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Chapter Text

Lewis couldn’t quite keep the grin off his face as he finally made his way back towards his own motorhome, champagne still clinging to his skin. Sure, he was still frustrated by second place – he’d always prefer to be on that top step, if he had the choice – but Sebastian had been undeniably fantastic in the Ferrari this weekend. Truly, Lewis had not expected Seb to be as quick as he was – which maybe he should have. He was Sebastian Vettel, after all, even if he was in Ferrari red now.

Plus, a double podium for the team was nothing to scoff at, even if a 1-2 would always be better.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he nearly didn’t notice the man – boy, really – on the ground in front of him until he nearly tripped over him. Thankfully, he had a little more awareness than that, and Lewis managed to stumble to a stop before he crashed into Max Verstappen.

Max hadn’t been around the paddock – at least not full-time – for long, having first stepped into an F1 car during the first practice session at the Japanese Grand Prix last year, making him the youngest person to ever participate in a Formula One race weekend. Clearly, he’d managed to impress more than a few people, because this season he’d become the youngest driver to drive in a Grand Prix when he made his debut with Toro Rosso at the Australian Grand Prix at just 17 years old.

And he’d had an impressive start to the season, even in Lewis’ eyes. Despite being forced to retire in Australia due to an engine failure, he’d managed to snatch some points for himself this weekend in Malaysia, finishing seventh in the race. Which wasn’t just impressive because he was in a Toro Rosso, but also because he was still a child – and now the youngest driver to score World Championship points.

Which was why it made absolutely no sense that he was sitting on the ground, tucked between two motorhomes that were decidedly not his own, trying to hide his tear-stained face.

“Max?”

“I – I should go, I am sorry,” Max stuttered, rubbing almost aggressively at his face as he scrambled to his feet.

“Hey, kid – Max, wait,” Lewis called, arm snaking out to grab Max’s arm. When the kid visibly flinched, Lewis quickly dropped his hold, but didn’t entirely back down, shifting slightly to put himself between Max and the most obvious route of escape.

“What,” Max mumbled, gaze now downcast, as if that could hide his red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks from the older man.

Lewis sighed.

“Come on – my motorhome is right here,” Lewis gestured. “You can get cleaned up in there – that way no one else sees you, yeah?”

The silence stretched for several long moments, Lewis growing more and more convinced that Max was just going to make a run for it – but then the younger man nodded, almost shyly, gaze still firmly fixed on Lewis’ racing boots.

“Come on, then,” Lewis murmured, gesturing for Max to follow him as he led the few steps back to his motorhome. Once inside, Max lingered awkwardly near the door, making no real effort to move further into the space.

Lewis bit back another sigh, resisting the urge to scrub at his own face in frustration.

Max was just a teenager – a child, really – and Lewis could readily admit that he had absolutely no idea how to manage a fucking seventeen-year-old. Christ, he could barely take care of himself half the time. But, Lewis suddenly remembered, Max wasn’t expected to take care of himself, because he was seventeen, and there were rules about these sort of things.

“Do you want me to call your Dad?” Lewis asked suddenly.

“Nee!” Max yelped, suddenly looking up, panicked. “Alsjeblieft, nee.”

Lewis didn’t speak Dutch, but even he could understand that whatever Max has said was a very definitive no.

“Okay, okay,” Lewis placated, hands raised. “Bathroom is through there – go wash up, then we’ll figure out what to do, yeah?”

Max nodded and scrambled past Lewis to do as he’d directed, leaving Lewis to just… hover anxiously. Which, if Lewis was honest, was not something he was entirely comfortable with. Which was how he ended up instead nervously making tea, because even though he had no idea if Max even liked tea, it certainly couldn’t hurt, right?

When Max re-emerged, eyes still red-rimmed but face clean, if tinged a bit pink, Lewis gestured towards to couch pushed against the far wall with his free hand, cup of tea in the other. Max sat without comment before silently accepting the tea, watching warily as Lewis pulled up a chair across from him.

“I know that you don’t want me to call your Dad – and I won’t – but I do need to know that you’re okay,” Lewis explained. “Are you physically hurt in any way?”

“No,” came the quiet reply.

“Okay, good, good,” Lewis breathed a sigh of relief. “Are you in danger in any way?”

“No.”

“Alright,” Lewis acknowledged. “Is there someone else that I can call for you? Carlos maybe, or…?”

“No,” Max whispered. “I – I can go, I’m okay, really.”

Lewis bit back a sigh. He may not have much experience with teenagers – or kids in general, really – but the idea of sending a clearly distressed Max Verstappen off by himself didn’t sit well with him, even if they were supposed to be competitors.

“I’m not trying to kick you out,” Lewis began, holding up a hand when Max looked inclined to interrupt him. “Seriously, just drink your tea and listen, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” Max mumbled petulantly.

“Sure,” Lewis pacified. “You can stay here as long as you want, okay?”

“I – Why are you being so kind to me?”

Instead of answering, Lewis just shrugged. Because honestly? He had no idea why he was suddenly so inclined to comfort and care for the younger driver. Sure, he hadn’t liked the sight of the kid crying, but that was Formula 1 – even if Lewis didn’t understand what he was so upset about, given his impressive performance so far.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lewis offered, practically cringing at how awkward he sounded.

Really, he had no idea how to do this. Maybe he could call Jenson or something – even Sebastian would probably be better at dealing with a teenager than him. Or maybe Fernando? Lewis was almost positive he remembered the kid mentioning that he looked up to Fernando at some point.

“I should be doing better,” Max spoke quietly, interrupting Lewis’ spiralling thoughts. “He expects me to be doing better.”

Lewis didn’t ask who he was – the British driver had a pretty good idea, given Max’s earlier reaction – instead opting to just nod and smile encouragingly.

“I know that seventh is not bad, but I can of course do better,” Max continued. “But I am making too many mistakes, he – he had a whole list of things, and he is right.”

“Mate, it’s your second race in Formula 1 – seventh is fantastic, you know?” Lewis tried. “And you outperformed your teammate – that counts for something.”

“Only by one position,” Max countered sulkily. “It is not enough.”

As if Carlos Sainz isn’t a force to be reckoned with unto himself. As if both Toro Rossos hadn’t finished ahead of their Red Bull counterparts – despite Daniel and Daniil sporting a whole host of problems throughout the race. As if anyone – apart from apparently one person – expected seventeen-year-old Max Verstappen to be on the podium in his second Formula 1 race.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing great,” Lewis offered, along with a wry smile. Max just snorted before taking another sip of his cooling tea, expression stubbornly frustrated.

“I – this – I should not be talking about this with you,” Max fumbled aloud, gaze still fixed on his tea. “I should go – he might be looking for me, by now.”

Lewis stood before Max had a chance to do so, a gentle hand slowly reaching out to rest on the younger man’s shoulder. This time, Max did not flinch at the contact, which Lewis took as a win – even if he did look ready to bite Lewis’ hand off.

“Finish your tea,” Lewis instructed. “I’ll let… someone know where you are so they don’t send out a search party, yeah?”

Max mumbled something unintelligible before taking a large gulp of his tea, and… yeah, Lewis was just going to ignore that, because what the fuck? Instead, the British driver quickly scrolled through his contacts, pulling up the only Red Bull driver he had saved to the device.

———

Lewis Hamilton

I found Max by the motorhomes earlier.

He’s having a cuppa at mine.

Daniel Ricciardo

Jesus Christ.

Thank-you.

I swear Franz and Christian were about the call in the army.

Carlos is beside himself thinking this is somehow his fault.

Lewis Hamilton

He’s fine – just a bit shaken up.

He was pretty adamant about not calling his Dad.

Daniel Ricciardo

I’m not surprised.

I’ll come get him.

Try not to lose him before I get there.

———

Satisfied that somebody would come to take Max off of his hands – and hopefully keep an eye on the kid too – Lewis turned back towards Max, only to find the kid’s eyes drifting shut, his mostly empty cup of tea wavering precariously in his hand as he started to doze now that the adrenaline had worn off.

Lewis leapt forward and carefully snatched the cup from Max’s lax grip. The younger driver merely grumbled incoherently, eyelids fluttering in vain as he attempted to stay awake. By the timer Daniel gently knocked on the door, the kid was fully asleep, head lolling back against the couch.

“Hey,” Lewis greeted quietly. “He’s just fallen asleep – be quiet, yeah?”

Daniel nodded before slipping inside the motorhome, gaze almost immediately seeking the younger driver out. His face broke into his huge, trademark grin when he spotted him. Beneath it, his expression was undeniably fond.

“We should get a blanket on him,” Daniel observed, looking around. Lewis nodded, quickly moving to rummage through a nearby bin before tossing a simple throw blanket towards Daniel.

“You can take it with you – I’m not fussed about getting it back,” Lewis explained – before turning back to find Daniel tucking Max in on the couch, as if –

“He needs the sleep,” Daniel explained. “He’s been putting too much pressure on himself – spending way too much time in the sim, or going over data.”

“Daniel –”

“Our flight isn’t until tomorrow – text me when he wakes up, and I’ll come back and get him,” Daniel decided, grin still affixed to his face – though it was decidedly more mischievous now.

“Daniel –”

“Relax, mate. He’s asleep, and he’s nearly a fully grown adult,” Daniel encouraged. “How much trouble can he possibly get up to?”

Lewis sighed, deflating as he accepted defeat.

“Good man,” Daniel clapped Lewis on the back as he moved to leave the motorhome once again. “I’ll deal with Franz and Christian. Jos too, if I must. Though I’d really prefer to not.”

Which reminded Lewis – he pulled out his own phone, not bothering to acknowledge Daniel as he left, the little shit. Toto would be wondering where he’d gotten to when he didn’t show up to their debrief as scheduled. Better to come up with some kind of excuse now, no matter how contrived, than to have to explain this.

Somehow, Lewis very much doubted Max Verstappen babysitting duty was a valid reason to skip a post-meeting in Toto Wolffe’s books.

Chapter Text

Once again, Lewis had finished behind Sebastian. He’d managed to sneak past him in the chaos of the first corner incidents, and to Lewis’ immense frustration, he’d not managed to really challenge him for the lead again.

However, he doubted he’d been as frustrated – or as shaken – by the first lap crash involving Fernando Alonso, Nico Hülkenberg, and Charles Leclerc as the Sauber racer himself had been. It had been concerning enough to watch replays of Hülkenberg misjudging his braking before ramming into the back of Fernando, sending Alonso flying over Leclerc’s car, where he ultimately landed on the younger driver’s halo. Never mind being the driver in the car beneath Fernando’s.

And, even though – for some unknown reason – Max Verstappen kept showing up in Lewis’ space, following him around like an overeager puppy whenever the opportunity presented itself, the British driver was still by no means an expert in how to deal with moody, emotional teenagers. Even if Charles Leclerc wasn’t quite as young as Max had been, back when the Dutch driver had first fallen asleep on the couch in his motorhome in 2015.

Nevertheless, if he’d been unsure about just how jarring the crash must have been, finding Charles Leclerc essentially hyperventilating in one of the small alleyways between garages would have been enough to convince him.

“Charles?” Lewis asked, almost nervously.

Somehow, despite the fact that he’d spent the last three years dealing with Max Verstappen’s meltdowns, he had no idea how to approach this. Usually, Max would just turn up at his hotel room or motorhome, raging and ranting until he either inevitably broke down in tears or just fell asleep, exhausted by the emotions coursing through his body.

Whatever Charles was doing was… different.

He was crying, yes, albeit quietly. But his entire body was shaking, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps that left Lewis almost certain that the Sauber rookie wasn’t getting any actual oxygen into his lungs. His hands were shaking where he was pulling almost desperately at his hair, and his eyes were clamped shut as he mumbled incoherently to himself.

“Charles?” Lewis tried again, voice pitched louder as he moved to crouch in front of the young man shaking apart in front of him.

“Je vais bien, je suis en sécurité, je ne suis pas blessé,” Charles continued murmuring to himself, continually repeating the same confusing litany of French words, seemingly unaware of Lewis’ presence in front of him.

“Charles, you’re going to hurt yourself,” Lewis tried gently, gaze fixed on where Charles was mercilessly pulling at his own hair. When the younger driver gave no indication that he’d heard Lewis, the older man reach out, gently tangling his own fingers with Charles’ own as he worked to safely remove them from the messy mop Charles’ hair had become.

The older driver’s touch seemed to shake Charles from his reverie, his previously closed eyes snapping open as he stared, wide-eyed, into Lewis’ own brown eyes. It shook the older driver to see the pure, unadulterated terror in Charles’ eyes.

“Charles, it’s okay, you’re safe,” Lewis was quick to reassure. “I’m not going to hurt you, mate.”

Unlike Max that first time, Charles didn’t try to flee from Lewis. If anything, he curled further into himself, as if he could somehow disappear into the ground beneath himself.

“Va-t'en,” Charles pleaded, tugging weakly at Lewis’ grip. “Laisse-moi seul.”

“I’m not going to leave you here to hurt yourself,” Lewis responded firmly. “Just – I – if you don’t want me here, then tell me who to call.”

It was silent for a moment before Charles spoke, his voice pitched so quietly it as almost impossible to hear –

“Je veux mon papa.”

And, impossible as it was, Lewis swore he felt his own heart shatter at those four quiet words. Because while he may not have the most functional knowledge of the French language, he would have had to be utterly ignorant to not understand the meaning of the final word in that simple phrase.

Papa.

Not only because Charles had it – along with Jules’ name – emblazoned on his helmet, wearing his heartbreak for all to see, but because everyone knew Charles’ story. Had seen how carefully he tried to hide away his grief after his godfather, Jules Bianchi, had died as a result of a crash at the 2014 Japanese Grand Prix. Had watched as he dedicated his race win to his father at the 2017 F2 feature race in Baku, just days after Hervé had passed away.

It was a stark reminder that the man before him was just a child. A child who was scared, hurting, and most importantly – alone.

“Oh, kid,” Lewis murmured softly. “C’mere.”

He gently released his grip on Charles’ wrists to pull the younger man towards him, surprised with how easily the Monegasque crumpled into his hold. He was still breathing too quickly, too shallowly, and Lewis shifting them so that Charles could feel his own exaggerated breaths.

“Breathe with me, yeah?”

They stayed like that, Lewis taking deep, purposeful breaths, Charles struggling to mimic his breathing as he trembled in Lewis’ tenuous hold. For his part, Lewis rubbed gently at his back, continuing to murmur soft platitudes and reassurances. Then, as if a flip had been switched, Charles went limp, his breaths evening out until they were in nearly perfect time with Lewis’ own.

“Charles?”

The boy in his arms mumbled something incoherent – and likely French – before shifting his limbs. For a moment, Lewis though he was trying to escape, and so the older man loosened his own hold – only for Charles to take advantage of the reduced restrictions to his movements to fully wrap himself around the older man with both his arms and legs.

“C'est mieux,” Charles mumbled as he tucked his head back against Lewis’ shoulder, snuggling in close.

Utterly flummoxed, Lewis stayed where he was, gently holding the Monegasque, who for all intents and purposes, appeared to have fallen sleep while wrapped around him like a particularly cuddly koala. The older driver could not even reach his phone because Charles, even in sleep, was an immovable force. He wasn’t entirely sure who he could have called, but this seemed like something that Sebastian should be dealing with – didn’t Charles want to be a Ferrari driver?

Thankfully, it wasn’t long before Pierre Gasly stumbled upon them, his navy Toro Rosso race suit still tied around his waist as he stumbled into the alleyway, looking almost panicked.

“Grâce à Dieu, Charles,” Pierre murmured as he dropped down beside the pair, reaching out as if to snatch his best friend from Lewis’ lap – only to have the older driver stop him with a gentle hand. Lewis wasn’t even entirely sure why he did it, beyond some impulsive need to protect what little peace Charles had found in sleep.

Pierre froze, gaze darting upwards – away from Charles – to meet Lewis’ own.

“He was pretty shaken up when I found him,” Lewis explained softly, nervous about waking the boy in his arms. “He would only speak in French, but… I think it brought up some bad memories for him.

“Oui, il… I mean, yes, that is why I was looking for him,” Pierre explained, voice equally quiet. “You should have heard what they are saying – that the halo that saved his life exists because of the crash that killed Jules. That Charles should be thankful for Jules’ sacrifice.”

The last bit was said with unimaginable venom, the Frenchman’s mouth twisting as he spoke the vile words.  

It had certainly been a topic of conversation in the media pen after the race – but the thought that someone would ask Charles about Jules directly – would say something so callous to him – especially after what was clearly a traumatic crash, still had Lewis clenching his jaw in anger. Judging by the look on Pierre’s face, he was not too impressed with the reporters at the moment either.

“I saw him leave, but I could not escape right away,” Pierre sighed, finally reaching out again to gently card his hands through Charles’ hair. “It is not fair for them to ask this of him, to always be comparing him to Jules, questioning ‘what if’. As if he does not already do this to himself, every day.”

“You are a good friend,” Lewis responded gently.

And it was true – all the other drivers could see it. Could see how, despite racing in different leagues, and now for different teams, the two were practically inseparable whenever time and circumstance allowed for it. Racing had never gotten in the way of the friendship, not like it had for… What Charles and Pierre had was different than most friendships on the grid.

“Can you help him back to Sauber?” Lewis decided aloud. “Or wherever it is he’s staying?”

Pierre looked back at Charles, expression unreadable, before looking back at Lewis, a familiar smirk spreading over his face.

Not this again.

“We will not be able to move him now,” Pierre explained. “He is like a – what is the English word? – calamar? Anyways, he is impossible to move when he is cuddly like this, non?”

Lewis sighed, more defeated than aggrieved, having a sinking feeling that he knew what was coming next.

“What is your phone number? I will text you, so you can send me a message when he wakes up, and I will come get him,” Pierre decided, pulling out his own phone and looking at Lewis expectantly. Lewis sighed again – pointedly – before rattling off the requested number, only to hear his phone ping in his pocket a few seconds later.

 “I will talk to Fred about Charles,” Pierre announced as he stood back up, a fond expression on his face as he observed his best friend napping on Lewis’ lap. “Is there anyone who needs to know where you are?”

“If you’re volunteering, someone is going to need to explain this to Toto,” Lewis muttered drily, quite enjoying the way Pierre blanched at the thought.

“I – maybe – it’s just –”

“Don’t hurt yourself, kid,” Lewis interrupted Pierre sputtering. “Just find Valtteri, explain this to him, and let him deal with Toto, yeah?”

Pierre nodded at that before making his escape, leaving Lewis with a lapful of napping Monegasque and nothing to do. With a final sigh, Lewis decided that he may as well make the most of the opportunity and let his own head drop back against the wall, eyes slipping shut as he settled in for a nap of his own.

Chapter Text

“No, it’s just different –”

Lewis was in the midst of an interview when he heard the sickening – but all too familiar – sounds of crunching metal and squealing tyres, followed by shouts of concern and general chaos. He had no idea what the interviewer had asked him – could not be bothered to even attempt a somewhat coherent answer – as his entire attention turned to the screens around the media pen, already replaying the incident in terrifying detail.

He watched in shocked silence as the familiar F2 cars climbed the notoriously fast Radillon curve – only for the lead driver to lose control due to a puncture. Behind him, the others braked, resulting in another car clipping one of the slowing cars, sending them crashing into the barriers before a final car struck the out-of-control vehicle. Lewis held his breath as he watched one of the cars being torn in two while the other was launched into the air before landing upside down. Finally – after an indeterminate amount of time – both cars came to a rest, but not before once again making contact with the barriers.

“Oh wow,” Lewis murmured. “I hope that kid’s good, that’s… Wow. That’s terrifying.”

His interviewer seemed equally stunned as they watched the replay, and no one stopped Lewis as he stepped away from the media pen without another word, eyes fixed on the screens now showing swarms of marshal’s and the medical team descending upon the scene of the crash.

The thing was, in recent years at least, Lewis had started to follow F2 more closely. Which, of course, had nothing to do with the two younger drivers he had somehow – accidentally – taken under his wing. So, he knew who those cars belonged to, even before he began hearing their names whispered around the Paddock.

Guiliano Alesi.

Juan Manuel Correa.

Anthoine Hubert.

As he moved through the Paddock, Lewis had to trust that either Max would find him, or that Daniel would have Max, despite the two still being somewhat at odds after Daniel’s abrupt departure from Red Bull at the end of the 2018 season.

Because right now, Charles would need Lewis more than Max – and the Monegasque had a terrible habit of hiding away when he was hurting the most, instead of seeking support from those who wanted to help him. And Lewis had a feeling that the younger man would need support right now – crashes always worried the younger driver, especially bad ones, and Lewis had seen enough incidents in his career to know just how bad this one was.

Because despite how much he desperately hoped he was wrong, Lewis knew that Anthoine wouldn’t be walking away from that crash.

He found Charles – along with Pierre and Esteban Ocon – hovering nervously outside of the medical centre, as though their presence would somehow change the outcome of whatever was going on inside. Media crews – reporters and influencers alike – were beginning to gather just beyond the fretting trio, pushing Lewis into action. The younger drivers would not want to be here – he did not want them to be here – when the news broke. For better or for worse.

“Charles,” Lewis called out gently as he approached, drawing not only the Monegasque’s attention, but also the attention of both Frenchmen.

“Lewis,” Charles breathed, relieved, before practically launching himself into the older man’s arms, clearly forgetting (or simply not caring) about the growing media presence around them. Lewis did not hesitate to bring his arms up to hold him as he looked over Charles’ shoulder towards Pierre and Esteban.

“Has there been any news?”

Esteban merely shook his head, leaving Pierre to answer.

“Alesi was conscious and able to walk when they pulled him out of the car,” Pierre explained. “Correa and – and Anthoine…”

Pierre broke off, voice choked, before looking away to furiously blink back tears. As he did, Lewis could practically feel the media frothing at the mouth, and he was utterly certain that he heard more than a few cameras clicking away.

“Come on,” Lewis motioned with a tilt of his head. “Ferrari’s garage is closest – we can wait for updates there, yeah?”

No one argued with him, and Charles actually detached himself from Lewis’ front in order to walk independently, so Lewis took his suggestion as a win and trekked towards the Ferrari garage. Silently, he prayed that Sebastian was there, because comforting Charles was one thing, but Lewis had seen the fire Pierre barely kept controlled within himself, and the way that Esteban retreated into his own mind when he was hurting. There’s absolutely no way Lewis was prepared to support all three of these boys if the news was bad.

Thankfully, with Charles leading the way, no one questioned their presence in the Ferrari garage – that, and nearly everyone is still transfixed by the televisions scattered about the garage, which were mercilessly replaying clips of the crash and reporter commentary.

Sebastian, at least, noticed their arrival, detaching himself from the gaggle of engineers and mechanics to wrap Charles in a tight hug.

“Have you heard anything?” the German asked over Charles’ shoulder, gaze fixed on Lewis.

Lewis merely shook his head, unable to stop his attention from trailing back towards the televisions and the terrifying crash they can’t seem to stop fucking replaying on a loop. Sebastian noticed – of course he does – and sighed.

“Come – watching this will do us no good,” Sebastian decided. “Let’s head into hospitality get some food, yes?”

“Are you sure they won’t mind feeding the enemy?” Pierre joked weakly from Lewis’ side, gesturing to his own navy blue Torro Rosso team kit.

Seb merely smiled sadly.

“I’ll make sure they don’t poison your food,” the German promised.

Snacks and drinks sorted, Lewis dropped down beside Sebastian, nursing his own water bottle as he resisted the compulsion to needlessly check his phone yet again. He had the sound on, and Toto had promised to update him the moment he heard anything, so there’s nothing to do but wait.

“We started racing in the same year,” Pierre shared into the ensuing silence, his food untouched. “Esteban, Charles, Anthoine and myself – we’ve been together, in some way, since the very beginning.”

"I remember,” Charles interjected. “I was so jealous when Anthoine won the French Cup in karting in 2005.”

“This is true,” Esteban commented. “We raced together for so many years… I know that if he had the opportunity to be racing a Formula 1 car, he would have been racing alongside us."

No one said what they were all thinking – what Lewis had been unable to ignore since he’d first seen the crash. Instead, they sat in silence, snacks untouched, until Lewis’ phone pinged. The older driver scrambled to pull it out, ignoring the trio of pleading, desperate expressions turned his way as Seb leaned over his shoulder to read Toto’s message along with him, breath catching in his throat.

“Charles –”

“Non,” Charles pleaded, tears already gathering in his eyes. “Non - s'il vous plaît, ne le dites pas.”

As if not saying the terrible thing aloud would change the outcome – as if leaving the words unspoken would keep Anthoine alive, if only for a few minutes longer. Seb merely shook his head sadly, and Charles launched himself into his teammates waiting arms, sobs ripping through him before the older man even had a chance to truly wrap him in his embrace.

“Il ne peut pas être –” Pierre began, cutting himself off as he looked desperately towards Lewis, silently begging the older man to deny his worries. As much as he wished he could, Lewis couldn’t lie to the younger man, instead shaking his head sadly as he watched Pierre’s expression crumple before him. Beside him, Esteban silently curled more tightly into himself, his shaking shoulders hinting at the tears he was trying to hide.

“Merde!” Pierre shrieked, twisting to punch the wall. He whirled, looking for another outlet, but Lewis caught him, arms wrapping tightly around the Frenchman as he struggled, foreign curses and familiar insults alike flowing from his mouth as he screamed his heartbreak.

“I am so, so sorry, Pierre,” Lewis murmured, when the fight finally went out of Pierre and he all but collapsed in Lewis’ hold, finally allowing himself to shake apart with his own choking sobs.

“Ce n'est pas possible,” Pierre kept repeating between his tears, denial and a silent prayer all wrapped in one.

Lewis merely held him in silence. A quick glance towards Seb showed that the other driver was equally unsure about how to calm the sobbing Monegasque in his own arms. So, Lewis turned his attention to the final member of their heartbroken little trio, holding a hand out towards where Esteban was still curled into himself, crying quietly.

“Esteban?”

The other Frenchman looked up, tear-stained face and red-rimmed eyes clearly on display. His attention trailed from Lewis, to Pierre, then back again, before he shook his head miserably. Somehow – perhaps because Esteban had not joined them – Pierre knew, his voice raising as he spoke to the other man in strangled French.

“Ne sois pas stupide Estie,” Pierre said thickly. “Anthoine ne voudrait pas qu'on soit seuls, pas maintenant.”

Because whatever had come between the two Frenchmen of late – whether it be a girl, as the rumours insisted it must be, or something else entirely – it was clear that, in light of the death of their friend, Pierre no longer cared. Or perhaps, it was that he cared more for the closeness and comfort of his friend than he cared for whatever had driven them apart in the first place. Whatever it was, Esteban accepted his words with a strangled sob, crossing space between them to pull Pierre into his own embrace as the pair sunk to the floor. Without a thought, Sebastian directed Charles towards them, turning his attention towards Lewis once the trio had wrapped themselves up in a proper cuddle.

“I need to go,” Sebastian spoke quietly. “They will be discussing next steps, and the GPDA should be there.”

“Let Romain and Wurz handle it,” Lewis grumbled, gaze still fixed on Charles, Pierre, and Esteban. “They need you here more, I think.”

Seb merely shook his head, but when he opened his mouth to speak, Charles interjected, tear-stained expression fierce.

“We want to race,” Charles practically growled.

“For Anthoine,” Pierre added, while Esteban nodded resolutely as his side.

Seb closed his mouth, gaze flitting between the trio momentarily before nodding tightly. After a quick squeeze to Lewis’ shoulder he was gone, leaving the older driver to manage the trio himself. And as comfortable as Ferrari’s hospitality suite was, he had a feeling the boys would be more comfortable somewhere a bit more private, once word truly got out.

“Charles, do you want to move to your Driver Room?” Lewis offered. “Or my motorhome – it’s not too far.”

His suggestion was followed by a quick, hushed conversation in French, before Pierre spoke up.

“Your motorhome, please,” he responded. “No one will look for us there.”

Lewis merely nodded, moving to lead the way, while the trio fell into silence as they followed him. As they walked – using as many back alleys as possible in order to avoid the growing clamour of media – Lewis pulled out his phone and fired off a couple of quick texts, letting not only his and Esteban’s own team, but also Sebastian and Max, know where to find them if they were needed.

Once they arrived, Lewis quickly settled the trio on the couch, leaving Charles to point out the bathroom while he pulled out some blankets, tossing them haphazardly at the trio before moving towards the familiar kitchenette to make tea.

Behind him, the trio continued to murmur in French, their hushed conversation punctuated by the occasional sniffle or bitten back sob. Lewis left them to it, silently passing out the tea before settling into a chair of his own, pretending to be pre-occupied with his phone as he kept an eye on the boys cuddling on his couch.

They had mostly dozed off, empty cups of tea littering the floor, when Sebastian slipped into the motorhome, looking exhausted.

Lewis raised a brow.

“They have cancelled the F2 Feature Race,” Sebastian said by way of greeting. “But we will race tomorrow – for Anthoine.”

Esteban choked back another sob at that – likely wishing that he could be on the grid racing in memory of their friend – but Pierre simply turned to Charles, expression as determined as Lewis had ever seen it when he finally spoke.

“You have to win for Anthoine tomorrow,” Pierre declared.

Because Charles would be starting from pole position, with both Sebastian and Lewis having qualified behind the younger driver.

Charles nodded, expression equally determined and fierce.

“I will.”

The duo embraced then, before quickly pulling Esteban into the mix, all three laughing and crying as their hug turned into more of a wrestling match. Lewis and Sebastian watched, bemused, as they tumbled to the ground in a mess of limbs and blankets, tea cups scattering as they flailed. Eventually, the trio settled, and Esteban spoke up.

“Charles will win tomorrow,” he said with conviction, practically daring someone to contradict him. “But we will all win a race for Anthoine, whether it be this year or in the future. Promettez-Le moi.”

As the boys murmured their promises, foreheads pressed together and limbs tangled with one another’s on the floor of the motorhome, Lewis couldn’t quite tamp down on the impossible fondness in his heart. Something of it must have showed on his face, because Seb smirked knowingly before nudging Lewis’ shoulder with his own.

“It is okay, you know,” Sebastian murmured. “To be proud of them.”

———

Charles won his first race in Formula 1 the next day, pointing to the heavens as he accepted his trophy and dedicated the race win to Anthoine. Next, Pierre claimed his first F1 victory the following year at Monza, sitting on the top step overcome by emotions as confetti rained down around him. Then, finally, Esteban snatched a victory of his own at the 2021 Hungarian Grand Prix, completing the promise the three friends had made to one another on the floor of Lewis’ motorhome two years earlier.

And Lewis couldn’t be anything but proud.

Chapter Text

The 2019 season had seen three rookies join the grid – Alexander Albon, Lando Norris, and George Russell. And while Alex had chosen to use his Thai nationality rather than his British nationality for racing, as was his prerogative, both Lando and George had joined Lewis in racing under the Union Jack.

For his part, Lewis couldn’t help but follow Lando and George’s careers a bit more closely than most. Lando, because the youngest of the rookies was racing for Lewis’ own maiden team, making big waves at McLaren as he settled into Formula 1. George, because Lewis knew that Toto had his sights set on the other Brit for an eventual promotion to Mercedes, carefully monitoring his progress (despite Williams’ lack lustre performance in recent seasons).

And Williams really had been lacking in recent seasons, putting poor Russell through the wringer race after race.

A tough rookie season was one thing, but 2020 had been equally disastrous.

From being forced to retire during the season-opening Austrian Grand Prix due to a loss of fuel pressure, to being demoted to the back of the grid at the British Grand Prix, or being eliminated from the Belgian Grand Prix after a stray wheel from Gioninazzi’s car hit his Williams, George had simply had a terrible 2020 season. It must have been a relief, Lewis thought, when Williams released him to deputise for Lewis at the Sakhir Grand Prix while Lewis was recovering from COVID-19. Despite finishing ninth after a botched pit stop and a subsequent tyre puncture, George had finally – finally – scored points in F1 while driving for Mercedes.

After that, Lewis would have thought George was truly well disillusioned with the entire Williams experience – especially since the 2021 season was off to a similarly rough start. Between the collision with Valtteri at Imola (Emilia Romagna, a sarcastic voice that sounded suspiciously like Charles supplied), gearbox issues during in Baku, and a grid penalty after colliding with Carlos at Silverstone.

Then, today he’d scored his first points in a Williams at the 2021 Hungarian Grand Prix, and Lewis was stuck by how proud George looked of his team.

“It means more than just scoring our first points,” George was saying. “It’s three years of hard work, dedication… Tough moments, tough, tough moments.”

“Personally, and for everybody in the team…” George’s voice broke off roughly, a weird choking sound cutting off whatever he’d been about to say. “I’m emotional, it’s weird. It’s um… It’s more then what the result today shows…”

And then – almost entirely unexpectedly – Lewis was watching George cry – cry – during a post-race interview. To be sure, it had been an impressive race, with George battling his way up from 17th on the grid to finish a career-best eighth (after Seb’s disqualification), but he was crying.

The kid hadn’t cried after scoring points with Mercedes.

He scrubbed at his face almost desperately, as if the action would somehow hide his tears, but he couldn’t quite seem to tamp down the emotions he’d mentioned earlier.

“Fucking hell, man,” George managed, voice pitched higher than Lewis had ever heard it. “What’s going on? I don’t know – ugh.”

Lewis fought back the urge to step in from where he was watching, having just finished his own post-race interview. Providing comfort – publicly – to Charles or Pierre was one thing. By comparison, Max and Esteban blatantly refused any sort of public reassurances, shying away from nearly everyone unless they were in private. All that to say, Lewis truly didn’t know how George would react if he reached out right now, so he waited.

“I’m at a loss for words,” George tried again, voice breaking slightly. “Just, erm, yeah. Fuck. P9 – that is like…”

George trailed off again, hands coming up briefly to grip at the hat on his head, and Lewis couldn’t help but move a bit closer. He was careful to stay off camera, not wanting to draw attention away from George, but he suddenly wanted – no needed – the younger Brit to know that he was there to support him.

George’s gaze briefly flickered towards Lewis, perhaps drawn towards him by the older driver’s movement, before he began speaking again.

“It’s been such a long road for us, you know?” George explained, still emotional, tears still welling in his eyes. “Yeah, fuck.”

Lewis finally stepped forward as the younger Brit’s tears tumbled over, inconspicuously putting himself between George and the cameras under the pretense of congratulating the younger man. It probably wasn’t the most effective strategy given how much taller George was, but in the moment, Lewis couldn’t really think of any other way to give the younger man some privacy.

“Congrats, man,” Lewis said loudly. Then, in a quieter tone – “That’s enough, yeah?”

George nodded mutely as his arms came up to hug Lewis without a second thought, leaving the older driver to juggle a tearful driver and the media, all while Max and Daniel looked on from behind George with mild concern.

“I’m going to get this one back to his team,” Lewis announced. “I’m sure they’re waiting to celebrate, yeah?”

Without another word, Lewis tugged a still crying George away from the media pen, breathing a sigh of relief when Max jumped in to begin his own interview almost immediately, effectively distracting the hovering reporters from George.

“I need – I have more –” the younger man tried between hiccupping tears as Lewis gently led him away from the circus of reporters in the media pen towards a quieter alleyway between buildings. It wasn’t far, but it was enough distance to give George some semblance of privacy.

“Take a minute first, mate,” Lewis advised. “You had a mega drive today, and you achieved something spectacular for your team – you can take a minute for yourself.”

George nodded, tears still flowing, but Lewis could see how he was working to calm himself down from the post-race high. Deep breaths, hands clenching and un-clenching at his sides, blinking quickly to clear his vision.

“I wasn’t expecting to cry,” George admitted wetly after a few minutes of companionable silence.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Lewis reminded him gently. “What you’re feeling – it’s normal. You’re only human, after all. A few tears – or a lot – doesn’t make you any less of a bloody good driver, yeah?”

“It’s just… scoring points…” George broke off, clearly searching for the words he wanted. “It’s what the team has been fighting for – for three years – and we finally did it.”

“You did it, George,” Lewis agreed as he pulled the younger man back in for another hug. “It was an exceptional stint – keeping Daniel and Max behind you, closing the gap by 20 seconds to the cars ahead… You were brilliant.”

George laughed and hugged Lewis back, somehow managing to snuggle into his shoulder despite the height difference between the pair.

“I really put everything I had into the race,” George admitted. “And I finally came home with something, but I’m bloody exhausted.”

Lewis chuckled at that, knowing the feeling well. George’s tears were easily explained away by the cathartic high of emotions, swirling with the typical post-race exhaustion and adrenaline drop. He was hardly the first driver to cry – or vent – in a post-race interview, but Lewis still couldn’t help the protectiveness that had surged up in him at the thought of the media exploiting the younger man’s emotions.

So instead, Lewis simply held the younger man until George pulled away, wiping away a few lingering tears as he put some space between them.

“I should get back,” George announced, and Lewis was relieved to hear that his voice was steadier.

“Remember to take a minute to enjoy all this, yeah?” Lewis reminded him as they made their way back into the media pen, ignoring the relieved – and exasperated – looks from their press officers.

George was immediately whisked off to another interview, but no one was immediately demanding Lewis’ presence, so he took a moment to observe the chaos around him, smiling slightly at the sight of Pierre interrupting Charles’ interview to pull his best friend in for a quick hug.

“I guess I can try to get along with him,” Max said conversationally as he sidled up next to Lewis, gaze fixed on where George was laughing at something his most recent interviewer had said.

“What?”

“He is a bit – how do you say it? – stuck up, yes?” Max continued, unbothered. “But Charles likes him, so he cannot be too terrible, so I will try to get along with him – for you.”

“For me?” Lewis mumbled, utterly flummoxed. “I don’t understand.”

“He is one of your – how does Sebastian say it – grid kids too, yes?” Max asked. “So, of course, I will try to get along with him!”

Max’s press officer chose that moment to wave him off to his next commitment, just as Lewis’ began to pull him away towards an unoccupied interviewee, leaving Lewis’ brain scrambling to understand what the fuck had just happened.

His what?!

Chapter Text

Lewis was wet, cold, and understandably miserable, but still doing his best not to look too putout as he watched Sebastian Vettel absolutely eviscerate every FIA official who made the unfortunate decision to get within shouting distance of the Aston Martin driver.

“Well? What the fuck did I say?” Seb was yelling at his most recent victim. “What did I say!? Red flag! Sending us out was unnecessary."

Leaving Sebastian to his tirade, Lewis turned his attention towards the source of Sebastian’s ire. Not the cause, because Lando certainly hadn’t meant to shunt his car quite so dramatically when going through Eau Rouge, but it was wet and Lewis fully agreed with Sebastian that it had been too wet for them to be safely driving.

Lando’s accident was evidence enough of that. The younger Brit had slammed into the barriers after his McLaren snapped out of control on the soaked track as he came through the uphill sweep of the fast Eau Rouge corner. Seb had been the first car to pass the wreckage after the incident, slowing nearly to a stop to check on McLaren’s youngest driver. Lewis hadn’t personally heard his radio messages, but he was sure that whatever Seb had said in the car had been just as colourful as his current tirade.

“I fucking told you that when I went down through Eau Rouge and up the hill in Q2, it was too damn wet,” Seb was still ranting. “I called for a fucking Red Flag. You put us all in danger when the session shouldn’t have fucking started in the first place!”

Lewis winced as Britta finally stepped in, trying to calm a still ranting Sebastian as the poor FIA official made their escape. In recent years, it had increasingly fallen on Lewis’ shoulders to step in when Seb got going like this – especially as more and more of the “older” drivers retired. It was a task, really, that should have fallen to Kimi, but Lewis was pretty sure the Finn enjoyed watching the chaos more than he worried about stopping it.

Right now though, Lewis was more worried about Lando.

The poor kid had been released from the medical centre after what Lewis understood to be precautionary checks, but he still looked shaken up where he was sitting, noticeably shivering in his drenched race suit, curls practically plastered to his forehead.

Cursing, Lewis looked around, snatching an oversized black raincoat and an umbrella, ignoring Toto’s inquiring gaze as he dashed out into the rain to where Lando was shivering on the pit wall.

“Get that on,” Lewis practically ordered as he tossed the mostly black jacket onto Lando’s lap before popping open the umbrella and settling beside the younger man on the pit wall. Lando hesitated for a moment before wrestling the admittedly massive coat on, quickly zipping in up and popping up the hood. The result was that he essentially vanished from view, engulfed in the coat as he was.

“How are you doing?”

Lando hummed quietly before answering, voice quiet and tired.

“I’ve been better,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I’m good. I think I’m just a bit bruised, obviously, it was quite a big impact and I think my body’s just been thrown around a little bit. But no, I’m good. I’m ready to race for tomorrow.”

“Didn’t ask if you were physically ready to race tomorrow, mate – that’s a problem for your team, yeah?” Lewis responded. “I asked how you are doing.”

When Lando has made his F1 debut as a 19-year-old in 2019, he had become the youngest ever British driver to compete in the series. Lewis had watched from the sidelines as the younger Brit quickly became a star both on and off the track, showing immediate speed while also proving a hugely popular figure in the paddock and with fans with his jovial and fun-loving personality.

He’d kept his distance though, respecting Lando’s apparent need for space and quick-fire friendship with Carlos Sainz. Plus, McLaren clearly adored the kid, and that was usually protection enough in the harsh environment that was F1.

Until he’d heard – when Lando opened up to the media more this season – about his struggles with his mental health in 2019 and 2020, admitting to being depressed a lot of the time as he wondered about his future in the sport if he was unable to meet the seemingly astronomical expectations set for him.

Then, Lewis had been furious with himself, for missing the ways in which Lando was struggling.

He’d been trying to keep a closer eye on the younger man since then – knew that both Sebastian and a newly returned Fernando had been as well – but from a distance, all unsure of their welcome in the younger man’s life. Daniel, too, for all his new teammate seemed to be holding him at arm’s length, reluctant to open up in the same was he had with Carlos.

Lando sighed.

“It was just so difficult to drive,” Lando responded, frustration and exhaustion evident in his tone. “I just hit those bumps, and there was so much water, and I crashed.”

“It happens –”

“I don’t feel like I was taking too many risks or anything,” Lando interrupted, completely ignoring whatever Lewis had been about to say. “I just went through it normally, I downshifted a few gears, I braked and lifted off. There was too much water, I started to aquaplane, and I lost the car.”

“Lando,” Lewis interjected, a bit more firmly this time. “I understand. You weren’t driving in an unsafe way – there was too much water, we shouldn’t have been out there in the first place, it could have happened to any of us – you just happened to be the first person to try a fast lap, yeah?”

Lando made a noise – not a sigh – and without being able to see the younger man’s face, Lewis was suddenly at a loss. He didn’t know Lando well enough, it was damn hard to tell without being able to see the kid if he was crying, or angry, or –

“I just wanted to do well, you know?” Lando hiccupped. “I felt like I could do well, and I ruined everything.”

Lewis shifted the umbrella into his other hand, gently pulling the kid towards him – mindful of the arm he was still holding awkwardly – tucking the smaller driver against his side. To his surprise, Lando reacted instantly, turning into a human puddle as he plastered himself to Lewis’ side, snuggling closer as he nuzzled under Lewis’ arm. Lewis responded by pulling him as close as possible, tucking the younger man firmly against his side.

“I just keep feeling like, I don't know what's next, if this goes wrong, if I don't go out in the next session and perform, what's the outcome of all of this?” Lando asked wetly, voice thick with tears and emotion. “And I know that I’m never going to please everyone, even if I’m doing the best that I can, but…”

“If you no longer go for a gap that exists, you are no longer a racing driver,” Lewis quoted drily. “No one expects anything less of you, Lando. You felt like you could do it, so you went for it, and that’s something any of us would have done, because we are racing drivers.”

Lando made a wounded noise, hiding his face in Lewis’ shoulder as he did his best to cry quietly. Thankfully, the combination of the gigantic raincoat and the umbrella hid him quite effectively from view, giving the young man some much needed privacy.

It wasn’t long before Carlos wandered over, quietly dropping down on Lando’s other side and snuggling close to the younger man. He didn’t say a word, just provided his support and body warmth, but Lewis would have had to be blind to miss the way Lando’s hand snaked out to grip tightly at Carlos’ own, even as he stayed pressed firmly into Lewis’ side. Lewis, in turn, shifted the umbrella again so that he was covering the three of them a bit more fully, subtly using the new position to gentle ruffle Carlos' impeccable hair.

The trio stayed like that, most everyone giving them a decently wide berth, until Fernando wandered over, brows raised.

“Be quiet – I think he might be asleep,” Lewis grumbled, glowering at the older driver. At his side, Lando made no indication that he’d heard Lewis, reaffirming Lewis’ belief that the younger man had, in fact, fallen asleep.

“Thought you might like to know that they’ve delayed the restart of qualifying,” Fernando shared conversationally.

“I figured as much, given that Ferrari isn’t trying to wrestle me back into the car,” Carlos responded drily from where he was still snuggled up against Lando, not even bothering to open his eyes to look at the older Spaniard.

Indeed, Lewis’ own race engineer was shooting him occasional, furtive, glances from inside the safety of the Mercedes garage, but neither Bono nor anyone else from Mercedes had come to fetch their wayward driver just yet. Though he was relatively certain that Angela had snapped a few photos of the scene before he'd caught her with a definitive glower. 

“I think Seb is still in with Masi yelling about the whole situation,” Fernando admitted with a shrug. 

Lewis snorted at that. He’d missed Sebastian leaving the Pit Lane, but given the scene the other driver had been making, he wasn’t surprised that someone had managed to drag him off to a less public setting to air his frustrations. 

“It’s always easy to make these calls with some hindsight,” Lewis murmured.  

“That does not mean that we do not need to find a way to listen more to the information that we have,” Fernando grumbled, gaze landing firmly on the sleeping driver wedged between Carlos and Lewis. “He could have been seriously injured today.”

Lewis glanced down at the sleeping man – a boy, really – on his shoulder, and his heart tightened at the thought of him being seriously injured (or worse) in an entirely preventable incident.

“He wasn’t, though,” Carlos said with something akin to relief. “And for today, that has to be enough.”

Lewis wished he could agree, but a part of him felt that it would never be enough for all those they had lost before him – Anthoine, on this very track, just a couple of years ago. Before him, Jules in 2014 during the Japanese Grand Prix, and before that, Senna in 1994. The list stretched on, the dangers of their sport clearly written in the lines of motorsport history, highlighting all too clearly that Fernando wasn’t wrong – a crash like Lando had experienced today could have easily added the young man to that list, and Lewis hated it.

Lewis was never afraid for himself, when he got the wheel. But sometimes – lately – he thought that he might be a bit frightened for the younger drivers around him.

Because Lando – and every other young driver that would follow him – deserved better. Sebastian was right to advocate for that – even if his current methods were a bit… aggressive. For today, the fact that Lando was okay would have to be enough, but they could be – they had to be better.

Lewis would make sure of it.

Somehow.

Chapter Text

The 2021 Formula 1 season had been anything but boring – for both the drivers and viewers alike, if Lewis were to guess. After years of watching the younger driver develop and grow into the indominable racing driver he had become, Lewis and Max had finally found themselves engaged in season-long battle for the World Driver’s Championship, trading the lead back and forth more than a few times. Lewis was pretty sure that some reported had described it as "one of the most intense, hard-fought battles in sporting history".

Understandably, it had put a bit of a strain on whatever relationship Lewis and Max had, even if Lewis was determined for this to end differently than…

First, they’d collided at Silverstone, Lewis clipping Max as the pushed through Copse. It hadn’t been intentional – not matter what anyone had to say about the matter – and Lewis had had his heart in his throat after watching Max slide sideways across the gravel trap and into the tyre wall at terrifying speeds. Later, during the Red Flag while they cleared Max’s car and repaired the tyre wall, when Lewis had learned that Max had hit the wall while still going approximately 290 km/h, Bono had had to talk Lewis out of abandoning the race entirely and going to check on Max at the hospital. Max had yelled at him about that one, but Lewis had just taken it, eventually wrapping the younger man up in a hug, hoping the way he bundled the Dutchman up in his arms communicated just how damn scared he’d been.

He couldn’t lose another person like this, not to something so trivial as a title fight.

Not again.

Next came the disaster that was the Hungarian Grand Prix, and while neither Lewis nor Max had directly collided with one another, tensions had definitely been running high after the race. Max had dragged a very clearly damaged Red Bull to the end of the race, openly blaming Lewis’ teammate and friend – Valtteri Bottas – for the damage. They’d bickered, Lewis steadfastly defending Valtteri despite the five-place grid penalty he’d earned himself for causing the collision, resulting in Max storming out and Lewis spending the night sulking, resolutely ignoring messages from George, Pierre, Esteban, and even Charles.

It was maybe a bit childish of him, but Lewis found himself tired of always being the responsible one if every god-damned relationship.

Their frustrations with one another came to a head at Monza, after Lewis ended up side-by-side with Max on the pit-exit and into turn 1, fighting desperately to overtake one another. The result was Max bouncing over a sausage kerb and making contact with Lewis’ left rear tyre, a move that sent his Red Bull into the air and over the top of Lewis’ car, ending the race for both of them. After the race, the pair were summoned to the stewards, resulting in a grid place penalty and penalty points on Max’s Super Licence after it was deemed that Max was at fault for the collision. That night, Max had clung desperately to Lewis, apologizing profusely through the tears as he fretted about what could have been after seeing the damage his tyre had done to Lewis’ helmet.

Lewis should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it.

He’d been in title fights like this before – fighting for that top spot all season, trading points back and forth. In his rookie season, he’d battled it out to the bitter end against Kimi and Fernando, only for a technical problem with the car to hold him back. Then in 2008 against Massa, and again 2010 against Alonso and the Red Bull machine that was Mark Webber and Sebastian Vettel.

And again, in 2016 –

The point is, Lewis had been here before – both victorious and in ruin – but Max hadn’t been. Max, who had been avoiding him since they rolled into Parc Ferme. Max, who hadn’t said a word to him since they declared the young Dutchman a World Champion and he hoisted the trophy above his head in celebration. Max, who had spent all season fighting Lewis on the track, only to begin tiptoeing around him off-track, clearly hesitant, and nervous.

Lewis wished that he could have embraced Max on the podium. Could have reassured him that everything was okay – that they were okay. But Lewis was hurting too, filled with disappointment and rage and more than a little bitterness – though none of it was directed at Max.

Max had gone for the gap that existed, like the racing driver that he was, and Lewis could never blame him for that.

Still, Lewis had hoped that they could have this fight – could battle it out on track – and still come out on the other side as whatever they had been, before. Lewis hadn’t wanted to lose Max, not like he’d lost… Not over another World Championship, not when he already had seven to his name.

But – somehow – he had – and Lewis had no idea how to fix what they’d broken.

———

Charles Leclerc

You need to talk to Max.

Lewis Hamilton

If he wants to talk, he’ll come to me.

That’s how he works.

Charles Leclerc

You are in Monaco, yes?

Lewis Hamilton

… Yes?

Charles Leclerc

He is at home also.

Fix it.

———

Which was how Lewis found himself nervously knocking at Max’s front door, lingering awkwardly in the hallway of the younger driver’s apartment. He wasn’t even sure if Max would answer, if he even wanted to see him after everything –

Charles opened the door, a weird combination of relief and exasperation on his face.

“Charles?”

“Mon dieu,” Charles intoned as he stepped out of the apartment – only to practically shove Lewis inside while muttering something incomprehensible about food and maybe Daniel? Lewis floundered, reasonably confused, only to have the door shut in his face.

Except now he was inside the apartment, and Max was standing frozen in the middle of his own living room, looking for all the world like a deer in headlights.

“Lewis?”

Lewis looked back towards the closed door for a moment, before taking a fortifying breath and turning back towards Formula 1’s newest World Champion. He was here now – whether because Max wanted him to be or because Charles was a meddlesome pest – and he was going to make this right.

Max would not be another face he couldn’t bear to see around the track.

“Charles told me to come,” Lewis admitted. “I didn’t exactly expect him to do… that, but I’m here now, I guess?”

Max fidgeted, eyes downcast, reminding Lewis of that seventeen-year-old boy he had comforted to many years ago.

“You can go, of course,” Max responded, quietly. “I understand that you do not want to be around me.”

And that –

“What?”

Max just shrugged, eyes downcast, and Lewis resisted the urge to go bundle him up and hide him from this hurt. Because Lewis was this hurt, whether or not he’d meant to be, and he had to fix the damage he’d done before he could offer Max any sort of comfort.

Lewis forgot, sometimes, that Max had been there during 2016. That he’d seen firsthand how Lewis and – and N… how Lewis and Nico had ripped each other apart at the seams, going from best of friends to something decidedly less, until they could barely stand to look at one another. Hell, the kid had been in the room when they’d been throwing hats at each other like petulant teenagers.

Max had watched that championship battle tear their lifelong friendship apart.

And as much as Lewis had been determined to not let that happen to them – to not let that happen between himself and another driver ever again – he suddenly realized that maybe he’d not done the best job of communicating that to Max.

That maybe, given Max’s upbringing and what he’d seen, Max had thought that was the only possible outcome to a rivalry such as theirs.

“Oh, Max,” Lewis breathed. “No, kid, that’s not… I’m so sorry if you thought I was upset with you, or mad at you.”

“But –”

“I was frustrated, sure – I’m competitive as hell, we all are,” Lewis forged onwards. “But I was never mad at you.”

“But in Abu Dhabi –”

“No,” Lewis cut him off, short and brutal. “Masi made a stupid call, but that’s not on you. You’re a fantastic driver – there’s no way of knowing that you wouldn’t have found a way past me even if a different call had been made.”

Max finally looked up then, his own tear-rimmed gaze meeting Lewis’ fierce expression. The older man didn’t miss the hope on his face – hope that Lewis didn’t hate him, hope that they hadn’t fucked things up beyond repair.

“C’mere, kid,” Lewis said softly, opening his arms.

Because he hadn’t lied when he’d told Charles that Max would have to come to him. Because that was how Max functioned. No one could force affection upon him – he’d only really relax and accept comfort if it was his choice, if he made the first move.

Max practically barrelled into Lewis waiting arms, wrapping himself around the older man’s torso as he tucked his chin against Lewis’ tattooed neck before taking a few shuddering breaths. Then –

“’M not a kid,” Max mumbled petulantly.

“Sure you’re not,” Lewis agreed as he rubbed softly at Max’s back, gentling him down from the precipice he’d worked himself towards. They stayed like that for several minutes – Max just breathing deeply as he worked to calm himself down, Lewis muttering soft platitudes – until Max pulled away slightly, big blue eyes searching Lewis’ own.

“You are sure that you are not mad?” Max asked.

“I am certain that I am not mad at you,” Lewis promised, then – because if he was going to do this, he needed to start doing in right. “I’ve let a championship fight ruin a friendship before, Max. I wasn’t going to let that happen this time. I’m truly sorry that I didn’t do a better job of showing you that.”

Max regarded him in silence for another moment before nodding slightly, clearly satisfied. Then, his brow furrowed, and he looked over Lewis’ shoulder – towards the closed apartment door.

“Did Charles say where he was going?”

Lewis sighed.

If it wasn’t one of these kids causing trouble, it was usually another one of them. Honestly, when had he gotten so damn old?

“There was a bunch of muttering in French, but I think he said something about food,” Lewis admitted. “Though, if we’re being entirely honest, I was a bit distracted by the entire ambush situation.”

Max laughed as he pulled away, sauntering back to the couch as he pulled out his phone, fingers flying as he quickly typed out whatever – likely rude – message he was drafting to the Monegasque. Lewis followed and flopped onto one of the armchairs, sufficiently exhausted by that whole emotional ordeal.

Honestly, Lewis still wasn’t entirely sure how the Dutchman had ended up being his responsibility in the first place.

Maybe Daniel would consider taking Max back.

“Charlie will be back in a moment,” Max announced, the nickname rolling fluidly off his tongue, his voice sounding almost… fond?  

Nope, Lewis did not have the energy to deal with whatever that was today. Instead, he hummed in agreement, keeping his head tilted back and eyes closed. Maybe he could take a quick nap before the whirlwind that was Charles Leclerc got –

“I am back,” Charles announced as he burst into the apartment, a rather sheepish looking Daniel in tow. “You two have fixed your problems, yes?”

Lewis groaned.

“Of course, you meddled after I told you not to do so,” Max accused, earning a snort from the Monegasque as he deposited the bags of takeout on the table before moving to stand in front of the couch, eyebrows raised.

“It worked, yes?”

Max said something unintelligible – but likely rude – and suddenly the two were wrestling, toppling off the couch with pained yelps, only to continue grappling on the floor, a colourful collection of Dutch and French filling the previously calm apartment as they tussled.

“You two sorted that out, then?”

Lewis finally cracked an eye open to look grumpily at Daniel.

“Are you sure you don’t want him back?” Lewis asked instead of actually answering. Behind him, Charles screeched and Max laughed, the sounds of their ongoing brawl a clear indication that they’d not yet managed to come up with a definitive winner yet. If either of them were actually trying to win, that was. “One feral driver is enough to keep track of – I feel like you, Seb, and Fernando need to start pulling your weight here. Maybe Checo and Valtteri too.”

“I’m good, mate,” Daniel said with a laugh. “Thanks for the offer though!”

He laughed brightly as he dodged Lewis’ kick, skipping back towards the table – and whatever Charles had deemed appropriate for a post-season lunch.

“Come on, kids – lunchtime!”

Chapter Text

Lewis wanted to scream when he caught sight of George launching himself out of his own car, scrambling wildly across the gravel to get to where Zhou Guanyu’s car is wedged between the barriers and the catch fencing, completing ignoring the Marshals trying to stop his mad dash. It’s just a brief glimpse on the grandstand screens as he carefully guides his own – thankfully undamaged – car back to the Pit Lane, but it’s enough to have his blood boiling.

Red Flag or not, there are still cars on the track for fuck’s sake, and the kid is running around like a man possessed.

“What the fuck is George doing?” Lewis snarled into the radio.

“Just bring the car back in,” Bono carefully responded as he blatantly ignored Lewis’ question.

In response, Lewis turned off his own radio so that he could swear a bit more before they inevitably dragged him out of his car and into the limelight. Given George’s antics, Lewis has no doubt that the media will be all over Mercedes’ garage, no matter how fiercely Toto glowers at the lot of them.

For his part, Lewis barely has his helmet off before he’s demanding to know where his idiot k – teammate is. Instead of responding, Toto just gestured tiredly towards one of the many monitors in the garage, clearly just as fed up with the situation as Lewis is. He would never regret his decision to replace Valtteri with George – Lewis knows that – but sometimes Lewis couldn’t help but wonder if Toto knew exactly what he was getting into when he signed one of the 2019 rookies.

Chaotic gremlins, the whole lot of them.

Regardless, that’s how Lewis finds himself rewatching the crash with wide eyes, Angela hovering nervously at his shoulder.

He watches as George clips Guanyu’s Alfa Romeo, causing the other car to flip over in dramatic fashion, crushing the roll hoop on impact before the car continued hurtling upside down at high speed across the gravel trap, repeatedly smashing the halo against the ground. Then the Alfa Romeo hit the barriers and the car was launched into the air – again – before finally coming to a halt in the narrow space between the tyre wall and the catch fencing. George is out of his car a moment later, scrambling across the gravel trap towards the trapped car and driver within – but this time Lewis can hardly bring himself to be mad at his teammate, not with his own heart in his throat.

“Is Zhou okay?” Lewis asked tightly.

“They put a radio message through to Valtteri before he got back to the Pit Lane,” Bono responded, suddenly appearing at Lewis’ other shoulder. “Said that Zhou is conscious and that he is talking. Considering the circumstances, it seems like he is doing pretty well.”

“That’s good,” Lewis responded absently, gaze still fixed on the monitor that is once again replaying the crash. This time, he’s able to tear his attention away from Zhou’s careening car to the others involved – George, obviously, but Alex Albon too, not to mention Esteban and Yuki Tsunoda too (though the latter pair had managed to drag their cars back to the pits).

Suddenly, there’s a commotion near the front of the garage, and George is barreling in, saying something about not being able to restart his car and the Marshals, and Guanyu being taken to the medical stretcher, and not knowing where Alex ended up because they took him away too, and –

“Hey, kid, breathe,” Lewis commanded quietly. Without consciously choosing to do so, he’s moved to gather his frantic teammate in his arms, putting himself solidly between George and the rest of the garage. He ignored Toto cursing at his back, and barely spared a thought for the mechanics scrambling to try and resuscitate George’s abandoned car before the Marshals get their hands on it, focusing instead on the younger man still rambling in his hold.

“George, stop.”

George froze at the harsher tone, gaze darting down to meet Lewis’ own. This close, their height difference is more than a little noticeable, but Lewis has never let that stop him from protecting the younger man whenever he can. “Bono said he got confirmation over the radio that they’re okay, yeah?”

“It’s my fault, Lewis – I made a mistake, I should have known that the hards were just too cold for that maneuver, and then I got swamped by all the cars, and –”

“George?”

“Breathe, yeah, I’ve got it mate,” George snapped. “It’s still my fucking fault, I was the one who clipped Guanyu, I’m the one who made the mistake. It’s my fault he and Alex and injured, and no one will tell me how badly or let me see them, or – or…”

Lewis sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he’s not going to be talking George out of his current bout of hysteria until he sees his friends with his own damn eyes, stubborn brat of a human being that his teammate is.

“Bono, are we still Red Flagged?”

“Yeah – looks like it’ll be a while,” Bono responded from somewhere within the garage. “Lots of debris, and getting Zhou’s car out of that mess won’t be easy.”

“Toto, you’ve got the situation with George’s car handled?”

“Lewis –”

“Toto.”

A sigh, and then –

“I am not sure that they will let him restart – the Marshals had already started loading the car back onto the flatbed,” Toto admitted grumpily. “There’s nothing George can do about that at the moment though.”

Lewis hummed, silently searching George’s expression as he ran through possibilities in his mind. The younger man was clearly still stressed, practically vibrating in Lewis’ arms, but he’d stayed put and stayed quiet while Lewis sorted out what to do, trusting Lewis to handle this. It’s the lingering fear and guilt in his expression that decided it for Lewis, though.

“We’re going to the medical centre to check on Guanyu and Alex,” Lewis decided aloud. His tone doesn’t leave any room for argument, even though he’s pretty sure Toto had already resigned himself to this fact the moment he answered Lewis’ questions about George’s car. “Text me when we’re needed back here for the restart, or send someone to find us, yeah?”

Without waiting for an answer, he practically dragged George out of the garage and towards the medical centre. No one bothered to question or stop them as they weaved through the Pit Lane, too busy trying to repair damage to their own cars or else transfixed by what must be the millionth replay of the dramatic incident.

It isn’t until they’re actually inside the medical centre that they encounter anyone, George practically barreling into Valtteri and Fred Vasseur is his haste to dodge the medics and see his friends for himself. Thankfully, Valtteri steadied the younger man without hesitation before glancing towards Lewis, brows raised.

“He needed to check on Zhou and Albon,” Lewis explained, gesturing tiredly towards his teammate, who is once again practically vibrating in his friend’s hold, craning his neck to try and see the other drivers.

“Guanyu is conscious and talking,” Fred was quick to reassure, surprising Lewis just a little bit. He didn’t know that other Team Principal well – beyond a few polite interactions here and there when Lewis turned up to check on Charles or – now – Valtteri. But here he was, comforting a driver that was not his own, despite likely being more than a little stressed himself. “They’ve already confirmed he doesn’t have any fractures, but I believe they’re still running through their concussion protocols, among other things.”

George nodded, but the tension didn’t leave his body.

“Alex?”

George sounded small – and scared – as he asked, and suddenly his absolute panic makes a bit more sense.

He’d seen that Zhou was okay – he’d been on the tyre wall and had likely talked to him, despite the chaos. But Alex Albon was one of his best friends, and from Lewis had seen, he’d been whisked away before George had been able to check on him.  

“I’m sure he’s okay too,” Lewis tried to soothe. “Why don’t we try to find someone who might be able to help us out, yeah? I’m sure that Valtteri and Fred can keep on eye on Guanyu while we do that.”

Valtteri nodded dutifully, and George allowed himself to be shuffled away towards the first medic that they see, practically jumping the poor man before Lewis could remind him to behave like a fully grown adult instead of a panicked 5-year-old.

“Where’s Alex?” George demanded of the harried looking medical employee.

The man hesitated, gaze jumping between George and Lewis nervously. For his part, Lewis just crossed his arms and raised a brow, doing his best to look unimpressed and intimidating all at once. George is an unknown – he hasn’t built a name for himself in Formula 1 yet, not the same way Lewis has.

Being a seven-time World Champion did have some benefits, it seemed.

“Last I saw they were preparing him for transport to Coventry Hospital for more checks,” the man answered. “I don’t think the ambulance has left yet, though.”

“The hospital?” George repeated nervously, his voice small and terrified. “Lewis –”

“Go – I’ll make your excuses to Toto if I have to,” Lewis ordered, sighing when George hesitated. “I’ll stay here with Zhou for as long as I can – go be with Alex, mate.”

Then George was practically sprinting in the direction the medical officer pointed, skidding around a corner and out of view. Lewis sighed, rubbing wearily at the back of his neck, before making his way back to where Valtteri is still hovering nervously, Vasseur now nowhere in sight.

“He had to go back – Red Flag won’t last forever, you know?” Valtteri explained without Lewis having to ask.

Lewis nodded and settled in beside Valtteri to wait, pulling out his phone as he did so to see a waiting text.

———

Toto Wolff

They will not let George restart.

He can stay at the Medical Centre for as long as he needs.

Maybe get them to check him out too.

Lewis Hamilton

He’s headed to Coventry with Albon.

I’m waiting here to check on Zhou.

Toto Wolff

I will let you know when they plan to restart.

———

Lewis hastily tucked his phone away as a nurse exited the room assigned to Guanyu, smiling softly at the way both Valtteri and Lewis jumped to attention.

“He’s okay,” she promised. “You can check on him now, if you’d like?”

The pair nods, Lewis muttering a quick thank-you as they slipped by and into the room. Zhou indeed seemed to be fine – he was sitting up on the medical cot, fiddling with his phone, when they entered. If he’s surprised to see Lewis at Valtteri’s side, he didn’t let on, just smiling tiredly.

“You gave damn near everyone a heart attack today,” Lewis said by way of greeting, doing his best not to outwardly laugh at the way Valtteri was silently fussing over his rookie teammate, fixing the blankets and quite obvious inspecting Guanyu for visible injuries.

“Scared myself,” Zhou admited softly with a small shrug. “I didn’t have much time to think about it while I was spinning, but afterwards, when I was trapped upside down…”

The younger man broke off, looking away from the pair at his bedside. It didn’t hide the way he swallowed almost painfully, nor the way his eyes were glistening with unshed tears before he turned away.

Valtteri, ever the stoic Finn, waited in patient silence.

Lewis was not so good at that.

“The halo saved your life today,” Lewis pointed out softly. “It saved my life last year, too – but it doesn’t mean that crashing isn’t still an awful experience, yeah? We take real risks out there at crazy speeds - this is a dangerous sport, even with how safe they’ve made the cars in recent years. Even if you can get out of a crash like that and walk away.”

“The crash wasn’t so bad,” Zhou responded quietly. “I don’t think my helmet even really touched the ground – the halo saw to that. It was after, when I didn’t know where I was.”

He looked back towards them, tears actively streaming down his cheeks. Lewis fought the urge to wrap him up in a hug – only to watch in amazement as Valtteri did it for him, bundling the rookie up in a tight embrace as he continued talking.

“I was just hanging there and I could feel something leaking,” Guanyu continued. “I was not sure if it was from my body or from the car, but it was very cold on my left-hand side, so I didn’t know if it was blood and I wasn’t feeling any more or something. It was – it was terrifying.”

“You’re okay, now,” Lewis soothed. “The doctors said you passed all their checks. A bit bruised maybe, but nothing’s broken.”

“I know, I just,” Guanyu broke off with a choked back sob. “I couldn’t help but think that if it wasn’t me – if it was not blood – that it had to be the car. And I couldn’t switch the engine off, so I couldn’t stop worrying about if the engine caught on fire because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to get out. I was stuck, and nothing was working, nothing was making sense, and I could not…”

The rookie was fully sobbing now, big gulping gasps as tears rolled down his cheeks. Lewis watched, helplessly, as Valtteri murmured reassuringly to him, trying his best to calm the younger man. Eventually, Zhou’s tears began to subside, and he was just clinging somewhat desperately to his teammate.

Which was when Lewis’ phone pinged.

———

Toto Wolff

Restart in 10 minutes.

Lewis Hamilton

On my way.

———

“We need to go,” Lewis said gently to Valtteri, reluctant to peel him away from his still very vulnerable, clearly shaken, rookie partner. Valtteri nodded, murmuring something too soft for Lewis to hear to Guanyu before pulling back and fussing with the blankets a bit more.

“If you need anything, stop by the Mercedes garage, yeah?” Lewis offered. “I’ll let Angela know to keep an eye out for you.”

“We can take care of him ourselves,” Valtteri grumbled, earning a small smile from the rookie driver.

“I’m sure you can – but we both know that Mercedes has better treats in our hospitality.”

“You do not.”

“Right – that’s why you’re always sneaking in to pilfer snacks when you think Toto isn’t looking,” Lewis ribbed gently, wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulder as he practically dragged him out of the room.

———

Alfa Romeo’s rookie watched them go, smiling at the comfortable friendship between the pair.

Maybe he would stop by Mercedes – but after the race, so that he could thank Lewis properly for spending what little downtime he had during the Red Flag by Guanyu’s side, rather than with his own teammate, or in his own garage.

George had said that Lewis was like this, but Zhou could admit that he hadn’t quite believed it. The man had always seemed larger than life, and icon both on and off the track. But now, for the first time, Guanyu couldn’t help but believe that maybe he was a bit softer – kinder, more caring – than he let on.

Plus, he wanted to see what snacks Valtteri was stealing from Mercedes’ hospitality.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t that Lewis didn’t like Mick Schumacher. He did. Mick was a good kid, with a solid head on his shoulders, and a positive work ethic.

But he was Seb’s kid – even if the German driver adamantly denied adopting a so-called “gird kid” of his own – and so Lewis gave him space, happy to let Seb wrangle one of the younger drivers for once. Honestly, Lewis had his hands full with half the god damned grid at this point, Sebastian could handle one kid.

Especially one that he’d known since he was an infant.

Which was why Lewis was more than a little caught off guard when he made his way into the Mercedes garage to find several engineers, as well as Toto himself, staring quizzically at Mick’s retreating figure.

“What’s happening?” Lewis asked curiously as he sidled up next to Toto.

“Mick Schumacher just walked through our garage,” Toto stated drily, shooting Lewis an unimpressed side-eye. “I was unaware that you adopted another one.”

“I – that’s not – they’re grown adults!” Lewis stuttered helplessly.  

“Yes, of course,” Toto intoned. “That is why they are always eating my food and wandering in here like lost puppies.”

Lewis sighed.

Arguing with Toto when he got like this was pointless. The man could be an utter menace when he chose to be, and Lewis could hardly deny that he wasn’t go check on Mick instead of continuing a pointless argument, which would kind of just reaffirm Toto's argument. So, instead of responding, Lewis took off down the hallway that Mick had disappeared through moments earlier, hoping to catch the younger driver before he got too far.

Thankfully, Mick appeared to have stopped just before the exit, where he was leaning against the way, staring forlornly at the ceiling. He seemed lost in thought, so much so that he didn't appear to hear Lewis' approach.

“Mick?”

The younger driver’s head snapped towards the sound of Lewis’ voice, and for the first time Lewis saw – clearly – that Mick had quite obviously been crying. His eyes were red rimmed, and while he’d clearly tried to scrub the tears off his face, his cheeks were still glistening where they’d fallen.  

“I’m sorry,” Mick muttered dejectedly. “I’ll go in a minute – I just need – I didn’t mean –”

Mick hiccupped before turning his gaze back to the ceiling. Lewis watched as he took a few deep breaths, clearly trying to calm himself down. It was a valiant attempt, but one which was clearly not working, and Lewis wasn't about to kick him back out into the paddock in this state. If nothing else, the media would eat him alive, then Seb would probably kill Lewis. 

“You don’t need to leave,” Lewis suggested softly.

“But the engineers, and Toto…”

“Were just surprised to see you,” Lewis interjected wryly. “Come on – let’s get you some water and a snack, then you can explain what you’re doing here, yeah?”

Mick nodded miserably and trailed after Lewis nervously, staying a step behind him as they made their way back into the garage. Lewis clocked Toto’s raised brows – but he also noted the way his Team Principal’s entire demeanour changed when he saw Mick’s face. Toto might be a menace, but he was also a bleeding heart, and Lewis knew he wasn’t happy to see the kid looking so utterly devastated either.

Lewis led Mick through the garage and into a small adjacent kitchen – not quite the same as their hospitality suite, but it was more private and more easily accessible at the moment.

“Sit,” Lewis waved vaguely at the empty chairs scattered around the room, before turning towards the kitchenette. A quick rifle through the fridge revealed a water bottle, and the cupboards had Lewis unearthing some of the biscuits that George liked, as well as the cereal bars that Charles always pilfered. Lewis was relatively certain that the cereal bars, at very least, were a children’s snack. Turning back towards Mick, Lewis laid out his offerings before settling in a chair opposite the younger man and digging out his phone.

———

Lewis Hamilton

Your kid is here.

Sebastian Vettel

Lewis, I do not bring my children to races.

You know this.

Lewis Hamilton

Blonde, blue-eyed, speaks German.

Looks kind of like a lost puppy.

Sebastian Vettel

Mick is a fully grown adult.

———

Lewis ignored Seb’s response and tucked his phone away, confident that the other driver would turn up looking for Mick sooner rather than later. In the meantime, Lewis figured he’d try and sort out what was wrong.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lewis offered.

Mick looked up from where he was fiddling with the cereal bar wrapper – he hadn’t really touched any of the snacks – eyes still red-rimmed and expression sad.

“Seb said that I could come here, if I ever needed something and he was busy,” Mick began nervously. “I just – I mean…”

Lewis smiled reassuringly.

“It’s okay, Mick,” Lewis reminded him. “You’re allowed to be here – no one is upset with you, yeah?”

Mick nodded, and although the worry didn’t vanish from his expression, he did continue speaking.

“Haas isn’t going to resign me for next season,” Mick admitted. “They already replaced me with Nico Hulkenberg.”

And that –

“I’m sorry, man,” Lewis spoke genuinely. “That’s shit.”

“I know I have not been perfect,” Mick continued, eyes once again welling with unshed tears. “It was at times bumpy but I thought that I was showing that I was steadily improving! I feel like I learned a lot, and now… now I do not even have the chance to show that I deserve that seat.”

Lewis stood and rounded the table to pull the younger driver into a hug, holding him close as Mick openly cried on his shoulder. Between tears, the younger man continued to babble, and Lewis just let him, understanding that he had to get this off his chest.

“They have told me so late that I cannot even try to find another seat,” Mick fretted. “I want to drive, I want to fight for a spot on the grid, but there is nothing left to fight for.”

Lewis pulled back slightly to look Mick in the eyes, hoping his own expression showed just how adamantly he meant his next words.

“You already proved yourself in the junior categories,” Lewis reminded him. “And here too, even if Guenther and Haas can’t see that.”

Mick laughed cynically, the sound a bit wet and self-deprecating.

“Did I?” Mick pointed out. “I have not had the start that you, or Seb, or my father had in this sport. I did not even score points in my first season.”

“Comparing yourself to others won’t get you anywhere,” Lewis admonished gently. “Your father, Seb, and I – we entered the sport at a different time. Formula 1 has become much more complicated than it was then, and anyone will tell you that young drivers need years to understand these cars. It does not happen overnight, especially not when you are driving a Haas.”

Mick did not seem to have an answer to that, So Lewis went back to consoling him in comfortable silence, until the sound of two familiar voice bickering in what could on be German floated through the door. Mick’s head popped up from where it had been tucked against Lewis’ shoulder just in time to watch Sebastian burst through the door, an exasperated Toto hot on his heels.

“Mick!”

Lewis let Mick go, smiling to himself as the younger driver practically launched himself into Seb’s waiting arms. The pair almost immediately began murmuring to one another, Seb’s voice soothing as he comforted Mick in his own way.

Lewis paused as he went to pass them, placing a gentle hand on Mick’s shoulder.

“Remember – you deserve to be here,” Lewis reminded him. “Don’t let this be what breaks you – find a way for this setback to make you stronger. Prove them wrong.”

Mick smiled wetly back at him, murmuring a quiet “Thanks, Lewis,” to the older driver before Lewis turned and filed out of the room, Toto following his driver with an exasperated huff as the door closed behind them.

“We are not running a hotel for Formula 1 drivers here, Lewis,” Toto pointed out as they made their way back to the garage.

Lewis turned to him, the pair coming to a stop in the narrow hallway.

“He just found out that Haas won’t be resigning him for next season,” Lewis explained. “This late in the season, we both know that that means there’s no seats left for him – even Daniel is out of a drive, after all.”

Toto hummed, his expression suddenly thoughtful.

“That is disappointing to hear,” Toto agreed distractedly. “Mick is a talented young driver.”

“He is,” Lewis encouraged, hoping that Toto could see where Lewis was going with this “He’s shown that he’s a hard worker, and that he is still hungry to learn and improve as a driver.”

Toto raised a brow at that, a small smile quirking in the corner of his mouth.

“He also has two years of experience racing in Formula 1,” Toto mused. “He would be ready to step into the car at short notice should a need arise.”

“Exactly.”

Toto sighed, glancing back towards the closed door before meeting Lewis’ gaze again.

“I can only offer him a contract, Lewis,” Toto said. “It is up to him if he signs it or not. We do not know if being a Reserve Driver is what he wants.”

“I think he’d appreciate the offer,” Lewis countered. “And we both know that you’d be crazy not to make it. If nothing else, he’s a Schumacher, and that still means something in this sport.”

“You are relentless in your defence of your kids, you know that?” Toto snorted before he turned to continue making his way back into the garage.

“Mick is entirely Seb’s,” Lewis argued immediately.

“I am sure that he is.”

Chapter Text

Lewis should have known that something was amiss based on the silent looks both Bono and Toto shot him as he was returning from the media pen, but he just brushed them off, wanting to take advantage of what little downtime he had before the post-race debrief. He wasn’t upset, per say, but it had been a frustrating weekend overall.

He was happy for Max and Charles, he really was, but he so desperately wanted to be on that podium too. It had felt like they were making real, quantifiable progress in recent races, so to spend the entire time struggling to make the car do what he wanted it to be able to do… It was beyond frustrating.

Lost in thought, Lewis did not immediately notice the intruders cuddling on the couch in his driver’s room.

Which was saying something, considering the pair of them were wearing papaya orange.

Lewis froze at the sight, bewildered, and slightly confused. Lando, at least, was a common occurrence. He had the code to Lewis’ driver’s room, and absolutely no qualms about barging into Lewis’ space to demand attention at all hours of the day. Toto had long since given up even questioning his presence in their garage, having accepted the younger Brit as one of their own sometime between Spa 2021 and George’s arrival at Mercedes.

Which was understandable, since Lewis was also entirely incapable of saying no to the younger driver.

Oscar Piastri was unexpected though, even if Lewis had noticed Lando slowly growing closer with his new teammate since the beginning of the season. Lando clearly loving having a partner a bit closer in age to him, who shared some common interests, and a similar sense of humour. But Oscar was reserved, and tended to shy away from social interactions or situations in which he was unfamiliar or uncomfortable, meaning that Lewis hadn’t directly interacted with him much.

Not that Lewis blamed him.

All that to say that while Lando was a familiar sight in his driver's room, Oscar was not. Especially not a clearly distraught Oscar with tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.

“Lando, did you at least offer him something to eat or drink?” Lewis sighed.

The older half of the youngest driver pair on the grid looked up from where he was snuggling with his teammate, expression a mix of guilt and exasperation.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Lewis answered his own question wryly, moving towards the mini fridge neatly tucked away in the corner of the room. He pulled out a few water bottles, pausing slightly before also grabbing the unopened package of stroopwafels.

He could reasonably guess why Oscar was upset. He’d gone from finishing in P2 during Saturday’s Sprint Race (which he had even managed to briefly lead for a time before Fernando spun out and brought out the Safety Car) to colliding with Carlos on the first lap in today’s race. Unfortunate, but from Lewis had seen, the crash hadn’t been much more than a shunt, so he didn’t think the kid was hurt or too rattled by the whole thing. Probably just frustrated that he’d had to retire the car, and struggling to cope with the emotional whiplash of the entire series of events.

Lewis tossed Lando the stroopwafels before he handed the boys on his couch their bottled water silently. Then, he settled down in the chair across from them, waiting patiently for one – or both – of them to talk.

As usual, it took Lando less than two minutes to break under Lewis’ gentle scrutiny. It probably would have taken less time, had the younger man not been so enthralled by the stroopwafels.

“Oscar was upset so I brought him here,” Lando explained between bites. “Because you always know what to say and I do not.”

Lewis snorted gently before taking a sip of his own water, buying himself a little bit of time as he considered his options. He didn’t know Oscar well, but from what he did know – and what he’d observed so far – the kid was pretty blunt, and seemed to appreciate when others were direct as well.

“Lando, chew with your mouth closed,” Lewis scolded lightly before turning his attention to Lando’s teammate, carefully scrutinizing a still silent Oscar as he spoke. “Just to clarify – you’re not hurt, right kid?”

Oscar shook his head quietly, gaze still fixed on the water bottle in his hands – though he’d not actually drunk any of it. Lewis briefly wondered if he’d prefer something else to drink, but pushed the thought aside in favour of focusing on the problem at hand.

“Words, kid,” Lewis prompted gently.

“No, I’m not hurt,” the Australian muttered begrudgingly. “I just got squeezed into the wall and messed up the car – it barely qualifies as a crash.”

“Still, it must be disappointing though,” Lewis prodded gently, before – “Lando, mate, share the cookies, yeah? Jon’s going to kill both of us if you eat the entire damn package.”

Lando muttered something unintelligible around the several stroopwafels he’d managed to shove into his mouth, but did (begrudgingly) offer the now half-empty package to Oscar, who merely shook his head wordlessly before turning back to Lewis.

“I've seen the video, it's difficult,” Oscar explained carefully. “Carlos didn't have much space on his outside but I also didn't really get given that many options. It's a tricky one - just a shame to be out so early.”

It was, for all intents and purposes, a media perfect answer. If the kid’s media officer had been in the room, Lewis was certain they’d be shooting the Australian a covert thumbs up or something, but –

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re crying on my driver’s room couch, kid,” Lewis pointed out. It was perhaps a bit harsh, but he was getting he feeling that Oscar didn’t really want to talk about the actual problem here, so harsh it was.

Surprisingly, it was Lando who piped up, having finally managed to swallow the ungodly amount of stroopwafels he’d shoved into his mouth.

“He overheard Carlos telling the media that the incident was Oscar’s fault,” Lando explained. “He said that Oscar was being “too optimistic” and made a rookie mistake.”

“But the stewards deemed it a racing incident,” Lewis questioned.

“Mmhmmm,” Lando agreed as he shoved another stroopwafel into his mouth. “You know how Carlos can be when he’s in a mood.”

The thing was, Lewis did. The younger Spaniard wasn’t nearly as temperamental as his older counterpart, but Carlos still had more than a few scathing things to say about other drivers from time to time, much to Fernando’s delight. He wasn’t a bad kid, and Lewis knew that Lando adored Carlos, but he could be a bit of a bastard sometimes.

“Doesn’t matter what Carlos thinks, the stewards declared it a racing incident, so that’s that,” Lewis pointed out, gaze fixed on Oscar. Which meant that he didn’t miss the face the younger driver pulled as he spoke. “Oscar?”

“You don’t think I was taking too many risks?” Oscar’s voice was small, and he still wouldn’t look up.

Lewis sighed, but took a moment to really think about it, mentally reviewing the footage he’d seen of the crash – and, of course, what he’d seen from the other side of Carlos’ car, engaged as he was in their battle around the first turn.

“I think Carlos was more focused on attacking me than he was on you,” Lewis began slowly. “I don’t think he expected you to try to sneak through on the inside, especially three-wide. But no, I don’t think you were taking too many risks – the gap was there, and you went for it.”

“If you no longer go for a gap that exists, you are no longer a racing driver,” Lando quoted smugly, earning him an eyeroll from Lewis. He’d quoted Senna at the kid one time and the younger Brit was quite determined to never let him live it down.

“I just…” Oscar paused, gathering his thoughts. “I don’t want people to think I’m a dangerous driver, or – or too aggressive. That’s not a reputation that I want.”

Finally, Lewis thought, they were finally getting to the root of the actual problem here. Sure, it couldn’t have felt good to hear Carlos blaming the entire affair on him, but Oscar was level-headed and even-tempered; even after a disappointing race he probably could have managed to shrug it off. But this – this concern about his reputation – seemed to be eating away at the kid.

“Do you worry about that?” Lewis prodded gently. “Your reputation, I mean?”

Oscar looked down again, fiddling with his still unopened water bottle, clearly parsing through his thoughts before mumbling –

“I know that people talk about me,” he admitted, and he sounded downright heartbroken about it. Even Lando, as dense as the kid could be, seemed to hear it, pressing a bit more firmly against Oscar’s side before turning beseeching eyes towards Lewis, practically begging the older driver to fix this.

“What do you mean?”

Oscar shrugged wordlessly, but Lewis didn’t give in. Like Lando, like fucking Max Verstappen, Oscar eventually cracked in the ensuing silence, voice thick as he held back unshed tears.

“I know that people talk about the whole… thing. With Alpine, and McLaren, and Daniel leaving,” the words poured out now. “And now Daniel’s back, and everyone is so happy, but it’s just dragged all that up again just when it felt like maybe we’d moved past it, and I feel like I’m constantly having to prove myself, and then this happens, and I just  –”

Oscar broke off with a choked-out sob, knuckles white around his water bottle as he fought to regain his composure.

Lewis would love to say that he resisted the urge to bundle the kid up for longer than a second, but in reality, he was up and crossing the short distance between his chair and the couch almost immediately, dropping down on the side opposite Lando. He reached out tentatively, unsure if his presence would be welcomed, only to find himself with a lapful of crying Australian in the next moment.

Lando shifted to press against his teammates back, worried enough that he’d finally abandoned his stroopwafels in favour of properly cuddling the younger driver.

Lewis waited, gently rubbing Oscar’s back while he waited for the younger man to settle slightly, before speaking.

“When I first joined Formula 1, I didn’t feel like I was welcome either,” Lewis began. “For a different reason, sure, but at the end of the day, I didn’t feel like I was accepted, same as you.”

Oscar sniffled, but didn’t move from where he was tucked against Lewis’ chest.

“I always knew what other people – drivers, teams, the media – were saying about me. About how I didn’t look, or act, like a Formula 1 driver,” Lewis explained. “And maybe it was easier – in a way – because I’d been surrounded by these attitudes and targeted my whole life, but I pushed through it.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Lando grumbled defensively. “Neither of you should be treated badly for who you are or situations beyond your control.”

“Maybe not, but we are,” Lewis countered. “We’re constantly judged, and it’s shit, but we can’t let that overshadow the positives – our accomplishments, the people in our lives who do treat us right – we can’t let the negatives drag us down.”

Oscar finally pulled back at that. His cheeks were still tear-stained, his eyes still red-rimmed, but the tears had stopped, and he looked fiercely determined now, where before there’d been only heartbreak.

“They’re bastards for saying you weren’t good enough just because of how you look,” Oscar pointed out.

Lewis laughed.

“Yeah, they are – but I’ve proven them wrong, at least seven times over,” Lewis pointed out, just a bit smug. “And you’re going to prove people wrong too.”

A pause, then –

“What if I can’t?”

“Today was a shame, but it doesn’t take away from the rest of the weekend – from the rest of your season,” Lewis reaffirmed. “Don’t let this incident – or people’s negativity – overshadow that. You had your first top three finish in the Sprint – that’s nothing to scoff at.”

Oscar nodded, some of his earlier determination returning to his face. Lando must have seen some of it, because a huge grin broke out on the other Brit’s face.

“See? I told you that Lewis always knows what to say!”  

Lewis snorted at that, because no, he did not always know what to say. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he’d said the right stuff now, but it seemed to have worked for Oscar, so he’d count that as a win. Still, he had one important, burning question rattling around his mind, and he wasn’t letting either of McLaren’s kids leave until he had an answer.

“Now – who is talking shit about Oscar on the grid?”

Chapter Text

After a long, rainy, generally miserable weekend at Spa, Lewis was finally back in Monaco, enjoying some much-needed downtime before he set out to enjoy the rest of his Summer Break. He hadn’t made any set plans – he rarely did, nowadays – unsure about how he’d be feeling and not wanting to have to back out of commitments if he just wasn’t feeling up to them.

A few days of relaxing in Monaco with Roscoe, then he’d figure out how to spend the rest of his downtime.

As if on cue, his phone screen lit up, and Lewis smiled slightly when he saw who the message was from.

———

Charles Leclerc

Are you in Monaco?

Lewis Hamilton

I am.

Not sure how long I’m staying, but a few days at least.

Charles Leclerc

Good.

———

It was suspicious, but not unlike the Monegasque driver.

Lewis knew that Charles, like most of the younger drivers on the grid, had elaborate plans for the Summer Break, luxe destinations which included Sardinia, Corsica, and (of course) Ibiza. Others, Lewis had heard, were returning home to visit family and friends – like Lando, who had very excitedly detailed what seemed like a years worth of plans for his trip home to London.

They reminded Lewis of himself, at their age, though he didn’t begrudge the way things were now.

It was nice, he thought, to slow down and take sometime for himself, to figure out what he wanted, instead of just launching himself into the next adventure without pausing to breathe.

Still, he wasn’t exactly surprised when someone – Charles, undoubtedly – was pounding on his door less than half an hour later, startling Roscoe out of a deep sleep. The British Bulldog merely glowered at Lewis from when he was lounging on his well-appointed dog bed, clearly unimpressed that his nap had been interrupted.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Lewis called as he heaved himself up from the couch, grumbling under his breath about impatient children and spoiled dogs as he made his way to the door.

It was, in fact, Charles at his door, takeaway bags in hand – however, Carlos and Pierre were behind him, each holding what looked to be their own takeaway. Carlos, at least, had the decency to look mildly sheepish at the intrusion, while his teammate and the Frenchman just bustled their way past Lewis like they owned the place.

“Hello, Lewis, may we come in, please, thank-you so much for having us,” Lewis intoned drily as they filtered past.

“Leave the door unlocked – Lando will be here soon,” Charles called over his shoulder from where he was already setting out his takeaway at the table. Pierre, for his part, had vanished into the kitchen, while Carlos had set his own takeaway down rather hastily once spotting Roscoe and was now crouched down cooing over the bulldog.

As if Roscoe needed more attention.

Lewis sighed.

“Did you at least bring me food?” he asked grumpily.

“Lando has it – he is closer to that vegan place you like, with the asparagus pancakes?” Charles responded absently, busy sorting out his and his teammate’s food, since Carlos was absolutely enamoured by Roscoe, apparently.

If Lando actually brought the kimchi and asparagus pancakes Lewis figured he could forgive the unannounced intrusion, especially if they still came with that gochujang sauce they’d had last time Lewis had been there.

“Asparagus pancakes?” Pierre questioned with a wrinkled nose as he reappeared, balancing his own takeaway and several empty glasses, along with a very full pitcher of water. The entire thing looked like a disaster waiting to happen, so Lewis finally jumped into the fray.

Which was why he didn’t notice Lando until not only the younger Brit, but also Oscar, Max, and Daniel were in his apartment, arms also laden with take-away from various restaurants. By that point, it was too late to turn them away, especially because Lando did, in fact, have the kimchi and asparagus pancakes with the gochujang sauce.

It was bold – or hopeful – to assume that would be the end of it. As it was, his place was practically bursting at the seams, the younger drivers bickering profusely while Daniel egged them on and Carlos observed quietly from across the room with Roscoe.

He should have just locked the door while he had the chance.

Then, George and Alex practically tumbled through the door, already bickering about something, Ghanyu, Lance and Logan hot on their heels, the latter trio looking slightly terrified where they were hovering just inside the still open doorway, eyes wide.

“Charles, did you invite the entire grid to my house?” Lewis asked incredulously as Mick, Esteban, and Yuki appeared behind the trio still lingering in the doorway.

“Charles said that you knew?” Mick interjected unhelpfully from somewhere in the hallway.

“Can you move?” Esteban griped, hand snaking out to jab at Lance’s side. The Canadian yelped and stumbled further inside, leaving an opening for Esteban and Mick to push through the group still lingering uncomfortably in the doorway, clearly unsure of their welcome.

“Come in,” Lewis said with a small sigh and a reassuring smile. Admittedly, he didn’t know Lance, Logan, or Yuki as well as he probably should have, but he knew that – each in their own way – they were important to the others who had already invaded him home with a startling level of comfort.

At least they’d all brought their own food – Lewis was relatively certain that his kitchen was near – if not completely – empty, so he didn’t have to worry about what to feed them.

Just about how the hell they’d all ended up here in the first place.

“Max? Charles?” Lewis demanded as he rounded on the duo, the pair looking decidedly guilty. “Care to explain?”

“We’re barely ever all available at the same time –”

“And it was so much fun after Baku last year –”

“Don’t forget Abu Dhabi!”

“So, we thought we’d organize another get-together before we all head off on Summer Break –”

“You said you asked!”

Lewis pinched his nose as several voices overlapped all at once – decidedly not just Max and Charles – as half the men – no, children – in the room tried to explain themselves in quick succession.

“So, you actually did invite the entire grid to my house without telling me?”

Silence, and then –

“Checo couldn’t make it because he was on the first flight back to Mexico to see his kids,” Max shared, entirely unhelpfully, from his half of the chair he and Charles were inexplicably sharing.

“Sebastian said that coming to Monaco once a year was more than enough for him,” Mick contributed from the floor space he had commandeered, already digging into his own lunch.

“Apparently Valtteri had some cycling thing to do with Tiffany?” Zhou added from where he was still hovering somewhat nervously between the door and the couch.

“Fernando outright refused to be involved in – and I quote – “this chaos”,” Lance contributed from his place at Ghanyu’s side.

“Nico and Kevin just never answered my messages,” Charles concluded grumpily, earning himself a consolatory pat on the head from Max. 

“So, in summary, they did, in fact, invite the entire grid to your house,” Daniel surmised from where he was happily munching away at his own lunch, wedged between Lando and Yuki on the couch.

“And also Seb,” Yuki reminded everyone, as if Lewis had somehow missed that little fun tidbit of information.

Lewis suppose that he could – very easily – get mad. Could kick everyone out and lock the door and ignore the entire lot of them for the entirety of Summer Break. That would – probably, maybe – teach at least of few of them manners… But he didn’t want to.

Because somewhere between inviting Max back to his motorhome in 2015 and cuddling with Oscar on his driver’s room couch just this past weekend, he’d accepted that these boys were his. Maybe not Daniel or Carlos – they were old enough to fend for themselves, probably – but the rest of them had unwittingly wormed their way into his heart and taken up residence there. Even the younger drivers who’d taken up refuge with other mentors – from Lance with Fernando, to Logan with Alex, or Yuki with Pierre – were impossible to turn away, especially now that he’d let them all into his space and had seen first-hand just how desperately they were hoping to be accepted.

He was, however, going to kill Seb and Valtteri for not telling him about this.

Lewis sighed.

“I want a spot on the couch,” he declared. “And you’re all in charge of cleaning up after yourselves, yeah?”

There was a chorus of agreements, various accents and phrasings bleeding together as smiles broke out across the room. Lando scrambled up off the couch to make room for Lewis, moving to lean against Carlos where the Spaniard was still sitting on the floor next to a bewildered Roscoe.

A short while later, sitting in the living room of his home in Monaco – which, he now realized, was entirely too small for the family he had somehow acquired – Lewis Hamilton could readily admit that he had no idea how he had ended up with not one, not two, but several of what Sebastian, Toto, and half the responsible adults in his life insisted on calling his Grid Kids.

He’d spent years insisting that they weren’t his, but he also couldn’t seem to convince anybody else to take them back. Which, as Lewis pondered his current reality, probably had to do with the fact that he’d entirely stopped trying to give them back to anybody, because he liked having them around.

“Lewis, can we watch Cars?”

“No – let’s watch Fast and the Furious!”

“I say we watch Ford vs Ferrari.”

“I asked first! Lewis!”

As the late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of his Monaco home, the sounds of his accidental grid family bickering washing over him, Lewis just tipped his head back and laughed, feeling a sense of peace he’d never quite experienced before.