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Checo wins on Cadillac’s first race.
Sure, to most it’s a surprise. The Mexican anthem blaring, fans waving flags, his new team alight with joy; it’s all what he’s deserved since dragging the temperamental RB20 to a hard-fought eighth place—
It’s not a surprise to Max, of course. Checo is brilliant, a legend, of course when his machinery agrees with him he sweeps the field.
Their eyes meet across the podium as the music ends, Max’s grin turning wicked. He reaches for the bottle of champagne, uncorks it…
… And there’s Pato, instead, champagne spray drenching Checo’s bright laughter. Which is fine. Checo deserves the celebration after all. Max is not jealous.
Obviously, the way he shakes his bottle for a harder spray that sends Pato tumbling is all in good sportsmanship, he is celebrating Cadillac’s maiden victories.
Also, even if it wasn’t, he’s allowed to be a little mad. The way Pato had defended against Max, fighting dirty for Checo, had pushed Max into P3 so he was of course a bit moody about it all.
Thoughts of that should have been me do Not race through Max’s head, no. Max is celebrating.
“Congratulations, mate,” he says, pulling Checo into a hug. “I knew you had it all along.”
“‘Course he did, we’re in rocket ships!” Ah, perfect, Pato has found his way back. Max looks at him sidelong. He is grinning that ridiculous, too wide—
Ah, Checo’s smiling back. Pato is his teammate, right, he likes him. Max likes him too, there’s nothing wrong with him, really. The way he commands Checo’s attention, makes him laugh, shares a language and smiles and secrets—
Well. That is all fine. Checo is happy at Cadillac, happy with Pato, like he never was at Red Bull. They’re good to him, clearly putting an effort into both cars, easing the tension between teammates. It’s just better, obviously, and so Max is happy for him.
“Thank you, it means a lot, being up here with you again.” Okay, yes, Max is happy, very much so. Checo’s grin gets turned on him and Max can’t help but preen slightly, hand going up behind his ear in a nervous habit.
“Yes, but do not get used to P1. I am catching up,” he teases, and in good fun Checo smacks his shoulder. He’s missed this, the easy banter they’ve always shared, their easy closeness.
“Ándale, Checo,” Max is going to go insane, he is, “They want us to do some media together.” Pato flashes a smirk as he grabs Checo’s arm, the little—
“Yes, well, he has a little time for friends, right? Team things can come later,” Max does not snap.
Both Mexicans raise their eyebrows at him. He may have snapped a bit.
”Okay, well, I’ll catch you both later,” Pato says, weirdly, not in a soft considerate tone, he is annoying.
“Hrm,” Max says eloquently, easily communicating “Please leave me alone, give my teammate back, and Checo, please stay with me.”
Pato doesn’t understand, of course. But Checo does.
Max leads Checo to his own driver’s room in the Cadillac motorhome, because the wounds from Red Bull are too fresh, probably, and he doesn’t want to cause Checo any more discomfort. He does get some odd looks from the Cadillac people, though.
As soon as the door closes behind them, Max flops down on the couch. Even in a different place, Checo’s room is familiar, and not for the first time Max wishes things had gone differently.
”What’s this about, Max?” Checo settles next to him carefully. “You are being off.”
”Off?” Max looks at him incredulously. “I am not off. I am doing perfectly well. You won, simply lovely, by the way, that’s mine but you can borrow it, and we shared a podium. This is good, of course.”
“We are risking fines just to have some private time, Max. Tell me what is going on.” Checo fixes him with that firm stare that somehow still looks like a sweet little puppy—
“Augh,” Max lets out. “This is all so weird. I am used to changing teammates, obviously, but this is not good. It should not have happened this soon. Liam is, eghh, and Pato—“ Max’s mouth clicks shut. Oh, that was too much.
”Pato?” Checo’s head tilts in that cute habit he has, the one where he wants something and is going to get it. “What does he have to do with this?”
”He’s, he’s,” Max stutters. “He is not good enough for you. He should not be your teammate.”
”What do you mean? Pato is very skilled, you’ve said so yourself. He is definitely going to be giving us all a good fight,” Checo says mildly.
“Yes, well—“ Max swallows. “I don’t care. He can be a good competitor on another team, with someone else. I just, I miss our team, clearly. I miss winning with you next to me, even, I just miss you.”
There’s a beat, where Checo considers. Ah, was that too much of an admission? Could the floor swallow Max?
“Max.” Checo smiles easily at him, eyes crinkling with it. “Are you jealous?”
Max scoffs. “Of course not. Obviously, you fought for that win and you deserved it—“
“Not me. Pato,” Max’s jaw drops. “You have been very mean to him.”
“I am not mean, I am keeping a respectful distance from my competitor, a top one at that!” Checo laughs at his (not) whiny tone, bumping their shoulders together.
“Wow. I knew we were competing for the Driver’s Championship, but this is new,” Checo teases. “You are fighting for my affections now, eh?”
Max blushes furiously. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“The pink cat.” Checo states plainly. “The couple award.”
Ah, yes, couple goals. He and Checo are Couple Goals.
“I remember that. 2024, right?” Max hedges. “We had ice cream.”
“Gatito,” Checo muses, about the trophy and how it’s named, acronymed, whatever after a cat meowing, he is not referring to Max because that might actually stop his heart, “the trophy. So, you would not mind if Pato and I win it this time.”
Max’s jaw really falls open, this time, how dare he? Pato, with his first year as Checo’s teammate, steal that award from under him? Unacceptable.
“Of course, that one is ours. You, you can’t.” Oh, his voice came out a little small there. Maybe a little shaky, although, that could also just be race adrenaline. Not the thought of Checo sharing the same type of relationship with someone else.
“Hey.” Checo slides their knuckles together. “We cannot. I won’t have that— that bond with another teammate. Not ever, yeah?”
Max meets his eyes sheepishly, feeling read as a book. “Yeah, okay. As long as you say so.”
Checo leans over, and before Max can process, he’s—
Checo is kissing him. Yeah, on the cheek, whatever, Checo’s lips are on Max’s face and he is forgetting his English at this point, lord.
“You are very cute, Maxy.” Checo stands with a grin. “I’ll see you at the celebrations, okay? As long as you play nice.”
He gets to the door while Max is still sitting in shock. “And don’t worry,” Checo adds, turning slightly to look at him. “You don’t have any competition in that other fight.”
And oh, wow, Max is gone. WDCs? Who cares, he is going straight to the factory and kissing that silly little cat statue for the good luck it’s given him. Max grins. Pato O’Ward who?