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It’s not that Max is agonizing. He became World Champion in December, proceeded to have a lovely winter break, and spent it doing things he’s supposed to enjoy, like going on vacation, partying, and seeing his friends back home. (What he actually enjoyed was sitting at home in Monaco with his cats, playing video games online.) So it’s not that Max is agonizing. After all, he has no reason to. It’s just that it’s March now. Pre-season testing in Barcelona is in a couple of weeks, and he isn’t nervous per se, because Max trusts his team to build him a great car, but it’s that Lewis is going to be there.

Lewis, who he beat to the championship just a couple months ago. Lewis who completely fell off the grid for the entire winter break. Lewis, who posted that stupid, cryptic Instagram post with the caption I’ve been gone, now I’m back less than a month ago. Lewis, who looked absolutely gorgeous healthy in that photo, standing on a cliff, laughing at someone off-camera.

Lewis.

Now, to be fair, when Max first joined Formula 1, he didn’t expect to end up liking Lewis Hamilton. (Yes, it’s only a like, Max decides. Love is not for him, and even if it is, he’s not going to love Lewis Hamilton of all people. Even if Max has spent most of his career staring up at Lewis from the lower steps of the podium. Even if he definitely felt something whenever Lewis would tease him during press conferences, play with him endlessly on the podium and– No. It’s only a like.) He’d only intended to race, to win as much as possible, and maybe go down in history along the way, but then again perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised this ended up happening. It is Lewis Hamilton after all, with his insurmountable charm, endless smiles, cute giggles, unfairly stunning face and a whole slew of other qualities Max couldn’t possibly even begin to list, at risk of sounding, well… in love.

And now, years after first realizing that he definitely feels something for Lewis, here Max is. At home–Monaco, not Holland. He loves Holland but he hasn’t called it home in a long time–curled up in bed with Jimmy and Sassy, one of whom keeps scratching at him, but Max loves them both, and he needs some comfort right now, so he’s decided to allow it. His jet leaves for Barcelona in the morning and all he can think of is what it’ll be like to see everyone again.

Well not everyone. He saw almost all the drivers only a couple weeks ago, during the anti-war campaign, there are certain drivers he has no desire to see again, and the ones he does look forward to reuniting with, such as Daniel and Lando, he’d already spent time with during the break. (Lando showed him some of his new DJ stuff. Max didn’t have the heart to tell him how soul-shatteringly bad it was.)

So no. He doesn’t wonder what it will be like to see everyone again. He wonders what it will be like to see Lewis again.

Will they talk? Air out their emotions and feelings about last year, find common ground and let it go? Or will Lewis be unkind towards him? Make snide comments at him during press conferences, curse him out on the coms? Hold a grudge and never let go? Or, even worse, will Lewis go back to pretending Max doesn’t exist, go back to calling him ‘this guy’ and ‘this dude’ instead of his name, like he did before they became rivals? Will Max have to go back to vying for his attention, to doing everything possible just to make Lewis look, to make him notice?

Deep down, Max knows Lewis would never be rude, at least not openly. Lewis is many things, but never rude. Never unkind or uncouth, he carries himself with a sort of grace not often seen in sports. He measures all his words carefully, weighs them and always thinks twice, no, thrice, before speaking. His composure hides his emotions behind soft edges and restrained smiles, his crass thoughts are swallowed down by years of media training and lectures from his father.

(Plus there’s Nico, Max thinks. He’s been on the grid long enough to remember what the battles between the two Silver Arrows were like, to remember how different Lewis was back then. Nico is definitely part of the reason Lewis has become who he is today, Max supposes, only a little green eyed. At the end of the day, Nico is part of Lewis in every way. He’s the reason Lewis races the way he does, the reason he carries an illusion of his heart on his sleeve and keeps the real thing locked behind gates of steel, the reason he talks, walks the way he does. Sometimes, privately, Max wonders if he could ever have that kind of effect on Lewis as well. And sometimes, even more privately, he knows he couldn’t. Lewis knew Nico his entire life, they dreamed together, raced together and then fell apart together, yet Lewis still shut Nico out without a second thought once he left. Max doesn't have that kind of history, doesn’t have that privilege. And if Nico is only worthy of a few chapters in Lewis' life, how could Max be anything but a footnote?)

Max has always been the opposite of Lewis. Better compared to a bull in a china shop than anything else. He waived his media training, and now he just speaks first, acts second, and thinks last. It’s not that Max doesn’t think, after all, thinking is the only thing he’s managed to do over the break.

He’s obsessed over every possibility of his and Lewis’ reunion, and ultimately, it’s not Lewis being mean that worries him, because Lewis wouldn’t do that. It’s the last option that agitates him. The thought of Lewis going back to ignoring him and just pretending Max doesn’t exist is almost too painful to bear. Max remembers what it was like before. Before he was fighting for wins, and the championship, back when he was scrapping away for points in the midfield, at best chasing the tail ends of podiums. Lewis never looked at him, always too wrapped up in whoever he was fighting; Nico, Sebastian, even Valtteri, but not anyone else.

Last year that had changed. As races and podiums passed by, Max had found himself looking up to Nico, to Sebastian. Carrying the weight of Lewis’ attention, his gaze, and not crumbling underneath it is a testimony of strength more so than any wheel-to-wheel racing action. And for the entire season Max had borne that weight, and it took Herculean effort for him not to fall apart. It is, after all, not everyday a god looks at you.

With a sigh, Max turns over and pulls the covers over himself, banishes all thoughts of a certain World Champion, and lets sleep take him.

–

“Okay, try to make it into the pitlane, please Max.” Bahrain is a shitshow for Red Bull, to say the least.

Testing had come and gone. The Red Bull looked great while the Mercedes had looked bad, and just the sheer paradoxical ridiculousness of that still makes Max’s head hurt. From the pits, he’d watched Lewis crawl down the straights, dragging and fighting his car, his helmet bouncing on the bottom of the screen. Christian had been sitting next to Max, wearing a grin of ill-concealed glee.

Great, so this is fucking karma, Max thinks as he gets out of the car. Three laps, he’d been three laps from the chequered flag, a definite podium or a possible victory, before his car had given up on him.

Three laps later, he watches Checo get out of the car, only a few corners away from the finish line. And what was supposed to be a double Red Bull podium, then a single Red Bull podium, quickly turns into a Ferrari 1-2, with Lewis bringing up the rear in third. Christian’s gleeful smile fades and transforms into a shark-like grimace, his eyes set alight.

On a brighter note, turns out Lewis isn’t completely ignoring him. Earlier that day, as they’d lined up for the anthem, Lewis had suddenly appeared in his peripheral vision, holding out his fist. (Nothing about Lewis’ appearance had been actually sudden. Max’s ability of constantly being aware of Lewis’ whereabouts is a bit like a sixth sense he can’t quite shake, on the race track and off it.) The conversation they had shared wasn't groundbreaking–quick hellos exchanged and nothing more–but Max had been too caught up in the haze of Lewis being around him, speaking to him, to even care.

So yeah, even though the weekend has turned out shit, Max just deigns to take whatever wins wherever he can. That’s something his therapist taught him.

During debrief the team placates Checo and him (mostly him) with reassuring words, telling them they’ll do the necessary work, and next race they’ll come back stronger. Their words leave no effect and Max exits the meeting just as annoyed as when he entered. It is not until later that night, when he’s calmed down a little bit, that Max resolves to watch the podium ceremony. Howbeit, it was a Ferrari 1-2 and that hasn’t happened in so long, and Carlos is his friend, plus Charles won, and Charles is also his friend. (Okay, even Max knows that one’s a stretch.) Point is, Max watches the podium for his friends and no one else. Watches as they hand the trophy (Your trophy, the voice inside his head whispers) to Charles, watches the pure joy on his face.

He also watches the look on Lewis’ face when Charles is handed his trophy. He looks proud. He’s never looked at you like that, his mind supplies.

“Shut up,” Max mutters into the darkness as he shuts his phone off. He has enough problems right now and he’s not gonna let his mind make another one up.

–

“I know you have a nipple piercing man, come on.” Lewis giggles in a delightful tone that makes Max’s mind go blank. Inside his brain, a tiny Max scrambles around desperately, trying to find the ‘system reboot’ button.

Two weeks ago, Max won in Jeddah, and he’s still riding that high. Lewis finished a lowly tenth, how that happened Max has no idea. Yet still, Lewis sits here, making jokes with his (former) rival. Who he also hates. Sometimes Max really does feel bad for Lewis and his media presence. If Max’s was so well-crafted that he couldn't even properly express his thoughts about a bad race, he would literally implode.

After what feels like an eternity, but must only be a second or so, Max lets out a laugh and replies. “You want to see it again?”

Huh. Tiny Max must’ve found the button he was looking for. He’s rewarded with a dazzling smile from Lewis, and just for that, making a fool of himself on live television seems worth it. A second later Lewis implies he has a Prince Albert, and, okay, that is definitely something Max is going to think about later. At length. And alone.

That Sunday, Max DNFs again. A DNF, a win, and a DNF. If this is a pattern, he hates it.

–

Turns out it’s not a pattern. Max wins the next three races in succession, bringing home two Red Bull 1-2’s along the way. He takes the Championship lead now, in Spain. Lewis still hasn’t had a podium since Bahrain, not that Max is keeping score.

“Where did Lewis finish?” He asks his race engineer, once he gets out of the car and all the celebratory congratulations with the team are finished.

“Max,” GP replies in a long-suffering tone, edges of a tired smile tugging at his lips.

“He was fast. You were telling me his lap times,” Max says.

“You can just go ask him y’know?” GP comments in a sapped tone.

“He doesn't want to talk to me.” Max grits out. “We’re not friends.”

“Have you even tried?” GP immediately shoots back.

Mercifully, Max gets called towards the podium ceremony. He doesn't want to even think about answering that question. Inside, he sets down his helmet and is chugging on his Red Bull when the doors open and Lewis walks in. Lewis reaches his gloved hand out, holds it up, and Max lifts his own to meet it. And that’s that. Lewis keeps walking, Max swallows his sip.

No words, just a fistbump. Okay. Overall, not terrible and a win is a win. Considering last week, he’s surprised Lewis even wants to interact with him. Lewis spent the entire race in the bottom half of the pack, out of the points, and near the end, Max lapped him. He doesn’t know how Lewis felt afterwards, even the press had enough tact not to rub salt in that particular wound by asking. To Max, the only word he can use to describe how it felt is wrong. The entire season is just wrong. Lewis should be up there, next to him on the front row, fighting him for the win and then spraying him with champagne on the podium. Max wants to watch Lewis arrive on him in his mirrors, wants to push and pull, scrap away for positions, wants to feel the satisfaction of leaving Lewis’ car behind, of taking the lead. There was no such satisfaction in the blue flags being waved, in Lewis letting him past. It was all wrong.

This season was supposed to be Lewis’ comeback, where he fights for his eighth championship in the wake of last year's controversy. Instead Mercedes gave him a trampoline on wheels with the straight line speed of an old woman crossing the road. Okay, that might be a little dramatic on Max’s side, considering he’s not actually driven the car, but if Lewis can’t drive it to podiums then Max firmly believes no one can. (No, George does not count, thank you very much.)

-

One week later, Max is leaning over the side of a yacht, gulping down cold air to calm his churning stomach, when he feels someone sidle up next to him.

Monaco is the first race of the season that Max finishes but doesn’t win. He still ends up third whilst Checo wins, so he’s really not mad about it. Afterwards they all went out to celebrate together. Max doesn’t know where everyone else is, he lost them somewhere between his first and second tray of shots, but he’s here, alone, feeling close to violently ill.

“Max, are you okay?” It’s Charles. Max didn’t even know he was here. (Charles, on the other hand, had a terrible race. And if the drink in his hand and the smell of his breath are anything to go by, Max would say he’s trying to forget about it.)

No matter how the media tries to put it, Max doesn’t actually have any particularly strong feelings towards Charles. There is no leftover childhood rivalry being reignited, nor is there a blossoming friendship happening. They just exist. Max respects Charles, sure, but he’s tired of the media painting their relationship this season as a “respectful rivalry”. They’ve fought on track a grand total of two times and it usually ends up with a DNF on either side. Granted, the DNFs aren’t ever caused by each other, but still. The rivalry part of the respectful rivalry seems to be missing. (Max also hates how they compare it to what he had with Lewis last year. This is nothing like that.)

Max doesn’t reply, just keeps gazing out at the sea. He doesn’t think he can reply, not without his dinner ending up in the water below them. He gives a slow nod instead.

“Okay. Wait here.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Charles leave. The cogs in his mind turn slowly as he tries to comprehend what’s happening. By the time he realizes that Charles had sounded worried, the man in question reappears next to him. It’s funny, Max thinks, how unobservant he is when it comes to everyone except for Lewis. If Lewis was walking towards him, Max wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else.

“Lewis? Max, what are you talking about?”

Oh. Max hadn’t realized he’d said that out loud. But what the hell, he wants to talk about this with someone. Besides, there’s no way he’ll regret this in the morning.

“Here. Drink this.” Something cold digs into Max’s chest. He takes it and chugs it down in one go. It’s water. Somehow he feels even worse now.

“No! Not that quick mate—,“ An exasperated groan comes from Max’s right side.

“I wish he was here.”

“Who?”

“Lewis.”

“Mate, what the hell are you talking about!?” Max doesn’t get the chance to answer, because he’s abruptly leaning over the edge of the boat, emptying his stomach.

“Oh shit, okay one minute!” He sees Charles leave again. Max is still leaning over the edge, his head hanging low, when Charles returns. He’s got another bottle of, presumably, water with him, and a little bag of pretzel sticks. He grabs Max by the shoulders, and starts pushing him down. Max lets himself be maneuvered into a sitting position, legs spread out in front of him, his back to the railing.

“Here eat this, and drink some water. Slowly,” Charles says.

Max obliges. They sit there in silence, Max on the floor, Charles kneeling next to him. Max nibbles on the pretzel, the sound of his own chewing drowned out by the deep bass of the loud music radiating off the yacht. All his thoughts are so quiet here. He thinks he likes it.

“I think we need to get you home,” Charles says without any preamble. “Come on.” And then he’s standing, grabbing Max by the arm and hauling him to his feet. Charles deposits Max’s weight unto him. Max is quick to untangle himself, and push him away.

“I can walk on my own.” He takes a step and promptly stumbles.

Charles lets out an aggressive snort. “Sure you can.” He grabs Max again.

The way home is a haze. Here is what Max remembers: sitting in the taxi, the elevator ride up to his apartment, getting into bed. Here is what Max does not remember: rambling non-stop in the taxi, throwing up again in the bushes outside his complex, falling asleep in the elevator, and Charles dragging him inside.

Here is what Charles remembers: everything.

Max wakes the next morning with a killer headache and a mouth that tastes like cotton. The smell of something burning wafts through the apartment, into his bedroom. There’s a glass of water and a painkiller placed on his bedside table. He rolls out of bed and downs both quickly, sending a silent thank you to whoever put them there.

He lets his mind calm a little, and suddenly registers the burnt smell drifting through his home. He springs the door open, pulling a sweatshirt over his head. In the kitchen he finds Charles Leclerc, staring dejectedly at two pieces of burnt toast.

“Charles? What are you doing here?”

“Max! Good morning mate, how are you feeling?” Charles looks relieved to see him. Max sits down at the kitchen table.

“Like I got run over by a bus.” Max deadpans.

“Yeah, after last night I can imagine.” Charles lets out an awkward laugh. “I wanted to make you breakfast before I leave, but I burned it. Carlos is much better at this than me, he’s actually a great cook, his breakfasts are amazing,” Charles has started to ramble now. “and… maybe we could talk? About last night? If you want.”

“Oh God,” Max buries his face in his hands. “What did I do?”

“Nothing! Nothing, you didn’t do anything. I mean you vomited a couple of times, but mostly you just talked–,” Max looks up at him expectantly. “about Lewis.” Max freezes. Charles sets down the plate with the burnt toast in front of him.

“Max, it is not a bad thing, you know. If you like him. I mean everyone likes him. It’s Lewis.” Charles has a small smile on his face. It looks condolatory. Max hates it.

There’s an itch building in the back of Max’s throat. He coughs to clear it. It doesn’t help. “I don’t– like him.” He manages to get out.

“Okay, mate.” The expression on Charles’ face is pitying now. Max might hate this even more. “Whatever you say.”

“I mean, I– fuck. Maybe I do like him, but– What did I say?” Max can feel the worry in his voice start to rise.

“Nothing bad, really! You just said things like you wish he was there,” Max groans loudly. “and then you talked about how good he looks all the time,” Max drops his head on the table. “and then you became really sad. You said he never looks at you anymore.” Max bangs his head against the table.

“Okay,” Max says. His words come out muffled, his face still mushed against the table. “Can you just forget about it? All of it?”

“Mate I wish that I could.” Charles’ laugh is easier now. “You talked about how he looks for, like, an hour. I mean, I understand, it’s Lewis, but I don’t want to hear about how great his ass looks in his pants for thirty minutes.” It’s evident that Charles is going to hold this over him for the rest of time.

Max bangs his head against the table again. Multiple times. If he suffers enough brain damage he could forget the entire conversation.

“Max, I– I want you to know, I will not tell anyone. I would never.” Charles clears his throat, nerves evident. “But maybe, you should talk to Lewis–”

“No! Are you insane Charles?!” Max all but shouts. “He hates me.”

“He does not hate you, Max. Listen, I have been talking to Seb and–” He is cut off by Max again.

“Can we… not talk about this? I don’t want to,” Max asks.

“Okay, but Max… If you do like Lewis– Do not do this to your girlfriend, mate. You are not helping anyone.”

Max just stares at Charles. No response, but he lets the words run through his mind.

“Okay,” Charles says again. “I have to go. I am meeting Carlos for lunch. If he can get out of bed.” Max doesn’t respond again. His eyes follow Charles as he gathers his stuff, and then sees him to the door.

“Charles,” Max calls out, just as Charles is about to leave. “Thank you. For last night. And– for not telling anybody.”

“Of course.” Charles reacts simply. Max doesn’t watch him leave, instead turns back inside and heads straight back to bed. I am never drinking again, he swears to himself, when halfway to his bedroom he has to rest his forehead against a cool wall of his apartment.

That is a lie. Not even a week later Max wins in Baku and drinks a copious amount afterwards. Lewis finishes fourth, the wrong Mercedes joins Max on the podium. Lewis struggles to get out of his car, having to be helped out, while Max stands on the top step of the podium. George sprays champagne all over Max, and his teammate is barely able to stand for days. Max has a lot of thoughts about this, none of them nice, and all of them probably unfair. He lets those thoughts go.

-

Here is the thing about Kelly and Max. Neither of them particularly like each other in a romantic sense, this became painfully obvious after only a few months of dating, but they both agreed that staying together would be easier than dealing with the break up, and all the following media about their ‘newly single’ lives. They’re not together, but it's easier to pretend they are.

Here is a bad thing about (Kelly and) Max. He likes being around her family. He likes their jokes, likes how comfortable and rambunctious they all are with each other. When videos surface of Nelson calling Lewis a slur, he does not say anything. He’s built a comfortable life, like this, surrounded by Kelly and the Piquets. (Sometimes he wonders whether comfortable also means right. He never dwells on those thoughts for too long.) So he stays silent.

Here is the worst thing about Max. His silence haunts him less than it should.

-

Lewis starts getting podiums again. Max is not always up there with him (he is not up there once), but he always rewatches the podium online afterwards. When they are up there together it’s… nice. Awkward but not totally. They don’t talk, not really. They spray champagne on each other, clink bottles, and share a smile.

Max starts catching Lewis staring at him. On the podiums, in the paddock, in press interviews. Max looks at Lewis, and sees Lewis already watching him, something strange dancing in his eyes. He never looks embarrassed about being caught, only ever gifts Max a kind smile, and looks away.

Hungary is… different. It is a good drive, for both of them. P10 to P1 and P7 to P2.

Lewis’ smile when he looks at Max is more endeared larger than it was all those weeks ago on their first podium in Canada. (The something in Lewis’ eyes when he looks at Max has also changed. It’s gone from something akin to confusion to something akin to affection. Max does not know what to do with this.) The cool down room is always more awkward than the podium ceremony itself. The podium is ingrained in Max, he’s got it down to muscle memory–stand up straight, hat off, smile, wave, spray the other drivers with champagne–but the cool down room is free reign. Sometimes Lewis ignores him, sometimes Lewis just leaves altogether. In Hungary, he stays. Lewis asks a question, Max answers. There is a stupid grin on his face, he knows this, but when Lewis laughs at his answer he also doesn’t care.

And if Max stares a little too fondly at Lewis, it doesn’t matter. No one will notice, anyway, he reasons with himself. (Everyone notices. Their names trend on Twitter together.)

So yes, Hungary is different, and during the summer, it is the race he thinks about the most.

(Max also thinks about the French GP a lot. His hand wrapped around himself, sliding up and down faster, and faster, and faster. He remembers Lewis, on the floor, legs spread wide, so inviting. He imagines Lewis in that same position but on his bed. Max chokes out a moan. When he comes, he closes his eyes and can almost hear a voice above him, a familiar light British lilt, going That’s it, baby.)

-

Max breaks up with Kelly over the summer break. The media goes insane, and it turns out that Max and Kelly were right, they start crafting all kinds of fake tales and fables about their relationship. Kelly Piquet has affair with other man, and Max Verstappen cheats on Kelly; who is the mystery woman are just some of the many clickbait titles he sees. It's difficult, and it’s tough, and definitely uncomfortable, but it feels right. Max likes that feeling.

Charles texts him just a thumbs up, to let him know he approves. (The person who matters doesn't text him, not that Max was expecting him to.)

-

For all the immediate pre-summer break highs Lewis went through, his post-summer break season is considerably worse. The triple header is not kind to Lewis, but it is to Max. He arrives in Spa, and takes an engine penalty. He thinks Lewis has to win. By Friday, it becomes painfully obvious that Lewis will not win.

Come Sunday, Lewis has a lap 1 incident, and retires. (Maybe a kinder mercy than going through the entire race while so far off the pace, in Max’s opinion.) Max starts fourteenth and wins anyway. It’s a bit anticlimactic if he’s being honest.

A week later, Max overtakes Lewis at the safety car restart. It gives him flashbacks. It gets even worse when he parks his car in parc ferme and sees George’s Mercedes in the P2 spot instead of Lewis.

He later learns about how Mercedes left Lewis out to dry on his old tires. He doesn’t regret winning, especially not in front of his home crowd, but he does leave the track that night shaking with anger. His friends probably think he’s just still high on adrenaline when they drag him out to party. He spends the night getting black out drunk and seeing visions of a man with braids on his head, standing in front of him with his back turned. He finishes the night kneeling in front of his toilet, retching back up every bad decision and memory made during the night.

By morning, all he’s left with is the way the lights of the club reflected off of the vision’s dark skin.

Another week later, in Monza, Max wins again. It’s getting a little old, frankly speaking. Lewis starts twentieth and finishes fifth. Max thinks that if Mercedes had given Lewis a better car, he could’ve finished first. He spends the entire team debrief wondering what it would be like to stand on the second step of the podium and stare up at Lewis. (By this point, he’s willing to give up a win, just to see Lewis back up there again. Pathetic, he knows.)

Lewis is always so blinding on that top step, it almost hurts to look at him. Watching him celebrate his wins is comparable only to gazing directly into the sun. He comes, if possible, even more alive on the top step, glowing and blinding. Max keeps all of this to himself. He doesn’t need a repeat of the questioning glances he got the last time he mentioned Lewis during debrief. (It was Jeddah. Max had asked about what happened to Lewis to make him finish P10, because everyone knows he’s a million times better driver than P-fucking-10. The team looked at him as if he’d grown a second head.)

-

If possible, Lewis’ season gets even worse during the next two races. All Max can do is watch. His own season hits a low and then a high point.

Singapore is a weekend to forget for the both of them. It’s the race everyone thinks he’ll clinch the title, and join the likes of Alonso and Häkkinen. Netflix sticks with him the entire weekend, hoping to capture the rise of a star, so when he has a disaster qualifying, and only ends up scoring six points on Sunday, Max resolves to blame it all on them. He knew he shouldn’t have agreed to be in the new season of Drive to Survive.

After the race, once they’ve both been weighed, Lewis claps him on the back and genuinely, it’s the highlight of the entire weekend.

Japan is infinitely better to Max, both in terms of racing and Lewis. The actual race is a bit of a shitshow, and then post-race is just an even bigger mess, but eventually it becomes clear that Max is World Champion again. It feels good; better than anything he’s ever felt. He’s floating up above the clouds when, during press, Lewis comes up to congratulate him. Fernando is there, his arm around Max, when Lewis joins them and reaches a hand out. Max holds on to Lewis’ hand for just a second too long, just a little too strong, but he can’t be blamed, not when Lewis is grinning at him like that, with a twinkle in his eyes. (Lewis also holds on to Max’s hand just a little too long and too strong, but Max might be imagining that.) He swears he can feel Lewis’ touch linger for hours afterwards on his hand.

He notices Seb and Lewis talking when he walks by them in the paddock. Seb sounds exhilarated, using his hands to emphasize what he’s trying to explain to Lewis; something about his race finish. Lewis looks at Seb the same way he'd looked at Max earlier. Max doesn’t know how to feel about this. (That’s a lie. He knows exactly how he feels but it’s an ugly, green emotion that he doesn’t want to face.)

He is broken out of his speculation by the sound of Seb’s laugh. “Come on Lewis, you could at least pretend you are paying attention to me. I understand it’s M–”

“Seb.” It’s not often that Lewis’ voice holds such a dangerous tone. “Don’t.” The resonance of Lewis’ voice would be enough to make any person obey him, but not Sebastian Vettel. He merely laughs in Lewis’ face, then grabs his arm and drags him towards the garages. On the way, he glances back at Max, who is rooted in place by now, and looks him deep in the eyes. Max thinks Seb is trying to convey something to him through the expression on his face. Too bad he has no idea what it could be.

-

It’s during the United States GP, that Max realizes why the last few races before the summer break had felt so good, and everything else so mediocre. It is not the fighting that makes him feel so alive after races, but fighting Lewis. After they’ve both gotten out of the car, Lewis reaches over for a handshake. Max brings his other hand up and squeezes Lewis’ arm. Lewis doesn’t pull away, doesn’t shake his hand off, just squeezes Max harder in return. They both still have their helmets on, but even like this, the intensity of Lewis’ gaze is almost too much to bear.

Charles came home third, and it’s evident that he must’ve watched the entire interaction, because when Max finally breaks away from Lewis, Charles is there, giving him the longest, most tired look Max could possibly imagine.

“Shut up,” Max mutters to him with a grin on his face. Charles jogs to keep up with him.

“Have you still not talked to him? Max, after what I just saw… Do not worry, I will help you.” Then he runs ahead, leaving Max behind. Carlos has appeared at the other end of parc ferme, clearly waiting for Charles. They hug and Charles starts talking animatedly. He is gone before Max can even think to call after him, instead, Max stands there, dumbfounded.

Max finds out how Charles intends on helping not even a half an hour later. He is clearly trying to annoy Max until he snaps. It’s the post-podium interview and he’s sitting in his chair, bending down for this microphone, while Charles is literally flirting with Lewis right next to him. They’re giggling and smiling at each other, and Max contemplates the consequences of committing murder in a foreign country. Charles better sleep with one eye open.

-

In Brazil, three things happen:

First, Lewis finally, finally, wins. The entire world heaves a sigh of relief, glad to see it’s chosen favorite on the top step of the podium again. Back where he belongs. Lewis waves the Brazilian flag behind himself, holds it above his head, wraps it around himself during the anthems. Bright, unfettered, and unstoppable.

Second, Max stands below Lewis on the podium. It’s just like last year except then he was disappointed, now, he couldn’t be happier. Charles comes home third.

Third, Max is in love with Lewis. He realizes this there, one step below Lewis, fawning up at him in an oh-so familiar way. (This isn’t the only thing Max realizes. For example, he realizes that comparing Lewis to the sun is far too unfair to Lewis. How could the sun hold a candle to his sparkling smile, his shining eyes, to the joy reflected on his face, contagious and blinding, or to the way his eyes wrinkle when he smiles, and turn into little crescent moons when he laughs? This is Max’s belief: if the sun and Lewis were pitted against each other, no sane man would choose the sun. Max also realizes that he might spend too much time watching Lewis to really be considered healthy.)

When Max realizes this, it is not a big shock, not a calamitous revelation. It is as simple of an understanding as I forgot to brush my hair today or Monaco is a bad track for new F1 cars or the W13 is shit. It’s objective, and it's the truth. Life doesn’t stop and the universe doesn’t pause. The sky is blue, grass is green, and Max is in love with Lewis. The world keeps going, the Earth keeps turning.

They don’t interact much on the podium that day, just clink their bottles. That’s okay. Lewis is busy outshining the sun itself and Max is perfectly content to just watch. (“You could at least try to make it not so obvious,” Charles whispers. Max ignores him.) It takes a week for Lewis and Max to talk, and even then it’s not very different to any of the other conversations they’ve shared so far this year.

After the final race of the season, when all’s said and done, Lewis pulls Max into one of those no-homo bro sidehugs and tells him they should hang out during winter break. Not a great sign for Max, but he’ll take fake friendship over nothing.

See, Max is Dutch, he didn’t grow up talking circles around everyone like the Brits do. (Lewis didn’t grow up doing that either, but that doesn’t matter.) Max doesn’t know if this is one of those British second-hand politeness things, where they say one thing, and mean the complete opposite. I never want to see you again. Far too devastating of a thought for Max to even consider, but it’s also the only possibility. Because why would Lewis—kind, brave, beautiful Lewis—want to hang out with Max. It’s not until a week into the winter break, once the FIA prize giving gala is over, that his phone actually buzzes. Everyone had left Max to bask in the glory of his second championship with his other friends, and all his other friends had left him to celebrate his second championship with everyone, and now here Max is sitting at home, alone. Honestly, it’s giving him an awful sense of deja vu.

hey man, wanna play cod?

Because of course Lewis doesn’t use capital letters in text. It’s a small fact that isn’t actually significant in any way. Max jots it down mentally. He didn’t even know Lewis still had his phone number. (He wasn’t sure Lewis ever had his phone number, but after last year Max had assumed that even if he did, he’d deleted it.)

is tomorrow afternoon good?

Max sends a thumbs up as a response. Just as he’s about to start overthinking, and trying to figure out his next text, (Something like; i can’t wait— no too eager. Maybe just a simple okay— or is that not enough?), he gets a response.

great! i’ll come over

What.

Lewis. Is coming over. To Max’s apartment.

What.

He decides to share his distress with Charles.

Charles sends back a 30 second voice message of him just laughing hysterically. Max always knew becoming friends with him was a bad idea. (Also he thinks he heard Carlos in the background of that message? He doesn’t even want to begin thinking of all the implications of that.)

-

Max cleans his apartment obsessively. He wipes down the counters, takes out the trash, cleans the windows, and makes his bed. Once he’s done, his home looks alien and Max looks like he’s trying too hard. He puts a few things back on the counters–carefully placed to make the place look lived in, but not messy–and musses his bed back up. (Honestly, why did he even bother making it in the first place? It’s not like they’ll be anywhere near his bedroom.)

Just as he’s about to start overthinking it, the bell rings and the microphone crackles to life. It’s Lewis. Max doesn’t think he’s ever been this nervous in his life. He presses the buzzer and not two minutes later Lewis is there, on his doorstep. His braids frame the side of his face, let free, different from the usual bun he wears them in. He’s got rings on most of his fingers and earrings dangle from one ear only. “Hey man.”

“Hey,” Max lets out. He steps aside to let Lewis in. They stand there for a second, just looking at each other. The tension is thick in the air. “Uh, so, what do you wanna do? I mean, we can play Call of Duty if you want, but I also have the new FIFA game. I’m not so good at it, but I think it would be fun to try. But we can do something else, really, it doesn't matter to me, whatever you want. I’ve got more games.”

He’s rambling. His cheeks feel flushed and he’s probably gone red all over. Lewis just tilts his head, a small smile gracing his lips, and waits for Max to finish.

“Max… I didn’t really come over to play video games.” Lewis’ eyes are filled with intent.

Max’s breath hitches. “I–” Lewis steps closer, and Max can feel his warm breath on his cheek. Max always forgets he’s actually taller than Lewis, the way Lewis carries himself makes it difficult to remember. Now as he’s watching Lewis look up at him through his eyelashes, it’s almost the only thing he’s able to focus on. This close, he can smell Lewis. Not just the perfume he uses, but his natural scent. It’s the same thing he smells whenever they stand next to each other on the podium, tired and sweaty. This is too much. It’s too much for Max and he can’t handle it. He backs out of Lewis’ space and doesn’t miss the betrayal that flashes through his eyes. “What–” He clears his throat and wills his cheeks to cool down. “What did you come over for then?”

“I thought maybe we should talk.” He says.

“Okay, uh, do you want to sit down?” Lewis acquiesces and lets Max lead him to the kitchen table. They both sit down on the bar stools he’s got next to it. Lewis’ legs dangle, not quite long enough to reach the foothold and Max has never been so endeared. Lewis looks nervous. Max is not used to seeing him like this, not used to seeing him as anything but self-assured and confident. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I just– Fuck–” Lewis looks so troubled. Max doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. And then suddenly Lewis is standing again, right in front of Max. Max stands to meet him. He wants to talk, wants to ask Lewis if he’s alright, wants to calm him down, but all the words seem stuck in the back of his throat. This shouldn’t be happening, Max loves talking.

They’re face to face again, but this time Max is pressed up against the chair with nowhere to go, not that he could. He thinks his legs are rooted in place. He watches as Lewis studies him, and in return he studies Lewis. Drinks in his face, his neck, his entire body. Like this, Max can just see the top of Lewis’ eagle tattoo, peeking through the top of his collar. Impulsively, he lifts his hand to touch it. Lewis swallows, and more than see it, Max can feel it. All of a sudden he’s very aware of what’s happening. Of how their bodies are pressed together, of how he’s cupping Lewis’ neck, and of how Lewis is looking at him, dark fire burning in his eyes. And God, Max wants. He wants so much and wants it so badly, and for the first time he’s thinking that maybe, maybe Lewis wants it too.

It’s Lewis who blinks first. Lewis, who closes that gap between them, his hand on Max’s cheek as he pulls them together.

When they kiss, there are no fireworks. There is no spark, no wildfire with blazing flames. There is just the overwhelming feeling of rightness. It is the same feeling Max felt when he broke up with Kelly during the summer break. He did that for Lewis, he does this, now, with Lewis, and he would love to continue associating this feeling with Lewis. The kiss is chaste, quick, and Lewis pulls away quickly to gauge Max’s reaction. Max just pulls Lewis back in. When their lips touch this time, it’s deeper, and slower, and perfect. Max lets Lewis set the pace, lets Lewis do whatever he wants to him, and he just loses himself in Lewis’ lips.

It’s Lewis who pulls away again, his hand is still on Max’s cheek and he holds Max’s face so they’re looking each other in the eyes. “Max, we should still talk–”

“What is there to talk about?” Max cuts him off with a smile, breathless. “You actually want this and I’ve wanted it for so long.”

Lewis laughs. “Yeah, you’ve wanted this? How long have you wanted this for?” His voice is full of fondness.

Max leans back in to press small kisses to Lewis’ lips while he answers. “Since Abu Dhabi,” He feels Lewis go stiff, so he quickly leaves another kiss before he continues. “In 2018. Fuck, when you took your shirt off there, right in front of me. I swear I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.” This time Lewis literally giggles against Max’s lips, but he doesn’t kiss Max again. Max is a little disappointed.

“Since 2018 huh? That’s not fair, you’ve had so much more time to think about this. I only figured it out a couple months ago.” There’s a playful pout on Lewis’ mouth. Max leans back in to kiss it away.

“Don’t go. Don’t leave.” He all but begs Lewis the next time they come up for air. He doesn’t even know what exactly he’s begging for. He just wants Lewis here.

“Oh, baby, trust me, I am never letting you go.” Hearing Lewis call him a pet name is almost enough to make Max get down on his knees. Instead he just grins, draws Lewis close and kisses him again.

“Okay.” He breathes out when they come up for air. “I don’t want you to, anyway.” Lewis closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Max’s. Max watches him, mesmerized by the lines and edges of his face, the small moles on his face, and the way his eyes flutter when Max drops a kiss on the tip of his nose. He wants to kiss Lewis everywhere, wants to worship him and lave his tongue over the tattoos that cover his body. One day I will, he promises himself. For now though, he’s content to just kiss Lewis to his heart's desire, and hold him as close as possible.