Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I'm holding my breath, holding so tight

Nothing is wrong, nothing is right

Emilia Romagna is one of Charles’ favourite tracks. The high-speed straights, the pulsing joy of the Tifosi, the sea of red at every corner means it holds a special place in his heart. Every element of the weekend feels as though it is crafted to his strengths. And for the first time since the beginning of 2022, he finally has a competitive car to go with it.

Sure, Max feels indomitable at this moment in time, but Red Bull are nowhere near as far ahead has they had been at this point last season.

For the first time since 2022, there is a small fire of hope kindling in his belly. Maybe they can actually do it. Maybe this year will be their year.

Then he gets in the car for free practice, and he can tell from the first lap that the promised upgrades will not put them where they hoped to be.

The car feels juddery, barely within his control. He radios Xavi again and again, asking them to look over the data and confirm that nothing is amiss with the car.

‘Copy Charles, we are checking,’ is the only response he gets. He can already imagine the memes which will spawn from this weekend.

Free practice makes him nervous, meaning that qualifying unravels before it can even begin. He doesn’t trust the car, unable to brake as late into the turns as he would like. It leaves him in fourth place on the grid, behind his teammate yet again this season. Carlos doesn't have the upgrades on his car, and the fact that he secures front row is just a further kick in the teeth. So much for Ferrari 2.0.

Charles can feel that small spark of hope in his chest begin to wane, flickering dangerously and threatening to extinguish, just as it had done the last five seasons with Ferrari.

But then race day blooms bright, the first break in the rain Italy has seen in weeks. The Tifosi are out in full force, screaming his name, throwing their full support behind him and Carlos. It improves his mood exponentially, and he finds himself eagerly awaiting the race start.

He has a decent start, making up a place in the first corner, before an incident between Daniel and Alex occurs somewhere behind him. The two men make contact, throwing them both off the track and subsequently bringing out the red flags. Charles can barely keep the panic from his tone as he asks if they are both okay, making his way back to the pit lane as instructed. Xavi’s response is short at best, snappy at worst. Charles can feel his focus begin to waver, so he remains in the car for the duration of the red flag. If he gets out, he isn’t sure he’ll find the resolve to get back in.

So, he sits, and he waits. The restart is less eventful, all cars getting a clean start from the line and avoiding any further collisions. He hunkers down, doing his best to nurse the tyres as tenderly as he can while working on keeping the McLarens at bay. Except there is a persistent vibration in the car.

‘Xavi, there is something wrong with the car.’

‘We are not seeing anything in the data.’

‘Xavi, I’m telling you, the car isn’t right. It’s getting harder and harder to turn.’

‘Copy, we are checking.’

Another few laps go by, and the issue persists, badly enough for Lando to overtake him. For all their joking, the car really does feel like a tractor, lumbering around the corners and barely responding to his commands.

‘Xavi, there is something wrong with the car.’

‘Data looks clean.’

‘Box, box.’

‘Negative, Charles. Do not box.’

Charles cuts off the radio stream, before letting out a frustrated cry, just between himself and his car. ‘Please,’ he finds himself begging the car. ‘Please, just hold on. Help me Jules, help me Papa, help it hold out.’

Another lap goes by, and Charles feels like the car is beginning to split in half. The vibration has turned into rattling, and he is getting further and further from the racing line as the car stubbornly refuses to meet his demands.

‘Box, box,’ he begs once more.

‘Negative. Stay out. We are on plan C, I repeat, plan C.’

‘This isn’t about the tyres. There is something wrong with the car!’

‘Negative. Do not box.’

Charles wants to swear. Wants to scream and cry and shout at the unfairness of it. At the state of the car, the blatant way his team refuse to listen to him. At the doubts beginning to creep into the back of his head about whether Ferrari kept the right driver.

But he does not get the opportunity.

He doesn’t even have time to cut the radio transmission before the rattling turns into a snap, as the suspension arm on his front right wheel fractures.

Instantly, the car carves a dizzying circle on the track as it picks up momentum, the tyres squealing a deafening shriek in his ears. On and on, turning faster and faster like a loop of a rollercoaster that never ends. Until he hits the wall. The collision must cause him to black out for a few moments, because when he blinks his eyes open, the car is laid out prone on its side.

‘Fuck,’ he breathes, feeling the pain begin to encompass every inch of his being. There is something wet on the inside of his visor, as Charles breathes hard against the onslaught of agony.

Charles realises the car is splayed across the entirety of the track on its side, at the most dangerous point of the hairpin turn. If anyone comes around the corner now, they will have no chance of stopping.

In the time it takes him to realise this, a papaya blur swoops around the corner, having been mere seconds behind Charles.

All he can do is close his eyes and brace for impact.

I'm in the dark, looking for light

Won't somebody please save my life?

Oscar’s weekend started out pretty great. They’re finally back in Europe, which means he can spend more time at home in London between the races. He finally meets Logan and Alex for their promised paddle match, dragging Lando along as his support act. He manages to squash the rumours of him being a terrible player with a resounding victory over both men.

Okay, resounding might be an exaggeration, but it’s a victory none the less. 

He doesn’t qualify spectacularly, ending up sixth behind his teammate, but for the first time since he joined McLaren, they have the race pace to compensate. He has high hopes, buoyed by the good mood he has maintained the entire weekend. He is running in fifth, not as high as he would like, but it looks like Ferrari are beginning to drop back, so he is just biding his time waiting to pounce.

‘Red flag Oscar, red flag.’

‘What?’

Oscar has barely moved his foot to the brake, and it is already too late. Around the corner, a Ferrari lies on its side, stretched prone across the entirety of the track. Oscar has just enough sense to wrench the wheel to the left, doing his best to avoid contact with the cockpit, before he plunges into the Ferrari like a missile strike.

Despite having slowed for the corner, he is still moving at over a hundred miles an hour when he makes contact. He slams his eyes shut as the McLaren rockets into the wall, ploughing headfirst into the barriers.

His momentum stops quickly, the car cushioned by rows of tyres stacked ahead of the wire fence. ‘Holy shit!'

‘Oscar, Oscar please respond. Oscar, are you okay?’

‘Yeah, yeah I’m okay,’ he gasps into the radio. It takes a few seconds for him to realise what happened, the voice of his race engineer fading to nothing in his ear. He hit someone.

‘Fuck!’ He clambers out of the car, removing the wheel and pulling himself up using the halo. He doesn’t know if it hurts, fuelled by adrenaline at the thought of the driver he collided with. Oscar clears the halo, immediately turning to examine the track. It is littered with debris, papaya and red scattered across the track like confetti. Oscar is a few hundred yards from where he collided with the Ferrari, but the other car has gone further.

The car is half buried in the barrier; Oscar cannot even make out the cockpit, wholly engulfed in the tyres comprising the wall. There is no movement, and Oscar feels time may have suspended as his brain struggles to compute the utter devastation around him. But then it resumes, as slowly, ever so slowly, the car creaks backward, slamming into the unyielding gravel as it plummets back onto what is left of its floor. As soon as it touches the ground, the body of the car splits in two. Fire springs from the fissure, licking at the frame, devouring the carbon fibre.

Oscar doesn’t think, he just reacts. He knows there are stewards coming, he knows that this is dangerous and reckless to the extreme. But all sense abandons him as he plunges straight toward the wreckage. The heat is oppressive the closer he gets, his breaths sawing in and out of his lungs painfully as the smoke begins to invade his sinuses. He can make out the cockpit now, a dark stain amongst the roaring flames. There is a hand atop the halo, the driver trying his damndest to get out of the car. Except the figure doesn’t make any more progress, not emerging from the car even as Oscar wills him to.

Oscar is there in the next second, lunging into the cockpit for the harness. The driver has managed to unclip it himself, so Oscar fixes his hands beneath limp arms, yanking hard as he works to remove the driver from his burning seat. There is significant resistance, and Oscar worries that he missed the seatbelt. Then, with a jerk and a crunch, Oscar almost falls backward as the man comes flying out of the cockpit, the resistance finally giving against his desperation. The figure in his grasp is lax, so he begins hauling them both away from the smouldering wreckage of the car.

He makes it a few feet before his legs go from beneath him, and he collapses to the ground. But they’re not far enough from the blazing flames licking the car. Oscar scrabbles at the tarmac urgently, propelling them both as far as he can across the floor.

Yet it’s not enough. They’re not far enough away, and the car is groaning dangerously. Oscar screams into his helmet as the helplessness sets in.

But then there are hands beneath his armpits, pulling at him fiercely as he keeps a tight grip on the driver within his arms. The stewards are finally there, beginning to fight the fire from a safe distance as Oscar finally sags, allowing his weary bones to rest as someone else takes control of the situation.

There is a paramedic trying to remove the figure from within his embrace, but Oscar clings on tighter. They can’t take him, not yet, not until Oscar knows he is okay. The paramedic gives in, turning his attention to unclipping the red helmet. For the first time, Oscar looks at the number painting the side, the white slashing through the red surface. The numbers one and six staring starkly back at him. Charles. Oh God, this is Charles. He hit Charles.

The balaclava is peeled back from sickeningly familiar features as Charles’ wan profile finally comes into view. He is deathly pale, whiter than Oscar has ever seen another person as blood drips steadily down the side of his head, pasting his dark hair to skin. Then green eyes blink open.

‘Osc,’ Charles breathes, the word barely more than a puff of air.

‘Charles, Charles, you’ll be fine, okay. Listen to me, you’ll be fine.’

‘Tell… Tell Arthur… That I love him. Mama and Enzo too.’ He is gasping for air desperately, his lungs sounding wet as blood bubbles from the side of his mouth, painting a trail of devastation down his chin.

‘You’ll be fine, Charles, okay. You can tell them yourself!’

‘See Jules... N' Papa.’ Charles smiles softly, his teeth streaked with blood.

‘We need to take him,’ the paramedic yells as they finally rip Charles from his grasp. The Ferrari driver screams as they move him, and for the first time Oscar comprehends the full extent of the damage. There is debris sticking out of Charles’ abdomen grotesquely, protruding at least a foot out of the race suit.

Oscar doesn’t move, just stays slumped on the ground as they strap Charles to a stretcher and whisk him away.

The stewards have finally extinguished the fire, leaving nothing but a burnt-out husk, broken in two and all but caved in on itself. Oscar thinks he might be sick, so he turns his eyeline to his hands instead. The gloves are soaked through with blood. The tarmac beneath his knees too. It is everywhere, streaks of it all over his race suit.

Ferrari red.

‘Are you okay?’ There is someone in his face, pulling his gaze off his hands.

‘I’m fine,’ Oscar whispers, unable to raise his voice any further. ‘I just want to go back to the garage.’ The paramedic looks dubious, but helps hm to his feet anyway, depositing him in the back of the medical car. Moving hurts, but no more than after a normal crash. Nothing like Charles…

The paddock comes into view quickly, he gets out mechanically as soon as the car stops, his feet leading him automatically toward the McLaren garage. There is someone chasing after him, saying something about the medical centre. He can barely hear them over the ringing in his ears. He just needs to get to the McLaren garage, and then everything will be okay. He needs to get home.

There is a crowd outside the McLaren hospitality, and he knows that these are all faces he remembers. People he cares about. But the only person who stands out is Lando. His teammate in the stupid orange race suit.

Oscar sets eyes on him, and for the first time since the crash, he feels the adrenaline begin to falter its pounding through his blood. He stops abruptly, feeling like his strings have been cut. A sob bursts forth, and his hand flies to his mouth to try and silence it. Lando looks up, noticing him for the first time. As soon as Oscar looks into those familiar brown eyes, his knees give out and he sinks to the floor.

Lando runs to him and wraps Oscar up in his arms. Lando holds him tight, as Oscar shatters.

Inside I'm a mess, but I don't let it show

I'm just hanging on, but you'd never know

‘Red flag, Max. Red flag. Make your way straight to the pits please.’

‘Was it a crash?’ Max asks instantly, heart seizing in his chest. GP doesn’t answer.

‘GP! Talk to me! Was it a crash?’

‘I can confirm there was a crash at the entrance to turn two.’

‘Fuck. Who was it? Are they out?’ GP doesn’t respond. ‘What happened?’

‘Max…’ GP hesitates, clearly keeping the truth from him.

‘For fucks sake GP!’ He curses soundly as he pulls the car into the pit lane, leaping out and sprinting to the pit wall as soon as it is stopped. Christian is waiting for him, offering Max a tablet without protest, a replay already loaded up on it for him to watch.

The cameras are following Charles, his Ferrari darting in and out of corners. It should be a dance, smooth and graceful as it dips in and out of view; but Max can tell instantly there is something wrong. The Ferrari isn’t moving the way it should, taking wide lines through the corners, threatening to spin out at every turn.

‘Is this the replay?’ Checo and Lando are behind him, and Max adjusts the tablet so they can both see.

‘What the hell is wrong with that car?’ Lando demands, immediately seeing what Max had picked up on.

‘It looks like Leclerc is struggling with the car here. It’s not clear what could be wrong, but it seems that there could be a technical issue. We can listen to his onboard here,’ Crofty’s commentary echoes from the tinny speakers.

‘Box, box.’

‘Negative. Stay out. We are on plan C, I repeat, plan C.’

‘This isn’t about the tyres. There is something wrong with the car.’

‘Negative. Do not box.’

Charles disappears behind the treeline as they listen to the radio, each of them exchanging uneasy glances.

But then he doesn’t come back out.

‘I’m not totally sure what happened there, but Leclerc hasn’t reappeared from this bank of trees obstructing our view. We can now see that there are red flags being waved.’ The commentators’ words echo like a gunshot through Max’s chest, an anvil of dread settling into his stomach.

‘We are just going to drivers view, to see if we can capture what happened there.’ Max watches as the view changes, the front wing of a very familiar Ferrari appearing on screen. Charles is making his way round turn one, entering turn two when the front right suspension arm snaps. In one second, it is fine, the next, his tyre is waving like a flag in the wind. The car is already spinning when it hits the barrier, rebounding as the tyres come shooting off. The loose wheel gets caught beneath the chassis, and then he is turning, flying, car rolling through over and over before finally settling on its side.

‘Fuck,’ Max whispers, running a hand through his mussed hair. ‘Please respond, please respond.’

‘Holy shit,’ Lando breathes. Checo is silent, a hand coming to cover his mouth as all three men watch on in horror.

Charles’ race engineer calls for him, but there is no response.

‘Oh, this does not look good. The position that Leclerc has landed in, he is covering the entirety of the track. If any driver comes round that corner right now, they have no hope of stopping.’

Almost as soon as Crofty says the words, Oscar Piastri rounds the corner. Max can only watch in horror, as the nose of the McLaren makes direct contact with the front of the Ferrari. Oscar’s front wing crumples, debris scattering everywhere as the metal caves in on itself. The McLaren ploughs straight through the Ferrari, the collision with Charles reducing the force of the impact with the barrier.

The papaya car finally stills, but the red is still rocketing onward.

The McLaren cuts through the Ferrari with terrifying ease. Already precariously lodged on its side, the impact sends the red car flying. It rolls over and over, momentum unending as the carbon fibre screeches against the track; tumbling ever forward, seeming to pick up speed as it continues undeterred along this path of destruction. The rolling finally ceases when the car slams into the unyielding barrier with a crunch. It is finally static on its side, and Max can only watch as, with a groan, the car falls back onto its remaining wheels in slow motion. It splits in two, the impact with the gravel the final straw for the abused cockpit.

Max thinks for three seconds that this couldn’t get any worse. Then fire erupts from the chassis.

Max realises there are tears slipping down his cheeks, but he does nothing to stop them. There are cameras on him from every angle, but for the first time in his life, he can’t bring himself to care. He can’t bring himself to care about anything except the man in the car.

‘Oh god, Oscar,’ Lando moans from his left. Max hadn’t realised the young Australian was out of the car, but suddenly he is racing along the track, sprinting toward the flames. ‘What are you doing?’

He watches, barely daring to breathe as Oscar plunges straight into the inferno. Max cannot make anything out for a minute or so, but then the flames part briefly, and two men appear, instead of one. Oscar has Charles in his grasp, hauling him away from the car. ‘Come on, come on,’ Max whispers, watching the slow progress with bated breath. Until he falls.

‘Get up. For fucks sake, Oscar, get up,’ Lando pleads. But he doesn’t He continues to drag them valiantly across the track, trying with every scrap of strength he has to get them clear of the blast radius of the car.

‘Fuck. Fuck!’

‘They’re not going to make it,’ Lando breathes. ‘Oh god.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Checo hisses.

Max just keeps his eyes glued to the screen, unable to tear them away for fear that if he looks away for one second, when he looks back, they will be gone.

Stewards are finally racing onto the track, the medical vehicle screeching onto the scene, where it should have been five minutes ago. The footage continues, endlessly showcasing this torture for all to see.

The stewards are fighting the waning fire, beating it back with extinguishers as the medics finally descend on Oscar and Charles.

Max sees it all in snippets. The red Ferrari, blackened by flames. Oscar Piastri on his knees, head in his hands. Charles Leclerc, limp as they pull him onto a stretcher.

It looks like a sensational Hollywood movie, one which would make Charles cry, and Max tease him about it for days. One that George would judge, pointing out all the inaccuracies while Lando tells him to shut up from the corner of the room. Carlos would alternate between his phone and laughing at Daniel's inappropriate jokes. Oscar quietly judging them all, the only person paying any attention to the movie. He can picture it now, in Charles’ apartment in Monaco, all of them draped over the couches, covered in blankets and popcorn.

Except this isn’t a movie. This is real life, and Max is watching them strap his best friend to a stretcher.

Charles’ left arm falls, hanging limply from the side, and it is only then that Max realises there is blood dripping from his fingertips. Ferrari red, against his ghostly pale skin.

It is here that the cameras finally cut, and Christian removes the tablet from Max’s white knuckled grasp. ‘How old…?’

‘Roughly ten minutes delay,’ Christian answers. ‘Piastri is on his way back to the paddock as we speak.’

‘I need to go,’ Lando is already retreating, running in the direction of his own garage. Max doesn’t offer any further words to Christian, just follows his friend through the paddock. A few other drivers take notice, until there are five or six of them gathered at the entrance of the McLaren hospitality. Checo is quick to join them. Then Lewis. Alex and Logan. Before long, there are seventeen drivers huddled at the foot of the garage. There isn’t a red race suit in sight.

Max has his back turned to the rest of the paddock, so he doesn’t see Oscar appear initially. When Lando moves, Max follows him, watching his friend wrap his arms around his teammate. Oscar is on his knees, head in his hands as he cries. As he sobs.

Oscar Piastri is many things. Largely unproblematic, honest to the point of bluntness, intensely logical. But if there is one word that sums up this young man, it is stalwart. Max has never seen Oscar angry, no matter how badly his race went. He is never upset, never scared, never turbulent. He is just calm.

So, seeing him crumble makes Max’s stomach turn with dread.

‘Come on,’ Lewis nudges him in the ribs, motioning him forward. Max doesn’t understand what is going on, but he complies. Slowly, the drivers circle, Lewis leading them all forward until the McLaren drivers are covered from all angles. Because the fucking cameras are still rolling.

They remain gathered as Lando holds Oscar tightly, trying to hold this boy together with his bare hands. A flash of movement catches Max's eye, and looks up to find a familiar figure join the huddle. Carlos Sainz.

His red race suit feels like a lightning bolt has struck Max’s chest, makes his heart stutter with sheer agony. The Spaniard is uncharacteristically grim, his skin pale and devoid of all colour. The motion of Carlos joining them alerts Oscar to their presence for the first time. He shrugs Lando off, the Brit retreating slightly as Oscar scrubs away the tears lining his cheeks.

‘Let’s go inside,’ Lewis says gently. ‘Lando, is there somewhere we can go?’ He gets a nod in response, not tearing his eyes away from his younger teammate.

Oscar uncurls himself, and for the first time, Max gets a good look at him. The papaya race suit is unrecognisable, every inch of it stained blood red. His gloves are stiff and almost black, flaking gorily as he unfolds his hands. There is a streak of blood across his left cheek, and Max cannot prevent himself from blanching.

They work together to keep Oscar hidden from the cameras, the image of the bloody race suit not one that needs to be broadcast across the internet. Lando takes the lead, directing them all up the stairs and into an abandoned tearoom. There are a few couches, a mini kitchenette and some vending machines littering the space. It’s too small for nineteen drivers, but they cram inside anyway.

‘What the hell happened?’ Pierre is the one to break the silence. The Frenchman looks destroyed, and Max knows the thoughts that are running through his head right now. Recollections of Anthoine Hubert, as memories from the past blend into fears for the future. The black arm band they wore for Anthoine. Standing around a red helmet with their heads bowed. A sticker which says racing for Charles.

Max has been racing with Charles Leclerc since he was twelve years of age, he will be damned if he ever races without him.

‘I didn’t see him,’ Oscar’s voice is hoarse, cracking at the end. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t see him.’

‘Hey, hey, it’s not your fault,’ Lewis whispers, wrapping the younger man up in a hug. ‘Not one bit of this is your fault.’

‘But I hit him. I didn’t even know if it was him or Carlos,’ Oscar begins, his voice stronger.

‘You don’t need to tell us,’ Logan says gently, the young American glued to the side of his ex-teammate.

‘I do,’ Oscar waves him off. ‘You all deserve to know. All I knew was I hit him so hard, and I had to check that he got out. But there was no one there. No stewards, no medics, no one. And the car was burning.’ He trails off softly. ‘It was burning.’

Lewis moves aside, allowing Lando to take his place. The other drivers have taken various seats around the room, some of them on the floor, some leaning against walls, some on the sporadic couches littered around the room. All of them waiting, listening.

‘I didn’t think, I just ran. He undid the seatbelt. He was trying to get out, but he couldn’t. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t get out. So, I pulled, and he didn’t move for a really long time. But then he was out, and I couldn’t get us away. I tried; I swear that I tried.’ Lando takes his hand gently, beginning to peel his bloodied gloves away from pale skin.

‘The medics arrived, and they got his helmet off. That was the first time I realised it was Charles. And… there was a piece of front wing lodged in his abdomen. My front wing. That’s why he couldn’t get out of the car. Why I couldn’t pull him out at first. It was literally trapping him in the car’ Oscar just barely restrains a sob. ‘He asked me to tell his family he loves them, while he lay bleeding on the ground with my fucking papaya front wing in his chest.’ His voice really does break at this point, and he buries his face in Logan’s shoulder. Max drops his head into his hands, a few tears beginning to slip down his cheeks freely.

‘Fuck,’ Carlos whispers. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!’ He throws his gloves to the floor, kicking out at the vending machine viciously.

‘Hey, hey, it’s okay,’ George approaches carefully, holding his hands out to prevent any further violence.

‘It’s not okay!’ Carlos cries. ‘Nothing about this is okay!’

‘You’re right, it’s fucked up.’ George takes Carlos’ arms tenderly. ‘It’s fucked up, and it’s wrong, and we’re all angry. But we can’t be angry with each other right now.’

‘I’m not angry with you, I’m angry with myself,’ Carlos whispers brokenly, shaking off George’s grip and slumping to the floor.

‘Why?’ Daniel asks gently. ‘There is nothing you could have done to prevent this.’

Carlos laughs humourlessly, the sound razor sharp. ‘You haven’t seen the replay, have you? This was Ferrari’s fault.’

The thought has been nagging at the back of Max’s mind since he saw the footage, but he hasn’t had the time to truly consider it. The events have been too tumultuous, too much happening for him to contemplate the footage in detail. But it was. Ferrari did this to him.

‘What are you talking about?’ Alex asks, confused.

‘Here,’ Checo produces the same tablet Christian gave them from nowhere. Max cannot endure the footage again, so he focuses on his fellow drivers.

George and Alex clutch each other tightly, the two Brits taking comfort in the presence of one another as they blanch at the words from the onboard. Pierre cries softly in the corner, Yuki holding him close as he attempts to keep the older man from breaking down entirely. Daniel has to grab a nearby bin to vomit into, Lando quickly following suit. Oscar’s face pales, that one streak of blood across his cheek contrasting starkly against the whiteness of his skin. The rest of the drivers look halfway between tears and fury, unable to decide how to react as the footage plays into the heavy silence of the room.

‘You have to be fucking kidding me,’ Kevin is the first person to speak up once the video ends.

‘He told them there was something wrong with the car, and they blatantly ignored him!’ Fernando exclaims.

‘I have the transcript of his onboard footage for the entire weekend,’ Carlos says quietly, not lifting his head. ‘He realised there was something wrong with the car during free practice on Friday. He spent the rest of the weekend fighting for the team to look at the car. He asked to box for the first time on lap eleven. He spent the next sixteen laps begging Xavi over the radio to let him pit, but they wouldn’t let him. Just told him there was nothing wrong with the car, and to carry on driving.’

‘Tell me you’re joking,’ Max thinks he might follow Daniel’s lead, and be physically sick.

‘I wish I was.’ Carlos sounds so defeated, so hollow, that it physically hurts. ‘Ferrari pulled me straight back to the garage after the crash. They’re not going to take any responsibility for this. They’re already working on a story which will show it to be driver error.’

‘I’m going to kill them,’ Bottas growls.

Carlos shakes his head wearily, finally lifting his head. ‘I left the meeting when Mattia began talking about it. Ferrari have deleted the entire onboard from their system to keep it from being leaked.’

‘Holy shit,’ Lewis whispers, looking green.

‘There is no way they can cover this up,’ Lando says. ‘Everyone heard his onboard. They broadcast it live.’

‘They only broadcast about fifteen seconds of it live,’ Alex counters. ‘Ferrari will argue that there was more to the onboard that we didn’t hear. I don’t know… that Charles didn’t realise something was wrong until that lap and Xavi was telling him not to box because they weren’t prepared or something.’

‘Come on, they can’t do that!’ Lando protests. But they can. Max knows they can. Lando has only ever driven for McLaren, a team that worships the ground he walks on. But Max has seen Ferrari beat Charles down, break his spirit and refuse to love him back. Ferrari will protect themselves, above all else.

‘Surely, we can do something?’ Logan asks, glancing around the room for everyone’s reactions.

‘We haven’t before. No one has before.’ Max says the words quietly, as he feels a tidal wave of shame build in his gut. He saw this coming. They all have. The way Ferrari treat Charles is hardly a secret. There are enough jokes circulating the internet to prove that. Yet here they stand.

‘What do you mean?’ Zhou asks softly. ‘I know we all make jokes about Ferrari treating Charles badly, but I thought they were all jokes?’

‘They are. They were,’ Daniel says hesitantly. ‘None of us knew it could ever get this far.’

Max laughs bitterly, pulling off his baseball cap and running his fingers through the short hair beneath. ‘Don’t lie. None of us wanted to believe it would get this bad. But the signs were all there.’

‘What signs?’ Oscar’s words are whispered, but they clang through the room with enough force as though he screamed them.

‘It’s little things,’ Max begins hesitantly. ‘The way he speaks in front of the media… It is never Ferrari’s fault, even when it clearly is. He defends that team to the public come hell or high water. But they have never given him the same support.’

‘The media even call him the martyr of Ferrari,’ George whispers. ‘He has given everything to that team, and as far as I have seen, they’ve given nothing back.’

Carlos shakes his head, not daring to look up at them. ‘Do you remember when he drove without a seatbelt?’ There are various nods of assent from around the room before he continues. ‘Charles got so much hate from the press, fans, the media. People bringing up Jules and saying that of all drivers, Charles is the one who should know the consequences of racing. Charles took the blame, took all the hate, took everything. And it was Ferrari’s fault. He told them that his seatbelt had failed, to get another one ready, but they didn’t. They knowingly sent him out there without a functioning seatbelt, and the only reason they pulled him in afterwards is because the onboard was broadcast live.’

Max is silent for a long moment as he digests this information. ‘He drove the entire Miami grand prix without water. Didn’t even complain about it.’

‘And it’s hardly the first time that’s ever happened,’ Carlos laughs mirthlessly. ‘They just continue to fuck up.’

‘They never prioritise him either,’ Alex says softly. ‘His strategy, his championship. He has to swallow the team orders, and win despite Ferrari, not because of them.’

‘Looks like they’re sacrificing Leclerc,’ George whispers, recalling an oft-quoted comment he made over the radio once. Innocuous at the time, amusing even. Now with a very different meaning.

‘They pray on all his best qualities,’ Pierre summarises softly. ‘His loyalty. His kindness, his selflessness. Ferrari take everything that is good about him and use it to keep him in this endlessly abusive cycle.’

Silence reigns as all the drivers examine one another, the facts laid bare in front of them. The naked truth presents a stark picture. A picture of pain and disappointment, drawn in Monegasque blood.

‘He carries the weight of Ferrari on his shoulders,’ Carlos continues quietly. ‘When you go to Maranello… I’ve never seen anything like it. The engineers, the designers, the pit crew, hell, even the cleaners. They revolve around him as though he is the sun.’ Carlos chuckles wetly. ‘I hated it at first.’

‘What changed?’ Pierre whispers.

‘I realised that boy deserves every scrap of joy he can get. He gives, and gives and gives, to us, to the team, to his family. He will give everything, even if he gets nothing in return, because that’s just who he is. The higher ups, executives, the fucking team principal. They see it, and they take advantage. They take from that goodness, because they know that there is nothing he would not sacrifice for this team.’

‘They’ve stolen all his smiles,’ Max whispers. That beautiful, carefree grin he wore as well as any accessory. It has become infrequent, forced, displayed like a mask to show the media. Ferrari have been stealing his smiles for years. Now, maybe they've finally stolen it away forever.

Lewis is giving Carlos an assessing look, the Spaniard curled in on himself on the floor. ‘You’re not supposed to be here, are you?’

Carlos shakes his head. ‘The Ferrari garage is on lockdown. Total media blackout.’

‘So why did you come?’

Tears begin to slip down Carlos’ cheeks silently. ‘Because every week, my father and my cousin come to the track; and I know how much it hurts Charles, being reminded of what he can never have. But he loves them, treats them as though they are his own family. Because he is the least athletic person I’ve ever met, but he tries to beat me at everything anyway. Because he’s terrible at chess and invents the rules so he wins. Because he's the best teammate I've ever had, and Ferrari may have killed him today. They have been slowly killing him for six years, and I’ll be damned if I let them take my little brother away from me.’

I smile all day and cry through the night

Won't somebody please save my life

The first step is refusing to race.

The red flag ends an hour or so after Charles was taken away in the air ambulance, and all the drivers are expected to be back on track immediately. There is a spectacular shot of nineteen cars lined up on the starting grid, with not a single driver in sight, before the FIA orders the footage to be cut.

Max asks Christian to take a copy of it before it can be scrubbed from existence. It would be the perfect memorial.

‘Okay, is everyone in agreement?’ Lewis asks, the older driver having taken impromptu control of the whole situation.

He gets a chorus of approvals, all the drivers getting to their feet to take part in the protest. Oscar sways as he stands, Lando and Logan each grabbing onto one of his arms to prevent him from nosediving to the ground.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he mutters. ‘Just a little bit dizzy.’

‘You need to go to hospital,’ Lando declares, tugging Oscar back to a seated position.

‘I’m fine,’ Oscar huffs. ‘I just, my arm hurts a little.’ He shakes off Logan's grip to examine the back of his forearm. There is a ragged split in the race suit, hiding a deep burn marring the pale skin, purple blisters having bubbled to the surface as it lay hidden, unattended.

‘Fucking hell man!’ Logan hisses, pulling the tattered edges of Oscar’s race suit aside to get a clear view of the burn.

‘I didn’t even notice it,’ Oscar whispers, examining it in a daze.

Max exchanges a glance with Lando ‘Someone needs to be at the hospital with Charles, until we can get there. If you go to the hospital now you can keep us in the loop and get that checked out,’ Max proposes. It takes mere seconds for Oscar to agree at the thought of being able to see Charles. He allows Lando to snatch his phone and call Mark Webber, the older man booking it to the room and kneeling in front of the younger Australian within minutes.

‘Oscar, you shitling,’ Mark says the insult tenderly, running a calming hand through Oscar’s hair. ‘If you got yourself killed, I would have murdered you.’

Oscar cracks a weak smile. ‘That would be hard.’

‘You found a way to pull Charles Leclerc out of a fucking burning car, I could have achieved this,’ Mark rolls his eyes. ‘Now come on you stupid kid, let’s leave the adults to it.’ Oscar allows his manager to tug him from the room carefully, a supportive arm around him the whole way.

Lando breathes a sigh of relief as soon as his teammate is out of the room, his concern for the younger man palpable. ‘He’ll be okay,’ Logan promises, the American's voice quiet and drawn.

Lewis gives them all a moment to recover before motioning for them to leave. ‘Come on, let’s do this.’

The drivers exit the McLaren hospitality together, eighteen strong. They are instantly descended upon from all angles, by officials from the FIA, the media, their team principals. None of them budge.

‘We will not be racing today.’ Lewis is deadly calm as he speaks up, having offered to fulfil this role when they were still inside. ‘We just watched one of our friends get needlessly injured, and we do not think it is respectful for us to race when we do not know if he is alive.’

‘Can you do that?’ A nearby journalist shouts. The FIA officials seem to have the same question, each of them exchanging enraged, but uncertain glances.

‘We don’t know. But we are willing to pay whatever fines or penalties may be put in place. There can be no race without any drivers.’

‘And you have taken the decision not to race today because of the catastrophic crash of Charles Leclerc?’

‘Yes. I am hoping you all heard the onboard radio message broadcast mere seconds before his suspension arm snapped clean off. There can be no mistaking that this accident was in no way driver error. We are not willing to race while there are still question marks being raised over this incident. We will be spending the rest of the day at the hospital, praying to God that our friend makes it through the night.’

Dull knives taking my life

A slow burn fire from the inside

They stick around for a while longer after Lewis’ pronouncement, each of them taking a minute to change out of their race suits. Christian detains Max and Checo for only a moment, allowing them to head to the car park in record time. The other drivers peel out after them, most of them abandoning their team principles mid-conversation.

Checo snatches Max’s car keys from his hand as they approach his Aston Martin. Max doesn’t even try to argue, simply making his way round the car to the passenger seat. His leg jiggles uncontrollably as Checo speeds through the streets, a row of sports cars trailing them. For a brief second, Max thinks it looks like a funeral procession. All these brightly coloured sports cars following one another through the streets of Italy, Max can imagine it as a funeral parade for ‘il predestinato.’

But funerals are for dead people, and Charles cannot be dead.

He sinks into a stupor until Checo pulls up to the hospital. Max throws open the car door and sprints through the entrance, finding himself in an expansive lobby. He imagines it will be difficult to find Oscar in this maze of a building, but the papaya colours are easy to spot across the room. Mark must have brought a change of clothing with him, because Oscar is no longer in his bloodied racing suit, the familiar orange polo shirt doing nothing to hide the bandages covering his arm. Mark is a few seats down, watching Oscar worriedly, the young man curled up in a ball in the plastic chair.

Max finds that he can’t dredge up the strength to approach. If he never hears the words, Charles won’t be dead. If no one ever tells him, he will never have to face this kind of reality. The kind of reality where he doesn’t get fifteen more years racing with this man. A lifetime of learning how to love him, even if it is from afar.

Max doesn’t realise he has been standing limply, unmoving, until Lando sprints past him, tossing himself into the seat beside Oscar and throwing his arms around his junior teammate. ‘I’m sorry I was so long,’ He whispers tenderly.

Oscar just shakes his head, scrubbing a hand through messy hair. ‘No, no, I watched the interview. You all did great.’

A hand claps him on the shoulder, and Max doesn’t need to turn to know that it is Daniel propelling him forward. ‘Have you heard anything?’

Oscar shakes his head helplessly. ‘They said he was in surgery, but they haven’t told me anything else.’

Max sinks into a chair. Daniel following suit. Most of the drivers have followed them to the hospital, taking seats around the waiting area. The notable absence is Carlos Sainz.

‘Where’s Carlos?’ Max asks. Lewis, he realises, is also missing.

‘They stayed behind,’ Bottas answers vaguely, offering no further information. Max frowns, about to press for further information before he is interrupted.

‘How’s the arm?’ Logan asks his best friend softly.

Oscar shrugs dismissively. ‘Fine, but they won’t tell me how Charles is doing.’

‘You’re not fine,’ Mark interjects, rolling his eyes. It’s a second-degree burn, close to third. And you refused pain killers so we both know it hurts like hell.’

‘Osc,’ Lando says mournfully. ‘You idiot.’

‘I need to head off, do some damage control after that mess you driver’s all made,' Mark’s words are reprimanding, but his tone is proud. ‘Will you look after him please?’ They all hurry to promise the man they will keep an eye on Oscar. Mark whispers a few words to him before he takes his leave, so just the drivers are left.

‘Mr Piastri,’ a nurse approaches them. ‘I see your friends have joined you. How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine,’ Oscar waves off her concern. ‘I’d feel better if I knew how Charles was though.’

She sighs deeply, and Max can tell this is a repeat of a conversation they’ve already had. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Piastri, you know I want to tell you. But you’re not family, so I can’t give out any information.’

‘I’ve told you; his whole family are unreachable right now. We’re here, we can help him.’ Tears well in Oscar’s eyes again as he pleads with the woman. ‘Please, just tell me he’s alive.’

‘I’m sorry, I can only give information to,’ she looks down at the paperwork in her hands. ‘Mr Lorenzo or Arthur Leclerc, Ms Pascale Leclerc, or a Mr Max Verstappen.’ Max thinks his brain has officially been scrambled. She can’t have said his name.

Except Daniel is looking at him with wide eyes, and Oscar’s expression contains renewed hope. Suddenly he has the attention of every driver in the room, and he can feel his face begin to heat. ‘Erm, I’m Max.’

She turns to him, pinning him with accusatory eyes. ‘I will need to see some ID to confirm that.’ He digs his passport out of his pocket, thankful he hadn’t had the foresight to remove it from his jeans.

‘It seems you are his power of attorney. If you would like to come this way, Mr Verstappen, I can update you on his condition.’

‘But… Can’t you tell all of us?’ He asks desperately, thinking of Oscar’s soulful eyes, the silent support Daniel is offering him.

‘If you consent to his information being shared this way, then yes.’

‘I consent!’ Max says quickly, the desperation around him palpable.

‘Let me get his doctor. In the meantime, there is a private waiting room on the third floor, if you can make your way there please.’ She gives them more specific instructions, before hurrying away.

‘Did you know that you are his emergency contact?’ Daniel asks gently, his arm a permanent fixture around Max’s shoulders. Max can only shake his head, finding that the words refuse to come to him.

‘Charles swore to me he had told you.’ Pierre breaks the silence, all eyes immediately turning to him.

‘You knew?’ Lando asks, putting the pieces together.

‘It used to be me,’ Pierre explains. ‘For years. He wanted someone who could be around if something happened during a race, so that he wouldn’t need to call his family.’

‘Why would he not want to call his family?’ Checo speaks up, brows tightly furrowed. ‘Surely if something were to happen to him, he would want his family around him, no?’

‘Charles… his family has lost enough. He does not want them to have to sit at his bedside. The way he sat at Jules’. At his father’s.’

‘Only Charles,’ George shakes his head. ‘Only Charles would be more worried about stressing out his family than his own life.’

‘I still don’t understand why he made me his power of attorney, though,’ Max interjects, unable to process this thought in his brain.

‘Look, he wanted three things. He wanted it to be someone in the F1 world, so that we will largely travel together, and he wanted someone who lives in Monaco. Logistically it makes more sense, and because I live in Milan now, we thought it was sensible for him to change it.’

‘What was the third thing?’ Alex asks, picking up on his earlier words.

‘He wanted someone he trusts. With his life, if necessary,’ Pierre answers, looking Max in the eye.

‘But then why not Daniel? Or Lando? Or Lewis, I mean, fuck, there are so many drivers who live in Monaco. His trainer as well? It could be anyone.’

‘It couldn’t be anyone, Max,’ Pierre says gently. ‘He trusts you with his life. This is just him proving that.’

‘But we weren’t even friends, for so long we barely spoke,’ Max protests weakly. ‘How could he trust me?’

‘Because he never quit caring about you. Not after any of it.’ Max is left reeling, his emotions in further turmoil than they had been mere minutes earlier.

Silence falls as Max struggles to comprehend the most recent revelation, until Valtteri speaks up. ‘We’re going to stay down here. I think that you all need some privacy. Just… keep us in the loop, okay?’ Daniel makes the promises Max doesn’t have the words for, before the Australian pushes him toward the elevators.

Max, Lando, Pierre, Oscar, Daniel, Alex and George make their way to the waiting room as requested, leaving the other drivers to keep vigil downstairs. Max feels he should say something, but no words leave his throat. He can’t speak. Can’t think. Can’t breathe until he knows Charles is okay. They all pile into the waiting room, finding a doctor already there.

‘The nurse warned me it would be a crowd of thousands,’ he smiles gently.

‘Tell me he’s alive,’ Oscar rushes out. ‘Please, please tell me I wasn’t too late.’

‘It’s good news. He is stable and doing well.’ Max has been on the edge of hysterics ever since GP told him there was a red flag, about to lose his shit at any moment. He feels like he has just taken a breath for the first time since Charles’ car spun out. Fuck. He actually made it.

‘Unfortunately, Charles has a hard recovery ahead of him. He had a piece of debris lodged in his chest, which punctured his lung. We had to take him into surgery to repair the tear. The debris shattered in his body, causing a large amount of internal bleeding. It took a while, but eventually we found the source was his liver and spleen. We were able to repair the liver, but his spleen was irreparable. We did have to remove it, but he can live a perfectly normal life without his spleen. We were able to remove all the debris and get the bleeding stopped. He has a head injury, but we do not anticipate any long-term repercussions from this outside of a concussion. Most of his body is one giant bruise, but he is stable and doing as well as we would expect at this stage.’

Max feels like the rug has been pulled from under him. Lung. Liver. Spleen. Bleeding. Bruising. He wishes it would float in one ear and out the other, but the words play on a torturous loop in his brain.

‘Unfortunately, there was a complication during surgery. Because of all the blood he lost, Charles' heart stopped.’ At that moment, Max could swear his own heart stills in his chest. His heart cannot beat if Charles' does not. ‘We did manage to get him back, but he has not breathed on his own since. Currently, Charles is intubated, so there is a tube going into his mouth, providing oxygen for him. Considering his lung injury, he needs time to rest be fore he can breathe on his own again.’

‘But he’s okay, right? He’s going to be okay?’ George asks desperately.

‘Yes, barring any complications, I am cautiously optimistic.’ Oscar falls into a chair, burying his head in his hands. Lando is immediately there, holding him tight as their papaya clothing blends into one. It is impossible to tell where one man ends and the other begins.

‘Oscar pulled him out of the car,’ Alex explains gently. ‘Without him, Charles would probably be dead.’

‘What about racing?’ Daniel asks. ‘How long will it be until he races again?’

The doctor hesitates, ‘look, I’m going to be honest, we need to get through the next twenty-four hours first. After that, we can talk about racing.’

‘Please say we can see him.’ The doctor hesitates only momentarily, before giving his consent. They are probably getting special treatment because they are Formula One drivers, but right now Max doesn’t give a shit. He will use every ounce of power or status he has ever earned to get a glimpse of his friend.

The doctor makes to take his leave after giving the nurse instructions to take them to Charles’ room. ‘Young man, I just want you to know, if Mr Leclerc arrived into our care even five minutes later, the conversation we are having now may well be very different. You undoubtedly saved his life.’ Oscar doesn’t respond, doesn’t even uncurl from Lando, but Max registers the words. Realises just how close he came to losing his best friend today, and how much he owes Oscar.

‘You go on ahead,’ Lando tells them softly. ‘I’m going to stay here with him for a minute.’ Daniel elects to remain behind also, in order to update everyone downstairs.

Considering how desperate he was to see Charles mere minutes earlier, now he is outside the room; Max finds he cannot make his feet move any closer.

‘Come on,’ Pierre grabs his hand, and Max realises for the first time how badly the Frenchman is shaking. ‘Let’s do this together.’

Max is the last to enter, and he feels immediately sick. Charles looks so small, laying limply beneath the white sheets. His skin seems almost translucent, cobalt veins standing out starkly. There is a tube emerging from the side of Charles’ chest, swathed in bandages and gauze. He has an IV in each elbow and leads on his chest and pointer finger monitoring his vital signs. There is a wound on his forehead, the stitches standing out starkly against his pale skin. The expanse of his abdomen is painted vivid shades of blue and purple, the bruising deep and promising pain when Charles finally regains consciousness. But the worst of it is the tube shoved mercilessly down his throat. They have taped it to his cheeks, and all Max can think about is how that will irritate his skin when he wakes up.

If he wakes up.

It all makes Max feel he may vomit once again.

Pierre falls into the chair on his left side, clutching Charles' pale hand in his own.

‘I understand that this looks scary right now, but I promise, this is all to help him,’ the nurse speaks up for the first time.

‘Why… the tube…’ George cannot even finish the sentence, his strong façade vanishing for the first time.

‘When he came in, there was a penetrating wound to his chest. Debris was lodged right here,’ the nurse points to the location most thickly bandaged. ‘Unfortunately, the debris penetrated his chest deeply enough that it pierced his lung. They had to place the tube to drain the air that was leaking. The ventilator is there to help his lung heal, until he is strong enough to take the strain.’

She bustles around the monitors for a few moments, before leaving them alone. As soon as the door swings shut behind her, Max wants to call her back. The atmosphere in the room is heavy, the fear palpable as they all find themselves watching the Monegasque. He is unnaturally still, the only movement the artificial rising and falling of his chest, the hissing of the ventilator.

Max collapses into a chair, staring at Charles’ hand. He cannot bring himself to take it, to feel how delicate his pianist’s fingers are. He looks so elegant and soft, that Max fears touching Charles may cause him to shatter.

They have been holding vigil for a few minutes, George with his head bent, Alex gripping his shoulders tightly as Pierre whispers sweet nothings in French. For his part, Max just sits and stares, so absorbed in his thoughts he flinches when the door opens. Lando enters first, cajoling Oscar gently as the Australian shuffles in. His tears have long since dried, but his eyes are watery and red, streaks painting his cheeks from where the tears have fallen.

‘Oh god,’ he whispers, but manages to keep his calm. ‘Oh god, he looks so bad.’

Max stands, allowing the young Australian to slump into his chair. ‘Thank you, Oscar.’ The young man looks up at him in confusion, having reached over and grabbed Charles’ hand, a feat Max has yet to achieve. ‘Because of you, Charles is here. Because of you, Charles is alive.’

‘I did what anyone would do,’ Oscar shakes his head, turning his attention back to his tan fingers, intertwined with Charles’ pale digits.

‘No, you didn’t,’ Daniel says from the doorway, where he had appeared from nowhere. ‘You saved his life, kid. And I, for one, am so fucking thankful for what you did on that track.’

Oscar doesn’t reply, just begins tracing the pattern of Charles’ veins on the back of his hand. As Oscar has now claimed the chair beside the bed, Max settles at Charles’ feet. Alex and George are the other side of him, all of them gathered around the bed.

It feels like they’re all waiting for something to happen, like Charles will magically get up and tell them all that he’s fine. That this was all some kind of sick cosmic joke. But he just lies there, unable to even force his lungs to cooperate, the ventilator hissing and puffing loudly, only serving to remind them all of just how dire this situation is.

Hearing the doctors say he will be okay is one thing, believing it is another entirely.

Dull knives twisting my spine

They're taking their time, time

'Til I lose my mind

Chapter Text

A smouldering flame, deep in my heart

Barely a sign, it's barely a spark

Carlos approaches the Italian Grand Prix with mixed feelings. The 2023 season had been a shitshow from start to finish, until he almost dreaded the Ferrari home races. The knowledge that they were going into every weekend unable to compete, with the expectant sea of Tifosi watching their every move. Yeah, the last few Italian Grand Prix’s had been tough.

He should be excited, at the prospect of finally being able to compete on Italian home soil. But he doesn’t have a race seat for 2025.

Carlos has no idea how the Tifosi will react to him until he and Charles step foot on stage for an interview, with the entire Tifosi watching. It takes approximately five seconds for any lingering enthusiasm to wane when he catches sight of the banners. The banners with Lewis’ head on them, instead of his.

He shouldn’t be surprised really, Lewis is the seven-time world champion, he is every team’s dream. But it doesn’t stop the stab of betrayal that strikes him at the sight of all those banners. At the realisation that, despite the devotion he has shown this team for the last three seasons, through shit cars, diabolical strategic decisions and endless disappointment, this is how quickly the fans replace him.

Charles picks up on his mood instantly, doing everything he can to take the pressure off Carlos. Charles praises him like there is no tomorrow, what a great teammate he is, how well Carlos has started the season, how he has continually pushed Charles to improve his own racing. Charles does as much damage control as he can, but it doesn’t lift Carlos’ spirits.

As soon as they get off stage, Charles calls to him, trying to ease the sting of the wounds inflicted. But he doesn’t give the Monegasque the chance, storming away and retreating to the comfort of his drivers room to lick his wounds.

It takes Carlos a few hours to cool down, but as soon as he has regained his head, he feels like shit. It’s not Charles’ fault how the Tifosi react, it never has been. Carlos has watched him plead with the fans again and again, to stop booing Max, to treat all drivers with equal respect. He knows it wasn’t the fault of his teammate, but he blamed Charles anyway.

Carlos swears to himself he will make it up to the younger man after the race.

Sunday dawns bright and clear, Carlos’ foul mood from the prior day turning into a burning desire to prove the Tifosi wrong; prove Ferrari wrong. He doesn’t see Charles until the driver line up with the grid kids before the race.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, trying to keep a smile affixed to his face through the words.

‘You don’t need to be sorry,’ Charles murmurs, brushing his shoulder against Carlos’ softly. ‘Yesterday was a bad day, I get it.’

‘I shouldn’t have taken it out on you,’ Carlos argues.

‘I don’t mind, you’re my friend Carlos, I’m here for whatever you need.’ The gentle admission hurts something deep within him. At the easy way in which Charles accepts his misplaced anger. But he can dwell on it no more, because the Italian anthem ends, and it is time to go racing.

From the moment the lights blink out, the car feels strong, responding to his demands, and more importantly, fast. He’s running in fourth and making moves toward third position when his race engineer delivers the message.

‘Carlos, that is a red flag. I repeat, red flag. Please come back to the pit lane.’

‘What happened?’ There is no response.

‘Come on, what happened?’

‘There was a crash. Please come back to the pitlane.’

‘What do you think I’m doing?’ Carlos huffs. ‘Is he okay?’ No answer once again.

‘For fucks sake man, give me answers!’ He is almost back to the pit entrance now, and there is still no answer from over the radio. Terror begins to pool in his belly, sitting heavily as he pulls in and brings the car to a stop behind both Red Bulls. Lando’s car is there as well, but the boy is nowhere to be found.

Usually, his car would be swarmed by now, pulling it back into the garage, warming his tyres. But there is no one. The dread turns into out and out fear as he extracts himself from the car, making his way to the Ferrari garage on autopilot more than anything else.

His side of the garage is in chaos, engineers sprinting in all directions as they try to do damage control on whatever the hell has happened.

But Charles’ side of the garage is utterly still. They are all slumped in their seats, most of them with their heads in their hands.

Fuck.

Most of the mechanics glance up at him briefly as he enters the wrong side of the garage. He sees tears glistening in their eyes, one of them using the remote to pull the footage back a couple of minutes for him.

The radio message. The suspension arm. Oscar’s car. It’s all too much. Carlos has to lunge for a nearby bin, hurling into it as his stomach tries to exit through his mouth.

He didn’t know it was this bad. Sure, he’s seen over the years how Ferrari treat Charles. Has seen Binotto belittle him, pray on his insecurities and blatantly disregard what Charles is saying. Carlos has tried to talk to his teammate about it, but Charles just waves it off. Swears it is normal and there is nothing to worry about.

He knew. He knew, deep down in his gut, that this was not normal. The way Xavi speaks to him, the way Binotto spurns him. There have been so many things, small incidents which Carlos brushed off over the years. They swirl around in his head now, all of them showing one pattern, with a prancing horse at the centre.

How could he have let them do this?

Carlos vomits once more before he tries to pull himself together. He surveys the garage for a moment, finding every single engineer staring back at him with wide, watery eyes.

‘I’ve already lost my seat for next season,’ he begins frantically, ensuring the Netflix cameras aren’t lurking anywhere he cannot see. ‘This needs to stop, and I will do whatever it takes to get it done. But I have nothing left to lose. No one will think any less of you if you don’t help.’ None of them leave. Not one even seems to be considering it. Carlos does not think you would find this kind of loyalty in any other garage across the paddock.

‘Okay, I need one of you to take a copy of the full onboard audio from this weekend. Everything, from free practice to the race. Get it off the system and take copies. Multiple. Make sure I have one.’ A few people nod, immediately making their way to the systems to begin fulfilling his request. ‘I need someone to record the meeting we’re about to have,’ he glances at the more senior engineers, the only ones who will surely be invited.

‘Let me,’ the oldest man steps forward. Guiseppe has been at Ferrari longer than Carlos has been alive, something of a famous figure within the Ferrari hierarchy due to his unwavering loyalty to his team. Only Charles Leclerc could turn this man away from the institution he loves so dearly.

‘Thank you. Now I need you to buy me time. Ten minutes, and I’ll be back.’ He has no idea what they will do, but he doesn’t waste precious minutes hanging around to find out. The paddock is in chaos when he plunges into it, allowing him to move freely despite the distinctive race suit. ‘Come on, come on,’ he murmurs desperately.

There. Will Buxton is off camera, though they are clearly gearing up to begin filming. He is watching a replay of the crash and looks like he may begin to cry at any moment.

‘Will!’ Carlos calls, the older man swinging around at the sound of his name.

‘Carlos, hey, are you okay? Have you heard anything?’ If Carlos was unsure about this plan before, the genuine concern and lack of a microphone being waved in front of his face convinces him this is the best course of action.

‘I need your help.’

Holding on, through every night

Won't somebody please save my life?

He is gone less than ten minutes in the end, rushing into the Ferrari garage just as Binotto enters the room.

‘Sainz. Upstairs, now.’ Carlos doesn’t answer, dutifully making his way toward the staircase. There are a few engineers following him, including Guiseppe.

He takes a seat, Sylvia already at the front of the room ready to present her case. Mattia sits last, at the head of the table.

‘We need to begin damage control, now.’ Sylvia orders. ‘The onboard was live, there is nothing we can do about that. We cannot keep the investigation outside the hands of the FIA either, so we decide on the Ferrari narrative early.’

‘Ferrari narrative?’ Carlos speaks up. ‘What narrative? It was our fault. Charles wished to box; you did not let him. It is as simple as that.’

‘Of course, it was not our fault,’ Binotto spits. ‘Leclerc was being careless.’

‘Which is exactly what we tell the press. He didn’t make it clear to us that there was an issue with the car until the lap before he crashed. There was nothing in the data to support there was anything wrong with the car, and Charles offered no details. We were going to box him on the next lap, when the garage was prepared for him.’

‘But he has been saying there is something wrong with the car since free practice!’

‘No, he has been making mistakes all weekend!’ Binotto hisses.

‘We emphasise the spin during free practice, say that the car took some damage from that. Charles did not tell us there was anything wrong with the car during qualifying,’ Sylvia continues to unfold the story they will tell. ‘We have already begun tweeting about how unfortunate the incident was, and how we hope that Charles makes a full recovery.’

‘You nearly killed him today,’ Carlos hisses. ‘We all did. And you want to paint it as driver error. You want to tell the world that he fucked up.’

Binotto has the audacity to shrug. ‘Ferrari’s reputation is everything.’

‘You’re saying that this brand is more important than a man’s life. Than Charles Leclerc’s life.’ Carlos cannot keep the horror from his tone. Mattia has been working with Charles for six seasons. Six years. And this is the callousness with which he will throw away this boy’s life.

‘Some things are bigger than one person.’

For the first time since it was announced, Carlos is pleased that he lost his seat at Ferrari.

‘I’m done. I won’t tell the press this.’ He stands, shoving his chair backward.

‘You cannot leave,’ Sylvia screeches. ‘It is in your contract to speak to the media! To tell the Ferrari narrative!’ The sick thing is, she’s 100% correct. It is literally written into his contract that he must perpetuate these lies.

‘What are you going to do? Fire me?’

I'm crying for help, it's such a cliche

Invisible pain, it's filling each day

It only takes a few seconds in the paddock for Carlos to hear the whispers on the wind. All the drivers gathering to support Oscar Piastri, the man who saved Charles Leclerc.

He doubts they want to see him, but he can think of nowhere else to go at this precise moment. So, his feet carry him back; back to the team he realises he misses dearly.

There are sixteen drivers circling the McLaren garage, flashes of orange just visible between their huddled bodies. Every driver is here, and it makes Carlos’ heart swell at the immense show of support.

He approaches the cluster of drivers, placing a hand on Lewis’ shoulder. The Englishman looks up, eyes bloodshot, before lifting his arm to make way for Carlos. He throws his own arm around Checo’s shoulder, the Mexican grim-faced.

But Checo does not hold Carlos’ concern at this moment. No, that award goes straight to Oscar Piastri. Oscar has splintered like glass. There is no other phrase for the state of the young McLaren driver, as he shakes and sobs on the tarmac of the paddock. Lando is clutching him, his entire body wrapped around his younger teammate as he does his best to keep the Aussie together with his bare hands.

The worst bit is when Oscar looks up at him. Alerted by the flash of colour, his doleful brown eyes lift, and Carlos can only see the misery in that gaze. Directed at the race suit he wears, the patch on his sternum. It makes Carlos want to saw the stitching from his chest, and cleave the yellow emblem into the pieces it deserves to be in.

He wants to burn this team to the ground.

But he does none of those things. Instead, he watches Oscar patch himself together, with duct tape and glue, until he is able to get to his feet. The blood marring his papaya race suit makes Carlos consider throwing up once more. That is Charles’ blood. Charles’ Ferrari scarlet blood, which he haemorrhaged for the team he has poured love and devotion into at every opportunity. The team which repays his sacrifice with betrayal.

Lando leads them into the McLaren hospitality, and for a few seconds Carlos cannot shake how it feels like coming home. How for the last few months, it has been feeling more and more like leaving McLaren was a massive fucking mistake.

Listening to Oscar apologise for hitting Charles brings Carlos to the end of his legendary tether. Realising that Oscar didn’t know if it was him or Charles he was pulling out of that car, understanding the lengths this boy would have endured to save his life should the measure have been required…

Just when Carlos thinks he has reached his limit, that nothing could get any worse, Oscar opens his mouth again.

‘The medics arrived, and they got his helmet off. That was the first time I realised it was Charles. There was a piece of front wing lodged in his abdomen. My front wing. That’s why he couldn’t get out of the car. Why I couldn’t pull him out at first. It was literally trapping him in the car. He asked me to tell his family he loves them while he lay on the ground with my fucking papaya front wing in his chest.’

‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Carlos rips his gloves off, throwing them to the floor. This doesn’t have the desired effect, so he kicks out at the vending machine instead. It hurts like hell, but the physical pain doesn't compare to the agony in his heart. To the burning rage beginning to build. 

George makes a valiant attempt to calm him down, but it’s not enough. None of it is enough. So, he says the words. Speaks the truth out loud for the world to hear.

‘This was Ferrari’s fault.’

The driver’s finally review the footage for themselves, and Carlos gets to watch first hand as they have the same crushing realisation he did. Except they didn’t enable this. They didn’t watch this happen and do nothing to prevent it.

They swear and shout for a few minutes, all of them rightfully furious, before Carlos continues to unfold the situation for them. The final nail in the coffin is telling them all that Ferrari have already deleted the footage. He checked before he left, and it only confirms his worst fears.

‘Holy shit.’ Carlos has never seen Lewis Hamilton look quite as petrified as he does now. As he realises for the first time the kind of team he has signed himself to for the next two years. The depths to which the proud prancing horse has fallen.

‘There is no way they can cover this up. Everyone heard his onboard. They broadcast it live!’ Lando protests.

‘They broadcast about fifteen seconds of it live. Ferrari will argue that there was more to the onboard that we didn’t hear. I don’t know… that Charles didn’t realise something was wrong until that lap and Xavi was telling him not to box because they weren’t prepared or something.’

‘Come on, they can’t do that!’

‘Surely, we can do something?’

‘We haven’t before. No one has before.’ Max’s words are soft and filled with shame.

‘What do you mean? I know we all make jokes about Ferrari treating Charles badly, but I thought they were all jokes?’

‘They are. They were. None of us knew it could ever get this far.’ He did. Carlos did. Even if he didn’t really consider it, never said the words out loud. He saw things. He knew. Deep down, he knew.

‘Don’t lie. None of us wanted to believe it would get this bad. But the signs were all there.’

‘What signs?’

‘It’s little things…’ Carlos listens to them begin to put the pieces together, realise the damning picture it spells out.

‘Do you remember when he drove without a seatbelt? Charles got so much hate from the press, fans, the media. People bringing up Jules and saying that of all the drivers, Charles is the one who should know the consequences of racing. Charles took the blame, took all the hate, took everything. And it was Ferrari’s fault. He told them that his seatbelt had failed, to get another one ready, but they didn’t. They knowingly sent him out there without a functioning seatbelt, and the only reason they pulled him in afterwards is because the onboard was broadcast live.’

‘He drove the entire Miami grand prix without water. Didn’t even complain about it,’ Max adds.

‘And it’s hardly the first time that’s happened,’ the laugh that leaves his mouth is sardonic, dripping in acid and betrayal. ‘They just continue to fuck up.’

‘They never prioritise him either. His strategy, his championship, he has to swallow team orders and win despite Ferrari, not because of them.’ If only they knew the depth of how true that is.

‘Looks like they’re sacrificing Leclerc.’

‘They pray on all his best qualities. His loyalty, his kindness, his selflessness. Ferrari take everything that is good about him and use it to keep him in this endlessly abusive cycle,’ Pierre speaks up, the young man looking as drained as Carlos feels.

‘He carries the weight of Ferrari on his shoulders. When you go to Maranello… I’ve never seen anything like it. The engineers, the designers, the pit crew, hell, even the cleaners. They revolve around him as though he is the sun.’ Carlos feels disgust at himself rise as he admits the next statement. ‘I hated it at first.’

‘What changed?’

‘I realised that boy deserves every scrap of joy he gets, and more. He gives, and gives and gives, to us, to the team, to his family. He will give everything, even if he gets nothing in return, because that’s just who he is. The higher ups, executives, the fucking team principal. They see it, and they take advantage. They take from that goodness, because they know that there is nothing he would not sacrifice for this team.’

‘They’ve stolen all his smiles.’ Max says it so tenderly, so softly, that is makes Carlos’ heart squeeze in his chest, assaulted by pain at the thought of never seeing the Monegasque’s cheeky, dimpled smile again. At the thought of allowing Mattia Binotto to deprive the world of something to precious.

‘You’re not supposed to be here, are you?’ Lewis cuts to the heart of the issue with frightening ease.

‘The Ferrari garage is on lockdown. Total media blackout. I wasn’t meant to leave the garage.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘Because every week, my father and my cousin come to the track; and I know how much it hurts Charles, being reminded of what he can never have. But he loves them, treats them as though they are his own family. Because he is the least athletic person I’ve ever met, but he tries to beat me at everything anyway. Because he’s terrible at chess and invents the rules so he wins. Because he is the best teammate I’ve ever had, and Ferrari may have killed him today. They have been slowly killing him for six years, and I’ll be damned if I let them take my little brother away from me.’ Carlos didn't realise there were silent tears slipping down his cheeks until he breaks off, unable to continue. Carlos has spent his life surrounded by sisters, so he didn't realise how annoying, terrifying, and utterly joyful having a little brother could be before he finally had one. Before he faced losing one.

‘So, what do we do?’ Esteban of all people speaks up.

‘We refuse to restart the race,’ Valtteri says immediately. ‘It’s not fair, and it’s not respectful.’

‘I don’t think I could get in the car now if I tried,’ Pierre whispers.

‘And after that?’ Lando asks into the quiet. ‘What about after?’

‘After, we go to the hospital. All of us. And we support our friend,’ Logan proposes, the young man looking at them all uncertainly.

They all consent immediately, beginning to consider their plan for the press and the FIA. Carlos listens to them with half an ear, internally making his own plan. One he cannot enact alone.

I open a mouth and feed you a lie

Won't somebody please save my life?

Carlos hangs around long enough for them to speak to the press, but as soon as they walk away, he grabs Lewis’ attention.

‘Hey, you good man?’ Lewis frowns as soon as he asks the question. ‘Sorry, that’s stupid, I know, none of us are fine.’

‘I need your help,’ Carlos swings him away from the other drivers, seeing that they’re out of camera shot.

‘Anything, mate.’

‘Hear me out before you agree,’ Carlos caveats the words before Lewis can finish saying them. ‘I saw the signs. I didn’t know this was a possibility, but I should have, Lewis. I fucking should have.’ Carlos breaks off, digging his fingers into his eyes as the self-loathing takes over. ‘I will not let them hurt him again.’

‘I know you want to help, but Carlos, I really don’t think there is anything we can do.’

‘There is,’ Carlos interjects. ‘Look, I’ve lost my race seat. I’m not going to be driving for Ferrari again after this season. The worst they can do to me is drop me mid-season.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

Carlos hesitates, taking a deep breath. ‘I’m trying to say I have nothing to lose. But I know that you do.’

‘Carlos, what the hell are you talking about? What do you mean you have nothing to lose?’ Lewis is looking increasingly worried, his brow inching down further and further to hood his eyes.

‘I can’t forgive what they did to Charles, and I can’t leave Ferrari knowing they’re going to carry on treating him this way. So, I’m going to blow up Ferrari. From the heart. I could really use your help.’

‘You don’t mean literally, right?’

‘Of course, I don’t mean literally,’ Carlos hisses. ‘But there are people within Ferrari who need to go, and I think I have the ammunition to do the job. It's the only way to make sure that Charles will be safe with them next year.’

Lewis looks at him with wide, horrified eyes. ‘You would sacrifice your whole career for this. You say you have nothing left to lose, but you do, don’t you? If this fails, and you start a coup for nothing… Carlos, no team will touch you. Your racing career would be over.’

Carlos just shrugs, the words not filling him with an iota of concern. ‘Some things are worth fighting for. A few things are even worth sacrificing for.’

Lewis gives him an assessing look, his brown eyes unreadable as he considers Carlos’ question, his plea for help.

‘I’m in.’

Mt life is fleeting

No repeating

The first thing Carlos does is return to Ferrari. There are a million places he would rather be, but not returning would raise eyebrows, and right now he doesn’t need any additional scrutiny. As soon as he walks into the garage, his side this time, heavy silence falls over the previously bustling space. Carlos knew that his support for the drivers refusing to race would hardly have gone down well, but he hadn’t been expecting it to be quite this icy.

‘Sainz, my office, now.’

As soon as Carlos closes the door behind him, Binotto practically pounces on him.

‘What the ever-loving fuck do you think you’re doing?’

‘What am I doing? What are you doing? You nearly got that boy killed today!’ The words explode from Carlos as soon as he catches sight of that mad scientist hair and the mirthless brown eyes. Binotto hides his glacial indifference well, beneath Ferrari branded clothing and thick cartoonish glasses. But if you look deep enough into those eyes, there is nothing behind them but cold-blooded calculation.

‘You might not agree with our methods, but you are still a Ferrari driver. You signed a legally binding contract. I can, and will, send our legal team after you, for all the breaches you have committed in the last few hours!’ it’s not an idle threat. Carlos knows he would do it, and he knows that there is little he would be able to do against the full force of the Ferrari team lawyers.

‘How can you live with yourself?’ Carlos changes tactic. ‘Charles worships you, worships this team. He would do anything for you, and you treat him like he is dirt under your shoe.’

The smirk on Binotto’s face is malicious, not one shred of empathy anywhere to be seen. ‘You know the best thing about someone as loyal as Charles? They don’t ask questions. Not about the car, not about the strategies. Not about anything.’

‘About the car?’ The words are near enough breathless.

‘Well, you know what the best way to test upgrades is.’

If Carlos felt sick before, he now thinks he might pass out. This is beyond what he could ever have imagined. ‘You sent him out with untested upgrades?’

‘Get out there and do some press. Before I send the lawyers for your blood.’

Carlos stands from his chair, head spinning dizzyingly. ‘You know what Mattia? Go fuck yourself.’

Dull knives taking my life

A slow burn fire from the inside

An hour later, Carlos and Lewis are in a hotel lobby, waiting to be buzzed into the lift. They look ridiculous, having driven a non-descript black Vauxhall Corsa into the car park. They each have on a bucket hat and sunglasses to keep their features hidden, all their clothing devoid of any team branding. It’s like some stupid spy movie, each of them glancing around nervously as they wait to be spotted. Luckily, it seems the whole of Italy is still at the race, most of them crying for ‘il predestinato.’ Listening to the wailing of those who have never even met Charles makes Carlos’ resolve harden further.

‘What the fuck are we doing here?’ Lewis hisses as they step into the elevator, tapping away desperately at his phone.

‘Meeting someone,’ Carlos answers, eyes fixed on his own device. Daniel has just messaged asking where they hell they are.

‘Do we really have to walk around looking like bloody Bond villains?’ They’re somewhat more low budget than Bond villains, but Carlos elects not to answer as the elevator dings with their arrival. He takes charge, stepping out and combing the corridor for room 203. He has barely knocked on the door when it swings open.

‘Will Buxton?’ Lewis demands as soon as the door is closed. ‘We’re having an undercover meeting with Will bloody Buxton? We could have stayed at the paddock for that.’

‘Did you listen to the onboards?’ Lewis shuts up when Carlos asks this question, realising exactly who’s onboard he gave away.

The older man is pale as he nods, almost blending into his cream jumper. ‘I never thought… This is…’

‘I know,’ Carlos can feel the ever-present nausea begin to build in his belly.

Will takes a deep breath, slumping down at the desk which holds a large laptop. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Yes, I’m sure, but I should be asking you that,’ Carlos counters. ‘I know this puts your career on the line, just as much as it does mine.’

Will shakes his head, ‘I wasn’t sold. Not until I heard that. Now… Someone needs to run this story.’

‘That’s why I came to you.’

‘Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?’ Lewis demands.

‘Will is going to run a story. The true story, of everything that actually happened this weekend.’

‘Not the Ferrari narrative?’ Carlos just shakes his head.

‘Okay… I don’t see how this will bring them down, or whatever you’re trying to do.’

‘Just wait.’

Dull knives twisting my spine

They're taking their time, time

The story drops at 17:00 Italian time. Within twenty minutes, there are hundreds of comments, followed by tweets, reels, posts, you name it.

Carlos can only watch and smile as they literally blow up the internet.

‘Okay, now we go to the hospital,’ he tells Lewis. The older man looks politely bewildered, but doesn’t argue.

‘Can we just wait like ten minutes?’

Will immediately pours them each a glass of wine. Carlos wouldn’t usually indulge on a race weekend, let alone this early; but it’s been a fucking bad day. They don’t speak, just sip from their glasses and watch the situation spiral out of control.

‘This is insane,’ Lewis murmurs. Carlos and Will nod in unison, before grinning at one another.

‘Thank you for your help, man, I owe you one,’ Carlos leans over and shakes the Brit’s hand.

Will grins, ‘actually, I don’t think you owe me anything. I think Charles got very, very lucky in the teammate lottery.’

‘Would you stay if you could?’ Lewis asks, examining him carefully. Carlos blows out a breath, puffing his cheeks up for a second as he considers the answer.

‘Truthfully? Ferrari is a lot of things. I think today has proved that a lot of them aren’t good,’ he laughs mirthlessly. ‘I guess I can’t help but want to stick around and fix it, you know? There is so much good about Ferrari, even with all the bad. I wish I could be the one to try and heal what they broke.’

‘That’s not your responsibility you know,’ Lewis says softly.

‘I know. But there are so many good people at Ferrari, people who deserve for this team to succeed. I wish I could stick around and do it for them I guess.’

‘Like Charles.’

‘Especially Charles,’ Carlos sighs. ‘I need you to look after him next year, Lewis. I know he’s an adult, and he’s not your responsibility. But he’s a good kid, who’s lost so much. He doesn’t deserve anymore heartbreak.’

Lewis examines Carlos closely, ‘I sort of can’t believe you’re doing all this for him.’

‘Neither can I,’ Will admits, holding his free hand in surrender as soon as they turn to look at him. ‘I think we’ve been through enough today for you to believe me when I say this conversation is off the record?’

‘The thing is, he would do it all for me.’ Carlos sighs, choosing to trust the journalist. ‘In fact, he has, a million times over. He has defended me time and time again, in front of the fans, press, fucking Ferrari itself. He had this big reputation when I got to Ferrari, and I thought he was going to be an arrogant brat. Instead, he welcomed me with open arms, did everything in his power to make the transition easier.’

Lewis and Will are looking at him intently, but neither man appears surprised. ‘This really does have to be off the record.’ Will nods wordlessly, taking another sip of wine. ‘When I went back to Ferrari, Binotto insinuated they put untested upgrades on his car.’

‘What? But that makes no sense? Why weren’t they tested?’ Will demands immediately, his journalist brain spinning.

‘That I can’t answer,’ Carlos admits. ‘But that’s not the only thing that’s weird.’

‘Why would they put untested upgrades on the primary driver’s car?’ Lewis says gently.

‘Bingo,’ Carlos whispers. ‘I’ve been turning it over and over in my mind since he said it. Why Charles’ car and not mine? Logic would dictate that any untested parts should be put on my car, in case they should fail, slow the car down instead of speeding it up. Especially as he is in front in the championship.’

‘You think he protected you. You think he got them to put the parts on his car, because he was afraid something like this would happen.’

Carlos sighs deeply, running his hands through his mane of hair. ‘Look, I don’t know anything for certain. Ferrari making the illogical choice is hardly out of character. Binotto deliberately putting Charles in harm’s way? Even before today, I never would have discounted it. Charles offering himself up as a sacrificial lamb in place of me?’ The words are heavy in his throat, tasting like red wine and blood. ‘It wouldn’t even surprise me.’

‘The martyr of Ferrari,’ Will whispers, a line the press has coined over the last few years as Charles suffered heartbreak after heartbreak in that car.

‘Fuck!’ Lewis exclaims, downing the rest of his wine and slamming the glass down on the table.

As if their night couldn’t get any better, there is a knock at the door. ‘Who on earth,’ Will mutters as he gets to his feet. There are a few low words exchanged, but Carlos doesn’t hear any of them. As a result, he has no preparation for the face who follows Will into the room.

Sebastian Vettel.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he demands, tone harsher than he meant it to be.’

‘Nice to see you too,’ Seb quips, but there is no smile on his face. ‘I was informed that there is a revenge party taking place.’

‘Is that a Mean Girls quote?’ Lewis mutters as he moves to hug the German driver.

‘Snitch,’ Carlos rolls his eyes at Lewis, the mad typing on his phone all night suddenly making a hell of a lot more sense, but he hugs Seb anyway. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’ He finds the words are honest, the older man’s presence comforting, someone who truly understands the horrors inside this team.

‘I’m happy to help. Lewis told me something about burning Ferrari to the ground,’ his eyes are warm, but with a steely glint in them. ‘I’m happy to do that, whether it is metaphorical or not.’

Carlos chokes out a laugh, which turns into a sob. He buries his head in his hands, willing the tears back. ‘Sorry, it’s just really good to have someone here who understands.’

‘I’m sorry you have to be the one to do this, Carlos,’ Seb is so sincere that the words hurt. ‘And I’m even more sorry that it came at this cost.’ Carlos expects the man to ask about Charles, but he seems to sense this would be the final straw for his sanity, so keeps the questions tightly locked away.

‘I read the article on the way up. That’s good work. Now, what’s next?’

‘We’re going to the hospital,’ Carlos answers. ‘We need all the drivers for the next bit.’ Seb doesn’t ask any further questions, just nods as they all make for the doors.

Carlos turns one final time, meeting Will’s hazel eyes. ‘Thank you.’

Lewis drives to the hospital, as he is the only person with steady hands. Carlos tells himself his are shaking as a result of the wine, but he knows that’s a blatant lie.

‘How did you get here so fast?’ He calls to Seb from the back seat.

‘I was watching the race at home. As soon as I saw Charles crash, I jumped on the first flight I could,’ Seb shrugs, as though that is a normal thing to do. As though he hasn’t just travelled three-hundred miles to rush to the side of, what is on the face of it, his ex-teammate.

‘Hanna was fine with that?’ Lewis asks from behind the wheel.

‘Are you joking? Hanna had booked the flight before I even agreed to go.’ Seb chuckles, but there is no humour beneath it. Since he arrived, Carlos hasn’t so much as seen a flicker of a smile from the German. He has done an admirable job of keeping his panic tightly locked away, but the misery is clear for all to see. As is the self-flagellation.

‘Okay, we’re here. What now?’ Lewis asks, turning to look at Carlos.

‘Now, we go inside.’ He had texted Daniel asking for the location of the driver’s, who apparently won’t be hard to find.

‘But you made us put team branded clothing back on. It’s not exactly going to be inconspicuous,’ Lewis hedges.

Carlos just grins, ‘I know.’

As soon as they get out of the car, non-descript as it may be, the press pounce on them. Once they spot Sebastian, the reporters practically turn feral.

It isn’t hard for Carlos to will the tears back into his eyes, allowing the cameras a clear shot of his swimming vision.

‘Carlos, have you seen the article written by Will Buxton?’

‘Please, I just need to get to Charles,’ he allows his voice to shake with very real fear.

‘What do you think about the allegations that Ferrari have been treating Charles abusively, potentially even leading to his crash earlier in the day?’ Carlos stops moving, allowing the reporter and her camera to get a clear shot of his face.

‘No comment.’ It's the closest he can come to endorsing the article without bringing the weight of the Ferrari legal team down on his head.

He can hear Seb and Lewis making the same overtures behind him as the three men muscle their way toward the hospital entrance. Security lets them in before slamming the doors in the faces of the media.

As promised, as soon as they enter the hospital lobby, there is an obvious group of brightly coloured individuals waiting for them. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Daniel demands, throwing his arms around Carlos. He doesn’t respond, but Carlos falls into the hug, relishing in the warm arms, the comforting presence. He listens to the drivers greet Seb, all of them asking how he is holding up. None of them ask what he's is doing here, despite Seb being in another country mere hours earlier. They all know what Charles means to him.

‘Have you heard anything?’ Carlos asks desperately, realising for the first time that there are several notable individuals missing from the group.

‘He’s alive,’ Daniel’s smile is relived, but minimal, coloured with concern. ‘He was badly injured, but they're optimistic.’ Seb falls into a chair, covering his face with his hands as a lone sob burst from his chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers brokenly, as Fernando and Lewis come to sit beside him. ‘I just… I spent so long thinking I might be too late.’

Carlos feels his own heart clench. He has been operating the last few hours on the belief that he is fixing Ferrari. Making it better for Charles when he returns. He hasn’t let himself consider just how close they came to Charles never coming back at all.

Silence descends for a few minutes as they all digest the words, before Carlos turns on this new, calculating part of his brain he appears to have activated. ‘I need your help.’

Daniel perks up, clearly still on the hunt for answers. ‘With what?’

Carlos looks at Lewis consideringly. ‘Let’s just say we’re causing a little chaos.’

‘Does this have something to do with the story Will Buxton just wrote about Charles’ accident?’ Valtteri asks, the Fin cutting straight to the point.

Carlos just nods, not elaborating any further. ‘I need you all to interact with it. Like it, comment on it, repost it on social media. Like a few tweets, anything. Whatever you’re willing to do.’

‘You want us to make this story bigger?’ Fernando asks with his eyebrows raised.

‘That’s exactly what I want you to do.’

The grin the elder Spaniard gives is pure maniacal evil. ‘My speciality.’

The drivers all agree to do their best, most of them pulling their phones out and beginning their social media tirade. Satisfied the drivers understand their mission, Carlos turns to Lewis. ‘Come on, we need to go.’

‘I’m coming too,’ Seb says, the words a statement not a question. Carlos doesn’t argue, knowing the older man has every right to go to battle against the team that treated him so poorly. Plus, there is something Carlos wants to ask him about in private.

Daniel corners them before they can leave. ‘Hey, look, what do you want me to tell the kids upstairs?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, they’re asking for you. Especially you, Carlos. They don’t understand why you’re not here. Why you’re not up there with them.’

He blanches, feeling pain strike his heart at the thought of Charles asking for him, and him not being there. Of Charles thinking for a single second that Carlos does not love him. ‘I don’t know. Tell them that I’ll be back soon.’

‘Is that even true?’ Dan’s gaze is hard.

Carlos can only shrug, ‘I hope so.’ He doesn’t stick around to see Daniel’s reaction, pushing his way through the fire exit doors at the rear of the hospital, where the media will not see them leave. As far as the press, and therefore the fans are concerned, Carlos, Lewis and Seb are with all the other drivers, in their vigil for their injured member.

This leaves them free to continue their mad mission.

Dull knives

Ripping from the inside

They go back to the hotel room Seb booked for a few hours, somewhere they know no one will expect them to be. They talk, they drink, they cry, until eventually they fall into silence. Three hours. Carlos figures this will be plenty of time for utter madness to descend.

When he checks social media, the article has hundreds of thousands of reactions, and even more reads. All the major social media sites are blowing up, and there is a petition with over three thousand signatures to ‘Free Charles Leclerc.’ He called on the Tifosi, and by God did they respond.

He also sees for the first time the response from the drivers. It is beyond what he could ever have hoped.

All of them have reposted the article, most of them commenting on it. Nearly all of them have pointed out previous races, previous incidents when Charles has been treated poorly by Ferrari, some diabolical strategic decisions, a catastrophic pit stop, or one of the many times that they simply ignored his requests entirely. They have all gone on a spree, liking fan comments citing abuse, even going so far as to sign the petition.

The best reaction has to be from Fernando Alonso. Whoever showed this man how to use social media deserves a medal. He has, in the few short hours he had, created numerous short videos, from that disastrous pitstop at Monaco, to highlight reels of their strategy mistakes. He has put them to the track ‘This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things,’ which has subsequently sparked two hashtags, #givecharlesnicethings and #leclercreputationera. Carlos barks a laugh when he sees it all, Seb and Lewis peering over his shoulder.

‘Honestly, he is a menace,’ Seb smiles, the expression fond despite his words.

‘Okay. Time for step three. Or four?’

‘There are steps now?’ Lewis raises his eyebrows.

Carlos snorts, his fingers trembling as he picks up Charles’ phone. He inputs the familiar passcode, gulping when the phone unlocks onto their Instagram conversation. There is a message typed in the box, unsent.

An apology, for the way the Tifosi treated him yesterday. A plea for him to stay at Ferrari. An admission of how scared he is to drive for this team without Carlos. Calling him brother.  Words Charles never meant for Carlos to see, staring back at him in that innocuous little message box.

He shakes himself out of his stupor, he will dwell on the message Charles never got the chance to send later. Instead, he opens the phone contacts, scrolling down until there is a very familiar name staring back at him.

‘Are you sure?’ Seb asks. ‘It’s not too late to stop this. Or I can call him instead.’

Carlos’ only answer is to press the button and raise the phone to his ear. There are three long rings before there is finally a voice on the other end.

‘Mr Ferrari. This is Carlos Sainz. We need to talk.’

Spare me from the ride

From the inside

Piero Ferrari agrees to meet with them right away. It is fortunate, in a perverse way, that this happened in Italy. With Piero Ferrari in attendance, and the Tifosi in the stands watching the horror unfold. Having it happen in Italy makes it all the more poetic, and therefore all the more effective. The thought makes Carlos sick, that he can be this calculating.

Carlos finds himself knocking on the door to Piero Ferrari’s house at nine that night. He imagines if the neighbours were within sight, they would be examining the three men, looking utterly wrecked, with some significant suspicion.

The door swings open quickly, Piero himself standing before them. He wears shirt with the collar open, no tie and a pair of slacks despite the late hour.

‘Thank you all for coming so quickly,’ he says in heavily accented English, moving aside to let them in. He leads them to a cavernous living room, motioning for them to take a seat on one of the many couches. It is pristine white, and Carlos finds himself reluctant to sit, lest he dirties the spotless fabric. Until he thinks about it for too long, and considers it is Charles’ blood, sweat and tears which has funded this house.

After that, he finds he doesn’t worry about his unruly presence in the immaculate house.

‘Before we begin, I just want to say I’m sorry. I am a big fan of Charles; he is someone I respect greatly. I hope he makes a full recovery, and we see him back driving as soon as possible.’ It is only the sincerity in his tone which keeps Carlos from snapping at him. He forces himself to take a deep breath. This is not Mattia Binotto. Piero cares about this team, and about Charles.

‘Mr Ferrari,’ he begins, but Piero waves him off immediately.

‘Please, first names only!’

‘Piero. I know you were at the race earlier, so I am sure you heard the onboard footage before Charles crashed?’

The older man nods his head, ‘I have already spoken to Mattia about this. He assured me that he was going to deal with the issue and take whatever action may be necessary.’

Carlos hesitates, feeling like he is about to break this man’s faith in the team he loves so much. ‘Piero, I think Mattia is the problem.’

‘What do you mean?’

Carlos removes his phone from his pocket. ‘After Charles’ crash earlier, I went back to the Ferrari garage, and the way Mattia spoke about him… After I joined the other drivers at McLaren, I went back to Ferrari, and he intimated he gave Charles an unsafe car to drive this weekend.’

Piero’s face pales further and further as the words leave Carlos’ mouth. He presses play on each of the recordings he had taken earlier in the day while speaking to Mattia. Seb and Lewis haven’t heard these either, and both of them look physically ill at the implication. At what Mattia may as well have admitted to.

‘One of the engineers also had his phone on record for the first conversation. He sent me the audio, but he can send it to you separately, so you know I’m telling the truth,’ Carlos says softly.

‘I trust you,’ Piero assures him. ‘Do you mind if I get a drink?’ None of them object, so he stands and moves to a decanter at the side of the room, pouring himself a deep finger of whiskey. He retakes his seat, leaning back and running his hands through his mane of white hair.

‘Sebastian, you were at Ferrari for a long time. Is this behaviour out of the ordinary for Mattia?’

Seb shakes his head, ‘I wish I could say it was. When I left Ferrari, I mean, it wasn’t on the best of terms, and all of it was because of Mattia. The only reason I stayed for the 2020 season was because I was scared to leave Charles there alone.’

‘Fanculo,’ he curses, drinking the whiskey in one shot. ‘I assume that article was your doing?’

Carlos nods. ‘I’m sorry sir, but I needed to have the Tifosi on my side, in case you weren’t.’

‘It was a smart plan, son. Well-thought out. If you don’t mind my asking, what were your next steps?’

Carlos winces. ‘This is where it got a little more extreme.’ The older man motions for him to continue. ‘Lewis is here as leverage. He is the future of Ferrari, and I thought you’d be scared to show him the depth of the rot within this team. Seb was something of a happy accident, but he proves everything I’ve told you. If you still weren’t receptive, Will Buxton wrote another article an hour ago. It exposes everything I’ve seen about Ferrari in the three seasons I’ve been driving for them, the good the bad and the ugly. He’s ready to publish at my word.’

‘I’m impressed,’ Piero smiles. ‘But I can assure you, you don’t need to go to those lengths.’ He looks long and hard at Carlos, Seb and Lewis for a moment. ‘You all staked your careers on this.’

‘Some things are worth it,’ Seb answers, exchanging looks with Carlos and Lewis.

‘You’re right. And I swear to you, the past, present and future of Ferrari, that this team is worth it. We will make it worth it.’

Spare me from the ride

From the inside

They work through the night, all four men pouring over past indiscretions, picking at threads until finally the whole story unravels. What unfolds is an appalling history of injustices, most of them surrounding Charles. Mattia has spent the last six years subtly undermining him at every turn, everything from the media to his strategies, to deliberately giving him a subpar car on more than one occasion. The success that Charles has managed to squeeze from his Ferrari career thus far is astounding.

‘I am… so ashamed,’ Piero runs his hands through his hair, as he has done repeatedly over the last few hours.

Sebastian has looked increasingly devastated over the last few hours as the pattern of behaviour has emerged, a pattern of behaviour he missed. Carlos, too, has felt his nausea rise consistently as the true depth of the corruption within this team has come to light. ‘What the hell could cause this level of prejudice?’

‘I honestly have no idea,’ Piero admits. ‘But you best believe I am going to find out. I think we only have one thing left to figure out,’ Piero adds.

‘A new race engineer,’ Lewis sighs, leaning back in his chair. ‘I know Mattia is the main problem, but the way that Xavi was communicating with Charles is just unacceptable.’

‘I may have a solution to that,’ Carlos admits.

‘You really thought this whole thing through,’ Piero laughs, considering Carlos had suggested a new team principal as well.

‘I did,’ Carlos grins, pleased that Piero appears to have taken the whole thing in good humour, considering he literally planned how to burn down his race team.

‘Well, who is it then? All your other suggestions have been top notch, don’t lower my expectations now!’ Piero chuckles.

Carlos holds his silence for a few moments before the bomb drops.

‘Me,’ Seb says softly. ‘Carlos asked if I would consider being Charles’ race engineer.’

Piero’s jaw drops, closely followed by Lewis’. ‘You’re serious?’ The Brit asks.

‘I laughed in his face at first,’ Seb admits. ‘But then I thought it over. I’ve missed the paddock and all the racing. But I have three kids now, I don’t want to be away for as long, have to do all the training, take the risk behind the wheel. So, I spoke to Hanna, and she agreed that this could be a good compromise.’

‘I…’ Piero cannot even get his words out. Lewis is equally baffled, mouth opening and closing in shock.

‘Well don’t say yes too quickly,’ Seb quips, but Carlos can sense some insecurity beneath the words.

‘Mio dio, how could I say no?’ Piero demands, pulling the older man in for an unexpected hug. ‘I’m just shocked, that after everything we just discovered, you would ever volunteer to come back to Ferrari.’

Seb shrugs, ‘everybody is a Ferrari fan.’

‘Well, that I wasn’t expecting,’ Lewis shakes his head.

‘Me either,’ Piero admits. ‘Now I think that really is everything done.’

The three men nod, and Piero clambers to his feet. ‘Right, you’ve done all the hard work. Let me take it from here.’ Carlos stands, his eyes drooping, utterly shattered. It’s now around seven in the morning, and he realises for the first time that they’ve been in this house for nearly twelve hours. Piero and Lewis are deep in conversation as they head to the door, but Carlos doesn’t have any remaining concentration to follow the discussion. He did it. He actually did it.

Piero pulls them all in for a hug before they leave. ‘Thank you, for everything that all of you have done. You have just saved this team, and potentially that young man’s life.’ He promises to keep them in the loop, before closing the door behind them, phone already pressed to his ear. The three men survey one another in the harsh sunlight, each of them looking wrung out, but satisfied.

‘What now?’ Lewis asks, stretching lazily.

‘Now, we need to go to the hospital.’

Dull knives, twisting my spine

And they're taking their time, time

Til I lose my mind

Dull knives

Chapter Text

One day I'll change my ways

Until then I'm stuck in this space

The night is… long, to say the least. Oscar passes out first, curled around Charles’ limp hand like a lifeline. Alex and George are quick to follow suit, intertwined on a small couch at the back of the room. After holding it together admirably, Pierre finally crumbles, crying so hard he hyperventilates and throws himself into a panic attack. Max has to run for Yuki while Lando does his best to keep the Frenchman from losing consciousness. Yuki, displaying uncharacteristic softness, manages to calm Pierre enough that he falls asleep, near enough comatose in the plastic chair. Max wants to beg the small man to stay, but Yuki just offers them all a timid smile and instructs them to call if they need help.

This leaves Lando and Max as the final pair still awake. Lando is hyped up on adrenaline, knees shaking up and down erratically. Max longs to snap at him, but the frantic look in his eyes stops him. The Brit has spent the better part of eight hours holding his teammate together with his bare hands, so Max figures he deserves some consideration.

Max, meanwhile, is seated on Charles’ left, staring at his hand in abject fear. It is so pale, flecks of blood still spotted around the short nails. But it is beautiful. Calloused, littered with freckles, a long scar slicing down his thumb. Max wants to learn the constellation of these markings, to be able to trace the pattern of the freckles peppering his skin. To feel the callouses against his own, the way the hand will slip into his as though it belongs there.

Because Charles Leclerc was born for Max Verstappen.

Max has been staring at his hand, trying to pluck up the courage to reach out and take it. Lando has long since given up watching his progress, as Max inches forward incrementally over hours. There is no further for him to go now. He can feel the warmth radiating off of Charles’ delicate skin, reassuring him that the man is still alive.

Max stares at those artists’ fingers for one long second, before he pushes his hand forward the last millimetre. Their skin brushes, and Max swears he stops breathing for a second. Gradually, delicately, Max pushes his hand further and further into Charles’ limp grip until finally, finally, Max is holding him.

If this were a fairy-tale, Charles would open his eyes. If this were a fairy-tale, the bruises, the wounds, the tubes, would disappear in favour of a happy ending.

But this is not a fairy-tale. This is real life.

So, Max shouldn’t be surprised when the monitors begin to scream and doctors flood the room.

Shut down and hiding my face

Tuned out, I'm losing my faith

The next few hours pass in some kind of hysterical blur. Max remembers screaming for help when the machines begin to blare. The doctors rushing Charles back to surgery. The way Charles’ hand felt cold in his own.

Oscar wakes as Lando manhandles him from the bed frantically, doctors swarming the room from all angles. Max waits for him to cry, to breakdown again, but his eyes are blank; empty. Lando is barely holding it together, the strain of supporting Oscar as well as suppressing his own emotions rapidly becoming too much. Alex and George are the strong ones, shepherding them from the room and speaking to the doctors when Max doesn’t have the strength to.

But Pierre is the worst. The doctors are forced to sedate him because he works himself into such a state, the deteriorating condition of his best friend bringing back memories of Anthoine. Of the last time he visited a friend in a hospital bed. He screams, and Max has never heard a sound like it. It is haunting, something Max knows he will hear in his nightmares for years to come. Pierre fractures.

The text from Daniel is the last straw. Realising that every driver is still in the lobby, not aware that Charles is no longer improving, as they had been assured. He forces his legs to carry him downstairs, every part of his body feeling numb except his chest. His heart hurts with a level of unrelenting anguish Max has never experienced before, and he can only pray he will never feel again.

‘Hey!’ Daniel calls. ‘I didn’t expect you to come down!’

Checo is the first person to register the expression on Max’s face. ‘Oh god, don’t say… please, don’t tell us he’s dead.’ Suddenly, all the drivers are sitting up straight, all eyes on him. A single tear slips down his cheek, and Max scrubs it away angrily.

‘They um… They had to take him back into surgery. Something about his blood pressure dropping. I don’t know, none of it makes sense,’ he whispers.

‘But he’s going to be okay? Right?’ Fernando asks, his voice breaking suspiciously.

Max can only shake his head. ‘I don’t know.’

He expects there to be a reaction, but there is none. He doesn’t know what is worse, Pierre’s screaming, or the empty devastation on everyone’s faces. ‘You should all go home,’ he offers.

‘None of us are going anywhere,' Kevin protests.

When Max joined the grid in 2015, only nine years ago, relations between the drivers had been strained at best, confrontational at worst. It was the height of the conflict between Lewis and Nico, a war which had spilt out over the grid. His rookie year had been marred by battling drivers and open hostility all over the paddock. Once Nico retired in 2017, the conflict had eased somewhat, the all-out war scaling back to cold indifference, at best.

Then Charles joined the grid. Pierre, Lando, Alex, George. The rookies who Max had grown up with, finally making their dreams come true. Except they hadn’t left their friendships at the door. Slowly but surely, as more young drivers joined the grid, Max watched the older drivers soften.

Grill the Grid started. Then Secret Santa. Then the Twitch Gang. Paddle, FIFA tournaments, golf... Max has watched these young men do what he could not. Build a family.

And now that family is being torn apart at the seams.

‘Come on. Let’s go back upstairs. I think we both know that’s where you need to be.’ Max allows Daniel to lead him back to the elevator, the Australian’s arm around his back, Max’s head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he is brought back to consciousness by a quiet voice calling his name. ‘Hey, Maxy, hey.’ The memories flood his brain instantly, and he sits up so fast he bangs heads with Daniel.

‘What happened? How is he?’

‘Hey, hey, calm down. I don’t know. The doctor came to speak to us because he just got out of surgery.’

Max realises that his head had been in Daniel’s lap, hair mussed from where the older man had been playing with it. The doctor is standing before them, looking dog-tired and wrung out. ‘I’m sorry you all had such a scare. Do you mind if I sit?’ They all shake their heads, so he slumps into a chair with a groan, stretching his feet out before him. ‘The reason all the alarms went off before was because his blood pressure dropped dangerously low. We had to take him back into surgery because he was still bleeding internally. We managed to find the bleed, and we’ve fixed it.’

‘You said you fixed it before,’ Alex protests, his voice trembling. ‘How do we know you’ve actually fixed it this time?’

The doctor sighs deeply, rubbing his hand across his face. ‘Look, I can’t make you any promises. I wish I could. What I can tell you, is that Charles is fighting so hard to come back to you. The amount of blood he’s lost over the last few hours, the trauma his body has gone through… He is fighting valiantly. And I can promise that I will fight just as hard as he is.’ The doctor lingers for a few moments, waiting for any questions they may have, but none come. ‘He will be taken back to the same room. You can go and see him in about an hour.’ 

None of them speak. None of them dare breath. They just sit in silence, keeping their tears tightly locked away, lest they spill out and flood the waiting room. The clock ticks excruciatingly slowly until a nurse finally tells them they can return.

Charles looks worse this time, and Max hadn’t believed that was possible. He is white as a sheet, white as death, and there is a bag of blood attached to the IV pole. They pile into the room without fanfare, all of them automatically falling into the same seats they were last time. Daniel stays glued to Max’s side, the only thing holding him together.

None of them sleep this time, and Max can read the fear on all their faces. The fear that if they fall asleep, it might be the last time they see Charles alive.

The hours crawl by, but blessed little happens. There are constantly doctors coming in and out, monitoring his vitals and injecting meds. Max hasn’t touched him, too terrified to take his hand again. What if this time, Max touches him and he doesn’t come back? What if he did this?

He knows the thoughts are irrational, but he can’t stop the destructive path his mind has decided to go down. Except he longs for that touch. For the warm skin against his own. To gaze at the freckles and feel how his callouses match Max’s.

Max Verstappen held Charles Leclerc’s hand once, in fifteen years, and he nearly died. That can’t be it. He can’t allow that to be the first time. The final time. It is in his nature for him to want, more wins, more championships, more Charles.

So, he reaches out and wraps Charles’ limp fingers around his own.

If this were a fairy-tale, Charles would open his eyes. If this were a fairy-tale, the bruises, the wounds, the tubes would disappear in favour of a happy ending.

But this is not a fairy-tale. This is real life.

So Max can’t suppress a sob when a pair of dazed green eyes meet his own.

Stand up, tired of being a victim

You only on the outs if you with them

Charles woke up for no more than ten minutes, but it was enough for him to convince the doctors he could breathe on his own. Max never thought an oxygen mask would seem like a positive step, but seeing him without the tube, the forced rhythm of his breaths, makes Max believe for the first time since he crashed that Charles may actually get through this. Secure in this belief, Max finally falls into a restless sleep at five in the morning.

He wakes slowly, lulled back to consciousness by the sound of soft voices.

‘Morning,’ he whispers, realising that Daniel and Oscar are already awake, the others still out of it.

‘Hey,’ Daniel answers. ‘How did you sleep?’

Max just shrugs, shoulders popping as his joints voice their anger at spending the night curled up in the hard chair. His left hand is still clutching Charles' tight, despite the length of time he spent unconscious. ‘I slept, which was better than I could have hoped for,’ he smiles softly. ‘Did you get any sleep at all?’

‘Here and there,’ Daniel’s smile is strained. He has single-handedly been responsible for everyone’s sanity since Charles' vitals crashed, and the strain is beginning to grow apparent.

‘What about you, Oscar?’ Max receives a shrug in response, the younger man not tearing his eyes away from Charles. He glances at Daniel, who shakes his head wearily. Oscar is always reserved, to the point of appearing aloof at times. In coming to know the young man, Max has come to realise that Oscar isn’t shy, or arrogant, or any of the labels social media likes to explain him away with. He simply chooses his words carefully. Oscar isn’t one for throwaway comments or unconsidered statements. But this absolute silence is unusual.

‘Ahh, you’re awake.’ It is the doctor from the previous night, prompting Dan to grin widely.

‘Do you live here or something?’

The doctor smiles, his eyes soft but tired. ‘Tonight, I do. Though I’m hoping I will be able to go home in about fifteen minutes.’ They all send him curious looks. ‘I need to check Charles’ wound and chest tube. But all being well, I think we can finally declare him out of the woods.’

Oscar scoots away from Charles’ bedside immediately, allowing the doctor to approach. Lando, Alex and George are still fast asleep, none of them stirring. The doctor fusses with a few of the tubes briefly, before he turns his attention to Charles’ abdomen. Max doesn’t want to look; he can feel his stomach turning at the mere thought. But he can’t tear his eyes away. The gauze is pulled away in one swoop, revealing the incision. Six inches of stitches, inflamed skin and bruising kissing the edges of the injury. A few inches away from the incision is another wound, this one uneven and crudely stitched closed. Max knows without being told that this is where Oscar’s front wing entered his chest. Just when he thinks it can’t get any worse, Max gets a gory close up of the tube protruding from his chest, snaking beneath the skin, the flesh stretched taut around the width of the plastic. It pulls bile to the back of Max’s throat, and he has to turn away to keep himself from emptying his stomach.

The doctor begins to palpate Charles' abdomen softly. Despite his continued stubborn unconsciousness, the agony pulls Charles back quickly, crying out in pain beneath the oxygen mask. Lando wakes immediately, shooting up in his chair in a way that would have been comical in any other circumstance.

‘Charles, what is the pain on a scale of one to ten?’ The doctor calls.

Charles says a few unintelligible words in French before he finally answers. ‘When… when you don’t touch… six. Touching… eight,’ his chest is heaving, working desperately to take in air, even beneath the mask. His voice is muffled and just about audible beneath the plastic as he pants urgently.

‘Okay, okay, there is pain relief coming,’ the doctor promises, quickly injecting a solution into the IV bag connected to his elbow. It takes a few minutes, but Max watches the pain drain from his body as the meds finally kick in.

The examination continues uneventfully following that, until finally the wounds are re-covered. ‘Mr Leclerc, it’s great to finally meet you properly,’ the doctor’s smile is a wide but exhausted.

‘What happened?’

‘You were brought into our care with an injury to your chest which is why you are struggling to breathe. I think another few hours with the mask and that can come off. I am pleased to say you’re out of the woods.’ Max leans back in his chair, letting out a huff of relief. He can hear Lando and Oscar echoing his movements, each of them collapsing backward as they all take a deep breath, the first in hours. ‘Do you have any questions for me?’ Charles just shakes his head, still clearly disorientated, and the doctor makes to leave.

‘Hey,’ Max calls before he can open the door. The doctor swings around only to find his arms full of emotional Dutchman. ‘Thank you.’

He pulls back and allows the embarrassed man to finally leave. ‘What happened… at the track?’ Charles grits out.

‘There was an accident,’ Max answers cagily as he retakes his seat.

‘Everyone else?’ His voice is muffled by the oxygen mask, words cut off by his rapid breathing.

‘Everyone else is fine,’ Max catches Daniel’s gaze as he reassures the Ferrari driver. Only Charles would be worried about the rest of the grid while he is lying in a hospital bed.

‘I think… I remember the crash. But I didn’t feel that bad,’ Charles has to pause for a moment, sucking in a few shallow breaths. ‘I think I was stuck… waiting for the stewards to pull me out.’

‘You should rest,’ Lando tries to get him to drop the subject, clearly concerned about what this could dredge up.

‘Not telling me something,’ Charles’ voice is thready, and he has to breath hard after every word, but there is a steely determination in his eyes. ‘I remember… I remember the car. On its side. Was it across the track?’

‘It was across most of the track,' Oscar speaks up for the first time. 'I… Charles, I didn’t know you were there. I tried to stop; I swear I tried to stop.’ Oscar’s eyes are swimming with tears. ‘It was a red flag, and I was in the process of slowing down, I swear. But I didn’t see you and…’ He can’t continue at this point, burying his head in his hands. Charles reaches out carefully, barely able to move his hand off the bed to stroke Oscar’s hair tenderly.

‘I remember... Did you pull me out?’

There is nothing but a small nod from the Australian. Charles lets his hand drop limply, too weak to continue to initiate the small contact. ‘You saved me.’

‘I hit you,’ Oscar counters immediately, though he raises his head.

‘No,’ Charles is panting hard by this point, and it takes all the strength Max has not to run out the door and demand the doctor returns. ‘No, Oscar, I remember. You helped me. It was burning, and you pulled me out.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ the boy whispers.

‘Thank you,’ Charles responds, and he smiles. That smile, which makes his eyes glow like emeralds, dimples just visible beneath the plastic mask. Max feels the relief begin to sink in for the first time. Charles is here. He is alive. Ferrari didn’t take him away.

He expects Charles to ask what happened, to probe and probe about the race until they tell him all the gory details. Ferrari. The conference. The FIA, all of it.

But Charles says nothing, just watching tenderly as Oscar’s eyes grow heavy and begin to lower. He has one of Charles' hands locked in a tight grip, his upper body beginning to sag further and further over the bed as the events of the last hours take their toll on his body. It is only another few minutes before he joins George and Alex in sleep.

‘He’ll be alright,’ Charles whispers, looking up at them.

Lando smiles widely, and Max can see the unbridled affection in his gaze. ‘Will you?’

‘I’m fine.’

Max doesn’t believe it, but he looks around the room, and he trusts everyone in this room to make sure it is true.

Only hurts if you give them credence

Give them reason

Max spends the next few hours alternating between trying to pry information out of Daniel about Carlos’ whereabouts, and holding Charles’ hand. For the first time, holding the Monegasque’s hand is the easier option. Daniel gives nothing away, and it frustrates Max to no end. There is clearly something going on, and Daniel knows about it, but the Australian doesn't volunteer any information.

They are mid-argument when a nurse enters, everyone finally awake and listening in amusement as Max and Daniel bicker. The nurse doesn’t flinch, checking a few monitors and inserting another syringe in the IV. It rouses Charles again though, especially when she removes the oxygen mask and replaces it with a nasal cannula. They stop squabbling as soon as Charles’ eyes fix on them, a small smile gracing his lips, no longer distorted by the plastic mask over his features. If Max were a corny person, he would swear that the sun has just come out. But he isn't, obviously...

‘You’re still here,’ Charles whispers, voice soft but less breathless than it had been only hours earlier.

‘We’re going nowhere,’ George answers tenderly from his position at the foot of the bed, Alex to his left.

‘Where’s Pierre?’ Max doesn’t want to have to be the one to admit his best friend is currently occupying his own hospital bed. Yuki has been sitting with him since they sedated hum, and they’ve all been visiting on a rough rota. They had been worried that Pierre was still unconscious, but the doctors assured them it was just a mixture of the sedative, exhaustion and stress.

‘Pierre… He got a little worked up, Charles. The doctors had to sedate him to keep him calm. He’s been sleeping for a while now,’ Daniel explains hesitantly.

‘He’s not alone?’ The younger man demands immediately, looking half inclined to try jumping out of bed to go him. Max doubts he would get very far in his current condition, but Charles is just stubborn enough to try it.

‘Yuki is with him,’ Alex reassures him quickly. ‘Hasn’t left his side, and we’ve all been checking in.’ Charles squeezes his eyes shut tightly but doesn’t make any further move to go anywhere.

‘What happened at the race?’ Charles asks eventually.

‘You… you crashed, Charles,’ George says gently, exchanging a worried look with Max. ‘Remember, we told you last night.’

‘No, I know,’ Charles rolls his eyes. The gesture is sarcastic, mocking, and so Charles that Max can do nothing except grin stupidly. ‘I meant who won the race?’

Max hesitates, and Charles catches onto it immediately. ‘Let me guess, Max, Lando and Carlos top three?’

‘Actually… we didn’t race, Charles,’ Max admits.

‘They black flagged the race?’ the Monegasque asks softly.

‘Erm, well, they sort of didn’t black flag it,’ Max confesses. Lando saves him from further fumbling explanation, holding up his phone at a height for Charles to see. He has the televised statement they made playing, all the drivers coming out as one and refusing to race, damn the consequences.

Charles’ eyes widen as the clip plays until Lando stops it, replacing his phone in his back pocket. ‘What did you do?’

‘We couldn’t race, Charles. What happened wasn’t right,’ Danny speaks up when no one else volunteers any further information. ‘We heard the onboard, we know what happened.’

‘You don’t know what happened,’ Max thinks Charles meant for the words to be harsh, but he just sounds exhausted.

‘We might not know exactly what happened, but Charles, your onboard wasn’t exactly subjective. You were begging to box and Xavi told you to stay out.’

‘I didn’t tell him what was wrong with the car, they had no way of knowing that would happen. It was my fault.’

‘You are joking, right?’ Max phrase it as a question, but he already knows the answer.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Charles whispers, breaking off into a hacking cough as his lungs rebel at the abuse. It takes him a few seconds to calm, slumping back into the pillows looking halfway asleep.

‘Where’s Carlos?’ Max wants to scream. To shake Charles and tell him how badly he has been treated. To demand how he can have let it get this bad, how he let it go this far. To whisper how amazing he is, until maybe it finally sinks in. But he looks so small in that bed, so vulnerable and fragile that Max worries one more blow might be the thing that finally breaks him.

‘He’s busy with something right now, but he swore to us he will be here as soon as he can. He’s worried about you Charles, and he wants to be here so badly.’

Charles hums softly, allowing his eyes to slip shut and sleep to take him once more.

‘Carlos better have a good fucking excuse, because if I’ve just lied to Charles, I will never forgive him,’ Max hisses under his breath, glaring at Daniel.

The words are soft when Daniel finally speaks, but Max catches them anyway. ‘He does.’

They're not better than you

Just a figment of imagination

‘Sometimes I hate this sport.’ George’s words shatter the silence which has held for the last few hours. It’s midday, and none of them have moved from their positions. Pierre woke up an hour or so ago, but Yuki managed to bully him into going back to the hotel. Max knows, logically, that they should have gone with them. There is no reason for them still to be here, they know that Charles is going to be okay now. But somehow, the thought of leaving makes Max’s skin itch.

‘I know I’m not supposed to say that. I know I’m supposed to love racing and be thankful to be in this position. And I am. I love my life. But days like yesterday… Yesterday I hated racing,’ George continues.

‘I swore to myself I would never hate racing,’ Lando whispers. ‘Getting here felt like a miracle. But God, seeing him, watching Oscar pull him out,’ he shudders. ‘Honestly, one of the worst days of my life.’

‘I hate that people are going to ask me about it. That there will be interviews, and press. That in a year, when we race here again, they will dig up the footage, and ask me how it felt to pull him out of that car,’ Oscar’s voice is broken. ‘I hate that I won’t ever be allowed to forget this race.’ Max can see it now, the questions, the footage being replayed over and over again. The way Oscar will never be able to escape the worst day of his life thus far.

‘I hated racing the day Anthoine died,’ Alex speaks up. ‘After that, it’s the closest I came to never getting in the car again.’

‘The day Anthoine died… I knew that I couldn’t do it again. That I could never watch another friend die,’ George’s eyes are filled with tears. ‘That so nearly became the reality again. And I just…’

He breaks off, unable to finish the sentence.

‘I remember when Jules crashed like it was yesterday. One day he was just there, in the paddock, and the next he wasn’t,’ Daniel breaks off, sucking in a deep breath. ‘I think the worst part was, we had months of hope. Months of thinking that he wouldn’t just live, but that he’d come back to racing. I lost hope slowly, over the course of nine months.’

‘I watched Charles do the same,’ George whispers. They all fall silent for a moment, until Max breaks the peace.

‘I hated nearly every part of karting,’ Max supplies, seeing the amazement at his words. ‘My father was just always there. Telling me how disappointed he was with my performance. Leaving me at petrol stations after a bad race, making me walk home alone. The only good thing about my karting days was Charles. Then we raced cars together. Then Formula One. It started to feel like the only good thing about racing was getting to do it with Charles.’

‘It was so great when we all joined,’ Lando smiles softly. ‘Charles was so excited, that we all made it together. We used to say when we were kids that we would get here one day, but to do it together? Man, that was the dream.’

‘I remember that day,’ Alex grins. ‘He kept saying I told you so, like he had any control over us all getting a race seat.’

‘God, and he was so pissed off when he found out we all got to do rookie interviews together,’ George laughs.

‘Only Charles would get mad about doing less media,’ Daniel quips.

Max shrugs, ‘if I was as good at it as he is, I don’t think I would mind either.’

‘I think he mostly loves the media because it means we get to spend time together,’ Alex chuckles. ‘I asked him about it once. He just shrugged, and said we’re all there, so why wouldn’t he enjoy it.’

‘Only Charles would find that silver lining,’ George rolls his eyes.

‘You remember during lockdown, when Charles said about us doing some streaming together, playing some games,’ Lando grins. ‘He was so fucking excited about it. Honestly, I could barely understand a word he was saying.’

‘And then we find out that he’s bloody delivering groceries for those in need all around Monaco,’ George groans. ‘Like, seriously? How good a human is this guy?’

Alex laughs, ‘at least he was better at driving a van than he was a quad bike.’

George laughs heartily, ‘that’s rich! You’re the one who broke your collarbone!’

‘It was a clear racing incident!’ Alex protests.

‘Sorry, what?’ Daniel breaks in, looking confused as Max feels. He hasn’t heard this story.

‘So basically, after lockdown we decided to meet up and do some quad biking. We’d spent so many hours playing video games, it felt like the time to do something outside. Long story short, we were racing, and Lando decided he wanted to take the inside line past me.’

‘The inside line?’ Lando demands with a laugh. ‘We were in the woods, there was hardly an inside line!’

‘Semantics. He pushed me wide, and I ended up down a ditch with a broken collarbone.’ Alex takes the opportunity to jam his elbow into Lando’s ribs. ‘Honestly, I’ve never seen Charles so calm. I thought he’d be the person to throw up or pass out or something. Instead, he was so steadfast, issuing instructions and making sure we were all safe.’

‘Yeah, until we got to the hospital,’ Lando snorts. ‘He was deadly calm until we were all safe, at which point he basically fainted from the stress.’

‘Ai, Lando, you cannot judge, you decided to ring me for help despite the fact I was in Madrid.’ A new voice chimes in. Max whirls around, not having heard the door open. Judging by the expressions of shock on everyone else’s faces, they hadn’t realised there was a presence in the doorway either. Carlos, their missing member, is leaning against the doorjamb looking exhausted.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Lando demands, practically throwing himself into the older man’s arms. Carlos melts into his embrace, allowing the Brit to lead him into the room and to a chair.

‘It’s a long story,’ Carlos sighs, swiping his hand through messy black hair.

‘He was asking for you,’ Max growls, his voice hard and unyielding. Logically he knows that Carlos loves Charles, so there has to be a good reason for him not showing up until now. But over eighteen hours of sitting vigil has left him at the end of his admittedly short tether.

‘I was busy doing something important,’ Carlos hedges, though at the mention of his younger teammate he looks guilty. ‘I swear to you Max, unless it was important, I would have been here.’

‘What’s more important than him?’ Max demands, eyes flashing furiously as he glares into the Spaniard’s doleful brown eyes.

Carlos hesitates, before shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, but telling you isn’t my decision to make.’

Max raises his eyebrows, finding himself overcome by misplaced anger. ‘Well then who’s fucking decision is it, huh? Because you haven’t given any of us a choice over the last few hours! You weren’t here when his blood pressure tanked and they took him back into surgery. You weren’t here when he’s been in pain, and unable to breathe, and…’ Max would have continued on, except a gentle hand lands on his forearm.

‘Max, please,’ the words are small, but strong, and Max realises that the commotion has woken Charles.

‘Charles, hey,’ he whispers tenderly, turning his attention to the young man in the bed. Charles is still pale, his features lined with pain and exhaustion, but his eyes are bright and alert.

‘Breathe, Max,’ Charles whispers. ‘And help me up.’ Max is dubious, but he pushes his arm beneath Charles’ shoulders, helping him straighten until he is reclined in a somewhat upright position. It leaves the Monegasque gasping for breath for a few minutes as the pain ravages him, but he squeezes Max’s hand in thanks.

‘Carlos,’ Charles says, once he has finally stopped wheezing. ‘What the fuck did you do?’

There are times when I don't like myself

I believe all the things that they say about me

Charles doesn’t remember much from after the crash. He has vague memories of waking up and not being able to breathe, brief minutes of panic before suddenly oxygen hits his lungs. Then the darkness takes him for a long time, regaining consciousness to blinding pain as the doctor palpates his wounds. He remembers them telling him what happened, mounting concern for the youngest McLaren driver and missing his teammate. Then nothing.

Waking for a third time is gentler, to a cadence of familiar voices which carry him gently back to consciousness.

‘It was a clear racing incident.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘So basically, after lockdown we decided to meet up and do some quad biking. We’d spent so many hours playing video games, it felt like the time to do something outside. Long story short, we were racing, and Lando decided he wanted to take the inside line past me.’

‘The inside line?’ Charles hears a smattering of laughter and a smile curves his lips as he allows himself to keep his eyes shut for a few minutes, enjoying the brief reprieve from pain and the familiar banter of his friends. He cannot believe they're still here, sitting vigil in his hospital room. They should be out celebrating a win, preparing themselves for next race, spending time with their families. But instead they are here, and his heart swells with adoration, for the family he has built.

‘Semantics. He pushed me wide, and I ended up down a ditch with a broken collarbone. Honestly, I’ve never seen Charles so calm. I thought he’d be the person to throw up or pass out or something. Instead he was so steadfast, issuing instructions and making sure we were all safe.’

‘Yeah, until we got to the hospital. He was deadly calm until we were all safe, at which point he basically fainted from the stress.’

‘Ai, Lando, you cannot judge, you decided to ring me for help despite the fact I was in Madrid.’ Charles cracks his eyes open at the familiar accent, thick and warm like a blanket he could wrap himself in. There is his teammate, leaning in the doorway looking like he might collapse at any moment. If Charles looks half as bad as he feels, he knows he must look a state. But right now, he cannot imagine he looks worse than Carlos does. He is relieved when Lando leads him to a seat, genuinely worried that the older man might fall asleep where he stands.

‘He was asking for you.’ Max is the first to speak, his voice hard and cold.

‘I was busy doing something important. I swear to you Max, unless it was important, I would have been here.’

‘What’s more important than him?’

‘I’m sorry, but telling you isn’t my decision to make.’

Charles’ brain must be moving sluggishly, because he finds it almost impossible to compute what is happening right now. Why the hell is Max angry? What did Carlos do? Then Max begins yelling, and Charles has had enough. He reaches a weak and shaking hand out, managing to latch onto Max’s wrist. ‘Max, please,’ he tries to inject every bit of strength he has into the words, but they are still quiet and tremulous. It works, however, Max immediately cutting off and turning to look at him. His deep blue eyes are swimming with tears, and Charles’ anger immediately cools.

‘Breathe, Max,’ Charles whispers. ‘And help me up.’ Charles can read the hesitation in Max’s face, but he does as requested. The pain is all-consuming, stealing his breath and requiring all his strength to keep from crying out as fire licks at his wounded chest. But it calms, and for the first time he can survey the room properly. George and Alex, together as always, are at the bottom of the bed, each looking like shit. Lando is beside Carlos, each of them looking beyond wrecked. Oscar is curled up at the very head of the bed, looking exceedingly small. Max and Daniel are the other side, Daniel almost swaying where he sits, Max vacillating between horror and relief at seeing him awake and in pain. Overall, they all look a mess, and Charles has never felt so loved.

‘Carlos, what the fuck did you do?’ He can’t think of anything else to say. The Spaniard looks as though he has performed a skydive, hyped up on adrenaline and trembling lightly. His eyes are swimming with so many emotions Charles cannot even guess at how he is feeling.

Carlos doesn’t answer, he just stares at Charles before practically throwing himself toward the bed. Despite the speed with which he moves, the older man is exceedingly gentle as he lunges for his teammate, ensuring he doesn’t cause any more pain than Charles is already in. Charles just holds him tightly, whispering Italian sweet nothings in his ear as Carlos shakes with silent sobs. The rest of the room looks as stunned as he feels at the Spaniard sobs in his grasp. Charles just holds him tight, ‘It’ll be fine, Chilli. I promise, I’m fine, you’re fine. Everything will be okay.’ It takes a few minutes, but Carlos eventually allows himself to fall back into the chair Lando had pushed him into.

‘Sorry,’ he apologises, rubbing his wet eyes. ‘I just… I’m so glad you’re okay.’

‘Me too,’ Charles smiles softly, squeezing his hand. He allows Carlos a few moments to collect himself, before trying again. ‘Now will you please tell me what you did?’

‘How do you know I did anything?’ Carlos demands.

Charles snorts, immediately regretting it when his chest flashes with pain. His free hand flies to the bandages, and he can feel the entire room collectively hold their breath as he fights for his. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ he murmurs, tipping his head back for a moment. ‘Carlos, you look like you’ve just driven Monaco with your eyes shut. Clearly something happened.’

Carlos hesitates, ‘look, I didn’t do it alone. We need to wait for a few minutes.’

‘For who?’ Lando speaks up. Charles is about to express his frustration when a very familiar figure appears in the open doorway.

‘Seb?’ His voice cracks pathetically as the older man appears. The slow smile that spreads across his face is so familiar, so like home that Charles feels his heart lightening even further.

‘Hi, kid.’ Seb throws his arms around Charles, Lando moving to make space for him as they all exclaim in disbelief. Charles clings to his grid dad tightly, feeling contentment spread through him at the feeling of safety provided by the older man. It takes a few minutes before Charles allows Seb to extract himself from his grip, by which time Lewis has appeared, taking a seat on the table at the back of the room, swiftly joined by George. This allows Seb and Carlos to pull up close beside the bed. The room is now truly cramped, all the drivers falling over one another for space as they jostle for leg room.

All of them look dreadful, utterly exhausted and beginning to smell. They look like family. His family. 

‘What are you doing here?’ He gasps. ‘Shouldn’t you be with Hanna, and your kids?’

Seb’s smile is soft, and so tender that it hurts. ‘I am with my kid,’ Charles feels a single tear slip down his cheek, overcome at the sheer volume of love surrounding him.

‘Is now a good time to mention the rabble are still downstairs?’ Lewis pipes up from the corner with a shit-eating grin.

‘The rabble?’ Charles asks, confused.

Alex shrugs, as though it is no big deal. ‘We were all worried about you. We told them they could go home. They didn’t want to.’

‘You mean every driver is here?’

‘Yeah, of course we are,’ Daniel smiles softly, his usual mischievousness hidden by exhaustion and concern.

‘I… wow,’ Charles gapes, taking a moment to really consider those words. The support of every person around him. The family he made.

‘Now can we talk about whatever shit you were getting up to?’ Alex asks with a grin, settling down into his chair looking for all the world like a smug cat.

Carlos glances at Seb and Lewis, each of whom shake their heads. ‘This was all you.’

He takes a deep breath before he begins speaking. ‘How much do you remember about this weekend?’

Charles furrows his brows. ‘Most of it, I think. The the suspension arm snapped, something they couldn’t have seen from the data, or predicted was going to happen, and I crashed.’ It’s an inelegant summary, but an efficient one.

‘You know that this is their fault, right Charles?’ Seb phrases it as a question, but the words are steely.

Charles considers shrugging, but the mere thought of the pain it will cause convinces him to use other methods. ‘They didn’t know that there was anything wrong with the car, I should have been more forceful when I asked them to box.’

‘Charles, please, listen to me,’ Carlos pleads. ‘I have driven for four teams in Formula One. The way Ferrari treat you is not normal. They should have allowed you to box. I heard the onboard, and they should have trusted you from FP1, when you first said something was wrong.’

Charles stays silent for a few moments, listening to his teammates impassioned words. He doesn’t miss the worried looks which are shot around the room, the troubled expression on everyone’s faces. ‘What does this have to do with it?’

Carlos exchanges another long look with Seb before continuing. ‘I went back to Ferrari after the race Charles and… Look, it might be better if you just hear it.’ Carlos fishes his phone out of his pocket, tapping on it for a couple of seconds before Mattia Binotto’s voice fills the hospital room. Charles listens to the conversation, and he feels absolutely nothing. None of the words are a surprise. That Ferrari would blame him for the incident, that the Ferrari brand is more important to them then his life. It’s not new information to him. Carlos looks horrified at the stony lack of expression on his face, the calm way he takes the recording and the words.

‘You shouldn’t have walked out,’ is all Charles can think to say when it’s stopped playing. ‘I appreciate the sentiment Carlos, I really do. But you still have, what, eighteen races left? They can make your life miserable.’

‘You’re not even surprised by what Binotto said, are you?’

I wanna love myself, just like everyone else

But there are times when I don't like myself

‘No,’ Charles says the word simply, but it clangs around the hospital room like a gunshot. ‘Mattia has told me before that the Ferrari brand matters more than I do.’ Max feels like he might be sick, the horror welling up in him at how Ferrari have treated Charles. At how Charles is used to being treated by his team.

‘Why has he never said that to me?’ Carlos demands, looking like he might cry. ‘Huh? I’m the second driver. You’re better than I am, I’m the driver they’re dropping. You’re the future of Ferrari, you're il predestinato. So why don’t they treat me like that?’

‘Because they know I need Ferrari more than I need them,’ Charles answers quickly.

‘That’s not it,’ Max speaks up for the first time. Charles fixes hm with a glare, but it is rather ruined by the oxygen tubing across his face, the vulnerable expression in his eyes, the paleness of his features.

Charles shakes his head. ‘It doesn't matter. Look, Carlos, the easiest thing for you to do is just go back to Ferrari. Release whatever story they want you to, I’ll back up whatever you say.’

Carlos’ eyes are flinty steel when he answers. ‘Well, sorry to disappoint, but Binotto has been fired, so I don’t think I’ll be spinning the Ferrari narrative any longer.’

Max’s jaw drops. What the fuck did they do?

‘What the fuck?’ George whispers from the back of the room.

‘You’re joking,’ Oscar’s voice is small and cracked as he uncurls from the chair ever so slightly.

‘I’m not. Xavi is gone too,’ Carlos answers. At that precise moment, his phone beeps. ‘Confirmation of our new team principle. He starts in three days.’

Charles seems incapable of responding, gasping like a fish out of water as his concussed brain grapples with the facts. Max cannot read the multitude of emotions flashing across his face, each one appearing and vanishing again so quickly he barely spots it. ‘Are you serious?’ He asks softly. ‘Honest to God, serious?’

Carlos takes Charles' hand in both of his own, squeezing it tightly and looking the younger man dead in the eye. ‘I swear to you, Charles. Mattia Binotto is gone. Xavi is gone. Ferrari is changing.’

‘How did you do it?’

Carlos grins wickedly, breaking eye contact but not relinquishing his grip on Charles’ hand. ‘You know, Charles, it wasn’t even that hard.’ He proceeds to tell a crazy story involving Will Buxton, every driver still currently downstairs in the lobby, and Piero Ferrari.

‘You called Piero?’ Charles practically shrieks when Carlos drops the bomb.

‘Yes, I did,’ Carlos answers. ‘And he was very disappointed that his young friend Charles did not speak up about any of this himself.’

Charles splutters hopelessly. ‘But… How could I? Carlos I thought… I thought Mattia was my forever. That being at Ferrari meant being with him. I thought that was what I had to sacrifice to be at this team.’

Carlos cups his cheek, the skin practically translucent against his brown hand. ‘Charles, nothing you love should hurt you like Ferrari have hurt you. You kept giving, and they kept taking. No more. I swear to you, from now on, it’s not going to be like that anymore. We’re going to fix this. For you.’

‘You swear?’ Charles asks with such childlike innocence Max’s heart hurts.

‘I swear. And though I will not be around to hold up my end of the promise, someone else will be,’ Carlos grins widely.

‘Lewis,’ Max thinks Charles meant to smile, but it comes out more of a grimace. The love he has for his teammate is palpable, as is the grief he feels at losing him.

‘Actually,’ Seb breaks in. ‘I think he meant me.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re racing again,’ Charles gasps. ‘Did Mercedes really sign you?’

‘Actually, Ferrari did,’ Seb winks. ‘I wish to be your new race engineer, should you choose to have me.’ Max's brain short circuits at this point. Sebastian Vettel returning to the grid as a race engineer. As the race engineer of Charles Leclerc. It’s the full-circle story most could never even dream of, yet here it is.

‘Really?’ Charles’ green eyes are alight with joy.

‘If you’ll have me,’ the German shrugs. Charles gestures him forward, throwing his arms around the man as soon as he is close enough.

‘Thank you.’ The whisper is low, meant only for Sebastian’s ears, but Max catches it. 

‘Please tell me there are no more surprises,’ Lando rubs a hand through his hair. ‘I genuinely don’t think my heart can take it.’

‘Sorry Lando,’ Lewis smiles softly. ‘I think there might be one more.’

Carlos looks confused now, Max realises, as Lewis pushes off from the table and comes to perch on the bed. ‘Carlos, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to speak with you about this privately first. But I need you to know there is no pressure.’

The Spaniard looks utterly mystified. ‘Look, the last twenty-four hours. Man,’ Lewis chuckles. ‘The bond you two have. I’ve never seen anything like it. So, I started to ask myself if I can really break this up.’

If Max thought his brain was at capacity before, it certainly is now. He doesn’t even know if he’s following the conversation at this point, because it sounds almost like…

‘The race seat is yours, Carlos. Should you so want it.’

‘But…’ Carlos cannot seem to even get a thought out. Charles too, is looking very blank. ‘The contract… it’s signed.’

‘The contract was signed with Mattia Binotto. As he is no longer team principle, the contract is null and void.’

‘They’ll… they’ll be writing you a new one though.’

Lewis shakes his head gently. ‘Look, I want to make this very clear. I want to do what is best for both of you. At this point I don’t give a shit about the team. Carlos, if you don’t want to continue at Ferrari, I think everyone would understand. At which point, I will offer to hold the contract unless they can find a better teammate for Charles. Someone who will be able to support him better than I can through this transition period for Ferrari. But Carlos, this race seat is yours. You just burnt down a team and then rebuilt it in the span of twenty-four hours, all for the sake of your teammate.’ Lewis shrugs, as though a race seat at Ferrari is nothing. ‘I can’t get in the way of that.’

‘But they don’t want me,’ Carlos protests.

‘Mattia didn’t want you. He only wanted me because of how I would boost the fucking share price,’ Lewis hisses. ‘But Piero wants you, and he is who matters.’

Carlos cannot seem to take in what he is being told, while Charles looks openly devastated. ‘You should go,’ the Monegasque whispers.

‘What?’ Carlos asks softly. Max finds himself as surprised as Carlos is by the words.

‘Look, Carlos, I’ve seen some of the offers you’ve had. Offers from race-winning teams, who can get you the success you deserve, in the environment you want. Teams with higher salaries and benefits. Teams that aren’t on the brink of collapse,’ Charles says firmly, but his eyes are swimming with tears. He doesn’t want this. Every line of his being screams how desperately he wants Carlos to stay, but this boy would throw himself in front of a firing squad for his teammate.

‘Did you volunteer to get the new upgrades added to your car first?’ Carlos asks.

‘What?’ Charles is thrown by the change in subject. Max is too, finding the conversation hard to follow.

Carlos navigates to another recording, playing the short meeting out loud, for the whole room to hear. Mattia Binotto’s comments about Charles’ loyalty confuse Max at first, but then he begins to comment on the car. On testing upgrades, and Charles’ face looks even more terrified.

‘Please tell me this isn’t real,’ Max near enough growls. The look Carlos sends him is grim. ‘I’m going to kill him!’

‘Oh don’t worry Max, Carlos didn’t leave much left of him for you to go at,’ Lewis grins.

‘But… This is… This is worse than abuse, it’s attempted murder or something surely!’ Lando protests, furious.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter,’ Charles intercepts.

‘It doesn’t… are you serious right now?’ Seb demands. ‘Mattia Binotto nearly got you killed, and you don’t seem to give a shit.’

‘Because it isn’t a surprise, is it?’ Carlos’ voice is hard.

Charles doesn’t reply, but the silence is answer enough. ‘Look, Charles. I don’t think I will ever know everything you did for me at Ferrari. The number of times you defended me to Binotto, or took on untested upgrades so I wouldn’t have to,’ Carlos visibly shudders. ‘But what I do know is you likely saved my life. And if I had been in that car yesterday, I know you would have done exactly what I did. Except you have more to lose. But I know you would do it anyway.’ Carlos shakes his head softly, as though this is an easy decision to make. ‘Charles, when you find friendship like that… when you find family like that, you don’t let that go. Together or nothing, remember?’

This life is beating me down

But karma is coming around

Telling Charles about what he did over the last few days was even more emotionally draining than Carlos had imagined it would be. The simple acceptance of Mattia’s words, the revelations Charles made, which Carlos imagines are just scratching the surface.

Then Lewis drops the bomb, offering Carlos his race seat. And it’s nuts. Utter insanity. There is nothing keeping him at this team and everything telling him to go. The offers he’s had, the contracts on the table. There are a million reasons for him to walk away from this team and not look back.

Except Charles. Charles is at this team. Charles, the beat teammate he has ever had. Charles, who has experienced heartbreak after heartbreak, but still holds his scarred heart open, offering love with bare, bleeding hands. Charles, who has protected him time and time again, singlehandedly holding this team together with duct tape and PVA glue.

And suddenly, the obvious decision feels like the wrong one.

Charles passes out soon after the speech Carlos gave, the exhaustion that had been weighing him down finally pulling him under.

‘Wow,’ Max mutters as soon as Charles’ breathing evens out. ‘I… Carlos I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have doubted you.’

Carlos shakes his head, still clutching Charles’ hand tightly in his own. ‘You were protecting him. As someone who has been trying to do that for three years, thank you.’

‘I can’t believe you did all that,’ George mutters, leaning back against the wall and scrubbing his hands over his face. ‘I just… can’t believe it.’

‘You tore down Ferrari,’ Alex chuckles in disbelief. ‘With your bare hands, you tore down Ferrari.’

‘For him,’ Max whispers. ‘All of it for him.’

Tongue-tied, and you've got the best of me

A nightmare that's filling my dreams

It takes Max a few hours to kick everyone out the hospital, but he eventually manages it. They are so exhausted most of them can barely clamber to their feet when Max finally persuades them to go. He has to swear more than once that he will not leave the Monegasque’s side, but eventually the room is his.

Charles is sleeping soundly, having passed out soon after the pretty heavy bombs Carlos had dropped. Max himself is still reeling from the revelations of the last few hours, and they weren’t concerning his team.

It takes an hour or so of restless shifting, but Max eventually falls asleep. It’s a few hours before the discomfort builds enough that he wakes, his back a mess of knots. He stands stiffly, what feels like every joint in his body popping in unison as he uncurls from the tiny chair. There is a couch at the back of the room he could stretch out on, but that doesn’t allow him a view of Charles.

So, he commits himself to the hard, tiny chairs.

‘What are you still doing here?’ The voice is soft, but Max jumps at the unexpectedness of it.

‘You’re awake!’ He turns to Charles, smiling tenderly at the familiar green eyes which greet him. They are the precise colour of sea glass, glinting in the early morning sun. They shine just as brightly, sparkling warmly whenever he smiles. God, that smile. Max really thought he might never see it again.

And now that smile looks amused, because Max has been staring, just looking wistfully into his eyes for far too long. Fuck.

‘Sorry, erm, it’s just good to see you awake,’ Max scrubs a hand through his hair, feeling his cheeks aflame with embarrassment.

Charles has the audacity to laugh gently, though it soon fades into a hacking cough. ‘You never said why you’re still here,’ he manages to choke out once the coughs have calmed.

‘Oh, well, no one else would leave unless I promised to stay here with you, keep them updated of any changes.’

Charles raises an eyebrow, the stitches in his forehead contorting repulsively. ‘Well, nothing is changing here, so you should go and get some sleep.’

‘You are joking, right?’ He demands incredulously. It is clear within moments that Charles is, in fact, not joking. ‘Charles, you almost died about six times in the last twenty-four hours, forgive me if I’m a little reluctant to let you out of my sight.’

‘Max… I’m sorry I put you in this position.’

‘What position?’ Max whirls around to glare at the man in the bed. ‘Where you nearly died on me? Where you were apparently being abused for fucking years and never saw fit to do anything about it? Or where you left me in charge of all your medical decisions and didn’t fucking tell me about it?’

Charles stays silent as Max breathes hard after his outburst. He didn’t realise how angry he was until the words came spilling out of his mouth. But those sage green eyes are exhausted, the nasal cannula curling around his ears, the bruising painting the entirety of his chest... Max's anger evaporates, replaced by shame. ‘I’m sorry… that wasn’t… I had no right.’

‘Actually,’ Charles interrupts. ‘You had every right.’ The soft words are enough to calm Max, and when Charles motions for him to sit at the end of the bed, he doesn’t hesitate. ‘I’m not sorry, Max, for making you my medical power of attorney. I am sorry for not asking you about it first.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

Charles hesitates, picking at the blanket covering his legs. ‘I don’t know really. I just… Pierre left for Milan while you and I were barely talking, but you still felt like the most obvious choice. How could I come up to you and say “well, we still don’t follow one another on Instagram, but will you please be my medical power of attorney?” It’s not an excuse, I should have told you, I know that. But by the time we were in a good place again, I didn’t want to scare you off or something? I don’t know.’ Charles shakes his head gently, lifting one hand with a wince and scrubbing it down his pale face.

‘You really trust me that much?’

Charles fixes his gaze on Max, his expression unwavering. ‘I do.’

‘Fuck…’ Max breathes, burying his head in his hands for a few seconds.

‘I’m so sorry, I never should have put your name down. You shouldn’t have been in this position.’

‘Don’t you dare apologise,’ Max reaches out and grabs Charles hand. ‘You should have told me, you’re right. But if you really trust me enough to give me that power, don’t apologise for that.’

Silence descends for a few moments, Max clambering to his feet again and beginning to pace the room in order to stretch his abused joints. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t race,’ Charles whispers into the silence. ‘That could really impact your championship, Max.’

‘When have I ever cared about a championship more than you?’ Max asks, quirking an eyebrow.

‘Austria 2019,’ Charles retorts immediately.

‘That wasn’t about the championship,’ Max counters.

‘What the hell was it then? Because you know that overtake was dirty,’ Charles protests.

‘It was just an inchident,’ Max quotes, a small smile playing at his lips. ‘Look, Charles, barging you off the track at Austria… I admit it wasn’t a move I should have made. But that’s how we raced in karting; on the edge. To be honest, that race, the 2019 season, that’s the most fun I’d had in racing since we last karted together. The battles we used to have, the way you knew exactly where my limit was, and how to push me past it… I missed that I guess. So I barged you off the track, but because we hadn’t raced together in years, the limit had changed. And that’s my fault, I’m sorry for that. But Charles, at no point did I do it to deliberately try and deprive you of your first victory,’ Max shrugs helplessly. ‘I just wanted to enjoy racing again.’

Charles examines him closely, yawning hard as the nagging fatigue comes knocking once more. ‘Come here.’

Max complies with the order, watching as Charles shuffles himself toward one side of the bed. His movements are excruciatingly slow as the pain pulls at him. Charles’ chest has continued to blossom with bruising over the hours since he has been at the hospital, his abdomen painted vivid shades of blue and purple which disguise the pale skin Max knows should be there.

‘Lay down.’

‘What?’ Max chokes out a laugh, trying to swallow down his panic.

‘Max Emilian Verstappen, lay down beside me and go to sleep. That chair is going to put you in an early grave.’

‘I’ll hurt you,’ Max protests weakly. But he longs to press his skin against Charles’, feel the soft silk of the exposed body against his own.

‘You won’t, Max. Please.’ The plea breaks down whatever resolve Max had, so he kicks his trainers off and climbs into the bed beside Charles.

‘Thank you,’ Charles whispers gently.

Max waits until he feels Charles’ breathing even out as sleep takes him. ‘I would do anything for you, Charles Leclerc.’

Stand up, tired of being a victim

You only on the outs if you with them

After Max kicked everyone out, Lando drove Carlos and Oscar back to the hotel, where they all stumbled into Carlos’ hotel suite, practically falling asleep standing up. Lando had been so torn between needing to be there for Carlos or Oscar, the obvious choice became all three of them going back to the same room. Carlos fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, finally giving into the exhaustion which had been culminating all day.

When he wakes, there are gentle snores in his left ear. He turns over to find both Lando and Oscar are now apparently in the bed with him. When he went to sleep, he was definitely alone, so he must have really passed out not to notice the two of them clambering in with him.

Under normal circumstances it would probably be weird to share a bed with Lando, let alone Oscar. But these are not normal circumstances. And judging by the fresh tear tracks marring his pale cheeks, it looks as though Oscar has had a hard night.

Carlos rolls out of bed with a groan, snatching up his phone and checking the time. Shit, it’s eight in the morning. He managed to sleep for over twenty-four hours. Carlos peels himself from the bed carefully, making sure not to wake either of the papaya drivers as he leaves the room. He pulls some clothes on and takes a few minutes to brush his teeth, before leaving his room key behind and a note for Lando on the tabletop as he exits.

Carlos groans deeply when he realises that Lando drove them back the night before, his own car being abandoned back at the hospital. He calls a cab with a sigh, tapping his foot impatiently as he waits for it to take him back to the hospital.

It takes him longer than he would have liked, but eventually he is outside the room, opening the door quietly to keep from waking Charles or Max. As soon as he enters, there are green eyes meeting his from the bed as Charles smiles softly. 

‘Hey,’ he whispers, keeping his voice low in deference to Max. Max, who he has not registered until this moment, is sharing the bed with Charles. The Dutchman is on his side, the smallest sliver of space separating him from Charles. It is as though Max longs to cuddle into him, but is so scared of hurting him that, even in unconsciousness, he has maintained this small boundary.

‘Hey,’ Charles murmurs back. ‘Can you get him out of here? He’s been here all night.’

'Are we not going to talk about the fact that you're sharing a bed?' Carlos raises his eyebrows as the Monegasque flushes, the redness in his cheeks contrasting against the pale skin exactly like the Monaco flag.

Carlos takes pity on his teammate, moving to the side of the bed and setting his hand on Max's t-shirt clad shoulder. ‘Max, hey, Max.’ It doesn't take long for Max to wake, his eyes shooting open. 

‘What happened? Is he okay?’ Max is barely awake, blue eyes clouded and dazed as he surveys Charles desperately.

‘I’m fine, everything is fine,’ Charles reassures him softly. ‘You need to go and get some sleep, Max.’

‘I was sleeping,’ the Dutchman grumbles, rubbing his eyes like a child. 'Oh God, I was sleeping in the bed. With you. Um...' the look he shoots Carlos is nothing less than panicked. 

'I saw nothing,' Carlos smiles. 'Now get out of here, I'll stay with him.'

‘Fine, fine,’ Max huffs, gathering his belongings from around the room. He stops at the bed before he goes, gripping Charles’ hand tightly for a few minutes. Carlos waits for him to say something, anything. But he just turns and leaves, pivoting on one heel and leaving the room quickly.

‘You're really not going to tell me anything about that particular situation?’ Carlos probes as he flops into a chair. 

'He needed rest, he was dying sleeping in that chair,' Charles protests, but the blush doesn't fade from his cheeks. 

'Uh huh, and it has nothing to do with the monster crush you're both nursing?'

'Putain de merde, Carlos,' Charles groans, burying his head in his hands. Carlos' French is sketchy at best, but he recognises swear words when he hears them.

'Ai, let me have some fun, Charles. It was a long day yesterday!' Charles removes his hands from his face and turns gingerly in the bed to be able to see Carlos better

‘You look better,’ he remarks, assessing Carlos carefully.

A startled laugh bursts out of his chest at the comment. ‘You’re joking right? You’re the one in the hospital bed Charles!’

‘And when you got here yesterday, I was worried that you would be in the bed next to me,’ Charles retorts.

‘Well, I’m fine,’ Carlos assures him. ‘How are you feeling today?’ He looks better, more upright in bed and significantly less pale than he had been. There is no longer blood being pumped into his veins either. There are still lines of pain on his face, and gauze covering every inch of his chest. But his eyes are bright and clear, and he sounds like Charles again.

‘I’m fine.’ Carlos gives him an unimpressed glare, and Charles chuckles gently. The arm wrapped around his abdomen tightens gently as the pain wracks him, but he is in significantly better shape than he was yesterday. ‘It hurts,’ he admits, voice shaking slightly. ‘More than I ever knew something could hurt. But I’ll heal. They think they can take the chest tube out in a few hours hopefully.’

Carlos hums, settling back against the plush chair. ‘So, are we going to talk about Binotto?’

Charles groans loudly, running a hand over his face. ‘Do we have to?’

‘I mean, Charles, I really feel like I deserve an explanation,’ Carlos admits, some of his frustration bleeding into his tone. ‘Look, I went to hell and back for you, and I know you didn’t ask for it, but I did. To be honest, my only regret is not doing it sooner. But Charles, why didn’t you do this yourself?’

Charles sucks in a deep breath, before turning back to look at Carlos. ‘Did you know that Mattia Binotto and Nicolas Todt grew up together?’

‘I… what?’ Carlos asks, thrown by the change in topic.

‘I didn’t either. Nicolas told me a couple of years ago. Apparently the Todt and Binotto families were close when they were both growing up.’

‘Okay…’ Carlos says. ‘I don’t see what this has to do with anything.’

‘Because Mattia’s father wanted desperately to get into motor sports. So he asked Jean Todt for a position when he was still working in rallying, Jean refused, and the families fell out. Fast forward twenty years, Jean Todt is the Team Principle for Ferrari, and Mattia Binotto walks in as an engineer. He made his way up the ranks quickly; he was an impressive guy in the technical department.’ He must sense Carlos’ disbelieving look because he chuckles gently. ‘Honestly, Mattia was amazing in the technical department. He was aiming to be made chief technical officer, but Jean denied him the promotion.’

‘Because of their family history?’ Carlos asks with raised eyebrows.

‘Look, I don’t know,’ Charles admits. ‘I don’t think anyone does except Jean. But any relationship that was fixed between the Todt’s and the Binotto’s was destroyed again.’

‘I still don’t see what this has to do with you,’ Carlos admits.

‘Jean Todt saved my karting career. The money had run out, Jules couldn’t help any more, there were no options left. Until one day, by complete chance, we got talking to Jean and Nicolas Todt. My father and I became friends with them, and Jean agreed to sponsor my karting. Then Nicolas offered to be my manager.’ Charles pauses for a few moments.

‘You know Mattia tried to become a driver manager once?’ Carlos’ eyes widen at the mere thought of how badly that would end. ‘I know right,’ Charles grins. ‘It was when I first moved to single seaters, he approached me and asked to be my manager. I thanked him very much for the offer but decided to remain with Nicolas. Then, in 2018, Maurizio Arrivabene signed me as a Ferrari driver for 2019, and Mattia Binotto was stuck with the kid the Todt’s loved.’

‘That’s insane,’ Carlos breathes. ‘All that because of some ridiculous family feud from like fifty years ago.’

Charles shrugs gently, raising a single shoulder, on his uninjured side. ‘Look, I don't know if that has anything to do with it at all. I have no idea what could have happened for Mattia to treat me like he did. Maybe he really did just make some odd choices over the years, I don't know. I'll never know. But Nicolas once apologised to me, for any behaviour aimed at me which may have been caused by his family's involvement with the Binotto's’

‘But you were aware that Mattia has been mistreating you for years?’ Carlos demands, feeling the sickness begin to claw at his heart. He could have put a stop to this so many years ago.

'Look, Carlos, it's complicated, okay. It's not as black and white as you want to make it sound. I came in as the junior second driver, I had no idea how I was meant to be treated. And they didn't treat Seb much better. I did notice that you were treated... differently to me, but I thought I was imagining things at first. Then Nicolas told me that story, and you said it yourself, it's insane. Plus, he never made it that obvious he was singling me out. And Mattia has been responsible for the majority of my career, Carlos. It's not as simple as abuse or mistreatment or whatever word you want to label it with. He was good to me, at times.'

'He should have been good to you at all times,' Carlos snaps, but it isn't Charles he is mad at. Because no matter how ambiguous Charles may insist the situation is, to Carlos it is pretty clear. Mattia spent six seasons making Charles' life miserable, and Carlos enabled him. ‘I should never have let him treat you this way.’

‘I’m not your responsibility,’ Charles protests softly. ‘I swear to you Carlos, if I genuinely thought I was ever in danger, it never would have gone this far. I would have spoken up. But I honestly just thought it was a combination of bad decisions and unfortunate circumstances.’

Carlos hums softly, playing with the blanket on the edge of Charles’ bed. ‘Have you thought about Lewis’ offer any more?’

Charles raises an eyebrow, the movement pulling on the stitches in his head gruesomely. ‘It’s not my offer to think over.’

‘It affects us both, though,’ Carlos protests lightly. ‘You might want Lewis as a teammate.’

Charles doesn’t say anything at all, keeping his face deliberately blank. ‘You never told me who the new team principle will be,’ he changes the subject.

A smile spreads across Carlos’ face at the thought, despite the very obvious swerve in the conversation. ‘I wanted to get your reaction when we were alone, not when you were already blown away by everything I told you yesterday.’

‘I’m still pretty blown away,’ Charles chuckles.

‘Well, it’s someone you know.’ Carlos grins.

‘I swear to god, if Lewis is giving up his race seat to become team principle,’ Charles groans.

Carlos laughs hard. ‘No, thank God. I don’t think he’s quite ready to go there yet. He is French.’ Charles hums but does not offer any further suggestions. ‘Someone you have worked with at least twice before,’ Carlos teases.

‘Not Fred?’ Charles gasps, his eyes lighting up.

‘Bingo.’

‘Holy shit,’ Charles laughs, his smile radiant. ‘He’s the best team principle I’ve ever had!’

‘I don’t think the bar is very high, no?’ Carlos grumbles. But it does nothing to diminish Charles’ smile. Carlos settles back into the chair, confident for the first time in days that all is right in the world.

Only hurts if you give them credence

Give them reasons

Chapter Text

They're not better than you

They're just a figment of imagination

Carlos hasn’t dreaded media day like this for a long fucking time. Fred Vasseur signed the contract to become Ferrari’s new team principle only a day before the circus begins, therefore the story drops mere hours before the press conference. Carlos takes the mature decision of hiding out at Lando’s flat in Monaco as he waits for the media line up to be announced.

‘Surely it won’t be that bad,’ Lando tries to reassure him as they pick at their diet approved chicken and vegetables.

‘Have you ever announced that you got the team principal fired because he was abusing a golden retriever of a human being right under everyone’s nose for six years?’ Carlos snaps. Lando stays silent, merely continuing to play with his food. ‘Sorry,’ Carlos groans, running his hand through his thick, dark hair. ‘I’m just stressed out.’

‘It’s fine,’ Lando sighs, pushing his dinner away. ‘Who am I kidding? I’m nervous for you.’ He stays silent for a few moments, turning his next question over and over in his mind before asking it. ‘Have you seen Charles?’

Carlos shakes his head. ‘He’s still in hospital in Italy. They’re in no hurry to move him yet, because of how the flight may affect his breathing.’ Lando winces at the reminder. All of them had delayed their flights for as long as they could, not leaving Italy until the last possible moment, knowing they would be essentially abandoning Charles there. They spent their final night in his room two days earlier, eating dinner, watching movies and generally trying to have the most fun you can in a hospital corridor.

They sit in silence for a few more minutes before there is a knock on the door. Lando gets to his feet, brow furrowed in confusion as he answers it. Max, George and Alex all pile in, settling themselves at the dinner table without invitation. ‘Nice to see you too,’ Carlos chuckles as they dig into the lunch he and Lando had abandoned.

‘Yeah, well, we assumed you would be avoiding the paddock, so we figured we’d hunt you down,’ Alex says, digging into a piece of Carlos’ chicken.

‘And eat our lunch apparently,’ Lando huffs.

‘How did you know I would be here?’ Carlos asks with a grin, watching the motley crew at their antics.

‘Literally where else would you be?’ George laughs.

‘Where’s Oscar?’ Max pipes up. ‘I figured he’d be staying here.’

Lando sighs deeply, and Carlos knows this is the source of much of his current mood. ‘He has been. Oscar is… struggling. He goes out for hours each day, just walks the harbour, barely speaks when he’s here.’ Lando shakes his head. ‘I think this really messed him up.’

‘I mean, I would be worried if it hadn’t,’ George offers. ‘When I pulled over for Zhou’s crash in Silverstone, honestly that was one of the worst days of my life, and he was fine.’ George shivers at the mere thought. ‘I didn’t even have to help Zhou out of the car, but seeing him like that was terrifying. Let alone if I had literally pulled him out of the flames like Oscar did for Charles.’

‘I get it, I really do,’ Lando says softly. ‘I just… I don’t know how to help him.’

Alex shrugs, putting the fork down. ‘I don’t think you can. All you can do is be there for him until Oscar is ready to help himself.’

‘What if I don’t know what to do when he needs me?’ Lando asks, voicing a deep insecurity.

‘Then you call us,’ Carlos squeezes his hand tightly.

The silence that falls over them is broken by their phones buzzing in unison. Press conference one: Carlos Sainz, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, George Russell, Lewis Hamilton, Max Verstappen.

‘At least we’re together.’

There are times when I don't like myself

I believe all the things that they say about me

The thought of doing this together had felt comforting for about three hours. But now, lingering in the Monaco sunshine outside the press room, Carlos’ hands are sweating profusely. He can’t even blame it on the heat, because he is literally trembling, unable to prevent his hands from shaking violently as he wrings them together.

‘It’s going to be fine,’ Max mutters under his breath. That wouldn’t be a particularly helpful comment anyway, but the Dutchman is pacing up and down, which really undermines his words. George joins them swiftly, Lewis at his side as both Mercedes drivers take in the scene before them.

‘You don’t need to stress, you know,’ Lewis leans against the wall, his face the picture of cool, calm and collected.

‘Stress? They’re not stressing Lewis, look at them, they’re calm,’ George teases.

‘Oh, fuck off,’ Lando hisses as he approaches. ‘I’ve not seen Oscar all day, Carlos is about to blow up Ferrari for the second time and none of us have heard from Charles!’

‘Good thing I can solve one of your problems them,’ a familiar Aussie accent comes from behind them and Lando whirls around comically to find his teammate behind him.

‘Thank god you’re here,’ he throws his arms around the younger man. ‘Could have told me you were going to be late.’

‘Sorry,’ Oscar says softly, not offering the rest of them any more than a small smile. Carlos returns it sadly. Watching the McLaren boys together makes him pine for his own teammate, but he will have to make do with a combination of Giovinazzi and Bearman for the coming weeks.

‘God, why are we here so early?’ Lewis grumbles, pulling his hat further down.

‘Remember, we’re here to provide moral support,’ George rolls his eyes.

‘Well, you’re bloody bad at it,’ a new voice calls. A voice with a German accent, who certainly shouldn’t be in Monaco right now.

‘Seb!’ Lewis crows, pulling the elder man in for a tight hug. ‘I thought you were staying in Italy with Charles.’

‘Oh God,’ Carlos gasps. ‘What happened? Did something happen?’

‘Nothing happened, I promise,’ Seb chuckles, offering them all hugs. ‘I actually have a surprise for you.’ He doesn’t give them a chance to ask what the hell is going on, pulling his phone out of his pocket and sending a short text. Within seconds, there is the sound of a vehicle approaching them.

‘A golf kart?’ Lando raises his eyebrows. But as soon as it comes into view, Carlos feels like his knees will give out. Fernando Alonso of all people is behind the wheel, a shit-eating grin on his face. And in the passenger seat, is Charles.

‘What the fuck?’ Max whispers as Fernando pulls the kart to a stop before them.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Carlos demands at once, feeling the worry begin to eat at his heart at the sight of his missing teammate. ‘You’re supposed to be in hospital for another couple of days, not in another country! In the paddock of all places!'

‘Actually, this was cleared by the doctors,’ Charles interrupts before Carlos can continue his tirade. ‘As long as I take it easy, they cleared me to go home.’

‘This hardly counts as taking it easy!’ Max almost screams.

‘The golf kart is taking it easy,’ Fernando pipes up.

‘Shut it old man,’ Lando snaps. ‘Don’t encourage him!’ Fernando’s grin doesn’t waver, he just reclines in the kart looking for all the world like he’s about to drink a cocktail on the beach.

‘Look, if you don’t trust me, ask Seb. He was with me the entire time.’ Carlos immediately turns to Seb, not missing Charles’ huff at the mistrust.

‘The doctor agreed to discharge him. He even said Charles should be walking around gently and with pain management. I dosed him with pills before we got on the plane, he’s good for another hour.’ Seb concedes. He doesn’t seem ecstatic about the situation, but there is no arguing that the German driver would never jeopardise the health of his kid.

‘You’re really okay to be here?’ Carlos asks softly, his voice trembling as badly as his hands.

Charles’ smile is so gentle it hurts. ‘There’s no way I would let you do this alone.’ Carlos is the first to embrace Charles, struggling for space around the golf kart, but making it work nonetheless. Oscar is next, looking infinitely relieved to have Charles at his side.

In the time it takes for them all to greet Charles, the doors are thrown open. ‘You can come in now,’ an assistant calls, faltering when she spots the unexpected guest. ‘Mr Leclerc…’ she stutters. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘It’s okay,’ he says softly. ‘It was something of a last-minute arrangement. I hope it will not be too much trouble if I crash this party?’ She doesn’t answer, just runs inside without a word.

‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ he grins. ‘Carlos, I could do with a hand?’

He offers both arms to his teammate, who manoeuvres himself around so slowly and carefully it is painful to watch. He takes both of Carlos’ hands, sliding off the bench and working to keep his abdomen as still as possible as he straightens. Charles winces and groans as he moves, but God, seeing him on his feet is such a wild improvement from where he had been less than a week ago that tears spring to Carlos’ eyes.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually Charles is steady on his feet. ‘Do you need help getting in?’ Carlos asks quietly as the others watch on from behind.

‘Just stick near me?’ Charles asks gently. Carlos does as he requests, allowing Charles to take the lead as he shuffles into the press room. He keeps a gentle hand on Charles’ back, ready to swoop in and catch him should the Monegasque falter. As soon as the press catch sight of them, a wave of whispering fills the atmosphere of the dark room.

Charles holds his hands out for Carlos again, the Spaniard helping him lower himself down onto the couch. It takes a while; everyone having put their mics on and taken a seat by the time Charles is settled. Carlos takes the seat beside him, quickly handing Charles a mic before looping his own around his ears.

‘Charles, wow, it is truly phenomenal to see you up and, on your feet,’ Tom Clarkson opens the press conference with a smile Carlos knows to be genuine.

‘It is good to be here, Tom,’ Charles smiles gently. He is panting softly, air sawing in and out of his abused lungs. The press seems to notice his struggle, giving him a few minutes to collect himself before the inquisition starts.

‘It has been a truly sensational week in Formula One, the likes of which I don’t think we’ve ever seen before. I mean, if we start from the accident. Oscar, you were the one who pulled Charles from the vehicle. This is not something we’ve ever seen before on the grid; can you walk us through your thought process in that moment?’

Carlos tenses up, seeing Lando doing the same thing on his other side. Oscar has barely spoken to them in the last week, let alone the press.

‘I… I don’t even know. I just reacted. I saw the car burning, and I panicked. I hit Charles, and I had to do everything I could to ensure that he got out alive.’ His voice is low and full of emotion, keeping his eyes downturned from the cameras.

‘I just want to say, from my point of view. I know the FIA were throwing around words like penalty for what Oscar did that day on the track. And I understand, they cannot have drivers putting themselves in danger when there are trained emergency personnel on hand to do that,’ Charles speaks up. ‘But I know without a doubt that Oscar saved my life that day, by pulling me from the wreck. The doctors told me that arriving at the hospital any later likely would have resulted in a very different outcome.’ Carlos finds his eyes are once again full of tears as he is reminded just how close they came to losing his best friend. ‘I just want it to be known, publicly, once and for all, that I owe Oscar Piastri my life. The crash was in no way his fault, and he reacted with more bravery than I have ever possessed in saving my life afterward, at the risk of his own.’

Oscar is holding back tears by the skin of his teeth, shoulders shaking softly as he wrestles for control of his emotions.

‘That is a powerful statement there from Charles Leclerc. Young man, it is a pleasure to see you back in the paddock,’ Tom says once Charles has finished speaking. ‘Okay, I can see how upsetting this must be, so we'll move on quickly. Now, there has been some pretty immense upheaval over in the Ferrari camp. The news broke just this morning that team principal Mattia Binotto has been asked to leave mid-season. Now, this has never happened in recent history, for a team principal to leave part way through the season. Charles, Carlos, can one of you shed some light on the matter?’

Charles nods for Carlos to go ahead. ‘There was some troubling behaviour noticed from Mattia Binotto after the Emilia Romagna grand prix, which led to some questions about his suitability to lead the team,’ Carlos says, keeping it as brief as he possibly can. ‘I brought this to the attention of the relevant powers that be at Ferrari, who took the difficult decision to replace Mattia Binotto mid-season.’

‘You know I must ask, does the worrisome behaviour that you mentioned have anything to do with your crash, Charles?’ Tom asks the question gently, but Carlos still feels the blow, the memories from that day.

‘It was brought to our attention that no testing had been performed on the upgrades we brought to Imola before putting them on the car. Of course, we cannot know if these upgrades resulted in the crash, however it raised some red flags, that he was willing to put upgrades on the car when he wasn’t sure if they were safe for us to use.’ Charles explains, keeping any emotion far from his voice.

‘And this was considered reason enough for Mattia to be asked to leave mid-season?’

Carlos exchanges a look with Charles, who sees his discomfort and takes on the question. ‘There have been some other instances, you know, poor strategic decisions at times, some private issues within the Ferrari camp which we felt could not be resolved with Mattia at the head of Ferrari.’ He watches Charles' expression carefully, but it is politely blank. If Carlos didn’t know any better, it would sound as though he was discussing the weather, calm and collected even as he recounts the events which nearly cost him his life.

‘Is there anything you would like to say to Mattia, assuming you have not had the chance?’

Carlos’ instinct is to scream fuck off at the camera, loudly enough that it will shatter. To shout and cry and share his pain with the world. Because how can this keep happening? Jules, then Herve, Anthoine and now Mattia. At what point will Charles finally break from such public heartache?

‘I would say thank you, for everything he’s taught me, and all the good times we had,’ Charles says, stopping Carlos’ downward spiral in its tracks. ‘And I would say good luck for the future. I hope he finds elsewhere the satisfaction he couldn’t find at Ferrari.’

If it were anyone else, Carlos would assume the words were bullshit. A beautiful media narrative weaved by the team. But Charles says it with such sincerity, such genuine hope, that Carlos can only sag in his seat, bowled over yet again by the angel on earth that is Charles Leclerc.

The rest of the press conference continues largely uneventfully. Almost every question is fired at them, but after the initial barrage it calms down, his answers becoming more and more mundane. Charles sits back, allowing the others to pick up the slack after the initial questioning. And then it is over. Carlos can feel the tension literally drain from his shoulders as the press all begin to gather up their equipment. The boys each un-mic themselves, Carlos keeping a close eye on Charles.

The longer the conference dragged on, the paler he became beneath the lights, the stitches on his forehead standing out more starkly as he loses colour. The pain lines around his eyes becoming more apparent as he reaches up with one hand to remove the mic from his head. Carlos sends a discrete text to Seb as the press begin to file from the room.

‘Can you help me up?’ Charles asks quietly as Carlos stands.

‘Hang on a sec,’ Carlos whispers back. Within minutes, Seb walks in, a glass of water and a packet of pills in his hands.

‘Here,’ the older man doesn’t give Charles a chance to protest, just hands over two pills and a glass of water. ‘Let those kick in before we get you back home.’

Charles does as requested while Seb takes the seat Carlos just vacated. ‘I watched the conference with Fernando, you all did great.’

Carlos snorts, ‘Charles did great, I was practically a trophy wife next to him.’

Charles has the audacity to throw a wink at him, ‘you can always be my trophy wife, Chilli.’

Carlos responds with a middle finger, but the joke breaks the tension that had lingered since the intense press conference. They stay for a few more minutes before Charles holds out his hands. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

Carlos guides him upright, the younger man steadier than he was as the pain meds work their magic. They get back to the golf kart, the Monegasque sitting down gratefully in the hard seat.

‘You and Fernando need to stick around, don’t you, Seb?’ Charles gives the older man a Look which Carlos cannot decipher.

‘Uh, yeah,’ Seb answers. ‘Lots of important stuff to do. Come on Fernando,’ he grabs hold of the Spaniard and physically removes him from their presence.

Carlos has about a thousand meetings to attend, including meeting Fred Vasseur for the first time, but he is halfway to offering Charles a ride home anyway when he is beaten to it.

‘Oscar, can I impose on you?’ Charles breaks in. ‘Lando mentioned that you’re not needed for meetings the rest of the afternoon.’ He phrases it as a question, but there is no room for denial.

‘I… erm… I guess?’ Oscar sounds uncertain, but Charles jumps on it.

‘Great! Come on, in you get!’ With admirable ease, Charles talks Oscar into the driver’s seat of the golf kart and they are off, disappearing into the distance as they head for the exit of the paddock.

‘That was a set-up, right?’ Alex chuckles.

‘I don’t care’ Lando sighs as soon as they are out of sight. ‘Hopefully, he can fix this funk that Oscar is in.’

I wanna love myself, just like everyone else

But there are times when I don't like myself

When Charles first met Oscar, he made the unforgiveable mistake of judging the man before he knew him. They hung out a couple of times before Oscar joined McLaren, and he knew he had been close with Arthur from their days at Prema, but he never understood what his brother saw in the young Aussie. Oscar was always labelled shy if the media were being kind. Boring if they were not. Charles had been inclined to agree with them, but Oscar just kept surprising him. His bluntness, that dry wit, the unwavering loyalty to those he loves, and a quiet kindness which is easy to miss. Charles observed it all and was forced to reassess his initial assessment. Over the two years that he has known Oscar, they have grown steadily closer, until Charles finally got the point of calling him a friend, rather than just someone he knows. And to be honest, that’s the best Charles ever thought it would get

Then Oscar went and pulled him out of a literal fire, and suddenly Charles owes some kind of life debt to this emotionally fucked up kid. And he’s entirely too young for this. But Oscar’s wide doe eyes are so sad, his expression so lost, that for a second Charles sees Arthur the day their father died. So, he bullies the young man into the driver’s seat of the golf kart, and keeps up a steady flow of mindless chatter as they head slowly toward the paddock exit. Oscar helps him from the kart before leading Charles to his McLaren. Sitting in the passenger seat is fucking painful, and for the first time in his life, Charles wishes the teams would just provide them a normal car. Something at average height with ample leg room and doors that don’t require reaching half a mile out of the seat.

Oscar gets into the driver’s seat looking vaguely terrified, so Charles punches his address into the GPS without asking for permission and proceeds to give Oscar a running commentary about Monaco the entire way back to his flat. Until, finally, Oscar is hovering awkwardly in the corridor as Charles fumbles with the key, finally managing to throw open the door and breathe in that scent of home. Charles hobbles to the couch at a horrendously slow pace, finally lowering himself down and allowing his body to sink into the soft fabric.

‘Fuck, that feels so good,’ he breathes, closing his eyes for a second as he relishes in finally being out of hospital. When he reopens his eyes, he realises that Oscar is nowhere to be seen, and when he looks back, realises that the young man is still lingering outside the door. ‘Get in here,’ he calls, Oscar obeys the order reluctantly, shutting the door gently and hovering in the kitchen. ‘Come sit down.’

It takes a few minutes for Oscar to finally take a seat, but Charles is patient, not saying anything else until the Aussie is finally in position. ‘Everyone’s worried about you, Osc,’ Charles says gently.

‘They don’t need to be,’ Oscar mutters, playing with the cuff of his sleeve mindlessly.

‘Really?’ Charles raises his eyebrows. ‘Because I’m worried about you too.’

At this, Oscar assesses him with disbelieving eyes. ‘You literally just got out of hospital; you don’t need to worry about me.’

‘And yet I am.’

Silence reigns for a long time, but Charles suppresses the instinct to fill the quiet. Oscar flies beneath the radar most of the time, Lando or Logan often doing a lot of talking for him. But he’s not a kid, and he’s not a coward; in fact he is far from both things. Which is why he is pleased when his patience pays off and Oscar finally begins to speak.

‘You said goodbye, Charles. You were lying in my arms, bleeding out, and you told me to say goodbye to your mother and your brothers. You made that my problem. If you had died that day, it would have been my responsibility to give your family your last words.’ Oscar chokes up after saying this, refusing to meet Charles’ eyes. A wave of guilt rolls through him. Charles hadn’t meant to put that on Oscar, of course he didn’t. But he genuinely thought the young man might be the last person he spoke to, so he panicked without considering the burden that put on Oscar.

For the first time since the accident, Oscar’s words bring back just how terrified he had been. Charles barely remembers the crash, though he has been informed since that he had been conscious at the point of impact, so it has been easy for him to forget just how close he came to not racing again. To not living again.

‘I don’t sleep anymore,’ Oscar whispers. ‘After that day at the track, watching you nearly die in my arms, not being able to do anything to help you…’ Oscar trails off, not meeting Charles’ eyes. ‘Every time I try to sleep, all I see is my front wing sticking out of your chest.’

‘Come here,’ Charles says softly, motioning to the seat beside him. Oscar doesn’t budge. ‘If you don’t come here, I will come to you.’ Still, there is no movement, so Charles begins the slow process of extracting himself from the couch cushions.

‘Jesus, stop moving!’ Within seconds, Oscar is at his side, lowering him back down as he breathes through the pain.

Oscar finally sits beside him, and Charles unbuttons his shirt slowly, revealing his bruised abdomen and layers upon layers of gauze. The sight makes Oscar wince, but Charles just peels the bandages from his skin carefully, revealing the stitching beneath. ‘Look at this.’ Oscar baulks but does as Charles says.

‘Oh my god,’ he whispers.

‘It’s healing,’ Charles smiles, watching a small smile grow as Oscar takes in the wounds which are rapidly closing, the pink scar tissue beginning to take hold. Charles takes Oscar’s hand gently, guiding it to the apex of his chest. ‘Feel this, I’m breathing. My heart is beating.’ He keeps Oscar’s hand on his chest for a few minutes. ‘I’m alive Oscar, and I’m going to live a long time. Because of you. Because of everything you did that day.’

‘You’re really okay?’ The soft vulnerability in Oscar’s eyes makes Charles’ chest hurt with a different kind of pain.

‘I’m okay.’

I'll walk through fire for this

I will be the one to turn this car around

On Wednesday the 3rd of July, over six weeks since his accident, Charles Leclerc is finally cleared to race. His mother begs him to stay in Monaco for another week, maybe even two, re-join the season when he’s stronger. There is no chance of him winning the WDC anyway, so what’s the point in going back so soon? Except there has been an itch in the back of his head for the last six weeks. A restlessness which he doesn’t know how to cure except on a racetrack.

So, he gets on the first flight to Silverstone for the British Grand Prix.

All the teams are already there, so as soon as he lands, Charles makes his way to Fred’s hotel room. It’s 7pm English time, so he can only pray that the older man is there. It takes a few minutes, but eventually the door swings open.

‘Charles!’ The older man pulls him into a gentle hug immediately, and he cannot help but sag into the warm embrace. He hasn’t even been driving for Ferrari for the last month and a half, but the changes in the team have already become more than apparent. Fred has been in contact with him almost every day of his recovery, asking for details, not as a team principle, but as a friend. At no point did Charles have any concerns about his race seat not being there for him, and Carlos has been reporting back about the mood in the team. Charles has visited Maranello on and off for the last month, and the change in the atmosphere is apparent. Since Mattia left, it seems the axe which had been hovering over the base of every person's neck has finally been removed, leaving them all to breathe freely for the first time.

‘You were cleared?’ Fred demands as soon as he yanks Charles into his hotel room.

‘I was cleared.’ His smile is exuberant, the happiest he has been in weeks.

‘I assume you’re here because you want to race?’

‘So desperately,’ Charles almost pleads.

Fred doesn’t speak for a moment, busying himself preparing them each a coffee. ‘Look, Charles, don’t take this the wrong way, but are you sure? I want you back in the car as soon as you are ready, of course I do. You’re the best driver I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. But you went through something traumatic, and you’ve not been back in the car since the accident. Are you sure that you’re ready?’

Charles hesitates for a second. ‘Honestly? No, I’m not sure I’m ready. But medically, I’ve been cleared. So, I’m ready to find out.’

Fred nods slowly. ‘Welcome back.’

The two men spend the next hour or so figuring out logistics for the next few days, agreeing to keep Ollie Bearman around for the duration of the weekend should he need to jump into the car at the last minute. Charles would feel bad about stripping the boy of another opportunity to perform had he not secured a race seat for 2025 at Haas a mere week earlier.

‘Well, Charles, I can’t wait to work with you again,’ Fred grins as he rinses their mugs. ‘Now get out of here, kid.’ Charles clambers to his feet and grabs the bags he hadn’t bothered to drop off in the room he booked before coming here.

Charles has his hand hovering over the door handle before Fred calls to him one last time. ‘I overheard a little Spanish birdy talking about a movie night. Max’s room I think.’

Charles grins, throwing a smile over his shoulder.

He takes a few moments to drop his bags off in his room, before booking it out the hallway and toward the Red Bull area of the hotel. Fred had been kind enough to provide a room number before he left, how he came by this information Charles has no idea. But when he is standing outside Max’s door less than ten minutes later, he is nothing except grateful.

Charles raps on the door hard, already hearing the sounds of a film echoing through the thin wall. There is some muffled arguing, before the TV is finally paused and he can hear scuffling on the other side of the door.

‘Whatever it is, I didn’t order it!’ Max calls, opening the door slowly. ‘Fuck.’

‘Nice to see you too,’ Charles chuckles. Max is frozen solid, seemingly unable to respond. Charles hasn’t seen Max since the press conference after he first got out of the hospital, a mixture of racing and rehab getting in the way every time they tried to meet.

‘You okay, mate?’ Charles asks, waving a hand in front of Max’s blue eyes. It takes a moment for him to finally regain some sense of consciousness, but as soon as he does, Max is hugging him so tightly he can barely breathe.

‘I missed you,’ Max whispers in his ear.

A wave of surprise crashes through him at the genuine words, the tight hug and the tenderness with which Max holds him. ‘I missed you too.’

‘What the hell is going on back there?’ Lando calls, rounding the corner and seeing Max and Charles curled around one another.

‘Holy shit!’ Charles gets no further warning before Lando crashes into them, sending him rocketing back a few steps as Max’s body shields him from the impact of the young Brit. After a few seconds both drivers pull back, Lando yanking him into the hotel room. ‘Stop hogging him!’

Max shuts the door as Lando motions for him to be quiet. ‘Guys, we have a surprise!’

‘It better be bloody good,’ Daniel grumbles. ‘My pick for movie night, of course it gets disturbed about a thousand times.’

‘It’s a nice surprise I think,’ Charles says conversationally, leaning against the wall. Carlos is the first to recognise his voice, the Spaniard turning so fast in his seat that Charles is half concerned he will get whiplash.

Carlos opens and closes his mouth a few times, before leaping over the chair like a hurdle and throwing his arms around him. Carlos is less gentle than Max had been, but still handles him as though he is made of glass.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ He demands, pulling away and smiling so widely Charles thinks it must hurt. He doesn’t get the chance to respond, mobbed by both Alex and George, then Daniel as all three men clamour for his attention. They finally let him go, and are quickly replaced by Oscar.

Of all of them, Charles has seen the most of Oscar. The young man has spent his every free second plaguing Monaco, a country he rarely set foot in before a month ago. At the beginning, Charles had been worried about Oscar, at the quiet way he haunted Charles’ every move. There were a couple of weeks Oscar spent sleeping in Charles’ apartment, struggling to be apart from him even through the night. Except then Oscar played a game of paddle with Lando. And let Charles go to rehab without him. And made it through a race weekend without Facetiming him. Slowly, steadily, quietly, just as Oscar did everything else, Charles watched him recover in tandem with his own body.

They got through this together.

Once Oscar lets him go, they lead him to the couch, movie completely forgotten. ‘What are you doing here?’ Carlos asks again. ‘You didn’t tell me you were coming.’

‘I didn’t know I was coming,’ Charles admits. He hesitates for a moment, uncertain how his news will go down. ‘I’m here because I was cleared yesterday.’

‘To start training?’ Danny asks with a wide grin. ‘Charles, that’s awesome!’ They all begin to laugh and celebrate, relieved by the news of his improving medical condition.

Carlos is the only person not smiling. ‘You were cleared to race, weren’t you?’ Charles can only nod, and the levity is immediately sucked out of the room.

‘You’re getting back in the car this weekend?’ Oscar’s voice is small, and the terror in it physically hurts.

‘Fred agreed I could race this weekend, should I get through free practice and qualifying with no issues. Ollie will be sticking around to make sure that there is a reserve in place should the need arise.’

Silence reigns for a few minutes as they all digest news of his return. ‘Fuck, it’s gonna be great to have you back in the paddock,’ George hugs him tightly again. ‘It’s not been the same without that stupid face.’

‘Yeah, and your stupid jeans,’ Alex adds, throwing his arms around the other side.

Once they disentangle themselves, Charles is left with full view of Max, Carlos and Oscar.

‘You promise me you’re ready?’ Carlos asks softly. ‘I already burnt down Ferrari for you once, I’d rather not have to do it again.’

Charles chuckles, but those words still cause a swell of love to burst in his heart. ‘I’m not sure that I’m ready. Maybe I’ll get in the car and freak out and not be able to race this weekend. But Carlos, because of you, for the first time in my Ferrari career, that’s okay.’

Carlos doesn’t hesitate, just moves to hug him once again. ‘Thank you, for being honest with me. I love you, hermanito.’

‘Missed you, Chilli.’

Max doesn’t say anything, he just falls into Charles’ arms as soon as Carlos moves away, the Dutchman clinging onto him desperately. ‘Promise me you’ll drive gentle.’

Charles pulls away and gives his trademark full face wink. ‘Never.’

That just leaves Oscar, who is characteristically expressionless. ‘Come on, let’s put this film back on,’ is all he offers. Daniel does as he asks, but Charles can feel the concern for the younger man radiating off of everyone.

Because it's headed for disaster

No happily ever after

The media sessions are heavy, all of the journalists genuinely pleased to see him, but also outwardly curious about the overhaul at Ferrari. Charles has watched Carlos’s battle endlessly with the media for the last month, trying not to give too much away, while also telling the truth. It has taken a toll on the older man, and Charles can see why. It only takes him one media session to be done with the whole thing.

But then it’s time for FP1, Seb is in the garage, and Fred is running a vastly different ship to that of Mattia Binotto. Everything has changed, and logically Charles knows it is for the better. But for a few seconds, he finds himself longing for the good old days. When Mattia treated him like shit, but it was familiar. When Xavi would scream ‘we are checking’ over and over again in his ear. He knows that it wasn’t a healthy situation to be in, but it’s also the way the team has been for the last six years. It's not an easy transition, and he supposes he shouldn’t have expected it to be so.

Climbing into the car fills him with fear for approximately twenty-two seconds. Then they gesture him out of the garage, and any shred of uncertainty which lingered is left in the dust of his Ferrari.

‘How are you feeling out there, kid?’

‘Less of the kid over the radio,’ Charles sasses back, but hearing Seb’s calm voice in his ear is a welcome change. The soft way he relays instructions, the level of detail in the information he provides. Seb was a driver for so many years it should not surprise Charles that he excels at the race engineer role.

‘I’m great.’

And he is. It hurts, his chest tighter than usual, his breaths harder to come by. But the adrenaline, the thumping competition heating up his blood, the flashing track disappearing beneath his tyres and the glimpses of other drivers as he shoots past them… it feels like coming back to life.

‘I can confirm you are the fastest man on track.’

Charles keys his radio as he lets out a cry of relief and joy, at doing the thing he loves most.

‘Welcome back, kid.’

And I've got so much more to live for

Than what you think of me

The race isn’t exactly a performance to write home about. He finishes a decent fifth, but trails behind both McLarens, Max and his teammate for the entire race. No, Charles’ biggest success of the weekend is the sheer euphoria he feels. He hasn’t felt jubilation like this since his karting days, when he had no cares in the world. All he worried about was himself and his kart, before life grew complicated.

Driving this weekend was like that, with Fred’s quiet encouragement and Seb’s support over the radio. The fans, the media, the other drivers, everyone had been so thrilled to see him back it just buoyed his heart further.

This is it. Mattia is gone. No more Ferrari narrative, no more taking the blame, no more fighting for respect or worrying that his feedback wouldn’t be taken into consideration.

No more.

‘You got P3!’ Charles gasps, throwing his arms around his teammate.

‘You finished the race!’ Carlos is as triumphant about Charles’ finish as he is about his own podium, the Spaniard lighting up with joy. ‘We’re so back, baby!’

Carlos is a mess, hot and soaked with sweat, his hair mussed from peeling off his balaclava. He kind of smells too, like gasoline and body odour. But he looks like home.

‘Come to my hotel room, okay? Before we go out and celebrate the podium,’ he begs Carlos. The Spaniard doesn’t get time to reply, swept away in a crowd of Ferrari engineers who herd him toward the podium. Charles just watches him go with a gentle smile on his face, an arm wrapping around his shoulders.

‘It was good to see you racing, Charles,’ a soft Australian voice says into his ear. Charles doesn’t need to look to his left to know Oscar is there. He wraps one of his own arms around Oscar’s shoulders, pulling him close so that the orange race suit clashes against the bright red.

‘Thank you, Oscar. For everything you’ve given me,’ Charles whispers, pressing his head against the side of Oscar’s, their hair blending as they stand together, staring out at the racetrack.

‘I didn’t give you anything,’ Oscar protests softly. ‘I just made sure nothing was taken away.’

‘No, Oscar, I probably would have died in that crash. You gave me everything. Because of you, I get to do what I love, with the people that I love. Because of you, I got to spend the last six weeks driving my brothers mad. Because of you, my mother didn’t have to bury a son.’

There are times when I don't like myself

I believe all the things that they say about me

Charles is getting dressed for what he already knows will be a heavy night out when there is a knock on the door. He frowns at his watch; Carlos got through the media far faster than he had thought. But his teammate is not on the other side of the door.

Max Verstappen is lingering in the doorway looking like he is considering bolting at any second, hopping from foot to foot. He is in his customary white clubbing shirt, with a pair of dark jeans and smart trainers. If Charles knows Max half as well as he thinks he does, there will be a black over-shirt in his hand.

‘Hey, Max, I didn’t realise you were coming,’ Charles stands aside to let Max in, spotting the anticipated dark shirt in his left hand.

‘Charles,’ Max steps inside, and for the first time he spots the manilla envelope being hidden by the black fabric. ‘Your race was amazing today.’

Charles laughs at this, ‘says the man who got P2! I was so far behind you I doubt you could even see me.’ It’s a lie, the pack has closed up significantly since the 2023 season, and it is uncommon now for any driver to win by a landslide.

‘How could I not see you? It was good having a Ferrari in my wing mirrors again,’ Max smiles.

‘Did no one tell you? That was Carlos,’ Charles snorts.

‘Next race it’ll be you,’ there is such confidence in Max’s voice that Charles can’t help but believe him. ‘I came here to ask you something, if that is okay.’

‘Of course,’ Charles motions for Max to sit down on the couch. He does so, playing with the hem of his shirt as Charles sits opposite him. ‘Do you want a drink or something?’

‘I… erm… I need to ask you something. So maybe don’t offer me a drink until you’ve heard what I have to say.’ Charles raises his eyebrows, a spike of concern striking him.

‘Okay, well, out with it mate. You’re freaking me out.’

‘Look, when you were in the hospital… you got me thinking, okay? I know I was mad at you at the time, but I guess I see the logic of it, you know. So, I got the papers drawn up.’

‘Max, you’re making no sense,’ Charles chuckles nervously. Max opens his mouth as though to say something else, but he ends up passing Charles the envelope he has been hiding. Practically throws it at him actually. Charles fumbles with the packet, sliding out a set of official looking documents. He raises his eyebrows at Max, who refuses to meet his eyes and begins picking at a speck of dirt on his trainer instead.

Charles turns back to the papers, assuming this is what Max wants him to look at. He skims them briefly, catching the odd word here and there which actually makes sense to him. And… oh God.

‘Max, my English isn’t amazing on a good day, but are these..?’

‘Legal papers for you to become my medical power of attorney. If you want to.’ Charles looks up at him, barely computing the words. ‘I mean, if you don’t want to that’s fine. Or if you think it’s weird. Or if you don’t want anything to do with me or my medical decisions that’s fine, I can just go.’ Max begins to snatch at the papers in his grasp, crumpling them as Charles refuses to let go.

‘Max, stop. Max!’ Charles cries as he continues to try and snatch the papers away. He puts them down on the coffee table, getting on his knees and clutching Max’s cheeks between his hands. ‘Max Emilian Verstappen, if you trust me to make your medical decisions. I want to make them. If you trust me in an emergency, I’ll be a good man in a storm. If you trust me with your life, I will give my own to protect it…’

Charles probably would have carried on, the words spilling out of him like a river. Except suddenly there is a dam holding the current back. A warm, soft, gentle dam, which swallows his words whole.

Because Max Verstappen is kissing Charles Leclerc.

He imagined it would feel like fireworks. Like an inferno, flickering with every movement of his mouth. Like butterflies and explosions and an exhilarating high.

But it’s not like that. It’s the sun hitting your face for the first time after winter. The first drop of rain after a summer of drought. The first bite of your favourite food, pulling on your favourite cosy jumper, going home after weeks away. It is familiar and it is warm, and it is perfect.

Max breaks the contact first, pulling his face from Charles’ hands. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I should never have done that.’

‘Don’t you dare apologise. Don’t you dare regret that, because I don’t. I won’t.’ Charles grabs Max’s face again and pulls it up so they are at eye level. ‘You were made for me, Max Verstappen.’

I wanna love myself, just like everyone else

But there are times when I don't like myself

Max has no idea what came over him. The whole night had been one leap of faith after another, until he finally said, “fuck it” and dived off the cliff altogether. He has about five glorious seconds where he knows that nothing in life can ever get better than this. Five glorious seconds of knowing he has just had the best experience of his life. Until he realises that it will surely be the last, because Charles will pull away from him. Charles could never love him; Charles could never be his.

So, he enjoys those five seconds, before he breaks contact. Because if he held on any longer, he’s sure the sound of his heart shattering would be audible.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I should never have done that,’ Max rambles as he pulls Charles’ hands from his face, unable to look the Monegasque in the eye for fear of the disgust he will find. Charles just manhandles his face upwards, so all he can see is sea glass eyes.

‘Don’t you dare apologise. Don’t you dare regret that, because I don’t. I won’t.’ Max isn’t even sure he is following the words, feeling like he may burst into tears at any given moment. ‘You were made for me, Max Verstappen.’ Max doesn’t have time to feel any emotions about the confession before there is a knock on the door.

Charles swears in French, ‘that will be Carlos.’ He glances at Max. ‘We will speak about this properly later, yes?’ He stands and pecks Max on the cheek, as though this is a normal situation. As though Max hasn’t just broken fifteen years of silent longing. As though Charles Leclerc didn’t just kiss him back.

Fuck.

He realises it is more than just Carlos at the door only a few seconds before the rabble descends on the small living area, giving Max just enough time to run his hands through messy hair and pray he doesn’t look as terrified as he feels. It takes one sidelong glance from Lando for him to realise he has not achieved it, but they are all polite enough not to mention it. He doesn’t miss the elbow George jams in Alex’s ribs, or the raised eyebrows Oscar gives Lando, nor the disbelieving look Danny shoots him. But they don't ask any questions.

‘I thought I asked you to come to the hotel,’ Charles chuckles, trailing the others into the room.

‘You did not specify it should be alone,’ Carlos hisses, looking guilty. They are all dressed and ready for what will no doubt be a long night to celebrate Lando’s first home race win. God, Max could really use a drink. 

‘Look, I have something for you,’ Charles says to Carlos, disappearing from the room for a few seconds before reappearing with a thick looking document. Truly, he must be holding an entire tree in his hand.

‘What is this?’ Carlos asks as soon as Charles hands over the paper. ‘Why do you have the Ferrari contract?’

‘Because you haven’t signed it yet, and I wish to know why,’ Charles answers, perching on the sofa beside his teammate.

Carlos hesitates, looking guilty. ‘Fred has been chasing me for an answer for weeks.’

‘Look, Carlos,’ Charles begins, the whole room having fallen into enraptured silence at this point. Max can't help but be relieved for the distraction from his swirling thoughts. ‘I will not blame you if you wish to leave the team. Truth be told, I think that is probably the sensible decision.’

‘I don’t want to leave Ferrari,’ Carlos interjects. ‘You know I want to stay.’

Charles sighs deeply. ‘And you swear you’re not just staying for me? That in two seasons you’re not going to resent me for making you stay?’

Carlos sets the papers aside and clasps Charles’ hands. ‘Charles, there are a million reasons I should leave Ferrari. I should have signed the deal for Audi, or Red Bull, or Mercedes, weeks ago. Months ago at this point. But I haven’t.’

‘Because of my accident,’ Charles counters immediately.

‘No, because the thought of leaving this team was eating me up inside, but I was too proud to admit it. Charles, I should have signed the Audi deal before Imola. They were playing hard ball, and it’s the best contract on the table for me long term. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, because then it would be real that I have to leave this team.’ Carlos breaks off for a moment, turning to glance at Lando. ‘Look, Charles, I won’t deny that you are a part of the reason I wish to stay. Of course you are. But I didn’t want to leave Lando either, I did it because Ferrari was the best step in my career at the time. It hurt like hell, and he hated me for a really long time, but I still did it. I wouldn’t stay at this team just for you, Charles. But if you don’t wish to have me as your teammate anymore, then I will not sign this contract. I will not cause any more pain for you at this team.’

Charles assesses Carlos for a few moments, finally seeming to decide he is being truthful and throwing his arms around Carlos so hard Max imagines it must hurt. ‘Chilli, I can think of nothing that would make me happier than to drive with you for the rest of my career.’

‘So I can sign it?’ Carlos asks with wide eyes, pulling back to look Charles in the eye.

‘Together or nothing.’ Carlos’ eyes water suspiciously as he snatches up a pen and begins going through the pages.

‘Fred is going to kill us that you’re not signing this in front of the media,’ Charles mutters under his breath. He glances up to find all the drivers in the room gaping at him. ‘What?’

‘I wouldn’t use the word “kill” in relation to your team principle for the next couple of decades,’ Carlos comments idly as he continues to flip through pages.

‘Oh, sorry, that was just a turn of phrase,’ Charles apologises with a shrug, not realising the bolt of panic which has shot through every single one of them at the simple words.

‘We thought it was just a turn of phrase last time,’ Lando points out, his voice trembling slightly.

‘Until you ended up in the hospital,’ Alex points out.

‘Fred would never do that,’ Charles assures them.

‘Just… humour us, okay? We never thought Mattia would do that until he did,’ Max points out.

Charles sighs, but Max spots the smile lingering at his mouth. ‘Fred will be mildly annoyed that you’re not signing this contract in front of the media Carlos. But he will frown at us and cross his arms looking like the grumpy, old, non-threatening man he is without there being injury to any of the parties involved.’

‘Thank you,’ George grins. ‘Clarification is appreciated.’

‘Now if you two are done signing contracts, I think it’s time we go out. Because have I mentioned that I won my home race? Anyone? Anyone?’ Lando trails off as he glances round at them all.

‘Come on you muppet, I’ll buy you the first round,’ George slings his arm across Lando’s shoulders.

‘I think I probably owe you unlimited drinks,’ Charles chuckles as he slips his arm through Oscar’s, following George and Lando to the door.

‘Come on,’ Danny gestures to Max as Alex trails after the others, calling out for George to wait for him. ‘You need to tell me exactly what I just walked in on.

Max baulks, not wanting to cramp the style of the night out when his emotions are still in tumult.

‘Are you coming or what?’ Charles has turned around in the doorway, Oscar beside him pushing Alex away from the door playfully without disentangling himself from Charles.

Truthfully, all Max wants to do is sit Charles down and ask what the hell the kiss was. Demand what Charles meant by his beautiful words. Or if not that, sit quietly in a corner for the rest of the night and unpick every moment of the last hour. But Charles is holding out a hand for him now, a beautiful vulnerability shining in those moss green eyes. And suddenly Max is taken back six weeks. Back to a night where he didn’t know if he would get the chance to look into those eyes ever again. To touch Charles’ hand or hug him after a long day. It doesn’t matter, Max realises. Right now, it doesn’t matter what the kiss meant, or getting the chance to analyse Charles’ actions.

What matters is that they have the time to figure it out; together.

‘Let’s go.’

I'm happy

'Cause finally I feel I got it all

Started out with nothing at all

16 March 2025

‘What the fuck is going on?’ Lando demands as soon as he enters the small room. He’s decked out in full papaya race suit, as is Oscar behind him.

‘Mate, we have no idea,’ Max chuckles from his seat on the couch in the Mercedes hospitality.

‘Is George here yet? Surely he knows,’ Lando slumps on the couch beside Max, not taking any notice of the hand Max is holding. The calloused, lightly freckled hand, with a single slice down the thumb.

‘Does it look like he’s here?’ Oscar chuckles as he stops to give Charles a quick hug. Their relationship has grown into something Charles never could have predicted in the months since he crashed in Imola. Turns out saving someone’s life can have that effect on people.

Lando groans loudly as Oscar sits beside him, thumping his teammate on the arm. ‘You’re supposed to be nice to me. I’m your teammate.’

‘That just means I can’t shunt you into the wall at turn one,’ Oscar grins, winking at the Brit.

‘That’s my job,’ Max smiles wickedly. Considering Lando qualified P2 and Max P3, it’s certainly the most likely he will be the one to do the deed.

‘You would never,’ Lando pouts. He probably would have continued his sulk if it weren’t for the door opening again, Alex and George bickering as they enter the room in Mercedes hospitality.

‘George, come on, what’s going on?’ Lando whines.

‘That’s what I was asking him!’ Alex cries triumphantly, fixing his eyes on George as they take a seat.

‘And I will tell both of you a million times, I have as much information as you do,’ George groans. ‘Lewis messaged me saying to meet here an hour before free practice, just the same as all of you.’

‘Ai, what is he planning?’ Carlos asks, the final person to enter. Seeing Carlos in his red race suit isn’t a novelty which has been lost on Charles, considering how close he came to never wearing the colour again.

‘I don’t know,’ George groans, clearly aggravated at the vague information Lewis had offered them all.

‘How’s your rookie teammate?’ Charles directs the question to George, who has been joined by young Kimi Antonelli after Lewis announced his shock retirement following Carlos retaking his race seat.

‘Young. Stupid,’ George grumbles. ‘We were never this stressful.’

‘You almost certainly were,’ Seb calls from the doorway. Apparently he also received a text from the elusive Mr Hamilton.

‘Come on Seb, you must know what this is about,’ Alex probes.

‘I might,' Seb hedges, his grin teasing.

‘Not fair!’ Charles complains. ‘You never told me.’

‘Well, I’m sure there is a lot that you’ve not told me,’ Seb counters. This begins a wave of bickering as they all discuss exploits which Charles likely hasn’t told Seb about. Charles takes the opportunity to sit back and survey the room, considering what a difference a few months can make.

At the beginning of the 2024 season, he was hopeful about the car, but not much else. He didn’t even realise how much of its shine racing had lost until he found himself enjoying it again. Life under Mattia had been stressful at best, bordering on traumatic at worst. Life under Fred meanwhile, has been fun. The older man races hard, and he races fair, but more than anything he has reduced the pressure of the Ferrari brand as much as he can. Charles is allowed to speak honestly in front of the media now, to horse around with his teammate and act like the kid he is.

Charles has never been more content, and that’s before you consider his new-found relationship with arch-nemesis turned boyfriend Max Verstappen.

He squeezes Max’s hand, drawing the Dutchman’s ice blue eyes to him in the process. Max furrows his eyebrows, wordlessly asking if Charles is okay. He can only smile, so widely his cheeks ache. They do that a lot now, when for a while, he had forgotten what it felt like. Max grins back, and there is a glint of such tenderness, such disbelief that they are together, that Charles can only smile harder.

‘Stop making heart eyes at each other,’ Lando pokes Max in the side, pulling the Dutchman’s gaze off of him and firmly into enacting revenge on his best friend.

‘Forgive me for loving my boyfriend after fifteen years of pining,’ Max grumbles, but he cannot wipe the adoring look off his face despite the sarcasm of the comment.

Oscar examines them both closely. ‘Gross,’ he proclaims, but there is softness in his eyes.

‘The commentary is starting,’ Seb interrupts them.

‘Why would we care about the commentary for free practice? George demands. ‘We’re going to be out there driving it in like an hour.’

‘Hello and welcome back to a new season of Formula One!’ Nico Rosberg calls.

‘When did he take over UK Sky?’ Alex asks, confused.

‘Now, we were all devastated at the end of last season when David Croft, a long-time contributor to Sky Sports, announced his retirement. With his iconic catch phrases, one liners, and endless knowledge of F1, Crofty, you will be missed.’

‘Who the hell is going to replace Crofty?’ Lando looks shocked. ‘He’s been commentating for Sky longer than I’ve been alive.’

Carlos exchanges a look with Charles before they both examine Seb closely. ‘This isn’t…’

‘However, as one thing ends, another begins, and it is my greatest pleasure to reunite Brocedes once more, ten years on from our racing days. Lewis, how are you feeling about being the newest commentator on Sky Sports for the new season?’

‘What the fuck…?’

And even when I might fall down

I know my luck comes back around