit on Carlos too—that would make sense. Two birds, one stone with Wembley.”

George thought of Lando, shaking in Carlos’s hold, the way he mouthed Mercedes.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” George stammered. “They’re champions. Nobody in the FIA is going to say anything if they’re together behind the scenes—why the fuck are they hurting people? Why plan all of this out this way?”

Daniel finally sat down. His hands shook violently, and all of the anger and rage in him vanished, replaced by mute terror so palpable that George’s heart started to beat faster in response.

“Daniel?”

“They do all of this to protect each other,” Daniel murmured.

“Protect each other from what?” George asked.

Daniel met his eye, his face hollow with quiet fear.

“That’s why you can’t say anything to anyone," he whispered. "So we never have to find out.”

Chapter 86: BOOK III

Chapter Text

Summer in Germany made for a beautiful place to get engaged. Pastel orange tapestries mixed with the deep greens of the forest beyond and the oceanic blues of the sky above. Clouds reflected in the lake that Mercedes and Williams had agreed upon as the site for the official engagement ceremonies, a lake flanked by seemingly endless fields of summer grasses dotted with wildflowers.

An announcement used to be enough, but with the populace ever hungry for a look into the world of royalty, engagements had become public affairs whenever possible. Some royal marriages didn’t allow for them—particularly when the match involved a prince crossing enemy lines. Others didn’t line up with the traditions of passing engagement rings, or the timing just didn’t work out.

But sometimes the stars aligned, and Mercedes wanted to soak up every drop of publicity with their newest match.

Nic tugged the lapel of his suit a little more snug, admiring the sprig of blue lilac George had given him as a boutonnière. He looked rather smart and sophisticated, if he did say so himself. Sandy would probably call him handsome.

He glanced over at George, who had been staring at his reflection for the better part of ten minutes.

“Perfecting your blue steel?” Nic joked, reaching over to smooth a wrinkle at George’s shoulder. “Or are you nervous about the ring? Thankfully you don’t get a choice on what it looks like. Or is that why you’ve got the long face?” He cocked his head. “Well, longer than usual.”

George’s lips twitched to a half smile before he tore his gaze away from his reflection. “Worried about blowing it,” he said.

“Blowing Lewis?" Nic let out a snort.  "I would think that comes after you get engaged. Leave room for Jesus in the meantime, please.”

“Very funny,” George said with a roll of his eyes.

Nic knew the real reason for George’s nerves, of course. Nic was set to marry George’s self-proclaimed soulmate, Alex Albon. The Thai-British prince once exiled but now back to lay claim to a Williams crown.

Nic had been on Alex’s team in the lower courts, and they worked well together back then. He felt pretty lucky to have gotten George for the first go-around as a royal, but Alex was definitely prime husband material. He was kind and smart and even when he got competitive, he never let it affect him too long outside of the paddock.

Though if Nic was being honest, he didn’t see himself competing with Alex on track very often. His father had warned him about becoming a prince too focused on the win—that wasn’t his role. Pay princes had a different set of duties to the crown, and so far Nic had done a damn good job at keeping everything together while George played the royal game.

Nic wasn’t even a bad driver, though he knew people thought of him as one. He’d proved himself in the lower courts, where it really counted. He would always be proud of that, just like he was proud of his role at Williams.

“This’ll be awesome,” Nic said, stepping up to George’s side and smiling brightly at their reflections in the mirror. “The good thing about Alex being in the lower courts right now is that he gets to hang out with us more. Technically just me, but breaking up with you will be too much for my heart to handle. I simply can’t be without you for one second, so you’ll have to tag along.”

A real smile came to George’s face, though small. He looked at Nic through the mirror, eyes shaded by his ridiculously long eyelashes that stuck out every which way. 

Really, if Nic was actually into boys, George Russell would be his type.

“Thanks, Nicky,” George said.

His lips parted to speak again, but no words came out. A strained silence fell between them, one that made Nic’s heart hurt, though he didn’t know why. He gave George’s shoulder a squeeze, offering what reassurance he could.

Things had been different since Zandvoort. When George came back to their hotel room after the race to announce that he would be going to Mercedes, something shifted between them. Nic had spent the last two weeks trying to realign the pieces, but nothing seemed to work.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” Kayla announced before she stepped into their dressing room with a Williams Public Affairs rep in tow. They carried two stainless steel boxes between them, each engraved with the Williams crest, their personal crests underneath it.

Kayla opened George’s box to reveal a Williams crown, and the other Public Affairs rep opened his. Nic smiled at the sight of it—he was so used to seeing his crown in the display case by the government office that he often forgot it was an actual item to be worn.

Short gold tines glimmered in the sunlight that streaked through the windows, illuminating the sapphires and white diamonds inlaid in the metal. Light refracted all over the room, throwing a shower of white flecks over both of their faces as they reached down in unison to pick up their crowns.

Nic closed his eyes as he placed the crown on his head, adjusting it by feel until it balanced perfectly.

When he opened his eyes, a king stood before him.

“Woah,” Nic said, patting George’s arm. “You look amazing, mate.”

The gold in the crown emphasized the gold rings around George’s pupils, which Nic saw as an unfair beauty advantage. His eyes were a wood-stained brown, and when they hit the light they turned reddish instead of some chocolatey color women gushed about in gossip blogs when they talked about Carlos Sainz or Daniel Ricciardo (not that he read gossip blogs).

George smiled at him, warm and familiar. “So do you. Are you sure you want a new husband?”

Nic grinned. “Want? Baby, I begged for a new husband. How am I supposed to compete with Racecar Driver Ken?”

“Let’s go, lovebirds,” Kayla said, ushering them toward the door. Makeup artists met them in the threshold, applying an ungodly amount of product to Nic’s face. He sputtered when they applied mascara, but honestly, it looked pretty good.

“Ow,” he muttered when the makeup artist plucked an eyebrow hair from the bridge of his nose. “What, was my wax job not good enough?”

“Apologies, Your Highness,” the woman said, but she didn’t sound apologetic.

George took his hand as the woman plucked another hair and Nic opened his eyes a little to glance at him. George never took his hand in private, not unless he was upset about something.

Nic swallowed down the part of himself that had threatened to burst over the past few weeks—the part that feared George would leave him behind once he moved up in the world, that he would become nothing more than Alex’s chaperone.

Nic told himself he understood if that was the case. Princes lost touch once marriages ended. Their schedules didn’t allow time for less important relationships. Friendships across FIA lines weren’t nearly as exciting as sneaking around for a romance.

He squeezed George’s hand, and used his free one to wave the makeup artist away.

Kayla patted both of their backs as she led them to a set of double doors that would take them outside to the ceremony.

“Go get ‘em, boys,” she whispered. “We’re so happy for both of you.”

Nic smiled, but it flickered when he felt George wince beside him.

“Hey, are you good?” he whispered once Kayla had retreated down the hall to speak with the camera crew posted up behind them for some kind of dramatic silhouette shot.  

George nodded stiffly. “Yeah. It’s just, um. You know. Alex and everything.”

Nic frowned. “He’s with us now.  No more Red Bull being assholes.”

“Yeah,” George said, but it sounded forced. “Thanks, Nic.”

Music started outside the doors and Nic looked ahead, balancing his posture under his crown as the doors opened before them.

A path made up of crushed white stone led up to the small platform stage that stuck out over the water, where Toto Wolff stood beside Lewis Hamilton, and Christian Horner stood beside Alex.

George squeezed his hand hard at the sight of Horner, and Nic had to freeze completely to stop himself from making a surprised face.

Holy shit. He never expected Christian Horner to escort an exiled prince to an engagement ceremony, especially a Mercedes engagement ceremony. Nic was even a little surprised to see he’d actually followed dress code with his navy suit and Red Bull crest tie clip.

Jost stood between both of their future husbands, smiling brightly.

“We’re good,” Nic whispered as they started walking. “Just don’t punch Christian and we’re good.”

Knowing George, he might haul off and punch him anyway. Hell, Lewis might join in.

Lewis looked lethal in his black and silver Mercedes cape, and the Mercedes crown accentuated the look with the silver antler-like barbs that poked out at every angle, the affixed sapphires gleaming a deadly blue. George would look damn good in that crown. He’d looked damn good wearing it in the GQ photoshoot.

Alex stood on Jost’s other side, hands clasped in front of him. He looked nervous as fuck, and out of place without a crown of his own and no rings on his fingers. His hair had been combed and gelled, but clearly didn’t want to follow protocol as a few pieces stuck up in awkward cowlicks. Nic had a feeling Red Bull hadn’t been kind enough to provide him any kind of hair and makeup help.

“Prince George, Prince Nicholas,” Jost greeted, dipping his head. Toto, Christian, and Alex followed suit. Lewis simply smiled at George, mirth in his eyes. Lewis didn’t have to dip his head to any prince unless he wanted to.

“Today we’re gathered to formally recognize the engagements of His Royal Highness Prince Lewis Hamilton and His Royal Highness Prince George Russell, and the engagement between His Royal Highness Prince Nicholas Latifi and Alexander Albon of Red Bull,” Jost announced.

There were no guests at the event to announce to, just Mercedes and Williams Public Affairs staff, a film crew, and a select number of media outlets allowed to photograph the ceremony under strict rules.

Jost turned to Toto, who offered a smile that made Nic’s skin crawl. The guy just didn’t look capable of happiness.

“Williams and Mercedes have had a long future together,” Jost began. “Prince George follows the footsteps of His Royal Highness Prince Valtteri Bottas, who the people of Williams continue to hold in the highest regard. To strengthen the lineage between Williams and Mercedes with another Williams prince joining the royal circle at Mercedes marks the third royal in a row to leave us for a Mercedes crown.”

Lewis’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but Nic wasn’t sure if it was in response to Jost or because of the sunlight glaring off the water. Lewis usually wore sunglasses outdoors. Maybe his eyes were just sensitive. His chocolately-brown-and-definitely-not-reddish eyes.

“And we’ll be happy to continue such a partnership if it brings the results it has so far,” Toto replied with a grin. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. “This ring is a symbol of Mercedes’s commitment to the promises made in appointing His Royal Highness Prince George as a future prince of our empire, and future husband to His Royal Highness Prince Lewis, the current World Champion of the FIA.”

Toto flicked open the box with his thumb, where a gleaming silver ring sat nestled in a cushion of black velvet. Camera shutters clicked in a frenzy around them.

Lewis reached over and carefully tugged the ring from the box to lay it flat on his palm. He stared at it for a moment, a melancholy look on his face.

“George, this ring has been passed through Mercedes from the current prince to his new husband since the foundation of the empire,” Lewis said, eyes heavy on George. Nic gave the side of his palm a little tap, but George only had eyes for his new fiancé.

How typical. A real royal love story.

“I was given this ring when I was appointed to Mercedes,” Lewis continued, face unreadable. “Since then I’ve given it to another man only once. That man was Valtteri, and he was more deserving of it than anyone expected him to be. I hope you’ll wear it with pride, and understand the blood, sweat, and tears that go into being a prince of Mercedes.”

Lewis lifted the ring from his palm and George extended his hand, dropping Nic’s at the same time.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, Nic told himself as he swallowed thickly. There was just something poetic about the way George kept his eyes on that ring, the reverence he so clearly had for it.

Fuck, he was going to cry a little bit.

Nic hurriedly wiped his eyes with one hand as Lewis slid the band onto George’s ring finger. He hoped Sandy didn’t catch it on camera from wherever she was watching—though he could make a good joke about his mascara running. Maybe he’d become a meme or something.

Oh fuck, he didn’t want to be a meme.

“We’ll test you every day,” Lewis said, folding his hand over George’s once the ring was on. “And every day you’ll be that much better. We can’t wait to see what you have in store for us, and I can’t wait to be your husband.”

George’s gaze snapped up to Lewis, who gave him a royal smile fit for currency.

“Thank you,” George said quietly, dipping his head. “I’ll do whatever I can to keep Mercedes at the top and to strengthen the empire inside and out.”

“I know you will,” Lewis said.

George swallowed hard before he lifted Lewis’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the ring there.  More cameras went off, and Nic really had to keep it together to stop himself from looking like a doofus for his own royal engagement photos. But then Lewis lifted his hand to caress George’s jaw, gently tilting his face up toward his own to smile at him with such fondness that Nic believed that maybe Alex was going to have jealousy issues in the very near future.

God, they were really fucking cute.

“Looking forward to it,” Lewis murmured, thumbing over George’s bottom lip in a gesture far too intimate for royal TV. George's eyes blew wide, but he didn’t say a word in response.

Christian cleared his throat on the other side of the stage.

George blinked, then folded his hands in front of him and stepped up between Lewis and Jost. He smiled at Nic, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Nic smiled back with as much encouragement as he could.

We’ll be okay, mate. Just watch.

“Special circumstances have given us the rare treat of rival empires joining together in the name of devotion and duty,” Jost began after a short pause for photos. He smiled over at Alex and Christian. “I think Prince Nicholas will agree that finding a suitable replacement for Prince George seemed an impossible task, but we at Williams believe we’ve found the perfect match in you, Alex. We were overjoyed to find that Red Bull agreed with us.”

Nic thought it was pretty hilarious that nobody wanted to say anything about Alex being an exiled prince. A few months ago nobody wanted him back in the paddock, and now they were calling him the perfect match to replace George--which wasn’t wrong, just funny.

The FIA had a habit of eating its own words, and Nic loved to see it. He spent enough time sifting through rules and finding government loopholes to help Williams, so winning one was nice.

“Adding a bit of Red Bull legacy to our lineup will make us the envy of the empires,” Jost continued.

Nic had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Okay, Jost. Chill out, mate.

Christian smiled a bit too wide.

“We’re thrilled to have found Alex a place back in the royal court,” Christian said, blowing past any attempt to keep his exile out of the conversation. “Alex is a gifted and observant mind—we have full confidence that he’ll learn the workings of such a different empire in no time flat.”

Jost pulled a navy blue box from his breast pocket and cleared his throat.

“This ring is a symbol of Williams’s commitment to the promises made in appointing Alexander Albon as a future prince of our empire, and future husband to His Royal Highness Prince Nicholas,” he said.

He opened the box, where a cobalt blue ring with gold trim sat snug in a blue velvet cushion. Cameras went off as Nic tugged the ring free, surprised to find the metal warm to the touch. He laid the thick band in his palm and smiled. Becoming crown prince was pretty cool.

“Alex,” he greeted with a grin. “This ring has been passed through Williams from the current prince to his new husband since the foundation of the empire. George gave it to me two years ago, and I wore it with a sense of duty to the people of Williams that I continue to embody every day. Some days are tougher than others, but what I’ve learned is that having a good friend—in my case, a best friend—by your side makes it all that much easier.”

Alex’s eyes were wet when Nic met them. Alex extended his hand and Nic fit the ring over his finger, softening his smile when he felt Alex’s hand shaking in his own.

Nic had never been nervous about royal ceremony. He’d been raised for a crown—forced to attend countless dinners, classes, and supplemental schooling to become a prince. Ceremony bored him most of the time—he’d been through about a thousand fake engagements and fake weddings and fake crown fittings.

George had been just as scared as Alex when he put the same ring on Nic’s finger two years prior. Nic remembered fighting back a laugh that the crown prince of Williams was trembling over a ring.

Nic folded his hand over Alex’s once the ring was on, giving his hand a gentle squeeze that the cameras wouldn’t pick up.

“I already know that you’re a great teammate on track,” Nic said. “In Williams you have opportunities you don’t have anywhere else. You’re going to shine here—and I’m going to spend every day making us the best team on the grid. You’ll pick up where George left off, and I can’t wait to get you up to speed—literally and figurately.”

Alex nodded once. He looked so much more mature than Nic remembered him, but when he smiled it was the same as when they were back in the lower courts, wishing for this with all their might.

“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” Alex said, his voice shaking.

Alex lifted his hand and pressed his lips to Nic’s ring for a gentle kiss, as if he thought Nic might pull his hand away at the touch.

“I won’t let you down,” Alex said when he lifted his head. “I promise.”

Alex had chocolatey brown eyes too. His even had gold in his.

Seriously?

Nic gave a little nod. “I’m Williams, and now you’re Williams too.  We win and we lose together now.”

He took his spot beside Alex as the ceremony continued, though it became a lot of droning on about tradition and the sanctity of royal marriage as though Alex and George hadn’t been together for something like a decade and would definitely be sneaking off to make out or something before the night was through.

Nic hoped it was just making out. He really did not want to have to ask the housekeeping staff for new sheets. They only spoke German and they didn’t seem to like him at all.

“And…we’re off air,” someone announced from the mess of camera equipment about a million years later.

“Thank god,” Christian muttered, already pulling his lapel mic free from his suit. “Marcy, get the helicopter going, will you? I have actual business to attend to.”

“Sounds like the rumors are true then,” Toto said from across the stage, handing off his mic. “Two seconds to make up at Monza, yes? Or was it three?”

Christian shot him a glare as several Red Bull officials hurried up to him with iPads and an iPhone they handed off that Christian promptly started texting on.

“I did want to speak with you about Alex’s schedule,” Jost said, stepping in. “We’d like to—”

“His schedule is free,” Christian said distractedly. “If he isn’t racing, he’s all yours. Alex, you have your schedule, don’t you?”

Alex nodded hurriedly. “Yes, sir. Everything’s in my phone.”

Christian shot Jost the fakest smile Nic had ever seen. “Lovely. You can speak to my secretary if there are any conflicts. We’ll make sure to resolve them so he can be with you.”

“Dick,” Nic muttered under his breath.

Christian looked right at him and Nic wrinkled his nose with a petty smile.

Bite me, bitch.

George had warned him that Red Bull wasn’t happy about Alex coming to Mercedes—not because they didn’t want to lose Alex from the lower courts, but because they were completely severed from him and any info he might be able to give to Red Bull from the enemy camp.

Even Jost mentioned that they had to be very careful with the onboarding process. Until Alex had a Williams wedding ring on his finger, he could still report to Red Bull.

“Hey, should we all do dinner or something?” Nic asked, swinging Alex’s hand. “Seems like we should celebrate.”

“Prince Lewis is unavailable,” a woman in a Mercedes polo said as she stepped up to Lewis to inspect his crown.

“Ah, right—with Kenneth?” Lewis asked.

“Yes, we have the final fitting tonight in Milan,” the woman replied.

Lewis nodded once, thoughtful. “Could George come?”

“That’s really okay,” George said. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

Lewis smiled over at him and Nic wondered if the guy had trouble sleeping at night with the way his diamond nose ring blinded everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“You’re my new fiancé,” Lewis said. “You’d never interrupt, love.”

George smiled, but Nic could tell it was strained.

“If you wanted George to come, you should have told me,” Toto said from nearby. “I’ve already submitted the flight manifest. I would rather not involve the FIA more than I already have.”

Lewis rolled his eyes. “Fine. But I don’t want the hotel I had last time, please.”

“It’s a different hotel,” the woman chimed in.

“And before you ask, yes, they remembered to pack rain gear,” Toto muttered. “It’s on the plane already.”

Lewis grinned. “Perfect. Wouldn’t want to get caught out again, yeah?”

He turned to George, who looked like he might throw up.

“I’ll see you in Monza?” George tried, his voice weak.

Nic furrowed his brow. “George, are you feeling okay?”

He’d only seen George sick a few times, and usually he was a whiny baby for three days that culminated in one day of sniffling in bed.

“I’m fine,” George said, offering a smile. “Thanks, Nicky.”

“You do look a bit pale,” Lewis murmured. “Toto, can we get him a checkup?”

“I don’t need a checkup,” George said. “Today was just a lot.” He cleared his throat. “I think dinner would be a great idea, if we’re allowed.”

Nic glanced at Alex, who made George look like the epitome of good health.

“Get some rest,” Lewis soothed. “Maybe you can all have dinner on the flight back to Williams. Milton Keynes isn’t that far, you can send a car for Alex when you land if Red Bull throws a fit.”

“They won’t,” Alex said, his first time speaking to any of them since the ceremony. 

Lewis went still before sliding his gaze over to Alex in a way that made Nic’s insides shrivel. His balls too, if he was being totally honest.

“I know,” Lewis said, and the smile on his lips had jagged edges sharp enough to kill.

George’s hand suddenly came to Lewis’s face, pulling him in for a heady kiss.

Toto rolled his eyes behind them and waved the woman off.

“I’ll be okay,” George said quietly, resting their foreheads together. “I’ll work it out. And we’ll find a way to see each other in Milan. We can actually sync our schedules now.”

Lewis’s smile softened again. “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

They separated after that, and Nic tried his best to lighten the love triangle shaped elephant in the room as he led Alex back to their changing room.

“George,” Alex breathed the moment the doors closed. “What the hell is happening?”

George crossed to him, taking both of his hands as Nic carefully pulled his crown from his head and placed it in its box.

“Could Christian have been any more of a dick?” George growled, reaching up to smooth down Alex’s cowlicks. “I’m sorry, Alex. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, don’t be sorry,” Alex murmured, reaching up to still his hands.

Nic tried to stay subtle as he watched them in the reflection of the mirror, busying himself with the buttons of his royal suit.

George kissed Alex a completely different way than he kissed Lewis just a moment before. His entire face softened into it, and it traveled all the way down to his shoulders as Alex gripped tight to his lapels.

“Forgot to say you looked handsome,” Alex chuckled when the kiss broke.

Goddamn chocolate eyes. Alex looked like a handsome puppy.

Nic glared at himself in the mirror. Reddish brown eyes stared back.

At least Sandy loved them. That’s what counted.

He didn’t even like chocolate. Nutella and chocolate were not the same, thank you very much. Nutella was a hazelnut spread. His eyes could be considered hazelnut.

“I wanna see something,” George whispered.

“What? George, you can’t—”

“It’s just us, love. I just wanna see it once.”

Nic leaned into the mirror.

Yeah, hazelnut. Hazelnuts were reddish. In fact, hazelnuts were the exact color of his eyes in the sun. Fuck chocolate.

“Darling dearest,” Nic began, turning around. “Would you say my eyes are—”

He cut himself off at the sight of George placing Nic's crown on Alex’s head. Alex stood wide-eyed, half hidden in shadow, half lit by the sun from the window.

The crown shimmered on his dark hair. The cowlicks were hidden by the gold, transforming him into a regal, powerful man that looked very much like a future king.

Nic knew from experience that crowns were very difficult to wear just right, but this one seemed made for Alex’s head.

“You look perfect,” George said in a voice so fond that Nic’s heart melted hearing it secondhand. “Just like I imagined it.”

Alex’s eyes swam with tears. His lip quivered for a moment before he spoke.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, bringing a hand to George’s face. “I love you so, so much.”

George closed his eyes, hiding those ocean blues from the world once more.

“I love you too,” he finally said, lips sticking as he spoke.  “And someday I’m gonna make this real, I promise you. In this life or the one that comes after.”

 

Chapter 87

Notes:

and here we are. the anniversary of fool's gold! i've created a video here as a thank you...with a special surprise!

thank you for every comment, kudos, and view--you have all made this story one worth writing!

Chapter Text

 

 

“He looks like a knob,” Lando laughed from where he sat snuggled into the cushions of their hotel couch.

George’s face took up the screen in yet another replay of his engagement ceremony. Lando had watched the whole thing live of course, mostly to see Alex. Alex looked scared out of his wits up there on that big stage, but Lando couldn’t blame him. He’d probably be shitting himself too if Christian Horner decided to show up to his engagement ceremony.

“Come on, another one,” Daniel said from the other end of the couch. “You can stare at George’s cheekbones later.”

Lando rolled his eyes as he plucked another popcorn kernel from the bag. He tossed it, watching with a grin as Daniel tried and failed to catch it with his mouth.

“Whiffed it,” Lando teased when the kernel bounced to the floor.

“You didn’t even throw that one at me.”

“Oh? Try this one, then.”

Lando sent another kernel, giving it a fair arc. Daniel opened his mouth, sitting up from his spot to try to catch it. The kernel sailed right past his lips and bounced on his chest. He caught it in his hand and popped it in his mouth.

“Hey, corn isn’t on the approved diet list,” Lando scolded.

He turned his attention back to the screen as George posed with Lewis against a barrage of camera flashes. George looked constipated, his jaw tight and his eyes vacant.

“One more,” Daniel prompted from the other end of the couch.

“Yeah yeah, hang on,” Lando murmured, pulling another kernel from the bag. He held it poised between two fingers, watching as Lewis pulled George in for a kiss. Lando wrinkled his nose. George closed his eyes too fast. They didn’t flutter shut, they just closed.

 The camera angle changed to Alex, who kept his gaze determinedly ahead, and suddenly it all made sense.

Duh. George couldn’t exactly look swept up in love right in front of the person he actually loved.

Lando never understood Lewis’s appeal. He was handsome, but he was also fucking old. And he looked like he probably wore more skin creams than an aging Hollywood actress. Lando wondered if his skin was always slightly damp with moisturizer. He squinted as the camera returned to Lewis, who had a calm and loving smile on his face as he stared into George’s eyes.

Lando knew all too well how easily that look could turn into—

Warmth and wetness enveloped his fingers. Lando jumped, turning his attention back to Daniel, who had leaned across the couch to take the kernel from his fingers with his fucking mouth.

Lando’s mouth fell open in surprise, especially with the way Daniel stared at him, dark eyes warm and hooded.

He swallowed hard, guilt welling up in him.

“You should see what Max is up to,” Lando said, stumbling through the words.

Daniel chewed his popcorn kernel with a smirk. “Should I?”

“I think so, yeah,” Lando said, barely able to string a sentence together.

Daniel had been only warmth and goodness since Zandvoort. His meeting with Zak turned out to be a positive—a very big positive. The car looked better than anticipated for Monza, and they actually had a shot at major points if they played their cards right. That meant third, of course. Nobody was going to beat Lewis and Max on this track.

But third was good. Three was Daniel’s lucky number. Lucky enough that Max chose it twice.

“I heard he’s busy,” Daniel said, eyes still on him.

Lando’s face started to go hot. “You’re lying. You have no idea what he’s doing.”

Daniel grinned, moving in closer. Lando’s legs opened wider on reflex and he hated himself for being so fucking basic.

“Hey,” Daniel said, his voice softer. “Cool to kiss you?”

Lando’s cheeks burned. He turned his face back to the TV, where Nicholas Latifi had golden hour lighting on his face as he slipped a ring on Alex’s hand.

“You’re supposed to be mad at me,” Lando blurted out. “Or Max. Or both of us.”

It had taken everything in him to tell Daniel about the kiss when he came home, but Carlos never hid Charles from him, and Lando appreciated it as much as he hated it.

Daniel grunt as he sat up. He folded his hands around Lando’s thighs and hiked him up to his lap, giving Lando way too many ideas. He kept his gaze away.

“Gonna have to look at me, babe,” Daniel said, gently lifting Lando's hand from where he had rested it on his stomach.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Lando growled.

Daniel squeezed his hand. “Okay, fair. But I’d like you to look at me so you can see I’m not fucking with you.”

Lando bit down a snarky joke and turned his head.

Daniel's curls were damp from a recent shower, and he smelled like nice cologne Lando still felt like he couldn’t afford.  

“It is absolutely okay with me that Max kissed you,” Daniel said. “And it’s also abso-fucking-lutely okay that you kissed back.”

“See, it’s not okay though,” Lando said, shifting backward so that he could properly sit up. “You’re with him.”

Daniel shook his head. “I’m with you, babe.”

Lando let out a sigh. “Yeah, on paper. But you’re really with Max.”

“I can be with both of you,” Daniel said, like it was easy.

Lando’s heart twinged, suddenly plunged back to his kitchen in London, his feet freezing on the tile. Carlos staring at him with sad eyes, trying to touch him even though it wouldn’t help.

“No, you can’t,” Lando said quietly. “Someone always gets hurt. Always.”

Daniel smiled softly. “This is not the same as you and Carlos.”

“Yes it is,” Lando snapped.

“Oh? You been macking on Charles in your spare time?”

Lando shot him a glare. “Stop.”

“Lando, it’s not the same,” Daniel said. “First off, I’m not a twenty something who doesn’t know how to use his dick yet—no offense to you and Max. Second, I’ve been at this a long time. So has Max."

“None of those are real reasons,” Lando said. He motioned to the TV. “Lewis has been around a long time too, you know? You think Valtteri is totally cool with him making this big show about George?”

Daniel’s smile twitched as he shook his head. “Valtteri is definitely cool with it. Come on, not everyone is in a romance with the person they’re married to. Everyone knows that.”

“Seems like everybody is,” Lando muttered. “Except Nicky and George.” He paused. “And Mick and Nikita."

Daniel grinned. “So we’re in a romance?”

Lando didn’t think his cheeks could get any more red. Maybe they were purple now. He didn’t answer, pulling his knees up to shield himself instead.

Daniel pressed a kiss to his kneecap and Lando nearly started to cry.

“Talk to me,” Daniel urged, squeezing his ankle. “You can tell me you want Max to lick ice cream off your balls—promise it won’t offend me.”

Lando made a choked noise instead of a laugh and shook his head.

When he closed his eyes, he heard the rain, he felt the weightlessness, the way Max’s thumb caressed his jaw.

“It was the best kiss I’ve ever had,” Lando admitted, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop tears from falling out. “Which isn’t fair, because Carlos is supposed to be the best. And I know it didn’t mean anything, so that makes it even worse.”

“I think it meant something,” Daniel offered, thumbing over his ankle.

“No. I don’t want it to mean anything,” Lando bit out. “I don’t want it to mean anything because I know I’m not Max’s first pick. I wasn’t then and I’m not now. It was just some, like, fucked up fantasy thing. That’s all it was.”

“A fucked up fantasy thing,” Daniel repeated thoughtfully. “That’s bad?”

Lando leered at him. “Yeah, it’s bad. You’re not supposed to have your best kiss ever with someone who doesn’t love you.”

“Max loves you, Lando,” Daniel said. “That much I know.”

“Not that kind of love,” Lando retorted. “I don’t mean that kind of love!”

“There’s other kinds?” Daniel asked.

Lando threw a handful of popcorn at him. Daniel caught a kernel in his mouth.

Lando hated him.

“Do you wanna kiss him again?” Daniel asked around more popcorn.

Lando grit his teeth. “Why cheesecake?” he asked, deflecting. “What’s that mean?”

Daniel laughed, but it didn’t sound as joyful as usual. “It’s our code.”

“Yeah, duh. Code for what?”

Daniel plucked a few stray kernels from the couch cushion. “It’s not a nice story.”

“Don’t care.”

Max returned to the house late that night, soaked through and shaken. He came in long enough to shower and change before he kissed Daniel goodbye and left again. Supposedly to go back to see Checo, but Lando didn’t know if he believed that.

Daniel didn’t show any emotion when Lando told him Max was getting cheesecake. He just nodded once and kept on going with his story about how good the car was going to be, how much things were looking up.

“It means he did something that he thought was going to hurt me,” Daniel said. “Which sounds pretty fucking lame to say it like that. But that’s what it means. We used to get cheesecake for each other after fights—there’s this place in America. Cheesecake Factory. We ate there once and I told Max I’d forgive him for anything if he just got me cheesecake from that place. So it became a thing.”

Lando’s chest hollowed out. “Wait…me? Did he say that because of me?”

Daniel shook his head, adamant. “No. No way. He knows I’d never be upset about that.”

Lando ignored the warmth that filled him. “So what did he do then?”

Daniel suddenly looked a little smaller in his billowy hoodie. “I dunno. I have a guess, but I don’t really like to speculate. Live in the present, you know. If he wants to tell me, he’ll tell me.”

Lando shook his head. “That’s fucked up.”

Daniel cocked a brow. “Is it? I thought you hated that Carlos kept telling you about Charles.”

Lando grabbed a handful of popcorn and shoveled it into his mouth instead of replying.

Carlos loved him. Carlos loved him too much.  Carlos told him things he wasn’t ready to hear—things he didn’t want to hear. But he said it out of love, because Carlos valued honesty over most things. 

Lando missed him so much it hurt.

“Come on,” Lando said around his mouthful of popcorn. He shifted toward the edge of the couch, making room. “Cuddle first.”

Daniel grinned as he settled in, filling the space and filling the empty places in Lando too.

 

 


 

 

“You are incredibly lucky,” Binotto snarled from the head of the table. “In fact, I don’t think luck plays into this. You knew exactly what you were doing. You knew Verstappen would be invincible in Zandvoort, and you know any FIA official who would dare to defame you before Monza risks being shot on the street!”

Charles focused on the swirling grain of the wood table in front of him. Luca stared at him from across the table, but he had yet to make eye contact.

“You have not only infuriated the FIA, you’ve made Ferrari look foolish--again,” Binotto continued. “I’ve been on the phone with Jean Todt for more hours than I can count. He is just as angry as I am.”

“I’ve apologized,” Charles said. “It was a mistake. I already admitted that.”

“Un errore?” Binotto scoffed. “You saved his number. You dialed his number. You spoke to him on the phone for almost two minutes. Mi stai dicendo che è stato un errore?”

“Sí,” Charles said quietly. The answer came from his marrow, and it took and took.

The FIA found out about the phone call. The FIA also had photos of him driving Pierre to the airport, and photos of Max driving to him. But the worst was the security camera footage of Max bringing him to the hotel.

More specifically, Max holding him and kissing his forehead in full view of the loading dock camera.

Charles hated that video more than he thought it was possible to hate anything.

“I knew it was a bad idea to allow you two to have conversations,” Binotto muttered. “That is the last time I listen to Christian. Verstappen is a child, he can’t handle scrutiny and neither can you.”

“Tell the world and watch me then,” Charles grit out.

Binotto leveled a look of pity at him. “Charles, you are quite literally incapable.”

“I am not—”

“Yes, you are,” Luca interrupted, his voice quiet but firm.

Angry tears pricked at Charles’s eyes, and his chest began to tighten up again.

Luca called it a panic attack. Binotto called it a mental break.

“I’m not,” Charles whispered. “I’m crown prince of Ferrari, I’m not incapable of anything.”

“Legally, you are currently incapable of making decisions,” Binotto said. Some of the anger had faded from his voice, but not much. “I still haven’t figured out how we’re going to navigate that.”

Charles swallowed hard. Guilt oozed out of every pore, so thick inside him that he was certain it had replaced the oxygen in his blood.

He never should have called Max. He just didn’t know anyone else to call, and he couldn’t have Carlos thinking—

Thinking—

Fuck, Charles didn’t even know what Carlos would think. But he knew whatever Carlos thought would make him feel ashamed.

Of course, Carlos knew all about it now. Everything that Binotto and the Public Affairs team knew, anyway. The whole phone conversation had been played for them, ripping any semblance of privacy Charles thought he still had.

The past few days served as a reminder that he was nothing more than Ferrari property. His personhood had been replaced with a crown three years ago—he had willingly given it away.

“We’re going to have to flush the additional drugs from your system,” Luca said. “It will be a difficult balance. We have to ensure they’re gone before you step in the car. President Todt informed me they’ll be testing you in the garage an hour before the first practice session.”

Charles nodded once.

Binotto sighed. “Charles, I don’t…cazzo. We were all very worried. I have been worried since summer.” He gestured toward the interior of the palace, where Carlos was probably pacing the halls. “Carlos had been breaking my door down, trying to find some sort of loophole, some way to help.”

Charles shook his head. “Carlos doesn’t need to concern himself—”

“He cares about you very much,” Binotto said. “We all do, though I imagine it doesn’t seem like it. There are rules we must follow—Ferrari is held to a higher standard than any other empire in that regard.”

“Lo so,” Charles said weakly. “I’ve been trying, Mattia. I told you that calling Max was a mistake. I didn’t know what to do. I was trying to do the right thing and it backfired. I don't know what else to say.”

Binotto looked to Luca, his expression unreadable. “Luca, grazie. I’d like to speak to Charles alone now, please.”

Luca stood and dipped his head. “Charles, my door is always open.”

“Grazie, Luca,” Charles murmured, but he couldn’t meet his eye. Not when he’d screamed in man’s office, begging for drugs only a few days earlier.

The door clicked closed behind Luca on his exit, leaving him and Binotto alone. Charles didn’t think they’d been in private together since he’d signed his appointment contract. Back then he’d been over the moon. He’d cheered at the sky, he’d cried happy tears, he’d called his brothers and celebrated on the phone.

And, of course, he’d wished with all his might that he could tell his father in a dream or a vision or a sign or anything else, but never had the chance.  

“Charles,” Binotto said. “I just need to know what is going on. You’ve never acted this way, and it is very, very worrying.”

“Stop,” Charles said, shaking his head. “Sto cercando di far un buon lavoro. I’ve been in the simulator every week, I’ve been in every meeting, I’ve—”

“Your performance on track is not my concern.”

Charles blinked, strangely hollow. “I’m trying,” he whispered, stuck on repeat. "I’m trying so hard. I know I need to put Ferrari first, I know—”

“Charles, ascoltami,” Mattia said, placing his hand flat on the table. “You are crown prince of Ferrari, as you said. The responsibility of that role is enormous. I chose to extend an appointment to you because I had faith that you could carry the weight.”

And look what you got. A prince pumped full of drugs with a fake marriage and dead end relationships with every man who ever claimed to love him.

“Well,” Charles said. “You thought wrong.”

“No,” Mattia said, shaking his head. “You have carried that weight. Solo tu. The fact that you’ve been able to carry it this long is nothing short of a miracle.”

“What?” Charles stared at him in disbelief.

He’d fully expected Binotto to continue scolding him, to make threats about Max, to threaten his crown.

“I’m happy with the decision to appoint Carlos,” Binotto continued. “He has proven himself time and time again as a driver, a prince, a husband. He sees Ferrari as jewel for his crown, as most princes do. But you, Charles, have never once turned your head away from this empire.”

All of the blood left Charles’s face.

He’d always liked Binotto, up until he ripped Sebastian’s appointment out from under him. Two years with a prince of Sebastian’s caliber had barely touched the surface of what it meant to be crown prince. Charles still didn’t feel that he’d done anything to prove his worth beyond one win at Monza.

“I think you know that isn’t true,” Charles said quietly. “You aren’t stupid.”

Mattia adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He seemed to think better of it, because then he removed his glasses altogether to scrub his face in his hands.

“No, I’m not,” Mattia sighed. “But Max Verstappen is not Pierre Gasly. And the rules are the rules, though even the FIA can be sympathetic to the situation with Sebastian.”

Shame crept up Charles’s spine.

“I’m not with Max,” he said. He wanted that known. “I’m not with him. He’s just—He is—”

Charles cut himself off.

He called Max because Max was the only person in his entire life that he trusted to handle his mess and not hold it against him. The next time they saw each other, he wouldn’t fret or worry. He would greet him with a smile and a fist bump or a pat on the back as he passed.

“I can trust him,” Charles finally said. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but he’s the only one I trusted in that situation. Because I wanted to avoid this. I tried to avoid this.”

Mattia stared at him for a long moment, assessing. His eyes dimmed at one point, and he nodded his head. 

“I see that now,” he finally said.

Charles looked down at his hands, where his dead Oura ring still clung to his finger because he was too afraid to take it off. He felt Pierre’s absence in every day without a letter, a feeling like grief.

“I am not stupid, as you said,” Binotto began, leaning back in his chair. “I choose to stay in the dark about many things. The paddock always has rumors. But from what I have heard and what I know to be true, you make every decision with Ferrari at the center. I do not think any other prince in the empires can claim that.”

Charles met his eye, unable to fathom the compliment.  Ferrari had been his only goal since the lower courts. Every prince wanted a Ferrari crown, but Charles needed one. For Jules, for his father, for his younger brother who still thought a crown would bring him everything he wanted. He had no desire to rule anywhere else.

“Tomorrow we go to Milan,” Binotto said, a kind smile on his lips. “And there Carlos will learn what it truly means to be a prince of Ferrari. He will need you to show him how. In the meantime, we will do whatever is necessary to help you feel like the prince you are.”

He stood, dipping his head respectfully as he did so.

“Leave this incident to me. But Charles—” Mattia paused as he reached the door, turning to him. “Carlos is your partner. You must allow him to carry his weight.”

With that, Binotto left him alone to be swallowed by the enormity of the meeting room, the silence of a section of a palace he lived in. A palace he ruled from.

Every mouth in Ferrari knew his name. It fell from their lips every Sunday, constant as prayer.

Charles stood up from his seat. He left the room behind and the silence with it.

It didn’t take long to find Carlos. He’d been waiting in the next wing, pacing in a room full of old racesuits, car parts, and pieces of engine that hung on the walls with the reminder of who they were--what Ferrari had always been.

“Charles,” Carlos breathed, rushing to him with wide eyes and unkempt hair. 

Carlos embraced him, and Charles thought of Monaco, Florence, Spain.

“I’m right here,” Charles whispered, burying his face into Carlos’s neck.

“What did they say?” Carlos asked, squeezing him tighter. “What did they do to you?”

Chares leaned back, taking in those impossibly beautiful lashes, the freckles on Carlos’s cheekbones that he hadn’t kissed enough.

He shook his head, reaching up to run his thumb over those freckles and the warmth of Carlos’s cheek.

“Nothing, my love,” he murmured with a smile. He pressed a kiss to Carlos’s slackened lips and rested their foreheads together. “It’s time to teach you what else Monza can do.”

Chapter 88

Notes:

you'll need a translator unless you speak italian - i suggest DeepL! (it will be worth your while, i promise)

thank you to @tarmaclicious for the italian help, as always!

Chapter Text

 

Milan carried a different presence than Florence or Rome. White stone walls encapsulated city streets, gouged with iron that could be two years old or two hundred. Milan established itself as a city of luxury almost immediately—the people walking the sidewalks sported designer brands and beautiful features. A curated community of fashion and class.

Charles loved it. He loved the classic lines of the clothing people wore on the street, the sophisticated air of the Galleria in the early morning hours. True professionals were awake in the morning—the designers, seamstresses, and ateliers. The models were still sleeping off parties from the night before, and whatever substances helped them stay thin and energized.

Of course, not every model was sleeping off a drug binge. Carlos stood in front of the mirror in the small changing area Ferrari provided for them, staring at himself.

Charles nursed a cappuccino from a takeaway cup from his spot on the couch, willing the coffee to wake him up for the day ahead.

Some models were forced to wake up despite.

“It seems a bit…unlike me,” Carlos said, tugging at the white Ferrari pullover Giorgio had picked for him. “And a bit small.”

“Girati,” Charles said.

Carlos turned to face him, discomfort clear on his face.

The pullover was a bit small compared to the cut Charles liked, but the stark white made Carlos’s dark skin look all the more honeyed, and his eyes all the more gorgeous. Charles tilted his head, taking him in.

“I think it looks regal,” he said.

Carlos let out a snort and turned back to the mirror. “Regal,” he said, testing the word out on his tongue.

Charles didn’t have such a nice outfit. Giorgio had selected a yellow and red Ferrari shirt for him, with giant black Ferrari lettering dividing the colors. His black sweats and trainers didn’t exactly scream prince, but that was the point.

Carlos had to be the focal point. Carlos had to be accepted as a true prince of Ferrari.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” Giorgio greeted as he stepped past the divider curtain. “It’s time to begin.”

Charles stood, taking a long sip of coffee. He offered the cup to Carlos, who shook his head.

“Arriviamo subito, Giorgio,” Charles said.

Giorgio nodded once and slipped away.

Charles set the coffee down and approached, guiding Carlos to face him again. He smoothed his hands over the soft fabric of the pullover before allowing his gaze to find his husband’s.

“You’re wearing your nerves all over your face,” Charles murmured as Carlos’s arms looped around his waist. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”

Carlos chuckled. “You say that as if we are not at our home race and I’m not with the last Ferrari prince to win here.”

Charles smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Carlos, you’re a Ferrari prince too. It’s only your first year and we’ve already done so much.”

Carlos made a dismissive noise. Charles brought a hand to his face, thumbing the rough stubble of his jaw before pressing a kiss to his lips. Carlos relaxed into it, but only slightly.

“They love you,” Charles murmured. “After today they’ll love you even more.”

Carlos smiled weakly. “Okay.”

I love you.

Though Charles had said the words more than ever lately, he didn’t say them this time. Once again he felt as if he’d overused the phrase, once again tainting them into something meaningless. After all, how could he claim to love Pierre and then abandon him at the airport? How could he claim to love Carlos when he called Max instead of him?

Charles took Carlos’s hand and led him out of the changing area. Giorgio broke off from a small group of Public Affairs reps and shooed them toward a spiral staircase in the center of the building. The F2002 hung suspended between the floors, precarious, as though a prince still sat in the cockpit. Michael Schumacher, to be specific. Somehow that made it more eerie.

As they stepped toward the stairs, a ferocious cry came from outside the building that started a chorus of female screams. Carlos flinched, jolting Charles to look toward the noise.

Girls crowded at the store windows below, staring up at them. Not just women, of course, but they were all drowned out by the high-pitched voices screaming their names.

“Mierda,” Carlos muttered. “There’s so many.”

“Smile,” Charles said through his teeth as he did just that.

Carlos smiled as though he was in physical pain. Charles thumbed the side of his palm as they headed down the stairs in an attempt to settle him.

“Now, this is the main floor,” Giorgio explained as they stepped toward the front of the building. “Haute couture items will be on display here, along with various pieces of memorabilia.”

Ferrari wanted to focus more on promotion of the arts, or so Giorgio had explained to them on the trip to Milan. Charles had only been half listening, too hazy from the first hour after ingesting his new medication. He couldn’t call it drowsiness, just a buzzing numbness that made it hard to process things at first.

He definitely needed to get off of the new drugs before he stepped in a car. Though they did stop the panic from swallowing him up. Mostly.

Charles eyed an interesting coat that looked like a tailored multicolored trash bag, but fancier.

Ferrari wanted to promote fashion designers, to create an empire recognizable on the streets. Alpha Tauri were on the same track, but with a smaller fashion house in Vienna. Pierre had shown him some of the early designs.

In fact, Pierre had shown him how easily some of those designs could be taken off.

“Charles, Charles!”

Charles looked up to the sound of a girl screaming his name in  a pitch that made him fear for the structural integrity of the glass windows. He smiled at her, which prompted a scream of delight.

Carlos gently pulled his hand away and drifted toward a folded green crewneck displayed on a white pedestal. A fan greeted him by making a heart symbol with their hands, smiling kindly.

“Carlos, ti amiamo!” another fan screamed, fighting to get closer to the glass. A few girls started beating on the pane, surprising both Charles and Carlos.

A chorus of Carlos’s name started after, and Charles watched with amusement as Carlos froze in place.

Carlos was—in Charles’s mind—one of the most handsome men with a crown. He knew it, most of the time. But here he looked like a deer in headlights, stuck in place as women screamed at him and fought for a better view of his face.

“Aren’t you going to say hi?” Charles teased, taking a strange kind of satisfaction in the fact that he had what all of those girls wanted.

Carlos shot him a nervous glance, then offered the crowd a small smile.

“Carlos,” Charles chastised, still smiling. “Loro ti amo. Devi mostrargli di più.”

Carlos grimaced a little, then lifted his hands to make a heart shape back to the crowd.

The fans exploded into a fit of screams. One girl had tears running down her cheeks.

“They do know I’m married, yes?” Carlos asked out of the corner of his mouth.

 “Hasn’t stopped princes before,” Charles muttered.

Carlos turned to him, eyebrow raised. “No, it hasn’t.”

Charles blinked, shame clawing up his spine.

“No, Charles—I was referring to Daniel,” Carlos blurted, his cheeks turning ruddy.

“Naturally,” Charles replied coolly. “Your good friend Daniel.”

Carlos frowned at him.

“Leclerc!” a fan screamed at the top of her lungs, throwing her arms up to bang on the glass. A security guard scolded her in angry Italian.

Charles kept smiling as he waved at her and she hugged her chest tightly, sobbing as she dropped to her knees.

Oh god.

“Ci piacerebbe avere più foto di voi due con I capi della collezione, se non vi dispace,” Giorgio said, ignoring the scene outside.

“Sure,” Charles replied, stepping up to a watch display case. His red Richard Mille was worth more than every watch in the case combined, but the Ferrari watches looked nice with the matte black design and hints of red.

Carlos stepped up beside him, looking over the pieces. Charles watched his face as he examined the watches, trying to read the thoughts behind those beautiful eyes.

“You’re staring,” Carlos murmured, still looking down at the display.

Charles leaned into him, returning his attention to the watches, but resting his cheek on Carlos’s shoulder. Carlos slipped an arm around him, and for a moment Charles could ignore the crowd outside, the dozens of eyes trained on them.

“Not happy with your Richard Mille?” Charles asked after a moment of silence that stretched too long.

“Prince Charles,” Giorgio interrupted. “Could you look though the rack, please?”

Charles pulled back and pressed a kiss to Carlos’s cheek. The crowd screamed.

“They love you,” Charles reminded him as he stepped away. Carlos swallowed hard.

He didn’t wear silence well.

Charles did as instructed and sifted through a rack of clothing that consisted of a few strange styles. Leather jackets, vibrant shirts, and a jacket made of an interesting material that Charles didn’t know how to name—and he knew a thing or two about obscure fashion choices.

Carlos gave an awkward wave to the crowd before joining him at the rack.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he stepped in close, kissing Charles’s temple. “I would never make a joke about you like that. Not ever.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Charles dismissed. He pulled on the sleeve of a red Ferrari crewneck. “Credi che mi starebbe bene?”

Carlos looked at him and Charles reluctantly met his gaze.

“Saresti perfetto con qualsiasi cosa,” Carlos murmured.

Charles smiled at him, glancing down at his lips before they met in a kiss.

The crowd roared.

“Your Royal Highnesses, if you could please come here,” Giorgio said, gesturing toward an easel where several art prints had been displayed. “These are the winners of the empire-wide art competition. All participants were asked to use a collection of pre-determined shapes to create an art piece. We’ll need photos of you both appreciating the art, please.”

“Of course,” Charles said, stepping away.

They looked over the art pieces and took more photos until it was time to head to their next engagement: greeting the people of Ferrari at il Duomo. They changed into typical Ferrari media attire and headed toward the door.

“No,” Carlos said when he saw the town car waiting for them at the side entrance to the store. Fans pressed in everywhere, completely surrounding the car even as security tried to push them away.

“Carlos, we can’t stay here,” Charles said. “We’re going.”

Carlos shook his head. “Not like this. This is dangerous.”

Charles sighed. “This is Milan. These are our—”

“No,” Carlos hissed, stepping in front of him so that the waiting fans wouldn’t see his face. A thoughtful move. “This is exactly what happened to Lando and Daniel.”

Charles set his jaw.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Carlos said, stepping closer. “Lando told me he didn’t feel safe before he left the stadium. It only took a second.”

“I’m not Lando,” Charles said, holding his gaze. “I’m crown prince of Ferrari. These are my people—our people, Carlos. I’m not staying here in this building when they’re waiting for us. For many of them, this is the only time they’ll ever see us. We owe them that.”

Fear sprang to Carlos’s features—a look Charles had only seen after he’d crashed in Zandvoort.

“Not at the expense of you,” Carlos said quietly, resting his hands on Charles’s hips, squeezing gently. Charles let out a sharp exhale on reflex, his cheeks flushing. “I’m not going to make the mistake I did last time, Charles. I know you don’t need protecting, but I’m going to protect you this time.”

“Carlos—”

“No,” Carlos interrupted, squeezing his hips again. “We’re not going out there until a path is clear. A path to the car. You’re crown prince and that—”

He cut himself off. Charles blinked at him, an unexpected warmth welling up in his chest. Carlos’s shoulders were rigid lines, his jaw taut, his brow furrowed in concern.

“sei il più importante,” Carlos finished, slightly panicked. “That makes you the biggest target. And I will not let anything happen to you again.”

Charles pulled him in, hugging him close. “Ehi,” he soothed, burying his nose into Carlos’s neck. Carlos clung to him, holding him tight enough that Charles had trouble catching his breath. “Nothing is going to happen to me, okay? We’ll wait until the path is clear. We’ll wait.”

He caught Giorgio’s eye, who nodded curtly and started hissing out commands in Italian to the waiting staff.

“Sorry,” Carlos breathed, stepping back.

“Don’t be sorry,” Charles said, taking his hands. “It was very overwhelming for me too, the first time.”

The crowd had been ravenous. Seething, even. They all doubted him, the too-young prince. The gamble Ferrari had taken, the boy destined for too much. Sebastian threw him to the wolves that day, at first.

Charles had to admit it had been the best strategy. He would have been furious if Sebastian tried to hold his hand through it—holding his hand in reality had been insult enough at the time.

But he loved Carlos, and he didn’t want any lingering discomfort on a day meant to show the world what Charles saw every day.

“We’re ready,” Giorgio called. “We have a short window—andiamo.”

Carlos turned to assess the path that had been made and nodded once, though he gripped Charles’s hand tightly as they walked.

“Smile,” Charles whispered. “Relax. Do I need to give you another massage?”

Giorgio glanced at him, and Carlos turned beet red before giving a nervous smile. Charles lifted Carlos’s knuckles to his lips, kissing there as the doors opened and the full volume of the crowd assaulted them.

The surrounding buildings only served to amplify the sound as the crowd screamed, testing the newly fortified security as Carlos marched straight to the car. Charles offered smiles and a few waves, but didn’t have time for much else before Giorgio pushed him into the car.

“Greet the crowd, Carlos,” Charles said through his teeth as the door shut behind them.

Fans closed the gap immediately, banging on the car windows and thrusting posters, magazines, and photos at them.

“Perchè non ci muoviamo?” Carlos asked as he smiled and waved—though he looked like one of the store mannequins as he did so.

“People are in the way,” Antonello replied from the driver’s seat. He honked loudly, but people barely moved. He looked at Carlos through the rearview, cocking a brow. “The windows are bulletproof, and so is the car, Your Royal Highness.”

“Grazie,” Carlos huffed out, loosening his hold on Charles’s hand. His smile became a little more real after that, and he finally relaxed when they managed to get on an actual street with a police escort.

Unfortunately for Carlos, the piazza made the Ferrari store look tame.

Ferrari flags waved in the sun, and red smoke had already started despite the strict warnings not to let off any smoke bombs. The iconic Milan cathedral—il Duomo—made an intricate backdrop to the massive crowd.

A small stage came into view, along with a section of the piazza cleared of people with barricades and security guards. A few Ferraris sat parked as decoration, along with Charles’s car from last year.

“You can’t think this is safe,” Carlos said, leaning forward toward Antonello. “We’re out in the open!”

“There are snipers,” Antonello replied as he parked. “And we have a boosted security presence to keep people from the barricades.”

“We should have bulletproof vests,” Carlos muttered.

Charles rolled his eyes. “These are our people, Carlos. We can’t look like we’re afraid of them.”

Giorgio opened Carlos’s door and the crowd roared their approval, but the sound doubled when Charles emerged.

It was impossible not to be happy when a crowd of thousands cheered his name.

Charles beamed, waving to fans as Carlos led them both to the stage, where Binotto stood with a microphone dangling from his hand. He looked in desperate need of saving.

“Ciao, Mattia,” Charles greeted. “Having trouble?”

Binotto let out a snort. “You’re late, that’s the trouble. I hope you’re ready to start right into your speech.”

Charles grinned. “I expected nothing less.”

He’d been born for this. He knew how to make the crowd love him—he’d done it before his win here. Even Sebastian had been taken aback by his charisma.

Mattia brought the microphone back to his mouth, and a little ring of feedback made everyone wince once the sound turned back on.

“Senza ulteriori indugi, il vostro Principe in carica della Ferrari, His Royal Highness Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc,” Mattia announced.

Charles bit back a laugh at the use of his full name as he took the microphone. The crowd roared, a swell of ten thousand voices instead of the screams of a few dozen fans. When he closed his eyes he saw red, and felt the ghost of confetti paper against his cheeks.

“Essere qui oggi è un onore per me,” Charles began, settling close to Carlos. “Monza è la nostra casa. Monza è dove possiamo mostrare al mondo cos’è la Ferrari. Nella vittoria o nella sconfitta, siamo la Ferrari—siamo una famiglia.”

The crown cheered. Banners and flags sprang up, painting a landscape of red, yellow, and black.

He would never fear this place.

“Questo weekend corriamo per voi,” Charles continued. “Questa stagione è stata dura per tutti noi, ma abbiamo sempre saputo di poter contare sul vostro supporto nell’accoglierci nuovamente a casa, nonostante tutto.”

He wished he could say they could win. He felt it in his bones that he could, but Mattia warned him against making promises here.

“Questa stagione sono stato anche fortunato,” Charles said, looking out over the faces below. “Avere il Principe Carlos come marito ha reso possibile l’impossibile. Lavoriamo così come viviamo e amiamo— insieme.”

The crowd erupted. Charles looked to Carlos, a fond smile on his face.

Carlos stared back at him, dumbstruck.

The crowd began to chant. Car-los, Car-los, Car-los!

“Per favore, per favore,,” Charles said, turning back to the crowd as he looped an arm around Carlos’s middle. “E’ tempo di dare a Carlos ufficialmente il benvenuto a casa, a Monza.”

“Oh god,” Carlos whispered, waving out to the wild sea of people celebrating, cheering, welcoming. More banners flew up—these bearing Carlos’s name and crest.

Charles turned to him, watching the way the slight breeze ruffled his perfect hair, the way the morning sun dappled his cheeks and lit his irises amber.

“Kiss me,” Charles said, trying to keep his lips from moving as he spoke. “It’s us, we’re safe.”

Carlos blinked hard, almost robotic as he turned. He tilted his head and Charles leaned in, dropping his lashes as Carlos pressed a firm kiss to his lips that felt like he’d read a Wikipedia article on how to do it and was trying to copy the directions.

Charles laughed and tugged him closer, parting his lips just enough to swipe his tongue along Carlos’s lower lip.

Carlos made a sound of surprise and stiffened up even more.

“Didn’t know you had stage fright,” Charles teased as he relented, brushing their noses together.

Carlos blushed so hard that even the tip of his nose had turned red.

“Carlos,” Charles said into the microphone. “Ti è piaciuta Milano?”

Carlos took a full second to register he’d been spoken to before he clumsily grabbed the microphone and cleared his throat. “Io amo Milano,” he finally replied.

The crowd roared in agreement.

Charles kept an arm around him, thumbing at the dip of his spine.

Carlos glanced at him before lifting his chin a little higher, his media face coming to life on his features. His posture relaxed, his eyes were no longer wide, his smile no longer so forced.

“Quando sono arrivato in Ferrari non sapevo cosa aspettarmi,” Carlos said. “Beh, credo mi aspettassi di venire escluso. Questo Impero ha così tanta storia e tradizione alle sue spalle, no? — lo sapevo che sarei stato la faccia nuova nella lunga dinastia dei suoi principi.”

Carlos leaned into him, and Charles pressed a kiss to his shoulder in affirmation that he was doing well. All eyes were trained on him, every citizen enraptured.

“Ma invece, sono stato accolto,” Carlos continued. “Da Mattia, dal team di gara, dal Governo– ma soprattutto, da tutti voi.”

Charles made a face and the crowd laughed. “Non stai dimenticando qualcuno?”he asked loud enough to be heard in the mic. More laughter.

Carlos grinned at him, his eyes dimming to a look of such fondness that Charles forgot to exhale.

“You were not just welcoming,” Carlos said, keeping his voice soft. “My whole life has changed since I fell in love with you.”

Charles let out a quiet noise of surprise, and it was his turn for his face to go red.

“Mi hai insegnato cosa significa essere un Principe della Ferrari,” Carlos continued. “Come andare avanti nelle avversità. Come far diventare una squadra– no, un Impero– una famiglia.”

Charles swallowed hard, unable to come up with anything to say. He could talk to a crowd about Ferrari, about his crown. He could say nice things about Carlos to get others to love him.

But Carlos could speak in a way that sounded like it was only for him, even with ten thousand people listening.

“I love you,” Carlos said. Somehow Charles could hear in his voice that he realized Charles hadn’t said it to him in days, and the guilt welled up in him to the point where he almost apologized right there on the stage.  “Grazie per il tuo amore per la Ferrari… e per me.”

The crowd had gone silent, or maybe Charles’s ears had shut out all the noise. He could only hear his heartbeat in his ears, the muffled sounds of his own breathing.

“Sei parte della Ferrari ora, Carlos,” Charles said. “E io—”

The cheering drowned him out as fans screamed at the tops of their lungs, chanting their names. Cameras closed in and security guards swatted at fans who scrambled against the barriers in a desperate attempt to get closer.

Car-los, Car-los, Car-los!

“Time to move!” Giorgio called over the noise.

Carlos stared at him for a second longer. Charles’s mouth went dry, parting his lips to try to finish his sentence, but then Carlos handed off the microphone and they both headed down below the stage platform.

He watched as Carlos shook himself off, shedding his royalty and becoming the man Charles lived with. The man who brought him coffee in the morning and sang in the kitchen and touched him all the time to remind him he was loved.

“Carlos,” Charles began. “I—”

“We need to do this quickly,” Giorgio cut in, guiding them toward a small collection of people. “These are schoolchildren from Milan. Very big fans—smiles, yes?”

Carlos nodded, a smile appearing on his face as they approached a group of mostly mothers. Little kids clung to their legs, peering at them from around pant legs and flowing summer skirts.

“Ciao,” Carlos greeted, crouching down in front of a little girl. “Sono Carlos, e tu?”

The girl hugged tighter to her mother.

“Ah,” Carlos said with an understanding nod. “Faccio paura oggi?” He wrinkled his nose to make a funny face. “Meglio?”

“No!” the girl teased, still hiding. “Sei buffo.”

“Buffo?” Carlos dropped the rest of the way to the ground, splaying his legs out in front of him. “Dios mio, I tried so hard. “Puoi mostrarmi come non sembrare buffo?”

“Così!” a little boy yelled, running full speed at Carlos and jumping over one of his legs to land precariously close to his crotch. The boy slapped his hands to Carlos’s cheeks.

“Andre!” the boy’s mother scolded.

Carlos laughed. “E’ tutto ok, mi sta insegnando. Mi stai insegnando, vero?”

Andre nodded, mushing Carlos’s cheeks.

“That’s not right,” the little girl said, but she hadn’t left her mother.

Charles stepped closer, squatting down closer to the girl. “Can you show me?” he asked.

Andre jumped, and Carlos’s quick reflexes saved him from a painful hit between the legs as he caught Andre midair.

The little girl smiled at him, her cheeks pink. “Tu non sembri buffo, Principe Charles.”

If only you knew, he thought, smiling at her.

“Do you want to introduce yourself to His Royal Highness?” the girl’s mother asked, stroking the girl’s dark hair. “Can you tell him your name?”

The girl considered her mother’s words before she stepped out from behind her leg and extended her tiny hand.

“I’m Princess Virginia,” the girl announced proudly.

Charles dipped his head. “Your Royal Highness,” he greeted, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of her hand.

Virginia giggled, then threw her arms around his neck. “Ti voglio bene, Principe Charles!”

Charles went slack for a moment, completely overwhelmed. The girl had such tiny little arms, such a tiny body, but she hugged him with everything she had in a way only a child could.

“Ehy anche io!” another voice cried, and suddenly another little body pressed to his back as another child hugged him from behind.

“E io pure!”

Charles finally put an arm around Virginia to return her embrace as more and more kids surrounded him, hugging his arms, his legs, his back. One little boy started to climb up his shoulders, but Charles didn’t care one bit as micro-sized Adidas trainers used his ribcage as ladder rungs.

Tears wet his eyes as he looked over at Carlos, who had laid down on the stone and held a wriggling Andre up over his head. More kids had piled on him too, creating a heap of shrieking little humans.

Carlos met his eye and smiled in a way that made Charles think of after.

Charles knew he wanted kids eventually. He’d always seen himself as a father once his time in royalty had finished. Once upon a time he imagined that life with Max. Recently, with Pierre. But as he watched Carlos stick his tongue out at a little girl making a face at him in a Ferrari themed princess dress, he saw that future with Carlos too.

“Prince Charles,” a little boy said, grabbing his face and turning it to face him. “Can I drive your car please?”

Charles smiled. “I don’t know about driving it, but maybe we can ask my friend Giorgio if you can sit in the one that’s here.”

“I wanna sit in it too!” Virginia cried, and soon every kid started screaming that they wanted a turn.

Carlos sat up, his hair disheveled. He’d somehow collected several red sparkly hair clips. ““Le macchine sono molto speciali,” Carlos said over the noise. “Devi stare in silenzio se vuoi sederti in una di quelle– Charles and I are very quiet when we drive. Whoever is quietest gets to go first.”

Every kid slapped their hands over their mouths, looking at each other wide-eyed and smiling behind their palms as they waited for someone to make noise.

“I did not agree to this,” Giorgio muttered, but he started waving along the Public Affairs staff. “Let’s make a queue, please.”

The parents collected their children to carry them over to Charles’s car as Charles dusted what appeared to be cookie crumbs off of his shoulders.  Carlos pulled a clip from his hair and stared down at it, eyes distant.

He doesn’t want this with you, idiot.

Of course he didn’t. No one wanted a family with someone like him. Someone sick. Who knew what he was capable of if his medication turned sour, if he had another panic attack at the wrong time.

“Your Highness?” Giorgio called, waving him over.

Charles hopped to his feet and put on a smile as he rejoined the group and prepared to show the children the car he’d driven while in love with another prince.

 

 


 

 

“I’m sunburnt,” Charles complained when they finally returned to their hotel room after spending dinner with important government officials, trying to parse through legal jargon and other bullshit all evening.

“I’m going to shower,” Carlos announced, scrubbing his face in his hands. “Are you staying up?”

Charles shook his head. “Too tired.”

He spotted a letter on the counter addressed to Carlos with an Alpine seal.

“Fernando writes letters?” Charles mused, cocking a brow.

Carlos picked up the letter and opened it, gazing down at the light blue parchment.

“He watched our speech,” Carlos said as he continued to read. “He says congratulations to both of us.” He tossed the letter toward Charles.

 

You are both what Ferrari needs. You should be proud of today—it is not easy to win over this crowd.

 

“I told you it went well,” Charles said, following Carlos into their bedroom.

Carlos shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I could have done better.”

Charles collapsed onto the bed, flopping onto his back to stare up at the patterned ceiling above. Carlos’s shirt thumped to the floor as he began to hum to himself. The shower hissed to life a moment later and Charles traced shapes in the pattern of the copper plating overhead.

“Hey Carlos,” he called.

“Yes?” Carlos replied from the bathroom, his voice mottle by a toothbrush in his mouth.

“Never mind. I figured it out,” Charles lied.

He closed his eyes and listened as Carlos spit his toothpaste in the sink and continued his song—something Spanish.

“Fue mi descuido dejarte, así tan sola, yo nunca debí,” Carlos sang off-key. “Buscar en otra lo que yo en ti vi, ahora todos hablan mal de mí en la TV.”

Charles thought about going to sleep. About closing the chapter on a good but stressful day and doing his best not to think about the way Carlos looked at that hair clip.

Really, Carlos hadn’t been himself except with those kids. Those smiles had been the real Carlos, the one Charles knew, the one he loved. The rest of the day had been full of nerves, discomfort, and tension.

 Charles slipped from bed. He set his watch on the dresser beside Carlos’s, then stepped into the bathroom. Damp air hit his face as he closed the door behind him.

The shower glass wasn’t designed to prevent anyone from looking in, though it had fogged. Carlos stood under the spray, his hair flat to his skull, his nose pressed to the tiles and his shoulders hunched.

“Can I come in?” Charles asked, careful not to startle him.

Carlos sucked in a breath and slicked his hair back, offering a tight smile. “You’re already in.”

“I meant in there with you,” Charles said, leaning back against the countertop.

Carlos blinked at him. “Oh. You—Are you sure?”

Charles pulled off his shirt instead of replying, shedding his sweats a moment later.

He shivered as he stepped into the shower, finding solace soon after in the warm water.

“You didn’t seem like yourself today,” Charles began, reaching past his husband for the shampoo.

Carlos opened his mouth to reply, but said nothing for a long moment, searching his face.

“What is it?” Charles asked, lathering a bit of shampoo between his palms. It smelled like coconut and something expensive. He brought his hands to Carlos’s hair to begin washing.

Carlos settled his hands on Charles’s hips—again.

“I think it’s wrong to…” Carlos shook his head. “I don’t know how to say it. I don’t like being second in anything. I never have. But with you, I…”

Charles reached don to thumb at his jaw, drawing him in close. “You can tell me.”

You’re legally incapable of making decisions.

Carlos tugged him closer until their hips were flush together. Heat pooled in Charles’s gut, and he could feel as the desire welled up in him. Suddenly he found Carlos’s bottom lip suckable, his hands not holding him tight enough, his body not close enough.

“With you I don’t mind being second,” Carlos finished, lips tantalizingly close. “I’ll always try to beat you, but if my best isn’t good enough, it’s okay.”

“You beat me in Monaco,” Charles teased. “Asking for more is greedy.”

“Oh?” Carlos purred, pressing him against the shower wall.

Charles let out a hiss at the cold tile on his back, making a point to arch against Carlos to fend it off. He smirked, eyeing the soap suds all over in his hair.

“I haven’t finished,” Charles said, nodding to the lather.

“It’ll wash out,” Carlos replied, turning him by the hips to face the wall. Charles shivered again—this time for a different reason as Carlos’s lips settled at his ear.

“I’m feeling very greedy,” Carlos whispered.

Charles rocked back, burning with a lust akin to desperation. He braced himself against the tile as Carlos pressed against him, a firm and steady weight.

They met eyes, and every nerve ending in Charles jolted with desire.

“Lucky for you,” he breathed, “I’m feeling generous.”

Chapter Text

“So how’s the flat?” Lando asked.

His phone sat balanced on his crossed ankles as he stared out at the streets of Milan, where Italians were just venturing out to dinner, despite it being bedtime for everyone else in this time zone. He’d found his own little corner of quiet in their skyscraper hotel—an odd corner lounge where an elevator was probably supposed to be.

He pressed the end of one of his hoodie strings against his bottom lip, his hooded forehead pressed to the window glass.

“You know, a flat,” Fewtrell replied over the phone.

Lando heard the sound of an explosion in the background. Call of Duty, most likely.

He adjusted his AirPods, watching as a girl scurried across the street below, narrowly avoiding a car.

“Have you decided anything else about Monaco?” Few asked a moment later.

There it was.

“I think so,” Lando said. “That spot under construction.”

“The one Daniel liked.”

“Yeah.”

“Figures.”

Lando scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s not Prince Charming, you know,” Few said. “He fucked you over. Being nice now doesn’t—”

“You don’t actually know him,” Lando snapped. “I do, okay? I live with him. He’s gone through a lot.”

More explosions sounded on the other end of the line. Gunfire followed.

Lando’s heart ached against his will. Few was right that Daniel had fucked him over in the beginning of the season, but he barely knew his husband back then. Daniel had no reason to trust him with something as important as Max, as burner phones.

Now Lando knew firsthand how dangerous the latter could be.

“He still made you look like an idiot,” Few said. “And I don’t buy it, by the way. He doesn’t care about what he did to you.”

“You weren’t here,” Lando reminded him. “I was here. I was with him and I saw what happened after all that shit went down. It wasn’t good.”

Drinking nonstop and yet somehow managing to stay sober long enough to drive the car before he dove for the bottle. Life revolved around cocktails, shots, and pints. Paranoia, sleeping in the shower, panic attacks.

“He does care about me,” Lando said.

“He’s like fifty years older than you. That’s like saying you care about a kid in primary school,” Few muttered.

“It’s totally not the same and you know it,” Lando replied. “It’s not the fucking same.”

Here he’d thought calling Fewtrell would settle him. He’d planned to tell him about what happened with Max, to get a real human’s opinion on it. Few would tell him the truth, whatever that ended up being. Lando didn’t even know what he wanted to hear.

But London had done something to them. Lando knew that was his fault too, but god, wasn’t everything?

Another explosion carried through the background noise on the other end of the line.

“So did you call for a reason other than checking on your flat?” Few asked.

Lando grimaced, echoes of their blowout fight echoing in his head.

Max Fewtrell was the only normal friend he had left. Arguing with him hurt in ways fighting with Carlos couldn’t. At least with Carlos they had literal laws dictating how they had to conduct themselves.

I kissed Max, Lando wanted to say. I kissed Max and it was good and I hate it and everything and especially fighting with you.

“Don’t talk shit about my husband,” Lando said instead.

“Piss off,” Few snapped. “I’ll talk shit about whoever I want. Especially if he’s stringing your ass along.”

“Daniel is not stringing me along,” Lando gritted out.

The gunfire stopped.

“Oh fuck. Lando, don’t tell me you’re in love with him again,” Few said.

Anger spouted in him just as suddenly as it had in London.

“You have no fucking idea what it’s like being a prince,” Lando snarled. “You got one whiff of it and you chickened out.”

Few laughed on the other end of the line. “Did it ever occur to you that some people don’t want to live your fucked up life, mate? Every time you call me, it reminds me exactly why I walked away.”

“Big talk for someone who lost a seat because he wasn’t fast enough.”

“Nah,” Few replied nonchalantly. “Just didn’t have Daddy writing big checks to keep me in the game when I didn’t make the podium.”

“Listen to me you little—”

“Shut up, Lando!” Few hissed. “For once in your life, shut up! I know you’re about to say something fucking stupid to me and I really don’t want you to, okay?”

“Like you didn’t just say something stupid to me!” Lando hissed back. “Bringing my dad into this? Fuck you, Max.”

“Oh come on. They say worse things about you in the tabloids every day.”

Lando wanted to beat his head against the glass. Hurt stung behind his eyes as he squeezed them shut.

“The tabloids don’t matter to me,” he forced out. “But you fucking matter.”

He hated fighting with his friends. Few could be an absolute pain in the ass, but he’d been there for him when everyone else was more focused on his crown or his husband.

Silence ate up the line.

“I asked you twice about the reservation,” Few said quietly. “Twice.”

Lando pulled his knees up to his chin. His phone thumped to the floor.

“Yeah,” he finally said.

He wanted it to be Few’s fault so, so bad.

Making a hotel reservation should have been simple. The Fewtrell family was still close enough to royalty that nobody at the Ritz would have said anything as long as the credit card cleared.

“I never would have put your name unless you told me,” Few said.

“Yeah,” Lando repeated.

Stay under my name, he’d said, like an idiot. Sexiled in style, yeah?

It would have been fine if Carlos hadn’t—

Well, it would have been fine if Carlos hadn’t done a lot of things.

Namely, falling in love with Charles Leclerc.

Lando could have done better too. He could have kept his mouth shut.

I don’t think I even love you anymore.

Yeah, he’d said that. He’d said that to the one person he would always love forever, no matter what. Those were the only words he’d been able to think of at the time. The only words that had any hope of inflicting the kind of torture he’d experienced since Charles stole Carlos away.

“I know I’m not coming with you to Monaco,” Few said. “You don’t have to say it.”

Lando hid his face in his knees. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“Yeah, well. I have to start looking for a place to live, so.”

Shame burned at the backs of his ears.

“They haven’t accept my offer,” Lando whispered.

“They will, though.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah, they will.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll start looking for a place.”

“Do you—Can you afford that?” Lando asked.

“I was almost rich enough to make it into royalty,” Few muttered. “I can handle a flat.”

Lando’s phone buzzed loudly against the floor. He rested his chin on his knees as he grabbed it and held it up to read a text from Daniel.

Company. Where are you?

“Hey, I gotta go,” Lando said. “I’ll, um. We’ll chat soon, yeah?”

“Sure. Maybe I’ll even hear ‘I’m sorry’ next time.”

Lando ended the call before he could say something he would really regret.

“How about ‘you’re welcome for the free rent’?” he said bitterly into the silence.

He couldn’t help himself.

He rubbed his eyes as he stood up and tossed the cushion back onto the couch. He let Daniel know he was coming and kept his eyes on the floor as he headed back to their room.

Company. He didn’t know what that meant. Daniel usually didn’t tell him when Max was stopping by—they’d talked about it before. Lando hoped Daniel would have said something less cryptic if it was Zak. And he never would have said anything if it was Carlos, Daniel would have told him to leave.

Not that Carlos had any time for him, not in Monza. His new home, surrounded by his new family and his one true love.

Lando knocked once he reached their room then swiped his keycard and pushed open the door.

“Perfect timing,” Daniel greeted, stepping into the entryway to greet him. He looked rested and sober, thank god. And he didn’t look scared.

All positives.

“Hey,” Lando returned, stepping into Daniel’s arms.

Daniel squeezed him tight, rubbing his back. “You good?”

Lando nodded against his chest. “Yeah. Who’s here?”

Daniel kissed his head. “George.”

Lando pulled back. “George is here?”

He looked over Daniel’s shoulder to see George in the living room, scrolling through his phone from his spot on the couch.

“What are you doing here?” Lando asked as he slipped past Daniel.

George looked up from his phone, almost bored. “Waiting for you.”

“Yeah, I gathered.”

George smirked. “Came to see if I can get you to come to dinner.”

Lando held his gaze and he could see the moment George dropped the mask.

“Who’s going?” he asked.

“You, me, Pierre.”

Lando set his jaw. “Is this a Steakout thing?”

Maybe Charles had completely lost his shit.

George stood up from the couch and pocketed his phone. “No, not a Steakout thing. More of a getting out of this hotel thing.”

Daniel rested a hand on Lando’s back. “You should go. Milan is cool.”

Lando got the feeling he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He shrugged. “Fine. Sounds like we’re going to dinner.”

He’d known George a long time. They hadn’t always been friends, but Max and Charles had a way of pushing people together and getting them stuck. Now Lando couldn’t imagine royal life without George. He hoped he never had to live it.

“See you later,” Daniel said with a kiss to his temple. “Georgie, always a pleasure.”

George flashed him a false smile. “Likewise.”

Lando raised his eyebrows, but George headed for the door without elaborating. He tried Daniel, but he just crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue, which was Daniel for this guy’s a bit of a prick.

Lando knew that much already.

He headed back out into the hall and caught up with where George was waiting for him.

“What’s this really about?” Lando asked as he knocked shoulders with him.

George’s face turned grim. “Pierre.”

“Pierre?”

George turned to look at him, brows furrowed. “You don’t know? Charles dumped him on the way to the airport in Zandvoort.”

Lando blinked stupidly, not comprehending. “No way. Really?”

His heart wrenched. Carlos’s words to the Ferrari crowd suddenly had a lot more meaning.

“Yeah,” George said, glancing around. “Not only that, he used the same breakup speech Max gave him in Brazil. Like, word for word.”

Bile rose in Lando’s throat.  “Oh god.”

“That’s all I know,” George said. “Nobody’s heard from Charles since. I mean, aside from the media stuff, of course.”

The media stuff where he couldn’t stop staring at Carlos, putting hands all over him, hugging and kissing him constantly.

“Oh.”

Lando didn’t know what else to say. Color leaked out of everything as they walked. The deep reds and greens of the carpet turned drab and washed out—even the weird hotel smell turned into nothingness.

“So I think we should check on Pierre,” George said. “He needs some fresh air. That helped you, right?”

Lando looked away. Strolling around the lake in Austria had been anything but the cathartic release he’d wanted it to be. Instead, he’d wanted to melt into the dirt and fade away.

Kind of like right now.

“I think we could all use it,” George continued, punching the button for the elevator.

Carlos would be with a completely single Charles the whole weekend. The whole week—every week from now until forever.

George nudged his shoulder. “Don’t you think?”

“Um, yeah,” Lando replied hurriedly. “Definitely.”

The elevator dinged and Lando stepped out onto what he presumed to be the Red Bull—

Max stood right in front of the elevator and stared back at them, clearly just as stunned as they were. 

They all stood there in silence for a moment, until the elevator doors started to close and Max had to reach out to stop them. An action that put him right in Lando’s personal space. Of course. Lando’s cheeks turned bright red, but he had nowhere to go with George right behind him.

“I guess one of us should say something,” George said, clearing his throat. “Hi, Max.”

Max glanced at Lando, but then kept his eyes firmly on George. “Hi. Any particular reason you’re on my floor?”

“Pierre,” George explained.

Max nodded once, his face unreadable. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

Max and Pierre never talked about their marriage except to joke about their divorce. To be fair, no one else in the empires talked about it either.

Lando still couldn’t believe they once shared space together, let alone pretended to be in love with each other. Pierre had never really forgiven Max for breaking up with Charles, even though he’d probably dreamed about their breakup since the day Max and Charles showed up at the karting track holding hands and refusing to look anyone in the eye.

Every hair on Lando’s neck stood straight up when Max touched his hip as he passed. The momentary warmth of his palm made Lando’s head spin, even though he knew the touch didn’t mean anything.

Max wasn’t in love with him. Max was not in love with him.

George slipped past him on his other side and headed down the hall.

“Hold on—no sassy comment?” Lando asked as he rushed up behind him.

George knocked on one of the doors and crossed his arms. “I don’t really care about Max right now. Pierre is more important.”

Lando shot him a look. “Since when is—”

The door swung open to reveal Yuki in the softest looking bathrobe Lando had ever seen. It was definitely a personal robe—no hotel in this hemisphere offered something to luxurious to guests.

“Hi,” Yuki greeted with a little bow. “Thank you for coming. He just got back.”

“Back from where?” Lando asked.

“His home,” Yuki replied with a smile. “He has house here.”

Lando groaned. “Right. I’m an idiot. Sorry.”

Pierre bought the swankiest flat in the most Instagrammable spot in Milan—aside from the Galleria. Nobody really knew why he picked Italy when he already knew he was going to live in Alpha Tauri.

Probably Charles. Everything Pierre ever did was because of Charles, somehow.

Lando stepped into the suite living room and all thoughts of Charles and Carlos and everyone else dropped from his mind immediately.

Pierre sat on the couch, but he looked nothing like himself. Lando never realized how often he smiled until he saw no trace of one on his face.

“Hey dude,” Lando greeted, allowing his sleeves to swallow his hands as he hopped onto the couch beside him. “George and I want to take you on a walk. And dinner. Or something.”

“Yeah. Yuki told me,” Pierre said, devoid of emotion.

“Come on, mate,” George said, offering a hand.

Pierre took a deep breath before allowing George to help him stand. Lando put an arm around him once they made it out into the hall and said their goodbyes to a very worried Yuki.  Pierre’s body was rigid, every muscle taut.

An FIA official headed right for them when they reached the lobby.

“Great,” Lando muttered.

“I’ve got this,” George said, walking ahead to meet the official head on.

Ferrari flags waved outside the doors as fans walked by in full race gear. Parties were set all over the city for the whole weekend, some official, most not.

Luckily for the three of them, fans around Milan didn’t give a shit about them. They only cared about Scuderia Red and the princes who wore it.

George waved them over. “We’re approved.”

Pierre let out a sigh. Lando patted his back as they walked. He didn’t really know what to say—nothing really helped him when he walked with George. Words wouldn’t have fixed anything unless they were Carlos saying he wanted to ditch Charles and take him back forever.

Instead he had to deal with goodnight becoming a curse anytime someone said to him.   

The FIA official had a phone jammed between his cheek and shoulder, speaking in a disjointed accent Lando couldn’t place.

“—Smarty Jones, Big Brown, Dahlia,” the official said into the phone. “No. Yes, I already told them no dinner. No others expected.”

The official looked at his watch. A G-Shock. Lando tried not to roll his eyes.

“That was…Affirmed and Citation. Yes, to dinner.”

Lando cocked a brow at George. “Are those codenames?”

George shrugged.

“They’re horses,” Pierre said quietly. “Racehorses.”

The FIA official soured, leering at Pierre.

“How do you know that?” George asked.  

“They kept calling me a dark horse when I got my appointment,” Pierre said. “It’s a term from horse racing. I watched some videos about it—I remember Smarty Jones.”

Lando bit back a laugh. “Because you can’t pronounce it?”

Pierre didn’t smile, but his lip twitched.

“Which one am I?” George asked the official.

“That’s classified,” the man replied, annoyed.

“Oh, a scavenger hunt—no, a puzzle,” Lando taunted. “I love puzzles.” He hated them. “Too bad nobody cares about horse racing.”

“First—royalty has horse racing roots,” George reminded him. “Second, I think that’s the point.”

“What were those names again?” Lando asked.

“You’re free to go,” the FIA official grumbled. “No dinner. If you’d like to have a meal you can have one at the hotel or with your appointed spouse.”

“I’m Smarty Jones,” Lando announced proudly, ignoring him. “I claim it.”

“You aren’t smart anything,” George said, rolling his eyes. “Let’s go.”

 

 


 

 

Milan greeted them with balmy summer air and the thrill of a night just begun. Lando kept his hood up and stayed tucked close to Pierre, who still hadn’t spoken since the lobby.

Pierre wore heartbreak the same way Lando did. He stared vacantly at everything, but still responded when called, and waited for George whenever he stopped to look at something and they got too far ahead. He carried pain in his eyes—dark pits of blue that warned of a current too strong to escape.

“Do you guys want some gelato?” George asked some time later. “I saw a stand outside.”

Lando nudged Pierre, who examined a flower he’d picked on the way in.

They’d found a nice spot in a private garden they probably weren’t supposed to be in, but Pierre led the way, so George and Lando didn’t protest.

“Sure,” Pierre said.

George slapped his knees. “Great. I’m off. Be right back.”

It took Lando a second too long to realize George had just left him alone with Pierre.

They were friends, but Lando seldom interacted with him alone. Pierre had always been more of Charles’s friend—their interests didn’t overlap much beyond playing PlayStation together sometimes.

“George told me about you and Charles,” Lando said when he couldn’t think of anything else. “I’m really sorry, mate.”

Pierre closed his eyes. “I knew it would happen.”

Lando frowned. “Well, it sounds like he broke up with you in a really shitty way. That’s fucked.”

Pierre shook his head, throwing shadows all over his face. “He’s really sick, Lando.”

“That’s always the excuse,” Lando sighed.

Pierre went rigid beside him. “It isn’t an excuse. He isn’t okay. Can you honestly tell me the person we’ve been dealing with lately is the Charles you know?”

Lando chewed the inside of his cheek. “He’s never going to be like he was back then. Look at Max—he’s not the same. Nobody blames that on anything except the crown.”

“This is completely different—”

“You’re allowed to admit he was just a dick to you,” Lando interrupted with unexpected venom. He was so sick and tired of everyone offering excuses for The Holy One or whatever Ferrari citizens called him. “Charles had a mental breakdown in Monaco—that’s a separate thing. And yeah, he’s fucked in the head. But he’s not doing anything about it, you know? At some point, it’s his fault.”

Pierre snarled something in French too fast for Lando to understand, but it sounded mean.

Lando sat up to stare him dead in the face. “It really fucking hurt to watch Carlos choose him. Every day, it hurts. But the worst part is that I can’t blame Carlos for anything because he was never mean to me. He never treated me any different, I just couldn’t handle knowing he treated Charles the same.”

If you can’t pick me over him, you can’t be with me.

If he closed his eyes, he saw the slope of Carlos’s shoulders on the other side of the bed after their final fight, after he spent all evening braising steaks and cooking a meal Lando had abandoned at the table.

Lando pretended to be asleep that night when Carlos started to cry. That sound haunted him more than any words ever could.

“Carlos hasn’t said a bad word to me,” Lando continued. “Charles never even told me about you two until you showed up to golf. You guys jumped into a relationship and—”

“Lando, stop,” Pierre said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Quiet settled over them as Lando looked away.

“You have no idea what Charles and I have been through together,” Pierre said. “We didn’t jump into anything, okay? I don’t think it’s been a secret I’ve been in love with him since we were young.”

No, it wasn’t a secret. Even Lando and his oblivious ways of going through life had noticed Pierre’s forlorn looks, the way he could never look Max in the eye for months after Max and Charles announced they were together.

He remembered Pierre after the breakup too, always in town when Charles had time off. Always ready and waiting when Charles needed to be fished out of a bar or a gutter or other places he shouldn’t have been.

“Everyone knows that,” Lando said quietly. “So does Charles, and he still chose to do what he did when he broke up with you.”

Pierre turned his head to look at him, shadows decorating the carved edges of his cheekbones that hadn’t been there a few years prior. They were still young and changing. They were still growing into men, yet they were asked to lead empires.

“You’re assuming I was innocent,” Pierre said. “I wasn’t.”

A clang of the garden gate announced George’s return as Lando furrowed his brow, lost for words.

“I picked the best looking flavors,” George greeted as he carried over three cups of gelato. Orange, lemon, and one that looked like raspberry. “Hope you lads like fruit.”

“You like orange, right?” Lando asked, offering Pierre the bowl of orange gelato.

“Oui,” Pierre murmured, taking the bowl. “Mercí.”

George took the seat on Pierre’s other side, bunched up close. They had enough space on the bench for all of them to sit comfortably, but they’d crammed in close, sandwiching Pierre between them.

“So George,” Lando said, deciding to leave Pierre alone for a moment. “How is it being engaged while you’re still married?”

George pointedly pulled the spoon from his mouth with a soft pop.

“Not like I expected,” he replied.

“Thanks for cluing us in about the appointment, by the way,” Lando said around a bite of lemon gelato. The punchy tartness fizzed on his tongue like an edible firework.

George shrugged. “Happened really quickly.”

“And did you know Alex was going to Williams?” Lando tried. “Or was that a surprise too?”

The announcement that Alex was coming back seemed to have caught everyone off guard. Daniel said even Max hadn’t known about bringing Alex to Williams—everyone thought Valtteri would have had first dibs on that one.

George swirled his spoon in his bowl. “Lewis said he was going to try to get Alex into Mercedes. I trusted him to make that happen, and here we are.”

Lando leaned a little more into Pierre. George was doing a terrible job of elaborating—something he usually did to a fault.

“Okay, and how is everything with Lewis?” Lando asked. “Actually, I really want to know how it’s going to work with him and Alex. If you want to talk about it.”

He certainly wanted to know. George had been enamored with Lewis at Steakout in Monaco, bright eyed and bushy tailed. Lando saw the way he smiled whenever Lewis was around, and he’d seen them sneak away together more than once for a quick kiss between the motorhomes.

George started tapping his spoon against the side of the bowl in a steady rhythm.

“We’re working it out,” he said. “I always said I loved Lewis differently than Alex, and that’s still true. Alex will always be first, and Lewis knows that.”

“But you’re still going to, like, have sex with Lewis and stuff,” Lando said, glancing warily at Pierre. Pierre licked some orange gelato from his spoon as if he weren’t listening at all.

George’s spoon slapped against the side of the bowl and stayed there.

“If that’s what Lewis wants, yeah.”

Lando wrinkled his nose. “Uh, gross. You’re his fiancé, not his sex slave. Are you serious?”

George narrowed his eyes. Lando noticed for the hundredth time that his eyelashes were all facing the wrong direction. Inward instead of out.

“Mercedes is complicated,” George said.

A chill ran up Lando’s spine. That eagle ring flashed in his memory.

Pierre leaned forward to set his barely-touched gelato on the ground.

“George, is something wrong?” Pierre asked.

George let out a snort. “Of course there’s something wrong. Alex is going to be a prince again and I’m married to Lewis.”

“I thought this is what you wanted?” Lando asked, cocking a brow. “He’s basically in Mercedes. You’ll be able to see each other all the time. Did Toto actually make you Lewis’s sex slave? Is that what this is?”

George rolled his eyes. “No, Lando. I’m not a sex slave. I chose to marry Lewis. But Mercedes is the most powerful empire right now—they don’t tolerate what other empires tolerate.”

A summer breeze ruffled the leaves around them, and Lando settled close to Pierre to try to suck up some body heat. They would have to go back to the hotel soon. Lando needed a lot of sleep and he was already eating into rest time.

He took another bite of lemon gelato. It didn’t help against the chill, but it tasted damn good.

“I don’t know how it’s going to work with Alex,” George admitted. “He’ll be great with Nic, but Lewis made it clear to me he doesn’t allow room for scandal. We can’t get caught. Ever.”

“I think if Lewis is on your side, you’re all good there,” Lando muttered.

George worked is jaw. “Yeah, until he decides he doesn’t want to share.”

Painful silence sliced into the three of them. Lando stared down at his gelato, doing his best to breathe through it as thoughts of Carlos and Charles infiltrated his brain.

He would never understand how Carlos could look at him and love him and then turn around and love Charles tha same way. At least Daniel treated him differently.

“I fucked it all up,” Pierre whispered after a moment, hugging his knees to his chest. “I shouldn’t have listened to Max, I should have gone to see Char in Monaco. Max was so freaked…I thought…I guess I thought Charles really didn’t want me there.”

He shook his head.

“He thinks I didn’t want to see him. He thinks—fuck, he thinks I love Stoffel, which I don’t. I knew this would happen. I fucking knew it.”

Lando rested his cheek on Pierre’s shoulder. “Stoffel?’

Pierre gave a little nod. “Yeah. We’ve been a thing since 2018. It’s not—I would never—We just fucked, you know? We were friends with benefits. That’s all it was.”

George frowned. “You sure that’s all it was?”

“Yes,” Pierre replied.

Lando didn’t know Stoffel except that he was the prince Lando had replaced. He used to hang around sometimes back in the day, but no one in their friend group except Pierre really hung out with him.

He definitely hadn’t known Stoffel and Pierre were a thing, but it was somehow comforting to know Pierre at least had someone that wasn’t Charles for awhile. Relieving, almost.

“I only wanted to be with Charles,” Pierre continued. “But I knew if I told him about Stoffel he’d never want to be with me.”

“That’s kind of fucked up,” Lando murmured. “He’s not allowed to have a monopoly on you when he can’t even commit to being your boyfriend.”

“I still should have told him,” Pierre said. “I planned to. Honestly. But everything started so perfectly, and I knew it was fragile. So I just—I don’t know. I couldn’t ruin it.”

“Hold on—were you still fucking Stoffel when—”

“No,” Pierre hissed, eye flashing. “And I went to Ibiza and ended it with him. But Charles doesn’t care about that, he only cares that I didn’t tell him about Stoffel in the first place—and he’s right. He’s right to think that way. But I never saw Stoffel while we were together, I never cheated. Never. But that still wasn’t enough. We still weren’t strong enough.”

George set down his gelato. “You knew going in that the playing field wasn’t fair.”

“I don’t need the fucking reminder,” Pierre snapped.

“Hey,” Lando said in an attempt to diffuse. “We’re all mates here. All of us have shit going on, so let’s be here for each other, yeah?”

“I’m sorry,” George said. “I wasn’t trying to gloat.”

“How do we do this for ten more years?” Pierre asked, staring out at the garden. “How is anyone supposed to handle this? Sérieux—If we didn’t have marriage rules, I’d be with Charles. I could be with him and I could have fixed this before it broke.” He gestured to Lando. “And you’d be with Carlos and George would be with Alex.”

George tossed Lando a look that indicated he didn’t quite believe that. Which part, Lando didn’t know. He guessed Charles and Pierre, because he felt the same. It would have been too perfect.

Lando worried his bottom lip, tasting remnants of lemon juice.  

He suddenly remembered Carlos at the stove that night, squeezing a lemon wedge over those steaks it had taken him hours to find.

“I don’t know that I would have been with Carlos without the rules,” Lando confessed. “If the FIA hadn’t forced us to be together, it wouldn’t have happened.”

Men like Carlos didn’t fall for guys like him on merit. Lando wouldn’t have even attempted to warm up to him if it hadn’t been a legal requirement full of fake Public Affairs love that eventually—somehow—turned real.

“You’re supporting the FIA?” George asked, dubious.

“I didn’t say that,” Lando shot back. “But is it really the FIA we’re against?”

“How can you say that?” Pierre cut in.

“What, because of Daniel?” Anger flooded Lando’s bloodstream, white hot. “If Daniel actually followed the rules, things wouldn’t have been so fucked up to start the season.”

George stared at him in disbelief. “He didn’t love you, Lando.”

“He never gave me a chance,” Lando snapped. “He played me because he still wanted Max.”

It seemed so stupid to fall for it now that he could looked back, but losing Carlos had affected him in ways he didn’t notice until later. Lando had never considered himself a needy person, but Carlos left a hole in him he’d wanted to fill more than he realized.

“You spend last weekend at some mansion Max rented out to be with Daniel, not you,” George said. “You were just—”

“I wasn’t ‘just’ anything,” Lando cut. “What we have going on is mutual. I’m happy, Daniel is happy, Max is happy. We’re happy.”

Pierre gaped at him, the pain in his eyes replaced with shock.

Lando suddenly wanted to be back at the hotel. Daniel would know the right way to word everything, the right way to explain whatever they were.

“Jesus Christ, Lando,” George breathed, leaning back and putting a hand over his face.

“No, don’t start that shit,” Lando hissed, leaning over as best he could with Pierre’s knees in the way. “You aren’t listening. I’m happy, George. Are you?”

George shot up from his spot. “No,” he spat. “But I’m playing the long game, Lando. I’m not settling for what the FIA gives me. I want Alex, but I have Lewis for now and I accept that.”

“Good for you, mate,” Lando snarled. “I’m doing the same thing, except I’m happy to do it. Carlos wants to go be with Charles? Fine. I’m not going to mope. And yeah, my husband loves somebody else, but he loves me too—and honestly? I don’t think he loves me less, it’s just a different dynamic.”

George shook his head. “You can’t trust him, Lando. We can’t trust Max either. Anyone who’s been in this shit longer than we have—we can’t trust them.”

Suddenly it looked as if George was about to cry. Lando and Pierre shared a glance before reflexively leaning in, both of them softening. Tears weren’t as rare on George as they were on Max, but George had been the rock of their friend group for years and he seldom let his walls down completely.

“Hey,” Pierre said, putting an arm around him. “What’s going on?”

George sniffed, resisting the hold. “I’m sorry, Pierre. This was supposed to be about you.”

“Forget me,” Pierre scoffed. “I’m going to feel like shit whether we have gelato or not.”

Something crashed in a far off alley, and a few girls shrieked in drunken delight. Distant bass thumped like a heartbeat, a world far away from them in more ways than one.

“This system is designed to control us,” George murmured. “We can’t forget that. We’re all being manipulated.”

“Exactly. We have to look out for each other,” Lando said, shifting to better face him. “Complete honestly, yeah? We’re all we’ve got. You two, me, Alex, Charles, Max.” He reached over to squeeze George’s shoulder. “And I know how you feel about Max. But he’s in our corner, I promise. I absolutely promise.”

George wiped his eyes. “Yeah,” he choked out. “I know.”

Pierre rubbed his back. “What’s going on?”

George finally relented, leaning against Pierre. “So much. So fucking much, I can’t even say.”

Lando slipped from the bench to rejoin on George’s other side, putting his arms around him for a hug from behind. As usual, he didn’t really know what to do when one of his friends started to cry, but something changed in him when he felt George’s ribcage heave against his own with the force of his sobs.

Tears came to his eyes out of empathy alone, something Lando had never experienced before. George’s pain leaked into his own chest, deep and dark. .

He reached up a little higher and gripped Pierre’s arm that had come around George, keeping him close too.

Make it stop, he prayed, though he didn’t even know who he was praying to. Keep them safe and make it stop.

“I love you guys,” George croaked, his voice muffled by Pierre’s shoulder. “Please don’t forget that.”

Lando squeezed his eyes shut and hugged tighter.

The FIA penned them in, but Lando knew who really pulled the strings. People like Christian Horner, whose touch sent Daniel rushing to the bathroom to vomit. People like Lewis, who threatened the person Lando loved more than he should.

“We’ll get through this,” Lando whispered, his lips sticky with lemon sugar. “All of us. I’ll make sure, no matter what.”

He had no idea how, but he would.

Chapter Text

Charles never had trouble gripping the wheel—anything less than a stranglehold meant risking understeer, losing traction, going wide. He trained every day of the week to keep his upper body strength up to par while balancing his bulk so that he didn’t carry too much weight in his shoulders and throw himself off balance in the cockpit.

Princes were maintained like hedges, pruned and clipped and sculpted into what they were required to be.

So when his hands started to shake as he wrenched his way through the Rettifilo chicane, he knew something was wrong.

Next would come the chills.

He checked his mirrors for traffic as he flew into Curva Grande, but saw no one. Clean air, no traffic.  

“You’re good to push,” Jock said in his ear.

The data never lied. If Charles so much as lifted a tenth of a milligram from the pedal, the data team in Maranello would see the discrepancy.

He took a deep breath and clocked his apex as he veered into Variante della Roggia, a wider chicane he could take in seventh, but he went down to sixth just to be sure. The G-forces shoved him into either side of the cockpit as he twitched the wheel left and right, and he grimaced as his insides sucked back against his spine when he put on the throttle toward Curva di Lesmo.

Sure enough, as he made his way through and toward Ascari, a sickly cold washed over him. Sweat seemed to soak his back instantaneously, followed by a churning in his gut that warned of worse to come.

Luca said his symptoms would be short. He said they would pass before qualifying, but Charles knew they would still be in high gear even if he took his normal meds tomorrow morning as planned.

One more lap, he told himself. One more after that. Finish the session.

He wound through Parabolica and onto the straight, punching the throttle. The usually-welcome push back into his seat felt like it was crushing the bones right out of his skin, and his helmet suddenly felt made of lead on his shoulders.

One more lap.

He continued.

Bile started fighting up his throat two laps later. Sweat ran into his eyes as Charles tried to keep pushing, but the heat of the late summer air and the chill of his sweat made for a horrible cocktail. His stomach wrung itself in a final warning.

“I need to come in,” he gasped out into the radio. His head spun behind his eyes, and a headache hammered at his temples with the force of steel.

“Is something wrong? Is it the car?” Jock asked.

“No, I need to come in,” Charles said again. “Car is fine.”

He didn’t know how he managed to pulled the car into the pits. Muscle memory, probably. Every part of his body squeezed up all at once as he clawed at his HANS device and unclipped the steering wheel.

He had to get out of the car. He had to make it out of sight.

Luca appeared at the corner of the garage, and Mattia kept a watchful eye but an unreadable face as Charles threw himself from the cockpit and rushed for the bathroom.

Vomiting wasn’t supposed to come until later.

But Charles crashed to his knees at the toilet and tossed his helmet and balaclava away just before retching his entire breakfast into the toilet bowl with enough force to hurt all the way up his esophagus.

He vomited twice more in the span of ten seconds, and when he tried to move to wipe his mouth he ended up dry heaving so hard he couldn’t believe no blood came out.

“Acqua, subito,” Dr. Luca said as he forced his way into the stall. “Charles, tell me what’s happening.”

Charles couldn’t even pick a language as he continued to heave. His firesuit and nomex were suddenly constricting, his collar too tight, his whole body too big for his skin.

Qualifying would be worse. That was all he could think about as he closed his eyes and let the sickness run through him, begging it to pass.

Two days. Last time it took two days before vomiting started. He’d even traveled the first day and felt fine except for a headache and chills.

Okay, so he hadn’t been fine. But he’d dealt with it.

You’re weaker. Missing the mark already.

“Your Highness, tell me when you’re good to stand. We need to get you back to the medical wing,” Dr. Luca said.

Charles heard the crowd gasp all around the garage and prayed no cameras had followed him. He tried to speak, and heaved instead.

Say something. You aren’t dying, you’re just weak.

“A minute,” he choked out. He was pretty sure he said it in English but he didn’t actually know.

He took a deep breath, his lungs shaking as hard as his hands and feet.

Another deep breath and he could see again.

“Dr. Vanella,” a deep voice said. “FIA. I need to examine Prince Leclerc.”

“As you can see, he is a bit preoccupied,” Dr. Luca replied with obvious annoyance.

Binotto had told him that Jean Todt was concerned about his medication. That he would pounce on any reason to take it away.

Dr. Luca said the upped dosage was necessary after Monaco. He was still unstable. He couldn’t be left alone anymore. Zandvoort just confirmed it.

Charles wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and flushed his sick.  Nausea hit him with the force of a tsunami as he sat back, but he willed himself not to cave. His body had nothing left to give but blood.

“I was very clear that we could experience withdrawal,” Dr. Luca hissed to a glowering FIA medical staff member. The man looked like a corpse come back to life with deep bags under his eyes, short black hair, and a dead expression to match.  

“This seems a bit extreme,” the man snapped. He looked to Charles. “Your Highness, with me. I’m Dr. Malyon, FIA Medical Director.”

Fuck. Charles tried not to grimace as he stood on trembling legs. He nodded toward the door.

It’s over. You should have stayed out. You should have finished the session.

Dr. Luca kept to his side as he walked down the hall behind Dr. Malyon. Several FIA security officials met them at the entrance to the garage. They held up umbrellas to block him from the view of any cameras as they hit the hot summer air.

“Ruffian on the move,” one of the men said as he passed.

“Copy,” someone replied on radio. “Gerard, has anyone made contact with Alydar?”

“Confirmed okay, sending him back for checks,” another voice said.

“Copy that.”

Charles hugged himself tight as he walked, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other as his head pounded and his body ached. Every stroke of his race boots on asphalt rocketed up his bones, vibrated through his muscle, and struck at his nervous system.

Failure, failure, failure.

He could see Carlos lying on his back at the Duomo, a pile of children on his chest. The awestruck look in his eyes on that stage, the sun in his lashes in the rally car. He heard the laughter after “Sweet Teeth,” the cold wind against his cheeks in Florence as he hugged him tight at the top of the belltower.  

He could have been everything Carlos wanted. If he never started the drugs, he could have been everything everyone wanted.

“Charles.”

He blinked, and suddenly he was in a small medical suite. He sat in a fake leather recliner that belonged in a dentist’s office, and Dr. Luca stared at him intently.

“Can you hear me?”

Charles nodded quickly, trying to orient himself. “Sorry. Did I…did I pass out?”

Dr. Luca frowned. “No. But you seem to be in quite a bit of pain.”

Charles looked down where he had one arm crossed over his stomach, clutching at the bottom of his ribcage. His insides hurt. His head hurt. Hell, his eyes hurt.

“Yes,” he said. “It really hurts.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere. Where’s Dr. Malyon?”

Dr. Luca’s frown deepened. “With Carlos.”

Fuck. Charles shook his head. “Please send him away. I can deal with this, I can—”

“Carlos crashed, Charles,” Dr. Luca murmured.

Charles blinked, trying to process. “What? When?”

Dr. Luca pulled up a chair. “He took a heavy impact at Ascari right after you came in.  He passed a preliminary check but he’s staying for secondary tests.”

“I’m sorry—one minute I was walking and then I was here,” Charles murmured distractedly. Carlos needed him and he couldn’t even get it together to pay attention.

“You’re in a lot of pain. You’ve been focused on that,” Dr. Luca said. “We’re trying to remedy that. First you need fluids.”

Charles pried his arm from his stomach and offered his arm.

Dr. Luca glanced down at it. “Oh. Well, I suppose we can do an IV if you’d like, but I think you should eat. Something gentle on your stomach, like—”

“When can I start back on my medication?” Charles asked, cutting him off. “Tomorrow or today?”

“Tomorrow, as it stands right now,” Dr. Luca said calmly. “There will be another blood test once you’ve eaten, then one in the early morning. You’ll take your pills as normal. But it won’t be an instant fix.”

Charles tried to calculate his timeline, but his brain felt like mush in his head.

“Can I get you some soup?” Dr. Luca tried. “And electrolytes, of course.”

“Carlos is okay, right?” Charles asked, realizing he hadn’t actually confirmed that before.

Dr. Luca nodded. “He wasn’t injured that we can tell. He’ll be very sore, though. I’m sure they’ll be bringing him in soon.” He stood up, brushing off his pants. “I’m going to get you some soup and water. Rest, please.”

Charles returned his arm to his midsection, trying his best to breathe through the twisting of his intestines and the pinching in his lungs.

Dr. Luca turned in the doorway, his jaw taut.

“I would have handled this differently if it were my decision,” he said. “Requiring us to flush the medication from your system was a mistake. You’re being punished for getting help—help you needed.”

Because you’re sick and therefore useless to us, Charles finished in his head.

“Your Highness,” Luca greeted with a bow of his head. “Good to see you’re cleared.”

He stepped aside as Carlos appeared in the doorway. His hair was tousled perfection—as usual—but his eyes looked sunken into his skill, and frown lines made parentheses around the set of his lips.  

An FIA official stood at his back, aggressively close.

“We’ll fetch you once the secondary tests have cleared,” the official said before he shut the door with finality.

“Are you hurt?” Charles asked as Carlos shuffled over to his recliner, wincing with every step.

“It was a big impact,” Carlos explained. “But I’m okay. Hurt a bit, but nothing is broken.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “I should have been out there. I should have finished the session.”

Carlos shook his head as he gingerly took a seat on the edge of the recliner. Charles shifted his legs to allow him more room.

“I finished the session,” Carlos said. “They’ve ended it.”

“I could have stayed out,” Charles said. “I could have—”

“You made the right decision,” Charles soothed, resting a hand on his knee. “You’re allowed to choose your health.”

Charles let out a snort, and his stomach roiled at the jolt through his body.

Carlos hunched over himself, clearly in pain. His eyes were still too wide, his body vibrating as it tried to resettle itself after impact. Charles knew the feeling.

“You should lie down,” Charles said, nudging his knee into Carlos’s palm.  

Carlos shook his head. “The room will spin. I am trying not to throw up.”

His English sounded more stunted than normal.

“Okay,” Charles said. “You might have a concussion.”

“Mierda, I know,” Carlos grit out, squeezing his eyes shut. “Binotto says I may not have a car for qualifying. Then, if the FIA chooses to not allow me to race, they can. Imagine, no Ferrari in Monza.”

Guilt ratcheted up Charles’s spine, sucking him hollow.

If they failed to perform here, the empire could turn on them. Charles had almost won at Silverstone, so the people of Ferrari knew he had a car capable of competing. A win here would be harder to come by, but not showing face in their home race would be a death sentence to their popularity.

And if anyone managed to get the videos of him and Max in Zandvoort, Charles would become il angelo cadutoinstead of il predestinato.

Carlos let out a slow exhale and Charles realized through the sound that he was shaking.

Charles forced himself to sit up again. The world swirled as he moved into position beside his husband. Carlos’s body heat stuck to his face, a sick humidity that made him want to lie on the cold and unforgiving tile at their feet to escape it.

He had a duty to the crown. Sickness was not an excuse. They had thousands of people relying on them to step into their cars and drive. War didn’t allow soldiers to take sick days.

“They want me to start my medication tomorrow,” Charles said, ignoring the pinching pain in his gut. “I’ll tell Luca to start it tonight. I’ll talk to Binotto—I’ll find a way to get painkillers, anti-nausea, anything. I’ll take the consequences in Sochi if the FIA finds out.”

They couldn’t fail their empire. Charles would never be able to live with himself—and he had a hard enough time doing that anyway.

Carlos’s mouth fell open, horrified. “What?”

Charles shook his head. “You’re injured. If you have a concussion, you won’t race. I have to race. I’ll take more drugs if it means getting in the car, I don’t care.”

The crown prince of Ferrari couldn’t miss Monza. Binotto would burn him at the stake no matter what he’d said before about his love of Ferrari. No prince who loved Ferrari would allow himself to miss a race for any reason except I injury.

Dr. Luca had access to drugs, even if he couldn’t use them without FIA permission. If he knew what to take, he could find a way to get access to the Ferrari medical—

“Charles,” Carlos snapped. “I do not speak French, but I understand enough.”

Charles blinked at him, trying to understand.

“You are talking about stealing medication, yes?”

Charles parted his lips, but couldn’t speak.

Oh fuck. He’d been talking. He’d been speaking out loud.

Racing thoughts. Too fast. Did that happen before?

“I have to win Monza,” Charles finally said.

“You have to win Monza fairly,” Carlos corrected. “No room for doubt. Not like last time.”

Someone turned the lights out in Charles’s brain. Sight, sound, hearing—all of it went dead except for a tiny roar that started getting louder, like a car coming down the straight.

The roar turned to a growl, the growl turned to a scream, pitch rocketing higher and higher until Charles thought his skull would shatter.

You forget, Sebastian said from across the dining table, a blurry and malformed memory. What power buys, it pays in blood.

A mangled noise escaped his throat.

You were appointed for one job, and that is to win, and that is what you have been doing, Binotto had said.

“Charles, listen to me.”

Charles fought the way his very blood seemed to be pooling into another dimension, caught in a riptide to the past.

Carlos slowly faded into view, as did the feel of his palms against Charles’s face.

“You need to be on your medication,” Carlos said gently. “But you need to follow the rules.”

Ignorance is not innocence.

Charles flinched, jerking so hard that Carlos nearly let go of his face.

“I tried,” Charles croaked. “Medication isn’t in the rules. They made an exception for me. It’s the same thing.”

Carlos shook his head, grimacing as he did so. “That is not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same,” Charles hissed.

He remembered the way Sebastian kept tossing that apple in the Ferrari board room. Up and down, up and down.

You need to know your car as well as they do, Sebastian said, before. Nothing should be a question mark.

Carlos dropped his hands. “I think we can both agree that being off your medication is much worse.”

“I tried for you,” Charles choked out, anxiety welling up in his chest, squeezing so tight around his heart and lungs that they threatened to explode inside him. His breathing began to pick up and cold sweat broke on his face, pulling at water he didn’t have in his body.

He wished they could have stayed in Mykonos forever. Blue and pink lights on tan skin, Carlos’s low laughter in his ear as they talked about life and goals and what it meant to be together.

Of course he knew Carlos had to leave to see Lando in London. At the time he’d even been expecting Carlos to come back and say things had to be different.

But sometimes happiness became a magical thing. Intangible but visible, like the golden flecks in the saltwater that stuck to Carlos’s skin their whole trip. Charles couldn’t shake the wonder of those nights in the hammock, bellies full and bodies warm as they laid together and watched the waves tinged with the colors of the shoreline shops.

If you were healthy, he could love you back.

That thought repeated in his head the whole morning as he watched Carlos pack his things.

The golden flecks washed away in London rain, Charles discovered.

“I never, ever asked you to stop taking your pills,” Carlos said softly, carding his sweaty hair back with his fingers.

Everything fuzzed in his brain after Carlos left for London, except for that thrill of lying when an FIA official completed a medical check inside the Ferrari private jet the next morning.

When was the last time you took your approved medication?

Charles wrestled a car every weekend and won. He kept razor focus for thousands of gear changes and hundreds of corners every race and hit all of them right. His skill was beyond muscle memory or mental fortitude.

Yet a few pieces of compacted powder had taken complete control of his life.

“I know you didn’t,” Charles said. “I wanted to stop. I wanted to be what I should be for you, for Ferrari. What they think I am.”

Carlos leaned closer, his body stiff with pain. “What you are, Charles. My opinion of you never changed whether you were taking medication or not. I told you in Firenze—”

“You just called me a cheater,” Charles said, spitting out the final word.

Carlos’s warm hand folded over his thigh. “I did not. You were talking about stealing medication, which is illegal. Not to mention danger—"

“I never cheated,” Charles snapped. “I have never cheated.”

He remembered the moment Sebastian finally caught the apple, his fingers bruising the skin.

So that’s it, then.

A promise wiped clean with the bile of betrayal.

“Yes,” Carlos said carefully. “So you won’t start now.”

I tell the story.

He’d demanded that with Mattia.

“We will go home, eat, rest,” Carlos continued, thumbing over his knee. “I will take a bath, you will not drink, and you will not leave the hotel.”

Charles stared into brown eyes, but his mind wandered back to Monaco, where he’d chased Mykonos—the colors, the throbbing beats of club music, the closeness of another body he could pretend to love.

“Did you ever tell them what I did?” Charles asked in a whisper.

“No,” Carlos said quietly. “They found out through the test.”

Charles perfected those little, powdery pills. Just enough moisture and they stuck to the back of his teeth, hidden for inspection.

He’d miscalculated the intensity of withdrawal, yes, but it still took a week for anyone to notice. He’d timed it perfectly. Ferrari got to blame the increase in dosage, and Charles hid behind that too.

He couldn’t even remember when Carlos found out. When Dr. Luca or Mattia found out. When he started back on the pills. Everything hazed and blurred until Maranello, waking up covered in sweat in his Ferrari bed, utterly disgusting and reeking of alcohol.

But he knew Carlos didn’t come to see him, and neither did Pierre.

Only Max.

A loud knock startled them both. Carlos winced, and Charles rested a hand on the base of his spine in an attempt to comfort, but his throat swelled with nausea.

“Very good news,” Dr. Luca announced as he entered with a covered Styrofoam bowl and a bottle of electrolyte water. “You are both cleared to return to the hotel. Antonello has gone to grab the car for you, Carlos. He’ll be driving you.”

He set the bowl of what looked like a chicken noodle soup on the table beside the recliner and offered Charles the water bottle.

 “Charles, I’ll be administering the tests once you’ve eaten, then another when you’re at the hotel. Once the second test is collected, we’ll take care of the nausea and I’ve been approved to administer a small dose of medication.”

Carlos breathed a sigh of relief.

“So I can drive tomorrow?” Charles asked, unscrewing the cap on his water bottle.

Dr. Luca smiled. “You may not be completely on your game, but yes. You won’t be dealing with today’s issues.”

Carlos rose to his feet as Charles sucked down water by the mouthful, suddenly parched.

“I will see you at home,” Carlos said, brushing his fingers along Charles’s shin, apparently too stiff in the neck to bed over. “I love you.”

Charles pulled the bottle from his lips, panting slightly from such a long draw of water.

He held Carlos’s gaze, trying to discern the look in his eyes. Something close to disappointment, but also like apprehension.

“I’ll be back soon,” Charles decided to say. “I love you too.”

Carlos smiled warmly, but the look in his eyes remained.

Chapter Text

 

Nic never had the chance to plan proper date nights. He couldn’t go anywhere in public with Sandy that might hint at something more than their friendship (he had to laugh at every time he found a blurb about their “clearly platonic” relationship ), and George was a bit of a posh asshole when it came to romance.

George’s idea of a night out was a swanky bar with music too loud or unnervingly distant, holding martini glasses by the stem and chatting up anyone who would listen to his commentary on whatever the hell he’d decided to fixate on that day.

Nic supposed not actually being in love with George doomed them from the start, but hey.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Nic said as he led George up a cobblestone street.

“You understand that makes it very difficult to walk, right?” George replied, but his eyes stayed closed.

Nic squeezed his hand. They weren’t in love with each other, but they did have trust.

Technically he hadn’t planned this date night either. Well, date afternoon. Sunlight filtered through hazy clouds above, though Nic wasn’t actually sure if they were clouds or smog. Sometimes it was better not to ask.

The Public Affairs team had insisted they needed more media material. As if they didn’t get enough, especially now that George was betrothed to the reigning champion. Kayla wanted more coverage of their relationship to capitalize on George’s surge in popularity. Nic understood that, but he could see how hard George was taking all of the press coverage.

“We’re going inside, but you can’t open your eyes yet,” Nic said as he used his free hand to push open the doors of one of his favorite places in the world.

Okay, one of his favorite coffee places in the world.

Pride bloomed in him as he inhaled the earthy scent of coffee beans and took in soft greys, golds, and cobalt blues. He turned to George with a grin he couldn’t see.

“Alrighty, open.”

George sucked in a breath (always dramatic) before his lashes fluttered open and Nic saw a thousand golden drops of light appear in the blue of his eyes, a thousand glowing jellyfish in the sea.

He followed George’s gaze to the magnificent chandelier at the center of the Lavazza flagship café. Gold and blue globs of glass hung from the ceiling by monofilament wire, setting the ambiance of what Nic could only describe as magic.

A classic coffee bar sat directly underneath the chandelier with a full 360 counter around it that allowed patrons to watch every cup of coffee in the works.

Of course, the café had been emptied for them, populated only by the Public Affairs camera crew who had promised not to impose too much.

“Welcome to Lavazza,” Nic said proudly.

George smiled up at the chandelier. “Can’t you buy Lavazza coffee in vending machines?”

Nic flicked his collarbone, delighting in the yelp that followed.

“We’re going to have a coffee and dessert,” Nic announced. “Every non-coffee dessert here has been designed by Angelo Marchesi in combination with Diego Crosara.”

He led George to the counter, where desserts had been set out, gleaming sugar-bright. Strawberry cheesecake, tiramisu, chocolate cake, and cannoli with fresh filling.

“Diego did more than Angelo, but don’t tell anyone that,” Nic whispered, shooting him a wink.

George cocked a brow at him, but Nic only noticed the way his shoulders lowered a little, a tiny win. “Am I supposed to know who those people are?”

Nic rolled his eyes. “I forgot how uncultured you are. Angelo Marchesi, head of Marchesi 1824—which is only the most famous and historic pastry shop in Milan. It has three stores now, but nobody cares about the two that aren’t by the Duomo. Oh, and did you know it was acquired by the Prada Group? Yes, that Prada, before you ask.”

George stuffed down a smile. “You just memorized that.”

Nic grinned at him. “No way. That’s just my encyclopedic brain for all things business and government.”

Kayla gave him a fact sheet two hours ago. He memorized it in fifteen minutes.

“And Diego Crosara—since I know you were wondering—was the World Champion for pastry at the 2006 Culinary World Cup, and not a one-time, but a two-time Gelato World Cup champion,” Nic continued.

“Damn. And here I thought he was the 2007 World Champion for pastry,” George said with a shake of his head.. He put a hand on Nic’s shoulder. “Good thing I have you here, mate.”

Nic led him to one of the barstools as their barista emerged from the kitchen in a smart black apron, a cloth draped over his arm like waiters had in the movies.

“So you’re the prince of the Lavazza dynasty or something, right?” George asked as he took his seat.

Nic made a face. “It’s complicated. My dad kind of…acquired the dynasty. We’re not Italian though, so really we have no claim to it. Lavazza is Torinoinarian.”

George smirked. “What was that word you just used?”

“From Torino, jackass,” Nic said, slapping his had away from a stack of mugs. “I bet you don’t even know where that is.”

“It’s in Italy, duh.”

Nic glared at him. George smiled back before they both cracked up.

Finally, normal.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” their barista greeted with a dip of his head. He kind of looked like Carlos—dark hair and olive skin, big brown eyes. The watch on his wrist gleamed silver, but Nic could tell by the shape that it wasn’t a luxury brand.  “What kind of coffee would you like?”

George tongued the inside of his cheek. “I’d like—”

“We’d like to do the design experience,” Nic said. As planned, he wanted to add, but didn’t. He understood that royalty made people nervous.

“Certo,” the man replied. “Any particular favorites from the menu, Your Highness?”

Nic ran through the menu in his head. Kayla made him memorize the history of the flagship store, but he knew pretty much everything there was to know about the current runnings of his father’s companies. His father raised him to be a prince, but also to be a businessman.

“Coffee caviar, cremespresso, coffee ambra…and let’s do two galaxy coffees first up,” he said. “And maybe throw in a strawberry cheesecake as a palette cleanser. Oh, and tiramisu.”

Kayla gave him a thumbs up from behind one of the camera operators, then tapped her lips in a dramatic show.

“We should probably kiss before you taste like coffee, huh,” George said, watching her with a blank expression. “Fuck, I blew it when we came in. Looking all awestruck and that.”

“I tend to have that effect on people,” Nic said with a shrug, earning a laugh.

He took a breath, getting himself in character. Being a prince involved a lot of acting, but for a guy who wasn’t actually into men, he had more difficulty than most.

George put a hand on his knee. “This place is really beautiful, love.”

George made it a little easier.

“Had to impress,” Nic replied, offering a sly grin. “That’s getting harder to do these days.”

George wore a soft smile, his eyes hooded. So much more convincing than the pained grins he’d put on during their first year of marriage. He’d grown up a lot.

“You always impress me,” George said, his voice dipping lower, more gentle.

“I’m gonna remember that,” he replied, leaning in.

George mirrored him, and they both paused about an inch apart as they camera crew shuffled in the background to get a better vantage point. Nic flicked his gaze down to George’s mouth, his smile ticking up just a bit in a very practiced move.

“You won’t forget me?” Nic asked, cocking his head slightly to line their mouths up better.

George’s eyes flashed, lips parting slightly.

Nice work, mate, Nic thought.

He swore he caught a little shine in George’s eyes, still reflecting the chandelier above. A thousand golden jellyfish at sea, just for him.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do it without you,” George whispered, and his voice shook.

Nic blinked in surprise, but suddenly their lips were pressed together. George followed his usual habit of pushing for too much too fast, but this time Nic actually tasted desperation as he brought a hand up to put his fingers in George’s hair. He pushed into the kiss a little as George gripped his shirt collar, but his mind whirred behind his closed eyes.

The kiss broke with a loud sound, foreheads pressed together as George panted slightly against his mouth. Nic carded his fingers through short brown hair, looking him over. George stared back at him, eyes wide and full of fear.

“George?”

The sound of his name broke the spell. George pecked his lips and leaned back, false smile back on full display.

“I love you, Nicky,” he said, taking his hand.

“Oh, that was monumental!” Kayla gushed in a whisper-scream from the other side of the room.

Nic swallowed hard. Whatever had come between their friendship had changed forms. For some reason, this one made him feel dirty, like he’d promoted an NFT scam without realizing it.

Their coffee arrived first, two clear espresso mugs with four layers of color.

“The Espresso Galaxy,” their barista announced, placing each cup. “Created for the 2004 Planeta Espresso calendar by Thierry Le Gouès. You’ll notice the crushed macaroons on the bottom and top—designed to look like the cratered surface of a distant planet.”

George lifted his cup, examining the layers. Nic went ahead and shoved his espresso spoon into the drink, effectively ruining them.

“Doesn’t taste good if you drink it like it’s presented,” he told George. The foamy top layer tasted waxy unless it mixed with the chocolate layer below, and the chocolate was too rich unless mixed with the espresso beneath it.

George took an experimental sip and smacked his lips. “Tastes like coffee runoff.”

Nic cocked a brow. “Coffee runoff?”

George nodded. “You know, like if coffee was an industrial plant and this is the runoff.”

Both Nic and the barista set their lips.

“That’s not an insult,” George hurried to add, taking another sip. “It’s a texture thing, that’s all.”

“And the best you could come up with was runoff?”

George’s cheeks turned pink as he gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”

Nic shook his head as he took his first sips. The macaroon melted nicely in the coffee if allowed--George wouldn’t know because he was too damn impatient about everything.

The barista left them to see to their other food. Nic swirled his spoon in his mug, watching as the browns and tans continued to mix.

“I got in a fight with Lewis,” George said quietly.

Nic froze.

George kept his eyes on his coffee, watching as the chocolate layer started to claw its way into the espresso beneath. He didn’t look like he wanted to talk about it, though Nic desperately wanted to ask.

Instead, he folded his hand over George’s. “Well,” he said, “we have a party to go to tonight. We’ll have fun and you’ll forget all about it.”

George’s throat went taut. “Yeah. Um. I can’t go to the party anymore.”

Nic almost laughed, but stopped himself when he realized George was serious. “Uh, Lewis doesn’t get to decide what parties you go to.”

Something sinister nibbled at the base of his spine. Not enough to sink its teeth in, but enough to make him think twice about letting George see Lewis alone again.

George shook his head. “That’s what we got in a fight about. Toto needs me to do some things and I offered to do them tomorrow after qualifying, but he and Lewis said they have to be done tonight.”

Nic let out a snort. “What things? You’re not a Mercedes prince yet, George.”

“It was part of my appointment contract,” George said quietly, his voice so low that Nic almost didn’t hear. “They have the right to remove me from any appearances they don’t feel line up with their image.”

Nic had never heard of an empire pulling royalty out of an FIA sponsored event. He took another sip of his coffee to stop himself from saying something stupid when someone might be able to hear them. He wasn’t sure how much a boom mic could pick up from across the room.

“So...will you be hanging out with Lewis?” he asked.

George nodded once. “Yeah. And Toto.”

Nic frowned. “I have a weird feeling about this, you know. This kind of stuff isn’t normal.”

George shrugged. “Lewis is world champion. The rules are different with him.”

 

 


 

 

Nic was used to being the disappointment, ever since George started getting Mercedes attention. He could still remember the day George had been appointed to act as regent for Lewis and race on his behalf—an incredibly rare opportunity that had the rumor mill bursting at the seams. Meanwhile, Nic had to mentor a wide-eyed Jack Aitken to take over a car he barely knew how to drive.

Nobody gave him and accolades for that, even though Jack finished in sixteenth. They only talked about Nic's DNF and George's tragic tire puncture. They only published news about the latter.

Sponsorship events rarely attracted royal attention, but Jost said they needed to make a few appearances in Milan.  Nic knew exactly how it would go when he made his entrance alone at the invite-only Heineken garden party. He stepped into the rooftop garden to the usual wave of hushed conversations, all eyes turning to royalty. Then they noticed it was him and the noise resumed.

Nic smirked to himself as he shrugged his suit jacket a little tighter on his shoulders and headed for the bar.

Bright green and red accent lights covered every decorative surface. Bottles of Heineken had been staged in coolers with handcut ice cubes and dry ice that spilled haze into the display like they were filming a commercial.

He couldn’t drink beer so close to qualifying, so Nic chose a ginger ale and made his way over to Jost and a group of well-dressed people.

“Your Royal Highness,” Jost greeted with a dip of his head. The others in the group followed suit. “Always right on time.”

“I try to be,” Nic said cheerfully. “Some party, eh?”

Jost lifted a Heineken with a grin. “Free beer, how can we be disappointed?”

All of the people in the group stared at him, smiling hard enough that their lips had to be aching. Nic tried to sympathize—he’d acted like a total idiot the first time he met Kimi Raikkonen.

“Are you guys having a good night?” Nic offered, nodding his glass of ginger ale toward them.

“A great night,” a woman said, her lipstick stretched thin with her smile. “Is Prince George here with you?”

Nic shook his head. “Unfortunately he had some work to do tonight.”

“Alex Albon, then?”

Nic glanced at Jost, who laughed.

“Red Bull isn’t keen to give him up so easily,” Jost said.

Nic tried not to roll his eyes. Christian seemed like he would happily give them Alex if they asked.

Jost put a hand on his shoulder. “Where are my manners? Your Highness, this is Bob Muglia, he’s—”

“You just joined the board for Julia Computing,” Nic finished, extending his hand to a man with an infectious smile and a receding hairline.  

“That’s right!” Bob said, his face lighting up.

“And Mr. Savage, great to see you again,” Nic said, turning his attention to Matthew Savage, a man with a mane of thick white hair and the eyes of an engineer. He was chairman of Dorilton Capital, who had provided much needed support to Williams the year before. Jost had given him a little too much power in government for Nic’s liking, but as long as they kept watch on where those capital infusions came from, he didn’t see an issue with it.

“Your Highness,” Matthew greeted with a curt nod. “Pleasure.”

“And this is Mischa St. Amand,” Bob said, gesturing to the smiling woman from earlier. “She’s our marketing director. Absolutely loves racing as well.”

“Great to meet you, Mischa,” Nic said, shaking her hand.

“I’ve always wanted to come to the races in Europe,” she gushed, adjusting her glasses. “American races are so boring—our royalty is so much different. Here it’s still so powerful. I love it.”

“We’re happy to have you,” Nic said. “As a Canadian, it’s nice to hear a normal accent too.”

Every laughed just a little too much, like they always did when a prince made a joke.

He fell into conversation about investments and programming languages, glad to have a distraction. He seldom used his business brain during race weekends, but it was nice to be able to talk about things that didn’t involve cars or mechanics.

During an enlightening conversation about the Brazilian government using the Julia programming language to create a space mission simulator, Mischa nearly dropped her cocktail as she gaped at something over Nic’s shoulder. He turned, fully expecting to see Charles and Carlos stopping by for a visit.

Instead, Nico Rosberg stood on a small platform stage, looking absolutely Monegasque in his unigrey, probably designer suit and searing white sneakers.

“Holy fuck,” Nic said under his breath.

“Is this thing on?” Nico said, inspecting the microphone in his hand, a Heineken in the other. “Ha, sounds like it, eh? Good evening, everyone.”

Nic glanced at Jost, who rolled his eyes around another sip of beer.

“Is that Prince Rosberg?” Mischa whispered.

“That’s the one,” Jost said. “Though he’s not a prince anymore.”

Nic had seen Nico a few times in the paddock—he sometimes helped with race commentary. He’d always thought that was weird—usually world champions fucked off and never came back to the clutches of the FIA after their career ended. Nico’s situation was especially strange—Nic’s dad said Nico did everything possible to ruin his relationship with the FIA on his way out the door.

But championships bought favor.

“Everyone, thank you so much for coming to this event,” Nico said, glassy-eyed and teetering. “I think this has to be the most exciting season the FIA has had since…since I won, probably.”

The crowd laughed.

“I mean wow, what a season so far, eh? Max is just, wow! He’s driving so well.” Nico set his beer bottle in a planter and lifted a finger to his lips. More laughter. “It really is exciting to be part of this world again—and to see Lewis in this form is exceptional. You’ve got Max, young and on fire, going against the best driver in the world. Probably the best driver ever. Ever! Imagine.”

Nic closed his eyes and pushed out a sigh. He never understood the royal love of alcohol. A coping mechanism, probably, but then these things happened. Even George had a few embarrassing videos of him online, lanky-limbed and attempting to dance at clubs.

Nic much preferred a night in: BBC Pride and Prejudice on TV, a bucket of Nutella in hand, and a sleeve of graham crackers. Maybe a glass of wine if he was feeling sophisticated.

His heart twinged. The only thing that made those nights better was sharing them with Sandy.

Call him a hopeless romantic.

“Nobody better be recording this,” Nico continued with a laugh. “No journalists invited, right?”

“He’s so handsome,” Mischa sighed beside him.

Nic almost looked around for someone else. This version of Nico didn’t look one bit handsome to him.

Nico pointed to someone in the crowd. “Lewis was my favorite husband, actually. He always will be. How can you compare? He’s the best driver of this generation. The best. No—best driver ever. What he does in the car is exceptional.”

Jost nudged him with an elbow. “Might be best to get out of here. Tabloids are going to make something of this.”

Nic followed his gaze to a girl perched on a barstool, filming with her phone as Nico stumbled around on stage. Nic frowned before he nodded once and started making his way through the crowd.

 A security guard met him at the door, politely showing him toward a roped off area.

“VIP amenities are this way,” the man said, unclipping the velvet rope and gesturing for him to pass through.

“Thanks, mate,” Nic said, patting him on the shoulder as he passed.

He entered the penthouse proper, where a few of the waitstaff were scurrying past toward the kitchen. A fire burned in a glass fireplace in a seating area, where plush couches looked as inviting as they did lonely.

One of the waitstaff rushed by him then turned on her heel, nearly falling over in the process.

“Price Latifi!” she exclaimed.

He smiled at her. “That’s me. How can I help?”

She stammered for a moment, her dark hair falling around her face as she started digging in her pockets. “Um—I’m sorry, can you wait here a second?”

Nic patted his pockets in hopes that he had a Sharpie on him, but could only feel his wallet. He glanced out at the party again, where Nico had leaned up against a trellis to tell a story. Thankfully the windows muffled everything so he didn’t have to cringe firsthand.

He thought of his father that day after he met Kimi. Back then he’d been a stupid kid, gangly and overexcited about the purchase of one of Kimi’s F2007 cars he stupidly thought his father would let him drive someday.

Kimi had been kind to him—incredibly kind now that Nic knew how he normally acted around people in the establishment.

He treated you as a prince should, his father said. You have to remember that what you see as an inconvenience might just change the course of someone’s life. That is tenfold when you’re royalty.

Nic relaxed his shoulders and nodded to the waitress. “No problem. I’ll be by the fireplace.”

A part of him hoped she would forget about getting his autograph, but he tried his best to stay positive. Someone wanted his autograph—how many people got to say that?

He took up a spot by the windows, still visible if someone came looking, but hopefully tucked away enough that no one else bothered him. He pulled out his phone to text George.

How’s life treating you, Mr. Mercedes?

He stared down at the screen until the read receipt flashed across the bottom of his text.

Lewis is still upset, George replied.

Nic huffed out a breath. About what?

Dunno. He’s been pacing on the patio since I got here. Doesn’t want to talk.

Nic turned to look back out at the garden, where Nico still spoke to the crowd. A few people gathered on stage were exchanging looks.

It’s a shitshow here, Nic typed out. Nico Rosberg showed up and hijacked the whole party. Keeps saying how great Lewis is—best driver ever. Cringe.  

The read receipt flashed on screen, but no typing bubbles appeared.

“Hey, superstar.”

Nic dropped his phone as he jumped, sending it clattering to the floor. He swore under his breath as he ducked to grab it, then froze halfway bent, his mind finally registering—

“Sandy?”

She looked down at him with a knowing smirk, her long dark hair tucked neatly over one bare shoulder. She looked absolutely stunning, as usual. The black dress she’d chosen accentuated her slender waist, complete with ruffles at the skirt that framed her supermodel legs.

It took Nic several seconds to come back to reality.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, fighting not to sound as elated as he felt.

She threw a look over her shoulder and waved at the waitress from earlier, who smiled before she waved back.

“Told her I wanted to see my good friend Nicky,” Sandy said. “I showed her you follow me on Instagram—I think that got me in the door.”

Nic blinked stupidly. “But how did you even know I was here?”

She bit her bottom lip, fighting not to laugh. “You know there’s a royal race in Monza this weekend, right? It’s kind of a thing.”

Nic grinned at her, overcome with the urge to pull her in close and bury his nose in her hair. She always smelled like softness and comfort. Floral too, he supposed, but that was secondary.

“The truth is, I convinced my agent to arrange a trip to Milan to see about booking a few jobs,” Sandy explained, folding her arms across her chest. “Everything’s official, and I made sure to keep a low profile here. I haven’t even been out to the actual party or anything. I’m glad I caught you, though. I thought maybe I’d miss you.”

Nic swallowed hard. His fingers flexed at his sides, aching to take her hand. Light from the window played blue across her olive skin, a beautiful contrast he wanted to burn into his brain forever.

“I’m so fucking glad you didn’t,” he breathed. “God, I miss you.”

Sandy laughed—the most wonderful sound in the world. Her nose crinkled up, and the freckle there jumped a little higher.

“Now we get to stand here and be best mates,” she said, and the pain in her voice made him want to throw his crown out the window.

“I’m sorry,” he said for the thousandth time. He hated saying it—he knew it made their relationship sound weak and one-sided. But if he really asked himself, it was.

He didn’t deserve a girl like Sandy—a lawyer who happened to model on the side, smart and gorgeous and so kind that she could befriend waitstaff to sneak into a VIP section to see him.

“Hey,” she murmured, stepping in to give him a hug. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

Nic wrapped his arms around her, squeezing tight before they broke apart again—every touch had been rehearsed a hundred times, just in case.

“How are you?” he asked, digging his nails into the base of his palms. “How’s—How’s everything?”

Sandy’s smile quirked—her telltale sign that things had been tough. “Well, I watched my boyfriend get engaged to another man on live TV at work. That was exhilarating.”

Nic closed his eyes and pushed out a sigh.

“But I’m okay, Nicky,” she added. “Mostly I’m worried about you. You didn’t look like yourself in the livestream the other day.”

Sometimes he and George had to answer citizens' questions live in a marketing-approved version of a town hall. Except people only asked stupid questions like their favorite flavor of ice cream and what they would do if they weren’t princes.

“Oh, y’know, I just miss you every second,” he chuckled weakly.

“Nicky.”

He shot her a look. “Don’t lawyer-voice me, Ms. Dziwiszek.”

Her gaze softened and for a moment Nic thought he might cry. She gave him the same look in Croatia, drenched in sunlight and caressed by a sea breeze.

Happy birthday.

Spending his birthday with Sandy had been a gift he could never top.

Seeing George so distant and unlike himself despite getting everything he said he wanted made Nic want to scream.

“It’s George,” he confessed quietly. “Usually I have a really good read on him, but all of a sudden he’s like a stranger. I don’t know what the issue is, and he won’t tell me.”

“George is his own person,” Sandy said. “You are the sweetest, gentlest man I’ve ever met and if he doesn’t want to tell you something, that’s on him. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

Nic shrugged. “He used to tell me stuff before. He’s my best friend. Now it’s like…”

His lip quivered.

Oh fucking hell.

Nic shook his head. “I dunno. Maybe it was all fake. Maybe I did that thing where I only saw the things he did and didn’t look deep enough.”

Saying it out loud hurt more than he expected, but he’d been thinking it for awhile. He loved George—genuinely. Some of his favorite memories were their stupid jokes with each other in the car, watching movies on the private jet, whipping each other with towels in five star hotels. He loved the way George just went after things without looking at the consequences, even if it bit him in the ass most of the time. Nic wished he had that kind of recklessness instead of his father’s methodical, analytical way of life.

Tears welled up in his eyes. He started to laugh, but stopped himself before it could devolve into crying.

“I think maybe this is what divorce feels like,” he whispered. He intended for it to be a joke, but it didn’t come out like one. “One minute everything’s perfect, next thing you know, they never cared at all.”

Sandy’s hand brushed his forearm, a single stroke of her fingers.  Not enough. Never enough.

“George cares about you, I promise,” she said. “He loves you so much. When he called me to come to Croatia I felt like maybe I was a shitty girlfriend—he was so excited to make you happy. You can’t fake that.”

You can here, he wanted to say, but he made himself smile for her sake.

She searched his face for an answer he didn’t have. Sandy’s eyes weren’t chocolate or hazelnut—they were a color so perfect that he could only call it Caramel Sandra.

Of course his life had to be like this. Only a prince expected to be in love with men could have the most perfect girl on earth as a girlfriend.

“You get quiet when you’re upset,” Sandy reminded him. “As long as George knows he can talk to you, the best you can do is support him until he wants to do that. And maybe he won’t—you have to be okay with that. You fix enough of his problems. You’ve been probably the best husband ever.”

Nic swallowed down some of his sadness and smiled at her. “Best husband ever would be your husband.”

Sandy laughed again, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. “Yeah, why don’t you get on that? Oh, right, you’re already married. And engaged.”

He laughed, but his ribs hurt afterward. God, he loved her. Losing George made it feel like he could lose Sandy too—and the latter scenario could happen without him even knowing. He couldn’t check her Instagram because it would show up in his search history. He barely even knew what was going on in her life.

Instead he had to take mental snapshots, like their last morning together in Croatia where she woke up with a blotchy face from a combination of no makeup and a hangover, hair stuck to her cheeks and blown out everywhere, eyes squinted against the sun.

Nic knew Sandy loved him, but that moment made it real to him more than any other.

“I’m gonna be okay,” he said. “I promise.”

She smiled at him, touching his arm at the elbow—their signal for saying goodbye. “I’ll be okay too,” she said. “I promise.” She glanced down at his feet. “And you should probably pick up your phone.”

He didn’t dare to ask if he would see her later. He knew better.

Nic grabbed his phone up from the floor (no response from George) and watched her go, giving her a little wave before she slipped away toward the kitchen.

Once clear, he rushed for the bathroom and burst inside—blessedly empty. He splashed his face with cold water and did his best not to cry in the sink as he settled himself back down.

The prettiest girl in the world is in love with you, man. You’ve got this.

He  scrubbed his face in his hands and exhaled sharply, ready to face the crowd again.

The bathroom door opened and he heard the shuffle of two sets of feet, one sliding around, the other stomping.

“--verstehst du das, du Arschloch?” a voice snarled.

Something thumped against the entryway wall, accompanied by a sickening crack.

“Fick dich,” a sharper voice replied, pained.

Nic didn’t know any German, but he recognized the sound pretty well. And tone was pretty much universal.

“Noch ein Fehler, und ich—”

“You’re not a god anymore,” the second voice hissed, strangely familiar. “You’ve got nothing.”

Nico Rosberg stumbled into view at the end of the line of sinks, his suit rumpled and his lip split.

“Ah fuck,” Nico growled as he saw him. “Nicholas Latifi. Good to see you.”

Nic cocked a brow. “Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you, Nico. Officially.”

Nico smiled, his teeth stained red. “Unpleasant circumstances at this moment.”

Sebastian Vettel appeared behind him, shoving Nico forward. “Because you’re piss drunk.”

Nic danced out of the way as Nico spilled out on the tile. “Du bist so nervig,” Nico snapped from the floor, hopping up to his feet again with surprising agility. As if it was normal to be shoved around by a four-time world champion.

“Looks like I’m interrupting something,” Nic said blandly.

“You’ve really developed your observational skills,” Sebastian replied, deadpan.

He glanced back at Nico, who was inspecting some blood on his hand.

“Did you punch him?” Nic asked.

Sebastian snorted. “He wouldn’t have any teeth. Though I don’t think those veneers count.”

Nico rolled his eyes as he pressed the side of his finger to his mouth. “For the hundredth time, they are real teeth. You always say this stupid shit about fake teeth. I don’t understand it.”

“He fell off the stage after his drunken ramblings,” Sebastian explained. “His very public drunken ramblings. You made the crown look like a joke.”

Nico laughed sharply. “Oh? I make the crown look like a joke? Blockflötengesicht.”

“Lackaffe,” Sebastian shot back. He turned a glare at Nic, eyes burning. “What are you still doing here?”

Nick let out a snort. “Me? I was here first.”

Sebastian shook his head like a dog after a bath. “Nicholas Latifi? First? My hearing must be going.”

Nic laughed. “Okay, I walked right into that one.”

He didn’t really believe in macho man fight stuff. He would happily step in to help George if he decided to go in for another trackside brawl, but that was different. He had no beef with Sebastian Vettel, and really didn’t want to start one.

Sebastian blinked at him. Nico’s smile widened.

Princes never knew how to deal with goodwill.

“You okay, Nico?” Nic asked. “I can get you a bandage or something.”

Nico furrowed his brow. Blond hair stuck to his forehead in an unruly disaster. “What?”

“He’ll be fine,” Sebastian said, stepping past him to haul Nico up by the collar. “As long as he stops making a fool of himself.”

Nico nearly went crosseyed to look at Sebastian so close. He grinned red. “Visitation.”

“You are insane,” Sebastian snarled.

“You two have a secret kid or something?” Nic asked, curious now.

“He wants to visit the paddock. Sneak around the garages like a little mouse,” Sebastian said, jerking Nico’s collar.

Nic couldn’t tell if they were about to make out or start beating the shit out of each other.

“He’s a very good dog, eh? Wuff wuff,” Nico slurred, tossing his grin at Nic. He looked back at Sebastian. “Little bitch.”

“Woah,” Nic said before Sebastian could strangle him right there in the bathroom. “Don’t really want to get in the middle of…whatever this is, but seriously? Don’t call anyone a bitch.”

Both Sebastian and Nico turned to look at him with the same puzzled expression.

“It’s distasteful. You’re both world champions, that’s a title you should carry with respect,” Nic said. “And you’re both smart.” He glanced between them. “Supposedly. So you both probably understand the negative connotations ‘bitch’ has toward women.”

 He put his hands up in surrender as both men turned on him, ready to kill. Maybe literally.

“I’ll see myself out,” Nic said before either of them could lunge. “Hope you figure out your custody arrangement. I know a good lawyer if you need one.”

He bit down his smile as he strode out of the bathroom and pulled out his phone, tucking it against his shoulder as it rang.

“Nicky?” George whispered.

“Hey, you got a sec for the ol’ ball and chain?” he greeted.

“Um, one second.”

He heard a scuffling on the other end of the line.

Nic glanced behind him at the bathroom door, laughter still bubbling up in him.

“Okay, I can listen now,” George said, his voice clearer.

“Hope you’re buckled in,” Nic replied. “You’re never gonna believe this.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes Lando didn’t like driving. People loved to worship them for everything they could do in a car, but it wasn’t always fun. Hitting every apex on every corner took an unreal amount of concentration. Any distraction and he could lose two tenths or more in a snap of understeer, or lose the car altogether if he kissed a curb that didn’t like him back.

How fitting.

Lando clicked through the gears into the first chicane, riding out the Gs as he swished the car left and right. The car responded as if trying to earn his favor, sticking to the tarmac like glue, accelerating more than he anticipated. His deltas were green, and Will sounded excited in his ear, though Lando had stopped listening to him awhile ago.

For some reason the world felt slightly off. He got to travel the world on someone else’s dime, just to drive a car around. He was married to a very handsome man, and had been married to an even handsomer one a year ago—both of whom cared about him. Maybe even loved him still.

Lando’s insides slung to one side as he took Curva Grande flat out, eyes tracking two seconds ahead on the track until he caught sight of the 100-meter board, his braking point.

Maybe he could take it a bit later than last lap. He had a tenth to spare if he fucked up, but if it paid off he could maybe gain two.

He slammed on the brakes at 70 meters and hauled ass into the corner, taking the chicane like a champ. A rush of adrenaline rewarded him for his risk as he stomped the throttle, eyes already up ahead for the next braking point.

Now he had Max to think about. Someone Lando never thought would ever be part of his romantic life ever again. He wasn’t even sure Max was actually part of it now.

His brain sure thought so. His brain tortured him with dreams of pouring rain, Max’s lips against his, a rain-covered romance on the front porch balcony of a mansion Max had rented for Daniel, not him.

The logical part of Lando knew Max had probably only kissed him to shut him up. Charles had warned him long ago that princes wouldn’t mind using feelings to get their way—which was fucking hilarious to think about now.

Charles used to be wise beyond his years, before he had a crown.

Actually, before he fell in love with Sebastian.

“Lando! That’s P4!” Will cried into his ear.

Lando blinked, nearly jerking the wheel as he realized he’d passed the start line. He glanced down at his delta.

“P4?” he repeated.

“Yes! And get this, Daniel’s P3!”

Lando gradually eased his foot off the throttle, taking the Rettifilo slow and smooth. Daniel would be stoked, which meant he might be tempted to drink a glass of wine to celebrate. Maybe even crack a beer.

Great.

“With Bottas taking the engine penalty, him and Max will be front row, you’ll be right behind. We could win this, mate!”

The realization hit him as he took Curva Grande again, fingers tingling with expectation. He grinned under his helmet as dreams of the top step tempted him once again. This season would be his first win, he could feel it. Tomorrow could be the day. Daniel was good, but Lando was faster. Everyone knew that. He could easily take first from third on the grid, and as long as Max got held up fighting Daniel in the start, they could clinch a one-two.

“Awesome,” Lando breathed. “Let’s get ’em, yeah?”

 

 


 

 

Lando pulled himself from the car with a grin on his face. Daniel already had Max in a hug up ahead, and the crowd screamed their approval the same way they might have cheered for Charles or Carlos if they had managed to get it together.

Instead he saw Charles sitting on the halo of his car, helmet still on, staring at the ground. Carlos approached and put an arm around him.

Lando looked away and pulled off his helmet and balaclava to distract himself.

Daniel had released Max, but Max still looked up at him like he’d hung the stars in the sky, unabashedly in love. FIA officials watched from the sidelines, glowering at the two of them. Valtteri had a hand on his hip at the front of the pack, a bright smile on his face as he spoke to the media and congratulated himself on a pole that didn’t matter.

“Lando.”

All of the smugness in Lando turned ice cold. The sweat froze solid on his back as he turned to see Lewis standing just behind him, helmet tucked under his arm. His gap-toothed smile reminded Lando of his own, a sickening comparison.

Lewis offered a gloved fist. “Nice work out there, man.”

Lando stared at his hand, all too aware of Carlos in the background, his mouth at Charles’s visor, saying something warm and encouraging.

He bumped Lewis’s fist, trying not to grimace. “Uh, thanks.”

Lewis looked toward Max and Daniel, nose ring glinting in the Italian sun.

“You’re set up for a good race tomorrow,” Lewis said.

“Yeah, ahead of you,” Lando shot back, unable to help himself.

Lewis let out a laugh. “Yes, ahead of me. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Every prince had a chronic case of competitiveness. Almost an obsession. Lando used to think he’d avoided indulging it, but the fire burned back in him, erasing his fear.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he replied with a smile.

Lewis shrugged. “Don’t need to. Realistic expectations don’t account for hope. Nice move on Roggia last lap, by the way. Feels good to take those risks, doesn’t it?”

Lando watched him carefully, but Lewis seemed to be genuine. “Calculated risk. Beat you, didn’t I?”

“Right,” Lewis chuckled. He stepped up beside him as Sebastian passed with Fernando.

“—got to make a few adjustments, I think,” Sebastian said as he passed.

“Maybe you do,” Fernando replied with a chuckle. “We’ve got more left in the car.”

“Ah yes, how typical. I suppose qualifying eleventh was part of ‘el plan,’ yes?” Sebastian replied with a roll of his eyes.

Lewis stared ahead and Lando followed his gaze to two FIA officials talking by the garages, gesticulating like only Italians could.

“This race is very important,” Lewis said, close enough that Lando could feel his body heat on the side of his face.

“Every race is important,” Lando muttered. “Look, I’ve got to—”

“Funny Cide and California Chrome,” an FIA official snapped into a walkie as he marched by them. “Someone had better step in and break that up.”

Lewis tracked the official, something dark churning in his eyes that made Lando’s stomach twist.

“Get Cigar—Hell, I don’t care if you find Zippy Chippy and put him in front of a camera to spout nonsense. Get them off my screens,” the official demanded into his walkie.

The walkie crackled to life. “B camera has eyes on Seattle Slew and Affirmed, do we want—”

“Fine!” the man snapped, storming away.

Lewis looked up at one of the big screens where the camera switched from Daniel and Max talking excitedly to each other to Fernando making waves with his hand, Sebastian watching intently.

“They’re using racehorse code—”

“I know,” Lewis said, cutting him off.

Lando bristled. “Of course. You know everything, don’t you?”

“I try to, yes,” Lewis answered coolly. “Problems always hide in the things you don’t understand.”

Many princes had trouble with loss. Daniel drank, Charles disassociated, Carlos went quiet for days. Lando just got pissed off. He hated when the problem was something he couldn’t fix.

Lando let out a snort. “I don’t know why you’re trying to be my friend.”

“I’m not trying to be your friend, man,” Lewis chuckled. “I told you that I pinned my reputation on you a few races back. I’m trying to prevent you from making the same mistakes I made at your age.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask for your advice,” Lando muttered.

“It’s not advice,” Lewis said, turning on him. “It’s a warning.”

Lando’s anger evaporated into fear faster than he thought possible.

Wembley flashed before his eyes. The way his gut pinched as Daniel told him to go ahead alone, then seeing him with blood matted in his hair. The way that stranger had pinned his wrist without any effort, how helpless he’d been.

Soy fuerte, soy fuerte.

“I know you think Max has it all figured out,” Lewis continued. “I’m sure it seems like he can do whatever he wants. Maybe he can—but not you. So don’t get caught up in the magic, Lando.”

Lando swallowed hard, fingers trembling where he gripped his helmet. “You can threaten me all you want—”

“I’m not threatening you,” Lewis interrupted, rolling his eyes. He stepped a little closer. “I’m telling you that the FIA is taking aim at you, because you’re the weakest link in Max’s little harem.”

Insult stung in Lando’s nose, of all places.

“And the FIA isn’t as nice as I am,” Lewis continued. “I don’t take cheap shots.”

Lando looked over Lewis’s shoulder to where Charles still sat on his car, his helmet next to him, shaking his head. Carlos sat beside him, saying something Lando couldn’t hear.

Their eyes locked, and everything in Lando turned sour. He tore his gaze away before he could get sucked into the depths of the eyes he swore he would always have to come back to.

“Get to the point,” Lando growled.

Lewis put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze. “Stay out of my way. Max is punching above his weight, and I’m getting a little sick of it.”

“Too much pressure?” Lando taunted.

Lewis grinned at him. “He doesn’t have the brain to put pressure on me. It’s the other way around, I think. Why else would he be trying to recruit you so blatantly?”

Lando’s mouth fell open.

“Lando, come on,” Lewis said, readjusting his helmet at his side. “Maybe there’s something genuine there, but Max hasn’t cared about spending time with you until recently.”

“That’s not true,” Lando said. “We play FIFA, we go to Steakout every year. He called me—”

“And I call Sebastian my best friend, but I only see him twenty-something weekends a year,” Lewis finished. “It’s about public perception, Lando. If the McLaren public sees you and Max all smiles, they think it’s all good. Max is fixing Daniel’s reputation through you—Daniel knows it too.”

Lewis glanced over toward Max and Daniel, and Lando followed to see Daniel staring at him from the press area. He elbowed Max, murmuring something that made Max shoot up from his spot where he’d been fussing with his race boot.

“Use your head,” Lewis said quickly. “Talk to Public Affairs—do you know what your numbers looked like after summer break?”

Lando blinked stupidly at him and Lewis let out a sigh.

“Start paying attention, man. Summer break—McLaren hates Daniel for what he did, Red Bull hates you for getting involved. Then rumors start coming out about the three of you living together, by Zandvoort the numbers completely turned around.” Lewis nudged his shoulder. “Stop assuming the best in people.”

“I don’t,” Lando snapped, knocking Lewis’s shoulder in retaliation. “Case and point.”

Lewis erupted in a laugh. “Whatever man, come to your own conclusions. See you tomorrow.”

“I’ll have to polish my mirrors,” Lando called as Lewis took off, but his heart had jumped to his throat.

He saw Daniel and Max approaching out of the corner of his eye, but charged off toward the garage, trying not to cry. All of his emotion stuffed up in him—elation from a good qualifying, fear that he was putting Carlos in danger, and sickening dread that Lewis was right.

He used to look at his numbers. His dad used to be obsessed with them his first year, but he’d stopped paying attention when the alternative was making out with a Spaniard who always, always boosted those numbers higher.

You got lazy.

The truth lanced him through to the point where he stumbled a bit on the tarmac, nearly tossing his helmet at the overexcited McLaren pit crew. The slaps to his back and jostles from mechanics seemed to happen in slow motion as Lando fought his way through the garage with a plastered-on smile.

He dodged Zak and broke out into the hospitality lane, making a break for the suite as his vision began to tunnel. He had to find Sophia. He had to sit down with her and have everything explained.

“Oh no you don’t.”

Max hooked him around the waist, yanking him clean off his feet just as he reached the front steps. Lando froze, fear and that stupid crush of his clashing inside him, every reaction canceling itself out.

Max dragged him between the McLaren and Mercedes suites, but didn’t stop walking until they were safely behind McLaren, up against storage cases and smelly generators.

“What did Lewis say to you?” Max asked.

Lando turned his face away, hands stuck at his sides. Panic rose in him, wild and uncontrollable. Gravity began to shift, warping his surroundings and his already wavering balance from spending so long in the car.

Max’s hands folded over his arms. “Lando, focus. Focus on me.”

Lando remembered the first time he found Daniel sleeping in the shower. He’d been curled tight around a couch pillow, his entire body tense even though he’d been dead asleep. Closer to dead, actually. Covered in sweat and screaming with his mouth closed.

Lando remembered wishing he could erase the whole scene from his memory. But it stayed there, burned in.

Max gave him a little shake. His face was so close Lando could see the creases in his skin from where the balaclava had pressed his radio wire into his cheek.  

“Lando, what did Lewis—”

“He’s could hurt Carlos,” Lando blurted out, that eagle ring slicing right into the core of his being. “He’s got all the leverage, he’s got everything, he’s got—Carlos doesn’t—he’s got—”

Max gripped him tighter, getting right up in his face. “I need you to tell me exactly—"

“What the fuck are you doing?” Daniel snapped, shouldering Max out of the way with impressive force.

Lando stared straight ahead, knees buckling as Daniel guided him down to the ground.

“—hear me?” Daniel asked.

Do you even know what a liar sounds like?

Lando kept blinking, but his vision couldn’t materialize. He could only feel the paper in his hands, the photos of his text conversations with Carlos that Lewis undoubtedly still had copies of.

He couldn’t tell Daniel about the burner phone. He definitely couldn’t tell Max.  Any slip of the tongue and Lewis would rip it right out of his face.

Long fingers carded through his hair and Lando jerked in surprise, fully expecting to find Carlos there. Instead Daniel was frowning at him with wide eyes, smoothing his hair back.

”There ya go,” Daniel soothed. “Come on back, little doggie.”

Lando swallowed thickly, still shaking.

“Daniel,” Max said from above them. “I need to—”

“Shut the fuck up, Max,” Daniel snapped. “Just shut up.” He cocked his head, peering at Lando as if inspecting him for injury. “You’re good, babe. Come on back.”

Lando reached up with trembling hands, clasping Daniel’s wrists and squeezing tight. Daniel made a soft noise and pulled him in, allowing Lando to tuck his face into his chest.

“I gotcha,” he said, and the low timbre of his voice rumbled through Lando’s skull in the best way.

“Lewis said something to him,” Max said. “He clearly threatened him, Daniel. Whose fault do you think that is?”

“What did I tell you?” Daniel snapped up at him, squeezing Lando a little tighter. “You started picking fights, Max. You started doing shit and pissing off Lewis and Sebastian—you literally pushed out Sebastian's best friend. What the fuck did you think would happen?”

“Maybe you can sit by while they destroy us, but I can’t,” Max replied. “Not when I have a chance at winning a championship. I have the power to stop him and the FIA.”

“You think you do,” Daniel said. “You have no idea—”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a rookie,” Max growled. “I know what I’m fucking doing.”

Daniel pressed a chaste kiss to Lando’s forehead. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Sure looks like it.”

“Stand up,” Max spat, suddenly more furious than Lando had ever seen him. “Stand up and face me if you’re going to be a prick.”

Daniel let out a sharp exhale that sent a chill down Lando’s spine. Daniel rubbed his back once before standing.

“Alrighty, here I am,” Daniel hissed. “I’ll say it again: you have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Stop doubting me!” Max burst out. “I’m doing everything I can to help you—”

“And I didn’t ask for it!” Daniel shot back.

Lando hugged his knees to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Because it’s too humiliating to let me help you?” Max asked. “Too much of a hit to your ego?”

“I don’t give a fuck about my ego,” Daniel said, advancing on him. “Don’t try to make this about me.”

He prodded Max in the chest and Max slapped his hand away with more force than necessary.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Max warned.

“I’ll touch you if it means stopping you from being a fucking idiot,” Daniel said. He poked him again and Max caught his wrist hard, yanking Daniel in until they were chest to chest.

“I said don’t—"

“I want to be with you forever,” Daniel hissed, barely leaning back to avoid Max’s fury. “Right now you’re trying to put a target on your back and I won’t let you do it.”

“Fuck you, pretending this is about us,” Max grit out, shoving him.

“It is about us,” Daniel replied, but his eyes were steel. “You’re fucking us right now. If you go after Lewis, you are putting a fucking bullet in my—”

“Stop!” Lando screeched from his place on the ground. “Stop fighting!”

He found his way to his feet, then teetered immediately. Max let go of Daniel and caught him in one motion, holding tight to his shoulder. Lando clawed into Max’s nomex to hold himself upright, slightly disgusted by the dampness.

“I’m sorry,” Max said, jaw rusted. “Are you okay?”

Lando shot him a look, but Max’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

“I will be if you stop yelling at each other,” Lando said shakily.

Max nodded once, and Daniel put a hand on his back.

“I’m sorry too, for the record,” Daniel said. “To both of you.”

Lando hugged himself tightly. “I’m going to the motorhome to get ready for press stuff. I’ll see you guys later.”

Daniel shared a glance with Max, who shook his head.

“Okie doke,” Daniel said encouragingly. “I’ll come see you in a bit.”

Lando nodded once and headed back into the space between the suites, finally allowing himself to breathe.

“I love you,” Daniel said softly as Lando walked away. “But I’m telling you to stop doing this shit. Please.”

“No,” Max said. “I’m not letting them control us anymore, Daniel. I wish you’d just support me.”

Daniel didn’t reply, so Lando assumed they started kissing as he tumbled back out into the summer sun. He blinked against the harsh light and collided with someone a second later.

Of course.

“Fuck, sorry,” Lando muttered, catching himself before he tripped.

A hand came to his shoulder, then fell away again.

Lando froze, his vision swallowed by red.  

Charles stood there and looked him over, offering a pained smile. “Watch your step.”

Lando worked his jaw, thanking his lucky stars that it wasn’t Carlos. “Yeah. Life advice, for me.”

Charles sidestepped to allow him through. He looked past Lando, and he followed Charles’s gaze to to see Max slipping from between the suites and stalking toward the Red Bull garage.

Charles’s mouth twitched. “Mm. Some things don’t change.”

Chapter Text

 

Everyone at Monza was out for blood. Nic felt it in the air before he even stepped in the car. George tapped his foot nervously as they waited to be released to their cars, eyes dancing over the TV screens cameras tracked over the faces of the other princes on the grid. Daniel bopped his head to an inaudible beat as he crouched by the track wall, Charles and Carlos spoke to their engineers, and Lando viciously chewed on his water bottle straw.

But all eyes on the grid were on Max and Lewis. Max looked ready to kill as he stared down Christian Horner, angry about something judging from his snap-quick movements and narrowed eyes.  Lewis nodded thoughtfully when the camera turned to him, a finger curled at his lip and sunglasses shading his eyes as he listened to Peter Bonnington, his race engineer.

“We’ve got it in us for points today,” Nic said as he wiped a damp towel over his face. “You think?”

George worked his jaw for a moment before smiling as if he’d finally registered the words. “I’d say so.”

“Nicky, let’s get you in here,” Gaetan, his race engineer, called from beside his car. “Radio checks, please.”

Nic slapped George on the shoulder. “Be safe out there, buddy.”

George nodded once. “You too.”

 

 


 

 

White swept across Charles’s mirrors as he dodged first lap traffic and made a break for second. Pierre’s Alpha Tauri pirouetted in the gravel, throwing up a spray that told of a sickening impact.

“Is Pierre okay?!” Charles all but screamed into the radio as he swerved to avoid a set of tires on his right.

Seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness as they approached Turn 1, the Ferrari fans screaming in the stands. Monza loomed all around, churning red, white, and green.

Once again, Charles flashed through a life without Pierre in it and fear swallowed him up.

“Pierre’s good, focus now,” Jock finally replied.

Charles glanced to his right. Max’s helmet shimmered back at him.

We were bred for this.

Charles stomped the throttle. He pulled ahead.

 

 


 

 

“Fucking idiot,” Lando muttered under his breath a few laps later, eyes on his mirrors as Charles’s red Ferrari swallowed track behind him. He checked to make sure the radio button wasn’t on as he cut out wide, blocking Charles’s way for an attempted overtake.

Charles responded by swiping left, but Lando knew his driving style better than most. He tucked in for the next corner, taking the line to graze the apex—a little wide, but barely.

He grinned under his helmet as Charles sucked back in behind him, punching the throttle and focusing up ahead, where Max was all over Daniel’s ass.

“Catching Max,” Will said into his ear. “Charles is—”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Lando interrupted. “I’ve got this. Make sure Daniel knows I’m coming for him, yeah?”

“Catch Max first,” Will said.

No jokes, no encouragement.

Something knocked loose inside him and lodged in his throat.

 

 


 

 

 “Holy fucking shit,” Nic breathed as he entered Rettifilo under the yellow flag on Lap 25. The chicane looked like a war scene—complete with sifting smoke and dust.

Max’s Red Bull sat cockeyed on top of Lewis’s black Mercedes, a tire hanging above the halo. Max had stepped out of the car, helmet still on, and everything about his body language exuded fury.

He couldn’t see Lewis.

Nic swallowed thickly, tempted to get on the radio to ask what had happened, but sometimes it was better not to know until after. Nic didn’t know how it was even possible to stack cars on top of each other, but he imagined that kind of impact could easily kill someone. He wasn’t sure a halo could stop an entire car.

“They’re both conscious,” Gaetan said over radio as if reading his mind.

Thank god.

Nic’s hands shook on the wheel. “Okay, thank you. Thank you. Did you tell George?”

“Relaying now.”

“Okay. Just, um, tell me if he’s okay, yeah?”

“Will do,” Gaetan said.  “Back in it now, we’ve got a shot at points once this safety car is done.”

Nic rarely wanted out of the car, but in that moment he wished he could stop the race and find George. If seeing that crash made him feel sick when he only cared about Lewis as George’s person, he couldn’t imagine what George must be going through.

He slowed in behind an Alfa Romeo as they headed toward Ascari, discomfort lodging in his throat. Kubica, he realized. A man who knew the consequences of a bad crash.

“Hey Gaetan?” Nic asked.

“Go ahead,” Gaetan replied.

“Can you see about getting some gelato for George when he’s over the line? He had some lemon the other night. He really liked it.”

Silence met him, and it lingered for several seconds.

A new voice crackled over the radio. “Hey Nicky, it’s Jost,”

“Hiya,” Nic replied.

“Working on that lemon gelato. Race your race, okay? We’ll handle the rest.”

Nic smiled. Nerves still ate at him, but at least George would have something sweet waiting for him at the finish.

 

 


 

 

“Lando, you need to keep position,” Will said into his ear.

“Then tell Daniel to pick up the pace!” Lando snapped, edging ever closer to Daniel’s rear wing. With Max and Lewis out, it would be smooth sailing until the end, especially with Charles busy battling Checo.

Lando seldom entertained what-ifs. No race was ever secured, no position gifted. Daniel’s engine could still blow out before he finished, or he could fuck up a corner and hand Lando the win he deserved.

“Lando—”

“Say it, Will,” he taunted.

Will didn’t say it.

Lando nearly weaved, just to prove a point. Daniel had ailing tires and seemed to be slowing down on purpose. Easy to overtake, easy to take out. Even if they were married off track, Lando had no problem stealing a win from him. Wedding vows had no pull on a racetrack.

“We cannot risk the cars,” Will said. “Stay in position, Lando.”

“You should really say it,” Lando replied bitterly. “Just for funsies.”

The radio stayed quiet.

The unspoken order lingered in the air all the same: Multi-21.

An infamous code, an infamous phrase—team orders to keep position, even if the driver behind had better pace.

Everyone whispered about it in the paddock, even eight years on from that fateful day in Malaysia. Lando remembered cackling at the race replay at the way Mark Webber called Sebastian out on live TV while Seb stared straight ahead as if he didn’t exist.

Fewer people talked about the other Multi-21 incident that day, Nico Rosberg being told to stand down and let Lewis stay in front, an order Nico obeyed.

Lando always thought he was a pussy for that.

He remembered telling Alex he’d be a Sebastian, not a Nico.

“I was racing, I was faster, I passed him, I won,” Sebastian had said.

It all seemed so logical. They were appointed to race, to get ahead. Yet here he was, being told to stay behind.

“I’m faster than him, Will,” Lando said.

“Not up for discussion at this point, mate,” Will said with an edge to his voice that made it clear it would be the last of him saying it nicely.

He thought about Daniel sleeping in the shower. Daniel at the Silverstone party, throwing up in the bathroom after being forced to show face at an event he wasn’t ready for. Daniel drunk on the couch, dead-eyed and defeated in the dark.

Taking a win from him against team orders might kill the last of his goodness. To lead a whole race and lose it at the end crushed men in ways they never forgot.

Mark Webber left racing after that year. He claimed he was no longer motivated to lead. Darker rumors circulated about a mental breakdown.

Newer, younger, fresher teammates had a way of puncturing the core of princes said to be invincible.

They put their lives on the line to take a chance at a win. Every weekend. Every race.

But Daniel was probably the only prince who had ever put his on the line outside of the paddock to save his husband. The only one who had ever given his husband a hoodie to hide in and sent him off not knowing if he would ever be able to get it back.

Lando eased off the throttle ever so slightly.

Maybe Rosberg had his own reason that day in Malaysia.

Or maybe he just loved the man in front of him.

 

 


 

 

Cheering sounded more like screams of the damned when it wasn’t for him. Charles bit down on the inside of his cheek, forcing the pain to cancel out the threat of tears. A podium would have been acceptable—expected, even. Instead he had to watch Checo’s rear wing slip out of view way too far ahead.

“Good day, Charles,” Jock said in his ear. “I know it isn’t the race you wanted, but we had a very good day.”

Charles wanted to explode. It didn’t seem possible that Daniel and Lando could not only take the lead, but keep it.

“That’s P5 over the line, but looking like P4 once Checo gets his penalty,” Jock continued.

“I’m sorry,” Charles grit out. “I could have done better. I’m sorry.”

Mattia would undoubtedly say something about the medication. Or worse, he would take out his frustration on Carlos, who finished behind him.

Daniel Ricciardo won in a McLaren. A fucking McLaren. And Lando—the same Lando who could barely walk straight after qualifying—placed second.

“Fuck!” Charles screamed, even as he lifted his hand to wave at the crowd. Red surged in the stands.

You failed them. You don’t deserve to wave.

But he waved anyway, and he put on a smile he didn’t believe in.

 

 


 

 

Champagne spray felt different from second place. Lando had plenty of practice in it now. Bitterness welled up in him even as he smiled for the cameras and sprayed Zak and Daniel with his own (smaller) bottle of Ferrari Trento.

Daniel became the sun itself. He glowed in the summer heat, his grin so big it threatened to break his face. A weight had lifted from his shoulders—he even seemed taller. Lando’s joy became more real just being around him. Every time those brown eyes caught his, his smile widened a little.

“You’ve gotta,” Daniel said, offering him a racing boot full of champagne.

Lando screwed up his face, but he took the boot. The air was already full of sweat and champagne—he supposed breathing it couldn’t be worse than drinking it. The race boots were only a few hours old anyway. They couldn’t be that contaminated.

He brought the boot over his face, closed his eyes, and poured.

Foamy champagne lather spilled from the corners of his lips. He puffed out his cheeks and held in the liquid, lifting the boot toward a ravenous crowd cheering like mad.

Oh god, he had to swallow it.

Lando grimaced as he forced the champagne down his throat, fighting not to gag.

When he opened his eyes, Daniel stared back at him with a heady look that made him blush all over.

“Fuck you,” Lando hissed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He handed back the boot. “I’m never doing that again.”

Valtteri watched with thinly veiled disgust as they made out one more shoey for Zak, both Lando and Daniel dumping champagne on his face with a bit too much enthusiasm. A tiny part of Lando hoped he choked on it.

After, Lando stayed glued to Daniel’s side, sticky with sugar and alcohol as reporters swarmed them.

“To lead literally from start to finish, I don’t think any of us expected that,” Daniel said, still grinning ear-to-ear. “I don’t know—there was something in me on Friday. I knew something good was to come—so let’s just say that.”

Behind him, the TVs showed Max and Lewis’s crash in slow motion. Lando watched for the fifth time as Max’s tire rolled over Lewis’s helmet, unprotected by the halo for a fraction of a second.

He also noticed that Daniel had yet to look at the screen.

 

 


 

 

“I can see you staring,” George said as he licked yellow gelato from his spoon.

Nic sat pressed against his side, pulling from everything he knew about George to try to figure out what was going through his head. None of his current reaction made any sense.

“I’m staring because you haven’t said a word about the crash,” Nic replied. “A crash that involved your new fiancé and your childhood friend.”

George’s tongue paused on the spoon before he retracted it like a snake. “Calling him a childhood friend is giving him a bit too much credit,” he said. “We were never all that close.”

Nic frowned. “Don’t go changing history now that you’re marrying the opposition.”

George cut him a look. “We always change history when we’re looking back.”

Unease crept over Nic as he scanned George’s face for a sign that he might be joking. George didn’t talk about Max much, but he didn’t have to. The fact that George spent time with him meant Max was important. George never spent time with people he didn’t like.

“Have you heard anything about either of them?” Nic tried, though he already knew the answer. He’d been at George’s side since they got out of their cars.

George shook his head. “Max seems fine. He was fine enough to throw a temper tantrum on track, at least.”

Nic winced. Footage of Max storming away without checking on Lewis was already playing on loop in every team garage. People blamed Lewis for celebrating too hard after Max’s crash, but it wasn’t like Lewis could stop his car in the middle of a race. Max had no excuse.

Valtteri appeared on their TV with a typical Finnish expression: unfazed. George grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

“Prince Valtteri, any updates on Prince Lewis you can share with us?” a reporter asked, shoving a microphone in Valtteri’s face.

“I was told he was conscious and taken to the medical facilities for checks,” Valtteri said. “As far as I am aware, he is still there.”

“Has his next of kin been contacted?”

Valtteri remained still. “Not that I’m aware of. I’m not sure it is that kind of situation.”

George shifted on the mattress.

“Who’s Lewis’s NOK?” Nic asked.

George shrugged. “Probably Valtteri. Tradition is important to him.”

“If they are contacted—will this be a situation like Max and Charles?” the reporter asked.

“I am not sure what kind of situation you mean,” Valtteri answered blandly.

The reporter faltered, and Mercedes Public Affairs swooped in, herding Valtteri away toward the hospitality motorhome.

“You don’t seem worried,” Nic said.

George looked down at the gelato cup his lap. “I’m processing. Seeing a crash replay over and over again doesn’t actually help to understand anything. Sometimes the little crashes hurt the most. This one could be fine.” He lifted the gelato cup. “Thanks for this, by the way.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Nic said dryly. “I thought you would need some cheering up.”

“Would you stop?” George snapped. “What am I supposed to do, start crying? I don’t know what actually happened, Nicky. I’m not going to freak out over nothing.”

“Maybe you should,” Nic muttered, frustration building in him. He would be mouthbreathing all over the glass of Sandy’s medical room if he witnessed a crash like that. Hell, he’d probably abandon royal protocol and fly across the world to see her if she wanted to hold his hand during a regular doctor’s visit.

“I freaked out over you,” Nic added, and he felt lame saying it. “You weren’t even involved and I was freaked out because I thought you would be worried.”

The tension left George’s shoulders and he set the gelato aside to put his face in his hands.

“I know,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Nicky. It’s just different with…It’s just different.”

“But you love Lewis,” Nic said. “Maybe I’m projecting, but you were more worried about Charles fucking around in Monaco than your fiancé getting run over by a literal car.”

George ran his hand through his hair. “I do love Lewis, but he makes it a fucking point that I’m not part of Mercedes yet. He would much rather me sit here with you than go make a show on TV. Until I hear something, I can’t—”

Three knocks on the door alerted them to Kaylas’ impending arrival. Nic grabbed George’s hand  to appear more consoling just as the door swung open to reveal her.

Oh, and Toto Wolff.

George shot up where he sat and Nic nearly let go of his hand to protect him from…whatever Toto Wolff was capable of doing. Probably something bad. Tall people weren’t supposed to be anything other than lanky—Toto could probably rip a man apart with his bare hands.

“George,” Toto greeted. He didn’t dip his head. “You’ve been designated as Lewis’s next of kin.”

George’s mouth fell open.

“You’re joking,” Nic said, unable to help himself.

Toto soured, steely-eyed and furious.  “No. I am not joking.”

 

 


 

 

Charles deserted the Public Affairs team. He couldn’t bear the thought of answering questions about all of the ways he’d come up short for his empire, how Ferrari would have to wait another year for a chance at a podium. Another year for a chance at a win.

Carlos finished sixth, and he was better with media anyway. Charles didn’t know if he’d pass as the same person in front of a camera. He didn’t feel like the same person.

He wormed his way behind the hospitality lane, squeezing between generators and discarded track maps. Fans encircled the entire pit lane at Monza, effectively trapping them until the crowds cleared enough for royal motorcades to pass through. The Monza estate sprawled for kilometers in either direction—a quiet public park most days of the year. Charles remembered visiting in his karting days, staring up at the empty grandstands that seemed to echo the cheers of crowds long gone.

Now, the whole place teemed with people. They seemed to burst up from the pavement like weeds, offering hats to sign and excited babble in Italian and English he could barely understand.

Even when he squeezed himself into the humid exhaust of the Alpine generator, two boys rushed up to him with Ferrari hats for him to sign and extended phones for selfies he had to smile for despite the exhaust fumes blowing in his face.

When the boys scampered off, Charles slipped further into the recesses of the paddock.

Unfortunately, there were only a few hiding spots, and every prince knew them if they had any worth. He figured the smallest one wouldn’t be occupied as he navigated his way through a zigzag of cracked pavement.

Blue eyes met his, an electric sea that turned brackish in a instant.

“Oh,” Charles breathed, freezing in place.

Pierre let out a sigh from where he sat on a storage bin, tucked into the far corner of a patch of busted tarmac too unstable to hold any kind of heavy equipment or temporary facility.

Pain sewed up Charles’s throat and devoured any chance of finding something else to say.

Distance was supposed to make it easier to see him. Stoffel was supposed to make it easy to be angry at Pierre for the rest of his life, a wound so deep it would never scar.

Pierre slid from the storage bin, swallowing hard. Charles couldn’t move if he tried.

“I don’t want to talk,” Pierre said, his voice heavy with a sadness Charles could feel in his marrow.

Their wound hadn’t stopped bleeding.

Charles still wanted to card his fingers through Pierre’s mop of hair. He still wanted to hear his laugh, the warmth of it in his ear, the strength in his hold. The wholeness of him. The complete personhood maintained—not one drop of his blood laced with chemicals to keep him sane.

“You spun,” Charles finally rasped as Pierre moved closer.

Charles didn’t expect it when Pierre wrapped him up un a hug. Somehow the compression felt like release as Charles tucked his face into his neck, inhaling the sticky scent of sweat and burned rubber.

“I’m fine,” Pierre murmured, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheekbone. “You should find Max.”

Charles blinked. “Is he—?”

Flashbacks of the hospital bombarded his brain—blue light, the screaming heart monitor, the brief taste of his mouth.

Pierre rolled his eyes as he pulled back. “He’s fine. He’s being a prick, actually. You were always better at calming him down. A lot better than I’ve ever been at it.”

“And if I’d rather be with you?” Charles asked quietly.

Pierre chewed the inside of his cheek, unable to look him in the eye. “I think you should find Max.”

Hurt stung, even though Charles knew Pierre had every right not to want him around. His body prickled with it, pins and needles embedding in his skin right alongside the weight of his failure to Ferrari, Carlos, Binotto, and everyone else.

“Okay,” he answered numbly.

Pierre rubbed his arms once, twice, then slipped away between generators and left him behind.

Didn’t everyone.

Privacy suddenly gaped before him and Charles no longer wanted it.

He knew where Max would be.

Sunlight drenched his mussed hair as he walked quickly through the paddock, ignoring Pierre far ahead, his normally-impeccable posture misaligned, broken. No fans swarmed Pierre, though he deserved them. Pierre always greeted everyone with a charming smile and mirth in his eyes.

Fans swarmed Charles, though. They screamed his name and held up their phones, snapping photos and recording his every move. He put on a placid expression, vision red from all of the shirts, hats, and Ferrari flags.

A lanky teenager in sunglasses kept up step beside him, throwing up a peace sign to his selfie screen. Charles put a thumbs up to the camera and withheld a curse.

He had a good life. He had a life all of these people wanted.

“Guys, I have to go, I’m very sorry,” Charles said once he reached the Red Bull garage.

An FIA official stepped up to him a second later, shaking his head. “Prince Leclerc—”

“Max has been in an accident and I’m his next of kin,” Charles said calmly. “Also, we’re in Monza. Now let me through.”

 

 


 

 

Charles found Max in his debriefing room, pacing up and down a line of chairs. His ears burned red, his face too. A snarl had permanently etched itself on his features, and Charles stepped into a memory as he closed the door behind him.

Max always paced after a DNF if he got the chance. He said once that it helped him release the energy he was supposed to have spent finishing the race.

In reality, the longer he paced and looked angry at himself, the less his father was inclined to find anger for him.

“Afternoon,” Charles greeted.

Max stopped mid-step, eyes snapping to him. His snarling mouth opened to breathe fire, but he closed it again.

I know you, Charles thought as he pulled out a chair at the end of the table.

Ferrari, the crown, his failure—all of it faded to background noise. Suddenly they were two boys in the quiet, even as the roars of the crowd whispered through the crevices and Enzo Ferrari’s legacy seeped in under the doors.

Max didn’t ask how he’d gotten in. Max didn’t question anything about his being there. He never liked to know the details of anyone putting him above anyone else.

“You’ve got Pierre worried,” Charles began.

“I don’t care,” Max snapped. He started pacing again. Anger throbbed in the vein of his temple, the dark circles around his eyes that only came when Max refused to drink after a race.

“Then tell me what you do care about,” Charles said, wiping some dust off of a dark monitor screen. “Obviously it isn’t your reputation.”

He’d seen the footage, same as everyone else.

Max wheeled on him, eyes sparking. “He threatened Lando.”

Charles inspected the dust on his finger. “Who did?”

“Lewis, obviously!”

Charles flicked his gaze over to him, watching the way Max’s shoulders rose and fell with the force of his breathing. Max had such big eyes, but his usual expression didn’t allow for them to be seen in full. Charles used to marvel at the way he stared at the stars, how much space reflected in the blue.

“I think he’s threatening Daniel too,” Max said after a moment.

Ah, there it was. Lando would never draw this kind of reaction on his own.

“Did you hit Lewis on purpose?” Charles asked.

Max slammed his fist on the table, but Charles didn’t flinch.

Max would never hurt him.

“Of course not—I needed those points,” Max growled.

“You were on the inside. You would have sent Lewis wide and you would have been safe,” Charles said.

“Don’t lecture me about overtaking lines.”

“It’s a fair assessment. The reporters won’t be as nice as me,” Charles returned.

Max turned around, stalking back up the line of chairs to the other end of the room.

“We’re losing, Charles,” Max said as he walked. “Every day, we lose more ground.”

Charles sat back in the chair. “What are we losing?”

“Everything!” Max snapped, facing him now. “Our autonomy, our power, our ability to be the people we want to be!”

“We gave that up, Max,” Charles said quietly. “The second we became princes, we gave all of that up.”

Willingly. They’d thrown away their entire lives for the chance to become hollow crowns.

“No,” Max replied with a shake of his head. “It wasn’t like this when I was appointed. Princes still had freedom.”

“You don’t think you were naïve?” Charles asked, cocking his head.

The crown took over Max’s life long before he had been offered an appointment. Charles could still see the outline of his shoulders where Max slept on the bed facing away from him—when he was there at all. Meetings, lunches, dinners, galas—Jos dragged Max all over Europe to put him in front of government officials and sell him like a commodity.

“I saw princes free to love who they loved,” Max said. “I saw governments who listened to them and an FIA that didn’t spend their time keeping empires apart. Things only started changing when Lewis started winning championships.”

“Max, you haven’t been a prince without Lewis as a champion except—”

“Except when Rosberg won,” Max finished, coming to a stop in front of him. “Nico destroyed himself trying to win, and when he did it, things were so much better for everyone. The whole paddock changed—you weren’t there before his win, you wouldn’t know the difference.”

“I was there,” Charles cut. “I was there driving practice sessions for Haas. You were just too busy ruining Kvyat’s life to notice. Then too busy chasing after a husband who wanted nothing to do with you—nothing in that paddock felt like a utopia to me.”

Max’s face went slack for a moment. Hurt jumped to his eyes, but no sympathy welled up in Charles in response.

Those days had been hell for him. A lower court prince with promise, herded into a car and told his performance dictated his future. He’d watched Esteban—who drove the same practice sessions with him—find a crown before he did. All while Max was the talk of the paddock and acted like he didn’t exist.

Max’s face hardened again. “Lewis is threatening people we care about. I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to win, and I’m going to change everything when I do.”

“Because Lewis is threatening Daniel. Supposedly,” Charles replied.

“He’s threatening all of us,” Max hissed. “Lewis is too powerful, and eight titles will basically make sure nobody has any power in the FIA again. He could get Daniel and Lando exiled—any of us!”

A knot twisted in Charles’s gut.

You could have loved me like that.

He had, once. For a few fleeting months before the crown took it all away.

Charles tried to be a realist. He accepted facts as they came. Habit from childhood, where hope only welcomed more hurt.

Lewis had no reason to stand by the rules of the FIA—none of them did. Part of the reason Lewis maintained such a clean reputation was because he chose his battles carefully. Love left permanent stains.

“First we have to have proof,” Charles said. He stood up and pushed the chair back into place.

“I have proof,” Max said. “I look at Daniel every weekend. This is the first time I’ve seen him happy to be here since the beginning of the season.”

Charles shook his head. “No, Max. Real proof.”

Only one man knew enough about Lewis to confirm his motive.

Charles leveled his gaze at Max. The loss of him gnawed at his bones, even now.

“I’m going to talk with Sebastian,” he said. “If he confirms this, you have Ferrari’s support. Otherwise, you’ll have to do this without us.”

“Without you,” Max corrected, glaring at him.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “I’ve turned a blind eye to you and Carlos, but I won’t do that if you recruit him for a war.”

“Charles—”

“He will choose Ferrari,” Charles said as he stood, ending the argument before it began. “You of all people should know that the empire always comes first.”

Chapter Text

Charles used to be married to the man dubbed the encyclopedia of the empires. Sebastian knew the history of the FIA since the beginning. He spent his free time reading books about failures and triumphs of monarchy in civilizations all over the globe. He could out-lawyer government-appointed legal representatives, and he slipped through loopholes as easily as breathing.

If anyone knew the backdoor politics of the FIA and the motivations of champions, it was Sebastian Vettel.

The sky had turned to blood as evening veered toward night, throwing oranges and reds over the tarmac as Charles strolled the paddock.  A few fans asked for autographs, giving Charles time to survey the grounds for remaining princes as the teams cleared out equipment.

He found Sebastian in the empty Aston Martin garage, arms crossed as he spoke to Mick, whose blue eyes burned holes in the wall next to Sebastian. 

No FIA officials in sight. No cameras, no prying eyes.

Sebastian noticed him the moment Charles stepped up to the threshold and waved him inside. Mick glanced at him before turning his face away.

“It looks like I’m here at a bad time,” Charles greeted, giving Mick a wide berth.

“Just sharing a bit of unfortunate news,” Sebastian replied.

“Unfortunate?” Mick scoffed. “You planned this with Kimi. Don’t act like this was something you didn’t control.”

Sebastian’s jaw twitched, a telltale sign of pain.

Charles glanced between them. Seeing Sebastian in settings with other princes always struck him. He acted so differently with everyone. Charles counted himself lucky to have been someone Sebastian loved.

“Callum?” Charles tried, turning his attention to Mick.

Mick glared at him.

“It looks as if Callum will be appointed in an American empire,” Sebastian said. “A very promising appointment.”

No emotion, no sympathy or anger—a tone Sebastian rarely used. Charles recognized it from when Sebastian told him he would be leaving Ferrari. He tried to sound emotionless when he knew he was going to cause someone hurt.

“I wondered where he got the idea,” Mick said, shaking his head.

The accusatory look in his eyes rolled over Charles without stirring an ounce of guilt.

He wished he had someone to look out for him when he’d been fragile. Kimi pulled him from the darkness and Charles owed him for that, but it still hadn’t saved him.

“It’s for the best,” Charles said.

Tears welled in Mick’s eyes. “How can you say that?”

“Because I lived it,” Charles replied, cold. “I was in Callum’s place once, and the worst thing about it was the hope, Mick.”

“He’s allowed to have hope,” Mick hissed. “He should—I love him!”

Charles didn’t break eye contact, even though his chest twinged with empathy. He could see the Max in him, fearless in the defense.

Mick had nothing to lose, really. No one would exile a Schumacher.

“And what happens when he gets an appointment?” Charles asked. “Have you thought about that, what happens after?”

“Of course I have,” Mick growled. “I think about it every day.”

Sebastian let out a breath. “I have told you—”

“No offense Seb, but I don’t think you’re qualified to talk on this,” Charles interrupted.

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, but he shut his mouth. Charles watched him for a moment, looking for any trace of rebuttal. Sebastian didn’t talk much about his life before the crown, except when advocating for a different approach to finding qualified princes.

“Unless you have experience in loving a lower court prince?” Charles tried.

“No, I don’t,” Sebastian replied, deadpan. “Continue.”

“If he were appointed to Alfa Romeo, it would have been easy to see him,” Mick said, eyes on Sebastian. “And he deserves to be there—I know he has more pace than Antonio.”

“Antonio worked hard for his position,” Sebastian said. “I encouraged his appointment to Alfa Romeo because he’d worked for it.”

“And Callum hasn’t?” Mick’s face twisted to a snarl—an echo of his father that didn’t seem lost on Sebastian either.

“No, he hasn’t,” Sebastian replied calmly. “He’s had you in the shadows, starting conversations he should have started himself.”

“I’ve never stepped in when it comes to his career,” Mick said with a shake of his head. “He’s earned it all himself—I made sure of that, exactly because of people saying things like this!”

“Callum is going to America,” Charles said, firm. “You might not think it now, but it’s the best thing for him. How often does he come to see you now? Every time he does that, he puts everything at risk. And every time he doesn’t, it eats at him. He sits up at night wondering if he’s one step closer to losing you. It makes him willing to test the limits a little more next time, risk staying longer, making the trip that he wouldn’t have a few months before.”

He remembered the hollowness of emptying his bank account for a ticket to Brazil. Risking everything to see Max one more time, even though he had no excuse to be there except an illegal one.

“He’ll start feeling like a whore,” Charles continued. “Except it’s his money he’s paying to see you, not yours. And that’s worse. Dirtier, somehow.”

His lip curled in disgust at the memory of fishing out money for a cab and pretending not to speak English when the driver asked how old he was. I’m here to see royalty, he’d wanted to say, but as soon as he thought the words, they made him sick inside.

Mick’s face slackened for a moment, doubt creeping in. “No, he doesn’t think that.”

“He already does,” Charles said, holding his gaze. “It starts before. Mick Schumacher, the boy with the golden legacy. Every empire laying out the red carpet for you. He saw all of it—do you even know how many meetings it takes to appoint a new prince?” He cocked his head. “I bet Callum does.”

Mick shook his head. “He isn’t like that.”

“He races for a living, we’re all like that,” Charles growled, stepping closer. “Every time you step into one of those meetings, you step further away from him. Maybe it’s better now, but I’m willing to bet you talked about breaking up before this, didn’t you?”

“No,” Mick said. “The only thing we ever fought about was—”

He cut himself off, mouth hanging open as something slotted into place inside him.

“Cut him loose, Mick,” Charles said. “For his sake, not yours. He won’t forget you, but he’ll forgive you someday.”

Sebastian put a hand on his back, but Charles felt no warmth. He didn’t love Sebastian anymore, even if a part of him wished he did. Dead love didn’t provide any comfort.

“I’m not giving up on him,” Mick said suddenly, hands balling to fists at his side. “Until he officially agrees to an American appointment, I’m going to  keep working to find him a crown. Neither of you are going to stop me.”

Sebastian frowned as Mick stormed off, wiping his eyes as he walked. Charles’s heart ached for him—for Callum too—but he knew even Michael’s legacy wouldn’t find him a crown now.

Charles looked to Sebastian, who regarded him with pride.

“You handled that better than I could have,” Sebastian said quietly.

Charles brushed off the compliment. He didn’t need it. “I need to speak to you. Privately, please.”

Sebastian nodded once and showed him to his empty briefing room. A monitor on the wall played news coverage of the race, colors and headlines splashing silently across the screen as Italian subtitles scrolled underneath.

RED BULL REVENGE?

LEWIS HAMILTON ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL FOR “CHECKS” SAYS TOTO WOLFF.

MAX VERSTAPPEN YET TO COMMENT ON ROYAL CRASH.

WILL MERCEDES HIT BACK?

Charles turned off the TV and turned to face his ex-husband.

“Oh, so we are going to be serious,” Sebastian said, brows lifting. 

Charles folded his arms over his chest. “Yes, Sebastian, we are.”

The mirth vanished from Sebastian’s eyes in an instant, the same way he abandoned his public self the moment he saw his car.

“All right then, Your Highness,” Sebastian said. “I’m listening.”

Charles didn’t speak for a moment, noting the set of Sebastian’s shoulders, the way his fingers curled around the edge of the table, the flexion in his jaw. Baseline markers he could come back to later.

“When we had dinner on the yacht in Monaco, you talked about war,” Charles began. “I think today proved that the war is well underway.”

Sebastian leaned back against the table, running his fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

“You know Lewis better than anyone,” Charles said. “Is he really targeting Max?”

Sebastian blinked. The air changed, stilling and tightening the way it did just before a storm. Charles’s breathing quieted until he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. A prey response, he realized.

“Lewis has no need to target Max,” Sebastian said coolly, breaking the silence.

“You’re avoiding the question,” Charles growled. “Stop doing that.”

“But,” Sebastian continued as if Charles hadn’t spoken, “I think today just changed everything.”

Dread knotted in Charles’s stomach.

“Max doesn’t want to hurt anyone,” Charles said. “He would never hurt anyone unless he was doing it to protect someone.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? Who was he protecting today?”

Things had not always been civil between Charles and Sebastian. Charles used to get under Sebastian’s skin for the fun of it, trying to shake him out of his mindset before a race. He used to be cruel and he knew it, but Sebastian never held it against him.

Charles lifted his chin. “Max seemed to think Lewis was coming after Daniel—and Lando. Is that true?”

Sebastian ran his tongue over his teeth behind closed lips. “Lewis was racing, Charles. Of course he was coming after Daniel and Lando—he was coming after you too.”

Charles fought not to flinch at the unspoken insinuation that Max didn’t care about Lewis targeting him.

“Don’t involve yourself in this fight until you have to, Charles,” Sebastian said, and for a moment Charles swore he saw a wetness to his eyes. “Max is still a child. He thinks he is the first prince to think winning a championship will change the FIA.”

Charles cocked his head. “Is that what you thought?”

Sebastian let out a snort, but a smile curled at his lips. “I was no exception. Just younger and more stupid.”

“I’ve always wondered what you were like back then,” Charles said quietly. “Was it different?” He gestured around them. “All of this?”

“It was,” Sebastian said with a nod.

Their eyes met, two seas of color colliding in the low light. The world quieted around them in a way it only could for people who once loved each other, but still cared for each other.

“I told you before that Red Bull wanted to make a name for themselves with me,” Sebastian said. “The empires were weak in the worst way—they did not know it. Michael’s golden age had ended, yet we all pretended it hadn’t.”

Charles had little memory of those days, just fuzzy ones of the living room carpet as he watched races with his father in front of the TV, wishing for the chance at a crown that seemed impossible for a boy like him.

“I won my championships and did as I pleased, just as Jenson had, Lewis before him, Kimi before him, Fernando before him.” Sebastian quirked his lips. “Though to be fair to Jenson, he did see the corruption, but could do nothing to stop it.”

“Corruption?”

Sebastian cocked a brow. “Do not tell me you think the FIA is a good and righteous governing body, Charles.”

Charles’s cheeks burned. “Obviously not. I meant what kind.”

Sebastian bit his lower lip. “What kind are you really asking about?”

They knew each other too well.

Charles sighed, abandoning his place in front of the TV.  Sebastian went still as Charles approached, lifting a hand to tug at one of his curls once he’d settled between his legs.

He didn’t mind a little physical persuasion to get his answers.

“This kind,” Charles murmured, tracing the line of Sebastian’s jaw with a finger.

“Ah,” Sebastian said, his voice dipping lower. “Yes, plenty of that. Overflowing, actually.”

“Oh?” Charles teased, moving his hand to cup Sebastian’s neck, thumbing just behind his ear.

Sebastian smiled up at him, leaning into the touch. “In the eighties—you know, that decade you hate—the FIA had to course correct after the empires nearly collapsed. Things were very strict after that. Then Michael became champion. He felt it was silly to play marriage and pretend to love someone new every few years, so it was more or less allowed for princes to do as they pleased.”

Charles studied the history of the FIA in school, but the textbooks talked about races and government policy, not tabloid articles.

“What we failed to realize—myself included—is that Michael was an unmatched leader,” Sebastian continued. “He maintained power and influence over every prince he raced against. And he loved Corrina, not another prince—this was also an important distinction. By the time I came to power, the only reputation I had was skill behind the wheel and a strong tolerance for alcohol.”

Charles laughed. “And what about love? What was your reputation there?”

Sebastian smirked at him. “Can you call it love if it only lasts for one night?”

Though he could imagine Sebastian drinking and partying, he couldn’t imagine him taking multiple lovers. They never had sex during their marriage—Charles never felt pressured to. Sebastian never really asked.

“Someone hurt you,” Charles murmured, running his thumb over the short hair at the nape of his neck.

Fear flashed in Sebastian’s eyes for only a fraction of a second.

“And here I thought I had lied when I told Mattia you might be smarter than me,” Sebastian teased, his voice soft. 

Oh, you’re good, Charles thought as his cheeks dusted pink.

“So when did things start to change again?” Charles asked, allowing the deflection. He couldn’t seem too curious about Sebastian’s love life.

Sebastian leaned back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling in thought.

“Let me think…2011, I believe it was. Jenson approached me about a friend of mine he happened to be married to. Lewis Hamilton, perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

Charles rolled his eyes, but when he looked back at Sebastian, all of the humor had left his face.

“The situation was very serious,” Sebastian continued. “A world champion was unraveling on a world stage. Parties, drinking—but the worst was the hatred. So much hatred. I have never seen Lewis like that, before or since.”

Sebastian leaned to one side to lift a hand, settling it on Charles’s cheek. Charles stilled as Sebastian assessed him, undoubtedly looking for a chink in his armor.

“It turns out that when it no longer matters if marriage rules are broken, it hurts that much more to be ignored,” Sebastian said quietly. “And the consequences extend far past the hearts involved.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “What happened?”

Sebastian dropped his hand. “We enforced the rules. Kimi, Fernando, Jenson, and myself. Michael no longer cared—he was untouchable, so nothing changed for him. And Lewis hated us for it. But he came to understand, and then to enforce it.”

“Yet you’re the one wearing t-shirts about love not being a contract,” Charles said, narrowing his eyes.

He couldn’t imagine that many champions on the grid at the same time. The power struggles, the revolving door of new princes, the vicious battles on track—Charles didn’t think the empires could handle something like that again.

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “There has to be balance. Every hero needs a conflict or there is no story. It is all about what you’re willing to sacrifice, Charles. What you’re willing to go down for.”

Charles searched his face for the meaning behind that comment, but nothing came.

Sebastian leaned in until Charles could see the ring of grey in his eyes. “Lewis, Fernando, Kimi and I have built that balance. Limiting power, giving power. Keeping the empires safe.”

“Something like threatening Daniel and Lando to get to Max?” Charles asked. No more holding back. He could taste the answer, the truth in the air.

Sebastian’s fell away. “Like letting a cheater win at Monza, cementing his future in red.”

Charles’s stomach dropped as Sebastian leaned in, each word a hot coal pressed to his skin.

“You had no villain in your story, Charles,” Sebastian said. “We had to create one for you—a shadowy place to hide everything they would have hated you for.”

What power buys, it pays in blood.

Charles stared at him, body trembling. “You loved me. You still love me.”

“Why do you think I took the fall?” Sebastian asked with a chuckle. “One prince deemed il predestinato, the other disgraced.”

“You told me you didn’t know at Monza,” Charles said, but it sounded like begging. “I had no idea—you knew I had no idea—”

“Everyone talks about your innocence—it really is something,” Sebastian laughed. “It was so obvious, Charles. So obvious even your former lover, your Max, could see it in our telemetry. Almost one second faster per lap on the straights—that isn’t possible without an advantage and you knew it.”

Ignorance is not innocence.

It wasn’t cheating. Not technically. The engineers explained it a hundred times. New technology for fuel flow, Your Highness. One step ahead of the competition, Your Highness. Welcome to Ferrari, Your Highness.

All smiles, no worry, no hesitation that what they were doing was legal and fair. A technological advantage. How could he complain when he was given every upgrade and Sebastian was passed over? When Ferrari positioned him to be a king?

“I knew exactly what I was doing,” Sebastian said. “Ferrari needed an indisputable sovereign and we gave them one. Monza was the key, but we had to pad it just right to make sure the FIA wouldn’t be able pull any threads without destroying the whole tapestry.”

“No,” Charles said quietly—it was all he could say.

“Messy, isn’t it,” Sebastian said, almost pitying as he curled a finger under his chin. He leaned in close, their lips almost brushing.

Even when they lost their advantage in America, Charles never allowed himself to accept that it had been because of the FIA investigation Red Bull instigated.

No, the investigation Max instigated.  

“I will tell you a secret,” Sebastian murmured as Charles stared through him. “There are no heroes here. There are no saints. There are only winners.”

“Is there a law against locking doors that I don’t know about?”

Charles jumped at the sound of a strange voice and looked up to see George standing in the threshold, one hand on his hip as he used the other to jiggle the door handle obnoxiously.  

Sebastian sighed, twisting to get a look at him.

George’s jaw flexed when he met Sebastian’s eye. “I think you know why I’m here.”

“Good to see you’re still using that brain,” Sebastian greeted, dripping with sarcasm.

“Good to see you’re still fucking ugly,” George snapped.

Charles blinked in surprise as Sebastian barked out a laugh.

Sebastian smiled and pecked him on the cheek. “He’s learning his place,” he explained in a whisper. “Somebody thought he could upset the balance.”

Charles’s blood chilled in his veins as Sebastian stood, gently moving him out of the way to slip past.

“Are you okay, Charles?” George asked from the doorway.

He could still see the horror on Carlos’s face when he talked about taking whatever medication he needed to win. No room for doubt. Not like last time.

 “I’m fine,” Charles replied hurriedly, blinking himself back into the present. “Thanks, George.”

The rules hadn’t changed since his appointment: Ferrari had to win, no matter the personal cost.

He watched as George  stepped aside to allow Sebastian through, before they both vanished into the empty garage and left him alone in the briefing room.

Ferrari could not lose, no matter who he had to sacrifice.

I tell the story.

 

 

Chapter 95

Notes:

tw: this chapter discusses (past) fatal motorsport crashes and uses a bit of graphic imagery surrounding them

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

As the rest of the empires emptied from Monza, Ferrari stayed behind. Mattia and the other Ferrari officials had meetings late into the night, where every aspect of the weekend would be picked over to determine the impact on the empire. Max and Lewis’s crash would factor in, and Charles had a feeling battle lines would begin to take shape. 

Charles was thankful he didn’t have to attend government functions after a race.

Where are you? he asked in a text when he noticed all of Carlos’s bags were packed and ready in the motorhome.

Parabolica banking, Carlos replied a moment later, attaching a pin.

Charles took a deep breath before grabbing a light jacket from their drivers room and heading back out into the dark.

 


 

Lando floated through the rest of the podium celebrations. Champagne, interviews, slaps on the back—everything blurred into a hum of background noise in his brain as he focused on Daniel Ricciardo, race winner.

It turned out that the Daniel he thought he knew could be so much more.

Lando had seen Daniel happy before. He’d seen him excited, pumped, awed. He’d even seen him blissed out—though Lando didn’t think about those times that often when Carlos lurked in every shadow of his heart.

Daniel with a victory created a whole new solar system. He tugged people into his orbit without meaning to, bumping shoulders with the most powerful people in the empires who wanted a glimpse of him. A hero returned. Lando’s first win would have been nice, but Daniel winning catapulted both of them into a world Lando had never known as a royal.

Everyone in the immediate vicinity dropped everything to talk to them. Celebrities who normally ignored them suddenly wanted photos. Billionaires who pretended to be more interested in the cars asked if they wanted to go to dinner, if they had any public funding opportunities on the horizon. Engineers from other empires watched them from the garages, envy in their eyes.

The bite of second place faded away completely by the time they returned to the hotel.

“Holy fuck,” Daniel sighed then they finally made it past the crowd in the lobby and back to their suite. He held up a hand. “I’m still shaking.”

Lando lifted his hands with a smile, showing off his trembling fingers. “Me too. I think that’s the first time since Wembley that I haven’t been scared of a crowd.”

Daniel’s eyes softened in a way that made Lando melt a little against his will. None of the fans got that look. Only him and Max.

Lando cleared his throat. “So now what? Are we going to a party or something?”

Daniel laughed. “You wanna go to a party after all that?”

He shrugged. “I mean, isn’t that what people do when they win?”

“Nothing against the Italians, but this ain’t Monaco,” Daniel chuckled. “I’m fucking beat, mate.”

Max would undoubtedly be coming to see them tonight. Lando knew the second Daniel poured himself a glass of water instead of beer.

“When does he get here?” he asked.

Daniel smiled around his sip of water. “I dunno. Later.”

Lando cocked a brow. “Mm. Am I gonna have to find somewhere else to stay tonight?”

Daniel nearly choked.  He tucked his face into the crook of his arm to cough out a laugh and set his glass on the counter. “No. Max has an early flight—he’s not gonna wanna stay.”

Though Daniel said it perfectly normally, Lando’s heart twinged.

“You just won a race, Dan,” Lando reminded him. “I think Max can handle an all-nighter.”

“We’re pulling an all-nighter?” Daniel teased, finishing his water. He put the glass in the sink—another hint that Max was coming. Daniel always cleaned before Max showed up, as if they hadn’t lived together for years. As if he was still someone Daniel needed to impress.

“Well hey,” Daniel said, wiping his hands on his McLaren team-issue pants. “I’m gonna hit the shower so I don’t smell like a fucking car. You wanna order dinner?”

“Sure,” Lando replied. “I’ll shower after.”

Daniel nodded. “Cool cool.”

They both looked at each other for a moment.

Away from all of the crowds, they were just two people. Champagne dried sticky and the scent of Ferrari Trento mixed with sweat and fuel didn’t go together well once they left the tarmac.  Emotion leveled out too, a gentle dip as the adrenaline seeped out of their blood and exhaustion settled in.

“Sorry, showers are reserved for Carlos,” Lando said with a smirk when Daniel didn’t move. “Takes at least a one year commitment to unlock that achievement.”

Daniel burst out laughing. “Alright, alright. Catch ya in a sec.”

He disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Lando alone in the kitchen. He let out a shaky sigh, looking down at his hands as they continued to twitch. The shower started in the other room and all he could think about was having Carlos to himself at McLaren,  standing in the shower together and—

Daniel hurried back into the kitchen.

“Forget something?” Lando asked, dropping his hands. “Your bag is—"

Suddenly Daniel pressed against him, cupping his face into a deep kiss. Lando short-circuited, all memory of Carlos falling right out of his brain as he kissed back. He could feel Daniel’s still-shaking fingers against his cheeks.

“I never said thank you,” Daniel said as he pulled away, a blush turning his face ruddy. “I know it fucking sucks not to race your teammate in a situation like that. So thank you.”

Max didn’t get conversations like this. Lando smiled, linking his hands at the small of Daniel’s back to pull him in again.

The next kiss was downright scandalous. All heat, sweat, and slowness. Lando parted his lips and Daniel’s tongue pressed into his mouth without hesitation, all confidence. Victory tasted awfully sweet.

Daniel’s eyes hooded when he pulled away a moment later.

“Shower’s on,” he explained breathlessly.

Lando laughed. “I meant what I said before. Go rinse off. I’ll sort dinner.”

The moved at the same time as they met for one last kiss. For a moment Lando imagined what they would be like, together in a bubble where Max and Carlos didn’t exist.

He could have done it, in some other life.

 


 

Ghosts roamed the old sections of track at Monza. Rumors circulated in the paddock of mechanics hearing the distant screams of engines late at night from cars far too old to be running. Fans swore they caught glimpses of historic racecars flashing through the trees in the evening or early morning, only to find the track empty when they went to investigate.

All of the stories lurked on two halves of the old track layout—the infamous Monza oval. Two banked corners with 30-degree banking cushioned two 1.25 kilometer straights. All of the numbers meant nothing until seen in person.

Some people called the oval cursed. In 1933, three drivers died in the same race at the southern banking. Giuseppe Campari—arguably one of the most famous Italian drivers before the creation of the empires—flew over the side of the banking and into the trees after hitting a patch of oil on damp track. He died instantly. His teammate—both of them racing for what would eventually become the Alfa Romeo empire—hit the same patch while trying to pass Giuseppe and rolled his car. He died later in that day, though Charles never trusted those accounts. 

Upon the restart, a third driver died in the same spot, burning alive in his car. There would have been no hope for rescue back then.

Insects sang in the trees overhead, and his bike headlight seemed to dim the further he rode.

As the concrete began to crack and buckle under the tires, Charles caught the familiar chill of death in the air. Over half a century before, Ferrari convinced the FIA to hold a grand prix using the old Monza circuit that included the oval. Of course, neither party admitted to any discussions, but Ferrari was faster in the straights that year and the usual circuit would have involved too many slow corners.

Charles’s fingers twitched as his headlight illuminated tire skids on the asphalt that disappeared too fast for him to check if they were real.

Wolfgang von Trips, then a prince of Ferrari of six years, locked tires with a competitor at this same point on track. His car flew into the crowd, killing at least a dozen people and von Trips himself when he was thrown from the car.

Stop thinking about it.

Charles glanced at his watch as if he could read the hands in the dark. His meds were waning.

The last thing he needed was a panic attack on the Monza oval.

Concrete swallowed the whole of his path, twisting up on the right at an impossible angle. Charles drove cars for a living, and he couldn’t imagine taking the near-vertical banking at full speed—necessary to maintain the downforce to keep track underneath the tires.

Seams in the concrete jumped from the track syrface, each one a death sentence to their current cars. That was if their engines could even handle a 10 kilometer lap at such high speed.

He spotted a light in the distance and realized it was Carlos’s track bike toppled at the bottom of the banking. Panic crawled up his throat as he stopped his bike and hopped off.

“Carlos?” he called.

Trees whispered their reply.

He heard a grunt from above and pulled out his phone to turn on the flashlight.

“Carlos?”

“Up here,” came a mangled reply.

Charles squinted as he pointed his flashlight up the embankment to find Carlos awkwardly straddling the guardrail.

“Che cosa cazzo fai?” Charles snapped.

Carlos grunted again as he swung a leg over the all-but-horizontal guardrail to sit on it properly. “I wanted to see the view, but it is difficult to find a comfortable place to sit.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Charles said as Carlos’s tongue poked out from his lips as he fought to adjust his legs.

“I am not.” A pause. “Okay, maybe on the way down. Come up here. It is nice.”

Carlos’s phone flashlight came to life, illuminating the steep uphill climb.

“Have a running start,” Carlos coaxed. “It is not as bad as it looks.”

Charles glanced back at their bikes. Typical—Carlos dumping his on the side of the road instead of propping it up nicely.

He turned his flashlight off and let out a huff.

“Fine.”

Charles took a few steps back into the grass, then made a running start for the embankment. He made it halfway up before the fear kicked in, but he kept moving until he caught sight of Carlos’s outstretched hand and grabbed his forearm.

Carlos pulled him up so easily Charles nearly ended up in his lap. Their noses bumped as Charles dodged right, using both Carlos and the guardrail to get himself up the rest of the way.

“See? Not so bad,” Carlos said, keeping a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

Sounds of nighttime swept in as Charles caught his breath and maneuvered himself to sit beside his husband, wary of the slanted concrete at their feet. He pressed to Carlos’s side, flinching when Carlos kissed his cheek. Carlos noticed—he always noticed—and began to rub his back.

“What have you been thinking about, Charles?” he asked.

Charles swallowed hard. The cries of summer insects sounded a bit like screeching tires. Scree, scree, scree!

“Do you know about Wolfgang von Trips?” Charles asked.

Carlos sighed. “You always think about death. Yes, I know him. I know the history here, as you do. I've learned more since Cavallino.”

“He was fighting his husband for the championship,” Charles said quietly.

Carlos thumbed over his spine. “We are not fighting for a championship, Charles.”

Charles shook his head. “They didn’t even stop the race. Phil Hill had to keep driving while his husband was dead. While a dozen other people were in pieces—"

Carlos pulled him in, pressing kisses to his hair. “Hush."

A shiver ran down Charles’s spine as he imagined the stained grass, the mangled pieces of fencing, the smoking car.

Stop thinking about it.

“Things are different now,” Carlos soothed.

“Ferrari told the FIA to hold that race on the full track,” Charles said. “And I’m sure Ferrari could have stopped the race after he died. But they didn’t, Carlos. They knew what they were doing and they decided not to stop it. Things are not different.”

Carlos stilled against him, lips still pressed to his temple.

Charles leaned away to look at him as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

“Ferrari is the most important thing,” Charles said quietly, as if the ghosts were listening. “It has to be the most important thing. Always. Ferrari per sempre.”

You were appointed for one job, and that is to win.

“I did cheat,” Charles confessed in a whisper. He’d never said it out loud before. He’d never even thought it. “In 2019, I cheated. We had an untraceable device in the car that gave us more fuel, but only when the FIA fuel sensor wasn’t on. The sensor took a reading every tenth of a second. We developed a way to feed extra fuel for ninety hundredths of a second.”

Carlos stared at him in the dark, but no anger crossed his face, just a quiet knowing.

“On paper, we weren’t doing anything illegal,” Charles continued, shame pinching his airways. “The fuel had to be under a certain level when the sensor took a reading. We never exceeded that level when it tested. Technically it wasn’t against the rules.”

They all played in the technicalities of their world. Technically, they were only supposed to love the man they were married to.  Technically, they were supposed to earn their crowns on merit alone. Technically, they were supposed to put winning above love.

“Seb took the fall,” Charles said. “I refused to believe that we did anything wrong, and I stuck by that. They let me, because I was young and stupid and they could protect me because of that.”

“You were under a lot of pressure,” Carlos said.

Charles grimaced. “Don’t make excuses for me.”

“It isn’t an excuse,” Carlos murmured. “We behave differently under pressure. And you are right—Ferrari comes first. I knew about the cheating and I still accepted my appointment, Charles. You do not turn Ferrari down.”

“You knew because Max told every news outlet that would listen that we were slower in America because we stopped cheating,” Charles growled.

Carlos chuckled, rubbing his back once more before returning his hands to his lap. He tilted his head back to look at the stars and Charles followed his gaze.

Pinpricks of light dotted the sky, swaths of navy blue, black and purple swirling in the background. Different pieces of galaxy mixed together on their own personal canvas.

“I told Max,” Carlos said.  “About the cheating. He never looks at rival telemetry, but I do."

 

 


 

 

They didn’t end up putting clothes back on after their showers. To be fair, it was Daniel’s fault for not putting clothes on first. Lando couldn’t exactly protest when he hadn’t been touched in…okay, four days was not a long time, in hindsight. But Daniel was very, very good at touching. Among other things.

“I thought you were tired,” Lando said after he managed to get a pair of boxers on.

“I said I didn’t want to go to a party, that’s not the same,” Daniel countered.

Lando cocked a brow. “You said you were beat.”

Daniel scrunched his nose. “Okay, yeah. Fair.”

Lando rolled his eyes as he pushed open the door to their living room.

Where Max sat on their couch, halfway through the pizza Lando had ordered.

“Oh my god,” Lando breathed.

Max looked him up and down with a bored expression—his default, actually. “Finished?”

“How the fuck did you get in here?” Lando asked, his heart jumpstarting in his chest.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god.

Max wiggled a keycard. “From Daniel.”

Lando was pretty sure his entire body had gone beet red. Max ate pizza pretty fast, but definitely not fast enough to have been out of earshot for, well, everything.

“You’re supposed to knock,” Daniel said from behind him, looping his arms around Lando’s waist from behind. He grazed his teeth on the join of Lando’s neck and shoulder and Lando nearly jumped out of his skin.

Daniel released him immediately when he sensed the tension.

“Lando, it’s okay,” he said, cool and calm.

“I’m so sorry,” Lando blurted out. “I didn’t know you were here. It was just—we were—”

Max glanced at Daniel before setting down his slice of pizza. “Why are you apologizing? I know you fuck.”

“It’s not like that,” Lando said. “It’s not like you two. It’s not—”

“Easy,” Daniel said with a kiss to the nape of his neck that made Lando’s hair stand on end.

Max cocked a brow at him.

“Max,” Daniel said, sidestepping where Lando stood paralyzed. “That wasn’t cool.”

“I can’t exactly come back later,” Max said. “And I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Lando began wonder if his ears could actually burn themselves off of his skull.

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “Can I talk to you?”

Max grinned as he stood up. “Are you going to keep your shirt off?”

A situation like this was bound to happen, Lando realized.  He couldn’t have Daniel to himself in the shadows when Max lived there waiting for him.

“Actually—Lando, you should be in on this,” Daniel said. He kept using his business voice, his engineer voice. Like there was a problem.

Yeah it’s you, dumbass.

He closed his eyes. He realized how stupid it must have looked to be standing there in boxers in his living room with his eyes closed, but he couldn’t look at Max right now.

You are not the problem, he told himself. You are allowed to love Daniel and you both chose to have fun. You did nothing wrong.

Lando exhaled, pushing the negative thoughts from his mind. Max didn’t regret kissing him all those years ago. Max wanted to kiss him back then, the same way he’d wanted to kiss him in Zandvoort.

“I want to put a shirt on first,” Lando said. “Then yeah, we should talk. And Max owes us a half a pizza.”

Daniel blinked at him, then smiled. “He sure does. I’ll join ya—Max, babe, can you set out plates for us so we don’t get shit all over this couch?”

Max frowned, hooking an arm around Daniel’s waist before he could escape. “Hi Daniel,” he said, dripping with sarcasm. “I missed you too.”

Daniel laughed as he turned to face him for a sweet kiss that turned into a second and a third.  

“Hi,” Daniel finally greeted, holding Max’s face between his palms.  “I did miss you, and I love you so, so much. Right now I gotta go put a shirt on, though. And you have to—”

“Grab plates, I know,” Max finished in a voice gentle and wholly unlike him.

Lando left them alone to grab a shirt from his suitcase—and a pair of sweats just to be safe. The sheets were still a mess even though Daniel had already stripped off the dirty one and tossed it into the laundry hamper. It still smelled like sex.

Daniel closed the door behind him once he stepped inside. “I’m sorry, Lando. I gave him the keycard, but I didn’t think—”

“It’s okay,” Lando said as he tugged his shirt over his head. “I had a freakout moment. I’m good. But yeah, we should talk about it.”

Daniel threw on a button-up that he left unbuttoned, which was about as dressed as Daniel could get after sex. He tugged on a pair of shorts and shook out his hair before nodding toward the door.

“He’s not mad,” he said.

Lando nodded once. “I know.”

Daniel pursed his lips, then headed out into the living room again, Lando following behind.

Max made a show of looking at his watch. “I thought you would at least be fifteen minutes.”

“Nah mate, only your mum likes it that long,” Daniel joked, dodging when Max swiped at him.

Daniel grabbed him up in a proper hug and Lando watched as Max melted into him, burying his face into Daniel’s chest as he squeezed him tight.

“I’m so proud of you,” Max said, voice muffled my Daniel’s skin.

Daniel gave a stupid smile that made Lando’s heart swell.

“Thanks, babe,” Daniel whispered into Max’s hair. “Wish you could have been up there with us.”

Us. Not me.

Warmth threatened to suffocate him.

God, he missed Carlos. Lando wanted someone to wrap him up in a hug after his podium, to shower him in kisses and to cook him steak dinner and—

Lando went in for the pizza.

Daniel and Max shared a few more kisses and greetings before taking up spots on the couch beside him—Daniel in the middle so he could sit by both of them. They shot the shit while they ate pizza and Lando put on a shitty Italian show none of them could understand to make up background noise.

Daniel’s leg rested against his, and Lando let his hand wander to the inside of Daniel’s knee as he recounted his win and Max watched him with a smile so big it made Daniel’s look weak by comparison.

They finished pizza and Max cracked a beer while Lando poured sparkling grape juice for him and Daniel. If Max noticed, he didn’t say anything.

Soon it became obvious, the not saying anything.

“So,” Lando said after a sip of sparking grape juice. “What you walked in on.”

“Oh thank god,” Max said, leaning back into the couch. “I thought I was going to have to bring it up.”

Daniel shot him a look that said he was never going to bring it up.

“I, um, think it’s obvious what we were doing in there,” Lando said, his cheeks turning red as he spoke, “and it was just kind of weird that you didn’t tell us you were here.”

“Did I miss an invitation?” Max asked, cocking a brow.

“Max,” Daniel warned.

“Do you want an invitation?” Lando returned, gripping Daniel’s knee a little tighter.

Max blinked at him, slackjawed. “Um. No, I don’t think so. Are we having a threesome discussion?”

“You brought it up,” Lando countered, confidence building in him. Max wanted him once, even if he didn’t want him now. “I’m not sure how I feel about it. Mostly because I don’t know how you feel about me.”

Daniel’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

Max went bug-eyed for a moment before clearing his throat. “I care about you a lot. I told you in Zandvoort.”

“Yeah. And I told you that was weird too,” Lando said. “You’ve never talked to me like that before.”

“We haven’t really been alone together recently,” Max said. Red started creeping up the back of his neck. Daniel leaned over to nibble at it and Max’s cheeks turned red too.

“S’okay,” Daniel murmured.

“I don’t know how to fucking explain it,” Max said, leaning into Daniel. “You feel like family now. But not like—I don’t feel like your dad or something. Or your brother. Ever since summer break it’s felt like…” He swallowed hard.

“He told me it feels like he’s married to both of us,” Daniel supplied.

Max looked away, fully blushing now.

Lando didn’t know what to feel. No emotion seemed to fit.

“But are you really okay with me sleeping with Daniel?” Lando asked.

Max looked back at him, then looked at Daniel. Then back at him.

Lando kind of wanted to die.

“Do you love him?” Max asked quietly.

Lando definitely wanted to die.

He was all too aware of his hand on Daniel’s knee, those warm eyes watching him from the corner of his eye, the unnamable emotion in Max’s.

“I think a little bit, yeah,” Lando breathed, and all of a sudden he was crying.  “I don’t know, Max. I didn’t want to. I thought I’d always have Carlos and now he’s—he’s—”

“Hey, hey,” Daniel soothed, pulling away from Max to gather Lando closer to him.

It all felt wrong. Good and wrong at the same time.

What a love confession. Holy shit. Daniel deserved so much better.

“Ah, fuck,” Lando laughed pathetically, wiping his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s fucked, I know. I can’t—I know don’t win his one, y’know? You two are always gonna ride off into the sunset together and stuff.”

“I was hoping you loved him,” Max said.

Lando furrowed his brow. Max looked more uncomfortable than Lando had ever seen him.

“I thought maybe you were faking it,” Max explained. “I mean, I didn’t really think that. But I kind of did. Like maybe you were lying to yourself of some bullshit. I just didn’t want you to hurt Daniel.”

“I’m a little tougher than that, babe,” Daniel murmured, but he took Max’s hand.

Lando stared at Max, unconvinced. “This doesn’t feel weird to you?” 

“When we were living together in Monaco, it didn’t feel weird to me,” Max said. “Daniel?”

“I think I could’ve been a better husband, honestly,” Daniel said.

Lando shook his head. “No, I liked how things were in Monaco too. And Zandvoort.”

“So we could try to keep things going like that when we’re together,” Max offered. “We’ve all been married to different people. Now we’re kind of married to two people.”

“It kind feels like we’re both just married to Daniel,” Lando said.

“Because we’re not fucking,” Max said.

“Yeah.”

God, he would have laughed if someone told him he’d ever be having a conversation like this.

“Lemme step in here and ask the obvious,” Daniel butted in. “Do you two even want to fuck?”

“No,” Max and Lando said at the same time, not breaking eye contact.

“Awesome. Dashing my fantasies, cool,” Daniel teased. “But really, that’s cool.”

“I’d kiss you though,” Lando said, smirking.

Max went red again. “Okay.”

“That didn’t sound like consent,” Daniel laughed, kissing Max’s temple.

“This is getting stupid,” Max muttered.

“So you don’t want to kiss me?” Lando tried, cocking his head.

Max huffed. “Fine. Yes, sometimes I do think about it. There.”

Confidence felt pretty awesome. Lando caught Daniel's eye and smiled at him. Daniel grinned back.

“Cuddling?” Lando asked.

Max glared at him. “No.”

“It’s a sweat thing,” Daniel supplied, threading his fingers into Max’s hair. “Exclusive soulmate privileges.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Lando said with a nod. “No threesomes, ‘sometimes’ on kissing, no cuddling. Then the rest of the time we act like we have been.”

“And, um.” Max cleared his throat. “What about my time with Daniel?”

Lando laughed, hopping up from the couch to grab their plates and leftovers. He needed to keep his hands busy. He was a little too touch-sensitive. “So now you care about me being a third wheel?”

“Lando,” Daniel said gently.

Lando shrugged. “Honestly, I just don’t want to hear it. And if you don’t want me around, give me a heads up. I don’t care. I basically lived with George and Alex for like a year. I’m pretty good at finding shit to do.”

He set their dishes in the sink and tossed the pizza box into the trash can. “Now can we stop being adults and watch a movie or something?”

“God, please,” Max groaned. “I never should have come here.”

“You should have knocked,” Daniel clucked, but they both disappeared from view as Daniel shoved Max onto his back on the couch and kissed him. “I love you.”

“I love you so much I was willing to have that fucking stupid conversation,” Max growled.

Lando smiled as he pulled a bag of popcorn from their welcome basket.

Daniel’s head popped up from the couch, eyes soft. “I love you too, Lando.”

Lando rolled his eyes and opened the bag, thankful no one could hear the way his heart started pounding.

“I guess I do too,” Max said, still hidden on the couch. “In an I-don’t-want-to-fuck-you way.”

Popcorn spilled all over the kitchen floor.

 

 


 

 

The balmy air of summer washed over them, but it had turned cold for Charles.

"I showed Max the gains in lap time on the straights," Carlos said, the stars still reflecting in his eyes.  "One second, I believe.”

Bitterness welled up in him. Charles gritted his teeth as his eyes went hot.

Hearing the truth didn’t even surprise him.

“He was very angry,” Carlos continued. “He refused to believe you would cheat. That is the first time I guessed there was something more between you, but I did not say it. I knew you were close friends, and it’s hard to believe our friends would break rules. So when Red Bull asked for the investigation and it turned out to be true, that is why he said these things to the media.”

Carlos had the insufferable ability to tell him things that would normally send him into a spiral and somehow manage to keep him perfectly calm.

Charles still trembled beside him, but the plain truth of it all made so much sense that he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry.

“Max is going to war against Lewis,” Charles said, changing the subject. He didn’t need to speak more on guilt. “Ferrari can’t stay neutral much longer.”

Carlos nodded thoughtfully before taking his hand. “And which side will we choose?”

Charles looked down the curved track. The faintest vibrations seemed to come through the metal beneath them, echoes of the men who were willing to give their lives for the win. For Ferrari.  

“Max says Lewis is threatening Daniel and Lando,” Charles said. “I spoke with Sebastian about it to try to get answers. He said today changed everything.”

“So we go against Lewis,” Carlos said.

“Max also thinks winning the championship will change the FIA,” Charles said, thumbing the side of Carlos’s palm. “He has a habit of putting blinders on. He said when Nico won the championship, everything was different. Better. Was it?”

Carlos quirked his lips. Charles tried not to stare at the way the moonlight painted them so softly.

“There became a gap in power,” Carlos began. “We had a champion who had been exiled—retired, whatever you wish to call it. Lewis was in no state to lead after the championship fight, but I think he did well. I would say him and Sebastian led together because they had the most championships.”

Carlos tongued the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking. Charles tried to think back to his own career at that time, but he’d barely focused on the paddock that year except when Max was around, or when an opportunity to beat him appeared. All of his time went toward securing his appointment at Sauber.

“If ‘better’ means less rules, then yes, I guess it was better,” Carlos said. “But it was calculated. Lewis, Sebastian, Fernando, and Kimi were very watchful of the FIA. I remember several times the FIA tried to take advantage of no champion to keep them in check. Fernando has told me the former champions had to step in to keep the balance.”

Charles blinked, Sebastian’s warning echoing in his head.

“Sebastian talked about that. The balance. He said George tried to upset it.”

“I think there is a balance that needs to be kept,” Carlos agreed. “Max cannot make too many changes too fast. Too much focus on one thing leaves room for overtaking.”

“So we can’t support Max,” Charles said.

Carlos shifted in his seat. “If Lewis is threatening Lando, I don’t know how I can support Lewis."

“Even if Max is supporting the wrong cause?” Charles asked.

Carlos looked at him, his face cast in pale blue moonlight.

“We need to do what is best for Ferrari,” Carlos said. “There is an ugly side to leadership. In wartime especially. Bad things are hidden from the people—it is a necessary thing. Much like our crowns. Our people look to the illusion of us.”

“Dissolving marriage rules will break down that illusion,” Charles said.

Carlos nodded. “Yes, it would. If Mercedes and Red Bull truly go into a fight, there will be bad things on both sides. I think it would be best if we understood both. Picking a side will hide half of it from us.”

Easy enough now, but Charles could feel the walls closing in. They couldn’t stay neutral for long.

“We can discuss this later,” Carlos said with a sigh of finality. “I want dinner. And I want to kiss you where I can see your face.”

Charles rolled his eyes, thankful Carlos couldn’t see the heat in his cheeks. “Fine. You go down first. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Carlos made all kinds of noise as he swung himself back down onto the banking. His trainers skittered against the track as he crab-walked his way down the steepest part before jumping to his feet and running down the rest of the way into the darkness. Charles stayed still, listening as the insects screamed and the breeze caressed the plant life all around him.

Not a hundred meters away, three men died trying to win. One of them might have come up right to where he sat before leaving the track entirely. Charles wondered what he thought about.

The doctors said Jules wouldn’t have had time to realize what was coming before death took his soul from his living body.

Charles knew differently. They saw the world in microseconds. Plenty of time to see a wall closing in too fast—or a crane or a tree or a chain link fence with a crowd just behind it.

The metal edge of the guardrail bit into his hand as he gripped it tighter.

“I did it,” Charles whispered into the silence for all of the dead to hear. “I won. No one can take that away from me.”

A future cemented in red. A fate decided that couldn’t be stripped away.

History, written by the victor.

 

 


 

 

Lando woke to the sound of someone shifting under the blankets. Sleep had a hazy hold on him, but the city lights of Milan illuminated the living room well enough that he could see it was just Daniel moving to prop his head on his hand.

They’d turned the couch into a giant pullout bed, opting for a true ménage à trois setup. Aside from their fucking awkward conversation, the night had been pretty much normal, made better by how happy Daniel was.

“Did you mean to?” Daniel whispered, tracing a finger over Max’s bare chest.

Max lolled his head over to him, unimpressed. “I would never sacrifice a win for something stupid like that,” he whispered back.

“Okay,” Daniel said, leaning over to kiss him. “But you understand Lewis isn’t going to see it like that, right?”

Max shifted his hands behind his head. “Has he ever threatened you?”

Daniel kissed his cheek and nosed there until Max nuzzled back.

“Daniel.”

“You’re not the only one who picked fights with world champions,” Daniel murmured. “I’m good now. Just please stop going after Lewis.”

“But I can win,” Max breathed, full of hope. Lando had never heard him sound hopeful. “I can change everything. We can be together again, and you can be safe.”

“I am safe,” Daniel assured him with a kiss. “I’m so happy right now, baby. I don’t want to ruin it by rocking the boat.”

Max reached over to guide Daniel to him, pressing their lips together. They kissed for a few moments, soft and quiet.

“I want to marry you again,” Max whispered against his mouth.

Daniel made a little noise before moving up to his hands and knees. He jerked his chin toward the bedroom. “Up. I’m taking you to bed.”

Lando watched their silhouettes, hands linked, as Daniel led Max to their bedroom.

“Quiet,” Max warned against Daniel’s shoulder. “I’m not fucking this up.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Daniel teased in a whisper. The door clicked shut.

Lando put a pillow over his head just in case, but sleep didn’t waste time catching up to him.

Notes:

feat. my real life experience trying to get up and down the monza banking lol (except i did it in the daytime, do not try it at night)

Chapter 96

Notes:

you may have noticed a slight delay in updates...and a lot more writing of other fics! don't worry, things are just cooking up for FG, but i've started a few other projects in the meantime.

check out the FG discord for more info on when to expect updates, sneak peeks, and the occasional easter egg. you can also find me @chubbydino on tumblr!

Chapter Text

 

 

Being born into money created allure, but it didn’t command respect. The latter had to be earned—and in the world of royalty, defended. Public favor could vanish in an instant, and comradery only lasted as long as competition allowed.

The empires didn’t appoint princes solely for their money or their ability behind the wheel. They had to know how to engage in every form of combat, including the one that took place in front of a camera lens.

 George thought he could hold his own in any realm of competition, but he was beginning to realize he was woefully outclassed.

“You are to appear worried,” Toto said from where he sat at his desk in the Mercedes hospitality suite. “Live-time social media is reporting that you looked scared upon entering here, which works for the current narrative.”

George still had no idea what had actually happened with Lewis. Toto marched him into Mercedes and sat him down in his office without so much as a hello.

“Why am I his NOK?” George asked, finally gathering the courage. “Wouldn’t Valtteri have been the logical choice?”

Toto leered at him. “Nothing about Valtteri Bottas says ‘sensational,’ George. He’s a Finn. That’s practically an oxymoron.”

George swallowed hard.

“You are Lewis’s new young lover,” Toto continued. “He invoked FIA tradition to formally court you, putting his heart on his sleeve for all to see. And now you’re engaged, one step closure to finally being united in marriage—a picture-perfect relationship for the FIA, and for the world.”

George’s heart dropped to his stomach, cold as stone.

He laid awake at night picking over every interaction with Lewis since Bahrain, searching for clues that none of it was real. But he still saw that gap-toothed smile and wanted to smile back.

He hated himself for it.

“Choosing Valtteri would be an insult to what Lewis built with you,” Toto finished with a shake of his head.

“The house of cards he built with me?” George corrected with a scoff.

Toto frowned. “Try not to be so narrow-minded. We had every reason to drop your appointment and go for an upset. Nyck de Vries would have jumped at the chance.”

“So you keep telling me,” George muttered.

Toto glanced at his watch. “In about five minutes, you’ll head to the Aston Martin garage to collect Sebastian Vettel. You won’t speak to media and you’ll walk quickly with a worried expression until you reach him. After that, you’ll take him to the hospital, where you will see Lewis and discuss the plan from there.”

“Is Lewis even okay?” George asked. “Can we at least clear that up?”

Toto narrowed his eyes. “Sebastian will handle any media questions on your way to the van. You will have to appear distraught after relaying the news—you trust Sebastian to keep a clear head as Lewis’s best friend and as an experienced prince.”

Nobody seemed to think Lewis was dying, but Lewis’s crash looked considerably worse than Max’s in Silverstone. Everyone had an up-close view of Max’s tire rolling right over Lewis’s helmet, yet nobody at Mercedes had given him any indication that they’d even watched the crash footage.

George let out a noise of frustration. “I need facts, Toto. I need to—”

“Did you know Max Verstappen cleared every medical check after Silverstone?” Toto asked, cutting him off.

Though George didn’t care much about royal protocol, it bothered him that Toto hadn’t referred to any prince with a proper title. Nicky would blame it on his English bloodline.

“Christian kept him overnight in that hospital to make the public worry, to build pity for Max. Contrasted with Lewis’s win and subsequent celebration for winning his home race, it worked like a charm to turn Lewis into the villain. And bringing Ricciardo in? Genius, I must say.”

“I don’t care about—”

“This is a turning point, George,” Toto cut. “The rest of the season will now center on this incident. Max has played his little games for long enough. Effective today, we are now at war with Red Bull. Unofficially, of course.”

George blinked stupidly. Princes talked about potential for war, but George had always chalked it up to dramatic gossip and empty threats. Racing existed as a placeholder for war, an alternative to strangers being sent out to murder each other. Princes willingly chose to put themselves in harm’s way to prevent the need for bloodshed.

Toto leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. Silence wedged between them as they stared at each other. George couldn’t read Toto’s expression—he always looked pissed off except when he smiled up at Lewis on the podium.

George knew he had no choice in any of this. He’d given up any semblance of autonomy the second he signed his contract with Mercedes, and he’d lived in fear ever since.

Alex hung in the balance, and he wouldn’t be safe until George cemented himself as a loyal Mercedes prince hopelessly in love with Lewis. Any slip-ups and Alex would be fed to the sharks: the media, Red Bull, the Mercedes machine.

“Judging by your earlier question, I’m assuming you don’t know how NOKs work,” Toto finally said to break the silence.

George shook his head. “Not really, no.”

Toto nodded once, a bit of dark hair flopping over his forehead. “We don’t know Lewis’s condition.  You’re the first person who will be told. And if the nature of his injuries requires it, you will be the one to make any medical decisions he can’t make himself.”

George gaped at him. It made sense, but the fact that Lewis had gone along with picking him as his NOK after ripping George’s heart out of his chest seemed incredibly risky.

“I’m guessing Seb will actually have that job,” George said.

Toto shook his head. “You’re permitted to bring one other person with you. Officially, we would advise you to take Valtteri, but since you’re already engaged to Lewis, Sebastian fits better in our narrative. However, Sebastian will not be told anything about Lewis’s condition unless it comes from you, and he has limited visitation privileges.”

“Wait, so Lewis didn’t ask for Sebastian to come as my…guest thing?”

Toto frowned at him. “You haven’t learned anything, have you?”

George scowled, but for once he didn’t see annoyance in Toto’s eyes.

“Lewis puts the empire above everything else,” Toto said, fiddling with the IWC on his wrist. “Especially his personal relationships.”

 

 


 

 

George wished he was surprised to find Sebastian a breath away from Charles’s lips in the Aston Martin debriefing room, but nothing surprised him about Charles anymore. He had to admit it was fucking weird to see Charles seemingly enraptured by probably the most annoying person George had ever met—and he was basically best friends with Lando Norris.

He also didn’t like the dead-eyed look he’d left Charles with. He would have to talk to Pierre about that.

George winced internally.

Okay, Lando then. Anyone but Max.

“Still stringing Charles along?” George asked as he led Sebastian toward where Toto told him a van would be waiting. A media firestorm waited for them at the end of the paddock, a mess of camera flashes and eager reporters trying to find the limit of the barriers.

Sebastian let out a snort. “He has too many men to juggle as it is. I believe he was attempting to seduce me for information.”

George nearly burst out laughing. “Good one. Hey—have you ever thought there was a reason he never slept with you?”

Sebastian laughed, as if they weren’t on the way to visit the love of his life in the hospital. “Maybe the same reason Lewis never stayed in bed with you after sex, Your Highness.”

George nearly choked on his own spit.

Sebastian gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Oh dear, you thought he didn’t tell me?”

Pain clawed at George’s heart as he thought back to Austria, waking in bed alone. At the time, he’d been warmed to find Lewis making breakfast for him in the kitchen.

George didn’t know why he still assumed Lewis had treated their relationship with respect, after everything.

“So Charles was attempting to seduce you for information…information about what?” George asked, deciding to entertain him.

He would never ever get along with Sebastian Vettel, but ever since signing for Mercedes, Lewis had made it clear they would need to work together. George had the knowledge of the new generation and Sebastian had intel on everything else.

“He wanted to know if Lewis was targeting Max,” Sebastian replied. “Apparently Max suspects Lewis might be threatening Daniel. Maybe Lando too.”

George’s blood ran cold.

Sebastian leaned in closer as they walked. “Any clue where he may have gotten that idea?”

Daniel had mastered the ability to play neutral. As long as he kept Max from disrupting Lewis’s plans, he got to keep his cushy McLaren crown and the love of his life. He’d scraped the bottom of the barrel to keep that crown on his head when it mattered, and Lewis respected him for it. Kind of.

Lewis would still rip out Daniel’s jugular with his bare hands if it meant assuring his reign, and Daniel knew it.

“I didn’t say anything,” George hissed. “And Daniel would never.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” Sebastian said. “We gave Daniel a very generous gift today for his help getting you under control. Let’s hope it didn’t go to his head.”

George slowed to a stop. Sebastian stopped with him, cocking a brow.

“Does Lewis know about Nico at the Heineken party?” George asked.  

Sebastian’s eyes went black with silent rage. “He is aware Nico was at the party, yes. I believe the whole world saw the video footage of his ridiculous behavior.”

Nico was bleeding, mate, Nic had said. Sebastian was throwing him around, talking about visitation. Nico kept talking like he wanted to get punched.

“Does he know you talked to him in the bathroom afterward?” George asked.

Sebastian’s top lip curled in a snarl as he turned his back to the cameras. “That was Lewis’s favorite part of that sad little story.”

George narrowed his eyes, sensing a lie. Lewis said he’d learned how to read a room.

Reporters began to shout questions and George collapsed into Sebastian, nearly sending him to the deck before Sebastian’s arms came around him.

“You are incredibly annoying,” Sebastian huffed as he lifted him up, keeping a tight hold on him and resting his chin on George’s head to appear consoling.

“Do you think he’s actually hurt?” George asked as a storm of camera shutters started up.

Sebastian softened only slightly. He swallowed hard and George felt the disgusting draw of his Adam’s apple over his skull.

“I think he might be, yes,” Sebastian finally answered, every trace of anger gone.

George didn’t remember watching Anthoine’s crash on the track TV. But he remembered that the first thought that went through his head wasn’t about Anthoine at all—he’d thought about Alex. As the medical cars rushed to the scene of the accident and the track went too quiet, he’d been pushing his way through the paddock for that lanky frame and bad haircut. When he finally caught sight of him, Alex was searching through the crowd for him too.

Having Alex didn’t make it any easier to lose Anth, but at least he had someone to grieve with, someone to share in his hollowness.

He wondered if Sebastian had anyone aside from the man they were about to visit.

 

 


 

 

The hospital seethed with medical personnel. Mercedes and FIA officials argued with each other in the lobby while nurses and doctors skittered around as if some kind of mass casualty had occurred. George glanced at Sebastian, but he stared straight ahead, almost bored.

“Yes, they’ve arrived for Secretariat,” an FIA official said into a phone as he walked past them. “Correct. Smarty Jones and Seattle Slew.”

George stared after the official and made a mental note to write Pierre and Lando that he was Smarty Jones, thank you very much.

“Your Royal Highness, thank god,” a hospital staff member greeted George as they entered the lobby. “Come with me, please. Prince Vettel, you’re welcome to come as well.”

Sebastian gestured for George to go ahead of him, which sent an odd chill down George’’s spine as he hurried after the staff member.

“Dr. Luke Bennett, Medical Director for Mercedes,” the staff member said, handing them off to a rather sour-looking blond Englishman with a pinched nose and scruffy beard.

“Your Royal Highnesses,” Dr. Bennett greeted with a dip of his head. Nurses swerved around them, and one nearly took George out with a knock to his shoulder.

Dr. Bennett frowned. “There is a bit of a language barrier. A culture barrier too, I’m afraid.”

“That hasn’t been my experience in Milan,” Sebastian said coolly.

Dr. Bennett’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Where is he?” George asked. “Can we see him?”

“His Royal Highness is currently resting,” Dr. Bennett replied. “Prince George, if I may.”

He gestured down the hall.

George glanced at Sebastian.

“Next of kin only, for now,” Dr. Bennett said. “Your Highness.”

“I’ll wait here,” Sebastian said, putting a hand on George’s shoulder. “Take your time and remember that Lewis is strong. Hold it together, I know it will be difficult.”

He squeezed hard and George fought the urge to smack his hand away. Instead, he nodded and bit his lip in a show of worry.

“Thanks, Seb,” he said. “Don’t know what I would do without your guidance.”

Sebastian’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t reply.

George ducked away from his hand and followed Dr. Bennett down the hall. Fluorescent lighting buzzed above them, giving off a greenish cast that made George think of horror movie operating rooms. Maybe he was entitled, but he thought the current world champion deserved a bit better than a public hospital.

Dr. Bennett stopped at a door marked with a paper sign that bore the Mercedes crest.  He folded his arms and stared expectantly at George.

“We’re waiting on the results of his brain scans,” Dr. Bennett said. “Preliminary data is good, but there is always the possibility of brain bleed or swelling we haven’t picked up. Injuries of this nature can be very touch-and-go.”

George’s throat went dry. The tips of his fingers started to prickle as the reality finally dawned on him. Toto could talk about narratives and Sebastian could wear a calm face, but no cameras could disguise if something had really happened to Lewis. No news report could be spun to take away injury, and no secret love affair could save a world champion from a brain bleed.

And Lewis had chosen him to shoulder that burden. Lewis had chosen him to make the decision that could potentially make the difference between life and death. Not Sebastian, his supposed true love. Not Nico, the man who pined after a cauterized relationship but might still know Lewis better than anyone else. Not even Lewis’s own father, who he credited for putting him on the path to royalty.

“Our primary concerns are his neck and spine,” Dr. Bennett continued. “Nothing appears to be broken, but we don’t yet know the extent of the compression on his discs. We have to be very careful.”

George swallowed hard. “Um. So how serious is it right now?”

He could feel Sebastian’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head.

Dr. Bennett sighed. “Thankfully, he appears to be fine at the moment. But like I said, injuries of this nature can appear suddenly and go south fast. We need to keep him overnight, but he’s insistent about making the Met Gala tomorrow evening.”

George rolled his eyes with a choked noise that escaped against his will.

“My medical advice would be to talk him out of that, if you’re able,” Dr. Bennett said. “If we haven’t seen anything troublesome in his reports by morning, we really won’t have reason to keep him past tonight, but I can’t advise traveling to the United States after an incident like this.”

“I’ll talk to him,” George said quietly, glancing at the door. “Can I go in?”

Dr. Bennett nodded. “Of course.”

Alex broke his collarbone in a biking accident two years before his appointment. George got the news in a text and barely had time to panic before Alex called him and explained he’d already been through surgery and that everything was fine. George had been ready to kill him when he arrived at Alex’s house that weekend, but ended up crying the moment he saw him instead.

As he stepped into the rather quaint medical suite, an echo of that feeling crawled up his throat.

Lewis looked stiff where he laid propped in the hospital bed. His cheeks bunched slightly from his neck brace, and though his eyes were closed, nothing about him seemed relaxed. George closed the door behind him and wiped his sweating palms on his pants.

Lewis’s eyes opened to slits at the noise.

“Oh. George,” Lewis greeted softly.

“Yeah, me. Hey.”

George grabbed a chair and pulled it up to Lewis’s bedside, noting all of the nodes and wires connected to his hands, wrists, and skull. An aching sort of affection welled in him, even though he knew this should hurt after what Lewis did.

Lewis closed his eyes again. “Bet it feels good to see me like this, huh.”

Tears pricked George’s eyes as he took Lewis’s hand between both of his own. Some distant part of him would have clapped back with an indignant insult, but not now. Not seeing Lewis in the flesh, all weakness and soft underbelly.

“It feels horrible, actually,” George confessed. “Though I don’t know why you picked me as your NOK.”

The corner of Lewis’s mouth twitched. “What kind of love story would it be if my Prince Charming didn’t come to save me in my darkest hour?”

He sounded exactly like Toto. George stared down at him. Their king among princes, who let himself be shackled by Public Affairs even in a brush with death.

“This is your life, Lewis,” George murmured. “What if this turns out to be more serious than it is right now? You really trust me to make life or death decisions for you?”

Lewis’s eyes flicked open again,  looking him over. He looked so fragile—George wanted to hold him. Fucking ridiculous.

“You understand what it means to make the hard decisions,” Lewis said quietly. “You always operate with a level head.”

“You barely know me,” George hissed, but he didn’t tighten his grip on Lewis’s hand.

Lewis let out a hum. “Just because I’m not in love with you doesn’t mean we aren’t close.”

George let out a wet snort.

“I mean that,” Lewis whispered, eyelids drooping. “You really think I faked everything?”

“Sure seems like it,” George replied, but warmth moved up through his hands when Lewis’s thumb trailed over his knuckles, one gentle swoop.

“I’d laugh if I could,” Lewis said.

George sniffed, shaking his head. “You can’t go to the Met Gala, Lewis,” he said, changing the subject. “You need to stay here to make sure nothing gets worse.

Lewis sighed. “Yes, I am. Nothing’s broken, I’m just sore. I can’t miss it, George. If I don’t go, I’m ruining almost a year of work. People are depending on me.”

“You realize Max could have killed you, right?”

Lewis’s eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open. “Max was driving like a fucking idiot, but he wasn’t trying to kill me. It was a low speed corner. He might be stupid, but he knows how to drive. If he wanted to kill me, I’d be dead.”

George wanted to scream, even though he agreed.

“Toto said we’re unofficially at war with Red Bull because of this.”

Lewis grit his teeth for a moment. “He said that?”

“Everyone’s saying that. Max doesn’t give a shit about what he did to you. Red Bull is basically taunting us,” George said.

Lewis swallowed, then forced his eyes open. George noticed they were bloodshot.

“Then it’s even more important that I go to the Met Gala,” Lewis said. “I stay here and they’ll say I’m milking it. I leave tonight and they’ll say I blew this out of proportion. They’ll already say that either way. Every second I stay here, Max has time to come up with a plan to turn the narratives.”

“Shut up about narratives,” George snapped. “We’re talking about your life, Lewis. You can’t do anything if you’re dead.”

Lewis made a strangled noise George realized was supposed to be a laugh. “Sometimes I think that’s the only way I could get anything accomplished here.”

George had sat in Lewis’s hotel room while he paced the length of his rented penthouse, waiting for news about what Nico was saying at the Heineken party. No other prince had to contend with ghosts the rest of the public could listen to. No one else had ghosts like Nico Rosberg.

“Don’t say things like that,” George murmured.

Lewis smiled slightly, eyes closed again. “I thought you liked facts.”

“I brought Sebastian,” George blurted out. He didn’t want to be in charge of brightening Lewis’s spirit, not when Lewis still had his hands around Alex’s neck. Damn his feelings.

Lewis’s brow creased. “What?”

“Toto had me bring him. Valtteri wasn’t sensational enough, he said.”

“Fuck,” Lewis grit out. “He’s probably rigging this place to blow. Fuck. Go get him.”

Not exactly the response George had expected, but he nodded and gave Lewis’s hand a squeeze.

“Be right back.”

George hopped up from his seat and headed to the door. He poked his head out into the hall to find Sebastian right outside, arms folded and eyes venomous as he stared down Dr. Bennett.

“He’s ready to see you,” George said, trying to sound broken.

“Are you all right?” Sebastian asked with an alarming amount of concern as he turned around.

George blinked. “Um. Yeah.”

“Prince George, the results are coming in now,” Dr. Bennett said. “I’m going to review them and I’ll be back shortly.”

George nodded once. “Great. Thank you.” He looked at Sebastian as soon as the doctor scurried away. “What’s your problem with him?”

Sebastian let out a snort and reached up to ruffle his hair. “Adorable, you still trust the doctors.”

He pushed past George and into Lewis’s room, leaving George to stare down the empty hallway for a moment before he turned around and followed. Sebastian locked the door behind them and tested the blinds in the privacy window. He turned the lights off a moment later before finally moving to Lewis’s bedside.

George watched as the mask dropped. Sebastian’s stoic expression melted away to tense concern and his movement went from sure to tentative as he carefully grazed Lewis’s cheek with two fingers.

“Don’t tell me you made enemies,” Lewis murmured.

“Like I don’t have reason,” Sebastian replied, his voice softer than George had ever heard it.

Lewis’s heartbeat monitor began to slow its rhythm as Sebastian caressed his face for a moment more before he drew his hand away.

“Don’t go to this silly event,” Sebastian said.

Lewis groaned. “Not you too.”

“Fashion does more to pollute this planet than plastic pollution,” Sebastian argued. “I think there is a far better statement in not going.”

Lewis’s lips twitched to a half smile and his eyes finally opened. “Seb.”

That single syllable said more than a kiss ever could.

“You and your events,” Sebastian sighed.

George waited for Sebastian to take Lewis’s hand, to kiss him, to touch his face again, but he kept his hands on the bed.

“It’s more than the event, and you know it,” Lewis said. “I’m not changing my mind.”

Silence pressed in as they locked eyes. A full conversation passed between them that George couldn’t hope to understand.

“I’ll kill him,” Sebastian said. “If I find out he did this on purpose, I—”

“He didn’t do this on purpose,” Lewis muttered. “He’s a kid who needs to be put in his place, yes, but he wasn’t trying to kill me.”

“I’ve already tasked Daniel to make sure that’s true,” Sebastian replied. “I’m not taking chances. Even Nico didn’t put you in the hospital.”

Lewis flinched slightly. Sebastian still didn’t move to take his hand or console him in any way.

“Nico is a bit different,” Lewis said. “And I’m a bit older. So are you.”

Lewis closed his eyes again and Sebastian immediately looked at George, who froze in place. Sebastian peeled his gaze away after one terrifying moment, returning it to Lewis.

“If you go to that gala, they’ll crucify you,” Sebastian murmured.

“I’ll wear my cross earrings, then,” Lewis teased, but it was weak.

Sebastian finally leaned in. George waited for a kiss, but Sebastian merely rested his cheek on Lewis’s chest, moving as if Lewis were made of glass. Somehow it was more intimate than any touch of lips could have been.

Lewis lifted his hand, wires and all, and carefully pressed his palm to Sebastian’s cheek before gently scratching at his beard.

“I’m okay,” Lewis whispered, though he still didn’t open his eyes. “It’ll hurt for a few days, but I’ll take enough painkillers that they’ll say I faked it all. Okay?”

Sebastian cleared his throat and sat up again, the moment over too fast—even for George, who wished like hell that he didn’t want to root for them.

“Max is just a kid, Seb. Don’t forget that.”

Sebastian scowled. “He’s been a prince for seven years.”

Lewis smiled a little. “Never a champion, though.”

“Yes, but—”

“And you were still a kid when you became a champion, so don’t start confusing maturity with experience,” Lewis said.

Sebastian lifted a brow. “Oh? And at what point did I grow up?”

“I wasn’t aware you grew up,” Lewis teased. “What was it you said? You named your cars after women because they’re sexy?”

“I didn’t—”

“Though I do remember a very nice night in Hungary where you sucked up your pride for me,” Lewis continued. He bit his bottom lip in an attempt not to laugh. “But that wasn’t the only thing you—”

“That’s quite enough,” Sebastian growled, his cheeks turning pink.

George laughed anyway, delighting in the way Sebastian’s face started to turn purple.

“Don’t do anything until I get back,” Lewis murmured, fighting to open his eyes again. He managed it, but George could tell he was fading fast. “If you want to collect information, fine. But this is not something you do alone, understand?”

Sebastian scowled until Lewis lifted his hand to scratch at his chin.

“And George is in on this now,” Lewis added. “Charles too, if you decide he can be trusted.”

No one in their right mind could trust Charles Leclerc to tie his own goddamn shoes.

“We’ll see,” Sebastian said evenly. “We’ll discuss when you come back.”

“Seb. I mean it. We can’t—”

Sebastian cut him off with a gentle kiss that made Lewis’s heart monitor burst back to life, startling George where he stood beside it.

“For the record, I don’t approve of this,” Sebastian said as he pulled back and sat back in his chair. “But—”

He cut himself off and cleared his throat.

“I’ve loved you for a very long time, and I know when you aren’t going to change your mind,” Sebastian finished.

Lewis smirked before flicking Sebastian’s forearm with a sharp thwack.

“Love you too, but don’t do that again,” Lewis scolded. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”

“Will a suspected cardiac arrest keep you in the hospital longer?” Sebastian teased, leaning in again. Lewis put his hand over Sebastian’s face and pushed him back, mushing his nose with his palm.

“Unreal, man,” Lewis said with a huff. “That’s the last time I call you grown up.”

Sebastian laughed, kissing Lewis’s wrist before he stood up from the chair and offered it to George.

“They’ll be coming soon,” Sebastian explained. “You’d better be sitting here.”

 

 


 

 

Lewis fell asleep five minutes after the doctors cleared his reports. George stayed at his bedside and left Sebastian to relay news to the ravenous Mercedes officials outside. Blue light washed over Lewis’s sleeping face, still not relaxed despite the steady drip of painkillers from his IV.

George’s brain kept reminding him that Lewis betrayed him, that all of this was probably a show, but he couldn’t get himself to believe it.

“Your Royal Highness,” a nurse announced as she stepped into the room. “I have Prince Hamilton’s personal belongings. I was told to give them to a Miss Angela, but she hasn’t arrived yet.”

“I’ll make sure she gets them,” George said, letting go of Lewis’s hand to take a leather toiletry bag from her.

The nurse pulled out a small clipboard. “Apologies, but I need to confirm with you to make sure all of the contents have been returned.”

She turned the clipboard to him where Lewis had handwritten a list of contents.

 

x3 rings (silver, titanium)

x2 necklaces (diamond, gold)

x2 watches (titanium)

x1 metal medical card (titanium)

x1 2oz moisturizer

x1 1oz maracuja oil

x1 4oz concealer

x1 hair tie

x2 cuff links (titanium, gold, pearl)

x1 envelope (sealed)

 

George cleared his throat and glanced at Lewis, but his heartbeat monitor remained at a steady, slow rhythm.  He stood from the chair and carried the bag over to a small table at the other side of the room.

He pulled out the necklaces first and the nurse checked them off the list with a red marker. The medical card came out next, engraved with Lewis’s blood type and other medical information in four different languages. Then the rings, hair tie, and oil.

George pulled out the envelope—a standard mail envelope with Angela’s name written on the front. The letter was sealed, as described, with the added protection of a smiley face sticker that would rip if anyone managed to unstick the envelope seal.

George realized with a jolt that this wasn’t a medical kit for a hospital visit. It was a death kit.

He put a hand over his mouth as bile rose in his throat, horrified. Lewis had an entire kit planned just in case he never left the hospital alive.

“He arrived with this?” George managed to ask as he set down the envelope.  

“It arrived with him, yes,” the nurserreplied. “I believe Miss Angela was with him, she supplied it to us once his jewelry was removed.”

“Right, of course,” George said, sticking his hand back in the bag with a hard swallow.

He pulled out the concealer next, a perfect match to Lewis’s skin. Once that was checked off, he pulled out a velvet box and opened it to reveal a pair of cuff links he’d never seen Lewis wear before. Two massive pink pearls, one for each link, held in place by metal talons that reminded George of a fortune teller’s crystal ball. 

The nurse marked cuff links off the list.

“The watches?” George asked, feeling around the bag.

The nurse furrowed her brow and stepped closer. “May I?”

George stepped aside, still eyeing the crystal ball cuff links. Lewis had a poetic mind, but George got the sense of a threat in the swirling pink pearls.

Lewis said he didn’t think Max tried to kill him, that he hadn’t been trying to hurt him on purpose, but something about those cuff links screamed I told you this would happen.

“Ah, here they are—I hope, anyway,” the nurse said, and George heard the sound of a zipper. She pulled out a smaller leather pouch and handed it to George.

He felt the shape of one watch as he unzipped the pouch and turned it over to shake the contents into his waiting hand.

Two watches fell from the bag and clacked together in his palm.

The nurse crossed them off the list.

“Fantastic, thank you, Your Highness. I’ll leave you both be.”

She hurried on her way as George stared down at his cupped hand, his vision going dark.

One watch ticked against his curled fingers, the titanium band heavy in his palm. The other laid face down against the base of his thumb, silent. His heart caught in his throat, every organ twisting tight with an overwhelming sense of grief that had no source.

George carefully pushed the black rubber band to the side to reveal the engraving he knew would be waiting for him.

A name caught in the low light, shimmering white against the carbon fiber backing.

Nico Rosberg.

Chapter Text

Maranello always quieted after Monza. Summer wound down, leaving the streets mostly empty of tourists, except for the few who purposely waited for the end of summer to travel. After Monza, Charles could walk from the palace to Fiorano without being mobbed by fans, and many mornings he could make it without being noticed at all.

Mid-September also meant the air stayed cooler longer, so his morning runs didn’t end with him red all over and drenched with sweat. Charles checked his phone as he continued up the crest of what was technically turn one at Fiorano, though it hardly counted as a corner.

His mile pace wasn’t spectacular, but a quick look at his running app confirmed that his pace was still five seconds faster per kilometer than Carlos. Carlos even had the advantage of cooler weather—he preferred to run at dawn.

Charles smiled to himself as he slowed in front of the garage, waving to a few Ferrari mechanics who were fitting a car to take a few laps on track. Ferrari had government funding from some of the wealthiest people in the world, and those investments came with perks that included private drives on circuit-only cars.

Sunlight danced on the warming asphalt as Charles jogged back to the palace grounds—another day without detection. The sidewalks remained empty except for a few Ferrari employees venturing out for an espresso.

He entered the palace with a yawn and pocketed his phone in case any tourists were visiting. The government didn’t like him to be seen as someone who spent too much time on his phone.

“Your Royal Highness,” a weathered voice called from across the grand foyer.

Charles turned to see Fabrizio, the head of royal correspondence. His white hair laid flat in a pitiful attempt at a combover, and his wrinkles deepened as he smiled. 

“Buongiorno, Fabrizio,” Charles greeted. “Is everything alright?”

Fabrizio motioned for him to come closer. Charles glanced around the foyer for any sign of Mattia before he walked across the polished tiles of the Ferrari palace and shook Fabrizio’s hand in a proper greeting.

Fabrizio bowed his head. “Apologies for the fuss, but I thought it might be best to hand you these letters personally.”

Charles cocked a brow. Last time he’d been to the official mail room for more than a letter dropoff, he’d found out that Carlos had written Lando every day for a week with only one response.  

Warmth filled Charles’s chest at the memory, though it had been painful at the time. He and Carlos had come a long way since those early days as a couple.

In fact, they were approaching their anniversary—not that princes kept track of those.

Fabrizio led him back to his office, past desks littered with government paperwork, Ferrari marketing material, and official royal documents. Ferrari personnel jumped up from their seats as he entered, bowing their heads respectfully. Charles smiled tightly, offering a small wave.

He liked the power of royalty in most situations, but experiencing it in the place he called home always felt awkward.

Fabrizio ushered him inside his office and closed the door. Pens gleamed in cases, and a few modest awards hung on the wall behind his desk.

“I’ve handled royal correspondence for Ferrari for almost thirty years,” Fabrizio began, taking his seat. “Though we never read royal letters, after you have been around royal mail as long as I have, you tend to pick things up. In fact, it is part of my job to keep track of correspondence. History repeats itself, patterns are predictable—such is the nature of royalty.”

Charles rested his hands on the back of the guest chair, but made no move to sit down. He watched Fabrizio carefully, waiting as dread began to seep into his gut.

“The situation between Red Bull and Mercedes is very serious,” Fabrizio said with a nod. “Questo lo sapete.”

No one would shut up about it. Ever since Monza, the world had exploded with stories about Max and Lewis, and publications warned that the title fight could test the limits of the FIA’s control. Others said war was an inevitability, and boys racing around in cars would never be able to stave off true bloodshed.

Charles didn’t listen to any of it. The media loved to spin stories out of nothing. The FIA hadn’t placed any sanctions, and Lewis showed up in New York City a day after his crash, smiling for all of the cameras at the Met Gala. Toto and Christian were all bark.

“It’s in the news,” Charles replied. “I wouldn’t call it serious yet.”

Fabrizio let out a hum. “And when would you say it will become serious?”

Charles narrowed his eyes. He respected his elders, but Fabrizio was an old man only exposed to Ferrari’s inner workings. The outside world was a very different place.

“Did you bring me here to explain how publicity works?” Charles asked.

Fabrizio bowed his head. “I would never, Your Royal Highness. Merely posing a question.”

“Merely,” Charles repeated dryly.

“No, I brought you here because, while I do not have the experience of being a royal myself, I have handled the most personal aspects of princes’ lives for a quarter of a century,” Fabrizio said, opening a drawer in his desk. “This is not the first time empires have been called to arms, so to speak. Of course, the government has final say, but we both know princes sway the public. Mattia will not fight the people—which means he will not fight you.”

Fabrizio pulled a small stack of letters from the drawer, holding them tightly in his hands.

“I encourage you to think carefully before involving Ferrari in this mess. Try as you might, Your Highness, you will never fully understand all of the pieces at play.”

Charles stiffened, anger leaking past his stoic expression. “I think I understand my fellow princes better than you do, Fabrizio. And I hope my appointment has proven that I will always put Ferrari first. I would never involve us in a fight unless we had reason to be involved."

Fabrizio smiled tightly. "Certo, Your Highness. In that case, might I suggest allowing me to handle the delivery of certain letters. Since we do not want to appear to be choosingsides.”

He extended the letters. On top was a blue envelope Charles immediately recognized as Red Bull. Beneath, another darker blue envelope. Alpha Tauri. He moved through each one to reveal letters from Haas, Williams, Alpha Romeo, and Aston Martin.

Charles glanced up at Fabrizio, who shook his head.

“Serious or not, rumors can still do damage.”

Charles replaced Max’s letter at the top of the pile. “Which letters do you suggest keeping hidden?”

Fabrizio nodded toward the stack. “Any from Red Bull, Mercedes, or Prince George Russell, Your Highness. And perhaps letters from Prince Norris and Prince Ricciardo.”

Charles cocked a brow. “Lando and Daniel? Perché?”

Fabrizio cleared his throat. “Proximity, Your Highness.”

Something cold crawled up the back of Charles’s throat. He thought of the paddock, Lando stumbling out from between motorhomes with Max just behind him. Familiar jealousy tickled at his insides, even though his karting days were long over. Max swore he’d never seen Lando as anything more than a friend. Charles believed that. Max had loved him too fully, depended on him too much.

But he’d still had to ask the question multiple times.

The Lando he knew turned into an annoying child when anyone stepped in the way of him and his precious Carlos. But in Monza, Lando hadn’t even checked in on Carlos after his crash. at least, not that Carlos told him about. 

Charles swallowed hard. “Okay. Whatever you feel is best. Grazie, Fabrizio.”

He kept himself collected as he made his way back to the royal apartment, letters in hand.  He greeted Ferrari officials and even said hello to Mattia as he walked the halls between meetings.

The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air as Charles entered the apartment.

“Taking your time coming back from training?” Carlos called from the couch. He laid sprawled out on the cushions, scrolling through his iPad, which meant he was going though telemetry data from Monza. Again.

“Did Fabrizio corner you about mail?” Charles asked as he slipped out of his trainers.

Carlos looked up. “He mentioned delivering some letters personally.”

Charles held up his stack of letters. “How many did you get?”

Carlos frowned. “Parecchi. You were right, they are asking us to pick sides.”

Charles rounded the back of the couch and leaned over it to greet Carlos with a kiss. He tasted like milk foam.

“Coffee for you on the counter,” Carlos said before another kiss. “Might be cold by now.”

Charles let out a pleased hum and spotted the mug on the countertop. Carlos locked the iPad before setting it on his stomach.

“Fernando, Lando, Checo, Max and Pierre,” Carlos said. “Those are who I got letters from. You?”

“Max, Pierre, Mick, George, Kimi, Sebastian,” Charles said. “Have you read yours?”

Carlos shook his head. “Not all of them. Have your coffee, we can discuss after.”

Charles sipped his latte—a little colder than fresh, but still warm enough to remind him he should drink water first after a run. He pulled a glass from the cupboard.

“Do you think this is as serious as everyone is making it seem?” Charles asked as he filled it.

Carlos worried his bottom lip for a moment."Di solito direi di no. This time, I’m not so sure.”

Charles drained the water in a few gulps and set the cup in the sink before grabbing his coffee again. “All this stuff about war? Ci credi?”

Carlos sighed. “I’m not sure. I think Red Bull is desperate for a championship. Max is the best chance they have. With regulations changing next year, this could be their last chance. Red Bull will do anything to secure a win.”

“Except cheat,” Charles murmured around a sip of coffee, his gut twisting with shame.

“Believe it or not, there are things worse than cheating,” Carlos replied gently, putting an arm behind his head.

Charles lifted Max’s letter from the pile and broke the red seal on the back. Seeing Max’s handwriting always surprised him—Max prefered to talk. He didn’t like texting and he hated using social media. Writing wasn’t his strong suit, but his handwriting had gotten better over the years.

 

Charles,

I hope you’re good. I’ve been thinking this week about our talk at Monza, and I wanted to say that I understand you not wanting to take sides in this shitshow. Maybe you think all of the shit on TV is true.

I want to win the championship. Of course I want that. I fight every day for that.

But I can’t do it alone, Charles. I thought I could, but I can’t.  Lewis has everyone. Aston Martin, McLaren, especially Williams. Red Bull has Alpha Tauri. We both know Alpha Tauri doesn’t give me anything to work with. I need Ferrari.

Fuck. I’ve rewritten that part five fucking times and it always sounds like I’m trying to use you. I guess I am.

I can’t trust Daniel, Charles. I love him more than anything, but he’s at McLaren and Lewis has control there. Telling Daniel anything would put him at risk and I won’t do that.

You’re crown prince of the most influential empire in the FIA. You have Alfa Romeo and Haas behind you. I need you. You don’t even have to do anything, the world just needs to know that you and I are doing this toge—

 

Charles stuffed the letter back in the envelope.

“Charles?”

Carlos padded into the kitchen and reached out to rub his arm.

Charles shook his head once and set the letter aside.

Carlos glanced at it and frowned. “What did he say?”

Charles set his coffee aside and burrowed into Carlos’s chest. He closed his eyes as Carlos held him close, wrapping him in a feeling of safety and security Charles didn’t feel with anyone else.

Not anymore, anyway.

“He’s desperate,” Charles said, his voice a little mangled. “He wants my help.”

I need you. How many nights had he stared at the ceiling, begging for Max to say those words to him one more time?

Charles gently pulled free from Carlos’s hold. He was getting better at standing on his own, at being the crown prince again. The prince Max seemed to still think he was.

Or Max wanted to bolster his ego and soften his heart. A plan that would undoubtedly work, because Charles could already feel himself returning to Zandvoort. The pouring rain, Max’s blanket around him, damp fingers entwined with his as Max floored it back to the hotel.

“I don’t know when it’s going to stop hurting,” Charles said, still lost in the memory. “I don’t want to be with him anymore, but…”

Charles shook his head, smiling sadly as he met Carlos’s eye.

“I still trust him. I think I always will.”

“I trust Max too, but I don’t trust Red Bull,” Carlos said. “Come on, bring your coffee to the couch.”

Carlos pressed a kiss to his temple, rubbing his back as Charles grabbed his coffee and took another sip on the way to the living room.

“You took your medication today, yes?” Carlos asked.

Charles let out a snort. “Yes. Otherwise I would have had a panic attack just then.”

He wished that was a joke.

Charles settled himself on the corner of the couch and invited Carlos to snuggle closer.

“I haven’t read my letter from him yet,” Carlos said as he crawled over the cushions, draping himself over Charles’s lap and using the armrest to support his head. “I have a feeling mine will be different than yours. Or maybe he truly is desperate.”

Charles used his free hand to card his fingers through Carlos’s dark hair. “What do you mean?”

Carlos looked up at him, doe-eyed and gorgeous as ever.

“Max treats you differently than he treats anyone else,” Carlos murmured. “I don’t know what he said to you, but…I don’t know. I think it would be very difficult for him to go against you.”

Heat rushed to Charles’s cheeks.

“I don’t think so. He’s done it before,” Charles said. “I don’t think he would hesitate if it stood between him and Daniel.”

He thumbed along the ridge of Carlos’s cheekbone, momentarily overcome.

A year ago, he loathed the idea of Carlos coming into his life. Now he didn’t know what he would do without him. They shared an honesty that hurt at times, but Carlos never made promises he couldn’t keep. He wasn’t afraid to admit his own potential for failure.

“Maybe not,” Carlos finally replied, eyes softening. “But he will have to think about why someone he trusts will not side with him.”

Charles swallowed thickly. He didn’t want to put Ferrari at risk. Ferrari sided with Ferrari—he couldn’t think of a time where they had made any kind of alliance with another empire not already affiliated with them.

Then again, he couldn’t think of a situation like this one. Princes were more visible than ever, and the empires had never been more important than they were now. The eyes of the world were trained on twenty royals, watching and waiting.

“I finally feel normal again,” Charles said softly, almost desperate. “I feel in control of myself. The medication is working, I can actually focus on Ferrari and you.”

Carlos smiled, turning his face to kiss the heel of Charles’s palm. “I would not mind more focus on me."

Charles laughed, ruffling Carlos’s hair. “Okay, I’ll make a note of it.”

Carlos smiled wider. “And it makes me very happy to hear that. I’ve been very worried about you, my love.”

My love. The words send sparks through his bloodstream. Charles let himself smile fully, eyes dimmed with affection.

“Whatever decision we make, we both need to be in it together,” Carlos said. “I don’t want us to be divided on this. If we can’t decide, we stay neutral. Okay?”

“Okay,” Charles replied, setting his coffee aside. “Now, as much as I’m sure you love laying on me while I’m sweaty, I need to shower.”

Carlos smirked at him. “Oh, I do love lying on you while you’re sweaty," he purred. "Preferably if you’re sweaty for other reasons.”

Charles rolled his eyes as he finished the lap sip of coffee. 

“Shower with me and maybe you can find one of those other reasons.”

 

 


 

 

Lando didn’t believe in magic. He didn’t even believe in destiny, really. People said his rise to royalty was a miracle, but those people didn’t see the way he killed himself on summer runs in the countryside and gave upon a normal life by the time he turned ten. He worked his ass off for a crown—all of them did.

And all of them were totally fucked up from it.

He didn't believe in magic, but when Lando woke up on September 20th, his world changed. There was no reason for it. Just a regular Monday.

But when he blinked the sleep from his eyes and found Daniel fast sleep beside him, snoring softly against the mattress, he realized he was in love with Daniel Ricciardo.

Like, actually in love.

Fuck.

Lando tried to ignore it as he went about his morning routine. He trained, did a few laps around the palace, hit the weight room, and popped into the simulator for a few hours. He ate lunch with Daniel and did his best not to smile too much or flirt or say hey, I’m actually in love with you.

Even though he kind of said it in Milan, this was different. He couldn’t tell Daniel in a private setting, just the two of them. Max would find out and skin him alive and probably make him into a doormat for the Red Bull palace.

Basically, Lando had to get himself to stop being in love with Daniel. Somehow.

Daniel made it really fucking difficult.

“Hey, is it cool if Max stays with us in Russia?” Daniel asked as he handed over a freshly blended smoothie that evening.

Lando took a long sip before answering. Peaches. “Yeah, fine by me. The whole weekend?”

If he spent less time with Daniel alone, maybe everything would work itself out. Lando told himself that the only reason he felt this way was because he hadn’t seen Carlos in awhile. If he made an effort to see him in Sochi, everything would go back to normal.

Whatever their fucked up normal was, anyway.

“Not sure,” Daniel said. “I was hoping you could write him and ask. Do you mind if he stays the whole weekend?”

Lando shook his head. “Not at all.” He lifted the smoothie. “Is there peach in here?”

Daniel beamed at him from across the kitchen. “There is peach. You like it?”

I love you.

Lando’s eyes went wide as he nearly spoke the words. He didn't, thank god, but for a second he thought he heard an echo. 

“Lando?” Daniel asked, brow furrowing. “Everything okay?”

“All good, mate,” Lando replied stiffly, shoving the smoothie straw back in his mouth. How could he not be in love with Daniel when he smiled so proudly over peaches in a smoothie? “S’really good, that’s all.”

“Aw shucks,” Daniel said around a laugh. “Sounds like this recipe’s a keeper.”

Lando hopped up from his barstool seat and headed into the living room to watch TV. He hadn’t seen the news in almost a week—McLaren kept them busy with media and press after Daniel’s win. They had to milk every drop of publicity from what Zak called an “unprecedented” win.

Lando tried not to remind anyone that he had more pace in those final two laps, but hearing story after story about Daniel’s triumph started to grate at him after a solid week of it.

“A busy week among royalty finally came to a close,” the TV hostess announced, a woman with massive boobs and a puffy smile. “The FIA’s swift reprimand of Prince Max Verstappen after last week’s crash in Monza has ignited controversy all over the empires.”

Lanod sipped more smoothie. The FIA has decided the crash was Max’s fault, and Max really did nothing to stop them from saying it. His post-crash radio message sounded possessed, and he stormed away from Lewis without so much as glancing at him. Dug his own grave, really.

Lando didn’t see any of that footage until they got back to McLaren, but he would have probably believed it if Max admitted to having an evil twin on track that day. The Max who ate half their pizza and got needy over Daniel didn’t seem anything like the hollow-eyed prince in the photographs.

“Red Bull has kept Prince Verstappen and Prince Perez largely out of the public eye since the incident, except to express their disappointment with the penalties awarded for Max’s involvement in the crash,” the host continued.

The camera cut to an interview of Max outside of the Red Bull palace. He looked uncomfortable in front of the camera—he always did—and Checo looked like he’d forgotten what planet he was on.

“The FIA makes these decisions, so I cannot refute them,” Max said. “The whole incident was unfortunate, but a three place grid penalty seems extreme. It seems as if the FIA may be trying to influence the results, but of course I can’t know that. It’s just a bit strange to me.”

Lando groaned. Leave it to Max to start picking fights with the FIA with only seven races left in the season.

“Checo’s gotta have his hands full,” Daniel said as he crawled onto the couch beside him. “I bet Christian was pissed about that.”

“—himself didn’t respond to comment" the TV commentary continued. "Prince George was designated as Lewis’s NOK, a decision still raising questions a week later.” 

the camera cut to  Valtteri, who looked as unfazed as ever as he boredly into the camera.

“I can understand why Lewis chose George,” Valtteri said. “I will hear the news about Lewis regardless of if I’m at the hospital or not. George would not hear for several days. I am not offended.”

A video of Sebastian appeared next. He spoke German as he all but loomed over the microphone, staring at the reporter with an expression a even a cobra might shy away from, it had so much venom.

“Prince Vettel was an excellent choice,” a man’s voice said over the video audio. “George knew that Sebastian would be able to relay any news to Mercedes citizens in perfect German, with nothing lost in translation. In moments like these, the slightest misstep in wording could send an entire empire into a panic.”

Daniel let out a snort on the other end of the couch.

“Of course, Mercedes citizens had little to fear. After a few tense hours, Prince Lewis was revealed to be in stable condition, but was kept in the hospital overnight in case of undetected injury,” the hostess continued as she appeared on TV again. “In fact, His Royal Highness arrived in New York City the next evening, looking fresh-faced and vibrant as ever at the Met Gala.”

Lando wrinkled his nose. He never understood why Lewis attended stupid events like a fashion show party thing. Standing around for photos had never appealed to him in any sense.

Photos showed Lewis giving his best blue steel to the camera, his suit buttoned over a lace, see-through undershirt that had what looked like a curtain hanging out from the button of the suit jacket on the left side.  Otherwise, he looked pretty much like Lewis always did.

“—eyed fans noticed Prince Hamilton’s outfit, and this week was full of speculation as to the hidden meaning behind everything from his diamond rings to the lace train of his undershirt.”

Lando rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone. “You’ve got to be kidding me. No one is actually talking about that.”

He searched Lewis Hamilton met gala outfit meaning.

Articles exploded on the screen.

The Meaning Behind HRH Prince Lewis Hamilton’s Cross Earrings

Is It Really a Coincidence Prince Lewis’s Lace Train Is On The Left Side?

Who’s Prince Lewis Showing Up For With No Wedding Ring?!?

Prince Lewis Hamilton Is Wearing His Diamond-Drenched Chain UNDER His (See-Through) Shirt, But It Does Not Restrain Our Thirst

Prince Lewis’s Suit Is Missing Seven Crowns…And His Arm Is Missing Prince George

“Can I see?” Daniel asked, extending a hand.

Lando had to tell himself to stop staring at Daniel's long fingers, the onyx and gold rings that glinted in the TV light.

Stop, Lando scolded himself as he handed over the phone.

“You good?” Daniel asked. “You’ve been quiet today, babe.”

Stop, stop, stop.

“I’m good,” Lando said, forcing himself to smile. “Woke up feeling weird. I’m good though, promise.”

Daniel nudged him with his foot. “Okay. I’m here if you need anything.”

He started looking through Lando’s phone and Lando breathed a silent sigh of relief as he turned his attention back to the TV.

“—clear that Prince Verstappen means to make a mark this season. I don’t see how he’s going to do that without a championship win,” a commentator said on the TV.

A man with a squashed nose nodded in affirmation. “Prince Hamilton will make that difficult for him. Mercedes has dominated the FIA for seven seasons. Red Bull had a chance to make change when Prince Vettel had that title, but we didn’t see all that much regulation change under Prince Sebastian.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s totally true,” the other man said. “Prince Sebastian made a point of not changing regulation, if you remember. The empires were a very different place back then—just ask Mark Webber.”

The men both laughed.

“Here,” Daniel said, tossing Lando the phone as he stood up from the couch. “I’m going to bed.”

“What?” Lando only caught the profile of Daniel’s face, but the calm had drained from it.

“Headache,” Daniel explained, then he shut the bedroom door.

Lando gaped after him, then unlocked his phone to the article Daniel left up on his screen.

 

 

Is It Really a Coincidence Prince Lewis’s Lace Train Is On The Left Side?

By Marsha Retjune

I’m in the camp that Prince Lewis Hamilton leaves nothing up to chance. The man shows up to the paddock immaculate. I don’t think I’ve even seen a food stain on his shirt—rumor has it he even changed the color of the Mercedes race suits to prevent dirt from appearing on the white of their overalls. Prince Lewis curates everything.

So I think he chose to let the bridal-veil-esque train of his undershirt flow down on the left side as a mockery of the FIA’s marriage rules. Back in the early days of his princedom, Prince Lewis made plenty of remarks about the absurdity of royal marriage law. He’s since quieted down since then (probably because he married his childhood sweetheart Nico Rosberg, but maybe that’s just my Nico crush resurfacing).

Choosing white lace in general was bound to evoke bridal imagery. Making it a see-through shirt (click here for some behind-the-scenes photos—just warning you, they are HOT) seems to be another indication that Lewis chose this outfit on purpose.

His wedding ring was notably missing from the ensemble, replaced with a dazzling diamond band that cost more than I make in a year.  A diamond cross hung from his ear on the left side also—religious imagery much? Conveniently hanging at the same level as his ‘God is Love’ tattoo?

Call me a conspiracy theorist, but this whole look is a message to someone. Who, you ask? Well, Lewis was also wearing some pretty, ahem, tall lifts on those dapper shoes of his. Perhaps trying to match the height of a certain British prince? (Jenson? Kidding—a girl can dream.)

 

Lando skimmed back through the article, but he didn’t see anything in it that would have caused Daniel to act so strangely. He opened his history just in case, but there wasn’t anything beyond his initial search. He tapped his way back to the article, scrolling through it once more until he caught sight of the linked articles at the bottom.

 

Reliving Our Favorite Royal Moments: Prince Daniel & Prince Max

From their awkward ribbon-tying ceremony to the bitter end, a walk down memory lane with the FIA’s all-time favorite couple.

 

Sadness crept into Lando’s heart, much like it had when George started crying in the garden in Milan. He didn’t tap on the article—frankly, he didn’t want to see what happiness looked like in Daniel’s younger days.

Lando’s two years with Carlos meant everything to him. He couldn’t imagine what it would have felt like to have him longer, to trade wins with him.

He locked his phone and grabbed Daniel’s abandoned smoothie and dimly wondered if Daniel had a special recipe for Max too.

He made a quick phone call to the palace kitchen and fished out two paracetamol from the first aid kit under the sink, just in case Daniel really did have a headache. He barely had the pills prepped before a soft knock at the door signaled the arrival of Daniel’s favorite cheat meal in the world: a fried chicken burger.

“You’re in luck, Your Royal Highness,” the sous-chef chuckled as he carried a covered plate inside. Lando could never remember his name. Phillip. Patrick. Something. “We made fish and chips as a menu item tonight, so we had the fryers going.”

Lando offered a polite smile around his smoothie straw. “Thanks, mate. Appreciate you getting it up here so fast.”

Now hurry off.

The sous-chef smiled and set the covered plate on the counter, setting the linen-wrapped utensils beside it.  

“Anything else, Your Highness?” Phillip Patrick Something asked.

“Just this, cheers.”

Lando’s phone buzzed with a text from Jon, his trainer.

FRIED CHICKEN BURGER?!?

He smirked down at the screen and let the read receipt answer for him as he pocketed his phone and uncovered the burger.

It did look pretty damn good. Smashed avocado, tomato, a perfectly breaded chicken breast, all tucked between a sesame seed hamburger bun.

With a bit of balancing, but Lando managed to carry both smoothies, the burger, and the paracetamol into the bedroom.

“Ta-dah,” he announced as he sidled his way past the door without dropping anything.

Daniel had his hood up where he leaned against the headboard, headphones in his lap. the fact that he didn't already have them on made worry twist in Lando's gut.

“Wha—is that a fried chicken burger?” Daniel asked, sitting up.

Lando grinned as Daniel went slackjawed. “It is. And it went on my diet plan, so you don’t even have to tell Michael. Jon’s already blowing up my phone.”

Daniel set his headphones aside and moved to hop out of bed.

“Stay right there,” Lando scolded as he came to Daniel’s side. “Not supposed to move around with a headache. At least, I think that’s what they say. Wouldn’t know, never had one.”

Daniel grinned at him as he rubbed his hands together. “You did not have to do this, but holy fuck, a fried chicken burger.”

Lando handed off the plate, smiling at the sight of Daniel’s eyes going from sad to sparkling. He deserved it—happiness. Lando found himself wishing he could give him as much as Max did.

 Lando set down the smoothie glasses before he sat on the edge of Daniel’s bed and offered him the paracetamol.

“If you need it,” Lando offered, glancing at the pills.

Daniel’s smile dimmed to something more affectionate. He shook his head.

“I’m good. Emotional headache, I guess,” Daniel said. He made a show of licking his lips and grabbed up his burger and took a huge bite.

“Oh mah gooood,” Daniel moaned with his mouth full of friend chicken. “Fuffin’ perfef.”

Smoothie nearly shot out of Lando’s nose as he burst out laughing.

“I’m glad,” Lando chuckled when he finally recovered. Daniel’s cheeks bulged with burger, making his grin all the more debilitating. Lando took a long sip of his smoothie.

Stop thinking about it. Stop being in love with him. Stop—

“I’m actually in love with you.”

Lando blinked. He still had smoothie in his mouth. He still had the smoothie straw in his mouth.

Daniel said it, not him.

Daniel smiled down at the burger in his lap, but it wasn't his usual smile. 

“Fuck. Sorry, Too much,” Daniel said hurriedly. “This was just, like, the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me.”

Lando let out a snort. “Letting you win was the nicest—”

“Shh. Let me have my moment,” Daniel interrupted. 

Since when had he become so damned handsome?

“I’ve been letting you have your moment for…eight days now,” Lando replied with a smirk.

Daniel’s smile twitched as he picked up the burger again.

Lando’s heart plummeted. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“Babe, it’s fine,” Daniel soothed. He put the burger back on the plate and reached out to squeeze Lando’s thigh. He looked like a kicked puppy. Lando didn’t know what heartbreak looked like in Daniel’s eyes, but brokenness was brokenness, and Lando had seen moments Max would never be able to stomach.

“I—”

Don’t say it. Not without Max.

Daniel stared back at him, brown eyes full of obvious care. Lando knew what that looked like, from Carlos. He knew what loved looked like, from Carlos. Lando had sworn he would never feel the same way for anyone else.

“It’s not the nicest thing I’ve ever done,” Lando managed to say. He folded his hand over Daniel’s, thumbing over his tattooed rose.

Lando had cradled Daniel’s head in his lap while his jeans soaked in Daniel's blood. Lando had sat with him in an empty shower as Daniel shook and shook and shook. He’d put away empty liquor bottles, pint glasses, and aluminum cans as Daniel slurred that he could stop whenever he wanted.

“No,” Daniel agreed quietly. “But I can tell Max about this one.”

Lando lifted Daniel’s hand to his lips. It was something Carlos would do, and Carlos was basically the most romantic person on the planet.

Except Daniel didn’t just sit there like Lando would have. He turned his hand, gently cupping Lando’s face before pulling him for a kiss that tasted like the best fried chicken burger in the whole damn world.

Lando pulled back a little, just enough to tuck his face into Daniel’s neck. He heard the clink of unused utensils as Daniel set the plate aside and pulled him in.

“Was it too much?” Daniel whispered, breath washing hot over his ear.

Lando shivered. “No.”

Lewis’s warning echoed in his head. Don’t get caught up in the magic.

Lando settled against Daniel’s chest, so different from Carlos, yet so familiar now.

I’m in love with you too, he almost said.

“Don’t go to sleep sad,” Lando murmured instead. “It’s bad for you. You’ll get frown lines.”

Daniel laughed low in his ear, wrapping him up tight in arms too thin but just as warm.

“Saying the words without saying them,” Daniel said, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I’ll take that. Love you too. ”

Lando’s face went hot. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be known.

Chapter Text

Grey skies welcomed them to Russia. George zipped his jacket up to his chin and shivered as he waited at the mouth of the Williams garage for someone—anyone—to tell him to go back to the hotel. Media day had come and gone, leaving George’s mouth dry from reciting his lines about Lewis’s health, his idea on why he’d been appointed as Lewis’s NOK, and how he planned to smooth things over with Valtteri and Nic.

Rain misted down the same way it had during practice. Not wet enough for wets, but enough to test the limits of their drive. George had welcomed the challenge—anything to distract him from the fact that his life had become a living nightmare.

He couldn’t trust anyone. Not with any of the things he so desperately wanted to talk about.

Lewis had woken up in the hospital too dazed to comprehend much of anything. If he noticed that George had opened the toiletry bag, he never said anything about it. Angela came to pick him up and Valtteri met them in the lobby for about a thousand photographs of the Mercedes husbands reuniting.

George decided not to say anything about the watches to Sebastian. He wished he had the balls to. He wanted to see what heartbreak looked like on that fat face of his.

But George couldn’t do it. Something warm and soft and shaped like Lewis wouldn’t let him.

You’re fucked.

The thought bounced around in his head all day, every day.  George simply couldn’t equate the ruthless, cruel man from the briefing room in Zandvoort to the man who held his hand at the hospital.

Lewis loved Sebastian. George saw it in the way he tried so hard to look like he wasn’t in love with him whenever George was around.

But Nico’s watch had been in the bag of things Lewis put aside for his own funeral. None of it made sense—he’d seen the hate in Lewis’s eyes when he watched the video of Nico talking about him at the Heineken party.

George didn’t know what any of it meant, but it made him hurt.

And he was so tired of hurting.

“Ah, George, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to go inside to find you.”

George closed his eyes as Mick approached.

“Wanna go on a walk with me?” Mick offered.

George opened his eyes to the face of a man who wanted to see him dead. Mick’s father had a lethal side, and his son clearly inherited it.

George sighed. “I—”

“Wasn’t a question,” Mick growled, grabbing him by the collar.

George tumbled alongside him, but once he regained his footing he shrugged out of Mick’s hold. “Christ, I’m coming. What the hell has Sebastian told you now?”

Mick shot him a look that made his blood run cold.

“I deleted the video,” George said, keeping his voice low. “I’m not against you, Mick.”

Mick let out a snort, but didn’t reply.

That hurt worse, somehow.

Mick led him to a small crowd of reporters. George didn’t recognize any of them, which meant they weren’t reporting on royalty. Royal reporters didn’t change credentials often.

Through the crowd he spotted a figure—

Oh fuck.

Callum Ilott stood at a lone microphone. He looked incredibly small for someone only slightly shorter than Mick.

“Coming into the final weekend of my three-race trial, it’s great to announce that I’ve been appointed as prince to the American empire, Juncos Hollinger, for a full year term,” Callum said. “Obviously, I have a steep learning curve with their cars, and I’ve spent the last few races trying to put everything together.”

Mick crossed his arms and George noticed the way he kept picking at his elbow, almost in time with the flexion in his jaw.

Callum looked around at the reporters and cleared his throat. He didn’t look in George’s direction, which meant he knew they were there.

“I look forward to continuing the work that has been done, and heading into this winter to start a new journey in America,” Callum continued. “I would like to thank Ferrari—the empire that has backed my bid for royalty for the past few years—for allowing me to take this opportunity.”

Mick stiffened. “I hope you’re happy, George.”

George watched as Callum put on a fake smile and stepped away from the mic. Yet another royal pushed away from a crown.

“Don’t pin this on me,” George snapped, turning to Mick. “I took a video. I had nothing to do with him getting an appointment in America.”

Mick would always have to live up to his name, his father. Legacy had advantages, but it also put a target on his back. George never would have been able to cope if Alex had been moved to America—though he supposed it wouldn’t have mattered since they never saw each other anyway.

“You helped,” Mick hissed. “That video started all of this.”

Mick turned to leave and George followed, tucking close to him to prevent anyone from listening in.

“Are you forgetting that video was planned? Kimi was supposed to watch out for you and he purposely let me by.”

“He wanted us to get caught, he didn’t plan on you taking video,” Mick said. “And don’t act like you had a change of heart and deleted it—Charles deleted it off your phone.”

George bit the inside of his cheek to keep from swearing. “I took that video to protect Charles. Because you, me, and Kimi were all there in the medical suite and I couldn’t have you running your mouth—”

“Well maybe you should have kept it then,” Mick said, turning to face him as he came to a stop at a doorway to an abandoned garage. “Charles was the one who suggested America.”

Oh fuck. Oh fucking fuck.

Mick nodded toward the open door and shoved George inside.

“Mick, you can’t—”

“I’m not stupid,” Mick said, cutting him off. Blond hair hung in his eyes, giving him a wildness—something feral. “I’m not going after Charles. But I’m not letting him side with Lewis in this mess. I know Sebastian isn’t innocent either, but I trust him. I’ll never trust Lewis.”

Anger sparked in George’s gut. He wanted to grab Mick by the ears and shake that pretty head of his. Sebastian lied more than anyone else George had ever met. It only took a few interactions with him for George to pick up on that.

Of course, Lewis lied too, but that was different.

He didn’t know exactly how to put it in words, but it was fucking different.

“Sebastian is a snake,” George snarled. “You really think Kimi came up with that plan all by himself? You really think Kimi cared enough?”

Mick laughed coldly. “Kimi cares a lot more than people think. He’s always hated Callum because—just like Seb—he thinks Callum is bad for me. I was ready to deal with both of them. They never hid their motives. Sebastian told me in advance he was going to try to get Callum placed in another group of empires.”

George couldn’t comprehend that. If Max had told him about wanted to exile Alex in advance, he would have beaten him bloody.

“Then you stepped in,” Mick growled. “I don’t know what kind of relationship you have with Lewis and Sebastian, but I hope you’re watching your back. If they really tricked you into taking that video, that means they don’t respect you, and—”

“What the hell do you want me to do, Mick?” George cried, surprising himself with how loud it came out.  “The video is gone, I’m marrying Lewis—that’s it! There’s nothing fucking left!”

Mick stared at him for a long moment, until a doorway at the other end of the garage creaked open to a slit.

“You can come in,” Mick said, his voice softer now.

Callum slipped into the empty garage, dried tears on his cheeks and his eyes puffy.

Mick left George without a word and hurried to meet Callum halfway, wrapping him in a tight hug.

“Sorry for crying,” Callum said. “It just really fucking hurts.”

“Don’t be sorry about anything,” Mick soothed, squeezing him tighter. “I’m right here, okay? I’m right here.”

Dread formed a lump in George’s throat. He saw himself and Alex standing there, sharing the moment they never had. Max ripped the opportunity away from them.

“Let’s get back to the hotel,” Mick said. “I made sure I got my own room. Nobody’s going to say anything, I promise.”

“Mick,” Callum replied, his voice muffled against Mick’s shoulder. “That’s way too risky.”

“I don’t care. So what if we get caught? The Americans don’t care. And the FIA can’t do anything to me.”

They can, George wanted to say.

“Don’t start talking like that,” Callum said as he pulled away. “You aren’t above everything. I’m not letting them have any ammunition against you.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t care,” Mick said, carding his fingers through Callum’s hair.

George caught the look in Callum’s eye. His heart dropped to his stomach.

There were a few positives in the way Alex had been ripped from his life. One of them being that he never had to see that look on Alex’s face.

He backed toward the door as Callum shook his head.

“It doesn’t affect you, but it affects me,” Callum said quietly. “If I ever want to come back, I can’t get caught with you—even if they pretend to turn a blind eye right now.”

George curled his fingers around the door handle.

Mick furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? I told you I’d protect you, nothing will—”

“You always say that, Mick,” Callum said, “and it just isn’t true.”

George slipped through the door before Callum’s face burned into his memory. He knew what the conversation would turn into next.  It gathered on the horizon like foreboding clouds, grey, black, and hollow.

George had seen the same clouds on his horizon once. Alex dissolved them into nothing but gentle rain.

 Alex always planned ahead. He was like George in the way he tended to put logic over feelings when it came to their relationship. They survived because they had the difficult conversations in advance: what does a breakup look like, how will we know when it’s over, what are the rules if we have to stay apart.

Alex never shied away from the worst. George always told him they would never have to deal with breaking up or moving on, because he could never see himself with anyone else. He loved Alex in a way he didn’t know how to name.

He still loved Alex in a way he didn’t know how to name—and now he wasn’t allowed to.

George barely made it into the hospitality lane when his phone buzzed with a text.

He fished his phone from his pocket and blinked in surprise when he saw Josts’s name on the screen.

You’re needed. LH motorhome.

Fear sent liquid ice up George’s spinal column. His breathing quickened and he immediately opened Twitter to see if anything had started trending in the fifteen minutes he’d been away from his phone.

Lewis had made it very clear that he wouldn’t hesitate to send Alex’s reputation up in flames if George did anything to insinuate Lewis and Sebastian were anything more than friends. Lewis would protect his relationship with Sebastian over anything else, no exceptions.

His name wasn’t trending, and nothing seemed to be amiss. George didn’t feel any less stressed. Lewis saw things before they happened.

George hurried toward the backlot, heart in his throat. He used to be excited to go see Lewis, buzzing with the thrill of what would happen when he finally saw each other.

Now, he dreaded it. Sometimes Lewis acted like everything was fine. Other times he stood there waiting with depthless eyes and ice in his mouth.

George took a deep breath in front of the motorhome and knocked three times.

Stay calm. Stay calm.

Alex hung in the balance. He had no choice.

“Come in, it’s unlocked,” Lewis called, his voice barely audible over the noise of the backlot.

George didn’t bother to look to see if anyone was watching. The whole paddock knew about them now.

“It’s me,” he announced as he stepped inside, locking the door behind him.

Sebastian appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Fuck,” George said.

Sebastian glared at him. “Lock the door.”

George locked the door and looked out at the backlot between the slats in the blinds. A few mechanics were on a smoke break nearby, chatting animatedly.

If he screamed, he doubted they would even hear him.

George took another breath and turned around, but Sebastian had vanished.

He walked up the stairs into Lewis’s motorhome—once a place he dreamed about when he closed his eyes. Now it made him sick to think about the conversations he’d shared with Lewis here, how near Sebastian must have been. How much Lewis must have thought of him while they were together.

“You’re overthinking it,” Lewis said from the couch.

George turned to see Lewis staring at him from where he laid out on the couch cushions with a strange plastic contraption under his neck. Sebastian sat on the floor next to him, massaging one of Lewis’s hands with his thumbs.

“I’m not overthinking anything,” George muttered.

“You’re thinking about our conversations here,” Lewis said. “Those were real, George.”

George let out a snort.

“So was Austria,” Lewis added.

George bit his tongue to keep from laughing. Sebastian shot Lewis a look that Lewis ignored.

“We don’t have to keep doing this,” George said quietly. “I accepted the terms and I take my duty seriously. I’m not going to betray either of you. I would never put Alex at risk.”

“Again,” Sebastian said. “You would never put Alex at risk again.”

George grit his teeth. Sebastian smiled at him with hate in his eyes.

“Babe,” Lewis warned.

George’s heart mangled itself at the pet name. He’d never heard Lewis call Sebastian anything other than ‘love.’

Lewis moved to sit up, then his face pinched with pain.

“Lie down,” Sebastian scolded as he scrambled to his knees. “Angela said an hour, so you’ll lie there for an hour.”

Lewis only grunted in reply and eased himself back onto the neck stretcher. George hated that his heart twinged at the sight of Lewis struggling.

“Was it practice?” George asked. “That’s what caused your neck to hurt again?”

Lewis pushed out a breath. “Yes. It’s the most annoying pain I’ve ever felt. I can’t carry my own skull.”

Lewis barely survived the Met Gala. George had been notified of a private physician sent to Lewis’s hotel suite in New York, and he’d been on the FaceTime call during the doctor’s visit, holed up in his closet while Nic indulged himself with Nutella and graham crackers and a Jane Austen audiobook. Or something. George didn’t ask when he saw Nic with his AirPods in.

“Well, I’ll try not to keep you,” George said, eyeing Sebastian as he sat on the edge of the couch now, hands in his lap and worry written all over his face. “Jost said I was needed.”

“You’re never needed,” Sebastian said under his breath.

“Seb, stop,” Lewis growled. “I can’t believe you’re jealous right now, man. It’d be funny if my neck didn’t hurt so fucking much.”

“Excuse me for finding a pay prince annoying,” Sebastian replied. “I know he can’t help it—it’s born into them. But I won’t sit here and take it like you can.”

“How am I being annoying when I was asked to come here?” George snapped.

Sebastian leveled a glare at him. “I agree, it should be impossible. Yet you always manage to find a way.”

Lewis took Sebastian’s hand and gave it a squeeze. Sebastian’s gaze softened immediately as he turned his attention back to Lewis.

George was ready to march across the room and slap Sebastian across the face.

“I would really appreciate it if you could explain this in a positive way,” Lewis said, thumbing over Sebastian’s knuckles. “Or at least a kind way, love. Please. For me.”

“You specialize in making my life difficult, I hope you know,” Sebastian said in a voice that made George’s skin crawl. Fondness sounded so gross when it was spilling out of that mouth. Maybe it was the accent.

Sebastian leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Lewis’s nose. Lewis scrunched it in response before tipping his chin up to kiss the side of Sebastian’s mouth, though he winced as he did it.

“Thank you,” Lewis murmured.

Sebastian’s fondness vanished when he finally looked at George again.

“I don’t know about kindness, but I’ll tell you the truth,” Sebastian began. “This is a test. Your test, and Alex’s test.”

George’s throat closed. He looked at Lewis, pleading.

He’d done everything Lewis asked. He didn’t even complain anymore, not unless they were in the privacy of the motorhome or the safety of a hotel room.

Lewis frowned at him. “Max is waging war, George. We have to make sure our defenses are airtight. Alex is the weak link right now.”

“And what about Charles?” George blurted out.  “Ferrari hasn’t taken a side. Charles always sides with Max—he can’t help it. And Sebastian doesn’t seem to have a problem with that.”

“Charles will be handled,” Sebastian said matter-of-factly.

“Handled?” George let out a noise of disgust. “He’s not an idiot. He’s going to—”

“If he sides with Max, he’ll learn what it means to make the wrong choice for Ferrari,” Sebastian replied. “I think he’s fully aware of what siding with Red Bull means. The fact that he hasn’t made any moves to side with them proves it.”

“Don’t forget Carlos,” Lewis added, folding his hand over Sebastian’s hip and giving it a squeeze.

“That’s on you, my love,” Sebastian replied, smiling down at him. “Unless you’d like my help?”

Lewis closed his eyes. “I might need it. Or maybe George can help. He’s close with Lando.”

George willed himself not to be afraid. “Lando is tied up in this?”

Lewis flicked his eyes open. “He made a move that wasn’t very bright. So we helped him course correct.”

George didn’t want to know what that meant. Lando could be fucking stupid, but tangling himself up in a fight with Lewis would be career suicide.

“I’ll handle Lando,” Lewis finally said. “My plan is already in motion, it just needs more time.”

“So, anyway,” Sebastian said, turning his attention to George again. “Alex. We need to make sure Red Bull isn’t using him to relay information to Max.”

“I don’t see how he could, considering I haven’t seen him since the engagement ceremony,” George said.

He could still see the summer light playing against the gleam of Alex in a Williams crown, his face hidden in shadow, his eyes warm and full of love.

“He’s at Williams right now, waiting for you,” Lewis said quietly. “Horner was all too happy to send him over when Jost asked to see him.”

George’s heart beat wildly against his ribcage. The hair on the back of his neck prickled with fear, and an impeding sense of doom descended on him as if Lewis had just told him Alex would die.

He couldn’t imagine what Alex was thinking in that moment, waiting for him in a drivers’ room. He probably thought something was wrong. Maybe he was afraid too.

“You need to tell him I’m taking an engine penalty,” Lewis said. “It won’t be announced until right before the race.”

“I thought I was handling this?” Sebastian butted in, smirking. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“You were going to be mean, love. I can see it in your face,” Lewis replied, eyes fond.

George could hardly breathe. “I don’t understand. Why do I need to tell him that?”

“If Alex relays that information to Max, I’ll hear about it,” Sebastian explained. “We aren’t telling this information to anyone else, so we’ll be able to identify the source.” He shrugged. “That is, unless you would be willing to risk Alex by telling another…friend of yours.”

George swallowed hard. “You won’t be able to prove it’s from Alex. Anyone could start a rumor—”

“The chain of information at Red Bull follows a strict hierarchy,” Sebastian interrupted. “Max doesn’t hear anything unless it’s from another prince, or the information has been vetted by Red Bull from a reliable source. If they’re using Alex to spy, that’s a reliable source.”

“If you’re so involved, shouldn’t you know already if they’re planning to do that?” George asked, crossing his arms. “Since they still worship you or whatever the fuck?”

George trusted Alex not to tell secrets that could affect their personal lives. But he remembered the fear in Alex’s eyes when he spoke about Red Bull. The fact that he’d been willing to refuse a crown to avoid them scared George more than anything else.

Sebastian cocked his head. “There are certain questions you don’t ask when you’re no longer ruling an empire. I’m also smart enough that I don’t have to ask them—that’s what we have you for.”

Lewis sighed from his spot on the couch. “George, this isn’t personal. I know it feels like it, but we need to find the weak links.”

“So what if he does tell?” George asked, desperation leaking into his voice. “What are you going to do to him?”

Lewis blinked at him. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Having a known spy is useful,” Sebastian said, gently rubbing his knuckles over Lewis’s bicep. “It will allow us to decide what information gets to Red Bull, so we’ll—”

“If you say ‘control the narrative,’ I’m going to punch someone,” George snarled.  “We’re not in a movie. Our lives aren’t a story—you’re asking me to use Alex. He’s the love of my life and I’m not going to hurt him. This counts as hurting him. I’m not going to set him up.”

Alex would never forgive him. He couldn’t stand to see the look in Alex’s eyes if he ever found out that George fed him information with the sole intention of finding out if he was a spy. He could already hear the hurt in his voice.

You don’t trust me?

“Okay,” Lewis said evenly. “I’ll ask him to leave, then. We’ll keep him away from the paddock for the rest of the season so he doesn’t get mixed up in this. We’ll keep him safe from it.”

Pain lanced through his core, a molten blade. George lurched, fighting the suffocation as his body warred with his mind.

The thought of not seeing Alex until the end of the season made him hurt so much he nearly cried out.

“No,” George said quietly. “Please. I’ll talk to him, I’ll tell him.”

Sebastian smiled, but Lewis didn’t.

“You have to let him spend the night with me,” George demanded, finding his courage. “He’ll be suspicious otherwise. Or he won’t pay attention because he’ll be so—”

He cut himself off.

“Because I’ll be too scared,” he amended. “I’ll be too scared to say goodbye to him. He’ll see right through me.”

Lewis looked at him for a long time. George tried not to cry as he stared back.

“I’ll make it happen,” Lewis finally promised. “You can still trust me, George. I won’t let you down.”

George turned his face away. Guilt rose up inside him, festering and bubbling, thick like tar.

“This is what it means to be powerful,” Sebastian said, his face stone. “Consider yourself lucky this first test is so minor.”

Lewis took Sebastian’s hand and squeezed tight. George pretended not to notice the pain in the gesture, worn in like the calluses on their palms.

Chapter Text

Finding his fiancé sitting on the sofa in his private room would be normal for most people, but Nic didn’t have the luxury of normalcy as a prince of Williams.

“Hey Nicky,” Alex greeted, offering a reserved smile.

“George isn’t here,”  Nic blurted out instead of replying properly.

“Oh. Is he coming soon?”

Alex looked different than Nic remembered him from the lower court days. Nic had the same thought every time he saw him, but something tugged at him each time. Alex seemed more delicate somehow. More breakable.

Nic glanced behind him into the inner hallways of the hospitality suite. A few Williams race team officials strode through with their headsets on, but no one seemed to be in any hurry.

“Are you…supposed to be here?” Nic asked as he stepped fully inside his and George’s drivers’ room.

“I’m allowed to be here, yeah,” Alex replied. “Christian sent me over. I guess Jost asked for me. But when I talked to Jost, he said George would meet me here. So I’m here.”

Discomfort rippled through him. Nic never liked it when heads of government involved themselves with their personal lives. Usually that only meant bad things.

“I’ll text him and see where he’s at,” Nic offered, fishing his phone from his pocket.

You have a visitor from Red Bull. Where are you?

“Is George doing okay, Nicky?” Alex asked.

Nic looked up from his phone, his throat tight.

“He’s stressed,” he explained. “There’s been a lot of pressure on him recently.”

George didn’t talk as much anymore. He occupied the same physical space, yet had diminished himself so much that Nic had no idea what to do about it. He couldn’t even pinpoint the change to an exact moment. One day George was screaming horrible karaoke from the shower, the next he couldn’t get out of bed.

“He seemed weird when I saw him last,” Alex said, picking at the inside of his palm. “I’ve never seen him like that. Usually he overcompensates with confidence when he’s upset. He wasn’t acting like that in Germany.”

Nic frowned and moved to sit beside Alex on the sofa. He didn’t really know how to comfort the guy he was engaged to—the guy who also happened to be his husband’s true love. George didn’t like for Nic to tell any of his secrets, especially not when it came to Alex.

“I think Germany was a weird situation,” Nic finally replied. “He’s, um—If I had to guess, it probably doesn’t feel real that you’re going to be around again. A year is a long time to be apart—not that I need to tell you that. But George has grown up a lot.”

Alex swallowed hard. He didn’t look the least bit comforted.

Awesome. Strike one for Nicholas Latifi.

“Nobody—” Alex cut himself off, his mouth twisting up. “There’s not a chance someone, like, assaulted him, right?”

Nic’s eyes blew wide. “What? No. No way. He would have told me.”

Alex nodded feebly. “Are you sure?”

Nic wracked his brain. He knew George. George would have said something. And he couldn’t imagine anyone being so vile in the paddock, especially with Lewis as George’s partner.

But he saw how Alex might think differently. Especially if Red Bull wanted him to.

Nic shook his head. “George would have said something. He’s—You’re right, he’s acting weird. But not that kind of weird. When it’s just me and him, he’s okay, I promise.”

Not entirely true.

Fuck.

“He would have said something,” Nic repeated, but he knew it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “He knows I would have his back.”

A buzz answered him in reply.

“Oh fuck,” Alex muttered, digging his vibrating phone out of his pocket. He answered it, the worry still etched on his face. “Hello?”

“You still over at Williams?” Christian Horner asked through the tinny phone speakers.

“Yeah,” Alex replied, smoothing creases in his pants.

“Well, I have good news and bad news,” Christian said.

Nic’s phone began to buzz in his pocket. He glanced at Alex, who started to chew on his bottom lip.

“Hello?” Nic answered.

“Nicky, hey,” George greeted. “Is Alex there with you?”

“Yeah, I’m sitting right next to him,” Nic replied. “Where are you?”

“Coming. I’ll be right there. Is he okay?”

Nic frowned. “You know, he just asked me the same thing about you.”

“That’s—really?” Alex asked into his phone, furrowing his brow. “Can I ask why?”

“Is he okay or not, Nicky?” George asked, breathing hard into the phone. An incessant clacking noise indicated he was running.

“He’s fine, George,” Nic said, watching Alex’s face. His eyes trailed, processing information.

“I’m hanging up, I’ll be there in a sec,” George said.

The line went dead before Nic could respond.

“—can’t let Mercedes order us around,” Christian said on the other end of Alex’s line. “But we did say we’d loan you out when they want you, so that’s the compromise.”

“That still doesn’t answer why,” Alex said quietly.

“Don’t play stupid, Alex,” Christian scolded. “Prince George wants some alone time with you.”

“Yes, but—”

“Don’t question it,” Christian interrupted. “Be thankful for the opportunity and make yourself useful. Jesus, I didn’t think I’d have to walk you through this.”

“Sorry,” Alex said hurriedly. “It just seems a little strange.”

“Good thing you weren’t appointed for your opinion. I’ll see you in a few, Albon.”

Silence hung in the air after Alex pulled the phone from his ear.

Nic never had any desire to join Red Bull. Maybe as a teenager, when they were plucking talent from the pool and dazzling everyone with sponsorships, money, and supposed security. They approached him once, but his dad didn’t like the way they talked about money.

People who provide everything are the ones who take the most.

A muffled thump sounded at the door and George shoved himself into the room a second later, slightly damp and breathing hard.

“Is it raining?” Nic asked.

George only had eyes for Alex, but he nodded. “Starting to, yeah.”

“Hey,” Alex greeted, but he didn’t stand up.

“You’re spending the night,” George said as he closed the door behind him. “They’re kicking Lance and Seb out of the connecting suite and—”

“I’m not, actually,” Alex said, softening his voice. “Christian just called me. I’m staying with you tomorrow night.”

“No,” George said, shaking his head. “I was just with Lewis and he said—”

“I just got off the phone with Christian, George. I’m not staying tonight.”

“But—”

“Mercedes asked,” Alex said. “Red Bull compromised.”

George’s jaw went taut. “So you’re staying tomorrow. After qualifying. The night before a race.”

“I don’t really understand why I’m spending the night at all,” Alex returned, keeping his voice even in a way that made Nic’s hair stand up on the back of his neck.

Nic glanced between them. They didn’t argue like he and Sandy argued. Their conflict crept, a cat stalking through the brush. Fangs hidden behind droopy whiskers.

Old people fighting.

“I asked, that’s why,” George said. He crossed his arms, but the guy couldn’t look intimidating to save his life. His proportions were too ridiculous.

Alex pursed his lips in something close to a frown, but it was more disappointed than sad. “And you don’t think that’s a bit reckless?”

Darkness billowed in George’s eyes. Nic’s heart shrank in his chest.

The George he married never looked at anyone like that. Not unless they went after someone he loved.

“I need to talk to you, Alex,” George said, every syllable sharp on his tongue.

George never used Alex’s name like that.

“And that’s my cue,” Nic said, hopping up from the couch.

He stepped between Alex and George, looking over his husband.

“Stupid question, I know—but should you and I talk first?” Nic asked.

George simply glared at him.

“Okay then,” Nic sighed. “I’m going to catering.”

He almost left George with a warning not to do what he always did (which was making things worse), but decided against it. George had been with Alex since secondary school. Nic knew he didn’t have a place in their fight.

 So he ventured out to catering, where the members of the race team greeted him with handshakes and warm smiles. Nic found himself an espresso and a chicken salad and took a seat with his engineering team.

“I’ve talked to some of the McLaren guys—you remember Matt?” Colby, one of Nic’s pit crew asked.

“Love Matt,” Ali, another pit crewmember, replied.

“Yeah, well, he said there’s some weird shit going on around there,” Colby said.

“There’s weird shit going on everywhere,” Ali replied around a sip of soda. “Red Bull and Mercedes are dragging everyone into this royal mess.” He grimaced. “Sorry, Your Highness.”

Nic laughed, waving him off. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Red Bull’s fucked, mate,” Colby said, spearing a piece of cooked veggies. “They poached Zack last season and I swear he unfriended me on Facebook because they told him to.”

Ali nodded. “Same with Silvia from the factory. Second she got placed on Prince Verstappen’s team, it was like she dropped off the face of the earth. Mercedes isn’t much better. Those McLaren guys do some shady shit too.”

Nic chewed on a bite of chicken. He liked his team—this was probably the only conversation in the world where he could sit unnoticed.

“Wait until Ferrari makes a decision,” Colby muttered. “Those guys are all pricks anyway, but I can’t imagine what they’ll do if Leclerc takes a side.”

Ali shrugged. “I dunno. I think it’ll be worse if they don’t take a side. Toto doesn’t fuck around with bystanders.”

Colby let out a snort. “Tell that to Valtteri Bottas. The guy makes a living standing in Lewis’s shadow and not saying a word.”

Nic finished his salad as Colby and Ali argued about whether or not Valtteri was getting shafted at Mercedes. He moved to sip the last of his espresso when his phone buzzed with a text from George.

Alex is gone. Come back.

Nic shot up from his chair so fast that it nearly toppled.

George never texted him so curtly.

“Sorry boys, gotta go,” Nic announced as Colby and Ali looked up at him, startled.

He dumped his dishes and hurried back to the drivers’ room. He didn’t even knock before he entered.

Thankfully, George wasn’t crying. He sat bunched up in the corner of his cot, knees tucked to his chest.

Silence hung between them for a long moment, and all of the color seemed to drain from the room. George looked like he might be ill.

“Am I a bad person, Nic?” George finally asked.

Nic sat down beside him and pulled him into a hug, squeezing tight. He smelled like rain and stale sweat.

“You’re definitely not a bad person,” Nic assured him, patting George’s shoulder. “You’ve got a lot going on. Like, a million things nobody our age should have to deal with. But you’re not a bad person.”

George took a shaky breath. Nic realized he could feel his ribs though his shirt. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d seen George eat a proper meal.

“I do bad things though,” George said quietly, his eyes hollow. “Sometimes, I do bad things.”

 

 


 

 

Rain pounded on the tarmac outside of the Ferrari garage. Practice had been cancelled without much of a fight, but qualifying still looked to be on schedule, though wet. Charles soaked up the time with Carlos and the team fee from the pressure to perform, happy that they didn’t have to go back to the hospitality suite just yet. They had plenty to do before qualifying. That was his excuse, anyway.

In reality, Charles wanted few more minutes with Carlos all to himself in the garage.

“I don’t like not knowing how the track will be,” Carlos said, his low voice vibrating against Charles’s ear. “But we’ll have good pace, I think.”

“You worry too much about things you can’t control,” Charles murmured, keeping his eyes closed. They’d stayed up a bit too late the night before. And the night before that.

“I’m not worried,” Carlos corrected. “Frustrated. I’m frustrated.”

“You’re frustrated because of some rain?” Charles teased, opening one eye. “Calm down.”

Carlos sighed and Charles took the opportunity to nuzzle closer. He smiled when Carlos’s lips brushed his temple.

They were so good together.

“As much as I would love to stay here, I want pasta,” Carlos said after a moment, rubbing Charles’s back. “Want to go together?”

Charles sat up with a yawn and shook his head. “I’ll pass. I don’t feel like talking to anyone right now.”

Going to team catering would mean fans, team members, and royal guests lining up in droves. He liked quiet for as long as possible before getting into the car.

Carlos reached over, messing with his hair. “You should eat. I’ll box some up for you.”

Charles shot him a look. “What are we, American?”

He smiled as Carlos leaned in and met him for a kiss. He tasted a bit like stale coffee, but in a Carlos way. The way only a husband could taste.

“I love you,” Charles murmured, brushing noses with him before pulling away.

“I love you too,” Carlos said as he stood up. “Don’t wander far.”

Charles waved him off and got to his feet. A few mechanics puzzled over data at the monitors, but most people had the same idea to grab food while they could. Charles waved to the mechanics before heading out into the pit lane, forgoing an umbrella.

He tucked his chin into his collar and listened to the patter of rain against his hood as he walked. People huddled in garage openings, whispering to each other as they looked at the sky.

Russia carried an atmosphere of prickling unease. Political strife in local government and a disdain for the royal marriage arrangements made it a race that even the FIA seemed keen to get over with.

The brackish depths of the Black Sea blended into the dark clouds on the horizon, punctuated by oddly-shaped buildings with white, sloping roofs. Ghosts from the Sochi Winter Olympics seven years prior. The whole city felt like an abandoned theme park, though there were tourists everywhere.

“Off to plot by yourself?”

Evidently the buildings weren’t the only ghosts.

Charles turned around as Max strode up to him, jaw clenched tight.

Max looked thinner than he remembered. Or maybe his rain jacket changed the shape of him.

“Avoiding the crowd,” Charles replied evenly. “What are you doing out here? I thought you would have some media fight to pick with Lewis.”

Max’s mouth twitched as he nudged Charles with his shoulder. “Kind of you to bring him up.”

Charles glanced down the pit lane, but there were no princes to save him.

Fine.

Max made quick work of a gate latch and ushered Charles past into the emergency lane. A few golf carts spewed water as they passed, but the stewards on board were too busy talking on the phone to pay them any mind.

“Have you made a decision?” Max asked, straight to the point.

“No. We’re playing this close to the chest,” Charles replied. “I’m not choosing you just because we had something once.”

Max shot him a look over his shoulder. “Once.”

Anger sparked in Charles’s gut, but he forced it down.

Max kicked a piece of gravel and Charles watched as it skittered across flattened grass.

“What do you really want, Max?” Charles asked. “Suddenly this is all so important to you—why?”

Max had been married to Daniel three years ago. He never went after the FIA back then, and certainly not after a prince as powerful as Lewis.

Max slowed until they were walking side by side. Charles could feel the tension radiating off him, though his face had a bland, almost vacant expression.

“We used to talk about the life we would live after this,” Max said.

Charles remembered the conversations. Two boys talking who had no idea what real life meant. Picking out houses and a garage full of cars and deciding who would handle what as they raised future world champions together.

Most young boys didn’t think about the future. That was what Jules said to him once. Princes thought about the future all the time.

They never thought about the after.

“We were stupid kids,” Charles finally replied.

“Now we’re ignorant adults,” Max said. “Ignoring the future won’t stop it from happening, Charles. We’re only one mistake away from losing our crown at any given time.”

“You don’t need to talk to me about the fragility of life,” Charles snapped.

Max worked his jaw. He used to do the same thing after races as he paced the karting garages, mentally berating himself so his father didn’t have to do it for him.

“Well, I think about after,” Max said. “Since Silverstone, I think about it more.”

The rain hissed against the bumpy tarmac of the emergency lane.

“I want to have Daniel with me when I retire,” Max continued. “And I don’t want to have to torture him by pretending I’m in love with somebody else until then.”

Charles wondered if Daniel’s name would always taste rotten in his mouth. He had Carlos now—he had happiness now—and yet a part of him ached whenever Max talked about Daniel being so important to him.

“So where does Lando fit in?” Charles asked. “I saw you sneaking around the hospitality lane last race.”

A fracture broke in Max’s perfect façade. He swallowed hard, hands curling to fists at his sides.

“I always wondered if you lied to me back then,” Charles continued. “But I told myself you could never lie that well. You loved me too much to ever risk losing me.”

“I wasn’t sucking face with him, if that’s what you’re implying,” Max snapped.

“Back then, or now?”

Max stopped abruptly, wheeling to face him. His cheeks turned red with anger as he came in close, but Charles kept his face stone and his eyes icy. He didn’t flinch.

“If you want to accuse me of cheating, back then, you’d better do it,” Max snarled. “I loved you more than anything. I would have done anything for you.”

“Not anything,” Charles reminded him, watching as rage came to a boil in Max’s eyes. He lifted a hand, gently drawing his thumb over the line of Max’s jaw, looking over his stubble as if it were a piece of fine art.

When they met eyes again, Charles grit his teeth.

“I’m not Lando,” Charles warned. “Remember that next time you try to love me into doing what you want.”

Max’s lips softened from their snarl. For a moment, Charles thought Max might kiss him. Rain beat on their faces, seeping into their skin. The steady downpour fit them now. Unpredictable, cold.

“Lando knows,” Max said. “He knows I love Daniel the most, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love him too.”

“Jesus Christ, Max,” Charles hissed, turning away.

No wonder Lando didn’t look for Carlos anymore. He had Daniel during the week and his childhood crush on weekends.

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Max said, jumping on the defense.

Charles let out a snort and started walking again. Puddles formed at the base of every metal fencepost, churning as rain continued to pour.

Lando wasn’t the child everyone portrayed him to be, but he used that perception to his advantage in the royal circle. In his private life, though, Lando didn’t have the same upbringing. His love life was more of a mess than his cluttered flats, and Carlos had been his first real relationship. Charles was pretty sure Carlos had taken Lando’s—

Oh god, Sochi.

The realization hit Charles so hard he stopped walking. They stood on a small rise, high enough that he could see the frothing waves beyond, the looming buildings.

“It feels empty to you too, doesn’t it?” Max asked from behind him.

There used to be so many lights. Explosions of color, like fireworks painted over every surface. Flags waved from all over the world, flying even eight months after the Olympics. A feeling of unity, worldliness, a sense that they were really growing up.

“Like something’s missing,” Max continued, coming to a stop beside him, hands in his pockets.

Pink and blue on Max’s face in the dark of a hotel room, vodka and orange juice. The fear and anticipation, Max’s fingers on his bare skin, birthday cake.

Vanilla instead of chocolate.

Charles looked out at the remnants of Olympic Village, dancing through the memories so fast they blurred into one track—Max’s lips against his as they tried to learn what sex was.

“Don’t do this,” Charles said, suddenly desperate. “Have Lando on your side, but don’t let him fall in love with you when you don’t love him back.”

“I can’t control what he feels,” Max said, looking down his nose at the sea.

Charles creased his brow, looking over to him. “Yes, you can,” he said slowly. “You absolutely can, Max.”

Max’s nostrils flared, the only indication of his pain.

“You’re going to hurt him,” Charles continued, softening his tone. “You know that, right? You know how much he liked you when we were younger. You know how he is.”

Lando always treated Max like a treasure. His eyes sparkled whenever Max showed up at his karting garage, and saved all of his secrets for Max’s ears.

“You love Daniel,” Charles said, the words thick in his mouth. “So don’t pretend you love Lando too.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Max hissed. “The three of us work. It works.”

Charles gaped at him. “So it’s the three of you? Daniel is in on this too?”

“Not everything is a plot!”

Max’s voice rattled off the chain link fences around them, filling Charles with a kind of pain he had no name for.

Charles shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No, Max. You’re in it now. No matter what you do, someone’s getting hurt. We both know it’s going to be Lando, because you could never do that to Daniel.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m some villain,” Max said. Charles saw the fear in his eyes, hiding there behind the blue. “Not when you do it all the time.”

Charles set his jaw. “Do what all the time?”

Max stared at him for a long moment.

Seven years ago, Charles had hidden himself among the throngs of tourists, waiting for a chance to be this close to him.  He could still feel a flicker of the warmth that had been all-encompassing back then, a warmth that filled him up when he saw Max’s bright-eyed smile.

He still remembered their first meeting that weekend, when Max squeezed him tight and swung him around in circles. All of the anxiety from travel made worth it when he heard Max’s laugh in his ear, the whispered happy birthday.

“You love someone, then leave them behind,” Max finally said.

The memory vanished to blackness.

Charles seethed. “Tu es sérieux, putain?”

“Sebastian, Pierre—when do you do it to Carlos?” Max asked.

Rage didn’t begin to describe the emotion surging in Charles’s veins. The person in front of him seemed to be wearing Max’s body, using his voice, but didn’t seem like the real Max at all.

“You left me,” Charles snarled. “Sebastian was ripped away from me. Pierre cheated on me. I haven’t forgottenanyone.”

Max opened his mouth to speak, but Charles beat him to it.

“And I would never hurt Carlos, which is exactly why I’m telling you to stop messing with Lando,” Charles cut, jamming a finger into Max’s chest. “If you want to go to war with Ferrari, I’ll bring it to you.”

Max glowered at him, smacking his hand away. “You wouldn’t pick a side just because of Lando.”

“If you plan on hurting him to get a championship, I will,” Charles growled.

“I care about him,” Max said. “I’m not going to hurt him.”

Charles couldn’t take this conversation anymore.

“Well,” he said stiffening up. “It’s nice to hear you’ve changed.”

With that, Charles marched back toward the gate, away from Olympic Village and the boy who once loved him there. The clouds billowed, the rain poured, Max never really loved him.

Nothing new.

Chapter 100

Notes:

a hundred chapters! have a ridiculously long chapter to celebrate.

Chapter Text

Rain slicked the plastic of Lando’s visor, blurring his vision of the track. His steering wheel LCD screen showed purple, but he didn’t let a stupid color dictate his lap. Everything could be lost in one corner, especially in the wet.

He swore he could see the rooster tail of Carlos’s Ferrari up ahead, but Lando told himself he was seeing things. Rain had a way of disorienting drivers—but not him. He knew how to drive in rain. He’d put in the hours. He’d probably trained it more than Carlos, despite fewer years behind the wheel.

The car sucked Lando back into the seat as he whipped his way through the first chicane of Sector 3, but he didn’t lose grip. He could never explain to normal people how he came to form a relationship with a piece of machinery, but as he balanced himself in the seat, the car seemed to shift with him to compensate.

Driving in rain went against everything a driver had been trained to do. He had to brake much earlier—hundreds of meters in some cases—in order to make the same shape in a corner. The tires he relied on no longer wanted to stick to the road.

But Lando knew how to turn a change into a positive. The tires weren’t worse, just different. Running versus ice skating.  

It’s my day.

He stomped the throttle toward turn 17, then put on the brakes almost immediately, guiding the car into the ninety-degree corner while avoiding the curb. Rain changed curbs from helpful to destructive.

He knew Carlos has a fast lap. Will would have come on the radio to tell him otherwise.

I’m faster.

Lando could feel it in his bones, grinning to himself as he slid through the final corner and eased on the throttle as the car rose to meet him.

The crowd roared.

For once, it didn’t scare him.

“Mate, that’s pole!” Will shouted into his ear. “Absolutely spectacular lap. That was killer! You did it!”

McLaren orange appeared on the pit wall fence as Lando let out a cheer. Happiness welled up in his chest, vivid and carbonated.

Pole position in the wet. An honor that would take him up a few notches in everyone’s playbook. He was no pay prince. He had fucking skill behind the wheel.

He couldn’t wait to celebrate with Car—

With Daniel.

Everything blurred after Lando managed to park the car in parc fermé. He shook the rain from his hair and smiled for the cameras, hugged his team, held up his pole position trophy with pride. He shook hands and accepted hugs, but none of them mattered.

“Half a second faster than Carlos,” Will said, slapping him on the back.

Lando tried not to smirk. Carlos always claimed he was best in the wet, now he had proof otherwise.

“There he is!” Lando cried when he saw George, who had somehow managed to take third.

George beamed at him, pulling him into a tight hug. “Congratulations, mate.”

“Seems like you should get a trophy for getting that shitbox through a lap,” Lando teased.

George cuffed him over the head. “Could’ve had second.”

“Woulda shoulda coulda,” Lando fired back, dodging another jab. “Where did Lewis finish?”

George cringed a little. “Fourth. He hit the pit wall—or so I heard.”

Lando’s mouth dropped open. “He hit a mechanic earlier—what the fuck is going on with him?”

Lewis didn’t make mistakes, let alone two in one day.

George frowned. “Not sure.”

“Must be the pressure,” Lando said. “Max is the same.”

“He is?”

Lando nodded, scanning the crowd behind George.

He’d barely seen Daniel all weekend, even though they were sharing the same hotel suite. He kept stealing away with Max, going out onto the balcony with him and having long discussions with serious faces. Max never returned happier, and neither did Daniel.

Lando didn’t want to fuck up his race weekend, so he didn’t ask about it. But he could see the way Max kept losing focus, staring at nothing while they watched TV together, forgetting to eat, pacing into the late hours. Lando wasn’t sure he even slept at night anymore, despite sleep being one of Max’s favorite things.

“Lando.”

Lando froze at the sound of his name. He turned to see Carlos staring at him with a gaze that burned right through him, turning his elation into a pile of ash.

Carlos looked pissed.

“Good afternoon, Second Place,” Lando greeted, putting on his best grin.

Carlos stuck out his hand and Lando took it, willing himself not to draw his thumb over Carlos’s palm as he stepped in for a half hug to slap Carlos on the back.

Carlos smelled like burning gasoline and acrid rain. Nothing like the man Lando spent the best moments of his life next to.

“Great lap,” Carlos said, like they shared no history. “I had you until the last sector.”

Carlos slapped his back once, then stepped away without looking at him.

Lando opened his mouth to crack a joke, but none came. He couldn’t think of anything that would bring Carlos back. So instead he watched him walk away to where Charles ruffled his perfect hair in greeting and Carlos returned the gesture with a kiss.

“You good?” George asked, following Lando’s gaze.

Carlos rested his forehead against Charles’s, and Charles spoke something slow and encouraging that Lando wished he could hear.

Pole wasn’t victory, he realized. Pole didn’t actually matter if he didn’t win.

“I was thinking of throwing a party,” Lando said, ripping his gaze away from Carlos and focusing on George again. “You, Pierre, Charles and whoever you guys want to bring. Daniel and Max will be there too, obviously, so I wouldn’t suggest bringing Lewis.”

George frownd. “I can’t come, but I can send Nicky.”

“What do you mean you can’t come?” Lando asked. “Something more important than a best friend getting his first pole?”

“Someone, yeah,” George said quietly.

Not George too.

“Lewis?” Lando tried.

George shook his head.

Oh shit. Lando squeezed his arm. “Is it—?”

“Don’t say anything,” George said. “It took everything I have to get it organized.”

Lando’s heart twinged. “Yeah, of course, mate. Of course.”

He pulled George in for a tight hug that George returned wholeheartedly.

George hadn’t been hugged in a long time. Lando didn’t have a way of proving that though, just intuition. So far today, that same intuition had given him pole.

“I’m here if you need anything, okay?” Lando said into George’s bony shoulder. “I’ll toast you tonight or something. Keep you included.”

George laughed as he pulled away. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks, Lando.”

 

 


 

 

“Everyone else has a race tomorrow too,” Daniel said into Max’s ear later that night. “I remember Singapore, by the way, so don’t start telling me you can’t party before a race.”

Max stood at the oven, stirring some kind of German spinach dip that made the kitchen smell like vinegar. He hadn’t spoken much since qualifying, he’d collapsed into the hotel couch the moment he got back to the room.

Daniel kissed Max’s cheek three times before stepping away from him, though he didn’t stop touching him until the last moment.

Lando jerked his chin toward the bedroom. “Help me pick a shirt.”

He didn’t actually want Daniel’s fashion advice at all.

“Sure thing,” Daniel replied cheerfully. “Don’t burn the house down, babe.”

Max grunted in reply.

“Is he okay?” Lando asked in a whisper as soon as he shut the door.

Daniel’s face fell. “Not really. But the party will help.”

Lando scanned his face, unsurprised to find doubt in the depths of those brown eyes. Max’s worsening mood was weighing on Daniel too, sucking away the life Max used to give.

Okay, so things weren’t that dramatic yet, but Lando saw it on the horizon.

“I could call off the party,” Lando offered, but even as he said it, he didn’t want to.

He wanted Carlos to come. He wanted to see him smile again—he didn’t know how he would sleep with their last interaction leaking acid into his heart, drop by drop.

Daniel shook his head. “The party was a great idea. Max needs to be around his friends right now—I’m not gonna be able to do much.”

Lando swallowed hard, a blush rising to his cheeks and heat collecting in his palms.

“Do you…Do you think I’d be able to help?” he asked, barely able to get the words out.

Daniel smiled at him. “Wouldn’t hurt to try. He could use some Lando lovin’.”

Lando scrunched his nose. “Don’t ever say that again.”

He moved to his dresser to pull out a white tee, mindful of Daniel watching him as he swapped out of his McLaren polo.

“And are you okay?” Lando finally asked as he tugged the new shirt on. “Doesn’t seem like your grownup discussions are helping.”

Daniel’s smile fell away. Heaviness came to his shoulders and for a moment Lando thought he might cry. Instead, Daniel let out a sigh.

“He wants this so bad,” Daniel said. “I’m trying not to be negative with him, but when I tell him he can’t change the FIA with one championship, it just fuels the fire. I can’t talk him down.”

“I don’t get why you want to talk him down in the first place,” Lando said. “All of us want a championship. Max can actually get one.”

Daniel’s eyes clouded over. “I’m not talking down a championship. I’m setting expectations for after he wins.”

Lando cocked a brow. “You haven’t won one, so how do you know what he should expect?”

Daniel’s lips twitched in a way that reminded Lando of the days after Wembley when he smiled with nothing behind his eyes.

“I’ve seen a four champions in my time,” Daniel said quietly. “I was in the royal circle when Jenson won for the first time, when Sebastian won for the first time, and I was a prince when Lewis got his second, which might as well have been his first. All of them came back different.”

“Came back from what?” Lando asked.

A soft knock interrupted them just before Max poked his head inside.

“Someone’s here,” Max said, glancing between them.

Lando offered a smile he hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt. “Sweet. Coming.”

“Can’t leave 'em waiting,” Daniel replied, his cheerful demeanor back on full display as he scooped Max into his side to kiss his temple. “Should you hide in the closet or something?”

Max pressed his nose to Daniel’s shoulder, but didn’t laugh. “FIA doesn’t care. A party’s a party.”

Lando noted the way Max’s fingers curled into Daniel’s shirt, as if he might slip away. He knew Max—he’d known Max since his first relationship—and he’d never seen him so touch-hungry.

“I’ll get the door,” Lando offered.

“No, I’ll get it,” Daniel said, patting Max’s shoulders before he slipped out of the room.

Both Max and Lando watched the door as it swung shut behind him.

“Fuck,” Max said, immediately scrubbing his face in his hands once they were alone. “Fuck.”

Lando cautiously stepped closer. Max kept his palms over his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Max?”

Max shook his head. “I fucking hate Russia.”

“At least it’s not winter,” Lando tried, but Max kept his hands over his eyes.

Daniel was depending on him to make Max feel better. So far he had Max on the verge of a breakdown.

Lando reached out, gently touching Max’s arm. “How can I help you, mate?”

Max finally lowered his hands. His eyes shimmered in the low light—from both exhaustion and emotion.  “Help me win, Lando. Daniel won’t help me and I can’t—I can’t do this alone.”

A storybook hero would lean in and capture Max’s mouth in a passionate kiss, reminding him of who he was, instilling confidence.

Lando was not a storybook hero.

“You’re not alone,” Lando assured him, squeezing his elbow. “Daniel is doing his best to help you, and I will too. But we’re Mercedes affiliated. We can’t just turn tail on them—that’s probably why Daniel’s scared.”

Max furrowed his brow. “Daniel is scared?”

Shit.

“Well, yeah,” Lando said, forcing his brain into overdrive to think of a solution that didn’t involve telling Max about his ex-husband’s alcoholism and panic attacks and post-Wembley concussed brain. “Have you noticed how you’ve been acting this weekend? We’re both worried about you.”

Max didn’t seem to understand. “Daniel seems fine. I know I haven’t been—things are hard right now, but of course they are.”

Lando shook his head. “Don’t think about it too much. I’m just saying we’re both worried about you. We want to help.”

Max hugged himself tightly, looking smaller than Lando had ever seen him. His eyes went vacant, lost someplace Lando couldn’t follow.

“I need Ferrari. That’s the only thing that will help, I think.”

Lando hid his relief. Now he had an excuse to talk to Carlos.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Lando promised, stepping closer. “Have fun tonight. Nothing that happens now will change the race tomorrow. You don’t get much time with us, so let’s have fun while we can, yeah?”

 

 


 

 

George glanced around the empty hotel hallway before swiping the keycard Jost had given him. The FIA most likely knew he was going to see Alex, but George couldn’t fight off the sense that he was being watched.

You’re paranoid, he told himself as he pushed open the door into Alex’s room.

Stepping inside was like stepping back in time. Alex’s clothes sat neatly folded on top of his dresser—he liked to keep them visible during the weekend to make sure he didn’t forget anything when rushing out the door. His Red Bull polo hung in the open closet, neatly pressed. His shoes sat by the door, as well as a pair of slippers by the bathroom. Cat slippers—Alex’s personal pair. George didn’t understand how fuzzy slippers would have less bacteria than bare feet, but he’d learned not to ask logical questions when it came to Alex’s hygiene routine.

Cartoons played on the TV as George slipped out of his trainers and headed deeper into the suite. He  found Alex curled up in a throw blanket, fast asleep. An iPad sat on the mattress in front of him, the screen dark. Probably researching something about the track.

George swept the room, searching for anything that might have a camera embedded in it. Lewis talked about Red Bull sneaking a camera into his motorhome in Zandvoort, so it would be an easy job to get one installed into a hotel room they were paying for.

He inspected the TV, even going so far as to turn it around to look for anything plugged in that didn’t belong. Everything looked normal.

Alex snored softly as George looked under the beds, inside the closet, and throughout the whole bathroom—even using his phone flashlight to look down the tub drain. Nothing.

George stepped back into the bedroom just as a red light blinked overhead—the smoke detector. A smoke detector with a cone full of black slits that could easily hide a camera.

The red light blinked again as George pulled out a chair from the provided desk and used it to step up to the smoke detector.

He was pretty sure unscrewing the cover wouldn’t set it off.

Mostly sure.

George held his breath as he carefully untwisted the plastic casing, begging for it to stay quiet. He felt the plastic click away from the main piece, exposing—

“Can I ask what you’re doing?” Alex asked in as sleepy voice.

George nearly fell off the chair, but caught himself by smacking a palm flat to the ceiling.

“Christ—do not scare me like that!” George hissed, quickly inspecting the innards of the smoke detector. Nothing looked like a lens.

“You scared me first,” Alex said, rubbing his eyes. “Seriously, what are you doing up there?”

“I thought something looked off with it,” George explained. Technically true. “Didn’t want us to burn to death overnight.”

“How thoughtful,” Alex replied, watching him carefully.

George stepped down from the chair and returned it to the desk, knuckles going white around the back of it.

He still felt like they were being watched.

Before Alex’s exile, George thought he knew about discretion. They stole glances at each other in the paddock and talked whenever they could under the guise of being best friends. They didn’t kiss or hold hands or even say they loved each other unless they were completely alone.

Except princes were never alone.

“Do you want to talk about yesterday?” Alex asked, still curled up in his blanket.

This was how relationships ended. Talking about talks.

Or maybe Red Bull wanted to hear about their fight.

Thunder rumbled outside. George could only think of Lewis and Sebastian, probably in Lewis’s motorhome, happy and safe and protected.

“This is what makes me think something happened to you,” Alex said quietly as he sat up. He opened his arms, but George didn’t cross to him.

If any cameras were in the room, falling into Alex’s arms would ensure Alex never saw a Williams crown.

Alex dropped his hands to the mattress, eyes filling with pain.

“You need to tell me what happened, George,” Alex whispered. “I look at you and I don’t—”

“We should build a blanket fort,” George interrupted, nodding toward the bed. “Right there in the corner. A little hideaway for us—how’s that sound?”

Alex stared at him for a long moment before he softened.

“That sounds great, love,” he said, too kindly. “Let’s build a blanket fort.”

George moved the chair with shaking hands and Alex devised a way to secure the sheets to make a blanket cave. They stuffed their extra blanket inside to make up the floor, and Alex handed down pillows to create a nest of fluffiness and soft fabric.

A place no cameras would be able to record them.

“Perfect,” George said, trying not to sound crazy. Alex probably thought he was crazy.  “Get the comforter.”

George crawled inside their little cavern, all soft light and shadow.

Maybe he was going crazy.

He hugged his knees to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut.

Definitely crazy.

“Okay, now we’re all safe and snug,” Alex said as he waddled into the fort on his knees, dragging the comforter along with him.

The smell of Alex’s cologne filled the tiny space, instantly dissolving the tension in George’s shoulders.

“I love you so, so much,” Alex whispered, nosing into George’s cheek. “Nothing changes that, yeah? You know that, right?”

George leaned into him as Alex wrapped his arms around him. More muscular, less bony than he remembered.

It didn’t feel like Alex.

“Nothing happened,” George whispered, slowly unraveling from his ball only to adhere himself to Alex with every freed limb.

“Something happened,” Alex murmured in his ear. “This is not my George.”

As soon as the words left Alex’s mouth, the lights went out inside of him. The tiny flame of warmth and love that had started to thaw him snuffed out too.

Alex didn’t know him anymore. They had a whole year of silence between them—how did they ever thing they could bridge that? A decade together didn’t matter against a year of no contact.

“What are we doing?” George asked. “You were right, this was a stupid idea. We’re going to get caught an the only one who gets hurt is you.”

Panic bubbled up his throat, a thousand memories flashing behind his eyes.

Their relationship didn’t have dramatics. He knew Alex’s favorite kind of toothpaste and his distaste for cinnamon except on apples or hidden in smoothies. George knew the sanitary way to apply band-aids because of Alex, and Alex was the only person who could get him to eat vegetable soup when he had a stuffy nose and the only one who knew that it always made him feel better.

Their relationship didn’t have childish, paranoid pillow forts in hotel rooms.

George couldn’t play his own part anymore.

“Is it because it feels different?” Alex asked, thumbing his cheek.

Heat welled in George’s eyes as he nodded slowly.

“Fuck,” George croaked out, wiping his eyes with the back of his palm. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Alex said, curling a finger under George’s chin. “You did nothing wrong.”

If only that were true. He’d planted the seed about Lewis’s engine penalty and put the foundation of their relationship at risk.

He didn’t know if the new Alex would betray him.

“How do we make up for a whole year?” George asked helplessly, searching Alex’s face. “I haven’t talked to you—I haven’t been around you.”

“You’re overthinking it,” Alex soothed. His cockeyed smile only made George feel worse for not wanting to rip Alex’s clothes off at first sight. For not immediately kissing him, holding him, touching him. “A year hasn’t changed the way I feel about you, and I know you feel the same way about me. That’s the only reason we’re together right now.”

George nuzzled into Alex’s neck, but his chin caught collarbone and his elbows found a muscled stomach and not enough ribs.

“It’s been horrible without you,” Alex admitted, holding him tighter. “Red Bull made everything worse, but I’m not going to be tied to them next year. You found me a crown I can keep.”

You never leave Red Bull.

Maybe George had played right into Max’s hands. Alex had been adamant in the Williams garage that no matter what he did to bring him back, Red Bull would always have Alex by the throat.

George could already see Lewis next year, watching him with those knowing eyes.

How do you feel now that you’ve ruined his life?

“Alex, I—”

“My goal isn’t to be a champion anymore,” Alex said, cutting him off. “I want to win, same as ever, but my goal is to support you. Fuck all of this, fuck championships. Nico taught me that winning one doesn’t change anything if the FIA doesn’t like you.”

Coldness settled in the back of George’s throat.

“Nico is a liar,” George said. “He lies through his teeth, Alex.”

“I think he’s a bit batty, but he’s genuine—even if he’s genuinely stupid sometimes.”

George shook his head, even as the memory of Nico’s sad eyes filled his mind.

I never saw it coming.

Alex carded his fingers through George’s hair. “Can I kiss you? Would that be okay?”

“What else did Nico tell you?” George asked, ignoring the question.

He wasn’t ready yet.

Alex pushed out a breath. “Mostly he taught me how to live without you. How to focus on other things.”

“Another car, you mean,” George said.

“Um. Yeah, for a bit there,” Alex admitted.

George knew it was fucking hypocritical to be upset about Alex finding someone else, but the pain lanced through him all the same. Just imagining Alex flirting with someone else made him nauseous.

George wasn’t even sure Lewis counted as another relationship, considering the whole thing had been built on a lie. For all George knew, Lewis pretended from the moment they stepped onto the balcony in Bahrain.

“Was it nice?” George asked.

“It was different,” Alex murmured, running fingers down his back. “She was a girl, so that already made it different. I don’t think I could have dated a guy.”

Dated. Alex dated her.

George didn’t ask her name. He didn’t want to know.

“Okay, I’m ready for a kiss,” George said quickly, cheeks flushing despite the fact that he was talking to his boyfriend of a decade.

He pulled back from Alex’s shoulder and met his lips.

They were still as soft as he remembered, with the slightest taste of blackberry from Alex’s favorite kind of lip balm.

Alex’s hand came to his face, and suddenly George could visualize the way they probably looked through a camera lens. Probably the same way Mick and Callum had looked in the video he’d taken.

His stomach turned.

Ruining his life for a stupid kiss.

Lewis and Sebastian survived because they didn’t touch. They didn’t kiss or hug or cuddle—not even around George. He still couldn’t learn from the two most powerful people in the paddock.

“I can’t,” George blurted out, snapping his head back.

Alex went wide-eyed as George stood abruptly, collecting the blanket around his head until he yanked it off.

“It’s okay,” Alex said, but George knew that tone—Alex didn’t even realize what he was saying.

Lewis knew how to find cameras. Lewis also ruined his life. He probably wouldn’t do it twice.

George stood at the end of the bed with the blanket balled in his hands, suddenly furious and devastated and ashamed all at once.

“Is it me?” Alex asked, his voice shaking.

George squeezed his eyes shut as his heart tore, sinews popping apart with every breath.

“No,” George said.

“It’s because of the fight, then.”

George shook his head. “No. I reckon I need—I need to get my head right. I need to—”

“Do you want me to leave?” Alex asked in a gentle tone, stepping in closer.

Fear swallowed George whole. He tossed the blanket onto the bed and brought his hands up to frame Alex’s face. “No. Please don’t leave. I need to leave—I need to clear my head. This isn’t your fault, okay? Tell me you understand that.”

Alex searched his face, eyes full of pain. George wanted to scream.

Alex swallowed hard. “You’ll come back, right?”

George’s knees nearly buckled.

“I’m coming back,” he promised. “Have some dinner and I’ll be back and I won’t be acting like this, I promise you.”

Alex didn’t look like he believed him. His hands came to George’s hips, resting there and keeping him together.

“As long as you come back,” Alex said. “I don’t care what way.”

 

 


 

 

Carlos didn’t have to try to be hot. In fact, when he did try, he looked like an idiot most of the time. It wasn’t fair that Carlos stuffing plantain chips into his mouth was more attractive than Lando posed up in a professional photoshoot, but at least Lando got to look at him.

Their party wasn’t much, but the noise of several conversations put Lando at ease. It reminded him of his lower court days, where they never went anywhere without at least five other soon-to-be royals.

Lando had taken up a spot sitting on the kitchen island, kicking his heels against the cabinet doors in time with the beat of the song drifting out of Daniel’s Bluetooth speaker.

Carlos hadn’t left Charles’s side all night. He kept feeding him plantain chips and making jokes that had Charles snickering and Pierre rolling his eyes.

Yuki proved to be the best possible solution to Max’s unhappiness. They sat on the couch in the living room playing Call of Duty, shouting at each other occasionally until Max started cracking up at Yuki’s near-continuous stream of swearing.

Daniel had Nicholas Latifi engaged in an arm wrestling competition nearby, trying to shit talk him even though he kept losing.

Carlos had yet to look at him apart from the cursory glance upon entering the party.

Lando chewed his biodegradable straw and kept staring anyway.

Charles nodded toward the hotel balcony, but Carlos didn’t move to follow him.

Pierre did, slinging his arm around Charles’s shoulders as they walked out into the dying light of evening made darker with stormclouds.

Lando tried not to smirk as he watched Carlos stiffen up, watching them as they left.

“At least there are windows,” Lando said loud enough for Carlos to hear.

Carlos finally turned to face him, his face stone.

Fuck—nobody deserved a face so genetically blessed.

“You going to ignore me all night?” Lando tried, cocking his head.

Carlos replied by stepping into the kitchen and right into his space. Not close enough to be scandalous, but definitely past Friendly Carlos Sainz territory.

The scent of him washed over Lando with the force of a tsunami. And—much like a tsunami—it didn’t stop pummeling him even when he tried to hold his breath.

“Don’t tell me you’re still mad because I’m faster than you,” Lando said, forcing himself to keep eye contact and not letting any drool slip from his mouth.

“I was faster until the last sector,” Carlos replied.

“Until,” Lando said with a smirk.

Carlos narrowed his eyes, but a smile twitched at his lips,

Thank god.

Lando kicked the inside of his thigh, making a point to avoid his balls. Carlos flinched anyway, then suddenly Lando had a face full of red as Carlos pulled him into a headlock.

“Cabrón,” Carlos growled playfully.

Lando suddenly wanted to bite him. Shove him, tear his clothes off—he’d never had angry sex before, but holy shit, he’d be willing to try.

Instead, Carlos released him and stepped back.

Lando tried to force air back into his lungs. He glanced out at the balcony, where Charles had leaned against the wall, finger curled at his bottom lip with a thoughtful expression.

They caught eyes and Charles looked away quickly. Pierre tossed a look over his shoulder.

“Oh great, they’re talking about me,” Lando said, nodding toward them.

“You have been making news,” Carlos said, not bothering to look over. Which meant he totally wanted to.

Lando smiled at him. “Keeping tabs on me?”

Carlos flared his nostrils. “What are you trying, Lando?”

“Motherfucking fuck fucker!” Yuki screamed from the living room couch, punctuated by Max’s cackling. “You camp! Fucking camping with fucking shitty fucking claymores!”

“Hey, don’t make me call the police to settle a domestic dispute,” Daniel called, snickering. “You really don’t want to deal with Russian cops, trust me.”

I think I made a mistake, Lando almost said, but he quickly shook the thought away.

Carlos chose Charles. Carlos broke them up.

“I’m not trying anything,” Lando said instead.

“It seems like you’re trying to get my attention. I don’t understand why,” Carlos said.

Typical Carlos. He wanted to make him say out loud what any person with a brain would be able to read from his body language.

Lando opened his legs wider just to make a point, biting his bottom lip as he shrugged.

“We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

Carlos let out a snort, but his pupils were so big that Lando couldn’t differentiate brown from black.

Lando nodded toward the balcony. “Kinda like Charles and Pierre.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “No, not like them. I was fine with Charles and Pierre and Pierre was fine with me and Charles.”

Lando nodded thoughtfully. “Sure. As long as Charles is getting laid, right?”

Slam dunk. Carlos swooped in, a snarl on his face.

Lando smiled at him, tempted to bump noses just to see if Carlos would punish him for it.

“Tell me you at least know whose dick he likes better,” Lando said in a low voice. “I heard it wasn’t yours.”

Wild fury sprang to Carlos’s eyes. “Why the fuck do you say these things?”

Lando heard a guttural thump and suddenly Max had wedged between them, leaving Lando inadvertently pressed against his back.

His horny brain very much liked that, even as Lando yelled at himself internally.

Max was warm though, and though he’d lost some muscle in the last few weeks, his broad shoulders were a nice substitute for Carlos’s.

“Back off,” Max hissed, giving Carlos another shove.

“Don’t tell me to back off,” Carlos snapped, slapping his hands away.

“Then don’t get in his space,” Max shot back, stepping more in front of Lando.

“It’s fine,” Lando said, patting Max’s shoulders with both hands. “Just having a friendly conversation, right Carlos?”

Carlos glared at him. “I don’t know what is the matter with you. Do not talk about Charles like that.”

“Fuck off, Carlos,” Max warned.

Lando suddenly felt the warmth of Max’s palm over his knee. One hand on each knee would have been fine--acceptable, friendly. But one was intimate. Knowing in a way Max didn’t actually know him, but it still took the breath right out of Lando’s throat and sent the blood draining from his head to pool somewhere much less intelligent.

Carlos glanced down at Max’s hand and Lando saw the moment he put it together.

Lando filled with a sense of victory as Carlos’s face fell.

Fuck you for thinking I couldn’t find someone else.

Lando folded his hand over Max’s and pecked the corner of his jaw, delighting in the way Max’s eyes went wide.

“Thanks, Max,” he said, resting his chin on Max’s shoulder.

Carlos blinked a few times and Lando pretended not to notice the sheen in his eyes.

“I did what you wanted,” Carlos said quietly. “I did that for you, not for me.”

Lando ignored the molten blade cutting up his insides and squeezed Max’s hand.

“Only two results for a test,” Max replied coolly before Lando could open his mouth. “Pass or fail.”

Carlos glanced between them before settling on Lando, eyes full of deep pain that made him dizzy.

Stop feeling sorry for him when it’s his fault, Lando thought, though he knew he was being a dick. At least Carlos wasn’t ignoring him.

See? He’s making you thankful for the bare minimum.

“You didn’t pass,” Lando informed him. “Try again next time.”

Carlos flinched as if struck.

Daniel appeared in the threshold, Nicky right at his heels—and still able to see because the guy was fucking tall.

“Seems spicy in here,” Daniel said, surveying the scene. “Muy picante. How are we doing?”

“I was just leaving,” Carlos said, his voice ragged. He took a step back. “Tell Charles I’ll see him in our room.”

 

 


 

 

George nearly tore Lewis’s door off its hinges with the force of his knocking. Rain soaked his hair flat to his head, and his shirt clung to his body as he stood in front of the motorhome. The mechanics were still hard at work in all of the garages, so no one had batted an eye when George showed up at the track.

“Let me inside!” George shouted, startling a few marshals taking shelter in a guard tent nearby.

Angela opened the door and frowned at him.

“I need to speak to Lewis alone,” George cut.

He never wanted to be mean to Angela, but he wasn’t in the mood for politeness.

“Let me get an umbrella,” Angela said.

George stepped into the doorway, towering over her in the small space at the base of the stairs.

Angela looked him over. “Take a breath, George.”

“Do not tell me what to do,” George growled.

“Hey, don’t talk to her like that,” Lewis warned from the top of the stairs. “If you’re mad at me, fine. But don’t you dare take it out on her. Ang, you can stay if you want. I can talk to George somewhere else.”

Angela sighed, a strangely calming noise. “Just text me when you’re finished, okay? Lewis, can you hand me the umbrella?”

Lewis reached over the partition wall and retrieved an umbrella, handing it down to her.

“Text me when you’ve resolved this,” Angela said. She offered George a sympathetic smile. “I hope you feel better soon.”

George bit his tongue to keep from exploding on her. He stepped aside as Angela hopped out into the rain, surprisingly nimble.

“What the fuck are you doing here, man?” Lewis asked once the door had shut. “And what the fuck makes you think you can just show up here?”

“Is he here?” George demanded, marching up the stairs. He turned left instead of right and kicked open the door to Lewis’s bedroom. “Or does he have a trapdoor to escape from when people show up unexpectedly?”

Lewis’s bed was perfectly made. His watch display sat on the nightstand, only one watch missing—the black IWC clasped to his wrist.

George shoved open the door to the bathroom. Empty. “Well? Is he fucking here, Lewis?”

Lewis worked his jaw where he stood in the threshold to his bedroom. “No, he isn’t. He’s in the garage with his mechanics.”

George stepped back into the bedroom, where Lewis’s media clothes sat neatly folded on his dresser, ready for raceday.

Just like Alex.

“Why are you torturing me like this?” George suddenly burst out. “You don’t have to torture me to fucking get me on your side!”

Lewis’s stern look faded to something less hostile, but just as unyielding.

“I’m not trying to torture you, I‘m trying to protect you.”

George laughed bitterly. “That’s rich. That’s really fucking rich, Lewis.”

“Young princes are always too concerned with other princes,” Lewis said evenly. “None of you consider the bigger picture. This, right now? This is a tiny part of your life, George. No matter how long or short your career is.”

George jabbed a finger at the watch display. “You have Nico Rosberg’s watch in there, five years on. Don’t lecture me about other princes, you fucking hypocrite.”

Usually bringing up Nico lit a fuse in Lewis—his brown eyes turned amber, and his teeth cut.

This time, Lewis softened. His eyes fluttered closed as he took a breath.

When he opened them again, George’s anger stumbled.

“Have you ever almost died?” Lewis asked, leaning against the threshold. “Has there ever been a crash where you thought you wouldn’t make it?”

George couldn’t think of a specific crash, but his hit with Valtteri came to mind first, the way he was suddenly out of control, the wall flying at him, the image of Alex flashing through his mind just before impact.

He nodded once.

“Death makes us nostalgic,” Lewis said. “When someone dies, we remember the best of them. When we’re close to death, we realize how fragile life is, how silly our conflicts can be.”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about making up with Nico,” George growled.

Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. “I hate Nico. I will always hate Nico.”

George blinked in surprise, not expecting Lewis to say it so frankly.

“No matter what he does, I’ll never forgive him,” Lewis continued. “I know that’s wrong—that I’m supposed to forgive everyone, make peace with it, but I can’t. So I just pray for forgiveness for what I can’t forgive.”

“Nico thinks he’s the one who needs to forgive you,” George said.

Lewis smiled at the ground, but his eyes didn’t. “Yeah, I bet he does.”

Silence settled between them, interrupted by the sound of the rain against the metal roof. Lewis stepped into the bedroom and George stepped away from him, fighting the urge to shiver in his damp clothes.

Lewis took a seat on the edge of his bed and carefully lifted the top of the watch display to reveal Nico’s watch encased beside his own.

“Why does it say loser?” George asked, crossing his arms. “The piece of paper in there.”

Lewis’s mouth twitched as he opened the case and carefully pulled out Nico’s watch. He treated it with the care of a professional—the way a scientist might handle a butterfly. A measured gentleness with no adoration behind it.

“He left that for me after a race,” Lewis said, turning the watch face in his palm. “Taped it to my passport actually. I didn’t notice until the security checkpoint when they laughed at me.”

Anger stirred in George’s gut that he quickly stamped down.

Lewis returned the watch to its case.

“The point is, just because I hate him doesn’t mean I don’t wish things were different. That he was different.”

“Things could have been different if you didn’t trick him into exiling himself,” George said tartly.

A strange look slashed across Lewis’s face before he put the case back inside the display, among the cushion of torn up memories.

“If this were really just about marrying who you love, do you actually think I would try to stop that?” Lewis asked, finally meeting his eye. “If I could be with Seb every day, I would.”

George set his jaw. “So change it.”

“I could if I wanted to, but I have what all of you don’t: experience,” Lewis replied. “I was a prince during and after Michael’s rules. I’ve seen it all when it comes to royal marriage. And princes who fall in love with their spouse after the wedding see the world differently than the rest of us. Max sees the world that way. The things that work in that type of relationship don’t work for the rest of us. Smart princes know that.”

George grit his teeth. “Then tell me what—”

“I wish I could,” Lewis interrupted, his voice a little softer. “I see the way you look at Seb. The way you look at me ever since you found out. If I had a way to explain the reality to you, I would have done that already.”

“Are you too stupid or do you think I’m too stupid?” George asked.

Lewis’s eyes crackled with annoyance.

“Trust me, princes have been trying to explain it since the beginning of the FIA,” he said. “Hundred percent failure rate. Every single time. And every prince thinks he’ll be different. They never are. I wasn’t.”

George stared at him. He couldn’t imagine a young Lewis asking advice from anyone. He honestly couldn’t imagine any other prince wanting to explain things to him, except maybe Jenson, but he wasn’t much older than Lewis.

“I told you things are different when you become champion,” Lewis said, fiddling with the eagle ring on his hand. “That’s all I can tell you. We’re trying to stop Max from the same fate.”

“Same fate?”

Lewis turned his face away, looking out the small window next to the bed. “Every prince who’s ever won a championship learns what it means.”

Rumors circulated the paddock about secret societies of ex-royals pulling the strings behind the scenes at the FIA. George seldom saw those men in the paddock, and every ex-royal he’d ever met seemed stuck in the past. They always insisted they would have been a better driver if they’d started in the modern era, that they could probably still win if they wanted to.

None of them seemed capable of organizing some powerful syndicate, and the FIA couldn’t even decide what rules to enforce on any given weekend.

None of it made any sense.

Lewis returned the watch display back to its rightful place, Nico’s watch hidden once again. He stood up and crossed to his dresser, rummaging around until he pulled out a mint-colored hoodie and handed it to George.

“I haven’t worn it,” Lewis said when George leaned away from it. “It was a gift from a fashion label.”

George plucked the hoodie from his hands and set it on the end of the bed before wrangling his wet shirt off.

Lewis extended a hand, nodding toward his wadded up shirt. “I can put it in the dryer for when you go back.”

George tossed it at him. Lewis caught it at his chest before stepping out of the bedroom.

George sat on the end of the bed the moment he was alone. He pulled the hoodie over his head, but continued to shiver. The tips of his fingers were white, and he couldn’t really feel his toes.

He stuffed his nose into the collar and tried to warm up using his own breath.

The hoodie smelled like laundry detergent. No trace of Lewis or his cologne.

Or Nico’s cologne—he didn’t know whose it was, actually.

“Here,” Lewis said, startling him.

Lewis held out a pair of sweats that looked ridiculously soft.

“And these have warmers in them,” Lewis added, placing a pair of socks on top.

“Thanks,” George forced out, immediately peeling off his wet joggers.

Nothing Lewis hadn’t seen before.

Lewis took his pants to throw in the dryer as George changed, finally warming up once he figured out how to turn the sock warmers on. He sat along for a few minutes, listening to the sound of the dryer before he decided to wander out into the motorhome again.

He found Lewis sitting on the couch, the see-through membrane activated to give him full view of the rainy backlot.

Two mugs of tea sat steaming on the coffee table. George took one without a word as he sat down beside him.

“What happened when you learned about…whatever you learned about?” George asked into the silence.

Lewis didn’t lift his head from the crook of his arm. “After my first championship? I lost it, man. You can ask anyone who was there. It destroyed me.”

George sipped at his tea. Whole milk, not almond milk.

Rain continued to pound against the side of the motorhome. A rumble of thunder shook the walls and Lewis’s eyes went distant.

“I bet you think I’m a monster,” Lewis murmured.

A few moments ago, George would have responded with an enthusiastic yes. But Lewis had made him tea, given him dry clothes to wear, and didn’t shy away from any of his accusations.

“I don’t know what I think about you,” George admitted. “I can never tell if you’re good at faking nice or if you actually care about me.”

He thought about Lewis in the hospital bed a little too often. He thought about Nico’s watch in Lewis’s funeral kit too, about how he had nothing of Alex’s to bury with him if he lost his life on track.

“I thought you were supposed to be with Alex tonight,” Lewis said, avoiding answering.

Just as well.

“I was,” George said. “I had a panic attack because I got so fucking scared.”

Lewis’s head shot up, brow furrowing as he looked over at him. “What? Who scared you?”

“You, Lewis!” George hissed. The words came out as helpless as he felt.

Lewis’s mouth fell open, eyes blowing wide.

“You, Red Bull—I checked the whole rom for cameras and I still think I missed one somehow,” George continued. “I can’t trust anything anymore. I can’t even trust myself!”

His breathing picked up as panic started clawing up his throat again, drowning out everything else except the sound of his heartbeat in his ears.

“Hey, hey,” Lewis soothed, resting a hand against his cheek. “Listen to me, alright? Are you listening to me?”

George gulped down air. “You didn’t even love me that whole time.”

“That is not what I said,” Lewis replied, almost stern. “I said I wasn’t in love with you. Why do you think Seb gets so pissed at you? Tell me.”

George tried to slow his breathing as Lewis thumbed over his cheekbone, the warmth of his palm a steady heat against his skin.

“I don’t know,” George mumbled.

“He’s pissed because you got so close to me,” Lewis said. “That was never the plan, okay? I was never supposed to care about you. I don’t—you know—”

Lewis’s mouth moved, but no words came out for a moment as he dropped his hand.

“I wanted to be ruthless,” Lewis said quietly. “I thought I could fake it all, just like—”

He cut himself off, eyes sparking with something unseen.

“I couldn’t. I hated myself for it, at first,” Lewis finally continued. “I didn’t tell Sebastian because I thought the feelings would go away. Then I’d get a letter from you, or I’d see the way you lit up when I smiled at you, and how I hurt when you hurt. I kept telling myself that it would pass.”

George cupped his tea between his palms, watching his shadowy reflection in the cream.

“You care so much about your friends. And you love Alex so much you were willing to risk your appointment for him,” Lewis said. “I don’t know another prince your age who would do that. Everyone says they will, until it happens. But you actually went through with it.”

George never took compliments well in a private setting. He could preen in front of a camera or on a Twitch stream, but wasn’t sure how to take praise in such close proximity.

Lewis met his eye with softness.

“I know I really hurt you,” Lewis murmured. “But Sebastian is the most important person in my life, and you were threatening him—threatening us. I take that very seriously, and I’ll continue to do so. I won’t hesitate to cut anyonedown if they try to come after us.”

Truth rang cold in Lewis’s voice, a steel blade.

“I failed my mission and caught feelings for you,” Lewis said. “And even if things will never be the same between us, we’re getting married. I’ll protect you with everything I have, the same way I protect Valtteri.”

George cocked a brow. “What does he need protecting from?”

Lewis offered a small smile. “Wouldn’t be a very good husband if I told you that.”

George let out a noise that was almost a laugh. Almost.

The dryer buzzed down the hall. George found himself wishing for a few more minutes.

“Take the time you need with Alex,” Lewis said quietly. Lightning flashed against the dark ink of his tattoos. “You don’t have to be afraid of anyone finding out. You have my word.”

 

 


 

 

The sweet scent of rain made Charles long for home, but he didn’t really know what home was for him anymore. He saw himself at the palace in Maranello, curled up with a book and a steaming coffee at his side. He also saw himself in Monaco, a bandana tied around his head as he played piano to the rhythm of raindrops.

He also saw himself in Paris, waiting out a downpour in an old café.

The last one was only because of his present company.

“Max isn’t playing nice anymore,” Charles said. “Les lignes de bataille se dessinent.”

Pierre nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting the darkening clouds as he looked out over the city.

“You know I have to be on Max’s side,” Pierre finally said. “Je n’ai pas le choix, sauf si je veux perdre ma couronne.”

“You sound like you would rather support Lewis,” Charles said, cocking a brow.

“I would.”

Charles gaped at him, unable to hide his bewilderment. “Quoi?”

Pierre shrugged. “Max est enfoncé jusqu’au cou. He doesn’t understand how changes could affect everything. Lewis has chosen his stance for a reason.”

Though Charles agreed, he felt compelled to defend Max’s side. They didn’t know Lewis—and Lewis certainly had no reason to side with them.

“Max has a point, though,” Charles said. “If marriage rules weren’t so strict, we could have been together.”

Pierre curled his lip in disgust, then quickly schooled himself as he shook his head.

“No rules would have saved us. You would have been with Max, or you would have stayed with Sebastian. Carlos never would have fallen in love with you and you definitely wouldn’t have fallen in love with me.”

Lighting tore across the sky, momentarily illuminating the strong lines of Pierre’s face—

and the pain in it.

“I wouldn’t be a prince if the current marriage rules didn’t exist,” Pierre continued, crossing his arms. “We all knew what we signed up for. Some of us can’t take it—that doesn’t mean we should change everything to cater to them. Royal marriages have never been about love. They’re about leadership and respect.”

Charles’s heart twinged with the sensation of insult. He took a deep breath, willing the feeling away.

“Tu dois faire attention,” Pierre said gently. “This is between Mercedes and Red Bull.”

“I don’t want to choose sides,” Charles agreed. “But we might have to. I wish I could support Max, but Mercedes is a powerful enemy—not to mention I don’t know that I agree with him. I don’t know what to think about it, mais je ne vois pas les problems qu’il voit. I think the rules are already relaxed.”

“Tomorrow will show you,” Pierre said. “You’ll be fighting Max and Valtteri.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

Pierre stepped closer as the rain picked up. “Your engine penalty. Max took one too—so did Valtteri.”

“How do you know this?” Charles asked. Ferrari had already announced his penalty earlier in the weekend, but he hadn’t been told anything about Max or Valtteri.

Pierre smiled at him. “I listen, Calamardo. You’re welcome for the information, by the way.”

Chares laughed. “Bien, bien. Merci.”

They met eyes for a moment, and Charles noted the wounds in the blue. His heart ached, but the pain didn’t sink its teeth in like it used to. He respected Pierre more than ever, and he didn’t think an apology would begin to address what he’d done n Zandvoort. He wasn’t ready to talk about it.

Pierre probably understood. He hadn’t taken off his Oura ring.

“You seem better,” Pierre said, soft and low. “You seem happy again. Actually happy.”

“I am,” Charles replied. “Things are good.”

Pierre cracked a grin. “Don’t let Max ruin them.”

“I’m ready to show him what it means to fight with a Ferrari,” Charles said.

Pierre laughed as the sliding glass door opened behind him. Pierre turned as Charles caught sight of Max over his shoulder.

“You’ve been out here a long fucking time,” Max greeted them, not hiding his annoyance.

“I’m sorry, did I need to ask permission?” Pierre shot back, shoulders going tense.

“I need to talk with Charles,” Max said.

“Pierre stays,” Charles said, reaching out to grab Pierre’s wrist, pulling him back from an obviously angry Max.

Max scowled at him. “Fine. I came to talk strategy with you.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “Strategy?”

“It helps you win races,” Pierre offered helpfully. “Ferrari’s never been big on it, so I’m not surprised you’ve never heard of it.”

Charles shot him a look and Pierre grinned back before shooting him a wink that made Charles warm all over.

Max’s face turned more dangerous. “I’m taking an engine penalty. So is Lewis.”

Charles kept his face schooled. “Lewis is taking an engine penalty?”

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Max growled. “You need to let me by him. I need to finish ahead of him. Checo can take care of Valtteri up front.”

“I’ll let you by him if you overtake him,” Charles said. “You’re sure he’s taking a penalty?”

“Might as well have the information directly from the source,” Max said. “They’ll announce it tomorrow morning.”

Charles didn’t look at Pierre. He sensed a trap, but couldn’t pinpoint the trigger. Pierre wouldn’t lie to him, but Max had no reason to lie either.

Thunder rippled through the balcony, immediately followed by a dazzling display of lightning that lit the sky purple. More thunder followed, sharp and foreboding.

“Don’t make this difficult for me,” Max said, each word coming out rusted.

Charles looked him over, noting the way the lightning made his eye sockets cavernous, his face gaunt. His chest tightened with the desire to protect him, but Max had other lovers for that now.

Charles lifted his chin, eyes narrowed. “Then don’t get in my way.”

 

 


 

 

George barely finished knocking before Alex opened the door to the hotel room.

“Hey,” George greeted.

“Hi,” Alex returned, unsure.

Alex was George’s brand of handsome. A head shaped like an upside-down teardrop, tufty eyebrows that were big and small all at once, and full, berry lips. Mischievous ears, strong shoulders, and a scar that went through his left eyebrow from an unfortunate incident with his dining room table when they were thirteen.

Alex had another scar too, one from surgery after that stupid biking accident five years ago that fractured his collarbone.

George tugged him in by the hips and pressed their lips together.

Alex melted against him as George guided both of them past the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him.

“Sorry for earlier,” George whispered when their kiss broke, brushing noses with him. “I’m good now.”

Alex shook his head and kissed him again. He tasted like summer. He tasted like everything George remembered him to be.

“I love you,” George said against his mouth.

“Show me,” Alex teased, dropping back onto the mattress.

George followed him down, lashes fluttering as Alex’s hands traveled up his back, warm and familiar.

“Nice hoodie, by the way,” Alex said. “But I’d appreciate if you took it off.”

George grinned, sitting up. He pulled the hoodie over his head and marveled at the way Alex appraised him. He had more muscle too.

“I want your formal rating after we’re done,” George said as he lowered himself back down, pressing kisses up Alex’s neck. “Tell me if I’m better or worse.”

Alex laughed in his ear and the whole world turned a few hues brighter.

“I already know you’ll be better,” Alex chuckled. “You think less when it’s been awhile. Can’t imagine what a year’s done to you.”

George smiled against dark skin.

Alex’s fingers curled against his shoulder as he pressed a kiss to his temple. “I love you so, so, so much.”

George smiled wider. “Save it, Albon. Don’t screw my rating—I mean, don’t skew. Don’t skew my rating.”

The room filled with the sound of Alex’s laughter and George finally noticed the bed had been remade, their blanket fort gone, their tumultuous beginning wiped away.

A clean slate.

George captured Alex’s mouth with surety. He cupped Alex’s face until Alex rolled them over, pressing George into mattress in the way he loved.

They both knew the words to this song. Nobody had to tell them how it went.

George closed his eyes and lost himself to the music.

 

 

Chapter Text

Lando woke to the aftermath of a loud noise. He sensed it in the silence as he blinked his eyes open to the darkness of the bedroom, lingering. He caught the glare of a phone screen, but the body hunched over it wasn’t Daniel’s.

Right. Max slept in their bed.

“What’s going on?” Daniel croaked from Max’s other side.

Lando’s memories of the party were a little fuzzy from trying so hard to pretend Carlos’s absence didn’t affect him. But he did remember telling Max to stay. Mostly, he remembered Daniel’s kiss afterward, happy and relaxed.

Daniel reached over to hook an arm around Max’s waist. “Babe?”

Max didn’t reply. Sleep beckoned Lando back to the warmth, but Max’s phone light seared directly into his eyeballs.  

“Hey—"

Lando’s protest died in his throat at the look on Daniel’s face.  

Daniel shot up and the room plunged into darkness again as Max locked his phone and dropped it in his lap. Lando heard the sound of rustling as Daniel shifted closer.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Daniel whispered, panic in his voice.

Lando watched Max’s silhouette against the blue squares of the windows. Max lifted his head, shoulders hunched.

“Did you tell them?” Max asked.

Lando’s heart started pounding in his chest. Max asked his question casually, but he never spoke to Daniel that way.

“You need to be more specific,” Daniel said. “Tell who what?”

Moonlight danced on Max’s lashes as he slid his gaze down Daniel’s body. It reminded Lando of a lion sized up an injured antelope in the nature documentaries they fell asleep to sometimes.

“Did you tell Lewis about my engine penalty?” Max asked.

“Why would I—”

“Because he isn’t taking one anymore, Daniel,” Max said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Valtteri took a penalty. Lewis is starting fourth. I’m starting last.”

“I’ve done a lot of dirty shit in my time, but I wouldn’t sabotage your championship,” Daniel replied flatly—the same way he talked to his engineers after they implied it was his fault he couldn’t understand the car.

“Is this about Lando?” Max asked. “You want back-to-back wins? Or do you owe him?”

“This has nothing to do with Lando,” Daniel growled.

Lando decided he wasn’t going to play passenger this time.

“Daniel’s been with me all weekend,” Lando rasped. He cleared his throat and propped himself up on his elbows. “He definitely hasn’t talked to Mercedes.”

Max ignored him. “Do you understand what will happen if Lewis wins? I know you think me winning might be the worst thing ever, but have you considered what happens when he wins?”

Daniel pursed his lips. “I understand more than you do, Max.”

“No, you don’t,” Max hissed. “He’ll take you away from me. He’ll fucking—I don’t even know what he’s capable of, but he’ll destroy us.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so hellbent on making him an enemy, he wouldn’t feel the need to.”

Max fisted the comforter. “Fuck you. I’m doing this for us. All I want is us.”

Lando’s heart jumped to his throat. Max hadn’t been there for the aftermath of the burner phones. Max hadn’t seen the terror in Daniel’s eyes or the horrible way the FIA ripped through his life.

Daniel could have denied it. He could have gone into his hearing and made an excuse for talking to Max--one they would probably believe. Instead, he let the FIA tear him apart and they sent him back into the world as half a man.

Max didn’t know any of that.

Daniel dragged a hand over his face, bleary-eyed in the dark. “I believe that’s what you think. But you’ve always thought they’re on your side. They aren’t. Red Bull will forget about a championship as soon as the next kid comes along.”

“I run Red Bull,” Max snarled. “I’m king, Daniel. I’m the fucking king.”

Something dark twisted in Lando’s gut. Max never boasted about himself, not like this. He could be a right prick, but he didn’t brag.

“For now,” Daniel said, infusing gentleness back into his voice. “But I’ve seen this movie before. It doesn’t fucking end well.”

“I don’t understand how you can’t see what Lewis is—”

“Stop,” Daniel soothed, folding his hands over Max’s. “Red Bull is telling you whatever will make you hungry. They’re starving you the same way they starved me.”

Lando swallowed hard. Part of the reason he wanted to stay with McLaren was because they allowed him to put the pressure on himself. Zak expected results from both of them, but he never demanded it.

Daniel didn’t talk about Red Bull much.

“I’m not a dog,” Max replied. “And I’m not as soft as you.”

“Yeah, and we both know whose fault that is, babe.”

Lando sat up all the way, moving his knee to rest it against Max’s hip, silent but hopefully comforting. Max rested his elbow on his knee a moment later.  

“You’re totally capable of winning this on your own,” Daniel continued. “You’re the king, right? So don’t let the kingdom control you. A year ago, you never would have cared about an engine penalty. You’d just win anyway. The only change this year is how Red Bull is framing it for you.”

A buzz sounded from Max’s lap. He pulled his hands free from Daniel and answered the phone.

“Hi,” Max said, hunching over himself again, abandoning them both.

Daniel met Lando’s eye in the dark. Lando found himself expecting a bloated, blood-covered face staring back. Daniel chewed his bottom lip and gave a minute shake of his head.

“You saw the engine penalty?” Checo asked on the other end of the line.

“Yes,” Max said. “Is there anything we can do?”

“I can get a good start,” Checo joked. “Christian isn’t worried. You can catch them, Max.”

“Only if Charles doesn’t decide to be—” Max cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Yes, I can handle it.”

He reached out, taking Daniel’s hand and squeezing hard.

“The team is coming up with a more aggressive attack plan. If you can come to the room, we’ll head down to the track in an hour.”

“Okay, an hour,” Max replied. “Get ahold of Alpha Tauri, please. Yuki and Pierre need to be aware of the situation.”

“I will. See you soon.”

“Bye, Checo.”

Max hung up the phone and tossed it on the mattress. He finally turned to Lando, his eyes ringed with exhaustion, visible even in the dark.

“You have to win, Lando,” Max murmured. “Please.”

Lando put on his most confident smile. “Planning on it.”

 

 


 

 

Charles strode through the paddock with a smile, Gaël Faye blasting in his Airpods. Clouds gathered on the horizon, but Charles had no doubt that he could do better in the rain than anyone in front of him. 

He waved to Sebastian where he stood in front of the Aston Martin hospitality suite, mid-conversation with Lewis. Sebastian waved back, his water bottle straw still stuffed in his mouth. Lewis turned to look at him, giving a smile and a nod.

Charles still didn’t understand how they got along after trading championship leads for two seasons straight. Especially since Sebastian hated losing—even more so when it was a close race.

But Sebastian never seemed to take it personally when it came to Lewis. Charles had listened to his fair share of Sebastian complaining about Lewis’s antics on track, but he never talked badly about him otherwise—unless it was to remind Ferrari engineers that they were losing to a prince he could beat in a good car.

Charles pulled out his Airpods when he saw Carlos headed toward him.

“Late,” Carlos scolded just before they kissed.

“That’s what happens when I’m starting second-to-last,” Charles replied. “No reason to get here on time.”

Carlos had left the hotel early after a difficult night. Charles wasn’t surprised to hear about the way Lando treated him at the party. Max’s behavior didn’t surprise him either. It all seemed fishy to him, but he didn’t tell Carlos that while he was hurting. Instead, he comforted his husband and kept him close all night, which had at least given Carlos a few hours of sleep.

He still didn’t believe Max actually wanted anything to do with Lando romantically, but a vile sense of envy nibbled at his gut whenever he thought about it for too long.

“Car looking good?” Charles asked as he took Carlos’s hand to walk toward the Ferrari suite.

“I think so,” Carlos replied. “I’m hoping it will rain at the start.”

“You don’t need rain to win,” Charles reminded him with a squeeze.

He slowed for a moment as he spotted Max standing in the shade of the Red Bull hospitality area, arms crossed and staring ahead. Christian Horner spoke through a scowl beside him, gesturing intently.

Max looked like he hadn’t slept. Charles had figured a night with Daniel would soften him,  but his sharp edges had turned jagged instead.

“I think I need to talk to him,” Charles murmured.

Carlos stopped walking. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No, but I think I need to try,” Charles replied.

He could see the uncertainty in Carlos’s dark eyes. They had built up a lot of trust since summer break, and Charles was determined not to lose it. He needed Carlos. He wasn’t afraid to admit that now.   

Carlos finally nodded. “I’ll see you in the garage?”

Charles pecked his lips. “I won’t be long.”

They separated and Charles watched as Max’s face darkened on his approach. He didn’t slow down.

“We’ll talk,” Max said curtly, ending his conversation.  Horner sighed, glaring at Charles before retreating into the motorhome.

“I hope you have good news,” Max greeted as he jogged down the stairs and settled at his side. Charles walked them toward an equipment storage area, ignoring the cameras that pointed in their direction.

“I wanted to make a few things clear,” Charles began, slowing down before turning to face him. “As someone who cares about you.”

Max stilled, hackles rising.

“I’m not going to impede you today, but I am going to race you,” Charles said. “Ferrari is not making a decision, and I don’t know that we will. But I wanted you to know that if it were a purely personal choice, I would pick you.”

Max relaxed so forcefully that Charles almost reached out to steady him. The tempered man before him shattered into the boy Charles knew, the one he wanted to protect.

Their relationship had never been perfect. They fought a lot, especially when they raced against each other. Two boys destined for royalty made for good rivals. Charles might have hated Max if he hadn’t gotten to know him off track first.

“But you won’t pick me,” Max said.

Charles shook his head. “I can’t choose a side based on personal attachment. And I don’t know if I agree with the changes you want to make with the FIA. But I also don’t know if Lewis has a better solution. So we’re saying neutral for now.”

Max stared at him for a long time, but no anger came to his eyes.

Charles counted himself as one of the few people who had ever seen Max at his most vulnerable. He’d seen Max cry, but vulnerability in the Verstappen children usually came with fury. Max swore he would never be his father, but even he could break. Charles had only seen it happen twice, both times before Max became royal.

Even Lewis might not be able to withstand it.

Max definitely wouldn’t.

Max stuck out his hand. “Fine. We race clean.”

Charles shook it, but didn’t let go.

Max resisted for a split second, then softened.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” Charles murmured. “And I really hate it when you’re a pain in the ass on top of it.”

Max pulled his hand away with the first real smile Charles had seen all weekend.

It faded a moment later.

“I’d like to ask you something,” Max said, clearing his throat. “If you feel it’s putting you on my side, fine. But I think Daniel lied to me.”

Charles blinked, but kept his mouth shut.

“Someone tipped off Mercedes,” Max continued. “I only told three people about my engine penalty. Horner, Marko, and Daniel. I decided to take it based on information from a source inside Mercedes.”

Charles cocked a brow. “Who? Lando?”

Max shook his head. “Christian won’t tell me. Which makes me think it’s a royal source. Which makes me think—”

Max turned his face away. Pain looked so horrible on him—something about his wideset eyes and full lips evoked a fierce protectiveness in Charles, even when he’d been ready to punch him last night.

“If Daniel really did that, I think it means Red Bull has something on him,” Max finally said. “I always thought that, but I have no idea what it could be.”

Or maybe he doesn’t love you as much as you think. But even as Charles thought it, he remembered the way Daniel hated every minute in Milton Keynes.

“I won’t make you any promises,” Charles said quietly.

“You could ask Sebastian,” Max tried. “He knows everything about what happens at Red Bull. He wouldn’t tell me, but he’d tell you. You know how to ask him things.”

Charles rested a hand on Max’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

If he closed his eyes, he could hear the sound of rain bouncing on pavement, the screech of tires as Max rushed in to save him from himself.

“Okay,” Charles said. “But you need to be ready for the answer.”

Max nodded once, but his shoulder trembled.

Charles wouldn’t go to Sebastian. Sebastian was unpredictable when it came to Red Bull.  He doubted their faded relationship would be enough to convince him to say anything to betray a Mercedes informant.

Especially when Charles had a feeling the informant was at Alpha Tauri.

 


 

“I need to focus, mate!” Lando snapped into his radio, eyeing his mirrors. Lewis continued to close. Lando calculated how much the track could dry in one lap as he applied the brakes a fraction later than the lap before, holding his breath as he did so.

The car moved smooth as butter, barely slipping as he went back on throttle. Lewis became a little smaller in his mirrors, and the nose of Max’s Red Bull punctured the spray behind him.

Lando had led most of the race except for a few Carlos had taken from him at the beginning. The rain had spattered on and off on different parts of the track, and he’d successfully calculated every change to widen his lead further.

The decision to pit later than Lewis had worked, and all he had to do was bring it home.

Rain had fallen steadily for the past lap, with darker clouds on the horizon. But Lando knew how to fucking drive. He kept his lead on slicks even after everyone else pitted. Only Lewis had stayed out with him.

Lando refused to take his first win on inters if Lewis stayed on slicks.

The rain started smearing against his visor even further, making it easier to see in the straights but warped when he turned.

“I need the forecast, Will,” Lando said. “If it’s going to keep this up, we need inters.”

“Checking,” Will said, professional.

Lando grit his teeth as his rear left locked slightly as he turned in, but Lewis went squirrely on track behind him.

Still safe.

“The rain is going to stop in about two minutes,” Will said.

Lando glanced up at the clouds. They didn’t look any further away.

“You’re sure?” he asked. “How many laps left?”

“Four to go,” Will replied curtly. “Four after this one, four after this one. Some cars are pitting for inters. Bottas has gone already.”

Lando did the math in his head. If he stuck it out for two laps in the wet, he’d have the advantage in the end. Assuming Lewis chickened out.

“The rain. You’re absolutely sure—”

“Lando, the rain is stopping in two minutes,” Will interrupted. “No more rain, got it?”

Lando blinked behind his visor. Will never snapped at him over radio unless he did something stupid—and considering he was leading a race and fucking killing it in the rain, that didn’t track.

He blew past the pit entrance and squeezed the wheel a little tighter as the rain continued picking up.

Lewis disappeared from his mirrors.

Doubt started to creep in.

“Hamilton has taken it—he’s gone to inters,” Will said.

He sounded angry.

Rain continued to pound.

“We have to commit to slicks, mate,” Lando replied decisively. “That’s it. Don't ask me again."

Lando thought back to Wembley, the way Daniel completely calmed in the face of the angry crowd. He took a deep breath and tried to emulate it, shivering slightly as rain finally started seeping through his fireproofs.

You know how to drive in rain.

Carlos used to love sneaking out to drive during the rain. Lando used to cover his eyes when Carlos took to rallying his VW Golf on the country roads outside the McLaren palace, until he learned that covering his eyes made him carsick.

He also remembered the way Carlos laughed low in his chest when Lando nearly binned it on a corner when Carlos let him drive. And when they sat on the hood after, celebrating victory against their invisible competitors, the way Carlos tasted with rain on his lips.

Lando would give anything to taste that again.

“Okay Lando, confirming, we have to be able to stay on track here,” Will said. “You have to stay on this tire.”

Razorblades started to dance in Lando’s stomach. The track walls started to loom and vision started to tunnel.

Suddenly he couldn’t see anything. The car freaked underneath him, tires spinning as he skated around on the tarmac.

Carlos told him a story about racing his father on ice once. Rally royalty raced on frozen lakes in Finland, and his father had taken him out to try. Carlos nearly beat his father on the first lap and started a competition he still talked about with a smile.

Lando caught the Rolex logo on the track wall, so close he could see a chunk of paint had chipped off it.

“It’s fucking—It’s so fucking wet, boys!” Lando shouted into his radio. “I’ve gotta box. I want to swap, I can’t do this!”

He eased on the brakes into Turn 5, but everything slowed down way too much.

No. Please, no.

Lando tried to countersteer, but the car had already launched into a spin. He kept it from hitting the wall and finished the spin facing the track, giving himself a front row seat to his demise.

Lewis’s black Mercedes slid past with perfect traction, taking the lead.

 


 

Lando ended up in seventh.  He welcomed the freezing rain that soaked him through as he emerged from the cockpit—he deserved it. He shivered through his weigh in, avoiding the media frenzy waiting for him just beyond the cars. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

“Lando.”

Lando closed his eyes at the sound of Lewis’s voice.

Lewis stuck out a hand. Lando wanted to punch his gap-toothed face.

But he took Lewis’s hand and shook it, because his dad would probably kick him in the ass if he sound out his son was being bad sport.

Lewis locked his grip as Lando tried to drop his hand. Lando furrowed his brow and tried to break away again, but Lewis didn’t let go.

“Hey—”

“Thanks for listening to the team, Lando,” Lewis said, smiling. His eyes turned dark. “Consider yourself debt free.  Like I said—even trade.”

All of the blood turned to ice in Lando’s body.   

Suddenly Will’s attitude made sense. His anger, his snappy replies.

Your mechanics are watching the door for me.

Lewis released his hand and squeezed his shoulder instead.  

“Unforgettable race,” Lewis said, still grinning. “Horrible how it turned out for you, but you’ll get a win someday, man.”

“Lewis, congrats on a hundred wins!” Lance shouted from Lando’s left. Lando flinched hard at the volume, but his body had gone so numb he didn’t feel capable of walking away.

A hundred wins. A hundred fucking wins and Lewis had to steal his first away from him.

“Not a hundred,” Sebastian corrected, stepping around Lando to knock shoulders with Lewis in a side hug. “Soon, though.”

“According to the FIA, it’s a hundred,” Lewis replied cheekily.

“Oh? And who crossed the line first in Canada 2019?” Sebastian asked as he stepped back.

Lewis rolled his eyes. “I’m going to find Val. Great racing, Lando.”

Lando just stood there as Lewis slipped away into the media fray.

Lance turned, eyeing him. “You all right, Lando? You look like you might faint.”

Lando blinked Lance into focus where he stood in front of him, hands out at the ready in case he fell over.

“I’m good,” Lando finally said. “Need to go have a good cry, but I’m good.”

Sebastian smiled sympathetically. “These last two races must have been painful. First they let Daniel take a win from you when you were faster, now they give you a horrible pit strategy on what should have been a milestone day for you. What a shame.”

Lando stared at him. Sebastian had to know more than he was saying. He could see a lie in his eyes, a falseness in that smile.

“Yeah, what a shame,” Lando replied dryly. Emotion bubbled up in him, a kind of helplessness worse than Wembley, because this time It was actually his fault.

He could have demanded to box. He could have used his eyes and seen the rain wasn’t stopping.

It’s time to grow up, Lewis had said. If you want to be a champion, you need to start thinking like one.

 

 


 

 

Something went wrong in the car, but Charles had no idea what it was. His lap times were three tenths off his times in the sim—and that was accounting for the rain. His driving style hadn’t changed overnight, so it had to be the car.

Even so, he’d gone into the race not expecting much. P15 hurt, but he didn’t beat himself up over it when Carlos pulled a podium for them.

And Max had played nice—in his own terms, anyway. Overall, the day had been a success.

“It’s absolute bullshit,” Pierre snapped. He stood next to a team of his mechanics, toweling rain from his hair. “We’re affiliated empires, not subjects!”

Charles paused, glancing at the big screen where Carlos held up his trophy with a tight smile.

Probably thinking about Lando. Everyone kept talking about the heartbreaking loss with three laps to go, but from what Charles had heard, it was Lando’s decision that cost him the win. He understood how that probably made it worse, but Lando wasn’t Carlos’s problem anymore.

Evidently, Carlos didn’t get that memo.

“No—play back the radio and listen,” Pierre continued. “You say he has to pass. What the fuck? If he’s so great, he should be able to pass me on merit!”

Charles turned away from the big screen just as Pierre threw the towel on the ground and stormed away from his team.

“Pierre!” he called after him. "Qu'est-ce qui se passe?"

Pierre shot him a glare and didn't stop walking. “They told me to let Max pass. Demanded it, actually.”

“Were you fighting him?” Charles asked as they headed toward the hospitality lane.

“Couldn’t even see him yet,” Pierre replied, walking faster. “They did it as a deliberate insult. Or a punishment for some fucking thing I did.”

Charles cleared his throat. “Did you do something?”

Pierre looked at him again. “Why did you ask me like that?”

“Like what?”

“You did that loopy thing with your voice.”

Charles frowned. “Loopy thing?”

Pierre stopped short, narrowing his eyes. “What, you think I did something?”

Reporters surged up ahead and Charles caught sight of Lando’s dark curls as he beelined across the hospitality lane and back into the McLaren garage. There were too many ears and too many microphones around for his liking.

Pierre seemed to understand and nodded toward the Alpha Tauri and Alfa Romeo hospitality suites. Charles followed him around the side of it. People would still be able to see them, but they would notice if anyone got too close.

“You knew about Valtteri’s penalty last night,” Charles said, leaning against the Alfa Romeo suite. “You didn’t correct Max when he said he thought Lewis was taking a penalty, but you knew he wasn’t. How?”

Pierre rested his head against the Alpha Tauri suite and exhaled, smoking the air above him in the afternoon chill. More rain threatened on the horizon.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be stuck,” Pierre said, staring up at the clouds. “Red Bull or nothing. They hate me, but I’m too popular to cut loose. And I grew up with Max—that’s what they think anyway. I feel like I barely know him. I barely knew him when we were married.”

“I don’t know about that,” Charles said. “Max trusts you.”

Pierre let out a snort. “Yeah, sure. He trusts me to do good enough to stay here. I did think maybe he liked me more after he gave us that night together, but no. That was all for you.”

Charles looked away, shame burning his cheeks.

"Je peux comprendre, cependant,” Pierre said, looking down at him through his lashes. The corner of his lip ticked up in a half smile, pink and kissable.

“Pierre,” Charles warned.

Pierre chuckled to himself, returning his gaze to the sky. His eyes didn’t laugh at all.

“Just tell me how you knew,” Charles murmured.

“How I always know,” Pierre said. “Stoffel told me.”

Charles expected about a thousand answers, but none of them included that name.

“It’s not really Stoffel, though,” Pierre continued, crossing his arms. “Lewis conveys information through him.”

“So you’re still talking to Stoffel,” Charles said.

“Oh fuck off, Charles,” Pierre snapped, eyes sparking with anger. “Don’t even go there. Yes, I still talk to him. I even hooked up with him after you dumped me. I thought maybe it would make me feel better—instead I can’t see him anymore because I fucking used him and he knows it. So fuck you for saying that—for accusing me like that.”

A slap in the face would have hurt less. Charles’s insides wrung tight, all the way up to his throat.

“That’s how it started, really,” Pierre said, back on task. “I was fucking around with Stoff and Lewis found out. Instead of stopping it, he started telling Stoffel things to tell me. I didn’t like that.”

Pierre pushed himself off of the wall, shaking out his hair. “So I went to Lewis and told him he could talk to me himself. I impressed him—for once, someone was actually impressed by me.”

Words dried up on Charles’s tongue. Everything hurt.

Pierre offered him a weak smile. “I was not in a good place, as I told you before. So Lewis helped. He gave me information through Stoffel so I could protect myself--it's the only way red Bull won't notice. He wants me to stay a prince.”

“What do you give him in return?” Charles asked, his voice strangled.

Raindrops started gathering in Pierre’s hair. The wind picked up, clouds churning overhead.

Pierre shook his head. “Rien. Rein pour le moment, anyway.”

“Pierre, he’ll want something. He might already be using you for something,” Charles said. “Why would Lewis protect you?”

Pierre’s eyes flashed. “Because he’s a good person, Charles. Despite what everyone thinks. I’m sure he’ll want my help someday, but he hasn’t asked for it yet.”

“People like him don’t ask,” Charles said. “Did you lie to Red Bull about the penalty to protect him and hurt Max? Because if you did, that’s not—”

“I hate Red Bull,” Pierre said, cutting him off. “But I’m not a rat. And I wouldn’t do that to Max. I don’t fucking like him, but I respect him. I told you about Valtteri because I wanted you to be prepared for the race. When you didn’t tell Max, I knew I could trust you again.”

Again.

“Pierre—”

“Don’t,” Pierre cut. “Lewis trusts me with information because I don’t tell anyone. Someone else fed Max the wrong information. Whoever did it had enough pull that Christian and Helmut believed it too. Ex-Red Bull, probably royalty.”

“So Daniel or Sebastian.” Charles swallowed hard. “Or Carlos.”

Pierre’s gaze softened. “Oui. But I don’t think it was Carlos. He made it out of Red Bull and even if he didn't, he likes Max. Now that he's in Ferrari, he has the power to say no. Sebastian is Lewis’s best friend, but Helmut and Christian know that too. So it really leaves Daniel.”

Charles could already see the hurt unfurling on Max’s face, the utter devastation of betrayal.

A taste of his own medicine.

He shook the thought away as rain began to soak through his clothes. He looked out at the hospitality lane, where reporters, guests, and fans hurried to find shelter from the storm. George rushed by, Nicky running behind him with a hand on his head to keep his hood up.

“Do you really think Daniel would betray him like that?” Charles asked quietly.

“I don’t think any of us can predict what princes will do under pression politique,” Pierre replied.

“Daniel almost had his crown stripped away for the burner phones," Charles said, trying to think it through. "It doesn’t make sense that he would stay by Max for that and then lie about an engine penalty.”

“Don’t say anything to Max without proof,” Pierre said, unexpectedly protective.

Charles met his eyes and found pain there. 

“If Daniel really did tip off Mercedes, it would destroy him,” Pierre murmured.

The hair stood up on the back of Charles’s neck as the realization sank in.

It would have been the perfect trap. Even if Charles didn’t say Daniel did it, all of the clues pointed to him being the source. Max would see that.

“Fuck,” Charles breathed. “Maybe that’s what they wanted.”

 Pierre nodded. “Maybe. Whoever ‘they’ are. My guess?  Christian and Helmut. They fucking hate Daniel.”

Charles tongued the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Now Red Bull knows they were lied to. Someone will get punished for this—we have to figure out who.”

“I’ll listen for anything from Red Bull,” Pierre offered. “We should probably get inside, though. People are going to wonder why we’re still out here.”

Rain started to drip into Charles’s eyes, right on cue. He swore as he wiped the wetness away, grimacing at the feeling of his hair sticking flat to his head.

“Fuck,” he growled. “I still have media to do. I’m going to look like an idiot.”

Pierre laughed, eyes dimmed with fondness.

Charles stilled at the draw of Pierre’s thumb over his jaw. His hands were still hot from his racing gloves, still coming down from the adrenaline.

“I still like it,” Pierre said quietly, and suddenly Charles was back in Paris, in a peeling wooden chair, dark green paint on the walls. “I still think it makes you real.”

Pierre dropped his hand before Charles could scold him, and didn’t look back as he slipped away and headed into the yellow light of the Alpha Tauri hospitality suite.

The echo of Pierre’s unspoken words lingered on his skin long after his warmth washed away in the rain.

Chapter Text

Finishing the race in the points only brought momentary happiness. George smiled for photos and gave interviews with a grin and a few snappy lines, but all of it faded away the moment the cameras turned off.

Betrayal didn’t hurt like he thought it would. Max might have been a childhood friend, but tricking him into an engine penalty hardly equated with what he’d done to Alex. Max losing the championship actually helped everyone, unlike exiling a young prince—a friend.

George told himself he didn't care that Alex told Red Bull his secret. He expected it from the beginning—ever since he’d seen the look on Alex’s face when Red Bull pulled him from the Williams briefing room back in Austria. Alex wouldn't be safe until he was at Williams. Those had always been the terms.

George sidestepped a cameraman following Lando to avoid being toppled.

“Hey,” George called, weaving around to catch Lando’s sleeve before he disappeared.

Lando stopped walking. His arm went limp in George’s hold, and the look he gave over his shoulder made George’s heart wrench in sympathy.

“You did well today, Lando,” George said, squeezing his arm. “Shit luck, mate.”

Lando narrowed his bloodshot eyes. “Wasn’t luck.”

Lando wrenched his arm away and continued down the pit lane.

Nicky’s report about Lando’s party had sounded like a reality show script read. George wished he could have been there to see all of the things Nicky didn’t have the experience to catch, but he had no regrets about his night with Alex.

Lewis loomed over him on one of the big screens as George hurried down the line of garages. Lewis grinned wide for the camera, eyes sparkling in the way George used to believe was real.

“It was great racing with Lando today,” Lewis said. “He’s a real talent, and he deserved that win. He’ll get there soon, I’m sure. But yeah, great day for us. Every point counts, and we did great today.”

The cameras cut to Christian Horner. Toto Wolff hovered close behind, leering down at him with an expression George could only describe as murderous.

“Max did a simply spectacular job today,” Christian said with pride. “Taking second after starting in last really shows what a great driver he is. Everyone thought we should count him out after the engine penalty, but Max has proven time and time again that he operates with a championship mentality. He put it all on the line today and we’re very proud of him.”

George stopped to look up at Christian on the screen. He reminded George of a small dog—loud and snappy. But he used theatrics well. He spoke with calculated precision, always wrapped up in some kind of scheme. Alex wouldn’t be scared of an idiot.

“Max really embodies Red Bull as an empire—we’re young, but gaining ground against empires that have been in the mix much longer than we have. Of course, he’s not the first young prince we’ve appointed, but he’s committed to the empire in a way I’ve never seen. It’s inspiring,” Christian continued, crowding the microphone when Toto shifted behind him like he might want a turn.

Toto didn’t need to say anything about Lewis—Mercedes spoke for itself.

“Red Bull goes beyond the normal aspects of an empire—we don’t have a car we’re trying to sell," Christian said with a smirk.  "People change cars all the time—start with a Honda Civic, move to an Aston Martin, maybe even take a step backward and buy a Mercedes once you’re older and think you’re wiser.”

The floor fell out from under him. George wobbled on his feet, knees cracking into each other as he stumbled forward and regained his footing, panic flooding his bloodstream.

Alex had a Honda Civic Type R. He also had two Aston Martins.

Alex already had his appointment, but Red Bull had already proved they didn’t care about contracts.

George took off running, straight for the Mercedes garage. A few McLaren mechanics stood at the threshold, talking with Mercedes personnel. George spotted Peter Bonnington, Lewis’s race engineer, and made a beeline for him.

“Bono,” George panted in greeting. “Where’s Lewis? Please, it’s an emergency.”

Bono made a face. “Um. I believe he went for a walk with Prince Valtteri.”

“Okay, where?”

Bono frowned at him, then jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward the end of the pit lane. “That way. Sorry, don’t have any more info for you. They left about five minutes ago.”

George rushed through his thank-you’s and sprinted down the pit lane toward the gate that opened to the emergency lane.

Fans crowded the fence line on either side. Several of them climbed on the chain link, calling out Lewis and Valtteri’s names. They tried to stick hats through, and some even tossed shirts over the fence in hopes to get them back.

Lewis and Valtteri strolled down the emergency lane together, shoulders brushing as they walked. Lewis put his hand on Valtteri’s back for a moment, then let it fall away before he made a sharp left and disappeared with Valtteri in tow.

George picked up into a jog, ignoring the fans as he followed them into some kind of utility tunnel that went underneath the grandstands.

“It’s very upsetting to me,” Lewis said, his voice echoing in the tunnel.  “It hurt me, man. Hearing about it hurt me.”

Valtteri set his jaw and looked down the tunnel at George, who hadn’t bothered to hide his entrance.

“See? This is what I mean,” Valtteri said, gesturing to George. “It’s embarrassing. I haven’t left Mercedes yet.”

Lewis sighed, turning to George. “Can this wait, love?”

Love. George grit his teeth. “Not really.”

Valtteri made a noise of disgust and shook his head.

Lewis frowned. “Fine. But you need to give us a minute. You don’t take priority over Valtteri yet.”

“But—”

Lewis silenced him with a cold stare.

Valtteri let out a huff. “You can talk to him, Lewis. He looks a bit scared.”

“No,” Lewis said, shaking his head. “You’re upset with me, that’s more important right now. We need to be on the same page—if you’re pissed at me, tell me now.”

“I’m a little pissed, yeah,” Valtteri said. George had heard him order coffee with more emotion.

“So why didn’t you say anything?” Lewis asked. “Letting Max by like that was a play. We said we would never play games with each other. I can’t—” Lewis shut his mouth, jaw flexing.

Valtteri softened a little, but didn’t uncross his arms.

“You know I can’t do that again,” Lewis finished.

“It wasn’t a play,” Valtteri said, calm and collected. Very Finnish of him. “I was thinking about the constructor's championship—Max would have happily taken me out.”

“Don’t do that,” Lewis warned, teeth flashing in the dark. “He doesn’t dictate anything. You’re way more talented than he is.”

“Yet only one of us wins.”

Lewis closed his eyes. 

George thought back to the Mercedes royal apartment, the corkboard of ticket stubs, the little whiteboard on the fridge with Valtteri’s stick figure drawing. The massive photo print of Lewis supporting Valtteri during a bike race.

“You’re right,” Lewis said, opening his eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’ve been focused on myself lately, and that was wrong of me. I’ve probably been pulling the team’s attention too—it was never my intention to leave you out. I’d never do that.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Valtteri replied. “What’s done is done.”

George didn’t think he’d ever heard such an important argument discussed so calmly.

“Okay,” Lewis agreed with a smile. He lifted a hand, gently tapping the end of Valtteri’s nose. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I hate hearing that you felt excluded—tell me next time, okay? Don’t bring Verstappen into it.”

Valtteri smiled. “Deal. I didn’t like letting him past, for the record. But I didn’t have a car to fight him with.”

“I’ll take care of that too,” Lewis said. He turned his attention to George. “Can we walk and talk?”

George barely noticed Valtteri leaving as he stared at Lewis. Gears turned behind Lewis’s dark eyes, but his features were soft and a smile danced at the corners of his lips.

George briefly thought about how easy it would be to kiss him. A sick, manipulated part of him wanted Lewis’s attention and affection—the competitor in him wanted to know Lewis put him over Valtteri.

He used you.

Lewis cocked his head. “George? Walk and talk?”

“Christian Horner just threatened Alex on live TV,” George said as his vision started to darken at the edges. “He knows what I did—what you made me do. Now Alex is going to get hurt because of that and you promised me he wouldn’t get hurt.”

Thunder rumbled through the tunnel.

“I promised not to let you down,” Lewis said, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “I can’t promise no one will get hurt. How was it last night? I forgot to ask.”

George’s stomach hollowed.

Waking up next to Alex had put the world back into perspective. Nosing into his dark skin, sharing jokes with their eyes still closed.

“It was good,” George said, clearing his throat. “You know, up until I checked my phone and found out he told Red Bull about the engine penalty.”

Lewis lowered his hand from his neck. “Did you tell Alex that the engine penalty wasn’t real?”

“No,” George said quietly. “We were fighting when I told him. He believed me.”

"Good,” Lewis replied, glancing at the tunnel entrance. “Well, not good that you were fighting, but good that he doesn’t know it was a setup.”

“It doesn’t feel very good,” George hissed.

“It never does,” Lewis said, his voice suddenly turning dark. “But now you know where loyalties lie. You can let it ruin your relationship, or you can let it go.”

George grit his teeth. “Is that what you do with Sebastian?”

Lewis narrowed his eyes. “When I need to. I’m fully aware that he’s still involved with Red Bull. He has to tell them things about me sometimes in order to keep up the ruse. It’s a part of our relationship we’ve cultivated with mutual understanding.”

It sounded like Lewis was reciting a line Sebastian had given him.

“Doesn’t it bother you that we have to live like this?” George asked. “You’re talking about the love of your life betraying you, like that’s normal.”

“It is normal,” Lewis said coldly. “But most couples hide it from each other. Sebastian and I don’t.”

“Except your watch collection.”

Lewis laughed bitterly. “Yeah, my personal collection that doesn’t hurt anyone? Fuck, man, we’re allowed to have memories.”

You wanted that watch buried with you, George thought. A deep pain unfurled in him, wet and cold with a soft underbelly. Lewis changed whenever Nico came up. An imperceptible part of him withdrew, replaced with something shaped the same but diamond-hard.

“Alex is safe unless Red Bull finds out you fed him false information on purpose,” Lewis explained. “Horner is baiting you to see if you crack. If you act normal, everything will be fine. Just don’t say anything—does anyone else know you knew about the penalty?”

George wracked his brain. “No. I only talked to Alex about it. I followed fucking directions.”

Lewis started rubbing his neck again, fingers digging into the curling script of his tattoos. “So you need to let this go. Horner will find someone to blame, but that’s on Red Bull. They won’t go after Alex because they don’t want to tip you off. He’s your weak point and they don’t want to lose what they think is a direct line to me.”

“But I gave them bad information,” George said.

Lewis smiled. “This time. But according to our story, you didn’t know you were giving bad info. Next time, we’ll give them something real.”

“Next time?” George sputtered.

Lewis started for the tunnel entrance, wincing as he pressed a thumb into the crook of his shoulder. Right. Neck pain.

“This is a good thing,” Lewis said before he dropped his hand to his side again. “Watch—they’re going to put you with Alex as much as possible. Take the time together while you have it.”

George balled his hands to fists at his sides. “Don’t leave.”

“Your Royal Highness!” a fan called from beyond the tunnel. He stood pressed against the chain link fence, shoving a camera lens through the opening.

Lewis put on a smile and waved at the fan, but his eyes didn’t match it. He didn’t stop moving.

“Lewis!” George shouted, stepping into the rain. “We’re not done talking!”

Lewis put in his earbuds and didn't look back. 

George scowled, ears burning with rage. "Fine! You can--"

Camera shutters clicked, and George turned to see two more people accompanying the fan, all with cameras pointing right at him. One had a press badge dangling around his neck.

Shit.

 


 

For a much as Lando had cried this season, he couldn’t find the fucking will on the worst day of his life. He still had the sour aftertaste of his conversation with Carlos parked on the back of his tongue, and his eyes ached in his skull, but no tears came. Mostly, he wanted to throw up. Anything to purge the whole weekend from his system.

The acrid scent of used tires brought him back to the karting garage of his childhood, and it worked the same way to prevent press and nosy people from trying to worm their way into his failure.

He didn’t want another person to tell him his day would come. He didn’t want to look any of his mechanics in the eye. He didn’t want Daniel to hug him or Max to get angry on his behalf.

“You always pick smelly places to hide.”

Lando’s heart stopped. Carlos stared down at him at the edge of tie collection. He didn’t have pity in his eyes, just that relaxed, easy smile Lando loved.

“Carlos,” he whispered. “Carlos.”

His throat began to swell as Carlos picked his way through the tires toward him. He made a few little sounds as he lost his balance—bumbling idiot that he was.

Lando fucking loved him.

“You really thought you could steal my first pole from me and then win before I win?” Carlos asked as he sat down on the floor beside him. He clucked in disapproval before opening his arms.

Lando made a noise that might have been a sob as he crushed himself into Carlos’s chest.

He waited for the warmth and safety that usually came with a Carlos hug, but nothing came. Lando burrowed his face into Carlos’s collarbone and breathed in the scent of damp nomex and tan skin, searching.

“Slow down,” Carlos soothed, rubbing his back. “You are breathing so fast.”

Lando took a deep breath, but fear kept pooling to his blood.

He loved Carlos, yet everything in him felt numb.

“I came to make sure you were okay,” Carlos murmured into his hair. “I saw your face on the big screen.”

“I fucked up,” Lando breathed. “I fucked up everything so bad. T-The race, my team, with you last night—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Carlos.”

He thought an apology would give some sort of cathartic release, but none came. He still felt trapped in his body, unable to reach the part of himself that loved without thinking.

It felt like London all over again.

“Do you really feel that way about Max?” Carlos asked quietly.

Lando’s lungs shriveled in his chest.

He wanted to say no. Every part of him screamed out for him to tell Carlos he was the only one, same as it had always been, since—

Really, since Carlos walked out of the elevator in the McLaren palace and smiled at him on day one.

“Don’t ask me that when you and Charles—”

“Lando, I’m not asking you to choose me right now. I’m asking about how you feel about Max,” Carlos said.

Cool, unaffected, like it didn’t matter if Lando said yes.

“I had a huge crush on him when we were younger,” Lando explained, even as he felt the spool of their relationship unraveling as fast as he could talk. “It went away. I wasn’t—I didn’t feel anything for him until Zandvoort. He kissed me and everything—I don’t—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed.

“And what about Daniel?” Carlos asked, using the measured tone he used to take when Zak got overbearing.

“We’re married,” Lando replied pitifully. “When the three of us are together, we’re all—I can’t fucking explain it, Carlos.”

“Then don’t explain,” Carlos said.

Lando pulled back, tears finally welling up. Carlos stared back with his big, beautiful eyes.

“You’re looking at me like you don’t care,” Lando whispered.

“I care,” Carlos replied. “But you don’t want to be with me anymore, so you don’t have to explain.”

Lando came out of London feeling like a badass for standing his ground. Kind of. That was what he told himself so he didn’t cry himself to sleep, anyway. But hearing Carlos talk about them as something from the past disoriented him more than his spinout in Belgium.

“So then—Fuck, why do you get to ask me about Max, then?” Lando asked, trying to pick up the pieces of himself before they disappeared altogether.

“I wanted to know if it was real or if you faked it to hurt me,” Carlos said. “And I think it’s very dangerous, what you’re doing. But you’re right, I don’t understand it, so I can’t judge. Do they make you happy?”

Lando gaped at him, having fully expected Carlos to say something mean that he could get angry at so he didn’t have to feel so fucking horrible.

“Does Charles make you happy?” Lando finally quipped, because he couldn’t bear to see Carlos’s face if he answered about Daniel and Max.

“Yes, he makes me very happy,” Carlos replied, a little smile coming to his lips.

Fucking hell. 

“That’s great,” Lando croaked. “Awesome. Super happy for you, mate.”

“Lando,” Carlos said softly.

“Don’t do the sweet voice,” Lando said, fighting to speak. He refused to cry now, after everything else. “And for the record, yeah. I’ve been really happy. It’s been good.”

Carlos nodded once. “Okay. If it’s ever not good, will you tell me?”

Two years flashed before Lando’s eyes. A thousand moments when insecurity ate him up, until Carlos pressed a hand to his back, kissed his cheek, stood by him on decisions he wasn’t sure about—even if he was pretty sure it was wrong.

“I haven’t stopped loving you,” Carlos murmured. “I understand we aren’t together and you don’t want to be.”

I do, I do want to be, Lando wanted to say.

“But I don’t want you to feel alone,” Carlos continued. “If things go wrong, I’m always with you.”

“Except when you’re with Charles,” Lando said.

Carlos frowned. “He’s my husband, yes, but I’ve made it clear to him I won’t go against you.”

Lando didn’t know how it was possible to miss someone sitting right in front of him.

Shoes squelched on the other side of the garage, and Lando heard a muffled fuck from the doorway.

“It’s Daniel,” Carlos whispered, thumbing at his ribcage.

As if the day couldn’t get worse.

“Lando?” Daniel called. “You in here? Sophia said—Oh.”

Daniel appeared above the pile of tires, blinking down at them.

“Am I interrupting?” Daniel asked, but he only looked at Lando.

“I want to go home,” Lando said, utterly defeated. “I just wanna go home.”

“Then let’s go,” Daniel said. “Unless you want me to beat up Carlos first?”

Carlos let out a snort. Once punch from Carlos could probably send Daniel to the deck, but Daniel liked MMA. He knew enough to fight his way out of an angry crowd at Wembley, at least.

“Can you wait outside?” Lando asked. “I’ll be there in just a sec.”

Daniel gave Carlos a pointed look he ignored. “You sure?”

Lando nodded quickly. “Please.”

He waited until the door closed before looking at Carlos again.

“I don’t like the way he talks to you,” Carlos said. “And I don’t like the way Max is doing this. That’s all I’ll say.”

Anger pinched Lando’s gut. “Yeah, well, you don’t understand, so I don’t really care.”

“Okay,” Carlos said tightly. “I’m going to go. Is it okay to give you a hug?”

Lando choked out a laugh. “Since when do you ask permission?”

Carlos pursed his lips. “Right.”

Lando leaned in for a hug that didn’t come. Carlos stood up and brushed himself off, then held out a hand to help him up.

Everything in Lando said not to take it, but he stopped listening to that part of his brain the second Carlos said he cared. He took Carlos’s hand and gripped tight.

“Thanks,” Lando said under his breath as he stood.  He followed Carlos out of the maze of discarded tires, but Carlos didn’t wait for him.

Lando scurried after him as he crossed to the door.

“Carlos, wait.”

Carlos turned to face him, obedient as a dog.

Lando swallowed hard. “Since I won’t see you later, I wanted to say goodnight.”

The corner of Carlos’s lip twitched up in a half smile. “Goodnight, Lando.”

He waited for Carlos to pull him in, to cup his face in his hands and kiss him.

Instead, Carlos turned back around, opened the door, and left.

Lando followed him out, trying his best not to look shattered as Daniel put an arm around him and rubbed his back, replacing Carlos’s lingering touches there.

“I think it’s a bubble bath night, what do you think?” Daniel asked, kissing his temple.

Lando forced himself to look away from Carlos’s retreating frame and nodded once. Daniel’s eyes were lighter, sunlit caramel with flecks of gold.

“We have to find Max first. Carlos said he won’t go against me,” Lando said, detached. “If we side with Red Bull, we have Ferrari."

Daniel’s hand stilled on his back. “I don’t know about that. Charles was pretty certain he’s staying neutral on this one, babe. Crown prince has the most power.”

Lando set his jaw. Charles had stolen Max from him, now Carlos. Charles had Pierre sniffling in the wings, still obsessed with him, and a four-time champion announcing to the world with a shitty t-shirt that he’d go back to him a heartbeat.

“Charles is easy,” Lando said. “Break his heart and he’s useless.”

Daniel went wide-eyed. “Lando, you don’t—”

“I do mean it,” Lando snapped. “And you mean it too.”

“I don’t,” Daniel said with an edge to his voice. “You don’t fuck with Ferrari, mate. Everyone who does that gets burned.”

“Charles tried to sleep with Max in Monaco,” Lando said.

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “I know. Max told me. Don’t try—”

“Did he tell you Charles tried to fuck him in the medical suite in Belgium?” Lando cut.

Daniel’s eyes flashed.

“What, no cheesecake that time?” Lando pressed.

“If they didn’t do anything, then—”

I just spent the last month putting Daniel back together,” Lando quoted. “I’m not going to fuck his biggest insecurity—that’s what Max said. You tell me if that sounds like someone who wasn’t tempted.”

Daniel’s face paled. “He didn’t say that.”

Coals burned in Lando’s belly. “You know he did. And now Max thinks you went behind his back to Lewis—right after he asked me to get Ferrari on our side and I fucked it up.”

“Stop,” Daniel snapped. “You’re speculating.”

Lando’s lips twisted into a smile as sick as he felt. “We’ll see. But if we don't do anything, I think you can guess how it'll turn out.”   

Chapter Text

“This feels like a punishment,” George muttered from inside a sleek Mercedes AMG. He adjusted his cuff links for the hundredth time as they waited in the VIP line for the Royal Albert Hall in London.

“It’s not a punishment. You’re British, this is a British film,” Kayla said from the passenger seat. “Yes, it’s going to turn some heads that Prince Nicky isn’t with you, but we only received one invite, and it had your name on it.”

“And Lewis isn’t coming,” George said.

“Correct. I don’t think that would be tactful, given the circumstances.”

The circumstances revolved around a series of tabloid articles depicting a fight between him and Lewis outside the tunnels in Sochi. The pictures made everything look about a thousand times worse than they really were—George looked like the scorned lover, Lewis the uncaring, older beau.

All planned, as George had found out.

Those photos are for Red Bull, Lewis had written. If they were going to punish Alex, they won’t now that they think we’re having a row about it. They’re going to try to turn you, so be ready. Not sure if they’ll be stupid enough to try to get Max to do it, but they’ll definitely try to use Alex.

I understand why you never write me back anymore, but I hope that changes.

For what it’s worth, I wish things were different with us too.

George waited for nausea to roll over him the first time he read that final line, but none came. He didn’t miss Lewis when they were apart anymore, but his whole life had changed. He saw Lando, Pierre, Charles, and Max and wondered what his life might have been like if he’d managed an appointment in a more powerful empire.

A few months ago, all of it had seemed worth it. The most powerful husband in the empires, the prospect of being a Mercedes prince. Finally, he would have more power than all of them.

His father used to tell him that marriage for princes shouldn’t be about love. He entered the royal circle with Alex at his side, both of them headed for different empires. He married a quiet but decisive Polish prince, learned how to run a government and make use of a shit car.

“Smiles on,” Kaylah said as the car pulled up to an opulent entrance, red carpet laid out to cover the stairs. Photographers buzzed, and women in glamourous dressed became beacons of light under all the flashes.

George emerged from the car to a chorus of cries of his name. Cameras trained on him, shutters clicking as he put on his best smile and smartened up the lapels on his suit. He gave a few gallant waves to the crowd and turned around to face the wall of fans screaming from across the barriers on the other side of the car.

The façade of a luxury event only extended to the edge of the sidewalk. Scaffolding lined the other side of the street, warped plywood and torn up plastic bags flapping in the evening breeze. Dirty puddles pooled on the curb, and George tried not to grimace at the falseness of it all.

He turned back to the red carpet as Rami Malek took up a pose on first set of stairs. Ana de Armas stood at the top flight in a black silk dress, chatting with Daniel Craig, who wore a reddish pink velvet suit and black bowtie. They barely looked like the people he’d seen on screen, even in all of the makeup.

“Your Royal Highness.” George turned to a man in an expensive-looking suit and black and white leather shoes that verged on tacky. Honestly, they looked like shoes Lewis would wear—except Lewis would never pair dark grey slacks with a black suit.

“I’m Cary,” the man greeted. “I’m the director of No Time to Die.”

“Nice to meet you,” George said, shaking his hand. “Nicky says hi too. He has some thoughts about how you directed Jane Eyre, though.”

Cary laughed. “A lot of people did. Well, welcome to the premiere. Want me to show you where the other royals are?”

“Please.”

George followed Cary up the stairs. They paused on every level for photos until George’s mouth started to hurt from smiling. Alex said he had the perfect face for modelling, but George couldn’t stand fake smiling for more than a few minutes.

“We’re still waiting on the British royal family,” Cary explained as they stepped inside the theater hall, where more famous people stood around sipping champagne. “I don’t really understand all the title stuff—forgive me for that. Trust me, I know it’s a respect thing, but there are about a million names for a prince, it seems like.”

George laughed. “Ours is pretty simple. His Royal Highness Prince George of Williams. Nothing too flashy. If you really want to compliment me, you can refer to me as crown prince, but no one really does that.”

“Right,” Cary said with a nod, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. “Well, just in here—sorry, I have to go do some promo. But it was great to meet you.”

George smiled and stepped past him. Poor guy was a director and still asked to babysit princes.

“Thank god, a normal person,” Pierre greeted from inside the reception hall. He looked dapper as hell in a proper suit and bow tie.

“How the hell did you get an invite?” George greeted, pulling him in for a hug and hearty slap on the back.

Pierre grinned. “I drove a 007 Red Bull when I was married to Max—what the hell do you mean? You’re the one who doesn’t make sense here.”

“I’m a Brit who drives fast cars, dumbass.”

Pierre rolled his eyes. He motioned for one of the servers to come over, and grabbed them both champagne flutes. George lifted his in a toast, then took a drink.

Real champagne, not Ferrari Trento.

George nearly choked on his next sip when Christian Horner strode past with his wife, Geri Halliwell.  

“What the hell is a head of government doing here?” George hissed.

Pierre’s smile vanished. “Max refused to come, so Christian showed up.”

“What?” George stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Last I checked, princes didn’t have the option to back out of this shit.”

Pierre grimaced. Pain surfaced in his eyes—way too deep to just be from Max.

“Something’s wrong, mate,” Pierre murmured. “You know I don’t like Max that much, but this is…I don’t know. It’s something else.”

Christian greeted a man in a suit with a bit too much enthusiasm, then gestured to his wife as if she was part of his outfit.

Try-hard.

George put a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “And what about you? Are they treating you okay?”

Pierre laughed, a broken sound. “Alpha Tauri treats me fine.”

George frowned and gave Pierre’s shoulder a squeeze. “C’mon. We’re not in a presser.”

Pierre took a long sip of champagne. He had startling eyes—big and vibrant blue.

“I’m still fucked over Charles,” Pierre finally admitted. He let out a sigh. “I can’t get over it. I’m trying, but I can’t.”

George wanted to sympathize. He wanted to say he knew what it felt like to have a new, exciting love affair pulverized in the space of an evening. Every memory tainted with the knowledge that Lewis never really intended to love him at all.

Instead, George patted Pierre’s shoulder. “I’m here for you, mate. We all are. Nobody says you have to get over it right away. I know how much he means to you.”

Pierre had a lot more fire in his youth—he still had it, but he knew how to hide it now. Back in the day, he did everything full throttle and burned himself out every few weeks. He made Max look kind to himself with how obsessively he watched onboards and walked himself through every hundredth of a second of input data.

He loved Charles with the same intensity. Always first to offer if Charles needed a ride. Always going out of his way to make sure Charles had support when his dad was sick. George still remembered the phone call that one night in Monaco, Pierre’s panicked voice.

Help me. Charles isn’t okay.

He remembered finding Charles in that alleyway and thinking he was dead. Covered in grimy puddle water, eyes open and bloodshot and staring up at the sky. Pierre never panicked. He threw Charles over his shoulder and carried him back to the car without a thought. He made George drive back to Charles’s house, speaking softly in French until Charles slurred out a reply.

“Hey boys,” said Lance Stroll, interrupting George’s memory.

George immediately looked for Sebastian, but there were no matted curls to be found.

“All alone?” George greeted as they shook hands. “I’d figure Aston Martin would have both princes here.”

Lance shrugged. “Seb doesn’t like this stuff. He has some promo thing in West London tonight. A climate change thing? Something about the weather.”

George’s smile went rigid. “Of course he does. Always concerned about the planet, that one.”

“It’s nice that he’s so passionate,” Lance said.

You’re an unfathomable idiot, George thought. And I’m no fucking better.

George had never been to Lewis’s London home, but he remembered reading about it when Lewis bought it in 2017. A six-bedroom mansion. Charles had been more upset about Lewis managing to purchase it from the guys who used to own Burberry.

“Stroll.”

The three of them turned to see Kimi Raikkonen looking…very nice in a blue suit and silk tie. He looked about ten years younger, but George couldn’t imagine him allowing anyone to put makeup on him.

“Where’s Seb?” Kimi asked, curt as usual.

Lance sighed. “I was just telling George—he had a climate change promo in West London.”

“Motherfucker,” Kimi growled, looking down at his watch.

So Kimi really did know about them.

“I need to talk to him,” Kimi said. “Text him or whatever. Tell him I need to talk to him.”

“Uh, okay?” Lance replied, echoing the confusion written on George and Pierre’s faces.

Kimi never looked nervous or anything close to it. His eyes were ice chips, cold and calculating.

“Well, do it!” Kimi snapped.

Lance fumbled to pull out his phone. “All right, all right—Jesus.”

Pierre nodded toward the door. “Wanna go find our seats? I don’t really want to talk with Dukes and Duchesses and shit.”

George obliged him and they said their goodbyes to Lance and Kimi, happy to leave.

Pierre shivered the moment they left the room. “Fuck, Horner kept staring at me. Couldn’t stay in there anymore.”

George glanced behind them to see if Christian had followed them out, but only saw a bunch of older women surveying the crowd with malaise while they sipped drinks.

Pierre smiled at a pair of girls who seemed to recognize them, then picked up his pace toward the main theater. George hurried along behind him.

“None of it makes sense,” Pierre said as they walked. “Red Bull already has championships, but they’re acting like Max is going to make them as powerful as Mercedes. Lewis is the reason Mercedes is so powerful, but he did that over six championships.”

“Careful, you sound like a Mercedes supporter,” George joked, bile rising in his throat.

Pierre shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. “I am.”

George almost laughed. Pierre tended to be one of the smarter ones in their group, but he was just another Lewis pawn.

Horner will find someone to blame, Lewis had said.

“Can’t imagine Red Bull taking kindly to a traitor,” George said.

Pierre laughed, but his eyes darkened with something akin to hatred. It made George’s throat close.

 “Good thing I’m tougher than I look.”

 

 


 

 

“Smile—keep smiling—that’s it,” Sophia coaxed from behind a wall of cameras.

Lando didn’t know why he had to smile while wearing a helmet, but he did it anyway. Anything to get him out of this fucking kart.

He’d spent too much of his life karting. It paid off with a royal appointment, of course, but karts were for kids. It felt degrading to sit in one, to give a thumbs up for some McLaren billboard somewhere, his royal crest plastered on karting equipment.

His dad said he needed to focus more on brand awareness. The only bad part was that Lando was the brand. His face was the brand. His life was the brand.

“I think that’ll do,” Sophia announced.

Lando breathed a sigh of relief and shimmied the helmet off. The Italian Alps took up the horizon of the OTK karting track, already dusted with snow.

He swore he could taste Carlos on the breeze, though Ferrari was probably 150 kilometers away—and he had no idea If Carlos was actually there. Everything about his day trip to Italy had reminded him of Carlos—his cappuccino, every red car, even the pasta he’d only seen on the menus of restaurants they passed by.

The itch to see him had turned to a burn, prickling and insufferable under his fireproofs. Lando had tried to drive out the energy during a few laps on the track, where he set the karting track record by a few seconds.

“Do you need me for any more pictures?” Lando asked, bouncing his helmet against his thigh. “Or can I go change?”

Sophia waved him off, but not before she handed him a McLaren cap. “Go change, you’re free. But make sure you sign some autographs.”

She nodded toward the crowd of wide-eyed kids standing at the threshold of the karting garage, holding tight to hats, shirts, and autograph cards. Frustration nibbled at Lando’s insides as he approached them, putting on a smile.

One of the kids had a Ferrari cap on. A Charles cap.  

Lando chewed the inside of his cheek as he signed cards with his face on them, a few shirts, and even the Ferrari kid’s model helmet.

“I’m nicer than him, you know,” Lando said with a wink as he tipped back the Charles cap. “Want one of my hats?”

The little boy gaped at him as Lando pulled off his hat.

“What’s your name?” Lando asked.

“Gabriele,” the kid squeaked out. He spelled it out as Lando scribbled his name on the bill of the hat. He also made sure to write LANDO > CHARLES, and added a smiley face.

“Cazzo,” a boy said from further back in the crowd. “Carlos sta facendo dei test a Fiorano.”

The Sharpie slipped from Lando’s hand. He ducked to pick it up, blinking at the ground for a few moments.

He didn’t speak a lot of Italian, but he could understand that. Carlos was at Fiorano. Carlos was actually at Ferrari, actually close enough that Lando could—

He stood up and offered the boy his hat and Sharpie.

“Nice to meet you, Gabriele. See ya around. Thanks, guys.”

He waved at the crowd before trotting back into the garage, back to his phone, a postcard he’d picked up to send to Carlos, and clothes that didn’t smell like dry cleaning. He had a few texts from Daniel, but nothing urgent.

ok where is the honey granola

did u fucking eat my granola

Lando flicked past the texts and checked his travel itinerary. A quick map search showed the Milan Bergamo airport under an hour away, 70 kilometers. He zoomed out until he could see Modena, scanning near it until he spotted Ferrari.

Lando was pretty good at math, and Maranello looked a lot further away than he’d anticipated. He didn’t dare search for directions, just in case someone was watching his phone or looked at his search history.

His travel itinerary had nothing listed for the rest of the day. Tomorrow he had brunch with Daniel and Zak to discuss government initiatives in McLaren. Before that, dawn training.

Great.

He had to start thinking like a champion.

Lando changed into an oversized Rhude hoodie and jeans. He slipped into his white Nikes and and fixed his hair before marching back out to the track.

“Sophia,” he called, motioning her over.

Sophia cocked a brow at him before she scurred away from the photoshoot director.

“Yes, Your Royal Highness?”

“Change my flight please,” Lando said. “I want to fly out of Bologna. There’s a restaurant in Modena I want to go to. It’s like, the most famous restaurant in the world or something.”

Sophia’s gaze hardened. “Massimo Bottura’s restaurant? Osteria Francescana?”

“Yeah, sure,” Lando said flippantly. “I got a table, I’m going. VIP and stuff.”

He didn’t actually remember anything about the restaurant itself, or the chef. Just that Carlos had gushed about it more than once in his letters, how he was so lucky to have the same chef as the Ferrari Royal Chef or whatever.

Lando didn’t even know if McLaren had an official royal chef.

Sophia crossed her arms. “I’m not stupid, you know. You’re not going to Carlos’s dream restaurant by yourself.”

Damn.

Lando shrugged. “Then fly Daniel in. It takes like a year to get a table there. I kicked out the Danish ambassador or something—I’m going.”

Lying wasn’t that difficult when the alternative was flying back to McLaren to be miserable.

Sophia pulled out her phone and started scrolling. She dialed a number and brought the phone to her ear.

“Ciao Giorgio,” Sophia greeted. “Yes, it’s Sophia. Quick question for you—does Prince Carlos have a reservation at Osteria Francescana this evening?”

Lando scowled at her, but held his ground.

“Good to know. I’m near Brescia with Prince Lando and he managed a reservation there tonight, so I wanted to make sure—Yes, exactly. “ Sophia narrowed her eyes at him. “He’s doing a cake tasting for Charles’s birthday cake tonight? Adorable. Can’t wait for the BTS footage of that.”

Lando’s resolve bled out on the tarmac and sizzled in the afternoon heat.

Sophia’s intent to hurt him worked like a damn charm. Somewhere in his imagination, Carlos paced the Ferrari palace, thinking about him, about how they could fix things. In his mind, Carlos hurt and pined.

In reality, he simply loved Charles harder. Enough to plan his birthday cake in advance, when Lando had totally forgotten Daniel’s birthday and had to be reminded by Sophia the morning of.

“So,” Sophia said, her call ended. “Still going to Modena?”

“Yeah,” Lando snapped. “But thanks for ruining my day. I’m taking the Senna. And I need an envelope to send a letter.”

 

 


 

 

Lando made record time on the Italian highways. Cops didn’t bother tagging after him in the slate blue McLaren Senna—they knew royalty when they saw it. Lando wouldn’t have slowed down anyway. He kept thinking about Carlos standing in some pastry kitchen, licking chocolate icing off his fingers.

He also thought about how much Charles would love it, how they would kiss, how Carlos would start feeling his way up Charles’s shirt and they would tumble into their pretty Ferrari bed and fuck the night away and Charles would probably make some raunchy morning-after Instagram story with a fucked-out smile and Carlos sipping coffee in bed in the background.

Or something.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re really doing?” Daniel asked over the in-car speaker system from the McLaren palace.

“No,” Lando said, trying not to sound choked up. “Just driving.”

“Okay,” Daniel said, his voice unexpectedly soft. “Can I stay on the phone with you for a while?”

Lando gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I’m almost there, but yeah.”

“Cool.” A pause.  “Tell me you’re not about to drive a Senna into the middle of that place.”

Lando sniffed, cursing under his breath as a tear rolled down his cheek. “Um. I guess I shouldn’t do that, should I.”

“No sweat. I have a buddy I can text,” Daniel said. “Park at this restaurant you’re going to, he’ll send his driver to pick you up. His name’s Reggio—fashion guy.”

A weight lifted from Lando’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

The line stayed silent for a moment.

“Babe,” Daniel finally said, “it’s never the same when you visit them on their new turf.”

“I don’t need your advice right now.”

Lando would die if he didn’t see Carlos today. They still had a week until Turkey. He couldn’t go a week without him while being this close.

“I’m just saying, there’s a reason everyone picks a neutral location to sneak around.”

“Carlos stayed with me while you were in Red Bull, and that was perfect, so.”

“Was it?”

Lando gave the car more gas as he sliced around a rusty Peugeot.

“Of course it wasn’t fucking perfect,” Lando snapped in reply. “He got up in the morning and left me.”

Daniel sighed. “Just promise to call me after, and please, please, please do not sneak into Fiorano. If Ferrari catches you there, you’ll lose your appointment. I’m not kidding. That’s like holy ground.”

Lando shifted in his seat. “Fine. I’ll call.”

“And?”

“And I won’t sneak into their stupid track.”

Daniel didn’t stay on the phone much longer after that. Lando found the restaurant, taken aback by the tree-lined streets of Modena, the murmurs of a small town, and the way the people there didn’t bat an eye at one of the rarest sportscars in the world.

It suddenly made sense why Carlos loved Ferrari so much. He preferred open air, space to sprawl in. Like his home.

Some of Lando’s best memories were the days spent at the Sainz family estate. He vividly recalled the marshmallow wars on their first trip. They stuck toothpicks in marshmallows and put them in the microwave, where they ballooned until one popped the other.

Lando had laughed so hard he ended up on the hardwood floor with tears leaking from his eyes, stomach hurting from all the joy.

As he sat In the back of Mercedes on the way to Maranello, he remembered the bundle of nerves as Carlos introduced him to his family, the way he messed up his sister Blanca’s name two seconds after meeting her.

And just when he thought he would go down in history as Carlos’s stupidest husband, Carlos hugged him tight and laughed into his ear, and everything felt better again.

A small crowd had gathered at the fences around Fiorano. Lando hopped out of the car and took the driver’s number for his trip home, then made his way down the embankment. He kept his sunglasses on and his hood tugged tight around his face, thankful for the excuse of a chilly afternoon.

Ferrari was one of the few empires to still own a private track. Michael Schumacher helped design it or something—Lando didn’t really remember. The whole venue looked a little out of place in the countryside, especially with no grandstands.

The cry of the Ferrari engine pierced the clear sky just before last year’s car flew by on track, Carlos’s number stickered to the side.  People in the crowd clutched their chests, marveling at him.

Lando smiled to himself. He almost never saw people in this context—fans with no media around, no princes, no cameras except their own. Almost everyone spoke Italian as they gestured to the track and grinned every time the noise of the engine reached them.

Lando didn’t know what he expected Ferrari to be, but it was smaller than he expected. And plain. All of the buildings were faded colors—beige, grey, rust.

His dad said true power spoke softly and carried a big stick.

Ferrari’s power sat behind iron gates and high fences. Part of their legacy resided in the buildings far away in the middle of the track—they had a fucking plane sitting out there as a decoration.

Carlos belonged there, among the greats.

He deserved it a lot more than Charles.

“Sta arrivando!”” someone cried after the noise of the car had stopped. Suddenly the crowd started hurrying to the left. Ferrari merch appeared out of nowhere, a sea of red pressed against the fence.

“Ciao raggazzi, ciao.”

Carlos’s deep voice carried up the hill to where Lando sat on the grass, the lower half of his face hidden by his knees.

Carlos sounded like true royalty. Fans didn’t scream like they did at track—Lando couldn’t believe how quiet they were. Daniel talked about holy ground, and Lando saw the reality of that in the way people stood there shaking, barely able to say Carlos’s name as they extended things for him to sign.

“It was a very good day,” Carlos replied to someone, flashing a smile that made Lando warm all over. “I’ll look at the data later, but I can always learn. How was your day?”

Much better now, Lando thought.  

He stood up and made his exit, heading toward the official track entrance. The race team headquarters sat a little ways from the palace entrance, and his best chance to catch Carlos would be at the gate.

Unfortunately, the fans had the same idea. A girl stood at the end of the street in a full Ferrari race uniform, holding tightly to a giant poster of Carlos and a piece of cardboard taped to the top that said something in Italian with a lot of hearts.

All Lando had was postcard in an official McLaren envelope that would give him away immediately.

He continued past a stand with a map of Maranello, then turned right back around to look at it.

Carlos always talked about how he had to learn the history of Ferrari—that all of the stuffy old men in the empire lived and breathed Ferrari and not much else. Lando also knew that the head of Royal Correspondence at Ferrari was one of those stuffy old men. Carlos complained about him every so often, how he sometimes waited hours after letters arrived before he delivered them.

Ferrari palace tours were free to the public, according to the map. He searched the drawing, following the service roads until—

Jackpot.

Royal letters enticed the public throughout the empires. Every palace loved to feed the conspiracy theorists and historians by displaying stack of envelopes from past letters—even Lando had felt the sense of mystery and honor the first time he touched a piece of Senna’s old stationary.

He took a mental picture of the Royal Mail Office on the map and started off for the palace at a jog.

Ferrari kept a surprisingly modest entrance to the palace. High concrete walls slathered in pinkish stucco, and iron gates at every entrance point. Very old and very Italian. Carlos probably loved it. He hurried past the main entrance around the side, looking for any kind of symbol for the mail entrance.

Finally, he spotted the Ferrari crest on a rolling gate, two envelopes engraved beneath it with Charles and Carlos’s personal crests.

Lando approached the gate and waved to the security camera.

“Scusi,” a man said, appeared from a guard shack behind the fence.  He started speaking Italian.

“Sorry, mate, can’t understand you,” Lando said. He pulled the envelope from his pocket. “Royal mail from His Royal Highness Prince Lando. Can you show me to the mail office? Sorry, I’m new.”

The man looked him up and down. “You are from McLaren?”

Lando chuckled nervously. “Oh, yeah.” He lifted his hoodie to reveal the orange McLaren polo underneath. “Sorry, got a little cold. Um—don’t mean to be a bother, but this is pretty urgent. Can you help me out?”

The man folded his arms. Lando’s heart jumped to his throat as Daniel’s warning played on repeat in his head.

But he had to see Carlos. His crown didn’t mean anything if he didn’t have that stupid Spaniard in his life.

Soy fuerte.

Finally, the man punched a button on the inner wall and the gate began to roll open.

“Take off your sunglasses,” he instructed. “Have some respect for royalty.”

Lando swallowed hard and pulled off his shades, waiting for the moment of recognition. He didn’t really know how it would work to get caught in a rival empire—he was pretty sure he couldn’t be arrested. Mostly sure.

At least he could say he kept his promise to Daniel. Breaking into the palace wasn’t against their rules for the evening.

“Well? What, you want me to hold your hand?” the man snapped. “Hurry, we have important things happening here. Do they like to waste time at McLaren?”

“Um, no they—”

“This question was rhetorical,” the man growled, gently cuffing him over the head. “I will take you directly to the mail room. Do not touch anything.”

Lando stepped past the gate and followed the man into the palace. They arrived inside a maze of dark wood and red walls—an office building. Nobody even looked at them as they walked by. A bunch of old guys, just like Carlos had told him. 

“Wait here,” the man said. He knocked on an office door and slipped inside.

In the main mailroom beyond, a few younger people stood chatting to a women in a Red Bull polo, a Royal Correspondence emblem embroidered on the back, Max’s crest underneath.

Fucking Charles.

His phone buzzed with a text.

I’m not going to ask where you are, Sophia wrote, but I know you’re not at that restaurant. Did you really think I wouldn’t call?

Lando’s throat closed as another text came through.

I moved your flight an hour sooner. You better be on that jet.

More bubbles.

And if you are where I think you are

GTFO Lando. NOW.

You’re putting you, Daniel, me, and everyone involved with today’s promo at risk.

And most of all HIM.

Panic began to rise in Lando’s throat, but he did his best to stomp it down. Delivering a letter wasn’t a crime. And it was an emergency—he had to see Carlos. He had to. He’d never needed anything else more in his entire life.

He put his phone in airplane mode just as an old Italian man stepped from the office, narrowing his eyes at him.

“McLaren?” the man said. “No one called me.”

Lando took a breath to steady himself. “Really? Maybe because I came from Brescia. Lan—His Royal Highness was there for a promo. He insisted I deliver this by hand. It’s an emergency.” He let panic leak into his voice. “Please, signore. I’m gonna get fired if I don’t hand this to Prince Carlos myself. I really, really can’t be fired right now.”

The man opened the door. “Inside. Stop making a fuss and give me the envelope. We will see if you are telling the truth.”

 

 

Chapter 104

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Hand me the envelope,” the old man said, putting out a hand.

Lando hesitated. If this guy decided to ignore him and brought the envelope to Carlos himself, the whole plan would go to shit. The postcard inside didn’t have anything out of the ordinary. Carlos would either panic or roll his eyes and ignore the letter completely.

“I have to hand this to Carlos myself,” Lando said, but he handed over the envelope.

The man squinted at him. “You are very familiar to me. Where have I seen you?”

Lando’s heart began to pound in his chest. “Some of my family lives in Ferrari. Maybe you’ve seen me around.”

“Oh? What is the family name?” the man asked, examining the envelope.

Shit. Lando wracked his brain, trying to think of any—

“Ricciardo,” he said, then grimaced.

You. Are. A. Dumbass.

The man chuckled. “I guess that was a silly question. And it is pronounced Ree-chi-ar-doe.”

“Right,” Lando said with a nervous laugh. Sweat began to collect under his polo, making it stick to his back. “So, um. Can you take me to Carlos now?”

The man looked up from the envelope. “What is your name?”

Fuck. Lando blinked at him.

“Max,” Lando blurted out. “Max Fewtrell. I’m not a Ricciardo. It’s a—Marriage, names, all gets confusing, you know.”

“Max Fewtrell,” the man repeated slowly, squinting at him. “Is there a reason you refer to His Royal Highness so disrespectfully, Max Fewtrell?”

Lando’s cheeks burned red. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

“Uh—God, I’m sorry. I’m so used to hearing the race commentary, I guess I just—I’m sorry.”

The man frowned at him. “You are clearly new. I don’t know why McLaren would send someone so inexperienced to deliver such an important message, but this is indeed a real letter from His Royal Highness Prince Lando.”

The man handed the envelope back to him.

“I’ll fetch His Royal Highness. You will stay here.”

Lando opened his mouth to protest, but the man held up a finger.

“I haven’t figured out what is so strange about you. Until I have learned, you will not set one foot inside the main palace.”

The man left and Lando tried to think of the way he’d come in. He was pretty sure he’d taken two rights, then all he had to do was lie to the guard, get out of the gate and—

He pulled his phone out and took it off of airplane mode. A few texts from Daniel buzzed in as soon as he got service.

i’m hearing abort mission. are you ok?

lando answer me

talked to your driver – he’s waiting by the track and you aren’t there. wtf???

Lando swallowed hard and began to text back.

busy. have driver wait by track entrance, b there in a few

A typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

WHAT THE FUCK DID I TELL YOU ABOUT GOING THERE

Lando put his phone on airplane mode again. He didn’t have time to clarify that no, he hadn’t gone inside Fiorano, he’d made an even worse decision, thank you very much.  

“—is a close friend of Lando’s.” Carlos’s voice cut through the murmurings of the mail office outside. “If he ever comes here again, I want to be alerted immediately. This is very important, do you understand?”

Carlos’s shadow appeared in the frosted glass window that looked out into the hallway.

“I knew I recognized him,” the old man said. “You do understand this is a grave violation of—”

“I understand, and I will make sure Max understands,” Carlos said, authoritative. “Lando could be in danger, I’m sure that’s why he sent Max. You will clear this hall and leave us to talk. Contact Charles and tell him I need to speak to him when he gets back.”

Lando bit the inside of his cheek, anger pushing past his heart as it hammered in his chest. Charles didn’t need to know about any of this.

Adrenaline turned his blood cold as he stepped closer to the door, eyes running down the the familiar lines of Carlos’s silhouette.

“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” the man said.

“And do not mention this letter,” Carlos added.

Lando’s heart jumped to his throat.

“I’ll tell him myself,” Carlos finished, and Lando’s heart sank again.

Fucking Charles.

“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” the man replied.

“Grazie, Fabrizio,” Carlos said. The door knob jiggled slightly.

Lando stepped back as Carlos pulled the door open and slipped inside. Carlos stayed facing the door, watching Fabrizio’s retreating shadow. Always overly cautious.

Lando had enough waiting. He threw his arms around Carlos. Carlos twisted around, all strength and quickness, as usual.

“Max, what—” Fear drenched Carlos’s voice before he cut himself off and pushed Lando back.

Lando watched as the recognition jumped to those dark eyes he still loved so fucking much. Time slowed as Lando’s hands curled around Carlos’s biceps, still at arm’s length but gravitating closer.

God, Carlos was so handsome. Every time Lando looked at his face, he found a new way to appreciate it.

“Lando?” Carlos breathed, hands flying up to cup his face. “Lando?”

“Yeah,” Lando replied, grinning. “I was in Brescia. I saw how close it was and someone mentioned you were testing so I drove here and I—”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Carlos hissed. “Are you trying to lose your crown? Are you trying to make me lose mine?”

Well. Not exactly the romantic greeting he’d expected.

“Nobody knows I’m here,” Lando assured him. “You were right, all of the Ferrari guys are too old. None of them recognized me. I mean, Fabio kind of did, but I think you just convinced him I’m Max, so.”

He held up the letter, his smile growing wider.

“I brought you a letter. That was my cover. They think I’m a mail guy.”

Carlos flared his nostrils. “No one thinks you’re a mail guy. They told me there might be  a security threat. Fabrizio just happened to mention Max’s name, otherwise I would have come in here with a security team. One of them would have known you—they might have recognized you and chosen not to say anything. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Lando blurted. “I couldn’t think. I was so close to you and we still have a week until Turkey. I had to see you.”

He tried to move closer, but Carlos held him back.

“You need to respect the rules,” Carlos said. “We are friends now, and—”

“I don’t want to be friends,” Lando said, allowing the desperation to come into his voice.

He waited for Carlos to soften, for warm arms to wrap around him and hold him close, to hold him in the way he needed to be held.

Instead, Carlos grit his teeth.

“You were so against me being with Charles,” Carlos said. “I did everything I could to be reasonable about this—I bent over backward for you and you said you didn’t want to do it anymore. So, we aren’t doing it.”

Anger exploded in him again. Lando surged forward, but Carlos tightened his grip and held him in place without so much as blink. Damn him being hot and strong and fucking jacked compared to his lanky ass.

“Always Charles,” Lando spat. “Where did my Carlos go? The one who said he would find a way to come back to me, no matter what—huh? The one who talked about after all of this? Is Charles really that good of a fuck? Or do you think he’s just better looking?”

Carlos’s lip twitched. “I will not remind you again: do not talk about Charles like that.”

Lando lifted his chin. “What are you going to do, break up with me? Oh wait, I already beat you to it.”

Pain spread across Carlos’s face—a crack in the façade.

Lando let out a snort. “At least you still care about that. I was having doubts.”

“I am married to Charles,” Carlos said evenly. His eyes blazed with anger. “I love him. I am in love with him, Lando. I told you this, and it will not change. If you can’t handle that, then yes, we need to stay—” He paused, swallowing hard. “—broken up.”

Lando forced himself to settle. He couldn’t leave Ferrari with Carlos upset again. Part of the reason he even made this trip was to make up for what happened in Russia.

He didn’t have a lot of time.

“Daniel isn’t you,” Lando said earnestly. “I—fuck, I have to go really soon—but I want you to know that. I like Daniel a lot—maybe I love him. So now I get it more, how you are with Charles.”

He leaned against Carlos’s hands, fighting to get closer.

“But you’re always first for me,” Lando whispered. “You’re first for everything.”

When he thought about love, Carlos’s face appeared. When he thought about loss, he saw Carlos laying in his bed, crying in the dark. When he saw his future, he saw himself with Carlos at his side.

Lando reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. Carlos’s watch.

Carlos closed his eyes. His grip slackened, but Lando didn’t immediately press in.

When Carlos opened his eyes again, the emotion in them made Lando want to throw himself at the feet of the Ferrari security to be flogged or imprisoned or beheaded—whatever Ferrari did to criminals.

“You said you don’t love me anymore,” Carlos said, his voice thick.

“I didn’t mean it,” Lando whispered.

“Well, you said it,” Carlos said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “You are very immature sometimes. You hurt me very much—you broke my heart and I think you did not come here for me.”

Lando balked, trying to understand.

“I think you only came here to hurt Charles,” Carlos clarified.

Lando’s gaze hardened. He worked his jaw, but this time the anger couldn’t be stuffed down.

“I didn’t, but maybe Charles deserves it.”

“No,” Carlos snapped. “He cares about you so much—”

“No he doesn’t,” Lando scoffed. “If he did, he wouldn’t be with you—I would be. And he’d leave Max alone so Daniel could be happy too. Instead, he gets both of you and hurts both of us.”

Carlos shook his head. “You made your decisions, Lando. It will take a lot more than this to convince me—”

Lando shot forward, capturing Carlos’s mouth in a kiss. His hands moved to their usual spot—palms resting against Carlos’s neck, thumb on his jaw, fingers slightly curled at the nape of his neck.

He tasted like sweat and electrolyte lemonade. The stupid lemon flavor he always used to use at McLaren. Lando pressed closer. Carlos faltered. A warm hand moved up the back of his hoodie, resting at the small of his back.

Lando pulled away enough to look at Carlos though his lashes.

“Tell me you haven’t missed that,” he murmured. “If you can honestly say that to me, I’ll leave.”

Carlos turned his face away.

He didn’t say a word.

 

 


 

 

Charles sashayed to the beat of a rock song as he half walked, half skipped back to the royal apartment. His trip to Modena had been a welcome change from the palace, and he always enjoyed seeing fans there. His hand hurt from signing so many autographs, but his smile had yet to start aching.

Fabrizio said something about an important message from Carlos, but Charles didn’t get any texts from him, so whatever had happened at testing must not have been an emergency.

“Caaaarlos,” Charles greeted as he stepped into the apartment, music still blasting in his ears. He bopped his head to the beat, momentarily pulling out the air guitar to pick the strings along with the riff.

He twirled around, nearly hitting the kitchen island as he backed toward the terrace, where he spotted Carlos’s knees sticking up over the back of the outdoor couch.

My slicks are burning rubber,” Charles sang as he knocked the sliding door open with his hip. “I’m really gone from here.”

He hopped closer to the beat of the song.

Steel’s doing ninety, I’m truckin’ like a train—do I sound good?” Charles teased as he slipped over the back of the couch. He put down a hand beside Carlos’s neck to balance himself before he—

The music continued, but Charles no longer heard it.

Carlos had a hand over his face, but it didn’t hide the shine on his cheeks.

“Oh my god, Carlos,” Charles breathed.

He tumbled off the edge of the couch onto the wood floor decking. He plucked his AirPods out and shoved them in his pocket as he scrambled to his knees, then decided to move closer and sat on the edge of the couch cushion.

“My love, what’s wrong?” Charles soothed, gently rubbing Carlos’s forearm. “What happened?”

Carlos pulled his hand away to reveal wet lashes and bloodshot eyes.

“Carlos—Carlos, come here,” Charles said softly, scooping his hands underneath Carlos’s shoulders. Carlos sat up and curled against his chest as Charles adjusted to hold him properly, murmuring sweet nothings into Carlos’s hair. He ran his fingers up and down Carlos’s back, wracking his brain for anything that may have caused this.

“Can we go for a walk?” Carlos asked weakly.

Carlos never asked to go on walks together. Charles kissed the crown of his head.

“Of course. But can you tell me what’s going on first? You're scaring me, mon amour.”

Carlos took a shaky breath. “It’s very bad. I was—I did the wrong thing.”

Charles kissed his hair again. He would kill anyone in the garage who made Carlos feel this way—even Mattia.

“Tell me,” Charles said. “I will fix this. I’ll destroy whoever has done this to you.”

Carlos pulled back and wiped his eyes. Charles had only seen him cry in France, and he hoped never to see it again.

“Promise me you’ll listen to me first before you get upset,” Carlos croaked.

“I promise,” Charles replied immediately. He reached over to wipe a bit of moisture from Carlos’s cheek with the cuff of his sleeve.

Carlos took a steadying breath and looked him dead in the eye. Charles focused only on the dark of his pupils, the honeyed brown around them.

“Lando snuck into the palace,” Carlos whispered. “He disguised himself as a mail carrier and snuck inside to the mail room pretending to be Max Fewtrell.”

Of all the things Charles expected to hear, Lando sneaking into Ferrari was about the furthest thing from what he’d imagined.

“He was in Brescia for some kind of karting event,” Carlos continued. “He left and came to watch my testing. I had no idea. Nobody recognized him—not that I’ve heard about. Then he snuck in and said there was an emergency. Fabrizio called me to his office. I thought Fewtrell was here to tell me something horrible had happened to Lando, but then it was Lando inside.”

Charles’s mood darkened.

It was one thing to call Carlos over during a party at a hotel on neutral ground. It was another thing entirely to sneak into an empire, lie to royal officials, and illegally contact another prince inside his own palace.

“I was so angry with him,” Carlos said. “I told him he couldn’t be here. I explained to him that we are friends now, because he chose. I told him how I feel about you and that made him upset—of course. And then—”

Carlos cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. More tears leaked from underneath his lashes that Charles quickly wiped away.

"You can tell me," Charles soothed.

"He kissed me," Carlos blurted out. "And he said, 'tell me you don't miss that’ and said he would leave if I could tell him I didn’t miss that.”

A quiet rage began to brew inside of Charles.  He didn’t really give a shit what Carlos chose to do with Lando, but Lando forcing a kiss was another matter. Lando using Carlos's love like an ultimatum while he stood inside the sacred walls of the Ferrari palace—that was something Charles could not excuse.

He pressed a kiss to Carlos’s forehead and wrapped his arms around him again.

“Tell me what’s making you this upset. The fact that he kissed you?”

Carlos pressed his nose into Charles’s collarbone. “I kissed back.”

Charles closed his eyes for a moment. The news didn’t surprise him. Charles knew Lando would always hold a place in Carlos’s heart—he would have been more surprised if Carlos pushed him away.

“Can we walk now?” Carlos asked. “I need to be moving. I need to move.”

Charles nodded. “Let’s walk. I’m not mad at you, for the record. But I am furious with Lando.”

Carlos didn’t say anything as he stood up. They linked hands and headed down the stairwell off the terrace and toward Fiorano, away from the eyes of citizens, fans, and government officials.

Walking along the side of the palace put them in the shade, plunging them into cold. Charles let go of Carlos’s hand only to put his jacket over Carlos’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos finally said one he’d stopped sniffling. “It was all so unexpected. I never expected to see him here.”

“He was an idiot for coming here,” Charles muttered. “How did he even get here? Who let him?”

Carlos shook his head. “He didn’t explain. I didn’t ask. I think it is better if we don’t know. He left after he kissed me. He wants to talk more in Turkey.”

Charles fought the urge to refuse that. “And what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Carlos replied, squeezing his hand. “I love him. But I felt—I feel so dirty now. I feel so ugly.”

Charles stopped walking. “What? Why?”

Carlos swallowed hard. “I could only think about how much it would hurt you to find out I kissed him. Before, you knew I was with him. This time, I betrayed you.”

“Oh Carlos,” Charles murmured. He leaned in, pecking his lips. “I’m not hurt, okay? Lando kissed you unexpectedly. You didn’t choose to kiss him.”

“But I kissed back,” Carlos said.

Charles offered a small smile. “I think we both know I’m guilty of the same.”

Carlos looked away. “That was before.”

He almost phrased it like a question.

“Yes,” Charles assured him. “It was.”

They began to walk again.

“I hate pushing him away,” Carlos admitted. “But Lando made his choice. I hate thinking it, but I think he may have done this partly to make Daniel jealous.”

“Davvero?” Charles asked, thumbing over the side of Carlos’s palm.

Carlos shrugged. “I don’t know if Lando even recognizes that. But before his feelings for Daniel, I don’t think he ever would have been this reckless. I’ve never seen him act that way.”

Charles had to agree. The Lando he knew had much more bark than bite.

“Lando also thinks you have something with Max right now,” Carlos said.

Charles grit his teeth. “Does he.”

A strange sense of calm settled over him, the way it always did when Max came up in conversation now. No matter how distanced he made himself, his and Max’s worlds always overlapped in the public eye.

Worse, he didn’t know how to refute anyone without lying. He and Max would always be connected, but they were not in love.

“Daniel is also upset, which surprised me,” Carlos said after a pause. Charles got the sense that Carlos had been waiting for the right moment to say it.

Charles cocked a brow. “Wait—Daniel is upset by me and Max?”

Carlos nodded. “That’s what I hear.”

Charles almost laughed—the irony of it all was staggering. Years ago, he would have let out a cheer upon hearing he’d succeeded in making Daniel jealous. Now he only felt a coldness settling in his stomach.

They rounded to the front of the palace, where several guards stood at attention as they passed. Charles smiled at them and pulled Carlos past the gate. He didn’t want to leave the grounds.

“If you had the choice, what would you want your royal life to be?” Charles asked.

Carlos didn’t answer for a long time. “I don’t know anymore. I want you to be happy. I want us to be happy together while we’re married. I don’t think further than that.”

Charles nodded thoughtfully. “Do you regret choosing me, though?”

Carlos gave him an incredulous look. “No—do you think I regret it?”

Charles parted his lips, but no words came out.  He didn’t expect such an immediate answer. Carlos loved Lando—that fact remained. But for the first time in their relationship, Charles began to see that maybe Carlos really did love him equally.

“I guess I thought maybe you wondered if it was the right choice,” Charles finally answered.

A hint of a smile twitched at Carlos’s lips. “It was a very painful decision. One that still hurts. But I never doubted that I made the right choice. Yes, I love Lando very much, but I could not live in Ferrari with you, and act the way he wanted me to act. It would have ended horribly for everyone, I think.”

Charles leaned over and kissed Carlos’s cheek before they continued on the path around the palace. He felt Carlos finally relax—his shoulders loosened and his gait turned gentler. They watched a few cars leave the factory and listened to the birds chirping in the crisp autumn air.

“I have been meaning to ask, what do you want to do for your birthday?” Carlos asked when they finally closed the loop and reached the terrace gate. He held it open for Charles, who gave him a look as he passed by.

“We haven’t even gone to Turkey yet,” Charles said as he headed up the stairs.

“Hm. This is true.”

Carlos wrapped his arms around him from behind, squeezing tight. Charles stilled where he stood at the top of the stairs, leaning back when Carlos pressed his nose to the nape of his neck.

His heart twinged as folded his hands over Carlos’s. Charles wondered if Carlos had felt the same sadness all of the times he’d fallen into the depths of himself, drowning in blackness.

“Come here,” Charles murmured, turning around to face him again.

He gathered Carlos in his arms and held him close, swaying them side to side.

“We don’t have to do anything for my birthday,” Charles said.

“Except chocolate cake,” Carlos replied, his voice ragged.

Charles blinked in surprise. “How did you know about chocolate cake?”

Carlos chuckled. “You talked about the chocolate cake at Steakout, the chocolate mousse in France—also, I asked Massimo.”

Charles nearly flinched with the force of his memories. Sitting at Steakout, watching Pierre’s concentrated face as he cut a slice of cake for him, Max’s voice rumbling through his skull.  Pierre in France, fluffy chocolate cream on his tongue as Pierre pulled the spoon from his mouth.

Do you want to kiss me when you stop the car?

Carlos remembered. Charles didn’t even remember telling him about it, though he supposed he’d detailed both meals—Carlos loved conversations about food.

“I think a nice dinner would be perfect,” Charles finally said. “Dinner and chocolate cake. Will you make it for me?”

Carlos pulled back, his smile returned. “Depends. Do you want to celebrate in America?”

Charles laughed. “Maybe. They’ll probably give me a giant chocolate cake over there. But a Carlos cake might be better than that.”

He rested their foreheads together, still swaying. He found himself waiting for a kiss. Carlos kept his lips only a breath apart, but didn’t make a move.

“I want a Carlos cake,” Charles amended in a whisper. “Here, America, wherever.”

Carlos still had pain in his eyes when he nodded. “Okay.”

Charles moved in slowly, parting his lips and giving Carlos ample time to pull away if he wanted to.

When their lips finally met, Charles tasted heartache. He felt it too—in the way Carlos hesitated to kiss him back, the way his hands moved like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“I love you,” Charles assured him. “Today doesn’t change that. We both know I’ve done worse—and don’t say it was okay because I was sick. It wasn’t okay. You did everything right, Carlos. Everything.”

Carlos pulled away with a sad chuckle. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

Charles rubbed Carlos’s back before nodding toward the door. “Shower. I’ll ask Massimo for the best dinner he can make tonight and we’ll watch that movie about the crazy guys. The hero story or whatever.”

Carlos laughed—more real this time. “It’s three hours long. It’s also in Telugu, so you have to read the subtitles. Which means we have to do English.”

“Perfect,” Charles said. “I don’t want to focus on anything else. You, me, and a movie in…Teloogioo.”

“Telugu,” Carlos corrected.

Charles smirked. “Yes. That.”

Carlos pecked his lips before he headed inside. Charles bit his lip after, watching him go with a warmth in his heart that started to burn a moment later.

Lando.

Charles followed Carlos into the house and closed the door behind him. He went straight to his desk and pulled his pen from the drawer as Carlos started the shower. He kept his message short and to the point—professional.

 

 

Daniel,

We need to have a conversation that’s long overdue.

And if I hear about Lando showing up here again without an invitation, I will drag him to the FIA by the throat. Embarrass Ferrari and I will do whatever needs to be done.

We both know I’m more than capable.

I’ll see you in Turkey.

CL

 

 

 

Notes:

charles is singing cruisin' down the highway by james gang

and the movie they are referencing is RRR.

Chapter Text

“Holy fuck,” Daniel panted. “You good?”

Lando still had stars taking up most of his vision as he sank back into the mattress, his whole body trembling. Balmy ocean air cooled the sweat on his skin as he watched Daniel above him and wondered how the fuck this had become his life.

He never imagined wanting Daniel to fuck him. They messed around in the beginning—Daniel was that sort of person. Experimental, non-judgmental, truly carefree. Lando was pretty sure he lusted after those parts of Daniel more than his body.

Though he definitely wasn’t bad to look at.

“Babe, you good?” Daniel asked again, thumbing over his cheekbone. Sweat had collected there too—they were both dripping. Normally, that would gross him out. But after spending the better part of an hour getting each other off in the slick heat of a Turkish hotel room with an open air balcony—yeah, he wasn’t complaining.

“I’m alright,” Lando breathed. He blinked a few times to recenter himself, still chasing the want in him, the tiny part of him that still wasn’t satisfied even though Daniel showed him new talents every time they fucked around.

He wasn’t Carlos. It always came down to that.

“You sure?” Daniel asked, crawling back over him. “You’ve got moon eyes.”

Lando chuckled softly. “I mean, some water would be a good idea. Maybe one of your Gatorades.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’d be good for me too,” Daniel replied with a chuckle. “Fuck. That was something.”

They weren’t the type of couple to jump each other’s bones that often. Not like that. Lando couldn’t remember Daniel ever turning him on that much—they usually fucked when they got restless or needed distracting.

Not healthy, Lando supposed, but it worked for them.

This time felt different.

Daniel rolled off of him onto his back and they both stared at the arched ceiling above them, chests rising and falling in rhythm. Lando turned his head enough to look down the length of Daniel’s body, slick with sweat and glistening from a few other things the lower he let his gaze wander.

“Like what you see?” Daniel asked with a cocky smile. His curls started to fall in his eyes when they were wet. They didn’t quite reach, but it made him look less royal and more human.

“Is that what it’s like with Max?” Lando asked.

Daniel’s smile softened. “Now, now. No comparing.”

“I mean the intensity. The, uh. That feeling.”

Daniel clasped his hands behind his head. “We don’t fuck as often as everyone thinks. I mean, it’s been awhile since he’s been in the mood. But it’s always good, no matter what the vibe is.”

Lando fought the urge to ask if he was always good.

Only Carlos’s opinion really mattered to him.

He sat up, using a sheet to dab the sweat from his face.

“Hey look, a little Lando star.”

Lando cocked a brow over his shoulder as Daniel reached out, fingers grazing over a mole on his back.

Embarrassment flooded through him, but he had nothing to hide his stupid marks with except dirty sheets. He kept asking the royal medical staff to check them to make sure  his moles weren’t cancerous, even though they had already explained they were genetic.

“You don’t like your little stars?” Daniel asked, pressing his thumb to the mark.

“They’re not stars, they’re growths,” Lando muttered.

“Stars.”

“Stop it. I know what you’re doing.”

Daniel thumbed over his mole again and sat up. “Oh yeah? What am I doing?”

Lando winced when warm lips pressed to his shoulder. “Stop, Daniel.”

Daniel pulled away immediately and scooted forward on the mattress. “Hey, hey. What, you’re self-conscious about beauty marks?”

Lando let out a snort. “Beauty marks.”

“Oh, so you hate them.”

“I don’t—”

He cut himself off.

“You think they’re ugly,” Daniel said, leaning back on his hands. “You think your little stars are ugly.”

Lando removed himself from bed, standing on shaky legs. He headed to the bedroom mini fridge and pulled out two Gatorades. He tossed one to Daniel, who caught it without looking.

“Stop staring at me like that,” Lando said, taking a swig.

“I’m staring at you like that because you’ve got, uh, me running down your leg.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Lando hissed, marching into the bathroom. He yanked the shower handle to the hottest setting until the bathroom started filling with steam.

He didn’t look at himself in the mirror.

Nobody punished him for going to Ferrari. Daniel argued with him for about an hour after he got back—more angry and worried than Lando had ever seen him. Sophia kept her anger soft-spoken but deadly. The rules were made clear.

If he ever trespassed on Ferrari territory again, Zak would be informed, and so would the FIA. Exile would undoubtedly follow. Plain and simple. His whole life up in smoke for a little escape.

Lando knew he fucked up, but he didn’t regret it. One kiss with Carlos was worth it all, even if Carlos said goodbye to him a short time later.

They still had something. Lando still had hope.

“Hey,” Daniel said, stepping into the bathroom. “Talk to me. I didn’t mean to—I don’t know. Hurt you? Did I hurt you?”

Lando let out a snort where he stood at the shower door. He looked over at Daniel, his dark skin, his tattoos, his curly hair. He had his own brand of handsomeness that changed with his mood. He could be soft and flirty, stern and carved, and this.

Husband material.

Lando stepped into the shower. Hot water scalded his already-overheated skin, turning it red and washing away the stickiness of sex, the dirtiness.

He left the door open and began to wet his hair.

“Shit, babe,” Daniel scolded. “You’re gonna get heatstroke or something.”

The water cooled and Lando turned to see Daniel stepping into the shower. He held his breath for a moment, water running down his front, but he didn’t tell Daniel to get out.

“Do you like my tattoos?” Daniel asked, cocking his head.

Lando blinked. “What?”

Daniel extended his arms and turned them, exposing his shine on tattoo, the cherub, the astronaut, the cowgirl, the Free written in curling script. “My tattoos. Like ‘em?”

“Yeah, I like them,” Lando said as he reached up to scrub the sweat from his hair.

“Show me your favorite one.”

He expected more feeling for his first shower with someone who wasn’t Carlos. Maybe more guilt.  But Daniel never made a fuss about things like this—he appreciated them. He didn’t gush, he didn’t make anything weird.

Lando stepped a little closer and touched the twin hearts at the back of Daniel’s right knee. A knife plunged through both, and MUM and PAPA ribbons flowing around the carnage.

“The rose,” Lando said, curling a finger to the back of Daniel’s knee, where a yellow rose nestled next to the knife handle. He could only see it when Daniel was in front of him, or when he laid face down on the bed. “The yellow. It looks good.”

Daniel grinned at him. “Really? That’s your favorite?”

Discomfort began to bubble up in him as Lando reached for the shampoo. “Don’t tell me it’s Max’s favorite too.”

Daniel’s smile fell away. He stepped in until Lando had to lean back to avoid touching him.

“This one is Max’s favorite,” Daniel said, lifting his hand and wiggling his fingers, where he’d tattooed a 3 on his right pinky. “He calls it my wedding ring.”

Lando flashed a placating smile and reached for the shampoo again. Daniel stayed still as he leaned closer and Lando squirted shampoo into his palm a moment later. A fresh pine scent filled the space between them as Lando lathered the shampoo between his palms.

He reached up and began to work the shampoo into Daniel’s hair. The texture always startled him—incredibly soft, coarse curls. Daniel maybe had a little bald spot growing on the crown of his head, but his charisma covered it better than anything else.

“Wanna know my favorite?” Daniel asked, keeping his voice low and gentle and the opposite of what Lando thought he deserved.

“What’s your favorite? Lando obliged, watching as rivers of white lather started trickling down Daniel’s temples.

Daniel pressed a finger to Lando’s neck. “This one.”

He moved his hand to Lando’s ribcage, gently poking another mole there. “And this one.”

His hand moved lower, pressing a small mole just below Lando’s navel. “And this one’s my secret favorite.”

Lando pulled his hands from Daniel’s hair and started washing his own with the leftover lather.

“Does that kind of stuff actually work on people?” Lando asked. “Like, what do you want me to do, suddenly like these stupid marks all over me? It’s not a big deal, I just don’t like them. It’s not something I think about or—”

“Woah, did I say anything about my tattoos when you told me your favorite?” Daniel asked as he rinsed shampoo from his hair.

“That’s completely different. You chose your tattoos and hired someone to put them where you wanted.”

“Yeah, in my twenties when I didn’t know shit,” Daniel replied. “I have some pretty stupid tattoos.”

Lando cocked a brow, though he had to keep his eyes closed to stop soap from getting in his eyes. “You think some of them are stupid? I like your tattoos.”

Lando didn’t want any tattoos himself, but he admired them on other people. A permanent choice, etched in ink.

“This is the stupidest one,” Daniel said.

Lando opened his eyes once his face was clear of suds to see Daniel pointing at the Free script on his forearm.

“What’s wrong with it?” Lando asked, not understanding. It wasn’t misspelled or mashed together anywhere.

“I got it when I left Red Bull, “ Daniel explained. He let out a sharp little laugh. “Thought I was free. Might as well have tattooed ‘dumbass’ on myself.”

Lando watched the way his eyes darkened, how tension manifested in in his shoulders and pulled his biceps taut.

“Are you ever going to tell me what they did to you?” Lando asked quietly.

Daniel shook his head. “Not a chance, babe.”

He pressed his thumb to the mark by Lando’s navel, eyes glazed over, lost to whatever nightmares still haunted him at night.

Lando lifted his hands, gently massaging shampoo out of Daniel’s hair. He settled closer, gently turning Daniel’s head and using his thumbs to part Daniel’s hair at the spot where he’d been hit with a beer bottle.

A tiny white scar still remained, hidden even with wet hair.

“I didn’t choose that,” Daniel said softly. “But I don’t hate that mark either.”

Lando sighed. “Still not the same thing.”

“Did Carlos say something about them?” Daniel asked. He hadn’t moved except for thumbing over Lando’s mark.

Discomfort jumped up Lando’s throat again. “No.”

Daniel looked up at him with a strange intensity in his eyes. They glowed almost yellow in the bathroom lighting.

“Charles has them too, you know,” Daniel said. He lifted his hand and pressed at the dip of  Lando’s collarbone. “Right there. Pretty sure he’s got them other places too.”

Lando stiffened. “What, you have a kink for moles or something?”

Saying the word ‘mole’ out loud made him feel nauseous.

“Max has a bunch,” Daniel continued as if Lando hadn’t spoken. “One on his trap, shoulder blade, a few on his chest.”

Lando released Daniel’s head. “I don’t want to talk about them anymore.”

Daniel shrugged. “Okay. I’m just telling you that a lot of people have them. I think even Carlos has them.” He leaned away, exposing his neck. “I have this little guy.”

Lando blinked as a mole suddenly appeared on Daniel’s neck. Well, obviously it hadn’t appeared right that second, but he’d never noticed before.

“A body’s a body, mate. If anyone ever makes you feel like shit for something you can’t control, drop ‘em,” Daniel said. “I love your Lando stars. That’s what they are to me, and I’m sure Carlos feels the same way—unless he’s the dick that made you self-conscious about them.”

Lando grit his teeth. “Nobody made me feel self-conscious about them. I just don’t like them.”

“M’kay,” Daniel said with a nod.

“When is Max getting here?” Lando asked, starting in on the body wash. He didn’t want any lingering scents of sex or sweat on him.  

Daniel took the bottle of body wash from him. Lando appreciated that he didn’t try to hold him or cuddle him in the shower like Carlos always did. Daniel hadn’t even kissed him.

“ I dunno if he’s coming this weekend,” Daniel finally replied. “Correction: he’s not planning to stay the night this weekend. I think he’ll visit after qualifying—only if he does well.”

Lando paused from scrubbing his arms. “What? He’s not even hanging out with us?”

Daniel shook his head. “We only have seven races left. Max could win it early if he stays ahead of Lewis. And if he’s gonna win, I hope like hell he wins it before the end of the season.”

“Why? The stress?”

Daniel nodded, rubbing body wash over the Love tattoo on his left arm. “I won’t ever tell you what happened at Red Bull, but I can tell you that what they do to princes there is probably illegal in most countries.”

“More illegal than getting doctors to lie about your health?” Lando asked dryly.

Daniel’s lips twitched into a smile. “They’ll do that too. But yeah, worse. And they do it publicly and they spin everything like it’s your problem or their genius—whatever suits them better on the day.”

He capped the bottle of body wash and set it back on the shelf. Daniel rubbed his Free tattoo again. Lando wondered if he even meant to do it, he looked so distant.

“We haven’t seen anything yet,” Daniel whispered. “But the storm’s coming.”

 

 

 


 

 

 

Practice day started with the announcement of engine penalties. Lewis actually took one this time, and Carlos took one too. Mercedes personnel stood stonefaced at the mouth of their garage, watching the clouds. They set the tone for the weekend, causing the paddock to radiate with nervous energy that translated on track. Max did a complete spin in second practice, and Charles lost control too—a rare mistake.

Charles couldn’t stop thinking about how he needed to talk to Daniel. Max had shifted to something darker than the man he’d brushed paths with in Russia, and Daniel reflected the change. His smiles didn’t shine as brightly, and everyone in the paddock kept talking about the championship fight, leaving every other prince in shadow.

The media followed Max and Lewis everywhere. Lewis always ignored cameras and kept a regal expression as he strode through the paddock. Max tried his best to copy the same air of disinterest, but he wore frustration too easily. He stalked the paddock like an animal, glowering at anyone who came too close.

Charles didn’t consider himself especially skilled in hiding emotion for the media, but he still thought he could do a better job than Max.

“Prince Lewis, our current championship leader, led both practices today with little competition until the end of practice two,” one of the announcers said over the loudspeaker as Charles made his way down the line of garages. “Prince Charles almost nabbed the top spot—down by only a tenth. Prince Max didn’t seem to have the pace at all today, he was almost half a second down from Prince Lewis in both sessions.”

“Well, we don’t know what strategies Red Bull was testing today, so we can never count on practice sessions,” another announcer said. “Qualifying will be the real test—I think we could have a shakeup here in Istanbul.”

Charles glanced up at the screen to see Max walking up the line of garages in the other direction. A quick look down the path and Charles spotted the mass of cameras and Red Bull personnel trying to give Max space to breathe.

Max didn’t seem to be present. His eyes were locked on some invisible point ahead of him, his face slack.

Charles continued closer, but ultimately pulled up short to allow the crowd to pass.

“Guys, room please,” one of the Red Bull personnel said, but other than that, the only sounds were that of camera shutters—completely eerie.

Someone stepped up beside him and Charles knew it was Daniel without needing to look. Daniel had a presence unlike any other prince.

Part of Charles would always hate him, even though he pretended that part of him no longer existed.

  “You wanted to talk. I’m ready now,” Daniel said.

Charles looked up at the sky. Clouds gathered over the sea beyond, hinting at rain to come.

He didn’t believe in omens, but he couldn’t remember so many rainy race weekends in a single season.

He nodded toward Max. “How is he? That spin didn’t look good.”

“He’s a little shaken up,” Daniel replied. “He’s not used to making mistakes anymore.”

Charles pursed his lips. “I bet Red Bull isn’t used to that either.”

“No.”

A chill ran up Charles’s spine. He’d been tied to Ferrari his entire career, partly because of his talent and partly because of Jules. The thought of wearing Scuderia Red always filled him with pride, even as a child.

Max had been shoved into Red Bull by his father and forced to fit.

Everyone in the paddock knew how Red Bull could be. A half a dozen names had been wiped from royalty in the past few years, courtesy of Christian Horner and Helmut Marko. Max had been the first prince since Sebastian to earn their true favor, but Sebastian was proof that favor didn’t last.

“C’mon,” Daniel said, nudging Charles’s shoulder.

Charles followed him around the side of the garages, avoiding the fans swarming the paddock. Daniel hooked left and headed up a stairwell marked for track employees only.

How McLaren of him to trespass.

A few stewards scurried away when they arrived at the top of the stairs. Daniel knocked on the first door they passed, then the next, and the one after that. None of them opened.

Daniel didn’t stop knocking and walking until they reached the end of the row.

Two FIA officials stepped out of one of the doors, clocked them, and headed toward the stairs.

“What are you doing?” Charles asked.

“Making sure,” Daniel said.

Daniel could be cunning when he wanted to be.

He finally stopped at the end of the hall and turned toward the carpark beyond, where staff and royal officials returned to their cars to head back to their hotels. Mechanics would be staying most of the night to work on the cars.

Daniel leaned against one of the structural pillars and crossed his arms, still watching the carpark.

“I’ve never seen Max like this,” Daniel said. “He’s fine, I guess, but something’s changing.”

Charles settled against the pillar across from him. He didn’t like when Daniel got quiet. Not in the verbal sense—asking that of him was pretty much impossible—but when Daniel didn’t hope or dance or throw winks at everyone they passed, Charles started to become hyperaware of his surroundings.

“He used to hide behind immaturity when shit went bad,” Daniel continued. “But he can’t do that now, so he’s something else.”

“I haven’t noticed that much of a difference,” Charles said. “He’s stressed. Everyone reacts to stress differently.”

Daniel made a clicking noise and clocked his head slightly. “This ain’t that, Charles.”

The hair on the back of his neck began to stand up. Daniel never used his first name normally, he always drew out the syllables or made a pun about eclairs.

“So what is it then?” Charles asked.

“I don’t like it,” Daniel said, matter-of-factly. A tone that didn’t match him at all. “He feels alone right now. You know how hard it is for Max to feel alone?”

Charles thought back to Zandvoort, the blackness in him that threatened to swallow him up. Cold everywhere until Max touched his face.

I’m going to fix this.

Just thinking about that kind of pain forced Charles to swallow down a rising sense of hopelessness.

“Max is choosing to fight the FIA,” Charles said. “It’s his choice. I know he won’t back down from the championship, but he is choosing to go against what everyone is telling him. What everyone is warning him not to do.”

“Yeah,” Daniel said coolly. “He tends to do that.”

They met eyes, two knife blades running across each other in the grey light of Istanbul.

No more niceties.

Daniel lifted his chin. “You wanted to talk.”

Ferrari appointed Charles for more than his driving ability. They set him under Sebastian to learn, and he did. About who to go to for what problems, how to find another tenth in the car when no one else could.

How to defend his empire with his life.

“Yes,” Charles said evenly. “I think it goes without saying that Lando did something that should be unforgiveable. I don’t know how he didn’t get caught, but I went through everything I have access to and nobody noticed a trespassing prince.”

“Yeah, I told you—I made it very clear to him that it was a—”

“It’s the principle ,” Charles hissed. “He almost made a fool of us. Me, Carlos—most importantly, Ferrari.”

“You think I didn’t explain that to him?” Daniel snapped. “I fucking know what happens when you cross the line. Do you?”

“More than you know,” Charles shot back.

Daniel let out a laugh that had a dangerous edge. “I fucking doubt that, but okay.”

“The only reason I’m not bringing this to the FIA is because I don’t want to hurt Carlos even more.”

He stepped closer, right up into Daniel’s face. Daniel sneered down at him, but Charles didn’t fear him now. He wasn’t a Sauber prince anymore.

“That is the only reason,” Charles said, picking through each word.

“Don’t threaten me,” Daniel cut. “And don’t threaten Lando.”

“Yes, let’s talk about you and Lando,” Charles said, easing away. “You two getting along?”

“Yeah, we are,” Daniel replied, eyes deadly. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

Anger erupted in him, volcanic and molten.

“He’s coming back for Carlos, isn’t he,” Charles said in a whisper. “He’s going to try to get him back.”

Daniel turned his attention back to the carpark.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Daniel went rigid.

“He’s always been in love with Carlos,” Daniel forced out a moment later, “but then Carlos married you.”

He spat out the last word like venom.

“Now Lando’s pissed at you. I don’t know what triggered it exactly, but I fucking get it,” Daniel said, whipping his attention back to Charles again. “I don’t want to do this, you know? I don’t want to have all these doubts and shit about Max—all of them revolve around you, and I don’t know what the fuck is true anymore.”

Charles tried to school his face, but Daniel had been in the game longer than him. He probably saw the shock slip through.

He had no idea that Daniel was actually having doubts. Lando spewing some half-assed lie about Daniel being upset had tipped him off that he and Max were a topic of conversation, but hearing the word doubt out of Daniel’s mouth felt some kind of sick dream.

Daniel leaned forward , arms still crossed. Fear shimmered in his eyes behind all of the anger.

“The only thing stopping me from believing all of it is that I don’t think Max could lie to me that well. Am I fucking missing something, Playboy?”

“Am I missing something?” Charles shot back. “You’re putting on this show, playing the game with Lando—”

“It isn’t a game,” Daniel snapped. “I’m not fucking with Lando’s life. He’s fully aware that Max is first for me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about him a hell of a lot.”

Charles gaped at him without meaning to. He would never be close to Daniel—that much was clear—but they knew each other. Enough that Charles heard the truth in his voice.

“Do you actually love Lando?” Charles asked, not bothering to hide the disgust in his voice.

Daniel glared at him. “We’re happy, mate. You’re kind of fucking it up and I don’t really understand why.”

“I’m not trying to,” Charles said. “I’m not in love with Max, okay? But we have something that doesn’t go away. I hate him some days, but we always go back to each other. Not—Not romantically. I don’t know how to explain it.”

He searched for the right words, shaking his head.

Max had been there for him when he didn’t need to be. Charles still felt like Max was the only one he could talk to freely, the only one he could fully and completely trust.

“I don’t want to go against him, even if I think he’s wrong,” Charles admitted.

He had a weird kind of trust with Daniel too. Max linked them even if they didn’t want to be connected at all.

Daniel stared at him for too long. Charles saw the wetness come to his eyes, the true pain he’d been hiding. A chasm seemed to open up in him, something wholly unlike the Daniel presented to the world every weekend.

“So why were you trying to fuck him in Belgium?” Daniel finally asked, his voice raw.

Charles’s blood chilled in his veins. He felt the ghost of Max’s zipper between his fingers, the warmth of his palm as Max gently pulled his hand away.

“I was sick,” Charles whispered. “But I’m better now. Max never let me do anything with him, no matter how hard I tried. I don’t think he would ever hurt you that way.”

“Fuck,” Daniel choked out, scrubbing his face in his hands. He stood there with his palms against his eyes. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath that hitched at the end.

Charles gave him some privacy and looked out at the carpark, where he saw Sebastian hopping into the passenger seat of an Aston Martin Vantage, Lance at the wheel.

Fernando had an arm around Esteban as they walked toward a white Alpine A110, laughing about something.

Every marriage had problems. Charles loved Carlos, but they still had to work through things, especially when it came to racing.

“You’re right, you know,” Daniel rasped, using the sleeves of his race suit to wipe his eyes. “Max still cares about to you too fucking much. I hate it and he knows I hate it, but fuck, he never lied about it.”

Charles closed his eyes for a moment.

“I think it’s fucking with his head that you won’t support him. I love him, I hate seeing him like this,” Daniel said, still wiping his eyes. “Charles, look at me.”

Did you really give Max a handy on Gasly’s couch?

Charles would never forget that question as long as he lived. It didn’t deserve a place among all of the things he wanted to forget, but no single sentence had ever caused him so much pain. Just the echo of it caused shame to sweep over him, remnants of complete and utter betrayal.

He forced himself to look at Daniel, who was about as close now as he had been that day in that bar.

“Don’t make any decisions based on what’s about to happen,” Daniel warned. “Red Bull is betting it all on him, understand? They’re going to make his dad look like fuckin’ Mother Teresa.”

Daniel stepped even closer, close enough that if any photographers caught them, they could spin whatever story they wanted.

“And whether or not you want to acknowledge it, both sides have shit on Carlos.”

Charles had weighed the consequences of joining both sides, and Carlos always came up as the point of vulnerability. His involvement in Red Bull and his connections to Mercedes through McLaren made him bound to both empires in different ways. Red Bull had arguably the biggest sway, but Lando tipped the scales toward Mercedes.   

Daniel rocked back on his heels, shaking his head.

A haunted look came to his face—one he’d worn before, in another life. The past settled differently on his features. It dragged him down from the core.

“Win or lose, Max will never be the same,” Daniel said quietly. ”And I hope when it’s your turn, and you’re this close to your championship, you remember how much he needed you and how you refused to take his side.”

 

 

Chapter Text

 

“What the hell is going on this weekend?” Jost said as he stormed past Nic’s open debriefing room, a crowd of Williams staff scurrying along behind him.

Everyone in the paddock seemed to be asking the same question. Nic chewed on the end of his drinking straw, going over his lap data another time as the cry of an engine pealed through the garage.

Practice started off like shit for everyone. Pierre and Max both spun on a damp track, and somehow Pierre managed to top practice by the end. George didn’t even manage a true lap before red-flagging the session.

Curiously enough, Nic noticed that McLaren’s good luck from Italy and Russia seemed to have run out.

He clicked away from his telemetry graphs and opened up the live TV dashboard, surveying the different empire feeds.

Lewis and Valtteri took up the main feed, broadcast throughout the FIA empires.

“A masterclass, Your Highness,” the hostess said.

Lewis beamed at her with a gap-toothed smile, tugging Valtteri to his side. “We did it together. I’m starting ten places back tomorrow, but we minimized damage. I’m so happy Val will be leading the pack for us.”

Nic watched Valtteri’s eyes for any sign of disappointment, but his happiness looked real. Or maybe he was getting bad at seeing through people.

Living with George threw him for a loop.

Something was definitely wrong with his husband, but Nic still couldn’t figure out what it was. George’s attitude changed every weekend. His only sense of calm was at Williams, but his usual chipper grin had faded to something less genuine.

At least he didn’t move through the world frightened of his own shadow anymore.

Nic clicked on the Ferrari feed.

“—did what I could to protect Charles,” Carlos said into the microphone. Anger blazed in his dark eyes, unexpectedly intense. “It’s part of working together as a team. I made sure he wasn’t under threat by a direct competitor—that is what we do at Ferrari.”

A replay popped up on screen of Carlos defending against Daniel’s McLaren, though it was subtle enough that Nic supposed it could look like nothing more than slow driving.

Interesting.

Nic did his best to keep aware of the politics behind the scenes, but it was a difficult balance to stay informed while not involving himself in the drama. He kept his focus on George and Williams. Those two things were splitting apart now, and Nic wanted to know exactly what might be coming his way.

Carlos fighting with Daniel didn’t reflect the image he’d painted of both of them in his head. Both of them had been royal for a long time. Daniel came up from nothing, Carlos had been born into a royal family.

Lando connected them, obviously. George had voiced his concerns about Lando plenty of times, but Carlos and Daniel were a class above all of them in the younger generation. Something as petty as relationship troubles hardly seemed worthy of a televised battle.

He flicked to the McLaren feed.

“It just sucks,” Daniel said with a sigh, adjusting the brim of his cap. “Like, it stings. And then it’s worse that, you know, the guy who slowed me up didn’t even put a lap in for Q2. I mean, he’s allowed to do that, but like, should he?”

Nic cocked a brow. Definitely something going on with Carlos and Daniel. A mutual something.

He watched the interview, noting the glow of Daniel’s skin despite his frown. The sadness in his eyes had rounded edges, and when his smile inevitably showed up to crack a joke, it looked real.

That didn’t track.

Nic had seen Max last night at the hotel, headed out somewhere with Checo. Max looked fucking terrible—sallow skin, sunken eyes, a scowl. Qualifying had given him a flush of color, but he looked like a gnarled beet on camera.

Nic bit his lip. He didn’t see a world where Lando Norris took Max’s place with Daniel, but crazier things had happened.  

Lando appeared on screen, right on cue. He hopped up to press a kiss to Daniel’s cheek and squeezed his shoulder as he passed behind him. Daniel brightened immediately, turning to watch Lando go.

“Fuck, I love that guy,” Daniel said as he returned his attention to the camera, his smile still wide. “What was the question?”

Nic exited the press dashboard and hopped up from his chair to go find George. George liked to take a million years to finish his debriefings after qualifying, and also like to stand around with the engineers while they started working, though Nic and the engineers both knew George had no fucking idea what they were actually doing to the car.

Nic liked that about him. He supported his team even when he was totally clueless.

George’s debriefing room sat open beside his own, empty.

“He’s gone to see Lewis,” James, George’s race engineer, said. “When you find him, tell him he lost me twenty euro. That was the record for our shortest debrief.”

Nic frowned. “Yikes. Is he good?”

James shrugged. “Seems great.”

Nerves began to fester in Nic’s stomach as he headed out to the pit lane. He adjusted his cap as he started toward the Mercedes garage, but slowed when he noticed Charles ducking through the crowd toward Carlos’s garage.

He liked Charles, for the most part. The guy definitely had issues, and Nic didn’t think fans had it wrong when they called him the paddock whore—though Nic would use a kinder term. To Charles’s credit, he didn’t think there were a lot of people who wouldn’t agree to have sex with him, if asked.

That being said, Nic was kind of glad he’d never have the chance to marry him.

Well, unless Ferrari kicked Charles to the curb and then some.

“He hasn’t come out yet?” Charles asked one of the Ferrari staff members. “Has anyone checked on him?”

The woman answered in Italian, but it sounded like a no on both counts.

Charles said something in Italian back to her, fingers curling at his sides. He nodded once and headed back out into the crowd, bright red against the dull colors of the paddock personnel.

Nic strode after him, continuing on toward Mercedes. He lost Charles pretty quickly as people shoved in to try to get his autograph.

“Hey, Latifi. Over here.”

Nic stopped mid-step and turned to see Pierre Gasly headed toward him, letter in hand.

“Uh, hey Pierre,” he greeted. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d spoken. Probably Zandvoort.

Pierre extended the letter.

Nic took it and turned it in his hands, furrowing his brow when he noticed George’s name on the front.

“What’s this?” Nic asked, wiggling the letter.

Pierre gave him a pointed look. “It’s not sealed.”

Something caught Pierre’s attention behind him, and Pierre patted his shoulder as he passed.

“Hey, can you just—”

But Pierre had already slipped into the fray surrounding Charles, leaving him behind.

Great. I’ve been demoted to delivery boy, Nic though as he twirled the envelope between his fingers.

He didn’t open the letter. If Pierre meant it for George, he would take it George.

Nic lifted the envelope to his mouth and licked the edge to seal it, just to avoid temptation. George would still know it hadn’t come through the FIA because it didn’t have Pierre’s wax seal on the back, but hand-delivering a letter wasn’t entirely uncommon.

When he didn’t find George at the Mercedes garage, Nic decided to text him.

special delivery. where are you? i’m at mercedes.

He watched as Toto Wolff clapped Valtteri on the back, smiling at him. Valtteri beamed, looking hilariously small compared to Toto's towering frame.

Nic continued through the crowd toward the hospitality lane. George not responding right away probably meant he was making out with Lewis somewhere, and every prince knew that shit always happened between team suites.

His phone buzzed as soon as he arrived at the Williams suite, mostly empty since Nic had already fulfilled his media duties for the day. 

sorry, held up. merc suite. you still at the garage?

Nic backed down the stairs, cocking a brow at the Mercedes suite next door, where George definitely wasn’t standing.

Saucy.

i’m at our suite. don’t see you.

George appeared from between the Mercedes and Aston Martin suites as soon as he sent the text. He had a dopey little smile on his face as he spotted Nic and waved.

“Gettin’ some between team suites?” Nic teased when George finally reached him.

George’s cheeks turned pink. “Uh, not exactly. Just talking with Lewis.”

Nic looked back toward the suite. Lewis emerged, sunglasses on. He glanced back—

George’s lips pressed to his cheek.

Nic jumped in surprise, whipping his attention back to his husband.

“What the hell was that?” Nic asked, stunned.

George laughed. “There was a camera. Not very often you look taller than me, so. I dunno—was that bad?”

Nic touched his cheek, blinking down at him. George never kissed him unless Kayla demanded it of them.

“You’re love drunk,” Nic laughed, but a blush had crept to his cheeks too. “Uh, I did have something for you, though.”

He handed over the letter.

“Gasly gave it to me, which I thought was weird,” Nic continued. “He also didn’t seal it, so I sealed it. I didn’t read it though.”

George took the envelope and nodded toward the suite entrance. “Let’s go to our room.”

Nic glanced back to the Mercedes suite. Lewis stood with Kimi and Sebastian, his smile gone. Lewis gestured toward the hospitality lane, and Sebastian shook his head. Kimi stood with his arms folded over his chest, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

All they needed was—

Kimi jerked his chin, and Fernando showed up a moment later. Lewis sized him up and Fernando returned the gesture, but made a rare show of submission with a tiny bow of his head.

Sebastian rolled his eyes and Kimi’s lip twitched into something close to a smirk.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” George said, tugging his shirt to pull him into the hospitality suite.

 


 

George read the letter in the silence of their drivers’ room. Nic watched his eyes track across the page, going wider and wider. He heard when George stopped breathing and it took everything in him not to ask what the letter--it wasn’t his place.

So he just sat there on the end of the couch and waited.

“I—”

George closed his mouth before he said anything more. He read the letter again, scanning faster his time.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Nic assured him.

George shook his head in disbelief. “No, Nicky, it’s—”

He cut himself off again.

Nic tried to think of a single thing Pierre could say that would affect George so much. Maybe something about Charles. Or the movie premiere Nic hadn’t been invited to. Which he’d been fine with, because he got to see Sandy instead.

“It’s an FIA approval,” George finally said. “I mean, a copy of one. Dated from today.”

Nic cocked a brow. “What’s Pierre doing with an FIA approval? What’s it for?”

George cleared his throat and began to read aloud.

“The FIA hereby approves the request from Christian Horner, Head of Government of the Red Bull empire, to allow Alex Albon, future Prince of Williams, to attend the following event in the United States of America.”

George’s hands began to shake, causing the paper to quiver.

“Um. It says—Alex Albon will attend various events and functions with His Royal Highness George Russell of Williams over a two-day period in the city of Miami to fulfill promotional duties for the FIA race that will take place there next year. However, please note this request will not be considered completed without approval from Jost Capito, Head of Government for the Williams empire, and Torger Wolff, Head of Government of the Mercedes empire.”

Nic wrinkled his nose. “It's so weird when people call Toto Torger.”

George lowered the paper. “They’re letting me spend two days with Alex.”

Nic patted George’s knee, fighting the discomfort that welled up in him. “George, I think we have to consider motive here.”

George nodded swiftly and set the letter aside. “It’s a trap. I mean, it’s probably a trap.”

“Seems that way,” Nic admitted. “Especially since that came from Pierre.”

George tongued the inside of his cheek. “Unless Pierre just wanted to give me a heads up. Nobody’s said anything about this to me yet, which means they’re probably putting it through to Jost and Toto right now.”

Nic frowned. “Yeah, well. Jost wasn’t in the greatest mood when I saw him a bit ago.”

“Two days, two nights,” George said quietly.

Nic’s chest twinged with sympathy. He’d kill for that chance with Sandy. Croatia had probably been the best birthday present ever, and the most time he’d spent with Sandy since becoming a prince.

“George, there’s nothing you can do about it until you hear something,” Nic said.

“I could ask Lewis to tell Toto to approve it,” George said. Nic saw the gears turning behind his eyes.

“Uh, I don’t think it’s a good idea to owe Toto any favors,” Nic replied. “C’mon, let’s go back to the hotel and get ready for the race. Besides, seemed like Lewis was a little busy out there.”

George stared at nothing for a moment, then blinked life back into his eyes. “Yeah. You’re right. Let’s go. Can’t do anything until we hear from someone.”

 

 


 

 

As much as Nic wanted a normal George, it made him uneasy when he found him. They spent the evening going through qualifying notes, and after that they put on Turkish TV and tried to predict the stories as two foreigners who didn’t know a lick of Turkish. The soap opera-ish drama they found had them both cracking up with every twist in the story.

“Mate, how long is an episode?” George asked between laughs, wiping a tear from his eyes. “I feel like this has been going on for fucking forever.”

“Our dinner’s gonna be ready any second,” Nic agreed. “It’s been like an hour and—what’s the plot again?”

The two main characters—love interests, of course—stared at each other on screen, completely silent. Every time Nic thought they were going to kiss, they just kept staring at each other.

George yawned, snuggling into his pillow. “I dunno if I’m gonna make it, mate.”

Their hotel room phone rang, signaling dinner had arrived. George wanted real Turkish food, so they’d ordered delivery. Nic had a feeling Lewis gave him the idea—George thought spiced jam was adventurous.

George rolled over and answered. “Hello? Yes, brilliant. I’ll be right down.”

“You know you’re a prince, right?” Nic asked. “We have people that can bring dinner up here."

George grinned. “Need to stretch my legs so I don’t fall asleep. Be right back.”

Nic watched him go. When the door clicked shut, the two main characters finally kissed. Despite the crescendo in the soundtrack, the hotel room seemed quieter than before. Silence leaked in from the empty bathroom, where George’s towel hung behind the door and his stupid cologne sat by the sink--the same colgne that stank up the whole room in the morning.

Nic realized with dread that he wouldn’t have George much longer. He would have to make new inside jokes, navigate the awkwardness of a new marriage, and find a way to keep Alex and George together—or comfort both of them through their aftermath.

Alex would be a good husband. Nic already knew that from their time in the lower courts. But he wasn’t George.

George returned with their meal a few minutes later and they made a spread on the end of their bed. Lentils, fresh yogurt, and some weird pasta thing that tasted heavenly. Sleep beckoned both of them, but the primary love interest in their soap opera turned on her man, so they had to keep watching.

The actress on screen twirled under the moonlight with her new beau while the main male character watched from the bushes. A little creepy, but whatever.

Nic put away the remnants of their dinner into a plastic bag.

“Are things better with you and Lewis now?” he asked quietly.

George didn’t tell him very much about what went on in his dealings with Mercedes. Nic tried not to ask, but he missed the days where he didn’t have to.

A single blue eye peered up at him from over the pile of comforters, all of the eyelashes facing the wrong direction.

“I think so,” George said quietly. “We’ll see. If he lets me see Alex, then I think we can move forward.”

“It’s a relationship, not a business deal,” Nic reminded him.

George smiled a little. “Right.”

Nic turned his attention back to the TV, where the male protagonist professed his love for the main girl. It sounded sweet, but Nic had no idea how to read tone in Turkish.

“It feels better now,” George said after a moment.

Nic snuggled a little more into the blankets. “Good. That’s good, mate.”

The girl on TV started to cry. Wind began to blow in her hair as she descended a flight of marble stairs—Nic missed the part where they went to a mansion—and embraced her newfound love. The camera began to spin around them as flower petals rained down from blooming trees.

Credits began to roll, freeing them.

“Finally,” Nic sighed, sitting up to grab the remote. He turned off the TV. “Okay, so is anyone going to talk about how—”

George breathed softly but deeply into his pillow, fast asleep. His whole face had gone slack, reminding Nic just how much tension he regularly carried.

He didn’t mean to cry, but tears welled in his eyes with unexpected force.

“Yeah,” Nic whispered brokenly. “Sleeping’s probably a good idea, huh.”

He remembered seeing George for the first time, grinning and cocky as hell as he marched into the Williams boardroom. Nic remembered thinking they would never get along, that this British asshole reminded him of his grandparents too much. Stiff, proper, annoying as hell.

And now he was crying over that same boy, the one who viciously defended his empire and arranged for Sandy to come to Croatia to make Nic’s birthday go from good to great.

Nic tucked him in and turned off the bedside lamp, trying not to sniffle.

“Night, George,” he whispered.

Blackness engulfed the room as Nic turned to face the other way and closed his eyes, pushing two hot tears into his pillow.

“Night, Nicky,” George whispered sleepily into the dark.

Awake after all.

Nic didn’t know how to be a prince without George. He’d been raised to expect a life with husbands going in and out—different crowns, different empires.

No one ever told him how much it would hurt to see one of them move on without him.

 

 

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.

 

 

Chapter 108

Notes:

tw: blood and kind of self-inflicted bodily harm. but definitely blood.

Chapter Text

 

 

Maranello became a new city overnight. Charles watched the parade of news vans as they arrived, flooding the sleepy streets with reporters, journalists, and photographers. Ferrari citizens watched from balconies with annoyance, shaking their heads and muttering about changing times.

The guttural cries of Ferrari engines had been replaced with chatter. The nighttime melodies of cricket song gave way to metal clunks and the hum of generators as filming equipment began to take shape on every flat surface.

Charles couldn’t sleep.

Ferrari royal staff hurried  through the halls around the royal apartment, preparing for the royal assembly. Every inch of the palace was in the midst of a thorough cleaning, and anticipation carried through the halls as a fervent whisper, beckoning all eyes to the uninterrupted triumph of the FIA’s most longstanding empire.

“I should be there with you,” Carlos said into the dark.

Charles turned to face him, eyes running over the blue outline of his body in the moonlight.

“I wish you could be,” Charles said.

A lie, but he didn’t want to hurt Carlos’s pride. The knowledge of him not being crown prince—though inherent from the beginning—still had to feel demeaning for a prince with more years in royalty under his belt.

Carlos used to be the crown prince at McLaren. He knew the weight of that responsibility, the unspoken rules of engagement when it came to royal protocol.

Representing Ferrari in battle on track didn’t equate to their prowess as a government—if it did, they would be stomping Mercedes into oblivion in the standings.

Outside of races—especially on home soil—showed the reality of royalty. Relationships fell away in service to the crown. Love had to be put aside for longevity.

Sebastian instilled that respect in him, even if Charles pouted about it at the time.

Kings used to be gods. There is a reason for that.

He understood now.

“I won’t be able to see anyone?” Carlos asked. “They’re our guests. I should at least be able to greet them.”

Carlos wanted to see Lando. The boy who kept interrupting, making scenes, and tormenting him with stupid conversations that kept going in circles.

Charles nestled closer, reaching out to caress Carlos’s arm with the backs of his fingers.

“Are you ready to talk to Lando?” Charles asked. “I’m not sure this is the right time to do that. We’ll be tempting fate enough as it is with Fabrizio around.”

“I keep thinking I’m ready to talk to him,” Carlos said, “then I see him and I’m angry again. And sad. He says such hurtful things sometimes.”

Charles kissed his shoulder before nosing there.

“You’re right,” Carlos said after a moment. “We would look hypocritical if we spoke about disobeying the rules and then disobeyed them ourselves.”

“We’re always a bit hypocritical,” Charles murmured.

Carlos turned his head to look at him.  “I know this is different. I’ve been crown prince.”

Charles caught the edge in his voice, the tinge of bitterness. He sat up on an elbow, looking down at his husband.

“I know you have. That’s part of the reason I trust you so much.”

Carlos touched his face, warm fingers moving over Charles’s jaw, down his throat to his collarbone.

“I want to know everything,” Carlos whispered.

Charles leaned down to kiss him. Carlos’s lips were soft, slightly minty from toothpaste.

“You know I can’t tell you.”

Carlos bumped noses with him before he closed his eyes.

“Yes, I know.”

 

 


 

 

George thought Mercedes had been a show of power. Driving into Ferrari was another experience entirely.

Charles described Maranello as rustic in their youth. Like home, like a soft place, he’d said.

Evidently Ferrari could shapeshift.

A prancing horse made of warped metal greeted them as they entered the Maranello city limits. Locked in a gnarled rear, the stallion leered down at him as George ran his thumb along the underside of his fingers. He stared straight ahead as the camera flashes began to blind him in the morning light. Photographers screamed his name, begging for him to look their direction.

Assume everything is being recorded until you’re in the room, Jost had warned. Not a single hair out of place.

At least his family trained him for this part. His father expected royalty from him at a young age and George did his best to learn how to echo the traditions of old British monarchs.

Chin lifted, mouth shut, hands quiet, eyes still.

Everything about their arrival had been prearranged through Ferrari’s royal staff, down to the minute. He represented Williams, but he also represented the future of Mercedes—especially with Lewis absent.

George’s driver stopped the car at the main palace entrance. The iconic Ferrari gates sat open, and Ferrari royal officials stood beside them with their hands clasped, eyes ahead.

Nothing about the imposing architecture seemed welcoming in any way. Iron poked out from the perimeter walls, and the combination of red and black made George’s nostrils flare as if inhaling the scent of warm blood.

Williams officials flooded out of the car behind them in a choregraphed flurry of activity. George waited two seconds before he emerged from the car to the sickly-sweet scent of decaying vegetation that signaled the beginning of autumn.

An official took a lint roller to his royal suit while another fitted his fingers with rings—blue sapphire, white diamond, and a deep red garnet ring once worn by Frank Williams himself.

“Hold still, Your Royal Highness,” an older man said as he sidled up to George’s front. A pin dangled from his shaking hands—though calling it a pin did it no justice.

The Williams star stayed in the royal vault except on occasions where a crown prince had to be formally designated. George had never worn the star before, but he’d seen archive footage from 1994 where Frank Williams pinned the same crest onto the lapel of Damon Hill’s royal suit in a symbolic and deeply painful show that the title of crown prince had shifted with Aryton Senna’s death on track just a few days before.

The crest itself was nothing spectacular. A W fashioned out of gold and cobalt glass, created to pay homage to the humble beginnings of the empire fifty years prior.

A tiny gold chain attached a secondary pin—a silver three point star made of titanium. A symbol of the affiliation with Mercedes that would not be lost on the photographers.

“With haste, Your Royal Highness,” another official scolded, snapping George’s attention from the pin. “Lower, please.”

George carefully bent one knee, lowering himself as the crowd went silent around him, awed by the crown. The short gold tines sparkled in the morning sun, as did the sapphires and diamonds.

George held his breath as the official placed the crown on his head, taking on the weight as he adjusted to find balance underneath it.

When he stood up again, Ferrari no longer loomed. The palace called him because he belonged there.

All of the officials around him bowed their heads, including those from Ferrari. George kept his gaze forward and started for the door as the wave of publicity crashed against the gate behind him.

When he stepped into the palace doors, sound vanished, sucked up into the high ceilings above him with the sanctity of every cathedral he’d ever been inside.

But there was no Son of God bleeding from the ribs, sagging under the weight of sin.

Only Charles Leclerc, staring at him with eyes devoid of recognition, the Ferrari crown seeping red and gold and power into his dark hair.

 

 


 

 

Lando expected Charles to treat the royal assembly like the publicity stunt it was. He expected royal photographers to mob him as he entered the palace, for Charles to approach him and pose for pictures so that everyone could clap him on the back at the end of the day and call him il predestinato.

Marble gleamed all around him, much of it gilded with gold. Ferrari engines sat on pedestals in the hall, like works of art. Lando preferred the clean lines of McLaren, the wood and slate.

Zak warned him about his actions while wearing a crown. About how to act as crown prince—a title Lando didn’t really register until officials arrived at the royal apartment and whisked him off to the throne room alone.

Fear still curled around the base of his spine, even though McLaren couldn’t come inside to get him, even if they wanted to.

Daniel warned him not to say a word until he got in the room. That he shouldn’t react or think or breathe until everything was set. Daniel said it with panic in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide.

Lando caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a glass display as he walked.

The McLaren crown didn’t look all that special on first glance. It fit what people thought of when they thought of royal crowns—curved golden scaffolding bent inward, cradling a spherical gemstone.

Upon closer inspection, however, a story unfolded that Lando knew well. Impossibly delicate wisps of gold made up the base of each support that created intricate designs too fragile to hold themselves up on their own, but sturdy when fitted together.

Grey velvet made up the interior cushion, dyed to match the color of graywacke stone that made up the boulders of New Zealand. The whole crown was a tribute to Bruce McLaren’s home country, including the inlaid kyanite that created blue flashes in the gold.

Throughout modern history, the pinnacle of a crown had been affixed with a cross or some other kind of religious symbol. Theirs had a pounamu stone—New Zealand jade—in the base of the crown that had been there since Bruce McLaren founded the empire.

Gold tendrils held the stone in place and split apart above it in a long swipe, as though the creator had colored outside the lines with a stroke of his golden pen.

Carlos told him the meaning of the design shortly after wearing their crowns together for the first time. Lando still remembered the way his finger had followed the curve, so delicate.

Look closer, Carlos said. Only we are ever close enough to see it.

So Lando had looked closer. What had first appeared as a silly design choice took on a new shape, transforming into a slender, gaping beak.

A kiwi bird. Cuts in the pounamu stone created the body, mangled, neck craned back against the bird’s spine in silent anguish.

Lando set his jaw and faced Charles again.

Charles hadn’t moved.

Bruce McLaren founded the McLaren empire with the intent to lead it as a prince and head of government, all but betrothed to a young American fighting his way through the tangled mess of the early empires.

That same American died in practice on the final race of a subsequent lower court season, just before he was supposed to take his crown.

History books incorrectly attributed the symbol to Bruce McLaren’s death five years later, but Carlos told him the truth. The bird symbolized Bruce’s loss, not his empire’s.

Lando stepped up to Charles, fighting not to stare at the fabled Ferrari crown. He’d seen it once as a kid in the royal museum, when his father told him he could be a Ferrari prince if he practiced karting more.

A yellow shield had been pinned to Charles’s chest made of cracked enamel with a warped, badly-crafted prancing horse. Lando hated how age made more of a statement than beauty.

“Welcome,” Charles said, extending a hand. A few rings adorned his fingers—a thick black one and a thinner Ferrari signet ring.

Lando dipped his head in greeting.

They shook hands respectfully, even though Lando could see anger simmering in Charles’s eyes.

“You’re the last one,” Charles said, gesturing down the hall. “’Everyone is waiting inside.”

McLaren was the second oldest empire, therefore the second most important behind Ferrari.

“Do I need to explain what is about to happen?” Charles asked.

Lando nearly glared at him, but instead shook his head with a placid smile.

Zak and Daniel had both drilled every step into his head over the past two days. Any mistakes, any missteps, and he would lose everything as if it hadn’t existed at all.

Lando followed Charles down the hall. Fear wrenched his throat closed as he approached a small doorway—a subtle reminder that the grandeur of royalty was just that. Beneath all of the jewels and crowns, they were disposable.

He stepped into a small room with dark wood trim and not much else. An equally small table stood in the center that carried a silver tray covered in small, intricate tools that made Lando’s stomach turn.

He looked away and kept his eyes on the door over Charles’s shoulder, sinking into himself.

“Your hand, please,” Charles said.

Lando stilled his breathing as he extended his hand, turning it so that his palm faced up.

“Ferrari is the oldest empire in the FIA,” Charles began. “That means it is my duty as crown prince to uphold the values and traditions as they were intended from the beginning. When we accept a crown, we make that decision with our life. Do you understand?”

Coldness traveled up Lando’s bloodstream as he swallowed.

“I do,” he said softly.

“And as crown prince of McLaren, second oldest of the empires, you hold the vice duties in enforcing those values,” Charles said, selecting a tool from the tray. “That means you will hold me to them, yes?”

The irony left a metallic taste in Lando’s mouth as he nodded.

Fuck. His hand started to shake. Lando kept his eyes on the door behind Charles even as his breathing picked up and dark began to creep into the corners of his vision.

Charles squeezed his hand. “Lando.”

“What.”

“It doesn’t hurt, I promise.”

Lando grit his teeth and shut his eyes. “Then get on with it.”

Charles thumbed his palm into a slight bend.

Gravity began to turn.

“Open your eyes, Lando,” Charles said, authoritative.

He opened his eyes and forced himself to look.

Charles held a gold scalpel to his palm that he pushed into Lando’s flesh with the same nonchalance that he poured coffee. A sting bloomed into biting pain as Charles drew the blade along the crescent of his palm.

“Fuck,” Lando breathed, unable to stop himself as pain seared through his hand.

Charles lifted the blade after only an inch, then carefully turned Lando’s hand over a silver inkwell already dark with blood from eight other princes.

Blood streamed from Lando’s palm for a few seconds before Charles gently pressed a cool cloth to the wound, cleaning it before affixing a fancy bandage that soothed the burn of bleeding.

“It’ll heal in a week,” Charles explained calmly, as if he didn’t have an inkwell of human blood right in front of him. “No hard driving for at least three days or you’ll keep reopening the wound.”

“I know,” Lando said, still fighting lightheadedness. He still hated blood.

The cut wasn’t random. Daniel told him it would be made at the fold of skin and muscle that gripped the steering wheel—the place Lando used to have blisters as a kid when he thought he was too good for gloves during his karting days.

It would hurt like hell every time he touched a wheel for the next few weeks. A reminder of his place, a reminder of the rules.

Charles set the scalpel aside and offered his palm.

“Your turn.”

Lando nearly threw up when he grabbed a clean scalpel from the other side of the inkwell.

“Careful,” Charles warned—the only indication of any hesitation. “The blade is very sharp.”

He’d practiced at McLaren all night—making cuts in every piece of food in the house that resembled human skin.

Lando swallowed hard as he took Charles’s hand and tried to imagine a piece of raw chicken in its place. He set the blade over the soft flesh of his palm.

Carlos would see this mark and know he made it. Every time he took Charles’s hand, he would have to think of Lando too.

Lsndo applied even pressure and knew he broke skin when Charles exhaled. Blood welled around the blade as Lando carefully moved it across Charles’s hand, making sure not to add more weight. He kept the line clean and relatively quick before he slid the blade out and hurriedly set it aside.

Charles moved his hand over the inkwell and made a fist, squeezing an unconscionable amount of blood into the well.

“Nobody’s here, you don’t have to prove something,” Lando said, his face slowly turning green.

Charles’s lips twitched into a half smile before he grabbed a second cloth and cleaned his wound as if he’d been practicing medicine his whole life.

“You should have seen how much Kimi put in,” Charles said absently as he bandaged the cut.

“I’m glad I didn’t,” Lando muttered.

Charles nodded toward the door, his momentary humanity gone again. “They’re waiting for you. I’ll be in soon.”

Lando nodded stiffly, careful not to upset his crown.

He pushed open the door and left Charles behind.

 

 


 

 

Charles cursed under his breath the second Lando left the room, gripping his wrist. His hand throbbed underneath his bandage that had already turned pink. Lando hadn’t mauled him as badly as expected, but Luca would be furious when he saw the wound. Charles could feel the depth of it, precariously close to severing muscle and tendons.

The risks were necessary. Princes couldn’t be trusted to keep secrets unless those secrets were written in blood—literally, in this case.

Charles didn’t ask who started the tradition. The men who founded the first empires had seen the horrors of war and experienced the gruesome aftermath.

The rules were very simple: everything uttered in the next room was never to leave it. Any slip of the tongue and there would be consequences of the highest degree.

He reached for his pen.  

Enzo Ferrari’s dip pen had no royal glamor. Silver with a few black accents—it had signed off on the creation of countless cars over its lifetime. It played a small part in the foundation of the empire itself, and had signed the Concorde Agreement that allowed this royal summit to take place.

Charles opened the drawer beneath the table and pulled out a thick piece of parchment embossed with the FIA seal.

He lifted the pen, balancing the warm metal between his fingertips before he dipped it in the blood. A few careful taps rid the point of excess liquid. Fabrizio schooled him how to care for everything—how to keep the blood from clotting, how to clean the pen tip after each line, how to write swiftly and effectively without blotting. He knew the script by heart and writing it came as easily to him as the tracks he drove each weekend.

 

 

Today all princes of the FIA present for this royal summit at the Ferrari palace hereby swear by blood oath to maintain the secrecy of the matters discussed. To confess or otherwise reveal anything said inside this room to anyone will warrant a punishment agreed upon by all empires to consist of the following:

a. the immediate exile of any royal parties involved.

b. The banning of entry into any royal race or event.

c. The severing of the prince’s dominate hand, or

d. The removal of one eye, thus destroying any ability to operate a racing vehicle.

 

The princes in attendance are as follows:

HRH Charles Leclerc, Ferrari

HRH Fernando Alonso, Alpine

HRH George Russell, Williams

HRH Kimi Räikkönen, Alfa Romeo

HRH Lando Norris, McLaren

HRH Mick Schumacher, Haas

HRH Pierre Gasly, Alpha Tauri

HRH Sebastian Vettel, Aston Martin

HRH Sergio Perez, Red Bull (in place of HRH Max Verstappen)

HRH Valtteri Bottas, Mercedes (in place of HRH Lewis Hamilton)

 

 

 

Charles wiped the nib clean of blood and set it aside to look over his work. Both of his hands ached, one from writing with calculated strokes, the other from Lando’s incision.

Charles didn’t waste any time pressing the buzzer to call the Ferrari officials to take the inkwell away. The blood would be preserved for historical purposes within the FIA vaults—or so they said.

He entered the silent meeting room, and nine faces turned to him at the same time. Every prince stood behind their respective chairs, waiting for his next move. Non of them were permitted to speak until Charles allowed it.

Charles strode to the front of the room, where a nondescript leather chair sat at the head of the table—Enzo’s.

“It’s ready,” Charles announced, laying the parchment flat on the table. “Once everyone has viewed it, we can begin.”

 

 

Chapter Text

George took his seat after a cursory look at the blood oath. He looked over the collection of princes again, a strange dread in his gut. Lando sat to his left, holding his cut hand in his lap like he would a wounded bird. His grimace seemed permanently engraved. George briefly wondered if Charles had cut him deeper as a not-so-subtle reminder that Carlos was not his.

Pierre sat to his right, stone-faced. His big blue eyes stayed locked on Charles as Ferrari officials took the parchment away to bake it—the only way to stop the blood ink from decomposing.

Every prince in the room watched as the door started to close and waited for the clunk of the heavy wood to—

Thunk.

All eyes snapped to Charles.

Charles was never supposed to be crown princes this young. None of their friend group was, really. Lando could hardly hold a golf club, let alone run a country. Mick Schumacher had lineage, but he didn’t have experience.  Sebastian, Kimi, and Fernando exuded power in their posture, and Valtteri and Checo sat with dignified-but-silent authority.

“We’re here as leaders,” Charles began, pulling out his chair. “Not as friends or lovers or anything else. Nothing leaves this room, so we can speak openly—Red Bull and Mercedes are setting the entire FIA on edge. The whole point of the empires is to avoid war.”

“No it isn’t,” Fernando said, breaking the sacred silence. “The point is to have us fight the wars on track instead of armies on a battlefield.”

Charles didn’t skip a beat. “Regardless, we need to come to an understanding as crown princes. We all need to know the limit of what is expected and how far we’re going to allow it to go.”

“And what does that look like?” Sebastian asked, leaning  back in his chair. The Aston Martin crown shimmered at his temples—it was the thinnest of the crowns, inspired by Greek laurels, except the leaves were intricate wings, curved to resemble diving birds of prey.

“If empires want to go to war, fine. But we can’t let Christian Horner and Toto Wolff hide behind Max and Lewis,” Charles said.

“That’s what governments do,” Checo said tartly. “Send their soldiers to die while they sit around making noise.”

George tongued the inside of his cheek, but didn’t speak. Seniority ruled here, even if they were supposedly on even ground.

“I think it’d be nice if we all knew what game you’re playing, Char,” Lando said, eyes narrowed. Lando couldn’t read social cues to save his life. “Mind telling us what the fuck’s been going on with you over the past few months?”

Charles glared at him in a way that made George shiver.

Leave it to Lando to fuck everything up.

“I said we’re speaking as leaders, not school children,” Charles growled.

“Fine, mate,” Lando said. “I’ll simplify it—are you fucking Max? How about Pierre? Or just Carlos?”

Kimi let out a snort from the other side of the table. George noted Pierre’s grip tightening around the arm of his chair.

Charles bristled in his seat, but Valtteri spoke before he could get a word out.

“I think the real question is whether or not you’re fucking Max,” Valtteri said, bored.

George eyed him, trying to look for the emotion behind Valtteri’s clear eyes. Maybe Lewis had expressed the same anger about Max that he had with Sebastian in the motor home.

Lando’s mouth dropped open before he forced it into a scowl.

“I think it’s clear to everyone that nothing leaves this room,” Sebastian said. “So if relationships are on the table, explain to me how the FIA granted you, Daniel, and Max a private home in Zandvoort?”

“And George, I would love to hear how you managed to get that courtship weekend with Lewis at Mercedes,” Fernando added.

George soured. Jost warned him not to speak unless he had to, and he didn’t want to get into details about anything that happened at Mercedes.

“I’m not sleeping with Max, for starters,” Lando snapped. “And the house in Zandvoort was arranged by Red Bull and the FIA—I had nothing to do with it.”

“Red Bull and Mercedes are starting a war,” Charles reminded them. “This is the only chance we’ll have to discuss this without listening ears. I would rather not waste our time talking about relationships.”

 “Those relationship directly influence our choices,” Lando shot back. “Don’t act high and mighty when you’ve sept with half the princes here.”

“That’s enough,” Pierre snarled.

Lando cut him a look. “Oh shut up, you’re just sad because he cheated on you.”

“I heard it was the other way around,” Kimi said, tilting his crown to scratch at his temple.

George blinked, glancing between Kimi and Pierre. Pierre kept his eyes on the table, but his cheeks started turning red.

“Kimi,” Sebastian warned.

“Fuck off,” Kimi muttered. “You’re just as guilty. Stroll thinks you’re in love with him while you’re out—” He gestured toward Charles, whose eyes went wide as saucers.

George bit back a laugh as Sebastian fumed in his chair. Sebastian would have murdered him for a comment like that, but Kimi got away with a stern look. Lewis hadn’t been mentioned, but George could feel the proximity in Kimi’s words.

He wondered how Lewis would act in this meeting. Probably cool and calm as always, making sure no one suspected anything with Sebastian.   

 “I wasn’t aware my relationship with Pierre was the talk of the paddock,” Charles said. “I ended it because I didn’t feel it was fair to Pierre, and I wanted to focus on Ferrari.”

Pierre let out a sigh beside him. George nudged him under the table in an attempt at comfort.

“Very gallant of you,” Fernando said dryly.

“You still haven’t answered about Max,” Lando said.

“Mate, will you shut up?” George hissed. “You put your foot any further in your mouth and it’s gonna come out your arse.”

“Or Charles could just answer the question,” Lando snapped.

“I’m not sleeping with Max,” Charles said. “I haven’t slept with Max since we were teenagers. Whatever he says about me that makes you think we’re sleeping together is an assumption you’re making based on your own insecurities.”

“For fuck’s sake,” George groaned.

“Insecurities? Are you serious?” Lando spat. “Fuck you, Charles, at least I—”

“I didn’t come here for a telenovela,” Checo barked, drowning Lando out with unexpected volume. “Ask what you called us here to ask, Charles.”

Checo didn’t talk much. George was pretty sure he had a girl outside of royalty that he was basically married to—rumor had it they even had kids. He kept under the radar, but Checo had a dark side. Esteban still wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“Fine,” Charles said, tapping the table. “Ferrari will not choose a side in this fight unless forced. And I hope for everyone’s sake that doesn’t happen. But I think it would be beneficial for the crown princes to know what side other empires are taking.”

George swallowed hard.

Technically, crown princes were the only ones fit to discuss war, but this sounded awfully close to betraying their own governments. Empires weren’t supposed to pick sides in the championship. Some, like Williams, would obviously side with their affiliated empires, but others had more complicated ties.

“We’re all at risk if we’re kept in the dark,” Charles continued. “Let our governments play their games—we need to look out for ourselves.”

“Any of us could lie,” Mick said—his first time speaking in the meeting. He cocked his head. “Do you really think everyone here will be honest?”

“I definitely want to hear who you think won’t be,” Fernando said with a smirk.

Mick rolled his eyes.

“Assuming you mean us more experienced princes, I’m a bit insulted you think we won’t be truthful,” Sebastian said in a tone that made George want to punch him. Actually, he couldn’t think of a tone that didn’t make George want to punch him.

Sebastian shrugged. “We have nothing to lose. This year’s champion won’t change much.”

George chewed the inside of his cheek. He used to admire Sebastian as a child—the four-time champion, able to push past all the odds to secure wins even when the world hated him for it. Sebastian had mellowed out by the time George earned his appointment—or so he wanted everyone to think.

Sebastian’s personality had quieted, but his razor-edge was still sharp as ever. He lied as easily as breathing.

“I’m suggesting this so that we can all be prepared for either outcome,” Charles said evenly. “Things have escalated, and I don’t see them slowing down. There will be consequences no matter who wins.”

He met George’s eye. George tensed without meaning to, sensing an accusation in Charles’s gaze.

“I also think it’s important to know which side we’re personally taking outside of our empire. Obviously, not all of us will side with our governments.”

George narrowed his eyes. Charles couldn’t seriously think he would side with Max over Lewis.

Charles looked  away. “Lando, you seem keen to talk. Why don’t you start?”

Lando scowled. “McLaren is officially choosing Lewis. But Daniel and I are for Max. Obviously.”

George cleared his throat. “Williams is with Mercedes, and so am I.”

If Charles was surprised by his answer, he didn’t show it.

“Alpha Tauri is Red Bull,” Pierre said. He hesitated, eyes locked on Charles. “Personally, I’m undecided.”

George glanced at him. “Sorry—I thought you were for Lewis? That’s what you told me.”

If Pierre wanted to double-cross, he needed to do it in plain view.

Pierre shrugged, looking down at his bandaged hand. “I think Lewis winning is the better option to keep things as they are. But Max isn’t stupid. I think he’s the best choice out of the rest of us to be champion.”

George wanted to protest, but all of his arguments faded the more he thought about them. Max was their age, but he’d been a prince longer. He’d grown up with a crown on his head. He’d experienced the things the rest of them had only been taught about.

“Aston Martin is Mercedes,” Sebastian said. “I am too.”

“Alfa Romeo is Mercedes,” Kimi agreed. “Unofficially.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “Why?”

Kimi stared down his nose at him. “Max played his games with me and it lost me my crown. I don’t care what happens to him, as long as he doesn’t win.”

Fear curled at the base of George’s spine. He never considered that Kimi’s silence could be defending them from something worse.

“Alpine hasn’t decided,” Fernando said, interrupting the exchange. “But I like Max better. Esteban doesn’t, but his opinion doesn’t matter. So, Red Bull.”

Sebastian and Kimi flashed dark smiles. George no longer felt safe in a room with multiple world champions unconstrained by royal rules.

“Haas is Red Bull—also unofficially,” Mick said, glaring at George.

“Two Ferrari affiliates taking a stance,” Sebastian clucked. “How interesting.”

“Meaningless,” Fernando muttered, rubbing his chin. “It only takes one petty thing for any one of you to change your minds.”

Sebastian nodded. “The real question is the FIA. They will pick a side—whoever they think has a better chance of winning.”

“It’s whomever,” George corrected.

Sebastian leered at him. “It isn't, but thank you for your input.”

George shut his mouth. He was pretty sure it was whomever. Mostly sure. Less sure now. 

Valtteri cleared his throat, his eyes on Checo. “The FIA has visited us several times already. I don’t know the details, but I know they’ve taken a look at our data.”

Checo nodded once. “Ours too. Always when Max is gone.”

“Same with Lewis,” Valtteri replied.

George’s heart began to pound in his chest.

Fernando grinned at him, evidently sensing his shock. “Ultimately, they can’t prevent anyone from winning—trust me. But they’ll choose, and those of you who are on the wrong side will feel the consequences.”

“Why the hell would the FIA pick a side?” George stammered.

“Why not influence the game?” Sebastian said with a shrug. “They claim to act on the will of the people. No single empire should rule over all of them. It’s very possible they want Lewis out.”

“He won’t leave until he has eight championships,” Valtteri said, adamant. “Not a chance.”

“So they may back him to get his eighth so he’ll leave,” Sebastian amended with a disinterested look.

He sounded so nonchalant, as if it really didn’t matter to him. George thought back to the motorhome, when Sebastian had his arms around Lewis, speaking softly to him during rumbles of thunder.

“Or they’ll back Max because everyone is tired of Lewis,” Fernando said. “You’ve been quiet, Checo. What does Max say?”

Checo’s face didn’t change. “That he’ll do anything to win.”

Sebastian smiled. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

Checo drew out the word, deliberate. Pierre stilled beside George, throat bobbing with a hard swallow. A sense of betrayal permeated the air.

“And there you have it,” Sebastian said. “The FIA may be bribed.”

“That’s illegal on so many levels,” George burst out.

“Nobody cares,” Fernando dismissed. “Just ask Ferrari.”

Charles paled. Every ounce of power in him had vanished, leaving nothing but the wisp of a boy George remembered from karting days. George had heard the rumors about Ferrari’s fuel system from a few years ago, but nothing came of it that he could remember.

He realized now that he might have taken things at face value once again.

“You’re one to talk,” Kimi said with a snort, eyebrows raised at Fernando.

“Come on, Checo,” Lando piped up. “Max is not going to bribe the FIA. He doesn’t cheat.”

Checo leveled him with a dark look. “Red Bull wants this more than Max does.”

Sebastian laughed, but nothing seemed very funny.

“Ten years ago, Christian Horner would have killed for me—literally. So Checo does have a point.”

“They want Max to owe them,” Pierre said absently, as if just figuring it out.

Checo dipped his head in silent agreement.

“Private mansions in Zandvoort, living in the McLaren suite every weekend—how stupid can Verstappen be?” Valtteri said, shaking his head.

“Not to mention the personal attacks toward Lewis coming from the Red Bull camp,” Sebastian added. “Soon Max will be making those, just watch. And if he slips up, well, he’s given them direct access to all of his weaknesses.”

“Daniel has been through enough,” Lando protested. “If they do anything else to him, people will riot.”

“Oh, I agree,” Sebastian said. “Daniel does have those big brown eyes—so emotive.”

Fernando chuckled. “They’ve always worked for him.”

“That’s my husband you’re talking about,” Lando hissed. “Shut up about Daniel.”

“Evidently Lando’s weakness too,” Fernando added with a smirk.

“Foot’s coming out your arse, mate,” George warned in a whisper.

Lando shook in his seat, more angry than George had seen him in a long time.

Charles cleared his throat, drawing all of the attention back to him.

“Back on topic—for empires unaffiliated with Red Bull and Mercedes, what will be the government response?”

“Haas will say we’re staying neutral with Ferrari,” Mick said, not allowing more talk of Daniel. “Anything I do is on me.”

George didn’t like the implication that Mick would do something.

Kimi sighed. “Probably same. Not that anyone cares. Antonio will probably stay neutral.”

“Alpine will never support Red Bull publicly,” Fernando said. “But I will.”

Charles nodded once. “So now we know where everyone stands.”

“And?” George asked. “Are we actually going to do anything, or are we just putting targets on our backs?”

“Loyalties change,” Sebastian said. “This is a baseline—a check-in, if you will.”

“Targets on our backs,” George reiterated.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t put words in my mouth, Sebastian. It’s a good question, George—I want us to all be aware in case the FIA tries to pit us against each other unnecessarily.”

That seemed to shut the champions up. Truth tended to do that, George had found.

“It would be very convenient to imply Ferrari has taken a side,” Charles continued. “Particularly because of my past relationship with Max in our lower court days. I could see Mercedes or Red Bull trying to manipulate that relationship—I believe Red Bull has already attempted to.”

“You were his NOK,” Mick said. “That kind of implies something is going on.”

Charles shook his head. “I didn’t know I was his NOK. I brought Daniel with me for a reason.”

George dug his heel into Lando’s shin to keep him from making a fool of himself again. Preventative meausures.

“When’s the last time you talked to him?” Pierre asked, monotone.

George couldn’t win.

“I got a letter from him yesterday,” Charles replied. “Before that, I last spoke to him in Russia.”

“Interesting,” Pierre said, as if it wasn’t interesting at all. “Has he said anything in his letters?”

Charles sighed. “Not really. He’s worried about things, and wants me to side with him. I told him I won’t.”

“Unless forced,” George said.

Charles set his jaw. “Yes.”

“And nothing happened in Monaco?” Pierre asked. “With you and Max, I mean.”

Lando snorted. “Which time?”

“Fine—since we are going to play games.” Charles sat up straighter, his shoulders curving to something more imposing, though he barely moved. “I got drunk while I was out alone. Well, I thought I was alone. Turns out Max was there and he saw me and took me back to my place so I didn’t make more of a fool of myself. Nothing happened.”

“So he dropped you off and left?” Pierre asked.

“We’ve already talked about this,” Charles said, brow furrowing. “Why are you bringing it up now?”

“Because I think we all need to know if you slept with the prince who could be future champion,” Pierre said, but his voice started to shake. “I never got a concrete answer out of—”

“They didn’t sleep together,” George said, finding his voice. He looked down at his hands. Blood made a mark in his bandage, a bit of red seeping through.

“What?” Charles and Pierre asked at the same time.

“Max told me everything,” George explained. “He wanted to keep Charles safe, so he stayed with him all night and left the next morning. They didn’t sleep together. In fact, he said the whole night was horrible.”

He caught Valtteri watching him out of the corner of his eye. Lewis would know all of this in a matter of hours, regardless of any oaths. He didn’t care. Max had done everything right in Monaco to keep Charles safe and George wouldn’t allow him to be faulted for it.

“So why didn’t you tell me that?” Pierre asked Charles. “Why did you keep avoiding the question?”

“The same reason you avoided answering mine about what you did over summer break,” Charles snapped. “Now, does anyone want to accuse me of sleeping with anyone else or can we move on?”

“Fuck,” Pierre whispered. The white gold tines of his Alpha Tauri crown glowed in the overhead light as he passed a hand over his face. The diamonds and sapphires threw sparkles around the room as he shook his head.

“We can’t discount Lewis in all of this,” Sebastian said, inserting himself in the conversation again.  

The hair on the back of George’s neck stood straight up.

“Yes, thank you,” Lando said. “Lewis is so much worse than Max.”

“Really? How is that?” George asked, not hiding his annoyance. “Because he beat you in Russia?”

“Because he’s a liar,” Lando hissed.

George flared his nostrils. Lando was right, of course, but George couldn’t allow anyone to think it or his own integrity would come into question.

“And what did he lie about, Lando?” George pressed.

“Yes, I’d like to know too,” Sebastian said.

All eyes turned to Lando, who squirmed in his seat.

“He just is,” Lando said defiantly. “I’m not going to blab all my secrets in front of a room full of snakes.”

“Lewis doesn’t lie,” Valtteri said. “I know some of you think he sees me as secondary to Mercedes, but none of you know the real him.  He works hard, he’s kind, and he leads with a level head. He’ll win this championship fair and square—I would even argue with a disadvantage. The FIA is harder on him than anyone else.”

“Says his husband,” Checo said tartly. “Lewis has more power than all of us combined.”

“He uses it too,” Mick added, head propped against his hand, elbows on the table.

“They’re both threats for different reasons,” George said, defensive. He couldn’t let Mick bring up the fine Lewis had paid. Promises meant nothing now, and he knew it. “I say we all do what we need to do, and agree to take matters into our own hands if we catch wind of the FIA throwing the points. Otherwise, we’ll be here all night picking apart people’s lives.”

“I can’t think of a single more exciting thing going on in Maranello,” Fernando drawled. “Nothing happens here except people driving Ferraris, and they’re always driving them away.”

“You’re a guest, Fernando,” Charles growled. “Don’t forget it.”

Fernando’s lips curled to a cruel smile. “Not a guest, Charles. I ruled here longer than you have, and the only person who prevented me from being a champion here three times over is this one.”

He pointed at Sebastian, arm extended over Kimi’s place at the table. Kimi made a face and pushed his arm away as if it were a disgusting plate of food.

The interaction reminded George of seeing tigers at the zoo as a child, seemingly playful until you walked closer and realized their fangs were the length of your hand, their claws longer than a finger.

“Perhaps you should visit the museum then,” Sebastian offered. “Find your place among all of the other relics and their excuses.”

Charles’s lip twitched as he fought not to smile. “Well, since it seems we’ve devolved to personal attacks, I think that it’s time to end this meeting. We all know where we stand, and that it’s our duty to sort this out between us—not to let the FIA get in the way.”

Charles stood from his chair and they all followed suit.

“You’re all free to go,” Charles dismissed. “Officials will lead you to guest rooms, but you’re free to access public areas of the palace.”

“We can’t go home?” Mick asked.

Charles shook his head. “The public will be told we deliberated all day. You’re all spending the night and heading out first thing in the morning—they didn’t tell you?”

Mick shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, no. No one told me that.”

“I’ll show you around,” Sebastian offered, patting his shoulder once he rounded the table. “Let me take off all of this jewelry first.”

“I know my way around,” Mick said quietly.

George realized with a jolt that Mick had probably raced through these halls as a child. Michael Schumacher never had to follow the same rules as anyone else—but no one knew the reality of his rule within the walls of Ferrari. Part of the reason Michael was allowed to do as he pleased was because he could keep everything secret. Mick probably lived here in some capacity.  He probably knew every crevice of the palace as his personal playground.

A pang of sadness rippled through him.

“That’s okay,” Mick said, adjusting his golden crown affixed with white diamonds and rubies. He stood with the poise and seamless grace of a movie character, flashing a charming smile. “Thanks, Charles. I’ll talk to everyone later.”

Lando stormed out shortly after, avoiding conversation. George figured he’d long since exhausted his tiny pool of maturity, so it was for the best.

“Don’t do that again,” Kimi warned, slapping at Fernando’s arm. “Reach over someone else.”

“You’re just being nostalgic,” Fernando chuckled—George had never heard him tease anyone so gently. Fernando lifted his hand and fondly swiped his thumb over Kimi’s chin.

Kimi caught his wrist in a flash. “You and your stupid mouth. You are annoying.”

“Come on,” George said, squeezing Pierre’s shoulder. He really didn’t want to see any more champion antics.

Pierre looked like he wanted to speak, but stood abruptly and started for the door instead. Charles watched him leave, his throat taut.  

“Let’s go,” Sebastian sighed, putting an arm around Kimi’s shoulder. “We can go visit the old haunts. I bet they haven’t cleaned my royal portrait since I left.”

Kimi released Fernando’s wrist and left with Sebastian. Fernando followed them out, meeting Checo at the door to exchange a few words in Spanish.

“You good, Charles?” George asked.

“Thank you,” Charles said softly. “For earlier.”

George dipped his head and made for the door, avoiding Valtteri on the way out. The high ceilings dwarfed Sebastian and Kimi in the distance, where Sebastian pointed at something framed on the wall and smiled at it with childlike awe. Kimi fussed with his crown, muttering something George couldn’t hear.

He couldn’t imagine Lewis here. Ferrari didn’t seem to fit him—their personalities clashed even in the silence. George didn’t feel like he fit in either. Mercedes was innovative where Ferrari relayed on tradition.

Sebastian patted Kimi on the back before heading down another hall, leaving Kimi to stare at the photograph, his stoic face returned.

“Don’t get caught up in the scenery.”

George turned to see Valtteri, who put a hand on his shoulder a moment later. Valtteri gave him a squeeze that verged on painful.

“As long as we’re in here, no one is your friend.”

Chapter Text

Lando freed himself from his crown the moment he stepped into his room. Someone from McLaren had delivered his royal box, so he tucked the crown inside and slammed the lid shut so he didn’t have to look at the weeping kiwi bird for one more second.

His neck ached, muscle winding tighter the longer he thought about this fucking place, about Carlos somewhere within the same walls but completely off limits. A headache formed behind Lando’s eyes as he sat on the end of his bed in a room definitely not designed for royalty.

Everyone had been very clear that he would not be allowed to see Carlos. Lando understood—he hid himself as much as he could to make sure Ferrari officials wouldn’t recognize him, but he still wanted.

Weight settled in his eye sockets, dragging him down to the mattress. They still had a whole day and night trapped here. His hand had a slice in it. He couldn’t see Carlos.

Lando let out a sigh and winced as something sharp dug into the base of his shoulder blade. He sat up from the mattress and used his good hand to flail around behind him until he felt the hard edge of an envelope.

His heart jumped to his throat as he brought the envelope into view—thicker than normal.

Charles.

Lando grit his teeth.

 

Lando,

I know you probably hate me right now. That’s what it seems like, anyway. I’m writing this before the summit, because I don’t want anything in that meeting to affect my feelings now. What I have to say is true, and I hope you will put aside your pride and listen.

I want you to be a prince for decades, and I want to be right there with you. People call you childish—including myself, I’ll admit—but I know you aren’t. You’re acting your age, and don’t let anyone tell you that’s a bad thing.

I wish I had a childhood like yours. Max does too. We spoke about it many times when we were younger. You and George, specifically. I remember when you and your dad helped me with my kart when my dad couldn’t and my brothers had better things to do. You didn’t ask, you just helped. I will never forget it.

Max is the first person I’ve ever fallen in love with. I think that much is obvious to you. I really truly believed that I would be with him forever. When he ended us, I lost so much of myself. I did horrible things, I used my friends, I lost a part of me I will never get back.

Max is a good man. He was good when we were young too, even when he had every reason not to be. Back then I did my best to give him safety, but I was a stupid child who couldn’t do much.

There is one thing about Max. He always survives. 

Daniel has seen what other people haven’t—Max will choose the championship over him, if it comes down to it. Max will also choose the championship over you, and he’ll choose it over me.

The walls are closing in on him now.

 

Lando set down the letter with a rock in his stomach. He thought of Max on the couch, eyes open against Daniel’s chest. Alive but not living. Charles hadn’t seen Max since Russia—he didn’t know anything.

 

Maybe Max does love you, but I would hate to see you lose your crown because he won’t put you first. He may not betray you, but if he stops protecting you, it’ll be the same thing. You need support outside of him, and I think we both know that Carlos has always been that for you.

I love Carlos. He is easily the best husband I’ve ever had, and I cared about Sebastian quite a lot by the end. Carlos has never lied to me (that I know of), and from the beginning he’s always talked about you.

Right now he’s angry with you, and very sad. He still loves you very much, and I know you are trying to fix things between you and him. You’re going about it horribly, but I know your intentions are the purest, stupidest kind.

 

Lando rubbed his eyes, trying to will the headache from his brain. He read the letter in Charles’s slurry accent and he could just imagine the pity in Charles’s eyes as he sat down to write. Lando didn’t want to read any more, but it was either that or staring at the wall.

 

I’m telling you this as your friend: do not ask Carlos to choose between you and me. He already chose me once, and he will keep choosing me because we’re married. I wake up next to him every day, I go to sleep with him every night.

We’ve both grown since the beginning of the season. I’m willing to make room for you. Carlos would be happiest that way, and I think you would be happy too. You would be safer that way also. Both Carlos and I want to protect you. We don’t want to see something happen to you like it could have before Turkey.

However, I’m not doing a formal agreement with you this time. Carlos isn’t going to have rules about when and where he can see us—if he even agrees to take you back anytime soon. You need to learn discretion.

You’re probably angry now, but as crown prince of Ferrari, I will not allow you to put my empire or my husband at risk. Carlos loves you, but he knows his way around the royal circle. If you keep acting like you have been, you’ll put his crown at risk too. He won’t take that chance.

Stop doing big things. You don’t need to impress him. Take care of his time and ask, don’t demand. He’s making the choice, not you.

You and I aren’t meant to be rivals. I don’t want to be, but I’ll protect Carlos and Ferrari with everything I have. If you keep acting this way, the safest choice is for us to step away.

Don’t rely on Max to save you. Daniel probably isn’t.

For what it’s worth, I still consider you a close friend. I hope you feel the same, somewhere in you.

Sincerely,

CL

 

Lando tossed the letter aside and flopped back on the mattress. His blood boiled beneath his skin, burning new pathways through his throbbing head as he stared at the wood ceiling above him and fought not to charge up to the royal apartment and beat down the door.

He didn’t rely on Max and neither did Daniel. They were McLaren princes—they didn’t have to lean on Red Bull for support.

Lando sat up with a grunt and shuffled over to the closet, where he found his luggage bag waiting for him. His phone sat in a leather bag on top, a few texts from Daniel already on screen.

Good luck in there.

How did it go? Is your hand ok?

Call me when u can.

Lando softened, his headache momentarily forgotten as he lifted the phone to his ear.

Daniel answered on the first ring.

“G’day, darlin’,” Daniel greeted. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so early.”

“Yeah, hey,” Lando replied. “Everything went okay. I can’t tell you anything, obviously, but it was okay.”

“Doesn’t really sound like it,” Daniel said. “You feeling alright?”

Lando laughed. “Uh, my hand doesn’t feel so great. But I didn’t pass out.”

“Knew you wouldn’t.”

Silence settled in, heavy with the weight of things he couldn’t say.

Lando hated the way the champions talked about Daniel, as if he slept his way into his crown or pulled some shady deal. They’d all known him longer, yet thought so little of him. Lando didn’t understand it. A few weeks with Daniel taught him plenty about who he was as a person.

“I really wish I could talk to you about it,” Lando said quietly, sitting on the end of the bed.

“I know. I wish I could listen,” Daniel replied. “You’re good, though? Feeling okay?”

Lando nodded, even though Daniel couldn’t see. “I have a headache. I think I’m gonna take a bubble bath. Or just a regular bath—I don’t think Ferrari has anything that fun.”

“Ah, shoulda sent you with some bubbles,” Daniel said, clicking his tongue. “We can take one tomorrow. Date night?”

“Yeah,” Lando replied, picking at some fuzz on his slacks. “When do you go to Monaco?”

“I leave late tomorrow. Plenty of time for bubbles. Maybe get a good cuddle in.”

“I think I need that,” Lando said. His cheeks started to burn right after.

“Carlos didn’t stop by?” Daniel asked.

Lando almost laughed at the question. “No.”

“I’m sorry, babe.”

“Why? He’s not allowed to visit me. I’m not going after him. I’ll see him soon.”

Daniel let out a hum. “S’pose you’re right. Weird, I thought I’d have to talk you out of doing something reckless.”

Didn’t everyone.

“Hey—” Lando cut himself off, trying to rephrase his question before it came out. “Does the FIA know you’re seeing Max out there?”

“I assume so. Max said he got it sorted—he wouldn’t have said anything if it wasn’t official,” Daniel replied. “We’ll be safe, don’t worry. My neighbors are cool.”

Lando bit his lip. “Be careful, okay?

“Babe, it’s Monaco for one night—I’m sure this shit had you spooked, but it’s fine. Max needs me, I’m gonna be there for him.”

“I mean that—”

A knock sounded at the door. Lando jumped to his feet.

“Lando?”

“Hold on,” Lando said. “Somebody’s at the door.”

It had to be Carlos.

Or George. God, he hoped it wasn’t George.

Lando kept the phone at his ear and strode to the door, tugging it open.

Sebastian stood in the doorway, his crown gone, his eyes full of rage.

“Time to hang up,” Sebastian snarled.

Lando yanked the door shut, but Sebastian’s shoe blocked it from closing.

Classic movie fuckup. Lando froze, unable to comprehend thought in general.

“Lando?” Daniel asked, panic in his voice. “Who is it? Who—”

Sebastian shoved him so hard that Lando spent his fall trying to reinflate his lungs. His phone flew from his hand, clattering to hardwood as he crashed into the bed.

Sebastian grabbed the phone so fast that Lando thought maybe his reality had just slowed down.

He didn’t think anyone had ever shoved him before. Not with intent to—whatever Sebastian intended. Killing sounded right, except murdering a prince inside the Ferrari palace didn’t seem like a great idea.

“There,” Sebastian said, hanging up the phone. “Tell Daniel you lost reception. Or tell him I paid you a visit—I don’t care.”

“What the fuck?” Lando yelped, fully scared. “What the fuck are you—”

“Charles was too kind to you,” Sebastian cut, yanking him up by the collar.

The thin fabric of Lando’s dress shirt made a horrible noise as it ripped at the seam, splitting open along his spine.

“You sat in that room and degraded him. Then you called Lewis a liar.” Sebastian wrenched his fist, effectively pinching Lando’s air supply. “Welcome to consequences.”

 

 


 

 

Charles took a deep breath once his crown had been safety returned to its chest. Ferrari officials swarmed him, removing his jewelry, brushing his hair, and taking a lint roller to his suit. He let them work, using the time to close his eyes and think.

This job has never scared me before. I’m fucking scared, Charles. Everyone tells me not to get in my head or stress out and just drive, but how can I do that when everyone is depending on me?

Max never said he was going to send a letter in Turkey, but Charles found one waiting for him after the race.

I know how to handle pressure. This isn’t pressure. This is targeted. I can’t keep holding up every tent post. I need help. I don’t know who is for or against me so I have no idea how to cope.

Max didn’t admit to defeat or disadvantage. Charles could practically smell the fear on the page, and the text had been so jumbled, rushed, and hard to read that Charles guessed Max wrote it while in a moving car.

The summit accomplished what it needed to. Charles had a grasp of the battlefield, and a better idea of how to navigate it. He couldn’t tell Max about it, but at least Checo knew the challenges they faced..

As long as Charles didn’t think about the look in Pierre’s eyes, he would be able to manage.

“Abbiamo finato,” one of the officials said with a curt nod.

“Grazie,” Charles murmured, returning to the present. He flexed his hand experimentally, as though removing his crown might heal the royally inflicted wound.

Pain ran up his arm like a static shock, sharp and tingling afterward. He would have to have Dr. Luca take a look at the cut, just to be sure he didn’t get an infection.

The officials hurried away, leaving him in slacks and a dress shirt—his royal suit jacket on its way back to be cleaned and returned to the museum for display.

A fire burned in the earth inside his changing room, an homage to Enzo, who always had two fires lit in his office while working in the colder months.

A soft knock sounded at the door just before Fabrizio entered.

“Your Royal Highness,” he greeted with a dip of his head. “A letter for you.”

“That was fast,” Charles muttered, turning to face him.

The envelope, McLaren orange, shimmered in the low light of the flames. The envelope was massive—one for documents, not a letter. It had Lando’s crest.

“From today?” Charles asked. He hadn’t been out of the meeting for an hour yet.

“Indeed,” Fabrizio replied.

“Grazie,” Charles said. He couldn’t imagine Lando writing a response to his letter fast enough to fill an envelope of his size. “You may leave, Fabrizio. Ciao.”

Fabrizio turned on his heel and left Charles alone by the crackling fire.

He carefully broke the seal and opened the flap to reveal a small piece of parchment paperclipped to a stack of papers.

A single sentence, written in Lando’s rushed script.

He’ll never do this for you.

Charles fought down the urge to tear up the letter as he pulled out the stack of documents—screenshotted text messages.

Dreamed about you. We were golfing at Pebble Beach, I think. I’ve never been there. Have you?

From Carlos, Charles realized. The messages from their burner phones. Had to be.

no. where is it again?

Blue text bubbles, presumably from Lando.

America. California, Carlos replied.

we could go.

Maybe.

Charles turned the page, his stomach roiling. The conversations didn’t seem to be in order.

goodnight.

goodnight.

Hours later, another text from Lando.

wearing ur watch today. does he know i have it?

It isn’t a secret.

sounds like a no. 😏

Lando.

let me have this. 🥺

Okay, you can have it. goodnight.

goodnight. soy lago.

Charles didn’t know what date the messages were sent, but Carlos had stopped with the burner phones right before summer break. Before Mykonos, when Charles finally found his husband again.

Carlos never mentioned dreaming about him. He never sent photos of food or shared secrets about trinkets he’d kept or even inside jokes. They had morning talks over coffee and fell asleep in each other’s arms. They played chess and teased and jabbed and poked until they ended up wrapped in each other.

He couldn’t be angry. Carlos loved him in a different way than he loved Lando. Carlos didn’t love him any less.

Charles never asked about the watch. It had appeared on Lando’s wrist during a press conference after Silverstone. The story had been simple enough to devise.

Charles set down the stack of papers. He had a feeling each one would be worse than the last and he didn’t want anything to happen to the way he felt about his husband.

Charles looked down at his wounded hand, his wedding band shimmering just above his bandage. He trusted Carlos to tell him if something had happened.

So he folded the stack in half and crossed to the hearth.

He understood Lando’s pain. It sounded exactly like the echoes of his own after Max left him. Lando wanted a rise out of hm, anything to bring even a fraction of the same heartbreak. But he meant what he said about not wanting Lando as a rival. They had much bigger problems now.

Charles tossed the papers into the fire and watched the text dissolve to smoldering, curling blackness until it shriveled into nothing.

He would not allow Lando to win.

 


 

Charles made his way back through the palace toward his apartment, taking his time on the way. Giorgio had about a million press commitments for him to film later on, and Mattia made a point that he would need to perfect his tone for every interview until America to make sure Ferrari came out of the summit looking more powerful than before.

A shiver ran through him as he turned a corner. America felt a bit like Monaco, though that was changing. He used to be able to visit and go unrecognized, but those days seemed to be on their way out.

Even so, the FIA didn’t have as much control overseas. America still acted like an older sibling, continually reminding the FIA that they helped to win the war almost a century ago. Monarchies still existed there, but they were symbolic and largely unimportant to government. They sometimes adopted princes who couldn’t make the cut—like Callum Ilott.

Charles made another left toward the guest wing and found Fernando in a hallway alone, looking at a wall of photos. He had a small smile on his face, unnervingly fond.

“Looking at anything in particular?” Charles greeted, stepping up next to him.

Fernando let out a hum. “I had good times here. Many bad, but many good.”

Charles didn’t have any firm feelings toward Fernando. Carlos adored him, and Charles knew Fernando was partly the reason Carlos found a Ferrari crown. Fernando had enormous power, but he seemed more inclined to trick his way into knowledge.

Charles hadn’t forgotten that Fernando owed Max a debt, according to Sebastian.

“Carlos always talks about the good times you had here,” Charles said, looking over the photographs. Old team pictures, podiums, and photos of the various cars. Everyone had a smile on their face, glowing with victory. A feeling too absent from Ferrari at the moment.

“Does he?” Fernando hummed. “I thought he would have stopped by now. He has other things to focus on. We all do.”

Annoyance flared up inside of him. Carlos didn’t treat many people with the respect he treated Fernando—yet Carlos’s supposed mentor to brushed him off like nothing. 

Fernando’s eyes dimmed. Charles followed his gaze to a picture of Fernando and Felipe Massa, another Ferrari prince and Fernando’s husband at the time, standing bundled up in front of a fire, posing with several other Ferrari officials. Snowfall made a pattern in the foreground while night closed in on the background, swallowing a massive crowd behind them in ski gear.

He sighed, crossing his arms as he turned to look down the hall. More photos and paintings crammed the walls, including a royal portrait of a much younger Fernando in Ferrari red.

“I wanted so badly to win here,” Fernando murmured. “They say it’s different than any other empire. A Ferrari champion is something special.”

Kimi was the last and only Ferrari champion left to talk about it among the royal circles. Jody Sheckter, the 1979 champion, abandoned the royal life only a few years after his win and ran off to found an organic farm in England. He only showed up at events when forced, and Charles even heard rumors that he invested in a weapons company in direct protest of the FIA.

“What did Kimi say about it?” Charles asked.

He’d tried to ask Kimi, of course, but even with Kimi helping him find a crown, he wasn’t much for conversation.

Fernando laughed. “Nothing, as usual. But we all saw. With him and with Michael.”

Charles sucked in a chilling breath. Want pooled at his fingertips, the taste of victory, but more.

A championship mattered so much more.

The lore whispered around them, following the ghosts in the hall.

“I will give you advice,” Fernando said quietly, looking up at the curved ceilings above them. “Ferrari prince to Ferrari prince.”

Charles leaned closer, holding his breath.

Fernando looked at him out of the corner of his eye. His eyes were darker than Carlos’s—polished wood where Carlos had the vibrancy of youth, the glow of sun.

“Don’t make trouble. And remember that most trouble starts right here.” Fernando gestured to the hall before lifting his hand, showing off his wedding band. “And here.”

Lando jumped to mind immediately. His venomous look in the meeting, the obvious wound of Carlos’s love for Charles, inflamed and full of rot. The stack of screenshots burning in the fire.

But Charles thought of Pierre too, the way his lip curled to a soft smile as he spoke about the rain.

“Why are you supporting Max?” Charles asked. “That feels like making trouble to me.”

Fernando shrugged. “I think he is the best driver. Lewis used to be. It is time for new blood.”

“But what about the FIA?”

Fernando cocked a brow at him, but his eyes showed no surprise. “What about them?”

Charles swallowed hard. He didn’t know how to ask the question he wanted the answer for.

He thought of Max, hollow-eyed and lost in the media firestorm. His ears held echoes of Max’s voice on the other side of the phone in Maranello, stumbling through À la claire fontaine.

“Do you think Max can take them down? Truly?”

Fernando narrowed his eyes, almost involuntary. “What do you think?”

Charles shook his head. “I’m honestly wondering what the FIA can enforce to begin with. They can’t seem to do anything to anyone—they only seem to care about their image. So maybe Max is right, maybe it’s time for them to go.”

He couldn’t imagine a world without the FIA, but the governments were largely self-sufficient now, and growing more so each year. Checks and balances were needed, but FIA could still handle racing regulations—they didn’t need to police the royal aspects of their lives.

Fernando ran his tongue over his teeth and turned back to the wall. He stared at a picture of himself standing on top of his Ferrari, fists thrown in the air.

“The worst mistake any royal can make is underestimating the FIA,” Fernando said. “I hate them and they hate me—because I know their power exactly. I’ve seen beyond the veil. Twice. They will never fool me again.”

Charles’s blood ran cold. “So tell me what they’re capable of. We can do something about it. Keeping a secret will only hurt us more.”

Fernando smiled, but this one had no warmth. Charles knew they had no reason to speak truthfully to one another, but the Fernando he knew in the paddock wasn’t the same one standing here in the halls of the Ferrari palace. This Fernando had an honesty about him, a sense of pride stamped in Scuderia red.

“Don’t you wonder why the FIA wants Lewis out?” Fernando asked. “He has too much control over them. If Max wins the championship, they’ll take that power back and offer to share it with him.”

Charles shook his head. “Max hates the FIA. He’ll never side with them—he’ll never share.”

Fernando chuckled.

“I left royalty altogether and swore I would never come back. But here I am.”

“You’re not Max,” Charles growled.

“You’re right,” Fernando replied coldly. “I’m worse. And when I won my first championship, I cut down everyone who took my side.”

Charles heard as much. Fernando didn’t have many friends in royalty.

“So why support Max’s bid if you think he’s going to turn on you?” Charles asked.

Fernando laughed bitterly. The sound carried, echoing through the rafters for all of the ghosts to hear.

“Simple,” he said. “There are a lot of people here I don’t like.”

Charles set his jaw as Fernando turned to him with a smirk on his face, carved in.

“And you’re one of them.”

 

 

Chapter 111: BOOK IV

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

FIA ASSOCIATED PRESS - OCTOBER 17TH 2021

RED BULL PALACE, MILTON KEYNES – With six races remaining in the royal season, all eyes are on our two championship contenders: Red Bull and Mercedes. Prince Verstappen left Turkey with a six-point lead in the championship—the fourth swap in the last six events. Prince Hamilton, the seven-time champion, will have to muster some serious points this weekend in the United States Grand Prix to stay in contention.

“We’re ready,” Prince Hamilton said earlier last week in a televised press conference while his husband, Prince Valtteri Bottas, attended Ferrari’s Concord Agreement summit. “Mercedes is an empire that prepares for any situation. Red Bull is putting up a great fight this year—we’re looking forward to the challenge.”

Prince Verstappen could not be reached for comment, but Red Bull’s Head of Government, Christian Horner, assured us that “[Prince] Max is training very hard. His focus has been unbelievable these past few weeks. He’s in a true champion’s mindset –one we cultivate here at Red Bull.”

The United States poses a unique environment for our royals. Americans are less keen on royalty, which allows for princes to engage in civilian life to a level unheard of within Europe. Sharp-eyed fans will be lucky to spot our princes out in the open, but we anticipate heightened security around our two championship favorites—if the FIA can find them.

 

******

 

A sea of teal, white, and orange filled the windows of the Miami Dolphins luxury suite. George flinched at the sound of fans cheering for another first down—or first run, whatever Americans called it. The crowd was properly deafening whenever the Dolphins did anything remotely positive on the field—the stadium held over 75,000 people according to the brochure. The FIA had  made sure to put George and Alex in a private, guarded box to prevent anything like the Wembley fiasco.

It was hard to believe that in a little over a year, the front of the stadium would serve as the podium for a royal race.  

“Obviously the goal is to get the ball from one side to the other, but what’s all this fuss in the middle?” Alex asked from a leather recliner pressed up to one of the massive windows overlooking the field. “It’s like rugby with built in commercial breaks.”

“Careful,” George warned as he added a few more pieces of fruit to his plate in the suite kitchen—yes, their box had a full kitchen. For a football game. A singular game. “These guys are the royalty here.”

American football dominated the United States in a way racing never would. Each state had its own team—several, if counting the feeder leagues for each—and every major city had at least two stadiums for other events. Americans love sports, but they had almost no pull on government, despite the way Americans revered players and coaches.

George took his seat beside Alex and offered a crescent-cut piece of cantaloupe.

None of this felt real.

Alex plucked the piece from his hand and grinned before taking a bite. A bead of melon juice dripped down his chin, an orange tinge against caramel skin.

“You’re staring,” Alex teased, dark eyes fond.

“Yeah,” George replied, breathless.

The trip felt like a first date. George couldn’t stop his nerves, and he still had Jost and Toto’s warnings playing on repeat in his head. Red Bull only allowed Alex to come here on a fact-finding mission.

Alex could sense it too. They hugged once when they met each other, but otherwise hadn’t touched except for a few nudges and the occasional brush of hands.

Alex turned his attention back to the field, where players huddled and talked amongst themselves. Big screens zoomed in on helmets and jerseys, and the chatter of announcers got lost in the roaring crowd as they chanted some kind of song.

“Halftime was lame,” Alex said. “I heard the university games have a big marching band thing. All we got were cheerleaders.”

George laughed. “Most guys want the cheerleaders, love.”

Alex smiled at him. “Fair. But not me.”

George’s cheeks warmed. He started to pick at the bandage on his palm, his new habit after attending the Ferrari summit. The cut in his hand had healed, but the scab still itched sometimes, and the Williams medical team made him apply scar cream twice a day to make sure he didn’t have any permanent marks.

“Want to walk around Miami, George?” Alex asked.

Sometimes he used George’s name as a pet name—and it worked like a charm.

“You asking me out?” George returned, nudging Alex’s ankle with the toe of his brand new Nikes. The Miami Dolphins had decked them both out in jerseys, joggers and new shoes. The teal and orange looked good on Alex—everything did.

“We did all of our promo, I think we should get out of here,” Alex said. “Unless you have somewhere to be?”

He didn’t, and Alex knew it. They were both on the same schedule. Press interviews about the upcoming Miami race, photos for the Miami merch, and a few charity meet-and-greets. Seven and a half hours of hell, pretending to be strangers.

“There could be photographers,” George said quietly.

Alex nodded. “I know. We’ll be safe.”

 

 


 

 

Miami came alive as the sun started to go down. Palm trees danced in the sea breeze and clouds gathered on the horizon, glowing with lighting every once in a while from a distant storm.

George hated storms now.

“How do people live here in the summer?” Alex said with disgust. “I’m, like, swimming just walking around.”

George grinned as they turned off a main road and onto a sandy street.

“Thailand is more humid than this,” George said.

“Yeah, but there’s Thai food there,” Alex protested, offering George another French fry.

George took it and dipped it in ketchup, smiling at the salty-sweet taste. He liked American food, for the most part. His nutritionist hated it. George always gained about five pounds after spending time in the states.

“Oh hey, look,” George tapped Alex’s shoulder and nodded toward a vendor stall, where an old woman sat in a rocking chair, fanning herself as she rocked. Sunhats hung in a neat row, along with colorful scarves, flip flops, and cheap sunglasses.

“Shit, I don’t have any money on me,” George said. “I’d buy you a hat.”

Alex rolled his eyes and handed over his wallet. “Try not to be so entitled, will you?”

George snatched the wallet with a grin and headed over.

The woman eyed him with disdain as he approached.

“Hello,” George greeted. “Can I get two of those sun hats, please?”

She cocked a brow. “Where are you from?”

“Uh, England.”

The woman grunted at him and continued to rock.

George looked over his shoulder to Alex, who fought back a laugh.

“Well, go on,” the woman said, pointing at the hats. “Grab the ones you want.”

George grabbed two hats—one with flamingos for Alex, one with dolphins for him. They were made of cheap straw, but they had a string to keep them from flying off in the wind—perfect for hiding their faces on the beach.

George paid with some bland American cash. For as much as Americans tempted fashion faux-pas with every colorful outfit, they had the most uninteresting currency on the planet.

“You definitely overpaid for those,” Alex laughed as George handed his wallet back over.

Alex opened it and took a cursory count of his bills.

“Hey, how much money do you make now?” George asked, suddenly embarrassed. He didn’t even remember how much he’d spent. Royalty didn’t involve looking at his bank balance.

Alex shrugged. “Enough. I have an allowance—most exiles have one. Mine’s not very big because I wasn’t a prince for long, but I have one.”

George gently touched his forearm—a stupid place to touch, but he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. He should have used his fucking brain.

Alex smiled at him. “I’m good, love. I promise.”

George took it for granted that he didn’t have to worry about money. Even as a kid, his parents spent whatever it cost to get him a crown. Karting burned through money like few sports could. Alex’s family didn’t have the same influx of cash, but they managed.

Alex put on his flamingo hat and tipped the brim at him with a wink.

“You look like a scarecrow,” George teased, fitting his own hat on his head.

“Well, you look handsome,” Alex replied, popping another fry in his mouth. “Hey, wanna get some…what is that? A snow cone?”

A knife wedged into George’s heart. Alex used to joke all the time. They traded quips about George’s penchant for going shirtless or Alex’s cowlicks, and devolved into laughter before they could properly get the words out.

Not anymore.

Alex didn’t want to say anything that George might have to live with if they never saw each other again. With Max careening toward a championship, the odds of them staying together were small and fragile.

Max could say whatever he wanted about making up for past wrongs, but George knew better. Red Bull didn’t atone for anything. Ever. If Max became champion, they would have no protection.

They ended up ordering snow cones at a nearby stand and found—much to their disappointment—that snow cones were just balls of shaved ice doused in so much flavored syrup that George’s tongue turned purple after two bites, and Alex’s teeth stained blue at the corners after a spoonful.

“Would you live by the beach if you had the choice?” Alex asked as they finally made their way down the beach walk and onto the sand, snow cones and French fries finished and discareded.

“Maybe,” George said. “But this isn’t a real beach.”

White sand blanketed the shore, framed by white skyscrapers that looked flat and dull in comparison to the ones they usually saw in the Middle East.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this,” Alex chuckled.

Their hands brushed as they walked. This time, George turned his palm and laced their fingers together. Alex squeezed his hand, but kept his eyes on the sea as the sky started to turn pink.

“The sand is dredged in,” George explained. “This whole coastline used to be a mangrove forest, and a Google search will bring up about fifty stories of rampant government corruption that put this city on the map—not to mention racism.”

Alex bit his lip. “Mhm. Because Britain doesn’t have either of those.”

George shot him a look. “That’s why we’re princes. To do better.”

“Oh? Nothing to do with the fast cars?”

George frowned.

Alex squeezed his hand again.

“I’m just saying that you and I grew up very differently than most people,” Alex said. “We have a responsibility to do better, yeah, but how can we do better when we don’t know what normal people live like?”

“We used to be normal,” George protested.

Alex rolled his eyes. “We’ve never been normal. Your family owns a yacht. Your dad has a gun just for stalking—your family actually goes stalking. That’s not normal.”

George pursed his lips as Alex led them toward the water. Their Nikes did reasonably well in the loose sand, but George was still thankful he wasn’t walking around in a pair of shoes he actually liked.

“It’ll be different with Lewis next year,” Alex said. “You need to be ready to shut up and listen—I know that’s not your thing.”

George let out a snort. “Now you sound like—”

He cut himself off before he said Sebastian.

“Like who?” Alex asked, cocking a brow.

Searching for information.

“Max,” George amended. “He’s always telling me I talk to much or something. But I’ve talked to Lewis about the differences in our careers. I’m aware.”

Alex frowned. “You’re a posh kid from King’s Lynn. That’s not a bad thing, but you don’t understand Lewis, even if you love him and he loves you.”

George stumbled in the sand, but Alex caught him before he could fall.

“Fuck,” George muttered, readjusting his hat where it had gone cockeyed.

Alex still thought he loved Lewis. Worse, he still thought Lewis loved him.

“Alex, I—”

“Do you ever think about leaving?” Alex asked, cutting him off.

George stopped walking altogether. Waves hissed behind them, rushing up to reach for Alex’s heels before sucking back at the last second.

“No,” George said.

Alex’s eyes dimmed. “Thought so.”

George’s whole life had been in preparation for this. And now he had managed a spot in the most prestigious empire in the FIA and would marry arguably the most successful prince to ever reign.

“Wouldn’t you stay?” George asked. “I mean, if Max never exiled you, wouldn’t you want to stay?”

“Let’s sit,” Alex deflected. “We can watch the sunset.”

George frowned. “We’re on the east coast. We’d have to watch the sunrise. We won’t see—”

“Sit, George,” Alex said, gently tugging him down to the sand.

George sat down and instinctively crossed his legs to allow Alex to put his head in his lap. The hat made things a little difficult, but Alex pushed it off his head to rest on his chest and out of the way.

The sea frothed. The crystalline waters from their promo shoot earlier in the day had turned brackish and choppy from the incoming storm.

Alex looked up at him and the world tunneled to a reddish haze, framing Alex’s perfect face, his crooked teeth, those berry lips.

“I’m glad I’m going to be a prince again,” Alex began. “But my exile showed me a lot about the way this system works, and it’s not good. I know you know that.”

George leaned over him, reaching down Alex’s chest to take both of his hands.

“I’ve told you about Red Bull,” Alex said. “They’re horrible.”

“Which is why I got you out of there,” George  murmured. .

Alex tipped his chin back, nestling against George’s calves. “Almost, love. Not yet.”

Cold crept up George’s spine. He would never ask Alex to admit to being a spy because he couldn’t handle Alex lying to him on purpose, but dancing around it sometimes felt worse.

“If I could redo it all, I don’t know that I would choose to be a prince,” Alex admitted in a soft voice. “Obviously, I think I would spend a part of my life very unhappy about not making it, but back then I thought royalty was driving and parties and being on TV. All of the important things about our lives are never shown, you know?”

Alex thumbed over George’s fingers, making him warm all over.

“According to the world, you’re madly in love with Nicholas Latifi and Lewis had to make a noble fight for your attention—one that you politely refused, until he did the unthinkable and courted you formally,” Alex said. “They never talk about us. Whenever they talk about your life, they scrub me out of it. I’m reserved for internet conspiracy theories and bad tabloids.”

“That’s how they’re spinning it?” George asked. He never looked himself up online anymore. He really didn’t have the time.

Alex nodded. “See? You don’t even know how you’re being portrayed. People have a completely different idea of us.”

“I want them to,” George said. “Everyone always says we need to have a different face in public.”

Alex squeezed his hands. “I know. And we all do—look at Daniel. I hear all kinds of stories at Red Bull about how heartless he was when he first married Max. Nobody ever saw that on TV.”

“What did they say?” George asked, pulling a hand free to thumb some sand from Alex’s eyebrows.

“That he was a right arse,” Alex chuckled, but it cut short. “He didn’t think Max should have been appointed so young and basically ignored him. And when he didn’t ignore him, he was fucking with him—putting salt in his water bottles and stuff.”

George couldn’t imagine Daniel as anything other than the happy, goofy guy who always smiled for the cameras. Lando seemed to adore him, and Lando didn’t trust people easily. People changed. George certainly had.

“They talk about other things too,” Alex continued. “Daniel always being gone when they did checks on Max the first year—Jos wrote it in as part of his appointment terms. Two checks a night or something. Apparently, Daniel wasn’t around the whole season break after Max got appointed to Red Bull. He showed up for government meetings and left.”

George couldn’t remember much of that year. He’d been jealous of Max’s success, but too busy fighting for championships in the lower courts to care about Max’s relationship with the man everyone thought would be the next World Champion.

“People make up stories in the paddock too,” Alex said, nuzzling into his leg. “I heard someone say Daniel has a drinking problem. I guess after he won Monaco he decided to become an alcoholic.”

George laughed on reflex—an alcoholic prince would never survive in the royal circle. Especially not one as popular as Daniel.

Then he remembered what happened in Monaco that year, Daniel’s shaking voice as he talked about finding Lewis and Sebastian, the darkness in his eyes.

Alex met his eye. “I don’t think Daniel turned into an alcoholic. I think something happened to him.”

Blood roared in George’s ears as his heart started to pound, hammering against his ribcage.

“You—Why do you think that?” George asked as Alex sat up out of his lap and turned to face him.

Lewis said no one in Red Bull knew about him and Sebastian. But Horner wasn’t a complete idiot—he might have guessed. If Sebastian and Lewis had been together while Sebastian was in Red Bull—highly likely even though Lewis never spoke about it—Horner must have seen something.

“Max has to win in America,” Alex said, lowering his voice. Even though they had the beach pretty much to themselves, aside from a few couples walking the shore. “I don’t know any specifics, but I keep hearing rumors. If he doesn’t win, they’re going to make life hell for him. I think they did the same with Daniel after Monaco.”

“But Daniel won in Monaco.”

Alex frowned. “I know. But after Monaco, Red Bull pulled hard for Max. And Daniel had power loss during Monaco—it was a miracle he won that race. He shouldn’t have won, but he did. I think Red Bull had plans to strip him of his crown before that, but then they had to double down when he won. He had eight retirements that season.”

George shook his head. “They don’t want to get rid of Max, though.”

Daniel had been sabotaged, but not by Red Bull. Sebastian and Lewis just knew exactly how to string their webs.

“Maybe not, but they want him to win this championship,” Alex said. “I don’t think anyone understands how far they’re willing to go to do that. But Daniel might.”

George thought back to Ferrari, when Sebastian warned of consequences if Max slipped up. How Red Bull had direct access to all of Max’s weaknesses.

“I’m not a fan of Max for what he did to me, but I don’t  think he deserves to be punished for doing his best,” Alex said.

George blinked as Alex touched his cheek, thumbing there with a look equal parts love and fear.

“I couldn’t handle it if they did that to you,” Alex murmured. “I’d tear the whole world apart.”

George tilted his head as he leaned in, allowing the brim of his hat to shield their faces as he met Alex for a kiss.

He tasted like ketchup, salt, and blue snow cone. George loved him no matter the recipe.

“I’ll never love anyone else,” Alex whispered, holding his face like it might be the last time. “I want you to know that.”

George nodded slowly, though pain welled up in his throat. “I love you more than anything. I’m sorry I can’t be with you all the time.”

Alex smiled into another kiss. “Can we go back to the hotel? I think I’ve had enough not touching you for the day.”

George laughed as he nodded. “Someday we’ll be able to do this for real.”

Alex brushed noses with him before leaning back and securing his straw hat back on his head. He stood up and offered George his hand to help him up.

George grabbed on and got to his feet, pulling Alex right into a hug. Alex hugged back instantly, burying his face in George’s neck like he’d been waiting for it, knocking both of their hats off-kilter. He smelled like sunscreen and jersey fabric, but felt like home.

Lewis had to win the championship. If Max won, he would know exactly where to stick his knife to make sure George never crossed him.

George pulled away, but kept their hands linked. He missed the feeling of being in love with someone who loved him enough to wait out his hesitation, someone who understood.

“You’re my whole life,” George said as they started back toward the hotel. “I don’t want a future without you in it. If it comes down to you or a crown, I’ll—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Alex said with a kiss to the back of his palm. “We’ll cross that bridge if we ever come to it, okay?”

“I’ll choose you,” George said, despite.

He wanted Alex to hear him say it. He wanted the whole world to know.

 

 

 

Notes:

yes, yes i know the miami game was actually in london - but that's lame 😤

Chapter Text

 

MONACO, MONTE CARLO – What’s more influential, myth or man? Nestled in the hills of Monaco, one exiled prince embodies both. He’s known for his royal heritage and dashing good looks, but the name Nico Rosberg ignites conflict amongst the people of Mercedes even five years after his fateful championship win in Abu Dhabi. Citizens of Monaco know him as a loner—hardly the gallant prince we saw in years before. Unlike most exiled princes, Rosberg never married after his royal exit.

I catch him for a coffee on a crisp fall morning outside of a nameless café in Monaco. How they afford the rent in one of the most expensive cities in the world, I don’t know.

Naturally, the conversation of Prince Lewis and Prince Max comes up. Rosberg is surprisingly keen to talk about it—his eyes light up at the mention of the championship fight.

“How did you do it?” I ask, referring to his ability to beat the seemingly unbeatable Prince Lewis.

“There are two games you play,” Rosberg replies. “One is the physical act of racing. The other is the mental game. They are both intertwined, but wise princes know the mental game is the most influential. In 2016, I didn’t think Lewis understood it—but I did.”

I always find it strangely endearing when retired princes refer to current princes by their first name. Royal protocol would never allow it in a formal interview, but I’m no FIA press officer.

“I was married to Michael for three years,” Rosberg continued, referring to the great Michael Schumacher. “He was the absolute master of all time when it came to mind games. Every day—and I mean every day—he woke up and the games began.”

When I pressed about the specifics, Rosberg merely laughed.

“I picked up a few things. It didn’t come naturally to me,” Rosberg admits. “I had to learn how to do it. I thought to myself ‘okay, I have to do this now even though it’s discomforting, because I know it’s going to give Lewis some self-doubt.’ That’s part of it, making him doubt. A little seed is all that is needed—it’s so powerful.”

“So what should Prince Max be doing to get the edge? Or do you think Prince Lewis already has the upper hand?”

You would have thought I asked about Prince Mazepin’s chances of winning the title.

“Lewis can be ground down, but it’s a slow process,” Rosberg tells me. “Continued mental beatings will not work. Max has to be precise, and small. If he is starting now, it is too late.”

Rosberg speaks about Prince Lewis as if he’s a complex math problem and not a human being.

“Did you love Prince Lewis? Or was that all part of the game?” I can’t help but ask. The internet is still full of stories and conspiracy theories about a secret romance still going between the two, but talking to Rosberg now reminds me how much the internet projects onto these men.

Rosberg’s smile drops for the first time since I sat down with him.

“Do you know what is more dangerous than winning the mental game?” he asks instead of answering my question.

“No,” I say, “I’m afraid I don’t.”

Rosberg drains the last of his espresso. He’s quiet for a long moment. Monaco harbor stretches beyond. If you listen close, you can sometimes hear the expensive yowl of a sportscar that sounds and awful lot like a grand prix weekend. Rosberg’s smile returns.

“What is more dangerous is thinking you’ve won,” he says, “when in reality, the games are just beginning.”

 


 

Lando lifted his head from the nest of comforters piled on his game room couch. Pink neon glowed against the walls, making the room look more like a club than a place to nap. He blinked, trying to assess his surroundings as consciousness began to return. His gaining PC made the room warm, a cocoon of low light and comfort. At least, that as what he’d tried for.  

“Max?” he croaked, rubbing his eyes as he sat up on the couch.

“How did I know you’d wake up as soon as I made food?” Max Fewtrell teased as he knocked the door open with his hip. He carried in a bag of takeout—one that would match the collection sitting on the floor next to Lando’s desk.

“What time is it?” Lando asked.

“Dinnertime,” Few replied, fishing out a takeout box. “Here, I got you teriyaki chicken.”

Lando sank back into the comforters, shivering. Even with a hoodie, fuzzy socks, and joggers, he couldn’t get warm. Few even gave him a weighted blanket to sleep with when he managed to make it to his bedroom, but that didn’t help either.

“Thanks,” Lando finally mumbled, but he didn’t pick up the food.

Few plopped himself down on the couch, mushing Lando’s feet into the cushions.

“You wanna talk now?” Few asked, dark eyes clouded with concern.

Lando hadn’t spoken much since returning home to London. He only had one day left to make himself back into a normal person, but he didn’t know how to do it.

Sophia offered to take him to medical, but Lando still had fading bruises from Sebastian’s knuckles digging into his sternum when he slammed him into the wall. They were still dark purple, despite five days between him and that fucking horrible day at Ferrari.

Lando now lived in fear of royal mail couriers. So much so that he made Few get the mail for him, even though that was technically illegal.

Lando sank back into the blankets, attempting to bury himself in goose down.

“Something really bad happened last week,” Lando admitted quietly. “I can’t talk about it, but it was bad.”

Few moved the food containers onto the floor and lifted up the comforter to share it with him.  They weren’t cuddly friends before, but Lando saw that Fewtrell had changed a lot since they last hung out together. He still made immature jokes and looked like an ass on Instagram, but his mannerisms were older now. More mature.

“Did someone hurt you, Lando?” Few asked.

Heat collected in Lando’s eyes that he blinked away. He nodded once.

Few swallowed hard. Lando expected him to freak out, but he just sat there.

“Someone physically hurt you,” Few said. He didn’t say it like a question.

Lando nodded again. “Not that bad, though.”

He would never make assumptions about anyone’s strength ever again. Not since he learned Sebastian’s dad bod was a result of poor fashion choices, not pudge. Sebastian threw him against the wall like he weighed nothing. Didn’t even break a sweat, even when Lando punched at his forearms to attempt escape.

Pierre liked to box. Daniil Kvyat taught him back when they were married. Lando never saw the point in learning how to fight when they were surrounded by people all the time.

He should have learned after Wembley.

“Was it Daniel?” Few asked, anger leaking into his voice.

Lando furrowed his brow. “What? No. Daniel would never hurt me. It wasn’t Daniel.”

Daniel held him for hours when he got home. Daniel applied a compress to his bruises and kissed his hair. Lando didn’t ell him a word about what happened and Daniel didn’t ask, he just helped.

“Okay,” Few said, putting his hands in his lap. “Was it Max?”

“Few, I can’t—”

“Was it Max?” Few cut.

“No,” Lando snapped. “But I can’t tell you who it was, so stop guessing.”

Few stared at him, throat taut. “Somebody hurt you. You’re a prince.”

Somebody almost killed Daniel, Lando wanted to say. Princes weren’t untouchable and they certainly weren’t invincible.

“Are they going to try to hurt you again?” Few asked.

Lando shook his head. “No. But someone else probably will.”

Sebastian watched him write the note to Charles. Lando had to admit it felt good to see the truth on paper: he’ll never do this for you. Carlos would never risk burner phones with Charles. Lando was confident in that.

But guilt seeped in when he sent the letter off. Charles could crack under any kind of pressure. Even if a jab about Carlos didn’t do it, Sebastian made it pretty clear that he wanted Charles to see the text about Pierre. The text Sebastian wrote and sent from his phone.

Lando couldn’t think of Pierre doing anything horrible enough to destroy his friendship with Charles, but he didn’t think Sebastian Vettel was capable of chokeslamming him either.

Whatever the text meant, Charles thought Lando had just threatened him with it. Any day now, the wrath of Ferrari’s crown prince would come down on him like a guillotine. Not even Carlos would be able to stop it.

“I don’t know what to do,” Lando admitted. “I’m going to hurt people—but I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to be involved in any of this, I just want to drive and be a prince. I don’t want the politics bullshit. I never wanted that!”

His voice echoed off the walls, way too loud. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe either, and his lungs hollowed out.

“Hey, I know you didn’t,” Few said gently, squeezing his shoulder. “So we need to think of a way to get through this. I know you can’t tell me much, but I can work with general specifics, mate. You know I‘m here for you—you don’t have to guess with me.”

Lando fisted the comforter. “I know. I just don’t even know where to—”

His phone started to buzz in his hoodie pocket. He fished it out as Daniel’s face appeared on the screen, a photo of him sticking his tongue out at the camera in full racing gear.

“Sorry,” Lando said. “I have to take this.”

Few squeezed his shoulder and nodded once.

“Hey,” Lando greeted, softening his voice.

“Gooooood evening,” Daniel said in an attempt at a pompous British accent.

“You alright?” Lando asked, picking at the fuzz on his comforter. “Everything go okay with your flights and stuff?”

“Uh huh. Landed about an hour ago, everything is good. Just wanted to check in on you—didn’t get any texts in the air.”

Lando swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been really busy.”

Busy sleeping, hiding, and avoiding anything remotely social.

“S’okay,” Daniel replied. “I was just thinking about you, that’s all. How’re ya feelin’?”

Lando warmed, snuggling into the covers. “A little better.”

“That’s good,” Daniel said. “I wish you could have come to New York, but it’s good you’re home.”

“How do you like it?” Lando asked. He couldn’t imagine Daniel in New York City—mostly because he’d only seen it in movies. It seemed too grey and dull for someone as colorful as Daniel.

“It’s amazing,” Daniel gushed. “Awesome food, awesome people. Want me to get you a souvenir? That’s French for gift.”

Lando laughed. “Pretty sure it’s not.”

“Damn, you’re too smart,” Daniel teased. “Knew I liked you for a reason.”

Few cocked a brow at him and Lando tried his hardest not to grin.

 

 


 

 

“Anyway, I’m getting you one,” Daniel said, tipping his chair back on two legs.

The noise of traffic permeated New York even on the rooftops. Cars honked like birdsong, and people seemed to speak only in shouts. The whole city moved like  whitewater—unrelenting and unaccommodating to anyone moving too slow.

“I think a teddy bear is your style,” Daniel said. He paused and smiled at whatever Lando said in response. “Uh huh. Don’t make me go raunchy on you—we’re saving that for Texas, partner.”

Charles wrinkled his nose, fighting not to gag. Daniel winked at him from across the table.

Lunch had been a light, nutritionist-approved meal of grilled chicken and vegetables. Charles sipped on an orange juice while Daniel opted for a Manhattan that had turned into two. They had yet to speak about anything important.

Daniel grabbed the toothpick from his drink and sucked off the speared cherry, grinning against his phone.

Daniel belonged here. He loved America more than any other prince, and Charles understood why. America allowed Daniel to be who he wanted, unabashedly.

Max probably hated America. He didn’t like noise and ruckus—Max preferred quiet.

“Text me before you take off,” Daniel said. “Yep. Love you, bye.”

Charles dimly wondered if Lando had said he loved Daniel back. Watching Daniel speak to Lando felt like catching a cheater in the act, though Max undoubtedly knew about the extent of their relationship. Everyone still seemed to think Max was even involved.

Charles never saw Max as someone capable of sharing something as precious as the man he loved.

He glanced at his watch. He couldn’t stay much longer.

“Okay, I’m back,” Daniel sighed, pocketing his phone. “Gotta remember to get Lando something from FOA Schwarz. Think he’d like a giant teddy bear?”

“Don’t ask me for advice about gifts for Lando,” Charles dismissed.

“Okie dokie then,” Daniel said, eyebrows raised. “Sue me for thinking you two were friends.”

“We are, but if you’re in love with him, you should know what he likes,” Charles said.

Daniel’s smile faded. His goofy personality vanished in an instant as he dropped the toothpick back into his empty glass.

Their waitress stepped up to the table. She didn’t seem to know who they were, because she never addressed them by their titles. She collected their empty dishes and balanced them with one hand.

“Anything for dessert?” she asked with a pasted-on smile.

Daniel smiled back, light returning to his eyes. “I’d love another Manhattan. Char-Char?”

Charles scowled at him. “No, thank you. I have to leave soon.”

“I’ll take the check,” Daniel said. “Whenever you have a minute.”

She left them and Charles cleared his throat.

Daniel tongued the inside of his cheek for moment before he returned his chair to the ground.

“I need to know anything Red Bull or Mercedes stands to gain from you,” Charles said.

“You mean what they have on me to use against Max,” Daniel replied.

“If you want to put it that way, yes.”

Daniel looked out over the railing of their rooftop terrace. Skyscrapers boxed them in on all sides, reflecting the sunset over blue glass. It felt like a mockery of Monaco, somehow.

“I wish I had something to tell you,” Daniel said. “I only have Max—which is fucking terrifying to admit. Merc doesn’t trust me and neither does Red Bull. Actually, Red Bull openly hates me.”

Charles remembered their trip to Milton Keynes, how sick Daniel looked in the car, how the staff treated him like something tainted.

“My future is fucked if Max doesn’t win,” Daniel admitted, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

“One Manhattan, and the check,” the waitress announced, setting down a fresh drink for Daniel and a little leather booklet.

Daniel offered his thanks and pulled out his wallet. He set a few bills inside the booklet and took a long sip of his drink. Charles liked alcohol every now and again, but he never understood why people loved cocktails so much. They all tasted the same after a few.

“So there’s nothing they can use against you?” Charles asked.

His phone buzzed on the tabletop, another text from Giorgio about his updated itinerary.

Daniel swallowed more Manhattan.

“Nothing,” he said.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “I’m quite sure it isn’t nothing.”

Daniel met his gaze. “Everything they have on me would make them look so bad they’d never let it out. I’m sure you understand.”

Charles curled his lip in disgust and Daniel smiled around another sip of his drink, already halfway gone.

“Red Bull is gearing up for the show,” Daniel said, lowering his voice. “They’re giving Max everything he wants. That’s never a good sign, but Max is milking it for all it’s worth. I will too. I’m not losing him.”

“Are things better between you two?” Charles asked. “Is he meeting you in Los Angeles?”

Daniel stared down at his drink. His eyes seemed unfocused to the point where Charles almost asked if he was drunk., but he pushed the thought away. Two drinks would not make Daniel Ricciardo tipsy.

“Max has done so much for me,” Daniel said quietly. “America is the only place where I can return the favor. He’s coming in a few days and I’m going to make him feel safe again. I fucking promise you that.”

Charles frowned. “That didn’t answer my question.”

“He’s in Monaco,” Daniel said by way of explanation. “I asked him to come with me and he said he needs more time in the simulator. We all know that doesn’t fucking do anything, but he insisted.”

Charles sighed and checked his watch again. Time to go. “Well, keep me updated if you hear anything, and I’ll do the same. Sorry, I have to leave. My plane is arriving soon.”

Daniel laughed before draining the last of his drink. “I still don’t know how you managed to get on the wrong fucking flight, mate.”

Charles stood up from his chair. He shrugged into his jacket and put on his Ray-Bans, darkening the world around him to a comfortable hue.

“A silly mistake,” Charles said.

Daniel let out a snort. “Yeah, one you posted on Instagram. Now the whole world knows you’re a dumbass.”

Charles smiled, but kept it subdued.

“Like I said, a silly mistake,” he said. “Thankfully, Giorgio found me a flight that the FIA could approve. But I have to hurry or I’ll miss it.”

Daniel rolled his eyes and waved him off. “Yeah yeah. See you in Austin. I’m gonna stick around for another drink—they have really fuckin’ good whiskey here.”

Charles gave him a fist bump and headed toward the elevator. He glanced at his phone on the way, Giorgio’s unread text still on his lock screen.

Be quick. Alpha Tauri is very impatient.

 

 

Chapter Text

levisismyluv: ferrari really be picking the handsomest airheads to run their country huh

 

shannonm8: nothing will ever be funnier than prince charles taking a flight to america, landing in JFK, getting off the plane, then realizing at customs that NYC isn’t austin texas. bby how???

 

verslappinmyass: i think pierre wakes up every morning wondering whose ass he’s gonna have to save today. baby redirected his flight to pick up his dumbass bff because charles got on the wrong flight

 

 


 

 

“I can’t thank you enough,” Charles sighed, hefting his duffel bag up the stairs into the Alpha Tauri charter jet.

“It’s not a problem,” the Alpha Tauri communications official said. Charles recognized her sleek blond ponytail from the paddock, but he didn’t know her name. She seemed to think he did, so he didn’t say anything.

A stewardess took his duffel and showed him toward the main cabin.

“It’s a rather full flight, I’m afraid,” the communications official said. “His Royal Highness has been invited to a basketball event in Wisconsin. I hope you don’t mind the detour. We still plan to land in Austin later this evening, but it will be quite late.”

“That’s fine,” Charles said. “I appreciate you picking me up. I know Mattia and Giorgio do too.”

The woman smiled at him. “We may not be officially affiliated with Ferrari, but we are happy to help. I’m sure His Royal Highness will be happy to spend time with an old friend.”

Charles flashed her a charming smile, holding eye contact until she looked away with a little blush on her cheeks.

A few rows of plush leather seats sprawled before them. The woman stepped aside and gestured further down the aisle. Pierre sat slumped in his seat, mouth ajar against the windowsill. His chest moved with sleepy breaths, his sunglasses askew and his hair a mess on his head.

Charles wished he could crawl into his lap and bury his face into warm skin.

He cleared his throat, pushing the thought away.

The only empty spot was beside Pierre, as planned. Charles thanked the communications official and eased into his seat. A stewardess offered him a drink and the in-plane menu., then headed back into the employee area to relay his order. Pierre stayed asleep beside him and Charles listened to the murmur of the Alpha Tauri team returning to work.

“Excuse me,” Charles asked when the stewardess returned with a glass of fresh blood orange soda, “could you close the partition please? And maybe dim the lights? I’d like to get some rest.”

“Certainly, Your Royal Highness,” the stewardess replied. She pulled a thick curtain across the aisle and a moment later the lights dimmed throughout the plane. The work murmurs stopped for a moment, then resumed with the clicking of individual seat lights flicking on.

“You always make your presence known, Calamardo.”

Charles flipped up the arm rest between them as Pierre slowly sat up, blinking away sleep and stretching out his neck.

“You were supposed to be here two hours ago,” Charles chastised around a sip of soda.

Pierre gave him a sleepy smile. “Excuse me for flying slower than your commercial jet.”

Pierre’s finger glanced his chin, sending shivers down Charles’s spine.

“J'ai déjeuné avec Daniel,” Charles said. “Lando hasn’t told him anything about the summit, so that’s a positive. Have you heard from him since?”

Pierre shook his head, nestling back into the corner of his seat. “Toi?”

Charles shook his head. “Rien. He only wrote one letter to Carlos, which is a bit unusual. He likes to pine. Then when Carlos sees him he says something stupid.”

Pierre smiled, though his eyes closed. “How is Carlos?”

Charles stared at Pierre’s long eyelashes, the intricate, chiseled lines of his nose. Most of all, his lips, bitten pink and plump even in the low light.

“He’s good,” Charles said. “We’re good. He thinks I’m stupid for doing this, but I can be very convincing when I want to be.”

Pierre let out a snort. “I know.”

A blush came to Charles’s cheeks. “Et toi? How are you?”

Pierre opened his eyes to slits as the plane started to bumble down the runway. “I’ve been better.”

Charles looked away. He adjusted himself in his seat at the jet began to rocket down the runway and closed his eyes once they hit full speed.

He loved driving. He didn’t like sitting passenger in a plane moving three times as fast as he did on a straight.

Pierre nudged his thigh. “You’re still scared of planes?”

“Not scared,” Charles mumbled, keeping his eyes closed. “I just don’t like takeoff in these little jets.”

“I’ll keep you safe,” Pierre said, and Charles heard a smirk on his lips.

Charles shot him a look, even as his heart started beating faster in his chest.

Unlike Carlos, Charles knew how to plan unexpected visits to other princes. He didn’t run off in the middle of the night in a stolen Ferrari to do it. Playing dumb at the airport that was falling apart trying to please him earned him a seamless transfer to a plane bound for New York City instead of Austin, where Pierre needed to refuel on his way to whatever basketball game he’d been invited to.

Giorgio couldn’t even be blamed for the mistake, so everyone at Ferrari had to throw up their hands and allow it all to happen—or risk their crown prince being vulnerable to attack with no FIA officials or security anywhere nearby.

So he allowed himself to be treated like a helpless child, transferred from Daniel’s itinerary to Pierre’s, where he would stay until he met the rest of Ferrari in Austin.

Way too easy.

“You should sleep a bit,” Pierre offered as the jet jostled around them.

Charles braced as his stomach dropped, then nodded once. He eased himself into the corner of his seat, pulling his hood up and pulling the drawstring to block out more light.

They met eyes as they laid there on opposite ends of their row, and Charles fought the urge to say something stupid like how much he missed Pierre.

Their breakup was wholly and completely his fault. Charles had no words to properly apologize for what he’d done. It terrified him to think he had been in such a dark place as recently as Zandvoort.

The person enduring that kind of pain didn’t feel like the same one sitting beside Pierre in a private jet.

For one, he had full confidence that he and Carlos would take Ferrari into contention for a championship next season. Charles wanted to be that champion, but he would support Carlos where he could in his own bid for the top. They were strong as a couple.

Even though he knew that Lando would probably become part of the equation again. Carlos loved him too much.

“Our seats are courtside,” Pierre said, breaking the silence between them. “We’ll be on TV.”

Charles snuggled deeper into his seat. “Good thing I brought styling gel.”

Pierre cocked a brow. “Planning on messing up your hair, Calamardo?”

Charles smiled as he closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep. “I try to be prepared for anything, mon chou garçon.”

He grunted when Pierre kicked his leg with a socked foot. Charles lost his sneakers a few minutes later and tried not to read too much into it when their legs became a tangle of limbs in the middle seat.

 

 


 

 

The FIA had a lot to learn about spectacle. Charles enjoyed attending basketball games in Monaco whenever he had the chance, but even his limited knowledge of the game didn’t prevent him from noticing that American players were on another level. So were the stadiums, so were the fans.

Players called out to each other, close enough that Charles could see the sweat flying off of them when they squealed around the shiny wood floors. The players themselves were absolutely massive humans—incredibly tall, muscled, and light on their feet. Charles watched with fascination as a player tore by and leapt in the air higher than Charles thought it was possible for a human to jump.

Pierre had been invited as a guest of the Milwaukee Bucks—which was hilarious to Charles because Pierre couldn’t pronounce Milwaukee correctly by any stretch of imagination. The Bucks were playing the Brooklyn Nets and were easy enough for Charles to tell apart—the Bucks wore white jerseys, the Nets wore black.

“You need to eat something besides that dry chicken from the plane,” Pierre said, offering Charles his cup of popcorn.

Charles cocked a brow. “This is all you could think of?”

Pierre rolled his eyes. “What, do you want a hot dog or whatever it’s called?”

Carlos told him to be wary of American meats unless he was at a fine dining place. Chicken was usually safe, but anything else was probably full of chemicals. Daniel even made a joke about humans being ground up for hot dog stands in New York.

“Non, merci,” Charles replied, wrinkling his nose. He took a small handful of popcorn. Way too much butter and salt. “You’re going to get sick eating this.”

Pierre grinned at him as he shoved more popcorn in his mouth.

A sharp whistle returned their attention to the game.  Fans roared from the stands, drowning out all sound as everything echoed from the domed ceiling. Charles didn’t understand how a basketball stadium could seem bigger than a soccer pitch.

“They set this up like a concert,” Charles said, watching the LED banners that circled the stands, showing players, advertisements, and trivia. Bright colors splashed everywhere. Vendors walked the stands with treats and drinks, and fans appeared on the TV screens, wearing body paint and green antlers.

“They make money off of this,” Pierre replied. “It’s all designed for that.”

Charles fiddled with his Richard Mille. He seldom felt the pangs of childhood inadequacy, but America always reminded him that he was a small fish in a very big pond.

Pierre nodded toward a player who shot them a wink. “That’s Giannis Antetokounmpo. He’s the star.”

“I can tell,” Charles said. “He’s scored like a hundred points this game.”

Giannis wasn’t the tallest player, but he had charisma. He had wide shoulders, a short neck, and a beard reminiscent of Pierre’s, but it stayed closer to his jawline. His skin was a bit darker than Lewis’s and he wore his hair in a natural style, though it was buzzed on the sides of his head. The crowd loved him and the smile he shot the camera every time the lens turned his way.

“He’s a god here,” Pierre said, awed.

Giannis stole the ball from a Nets player, twirling around on the court with fluid, long limbs that reminded Charles of ballet—but less refined. Men on court pushed each other, shouted at each other, threw elbows and tripped each other up.

“These guys actually fight each other,” Charles said. “We just drive around in circles.”

Pierre laughed, knocking his shoulder. “Where’s that coming from, Calamardo?”

“Je suis sérieux,” Charles said as Giannis tossed the ball and landed a basket.

Pierre’s smile faded and his eyes went hooded. “Char, we do so much more than they do. This is their team, here on the field. We have a hundred people with us at every race, and two hundred more back home. We lead people, we run a government—and then we also learn cars and race them.”

Charles looked down at his hands. Pierre followed his gaze and reached over, gently knocking their Oura rings together.

Guilt welled up in Charles again as he turned his palm. Pierre caught his hand in a gentle motion, thumbing along the backs of his knuckles in a comforting gesture.

He’d always loved Pierre’s hands. Something about them made Charles wish he could draw—photographs never captured them the way Charles saw them. Sharp lines, tan skin, the unique curl of his fingers.

He thought back to the hotel room, Pierre’s bruised ribs and purple skin. The warmth of him in the dark, the taste of frosting on his lips when they kissed each other goodbye the next morning.

“You’re a prince,” Pierre reminded him. He pulled his hand away to cup his mouth for a cheer.

Charles watched the muscle in Pierre’s neck as he shouted. It reminded him of their first time in Silverstone, heat, sweat, and a feeling of newness Charles had yet to find again.

Pierre slung an arm around the back of Charles’s chair and leaned in to his side.

“Overthinking?” Pierre asked, smirking at him.

Charles tsked him. “No. Focus on the game, Pierre.”

 

 


 

 

The Bucks dominated their way to victory, to the delight of their home crowd. Green and white confetti rained down from the ceiling as Charles shook hands with people of power on the court. Many didn’t seem to know who he was, but they smiled anyway. He blinked up at the players who said hello to him, took a few photos, and followed the media personnel into the locker room with Pierre. Apparently interviews could be conducted there.

Charles always thought the paddock was annoying after a race, but it didn’t compare to the crowd waiting for them in the locker room. Reporters jostled with each other for access to players, and several attractive women stood around in high heels. Reporters, Charles realized when one of them produced a microphone from her purse.

“Oi, Charles.”

Charles turned around.

Giannis towered over him, a cooling towel slung around his neck. He extended a hand.

“Pierre was talking about you. Giannis, nice to meet you,” he said. “Ferrari, right?”

Charles shook his hand, surprised at the sound of a distinct accent. Definitely European, but influenced by another language too.  “Yes, Ferrari. And likewise.”

Giannis grinned. “I grew up in Greece. Every kid wanted to be an FIA prince someday. I had to give that up early—too tall.”

Charles laughed politely as he glanced around for Pierre, but too many people crowded around.

“Nice watch, by the way. What kind is it?” Giannis asked.

Charles lifted his wrist, showing off his red and white masterpiece. “It’s a Richard Mille.”

“No way,” Giannis said. “Look at this one I’ve got. It’s a Royal Oak.”

Giannis extended his wrist, sporting a massive Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Offshore. It had a circular face with a skeletal interior—and a price tag with a few less zeroes than Charles’s timepiece.

“It’s beautiful,” Charles said.

Giannis laughed, booming and loud. “C’mon. It’s worth an eighth of yours. But I love it. A little gift to myself.”

Charles smiled. “I got mine for free. I think anything is worth more when you buy it for yourself—gifts are nice, of course, but my husband and I get these watches just for existing.”

He missed Carlos. Carlos would excel in this type of situation—he always knew how to talk to powerful people.

“You wouldn’t believe what it’s like to play for the NBA,” Giannis laughed. “I get so much free stuff. It’s kind of insane. Hey—have you ever had Oreos?”

Charles blinked stupidly, certain he’d misheard.  

Giannis laughed at the look on his face. “When I was younger, I could never afford Oreos. I always wanted them, but could never afford them. As soon as I got in the league—Oreos. Whenever I wanted.”

“The sandwich cookie things?” Charles asked.

Reporters clamored in Charles’s peripherals, but Giannis seemed to have a forcefield around him—no one invaded their space.

Giannis grinned. “Yeah, the cookies. They’re so good—you have to try them if you haven’t. I eat them like every day, like a whole sleeve. I drink so much water though.”

Charles cocked his head. “You don’t have Oreos with milk?”

Giannis furrowed his brow. “What?”

“Oreos and milk,” Charles repeated. “You dunk the Oreo in milk and have them together. You’ve never had that before?”

“Greek Freak!” another player called over the crowd. “We gotta move, man!”

“That’s me,” Giannis explained, taking a step back. He fist bumped Charles as he started to leave. “Hey, I’m gonna try that later. Oreos and milk—thank you! Next time you go to Greece, let me know. You and Pierre. I’ve got the hookups. We’ll talk.”

Media swarmed in, filling in all of the gaps between them. Cameras and phones were suddenly everywhere, closing in. Charles searched for Pierre in the mess, but so many people started shoving him around he couldn’t walk straight.

Lando mentioned feeling trapped at Wembley before it went south. Charles tried to look for the exit, but he couldn’t remember which door they’d come in from. He took a breath, thumbing his watch as he forced his way through the sea of limbs toward an open door. He didn’t care where he ended up.

The doorway led to a plain grey hallway. Fans huddled near a security guard, peeking around to look at him and frowning when they realized—instantly—that he wasn’t a player.

“Excuse me,” Charles said as he stepped up to security. “I’m looking for the Alpha Tauri royal team.”

The security guard looked him over, then pointed down the hall. “Down that way, take a  right.”

Thank god. Charles thanked the guard and hurried down the hallway, weaving through a smaller crowd. Jet lag started to kick in, seeping in past the adrenaline from the game. He wanted to get back to the plane and get to—

Charles let out a grunt when someone grabbed him by the back of his hoodie and yanked him into a doorway.

He thumped against the wall of a small storage closet as Pierre shut the door and locked it, plunging them into darkness.

“Fuck, that was annoying,” Pierre said. “I thought I missed you.”

“You don’t need to be so dramatic,” Charles laughed, brushing himself off. “You could have just gotten my atten—”

Warm lips pressed to his.

Charles melted into the kiss on instinct, shuddering when Pierre’s hands moved to his back and held him closer. Charles lifted his hands to Pierre’s face, moving against him in the dark until he herd Pierre knock against something.

“Sorry,” Pierre breathed when their kiss broke. “I couldn’t go another second without that.”

Pierre would always feel like a sinful indulgence. Want pooled in Charles’s blood, hot and burning. No one would notice that they took a bit longer to arrive at their pickup point. No one would find the here in a locked closet in the dark.

Guilt quickly replaced it.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Charles said, stepping away. “I’ve been trying to find the right words to say about what happened in Zandvoort. Saying nothing is probably worse, but I didn’t want to lie to you about anything.”

“I know that wasn’t you,” Pierre said, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “It really hurt, because part of me believed that maybe you did think that way. But I knew you were sick.”

Charles shook his head and buried his nose into Pierre’s neck the way he wanted to in the plane. Pierre hugged him tight, nuzzling against him.

They stood like that for a minute, listening to the murmurs of the stadium around them.

“I was on medication,” Charles said into the quiet. “I’ve been on medication since…fuck, before France. I’m still on it. I need it. If I don’t have it, I act like I did in Zandvoort.”

Pierre stayed quiet for a long time. His throat bobbed with a swallow as Charles nuzzled closer.

Carlos loved him despite his medication. Carlos never ever spoke about it, only when he checked if Charles took it. He understood what people would think if they found out.

“Are you sick?” Pierre finally asked. “Is it—tu es—?”

“I’m okay,” Charles said, thumbing at Pierre’s collarbone. “I’m not hurt. It stabilizes my mood. It stops me from…being like that.”

Pierre kissed his temple and held him tighter. Charles heard his heart rate kick up in his chest.

“I can’t blame the meds on everything, but they contributed,” Charles continued. “I got put on an upped dose after summer break—I tried quitting them when Carlos left for London. I thought I was tougher, that I didn’t need them. Then all of that shit happened.”

“Does Max know?” Pierre asked. “Is that why you wouldn’t tell me about what happened in Monaco?”

Charles shook his head. “He has no idea. I’m never going to tell him. Only a few people know. Carlos and Mattia. Now you.”

And George and Mick and Kimi. He didn’t mention them. Pierre would only be hurt, and the three of them only knew from snooping—and they had no proof.

“The reason I didn’t say anything about Max was because I didn’t know for sure what happened that night until George said it at the summit. I was drunk and off my medication and I have no idea what happened.”

“Jesus Christ,” Pierre hissed out. He leaned back, cupping Charles’s face in his hands. “You could have been hurt. You could have been killed, Charles.”

Charles stared up at him, though Pierre’s features were smudged in the dark. He had such beautiful eyes.

“Max protected me,” Charles explained. “He protected me in Baku, in Monaco, and again in Zandvoort.”

“I understand why you kept it a secret from me, but I would have protected you too,” Pierre said, blowing past talk of Max. “I didn’t know anything—I guessed from your Oura ring but I felt like a piece of shit. I still do. Everything with Stoffel and how I didn’t tell you and—all of it.”

“I don’t think it would have mattered,” Charles confessed. “I was so sick. I still don’t remember most of it. I don’t think I want to.”

Sleeping with random people, partying, probably saying stupid things to Arthur he couldn’t remember. A whole section of his life had been lost between withdrawal and alcoholic compensation.

“So what do you want now?” Pierre asked, thumbing his cheek.

“I want to get through this season,” Charles said. “I can’t focus on anything else.”

Even as he said it, he sank his weight into Pierre.

“So I shouldn’t have kissed you,” Pierre said, resting their foreheads together.

“No, no. I wanted you to,” Charles replied. “I didn’t think you would ever feel this way about me again after what I did.”

Pierre laughed darkly. “I never know what to do with you or how you feel about me. I still love you, Charles. I know how fucked that sounds, but I can’t stop being in love with you.”

Pierre always spoke with his whole heart. He never faltered in saying what he felt.

Charles’s cheeks burned hot enough that he thought they might glow in the dark. “I wish I could love you back the right way. But I think trying to be together like we were is just asking for someone to get hurt. Like right now—I can’t side with you if you pick Lewis or Max. And I can’t be sneaking around with you like this all the time. It’s too dangerous for both of us.”

Pierre thumbed over his jaw again before bringing him in for a kiss.

He tasted like he always did—sweet and warm, like baked apples. Charles loved him. He felt it in his marrow, in the way his heart skipped a beat when Pierre pressed closer.

“And I love you too,” Charles said into Pierre’s mouth, trading breaths with him before they were kissing again.

Pierre’s hands moved under his hoodie, chilly against his navel. Charles curled his fingers in Pierre’s hair, arching into him, drowning in his mouth.

Pierre pulled away rather suddenly, clearing his throat.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this, then,” Pierre said. “I don’t want to make this harder for you. I’m still fucked up from it, I just wanted to see you so badly after the summit and—”

“I know,” Charles murmured.

Cutting Pierre’s hand had been the hardest. Causing him physical pain with the weight of what he’d done—Pierre had noticed his shaking hands and soothed him into calm.

“I wanted to see you too,” Charles said. “This trip has been fun. It feels like before. I like seeing you like this.”

“So we’ll just be best friends in love with each other, but not doing anything about it,” Pierre said. “Can we do that?”

Charles’s heart twinged. “We have to. It’s not the right time.”

Pierre sighed before pulling him into a tight embrace. Charles buried his face into Pierre’s neck again, trying to burn the feeling into his brain.

“I fucking love you,” Pierre whispered. “I hate this.”

“I hate it too,” Charles whispered back. “We should get back to the plane.”

They both moved on instinct, finding each other for a deep kiss. Charles emptied himself into it, allowing Pierre’s tongue into his mouth, allowing him to take what he wanted.

“Allez,” Charles murmured after a few more, brushing noses with him. “We’ve got a long flight to Austin.”

 

 


 

 

Charles’s phone buzzed while they were on the tarmac waiting to leave.

Pierre had his arm around on you on TV, Carlos texted. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?

Charles called him immediately while Pierre talked with Alpha Tauri personnel a few rows up.

“Hey,” Charles greeted softly. “Why are you awake?”

“Trying to acclimate to the time change before I fly,” Carlos replied, his voice rough with lack of sleep. “Hi, by the way.”

“I talked with him,” Charles said, running his finger along the stitching of his leather armrest. “We’re good.”

“Are you together?” Carlos asked. He sounded nervous.

“No, Carlos,” Charles assured him. “I told him how I felt, he told me how he felt. We both know it isn’t a good idea.”

“Is he next to you now?” Carlos asked.

“No,” Charles replied.

“Okay. Did you kiss him?”

Charles closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

Silence ate up the line, wedging between them more than the miles.

“I love you, Carlos,” Charles said.

“I know that.”

“And I miss you,” Charles added, watching as Pierre nodded thoughtfully, a finger curled at his lips. One of the royal officials showed him a piece of paper, going over something on it.

“I miss you too. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon for the golf thing,” Carlos said.

Charles smiled. “Good. I think I’d be quite hopeless without you, mon amour.”

Carlos laughed. “Probably.”

“Everything is all set up for that, by the way,” Charles said. “Giorgio didn’t like it, but I convinced him.”

Carlos didn’t answer for a moment.

“It feels so silly to be jealous,” he finally said.

“It’s not silly,” Charles replied. Pierre’s Oura ring glimmered in the low light as he gestured at something on the paper. “I know the feeling exactly.”

Pierre met his eye, the corner of his lip ticking up in a half smile.

“We’re taking off soon,” Charles said, turning his gaze to his reflection in the dark window. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be safe, I love you.”

“I love you too. Try not to have too much fun without me,” Carlos replied.

“Don’t pout,” Charles teased. “I’ll make it worth the wait.”

Carlos laughed. “I’m already lonely enough, don’t make me miss you more.”

Charles laughed. “Okay, okay. Talk to you soon, mon amour.”

“Buonanotte, Charles.”

Pierre closed the privacy curtain behind him as he entered their space. He turned, dropping down onto the seats to straddle Charles’s lap.

Charles hung up the phone, watching to make sure he’d actually ended the call before he leaned back in his seat.

“Don’t,” he warned through a smirk.

“I’m getting my bag, Charles,” Pierre said, feigning nonchalance as he leaned forward, squashing Charles’s face with his chest. “I swore I put it up here.”

“Fuck off,” Charles laughed, shoving him aside.

Pierre made a strangled noise as he fell into the seat, clutching his stomach. “The crown prince of Ferrari tried to kill me!”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You’re the one dragging people into dark rooms.”

Pierre laughed. Charles loved the sound. He laughed too, a smile bunching his cheeks as he looked at Pierre, who smiled right back.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

ALFA ROMEO PALACE, ALFA ROMEO – Prince Kimi and Prince Antonio have left for America, but the question remains…with Prince Antonio be staying with Alfa Romeo next year? The long-haired Italian has stolen the hearts of fan around the empire, and his relationship with Prince Kimi has been an unexpected but welcome surprise. The two princes seem utterly devoted to each other—they have a cult following growing in size with each race hat is reminiscent of Prince Daniel and Prince Max back in their heyday.

In fact, Prince Kimi and Prince Antonio are so devoted to each other that there are rumors circulating among government officials that point to Prince Antonio leaving his crown behind in order to pursue a peaceful life with the Finnish former champion.

Alfa Romeo reps say Prince Antonio is here to stay. What do you think? Will we see a new prince in the Alfa Romeo colors next season?

 

 


 

 

Lando tapped his phone screen where it laid on the table in front of him. No new texts from Daniel.

Daniel stopped texting him after New York. He landed in Los Angeles and only Zak had heard from him since, only to confirm he would be in Austin at the scheduled time. Daniel had a house in LA—one with beautiful porches that overlooked the oceans. Cheaper than Monaco, Daniel said.

He always spoke about Los Angeles with a grin on his face and a light in his eyes, almost the same as when he talked about Max.

“You’ll need to print and sign here,” Sophia said.

“And date,” a woman said from across the table. She had a sharp nose and a stern expression—introducing herself as a lawyer was redundant, she looked like she’d grown up inside a firm.

Clouds billowed underneath them out the plane window, hiding the Atlantic below.

“I can’t turn back once I sign, yeah?” Lando asked with an attempt at humor.

Ms. Lawyer pursed her lips. “Are you making a decision to refuse purchase, Your Royal Highness?”

Lando laughed uncomfortably. “No, no, that was a joke. I’m buying it.”

Ms. Lawyer narrowed her eyes and flashed him a false smile. “Print and sign your name and write the date then, please.”

“You have about a hundred more signatures after this, so best not to hesitate,” Sophia said.

Lando offered a tense smile before he picked up his pen. A wall of legalese covered the stack of paper in front of him in both French and English.

He thought Daniel would be with him when he signed the purchase paperwork for his house. Really, he thought Carlos would be with him. Adult life had a way of turning his dreams into tasteless, crummy monotony.

Few would make fun of him for being so domestic, but Lando always thought he would buy a house with someone. Maybe they wouldn't be on the deed, but with him nonetheless. Even in the days where he wanted to be with Max, Lando thought about how fun it would be to own their own racetrack, buy cars, and fly all over the world to different tracks.

With Carlos, he imagined a quieter life. Lando didn’t think about the cars and driving so much as time spent together playing board games or cards or maybe getting a dog. Carlos wanted a dog, Lando didn’t. But Carlos really liked dogs and Lando kind of liked dogs, so he knew he’d cave.

He didn’t have to imagine with Daniel. They worked in lockstep around McLaren. Daniel always greeted him like they hadn’t seen each other in forever, even if it had only been a few hours. They shared food and played stupid games and Lando smiled when he saw Daniel’s toothbrush in the cup beside his.

In fact, it was stranger to walk into the bathroom and see none of Daniel’s things nowadays.

“Cool,” Lando finally said, signing his name and the date, as instructed. “I’m a homeowner.”

Sophia looked up from her phone. “Don’t say that in any interviews. You’re running a country.”

Lando was pretty sure she meant it to be funny, but the joke hit with a knife edge.

Ms. Lawyer inspected his signature and moved onto the next page, where the signature area had been flagged with a post-it note.

“Any news on Daniel?” Lando asked as he scribbled in signatures and dates.

“Nothing has come up in any paparazzi feeds,” Sophia said. Daniel was pretty popular in America—people noticed him when he went out and about. “I think he’s been at home this whole time. Must be a relaxing place, mm?”

“That’s why they call it home sweet home,” Lando replied in agreement.

Lando's flat in Monaco wasn’t finished yet. He couldn’t sleep there even if he wanted to. But his apartment in London didn’t feel like home anymore and he couldn’t cook food there without thinking of Carlos’s steak and him crying at night.

Your fault, remember.

Lando swallowed hard as he continued signing forms.

Sophia snapped a photo of him on her phone.

“For memories,” she explained with a smile. “Prince Lando making deals in the clouds. Very nice.”

Lando tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He still had dark red marks where Sebastian grabbed him, and Charles waiting to puncture any hope he had with Carlos. There wasn't a whole lot to be happy about.

“Congratulations,” Ms. Lawyer said once he’d flipped through all of the pages of his stupid closing documents. “You’re now a homeowner.”

Fewtrell once asked him if he was scared to own a house, the same way he’d asked if Lando was scared to get married for the first time.

Houses could be sold in an instant, especially in Monaco. The same way husbands could leave and love someone else.

“Thanks,” Lando said, staring at the stack of paper. 

“Champagne?” Sophia offered, waving for the stewardess.

Lando forced himself to smile this time. “Sure. Send a picture to my dad, he’ll be amped.”

The stewardess began to pour a glass. Bubbles streamed up the sides of the flute, and foam frothed at the top. Lando tasted it before it hit his lips and tried not to think about the way Daniel drank from his bottle so greedily in Monza, like he’d lived life starved.

His stomach twisted as he took a long sip.

“Hey, is Prince Max still in Monaco?” Lando asked.

Sophia cocked her head. “Yes, why?”

 

 


 

 

Lando stepped from his plane as a homeowner. Adulting hit him again as he climbed into the backseat of a waiting SUV. He didn’t feel any different—if anything, he felt younger than he had stepping onto the flight. Smaller, too. His hoodie swallowed him, his phone laid silent and all he wanted was to curl into a ball with a man he wasn’t married to anymore.

“You asked about Daniel earlier,” Sophia said from the passenger seat in the SUV. American cars were massive—Lando had enough room to lay down across the back seat if he wanted to.

“Did you hear from him?” Lando asked, adjusting himself where he sat, his hood hanging low over his eyes.

“We have a surprise for you,” Sophia said, biting back a smile. “I know things have been a little tough lately.”

Lando let out a snort. Understatement of the century.

He cleared his throat a moment later. He was an adult, he couldn’t be acting petty anymore.

“Did Daniel pick out this surprise?” he asked.

He could already guess that Daniel would be waiting for him at the hotel, a bubble bath drawn and soft touches at the ready to see how his bruising had healed.

“You’ll see,” Sophia said.

Lando watched the countryside out the window. Texas looked more like a desert than he remembered. Brown grass and tumbleweeds, with spindly trees that reminded Lando of vineyards. The leaves looked prickly, matching the occasional cactus on the side of the road.

He closed his eyes and sank further into the seat. His internal clock said it was time to start winding down for bed, but Austin was still in the height of afternoon.

One minute he stared at tumbleweeds, the next he had his lips mushed against the cool glass and startled awake with a noise fit for a zoo animal.

Lando blinked sleep from his eyes and wiped the drool from his mouth as the van continued up a cobblestone driveway.

“Did we get a new hotel?” Lando croaked, eyeing the pristine white exterior that reminded him of the White House. The scrubby desert had given way to luxurious fields and beautiful flowerbeds. Clouds dotted a deep blue sky, creating an atmosphere that pointed toward a spa more than a hotel.

“The surprise is here,” Sophia said, hopping out of the car. The driver opened Lando’s door, bowing his head. Lando tried not to grimace as he thanked him.

Wuh-plack!

Lando froze as Sophia grinned.

“Are we at a—”

“We’re at a golf course!” Sophia finished, more excited than Lando had ever seen her. “The best one near Austin. PGA players love to golf here—it came highly recommended.”

Lando shook his head. “Soph, I don’t have my clubs, I don’t have—”

“Daniel helped us get all of your golf supplies before he left for New York,” Sophia said as the driver popped the trunk. “We also checked with the sporting director to make sure it was what you usually pack.”

Lando glanced around the parking lot, but there were only a few Lexuses and a silver Ferrari Roma. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of it. He really couldn’t imagine Carlos driving Ferraris around. He looked much better with his hair wild and smile sly in the driver’s seat of a “borrowed” VW Golf. Only annoying old men drove Ferraris--the same men who haunted placed like this.

“So I’m playing golf alone,” Lando said.

“Not exactly.”

Sophia gestured toward a young man hurrying toward them. He was tall, blonde, blue-eyed and handsome as hell. The most American guy Lando had seen since landing, but still didn’t hold a candle to Mick.

“Hi,” the man greeted, extending a hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry--Your Royal Highness.” He dropped his hand and bowed his head.

Lando didn’t hide his grimace this time. “Uh, hey. Lando. You can call me Lando.”

“Great, thank you. I’m Chet, I’m going to be your guide today—and your caddy, if you’ll oblige me,” Chet said in the strangest American accent Lando had ever heard.

Lando nodded toward the Ferrari. “Is that yours, Chet?”

Chet wheeled around with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. “Oh, no sir. I drive an MX-5. That car belongs to a few of our guests.”

Lando gave the back of Chet’s head a thoughtful look. So, he wasn’t a complete idiot. A Miata was a respectable car for a normal person.

“Is your car here?” Lando asked.

“No way,” Sophia said with a withering look. “You’re here to play golf.”

Chet smiled at him, his teeth way too straight and way too white. His jawline was too boxy, his skin too pale, his stubble too fawn-colored and not dark eno—

Lando cleared his throat. “Right. So can we see the course then? I‘m told it’s highly recommended.”

“Sure thing,” Chet replied, showing the way for Lando. Lando noticed a wedding band on his hand and breathed a sigh of relief as he headed for the front doors. Chet grabbed his golf bag and hurried after him.

Lando fully expected a mob of fans to meet him as he pushed open the glass doors. Instead, potted palms and giant vases sat around an empty lobby. Leather furniture, nonsensical art, and a massive crystal chandelier reminded Lando that this was American luxury. Big, loud, and not always as luxurious as intended.

“Do you want anything to eat before you play?” Chet asked once he caught up. “Our other guests are just finishing up at the bar.”

Lando didn’t want to see any strangers, but his stomach growled.  “Sure. What’s America without a burger, right?”

He decided he didn’t want Chet as his caddy. He didn’t want some handsome married guy standing around him for the tabloids to hurt Carlos with.

Chet gestured toward an archway. “Just through there. I’ll get your bags ready and get a new cart charged up for you.”

“Thanks,” Lando muttered, beelining for the archway. A ballroom opened up before him with high ceilings and more art. All black and white portraits of beautiful people. Varnished wood, black napkins, and polished silverware.

And Carlos sitting at the bar with Charles.

Lando ducked behind a potted palm, but it wouldn’t have mattered because Carlos and Charles were both captivated by each other.

They both wore Ferrari polos, so Lando guessed they were here for some kind of event—or escaping one.

Charles took a bite of french fry and burst out laughing, his whole face scrunching up. Carlos laughed with him, but his laugh was softer—so were his eyes. Charles talked around the food in his mouth, his hands moving wildly. Carlos only watched his face.

Lando curled palm fronds around his fingers.

It didn’t hurt as much as he anticipated to see Carlos in a real, private moment with Charles. Instead, a strange kind of happiness—or maybe it was numbness—spread over his heart. Carlos looked happy. Happy enough that it made Lando happy to see him smile.

Carlos snagged a french fry and turned it into an airplane for a moment, then popped it in his mouth with a delighted grin. Charles poked him in the ribs and Carlos let out a little yelp before grabbing Charles around the shoulders.

Charles nuzzled into Carlos’s neck—he looked smitten too. The way he used to look with Max, but older. Lando watched as Charles reached up with a band-aid still on his hand and pulled Carlos to him for a kiss.

Lando flinched on reflex when their lips met, but Charles and Carlos didn’t fall into some love-drunk makeout like he expected them to. Carlos kissed Charles for a brief moment, then they both opened their eyes and stared at each other.

They really looked like they were in love.

Charles murmured something that Carlos replied to in an equally soft tone. They kissed again, then separated to continue eating fries.

Lando made his entrance, rubbing at his wrist. He put his hands behind his back so Carlos wouldn’t notice. He didn’t want to make things awkward.

“Uh, hey,” he greeted.

Charles and Carlos looked up from their meal. Charles smiled first.

“Lando, hey,” Charles greeted, eyes glinting with mischief.

Lando froze in place, suddenly realizing that this coincidence might be anything but.

Why are you so stupid?

Charles slipped from his barstool and headed toward him. Lando swallowed hard, but couldn’t make himself run. Just like Wembley, he could only stand there as danger marched right up to him and—

Hugged him?

Lando blinked as Charles patted his back and slid from the embrace.

“Good to see you,” Charles said. He cocked his head. “You seem confused.”

“Yes,” Lando answered dumbly.

Charles blinked slowly in a way that made Lando’s skin crawl. Five seconds ago Charles had been all love and softness, now his face held no emotion.

“What have you been told?” Charles asked.

Lando swallowed hard, waiting for Charles to pull out the Ferrari scalpel and stab him in the throat.

“Sophia said her and Daniel set up a surprise for me. A round of golf, I’m guessing? I don’t really know,” Lando admitted.

“Ah.” Charles’s lips curled to a half smile. “Daniel did help, but I organized it. Carlos and I just played a round of golf here—we were being interviewed for GQ.”

“You were interviewed while playing golf?” Lando asked, unbelieving.

Charles laughed--he could sound so diplomatic when he wanted to.

“Carlos suggested it. We didn’t get much time together on my birthday, so I wanted to make sure we wouldn’t be interrupted. Even though, obviously it was still a media event.”

Lando cringed. “Right. Sorry—happy belated birthday.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to do that. No one really cares about birthdays at our age.”

An awkward pause filled up the space between them as Lando fought with himself about whether or not to bring up the letter. Charles didn’t seem to want to kill him, which didn’t make a lot of sense.

Lando cleared his throat. “I thought—"

“Would you—”

They both shut their mouths.

“Go ahead,” Lando ushered. “I was just going to say something stupid.”

Charles’s eyes dimmed. “I was going to ask if you’d like to go be with Carlos now.”

Lando shook his head. “That’s okay. You guys are having a good time. I just came to get a bite before I hit the green.”

“Lando, we organized this so you can play golf with Carlos,” Charles explained. “And the golf part is optional.”

Lando jerked in surprise, looking over Charles’s shoulder to where Carlos sat dragging a French fry through ketchup.

“And…Carlos knows about this?”

Charles laughed. “Yes, he knows. McLaren and Ferrari also know. The FIA is letting it be for now. We decided to keep it a surprise in case the FIA approval went away—you know how things change so quickly.”

Lando shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from wringing his wrists. This sounded like a trap.

“What’s the catch?” Lando asked. “Where I’m standing, you have no reason to be nice to me.”

Charles narrowed his eyes for a fraction of a second before he smiled again.

“This isn’t about you,” he said evenly. “Honestly, I’m not convinced you’re ready for this chance after what you’ve done over the past few races. But I love Carlos, and I hate to see him upset. I hope you two can resolve what’s going on between you.”

Lando stiffened, but deflated a moment later. He had no ground to stand on. Back in London, Lando thought he had an ex-husband who loved him more than anything else. He thought asking Carlos to choose him over Charles would be an easy decision.

He’d been wrong.

Lando met Charles’s eye.

“I hope so too,” Lando said. “I don’t want to lose him.”

He wanted to stuff the words back in his mouth the second he spoke them.

“Like I told you in my letter, be patient,” Charles said. “Everyone is tense right now.”

Lando flinched when Charles patted his arm. One hand came up reflexively to defend himself, and Charles stepped away, eyes wide.

“Lando, is everything okay?”

Lando shoved his hand back in his pocket and shook his head, then nodded when he realized what he was doing. “Uh—just tense, like you said. Yeah.”

“I’m not mad at you about the letter,” Charles said quietly, “if that’s what this is about.”

Lando swallowed thickly. “No.”

He wanted to say more, but his bruises started throbbing, as if Sebastian’s ghost was shoving knuckles into his sternum again.

Charles’s frown deepened. “Okay. You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Not really,” Lando replied. “But thanks for asking.”

Charles waited a moment, then sighed. “I only read a few of the texts you sent me in that letter. I know you love Carlos, you don’t need to try to make me feel sorry for you because of it.”

“I know,” Lando said quietly, staring down at his Nikes.

“Not to mention you were doing that to hurt me, because you know I love Carlos too,” Charles said. “I chose to burn the rest of the pages instead of reading things Carlos meant for you, because I trust him to tell me if any of it mattered to me.”

Lando squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Charles asked, firm and authoritative and princely.

You’re a crown prince too, Lando reminded himself.

He opened his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I regret sending that letter, and I’m glad you didn’t read all the pages. Those were supposed to be between Carlos and I and they should have stayed that way.”

Charles watched him carefully.

“Okay,” he finally said, extending his hand. “I accept your apology.”

Lando flared his nostrils, tempted to bite back at Charles’s tone. He wanted to ask how the hell Charles ever loved Sebastian Vettel, if he ever saw the side of him Lando had just seen. But Sebastian made it very clear that telling anyone about their interaction at Ferrari would end with Lando losing everything.

So Lando said nothing and shook Charles’s hand.  

“Try to have fun,” Charles said when they dropped hands. “And please don’t do anything to make us regret this.”

Lando didn’t want to clarify if “us” meant Charles and Carlos or Charles and Daniel. Both options made him uncomfortable.

“I’ll be back after sunset,” Charles called to Carlos as he waved goodbye. “I love you.”

Carlos smiled. “See you then.”

Lando hoped like hell that Carlos purposely didn’t say he loved Charles back.

He took his hands out of his pockets as he approached Carlos and took the seat Charles had abandoned.

“I ordered you a burger,” Carlos said nonchalantly, scooping up for ketchup on a fry. “You can have some of my fries while you wait.”

Lando sat there and shook. Every part of him screamed to reach out and take Carlos’s hand and beg for forgiveness.

“We don’t have to do this,” Lando said. “I can go golfing by myself. You don’t have to see me if you don’t want to.”

Carlos paused, looking up from his plate.

“I’m aware,” Carlos said. “I want to.”

Lando gulped, no longer trusting himself to speak.

“Your meal, Your Royal Highness,” a waitress said. She slid a plate across the bar—a burger and fries with a generous helping of ketchup.

Lando busied himself with eating, scarfing down his food as Carlos continued to eat fries one by one. 

“Lando,” Carlos said once Lando had finished his burger. 

Lando licked ketchup off his lips as he looked over. “Yeah?”

Carlos dabbed a napkin to Lando’s mouth, gently cleaning away more ketchup.

Lando thought back to London, how Carlos teased him for getting milkshake on his top lip after they managed to sneak out for one without being caught. Lando remembered being so happy that night, convinced that Carlos being in London meant they were going to make it.

“Let’s go play,” Carlos offered, balling up the napkin. “We need to get some holes in before sundown.”

“Okay,” Lando said, slipping from his chair. He stayed a respectable two paces behind Carlos as they walked out onto the back terrace, where Chet stood with two golf bags and a cart.

“We’ll take it from here,” Carlos said. “Thank you.”

Chet nodded smartly, as if expecting the response. “Enjoy your time on the course. All we ask is that you return before dark, or we’ll come looking for you. Not the best idea, gotta say.”

“We’ll be on time,” Lando said. “Maybe early, even.”

Carlos glanced at him before they climbed into the golf cart. Lando let him drive—he didn’t trust himself to operate a vehicle. They waved goodbye to Chet and Carlos took off down the path toward the first hole. Their golf bags jostled where they sat in the back of the cart, attached by some straps. Lando didn't really care if they held. 

“When did you land?” Lando asked, breaking the awkward silence.

“Four hours ago, I think,” Carlos said, checking his watch. “Five hours ago.”

“Are you tired?”

Carlos shook his head. “I started adjusting for the time difference last week.”

“Good idea,” Lando said, leaning back in the seat. “I didn’t think of that.”

The sky began to turn muddy as they pulled up to the first tee. Lando found solace in the routine of golf as he set up his shot, checked the wind, and picked his driver. He consulted Carlos a bit, but otherwise set up on his own.

He watched the flag at the far end of the green to confirm the wind direction, then swung.

His tennis shoes weren’t as good as his golf shoes, but Lando didn’t care. He launched the ball with a loud crack from his driver and put his hand up to shade his eyes as he watched the ball soar through the air.

“Good shot,” Carlos praised.

Lando smiled, but didn’t reply.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d been married to the man standing so close to him, yet they hadn’t touched since greeting each other. It was awkward, but not suffocating. The silence breathed as Carlos lined up his shot with calm. Lando couldn’t feel any anger radiating off of him. If anything, he sensed pain.

Lando squeezed the leather strap on his golf bag and stayed silent as Carlos adjusted his footing and stared down the green, checking his marks.

Carlos turned a golf swing into art. His body curved with the grace of a ballerina, but his muscle rippled with the force of his swing as he connected with the ball. The sound cut through the quiet as Carlos followed through, his driver cutting up into the clouds.

Lando wanted to stare forever.

You’re beautiful, he wanted to say.

“Looked good to me,” he said instead.

Carlos smiled at him. “Felt good.”

Lando beamed back, his heart going a mile a minute.

They climbed back into the golf cart and Lando leaned forward in the seat, biting down on his smile as Carlos floored it toward their golf balls at the other end of the range.

“What is so funny?” Carlos asked, turning his Ferrari cap backward.

“You,” Lando said, grabbing onto the seat as Carlos avoided a rock. “You and golf.”

“Me and golf?” Carlos laughed. “What’s funny about me and golf?”

Lando turned to look at him as Carlos continued to drive. Carlos’s handsomeness was unparalleled in normal settings, but sunset put him right of there with the gods. His tan skin, giant eyes, and the strong jawline Lando used to trace his with his finger when he wanted Carlos to wake up.

“Nothing,” Lando said. “It just makes me happy that with everything going on, you can still have fun playing.”

Carlos grinned. “It’s nice to actually play. Charles only hits the ball half the time.”

Lando’s smiled faded. Before, he would have laughed. He might have dug in deeper, making a joke about Charles’s interesting choice in golf shoes the last time they played when Pierre tagged along.

“It’s always nice to play with you,” Lando said.

Carlos eased off the throttle and stared at him out of the corner of Lando's eye, then sped up again a moment later. Lando watched the flowerbeds.

He could remember when Carlos touched his bare skin for the first time. Mostly because it had been embarrassing—Lando stood glaring at himself in the bathroom mirror while brushing his teeth and Carlos put his hands on each of Lando’s hips, pressing a kiss to his shoulder as he passed behind him.

That little moment had been one of the few that made adult life not seem so bad.

Lando put a hand on Carlos’s knee, squeezed once, and let go.

“What was that for?” Carlos asked.

Lando closed his eyes and faced the setting sun. “You know what it was for Cah-los.”

They only managed to play three holes before the sky started turning red. Carlos properly beat his ass on every hole they played, but Lando didn’t mind. They didn’t even keep score. Chilly night air started to creep in from the lengthening shadows, and Lando’s jet lag threatened to knock him off his feet where he stood at the hole, lifting the flag so Carlos cold putt his shot.

The ball rolled in as if pulled by a magnet. Lando took it out and handed it off to Carlos, trying not to nod off in the process.

“Let’s get back,” Carlos chuckled. “You are sleepy.”

“Mhm. I mean, no, I’m wide awake,” Lando slurred in reply.

“C’mon, Sleepy,” Carlos said, hoisting their bags into the back of the cart.

Lando hopped into his seat and leaned into Carlos once he took his spot.

“I miss you,” Lando said, closing his eyes. Carlos smelled like dead leaves and grass fertilizer. He used to just smell like his husband. He used to just smell like Carlos.

Carlos put an arm around him, but kept it casual. “I miss you too.”

Lando opened his eyes to slits as they started heading back toward the country club.

“I signed for my house today,” Lando murmured, adjusting his cheek on Carlos’s shoulder. Every bump in the road threatened to break his cheekbone, but he didn’t move away.

Carlos gave him a squeeze. “You did? Congratulations, Lando. That’s great news.”

Carlos didn’t want to live in Monaco. He wanted to go back to Spain and stay there. He wanted to retire on the family ranch and live quietly.

“The sunset’s so pretty,” Lando said, forcing his eyes to stay open. The clouds turned purple and pink as the sun fizzled in the hills. Better to change the subject to something good.

“Yes,” Carlos chuckled.

Lando dozed to the buzz of the golf cart, hugging Carlos’s arm to his chest. He had a very comfortable arm. Like a teddy bear, but warm. Very warm. Familiar too. Carlos’s arm was probably his most favorite arm in the whole--

“Lando,” Carlos whispered, shaking him. “We’re here.”

Lando jolted, releasing Carlos’s arm. His vision spun as he threw himself out of his nap. Fucking jet lag.

“Sorry,” Lando slurred out, rubbing his eyes.

A warm hand came to his face. Lando blinked his vision clear to see Carlos right there, close enough to touch, the sunset too fucking perfect behind him.

Too bad you ruined it.

Lando smiled before he leaned away and stumbled out of the golf cart.

“Thought I was gonna have to chase you two down!” Chet said as he stepped out onto the terrace, smiling with those perfect teeth of his. “Your cars are here waiting. Can I get your bags?”

“That would be great,” Carlos and Lando said at the same time.

“Jinx,” Chet laughed. “But sure thing.”

He hefted their bags onto each manly shoulder and headed back into the building. Lando had honestly forgotten tall people could have muscle—he was way too used to seeing Esteban skittering around like a baby giraffe.

“You think he’s handsome,” Carlos teased.

Lando rolled his eyes. “He isn’t not handsome. But he’s not my kind of handsome.”

Carlos laughed. The sun washed over that jawline Lando loved so much.

“What’s your kind of handsome?” Carlos asked.

Lando shrugged. “You should know, you see him in the mirror every day.”

Carlos’s smile dropped. Lando’s blood started to pump in his ears. He put his hands behind his back so Carlos wouldn’t try to grab them like he used to.

Lando allowed his eyes to wander down to Carlos’s lips, full and perfect and used-to-be his.

“I think this is where I say goodnight,” Lando said quietly, even as Carlos moved close enough that Lando could feel his breath washing over Carlos’s collarbone where he’d unbuttoned his polo.

Lando smiled and turned his eyes to the ground.

“I was thinking,” he began. “You know, during the off-season, if you come to visit Charles maybe you could stop by my new place. And Charles could come too, obviously. But, um. I want you to come see it. I don’t think—I don’t think it will feel like my place until you’ve been there.”

Carlos’s mouth fell open. Those big brown eyes went wide, tempting Lando to laugh at their ridiculousness.

“I’d love to,” Carlos finally said. “I can’t wait to see it.”

Lando nodded with finality and looked for the door. “Awesome. Thanks for today, by the way. That was really nice of you and Charles to put this together. And Daniel, obviously.”

He reached up, gently touching his sternum. The bruising was still sore, but fading more each day.

“Lando,” Carlos said, pulling his attention. His eyes were still big and beautiful. “I’m very happy we could spend time together.”

Lando laughed. “This sounds like the end of a couple’s therapy session. Goodnight, Carlos. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Carlos stepped closer. This time, he punctured the bubble of awkwardness between them with that hooked nose of his and kissed Lando square on the mouth.

Lando couldn’t remember their last kiss as a married couple. Carlos never made any kiss feel like it could be their last.

He pulled away before either of them could start in with any tongue.

Carlos furrowed his brow. “Was I—”

“No, you’re good,” Lando breathed, the words flooding out in a rush as a million little galaxies burst into being in his bloodstream. “I just didn’t want to get carried away, and you, uh. I tend to do that with you, so.”

Carlos threw his head back to laugh, Lando’s favorite kind.

Lando took a step back, even though everything in him said to stay. The setting sun was slipping away, the crickets were starting to sing, and if he stood there any longer he would definitely fuck this up.

“Goodnight, Lando,” Carlos said, low and warm and perfect.

Fuck it.

Lando darted forward and pressed a kiss to Carlos’s cheek.

“Goodnight,” Lando said, and then he hurried through the glass doors, half jogging, half skipping out to the car, his jet lag forgotten.

Adulting wasn’t so bad, sometimes.

Chapter Text

 

ESPN THE MAGAZINE: SPECIAL COVERAGE

AUSTIN, TEXAS – The royal circle has arrived at Circuit of the Americas. Media day began with bright sunshine on an unseasonably cool morning—but that was the first of many surprises.

Racing fans crowded track entrances, trying to catch a glimpse of royalty as the FIA princes arrived for interviews and media engagements. Many of them have been exploring the United States over the past week: HRH George Russell of Mercedes attended a Miami Dolphins game, HRH Charles Leclerc of Ferrari visited Wisconsin with HRH Pierre Gasly of Alpha Tauri to attend a Bucks game. McLaren's HRH Daniel Ricciardo—arguably the most popular FIA prince in America—spent time in both New York City and Los Angeles. He kept to himself and avoided the public eye, but made it clear he has no intent to hide this weekend in what is turning into one of the biggest scandals in recent FIA history—kind of.

Let’s back up. In case you haven’t been keeping up with the FIA royalty rules, FIA princes swap spouses pretty often. They hold a wedding ceremony at the beginning of each season to make quick work of hitching new couples. Where you might find it bit awkward to attend your wedding with your ex (and watch them marry your previous ex), that’s how it goes in this wild world of the FIA.

However, the marriage rules are very strict. You’re to be madly in love with you current spouse and not indicate any feelings to the contrary. This makes the FIA ripe for scandal.

HRH Daniel Ricciardo has seen his fair share already this season. He was caught with a set of burner phones belonging to himself and HRH Max Verstappen of Red Bull. While that sounds like something out of a Bourne movie, it’s significant because princes are forbidden contact each other outside of race weekends except through handwritten letters—an attempt by the FIA to prevent extramarital affairs. As if love letters have not been the foundation of romance for centuries. (But I digress.)

Daniel and Max were together only two years at Red Bull, but managed to create a legendary love story that has fans crazed to this day. They were so popular as a couple that in Zandvoort, home of the Dutch Grand Prix, citizens have gone so far as to decree “Maxiel” as their official royal couple (though that doesn’t actually mean anything within the FIA).   

Prince Verstappen has never publicly commented on the burner phone incident. Red Bull keeps him surrounded by staff, security, and royal officials at all times, and he tends to keep to himself anyway. He’s vying for the championship this year against seven-time champion HRH Lewis Hamilton, so Red Bull is pulling out all the stops to keep him focused on the task at hand.

Prince Ricciardo has not been so lucky. He was nearly exiled for his involvement in the burner phone scandal, and the FIA issued an unprecedented letter ban for all correspondence between the two princes (though some sources say Red Bull already had an ongoing ban that caused the need for burner phones in the first place).

To make matters worse, Prince Ricciardo was injured in an attack at the Euro Cup finals earlier this year in an unrelated incident that further emphasizes the growing popularity of FIA princes and the lack of existing protections for the men who are informal government leaders to empires throughout Europe.

Fans and officials alike have noticed a recent change, however. In Zandvoort, HRH Sergio Perez, Prince Verstappen’s current husband, stayed at the designated hotel while Prince Verstappen rented a seaside mansion. Researchers say sleeping in separate beds can be good for marriage, but Prince Verstappen had two guests: McLaren’s HRH Lando Norris and…you guessed it, Prince Ricciardo.

This seems to be the starting point for a comparatively public affair. None of the empires involved (or the FIA) have commented on any of the allegations, and Prince Norris and Prince Perez have seemed happy as ever with their husbands.

However, things might change after today.

In what we can only assume was a grave oversight by the FIA, Prince Verstappen and Prince Ricciardo were paired up for their press conference this afternoon. What unfolded was something out of a romance movie—or a reality show, depending on your point of view.

A reporter asked how it feels to be racing for another empire against Max, to which Daniel replied:

“I miss him a lot. I miss waking up next to him. The smell of him on my pillow—all that good stuff.”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. Prince Verstappen laughed at the response, but not in a way that at all diffused the bombshell.

When the reporter managed to turn the question on Max, he replied:

“What we had was very good. There is no one I would rather drive with.”

The FIA ended the conference shortly thereafter, but the internet has exploded with conspiracy theories that don’t seem so wild now. In particular, the look the two princes gave each other after the exchange has set Maxiel fans ablaze.

The FIA made a formal note of the incident and reminded both McLaren and Red Bull that extramarital affairs will not be tolerated. At the moment, it doesn’t seem like there will be any reprimand for the incident, but we have no idea what will happen with the empires internally in a situation like this. 

Want to watch the race weekend? Tune in to all the action on ESPN. The United States Grand Prix will start at 3PM on Sunday.

 

 


 

 

George picked at the inside of his arm where he stood at the mouth of the Williams garage. Daniel strode down the pit lane with his trademark grin, waving at fans in the stands. His racing helmet had already been traded in for a cowboy hat, giving his face a new profile that looked more sinister than George remembered.

Fuck you.

Daniel had gone up in front of everyone and basically admitted to still loving Max. George couldn’t fathom having a press conference with Alex and doing the same thing. The FIA would probably drag both of them to the back of the garage and put bullets in their heads.

But max and Daniel got adoration from the crowd. Max walked through the paddock and smiled for reporters and didn’t shy away from any questions about Daniel, though he evaded saying anything totally incriminating.

“We’re still very close,” Max said on the big screen as reporters shoved microphones in his face. “I don’t understand why this is suddenly news. We have always been close. Nothing has changed between Daniel and I since before.”

“Nothing?” the reporter asked, clearly trying to provoke an evasive response.

Max blinked vapidly at him. “Nothing.”

George flared his nostrils in disgust.

“What’s got you so upset?”

George flinched at the sound of Lewis’s voice. Lewis stepped up beside him, shaking out his braids.

“Take a guess,” George said, nodding toward the big screen. “He gets to say whatever he wants. Can you imagine if I said something like that?”

Or you?

He kept the last part quiet, all too aware that there could be listening ears.

“Daniel put him at risk with what he said today,” Lewis said, collecting his braids to tie them back. “He’s going to be the one facing the consequences because he spoke first.”

George set his jaw. “Something tells me Daniel would face the consequences regardless.”

He turned his attention down the pit lane, where Daniel stood with the McLaren press officer, nodding thoughtfully. The press officer didn’t seem angry with him, though her facial expression didn’t suggest happiness. Lando approached, hopping up on his toes to kiss Daniel’s cheek even though they were the same height. Daniel smiled, but it faded a moment later.

“Or maybe Daniel is purposely taking the heat,” George murmured. “Getting some of the pressure off of Max.”

Lewis cocked his head. “That’s a good thought. Not sure if it will work for the public, but it might work for the FIA.”

Lewis rested against his side—a fleeting touch, but still more than they’d shared in recent history. George didn’t lean away. 

Despite everything, they were engaged. Lewis had a legal obligation to protect him as a future ruler of his empire. They couldn't hate each other.

“Do you feel pressure?” George asked.

Lewis’s eyes dimmed with fondness as he let out a chuckle.  “I feel pressure, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve learned how to handle it over the years. Handling isn’t even the right word—it doesn’t affect me anymore. Not in a detrimental way, anyway.”

George liked to think he would feel the same, but he only had experience winning a championship in lower courts. The stress of an entire empire banking on his success would probably make things different.

Lewis stilled beside him.  “I’ve been through a lot worse.”

George turned to look at him, but Lewis had stepped away. Cameras approached him the second he left the sectioned off area, swarming him as he headed back toward Mercedes.

A second later, a familiar face appeared on the other side of the pit lane with several FIA officials. 

Nico Rosberg.

Nico nodded at an FIA official who was speaking to him, that same twisted smile curling on his lips.

Nico glanced at him. When they met eyes, George’s stomach twisted with revulsion.

Nico waved and lifted a media badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck. He pointed at it in silent explanation, beaming as if George had been part of putting it there.

George made a face and headed back into the garage. Jost stood in front of a stack of tires, squinting out into the pit lane.

“Is that Nico?” Jost asked.

“Yeah,” George said, occupying himself with a long sip from his water bottle.

Jost adjusted his glasses. “Haven’t seen him in a minute. Maybe he’ll stop by.”

George swallowed his water, souring further.

“If he does, tell him I’m busy.”

 

 


 

 

“And then I say, ‘fuck you, man’ and his eyes got this big!” Yuki held his hands up to his eyes, cupping his fingers to make big circles.

Charles burst out laughing more at the image than the joke, and because Pierre had doubled over in laughter beside him. Texas sun warmed their shoulders as they stood in the hospitality lane, still dressed in practice gear.

Charles looked up as a smudge of red came into view, smiling as Carlos made his way down the steps from the Ferrari suite, back in his jeans and white sneakers.

“That guy was so shocked,” Pierre said, still laughing. “And your face, you were so red.”

Yuki grinned proudly. “Damn right.”

“Something funny over here?” Carlos greeted, adjusting his cap before he bumped Charles with his hip.

“The usual,” Charles replied, putting an arm around him.

“Hey, Carlos,” Pierre said, bumping fists with him. “Shit day out there , huh?”

“Ah, not so bad. COTA is difficult,” Carlos replied with a shrug.

Charles caught the way they looked at each other for a moment too long. He rubbed his knuckles against the base of Carlos’s spine to calm him down. Pierre had promised to be respectful, and Charles wouldn’t allow anyone to think he and Carlos were on the outs.

“We’ll do better tomorrow,” Charles said. “Speaking of tomorrow, we should go back to the hotel.”

Carlos nodded.

“See you later guys,” Charles said, offering a wave as Pierre hooked an arm around Yuki’s neck. “Maybe we can have dinner at the hotel?”

“Ah, I meant to talk to you about this,” Carlos said before Pierre or Yuki could answer. “I have plans for us.”

Charles blinked at him, flattered. Usually Carlos couldn’t keep a secret to save his life when it came to doing something together.

“We have all weekend,” Pierre said. “Don’t worry about it—have fun.”

They said their goodbyes and headed back toward their respective hospitality suites.

“You have something planned for us?” Charles asked once Pierre and Yuki were out of earshot.

“Yes, but I want it to be a surprise,” Carlos replied. “I have been doing lots of research.”

Charles took his hand and squeezed.

“All right then. I can’t wait.”

 

 


 

 

“So Mattia and Giorgio knew about this?” Charles asked as they emerged from their Ferrari Roma at an event venue in downtown Austin.

Austin didn’t have a lot of character, in Charles’s opinion. Americans seemed to think it did, but the architecture reminded him of an unfinished video game sprinkled with Edison bulbs to make it seem sophisticated.

“Technically, it’s a party they are hosting,” Carlos replied as he took Charles’s hand. “But nobody will bother us, I promise.”

Charles shot him a skeptical look. Everyone bothered them every time they were in public. Americans were worse than most—they had an entirely more invasive way of interacting with celebrities.

Carlos turned to him, blocking his path.

“Are you ready?” Carlos asked, reaching up to smooth back Charles’s hair.

“I can’t answer that when I don’t know what we’re doing,” Charles replied, but he leaned into Carlos’s palm. “But yes, I’m ready.”

They shared a kiss in the dark. Charles leaned into Carlos’s side as they headed toward a tall wooden gate. Hedges made up a perimeter fence, so thick that Charles couldn’t see anything through the leaves.

Carlos pushed open the gate and they stepped into a massive private garden stuffed to the gills with lights and festivities.

“It’s a fair,” Carlos explained. “Like a carnival, but farm.”

“But farm?” Charles laughed.

Carlos grinned at him. “Yes. There are games. Definitely farm games.”

“Don’t say that like you would know. Your ranch is not a farm,” Charles teased.

Carlos squeezed his hand. “I do farm things.”

Charles cocked a brow. An image of Carlos came to mind: work gloves, dirty jeans, a faded t-shirt streaked with mud and hay. Hair a mess, sweat dripping from it as—

Charles cleared his throat.

“Next time, I’ll show you,” Carlos promised, but it sounded like he was promising more than that. “Come on, let’s play the games. I have to do the thing where I win you a bear.”

“You mean where I win you a bear,” Charles corrected.

“Oh? We’ll see who wins a bear first.”

Several stands had been set up throughout the garden amidst the catering setups and outdoor bars. Lights twinkled around hand-painted signs for various games, types of food (all fried, Charles noticed), and attractions.

“You really put this together for me?” Charles asked.

Carlos shrugged, a little sheepish. “I came up with the idea when I was researching things to do in America. But all I did was tell them I wanted to go to a fair with you, and they made one.”

Love welled up in Charles so forcefully he had to pull Carlos to him for a kiss.

They didn’t always feel like princes. Charles shed the label whenever they entered the royal apartment. He still complained when Carlos stole the blankets and muttered about bad coffee beans when he messed up his espresso. His life with Carlos was a quiet one outside of all of the racing and royalty. He had a husband who loved him deeply—a love Charles returned.

“Thank you,” Charles said when he broke the kiss.

Carlos kept him close for a moment, tonguing the inside of his cheek.

“Those things Daniel said today…”

Charles shook his head. “He shouldn’t have said any of that, Carlos. And Max shouldn’t have responded. They don’t—”

“I know exactly how he feels,” Carlos interrupted. “I felt that way about Lando when I came to Ferrari, but I know it’s going to be so much worse with you.”

Charles stood there with his mouth open, unable to find words. Discussions about Max and Daniel had been flying around the paddock all afternoon. Charles hadn’t even seen Max outside of a brief meeting after practice where they bumped fists and moved along to their respective teams.

Eerily enough, Max had said almost the same words to him once. Charles couldn’t remember the specifics, but he remembered that it had been dark and the earth reeked of motor oil. He remembered the yellow light of an open camper door, Max’s lips moving in the shadow, saying how he didn’t want to live with some random guy, he only wanted to live with Charles.

Charles never realized how fucked up it was to send boys off to be husbands when they’d never lived on their own.

“You’re going to be with Ferrari for a long time,” Charles said, squeezing his hand. “We don’t have to think about that yet.”

Carlos sighed. “You don’t know that. My appointment goes until the end of next season. So much can happen between now and then.”

“No one on the grid who would consider Ferrari is anywhere close to your talent,” Charles said with a shake of his head.

“It isn’t always about talent. Mick has his name.”

Charles bit the inside of his cheek. Mick wasn’t ready for Ferrari and a year wouldn’t change that. He needed a lot of development on and off track. He also needed to let go of the idea of Callum finding a crown.

“Mick doesn’t have my backing,” Charles finally said, meeting Carlos’s eye. “I want you. Unless that changes, Mattia won’t do anything to you.”

Carlos looked like he wanted to say something else about it, but ultimately didn't.

“Enough,” Carlos finally said, turning on a smile. “It’s time to play farm games.”

First, they played balloon darts. Charles didn’t understand how throwing darts at balloons had anything to do with farming, but he managed to hit more than Carlos and won himself a lollipop shaped like a rainbow unicorn horn.

The milk can game lived up to agricultural expectations.

“You throw this and try to get it in the hole,” Carlos explained, holding up a giant baseball the side of a cantaloupe. Two giant metal milk cans sat on a tabletop at an angle not designed to find a winner, far enough away that Charles couldn’t decide to toss over or underhanded.

Carlos chose an underhand toss and his ball thunked off the rim of the can. Charles followed suite and missed the can entirely.

“This is the reason I drive cars,” Charles laughed.

Carlos tossed another ball, sticking his tongue between his teeth in concentration.

This time, the ball swirled the rim of the can before plunking off the side.

“This game is a cheat,” Carlos muttered.

“The American way,” Charles agreed.

He threw his second ball and missed again. The attendant bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

“Okay, last one,” Carlos said, staring down the milk can. He took a deep breath and tossed the ball. It arced through the air—

And landed squarely in the grass beside the can.

“Another round,” Carlos said to the attendant, but Charles rolled his eyes and hooked Carlos’s arm.

“We’ll be here all night if we play until you win. We have other games to try, mon amour.”

Carlos glared at the milk can for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine.”

The next few games didn’t involve skill—a lollipop tree, picking rubber duckies from a metal trough to see if the number on the bottom matched with a prize.

“Okay, this is yours,” Charles laughed as they approached a booth with a stack of milk bottles. “I’ve seen this one before. You throw the ball as hard as you can and knock down all three bottles for a prize.’

Carlos let out a snort. “What is difficult about that?”

The attendant handed them three baseballs each. Carlos revved up a pitch and sent a ball right into the tarp behind the bottles.

Charles bit his lip to keep from laughing too hard. “Warmup?”

Carlos shot him a look before he threw another ball.

This one knocked off the top milk bottle, but the other two stayed firmly in place underneath it.

“They must have weight in them,” Carlos muttered. “They should have moved.”

Charles loved the way Carlos’s mind worked. He had an engineer’s mind—much to the annoyance of their actual engineers. He solved problems and learned how to prevent them for the future. He took concepts from other parts of life and applied them to new situations.

Carlos readied himself like an American baseball player and sent a scorcher across the booth. His ball hit a bottom bottle square in the center. It fell with a heavy noise that made Carlos glare at the attendant, who couldn’t be bothered.

Charles pecked his cheek. “My turn.”

Charles didn’t play sports that involved throwing. He liked to watch basketball, but he couldn’t play worth a damn. Football was his sport of choice, but he liked paddle and tennis too.

Not baseball.

Even so, he didn’t like to lose. Charles stared at the stacked milk bottles, trying to work out the math. The top bottle would be lightest and easiest to hit to dupe players into going for it first. But going after the bottom bottles would inherently knock the top one.

He readied his aim and rocketed a ball down the line. It hit the top of a bottom bottle, sending it wobbling on the box. The top bottle fell to the table.

“The bottom right is heavier,” Carlos said in his ear. “It didn’t move and it should have. Go for that one.”

Charles grinned as he picked up the second ball and aimed it square for the right side bottle. He hit the top half, knocking the bottle flat on the ground. The left bottle fell alongside it.

“We won!” Charles laughed as Carlos bundled him in a congratulatory hug. “You were right!”

“Of course I was right,” Carlos said, preening with the attention.

The attendant looked up from his phone. “What prize do you want?”

“The bear,” Charles and Carlos said at the same time.

The attendant frowned at them before pulling an enormous black bear from the wall.

Okay, so it wasn’t enormous, but Charles still had to carry it with two hands.

“For you, mon amour,” Charles teased, offering the bear to Carlos.

Carlos shook his head. “My advice won the game. I won the bear for you, mi amor.”

Charles hugged the bear to his chest, feeling childish, but in a giddy way. The bear smelled like fruity perfume. He nuzzled against its head and thought back to his childhood, when Arthur used to drag a stuffed puppy everywhere he went and cried when the concrete scuffed its button eyes.

“Thank you,” Charles said softly, stroking the bear’s fur.

“We have one last thing to do,” Carlos said, putting an arm around his waist. “I did ask for this one thing.”

Charles followed him past food stands full of funnel cakes, fried Oreos, and lemon shakeups—whatever those were. People stared at them, but it felt different this time. They stared at the bear in Charles’s arms more than the princes carrying it.

A Ferris wheel came into view as they rounded another set of booths. Not full sized, but big enough to get away from the murmurings of the party and the prying eyes.

Giorgio stood at the base of the Ferris wheel, dark circles under his eyes.  He snapped at someone on his phone and checked his watch.

“Ciao, Giorgio,” Charles greeted.

Giorgio took one look at the bear and rolled his eyes. “Has someone taken a photo of this?" He glared at his phone. "Cazzo, not you!”

Giorgio launched into a flurry of Italian too fast for Charles to understand. Carlos tugged him toward the ride, where an attendant held up a bar for a rather rickety looking seat. Charles stepped into it anyway, plopping the bear beside him.

“Oh no,” Carlos said with a shake of his head. He lifted the bear and placed it on the other side of Charles, closest to the railing. “No bear is sitting between you and me.”

“You love me that much?” Charles teased.

“Yes,” Carlos replied with a hint of a smirk.

Charles warmed, letting out a laugh. “I know. I wasn’t being serious.”

“I was,” Carlos replied.

The Ferris wheel jerked into motion, knocking Charles off balance on the seat. He tumbled into Carlos, who caught him with ease.

They met eyes for only a moment before Charles kissed him.

Carlos’s fingers curled in his hair, possessive and gentle. Charles no longer had to think when they started kissing each other—they moved on reflex, so in tune with each other that conversation took place without words.

The Ferris wheel seat groaned underneath them as they slowly climbed upward. Charles focused on his husband, allowing Carlos’s hands up his shirt, the familiar taste of him in his mouth.

When they broke apart, Carlos stared up at him with a breathless smile. His dark features were expressive in any light, but the black and gold turned him into something divine.

“How is it possible that you’re so handsome?” Charles purred, brushing his thumb over Carlos’s swollen bottom lip.

Carlos tilted up to kiss him. Charles met it happily.

Carlos made love feel like a verb.

The Ferris wheel jerked to a stop, swinging their basket abruptly. Charles clawed into Carlos’s jacket to keep himself steady, and Carlos wrapped his arms around him protectively in kind.

“Fuck,” Charles laughed when they didn’t tip over and fall to an untimely death.

He shifted off of Carlos to take his seat beside him on the bench.

The city sprawled before them, a million golden lights mirrored by the stars above. The fair glowed beneath them, all of the people small and far away.

“I think this is the part where we’re supposed to kiss,” Carlos joked, peering over the side of the basket. “I asked them to do it, but I was not expecting to be riding in a washing machine.”

“You planned this too?” Charles asked.

Carlos turned to him again, this time with fondness in his eyes.

“Happy birthday, Charles,” he murmured. “Sorry for celebrating so late.”

The world darkened to nothing around them. Only Carlos, only him.

Charles parted his lips to speak, but no words came out. He had no idea how to describe the way love felt when it came to Carlos, not in moments like this. It hurt as much as it healed, threatening to tear him apart and leave nothing behind.

Carlos was his self-inflicted wound. Unintentional, but lethal all the same.

“This might be the best birthday gift I’ve ever gotten,” Charles said softly.

He couldn’t even remember what he’d done on his birthday the year prior. Whenever he thought of birthdays, he thought of that half-eaten cake in Sochi and the freezerburn taste of pink icing.

“I really love you,” Charles admitted a moment later.

Carlos sat up, caressing his cheek before their lips met for a tender kiss that made Charles fizz and froth under his skin. He rested their foreheads together as all of Austin shimmered around them, the world all their own.

“I really love you too,” Carlos whispered against his mouth.

Charles started to understand why Max was willing to break every rule for Daniel.

The thought terrified him more than death itself.

Chapter Text

 

FIA TOTAL ACCESS

AUSTIN, TEXAS - Prince Verstappen started the final practice session looking quick—Red Bull appears to have made big gains overnight from practice sessions yesterday. That speed carried through to qualifying, where Prince Verstappen absorbed pressure from Prince Hamilton to take pole with a 1:32.910 lap time.

Mercedes looked to have lost their edge early, almost .399 seconds behind in Q2. Somehow, Prince Hamilton made up the gap to secure a pole by a fraction in Q3, but Prince Verstappen was running quicker behind him.

A bit of rain appeared in the final seconds of Q3, but that didn’t deter Prince Verstappen, who carried spend through the final corners to take pole. Prince Perez snuck into third only .02 seconds back from Prince Hamilton, and Prince Bottas knabbed P4 to lock out the first two rows. Prince Leclerc snatched P5, but will move up to P4 thanks to Bottas’s ICE penalty.

This pole marks Prince Verstappen’s ninth of the year, and Red Bull’s first front row start at the United States GP since 2013.  With rumors swirling about his alleged affair with ex-husband Prince Daniel Ricciardo, many expected Prince Verstappen to buckle under the pressure today. Instead, the Dutchman seemed unaffected and emerged from the car with a smile to accept his pole position award.

“It was quite exciting out there,” Prince Verstappen said. “With the bit of rain at the end, I was not sure I would hang on to my lap time. To take pole here with Checo in P3—I think it was a very strong performance for Red Bull."

We caught up with Prince Hamilton, who didn’t seem bothered by losing out to pole.

“We made a lot of improvements today,” Prince Hamilton said. “Big thanks to the team for coming together to make sure we’re competitive. Obviously I would love to take pole, but I’m confident we have the better car tomorrow. The race is what matters.”

Prince Sainz finished just behind his Ferrari husband, followed by an impressive finish from Prince Ricciardo, who seems as competitive as he was in Monza. Prince Norris finished right behind him in P8, followed by Prince Gasly and Prince Tsunoda respectively to round out the top ten.

The race will air at 1400 local time. Prince Verstappen may be starting first, but Prince Hamilton will have the inside line coming into Turn 1. The battle for the championship is on!

 

 


 

 

Lando sat cross-legged on his massage table, staring at the scar on his palm. the lighs were still low from his massage session, the room too warm and humid for his liking.

Sophia sat across from him in a folding chair, looking smaller than he remembered. Her usually tanned skin looked sallow, and she had bags under her eyes that seemed to darken every second.

“I can’t prove anything,” she said quietly. “But I know what I smelled and I know what I saw. And if that ever happens again, I’m reporting it to the FIA. Legally, I have to. Technically, I’m supposed to report it right now.”

Charles had made such a clean cut in his hand. Lando’s scar was so thin, the skin had already knitted back together and it was only a little itchy in his race gloves.

“The fact that this doesn’t surprise you means I’m right,” Sophia said. “God, I can’t believe I didn’t notice. How did we not notice?”

“Everyone was too busy punishing him,” Lando said quietly, thumbing over his scar. “He’ll be okay. It was media day. I can promise you he would never ever do that if he had to get in a car.”

Sophia stood abruptly, her reddish hair looking stringy in the low light.

“I’m going to be paying attention now,” she warned in a whisper. “So just be aware of that.”

Lando waited for the door to click shut behind her before he pulled his knees to his chest. His sternum ached as he did so, but the pain was residual from his seatbelts in the car, not Sebastian grinding a fist into his chest.

Daniel had been so good for so long.

Lando hopped off the table with a sigh and emerged into the harsh light of the hospitality suite, only to hurry down the hall into their driver room.

“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” Daniel greeted cheerfully. He’d already changed from his fireproofs into a Rhude hoodie and a pair of ugly tie-dyed sweats.

Lando locked the door behind him. He kept his palms on the doorknob, words bubbling up hot in his throat.

Daniel blinked at him, his smile falling away. “Lando?”

“Don’t say that like you don’t know,” Lando said.

“Know what, babe?”

He wondered if Daniel really thought he was getting away with it. If he really, honestly thought he could hide from someone who slept in the same bed.

“Sophia could smell the alcohol on you on Thursday,” Lando said. “She just confronted me about it. She said if she notices it again, she’s going to the FIA.”

Daniel’s eyes went wide. He could look so pathetic when he wanted to. Worse, it made Lando's heart hurt to see it. 

Lando shook his head. “This has to stop, Daniel. It never should have started again in the first place. If you had called, I would have been there in a second.”

He would have left Carlos in a heartbeat, despite what everyone probably thought. Carlos didn’t have the kind of demons that could get them both exiled.

“Sophia is imagining things, mate,” Daniel said, his voice tipping lower than before. “I wasn’t drunk on Thursday. I didn’t even drink Thursday.”

“Daniel.”

“I didn’t fucking drink on Thursday,” Daniel snapped. “They’re just saying that so if things go to shit they can blame what I said about Max on alcohol.”

Lando didn’t deny that was probably part of their angle.

“Daniel, don’t lie to me,” Lando said, crossing his arms. “You can lie to them, but not to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Daniel growled, but it didn’t have much heat.

Lando frowned at him. “So I left the beer bottles in the recycle?”

Daniel flinched as if struck. “Those were from Wednesday.”

“Daniel,” Lando warned.

“Jesus fuck—fine. I drank a few before the presser. But I wasn’t drunk. I just needed something to take the edge off before I had to go sit up there next to him and pretend we’re all good.”

Daniel looked down at his hands, pinching at the 3 tattoo on his finger. Max calls it my wedding ring.

Lando cleared his throat. “Max is staying with us tonight. You can’t drink.”

“I fucking know,” Daniel said. “I wasn’t going to.”

Lando sighed. He didn’t want to fight, but drunk Daniel was sloppy. He was acting like he wanted to get caught.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lando asked quietly. Max would be waiting for them at the hotel.

“There’s nothing to talk about."

“Don’t do that,” Lando snapped. “It took me two seconds to see that you’d relapsed.”

Daniel flinched at the final word.

Lando clocked his drunkenness the second Daniel stepped from his McLaren on Wednesday night. His pouchy cheeks and sunken eyes, the lack of warmth beneath his skin. His whole body bloated in strange places—his belly, his thighs, his neck. Daniel claimed to want a salt bath to ease soreness from hard workouts, but Lando knew it was to suck the bloat from him.

Daniel was a skilled driver, but he was even more skilled at concealing himself from the world. From his own empire.

“I was on vacation,” Daniel dismissed. “I’m good now. I’m not going to drink anymore.”

Lando crossed the room and plopped onto the couch beside him. He threaded his fingers in Daniel’s unruly curls. They looked thin in bright light, but even that was a deception. Daniel’s curls had weight and shimmer, though they weren’t as dark and boisterous as they had been at the beginning of his royal career. Or so Lando head seen in pictures.

“I have to be good for Max,” Daniel confessed in a whisper. “They’re riding him hard. He’s—Every time I see him, more of him is missing. Like sand through your fingers, y’know?”

Lando kissed his temple before he took Daniel’s tattooed hand in both of his.

“You did really good today,” Lando said. “You beat me. That’s pretty hard to do.”

“Not really,” Daniel teased.

Lando tried to read the source of the fear in Daniel’s eyes, but it was so deep and dark it would take a pressure suit to survive long enough to find the answer.

He didn’t expect tears to well up, but suddenly Daniel’s eyes shimmered with too much wetness.

“He likes me better when I’m drunk,” Daniel rasped.

Lando’s heart plunged through the floor.

“Daniel, no,” he soothed. “That’s not true at all.”

Daniel offered up a pained smile. “Ah. Intrusive thoughts and all that. Don’t mind me.”

Lando squeezed Daniel’s hand. “Max and I both love you. We love the real you, not the drunk one.”

Daniel nodded, swallowing hard as he did so. “Don’t tell Max, okay? Please. I don’t want to stress him out.”

“Only if you promise not to drink the rest of the weekend," Lando countered. "That’s only a few hours and one day.”

Daniel chewed the inside of his cheek, staring at nothing.

“Okay,” he finally said. “I promise.”

Lando didn’t believe him, but he smiled encouragingly anyway. 

 

 


 

 

“Took you both long enough,” Max greeted when they returned to the hotel suite. He sat on the couch with a PlayStation controller in hand, his FIFA game paused. “What were you doing? Interviews?”

“Making sweet love, darlin’,” Daniel replied cheekily.

Max blinked, glancing between the two of them. “Really?”

“No,” Lando growled, elbowing Daniel in the ribs.

“I was waiting for you so we can order food,” Max said, exiting the game and turning off the PlayStation. “Daniel, did you want to get the barbeque?”

“Uh, duh,” Daniel replied, toeing off his sneakers. “Mikey can make the call and I’ll go with him to pick it up. How’s that sound?”

Max cocked his head as he stood up from the couch. “You won’t stay?”

Lando shivered in surprise at the desperation in Max’s tone. He looked perfectly normal standing there, but his voice had nearly cracked.

“Hey, you alright?” Daniel asked in his softest tone, the one he reserved for Max.

Max trembled for only a split second, but Lando caught it. Daniel did too.

“Baby, c’mere,” Daniel soothed, collecting Max into his arms. “I gotcha.”

Max hugged him tight, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of Daniel’s hoodie. He mumbled something Lando couldn’t hear and Daniel shushed him, kissing his temple.

“I can handle dinner,” Lando offered, but Daniel shook his head.

“I have a special spot. They won’t give you the good stuff if you order it,” Daniel explained.

Unease churned in Lando’s gut.

“As long as you take Michael,” Lando said. “Please.”

Daniel shot him a glare that made Lando shrivel a little, but he held his ground.

“Like Mikey would let me go to the barbeque joint alone,” Daniel said, exasperated.

“Don’t be gone too long, okay?” Max asked, leaning back to look up at him. “I need your good luck.”

Daniel smiled into a long kiss. Max slung his arms around Daniel’s neck, reminding Lando of the covers of his mom’s stupid romance novels.

Daniel let out a hum before they separated and pulled out his phone to dial Michael. Lando prayed Michael knew about the drinking—had had to, as Daniel’s trainer. He had to know.

“And I’m here too,” Lando said with a wave.

Max smiled at him, strangely bright. “Hi, Lando.”

“Mikeyyyyy,” Daniel greeted as he headed into the bedroom. “Wanna go on an adventure?”

“He’s very excited,” Lando said, nodding toward Daniel.

Max smiled wider. “He loves Texas. He loves America.”

“I don’t get it. America is like a more expensive and less convenient Europe. Plus everyone is stuck paying for their own health insurance.”

Max laughed. “Fuck you, you don’t know what they do about health insurance.”

“Yes I do. I saw a post about it on Instagram.”

Max rolled his eyes. “I do believe that.”

He tossed himself on the couch and beckoned Lando over.

Lando perched on the arm, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“You’re looking at me strange,” Max said, looking down his chest at him.

“Are you okay?” Lando asked.

Max seemed off. Too happy. Too unbothered. Definitely not someone stressed enough to make Daniel start drinking again.

“BBQ secured,” Daniel announced, holding his phone up in triumph. “Mikey and I are headed out. Be back so soon, lovers mine.”

Lando leaned back when Daniel hooked an arm around him from behind for a loose hug. He moved on, trailing his hand over the back of the couch until Max grabbed it.

“You’ll be okay, yeah?” Daniel asked, twining their fingers together.

Max and Daniel exchanged a look Lando couldn’t read. The words had been written years ago, first with pencil, now in ink.

“Come back soon,” Max murmured, sitting up.

“Like I’d be away from you any longer than I’d have to be,” Daniel said, leaning down to kiss him. "Love you."

"I love you too," Max said after the kiss. “Be safe.”

Daniel wiggled his fingers. “Don’t worry baby, I’ve got my super license.”

Lando watched Daniel leave and breathed a sigh of relief when he heard Michael’s voice in the hall just before the door shut.

“Are you okay?” Max asked, dropping back into the couch pillows.

Lando blinked. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Lando laughed. “Max, you’ve been living in my hotel room since Thursday night. I wish I could avoid you, mate. Besides, you have enough people breathing down your neck with all the championship stuff.”

And you’re fucking dangerous.

The thought jumped to his mind faster than he could stop it. He didn’t really think Max was dangerous, but being close to him definitely put them at risk. Especially Daniel.

“Okay, yes, but you and I have barely spoken,” Max said.

Lando leaned back into the couch. “Yeah, that’s not exactly new.”

“I want to talk to you, though.”

Lando looked over at him, thoroughly confused. “Uh, why?”

His sternum started to itch, as if Max might be able to sense the healing wound.

“Everyone wants something from me,” Max replied. “You don’t.”

Lando shifted uncomfortably. “Daniel is the one who doesn’t want anything. I want things, you just can’t help me get them.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Really? And what do you want?”

A semblance of power returned to Lando as he sat there with Max’s question hanging in the air. He would never ask for Max’s help in bringing Carlos back to him. He needed to fix his mistakes, the same way he needed to invest more in McLaren to bring their car into competition for a championship to have more chances to spend time with the likes of empires like Ferrari.

He decided to focus on the latter.

“Everyone wants notes from the car,” Lando explained. “Everyone keeps talking about next year. They stick me in the sim for hours and I don’t know what to tell them. We won’t be able to see what’s working and what isn’t working until we’re actually in the  real car, but they want me to know everything already.”

“This is how it is when you’re crown prince,” Max said. “It gets easier. As long as you give feedback after your drives, they can learn how to deal with it.”

Of course, Lando already knew that. Every engineer worth their salt said the same thing. But every time he explained his side of things, none of the McLaren engineers seemed to understand him. It was like they had their own language made up of the same words with entirely different meanings.

Carlos used to spend hours and hours in engineer meetings. Lando could only handle an hour or so before his brain started to melt, but he pushed through as often as he could. Charles wrote things down in a notebook and kept his briefings short, yet he still beat Carlos most weekends. Carlos didn’t like that.

Lando and Daniel were similar. Daniel seemed to enjoy shooting the shit with the data teams, where Lando preferred to give them live feedback or hop in the sim for some troubleshooting. And Lando had beaten him almost every weekend. 

“You’re wrong, by the way,” Max said as he grabbed the PlayStation controller again. “Daniel wants the most out of everyone.”

Anger flickered to life in Lando’s gut. “What?”

Max shrugged. “That isn’t a bad thing. But he wants the most. He wants to be with me, and of course that only happens if I win a championship. If Lewis wins, he’s going to come after us. We’ll have to hide again.”

Max spoke about Daniel so apathetically, as if they were discussing going to the grocery store. Lando had just picked Daniel up off the floor—again—and he was still so fucking fragile, yet Max just sat there talking about alliances.

“Daniel is sacrificing everything for you,” Lando snapped. “Everyone else has a way out if you don’t win. He doesn’t. If he were smart, he would have a backup plan, but he’s going with you no matter what. Win or lose, Max.”

Max stopped playing FIFA to look at him. “Daniel has been doing this for a long time. I love him, but he has a backup plan. I am not that naïve.”

Lando blistered with quiet fury.

“You have no idea,” Lando hissed. “Daniel is borderline obsessed with your wellbeing. You could probably spit on his face and he’d thank you for it. How dare you sit here and doubt him when he’s doing everything and more for you.”

Max tossed the controller on the coffee table. “I am not just sitting here. You are the one with no idea. I’m doing everything I can to win, I’m leveraging everything I have so I can be here.”

“Don’t act like you’re doing Daniel a favor,” Lando said. “You need him, not the other way arou—”

“Yes!” Max snapped, his face twisting to a scowl. “I do need him! And if I lose, where will he be?”

Lando could only gape at him for a moment. He finally shook his head, still shocked. “Who’s making you doubt him? Where the hell is this coming from?”

Max pursed his lips. “Daniel is a human. Daniel is a prince who wants to keep his crown. He has to look out for himself.”

Lando tipped his head back to laugh at the ceiling. “You’re such a fucking idiot.” He sat back up. “He’s in love with you, Max. There’s nothing rational in his brain when you’re around. You’re more important than everything and he’s trying so fucking hard for you.”

Max stared at him, no doubt scrutinizing him for his tells. Max knew all of them—so did Charles, Pierre, George, and Alex.

“I’ve done some really stupid shit this season,” Lando continued. “And all of it was because of Carlos.” He shook his head. “No—it was because I love Carlos. My appointment doesn’t matter as much as he does. I wish it did, but it doesn’t. Daniel is exactly the same about you—are you the same about him?”

Max’s eyes went wide.

“Well?” Lando demanded, his anger threatening to burn him up.

“I’m winning the championship for him,” Max forced out. “Of course I want to win anyway, but I’m doing it this year for him. So we can be together like this all the time—the FIA will allow it if I win.”

Something icy twisted in Lando’s stomach.

“How are you so sure about that?” Lando asked.

Max broke eye contact, worrying his bottom lip. “Red Bull. They have been speaking to the FIA. It’s been made clear that the FIA is unhappy with Lewis’s power. Christian said if I win, it will be different than normal. I’ll be able to have Daniel and no one will say anything.”

Lando swallowed hard. Daniel’s warnings about Red Bull echoed in his head.

“You can’t trust them,” Lando said. “Like Daniel said, they’ll tell you anything to make you want to win. What’s stopping them from revoking that promise the second you win for them? What’s stopping the FIA?”

Max’s eyes hardened as he stared out into the kitchen. He looked nothing like the awkwardly-proportioned kid Lando remembered from their youth. This Max had razor edges. This Max let blood when he wielded himself properly.

“There are things you can do as a champion," Max said. "Christian tells me things. Sebastian also tells me things—when Christian lets him around.”

Lando’s chest went dark. “Don’t trust Sebastian. Look what he did to Charles.”

Max cocked his head. “What did he do to Charles?”

Lando gesticulated vaguely. “Uh, everything? Charles was obsessed with him at the beginning of the season, now they don’t even talk. You really think that was love?”

Max made a face. “Charles probably wasn’t in love with him. He just thought he was because Sebastian gave him attention.  He can be pretty gullible that way.”

“Or Seb is good at making himself desirable.”

They both burst out laughing.

Lando slapped a hand over his mouth—he hadn’t meant to laugh, but he never really understood how someone as pretty as Charles fell for Sebastian Vettel. Maybe he looked different up close.

Probably not.

“Sebastian isn’t looking out for you,” Lando amended. “Daniel is. So listen to Daniel, okay?”

Max softened a little, the tension in his shoulders finally falling away.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I doubt him,” Max said. “I love him so much. But it’s hard to believe he is really only for me.”

“It’s stupid of him, yeah, but he is,” Lando assured him.

“It’s not hard to believe, actually,” Max corrected, as if Lando hadn’t spoken. “But he doesn’t understand the consequences. I know he thinks he does, but he doesn’t. I don’t even understand them. Nobody will explain it to me. No one explains anything.”

Lando opened his mouth to speak, but Max kept going, his eyes vacant.

“Nobody will even let me pick my own food anymore. Not like normal. There’s no choice anymore. It’s baked chicken, Max. Pesto pasta, Max. Steak and mushrooms, Max. Why doesn’t anyone ask me?”

“Max—”

“They keep telling me they did the same thing with Sebastian. Christian says Lewis is on a routine down to the minute—he never deviates. That I need to do the same. So far it’s working—the plan.”

Lando scooted closer as Max’s words started coming out too fast, his eyes skating back and forth as if reading a teleprompter.

“But the second the plan stops working, it’s their plan,” Max said, his voice dipping quieter, secretive. “My plan doesn’t work anymore. My plan isn’t the right plan, but they have the right plan waiting for when I slip up. Won’t last forever—that’s what Christian says. Won’t last forever but they’ll let me pull on the leash until—”

“Max,” Lando soothed, folding his hand over Max’s knee. “What’s going on? Are you okay? You never answered me earlier.”

Max’s eyes went frantic for a second, as if the alarms in his head were using his skull for a bell.

Suddenly he went still, dormant. Machine shut down.

“Sorry,” Max whispered, shaking his head like a wet dog. “That was strange.”

“You’re really stressed,” Lando said, scooting closer. “Can I help?”

His cheeks turned beet red when he realized how he sounded. Max met his eyes and glanced at his lips for a split second before looking away.

“No, Lando. But thank you.”

“I didn’t mean I that way,” Lando said.

Max offered a half smile. “I know.”

“Well, I’ll sit with you," Lando offered. "We can play FIFA until Daniel gets back.”

Max nodded once. “Okay. That sounds good.”

 

 


 

 

Lando got his ass beat several times by the time Daniel returned. Max had calmed down, laughing every time Lando attempted to shoot a goal.

“Apologies, we found this live music place that was really cool,” Daniel said as he entered the suite with two plastic bags full of food containers.

Max abandoned the controller and hopped over the back of the couch. Lando took his shot and scored his second goal of the night.

“I missed you,” Max greeted quietly.

Lando rolled his eyes as he paused the game and turned around just as Max pulled Daniel to him for a deep kiss. Daniel extended the bags, letting out a hum of surprise against Max's mouth.

“Hey baby,” Daniel said as soon as the kiss broke, a little stunned.

Lando hopped off the couch and made his way over to Daniel, taking the bags from him as Max pulled him in by the waist, feathering kisses up Daniel’s neck.

“You feeling better?” Daniel asked in a breathless whisper.

“What’d you get me?” Lando asked, tugging at the tied up bag handles.

“Um, pulled pork,” Daniel replied. “The sliders. Don’t touch the ribs.”

Lando ignored the sound that escaped Daniel’s throat when Max kissed the dip of his collarbone.

“Come to bed,” Max murmured. He probably meant for Lando not hear it.

“Got ‘em,” Lando said, pulling out a Styrofoam container with the sliders.

“Uh, right now?” Daniel replied to Max, his voice hitching slightly.

“Right now,” Max replied in a voice that made Lando blush.

“Yeah, I’m gonna eat this in the lobby,” Lando said, lifting his container. “You two get wild. Just change the sheets, yeah? I’m not sleeping on your nasty.”

“Uh huh,” Daniel replied distractedly, nosing into Max’s hair. “You got it.”

Lando moved to leave, but caught a familiar shape in the other bag. He tugged it open as Daniel finally found Max’s lips again, the noise of their kisses filing the kitchen.

“C’mon,” Max coaxed in that strangely sultry voice of his. He tugged Daniel to him by the hips. “I’ll help you get ready for the race.”

Lando bit back a snort as he finally freed the bag handles.

Three beer bottles. One with the cap off, already empty.

Lando closed his eyes. He shut the bag and set down his food.

“Hey, before you two get freaky,” Lando said.

Daniel let out a hum, but stood there completely transfixed by Max.

Lando reached between them, gently turning Daniel’s head. Lando smiled up at him as he caressed his cheek.

It didn’t feel bloated, and he couldn’t smell beer.

“You know it’s not my birthday, right?” Daniel breathed. “I mean, we can celebrate if you want, but—”

Lando captured his lips in a kiss.

He tasted like hops.

“Daniel,” Lando breathed, his eyes flying open.

Daniel swallowed hard, but covered well. He tugged at Lando’s shirt, silent anguish in his eyes.

“Look, is there any world where I can have both of you at the same time?”

Max lifted his head from Daniel’s shoulder, staring at him in a way that made Lando shiver.

For a split second, Lando considered saying yes. People talked about threesomes like some sexual accomplishment. Lando didn’t really think having sex with two people at the same time would be more enjoyable than just Daniel or just Carlos, but Daniel cared about him. Daniel would make sure he wasn’t forgotten, even though Lando really didn’t want Max to figure out just how inexperienced he was.

Worse, Lando didn’t want to discover any of Max’s moves in bed, just in case Carlos had stolen them. Or taught them.

“You need Max,” Lando murmured, kissing Daniel's cheek. “I’m not ready for all of that.”

Daniel tangled his fingers in Max’s hair. “So you’re saying there’s a chance?”

Lando smiled. “Maybe. but not tonight.”

“Bed,” Max growled. “We can talk about that later.”

Daniel shivered. “God, I love today.” He kissed Max’s hair. “Okay, bed.”

Max tugged Daniel into the bedroom and didn’t close the door. Lando caught the look on Daniel’s face when he tumbled backward into the mattress, breaking into a smile—the same smile he used with Lando.

“Greedy,” Daniel hummed. He laughed as Max crawled on top of him, grinning like an idiot.

Okay, so they were kind of cute.

Lando grabbed his food and transferred the beer bottles into his bag. Max’s laughter trickled out from the bedroom, followed by Daniel’s, then sound of clothes hitting the floor.

“Text me when it’s safe,” Lando called before he stepped out into the hall.

He headed down to the lobby to find Pierre sprawled on a lobby couch, eyelids drooping as he watched TV.

“No fun plans?” Lando greeted, crawling onto the couch.

Pierre blinked awake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Had to find someplace else to be,” he slurred. “Hey, Lando.”

Lando offered a slider. “Want one? Fresh from Daniel’s barbecue place.”

Pierre sat up and took it, then snatched a few napkins from the bag. He made a face. “Beer?”

“You can have one of those too, if you want.”

Pierre wrinkled his nose. “No way. Fucks me up this close to a race.”

Lando lifted a second slider and took a bite.

The pork melted in his mouth, the barbecue sauce tangy and sweet in a way that made his mouth water. He met Pierre’s eye and they both smiled.

“This is very fucking good,” Pierre said.

Lando hummed his agreement. “So what are you down here for?”

Pierre rolled his eyes. “Yuki has a girl.”

Lando nearly spat out his slider. “What?”

“Yes. I let him have the room,” Pierre said, laughing. “Why are you down here?”

Lando shrugged. “Daniel’s got company.”

Pierre eyed him. “I see.”

Lando took another bite of slider. “How’s Charles?”

Pierre shot him a look. “He’s out with Carlos. I have a feeling I won’t see him.”

“Probably for the best,” Lando said with a mouthful of food. “They’re kind of disgustingly in love.”

Lando didn’t expect the pain that followed his own words, hollow and true. Pierre stopped chewing.

“This is all so fucked,” Pierre muttered.

“Yeah,” Lando replied. He swallowed his bite of slider and suddenly thought about asking Pierre about Abu Dhabi. Somewhere in Pierre’s alien-shaped head was a secret, like a gold bar in his brain. Or a key, maybe. Probably a key. If it was a gold bar, Sebastian would have clawed it out of his skull by now.

Lando settled onto the couch. Pierre laid back down, placing his napkin on his chest to eat like a proper lazy person.

On the TV, a woman swirled in a gigantic pink dress, arms outstretched as she belted out a note to a song Lando didn’t know. Pierre rested his socked feet on Lando’s lap, comfortable and familiar as the song continued on.

“Is Max good?” Pierre asked.

The woman twirled again, right into the arms of a waiting man.

Lando took another bite of slider and shrugged. “Would you be?”

Pierre didn’t say anything for a long time.

The woman closed her eyes. Light danced across her face. Pink, purple, blue.

Lando looked over at Pierre. He also looked older. Stronger too. His eyes were darker, the catlike turn changed from soft to feral.

“Max has to do this right. Not a single mistake,” Pierre warned. “Do you think he can do it?”

Lando sucked barbecue sauce from his finger, dread curdling in his gut.

“No,” he admitted softly.

Pierre flexed his jaw.  “Me either.”

Chapter Text

PRINCE VERSTAPPEN TAKES VICTORY IN TEXAS

AUSTIN, TEXAS – Sunday brought triumph and defeat among princes and strategists alike. The COTA track is notoriously brutal on tires, but today turned into a scorcher in more ways than one. Prince Verstappen started from pole position only to go wide at the top of Turn 1, giving Prince Hamilton the lead. Prince Perez followed in third, but Hamilton and Verstappen pulled away from the pack for a showdown worthy of a blockbuster film.

Verstappen executed a near-perfect undercut on Hamilton when he switched from mediums to hard on Lap 11. Hamilton swooped into the pit lane on Lap 14, but emerged second to Verstappen in a crushing turn of events. But another pit stop loomed on the horizon for our battling princes.

Verstappen came in again on Lap 29 for another set of hards while Hamilton secured a 16-second lead. Hamilton finally pitted on Lap 37 and returned to the race 8.8 seconds behind Verstappen in an all-out sprint to the finish.

It all came down to the final three laps. Hamilton began to close in for the kill, eating up tarmac on fresher tires as Verstappen fought for purchase on his worn hard compounds. Somehow, Verstappen found enough pace to keep his lead even with Hamilton using DRS to further close the gap—winning by only 1.3 seconds to take the checkered flag in Austin. 

Prince Perez ultimately finished third, following by Prince Leclerc and Prince Ricciardo respectively--perhaps payback for Ricciardo's tussle with Prince Sainz early on in the race that left the Spanish Ferrari prince struggling to make up places.

Three princes were forced to retire: Prince Gasly with a suspension issue, and both Alpine princes, Prince Alonso and Prince Ocon.

Today’s win for Prince Verstappen means a 12-point lead going into the Mexican Grand Prix, with Red Bull having gained their 200th podium and 73rd win as an empire within the FIA.

In two weeks, the royal court will take on Mexico City in what is becoming the championship fight of the decade.

 

 


 

 

George didn’t remember climbing out of the cockpit of his car, but found himself sitting on burning asphalt, sucking down breaths that didn’t have enough oxygen to keep his vision steady. Black spots began to dance in front of his eyes as he wrestled with wires and tubing from his race suit, desperate to free himself from the cooking heat of his helmet.

Middle Eastern races made his lungs burn after, but Texas heat sucked the life straight from his marrow.

“George?”

Nic appeared in front of him, blocking the sun from his face for a blessed second.

“You good, mate?” Nic asked, crouching down to his level.

“I'm assuredly not good,” George forced out. He pulled his helmet from his skull and swore he heard a sucking noise as it popped free.

The sizzling heat off the tarmac proved to be worse than his helmet.

“Let’s at least get you standing,” Nic said, offering his hand. “C’mon. Up you go.”

George took the offer and wobbled when he finally stood up straight again. Nic put an arm around him to hold him steady, his dark eyes clouded with concern behind his visor.

“I should’ve asked for more water,” George rasped. His whole body vibrated as he focused on nothing but the leathery feeling of his tongue and the sweat crystalizing against his skin.

“Who won?” George asked, using his balaclava to wipe sweat from his eyes.

“Take a look,” Nic replied, nodding toward the podium.

Red Bull polos crowded at the podium barriers, cheering like mad. The whole circuit seemed to be cheering with them. George caught the white edge of Max’s helmet above the bouncing heads, and his stomach dropped.

Lewis had taken the lead in Turn 1. The Mercedes had better speed, better everything.

“No,” George whispered. He wiped more sweat from his eyes and looked for the race results on screen.

“Lewis took second,” Nic informed him. "Checo third."

“Fuck, I need to sit down.”

“Make it to the garage at least,” Nic urged.

Kayla started toward them with two water bottles, flanked by someone else who took George’s helmet, but he couldn’t focus enough to recognize who it was. He shoved his drinking straw in his mouth and started sucking down water, nearly falling to his knees when cold hit his tongue.

“—need medical?” Kayla asked.

“No,” George croaked. “Just need a minute.”

“Someone should look at him,” Nic said, guiding George to sit on a stack of used tires.

George gulped down water as his vision began to return. Checo’s face took up the monitors. He looked like he had one foot in the grave with dark circles around his eyes and a hollow expression he couldn’t shake even when he attempted to smile.

A mechanic turned a cooling fan toward George, blessing him with an icy breeze that brought some life back into him.

“Thank you,” George rasped.

“Your Royal Highness, take one of these, please.”

A man in an FIA polo appeared out of thin air beside him, offering a handful of gummies shaped like cherries.

“Electrolytes,” the official explained. “You’re suffering from early stages of heat exhaustion.”

George shoved the gummies in his mouth, humming at the sickly-sweet flavor.

Nic stepped in front of him, his helmet now gone. Dark hair stuck flat to his head as he hummed a tune to himself and reached up to unfasten George’s collar.

“Spicy,” George tried to joke, but it came out slurred.

Nic’s lips ticked up in a half-smile. “You’d be so lucky.”

George meant to help get his racesuit off, but his hands stayed locked around his water bottle until Nic pried them free from it to get his sleeves down.

The mechanic kept the cooling fan on him as he shrugged out of his sleeves, left in his nomex underneath.

“We’ve got five confirmed cases,” the FIA medic said at the mouth of the garage. “The right combination of shit going down, I guess.”

“Yikes,” Kayla said, tapping away on her iPad.

“Perez is in the worst state I’ve seen in awhile—I’m surprised he finished that race. He had no water the whole time.”

“You’re loopy,” Nic said, gently patting his cheek and jarring his focus. “Take it easy, will ya? Fourteenth isn’t worth losing you.”

“Least it wasn’t fifteenth,” George teased.

Nic swatted him with a cooling towel.

George sat on the stack of tires during the podium ceremony and started to regain feeling in his legs during Lewis’s media pen interview afterward. Lewis smiled brightly for the cameras as he recapped the race, but George could see the fury behind his eyes as he spoke.

“How does this make you feel about the championship?” the reporter asked, shoving her microphone closer to Lewis.

“Honestly, I’m scared I might not win,” Lewis admitted. His smile fell away. “It’s a real possibility now. Each race without a win puts the championship a bit further out of reach. We’ll keep pushing, thought. It’s not over ‘til it’s over.”

George shifted in his seat, resting his head on Nic’s shoulder where he sat on the tire stack next to his.

“Alex will be fine,” Nic assured him, though George hadn’t said a word. “No matter who wins.”

 

 


 

 

Charles never took showers inside the hospitality suite, but Texas had left him in an absolutely disgusting state after the race. He didn’t think he’d ever sweated so much in his life in such a short time span, and he had survived Singapore twice.

“You did well,” Charles said as he reached past Carlos for more shampoo. One rinse hadn’t gotten the reek of stale sweat from his hair. He pressed a kiss to Carlos’s shoulder. “We have two weeks to get things right.”

Carlos sighed. “Yes, but I feel like you tell me this every race.”

“You mean last race, because you took a podium in Russia, mon amour,” Charles reminded him as he started scrubbing shampoo lather into his hair.

The hospitality suite shower barely fit the two of them, resulting in both of them squeezed together under a measly spray. Charles didn’t mind so much, and he preferred to be tucked away with Carlos than answering more questions about a championship he wasn’t in contention for.

“I can’t believe Daniel hit me and got away with it,” Carlos muttered. “Not only that, he ended up beating me.”

“You’re dwelling,” Charles warned. He sank his teeth into Carlos’s trap muscle for a playful nip. “Stop doing that.”

“If I keep doing it, will you bite me again?” Carlos teased, turning to face him.

“That wasn’t a bite,” Charles replied with a snort. “A bite would leave marks.”

“I think I may need an example to prove your theory,” Carlos said with a smirk. He gently eased Charles’s hands from his hair and began lathering the shampoo himself.

“Will that cheer you up?” Charles asked.

Carlos cocked his head, pretending to think. “That and maybe a bit more.”

Charles let Carlos ease him into the shower spray. He closed his eyes when cool water hit his scalp, smiling when Carlos began to wash his hair for him.

“I thought you would want to wait until we’re at the beach,” Charles replied.

“Consider it a warmup,” Carlos said. “We must make sure we are still in top form.”

Charles laughed, scrunching his eyes shut as Carlos guided his head back.

A light knock sounded at the bathroom door.

Charles opened his eyes, cocking a brow at Carlos, who mirrored his look.

“Sí?” Charles called.

“Your Royal Highness, you have a visitor,” someone said from outside the door. He couldn’t recognize the voice. “It’s urgent.”

“Me or Carlos?” Charles asked, resting his hands on Carlos’s hips. Nobody was supposed to disturb them.

“You, Your Royal Highness,” the voice replied awkwardly.

“Urgent enough that I need to come out right now?” Charles asked, annoyed. He couldn’t imagine a single thing that couldn’t wait ten minutes. Okay, twenty.

“The visitor is from Red Bull, Your Royal Highness. He is currently in Binotto’s office—at Mattia’s insistence.”

“Merde,” Charles muttered under his breath. “Fine, I’m coming. Tell whoever it is that they need to give me a moment.”

He caught Carlos’s lips in a kiss, tender and soft.

“Sorry, my love,” he murmured. “Is my hair clean?”

“Clean? Yes. Stylish? No,” Carlos chuckled. “But very cute.”

Charles grinned into another kiss, squeezing Carlos’s hips. “Don’t plan on keeping those clothes on for long, okay?”

Carlos laughed. “Okay.”

Charles gave him once last peck before he stepped from the shower and grabbed his towel. He quickly dried himself off and threw on a Ferrari polo, his boxers,  and a pair of athletic sweats. He hopped into his Puma sneakers as he slipped out of the bathroom, shaking out his hair.

A Red Bull Public Relations official cleared his throat, gesturing toward the stairs.

Charles blinked in surprise, fully expecting a Ferrari rep. “Oh. I guess this is important, hm?”

He headed up the stairs to find Giorgio scowling from his spot at the large table in front of the TVs.

“Ciao, Giorgio,” Charles greeted.

Giorgio narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like this, Charles. Make it fast.”

Charles shot him a look and headed for Mattia’s office. He hesitated before opening the door, but ultimately decided whatever laid behind it obviously hadn’t set off any alarms for—

Oh fuck.

Max stood at the massive window overlooking the paddock with hands clasped behind his back, his hair a mess.

Charles closed the door behind him and locked it. “Max?”

Max wheeled around, grinning at him. “Charles, hey—sorry to bother you like this.”

Charles could still smell the champagne on him, even though Max had changed into media clothes.

“Is something wrong?” Charles asked. “This is awfully…dramatic.”

“I won, Charles,” Max whispered, hopping around the corner of Mattia’s desk, nearly knocking over the replica Enzo Ferrari fountain pen Mattia kept there. “I fucking did it when they said I couldn’t.”

“I don’t think anyone said you couldn’t,” Charles replied. “If anything—oof.”

Max wrapped him up in a tight hug and lifted him off the ground. Charles blinked in surprise, too stunned to hug back.

“Uh, Max, is everything okay?” he asked once Max returned him to the groun.

Charles put a hand on Max’s shoulder, looking him over. He had dark red circles around his eyes, almost like bruises. But his eyes were bright, yellow lightning flashing across blue and green.

“I won, so of course it is,” Max said, grinning. “Fuck, I showed them.”

Charles had half a mind to have Giorgio call Red Bull’s physician. Max wasn’t one to celebrate victories unless it involved copious amount of alcohol and a club packed full of people who didn’t know him.

“Max,” Charles said, dipping into a softer tone.

Max stilled at the sound of his name.

Charles cleared his throat. “What’s making you afraid?” 

Max went rigid. His smile dropped in the same instant. “I’m not afraid.”

“Yes, you are,” Charles said quietly.

Max didn’t get excited about things.  He could be the life of the party at an event and could sometimes be described as bubbly at his happiest, but he didn’t do excited. Excitement came from a place Charles hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Max balled his hands to fists at his sides. Tension crept through his body, slow and building, like water coming to a boil.

Charles lifted his chin to face it, going still as soon as the tension sparked in Max’s eyes.

“I can’t lose, Charles,” Max grit out. “I don’t know what they’ll do to me, but I can’t lose.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Charles gestured to one of the seats in front of Mattia’s desk. “How about you sit down?”

“Red Bull,” Max whispered, ignoring his invitation. “Christian and Helmut. The whole empire—they tell me it’s okay if I don’t win, then as soon as everyone leaves it’s like—I don’t know. I don’t know, Charles.”

Max quivered where he stood, caught somewhere between an angry outburst and breaking down into sobs. Charles knew because he used to see it during their years karting together, especially when their wins started moving them closer to royalty.

Charles took Max’s hand and guided them both down to the floor. Charles sat cross-legged like he used to do as a teenager, massaging the crescent of Max’s palm. His hands were both unmarred, no wounds to worry about. More callouses than he remembered, though. Longer fingers too. 

Max pulled his hand away and set it in his lap. He shifted uncomfortably and glanced down. “Can I—?”

“Sure, of course,” Charles said, adjusting his position.

Max turned away from him and reclined until his head landed squarely in Charles’s lap.

He looked the same from above as he had when they were younger, though his face was more angular now.

“Eyes closed,” Charles soothed. He watched the rise and fall of Max’s chest, hollow but slowing down with each breath.

Max’s eyes were still ringed with dark. His blood vessels showed through his skin, tiny purple rivers. Charles used his free hand to thumb them absently, waiting for Max to speak.

They used to spend hours like this. When they first started dating, Charles felt guilty for looking forward to Max being stressed to the point of breaking, just so they could have this quiet time together.

“Please come to Los Angeles,” Max finally whispered, opening his eyes.

Charles froze. Of all the things he expected Max to say, non of them involved traveling together.

“Please,” Max insisted. “I need you there.”

“Max, I can’t take sides in this,” Charles said. “Going to Los Angeles with you is a statement I can’t make.”

“Then fly separately. Nobody knows us in Los Angeles. Nobody will see us together—Daniel will be with us too. He’ll take all of the attention.”

Charles bit the inside of his cheek, thumbing over the rasp of stubble on Max’s jaw. He still couldn’t piece this older, stronger version of Max together with the body language of the one he used to know. It felt wrong and comfortable at the same time.

“What do you need me there for if Daniel is going?” Charles asked.

Max swallowed hard. Fading sunlight caught on his blond-tipped lashes, giving him a strange glow.

“Daniel is too fragile right now,” Max murmured. “I can’t be myself with him—I can’t be afraid or he’ll be terrified.”

“I think Daniel is stronger than you think.”

“Not as strong as you,” Max replied.

Not long ago, Charles would have tucked that single phrase in his heart for safekeeping. He would ask Max to say it again and daydream about recording it to he could play it out loud for Daniel, for proof. Now it made his chest go cold. 

Charles thumbed Max's cheek again. “Tell me what Red Bull is threatening you with.”

Max shifted, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. Charles tried to read the changing tide in his eyes, and every fiber of his being wanted to take Max into his arms when the fear started welling up in them.

Charles stilled his hand. 

“Please come to Los Angeles,” Max begged. “Just please come. Please, please.”

Charles couldn’t remember the last time Max had begged him for anything—if ever. Coldness lanced up his spine, numbing and prickly.

“Ehi, I'm right here,” Charles soothed, hunching over him to stop the sun from hitting his face. “I’ll talk to Carlos about it. If he doesn’t want me to go, I’m not going to do that to him. We had a vacation planned—I know how that sounds, but this has consequences, Max. This has to be a joint decision between Carlos and I. If I get caught with you, Ferrari is in danger. But I'll ask, okay?”

Max sat up so fast they nearly cracked skulls, but Charles dodged at the last moment.

“Thank you,” Max said. His eyes flitted around, scanning Charles’s face at double speed.

Worry knotted in Charles’s gut. He lifted his hands, gently framing Max’s face.

“Max,” Charles said in the same easy tone. “You won today. You don’t have to worry about anything until two weeks from now. Fourteen days to relax, yes?”

“Twelve,” Max corrected quicky.

“Okay, twelve. But that’s twelve full days. You need to use them all.”

“With you and Daniel,” Max said.

Charles tilted his head up to kiss Max’s forehead. He tasted like salty champagne, but Charles didn’t care. He had never seen Max so fragile. This Max seemed completely different than the one who picked him up off the street in Zandvoort.

Max probably thought the same about him, back then.

“Come here,” Charles said, tugging Max to his chest. Max burrowed his face into Charles’s polo, his body too light and bony against his. Daniel had warned him about Max changing, but Charles stupidly thought they would affect his mood and attitude.

Charles had to go to Los Angeles. He had to hope Carlos agreed.

 

 


 

 

George didn’t need to ask where Nico was as he made his way down the pit lane and noticed concerned faces, uncomfortable looks, and a few shaking heads.

The closer he came to the Mercedes garage, the more the looks intensified. Words like exile and pedigree and him echoed in the pockets of empty space that should have been filled with post-race personnel.

Sure enough, Nico’s blond hair appeared in the crowd up ahead, and a moment later George heard the cry of his laughter.

Alex still trusted Nico. George never would. Every word out of Nico’s mouth came from a place of desperation, and desperate men didn’t look out for anyone but themselves.

Toto Wolff stood outside the Mercedes garage, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. A gargoyle made to protect Lewis, no doubt.

“Hi,” George greeted, nodding toward the interior of the garage. “Is Lewis in there?”

Toto stared out at the crowd, razor-focused on where Nico chatted with a group of Mercedes engineers. Nico used grand gestures as he talked, and a few of the engineers held out their phones to take photos with him. Exiled princes seldom returned to the royal circle--Nico probably lapped up the attention like a starved animal.

“Have you spoken to Rosberg?” Toto asked, ignoring his original  question.

George let out a snort. “No. If I never spoke to that cretin again, it’d be too soon.”

Toto worked his jaw. “Lewis is in his briefing room. Knock four times or he won’t unlock it.”

George furrowed his brow. “Why? Is someone else going to try to come in?”

Toto soured further. “Nico is a Mercedes World Champion. He still has special privileges on race day.”

George thought back to Monaco, how Nico cornered Lewis on the yacht. Anger began to simmer in his gut. “Fuck—when will this guy get a clue?”

“I suspect he has one, and that’s exactly why he’s made the choice to be here today,” Toto growled. “Nico knows what he is doing.”

Nico put a hand on an engineer’s shoulder, smiling as he spoke. George couldn’t see why Toto would even allow anyone to speak to someone who had been so horrible to their crown prince.

“Four knocks, got it,” George said. “Thank you.”

Toto continued to stare Nico down. “And perhaps shower sooner rather than later.”

George would have flipped him off if he wasn’t about to marry into the empire. He had a feeling Sebastian liked Toto. They probably sipped champagne together in whatever top secret bunker Lewis had built under the Mercedes palace to hide his one true love.

George knocked on the door to Lewis’s briefing room. He stood close to the frosted glass, listening for movement on the other side. A shadow appeared before the door clicked open.

Lewis stood in an oversized Sherpa hoodie, completely bundled up despite the sweltering heat outside. He never looked small, but his posture and the expression on his face was adolescent, almost afraid. Definitely exhausted.

“Hey,” George greeted softly. “Can I come in?”

Lewis stared at him for a moment, as if trying to process who was standing in front of him. George wished he’d thought to shower. Lewis smelled soapy and clean, but with no trace of his usual cologne.

“Is he still out there?” Lewis asked.

“Yeah,” George replied, leaning against the threshold. “But if you want to go somewhere else, I can be your bodyguard. I’m pretty tough.”

Lewis smiled. “Oh yeah?”

“For sure. And I would have no problem slugging Nico Rosberg in the face, come what may.”

Lewis broke out into a laugh that made George warm all over. He still wanted to see Lewis happy, and he hated himself for it. Lewis lied to him. Lewis used him—and yet here he was trying to comfort him.

“Come in,” Lewis said. “I’ve been meditating on the floor, but you’re free to take a seat.”

“Meditating? Does that work?” George asked as he stepped into the briefing room. A few candles were lit on the floor set beside a cushy yoga mat. Only Lewis.

“Helps me settle,” Lewis said, taking a seat on the yoga mat.

George decided to sit down in front of him, watching a candle flame dance in its jar. George wrinkled his nose after a moment.

“Sorry, I think I smell.”

Lewis laughed again. “I didn’t notice. If I did, I’ve smelled you sweaty before. Means you worked hard.”

George’s cheeks went red at the innuendo. He shook his head, deciding to keep quiet when pain blossomed in his chest.

It could have been so easy for them. They could have had a good marriage, a strong partnership. Maybe not a love for the storybooks, but history would write them one anyway.

“Thanks for coming to check on me,” Lewis said, as if he could read George’s mind. “Or maybe you didn’t come to check on me. Did you need something?”

George wished he did. He shook his head. “I saw your interview. I’ve never heard you like that—got a little worried."

Lewis shrugged. “Max needed to hear it. He’s the type who lets his guard down if he thinks he’s getting his way. I want him to think I’m afraid of him, but you don’t accomplish that by saying it out loud. There are a lot of cues to set up. He’s trying to do the same thing, in a way. It just doesn’t work with me.”

“Not even with Nico?” Geroge asked.

Lewis narrowed his eyes. “Especially not him.”

“You’re just hiding from him right now for no reason, then,” George said. He kept his voice level and unaccusatory, merely curious.

“Why would I subject myself to that?” Lewis snapped. His jacket no longer swallowed him. The youth in him hardened to a steel edge. “I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to speak to him. But if he’s allowed in the paddock, he’s allowed to come to Mercedes, and members of my empire still like him. It isn’t my place as a leader to tell them to ignore him. He won for us. He’s one of our champions.”

Lewis shook his head and looked down at his hands. No rings, no watches.

“I’m not going to make a big deal out of it, but I’m not going to have anything to do with him,” Lewis continued. “He makes my skin crawl.”

“Toto seems to think he’s here on purpose,” George said.

Lewis snorted. “I’m sure he is. He’s probably spent the last few hours with Christian Horner, giving him advice on how Max can get into my head. But Max has no fucking idea what will happen if he wins. He never will. He can’t win.”

George frowned. A shadow fell over Lewis’s face as he propped his head in his hand, staring at the frosted glass door. A thousand memories swirled in his eyes, an entire world George couldn’t reach.

“I’m getting eight championships,” Lewis said, low and dangerous. “If Verstappen had any sense, he’d leave me to it. I won’t quit until I have eight or I’m dead. I know he can't say the same.”

 

 


 

 

“So you’re going,” Carlos said as he placed another folded shirt into his suitcase where it sat open on the bed.

“No, I’m asking you,” Charles said. He sat down next to Carlos’s suitcase and took his hand, squeezing once. “I don’t want to go. I didn’t want to go at go, but I’ve never seen him like that. Not to mention Max never begs anyone for anything.”

Carlos sighed. A swath of dark hair covered his eyes as he stared down at his luggage.

“It feels like this may be a trap,” Carlos finally said. “If you are caught, everyone will think you support Max.”

“I told him that. Normally I would say I shouldn’t go, but I can’t get his voice out of my head,” Charles admitted. “He’s afraid. Red Bull is threatening him with something, Carlos.”

“Yes, they tend to do that,” Carlos muttered. He stepped closer until he settled between Charles’s knees.

Charles cocked his head. “Personal experience?”

Carlos nodded once. “They pitted our fathers against each other in hopes that we would stop respecting each other. Every day I heard so many rumors about what Max had supposedly said about me. After awhile you start to wonder how much of it could be false.”

Charles tugged at the hem of Carlos’s shirt. “How did they threaten you?”

“In many ways. Once they said I would lose my appointment if I did not beat Max, that my performance wasn't what they wanted. Then I found out they told Max the same thing.”

Charles imagined Carlos—younger, but still just as smart—speaking with Toro Rosso government officials, trying to sort truth from lies.

“Red Bull has a pattern,” Carlos explained, reaching up to smooth back Charles’s hair. “It is a pattern that works. They put two promising princes together and tell them both that they are the best and watch as they tear each other apart. Then they discard the weaker one, or appoint him somewhere else.”

Charles frowned, looping his arms around Carlos’s waist. “Don’t hate me for saying this, but if that’s the case, why did they appoint Max to Red Bull and not you, back then?”

Carlos laughed. “I wondered the same for a very long time. I was more mature than Max. I had more experience leading. They knew that.”

He paused, shoulders sagging as he wandered through a time Charles only knew from news coverage and stories in the paddock.

“Red Bull followed their playbook. Max was the weaker one. He needed Red Bull, I didn’t. I’ve proved it now—first with Renault, then McLaren, now Ferrari. They wanted Max because he could win, but also because he had no other choice but to do what they say.”

“He’s going against the FIA,” Charles countered. “That’s going against Red Bull.”

“For now,” Carlos said with a kiss to his forehead. “Red Bull still controls him. They care about that more than winning now. If they cared about winning, Daniel would have stayed and won them a championship. Instead they put Max first—and he was not the better driver in those days.”

Charles thought of the fear in Daniel’s eyes in New York. My future is fucked if Max doesn’t win.

“So what do I do?” Charles asked.

Carlos met his eye. “Go to Los Angeles. Max wouldn’t ask you to be there if it wasn’t important. But understand Max does not have control--no matter what it looks like. You have to be safe.”

 

 

Chapter 118

Notes:

this chapter references terminal illness and past traumatic events

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

ELLENTUBE.COM

Ellen welcomed FIA prince Daniel Ricciardo, who explained why it’s important for racing princes to stay fit for high-speed races. Prince Ricciardo also talked about details of the high-intensity sport, and gave some insight on how he’s portrayed in the Netflix series “Drive to Survive.”

Most interestingly, he spoke about the marriage rules within the FIA—exclusively on Ellen!

Click here to watch the video clip, or read the transcript below.

 

Ellen DeGeneres: So one of the stranger things about your job is that you have to be married, is that true?

Daniel Ricciardo: Yes ma’am. Two heads are better than one and all that—that’s the idea behind it, anyway.

ED: But you change husbands every few years, right? And it’s always husbands, never wives?

DR: Er, yes. That’s part of the deal. Your marriage only lasts as long as your appointment. An appointment is your ruling term.

ED: Must be a European thing.

[crowd laughs]

DR: Something like that. To answer your question, there have been princesses before. It’s not common, but they’ve been there.

ED: What’s that like, being married to someone you barely know?

DR: Pretty weird, not gonna lie. I mean, we usually know each other beforehand though. After a few husbands, you kind of get used to it.

ED: Your current husband is…what’s his name?

DR: Lando Norris.

ED: Like from Star Wars?

[crowd laughs]

DR: I don’t actually know, I’ll have to ask him.

ED: You don’t know where your husband’s name comes from?

DR: I never said I was a good husband, Ellen.

ED: I guess not! Let’s see your previous husbands, so people have an idea. Seems like you have to be a looker to be royal.

DR: It certainly helps.

[crowd laughs]

ED: Okay, who is this?

DR: Oh man. That’s Jean. Jean-Éric Vergne, to be precise—and he would want me to be.

ED: Tell us about him. He was your first husband, right?

DR: Yep. Not much to tell, honestly. We were pretty competitive, but we pushed each other a lot. He’s a good guy.

ED: And this guy. [crowd cheers] Oh, he seems to be pretty popular around here.

DR: Yes, that’s Sebastian Vettel. Four-time world champ, that guy. This is an old picture—this is how he looked when we were married. Handsome, eh?

ED: And when was that?

DR: 2014.

ED: I’ve heard he’s described as quite the romantic.

DR: Oh, definitely. Pulled out all the stops. We got along really well. 2014 was a great year for me, personally and professionally.

ED: How so?

DR: I got my first three wins that year—for Red Bull.

ED: Oh! Look at this guy! Who is this?

DR: Danny! That’s Daniil Kvyat.

ED: His name was also Daniel?

DR: Spelled the Russian way, but yes. He was—

[crowd cheers]

ED: Oh, listen to that. You guys know who this is? Wow. This is—you guys really liked this one. Who is this?

DR: That’s Max.

ED: Who?

DR: Max. Max Verstappen.

ED: Look at that face. How old is he in this photo?

DR: Nineteen. That picture is from his first year at Red Bull with me.

ED: Did you two get along?

DR: In the early days? Not really. Personality clash. I had a pretty big ego back then—I mean, I still do, but I had a huge one back then.

[crowd laughs]

ED: And when’s this one from?

DR: Oh jeeze. That’s from Max’s birthday. I think his twentieth? Yeah.

ED: Looks like you liked each other then.

DR: I loved him, actually.

[crowd claps]

ED: Aw. I think every eye in his room just leaked a tear. And now…? What, he’s dead to you or something? Now you’re with Lando?

DR: Uh, I mean, it’s not quite like that.

ED: And where was this one taken?

DR: Monaco, that was  the night before I won there. Where did you get that photo?

ED: You left Red Bull after that season, right?

DR: I was appointed to Renault, yeah.

ED: Was that difficult for you and Max?

DR: Does anybody like divorce?

[crowd laughs]

ED: But seriously, you were willing to put aside this—and this is a very cute picture by the way—for a different kingdom or whatever they’re called? Empire?

DR: You make me sound so cruel! [crowd laughs] It’s the nature of the game, really. You have to keep a crown. I could love Max as much as I wanted, but if the performance isn’t there, I have to consider my options. My car busted out at eight races that year.

ED: And what about this picture?

DR: What about it?

ED: That’s clearly you in the background taking that photo.

DR: Hm. I don’t think so.

[crowd cheers]

ED: Fans are saying it is. Doesn’t that look like him? Yeah, this is from this past summer. Posted on Max’s Instagram page. So you’re still hanging out with Max?

DR: I see him, yes. We’re still around each other.

ED: And your new husband is okay with that? Mando?

DR: Lando. And yes, he is. 

ED: The rules of the FIA are pretty strict about this stuff. Hanging out with exes and all of that. Sounds like they know things might not be as cut and dry as you’re saying they are.

DR: The FIA has rules in place for a reason. We’re not the first princes for the empires, and we’re not the last.

ED: But do they seriously expect you to fall out of love every few years?

DR: It’s not about that. It’s about putting your empire first, your crown. A prince who can his heart aside and go for the win—that’s the core value they’re searching for. Max is doing that this year, he’s fighting to be champion.

ED: Setting his heart aside?

DR: Lewis would be doing the same thing if he loved anyone.

ED: But Max is setting his heart aside for racing?

DR: I’m sure he is. You don’t have room for anything but the racing when you’re after the championship.

ED: You’re very poetic. That was a good line, there. Come on, you can’t tell me Max isn’t—I mean, you’re still thinking about him, right? If you’re still hanging out together, there has to still be something there.

DR: Well, I don’t—

[crowd chants, cheers]

ED: Max is obviously the crowd favorite.

DR: We didn’t even look at the rest of my husbands. Have you seen Nico Hulkenberg?

[crowd laughs]

ED: No running off into the sunset together with Max? Isn’t that the romantic thing that’s supposed to happen?

DR: I don’t think any princes have done that, no. I’ve got a few years on Max, I’d never ask him to limit his career for me.

ED: Are you sure you’re not still married to Max? Sounds like you are.

DR: I’m very much married to Lando. I love Lando a lot. But when I get to the pearly gates of retirement or whatever, um, there’s someone I’m waiting for.

ED: Max?

DR: That’s all I’m going to say. There’s someone.

 

 


 

 

“It was filmed before Texas,” Charles said from his seat on one of Daniel’s pool loungers.

“People don’t care about that,” Max snapped as he paced the other side of the pool. He dripped as he walked, even though the late afternoon sun wasn’t quite warm enough for comfortable swimming.

Daniel’s house didn’t have an actual backyard, just a large deck terrace with a stunning swimming pool and hot tub. A luxurious view of Coldwater Canyon sprawled before them, and they sat surrounded by thick scrubland trees that blocked the view from any prying neighbors.

Max’s phone buzzed to life on the end of Charles’s lounger. Christian Horner’s name popped up on the screen, his third call in the past fifteen minutes. Max stared at the phone, but made no move to round the pool to answer it.

“He never should have said that,” Max finally said. “He just fucked everything up by saying that.”

“That woman goaded him,” Charles said. “You heard Daniel, he said she’s a horrible person.”

“He knew what he was getting into,” Max snapped. “He gave her those photos. That photo of us in Monaco was taken on film. That was a film photograph. He kept the only copy at his apartment in Monaco—which means he brought it here.”

Charles sat up straighter on the edge of the lounger, adjusting his Ray-Bans. “Of course he brought it here. He probably brings it everywhere.”

I would. 

Max set into a marching pace back and forth along the edge of the pool, shoulders hunched and rigid.

“You have no right to be this upset with him,” Charles warned with a soft edge. “You’ve been inviting this for months. In Austin you essentially said the same thing. You’ve been blatant about being with him.”

“Shut up, Charles,” Max snarled.

“No,” Charles replied dryly. “This is the stress eating at you. You love Daniel and you’re allowing this silly TV show to hurt you both. It was an American show on at three in the afternoon. Only Americans are watching it.”

Max’s phone started buzzing again. This time, Max strode around the pool and snatched the phone, silencing it.

Charles patted the pool lounger. “Sit.”

“I’m not a dog,” Max said, tossing his phone down.

Max sat, facing away from him. He put his head in his hands, fisting at his wet hair.

Charles unfolded one of the towels Daniel’s housekeeping staff had supplied them with and draped it over Max’s shoulders. He rubbed Max’s arms, trying to warm his chilled skin with the towel.

Max had spent maybe one day relaxing. The past two days he'd spent pacing, ignoring a constant stream of phone calls from Christian Horner, Helmut Marko, and various Red Bull officials Charles didn’t recognize.

Charles asked him to turn off his phone after the first day, but Max and Daniel had both shaken their heads. Red Bull needed to know Max’s location at all times. Safety concerns, they said. But they all knew the truth—Red Bull wanted to ensure they knew exactly where and how their prince was breaking the law.

Charles scooted himself to the edge of the lounger, nudging Max over so they could sit shoulder to shoulder. Max’s arm shook against the sleeve of Charles's Burberry crewneck, even with the towel.

“I want what he wants,” Max said quietly. “When I give up my crown, I want him there waiting for me. I want that more than anything.”

Charles looked down at their feet. His were sunburnt from his first day sitting at the pool attempting to finish War & Peace. He made it twenty minutes before he realized Max and Daniel had the windows open for an afternoon fuck and had to move down to the very edge of the terrace for the breeze to carry the sound away.

Max’s toes were pink from cold. He curled them against the smooth wooden decking.

“I keep saying that,” Max said. “I keep repeating it—'I want that more than anything, I want Daniel more than anything, I love Daniel more than anything.' Have you ever said something so much it starts to feel untrue?”

Charles made a quiet, soothing noise and nestled closer. He tried not to think about a younger Max saying the same thing about him until he chose to abandon him at an airport in Brazil. 

“Fairytales aren’t real, Charles,” Max said, fisting his hair tighter. “Daniel is very smart. He brought those photos and he acted like he didn’t. He’s making a play—he’s made one already.”

“Max, that’s not—”

Max’s phone started buzzing again. Max stabbed a finger at the decline button just at Helmut’s name popped up.

“Doesn’t he realize that every time he does this, he puts more pressure on me?” Max snapped. Charles didn’t think he as talking about the phone calls. “If I lose now, Daniel will never find a crown after McLaren. I think that’s what he fucking wants—he wants it to be someone else’s fault. He wants it to be my fault.”

Charles rested his cheek against Max’s shoulder and stared out at the pool.

“Daniel might not be trying for a championship, but I think what he’s done is brave,” Charles murmured. He thought of Pierre bandaging his battered knuckles in a restaurant bathroom in Monaco, focused on the singular task of protecting him from harm, saving him from himself. “Maybe he does want it to be someone else’s fault. Our worst fear is losing our crown because we lost the talent to deserve one.”

“I’m trying as hard as I can, Charles,” Max said after a long silence. His voice broke as he sucked down a breath that rattled all the way down his throat.

“Max, look at me,” Charles murmured, sitting back so Max could turn to him. Max’s eyes looked so sunken in, his milky skin almost lilac despite pacing around in the sun for two afternoons straight.

“I know you’re trying as hard as you can,” Charles assured him. “We all see that.”

Max’s lips twitched. “Not everyone. Red Bull doesn’t think that way.”

Charles’s stomach twisted. “Did they say that, or are you—”

“No, I made it up,” Max snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

For as ridiculous as Mattia could be, Charles knew with complete certainty that they believed in his ability to win a championship. Even this season, where the best they could hope for was a spot on the podium,  all of Ferrari whispered of next year. They stood behind him and Carlos in front of the media and their citizens alike.

Charles ran his tongue over his bottom lip, trying to find something to say. Max stared back at him, the same scared boy Charles used to see after the anger of a karting loss. Those same eyes used to look at him, pleading for help Charles never knew how to give.

“Lewis is going to beat me,” Max said in a shaking voice. “I watch his onboards in my sleep. I know them by heart—every single fucking track and when I drive it in my mind he’s still faster.”

Charles shook his head. “He’s not. You’ve won plenty of races on your—”

“And when I see him, he stares right fucking through me,” Max continued over him. “He doesn’t have anything to lose. Not a fucking thing. He doesn’t win just because he’s a good driver. He wins because he doesn’t have a soul.”

Max actually believed the words coming out of his mouth. Charles saw it in the flexion of his jaw, the way Max’s hands curled up in his lap over his hypocritically bright swim trunks.

“He’s like—He’s like a demon,” Max said, eyes going frantic as he scanned Charles's face. “Possessed. He’s the reason we have his system, because we have a champion who doesn’t care about anyone else. He doesn’t love anyone.”

Charles knew full well that Lewis loved Valtteri Bottas enough to have Sebastian look out for a spouse for him at Alfa Romeo. Kimi even seemed to respect his wish. Charles didn’t associate much with Lewis, but George loved him deeply—in a way Charles didn’t think was possible after Alex. George didn't trust people who abused other people.

“Max,” Charles said gently. “Is Red Bull telling you this? You really think Lewis Hamilton is a demon? Are you listening to yourself?”

“I’m not fucking insane,” Max snarled. “I don’t think he’s actually a demon. He’s acting like one. He’s the reason these rules are so strict. He wanted to give himself the advantage—he doesn’t care about anyone, so fuck the rest of us.”

Max’s phone stirred to life again. Horner this time.

Max let out a noise of frustration and stood up. Charles followed him, picking up the phone and silencing it.

“Think about it, Charles,” Max said as he headed toward the house.  “I’m trying to win so I can give us all the chance to have something fucking normal in our lives.  If Lewis wins, who the fuck knows. Eight championships will make him unstoppable. The FIA doesn’t want that—they hated Schumacher enough to stop him from ever having a chance to win again.”

Charles stopped in his tracks. “What?”

Max turned around to face him, his face grave. “There’s a lot we don’t know.”

“You’re starting to sound insane,” Charles warned. “What happened to Michael was an accident. You really think Jean Todt—one of his best friends and President of the FIA—would approve a fucking hit on Michael Schumacher?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “We don’t know anything. They could have hands in everything we think is normal, Charles. Maybe they put everything in place for you. Maybe they wanted a handsome hero everyone could root for. So they had to give you tragedy to make people feel sorry for you.”

Charles’s whole body went rigid. His stomach turned to acid, seething and hissing with anger inside him as he stepped up to Max, nose to nose.

“What exactly are you implying, Max?”

Max’s lips twitched to a sick smile. “You’ve always been very vague about what happened to your Dad.  Do you even—”

Charles shoved him as hard as he could, suddenly blinded with rage. Max stumbled backward, but caught himself before he fell.

“Yes!” Max hissed. “Get angry! This is what they’ve been doing to us!”

“I’m going to fucking kill you if you say something like that again,” Charles spat, all venom. “How dare you. You weren’t there. You abandoned me—you didn’t even come to his funeral.”

“The FIA didn’t let me,” Max said, eyes wild. He looked like he might start laughing any second, and that made Charles want to punch him right across the face.

“That’s bullshit,” Charles shot back. “Pierre came. Members of eth FIA were there—”

“To make sure their plan worked, probably,” Max muttered.

Charles almost slapped himself, just to see if it might wake him up. He didn’t know if his brain could conjure a nightmare like this. How long had Red Bull been planting seeds in Max's head? At what point had he started to believe them?

“If you were in my place, you would do the same thing to make sure they don’t have their way,” Max hissed, stepping closer as if he hadn’t just implied Charles’s father—his fucking father—had been killed by the FIA. 

“And what are you doing?” Charles asked, too loud and too harsh. 

Max never once visited the hospital while his father was ill. Max never held Arthur while he cried or found something to say to Lorenzo, who had lost his best friend only a few years before. Max never became the only person in the hospital room capable of speaking after his whole family fell apart. Max never lied to his father in his final moments, telling him he'd been appointed to Ferrari when he hadn't signed anything at all.

Max set his mouth in a line. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I don’t think I would, no,” Charles replied through gritted teeth.

The front door slammed, causing both of them to step back from each other. Max relaxed instantly, turning on a soft smile that had to be fake.

“Daniel?” he called.

“That’s me,” Daniel called back from the entryway he appeared a moment later with paper bags tucked under each arm. “Whole Foods in Beverly Hills is something else, lemme tell ya.”

“We saw the interview,” Charles said as he stepped into the house. Apparently people in California preferred to have massive sliding doors that stayed open all the time instead of walls. “The one with the Ellen woman.”

Daniel set the bags down on the dining room table. His smile faded. “Oh. How did that go over?”

Max’s phone buzzed again in Charles’s pocket, right on cue.

“Red Bull isn’t happy,” Max said, looping his arms around Daniel’s waist.

Daniel ruffled Max’s hair and kissed his nose before looking at Charles. “What’s up with you? You look pissed.”

Charles forced his jaw to unclench.

“Hey, what did you buy?” Max asked, kissing Daniel’s jaw.

Daniel kept looking at Charles for a moment before he smiled at Max and met him for a proper kiss. “Some fancy chicken. Veggies and stuff. Cool mushrooms. Our chef is bringing the rest. You want bison burgers for dinner? They’re pretty tasty.”

“Sure,” Max replied.

Daniel let out a hum. He lifted a hand and thumbed under Max’s eye, frowning. “You need an Epsom salt bath.” He looked over at Charles. “Was he saying weird shit to you?”

Charles jolted in surprise. “Uh—”

“Daniel,” Max said, low and verging on seductive. “Let’s go upstairs. I want to talk to you about the interview.”

Daniel kissed Max’s forehead and lingered against him. He wrapped Max up in a tight hug, swaying back and forth with him. Max buried his face into Daniel’s neck and hugged back just as tight.

“How about you start the bath and I’ll be up there in a second, okay?” Daniel asked in a soothing tone, feathering kisses along the side of Max’s head. “Do the deep breaths thing we talked about and get nice and warm, okay? Were you swimming? You’re freezing.”

“M’okay,” Max replied, muffled into Daniel’s neck. He pulled back, looking up at him earnestly. “I’ll start the bathtub. You’ll be up soon?”

“So soon,” Daniel affirmed with a kiss. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Max said. He hugged Daniel again, then walked away without so much as a glance at Charles, leaving wet footprints in his wake.

The second the sound Max’s footsteps faded at the top of the stairs, Daniel deflated. He all but collapsed into one of the barstools at the kitchen counter, putting his head in his hands.

“He’s sick,” Charles hissed, crossing the room to Daniel. “The things he was saying—”

“It’s Red Bull,” Daniel said quietly, resting his chin on his arms where he slumped over the kitchen counter.

“They’ve been calling every few minutes for the past hour,” Charles said. “Twenty minutes ago Max was angry with you about the interview, then you walked in and he was acting like it didn’t happen.”

Daniel closed his eyes. His shoulder blades tented the thin fabric of his Buffalo Bills jersey, making him look smaller.

“There’s being stressed, and then there’s illness,” Charles said. “He’s way past stressed, Daniel. He’s dangerous.”

“I know,” Daniel said quietly. “He went off on this rant when we flew out here. I don’t know if he realizes when he’s doing it. I don’t know if he even remembers doing it. He was telling me he thinks Checo is spying on him. He won’t write any letters because he thinks Christian and Helmut are reading them as they’re sent out.”

Charles let out a snort. “That doesn’t seem that far-fetched compared to what he was just telling me about the FIA.”

He didn’t want to repeat any of it. He didn’t know if he could even say the words.

A low noise sounded above them, the bathtub coming on.

“He’s scared,” Daniel said, sitting up. He began to pick at something on the granite. “I’ve never seen him this scared about anything. He’s terrified. Whatever Red Bull threatened him with, it’s bad.”

Charles swallowed hard. “Do you think it has to do with you?”

Daniel’s expression turned pained. “I don’t know. I don’t know how they would do that. McLaren turns a blind eye to me and Max, but they don’t let Red Bull snoop around.”

“They let Lando so all of the snooping," Charles said dryly.

Daniel flashed a small smile, but the light in his eyes went out. 

Silence stretched between them, swallowing up the too-big house and all of its fancy furniture. Charles couldn't imagine Daniel living here, even with the trophy cabinet in the living room and the family photos on the walls. Texas suited him, California felt like Daniel trying to be someone he wasn't.

“I need your help,” Daniel finally said. “We need to get him back on track so that no one else sees what’s happening to him. I know you don’t want to take sides—this isn’t that. This is protecting Max from himself. No media, no Instagram, nothing. No calls from Red Bull. I’m booking a masseuse to visit every day. I’m gonna do an acupuncturist and all fuckin’ crackpot LA shit I can convince him to do with me. Hell, I don’t care if I start him in on collecting crystals and star charts—as long as no one sees him like this.”

Charles nodded once. “I’ll get him on my workout regimen. I’ll do whatever you need, but I have to be in Mexico a day early, as discussed.”

Daniel nodded.

“What I just heard was terrifying,” Charles said, because he had to tell someone. "And to be very honest with you, I'm not sure I can handle a conversation like that again."

Daniel licked his lips. He looked like he might speak, then he stood up instead. He moved toward the stairs, then stopped and turned on his heel.

“This happened to me while I was with Red Bull,” Daniel explained. “You can get out of it. It takes a lot of outside help to realize what they’re doing to you. Takes a gentle touch. So no matter what he says, don’t get combative, okay?"

Charles grit his teeth, tempted to say it was too late for that. Instead, he nodded. “I’ll try.”

“He wanted you here,” Daniel said, his face unreadable. “I think that’s because he knows you and I can help him. But I know you don’t love him like I do—not anymore, anyway. So if you need to leave and blow off steam, I get it. Just don't take it out on him. Right now Red Bull is telling him that everyone who gets combative is hiding something."

Charles lifted his chin. The childish part of him wanted to say Daniel still didn’t know Max as well as he did, but he knew that wasn’t true.

“I can take whatever he throws at me,” Daniel said, “but you shouldn’t have to. Nine days isn’t a lot of time, but we can do it.”

The whole situation seemed too ridiculous to be taking place in a multi-million dollar home in Beverly Hills, surrounded by opulence and Hollywood lights.

Charles sighed, pushing the unease out of himself. He needed time away from Max--significant time to properly settle if they were going to do this. “I’m going to call Carlos to see how he's doing, and when I come back I'll be ready for whatever you need. I agree, we can fix this.”

They had no other choice.

Chapter Text

 

 

@mclarenmanty:  will everyone just shut up about max and daniel. you guys literally think one photo means something

@pjammies598: ok explain the ellen interview

@mclarenmanty: working exactly as planned. daniel didn’t say anything that actually specified max is who he’s waiting for—he could totally have someone else. also do u not realize that interview was probably filmed way before any of this “maxiel resurgence” stuff happened. why tf would max or daniel be with each other at this point? if they can’t fake it for long enough to get the rumors to die down then they really are stupid

@pjammies598: doesn’t it seem sus to u tho that daniel just flew to mexico with yuki? Like why not fly with lando if everything is so good between them

@mclarenmanty: lando can suck my dick. overrated. and yuki shouldn’t even be a prince shut the fuck up

@pjammies598: ??? who asked ur opinions on them as princes??

 

 


 

 

Lando wriggled in his seat, testing the leniency of his seatbelt. He liked the straps to dig into his collarbone, but when it got too tight it started to give him a headache. He glanced up at the monitors in front of him, eyeing the Q3 countdown.

“Ready to go out,” Lando said over radio. “We ready?”

“Confirming,” Will said. “Standby.”

His fingers itched in his racing gloves, though his qualifying run would be solely teammate duties. He had a grid penalty that would start him at the back regardless of where he qualified. Daniel needed as much of a boost as Lando could give him—he wasn’t Carlos.

Lando used to be able to predict Carlos’s movements on track almost as well as his own. Their teamwork succeeded because they could work each other’s limits.

Really, racing with Carlos was a lot like having sex with Carlos.

He needed to stop thinking.

“Good to go,” Will said over radio, jarring Lando from his thoughts.

The mechanics tore off his tire blankets and Lando pulled out into the pit lane. Red flashed in his peripheral, sending his heart into overdrive as he recognized Carlos’s red and yellow helmet in the Ferrari cockpit.

Lando rolled toward the pit lane release line, eyeing the countdown clock. Carlos weaved a bit before slotting into place just behind him.

Lando could feel the ghost of warm breath on his neck, and the hug of his waist belts became Carlos’s hands on his hips, holding him in place. Firm, unyielding, but he gave when he needed to.

Lando ran his tongue over the inside of his lip, chasing the taste of Austin sunset. Two weeks old, but still potent.

His steering wheel LED turned green. Lando peeled out of the pit lane, keeping Carlos in his mirrors as he swung out wide. Carlos hesitantly pulled forward to take the gap. Lando let him come up beside, then shot forward with a little push on the pedal before easing off.

Race me.

Carlos rolled up beside him and slowed. Lando’s heart started beating in his throat, the same way it used to whenever he asked Carlos to fuck him. Usually without words. Saying “fuck” always left a bad taste in Lando’s mouth whenever he used it to refer to what he did with Carlos.

Lando shot forward, allowing the Gs to suck him back against his seat. He pretended the press of force was Carlos against him, pinning him to the wall in their old bedroom. They were never rough with each other in the beginning, but Lando made it clear pretty quickly that he didn’t mind if Carlos left marks.

Maybe he needed to get laid. Christ.

Cold tires on an out lap made for shitty race conditions, but Carlos kept up with him as they tore through the corners. Lando maintained a reserved pace, opting to warm his tires and actually do his job. Out lap racing wasn’t nearly as exciting as the real thing.

“Daniel heading to you,” Will said as Lando passed the start line. “Get ready to give him a lift.”

Lando frowned. “Got it. Tell him to be on his game, yeah?”

Daniel arrived from Los Angeles totally exhausted. He fell asleep with his head in Lando’s lap, unusually needy. Lando learned that stroking Daniel’s hair put him right out, and he slept deeply the length of an entire movie before Lando had to wake him to get proper sleeping clothes on.

Daniel insisted he wasn’t sick, but he seemed it.  Practice had gone fine, but he collapsed into bed the minute they returned to the hotel. To Lando, he was too similar to the Daniel he lived with after Wembley.

Lando didn’t believe it was any coincidence that Max had arrived in Mexico with fire in his belly. Max never could create his own happiness—he stole it, and Daniel usually had an unlimited amount to give.

Carlos came up on the inside and Lando let him pass. He watched the Ferrari as it sped off, dimly wondering if Carlos was thinking about him.

God, he was such a girl.

“Slower, Lando,” Will said in his ear.

Lando soured. “Yeah, understood.”

Understood. Daniel’s word.

He stayed off the racing line until Daniel appeared at the end of the straight, then picked up into race pace. The altitude in Mexico liked to fuck with their aero, but so far Lando didn’t feel anything too worrisome with the car as Daniel closed in.

Daniel didn’t drive like Carlos. He made desperate moves or brilliant ones. One or the other. Nobody would ever call him dangerous on track, but his experience didn’t equal predictability.

Daniel did not drive like he fucked. The grid wouldn’t have a chance if he did.

“Tell him to hurry up,” Lando muttered as he came out of a turn, Daniel lagging behind.

“Change over at Turn 10 please,” Will said.

“Gotcha.”

Lando flicked down a gear into Turn 10 and pulled off to the side, allowing Daniel to slingshot past and carry speed into the backstraight. Lando trundled on behind him at a leisurely pace, watching as Daniel disappeared into Sector 3 and shot off to the finish line.

“Great, thank you, Lando. That’s P5 for Daniel currently,” Will said after a long silence. “Box, box.”

“Whoop-de-do,” Lando replied dryly. His hands itched at the sight of minutes left in Q3 as he hit the pit confirm button. Job done, princely duties fulfilled.

Lando rubbed sleep from his eyes once he pulled off his helmet, crabbiness setting in as the adrenaline wore off. He thought that a week off between America and Mexico would help him relax, but he couldn’t sleep through the night anymore. Every time he found REM sleep, Sebastian stormed in, slamming him into the wall, knuckles digging into his sternum.

Daniel came in after his cooldown lap. The mechanics moved with calm precision, quick but not hurried. They had no car to worry over for the rest of the day, only minor setup changes and consulting with the data engineers back at McLaren before the race tomorrow.

Lando hated watching the countdown clock from the garage. It made him feel guilty, like he hadn’t done enough, even though he knew it was pointless to push his car when he had a grid penalty.

He took a seat on a stack of used tires, bouncing his heels against the rubber. Daniel shed his helmet and HANS device and spoke to the mechanics before making his way across the garage.

“Thanks for the tow,” Daniel greeted, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

“You wanna lay down?” Lando asked. Exhaustion clouded Daniel’s eyes, pulling all of his features downward as if his face might start melting off.

“I’d love that,” Daniel sighed. “If you don’t mind.”

“As long as I can see the screens, I’m good,” Lando replied.

They stole some tire blankets and Lando used one as a cushion and the other as a blanket for Daniel’s chest—the reverse of how they’d napped together in Spa during the rainstorm.

Daniel rested his head on Lando’s lap, using a cooling towel for extra cushion. On screen, Lewis swung around into the stadium, but his second sector had gone green. Not good enough for pole, but good enough for second behind Valtteri.

“You think Mercedes will make Valtteri let Lewis start from pole tomorrow?” Lando joked as he carded his fingers through Daniel’s hair.

Daniel smiled, but his eyes stayed closed. “Red Bull’s got this. Max and Checo are out to give everyone a show. Gladiator style—win the crowd, win your freedom.”

Lando paused, looking down at him. Daniel’s head started getting heavy on his legs as he succumbed to sleep. Win the crowd, win your freedom.

Zak called Daniel into a private meeting before practice to discuss the interview on the American TV show. Evidently Daniel had organized it outside of Public Affairs, and the FIA was furious about the photo of Max and Daniel that had been shown. Lando didn’t know who took the picture, but he’d heard plenty of rumors about Daniel never being alone in Monaco in those years. People—many of them very attractive women—constantly hung around to the point that Lando had heard Red Bull was forced to get involved after a few women graphically described Daniel’s dick in an internet forum discussion.

Daniel knew how to work a crowd. He knew the right way to smile, the right words to say. Lando knew how easily he could lie, too.

He wondered if the graphic dick description came before or after Max. He wondered if Max cared.

“You’re so sleepy,” Lando hummed, weaving his fingers through Daniel’s curls. Carlos had thick, voluminous locks that women were jealous of. Daniel had springy curls, thinning but still silky.

“I could sleep for a week and still be tired,” Daniel murmured.

Lando turned his attention back to the screens and motioned to one of the mechanics to give him a headset. He fitted it on as Checo started into his final hotlap.

“Here we go,” Lando said, but Daniel went slack in his lap.

Lando often wondered what normal people saw when they watched a driver’s onboard. He assumed they watched the track, maybe the steering wheel, enticed by the speed and movement. Lando watched Checo’s fingers, his LED screen, and where he hit the apex on each corner. He mentally compared it with his own laps, the way—

“Oh fuck,” Lando whispered.

Checo didn’t brake, flying off track into the runoff behind what looked like an Alpha Tauri, though Lando couldn’t really make it out before the camera cut away.

The crowd roared a second later. He turned on his headset.

“—Tsunoda!” one of the commentators exclaimed.

“It looks like Checo just lost focus there—he was not paying attention,” another voice said. “That’s it, there’s no time left for another lap for Perez.”

“Let’s see Verstappen here,” the other commentator said as Max’s onboard appeared on screen. “I mean, he had to have backed off a little bit there, seeing that right in front of him.”

Daniel shifted in his lap. “What happened?”

“Hold on,” Lando murmured, watching as Max approached the start line. He flew by and the sound cut through the garage, a little off from the video feed.

Not enough.

“It’s a Mercedes front row lockout!” the announcers screamed through the track loudspeakers. “Valtteri Bottas has done it—it’s Mercedes this weekend! A weekend when we all thought it would be Red Bull!”

Daniel shot up, nearly knocking heads with Lando as he did so.

“Max took third,” Lando explained, lowering his headset.

“Fuck,” Daniel whispered, looking up at the monitors. “Fucking fuck. How?”

“Yuki went off and Checo just followed him,” Lando said. “They were right in front of Max so he had to slow down a bit too—”

“Yuki?” Daniel asked.

Lando nodded.

Daniel put his head in his hands. “Fuck, they’re going to kill that kid. Seriously, Horner’s gonna put him in the ground.”

“I don’t think it was Yuki’s fault,” Lando said. “He looked like he slowed down because of an issue.”

Daniel laughed darkly. “You think they give a fuck?”

“Your Royal Highnesses,” Sofia announced as she approached them with two McLaren hats in hand. “Media pen is ready for you both.”

Lando folded a hand over Daniel’s knee. “Everyone’s fine, that’s what matters, yeah?”

Daniel lifted his head, the color gone from his face. “No. Yuki might’ve just decided the championship. Don’t you get it?”

 

 


 

 

No one in the media pen cared about the guy who set the slowest lap of qualifying, so Lando didn’t have to devote much time to reporters. They were only interested in Daniel anyway, how Lando felt about having a husband who wanted to cheat on him every chance he got (though they used nicer phrasing).

Pierre stood proudly at the corner of the media pen, his stupid abs showing through his stupid nomex as he gushed about his P5 finish ahead of Carlos. Lando tried to make eye contact with Carlos to make fun of Pierre with him, but Carlos stood by with a thousand-yard stare, clearly not in the mood to talk.

Lando left the media pen assuring himself that he would see Carlos tomorrow at the very least. Two weeks without him hurt like hell, but Carlos didn’t write him, so Lando could only assume he didn’t want to see him.

He told himself that was fine. It had to be, because he’d been the one to push Carlos away.

Lando pulled off his cap and shook out his hair as he approached the garages.

“Oi, Lando!”

Lando turned, searching for the source of the voice.

Callum Ilott stood at the mouth of the Alfa Romeo garage, waving at him. Lando broke into a grin, hurrying down the pit lane to wrap him up in a hug.

“Mate! What are you doing here?” Lando asked, pulling back to look at him.

Callum grinned, reddish hair falling in his eyes. Callum had no royal lineage, but he came off like he did. Probably the Brit side of him. Even his hairstyle looked monarchy-approved.

“Alfa Romeo invited me back for more reserve duties,” Callum explained. “Cool track, eh? So fast in the straights.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lando joked. He smiled. “You look different—you change your hair or something? Are the Americans already killing the European in you?”

Callum laughed. “Hardly, mate. You think Alpine is in the middle of nowhere, try Juncos. Indianapolis is like a meat packing plant turned into a town.”

Lando burst out laughing. “Good though, yeah? I know it’s not like, FIA royalty, but you’re happy?”

Callum’s smile softened. “I’ll know after I drive the car more. You know, if it works out.”

Lando furrowed his brow. “If it works out? I thought you signed already.”

“I did, but I have a few clauses,” Callum said with a shrug. “If a better opportunity comes along, I can take it.”

“I can put a word in with Zak if you’re interested in the McLaren Indycar…uh, whatever call them. Mini-empire or whatever,” Lando offered. “And Charles probably has connections with Marcus Ericsson he could—”

“I don’t need any help from Charles,” Callum interrupted,  his smile turning sharp. “But I appreciate the McLaren offer. I think I’ve got this one squared, though. Thanks, Lando.”

Callum squeezed his shoulder and strode down the pit lane. He waved to Mick, who stood at the mouth of the Haas garage. Mick waved back and returned to his conversation with one of the Haas mechanics.

Lando kept close to the garages, weaving amongst tool guns and pit crew equipment to avoid cameras coming in too close. He didn’t want to talk about Daniel anymore. He didn’t want anyone recording his face and making more memes about him living with an unfaithful husband. He wished he could tell the truth, just to watch everyone’s mouths drop open.

He would definitely lie and say he, Max, and Daniel had a threesome. Carlos would be the only person able to see through that one.

Even better.

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you think!”

Lando froze between garages at the sound of Christian Horner’s voice.

“This is the championship! You really think you have a crown next year with that move you just pulled?” Horner snarled. “Use your fucking brain!”

Lando peeked into the garage, where a group of Alpha Tauri engineers averted ther gazes as Horner loomed over Yuki, who shriveled in the corner of the garage.  Franz Tost, Alpha Tauri’s head of government, stood nearby, staring blankly at the monitors.

Yuki opened his mouth to speak, but Horner swiped a collection of pens and notebooks from a shelf, sending them raining down on Yuki’s head.  Yuki held up his arms to block the wave, shaking so hard Lando could see it from the mouth of the garage.

“There isn’t a punishment worth my time, but you can be damned sure you won’t be causing any problems tomorrow!” Horner shouted. Lando could only see part of his face, but what he saw was bright red with anger.

Fucking Red Bull.

“Franz, we’re walking,” Horner snapped. “You’ve got a prince committing treason.”

Franz fell into step beside him. They both stormed by Lando without even looking at him.

“As I’ve noticed, you have a prince doing the same,” Franz said.

Horner whipped around to face him in the middle of the pit box.

“I’m going to find out the cause of this,” Horner said, jamming a finger into Franz’s chest.

“He was given incorrect timing for the gap to Perez,” Franz said. “It was a mistake, Christian.”

“There are no mistakes!” Horner shrieked, loud enough that everyone in the pit lane turned to look. “Nothing is a mistake now, Tost. I’m going to fucking find out what happened today, and if you had anything to do with it, so help me God—”

“Mind your tongue,” Franz growled. “I’ve been doing this much longer than you have, and I will be doing it long after you are gone.”

Horner let out a laugh that made Lando’s insides churn.

“I can and will destroy you if I have to,” Horner said. “I won’t hesitate. If you or one of your paper princes comes between Red Bull  and a championship, I will personally ensure Alpha Tauri pays the price. Am I understood?”

Franz let out a snort and walked away.

Horner watched him for only a moment, then leveled his gaze on Lando. Lando’s blood ran cold, fear surging in his veins more powerful than Sebastian could ever instill.

“You tell that to Daniel too,” Horner said. “The same goes for him—and you, if I find out you’re involved.”

Horner swore under his breath and stalked off. The crowd parted to let him past, leaving Lando frozen in place by the mouth of the garage.

Daniel would never go against Max. Beyond that, he would never fix a qualifying session. Only Fernando pulled shady shit like that. Nobody else had the balls.

Lando glanced back into the garage, where a mechanic crouched beside Yuki, who had curled into a ball on the floor.

Daniel said he flew in with Yuki due to the charter jet schedules.

He always knew the right way to smile, the right words to say.

Chapter Text

 

 

“NO FOUL PLAY” RED BULL CLARIFIES COMMENTS ON QUALIFYING INCIDENT

MEXICO CITY 8:02PM LOCAL TIME – Red Bull has released a statement following an explosive qualifying finish today at the Autódromo Hermano Rodíguez. Stunned fans watched with confusion as HRH Sergio Perez—their hometown hero—launched into the runoff in the final stint of Q3 today. He nearly drove into the back of Alpha Tauri Prince, Yuki Tsunoda.

Prince Tsunoda faced an avalanche of criticism for exiting the track in front of the princes of his sister empire, Red Bull. Christian Horner, Red Bull’s head of government, referred to the Japanese prince as “an inexperienced boy in need of psychological attention.” Franz Tost, Alpha Tauri’s head of government, declined to comment.

Prince Verstappen, who currently leads the championship, didn’t mince words on his radio message following his botched final lap. “Unbelievable. Such a dumb idiot,” said the Dutchman.

However, Red Bull has since rescinded their harsh words for Prince Tsunoda following the information that the prince was asked to leave track by his engineers and given and incorrect gap between himself and Prince Perez.

“It was an unfortunate mistake that cost us pole,” Christian Horner said in a statement. “However, we are confident [Prince] Max will secure the top spot tomorrow. The championship depends on it, and he always delivers. He doesn't have time for distractions--literally, in this case.”

Prince Verstappen has been the talk of the paddock for more than his skills on track. His relationship with Prince Daniel Ricciardo has been under scrutiny throughout the season and speculation has ramped up once again following an interview with Prince Ricciardo on The Ellen show that Red Bull as described as "troubling." Red Bull and McLaren citizens alike are raising concerns about the relationship. Even “Maxiel” supporters have started to express concern for the princes’ wellbeing if they continue to disobey FIA laws.

“We are aware of the rumors,” Zak Brown, McLaren’s head of government, explained to press on media day. “But they’re just that: rumors. Prince Daniel and Prince Lando are fully committed to each other and the success of McLaren.”

 

 


 

 

Nights in Mexico City had bite. Early November at altitude created a dry cold that sliced through fabric with needlelike precision. Charles’s breath smoked in front of his face as he stepped out of his Ferrari under the lights of the hotel valet area. Exhaustion seeped into his bones along with the cold, mental and physical.

Los Angeles laid like a haze on his mind. His throat burned with memories of Max's ranting, wild and nonsensical. His eyes itched with images of Max pliant but unsure where he lounged on the couch, watching him like a dog about to be euthanized.

“This is the most delicious thing I have eaten in North America,” Carlos said around a mouthful of pork taco. “Devi provarlo.”

Charles obliged, leaning over to take a bite of taco. His lips brushed the sides of Carlos’s fingers as he took his bite, mouth flooded with an indescribable smoky, tangy flavor.

“Al pastor,” Carlos explained, smiling at him. “Delicious, no?”

Charles hummed his agreement, but his chest ached. Affection turned sore, a raw wound in him after his week in los Angeles.

He never wanted to see Max that way again.

Carlos ate another taco as they made their way up to their hotel room. Their luggage lay sprawled on the floor of their bedroom, clothes haphazardly tossed on the floor in the morning rush after they spent too long under the covers.

“¿Qué pex?” Carlos asked, copying the local accent.

Carlos loved Mexico City. The lights, the atmosphere—and the food, of course.

“Using your new Spanish, hm?” Charles teased, kissing his cheek.

“Chilango Spanish hardly counts. It doesn’t make sense,” Carlos chuckled. “Try answering. ¿Qué pex, mi amor?”

“Estoy stanco,” Charles replied.

Carlos laughed. “Stanco is Italian. Cansado. Estes cansado.”

“Estoy cansado,” Charles repeated. “English, por favor. My head hurts.”

A letter sat waiting for him on his desk, dark blue with a silver crest stamp.

Pierre.

Charles grabbed the envelope and sat down on the edge of the bed. He felt guilty for hardly speaking to Pierre since the Bucks game, but he’d been so busy handling Max and Ferrari that he’d barely spoken to Carlos, let alone Pierre.

“Charles,” Carlos hummed, crawling onto the bed. The mattress dipped as he came closer. Charles closed his eyes when warm lips pressed to his neck. “Ti senti bene?”

Charles sighed, turning to face his husband. He hooked an arm around Carlos’s neck and guided them both down onto the mattress.

“I’ve barely seen Pierre,” Charles said, curling onto his side to face Carlos. “I’ve also spent the last week away from you. I have a headache, and estoy cansado. Molto cansado. Or muy. Whatever.”

He set the envelope between them. Carlos glanced down at it before kissing Charles’s forehead.

“You did a very good thing,” Carlos reminded him. “Max seems much better now. One day of rest before a race weekend will not fix that kind of cansado.”

Charles smiled, nestling closer. He closed his eyes as Carlos began to smooth his hair back.

“Still,” Charles murmured, “It doesn’t seem fair to you, e soprattutto non a Pierre. Or to Lando—Daniel was gone much longer than I was.”

“Lando can manage,” Carlos said.

Charles opened his eyes. “He’s been managing without you for a long time.”

He saw the pain in Carlos’s eyes whenever Lando came up in conversation. Charles admired Carlos’s ability to balance love and loyalty to the empire, but lately he seemed to be wounding himself with Lando’s absence.

“I miss him,” Carlos said quietly, lashes hooded over his eyes.

Charles’s heart ached seeing Carlos hurting. He moved closer, resting their foreheads together. Pierre’s letter took up the space between them. Charles tried not to see it as a metaphor.

“I want to see him again,” Carlos said a moment later. “I want to be with him in Brazil. He has been alone for weeks with Daniel gone, and I am sure it’s affecting him. He acted strangely in Austin. Not bad, but strange.”

What was it about Brazil that made men want to leave him? Charles’s smile twitched, but he didn’t allow himself to plunge into that darkness. Carlos had cared for him since he landed in Mexico—more than a husband needed to.

“What was strange about him?” Charles asked, tracing the line of Carlos’s jaw with his finger.

“I don’t know,” Carlos said. “I think he is beginning to think I don’t love him. I could feel it. He doesn’t try to talk to me anymore.”

“You did say you wanted space,” Charles said.

“Sí. But Lando is horrible at following directions. And even when he does follow them, I can see he doesn’t want to. I don’t see that anymore.”

“You said that Austin was good, though,” Charles said.

“It was, but he hasn’t written me since then.” Carlos sighed, rolling onto his back. “Brazil is very special to us, and I would like to spend time with him there. Would that be okay?”

Charles propped himself up on an elbow. “Of course that would be okay. I’ll help you organize it—whatever you need.”

Carlos lifted a hand from the mattress to brush the backs of his knuckles over Charles’s stubble.

“Thank you, but I’ll handle this one,” Carlos said. “I love you.”

“You know I love you too,” Charles replied. He grabbed Pierre’s letter and opened it.

 

Calamardo,

Hotel garden, 21:30. If you can make it.

PG

 

Charles glanced at the bedside clock. Exhaustion washed over him again, but he wanted to see Pierre without the media circus.

“Pierre wants to see me,” Charles said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m going to meet him—unless you’d like me to stay?”

“Go on,” Carlos replied. “I wanted to take a bath anyway. I could use some quiet to think.”

“I still have ten minutes,” Charles murmured. He nestled close, tucking into Carlos’s chest this time. Carlos wrapped him up in a hug with a soft hum, and they waited out the time in comfortable silence.

 

 


 

 

The hotel garden reminded Charles of the Jardin du Luxembourg in Paris. Plants stuffed every surface—swooping ferns, towering palms, and brightly-colored flowers. Skeletal iron framing sprawled overhead, trapping in humid heat that brought life back into Charles as he breathed in the scent of chlorophyll.

A party was in full swing over a row of hedges. Warbling brass notes filled the night, and Spanish lyrics followed soon after. Charles hoped Pierre wasn’t going to drag him to a party this late.

"Je ne pensais pas que je te verrais," Pierre greeted as he stepped out from behind a large rosebush.

Fuck.

Pierre wore a black turtleneck that hugged as tight as nomex, but without the thickness. His gold necklace hung around his neck, glinting in the low light of the party next door. He didn’t look like a racing driver, he looked like a model lost on his way to a photoshoot.

“Me voilà,” Charles answered, his mouth going dry. “Though I should be asleep, I think.”

“Staying up for me?” Pierre teased. “I should make it worth your while then, hm?”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Tell me we’re not going to a party.”

Pierre smiled. “We’re not going to a party. We’re having our own party.”

Pierre led the way, following a narrow brick path deeper into the greenery. Charles suddenly felt underdressed in his white undershirt and black Puma joggers. He’d only managed to take off his Ferrari polo after his time in the media pen.

Pierre stopped at a wooden fence and reached over the top. A metallic clack sounded and Pierre opened the gate into a tiny courtyard that bumped up against the hedges. Charles could hear the clicking of dishware from the partygoers next door amongst the Mexican music.

Pierre locked the gate behind them, effectively hiding them away from anyone who might be wandering the gardens. A small creek gurgled beside a cushioned bench and Charles caught flashes of color from koi weaving beneath the surface of the water.

“Très romantique,” Charles hummed. “How did you know about this?”

Pierre shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. “Sometimes older princes share things.”

Pierre held out his hands. Charles cocked his brow and took them.

Pierre pulled him in until they were chest to chest, overwhelming Charles with the scent of his cologne. They swayed in the dark to the beat of the music, silent but having a conversation all the same.

Desire began prickle beneath Charles’s skin as Pierre moved against him, trying out something probably meant to be a samba.

Charles tucked himself against him as he laughed, hands wandering the sculpted muscle of Pierre’s arms.

“How is Max?” Charles asked, deciding not to indulge his wants.

Pierre held him closer, nuzzling into the join of his neck and shoulder. His breath washed hot down the back of Charles’s shirt, turning his skin to gooseflesh.

“Actually happy,” Pierre replied. “Whatever happened with him and Daniel, it worked. I thought we lost him for a second, but he’s back. Annoying as ever.”

Charles breathed a sigh of relief.

“But I don’t think Red Bull is happy about it,” Pierre continued. “Christian was pissed about the Yuki thing. And I’ve never seen Franz so angry. I walked into the garage and it was like a bomb had gone off.”

“How is Yuki?”

“Bien, now,” Pierre said. “Franz talked to him for awhile, I spoke to him too. Unfortunately, I’m used to Red Bull acting like that. I told him he can’t let it get to him.”

Charles leaned back just enough to capture Pierre’s lips in a kiss. He smiled into it when Pierre jolted against him, hands rushing up his sides.

The music faded to background noise as Charles ran his palms over Pierre’s chest, his pecs, his lats. He wanted nothing more than to drag Pierre down onto the bench and have sex with him right there in the garden, but he refuse to put them at risk like that.

"Je te baiserais bien ici dans ce jardin," Pierre breathed against his lips, putting his thoughts to words.

Charles could only moan in response—embarrassing and adolescent.

They fell into kisses again, slow and languid. Pierre lit his skin on fire with the warmth of his hands where they wandered under Charles’s shirt, pushing up the cotton fabric and making him feel whole again.

Pierre pulled back after a few long kisses and nosed against him.

“You should probably go back before we do something we’re not supposed to,” Pierre murmured.

Charles stuffed down the burn in his belly and nodded. “Désolé. I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t even need to apologize for this,” Pierre chuckled, kissing him again.

Wind whispered through the palm fronds above, beckoning them both.

Charles didn’t want to leave. He ached for the heat between their bodies, the press of Pierre’s weight against him, the rasp of his beard, the way Pierre knew every spot to touch, to kiss.

“You’re not safe,” Charles finally replied, smoothing his palm over Pierre’s chest. “Red Bull is on a warpath, Pierre. You and Yuki are in the line of fire if they decide to retaliate.”

“I can handle myself and my empire,” Pierre assured him. “You said you weren’t taking sides.”

“I’m not,” Charles said. “But I love you, and I want to protect you.”

Alpha Tauri had connections with Ferrari too. If needed, Charles could use them to help.

Pierre smiled at him, handsome as ever. So much different than Charles remembered growing up. Things might have been very different if he chose Pierre over Max back then.

“I love you too,” Pierre replied with a tender kiss. “You’re worrying. I’m fine, Calamardo. I’m better than fine—I’m with you.”

Charles laughed, warmth rushing to his cheeks.

He wished Pierre could have been with him in Los Angeles. Charles had slept alone every night and he hated it. Even when he Facetimed Carlos and fell asleep with him, it didn’t compare to another body in bed with him.

“Well, I’m sorry I haven’t seen you more,” Charles said. “I didn’t mean to go so long.”

“I know you didn’t, and I know you’re busy,” Pierre replied. “I’m not exactly sitting around either. We’ll make time to see each other when we can, oui?”

Charles framed Pierre’s face in in his hands before pressing their mouths together for a deep kiss. He slipped his tongue past Pierre’s pliant lips, delighting in the moan that rumbled from his throat a moment later.

“Brazil,” Charles promised. “Carlos will be away, I think. You can stay with me—if you want to.”

“Yes,” Pierre replied without hesitation. “Of course, yes.”

Charles smiled in the dark. “Good. It’s a date.”

Chapter Text

Starting eighth made Charles feel like a child. Worse, he had to start beside Daniel—worse still, he had to start one place behind Daniel. Carlos and Pierre were ahead of them--yet another dose of karma. Whether it was good or bad karma remained to be seen. With the way the season had been going, Charles assumed bad. Everything seemed to be a punishment on track, no matter what good he did.

Charles tugged his helmet into place, wincing at the way it squeezed over his cheekbones and caught against his balaclava.

“Hey,” a muffled voice said. Someone thumped his shoulder and squeezed.

Charles turned to see Daniel in his helmet, visor flipped up.

“Good luck today,” Charles greeted with a nod.

Daniel patted his helmet and leaned in closer. “Stay off me.”

Charles squinted at him. “What?”

Daniel leaned back with a smile Charles could see though his helmet. “You heard me. You don’t need luck if you stay off me.”

Charles blinked in surprise, but Daniel walked off to his car before he could come up with a response. He looked over to Carlos, who nodded at him before stepping into his cockpit.

Charles took a breath, pushing out all thoughts of royalty. He quieted the noise of the track as he stepped into his car and went through his procedural checks.

His father used to tell him starting from the back was an opportunity to prove himself as a driver. Any prince worth their salt could win from pole, but the greats won from any position.

Charles never started a race without fully believing he could take victory.

He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. The same sun glimmered over Maranello, his people, his empire. The sun was setting there now. People would be huddled around their TV sets, computer screens, and phones to watch the race. To watch him and Carlos. Ferrari flags waved in the stands all over the world, hoping for merely a glimpse of them.

Charles refused to let them down.

He opened his eyes. The taste of victory whet his tongue, growing stronger as the grid cleared of personnel. He settled his breathing and kept his revs up, dancing the dance of the start line. Driving his car was truly a give and take—too much pressure and he would catch her out when he went on throttle. Too little pressure and she would trip into antistall and lock him into a terrible start.

He followed Daniel through the formation lap, easing himself into the feel of the tires, the camber, the stiffness of his suspension. Even a few hours out of the car made him forget the nuances. Sometimes the feel never came back. Other times it came back stronger.

Charles parked at his spot on the grid and breathed. He tried to channel all of his people: the goodwill, the hope, the love. The lights burned red above him on the grid, flicking out one by one until—

Black.

Charles punched the throttle, holding in second gear for a split second until the rev limiter whistle-screamed, begging for third. He flicked the right paddle and allowed the car to come to him, rushing up beside Carlos, who dropped back slightly.

Daniel shot out ahead with a burst of speed reminiscent of Monza.

Charles kept close to Carlos into Turn 1, cognizant of Yuki and an Aston Martin on his outside. Pierre’s rear wing took up most of his view, Carlos close on the right front.

He made the first turn, but smoke suddenly shot up over Carlos’s nose. Charles guided his car over, allowing Carlos room.

A Red Bull shot off track on the left, and Daniel’s McLaren weaved out of the smoke.

Charles only caught a split second of Valtteri, but his brain still had time to register a car facing the wrong way, a silver livery.

Stay off me.

Pierre stormed ahead, but Charles had no love for anyone on track, only respect.

“Yellow flag,” Jock said in his ear. “Tsunoda out. Schumacher out.”

Charles glanced in his mirrors. No orange.

“Where is Daniel?” he asked.

“Falling back,” Jock replied. “Might’ve taken damage in a collision with Valtteri.”

Stay off me.

 

 


 

 

George only glimpsed greatness before Kimi Raikkonen took it away from him on Lap 10. Starting from the back allowed him to avoid the carnage of the first two corners, but any relief had been stolen away by a cold and prickling unease.

Yuki didn’t even last a lap after pissing off Red Bull. Red Bull had treated Yuki so terribly that they had to issue a formal apology—a humiliation they probably loathed.

George didn’t believe in coincidences when it came to Red Bull.

The same way he didn’t believe it was any coincidence that Daniel took out Valtteri in the first lap.

The rest of the race blurred in George’s mind as he tried to work through the outcomes and consequences. 

“Where is Lewis?” George asked as he passed the checkered flag. “Where did he finish?”

“Second,” James replied over radio. “He took second, George.”

Tears actually sprang to George’s eyes as he gripped the steering wheel. Defeat lodged in his throat the same way it had the year before, when he’d received a miraculous call to drive in Lewis’s place--only to have a puncture that ripped the win away from him. 

Back then, he’d feared losing his chance at Mercedes. Now he had one, guaranteed, and the taste of loss seeped into him more bitter than before.

That’s the championship. The thought came to him before he could stop it. As he pulled into parc ferme, he wanted to grieve. George knew Lewis well enough—had loved him enough, once—to know that Lewis wouldn’t give up until he had no possibility of a championship. Even then, he would still try to win every race.

Nic met him at his car. Their helmets clacked as they embraced each other for a job well done. A race finish counted as something to celebrate in Williams, but George couldn’t find any joy.

Nic reached out and unclicked George’s visor, pulling it up.

“Thought so,” Nic said, concerned. “I could tell you were sad just by looking at you.”

“I’m sorry,” George said.

Nic smiled behind his helmet. “Don’t be. It’s okay to be sad. I legitimately thought about crying the other night when I realized Mexican Coke actually tastes different than American. How’s that for pathetic?”

George put an arm around Nicky to walk to their garage. Jost stepped out before they could enter and gave George a sympathetic look.

“Uh oh,” Nic said as he handed off his helmet.

“Albon is here,” Jost said. “He’s at the Red Bull garage.  I’m told it’s rather urgent.”

George’s stomach turned.

“Can’t he come here?” George asked. “Seems more reasonable to ask him to come to Williams.”

Jost shook his head. “Already tried. Might be best to get there during the podium ceremony—less people around, hm?”

George dumped his helmet and started off toward Red Bull, shaking the sweat from his hair as he walked. He told himself Jost wouldn’t have smiled at all if Alex had been in danger, but he still sensed a closing snare as he slipped into the Red Bull garage—empty except for one Public Affairs official, who shook her head.

“He’s at hospitality.”

“Who?” George asked, playing dumb.

The official glared at him. “Albon.”

George scrunched his nose at her and made his way out the back of the garage and into the hospitality lane. Defeated teams limped back to their motorhomes while the victors celebrated at the podium on the other side of the garages.

“—don’t think anyone is buying that paltry excuse,” Sebastian said as he walked by. George had to lean back to avoid getting shoulder-checked. Sebastian turned to glare at him, a cell phone tucked to his ear.

“No, this is beyond that,” Sebastian said, continuing to walk. “I’ve explained my side. It’s—Yes, as I said. I'm allowed to change my mind.”

George didn’t think he’d ever seen Sebastian use a phone. He seemed like the type to use smoke signals or whatever cavemen deemed appropriate. He certainly styled himself after them in every other way.

Sebastian continued at a brisk pace down the hospitality lane. George hurried toward Red Bull, where he found Alex waiting by the entrance.

“Hi,” Alex greeted without a smile.

“Hey,” George replied, softening. “Everything alright?”

Alex pursed his lips. George smiled anyway, because—

Well, because Alex.

“Come on,” Alex said, slipping between the Red Bull and Alpha Tauri suites. George waited a moment before following, though everyone in the hospitality lane was focused on getting to the podium ceremony or back to their respective team.

George opened his mouth to speak once he stepped into shadow, but Alex cut him off by pressing a finger to his lips.

“Sorry, I’m not here to talk about us,” Alex whispered, lowering his finger. “I need to talk to you about royal politics for a second.”

Well. George straightened up, instinctively wary. Red Bull had claws in Alex until he stepped into a Williams garage as a prince.

“George, things are about to get very bad,” Alex said, his face hidden in the shadow of the Red Bull suite. “How close are you with Max?”

George scoffed. “Excuse me? The bloke who betrayed me and exiled you on purpose? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Alex grimaced. “You still feel that way?”

George gaped at him. “You don’t?”

Alex sighed. He folded his hands and leaned against the side of the suite, staring past George.

“You don’t?” George repeated, stepping into his line of sight.

Alex looked up at him. “No, George. I blamed him for a long time, yes. But ultimately it wasn’t just Max’s decision. Look at us—think of how they could spin the narrative to hurt people we love. If Red Bull or Mercedes wanted to make a bombshell out of us, they could.”

“Except it wasn’t a narrative. Max admitted to exiling you on purpose,” George snarled.

Alex closed his eyes and took a breath. “Yes. But he didn’t act alone. Red Bull stood by that decision. They may have planted the seed for it—that’s how they work.”

“What’s your point?” George asked. He had to hold his tongue, though he wanted to inform Alex that everything couldn’t be blamed on Red Bull.

“What about Charles, do you care about him?” Alex asked instead of answering.

“Of course,” George replied immediately. He didn’t have to think about that one.

Alex reached out and touched his sleeve. He thumbed over one of the sponsorship logos, forlorn.

“Red Bull just made a call that’s going to upend this whole championship fight. It’s going to affect all of us, George.”

“Okay, what is it?” George stepped closer, reaching up to caress Alex’s cheek. His dark eyes held fear, deep and churning. 

Alex shook his head. “I can’t tell you. I don’t even know the extent of it. But you’re a target.”

The unease from the race crept up George’s spine all over again.

“What does that mean?” George asked slowly.

Alex moved in, burying his face into George’s neck. George wrapped his arms around him, holding him tight. Alex didn’t get emotional very often. When he did, he had good reason.

“I just want you to remember we were all best friends once,” Alex murmured into his neck. “We’re still people behind all of this.”

“Tell me, Alex,” George said softly, rubbing his back. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Alex pulled back and kissed his cheek. “I can’t risk it. But it was Sebastian’s idea, that’s all I can say—but don’t tell anyone, okay? Especially not Lewis.”

George swallowed hard. If Sebastian had the idea, Lewis already knew it. Lewis might even be behind it. Though George could see Sebastian striking out on his own if it had something to do with hurting him.

Alex brushed off his shirt as if to rid himself of any remnants of George. “I have to go. But I was supposed to warn you that something’s coming. It’s your choice what you do with that information.”

“Alex—”

“Max isn’t a bad person,” Alex said, cutting him off. “He can be a shithead sometimes, but he’s not the guy you think he is. He’s definitely not invincible. I’d say he’s the opposite, actually.”

Alex leaned in, pecking George on the lips before he could retort.

Unfortunately, George always had a hard time speaking after Alex kissed him, no matter how chaste.

“I love you,” Alex whispered, brushing noses with him before he slipped past and jogged back into the hospitality lane, leaving George to stare at the space between the suites where Alex once stood.

Gone again, as fast and fleeting as a ghost.

“I love you too,” George said into the nothingness.

 

 


 

 

An hour later, George stepped out of his driver’s room, showered and ready to head back to the hotel. The whole paddock buzzed about Lewis’s championship chances, and George didn’t get as much of a glimpse of Lewis before the Mercedes public affairs team informed him he’d left for the hotel.

Mexico City began to roar with victory parties, but George had no interest in attending. Alex’s warning hung over him. He tried to work out how much of it was Alex warning him as someone who loved him and how much of it was Red Bull making a play.

Seeing Alex didn’t even feel real. George rubbed his lips to try to find the taste of him there, but he had no evidence beyond the memory.

“Your Royal Highness,” Kayla said, stepping up to him. “Do you know where Prince Nicky went?”

George blinked. “Uh, no. I was in the shower—he didn’t say he was going anywhere.”

Kayla frowned. “Would you mind reaching out to him? He didn’t pick up my call.”

George tried not to panic as he fished his phone out of his pocket. Nic didn’t disappear after raceday unless it was a pre-planned excursion to find Nutella at a shop somewhere.

You’re a target.

George would kill anyone who came after Nic.

He dialed Nic’s number and held the phone to his ear as it rang.

No answer.

“How long has he been gone?” George asked, shooting off a text to ask where he was.

Kayla shrugged. “I think he was in his room ten minutes ago, but I’m not certain. I’m sure he’ll turn up. He never goes far. Send him my way if you see him, yeah? The van’s still stuck in traffic about 30 minutes out. I’ll text you when it arrives.”

“Thanks,” George said, flashing a false smile. “I’ll see if I can find him.”

His heart began to pound in his ears as he headed out into the chilly evening air. The sun bled in the sky, turning the clouds lavender and the tarmac red at his feet.

Team personnel wheeled out carts of garage equipment onto loading trucks as everyone started in on packout for Brazil. Usually George and Nic would be back at the hotel by now, but traffics jams and security concerns had trapped most of the princes on track for the time being.

George preferred to leave in the dark anyway. Less fans to take photos of him on the way out. His cheeks still didn’t have color. He couldn't rid himself of the sense of defeat. 

George searched for Nic’s lanky silhouette in the dark as he headed toward track catering. If Nic left, it would be in search of food Williams didn’t have.

He dodged a few Ferrari team members loading up a giant Ferrari flag and sidestepped a cart full of Alpine equipment as he made his way down the lane. Distant sounds of clanking glasses and shouts filled the darkening sky in languages George didn’t understand.

He tried calling Nic again.

The phone rang as he tucked close to the suites, avoiding a caravan of McLaren storage boxes.

“Your help hasn’t helped so far.”

George froze at the sound of Mick’s voice.

The Haas suite towered up ahead, dark. Suite disassembly had already started.

George considered walking away. He didn’t want to have any more dirt on—

“That is not my fault and you know it.”

Max.

George hung up and crept closer to the darkness between the Haas and Aston Martin suites.

“You can’t blame Sebastian for everything,” Mick said. “You told me you had the power and you didn’t. How am I supposed to believe you now?”

Silence stretched in the dark. George held his breath.

“There will be an opening at Alfa Romeo soon,” Max said evenly. “I can get Callum a crown there, easily.”

More silence.

“I sense there’s a ‘but’ in that statement,” Mick growled. “As if you have any ground to stand on.”

“I have plenty more than you,” Max snapped. “No, it isn’t free. I don’t know why you would expect it to be.”

“And what do you want?” Mick asked. “I’m not even sure you have the power to do anything. That crown is Ferrari-controlled. And they like Antonio. So I’m not sure where you’re getting your information.”

Typical Max. Probably leveraging rumors to get something out of Mick—what a fucking asshole.

“I have the power, trust me,” Max said. “But I need access. Ferrari access.”

“You have Charles for that,” Mick replied. “There’s your access.”

“As if Charles would ever play politics like that. He would exile himself if it backfired, just to save Ferrari the shame,” Max said tartly. “If you get me access, I promise that Alfa Romeo crown will open up.”

Mick let out a snort. “Not if Seb has anything to do with it. You’re not more powerful than he is.”

“Oh? Then sit by and watch some nobody get that crown.”

It was Sebastian’s idea. George shook the thought from his head. Kimi was Sebastian’s actual best friend, and Kimi has purposely let George find out about Mick and Callum. He wouldn't be plotting to give Callum a seat now. Callum didn't have any value to anyone royal. 

“You could go to Charles, as I said. He would do that for you and be discreet,” Mick said.

“Maybe, but I would owe him. I don’t want to owe Ferrari anything. This way, you owe me and so does Callum. I’ll have two people in Ferrari affiliated empires,” Max replied.

He talked about alliances like pawns in a chess game. Alex could say what he wanted about Max as a person, but he didn’t see this side of him every damn day.

Mick made a noise of frustration. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?”

“Call me what you want,” Max said, “but if you want Callum to have a crown next year, you will give me access. I don’t know the Ferrari politics and I’m sure as hell not asking Sebastian to help me. And I won't involve Charles. So I’m asking you.”

“Well, I—”

“I already took the liberty of speaking to Callum about it today,” Max said. “He’s very much looking forward to this. I would hate to have to take that away from him.”

George’s blood boiled. The last sliver of sun slid behind the stadium grandstands, shrouding the hospitality lane in darkness. Right on cue.

“You didn’t,” Mick said through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t implicate you,” Max amended, nearing on condescending. “But you know how these things change. One minute the possibility is real, the next—gone. Without proper access to Ferrari, I can’t help him. He was so excited as well. Didn't you notice his good mood today?”

Tension crackled in the silence, palpable even to George standing several meters away.

“I can only direct you on who to talk to,” Mick finally said. “That’s it. I can make those conversations happen, but I want you to promise me that’s all you’re going to ask from me in return for his crown.”

George bit his tongue. His promises mean jack shit, Mick.

“I promise,” Max said. “Give me access, I will do the rest. And when the time comes, Callum will help all of us, yourself included.”

George heard Mick clear his throat.

“I’ll write you,” Mick said. “But I’m warning you, everything with Ferrari is delicate. You can’t put a foot wrong. They have more power than anyone—even the FIA.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

George forced himself to peel away, heading back toward the Williams suite before he could get caught eavesdropping. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he breathed a sigh of relief as Nicky’s name appeared.

“Hey, why didn’t you answer?” George asked when he picked up. He plugged his open ear as an equipment cart rolled by.

“Sorry, I was carrying coffee for the mechanics,” Nic replied. “Just looked at my phone—is something wrong?”

“You disappeared, that’s what’s wrong,” George snapped.

“Woah, easy tiger.”

George swallowed hard. “Sorry. I just—don’t leave like that, okay? I was worried about you.”

“Aw," Nic gushed. "About little old me? Cute."

Max passed right in front of him, close enough that George caught a whiff of dried sweat and champagne. He didn’t spare George a glance, and the smile on his face verged on dopey.

“Where are you?” George asked.

“At hospitality,” Nic replied. “Where are you?”

“I’m headed back,” George said absently.

Cameras surrounded Max as he walked. He waved, but otherwise ignored them. He only turned his attention away from the ground in front of him to stare up at the McLaren hospitality suite as he passed.

“Kayla says our van is coming,” Nick said. “Get back here.”

Daniel stepped out from the McLaren suite, brandishing his trademark grin. He waved to Max, but stayed by the door.

“Tell her I'm on the way,” George replied, distracted.

Max’s smile turned even softer as he lifted his chin in greeting. Unabashedly in love.

Max didn’t know, George realized. Whatever was coming, Max didn’t know about it.

Bitterness welled up in George’s heart, along with a thousand memories of sleepless nights with Alex gone, ripped from him because of Max’s choice. 

Maybe Max would finally get a taste of his own medicine.

He fucking deserved it.

Chapter Text

“You debated,” Carlos said as he fiddled with his shaving cream canister. “They told you to let me by and you didn’t respond.”

“I had more speed and I proved it,” Charles said from where he lounged in the bathtub. Steam rose from the water, hot and much-needed. He could stay in the tub forever. Carlos usually hogged the bathroom after a race, but he’d allowed Charles to share with him—probably for this exact conversation.

Carlos set down the shaving cream and turned to look at him.

“I don’t want racing problems to become marriage problems,” Carlos said.

Charles blinked coyly at him. “Then don’t allow racing problems to become marriage problems, mon amour.”

Carlos set his jaw. “Do you understand why I’m frustrated? Think of how it would be in reverse.”

Charles leaned back, resting his head on the lip of the tub. “I understand. But I let you by. Yes, I waited longer to do it, but I didn’t want to lose any speed. Any more speed, I should say.”

Ferrari had ordered him to let Carlos by when he clearly had more speed. Charles had waited a few laps to comply—to the proper point when a crossover actually made sense with tire wear. Carlos had made some cheeky comment over radio that Charles hadn’t bothered to listen to. He listened to facts.

“It wasn’t malicious,” Charles added after a long moment. “I think we can both agree that the team doesn’t always make calls at the right time. I planned to give the place to you, and I did. Then I took it back on merit, as planned. Can we consider this done?”

Carlos frowned.

“Or continue the conversation in the bath?” Charles amended.

Carlos sighed and dropped his towel, exposing every inch of his ristretto skin.

“You make it very difficult to say no,” Carlos said when he turned around.

Charles smirked at him, sitting up to allow Carlos to crawl into the tub behind him—with plenty of room to spare.

Charles quickly closed the distance, running his hands up Carlos’s thighs as he did so. He turned his head to press a kiss to Carlos’s jaw.

“You may not want to do that,” Carlos chuckled. “I need to shave.”

Charles let out a hum of disapproval. “I don't think so. I like you this way. Very manly.”

“Hairy, you mean,” Carlos replied with a roll of his eyes.

“Adds texture,” Charles teased, voice dipping low.

Carlos’s cheeks went ruddy. “You are making fun of me.”

Charles turned to face him, adjusting himself in the warm water to properly sit on Carlos’s lap.  His mouth curled to a smile as he captured Carlos’s lips in a deep kiss.

“Fuck me and we will see who laughs,” Charles murmured against his lips.

Carlos’s eyes went wide, hands settling firmly on Charles’s hips. Charles sank down against him, shivering at the feel of Carlos hardening up underneath him.

“I know a better way,” Carlos said, staring up at him with a face of innocence for such a filthy offer.

Charles kissed him again, drawing it out. “See? Now you can tell me what to do.”

 

 


 

 

An hour later, Charles shivered through aftershocks as he wandered into the kitchen for his untouched dinner, a towel around his waist and a mural of bruises on his hips and ribs, all of them a lovely red and darkening.

He speared up bites of salad as he scrolled through his phone, trying to catch up on world events while Carlos rinsed off in the shower. He tried not to think about joining him there. He didn’t think he’d be able to walk the tarmac for their flight to Brazil if he continued down that path.

All of the day’s frustrations had been dealt with. Charles didn’t mind handing over control—Carlos always proved to be worth submitting to. Though Charles would never put it in those words.

He scooped up the last bite of salad when he heard three knocks at the door, loud and authoritative. Charles sighed. Ferrari couldn’t leave them alone for any length of time without insisting they sign something, take a team photo, or do some other stupid publicity task. Whatever would distract anyone from the fact that they had no chance in the championship.

He opened to door to an FIA official, who scowled at him.

Charles scowled back. “Yes?”

The official extended a small clipboard with a single sheet of paper.

“Your Royal Highness, a letter for you. Please sign and date to confirm you’ve received the letter,” the official said.

“Is this from Jean Todt?” Charles asked, glancing down at the paper. “What is this for?”

“I’m not permitted to know the contents of the letter, Your Royal Highness,” the man replied curtly. “Please sign and date.”

Charles skimmed through the French translation on the paper. Confirmation of delivery. Nothing more of note.

He plucked the pen from the clipboard and rushed a signature.

The official pulled out a large envelope, crisp white with a metallic blue FIA seal. Charles turned the envelope to find another wax seal on the back, a blue string running through it.

“Thank you,” Charles muttered, retreating back into the room.  He pulled the string, ripping through the seal. He pulled a sheet of cardstock from the envelope, emblazoned with three crests—the FIA, Ferrari, and Red Bull.

 

 

FELLOWSHIP OF INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS

OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT

 

Your Royal Highness,

I am writing to confirm and uphold the sanctions Red Bull has put forth concerning His Royal Highness, Prince Max Verstappen. As a prince of Ferrari—an empire still very dear to my heart—I had hoped you would take greater care in associating yourself with the treasonous activities of your fellow princes.

Of course, on the face of it, you have not broken any royal laws. But Red Bull has reported to me that you have aided and abetted illegal actions taken against the FIA, so I must write to let you know we will be taking Red Bull’s self-imposed sanctions with the utmost seriousness.

The FIA encourages comradery between princes of all empires—within reason. Friendship, trust, and respect are the cornerstones of our government. The FIA generously allows for princes from different empires to attend and organize meetings, events, and gatherings with each other.

However, Red Bull has informed me of several unapproved interactions between yourself, Prince Verstappen, and His Royal Highness, Prince Daniel Ricciardo of McLaren.This included y our recent trip to Los Angeles, where you resided in Prince Ricciardo’s residence for the duration of your stay, along with Prince Verstappen—all without FIA permission, which would not have been granted had we been aware of such an event taking place.

You are undoubtedly aware of the illegal acts committed by Prince Ricciardo and Prince Verstappen. I wish I could vouch for your ignorance, but you are a smart man—and a talented one.

I cannot give you an official punishment because, as stated above, you have not broken any FIA laws. But I can assure you that we will no longer be turning a blind eye to your actions, particularly where they concern Red Bull.

Do not tempt fate, Charles. That is all the warning I am at liberty to give.

 

With sincerity,

JT

 

 

Charles’s hands shook so hard he had to set the paper down on the counter to finish reading the letter.

His phone jolted to life beside him with an incoming call.

Mattia.

Charles hesitated. Answering the phone meant accepting that he’d put Ferrari at risk, that he’d damaged their reputation within the FIA. Except no one knew about it. He’d taken pictures in Los Angeles, but none hinted to any affiliation with Max. He didn’t even know if any of the public knew Max had been in California.

“Ciao,” Charles greeted.

“I assume you’ve gotten the letter?” Mattia asked, using his media voice.

“Yes.”

“Good. I need to speak with you—there is a conference room on the second floor. I’ll see you there in ten minutes,” Mattia said.

Charles grit his teeth. “Okay. See you then.”

He hung up and beelined for the bedroom. He poked his head into the bathroom, where Carlos stood under the shower spray, hair flat to his head. Steam swirled around him, giving him an ethereal aura.

“Carlos,” Charles called. “I need to talk to you. Right now.”

Carlos turned and cocked his head, rivers of water running down his face. “What?”

“Right now, Carlos,” Charles snapped, heading back to the bedroom to change.

The sound of the shower cut off and Carlos emerged from the bathroom a moment later, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Jean Todt wrote me,” Charles said as he selected a Moncler t-shirt. Sophisticated enough to look dressy, but casual enough to be comfortable in case he had to sit for hours. “The FIA found out about my trip to Los Angeles with Max and Daniel. They know I stayed with them.”

Saying it out loud didn't make it feel like any more of a crime. He would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant saving Max from himself.

“Fuck,” Carlos said, stepping closer.

Charles tugged the shirt over his head. “Red Bull told them about it, according to the letter. Which doesn’t make any sense to me. Max won today.”

Carlos sat on the edge of their bed. “Where are you going?”

“I have to meet with Mattia. I have no idea what’s going to happen. The FIA said I haven’t broken any laws, but it didn’t sound like they planned to brush it under the rug.”

Carlos cleared his throat. “I should go with you.”

“I want you to,” Charles admitted as he tugged on a pair of jeans. “But I think it’s best if you stay distant from this. One of us needs to be innocent here.”

Carlos frowned, reaching out for him. Charles moved closer, taking his husband’s hands. Shower warmth radiated from Carlos’s body in the cool night air, reminding him of a lifetime ago when they spent the night together in Florence. Back when Charles only feared his own heart. 

Now he knew better. 

“I think it’s as I said before,” Carlos murmured. “You and Daniel helped Max recover. Red Bull doesn’t want that. They want him under their control. They want that more than winning.”

Charles shook his head. “It has to be something else. Max was fine before Austin. Not fine—he was okay. He was managing. We walked him back from the brink and he won.”

Carlos looked up at him. “Hopefully Mattia will help you find out.”

Charles sighed. “Yes.” He leaned down, capturing Carlos’s lips for a needy kiss. Carlos’s hands pushed up his shirt, running warm and wet over his navel.

“Remember, you’re a prince of Ferrari,” Carlos said into another kiss. “You can always call me in. I’ll stand with you.”

Charles smiled, nuzzling against him. “Grazie. Keep your phone ready.”

He gave Carlos a final kiss goodbye and headed to the conference room. His Richard Mille showed they were nearing midnight as he punched the elevator call button. He regretted not bringing a jacket with him.

The doors opened to reveal two FIA officials, who quickly stepped aside to let him enter. The hair rose on the back of Charles’s neck as he stepped inside. He pressed the button for the second floor, thankful to see that the FIA officials were going to the fifth. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in an elevator with anyone except other princes or members of Ferrari. He doubted it was a coincidence. 

No one spoke as they traveled down two floors in silence, but loud voices started from outside that grew louder when the doors opened on the fifth floor.

“It’s not a fucking letter from Red Bull!” Lando shouted over the fray of white FIA polos. "I’m not going down for this. I didn’t lie. You told me they knew!”

Charles moved to exit the elevator, but one of the FIA officials yanked him back inside by the back of his shirt.

"You're not allowed on this floor," the man growled. His breath smelled like sewage as it washed over Charles's face. 

“They did know,” Daniel said from outside. Charles caught a flash of orange amongst the FIA, but couldn’t see who it was. “They fucking knew. How the fuck else would we be allowed to do any of that? In Zandvort—are you kidding me?”

The two FIA officials stepped out of the elevator. Sewage breath turned around to face Charles, his face stone. Charles rolled up onto his toes to peer over his shoulder, catching sight of Daniel. He stood with his hands behind his back, eyes ringed with dark circles, his skin grey and corpse-like. His curls were a ragged halo around his skull as he crumpled, pitching forward but not falling.

The elevator doors started to close.

“Tell me what’s going to happen to him,” Lando said, sounding panicked. “He’s a prince. I’m a prince. You can’t just handcuff him and—”

His voice turned to a muffled noise as the doors slid shut.

Charles stumbled back into the elevator, gripping the railing as he began to descend.

Daniel had already been punished for the burner phones. The only thing the FIA had left to do was exile him.

Max wouldn’t survive that. He couldn’t survive two hours by himself without panicking, even after Los Angeles.

The doors opened on the second floor to reveal Matti standing in an uncharacteristically casual outfit—a cardigan, long pants, and a white cloth button-down. He looked tired.

“Mattia,” Charles greeted, swallowing hard. “I was just on the fifth floor. McLaren is—”

“Charles, let’s discuss this inside the conference room,” Mattia interrupted in a soft tone.

Charles suddenly wished he’d brought Carlos with him, though he knew Carlos would have launched into a fistfight with the FIA at the sound of Lando so scared.

Mattias led him to a small conference room with two chairs and motioned for him to sit down. Charles took a seat, eyeing the door. 

“I had a long conversation with Jean Todt this evening,” Mattia began, leaning back in his chair. “What you’ve just seen on the McLaren floor is showmanship. This is a very delicate situation.”

“Daniel Riccardo looked like he already shattered,” Charles snapped. “And Lando clearly had no idea what was going on.”

“Common for him, I think,” Mattia muttered. He cleared his throat. “Listen to what I’m about to tell you. This situation was not instigated by the FIA.”

“There were only FIA officials up there,” Charles countered.

“Showmanship,” Mattia repeated. “Red Bull self-reported crimes of treason. They came forward and admitted to allowing Max to see Daniel in California, to allowing you to stay there—to many other things. The FIA was aware of some of them—or so Jean said—but not in the context they actually occurred. Red Bull deliberately hid certain aspects of these meetings and suddenly decided to come clean. Does that not seem suspicious to you?”

Charles picked at the scar on his palm, healed over now. He had planned his trip to Los Angeles discreetly. He had a hotel room booked under his name in Beverly Hills as a safeguard, but Daniel and Max both assured him no one would be looking.

Stupid. He never should have trusted them. He tried not to, he tried to cover his tracks.

“They attempted to publicly implicate you in order to fuel speculation that you are supporting Max in the championship fight,” Mattia continued, watching him carefully. “But as Jean understood it, Max convinced them to decide otherwise.”

Heat prickled at the back of Charles’s neck, sticky and needle-like. Max had kept his word. Max had thrown himself to the dogs for him. Again.

“So why the letter?” Charles asked. “And what about McLaren?”

Mattia noses once and adjusted his glasses. “Jean can’t receive this news and do nothing. But a public admission would damage the reputation of the FIA. And, frankly, I believe Red Bull would take that opportunity to suggest the FIA is no longer needed.”

Charles blinked in surprise, mouth falling open.

Mattia shrugged. “It has been suggested before. Absolutely foolish, but I’ve never known Christian to think beyond his short-sighted plans for glory. Daniel and Lando will be informed of the situation. Daniel will receive the brunt of FIA anger, but I believe all of it will be a showy slap on the wrist.”

Charles cleared his throat. “Jean mentioned Red Bull sanctions.”

Mattia sighed. “Yes.”

Charles didn’t allow himself to think about Max, or the fear in his eyes he’d seen in Los Angeles. Max clung to Daniel as if he might disappear, and paced around Charles like a waiting dog whenever Daniel stepped out for a break or to clear his mind after what became a daily screaming match between him and Max until Max finally calmed down. Until Max finally regained sanity. 

Daniel promised to be there to protect Max no matter what.

“Red Bull released a statement to the heads of government about an hour ago. Christian said that Max continues to be distracted by princes of other empires. You were named.”

Charles bristled, but stayed quiet.

“Daniel and Lando were also named. Max will no longer be permitted to spend time with any of you, unless it is required for public events on the racing weekend.”

“Any of us?” Charles repeated. “The three of us, or princes in general?”

Mattia frowned. “They didn’t specify. It is assumed to mean the three of you.”

Charles shook his head. “Max won’t survive that. He needs Daniel.”

“He has Sergio.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Yes, because they’re so infatuated with each other.”

Mattia folded his hands, pressing his knuckles to his lips in thought. Charles crossed his arms, fighting the chill that swept through his body. Of course they organized this in the middle of the night. Of course they organized it when all of the empires were making the move to Brazil, caught up in the commotion of a quick turnaround. 

“Max has to learn how to play by the rules,” Mattia said. “I know he is a close friend of yours, but this is between him and his empire, Charles. Max absolved you of blame, it’s time to step away.”

“Did Red Bull give any other reason other than a distraction?” Charles asked, ignoring him.

Mattia closed his eyes. “Not in the press release.”

“Mattia.”

Silence puleld taut between them until Mattia shook his head. “Christian told Jean that Max was losing motivation to perform. Not trying hard enough.”

Hatred sizzled to life in Charles’s gut. Max had given everything to Red Bull. Max was Red Bull. How dare they take away the person he loved. 

“They’re cornering a lion,” Charles warned. “This is just going to piss him off.”

Mattia’s eyes turned sad—a rare look on his usually stoic features. “Unfortunately, I believe they know exactly what they are doing, Charles. What matters now is not getting caught in the crossfire.”

 

 

Chapter 123

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

FIA ASSOCIATED PRESS

SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL – The dust has settled from Mexico, and stark realities have begun to take hold following Prince Max Verstappen’s victory at Autodromo Hermanos Rodriguez. Red Bull has indicated they plan to double down on their training regimens for both princes and go full steam ahead for the rest of the season.

In the Mercedes camp, a somber warning has been issued. Prince Lewis Hamilton will have to win every remaining race in the season in order to keep his championship hopes alive. That is, assuming Prince Verstappen doesn’t DNF.

“Lewis performs best under pressure,” Toto Wolff said on Tuesday. “We intend to win every race we enter. This does not change our strategy.”

Brazil welcomed Prince Hamilton with open arms. Often described as his “second home,” Brazil is one of Prince Hamilton’s favorite countries to visit.

“This beautiful country always brings me good luck,” Prince Lewis said on social media. “Obrigado for the warm welcome!”

We imagine neither Red Bull nor Mercedes are quite so cheery behind the screens.

After all, the championship hangs in the balance.

 


 

The days following Mexico were uncharacteristically silent. George waited for letters from his friends, but none came. He didn’t even get one from Lewis. He asked Kayla to make sure there weren’t any holdups with mail, only to be told everything was as it should be.

George disagreed.

Brazil greeted him with sticky, humid heat. He loathed it. He especially loathed pacing around his hotel room while Nic spent the beginning of the week at some cabana thing with his girlfriend, leaving him alone with no letters and a painfully absent social life.

“You’re being whiny,” Nic said over the phone on Wednesday afternoon. “You’re not being held prisoner. Go see something. Brazil is a cool country.”

“It’s not fun to do stuff alone,” George muttered from where he’d curled up in the comforter. “Besides, it’s hot out there. I only just now got the air conditioning to get the room to the optimal temperature.”

“Wow. Sounds like you’ve had an exciting afternoon,” Nic drawled. “I’m eating a plate of fresh fruit and I’ve got my toes in the sand. You could have come with, you know.”

“And third wheel?” George let out a scoff. “I don’t think so.”

“Whiny baby,” Nic teased. “I’ll be there in the morning. Try not to waste away before then.”

George decided to hit the gym after he hung up. He forced himself to leave the comfort of bed and changed into workout clothes, figuring that a run on the treadmill would help take his mind off of the numbing loneliness threatening to swallow him up. FIA officials milled around in the hall as he left the hotel room, pointing at walls and windows and mumbling about security.

The hotel gym had its own floor, away from the hubbub of the lobby. George appreciated the relative silence as he used his keycard to swipe past the frosted glass doors.

Lando and Daniel took up two treadmills, both of them wearing headphones as they jogged. They both turned when the door clacked shut behind him.

“Hey mate,” Lando greeted with a smile, pulling his headphones down to rest around his neck. “Didn’t realize you were here.”

Daniel offered a wave but didn't take his headphones off. 

“Don’t wanna be,” George muttered as he moved over to the empty treadmill next to Lando. “Nicky’s off on vacation without me and I haven’t seen Lewis in awhile.”

“Bummer,” Lando said, thick with sarcasm.

“What about you, birthday boy?” George asked.

Lando smiled sheepishly. He never liked talking about his birthday, ever since they were kids. He didn’t like being the youngest one of their group.

“Probably a nice dinner or something on the day,” Lando said. “I dunno.”

George glanced over at Daniel, who kept his focus straight ahead.

“You and Daniel or…?”

Lando blushed, shaking his head. “I’m not getting my hopes up. Carlos has been pretty busy.”

George started his treadmill at a walk. “It’s your birthday, though. Not often that those happen on race weekend when you can be together.”

Lando shrugged. “Ferrari has pretty tight control of his schedule.”

“Ferrari, or Charles?” George joked.

Lando shot him a look. “Charles is good now. And, uh, I wasn’t innocent in the way I went about things before.”

“What?” George gasped. “You, mature? Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Don’t make me press the stop button,” Lando warned, reaching over to George’s treadmill.

George slapped his hand away with a laugh.

George turned his walk into a jog, finding a decent pace to get his heart rate up. He regretted not bringing his headphones, but running in silence helped him mentally prepare for the race.

“I miss him a lot,” Lando said after a long silence. “Being with Carlos was never complicated.”

George smiled. “You mean you didn’t have a third person in your relationship.”

Lando chuckled. “I guess. Now I have three people in both of them.”

“I thought you and Max were doing more than just sharing.”

He couldn't imagine Lando or Max being into each other. They seemed like two opposite ends of a magnet--repelling forces. Lando was a calm, easygoing competitor. He could be a brat, but he had a good head on his shoulders. Max walked through life with a blade at his throat.

Lando’s smile flickered. “We’ve settled that for now. Daniel and I are really strong.”

George furrowed his brow. He hadn’t been aware Lando and Max fought about Daniel. “That isn’t what I—”

But Lando had his headphones back on, head swaying to the beat of his music.  

 

 


 

 

Interlagos had a special energy. George liked the feel of the track—it made for good racing. He hooked an arm around Nic’s shoulder for a promo photo, signed some hats, said hello to fans, and did his interviews with a smile.

“Is it weird that I haven’t talked to Lewis in two weeks?” George asked as he scribbled his autograph on a folded t-shirt. Kayla walked it back to a waiting fan who swooned upon receiving it.

“I wish I could be so lucky,” Nic muttered. He cracked a smile when George elbowed him in the ribs. “George, he’s got about a billion things going on. This race, for one. He has to win all of them from here on out.”

George sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m being clingy.”

Nic lifted his eyebrows. “You said it, not me.”

Guilt flickered to life in his belly. Lewis had been on his mind too much lately for someone who broke his heart. George couldn’t even look at a hot tub now without lighting up in embarrassment--but talking about him as if they were still in love felt so easy. It felt right, honestly. 

“Boys, time to go,” Kayla announced. “Need you both to read a few lines for a PSA about littering. Williams is cracking down.”

George and Nic exchanged a look.

“Does Ferrari have to film PSAs about littering?” George asked.

“They drive a car fifteen seconds faster than yours, so probably not,” Kayla replied brightly.

“Actually, I think it’s more like thirty,” Nic said, capping his Sharpie.

George shot him a look. “Whose side are you on?”

Nic grinned. “The climate’s.”

“And that’s why you’re the fan favorite, Your Royal Highness,” Kayla laughed. She shot a wink to George. “Let’s go.”

“You wonder why I’m leaving,” George muttered, but he tugged Nic to his side. Warmth filled his chest as they walked back toward hospitality together. People crowded around them, chattering in Portuguese, English, Spanish, and a few other languages he didn’t recognize.

He instinctively searched the crowd for Lewis—his distinctive sunglasses and unaffected expression that cracked only to smile with a young fan or to offer a fist bump to a passing team member.

Lewis never walked around with Valtteri, George realized. He always—

George caught the balsamic scent of cistus leaves and stopped in his tracks. He sniffed the air and turned to find the source.

People jostled close. A girl approached him with her phone extended, snapping a selfie with him. George only remembered to smile after she left.

“George,” Nic called, tugging his arm. “What are you doing?”

George turned back around, shaking his head. “Sorry. Thought I recognized someone.”

He could still feel the bite of those stiff oak chairs, the fear that closed his throat, fuzzy memories of green and white on the walls.

“This way,” Kayla said, gesturing toward the FIA suite.

George stayed close to Nic, brushing off a few more fans who tried to take photos with him.

“So is this just about littering, or are we bringing up recycling?” Nic asked as they stepped past the FIA security ropes. “We need to consider reusable water bottles for the team, by the way. I see too many plastic bottles with only a few sips taken out. It’s wasteful.”

An FIA official stood guard at the front of the suite entrance, stepping side to allow them entry.

“Stop being so smart, Nicky, I’m the one who’s marrying—”

The words died in George’s throat as the scent of cistus leaves hit him full force, this time with the nose-prickling scent of cinnamon.

This time, George found the source of the smell.

Jos Verstappen stood in the hall wearing the same sour expression George remembered from childhood. He had a lot less hair than he did back then, and what was left was greased back in eel-like strands against his head.

A door opened on the other side of the hall. Max emerged, emotionless. His usually-blotched cheeks had paled, his inquisitive eyes had turned flat and colorless. And his always-running mouth had gone silent, his jaw so clenched George wondered if he would shatter his own teeth.

“Max,” George called, stepping away from Nicky and Kayla.

Max looked straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard.

“Max,” George called again. “Hey—”

Jos lunged at him like a rabid dog.

Well, he stepped in the way. But Jos only moved with violence.

The hair rose on the back of George’s neck, the same way it had all those years ago when he sat in the oak chair in Jos’s office and stared at the desk in front of him while Jos called his parents after he and Max turned the neighbor’s yard to a mudslide with the garden hose.

After the phone call, George sat there and listened while Jos yelled at his son with so much fury that George feared his own father’s reaction when he picked him up.

His dad had laughed and told him a story about digging up his granny’s flower garden in search of Viking treasure.

Max showed up at the next karting track the next day with a split lip and a smaller stature.

“Max is very busy,” Jos said evenly, but his voice still sent a chill down George’s spine.

The mouth-drying scent of Jos's ancient cologne made George’s stomach turn. Cistus leaves and cinnamon—the scent of old, powerful men. A scent George associated with bruises on Max’s body, the destruction of his soul.  

“Yeah, well, I want to talk to him,” George hissed. He didn’t look Jos in the eye. He couldn’t. “You’re going to deny a prince?”

Jos tensed and George found himself contracting his abs in anticipation of a punch to the gut.

“Pappa.”

Max’s voice cut through the roaring in George’s ears.

“You have media engagements,” Jos snapped, rounding on his son. “This is exactly why I am here—to prevent distraction like this. These silly friends? They are not your friends.”

Max looked up at his father, his lips pressed in a hard line.

“George does not consider me a friend, Pappa,” Max said tersely.

Tears sprang to George’s eyes. He blinked them away, turning his face toward the wall so Max wouldn’t see.

“One minute,” Jos said, pointing a finger at Max.

Max flinched, shriveling where he stood, though he hadn’t moved at all. “Okay. One minute.”

George swallowed hard.

“George,” Kayla said, patting his shoulder. “We need you—”

“You’re going to have to give me a moment,” George said, shrugging her off. He glanced at Nic. “Can Max and I have some space?”

Nic paled. “I’ll get us started, Kayla. Come on, George can come in when he’s ready.”

George tried to find something to say as he stared at Max, who had gone rigid. A lump formed in George's throat that threatened to suffocate him. He reached out, glancing his fingers over Max’s arm.

Max winced at the touch and George drew his hand away.

“Max—”

“I would like you to check on Daniel for me,” Max said so quietly his lips barely moved.

“Check on him? I just saw him last night in the gym, he seemed fine,” George said. “He flew in with Pierre—I thought you arranged that.”

“He flew in with Pierre,” Max repeated slowly, a bit of wonder returning to his eyes.

“Yeah, Max. He’s fine,” George assured him, stepping closer. “He was running on the treadmill and he didn’t look like you look right now.”

Max’s shoulders unclenched—but only fractionally.

“What is going on?” George asked, voice dropping to a whisper. “Why is he here?”

Max worked his jaw for a moment. “I invited him.”

George made a sound between a scoff and a laugh.

“I’ve been very distracted lately,” Max continued, eyes vacant again. “My father is here to give me focus. He has always been there for me in this way.”

He sounded like he was reading off a script.

“Right. What’s this really about?" George asked. "How long is he here for?”

Max offered a smile that looked like it had been carved into his face with a screwdriver.

“Until I win the championship, of course.”

George grit his teeth, dread welling up in him. “Is he hurting you again?”

Max’s eyes flashed. “He’s my dad. He doesn’t hurt me.”

“Max,” Jos said, followed by something in Dutch.

Max instantly shut his mouth and turned away, rejoining his father. Jos put an arm around Max’s shoulders. Three Red Bull officials swarmed them as they headed for the door, speaking intently. Max turned his gaze to the ground. Jos listened to the officials and nodded thoughtfully.

George watched them leave, cold seeping into his veins.

He always knew this day would come. Royalty kept Max away from his father, but only temporarily. Someday, Max’s crown would be taken from him, and Jos would be right there waiting.

George still had the calculator app to hide the photos of Max’s bruises. The welts on his back, the swollen curve of his inner ear. The photos never showed the whole picture.

The photos didn’t come with the way Max sounded when he bit his lip and stuffed down sobs while George helped him into his balaclava. The photos didn't show the way Max put a hand on George’s chest to stop him when George eased his karting helmet on and it pinched those same boxed ears.

The photos didn’t capture after, when Max adjusted to the pain and quieted his body into the machine his father had made him into. The way he touched George’s wrist and whispered three words into the quiet:

“Don’t tell Charles.”

George was no longer the boy who stood by and watched people he loved get hurt.

He stormed out of the FIA suite and out into the hospitality lane. He watched as Jos shepherded Max into the Red Bull suite—George didn’t think it was a coincidence that it was the closest one to the FIA.

He grabbed the first Ferrari team shirt he saw. An Italian man turned to face him, bewildered. 

“You,” George said in the deadliest tone he could muster. “Find me Charles Leclerc.”

 

 

Notes:

this chapter has also been a long time coming. i vaguely remember when the camera showed jos at this race and everything in my brain turned black.

Chapter Text

 

DE TELEGRAAF

[translation provided by Google Translate]

EXCLUSIVE: MAX VERSTAPPEN “READY” TO BEAT LEWIS HAMILTON

SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL – Prince Max Verstappen, our current championship leader, appeared calm and cool as he arrived for our exclusive interview. Perhaps it was because he was accompanied by his father and longtime mentor, Jos Verstappen.

“Max has been under tremendous pressure this season,” Jos explained. “There are many decisions he has to be part of on a governmental level, but he needs to be focusing on racing. I offered to step in and help.”

“My father has experience I can tap into,” Prince Max added.

Prince Max is of course referring to his father’s time as a prince within the FIA. It isn’t often that father and son both reach royalty—Prince Mick Schumacher is the only other prince on the grid with a royal father.

We asked Prince Max about his thoughts going into the race. Red Bull looks good heading into the weekend, but Mercedes have the better build for Interlagos.

“I will take this race weekend like any other,” Prince Max told us. “Actually, I think I am more focused than usual. I’m ready to win and I know I have the car to do it. Of course, I will have to prove it on track. But I feel ready.”

“He is stronger than ever,” Jos added. “He has a champion’s mindset now.”

Father and son shared a hug after our interview, discussing race logistics and further media duties. Prince Max is clearly at ease with family at his side—a rare opportunity in the royal paddock.

“It’s great that Red Bull recognizes the importance of family,” Prince Max told us with a happy  smile. “To have my father to guide me is something I will not take for granted. I am thankful to Christian, Helmut, and of course the whole Red Bull family for making this happen as we enter the final races.”

 

 

******

 

 

Lando took a breath of gratitude as Sophia gave him a thumbs up, indicating his media day duties were done. As promised, no one asked about the Red Bull sanctions. No one even asked him about Daniel’s devotion to his ex-husband—it was as if the gossip of the weeks before had been zapped from everyone’s memory.

Good riddance.

“Babe,” Daniel said in a new, soft voice he’d started using after the FIA stormed their hotel room.

Lando turned his face away, but kept his smile on for the cameras.

“Babe, please,” Daniel said, putting an arm around him.

Lando wished he could shove him off, but he knew his anger was misplaced on Daniel and he didn’t want the media picking up on anything wrong.

The team that ransacked Daniel’s things in Portugal hadn’t cared for privacy or decency or royalty. This time had been no different. This time, they had both been in the wrong. Daniel as a lawbreaker, Lando as a fucking accessory.

Lando now had images of his own things strewn about the hotel room. Old letters from Carlos, his clothes, some gag gifts from Fewtrell that he traveled with.

Seeing his bags opened and emptied felt like a bodily violation.

“I haven’t processed yet,” Lando said tightly. “I’m not ready to talk.”

“Well, I just spoke to Carlos and he wants to take you on a date,” Daniel said.

Lando stopped walking. His heart pounded as he wheeled around in search of Carlos’s red Ferrari polo. Carlos was the only person who could make him feel better.

Daniel stepped into his eyeline with a frown. “We need to talk before you go.”

“Fine,” Lando said. “But first—does the FIA know about this date with Carlos?”

Daniel’s frown deepened. “As far as I know.”

“Well, at least you aren’t lying this time.”

He didn’t wait to see Daniel’s expression before he headed into the hospitality suite. Daniel followed close enough for Lando to feel his body heat through the back of his McLaren polo.

Lando finally turned to face his husband once they were safely inside their drivers’ room.

“You can’t tell Carlos about what happened last night,” Daniel said.

Lando set his jaw. “Duh.”

He would never subject Carlos to the humiliation the FIA had just inflicted on them.

Daniel sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was surprisingly calm for someone who had been in handcuffs the night before.

“I’m gonna sort all of this out,” Daniel said. “Last night never should have happened. I didn’t think Red Bull would turn on Max, and that’s my stupidity.”

Lando shook his head. “I got lazy too. I stopped asking about the FIA and I should have asked.”

Daniel’s brow creased. He reached up, cradling Lando’s face in his hands.

Lando glowered at him with smushed cheeks.

“The FIA did know,” Daniel said softly, resting their foreheads together. “Which is why I need to figure out what really happened and fix it.”

Lando pulled free of Daniel’s hold, only to  press his hands to Daniel’s chest a moment later.

“I think you need to lay low, Dan,” Lando said. “I know it’s Max, but the most important thing is your safety. That’s all Max is going to be worried about. So just…don’t, okay? We made it out alive last night, we need to be thankful for that.”

Daniel worried his bottom lip.

The FIA led Daniel away in handcuffs, ripped through their luggage in search of burner phones, and upturned Lando’s private life in the space of an hour.

When they brought Daniel back, it was like nothing happened except for their things tossed all over the hotel room. No punishment, no public reprimand, no warnings. Just two letters saying they weren’t allowed to speak to Max or go near him.

“You scared the shit out of me last night,” Lando said when Daniel didn’t reply. “I wasn’t lying to George when I said we feel strong. Last night kind of fucked things up, but I still love you.”

“I love you too,” Daniel returned, kissing his cheek. “And ‘fucked things up’ is an understatement.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Lando didn’t miss that Daniel hadn’t agreed to stay out of trouble.

“I’m not staying away from him for the rest of the season,” Daniel finally said.

Lando pressed a gentle kiss to Daniel’s lips. He tasted like electrolyte water.

Better than the taste of alcohol.

“I promise won’t say anything to Carlos as long as you promise not to make things worse while I’m gone,” Lando said.

Daniel gave him a peck. “Deal.”

 

 


 

 

An hour later, Lando stood in the balmy lobby of what looked like a botanical garden. His driver said it was an aquarium, but Lando had been to aquariums before and this one was too green.

He looked up at the sound of a purring Ferrari engine. Lando’s hands suddenly seemed out of place at his sides. He stuffed them in his hoodie pocket, but instantly felt their sweatiness and removed them. He wiped his hands on his jeans, muttering curses under his breath.

Be normal.

Daniel said Carlos referred to their outing as a date, but Lando had decided not to trust that. Daniel assumed a lot about his relationship with Carlos—Lando knew he wouldn’t be able to win the love of his life back so easily.

“You look nice,” Carlos greeted, startling Lando from his thoughts.

Lando’s mouth went dry at the sight of Carlos in a soft white shirt and suit jacket. He noticed the faint outline of Carlos’s abs under his shirt, and several dirty thoughts filled his head.

“Nice,” Lando said, then turned red. “I mean, hey.”

He realized his Quadrant hoodie and jeans paled in comparison.

“Oh, yes, I have something for you,” Carlos said, digging into his back pocket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it over. “The FIA approval you wanted.”

“Thank you,” Lando said, unfolding the letter.

 

This document signifies the acknowledgement of the Brazil race weekend plan presented by HRH Carlos Sainz Jr. Permission has been granted by Ferrari, with written signature on file from HRH Charles Leclerc, approving the proposed interactions with HRH Lando Norris, confirming they will be platonic in nature. The FIA hereby approves this plan.

 

Platonic. Lando swallowed down his disappointment and forced a smile.

Carlos offered his hand. “If you don’t mind?”

Lando stuffed the letter in his hoodie pocket. “The note said platonic.”

Carlos blinked. “Um. Well, it isn’t as if I could tell them my true intentions.”

Gooey warmth washed over Lando as he took Carlos’s hand. Their fingers tangled together, strong and sure as they had been during their marriage. Carlos’s hand fit so perfectly with his own.

“You look hot,” Lando blurted before they started walking.

Carlos laughed, his cheeks turning ruddy. “Why thank you.”

They walked inside together, hand-in-hand. Lando beamed when the receptionist greeted them, showing them toward the self-guided aquarium tour. Carlos spoke to her with his usual easy charm, getting her to smile within a few seconds. He had such a way with people—Lando often ruined social interactions with his awkwardness.

They stepped into the first exhibit, greeted by blue light and darkness. Displays featured polar bears, and several large windows showed into an empty exhibit. Carlos had reserved the whole aquarium just for them, Lando realized as he took in the empty viewing areas.

“Did you know polar bears do not have white fur?” Carlos asked, nodding toward the exhibit.

A giant bear emerged from a straw-covered cave, sniffing the air. The bear looked like it ha djust woken up from a nap. Lucky bear.

“Looks white to me,” Lando said, tucking close to Carlos’s side.

“It’s transparent,” Carlos explained. “And they have hair and fur.”

Lando nuzzled into Carlos’s shoulder, smiling to himself.

Three, two—

“When polar bears were first in captivity, they started turning green,” Carlos continued, right on cue. “They discovered algae was growing inside their hairs because they are hollow. Obviously, the zoos have learned how to correct the problem. Can you imagine green polar bears?”

I love you, Lando wanted to say. He loved Carlos’s useless trivia facts, his endless knowledge, his blunt way of sharing his intelligence. Some people took him to be cocky, but Lando saw his willingness to learn, his desire to teach and share what he knew.

One date wouldn’t be enough.

“You’re my favorite polar bear,” Lando finally said.

Carlos laughed. “You aren’t listening to me, are you?”

“Always,” Lando replied, though he realized his answer didn’t make sense.

Carlos untangled their hands to put an arm around him as they headed to the next exhibit.

Carlos told him facts about Indonesian fish and Australian stingrays as they wandered through exhibits fish and animals that looked the same to Lando. But he listened intently, even as his hand wandered up the back of Carlos’s shirt, thumbing over the dip at the base of Carlos’s spine.

Carlos’s presence wiped away every ounce of stress from Lando’s body. His blood finally found warmth again after the cold fear from the night before. He didn’t feel a need to support, to watch to make sure Carlos wasn’t sneaking beers, to brace himself for impact when McLaren Public Affairs showed up at the door after with a list of demands for media day.

Lando let out a hum as they entered the humid warmth of the Amazon exhibit. A canopy of leaves hung overhead, filled with tropical birds that chirped and squawked at their arrival.

“A Spix Macaw,” Carlos breathed, pointing at a sky blue parrot up in one of the far trees. “They’re almost extinct.”

Lando looked up at the bird. It didn’t appear interested in either of them as it squawked at anther bird nearby—a regular-looking blue parrot. Lando didn’t really like birds. His dad once said that parrots were toddlers with bolt cutters for mouths.

He snuggled closer to Carlos, wary.

“Hey look,” Lando said, pointing at the aquarium in front of them. Stingrays loafed around under the surface with giant, funny looking fish. A sign showed a hand touching the fish, with a green checkmark beside it and a whole lot of Portuguese.

“It’s a touch pool,” Carlos affirmed.

“Then let’s touch,” Lando said, hopping up to the edge of the aquarium. He bent over the edge and smiled when Carlos touched his back protectively, ready to catch him if he fell forward.

A spotted stingray headed toward them.  Lando rolled up a sleeve and put his hand in the water, leaning down. He ran two fingers over the back of the stingray as it swam up against his hand.

“It’s like squishy sandpaper,” Lando remarked as the stingray swam by.

Carlos moved up beside him, keeping one hand on Lando’s back as he put the other in the water to meet a large silver fish as it swam up.

“Carlos,” Lando warned as the fish stopped swimming, its giant golden eyes examining Carlos’s hand as if it were a tasty meal. “Carlos—!”

The fish swam forward, gently headbutting Carlos’s palm.

Lando jumped in fright as a stingray did the same to his hand, but Carlos caught him by the back of the hoodie before he went face-first into the water.

“So scared,” Carlos teased, laughing.

Lando pulled his hand from the water and promptly wiped it on Carlos’s suit jacket.

“That was mean,” Carlos chastised. “This is a very nice suit.”

Lando cracked a sly smile. “I think it would look better on the floor, actually.”

Carlos withdrew his hand from the water and shook it out, flicking water on Lando’s face.

Lando scrunched his nose. When he opened his eyes, Carlos’s lips were a breath away. His doe eyes sucked Lando in against his will, more powerful than any current.

Lando closed the distance for a deep kiss. Carlos let out a hum against his mouth and pulled him in until they were chest to chest.

The macaws chattered above them as Lando slipped his tongue into Carlos’s mouth, shivering when Carlos returned the gesture. His skin turned to gooseflesh when Carlos’s hands slipped under his hoodie and met bare skin.

Carlos pulled back momentarily, cocking a brow. “No shirt underneath?”

“More efficient,” Lando replied into another kiss. He arched into Carlos, moaning softly when Carlos thumbed over his nipple, fingers still cold from the water.

Lando’s mouth started to ache as they continued making out under the canopy of trees, but Lando pushed the oncoming soreness from his mind. He tilted his head back to give Carlos access to his neck, panting when Carlos took full advantage, nipping and licking his way down the column of his throat.

“I miss you every day,” Carlos murmured against warm skin. “I love you so much.”

Lando burned from his cheeks to his toes, stuttering out a breath in response.

“I love you too,” he finally managed. “I love you so much, Carlos.”

Lando pulled back only to crush their lips together for a bruising kiss. Carlos grunted against him and squeezed him tight, stealing the breath from Lando’s mouth.

“I have a birthday present for you,” Carlos murmured, nosing against him.

“Oh yeah?” Lando said with a love-drunk laugh. “Does it involve sneaking away to an aquarium bathroom to have your way with me?”

Carlos laughed. “No. I want to make love to you, not fuck you in a bathroom.”

Lando’s wit evaporated in an instant. Carlos’s eyes softened, his swollen lips forming a smile so full of love it made Lando hurt.

“I rented a villa for the weekend,” Carlos explained quietly. His hand moved up and down Lando’s back, almost massaging. “I want you to come. It’s been approved—it was part of my proposal to the FIA.”

Lando brushed noses with him. “Let me guess, I have to bring Daniel.”

Carlos furrowed his brow. “Um. I was not planning for you to bring Daniel, no.”

Lando mirrored his puzzled expression. “So Charles will be there?”

Carlos shook his head. “No. Just you and I. Last time we raced here we had to leave before we could properly celebrate my podium—”

“Well, we celebrated plenty in our drivers’ room,” Lando teased.

He remembered the hot, close air, the scent of sweat and victory. Carlos above him, elated and horny and fucking him in a way Lando had never been fucked before. He’d felt like he was the trophy Carlos had really been after, and he would never forget the breathless grin on Carlos’s lips when Lando moaned his name as he came all over his brand new trophy that had wedged between them and the wall.

“You are filthy,” Carlos laughed, his cheeks red again.

“Your fault,” Lando purred, gently nipping his bottom lip.

Carlos kissed him, sweet and tender and husband-like. Lando missed him so much.

“I have the villa for the weekend, for us. For your birthday, for the celebration we never had, for…finding us again. Taking time to figure everything out this time—what we need,” Carlos explained.

“The FIA knows I’ll be there alone with you?” Lando asked. “They didn’t say anything about that?”

Carlos made a face. “They certainly fought me, but I do not ask for much. As long as we don’t post anything about where we are and we leave the track with our husbands, we are allowed. Of course, if you do not feel comfortable—”

“I’m absolutely coming,” Lando assured him. “Are you kidding me? A whole weekend together?”

He wrapped his arms around Carlos’s neck and pulled him into a heady kiss.

“Can I stay tonight?” Lando asked.

Carlos nodded, excitement sparking in his eyes. “Yes. I have it ready for us.”

“Okay. I need to grab my stuff,” Lando said, tingling with excitement himself. “Does my driver know—?”

“I’ll make sure everything is arranged,” Carlos said with a nod. “Should we go now?”

Lando shrugged. “Not really into having sex with any parrots involved, so I think that’s the best idea.”

Carlos kissed him again, this time it lingered. “I love you. Mi lago, mi leche.”

Lando felt like it was 2019 all over again. “I love you. Thank you. You have no idea how much I need this.”

 

 


 

 

Lando didn’t touch the ground the whole trip back to the hotel. He floated up the stairs, with the taste of Carlos on his lips, the feel of his warm hand on his skin. They had all night to reacquaint their bodies and souls—to “make love” as Carlos termed it—and Lando didn’t want to waste a second.

He skipped into the hotel room. Daniel stood in the living room with his shoes on, scrolling through his phone. He smiled when he noticed Lando.

“Somebody’s happy,” he greeted.

“I’m spending the whole weekend with Carlos,” Lando gushed, looping his arms around Daniel’s neck. “I have an official note from the FIA confirming they know about it too. Carlos is the best.”

Daniel smiled before he kissed Lando’s nose. “Great. Now you’re gonna smell like sex at practice, huh.”

“Taste of your own medicine,” Lando teased.

“Touché,” Daniel returned with a kiss. “Don’t have too much fun. You need your ass to support your weight in the cockpit tomorrow.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Lando rolled his eyes and spun away. He stepped into the bedroom and the moment he crossed the threshold, he was reminded why he didn’t want to stay here.

Except his things were no longer scattered all over the floor. His luggage had been repacked, his letters stacked and tied with their original ribbon, and his pajamas laid out on the bed.

“Didn’t want you to come back to a mess,” Daniel explained as he stepped up behind him.

Lando’s chest welled with affection. His body hummed with all kinds of emotion, so it didn’t take much for tears to spring up in his eyes.

“You did that for me?” Lando asked.

Daniel pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “You think I’d leave that mess for you when it hurt you so much? C’mon.”

Lando turned around and caught Daniel’s mouth in a kiss that quickly turned to two, tender and soft.

Daniel smiled when they broke apart. “You’re real cute.”

“Thank you,” Lando said quietly. He glanced down at Daniel’s Vans. “Going somewhere?”

He didn’t hide the suspicion on his voice.

“Oh, yeah,” Daniel said, smiling down at his shoes. “Aussie buddy’s in town. Decided I should visit with him instead of being a sad sack in a hotel room by myself. Carlos mentioned the villa when we chatted. But I appreciate your concern for my loneliness.”

Lando’s cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment.

“I’m kidding, babe,” Daniel laughed, kissing his cheek. “I’m a big boy.”

Lando cleared his throat. “That includes not drinking, right?”

Daniel nodded. “Sober as a judge.”

Lando relaxed, but only marginally. “So what are you doing with your friend?”

Daniel shrugged. “Not sure yet. Probably dinner, catching up. Honestly, I’m gonna stay out as late as I can. Having Max here and not seeing him—I don’t want to be here if I don’t have to be.”

Lando gave him a hug, squeezing tight. Daniel hugged back, tucking his nose into Lando’s neck.

They stood like that for a long time, until their breathing synced up. Lando listened to Daniel’s heartbeat, fast and irregular. Not the heartbeat of someone off to dinner with a mate.

“Daniel,” Lando said in a warning tone. “Are you lying to me?”

Daniel’s heartbeat went faster, hummingbird speed.

“No.”

“Are you not telling me everything?” Lando asked, pulling back to look at him.

Daniel swallowed hard. He broke eye contact, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

“Some things need to be done,” Daniel said quietly. “But I won’t break my promise to you. I’m not putting us at risk. I’m not making things worse.”

Lando saw truth in Daniel’s eyes and heard it in his voice, but unease churned in Lando’s gut all the same.

“Be safe,” Lando urged with a kiss. “I never wanna see you in handcuffs again.”

“Maybe I wanna be in handcuffs,” Daniel teased. “I can get some pink fuzzy—”

“Daniel.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll be safe. No risky business here, darlin’.”

Daniel gave him another hug and a kiss goodbye before he headed out into the hall. Lando watched him leave, stuffing down the sickness threatening to give him a headache.

The Daniel he knew didn’t give up on Max.

So Lando had to wonder if the Daniel he said goodbye to was the one he fell in love with or the one he married in Bahrain who hid secrets in plain view.

Chapter Text

“Call me if anything feels wrong, okay?” Charles asked as Carlos hefted his duffel higher on his shoulder. “I mean it. I don’t trust the FIA to do the right thing.”

“I don’t either, but we’re keeping a very low profile because of that,” Carlos said. “Unless they would like to put cameras in the house to watch—”

“Carlos.” Charles narrowed his eyes.

Carlos kissed his cheek. “I’ll be cautious.”

Charles lingered in the doorway as Carlos headed to the elevator. He took in the breadth of Carlos’s shoulders underneath his Ferrari jacket, the slender profile of his jeans—deceptive, because Carlos had more power in his left foot than most people had in their entire body.

Carlos turned before he stepped into the elevator. They met eyes and both smiled at the same time.

Such a simple thing, watching someone leave. Such a simple thing to turn around to see if someone loved you enough to watch you go.

Charles waved. “I love you.”

Carlos lifted his chin, accepting the words like sunlight on his face. “Love you too, mi amor.”

Charles waited until Carlos disappeared from view to head back into the hotel room. He locked the door amd his heart turned to steel in his chest.  Carlos took all of his warmth, leaving Charles to bristle in the chill he left behind.

He hurried into his room and changed into casual clothes—a black shirt, black soccer pants, and a black Burberry cap.

Anger rose up in him, thick and sticky. It jabbed him like a festering wound, clawing down the back of his ribcage, running the tracks his horror had gouged earlier when George found him in the paddock.

Charles didn’t think he could put anything above Ferrari, but the second George told him of Jos Verstappen’s new role at Red Bull, he considered inciting war. He was fairly sure that if war were legal between empires, he could convince all of Ferrari to band behind him to take down the entire Red Bull establishment.

Most of Charles’s regrets in life revolved his father, Jules, and Anthoine. He accepted his mistakes in other areas of his life, even if it took awhile to come around.

But he had never forgiven himself for standing by when Max suffered. He’d been so scared back then—crippling, nauseating fear. Jos Verstappen had been a royal. He had special privileges and the ability to destroy a future prince with a few harsh words. Back then, Charles thought speaking out would be the end of his hopes to be prince.

So he shut his eyes and covered his ears to avoid the abuse Max took, even when it was obvious. Other parents shook their heads and whispered about the Verstappen boy’s rage, about his picking fights and causing trouble when Max did nothing of the sort.

Better for them to think I’m strong, Max had said into the dark one night on George and Alex’s shared hotel room couch.

Charles returned to the kitchen and grabbed his wallet from the counter—freshly packed with a wad of Brazilian reais.  He picked up the Sharpie he’d left there and pulled over the leftover parchment from his previous letter.

 

Carlos –

If you’re reading this, I’m not sorry. I love you, and if this means the end of our marriage I will bear the consequences. Selfishly, I don’t want you to lead Ferrari alone for many reasons, but if the need arises, you are ready.

Whatever they tell you—ask George. He knows the truth.

I love you.

CL

 

Calm washed over him the same way it did when he stepped in the car. He brought the paper into their bedroom and carefully slipped it under Carlos’s pillow in the spot where Carlos usually shoved his hands to warm them up.

Charles didn’t allow himself to dwell before he left the room. He headed out into the hall, where two FIA officials stood guard by the emergency stairwells. He called the elevator and punched the floor to Alpha Tauri.

The first time Charles saw Jos hit his son, he had been faced with a decision. He remembered the shocking sound, the same sound his ruler made when he clapped it against his race suit, back when weekdays involved studying traction circles and reading telemetry. He remembered the way Max’s face swung left--cartoonish, as if it was all a choreographed fight until the redness appeared on his cheek and tears jumped to his eyes.

Jos had looked at him then. Cold, empty eyes. Charles remembered being too shocked to speak, immobilized.

Then he looked away, but he didn’t miss Jos’s satisfied smirk when he did so.

Back then, he’d felt a rush of strange pride in passing yet another test—a feeling he hated himself for in the decade after. In the moments after too, when he hugged Max tight once they were alone and pretended not to hear when Max choked out a sob.

The elevator opened and an FIA official jumped at the sight of him.

“Your Royal Highness—”

“I’m on business,” Charles snapped. “Get out of my way.”

He walked to the first door on the right and knocked four times in a row. The lock clicked before the door opened to reveal Pierre standing shirtless in a pair of sweats.

“Come in,” Pierre said stiffly, stepping aside to allow him by.

Charles stepped inside to see Yuki curled up on the couch, his eyes vacant as blue light played over his face from the TV.

The hotel room smelled like Pierre’s cologne and humidity lingered in the air from his recent shower—the Alpha Tauri suite was much smaller than Ferrari’s.

Pierre wrapped his arms around him, but Charles didn’t relax into his hold.

Warm lips pressed to the back of his neck, feathering down to his collar.

“Pierre,” Charles warned.

The kisses stopped.

“You’re right,” Pierre finally said, letting him go. “They’re monitoring his letters. Well, Jos probably is. Checo went back to the room before Max got there and found his letter open, but he said he sent it to the room after Max had left.”

Charles nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but Pierre beat him to it.

“I haven't told anyone else yet," Pierre said, "but they'll find out soon enough.”

Charles stared at the vase of tulips on the end table as he folded his hand around Pierre’s.

“Merci.”

Pierre squeezed his shoulders. “You don’t have to thank me. But I think you need to try to relax.”

“Max is back now?” Charles asked, ignoring him.

Pierre nodded. “I tried to call and the line was busy. Checo stopped by on his way out.”

Max had been isolated from everyone except people who wanted to force feed him the Red Bull narrative. All of his and Daniel’s work would be unraveled in a matter of hours.

“Have you seen him?” Charles asked.

Pierre shook his head. “He walked past me to get into his car with his Da—”

“Jos,” Charles corrected sharply.

Pierre nodded curtly. “With Jos. Then they drove off.”

Every muscle in Charles’s body went taut at the thought of Max locked in a car with his father. Jos didn’t even have to hit him now, looks were enough.

“Let’s go,” Charles said. “I’m ready.”

They didn’t have time to waste.

“Yuki-san,” Pierre sing-songed. “We’re up.”

Yuki slid from the couch. Charles assumed Pierre must have told him something, because he looked as somber as the rest of them.

“Hey Charles,” Yuki greeted, extending his phone. “I switch it to English.”

“Thank you, Yuki,” Charles said as he took the phone and pocketed it.

Charles made for the door and stopped. He turned to see Pierre looking at him, his eyes soft with worry.

Such a simple thing.

Charles crossed to him and pulled him in for a kiss. Pierre leaned into him, all heat underneath his gentleness.

“Thank you,” Charles said softly against his lips. “I’m sorry we couldn’t—”

“Please,” Pierre said with a shake of his head. “This is way more important.”

Charles gave him a quick peck and made his way out of the room. He glared at the FIA officials in the hall and stomped into the elevator.

“You cheating bitch!” Yuki shouted loud enough for Charles to hear as the doors began to close. “Get out!”

“Baby, come on,” Pierre said. “It doesn’t mean anything. Mon cheri, you know it doesn’t mean—”

Charles closed his eyes as the elevator lurched to life and took him back to his floor.

On his exit, he eyed the two FIA officials guarding the Ferrari hallway. They watched him a little too long, and one of them bit his lip to fight off a laugh.

Once inside the suite, Charles sank to the floor with his back against the door. He pulled Yuki’s phone from his pocket and stared at the home screen—a photo of Pierre with two straws up his nose, his eyes bloodshot and his grin wide.

Charles had never seen Pierre party before, he realized. When they were younger, sure, but the places they went were full of cheap alcohol and no one knew who they were.

A sea of people loomed in the background of the photo, their eyes reflected like cats’ in the flash. Two beautiful women were smiling at the back of Pierre’s head, and they were just the only ones Charles could see.

Charles remembered the first photo Max took of him. They had been at a karting expo, watching names like Michael Schumacher and Fernando Alonso flash on big screens while men in sponsor-smothered polos talked to their fathers about how their karts would outperform everyone else’s.

Charles didn’t remember what he’d been looking at, but he had looked up when he heard the sound effect of a camera shutter from Max’s shitty smartphone.

"For safekeeping," Max had said with a sly smile. "Charles Leclerc trying to look smart."

Charles remembered wondering if anyone outside of his family had ever taken a picture of just him before.

A few weeks later, they kissed for the first time on Pierre’s couch.

Yuki’s phone buzzed. A new photo appeared: Pierre glaring at the camera with udon noodles waterfalling out of his mouth into a wooden bowl. His name appeared in Japanese, surrounded by sparkling pink emoji hearts.

Charles brought the phone to his ear.

“Get down here,” Pierre said, then he hung up.

Charles shot to his feet and rushed out the door to an empty hall. The FIA officials were gone from their post.

He jumped in the elevator—

and ran right into Lewis Hamilton.

“I’m going up,” Lewis said, as if Charles couldn’t fucking read.

Charles ignored him and pressed the button for Pierre’s floor.

“Oh,” Lewis said, stifling a smile.

Charles noticed Lewis had punched two floors above Alpha Tauri—not the penthouse suite Mercedes had taken for the weekend. George and Nicholas were on the second floor. Charles didn't have the floors memorized, but he was pretty sure that floor was either Alfa Romeo or Aston Martin. Kimi or Sebastian.

The doors opened and Charles slipped out to another empty hallway. He turned to see Lewis watching him through the closing doors, his gaze strangely intense.

The doors shut just as Pierre emerged, ushering Charles inside. Charles sprinted to him, barreling into the room.

“Lewis saw me in the elevator,” Charles said. “He was in there, he was—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Pierre soothed, curling a finger under Charles’s chin. “Lewis wouldn’t do that to me.”

“He’s a seven-time World Champion,” Charles hissed. “I don’t think he got all those titles without blackmailing someone.”

Pierre smiled. “Exactly. He has seven titles. What’s our relationship matter to a guy like that? That’s what he saw, Calamardo. Us. He thinks you’re here to sleep with me, that’s all.”

Pierre gently grabbed his hips as Charles cursed under his breath. Pierre had a point. It wasn’t like Lewis could read thoughts.

He was pretty sure Lewis couldn't read thoughts, anyway.

“You’re right,” Charles sighed, dropping his forehead to Pierre’s shoulder.

Pierre rubbed his back. “You’re stressed. It’s okay. We’re halfway there.”

Only halfway.

They shared a kiss--a soft and secretive one Charles needed for strength. Pierre moved to kiss him again, but a soft knock sounded at the door and interrupted them. Pierre nodded toward the bedroom. Better safe than sorry.

Charles hurried into the room and slipped into the closet, hiding amongst Pierre’s entirely too large collection of hoodies and sweaters. He didn’t close the door, but hid deep enough inside that no one would see him unless they knew were to look.

He heard the click of the front door.

“What the fuck is all this fuss?” Max snarled, slightly muffled. “You’re taking me out of important business for this? This?!?”

“You came alone,” Pierre said for Charles to hear.

“Of course I fucking did, Pierre!”

Max sounded furious.

Charles listened as Pierre’s footsteps grew louder. He heard Max’s footsteps following—stomping—along behind him. Charles watched through the slats in the closet door as Pierre stepped inside. Max entered and immediately whipped around to face Pierre.

“What?” Max demanded.

Pierre didn't respond.

“Max,” Charles said quietly, stepping out from the darkness.

Max froze. The air went tight with tension as Charles waited for a response, praying Max wouldn’t go running. Pierre glanced at him over Max’s shoulder, his hands curling to fists at his sides.

Rumor had it that Max and Pierre got into a few physical altercations during their marriage. Charles couldn’t imagine Max or Pierre lifting a hand to harm a friend, but back then they didn’t get along. At all.

“Max,” Charles tried again.

Max only turned his head, his dark lashes catching in the hallway light. His eyes narrowed.

“Pierre, can you give us a moment, please?” Charles asked.

Pierre nodded, though he looked like he didn’t want to leave. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

Pierre stepped out of the bedroom and closed the door. The moment it clicked shut, Max turned to face Charles fully.

“Why are you—”

“I know he’s here,” Charles said quietly. “George told me he saw you both in FIA hospitality.”

“Fuck,” Max croaked out. His shoulders sagged, his whole body going heavy like an oak tree bowing in the wind.

Charles moved before Max did. He still knew him on instinct, from some part of them that had stayed permanently entwined—no, tangled—since childhood.

Max fell into him and they both thumped to their knees on the floor.

Max rarely cried when it came to his father. Jos brought out something far worse.

Charles wrapped his arms around Max’s broad shoulders. Charles bore all of Max’s weight as Max’s head ground into his sternum, his nerves wild. Max gasped raggedly, but Charles knew it wasn’t a sob.

“Is he staying with you?” Charles asked.

Max shook his head, burrowing his answer into Charles’s chest.

“You’re alone, then.”

Max didn’t move, a silent yes.

Many people thought Max Verstappen enjoyed solitude. He came across that way with his prickly personality in social situations. He even seemed distant among friends—never fully interested in conversation unless it revolved around cars or crowns.

Emotion had been beaten out of him as a child. Max found it back thanks to racing, the lunch club, and Daniel. He had blossomed into a man who defended his own. Selfless with his chosen family, but a survivalist everywhere else.

Max’s breath billowed through the fabric of Charles’s shirt, wet and hot.

Charles remembered the way they’d sat together in the karting garage one afternoon in late summer, legs crossed and knees resting against each other. Charles asked for a wrench and Max handed him one still warm from his hand.

“I’m in love with you,” Max had said, still focused on screwing in a new sponsorship plate. Max didn’t even look at him when he said it.

Such a simple thing.

“I’m taking you to my room,” Charles said. Max twisted up against him, moving as if his limbs had filled with lead. A monster felled, bleeding out on the floor of Pierre and Yuki’s bedroom.

“Come on,” Charles whispered into Max’s dirty blonde hair. He curled his fingers into the fabric of Max’s shirt, trying to hold him upright. “We don’t have much time before the FIA comes back. You need to get upstairs.”

Max made a broken sound. “And what do I do? What do I tell Red Bull when they come to check my room?”

“Tell them you’re fixing what’s wrong with Yuki and Pierre,” Charles replied. “Carlos is gone for the weekend with Lando. You can stay with me as often as you like.”

“You know I can’t,” Max slurred. His lips mashed against Charles’s chest, slippery and lethargic.

“For one night, then,” Charles soothed. “We’ll—We’ll find something. A solution. We’ll find a solution.”

Max said nothing.

“Please,” Charles added quietly.

“Pierre knows?” Max asked.

“Yes,” Charles said, holding him tighter. “We came up with the plan together. He’ll tell Red Bull whatever he needs to.”

“Carlos?”

Charles shook his head, though Max couldn’t see it. “No. I won’t tell him unless you want me to.”

Max finally sat back on his heels. His eyes were bloodshot, but had no evidence of tears. His throat was still taut as he ground his teeth, fighting off another wave of terror Charles couldn’t see.

Charles remembered the way his cheeks burned after Max said he loved him that first time—so hot he feared steam would start coming from his ears.  He continued working on his kart in silence, too scared to say it back. Max continued working too, utterly focused on his task, like it really didn’t matter what Charles said at all.

Charles reached out, grazing his fingers over Max’s newly-defined jaw.

Max’s eyes stayed unfocused.

“Okay,” Max finally said. “One night.”

Charles helped him up from the floor and held Max’s hand. Their fingers tangled up like they used to as Charles opened the door. Pierre stood in the hall, running a finger over his bottom lip.

Charles pulled Yuki’s phone from his pocket and handed it back. “Merci.”

They met eyes and Charles saw the pain thinly veiled in electrifying blue. Charles gave a minute shake of his head, both to insist he had nothing going on with Max, and to stop Pierre from kissing him to make a point.

Pierre turned away and headed to the front door.

“I’ll make sure it’s safe and call the elevator,” Pierre said. “Max, if you could—”

“I’ll call them,” Max said, staring at nothing as he fished around for his phone.

Both of them sounded like different people.

Pierre glanced at Charles one last time before he slipped outside. Charles pulled Max closer to the door to wait.

“Yes, it’s Max,” Max said into his phone, his tone completely different again. This one was soft and carefree—the polar opposite of his expression. “It is proving to be a fucking mess, as I thought. I’m going to stay with them to sort it out. Yes, one night should do it.”

Charles thumbed the side of Max’s palm. Max squeezed his hand in response.

“I said I will handle it,” Max said. “Of course I will still make it. Tell my father to have the car at the entrance fifteen minutes early—Yes. Thank you.”

Max hung up the phone just as Pierre appeared in the doorway.

“I stopped the elevator with my Nikes, let’s go,” Pierre said.

Charles led Max out into the empty hallway toward to the open elevator. Pierre plucked his Nikes from the doorway and the doors immediately started to close.

“Goodnight,” Charles said softly as Pierre's face started to disappear from view.

Pierre smiled at him, his eyes warm. “Fais de beaux rêves, Calamardo.”

Charles pressed the button for his floor and the elevator started to move. Silence choked the space between him and Max as Charles warred between guilt for not kissing Pierre goodnight and nervousness for what they were about to attempt. All he had to think about was Jos to remind himself why it would be worth it.

“It should be illegal, what they’re doing,” Charles said flatly. “Torturing you like his—literal torture. I won’t stand for it.”

Max grit his teeth, eyes glued to the floor. A beaten boy, already stripped of the mirth Daniel and Charles worked so hard to put back in him.

“We have to look beyond this season, Charles,” Max said, emotionless. “What happens now doesn’t matter. I have to win the championship, then look to the future. This goes further than right now.”

“All we can control is the now,” Charles countered. “The now is uncertain enough. Today just proved that.”

Max finally looked at him, tonguing the inside of his cheek.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. 

“Your Royal Highness?”

Charles’s blood ran cold as he recognized the crisp white polo of an FIA official staring him right in the face.

 

 


 

 

Lando laid in the dark, blue light reflecting off his bare skin in the sticky Brazilian heat. Cool air wafted over from the pool, but Lando didn’t notice any of it. His entire being focused on the carved silhouette of Carlos’s bare back—crisscrosses of blue on tanned muscle, and yellow from the golden hanging lights above.

Lando’s body tingled with aftershocks, already aching for Carlos to touch him again. Lando still didn’t consider himself an expert at the sex thing, but he forgot about that when he had Carlos in bed with him, panting his name in his ear, making him forget anything but his own pleasure.

Pleasure sounded like such an adult word, and Lando still felt like a child. Carlos complimented his body and Lando felt outside of himself when he looked in the mirror to see what the hell Carlos could possibly be talking about.

His warped reflection in pool water made his flaws easier to stomach.

“Here,” Carlos said, offering a slice of mango.

The soft, sweet taste made Lando’s body buzz as he let Carlos feed him. Juice dripped onto his chest, but Lando made no move to wipe it off. Carlos leaned in, licking the bead of nectar from his sternum.

“Messy,” Carlos teased.

Lando still couldn’t speak. He merely stared, pupils blown wide and lips swollen from kisses full of desire.

Every time he and Daniel fucked, he told himself he was sated. He told himself he didn't need another—yet he always fell into it whenever Daniel brushed his thigh or when laughing turned to kissing and touching.

But Carlos made him want in a way he couldn’t satisfy.

They had an entire villa to fuck in. Their closest neighbors were at least a kilometer away, through jungle palms and spiky ferns and an encyclopedia's worth of deadly animals. They would hear someone long before they came up the crushed marble driveway, and Lando finally felt safe for the first time since the FIA stormed into their bedroom.

Stars painted the sky above, and Lando wished with everything he had that they didn’t have to go to the track in the morning.

“We should try to sleep,” Carlos said as he reclined on the daybed lounger next to him. “Are you tired?”

Lando shook his head. He turned onto his side, nuzzling into Carlos’s chest. He smelled like sex. Lando loved it.

“We should move inside,” Carlos said, running a finger down the length of Lando’s spine. “What do you say?”

“M’kay,” Lando said with a deep inhale. “S’long as you promise to cuddle.”

Carlos laughed. “I promise.”

They moved inside and headed for the shower without having to speak to each other. Carlos kissed him everywhere under the hot spray, and didn’t stop once he reached Lando’s cock.

Carlos didn’t suck him off very often, but he had the same prowess with his mouth as he did with his dick. Lando’s blood burned at the sinful look in Carlos’s eyes when he swallowed around him a few minutes later. Carlos didn’t swallow greedily—he kept eye contact as Lando fisted his wet hair and tried not to squeal like a girl.

Lando never felt more powerful than when Carlos worshipped him this way.

They tumbled into bed together, wet and still steaming from the shower. Their limbs slipped together and Lando punctuated the sounds of jungle animals with cries of his own as Carlos fucked him into a senseless haze.

“You missed me,” Lando slurred once Carlos finished. “You missed me big time.”

“Every day,” Carlos affirmed as he cleaned them both up.

Lando stared up at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, body humming.

London should have ended like this. He should have stuffed down his pride and reminded himself that Charles never saw Carlos like this.

Lando finally turned his head to look out the massive windows of their bedroom out at the pool again. He loved the way the water glowed blue, the way steam fogged up from the jacuzzi—heaven just a step away for the whole weekend.

“How did you manage this?” Lando asked as Carlos crawled back into bed and snuggled up beside him. Lando hummed as Carlos’s legs tangled with his own, their bodies melded together.

“Manage what?” Carlos asked between kisses to the nape of his neck.

“The villa."

Lando shifted to face him, sleep finally sinking its teeth in. He snuggled closer to Carlos, who happily made room for him so they could touch as much as possible.

“I knew we needed a place to be alone,” Carlos murmured, drawing shapes on Lando’s shoulder blades with his finger.

Lando smiled with his eyes closed. “Yeah, but with the FIA. How’d you get them to approve it? They’ve been so…y’know.”

Carlos’s lips brushed against his forehead.

“I got it in exchange for a favor,” Carlos said.

Lando furrowed his brow, but sleep tugged at him more insistently, the tingling pleasure warming to sweet comfort.

“A favor?” Lando slurred. “A favor for the FIA?”

“No,” Carlos replied with a kiss to his cheek. His finger trailed up Lando’s spine in a dizzying  shape. “…more powerful…that.”

Lando scrunched his noise. “Mm?”

“Someone more powerful than that,” Carlos repeated in his ear.

His warmth breath sent Lando to sleep before the sickness in his stomach could register.

Chapter Text

Contingency plans could only account for so much. Charles only knew about the FIA based on his own experience and the few meetings he had with Jean Todt over the years, but Sebastian told him two things were always true with the FIA: they couldn’t be trusted, and they would always cover themselves to avoid looking bad in the eyes of the public.

Ferrari had sway with the FIA in many situations, but as Charles stared at the bewildered face of the FIA official in front of him, he didn’t think any amount of Ferrari muscle would stop the man’s thin lips from reporting them together.

“Good evening,” Charles greeted, thanking the God he didn’t pray to that he’d dropped Max’s hand to press the elevator button before the doors opened.

As a kid, Arthur always tattled whenever Charles did something he wasn’t supposed to. Over the years, he’d learned to talk his way out of everything from traffic tickets to visiting his illegal prince boyfriend in Brazil before he had a real driver’s license.

“What are you doing with Prince Verstappen?” the official asked, glancing between them.

“Sharing an elevator,” Charles replied coolly.  He thought to explain further, but less was more in these situations, he’d learned.

The man looked at Max. “And Prince Verstappen, why did you step out of the elevator on the Ferrari floor?”

Charles instinctively shifted to shield Max, rapidly building up a defense.

“Red Bull is aware of my spending the night on the Alpha Tauri floor,” Max said before Charles could speak. “They watched me go inside. No one saw me leave.”

Charles threw Max a nervous glance over his shoulder, but all of Max’s attention stayed trained on the FIA official.

The official narrowed his eyes. “Is that so.”

“It is,” Max replied, matter-of-fact.

A silent conversation passed between them, one with sharper words than the ones they uttered. Charles watched the exchange with a prickle of dread.

The official reached for his walkie.

“Wait,” Charles said, putting out a hand to stop him. “Max is going back to—”

“Charles, arrête,” Max said.

Charles shut his mouth, more so because Max never used French with him, stunning him into silence.

The FIA official brought the walkie to his lips, staring at Max as he asked, “Do we have a visual on Verstappen?”

“Yes, I just escorted him to Alpha Tauri,” came the crackling reply. “He’s still inside.”

“I told you,” Max hissed.

The official glared at him and adjusted a dial on the end of his walkie. Charles’s heart jumped to his throat, already guessing whose channel he would flip to.

“FIA check on Verstappen,” the official said into the walkie. “Confirm location and who’s speaking, please.”

Max went rigid beside Charles. Tension swallowed up the oxygen in the hall and the warning bells in Charles’s mind had reached a fever pitch between his ears.

“You’ve got Red Bull. Verstappen is on Alpha Tauri’s floor sorting out some fuckup with Gasly,” a bored voice replied in British accent. “Staying the night there—why, d’you want in on the betting pool?”

The official’s lip twitched in a semblance of a smile. “What are we betting on?”

“Several things, I s’pose,” the other voice replied. “But right now we’ve got bets on whether he fucks Gasly tonight.” Tinny laughter erupted in the background. “Rumor has it if Maxy doesn’t get some ass before raceday, he loses.”

Charles flared his nostrils in disgust. He couldn’t imagine any Ferrari official being so crass about him or Carlos—certainly not with the FIA.

“Why Gasly?” the official asked, still holding Max’s gaze. Max hadn’t moved.

“Why Gasly, he says,” the other voice replied with a barking laugh. “Gasly  tries to fuck anything that moves. He could use a little dominating.”

Max blinked in the corner of Charles’s eye. Rage brewed under Charles’s skin as he grit his teeth.

They’re baiting you, Charles reminded himself, taking his cue from Max to stay still. The FIA official kept looking between the two of them, searching for any kind of reaction.

Charles wanted to burn the FIA to the ground for talking about them—royalty—like they were animals. As if they didn’t live chained to their crown, there very movements dictated by laws and decrees, doing their best to serve their empires amidst it all.

“Not interested in betting,” the official finally replied. “Thank you for the update. How about Perez?”

“Secondary room, per the new protocol,” the other voice replied. “He’s loving it. You know how it is—Verstappen’s such an ass.”

If Max was surprised by any of the comments, he didn’t show it. Charles wanted to march up to the Red Bull floor and strangle the man speaking.

“Copy,” the FIA official said. “Thank you for the information.”

The official messed with the dial on his walkie, presumably switching it back to the original channel before he clipped it to his belt again.

“I told you,” Max repeated. Charles heard the anger this time.

The FIA official checked his watch and everything moved in slow motion. Charles left himself, fully aware of Max behind him, the way he kept watching the official’s hands. Their fate hung in the air like a palpable thing, hurtling toward impact.

“Go on then,” the official said with finality, dropping his hand.

Charles flinched on reflex before registering the words. “What?”

Max grabbed his forearm and pulled him toward the hotel room door. Charles tried to shrug him off, but Max tightened his grip to a painful vice.

“Max, you can’t seriously believe—”

“When will you learn to stop asking questions?” Max snapped, eyes wild with fury. “Swipe us in. Now. Unless you want to make my life even more difficult.”

The words landed like punches.

Charles swiped his keycard without a word, biting back unexpected pain.

He’s sick, he reminded himself. He’s not better yet.

Max pushed inside and Charles locked the door behind them, still trying to piece through what had just happened in the hall. Trusting the FIA after they had just been embarrassed by Red Bull sounded like an incredibly stupid Idea.

Max couldn’t stay the night, Charles realized. If the FIA official outside decided to tell anyone that Max was in the Ferrari suite, there would be hell to pay for everyone involved. Especially Max.

“We tried and we failed,” Charles said quietly. “You can’t stay here, Max. If anyone finds you—”

“Just shut up,” Max grit out.

Charles turned away from the door to see Max bracing himself against the kitchen counter. His shoulders heaved with the force of his breathing, and Charles saw panic flickering in his eyes.

“Stay here for a little while and we’ll figure out what to do,” Charles said calmly. He tended not to listen when it came to Max. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“You think sending me back there would be safe?” Max asked, breaking off in a terrifying laugh. “At least if they think I’m with Pierre they won’t send my father to check on me.”

“I thought he wasn’t allowed to do that anymore?” Charles asked.

Max leered at him. “After all of this, you really think they give a single fuck about what they’ve said in the past?”

Charles shut his mouth, shame creeping to his cheeks.

He remembered the way Max used to talk about becoming a prince. His excitement, the way he made up grand stories about what the palace would look like. He planned to drive cars every day and become the best driver ever.

If only it were that simple. In the world Max imagined for them, he would have been the best.

“We can’t trust the FIA with this,” Charles said softly.

“You have no idea what you’re fucking talking about, Charles,” Max snapped. His eyes had turned so dark they looked black. “Stop talking about the FIA like you know them. You know Jean Todt, and he’d probably suck your dick just to put Ferrari on top again. Stop thinking that’s the same thing.”

Charles stilled. He sensed something in Max’s tone that spoke to a larger warning, maybe even a threat.

“I’m well aware—”

“You’re not!” Max roared, startling him. Max lunged, grabbing Charles by the shoulders.

He looked like a different person. Charles didn’t recognize any of Max’s features—the dark eyes, the bags underneath them, the sallow skin hanging off of bone.

“You’re always had it easier than the rest of us,” Max snarled. “Kimi sang your praises, Ferrari defied tradition for their youngest royal ever. Everyone goes out of their way for you and they always have.”

“You know that isn’t true,” Charles shot back, but his voice had no heat.

Max’s lower lip trembled. The shaking moved through his body, into his shoulders and down to his hands were they still gripped Charles’s shoulders too tightly.

“I haven’t seen my father since last winter,” Max said, his voice mangled. “Do you know what he did when he saw me?”

Charles softened, gently gripping Max’s arms—the only place he could touch.

“Max—”

“He didn’t even look at me until Christian and Helmut left. Then he threw his coffee mug so hard it exploded against the wall,” Max hissed, his lips wet. “And then he cornered me like he always used to do. I thought I was stronger than that—I thought I would never let him do that again, but as soon as he came for me I turned into a coward.”

Tears brimmed in Charles’s eyes, hot and stinging. “No,” he whispered. “You were never a coward.”

“He didn’t even hit me and I just shrank,” Max continued, ignoring him. His eyes were unfocused, static in his skull. “He went after Daniel, called him a whore, a parasite, a leech. Said all Daniel wants is my power. ‘Do you really think he’d do anything for you if you weren’t so powerful?’ That’s what he said.”

Charles swallowed hard as Max’s gaze flicked to him.

Max stood there for a moment, shaking all over, teeth gritted, nostril flaring with each breath.

“My dad liked you so much compared to Daniel,” Max finally choked out. “He always said your biggest flaw was being with me.”

He tears finally spilled from Charles’s eyes, rolling down his cheeks as he shook his head.

“He hates Daniel,” Max continued. “And the worst part is that I believe him, Charles.  I guess some part of me knows Daniel wouldn’t help me so much if he didn’t have something to gain from it. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me, right? He can still love me and want to keep his crown, right?”

Max’s voice cracked and Charles noticed wetness collecting in his eyes too.

“Daniel loves you,” Charles said. “All he wants is to see you safe. That’s all I want too. Jos doesn’t know anything about him or me. You’re the best thing that I had going for me when we were young. I wouldn’t be half the person I am today if you hadn’t—if we hadn’t been—”

He cut himself off to wipe his eyes. Max released his shoulders to allow him to do it.

“This is all Lewis’s fault,” Max said with a sniff. “He’s fucked everything up to keep his little status quo. He loves this. He loves watching me get hit over and over again by the rules and the FIA while he runs around with George in broad daylight. You think they don’t have burner phones? Fuck that.”

Again with the accusations against Lewis. So far, Charles had seen no evidence that Lewis had any stake in Red Bull’s antics. Pierre had said it earlier: Lewis didn’t need to bother with things as trivial as relationships. If he had an agenda, it reached far deeper than Max.

Charles took Max’s hand and led him toward the bedroom.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and into bed,” Charles said.

Max appeared somewhat normal, but Charles saw through the windows into his psyche. The perfect picture Max had painted for the weekend was a mess underneath. Ten days in Los Angeles couldn’t fix what Red Bull had been chipping away at for almost a decade.

Max said nothing as Charles ran a bath for him.

“It’s ready,” Charles said once he turned off the water.

Max stripped without any fanfare or hesitation. Despite their relationship being long over, they shared something that couldn’t rust. If something ever happened to either of them, Charles knew the other one would be right there to do all of the things they never mentioned in romance novels.

Max had seen him at his worst, Charles saw Max at his.

Max sank into the steaming water with a sigh. His breath smoked in front of him before vanishing in the orange light of the salt lamp on the vanity—the only light in the bathroom.

Charles thought back to Austria, Carlos’s little Christmas tune stirring to life in his head as he guided Max’s head into the water to wet his hair.

As he massaged minty shampoo into Max’s hair, he replayed the scene in the hallway.

All of it happened too easily. As Charles thought through the official’s actions with the outcome already in his mind, he registered that the official displayed no intent to out them. If anything, he seemed concerned that their plan had worked so far.

None of it made sense.

Max calmed after his bath, just as he had when Daniel bathed with him in Los Angeles. Charles gave Max his bathrobe to wear and while he changed, Charles took the letter he’d written Carlos and tore it up, stuffing the contents in his luggage to make sure no one found the pieces.

They didn’t have to talk about sleeping arrangements. Charles moved to Carlos’s side of the bed and opened the blankets for Max to crawl into beside him. Max complied wordlessly and tucked himself against Charles’s chest when he finally came to rest.

“You’re safe now,” Charles assured him the way he’d always wanted to as a child. “The doors are locked and no one is going to find you here. I’m going to protect you.”

Max nodded against him as Charles stroked his wet hair. He looked like himself again, even if his eyes were still a little distant.

“Sing the song,” Max whispered after a long silence.

Charles laughed. “I knew you would say that. Are you sure? You think my terrible singing will put you to sleep?”

Max stared over his shoulder without a reaction.

Charles brushed his lips against Max’s forehead. Not a kiss, but not anything else either.

À la claire fontaine m’en allant promener,” Charles began with rocky notes. “J’ai trouvé l’eau se belle que je m’y suis baignée—I see why you thought of this now.”

Max continued to stare, still no reaction.

Charles held him a little tighter. “Il ya longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai. Sous les feuilles d’un chêne, je me suis fait sécher…”

He continued to sing in his pitiful voice, watching with hooded eyes as Max’s eyelids began to droop. It was strange to see Max in his bed, surrounded by the scent of Carlos. There had to be some kind of symbolism there, but Charles was too tired to make sense of it.

He bumbled through the final line with Max’s full weight pressed against him, lost to sleep. Charles pulled the covers tighter around them both and nestled in, shushing Max’s small noise of protest when he moved.

Charles closed his eyes and dreams began to play almost immediately. Fast-paced visions of karts, the hot water from his drinking tube that always coated his throat with bile afterward. The scent of gasoline, the tingling in his fingers as he sat in the cockpit and waited for the lights to go out.

Sunlight streamed in over the thick comforter at Ferrari. Charles smiled up at Carlos, who set down a tray of coffee and croissants on the bed beside him.

“Pour moi?” Charles murmured with a smile. “Mercí.”

Carlos leaned in to kiss him. Charles thought of the coffee, but thought disappeared the moment their lips met. Warm and sweet, slightly minty from toothpaste.

Carlos pulled back, scanning his face.

“Betraying me,” Carlos whispered from only a breath away, his voice like venom. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Carlos’s hand caught around his throat and shoved him into the mattress. Stars burst in Charles’s vision as he tried to suck down air, but Carlos’s grip was built to wrangle steering wheels with four Gs fighting back.

Charles had been here before. But this time, when Carlos throttled him, Charles lurched into dark.

This time was no dream.

Max hunched over him, breathing ragged. Drool shimmered at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes glistened in the low light as he seethed out noises of pure fear. His fingers dug into Charles’s shirt, twisting it up in his hands.

“Max,” Charles warned, mindful of how close Max’s hands were to his neck. “You’re safe. You’re with me—Charles.”

Max relaxed for a split second, then ground his knuckles into Charles’s chest.

“Liar,” Max said in a deep voice full of hate.

Charles grimaced, then reached up to rub at Max’s forearm.

“Liar!” Max shouted at the top of his lungs, shooting adrenaline into Charles’s veins at the volume.

In his old nightmares where Max beat him to a pulp, Charles always tried to scream.  But even as Max’s knuckles dug into him in real life, Charles was certain nothing would come of it. Max would never hurt him on purpose.

“It’s me,” Charles said, louder this time.

Max froze, staring down at him. He dove into Charles’s shoulder a second later with an unholy sound of anguish.

“It’s okay,” Charles soothed, clearing his throat as he bundled Max against his chest. “It was just a dream. You’re safe now, you can go back to sleep.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Max asked. “Why?”

Charles rubbed his back, fighting down a grimace as the pain intensified between his ribs from where Max had dug in. He made soft shushing noises, sensing that Max wasn’t fully awake.  Something in his movements was off.

Sure enough, Max went slack within seconds.

Charles’s heart beat wild in his chest, but fear didn’t follow. These moments were Max’s demons in action, a true glimpse into the fury in his mind.

A glimpse at the boy fighting against himself and everyone around him.

Max started to move two minutes later. He jerked once, and Charles held him tighter.

A loud whimper followed, then another jerk. A recoil.

“Max,” Charles murmured, trying to coax him from his dream. “I’ve got you.”

Max flinched again. Charles untangled from him just enough to recognize the look on his face—he was being beaten.

“Max,” Charles said a little louder. “Max, it’s Charles. Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Max furrowed his brow.

“You’re safe,” Charles said, reaching up to frame Max’s sweaty face in his hands. “Max, listen to me. Wake up.”

Max’s eyes flew open with an anguished gasp.

“Charles?” he squeaked out—like a child.

“Yes,” Charles soothed. “You’re safe with me.”

“Oh god,” Max said, shuddering.

“Nobody’s going to hurt you,” Charles assured him, thumbing away the tears that began to leak down Max’s face. “I’m right here and you’re safe.”

“Oh god,” Max repeated, twisting onto his back. “Oh mijn god.”

Charles nestled closer to him, resting a hand on Max’s chest to feel his erratic heartbeat. Max folded his hand over his and let out a shaking breath. His palm was clammy, matching the dampness of the front of his shirt. Charles didn’t mind it.

“I have to win,” Max whispered. He chewed on his bottom lip with little pulses—obsessive, not quite there. “If I don’t win they’re going to keep him around until I do. That’s what they told me. Day and night. Like a dog—they’re gonna keep me chained up at Red Bull. Like a dog.”

Charles thumbed over the dip in Max’s collarbone.

Nothing from Los Angeles had healed anything. Max just got better at hiding himself.

“I’m not going to let that happen,” Charles said firmly.

“Well I’m going to win, so it doesn’t matter,” Max said, staring up at the ceiling. “Lewis is cheating, you know. My dad saw. He’s not good for much, but he’s good at that kind of stuff. Finding cheaters. That’s what Lewis is.”

“Max—”

“Just wait,” Max said, ignoring him. “I know you don’t believe me. But I’m going to show everyone who he is. Everything is in motion already, so this won’t stop me. He wants it to, but it won't. The momentum is already there. Too late now.”

Max turned to face him with a smile that made Charles’s blood run cold. It looked exactly like Max’s smiles from his childhood, but this one lacked any life behind it.

“You’ll see, Charles,” Max whispered. “I’m going to prove it to you. I’m going to prove it to everybody.”

Chapter Text

 

 

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Nov 13 10:28

Subject: ANONYMOUS TIPLINE MSG #421

ATTENTION: This email has originated from an authorized anonymous reporting hotline.

MESSAGE: check hamilton rear wing illegal drs spacing

END OF MESSAGE

 


 

 

To: [email protected], [email protected]

CC: [email protected], [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Nov 13 16:23

Subject: Mercedes Rear Wing Infraction

 

Michael,

Regarding our previous discussion, I believe it is clear that rear wing flexion is still in use on the Mercedes car. We recommend immediate testing of the wing prior to the start of the race, or we will lodge a public complaint on how this has been handled thus far.

Sincerely,

A

 

 


 

 

PRINCE HAMILTON CHEATING SCANDAL: DISQUALIFIED FROM BRAZIL

NOV 13TH 2021, 18:58

In an explosive decision by the FIA, Prince Lewis Hamilton has been disqualified from the results of qualifying following a failed rear wing test. The Brit’s rear wing failed a test to determine it opened by no more than 85 millimeters when its DRS was activated. Mercedes claim it failed the test by 0.2 millimeters, but many engineers speculate a failure that small wouldn’t have warranted an FIA response.

Prince Hamilton will now start the Brazil GP from last on the grid, all but securing Prince Max’s near-flawless championship bid.

“Finally, the FIA has taken a stand against this infraction,” Jos Verstappen said. “We knew about this issue many races ago, but they have just now taken action. Max, myself, and Red Bull are thankful for the just punishment that has been awarded.”

 

 


 

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: URGENT | Sporting Code Breach

Nov 13 19:15

 

I hope you have kept as close an eye on Verstappen as you have our damaged rear wing. Two screws came undone on the right side just before qualifying. How curious.

During that period before qualifying, Verstappen breached Article 2.5.1 of the FIA Sporting Code. I’m sure you have the footage. If nothing is done about this within the hour, we will take matters into our own hands.

Please do take that as a threat.

 

 


 

 

r/fianews – Posted by u/throwawaycanary at 20:01

5.5k upvotes – TRENDING – HOT

VIDEO: Prince Verstappen touching Hamilton’s rear wing post-practice.

4.2k Comments – Share – Save

 

 


 

 

BREAKING: PRINCE VERSTAPPEN FINED €50,000 FOR EXAMINING PRINCE HAMILTON’S REAR WING IN PARC FERME

NOV 13 21:03

Prince Verstappen has been fined €50,000 for touching and examining Prince Hamilton’s rear wing in Parc Ferme after Practice 3 in Brazil – but has not been given a grid penalty of any kind for the offence.

Hamilton’s rear wing was referred to the stewards after FIA technical delegate Jo Bauer was alerted to an issue early Saturday morning. Hamilton was disqualified from the results of qualifying following the result of a failed rear wing gap test.

But footage released on Reddit an hour ago appeared to show Prince Verstappen looking at the rear wing of Prince Hamilton’s car in Parc Ferme, which itself was a suspected breah of Article 2.5.1 of the FIA Sporting Code.

That article states "in the Parc Ferme, only the officials assigned may enter. No operation, checking, tuning or repair is allowed unless authorised by the same officials or by the applicable regulations."

The FIA has just released the following statement explaining the €50,000 fine handed to the Red Bull prince: “"The stewards heard from the driver of car 33 (HRH Max Verstappen) and team representative. The stewards also examined a fan video taken from across the track, CCTV video footage taken from pit lane and in car footage from car 14, car 33, car 44, and car 77.

"In all, these videos gave a clear picture of what occurred in parc fermé following the qualifying session.

"Verstappen exits the car, then moves to the rear of his car. He then takes his gloves off and puts his right hand at the slot-gap of the rear wing of his car. He then moves to car 44 and repeats the exercise, touching the rear wing in two places, once on either side of the DRS actuation device, but on the bottom rear side of the wing, in the area of the slot gap and never near the actuator or the end fixation points."

"Clear, high definition video from the rear facing roll-hoop camera on car 44 shows that there is absolutely no movement of any of the wing elements on car 44 when Verstappen touches the back of the wing and the stewards are satisfied, from watching all the videos, his body position and the video of the wing, that there was insignificant force when Verstappen touched the wing.

"It is clear to the stewards that it has become a habit of the drivers to touch cars after qualifying and the races. This was also the explanation of Verstappen, that it was simply habit to touch this area of the car which has been a point of speculation in recent races between both teams.

"This general tendency has been seen as mostly harmless and so has not been uniformly policed. Nevertheless, it is a breach of the parc fermé regulation and has significant potential to cause harm.

"Considering the fact that no direct harm was caused in this case, in the opinion of the stewards, and that no earlier precedent of penalties for this exists – on the one hand; but that it is a breach of the regulation and has potential for serious consequences on the other, the stewards determine to take action in this case and order a fine of €50,000."

Prince Hamilton will start tomorrow’s race at the back of the grid—effectively a death sentence to the win he needs to continue his fight for the championship.

Prince Verstappen spoke with a few members of Dutch & Red Bull media following the announcement.

“It’s quite a big fine so I hope they have a nice dinner and a lot of wine,” Prince Verstappen said. “I hope good, expensive wine, that wil be nice and they can invite me for dinner as well. I’ll pay for that dinner, too.”

Prince Verstappen has to pay the fine personally. “So that’s a little bit less FIFA points for me then, on my laptop.”

 

 


 

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Petty Threats and Punishments

Nov 13 21:14

 

Explain to me how €50,000 fined to a millionaire prince for tampering with our car equates to starting the current 7-time World Champion from the back of the grid for a broken rear wing that failed by .2mm

 

 


 

 

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re:Petty Threats and Punishments

Nov 13 21:15

 

The FIA stands by its decision regarding both infringements. I sense your implications, and would advise you to be mindful when contacting your royal superior. I take my job very seriously and strive for an unbiased, fair competition between empires.  

If you would like to discuss this matter prior to the race tomorrow, we can schedule a time through my office.

 

Sincerely,

Michael

 

 


 

 

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re:Petty Threats and Punishments

Nov 13 22:05

 

Perhaps I should staple a bank note to your tongue and take a photo. That may be the only evidence of you putting your money where your mouth is.

A meeting will not be necessary.

Sleep well. I understand that may be difficult, given how often you fraternize with the princes.

You’re not the only one keeping tabs.

- T

 

 


 

 

George wished he could call Monaco’s aftermath the worst public fallout of the season, but Brazil topped it in a matter of hours. First, the FIA announcement about Lewis’s disqualification shook the royal hotel down to the foundation. The lobby became a mess of reporters, Public Affairs officials, and FIA. A reporter even managed to get onto the Williams floor, startling George when he answered the door to a microphone in his face.

The FIA quickly removed the news team, but text alerts started rolling in from Kayla by the minute to keep them aware of potential security threats.

Then the Reddit video. Then the announcement of a hotel lockdown for an FIA investigation. Then the announcement of a fine for Max, but no penalty.

George picked at the wooden arm of his chair, watching the city of São Paulo out the window. Blue and yellow lights crowded the horizon, creating a glow that reflected off the clouds above.

George hoped it rained. Lewis needed every assist in the world if he wanted to keep going in the championship. If he didn’t win tomorrow, George feared something would happen to Max’s car in retaliation.

If the royal history books had any moral, it was that men did anything to keep hold on their power or to take more. 

“He’ll see you now,” a Mercedes Public Affairs official announced.

George and Kayla stood up at the same time.

“My apologies, but only Prince Russell is allowed to enter,” the Mercedes official said.

“I’ll walk him to the door, then,” Kayla said stiffly. “Surely that’s acceptable.”

“Certainly,” the Mercedes official said too brightly. “Right this way.”

George followed her to the double doors leading to the penthouse suite. They were sleek black, with carved golden, intricate patterns in the wood. The handles were garishly gold, polished to a mirror shine as George reached to pull the door open.

“I’ll be outside,” Kayla assured him.

George offered her a smile. “You don’t need to do that. I may be awhile. I’ll text you?”

Kayla nodded with a hard swallow. “Don’t agree to anything you don’t feel good about.”

Fear coiled around the base of George’s spine.

“It’s Lewis, Kayla,” George said. “He’d never force me into something.”

He’d trick me.

Kayla smiled politely and stepped aside.

George shivered at the change in temperature as he stepped into the penthouse suite. Nonsensical art pieces hung on the walls—black ink splats, grey lines, and salmon-colored accents everywhere.

The room descended to a circular space filled with two couches shaped and colored like yin and yang, with a glass fireplace taking up the center. The couches were massive enough to be beds, and it took George a full second to realize Lewis was occupying one.

He sat slumped against the back of the white couch in an oversized, pastel-pink hoodie and matching oversized joggers.  He had his hood drawn up to cover the top half of his face, exposing only his lips and their gentle frown.

He had on a pair of fuzzy socks, white and touchably soft. They blended in with the couch fabric where Lewis had drawn his knees to his chest.

George blinked in surprise at the sight of him so…childlike. He’d expected a cold, flint-eyed interrogation, all sharp metal and ice.

“Hey,” George greeted, stepping down into the couch area. He toed off his trainers, momentarily embarrassed by his mismatched socks. “You wanted to see me?”

Lewis craned his head back to see him from underneath his hood. “Hi.”

George crawled across the couch to sit about a foot away. His legs stuck out on the cushion like a fallen baby giraffe. This couch had not been designed for sitting, George noted internally.

He set his hands in his lap and watched the fire dance in the fire pit—blue flame over blue glass pebbles.

Quiet seeped into them as they sat beside each other, and George thought back to how moments like this used to be so comforting. Now he felt the absence of affection like a blade pressed to his throat—hot pressure that threatened.

“I’d like to talk to you freely, if you’re okay with that,” Lewis said, still not looking at him.

“You can always talk freely, Lewis,” George replied. He tried to keep the edge from his voice.

“Okay,” Lewis said quietly. “I’m really fucking sad right now.”

George couldn’t stop himself from looking over. Lewis had pressed his cheek to the back of the couch, mushing it slightly.

“Why are you sad?” George asked, then flinched. “Sorry, that was a stupid question.”

Lewis shook his head. “Not stupid. Normally, I’m…Normally I can brush it off, you know?”

He sounded a little raw, like he might have been crying.

“I’m not giving up,” Lewis said, soft but adamant. “That’s not what this is. I’m still fighting, I just didn’t expect the odds to be this stacked against me.”

George offered a sympathetic frown he knew Lewis couldn’t see. “Starting from last will be—”

“I’m not talking about the race,” Lewis interrupted. “I’m talking about with the FIA.”

George closed his mouth with an audible clack of his teeth.

Lewis shifted to sit up, removing his hood.

He really had been crying. George’s chest pinched at the sight of glassy eyes, the shine of his cheeks.

“I told you I want to talk freely,” Lewis said. “But that means it can’t leave this room. I’m asking you as my future husband.”

George swallowed hard. “That might mean more if I thought our marriage was going to be real.”

Lewis closed his eyes. His top lip twitched in a semblance of disgust, his shoulders rounding as if to protect his heart from an actual attack.

“It will be.”

George let out a snort. “Not with him around. I’m not going to be like Valtteri. Speaking of which, where is he? Did you kick him out so you could—” He cut himself off before he said sulk. “—have time alone?”

Lewis wiped his eyes with sleeved hands. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My husband is comforting me during my darkest hour. He wouldn’t dare leave my side. Definitely not to take utility elevator to see his girlfriend staying on the personnel floor.”

George picked at the side of his thumb, staring down at the distressing normalcy of his hands. He didn’t have soft, cared-for hands. He had knobby joints on fingers too long for his palms. Ugly, he called them once.

Perfect, Alex had corrected.

“Valtteri doesn’t have a part in any of this,” Lewis said after a moment. “I want him to stay as far away from it as he can. The FIA is turning on me and siding with Max—if they think Valtteri is in on anything with me, they’ll go after him and Tiffany. Neither of them deserve that.”

George grit his teeth. “Do you understand how hard it is to believe you care about anyone after what you did to me? Do you have any idea?”

Lewis’s eyes turned sharp. “I’ve been fully transparent with you.”

George scoffed. “That’s rich. How were you being transparent when you were hiding an entire relationship from me?”

“What was I supposed to do, George?” Lewis shot back. “Telling you I had someone else would put me in danger. One slip of the tongue with your friends and I would be at risk. And when people are looking for signs, they find them. I try very hard to keep my relationship with Sebastian a secret—to our detriment, honestly. But I’m not perfect. I’m weak sometimes, and if someone is already waiting for me to slip up, they’ll catch me.”

George shook his head. “You said you loved me. You said you trusted me—”

“I do,” Lewis cut in, leaning closer. “I do, George.”

George’s heart convulsed in his chest. “You don’t lie to people you love.”

Lewis let out a sad laugh. “Normal people don’t. Princes lie all the time. Half our job is to lie.”

George looked him dead in the eye. “So you love me right now? You trust me?” he challenged. “Then prove it. Tell me something you haven’t told him. I’m sure he knows everything you haven’t told me.”

Lewis clenched his jaw. Muscle flickered beneath his temple as he stared back at George, his eyes dark.

“You and Angela are the only people who know the contents of the bag I brought to the hospital after Monza,” Lewis said.

George froze.

“I know you signed off on it,” Lewis said, reading his mind. “What you saw in that bag is more personal to me than any journal, any letter—any anything.”

“What were the cuff links for?” George asked, avoiding the obvious question of why did you want to be buried wearing Nico Rosberg’s watch?

Lewis flashed a smile. “Those are for Seb. I had them made a few years ago after he said he had balls, but that none of them are crystal.”

George didn’t smile back. “But he doesn’t know about them.”

Lewis drew away, looking down at his hands. “No. I think there are some times where he thinks I don’t love him. He thinks everything is a show. If I told him about those cufflinks, he would think they were part of some plan. But if he…If he showed up to my wake or whatever and saw them, I think he’d know it was all for real.”

So Sebastian doubted him too, George noted. 

“Sebastian thinks in plans,” Lewis explained. “He has everything figured out before it happens. Any scenario. He treats life like a chess game. I try to, but I’m not good at planning. I work on the fly. I read the room.”

The dry night air of Bahrain filtered through George’s memory, the way the city reflected in Lewis’s eyes as he introduced the real game of royalty.

“So what are you reading now?” George asked.

“The FIA has chosen Max to be champion," Lewis sighed.  "I’m not surprised. I mean, the kid has no idea what he’s getting into. It’ll be so easy for them to take back power right under his nose. He’s only focused on Daniel.”

“I think it’s pretty noble,” George said, finding some strength. “Going after a championship to protect the one you love. It’s a lot more noble than going after power.”

Lewis narrowed his eyes. He didn’t miss the hidden insult. George didn’t think he would.

“Max is narrowing his vision to his ‘noble cause.’ He’s going to miss all the ways the FIA take back control, because he doesn’t think it matters to him, so he doesn’t care. And keeping Daniel on a pedestal is asking for trouble. One mistake and the whole thing comes crumbling down.”

Goosebumps bloomed up George’s back. “Are you speaking from experience again?”

Lewis tucked his bottom lip between his teeth. “I am. And this isn’t the first time the FIA has gone against me. It probably won’t be the last. I’m going to keep fighting, because I want to make sure everyone, not just—”

They both looked up at the sound of the front door closing. Sebastian appeared a moment later, his hair mussed and his frown deep-set.

“How are you?” Sebastian asked, barely glancing at George.

Not that George cared whether a douchebag looked at him or not.

“Hi, love,” Lewis greeted with a wide smile, all sense of sadness erased. “You made it.”

“Please,” Sebastian snorted, hopping down the stairs. “You think I would stay with Stroll while you’re being desecrated out there?”

“Nicky encouraged me to come up here,” George said cheerfully.

“Yes well, when you are consistently in last place, life is much different, isn’t it?” Sebastian clapped back.  

He plopped down on the couch beside Lewis and smoothed back his braids, scanning his face.

“I’m okay,” Lewis assured him.

“You’ve been crying,” Sebastian said with a shake of his head.

“A little,” Lewis said in a small voice. “It got overwhelming for a second.”

Sebastian pecked Lewis’s forehead. “Sergio Perez won from last place three years ago. You are more than capable. Especially because you are back there because of absolute idiocy. Now, did you bring George here to ask him what’s it’s like to start with everyone in front of you?”

George bristled. “You’re one to talk. I don’t see you taking any podiums.”

Sebastian smiled at him. “I had one the FIA took away from me, but you were probably still racing when that happened. How many laps behind were you?”

“Seb,” Lewis warned. “That’s my husband you’re talking about.”

Anger flashed across Sebastian’s face for a split second before he turned back to Lewis. “Future husband.”

Lewis bumped noses with him. “You know what I mean. Please.”

Sebastian sighed, resting their foreheads together for a beat before he pulled away. “I imagine after this race, we’ll be in the clear. The plan has worked so far, Max is getting defensive.”

“What plan?” George asked.

“Oh, you’re still here?” Sebastian cracked.

“Sebastian has been in discussions with Red Bull about reining Max in,” Lewis explained. “To prevent something like this, actually. We were just a little too late in implementing it.”

George thought back to Alex's lips by his ear, the dark closeness of a stolen moment. It was Sebastian's idea. That's all I can tell you. 

George glanced between them as the air in the room seemed to thin. “Implement what?”

Sebastian frowned at Lewis. “This is why I said not to tell him things—”

“Implement what?” George asked louder. The faint scent of cistus leaves burned in the back of his nose.

“Max doesn’t lash out as much when his father is on track,” Sebastian explained as easily as he discussed the weather. “I convinced Christian and Helmut to bring Jos in as a consultant until the end of the season. All of his zero wins are very important to learn from, you know.”

George lunged without thought. His giraffe legs made perfect springs to launch himself across the couch at Sebastian, tackling him right down to the overly-carpeted floor.

Sebastian let out a grunt of surprise as he hit the ground.  George fisted his collar with one hand a cocked a punch with the other, intent on bashing his ugly face in.

Strong arms caught him underneath his arms before he could throw the knockout hit Sebastian deserved. Lewis hauled him off in a decisive move and George spat bloody murder, kicking furiously while screaming every curse he could think of.

“No, let him try,” Sebastian hissed, getting to his feet. “You want to fight me because I’ve gone against your friend?” He looked up at Lewis. “I told you not to trust him.”

“Fuck you!” George snarled. He tried to throw his elbows back at Lewis, but Lewis had him pinned in place against his chest.

Lewis squeezed him tighter. “George, what is—”

“Fuck you!” George shouted again.

Alex had tried to warn him. Alex had been told to warn him--of Sebastian's idea, not Red Bull's. Everything coming from that godforsaken place was calculated down to the fucking wording, probably. He didn't have to wonder where that obsessive planning stemmed from.

Sebastian stormed up tp him, stopping just far enough away that George couldn't kick him in the dick like he wanted to.

“You need to leave,” Lewis said quietly.

“Don’t choose him over me,” Sebastian snapped, his frail little chest heaving with his mouth-breathing breaths. 

“That isn’t what I’m doing.”

Sebastian flared his nostrils. “That isn’t how it appears to me.”

He thinks everything is a show.

“Sebastian,” Lewis said softly. “Asking you to leave isn’t saying I don’t love you.”

Sebastian pointed a finger at him. “I haven’t seen you once since qualifying. Here I am, and you’re sending me away.”

“As he should!” George hissed, scrabbling for purchase on the carpet.

Lewis squeezed him so tight George saw stars.

“Do not get emotional about this,” Lewis warned—George couldn’t tell who he was speaking to, but he started fighting again anyway. “Or do, I don’t care right now. But you’ve made a mess and I need to figure it out.”

“Protecting you is making a mess?” Sebastian asked incredulously. 

“The game is changing!” Lewis snapped. “Today just proved that. We have to reevaluate—”

“How dare you!” George shouted at full volume.

Sebastian looked as if he might reach down and strangle him while Lewis watched. Instead, he took a deep breath and stormed out. George fought against Lewis the whole time, only relaxing when he heard the click of the door.

Lewis released him unceremoniously, sending George crashing to his knees on the carpet.

“I’m going to kill him,” George spat, scrambling to his feet and diving for the—

Lewis caught him in the chest with a flat palm and sent him flying back into the couch in a heap of gangly limbs. George was fairly certain his heels went past his head on impact.

“Don’t move,” Lewis cut. “And start explaining what just happened.”

“Sebastian brought Jos in,” George said, still dazed. He hadn't realized Lewis had the strength of a goddamn grizzly bear.

“Yes, and?”

George opened his mouth to start shouting, then closed it abruptly. Tears jumped to his eyes instead.

You can’t tell anyone. He heard Max’s feeble whisper in the dark. Promise me.

He didn’t break promises. He wasn’t like Max in that way. He couldn't betray him.

Lewis softened and took a seat on the couch beside him. “George?”

Lewis didn’t know. He didn’t have a shred of guilt about him, no rigidity or defense. He was like every parent at the karting track who rejoiced at Max’s losses, thankful for their child’s win and ignorant of what punishment awaited Max when he returned to the garage. They called him a sore loser when he reacted to losing with anger, not seeing the pain and fear behind it.

Promise me.

George turned his face away and shook his head. “Max is my friend, that’s all.”

“He’s your friend?” Lewis asked the same instant George realized what he’d said.

“He was,” George corrected.

“I’ve only seen you react like that when someone’s threatened someone you care about,” Lewis said. “So will you tell me what’s really going on?”

Promise me.

George shook his head. “Can’t.”

Lewis nodded once. “Okay. I think I see what’s going on. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

George hugged himself tightly, anger still radiating through his entire body. But he nodded.

Lewis looked like he might touch him, but seemed to think better of it before he slipped from the couch.

Sebastian called Jos in. George tried to imagine the conversation--Sebastian smiling as he pulled in Helmut and Christian. He probably said something bad about Lewis to get them to listen. He probably buttered them up with stories about the old days, then slipped in a criticism about Max’s focus, his drive.

Sebastian had lived in Red Bull. He’d been around for Max’s days courting the royal circle. He had to have noticed Jos’s constant presence, the way Max moved so stiffly around him.

Lewis returned, breaking George’s thoughts as he sat down on the couch again.

“Hold out your hand, please,” Lewis instructed.

George shoved his hand out and glanced up at Lewis when he felt cold metal against his palm. He looked down to see Nico’s dead watch in his hand.

“Tell me what spooked you and you can hold onto that,” Lewis said, glancing down at the watch. “If you find out I told anyone, or if you can trace anything back to me about what you tell me, you can do whatever you want with that. Tell everyone where you found it. You could even tell—”

Lewis chewed the inside of his cheek. He could never say Nico’s name the first time it came up.

George examined the watch just to make sure it wasn’t a fake. The time was stopped at the same place, and Nico’s name and seal were engraved in the carbon fiber backing, just as he remembered.

Lewis grew more and more uncomfortable each passing second.

“Jos beat Max his whole childhood,” George admitted in a whisper. Guilt and relief mixed in his bloodstream as the words carried in the silence. “He’s always abused him. Max always trusted me with—”

What have you done?

George closed his fist around the watch.

“You don’t need to say anything else,” Lewis said with a gentle touch to his knee. “I had no idea, George.”

“Yeah, maybe. But Sebastian had to have known. It’s like an open secret at Red Bull. And if he didn’t know, Christian and Helmut did.”

“I would never bring someone’s abuser back to get some political power,” Lewis said firmly. “Sebastian wouldn’t either. Think whatever you want about him, but I’ve known him over half my life. He would never do that.”

George took a shaky breath. “He just did, Lewis.”

Lewis chewed the inside of his cheek. “He wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t, because my dad wasn’t a saint either.”

George’s eyes blew wide.

Lewis started fussing with his sleeves, eyes distant. “He didn’t, like, hit me or anything. But he was military. He was very strict. Made sure I knew that this whole racing thing was on me. Every mistake, every complaint—‘well quit, then.’ That’s what he’d always say to me. When kids picked on me, he told me to toughen up.”

Lewis cleared his throat. “Things are a lot better now. But Sebastian saw it back then. Glimpses, anyway. He always wondered why I hung around Nico so much if I wasn’t in love with him—I’d go on holiday with Nico’s family and all that.”

George imagined a small, gap-toothed Lewis running around with a smaller, probably equally as annoying Nico Rosberg. He wondered if they did the same things he and Alex did as kids—playing tag by the ocean, racing the waves up from shore.

“I love my dad, but those holidays were the only time I could relax. I didn’t have to worry about money or keeping sponsors or wondering if I was the reason my mum cried at night. And when I became a prince, I was suddenly free from all of that weight—probably the way Max felt,” Lewis said.

George never considered Max and Lewis to have any similar life experience, but he saw the same nervousness in Lewis’s fingers as he picked at the seam of his hoodie cuff.

Promise me.

Guilt cut George from the inside out.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” George said quietly. “I never should have said anything.”

“I won’t say a word to anyone,” Lewis said. “Not even Sebastian.”

George’s stomach twisted as he stood, clutching the watch at his side. He locked eyes with Lewis for a moment, trying to discern if he could trust the man looking back at him.

Lewis stood up to meet him, suddenly close enough that George could smell the newness of his hoodie, the faint scent of that damned cologne.

“Promise me,” George whispered. “I need to hear you say it.”

Lewis’s eyes softened to a dull gold. “I promise.”

George leaned in, brushing their lips together, testing the feel. Lewis stood completely still while George lingered a hairsbreadth from his mouth.

It felt strange to be the one with the power between them. Nico’s watch heated up in his hold, as a real as it was dangerous.

George finally pressed a kiss to Lewis’s lips, closing his eyes as he did so. Lewis relaxed a fraction as he kissed back, but jerked hard when George’s hand shot up to his throat.

George pressed his thumb to the pulse point in Lewis’s neck, taking in his racing heartbeat.

“I do love you,” Lewis said in a whisper, quiet enough that George almost didn’t hear him as much as he felt the words rumble up his throat.

“For now,” George said, pressing closer. Lewis tensed up—the first show of fear since George had met him.

He thought the sight of Lewis scared would thrill him. He thought the rush would be godlike—after all, how many people had power over a seven-time World Champion? Even Sebastian didn’t have this.

Instead, the sight made him sick.

George grasped Lewis’s wrist. Lewis flinched, eyes squeezing shut.

This is how power feels, he thought.

Maybe he didn’t want it after all.

He pressed Nico’s watch back into Lewis’s hand, gently folding his fingers around the warm metal.

“You don’t lie to people you love,” George said softly. “You don’t hold on to things that hurt them, either.”

He pecked Lewis’s cheek before he strode to the door. His socked feet muffled the sound of his steps, allowing him to hear the shaking breath Lewis released behind him before he grabbed his shoes and left.

Chapter Text

Though their kiss had barely been one, George tasted Lewis’s fear into the following morning. He carried it with him as he entered the paddock, conscious of the roaring fans, the way they weren’t just cheering. Grins had become snarls, and anyone wearing Mercedes or Red Bull attire made sure everyone knew whose side they were on.

“You have to be careful too,” Nic warned from the safety of the Williams garage. “I keep saying that, then it keeps getting worse.”

George chuckled. “I don’t know how it can get worse if Lewis loses the championship today.”

Nic shrugged. “True. It’ll be like popping a pimple. All that pressure released.”

George screwed up his face. “Not the example I would use, Mr. Darcy. But you’re not wrong.”

He couldn’t imagine being Lewis, faced with the impossible task of going from last to first in a single race. The start would be crucial—so would every lap. No mistakes. He would need a perfect race.

“The season could end today,” Nic said, looking out at all of the people in the pit lane.

Of course, the season wouldn’t really end.

“We still have a whole race to get through, and then like five more after that,” George said.

“Three more,” Nic corrected.

George blinked. “Really? Only three more?”

Nic nodded with sadness in his eyes. “Qatar, Saudi Arabia, then Abu Dhabi. Then you end the year with me and start 2022 with Prince Lewis The Great.”

George gave Nicky’s firesuit a tug. “Don’t start talking about that yet.”

Nic laughed, swatting him off. “Yeah, it just looms over me all the time. I’ll ignore it.”

“How about I get you a coffee?” George offered. “I’ll even get you Ferrari coffee if you want. I’ll risk it all for you, darling.”

Nic rolled his eyes. “Get me Ferrari coffee, then. Before the race—I need my caffeine hit.”

George jumped up and ruffled Nic’s short hair. “Anything for you, pookie.”

Nic made a face of disgust, but he smiled after. “Never call me pookie again, you creep.”

George slipped out of the garage, fully confident in his ability to get the paddock’s most exclusive cup of coffee. He knew what most people didn’t—Haas had the exact same coffee, just in a different cup. All he had to do was pawn one of those fancy prancing horse cups from Charles and he would have Nic’s coffee secured.

He headed toward the Ferrari garage, but stopped short when he heard an off-tune rendition of Happy Birthday.

Right, Lando’s birthday had been yesterday. George had forgotten to send him a note, but no one had seen Lando since the beginning of the weekend anyway. Too busy spending time with an ex-husband married to his childhood friend.

Perfectly healthy thing, that.

George headed toward the source of the singing, only to find a collection of Haas and Alfa Romeo team members surrounding Mick and Callum Ilott.

Callum stood with a dopey grin, candlelight reflected in his lovelorn eyes as he stared right at Mick—honestly, George thought kissing him would be less obvious.

The song wound down and members of Alfa Romeo and Haas slapped Callum on the back, offering their congratulations, but Callum only had eyes for Mick, and Mick looked like he didn’t see anyone else either.

Jesus Christ.

“Next year, we’ll have a party too,” Mick said loud enough for George to hear.

“Can’t wait,” Callum replied.

George’s stomach dropped at the sight of an FIA official walking through the crowd toward them. He cupped his hand over his mouth.

“Mick!” he called.

Mick and Callum were standing so close it would be impossible to escape at least a proximity reprimand, but—

“I told you, everything’s working out,” Mick said with a thousand-watt smile.

“I’ll believe it when I sign,” Callum laughed.

“Mick! Callum!” George cried.

Mick turned to look at him, then stepped protectively in front of Callum. “What do you want, George?”

Too late.

The FIA official stepped up to them, speaking in a low tone to Callum.

George watched in disbelief as the FIA official squeezed Callum’s shoulder, smiled at him, then continued on into the Haas garage.

The FIA has chosen Max to be champion, Alonso’s warning from the Ferrari summit echoed in his mind. They’ll choose, and those of you who are on the wrong side will feel the consequences.

George never thought the FIA would show such blatant favoritism for Max supporters—and his opinion of the FIA resided somewhere close to Satan himself.

He should have known.

“George,” Mick said again. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” George replied with a curt nod. “Happy birthday, Callum.”

Callum offered a polite smile like a well-trained dog. “Thanks. Good luck in the race.”

Mick brushed his knuckles over Calum’s crossed arms. He let out a snort. “Lewis needs all the luck today, I think.”

Callum frowned. “Mick.”

He said the name so softly, the way only a lover could.

“Callum’s right,” George said, locking eyes with Mick. “It’s not smart to badmouth Lewis Hamilton. He has a habit of making people eat their words.”

Mick narrowed his eyes. “Fuck off.”

A sudden wave of sadness crashed over him. George stared at a boy he’d grown up around as they fought their way toward a crown. He liked Mick, he respected Mick, he never had a bad word to say about him—until this year.

Until the game swept them both up, turning them from neutral parties to boys fighting for their lives on a world stage. George had to protect Alex, Mick had to protect Callum.

George had to give the FIA credit for realism. Their system designed to create a proxy war between princes had the same psychological effects as actual warfare. Seventy years ago, he and Mick would have been mortal enemies, filled with hatred for each other for no reason except their nationality.

Now they had a shared childhood that made the shift toward enemies hurt so much more.

George left without another word, mulling over the conversation he’d overheard between Max and Mick after Mexico. Mick had seemed unsure then, and bitter toward Max’s offer to help Callum in exchange for access in Ferrari.

Evidently, things had changed.

The bright red paint of the Ferrari hospitality suite stuck out in the hospitality lane as George approached.

They have more power than anyone—even the FIA, Mick had said.

Charles stepped from the hospitality suite looking cluelessly handsome, as always.

“George,” he greeted in his slide-y accent, sporting a dimpled smile.

“Charles,” George returned. “Need a favor. A coffee cup, actually.”

Charles cocked a brow. “A coffee cup? You don’t have them at Williams?”

“Not one with a fancy horse on the side.”

Charles let out a snort. “I see. Yes, yes, come inside.”

George followed him into the spacious and modern foyer of the Ferrari hospitality suite. It smelled like old money and espresso.

“Do you want coffee in the cup, or just the cup?” Charles asked as he stepped up to a small kitchen door. He knocked twice and stepped inside, holding the door for George behind him.

“Some espresso would be lovely,” George replied. And it would save him a trip back to Haas.

The room was apparently just for making coffee. Three espresso makers sat at the ready, complete with packets of coffee beans, grinders, and a bunch of coffee stuff he recognized from his own kitchen, though Nicky did all of the barista work in their household.

“What kind of espresso?” Charles asked.

“Let’s do a cappuccino,” George said. “It’s for Nicky, so don’t use bad beans or something.”

Charles smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

George reached over and locked the kitchen door. “I didn’t just come for coffee, either.”

Charles’s whole demeanor changed in an instant, going from happy and calm to hollow and exhausted. He sighed. “I figured.”

“How is Max?” George asked.

Charles’s eyes flashed. “Are you asking, or is Mercedes?”

George frowned. “Me, Charles.”

Charles nodded once and began looking through bags of coffee beans. George didn’t remember when he’d become such a coffee guy.

Yet another thing he’d missed in growing up.

“Have you seen him since…he showed up?” George asked.

Charles scooped beans from a bag of coffee and dumped them into a grinder. “No. Why are you asking?”

George glanced at the door. “Is there any reason why he would think he has Ferrari support?”

Charles turned on the grinder. His light eyes narrowed a fraction.

“He doesn’t have Ferrari support,” Charles said once the grinder quieted.

“Are you sure?”

Charles poured ground beans into an espresso scoop that probably had a name George couldn’t pronounce.

“Ask what you really want to ask, George,” Charles said. It sounded closer to a warning.

George moved closer and lowered his voice. “I overheard Max talking to Mick in Mexico.”

“That’s a tongue twister,” Charles said absently as he fitted the espresso scoop into place. He was pretending not to care. George could see it in him.

“Max claimed that Antonio is out and that he can get Callum Ilott in,” George continued.

Charles hesitated for only a heartbeat, but George caught it.

“Max isn’t well,” Charles said as the espresso machine started to hiss. “He’s not thinking clearly.”

“He sounded very sure,” George argued. “He said all he needed was Ferrari access, and Mick agreed to give it to him.”

“Mick doesn’t have Ferrari access anymore,” Charles said, carrying an edge in his voice.  “His legacy is important, yes, but he is not a Ferrari prince.”

“Mick seemed certain he could get Max in the room with people who can make decisions.”

Charles tightened his grip on the espresso scoop still attached to the machine. “There is no way in hell I’m siding with Red Bull after what they just did to Max. I don’t care what happens, I will not go down in history as someone who ever sided with them.”

It took everything in George not to tell Charles the truth—that his beloved Sebastian brought Jos in.

“So you haven’t heard anything about a change in Alfa Romeo?” George asked, sidestepping the growing anger in Charles’s tone.

“No,” Charles replied. “Binotto had a hand in Giovinazzi’s appointment. He wouldn’t toss him aside for Mick, and certainly wouldn’t for Callum.”

“Okay,” George said with a nod. “Then maybe it was just talk. I needed to make sure.”

Charles seldom treated him like an enemy, but George saw the distrust in his eyes and  a hesitation in the way he moved.

“I’m not going to let anything worse happen to Max,” George said, because he felt like he needed to. “I promise.”

Charles’s lip twitched in a half smile. “Let’s not do that.”

George furrowed his brow. “Do what?”

Charles held out the two coffees in their fancy Ferrari cups. “Make promises. None of us are in a place to keep them.”

 

 


 

 

Lando barely registered that the lights had all turned red before they went out. It seemed everyone wanted this race over with—Lando felt like the only one who wished the weekend would never end.

Brazil was theirs. Two years prior in their first season as husbands, Lando had been standing with Carlos when they announced his fourth place finish had been promoted to third. McLaren’s first podium in 2,072 days, a curse Carlos lifted despite starting from the back of the grid that day.

And despite all of the champagne and celebrations, Carlos made his way through all of the people cheering his name to pull his inexperienced rookie of a husband up the steps with him. He even let Lando hold the bottle of champagne in the team photo—something no prince in history had ever done that Lando could remember.

Lando knew that, had the tables been turned, he would have milked the spotlight for all of its worth. He never would have allowed Carlos to share it with him.

Carlos didn’t play games. He relied on his talent, will, and intelligence to quietly elevate himself in the ranks. He never made plays for power at the expense of other people. He loved too much for that.

But racing didn’t allow for generosity.

Lando barely registered the barrier wall on his right as he snuck up the outside behind Carlos’s Ferrari. If he let himself focus on his body too much, he felt the residual soreness of their lazy evening together, and if he quieted his mind, he heard Carlos’s deep laughter in his ear, the beat of his heart lulling him to sleep.

His car continued to sneak up alongside Carlos, mere centimeters between their tires.  

Carlos wouldn’t hit him. Carlos always kept himself awa—

The steering wheel jerked in his hands. Lando felt the puncture through his fingertips before he registered it, a million nerve endings snapping to alert him to the problem, a million more directing him to keep the wheel straight.

Lando went straight over the kerb into the runoff. He stared down at his hands, then out at his tire, visions of Radilion swirling in his mind.

He tested the throttle and didn’t feel the telltale bump of a destroyed tire. Slow puncture, then.

“Slow puncture,” Will confirmed over radio. “You good?”

“I’m good,” Lando growled. “Except that Carlos nearly sent me into a wall.”

He flicked the wheel and headed back on track.

“Hamilton made up almost ten places in that start,” Will said. “There’s plenty of racing to be had out there. Box and we’ll get your sorted.”

 

 


 

 

Charles caught sight of Valtteri’s rear wing sliding off track just before he did the same thing while following behind Carlos. Charles grit his teeth behind his helmet, glancing in his mirror to check for traffic as they rejoined.

Stupid mistake.

He blamed it on exhaustion. His sleep schedule had been tumultuous at best since Max spent the night with him. He kept waking up in a panic, searching for Max, trying to help him.

Or he woke softly and reached out for Carlos, only to find cold sheets. His heart would start to pound, flooding him with adrenaline until he remembered Carlos wasn’t supposed to be in bed with him in the first place.

“Be mindful of traffic ahead,” Jost said in his ear. “Verstappen seems ready to destroy the car rather than let anyone past.”

Charles took a drink instead of replying. He slotted in behind Carlos and barely had to focus to overtake him on the inside of the next corner. Valtteri and Sergio lay between him and Max.

He quieted his mind and let himself move on reflex—he’d driven this track so many times he knew it by feel. Driving became a dance when he no longer had to second-guess himself and his ability.

Charles would always be confident behind the wheel. Speed coursed in his blood like any other cell, and he could outdrive anyone—even Max. Normal people were frightened by the resting RPM of a royal Ferrari racecar, but Charles only saw 5,000 opportunities for power going to waste.

He lived for the chase. Every second outside the car was second spent chained to the constraints of life as a mortal.

“Hamilton closing in,” Jock said in his ear, breaking him from focus.

“What?” Charles snapped, glancing in his side mirror.

The black Mercedes livery loomed in the reflection, a specter created just for him.

There is no way.

He couldn’t even see Carlos behind him as he took another corner at a blistering pace.

Lewis gained on him, swallowing up tarmac as if Charles had tapped the brakes. Lewis started for the inside, so Charles veered in slightly to cut him off, only for Lewis to swing outside and pass him like he was a goddamn rookie.

“That’s impossible,” Charles whispered to himself, flicking up through the gears on corner exit.

A vision of Max entered his mind, his skin blue in the moonlight, eyes frantic and too shiny.

Lewis is cheating, you know.

Charles had always respected Lewis and his ability to hold power. Many princes could take a fast car to victory enough for a championship, but very few could maintain a six-year streak. Not only that, Lewis maintained a healthy lead as he most popular prince worldwide. That didn’t happen by accident.

But as he watched as Lewis tore ahead toward Valtteri, the beginnings of doubt crept into his mind.

 

 


 

 

The crowd cheered so loudly that George feared something had gone wrong as he pulled his car into the pit lane. He fumbled to get himself out of the car, but his limbs were shaking from the heat and adrenaline.

He wondered when the end of a race would bring him joy instead of dread.

Mechanics headed over to him and George grabbed the first one he saw.

“How did Lewis finish?” George asked. His eyeballs continued to rattle in his skull. “How is he?”

The mechanic blinked at him. George’s heart plunged through the tarmac.

“He won, mate,” the mechanic said. His eyes went wide. “I mean, Your Royal Highness. Sorry.”

“What?” George asked, leaning in and cupping a hand over his ear to hear better. “What did you say?”

“Hamilton won, Your Royal Highness,” the mechanic said, louder.

George’s head shot up. He looked up at the screens, but they were playing a battle between Lewis and Max. Max swung out on a wide line, shoving Lewis off the track. The crowd roared in time with the playback.

“He won?” George asked to clarify, but the mechanics were long gone, swarming the car.

The screen switched to a view of Lewis holding a Brazilian flag as he drove around the track, fist held high.

George finally looked toward the podium to see Max’s distant figure in the media area. The screens all switched to Max, revealing the hollow expression he didn’t try to school.

“Max, what a race,” Jenson Button sad with a shake of his head. “Massive, including that incident we just saw there. The FIA ruled no investigation necessary, what are your thoughts on that?”

Max stared at nothing for a full beat before he snapped to attention.

“I think it’s quite obvious that it was a racing incident,” he said. “Of course there was no investigation. I had the line and Lewis tried to push me out, but I don’t let myself get pushed by anyone.”

George handed off his gloves and helmet and grabbed a water bottle to take a long drink.

“Lewis does these things too,” Max continued. “I suppose it always works out for him as well. But not with me.”

“Tough to be second today, I’m sure,” Jenson said. “How do you feel about the remainder of the season? The championship?”

Max snorted, but his eyes had gone unfocused again. “Lewis has to win every race to be a champion. I have a better car, so there is only one way he wins now.”

George looked to the screen again, water dribbling from his lips as he absently squeezed his water bottle.

No fucking way.

Jenson blinked in obvious surprise, but quickly masked it with a laugh. “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

A twisted smile formed on Max’s face. “Quite an obvious answer, yes? He will need some help. Or maybe he already has it.”

Max didn’t wait for a follow up question before he turned away. Christian Horner snagged him into a side hug, whispering something in Max’s ear as he patted his back. The sight made George’s stomach turn.

He spotted Jos Verstappen slicing through the crowd, his eyes dark and his posture hunched and evil. He looked exactly like the lion his son had on his crest, but with none of the honor and grace.

George started forward at a breakneck pace. The crowd parted before him, making way for royalty—except for one person.

He clipped Jos with his shoulder, driving it right into his sternum.

Jos let out a grunt of surprise, stumbling backward a step.

“Excuse me?!” Jos cut.

Fear clamped the base of George’s spine, but he forced himself to stand up straight and look Jos right in his beady eyes.

“Excuse you,” George said blandly, playing at aristocratic displeasure. He looked Jos’s pudgy body up and down. “You must be in a hurry to not make room for a prince.”

Jos‘s whole face turned red with rage. He opened his mouth to speak, then grit his teeth. Dozens of eyes turned their direction. George felt the confidence surge in him as he stared at Jos, waiting for a response.

I’m a prince. A future Prince of Mercedes. You’re nothing.

“Well?” George prompted.

Jos’s head moved like a rusted ball and joint as he bowed it.

“Your Royal Highness,” Jos ground out.

“Max did an incredible job today,” Christian panted into the mic on the big screen. “Just incredible. We’re so proud of him—myself, Helmut, Red Bull. Max is truly going about this as a champion.”

George set his jaw. How many times were they going to fucking say that?

“Your Royal Highness what?” George said, mimicking the vapid look Max liked to show annoying reporters.

Jos stiffened. His mouth mangled to a scowl as he replied, “I apologize for stepping in your way, Your Royal Highness.”

George smirked at him. “I’ll let it go—this time. Be more careful in the future, hm?”

He watched as Jos considered whether or not to assault him right there in front of the crowd.

George narrowed his eyes. I dare you.

He would gladly make a show of it. He would gladly take a punch to the face to get Jos removed from the paddock forever.

Jos settled on averting his gaze, his teeth clenched so tight George wondered if they would crack.

“And here is your race winner, His Royal Highness Lewis Hamilton!” someone shouted.

George ripped his attention from Jos to see Lewis emerge from the stewards’ area, one arm hooked around Valtteri’s shoulders.

A smile broke on George’s face, despite everything.

Victory looked so damn good on Lewis.

George found he still loved to see the gap in Lewis’s teeth when he smiled, the way heat made his cheeks ruddy, how handsome he looked under the Brazilian sky.

George ignored Jos completely as he hurried off to Lewis, relief bubbling up inside him with every step.

“George, we did it!” Lewis exclaimed as he approached, imbued with a childlike glee.

“You did it, you mean,” George replied, laughing. “Congratulations, Lewis.”

He threw his arms around Lewis’s neck, squeezing him in a tight hug. Lewis hugged him back just as tightly. A thought shot through George’s head before he could quash it—a one hit kill.

I want this back.

Chapter Text

Charles watched from underneath the podium awning as George walked away from Jos. Charles had listened to Max’s paranoia, allowed it to sink into his mind and distrust the friend who clearly loved Max enough to stand up to someone not even Charles could defend Max from.

Even now, he was still too weak. All of his royal frills meant nothing in the face of a man who wielded fists and words in equal measure.

He should have told George that he’d seen Max, but he didn’t want to risk anyone else finding out about Max staying in his room before qualifying, especially after he’d promised Max he wouldn’t say anything.

Only Pierre and Yuki knew that Max had been out of his room on Saturday night, and only Pierre knew that Max had spent the night with him. Pierre wouldn’t tell anyone, if only to save himself the potential rumors of Charles being with yet another man.

Charles shook the thought from his mind. It made his skin crawl to think he’d become the kind of person who assumed the worst from people he loved.

Max always made him overly protective—precisely because he could never find the nerve to defend him where it mattered.

“That was a disaster,” Carlos muttered as he stepped up beside him, shaking the sweat from his hair. “I should have been in a much better place.”

“I only finished two seconds ahead of you, so watch your tongue,” Charles teased, but the humor fell out of his tone rather quickly.

Carlos settled against him, a heavy, familiar weight. Charles leaned into him, taking a moment to rest his head on Carlos’s shoulder. He smelled of sweat and fuel, but Charles didn’t mind it.

“Miss me?” Carlos asked with a kiss to his hair.

“Yes,” Charles replied immediately. He knew he sounded desperate, but he didn’t care. “It’s lonely without you.”

Carlos pulled him into his arms. Charles nuzzled closer despite the heat and sweat, thankful to have his husband back for a few moments.

“I miss you too,” Carlos said into his hair, but Charles felt the words rumble through his chest as well. “We’ll have all day tomorrow to be together, yes?”

“You’ll cancel morning training?”

Carlos gave him a squeeze. “I already did. Moved it to after lunch. Very late after lunch.”

Charles pulled back to place a kiss on his jaw. “Thank you. I love you.”

Carlos gently pulled him in for a real kiss. He tasted slightly salty from sweat, and it reminded Charles of the way he tasted after a night doing things that didn’t involve driving.

“I love you too,” Carlos said once the kiss broke. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

They shared one last kiss before Charles went to complete his media duties—a few interviews, a change of clothes, a few photos with VIP fans between sips from his water bottle. He headed to the VIP center among FIA hospitality to sign a stack of hats for Brazilian fans and started signing the moment he sat down at his booth. 

“Your Royal Highness, la cena è pronta,” Giorgio announced later with a knock on the open door. 

Charles finished signing another hat and nodded. “Ne mancano ancora venti e poi sarò lì.”

He scribbled through twenty more signatures and stood up from his chair, eager to get back to the hotel. He wanted a hot bath and a good sleep before the flight to Qatar. He couldn’t sleep well in planes—and he wanted to spend time with Carlos on the flight anyway.

“Giorgio headed back to hospitality,” one of the Public Affairs girls informed him when he reached the entryway for the media suite.

“Kind of him to wait,” Charles muttered.

“I’ll be taking you back, actually,” a new voice said. A man in an Alpha Tauri polo stepped forward. He was young and familiar, but Charles had no idea who he was. “I spoke with Giorgio, he’s aware.”

Charles narrowed his eyes, but didn’t question it. If Pierre wanted to speak with him, he could have been more direct.

He followed the man out into the hospitality lane. The man typed on his phone as they walked, uninterested in conversation, which Charles appreciated. He didn’t really enjoy talking to strangers during race weekends, though he acknowledged that was part of his duties.

The man stopped abruptly, causing Charles to nearly crash into him. He sidestepped at the last moment, annoyed.

“I hope you like pizza,” the man said. He opened a door to a small office trailer so nondescript Charles hadn’t even noticed it among the track buildings.

“What’s going on?” Charles asked. He didn’t make a move for the door.

The man cleared his throat. “Please. This isn’t really my thing. In all honesty, I lost a bet.”

Charles glared at him. “You lost a bet.”

The man laughed. “I’m Pyry, mate. Pierre’s trainer.”

Charles blinked and the man’s face seemed to rearrange itself right before his eyes. Pyry. Right. Pierre loved Pyry. Pierre trusted Pyry.

“Yeah, I know that,” Charles lied. “Why are you ushering me into an office trailer?”

Pyry shrugged helplessly. “Pizza?”

Charles sighed. “Fine. Giorgio knows about this?”

“I told him Alpha Tauri wanted you for a social media appearance. We haven't been emphasizing the Scuderia part of our empire, hm?”

Charles made a mental note to remember that Pyry could lie well. He stepped past and Pyry closed the door behind him. The frosted glass gave Charles enough to a view to see as Pyry positioned himself in front of the door, blocking anyone else from entering.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Pierre, de quoi s’ag—”

“I just wanted to tell you that this is a good thing, Charles.”

Charles whipped around to see Max standing in the middle of a small room, still in his racing boots. His eyes were wide and sunken in, his whole face mottled red.

“Max?”

“It’s okay that I lost,” Max said, smiling at him. It didn’t reach his eyes. “If Lewis hadn’t rigged it, I would have won. Anyone can see that.”

Charles swallowed hard. Max’s eyes moved frantically in their sockets, a sign Charles knew all too well after the past few weeks with him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Max said. “Like you’re disappointed in me.”

“I’m not disappointed in you,” Charles said softly. “The opposite, I’m proud of you.”

“I would have won, I mean it,” Max said, tugging at the sleeves of his race suit where it hung around his hips. “If Lewis wasn’t cheating.”

“Should we sit down?” Charles asked, gesturing to the floor. “You can lie down if you want, I’ll watch. No one’s coming in here.”

“Nobody says anything about the fucking pressure,” Max suddenly hissed, spraying spit from his lips. “I expected it from the other princes, but not from Red Bull. They’re asking the world of me. They brought my dad in. He’s here, Charles.”

“I know,” Charles said. “We talked about it when you stayed with me, remem—”

“My dad’s going to help. He’s already helping me,” Max interrupted. “He’s reminding me why I’m doing this. He’s guiding me.”

Charles stepped closer. “Max, he’s not helping. He hurts you. That’s all he’s ever done.”

Max shirked away. “No. This time he’s really going to help. He’s going to prove to everyone that Lewis is rigging this. He’s been a cheater all along.”

“I don’t think you can—”

“Don’t you dare defend him,” Max snapped, eyes bloodshot. “I know the truth. I know exactly what he’s been doing.”

“Okay, what’s he been doing?” Charles asked, treading carefully.

Max glared at him. “You don’t believe me.”

The claws would come out in a matter of seconds if he didn’t save this.

“I want to talk about it,” Charles soothed. “I’d prefer to do that with you calm.”

“I can’t be calm,” Max spat. “I have to win a championship. I can’t even stay with Checo anymore and—”

“We need to talk about that too,” Charles said. “About how the FIA acted with you at the hotel.”

“They helped us, what the hell do you want to talk about?”

Charles distinctly remembered an argument from their teenage years where Max insisted he had done nothing to his kart, despite being almost a second faster than everyone else, including Charles. Tech inspections discovered he’d been using 105 octane fuel while everyone else used the 90 octane serviced at the track.

Max looked the same now as he had that day, shoulders hunched defensively, as if ready to jump into a boxer’s stance at any moment.

“I don’t think they helped us out of the goodness of their hearts," Charles said, "the same way I don’t think they inspected Lewis’s rear wing spacing by happenstance.”

Max snarled at him. “He was found cheating, Charles. It doesn’t matter what started it.”

“I heard a few screws came loose in qualifying and it was only a few millimeters off of regulation,” Charles replied, keeping his tone even.

“Still cheating,” Max said.

“Fair enough,” Charles replied with a shrug. “Then why didn’t they do anything when they caught us in the hallway? We broke the rules. They have those rules in writing, and so do our governments.”

Max crossed his arms and looked away.

There’s nothing in the regs that says it’s illegal, Max had argued with him that night at the karting track. They only said the fuel had to be pumped at a service center. We found a guy who could do that.

Max got to keep his wins that day. The regulations changed to require karts to be fueled at specific stations on track, with oxygenation requirements on race day. Max found a loophole and abused it until they changed the rules to stop him.

No wonder Fernando sided with him.

“Something is rigged here,” Charles said carefully. “But I think it has to do with Red Bull, with you."

“It’s not just me,” Max snapped.

Cold seeped into Charles’s bloodstream. His heart began to pound in his ears, his eyes going wide.  Fernando had said the FIA had chosen Max as a champion. Rumors always swirled about Lewis controlling the FIA, about past champions acting as dictators and sending the empires hurtling toward ruin.

But Max hated the FIA. The FIA took him away from Daniel, and the FIA inflicted every punishment that hurt Max and Daniel’s relationship—and they had been the reason Max ultimately decided to end his and Max’s relationship too, even if other factors may have influenced Max more.

It always came down to the rules, and the FIA created and enforced those rules. They had always been the enemy, in Max's mind.

“Stop look at me like that,” Max hissed, stepping up to him. He reeked of stale sweat. Electrolyte residue clung to the corners of his lips, making Max look rabid up close. “You would do the same thing. You already have. Or do we need to talk about your fuel system in 2019 again?”

Heat raced up the back of Charles’s neck. He immediately squared up, hands curling to fists at his sides.

After that karting race, Charles screamed at Max for a full ten minutes about unfairness. Circumventing the rules wasn’t racing fair, and therefore it was cheating. But Max was adamant he never cheated. He punched people who accused him of it. Everyone but Charles. He insisted finding a loophole was innovative, not cheating.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Charles growled. “Because right now, this isn’t you. The Max I know would never involve the FIA in anything.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Everything’s different now. We’ve been playing a fixed game this whole time, Charles.”

“Tell me what you’re doing, Max,” Charles repeated, softer. He saw a flash in Max’s eyes, two gold-glitter snowglobes over the sea.

“I’m not cheating,” Max said, softening too. “I promise I’m not.”

Charles shook his head. “This is exactly like when we were kids. Using higher octane fuel in your kart—this is exactly like that. It’s about sportsmanship.”

“We’re prisoners wearing crowns, Charles,” Max said, oddly calm. “There is not sportsmanship. We’re playing a blood sport on a world stage.”

“We choose how we play, though. We choose whether we respect each other or not,” Charles argued. “Do you respect me?”

Max looked over his face, his blond-tipped lashes fluttering as a thousand thoughts flipped through his brain. Charles saw each one of them, along with the film of exhaustion stretched over his skin, the sandpapery texture of his tongue when he opened his mouth to speak, though no words came out.

Charles’s heart twisted up in preparation.

“You know how I feel about you,” Max finally said in a whisper.

“So play fair,” Charles whispered back. “Stop cheating.”

Max never used higher octane fuel after that day at the karting track, even at tracks where the techs would have turned a blind eye to a former prince’s son.

Max met his eye, the golden-flecked snowglobe deadening to a brackish sea. He shook his head, a move so minute Charles barely caught it.

“It’s not cheating when you’re supported by the ones making the rules.”

Chapter Text

Another year older and nothing to show for it. Lando watched the dying fire at the foot of their bed and thought back to Russia. A win would have made the year without Carlos worthwhile. Instead, he had nothing. Not a single accomplishment to show for himself. He’d botched every chance at happiness and nearly got himself exiled by taking a chance on burner phones.

He didn’t regret that part. Letters couldn’t compare to the sound of Carlos’s voice or the buzz in his pocket of a text written in that same moment.

He really had learned nothing.

“You should try to sleep,” Carlos said.

Lando looked up from where he’d propped his head on his knees as Carlos returned to bed, shedding his bathrobe along the way. Screens kept the bugs out of their bedroom, but allowed the sounds of Brazilian jungle and the warm summer breeze to filter in.

“If I sleep, you leave faster,” Lando replied, scooting back on the mattress and into Carlos’s arms.

 Carlos’s evening in the sun kept his skin warm even now, so much that Lando didn’t feel the slightest chill as he snuggled into Carlos’s chest.

The villa made their relationship feel like a dirty secret. As much as Lando needed a weekend with the love of his life, he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that they weren’t supposed to be doing this.

“What are you thinking about?” Carlos asked, carding his fingers through Lando’s hair.

“Us,” Lando replied, nuzzling into Carlos’s collarbone. “How we’re not going to be able to do this again for a long time.”

“Ah.”

Lando closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of aftershave and sugar wax. “Because we won’t be, right?”

“We’re golfing together in Qatar,” Carlos said, almost apologetic.

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” Land replied softly. He hadn’t forgotten, but he didn’t want to seem disappointed or ungrateful. He wanted to spend as much time with Carlos as he could—he wanted to marry him again. He wanted Carlos back.

“But I don’t think we will have this for the rest of the season, no,” Carlos agreed, shifting to hold him tighter.

“See? That’s why I don’t want to sleep,” Lando murmured. “I don’t want to go back to all of that. I wish we could just stay here. That we didn’t have to leave.”

Carlos kissed his forehead. “I know. But we have empires to lead and husbands to go back to.”

Lando had barely thought of Daniel all weekend. Every moment on track was one closer to this. He could have come in dead last in the race and been happy with it as long as he got to come back to Carlos at the end of the day.

“What if  I don’t want to go back?” Lando asked quietly.

“Mm?”

Carlos was fighting sleep already. Lando smiled at his sleepy sounds and reached out into the dark to run his fingers over the lines of Carlos’s face. Carlos turned his head to nibble at Lando’s wrist, prompting an absolutely ridiculous smile to sprout on his lips.

He would never tell anyone, but when he missed Carlos, he missed this, not sex. Carlos had a stupid brand of humor Lando adored. Their marriage had been full of teasing and laughter.

“I love you,” Lando whispered.

Carlos made a soft sound in response, already lost to sleep.

“I love you a lot,” Lando added, brushing his nose against Carlos’s collarbone.

He listened to the soft noises of Carlos’s breathing as it mixed with the chorus of insects outside. Brazil was their special place, but Lando wanted a life outside of special permission. He had a new house in Monaco being built as they lay in bed together, but Carlos probably wouldn’t see it until the race next season because he always went back to Spain to spend the winter with his family.

Lando didn’t even know if he’d have Daniel at the end of the season. If Max lost, he couldn’t imagine Lewis taking a championship without inflicting punishment. If Max won, he would probably stage a coup and take Daniel back or something.

Lando hadn’t even spoken to Daniel outside of the track since he left for the villa. Come to think of it, Daniel hadn’t even texted him that often, compared to usual.

He poked Carlos’s chest until his long eyelashes fluttered open.

“What is it?” Carlos asked sleepily.

“I think we need to talk about what happens when we go back, Carlos.”

Carlos blinked slowly, then made a grunting sound. “Should I have some coffee?”

Lando nestled closer, almost protectively. “I’d prefer if you didn’t leave, actually.”

Carlos shifted onto his back, pulling Lando with him. “Fine, what do you want to talk about?”

“Nothing is going to happen to us if Lewis wins, right?” Lando asked. “Or if Max wins?”

Carlos yawned. “I don’t think so, no. Do you think something will happen?”

Lando swallowed hard. “Maybe. Somebody texted you from my burner phone—the thing about Pierre and the parking ticket. Do we need to worry about that?”

Carlos passed a hand over his face. “I don’t know what that text was referring to. I never asked Pierre about it because sometimes it is better not to know.”

Lando frowned. “You sure? Seems like whatever they wanted you to ask about would have been useful.”

“Useful to cause a rift,” Carlos said. “We all have secrets, Lando. Right now is a secret. Most people have no idea we’ve been together this weekend.”

“Somehow I think those aren’t the same,” Lando said. “I could ask. I could try to—”

“No,” Carlos said, his voice rough with sleep. “Leave it alone, Lando.”

Lando narrowed his eyes. “You think it has to do with Charles.”

Carlos would never be so protective of Pierre, Red Bull affiliation or not.

Carlos sighed. “Of course it has to do with Charles. But whatever it is, it doesn’t concern me. Charles and Pierre have their own relationship. I’m not stepping in the middle of it.”

“But maybe it’s—"

“What? What do you think it is?”

Carlos didn’t snap very often. Lando loathed fighting with him, but he didn’t think they should be overlooking any potential leverage with the championship fight so close.

“I don’t know,” Lando admitted. “Maybe Pierre cheated on Charles. Or maybe he’s been using Charles this whole time. Lewis or Max could be behind it—Pierre is close with both of them. Don’t you think we owe it to Charles to find out?”

Carlos leveled a glare at him, seeing right through his attempt to make this about Charles’s wellbeing.

“Let’s say this is true,” Carlos said. “Then I have to tell Charles I discovered this plot, but who is my source? A burner phone? Anyone could have used that phone, or hired someone to hack it. We would still need proof, and we have none.”

“I could get the truth from Pierre,” Lando offered. “I bet I could get it out of him.”

“Okay, say you do. Then Charles discovers the boy who has loved him since childhood has been using him,” Carlos said quietly. “It would destroy him. Which may be what that person wanted all along.”

“I doubt it would—”

“Charles is protecting us right now,” Carlos said. “If we’re caught here in bed together, Charles has signed a document stating only friend things would be happening here. So if someone proves that’s false, I’ve cheated on him publicly.  It will make me look bad, and him, and Ferrari.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “I don’t think we’re getting caught, Carlos.”

Carlos shook his head. “I’m not asking Pierre anything. Charles won’t tell anyone about us being here together, and I’m not going to throw that in his face by interrogating Pierre about something we know nothing about.”

Lando shifted as Carlos sat up. Lando rolled onto his back, draped over Carlos’s lap as Carlos reached down to touch his face.

“I want to see you after the championship,” Carlos whispered into the dark. “We can’t do that if we’re causing trouble. It becomes too dangerous.”

Lando stared up at him, trying to read his shadowed eyes. “Are you that afraid of Charles?”

Carlos’s shoulders sagged. “I’m not afraid of Charles. But I am afraid of what would happen if Max wins and finds out either of us hurt him.”

A chill ran down Lando’s spine. “He wouldn’t do anything. I’m married to Daniel, and Daniel loves me. Daniel owes me, too.”

Carlos cocked his head. “Daniel owes you?”

Lando froze mid-swallow. “Yeah.”

“For what?”

“For stuff I can’t tell you about,” Lando admitted quietly.

“So you do understand,” Carlos murmured, thumbing his cheek. “Do you want to hurt Charles? Is that what this is about?”

“I just think we should—” He cut himself off, unable to think of something to say that wasn’t hypocritical.

Fucking hell, maybe he did want to hurt Charles.

Lando closed his eyes. “Sorry.”

Carlos stroked his hair. “It’s not your fault. This world makes us this way. We have to realize that, so we don’t allow it to do things to us.”

Lando opened his eyes again.

He’d heard those words before.

 

 


 

 

Charles pressed the end of his pen to his lips. Sao Paulo sprawled before him, but Charles’s eyes remained unfocused. A letter from George sat on his desk, along with a blank sheet of Ferrari royal parchment too respond to him.

Still hearing word of a shakeup at Alfa Romeo.

A simple sentence, no different than what Charles had hear din the coffee room that morning. But this time, in the ringing silence of his empty hotel room, the words prompted something different in him.

Charles slid the end of his pen between his lips and closed his teeth around the plastic, testing the strength.

Max had no pull in Ferrari. He had no pull with Kimi, either.

But Charles knew someone who did.

His relationship with Sebastian never involved political espionage, contrary to what the media reported at the time. So many people accused him of immaturity, but Charles had played his cards exactly right. He gained Sebastian as an ally by avoiding conflict, and somehow balanced a romance amidst Ferrari turning on their own crown prince.

He knew Sebastian played the game well. He was a four-time world champion who, just a decade ago, was feared in the paddock as a ruthless, cutthroat competitor. Mark Webber still couldn’t speak his name without going blank in the eyes.

All signs pointed to Sebastian feeding Max a story. Max wouldn’t trust just anyone, but he’d always looked up to the proverbial king of Red Bull. As much as Charles wanted to believe Sebastian wouldn’t betray the new face of his championship empire, power influenced people in many ways.

Charles set his pen down and stood.  He grabbed his phone from the desk and dialed.

Giorgio answered on the first ring.

“Ciao,” Charles greeted. “I need to speak to Binotto.”

“He’s in a meeting with logistics. We have a conference room in the team wing, second floor. Would you like me to meet you there?”

Charles grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “That would be fine. How much longer is his meeting?”

“Ten minutes, maybe. Do you want any food, something to drink?”

Charles glanced at his bed, Max’s side still unmade from Friday night. “No, thank you.”

FIA officials littered the halls as Charles made his way to the team wing. Charles held his breath every time he passed one.

Max insisted he would never cheat during a race, but that didn’t seem to apply to antics off-track. He’d openly admitted to working with the FIA. Colluding with them. Fixing the game.

Charles wanted to believe Max had been forced by his father, but his heart knew differently. Max wanted the power a championship would bring. He didn’t seem to care what it cost.

“Everything alright?” Giorgio greeted when Charles stepped from the elevator.

Charles nodded. Words would betray him.

Giorgio led him to an unmarked door and they stepped into an ultra-modern office break room.

He had to plan this carefully. Mattia hated Sebastian. In fact, there was a possibility Sebastian had orchestrated all of this under Mattia’s nose.

Charles took a seat and Giorgio slumped into the seat beside him, already buried in his phone. He spun the chair back and forth, clearly impatient to return to whatever he’d been doing.

Charles crossed his arms. “I want to speak to him about Alfa Romeo. Will that be a problem?”

Giorgio shook his head and tossed his phone on the table. “I'm not arranging another call with Vasseur.”

Charles stilled, but kept it subtle. Planned. Expected.

Giorgio leered at him, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I told Carlos that was a one-time thing. I made that very clear.”

Charles stared back at him. Rage began to well in him like black ink, impossible to wash out once it reached his veins.

Carlos. The only other person with any sway in Ferrari that Alfa Romeo would bother listening to.

His own fucking husband.

Charles set his jaw.

“Sorry for the wait, Your Royal Highness,” Mattia huffed as he entered the meeting room, a stack of binders in hand.

Giorgio’s glare evaporated, replaced with a tight smile. “We haven’t been here long.”

Charles sat up straighter in his chair. “And I don’t plan to waste any more time.”

Mattia cocked his head, confused. He took a seat across from Charles. “What is it that you wanted to discuss?”

Charles glanced at the binders. “Hopefully the logistics team hasn’t headed to bed yet. I want to make changes to the flight manifests—Carlos and I are to fly alone.”

Mattia frowned. “We have a lot of media—”

“Alone, Mattia,” Charles snapped.

Giorgio folded his hand over his phone like he might use it to defend himself. “May we ask why?”

Charles cut him a withering look. “You may.”

Mattia lifted a brow as Giorgio shriveled.

Carlos had one rule as a Ferrari prince: no taking sides. Doing nothing offered such handsome rewards. He got to fuck his ex husband for a whole weekend, a gift Charles bestowed without thought.

He should have fucking thought.

“You’ll fly alone then,” Mattia said, watching him carefully. “Is there anything I need to know?”

“I’ll tell you when I find out,” Charles answered icily. He stood from his chair and Giorgio scrambled to his feet beside him. “I remember you saying we had an option for an earlier flight window, is that still available?”

Mattia checked his watch and Charles thought he detected a smirk on his face. “Yes, in about five hours.”

Three hours earlier than planned. Charles smiled. “Great, we’ll take that one. Send a car for Carlos—have someone from security return his Ferrari. He doesn’t need to be driving on so little sleep.”

Giorgio finally saved some face and nodded. “Of course, Your Royal Highness.”

Charles paused before he opened the door, turning to face a still-confused Mattia and a terrified Giorgio. “I’d also like to make some changes to the in-flight menu. I’ll text you.”

Carlos would learn in a matter of hours that a crown prince of Ferrari had more power than his betraying little brain could fathom.

Chapter Text

Charles sat curled up in his seat on the royal jet, absorbing the blessed silence. His hood hugged his head as he rested his cheek against the armrest, waiting.

So far, Carlos was a half an hour late. Every second that ticked by gouged him deeper, a knife-edged metronome in his chest. Betrayal stung in the base of his nose, creeping through to the top of his mouth.

Loving someone else was one thing. Expected, maybe. A fact of the matter in their lives, their positions.

Betraying an empire over love was unacceptable, especially in Ferrari.

“—woken up at an ungodly hour,” Carlos snarled, his voice muffled. Charles had the air crew leave the door open so he would be able to hear Carlos’s approach. “This is all quite ridiculous. And where is everyone? I saw no cars.”

“We’re already late, Carlos,” Giorgio said. “Please. Inside.”

Charles heard Carlos hit the bottom step and closed his eyes.

“What, you are not joining?” Carlos asked. “Seriously?”

“Inside, Carlos. We’ll see you in Qatar.”

“Is Charles inside?” Carlos asked.

“Of course he’s inside, we’ve been waiting on you, Your Royal Highness.”

“Blame whoever changed the flight time without telling me,” Carlos snapped. He stomped up into the jet, but his footsteps quieted when he reached the top. Carlos let out a sigh and dropped his bag.

Charles kept his eyes closed. He listened as Carlos moved closer and dropped to his knees.

Soft lips pressed to his forehead. A touch meant to warm, to harbor affection. They were supposed to be a couple, princes united and in love.

Charles opened his eyes.

“Carlos?” Charles croaked, feigning sleepy exhaustion.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Carlos murmured, staring down at him with those massive brown eyes of his.

“I was waiting for you.”

Charles reached out, carefully puling Carlos onto the seat with him. They didn’t fit by any stretch of imagination, but Carlos shifted and moved them together so Charles could properly curl up on his lap like a dog.

“What took you so long?” Charles asked, his face pressed to Carlos’s neck.

“They came to get me three hours early,” Carlos said. “I was asleep when they arrived, so I—”

“Asleep with Lando,” Charles corrected.

Carlos paused for only a second. “Yes. So I had to shower and get my things together and say goodbye, all without any warning.”

The implication of a post-sex shower sent anger buzzing in Charles’s ears. Carlos obviously had no guilt about putting Ferrari in danger of an all-out war. Other empires could take sides and face minimal consequences, but Ferrari was the oldest and strongest of the empires. Ferrari did not take sides.

“How was Lando?” Charles asked. “I can’t tell how McLaren is handling this championship fight. Usually they’re so pro-Mercedes, but with Max thrown in the mix…”

Carlos nuzzled him affectionately. “I don’t think Lando is thinking about the championship fight, except how it will affect my relationship with him. I assured him nothing would change.”

“Oh?”

Carlos kissed his temple. “This surprises you?”

Charles had thought Carlos loved him more than Lando. If not him, then that Carlos loved Ferrari more than Lando. Every prince wanted to be a Ferrari prince, and every Ferrari prince wanted to wear the crown of Maranello as long as he could keep it.

The jet rocked into motion. Carlos pulled a seatbelt down, awkwardly strapping them both into the seat under the guise of safety.

Charles wondered if Carlos would even grieve if he got thrown headlong into the side of the jet on takeoff, or if he would be relieved to finally have the title of crown prince.

“I don’t understand the hurry,” Carlos muttered as they began to rocket down the runway. “They will not be lost without us if we landed when we originally planned.”

“Do you want breakfast?” Charles asked. He didn’t wait for an answer as he pressed the call button on the arm of the chair.

“Aren’t you going back to sleep?” Carlos asked.

Charles shook his head. “I was hoping we could practice chess too. I hear you’ve improved since our last game.”

“Who told you that?”

Charles wriggled against the seatbelt until he could sit up properly. He reached over, carding an unruly strand of hair behind Carlos’s ear. “I hear things.”

The seatbelt sign turned off once they reached altitude and Carlos unbuckled them, freeing Charles to sit up properly.

“Breakfast, Your Royal Highnesses,” their lone stewardess announced as she stepped into the cabin. She pushed a small cart toward them and presented two covered silver trays emblazoned with the Ferrari crest.

“Thank you,” Charles said. “You can leave us.”

The stewardess ducked out.

“You are acting strangely,” Carlos said, cocking his head. “Has something happened?”

“Yes, I haven’t seen my husband all weekend,” Charles said evenly. He pulled the lid off of one of the trays, revealing smoked salmon, slices of cucumber, fresh tomatoes, and cuts of celery to adorn toasted bagels.

“Wait, I ordered oatmeal and scrambled eggs,” Carlos said, annoyed. “I specifically asked for—”

“I changed it,” Charles said before popping a slice of cucumber in his mouth. “Eggs can be so heavy this early. Too much grease.”

“You changed my order?” Carlos asked. “And they forgot our espresso.” He tapped the call button.

The stewardess opened the cabin door. Charles turned.

“I’m sorry, that was a mistake. Please leave us.”

Carlos stared at him incredulously. “Charles, it was not a mis—”

“Leave us,” Charles said, firmer. The stewardess met eyes with him and nodded before slipping back into the cockpit.

“What is going on?” Carlos snapped.

“There is no coffee,” Charles said, standing up from Carlos’s lap. He sat down in the seat opposite him. “There is also no oatmeal and no eggs.”

“Okay—why?”

“Why do you think?” Charles snapped as he leaned back in his chair.

Carlos scanned him, blinking rapidly as he did so. “What—is this because of Lando?”

“As if I give a shit about your relationship with Lando.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, then. I will not play guessing games.”

“But you’ll play other games, won’t you?” Charles cut.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Charles. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s a lie.”

Charles shook his head defiantly. “It isn’t a lie. So why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“About what, Charles?” Carlos snapped.

Charles’s eyes turned venomous. “Alfa Romeo.”

Carlos blinked, his mouth falling open in confusion. “Alfa Romeo?”

“Do not pretend to be stupid, Carlos,” Charles growled. “Though it was ridiculous of you to think I would not find out. I’m crown prince of Ferrari—you think I don’t know what happens in my empire? Did you think I wouldn’t be notified that you reached out to a head of government on your own accord?”

Carlos stared at him for a long moment. Charles let the silence simmer between them and grit his teeth.

Do not lie.

“I want to discuss this,” Carlos began. “I want to have a discussion, not an argument.”

“It is far, far too late for that,” Charles said, low and threatening.

“What do you think happened?” Carlos asked.

Charles shook his head. “We are not playing that game. You will tell me everything. And if I found out you lied to me again, I will see to it that I marry another prince the moment your appointment expires, if not sooner.”

“You have no cause,” Carlos growled.

Anger surged in him, white hot. “I don’t need cause,” Charles spat. “And in this case, I have plenty. Now start fucking talking!”

In the beginning of their marriage, Charles never thought he would fall in love with Carlos. He avoided his feelings for so long in an attempt to save himself from the blindness that came with affection. Yet here he sat, deeply in love with the man staring back at him, a hundred memories shared, almost a full year of a marriage Charles counted as his best so far.

But Ferrari came first. He would not hesitate to cut Carlos out of the empire to save the sanctity of Ferrari.

“Fine,” Carlos said. “I will explain what happened. Promise you will listen to my words—actually listen, Charles. You will see I have done nothing wrong.”

Charles glared at him instead of responding.

Carlos sighed. “A few weeks ago, Mick approached me to ask about a meeting. He implied that it would be about Ferrari. I was curious, but saw nothing wrong with it. When I was a young prince, I asked for similar meetings with Fernando, Sebastian, and any other prince who I thought might be able to help me. So I agreed.”

“So this is the first thing you did not tell me,” Charles said dryly.

“It was on my list of royal engagements,” Carlos replied tartly. “Our first day in Brazil while you were busy doing media, I met with Mick. Except Mick never showed up—Max did.”

Charles’s blood ran cold.

“Max informed me he was looking for information on a rumor that Giovinazzi was considering leaving royalty to be with Kimi,” Carlos continued. “He wanted to confirm that information. That was it—he did not ask me to do anything or weigh in on a decision.”

Charles tried to imagine a conversation with Max that wouldn’t leave the other person questioning his sanity. Only Daniel knew him better than Charles did, and Charles worried for Max’s mental health every waking hour.

“So I arranged a call to Vasseur,” Carlos said. “Which was also public knowledge. I called him and asked the situation and he informed me that the rumor was correct, and that they were searching for a prince with more backing and talent.”

“Antonio has been raised to serve Ferrari,” Charles said, unconvinced. “They appointed him with the same knowledge they’ve always had about his background.”

Carlos shrugged. “It was not my place to question. I relayed the information to Max, but I did attach a price. I wanted protection for myself and Lando—the same protection he got in Zandvoort. He agreed and we arranged having the villa for the weekend.”

Rage roared to life inside Charles again. “So you negotiated with a Red Bull prince for protection—do you not understand how that was choosing sides? Not to mention you contacted a sister empire and shared confidential information from a head of government!”

“You know as well as I do that everything in this world comes with a price—nothing is for free,” Carlos countered.

“You still chose a side!” Charles snapped.

“I made an arrangement with my friend—”

“One of the championship contenders.”

Carlos scowled at him, wolfish in his anger. “Do not be hypocritical, Charles. No one sent internal memos out about Max and I making a deal. No one has banned me from seeing him. No one is stopping me from spending a week with him in Los Angeles with Daniel.”

“I told you about that trip before it happened,” Charles shot back. “I wouldn’t have gone if you didn’t agree to it.”

“I did agree, but it doesn’t change the fact that you are much closer to Max than I am, and the things you have done are traitorous too.”

“I had Ferrari approval,” Charles hissed.

“So did I! And you signed off on my time with Lando, so do not accuse me of betraying you—”

“Well I feel betrayed!” Charles shouted, shooting up from his seat. “You lied by omission. You hid this from me—I’ve told you everything!”

“Have you?” Carlos asked. “Have you, truly?”

Charles stared down at him, chest heaving. Carlos had no idea Max had slept in their room. Only Pierre and Yuki had any idea, and only Pierre knew the full extent. Charles could say without question that Pierre would never tell a soul about it.

“You obviously think I’m hiding something,” Charles bit out. “So why not say it?”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “Daniel and Lando are banned from seeing Max. That makes sense—Daniel for obvious reasons, but Lando has been intimate with him in some way too. The fact that you’re banned as well makes me think that maybe I’ve missed something.”

Charles let out a snort. “I’ve told you the extent of my relationship with Max. I’m not in love with him, but I will protect him from Jos. And I intend to make sure he isn’t hurt during this championship fight.”

“Sounds like you’re taking a side,” Carlos said.

“He’s my friend, Lewis isn’t,” Charles retortd. “I want Max to be alive after this season, but I couldn’t care less about what happens to Red Bull. I’m never going to side with them—especially now that they brought Jos in. I could never support them in any way.”

“I didn’t go against Ferrari,” Carlos said. “I told Max that as well.”

“After you fed him information valuable to whatever plan he’s cracked up,” Charles snarled.  “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Carlos rose to his feet. The plane rumbled around them, but Charles noticed no noise, only the crackling fire in Carlos’s dark eyes and the curl of his lip.

“You spend so much time ensuring things go your way,” Carlos hissed. “Fuck everyone else. You can bend the rules and play your games, but no one else can—unless their games don’t involve you, right?”

“Shut up, Carlos.”

“No!” Carlos barked, as loud and threatening as the protection dogs sometimes stationed at the gates of the royal hotels. “I will not be disrespected when I’m doing the same as you!”

“You went behind my back! You lied by omission!” Charles shouted, stepping up into his face. He dared Carlos to hit him. He dared Carlos to lay one finger on him.

“Everything I did, I did publicly,” Carlos said, so close Charles could feel the heat of his rage. “You’re the one with your head so far up your ass you refuse to see what’s right in front of you.”

“I’m seeing plenty right now,” Charles snapped, looking Carlos up and down.

Carlos let out a bitter chuckled and took a step back, staring down his nose at him.

“Obviously not. If you really had any idea of what is happening among the empires, you would not be wasting time arguing with me—punishing me. I’ve protected you our whole marriage. I love you and I thought you loved me. Do you?”

Charles grit his teeth, tempted to lie and say he didn’t.

Carlos laughed again. “You are so petulant. And ignorant. The paperwork is already drafted, Charles. Callum Ilott is becoming an Alfa Romeo prince. Whatever plan Max had, it’s complete.”

Charles shook his head. “Whoever told you that is lying. Sebastian would never allow Callum to have that spot.”

Carlos’s eyes shimmered with pity. “You really think you know this place, don’t you? I may have opened the door between Red Bull and Ferrari, but who do you know that has power in both empires to broker such a deal? And who would stand to benefit from making a prince out of Mick’s best friend and a pawn for Max at Ferrari?”

Charles’s stomach pinched. “Even if Sebastian wanted Callum in, he would never do it to gain Max’s favor. Lewis is his best friend—he’s made it clear to me he would rather see Red Bull burn than betray Lewis.”

Carlos rolled his eyes, his worst insult so far. Charles seethed, angry once more.

“I thought you were smart, Charles,” Carlos muttered. “But the longer you talk, the more ignorant you reveal yourself to be. This is a game and there is only one winner. One. And unless Lewis pulls off three perfect wins, he will not be that winner. This is the time where princes make the choices to save their own skin. Sebastian will absolutely betray Lewis—he already has. Callum is going to be a prince.”

“Insult me again and I will leave you on the tarmac when we land for our refuel,” Charles snapped. “You can whine about games all you want in the lounge and miss your precious golf trip. Would you like that?”

Carlos’s lip twitched with hurt, but he hid it well.

“You’ve been given freedoms you don’t deserve,” Charles said quietly. “No more. Do you understand?”

Carlos continued to stare at him, but said nothing.

“Welcome to Ferrari,” Charles snapped. “You are about to learn the real meaning of Scuderia Rosso, and how quickly the crown can change heads.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t know what to do,” Carlos said as he stared into the hole on the putting green. Lando didn’t really pay much attention to environmental issues, but even he felt the itch of discomfort about playing on a pristine golf course in the middle of a desert. The jet lag didn’t help, and when Carlos arrived as white as a sheet, Lando wanted to cancel the outing altogether.

Twelve hours on a plane could change everything, it seemed.

“He’s implying my appointment will be terminated,” Carlos said, leaning against his club.

“That’s ridiculous,” Lando said with a snort. “He can’t do that.”

“He seems to think he very much can, as crown prince.”

Carlos had played the worst game of golf Lando had ever been present for. He spent the whole time talking about his fight with Charles and how nervous he was that something bad was going to happen—all because Carlos found out some information for Max that didn’t even affect Ferrari or Red Bull.

No offense to Callum, but nobody really cared if he became a prince. Lando didn’t even understand why Alfa Romeo would choose him—he didn’t have political ties or money behind him. In terms of empire value, he was a bit of a lame duck.

Wow, he sounded like an asshole in his own head.

“I don’t know,” Carlos said, flexing his fingers. “Everyone has been cold to me since I arrived. Charles can spend a week with Max in Los Angeles and no one cares, but I do one thing to help a friend—”

“To see me, you mean,” Lando teased, stepping closer to touch his arm. They had to be a bit more careful the next three races, not only because of the championship, but the countries they were racing in had a policy of only tolerating their marriages because they were royal. Outside relationships would be seen as especially taboo.

Carlos offered a pained smile. “Yes, to see you.”

Lando smiled brightly in an attempt to lift the mood. “Worth it, I think. And everything is going to be fine—no empire in their right mind would get rid of you over something so small. And who would they replace you with? No one on the grid even comes close.”

Carlos relaxed a fraction. “That…” He trailed off. ”Yes, I guess I never thought about it like that before.”

Lando nudged him with his shoulder. He wished he could hug him, but there were eyes everywhere here, even on an otherwise deserted green.

Carlos didn’t really like physical affection when he was stressed out anyway. He liked to sit by himself and think. Lando much preferred distraction in any form.

“I don’t regret it,” Carlos said after a long silence. “It was worth it to see you, especially to spend your birthday with you.”

Lando melted into a puddle right there on the green.

“Sap,” he teased, punching Carlos’s arm. “You’re lucky I love you so much.”

Carlos shot him a fond smile. “Come on, we have four more holes to play before dark.”

Carlos headed back to the golf cart, retrieved golf ball in hand. Lando tagged behind, watching the sway of Carlos’s shoulders as he walked.

Fear curled in his gut. Carlos said his deal with Max was an agreement between friends, just a confirmation of information, but Max always had a plan. Daniel had been increasingly uneasy ever since their run-in with the FIA, made worse by not being able to see Max.

Lando would never say it, but Charles had a point. Showing any indication of siding with Max was dangerous. He didn’t think it was worthy of Carlos losing his appointment with Ferrari by any means, but Lando could understand why Charles felt betrayed.

He briefly wondered if Carlos kept any similar secrets from him during their marriage, but the thought left his mind just as quickly.

He trusted Carlos with his life.

 


 

Darkness descended over Qatar by the time Lando packed his clubs in the back of his SUV. He tried to nap on the drive back to the hotel, but his body’s rhythm was still across the world where it was only afternoon. He hated adjusting to new time zones, and Qatar was a huge jump from Brazil.

Leave it to the FIA to plan their schedule in the most inconvenient way possible.

“Take me to the back entrance, please,” Lando instructed his driver as they neared the hotel. “I don’t want to be seen coming back at the same time as Carlos.”

Qatar respected royalty more than many of the countries they visited, probably because they had their own monarchy. The royal hotel was all gold and white, with high ceilings, gorgeous courtyards, and no expenses spared on any of their amenities.

“Someone will take care of my clubs, yeah?” Lando asked as the car rolled to a stop.

“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” the driver replied with a curt nod.

“Great. Cheers, mate.”

Lando hopped from the car and smiled at the waiting guards, who opened the gilded iron gate for him to enter. Smooth stone walls made an intricate fence surrounding the back gardens, carved with Arabic calligraphy similar to the mosques Lando had toured in other countries years prior.

His and Daniel’s room was on the first floor, with a balcony that overlooked the gardens. Daniel insisted on keeping the shades closed—the opposite of his sun’s-out-guns-out attitude in Turkey.

Lando glanced at the sky, expecting to see dark clouds looming overhead. The air seemed heavy with something, though the desert was dry as a bone and the stars spattered a clear sky above.

He pulled out his phone to text Daniel about dinner, because lately he—

“Stop avoiding the question. I hate it when you do that.”

Lando froze at the sound of Lewis’s voice. He glanced around in search of him, but saw only palms and bright flower bushes.

“I didn’t avoid anything,” Sebastian replied.

They sounded incredibly close. Probably just across the plants.

“Then answer the fucking question, man.”

“I arranged it. I told you this—I know Red Bull better than any other royal,” Sebastian replied.

“I know you arranged it, I’m asking if you knew what his father did to him growing up,” Lewis said.

Lando blinked, certain he’d misheard. Jos Verstappen came to mind immediately, but no one knew about that.

“There are always rumors,” Sebastian said. “Jos isn’t a very kind person in general, but I never saw anything that would suggest he beat his children.”

Lewis let out a sharp breath. “See, I want to believe you. I want so, so badly to believe you.” He actually sounded desperate. Lando listened closer, awestruck by his genuine pain. “But I know how smart you are. You saw right through me when we first met. You saw through me for years, even when other people couldn’t.”

Sebastian’s voice softened. “That was very different.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Lewis said. “You knew what Verstappen’s dad was like, and you brought him back. Do you realize how fucked up that is, Seb? What the fuck were you thinking?”

Lando’s blood curdled. Jos’s arrival had been a plan from Sebastian? Red Bull’s memo made it seem like it was a coordinated effort on behalf of the empire—some way to punish Max and torture Daniel.

What a sicko.

“I didn’t know,” Sebastian said, firm. “All I knew for certain was that Jos’s presence would put Max on edge and allow us to gain ground.”

“Yes, it put him on edge because you brought his abuser into the paddock!” Lewis hissed. Lando heard a muffled thump and the sound of a sneaker scuffing on concrete.

“I’m nixing this plan,” Lewis said decisively. “I wasn’t a fan of it to begin with—”

“Only because of George’s relationship with the string bean,” Sebastian muttered.

“Stop talking about him like that,” Lewis snapped.

“He annoys me. Greatly.”

“Well I care about him,” Lewis said. “You have enough power, don’t you think?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sebastian said, so quiet Lando could barely hear him. “Stop, Lewis.”

“I’m nixing the plan,” Lewis repeated, emotionless. “You can tell everyone I stepped in. Whatever you need to do to salvage your relationship with Red Bull. I don’t mind being the villain in your story—I never have.”

“This has nothing to do with them,” Sebastian said. “I made a promise to Kimi that I would bring in someone new. Someone we could predict. And while I don’t like that boy one bit, we can predict him. He will be very easy to control from any angle we choose. Kimi ultimately agreed, after an extensive discussion I would rather not have again.”

Lando’s vision swirled. He wondered if any of the champions had spoken about him this way—like a commodity to be traded or made useful.

“Seb, he told you he agreed because you wouldn’t shut up,” Lewis said, strangely gentle. “He was planning to go behind your back with Fernando to introduce that French kid—the one with ‘porch’ in his name. Who is that one?”

“Hell if I know, I can barely keep track of actual princes,” Sebastian growled. “But Kimi would never side with Fernando on anything involving appointments. Fernando is as trustworthy as a three-headed dog promising not to bark.”

“So you’re calling me a liar now,” Lewis said with an edge to his voice.

“I’m saying you’ve chosen to tell me a convenient truth.”

Though Lando couldn’t see either of them, the hair on his arms stood straight up as silence ate up the atmosphere. Lewis and Sebastian were the two most decorated champions on the grid. A fight between them would be a bloodbath of epic proportions.

Lando wanted nothing to do with it.

“I don’t lie to you,” Lewis finally forced out. “Ever.”

“You said it yourself, I see right through you,” Sebastian said. He sounded confused. Definitely not confident. “I can see all of the things you don’t say.”

They had a shared history that lasted decades. Lando couldn’t visualize the same scenario for himself and his friends. Imagining a future where he had back alley talks with someone like George about people’s futures made his skin crawl. He didn’t even know if he would be friends with George in another ten years—that thought scared him more.

“When did you become so much of a bully?” Lewis suddenly snapped, causing Lando to jolt.

His phone clattered to the ground. It might as well have been a nuclear bomb.

“This one is mine,” Lewis snarled, and Lando heard his own death in the words.

Lando didn’t allow himself to think before he dove for the phone. He stumbled on the way down, skinning his knees on the pavement, but grabbed the phone and used the momentum to launch himself into a sprint worthy of the Olympics.

He dove headlong into a plot of thick ferns and scrambled amongst the sandy soil, phone still in hand. He glanced behind him just to make sure Lewis hadn’t magically teleported to him, then tore off toward the fire escape stairwell Daniel made him note on the floor plan.

Lando had never loved Daniel more than the moment he threw himself in the door to the stairwell and locked it behind him. His legs burned as he raced up the stairs to the second floor and—

The door at the base of the stairs clicked open as if Lando hadn’t locked it at all.

What the fuck?!?

Lando bit down the urge to curse as he grabbed the door handle and yanked it open to the second floor. He tumbled into the hallway, gasping down breaths as he barreled toward his hotel room at a full sprint.

He froze at the door, his vision going black with pure terror.

His fucking keycard was with his gold clubs.

“Daniel!” Lando screamed as he arrived at the door, banging as hard as he could. “Daniel, let me in!”

He had five seconds to make a decision. He glanced down the hallway, but that only led to the elevators, a cleaning room Lewis would undoubtedly check, and the emergency door for the suite that bumped up to theirs.

Knowing his luck, it was probably Aston Martin’s, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t access it from their wing.

“Daniel!”

No more screaming. Lewis would be too close to the top of the stairs, he would hear if—

Daniel threw open the door, toothpaste foaming from his mouth and a towel clutched around his waist. “What the—”

Lando tackled the door open, sending Daniel flat on his ass on the tile. Lando shoved the door closed behind him and locked it with the deadbolt. He reached up to the chain and locked that too.

“Lando, what the fuck!” Daniel hissed, hopping up from the floor.

“Shut up, shut up!” Lando begged.

Daniel finally looked him in the eyes and shut his toothpaste-covered mouth.

Lando shook where he stood at the door, ear pressed to the varnished wood. He tried to listen past his heaving lungs for what was going on in the hallway. Lewis would probably be at the top of the stairs now.

Lando motioned for Daniel to come closer.

Daniel padded over, gesturing wordlessly to Lando’s bloody, mulchy knees. Lando grabbed Daniel’s towel and used it to wipe them, leaving Daniel standing there naked.

“Lando, what—”

“Do not say another word,” Lando hissed, reaching up to put his hand over Daniel’s mouth. He grimaced at the feeling of toothpaste foam on his hand and wiped that on his towel as well.

He shimmied out of his shorts and boxers and wrapped the towel around his waist to cover his knees.

Daniel looked down at his discarded shorts just as a quiet knock sounded at the door.

They met eyes as all of the blood drained from Lando’s face.

Daniel wasted no time. He yanked Lando’s shorts on and helped Lando out of his shirt before promptly using it to rid himself of residual toothpaste.

Shhhk. Tick tick tick.

Lando and Daniel both looked at the front lock light indicator, which had turned green.

No fucking way. No fucking way Lewis had a keycard to their room.

The door opened, but stopped short when it hit the chain and immediately clicked shut again. Daniel leaned in until his lips were at Lando’s ear.

“Back up so you look like you’re coming from the bedroom,” Daniel whisper-breathed into his ear. “And you’re bleeding down your leg.”

Lando nearly whimpered out of pure fear. He hopped backward while simultaneously wiping the blood from his shin, praying the blood didn’t stain his skin.

Another knock.

“Oi mate, hold on,” Daniel said loudly. He unlatched the chain and pulled open the door.

Act, you idiot, Lando snapped to himself.

“King Louis himself,” Daniel greeted with a charismatic smile. He did a curtsy. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Your Majesty?”

“Who is it?” Lando asked, trying to fix his hair as he headed toward the door.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Lewis greeted, his face unreadable. “But it’s important. Can I use your balcony?”

“Uh, right now?” Daniel glanced at Lando. “You’re, uh, kind of ruining the fun of marriage, mate.”

Lewis finally looked at Lando. Lando’s heart stopped beating and jumped into his throat.

“Smells like you’re finished,” Lewis said, looking back to Daniel. “Unless you use wintergreen lube.”

Lando choked out a sound as Daniel let out a laugh.

“Fair enough, mate. Come on in.”

No, no, no.

“I’m gonna shower,” Lando said. “This is weird.”

He ducked into their bedroom before Lewis could respond and ran to the bed, throwing the covers into a pile and tossing pillows.

Holy fuck. If Lewis had walked by and seen their bed perfectly made, everything would have ended right then and there.

He beelined to the ensuite bathroom and started the shower. He slid into the hot spray as soon as he dared, wincing when the hot water hit his skinned knees.

Fuck. He’d left Daniel out there with Lewis, alone.

And now he couldn’t leave the shower or else it would be suspicious.

He didn’t expect Daniel to say anything, but one slip of the tongue about his golf trip with Carlos and Lewis might be able to put the pieces together. Lando didn’t know of any other princes going out in the city and if Lewis had access to hotel keycards, he could probably figure out transportation plans.

Daniel was an experienced prince, Lando told himself as he squeezed his eyes shut and slid to the floor of the shower. He would be safe. Lewis couldn’t hurt him in their own room.

Right?

He was still trying to calm his breathing when the shower door rattled open and Daniel stepped inside. Lando watched his feet until Daniel’s face appeared in front of him. He didn’t look frightened at all.

“He has the keycard to our room,” Lando whispered. Shower water streamed over his lips as he spoke, but he didn’t want to move from under the hot water. “He chased me. I heard him talking to Sebastian and I couldn’t—I mean, why wouldn’t I listen?”

“What were they talking about?” Daniel asked, scooting in closer to pull Lando into a hug. Lando melted into it, feeling much safer with Daniel’s arms around him.

He opened his mouth to tell the whole story, but Lewis’s words trickled into his mind in a slow drip. He could still see the flash of that eagle ring, the quiet rage in Lewis’s eyes.

Those who sow trouble reap the same.

“Lando,” Daniel soothed, stroking his wet hair. “You can tell me whatever it is. It’s okay.”

“What did Lewis want to go on the balcony for?” Lando asked instead of answering.

“Well, I assume he was looking for how you escaped,” Daniel said. “It’s maze down there, not to mention there have about a million guards all over the place. I’m surprised they don’t have a Cerberus or some shit.”

Lando’s eyes shot open.

Fernando is as trustworthy as a three-headed dog promising not to bark.

“So what did you hear that scared you so bad?” Daniel asked.

Lando didn’t believe in coincidences. Not with these fucking people.

He refused to believe that Daniel had been involved with Sebastian’s plan to bring Jos to the paddock. No one could act that well, not even someone scared for their life. But Daniel had been speaking to Sebastian, probably while Lando was golfing with Carlos.

Daniel had been speaking to someone capable of brokering deals between the most powerful empires in the FIA. Until Lando figured out what that conversation entailed, he couldn’t give anything up.

“I didn’t hear much,” Lando said, his heart pounding in his ears. “They were fighting.  Sebastian called Lewis a liar, Lewis called him a bully. Then I dropped my phone like an idiot and ran.”

“No shit,” Daniel breathed. “What were they fighting about?”

Why do you care so much?

“I don’t know,” Lando lied. “That’s all I heard. It was fucking terrifying.”

Daniel kissed his temple. “It’s scary when mummy and daddy fight, hm?”

Lando choked out a laugh despite himself. “Gross. It wasn’t like that. They sounded like when I fight with my sister and say stupid shit just to make her mad.”

Daniel burst out laughing. The tension in the room evaporated in an instant. Lando ducked his face into Daniels shoulder and sucked in a breath humid with shower water.

“Thanks for saving me,” Lando whispered.

Daniel nuzzled against him. “Always, babe. I love you.”

“Me and Max,” Lando said.

Daniel laughed. “Uh, yeah, if you wanna bring him into it. I love you and Max.”

Lando pulled back and stared Daniel in the face, absorbing the warmth in Daniel’s dark eyes.

“We have to protect him,” Lando whispered. “Win or lose, Daniel.”

All of the humor vanished from Daniel’s expression. He pecked Lando’s lips.

“Win or lose," Daniel affirmed. "But he’s gonna win, babe. I promise.”

Chapter Text

FIA ASSOCIATED PRESS

LUSAIL INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT, LUSAIL – Lower court prince Guanyu Zhou will become the first Chinese prince in the FIA when he partners HRH Valtteri Bottas in Alfa Romeo next season.

Zhou, 22, replaces HRH Antonio Giovinazzi, who has been dropped after three seasons as a prince of Alfa Romeo. Civilians in Alfa Romeo lamented the decision—Giovinazzi is a favorite among the people.

“He’s the kindest, most wonderful man,” a Abbiy Dolton, an Alfa Romeo citizen, said. “This is absolutely devastating. The only positive is that he’ll be with Kimi—or so we can hope.  But it feels wrong. It feels like betrayal.”

Similar sentiments have been echoed across social media platforms after Alfa Romeo announced the news. Zhou has been in the conversation for months, according to royal sources, but the news still comes as a surprise for many.

Guanyu Zhou has been a frontrunner out of many prospects in the lower courts. He has been championed by Alpine as a lower court prince, but that relationship will end now that he has the official announcement for an appointment with a Ferrari affiliated empire.

“We think this is the best choice for our empire,” said Head of Government, Fred Vasseur. “With a completely new set of princes, we have unique challenges. Valtteri was an obvious choice for me. His experience and attitude will help us lead Alfa Romeo into a new era with the new regulations.”

“I dreamt from a young age of climbing to the rank of prince within the FIA,” Zhou said in a statement. “And now that dream has come true. It’s a privilege for me to start my royal career with an empire that has introduces so much young talent into the FIA.”

“Now that dream is reality. I feel well prepared for the challenge, alongside a world-class talent in His Royal Highness Valtteri Bottas.”

Rumors swirled about Callum Ilott taking the role, despite his commitment to the American royal system already announced.

“Ilott is going to the US,” Vasseur confirmed in his official statement. “It’s a good challenge for him, for someone of his background. He wants to race, and I can perfectly understand. He’s a nice guy and we hope he has a successful career ahead of him in America.”

 

 


 

 

George’s dinner sat cold on the table as he stared out at the Persian Gulf. Yachts dotted the dark waters, reminding him of Monaco, though the atmosphere in Qatar radiated a quieter energy. Abu Dhabi loomed across the water, haunting him.

George only knew the countries they visited as they were during race weekends. Even as a lower court prince, he had been treated differently than others during his visits. He had no idea what normal life looked like in any of these places.

Qatar dazzled. White sand, gold trim, and architectural marvels made the country look like a dreamscape. Pristine water held hints of culture between modern yachts and ancient sailboats. During the day, he saw camel tours dotting the dunes beyond.

Cool blue light followed the curving above him, creating the sensation of visiting an aquarium. A glass lamp in the middle of the table flickered in the same color, casting light along the glossy surface of his table. A cool breeze sifted through the open-air restaurant, mixing with the soft sounds of conversation.

Everyone gushed about getting a table at Nobu,, but George couldn’t find the will to eat anything as he stared at his plate of lobster.

Gravity had shifted overnight. The news of Antonio’s impending exile hit them all like a freight train. George had no idea what to believe anymore—or who to trust.

Many things became clear, like Charles not having a true grasp on the situation at his own sister empire.  He’d been right about Alfa Romeo not choosing Callum, but dead wrong about Ferrari’s protection of Giovinazzi.

Max’s plan to install Callum had also failed, and George had yet to figure out what happened. Mick had seemed absolutely certain Callum would have the seat, and George didn’t think Mick would have ever told Callum about an appointment without absolute certainty that it would happen. So he went to the only man who would have the answers.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

George looked up from the water as Lewis rounded the table in a black sleeveless shirt with a low neckline. Pearls and silver gleamed on his neck, subtle yet beautiful. Not his usual flair, George noted.

“I haven’t really been here mentally,” George admitted. He didn’t try to hide his melancholy.

“You okay?” Lewis said, pausing before he sat down.

George shook his head. “This whole situation—Antonio, Alfa Romeo. I thought Callum had that appointment. Everything I knew about the situation pointed to Callum having it.”

Lewis pulled his chair closer and sat down.

George frowned at him, glancing at the nearby tables.. “Be careful, Lewis.”

Lewis shook his head. “I don’t give a single fuck what the Qatari government thinks about you and me. People are dying building a fucking stadium for the World Cup. A fucking football tournament. Slavery is basically legal here and women are treated like shit—forget about men who like men.”

Guilt hit him in a wave.

“Christ,” George hissed, putting his head in his hands. “I’m so selfish. Here I am thinking about royal problems as if they’re the only problems.”

“You’re thinking about your friends,” Lewis said gently. “That’s not selfish. It takes a lot of practice to think about things outside of the FIA. It takes a conscious effort—we get so sucked in.”

He sounded different. George looked up from his hands, scanning Lewis’s face to try to place the emotion there. He moved the same and spoke the same, but with an undercurrent George couldn’t pin.

“Do you want to order another dish?” Lewis asked with a nod to George’s plate.

“Not all that hungry,” George confessed, pushing his place further away. “I keep thinking of Callum in Brazil. Mick was so confident.”

Lewis looked out at the sea. “He had that crown until yesterday.”

George’s mouth fell open, though he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Of course Lewis tipped the scales—he was the only person powerful enough to upend Max’s plan.

“Explain,” George finally managed to say. “Please.”

Lewis chewed the inside of his cheek. “Vasseur has been sniffing around the heads of government for months now, but not many princes are in tune with their government the way I am with Toto—the way Sebastian still is with Christian Horner.”

George adored Jost, but he didn’t spend time with him outside of royal requirements. They had almost nothing in common outside of Williams.

“Sebastian planted the idea with Max that Antonio’s seat was in danger,” Lewis continued. “Max needed to confirm that information with Alfa Romeo, but they would never give that out to anyone except a Ferrari prince, Kimi, or someone closely tied with Ferrari.”

“How did he plant the seed?” George asked.

Lewis ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “I don’t know everything he does, but he’s very, very good at mental manipulation.”

“No shit,” George said dryly.

“Not in a malicious way—not all the time,” Lewis amended. “He can change your mind about anything, no matter how strong you think you are. Me, for instance. I used to hate him. I thought he was a stuck-up prick.” Lewis let out a snort. “I went from hating him to loving him. I would have punched someone who said that to me back then.”

“You don’t think that was malicious?” George asked. “You’re a good ally to have.”

Lewis’s lips twitched into a half smile. “Nah. Not back then, man. I was a mess. I was headed for the bottom and he pulled me back up. I owe him…Fuck, I owe him everything for that.”

His voice caught. George watched pain ripple across his face. The blue light reflected in his eyes more than before, but Lewis blinked it away quickly.

“Anyway, Max is smart. He knew going to Charles would be a dead end, and would probably make him suspicious. So he went to Mick—which was a perfect choice, one I’m sure Sebastian had a hand in suggesting. Max knows Mick would do anything for the cause if it involved getting Callum into royalty. But Mick has symbolic power in Ferrari. They care about him, but only Carlos and Charles make decisions.”

“Feels like Max didn’t have to include him,” George said. “Max was married to Carlos. Just have Carlos use his influence to get Callum into the conversation.”

Lewis smiled down at his menu as their waiter approached. He ordered avocado tartar, edamame, pumpkin tempura, and mushroom soup. George ordered miso soup in an attempt to eat something.

“Going to Carlos would be too direct,” Lewis said once the waiter left. “The more of a web you can create, the harder it is to pin things on you. Max used Mick to get to Carlos to avoid detection, and it worked for everyone not paying attention. Unfortunately for him, champions are always paying attention. Whenever you see Kimi wearing his sunglasses and sipping on a drink—he’s watching and listening.”

George shifted uncomfortably. Of course Kimi was more involved than he thought—he relegated Kimi to background noise whenever he walked the paddock.

“Kimi is as protective of Mick as Sebastian is,” Lewis explained. “He didn’t want Callum involved—he wanted fresh blood. Sebastian wanted Callum in order to win favor with Max and Mick. Kimi went to Fernando and orchestrated this Chinese kid as an option from Alpine, but Sebastian has much stronger pull.”

“Kimi nearly got Mick exiled,” George hissed.

Lewis’s gaze turned sharp. “No. You almost got Mick exiled.”

George scowled. “Kimi was the one who—”

“What really happened doesn’t matter,” Lewis interrupted. “If that video you took—a video no one asked you to take, by the way—ever came out, Mick would have known where it came from. Your friendship would have been ruined. Even if Kimi planned it all, you were the only person with a phone in your hand.”

George looked out at the water, too angry to speak. How many champions were involved with him finding Mick and Callum? How deep did their plan go—worse, how much of it did he follow exactly like they wanted him to?

“I made it public knowledge among the heads of government and the champions that I didn’t want Callum to have a crown,” Lewis said after a long silence.  “But when Max came to Seb and asked for his help, Sebastian took his chance at more power.”

George went rigid. “So he betrayed you. That’s what you’re saying.”

Lewis let out a quiet laugh. “See how easy it is to spin a story? That as the point—we wanted it to look like Sebastian went against me. I don’t like Callum, but I don’t give a shit if he’s a prince or not. I have real problems to worry about.”

George flushed with embarrassment. As much as he thought he had a handle on the game, he would have fallen right for the trap. Again.

“We were ready for that narrative, but then Sebastian brought in abusive fathers, so I had to pull the plug,” Lewis said, tapping his knuckles on the tabletop.

George swallowed hard. Anger welled up in him at the mere thought of Sebastian collaborating with Red Bull to bring Jos in. “I told you he knew.”

Lewis shook his head. “He knew something was off, but he didn’t know Max was beaten.”

George let out a snort. “Bullshit. Everyone with a brain knew—”

“You think I don’t know him well enough to see when he’s telling the truth?”

No, George nearly replied, but he held his tongue. Silence was a better answer anyway, better than lying and saying yes.

A distant boat horn caught Lewis’s attention. He stared out at the water, eyes vacant. “Max just lost a major foothold. Sebastian lost a bigger one. He made a promise and failed to see it through.”

“You’re fighting about it,” George said, watching carefully. “You’re obviously upset.”

Lewis let out a hum as he turned his gaze to his hands where they rested in his lap. “The season was always going to end like this. Sebastian is too nostalgic for Red Bull. It clouded his vision.”

Lewis straightened up and smiled wide as their food arrived, all of his sadness gone as he accepted his plates. He chatted with the waiter, pleasant and warm. George admired his ability to switch moods so quickly. If he hadn’t seen Lewis carrying his sadness just a moment earlier, he wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

George spooned up some miso soup, thankful for the hot broth and light taste. Lewis made joked about his veganism as he chewed on pieces of edamame and spooned up avocado tartar.

George found himself taking bites of Lewis’s pumpkin tempura, laughing along with his stories about Valtteri’s ideas about growing a mustache like the Finnish rally princes of old.

The pain came back in a slow drip. Lewis’s smile waned. His laughs cut slightly short, his fingers didn’t dance along his utensils when he talked.

George extended his fork and speared some pieces of avocado. He paused when Lewis met his eye.

“That bad of a fight, huh,” George murmured.

Lewis smiled weakly.

George abandoned his fork and took Lewis’s hand. “Wanna talk about it?”

Lewis tongued the inside of his cheek for a moment. “I made sure Seb kept his promise to Kimi about fresh blood. But I hurt him and I hate doing that. I had to be Prince Lewis, not me. And I can’t…I have nothing to apologize for, but it feels like I should say sorry.”

George winkled his nose. “Sebastian brought human scum to antagonize Max. He’s the one who should be apologizing.”

“He chose to ignore the obvious because he was trying to make things easier for me.”

“Love is blind,” George said tartly.

Lewis shut his eyes as if enduring a hit. George’s heart twinged in sympathy and he pulled his hand away to give Lewis space. Purples, reds, and golds washed out the background behind him, a tapestry of warmth and beauty with Lewis as the centerpiece.

“I love him,” Lewis finally whispered. “He’ll never understand how much, or how it feels for me, because of shit like this. Kimi and Gio are getting their happy ending, they’re running off in the sunset together. Sebastian and I are here, sneaking around and fighting. I hate it.”

“You’re both working toward getting you an eighth championship,” George said softly. “Sebastian was willing to do something totally fucked up for you. It wasn’t right and I’d still punch him if I saw him. He went too far. I guess that’s better than not enough—I mean, it isn’t, but you get what I’m trying to say. This fight is all about your championship—it’s not personal.”

Lewis spooned up more tartar and stared at the diced tomato garnish for a long time. A gentle breeze washed them in the faint scent of saltwater, tangy and sweet.

Lewis put the spoon down and stood abruptly. “Sorry, George. I have to go.”

George stood up to meet him. “Lewis—”

Lewis quickly leaned in, silencing him with a peck on his cheek. “I’ll see you.”

Everyone in the restaurant stared at Lewis as he left, and he ignored them all. George watched after him, forcing himself to stay in place though he wanted to follow.

 

 


 

 

ESPN.COM – FIA EXCLUSIVE

NOV 19 2021

LUSAIL INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT, LUSAIL – Mercedes sent ripples through the paddock this morning with the announcement that they have filed a right to appeal about Prince Verstappen’s driving at last week’s race in Interlagos.

Prince Hamilton addressed the media in a rare public statement: “[Prince] Max and I are both born competitors. It’s in our nature to fight hard on track, but last week’s race involved several dangerous maneuvers that, in my opinion, violate the sportsmanship code. Max is more than capable of racing clean, and he’s choosing not to do so. Because of this, I’ve asked the FIA to formally review several incidents that were not penalized, but should have been.”

A right to appeal triggers a dual response from the FIA and royals alike. Officials from Mercedes and Red Bull will both present their case on the selected incidents, but the major event will be the official meeting of the princes.

All princes (except those from Mercedes and Red Bull) will gather for a meeting and form the official royal decision on the incidents—they will decide as a group if they believe Prince Verstappen should be penalized for his actions in Brazil.

Once a decision is made, two princes will be elected to present their case to the FIA. Historically, the FIA have almost always sided with the princes on their call.

After all cases have been presented, the FIA will announce their final decision.

A penalty for Prince Verstappen would be a major win for Prince Hamilton. Prince Hamilton must win every remaining race in the season in order to secure his eighth championship—anything less, and Prince Verstappen will win the title.

Chapter Text

 

Charles found life to be very simple without Carlos. They weren’t actually allowed to be apart from each other, but Charles put distance between them in other ways. Every time habit told him to include Carlos—to grab him a coffee, to touch his shoulders as he passed, to kiss his cheek before he left the garage—he didn’t.

Carlos atrophied without attention, much more than Charles expected. He wore his pain all over his face, hollow-eyed and suffering. Charles paid it no mind.

He didn’t ignore his husband on the whole. He responded to questions, smiled with him for the cameras, and filmed promo videos with plenty of laughter and softness.

He still loved Carlos, but he didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him.

“What are we going to say?” Carlos asked as they strode toward the designated meeting room at the track.

“About what?” Charles replied, checking his watch. Carlos had been faster than him in both practice sessions, and nothing about it made sense. His laps felt exactly like they had in the sim. He had no extra drag, no differences in his setup, and certainly nothing that should be losing him half a second.

The engineers promised to look at everything closely, but Charles had seen the exhaustion in their eyes from traveling across the world to yet another race with no break. His own exhaustion had burrowed in under his eyes, and his mistrust of Carlos made it hard to sleep comfortably.

Carlos tugged his sleeve. “Charles.”

Charles gently but firmly pulled his arm away and turned to look at him. “What, Carlos.”

“We have to go into this meeting as a team,” Carlos said. He tried the doe eyes again—the loving eyes that used to make him melt.

“Why? You seem to enjoy making decisions without me,” Charles growled.

Carlos sighed. “I want to be united with you on this. Our fight can’t come into our decision on whether or not Max gets a penalty.”

“It will absolutely factor in,” Charles said. “You accused me of cheating on you. With him.”

“That is not what I said.”

Charles lifted a brow. “Heavily implied, then.”

Carlos let out a noise of frustration—he wavered between frustration and sulking most of the time.

“I love you, Charles. I am your husband, whether you like it or not. And we love each other, yes?”

Charles lifted his chin, eyes narrowed.

“Charles, please.”

“You are making it very difficult to love you,” Charles said, meeting his eye. “I trusted you and you went behind my back. Publicly, to cover your tracks when I found out. That was low, Carlos.”

Hurt leaked into his tone despite his every attempt to force it out of his voice.

Carlos softened, but Charles slapped his hand away when he reached out. Gently, so the cameras wouldn’t notice.

“If you’re smart, you’ll agree with whatever I say,” Charles hissed. “We all saw the footage. The answer is clear.”

The FIA distributed the video footage and telemetry of several incidents in Brazil for all of them to look at.  Charles had to put himself in Lewis’s shoes as well as Max’s as he tried to determine whether or not Max’s moves on track were acceptable.

“I know what my answer is,” Carlos said. “But I need to know yours.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “I watched the footage with an unbiased opinion. Did you?”

Carlos frowned. “Of course.”

Charles took a step back when he realized how close they were standing together and how normal and right it felt. He loved Carlos, even though he wanted to strangle him. Their love had changed since the first time Carlos said he loved him in the rally car.

They both had changed from that day.

“Then I hope we agree, because the answer is obvious,” Charles said curtly. “Let’s go.”

The right to appeal process wasn’t nearly as important as the Ferrari summit. Princes wore their race gear as they filed into a conference room laid out with rows of chairs for them to sit. Charles filed down a row and sat toward the back, Carlos taking the seat beside him closer to the aisle.

Charles took stock of the princes already present. Fernando sat leaned back in his chair, cap over his eyes. Esteban tapped a pen on the chair beside him, impatient. George sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing as he talked to Nicholas. Kimi stewed, Antonio sat shellshocked.

Daniel and Lando entered next. Charles nodded to them both, noting the way Lando smiled when he saw Carlos. Daniel rested his hands on Lando’s hips and guided him toward seats at the front.

Sebastian and Lance filed in after, both of them wearing stern expressions as they quickly found a seat at the very back of the room. Charles waved when Pierre arrived with Yuki. Pierre waved back and sat a few rows in front of them.

“Charles, are you busy tonight?” Pierre asked, tipping his head back over his chair to look at him upside-down. “Libre pour le dîner, peut-être ? Je veux voir si on peut avoir une table au Nobu.”

“Pourquoi tout le monde aime Nobu?” Charles asked. “Mais oui, je suis libre.”

“Can you please speak English?” Carlos muttered.

Charles ignored him as Pierre glanced between him and Carlos. “I would love to go to Nobu with you tonight.”

“Can I come?” Yuki asked. “I want to go to Nobu.”

“Of course,” Charles said.

Yuki looked at Carlos, but Carlos busied himself with the cap of a nearby pen and said nothing. Pierre cocked a brow at Charles, who shook his head minutely.

“You guys are going to Nobu?” George called. “Overrated.”

“He went with Lewis last night,” Nicholas supplied. George elbowed him right after.

“Interesting,” Sebastian cracked. “I wasn’t aware they allowed children.”

“You’re unaware of a lot of things, I gather,” George snapped.

Charles glanced at Sebastian, who rolled his eyes. They’d been increasingly hostile with each other. Usually Sebastian let things go if he felt superior to someone—as he clearly did with George.  Yet he kept picking.

“Sorry we’re late,” Nikita Mazepin announced as he strode into the room.

Mick stepped in behind him, his eyes vacant. Their usual sparkling blue had washed out to slate nothingness. His cheeks were grey, his skin devoid of any color. Even his hair, usually spun gold, was limp and stringy were it poked out from under his cap.

“Last, as usual,” Fernando said, sitting up. “Are we ready to begin?”

“I’d like to make this quick,” Kimi said.

“It should be,” Pierre agreed. “Max ran him off track in every clip.”

“He closed the door,” Fernando snorted. “You are all so soft.”

“I expected better from you,” Sebastian clucked to Fernando. “You’re the cleanest driver on the grid. You would stand for this?”

Carlos looked at him out of the corner of his eye, but Charles kept his gaze on Fernando. He looked to Kimi next, who had yet to move. Kimi looked pissed, but he always looked pissed.

“Lewis tried to cut in from the outside long before his front wheel was past Max’s rear wheel,” Fernando said.

“That is such bullshit,” George cut in. “Did you watch the footage? Max drove himself off track just to be a dick to Lewis. Then he didn’t even turn in for the next corner and went straight just to try to run into him!”

“It was very dangerous driving,” Sebastian agreed.

“It was aggressive driving,” Fernando shot back. “But nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You can be bought and sold like a horse,” Kimi snapped.

“Don’t bring Ferrari into this,” Fernando quipped right back.

“I agree with Fernando,” Nikita said. “Lewis could have—and should have—moved out of the way.”

“You’re hurting his case,” Mick muttered.

The other princes laughed, but Charles watched as Mick wrapped his fingers around a green and white string bracelet on his wrist that was much too big for him, squeezing the threads.

Carlos had proved to be an idiot and a liar where It concerned Callum Ilott. Carlos swore up and down that he had been certain Callum was going to become prince, but now they had a new lower court prince coming into the fold and Callum headed to America with nothing.

The only reason he believed Carlos’s ignorance was because of Max’s face that morning before first practice. He looked like he could barely stand inside his garage, his eyes blank as the team hummed around him in a frenzy.

Someone had stepped in and changed the course of royal history.

Someone shut the door on Max Verstappen. Someone ripped a crown away from a boy who had the skill, one loved by the son of a royal deity, without so much as a whisper through the ranks of who had done it.

“Our decision today sets a precedent,” George said, breaking Charles from his thoughts.

“Max has always driven like that,” Daniel said, his first time speaking since Charles had entered the room. “Ask me how I know.”

Charles couldn’t look at Daniel too long without resentment welling up in him. Max was willing to upend the entire government for Daniel, and Charles couldn’t even get his own husband to tell him about meetings he attended.

“I think it would be a different situation if we were still in Brazil,” Lando added in. “But the race is over. Awarding a penalty now is setting just as much of a precedent, isn’t it?”

Charles set his jaw. “If Max is allowed to drive like that, I’m changing my driving style.”

Anyone could bully their way into first place. Forcing another driver to concede or die wasn’t racing, it was idiocy. Max knew better—he never raced with Charles that way. Max knew Charles would sooner kill them both than give an inch.

“That would mean more if you were in Lewis’s position,” George said.

“I could be in Max’s position if I drove like that,” Charles shot back. “And if we allow it, I will.”

Carlos glanced at him. He cleared his throat to speak, but Sebastian cut in before he could.

“Here is what I think,” Sebastian said. “Max is allowed to drive like this. No one else is. Understand?”

Carlos stiffened. “We cannot allow—”

“It isn’t up to us, Carlos,” Sebastian said.

The hair rose on the back of Charles’s neck. We’ve been playing a fixed game this whole time, Max had said.

“No, I don’t understand,” Carlos said evenly. “Care to explain?”

Sebastian looked past Carlos straight at him, as if he could hear Charles’s thoughts.

Charles had been so naïve back when they were married. Sebastian allowed him to be the reckless, vengeful boy for the majority of their time together, while he continued vying for Max’s attention and winning the hearts of the Ferrari people.

It’s not cheating when you’re supported by the ones making the rules.

“Max has been a favorite since the beginning,” Fernando chimed in. “Royal connections from his father? Please. If that determined anything, Mick would be champion two times over.”

Mick flinched as if struck and withered further in his seat.

Fernando turned in his chair to better face Carlos.

“Max had no connections to any princes. He was a child, and a spiteful one. But he had no alliances, not even among the empires. Toro Rosso tolerated him, Red Bull used him as a fire iron to see if Daniel had what it takes to win a championship.”

“Fuck, mate, do not put that shit on my talent,” Daniel snapped. “Max ruined my championship season.”

“Yes, couldn’t have been anything else,” Kimi said, thick with sarcasm.

Daniel’s eyes flashed as he shook his head and leaned back in his seat. Lando leaned against him in an attempt at comfort, but Daniel turned his face away.

A silent conversation passed between Fernando, Kimi, and Sebastian so lightning fast that Charles couldn’t catch any of it, only Fernando’s snort of displeasure that ended it.

“Daniel is right,” Fernando finally continued. “Max has always driven like this. He’s always been allowed to, because he’s been chosen from the start. This has always been the plan with the FIA.”

“So stop trying to defend it,” Sebastian growled. “We are not the FIA.”

“Wait, we’re all just agreeing that the FIA are rigging this and we’re not going to do anything about it?” Pierre asked, stunned. “They’re showing Max favoritism.”

“He’s the backup, actually,” Sebastian said dryly. “Their true favorite failed them.”

“And who was that?” Charles asked.

Another silent conversation whipped through the champions. Charles envied their ability to communicate with such precision in silence.

“Another prince’s son,” Kimi replied after a long silence, pulling off his sunglasses to examine the lenses. “Rosberg.”

“Jesus Christ,” George scoffed, pass a hand over his face. Nicholas went pale beside him, Charles noted. Interesting.

“Did Nico work with the FIA to win his championship?” Charles asked, looking to Sebastian for his answer.

“Only Lewis knows the answer to that question,” Sebastian replied. He gave no tells, not even a hint to his opinion.

Charles looked away as a chill washed over him. Carlos seemed to sense it, because he put a hand on his knee without even looking at him.

Damn love. Damn it all.

“If Max was working with the FIA, Callum would be a prince,” Mick said suddenly, breaking the silence. “I’ll admit it—I thought he had the FIA eating out of his hand. He told me Callum would be a prince and I believed him. I think he thought he was telling the truth, and now this.”

Antonio put his face in his hands, hidden by a curtain of dark hair. Kimi shifted closer to him until their shoulders brushed. Esteban gave Fernando a pointed look, but kept his mouth shut.

Charles flared his nostrils. He’d missed so much with his head in the clouds.

“We’re here to discuss the penalties,” Daniel said. “Who thinks Max deserves penalties for Brazil?”

Charles lifted his hand. Carlos followed right after him without looking. Every hand in the room went up except Fernando, Esteban, Nikita, and Daniel's. Lando looked wracked with guilt as he raised his, but he didn’t put it down.

“Great, so the official royal position is that we believe he should be penalized,” Daniel said without emotion. “So who are we electing to plead the case? And don’t forget to mark down who said no.”

“George seems to be an expert on the videos,” Fernando smirked. “Send him.”

“Sebastian should go too,” Charles said with a nod. “He knows regulations better than anyone.”

“I don’t know about that,” Sebastian said with a grin. “Fernando knows every rules down to the punctuation. Can’t find loopholes without a thorough understanding, hm?”

“Can’t be punished for something you can’t prove, either,” Fernando agreed with pride.

“Sebastian and the gangly one,” Kimi said with a dismissive motion toward George.

“He literally just said my name,” George snapped.

“I don’t listen when Fernando talks,” Kimi replied, slipping his sunglasses back on. "Now, are we done? I need to take a shit.”

Sebastian let out a sigh. “Does anyone disagree on sending George and myself?”

Daniel raised his hand, eyes set on Sebastian.

“Do any crown princes disagree?” Sebastian amended with a hard stare.

Daniel lowered his hand, but his eyes continued to smolder. Charles had never seen Daniel so angry with Sebastian before, certainly not publicly. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen Daniel angry at anyone other than the FIA.

“Then we’re adjourned,” Sebastian said, getting to his feet. “George, let’s go. We have an hour to present our case.”

Everyone stood up as Sebastin joined George at the front of the room. Charles watched them as they spoke to each other. Sebastian didn’t move his eyes from George’s face for one second—something he always did when talking to someone who annoyed him. Sebastian spoke with quiet authority and George met it in kind. Everyone in the lunch club knew how George could get over regulations, but he looked nervous.

Rules never made George Russell nervous.

“Earth to Calamardo,” Pierre said, waving a hand in front of his face.

“Yes?” Charles blinked himself back to the present, where Pierre stood with an arm hooked over Yuki’s shoulder.

“Nobu tonight?”

Charles smiled. “Sounds great.” He looked down at Carlos, who had yet to stand. “Carlos, are you up for seafood?”

Carlos looked up at him with a puzzled expression.

“Nobu,” Charles explained. “You’re coming, yes?”

Carlos gaped at him for a moment, then nodded quickly. “Uh. Yes. Yes, I would love to.”

He didn’t need Carlos running off with Lando or finding more traps to fall into amongst the other princes. Charles put a hand on the nape of his neck and thumbed over his spine, taking a small pleasure in the way Carlos went rigid under his touch.

“Double date,” Charles said with a smile. “You’ll make the reservation, Pierre?”

“All over it,” Pierre replied, pulling out his phone.

They said their goodbyes to each other after George and Sebastian left to make their case for the FIA. Cameras attacked them as they exited, but all of them were happy to ignore the questions as they made their way back toward hospitality.

“I’ve been thinking about your car,” Carlos said as they walked, brow furrowed. “Do you mind if I make some suggestions to your engineers?”

Charles fought back a laugh as he tried to imagine any of his engineers listening to Carlos try to tell them how to do their jobs.

“By all means,” Charles said, managing to keep his voice even.

“Thank you.” Carlos focused ahead again, gears turning behind his eyes.

Charles used to find Carlos’s intelligence attractive, but now he could only see all of the ulterior motives it could be used for.

“Do you think the FIA will side with us?” Charles asked, politely waving off a few fans wanting autographs.

Carlos chewed his lower lip for a moment. “They always have in the past. It’s a show of respect more than anything. Besides, a few penalties will not stop Max from winning. Only Lewis can do that.”

Charles gave a noncommittal hum in response.

“On top of that,” Carlos continued, “Sebastian and George know the regulations better than anyone. It is very obvious from the telemetry that Max’s only motive in both instances was to prevent Lewis from passing. It was blatant. Even fans can see it on the video. I think it would be more dangerous for the FIA to disagree.”

Carlos took his hand as they entered the hospitality lane and gave it a squeeze. Charles didn’t return it.

 


 

FELLOWSHIP OF INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT  For Immediate Release  November 19th, 2021   STATEMENT FROM PRESIDENT JEAN TODT  Lusail, Qatar - Last evening, Mercedes filed a right to review regarding two instances involving His Royal Highness Max Verstappen and His Royal Highness Lewis Hamilton that took place during the Heineken Grande Prêmio de São Paulo that were not penalized.   Per regulation, this triggered a formal review by the FIA consisting of a) a presentation by both Mercedes and Red Bull empires pertaining to the appeals filed and b) a formal meeting of the FIA princes to determine the royal consensus of the events and c) two elected princes presenting the royal consensus and arguing their case on their behalf.  The FIA princes selected His Royal Highness and Four-Time World Champion Sebastian Vettel of Aston Martin and His Royal Highness George Russell of Williams to present the royal consensus.  After deliberation among the FIA, Red Bull, and Mercedes, it was determined that only one incident would be argued—that which occurred at Turn 4 during the latter stages of last weekend’s race.   The princes came forward with the decision that the incident should be penalized. The FIA acknowledges this decision, but we will not award penalties in this instance.   Myself and the FIA stand by the decision made by race stewards Tim Mayer, Matteo Perini, Vitantonio Liuzzi, and Roberto Pupo Moreno during the São Paulo race. They made a discretionary call—which, as you will note in the International Sporting Code, means it cannot be reviewed.   Mercedes presented the argument that the decision not to proceed with an investigation post-race should be assessed, but in this very specific case the determination of “no investigation necessary” that was presented during the race constitutes a decision.  Thus, no penalties will be awarded in this case and the matter will not be discussed further.   Respectfully,   Jean Todt President, FIA

Chapter Text

“I don’t give a fuck, I was two tenths off!” Charles shouted in the depths of the Ferrari garage, away from the cameras. He’d long since learned to school his anger publicly, but for the empire supposedly better than all the rest, the Ferrari mechanics had yet to find the source of his slow speed. Mattia sided with him that it was a car error and not a driver error, but Charles knew his faith was waning the longer the engineers and data teams went without finding a solution.

“There is something we can try,” his head mechanic said, glancing between him and Mattia. “Carlos suggested doing a scan of the chassis. It’s an intensive process that will run us to the line tomorrow with the other adjustments we need to make.”

“I’m sorry—Carlos suggested this?” Mattia asked.

The mechanic nodded uncertainly. “We dismissed it last night, but our other tests have shown nothing wrong.”

“What would a scan of the chassis do?” Charles asked. He glanced at the in-garage monitors, grimacing as Carlos moved up behind Lando and Fernando in the grid order.

“It would allow us to see any unexpected movement we can’t see visually,” the mechanic explained. “Vibrations, cracks, or damage would be identified. But it will require us to strip the car almost completely, test, and then rebuild it.”

Mattia frowned.

“How much time could be lost with a damaged chassis?” Charles asked.

The mechanic shrugged. “Depending on the damage, anywhere from a couple hundredths to half a second.”

Charles nodded decisively. “Then let’s get to work. Something is wrong with the car, and if this is the answer, we still have time before the race to fix it.”

“That is a lot to ask of this team,” Mattia said. “We can scan before Saudi Arabia with less consequences for personnel.”

Charles pressed his mouth to a line. “Yes, I understand that. But I just lost out on a chance at Q3—that hasn’t happened to me on merit in a very long time. Forget if it's embarrassing for me, it’s embarrassing for Ferrari. We are not an empire that fails in Q2.”

He also needed to know if Carlos’s suggestion solved the issue. If it did, Charles doubted it was a coincidence. Carlos played his cards close to the chest in any scenario. He could have been harboring information for weeks—ever since Charles’s times started falling short.

Charles wanted to believe Carlos would never sabotage him, but with Fernando as his mentor, anything was possible.

A member of the Public Affairs team burst into the meeting space, breathing hard. “Capo—His Royal Highness and Prince Verstappen have been summoned to the stewards for driving through yellow flags.”

“Cazzo,” Mattia muttered. “Proprio quello di cui abbiamo bisogno.”

Charles looked at the monitor, running down the list of names. His heart jumped to his throat at the sight of Pierre’s car with a puncture.

“Che cosa è successo?” Charles asked, rushing for his abandoned headset. He slipped it on to listen to the chatter of the commentators.

“—puncture for Gasly there is only half the issue here,” a commentator said. “Three princes have violated yellow flags. Valtteri Bottas violated the single-waved yellows, but Sainz and Verstappen ignored double-waved yellows.”

“Yes, and that’s a significant violation,” the other commentator said. “A real safety concern.”

“Absolutely. Verstappen didn’t slow down at all, according to what I’m seeing on telemetry. At least Sainz slowed down.”

Idiots, Charles thought. Max clearly still had sway with the FIA—enough that the FIA went back on tradition to avoid giving him penalties for Brazil. Every prince took the decision as a personal insult—even Fernando. The FIA had disrespected the royal role on a public stage.

But things were different with the cameras on. If people had hard proof that Max violated a rule, the FIA could only do so much to help him.

“And we’ve got Gasly back in the garage, so that’s a positive,” a commentator said.

“Those rules are in place for a reason. Ignoring yellow flags could have serious consequences," the other one said.

Max had the FIA, but Lewis had the commentary box. And the latter was worth far more in times like this.

Charles pulled off his headset and grabbed the head mechanic’s shoulder. “Test the chassis.”

He nodded. “We will, Your Royal Highness.”

“I’ll book everyone on the team a day at the spa here or in Saudi Arabia to make up for it,” Charles added. “And buy everyone coffee. Whatever needs to be done, sì?”

“Certo,” the mechanic replied with a smile.

Charles met with his engineering team and Public Affairs before he headed out into the crowd in search of his husband. Carlos needed to choose his words carefully if we wanted to come out of this with minimal reprecussions.

Unfortunately for Carlos, he saw Pierre first.

Sunset made him look beyond mortal life. His tan skin glowed in the fading sun, and his blue eyes brimmed with happiness.

“Pierre,” Charles greeted, yanking hm into a hug. Pierre hugged back, squeezing him tight to his chest.

Pierre deserved so much more than their measly group date at Nobu. They held hands under the table and shared little glances throughout their meal, but had no time to talk about anything with each other. Pierre understood, though. The end of a season never allowed for much time outside of royal duties.

“Fourth,” Charles hummed in his ear. “Tu as si bien fait."

“I’ll do better tomorrow,” Pierre promised, rubbing his back once before pulling away. “See you on the podium?”

“Can’t wait,” Charles said.

Pierre shot him a gap-toothed grin that made Charles wish he could kiss him. He ached to know what victory tasted like on his lips—a relative victory, anyway.

Charles ruffled Pierre’s hair instead, the only thing he could do. “Don’t celebrate too much though. It’s just qualifying.”

Pierre winked at him. “I never get ahead of myself, mm?”

Charles flushed without meaning to, suddenly transported back to their first time. Pierre dunked his cap with a laugh, plunging Charles into darkness for a moment.

Fuck, he needed to deal with his actual issues. His husband, for one.

Charles squeezed Pierre’s arm after he readjusted his cap. "Je te verrai plus tard.”

Pierre held his gaze, unabashedly in love. “Even if you don’t, je vais penser à toi.”

Charles smiled at him before he headed off in the crowd. People screamed for Lewis’s attention as he passed on his electric scooter, a grin on his face. Charles followed in his wake, making his way toward the stewards’ tent. He had his helmet tucked under his arm--a flashy rainbow pattern that had been all over the royal tabloids as Lewis spitting in the face of the Qatari government and their feelings toward same-sex marriage. Lewis had made a point to carry it around with him throughout the weekend in a show of disrespect Charles admired. It reminded him of Sebastian's "Love Is Not A Contract" shirt, though he doubted the FIA would punish Lewis for a helmet the same way they'd retaliated against Sebastian, or Lewis would be the one in the stewards' tent.

Security teams fended off fans as Charles made his way past the ropes to wait to meet Carlos when he left. Lewis stood at the tent entrance, his smile gone and his eyes still shaded by his sunglasses.

“Lewis,” Charles greeted with a nod.

Lewis regarded him with a dip of his head, but nothing more. His electric scooter sat propped against a security fence behind him, which meant he didn’t plan to move for some time.

“Who are you waiting for?” Lewis suddenly asked.

Charles stared at him for a moment, bewildered by the question. “My husband?”

Lewis nodded once and turned his attention back to the tent.

“Who did you think I was waiting for?”

Lewis shrugged. “Anyone’s guess.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Charles snapped. He had nothing against Lewis as a person. Even as a prince, Charles felt he’d done well to lead for the past six years. Sebastian respected him more than anyone else in the FIA and he judged everyone.

Lewis looked at him with a blank expression. “I think you know what it means. Half the fans out there do too. They’re going to come up with all kinds of theories.”

Charles schooled his scowl before anyone took any stupid pictures. “Oh really.”

Lewis cocked his head. “Did you have something to do with Callum losing his seat, Charles? One hell of a low blow, man.”

“What? I thought that was you.”

It had to be Lewis. No else had that kind of power. No one else had reason, either.

“You and Sebastian are so against lower court romances. I’ve always found that odd,” Lewis said.

Charles’s blood turned cold. “I don’t think I’m any more against them than anyone else, so I’m not sure where you got that idea.”

Lewis let out a laugh. “Nice, man. Playing dumb, I like it.”

“I had nothing to do with Callum losing that crown,” Charles hissed.

“So you didn’t suggest he go to America?”

Charles went rigid. Of course Sebastian told him. Or Kimi. There were no real secrets among champions. “I argued for Callum in that conversation. Sebastian told me all about how you like to enforce the rules, and why. I have no problem with it. I know those rules are in place for a reason.”

“So Carlos went under your nose, then,” Lewis said slowly, as if he’d just figured it out. Charles doubted that. “That’s why you’re upset with him.”

“I’m not upset with him,” Charles lied. He was ready to wring Carlos’s neck.

“You changed your flight by three hours. You took him out of his little villa with Lando early.”

“Change of schedule,” Charles said with a shrug.

“Yeah, coming in early to hang out at the hotel three hours before your team showed up? Don’t do that, Leclerc. I don’t bring shit up for nothing.”

Charles blinked in surprise at Lewis’s icy tone. “I’m sorry, has something happened?”

“Not yet,” Lewis said, almost threatening. “And I hope it doesn’t.”

“It sounds like—”

Valtteri burst out of the tent with a scowl. “They haven’t made a decision,” he announced.

Lewis frowned. “How did they seem?”

“Stupid,” Valtteri snapped. “No one tells me about a flag, I don’t see a marshal, then I’m punished for an invisible flag. Absurd.”

“Toto’s looking into it with the team,” Lewis assured him with a touch to his arm. “Did they say when they’ll decide?”

“Fuck if I know,” Valtteri retorted. “Before the race, they said.”

“We’ll deal with it,” Lewis said with a nod. “Whatever happens.”

He put an arm around his husband, his helmet now in full view on Valtteri's shoulder, and grabbed his scooter from the wall. They started talking too quietly for Charles to hear as they headed off.

“Nice talking with you,” Charles called after them.

Lewis smiled at him over his shoulder and kept walking.

Giorgio emerged from the tent next, and pulled up short when he saw Charles.

“Your Royal Highness,” he greeted. “Are you waiting for Prince Carlos?”

“What else would I be doing?” Charles snapped. “And why does everyone keep asking me that?”

Giorgio grimaced. “My apologies. I’m afraid it may be another hour or so before they’re done.”

“An hour?”

Giorgio nodded. “The FIA is adamant about punishing both of them for disrespecting double yellows. We are trying to minimize the impact.”

Charles crossed his arms. “What kind of impact are they considering?”

Giorgio frowned. “Grid place drops. To send a message.”

“The FIA is all about that, hm,” Charles said, dripping with sarcasm.

It didn’t make sense to avoid giving Max penalties in such a public show of favoritism, yet they wanted to draw out a battle about yellow flags. The rules were clear on punishments for creating safety concerns on track. Not to mention both Carlos and Max has put Pierre in danger.

Charles would give them both the maximum punishment just for that.

He had yet to talk to Max about the FIA decision on Brazil, but he wanted to rip him a new one for it. The decision blatantly showed his influence, and it had been intentional. Max wanted Lewis to know he had control. Max wanted to provoke the most powerful prince in the FIA.

For what? They had three races left. Max had fourteen points on Lewis and the stress appeared to be killing him without any retaliation from Mercedes. If anything, Red Bull was the one attacking him by bringing Jos on board.

“Does Max have representation in there?” Charles asked, nodding toward the tent.

Giorgio didn’t seem to like that question. “Yes. His father, Helmut Marko, and Christian Horner.”

Charles curled his lip in disgust.

“Mattia is doing well to argue for Carlos, though,” Giorgio added. “And Carlos did slow down when the yellow flags were called.”

“He slowed down, but he didn’t activate the yellow flag protocol,” Charles muttered. “Idiot. We shouldn’t even be in this position.”

Giorgio lifted a brow. “So would it be unfair of me to assume things have not been resolved between you two?”

Charles leveled a glare at him. “I’m not happy with you either. Carlos organized a call with Alfa Romeo without me and you don’t think the crown prince should be told?”

Giorgio tongued the inside of his cheek for a moment, eyes darkening. “I believe we have record of a call between you and Prince Verstappen that has not been disclosed to Carlos—ah, two calls." He paused. "Or has it been three now?”

Charles swallowed hard. “Two of those were organized by Ferrari.”

“So was the call to Alfa Romeo,” Giorgio said evenly.

Point taken.

Charles cleared his throat. “So what happens now?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. We have a very important showing in Dubai in three days. Both you and Carlos are expected to be there.” Giorgio shook his curls from his eyes as he checked his watch. “But if things have not been resolved, Mattia wants to put our best foot forward. We need to show the world that Ferrari as an empire is united behind you.”

Charles nodded slowly. “And if I choose not to take Carlos to Dubai, what happens then?”

Giorgio shrugged. “We have several options. I would advise against any accusations or justifications for his absence. Best to let the public speculate until we determine the final course of action.”

Charles watched the opening of stewards’ tent and tried to visualize Carlos inside. He never got angry with the FIA, only petulant—the same word Carlos used to describe him. The spoiled only son of a rally prince. The favorite son.

Carlos could rot in that tent for all he cared.

Charles lifted his gaze. “Let’s go back to hospitality and discuss options. Unless you’re needed here?”

Giorgio shook his head. “My piece is done. After you, Your Royal Highness.”

Charles started for hospitality, replaying all of Carlos’s insults on loop. 

We’ll see who’s petulant.  

Chapter Text

Daniel wasn’t doing well. Lando had stayed with him more than he wanted to over the weekend, partly to hide from Lewis and Sebastian, but partly because Daniel needed constant watching. Lando could sense his itching desire to drink. Qatar didn’t allow alcohol except with express permission—permission Daniel would never get from McLaren or anyone else.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Daniel hissed as he watched the monitors in the garage. Max took up the screen, fuming in silence as the ticker underneath announced PRINCE VERSTAPPEN SLAPPED WITH 5-PLACE GRID PENALTY FOR YELLOW FLAG INFRINGEMENT.

Carlos had somehow managed to avoid any penalty whatsoever, even though Valtteri earned a 3-place drop. Typical Ferrari bullshit, if Lando had to guess. He understood Daniel’s frustration.

“They had to do something,” Lando said quietly where he stood beside Daniel. “The Brazil penalty thing made everyone mad.”

“Mercedes never should have filed a right to appeal,” Daniel muttered. “The race is over—you can’t change the results afterward. Nobody gets to do that. Fuck!”

Lando jumped at the sudden volume, discomfort prickling at the back of his neck.

“Now Max has to start seventh and fucking Gasly is starting second with Alonso right behind him—does anyone else see how fucked up that is?” Daniel flipped off the TV screen as the camera cut to the stewards, who were discussing something intently.

“Don’t forget me in fourth,”Lando attempted to joke.

Daniel chewed the inside of his cheek and ignored him completely.

Lando wondered how often Daniel had been sneaking drinks behind his back. He was never this angry, and alcohol had to be a factor—well, lack thereof.

“I’m in the back with fucking Charles, who’s been driving with a cracked chassis for three weeks,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “This is a new kind of pathetic, even for me.”

Lando shifted uncomfortably. Usually Daniel lit up the garage with his good attitude and humor. He sucked the life out of everyone when he felt the opposite.

“Daniel, we’re going to try our best to win and that’s that,” Lando said decisively. “Max has his own battle to fight and there’s nothing we can to do help him right now.”

Daniel snorted. “I could be with him, calming him down. Instead he has Jos. How do you think that’s going?”

Lando swallowed hard. He had no proof Sebastian was really involved with bringing Jos into the paddock again, and telling Daniel about it now would probably ending a murder charge.

He had no plans to tell Daniel the full truth of what he’d heard. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Lewis and Sebastian staged their conversation for him to hear. Lando didn’t consider himself a quiet person, yet somehow he’d snuck up on them in a hotel courtyard.

George always talked about weird conspiracies, though it had been much worse with Alex was around to poke fun at him for it. They all knew that champions played games, and Lando didn’t want to fall for a trap. If Lewis and Sebastian wanted him to hear their conversation, they probably did it thinking he would run to Daniel and spill the beans.

But Lewis had sounded awfully angry about Jos. He defended Max, and that part didn’t sound fake.

Max had proved he wasn’t so innocent either. He’d put Carlos at risk with the whole Alfa Romeo thing. Max wasn’t stupid—he probably knew Carlos had gone behind Charles’s back, Maybe Max had even encouraged it. Lando had a hard time stomaching that decision.

“Lando, time to go,” one of the mechanics called.

“Be right there,” Lando said. He reached over to pat Daniel’s thigh. “Be safe, okay? Max can win from seventh. We can square this championship away in a few hours.”

Daniel looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “You’re in the best place to help him, so why don’t you?”

Lando narrowed his eyes. “I’m a McLaren prince, Daniel. I’m not going to give way to help another prince win, even if he’s my friend.”

 


 

Somehow, Lewis pulled off a complete domination. Max finished twenty-five seconds behind him in second place. Lando only just managed to scrape up points in P9 ahead of Sebastian, who gave him a run for his money at the end.

By the time Lando made it up the pit lane, the podium ceremony had already started. Max stood emotionless in second place, a stark contrast to Lewis’s broad smile and pumping fists. The crowd cheered wildly for him, so loud that Lando could still hear them even with his headphones on in the garage.

He listened to the debrief, spoke to the press, and lingered around the media pen to wait for Carlos to finish his interviews. Carlos managed to finish seventh ahead of Charles, so  the news outlets had a million questions for him.

“Waiting for me, cabrón?” Carlos greeted with a fist bump.

Lando met it happily, unable to hide his smile. “Nice job today. You looked great in the replay.”

Carlos smiled and pushed his hair back under his hat. “It was a good day for us. Thankfully we figured out the problem with Charles’s car.”

“Yeah—cracked chassis? Yikes.”

Carlos shrugged. “It is good we discovered the problem. Now we can both fight in Saudi and Abu Dhabi.”

Only Carlos would still be chasing wins in the last two races with Max and Lewis fighting a war for the championship.

“Yeah, well. I’m looking forward to next season,” Lando replied. “Actually, looking forward to winter break. My place in Monaco is almost ready to put furniture in.”

Carlos cocked a brow. “Oh? That far along?”

Lando nodded. “I think it’ll be ready right after Abu Dhabi.”

You should visit.

Carlos’s eyes dimmed as if he understood the unspoken words. “I’ll have to come see it when it’s done.”

“Or you can come earlier,” Lando offered. “We can pick stuff out together. You’ve always been better at decorating.”

Carlos laughed. “You are lying.”

Lando grinned. “A little. You decorate like an indecisive old man who’s been to too many rubbish sales.”

Carlos laughed harder. Nothing made him happier than that sound. Carlos wiped his eyes and reached over to knock Lando’s cap off.

“Carlos.” Charles’s voice cut through the laughter, deadly.

Lando straightened up, his smile turning reserved as Charles stepped up to thm. “Charles. Nice race.”

“Thanks,” Charles replied dismissively. “Are you finished? We have to discuss some things.”

The mirth left Carlos’s eyes. He nodded once and reached out, taking Charles’s hand. The action looked rehearsed.

Still fighting, then.

“I’m ready,” Carlos replied. “I was thinking we could walk the grounds tonight—we both had a very good day.”

Charles stared at him. “Are you asking me or Lando?”

Lando flinched without meaning to, glancing nervously between Carlos and Charles.

Carlos frowned. “You, mi amor.”

It was still weird to hear Carlos say he loved someone else, especially in Spanish. Jealousy sizzled to life in Lando’s gut, but he kept his mouth shut.

“No, I don’t think we’ll have any time for a stroll,” Charles said, picking through the words. “Come on.”

Carlos stepped toward him, then gave Lando an apologetic look.

“I’ll write you,” Lando said, offering a warm smile.

Carlos smiled back, melting him to mush right there in the media pen.  “Perfect,” he said.

Lando hurried back to the garage once Carlos and Charles walked away. Daniel hovered at the garage entrance, furious. He’d placed out of the points behind Pierre.

“Let’s get back to the hotel,” Lando said, nudging him with an elbow as he passed. “We can take a bath and forget about today.”

Surprisingly, Daniel turned and followed him. Lando took his hand on instinct, playing the part of a happy couple even though Daniel looked like he wanted to kill someone.

“I’m not going to be on our flight to Saudi Arabia,” Daniel said quietly as they left the garage.

Lando glanced at him. “Did something happen?”

Daniel shook his head once. “It’s a good thing, promise.”

“Well, you look like shit right now, so it’s kinda hard to believe that,” Lando said.

A glimpse of a smile appeared on Daniel’s lips. “It’s a good thing, babe.”

 


 

A nice dinner and a warm bath together restored both of their moods. Lando wrote Carlos a short letter going through his race, and wrote down a few names of furniture stores in Monaco. He wanted Carlos to ask Charles’s opinion on them, but something told him that was not a wise idea. He didn’t know if he would trust Charles’s furniture taste anyway.

Everyone liked to assume princes went partying after races. The winners sometimes did—even losers like Lando had gone out a lot over the past few years—but races completely drained them. Without the adrenaline of a win, it was hard to even think about alcohol.

For Lando, anyway. Daniel kept pacing around the hotel room, though he used the excuse of caffeine jitters from his post-race iced coffee slushie.

“So what did Max say after the race?” Lando asked, breaking the comfortable silence. Daniel wasn’t allowed to talk to him, but it was clear to Lando that something had been discussed concerning Max if Daniel had changed his flght.

Daniel paused his pacing to look at him. “Whaddya mean?”

“Earlier you said a good thing happened. Something with Max, yeah?”

Daniel blinked at him. “No with him directly, no.”

Lando waited for an explanation, but Daniel started walking again.

“Ooookay,” Lando drew out. “Are you going to keep being vague or tell me what’s happening?”

Daniel paused again. “You know, you didn’t say anything about Max’s drive today.”

The hair rose on the back of Lando’s neck for the second time that day. “He came in second. It was a great drive—I dunno, I didn’t see anything worth talking about.”

Sometimes Daniel reminded him that he used to be a power amongst the princes. His easygoing personality sharpened into something lethal, and his smile turned sour. He liked being the goofy guy—he used his humor and goodwill as a shield.

A shield for everyone else, not himself.

“Max is falling apart and you don’t think there’s anything worth talking about?” Daniel asked incredulously.

So much for a quiet evening at home.

Lando sat up from his spot on the couch. “Come sit down and we can talk about it. You pacing like that is stressing me out.”

Daniel grit his teeth. “Me pacing is stressing you out. Yeah. Okay.”

Lando narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to pick a fight for no reason, Daniel.”

Lando would be the first to admit he didn’t have much of a backbone against the likes of Sebastian and Lewis, but he could dig in when he needed to. Frankly, Daniel wasn’t crown prince of McLaren. He didn’t have the authority to make decisions on behalf of the empire.

“You’re slipping,” Daniel said, stepping toward him. “It’s like you don’t even remember Zandvoort—it’s like you don’t remember anything Max has done for you.”

“Max is my friend,” Lando said. “He wasn’t doing those things to buy me.”

“Your friend is getting murdered out there!” Daniel shouted.

“How the fuck is that my fault?” Lando shouted back, jumping to his knees. “Honestly, Daniel! I’m trying to stay out of this war—McLaren isn’t part of it!”

“This has nothing to do with empires,” Daniel snapped. “Lewis is targeting Max. Red Bull is putting a knife to his throat and threatening him with all kinds of shit and the three people he could always turn to aren’t allowed to talk to him!”

“Yeah, I’m one of those people!” Lando shot back.

“So stop going against him!”

Lando snarled at him, too angry to speak. He’d defended Daniel so many times. He’d allowed Max into their hotel room a dozen times, he’d let Daniel sneak around—he’d let Max sneak out in Zandvoort to do some mysterious thing they never talked about. Max loved him in his own Max way. Max kissed him once, and protected him in more ways than Lando could count.

“I am not going against him,” Lando hissed. “But he put Carlos at risk. He put the person I love most at risk, just to get some information from Alfa Romeo. So I’m not happy with him right now—but that doesn’t mean I’m against him, okay?”

Daniel’s skin reflected strangely in the low light of their hotel room, a sheen of oil or sweat or both. “Did Lewis say something to you? Is that why you’re being like this?”

“Being like what, Daniel!?!”

The truth was,  Lando didn’t know who to root for. A week ago he’d been certain that Lewis deserved to go down after what he did over the burner phones, how he acted, everything. But hearing him defend Max—someone who openly hated him, publicly and privately—made Lando question everything. Max would never do that, not even for someone he had no opinion on.

Even if Lewis and Sebastian meant for him to hear their conversation, Lewis showed more leadership than Max. Lewis had seven championship years under his belt. He knew what he was doing, Max didn’t. Mx had never been interested in leading empires. He only cared about racing and whoever his boyfriend had been at the time.

Daniel stared at him, breathing hard, but didn’t say anything. Lando caught the desperation in his eyes and softened.

“I love you,” Lando said gently. “And I know you’re hurting, but please don’t take it out on me.”

Tears jumped to Daniel’s eyes. Lando slid from the couch and rounded it to collect Daniel in a hug. He still smelled like roses from their complimentary bath bomb.

“I just wanna see him,” Daniel croaked into his shoulder. ”It’s never been this long. I don’t know what he’s doing or what he’s thinking—I don’t even know if he’s okay.”

Lando hugged him tighter, stricken with sudden empathy. Daniel just missed Max. The love of his life was in the same building, alone or with his shitty father. Lando would be tearing his hair out if Carlos was in the same situation.

“You’re gonna see him in a few days,” Lando tried to soothe. He sucked at comforting people. “Max knows you’re missing him. He’s missing you too, I’m sure. I’m sure he is.”

Max was probably in physical pain from missing Daniel so much.

Lando pressed a kiss to Daniel’s curls, trying to imagine how Carlos would react in this situation. Carlos always knew the right combination of touching and comforting words.

“How can I help?” Lando asked, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Daniel pulled back and straightened up. He wiped his eyes with his sleeves and shook his head. “I think I just wanna go to bed and get to Saudi Arabia faster.”

Lando nodded and reached out to squeeze his hip. “Okay, we can sleep. Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

He followed Daniel into the bathroom and stood beside him while he washed his face and brushed his teeth. Daniel moved like a robot, eyes vacant, thoughts elsewhere. He moved with no life in his limbs as he changed into sleeping clothes and crawled into bed.

“We can sleep in tomorrow and get room service,” Lando offered as he took a seat beside him on the mattress. “How does that sound?”

Daniel nodded, a frown stuck on his face. Lando reached down and thumbed the corner of his mouth affectionately.

Seeing the way Daniel had to navigate life made Lando never want to drink again. Even when he was sober, there was a conscious effort visible on all of his features just to act like a normal person who didn’t want alcohol.

But Lando loved him anyway, fights and all. They had a bond that couldn’t be broken over insignificant arguments.

At the beginning of the season, he thought he loved Daniel, then hated him when the burner phones came to light. They started from rock bottom and built a mutual respect and care for each other. Lando wouldn’t recognize the boy who looked him in the mirror back in March. He had more confidence, deeper love, and deeper understanding of their stupid world.

Carlos would always be his everything, but Daniel had become a very good something in the meantime.

“Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Lando murmured.

Daniel slid his gaze over to him but didn’t smile. “G’night, Lando.”

Lando rounded the bed and crawled under the covers. Desert bugs sang in the courtyard loud enough that the sound traveled through the glass doors of the balcony. The moonlight washed the whole room in a dull blue glow as Lando shifted to rest against Daniel, who rolled on his side so Lando could be big spoon.

There we go.

Daniel was a protector. At Wembley, in the royal courts—everywhere. He fought for Max day and night, even when everyone thought he was sulking in the shadows somewhere. He kept tabs on the people he loved.

Lando pressed his nose to the nape of Daniel’s neck and closed his eyes to listen.

Eventually, Daniel’s breathing evened out to slow draws, then changed into soft snores. Sleep would fix things. Daniel would wake up in the morning with his happy, sleepy smile and everything would be right in the world.

Lando drifted off soon after, lulled to sleep by Daniel’s body heat.

Blackness met him in his dreams. He felt Carlos—he knew Carlos without sight or sound. Lando reached behind him, linking his wrists around Carlos, leaning into his warmth. Darkness didn’t scare him with Carlos at his back. He turned his face and kissed his jaw, drinking in the taste of him, the strength.

“I’m sorry,” Dream Carlos whispered in his ear.

Lando furrowed his brow. “Sorry? For what?”

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” Carlos said, but he didn’t sound like Carlos.

The ground started to shake. Lando looked down, but there was only blackness.

“Carlos?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Carlos said, so loud Lando had to lean away. “I didn’t—”

Lando jerked awake to disturbed silence. He could feel the remnants of sound in the room.

Daniel let out a long, low noise. He sounded like a wounded animal, something too big to be downed.

“Daniel?” Lando whispered, his voice raspy with sleep.

“I fuckin’ swear,” Daniel sobbed. “I’m sorry.”

Lando forced himself up to an elbow. “Daniel?”

Daniel had rolled onto his back, eyes screwed shut and breathing quick and shallow. “Don’t. Don’t, please. Don’t--!”

Daniel’s eyes flew open and Lando jumped with fright at how fucking wide his eyes became.

“Daniel, it’s me, it’s Lando,” Lando whispered, trying to keep the shake from his voice.

Daniel stared at him, but clearly didn’t see him. His eyes stayed wide, nostrils flared, more panicked breathing.

“You’re okay,” Lando said weakly, touching his cheek. His skin was clammy. “We’re in bed, you’re safe.”

Daniel kept staring at him, breathing harder. He suddenly grimaced as if in pain and Lando shifted closer, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“Hey, you okay?” Lando tried, thumbing Daniel’s brow bone. “Talk to me. I’m right here.”

Daniel blinked, but his eyes didn’t change. Terror emanated from every pore, leaking from him like a busted pipe. Fear instinctually welled up in Lando too, but he pushed it down. They were safe.

“You’ll tell him I’m sorry?” Daniel finally asked, stiff and unrecognizable.

“Tell who, Daniel?” Lando tried to use his most soothing tone. “Who am I telling?”

Daniel didn’t have waking nightmares. He didn’t do things like this, not even in the scary night after Wembley where he slept in the shower.

“Max,” Daniel whispered. “Please. I can’t.”

Lando nodded with a hard swallow. Better to agree and move on, though he had no idea what Daniel was talking about.  “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll tell him. Now go to sleep.”

Daniel closed his eyes, but his features stayed scared. Lando watched his face for a long time, until it gradually went slack with sleep again.

He understood, in a way.

Even Lando sometimes had a hard time deciphering real life from nightmare. For Daniel, there was probably no difference.

Chapter Text

TROUBLE IN PARADISE?

Ferrari World, Dubai – Stormclouds may be brewing over the Ferrari palace. In a shocking twist, HRH Mick Schumacher appeared as HRH Charles Leclerc’s partner for the Ferrari World event, replacing his husband, HRH Carlos Sainz Jr.

Prince Carlos posted a video from Maranello today detailing the process of picking out his very own Ferrari. However, in the video he noted that the car won’t be ready until next year…conveniently when his appointment is set to expire. The video was shared on official Ferrari social media, so it’s assumed that the dialogue was purposeful.

Meanwhile, Prince Charles delighted fans at the annual Ferrari World event in Dubai. Prince Mick was equally adored by the crowd, and many noted how dashing he looked in red. Prince Charles appeared to enjoy his company.

This is an unusual move from Ferrari, who tend not to pair their princes with anyone other than their husbands at royal events—especially not other princes. But Prince Mick has a unique relationship with Ferrari through his father, seven-time World Champion Michael Schumacher.

Regardless, something is happening at Ferrari in a very public way.

 


 

Charles closed his eyes as makeup artists carefully wiped foundation from his face. The Ferrari World show continued on stage behind him, full of bright lights and stunt performers flipping around on stage. Charles was thankful they only had to be there to introduce the show and handle dinner beforehand with all of the sponsorship VIPs. He didn’t mind small talk at dinner tables—he’d secured his appointment advocating for himself in similar situations.

No one mentioned Carlos’s absence. In fact, they seemed to prefer Mick, though Mick looked like death warmed over. Schumacher blood in the presence of mortals always inspired a sense of awe.

“How did Carlos’s video go?” Charles asked Giorgio, who he assumed was still standing nearby.

“Decent engagement,” Giorgio replied, “but an article has already surfaced about why he isn’t here.”

Charles let out a hum and opened his eyes once the makeup artists stopped wiping his face. His vision quickly adjusted to the dark as cast members scurried around backstage in gaudy costumes. Charles was so used to seeing racesuits on drivers that seeing them on normal people with normal proportions looked wrong.

“I imagine in a few hours it will become a big story,” Giorgio added absently. “I assume that is what you want me to say.”

Charles blinked slowly, absorbing the information. “Yes, I guess so.”

He wanted the world to recognize that Carlos was on very thin ice. Mattia was waiting for his final call, fully prepared to rescind any thought of negotiations for an extended appointment. Ferrari government opposed an immediate exile, and Charles agreed that would look too hasty. If the truth came out, it would also make Ferrari look weak and unaware of dangers within their own empire.

A traitor.

Ferrari had dealt with traitors before, and they had been on the side deemed treacherous to the FIA. But Charles had given Carlos enough leeway throughout their marriage. He thought they had built trust and respect, until Carlos felt the need to go behind his back.

“Mick and I will be in our dressing room,” Charles said curtly, ending the discussion of Carlos before it could begin. He didn’t need a Haas prince with Red Bull favoritism listening to his marriage problems.

Mick jerked his attention up from the floor and followed Charles out into the backstage hallway. They had only been given one dressing room to share, as Carlos had originally been the one intended to join him here.

Charles opened the door and ushered Mick inside. He locked the door behind them and started to unzip his ill-fitting vintage Ferrari race suit that smelled like his grandmother’s house.

“You did well out there,” Charles said with a nod. “Especially for being thrown in like that. Thank you for coming, by the way.”

Mick made a soft noise, almost a whimper, almost a snort. “Not like I had a choice.”

“True,” Charles agreed. “But you did what you needed to do, with the right attitude. That takes strength."

Mick took a shaky breath before he plopped down into one of the dressing room chairs, his vintage race suit still zipped to his collar. Charles recognized heartbreak in his eyes and the weight of loss on his shoulders.

Charles pulled up another chair and took a seat.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Mick choked out. “I spent this whole year doing everything I could do to get him a crown. He deserves one—he’s so good, Charles. He’d be a perfect prince, I know it.”

“We both know royalty doesn’t have much to do with leadership or talent,” Charles said. "It's about money and power. It’s about influence, and Callum has never had that. He’s too good of a person, honestly.”

Charles didn’t know Callum well, but he kept tabs on the lower court royals in the Ferrari Academy. Callum was constantly mentioned as a kind person, a generous person. One of the instructors likened him to Princess Diana at one point.

“I made him a promise,” Mick forced out, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.  “I’ve never made a promise I couldn’t keep. Especially not with him.”

Charles nodded in understanding. He remembered the way Max used to promise they would find a way to be together, no matter what.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but you sealed his fate when you picked a side, Mick,” Charles said gently.

Mick shook his head. “Max had everything in place. They had a contract drawn up and everything, then Vasseur backed out. I watched him leave the office and then—and then Callum—” He put his face in his hands and let out a sob.

Charles dimly wondered if Max had ever cried after they broke up. External forces may have forced his hand, but Charles still didn’t believe Max had been totally against the idea. Max wanted to focus on maintaining a crown, he didn’t have time for a little boy waiting for him back in Monaco when he spent every day with men of royal power.

“Callum won’t be totally gone,” Charles finally said. “America seems far away, but if you time things right, you will probably see him when we’re there, and the FIA is trying to—”

“He broke things off,” Mick said quietly, muffled by his hands.

“Oh.” The response escaped him before he could stop it.

Mick lifted his head to wipe his nose on his sleeve.  “Yeah. He figured out I worked with Max to help him secure a seat and…Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “It’s over.”

Charles’s heart twinged with sympathy. He reached over to touch Mick’s shoulder, then moved off the chair altogether and pulled him into an awkward hug. Mick slumped into him, sliding off of the chair so they were both on the floor.

“Sorry,” Mick choked out into his shoulder. “I haven’t said it out loud until just now.”

Charles shook his head and hugged Mick a little tighter—the way he wished someone would have hugged him when his world came crashing down.  “Nothing to be sorry about. A whole part of your life just changed.”

Not ended. Charles knew full well that it would never end, not with royal relationships. Every love he’d ever had still haunted him in some way. Closure didn’t exist for them. They never had their own choice, even when they pretended they did.

“I should be the one saying sorry,” Charles said after a moment. “It never should have come to this. Carlos never should have given Max any information about that crown. Not only that, he made a deal out of it to see Lando for the weekend in Brazil.”

Mick sniffled and wiped his eyes. “Why are you so upset about that? Princes do worse all the time.”

Charles opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat.

Something about the way Mick asked his question struck a chord in him, sending him back through a thousand memories he’d built over the year. He’d gone from hating Carlos to resisting him, to giving in and loving him. Carlos was the first person he bared himself to who hadn’t grown up with him.

“Because he proved he’ll betray me for Lando,” Charles finally said, mostly to himself. The words ripped up his throat on the way out, sharp with truth. “This was the second time he’s done it. He says he loves me, then he does this.”

A familiar darkness stirred in him, the voice that whispered he would never be enough to be someone’s only. Carlos had been his for a short time, but Lando came running back to him just a few weeks later. Who could resist a man who loved so openly, so wholly?

“I don’t think it had anything to do with Lando, actually,” Mick said with a sniff.

Charles let out a bitter laugh. “Then you’re naïve.”

Mick glared at him with bloodshot eyes. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a rookie. I’ve been around this longer than you have.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “I’m married to Carlos, I know him.”

“He did negotiate to get a house with Lando in Brazil, but I highly doubt that was his plan from the beginning,” Mick said. “Max doesn’t want anyone to owe him. I was guarding the door while they talked, and I heard a lot of what they said. Carlos didn’t want to make a deal, he wanted to give Max the information and be done with it.”

“Which is worse.”

“Is it?” Mick cocked his head. “Max isn’t in a good state of mind—I think that’s obvious. Carlos and Max were each other’s first husbands. I think they both have been with each other for the most stressful year of their lives. Carlos has probably seen something like this before.”

Carlos seldom spoke about his marriage with Max. Charles remembered Carlos saying he’d stood up to Jos at some kind of event, and that Max had been one of the people Carlos said he loved.

“Max is paranoid,” Mick said. “It’s so obvious when you speak to him. And how do you think Max would react if someone offered him information without asking for anything in return? Carlos was preventing a retaliation. He was thinking three moves ahead.”

“Max wouldn’t retaliate against Ferrari,” Charles snorted. “Even in the state he’s in, he’s not stupid.”

“I agree,” Mick said, wiping residual wetness from his eyes. “So who does that leave at risk?”

Charles stilled. An image of Lando appeared in his mind, him and Daniel walking alone in the dark. Innocent, gullible Lando. Daniel was no puppy. Charles had seen firsthand how ruthless he could be, how downright vicious Max made him. Max would only have to imply that Lando hurt him and Daniel would turn without hesitation.

Lando was a lamb living in a slaughterhouse, whether he knew it or not.

A chill ran down Charles’s spine.

“That doesn’t excuse Carlos going behind my back to contact another empire,” Charles said. He wouldn’t give in that easily.

Mick let out a wet chuckle. “Yeah. I think everyone understands he fucked up, Charles. Today just proved that if nothing else did.”

Charles bristled, suddenly protective. Shame colored his cheeks a moment later—what a hypocrite. He could call Carlos a liar and a traitor, but no one else could? What was he, five years old?

Liar or not, Carlos had correctly predicted the problem with his chassis when his entire team of engineers couldn’t. Charles wanted to accuse Carlos of sabotage, but realistically he knew that the microfracture in his chassis wasn’t something that could be caused by human intervention, not without a noticeable point of impact.

His engineers said the car must have overflexed at some point in a previous race—Mexico or Brazil— and cracked only enough that it affected the car during moments of high downforce. Charles went through every data point with his team, analyzed every possible way Carlos could have intervened to cause the problem, but even he recognized it would have been almost impossible for Carlos to cause such a strange injury to his car.

“It’s the end of the season,” Mick said as he finally sat back, his face still blotchy and puffy from crying. “We all need to give each other slack. Shit’s going to go down after the championship is decided.”

“Yes, everyone keeps saying that,” Charles muttered, standing up again. He offered a hand to Mick and helped him up off the floor. “Things will only change if Max wins. For better or for worse—we will not know until it happens.”

Frankly, Charles had no idea what to expect if Max won. He preferred not to think about it. Both possibilities scared him.

Mick unzipped his costume and changed back into the clothes he’d arrived in. Charles followed suit. They didn’t talk much after that, even as they stepped out into the starry beauty of Dubai.

Charles longed for the quiet streets of Maranello. He missed the comforting smell of the Ferrari royal apartment, the way the comforter swaddled him when he flopped onto the bed at night. He missed home.

When they arrived at their hotel room (also shared), Charles checked his phone for any new messages, but there were none. Just a few emails about changes to media duties over the weekend.

Nothing from Carlos.

Charles knew it was unfair to expect something from him without asking for it, but he couldn’t help but feel a stinging hurt in the back of his throat.

“I’m going to sleep,” Mick announced with a yawn. “Do you mind if I turn the light off?”

Charles stared down at his phone, unseeing. The last time he’d shared a room with a stranger, it had been with Carlos on their wedding night. Mick wasn’t actually a stranger—they were close enough that Charles didn’t protest when Ferrari indicated they weren’t changing rooming arrangements—but he didn’t know Mick well by any means.

“Charles?”

Charles cleared his throat as he snapped from his thoughts. “Right—yes, go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He unlocked his phone and opened his text conversation with Carlos.

Boarded, Charles had sent.

Safe travels, Carlos has replied.

So ordinary, so transactional.

Mick turned the lights off, bathing him in darkness except for the glow of the light from the hotel hallway. He readjusted the phone in his grip.

Dubai opening went well, Charles started to type. Carlos would know that already.

He deleted the text.

Talked to Mick about—

He deleted the text.

Sharing a room with Mick. Reminds me of—

He deleted the text.

Half of him said to put the phone away and let Carlos suffer his silence. Half of him said to tell Carlos how much he still loved him, despite everything. That they had to come out of this stronger.

I thought you should know that I—

You should know that I—

I miss you and I thought you should—

He deleted the text and set his phone down on the wireless charger on the desk. He almost grabbed it again, intent on sending what he really felt. You hurt me and I’m angry about it but I miss you so much.

Almost.

Instead, he turned to his bed and crawled under the unfamiliar covers with an unfamiliar boy and closed his eyes to sleep.

Chapter Text

OFFICIAL FLIGHT RECORD LOGBOOK - EASA COMPLIANT

DATE: DEC 1 2021

AIRCRAFT MAKE/MODEL: Falcon 900 EX

AIRCRAFT IDENTIFICATION MARK: PH-DTF

POINT OF DEPARTURE: DIA

POINT OF ARRIVAL: JED (KAIA)

FLIGHT NO.: 871

REMARKS: M. Verstappen, F. Alonso, D. Ricciardo

NUMBER OF LANDINGS: 1/1

 

 


 

December had arrived. Lando wished like hell that it would rain. He longed for the dreary atmosphere of the McLaren empire, the soft patter of raindrops on his window. He wanted the sky to match his exhaustion, for worn out clouds to send sleet all over the streets.

Lando itched for the fat and happy moments that always accompanied the holidays, but they had another two weeks of racing to endure, another two weeks to push their teams to the limits of physical ability. The McLaren crew had been in a sad state in Qatar, but at least most of them had adjusted to the time change.

Okay, scratch that. He wanted a snow day. He never had any as a child—Millfield was too posh for that and most of the students lived on the grounds anyway. But he’d always wanted one.

Instead, the early morning sun was hot enough to bend the air over the tarmac as he waited for Daniel’s plane from the air conditioned confines of a Maybach. Daniel had meetings in Qatar, or so Zak told him. Lando didn’t know what they could be about, but he didn’t press. Daniel staying behind an extra day meant he would have one less day to try sneaking alcohol into their Jeddah hotel. 

Shit. He hoped Daniel's flight didn't have a mini bar.

A town car sat on the tarmac in front of him, emblazoned with the FIA logo. Several FIA officials leaned against it, chatting with each other as they also waited for the plane. Every prince had to be physically seen upon arrival—ever since James Hunt went on a bender after having someone else sign off on his arrival at the airport. The FIA didn’t like losing track of princes.

Lando thought that was pretty funny, considering they let Daniel, Max, and Charles go missing with each other for ten days in Los Angeles.  

Lando reached over to the side console in the car and turned up the volume on his Spotify playlist.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, everywhere you look,” the speakers sang. Lando smiled and closed his eyes. Carlos loved to sing this song. He sang it so much it got stuck in Lando’s head all of December back when they were still married.

Last year. It had only been a year since they split.

This year he would have to decorate the palace with Daniel, and Lando couldn’t imagine that going well. He dimly remembered the way the public freaked out when Max and Daniel wore Christmas-themed pajamas for some promo videos years back—mostly because Max looked like such an idiot. Lando remembered noticing how in love he was. He’d been sitting on the couch with George and Alex and all of them had been stunned to see the way Max stared at Daniel like he’d hung the moon and stars.

So much for Charles, George had said, and all of them cringed a little.

Now Lando had similar pictures of himself and Carlos hanging mistletoe in the palace, Lando staring up at Carlos as he fastened the little plant to a hook in the threshold, his tongue poking through his lips.

What the hell happened?

Last year he’d been a ball of joy at the end of the season. He’d been excited to wake up every day, just to spend more time with Carlos.

Now he had to constantly think ahead and navigate every footstep along the way. He had to hold Daniel up and keep him sober, had to look out for Max and Charles and George and everyone else.

Getting older sucked major ass.

“His Royal Highness is taxiing down to us now,” his driver informed him via intercom. The Saudis definitely knew how to do privacy—Lando didn’t even know what his driver looked like thanks to a permanent partition installed in the car.

Lando rested his head against the window and closed his eyes. He listened as a distant plane took off and felt as the driver started their car, the low rumble of the engine loud in his ear where he had it pressed against the door.

He dug in his pocket and pulled out the already worn letter Carlos had written him.

 

Lando,

It feels good to be in Italy. I will never call it home here, because home will always be Spain for me. It is very cold. It’s nice to wear sweaters though. I will not pack any for Jeddah.

I don’t think I will see you much there. I hate to write this, but I want you to know that I will be wishing to see you the whole time. I’m sure you’ve seen all of the things from Ferrari by now. They are not what they seem. I am fine, I am not exiled, I have spoken to Charles, I am still part of Ferrari. I think that is all they are saying about me? I have not looked at the news lately.

I hope you are not playing golf without me.  (But maybe you need to.)

Anyway, I miss you. I know it will not be the same to see you in Jeddah as it has been, but I will feel better knowing you are close.

Mi lago, mi leche.

CS

 

Lando smiled down at the page, rubbing his thumb over the final line as he had about a hundred times already. He folded up the letter and put it back in his pocket just in time to see a shadow enter the corner of his vision.

Lando whipped his attention out the window to see a jet slink up the tarmac to come to a stop nearby. Sharp red designs punctured the matte black paint, turning the jet into a weapon on appearance alone.

Lando’s heart dropped right through his stomach.

A red lion crest branded the jet’s tail, a warning sign to everyone as to who owned it.

The side door to the jet popped open, and ground crew met with the cabin crew as they handed off various forms. The FIA officials left their place at the car to join them.

“Hey, we can’t be here,” Lando said over intercom. “We need to move. I’m not allowed to be near Max.”

No response.

He pressed the talk button again. “Hello? We need to move, mate.”

“I’ve been told to stay here, Your Royal Highness,” the driver replied, emotionless.

“Well, that’s not right,” Lando snapped. “I’m telling you—”

He let go of the button as Fernando emerged at the mouth of the jet, all smiles. He slid on a pair of sunglasses as he jogged down the stairs and signed off on a clipboard the FIA presented to him. He clapped the shoulder of one of the officials, talking to him like they were old friends.

An emerald green Aston Martin Vantage slithered into view, but Fernando made no move to get inside just yet. Lando watched the mouth of the jet, dread bubbling up his throat the longer he looked.

Daniel appeared at the top of the stairs, looking more rested than he had in weeks. He wore a knit beanie and an oversized sweatshirt, comfortable and cozy. He turned away, as though someone had called him.

A pair of hands appeared and pulled him back into the plane by the hips. Lando caught the edges of Daniel’s smile just before he disappeared again, but Lando knew his movements enough to know when Daniel was leaning in for a kiss.

Nausea welled up in him, causing the world to spin.

Daniel reappeared, this time he had a hand tangled up with Max’s, who walked right behind him with a smile as they descended the stairs together. They broke apart when they reached the bottom of the stairs. Max kept a hand on the small of his back. Lando saw him thumb there soothingly when Daniel turned to sign off on the clipboard. 

None of the FIA officials gave them so much as an accusatory glance. Max spoke to each of them with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, hefting a grey backpack higher on his shoulder before he gave Fernando a hug and laughed at a joke.

Lando had never seen Fernando smile so much. Seeing it made him sick inside.

Fernando waved goodbye before hopping into the passenger seat of the Aston Martin and Max shifted his attention to Daniel, his whole face softening when they met eyes. Daniel smiled back, lashes fluttering when Max reached up to caress his cheek in a quick motion.

Max offered a bright, encouraging smile—just like the Christmas videos. He threw a couple of mock punches as he spoke, a boxer prepping for the ring. Daniel laughed and said something else that caused Max to nod.  He stopped bouncing like a fighter and grabbed the cuff of Daniel’s sleeve, giving it a fond tug.

The FIA officials finished with the flight crews and headed off, talking to each other and ignoring Max and Daniel completely.

Daniel watched Max until he drove off in a waiting Honda NSX, and Lando watched with horror as Daniel’s carefree expression evaporated in the short distance to the Maybach.

Lando shifted to the further seat as their driver hopped out and opened the door for Daniel. Daniel slipped inside with a sigh, all of his features warped and grey in the space of a heartbeat.

“What happened?” Lando blurted out.

Daniel leaned in and pressed a dead kiss to his cheek. “Hi, babe. How’ve ya been?”

Their car started forward, jostling them both as Lando scanned Daniel’s face over and over. He couldn’t match the loving smile he’d just seen with the corpse sitting beside him.

“Daniel, what happened?” Lando repeated. “What’s going on?”

Daniel smiled at him and leaned back against the seat with a sigh. “How’s the hotel? Have you been yet?”

“Daniel, answer me,” Lando hissed.

Daniel let out a hum. “I’m answering.”

“What the fuck are you doing flying in Max’s yet?” Lando demanded, suddenly terrified. “With Fernando? What the fuck is that?”

The corners of Daniel’s mouth ticked up in a half smile. Lando almost bought it, but then he noticed Daniel’s hands shaking in his lap. His whole body trembled a second later, and Lando watched with mute terror as Daniel’s brow furrowed in an attempt to keep himself from breaking.

Lando reached out and took Daniel’s hand in both of his own.

“Daniel—?”

Daniel ripped his hand away and turned to face the window, letting out a harsh breath. “Stop, Lando. Just—” He made a strangled noise. “Stop.”

Lando swallowed hard. His hands hung in the air, fingers splayed and empty. He usually had an idea of how to attempt to comfort Daniel, but this was entirely new. Daniel always had something to talk about. He always had a joke or a deflection or something.

A thousand questions sprang to mind, but Daniel didn’t seem to be in a state to hear him, much less respond.

Daniel brought his knees up to his chest with a shaky breath, completely curled toward the window as desert blurred outside. Lando just sat there staring at him, lost for words.

He doubted even Carlos would have the ability to come up with something to say in this instance.

Daniel made a soft, low noise and began to sob. Lando’s heart broke quietly, a gentle shearing of muscle and sinew inside him. Every part of him ached to pull Daniel to him, but Daniel clearly wanted to be left alone.

Something happened to Max. Lando could think of no other explanation that would cause Daniel so much pain. Max had looked absolutely fine—no, better than fine—leaving the plane. He’d actually been smiling. He’d pulled Daniel in for a kiss the way only a happy lover could. He’d treated him with such softness, such love and care.

Daniel brought his sleeved hands to cover his face and sobbed raggedly into the fabric of his sweatshirt. Lando leaned forward and opened the center console. A vast array of mini alcohol bottles glowed under white LEDs—illegal in Saudi Arabia except for the rich, apparently. Lando quickly rifled through  shot glasses to some plastic-wrapped blankets.

He’d grown up in the back of a car service, he knew all the hiding spots.

Lando ripped open the plastic and shut the console drawer before Daniel could see the alcohol. He pulled the cover off and flipped open the blanket. Cheap fleece, but warm.

“Here,” Lando said curtly as he draped the blanket over Daniel. “Just in case the windows aren’t tinted, yeah?”

He knew they were, but Daniel probably hadn’t noticed. Daniel turned to face him in the seat, allowing Lando to awkwardly tuck him in. Daniel—blessedly—kept his face covered as he continued to weep into his hands. Tears sprang to Lando’s eyes in sympathy, and if Daniel showed his face Lando knew he would break down too.

“Two more races,” Lando said feebly.

Daniel sobbed harder.

You’re an idiot. Why would you say that?

Lando tugged the blanket tighter around his husband and curled up in the seat to face him. A chill seeped through his blood in the silence, forced to listen to Daniel’s choked breathing between his ragged sobs.

The winter chill had found them after all. 

Chapter Text

HRH LEWIS HAMILTON HEADS THE LEADERBOARD AT THE END OF FP1

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia - Prince Lewis has made it clear he has no intention of losing his championship crown this weekend at Jeddah’s new track. He dominated the field this Friday, with Prince Max only five hundredths behind. Prince Valtteri took third, cluing us in to what might be a Mercedes front row lockout on Sunday, as Prince Valtteri told us he was running a race fuel strategy.

With only two races left in the season, the stakes couldn’t be higher—Prince Lewis must win this race and the next to become World Champion. Anything else, and Prince Max will take home the trophy.

The paddock carried and air of excitement into the first practice session, fueled by an exciting race in Qatar just last week.

Who will take P1 at Jeddah? Watch this Sunday to find out! But first, tune in for FP2 for more racing action!

 


 

Jeddah was a track built for testing the limits of a prince’s resolve. The tight corners in the first sector jammed up the rhythm required for the rest of the circuit that gradually opened up to a full throttle madhouse. Every turn-in had to be precise in the latter stages, including one or two corners where a misstep would mean going full speed into a concrete barrier.

Sand and dust from the surrounding landscape made the curbs slippery under rotation, requiring a careful coast on the gas or to avoid them entirely.

Charles ducked into the cambered hairpin of Turn 13, eyes ahead on track as he slid onto the throttle. His delta flickered on his steering wheel LED screen, showing a slight slip in time.

Charles focused ahead, barely touching the brakes for the rapid slice into Turn 16 that set him on course to keep the gas pedal glued to the floor as he rocketed down Jeddah’s version of the backstraight. The tarmac swished in front of him as he found fifth, sixth, seventh and let the revs run out into Turn 22 to keep more traction.

He hugged the wall on the righthand side and swooped in to meet the apex for Turn 23 when he felt the back end start to slide.

Shit.

Charles kept his eyes ahead and reflexively turned the steering wheel to counteract the incoming spin, but it was no use. He avoided impact on the left side wall, but swung out into the track and across to the other side in an instant.

He slammed on the brakes to attempt to avoid damage, but the car had already whipped around to face oncoming traffic, though he’d slid off into the runoff area.

Charles furrowed his brow. He’d been pretty certain there was a—

Crunch.

The back end slammed into a barrier wall, throwing him sideways in the seat before the front end snapped around to collide with the same barrier, throwing Styrofoam all around him as if he’d been trapped inside a snowglobe.

Charles felt his brain collide with the side of his skull. He’d felt it before, a strange kind of pain that intensified after the fact and centered at the nape of his neck. He flexed his hands where he’d rested them at the side of the cockpit. They still worked when he asked them to, so the impact hadn’t been as horrific as it sounded.

“Charles, are you okay?” Jock asked in his ear.

“Fuuuck!” he spat, drawing out the word. He finally had a car that was working properly and he’d binned it into a wall. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Charles unclipped his belts and hopped from the car. His body shook from all of the adrenaline, but it did nothing to stop the frsutration from welling in him as he turned around to get a look at the car.

The back end had crumpled, both wheels toppled like broken legs. His rear wing no longer existed, and a gaping hole further down the barrier wall had pieces or carbon fiber sticking out of the foam. His front wing had sheared off in a spray of debris next to the nose of the car, where his front right tire hung off to the side.

A green Aston Martin medical car screeched to a stop nearby, and a steward and medical attendant jumped out.

“Your Royal Highness!” the medic called. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Charles muttered, arms crossed. Crashes tended to look worse in person. The mechanics would have to spend the night fixing the car, but they’d done more in less time. At least they could check for a crack in the chassis during the recovery process.

“You need to come back to medical for mandatory checks,” the medic said. “Any dizziness? Short of breath? Anything?”

“No,” he answered, pulling off his racing gloves. “I’m fine.”

“Inside the car, please,” the steward directed. The medic guided him toward the car as if he thought Charles would make a run for it.

Not a bad assumption, though Charles didn’t know where he would run to.

Charles kept his helmet on for the whole ride to the medical suite. Race control red-flagged the practice session with five minutes left, rubbing salt in the wound. Mercedes were proving to be the ones to beat for the weekend with Max close behind, and Charles knew how important five more minutes in the car could be.

He removed his helmet when prompted by the medical staff and took a seat on one of the examination tables inside the medical suite. A small monitor played the race channel, where Lewis hugged Valtteri in the Mercedes garage.

Max still thought Lewis was cheating, but Lewis looked the same as he’d always been. He listened to Valtteri with a smile, winked at the camera, gave hugs to passing Mercedes team members.

Max was the one walking around looking guilt stricken. As he should, in Charles’s opinion. Everyone in the royal circle had heard about him flying to Saudi Arabia with Daniel and Fernando—a blatant slap in the face to the FIA ruling. The FIA did nothing to stop him or Daniel from boarding that flight, and did nothing when they landed.

Charles shuddered to think how deep Max’s control extended, but had faith that no prince had the power to dictate anything on track. Fernando could testify to trying, but he never succeeded. It always proved to do more harm than good to try to interfere.

Charles hoped Max still understood that.

“I thought we were done with these visits,” Dr. Luca greeted as he stepped into the medical room. “That was quite the shunt.”

Charles shrugged. Pain flared up at the nape of his neck, but he ignored it.

“Any pain? Headaches?”

Charles shrugged again. “Nothing concerning. I’ll be sore tomorrow. How is the car?”

Dr. Luca tied his hair into a loose bun at the base of his neck and pulled a small instrument from his bag. "The mechanics are up in arms, as you’d expect. But they will figure things out. Ecco, look at the light please.”

Charles followed the tiny light and completed all of the tests he knew were testing for a concussion. Dr. Luca felt the back of his neck for swelling and gave him some blood thinners to alleviate the oncoming soreness.

“You seem reserved,” Dr. Luca murmured as he undid the strap around Charles’s arm he’d used to take his blood pressure.

“Good,” Charles muttered. “That means I’m hiding my anger well.”

Dr. Luca let out a snort. “I meant that—”

The door flew open to reveal Carlos, wide-eyed and breathing hard.

Charles sat up, trying to read his expression. Fear curled in his gut and his mind immediately went to Max. Jos had appeared in the Red Bull garage before the first practice wearing a headset and standing with the team, and Max finishing anything other than first always risked Jos exploding on him.

“Mierda, you people need to say something about his condition if you are going to keep him in here this long!” Carlos snapped, eyes sharp on Dr. Luca.

“Hey, what the hell are you talking about?” Charles asked, immediately defensive. He had Dr. Luca to thank for his mental stability, his ability to do his job.

“No one tells me anything!” Carlos continued, letting the door slam behind him.

“Yes, perhaps for a reason,” Charles said dryly.

Carlos glared at him, then softened. “Are you alright?”

His entire tone changed to something unexpectedly soft. Charles huffed out a breath as he warred between his instinctual response to snap and his husbandly response to pull Carlos closer to assure him he was well.

“He’s sore, but will be fine for the race,” Dr. Luca answered as he packed his blood pressure equipment into his leather satchel. “How is that for reporting, Your Royal Highness?”

Charles bit back a laugh as Carlos stewed. Dr. Luca glanced at him uncertainly, and Charles shook his head.

“You can leave us if you don’t have any more tests,” Charles said. “Grazie mille.”

“Don’t make me have to work anymore,” Dr. Luca said with an accusatory finger. “We have two races left and then I’m going on a very long vacation.”

Charles wished he could say the same. He would leave the team to development for a month or so, then return to begin testing in the simulators and catching up on government business.

Dr. Luca slipped out of the examination room past a fuming Carlos, and suddenly they were alone for the first time since Qatar. Charles had only arrived that morning from Dubai thanks to a bit of creative planning to avoid this exact scenario for as long as possible.

“You’re really okay?” Carlos asked, his voice strangled.

Charles nodded stiffly. “Back of my neck hurts, but no concussion. Why? Was someone asking?”

“I was, and no one would answer me,” Carlos replied. “I was worried.”

“Well, no need. I’m fine.”

Charles hopped off of the examination table and startled when Carlos suddenly appeared in front of him, warm and incredibly too close. He smelled like fresh nomex and hot car.

“You have to talk to me,” Carlos said, so close Charles could feel his voice rumbling in his own sternum. “We’re married. At least, I hope we still are.”

Charles laughed and slapped a hand over his mouth a moment later. All of the stress of the past week had cracked him with Carlos so close.

Carlos recoiled in pain. “Charles, please.”

Charles shook his head and stepped back until his heels hit the base of the examination table. “I’m still angry with you. I don’t want to talk.”

“Well, we need to.”

“Why? The public still thinks we’re madly in love.”

“We are,” Carlos growled, but his eyes were dark with doubt.

Charles flared his nostrils to stop the hurt from puncturing him. “We’re comfortable with each other. We love each other in the way you love someone you grow up with.”

Carlos’s mouth fell open. “Is that…Is that really what you think?”

Charles met his eye with a cold stare. “If you were madly in love with me, you would never dare to go behind my back to Max and against Ferrari. And you certainly wouldn’t do it to have more time with Lando.”

For once, Carlos didn’t respond right away. Instead, he folded his arms and looked at the TV monitor, now showing Max in a stern discussion with Red Bull engineers. Jos loomed in the background, watching his son the way dogs watched the neighborhood cat.

“I planned to spend Lando’s birthday with him,” Carlos finally said, still looking at the TV. “I did not plan on the villa.”

Charles scoffed. “How comforting.”

Carlos closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he opened them again. “I didn’t believe you about Max. I suppose I believed some parts, but I thought you were exaggerating because of your feelings for him.”

“Past feelings,” Charles corrected.

“No, current. He is still important to you.”

Charles shook his head, chewing the inside of his cheek in annoyance.

“Max is not well. At all,” Carlos said. “I could not believe the way he spoke. The things he said—it is like he is poisoned in the head. I had to think so fast because I could tell he was laying a trap for me.”

Charles shot him a look. “How did you know that?”

Carlos gestured vaguely, his frown deepening. “I refused his offer for something in return. I told him I would help him because we are friends, and once married. He did not like that. He accused me of selling him out.”

Charles recalled the days in Los Angeles, Max pacing and pacing, clinging to Daniel like he was the only way to breathe. Long baths where Daniel spent the whole time whispering in low tones too quiet for Charles to hear through the door.

 “He asked if you had anything to do with it,” Carlos said, jarring him from his memories.

“To do with what?”

“Anything. He went off, yelling about many things. Callum, Mick, George, Lando, Sergio. He asked if the Ferrari summit was a call to arms.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “It wasn’t a call to arms against anyone. It was to make sure everyone is aware of Ferrari neutrality. No one left that room thinking I’m siding with Max.”

“Yes, so Max thinks you might have announced you sided with Lewis,” Carlos said. “If you’re not with me, you’re against me—this is what he said.”

That sounded like Max on a tirade. Charles dimly wondered what else he told Carlos, and if Carlos was keeping it secret from him.

“I want to trust you, but I don’t think I can,” Charles said quietly. “You always say the right thing, but you still chose Lando over me.”

Carlos blinked. “I protected him, yes. Lando doesn’t have the power you do. If Max turns on him—”

“Don’t make this about power,” Charles warned. “You staying in a villa alone with him was not a choice made because of power.”

Carlos deflated before his eyes. His usually strong shoulders went slack and the air left his lungs in a sad sound. “If you want to be against me, I can’t help that. But I make every decision with you in mind, even that one. Maybe you don’t want to hear that, but it’s true.”

“I don’t want to be against you,” Charles hissed. “I love you. Why do you think I’m so upset? It’s not because you told Max about Alfa Romeo, it’s because you did it behind my back.” He swallowed hard, his neck taut with pain and hurt alike. “And because you did it for Lando.”

Saying the words out loud felt like letting blood, a hot-cold rush. Charles moved to leave but Carlos caught his arms, gentle but firm.

“I had no intention of hurting you,” Carlos murmured. “I confirmed a rumor for Max, as his friend. He turned it into something more.”

“Yes, and you should have known it would turn into more,” Charles snapped, but he didn’t pull away. “And I think you did, because you’re smart. You knew this would help you see Lando.”

“I didn’t know that at all,” Carlos protested. “Look at me Charles, please.”

Charles dared to meet his impossibly warm brown eyes. Carlos looked the same as always: soft lips, freckles dotting his cheeks like a hidden galaxy. Charles knew all he had to do was tilt his head up and he could capture those same lips in a kiss that would feel safe and right. He could put his hands on Carlos’s waist and it would feel like nothing had changed.

“My future is you,” Carlos said softly. “I would never put that at risk on purpose.”

Charles leaned back enough to no longer feel the wash of Carlos’s breath on his neck. “See? You always say the right thing.”

Carlos shook his head. “Not with you. Not lately.”

A bitter taste rose on the back of his tongue, one that made Charles blink back tears. A few months ago he never would have imagined something so trivial to drive such a wedge between them. Mick had been right—what Carlos did hardly constituted treason in comparison to what other princes did on a daily basis.

But it still hurt.

“If I forgive you, it feels like letting you get away with it,” Charles said tartly. “You don’t deserve that. You betrayed me to benefit you and him.”

Carlos pulled him in close, until Charles could rest his head on Carlos’s shoulder. Exactly as predicted, his arms felt warm and safe–they were his home.

“I did what I thought was right, and I was wrong,” Carlos admitted quietly. “I’m so sorry. You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to, but please come back.”

How could he say no when this was all he wanted? He’d spent almost a week without touching his husband outside of appointment obligations, and the only kisses they shared were for the cameras.

“We don’t know what will  happen at the end of the season,” Carlos murmured into his hair. “We have to be strong and face it together.”

A shiver ran down Charles’s spine. The end of the season loomed like death itself. Usually he looked forward to spending winter in Monaco or traveling somewhere warm. He typically had a ski trip planned by now, but all he had waiting for him was a short trip to Dubai before returning to Monte Carlo.

“We’ll be safe,” Charles finally said. He didn’t know if he believed it.

“Yes,” Carlos replied with a nod. “But that might not be the case for the people we love.”

Pierre had been in Max’s line of fire once before, and it nearly cost him his crown. Max barely had power then. Charles had no idea what kind of special privileges Max would have if he became champion. Only a few members of royalty had any clue, and all of them stayed silent about it.

Part of the allure of a championship was the mystery of what happened after. Some said it—though no one knew what “it” was—happened before the new champion left the track. Others said the FIA met them at home. Charles had even heard a rumor that Nico Rosberg had stepped onto a flight as a victor and emerged from the plane as an entirely new person, but his flight records showed he traveled alone.

Regardless, every prince who became a champion came into the new season as someone different. Historians likened it to the Coronation, lifting the veil between royalty and godliness.

Charles ached to understand it all someday, and he only wanted that with Ferrari. Ferrari had its own traditions, and a Ferrari champion was one step above any other, in Charles’s opinion.

He could not become a champion alone, as much as he liked to think he could.

“Promise me you don’t do anything like this again,” Charles said as he pulled back. “Look me in the eyes and promise me. And if you break this promise, I will exile you faster than you can open your mouth to make up an excuse.”

Carlos nodded without hesitation. “I promise, Charles.” Carlos took his hands and squeezed them both. “I want to be with you, not against you.”

“You’ll have to prove that,” Charles said. “With actions, not words. I’ve had enough of those to last a—”

Carlos cut him off with a kiss, completely disarming him. Charles stuttered into it, his mind and body working against each other as he tried to decide what to do in response. Carlos released his hands only to cup his face in a tender motion of complete love that made Charles weak in the knees.

“How was that?” Carlos murmured when they broke apart, still close enough that Charles could feel his lips as he spoke.

Charles kissed him instead of answering, because he wanted to. Because he’d missed this, and Carlos, and the life they built and trying to be the sole prince of Ferrari without him hadn’t felt good at all.

He pulled back after a moment and cleared his throat, but kept his hands at Carlos’s hips.

“Don’t think this means I trust you fully,” Charles warned, but his words were soft. “But I did miss you.”

Carlos looked like he might explode with happiness. “I missed you too.”

Charles nodded toward the door. “Let’s go. We have to be prepared for tomorrow, and I want to be back at the hotel before my neck starts to hurt.”

Carlos took his hand and tangled their fingers together as they emerged from the examination room. Charles kept his eyes ahead as they walked and prayed he hadn’t just kissed a traitor.

Chapter 140

Notes:

tw: child abuse

Chapter Text

 

 

Every driver strove for the perfect lap every time they stepped in a car. When George drove in his mind, he saw every apex, every turn-in, every braking point in perfect clarity. The car became weightless, a seamless transition between throttle and brakes. Lewis had several laps deemed perfect throughout his career—determined by other drivers, not him. Every corner built momentum, sucking in onlookers who wanted to witness greatness.

George remembered sitting with Max in the hot sun as a kid, watching karts wind around a track. They searched for new racing lines and pointed out interesting braking techniques or plain bad driving.

“My dad said if I try harder, I’ll have the fastest lap ever,” Max had said once, twirling a dandelion between his fingers.

“You already had the fastest lap today,” George remembered muttering, upset that he’d lost out in his class.

“Fastest today, not ever. I want to be the fastest ever.”

Max liked complete dominance. No wiggle room, no second-guesses. It stemmed from his father—Jos dangled rewards then snatched them away. He moved the goalposts and screamed at Max to keep pace. Jos gave Max no control, so he compensated by demanding as much of it as he could from everyone else.

It was sick and twisted, but it accomplished Jos’s goal of a son so hungry for a win he would do anything to get it.

George raced for the thrill of it, for the unexplainable high of controlling a car at top speed, the careful dance required to drive on the limit for the length of a race. He loved the unpredictable battles, the puzzling through problems. The pressure excited him—he loved to prove himself to his empire, to the world.

Max drove with death looming on his rear wing.

The starless skies above Jeddah warned of danger despite the strange techno pop blasting through the speakers to excite the fans. George bounced his knee as he watched the wall of monitors in the Williams garage. Lewis had pole, but Max’s first sector has gone purple on his final lap. Every corner built momentum, laying the foundation for that elusive perfect lap.

Max would win the championship tomorrow if he started from first. He might win it from second too. His lead in the championship was fragile, but tangible. Lewis would have to put on another flawless performance in order to change the tides.

“That’s purple in Sector Two,” the announcers said through George’s headset. The crowd went silent, everyone’s attention on the shining Red Bull livery as it tore into Sector Three. George pressed his knuckles to his lips as he watched, begging for a tenth and a half that would put Max behind Lewis and Val—

“Oh my god!” George shot up from his seat as Max’s rear wheel clipped the barrier wall on the final corner, sending the car skittering over the tarmac. Max’s helmet bounced around in the cockpit for a moment until everything came to a stop with one tire mangled.

The crowd erupted, half in cheers, half in anguish. George’s heart leapt into his throat as the camera changed to Jos in the Red Bull garage. Jos punched a table, sending papers and headsets flying.

“It’s a Mercedes front row lockout!” the announcers boomed. “Prince Verstappen has crashed on the final corner! It’s over!”

It wasn’t over. Not for Max.

A familiar sickness crept through George’s bloodstream as track personnel ran out onto the tarmac. Max emerged from the car and stalked toward the escape hatch in the fence, waving people off as they approached.

“This is not good,” Nicky said beside him.

George glanced at him and swallowed hard. “It’s good for Lewis.”

But even George couldn’t find it in himself to be happy. Every day that Max and Lewis were both in contention for the championship, he felt his life shorten by a few years.

Fuck.

“It’s not your job to fix this,” Nic said as if reading his thoughts.

George balled his hands to fists at his sides, watching as Lewis shook hands with his team on screen, all smiles.

Gloating, George thought before he could stop himself. Lewis knew about Jos now—

he didn’t have the excuse of ignorance. George didn’t know how he could stand there celebrating after everyone saw Jos try to punch a table apart on live TV.

But what was worse: celebrating a personal success or standing there doing nothing?

“I have to try,” George finally said, gathering his courage. “I owe him that much.”

Nic shook his head. “You don’t owe Max Verstappen anything. Don’t you remember almost punching him in the face in Portugal? Where’s that George?”

Lost, he wanted to reply. Lost and naïve. Back then, he thought Lewis Hamilton had fallen for him against all odds. That, somehow, his gangly frame and mathematical mind had endeared a World Champion.

Technically, Lewis did fall for him. But George didn’t believe true love involved technicalities. It never had with Alex.

“Doesn’t this feel bigger than that?” George asked. “I hate what Max did. I hate it. And I hated him—I still don’t like him. He’s an asshole and he’s proud and he hurts people for his own gain. But I think if things were different—”

“They aren’t different, though,” Nic said. He gave an approaching engineer a pointed look, sending her sidestepping back into the crowd of mechanics.

“Yes, but—”

“They aren’t different, George,” Nic repeated. “You say all that stuff about Max—he could become champion tomorrow. Do you want a champion like that?”

George shook his head.

“I don’t either. Nobody does. You used to be so happy when Lewis did well, now you barely smile. What’s up with that?”

A sour taste filled George’s mouth. “I don’t know.”

He did know. He laid awake at night and relived that moment in Lewis’s motorhome on loop in his head.

He’d still hadn’t heard Lewis speak that way since, even in the moments he witnessed between Lewis and Sebastian. Some part of Lewis would always be performing as long as someone else was around. Sebastian obviously saw it. George had noted his increasing frustration as the season wore on.

“Do you not love him anymore?” Nicky asked, so quiet that even George could barely hear him.

George wished he could nod and say that yes, he had fallen out of love with Lewis. But even thinking the words made him protective. He could taste a frosted vegan cupcake, draw the lines of Lewis’s tattoos, and feel the ghost of one of Lewis’s carved metal rings brushing his bare ribcage in the dark.

“I love him,” George said, “but it’s different now.”

“Because of Alex?”

George blinked, taking in the concern on Nicky’s face. He sometimes forgot how tangled he’d become in Lewis’s game, how most of the world was ignorant to all of it. Most people saw Lewis as the unbothered lion ruling the pride. Very few saw the claws and teeth. Fewer still had felt them sink into their flesh and survived it.

Nic, his own husband, saw the love story everyone else did. He’d seen George’s heartbreak, but he didn’t know the cause. In Nic’s mind, George was still navigating a political minefield to save Alex. Only Alex.

“Yeah,” George replied weakly. It wasn’t a lie, technically. “Thinking about next season, all that. I still have to be loyal to Lewis, no matter what I feel about Alex.”

On the monitors, Lewis spoke into a bouquet of microphones, laughing and smiling,  one arm around Valtteri. Sebastian wandered behind him in his ugly green racesuit, blurred in the background. Blurred, but there. Always lingering just far enough away to be forgotten about.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” George said, squeezing Nic’s arm. “Don’t worry, I won’t cause any trouble.”

Nic frowned. “Don’t promise that. Whenever you leave me in the garage, it’s to go find trouble.”

George grinned. “Finding trouble isn’t causing it. The trouble’s already there!”

He ducked out of the garage before Nic could cuff him over the head, but his smile dropped the second he stepped into the hospitality lane. He beelined toward Alpha Tauri, silently begging that Pierre wasn’t fucking Charles somewhere when he needed him.

Thankfully, he spotted Pierre standing outside of the hospitality suite, cheeks stuffed full of some kind of bread roll.

“It’s the only time I’m allowed to eat carbs,” Pierre explained through his mouthful as George hurried up to him. “What do you want?”

“Yeah, nice to see you too,” George snapped. “The hell is your problem?”

Pierre rolled his eyes dramatically. “Tu es coincé, c’est ça le problème.”

“Don’t French me—”

“I definitely don’t want to French you,” Pierre teased, breaking into a smile. “I’m joking. What’s up?”

George blinked stupidly, trying to disengage the anger quickly rising in him. He willed himself to calm down by taking a deep breath.

“George? Something wrong?”

He shook his head, then stopped himself. “Yes. It’s Max. I need your help.”

Pierre leaned away from him, glancing around. “I think you understand why that is very hard for me to do right now.”

“I mean I need your help to help him,” George clarified. “You know the layout of the Red Bull suite, yeah?” He jerked his chin toward the Red Bull hospitality motorhome next to them, covered in royal crests.  

Pierre nodded slowly, still chewing on his bread. “Why?”

“I think he’s going to be in danger,” George said, keeping his voice low. “I want to be close by in case...you know. In case Jos."

Pierre’s eyes flashed. He stopped chewing. “Merde. I didn’t think of that. Fuck, one second.”

Pierre disappeared into the suite, leaving George to stare out at the thinning crowd. Princes dotted the hospitality lane, easily visible by the crowd of people circling them as they walked. Mick stood with a fan for a photo, Antonio signed a few hats with Kimi standing stone-faced beside him, and Fernando chatted happily with Esteban, completely ignoring all of the people around them.

George had heard that Max flew into Saudi Arabia on a plane with Fernando and Daniel, a combination that didn’t sit right with him.

“Okay, I’m ready,” Pierre said as he reemerged from the Alpha Tauri suite. His bread was gone and his racing boots had been replaced with Nikes. “Let’s go.”

George nodded toward Red Bull. “Does Max’s driver room have windows?”

Pierre thought for a moment. “Yes, I‘m pretty sure. Come on.”

He slipped over the decorative railing and headed for the back of the motorhomes.

“So what is your plan?” Pierre asked as they squeezed between the exterior walls. Red Bull had built their suite jammed up against Alpha Tauri to the point that even George had to suck in to make it all the way through to the back side. At least they would hear someone coming if they tried to approach.

“Well, I’m assuming Max’s room is back here,” George said as he shimmied out into the tiny space between the suite and the various generators and A/C units behind it.

“Yes,” Pierre replied, wiping his hands on his Nomex. He lowered his voice as he looked up to some very office-looking windows. “That room. He used to complain about the view.”

“A second floor driver’s room? Crikey,” George whispered. He glanced at a platform for an A/C unit that would give them a big boost in height. “That changes things. I’m going to have to get on your shoulders. We can stand on that platform thing.”

Pierre cocked his head, suddenly wary. “Why? Are you going to spy on him?”

“I’m going to check on him, yeah,” George replied. “To make sure Jos didn’t do anything.”

Pierre looked up at the window, considering. “No, it should be me spying.”

“Checking,” George corrected.

“Whatever. I’m clearly the best option.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” George said. “I’m taller and lighter than you. I should be getting on your shoulders.”

Pierre shrugged. “I know more Dutch than you.”

“Since when?”

“Say something in Dutch.”

George glared at him. “You say something in Dutch!”

Pierre smirked. “Top.”

“Top what?”

Pierre shrugged. “It’s a Dutch word, you wouldn’t know it. Now, turn yourself into a ladder.”

George simmered. They didn’t have time to argue. Max would be back from medical any minute.  So he climbed onto the platform and pulled Pierre up with him.

“You’ll be okay,” Pierre teased, ruffling his hair. “This will make your abs look good for all of those shirtless pictures you take.”

George jabbed him in the stomach before reluctantly bracing himself against the wall of the hospitality suite. Pierre, to his credit, moved light as a cat as he hopped up George’s back to stand on his shoulders. But PIerre was heavy as shit.

“Fuck you for this,” George grunted, adjusting to support Pierre’s weight better. “Is he in there?”

“I can’t see,” Pierre said, shifting his weight. “No, doesn’t look like it. But his bag is there. He doesn’t leave the track without his bag.”

George found it strangely endearing that Pierre would remember something so minor about the man he’d once been married to. Especially one who all but organized the explosion of their relationship on the world stage.

“Move over a step to the left,” Pierre instructed. “I think my head’s going to make a shadow.”

“You think? Your head could be a Xenomorph stunt double,” George muttered to himself as he shifted left. Pierre bounced, nearly sending him to his knees. “What the fuck?!”

“Don’t call me an alien.”

“Well it’s true,” George growled. “And I—"

Pierre went rigid and George cut himself off. Max must have arrived. He struggled to look up, but even from below he heard the telltale thud of a door closing up above.

“Move left!” Pierre hissed, driving weight into George’s left shoulder. George choked down a noise and shifted left.

“—was very clear—use English,” Max said, his voice muffled, but not as much as George has expected it to be from so far below.

Jos replied in clipped Dutch, loud and seething.

“Stop,” Max warned, closer now.

“Ik zal niet stoppen!” Jos snapped. George didn’t need to understand Dutch to guess what he’s said. Jos continued shouting, speaking so quickly that George didn’t even think Max understood him.

“I cannot do that if you break my arms,” Max said, eerily calm.

George’s throat went taut. He desperately wanted to know what Pierre was seeing up there, but instead he was forced to imagine it.

“—idioot,” Jos hissed. “Een egoïstische idioot.”

George heard a thump and Pierre flinched above him.

“Do you understand what I am saying now?” Jos asked.

“Yes,” Max replied.

Jos said something else in Dutch that sounded like a rhetorical question.

“Yes,” Max repeated.

Another thump. Another question from Jos.

“I have—medical checks, Papa!” Max croaked out, his voice swollen at the edges. He coughed harshly.

Jos snarled something in Dutch, low and evil. Words bubbled up in George’s throat, but he feared if they could hear Jos and Max, the reverse would be true.

His shoulders began to tremble under the strain of Pierre’s weight. He curled his fingers around Pierre’s shoes, gripping tight to keep the both of them stable.

“I will,” Max grit out. “He will not be faster. I promise.”

“I do not care if he is faster,” Jos said. “You win. Whatever it takes, yes? Yes?”

“Yes,” Max said quickly. “I promise.”

“Good. What are you crying for? Because you are a loser?” Jos made a noise of disgust loud enough for George to hear. “You are so…”

A sharp clap startled George and Pierre, but George braced against the suite in time that they didn’t wobble too much. Fuck, Pierre was heavy.

“I would not have to do this if you were simply…anything other than what you are. Instead you are so weak. Get your things, quickly. We are leaving. Now, Max, or are you deciding to be slow in this too?”

George stood still until he heard the thud of the door a moment later. Pierre gently wiggled his foot and George carefully lowered himself until Pierre slip off of him, still surprisingly smooth.

Pierre’s face was white as a sheet when George rose to meet him—and Pierre always had an unfairly nice tan.

“What did you see?” George dared to ask.

Pierre shook his head. “I thought…Je ne sais pas—I thought this was over.”

George gently gripped his arm. “Pierre, what did you see?”

“Everything,” Pierre whispered, his blue eyes clouded with pain. He reached out, using George to steady himself. “He knew I was there.”

George’s eyes went wide. “What?”

Pierre’s gaze went distant, a thousand kilometers away. “He saw me when he walked in. He wanted me to see, George. He let me.”

George watched as tears welled in Pierre’s eyes. He’d only ever seen Pierre cry at Monza, Anthoine’s funeral, and over Charles.

“What about Jos?” George tried.

Pierre nodded distractedly. “He was like an animal hunting. It was—fuck, it was so fast. I couldn’t—just—”

Heat collected in George’s eyes too.

“I’ve never seen Max scared before,” Pierre finally finished, wiping his eyes. He lifted a hand, slowly pressing his knuckles to George’s ribcage in a fist. The sounds replayed in George’s mind, now accompanied with the visual of Jos punching his own son.

George had seen Jos slap Max before, and he knew it wasn’t limited to that. He’d seen the bruises that pointed to harder hits, the swollen ears and busted lips. The way Max flinched sometimes when stewards lifted their hands too close to his kart as a kid.

“How bad?” George managed to ask.

Pierre swallowed hard. “He was still in his overalls. Zipped. So maybe…” He trailed off. “I think Max would have been more upset if something broke.”

George squeezed his eyes shut. “And the last one?”

Pierre grimaced. “His face will be red for awhile. Slap.”

George let out a shaky sigh. A coldness washed over him, chilling his blood to ice in an instant. “So what happens now?”

Pierre shook his head. “The same as always. Nothing. Who will we go to, the FIA?” He let out a snort. “Nobody will believe us. Even if they do, they will not help.”

George had come to the same conclusion. He doubted Max would even go along with any attempt to hurt his father.

“I think he wanted someone to know,” Pierre said quietly. His eyes began to leak color, turning from uncut sapphire to glacial runoff as he spoke. “This way, if he loses tomorrow, at least one of us will know the real story when something happens to him.”

 

 


 

 

“Come on,” Lando whined as he exited the McLaren hospitality suite. “How long does it take you to eat dinner?”

Daniel sat with his back to him, his rice and chicken bowl only half eaten on the table beside him. Lando reached down to snag his fork and took a bite of juicy chicken, letting out a hum.

“Man, they made yours way better than mine. Did they cook it with butter? I’m on, like, a zero fat—” He paused as he finally got a look at Daniel’s face. Paunchy cheeks, grey skin, bloodshot eyes.

Not again.

Lando slumped into the seat next to  him and reached out on instinct to feel Daniel’s forehead for a fever. “Do you want to talk?”

He never wanted to talk anymore.

Daniel flashed the fakest smile Lando had ever seen. He sniffed and shook his head. “I’m alright, babe. Thank you.”

“Did you see Max?” Lando tried, shifting closer.

Daniel nodded. “You just missed him, he just walked by. He’s headed back to the hotel, I reckon.”

Lando took his hand and squeezed. “Let’s go, then. Maybe we can beat him there and catch him in the lobby.”

Daniel smiled again, but this one looked like a last ditch effort to keep the rest of his body held together. “He’s got a big day tomorrow.”

Lando searched Daniel’s face. He spoke like something had already been decided. Of course, the championship hung in the balance, but Daniel didn’t look the least bit apprehensive.

Daniel looked back out into the hospitality lane, chasing Max’s ghost. He sniffed again and squeezed Lando’s hand in return. “Where are you going after the season ends? Back home?”

Lando shook his head, brow furrowed. “I’m going to Monaco, remember? You too, right? Then to Australia?”

“Ah, right,” Daniel said with a nod, as if they hadn’t just spoken about it yesterday. Lights from passing golf carts made neon stripes in Daniel’s dark eyes as he watched them pass.  “Maybe you should hit London first. Stop home with the parental units and all that.”

“My parents live in Somerset,” Lando said.

Daniel made a face, eyes still glazed over. “Right, sorry. Somerset. Even better.”

“I’m going to Monaco. I have to spend the whole break moving everything into the new place.”

“Okay,” Daniel said softly. “Just saying, it’d probably be nicer in Somerset.”

“It’ll be really cold, you mean,” Lando replied with an edge to his voice. “Why don’t you want me in Monaco? I don’t care if you spend the whole time with Max. I’m totally expecting that.”

Daniel finally sat up with something closer to a real smile this time. “Cool. Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything, that’s all.”

Lando narrowed his eyes. That didn’t seem to be anywhere close to “all.”

But Daniel stood up before he could say it and took his chicken bowl back inside without another word.

Chapter 141

Notes:

this chapter took a million years and was somehow more mentally exhausting than actually watching this race irl lol. i suppose this would be a good time to say that as we head into abu dhabi, i don't want max or lewis hate in the comments concerning real life antics. FG is its own universe based on actual events, but with my own twist (as it's always been).

be respectful--the 2021 season is still a sore point for a lot of people and it's exhausting enough to relive this part of the season for days on end, trying to write out the events as they relate to FG. but it's kind of wild to think that we're finally nearing the end. stay tuned for some special stuff coming, and check out the discord to keep up to date with everything fool's gold. you can find the discord link on chapter 1. 🥰

Chapter Text

 

 

“I tried going to his room last night,” Pierre said the next morning, hidden in the shade of an empty garage being used to store film equipment. “They wouldn’t let me anywhere close. I told Christian it was an emergency and he just looked at me like I was nothing.”

Charles absently thumbed Pierre’s knee where he sat on the cool concrete in front of him. His stomach churned with the sickness that always rose in him whenever Jos came up.

“You did what you could to help,” Charles said quietly.

Pierre shook his head. “Je n'ai pas aidé. I watched.”

Charles swallowed hard. “That’s all I did while we were growing up. At least you tried to do something. I never did.”

“Tu étais un enfant."

"Nous sommes encore des enfants," Charles snapped, but it had no heat. “That isn’t an excuse. We head empires and we can’t even save Max from an outsider.”

Pierre met his eye and Charles’s mouth pinched as if he’d sucked on a sour candy. Salty, sweet, and bitter all at once. He loved Pierre so much, but he’d barely found time with him and he’d spent the night with Carlos, blowing on the embers of their nearly-extinguished relationship and trying to come back from it all.

Max’s pain trumped all of that, yet Charles didn’t see a way to help.  

“I thought it would stop,” Pierre admitted. “I thought it was over. When I saw Jos, I thought he was just going to scare Max—you know, threaten him. I never thought—”

“You never thought Max would let him do it,” Charles finished with an edge.

Pierre flinched. “I know Max didn’t let him. I know it doesn’t work like that.”

Pierre had parents who had treated him like royalty since childhood. Charles had experienced the same and he knew it. He was il predestinato, while his younger brother drowned in the lower courts, put aside so all of the money and focus could center on Charles and his bid for royalty.

“Max isn’t a kid anymore, though,” Pierre said. “J'ai pensé…I mean, he’s punched me before.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “What? When?”

Pierre laughed, laced with pain. “He didn’t attack me. We were training. Both of us were learning how to box. We decided to spar with each other and then he slugged me before we even started. A cheap shot. I went after him.”

Rumors had always swirled around Pierre and Max’s tumultuous marriage. Charles knew they’d fought viciously throughout. Max wanted a subordinate, Pierre wanted an equal.

“I thought that was the worst I would ever see him,” Pierre continued, returning his gaze to the floor. “But he seems so much worse now. I wish I could be there for him.”

Charles softened, folding his hand over Pierre’s calf and giving a squeeze. “You were. He knew you were there yesterday and trusted you with what you saw.”

Pierre made a choked noise. “I know, and I didn’t do anything, Char.”

“Max doesn’t want anyone to do anything,” Charles said. “Je sais que—It’s not right, but he never wanted me to say anything to anyone. Max still thinks his dad is helping him. He thinks—”

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Pierre said. “Il a tort. He’s abused, Charles. He needs to be away from that fuckhead.”

Charles looked away. He caught a sliver of the paddock outside, full of people bustling around in the evening sun to prepare for the race.

“I know he does, but Max loves his father. He won’t cut him off, quoi qu'il arrive. If he wanted to, he could send Jos away. Former princes are only allowed in the royal circle with permission from princes or the FIA.”

Pierre stared at him. “So you don’t think the FIA had anything to do with this? After what we had to go through to get Max to your room?”

Charles worked his jaw, fighting not to speak. Evidently Max hadn’t been so arrogant as to tell everyone about his power within the FIA.

“I think Red Bull could prevent Jos from coming around if they wanted to,” Charles finally answered.

Pierre nodded slowly. “That’s true. We have to protect him if he loses, Charles.”

“You need to stay out of this,” Charles said with a shake of his head. “I can’t watch you go through something like 2019 again.”

Pierre folded his hand over Charles’s, sending pleasant warmth rushing up Charles’s arm all the way to his heart. He smiled even though the situation didn’t warrant it, and Pierre offered a gentle smile in return.

“I’ll protect him,” Charles promised. “Max probably wanted you to see so you would tell me. You’re stuck because of Red Bull. I’m never going to support Max’s championship bid, but I’ll protect Max as a person. I have enough power for that.”

Pierre didn’t look like he believed him, but he nodded anyway. “Be safe, Charles. None of this is looking good.”

Charles smiled. “Things haven’t looked good for me all year. I’ll be fine.”

 


 

An hour later, Charles stared out through his visor at the track ahead, eyes unseeing. Visions of Max swirled in his head, a thousand moments he’d witnessed growing up with him: the furtive glances toward the door whenever he and Max were alone, the way Max held his breath whenever his father walked through the house on the way to another room.

Charles knew exactly how Jos Verstappen beat his son, physically and psychologically. Pierre had recounted the story with so much pain, but Charles found himself grateful that Jos had only landed a few punches and a single slap.

He remembered the days where Max squeezed his hand tightly while he walked because he was in so much pain. He remembered swollen ears and the one day Max feared he would lose his hearing. Or the day where he kept falling over because Jos had hit him so hard that he’d burst something in Max’s ear canal that knocked his center of gravity off kilter.

He remembered the way Max wore a t-shirt to the beach to hide the bruises and marks, the way Charles asked his mother for more food for lunch when he realized Jos would withhold meals until Max put on a good performance.

Pierre didn’t know a thing about Max’s experience. George didn’t either. Not the way Charles did.

Charles had been too young to even comprehend it himself. Too young to fully understand what it meant to see every one of Max’s ribs and the hollowness of his eyes. Max always acted like it was so normal, he spoke about his father’s temper openly. He still did. Max attributed his success to his father’s dictatorship.

The lights came on over the pit lane, throwing Charles from his thoughts. He slotted into his bite point on the clutch, holding the revs stable. He glanced to his right, where Max’s helmet sat motionless in his cockpit with Sergio right behind him.

The lights went out and Charles launched forward, leaving all thoughts of childhood behind.

Max sheared up the inside, as expected. Charles glanced at his mirrors but kept wide, daring Checo to hit him. Their cars wedged up next to each other and Charles grit his teeth, heart pumping in his ears as he waited for an inevitable rub or puncture.

None came.

That was the thing about driving among the best—as competitive as they could get, they trusted each other immensely on track. The danger came when princes drove outside of the parameters they knew to expect.

Charles made a move for the inside, but Max cut him off with a decisive move, a warning. As Max barreled ahead toward Bottas, Charles read the desperation in his driving. He knew it personally, intimately. He’d experienced it once before, at the karting championships.

“Winning will always matter more,” Max had said back then before they left each other to head to their separate garages.

He’d been so afraid. Charles had seen then, as he saw now, that winning didn’t really matter more. Survival did.

People accomplished all kinds of feats with the fear of death behind them. Winning against Lewis Hamilton after starting in third would not be the most notable, but it would change Max’s entire world in an instant.

 


 

“Who is that?” Lando asked over radio ten laps later as he spotted a white car crumpled into the barrier wall after Turn 21. He passed too fast to make out any major details, but at least the crash didn’t look too intense.

“That’s Mick,” Will said in his ear.

“He’s okay?”

“Yeah. Took himself out there, looks like.”

Lando continued on down the track, bunching up to Sergio’s rear wing, Charles just ahead. Interesting. Charles seemed to have more pace than usual. He glanced in his mirrors, but didn’t see a single bit of red. Carlos must have gotten caught out somewhere.

They churned through another lap under yellows and suddenly Lando’s steering wheel screen flashed red.

“Red flag, red flag,” Will announced in his ear a moment later as stewards waved red flags on the fence.

Lando hit his response message on the wheel, but a nagging thought chewed up his brain so he got on radio anyway.

“Mick’s okay, right?”

 


 

George stood with his arms crossed at the mouth of the Williams garage, listening as his engineers spoke over the headset about the best methods to continue the race. Fans were nervous in the crowd, and memories of Spa flashed in George’s memory as he watched the big screens outside of the garage, waiting for news.

Mick’s hunched frame filled up the screen as he stood in the Haas garage, headset on. He wore a familiar face of Schumacher anger, but was otherwise unharmed. The spin replayed on screen every few minutes to add further insult to injury. His back end had kicked out into a snap of oversteer, almost identical to Charles’s wipeout on day one of practice.

The screen jumped to Max’s onboard, where he drove right in Valtteri’s mirrors, helmet cocked to stare right at him through the reflection.

A shiver ran down George’s spine.

It’s just a race, Max.

This time, of course, it was anything but.

 


 

“Valtteri’s driving massively off the pace,” Max said over radio, filling Lando’s headset as he watched the replay from inside the McLaren garage. Max was diving right in Valtteri’s mirrors, edging in close during the safety car.

“I agree,” Max’s race engineer said. “It’s shit. Absolute shit.”

Lando blinked, taken off guard by the race engineer’s tone. Race engineers were hired to keep absolute calm during the race. They juggled a thousand different people telling them a thousand different things and only spoke to their driver to relay the most important information. Lando’s connection with Will was still a work in progress, but they knew each other well when it came to how Lando wanted to be told things on raceday.

Will would never speak like that over radio. Not only was it unprofessional, but Lando would be furious if his race engineer sat there agreeing with him about a bad call. Will’s job was to find a solution or to encourage Lando find one.

“It’s not allowed,” one of the commentators said. “It’s absolutely not allowed under the regulations.”

Lando almost laughed. Since when did commentary ever talk shit about Mercedes on air?

“Your Royal Highness,” one of the mechanics said, “they’re preparing to go.”

Lando nodded and took one last look at the grid lineup. Mercedes had opted for a double stack pit stop before the red flag, which meant Max would restart the race from pole position.

 


 

Charles chewed the inside of his cheek in anger as he stared down Esteban’s rear wing in front of him. He had no fucking clue how Esteban Ocon—in an Alpine—had managed to take his position in fourth. Worse, Daniel Ricciardo had somehow made it ahead of him too—Daniel, who couldn’t drive for shit all season except to take out Valtteri for Max.

Th lights went out before Charles had time to think on it.

Daniel cut over decisively, but Charles knew his tricks and cut up the inside, avoiding Esteban at the same time—until Esteban jumped out in front of him just to slow down.

White smoke lifted in Charles’s peripheral as he broke into Turn 1, but he caught the carnage as Max swung in hard. Lewis kept his line and Max went off track to cut in and get ahead.

Charles blinked, going through his places on muscle memory. Not the smartest idea while taking a corner  three wide, but they all made it through okay and headed on at lightning speed.

He was losing ground, though. Charles glanced in his mirrors and cursed under his breath, punching the throttle. Esteban had second. How the fuck did Estaban have—

Charles jolted in his seat as his front tire tagged another car. He glanced left to see Sergio spinning out behind him, dangerously exposed to oncoming traffic in a blind corner.

Fuck.

 


 

“Jesus Christ, mate!” George screamed in his helmet as he slammed on the brakes. He swerved to avoid Checo’s car and kept a careful eye on the car in front, slowing to avoid further—

His eyes bulged out of his skull as someone hit him from behind at what felt like full speed. George watched in slow motion horror as the back end of his car lifted clear off the ground like a bucking horse, throwing him toward the pavement face first.

Thankfully, the car slammed to the ground again and he instinctively stabbed the throttle, but crunched against the barrier wall and slid along it for far too long until the car gave a final cry and slumped into the runoff.

Holy fuck.

“George! George? Are you okay?” James called over radio. “George?”

“I’m okay,” George grit out. He shook all over as he fought to remove the cockpit piece on the car to free himself. The small of his back seized with the effort, but he ignored it. He wanted out. Someone hit him going full fucking speed. He could have fucking died.

He wanted to throw up.

Once he freed himself from the car, George dropped to the tarmac, clutching his helmet for a moment as the stewards rushed over.

“You’re going to medical,” the first one said.

George could only nod, his neck already twinging with the effort.

 


 

Another red flag. Lando sat amongst the engineers, eyes vacant. All of the time outside the car caused exhaustion to pull at the backs of his eyes, his jet lag finally catching up to him. Daniel paced the garage, completely hyped up for his miracle restart in fourth. Fucking fourth, while Lando would start dead last behind Nicholas La-fucking-tifi.

The universe seemed to be turning on its head. Lando would have to fight his way up the grid just to hope for points while Daniel had a shot at a podium. Even Esteban had managed to secure third on the restart.

Managed. Lando was beginning to doubt everything but the fact that this race was being managed. Esteban had secured a miracle win in Hungary, but his car wasn’t fast enough to be on a podium in Jeddah, or Fernando would be all over him. Instead, Fernando occupied the back of the pack.

Max had chosen to fly to Jeddah with two of his most outspoken supporters, and now one of them was perfectly positioned to hold back the opposition while the other one’s husband had a spot on the grid he’d only secured a handful of times in his entire royal career.

“Daniel,” Lando called.

Daniel stopped walking and lowered his headphones from his ears. “Yeah, babe?”

Lando reached out, gently tugging Daniel’s fireproofs as if the color might change under his fingertips. “Be safe out there, okay?”

Daniel smiled as he stepped closer. He wound his arms around Lando from behind, squeezing him into a sweaty hug. “I promise I’ll be safe. We’ve got a hell of a night ahead—you want some coffee or something? I see those sleepy eyes.”

Lando laughed softly, relaxing into Daniel’s hold. “No more red flags, okay? I want to get home tonight.”

Daniel kissed his hair. “We have celebrating to do first.”

Lando tipped his head back to look up at him, trying to read his expression. “Why do you say that?”

Daniel smiled. “Max is gonna win, babe. After tonight, we’ll have a new champion.”

 


 

George watched the lights go out from the medical suite. A doctor had hands on his neck, feeling for compressed vertebrae or swelling. Max launched off the line with a good start and Esteban had a decent start too.

The heart rate monitor attached to his finger started beeping incessantly as Max, Esteban, and Lewis approached the first corner, three wide.

“What the fuck is Esteban doing?” George shouted at the screen, jumping up as Esteban started cutting in on Lewis as if he wasn’t there. “You’re fucking dangerous, mate!”

Esteban knocked Lewis’s front wheel and George scoured the pixels on screen for any indication that Lewis had taken front wing damage. Esteban was generally a clean driver, but that move would be idiotic in a kindergarten karting class.

Not only that, Esteban decided to take his line by cutting the next turn completely, coming out in front of Max and Lewis. Daniel and Valtteri sparred just behind the leaders, taking jabs at each other through the corner.

“You Royal Highness, please sit,” the doctor instructed.

George sat without looking away from the screen, watching as Lewis chased in third place, surrounded by enemies except for Valtteri. George hugged himself tightly as medical staff poked and prodded him.

He wondered what Lewis was thinking. If he was thinking at all, or if he’d let reflexes take over. Lewis probably had no idea how surrounded he was. He probably thought the orange McLaren in his mirrors was Lando, who would never try to race him too hard. Daniel would fight for Max’s life out there.

You can do this, George thought. If anyone can, it’s you.

 


 

Twelve laps later, George’s heart still beat in his throat as he watched Lewis approach Max’s rear wing on the straight. Lewis had passed Esteban easily several laps earlier, and now he and Max were in a league of their own, with Esteban twenty-four seconds behind.

Lewis and Max took the first corner together, but Max shoved out wide in a move that made it impossible for Lewis not to bail out. Both of them took runoff to cut the corner—Lewis because he had to, Max because he was driving like a twelve year-old in a Gran Turismo online lobby.

“He has to give that place back,” George said to the nearest engineer in the garage. “He can’t go off track like that and keep first.”

The replay of the corner looked even worse. Max’s line was nowhere close to the racing line—it was like he’d intended for both of them to crash. Not a horrible plan for a douchebag, as it would leave Max in the championship lead.

“He’s driving dangerously,” the engineer said with a curt nod to the screen. “If he’s not penalized soon, someone is going to get hurt.”

George’s stomach shriveled. He couldn’t even remember the last thing he’d said to Lewis—they’d barely spoken since Qatar. He wrung his hands, watching as Lewis and Max finished out the lap.

“Max, so let’s give that position back to Hamilton,” Max’s race engineer said over radio.

Max swerved right, barely a flick of the wheel—

And stomped on the brakes.

“No!” George shouted as Lewis attempted to dodge, but clipped his front wing on the back of Max’s car. “What the fuck was that? What the fuck was that?”

Nobody put the brakes on during a straight. Not even the most juvenile of racing classes allowed for such a dangerous move.

“He brake checked him,” George said with realization. The camera flicked to Toto Wolff, who threw is headset with murderous intent, slamming it into his desk. His normally stoic face has fallen slack in disbelief, along with everyone else in the garage.

Coldness ate up George’s insides. Max had always been known for aggressive driving, but this was fucking insane, bordering on illegal. Max didn’t give a shit whether Lewis survived this race.

Anger simmered to life in George’s blood. He understood Max didn’t have an easy life. He understood the fear Max had to be carrying around the track with him, the demon waiting for him in his own garage that he shared blood with.

But none of that excused his driving today. True champions won on merit, not by putting everyone else in danger. Lewis had his flaws, but he had never won a championship driving like a psychopath.

“Tell me you’re seeing this,” George said to James as he stepped up beside him and put a hand on his back.

“You okay, George?” James asked. His voice always sounded strange at first when George didn’t hear it with the tinny tone from the radio. “That was quite the shunt. Looked gnarly.”

George shook his head. “I don’t care about Mazepin being an absolute twat. Look at what’s happening out there. Has race control said anything? Max brake checked him.”

James frowned. “I’m sure they’re looking at it.”

Which meant they weren’t planning to do anything.

On screen, Valtteri passed Daniel without much fuss. Daniel knew his job was over. Fucking cretin.

James  shifted uncomfortably where he stood as the cameras flashed back to Max and Lewis. Lewis shot up the inside and passed Max without a fight, but George saw Max’s plan as the crowd went wild. Max passed the DRS zone just after Lewis overtook him, giving him immediate access to DRS into the next turn.

Max launched in and repassed Lewis, thankfully not putting anyone in danger this time.

“Can I ask you a question?” George asked, looking over at James.

He and James got along well, but James would always be loyal to Williams over him. Next season, George would have a new Mercedes race engineer and James would probably continue his duties with Alex.

The thought of Alex stepping into his role filled him with momentary warmth.

James reached up and turned his headset microphone up away from his face. “You can ask me anything, mate.”

James had been in the cockpit with him his whole career, and in a few months, he would have to learn how to mesh with a new team, a new empire, and a new person in his ear.

“If I drove the way Max has been driving this race, what would you do?” George asked.

James folded his arms across his chest and laughed, but it trailed off quickly.

A notification popped up on the monitor.

MAX VESRTAPPEN – 5 SECOND PENALTY AWARDED

“Holy shit,” James breathed as he leaned in to look at one of the data monitors nearby. “That came from the steward’s room. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them step in to award and official penalty. That’s unprecedented. They usurped the FIA.”

At least the stewards had backbone.

“About ti—” George cut himself off as Lewis made his move on screen, edging Max out in the fateful first corner that had been the source of all of the strife in this race. This time, Max didn’t fly off track to cut the corner.

Come on, Lewis.

George held his breath as Lewis stuck out the corner and regained the lead. Max slowly dropped back as Lewis powered ahead, somehow still driving at a championship speed despite  a portion of his front wing missing.

How Lewis still had a front wing at all was a miracle in itself.

“We wouldn’t defend you,” James finally answered with a firm nod. “If you drove like Max drove today. Williams fosters champions, and champions don’t drive like that.”

 


 

Charles wiped sweat from his face as he waited for Carlos to join him in the garage after tech inspection. He had yet to see any race footage, but everyone in the garage moved around with furtive glances to the TV screens. Pierre mentioned something about Max being penalized as they walked up the grid together, but so many people had crowded them in that Charles barely got a word out before Pierre had been whisked off to media duties.

Whatever had happened during the race, Max hadn’t won it. Charles had been shocked not to see orange smoke in the stands as he drove his cooldown lap. He’d caught a glimpse of Max’s car in the second place spot beneath the podium, Lewis in first.

Evidently, he’d missed the race of a lifetime.

The crowd roared a second before Lewis appeared on the monitors. Usually Lewis wore his trademark grin, waving at the fans and thanking them for coming out.

Not this time.

Charles had never seen Lewis so exhausted. His cheeks looked swollen and his expression made it look like he might fall over any second. Charles could understand that much—the Saudi Arabian heat had sucked everything out of him and he’d only placed seventh.

When Max emerged onto the stage, he didn’t feign happiness whatsoever. Podium ceremonies could be awkward after tough races, but Charles couldn’t remember the last time first and second place didn’t even smile at the crowd as they accepted their trophies. Max gave his a look of disgust and promptly at it on the ground to stand with his hands on his hips.

Lewis hoisted his trophy with one hand, giving a single fist pump to celebrate his victory. Max leered at him in the background, openly stewing. Usually Red Bull didn’t allow that kind of behavior in such a public setting.

“I’m going to catch you one of these days,” Carlos sighed as he stepped into the garage with mussed hair. Carlos couldn’t have a bad hair day if he tried. “Good job today, mi amor.”

Charles leaned over slightly to accept the kiss Carlos pressed to his cheek, but his attention stayed on the TV screen. Max walked off the stage after a few mandatory shakes of his bottle of waard—their champagne substitute in Middle Eastern countries.

Carlos followed his gaze and shook his head. “Have you seen any of the replays?”

“No,” Charles murmured, anxiety knotting in his gut. “How bad was it?”

Carlos ran his tongue over his bottom lip, one of his tells when he was uncomfortable.

“It was very bad, Charles,” Carlos finally said. “Bad enough that I cannot support him in any way after watching it.”

Charles turned away from the TV. “What do you mean?”

“He hit the brakes on the straight with Lewis right behind him. We will look at the data later, but I saw it in the replay. He was not giving way, he did that so Lewis would hit him and be taken out. And the way he drove…he did not want Lewis to finish that race.”

Charles chewed the inside of his cheek. He sensed Max’s fear—it twisted up in him the same way it used to when they were children. He used to wish he could hide Max away, to make him invisible so that his father would never be able to find him and hurt him.

Carlos caressed his cheek with the backs of his fingers, the exact opposite of all of the violence swirling in Charles’s brain. “If he drove against you that way, I would be after him. It is inexcusable.”

Charles moved in to tuck his chin over Carlos’s shoulder. Carlos held him tight, even though Charles didn’t return it. He couldn’t move his limbs, too caught up in the haunted look on Max’s face.

“Now they’re tied,” Charles finally murmured. “Everything will be decided in Abu Dhabi.”

Carlos nuzzled against him. “I will never say this to anyone else, but I am glad we are not in contention this year. Max will hurt someone.”

“Or himself,” Charles said, gently pulling free from Carlos. “And his father will do worse.”

Carlos’s lip twitched in disgust. Jos’s name tended to garner that reaction.

“I’m going to find him,” Charles said. “I promised I would protect him, and I intend to.”

Carlos nodded once. No arguments, no talk about alliances. “I will look also. Be safe, yes?”

“You too,” Charles replied. He pressed a chaste kiss to Carlos’s mouth and slipped by him, out into the dark.

Chapter Text

 

 

When Charles fell in love for the first time, he thought every love would be the same afterward. He thought love would always feel like podium champagne: a bubbly, frothy, happy mess that stuck to his fingers and had to be scrubbed off with hot water and hotel soap. Sugar-sweet with a raspy aftertaste, a bottleneck that fit perfectly in his palm.

It turned out that every love was different. Champagne love was Max’s love, and Charles hated how easy it was to bring that bottle back to his lips.

He found Max in the shadows beneath the podium stage, hidden underneath the flimsy structure that looked so sturdy and sleek on TV. A façade for the cameras, the same as the princes who posed for the lens.

“Everyone is looking for you,” Charles greeted as he slipped through the truss structure.

Max’s shoulders went rigid. He looked over his shoulder with hateful, sunken eyes—almost demonic. Far from the scared boy Charles used to find after Max took second in a karting race.

Charles plopped down beside him on the asphalt, the same way he always had.

“This is your fault,” Max snarled.

Charles cocked a brow and leaned back on his hands, feigning nonchalance. “And how is that?”

“You took out Checo. Who told you to do that—was it Lewis?” Max asked, twisting to face him. “I knew you were on his side.”

“I’m on Ferrari’s side, and Ferrari isn’t siding with anyone.” He leaned over, gently knocking Max’s shoulder.

Max responded by shoving him hard enough to knock him to his elbows. Charles blinked in surprise as dust sifted around them, thrown up from the impact.

“You ruined everything,” Max hissed. “Checo was supposed to get rid of everyone behind me. I had the championship today and you ruined it.”

Max sounded angry, but his eyes were full of fear and nothing else. His flushed cheeks and bared teeth distracted from his hands, shaking against his fireproofs.

“We can’t predict how a race will turn out,” Charles replied, moving back up onto his hands. He moved slowly, predictably, so Max could see he meant no harm. “I didn’t try to take Checo out. I was racing, Max. “

“No—you made everything fucked up,” Max said, leering at him. “I had to do everything myself.” Max jabbed a finger into his own sternum, flinching at his self-inflicted impact. “You made me.” His voice broke on the last word, and so did Max. Charles watched the break in slow motion, one he’d seen many times before.

As a child, he thought Max loved racing more than him because he got so angry when he lost. Charles hated losing too, but every time he tried to wallow in it, Max, Pierre, Alex, or one of his brothers would come barging in to distract him.

Max’s distractions always worked best. His huge grin, wingnut ears, and belly laughs always made Charles smile, even before he realized that he wanted to be more than friends.

Max, on the other hand, couldn’t be distracted from loss, and it took too long for Charles to learn why. Max hid his beatings well back then. Or maybe Charles—like everyone else—never thought to look for the signs.

“Now I have to race him again,” Max croaked. “It was supposed to be over and now I have to do it again.”

“Max,” Charles breathed. “It’s going to be—”

“Do not tell me it’s going to be okay,” Max cut, leaning in dangerously close. “You have no idea.”

Charles shook his head. “No, I don’t. You made sure of that.”

You always protected me. 

Max opened his mouth to retaliate, but his snarl fell away when he registered the words. His shoulders went slack and his whole body followed suit. Charles collected Max into his arms, far heavier than the boy he’d held as a teenager.

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispered, hugging tight around Max’s shuddering shoulders. “I said I would protect you and I didn’t. He still hurt you.”

“If you would have let me win, I wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore,” Max said against his stomach.

“Whatever happened with Lewis—”

“Lewis deserved all of it,” Max growled, sitting up again. His eyes blazed with new rage—learned, not inflicted. Charles knew the difference when it came to Max. “Everything. He deserves it. He—”

“Max!”

All of the color drained from Max’s face as Jos’s voice cut past the flimsy walls. Max stumbled back onto his hands, scrambling away from him.

Charles caught his wrist before he could escape. “Stay. I won’t let him hurt you.”

Even as childhood fear welled up in him, even as vivid memories of Jos’s shouting echoed in his ears, Charles kept his expression even and calm.

“You can’t protect me,” Max said quietly. “Red Bull invited him back. I signed off on it.”

“So take it away.”

A smile ghosted Max’s lips. “I wish it was that easy. There’s nothing I can do until I win. And if Lewis cheats his way through Abu Dhabi too, my dad is staying until next year.”

“Max!” Jos called, closer now.

A chill ran up Charles’s spine. “What, like a contract?”

Max nodded slowly. His wrist trembled in Charles’s grasp as he looked past him. “Yes, a contract.”

“Max!”

Max flinched. “In here.”

Charles stood when Max did, but kept him at his back as Jos shoved his way into the space. Jos wore anger like a phantom, cold and dead. He leveled his gaze on Charles and smirked.

“Charles, it’s been a very long time,” Jos greeted with a thin smile. “Last time I saw you, you were in Max’s place, losing a championship one race at a time.”

He expected Jos to scare him, but Charles felt no fear. He was a prince of Ferrari now. No mortal man could touch him. Max tried to step around him, but Charles pressed back, keeping Max squarely in place.

“Max, it’s time to go,” Jos said, ignoring Charles completely. “You’ve been given a ten second penalty. Thankfully, it won’t do anything. At least the FIA held up some part of their deal.”

Charles jerked in surprise, but covered it by folding his arm around Max behind him. He didn’t want to think about what kind of deal Max had struck with the FIA. Fixing races as far worse than whatever Max thought Lewis was doing.

Jos narrowed his eyes. “Max. I won’t ask again.”

“Charles, I have to go,” Max whispered, but a moment later Max’s forehead pressed to the nape of his neck.

“Max is staying with me until he’s ready to leave,” Charles said, squeezing Max’s arm. “However long that takes.”

Jos let out a snort. “You will not stand between me and my son.”

“You can’t do anything to me,” Charles snapped. “But go ahead and try. I would love to escort you straight to prison. I hope you rot there for the rest of your miserable life.”

“Charles,” Max warned as rage sparked to life in Jos’s eyes.

Charles braced himself as he recognized Jos squaring up to him. Max fisted his shirt and attempted to move him, but Charles stood firm.

“I knew you’d be arrogant,” Jos hissed. “Ferrari made you believe you were a good driver. Well, I’ll be the first to tell you: you will never win a championship.”

He began to roll up his sleeves, a sickeningly familiar scene. Max froze behind him and his breathing came out shallow, washing over the back of Charles’s neck.

“Hey,” Charles murmured, looking over his shoulder. He squeezed Max’s arm in an attempt to comfort him, but Max winced instead. Charles leaned into him until Max pressed his nose between his shoulder blades, using him as a proper shield.

“Max, I’m giving you to the count of three,” Jos growled. “Three.”

Charles took a deep breath, still looking over his shoulder at Max’s hunched shoulders.

“Two.”

“I promised I’d throw myself to the dogs for you,” Charles murmured, thumbing Max’s wrist bone. “That hasn’t changed.”

Max lifted his head, pupils blown wide. “Charles, no."

“I think we’re done here.”

Charles snapped his head back toward Jos to find Carlos standing nose-to-nose with him, one hand curled to a fist at his side.

“You will be leaving now,” Carlos said in the same tone he used when dictating a setup change.

Jos snorted. “I will not be—”

“No, no,” Carlos interrupted, shouldering him back a step. “That is not a request.”

Jos started to move forward and Carlos cocked his fist in the same motion.  Charles had never seen Carlos so angry—his normally soft brown eyes were black and sharp as flint.

“I have no reservations about breaking your jaw,” Carlos snapped when Jos didn’t move. “Leave. Now.”

Seconds ticked by at an agonizing pace before Jos finally let out a huff and left them, pulling all of the tension out with him. Charles turned the moment Jos disappeared from view and grabbed Max in a tight hug. Max collapsed into him, jelly-limbed.

“You’re safe,” Charles soothed, rubbing Max’s back. “And if Carlos needs to stay with you tonight to make sure he stays away, we’ll arrange that.”

“I want you to stay,” Max whispered into his neck, so quiet Charles barely heard him.

He thought back to Maranello, sitting in the low light of Enzo’s fireplace at Il Cavallino, Max’s tinny voice in his ear. Max made the choice to call him that day, unaware of how much he needed it.

Charles leaned back to look at Max’s face. The Max he’d fallen in love with stared up at him with eyes as big as saucers, innocent and terrified. Charles knew in his heart that Max had done something horrible today, even if he didn’t know all of the details from the race. But he also knew Max did it to survive, and he would do the same in Abu Dhabi.

A winter with Jos might actually kill him.

“You need to do this right,” Charles soothed. “You’re a good enough driver to be champion without—”

He cut himself off, aware of Carlos approaching behind him. Sure enough, a warm hand pressed to his back a moment later.

“Charles, we need to leave,” Carlos said softly. “The crowd is very unhappy. Police escorts are being called.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Charles said to Max, ignoring his husband. He squeezed Max’s shoulders. “I promise you won’t have to worry about Jos tonight.”

“Whatever needs to be done,” Carlos agreed, rubbing the base of Charles’s spine.

Max’s eyes flicked to Carlos and hardened. “I don’t need any help.”

He pushed away from Charles, who watched all of his walls shoot back up--fortified steel. Max’s hackles raised, and his eyes changed back to the demonic, exhausted ones Charles had found when he first arrived.

“Max—” Charles started, but Max cut him off with a glare.

“I don’t need anyone’s help. I’ve done all of this myself because no one would help me before—now you want to help? Where were you?” He turned to Carlos as he asked the question.

Carlos blinked in surprise. "I just helped you with Alfa Romeo, and it nearly cost me my marriage.”

Charles glanced at him, then took Carlos’s hand in his own. Max eyed the movement and his lip curled in disgust.

“Fuck both of you,” Max growled. He moved to leave, but Carlos quietly stepped in front of him.

“We want to—”

Max shoved past him, breaking their hands apart as Carlos let go to stop himself from falling over a piece of truss.

“Max,” Charles called, stepping after him.

Max put up a hand and waved him off the same way he shooed away swarming gnats in the paddock. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

Charles stopped walking with a hard swallow. He watched Max disappear back into the madness, followed shortly by the shouts of media personnel. His heart ached in his chest, jumbled with the fear that Jos would still find him and hurt him.

"He didn't hurt you, did he?” Carlos asked, gently turning Charles by the hips.

Charles shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m not sure Max is, though.”

Carlos sighed. “Do you want me to go to Red Bull? I can ask about having someone check on him.”

“Do you think that would help?”

Carlos shrugged, his eyes clouded with concern. “I don’t know. But it may make Jos afraid if he sees me checking in.”

Charles weighed the options. He didn’t want Carlos spotted around the Red Bull garage, especially if things were going south with the crowd. Their relationship was still fragile. But Max hung in the balance. Charles couldn’t abandon him, even if Max wanted him to.

“I’ll go with you,” Charles decided. “But we need to stop by Mercedes first. We can’t look like we’re favoring Red Bull.”

Carlos nodded and took his hand again, tangling their fingers together. Charles tried to imagine himself in Max’s place—married to a husband he didn’t love, searching for a way to bring his true love back to him, haunted by an abuser.

Carlos moved to leave, but Charles stopped him with a tug of his hand.

“I know I still don’t say it enough, but I love you,” Charles said.

Carlos stared at him for a long moment. Carlos had a face fit for a fairytale, but as Charles leaned in to kiss him, he wasn’t thinking about features. Their lips met without fireworks or butterflies. Kissing him was no longer a dazzling, mind-numbing experience. It had become a soft and necessary part of his life—vital as water.

Charles nosed into Carlos’s neck when their kiss broke, pulling their hands apart to hold him close.

“I love you too,” Carlos finally murmured into the shell of his ear.

Charles closed his eyes. If Max still had Carlos, he doubted Jos ever would have returned. Carlos would have done something to prevent it, even to his own detriment.

“Max will never be the same,” Charles murmured. “No matter who wins.”

Carlos squeezed him tight. “I know,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I know.”

 

 


 

 

Lando watched the race highlights with a frown, kicking his heels against his the bedframe.

“I think he was trying to get Lewis ahead of him because of the DRS line,” Lando said, pointing at the white line across the track. “I don’t think he was intentionally trying to brake test anyone.”

Daniel stopped packing his duffel on the other end of the bed. He hadn’t spoken much since the race ended. The light in his eyes had gone out—again—and the flicker of motivation Lando had seen during the second red flag was nowhere to be seen. Except this time Daniel was pissed, not sad.

Daniel watched the near-collision as it played another time. Commentators chattered too quietly to hear, probably fussing over who could have done what better.  

“Max wouldn’t do that on purpose,” Lando said with a shake of his head. “He can be an ass, but not that much of an ass.”

“No, he did,” Daniel said blandly. He turned back to his duffel and started packing again.

Lando furrowed his brow, certain he’d misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”

Daniel shrugged. “He did it on purpose. He wanted Lewis to crash out or lose his front wing.” He bunched a shirt in his hands. “And I don’t believe in God, but Lewis does, and he obviously has some cred with the man upstairs, because it was a miracle his car didn’t get damaged.”

Lando’s mouth fell open. “You really think Max tried to—”

“Yes,” Daniel cut, throwing the shirt into his bag with unnecessary force. “He did the same thing to me in Baku, except he succeeded.”

Lando remembered the crash—he’d made fun of Max that day for participating in his fourth driving incident in four races. The incident took both of them out of the race and made Red Bull a laughingstock for weeks.

“Max wasn’t stupid enough to brake check me back then, but he made two moves—you know, which isn’t allowed—and cut me off, so I ran into his back end,” Daniel said. “This was after he tried to kill me like two other times that race. That was my fucking championship year he ruined.”

Daniel caught himself, a haunted look appearing in his eyes. Lando wondered if Daniel had really ever been the happy, smiley man the media portrayed him to be. In the beginning of their marriage he’d been that way, but Lando had figured out that was a lie too.

“Sorry. Max didn’t ruin my championship. A lot of things went wrong,” Daniel amended after a moment, picking at the 3 tattoo on his finger. Max calls it my wedding ring.

“Did something happen on the plane?” Lando asked. “Well, I mean, I know something happened. But did something happen between you and Max?”

Daniel shivered and didn’t answer. He returned his attention to his clothes to keep packing.

“Daniel,” Lando coaxed.

“I know everyone calls this a game, but it’s not a game,” Daniel said as he continued folding clothes. “People get fucked up for the rest of their lives because of this shit. Fucking with Lewis is the worst thing Max could have done today.”

Lando frowned. “Okay, yeah, but nothing happened. Lewis still won.”

Daniel shook his head. “Nope. Doesn’t matter. He poked the bear one too many times—Lewis is going to fight back now.”

“What, like cheat?”

Daniel’s head snapped up so fast Lando braced for some kind of attack. Daniel’s red-rimmed eyes windowed into nothingness—a dark, inescapable pit inside him.

“Lewis never cheats,” Daniel said. “He never has the smoking gun, either. He plays within the rules so well he’ll convince you to shoot yourself in the face.”

Lando’s stomach twisted with unease. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up at the memory of Lewis in his briefing room: cool, calm, and deadly.

Daniel pointed to the TV. “Shit like that has consequences that last years, mate.  Maybe a fucking lifetime. You piss off Lewis Hamilton and you’ll never have the same power again, even if you do win a championship. You want proof? Ask Nico Rosberg—oh wait, you can’t! Because he’s a maniac exile. Not only that, he’s obsessed with Lewis—a guy who won’t even look at him.”

Lando purposely avoided Nico in the paddock. Everyone did. The guy was literally insane. He waxed on about his and Lewis’s relationship as if Lewis had died and he was trying to keep his memory alive. He always complimented Lewis’s driving style and rooted for him on live TV when the FIA let him participate in commentary, to the point where it made everyone uncomfortable.

“Something happened to that guy in 2016,” Daniel continued. Lando noticed his hands shaking where he clutched a pair of pants. “One minute he was fucking smitten, the next he’s exiling himself on live TV. No champion has ever done that—won and left. Nico took power and handed it right back to Lewis. Something’s fucked there, you know?”

“That was a long time ago,” Lando said quietly, trying to walk Daniel back from the edge. No more sleeping in showers, no more drinking, no more panic attacks. “Max is strong. If he wins, he’ll be okay. He’s not going to be like Nico Rosberg.”

The corners of Daniel’s lips sagged in a grimace. “I dunno, Lando. All Nico wanted his whole career was a championship. He finally got one and he gave away everything but the trophy. Doesn’t make sense.”

“Hopefully it doesn’t matter,” Lando tried with a shrug. “We’ll have a good race and everything will be fine.”

Daniel laughed, low and sour. “Nah, mate. No matter who wins, nothing is gonna be fine.”

 

Chapter Text

“I don’t understand why he doesn’t ask you in person,” Nic said where he laid on their hotel bed, his nose buried in a room service menu. “I think he writes letters solely for the dramatic effect.” He looked up, narrowing his eyes at George. “Or you like the dramatic effect.”

George frowned down at the royal Mercedes parchment in his hands. Lewis had once again summoned him to his room.

I’d like to speak with you. Right now, if you have the time.

Simple, direct, oozing with kindness that overshadowed the fact that George couldn’t refuse a world champion. More than that, he couldn’t refuse his future husband, the crown prince of his new empire.

Worse, he didn’t want to refuse.

“He has to be very careful right now,” George said. “Today proved that Max and Red Bull have it out for him, and so does the FIA. Max brake tested him today, for god’s sake.”

Nic shook his head. “That was so fucked up, man.”

George thumbed over the edge of the parchment. He tried to think of what Lewis could possibly want with him at such a late hour after such a dramatic victory. His gut told him it couldn’t be anything good.

“Maybe he wants someone to reassure him or something,” George offered weakly. “Maybe he’s lonely up there.”

Nic laughed, then cut it off with a snort. “You’re serious? Dude, he just won a race. I doubt he’s lonely.”

George doubted it too. Sebastian was probably celebrating with him right now under the guise of some kind of champion’s post-victory dinner party. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m going to see him. I should be back soon.”

Nic snorted again. “Yeah. Victory sex should only be like what, ten, twenty minutes?”

George flushed with surprise. Usually Nic wasn’t so crass. “Is that jealousy talking, love?”

Nic shot him a look over his menu. “Yeah, it is, actually.”

George opened his mouth to craft a witty reply, but it died on his tongue at the sound of honesty in Nic’s voice.

Nic sniffed and returned his attention to is menu. “I get that you need to see Lewis and you love him and whatever. But—” He cut himself off and sighed. “George, I do love you. Not in, like, the romance gushy way, but it’s still love, you know? I mean, hell—we kiss each other more than a lot of couples, even if it’s just for the cameras.”

George’s heart twinged with a now-familiar sense of looming grief. He loved Nicky too, and he hated that the end of the racing season had to be so chaotic. Usually princes had plenty of time to bask in the end of their marriages—typically Lewis was champion by the time they made it to Mexico.

“I promise I won’t spend the night with Lewis,” George said. “No matter what, I’m sleeping in here tonight. We can watch the next episode of Bridgerton.”

Nic paused. “I dunno. The second season isn’t as good as the first. They’re overusing the enemies-to-lovers trope, in my humble opinion.”

George smiled. “Okay—Downton Abbey?”

Nic looked up from the menu with a skeptical expression. “Your favorite character just died. You said you didn’t want to watch anymore.”

George shrugged. “I need to know if the family can move on from the loss. I think that’s fitting.”

Nic scowled. “I’ll put together a summary while you’re gone, since I’m sure you’ve forgotten what happened up to that point.”

“I absolutely have.”

Nic waved him off. “Go. Text me an ETA before you get nasty, yeah?”

George rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine.”

He grabbed his keycard and shrugged into a light jacket, stifling a yawn as he headed out the door.

 


 

Lewis did not look like a race winner. His skin shimmered in the light of his bathroom mirror where he stood slathering what looked like snail mucus onto his face—or whatever the vegan version of snail mucus was. His eyes were dead in their sockets, a muddy brown with no life. If George had never seen what Lewis looked like when he cried, he would have assumed this was it. But this was something worse, some kind of emotion that locked crying away.

“Hey,” George greeted softly.

Lewis jumped, sending the little jar of snail snot clattering into the sink basin.

“Fuck,” Lewis said, wiping off a bit of splatter from his chest.

“I’m sorry,” George said, stepping into the bathroom. “The door was unlocked and I—”

“It’s fine,” Lewis soothed, capping the mucus jar. George thought he saw Lewis’s fingers tremble, but he moved his hands too fast to confirm it. “I forgot I left it unlocked, that’s all.”

Lewis had a predictably insane skincare collection. Most of the jars had Korean or French labels, and none of them looked cheap. They reminded him of his mother’s seemingly endless supply of bottles and containers. At least Lewis’s fit in a toiletry bag.

“I’m winning my eight championship next week,” Lewis said quietly, staring himself down in the mirror. A tremor rippled across his face, a tectonic pain too deep for George to source. “Max is not going to stop me.”

Sometimes George forgot how quietly Lewis wielded his power. But he spoke like a king when he wanted to, though he seemed to be speaking to himself.

“Fuck,” Lewis repeated, quiet now. He lowered his head, eyes closed as he braced himself against the marble countertop.

“Are you okay?” George asked. He felt stupid asking—obviously Lewis wasn’t okay—but he didn’t know what else to say.

Lewis laughed weakly. “I should be, shouldn’t I? I won the race somehow. That punk nearly killed me, but I won.”

George stepped into the bathroom and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “What he did was really fucked up. Everyone is on your side about the whole thing.”

Lewis smiled and shook his head. “The FIA isn’t. I had no idea they were going to be that obvious about supporting him. A ten second penalty for brake checking? Karting rules are stricter than that.”

George frowned. He reached out, but all he could think to do was brush Lewis’s elbow with his fingertips.

Lewis put the jar of moisturizer back in his Balenciaga toiletry bag and zipped it shut. “Let’s go to the main room.”

He turned to go, but George slid in front of him, blocking his path. Lewis blinked in surprise before slowly lifting his gaze to stare up at him, lost. George hated seeing him so unsure.

“How do you want this to go?” George asked quietly, touching Lewis’s elbow again. “Do you want me to be your future husband or just another prince?”

The corner of Lewis’s lips ticked up in a semblance of a smile. “Are we doing that again? The love thing?”

George’s heart twinged in his chest. “The love thing,” he repeated. “Is that what it was? A thing?”

Lewis’s smile faded. “Honestly, some days I wish that’s all it was to me.”

George snorted as his eyes went hot. “You really have a way with words, you know?”

Lewis gripped his forearm—a gentle move that spread warmth through his whole body. George looked away to fight off some of the affection that welled up in him against his will.

“I’m not the monster you think I am,” Lewis said. “I do everything because of love, even if you can’t see that right away.”

“Oh good,” George replied sarcastically. “I feel so much better now.”

Lips brushed his collarbone and George’s skin turned to gooseflesh. Lewis pressed his mouth to George’s neck for a proper kiss, slowly feathering up to his jaw and following the line to his chin.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Lewis murmured. “I invited you here because I want my future husband with me right now.”

George closed his eyes. “Silly me, trying to bring ‘the love thing’ back into our relationship.”

“George.” Lewis nosed under his jaw and George thought about all of the other times they’d been this close. The excitement of the yacht party in Monaco, the first time they kissed in the Mercedes garage. He’d been so wary at first and he’d still fallen for the trap.

“It’s really hard to think you’re genuine when you don’t speak to me the same way you speak to Sebastian,” George said.

Lewis paused. “Do you speak to me the same way you speak to Alex?”

George stiffened. “We’ve been over this. I never hid Alex from you, I never—”

“I admire your candor, George,” Lewis said, interrupting him. “It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you. But other people aren’t playing by the same rules, and there’s a reason for that. I hid Sebastian from you because I hide him from everyone. If the royal circle found out about us, I don’t think either of us could continue being what we are.”

George flared his nostrils. “You’re the two most powerful princes in royalty. Don’t tell me you couldn’t continue doing whatever you wanted.”

Lewis pulled back, shaking his head. “The best love stories in royalty are never told. Look how fucked up our lives are already—you really want to put the person you love most in the spotlight? I don’t want my every move with Sebastian analyzed like that. It’s hard enough being with him privately.”

George reluctantly stepped aside to finally allow Lewis out of the bathroom. He followed him into the main suite, eyeing Valtteri’s messy duffel bag on the floor, clothes and coffee bags spilling out of it.

Lewis pulled on a shirt—a tight-fitting navy blue knit piece that accented every plane of muscle on his body, damn him. George sat down in the comfy chair next to the window, out of reach.

“Are you ready for what happens when this championship is decided next week?” Lewis asked, changing to a businesslike tone.

George cocked a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Do you and Alex have a plan?”

Suddenly George felt very stupid. Heat rose up the back of his neck and he swallowed hard.

Lewis nodded once. “I thought that might be the case. That’s why I called you up here. You can be angry at me all you want about how I chose to bring you into my life, but right now I’m here to help you in a way I wish someone would have helped me when I was your age.”

George had a hard time imagining Lewis at his age. He had a harder time imagining Lewis being naïve to this world and all of its tricks.

Lewis sat down on the corner of the bed closest to him. His nose ring caught the light for a moment, casting a sparkle throughout the room.

“You need to meet with Alex tonight and tell him you can’t see each other anymore,” Lewis said. “Not forever, but for now. And you need to make him understand that it’s important for everyone to see you only as friends—that includes your lunch club buddies.”

George would have laughed at the American terminology, but the pain that cut through him didn’t allow him to see any humor in it.  “No,” George said decisively. “I won’t do that to him. I’m never going to publicly say we’re together, but I’m not going to hide the way I feel about Alex to my friends—”

“Friends?” Lewis made a sound of disgust. “Max chose to exile him. Pierre moved against him to keep his crown. Charles has never given a single fuck about protecting you or him. And do you think Lando will do anything to save you if Max goes against you?”

George soured. “Max won’t—”

“Don’t you dare assume what Max will and won’t do,” Lewis snapped.

George jolted in surprise at the venom in his voice. Anger blazed in Lewis’s eyes, as beautifully dangerous as molten rock.

“I plan to win this championship, but I don’t know if I can save you if Max decides to go for the jugular,” Lewis continued. “I still have to play politics. Mercedes can’t have you parading around with Alex Albon when you’re married to me. Doing this will save both of you so that no matter the outcome, no one can use your relationship with Alex against you.”

George swallowed hard. “I can’t do that. Even if we’re faking it.”

“Then you’ll lose your crown when your appointment is up,” Lewis said decisively. “Either Max will take it from you, or you’ll force our hand at Mercedes.”

George couldn’t imagine saying goodbye to Alex again, even if it was just for a short time. Alex would overlap his final days at Williams—a few days at most—and George couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping in the same palace without being with him.

“Once I have eight championships, I’ll put everything in motion for you,” Lewis continued, his eyes softening. “I promise, I’ll pave the way for you and Alex to be together in secret. But I can’t do that if you’re creating a scandal, especially with Red Bull so closely tied to him.”

George blinked away sudden tears. Lewis was right, of course. Alex would be the number one target for Red Bull. They specialized in finding desperate boys to race for them, precisely to have complete control.

“What happens when you win?” George asked. “Will it be different when you beat Michael’s record?”

A hazy smile unfolded on Lewis’s lips. The fire in his eyes turned low and welcoming, wandering through a story George had never read.

“I have no idea,” Lewis replied. “But once I have this record, I won’t ever need to win again.”

George cocked his head, trying to understand. Nobody really talked about what happened when Michael won the championship that made him the best there ever was. They spoke about his disregard for FIA rules, his unflinching love for his not-so-secret wife and the children he had with her while still wearing a crown.

Unless Lewis had a secret wife and kids George didn’t know about, he couldn’t think of anything Lewis would have that he didn’t already as a seven-time world champion.

The only thing a prince could possibly want—what they all wanted—was—

“You’ll be free,” George said dumbly, finally putting the pieces together. “Is that what happens? They let you do whatever you want? Like, actually?”

Lewis ran his tongue over his bottom lip in thought. “I don’t know what it’ll entail. But I’ll know soon, and I’ll protect you until I can’t anymore. But you have to start this the right way so I can do that. Then when we’re married, we’ll do the show and dance regardless of how we feel about each other. I know there’s still enough between us to do that.”

He gestured between them and George’s stomach did a somersault.

“Enough?” George squeaked.

Lewis blinked at him, then his mouth fell open in a soft O shape.

“Last time I saw you, I thought—” George cut himself off with a shake of his head. “I didn’t plan on doing a show and dance.”

Lewis sat up with a creased brow, as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m…Wow, I’m sorry. I thought you were over this.” George flinched. “No, fuck—No, not like that. I thought you were done with me.”

“You told me you loved me in Brazil, you gave me Nico’s watch!” George snapped, exasperated. “I gave it back to you because—” He cut himself off, breathing hard. “Because I’m in love with you, Lewis. I shouldn’t be after what you did, but I know why you did it and I thought I could stop loving you and I can’t.”

Saying it out loud made him feel guilty, for some reason. George instantly regretted speaking and looked away with an indignant snort perfected by the British people.

Lewis looked like he’d been shot. George didn’t know what he expected in Lewis’s response, but pain wasn’t it.

“I think I understand why Sebastian can’t trust you,” George said, deciding to hit where it hurt. Lewis needed the truth. “You say you love him, then you say you love me. Now you don’t love me anymore, but you—”

“I never said I don’t love you,” Lewis cut in, schooling his face. “I wish it were that simple with you and with Seb. I can’t help what I feel, but it still feels wrong to experience what you and I have, then walk back to Seb and feel what I feel for him. It’s two different kinds of love.”

“Except you’re making both of us feel like shit,” George said. “Alex knows I love him and he knows how I feel about you, but I never let him feel lesser than. He understands the sacrifices we make as princes. Do you?”

Lewis narrowed his eyes. “You have no idea about sacrifice, George. You’re really going to sit there and ask me that question? Seriously, man?”

“Why aren’t you with Sebastian right now?” George asked instead of answering.

“He just left,” Lewis growled. “He’s finding Alex for you.”

George grit his teeth. “You’re forcing this on me, then. You already had this planned.”

Lewis shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re going to say to him. If you want to use the time to go to bed together and make promises you can’t keep, that’s on you. But I’m telling you—from my experience and the experience of every prince I’ve ever known in your position—the right choice is to separate until everyone shows their hands. Otherwise you risk losing everything in one fell swoop.”

George tried to read the emotion in Lewis’s eyes, but found nothing to latch on to.

“This is what you do,” George hissed. “You give me advice and tell me only half the story.”

“Yes,” Lewis replied curtly. “How do you think I’ve survived this long?”

 


 

George stomach knotted when he heard footsteps in the hallway outside an abandoned Mercedes hotel room. Some of the team had left on a flight already, leaving empty rooms with disheveled blankets and discarded towels. Not conducive to the lovemaking scenario Lewis suggested.

Royalty had an ugly side: the abandoned rooms and shadowy hallways, sneaking around and praying they didn’t get caught.

The door handle rattled as a keycard unlocked it from the outside. George stood up from where he’d been sitting on the end of the bed and watched as Alex slipped into the room. He looked like he’d just woken up, dressed in a Red Bull polo and track pants, complete with socks and house slippers. His hair was a rat’s nest, his big ears poking out of messy tufts.

George loved him so much it hurt to breathe.

“Hey,” Alex greeted, flashing a toothy grin. “They sure like to rush around here. Sebastian made it sound like I was gonna die if I didn’t head down here right now.”

“Hi,” George replied as his soul left his body. He committed Alex’s face to memory, everything from his mismanaged eyebrows to the slight crookedness of his teeth. “I love you. I want to start by saying that first.”

Alex’s smile dimmed, but didn’t disappear. He nodded. “I know. I love you too. Always.” He gestured to the bed. “We should sit, yeah?”

George swayed where he stood, suddenly woozy. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“You’re white as a ghost, love,” Alex murmured, gently squeezing George’s arms. “Whatever you have to tell me, it’s gonna be okay.”

“I don’t know if I can tell you,” George forced out. “I don’t think I can.”

Alex cocked his head, looking him over with careful attention. “Are they terminating my appointment with Williams?”

George’s heart convulsed in his chest. “God—no, you’re coming to Williams no matter what. I’d give up my appointment before I let them take yours away.”

Alex softened with relief. “Okay, good. I can handle anything else.”

Tears sprang to George’s eyes. He told himself not to cry.

“Love,” Alex cooed, stepping into his space. Warm hands came to his cheeks, soft and cared for. “You can tell me anything, okay?”

George squeezed his eyes shut. His heart beat in his throat, fast and suffocating. “We have to pretend to break up,” he choked out with a sob. “To protect ourselves.”

He kept his eyes closed, unable to watch Alex’s reaction. He brought his hands to Alex’s hips to hold him in place, just in case he decided to run.

Alex nosed into his neck and they stood in the dark for a long time. George’s sobs turned to sniffles against Alex’s shoulder, then faded to soft breathing. Alex kissed his neck occasionally, but otherwise stayed still against him.

They’d been together for as long as George could remember. He’d never wanted anyone else. Never even had a crush on anyone ese in their friend group. His eyes had only been for Alex until Lewis came along. When George thought of retirement, he thought of walking along an English country road with Alex’s hand in his.

“Is this Lewis’s idea?” Alex finally asked, breaking the heavy silence.

George squeezed him tighter. “Yes. I fought it but…he’s right, Alex. We’re vulnerable no matter who wins. Until we see what Red Bull does—"

“I’m not telling anyone I don’t love you,” Alex interrupted, burrowing into his neck again. “I won’t do it.”

“We’ll say it’s my fault,” George said, as if he hadn’t heard Alex speak. “I dumped you for Lewis. That’s what we’ll say.”

“George,” Alex croaked. “I don’t want to do this.”

George couldn’t think of a worse thing for him to say. He remembered sitting through informational videos about consent as a teenager and laughing at how stupid they were. What monster would hear “no” and still go forward?

“I just got you back,” Alex whispered. “I can’t let you go again.”

“You won’t be letting me go,” George assured him in a broken voice. “I’m never going to stop loving you, but we have to do this to protect each other.”

“Or something bad will happen anyway and one of us ends up without a crown and we don’t have the chance to say goodbye,” Alex said, pulling back to wipe his eyes. “It can change so fast, George. Every second matters here.”

The desperation in his voice lanced right through George’s heart. “Just for awhile,” he whispered pathetically.

Alex knew better than anyone that the tides could turn in an instant. He was probably the most vulnerable prince on the grid, caught between two powers. George had to protect him.

George looked over the face of the man he loved more than anyone else. He loved Lewis too, but that love hurt. Alex’s had only caused him pain when outside forces tore them apart.

“I still don’t want this,” Alex said. “But I’ll do it for you. If you don’t see any other way.”

“Don’t put this on me,” George begged quietly. “I wouldn’t go along with this if I saw any other option.”

Anger rose in him when he saw disappointment in Alex’s gaze. You would find a way if you wanted to. George could read his thoughts without Alex having to speak.

You don’t understand, George wanted to say. I’m carrying the biggest secret in the paddock and I still can’t see a way to do this without risking you.

Alex looked away, hip top lip curling in disgust. Disgust at him or the situation, George didn’t know. Either way, his stomach twisted up inside him, wringing out everything except his complete and utter sense of failure.

“I guess we should discuss logistics, then,” Alex finally said.

For the first time in George’s memory, he felt something wedge itself between them. Something sharp, cold, and scarring.

“Yeah,” George replied weakly. “I guess we should.”

Chapter 144: ABU DHABI

Notes:

and so begins the end. please make sure to submit questions/quotes here before chapter 145 is posted (click for info and how to be involved). and, as always, you can keep up to date on the FG discord server. you'll definitely want to be there when the fic is finished if you're interested in getting commentary and more reveals/abandoned plotlines/fun info.

Chapter Text

 

 

Ferrari was seen as the ultimate score, the diamond among plastic gems. Other empires had history, but none had the legends of greats wandering the palace halls. Everyone wanted to taste the Ferrari legacy. Some, like Sebastian Vettel, abandoned the empires that made them to answer the call of Scuderia Rosso. Others, like Charles Leclerc, were plucked from obscurity and given a trial by fire. Of course, picking Charles had been no accident. Charles had royalty in his blood and money at his back. His pretty face didn’t hurt, either.

“We are no longer confident in your ability to support our empire.” That was the last thing Frédéric Vasseur said to him before handing him a slip of paper that ended it all.

He wasn’t even good enough for the Ferrari feeder team.

“Callum, you got an extra jacket?”

The cart he’d been sitting on jostled as Jack Aitken hopped onto the back to sit beside him. Callum reached into his backpack and paused at the sight of his Alpha Romeo jacket bundled in the bottom—his old one for media appearances.

Callum shook his head and zipped up the backpack. “Sorry, mate.”

“Eh, I’ll manage,” Jack said, shrugging his shoulders.

They were both managing. The past few months had been equivalent to getting stuck inside an industrial washing machine for five cycles in a row. Callum had seen a royal crown fall into his lap, only to be ripped away again. Princes made promises they couldn't keep, and he’d been stupid enough to believe them.

When he closed his eyes, he still saw Mick’s face in profile, smiling up at the sun, all goodness and light. Callum knew the way his soft skin felt against his own, the way he liked to laugh in the dark, the feel of Mick’s smile against his shoulder blade.

Of course, Mick thought everything would be fine. For Mick, it always was.

Pale yellow sun snuck up over the horizon, dying the greenish clouds blue in the dawn light. December in Florida was not the tropical paradise Callum had been led to believe. The air stayed wet but still chilled overnight, freezing them from the inside out. By noon it would be hot enough to shed their jackets, but still humid enough to curl the baby hairs at his temples.

America sat under his skin like an unwanted parasite. Everything about the country felt wrong to him—the massiveness of it, the varied slang, the strange architecture. Even the air smelled different. It felt thicker somehow, stuck in the lungs.

The boys he raced with now laughed at him for mentioning the climate, even the ones who carried the same mark of shame as he did. Romain Grosjean, a once-prince, pretended like he’d never been royal at all. He walked the pit lane with his burned hands and gave a pained smile to anyone who asked him what it was like to drive among the best.

The Americans didn’t care. Callum appreciated their patriotic arrogance. He saw the necessity of it too: few of the Americans he raced with would have anything close to the funding needed to join the royal ranks overseas.

Though Indycar drivers were technically princes in their own right, Callum equated them more to lords. They had no real lands to rule, and competed with the true royalty of American football and basketball. Even among the racing sector of government, NASCAR dominated here.

Jack shrugged his shoulders, making a show of his chattering teeth. “Fuck, man. Is Florida always this cold? Don’t people come here to escape winter?”

“Must be colder up north,” Callum said, fiddling with one of the tow hooks on the back of the cart.

Beyond, mechanics worked on their cars to prepare them for testing. Jack wasn’t doing a good job of hiding his nerves as he kicked his heels and shifted every five seconds. Callum reminded himself yet again that Jack had actually competed in a royal race—one more than Callum and probably one more than he would ever have.

Today they would be testing Indycars. Callum already had an appointment secured, but Jack was vying for a spot himself. He was truly drowning, the walls of real life closing in all around him. Jack was faced with the question they all stared at during their career at some point: what do I do if I’m not driving?

Callum’s phone buzzed against the bed of the cart. He glanced at the screen and his stomach dropped at the sight of a Swiss country code.

Good luck at your test today. How are you doing?

Callum locked the screen and made a mental note to block the number. As usual, rules didn’t apply to Mick Schumacher unless he agreed with them.  

Jack glanced at his phone and exhaled a plume of breath into the chilly morning air. “Did you watch anything from Abu Dhabi? Qualy, at least?”

Callum shook his head. “I don’t keep up with that stuff anymore.”

He didn’t need a therapist to tell him to cut royalty out of his life. If he looked at Max Verstappen’s face, he saw a traitor. If he looked at Mick’s, he saw a fool. Just hearing the name Abu Dhabi made his stomach clench. He should have been there.

Jack frowned, but nodded in understanding. “Well, Max is on pole.”

“Of course he is,” Callum muttered.

Mick tried to claim that Lewis was the reason behind his botched bid for Alpha Romeo, but Callum didn’t see any reason for the likes of Lewis Hamilton to interfere with his life. But it made perfect sense for Max to pull the rug out from under him and blame it on Lewis to turn Mick into an ally.

Enemy of my enemy is my friend, all of that.

He and Jack watched as a Lamborghini Huracán launched from the start line, filling the quiet with the sound of a screaming engine. The sound calmed them both, silencing the unnamable discomfort that sprouted up within them whenever they were away from cars.

Sebring was a famous test track, one that many considered to be a must-drive. Callum had practiced it in the sim for so many laps he could probably drive it with his eyes closed, but now he drove with the niggling voice in the back of his head that told him royal princes could drive it faster—much faster—and he wasn’t good enough to match them.

A Porsche 911 Turbo S sped off after the Lambo, laying rubber for them after a week of rain. Callum used to long to drive sportscars like that. Now he lived for single-seaters.

When he sat in the cockpit now, it reminded him of Texas. Mud-covered gloves turning the key in an expensive Polaris four-wheeler, green lake water that turned blue under the moonlight. Cool mud at his back when Mick inevitably got too competitive and pinned him after Callum pulled off yet another win on the trail circuit.

All of those memories were past now, Callum reminded himself. He was a single man, a fresh prince among American greats. Names like Andretti and Rahal and Johnson replaced the Schumachers, Verstappens, and Rosbergs of the world he’d grown up in.

He had to start life over again in a new country where the locals still occasionally eyed him like an intruder as the only Brit on the grid. If Jack was appointed, they would at least have each other.

“Do you miss it?” Callum asked, breaking the silence.

Jack smiled as he watched the Porsche fly into another turn. “Miss what? I’m right here.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jack leaned back on his hands. “The only thing I regret is not doing better when they gave me a chance at Williams. Other than that, I’m okay with it all. I consider it a blessing not to be around that mess, actually.”

Callum let out a snort. “That’s what every loser says.”

Jack—ever the optimist—laughed. “Call me a loser, then. Here we don’t have to listen to so many rules, and no one’s breathing down our necks about anything but the cars. We can actually focus on racing. I dunno about you, but that’s why I wanted to become a prince. I wanted to race, that’s it.”

Callum’s fingers twitched. “I wanted to win.”

Jack laughed again. “That too, don’t get me wrong.”

Callum’s life could be reduced to one photo. A photo where he stood on the second place step wearing one of Mick’s shirts, staring up at him as he hoisted the first place trophy for the lower courts high in the air.

Back then, he’d been so in love with Mick’s humility. Mick started racing under his mother’s maiden name, to hide his father’s lineage. He said he didn’t want fuss. Of course, Mick looked so much like his father that Callum doubted anyone had fallen for that ruse.

He remembered feeling like he’d won later that evening when Mick left his victory party just to be with him. Callum’s heart atrophied in his chest at the memory, so perfect and unmarred.

“I miss it,” Callum admitted quietly, picking at a piece of tape adhered to the bed of the cart.

“You miss Mick, you mean,” Jack corrected.

Callum smiled despite himself. “I miss how things used to be.”

Jack let out a hum of agreement. “Age old story, huh.”

Callum nodded. “Mick and I are over, but we’ll always have those years together. I guess that counts for something.”

Jack reached over to pat his back. “I’m sorry, mate. You two were good together.”

Callum hated how people spoke about ended relationships in the same way they spoke about death. He needed to move on. He needed to get to a point where the word “home” evoked images of spending time with his parents or his new apartment instead of Mick’s bedroom.

The Lambo tore by them with a furious cry, slicing up the tarmac. He and Jack glanced at each other as it took a stupid line with an early apex, and Callum took comfort in the fact that at least driving would never change.

Driving would never make promises it couldn’t keep.

“So, who do think will win?” Jack asked, and Callum knew he wasn’t asking about the Lambo and the Porsche.

Abu Dhabi decided the fate of the FIA empires in a way that hadn’t been seen since Nico Rosberg in 2016. A new champion would bring new life into the royal circle dominated by Lewis Hamilton. Lewis’s regimes would topple and his alliances would be tested. Many princes no longer cared for someone with no power.

Lewis was the best driver of all of them, though. No one could dispute that. Lewis had done what Callum had tried to do—he’d won everything on merit. His sponsorship in the lower courts, his appointments to major empires, his crown prince status. No one could refuse a winner.

Callum had thought it would be easy enough to follow in his footsteps. In fact, he thought he walked in the same footsteps. A Brit of modest means vying for a spot at the top with a golden-haired heir at his side. Trading wins and sharing a bond no one else could match.

He supposed Lewis probably felt the same displacement when money came up, except Lewis had the wins and talent to blow past the golden gates. Callum had gotten stuck in the queue, left to watch as Guanyu Zhou walked right in with his designer clothes and stacks of cash at his back.  

The talented poor kids had one weakness—integrity. They had no choice but to be honest, because the truth always came out and they had no financial backing to save them when they stumbled.

Not so for their rivals.

Callum lifted his chin. Jack looked at him expectantly, his dark eyes flashing with interest.

You’re going to be a prince, Mick had whispered, so close Callum could taste his breath. Max made me a promise. I promise too.

“Max will win,” Callum finally replied. His breath sparkled in the early morning sun as he exhaled, obscuring his view of the track. “No matter what.”

Chapter 145

Notes:

if you'd like to submit a quote or question, please see chp 144 for the link on how to do so!

a favorite quote from a reader:
“‘We’ll get through this,” Lando whispered, his lips sticky with lemon sugar. “All of us. I’ll make sure, no matter what.'" (Chapter 89)

fun fact: this mistake is still there, but when Nicky has the team get George gelato after Monza, he says George had lemon gelato that he really liked, but George actually had raspberry and Lando, as you can see above, had the lemon.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Few people truly wanted to hold the final race of the royal season at Abu Dhabi. A better option would have been Europe, probably France, where the FIA had more presence and didn’t have to tiptoe around the laws of the United Arab Emirates. George had always found the relationship between the FIA and Arab countries odd, given their rather medieval punishments for men who loved other men.

But money ruled, and for whatever reason, the Arab nations loved to firehose them with cash. Securing rights to the final race cost upward of 50 million euro, or so George had heard.  

Political differences aside, the track was beautiful in the dark and unlike any other. The marina built alongside turns 11 through 14 created perfect ambiance for yacht parties and shows of wealth that glittered and glowed. Monaco didn’t match it—it was too old and cramped to hold up to the opulent splendor only unlimited funds could provide.

A balmy breeze blew in off the water, ruffling George’s hair where he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Nic in a line of princes. Across from him, Lewis stood with Valtteri, both of their stares blank. Sebastian stood on Lewis’s other side, but he was clearly leaned against Lance’s shoulder. No indication of a love affair with the man to his left.

“Please rise for His Royal Highness, Prince Kimi Räikkönen,” a loudspeaker boomed over the chattering of the crowd.

All of the princes turned their attention to the mouth of the paddock entryway, where a silly black curtain had been erected for dramatic effect.

Kimi stepped into the light with a bland expression, his colorless eyes indifferent to the cheering crowd as he slowly walked toward the steps of a temporary stage. Each prince bowed his head as Kimi passed, a show of utmost respect.

The FIA officials assembled on the stage lowered onto one knee, a rather ridiculous display that George found more suspicious than kind. Kimi paused just before he reached George, who had to correct himself to stop from bowing his head too early.

Sebastian lifted his head with a frown on his face. Kimi had his eyes directed straight in front of him, but a silent conversation passed between them anyway, enough that even Lewis flicked his gaze between the two of them.

Right. George dimly remembered that Sebastian had promised Kimi they would retire together, but Lewis had asked Sebastian to stay. George never thought about it from Kimi’s perspective—retirement had to look very different without an old friend to keep him company.

Kimi carried on after another heartbeat of stillness, dragging his red velvet cape behind him. Sebastian bowed his head again, but this time his brows furrowed in pain.

Alpha Romeo had a beautiful royal getup—Ferrari-red velvet, decorated with embroidered white designs that made a tapestry of flowing pearlescent patterns. The trim was made of caribou fur, soft, downy white. If you looked closely at the embroidery, various antlers appeared in the fabric—George had to take a test on it in secondary school. Moose, roe deer, red deer, and caribou paid homage to Alpha Romeo’s Swedish heritage through Sauber, for which they were previously named when Charles had first been appointed.

For all of Kimi’s plays at boredom and lack of interest in his royal role, he wore the cape with dignity and composure. He looked like a king.

“Today marks Prince Räikkönen’s last race as a royal prince of the FIA,” the announcer said. “After today’s race, he will have served his full term as prince of the empires and will enter retirement as a champion. Here to welcome him into that coveted circle is our distinguished guest, Nico Rosberg.”

The crowd gasped, and fans began to surge against the fences across the track for a glimpse at the most cowardly champion to earn a title.

Nico walked out from behind the curtain in one of his stupid linen shirts, smiling wide. Lewis flinched openly as George’s stomach fell through the floor. Nico’s sleeves had apparently been too long for him because he’d rolled the cuffs and they still dangled partway to his palms in a fashion twenty years too young for him.

The crowd roared their approval even as all of the princes lifted their heads. Some looked down the line to watch Nico wave to the crowd as he walked up like he owned the place, but Lewis kept his eyes on George as if searching for strength.

George’s lips twitched in a semblance of a smile that caused Lewis to flare his nostrils—either in disgust or amusement, George didn’t know.

Nico, to his credit, didn’t spare Lewis a second glance as he passed with his arms outstretched as if Kimi might want to embrace him.

Fat chance.

“Truly an honor to be invited,” Nico greeted, and it echoed through his lapel mic around the track. “I don’t take such things lightly—you can’t once you’ve left this place. As soon as you leave, you dream about returning, I’m afraid.”

Lewis looked like he might spontaneously combust, and Sebastian looked no better where he stood beside him.

“Talk about yikes,” Nicky said under his breath. George nudged him in agreement, but stayed silent.

Nico put a hand on Kimi’s shoulder. “Kimi, you’ve put on a spectacular performance over the years. You achieved what few princes ever have—you left this world and returned to it. Not only that, you returned and won.”

Kimi let out a snort, but his face betrayed no emotion as he looked out at the churning crowd gathering beyond the fences.

“In 2007, you foiled Lewis’s campaign to be the first rookie in the history of royalty to win a championship.” George fought not to roll his eyes. Nico was still Nico, bringing Lewis into every bloody conversation. Nico gestured to a far-off building, a webbed cocoon of white steel. Ferrari World. “And as history stands, you are Ferrari’s last champion.”

Sebastian muttered something in German that sounded scathing, but Lewis silenced him with a look.

“The royal world will miss you dearly,” Nico continued. “Your experience, your Iceman mentality—all of these things make you one of the princes of legend. When I won my championship in 2016, I was proud to be among the likes of you as I accepted that trophy.”

“Je-sus,” George said on an exhale. Sebastian rolled his eyes despite cameras trained on them, but Lewis had gone utterly cold.

“A championship changes you,” Nico said. “As you and I both know, heading into the next season after a championship feels like starting on a new playing field.”

Except Nico didn’t know. He’d turned tail before he even had the chance to experience life as a champion. And, of course, he blamed that on Lewis and not his own cowardice.

“Today will be a historic one no matter how it plays out,” Nico said, turning to the crowd. “We’ll either have the most decorated prince of all time, or a new champion ushering in change. I can’t wait for the outcome. Kimi, it’s been an honor to race with you, and I know every prince here today will agree with me about that. I, for one, can’t wait to see what you do next.”

“Thank you,” Kimi said curtly. “I can’t wait for this race to be over.”

Laughter erupted throughout the track, but not among the princes.

Tension thickened in the air like the stillness before a lightning strike. George glanced down the line to the base of the stairs, where Max stood rigid beside Checo, his face already glistening with sweat.

Adrenaline trickled into George’s bloodstream as Nico droned on about loyalty, royalty, and more attributes he didn’t possess. After this ceremony, they all had to get in their cars and race each other. A few hours from now, relationships would be torn apart. Some princes would rise, others would fall—and all of it hinged on whether Max or Lewis won.

An FIA official signaled all of them to head into the curtained area once Nico finished his speech and Jenson Button joined him on stage for some commentary piece. Jenson looked like he’d been put in a cage with a rabid animal. Not a far off metaphor—Nico wasn’t trustworthy in any sense.

George broke from Nicky and immediately found his way to Lewis’s side, ignoring the knife that lodged in his heart when he saw Alex at the front of the line, standing as a prince-in-waiting with Guanyu Zhou.

George didn’t know what was worse, the fact that he had to tell everyone he broke it off with Alex to focus on Lewis and Mercedes, or the fact that all of his friends believed it without a fight. Nicky ordered him a plate of warm cookies and a glass of milk to watch Downton Abbey together and soothed him while he cried his eyes out, but even he didn’t question it.

“How do you feel?” George asked Lewis quietly, slowing down to avoid running into Carlos in front of him.

Lewis smiled warmly at him. “I’m ready, man. Are you?”

George didn’t know the answer to that question. He thought back through the season, all of the laughter that turned so sour. Lunch in Monaco, drunk in the middle of the day while he tried to explain how hard it was to learn German. Riding with Nicky to the coffee tasting afterward, the yacht party later in the weekend. Watching Pride and Prejudice in the plane, walking around the lake with Lando in Austria, his first time having tea with Lewis in his motorhome.

He also thought of Alex in Miami wearing that ridiculous straw hat, sitting on the beach together with their hands intertwined. Puke shoes, monopoly pieces, Alex’s scribbled note.

He and Lewis stepped past the curtain into the darkness of the tunnel leading to hospitality. George used the cover to kiss Lewis’s cheek as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

“For good luck,” George explained in a whisper, sidestepping an answer to his question.

Lewis laughed and reached over to squeeze his wrist. “You’re ready, even if you don’t think you are. Mercedes needs you, George. I know you can rise to the occasion.”

George faltered slightly. “I learned from the best.”

Lewis squeezed his wrist once more and slipped away as they entered the brightly-lit hospitality lane. Sebastian lazily swung his and Lance’s joined hands about five steps behind them, then effortlessly broke contact and pointed toward a food stand, saying something George couldn’t hear. Lance wrinkled his nose and waved him off, none the wiser as Sebastian walked away from him and headed toward the food stand—conveniently in Lewis’s direction.

George could only hope he learned to be just as discreet someday as he watched Alex walk with Nicky up ahead, picture-perfect future husbands.

 


 

Charles squeezed past a container in Ferrari’s storage garage, sucking in a deep breath as he finally made it to a bit of free space. He turned on his phone flashlight and turned to help Pierre through after him.

“Merde, it’s like they don’t want us sneaking around or something,” Pierre joked as he stood up straight again. His eyes dimmed and Charles didn’t answer before they fell into a flurry of kisses, each one sweeter than the last. Charles brought his hand to Pierre’s face, holding him close for a deeper kiss as Pierre pressed fully against him, igniting the cocktail of adrenaline and desire in Charles’s system.

“Pas ici,” Charles chuckled as Pierre thumbed at the clasp on the collar of his racesuit.

“Not here, not there, not anywhere,” Pierre growled. Charles loved the vibration on his lips as he kissed down the column of Pierre’s neck. “Where art thou, green eggs and ham?”

Charles burst out laughing. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s Dr. Suess, isn’t it?” Pierre asked. “With the Oompa Loompas?”

Charles laughed into another kiss. "Tu es un idiot."

Pierre’s fingers curled in his hair as they began properly making out, and Charles let himself melt into the sensation, lulled into the liquid heat of his desire as Pierre found every sensitive spot above his shoulders.

It had been too long since they saw each other this way. Charles had so much going on with Carlos, with Ferrari, that he’d neglected this. He was a horrible person.

Charles broke away to catch his breath, eyes hooded as he stared down at Pierre’s swollen lips. “We don’t have enough time,” he murmured.

“We never do, mon amour,” Pierre replied with a chaste kiss. “But yes, we do have to talk about after.”

After. The race loomed over all of them, a haunting cloud of potential catastrophe. Pierre was at risk more than most—he liked Lewis, but was a prince of Red Bull. If Max lost and looked for someone to take out his anger, Pierre would be near the top of the list. If Max won, he might start rooting out potential problems and Pierre would still be near the top of the list.

“Monaco,” Charles said, their lips only a breath apart. He stole a kiss for the fun of it. “Come to Monaco. Show up at my door, I don’t care. We can spend a week together. A month, if you want.”

"Un mois?" Pierre laughed. “Wow, you really do love me, Leclerc.”

Charles kissed him hard in response, eliciting a noise of surprise deep in Pierre’s throat.

“Hey,” Pierre said as he gently pushed Charles back. “How about I write you? We can plan for Monaco, but I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep. It shouldn’t be difficult to arrange, but…I don’t know how this will go.”

Something about his tone made Charles shiver. “Pierre—”

“Calamardo, you’re safe,” Pierre assured him. “That’s the only reason I can sleep at night. But the rest of us aren’t. I know I’m not—Max is fucking insane right now.”

“He’s scared,” Charles corrected. “When he’s cornered, he fights back.”

“And he doesn’t care who he hits,” Pierre said gravely.

“That’s Jos, not Max,” Charles hissed. Max had gone radio silent since the situation under the podium with his father and Carlos. Charles had written him twice with no response, and Max hadn’t looked at him once during Kimi’s ceremony.

Fear ratcheted up Charles’s spine. “Did he say something to you? Did something else happen?”

Pierre shook his head, his features shadowed with sadness. “I can see it in his eyes. If he wins, it’ll be fine. If not…I’m doing my best to be ready for it.”

Charles shook his head. “I won’t let him exile you. I promise—”

“Don’t promise,” Pierre said quietly, a broken smile on his face. “Please don’t.”

A lump formed in Charles’s throat. “Okay,” he croaked. “I won’t.” He ran his hands over Pierre’s chest, trying to find words that would soothe him and not leak the dread in his heart.

Pierre gently nosed his head up to meet him for a long, perfect kiss. Charles sank against him but held him tight. No one loved him like Pierre did, but fate seemed determined to keep them apart.

Pierre eventually broke the kiss with a fond smile on his lips. “Whatever happens,” he whispered. “I want you to know I never regretted a single second I got to spend with you.”

When they kissed again, it tasted like loss.

 


 

Lando sat perched on a pile of tires, trying to pry Carlos’s attention from the love of his life: Fernando Alonso. Carlos stared at Fernando with eyes as wide as saucers, his lips parted in awe as if Fernando didn’t speak his native language.

Around them, the teams were making final preparations before moving the cars onto the grid, and Lando could not go into the race without talking to Carlos. His whole life was about to go to shit whether Max won or lost, and Carlos seemed more focused on Fernando.

“—so like him to bring up his accolades,” Fernando said with a raise of his eyebrows. “All he does is talk about himself, even when talking about other people.”

“Are you guys talking about Nico?” George said, backtracking from where he’d just walked past.

Lando groaned and gave Carlos a pointed kick in the knee. George entering a conversation could mean another hour of talking. Carlos jumped and whipped his attention to him, startled then fond.

“What?” Carlos asked, starlight glittering in his perfect Spanish hair. Unbelievable.

“Talk to me, not them,” Lando whined, swinging his heels against the tires.

“We were,” Fernando answered George, but his smile had disappeared.

Carlos laughed and stepped closer as he sipped from his Ferrari water bottle. “I will just be a second. Can you wait a second?”

“Don’t be like that or I’ll time you,” Lando muttered, snatching up his own water bottle to take a long sip. He braced himself for the punch of vodka—a fear still ingrained in him from his one incident with Daniel.

With how Daniel had been acting this week, Lando didn’t put it past him to step into the cockpit piss-drunk. He’d probably slept a total of three hours since Saudi Arabia, and every time he woke blubbering or gasping for air. Lando’s attempts to soothe him failed miserably, and qualifying only served to make Daniel more upset, even though Max had pole.

“Who even invited him? I thought the FIA hated Nico for telling them to fuck themselves when he retired,” George said.

“He’s a distinguished guest,” Fernando replied, as if that answered the question.

George, Carlos, and Lando all stared at him expectantly. Fernando shook his head, exasperated.

“None of you know?” He looked pointedly at Carlos, who shrank back.

“Enlighten us, old guy,” Lando drawled. Fernando glared at him, but Lando kept his annoyed stare. Fernando was preventing him from a much-needed conversation with Carlos, so he could fuck right off.

“I suppose it’s a rather unusual tradition,” Fernando finally said, tearing his gaze from Lando. “In an event like this, where a championship is decided between two or more princes, each driver is allowed to invite a distinguished guest. The FIA is not allowed to refuse their attendance, nor is any empire.”

George’s face contorted with silent rage. “So Max brought Nico Rosberg to fuck with Lewis?”

Fernando laughed. “Very clever, no?”

“Unbelievable,” George growled. “What’s next, accidentally slashing Lewis’s tires before the start?”

“I believe he already tried something similar in Saudi Arabia,” Fernando said with a snort. “I don’t condone brake checking,” he added when Carlos gaped at him.

“Just everything else,” George muttered.

Fernando shrugged. “I do what it takes to win. You will learn too.”

George waved him off and stalked away down the line of garages. Lando used the pause in conversation to kick Carlos’s thigh this time.

“Sorry Fernando, we will have to speak later,” Carlos said with a pat to Fernando’s shoulder. “Good luck today.”

“I don’t need luck, but thank you,” Fernando replied with a wink. He waved to Lando before heading back toward the Alpine garage.

“There,” Carlos said, turning to face him and stepping as close as he could while they were still in the public eye. “Now I am all yours for your important things.”

Lando smiled and sat up straighter. “About time.”

Carlos glanced around. “We don’t have much. I’m not sure how fast the FIA plan on responding to treason today.”

Lando cocked his head slightly. “Is that a coded message?”

Carlos frowned. “Don’t pretend like Max hasn’t been making his own rules with the FIA all season. Not when we’ve benefitted from it.”

Lando quirked his lips. “You mean like when they stole you out of our bed like a criminal in Brazil?”

Carlos sighed. “That was Ferrari, not the FIA.”

“Same thing, I hear.”

Lando grinned a second before Carlos lifted a glare at him. Carlos was so loyal. He loved it. Until it got in the way.

“I want you to visit my new place in Monaco,” Lando said, swinging his feet again as the nerves ate him up. “And stay for a bit. A few days or something. You can say you’re staying with Charles or whatever.”

Carlos softened. A smile spread on his perfect lips, framed by smile lines Lando thought about in his daydreams. As much as Lando loved Carlos in orange, he had to admit that red was downright sexy on him—Lando only daydreamed about him wearing red or black now.

“When would you like me to visit?” Carlos asked. “I go back to Maranello tomorrow, then I am spending some time with Charles. I could fly to Monaco with him at the end of the week.”

“Perfect,” Lando said. “I get the keys Wednesday. That’ll give me time to get some furniture and stuff.”

“Well, that was very easy,” Carlos laughed. “I can’t wait.”

“I also have something for you,” Lando said, hopping off of the tire stack. “I’ll put it in your pocket, okay?”

Carlos eyed him warily. “Don’t hit me in the balls.”

Lando laughed. “Don’t give me ideas.”

He stepped forward and pulled Carlos’s watch from his jacket pocket before slipping it into Carlos’s pocket as he passed. Not the cleanest execution, but he didn’t drop it. He turned to face Carlos once he’d completed his mission, smiling softly.

Carlos felt in his pocket and his eyes went wide when he recognized what it was. “But you—”

“I don’t need it anymore,” Lando said with a shake of his head. “I have you again, that’s all I need.”

Shadows and light played on Carlos’s face as he looked down at his pocket and then up at Lando. A searching, loving look passed over his face, one Lando could understand completely even though it didn’t have a name.

“If I could kiss you, I would,” Carlos said quietly.

Lando shrugged. “I know. I’ll see you later, Sainz. Don’t let your emotions stop you from racing me with all you’ve got.”

Carlos laughed. “I won’t, I promise.”

Lando turned on his heel and headed for McLaren.

He didn’t let Carlos see the fear leap to his eyes a moment later. Cold dread seeped into his veins as he walked, each step more difficult than the last. Daniel stood at the mouth of the McLaren garage, arms folded across his chest, eyes red-rimmed and hollow as he swayed to music Lando couldn’t hear. A smile sat twisted on his lips, an uncanny façade of happiness that convinced no one.

The smile of a man who knew his life was about to change forever.

 

 

Notes:

a reader question: First off, I wanna say thank you so so much for coming up with and writing this amazing fic I've loved it from beginning to end and I'm always excited when I get an email notification to say that you have posted another chapter. Anyway, my question is how much research did you have to do when it came to the drivers and all that?

It really depends on the driver. I started this fic with various opinions of all the drivers but I have to say that fool’s gold has changed my opinion about several of them because I had to put myself in their shoes, so to speak, and do more research into the various facets of their life. I think it’s more obvious in the beginning that I didn’t have all of my “driver lore” sorted out, and some things came as I was writing. For example, I knew I wanted a past relationship between Charles and Max, but I had to do an enormous amount of research into their karting careers, particularly Max’s early driving career. I tried to be as accurate as possible with timing and crossover between drivers (like Max and Carlos) and how they fit into the FG world. This allowed me to build off of actual events and slot them into the story with new meaning and made it fun for me to come up with reasons for things. Sometimes random tidbits of info come from outside research, such as mention of Henri Toivonen in the rally scene—Henri is one of my favorite drivers in motorsports so I wanted to include him somehow and it worked out pretty well. That chapter is one of my favorites!

But I did fail in some respects – Daniel making PB&Js for example…my man is allergic to peanuts so he wouldn’t actually do that lol. And I think Callum and George were much closer friends than I made them out to be, but sometimes I don't stumble across things until it's too late, so I can chalk them up to this being an AU. :)

Chapter 146

Notes:

A favorite quote from a reader:

Max jabbed a finger into his own sternum, flinching at his self-inflicted impact. “You made me.” His voice broke on the last word, and so did Max. (Chapter 142)

I could've picked so many different quotes, through so many glorious chapters that you've created, as my favourite - charles going all out on carlos, george finding out about seb and lewis, etc. but this one made me stop and sit down through the sheer force of it. i had the feeling all throughout this fic that it was charles and max, always. il predestinato and the lion, the golden boys, the talents. charles talking about champagne love just sealed that for me - everything he's done in this fic has, at root, been out of concern for himself, or max. i think he pretends otherwise but it's true. (these characters are so realistically written that i can't talk about them in any way other than as real people of their own, separate to their IRL counterparts. you have crafted a fic more real than reality.) the quote above sums everything up. max made charles and charles made max, and if that's not love, what is?

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Lando probably should have been more excited about starting third, but all he could think as he launched from the start line was that he would be the first one taken out if Max and Lewis ran into each other.

Instinct took over as he cut inside toward the free space in front of him. Lewis edged toward the middle of the track, but not in his way. Max, however, cut sharply to the inside, forcing Lando abandon his lunge and try for the outside.

Not great.

Carlos appeared in his mirrors,  scarlet red and shadows in the dark. Lando ignored him as he clocked the apex of Turn 1 and eyed Checo coming up on the inside until they were next to each other.

He glanced ahead to see that Lewis had taken the lead. A strange sense of relief flooded over him, a pressure release in his system that—

Shit.

Lando corrected as he flew off the track onto the colorful runoff, mentally berating himself for getting distracted as Checo slotted into third.

Lando managed to rejoin in front of both Ferraris, and he swore Carlos slowed down a bit to let him back in, despite promising to fight hard.

Maybe he felt it too—the comfort in realizing nothing would change if Lewis won. Lewis had maintained the empires for almost a decade, a streak broken only by Nico Rosberg, who stepped out before he ever led the FIA.

Max was a wildcard. Sometimes, Lando saw a man who would be a great leader among them, like he’d seen in Zandvoort with Daniel. Max rented the house, cooked dinner, danced with Daniel and kept his calm when Daniel went missing.

Lando checked on Carlos and Charles behind him, with a dozen other cars looming in the shadowy background like sharks waiting to feast.  He stamped down the throttle.

Max had also kissed him that night in Zandvoort and went missing himself. Lando never did discover where he’d gone, and Max never mentioned any of it again.

That version of Max never returned—never fully. Lando missed those days. Everything felt like it was going in the right direction. Now? Not so much.

Some people weren’t cut out to be champion. Lando would be, when it was his turn.

And maybe it was selfish of him, but if Carlos was still racing when he finally claimed that top spot, he would find a way to make sure they spent all kinds of time together. Or, if Carlos had retired, Lando would make McLaren hire him as a consultant or something. A consultant who had to sleep in the adjoining apartments to the royal apartment.

Yeah, that could work, he thought as he flicked down the gears into the next corner.

Carlos edged in right to his rear wing and Lando heard a distant buzz come from his engine. He veered off to the side in case something happened and Carlos and Charles took their chance to pass him. Lando made the decision too quickly to process it. Max probably  would have kept the throttle down, but if something happened in his car that slowed him down quickly, Carlos would hit him and risk being hurt.

“Engine is fine, not sure what that blip was,” Will said over radio. “Everything good?

“Yeah,” Lando said, unaffected as he rejoined and gave chase.

He eyed a shadow in the corner of his vision and saw Lewis’s rear wing where he’d driven off the track, but he looked to be rejoining in front of Max again.

A lump formed in Lando’s throat. The race was far from over. He’d watched Lewis’s onboards enough times over the years to know that Lewis didn’t cut the track often—he wasn’t Fernando, who was always trying to get past loopholes, like avoiding the chicane at Turn 1 in Monza.

He had to focus on his own race. He had to catch Carlos and Charles, then he could deal with attempting to catch up to Checo. After that—well, he wasn’t going to try. He didn’t need to get himself killed in a pointless fight.

Lando swung up the inside on Charles, overtaking him as they exited the corner. Charles’s helmet flicked toward him as he passed, but he didn’t make any risky moves.

Death always loomed on the racetrack, but Lando had never felt its gentle caress run across the tips of his fingers until now.

Max tried to kill him. That’s what Daniel had said about the brake checking incident. Max was willing to kill someone for a championship. Lewis hadn’t even hesitated to get back in the car with that knowledge.

Lando didn’t want to kill anybody. He didn’t want anyone to kill him, either.

Daniel’s haunted face flashed in his mind, tortured by things Lando still didn’t know. His own husband was a mystery to him, a man bent on survival and nothing else. Daniel was a chameleon—for the media, for the FIA, and maybe even for Max.

“How far up is Perez?” Lando asked over radio.

“Three seconds up,” Will replied. “He’s pulling away from Sainz.”

Good. Carlos would be safe from the fray, and Lando would do his damnedest to keep Charles from joining him.

 


 

Charles had no chance at a championship, but watching Sergio Perez disappear two corners ahead of him twisted a knife in his gut. Ten laps later and he was still contending with Lando—a McLaren—for more points. He occasionally caught sight of Carlos ahead, but the three of them were alone on the track, the nearest car so far behind them that Charles could only see a distant shadow in his mirrors.

“Is he—”

“Hamilton is leading,” Jock interrupted curtly.

Charles had asked about Max too many times already. He swore under his breath as he braced against the Gs of another turn. Every corner blurred in his mind, his fingers moving on muscle memory.

More laps fell away from him, each one closer to deciding their champion.

He’d seen Lewis right before the race start, smiling cheerfully and posing for a photo with his father. An unmissable parallel to Max with Jos, standing stiffly beside each other across the grid.

Charles had never seen Lewis’s father before. Not in person, anyway. He seemed more reserved than his son, his smile tight, his eyes constantly shifting. Protective.

Of course, seeing Lewis with his father had reminded Charles of the void in his life he would never fill. Sometimes he wondered if his father would even be proud of him, or if the horrors of their world would have reached his ears and made him regret sending his sons to be princes.

Charles glanced at the big screens, where Lewis’s Mercedes weaved between two Red Bulls. Max had to be the one behind—a few laps ago, Max had pitted. Perez must not have gone in yet, likely left out to hinder Lewis’s time as much as possible.

His heart beat in his throat as he focused on the track again. The crowd screamed occasionally, but Charles had no time to read into their cries.

Max’s stiff frame ate up the edges of his vision, a ghost of him standing on the grid. Charles had still been floating from the taste of Pierre’s kisses on his lips, yet reactive enough to battle Lewis Hamilton for a title.

He should have said something. He should have offered some kind of encouragement, if only to help Max for that moment. If he lost—

Charles forced himself to focus on his exit onto the straight.

If Max lost, he would have to run. He would have to escape Red Bull for the winter and hide himself from the world if he had any hope at saving himself. But knowing Max, he would dive headfirst into royal duties as a self-inflicted punishment. Max loathed his father—they all did—but Max was still convinced Jos’s beatings forged him into a stronger competitor.

No, Charles thought. Just a desperate and dangerous one.

 


 

Lewis was going to win. Nic glanced in his mirrors to check for oncoming cars, but only saw Mick Schumacher’s white Haas gaining a bit of ground on him. Nic was pretty used to being lapped at this point in his royal career. People like to make fun of him for it, but he didn’t care. He was a prince, and he loved being a prince most of the time. Not getting to see his girlfriend sucked, but other than that, he had a pretty cush life.

He could have been an absolute prick of a guy. It would have been easy to sprawl out in his father’s pile of infinite money and tell the world to fuck off. But he wanted purpose, and the FIA gave him more purpose than handling someone’s hedge funds. He forever had a place in history now, no matter how small that note would be.

Really, Mercedes ought to give him an award for preventing George from having a mental breakdown before being a Mercedes prince. Two more laps, and Lewis would become the best there ever was, and George would marry him.

Nic didn’t dread that. He liked Lewis, despite whatever was going on with him and George. He seemed respectful—he could have sent Mercedes cronies to drag George from their room whenever he wanted. He also seemed to respect George’s relationship with Alex.

Well. Before they broke up.

“C’mon, Mick,” Nic muttered as Mick swiped in up the inside to attempt an overtake.

Nic was no idiot on track. Yeah, he had Daddy’s money to fund him growing up, but he took racing seriously. And though his dad wasn’t Michael Schumacher, he and Mick had similar funding.

It was all about the media spin, and Nic had never cared to make himself out to be anything but himself. Manipulating people into liking him wouldn’t do anything but make him feel like a cheat.

Mick dropped back on the exit of the next corner. Nic made a mental note to talk to the team about keeping cornering sped for next season, though the cars would be totally different.

He rocketed into Turn 13, smiling as the car came up to meet him.

He had to do this for George. A gearbox issue had taken George out halfway through, ending his race. Nic was a little jealous—he would have much preferred to watch the championship battle play out on screen instead of in his mirrors when Lewis and Max inevitably came charging up behind him.

Nic hoped George would be the happy George he’d married when he got out of the car. No more pressure on his shoulders, no more silent unease in his eyes, no more sadness. It would be a little awkward to have Alex come stay with them now when he transitioned into his appointment, but Nic doubted Alex and George hated each other. Their breakup seemed like a mutual decision, one they had probably seen coming when Lewis stepped into the picture.

Maybe he could convince them both to—

His back tires suddenly flew out from under him. Nic wrenched the wheel into countersteer, but his momentum was too much to control. He scrambled to get the car toward the runoff, but then heard the sickening crack of his car slamming against the barriers. He lurched in his seat, thrown against his belts as time seemed to catch up to him all at once.

His ears rang from the noise of the impact. He blinked slowly, trying to assess his body for injury. His fingers moved when he asked them to, and his feet seemed to be working.

“Nicky?” a disembodied voice said over radio. He lifted his head, watching as yellow flags swung in the air in front of him.

Slow down, safety car, his mind slurred. His fingers twitched toward the wheel, trying to find the VSC button. Or regular safety car?

“Gäetan,” Nic murmured. God, Gäetan would probably pissed at him for crashing. He always got so fucking pissy about everything.

“Nic! Nic!”

That was his name. Nic forced himself to hit the radio button with his sluggish thumb.

“M’okay,” he breathed. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Tell George I’m sorry.

“You need to get out of the car, Nic,” Gäetan said in his ear, clearer now. “Can you do that?”

Nic tried to nod, but pain shot up his neck. Fucking hell, that hurt. “Give me a second.”

He closed his eyes and began engine shutoff procedures without looking. He crashed often enough to fucking know how to turn the car off.

Nic forced his arms to move as he pulled the steering wheel from the quick release and emerged from the car. He popped the steering wheel back into place and teetered from the weight of his helmet.

The air around him had gone still. It reminded him of the spring storms in Canada, the silence before the most severe storms. The distant squall of an engine grew louder as the track stewards swarmed his broken car. A medic grabbed his shoulder, but Nic stood motionless as Lewis’s car snaked into view around the bend with Max right behind him.

Max turned his helmet as he passed and offered a small nod that made Nic’s blood run cold.

His knees buckled, sending him crashing to the tarmac. The medic hoisted him up and called for help, but Nic could only stare at the pebbles mashed among the asphalt.

“No,” he whispered as he realized what he’d done. “No.”

The medic gripped tightly to his shoulders, but Nic braced himself on the ground, trying to dig his fingers into the warm surface. Anything to stop the world from spinning. 

When the heat seeped through his gloves, he screamed as if ripped open.

 

 

Notes:

a reader question: How have you kept track of all the different plotlines? And how many times have you had to rewatch the 2021 season?!

I think I actually started plotting things out a bit before Monaco. I made notes of what happened during race weekends that I wanted to write about, then went back and fleshed out the moments into the context of the story. Some stuff I added in because I wanted to, but I tried to keep it in line with the gossip going around the paddock that week, but not always. For example, the Ferrari Summit came about because everyone was talking about Ferrari potentially vetoing the new regulations. That’s not as big of a thing in FG so I changed the context and upped the drama. But the whole French GP scene with Pierre, Esteban, and Charles was all made up (though the locations aren’t) because it was fun. Same with the Champions’ party in Monaco, and the whole Monaco freedom thing. In real life Monaco is a “freedom” because of the way they handle taxes, and so many drivers live there I wanted to give them a reason to do that.
Most of the time though, all of the major plotlines are just in my head. The whole story feels like a movie I’ve been living/watching, so while I do forget stuff sometimes, a lot of it feels like memory so it’s easy to remember what happened.
As for watching the 2021 season, I’ve only had to rewatch highlights of Qatar, Saudi Arabia, an Abu Dhabi to make sure my notes were right and to pick up things about certain drivers that I might have missed before. Otherwise, I hate rewatching races so I just looked at the quali results and the race results and cross referenced from the notes I took while watching the race. So the answer I guess is I’ve never rewatched the season LOL

Chapter 147

Notes:

reader question and quote are here

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

George’s heart lodged in his throat as he watched the display of monitors in the Williams garage. Nicky had been taken to medical for a concussion check, and if he was smart, he would stay there. George had seen the moment of realization when it hit his husband, and the same feeling echoed through him every time he thought about Nic’s hands splayed on the ground, his helmet sagging.

“They’ll have to end the race under safety car,” George said to the engineers gathered around him. “They won’t be able to unlap everyone in time.”

Nicky’s car was still on track getting hooked up to the crane. With the laps dwindling down, the FIA had no choice but to call it. Max had swapped to fresh mediums, but he would have no chance to use them.

The Red Bull pit wall huddled around their monitors, everyone speaking quietly amongst each other. Mercedes moved erratically, anger in their eyes. George’s throat tightened.

“They won’t like that,” Jost said as he stepped up beside George.

“How’s Nicky?” George asked, removing a headphone from one ear.

“He’s okay. Shaken up, as you can imagine,” Jost replied. A darkness flashed in his eyes, but he said nothing further.

“It was an accident,” George snapped. Several engineers looked at him with wide eyes.

Jost shook his head. “If it changes the trajectory of this championship, no one will think that.”

“It won’t, because they’re ending under safety car,” George argued, but it came out desperate. “They don’t have enough time.”

Two laps to get everyone unlapped didn’t make sense. It wasn’t feasible. The FIA would hate to end the season this way, but safety came first.

Night sky glittered above the track outside, and the fans in the stands clutched each other, wrapped in Red Bull and Mercedes flags as they watched Lewis’s black livery slice up the tarmac, Max following right behind.

Lewis had led the whole race by such a wide margin—no one could dispute his ability. The car was running perfectly, seamless in strategy. Lewis had done the impossible. He’d won the last six races to keep his championship contention alive. He’d done what no one else on the planet could do.

Max put up a good fight, until he turned dirty. In some fucked up way, George understood his desperation. Lewis had an innate ability to smother the competition with only a slight change in pressure.

Not to mention Sebastian had tipped the scales by bringing in Jos.

Anger flared in him at the thought. Sebastian was just outside the points, behind Charles. How fitting, a repeat of the year before.

The race feed flicked to Lewis’s father, who sat with his hands clasped, thumbs pressed against his mouth. His dark eyes betrayed no emotion—exactly like his son. Lewis stayed cool under pressure, despite the weight on his shoulders.

George had seen Lewis dictate narratives from a hospital bed. Nothing mattered more to him than this race, this championship.

“They’re not allowing lapped cars to overtake,” an engineer called from down the line.

George set his jaw. Relief bubbled through his system, but something didn’t allow him to celebrate yet. Max kept creeping closer and closer to Lewis’s back end, like he knew something the rest of them didn’t.

Delusion, maybe. George inwardly flinched. Max was only dangerous behind the wheel, never delusional. He always worked within the bounds, even if it forced rule changes afterward.

“We’re ending under safety car,” George repeated, adamant. “We have to. Anything else would kill the FIA’s credibility.”

 


 

“So I cannot overtake?” Charles asked over radio as he watched Sebastian weave in his mirrors. “We are ending the race this way?” He didn’t hide the suspicion in his voice. Lapped cars were always allowed to overtake—they had to get into proper order for the restart. Currently, he was mixed in with Carlos, who had somehow managed to keep third.

“We are checking,” came Jock’s terse reply.

“We’re running out of laps,” Charles growled. “Can I overtake or not?”

No answer. Frustration sparked to life in his gut as he watched Max weave aggressively up ahead, his tires still glassy with fresh rubber.

They couldn’t restart a race like this. Charles had never been in a race where lapped cars couldn’t overtake to settle the order, but he understood the decision if they ended the race under safety car.

Sebastian’s engine revved behind him, effectively cutting off the McLaren behind him. Daniel, judging by the helmet.

“You are free to overtake,” Jock said.

Charles blinked, but flicked up through the gears to get up to a proper speed. Lando and Fernando moved out in front of him, and Sebastian followed behind. Daniel started to go forward, then stopped.

“What is happening?” Charles asked as he slotted in behind Fernando’s Alpine. “Is this right?”

The rest of the field hadn’t joined them, and Lando had been leading the train of lapped cars. Charles checked his mirrors, and time seemed to slow as he passed Max’s Red Bull.

The iconic blue livery looked almost black under the stars. Max’s helmet twitched in the cockpit, his fingers curled tight around his wheel. Pure focus on Lewis’s car ahead.

A cold poison seeped into Charles’s bloodstream as he passed. Whatever happened in the next five minutes, that would be the last time he saw Max before.

“A few cars were permitted to overtake,” Jock explained, but he sounded far away. “Once you are clear, the race will restart.”

“What?” Charles glanced at his wheel. “We only have one lap left! They can’t—this is against the rules, no?”

“The FIA is the one telling us this, Charles,” Jock said flatly. A warning, one he wouldn’t get twice.

Keep your mouth shut on radio.

Charles sucked down a breath. He glanced up at one of the big screens to see Max side-by-side with Lewis, his fresh tires shining under the lights. Pitting for new tires was an obvious choice, but Charles couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all too perfect.

It isn’t cheating if you’re supported by the ones making the rules.

Max’s words took on new meaning as Charles stomped the throttle.

 


 

Panic gripped the pit wall as the announcement from race control traveled to each empire. George stood staring at the monitor in front of him, locked into place as Max wedged his car right up on Lewis’s side, waiting for the restart.

A fucking restart. One lap of racing for show—except one lap of real racing meant Lewis would lose unless he pulled off a miracle. George was pretty sure he’d run out of those, but he tried to have hope as the safety car ended and Lewis had the floor.

He glanced over at the pit wall, catching the edges of triumphant smirks on the Red Bull side.

George’s stomach pulled with a sick feeling of wrongness. It would be one thing if Max had led at all during the race, if he’d been anywhere close to Lewis before this. But this was unfair. Blatantly unfair.

Lewis shot forward. George hugged himself tightly, fingers digging into his Nomex as he watched his future husband put on a brilliant defense.

But old tires were no match against fresh rubber. Max took the lead to the roar of the crowd, blasting forward as if this whole thing was insignificant, as if he hadn’t lost this race utterly and completely until Nicky crashed.

The grandstands exploded, but the pitch of the crowd’s cries weren’t high enough to be the exuberated cheering for a new world champion. Flares burst all around the track, flooding the tarmac with orange as Max crossed the finish line as the new World Champion.

George gagged once, twice, then made for the nearest trash can as his world pitched him toward an unknowable hell.

 


 

Charles choked on the acrid scent of smoke as he pulled his car to a stop. His hands shook so hard he fussed with his wheel for seconds too long before pulling it out of the quick release. The night air had a new fury to it, a feeling that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck as he ripped off his helmet and freed himself from the car.

Max sat hunched by the tires, sobbing brokenly as cameras swarmed him. Daniel stood in the crowd waiting to approach him, his eyes hollow and his helmet carefully held between both hands, as if he might need to use it to protect himself.

Jenson Button stood with a microphone at the edge of the crowd, equally empty-eyed. Charles wondered if he was thinking about his own championship win against the same prince Max had just beaten.

Whatever Jenson had learned as champion, he abandoned his empire to be beside Lewis at McLaren the following year. Charles barely remembered them racing together, but he’d remembered his father being impressed that Jenson would put aside his win for the challenge of racing Lewis on equal terms.

Someone broke from the gathered crowd and suddenly a swarm of Red Bull team members swooped in, lifting Max in the air and parading him around like a proper king. Max pumped his fists, but Charles recognized the relief more than his happiness.

Jos loomed in the shadows behind Daniel, watching it all.

“Charles.”

The sound of his name in a Spanish accent sent desperation surging through him as he turned to Carlos. Carlos’s hair was damp with sweat, his face still marked from his radio wires and balaclava as he rushed in to collect Charles into an embrace.

Charles sagged against him and a pressure released inside him, sending tears to his eyes he didn’t shed. He clutched tight to Carlos, who held him tighter until their ribs slotted together even with all of the fabric between them.

The crowd’s calls turned sharp, then fell to a low sound of booing. Charles turned his head to look at the fence line, startled to see scowling faces against the fence, all leering at Max.

“He cheated,” Carlos whispered, so softly it didn’t sound like he believed it. “He had help—they saw it. Everyone did.”

Charles swallowed hard. His hands turned clammy in his gloves and the sweat down his back became slimy and uncomfortable. Carlos put a hand around the nape of his neck, gently but firmly holding him in place before waving to the crowd.

“Carlos—” Charles cut himself off as he noticed Lewis’s helmet, still in the cockpit. Lewis hadn’t gotten out of his car.

The Red Bull crowd continued to cheer, hoisting Max up to the stars. Photographers circled around them, every lens aimed at Max’s face still hidden in the helmet, fists still pumping, but slower now.

FIA officials gathered at the edges of the track, all of them eyeing the situation. A few higher ups stuck out in their dark suits, flashing smiles between each other as if they were all in on the joke.

It never seemed real before this—the royalty, the power that came with their position. Charles wielded that power more than most as a prince of Ferrari, but he still felt more ornament than man most days.

Max had played the game and won. He stepped into the dark underbelly of power an emerged a champion, beating out the prince who had controlled their world for over a decade.

Max couldn’t say he did it by himself. Lewis probably couldn’t either. But as princes began to form a line to greet their new champion, Charles felt a sinister pull. Bow or be broken at the knees.

He looked over to Carlos, fear paralyzing his tongue.

Fingers curled around the fence separating them from the people, tigers locked in a cage. Eyes flashed in the dark, and light glinted off of toothy snarls as fans pressed against the chain link, bending the metal inward.

“He cheated,” Charles finally sputtered out, choking on the words. “He’s going to get away with it.”

Carlos stared at the crowd, moving to shield Charles as if the people would burst through like bullets. "We have to pay our respects," Carlos murmured low in his ear. "Max is champion now.”

Max is champion now.

Charles’s nose flooded with the thick scent of cheesy pizza and felt the roughness of carpet against his back as he stared at the ceiling, comfortable just to have Max beside him. Max had been a boy then—his only focus on cool cars and go karts. His only fear had been his father, the same one who loomed in the shadows now.

Their love had been childlike and innocent, free of the cheating and mistrust and betrayal that only came with age.

Max pulled off his helmet and a man had taken that boy’s place. Broad-chested and strong as an ox, with shimmering blue eyes and flushed cheeks, freckles and full lips. Dark blond hair made darker with sweat, and a smile with straight teeth.

Max looked up at the stars, at a God he didn’t believe in, and laughed. 

Now he was no longer just a man. Max was world champion.

 

 

 

Notes:

took two fucking years to get to this moment.

Chapter 148

Notes:

a quote from a reader: hiii!! im not sure if this will get picked but if it does it HAS to be the quote from George at the end of Chapter 82:

“If he gives you any shit—and I mean any shit—” He lowered his voice. “You tell him I’m coming for his champion and that I know enough to burn him to the fucking ground.”

I’ll tell you the scream that came out of my mouth when I read that sentence. AGH

It just summed up like all of the lies that George suddenly heard and saw in that moment from a man that he thought loved him and oh my god it’s just stuck with me throughout the whole time and generally might be my favourite of all time. I’m so glad I gave FG a go and thank you so much for writing it, I look forward to it every time. <3

 - Eloise

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Lewis had won every royal championship Lando had raced in. The post-race procedure for his championship wins never took that long—Lewis shook everyone’s hand, said “thank you” and they all moved on with their lives.

Nobody seemed to know what to do about Max’s victory. Even the FIA hesitated in rounding them up for the traditional lineup of princes offering their congratulations. Everyone in the pit lane seemed suspended in an alternate reality, in a bubble about to burst. Lando didn’t even know who to look at.

On one side, Lewis had finally emerged from his car and moved with chilling grace as he crossed to the Mercedes garage, where Toto patted his back and his father stood with him, talking to him with fear in the whites of his eyes.

On the other, Max was red-faced and bursting with a feral kind of happiness. He kept laughing and cheering and pumping his fists as more and more Red Bull personnel seemed to appear out of thin air.

Lando took a long drink from his water bottle as Checo stepped up to Max first, clapping his back and pulling him in for a tight hug. Max laughed into it, tucking his chin over Checo’s shoulder. The FIA took their chance and began herding Red Bull team members out of the way and motioning for the princes to start the procession.

No one moved. For a fraction of a second, Lando tasted the bitterness of terror in the back of his throat. He didn’t know much about what happened on that last lap, but Daniel had looked shellshocked when Lando hugged him after the race. He’d moved like someone about to be sick, and his skin had the same pallor as those horrible days leading up to Silverstone.

If they were going to protest the win, they had to do it now. If a single prince aside from Checo stepped up to Max, it would mean confirmation of his victory.

Lando glanced at Carlos, who was probably the only man on the grid with a full understanding of what happened. He stood with one arm around Charles, wearing a blank-eyed stare.

That didn’t instill a lot of confidence in Lando.

“Max, congratulations on your victory.”

Lando whipped his attention back to Max. Sebastian stood with a hand outstretched and a smile on his face that looked like it had been carved there.

Max beamed at him as they shook hands. “Thanks, Seb.”

“You’re a champion now,” Sebastian said with a dip of his head. “Remember all of those who came before you, some of whom are still racing with you. We learned—just as you will learn--what it means to be the head of the empires. Use your knowledge wisely.”

Max’s grin faded. “I will. Thank you.”

Sebastian patted Max’s shoulder. His hand lingered and Lando saw words form on his lips, but Sebastian smiled instead of speaking. He stepped away and disappeared into the forming crowd of princes.

Fernando stepped up next, giving Max a hearty hug and ruffling his hair. Fernando looked as if he’d just won the championship. Lando supposed he probably had, in some way.

He forced himself to move into the procession line and ended up in front of George, who looked like someone had just beat him in a back alley.

“Clench any harder and your teeth are gonna fracture, mate,” Lando said, trying to lighten the mood.

George’s jaw flexed in response and he shot Lando a look that nearly stopped his heart.

“George?”

“Don’t,” George whispered. “Don’t talk to me right now.”

“Mate, it’s—”

“Do not tell me it’s going to be okay,” George hissed, wild-eyed.

Lando shrank back—he’d never seen George look so murderous before. Murderous didn’t seem like a word in the same hemisphere as George Russell.

“George?” he asked again, because no other words came to his mouth.

George straightened up with soldier-like precision. He took a breath Lando could see through his race suit, all of the fabric stretched tight around his lungs.

“This is not good for any of us,” George said. “You’ll see.”

Lando turned away to face Max again, too frightened to continue a conversation.

Daniel strode up to Max and pulled him into a hug so reserved Lando had to wonder if Daniel realized who he was embracing. Daniel murmured something into Max’s hair that Lando couldn’t hear and Max pulled back from him with a softer, kinder smile than he’d given anyone else so far. He said something back, squeezed Daniel’s arm, and then Daniel walked away.

Lando watched Daniel leave until Carlos moved up to Max and hugged him tightly. Max laughed low and loud, rubbing Carlos’s back as they spoke to each other in inaudible mumbles.

Lando shivered as the sweat cooled under his race suit. George loomed behind him like a waif, hollow eyes boring into the back of his skull.

Charles approached Max, his smile pained. Max squeezed him in a hug until Charles let out a grunt.

“It’s just Max,” Lando said quietly.

George’s breath on the back of his neck made Lando’s hair stand on end.

“We don’t know who that is anymore,” George hissed in his ear.

George shoved him forward and Lando stumbled into the clear space between the procession line and their new champion.

“Lando,” Max greeted brightly.

“Hey, mate,” Lando returned with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Congratulations. I knew you could do it.”

He awkwardly clapped a hand to Max’s arm and squeezed his elbow. Max glanced down at his hand and his eyes softened to something way too fond for a moment in front of cameras.

“Wouldn’t have been able to do it without your help,” Max said when they met eyes again. “Thank you, Lando.”

Heat rushed to Lando’s cheeks. He ducked in for a hug before things could get any more awkward. Max slumped against him, arms wrapping around him in an embrace that probably had a name in martial arts, it was so encompassing.

“Enjoy it,” Lando said, patting Max’s back. “Just don’t become a prick, yeah?”

Max laughed as he pulled away—he’d laughed more in the past ten minutes than Lando had ever seen him laugh in his life. “I won’t.”

Lando waited for him to promise, but Max just smiled at him and let the silence permeate. 

“I’ll see you in Monaco,” Lando offered. “Catch you there.”

Max smiled. “Yes, I’ll see you there.”

Lando hurried away and made a beeline for Carlos, but stopped in his tracks when Carlos went wide-eyed on his approach.

“But—” Lando cut himself off, standing there under the stars as Carlos fixed his hair for the millionth time. Carlos was probably too far away to hear his started sentence.

Carlos held his gaze and gave a minute shake of his head that could have been mistaken for an attempt to get his hair to fall back into place.

Carlos didn’t want Max to see them together, Lando realized. He swallowed hard. A quick glance around the pit lane made him notice all of the other princes had left, likely making their way to change for the podium ceremony.

Lando bit his lip, still trying to decide whether to not to go up to Carlos for one last touch before Monaco. Carlos seemed to read his mind and crossed his arms pointedly.

Fine, Lando thought. He turned on his heel and headed back to McLaren with a lick of hurt in his heart.

 

 


 

 

George hadn’t recovered his breathing since the FIA announced Max as World Champion. He lost his dinner too, and everything in his body strained with exhaustion, dehydration, and pure fear. Anger simmered somewhere in him, but he couldn’t find it as he stared across the space between himself and Max.

Max’s smile looked all too close to a smirk as he waited for George to step forward and accept his sham of a championship. He didn’t understand how Max could be proud to win on the last lap after an unheard of call for unlapping cars. Everyone in the world would watch the race and feel the same wrongness George did, but Max didn’t seem to care.

A piece of red confetti fluttered between them, followed by a snowfall of gold, white, red, and blue. The confetti obscured Max’s face for a moment, turning him into a ghost among them.

George stepped forward and stuck out his hand. He had no choice and everyone knew it. His Mercedes appointment didn’t hold a candle to the power Max now had—the power Red Bull now had.

“I miss when we used to be friends,” Max said, staring down at George’s hand.

George’s skin crawled. “We ran in the same circle. I don’t know that we were ever friends, even if I thought differently at the time.”

Max’s smile twitched. “Revisionist’s history, I think.”

George snorted. “Revisionist’s history? Have you been going to university between fucking people over and stealing championships?”

Max grabbed his hand in a crushing grip, folding George’s palm over itself. George didn’t flinch.

“I always liked that about you,” Max said. “Your honesty. I mean, of course, you’ll say anything Mercedes tells you to say, but in private you never pull punches.”

“I’m not going to coddle you just because you ‘won’ a championship, no,” George replied dryly. “In fact, you can eat rocks.”

Max jerked his hand away and anger ignited in his eyes. “I’ll forgive you for that just this once, because your precious Lewis just got beat. But I’m not going to be feeling this generous for long.”

There it was. George’s insides seized as Max’s true nature showed itself in the flesh. Max the tyrant, Max the rulebreaker, Max the cheater. Nothing about the future would be fair to anyone who wasn’t adamantly in support of him.

“Looking forward to your fair and just punishments, along with your dismantling of the problematic aspects of the FIA,” George said sarcastically. “Enjoy your victory party—while it lasts.”

He didn’t wait for a response before he stormed away and headed down the line of garages. Fans booed from the pit lane fence, and George looked over to see that a few people had started climbing. FIA officials stood waiting to arrest them on the other side, shouting in several different languages in an attempt to quell the crowd.

George sidestepped someone in the pit lane as he stared at the scene, gently resting his hand on their back to pass as he—

He froze, peeling his attention from the fence to see Alex standing under the light of the Williams garage, George’s hand still resting on his hip.

George quickly pulled away. “Sorry, I—”

He shut himself up and hurried off before he could think about it any further. He felt Alex’s eyes on him as he walked and prayed Max hadn’t seen. Alex didn’t say anything, so at least they had that in their favor.

He hoped Alex didn’t think he’d touched him on purpose. They hadn’t spoken since their night in the hotel room in Jeddah, and George could only speculate on his emotional state. They’d agreed not to speak to each other until Alex came to Williams, and they would have to be very careful then, too. Red Bull had spies everywhere.

George nearly tripped over Sebastian when he turned the corner to get to hospitality through the FIA entrance.

Sebastian sat on some kind of bench built into the wall, a hand in his hair and his eyes unseeing. In all of the times George had seen Sebastian in his years as a prince, he’d never seen this look.

“Seb?” George tried.

Sebastian jerked as if he’d been broken from a trance, then whipped his head up to face him. “Why are you still here?”

George blinked. “What? I’m—The podium ceremony—”

Sebastian shot to his feet. George recoiled, expecting a hit, but Sebastian just stood there, glaring at him.

“You need to get away from here as fast as you can, do you understand me?” Sebastian asked with a new emotion in his voice. George puzzled on it for a moment, trying to place—

Fear. Sebastian was afraid. Every muscle in his body had gone taut with it, and his lifeless eyes were ice in his skull, frosted over.

“Where’s Lewis?” George asked, peeking over Sebastian’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving until I see him.”

Sebastian gripped his arms so hard George let out a yelp of surprise.

“Leave and go as far away as you can,” Sebastian hissed. “You’re on borrowed time—so is Albon. If you’re smart, George, you won’t speak to him until Lewis wins again.”

George curled his lip in disgust as the primal scent of Sebastian’s sweat stung his nose. Even that smelled like terror.

A memory of Alex shot to his mind, from a dinner long ago. George didn’t even remember what country they’d been in, but they’d gone out to dinner and George had ordered the lamb. It hadn’t tasted very good—tough and chewy.

That means the lamb died scared, Alex had explained. Isn’t that interesting? We can tell how an animal felt as it died because of how it tastes.

George had gone vegetarian for two full months after that.

Sebastian moved closer, the scent of sweat overpowering, sending signals to his brain that said to run like hell. His skin turned to gooseflesh, every sense heightened like an animal being hunted.

“No one is safe now,” Sebastian said so quietly George could scarcely hear him. “Not even me.”

 

 

Notes:

a reader question: How did you manage to create such an interesting plot with subtle foreshadowing (like Nico flinching when there was thunder), did you have a notebook or a mindmap (I’m imagining one of those police boards with a lot of strings) ?

I’ve had major moments in this fic planned from chapter 4 or so, which allowed me to slip things in that don’t seem important at the time, but end up being obvious clues later. Sewis is the most standout to me—Sebastian’s red IWC watch he says is for Charles but is really for Lewis (who notices it in Bahrain at the wedding ceremony), Sebastian talking about taking a quick trip to Germany to visit “home” when in reality he’s going to see Lewis (mentioned right after Bahrain I believe), and Lewis making the Instagram post during summer break (chp 72) driving Sebastian’s Black Series Mercedes AMG.

Some things kind of developed organically—Charles and Pierre’s relationship developed differently than I originally planned. These characters have grown along with the fic—as did my knowledge about the real drivers. Some of the “critics” of FG have called it “too fanservice-y” in terms of the ships involved (mainly piarles and lando/max/daniel) but I think people should remember that this whole fic is a giant first draft. If I could go back and revise it before publishing as I would a commercial novel, a LOT of things would be different. Mainly, more things would be foreshadowed earlier and in a more “correct” way. I started FG with probably 10% of the racing/F1/F1 driver knowledge that I have now.

I think it’s also important to realize how fucked up this universe is—some people have had problems with the various relationships over the course of the fic, but I mostly ignore those comments because it’s clear that those people aren’t seeing this AU as an AU. The FG royalty system is a mindfuck at the best of times and psychological murder at the worst of times. No one is innocent whatsoever when you compare these relationships with a “normal” relationship. The mindfuckery starts early—Charles cheating on Max with Pierre in Belgium before Max became a prince is probably the best example. Charles did that because he was lonely and already knew Max would be leaving him to be in an arranged marriage with a stranger he would have to pretend to love. Oh, and the entire WORLD had to believe it or the whole government could come crashing down. And all of that was pinned on 17 year-old Max and 17 year-old Charles – not to mention Charles was still in his baby steps toward royalty with everyone else his age and Max was forcibly thrown to the wolves to deal with the real thing. No relationship would survive that, especially when you factor in the fact that it was illegal for them to see or talk each other and if Charles was ever caught sneaking in to see Max his chance at a crown would have been taken away right there. There are plenty of other factors too – all of them compounding with each new royal marriage. Originally I had a plan to make the FIA much more of a presence in that regard, but I decided to have the FIA as the silent monster in the background—easy to forget about until it’s too late.

Chapter 149

Notes:

a quote from a reader:

“We can discuss this later,” Carlos said with a sigh of finality. “I want dinner. And I want to kiss you where I can see your face.”

Charles rolled his eyes, thankful Carlos couldn’t see the heat in his cheeks. “Fine. You go down first. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Chapter 95. Specially the line "I want dinner. And I want to kiss you where I can see your face" did something to me the first time I read it, and I still don't know why. I guess it was the fact that it is a kinda tender tiny little moment right after a kinda heavy conversation and it taking place in a somber place.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

A breeze sifted through the crowd gathered at the base of the podium. Charles stood next to Pierre, both of them wearing their royal suits even with their sweaty post-race hair. The other princes dotted the crowd around them, all of them staring up at Carlos, Lewis, and Max where they stood on the podium steps.

The Dutch national anthem played, echoing throughout the track from the loudspeakers. Night shadows cut up Max’s face as he smiled out at the grandstands. He didn’t look the same as he had a few minutes ago. The euphoria of the win had left him, peeling back the skin as it went and revealing something raw underneath.

Lewis stood with complete calm, barely smiling. He was the only prince who hadn’t congratulated Max on his victory, and Charles doubted he ever would.

FIA officials handed out bottles of waard—rose water used in place of champagne. Charles winced as Max sprayed Lewis first, then Carlos, all three of them moving around like children forced to play after a playground fight. Lewis barely sprayed anyone before he took a long sip from the bottle.

Max drank greedily, and the pinkish liquid leaked from the corners of his mouth like blood. When he pulled the bottle from his lips and smiled, flecks of red clung to his teeth like rot from carrion.  Max licked them away.

Charles didn’t know when Max would learn whatever champions were taught. Sebastian said it could happen at any time in the next few days, whenever the FIA deemed Max fit to take in the knowledge.

. Max smiled down at him with dark circles around his eyes, framed with flushed cheeks and rosewater froth on his fingers. Charles hoped Max learned whatever it was after a few days of sleep. Charles smiled back at him, though every bone in his body told him to leave.

He and Carlos had parties to attend for Ferrari, and Carlos had a podium to celebrate. The yachts on the marina would be glowing until morning, full of partygoers and celebrations fit for royalty.

Max lifted his trophy and the crowd roared—half cheering, half booing. Tension still lurked in every dark corner of the track, and Mattia advised Charles not to leave the light of the marina streetlamps unless it was to get on a yacht with someone he trusted.

Lewis left the podium first, his bottle of rosewater abandoned behind him. Carlos patted Max on the back before he followed, leaving Max alone with his trophies—one for the race, one for the championship.

Charles eyed the swirling twin spires of the championship trophy and want stirred in him. His whole life was a pursuit of that hunk of metal. Everything in his damaged, talented body ached to hold it as a champion.

Carlos told him he had surmounted a challenge more difficult than a championship this year, but Charles didn’t agree. Stuffing himself with medication and publicly degrading himself were things he would never forgive himself for, not until he had a championship trophy in his hands.

Next year, everyone said. Next year, they always said. Michael Schumacher’s legacy hung over Ferrari like a curse, only broken by Kimi back in 2007. Charles had been crown prince for too long to tolerate continued failure.

“Uh oh,” Pierre said, gently nudging his shoulder. “What’s got you thinking so hard?”

Charles cracked a smile and shook his head. “Nothing. Already making plans for next year.”

Pierre let out a hum. “I hope it’s you up there next year.”

Charles almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but his pride stifled him. “Me too.”

Pierre touched his back, a simple press of fingers. “I’ll write you. We’ll see each other soon, even if it’s not in Monaco.”

Charles nodded. “See you soon.”

He turned his attention back up to the podium as Pierre slipped away into the crowd. Max still stood at the edge of the stage, chest heaving with big breaths as if he’d just yelled. Maybe he had—Charles couldn’t find it in him to focus.

Max stared at him and a small smile curled to his lips again. Something about it made Charles shiver, even as he grinned back.

Max loved him. A championship wouldn’t change that.

 

 


 

 

Lando stood with his back pressed to the wall at the base of the stairwell that led up to the podium. He’d missed Carlos and Lewis exit, which was probably for the best. He would see Carlos in a few days at most. Getting in a fight now would only sour their vacation time, and Carlos probably had a reason for acting distant. That reason being Max, who hadn’t acted even slightly normal since winning.

Daniel stared at the floor beside him, lost in another world. The dark circles ringing his eyes had darkened even more in the past hour.

Silence breathed between them in stark contrast to the beginning of the season when both of them rushed to fill each pause in conversation. Bahrain felt like a decade ago, and Lando flinched at the memory of being so enamored with Daniel’s humor and charm, stupidly assuming his devotion to Max had ended.

They recovered, though. As Lando scanned Daniel’s profile, he recognized all of the parts of him that indicated unease. His shoulders hunched too much, his eyes were hooded, his breaths were coming out uneven, though gentle.

“—thank you.” Max’s voice broke from the top of the stairwell and he stepped out from the door, his championship trophy in hand. When he spotted Daniel at the bottom of the stairs he beamed, cheeks bunching with pure joy.

Daniel straightened up, an easy smile coming to his lips in return. “Looks like the champion’s here.”

Lando wondered if it hurt to see Max winning for Red Bull when Daniel had tasted a championship in 2018. Lando still remembered the buzz around the lower courts, whispers of a new prince stepping in to take Sebastian’s place at Red Bull.

Maybe Daniel blamed Max for taking the chance away from him. Their crash in Baku was still brought up every year when they raced there.

“Daniel,” Max gushed like a schoolgirl as he rushed down the stairs. “We did it. We actually did it.”

Max threw his arms around Daniel, who embraced him as they met for a kiss fit for the cover of a romance novel. Lando choked on his own spit, fear blasting through his bloodstream.

“Guys, the FIA—”

“The FIA isn’t going to do anything,” Max said as they broke apart. He stared up at Daniel like he’d hung the moon and stars.

“I love you so much,” Daniel whispered, and then they were kissing again. Lando watched in silent awe as Daniel kissed with hunger, almost feral as he clawed Max’s fireproofs and pulled him closer with that giant trophy peeking out over his shoulder.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Max murmured, resting their foreheads together.

Daniel shook his head. “You could’ve, babe. You’ve always been a champion to me.”

Max smiled, soft and gentle and so unlike the creature on TV screens two hours prior. “You know what I mean.”

Daniel’s smile flickered at the edges as he tipped his head up to kiss Max’s forehead. Lando’s blood ran cold. He stared at Daniel, trying to get his attention, but Daniel ignored him. He swayed with Max instead, until Max’s shoulders sank and he finally pulled back.

“I’ll see you in Monaco?” Max asked.

“Duh,” Daniel replied with another kiss. “I’ll—”

A loud crash made them all jump. Daniel moved in front of Max, protective, as Lando peered down the hallway. An FIA official had a fan tackled to the ground, fighting to get handcuffs on him.

“We should go,” Lando said, fear prickling at the back of his neck. This was all too similar to Wembley.

“The marina is safe,” Max assured them. “They’re fortifying it, Christian said.”

“Get on out to your party yacht, then,” Daniel said. His skin had turned ashen. “I’ll see you in Monaco, babe. I love you.”

Max tugged him in again for a desperate kiss. “I love you too,” he said when it broke.

Max nodded to Lando before he trotted off, but Lando barely noticed the gesture.

“What did you do?” Lando asked.

Daniel watched Max leave until he disappeared around a corner at the end of the hall. As soon as Max’s race boots vanished from view, Daniel gasped as if he’d been holding his breath.

“Daniel,” Lando said, his voice shaking. “What did you do?”

Daniel dropped into a low squat, grabbing fistfuls of his curls. Lando knew the telltale signs of a panic attack, but this seemed different. This had a sharpness to it, something razor-edged.

Lando glanced down the hall, where more FIA officials had appeared to haul the rogue fan away in handcuffs. Two more officials wheeled a temporary barricade into place, blocking the entryway.

Lando crouched next to his husband, fear coiling around his throat as he gently touched Daniel’s knee.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Daniel whispered, but Lando could tell he didn’t believe a word of that excuse.

Lando shuffled closer. “Okay, but—”

“Remember in Brazil when I said I was gonna go have dinner with a friend?” Daniel asked, interrupting him.

Lando had to think about it for a minute, but the memory did surface. He’d been about to head to the villa with Carlos. His brow furrowed as the scene solidified in his mind, how strange Daniel had seemed that night, how fast his heartbeat had been against Lando’s fingertips.

"You said you didn't lie to me that night. Did you?” Lando asked.

Daniel shook his head, the whites of his eyes visible all the way around his dark irises, like they were shrinking away into nothing in his skull.  

“I did go out to dinner with an Aussie mate,” Daniel said, keeping his voice low. “With Masi.”

Some things need to be done—that was what Daniel had said to him when Lando pressed about it.

“You went to dinner with the race director for the FIA?” Lando blurted out, unable to keep his voice quiet.

Daniel shot him a glare. Lando expected tattooed hands to close around his neck, Daniel looked so murderous.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Daniel repeated. “I had dinner with him. I told him how much Max deserves a championship. I told him about the things Max would do to make things—to fix what—”

Lando waited for a complete sentence, but none came. Daniel stared right through him, lost somewhere Lando couldn’t follow. He didn’t want to follow. Daniel had gone to dinner with Michael Masi, the head race director in the FIA. The most powerful man on race day.

The one who had decided to finish the race under a green flag, the one who threw away the rulebook to give Max a win.

The world spun. Lando toppled the short distance to the ground underneath him, hands bracing at his temples.

“Does anyone else know?” Lando asked, wracking his brain for some way to justify this, though he knew Daniel hadn’t gone to dinner to chat about Max and get some dessert. No, Daniel had facilitated—knowingly or unknowingly—one of the biggest scandals in the empires.

Daniel shook his head again. “Just Max, now you.”

“The FIA?”

“No,” Daniel choked out. He fisted his hair. He looked toward the hallway where the fan had made a run at them. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. They’ll kill him for this. They’ll fucking kill him.”

“What did you think would happen when you involved the FIA?” Lando snapped, but his tone had no heat.

Daniel wanted to protect Max. He always wanted to protect Max.

“I didn’t think they’d make a fucking mess of it!” Daniel hissed. “When they fuck people over they at least try to make it look like they’re following the rules!”

“But you knew they would do something,” Lando said, picking through each word and not hiding his disgust. He understood in some ways—he’d broken into Ferrari just to see Carlos once—but this crossed the line. This affected their legacy—the legacy of their entire government.

Daniel lifted his head from between his knees, his eyes now bloodshot and messy with bitter, angry tears. “You think I wanted this,” he said in a shaking voice. “I didn’t.”

Daniel’s damp curls shimmered in the hallway light as he sucked down a breath. The scar on his cheek was still there, though it had healed so nicely Lando could only see it when he looked for it now.

“Max isn’t innocent,” Daniel said. “But he’s a good person. He’s my favorite person. And every time a good person becomes champion, they get twisted. Max isn’t gonna be any different.”

 

 


 

 

Fireworks boomed over the black water of the marina, creating ribbons of neon over the waves. Charles watched the water from the back of a golf cart, surrounded by the sounds of celebration. Carlos sat beside him, bouncing his leg in anticipation.

“Doing that won’t get us there any faster,” Charles murmured. Exhaustion pulled at his eyes—they’d spent the last hour serving as glorified party favors for government officials and international guests.

Carlos chuckled. “I’m getting old. All I can think about is taking a bath when I get back to the hotel.”

Charles laughed. “I wouldn’t mind a bath. Maybe I can wash your hair this time?”

Carlos blushed hard enough that it made his freckles stick out. Charles leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“I will not be able to wait for you,” Carlos finally replied, taking Charles’s hand. “But I’ll take a second bath if you’d like.”

Charles pretended to consider. “You’ll be all wrinkly from the water.”

“I think you will manage.” Carlos squeezed his thigh, sending shockwaves of desire through him. Charles had been so focused on Max over the course of the week, trying to protect him from afar. Their last conversation in Jeddah ended with Max telling him to fuck himself, but their brief conversation after his win had no malice in it.

“Carlos, do you think things will change now that Max is champion?” Charles asked, leaning against him.

Carlos rested his head on Charles’s as the golf cart slowed. He thumbed over the side of Charles’s palm. “It will take time to see what it means, but yes, things will be different. Max will change things because he is not Lewis.”

The golfcart rocked to a stop.

“Charles!” someone screamed.

Charles searched for the source of the voice, only to see Max hanging over the edge of a nearby yacht, trying and failing to hold a martini glass upright. A few olives fell to the water below, landing with satisfying plops.

Charles waved, but didn’t move from his spot against Carlos. Someone pulled Max back from the railing and handed him a new drink.

“I would offer to go with you, but I think I will ruin the party,” Carlos said around a yawn. He rubbed Charles’s arm and sat up again. “Be safe up there, yes? Call me if you need me. I promise I will leave my bath for you if you need it.”

Charles rolled his eyes, but happily leaned in to capture Carlos’s lips in a kiss.

Whatever changes came, he would have Carlos at his side next year. They could handle pretty much anything together—they had already been through so much. A year of marriage felt like a decade and it was hard to believe Charles had doubted Carlos as much as he had in the beginning.

He loved his earnest, honest husband. Sometimes he was a pain in the ass, but Charles was fully aware how hypocritical it would be to call Carlos out for that.

“I love you,” Charles murmured when their kiss broke. “I’ll be back soon.”

Carlos ran his thumb along the line of Charles’s jaw. “I love you too. Don’t take too long, mm?”

Charles hopped from the back of the golf cart and waved goodbye to Carlos before he turned to the Red Bull royal yacht. A guard opened a red velvet rope for him at the end of the gangplank and Charles hurried across and into the sticky heat of a victory party in full swing.

Music pulsed throughout the boat. Beautiful women swung their hips to the beat, dazzling the men in attendance with their sparkling jewelry, glossy lips, and white teeth. Expensive watches flashed in the strobe lights as men at the party discussed things with wild hand gestures that indicated their varying levels of drunkenness.

Charles gave polite nods to the few people who recognized him and made his way up a spiral staircase past three more security guards. The upper deck was significantly cooler, but the music was just as loud.

“Charles!”

Of course a drunk Max found him before he could find Max. Charles turned around as Max stumbled up to him, sloshing what looked like a gin and tonic this time. He smelled like beer and cologne.

“Charles, you’re here,” Max exclaimed, tucking his face into Charles’s shoulder like a cat. His skin was damp and warm and Charles couldn’t help but wrap his arms loosely around Max’s shoulders to squeeze him in a hug. His eyes fell closed, taking in the moment.

Max was champion. The dread from the race didn’t seem to reach the yacht—Max was acting like any other victor.

Max abruptly pulled back and whirled around. More gin and tonic sloshed onto the deck. “Hey!” he called. “Security!”

Charles froze as two hulking men seemed to appear out of thin air.

“Max?” he tried, confused.

“I want everyone off this deck,” Max slurred. “Get’m off.” A security guard advanced on Charles, but Max slid in front of him, shaking his head. “He stays.”

The security guard nodded and turned around to rejoin with his team, who started opening up alternate exits to get everyone off the deck.

“You don’t have to do this,” Charles said with a shake of his head. “I wanted to stop by to see you, that’s all.”

“I know,” Max said cheerfully. “S’why I cleared the place out. Nobody’s around to talk shit about us.” Max smiled around a long sip of gin and tonic before holding it out to Charles. “Want some?”

Charles shook his head. “I’m good.” Max had already seem what happened when he mixed alcohol and his meds.

Max shrugged and took another sip, swaying to the beat of the music. “My dad’s on a flight back to Milton Keynes to pack his stuff,” he said, staring out at the water. “He’s going away and I hope he doesn’t come back.”

“Hope?” Charles asked, furrowing his brow.

Max shrugged. “I don’t know what it will be like in the future. Maybe I’ll need him to push me again.”

An acidic taste filled Charles’s mouth. “No, Max. He’s not pushing you, he’s hurting you. He’s never helped you, not even once.”

Max shot him a grin over his shoulder. “But look, I’m champion. He helped me before--become champion.”

Charles wheeled Max around. “Look at me. You did that yourself. Your dad had nothing to do with you winning any of those races.”

Max teetered, eyes dancing over Charles’s face. “You always have so much faith in me, Charles. So, so much.”

Charles squeezed his shoulder. “I better have faith in the only person who consistently beat me in karting.”

Max laughed, low and loud. “Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah!” He spun around again, this time wobbling off for the railing. “I’m a fucking champion, Charles.”

Charles doubted Max would even remember this conversation, he was so drunk. Charles moved up next to him, both of them looking out to the sea. Max radiated alcoholic heat, sweaty-warm but not unpleasant.

"Will you be in Monaco for the winter?” Max asked. “I will be. Me and Daniel. I’ll have all winter with him ‘til he goes to Australia to see his family. He really likes his family—did you know they like me too?”

“I’m sure they do,” Charles laughed.

Max preened. “M’gonna get Daniel back, Charles. I’m gonna.”

Charles smiled, sidestepping the Daniel topic. “To answer your question—yes, I’ll be in Monaco. Not the whole winter, but for a while.”

“Good,” Max said with an affirmative nod. “It will be good to have friends around.”

It wasn’t an acknowledgement of the uncertainty surrounding the race, but it felt like one.

A million questions sprang up into Charles’s mouth, but he stayed quiet, listening to the song thumping through the floorboards. He hated talking about royalty with Max. He hated talking about the new life they had, so different from their karting days.

Maybe that was wrong of him. Maybe it was bad to run to the past every time they occupied the same space.

“I should get going,” Charles said, stepping back from the railing. Max mirrored him and set his empty glass on a nearby hightop.

“Thanks for coming,” Max slurred, opening his arms for another hug.

“Of course,” Charles replied. He wrapped his arms around Max again, hugging him tight this time. This Max felt like the one he knew, the one he chased around tracks and reunited with after races. “Congratulations, by the way.”

Max stiffened for a moment, then melted away from him, pulling back to look at him with those beautiful green-blue eyes backlit by the marina.

“You should stay a lil’ longer,” Max murmured. “I’d rather be here with you than all these random party people.”

Charles laughed. He reached up to ruffle Max’s hair, but ended up carding back blond instead. He always softened too much for someone so ruthless.

“I think that’s exactly why I should go,” Charles said quietly.

How long had they wished for this? As children they dreamed of this moment, one a champion, the other an almost. Celebrating each other, for each other. Charles still saw the awkward, gangly boy in the man who stood before him.  This drunk, happy—

Max kissed him with soft, gin-flavored lips. Charles went wide-eyed, frozen in place as Max pressed against him. A warm hand curled around the nape of his neck, tickling the soft hair there.

Max pulled back, eyes hooded with blond-tipped lashes. “Sorry,” he whispered lazily. “M’sorry. You didn’t want that.”

Pain lanced through Charles, as palpable as a stake through the heart. Max was right, he didn’t want it. But he ached anyway, and a version of himself screamed out in agony at what they had become.

“You’re very drunk,” Charles said, thumbing Max’s bicep.

Max snorted. “Maybe. But I’d kiss you sober too.”

Charles rested their foreheads together for a heartbeat. He thought back to that night in the hospital, how fragile Max had seemed then. “I don’t think Daniel would appreciate you kissing me. I don’t think Carlos or Pierre would appreciate it either.”

Max laughed. “Yeah, maybe not.”

“Be safe tonight,” Charles said, squeezing Max’s arm. “No kissing anyone else, okay? Not unless it’s Daniel.”

Max rolled his eyes dramatically. “M’not that drunk, Charles.”

“Okay, okay.” He took a step back, despite everything in him begging for the chance to be close to Max again. To have one more moment in their own little world, a champion and his first love. They would always have that with each other, and that had to count for something, come what may.

“Goodnight, Max,” Charles said. “I’ll see you in Monaco.”

Max gave him a drunken smile. “Thanks for leaving me a lil’ hope.”

Charles cocked his head.

Max chuckled. “The kiss. You didn’t say you didn’t want it. Thank you.”

Shame fizzed into a blush on Charles’s cheeks. He opened his mouth to confirm he hadn’t wanted it, but stopped himself from saying the words.

“G’night,” Max slurred with a knowing smirk. “Means a lot that you came.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Charles finally said with a shake of his head. He took another step toward the stairs.

“Security!” Max called with hands cupped over his mouth. “Open the gates!”

Charles laughed as the security guards reappeared, followed quickly by a swarm of people vying for time with the newest World Champion.

As Charles headed back down the stairs against the stream of people, he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, where the taste of Max remained.

Maybe hope was the best victory present Charles could bestow.

 

 

Notes:

a reader question: Who ratted Lestappen in Monaco?? Like who got the pictures out? Maybe it was answered and I didn’t realize but it’s been bugging me ever since!

There wasn’t anyone behind it, Max and Charles were just in a public place and got caught by the paparazzi. Lewis probably had the most pull when it comes to what gets into the media, but as far as I remember, I didn’t really intend for it to be something Lewis orchestrated. Not everything is a plot! :)

Chapter 150

Notes:

a quote from a reader:

A thousand pieces of Lewis, all of them dead and shredded. And he carried them with him everywhere. He changed the time on a watch still ticking beside one that would never work again.

Chapter 61. I've had this quote stuck in my head for a long time, I feel like there's still so much about this box and the nicoxlewis relationship that hasn't been talked about.. and I feel like we're going to be left with a few loose ends... so what would it all be? Who is the villain and who was the victim of all this? What really happened?

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

tw: mentions of blood

 

George had foolishly thought leaving Abu Dhabi would end the post-race madness, but the anger and vitriol only escalated after the alcohol and partying wore off.  Piles of fan mail greeted him and Nicky when they returned to the palace, only for them to discover it was actually a pile of death threats. Nicky’s social media pages had to have comments disabled as people spewed threats and insults at him, accusing him of planning his crash in order to give Max a chance to win. News outlets ran story after story about conspiracy theories involving Nicky betraying Mercedes as an act against George.

George couldn’t stop watching. He couldn’t stop scrolling through Instagram, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of hatred piling on. Mercedes also filed a complaint against the race result and lodged a request for a formal review of the actions taken by Michael Masi, the race director.  

It was pointless. A show, and nothing more. The FIA would never admit one of their own had made a call against the rules that had resulted in a different champion—especially when that champion was the one they wanted.

Nicky stood in the kitchen, arms folded as he stared down at his AeroPress. He hadn’t put any coffee grounds in it.

George locked his phone and set it aside. The quiet had never seemed so loud in their apartment, but now he noticed every second of deafening silence.

“Want me to make it?” George offered.

Nic blinked slowly. The bags under his eyes were a dark purple, sickening to see on someone who was usually so happy. It had only been four days since the race and Nicky had yet to eat anything beyond a few slices of an orange. He didn’t even want Nutella.

“No,” Nic finally rasped. “I’ll make it.” He continued to stare at the AeroPress.

George slipped from the barstool and rounded the kitchen island with a lump in his throat. “I can make you a yogurt parfait, how about that? I’m pretty sure we have all the stuff.”

Nic shook his head. George could see the bones of his shoulder blades threatening to puncture the soft fabric of his t-shirt. If he looked closely, he could see Nic’s ribs too. He didn’t have much weight to lose to begin with.

“Someone found Sandy’s Instagram,” Nic said quietly. “They’re harassing her. Trying to get her disbarred. I guess people are sending fake reports of her doing illegal stuff at her firm.”

George’s heart lodged in his throat. “Let me call Jost. I can organize—”

“I’m already handling it,” Nic said with a dismissive gesture. “She’s okay, just a little scared. She’s living at my family’s estate with security, just in case.”

George had never sustained rage for such a long period of time. It usually came in bursts, but ever since Max’s win he’s been so angry he could hardly function. Then Christian Horner started praising Nicky’s crash and offered him a lifetime supply of Red Bull, stoking the flames for the conspiracy theorists.

Nicky had become a scapegoat. The nicest prince on the grid—the most innocent, by far—had become the world’s biggest target.

George’s phone buzzed in sync with Nicky’s on the countertop. Nic grabbed his phone and read the text presumably sent to both of them.

“They’re moving up the ceremony. Two hours,” Nicky said as he scrolled. “Security concerns.”

George shivered. “We should cancel it. I don’t think any of us are ready for this.”

Nicky let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over well. Mercedes is coming to Williams for the first time in a decade and you want to reschedule it.”

George wasn’t used to hearing so much venom in Nic’s voice.

“I’ll take care of Alex, don’t worry,” Nic added.

“You need to take care of yourself first,” George replied sharply. “That means eating. How am I supposed to tell Sandy you’re doing alright if you’re not? I’m not going to lie to her, Nic.”

Nic shuddered before straightening his posture. He scooped out coffee grounds and slapped them into the AeroPress to start making himself a coffee.

“Coffee doesn’t count as food,” George said. “I’m making you a yogurt parfait.”

“Do whatever you want,” Nic muttered. “Just like always.”

“What the bloody hell does that mean?” George snapped, wheeling around to face him again.

Nic ignored him and poured water into the AeroPress.

“We’re not doing this,” George said with a shake of his head. “We’re not leaving each other on shit terms. You want to have it out? Fine, let’s do it. What the fuck is your problem?”

Nic set his glass down so hard that water sloshed out of it. “You get everything you want. You got Alex back, you got Lewis, you got a fucking crown at Mercedes. I still don’t understand why they picked you over Mick.”

“Mick doesn’t have ex—”

“Mick was a lower court champion,” Nic hissed, his dark eyes blazing. “He’s got every right to that seat and you know it. He has legacy too. And I can’t see Mick Schumacher settling for Haas to stay with Ferrari when he could go to Mercedes and come right back once they’re ready to kick Carlos to the curb.”

“I put everything into this,” George argued. “I sacrificed everything for this.”

Nic rolled his eyes—probably the meanest thing he’d ever done to George. “Sacrifice? Yeah, right. Some sacrifice, leaving Williams.”

“You have no idea,” George snarled. “You have no fucking idea what—”

“Yes!” Nic spat, slapping the countertop. “I don’t have any idea because you won’t tell me and now it’s too late, George!”

It’s too late. The words formed a lump in George’s throat, as devastating as they were true. Nic was right. It was too late to stop the avalanche he’d triggered by catching Lewis’s eye in Bahrain. By engaging it. Like a fly to a carnivorous plant, he’d smothered himself in the sugar-sweet secretions of Mercedes and their fake promises, completely unaware of the walls snapping shut around him.

All of his friends were in Monaco enjoying their winter break and he was taking on royal duties, changing the guard early, leaving Nicky behind to fend for himself against a world that hated him for a simple mistake.

“I’m sorry,” George said quietly, his voice shaking as he spoke. “If I could take it all back, I would. I would take it all back, Nicky.”

Nic shook his head in disappointment. “You’ve been keeping secrets all year. You’re no better than all of these fuckheads assuming things about me. At least those people think I’m capable of something on that scale.”

Pain lanced through George’s chest. “I would never involve you in what I’m stuck in. I love you more than that.”

“Loving someone means trusting them,” Nic said. “I trust you with everything. If I had any secrets, I’d tell you them. I’ve only ever supported you.”

“I know,” George choked out. “And if I had the choice, I would tell you everything. But doing that would put you more at risk than you already are.”

Nic started pressing his coffee. He moved with graceful ease, completely betraying the tension in his shoulders and the scowl etched on his face. He made coffee the way some people painted masterpieces—gently, with practiced precision.

“Please don’t let it end like this,” George whispered, reaching across the countertop.  His hand stopped before he breached Nicky’s space, his fingers gangly and spider-like. He had such ugly hands. Alex didn’t think so, but his opinion no longer mattered.

Nic finished his coffee and pushed the AeroPress into his waiting hand, his face unreadable. “Then clean this out and make a yogurt parfait,” he said stiffly. “I’ll eat it for the guy I married. Not the guy standing here right now.” He met George’s gaze with eyes full of unshed tears. “I hope your secrets are worth it.”

“They aren’t,” George assured him. “But I have to keep them anyway.”

Nic curled his lip in disgust. “So I guess that’s it then. You won’t tell me and I won’t be around to ask.”

Words like divorce never really fit in their lifestyle. George heard plenty of stories about people in the real world getting divorced—new couples, old couples. He heard about long legal battles and difficulties sorting out custody.

Royal marriage annulments weren’t supposed to feel real, but the threat of Nicky’s absence hurt like a physical wound.

“You’re probably the person I trust most in this world,” George said. He swallowed hard. He had to say something. He couldn’t let Nic feel so alone. “Alex and I faked breaking up. It’s not real.”

Nic closed his eyes, buffeting the words as if they were a wave. “There’s more, though. That’s not everything.”

“Yeah, but that’s the most important thing,” George said. Just saying Alex’s name turned his mouth to ash. “You’re the only one I’ve told.”

But not the only one who knows.

Nic sniffed. He gave a curt nod, accepting the information. “All the more reason to keep him safe, then. Now, are you making that yogurt parfait or not? Mercedes will be here any minute.”

George rounded the kitchen island and pulled Nicky into a hug instead. He smelled faintly of shampoo and slept-in clothes. Nic froze up for a moment, then hugged him back, all bone and no muscle.

“Don’t forget about me,” Nic whispered.

George let out a sad little laugh. “Never, mate. Never.”

 


 

An hour later, George stood in royal regalia in front of a full length mirror. By tomorrow, his suit would have a silver bar added beneath his blue Williams bar, and he would be making rounds in the Mercedes palace, trying to get up to speed.

None of it was supposed to happen this fast, but public opinion had become too tumultuous to risk waiting for the official passing of the crowns. Security had been beefed up all throughout the palace--Williams and Mercedes officials lined the halls watching for any trespassers.

All because Max couldn’t win a race fair, and the FIA had no spine.

George adjusted his tie for the final time and extended his neck to allow his crown to settle properly on his head. He took one final look at himself in the mirror—the washed out blue of his eyes, the gaunt cheeks. The makeup made him look like a corpse, but Kayla insisted he looked wonderful in photos.

He cleared his throat and stepped out of his changing room to the small crowd gathered in waiting. As soon as he passed the threshold, a dozen people set into motion, calling for cameras and personnel.

“One final touch,” Jost said as he stepped forward with a bright blue sash. The royal blue silk seemed to hum with power as George stared at it. Frank Williams—their first head of government—had offered the sash to the first departing prince to wear, and the tradition remained. The Williams crest pin glimmered against the fabric, including the three titanium stars.

George closed his eyes as several attendants helped lift the silk over his head, carefully avoiding the tines of his crown as they settled the sash over his left shoulder. The Williams crest gleamed at his breast, covering the bar beside the lapel.

Jost smiled at him. “It has been an honor to lead Williams with you,” he said. “You have a bright future ahead of you, George.”

George dipped his head as far as his crown would allow. “Likewise. You always had my back—I won’t ever forget all that you’ve done for me.”

“We’re ready,” Kayla announced. “George?”

“Coming.” He turned away from Jost—from the rest of the royal attendants he considered family—and headed toward the open door. Kayla beamed at him with tears in her eyes.

“And three, two, one—start walking,” Kayla said, ushering him forward.

George stepped from the room alone and into the royal hall. High ceilings ribbed with gothic arches loomed overhead, though the hall itself was much smaller than Mercedes’. Sunbeams punctured the dusty air, creating mosaics of light on the clean marble.

Rows and rows of people filled the hall on either side of the aisle. The entire Williams racing team, representatives from Mercedes, and George’s own parents stood in attendance, though he hadn’t been allowed to see them.

Today wasn’t his wedding day, but the handoff of princes between empires was a royal ceremony of equal importance—more so since Williams was so closely tied with Mercedes.

George hadn’t been allowed to speak to anyone but Nicky and Jost since Mercedes announced they were moving up the timeline.

He sucked in a breath when Lewis finally came into view.

Lewis stood at the top of the steps, standing in front of the Williams thrones. He wore his Mercedes crown, a nest of thorn-like silver arrows and the long cape of black velvet that pooled like night itself at his feet. He looked like an ethereal being, something not meant for human eyes to see. Silver tri-stars created a beautiful gradient from the shoulders of the cape to the inky blackness of the velvet below.

George had worn that cape once, under very different circumstances that made his cheeks dust pink as he remembered their night together, how godlike he’d felt.

He stepped onto his mark at the base of the stairs and the room went utterly silent. The setup was similar to his visit to Mercedes, but this time there were no spouses to humble himself for.

Nicky stood in his peripheral vision, clasping Alex’s hand. George forced himself not to look. It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that Alex would be wearing his crown, the crown he’d come to royalty in, the crown where it all started.

Lewis watched him with a face of stone, his dark eyes betraying nothing. Completely closed off, as usual.

George sank to his knees as several royal officials stepped out from the wings. An embroidered cloth screen rose up above the crowd, fringed with golden tassels and made up of four oak poles fashioned by Williams engineers long ago.

Some things about royalty would remain only for the eyes of the appointed few. All of the cameras turned away as the screen was carried into place, creating three walls of intricately embroidered cloth to shield him from view. Now, he was a prince of Williams. When the screen was carried away, he would be a prince of Mercedes.

Sound muffled as the cloth fell into place around him, held in place by four selected members of the Williams racing team—a high honor.

Lewis stepped forward without a word. George bowed his head and took a breath when he felt the shift in weight of Lewis’s hands on his crown. He closed his eyes when Lewis lifted it and stepped back up to the throne, placing the crown on the seat for Nicky to put on Alex’s head in a few minutes.

Lewis returned and pulled off his sash, carefully folding it before he placed it next to the Williams crown, another piece for Alex to wear.  

Once the crown and sash were in place, Lewis opened the latches on a black trunk sitting between the two thrones and pulled the Mercedes crown from its resting place.

George lifted his chin as Lewis approached, his tattooed fingers in stark contrast to the razor-edged silver, polished to a blinding shine. George wondered how many hours had been spent cleaning each thorny tine.

“Stand up,” Lewis said, quiet but firm.

George furrowed his brow. Lewis was supposed to put the crown on while he was kneeling, since Lewis was crown prince.

“Stand up,” Lewis repeated.

George rose to his feet. He stood one step lower than Lewis, making them eye-to-eye. Lewis’s eyes frightened him so close. They were so full of pain, a depthless, all-consuming kind George had never seen in another person before.

“Do you understand what this means?” Lewis asked, so quietly George almost couldn’t make the words out. “Nicholas, Alex—when you put this crown on, they’re no longer part of you. You’ve become something bigger than yourself. Do you understand?”

George searched Lewis’s face for an answer. Light bounced against the interior of the screen and George realized the light was moving because Lewis’s hands were shaking.

“The rules are different now,” Lewis said. “This commitment is a real thing. As real as this crown. Handle it wrong and it will cut. No matter what, it’s going to hurt. But you have to endure it. Every second, every minute of that pain. Because people depend on us—because I’m depending on you. Those are the terms.”

The crown seemed to bristle between them. The tines looked sharper than ever before as George traced the sharp edges in his mind. The stage had been set long ago. Everyone in this room knew George would step from behind this screen as a different person.

His freedom would vanish the moment Lewis set that crown in his head. His plans to sneak off to see Alex could not fit into the world he was stepping into. Mercedes required everything he had to give—no, more. His sole focus had to be performance, maintaining the might of the most powerful empire in the FIA.

George slid to his knees, suddenly eye level with the Mercedes crown.

“I accept,” George said, bowing his head. “And I understand.”

He lowered his gaze as Lewis lifted the crown and set it on his head. It was much lighter than he expected, dangerously so. Needle-like tines dug into his temples and the back of his head, causing him to wince when he took a breath. Every movement was punishment as George rose to his feet again. He suddenly understood Lewis’s complete stillness.

Lewis offered a hand and George took it, squeezing hard as another tine stabbed at the back of his neck.

“You’ll bleed until it’s fitted properly,” Lewis explained. His eyes had gone completely vacant, every ounce of pain gone from them in an instant. “No other crown is like it. Every time you put it on, you’ll remember what you’re feeling now.”

George tried to keep still as he took up his spot at Lewis’s side, but he could feel a thin trail of blood leaking down the back of his neck already.

“Why?” George grit out.

Lewis nodded to one of the pole carriers before breaking into an easy, rehearsed smile.

The screen folded away in front of them, thrusting them back into the world, where a thousand eyes watched them. Lewis turned to look at him, his cheeks bunched in a smile George knew was completely fake, but the cameras didn’t.

The crowd burst into thunderous applause that echoed off of the marble walls, creating a ghostly sound from where they stood overlooking them.

Lewis reached over, gently thumbing away warm wetness at George’s temple that he realized was another trail of blood. Toto stepped from the crowd, carrying the second royal cape.

Lewis took the cape from him and draped it over George’s shoulders. George fought not to flinch as his weight shifted due to the heavy fabric, tears jumping to his eyes at the razor-precise pain all over his skull. Lewis stepped in front of him to clasp the diamond and titanium chain that held the cape together.

“The pain is so you never forget the most important part,” Lewis said, close enough that George could smell the soapy remnants of his face wash. Lewis leaned forward, expertly angling his head so their crowns didn’t touch as he whispered, “It’s not just a crown. It’s a leash.”

George’s blood chilled in his veins as Lewis stepped back, smiling up at him. The crowd behind him moved as one as everyone in attendance dropped to one knee. Blood dripped from the back of George’s earlobe, quietly thumping against the velvet pooled around the base of his neck in time with his pulse.

Lewis offered his hand again, this time to lead him away from the only world he’d ever known as a prince. George hesitated for only a moment before he took it.

The stage had been set, the rules agreed. He took a breath, stepped forward, and settled into the leash as Prince George of Mercedes—and nothing more.

 

 

Notes:

a few similar questions:
how did you come up with the idea of this alternative universe?
where did you get the idea to write the drivers as royal?

 

This fic all started after I saw the paddle photoshoot with Charles and Carlos at the very beginning of 2021 (which is why it's chapter 1 of this fic lol). I sent the post to my friend Lindsey via Instagram and made a joke abut Charles loathing his new teammate after Sebastian left. Lindsey was the only person in my friend group at the time who knew about/accepted RPF (she introduced me to hockey RPF years before) so I made a joke about a royalty au. She bought me a coffee to give me motivation to write a chapter and so began chapter 1 of FG. Honestly, the best chapters of this fic were spurred from coffee purchases--for some reason it works really well to bring out the magic. Anyway, I thought I would wrap this story up after Bahrain...lol.

 

The royalty aspect came naturally to me. All of these boys irl have been raised in a completely different world than normal people. Motorsport involves money and legacy and names so a royal aspect fit pretty seamlessly into it. Originally I was going to have them race horses, but I didn't want to have to create horse personalities and subplots so I went with cars and adopted a modern day royalty aspect. The Crown is one of my favorite Netflix originals (but fuck netflix for what they're doing to the film industry rn) and I rewatched The Crown any time I needed inspiration. For example, this chapter employs The Anointing Screen, which is used in the British coronation and is featured in The Crownn. It makes sense that the FIA empires would pull royal inspiration from the British anyway.

 

Formula 1 is pretty royalty-minded in real life, in my opinion. These drivers get ridiculous opportunities that are unique to the sport and are treated like kings. No other sport works like F1 in terms of 2-person teams, worldwide competition, and the sheer scale of fans around the globe. The world building part was easy with the real life backdrop--I always say FG is easy to write because I'm just twisting actual events, not creating them myself. :)

Chapter 151

Notes:

A reader quote:

“Want me to lick it off?” Daniel tried, grinning.

“If you’re going to lick that off him, I’m putting all the sauce on me,” Max said with an accusatory point of the spoon.

“Oh baby. Don’t tempt me with a good time,” Daniel purred, raising his eyebrows. “I’d love to lick beef sauce off those tiddies.”

“Oh my god,” Lando groaned, but it devolved into laughter as Max cracked up at the stove, slapping a hand over his mouth in a feeble attempt to contain himself.

Chapter 80. The whole chapter of Max, Danny and Lando together in the house in Zandvoort. The best part of that chapter was the whole meat sauce exchange tho, licking it off Danny, Max throwing it at them, hilarious.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

The house wasn’t ready, and Lando didn’t know shit about cleaning. He’d hired a maid service, but forgot to specify that he wanted the whole place cleaned, not just the finished rooms. So his living room, with its two-story ceilings and massive window that faced the sea, had no furniture and plaster snowfall banked up in all the corners.

At least the lights were on, and it smelled like cut pine instead of paint fumes.

Lando tucked the corner of a fitted sheet over the edge of his brand new mattress and stepped back to admire his attempt at a romantic evening. The mattress took up a big chunk of the empty space on the living room floor, and the windows were so huge it made it seem like sleeping under the stars.

Carlos would love it. If he didn’t suffocate on plaster dust before then.

Lando headed back into the kitchen, where the personal chef he’d hired was busy cooking two wagyu steaks to perfection.

“All good in here?” he asked, fighting down the nerves in his stomach. He’d never actually hosted anyone at his place before—in Monaco or otherwise. Not like this. Fewtrell camped out in his UK apartment and basically never left, and any time Carlos had visited during their time at McLaren, they always came and went together.

“Coming together nicely,” the chef said with a made-for-TV smile. Lando hoped he left promptly when Carlos arrived, as instructed. “Should be plated in a few minutes, monsieur.”

“Awesome,” Lando said. “I mean—oui. Oui oui.”

He headed back into the living room and checked his phone to see if Daniel had texted him back yet. Daniel was supposed to be meeting Max at the airport upon his arrival back from Belgium, where he’d spent a few days with his mother.

Lando supposed he couldn’t blame Daniel for not replying. If Carlos became world champion and wanted to run off into the sunset with him, he probably wouldn’t look at his phone once after meeting him on the landing strip.

You alive? he texted again, because he liked to be annoying.

Typing bubbles appeared.

he’s here. talk to you tomorrow hubby

Lando waited for a kiss-face emoji or a flirty follow up, but Daniel stopped typing. He knew it was hypocritical to feel jealous of Max when he was waiting for the love of his life to show up, but it crept up in him anyway.

He had a soft spot for caring men, sue him. Daniel usually went above and beyond to comfort him when Max entered the picture—PB&Js, movie nights together, Daniel flirting with both of them even when he was wrapped up in Max.

God, their lives were so fucked up.

Lando peeked out the window down at the winding street below, anxiously awaiting the growl of a Ferrari. His apartment was pretty much soundproof, but nothing quite cut out the sound of wealth in Monaco.

Plenty of other nice cars sat amongst the Peugeot and Renault shitboxes in the street, but none of them had the definitive curves of a Ferrari.  

His phone buzzed in his pocket—a number with a Monaco country code.

“Hello?” Lando asked as he answered, staring up at the sky out the window. Maybe not having curtains wasn’t the best idea for what they were about to get up to after—or maybe before—dinner.

“Your Royal Highness,” a posh voice said with a Monagasque accent. “There is someone at the gate claiming to be your guest.”

Right. He had gated parking now.

“Let him in,” Lando blurted. Por favor? No, that was Spanish. He wracked his mind for the word for please. Je t’aime. Oui. Plates. Plate! “See voo pl—”

The phone cut off. He’d taken too long to respond.

Lando sighed. His dad told him if he was going to move to Monaco, he had to be respectful to the local culture and not act like every other pompous English speaker who moved there.

He rushed back to the kitchen on socked feet. “Hey, my guest is coming up. Can you plate this and then, um, clean up or whatever?”

The chef smiled at him in a way that suggested he thought Lando was indeed like every other pompous English speaker in Monaco. “Of course, Your Royal Highness.”

Lando gave him a pained smile. “Thanks. Merci.”

Amusement flashed in the chef’s eyes at his pronunciation. Prick, Lando thought as he headed back to the living room.

The unpainted walls spotted with drywall mud weren’t the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, but the mattress on the floor in the light of the setting sun made things passably romantic. Coupled with a wagyu steak dinner and Carlos would have to be impressed.

He checked his phone again. No new texts from Daniel or McLaren or anyone else.

A soft knock sounded at his door and Lando burst into a grin. He swung the door open to reveal Carlos standing there with a bottle of wine and a small bouquet of flowers, a duffel bag on one shoulder.

His hair was still damp from a shower, tousled perfectly. He smelled like his usual cologne, soft and ambery and everything Lando remembered. His button-down collar poked out over a perfectly-tailored cashmere sweater, dark red. Lando couldn’t wait to rip it off.

“Hey,” he greeted.

Carlos smiled at him, his brown eyes more beautiful than ever. “Hi, Lando.”

“You ready to see my new place?” Lando asked. “Our place?”

“Our place?” Carlos returned, cocking his head. A piece of hair fell over his eyes and Lando wondered how the hell he’d landed someone like this.

“Yeah, our place,” Lando said softly. “No rules in Monaco.”

Carlos stepped closer and Lando met him for a kiss. The flowers pressed against his chest as he drank in the familiar taste of the man he loved, a thousand memories swirling in his brain.

“I brought some housewarming gifts,” Carlos said when they parted, only a breath away.

Lando grinned at him and tugged him inside by the elbow. “Not everything is finished yet, obviously. And there isn’t a lot of furniture, but I was thinking maybe you and I could pick stuff together.“

It felt so strange to hesitate in including Carlos in his interior design process—they’d been married for two years. Carlos knew everything about him.

“You would trust me?” Carlos laughed. “I thought you hated what I did at McLaren.”

“Kinda,” Lando admitted. “But I liked it by the end. It made home feel like home. I want this place to feel that way too.”

Carlos pressed a kiss to the back of his head, standing close as he looked over the living room in all of her empty glory. “Are we sleeping in here tonight?”

“I was thinking it’d be romantic. What do you think?”

“Perfect,” Carlos said. “Where should I put down my things?”

“You can put your bag wherever, I’ll take this stuff,” Lando said, turning to grab the flowers and—

“It’s cava,” Carlos explained as he handed off the bottle. “Spanish wine.”

Lando pecked his lips. “Thank you. For the flowers too.”

He wasn’t a flowers guy, but the thought of Carlos pondering over which bouquet to buy for him made him warm all over.

Carlos sniffed the air. “Are you cooking something?”

“I hired a private chef,” Lando replied sheepishly. “I didn’t want to lose any time with you and I wanted to have a nice dinner.”

Carlos blinked at him. “A chef is here?”

“It’s okay,” Lando assured him. “He’s leaving. He can’t see or hear anything in here from the kitchen. I triple checked.”

Carlos didn’t look convinced, but he smiled anyway. Lando kissed his cheek and scurried off to the kitchen, where the chef had plated their dinners and was zipping up his bag of knives.

Not creepy or anything.

“I’ll be gone momentarily,” the chef said. “I assume your guest is here?” He gave a pointed glance to the flowers.

Lando shook his head. “Just the florist dropping this stuff off for Daniel,” he covered.

“Roger Goulart Gran Reserva,” the chef said, nodding to the bottle. “That’s very good cava.”

“How much longer will you be, do you think?” Lando asked pointedly.

The chef picked up his bag of knives. “On my way out now. Through the back elevator yes?”

“Please,” Lando said. “Cheers, mate. Thanks for this.”

“Perhaps you should cover them,” the chef said, nodding to the steaks. “If your guest is not here, it will get cold fast.”

Lando sensed the chef was feeling out his lie and the hair rose on the back of his neck. “Thanks, I will.”

He set the flowers and cava on the counter and waited until he heard the private elevator ding. He busied himself grabbing a glass to use as a vase and waited until he heard the elevator move again before he peeked into the back hall to make sure the chef had gone.

Ever since all of the shit went down with Max’s championship, Lando noticed his paranoia had intensified. Daniel didn’t help things—he’d been on edge since Abu Dhabi, waiting for some kind of accusation or something. Neither of them had slept well since the race, tossing and turning as Lando worried about Carlos and Daniel worried about Max.

“Dinner is ready and the chef is gone,” Lando announced as he stepped back into the living room. Carlos stood at the base of the window, hands in his pockets as he watched people on the street below.

Lando strode to him, pulling him in for a hug. The cashmere sweater was as soft as he’d hoped it would be. He buried his nose into it and sighed with contentment.

“You seem stressed,” Carlos said into his curls, rubbing his back. “Is everything alright, Lando?”

“Now it is,” Lando said as he moved to rest his cheek on Carlos’s shoulder. “I was worried this wouldn’t work out. Or Charles would freak out or something.”

Carlos chuckled. “Charles has Pierre over tonight. He is more than fine without me, I promise.”

Lando hated that he heard a hint of sadness in Carlos’s voice. “They’re still together? I feel like they never spend time with each other. Or maybe I don’t notice.”

Carlos shrugged—gently, so as not to disturb him. “I think Charles keeps his relationships very private, and Pierre is okay with that. They have known each other for a long time.”

Lando let out a hum. He remembered the way Pierre used to look at Charles on the karting track, a mix of envy and want in his eyes. When Charles and Max started dating, Lando remembered Pierre doubling down on his rivalry with Esteban, making something out of nothing at the expense of their friendship.

Lando still didn’t trust Charles’s motives with Pierre. He didn’t really trust Charles in general, when he thought about it. Too much of his life stayed hidden.

“Charles is never going to love you all the way,” Lando said when he noticed Carlos’s thinking face forming on his features. “I don’t think he’s capable of doing that.”

Carlos grimaced, his smile lines deepening with discomfort. “I think he’s capable. He’s very different with me.”

He’s different with everybody, Lando thought. People liked to think champions like Lewis and Fernando were conniving and full of tricks, but at least everyone knew that about them. Charles smiled and laughed and everyone believed him all the time. But Lando had grown up with Charles—he knew how much darkness loomed behind those handsome dimples.

“You really love him, huh,” Lando said. Pity welled up in him where jealousy usually traveled. Carlos genuinely thought Charles would love him back.

“Enough talk about Charles,” Carlos diffused with a kiss to Lando’s head. “Let’s eat.”

 

 


 

 

Wagyu steak didn’t taste like Lando expected it to. For 200 euro per pound, Lando expected diamonds to crystalize in the fat or something. It tasted like every other filet mignon-y steak he’d ever eaten. Actually, it tasted mostly like fancy steak sauce.

“That was delicious,” Carlos purred as he forked up the last remnants of his wagyu. “I’ve never had a steak like that, not even in Japan.”

“I’ll pass your compliments to the chef,” Lando said cheerfully, though he had no intention of speaking to that chef ever again. “You really liked it?”

“Mi amor, I loved it,” Carlos said. “This was a great surprise. I expected fish fingers.”

Lando burst out laughing. His freezer back in London had bags full of fish fingers, a delicacy Lando saved for only the finest of nights when he could be convinced to turn on the stove.

“I think you’ll like dessert,” Lando said as he pushed out of his chair.

Carlos cocked a brow. “What is it? Pie? A cookie?”

Lando smirked as his heart kicked up in his chest. “Me, stupid. Whipped cream optional.”

He turned away before he could watch Carlos’s reaction, too nervous that it would be negative or a look of disappointment. He should have thought about dessert more thoroughly—Carlos was a food-lover. He probably expected actual food.

But Lando had his plan, and he wanted to stick to it. He pulled off his Rhude t-shirt and tossed it toward the bedroom hallway, trying his best to be seductive even though he knew Carlos couldn’t see him from the kitchen.

The living room glowed with blue moonlight, making the mattress look like a square-shaped cloud in the middle of it all. Lando hopped out of his pants and boxers and left them in a more accessible place.

“You coming?” Lando called, hoping the nerves didn’t leak into his voice.

He crawled naked into the billowing white sheets, taking in the feeling of cool fabric against his skin. He poked his head out from under the comforter when he heard Carlos enter.

Just the shadow of his naked body made Lando’s mouth go dry.

“Come on,” Lando said, holding up the blankets.

Carlos fought down a grin, eyes blown with lust. He dropped to his knees on the mattress and gently tugged the comforter from Lando’s body, exposing them both in the dark.

“I think you might be the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” Carlos said reverently.

Lando blushed hard, thankful for the shadows. “Mm. Tell me more, Señor.”

Carlos laughed. His hands came to Lando’s hips, squeezing there before gently-but-firmly turning Lando onto his stomach. Desire pooled hot in Lando’s belly as he exhaled, rocking back out of habit.

Carlos fucked him greedily, possessively. Lando felt every minute of time they’d had apart that Carlos wanted to make right. Carlos tangled their fingers together on the sheets as Lando fisted them, both of their moaning loud enough to send plaster dust into the air. Or maybe that was just from Carlos moving the mattress with all of his thrusting.

Either way, Lando devolved into a boneless fit of coughing when they were finished, and Carlos sneezed into his pillow a few times as he caught his breath, which Lando—had he been at all cognizant—would have found disgusting in normal circumstances.

“You need to shave,” Lando growled as Carlos pressed kisses to his navel. He carded his fingers though Carlos’s hair, his breath hitching when that scratchy stubble found more sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh.

“First thing in the morning,” Carlos promised with a gentle nip.

“I want other things first thing in the morning,” Lando protested, spreading his legs.

Carlos laughed, warm against his skin. “I can do—”

A knock sounded at the door, sharp and impatient.

“What the bloody hell—?” Lando shot up, nearly cracking skulls with Carlos as he moved to his hands.

“Are you expecting someone?” Carlos asked.

“What do you think?” Lando hissed, fumbling for his phone. He found it and the screen burned his eyes, but his lock screen—a photo of him and Daniel at a party—had no notifications. No missed calls from the security gate, no texts from Daniel.

Carlos must have read his body language, because he let out a noise that sounded threatening. “Don’t answer.”

The knocking sounded again, louder this time.

Lando swallowed hard. “It could be the FIA,” he said. Fear wiped away all of his fucked-out bliss as memories of the search party slammed into his mind. If they found Carlos here…

“Why would the FIA come now?” Carlos said over the sound of more knocking. “It’s night.”

Lando worked his jaw. Daniel had done unforgivable things. If the FIA found out and wanted to punish him, they wouldn’t care what time it was.

“I have to check,” Lando whispered. “I’m sorry. Can you—You need to hide, Carlos.”

Carlos frowned. “I’ll hide in the kitchen.”

“There’s an elevator back there, through that doorway behind the dining table,” Lando said. “If you hear me talking about coming back there, take the elevator. It’ll bring you right to the lobby.”

“Leave you?” Carlos shook his head. “No.”

More knocking—pounding now. Lando’s breaths came out uneven as he hopped from the bed and started pulling on his boxers and pants.

“If you hear me coming, you need to go, Carlos,” Lando said. “They’ve raided us twice. If they find you here, that’s it. This could be part of Max’s thing. I don’t know.”

“I will take care of myself,” Carlos said firmly.

Lando didn’t have time to argue. He rushed to the door and opened it a crack.

Daniel stood in the hall, his eyes red-ringed.

“Daniel?” Lando asked, opening the door. “What are you doing here?”

Daniel didn’t answer before shoving his way inside. “Is he here?”

Lando furrowed his brow. “Uh, yeah. He’s—Carlos, it’s safe,” he called.

Daniel strode into the living room as Carlos emerged from the hallway. Moonlight caught on Daniel’s face and for a moment Lando considered the possibility that this was a ghost of Daniel Ricciardo haunting his new house. His skin had no color except that of the moonlight, and his black hoodie had turned into a pit of shadow in the dark.

“Daniel?” Carlos asked.

“Where is he?” Daniel asked, wheeling around to face Lando.

“Right there!” Lando said, pointing at Carlos. “The fuck do you mean ‘where is he?’”

“Not Carlos!” Daniel snapped. “Max! Where is Max?”

Lando stood there like an idiot, trying to process. He’d just been fucked out of his mind—quite literally—by his ex-husband, and definitely didn’t have the brainpower left to untangle the mismatch of information he’d been presented with.

“Max is with you,” he ended up saying. “He’s supposed to be with you!”

Realization washed over Daniel’s corpse-like features. He choked out a noise as he spun to Carlos, who stood there just as puzzled as Lando, though his sex hair looked much better.

“Where’s Charles?” Daniel asked.

“At home,” Carlos said slowly. “At his flat.”

Daniel swallowed hard. “Alone?”

Something in the air snapped cold. A chill ran down Lando’s spine, turning his exposed skin to gooseflesh.

Carlos shook his head. “No, Pierre is there with him. Why? What is happening?”

“You saw him? You saw Pierre arrive?”

“Well, no. Charles said that—”

“Oh fuck,” Daniel breathed, fisting his curls. “Oh my god. Oh fuck. He lied to me.”

He dropped to his knees with a sickening thwack as his kneecaps hit concrete. Lando rushed forward, pressing a hand to Daniel’s back as he doubled over and kicked up a cloud of plaster dust with the force of his breathing.

“What the fuck is going on, Daniel?” Lando asked.

Lando glanced over Daniel’s shoulder to where Carlos stood frozen in a shaft of moonlight, the whites of his eyes like glazed ceramic. He looked stuck, like a character in a videogame whose code had run out.

“Daniel, use words,” Lando hissed.

Daniel went still. Plaster dust swirled around them in an eerie haze and the silence sucked the air out of Lando’s lungs. Daniel opened his eyes, his face slack and unnervingly calm.

“The FIA found Max in Belgium,” Daniel whispered into the dark. “It’s too late.”

 

 

 

Notes:

A reader question: I'm really curious about Checo's and Christian's characters, because we don't know a lot for them. Are they on Max's side or not? Do they think that Jos is "helping" Max win the championship? How do they cope with seeing Max in such a state?
Also I really love Max and Daniel, even though there are times when I feel like they don't love each other anymore.

To me, Christian and Checo mirror their real life counterparts. I’ll admit I’m not really a fan of either of them, but when it comes to Christian I feel that in FG he’s out for power. “It’s not personal. It’s just business” is basically Christian’s mantra. He’s on Max’s side as long as Max is winning. I think he and everyone else in the Red Bull camp know what Jos does to his son, but maybe they pretend it’s past tense. And I think if Sebastian Vettel told Christian to do pretty much anything, he would comply. Christian’s current power is because of Sebastian’s supremacy in his Red Bull years. I think Christian is great at turning a blind eye to everything in terms of Max’s mental state.

Checo is a bit simpler. I think in FG he knows he’s never going to be crown prince, so he’s pretty passive when it comes to Max. He’s older and kind of meandering along his royal journey. Checo doesn’t have too many close friends in the royal circle—he’s like Valtteri in the sense that he’s older but without a championship, which kind of excludes him from the two royal circles within the circle. Him and Max don’t hang out very much, and I feel their time at Red Bull is mostly Max doing what he wants and Checo being stoked he gets to drive cars and drink margaritas in his spare time. I think secretly he wants Max to fail, just to prove to everyone that he could step up if he needed to (whether or not that’s actually true).

Chapter 152

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness, but we were unable to reach Prince Pierre.”

Charles stared through the royal courier standing at his door, trying to think of another way to reach Alpha Tauri. Pierre had been able to arrange coming to Monaco to shoot some promotional stuff, but the shoot wasn’t supposed to go past sunset.

“We left your letter at his residence,” the courier said. “Would you like me to try again later?”

Charles offered a placating smile. “That’s okay. Thank you very much for offering. Have a good night.”

He shut the door and let out a sigh. He should have known better than to assume their plans would work as scheduled. He turned and pressed his back to the door, taking in the ambiance he’d painstakingly set up for Pierre’s arrival.

Finding fairy lights in Monaco was no easy feat, but he’d managed to source a half dozen strands of warm, glowing light from a few friends. They zig-zagged over his living area, creating an indoor starry sky for them to lie underneath in the safety of his flat.

A bottle of Ferrari Trento sat on ice, surrounded by an immaculate spread of desserts. The plan had been to eat a picnic-style dinner under their makeshift stars, but dinnertime had long since passed.

Charles decided to finish the laundry to occupy himself—Carlos’s laundry. His mother would send him to a physician if she saw him voluntarily doing someone else’s laundry, and Arthur would call him a simp. Charles didn’t see it that way. Carlos did a lot of things for him—they lived life intertwined in a way Charles had never experienced before. Sebastian had left him to his own devices and Marcus had been too busy preparing for his move to America to focus on his much younger husband. Back then, Charles had told himself he preferred it that way.

But as he carefully folded one of Carlos’s running shirts, he decided he liked this much better. Actually loving his husband was a treat in itself, but Charles knew better than to expect Carlos to ever be fully on his side. Carlos had survived as a prince by looking out for himself. He had a big heart and a protectiveness for the people he loved, though. As long as he and Charles remained on good terms, they would be able to rule Ferrari as a true team.

Charles lifted up a pair of shorts, inspecting a flaky Ferrari logo. He frowned—didn’t Carlos read the washing instructions? Such thin fabric would warp ironed-on logos in a hot dryer. He scolded Charles for leaving a bit of espresso in his cup when he finished his morning cappuccino, but God forbid he handle his clothing correctly.

Charles whipped his head up at the sound of a soft knock at his front door. He rushed from the bathroom and skittered down the hall in his socks, already imagining the strength of Pierre’s arms around him. He threw open the door with a smile.

“Bonne soir—” Charles cut himself off as he opened the door wider. “Max?”

Max stood in the breezeway, flushed and smiling. He wore a roomy hoodie, navy blue to match his shorts.  “Hi. Were you expecting someone?”

Charles blinked through his surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you. What are you—when did you get here?”

Max checked the time on his TAG Heuer Monaco. “A little over an hour ago? I have not been keeping the time.”

His accent sounded thicker than normal, the way it usually sounded after he’d been speaking Dutch with his family. Charles cocked his head. “I’m waiting for Pierre. He’s spending the night.”

“Ah.” Max nodded once. “Yes, I heard something about Alpha Tauri being here. They want to shoot something in the tunnel. It will be a long time until they are done. May I come in?”

Charles frowned. “When Pierre wrote me he said they were shooting the tunnel first.”

Max shrugged. “It seems they are behind. Typical for Alpha Tauri, yes?”

Charles stepped aside to welcome him in, disappointment nibbling at his gut. Pierre could be hours away from finishing, and they already had limited time.

“Champagne?” Max chuckled as he stepped inside and headed for the kitchen. “And all of these lights—you are still a romantic, Charles.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “We haven’t slept together in awhile. Excuse me for wanting it to be special.”

Max ran his finger down the neck of the bottle as if admiring it. He’d held plenty of nicer champagne bottles in his time. Ferrari Trento wasn’t worth awe.

A thought flew into Charles’s mind that made his throat close. Max, alone, with no one to share victory with. “Have you celebrated since Abu Dhabi?” Charles asked.

A half-smile curled at Max’s lips as he shook his head. “Not enough time. I slept so much, it was crazy.”

Max did look rested, Charles noticed in the low light. His skin had warmth again, and his features were filled out instead of gaunt and hollow.

Charles reached over and plucked the champagne from the ice bucket. “Let’s celebrate, then. What Pierre doesn’t know won’t hurt him, mm?”

Max let out a snort, his eyes distant. “No, I suppose not.”

Charles paused with his fingers curled around the cork. “Is everything okay?”

He couldn’t quite place it, but Max seemed off. More relaxed, surely, but not well.

Max offered a smile. “Everything is fine, Charles. You don’t need to worry about me anymore.”

It was Charles’s turn to let out a snort. “Right. I don’t think I’ll ever stop worrying about you, championship or not.”

He popped the champagne and let the froth flow down the length of his forearm as he readied the glasses for them. Max watched the bubbles, and Charles didn’t miss the way his gaze traveled up over his body and lingered on his mouth.

Charles poured them both flutes of champagne and recorked the bottle before lifting his glass.  “To Max Verstappen, champion of the world,” he toasted with a smile. “Congratulations.”

Max laughed as they clinked glasses and took their first sips. The champagne was fruity but dry and it reminded Charles of his first taste of wine as a child. He had expected the sweetness of grape juice, only to find a raspy, woody taste he’d hated. He’d changed since then, as had his tastebuds.

Max turned his attention to the plate of desserts. He picked up a fork and swirled it around like a shark waiting to launch into a school of fish.

“I didn’t know you liked cheesecake,” Max said, hovering his fork over a decadent cheesecake overflowing with cherries and syrup. “I thought you hated it.”

“I didn’t plan ahead very well,” Charles admitted. “Had to call in a favor to get these—and I don’t mind cheesecake. Did I say I hated it?”

Max plunged the fork into the edge of the cheesecake, carefully pulling a bite up from the plate. “Someone mentioned it once. I thought it was strange that I didn’t know, but you never eat it at events.”

Charles cocked a brow. “It’s like a thousand calories a slice—you’ve been tracking my cheesecake eating?”

Max popped the bite of cheesecake in his mouth and smiled with full cheeks. “Just an observation. You’ve got to try the American version. They have a whole cheesecake factory—many of them.”

Charles wrinkled his nose. “I know. I’ve had it before. I prefer this kind.”

Max set the fork aside. “I see. So you don’t like American cheesecake. That makes sense.”

A memory surfaced, blurred by alcohol. Daniel sat across the table from him at the Cheesecake Factory, complaining about the wine. Women crowded his booth, hanging off of him while he spoke to their waitress. Charles remembered the taste of caramel cheesecake mixing with his hatred for Max’s one true love. He pushed the memory away before the revulsion returned, suddenly wary.

Max took a long swallow of champagne and headed for the living room. Charles followed him, noting the way the light spotted his broad shoulders as he walked.

For a split second, he saw what his life could have been. Had Max not fallen in love with Daniel, they could have had this for years. Everything could have culminated in this one night, when Max finally became what both of them had striven so hard to be.

Max plopped down on the rug and rolled onto his back with a grunt. His blue eyes reflected the fairy lights, giving Charles his own personal galaxy to stare at as he lowered himself to the floor.

“We’re so predictable,” Max chuckled, closing his eyes. “All that’s missing is the pizza.”

“Cheesecake will have to do,” Charles joked as he set his champagne on one of the side tables.

He laid so that their heads were beside each other, close enough that he could feel the vibration through the floor when Max let out an approving noise.

Charles suddenly realized what must have happened. He turned his head and Max seemed to shapeshift right in front of him. The tentative boyfriend of his youth transformed into a man new in knowledge, still too young for his status.

“You had the ceremony,” Charles said softly into the dim light.

Max let out a hum, eyes still closed.

“Well, how was it? What happened?” He was surprised it had taken this long for him to realize. Charles could usually sense any change in Max in an instant.

“You know I can’t tell you,” Max said. “It’s sacred for a reason.”

Charles felt it now. The championship had weight. Whatever had happened, Max was no longer one of them.

Charles turned his face so his lips grazed Max’s ear as he spoke. “A hint, then.”

Max’s eyes opened to crescents of light in the dark. “No, Charles.”

The barest hint of a warning edged his voice, but it was sharp enough that Charles decided not to press.

“I wish I would have known you were coming,” Charles said, facing the ceiling again. “I would have done a better job at throwing a party for you.”

Max chuckled. “I’ve never liked the parties. We always do best alone.”

Charles thought back to their phone conversation in Maranello, the coziness of Enzo’s dining room, the warmth of the fire that matched Max’s low laugh between verses of their song. Even when the phone lines weren’t private, like during their call after Monaco, Max spoke differently with him than he did with anyone else.

They would always have each other. Their rivalry would never be like Max and Lewis.

“You know, I’ve spent a lot of my life wondering how much I contributed to you acting the way you do,” Max said quietly. “I spent many years with so much guilt over what I did in Brazil. I remember hearing about everything—everyone—you did after, and I made myself so sick over it.”

Charles let out a sigh laced with discomfort. “That was a long time ago.”

“I hated myself for not going to your father’s funeral,” Max continued. “But honestly, it didn’t feel right for me to be there. I barely knew him. I felt that being there would make it about me—about us—not about your dead father.”

Charles flinched. Max had been at the back of his mind that whole day, a nibbling question of why isn’t he here? that plagued him when he should have been focused on grieving.

“I’d rather not talk about this right now,” Charles said.

Max let out a laugh, and the sound was cold. “But I had no reason to be so upset about it. Here I thought you had suffered every day after we broke up.”

Charles turned to him, eyes hard. “I did suffer, Max. You abandoned me.”

Max finally looked at him. His eyes simmered with quiet fury, lethal as venom. “No,” he hissed, his voice shaking. “You abandoned me first.”

Charles propped himself up on an elbow. “Excuse me?”

Max sat up too, spots of yellow light dappling his cheeks. The feral animal from the podium had returned, and it had evolved into something far more deadly.

“What was going through your head that night?” Max asked, leaning closer. “I’m guessing you felt like I wasn’t paying you enough attention during the worst month of my life. Or was Pierre that irresistible?”

Charles flared his nostrils. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Belgium,” Max cut, scanning his face. “You left our bed—the bed I sacrificed everything to have the chance to share with you—and skipped down the hall to let Pierre fuck you stupid.”

No. Charles’s vision tunneled. Every nerve ending in his body launched into fight or flight. There was no way Max knew about Belgium. He and Pierre had been beyond careful.

Pierre.

What was going through your head?” Max repeated with quiet rage. “I remember that morning, the morning after. You were so happy, I should have realized you were fucked out. Instead, I thought you loved me. I remember feeling like we could make it when you kissed me.”

Charles remembered that morning too. The way the sun warmed their feet under the sheets, the giddy sense of worth Charles had felt, because someone had wanted him, but not Max.

It had to be a bluff. No one except him and Pierre knew about that night, and Pierre swore he would never tell.

Charles cleared his throat. “Max, I don’t know what you heard, but—”

“Save it,” Max snapped. “I spoke to Pierre first, because I knew he would tell the truth if I pushed hard enough. No more lies, Charles. I just want to know what you were thinking.”

Charles sat paralyzed with fear. Max had come to his flat on purpose, knowing full well Pierre wasn’t coming. Max was the reason Pierre hadn’t showed up.

If Pierre didn’t come, no one would be at the flat until morning. His phone was across the room on the kitchen counter, past a vast array of cooking knives. Few things could break Max to the point of violence, but Charles sensed they had passed that marker the moment Max stepped into his home and saw all of the things he’d prepared for another man. The same man he’d cheated with.

“What you said,” Charles choked out in admission. “I felt like you were already leaving me. Pierre wanted me so badly and it didn’t feel like you would even care—you were so obsessed with becoming a prince.”

“How dare you say that to me,” Max hissed. “My father was beating the shit out of me every weekend I went without a fucking crown on my head. So you decide to get fucked by our friend so you wouldn’t feel lonely? Are you serious?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t cast me aside for Carlos,” Charles snapped. Anger was easier than fear. “And you stomped me in the dirt for Daniel. You told him secrets I only shared with you.”

“I should have you exiled,” Max said bitterly, but the threat cut to the bone. Max actually had that power now—not directly, but Charles had seen how quickly Ferrari turned on Sebastian without a champion encouraging them.

“Oh? What about change, Max?” Charles prompted. “What about all of the things you wanted to fix?”

Max shook his head. “I don’t want to change anything anymore. I’m fine with the way things are.”

Silence pulled taut between them as Charles waited for the punchline.

Max glared at him, teeth bared like a dog. “If everyone followed the rules, the crown wouldn’t be so fucked up. We spend all of our time trying to break down the walls we agreed to live in.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “What did the FIA tell you, Max?”

“Enough,” Max retorted, loud enough that Charles flinched. “They told me enough!”

“You realize the rules still apply to you, right?” Charles fired back. “Just because you’re champion doesn’t mean you and Daniel get to—”

“Fuck Daniel!” Max shouted, slamming his fist to the carpet.

Charles balked, stunned into silence.

Max collected himself, though it felt more like a snake recoiling to prepare for another strike. His fists shook on the carpet, his Cartier bracelets rattling in the dark. He took one breath, then another—both shallow.

“Fuck Daniel,” Max whispered miserably, shoulders hunching with the weight of sudden grief.

Charles instinctively softened when Max did, even though fear and anger blended inside him at full blast. He shifted closer, but prepared himself for Max to lunge at him at any moment.

Wetness collected in Max’s eyes as he drew up his legs and shook his head. He buried his face between his knees, his whole body wracking with sobs. Charles placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. Once Max allowed it, he shifted until he could rest his cheek against Max’s skull.

Max let out a low noise of pain. His sobbing quieted to trembling and Charles nestled closer, willing himself not to cry in sympathy.

“Daniel betrayed me too,” Max said, his voice muffled by his knees. “I fell in love with him and I thought he fell in love with me at the same time, but he didn’t. He lied.”

Charles drew away. “What? When was this?”

Daniel had been known as a paddock playboy back in the day, but his easy-breezy way of life had fallen away when Max entered the picture. Charles had hated Daniel for years precisely because Daniel had been so obviously enamored with Max.

“Our first year together,” Max choked out. “I was so fucking scared to love him, but I fell really fast. I thought he did too, but no.” The last word came out like a curse, black ink that stained.

“Are you sure it wasn’t—”

“He wanted to be with Jenson Button,” Max cut, lifting his head to wipe his bloodshot eyes. “Daniel thought they’d end up together. He planned—” Max hiccupped. “He planned—”

“Take a breath,” Charles soothed, trying to come to grips with what sounded like an impossible story. Jenson and Daniel barely interacted as far as he had seen. Charles saw their friendship like everyone else, but it never seemed like a romance.

“Daniel took me to Monaco after Christmas our first year,” Max finally continued. “I had never stayed in Monaco at a place that wasn’t a hotel. I was so excited. He told me he was going to pick up a surprise.” Max wiped his nose on his arm and sighed pathetically. “He left and met up with Jenson. Set up something just like this, but with candles. Jenson turned him down. When Daniel came back he was upset—he told me it was because his surprise didn’t work out. Which was technically the truth. What a fucking prick.”

Anger twisted in Charles. Back then he’d been so desperate for Max’s attention. He hadn’t even known Max was in Monaco then, or he would have been wandering the streets like a stalker trying to find Daniel’s flat.

Max sniffed. “Daniel does love me, though. Even though I was his second choice. Jenson visited him this year in Monaco and Daniel didn’t do anything, even when Jenson gave him the opportunity.”

“Did Jenson tell you all of this?” Charles asked.

Max stared out at nothing. “Daniel asked me the same thing. It doesn’t matter. Daniel lied to me our whole first season. Our foundation. How can you keep going when your whole foundation is a lie?”

Charles felt like he was going to be sick. “Daniel loves you. What you have with him isn’t over because of this.”

Max shook his head once, almost a wince. “I trusted him with everything.”

“Has he done something to make you regret that?” Charles asked, genuinely curious.

Max’s eyes turned dark in an instant. An ugly snarl twisted to his lips. “I haven’t decided yet. He’s way too close to Mercedes now.”

“If he hasn’t said anything to Mercedes about you yet, I don’t think he will,” Charles said. “He risked his crown multiple times for you this season—and I’m sure I don’t know the extent of everything he actually did.”

Max stared at him and Charles felt the way his gaze probed into the deepest parts of him, searching for something Charles didn’t know how to give.

“Do you still love him?” Charles asked, trying to shake the feeling of inadequacy.

Max didn’t answer for a long time. “Yes,” he finally said. “I know I can always count on him to make the sacrifices needed, no matter how much they take from him.”

Charles loathed the implication that he didn’t. “If you’re trying to suggest—"

“Shut up, Charles,” Max snapped. “You cheated on me at my most vulnerable. You had no excuse. I did, and I never cheated on you while we were together.”

“Except with Carlos,” Charles clapped back.

“I didn’t love him while I was with you,” Max countered. “And I didn’t sleep with him. You can ask him. We only fucked like three times and every time was after Brazil.”

Charles looked away, too angry to believe that even though he knew in his heart that it all lined up. “Congratulations. You’re a better person than me, then.”

“You could at least say sorry,” Max snarled. “Even Daniel said sorry.”

Maybe Charles hadn’t changed at all. Maybe he was still the immature, love-chasing, sick-minded boy who snuck into Pierre’s bedroom and relished every moment of their time together. Even now, he justified to himself that Max had already abandoned him by Belgium, focused on a career away from him.

Charles grimaced. “I am sorry, but I know it doesn’t sound like I am if I say it now.”

“No,” Max confirmed with a disgusted noise. “It doesn’t.”

They sat in silence for a long time. Charles had no idea what he could possibly say to make things better. He didn’t even know if it was possible for any ‘better’ to come out of this. He could feel Max crumbling beside him, a sandcastle sloughing away in a rainstorm.

“When I found out about what Daniel did, I thought for a second that you really were my person and that I had just fucked it up,” Max finally said. “Then I find out about Belgium. I tried to make excuses for you, but Pierre told me you were the one who texted him that night.”

Charles’s cheeks lit up in shame. He remembered the thrill he’d felt pulling out his phone, the desperate I need you he’d typed out while Max slept beside him.

“Are you still on medication?” Max asked.

Charles froze, reeling from the change in subject. “How do you know about that?”

“I’m champion. It’s a lot easier to get information now,” Max said, sitting back on his hands. He assessed him the way a crow stared at a fresh piece of roadkill.

“Who told you? I only told Carlos and Pierre.”

George, Kimi, and Mick apparently knew also, but Charles didn’t think they had enough evidence to prove anything. Certainly not taht he was still taking the pills.

Max tensed. “You told Carlos and Pierre, but not me?”

“Why would I tell you?” Charles snapped, emotion welling up in him.

“I would tell you if Red Bull put me on medications.”

“Maybe they should have,” Charles shot back. “I never want to see you like that again.”

Their anger at each other always had a soft edge to it, a strange kind of protectiveness even when they cut deep.

Max relaxed. His brow furrowed as he asked, “In Zandvoort, was that because of the medication?”

Charles swallowed hard. Shame and sadness flooded his system as he thought about that night, the cold, the pouring rain, Max’s panic. Despair had come so easily to him then, but he’d found balance. He didn’t even think about taking the pills anymore, they were so ingrained with his routine.

“Probably. Maybe.” Charles shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what parts of me are myself and what parts are because of the meds. I told you I was sick—I still am. But maybe it’s not sickness, maybe it’s just me.” He swallowed hard. “I cheated on you with Pierre before we broke up, before my dad died. I can’t blame that on anything except myself.”

Charles never thought he would speak the words aloud. He had tucked that night away into the darkest parts of himself, only revealing it to the world when he and Pierre were together. Few memories lived in that horrible place, and he hated himself for all of them.

“I won’t ever forgive you for that,” Max said.

Max said the same thing in all of his nightmares. Hearing the words in real life didn’t come with the fear Charles anticipated. Strangely enough, he felt relief. No more hiding, no more wondering what Max would do if he ever found out.

“I don’t expect you to,” Charles finally replied.

“I won’t forgive Pierre either.”

Charles looked up, fear flooding his system all over again. “Don’t punish him just because you can.”

Max flinched, caught. They still knew each other too well. “I’m World Champion. I can do whatever I want.”

Panic gripped Charles’s insides. Pierre had no safety net, he'd been raised by Red Bull and no one else. “Don’t exile him.”

Max snorted. “I’m not stupid. Pierre doesn’t do shit with his alliances. But he won’t be in Red Bull after this year, I can promise you that.”

“He’s always defended you when it—”

“No. Do you know who defended me?” Max cut. “George. George hates me and he did more to protect me than you and Pierre combined.”

Max moved to his feet. Charles followed him on shaking legs. He stepped closer, nearly stumbling as he did so. Max stepped back.

“All this time, I trusted you,” Max said quietly, pulling up his sleeves. “I thought we knew everything about each other. We’ve seen each other at our worst—you’ve seen me at my worst, at least.”

“You can still trust me,” Charles assured him. “I did everything I could to protect you.”

Max recoiled, lip curled in disgust. “My perspective of you was based on a lie. I thought you were innocent.”

“And you still abandoned me,” Charles reminded him. “That’s really going to make you feel better?”

Max hardened to stone. Coldness radiated from him as if he’d turned to ice, and the light above them seemed to dim as Max fought an internal battle Charles couldn’t decipher. He reached out. This time Max didn’t step away.

Charles touched his arm, gentle but firm. “Hey,” he soothed, trying to still whatever emotion was threatening to tear Max apart from the inside.

They locked eyes and their surroundings fell away, as they always did.

“I’m going to win alone this time,” Max promised. “I won’t owe anyone. I don’t want any more favors or help or anything. I’m good enough to do it myself. I’m going to do it myself.”

“Help isn’t a bad thing,” Charles murmured.

“It is when it creates a debt. Some debts you can’t pay back—not in this place,” Max hissed. “There’s no winning here, Charles. The only one who wins is the FIA.”

Max had spent the whole season disrespecting and evading the FIA. Charles knew he had used Red Bull to work deals with them, like when an FIA official had caught them both in a hotel elevator after they were banned from seeing each other. Yet something had changed Max from blatant disrespect to something closer to fear.

No, Charles realized, Max sounded defeated.  

Charles squeezed Max’s arm and jerked in surprise when he flinched. He glanced down at milky white skin, only to find Max’s bicep splotched with dark that definitely hadn’t been there before.

“Are those bruises?” Charles gasped.

Max wrenched his arm away. “I hope to God you never win a championship, Charles. It’ll destroy you.”

Charles balked, startled by the sincerity in Max’s voice. Their whole lives, they rooted for each other. They fought hard, but always reunited at the end to check each other’s wounds. He’d wanted Max to be champion, Max had wanted him to be champion.

“I’ve never known you to underestimate me,” Charles growled.

Max crushed in close. His breath washed down the front of Charles’s shirt, hot and tinged with the scent of alcohol. “I never have. I’m going back to Red Bull in the morning. When I come back, everything is going to be different.”

Charles shivered where he stood, but he didn’t back down. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Next year at this time, the royal circle will look very different. And I’m doing it myself. No deals, no sneaking around. I’m going to dominate—watch me.”

Charles squared his shoulders, lips curled in a snarl. “Good luck getting past me.”

“Oh I will,” Max hissed. “I’m going to personally see to it that you never become champion.”

Charles thought he saw a flicker of fear in Max’s eyes, but it vanished too quickly for him to confirm it. Their breath mixed in the silence as Charles fought the urge to shove him, to scream out that Max had no right to talk to him like that, but the hypocrisy would drown out any attempt at saving his pride.

Two broken boys, Charles thought as Max stared right back at him, locked in place. Look what we’ve become.

The light caught on the yet-darker bruise on Max’s arm as he lifted his hand to caress Charles’s cheek. His fingertips were warm and freezing at the same time, like touching dry ice. It hurt.

“Max,” Charles breathed. The icy chill traveled down his throat, lining it with frostbite.

“I wish it could have been different,” Max said quietly. “You fuck to get your answers, I fight for mine. We could have been unstoppable together.”

Charles stared at him, his voice caught in his throat. They were coming undone. Charles could feel the braided cords they’d twined over a history together begin to pull taut, twisting and groaning until a fiber snapped and the next threatened to follow.

Max’s eyes lingered on his lips, sad and full of defeat. A look Charles had never seen on him before. 

“Maybe that’s why they do it,” Max murmured. “To make sure princes like us don’t survive.”

He headed for the door and opened it to leave, but stopped himself in the threshold. Charles stood in the middle of the room, his fingers still splayed as though Max was close enough to hold.

Max checked his watch. “Carlos will be calling you soon. He’ll be sugarcoat the truth, because he loves you. But it’s much worse than he’ll tell you.” He tapped his palm on the threshold, a three-note sonata. “Thanks for the champagne.”

The door closed with a soft click. Max’s exit had been as gentle as his entry, but his leaving still sent Charles to his knees. He stared at the mottled carpet under his hands, fear, sweat, and despair dripping from him like blood from a wound.

His phone buzzed on the countertop.

Charles crawled into the kitchen and pulled his phone down to him as he curled himself against the cabinets. He squeezed his eyes shut as he answered.

“Charles?” Carlos asked. He sounded out of breath. “Charles, is that you?”

“Who else would it be?” Charles croaked.

“Oh, thank god.” Carlos moved his mouth away from the phone. “It’s him, he’s okay.”

He was the furthest thing from okay.

“What’s going on?” Charles asked. “What’s happening?”

“Pierre is here,” Carlos said, too gentle. Sugarcoating. “Can you come to Lando’s?”

“Why is Pierre there? What’s happening?” Charles demanded. “Why isn’t he here?”

“Charles,” Carlos soothed.

“Put him on,” Charles choked out. “Put him on!”

“—not going to fix anything,” Daniel said in the background.

“—trying!” Lando snapped, muffled.

“Pierre is safe,” Carlos said, and Charles heard the thuds of his feet as he walked away from the noise.

“So put him on,” Charles begged.

“Charles, he was in a car accident,” Carlos said, firm but gentle. The way he spoke to his dog during their visit to Spain. A lifetime ago.

“A car accident?” Charles forced out, trying to comprehend.

“Well, I’m assuming that’s what it was,” Carlos admitted. “He won’t tell us. He says he only wants to talk to you, in person.”

It’s much worse than what he’ll tell you.

Charles jumped to his feet, cold adrenaline forcing him into movement as he stumbled into his trainers. His whole body shook.

“Carlos?” Charles asked.

“I’m here,” Carlos assured him. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay, Charles.”

“It’s not,” Charles said brokenly. He grabbed the keys to his Huskie and shoved his way out of the flat and toward the elevator.

“Pierre is conscious, he’s just hurt. He said he already went to medical and they cleared him.”

That had to be a lie, but Charles had no idea who was doing the lying anymore.

He stayed on the line with Carlos until his bike growled to life beneath him, a familiar sound. He knew engines and cars and speed. He knew how to overtake, how to hunt down his opponents and take victory by force. His tires squealed as he launched forward, his helmet left behind.

There had been no car accident. There had only been Max, and he was much worse.

 

 

Notes:

a reader quote:

Chapter 85 - "It isn’t your fault that you broke me, but I’m still broken. I’ve tried everything and I can’t fix it. I can’t even find someone who loves me enough to—”
To share life with. To trust he isn’t with someone else. To trust he isn’t thinking about someone else whenever I’m gone.

Maybe a bit depressing of a quote to choose, but it really resonated with me. I hope Charles will find the person who loves him enough in the FG ending, that would make me happy ❤️

Chapter 153

Notes:

the official fool's gold commentary read-through begins in a few weeks. make sure you're following me on tumblr @chubbydino or join the discord server to get all of the info!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Charles burst through the door of Lando’s flat and Carlos caught him by the waist before he could make it two steps inside.

“Let me see him!” Charles rasped, struggling in Carlos’s hold. “Pierre! I’m here!”

“Charles, calmense,” Carlos soothed, taking a few steps back and dragging Charles with him. Charles shoved at his hairy arms, but they were too strong. He knew all too well that Carlos could pin him down and keep him there if he wanted to.

“You can’t go in there like this,” Carlos said, relaxing when Charles finally stopped struggling. “Take a breath. The worst is over, yes?”

“No,” Charles blurted out. “The worst is not over.”

Daniel appeared as a shadow at the end of the hall. They stared at each other for a long moment, until Daniel’s eyes turned too shiny and he looked away. He sniffed once, then disappeared into the room he’d stepped out of.

Cheater.

Charles wanted to scream at him. Daniel had ruined everything. Daniel was supposed to be Max’s person, the offbeat soulmate who synced up with a boy too young to be among princes.

I thought he fell for me too, but no.

“Daniel,” Charles called, and it came out broken. “Daniel!”

He strained against Carlos’s hold. Max no longer wanted to be around the two men he trusted most.  

“You can talk to him,” Lando said, tumbling out into the hall with Daniel as he reappeared with a duffel slung over his shoulder. “Daniel, you can always get through to him. It’s Max.”

“Not this time,” Daniel said quietly. He nodded to Charles. “Hey, can I talk to you?”

He asked it like he wanted to schedule a business meeting, but his eyes had no cordiality. Charles had dealt with Daniel over the years—he didn’t really have another term to describe their interactions. Charles still couldn’t understand how everyone was so charmed by him all the time. How Max—the standoffish, hackles-raised young prince of Red Bull—had fallen for someone like Daniel Ricciardo.

“I want to see Pierre,” Charles hissed, and Carlos’s arm tightened around him.

Daniel’s mouth twitched into a frown. “You and I need to talk first, mate. No prying eyes. Or ears.” He glanced at Carlos.

“Anything you say to Charles, you can say to me,” Carlos growled.

Charles relaxed in his hold, sinking back into the familiar warmth of Carlos’s chest. The steady beat of Carlos’s heart played music against the back of Charles’s ribcage, lulling him toward comfort as it had on many nights since their wedding day.

But his love and trust for his husband had no chance against promises made long before him.

“Let me go,” Charles said. “I have to talk to Daniel alone.”

Carlos reluctantly released him. Charles glanced around the unfinished mess of Lando’s new house. The piles of plaster dust had been stepped on by so many feet it was impossible to tell how many people had walked—

Charles froze when he saw a single splat of blood on the floor. Pierre’s blood. The knowing permeated his marrow, as though his body could detect the DNA on sight alone.

“Charles,” Daniel urged. “Come on.”

Charles snapped his head up and followed Daniel down another hallway. Unfinished walls had marks from drywall putty and ugly holes brimming with capped electrical wiring, creating an all-too-fitting horror movie scene.

Daniel dropped his duffel and opened a door to reveal a tight spiral staircase.

Dutch stairs. Max had always lamented them, saying they were designed to break kneecaps and teeth when people inevitably fell down the steep, winding slope.

Daniel disappeared up the stairs and Charles followed, carefully navigating each step. They were sturdy and well-made, which made sense with amount of money Lando must have taken out of his trust fund to pay to put them in a Monaco flat. The high ceilings in his living room were expensive enough on their own.

The stairway opened up to a small room with nice wood floors and massive windows looking out over the harbor. Even Charles had to take a breath at the sight of all the twinkling lights in the darkness.

The room was clearly a hideaway. A bed sat stuffed in the corner, the mattress still wrapped in plastic and the bedframe resting against the wall in a stack. The walls were thick and fortress-like, compacting them into a cocoon that canceled out all of the noise of the city beyond and the rest of the house below.

An empty watch case sat on the nightstand, one Charles had seen before. This one had orange accents instead of Carlos’s blue, and read mi lago mi leche. A case for Carlos’s gift watch, the one that had been stolen. The room was a hideaway for Carlos.

Charles hardened his gaze. Carlos couldn’t come here again, not with Max on a warpath.

Daniel stopped in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and waited for Charles to join him.

“What happened?” Daniel asked. “What did he tell you?”

Charles grit his teeth. “Plenty of things.”

Daniel snorted. “Don’t play games, Charlie. It’s too late for that. What did he tell you about me?”

Max’s face flashed in his memory, utterly lost, utterly broken. “He told me about Jenson. He said you wanted to be with him in the beginning, when you were telling Max you loved him. He told me about Monaco. Is that true?”

Daniel turned to him, scanning his face. “Yeah,” he finally whispered. “It’s true.”

Charles grit his teeth. “Fuck you, Daniel. He loved you.”

Daniel looked away again. “I know. What else did he tell you?”

Anger sizzled through his bloodstream. Charles fumed as he waited for more of an apology, for some kind of explanation.

“I wanted you dead,” Charles hissed. “When you took him from me, I wished something would happen to drive you two apart.”

“That would have been fucking easier!” Daniel snapped, eyes going cold. “I didn’t want to fall in love with Max, okay? I wanted to hate him. I tried to hate him. I was in love with Jenson."

Charles shook his head. “I don’t know if I believe that. I’ve never seen you two—”

“Exactly,” Daniel cut. “I was stupid back in the beginning. I made it obvious I had a huge crush on the guy. Jenson pretended I didn’t exist, but there was something there, you know?”

He shook his head. “We used to do these royal outings. All the princes got together for dinner a few times a year. Jenson sat next to me one time, ignored me the whole night. Next thing I know he’s got his hand on my thigh under the table. Nowadays everyone gets away with everything. Back then…can’t describe to you how that felt. What it meant.”

Every older prince talked about the days of old. Sebastian reminisced about his power every time Ferrari had failed him. Sebastian loved the past—most champions did. Simpler times, they all said. Crueler, too.

“Does Max know this?” Charles asked.

Daniel flinched. “No. He didn't ask and I didn’t give him every detail of my feelings for someone else.”

Quiet settled between them. Daniel crossed his arms, hugging himself as if to keep from falling apart.

“Jenson was so careful,” Daniel said after a long moment, his eyes distant. “He was adamant that we kept everything between us in letters. Only letters. I became obsessed with him—I felt starved, y’know? We’d share one touch a weekend, if we were lucky. Monaco was the only place we ever spent time together.”

Daniel picked at his elbow, the 3 tattoo on his pinkie flickering in and out of shadows.

“How long did it go on?” Charles asked.

Daniel shrugged. “Hard to say. One day we were nothing, the next we were something. His championship fucked him up. Everyone said he was never the same after. Even I saw that, and I didn’t really know him until two years after he won. We ended it that night in Monaco—Jenson didn’t leave any doubts about that.”

“So you barely saw each other, yet you chose him over Max?”  

A smile broke out on Daniel’s face that made Charles’s stomach twist. “Says the guy texting Gasly for a hookup while in bed with him.”

Charles blanched. “He told you?”

Daniel laughed darkly. “Of course he told me. I’m the love of his life. You hurt him more than I did.”

Daniel does love me, though. Even though I was his second choice.

“I asked if he still trusts you and he couldn’t give me an answer,” Charles returned, and he hoped it hurt.

Daniel stopped picking at his arm. His skin turned to gooseflesh, noticeable even where Charles stood a few paces away.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”

Daniel chuckled. “Doesn’t work like that. Even if I could tell you, you couldn’t handle it.”

I hope to God you never win a championship, Charles. It’ll destroy you.

“I can handle anything,” Charles snarled.

Daniel scoffed. “Yeah?” He stepped closer, looming despite his lithe frame. “We’re dealing with things so far beyond our control you couldn’t even comprehend them in your pretty, stupid head.” His voice dropped so low Charles had to read his lips as he said, “I’ve been around the block. I’ve seen shit you wouldn’t believe even if you saw it with your own eyes.”

Charles bristled. Everyone thought he was too weak for knowledge, for a championship, for anything, yet he was the crown prince of Ferrari. He carried the oldest empire in the FIA on his shoulders and he didn’t back down from any fight.

“Max knows things he shouldn’t. He knows things no one should know about,” Daniel continued. “He already lied to me once tonight—so what else did he talk about? I can’t protect him if he’s hiding things from me.”

“Maybe he’s hiding them for a reason,” Charles said.

Daniel went wild-eyed. “He doesn’t understand the stakes. If he did—if you did—I’d be told everything.”

 Charles weighed the options. He wouldn’t trust Daniel with his own secrets, but even Max himself said Daniel would do anything to save him. “He only mentioned Jenson. You sneaking off to see him in Monaco and Jenson rejecting you. He thought you loved him.”

“I did love him,” Daniel said, relaxing slightly. “It’s fucked up, but I didn’t realize how good Max was for me until after Jenson left me. But I was supposed to be champion first. I had my shot in 2018—I was going to learn whatever they learn and help Max prepare for it. He was never supposed to take it on alone.”

Daniel opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it abruptly. His jaw flexed as he grit his teeth, a sudden hopelessness in his eyes. “I failed that year. I thought I would have a better shot at Renault, so I jumped ship.”

Charles barked out a laugh, but Daniel’s glare silenced it.

“You have no idea what I went through,” Daniel said quietly. “What it did to me.”

“I have some idea,” Charles replied coldly.

Dark red filled his vision, and the ghost of a muffled beat thrummed through his blood like alcohol. The scent of champagne stung his nose—his memories of Vegas were only fuzzy lights and darkness. Vivid and consuming all at once.

Daniel’s hand balled to a fist. His lip twitched, but he didn’t make a move. Daniel had learned violence, Max had been raised by it. Daniel didn’t know how to throw the first punch.

“I knew he was different the second he got off the plane,” Daniel grit out. “He hates yelling at me, but he let me have it the second we got in the car. Just screamed at me.”

“He had bruises on his arms,” Charles said. “Fresh.”

Daniel didn’t react, and Charles, for whatever reason, didn’t expect him to.

“Was it Jos?” Charles tried. “Did he hurt him?”

Daniel let out a shaky breath. “No. I talked to Jenson in Abi Dhabi. He told me the FIA would move fast, but I thought they would wait until Monaco—give him some time to rest. I was supposed to see him first, but they got to him before I did. I thought it would be fine—it’s Max. I thought he’d come out the other side and be alright.”

Charles furrowed his brow in confusion. “Hold on, the FIA did that to him?”

“Not the bruises, no.” The shadows of the nighttime landscape made a silent film on Daniel’s face as he shook his head. “They said Nico Rosberg was inconsolable for a week after,” he murmured. “I know everyone thinks he’s soft now, but not then. That dude was steel. Razor-sharp mind, too. The FIA broke him in one weekend.”

Charles shivered. He remembered those stories too—the gossip rags in Monaco went wild over a few blurry photographs of Nico with puffy eyes and a mangled mouth twisted with grief.

“There’s a reason the champions all stay close to each other,” Daniel continued. “They all know something we don’t, and it fucks them up for life. Now Max knows it too and I can’t even help him.”

“If he told us, we could.”

Daniel tsked. “He won’t tell. None of them do. Ever.”

Charles couldn’t imagine a single thing with the power to decimate every prince. He couldn’t imagine becoming champion and not telling someone what he learned.

“So the best I can do now is support Max any way I can, no matter what that means,” Daniel said, picking at his 3 tattoo as if trying to lift the ink.  “I have a lot of shit to sort out. I’m going back to Perth to give him some space.”

“Wait—you’re going to Australia?” Charles asked. “You’re leaving him after all of this?”

Daniel leered at him. “I’m giving him the space he asked for. I’m respecting what he wants because I love him and I’ve spent half my fucking career trying not to lose him!”

Charles winced at the pain in Daniel’s voice. His own resurfaced, the twisting, horrible kind that accompanied all of his memories with Max.

He would never get those moments back—pizza on the carpet, beach days with all of their friends, looking into Max’s eyes and feeling the way the world stopped when he saw love reflected back at him. Quiet conversations, Max making sure he had his kit together before he went on track, the awkward smile he always gave when Charles beat him, one he later learned was Max’s version of pride.

Daniel probably had a thousand more. Charles fell in love with a boy, Daniel fell in love with a prince.

“You have to be honest with him if you want him to trust you,” Charles whispered. “You have to tell him everything.”

Daniel darkened, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Don’t. Don’t try to pull that shit on me. Some things you don’t come back from, even if it’s the FIA’s fault they happened. The FIA fucked all of us up—they fucked Max too.”

There’s no winning here, Charles. The only one who wins is the FIA.

“Vegas affects everything,” Charles said, keeping his voice low. “If you don’t fess up—”

“There’s nothing to fess up,” Daniel growled. “We weren’t together.”

“Does Max agree with that? That you weren’t together then?”

Daniel leered at him. “That’s what ‘I don’t love you anymore’ implies, yeah.”

Charles suddenly remembered sitting at the edge of the Monaco harbor earlier in the season, when Max told him about Daniel saying those exact words. He remembered telling Max that Daniel had only ever wanted him.

I wish, had been Max’s reply.

Daniel cocked his head, eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

Charles creased his brow, trying to dredge up the conversation. He remembered the sunshine, the water licking at their heels as Charles admitted to sleeping with Carlos, to caring about him as more than an assigned partner. They had talked about Daniel, about how Max had always wanted him.

I fell in love with him when he still wanted everyone but me.

Yet an hour ago Max had said he thought they both fell in love at the same time. That Daniel had hidden Jenson while claiming to love him—a betrayal worthy of ruining them.

Something didn’t match up.

“What did Max scream at you about?” Charles asked.

Daniel cocked a brow. “What kind of question is that? I cheated on him—what the fuck else is there to scream about?”

Max had already known about Jenson. Daniel made him irrational about some things, but Max had never been one to go into a situation without knowing as many details as possible. Marrying the paddock playboy would have come with warnings. Max would have expected Daniel to be with someone else, just like he’d said in Monaco. Jenson wouldn’t have been a surprise.

The final cord snapped as Charles realized Max had lied to him so convincingly he hadn’t noticed it. Daniel was lying too. Maybe Daniel had been in some kind of relationship with Jenson, but that hadn’t been the thing to make Max blow up at him.

The hair rose on the back of Charles’s neck. They were creating a narrative right before his eyes.

“I guess I’m just confused,” Charles said carefully. “How did Max know any of this?”

Daniel made a face. “I’m assuming he met up with the champions as part of the ceremony. Jenson must have told him.”

Suspicion flickered to life in Daniel’s eyes. Charles nodded thoughtfully, working back through his conversation with Max, where those bruises might have come from. “Then why did Pierre tell him about Belgium? Pierre’s not a champion.”

“Fucked up stuff happens in that ceremony,” Daniel said, and his voice shook. His fear seemed real. Charles analyzed his dilated pupils, the flare of his nostrils, the quickened breathing. “Max probably went fishing for information and Pierre spilled the beans.”

Charles schooled his expression with another nod. Pierre would never offer that information to anyone. He had sworn to keep the secret until he died, and Pierre did not take those things lightly, especially after Anthoine.

Max had to have already known, or threatened Pierre with something so horrific he felt it was better to tell their secret than face whatever it was.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t do the same to you or me, then,” Charles said evenly.

Daniel’s lips curled to a snarl, catching his meaning in an instant. “Yeah. Let’s hope.”

Back in 2019, Charles had been a boy hellbent on exacting revenge on the man who had stolen Max away from him—and on Max too. Daniel’s invitation to party in Vegas had been a way to throw salt in the wound of his breakup with Max, one Charles eagerly accepted.

Daniel was a handsome man, once you cast aside his personality. Alcohol made his antics easy for forget about. Add in the low lights, pulsing music and skin-on-skin in the dark and most men couldn’t resist Charles when he decided to pursue someone.

Daniel hadn’t. They both went in knowing the poisonous consequences of what they did in Daniel’s penthouse, morbid fascination with each other tipped into a dark place Max would never be able to follow. Charles had wanted to know what made Daniel so perfect, Daniel had wanted to know the body of the man Max couldn’t forget.

You fuck to get your answers, I fight for mine.

Max chose his words carefully whenever he spoke. People liked to assume he blurted the first thing that came to mind. He spoke from the heart, but even his insults were carefully planned. Charles thought back to Max spearing up cheesecake. He could have said nothing about it, but he chose to talk about Charles hating cheesecake.

Someone mentioned it once.

Charles’s eyes flashed. His only memory of cheesecake had been with Daniel in Vegas, when he’d been wine drunk and refused more dessert after half a slice of caramel swirl. What? Daniel had stammered. What’s not to love?

Daniel loved cheesecake—he’d said it about a million times that night, including back at the penthouse when he ordered three for delivery to take on the plane back to Europe. He said he always sent some to Max after a fight—he’d said that part at his drunkest.

So you don’t like American cheesecake. That makes sense.

Max already knew about Vegas, Charles realized with a jolt. He knew about Vegas and he hadn’t told Daniel. The fear in Daniel’s voice was too real to be a lie, and Charles knew that night was Daniel’s biggest regret. He’d spent most of the flight home with his head in the toilet, begging Charles not to mention it to anyone. Charles never had—he regretted it just as much. Yet Max knew.

His blood ran cold. The real war had just started, and Daniel had no idea he would be on the losing side. Max would tear them all apart, piece by piece, and he’d given Charles a heads up to the extent of his arsenal.  

“I want to see Pierre,” Charles said, suddenly terrified. “Now.”

“You can’t mention any of this to anyone,” Daniel hissed. “Do you understand? Not one word.”

It’s too late for that, Charles thought, but he nodded swiftly. “I won’t.”

Daniel led him back down the stairs into Lando’s flat without another word. Lando and Carlos watched them where they stood in the corner of the room, illuminated by the moonlight outside.

Daniel hefted his duffel bag and opened his arms for Lando. “I’m headed out. Me and Charles are good.”

Charles offered a false smile to confirm—one Lando believed but Carlos didn’t.

“Carlos, take me to Pierre,” Charles said. “Let’s let them say goodbye.”

Lando tucked into Daniel’s embrace as Charles took his husband’s hand. Carlos led him down the hallway Daniel had come out of when he first arrived. He stopped halfway down the hall and turned.

“What happened?” Carlos asked quietly.

Charles kissed his cheek and pulled him in for a hug. Carlos returned it, burying his face into Charles’s neck. Charles tried to imagine what secrets Carlos had, how many of them Max had discovered through the other champions. Fernando came to mind—Charles doubted he would be more loyal to Carlos than to the crown.

“Bad things are coming,” Charles murmured into his husband’s shoulder. “You have to promise me you’ll stand with me. I’ll stand with you too—no matter what. I need you.”

“Of course,” Carlos replied with a kiss to his hair. “You and Ferrari always come first.”

Charles leaned away, curling his finger under Carlos’s chin. Big brown eyes searched his face as Charles fought the urge to tell him everything—about Pierre, about Daniel, about what Max knew.

“Promise me,” Charles whispered instead.

Carlos knitted his brow. “I promise, Charles.”

Liar. Charles worked his jaw, consumed by how much he wanted to believe Carlos’s words were true. But this was royalty. No prince could swear loyalty and mean it.

“Remember this,” Charles murmured. “Next time you think about making deals with Alfa Romeo or stealing SIM cards, remember the promise you just made. The truth always comes out, no matter how deep you bury it.”

Carlos frowned even as Charles kissed him. He relaxed after a moment, gradually leaning into it and allowing Charles to drink in the taste of him as if it could be the last time.

For all he knew, it could be. Max might know something unforgivable, and Charles had to live knowing that he could be one conversation away from losing the man he’d married.

“Take me to Pierre,” he finally said. Carlos took his hand and nodded before leading him down the hall.

Nothing prepared Charles for the sight of Pierre lying on yet another plastic-covered mattress, his face swollen and battered, his eyes nothing more than slits in his puffy face. His breathing hitched with every expansion of his lungs, and the sheets balled at his waist were brown with dried blood.

“Pierre!” Charles choked out, breaking from Carlos and launching across the room.

Pierre jerked awake, sitting up and blindly reaching out as Charles crashed onto the mattress beside him. “Pierre—que s’est-il passé? Why aren’t you at the hospital?”

“Charles,” Pierre croaked, feeling up his arms until he found Charles’s face. “S’not that bad.”

“Not that bad? Tu asl’air horrible!” Charles hissed. “Your eyes are swollen shut, Pierre!”

“Now that would be a tragedy,” Pierre murmured, his cut lips spreading into a cracked smile. “I can still see your face.”

“Carlos, get him some water,” Charles demanded. “Why doesn’t he have water?”

“He’s been resting,” Carlos said calmly, but he left the room a moment later.

“Mon chou garçon,” Charles breathed, gently tracing along the swollen shapes of Pierre’s face. Tears welled in his eyes. “Tell me everything.”

Pierre’s lashes flittered from where they peeked out under the hood of his puffy brows. “Max,” he explained. “He found out about Belgium.”

“I know,” Charles said quietly. “He did this to you because of that?”

Pierre nodded. “Yeah. Did you tell him?”

Charles shook his head. “No, of course not. Bien sûr que non, Pierre.”

Pierre closed his eyes. Charles wanted to hold him, but he was too afraid of hurting him.

“He knows about us in Abu Dhabi too,” Pierre whispered. “He’s going to tell Sebastian. He swore he would."

Cold dread swept through Charles, but he smoothed Pierre’s hair back and pushed it down. Another piece of the puzzle Max wanted him to know. “Good that Sebastian and I aren’t together anymore, then.”

A thin trail of bloody drool leaked from the corner of Pierre’s lip. Charles grabbed the dirty bedsheet and gently wiped it away.

“He’s going to ruin all of us,” Pierre said. “He decked me. Never knew what that felt like—s’the only reason he got me. He walked into my dressing room and fucking decked me without saying anything. Il était comme un d-demon.”

Charles let out a soothing noise. “You don’t have to talk anymore. Repose-toi, Pierre.”

“I have water,” Carlos announced as he entered. He glanced between Charles and Pierre as he handed it off. “I’ll wait outside with Lando.”

The bruises on Max’s arms made sense now. Pierre knew how to box better than any of the current princes. He’d started learning in the lower courts, but Daniil Kvyat perfected his technique during their tumultuous marriage.

Pierre didn’t lose many fights. Max was probably the only person on the grid capable of sparring with him, and maybe Carlos.

Maybe he should have noticed all of the Red Bull boys had learned to fight for real.

“I’ll never forgive him for this,” Charles choked out with a kiss to Pierre’s forehead. He tasted like sweat and smelled like blood.

Pierre pulled him in. His body felt the same, and when Charles rested his cheek against Pierre’s chest, he heard the strong sound of his heartbeat, undamaged.

“You will,” Pierre said quietly. “I will too. Because someday we’ll understand.”

Charles pulled away, shaking his head. “No. Nothing excuses this.”

Pierre shrugged. “Cheating on him a few rooms away kind of does.”

“That was years ago!” Charles hissed. His heart mangled in his chest, contorted and bleeding inside him. The Max he knew—

The Max he knew would absolutely beat someone bloody if they hurt him. The new Max had merely learned how to gut people in other ways too.

Pierre caressed his cheek. “You broke his heart, Charles. He didn’t have to say it. What we did wasn’t right and you know it.”

Charles let out a pathetic noise. Pierre had a beaten face because of him. Max had a bruised body because of him. The urge to blame Max welled up in him, but Charles knew it wasn’t his fault. They were both teenagers back then, both naïve to the royalty they were chasing. Charles had been the one to go against the one real thing they shared.  

“He said he’ll take Red Bull away from me,” Pierre continued, his swollen lips sticking as he spoke. “I have to find a new empire.”

Charles took his hands, finally noticing the bloody knuckles. “I’ll protect you with everything I have. I’ll make sure you find somewhere safe.”

“He’ll go after Carlos too,” Pierre slurred. “And Sebastian and Lando and everyone else. Daniel’s probably the only one who’s safe. And you. He still loves you.”

Charles looked away. “I’m not so sure about that.”

All of them were at risk now. Max intended to keep his championship on his own, no matter who he hurt. Daniel—the supposed love of his life—was blissfully unaware of the noose tightening around his neck.

“I am.” Pierre let out a grunt as he moved to his feet, his body stiff but otherwise functioning normally, aside from his garish face. Charles stood and slotted against him, guiding Pierre out into the hall.

Pierre stopped before they reached the living room. Only a sliver of color shone from the swollen skin, but Charles still caught the beautiful blue of his eyes in the dark.

“I love you too,” Pierre said. “That’s how I know. ‘Cause if the tables were turned, I’d do the same thing. I’d beat the shit out of Max, but I could never lay a hand on you.”

You won. The thought breached his mind as he searched Pierre’s face, wishing he could give him a proper kiss without causing him pain. This didn’t feel like winning. The young prince who had ruled Sauber with dreams of Ferrari had wanted one other thing: the love of the boy who abandoned him.

Now he had a front row seat to Max destroying the FIA once prince at a time. He would save Daniel for last, because Max kept close to things that hurt him. Or maybe he would pull the trigger on all of the secrets he knew about Charles and tear his crown away as the final blow.

“What happens now?” Lando asked from where he stood in the living room. Carlos had an arm around him, his expression unreadable. He was starting to understand.

“We have to take this as a warning,” Charles said, rubbing Pierre’s side. He looked to Carlos, who held his gaze with an even, knowing stare. Carlos knew how to escape Red Bull. He knew the game better than all of them. “Max is going to everything he can to keep this championship. We have to be ready for when he comes for us.”

Lando grit his teeth, and his youth vanished. He’d grown. He had the same claws and teeth they had all honed for themselves since taking on a crown. He leaned into Carlos, gazing up at him. “You’ve been at this longest—what do we do?”

Carlos swallowed hard. “We have to protect each other. If any one of us tries to go alone, Max will cut him down.”

Pierre sagged against him. Charles guided him to a sturdy-looking box and helped him sit down.

“I think we wait,” Pierre said, labored. “Max is going to self-destruct. He’s already lost his mind—look at my fucking face. He attacked me for no reason.”

Charles blinked at him, shocked. Pierre wasn’t going to change—none of them were. The lies would continue, and Max would use them to pull them all apart, thread by thread. They had to be honest if they wanted to stand a chance. “Pierre—”

“For no fucking reason,” Pierre cut, glaring at him. “He has nothing to lose except Daniel, so we have to go after Daniel.”

Carlos folded his arms. “That does seem like the only choice we have.”

Charles went still. Max had planned this too, he realized. Once he started tearing apart the royal circle, everyone would come after the one man Max had risked everything to love.

I can always count on him to make the sacrifices needed, no matter how much they take from him.

Max already had his plan. One final sacrifice play for Daniel to enact. A sacrifice only possible if everyone believed Max would be willing to throw away his championship for the man he loved.

“Pierre is right,” Charles said as he fit the pieces into place. Max was no ruthless killer, he was a man in love with two people. Max had let him know he had the power to destroy him, yet he had refrained, because he loved Charles too. Charles glanced at Lando. “You have to see that.”

To his surprise, Lando didn’t protest. He merely nodded.

“We have to be very careful,” Carlos warned. “Max is more powerful than he has ever been.”

“Maybe, but Daniel’s done things Max can’t save him from,” Lando said quietly. “I know how to get rid of him.”

Charles, Pierre, and Carlos stared at him, dumbstruck.

Lando ignored their looks. He leaned into Carlos, brow furrowed in thought, as if exiling Daniel was nothing but a complex math problem to sort out. “It’ll have to come from someone in government, not from one of us. I think it should come from Mercedes. That way Red Bull won’t question it, and none of us will be blamed. I can’t bring it forward or Daniel will find out. It has to be from one of you.”

Pierre took Charles’s hand, squeezing tight. “I’ll do it. Max already wants me out of Red Bull. I can find a way to get whatever it is to Mercedes in exchange for a seat.”

Charles swallowed hard. He wanted to take the burden himself, but he knew both he and Carlos were bound to Ferrari. They couldn’t risk it.

He had a feeling they were playing right into Max’s hands.

"Let's do it,” Charles said, looking to Carlos for confirmation. “I think we should involve George. He’ll be our closest ally at Mercedes right now.”

Lando nodded in agreement. “I’ll gauge him. He won’t be the same now that he’s officially a Mercedes prince."

“We have to be patient,” Carlos added. “The season will be long.”

Charles wondered how many other princes had stood together in secret, plotting the end of a fellow royal. He wondered how many of those discussions had a prince just like him—one who knew the real terms and guided them all toward the trap.

Max would throw himself to the dogs for him. He would do the same for Daniel. He would put his love in the line of fire to be destroyed, just to save Daniel from his demons.

“Remember, Max isn’t the real enemy,” Charles said quietly, thumbing over Pierre’s bloodied knuckles. “The FIA made him this way—made us this way.”

Lando met his eye, steel instead of his usual softness. For the first time in his life, Charles saw a potential champion staring back at him, one capable of playing the game. “I can do something about them too.”

Maybe Max had always known the value of sacrifice, what it could forge.

 

 

 

Notes:

a reader question:

firstly I've got to thank you for your dedication - this fic is a literally masterpiece and you deserve all the kudos in the world!!!
in terms of the relationships, one of the best bits of this fic is that there's so many ships working all at once, and you can simultaneously like pierre/charles, charles/max and danny/max/lando without trouble. how did you manage to keep the balance between all the ships when you were writing, especially as secret relationships were revealed and the dynamics got more complex?
Good luck in writing the final chapters!! :)

it helps that the secret relationships weren't secret to me. :) sewis had been planned ever since bahrain, for example. i will say that some relationships fell into place organically and weren't intended originally, but i meticulously researched my previous chapters to make sure they fit in with the existing storyline when i did decide to pursue them.

i think the forced marriage aspect of the fic lends to the acceptance of characters with multiple partners--it's mentioned earlier in the fic how the whole system is set up for failure. living with someone for a whole year as their spouse is bound to stir up feelings, but how can you leave behind the person you learned to love in the shadows? i think every relationship is compartmentalized in some way. charles, for example, has strong ties to max, pierre, and carlos. to me, he loves all three of them simultaneously, in different ways. because they're seldom in the same space together, it works out. the same goes for other princes.

Chapter 154

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Fireworks echoed like hollow cries as Abu Dhabi celebrated the new champion. The fireworks were more than a show of celebration, they acted as a mask too. Security teams had fanned out to deal with the crowds of people who saw the truth in the race results—Max Verstappen was no real champion. Loud noises made perfect cover to hide the sounds of revolt. Unbeknownst to the public, the government had veered toward destruction right under their noses.

Sickness roiled in Lewis’s stomach as he picked out patterns in the carpet at his feet. His race boots stank of sweat and drying waard, the rosy scent as pungent as his mum’s old perfume. The white walls of the room he’d chosen to hide in shook with each firework boom as his head spun from fatigue and shock. He relived the final lap over and over again, and had been for the past hour, ever since he stepped from his cockpit.

Red light cracked across his face as a firework exploded outside the window, sneaking through the closed blinds to drive another painful ember into his battered body.

Winning season over season didn’t make it easier to be champion. Lewis approached each new year with the same determination, fully aware that competitors were lining up to take him down. He had no time to rest on his laurels, only to prepare for the next onslaught. Over the years he learned how to survive, and how to protect himself in all ways. Even the ways that hurt.

Tears scorched through Lewis’s skin as they traveled down his cheeks in the silence. His face was already raw from the sweat collecting under his balaclava during the race, and his skull ached from the weight of his braids and how tightly they had been twisted into his scalp.

His vision blurred as he ran his hands over the ridges of the curled carpet fibers. His fingers were too bare, he thought. The backs of his palms told stories that ended at the knuckle, giving way to emptiness.

He hated emptiness. So much of his life consisted of emptiness. Quiet rooms in a quiet palace, chasing shadows. The soft scratch of a pen on parchment, the war inside him where a cunning prince faced off with a spirit too gentle for the royal world.

Lewis wasn’t afraid to admit to wanting a soft life. He had no desire to wield ruthless power, to force others to bend to his will. He could—and he was good at it—but he didn’t want to.

He wanted gentle ocean waves, calm city streets, a life where quietness didn’t equate to loneliness.

Another firework screamed through the air before bursting into a flash of blue light.  The door swung open and Lewis caught sight of light grey trousers, immaculately tailored down to the stitching at the ankle. Rage came to a boil inside him as he looked up to meet the grey-green eyes of the man he hated most in the world.

“You’re not allowed to be here,” Lewis snapped, bristling.

Nico shut the door behind him, clicking the lock into place. Lewis withered, moving backward until he hit the edge of a decorative bookshelf.

“You don’t have that power anymore,” Nico said. He sank to his knees with a softness in his gaze Lewis wanted to strangle him for. “Besides, I was invited.”

Nico reached out and Lewis watched his hand as if it had turned molten. His fingers were too short, out of proportion with the rest of his features. Age looked terrible on him, even with the Botox.

Nico pulled his hand back at the last second. Lewis retreated in on himself anyway, pulling his knees to his chest. There was nothing to say. The loss ripped into him, tearing away his insides with serrated teeth.

All of that work, gone. One win and he would have been able to leave this place with no regrets. Now he had to stay. Now he had to find a way to win one last championship when they had no idea what the car would drive like next season.

All because of some idiot kid who thought he knew better.

“Here I am, your distinguished guest,” Nico announced quietly. When Lewis squeezed his eyes shut, more tears trickled from them, fat and wet and unstoppable.

“Don’t touch me,” Lewis warned when Nico sat down beside him. His hate burned. Nico always ruined everything. If he would have listened five years ago—hell, if he had opened his eyes and looked away from his father’s legacy for one fucking second, Lewis would have been free from all of this.

Confidence had never betrayed him before. In all of his years as champion, Lewis never risked his future, just in case. Other princes got sloppy, but not him. This one time he’d allowed himself a small indulgence, and it might destroy everything.

“No one knows I’m here,” Nico said, reading his mind. “Security is everywhere else but here. There aren’t any cameras, my phone is off and yours is in the garage. And if that wasn’t enough, I’ve had a jammer on me since my exile. It’s safe.”

“It’s never safe,” Lewis spat. “Not ever. So shut up, Nico.”

Every second of every day, he lived to prevent this. He lived a curated life, wandering a labyrinth so deep within himself it was impossible for anyone to know his true intentions. Any spies or traitors would never discover what he truly was. He’d spent his lifetime ensuring that.

Silence stretched between them, covering the chasm Lewis had dug himself. A thousand insults, a thousand plots, a thousand evil things.

He was so tired.

Lewis shifted in the quiet, slowly tipping himself over like a child until his body came to rest against Nico’s side. He shuddered at the soft impact and inhaled a shaky breath.

Nico still felt the same, the way Lewis always imagined in his dreams. He smelled the same too, the warming scent of sandalwood and leather. The smell of a life Lewis had left behind.

Nico didn’t speak. He didn’t move, didn’t touch. His hands remained in his lap, the cuffs of his sleeves pulled up just enough to expose a familiar titanium IWC with a black face, stopped at 18:35:26.

“I didn’t forget,” Lewis rasped, staring at the watch face he’d picked out once upon a time. Black and titanium. He wanted Tungsten, but IWC wouldn’t allow it. Titanium was the strongest metal they offered.

Nico jerked slightly in a reaction Lewis couldn’t see. Nico’s left hand lifted from his lap and lingered in the air. “May I?”

Lewis nodded, extending his left wrist. Nico moved with a ballerina’s grace to pull up the fabric of Lewis’s race suit. He had always moved like that, elegant and deft. Calculated even in the simplest things.

The FIA would kill him if they ever discovered Lewis had raced with a watch on. Lewis had long since learned to evade them, and while he normally never tempted fate, today had been different.

Today had been part of a promise they made five years ago. A promise Nico forced him to make at their darkest hour while they sat huddled in the shadows of the Mercedes garage, as Lewis fought not to tear Nico apart in anger.

Nico pulled up the fabric to reveal an IWC with a stopped yellow second hand, silver face, and black rubber band.  Nico didn’t care about using the strongest metal for his watch design. He wanted something sleek that didn’t make a noise when unclasped. The watch was one out of 250, the mirror of his own.

Stopped, but not broken. A promise to start again someday, as retired champions.

Nico’s hand shook as he pulled the sleeve back into place, hiding the watch again. He never liked to tempt fate either. Neither of them ever broke. Not once, not in the way that would have ruined them for real.

“I thought you loved him,” Nico said stiffly.

Lewis’s heart ached. “I do.”

“God, Lewis,” Nico said with an exasperated sigh. “Fuck.”

Nico had been born to be a prince. He had royal blood in his veins, talent and destiny guiding him toward a championship since he stepped into a kart as a child. Lewis had to come up in the shadows with speed and cunning as the only two weapons in his arsenal.

Nico was still soft. He’d only beaten Lewis in 2016 because he knew him better than anyone—though his selfishness blinded him from realizing the bigger things at play.

Max had only beaten him because he had garnered enough favor with the FIA to make them risk the foundations of their government for him. Or maybe the FIA just hated Lewis enough that they did it for free, but he doubted that.

Everything had a price. He wondered if Max was truly prepared to pay what it would cost.

Lewis had been lucky to learn early. He had plenty of time to craft his strategy while the other princes of his generation scrapped over pointless drama and gave themselves away.

“All those years,” Nico said quietly. “I still don’t know how you hid him from me.”

Lewis sat up, his heart too raw to chase fonder memories. “If you hadn’t been such a prick about winning a championship, you never would have found out.”

“I had to know,” Nico snapped, eyes sparking with anger. “I had to know who took you from me.”

“Nobody took me from you,” Lewis murmured, his chest pinching. “That was the whole point. You wanted a championship because you were jealous of me. Don’t pretend it was anything else.”

Nico looked away, shaking his head. “I should call you heartless. I really should. You fell in love with him.”

“I did what I had to do to survive,” Lewis growled. “You wouldn’t understand. You’ve never understood what it was like for me.”

“Oh I think I do,” Nico said, eyes wet. “I watched every second of it. Years of it.”

Lewis remembered the first time he caught Sebastian staring at him. Back then, Sebastian had been a cocky dumbass Lewis hated, with his stupid blond hair, funky smile, and bad English. Disrespectful little Sebastian Vettel had noticed him. Someone who had power, but who had also come from nothing, though a German bloodline didn’t hurt.

Lewis would never claim to have been a good person back then. He wouldn’t claim to be one now, not with a crown still on his head.

“I did what I had to do to survive,” Lewis repeated.

The FIA wanted him dead then, more so than they did now. Their one Black prince had been taking up tabloid covers with distasteful photos at clubs, surrounded by half-naked women and drowning in booze. They had wanted him to fail and he almost succumbed to it, but Sebastian guided him back to the light in a way Nico never could.

“I would have protected you,” Nico said.

“Which is why I couldn’t tell you. Sebastian and I both knew what was really going on, you didn’t,” Lewis countered. “You would have ruined it—you ruined it even without knowing. You get too stupid with your heart, Nico.”

Nico scoffed. “And you don’t? Your stupid ploy turned real!”

“Never all the way,” Lewis spat. He trembled where he sat, anguish consuming him. “I did try. I tried everything to get rid of you and I fucking can’t. I can’t.”

Sebastian loved him more than anyone else. Lewis knew if he said the word, Sebastian would retire with him and they would live out the rest of their days in the quiet harmony they built for themselves. Any reasonable person would want that—any reasonable person would have taken the opportunity already.

But Sebastian wanted a heart Lewis no longer had to give. Lewis never lied to him about that in the rare instances they spoke about it—once the phones were off and the recording devices ripped out of walls, microwaves, and the occasional toilet water tank.

Nico put his head in his hands, his fingers twisting in his beautiful blond hair. Lewis still knew the feel of it, the softness. He dreamed about it all the time, though the dreams only came when he slept in an empty bed.

“It’s all over now,” Lewis breathed. “Max is going to find out about me and Sebastian any second. Sebastian won’t last another year with a crown, especially when Max finds out he orchestrated bringing Jos back. But he will never find out about us, I promise you.”

Lewis had spent over a decade covering his tracks so that any fluke resulting in a new champion would only see the secret relationship Lewis had created as bait. Hidden in plain sight, too perfect for any champion to think Lewis loved anyone else. Even if Max watched through the archive footage of his marriage to Nico—the marriage he never wanted but Nico forced on him anyway—he would be too distracted by Lewis’s devotion to the ex-champion of Red Bull.

He'd designed it that way. Every single detail.

Nico let out a shrill laugh. “That kid is going to wish he was never born. He is going to feel stupid standing up there with that trophy at the gala. I know I did. Leaving was the best choice I ever made.”

Lewis remembered feeling used too. He thought he’d been so prepared to become a champion. Then the FIA sat him down in an ornate room fit for a king, only to hand him file after file and DVD after DVD of footage, audio recordings, and photos of everyone he thought he knew.

Last year it had all been contained on an encrypted solid state drive, sorted by prince. Archives dated back to the beginning of the empires, unlimited access to the most private moments of their lives—everything except the letters they wrote to each other, the only safe space left for them to be themselves.

Last year he watched Sebastian seduce Charles Leclerc with calculated nonchalance, devastatingly effective when it counted—until Charles fucked Pierre in the backseat of an SUV in Abu Dhabi, unaware of the listening devices installed in the car.

Each year, Lewis reviewed his own life to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks. He never found anything to betray the story he’d written long ago.

The records weren’t contained to the FIA princes, either. Lower courts were monitored too. Lewis had spent hours watching his first moments with Nico, though back then they were only followed while on track. The newer princes weren’t so lucky.

Max would see the same footage. The FIA curated watchlists for the initial meeting, designed to destroy the new champion as quickly and effectively as possible—with concrete proof of betrayal in any form. After the shock subsided, the research began.

Max would see that Lewis knew everything about him, from losing his virginity in a Russian hotel room with a young Charles to Daniel throwing his career away to stay with him. A noble sacrifice, one Lewis allowed out of his own softness for two princes in love. Max would see his mercy, all the chances he had to cut Daniel out of the deal that he didn’t take.

Max would also have complete access to the lives of his closest friends and plenty of evidence to destroy them. Power like that emboldened some princes and corrupted others. Max would have to decide what kind of champion he wanted to be.

“Let’s run away,” Nico said, lifting his head from his hands. His eyes had turned bloodshot and puffy from tears. “This championship was not real and everyone knows it. No one would blame you. There’s a whole world to see, Lewis.”

Lewis didn’t need to see the world. He wanted to be back in Greece, surrounded by lapping waves and purple light. Santorini in the distance, white facades glowing under the moon.

“You know I can’t.”

“You can,” Nico argued. “This place will burn down without you. Let them burn for what they did.”

Lewis shook his head. “I’m not doing that.”

“Don’t you love me enough to leave?” Nico croaked.

Lewis shot him a glare, but his tears betrayed him. He’d spent years scouring FIA footage, looking for any places where someone like Max might be able to see the truth. In all of his research, he discovered gaps in footage. Cuts in audio conversations, jumps in video—all of it before 2005 and most of it from Ferrari feeds.

Michael Schumacher had been allowed to alter history. If Lewis beat his record, he would be able to do the same. He would be able to erase any traces of his love for Nico, keeping them safe for whatever future they decided for themselves.

“The only reason I’m doing this is because I love you more than anything,” Lewis finally said. It hurt to speak aloud, as it always had. A terrible, needle-like pain worse than any tattoo ink pushed into his skin.

“Then stop,” Nico pleaded in a whisper. “I don’t care what the consequences are, they can’t be worse that what has already happened. We’ve given too much of our lives to them. We don’t need to give any more. You’re already the best there ever was, Lewis. You always have been, to me. Even when I was too immature to say it.”

“I’m not giving up,” Lewis bit out. It was too late for compliments. “I didn’t come all this way to lose.”

He flinched when Nico’s hand came to his face—smooth compared to the calloused palm he remembered. Five years without a single touch. Lewis would endure five more to give them the epilogue they deserved, one free from this place and the people in it. Nico thumbed a tear away, as gentle as he’d been in their youth.

“Ah yes,” Nico murmured, grey-green eyes as beautiful as they had ever been, unchanged by age. His next words were an echo: “Nothing is going to stand in your way.”

 

 

Notes:

"A thousand pieces of Lewis, all of them dead and shredded. And he carried them with him everywhere. He changed the time on a watch still ticking beside one that would never work again." (chapter 61)

I've had this quote stuck in my head for a long time, I feel like there's still so much about this box and the nicoxlewis relationship that hasn't been talked about…and I feel like we're going to be left with a few loose ends...so what would it all be? Who is the villain and who was the victim of all this? What really happened?

Some stories are true on both sides.

If you read my ficlet whip and tongue, it’s a basically canon snapshot of Lewis and Sebastian’s relationship, which has always included Nico. The song Lewis is singing in the middle of the night is Nico’s favorite, or so he said in an interview long ago. I think it’s now clear what was troubling Lewis so much in that story. All of the lyrics from the other songs…well…those have their place here too.

My Nico/Lewis chapter of fool’s gold: 12 days of Christmas is also a canon look at their past.

Chapter 155: EPILOGUE

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Santorini looked fake when the sun went down. It didn’t look real in the daytime either, but something about the shadows and light gave the whole place a magical quality. Lewis had never seen anything like it in his life. He’d taken so many pictures on his mum’s camera that he’d run out of film already, and they were only four days into the trip.

His dad said to be careful in Greece, that pickpockets like to steal passports and he ought to be extra careful before he bought anything. Lewis had yet to see anyone who looked suspicious.

His dad had given him fifty euro for the trip. Lewis hadn’t told him in his postcard that he spent it all on the first day on an expensive pair of sunglasses. Nico called them cheap, but Lewis liked them—they reminded him of Keanu Reeves in The Matrix.

The Rosbergs knew how to holiday. Lewis already knew that from traveling with them to races, but he’d learned more in the past four days than all of his schooling combined.

Nico’s father, Mr. Rosberg, barely had to open his mouth before people fell all over themselves to get him whatever he needed. Lewis had only seen Mr. Rosberg up close a few times before this trip, and he seemed to exude his past royalty, wearing it like a fashion accessory--one way cooler than his Matrix sunnies.

Nico never noticed all the attention. He acted like normal (and normal consisted of being a spoiled brat, in Lewis’s opinion) and rolled his eyes when people asked his dad for autographs.

“Anything interesting out there?” Nico asked as he stepped out of the tiny villa Mrs. Rosberg had rented for the. The rest of the family had decided to stay in a bigger house up the street. Mrs. Rosberg said she didn’t want to be anywhere near two teenage boys on holiday. Lewis’s mum would have kept him under lock and key in a place like this—the Rosbergs didn’t seem to care at all if they left or not. He and Nico had explored the whole island unsupervised.

Lewis shifted where he sat on their privacy wall, careful to keep his balance as he turned to look at Nico.

The light from the villa behind him lit up his long hair in a glowing halo that made Lewis hold his breath. Nico balanced a plate of food—a bread basket, salami, and a few unidentifiable Greek things. 

“More interesting stuff in here,” Lewis said nonchalantly as he hopped down from the wall. “What’s for dinner?”

Nico presented the platter of goods. “Abendbrot. Well, Greek Abendbrot.”

Lewis frowned. “I don’t remember what that means.”

Nico smiled warmly at him and Lewis suddenly thought Santorini wasn’t all that beautiful. “Evening bread is the exact term,” Nico explained. “We had it in Germany, remember?”

Lewis remembered the way Nico had fixed him bites to eat—buttered bread, cheese and ham, and little pickles—watching as his hands twirled and twisted with practiced ease as he set Lewis up with a plate .

“Right, yeah,” Lewis said distractedly, suddenly annoyed at himself for not accompanying Nico inside to make the meal. Despite being such a rich guy, Nico liked making food himself. Lewis liked to watch him work.

“Let’s sit by the pool,” Nico said, nodding toward their private pool. Lewis had never had a whole pool to himself before. Theirs was more of a decoration, it had purple and white light inlaid in the mosaic floor and it was way too small to have any fun in.

Nico hummed to himself as he set down the plate of food. Lewis stared at the muscle in his back and shoulders, much more developed than his own. Lewis had more definition in his arms and legs, but his dad said girls didn’t care about that.

Girls. Right. Like he’d ever been interested in girls.

Nico put his feet in the water and hummed thoughtfully as he chewed on a piece of flaky bread. Lewis sat down behind the plate to be closer to him and plucked a piece of salami from the spread. He untied the ribbon from the bread basket and pulled out a roll to snack on at the same time.

They ate in pleasant silence for a few minutes, recovering from a day spent exploring, spending Mr. Rosberg’s money, and racing bicycles through the narrow streets. Lewis devoured their meal and Nico acted like he didn’t notice his “half” had diminished considerably by the end.

“I can’t wait until we’re princes together,” Nico said where he’d leaned back on his hands to stare up at the blanket of stars above.

Lewis froze with a piece of cheese sticking out of his mouth. Nico never talked about royalty. Everyone else talked about it for him, claiming he would be the next great champion. Michael Schumacher even said he was good—a real Ferrari prince, a two-time champion on his way to a third title. Nico loved Michael more than anything. Lewis thought he was overrated.

“It will be unfortunate that I have to beat you every weekend, but it will be fun,” Nico teased.

Lewis thought about throwing his cheese at him, but it tasted too good to waste. “You wish. When I’m prince, no one will ever beat me.”

Nico rolled his eyes. “Someone will beat you, Lewis. No prince has ever won every single race.”

“I will.” His dad said to always be confident. His dad also said to be careful of Nico Rosberg and his royal heritage. He could only do so much.

Nico picked up the empty bread basket and put it aside with the plate. He washed his hands in the pool water and splashed some onto his face to slick back his hair. Lewis watched as the bright blond turned darker, the way he was used to seeing it after races when they were covered in sweat.

Lewis scooted closer, cursing himself all the while. Nico was about as dangerous as they came. Having a crush on a royal-blooded prince was probably the dumbest thing he could think of doing.

And yet his stomach filled with butterflies when Nico shook his head like a dog and sprayed him with water.

“Hey!” Lewis chastised, but it had no heat.

“I hope Michael’s still racing when we’re princes,” Nico said, oblivious.

Again with Michael. Lewis shrugged. “He’s not that great. He’s racing for Ferrari, for starters, and he’s been with them three years with no championship. How is that good?”

He reclined onto the stone beneath them, still warm from the sun hours ago. Nico cocked a brow at him. Lewis wished his camera still had film.

Nico’s face was as strange as it was beautiful. Golden hair with dark, comma-shaped brows, full lips, and flawless skin.

“I’m talking about the future, Lewis,” Nico said. “My dad says Michael is the best prince there ever was. He’s rebuilding Ferrari and out-racing everybody.”

“Still not winning championships, though,” Lewis replied.

“He already has two.”

“I’ll have more.”

Nico leaned back onto his elbows. His hair fell in his eyes, so gorgeous Lewis had to focus his attention on the stars again. “Oh? So you’ll beat Michael too?”

Lewis nodded curtly. “I’m going to be the best ever. Better than anyone. Everyone will be trying to beat Hamilton, not Schumacher.”

“Fangio won five championships. Nobody will ever beat—”

“I will. I promise you.”

Nico looked at him. Watched him. The way Lewis only saw sometimes, the kind of look he thought about when he fell asleep, waiting for the next time. He plucked Lewis’s hand from where it rested on his belly and started tying the grey ribbon from the bread basket around his wrist.

Lewis watched the silk loop around his forearm and allowed himself to imagine for one moment that they were princes at the royal wedding ceremony, bound together before the world.

“Prince Lewis Hamilton,” Nico murmured as he tied a knot in the ribbon to secure it. “The best there ever was. The six-time champion.”

“Nico,” Lewis warned, though he knew Nico wasn’t teasing him.

Nico laid down on his side next to him, closer this time. “What?”

The air escaped Lewis’s lungs. “Nico.”

Nico moved so close his hair dripped onto Lewis’s skin. Every drop burned into him like tattoo ink, though Lewis was too scared of needles to get a real one. Maybe if Nico wanted a tattoo, they could get one together. At least Nico wouldn’t forget him that way.

Grey-green eyes searched his face. Lewis wondered what Nico saw when he looked at him. Nico’s mind worked like an engineer’s, full of math and calculations and complexities. He’d figured Lewis out long ago, and was still the only person who saw him for everything beyond his ability behind the wheel.

“Nothing is going to stand in my way,” Lewis said. Especially not you. He didn’t say the last part, but he didn’t need to.

Nico smiled and it lanced right through Lewis’s heart. He always saw Lewis’s barbs for the pitiful attempts at defense that they were. He understood hatred was the only narrative that would ever truly work for them. The only one people would believe.

“That cockiness will get you in trouble someday,” Nico clucked, his eyes fond and beautiful and just for him. "Lucky for you, I’ll be there to get you out of it.”

Lewis’s eyes fluttered closed and his lips parted, but Nico touched his cheek instead of kissing him, wiping off a water droplet he’d put there. Nothing happened for a long moment.

Lewis opened his eyes to make sure Nico was still there, only to find Nico staring at his mouth. White-hot want surged through him, dark and damning. Nico’s lips brushed his, fleeting but meaningful. His love tasted like doom, as it always did.

If Lewis had different blood, a different father, a different life, no one would be against them. His respect had to be earned ten times over before anyone acted on it.

Nico sat up without another word and grabbed Lewis’s towel where he’d dropped it earlier. Nico scrubbed his hair while Lewis chased the memory of their already-distant kiss.

He looked down at the ribbon tied around his wrist, grey and mottled with drops of chlorine water that would probably ruin the silky fabric. He didn’t care. He would keep it forever, a reminder of his vow. Nico would forget about Michael Schumacher and worship him instead.

Nico peeked out from the folds of his towel, and Lewis could see his grin from the way his eyes crinkled. Lewis smiled back at him with a rare flash of the gap between his teeth. He’d been taught to hide it, like many of the things he cherished in his life.

Few people thought he deserved Nico’s friendship. Absolutely no one thought he deserved Nico’s love. He would show them. He would be the best or die trying.

And at the end of it all, he would have this, and it would be worth it.

 

 

 

Notes:

after two years and a little over three months, i can finally say 'the end.'
fool’s gold will never really end, though. if you’ve read this far, I hope you watch F1 and put on the FG glasses like I do every race. These princes will continue to lie and betray, but also fall in love and fight for it. their stories don’t end here, though my telling of it does.
fool’s gold has taught me more than I ever needed to know about F1, but it also completely changed how I view each of these drivers and the sport itself. I’ve spent hours learning and researching seemingly insignificant moments of their lives—all of which have been meticulously documented by tabloids, teams, and social media. I came to understand (as best as an rpf author can, I think) the fishbowl these men live in, and how much of it is cutthroat and merciless. Lewis has endured despicable things that the FIA told him to simply ignore. Pierre was treated like a zoo animal after the death of one of his closest friends, and hounded as the poster boy of grief. Their privacy is constantly invaded and then bragged about on tiktok. Yes, most of them are exorbitantly wealthy and I’m sure they wipe their tears with 100 euro bills, but what’s always endeared me to F1 drivers is that, for the most part, they’re a bunch of weirdos. You can’t become good at driving without being absolutely obsessed with it all—driving, math, engineering, setups, tire temps, etc. This group of hyper-talented weirdos is media trained and then thrown onto this massive stage. we can and should call them out when they do wrong, but remember they're human beings who deserve respect and privacy like the rest of us.
FG was always meant to simply twist actual events and add some new context. I don’t think the situations here are too far off from reality (arranged marriages and gay love aside). F1 is fickle at best and downright evil at worst. The ugly underbelly stares at all of us every race weekend and we choose blissful ignorance instead. That being said, I love this sport at its core, and I love all of the drivers in it. FG allowed me to make my own world and understand everything about F1 so much more than I ever would have cared to before.
through writing FG I discovered myself as an author too—before this, I thought fanfic would be a little hobby I fiddled with every so often. Now I’m on track to release my debut novel in less than 3 months. I could not have done that without you. I’ve made lifelong friends and fostered unreal connections to the racing world thanks to this fic. I went to Maranello twice while writing it, and each time it felt like stepping into the story that’s been a movie in my head since the beginning. i can assure you, the magic was very real.
I started writing this fic thinking rpf was weird as hell, and here I am with the most popular F1 rpf on ao3. One of the funniest/most surreal things about this fic was getting actual gossip from the paddock as I was writing it.
A seemingly stupid fic I came up with that my friend convinced me to write in exchange for an iced coffee turned into this. fool's gold is a story, but it’s also a journal for me. I can see how I changed as a person while writing it. I hope all of you find your thing that teaches you how to see your true capabilities, like FG has taught me.
There will be a hole in my heart now that FG is finished. It’s been a constant in my life over the past few years, through some of my worst days and some of my best. I’ll have to remember what it’s like to live without the next chapter playing in my head.
If there’s one thing to take away from FG, it’s to pause before you believe the next news story, social media whisper, or “candid” photo. Just remember F1, the teams, and the drivers’ personal brands are all selling you something, and little of what you see is the organic, unfiltered reality. I’ll never forget working on a movie and being asked to print scripts for a Facebook Live event…that was entirely scripted, complete with fake fan usernames and questions. They shot it live, but none of it was real. As someone who blasted my Facebook feed with questions to the Jonas Brothers during one of their live sessions back in the day, it messed with me to realize that had probably been fake too. Healthy skepticism is just that.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming on this journey with me for the past two years. I truly don’t have the words to express what this fic has meant for me, my life, and my career, thanks to all of you. If you don't mind leaving a comment here, i read each and every one of them and often come back to read them as i motivate myself for future stories. I would love to hear your journey.
I hope to see you all at the commentary sessions on discord but if not, thank you for everything.
love, cazio
(@chubbydino on tumblr)