Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Nico woke up slowly with something heavy on his chest. Not physically, Jenson was on his side of the bed, but more of an emotional weight. An emotional weight that left a lingering physical sensation. A tightness in his chest and dampness on his cheeks. All telling him the same thing: he was crying in his sleep.
Nico blinked slowly, trying to will the slivers of whatever his dreams were back to existence. There were flashes of a trophy, maybe multiple ones. A sea of photographers, not quite in the same manner as the ones at fashion events. And perhaps most haunting of all, there was the coldness of a stage. A feeling of being erased. One of being invisible next to someone brilliant. It was a feeling he knew so well. He hadn’t seen a face, but just based on the feelings themselves, he knew who it was.
Nico took a deep breath. Dispelling the lingering feelings from the dream as he breathed out. If it was a dream about him, then it wasn’t a dream worth his time dwelling on. It’s been ten years. He spent way too long dwelling on him already. Yet, he felt a sob rise inside of him. He did his best to stifle it. Knowing that it was the last thing he needed first thing in the morning. And that he didn’t want to wake Jenson up. However, he failed spectacularly because Jenson was a light sleeper when it came to Nico.
Jenson felt the sob, or rather, his early morning brain picked up on a noise from Nico and reacted to it. Jenson rolled over and pulled Nico in a hug, mumbling sweet words of affection he wouldn’t remember later.
Until he finally registered that Nico was crying.
His Nico was upset.
Jenson’s voice shifted from sleepy to alert, but still soft. The kind of soft he’d perfected over years of learning exactly how to handle Nico when he was down.
“Hey… hey, what’s wrong? Nico, talk to me.”
But honestly, he didn’t even need to ask. Because Nico was so strong, so amazing, and only one thing, one person, could make Nico this upset. Hamilton. Just thinking the name made an anger surge in Jenson. Hot and familiar and useless. He hated how much emotion that name stirred inside him, and honestly, in a small corner of his mind, he knew that it wasn’t entirely fair. But it didn’t keep him from hating the hold that the man still had over Nico. After all these years of peace and happiness, after all these years of effort that Jenson had put in.
Nico turned to face Jenson, breaking his train of thought. Jenson knew exactly what Nico needed right now, and it definitely was not his jealousy. (Yes, Jenson knew a good amount of the hate and anger came from jealousy, but he was the one who won Nico, so he gets to name the emotion. History is written by the victors after all.)
“Bad dream?” Jenson asked softly, rubbing Nico’s back in slow, firm circles.
Nico nodded against his chest, still too upset to speak.
Jenson held him tighter. Let him cry. Just held on, one hand tracing those familiar circles, and the other cupping the back of Nico’s head like the precious treasure he was.
The minutes stretched. The golden beam of the sunrise shifted to light the room.
Eventually, Nico’s crying subsided into shaky breaths. His fingers, which had been clutching Jenson’s shirt (thank goddess he was wearing one), loosened their death grip.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice wrecked.
“Don’t.” Jenson pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Never apologize for that.”
Nico nodded, still not meeting his eyes. Jenson watched him. The way his jaw tightened, the way he was clearly trying to pull himself together, the way his breath still hitched every few seconds.
Jenson couldn’t help it; his thoughts slipped out of his mouth. Bitter, half-serious, but absolutely honest.
“Stupid Lewis. Still making you cry, even in your sleep.”
Nico tensed at the mention of the name. The shift was immediate, and Jenson regretted the words that left his mouth. Nico's shoulders went rigid, his spine straightening, and there was that familiar flash of complex emotions crossing his face. He pulled back slightly, a look of exhaustion and gentle reproach settling on his face as he looked at Jenson.
“Jenson, don’t.”
Maybe it was the specific conditions of the morning. Maybe it was the conversation with Lewis still haunting him. But all of a sudden, Jenson didn’t want to just let it go.
“Don’t what?” Jenson made sure to say it with his usual theatrical exasperation, but at the same time, slipping in a tad bit of his frustration. “I am being completely reasonable. I am a reasonable man having a reasonable reaction to my husband crying for his ex-”
“He’s not my ex.” Nico retorted, causing Jenson to dramatically roll his eyes.
“What do you call him, then? Your former creative partner who you spent eight years being codependently obsessed with, who broke your heart so thoroughly that you still dream about him a decade later? And cry about it?!?!”
Nico opened his mouth. Closed it. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Because Jenson did have a point.
“I call him...” Nico stopped. Pressed his palm flat against his sternum like he was checking for a wound. “I don’t know what I call him. That’s the problem.”
Jenson’s expression flickered—just for a second—something softer underneath the frustration.
“Okay. Fine. But you see how that doesn’t actually help me, right?”
“That’s not- Jenson, that’s not fair.”
“Love rarely is.” Jenon’s voice softened, just slightly, but he didn’t back down. “I’m not saying this to hurt you, hurt us. I’m saying it bcause I’m hurt. Every time you get quiet, every time you have a nightmare, it somehow always ties back to him. I’m literally fighting his ghost. And for some reason, you always defend him.”
Nico went quiet for a moment. He lowers his head, knowing that he couldn’t meet Jenson’s eyes, -oh those dog-like eyes that always got him. They sat like that for a moment, letting the somber mood set over them. Jenson let it. They’ve had this argument before, but something was so unsettled inside Jenson that he was simply not willing to let Nico have the easy way out this time.
Nico took a deep breath. Finally unraveling the feelings to their core. And stared at it.
“Jenson.” His voice was steady. “I’m not crying because of him-”
“Nico!”
“Let me finish!”
Jenson shut up at that, but still glowered at Nico with his kicked puppy eyes.
“I dreamed about being erased. About standing next to someone so brilliant that people no longer saw me. No longer saw how hard I was working. I’m sad about that. Not about him. Not Lewis as a person. But the feeling of being invisible.”
“You’re never invisible to me, you will always-”
“Jenson. You are ruining the mood.”
“I’m trying to be supportive!”
“You’re trying to win.”
“Potato, potato.”
Nico gave him a flat look.

“Okay, okay,” Jenson held up both hands. “You continue.”
“I spent so long feeling like that. And then I left. And I met you-”
“False, we met so long ago when I interviewed you!”
“Jenson Alexander Lyons Button!”
“Wow. Full name. I’m so scared.”
“Can you be serious for like, five minutes!”
“No.” But Jenson still gestured at Nico to continue.
“Where was I?”
“And then you met me…”
“Yes. And then I met you, and you were the most visible person I had ever met.” A certain fondness appeared on Nico’s face, making Jenson so happy that he finally pulled Nico back into a tight hug. “You take up so much space, but at the same time, you always made sure to leave a space for me to take up; you never let me fade into the background.”
Nico climbed on top of Jenson, adjusting their position as he went. He cupped Jenson’s face with both hands, brushing his thumbs along Jenson’s cheekbones.
“I want you to know that I choose you. Every day for the past five years, I’ve woken up and chosen you. And I will keep choosing you, for as many years to come. And if someone had me choose all over again, I would still choose you. But I’m not going to simply pretend that I never loved him. Even when it nearly destroyed me. Because every bit of it made me who I am. And I know that you love every bit of me.”
Jenson’s breath caught; he opened his mouth to say something. It was something sharp and self-protective. Something along the lines of, but you still dream about him. Something that would definitely extend this argument. However, he decided against it because Nico wasn’t done talking, and Jenson had a feeling this was going in a direction he liked.
“I love you,” Nico said firmly, “I love this ridiculous, dramatic, wonderful you. He’s just a ghost, you are the one who’s real.”
“And I love most of you,” Jenson said with a smirk, “And I’d fight a thousand Lewises for you.”
“I know. But you don’t have to.”
Jenson pulled Nico down, kissing him. Deeply, slowly. Rounding up the rest of the thoughts that kept telling him, you’re the second choice, and put them in a box to be thrown out later. When they pulled apart. Nico was no longer crying, and the tension in his shoulders finally eased.
“Now,” Nico said, cleaning his throat, “You can say whatever you wanted to say, or you can go make me very happy by making me tea.”
“Or we can argue about Lewis for another hour?”
“Or I can make sure that you are sleeping on the couch tonight.”
“Or we could take a shower together right now?”
“Jenson!” Nico playfully yelled while throwing a pillow at him. Which Jenson quickly dodged as he rolled off the bed.
“Just so you know, I’m going to be making it very dramatically. You have been warned!”
Nico shook his head softly with a laugh as he watched Jenson exit the room.

By the time Nico got to the kitchen (happily, in one of Jenson’s hoodies), his tea was sitting at the table, and Jenson was fighting the coffee machine for his coffee.
Nico padded over, sliding into the chair and grabbing the pair of socks Jenson had set there for him. “You know, that thing is going to be the death of your adrenal glands one day.”
Jenson looked over long enough to catch Nico pulling on his socks before turning back to aggressively pressing buttons on the machine, muttering something about stubborn Italian engineering.
“You're welcome for making your tea the exact way you like it. And my adrenals are fine, thanks.”
“Mhm,” Nico hummed as he wrapped his hands around the mug of tea, “You mean fine as in loaded with caffeine that spikes your cortisol, crashes your energy by midday, and dehydrates you. I’m sure they are doing very well.”
Jenson finally coaxed a rich espresso shot out with a triumphant grin, then reached into the cabinet for creamer. “Says the man sipping on hot leaf water. Come on, Nico, live a little.”
Nico took a sip of his tea, happy enough with it to drop the subject.
Jenson grabbed the toast out of the toaster and slid a plate in front of Nico as he sat down. As Nico reached for the jar of jam, Jenson placed a hand on it, keeping it in place. Nico tilted his head.
“What?”
“You still haven’t apologized.”
“I think I recall apologizing?”
“I did not hear the words ‘I am sorry’ leave your mouth.”
“Come on, I gave you a whole sentimental speech, and you are stuck on how I didn’t apologize?”
Jenson raised his eyebrows, letting Nico know that he was not going to get the jar if he didn’t apologize.
“I said I love you!”
“That’s not an apology.”
“It’s better than one!”
“I think you really feel like having dry toast for breakfast.”
“Fine! I’m sorry!”
“For?”
“Oh my god, Jenson. I’m sorry for crying first thing in the morning! Happy?”
“Nope. Crying is a you thing, not something you need to apologize for. You made me do a thing that requires an apology.”
“I’m sorry for making you worry about me?”
“You say that like a question.”
But Jenson still slid the jar towards Nico, who huffed dramatically as he spread his toast.
“Still, I wanted to say, I’ve been getting weird vibes from Lewis.”
“Jenson, I think those are the words I hear you say the most other than how much you don’t like him.”
“No, really. Like… I don’t know how to describe it. When he showed up that morning, when we had breakfast at Williams, he looked so confused. And like, his behavior since then has been…”
“He hasn’t approached me again, you should know, since you literally won’t even let me do interviews alone.”
“You know what, never mind. It’s probably just me.”
Nico raised an eyebrow, knowing that there was a bit more than Jenson was letting on, but that obviously wasn’t a conversation for today. So instead, he leans across the table and licks some of the cream off of Jenson’s lips, resulting in neither of them leaving the house for the morning.

===

After weeks of standing around like a glorified clothes rack – letting Lewis and Valterri circle him, tugging at fabrics and making microscopic adjustments – it was finally time to shoot.
It felt familiar to George; the tedious prep, the waiting, the analysis. And then it was up to him to take it the rest of the way. It was like F1, and this was just another race weekend.
But it wasn’t just another race weekend. It was more like George’s first race (it wasn’t). Sorry, first photoshoot (he’s done plenty). Sorry, first photoshoot of F1 George as Plaza George.
George glanced up at the familiar silver three-pointed star, letting himself pause for a second. The building wasn’t the same, not really—but it was close enough that his brain kept trying to overlay Brackley onto it. Onto the glass. Onto the structure. Onto the feeling.
He wasn’t stalling. Not at all.

“You planning on going in?” Aleix asked. George blinked, then huffed a small laugh. Somehow, across universes, Aleix was still his physio. Though here, things were… looser. Less intense. Probably because he wasn’t at the top step.
“Yeah,” George said, rolling his shoulders, “just taking a moment to appreciate the scenery.”
Aleix snorted.“You’re sounding like Vettel now.”
George chuckled, and just like that, the moment passed. They walked in together, the familiar rhythm of it grounding in a way he didn’t want to thinkabout.
“Good morning, George!”
Another familiar face waited at the front desk.
“They moved the shoot up to 446 because 075 has a leak.”
Must be the water, George caught himself before the comment slipped out. No one would get that joke here.
“Valtteri said he messaged you, but you didn’t read it, so he asked me to let you know.”
“Got it, thanks.”
George reached into his bag for his phone—and paused.
Inside lay a box. A sandwich, cut and wrapped.
He stared at it for a moment, then pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.
“I’ll head up,” he added quickly, turning toward the elevator.
As he waited for the elevator, he sent the photo to Alex.

Georgie: [Photo]
Georgie: I got a visit from the snack fairy

He stopped for a moment after sending it. Was he being too much? Too domestic? Too—

Albono: [Photo] [Photo]
Albono: Snack fairies are working hard to provide everyone with snacks.

George opened the images.
The first one was Carlos; midprep, focused on something that looked way too intricate to just be “bread.”
The second was Franco, behind the counter, making coffee. The display case behind the boy was filled with things that looked very good.
Before he could stop himself, he typed out the message and hit send.

Georgie: I don’t see my snack fairy though 😣

The split second after, he was already hovering over the message.
Delete? Edit? Blame it on pocket typing? Pretend he got hacked?
And then the read receipts turned blue. Too late.

Albono: You’ll get to see him if you come over 😘

George locked his phone. Then clicked the screen on. Staring at his lock screen long enough for facial recognition to miraculously work, and then stared at the message.
He sighed, gave in, and reacted with a 😶.
Before he could have more secondary thoughts, the elevator dinged. George shoved his phone into his pocket, stepped out, and was greeted by a teenager filled with more energy than his teammate. Which was impressive, considering that said teenager was his teammate.
“Kimi.”
He knew Kimi, and yes, he meant the Plaza Kimi, because Plaza George had a lot to say about Kimi in his diary. Also, unfortunately, George had his own over-energetic teammate to compare him to.
“You look weird.”
Were they so familiar that greetings became optional? George surely didn’t feel that way. Even Lewis still exchanged greetings with him, and George is certain he wasn’t more familiar with Kimi than with Lewis.
“I - good morning to you too?” George tried, defaulting to manners because his mother would absolutely disown him otherwise.
“You’re late.”
“It’s -”
“You’re thinking a lot.”
“I’m not-”
“Your face is doing that thing.”
George blinked. “What do you mean-”
“Don’t worry about that. Val has been waiting for ten minutes, and Lew is pacing.”
Talking with Kimi felt oddly like trying to answer rapid-fire questions.
However, work. Reality. Consequences.
But George couldn’t help asking: “Did they say you could use those nicknames?”
Kimi didn’t hesitate, “Aren’t nicknames for other people to decide and not yourself?”
George frowned with disapproval.
“No, names only work if…” If you respond to them, if you accept them, if they are yours.
“Did Nico let everyone call him Britney?”
“That’s…” Before, George could confidently say that Nico hated it. After seeing the chaos of the plaza… He believed that he could swear up and down that there wasn’t a single normal driver in F1. So who knows if it was just another play between whatever was going on with the old grid.
“I’m joking, I never use it to their faces. Just when I’m referring to them. People know who I mean anyway.” Kimi continued talking, completely unfazed by George’s lack of an answer.
George stared at him for a second.
Then, despite himself, he smiled—small, helpless—and shook his head.
“Maybe start with a greeting tomorrow?”
Kimi shrugged, “Maybe give me a hug later?”
George huffed out a laugh. Okay, compromises could be made. Greetings weren’t strictly necessary.
“Also,” Kimi added as they reached the door, “Lewis walked in with a normal drink today. So good luck.”
“Define normal,” George said with horror.
“Not coffee.”
This was bad.
George groaned under his breath. “This is going to be fun.”
Kimi pushed the door open, like he wasn’t delivering George to his potential demise, and slipped inside with George following close behind.
Even without either of them there, the studio was in motion. Lights being adjusted, someone calling for reflectors, two people arguing over angles that looked oddly like the two mechanics that were always bickering in his garage.
Valterri was near the backdrop, flipping through a tablet with the signature Valterri calm.
And Lewis was indeed pacing.
“Lewis.”
“George.”
George barely had time to react before Lewis was in front of him.
“You’re late,” Lewis said, his tone sharp enough that George immediately forgot to check his watch (He was fairly certain he had been on time. Early, even.)
“Sorry,” George said automatically.

“It’s fine. Just follow instructions,” Lewis said as he guided George towards the makeup corner.
George blinked. “What?”
“You won’t have to think too much, just act as usual.”
Oh. Okay. A Lewis pep talk, he hasn’t gotten one of these in a while.
George let himself be maneuvered into the chair as Lewis continued.
“Don’t lock your shoulders. You’re stiff.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Lewis adjusted some folds on George’s outfit. “You will do amazing. I believe in you.”
I believe in you. Funny how four words could settle something that had been spiraling all morning.
Someone he didn’t recognize waved him toward the set.
He could do this. Just another photoshoot. He’s done sponsor photoshoots. This wasn’t going to be too much different.

An hour later, George was questioning every life choice that had led him here (none of which he’d actually made).
“Head up a little. Nope, too much—down. Stop, stop, stop—there you go. Relax. Look easy. You’re moving your head—put it back.”
The photographer - a wiry woman named Cris who hadn’t smiled once - circled him like a shark. George’s jaw ached from holding a smile that wasn’t quite a smile, and his shoulders felt like they had been bolted into place.
“George.” Valterri’s voice came from somewhere to his left, calm as always. “Breathe.”
The same word everyone in his life seems to be saying to him lately. Breathe. As if breathing isn’t something that is literally required to keep him alive. As if he—
“I need you to smile a bit more than that,” Cris’ voice cut through George’s thoughts. He took a deep breath and put a smile back on his face.
“For the thousandth time today, don’t smile like that,” Cris said flatly, “You are not selling toothpaste.”
“You know what, let’s take a break, I think you need one.”
As George got water (and ate a quarter of the sandwich), he heard Cris muttering to her assistant about “stiffness”, “robotic energy”, and how he was “off”. Heat crept up his neck.
This was not a sponsor photoshoot. This was modeling. The art of looking effortless. Like he belonged in the clothes instead of the other way around. He very much felt the other way around.
“You look like you’re attending a funeral,” Kimi observed, plopping into the chair next to him.
“Hello to you too,” George sighed, “I feel like I’m attending mine.”
Kimi narrowed his eyes. “You’re thinking again.”
George rolled his eyes, “I always am. That’s my problem.”
Apparently, that is an issue that continues to bother him. He couldn’t not think – then he was rash. But he couldn’t overthink – then he wasn’t taking reasonable risks.
“I don’t think so,” Kimi tilted his head, thinking (why is that a thing, do things really make more sense at an offset angle?), “You’re just so caught up in trying to control each inch of everything. You need to just be.”
“Is that what they teach nowadays?” George blurted out.
Where did that come from? He certainly didn’t know what modeling school looked like.
Kimi rolled his eyes. “Mate, just have fun. Stop trying to figure out everything.”
With that, Kimi wandered off, unaware how stunned he’d left George.
Stop trying to figure out everything. Everything.
His appearance in this foreign world, his presence, his love for Alex. Everything.
He ran up to Cris. “I’m ready.”
Cris raised an eyebrow, but still signaled at everyone.
This time, George let his body decide for itself. It knew what to do. He just needed to let it be. And stop trying to figure it out.
“Much better.”
A bunch of snaps. A set of directions. More snaps. George finally caught the rhythmic wave, floating along. Until–
“One more,” Cris called out. “Can you look at the camera like you know something no one else does, but you can’t let others know?”
Oh, he knew this look well. Yet this time, what came to mind wasn’t a car. It was Alex. Alex’s winky face emoji. About the fact that he was going to walk out of here. And go to the person who packed him lunch, called him nicknames he hadn’t earned, and has beared with his stupid self the past few days.
He looked past the camera. At Valterri. At Lewis. Suddenly, nothing mattered anymore. He felt right where he needed to be.
The camera went off with a loud snap, a flash blinding him for a moment.
Cris whistled. “I think we have ourselves a cover photo.”

===

“It’s noon. Where’s your better half?”
Daniel materialized at Max’s desk almost as if the mere idea of lunch had summoned him. Leaning against the edge of the cubicle, arms crossed, grin firmly in place as usual.
Max didn’t look up from his monitor. Mostly because he had to learn how everything worked as he went, and barely made the weekly report last week. Also, the look on Daniel’s face meant he was about to be insufferable.
“Come on, Max, where’s your lover boy who always shows up right on the dot?” Daniel clarified, as if Max could have possibly misunderstood, “Did you guys have another fight?” He did the air quotes. The ones that suggested fights were mostly flirting
Max finally looked up. Daniel’s expression was still teasing, but at the same time, it had a tad of sincerity on it. Oh, and curiosity.
“I dunno, maybe he got busy?” Max pulled out his phone, swiped it open, and checked his messages.
There was nothing there. He hadn’t expected there to be. They hadn’t planned lunch. Hadn’t texted the whole morning. Hadn’t—
Okay, so maybe he had checked his phone three times since ten in the morning. But it wasn’t his fault. The message record showed that they messaged a lot. He knew that it was now a different soul but he was allowed to hope, wasn’t he?
“Guess it’s my turn to go find him then.”
Max locked his phone and stood, reaching for the Red Bull jacket draped over the back of his chair.
Daniel’s eyebrows rose, “You’re going to walk to Ferrari?”
“What else? Fly?”
Daniel responded by handing him a can, “Red Bull gives you wings.”
Max rolled his eyes but took the can anyway.
“Tell Charles I said hi!”

The walk to Ferrari gave Max way too much time to think.
If we are getting lunch, what should we even eat?
Fast food was the easy answer. Quick, familiar, and didn’t require much effort. But Charles would make that face. The one where he was trying not to look offended, and looked very much offended. It would almost be worth it just to see that face.
Almost. Maybe that was an idea for the other Max. But probably not the best move for whatever this was between them. The “fake” thing.
Maybe Williams? Carlos made decent food. It was close to Ferrari, convenient. But Alex will be there. Which meant George might be there. Or Oscar. As well as anyone who knew them way too well. A tad bit more than what he was hoping for.
Pizza. Everyone liked pizza. Charles would probably want something with arugula. Or prosciutto. Or three other things Max couldn’t pronounce, but he knew which words to point at. Because Charles’s face when he got his order right was…
Max was so deep in his own head that he almost didn’t notice the over-enthusiastic figure bouncing toward him from the Mercedes entrance.
Key word, almost.
“Max!”
Because Kimi Antonelli was young, energetic, and seemingly incapable of using a normal voice volume.
Wait, was that a sandwich bag in his hand?
“Hey, Kimi.”
Kimi fell into step beside him, practically vibrating. “I don’t see Charles. Are you on your way to get him from Ferrari?”
Max nodded. “You?”
“I made sandwiches!” Kimi held up the bag like it was a trophy. “Ollie still thinks we’re going out to eat, so I can’t wait to surprise him!” He beamed. “What about you? Where are you guys going?”
“I was thinking the pizza place around the corner.”
“Oh! I know that one!” Kimi’s eyes went wide. “Their pizza is very authentic. Wait, I know!” He grabbed Max’s sleeve without seeming to realize he’d done it. “We could do a double date thing! Like Ollie, Charles, you, and me! Then we could get lots of different ones and share!”
Max stopped walking.
“Kimi.”
“Yeah?”
“I was planning on a more… me and Charles thing.” He nodded towards the sandwich bag. Also, you already made the sandwiches. No point letting them go to waste.”
Kimi blinked. “Oh~ The parents want time for themselves~ Ollie and I have been abandoned…” Kimi faked a heartbreak and then happily bounced a step. “Definitely try the prosciutto e rucola there. It’s really good.”
And then he was gone, bounding ahead toward Ferrari like an over-caffeinated puppy.
Max stood there for a second.
Prosciutto e rucola. He wondered what Charles’s face would look like when he ordered it.
God, he was down bad.

Max spotted Charles immediately.
He was standing near the Ferrari front desk, talking to someone Max didn’t recognize – an intern, judging by the outfit – probably asking about something that wasn’t his job but that Charles had offered to help with anyway because that was just who Charles was.
Kimi was bouncing towards Ollie. Seb was nearby, seemingly dropping off his Kimi from their own lunch. The whole Ferrari entrance was a swirl of movement and voices.
But Max’s eyes stayed on Charles.
He had suggested the fake dating because he really didn’t feel like all the drama that would come with a “break up” between the two that everyone worked so hard to get together. Or that was what he liked to tell himself. Despite the voice inside that let him know that he simply wanted an excuse to be close with Charles. He hadn’t expected anything more. But the past few days – the dinner, Charles’s hand in his, Charles’s soft words and softer looks – had made everything less like pretending and more like something real. Like something waiting to happen.
He wasn’t ready to cross the line. But he could toe at it and see what happens.
Max exhaled. Rolled his shoulders. Walked forward.

Kimi held up the sandwich bag as he neared Ollie. “I made us sandwiches!”
“You didn’t have to!” Ollie protested, but he was already blushing as he took the bag.
“No, but I wanted to~”
Ollie took a bite, his eyes widening. “There are actually really good. Seriously. Thank you.”
The blush on Kimi’s face spread to match Ollie’s perfectly.
From somewhere behind them, Seb’s voice rang out: “Ah~ Young love.” He planted a kiss on Kimi Raikkonen’s cheek – quick, casual, fond – before heading towards the front door. Kimi R. didn’t react visibly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Charles was frowning slightly as he watched the pair. “They aren’t even dating. How can he be so sure it’s love?” he muttered under his breath.
Max couldn’t resist.
“Would you make sandwiches for someone you don’t love?”
Charles turned to him. His expression softened. If Max didn’t know better, he would say it was something warm, something careful, something almost challenging at the edges.
“I would make sandwiches for you.”
The words landed warm and easy between them.
At the same time, both of them felt their chests tighten in the best and worst ways.
Max recovered first. Or maybe he was just better at pretending.
“So.” He rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You free? For lunch. I was thinking pizza.”
Charles blinked. Once. Twice. Like he’d been somewhere else entirely and was only now returning.
“Pizza,” he repeated.
“Unless you’d rather have something else.” Max shrugged, trying to look casual. Trying not to think about how Charles had just said he’d make sandwiches for him. “The place near the fountain. Kimi recommended the prosciutto e rucola.”
He said that right. Ha. Max had to think of Jos to push down the smile that was about to take over his face.
Charles tilts his head, something sly creeping into his expression. “I would love to go. But also, you know,” he said, drawing the words out, “there’s this thing. On phones. It’s called messaging. Very advanced technology. You type words, and they send instantly. Some people use it to ask someone to lunch instead of walking all the way across the Plaza.”
Max’s ears went pink. He could feel it.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“You were in the neighborhood.” Charles’s smile widened. “I suppose the Plaza counts as a big neighborhood.”
“I wanted to stretch my legs.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And Kimi was coming this way.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And—” Max stopped. Charles was looking at him with that signature smirk. “Okay. Fine. I walked here to see you. Happy?”
“Yep.”
“What would you have done if I had just texted?”
Charles thought for a moment. “I would still say yes. But I would’ve been,” he paused, looking for the word ,“Less impressed.”
Max snorted, “Noted.”
Another beat. Charles’s teasing edge softened into something quieter. “You could’ve texted, I wouldn’t have minded. What if you walked all this way and then I said no?”
Max looked at the floor. Then back at Charles.
“Then I sulk all the way back to Red Bull. And make sure everyone in the Plaza sees me. And all of them will come ask you what happened to us.”
Charles stared at him.
“You would’ve sulked.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“You – Max Verstappen – would have sulked… because I said no to lunch?”
“I’m not saying I would’ve sulked. I’m saying I would’ve been disappointed. And maybe walked a little slower. And maybe not talked to anyone for an hour. That’s not sulking. That’s processing.”
Charles burst out laughing.
Loud and bright and completely unguarded. The kind of laugh Max had only heard a handful of times. The kind he had started collecting like souvenirs.
“You’re ridiculous,” Charles said, still laughing.
“You asked.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually answer.”
Max shrugged again. Fought down the smile trying to break across his face. “I’m free,” Charles said. Then, quieter: “I’m always free. For you.”
Toe the line, Max reminded himself. Just toe it. Don’t cross.
“I know,” he said. And then, because he was an idiot who couldn't help himself: “That's why I keep showing up.”
Something flickered across Charles's face. Surprise. Hope. Fear. All three, too fast to separate.
Charles looked away first. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck — a nervous tell Max had learned to read months ago.
“Okay,” Charles said. “Okay. Pizza. Let me just —”He gestured vaguely toward his desk. “Tell someone I'm leaving. Two minutes.”
“I'll wait.”
Charles nodded. Turned. Walked toward the back of the Ferrari office.
Max watched him go.
You're an idiot, he told himself. You're a complete idiot. You said, “That's why I keep showing up.” To your fake boyfriend. Who you are fake dating. Who you are desperately, genuinely in love with. And you admitted you would've sulked.
Toeing the line was hard. He was going to trip. He could feel it.

Kimi Antonelli appeared at his elbow. “So…”
Max turned. “What?”
Kimi was holding Ollie's hand now. Ollie looked like he wanted to sink into the floor, but he wasn't letting go.
Definitely lovers. He should tell Charles over lunch.
Kimi beamed. “Nothing! Have fun on your not-a-double-date!” He wiggled his fingers in a wave and tugged Ollie toward the door.
Ollie mouthed sorry over his shoulder.
Max laughed softly, shaking his head.

Charles was back in sixty seconds flat. Seventy, tops. His hair was slightly messier than before. He'd clearly run his hands through it, probably without realizing.
“Ready,” Charles said.
Max nodded toward the door. “After you.”
They walked out together. Shoulder to shoulder. Close enough that their arms almost brushed.
Neither of them moved away.
After a few steps, Charles spoke without looking at him. “For the record...”
“What?”
“I wouldn't have said no.”
Max's chest did something complicated.
“I know,” he said.
He didn't. But now he did.

The Plaza was busier at this hour. People spilled out of offices, clustered around food carts, wandered in small groups toward whatever lunch spot had caught their attention. The hum of conversation bounced off the glass walls and marble floors, a constant, low-grade noise that Max had learned to tune out.
He didn't tune it out today.
Because Charles was walking next to him. Close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. Close enough that Max could smell his cologne – something citrus and clean, mixed with the faint trace of coffee.
You're being weird, Max told himself. Stop being weird. It's just lunch. You've had lunch with Charles a hundred times.
Not like this, though.
Not with Charles's hand swinging loose at his side, inches from Max's own. Not with the memory of I would make sandwiches for you still warm in his chest. Not with the admission that he would've sulked hanging in the air between them.
Charles hadn't stopped smiling. Not the big, performative smile he gave to cameras or crowds. Something smaller. Private. Like he was keeping it just for himself.
Or just for you? His brain supplied unhelpfully.
“You're quiet,” Charles said.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
Max glanced at him. Charles's eyes were bright, curious, watching him from the corner of his gaze.
“Whether the pizza place has tables,” Max lied. “It gets crowded around now.”
Charles hummed, unconvinced. “Mm. Sure.”
“It does!”
“I'm not saying it doesn't. I'm just saying that's not what you were thinking about.”
Max's ears went pink again. Damn it.
“Fine,” he said. “I was thinking about what you said. Back at Ferrari.”
Charles's step faltered. Just slightly. “What part?”
“You know what part.”
Charles was quiet for a moment. The crowd flowed around them. Someone jostled Max's shoulder; he barely noticed.
“It was just an example,” Charles said finally.
“Was it?”
“Of course it was.”
“So if I asked you to make me something. Hypothetically.”
Charles stopped walking.
Max stopped too. Turned to face him.
Charles was looking at him with an expression Max couldn't quite read. Something caught between how dare you and please don't stop.
“That's not fair,” Charles said quietly.
“What's not fair?”
“Asking me that. When you know -” Charles stopped. Swallowed. Started again. “When you know the answer.”
Max's heart did something violent against his ribs.
Toe the line. Toe the line. Don't—
“I know,” Max said softly.
They stood there for a moment. Two beats. Three.
Then Charles exhaled, shook his head, and started walking again. Faster this time.
“You're impossible,” Charles said over his shoulder.
Max hurried to catch up. “You started it.”
“I did not start—”
“You said you'd—” Max stopped himself. He really wanted to have this lunch; maybe they could talk about this later. “You know what you said.”
Charles threw him a look over his shoulder. Half exasperated. Half something else entirely.
They walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence.

The pizza place was tucked into the corner of the Plaza's main courtyard — a small storefront with red-and-white checkered tables spilling out onto the cobblestones. The smell of oregano and baking dough drifted through the air.
Max held the door open. Charles raised an eyebrow but walked through without comment.
Inside, the lunch rush was in full swing. A few heads turned as they entered. Then a few more. Then someone whistled.
Here we go.
“The power couple of the Plaza graces us with their presence!”
The voice probably belonged to one of the early victims of the original chaos. Max wouldn’t know. A few whistles and laughs followed the comment.
Charles rolled his eyes, but Max saw the small smile tugging at his lips. They. The power couple.
Max shrugged and played it up. He stepped forward, grabbed a chair from an empty two-top, and pulled it out with exaggerated care — a sweeping gesture like he was presenting a throne.
“What can I say?” Max said, loud enough for the room to hear. “We're in high demand.”
Someone laughed. Someone else called out, “Get a room!”
Charles slid into the chair, still rolling his eyes, still smiling. “You're enjoying this too much.”
“You're enjoying it too.”
“I'm tolerating it.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
Charles kicked him under the table.
Max sat down across from him, rubbing his shin with absolutely no genuine complaint. The table was small — barely large enough for two plates and a pizza. Their knees were touching under it.
Max didn't move his legs away. Neither did Charles.
A waiter appeared. “Can I get you two anything to drink?”
“Water for me,” Charles glanced over at Max. “You?”
“Water’s fine.”
The waiter nodded, dropped off two laminated menus, and disappeared.
Max picked his up. The usual. Margherita. Diavola. Quattro formaggi. A few specialty options he'd never tried.
Across the table, Charles was doing the opposite. Head tilted. Lips moving slightly as he read. Taking it seriously in a way that was entirely unnecessary and entirely Charles.
“What are you getting?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on, you’ve had pizza lots of times; there has to be a go-to.”
“Is there now?”
“I know yours. Quattro formaggi.”
“You sound so sure. What if I order, let's say, a margherita? Or the prosciutto e rucola that Kimi recommended?”
“Then I would get the quattro formaggi.”
The waiter returned with their waters. Set them down. Pulled out a notepad. “Ready to order?”
Charles didn't look away from Max.
“The prosciutto e rucola,” Charles said, throwing a challenging glance at Max.
And, true to his word, Max said, “I’ll have the Quattro formaggi,”
The waiter scribbled. “Anything else?”
“That's it,” Max said.
The waiter disappeared.
Max leaned back in his chair. Crossed his arms. Looked at Charles.
“Prosciutto e rucola?”
“You said Kimi recommended it.” Charles shrugged. “And you were right. Quattro formaggi is my default. But that doesn't mean I can't try something new.”
Max leaned back in his chair. Crossed his arms. Looked at Charles. “You're full of surprises today.”
“I'm always full of surprises. You just don't pay attention.”
“I pay attention.”
The words slipped out faster than Max would think. And suddenly, Max found the ceiling very interesting.
At this, Charles rolled his eyes. “You didn't know I was going to order the prosciutto.”
“You didn't know you were going to order the prosciutto until five seconds ago.”
Charles's mouth twitched. “Fair.”

The pizzas arrived a few minutes later — one white and creamy with four cheeses, one red and green with prosciutto draped over arugula.
The table was barely large enough for both.
They made it work.
Charles reached for the prosciutto e rucola first — a deliberate choice, Max noticed. Like he was proving something. He took a bite, chewed, and his eyebrows went up slightly.
“Good?” Max asked.
Charles swallowed. “It's fine.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face says nothing.”
“Your face says, 'Max was right and I don't want to admit it.”
Charles kicked him under the table. Max laughed and reached for his own pizza — the quattro formaggi, because he'd said he would, and because Charles was watching to see if he'd actually eat it.
It was good. Creamy. Rich. A little boring, if he was being honest.

They ate in comfortable silence for a bit. The restaurant hummed around them — the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation, someone laughing too loud at a table near the window. Normal. Easy.
Then Charles's hand drifted toward the quattro formaggi.
Max watched him pick up a slice. Watched him take a bite. Watched his expression soften into something pleased and slightly embarrassed.
“Okay,” Charles admitted. “I missed it.”
“I knew you would.”
“You didn't know anything.”
“I knew you'd want your default back before the meal was over.”
Charles pointed a slice of pizza at him. “You're insufferable.”
“You're the one eating my pizza.”
“Our pizza. We're sharing.”
“I don’t recall that conversation happening.”
Charles paused mid-bite. “It’s happening now.”
Max reached over and stole a piece of prosciutto off the top of the other pizza.
“Hey-”
“What? You said we are sharing.”
“You could ask.”
“I could.”
Max popped the prosciutto in his mouth. Chewed. Held Charles's gaze.
Charles stared at him for a long moment. Then, without a word, he pushed the prosciutto pizza slightly closer to Max's side of the table.
Not all the way. Just enough.
Max felt something warm settle in his chest.
“Thank you,” Max said.
“I didn't do it for you.”
“You literally just did.”
“I did it for the pizza. So it would be evenly shared.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something.”
Max didn't answer. Just reached for another piece of prosciutto.
Charles didn't stop him this time.

They bickered a bit after that. Nothing serious. Just filled the space between bites and kept their hands busy.
Until the topic somehow became about the two worlds.
“I mean, not all of the couples are together in our world.” Charles gestured vaguely with his pizza slice. “Like Seb and Kimi. They both have their respective families and probably see each other once a year if they're lucky.”
Max frowned. “Yeah, but look at Yuki and Pierre.”
“Okay, so one pair has the bond to be together in every universe.” Charles shrugged. “Doesn't mean anything.”
Doesn't mean anything.
Max felt something tighten in his chest. He was trying — trying — to hint that there could be something between the two of them. That maybe this world was giving them a chance their one hadn't. But Charles kept shooting him down. Deflecting. Dismissing.
Maybe I'm reading the signs wrong. No. He couldn't be... right?
“And I can't believe George.” Charles was still talking, apparently unaware of Max's internal spiral. “Like, I feel like everyone with eyes can tell he's had a thing for Alex since forever ago, but now Lily and Alex are engaged in our world, and he really should let it go. Instead, look what he's doing here!”
Max blinked. “So we're supposed to go with the story and date, and George is supposed to break up with Alex, who he is currently engaged to? Charles, be reasonable.”
“It's different, we…”
Suddenly Charles was silent.
Max raised his eyebrows.
“We what?”
Charles's mouth opened. Closed. His gaze dropped to the table.
“What about Jenson and Nico?” Charles aked, too quickly. “I don't see any traces of the two being close. Again, two people that have separate families. Separate lives. It's not… not everyone is— ”
“You're changing the topic.”
Charles shot him a glare.
Why was he glaring? Max was just stating a fact.
“Okay, fine,” Max said, frustration creeping into his voice. “But it's all in the cases of the older grid. Also, look at all of us.”
He pulled out his phone. Opened the group chat members list. Pointed as he went.
“Yuki and Pierre are together. George has a thing for Alex — don't give me that look, you said it first. Oscar and Lando have a whole... whatever that is.” He looked up. Held Charles's gaze. “What about us?”
The word hung in the air between them.
Us.
Charles went very still.
“What about Lewis?” Charles said.
Max's jaw tightened. “Charles…”
“I'm sorry, Max, but they need me back at Ferrari.”
Charles was already standing, already reaching for his phone. He held up the screen — something with a red background, a message maybe — but waved it so fast Max couldn't read a single word.
“I have to go.”
“Charles.”
“I'll see you later.”
And then he was gone. Walking toward the door. Shoulders tight. Hands shoved in his pockets. Not looking back.
Max sat there.
Stared at the empty chair across from him.
The pizzas were still half-eaten. The waiter was hovering somewhere in his peripheral vision, unsure whether to clear the plates or wait.
Max sat there.
Stared at the empty chair across from him.
The restaurant hummed around him — the same clink of glasses, the same murmur of conversation, someone still laughing too loud at a table near the window.
Max picked up his phone. Stared at the group chat members list still open on his screen. Yuki, George, Oscar, Charles and himself. There had to be some kind of connection. He'd pointed at all of them. And then he'd pointed at the space between himself and Charles.
What about us?
Charles had asked about Lewis.
Not an answer. Not even close to an answer. A deflection so obvious it would've been funny if it didn't make Max's chest ache.
Max locked his phone. Set it down. Looked at the quattro formaggi pizza that he'd ordered because Charles had challenged him, and because Charles had been watching to see if he'd actually eat it.
He wasn't hungry anymore.
Maybe I pushed too hard.
No. I just asked a question. A fair question.
He's the one who ran.
Max signaled for the check.

The walk back to Red Bull was slower than the walk there. No Kimi bouncing alongside him. No Charles at his shoulder. Just Max and his thoughts and the crowd that parted around him without noticing.
Checo raised his head as Max passed the front desk. Opened his mouth.
Max waved before Checo could speak. A grunt. A half-smile. The same response he'd given that morning, but heavier now.
Checo's eyebrows furrowed, but he didn't push.
Max made it to his desk. Stared at his monitor.
The Excel spreadsheet was still open. Still waiting. And still not making any sense. Maybe he needed recruit George to help him.
He pulled out his phone again.
No messages, same as earlier.
And just like this morning, he hadn't expected any. Charles had said I'll see you, not I'll text you. Hadn't even looked back as he walked out.
What about us?
Max typed the message. Looked at it. Deleted it.
Typed it again. Deleted it again.
He locked his phone and shoved it in his drawer.
Toe the line, he'd told himself. Just toe it.
He hadn't toed it. He'd planted both feet firmly across and asked Charles to meet him there.
And Charles had asked about Lewis.
Max dropped his head into his hands.
Idiot.

Charles didn’t stop walking until he was three blocks past Ferrari – Yes, past it. Because he grabbed the first excuse that came to mind and ran with it. Literally. But he couldn’t go back to Ferrari now unless he felt like being interrogated by Ollie. Charles shivered at that thought.
What about us?
Max’s words, and the possible implications of it, ran through Charles’s thoughts. As well as every other word that Max had said to him today.
Charles rubbed his face with his hands. Why did things always turn out this way wherever it came to Max? Why couldn’t he just be another person in Charles’s life?

When Max had suggested the fake dating upon arriving in this world, Charles had been genuinely surprised. Not in a bad or good way, but it was so… unlike Max to ever entertain the idea. Looking back, perhaps he’d agreed way too quickly, way too eagerly. But how could he not? How could he not jump at the chance to be so close to Max? To finally exist in Max’s circle without the contant friction of competition?
He hadn’t expected anything to come out of the whole ordeal.
He was like a fisherman sitting by a lake, casting a line just for the please of casting. The act itself was enough to satisfy him. The quite hope. The pretending. He didn’t need the fish to bite. As a matter of fact, he probably didn’t want it to.
Well, that’s a lie. He wanted it desperately. But one cannot continuously want something he simply couldn’t have.
Or that’s what he had thought.
The past few days had definitely been an experience. The dinner, the talk with Max, and even just now, the lunch. Max holding him, Max running after him, Max’s soft words. They all felt like something nibbling at Charles’s line. Tugging gently. Testing.
And Charles was panicking.
Because he had no idea how to catch this fish. He’s never planned what to to if the fish was actually interested. He had planned to sit at the lake, line empty and still. He had planned for a lifetime of wanting from a safe distance.
But he hadn’t planned for the possibility that Max might actually—
No.
He was not finishing that thought. It was too far into dangerous territory.
The point was: He knew what to do when Max stayed away from the line. He knew how to speak, how to act, how to pretend. But now Max was closer than ever before.
How about us?
The words echoed in his head again. What about them? He also wanted to know. Was this world simply filled with relationships that are doomed to fail? Or was this a world filled with what could be?
Charles wanted to believe that this was a chance. More than he wanted to believe he could win a WDC in a Ferrari. But every instinct he had built through the years were screaming at him to pull back. That this wasn’t real. That Max was just playing a role, was putting on a performance for the people that he cared about. And that the fish would swim away as soon as Charles moved to reel it in.
So instead, he was here. Sitting on a sidewalk. Alone. Staring at a cracked pavement stone. Unable to do anything about any of it.

Charles didn’t know how long he sat there. Way past the time that he should’ve gone back. Long enough for his legs to fall asleep.
And long enough for Sebastian Vettel to find him.
“Charles? There you are!”
Charles looked up.
Seb was standing over him, slightly out of breath, hands on his hips. Angry? Yes. But more so relieved.
“Hi?”
“We were so worried about you! Kimi noticed you didn't come back. Tried calling you.” Seb's eyes flicked to the phone in Charles's pocket. “You didn't answer.”
Charles's hand went to his phone. He hadn't even felt it buzz.
“So Kimi called Max,” Seb continued. “And Max said you told him you were needed back at Ferrari. Which…” Seb raised an eyebrow. “You weren't.”
Charles looked back down at the pavement.
“No,” he admitted. “I wasn't.”
“Kimi started a search party. Well. He told me to go find you before he had to, because apparently he ‘doesn't have the patience for your dramatics.’” Seb's mouth twitched. “His words, not mine.”
Charles laughed a bit at the image of that.
“Sorry,” Charles said. “I didn't mean to — I just needed —”
“I know.” Seb moved then, lowering himself to sit next to Charles. Shoulder to shoulder. Back against the same building. “You don't have to explain.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The city hummed around them. Cars. Footsteps. Someone's radio playing something Charles didn't recognize.
“Max asked me something,” Charles said finally. Quietly. “And I didn't know how to answer. So I left.”
After a while, it was clear that Charles wasn’t going to just give him the information he wanted.
“What did he ask?”
Charles pulled his knees tighter to his chest.
“Do you ever feel like your relationship is fake?”
“That’s not the question he asked, is it?”
“Do you?”
Seb sighed, he had plenty of ways to push Charles to spill, but that wasn’t what Charles needed right now. So instead, Seb went along.
“I feel like everyone has experienced that feeling at some point, and yes, that includes myself.” He paused. “Why you ask? Trouble in paradise?”
Charles scoffed.
“Trouble in hell.”
Seb huffed a quiet laugh. “Can’t be that bad?”
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” Charles admitted, “I feel like he just got tired of everyone teasing us and choose to play along with it.”
Charles wasn’t really sure he was ready to tell Seb the whole truth. That he wasn’t the Charles that he knew, the Charles who (with the help with a good half of the plaza) ended up with Max. And the Max that was currently being conversed about, is also not the manager Max, but the F1 driver Max. Oh, and they were fake dating.
“Early on,” Seb started, looking up at the sky where the sun was starting to make all different kinds of colors, “Before Kimi and I figured out what we were to each other. There were days when I thought I was imagining it. That he was just being polite. That I was reading too much into everything. Even after we put a name to it. I often wondered if we truly understood what he had.”
Charles’s chest tightened. “How did you know for sure?”
Seb considered the question.
“I don't think there was one moment,” he said finally. “It was more like... a thousand small things. The way he remembered my coffee order. The way he showed up when I didn't ask him to. The way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching.” Seb glanced at Charles. “Sound familiar?”
Charles said nothing.
“Also,” Seb added, “Kimi told me. Eventually. Very directly. Because he got tired of me overthinking.”
Charles almost smiled. “That sounds like Kimi.”
“It does, doesn't it?” Seb's mouth twitched. “The point is — you're not going to figure this out by sitting on a sidewalk and running through every worst-case scenario in your head.”
“I'm not running through worst-case scenarios.”
“You're literally hiding from Max right now.”
Charles opened his mouth. Closed it.
Seb stood up. Brushed off his coat and held out a hand.
Charles looked up at him.
“How about this? Come to dinner tonight,” Seb said. “Kimi's cooking. It'll be low-key. Just the three of us.” He paused. “Or four, if you want to bring Max. But somehow I don't think you're ready for that.”
Charles let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “No. Not ready for that.”
“Didn't think so.” Seb's hand was still out. “So just you. We'll eat. We'll talk. Or we won't. Whatever you need.”
Charles hesitated.
Then he took Seb's hand and let himself be pulled to his feet.
“Seven o'clock,” Seb said. “Bring alcohol if you want. No pressure.”
“Vodka?” Charles asked.
Seb's eyebrows went up. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
The Iceman’s famous concoction: Vodka, Red Bull, and Champagne.
Seb smiled — warm, knowing — and patted Charles on the shoulder. “I should probably text Kimi. Let him know I found you before he actually starts a search party.”
He pulled out his phone. Typed something quickly. Pocketed it again.
“See you tonight, Charles.”
He walked away. Hands back in his pockets. Disappearing around the corner like he'd never been there at all.
Charles stood there for a moment.
He pulled out his phone. Stared at the screen.
One missed call from Kimi Raikkonen. No messages from Max.
He thought about what Seb had said. About Kimi showing up. About a thousand small things.
Charles tucked the phone back in his pocket. Started walking toward Ferrari. Slowly.
Behind him, the pizza place was long out of sight.
Ahead of him, dinner waited.
And somewhere in the middle, a question lingered, unanswered:
What about us?
===
[Note that author only took 1 year of japanese and 0 years of french. Translations were attempted and mistakes are accidental]

The afternoon sun is almost the most unremarkable. It’s not as beautiful or as remarkable as a sunrise or a sunset. It’s there, it’s warm. It was the kind of light that made you want to lean into something – a wall, a person, a moment – and stay there. Taking it all in.
Yuki leaned into Pierre.
They were sitting at a folding table set up right outside Alpine, empty lunch containers pushed to the side, Pierre’s arm draped across the back of Yuki’s chair. The plaza was alive around them, but all of it was reduced to humming in the distant.
“You are staring,” Pierre said. Not a question. An observation. Delivered with that particular French certainty that made everything sound like a fact of the universe.
“Maji de.” Yuki didn't open his eyes. “I'm enjoying the view.”
“The view of the parking lot?”
“The view of you.”
Pierre made a sound – half scoff, half pleased little hum. His ears went pink. Yuki knew without looking. He could feel the warmth radiating off them.
Hehe. Got him.
“We should go back,” Pierre said. Did not move.
“We should.”
Neither of them moved.
A beat. Two. Pierre's thumb traced a slow circle on Yuki's shoulder. Yuki closed his eyes tighter and let the sun warm his eyelids.
Nee. This was nice.
This was good.
In his world — the racing world — moments like this didn't exist. There was always somewhere to be. Always a meeting, a debrief, a flight, a sim session. Always noise. Always the next thing.
Here, the next thing could wait.
Here, the sun was warm and Pierre was solid beside him and Yuki didn't have to be anywhere except exactly where he was.
“Alors.” Pierre stood, finally, reluctantly. “I walk you to AlphaTauri.”
“You could just let me skip the rest of the day.”
“Ah, mon cœur.” Pierre's hand found his, pulled him up. “You could always join me here.”
“That’s not what I want, though.”
Pierre laughed — that laugh, the one that started in his chest and came out all warm and rumpled — and didn't let go of Yuki's hands. Instead, he stepped closer. Close enough that Yuki could count his eyelashes if he wanted to.
Which he didn't. Obviously.
Janai. He was totally going to.
“You are doing it again,” Pierre murmured.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like I am going to disappear.”
Yuki's chest tightened. He hadn't realized he was. He made himself blink, made himself breathe, made himself grin.
“Urusai na. Maybe I just like looking at you.”

Pierre's expression flickered — something knowing, something soft, something Yuki couldn't quite name. And then Pierre leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Quick. Sure. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Because here, it was.
“I pick you up at five,” Pierre said.
“Hai, hai. It's a date.”
“It is always a date, Yuki.”

AlphaTauri's design studio was on the second floor, windows facing west, flooding the space with that same soft afternoon light. Yuki pushed through the door and found chaos.
Not the bad kind. The creative kind.
Liam was standing in front of a mood board, gesturing emphatically at something Yuki couldn't see — hands everywhere, the way Kiwis got when they were passionate about something. Isack was cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by fabric swatches, nodding along like he was taking mental notes. Arvid had a tablet in one hand and a marker in the other, sketching something that looked like it might be a jacket or might be a spaceship.
“Yuki!” Arvid looked up first. “Thank god. Tell Liam that transformation doesn't have to be literal.”
“It doesn't,” Yuki said automatically.
“See?”
“It also doesn't have to be metaphorical to the point of being unrecognizable,” Liam shot back. “We're not designing for a philosophy seminar, mate. We're designing for people.”
Isack held up two swatches — one deep crimson, one charcoal grey. “Which reads more 'transformation' to you?”
Yuki looked at them. The red was bold. Aggressive. The kind of color that demanded attention. The grey was quieter. Subtle. The kind of color that changed depending on the light.
“Eeto... both,” he said. “Depends what story you're telling.”
Isack nodded slowly, turning the swatches over in his hands.
Yuki dropped his bag at an empty desk and pulled up the project brief. Transformation. It was the theme for AlphaTauri's upcoming capsule collection — the one they'd been workshopping for weeks, apparently, though Yuki had only skimmed the notes this morning.
He should probably read the notes.
Nee, whatever.
Instead, he pulled out a fresh sheet of tracing paper and picked up a pencil.

He didn't plan it.
That was the thing about this world — about this him. The racing Yuki had never sketched anything in his life. He'd worn what the team gave him, showed up where they told him, drove the car they built. The Plaza Yuki, though. The Plaza Yuki had hands that knew what to do.
Yuki let them do it.
The first stroke was a line — sharp, clean, cutting across the page like a seam. Then another. Then a curve. Then a silhouette taking shape, something architectural and fluid at the same time. A jacket, maybe. Or a coat. Something that moved.
Something that transformed.
The ideas came like water from a cracked dam.
Not slowly. Not gently. All at once, flooding everything ah, this, and this, and this and Yuki was scrambling to keep up. Sketching, flipping pages, reaching for a second sheet when the first one filled too fast. Liam said something. Isack laughed at something Arvid said. Yuki didn't hear any of it.
He was somewhere else.
Somewhere familiar.
It wasn't racing. It wasn't driving. But it was his. The way the pencil moved, the way the lines connected, the way the paper became something it hadn't been before. He knew this. His hands knew this. Even if his brain was still catching up.
Watashi wa, dare desuka? Yuki Tsunoda wa, dare desuka? A Formula 1 driver? A fashion designer?
The thought surfaced and sank just as fast.

Yuki kept sketching.
Twenty minutes later — an hour? Two? He'd lost track — Yuki sat back and stared at what he'd made.
Pages of sketches. All half-finished, just fragments of ideas. A jacket that folded into itself. A dress with a removable layer. A coat that could be worn three different ways.
Transformation.
They were good. He could see that, even if he couldn't quite believe he'd made them. They were good. The kind of good that made Liam stop gesturing and come look over his shoulder. The kind of good that made Isack say, “Oh,” softly. The kind of good that made Arvid start taking photos before Yuki could stop him.
But.
There was something about them. Something that nagged at the back of Yuki's brain. Like puzzle pieces that almost fit. Like a shape he almost recognized. Like—
Almost. Just a bit more. Ato sukoshi.
Almost fits together. Almost makes sense. Almost belongs.
Yuki's chest went cold.
He looked at the sketches. At the lines he'd drawn, the shapes he'd made. At the transformation he'd captured on paper.
In my world, I'm a driver. Here, I'm a designer.. In my world, I fight for every point. Here, I just... exist.
Dochira ga... which one is real? Which one is me? Do I even belong in either?
He'd thought — when he first woke up here — that he'd figured it out. He'd accepted the Plaza. He'd leaned into Pierre. He'd let himself be happy.
But the feeling was still there. That low-grade hum of wrongness. Like a frequency he couldn't quite tune out. Like standing in a room that was almost his but wasn't.
Almost.
Mou ii... he was so tired of almost.
“Yuki?”
Liam's voice. Yuki blinked. The studio swam back into focus.
“You okay, mate? You went somewhere.”
Yuki opened his mouth. Closed it.
Daijoubu. Just thinking. Don't worry about it.
The words were right there. Easy. Automatic.
But before he could say them—
The door opened.

Pierre.

Leaning against the frame, hair slightly windswept from the walk over. He took one look at Yuki's face — just one — and his expression shifted. Not alarm. Just. Attention. The kind of attention that said Je te vois. I see you. I see that something is off. And I am not going anywhere until you tell me about it.
“Five o'clock,” Pierre said. “ I am early.”
Liam looked between them. “We were just wrapping up—”
“We are done,” Arvid said quickly, already gathering his things. Isack followed suit, stuffing swatches into a bag, not quite hiding his smile.
They filed out. The door clicked shut.
Pierre crossed the room.
He didn't ask. Didn't push. Just walked up to Yuki, took his face in both hands, and kissed him.
It wasn't a quick kiss. Wasn't a perfunctory one. It was the kind of kiss that said Je suis là. You are here. Whatever it is, we deal with it. Together.
When Pierre pulled back, his thumbs brushed Yuki's cheekbones.
“Mon cœur,” Pierre said quietly. “You are thinking too loud.”
“Itsumo,” Yuki muttered. “I'm always thinking too loud.”
“Oui.” A small smile. “That is what I love about you.”
A soft smile rose on Yuki’s face.
Pierre's eyes searched his. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Ie. Ie. I don't even know what it is.
Yuki shook his head. “Not right now. Muri.”
Pierre nodded like he'd expected that answer.
“D'accord,” he said. “Then we go home. I make dinner. You tell me about your day. Or not. Whatever you need.”
Yuki looked at him. At this man who, in every universe apparently, had chosen him. At the steady warmth in his eyes — those eyes, mon dieu, how was he supposed to resist those eyes. At the way his hands hadn't left Yuki's face.
The spiral was still there. The almost was still there. The questions, the doubts, the low-grade ache of not-quite-belonging.
But Pierre was here.
And Yuki made a choice.
Not to fix it. Not to pretend it didn't exist. Just... to not let it ruin this. Ruin them. Not tonight.
“Nee. Take me home,” Yuki said.
Pierre smiled — soft, private, just for him — and took his hand.
“Viens,” he said. “I have you.”

===

The Plaza was doing that thing it did in the late afternoon, where everything went gold.
Lando had his back against the wall outside McLaren, watching the light shift across the square. Pretty, calm, the kind of evening that was supposed to feel nice.
Instead, he was bounding his knee. Twitching his fingers. Checking his phone even though it hadn’t buzzed.
He said we could leave early.
He promised!
And then Zak came over, and then someone else. And Oscar kept nodding, kept talking, kept being too freaking polite, and now Lando was standing outside. Alone. Like an idiot.

The door opened and Oscar walked out. He reached up to shade his eyes from the sunlight, looked around and spotted Lando.
Lando pushed off the wall, closed the distance, and reached for Oscar’s hand.
Oscar’s fingers curls around his, but there was a beat there. A tiny half-second where Lando had felt him hesitate.
Why did he hesitate?
Does he not want to—
Stop. You’re being paranoid. He’s just tired.
“Which way?” Oscar asked.
“Fountain’s quite nice this time of day.” Lando tugged him forward. “Very aesthetic. You know me.”
Oscar fell into step beside him. Their hands swung between them. Lando swinging his a little extra, just to feel the movement. Oscar simply let him be.
The plaza was busy, people spilling out of offices, heading home, stopping for dinner. Many people nodded at Lando, smiled, waved. He waved back, but kept walking. Kept talking.
“Did you see that new brief? The watch? The Swiss one, not the Japanese one. They want something ‘immersive’.” Lando did air quotes. “Which could mean literally anything. You know the way everyone is.”
Oscar nodded.
“Probably a pop-up. Everyone wants a pop-up lately. Pop-ups and photo walls and something for the ‘gram… not that I’m complaining. Income is income.”
Oscar nodded again.
“You’re quiet,” Lando said.
“I’m always quiet.”
“Not like this.”
Oscar glanced at him, a flicker of something crossed his eyes, Lando noticed.
“Long day.” Oscar finally said.
“Yeah,” Lando squeezed his hand. “That makes two of us.”
The walked a few more steps. The fountain was coming into view now, water catching the gold light, spilling over stone.
“You want to talk about what’s bothering you?” Lando asked. Tried to make it sound light. Casual. Like he wasn’t holding his breath.
“Not really.”
Not really.
Okay. Fine. That’s fine. He’s allowed to not want to talk. He’s allowed to have bad days. He’s allowed to be quiet. It’s not about you. The world doesn’t revolve around you. It’s not about—
“Okay,” Lando said. “That’s fine.”
The reached the fountain. Lando let go of Oscar’s hand, not dramatically, just… released it, and sat on the edge of the stone ledge. Patting the spot next to him.
Oscar sat. Not close. Not far. Just… there.
“You know, Alex texted me today,” Lando said. “Asked if everything was okay. Said that we seemed off. You seemed off.”
Oscar went still.
“Didn’t know what to tell him,” Lando continued. “Because I don’t know. You haven’t told me anything. You’ve just been… gone. In your head. Somewhere I can’t follow.”
“I’m right here.”
“Are you?”
Oscar turned to look at him. His expression was careful. The way it got when he was choosing every word.
“Lando.”
“Yes?”
“I'm trying.”
Lando's chest tightened. “Trying to what?”
“Trying to figure out what's going on. In my head. With everything.”Oscar paused. “I can't explain it. Not yet. And I know that's frustrating. I know you want answers. But I don't have them.”
“I know you want answers,” my ass!
Of course I want answers. You've been weird for days. You've been distant. You look at me like I'm a stranger and then you say, “I'm trying,” like that's supposed to be enough.
“I'm not asking for answers,” Lando said. “I'm asking for... I don't know. Something. Anything. Just — don't shut me out. Please.”
Oscar was quiet for a long moment.
“I'm not trying to shut you out.”
“But you are.”
The words hung there.
Oscar looked away. At the fountain. At the water. At anything that wasn't Lando.
Lando felt something crack. Just a little.
“You know what I think?” Lando said quietly.
“What?”
“I think you're scared. Of something. And instead of telling me what it is, you're just... backing away. Slowly. So I won't notice. So it won't hurt as much when you finally leave.”
Oscar's head snapped toward him. “That's not—”
“Isn't it?”
“No.”
“Then what is it, Oscar? Because I'm here. I'm right here. And I'm trying so hard to be patient and give you space and not freak out every time you flinch when I touch you. But I can't do it if you won't meet me halfway.”
Oscar's jaw tightened. “I didn't flinch.”
“You hesitated. When I took your hand. You hesitated.”
“I was thinking.”
“About what?”
“About—” Oscar stopped. Rubbed his face with both hands. “I don't know. Nothing. Everything. It's not— you're not—” He exhaled. “This isn't about you, Lando.”
“Then what is it about?”
Oscar didn't answer.
Lando waited. The fountain burbled. Someone walked past with a dog. The light was starting to fade.
He's not going to answer. He's never going to answer. He's just going to sit there and be quiet and hope I drop it.
I should drop it.
I should just let it go.
But I'm so tired of letting things go.
“You’ve been acting weird since that meeting,” Lando said. “At Williams. With George and Charles and everyone.”
Oscar’s shoulders tensed.
“What happened there, Oscar? What did you guys talk about?”
“I told you, it was about George and Alex’s wedding.”
“Bullshit.” The word came out sharp. Lando's voice cracked on it. “Lewis, Charles, Yuki — I understand. Designers and whatever. Pierre and Max? Fine. There for their partners. But you? What were you there for?”
Oscar opened his mouth. Closed it.
“And why was I not allowed there?” Lando's voice was rising now, despite himself. “Me! Alex and George's best friend!”
The fountain burbled. The light was almost gone.
“No, seriously. Explain it to me. Because I've been going crazy trying to figure it out. Was it something I did? Something I said? Did George ask you to keep me out? Did Alex?”
“No one asked to keep you out.”
“Then why?”
Oscar didn't answer.
Couldn't answer.
Lando stared at him. Waiting. The silence stretched.
“Right,” Lando said finally. His voice was quiet now. Flat. “Okay. Forget it.”
He pulled his hand back. Let it drop to his side.
“Lando—”
“Forget it, Oscar.”
Oscar grabbed Lando’s hand.
“I just need time. Can you give me time?”
Time.
He’s asking for time.
Time for what? Time to figure out if he still wants to be with me? Time to figure out how to leave?
Lando crossed his arms. Hugged himself. Tried to hold it together.
“How much time?” he asked.
“I don't know.”
“A day? A week? A month?”
“I don't know, Lando.”
“So I'm just supposed to wait. Indefinitely. While you figure out whatever it is you won't tell me about.”
“That’s not…Yes. I need time Lando.”
Yes.
Just... yes. Like it’s that simple. Like I’m supposed to be okay with being kept in the dark.
Lando laughed. It came out wrong. Bitter.
“Okay,” he said. “Fine. Take your time.”
“Lando—”
“I said fine, Oscar.”
He turned. Started walking.
Not storming off. Not dramatically. Just... walking. Away from the fountain. Away from Oscar. Away from the conversation that wasn't going anywhere.
“Where are you going?”Oscar called after him.
“Does it matter?”
“Lando.”
Lando stopped. Didn't turn around.
“I love you,” he said quietly. “I don't know if you care. But I do. And I'm trying to be patient. And I'm trying to give you space. But I'm also allowed to be hurt. And I'm hurt, Oscar. So I'm going to walk. And you can have your time. And when you're ready to actually talk to me — not this... not this half-answers-and-deflections thing — you know where to find me.”
He walked.
Behind him, Oscar didn't follow.

Night had fallen by the time Oscar got back to his apartment.
He unlocked the door with trembling hands and walked in slowly. Closed the door behind him, pressed his back against it, and slid down until hw was sitting on the floor.
His knees were drawn up, arms wrapped tightly around them, forehead resting on his knees. He felt an urge to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.
The sob was right there in his throat but it wouldn’t come out. Just stuck, just dry.
He stayed like that for a while.
What is wrong with me?
The questioned echoed in the dark. No answer came.
He loved me. He loves me so much it’s coming out of his pores. He looks at me like I’m the answer to every question he’s ever asked. He touches me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
But Oscar truly didn’t know how to respond to it. He’s never been good with human relationships and now he’s probably just ruined another one.

I just need time.

He meant it. He needed time, he needed enough time that he could figure out what he was doing here and find his way back into his life and return Lando the Oscar that he loves. And it was so unfair to Lando. Because the other Oscar had already made him wait. Already made him prove himself. Already put him through the slow, painful process of earning trust.
And Lando did it. Lando showed up every day. Lando was patient. Lando was kind. And Lando finally made Oscar feel safe enough to open up to him.
And now I’m here, telling him to do it all over again.
Oscar pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
It was so unfair to Lando. But at the same time, he was terrified. Because will Lando still love him if he knew that Oscar was no longer the same person?
Bold of me to assume Lando still loves me even now.
How long did he have to sort himself out until Lando finally decides that he has had enough of him?
Oscar pushed himself off the floor.
Yes, he was allowed to be a wreck emotionally. He could spiral in the dark, press his hands into his eyes, let the thoughts chew through him. But he couldn’t let it take over his life. He needed to not be a mess physically. Because he still needed to—
Wait.
Oscar stopped. His hand hovering over the lightswitch. The kitchen was dark in front of him, the fidge humming softly, the outline of the counter barely visible.
He was no longer required to get into a car.
The thought landed strangely. Because in way, he knew that. He was in a different world, doing a different job. But subconsciously, he had been keeping a lot of habits. Many of which weren’t habits of choice.
He didn’t have to weigh himself. He didn’t have to track his food intake. He didn’t have to wake up on time. He didn’t have to smile.
He didn’t have to do anything.
Oscar’s hand dropped to his side.
For some reason, it didn’t feel like relief. Or freedom. But it was hollow.
For years, he worked towards a target. Towards a car. Towards the sport. Yet now, all he was left is wondering who Oscar Piastri is without a racing car. Because no one here cared about all those things that he cared.
No one was checking his numbers, no one was comparing him to his teammate, no one noticed if he smiled or if he did not.
He could eat all the Tim Tams in the world. He could sleep until noon and the only consequence would be feeling like he had slept until noon.
Come on Oscar, snap out of it.
Oscar turned on the light.
The kitchen blinked into focus. It was so ordinary. A fridge with magnets. A kettle. A fruit bowl. A dish rack with a couple of plates on it.
It was just a kitchen, in an apartment, where he lived.
His hand found the freezer door somehow. And now he was staring at a pint of ice cream. Not Leclerc’s kind. But the actually sugar filled frozen mess of syrup.
He pulled it out and set it on the counter.
His trainer would kill him.
Actually. No. He kind of needed a trainer for that. Who is non-existent at the moment.
Neither did he have a nutritionist. Or a performance coach. Or anyone telling him what to do.
Nor do I have a therapist.
Oscar opened the tub. Yes, he knew that it wouldn’t be good for him. The flavor was some kind of mix of artificially bright colors. There were so many additives that George would probably have a stroke looking at it. Yet…
He could eat it. He could eat the whole thing and no one would know. No one would care. No one was watching.
Oscar grabbed a spoon from the drawer. He didn’t bother with a bowl. Just stood at the counter, and ate the ice cream straight from the tub. He finally understood why Logan liked doing this so much. He should buy some canned whipped cream tomorrow and try that too. Yet with every passing second, the cold in his mouth became something else. Something his body wanted out.
Or maybe his mind. He couldn’t tell.
At the same time he truly wanted to enjoy the sensation. So he swallowed. Forced the melting sweet down his throat.
This is pathetic. You are pathetic. Why are you spiraling over ice cream?
But it wasn’t just the ice cream.
It was the lack of oversight. The lack of structure. The terrifying, vertiginous freedom of a life where no one was watching and the only person holding him accountable was himself.
How long has it been since he’s last had that?
He took another bite. And another. The cold burned his teeth. And he could feel bile rising in his throat. He didn’t care.
He had it when he was in school. A little bit during the junior formulas. Perhaps it was around the time when F1 truely became a possibility? It was definitely gone before he met Lando.
Lando. Shit.
He had just let Lando go. He shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have said eighty percent of what he said to Lando.
He set the spoon down. Stared at the half empty tub.
I need to call him. I need to apologize. I need to—
His phone buzzed. Oscar’s hand moved before his brain caught up. He grabber it off the counter, expecting Lando’s name, already rehearsing what he would say.
Mark
Oscar stared at the screen.
He was not expecting this call what-so-ever. The other Oscar was way past the point to need a guiding figure to help him start up. And Oscar himself was starting to be past the point where he needed Mark in his life to guide him around F1.
You could let it go to voicemail. You could deal with this later.
Yes, he could. But yet.
He answered.
“Oscar.” Mark’s voice came through the speaker. Not angry. Not exactly worried. Just…present. The way it always was.
“Hey,” Oscar said. His voice came out rougher than he intended.
Silence stretched. Mark was waiting, letting Oscar speak first. That was his way. Give people enough rope to hang themselved or enough space to step back from the edge. Oscar had never figured out which.
“I’m guessing you heard.” Oscar said.
“You do not understand the shock of getting woken up by a call from Fernando about your mentee’s love life.”
Oscar huffed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Lando.” A pause. “Actually, I do deserve that apology. I’m too old to be getting dragged into plaza drama at—” Mark paused to check the time. “—Five in the morning.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, don’t just keep saying that.” Mark’s voice shifted into something softer, “What happened, Oscar? I want to hear from you. Not some dramatized version that Fernando fed me.”
Oscar leaned against the counter. Choosing to stick the ice cream back into the freezer before it turned into another mess he needed to clean up.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Mark went quiet for a moment. “Lando must have the patience of a saint. Because I’m about two minutes away from reaching through this phone and punching you.”
Oscar let out a chuckle. “Sorry.”
“What did I literally just tell you?”
“That Lando is patient and I’m lucky to have him?”
“Don’t get clever with me. It’s not going to work.” But Mark’s voice had no edge to it. “Now. Try again. What happened?”
Oscar sat himself down on the floor right infront of the couch, leaning his head onto it.
“I don’t know how to do this.” He said finally.
“How to do what?”
“Any of it. The relationship. The…” He gestured vaguely, even though Mark couldn’t see him. “The being someone who needs me. Who wants me. Who looks at me like he does.” He stopped and swallowed before adding on, quietly, “I don’t think I know how to be loved this way.”
And I don’t know what I’m even doing here.
But he couldn’t just say that, so he kept that part to himself.
Mark was quiet for a moment.
“And what’s keeping you from telling Lando all of this?”
Because he will leave. Because I’m not worth the effort it takes to stay.
“Because I’m scared,” Oscar admitted.
“Of?”
Oscar didn’t answer that question. Because there was a million things he was scared of right now. A good part of which he shouldn’t trouble someone from this world with.
Mark probably got the idea because he started talking again.
“Here’s what I think, and you can tell me to shut up if you want.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re probably not going to figure out tonight. Or tomorrow. Or anytime soon. And that’s fine. What’s not fine is shutting your loved ones out while you’re figuring it out, especially Lando. Because he’s not a mind reader, Oscar. He’s just a guy who loves you. And every time you pull away, he’s going to think it’s his fault. Because that’s what people do, they blame themselves.”
Oscar’s chest ached.
“You don’t have to have all the answers,” Mark continued. “You just have to let him in. Even a little. Even just enough to let him know you are still in this together.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
Oscar flinched.
“I’m not trying to be harsh. I’m just saying: sometimes we tell ourselves we can’t do something when really, we’re just too scared to try. And Lando has done so much to fight that fear. He’s just as scared of you leave as you are of him. And every time you pull away, you are just proving his fears right.”
Oscar finally felt the tears he’s been looking for so long for fall.
“I don’t know how to stop,” He said quietly.
“Then start small. Make him breakfast. Tell him you’re sorry. Tell him you’ve been in your head. Let him in a bit. Just a crack.”
Oscar nodded, then remembered that Mark couldn’t see him.
“Okay. I’ll try.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.”
“Mark?”
“Mhm?”
“Thank you. For calling. For being the outside force to stop my object in motion.”
Mark laughed. “Did you just compare yourself to a physics problem?”

[A/N: get it? Because an object in motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by an outside force? No? Sorry. I’ll leave.]

Oscar blushed. “Maybe?”
“God, you haven’t changed at all.”
Oscar smiled, genuinely happy.
“Get some sleep, Oscar. And talk to him tomorrow. And if you give him more half-answers, I will personally fly there and hit you.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Oscar!”
“You get some more sleep too!”
Oscar got up and turned off the kitchen light. Walked to the bedroom and plopped into his bed.
His phone buzzed.

Mr. Norris: srry abt erlir i didnt mean to push

Oscar stared at the message. Typed a response. Deleted it. Tried again.

Osc: It’s not you. It’s me. I’ll explain tomorrow. Promise.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Mr. Norris: ok ily
Osc: I love you too, Lando.

Oscar put it phone face down on the nightstand. It was so much easier to say over text. And now he had to figure out tomorrow.
Whatever.
For now, he slept.

===

“We’ve been married too long for this romantic shit.”
“Never.”
Pierre’s voice floated up the stairs, accompanied by the clatter of a pan and something that smelled incredible. Yuki had been banished - yes, banished!- to the bedroom so Pierre could ‘surprise him’ with dinner.
As if Yuki couldn’t hear every single thing happening in their open concept kitchen from up here.
But Pierre had given him that look. The one that said let me do this, mon cœur, please. So Yuki had trudged upstairs, flopped onto the bed, and was now staring at the ceiling, listening to his husband bang pots around like a one-man band.
We've been married too long for this romantic shit.
He'd said it as a joke. Mostly.
But the thing was, they hadn’t been married long. The had gotten married in France merely months ago to Yuki. Also, F1 Yuki wasn’t married to Plaza Pierre. Because Yuki hadn't been there for the proposal. Hadn't been there for the wedding. Hadn't been there for any of it. He'd woken up in this world already married to Pierre Gasly, wearing a ring he didn't remember choosing, in an apartment full of memories he hadn't made.
And somehow, Pierre still loved him. Despite knowing that he wasn’t the Yuki who had met Pierre at a Red Bull event. Wasn’t the Yuki who had a love story the entire office gossiped about. Wasn’t the Yuki who proposed when Pierre got fired. He wasn’t the Yuki that belonged here.
He was just… borrowing this life.
Nee. He was doing it again.
He rolled onto his side. Stared at the wall. The afternoon light was fading outside, the room going soft and grey. Somewhere downstairs, Pierre was probably burning something. It smelled fine, but Pierre had a talent for making things that looked beautiful and tasted like nothing.
That's not fair. His cooking is fine. You're just looking for things to be upset about.
He was. He knew he was.
Because the thoughts were back. The ones from the studio. The ones about puzzle pieces that didn't fit.
They were great concepts individually. But they don't go together. They weren't a collection. They were individual ideas that didn't belong with others.
Like me.
Yuki pressed his face into the pillow.
On the grid, I was the short menace. The one who yelled on the radio. People liked me. I think. Maybe they just felt sorry. Maybe some people felt obligated.
Pierre tried. He always tried. He made sure I was included. He stood next to me, sat next to me, was with me. But I never really fit.
He remembered the comments. The ones that he was always told to ignore. The ones he still looked at anyways.
Tsunoda doesn't deserve that seat.
Five years and no improvement.
Too aggressive for his skill level.
Honda seat warmer.
Just a marketing gimmick.
Pierre had held him through it. Pulled him into hugs and told him they were all bastards who didn't deserve his time. Pierre had been furious – more furious than Yuki had ever seen him – the time someone had written that long post about how Yuki was only there because of his nationality.
“They don't know you," Pierre had said. “They don't know how hard you work. They don't know how much you care. They're nobodies, Yuki. Their opinions mean nothing.”
And Yuki had nodded. Had let Pierre hold him. Had pretended those words were enough.
But underneath. In the quiet part of his chest that he never let anyone see. Yuki had a thought:
What if they are right?
What if I don’t belong?
He hasn’t said it. He would never say it. Because saying it out loud might make it real. And if it was real, then all of Pierre’s love and all of Pierre’s fury, and all of Pierre’s ‘I believe in you’s wouldn’t be enough to fix it.
So he pushed everything down. The way he always did. The way he was still doing.
Do I belong anywhere? He thought now, staring at the familiarly unfamiliar ceiling. I’m doing well now. I’m enjoying this job. But is it really me? Or am I just borrowing Plaza Yuki’s talent? Using it like it’s mine when it’s not?
His chest ached.
Bang.
Something clanged downstairs. Loud. Metal on tile.
Yuki sat up. “Pierre? Daijoubu?”
“Oui, oui! Just dropped a spoon. Nothing to worry about!”
Yuki laid back down.
He’s fine. He’s Pierre. A meal can’t kill him.
Except he couldn’t be sure, because the Pierre downstairs wasn’t his Pierre.
That was the thing Yuki kept tripping over. The thing he couldn’t quite accept.
This Pierre was almost the same. Same laugh. Same dramatics. Same way of saying mon cœur like it was the most natural thing in the world. He noticed the small things the same way as his Pierre did. Even the tiny differences.
He knows I’m different. But still loves me anyways.
But am I really the person he loves? I know he loves the Yuki that he almost ran over their first meeting. He loves the Yuki that stood by him at his worst. He loved the Yuki who has been married to him for years. And I’m not that Yuki.
And it wasn’t just that, but also the flip side of the argument.
I love Pierre. But do I really love him? Because I love my Pierre. The one who drove with me at AlphaTauri. The one who I share my secret love story with.
Two worlds. So similar but so different.
I had to hide everything. No one is allowed to find out. We have to pretend. We have to act like we’re friends because being more is complicated. I hate not being able to touch him. To hold him. And I hate that. I hate that I’ve spent years loving someone I can’t hold in front of others.
But here, it’s different.
Here, Pierre was his. Openly. Proudly. He could hold Yuki’s hand in the plaza. He could kiss Yuki’s forehead in front of everyone. And he could walk into AlphaTauri and everyone will know what he was there for.
But I can’t even appreciate it.
Because he’s not my Pierre.
Will there ever be a day when he realizes I’m nothing like the Yuki he married? Will he look at me differently? Will he—
Yuki’s eyes burned.
Stop. Stop it! You’re doing it again.
But he couldn’t stop. The thoughts were an avalanche now, picking up speed. Taking everything with them.

This Pierre is willing to love me. As much as he loved the other Yuki. He sees me as his husband and loved me. But how long will it last?
How long can it last if I can’t love him back? Not the way he deserves. Not the way I want to.
I want to. God, I want to. I want to let him hold me and not feel guilty. I want to kiss him and not think about the Pierre I left behind. I want to be here, really here, and not waiting to go back.
But I can’t.
And I don’t know why. No, you do know why.
You’re scared.
You’re scared that if you let yourself love this Pierre, you’ll forget the other one. Or worse, you’ll realize that you love this one more. And then what? The you have to choose. And you don’t know how to choose. And you’re terrified of making the wrong choice. So you make no choice at all. You just… exist. In between. Belonging nowhere.
The tears came.
Not dramatically. Also not the kind you could wipe away and pretend didn’t happen. It was a like breaking a faucet head. And now water was pouring and there wasn’t any way to stop it.
Yuki pressed his fist to his mouth.
Don’t let him hear. Don’t let him know. He’s making dinner. He put in effort. Don’t ruin it.
Apparently the world hated him so much it didn’t even give him that.
The door opened.
Yuki turned his face away. Too late. Pierre was already crossing the room, already seeing.
“Mon cœur,” Pierre’s voice went soft “What happened? What’s wrong?”
Nothing. Everything.
You’re not mine. I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s.
“Rien,” Yuki managed. His voice cracking. “Nothing.”
Pierre didn’t say if he believed him or not. He just sat on the edge of the bed, reached out, and pulled Yuki into his arms. Held him. Tight.
Yuki’s face pressed into Pierre’s chest. He could feel Pierre’s heartbeat. Steady. Sure.

He’s being kind. He’s being gentle. He was doing everything so right. And it was making things to much worse.
Because he shouldn’t be comforting me. He should be comforting his Yuki. The one who is who knows where. The one I replaced. The one who actually deserves this.
I’m a ground. I’m a thief. I’ve stolen someone’s life and I’m too much of a coward to give it back.
“Yuki.” Pierre’s hand was in his hair. Gentle. “Talke to me. Please.”
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
Yuki took a breath. Then another. Pushed the tears back down. Pulled himself together the way he knew to. On the grid, in the media pen, in every situation where showing weakness wasn’t an option.
“Just a bad day, he said. Pulled back, wiped his face, and smiled. “I’m fine.”
Pierre’s eyes stared right past his lies and into his soul. But Yuki held his gaze.
Please let me have this. Let me pretend. Let me keep the peace.
Pierre’s expression flickered, he obviously didn’t like it, but he didn’t push.
“Dinner’s ready.” Pierre said quietly.
Yuki nodded. Let Pierre help him up. Let Pierre keep an arm around his waist as they walked downstairs. Let Pierre plate the food and pour the wine and tell him about his day with random French and Japanese terms thrown in.
He put in so much effort. I can’t let it go to waste.
So Yuki ate. And nodded. And laughed when Pierre said something funny. And pretended the tears never happened.
But underneath, the thoughts kept churning.
One day, they whispered, one day you won’t be able to push it all down.
And it’s going to explode and hurt you. And everyone around you.
Yuki took another bite. Smiled. Kept the mask in place.
Not today, he told himself. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

===

George wasn’t sitting in the dark on purpose. The living room had light when he sat down. It’s just the sun had set and now it was dark and he hadn’t found the energy to get up and open the light.
Duck had found him first. They grey menace appearing out of nowhere in the fashion that cats always fish. And had chosen to curl up at his feet like a furry anchor. Then Moo-moo, who had no concept of personal space, had claimed his lap with the certainty of someone who knew she would not be moved. And finally Goose, the bravest of the three, launched himself onto George’s shoulder and was currently purring directly into his ear.
Three cats. Three points of contact. Three small, warm weights keeping him from floating away entirely.
He’s going to come home within an hour.
The thought arrived unbidden. Unwelcome. Inevitable.
He’s going to kiss me. He’s going to ask about my day. He’s going to tell me about his day. He’s going to make tea, and then add so many things to it that it’s no longer tea.
All of that, George could deal with. All of that were things that existed between him and Alex even before. What he couldn’t deal with is what would happen next.
He’s going to wrap his arms around me from behind while the kettle boils. He’s going to rest his chin on my shoulder. He’s going to say something random. And I’m going to laugh. Because he always makes me laugh. And then he’s going to look at me. Like I’m the sole reason for his survival.
George closed his eyes.
There was a weight behind his sternum. Not heavy, exactly. Something was taking up a space and it was reorientating everything to cause a pressure. And that was making the space it occupied feel very hollow. He knew this feeling, he’s felt it before. Late at night, when he’d scroll through photos of Alex and Lily and feel nothing and everything all at once. Whenever Alex disappeared, Lily was in the area.
But none of that could compare to how it felt now. Because now he knew what was supposed to fill that space. He had it. And he was doomed to lose it.
George pressed his palm against his chest. As if he was trying to arrange everything correctly. But of course it didn’t work. When did it ever?
I’m going to let him love me tonight. Because it’s easier. Because it’s what I want to do. It’s what this body knows how to do. Because the alternative is telling him the truth, and the truth is a grenade I don’t know how to throw.
He thought about the photoshoot. About how horrible he was when he tried to control everything. And how as soon as he let his body do its thing, it knew exactly what to do. Plaza George had already trained it to know what to do.
The other George was so much better of a person then he was. He had a job he liked, aside a person he admired, and he was good at it. He was engaged to the love of his life, and soon to be married.
I am none of those things.
Yes, he made it to Formula 1, the place of his dreams, but he was getting nowhere in it. He had Lewis as a teammate, but now he was next to a ‘generational talent’ that held so much more in his hands than George ever had. And the love of his life was engaged to a lovely woman who was amazing to him.
I’m such a failure compared to him.
George shifted on the couch. Moo-moo protested with a small mrrp but didn’t move. Goose readjusted his grip on George’s shoulder. Duck, oblivious, continued his assault on George’s feet.
How dare I attempt to replace him?
How dare I sit here, with his cats? Thinking about his fianceé? Accepting every bit of kindness to his man is willing to give me while oblivious?
Moo-moo rolled onto her back in his lap, exposing her belly, trusting him.
George scratched her softly.
She doesn’t know. None of them know. The cats think I’m him. Alex thinks I’m him. Everyone in the plaza smiles at me like I’m him. But I’m not.
I’m the counterfeit. The knock off. The version that came from a world where I just keep failing.
Scene after scene came to him.
The karting days when he drove alongside Max, the next big thing. Then Charles. And everyone else. He was ‘talented’ but obviously not enough, not compared to the real stars.
The junior formula years. The endless setbacks. The way people would pat him on the back and then turn to the other talents.
He walked into Mercedes that day with everything to lose. He remembered standing in front of Toto Wolff, and thinking, ‘this is it, it’s not going to happen,’ and yet somehow it did. The joy that erupted inside him was so bright, so pure, he thought it might burn through his ribs.
And then he signed the Williams contract.
Williams. God, Williams. The team that was dying when he arrived. He gave them everything. Every qualifying lap wrung out like water from stone. Every single moment that earned him the name Mr. Saturday. The German Grand Prix in 2019, when he came close to finishing tenth, but ended up getting overtaken by Kubica, who would score the team’s only point that year. He had finished dead last in the drivers championship, the glaring zero next to his name, a taunt. A monument to all the work he’d put in. All the nothing he’d gotten back.
He watched as Alex and Lando competed for points and podiums after beating them the year before in F2. And having to laugh with them whenever they threw jabs. Because they were his friends, because they also meant well. Because they had no idea how much pain they were causing him because he never let them know.
2020 wasn’t much better. Williams itself was a mess. Zero points for the entire team. His only points scored for Mercedes in Sakhir.
Ah Sakir, a place he never wanted to see ever again. He nearly had pole position, overtook Valterri in the first corner and led the majority of the race. And then the team decided to put Bottas’s tires on his car. And then there was a puncture. And somehow a prospective win, turned into a prospective podium, which turned into 3 measly points. What a race it was.
2021 was a mess. Contract wise, and track wise. He got so close to points so many times, before finally getting his first points for Williams in Hungary. That was a race to remember, double points for Williams. And finally, after that race, Mercedes agreed to promote him to the senior team.
His maiden podium was much more underwhelming than most that he’s seen. Qualifying second, a front row start. And then the entire race getting called off.
In 2022, he finally got to the team. But the team simply couldn't live up to its legacy that year. The wind tunnel that looked so promising in simulations turned out to be a beast to drive in real life. He spent the first nine races testing experimental parts for the car. Yet, this was the year that he checked off many of his career firsts, all overshadowed by Max’s dominance. His first podium in a full-length race in Melbourne; his first pole position at Hungary; and his first Grand Prix and sprint race victories at Interlagos.
Firsts. The things he had dreamed about since he was a kid. And yet it felt as if no one was watching. No one cared.
2023 was a complete disaster. Seven pit stops in one race. A last-lap crash that the world would later refuse to let him forget. He could still hear the commentary. Still see the replays. Still feel the way people looked at him afterward — like he was dangerous, like he didn't belong, like he'd finally shown his true colors.
In 2024, the team finally gave up on the wind tunnel. The new car was fast, but inconsistent. His second career race victory at Spielberg (Again, overshadowed by everyone talking about how Max and Norris taking each other out), a win at Spa only to get disqualified (first one in the 21st century. Of course it was him). An unlucky call made in Sao Paulo when he was ordered to pit right before a red flag. And then a third win in Las Vegas (where Max decided to win his fourth WDC, great timing.)
All of his frustration piling up into Qatar, when Max decided that George simply using the tools at his disposal was worthy of putting him in the wall. And of course the world took Max’s side. Who were they supposed to stand by? The one had 3 wins? Or the one with 4 WDCs?
2025 was still so raw, and so hurtful. The contract talks, the car that was far from fighting for wins, the new teammate who had little respect for him. His first hat trick in Canada, which also happened to be his younger teammate's first podium (making him the third youngest driver to score a podium finish in F1). Summary break spent mostly with pressure around his contract. Fighting for his life in Baku. His Singapore redemption win, overshadowed by McLaren winning the Constructors. All while he watched his teammate have a rookie season so much better than his.
And worst of all, watching as Alex and Lily got closer. Watched as two amazing people met and fell in love.
Yes, Plaza George also went through a lot. But he was happy. And soon to be married to Alex. Because he hadn't just sat by while someone else dated his best friend and crush. Plaza George was the one making someone fall in love. Plaza George didn't spend his evenings scrolling through photos of his best friend with someone else, wondering what it would feel like to be looked at that way. Plaza George didn't have to laugh at jokes that cut too close, didn't have to smile through engagement announcements, didn't have to stand at the altar and hold the ring of the man he loved while that man put a ring on someone else's finger.
Plaza George had everything George had ever wanted.
And I just dropped in and stole it.
He wondered if the other George had woken up in his life. Woken up to see everything he worked so hard for gone.Having to watch as his love walked down the aisle with a different person.
But he also wondered if he would wake up back in the other world the same way he had woken up in this one?
Will I wake up in my own bed, in my own life, and he's not there? Will I see him across the paddock and he smiles at me the way he always smiles at me? Friend, warm, but not mine to love. Not mine to kiss.
I'll break. I'll shatter. I'll spend the rest of my career watching him love someone else and pretending it doesn't tear me apart.
So I should stop. I should pull back. I should protect myself. That's the smart thing. That's the safe thing.
But easier said than done. You try having the one you’ve always wanted and have to give him up.
All of his negative energy probably bothered Goose, because he chose to jump off his shoulder into his lap, pushing Moo-moo to the side. The two have a fight, which Moo-moo won. So Goose attacks Duck and the two run off. George lets Moo-moo resettle herself before starting to run his hand through her fur.
But how long can things stay this way? How long will it be before Alex notices? They grew up together. They know everything there is to know about each other. He’s already noticing that something is up. What happens when he inevitably won’t let me escape any more?
What was he supposed to tell Alex?
"I'm not the George you love"?
"I'm from another universe where you're engaged to someone else and I've been in love with you for years and I don't know how to be loved by you without waiting for it to end"?
"I'm scared that if I let myself have this, I'll never be able to let go"?
Alex would think he was crazy. Or, Alex could be the person he is and believe him. And then what? He now knows George isn’t the person he loves. Because Alex loved the George of this world. The George who was brave enough to ask him out. The George who planned a wedding. The George who didn't spend years watching from the sidelines.
I'm not that George. I'm the coward. The one who waited too long. The one who let Lily have him without a fight. The one who only gets him in a world that isn't real.
So what was he supposed to do?
Suddenly, Moo-moo sat up in his lap, ears perked. Then, George heard the key in the lock.

Shit. The lights.

But he didn’t have enough time to get to the switch before the door swung open.
Alex stepped inside, immediately scooping up Duck as the grey menace darted toward him like a furry missile. Goose abandoned his ambush on Duck and launched himself at Alex’s legs instead, meowing demands.
“Georgie?” Alex called out, flicking on the lights with his elbow. He didn’t sound surprised to find George sitting in what had been total darkness. “Are you brooding in the dark again?”
George blinked against the sudden brightness, trying to pull his face into something normal. “No. Just… tired from the shoot today.”
“Well, if they wanted brooding and mysterious, you’ve got that locked down. Very, ‘tortured artist who owns too many cats.”
George huffed a small laugh despite everything. Alex always did this — poked at him just enough to drag him out of his own head, but never meanly.
Alex crossed the room carefully, stepping over Goose, who was now doing figure-eights around his ankles like a particularly needy shark. He leaned down over the couch, Moo-moo eyeing him with deep suspicion from George’s lap.
Before Alex could pull back after a quick forehead kiss, George’s hand moved on its own — fingers sliding to the back of Alex’s neck, pulling him down harder.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t the sleepy, wandering kind from this morning. It was desperate, a little rough, all the words George couldn’t say pouring into the press of lips and the tight grip on Alex’s neck. Don’t ask, don’t look too close, let me have this.
Alex made a surprised noise that melted into something warmer. His bag hit the floor with a thud. Hands found George’s face, then his shoulders, then the couch for balance as he swung a leg over and straddled George’s thighs without breaking the kiss. The shift pressed them closer, Alex’s weight solid and grounding, knees bracketing George’s hips.
Moo-moo let out an outraged yowl from between them, clearly offended by the sudden invasion of her throne. She wriggled free and stalked off to join the others in the cat tree with an indignant tail flick.
Alex pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against George’s, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. His thumbs brushed over George’s cheekbones, gentle even while his voice stayed light and teasing.
“Wow. What was that for?” He rocked his hips once, playfully, the movement sending a spark through George that had nothing to do with comfort. “Not that I’m complaining. Missed me that much after one photoshoot? Or are we going full ‘welcome home, darling, ravish me on the couch’ tonight?”
There was a glint in Alex’s eyes, mischief mixed with something softer, warmer. He tilted his head, studying George’s face like he could read every unspoken thing there. “You’re being awfully sentimental and clingy.”
His fingers trailed down George’s neck, light and teasing, then dipped under the collar of his shirt, pressing warm against skin. “You know, I’m here for whatever you need. Talk, or keep kissing me like the world’s ending. Your choice. But I’m voting for option two.”
Alex leaned in again, this time slower, lips brushing the corner of George’s mouth as if giving him an out… while his hand slipped further down George’s chest, palm flat and possessive.
George, too, liked option two.