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Chapter Text

“Summers P5, barely a second away and catching up,” Charles spoke, rather calmly into the microphone attached to his headphones and looked back at the screen in front of him. 

Having briefly re-scanned the statistics displayed in the form of colourful graphs, he shifted his focus to the screen on his left and calculated. Yet before he got to voice the results of his rather quick analysis, he heard Simon in his headphones, his voice uncomfortably loud, even though he was pretty certain the volume settings remained unchanged. 

“Don't care. Give me Howlett.” As expected.

The American driver he was the race engineer of wasn't exactly easy to work with. Especially when it came to the Canadian currently in P3, James Howlett, Logan for friends, or anyone willing to drink with him. The guy looked like he had worked as a lumberjack before accidentally stumbling into a Formula 1 car but at the very least he listened to his team's suggestions. It was actually quite alarming how well he and Grey worked, especially considering her brother-in-law was currently on track and slowly minimising the advantage both Logan and Simon had over him. Speaking of.

“Howlett P3, one point six seconds in front. You will have to defend from Summers before Turn 13,” he said rather quickly, making sure to include that piece of advice before he was inevitably cut off by the guy on the other side of the radio. 

“No, I won't.” was what he heard in response and soon after that, the radio sound cut off, most likely turned off by his driver. Too soon, actually. 

“Copy that,” he muttered under his breath to no one in particular and rubbed his left eye, once again coming back to the numbers on screen. They were, in truth, quite comforting.

For one, they didn't have a habit of throwing a fit whenever somebody suggested anything other than what they had set their mind to.

Everyone (which, in this case, meant Simon and about no one else) was surprised when the Las Vegas Grand Prix ended with James Howlett safe and sound in P3, Alex Summers in P4, and Simon Niles dropping down to P7, after an embarrassing turn of events. 

Not only was the (self-proclaimed) American prodigy not able to get within the DRS range of Logan when coming out of Turn 13, his quite unfortunate lack of telepathic abilities (or, much rather, basic logical thinking skills and common sense) caused him to get immediately overtaken by Summers the moment they entered the DRS zone as the Australian surprisingly (not at all) happened to get within his range. 

And then, to everybody's (nobody’s) absolute shock, Niles seemed to lose his head and gave up further positions. Nobody could have seen that one coming , Charles thought to himself, and almost, almost felt bad for the guy. 

He would've, maybe, grown to feel at least some pity for him but then he heard one of his post-race interviews and the only thing he started to feel was his blood boiling.

— ◇ —

“Miscommunication in the team! Is he hearing himself?” he complained later to Raven, at her Vegas apartment. 

Usually, he hated American races, hated herds of celebrities and influencers swarming the paddock and garage, making his job even harder than it already was, and, most of all, hated the way Simon was capable of becoming approximately eight times more insufferable the moment he crossed the border of his home country. 

Yet this was one of the very rare occasions when it was all worth enduring, because his sister's schedule finally aligned with his own and so they could sit in one of her apartments and eat pizza that had the time to turn fully cold while Charles was busy getting worked up about how much he hated the driver he had to work with. 

It probably wasn't doing any good for either of them but, at the moment, he simply had no fucks to give about that. He glanced at the TV screen, the most punchable face he has ever had the misfortune of seeing displayed in absolutely horrifying 4K quality. 

“I told him to look out for Summers and make him lose some of the momentum instead of focusing on Logan that he had no chance of catching up to on that lap. But why on Earth would he listen to me! I'm only his race engineer! It's only my literal job to help him!” he threw his hands in the air and then decided he needed to lie down. 

Raven only looked at him funny and proceeded to munch overenthusiastically on her pizza slice.

“I don't get it,” she said after a short silence, her mouth somehow still half-full. Models and their weird dieting methods. “Why don't you tell dad to, I don't know, give him a warning?”

“If only it was that simple. He was already making faces at me when he learned I'm the team principal's son. Like I don't have, you know, qualifications to do this.” It was, in all fairness, a quite common reaction. 

People always assumed that since Brian Xavier was the team principal of McLaren now, he could do whatever he liked. Well, maybe he could, but Charles certainly didn't know about that, and yet nobody seemed to care to check his degree and see for themselves, why exactly his father decided to curse him with getting to work for the most aggravating personality on the grid.

“He's just being a dick. Don't think too much about it. He'll complain to the media for a while, and then realise it's making him look stupid.” Charles really wished that was true.

— ◇ —

It obviously wasn't. When he checked Twitter the next morning, and saw pictures of himself and that godforsaken American sweetheart (more like, the Devil), with different flashy fonts over them, all spelling out “I guess that's what happens when your team hires the principal's family members.”, he wished he had jumped onto the race track the day before and ended his miserable existence. 

Upon realising that Raven had already left the apartment (she left a note saying she got an early shoot and would join him after lunch), he fell onto the couch and groaned loudly into one of the pillows. 

After a while, he reached for the phone again and, having ignored the notification of three missed calls from his father, began to look for clips or context of the quote that seemed to have successfully ruined his day so early on. 

Finally, his brief research brought him to a Sky Sports commentary that included the full quote.

“Misunderstandings are a common thing, you know.” the voice rang from his phone's speaker. “Sometimes you wish you were told something sooner or you're not given the feedback you expected, and you just have to work with that. It's not pleasant, not when you know you did everything you could. But, I guess that's what happens when your team hires the principal's family members.” 

There it was, a complete load of bullshit, spoken like it was the obvious truth. And if that wasn't quite enough to make Charles lose his mind, the tone used by the man on his screen, like he was holding back laughter, definitely got the job done. He started pacing around the room, lightly pulling at his hair, as another person spoke, this time with a noticeable accent.

“I think Simon might be exaggerating a little. It was his home race, and I don't think he really did everything he could, so I would say he might want to find someone else to blame, because that is some serious accusation right there.” and now Nico Rosberg, famous for definitely-not-having-a-Wikipedia-page-about-his-father was defending him. Wonderful.

Soon after that, the clip was cut and the silence filling the room became almost unbearable. That was of course until his phone vibrated, the screen displaying another incoming call from his dad. The day was already ridiculously awful as it was, he didn't think a short call could do much.

Hope would probably be the death of him one day. 

After a disturbingly long screaming match with his father-turned-boss, all he got the energy to do was staring blankly at the wall in front of him and occasionally breathing out a string of curses. He was supposed to, good Christ, apologise to the guy. And then they would film social media content. And act civil. 

(Like they kissed each other goodnight, his father said, with a strange note to his voice that Charles didn't even want to begin to think about.) 

There would be no warnings or reprimands or even instructions for Simon to start listening to his team. Instead, Charles would be dragged around by the PR team and told to make funny faces and laugh at the person he loathed probably the most in the world right now. Truly fantastic.

He tried getting up to, maybe, at the very least, get some of his work done, but his laptop somehow ended up on the other side of the apartment and so the attempt ended with an obvious defeat, leaving him to scroll through all social media platforms he could think of to figure out what the public’s opinion was, get rightfully upset after seeing hundreds of Simon's fans dragging his name through the mud (“Only McLaren could ruin their own driver's home race. Fire the Xaviers!” May Hell swallow you all , he thought.), and then feel slightly better when he saw not everyone was against him (“Maybe if Niles listened to his own team and used logical thinking he wouldn't get overtaken by Summers and his tractor. Fraud.” He switched accounts and reposted that one.) 

At some point, he realised that the infuriating quote that was now playing almost on repeat in his head managed to generate a discourse big enough for other drivers, or even team principals to weigh in. And somehow, some of them honestly weren't that bad.

“I don't know, I love my race engineer. Don't tell her husband, though,” Logan said to one of the journalists and winked at her, walking away with a smug look on his face, and in that moment Charles thought he could die to work with him. But then again, he could probably die to work with anybody who wasn't Simon. 

Or he could just die. For the fun of it.

Others, however, weren't as nice to hear. Helmut Marko (why on Earth was that man still allowed to publicly voice his opinions), for example, said that there is no place in the sport for incompetency and, as he called it, “family schemes”. 

“God,” he mumbled, leaning against the kitchen counter as he was chewing a bite of one of the bagels Raven left for him in the morning, “let me live in peace for one day. Please.”

And obviously, just as he was saying those exact words, another clip popped up on his screen, this time of a guy in a red cap, saying something at the post-race press conference. 

He locked his phone and pushed it as far away as he could without it dropping to the floor. Last thing he needed now was for a guy who breathed red and bled Italian even while being everything-but-Italian to tell him what he thought of the entire situation. The Forza Ferrari brain tumour would not get him, thank you very much!

— ◇ —

The Forza Ferrari brain tumour did, in fact, get him. 

But only many hours later, when he was sitting on the couch again, this time with Raven's head in his lap, her blonde hair splayed everywhere, golden highlights of it creating a halo of sorts around her face. Lord, his sister was truly beautiful. Even more so as she giggled, squirmed a little and threw a crisp at him.

“Have you considered it?” she asked suddenly and he realised he must've drifted off because he had no idea what she could possibly be referring to. He hoped his expression would convey as much. “The offer. Have you considered the offer?”

“What offer?” he asked, feeling, and probably looking, even more confused than before. Now it was Raven's turn to look at him like he spoke a different language. 

It took her a minute, but when the realisation finally came, it was a very distinguishable moment, as she sprung to her feet and immediately started pacing around the room looking like a mix of a range of different feelings he was simply too worn out to identify.

“My colleague, Irene, she's crazy about this stuff, you know? We did the shoot together this morning, and she was talking about you. Like, a lot. She was talking and then she mentioned this guy. She got all excited, you know? She always gets so excited! It's honestly quite adorable, if you think about it, but also sometimes makes me want to cut my ears off. I could do a Van Gogh shoot maybe. That would be something! She would love that, Irene loves–”

“Raven, you’ve lost me,” he interrupted and observed his sister as she blushed furiously, probably upon realising that she started babbling about one of her work crushes again. She always found it embarrassing, while Charles found it rather amusing.

“Okay, so she mentioned this guy, I think she said he was a Ferrari driver. And she said he offered you a job? I think that's what she said. It was during a press conference or something. You know I don't know much of this stuff anyway.” There was truth to that. 

As much as racing felt like a family business to him, and he had been aware since he was a little kid that one day he would find his way in, he knew his sister never really shared that sentiment. He was glad, he often thought, that she wasn't forced to. But who in their right mind would deny her anything? 

He figured he was getting distracted again, so he tried replaying Raven’s words in his head. Ferrari driver, press conference. Hell.

“Oh!” he exclaimed after a long beat, possibly startling Raven. “I think I saw something about that! I didn't watch the clip though, didn't care to further ruin my mood. Let me find it.”

He clicked on one of the little icons on his phone screen and then quickly began to type in phrases that would help him find what he was looking for. And on the second try, it worked. Then, he grabbed the remote, turned the TV on and cast the video he found onto that screen, so they could both watch comfortably. 

It was the usual post-race press conference setting, a few of the drivers sitting on a couple of couches, answering boring questions, same stuff every single week, unless the race was eventful, in which case the entire conference would be about a single crash or a nasty team radio recording. 

This time, he guessed, it would be about Simon Niles, who somehow wasn't chosen to do the conference, and his horrible race engineer with his incompetency and his nepotism allegations. Truly, a blast.

It took the interviewers exactly two and a half minutes before they got to the point, first of the Xavier-related questions being directed at the second driver of Mercedes, poor youngster who probably had to endure James Howlett attempting to seduce their entire team all day long all year round. 

The next few questions and answers were a blur, as he was mostly focusing on ignoring the guy sitting to the left of the Mercedes lad. The first driver of the current Ferrari lineup, car number 93, currently third in the drivers’ standings, losing by 17 points to Howlett. Raised watching Schumacher, Vettel, and Rosberg, yet another example of some weird Formula 1 champions producing gene mutation clearly present in German boys. 

Erik Lehnsherr, with his terrifying grin, snarky remarks, and a Forza Ferrari brain tumor. 

Really, he was the last person Charles wanted to know the opinion of, especially since it was well known around the paddock that the guy was about to split with his own race engineer, Emma Frost deciding to “pursue other endeavours in her career”. Whatever that meant, really. 

He just couldn't wait to hear about how good Lehnsherr believes he is, how he doesn't really need a race engineer, and how he'd love to welcome Charles to the Ferrari family and fight for his very own street in Maranello. Or whatever bullshit the Italians were feeding him. 

His thoughts seemed to resonate with some celestial entity because as he was thinking, one of the journalists addressed Lehnsherr, who shifted in his seat, a red Ferrari cap still on. 

“Erik, what would you say about the situation, given that you and Miss Frost are about to part ways, as well. Would that be a good approach for McLaren?” Amazing work , he thought. Ask him if they should fire me. 

Lehnsherr seemed to actually consider the question, although how much of actual consideration could be done with his brain rotted by Italy and the colour red, Charles couldn't tell.

“I couldn't possibly say,” he started, his voice sounding weirdly empty of any hints of mockery. “I have no idea what the situation at McLaren looks like but I have heard a thing or two about Charles Xavier being a very skilled race engineer. From what I know, he even got his degree earlier than you usually would. I can't tell if what happened is a conflict of personalities, but I do know that sometimes drivers don't know what's best for them. Anyway, as you've said, I'm parting ways with Emma after this season ends, and to be honest, my future race engineer still isn't decided, so, if anything, I think he should give us a call if he decides to split with Simon.”

That was… Unexpected, to say the least. 

He desperately tried to find even a shade of irony to the German driver's voice, but he was either a masterful actor (Charles dared to doubt that, considering the entire paddock knew exactly which drivers Erik liked or disliked), or he was being genuine. Both options felt terrifying when he came to think about it. 

He started wondering. About his father expecting him to film PR content with Niles for the rest of his life (before he inevitably committed suicide), about the guy himself making his job a living hell only to then run to the press and tell them about his incompetence and nepotism at McLaren. He glanced sideways at Raven, looking at him expectantly. 

Maybe he would look good in red. Eating pasta everyday didn't seem so bad either. God, the brain tumour.

Chapter Text

“I'm not even gone yet, and you've already found yourself a replacement,” was the first thing Erik heard when he picked up a call from Emma. 

He was rather spent after the Vegas weekend, and so when the invitation for drinks from Logan came (nothing too personal, Logan invited everyone to drink with him, every single race weekend), he had to politely decline, quoting the need to have some immediate discussions with his team after a successful race. 

That was (obviously) a lie, yet he was ready to make that sacrifice to his conscience if it meant getting everyone off his ass and letting himself properly wind down after the podium.

So there he was, in a spacious hotel room, mostly looking at the ceiling or replaying different bits of the weekend, trying to come to some coherent conclusions, with very little success, when Emma's number appeared on his screen.

“You know nobody could replace you, but unfortunately that doesn't mean I don't need a race engineer,” he spoke matter-of-factly and then lied down in his bed, dropping the phone elsewhere, having put it on speaker.

“They could've promoted one of our engineers, no need to go around the paddock offering people jobs.” He figured she was right. 

He got to work with a really talented team during his time in Ferrari, and he could be sure Hank, or some other junior race engineer would do a good job next season. If only it was about talent and skill, and not something else entirely. 

Emma must've been reading his mind, because her next words had a tone of amusement to them, “Come on, Lehnsherr, tell me what your real deal here is.”

He had no intention of telling her. After all, it wouldn't be very mature of him to want to get back at Simon Niles for something he did almost twenty years ago and for being an overall insufferable individual. He couldn't possibly tell her he did a background check on Charles Xavier to figure out if the guy wasn't a complete moron barely ten minutes before he offered him a job during a live broadcast, all to simply spite his karting days rival. 

The Brit certainly didn't sound like one, not from the very limited knowledge he managed to gather. He didn't seem big for celebrations and public appearances, or maybe he hasn't yet spent enough time working in the sport to feel like he belonged, so there was a very slim chance they had met personally, but he was quite certain he remembered seeing or hearing him while watching some of the race replays over the last two seasons. 

Then, a quick Google search seemed sufficient, and soon enough Erik knew pretty much everything he needed to know. 

A year younger, Charles Xavier turned out to be surprisingly good at his job, even while being employed by his own father. In truth, he wasn't quite fond of people with a name in the sport, having spent years working towards his own, but the guy genuinely didn't look like a bad choice, with his early graduation and clearly angel-like personality, considering he managed to endure two straight seasons working for the most annoying person Erik has ever had a chance of meeting without resorting to gun violence.

“Nothing, really. Keeping my options open, in case Hank refuses to work with me,” he joked, sounding not at all convincing, yet the woman on the other side of the call didn't seem to care to mention it, God bless her for that.

“We both know he wouldn't do that," she said instead. “Why Xavier's boy, anyway? I doubt he's gonna leave his father's team because Niles acts like a spoiled brat from time to time.” 

More like, all the time, he thought.

“Heard he's good, and the entire conference was about him either way,” he hummed trying to convey a sense of nonchalance, which came out rather believable, if he did say so himself. “Is he not?”

There was a long moment of silence following his question, and he even considered grabbing the phone to check if the call wasn't mysteriously ended, but then he heard some movement, like Emma was readjusting herself in her seat, and so he dropped that idea and waited for her to say something. After another few beats, she spoke, hesitantly.

“He is. Not as good as me, obviously, but he is good. Very good.” she paused, clearly gathering her thoughts. They knew and worked with each other for long enough he could almost see the expression of calm focus she was probably wearing right now. She made the same face whenever new testing results would come in, carefully grouping and organising the data in her wonderful, wonderful mind. 

She was probably doing that now, pulling drawers in her head open, looking for everything on Charles Xavier. It was really admirable, the way her brain worked, where even his simple, more conversational than not, question was considered an analysis prompt. Her job was to help him achieve the best possible results using the available information, and she seemed to be doing the same thing now. She was amazing at this, and he would miss her immensely. Not that he would ever tell her that.

“He made the right call today. Had Simon listened to him, he could've podiumed. Remember his first win, last year in Suzuka?" Of course he remembered, it was one of the very rare weekends when he agreed to Logan's offer, and spent the entire night listening to drunk Niles either bragging about his fantastic win, or being a threat to the public safety in a karaoke bar. 

Since then, he has become very wary of those invitations, as Howlett didn't seem to care who his drinking companions were, and if they were bearable in the slightest. 

“Great analysis from Charles after that Safety Car. His first season on the job, and he was already doing better than some of the veteran race engineers. I have no idea how you came up with this, but it's a good choice, if anything.”

He was glad to hear that. As unlikely as actually hiring Xavier was, he could now at the very least say he saw the potential and gave the credit where it was due, unlike Simon Niles who was clearly stuck in middle school with his know-it-all attitude that led him to consistent midfield placements and into a racetrack wall, occasionally.

“Do you think Fred would be on board with this?” Emma asked after he had been silent for a while, maybe to keep the conversation going, or maybe out of genuine curiosity. “If Charles decided to give you a call?” 

He thought of his team principal, the French man well beloved by all of Ferrari's factory in Maranello, and also by the entire nation of Italy, he was quite certain, and laughed.

“Of course he would. He stole Lewis Hamilton from Mercedes, a team he called his family for ages. He'd be delighted to take in another principal's actual son, especially if he's as good as you say he is.”

“Fair.”

After that, they ended up talking some more, making up for a team debrief they didn't get a chance to have because of the very commercial nature of American race weekends. Qatar was up next on the calendar and there was work to be done if he wanted to snatch the runner-up spot in the drivers’ championship from Logan's metaphorical claws.

— ◇ —

The next morning, he got another call, this time from his team principal himself. He took this one while drying his hair with a towel, another one still wrapped around his hips.

“I honestly don't know if I should kiss you or curse you out, Erik,” said the man on the other side, and Erik could just tell he was smiling.

“Good morning to you too, Fred. What have I done this time around?” he attempted to sound oblivious, but he knew for sure Fred could tell it's all an act because, well, it's Fred, he could always tell.

“Cut the crap, Lehnsherr. Brian's golden boy is publicly losing his mind and finding new ways to call his race engineer that you've offered a job without consulting me an incompetent nepo baby.” 

“Is he now?” he tried really hard to hold back laughter, with mediocre results. 

He has actually been doing just that the entire morning, ever since he heard the RTL guys refer to Niles as two kids in a trench coat pretending to be a Formula 1 driver. Oh, the things he would do to get to work with Charles Xavier, even if only to see how much more embarrassing his American rival is able to get. 

Either way, he realised that he ought to follow up on his obviously rhetorical question, “Is there anything else you wish to tell me, Fred?” 

A loud sigh coming from the other side would've been enough, if the team principal's disappointment in him had been all there was to the matter, but Fred still hasn't hung up on him, so clearly there was something else.

“Brian called me this morning,” interesting. “He asked me to tell you to keep out of his team's business.” he raised his eyebrow almost involuntarily. Fred obviously couldn't see it, but the silence from Erik got the message across. “Well, not exactly that, he's a diplomat. A British diplomat. What I'm trying to say– it was painfully polite, like a homicidal intent being voiced by my granddaughter.” 

“What can he do, anyway, it's not like he can stop his son from switching teams, if he wishes to,” he reasoned, although this entire discussion felt honestly quite pointless to him, as the chances that a guy with a name so powerful would make things harder for himself, simply because some American with shit for brains called him names to the press that's known for being able to find a better subject in approximately two business days, were minimal.

“Just don't tell me I didn't warn you once Xavier bites somebody's head off. And let's pray he settles for Simon, instead of getting you, or me. I have a team to lead,” Fred said jokingly, even though Erik could swear that last bit had a hint of seriousness to it, clearly making its first appearance today. It was a sign to investigate the subject a little further.

“Why would he get you?” he asked, making sure it sounded like lighthearted banter. “It's not like you're in control of everything I ever do and say. Ferrari isn't a cult, that's just a joke around the paddock that I'm sure Brian won't take seriously.”

“He could get me,” Fred said then, carelessness from before coming back, and stronger than it had been, “for hiring his son, obviously.” 

What?

“Make sure you take a nice suit with you to Qatar. We're having lunch negotiations.”

At first, he thought he must've been misunderstanding something. That was, until Fred noticed his consternation, and decided to spare his poor self, explaining what he meant and how he expected to achieve that. Sly bastard, he got this game all figured out.

The plan was almost ridiculously simple. They would give Charles another day or two to reach out to them, letting him fully process the insane amounts of utter nonsense being spread about him online or by questionable media outlets. Then, if they didn't receive a call from the guy, Fred would pull some strings and contact Brian Xavier's son himself to invite him to join him, Erik, and Emma for lunch during the weekend in Qatar, preferably a few hours before the lights out of the one of the night races on the calendar, a meeting not binding enough to mean anything, and yet just the right amount of suggestive to make people talk. It looked like Erik wasn't the only one who liked setting up public humiliation for his rivals. 

The best thing? If they managed to pull this off, he would not only get to watch Simon Niles go absolutely crazy, he could also gain a worthy replacement for Emma, without the need to put too much pressure on Hank. And with a good work partner, maybe he could start thinking about getting a street in Maranello named after him next season.

However, no matter the outcome, the upcoming race weekend could be a show worth witnessing. That happened to be precisely what he told himself when choosing a well-cut tan suit he sent to the hotel in Qatar in advance with the rest of his luggage. 

Nobody could catch him lacking once he was trying to seduce (in a strictly professional sense) (and, actually professional, not Logan-like professional) his rival's race engineer. It was also what he told himself after landing in Italy to spend the few remaining days either occupying the simulator or working out. 

— ◇ —

That's why, when on a Tuesday evening his phone vibrated in his pocket, he ignored it, and didn't see a message coming from Fred that said only as much as, “He's in.” or something along those lines, until the next morning, when he finally read it and gave his phone screen one of his widest, all-teeth grins. 

Soon enough, he was on a plane to Qatar and then, without even noticing, already on track for the first practice session. It went smoothly, although he did find himself a little distracted during breaks when he would stand in his garage and stare at one of the screens playing the practice broadcast, hoping he would get to have a look into Niles's garage, to see if the vision of getting back at the guy was just as exciting for Charles Xavier as it was for Erik himself. 

Emma eventually scolded him for his lack of focus, saying she should feel offended that he's so eager to catch even a glimpse of her replacement. He barked out a laugh at that, and saw a few heads turn in their general direction out of the corner of his eye. It was all beginning to work.

He turned out to be (as always) correct. The Italian press happened to be the first on the topic, releasing a couple of exaggerated headlines, some talking about the harsh relations at McLaren, others coming to more ridiculous conclusions, like Brian Xavier's outrageous decision to fire his own son and leave Niles his entire fortune in his yet-to-be-written will. Did that mean the Italians believed this entire Xavier fiasco would end in Raven, Charles's younger sister he found out about while completing his third background check on the guy, also getting disowned for choosing modelling over motorsports? He could only guess. 

The entire situation was starting to look rather hilarious to him, which may have resulted in his exceptionally good humour on the day of qualifying. He even made sure to do the walk and sign some stuff for the Tifosi waiting for him outside. He rarely did that, always using the excuse of: “those autographs are gonna be worth a fortune once I'm the world champion!”, but, to be fair, most of the time, he just wasn't in the mood. 

His PR team absolutely loathed him for that at first, babbling about wasting the potential of a crazily dedicated fanbase that came as a package deal with being a Ferrari driver, but they eventually worked it out. 

And now, he had thousands of Italian nonnas being wildly protective of their “Vettel of fewer words”, as they called him. He often wondered what Seb thought about that. 

By the time he got out of his car later that day, having qualified front row, with Logan all the way down in P8, after a very Mercedes-like car settings adjustment mishap, he was basically grinning non-stop. 

Strangely, it earned him some weird looks around the garage. Not that he cared about any of that, as his mind was already racing to the comfort of his giant hotel bed and the vision of spending the entire evening watching the replay of the qualifying broadcast, reviewing any possible mistakes and subconsciously waiting for a certain headline-making race engineer to appear on his screen. 

He supposed he would also have to talk to Emma again, and definitely get her to pick the appropriate size of a rose bouquet, so that the number of flowers would mean “Thank you for accidentally becoming a tool of my multiple decades long revenge scheme against the absolutely infuriating guy you have the misfortune of working for. Be my race engineer?”

— ◇ —

Around eight, Fred called him up to discuss the details of the meeting, reservations made for half past one the next day (to allow all of them to attend the race briefings and strategy meetings), at a lovely restaurant near the circuit, according to Fred's secretary who found the place. 

Erik found his confirmations and inquiries to be rather chaotic, the quali buzz probably still having its effect on him. The Ferrari team principal must've noticed that because at some point he abruptly paused explaining something about French cuisine to Erik.

“You're not nervous, are you?” he asked, and normally, Erik would laugh at that. 

It was, in fact, really laughable, to even consider his very German self would worry about first impressions and such. Yet the laugh never came, as he realised, to his complete horror, that the unusual tingle in his stomach wasn't caused by room service oysters. He was nervous, and he couldn't even tell why. 

If what Emma told him almost a week ago was right, and his personal research didn't fail him, Charles Xavier was a very intelligent individual, who would quickly enough understand that signing with the Italian team was the best decision he could possibly make at this point of his engineering career. 

No, it couldn't be that. Then, it dawned on him. It was anticipation. 

Years ago, Erik’s karting coach dropped him and moved on to train Simon Niles, whose parents paid almost twice as much as his own. A week later, the American kid was walking around the track, laughing with his friends about his coach telling him he simply had more talent than Lehnsherr. Many years later, during his debut in Formula 1 (he got signed by Williams two years after Niles had his first race as the second driver for Haas), he passed Simon in the paddock before the second free practice. He saw Erik, and there it was, that same, condescending smile on his lips, the one thing that hadn't changed about his appearance. 

Years ago, Erik considered dropping out of the regional novice karting tournament, left without a coach mid-season. 

Now, he was third in the drivers’ standings, fully intent on taking the second spot on the final race of the season. And so he would make an impression so good, Charles Xavier was gonna beg to work with him, ignoring his daddy's money, the hopes of Niles ever leaving midfield departing together with his race engineer. 

“I want to make a decent first impression, I guess,” he shrugged, even though Fred obviously couldn't tell.

“Erik, you don't make decent first impressions, ever. When you came to me, you didn't even sit down properly before telling me I needed to sign you because you wanted to win a championship, and not waste your time at Williams. That's why I signed you.” he remembered that. A smile found his lips again. “Why do you even care so much?”

“I want to win a championship.”

“Then tell him that, tomorrow. And try sitting down first.”

— ◇ —

“I want you,” he said the next day, extending his hand to Charles Xavier, sitting across from him at their restaurant table, while still standing up himself. So much for following Fred's advice, “to help me get a street named after me in Maranello.”

Chapter Text

The issue with superficial analysis is that as useful as it is in high-pressure situations where a certain amount of experience-born intuition is used when deciding on the most suitable approach, it is very inefficient when long term results come into the picture. 

During a race, it is simply unachievable to take all tracked factors into consideration, even with the entire team glued to their screens. Depending on varying circumstances, certain components will be ignored in favour of other, more relevant data. However, once the race is over, you may start to notice things you overlooked because they weren't impacting the outcome of that particular race, and you should begin to think about a time and place when these very same factors will be most important. 

Once you understood that, you could put that knowledge in the trash because human behaviours aren't exactly numbers and graphs and, oh my God, how much Charles wished they were. 

Life would've been so much less complicated if every one of his decisions came with a premade forecast of its consequences in the next five years. A rating on a fatherly disappointment scale would also be quite delightful. Unfortunately, he could never have anything in his life, and so a quick mental list of pros and cons would have to suffice.

“So?” the silence was finally broken by Raven who must've noticed Charles wasn't going to say a thing anytime soon, considering he just stared at the paused image of Erik Lehnsherr's face on her TV screen for a solid thirty seconds. He was sure, if she focused a little more, she could see switches being flipped, knobs getting turned inside his brain. 

“So what?” he said, a touch dumbfoundedly.  Guessing by the face she made at him, he looked way more stupid than he felt. The attempt at regaining at least some of his usual, respectable appearance wasn't too successful. He even straightened in his seat, which only earned him another impatient look from his sister, who now seemed to be drilling holes in his head with her glare. “It's nice of him to say that, isn't it?”

“Oh, for God's sake, Charles, but will you consider it? This could be it!” She ran a hand through her hair and walked across the room, clearly frustrated. 

With so many conflicting thoughts flying around his mind, bumping into the walls of his skull and then shooting into the opposite direction, he could not think of anything to say in this situation. 

Furthermore, the bullet points he tried writing on a nonexistent yellow note stuck onto his frontal lobe were coming together so slowly he could just as well be carving them out with a chewed-on toothpick on a hard surface of choice (preferably a brick he could later throw at Simon Niles). 

So, instead of torturing Raven by having her listen to him trying to string a sentence together in his current state, he sent her an apologetic look that must've looked at least somewhat believable (miserable), because these never worked on Raven, more than knowledgeable when it came to his tricks, and now, it seemed to be more effective than it usually was. It made something about her expression shift, suddenly growing softer. 

He could tell she cared, even if she was rarely willing to admit that. “You could work for them, and maybe I would finally get a break from hearing you complain about your job. That you chose.”

He laughed, feeling a warm, fond feeling well up in his stomach. When he first began to process the offer, still hearing a tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him it must've all been a joke, it did seem like a good choice, a rescue even. 

Now, the list of cons included a possibility of getting disowned and having to work with someone who could end up being much worse than Niles (three question marks next to that one as it didn't seem like a realistic threat, yet, who knows, Lehnsherr could be a psychopath). The list of pros, on the other hand, was just “NO SIMON NILES” written in red, with seven? (eight, actually) exclamation marks. Two to one. 

“I don't know, Raven,” he sighed, finally. “How do I even know he's not, uh, joking?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, like he was the one making a joke, a mediocre one at that. “And why on Earth would he do that? Is his race engineer really leaving?”

He nodded, an image of Emma Frost popping up in his head. He always found her terrifying, in all fairness, thought she looked like the type of woman to wear jewellery that turned into shuriken, or something.

“So he must be looking for a new one, right?”

“He did say it's not yet decided–”

“Then what's stopping you?” now it was his turn to look at her like she had just said something ridiculous (which, honestly, she kind of had). 

The frontal lobe sticky note glared at him now. Possibly getting disowned or Lehnsherr turning out to be a psychopath. Tough choice. He'd flip a coin if he could.

“How do I know it'll be better at Ferrari? A team that lets their drivers do and say whatever they want doesn't seem like a good working environment,” he was trying really hard to believe his own words, “plus, the guy might be insane.”

“Then that'll make the two of you.”

“That's not very nice of you.”

“Well, it's not very smart of you to ignore such an opportunity and yet we're still having this conversation because you're scared of what our dad would think if you decided to leave.”

He froze at that. Erik Lehnsherr potentially making blood sacrifices and eating virgins (with three question marks!) was indeed just a way to hide that his only real worry regarding the offer was Brian Xavier's reaction. One to one, it was. And the pros list included more exclamation marks. Raven must've noticed his reaction because she marched over to the couch from where she was standing and put her hand on his arm, tapping it lightly in a vaguely comforting fashion.

“He'll understand,” and as much as he wanted to trust her words, he just couldn't get himself to. 

He often called Raven, who declared she would never go into motorsports because they bore her at a very young age, a black sheep of the family. He knew very well that outside of rare Christmas dinners and their father's secretary sending flowers to her shows, the relationship between her and their dad grew much more casual. Maybe that's what it should look like when you have adult kids. 

He couldn't possibly tell, as his relationship with their father was never the same as Raven's to begin with. As the older sibling, Charles made sure to get every first out of the way. 

He was the first to come back from school with a bad grade after he spent the night before reading. He was the first to disappoint his father when he declared he would rather be an engineer and didn't want to start karting. Raven never knew this, she was too little to remember how long it took before their father spoke to him in the same tone again, without a threatening hardness to it. 

Then there were the girlfriends. The only time it was Raven who got to do something first. When she was fourteen and Charles was seventeen, Raven brought her first girlfriend over. She hadn't come out to anyone before that and Charles felt a little betrayed. She must've known, and still she didn't say a word. The girl that came with her was a real sweetheart, and so their father had kept silent until after she was gone. He was upset and Charles thought it was the first time he saw him scream at Raven. He blamed himself for it, he should've got that one out of the way too, but he was too terrified to do it. 

She wanted to leave, back then, and only abandoned that idea because he begged her not to. And because their father apologised the next morning. 

Only a couple years later, and months after his first boyfriend came over, when at the dinner table his dad asked him when he would introduce his girlfriend to him and that he should find one in college because it's embarrassing that he still doesn't have anyone, he realised his apology to Raven was a one time thing. 

He loved his daughter, yet he considered her a lost cause, who he still supported because it would be improper not to. And Charles, for some reason, he considered a work in progress. He'd rather lie to himself about his own son for the rest of his life than admit he didn't turn out the way he wanted him to. 

Raven never knew any of this, and considered Charles's fear of their father's reaction irrational. While he was just scared because he couldn't tell at what point he, too, would be considered a failed project.

“I don't want him to lose credibility. What kind of team principal loses even the employees he's related to?” That seemed reasonable enough an excuse. 

“One that knows what's good for his team, and this whole thing with Niles clearly isn't. Also, I thought you wanted to prove you weren't hired just because you're his son?” How come he always managed to set himself up like that, he could not tell. He sighed, defeated as she laughed, throwing her head back. She had always been a sharp mind. 

“Let me think about this,” he said, finally. It probably wasn't the answer she expected, but it was something, for the both of them. 

— ◇ —

And so he thought. After Raven went to bed, having reminded him at least four times to think about it, he finally got to sit down with his laptop and actually work. Ferrari transfer or not, he still was at McLaren and one infuriating American wouldn't change that he was good at his job. He analysed new simulation results uploaded into the database, went over possible Qatar race strategies, noted to ask for clarification about the cockpit setup. 

When he checked the clock, it was two in the morning, so around ten in England. He brushed his hair out of his face (it was getting longer, if he was to get into any talks with Ferrari, he would need to cut it to look at least somewhat presentable). And oh, there it was. He was thinking about the offer. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the idea, at least until he had got this thing sorted. 

Ten in the morning, England. He quickly typed a message to Sean, using the work channel. Two words, just a “Zoom now?” and a few seconds later, instead of a response, there was an incoming video call from the junior engineer he had under his care. 

“Cassidy! Good to see you, how's it go–”

“Are you really leaving us?”

“I– What?” he took a good look at the guy now, he looked completely stressed out. He was away for what, not even two full days and his crew was already losing their minds?

“Are you really going to sign with Ferrari?” Charles didn't know the answer to that. Once he was done with this, he would think about it, he really would, and he would find an answer. This was still too early. “Oh my God, you are.”

“What, no! Sean I– Good Lord, I don't know!” he exclaimed, not entirely sure what answer would be the least awful. He knew Sean professionally, he couldn't possibly guess what his stance on workplace gossip was. And he certainly didn't want the entirety of the McLaren factory to find out he was switching teams, when he himself still hadn't known if he was. 

“Is it because of Simon? Oh, what am I saying, of course it is. He's been walking around the factory telling everybody that you couldn't possibly leave because no one will want you, that he would fire you if he could, and then Mr Xavier called him into his office, and Angel heard he told him to keep it down, and he said Simon was right, and he promised to replace you, I don't blame you, Charles, but there is no one who could take your place, and, oh my God, what are we gonna do without you, he's going to eat us all alive, Charles, I wish you wouldn't leave, but I also understand you completely, because the things he's saying, they're awful, but–”

“Sean. Sean! Slow down. My father said what?” for a quick moment he saw red. 

The moment was now. The moment he would get written off. In the morning his father told him he would need to act civil, and then he was in Woking promising to replace him. Replace him . Arguably the most competent member of his godforsaken team, because poor Simon Niles doesn't know how to do his own fucking job. 

All those years, all those adjustments his father had to make to his vision of the son he wanted because Charles kept choosing differently than he wished he would, and he would consider him a failed project over a talentless bastard, whose biggest skill was probably ruining everyone's day and crashing into a wall when the race was going too well for him.

“Oh my God, I shouldn't have said that, now you're definitely going to leave, oh my God, I am so sorry,” he could not listen to this for a second longer. Not sleep-deprived, on the other side of the world, when he couldn't walk into his father's office and scream into his face, not helpless in his sister's apartment in Las Vegas.

“Listen to me, Sean. I sent you some files, you review them, put them into the simulator, let me know what comes out. Get Angel to talk to the mechanics, tell her I emailed her the inquiries I want her to make. It's night over here, I'm going to sleep soon, so if you need me, I'll be online in a couple hours. I'm flying straight to Qatar, we won't see each other at the factory this week. Take care,” and before the kid got the chance to say anything, he ended the call. 

He closed his laptop and stared at the ceiling for a little while. He promised to replace you. Seems like they both made promises they couldn't keep. Charles promised Raven he would think about the offer. He didn't believe he needed to anymore.

— ◇ —

…Or maybe he did? 

“Charles, please tell me you're kidding.” Raven was sitting on the kitchen floor the next morning, looking up at him in disbelief. He told her everything, how could he not. “He promised that dick he would replace you, and you're still not sure? You want him to actually fire you before you finally decide to do what's good for you?”

“He probably didn't mean it like that, I'm telling you, he–” he didn't actually get to finish because she suddenly stood up, almost knocking a kitchen stool over, and snatched his phone from the table.

“What's the number?”

“What?”

“The number. To Ferrari, their team principal, or that German guy. Whatever. Give me the number,” she was almost seething, and in his mind he could see the teenage Raven, stomping in place like she was close to doing now, whenever he acted dense and she'd had enough.

“Raven, this is ridiculous–” he tried reaching out for his phone, and she just raised her hand, holding it up. He could still reach it, so she wasn't realistically achieving anything, but it was an A+ for effort. Really, some things never changed.

“Charles, the number,” she muttered, and he could be certain that if he dragged it out a minute longer, smoke would start coming out her ears. 

“It's probably in the contact database, I could look for–” it really wasn't his day when it came to getting to finish his sentences. Yet now, it wasn't Raven who interrupted him. 

It was his own phone lighting up in her hand, and immediately starting to vibrate. An incoming call, from an unknown number. He reached for it again, and this time she gave it to him willingly, as he mouthed “great timing” at her with a devilish smile on his lips. She kicked him in the shin for that. 

He winced and answered the call. The next few minutes were mostly silent, with his sister almost holding her breath as if that was going to help her overhear who the person on the other side was and what they were saying. The silence was only disrupted every so often by Charles saying “No, that's not a problem at all,” “Yes, I understand,” “I appreciate it, thank you,” and an awful lot of humming, in a wide variety of tones and expressions. 

Finally, the call was ended, and Raven looked at him with poorly concealed anticipation. Whether she was curious to know about the conversation that had just taken place or just couldn't wait to continue screaming at him, he was unsure about.

“Get your stuff, we have to get me a decent suit, I didn't bring any with me,” and when that didn't seem to clear the confusion, he added: “And find us a good Italian place around here, I have to start practising my pasta-identifying skills.”

— ◇ —

Both missions ended with a success, he thought, when he was sitting in a bougie restaurant in Qatar in his brand new light blue cotton suit (Raven said it made his eyes pop, although his eyes felt quite normal, and they seemed to be staying in their designated spot like usual), ready to apply his detailed knowledge on the difference between penne rigate and penne lisce when needed. 

That was, of course, until Erik Lehnsherr was standing over him, extending his hand to him, and… telling him he wanted him? Oh, to get him that street in Maranello. The Ferrari propaganda thing. Right.

“It's a pleasure to meet you too, Mr Lehnsherr,” he stood up, before shaking the guy's hand, as Fred Vasseur looked at his driver, infinitely amused. “Let's sit down, and we'll see what can be done about that street.” 

He initially wanted to give him his most perfect business smile, but he was sure he caught the exact moment when Lehnsherr slapped himself mentally, and so he settled for some of the less practised, genuine ones. If the man worried about first impressions, he most certainly didn't practise any sort of demonic rituals that included butchering babies in his free time.

“Erik. You can call me Erik, Mr Xavier.”

“Charles, please. It's only fair.”

Chapter Text

Erik spent the first couple of minutes scanning the room looking for any phone cameras directed at their table, and, to his grand disappointment, found that there were none. 

His companions seemed to be quite engaged in some form of professional small talk, something that was neither fun nor easy for him. The man across the table from him, however, looked delighted, or at least very well pretended to be. Fred was, as usual, halfway through telling an anecdote Erik and Emma had probably already heard, and Charles would probably hear another eighty seven times had he decided to sign the contract. Emma, who has always been strangely fond of their team principal and his stories, looked like she was genuinely, attentively listening, but she could have been pretending too. Race engineers. 

If he really thought about it, it’d be great for her and Charles to share some similarities, just enough to ensure his (hopefully) future partnership with the man going smoothly. Although, he wouldn’t lie if he said he’d welcome some differences as well. 

That smile that Charles gave him after what must’ve been a horrendous first impression on his side, for one, was a great start. Emma rarely smiled, and when she did, it was hardly ever a genuine, warm smile that Xavier wore so effortlessly. Hers were rather, for a lack of better word, frosty. (Good God, he was making name puns in his head now. Really lucky for him that Charles Xavier wasn’t really a punnable name. Nevertheless, he felt there was a certain X-ray-like quality to his frighteningly blue eyes. Sweet Jesus.) 

Just as his mind was starting to spiral, which happened to be even easier while registering that Fred was now talking about eating the table flower arrangement at Toto Wolff’s wedding? …whatever, he caught a glimpse of the guy opposite him, who must’ve been observing him completely spacing out for some time now, as his slightly raised right eyebrow could only be read as a sign of amusement. 

That shook him awake somehow, and got him to straighten and look anywhere but back at Charles. Once he felt assured that the man’s attention had shifted elsewhere, he finally tried peeking at him again, only to find out he had been wrong and Xavier was still looking at him. 

Caught red handed again he had no choice but to maintain the eye contact, now fully taking in the Brit in front of him. It’s not like he hadn’t seen him before, but he clearly wasn’t one made for cameras, as none of the pictures or videos he saw of him did the softness of his features justice. 

His hair was slightly longer than Erik’s own, reaching just below his ear. The pale blue suit he wore worked really well, if he did say so himself, as it made the colour of Charles’s eyes (ones he was still looking straight into) even more intense, one could even say that to an unnatural extent. He eventually tilted his head slightly in what he hoped would be considered a questioning fashion. All he got in response was a gentle, slightly apologetic smile. 

“And that’s why you should never ask me to be your best man!” Fred exclaimed enthusiastically in that moment, which shouldn’t feel sudden considering every one of his stories was always told in a really animated manner, yet for some reason it did. 

He looked in his direction and then at Emma, nodding her head, one of the corners of her mouth ever so slightly lifted, still, not really a smile. He then looked back at Charles, who was laughing now, even though he could tell with a solid dose of certainty that he hadn’t been paying attention just now. 

“I also stole his best driver from him, though that’s mostly his fault anyway.”

“And look how that ended… Lewis with a street in Maranello, anyone would risk a friendship for that,” said Emma, dreamily. She was still a junior engineer when he won his first title with Ferrari, and made sure everybody at the factory knew she was there to witness it. (Erik couldn’t blame her, who wouldn’t?)

“Speaking of, you know, stealing employees, and street names in Maranello…” Charles prompted and cut off, like he didn’t quite know where to go with it, and although his expression looked rather ashamed to be bringing this up so early into the meeting, there was a sharpness to his eyes, one that hadn’t been there before, one that you could only really interpret as determination. 

So he really was a diplomat, and a bit of an actor at that. He applauded both skills, as he possessed neither. He could, on the other hand, be so blunt about things, nothing seemed really straightforward in comparison.

“Let’s get to business, I still have a race to win tonight.” Nailed it. (He was sure of that, Emma was making one of her weird faces again.) “Don’t get me wrong, Fred, but both me and Emma have heard that wedding story at least eight times each by now, and I assure you, you will have much more time to torture our poor Charles here once he actually signs with us.”

He grinned, a wide smile that some compared to that of a shark, which honestly didn’t sound half bad. Especially since it scared the living hell out of most people. None at this table, though. His team because they were way too used to it, and Charles Xavier because for whatever reason he seemed to understand that Erik not letting him finish was a friendly gesture. Charles even nodded, barely noticeably, and yet noticeably enough for him to catch it. They were already working as a team, in a way. Good, that’s good.

He made sure to be more engaged in this part of the conversation, whether it was by making fun of Charles’s poorly concealed surprise at the base salary offered him by Fred (“Did you even get pocket money at McLaren?” Emma was near scolding him for that until the man sitting next to her laughed brilliantly at the remark), or contributing to the performance expectations discussion (“I really want that street in Maranello.” “I got that, Erik, and I intend on making sure you get it.” Even his current race engineer smiled at that.) 

Then, around the time the desserts came and Erik had already checked the place for journalists or even regular fans that could potentially take photos of their little party like four times (really, was no one eating lunch near the circuit?) the matter of handling the situation PR-wise was finally brought up.

“I say we announce it tonight,” he said, maybe a shade too impatient to seem nonchalant about it.

“That’s why you’re not allowed to make these decisions, Lehnsherr,” Frost said, with little humour to her voice. Having spent a couple years being on his team, she was fairly familiar with his constant need to embarrass Simon Niles, and did take pride in being one of the people that made it possible, since she wasn’t the biggest fan of the American driver herself. 

He was sure, under any other circumstances, she’d be the first to agree with him. Now, she was acting professional, God bless her for that, somebody had to, after all. He glanced at Charles, who was looking at him from under his raised eyebrows, blue eyes scanning Erik thoroughly, carrying out an analysis. When he caught his gaze, his expression quickly softened, a subtle smile on his lips this time (did the man ever stop smiling?)

“I appreciate the eagerness to announce our partnership, Erik,” he said then, his dessert fork fiddling with a piece of pavlova on his plate. “Although I think it is rather unlikely for the Ferrari lawyers to write the contract on such short notice. Plus, I wouldn’t like to steal the spotlight of your win tonight.”

“Already supporting your driver’s rival?” he tilted his head with a sly smile, which got him an equally good humoured eye roll in response. 

“I have to agree with Charles. Paperwork for these transfers is always a lot. Especially since, I believe, your father will try to stop us from going through with this,” Fred was addressing Charles now and it made Erik think. 

How were they able to meet so soon, he wondered, taking into consideration that Brian Xavier must’ve been doing everything in his power (so, quite a lot) to stop his very valuable team member, and, which also seemed to be of relevance, his son from leaving. Or could it be possible that he was on board with this? 

No, didn’t seem too likely to him once he remembered the phone call he had with his team principal merely a week ago. Homicidal intent, Vasseur said then. Or did Charles’s father just… not know? 

He caught a glimpse of his eyes now, all soft rims and pools of azure. He tried putting the image side by side with the one from earlier, strong and cold, a roughly edged ice sculpture. It created a dissonance of sorts in his mind, because how could someone this gentle and proper, with skills and familial support that could get them anywhere they wanted, be so desperate for a position they didn’t need in the first place? Was he really ready to go behind his father’s back for this? His questions, luckily, hadn’t remained unanswered for long.

“That shouldn’t be an issue. My current contract expires at the end of this season, and I still haven’t been offered a re-signing. Can’t blame me for looking elsewhere, really,” Charles shrugged, and even Emma was staring at him a little surprised now. He quickly noticed the clear shift in the atmosphere and added lightheartedly: “Especially since I got such an unrejectable offer from Erik here.”

That didn’t help him much, the three of them still facing him with expressions that varied from Fred’s subtle confusion to Erik’s grimace that looked almost offended. Yet, the man in front of them just chuckled, shaking his head slightly, and then putting on another one of his brightest smiles, this time with a faint bitter aftertaste to it.

“I have been informed…” he hesitated for a bit there, as if looking for the right way to put it, “that there have been talks of my possible replacement at the factory during my absence these past few days. I believe I’m doing both sides a favour.”

There was no right way to put that. Even with his limited knowledge about him, Erik could tell there wasn’t a single scenario in which degrading Charles would be a good decision. Sense of humour and brilliant smiles aside, if Erik Lehnsherr was to trust anything in the world with his life, it would be Emma’s analysis. And she said he was better than some of the sport’s most experienced race engineers in his very first seasons. 

So unless Brian Xavier managed to snatch Bono from Mercedes or drag some other legend back from retirement, this was an unfathomably stupid choice to make as a team principal. And what for? A driver who never grew up and a week of buzz around your name in the press? He felt he was starting to hate Niles even more now. He never thought that was even possible.

“You’re not signing with McLaren, are you?” he whipped his head around to look at Emma, who barely graced him with a look, and when she did it was one she reserved for times when he was being an idiot in her opinion (she had that opinion quite often, in truth). 

He laughed it off, yet hoped immensely that Charles would get the allusion. There really wasn’t anybody available they could successfully replace him with without humiliating the entire team in the process. It’s not like he opposed this specific team getting ridiculed (between hiring Simon Niles and inviting Donald Trump to the garage in the past, they didn’t have many redeeming qualities in Erik’s books, maybe except for having the title of Lewis Hamilton’s first F1 team), but he felt strange about all of this nonetheless.

“How about a week after Abu Dhabi? I will have the contracts sorted, and then we'll release a statement,” Fred offered and Charles cheered up at that, joy radiating off him as if wide beams of light. 

“And when am I going to start working?” he inquired, clearly excited. Suddenly all that was left of the lousily covered sourness the mention of the McLaren team principal evoked was a misty memory. 

Erik wished it would remain this way, now closely observing the passion that seemed to fill Charles Xavier's entire body, maybe even reaching beyond its slim frame. He reminded him of Emma now, in those rare moments when she was drifting off into remote realms of her wonderful mind, losing herself in numbers and graphs, quick fingers and even quicker wits. 

He wondered if he would get to see him like this, in love with what he was doing, often. A laugh rang in his head. Who would've thought petty revenge could bring yet another genius into his life. 

“As soon as you feel ready. Emma will be able to join you in the factory for the first couple of weeks, if you ever need her assistance,” said Fred with a warm smile, clearly just as thrilled to see the man's enthusiasm as Erik was. Emma, like usual, was a little more reserved.

“We wouldn't like to rush you,” and even though they both knew she meant well, and Charles nodded humbly at her words, when their eyes met over the table, they both rolled them jokingly. 

Erik wasn't necessarily a fan of big claims and poor attempts at prophesying, yet this could work. He certainly wanted it to. 

Chapter Text

Charles couldn't wait to tell Raven about the meeting. “He’s not insufferable!” he could say to her, and she would probably comment on his possible mental issues, then moving on straight to asking him about every single detail about the lunch. 

He would most definitely start from all the unimportant things one could possibly think of, such as the location, and the food (even though it was rather lovely), just to build some tension and have a laugh at Raven’s growing despair. 

Maybe only after she had screamed something about him being completely and absolutely infuriating, although still not as bad as the French photographer she was scheduled with this weekend in Nice (she always complained about the French, he couldn’t really blame her), would he finally tell her something of relevance. “Salary increase of 40%,” he would sneak in as her yelling got tame enough for her to hear him. An immediate pause on his sister’s side of the phone, and then a “Now you’re talking.” 

Next, he could start telling her about things that were really worth mentioning (not that salary wasn’t, of course, but that wasn’t even a fraction of what convinced him to sign with Ferrari, much rather a nice backup if his father decided to demand he paid his trust fund money back in wake of his betrayal). 

He could, for example, talk about how genuinely funny and not-aggravating-at-all his new driver would be, a vision of never having to endure Simon Niles again already filling him with a bubbly sense of happiness. He obviously still had to survive two races in McLaren colours, two of the most intense races, as well, but that, oddly enough, seemed like a low price to pay for getting to work with one of the rare cases where the clear lack of media training made someone infinitely more affable. 

Charles could barely remember why he even questioned Lehnsherr’s, Erik’s, good nature in the first place, the rumours of his cruelty both on and off track slipping his mind, like a dream forgotten right after waking up. He actually felt like he was having another one of those when the great white of the Formula 1 grid offered to call a cab for him so no reporters would bother him on the way to the hotel to change.

“I don’t believe I’m recognizable enough for anyone to do so, especially since my hotel is two streets down from here. I’ll be perfectly fine taking a walk there,” he recalled himself laughing, as he was sitting in the taxi that was currently waiting at the traffic lights. It goes without saying he used up most of his negotiation skills during the meeting.

“You are now, remember?” Erik said to him just a few minutes prior, standing by his side in front of the restaurant, in an impeccably fitted tan suit that accentuated all the angles of his tall figure. (Charles, understandably, only noticed this because he was the brother of Raven Xavier who always appreciated a good cut, and she’d be very pleased to hear about this, beyond flattering, one.) 

He could almost see the toothy grin as he remembered the German driver adding “Thanks to that half-brained papaya I don’t see you catching a break soon. Allow me.”

Then, Erik Lehnsherr hailed a cab in what must’ve been record time, because Charles didn’t even get to argue that they spent most of six quarters in a very crowded place right next to the Qatar circuit and no one seemed to have paid them any mind. And now, as he was exiting the car, he couldn’t help but think that sharks really deserved an apology for all the bad press they got over the years, all the two-legged ones included. 

— ◇ —

It wasn’t until he was in his room an hour later, already dressed in his team uniform, when a message from Raven popped up on his phone. “Irene says hi,” it said, with a picture attached. And from the photo, a smugly-faced Erik looked straight back at him, a digital image of Charles himself standing next to him, caught probably in the middle of explaining to the driver how he wasn’t famous. 

You are now, remember? And Erik was correct, he definitely was now, and would be even more so with a picture of him and the Ferrari first-seater spreading across all social media platforms like wildfire. Then, another realisation struck him. 

Lehnsherr was looking directly into the camera, meaning he saw it, and didn’t say a thing. Hell, he wasn't even sure the guy didn't call whoever took that photo on them, disappointed with not getting his way during the negotiations. Still, he insisted on calling him that cab, and Charles could tell for sure he wouldn’t have to look far for the pictures of that as well. 

As expected, the first thing that welcomed him once he opened Twitter were two shots that served as appropriate context to the post that said “We’re so getting the Lehnsherr-Xavier duo at Ferrari next season.” Erik's impatience he couldn't guess the root of really was quite astonishing.

That would be it for keeping the talks low profile. Cat’s out the box, he thought, as the prospect of an angry phone call, or, even worse, an office confrontation with his father charged him with immeasurable amounts of dread. 

The latter felt so much like a horror, he was disappointed his phone hadn’t lit up with Brian Xavier’s number before he left the hotel to get to the paddock. This time around, the drive wasn’t as pleasant, and above all it was a necessity, instead of an act of kindness born out of… Well, Charles wasn’t even sure what exactly initiated it, alongside Lehnsherr’s visible eagerness when it came to the matter of coming out with the contract announcement. 

He did hear enough about him and Niles disliking each other, and as much as he related to Erik if such was the case, he couldn’t think of a reason the two drivers would share a rivalry aggressive enough to have prompted whatever humiliation ritual this could’ve been. (Not when Simon was stuck in mid-field, while Erik had the runner-up spot within his reach.) 

No, it must’ve been something else entirely, he figured as he stepped out of the car, a familiar noise reaching his ears now, soothing his nerves ever so slightly. The walk past the paddock entry was more a blur than anything else, distant voices calling out to him, probably journalists praying on a single comment from him before he gets to the garage and interrupting his work will be considered unprofessional. 

He wasn’t in touch with his body enough to tell for sure that he wasn’t running when a hand clasped his shoulder. He was ready to shake the insistent reporter off and cuss them out for invading his personal space, but when, in an unexpected display of sensibility, he decided to trace the arm with his eyes, they ended up meeting with a pair of confusingly blue-green ones, looking down on him from a few inches above.

“Great to see you, my friend,” Lehnsherr patted his shoulder now, with a clearly fake and very overdone serious expression. A twitch of the corner of his mouth gave him away, but Charles could bet all the cameras, phones and eyes around them wouldn't catch that. At this point, parading with a Ferrari contract stuck to his forehead would be more subtle, “Did you get to your hotel safely?”

“I did, thank you,” he smiled stiffly. And then, noticing their surroundings getting weirdly quiet, like everyone suddenly started holding their breaths, added, lowering his voice: “Good to know your care about my well-being isn't only a thing for the cameras.”

Trying to leave him with that, he turned to go, regained his quick pace and hoped the element of surprise would make Erik abandon the idea of further pursuit. It wasn't his day, evidently. Soon enough, the German driver was walking by his side, having caught up with only a few long steps. 

“Oh, you're misunderstanding. I do care about your well-being, the cameras just happen to always be there,” he said, grinning at him. 

Charles started to think Ferrari only got him under control (to a certain, rather limited, extent) because he let them, as otherwise the man seemed to have very little regard for any sort of authority and societal expectations, which, he believed, could be charming in a way when used to question oppressive systems and norms. 

Heightening the probability of Charles getting torn apart upon stepping into the McLaren garage and then whatever would be left of his corpse getting disowned and shipped to whichever corner of the world Brian Xavier found the least pleasant, wasn't fulfilling that purpose, hence not ticking the box required for him to find himself won over by Lehnsherr's antics.

“I thought we agreed on something earlier, did we not?” he looked up at the German driver then, wearing one of his sterner expressions. 

To his surprise, the man beside him didn't deflect that with another smartass kind of answer, instead squinting his eyes in a slightly confused manner. What followed was an apologetically crooked half smile that seemed like his own facial muscles weren't used to it.

“We did, I recall. Really, it could’ve been a coincidence,” he was almost sure Erik tried sounding reassuring with that, to no avail.

“That we met for lunch during the race weekend a week after you offered me a job?” he hoped he raised his eyebrow high enough for the other man to see how foolish he considered the idea to be.

“I used to get away with worse,” and like that, the Jaws-poster-worthy grin was back, “Flash them a smile and figure something out!” 

Only after Lehnsherr clasped his shoulder again, giving it a firm squeeze this time, did Charles take note of a group of people wearing red shirts to their right. Above their heads, a banner version of the man beside him looked down on the both of them. Stealing a glance at it, number 93 and the name Erik Lehnsherr spelled neatly next to it, left him feeling sort of uneasy. 

Up there, was another one of the countless Ferrari sons, men who lived like the red suit was worth it all, their very own crimson blood included. The tifosi have had their heroes, and their warriors. So many people, so many entries in the team’s hall of fame, so many streets in Maranello. The garage they were standing in front of had hosted the greatest of all time, and yet to him, they were all banners. 

Posters, beautiful names, picture-perfect and most of all loyal, to the history, to their uniform, to their beloved Ferrari. Fictional. 

And so, as he lowered his head, confronted by the cocky look of someone who believed he owned the place, instead of being one of the many knights on their black prancing horses willing to die for an idea, a vision in which they were neither the first nor the last to take the main role, he found it infinitely more real than the myth he initially thought he, too, would soon become a part of. 

Now this was a source of comfort. Lying for a little while surely wouldn’t kill him, he figured as all fight within him dissipated, sudden lightweight sense to his body leaving him in a state of strange giddiness. 

For the first time since arriving at the paddock, he smiled, genuinely, and judging by the spark in Erik’s eyes gaining intensity, also a little mischievously, which wasn’t exactly a look he sported often, but still seemed appropriate. 

If any higher being was in charge, it must’ve decided to name the lovely Sunday as the day of absolutely zero willpower for Charles Xavier. 

If the deity happened to listen to human prayers, he was sure it was Raven’s fault. Otherwise, he would need to re-evaluate Lehnsherr on the matter of blood sacrifices.

“Have a great race, my friend,” was the last thing he said to the man before turning to go. 

He straightened his shirt on the way to his designated spot at Niles’s pit wall, chuckling to himself at the ridiculous orange coloured everything around him. The Italian team most definitely wouldn’t end up being a thing for fairy tales, contrary to popular belief, but at the very least he could finally stop dressing like a radioactive papaya to work. 

His humour, as good as it was, didn’t last long, soon enough shaken by the image of Sean Cassidy in his seat. Or, to be precise, the first words that left the kid’s mouth when he noticed him walking in.

“I was told to take over today, I’m so sorry, Charles. Mr Xavier told me to tell you to come to his office, Charles, I am so very sorry, really, you have to believe–” he didn’t hear the rest of it. If he looked past the anxiety that creeped up on him with every step, the whole thing was working in his favour. It was one race with Simon Niles in his headphones less, after all. He couldn’t deny himself that sort of personal win.

— ◇ —

He knocked on the door of the small office used by his father during races, pushing it open upon hearing a muffled sound of invitation coming from the other side. Brian Xavier was sitting in his chair, with a tablet in hand, possibly looking through data for the race that was to begin in, Charles glanced at his watch, 87 minutes. 

“Sit down, son.”

Chapter Text

“As the drivers get ready for lights out here in Qatar, it seems like the McLaren garage has had some last minute staff changes.”

“That's right, it seems that Simon Niles's race engineer is not there with him tonight. Instead it looks like the junior race engineer Sean Cassidy has taken over.”

“I don't dare to doubt the young man's abilities, but is it a sensible choice to make at one of the last races of the season?”

“It might as well be. For those of you just catching up, there has been some real drama going on at McLaren.” 

“Oh yes, after Vegas things have been heated between the American prodigy, Simon Niles and his engineer, Charles Xavier.”

“Yes, you heard that right, Xavier, just like the McLaren's principal, Brian Xavier,” it was the last thing Erik heard before losing interest in the livestream and taking his earphones out. 

He only put it on to find out why on God's green Earth he didn't see Charles with other McLaren engineers on the big screens in the Ferrari garage. The screens didn't have any sound on so he resorted to his phone in order to get any sort of commentary, but just like usual, the commentators were more focused on the drama of it all than providing him with any sort of context. 

Is it a sensible choice to make, one of them asked and Erik had to hold in a snort. He found it very hard to believe that said choice was actually a consciously made decision and not another sign of Niles terrorizing everyone around him. It had to be, after all. No one in their right mind would let a guy that looked like he had to get back home early to finish his high school maths homework and had an overall anxious aura to him be the lead race engineer in Qatar of all places. 

Surely Brian Xavier was a little smarter than this. After all, he got enough brains to lead one of the most famous Formula 1 teams of all time. Something else entirely must've happened and soon enough Erik figured out the restlessness he was feeling was just him desperately wanting to know what it was. 

At some point that afternoon, maybe while dissociating in the pre-race team meeting, he realized he was experiencing a weird sense of protectiveness over Charles Xavier, the all too proper Brit who he had just met. 

He had no reason for it, other than their shared past? (that sounded ridiculous even in his head) of getting disrespected by Simon Niles. He had heard a lot about a common enemy uniting people in his life, and somehow it only made sense now, after their silent, almost secretive smiles at lunch, like code. Like “yeah, I hate the motherfucker too”. He was smiling to himself now, just thinking about it.

“What are you grinning about now?” he heard a familiar voice to his right and immediately turned, flashing Darwin some teeth. Darwin was the second Ferrari driver, and possibly the only person on the team, outside of people who worked closest with Erik, like Emma and Fred, obviously, who wasn't losing their shit whenever he looked in their general direction. 

Being a positively terrifying persona on the paddock had its perks, but it was still nice to talk to his people, ones that didn't perceive him as a bloodthirsty monster. Maybe that was another factor responsible for his sympathy for Charles. He seemed to completely disregard whatever crazy reputation Erik had among other people involved with his sport. 

Darwin was also, among other things, the second black Formula 1 driver in history, following in the footsteps of the great Lewis Hamilton and so anyone could guess he didn't have it easy. Erik admired people like him and they got along well. Sometimes people would call them “Ferrari's greatest hits”, which they both hated, and nearly nobody but them could understand why.

— ◇ —

“Really? A German and a black guy and suddenly we're Schumacher and Hamilton? Vettel and Hamilton?” Darwin said once in a press conference earning himself an awkward laugh from the journalist who clearly didn't think this through. 

It was after one of the very first of his races, and as much as Erik wasn't into socialising, he kinda got the feeling they should grab beers later, which was how their friendship, if he could call it that, started. 

When they did, Darwin joked they should move to Mercedes if anyone calls them that one more time, to which Erik replied with “Really? So they can call us Brocedes 2.0? We're just getting to know each other and you already want this beautiful friendship to fail?”

“Williams it is, then!” he exclaimed. 

“God, please no,” he replied to him then.

— ◇ —

“Nothing. I like Qatar,” he replied to him now, shrugging.

“No you don't, Lehnsherr,” he gave him a knowing smile and bumped their shoulders together.

“No I don't, Muñoz,” he really didn't. He wasn't a huge fan of night races in general, they were more tense and even though they looked like lots of fun from an outsider's point of view, they really weren't all that. Darwin always called him out on that, saying he's just a boring old man and that he should live a little. It never worked. 

“So, what is it then? You're that happy Niles is gonna tank in the standings even more now?” and there it was, the biggest reason behind their friendship. They both absolutely despised the American driver. 

They only got around to figuring that out about each other the third time they drank together. One of them (it was too long ago to remember) mentioned the guy and the other, encouraged by either a nice company or the drink in his hand, winced, which ended with them laughing hysterically at how purely unlikeable he was. 

Later, Darwin explained where his attitude towards Niles came from, although Erik would've been perfectly content with the answer being common sense. After all, he never told people his own story and hid behind the excuse of “he's just an entitled brat” to which most people nodded. Emma once tried getting the full reason out of him, with poor results.

“I thought Emma was the mind reader on this team, since when are you one?” he laughed, although the back of his throat felt bitter with it. He still needed to figure out what happened to Charles. Luckily, Darwin just kept giving him reasons to adore him.

“I talked to my sister last night. She's not supposed to be telling me this stuff, but you know how it is,” Darwin's sister, Angel, started working for McLaren a year before Darwin signed with Ferrari for the second seat. She rarely attended races, mostly working from the factory in Woking, assisting simulations and doing stuff way too complicated for either of them to understand. 

The first month she worked there, she bumped into Simon and dropped some of the documents she was carrying. He lashed out at her over it, and it was the first time she broke her NDA while complaining to her brother.

Ever since then, Darwin has been getting regular updates on the gossip within the team, although most of it clearly wasn't as interesting, as he rarely shared it with Erik to protect his sister. Which meant this time it must've been something he wanted to hear.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. He always did it, and Darwin was merciful enough to never comment on it. After all, he was the one constantly telling him to live a little. Gossip counted as living, at least in Erik's book.

“Xavier told that kid you've probably already seen to replace his son tonight even though he's done practices and qualifying just fine. Plus, she heard him promise Niles he was gonna replace him. Permanently,” well, that was a little disappointing. It's not like he didn't already know that. 

Some of it must've showed in his face, because Darwin scoffed and then immediately followed it by: “She was asked to come here this time, and just texted me she saw Charles Xavier on his way to his father's office a while ago. Neither of them has come out.”

Now that was something. With only a couple of minutes before the drivers had to get into their cars in final preparation before the race, it was very unlikely for the team principal to just dip, instead of checking in with his team. Was… he couldn't really say, reprimanding Charles? begging him not to leave? really that important? The second one at least seemed reasonable, but why replace him in the first place then? 

Politics within the sport rarely concerned him and he was pretty content with it, yet now some knowledge of them would be useful. 

Unfortunately, before he got to ask Darwin (who was actually pretty into the scheming part of Formula 1, mostly thanks to his sister and her regular gossip updates) about it, Fred spotted them and in very Italian (well, at least for a Frenchman) fashion of expressing everything with your hands waved at them in some intricate way that could only be interpreted as “Get in your cars guys, before I kick both your asses.” So that had to wait.

— ◇ —

“You're gaining 0.2 on Howlett in the third sector, do you think you can keep it up for a few more laps before the pit stop?”, Emma's voice rang in his ears. 

The thing about team radios no one really tells you about is that at some point you start feeling like your engineer's voice comes straight from your own head. At least that's what Erik felt at the thirtieth lap of the Qatar Grand Prix, while desperately holding onto his first spot. 

He managed to overtake Summers's Red Bull in the first corner of the first lap, but then at some point Howlett started racing like he was driving a prime era Mercedes car, and not… their actual car this year. He immediately overtook people in front of him and was closing in on Erik, but he in no world intended to give in. 

“Sure can,” he replied quickly to Emma and as the third sector kept getting closer, made sure to push the hardest he could while still being mindful of his tires. Damaging them too much now would be a death sentence upon his chances of winning. And he couldn't have that. 

He was reluctant to admit it, but he had a race engineer to impress after all. Logan already pitted, so he had an advantage of new tires and whatever time his own pit stop would take. He could make up for most of it once he got fresh tires, but it would eventually come down to a couple of tenths of a second.

— ◇ —

“How is Darwin doing?” 

“Currently P5, defending from Niles.”

— ◇ —

“Box, box.”

“Copy that.”

— ◇ —

“Wagner out in turn 7.”

“Shit, is he okay?”

“I'm gonna let you know if we get an update.”

— ◇ —

“Three laps to go, keep the advantage.”

— ◇ —

“Great job Erik. Get in there!”

“Thanks team, you guys weren't so bad yourselves tonight.”

— ◇ —

The first couple of minutes after the race are always a blur, even more so if you happen to win. 

Getting out of the car, some time in the green room, getting weighted, and then suddenly you're on top of the podium listening to your country's anthem as hundreds of fans chant your name below. It is the best feeling in the world, and it simply never gets old. 

There is also something about driving for this particular team, the very spirit of it, that makes it even more remarkable. 

As Logan and Alex sprayed him with champagne, he could see it from the corner of his eye, the sea of red caps and t-shirts, German and Italian flags fluttering together, some with the iconic Ferrari symbol painted on them, like a herd of black horses galloping through a poppy field in bloom. 

He stood up on top of the podium the teenage boy he was all those years ago used to dream of and wondered if Charles would love this view just as much. And as the crowd roared when he lifted up his trophy, as the lights of the Qatar circuit reflected off it, he thought he couldn't wait to show him what it was like to be a part of this.

— ◇ —

“Another wonderful performance from you, Erik. Although Logan did give you a fight, didn't he?” the journalist in front of him asked after he got off the podium, smiling encouragingly. 

If Erik could get rid of one thing in the world, it would be post race interviews. Who would want to come up with PR answers while sweaty, sticky from the champagne, and still severely dehydrated after they've just left a piece of their soul on track? 

Actually, scratch that. Who would want to come up with PR answers, ever? Not him. Vettel of fewer words didn't come from nothing.

“He did,” he shrugged and considered fleeing, but then his brain provided him with an image of Emma looking severely disappointed with him. I give that British sweetheart a month before he gets admitted to a mental hospital because of you, he could almost hear her say. 

“It was definitely impressive, I hope he brings the same energy into Abu Dhabi so we can have some fun next week,” he said, eventually. As much as he loved complaining and couldn't wait for the winter break, it was always entertaining to do some actual racing, which was harder at certain circuits. 

“You've been really strong since the summer break, are you already looking at the Drivers’ Championship next year? With Nash's retirement and the way you've been performing lately, most people believe we're gonna see you and Howlett in a title fight,” hands down, the worst type of question. 

This was precisely why he hated doing this. Nash was indeed retiring and he and Logan were indeed the drivers most often mentioned as possible title contenders. Summers was also up there, although he still lived in the shadow of Red BulI's first driver. 

But did it mean anything? Not at all. 

For all Erik knew, a single person or decision made by them could completely change the outcome of a race or a season. He could end up with a car that's straight up undriveable, or Aston Martin could suddenly pop out with a rocketship and multiple cheating allegations. Each team had hundreds of people hired purely to analyse and predict, and still somehow journalists thought his personal opinion was of any value.

“I'd rather not speculate about that. I am always working towards a title, with or without Robert on the grid,” he smiled in what he thought was a polite manner and tilted his head, as if to ask Am I free to go now? Or are you gonna ask me any more stupid questions? At least he seemed to have got that point across since the interviewer shook his hand and said it was lovely talking to him, like Erik didn't see him wince at that last answer.

— ◇ —

“Hey, Fred!” he called out after the team principal, jogging to catch up to him. He told him he wouldn't be able to join him, Emma, Darwin and his race engineer, for some celebratory dinner, so Erik figured it'd be best to get him now, before he got to leave the paddock.

“What is it, Erik?” he raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. He probably thought Erik wanted a favour. He wouldn't be exactly wrong.

“Do you happen to have Charles’s number?” he already tried asking Darwin to get it from Angel, but she wasn't picking up and so Fred was obviously the best next choice.

“What, you wanna invite him too?” he laughed dryly. “Must I remind you we haven't even signed him yet and he's still working for your rival?” 

Erik was, unfortunately, very aware of that. He actually considered asking Charles if he would want to join them, but he came to a similar conclusion.

“No, I just wanted to text him. Darwin… heard some stuff and you know me, I'm curious,” he actually got to talk with Darwin about this for a bit more right after the race while Emma left them alone to sort out the dinner reservations. Angel messaged him right after the race to say Charles came into the garage about 20 minutes into the race and simply watched it, like he wasn’t involved with any of it.

“You kids and your gossip,” the Frenchman sighed. “Sure, I'll text it to you. But I better not see another headline about you two until we release the transfer statement.”

“Copy that.”

— ◇ —

“Hello?”

“Hello Charles, it's Erik, do you have a minute?”

Chapter Text

He sat down, uncomfortable. His father seemed like he couldn't be bothered to spare him a look. He was still swiping idly across the screen of his work tablet. The silence dragged on for what felt like several minutes before he finally looked up at him. 

It was odd. He expected to see the usual hard look his father wore when he was about to reprimand him. He had seen it so many times before that there was almost some comfort to it. It was in no way nice to see, but it was familiar. 

This time, however, his father looked… bored at most. He looked as if they barely had anything to talk about, like he wasn’t the one to ask him to come, like he wasn’t the one behind the decision to make Cassidy take his place.

“Would you mind explaining?” his father finally spoke and simply handed him the tablet. 

There were two photos, one of him and Erik Lehnsherr in front of the restaurant earlier that day, the other one more recent, Erik's hand on his shoulder, taken ten minutes before at most. Along with the Ferrari driver’s answer a week ago and everything the media has been speculating about since then, it was hilariously easy to put the two and two together. 

His father wasn't asking him to explain the situation, he wanted him to explain himself. Charles would not have it.

“We had lunch. Bumped into each other when I got here from the hotel,” he said, his voice void of any sort of emotion. Two could play this game, after all. He thought he saw a little twitch of his father's eyebrows, like they moved involuntarily, but he couldn't be sure he didn't imagine it with how brief the moment was.

“What have you talked about at lunch?” his father asked, almost making it sound conversationally. This new facade was starting to annoy him, in all fairness.

“I believe it is my business,” he answered, a touch more sharply than before.

“I didn't know you dated around the paddock,” his father shot back and Charles could almost feel his cheek sting after a slap he didn't physically receive.

Back at the restaurant, when he mentioned what he had heard about his father's plan to replace him, three people looked at him in surprise. 

A shocked expression flashed across Erik's face, and it was almost palpable, the feeling of disbelief. Charles wasn't sure he deserved it. After all, they had just met, none of them could be sure his father wasn't right to want to get rid of him. 

And yet Erik's look was possibly the most honest thing Charles has experienced in a little while. It was like he believed it to be ridiculous to even consider firing him. Like he already had more faith in him than virtually anyone has ever had, maybe with the exception of Raven and McLaren's junior engineers who silently adored him (he pretended not to notice out of modesty). 

Certainly more faith than his father has ever had, it seemed. 

For that very reason, he felt like he owed Erik to feel enraged on his behalf, over a disrespect he would never know had taken place. Charles would make sure of it. 

Besides, he tried everything to get his mind off the fact that this was the first time his father has ever acknowledged his, as he called it in the case of Raven, preferences. If indignation could mask his heartbreak, so be it.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asked, his nostrils flaring as if he was an anxious animal. He hated the fact that he didn't really need to ask. 

“I'm trying to see if I have a valid reason to terminate your contract,” if there was an imaginary mark on one of his cheeks from the initial slap, he was sure another one had just appeared on the other side of his face.

“My resignation letter should be sufficient. I'll make sure it's on your desk before Abu Dhabi,” he tried raising his hands to protect his head.

“No you won't,” he was met with a blow to the stomach. 

“Be reasonable, Charles,” his father said then, his tone so patronising Charles could almost feel himself shrinking before him. Still, he smiled. That, he knew. 

“I am being reasonable,” he muttered, jaw setting tightly.

“No, you're throwing a fit because a driver said something mean about you,” his father spat back and, yes, there it was. 

The anger. 

The anger that put him to sleep when he was little, the anger that attended his graduation, the anger that thrummed in the walls of his family home, the anger that was here now. Every atom in the room seemed to be charged with it and before he realized it, it was sinking through his skin and into his bloodstream. 

“No, I'm throwing a fit, as you've said, because I have been disrespected and publicly humiliated after your driver refused to follow my directions,” the word “your” sounded like it was punched out of him. 

This was all it was about. The betrayal of trusting a stranger before trusting your own son, of trusting a vision of your child that wasn't real before trusting the child themselves, standing before you, bent in half, holding onto their stomach. 

He understood the politics of Formula 1. Hell, he was fine with them. But after Erik Lehnsherr, a stranger, looked at him like he deserved more than spending the rest of his life as a pawn in his father's hand, suddenly he felt tired of them.

“He was frustrated with the results, you can't possibly–” he was really tired of them.

“I can. And I will. I am a well qualified race engineer and some spoiled brat won't tell me I've only been hired because I'm your son,” although he wished he could be just a son for once.

“I did hire you because you're my son,” it didn't look like he would get to anytime soon. 

The fight was never even. He would always end up on the floor, with his father standing before him, looming over him and kicking him like he would a disobedient dog. 

His father never hit him, and yet his words often left him feeling beaten up. Nonexistent blood drying in his mouth until he couldn't defend himself. They haven't got to that point yet.

“Then you'll be completely fine with finding someone better now that you don't have to hire your son,” he said, not holding back on the venom in his voice anymore.

“Please, Charles, I do not wish to fight you,” his father sighed, like this conversation was entirely useless and was starting to bore him, and Charles felt he could cry. 

He couldn't be a son, but he would always remain a child. 

“We aren't fighting, dad,” deep breath. “I have made my decision and I believe it is the best one for both sides.”

“Whatever you say.”

And then, just like that, his father stood up and left the office. 

And Charles wept, and wept, for what felt like hours. He wasn't sure what it was that he was mourning. But then again, all his life had felt like a funeral march for somebody he never knew. For somebody who never existed, perhaps.

— ◇ —

Before he got to calm down and make himself look somewhat presentable, the race had already started. He walked into the garage about 20 minutes late and almost immediately made eye contact with Angel, one of McLaren’s engineers. He wasn't quite sure why the team asked her to come this time, but she was always a nice presence to be around. 

And so when they locked eyes, he smiled at her, and she gently smiled back, before she looked down to type something on her phone. 

Charles watched the rest of the race, felt the air tense as Wagner spun straight into the wall and everyone watched if he would emerge from the car on his own. When he did, it was like everyone watching exhaled in relief. These things were always tough, even when it wasn't your team's driver ending their race prematurely. 

He saw Darwin Muñoz, Ferrari's second seater slowly getting away from Niles, and some quiet part of him punched the air. Small victories, right? 

When Erik crossed the finish line ahead of Howlett, some people around the garage looked in his general direction and even then, Charles kept watching. He never really got to just watch a race, he was always analysing, drawing conclusions, theorising and collecting data. 

Now, he wanted to be a casual fan. An outsider. Someone who could barely explain what DRS is, and yet was always happy when their favourite driver used it to their advantage. 

It was fun, in a way. He watched the start of celebrations and left before the buzz died down and anyone could ask him anything. 

— ◇ —

Sprawled on his hotel bed, his team uniform discarded… somewhere, for sure, he thought of his London apartment. 

It was possibly as lacking in personality as the hotel room he was currently in. He barely got to use it during the season, in the off-season he mostly used it to sleep before catching a train to Woking and then spending most of his day there, and during the breaks he tried to spend as much time with Raven as he could, which resulted in him flying after her around Europe, North America and Eastern Asia sometimes. 

He would probably need to find a new place soon, because flying to Italy everyday didn't seem quite possible. He wasn't sure he would miss London. For his hometown, he knew surprisingly little of it, having spent his life in boarding schools and then at the factory and travelling around the world. At no point in his life did he consider properly exploring it. 

When he came to think of it, he had spent most of his life working towards a dream that wasn't really his. Since he was a child, he knew he would end up in Formula 1, knew he would end up in whatever team his father was linked to. When Brian Xavier was offered the team principal job at McLaren, it was obvious he would follow him there. 

It wasn't like he didn't love the job, there was a prestige to it, and he got to do something he was good at, if he said so himself. And yet rather than looking forward to the start of each race, he awaited the end of it each time. 

He couldn't fully figure out why and it filled him with dread. What if everyone was right about him, what if he wasn't meant for this job and that was the reason he was burning out so quickly? Maybe the problem wasn't being his father's son to everyone but him. Maybe he wasn't just tired of hearing of the Xavier empire. 

In truth, Simon Niles wasn't the first one to say it, just the first one to say it loud enough Charles couldn't ignore it. Before he got to dwell on this further, his phone lit up next to his head, forcibly dragging him out of his own head. 

To his surprise, it was a withheld number, and not Raven who just found a minute between shoots to call him. He picked up, hesitantly.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Charles, it's Erik,” the other man's voice sounded even as he asked: “Do you have a minute?”

“I can have five,” he laughed, although it came out a bit unnatural. Hopefully it got lost in the call. “How can I help you, Erik?”

“I hope you won't hold this against me, I asked Fred for your number,” Erik explained, sounding almost sorry. Charles wasn't sure how to feel about it. He then added: “Do you know Angel Salvadore?”

That, he didn't exactly expect. He tried to quickly think of a reason for such a question and came up short. “I do, I work with her.”

“Well, I work with her brother,” and, what? Sure, Angel sometimes mentioned her brother and it seemed like they were very dear to each other, but Charles never got to meet him, let alone ask about his occupation. 

How could he possibly be working with Erik? Was he an engineer too? He must've stayed silent for a beat too long, because clearly Erik felt the need to explain even before he got to ask him to.

“Her brother's name is Darwin Muñoz,” again, what? “They're actually step-siblings, but they grew up together.” 

Charles now thought back to the sweet smile Angel gave him today in the garage and then to the image of Darwin brilliantly defending from Simon, and couldn't help a huff of laughter that escaped him. 

Looks like he wasn’t the only one in the McLaren garage rooting for a Ferrari driver tonight. Still, he couldn’t guess where Erik was going with this.

“I was quite surprised not to see you at the pitwall tonight,” Erik spoke, a hint of curiosity in his voice, yet judging by what he has just told him, he must've known the reason, right?

“Is this why you're calling? To gossip?” he asked, a little amused despite everything. On the other side of the call, Erik laughed.

“I wouldn't dare. More like, to fact check something,” Charles only hummed in response, waiting for him to continue. “See, everyone is saying it was your father's call today. I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?” he asked, making sure his voice wouldn't crack. Was it really that hard to believe?

“I, for one, think it's stupid,” and it sounded so simple when he said it, like it was obvious to him. Charles smiled weakly to himself.

“It was, in fact, my father's decision. It seems winter break came early for me this year, as I don't think I'll be invited to the pitwall in Abu Dhabi either,” he said, calmly but still a little bitterly. 

He was allowed to feel like this, right? Erik was silent for a long minute, to the point where Charles had to check if the call didn't end. Should he tell him it was all fine, and he didn't need to feel sorry for him?

“Charles?”

“Yes, Erik?”

“Your father is an idiot,” and suddenly, Charles was laughing. Loudly, genuinely, laughing. 

He didn't exactly know why, but something about the way Erik said it, like there was no other way of phrasing it, like it was the indisputable truth that he fully believed in, made him break. 

He had heard legends about the guy's rather poor social skills, he even got to experience some of them himself just mere hours ago, and yet it was possibly the best quality about the German driver. And it was frankly disarming in the best way possible.

“You sure have a way with words, Erik,” he finally choked out, tears of laughter welling in the corners of his eyes. 

“I try my best,” was what he got in response. Then, a comfortable silence fell on both ends of the line, both of them thinking they should say something, or end the call, neither actually doing it.

“I have to ask though,” Charles finally spoke.

“Ask away," Erik responded lazily.

“What's in it for you? Sure, Emma is leaving, you need a race engineer, I get that. But certainly Ferrari could've just promoted one of your juniors?” it was something that has been eating away at him ever since Raven made him watch that press conference. He did hear rumours about some animosity between Erik and Niles, but was that enough for this whole thing to happen?

“It'd most likely be Hank, and don't tell him I said this, he's a genius, but he's as anxious as a stray kitten. It's better he gets some more time,” so he wanted someone with more experience, to match Emma's skills. That made even less sense to him.

“Why me, then? I've been doing this for two seasons and I've already got nepotism allegations to my name,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Well, for example, I assume you hate that rat faced moron,” he sure as hell didn't expect that to be the answer. 

“Erik,” he spoke, a little exasperated. It was honestly quite admirable how little filter Erik possessed.

“See? You already sound like Emma,” Erik pointed out, and despite very little time he had spent with both of them, Charles could somewhat understand what he meant. 

“Be honest though, do you like him?” he prompted then, although they both knew the answer to that.

“Not really,” it definitely was an understatement.

“Well, we have that in common.”

“You're doing this to spite him?” he asked, because it still didn't seem like a sufficient enough reason, and yet it seemed like there wasn’t much more to it, really.

“And because you look good in a suit, which makes you appear more trustworthy. F1 drivers aren't the smartest, so it definitely works on me,” Erik joked, even though Charles found it suspiciously hard to laugh at the remark.

“Well, I sure am flattered then,” he said instead.

“And also…” the other man started and then trailed off. “Emma said you're good. I would trust her with my life. I can trust her with this.” 

That finally seemed like an honest answer. He couldn't understand what it was that both Emma Frost and Erik Lehnsherr, and, God, even Fred Vasseur saw in him, that they believed was enough to want him to take over after Emma. 

“Well, that is nice to hear,” but he sure as hell was thankful it was there, whatever it might've been. He stayed silent for a while, and then heard Erik's voice in the quiet of his hotel room again.

“Hey, Charles,” he murmured a yes to that, letting him speak, “For what it's worth, I'm happy your father isn't willing to go to war over this. Fred said he might rip both our heads off, and I like mine exactly where it usually is.”

He felt like he was supposed to laugh at that, and, again, the laughter didn't come.

“Well, I'm excited to work for someone who isn't a pain in the ass,” he quietly said instead, trying to keep up with the joking nature of their conversation.

“Oh, you know nothing about me.”

“Don't make me change my mind.”

“Okay, okay, I'm definitely better than that twat,” that finally got a laugh out of him.

“I wouldn't call that an achievement,” he said, a little lighter now than he was before he even picked up the phone. Unfortunately, before he got to say anything else, he heard Erik shifting in his seat on the other side of the call.

“Emma is calling me, I'm afraid I have to go before she rips my head off. It was nice to talk to you. Feel free to text me anytime. If you want to, obviously,” a nice gesture, Charles had to admit. 

“I'd like that, thanks,” it was only fair to say. “Now go, don't let your engineer be jealous.”

And then he was back to his regular schedule of looking up at the hotel room ceiling and contemplating the life choices that had led him to this place. And, contrary to his mood not even half an hour before, he realized he didn't necessarily hate some of those choices. 

Chapter Text

One of the advantages of having and maintaining a completely fabricated persona as someone cursed with having to live in the spotlight, was that no one, at the end of the day, could expect of you anything else than what you have taught them to expect. 

Erik’s favourite sport (besides, well, the obvious) was seeing how many questions he could avoid by saying something completely out of pocket or no-commenting his way out of them. 

Recently it was more of the latter, considering he had a secret to keep, though Emma and Fred made sure to let him know how much his little stunt last week was doing the exact opposite of what they had told him to do. He doubted they considered the most important argument behind it. It was, simply, so fucking entertaining he couldn’t help himself. 

Besides, the thing was, no matter what he did on camera, when it came to press conferences and post-race interviews, he could just do what everyone expected him to after years of training the media in these expectations. Deflect, mock, and laugh a little at everyone’s despair. 

He knew it pissed many people off, had read, maybe a little narcissistically, countless social media rants about his lack of media training and how immature he was acting at times. 

Had read, even more narcissistically, even more social media rants about how it was a sign of being a no-bullshit kinda driver with a world champion personality. He sent those to Emma all the time, telling her to finally start appreciating him, always earning himself a middle finger emoji in response. If she did decide to humor him and actually respond. 

Qatar was no different, at least sixty different journalists tried to get him to comment on the photos that spread like wildfire through the F1 community across all platforms and quickly became the most popular topic of conversation. 

It created more of a stir than he initially assumed it would, especially ahead of the last race of the season, and he had to say, afterwards he felt a little bad for dragging Charles into this and truthfully hoped he wouldn’t mind. 

What's in it for you, Charles had asked him the night before, and Erik wished he could tell him. Sitting on something that fundamentally shaped him when he was younger for so long couldn't be healthy, but it all felt so… Minor. 

He was in no place to guess what the whole deal with the Xaviers was, as he didn't lie and indeed considered the McLaren's team principal's approach weird at best, but it still felt like Charles had more rights to revenge than he ever did. 

After all, Niles was actively trying to ruin his career, something he believed was at least of some importance to the Brit. For Erik it was hurt he suffered ages ago, something that would appear utterly unimportant to anyone but him. He had a tendency for holding grudges and being generally unforgiving, and so the idea of being misunderstood in his anger was quite familiar to him. 

Unfortunately, all of that didn’t make it any less funny. 

Which was why he couldn't hope for a better morning than opening a message from Charles Xavier and seeing a link to a post that read “Simon Niles in shambles after discovering his actions have consequences”, which referenced one of the many embarrassing comments the American made after the Qatar Grand Prix which was a rather tragic reminder of what the last thread holding his performance together was. Well, somewhat holding it together, at least. 

And also a reminder the thread was leaving Niles and his team behind, all because Erik started the machine, pushed the first domino piece. 

You really couldn't blame him for thinking the sky over Maranello was a bit clearer these days, possibly because all the dark clouds started to gather over Woking, England. Competitive sport, okay? Wishing downfall upon his rivals was kind of like, the whole point.

All of that aside, coming into the last race of the season this way could be good. It was nice to finally hear about something different than whether or not he was capable of overtaking Logan in the drivers’ standings. He was. He would. 

With that exact mindset, not that it was new to anyone who knew him, he came to Maranello on Monday morning, ready for his last session of tests and practice this season. He made sure to grab some coffees for the people that would be assisting him today, having started the day in an exceptionally good mood. 

Italy was a little chilly this time of the year, so it was comforting to walk down the factory’s warm corridors finally able to discard the long black coat he decided to wear. 

He passed Darwin at some point, who only raised an eyebrow at him and mouthed “You okay?” as he pretended to listen to one of his engineers. When he finally got to his destination, which was Emma's office, he gently knocked on the glass door and then walked in without waiting for her permission, as was his habit. 

“I’m not even gonna ask,” she said after one quick glance at him, before she noticed the coffee cups he had been carrying and let her expression soften. Slightly, but it was an achievement nonetheless. “Whatever the hell happened, I’m glad. You need to drop the grin though, unless you wanna scare away the rest of the team.”

“God forbid I’m in a good mood,” he said, faking seriousness to his best ability. Which meant she could immediately tell he was fucking with her. 

“Your good mood usually means someone you dislike experiencing torment. Who is it this time?”

“Guess,” he smirked, even though he was well aware Emma's question was entirely rhetorical. 

She just rolled his eyes at him, and continued to shuffle through a stack of papers on her desk, looking very unimpressed. He might've fallen for it, if he didn't know her. But one of the reasons why they worked so well together was that they both found the same people and behaviours annoying, and they both knew that. 

Having figured out she wasn't willing to deal with him anymore, he left one of the coffee cups on her table and headed out to Hank and the rest of the team. 

When he spotted them, Hank was explaining something to the other engineers in a very animated manner. Some of them nodded along to whatever he was saying, while others rubbed their eyes and yawned, clearly not ready for the ideas that were presented to them this early in the morning. 

Finally, Erik walked up to them and, pushing another cup into Hank's hands, momentarily stopped the rush of sentences he wasn't even sure were made of actual human words that were falling from McCoy's mouth at the speed of a machine gun.

“Hey Hank, have you considered slowing down for a moment? It is eight in the morning,” the guy, a couple years younger than him, looked taken aback for all of two seconds before fully turning to him with a newly found energy.

“Oh Erik, it's good you're here. I've actually been telling them about this idea I had about your strategy for Abu Dhabi. I'll have to run it by Emma first, but I think it could be really good if we just–”

“Oh god, don't start again,” to his left, a young woman let out a clearly exaggerated whine. 

Her name was Ororo, and while Hank worked as a strategist and junior race engineer, she happened to be the team’s senior data analyst who would be overseeing the testing process today. 

Erik rarely got to talk to her, as she chose to work remotely from her house in Florence, only driving north when she absolutely had to. And, besides, she mostly talked to Emma anyway. If Erik was considered a terror on track, the two of them were definitely terrors off track.

“When is the track testing scheduled for, again?” he asked no one in particular, conveniently ignoring Hank's awkwardness at his coworker's comment.

A while later he was ushered into the simulator to check out the setup they planned implementing in Abu Dhabi, before the team finally let him run a couple of test laps in his actual car. Emma only joined them then, communicating with him over the radio like usual. 

He could already imagine what it would be like to hear Charles on the other end, a result of their talk the night before. Don't let your engineer be jealous, he said to him, which Erik repeated to Emma further into the night as they went about their debrief. 

She obviously said she was glad she could finally be free from having to work with him, which was to be expected. Still, even if she refused to admit it (as did Erik, majority of the time) Abu Dhabi was about to be a whole emotional mess.

— ◇ —

Back at the garage, right after he got out of the car and out of one of his test suits, he grabbed his phone and typed a quick message to Charles. He had asked him to let him know how the testing would go, since apparently he had nothing better to do now that he was laid off. 

Testing done 👍 

Had some issues with the grip but the team said it's fixable

Otherwise good 💪

Charles's answer came almost instantly.

And here I thought I text like an old man.

Excuse me?

Seriously, you have to drop the emojis, Erik.

Or at least update them a little.

🤌?

?

You drive for an Italian team, don't you?

Erik smiled at that. Back in Qatar, when they had lunch, Charles did mention feeling a little intimidated by having to walk straight into decades’ worth of Italian motorsports history and legacy as an outsider. Emma agreed with him then, reminiscing the time she was terrified the ghost of Enzo Ferrari would haunt her if she didn't show enough appreciation for it.

I'd be wary of the ghost of Enzo Ferrari if I was you.

Then, a beat later.

👻🐎🏎

You have missed your calling. The PR team would love this combo.

God no, don't remind the PR team I exist

Just as he was about to type another message, Ororo walked up to him with a clipboard in hand. She was still absentmindedly writing something down as she looked over his shoulder and smirked.

“I wonder how Fred would feel about you giving test updates to a member of a rival team,” she said like it was meant to be a little jab, he just couldn’t tell how serious. “When is this Xavier joining us, anyway?”

“After the winter break, I would assume,” one of the mechanics sufficed. Erik couldn’t remember his name. It was something French, he seemed to recall. He was pretty sure the guy transferred in together with Fred ages ago. 

“I'm gonna miss Emma,” said Anna, another one of the mechanics, who then wiped her gloves clean on the guy's suit, earning herself a startled yelp. The two began to bicker and soon enough continued their little fight elsewhere, leaving Erik standing with Ororo and her indescribable amounts of intimidating aura.

“She isn't wrong. Frost's a genius. Xavier better be good,” she said and walked away as well. He later saw her talking to Hank and swinging a clipboard at him, possibly not aware that the action she found funny made the younger guy positively scared for his life.

If anything, he thought, we are all going to be haunted by Enzo Ferrari for the rest of our lives for turning his team into a circus.

Well, it could've been worse. He could've been in McLaren. 

— ◇ —

Rumours spread fast and so by five, Erik had already heard about the chaos caused by Charles's completely predictable resignation from three separate sources before Charles messaged him himself. 

I can't believe anyone is acting surprised at this point, Charles's message read as it popped up on Erik's screen just as he was leaving the factory to drive back to his apartment. He stopped in his tracks, unlocking the phone to quickly type the answer before getting into his car. 

It was a Ferrari (well, duh) he bought in celebration of his first race win with the team. Back when he was a teenager, looking at his parents who did everything they could to support his sports career, he never thought about this aspect of being a Formula 1 driver. That was, being so disgustingly rich he bought himself a car as a way of celebrating. It was still a little odd to him now, even though he was beyond happy to be able to pay for a house in Eastern Germany, near the Polish border, that his parents could move into a few years into their retirement.

He drove down the streets of Maranello, seeing names so familiar to him and still so distant. They were all in his shoes once, he was never in theirs. Not yet. 

He saw his phone lighting up repeatedly, Charles's contact appearing on its screen as he typed away about something Erik could not read while driving. Then, a thought occurred to him, as if someone whispered it straight into his ear. 

He took one hand off the wheel (sue him) and unlocked the device to then press the little camera button next to the contact name. It took a couple of rings before the other man's face showed up, with a gentle, pleased smile. He was wearing a dark brown sweater, a nice alternative to either formal wear or team uniform Erik was used to seeing him in.

“I'm driving so I wouldn't be able to respond for a while,” he explained, and somewhere in the back of his mind realized he has been explaining himself a lot these days, at least for someone known for notoriously avoiding any sort of explanation for any of his actions.

“I could've waited, really, Erik,” Charles spoke softly. “It wasn't anything urgent.”

“What was it, then?” he prompted, focusing on the road. 

“Oh, just me complaining,” the other man admitted, a faint hint of shame to his voice.

“Hit me with it,” Erik hummed encouragingly. Emma complained all the time. Mostly about test results or some messy documentation but still. This couldn't be all that different.

“Just the media, you know how they can be. Frankly, some theories are a little ridiculous.”

“Tell me about it.”

Erik barely noticed how quickly the forty or so minutes of their call passed, at least not until he was parking his car in front of his apartment complex. He rarely fell into conversation with somebody with such ease, which made Charles somewhat intriguing of an interlocutor. 

The two of them managed to cover just about every single topic they could think of. From sports media outlets to the rise of prices of housing across Italy. Charles told him he was looking for a place a bit closer to his future workplace, ready to give up the lease on his current place in London. Erik, in a fit of courtesy he had no idea he possessed, offered to help him look.

— ◇ —

He spent the remaining two days before he had to fly to UAE in similar fashion, driving to the factory, spending hours either in the simulator or on track, driving home, hitting the gym, rinse and repeat. 

The only alterations that had been made to his long since established routine were little breaks to text Charles here and there, or a phone call while he was driving or reheating dinner. 

Wednesday evening, he put the phone on speaker as he finally decided to wash the dishes that had been living in the sink full-time for the past week, at least. 

He obviously had a dishwasher he could throw them into, but he found this simple activity very relaxing sometimes, mostly when the atmosphere of an upcoming race was getting to him and he needed to do something with his hands so the anticipation wouldn't drive him crazy. 

They had talked for a while before a topic Erik hated with a passion came up. Social gatherings.

“So? Are you going to the drivers’ dinner?” Charles asked, a little curiously, if his tone was anything to judge by. 

Ah, yes, the drivers’ dinner. 

Many years ago, Lewis Hamilton initiated the tradition of getting all the drivers of the current grid to meet up for dinner at the end of each Formula 1 season. After his retirement, it seemed to have stuck, and so even when most of the drivers who got to experience these dinners in their original form, hosted and organised by the legend himself, retired as well, the idea itself never ceased to exist. 

And so now every year, after a torturous season, Erik had to attend a torturous dinner with all of his rivals, including the ones he'd rather never have to interact with. 

Emma, Fred, and even Darwin who himself sometimes complained about these, were all too biased because of their undying love for the man behind this tradition that they always told him he was exaggerating whenever he called the dinners what they were, a pain in the ass. 

And, don't get him wrong, he had tremendous respect for Hamilton and knew the initiative was coming from a wish to let the drivers put aside their on and off track feud and simply enjoy the company of a group of people that shared an understanding of what their job was like. 

As, of course, most other sports had twice the amount of professional level contestants in a single season that Formula 1 had in all of its existence. 

It was just that he sometimes thought that even Lewis Hamilton who, as everyone knew, was often too nice for his own good, would maybe reconsider his own idea once he had met Simon Niles.

“I am, unfortunately. And before you tell me it's a wonderful initiative and that I should put more respect on Lewis Hamilton's legacy, please be aware I used to have a secret shrine with a photo of him as a teenager,” he barked out a dry laugh. He did, in fact, have one, all those years ago.

“Was it a secret because you were scared of your parents discovering you betrayed Schumacher?” Charles asked, and he could clearly hear the smile in his voice.

“My dad was actually more of a Rosberg fan. Did you know his middle name is Erik?” He smiled to himself remembering his countless arguments with his father during the famous Silver War between the two Mercedes drivers. 

“I did not know that,” was the answer he got. 

“Also, Lewis Hamilton's middle name is Carl. Almost Charles,” he added then, remembering that detail about one of his biggest childhood role models. 

“I would expect no less than this kind of knowledge from someone who had a secret shrine to him,” then a moment later “Also it's not like there's another connection between Lewis Hamilton and the name Charles.”

“You mean that he was knighted by one?”

“I could post what you've just said on Twitter and ruin your whole career.”

“Sorry to be the one telling you this, but your career kinda entirely depends on my career.”

“How very dare you, Erik Lehnsherr.”

— ◇ —

The flight to Abu Dhabi and the first day of practice sessions were rather uneventful. Both he and Logan were quite strong on track. And although it wasn't a real indicator of how either qualifying or the race itself would go, it was still both a good and a bad sign. 

It would be an entertaining weekend, but with the Canadian still having a 10 point lead over him, he needed it to go in a very specific way. It wasn't just a question of who would finish first. In order for him to win, he would need to finish first with Logan finishing fourth or lower. 

Things got even more complicated if he took into consideration a scenario in which he didn't win this time (which he was not exactly willing to do).

He signed some caps on his way out that first day, and signed some more on his way in the next one. Before he had to get into the car and go out on track for another practice session, he decided to text Charles. They didn't talk the day before, and for some reason it had felt weird not to.

Are you in Abu Dhabi?

It was a valid question. With everything that was happening at McLaren and Charles's resignation becoming official even before Ferrari got to make a statement he was signing with them, it was hard to tell whether or not he was even allowed into the garage. 

After all, as Erik had the chance to learn, Brian Xavier made a lot of questionable decisions as the team principal. It didn't go unnoticed either, some people have already called for a change in the office.

While he was waiting for an answer to come, he saw Darwin approaching from the corner of his eye. He locked his phone, and turned to meet his teammate in the middle.

“How are we feeling, Lehnsherr?” he asked, cocking his head at him.

“As always. Bloodthirsty,” he joked in response.

They chatted for a while, before inevitably getting to the subject of Charles, who still hasn't replied.

“Heard your new engineer officially left McLaren this week.”

“He sure did,” he smiled, pleased.

“Angel told me Xavier Senior is losing his mind,” Darwin said, sing-songy. If anyone could really appreciate good gossip, it was definitely him. “He didn't actually expect him to leave.”

Erik had to laugh at that, truly. It was beyond his comprehension, how someone could very deliberately do everything in their power to scare someone away and then act surprised when they succeeded.

“The entire team is panicking. She said they sometimes still reach out to him for guidance, and that Cassidy guy? He's terrified and doesn't know what he's doing.”

“Wait, wait,” he stopped Darwin as the meaning of the words hit him. “You mean to tell me he still helps the team?”

It was beyond odd. Why would he ever do that, he thought. Charles sometimes ended their conversations because he had to answer another call. He wondered if that was what that was about. 

“Xavier hired a lot of youngsters a couple of years ago," Darwin explained. “Most of them worked under Charles, he was like a mentor to them. I don't know the guy, but from the way my sister talked about him, it's about helping them, not the team.” 

Now that made a lot more sense. He was about to question Charles’s self-respect, and now he felt straight up stupid. Of course he offered guidance to these kids, even after he was forced to switch teams. 

They had only known each other for a while, and yet it was so incredibly Charles, he couldn’t believe it wasn't the first thing that came to his mind.

“It's stupid they're not letting him into the garage this week. Niles would be nowhere near the place he is in now if it wasn't for him,” Erik froze about halfway through his teammate's statement.

“They aren't?”

“Yeah, he was asked to return his passes and uniforms yesterday. He didn't tell you?” Darwin looked a little confused. “I figured you know, considering how much time you spend on your phone these days.”

It was a friendly remark, and yet Erik couldn’t help but feel like he was caught red handed. He was just trying to keep good relations with someone he would see every day for, at least, the next two seasons. He was aware it wasn't his usual approach, but it was simply so hard not to like Charles. He was sure Darwin would understand once he finally met him. 

Which, in truth, gave him an idea. If Charles was only asked to return his stuff yesterday, it meant he was probably in Abu Dhabi anyway. He excused himself and went straight to Fred's office. Then, as he was jogging back to the garage to start the practice, he typed another message.

Got you a paddock pass. You're with us today. It's waiting for you at the entry. 

He looked at the text one more time, rolled his eyes, and then fired off another one.

🤌!

Chapter Text

It's not that Charles was surprised he was no longer going to be working for McLaren. It was sort of the entire point of this whole resigning-and-moving-to-an-opposing-team thing. He really wasn't. 

He also, in hindsight, understood why he wasn't allowed to work the Qatar race after doing just fine in the practice sessions and qualifying. It was reasonable, to an extent, not to want that kind of energy in the garage during the race. 

That is, of course, if his (now previous, cheers to that!) driver and his mediocre skills could be saved by any kind of energy other than the one he would be bringing there along with an imaginary neon sign that read “Not gonna be here for much longer, Forza Ferrari or Whatever!” over his very head. 

What he did not expect was to get, for a lack of better description, shut out of his own workplace, at the arguably most important race of the season, even though he clearly stated he would work the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix without an issue to fulfill his contractual duties as the American driver's race engineer. 

So when he was requested to return all of his passes and such, and was simultaneously warned that he could not use them at any point during the weekend under the threat of getting removed from the paddock by security (and he would like to avoid that, believe it or not), he felt a little… Well, one could say, perplexed. 

Especially since he got the unfortunate email while he was at the airport. Waiting to board his plane. To Abu Dhabi. 

And that’s how he ended up stuck on the other side of the world in a hotel with rooms that looked almost too clean to him (or maybe he was already developing paranoid tendencies), where he would be staying until Sunday. With nothing to do. Nothing to kill time and make him forget the feeling of shame and disappointment that burned somewhere deep in his chest when he read that email, the emotion expanding within him with every line. 

And, yes, he could go sightseeing. No, he wasn't in the mood. 

So, really, you couldn't possibly blame him for punching the air and maybe letting out a squeal he wasn't aware his voice was capable of producing when the message from Erik came. If that was something that happened.

He looked through his suitcase (he wasn't in the mood to unpack it either), and eventually decided on a white linen shirt (“Breathable fabrics,” Raven said when he was facetiming her, asking for advice, as one does if they have a sister that's a model.) and a pair of his trusted chinos. 

It felt weird to be picking an outfit for the Grand Prix, like he was barely a fan, a guest. It was still better than spending the rest of the weekend completely miserable and watching the drivers on TV in his hotel room, but he couldn't help but feel a little sting of jealousy when he realized he would spend yet another race watching from the sidelines, instead of doing something meaningful. 

He was about to spiral again, when he saw them. Tucked away in his suitcase, were brand new red sunglasses. Brand new Ferrari red sunglasses. 

They were a gift from Raven, who somehow managed to ship them to him in what must've been record time and insisted he brought them with him, which he obviously did, as they were now staring at him almost, some of the light peeking through the hotel blinds and reflecting off the red film covering the lenses. He picked them up, and thought back to the message Erik had sent him. You're with us today. Surely, a little sign of that couldn't hurt.

— ◇ —

The circuit was only a short walk from the hotel he booked this time, and so in no time he was standing at the gate explaining to the guy working the shift he was supposed to pick up his pass. It took a minute, but he eventually was allowed to enter. That was when he heard someone calling his name by one of the entries.

“Angel!” he exclaimed when he was finally able to spot her beautiful wavy hair, cascading down her shoulders, mostly covering the wings she had tattooed on her back. 

She wasn’t wearing her uniform, which seemed a little weird to him, but he didn’t get to wonder about the reason behind that for too long because she was already jogging up to him with two cups of coffee in her hands. 

A worried expression flashed across her face for a split second before she asked: “Didn’t you get the email?”

She seemed a little distressed to even be asking that question, and he really couldn’t hold it against her. To spare her, he held up the Ferrari full access pass, now hanging around his neck. She had brought a hand up to her eyebrows to read what it said before she looked at him again, now smiling. 

“Ohhh. That’s nice!”

“I’ll make sure to pass your best wishes to your brother,” and just like that, he put a panicked expression back on her face. 

He slapped himself mentally, of course, it had been a secret after all. He only found out a couple of days ago, and he had been her supervisor this whole time. Mentioning it so casually probably wasn’t the best idea. 

With the way she was looking at him like a deer caught in headlights he kind of started panicking himself. Was this the reason why she wasn’t in her team uniform? Did his father suddenly decide to run a background check on all team members that worked directly with him?

“You’re not in uniform,” he said, a little dumbly. 

That seemed to get the girl in front of him out of her little trance, and now she was laughing, possibly at his expression. Which was a confused one, to put it lightly.

“I think it’s ugly, so I don’t wear it when I don’t have to. I’m here to watch anyway,” she shrugged and took a sip of her coffee. “I have to say, I kinda forgot you’re gonna be working with my brother’s teammate, and would find out one way or another. Neither of us really hides it, but we don’t talk about it much either.”

“I see.” He began walking, gesturing to her to join him since they were going in the same direction anyway. Then after a brief silence, “You never thought about joining your brother?”

When he thought about it now, it’d be really nice to have a familiar face on the team, someone who got how he liked to do things and was overall nice to be around. Someone like Angel.

“Not in a million years. Drivers have too short contracts, and I couldn’t switch teams every two seasons in case my brother decides he wants to go somewhere else,” it was a reasonable approach. In all fairness, Charles barely thought far ahead to consider what would happen if Erik decided not to re-sign with Ferrari in a couple of years. And he probably should have. Angel must’ve noticed his consternation, because she quickly shook her head and added: “but I think your move was a good choice!”

“I sure hope so,” he said, looking down at the sunglasses hooked over the front of his shirt, before putting them on, the world around him immediately gaining an intense red tint to it. 

They walked for a while, before finally arriving in front of the Ferrari garages. Above their heads, two familiar faces, one to Charles, one to Angel. It felt silly to even mention them in the same sentence, how could a bunch of calls and texts he shared with Erik compare to years Angel spent with her brother growing up, right? 

But the girl next to him looked up at the photo of her brother like she was happy to see him, even like this. And when he found the blue-green (here looking more green than blue) eyes of poster-Erik, he found he too, was happy to see him, even like this. So was it actually that silly? Yeah, probably. Not that he cared much.

“Nice glasses,” she said finally, smiling at him, “they suit you well.”

And just like that she was gone, waving at him as she walked further down the paddock to Niles’s garage, as he stood in front of Erik’s, hesitant to walk in. This time, it was Emma Frost, who somehow managed to make Ferrari’s uniform look like high couture, who called his name.

“Charles! Nobody told me you would be joining us today,” she said loudly, making a few heads turn in their general direction. She shook his hand, looking at him expectantly.

“It was a sort of last minute decision. I’d love to tell you where it came from, but…” instead of finishing his sentence, he fished the phone out of his pocket and simply showed Emma the messages he got from Erik barely an hour prior. 

She looked at them for a second, mumbling something Charles couldn’t make out under her breath. When she caught his questioning gaze, she laughed.

“I am so happy somebody else will be the victim of that moron from now on,” still, she sounded more amused than anything else. 

Erik had always described her as equally scary as the whole sport has been painting him, and, frankly, Charles couldn’t really understand either opinion. The two of them seemed, at least to him, like they were in on a joke nobody else understood, rather than simply intimidating or unapproachable. 

With Emma, he guessed he could just relate to her and thus wasn’t really scared, maybe just impressed by how quick her wit was sometimes. With Erik, he couldn’t yet figure it out.

“Anyway, they are solving some issue with the barriers so it might take a while before we’re clear to race again,” she added, sounding entirely over it. That natural nonchalance, her and Erik had in common. 

“How is the practice going so far?” he asked, conversationally. Truth was, he wasn’t in the mood to put any of the previous practice sessions or even check the results. He was busy being miserable. As one does.

“Mercedes is struggling a little, I’d say it’s a shame, but you know how it is…” he nodded in agreement. Howlett was, after all, the only person stopping Erik from becoming the runner up in the driver standings. “Erik’s doing well, he should be fine, if he keeps this up tomorrow and on Sunday.”

He saw something like hopefulness show up on Frost’s face for a moment. He figured it made sense. It was their last season together, to finish it by snatching the second spot from the guy who has been holding onto it from the very beginning of the year, would definitely be a good parting gift for both of them. 

“What finishes are we talking about here? For Erik to end up in second, that is,” he asked, putting his sunglasses on top of his head now so Emma’s face could stop blending in with her shirt.

“First and fourth or lower, second and seventh or lower, in case Nash wins, and I think he might, since it’s his last race and all.”

Before Charles got to answer, he heard a scandalized fake gasp from behind him.

“Take that back,” said Erik, who suddenly appeared right next to the two of them, like he was teleporting from one place to another. Charles really needed to check if he didn’t have any sort of cult history. 

He maybe would’ve brought that up now, if it wasn’t for the distraction in front of his very eyes. 

The past two weeks had been a whirlwind of crazy disappointments and even crazier positive surprises. So much so, he never once noticed that the man that offered him a job through a post-race press conference was, to be honest (and completely objective at that!) quite attractive. 

That realization seemed to hit him now with double the force, as Erik stood in front of him in the black Ferrari fireproofs hugging his broad shoulders, his racing suit halfway off, hanging low at his hips, and so making his already slim waist appear even smaller. 

It was difficult not to look, and, frankly, Charles felt a little offended on the behalf of the general public for not noticing it earlier. 

He guessed it was pretty unthoughtful of him, but it still was more tasteful than staring Erik up and down now, so he figured the best approach would be to simply ignore the thought, put it away in a corner of his mind far enough it would not surface anytime soon. It’s not like it was anybody’s business. 

He put on one of his better trained smiles, “Erik, it's really good to see you. Thank you for the passes, I would've died of boredom in my hotel room.”

Erik only looked at him a little strangely and shrugged, before a smirk reappeared on his face. Attractive face, with sharp cheekbones and prominent jawline, for the sake of descriptivism.

“Well, news travels fast, I couldn’t possibly let you miss the race,” he explained, seeming entirely unbothered. “Speaking of, what was that you were saying, Emma?”

“Nothing you’d understand anyway,” she answered, theatrically tossing her hair back. 

They bickered for a while as Charles was entirely taken up by zoning out and beating himself up over how inattentive he must’ve been this whole time. 

He considered himself a quite perceptive individual, and this mishap was simply a stain on his honour. 

So much for not overthinking it. 

He wasn’t attracted to him, all of a sudden (God forbid, really, that would’ve been beyond unwise), but you don’t need to drink out of fine china to appreciate it, right? And he clearly failed to appreciate the hand painted set in front of him, or whatever Erik would’ve been in this metaphor, which, the more he considered it, the less sense it made. 

— ◇ —

“Charles, I need you to know you are not well in the head,” is what Raven told him hours later, when he, even more unwisely than being into his future co-worker would be, brought it up. 

“Well, that’s just rude,” he countered with a sigh. 

He got to watch the rest of the Friday practice, and then walked with Emma and Erik back to the hotel, as most of the Ferrari team seemed to also be staying there. He promised he would go down for dinner with them later, so he really needed to get this off his chest, and who else could understand him better than his sister. She didn’t, it turned out.

“So you’re not attracted to him?” she asked, for what must’ve been the six hundredth time since he called her mere minutes ago.

“Yes, as I’ve already told you, multiple times.” Surely it couldn’t be that hard to comprehend.

“But you’ve now realized he is attractive, and you feel bad for not realizing it earlier?” See? She was almost there.

“Precisely.”

“Charles, you do know I love and care for you, right?” she asked, tone as if she was talking to a child that was on the verge of tears. He hummed, letting her continue. “Out of all non-issues to ever be a non-issue, this is a non-issue the most.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she probably was, it wasn’t anything serious after all. 

Just, a weird thing to happen. He usually noticed if someone was attractive straight away, observations and analysis were literally required of him at all times. Fine china and all that. It was strange to completely overlook that, especially since Erik turned out to be a rather enjoyable companion, and it’s always easier to identify the advantages of someone you like.

— ◇ —

Still, there was no real reason for him to dwell on that, and he was already fully at peace with this conclusion, when Erik knocked on his hotel door an hour later.

“I thought we were supposed to meet downstairs?” he said, a little questioningly as he opened the door to him. He was wearing a black shirt and a pair of jeans, which he was very clearly dissatisfied with. 

Charles could swear he replied to a text from Erik about how Emma categorically forbid him from walking to the hotel restaurant in a pair of sweats because “the place was too classy and she had an image to keep”, although now he couldn’t recall exactly what he said. 

Although he did choose a neater cardigan to wear than the one he initially changed into while on the phone with Raven because of that text, keeping in mind how quickly he could lose Emma’s approval according to countless of stories told by Erik during their many conversations.

“Emma went to see if Ororo would join us, so I decided to get you in case you considered bailing,” answered Erik, lightheartedly. With his words in his ears, Charles closed the hotel room door, and began walking towards the lift. 

He raised an eyebrow at the second name while doing so, since he didn’t recognize it.

“Senior data analyst, you’ll be working together. Well, texting, mostly, unless she finally decides the factory is interesting enough to come there more than once a month,” Erik explained and pressed the button to call the lift to their floor. 

He was about to say something else, but its arrival seemed to throw him off. When they got to the restaurant, located two levels underground, Emma and Ororo were already waiting for them. The second woman had white hair, a couple of shades lighter than Emma’s frosty blonde locks, and looked equally reserved as her, at least at first sight. 

Really, where was Ferrari growing these terrifying women?

“Charles Xavier, it’s good to meet you,” he outstretched his hand to her, which she took with a small, polite smile.

“Ororo Munroe, it’s my pleasure.” He wasn’t sure if it really was or if she was just saying that for the sake of it, but then she shot Emma a look, to which Frost nodded with a smirk, so whatever exam that had been, he thought he passed it.

— ◇ —

“So, Charles, any plans for the winter break?” asked Munroe, twisting a small desert fork between her slim fingers. 

She was definitely more talkative than Emma, but still extremely classy about it, every line seemed well rehearsed. The entire place seemed too small and common for her exquisite manners, like she was royalty at least.

“I’ll probably spend it with my sister. We both travel a lot for work, so we don’t get to see each other much,” he took a sip of tea he had ordered, unable to deny himself that little comfort.

“Is she also in the industry?” was the question that followed, to which the four of them laughed. If you can call this shitshow that, was the thought that hung in the air, although it might as well have been something Erik had said.

“No, she’s a model,” he said, as a hum of appreciation followed.

“Maybe you and Raven could join us for the Alps trip this year?” said Erik, suddenly. 

Charles only looked up at him and tilted his head with an unspoken what? on the tip of his tongue. Emma rolled his eyes at the man, but before she got to say something, Ororo seemed to visibly light up.

“That’s a great idea! I didn’t know you had those, Lehnsherr.”

“I’m full of surprises, Munroe.”

“May I know what this great idea is about?” he interrupted, earning himself a sigh from Emma.

“Erik and Ororo love skiing. That’s the only thing they ever talk and agree about.”

Erik then turned back to him, taking up the explanation from there, “We organize a trip every year during the winter break, we go skiing with a bunch of Ferrari people or whoever wants to tag along. Emma swears she hates these trips, but she never missed one.”

“Darwin and Angel can’t go this year, because of a family reunion. You and your sister should totally join us,” added Ororo, and Charles could definitely see what the other woman meant, as it was the first time the entire evening she was this animated. 

Charles thought about their offer. He knew Raven would agree straight away, hell, she would probably convince him to go in case he wasn’t sure, so that wasn’t an issue. He wasn’t exactly a fan of the cold, and wasn’t too fond of skiing, but maybe he would get away with staying indoors with Emma. 

Besides, pre-season bonding with his future co-workers couldn’t hurt. There wasn’t much he could say to decline, not that he really wanted to. He just needed to be casual about this, and not think too long about the fact that they had already considered him a member of the team. Shouldn’t be too hard.

“I’ll talk to my sister and let you know, how about that?” he offered, and the conversation continued to flow until they all decided to retire to their rooms. Erik insisted he’d walk him to his, which was entirely unnecessary, but he wouldn’t hear it.

“Talk to your sister, really,” he said, as they arrived at Charles’s door.

“I will, I promise.”

“If you don’t, I will just message her myself. She’s famous, after all.”

“Please, do not,” he swiped his key card and then turned his head one last time, “goodnight, Erik.”

“Goodnight, Charles.”

— ◇ —

Sooo, how would you feel about skiing in the Alps?

Charles, you hate skiing

I’d love that

Chapter Text

Erik comes second in the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. 

Mercedes fumble in the qualifying the day before, and Darwin does a brilliant job at holding Logan off, making him finish in an unfortunate seventh place. Close to keeping his advantage in the drivers’ standings over Erik, not close enough. Missing out on the runner up spot by two points, it certainly isn’t the ending he hoped for. Erik doesn’t feel too sorry for him. 

And he feels a lot that weekend, which is quite unusual for him.

First of all, he feels bittersweet. 

He had accomplished his goal for the season, yet still wished he could give Emma her final win, a parting gift. The victories were, after all, as much hers as they were his. He knows she’s way past minding it, but when has he ever been the bigger person? 

Still, he feels for Robert, who gave a beautiful final bow to his fans after a successful career. The retiring world champion was a rival as any other, and yet, it’s hard to keep track of points and podium places when someone like him decides to step down. Even for Erik, known for keeping track even when it’s not quite appropriate.

He feels excited, when Charles congratulates him after the race and says him and his sister were gonna join the Ferrari and friends skiing trip. He really was ready to message Raven about this.

He feels bored, after the press conference number eight million seventy three thousand one hundred and forty six. (There were two. And the post-race interviews. Sue him.) 

He talks to reporters for what feels like hours, until they’ve had enough of him and his half-assed answers. He could do better. He won’t.

Most of all, he feels tired. 

It had been a hell of a season. He wishes he was home already, sleeping through most of the next two weeks, before flying to Germany to spend Hanukkah with his parents, and then straight to a ski resort in Switzerland.

He also feels mad. 

It started at the drivers’ dinner.

— ◇ —

“Erik! Over here!” he heard Darwin before he saw him. 

He was waving at him from across the fancy Japanese restaurant the drivers were dining at this year. When he approached his teammate, he realized he was talking to Alex Summers, the younger brother of the Mercedes team principal, and the brother-in-law of Howlett’s race engineer.

“Hey, Erik,” said the blonde guy, smiling and shaking his hand. “Congrats.”

“Thanks, man. Next season I’m not settling for second,” he answered, putting on one of his shark smiles.

“I think you’ll need to, Lehnsherr,” a low voice came from behind him, and he didn’t even need to look at who it was. 

When he turned around, as expected, Logan stood with arms crossed right in front of him, an eyebrow raised in a challenging fashion.

“Will I?” he shot back, and let the tense silence drag for a little before the two of them started laughing. 

The drivers’ dinners had their own rules, almost like the very spirit of Lewis Hamilton was possessing all twenty drivers the moment they entered a restaurant in Abu Dhabi.

“Congratulations, man, really,” Logan said after a while, clasping his shoulder a little too hard. The man was so buff Erik often wondered how he even fit into an F1 car. “You got me good.”

“Sorry about that quali.” He wasn’t, but again, it’s not like he could defy the spirit of Sir Lewis Hamilton.

“No, you’re not.” Thank God, or whoever else was up there, Logan wasn’t stupid.

“No, I’m not,” he admitted, and then looked around, not sure who to address his next question at. “Who chose this restaurant, anyway? Didn’t we have sushi last year?”

“I believe I did,” another voice joined in, this time with a clear American accent, luckily not the one that made Erik’s skin crawl. Nash seemed to spot their little group and decided to join in. “And since I’m the world champion here, you two can sit down, and appreciate my choice.”

“Sure thing, Cap,” answered Logan and began looking for a place to sit at the long table they had booked. Erik didn’t have much choice, as Darwin clearly made that decision for him. 

It took, as it usually did, at least another hour before all the drivers gathered, and luckily, Niles was absent for most of it. 

At some point somebody even suggested pulling a little Verstappen-Russell joke on him, but as much as Erik loved humiliating the motherfucker, he wasn’t gonna risk a scenario where instead of moving his chair elsewhere, he’d actually sit next to him. That was a little much even for him. And if Lewis Hamilton himself turned up, it still would not make him agree to it. 

So he ended up sitting between Darwin and Kurt Wanger, who he sometimes cracked jokes in German at throughout the night. The Alpine driver wasn’t too eager to laugh at them, but he was overall rather quiet. Which made him an even better neighbour at the table. 

Especially when a too loud discourse over football broke out on the other end of it, Summers gesticulating wildly and yelling out every other word.

Eventually, when the McLaren first seater arrived, Erik made sure to act the right amount of absorbed by whatever Logan was currently saying, not to notice him walking in. 

And when the time for their annual group picture came, he made sure to stand far enough he couldn’t see him out of the corner of his eye, and not far enough to seem intentional. That would be, on the other side of the restaurant. 

He really did everything in his power. He socialized! He was mindful of subjects not to bring up. Like the unfair advantage of spoiled brats in the sport, or the society’s perception of public temper tantrums thrown by adult men. 

Everything that followed? Not his fault. This one time, truthfully and genuinely.

It was about the time they ordered deserts. Logan and the drivers closer to him were after a few drinks each. 

Erik’s side of the table was holding up a little better, maybe except for the Aston Martin’s, three and four seats down from him, who were both very eager to celebrate the fourth spot they earned their team in the constructors’ championship, pushing McLaren down to fifth. 

To be honest, Erik was ready to pay for a round or six for them, for that alone. He was feeling generous like that.

“Hey, Simon, what’s going on with your race engineer, anyway?” someone asked, and Erik would soon be unable to recall who it was. 

He would, however, remember immediately becoming more alert and feeling Darwin’s gaze on him. 

He would remember locking his jaw, and staring straight ahead, waiting to see if the answer would come.

It did.

“Well, he got fired,” a lie, “didn’t even have the guts to work the last two races, after I called him out,” another lie. 

The drivers’ dinners had their own rules. 

One of them was not to start shit. 

Another one was not to escalate shit. 

Shit was started, and so Erik would escalate it.

“He resigned,” he said, trying to keep his tone even, like he didn’t want to bash Niles’s head with a rock, “and was told to return his passes before he even got to Abu Dhabi.”

A few heads turned in his direction, everyone at the table suddenly becoming weirdly quiet. And Erik waited, like a predator, for Niles to move, to continue.

“And who told you that?” Niles asked, mockingly. It was exactly what he needed.

“The most competent member of your team, who you lost, because both you and your team principal are braindead,” he hissed, and he’d swear he could see Wagner moving away from him in his seat, while Darwin’s hands twitched in his lap, clearly ready to stop him, in case he actually managed to obtain a rock in the nearest future.

“Chill, Lehnsherr,” said the man, in an exaggerated German accent. 

Then, in his own this time: “No need to get so pressed over some low-budget replacement. What would your team think? We’re not in karting anymore.”

As the last part landed, Erik could clearly see confusion around the table, from Summers to Nash. None of them knew. 

None of them could understand that Niles remembered something Erik would never forget. Because it was what had been driving him, all these years. 

The feeling of humiliation after he scrambled to find a cheaper coach that would take him in mid-season and not drop him after a single week because of an attitude he could never quite unlearn. 

Because he was a teenager, because he got hurt, because he promised himself he would never let it happen again. 

The feeling of accomplishment every time he stood on the top spot of the podium, because in his mind, it was still that scrawny kid who cried in secret because his parents did everything they could, and it still wasn’t enough, lifting up each of the trophies he had won. 

Another thing none of them knew was that it somehow wasn’t what angered him the most. 

Erik felt mad, and this one time, it wasn’t for the boy he once was. 

It was for a boy he never got to know, who followed in his father’s footsteps, only to be pushed away without a second thought. It was for a boy with frighteningly blue eyes, and the warmest smile Erik had ever seen, who seemed to get along with every single person he ever encountered, who was easy to talk to, who Erik wanted to know more about, wanted to become his friend. 

Who certainly wasn’t to replace or to be replaced. 

“What on Earth is that supposed to mean?” he rose from his seat without realizing. 

He thought he could hear a sharp inhale somewhere to his right, probably from Darwin. 

“Guys,” tried Alex, but Erik only abruptly turned his head in his direction and glared at him, and he immediately shut up.

“You're still mad about that one time?” asked Niles, and for a second he wasn't able to tell what he meant by that. Oh, yes, the karting comment. It should be the thing that angered him the most. It wasn’t. Not the point now.

“How about you do us all a favour and mind your business,” his voice was entirely venom now, “and don't speak on my engineers again.”

It was Simon’s turn to look confused. He squinted at him, as if blindsided by what he had just said, and then snorted, ugly.

“So much fuss over DEI hires.”

Three things happened at the same time. 

First, Darwin grabbed Erik's arm before he could smash it on the table. Erik didn't think he could hate him any more in that moment. 

Second, Logan turned in his seat and straight up started calling Niles names. Erik didn’t think he could love him any more in that moment.

Third, as Simon was about to say something else, Robert rose from his seat and said, “I think that’s enough, everyone.”

He shook his head and continued with: “Erik, Logan, why don't you two get some fresh air and calm down, while I talk to Simon?”

Erik really felt like arguing, but the thing about Nash was that you really couldn't say no to him once he put his dad voice to use. Logan seemed to share that sentiment, so the two of them shared a look and then begrudgingly stood up. 

They walked into the cool night air, Logan immediately leaning against the wall. As the ringing in Erik's ears subdued a little, he turned to look at the Canadian driver.

“Thanks, man.”

“I wasn't doing it for you, Lehnsherr. But I'm not gonna stand for discrediting female engineers, not when I know mine's a genius,” said Logan, flexing his fingers. He totally related to that. 

However, there was still one thing he couldn't figure out. He guessed a second opinion might help.

“Why did he say it plural, though?” Logan only looked at him questioningly. “He said hires, and how would Charles count as a diversity hire?”

The expression on the man's face shifted then, into something sour, before he raised his eyebrows at him with a pointed look. Oh. For fuck's sake. 

He was ready to storm back in, but then Logan raised his hand, signalling him to stop. Whatever positive emotions he felt towards him back inside, were about to be forgotten.

“Robert told us to get out,” he said like it was supposed to mean something to him, “Niles is getting an earful.”

Well, that did make sense. And the vision alone made Erik smile. 

It didn't exactly stop his anger, even more intense now that he realised what the McLaren driver meant, using baseless assumptions to further disrespect the one singular reason he was ever able to podium. But it was nice to think about nonetheless.

A couple of minutes later, Darwin emerged from the restaurant. He was wearing a sort of satisfied smile that was definitely more than they needed to draw necessary conclusions.

When the three of them walked back inside, the rest of the drivers were already sat at their table, with the exception of Niles and Nash who stood right next to Darwin's seat. 

Robert had his arms crossed, while Simon looked like someone pissed into his cereal. 

Small victories, Erik reminded himself, even though he still wished he possessed some sort of telekinetic powers just so he could, let's say, throw a stadium at him.

As they approached, Robert nodded in their direction, as if urging the younger man to do something. He clearly didn't expect the something to be Niles grabbing his stuff and leaving the restaurant. 

“I told him he could apologize to the two of you or leave. Guess he made his decision,” said the (now ex) Red Bull driver and invited them to sit like nothing happened.

By the end of the night, all the drivers agreed they would not let the news of the incident spread.

— ◇ —

The news spread, as they always did. 

By Monday afternoon, every Formula 1 news account was theorising about the reason behind Erik's and Simon's fight. (Logan seemed to always be omitted by these posts) He was actually quite shocked to find out none of the drivers said anything about what happened. Not that it was at all hard to make that guess. 

By Monday evening, every Formula 1 news account was posting a photo of Charles Xavier alongside their theories. 

By Monday night, Erik was sick of it. 

By Tuesday morning, he ignored at least ten texts and two calls from Charles, eighty texts from Emma, and a single call from Fred. He couldn't tell which of these he should be the most worried about. 

Then, there were countless journalists trying to get him to say something. He figured he could, even if only to stop Niles from being the first one to make a statement, because if he knew one thing, it was that the guy had no integrity and would soon start yapping to the press. 

He might've actually done that, had he had anything other to say than that Niles is a little bitch. 

Finally, when an unnamed number called him that Tuesday, he decided he'd had enough. He picked up the call, and was ready to curse out whoever was on the other side, until a familiar voice spoke up.

“Hello, Erik.”

“Charles? What is this?” he asked, beyond confused. Why would Charles call him from a different number?

“You weren't replying,” oh, right, that made sense, “so I figured I'll try this.”

“Whose number is this?” he questioned, for a lack of better response. 

He did feel kind of bad for ghosting everybody, not that he'd ever admit it. He couldn't even explain why he was so affected by the dinner incident. He just knew it pissed him off, and he needed a couple of days to cool down so he wouldn't commit a crime.

“Oh, it's my sister's, you can say hi to her,” Charles explained, and then a female voice spoke, a little further from the phone, “Hi Erik!”

So that was Raven. Charles talked a lot about her, and even without it, Erik had found out she was a model while carrying out his little research about the man, not that long ago. Although it felt like an entirely different lifetime now. 

“Hello Raven,” he said, a little louder to make sure she heard him. 

“Now, would you mind calling me back? I'd prefer my sister not to have reasons to eavesdrop,” Charles said, fondness clear in his voice. Raven seemed to have protested on the other end of the line, but Erik couldn’t quite make out what she was saying.

“Yes, of course, I'll call you,” he said and hung up. Then, he called Charles's actual number.

“So. I take it the dinner didn't go well,” was the first thing he heard when the other man picked up the phone. 

There was also some background noise, like Charles was moving some stuff around, and then, after he heard a door closing, everything went quiet again. He really must've been serious about not giving his sister reasons to eavesdrop.

“How'd you guess, huh?” he answered, noncommittally.

“I'm perceptive,” Charles huffed out, matching his attitude.

“I can see that,” he said, unable to tell where the somewhat tense atmosphere was coming from. 

Charles couldn't possibly be that mad about Erik briefly ignoring him.

“What was it about? Darwin wouldn't tell me, and I'm horribly curious,” the tough facade dropped a little with the next thing he said, although that wasn't what caught Erik's attention the most.

“Wait, you talked to Darwin?” it was a question that held at least three others. Among them, how and why Charles would even contact Erik's teammate. 

“I wouldn't have needed to, if you had picked up my calls. Or responded to my texts,” said the voice on the other side of the phone, a voice that didn't seem to be Charles's own, at least not fully. 

He didn’t sound angry, yet there was a certain tightness that could be heard in every other vowel he pronounced, like they were getting consistently stuck in his throat.

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Just– didn't feel like talking,” it was, well, partially true. 

He didn't feel like talking most of the time. Less often with Charles, he had to admit, but they hadn't known each other long enough for it to be a pattern worth paying any mind to.

“You could've said so. I was worried,” Charles sighed and now that was something Erik would like to pay any and all mind to. 

“You were worried?” he asked, a little incredulously, then, “Really?”

“Yes, Erik, really.” 

It felt strange. 

People never worried about him, about the Ferrari first seater, number 93, Erik Lehnsherr. 

Well, his parents did, but that was an entirely different matter, they were his parents. Fred sometimes did, but, really, he was kinda like a bonus parent so he didn’t count either. 

A coworker worrying about him? No, that type of thing was unusual. Was Charles a coworker though? Not yet, his mind sufficed, and, yeah, that was true. What was he then? 

A friend? He wanted him to be, but he didn’t want to assume anything, especially if Charles wasn’t feeling the same way. Would it still be a stretch to call him that if Charles had just admitted he was worried about him? 

He figured he’d been quiet for a bit too long, so he decided to deal with that later. 

Also, what if Charles could read minds, and picked up on any of this? That would be embarrassing. And maybe a little useful, because then Charles could answer his questions without him needing to actually ask them. 

“So you won't let it go, right?” the question he did ask was, to be quite honest, a little out of the blue, but that was unfortunately the best he could come up with at the moment.

“Not really, no.” what was it that Charles would not let go? Ah, the reason behind the dinner drama. It seemed so irrelevant now, Erik almost laughed.

“It's nothing, though, he was just being a jerk, as fucking always,” he said, sounding totally not at all suspicious.

What he was met with was actually a long silence. A very long silence. Long to the point of being uncomfortable silence. And that was for Erik, who rarely found any silence uncomfortable. 

Charles was simply letting him know he saw right through him and would not move on until he decided to tell the truth. Which wasn’t ideal, because it meant the probability of Charles being a mind-reader just got higher. It was still unclear whether or not that was a good thing. 

As the silence dragged on, Erik realized he, too, could play this game, if he only wanted to. He was exactly the type of person to sit in silence for God knows how long until the other person broke and hung up. 

The problem was, he didn’t want Charles to hang up.

“He bragged about the team firing you, I corrected him, he brought Emma into this, Logan started cursing him out, Robert told him to apologize and he refused, he left, the drivers agreed not to speak on it again. That's all there is to it,” was what he settled for the next time he spoke. 

It was, again, true enough. He would not, could not, let him know what else went down. It wasn't even the question of whether what Niles implied was true or not that bothered him, he honestly couldn't care less, even despite considering himself a curious person. 

But to think the McLaren driver was so quick to say something of the sort, in a sport where it was guaranteed to cause problems, that he couldn’t bear. Still, the other man didn't need to know any of it. Come to think of it, had it happened to a friend of his, he wouldn't have wanted them to know. 

“If that's the case, then…” Charles cut off, like he was considering what his next words should be. “I'm sorry you had to spend the dinner like that because of me.”

Now this was just wrong. Not weird, not unusual, not unclear, it was wrong, Charles was getting it all wrong. Wasn’t he supposed to be a mind-reader, how could he get it so wrong?

“What are you even talking about?” he asked, sounding a little panicked for no particular reason, “I never wanted to go anyway, and if anyone is responsible for what happened, it's that moron.”

Maybe he really should've found that rock. 

Was it why Charles was worried about him? Because he heard the rumours and just felt bad? Felt responsible? Should it affect him this much? 

He was a white German man, he was a millionaire, he was Erik Lehnsherr, the number one example of not getting affected by what others felt ever. 

But Charles felt responsible, Charles felt worried but for all the wrong reasons, because Charles felt like he was obligated to be, and it might’ve been the worst thing in the world. Not very white German millionaire of him. 

He couldn’t get himself to care when Charles Xavier was worried about him because he thought he had to, and not because he, let’s say, just wanted to be worried about him. As Erik’s friend. 

So, obviously, when Charles was not replying for a long time, Erik decided that his telepathic abilities (that Charles definitely didn’t have, he was sure of it now) be screwed, and asked:

“Are we friends?”

“I, uh, and what does that have to do with anything?” Charles finally answered, which was only a small win considering he did it to dodge the question Erik had just asked him.

“Because I would defend my friend. If you agree that we’re friends, then I will be able to assure you that defending you did not inconvenience me in any capacity,” he said, thinking he was being exceptionally reasonable. 

Perhaps it wasn’t the most common way to offer someone friendship, but when was anything he did ever common or normal.

“I guess I’d be fine being your friend, then,” he expected a little more enthusiasm from Charles to be fair, but his voice sounded like he wasn’t fully sure what Erik was even saying to him, so he would forgive him this once. 

After all, that’s what friends do. And they were now friends. Erik smiled to himself at the thought.

Chapter Text

“Charles, seriously, that scarf is a crime,” said Raven, stepping out of the cab. She’s been going on and on about it the entire drive to the resort they were staying at.

“God forbid I want to enjoy the break and not fall sick on the first day,” he shot back, theatrically tightening said scarf around his neck and then fishing for his wallet in the pockets of his dark brown coat in order to tip the driver generously for offering to help them with their (quite heavy) luggage. 

“It’s not even that cold!” she protested, although the tip of her nose and her cheeks were already blushing furiously from the cold. Good thing he packed a spare scarf specifically for her.

He was about to say something, when he spotted a woman waving at him from the other side of the street. 

Her hair, barely contained by the beanie she was wearing, was so red it could just as well be glowing and he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. He immediately recognized her to be Jean Grey, Logan’s race engineer and the wife of the Mercedes team principal. Who, by the way, was standing right next to her, looking at her in a way that could only be described as awestruck. 

Charles waved back at Grey and then watched as she skipped across the street with very little consideration for her own wellbeing, which didn’t seem to escape her husband either, judging by the look of absolute horror as he watched his spouse almost get run over by a car.

“Charles! It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she extended a hand to him, smiling widely.

“The pleasure is mine.” he answered, shaking her hand. That was when Jean seemed to notice Raven, who had been struggling to adjust the strap of her handbag up until now.

“And you must be Raven,” she addressed his sister, and before he noticed, they were already in their own world, Raven probably still criticising his fashion choices judging by how loudly Jean was laughing. 

Resigned, he turned to Scott, who hadn't said anything yet and was only looking at the unfolding scene with a look of sheer exasperation. 

“It’s good to see you again, Mr Summers,” he said, a bit hesitantly.

“Oh, please, we’re peers,” the man sounded mildly offended.

“You do play golf with my father, though,” he joked in reply. 

The two of them had met a couple of times before, but never really got to talk besides exchanging pleasantries. And if they were to spend an entire week together, that wouldn’t be enough. 

He said as much to Erik when he told him a week or so ago that Grey and Summers would be joining the ski trip over the phone. 

Erik only laughed and said he’d surely be fine, since he made friends everywhere he went. Erik, who himself was his friend now. A recent development, and a really nice one at that, he had to admit. Even if it was still a little weird. 

Although treating a friendship offer as some sort of business exchange did seem to be something incredibly Erik Lehnsherr like. Unfortunately, that did not stop the offer from seeming quite unbelievable.

“Yes, and I’m terrible at it. I don’t think they’re going to invite me again anytime soon,” Scott said, half-jokingly. 

Half, Charles could guess, because as the youngest team principal of a Formula 1 team in history, he was bound to feel like an outsider, probably even while doing something as trivial as playing golf with other principals, Brian Xavier included. 

“It can’t be that bad, Scott,” he said, deliberately, earning himself a smile from the man. 

Upon realizing the two women that were just with them disappeared, they decided to follow them inside, Summers offering to help Charles with his luggage, not sparing him from a comment about how heavy it was. (He liked being well prepared, sue him.)

When they entered the hotel, what welcomed them was a cozy lobby that was all wood and velvet, with a small golden bell at the front desk that might have been the most fitting detail Charles has ever seen. 

He looked around in awe, and saw Scott nodding in agreement from the corner of his eye. When he stopped admiring the decor, Raven had just received two sets of keys to the room they were sharing. 

Once she spotted the two of them, she ran up to them with a smile.

“I got our keys, I was about to ask for some help with the luggage,” and before Charles could tell her there was no need, a familiar voice beat him to it.

“I’d be glad to help,” Erik said with a smirk, walking over. He was wearing a black turtleneck and a pair of dark jeans, making even such a simple outfit look exceptional. 

He had actually noticed the man wore this combination a lot, which was an observation made over their numerous video calls. He couldn’t say it was a bad choice. Raven may not agree with his scarf choices, but he still knew the basics of fashion, alright?

“Erik!” he exclaimed, smiling widely at the man in front of him and grasping his hand in something a bit more casual than a handshake. “Good to see you.”

“And you.”

“Yeah, like you haven’t facetimed this morning to make sure Charles had the right address,” Raven scoffed and then grabbed the smallest of her suitcases, already heading upstairs, and definitely not caring for any of their protests.

— ◇ —

“So, Emma, what are these plans you have that the media has been talking about lately?” Raven asked two hours later, at dinner. 

Erik did, in fact, help them with their luggage, and the two of them were happy to find out Erik’s room was just opposite his and Raven’s. And since he was the only one not to share a room with anybody, Charles obviously made sure to tell him he was always welcomed in theirs, if he felt like talking over tea in the evenings. It was only fair. 

Raven pretended to mind, she didn’t, he knew her too well. By the time they got to their floor, she was already making fun of his need to overpack with the man in question.

And now, all seven of them were enjoying the meal together, filled with laughter (even from Emma and Ororo!) and Raven making sure if Jean and Scott weren’t looking for a third way too many times for it to be a casual question. (“Even if we did, I think Logan’s first in that line,” said Scott, rolling his eyes.)

“I will be working with the researchers at Cambridge for the next three years, and then I plan to find my way into F1 Academy. I want to make sure we can see more female drivers in Formula 1 soon,” answered Emma, smiling gently. 

“And what do you do for work, Raven?” it was Jean's turn to ask.

“Oh, I model. But I have to say, I’m lucky the three of you–” she nodded at the women of their little party, “decided to become engineers, or I’d be out of business as quickly as I was in.”

From there, the conversation kept flowing smoothly, covering about every subject under the sun, from celebrity doppelgangers (“Okay, Erik, Emma, hear me out on this, Hank kind of looks like Lex Luthor if he had hair and wasn’t evil,” said Ororo, and quite obviously, Erik and Emma were not willing to hear her out) to favourite biscuit cutter shapes (Charles had strong opinions on that one).

“Actually, when we were kids and I was struggling with my biology homework, Charles would call himself Professor X as he explained genetics to me,” Raven said to Scott at some point, and whatever it was that they had been talking about before he must’ve missed, most likely because he was absorbed by his conversation with Erik. 

Which the subject of also slipped his mind now, as he was glaring at Raven. He heard the man beside him laugh and knew he would never live it down.

“Now that sounds like something straight out of a superhero movie!” exclaimed Jean, turning to look at him. 

“I don’t think they have professors in Marvel movies,” he said, already resigned because even Emma was chuckling at the exchange now. 

“I think they should,” Erik joined in, way too enthusiastic about it. “It would definitely sell.”

Charles rolled his eyes at him.

— ◇ —

The following day, he woke up way too early for his own good. Raven was still snoring on the other side of their twin room. He didn’t want to wake her (out of fear for his own life, because, God, was she grumpy in the mornings), so getting downstairs for a coffee and maybe some early breakfast seemed like the most obvious choice. 

He put on the first clothes that fell out of his suitcase (he would unpack it properly, just not right now), and quietly left the room. His eyes lingered for a quick second on the door right opposite the one he had just closed behind him and wondered if maybe Erik was up early too and would want to join him. 

He quickly realized the idea was ridiculous, as no one in their right mind would wake up this early after a full day of travelling on their own. Charles just found it harder to oversleep in a bed that wasn’t his. Not that any bed since the one in his childhood room was ever truly his.

The thought made him a little sour, so he shook it off and headed for the lift, something much more clever than standing in the corridor like an idiot. 

When he got to the hotel restaurant, there weren’t many people there, which wasn’t a surprise in the slightest, considering the early hours. Soon, a young woman brought him their breakfast menu, which he quickly skimmed before ordering scrambled eggs and a small latte. 

He wasn’t exactly a coffee guy (as if any Brit ever could be), but he felt like he needed to properly wake up before the others started coming down for breakfast. After all, Raven’s stories from last night were more than enough to tarnish his good name, he didn’t need to give her even more ammunition.

The waitress was about to walk away from the table he was sitting at, when someone else spoke up. 

The language was German, from what he could tell, and seeing how the girl lit up upon hearing it only confirmed his suspicion. After all, it must’ve been nice to speak your native language after dealing mostly with foreigners the entire time. 

The thing was, there was something familiar about the voice, and that made him turn around in his seat once the young woman left. 

Turn around, only to see the one and only Erik Lehnsherr, looking down at him with a grin.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, acting oblivious. Charles couldn’t help but roll his eyes at him. Like he’d ever refuse his company.

“You sound so different when you speak German,” he pointed out, for no particular reason. Then, realizing his bad manners, added: “Also, no, please feel free to join.”

Erik laughed and sat down. “Wait until you hear my Italian voice.”

“What are you doing up so early?” he asked, changing the subject. 

Something was telling him the matter of Erik’s language skills was better left uncommented on, at least for the time being. After all, he wouldn’t want to freak out about how cool they were in front of the man. 

And truth be told, the slightly nerdy part of him considered them very cool.  

“I could ask you the same thing,” the man shot back, resting his head on his hand.

“I asked first,” he answered, trying to sound stern, and clearly failing, if Erik’s chuckle was anything to go by.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither,” he sighed, shaking his head. “And what did you say to that waitress?”

“That I’d have whatever you’re having. So I better not see beans on toast,” Erik said, half-joking. He was about to argue with him about the superiority of the British breakfast, but figured it was of no use. 

“I don’t think they serve that here,” he said instead. 

The food arrived not long after, the eggs served in medium sized skillets and with a basket full of fresh bread. Erik didn’t lie when he said he ordered the exact same thing, considering he too was brought a latte. 

“I never took you for a latte kind of guy,” he said, truthfully. With the reputation Erik had, a coffee so black you could feel the bitterness on the tip of your tongue just looking at it felt more in-character.

“I’m just having what you’re having, like I said,” he replied, taking a sip of the drink and making a face like he’d just drunk engine oil and not a perfectly fine coffee. 

He decided not to call him out on his obvious bluff, instead focusing on the bread basket that kept bothering him.

“Did you order all this bread? That is definitely not a reasonable amount of bread for two people.”

“I think the girl just felt generous because she could actually understand what I was saying. I should teach you sometimes,” Erik said with a smirk that definitely had a history of pissing people off.

“And what would I ever need German for?” he asked, matching his energy.

“For our future skiing trips of course,” the man answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the entire world.

“You think I’m gonna like it so much I’ll actually want to come on another one?” 

Now, in all fairness, this trip was already much more enjoyable than well over a half of other trips he had been on in his life. Erik had no business knowing that.

“I’ll make sure of it,” and it wasn’t exactly the answer he expected. 

It was earnest in a way, and though the tone it was said in still sounded mostly cocky, there was an edge of genuineness to it. He felt at a loss for words all of a sudden, and could not for the life of him tell why. He smiled, to mask his awkwardness, and Erik smiled right back at him. 

Like a friend who really wanted to make the trip memorable for him. 

The conversation continued, although Charles wasn’t exactly sure he was as in it as he had been before. That was until Erik asked a question he clearly remembered from the previous evening.

“So, how was your Christmas?”

“I’m pretty certain we’ve already talked about this,” he pointed out. 

“Yes, with everyone,” Erik said. He looked at him confused, until the realization struck. 

The question wasn’t purely conversational. He wanted to know what his Christmas was actually like. Not hear the answer that was as PR as it could get. At least in a casual setting. 

He had a formula for these. Laugh, say something about how nice it was to come home, bring up some funny thing Raven said at dinner. 

No, he wanted to hear about how his father spent the majority of the few days either locked in his office or acting like Charles was a friend Raven insisted on bringing to Christmas that he couldn’t really form a solid opinion on. 

About how Raven got him the most beautiful sapphire cufflinks and the book he had been wanting to read for a while. And about how his father got him the same cologne he himself used and that red scarf. 

Which Raven didn’t really hate for fashion reasons, but she refused to talk about it. 

And he wouldn’t bring it up either, because then she would scold him for getting so attached to a gift that their father put zero thought into, and he would have to explain that he didn’t. 

That the scarf was hauntingly similar to the one their mother was wearing in one of the only photos he had of her. That their father knew it. Just like he knew Charles wouldn’t wear his cologne. 

The gifts were a reminder of where he came from, of who he was. A warning, perhaps. 

That his photos too could be taken out of their frames in their family home and hidden in a box somewhere. 

When he considered it, he figured Erik probably didn’t really want to hear most of it. 

Still, it was the thought that counted. Still, today was definitely the day of Erik Lehnsherr rendering him speechless.

His lack of response must’ve started annoying the man in front of him, because he was clearly about to say something, when Scott and Jean appeared by their table out of nowhere. Or maybe Charles just failed to notice them before.

“Up so early guys?” Scott asked, and he could swear he saw Erik roll his eyes at him. He chuckled lightly, which didn’t escape Jean, now looking at him curiously. 

“Mind if we join?”

— ◇ —

The four of them ended up spending the next hour or so together, talking and making plans for the day. It would’ve been nice, if it wasn’t for Erik looking at him a little strangely from across the table every once in a while. 

By half past ten, they were joined by the rest of the group and actually had to switch tables, which was actually ideal, because Erik ended up sitting to his left, and so he didn’t have to see that odd look of his every time he looked up. 

The remaining three women went about their breakfast way quicker, so they could soon go skiing and still have a couple of hours before it started getting darker. They even managed to convince Emma to join them, even if only to make sure she still hated it, as she phrased it.

The skiing was, well, definitely funnier than he remembered it to be. It consisted mostly of Erik and Ororo showing off (and succeeding), and Raven and Scott showing off (and failing). 

He, on the other hand, tried staying upright for as long as he could. Which wasn’t easy when Jean kept challenging him to a race, and, well, how could he ever refuse? 

It was also the most and loudest he’s ever heard Emma speak. If screaming “Oh I hate it!” over and over even counted. At least she got her answer, right?

Finally, to make the whole experience authentic, they drank hectolitres of overpriced tea and hot chocolate at a coffee shop located at the bottom of the piste. 

Which would’ve been the perfect way to end the afternoon, if it wasn’t for everyone seemingly collaborating against him (it must’ve been Raven’s idea) and making him and Erik order everyone’s drinks, which led to at least five long minutes of silence so awkward he briefly considered mentioning the weather, just to say something, anything. 

— ◇ —

Back at the hotel, after dinner, when everyone came around to relaxing in the common area, he came to the conclusion that it was all ridiculous. 

He had been zoning out while Raven and Scott chatted away over his head. Erik, joined by Jean and Ororo, was standing a little further away, right by the fireplace. He only knew it because he seemed to have developed an Erik Lehnsherr focused sixth sense that made him be able to spot the man from the corner of his eye at all times. 

Then, Raven stood up and walked over to join the three of them, and that was when he decided he’d had enough. 

He couldn’t even tell why he was unable to look the man in the eye, let alone speak to him properly after his question that morning. Erik probably didn’t remember asking it, and it was quite possibly the most irrelevant thing to be so upset over, especially when he didn’t know who exactly he was upset with over this. 

Not Erik, that he was certain of, so it was between himself, his father, and God he didn’t even believe in. 

Trying to be reasonable, he had made a decision that he would talk to Erik later. 

Casually, like friends do. 

There was no reason not to speak to Erik, because as terrifying as the thought of him asking about his Christmas again was, it was very unlikely to actually happen.

He even considered excusing himself and going over there now (he could be just following his sister, which was perfectly fine and normal for him to do), until Scott spoke to him, voice hushed.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you this, but didn’t want to pry,” said Summers, sort of cryptically which made him completely forget about whatever he had been just overthinking. He raised an eyebrow at him, awaiting some continuation of that statement. “How have you been holding up? After the drivers’ dinner.”

That was not at all what he expected. 

Truth be told, he kind of forgot the dinner even happened, mostly focusing on what came after, meaning radio silence from Erik which he didn’t know how to deal with until Raven offered to let him use her phone to call him, because she had been beyond tired of his very dramatic self (it was only her opinion, he didn’t consider himself that in the slightest), and then that strange conversation that ended with an even stranger offer of friendship, which he still couldn’t figure out the level of seriousness of. 

And it had been stressing him out. 

And now Scott was asking him about the dinner alone, because he had no clue about anything that followed and clearly wasn’t aware it was the least important thing.

“I’m fine, really. It’s not like I’m not used to the media making stuff up about me, especially recently,” he answered, sure that was what Scott had been referring to. He couldn’t be more wrong.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. I meant what Niles said back then. I hope you didn’t let it affect you,” if only he knew what it was that Niles said. 

Surely, if it was anything that hurtful, Erik would’ve told him about it and he would’ve remembered. He shook his head slightly, confused. 

It was when he saw the look of sheer horror flash across the man’s face that he understood that his assumption was entirely incorrect. 

Erik wouldn’t have told him.

Chapter Text

Charles had been avoiding him. He should consider it normal, even expected. After all, most people did. 

Charles, unfortunately enough, wasn’t most people.

He knew it was his fault, was painfully aware of it. What he didn’t know was how to make Charles talk to him again. 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, what is up with you today, Lehnsherr?” it was Ororo that interrupted his thoughts, looking at him unimpressed. 

Her or Jean must’ve said something to him, which he might have or might have not completely missed since his brain was just a mush of Charles Xavier related thoughts and the feeling of guilt he was sure he hadn’t felt in years. 

If either of the women figured out what was troubling him (and it probably wasn’t hard, especially for them), they both decided to let him be, and he was beyond thankful for that.

Still, the question remained unanswered, both the one directed at him by Munroe and the one he was asking himself over and over in his head.

And Charles was sitting there, a few metres away, joined by his sister, and Scott Summers, who, let’s be real here, wasn’t half as interesting of a companion as Erik himself was, no offence (or full offence, he was kind of on the fence about this one, pun maybe intended).

To further prove his point, Raven walked over to the three of them the very next moment. Thanks to her, he was able to keep zoning out for the rest of the evening.

— ◇ —

The next morning, he walked down for breakfast even earlier. To no avail, because Charles was either sleeping in, or minimising their interactions on purpose. Deep down, he knew which one it was, and even deeper down, he didn’t like it one bit.

Somewhere along the line, he managed to figure out what it was that he did that could upset Charles, or at least he told himself that, because despite knowing, he failed to understand, and it was driving him insane.

To be fair, he didn’t have many friends growing up, between his competition and practice packed lifestyle even as a teen, and an overall… difficult personality, he wasn’t exactly popular among his peers. 

It never bothered him, and was actually quite useful now, as it lowered the chances of someone from his past sharing an embarrassing story about him with the media or reaching out to ask for free race tickets. 

The issue was, he could never be sure if his friendly gestures would come across as such, because he had very little experience. But even he knew offering to listen was something friends did. He couldn’t tell what about that assumption failed him so greatly. 

But it must have, since he couldn’t come up with any reason, other than the question he asked the man the other day at breakfast.

— ◇ —

The thought didn’t leave him for a while, which had other disastrous effects, like getting a handful of snow shoved behind his collar by none other than Charles Xavier.

The plan for the day was quite similar to the plan for the previous day, because nobody wants to be inventive on their break from being inventive. 

They would go skiing, then come back to the hotel for dinner, and figure out how to spend the rest of their free time along the way. Jean mentioned going to check out the market in town they were staying in, while Ororo proposed they should visit the bakery they passed on the way back from the piste the day before. 

What none of them thought of was getting into a snowball fight before they even got to put their skis on. 

They were walking past a playground when one of the kids whose screams and laughter could be heard from a mile away clearly didn’t think through his shot and sent a snowball straight into the back of Scott’s head. 

Which, quite obviously, resulted in an eruption of uncontrolled laughter from his wife, and a few quiet chuckles of pretty much everyone else, himself included. 

In no time, the two were running around the playground, screaming for enforcements, and rendering all the actual children present completely speechless. Probably mostly because they were tourists too and all happened to speak English, and were fascinated by how many creative names Jean could call her husband. 

That was until Ororo handed her bag to Emma, by far the most disinterested in participating (although he could tell by the scrunch of her nose that she found the whole thing infinitely hilarious), and yelled “You’re helping or not?” to one of the girls standing by the swing and observing the whole situation. 

That was the beginning of war.

He wasn’t exactly sure how he managed to end up hiding behind a sledge-wall with a bunch of elementary schoolers, and at what point the Mercedes couple reached a truce and got everyone else on their side, but he sure as hell was not giving up. 

He was giving out orders to Jamie, his incredibly bright (even at 8 years old!) right-hand man, when he felt something pulling on the hood of his jacket, exposing his nape. 

And there it was, a fistful of snow, quickly melting down his back and shoulders, leaving nothing but a trace of icy cold wetness behind. He turned around so fast his neck almost snapped, to see a pair of blue eyes and a shiteating grin of his friend, who wasn’t talking to him. 

But that didn’t matter now, it was war, and war has its own rules.

“We’ve been attacked!” he screamed at his tiny comrades in arms, who were still stunned at how Charles even managed to get to their side without anyone noticing. 

That woke them up a little, and soon enough, tens of snowballs were thrown at the poor fellow, who was now lying in the snow, cheeks and nose flushed red from the cold, eyes open wide in shock, as he clearly didn’t expect his plan could backfire. 

He had a lot to learn.

But apparently so did Erik, because Charles Xavier was very skilled at analysing circumstances and creating new strategies on the go, which is why he suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him on top of himself to use as a human shield, which made his grin from moments before slide right off his lips.

He looked down at the other man, who now had snow everywhere including the ends of his eyelashes, and before he could form a coherent sentence, another handful of it was pushed right into his face. 

If he wasn’t busy trying not to choke on that snow, he would probably laugh at how ironic the situation was.

And then just like that, whatever strange moment that was, it was over, Charles quickly escaping from under him, and then jumping in joy, screaming “We won!” to his teammates, who quickly came over to congratulate him on his daring action, and praise the kids on their defence, everyone immediately forgetting about him, still lying in the snow utterly confused. 

Well, everyone but Emma, who watched the whole fight from the sidelines and was now making fun of his ridiculous expression.

And then, just like that, Charles was back to avoiding him. 

His approach seemed to have shifted though, which unnerved Erik even more. In place of silence, there was small talk, the same kind the man shared with pretty much their entire party, with the exception of his sister. 

From an outsider’s perspective, everything was normal. He laughed at Erik’s jokes, and pretended not to notice that he was only ever waiting for his reaction. They talked, but it reminded him more of professional pleasantries than anything real, anything theirs.

When he first met Charles Xavier, he couldn’t fully believe how easily they clicked. They were strangers, and yet there was something so familiar about the man that sat across from him that day in Qatar. 

It was as if they had met each other before, in passing, briefly enough not to know each other in any meaningful way, and yet enough to always catch each other’s glance over the table, to share a smile no one else saw, to act in sync without really planning to. 

Like when, as a child, you made friends with a kid on the playground down the street, not knowing they were only visiting family for the winter break, and would soon be gone. 

Like when, as an adult, you looked up on the bus and made eye contact with a stranger. When for the rest of the ride, you found yourself subconsciously seeking out that person, whether to see if they were still looking, or to smile politely to ease the awkwardness, this time knowing they, too, will soon be gone.

Now, there wasn’t any familiarity. 

Now Charles had fun with Erik on the playground and then left without a word. 

Now, Charles got off the bus without looking back. 

And Erik’s eyes kept drifting to the same empty seat, and traces in the snow.

— ◇ —

Once they were back at the hotel, all of it became unbearable. He may have had a team of data analysts, strategists, and engineers, all working together to help him achieve satisfying results. But that didn’t mean they got to take all the credit. 

Erik Lehnsherr was the runner up in the Drivers’ Championship because he knew how to take action on his own, was great at tyre management, and could figure out a way to overtake even the most defensive drivers. 

If the situation required him to get off the bus and run back a couple of stops, so be it.

Around nine, he knocked on the Xaviers’ door. 

For a long moment, he didn’t hear a sound from the other side. Then, finally, some barely noticeable noises, steps, sound of the lock clicking, and the door was opened by Raven. 

For a split second she looked like she was about to burst out laughing, but that might as well have been his imagination, based on how sorry she sounded immediately after.

“Erik! If only you came a bit earlier, I was just about to leave to meet Jean and Scott. Hopefully my brother doesn’t bore you to death,” she said, and then squeezed past him in the doorway, leaving him standing there as she was walking down the corridor to the aforementioned couple’s room.

That made things both easier and harder at the same time. 

Easier, because now he got to talk to Charles in private, without anyone else present. Harder, because now he actually had to talk to Charles. Who, by the way, was sitting in an armchair by the coffee table and staring at him like he had just seen a ghost. 

Not up to a good start, then.

“You sure she didn't get herself into a threesome?” he started, and almost instantly felt the need to flee. Brilliant job, he thought to himself. 

But then, Charles laughed. It was a quiet chuckle, more a huff of air than anything else, but it was something. 

He took it as a sign to close the door behind him, though he still felt hesitant to step further into the room.

“What brings you here, Erik?” the man asked, tilting his head ever so slightly, like he was actually curious. Something inside him clenched at the sight.

“Well, you said I could come whenever I felt like it,” he answered, truthfully. 

Their little agreement seemed so out of place now, and he didn’t even know how it came to be in the first place. He could only hope his voice wasn’t betraying him.

“I did say that, yes,” Charles said, and it sounded so rehearsed that he couldn’t help the question that escaped him next.

“Then, has something changed since then?”

“Not at all. Please feel free to join me,” was the answer he received, as Charles gestured to him to sit opposite him, in an identical armchair as the one he was taking. 

Those few steps across the hotel room might as well have been the most unpleasant walk of his life. Every step, the feeling he shouldn’t be here at all grew stronger. He wondered if he was really walking at such a low pace, or if it was the time slowing, like during a car crash. 

He had some of those on track, like every driver did in their career, and yet neither could compare to walking to Charles now. 

After all of those three seconds that had felt like an eternity, he finally sat down, and immediately sunk deep into his seat, exhausted. 

There was a distance of one coffee table between them. That coffee table must’ve been miles long. Very impractical.

“Why won't you talk to me, Charles?” he asked, and it was as if his mouth was acting on its own. He could only hear that question and watch its effects like it was somebody else saying it. 

It felt like screaming over a canyon, about as wide as that coffee table, and hearing it echo, not entirely sure if it was still your voice, or if somebody was on the other side screaming back at you. 

“We are talking now,” Charles said, flatly.

There was no irony or ridicule to his voice, there wasn’t anything, really. Nothing he could at least try to decipher. Only an echo, again. But he was looking at him now, eyes fixed. 

And Erik tried matching his gaze, focusing on this pair of blue eyes. 

In the warm light of the lamp above their heads, they appeared soft, like the ones he was used to seeing over video calls by now. Like the ones he had seen for the first time not that long ago, and yet couldn’t quite comprehend the concept of not seeing them again. As ridiculous as that sounded.

“Charles, just tell me what I’ve done to upset you and let me apologize, so we can get this over with,” and so he laughed dryly, although there was definitely a hint of desperation to it. 

In all fairness, he didn’t care. 

He didn’t care if he was right about the Christmas question, or if Charles was angry with him for an entirely different reason, and what that reason was. 

That had always been the way he was, it wouldn’t change now. 

What he did care for was getting things to be normal again. Not only because he was Erik who wanted to talk to his friend without having to feel like he was bothering him, but also because he was Erik who wanted to win a championship and get his street in Maranello. 

So it wasn’t a question of if he would get Charles to forgive him, it was a question of how. And even that wasn’t really a question, more like an endless list of things he was willing to do, all for the man to choose from as he pleased. 

He would jump over coffee-table-shaped canyons if he had to, and he would apologize for anything he’d done to upset him, really.

The expression on Charles’s face shifted into a gentle smile.

“You haven’t done anything, there’s no need to apologize,” but now there was another thing he remembered from their lunch in Qatar. 

When they first met, he was hugely impressed just by how diplomatic Charles could be. How his every word, every expression, every action and gesture were perfectly respectable whenever he needed them to be. 

He could see he was doing that now. Sitting straight in his armchair, but with his shoulders down, to seem relaxed yet alert. Giving him short, polite answers, masking whatever he was truly wanting to say. 

Selling him an enormous load of crap, basically. Even that laugh from earlier, that he took as a sign of him being welcome didn’t seem genuine now.

“That’s bullshit,” he tried again, a little harsher now. 

That finally seemed to get a reaction out of Charles, since he flinched at his sudden change of tone. It pained him to be doing this to him, but he believed he had valid reasons to. 

“So? Why aren’t we talking?”

“Because I don't know if we should.”

Chapter Text

One thing about Charles, he is a brilliant observer, if he does say so himself. 

It would be ridiculous of him not to be one, considering he spends most of his days working a job that requires him to observe. Between data fluctuations, weather conditions, and lap times, he is always watching. 

His most useful skill? Noticing patterns. It comes in handy whenever an unidentified issue appears, as it helps to narrow down the possibilities, all thanks to the similarities and differences in results gathered across an excessive testing period.

So Charles watches, observes, notices. 

Yet sometimes, even he is blinded by external factors, and it takes him time to see a pattern that's been right in front of his very eyes this whole time.

If such is the case, he usually needs a little push, a sign that tells him where he should look, and only then does the realization strike. 

This time around, Scott Summers decided to push him down the stairs. And when he finally rolled to the bottom of them, he gracefully stood up, and then walked straight into a giant neon sign, like a cartoon character he kind of wished he was now, so he could have an anvil fall on top of his head. Or a piano. Maybe even a piano shaped anvil.

— ◇ —

“Oh my god, Jean is going to kill me,” Scott muttered to himself for what must've been the sixth time since his slip up.

“She won't get to if you don't tell me what it is that Niles said about me,” he threatened, praying for it to work.

It did. Summers told him, albeit reluctantly, exactly what happened. It wasn't… that bad, he had heard worse, was sort of immune to these things now. 

What confused him was why Erik didn't tell him that. During their countless talks, they've established their dislike for the American driver pretty solidly, and this was just another point to add to their list of reasons to hate him, which by now they should have a shared Google document for because it was getting way too long and they kept forgetting stuff.

“How do you even know that?” he asked, for a lack of better response.

“Logan,” the man replied, and, yeah, Erik did mention the Canadian driver getting involved as well, though the media swiftly omitted that fact.

Before he got to say anything to that, Scott followed up with: “I had no idea you didn't know, Charles, I apologize. I've already talked to Emma about this, so I figured you would have heard about it from Erik too.”

That's when the realization struck. 

— ◇ —

“I've been wondering, you know,” spoke Ororo, startling him as she appeared out of nowhere. 

Raven was still upstairs, supposedly fixing her hair after the journey, and he decided to take a walk around the hotel. Erik was off in his room, unpacking his own luggage (Charles refused to touch his own for now), but he promised he would meet him later so they could grab coffee and snoop around together. His coworker beat him to it. 

He realized she cut off, so he tilted his head to signal he was all ears, whatever it was she had been wondering about. 

“Did you and Erik know each other? Before he offered you that job?” she asked, finally.

He shook his head, “No, we did not. And where did you get that idea, if I may ask?”

She slowed down a little, clearly thinking of the best way to explain it. 

“It's just… I don't think he's ever been getting along this well with anybody at Ferrari, I figured maybe you guys went to school together or something,” she said, strangely hesitant. 

He'd only met her a couple of weeks ago, but she has already cemented her status as one of the most intimidating people he's ever met, all thanks to how confident and certain she seemed. 

Then he thought about what she said, and, to be frank, found it quite ridiculous.

“I've seen him with Emma, they seem to be getting along just fine,” their relationship was actually making him a touch anxious as of recently, since he worried immensely if he would ever be able to fill Emma's spot within the team, especially in Erik's eyes.

He had heard the fondness in Erik’s voice whenever he talked about her, although he was sure the man himself thought he was doing a brilliant job at hiding it. 

He had to admit, he spent some time looking for the recording of their team radio from Abu Dhabi. He replayed it in his head now, hearing Erik’s solemn “Thank you team. And thank you, Emma, it's been a pleasure.” as he crossed the finish line of the circuit.

He knew stressing over it probably wasn't the wisest thing he could do, but he just couldn't help it. It was like a whisper somewhere in the back of his head, quiet, but relentless. 

“They're both good at their jobs. They respect each other. But they wouldn't be close if it wasn’t for their careers,” Munroe spoke, quietly, yet firmly again, like she knew she was correct. “I feel like you'd be friends even if you met any other way.”

And it was nice to hear, wasn't it?

— ◇ —

Wasn't it?

After the revelations of the previous evening, he made a decision that it was most reasonable to sleep in. It wasn't like he was avoiding Erik and spent solid two hours staring at the ceiling not to meet him too early in the morning. At least not without proper enforcements (Raven). Not at all.

Throughout the day, he decided to do what he was best at. Observe. 

At breakfast, which they all happened to have together (even though Erik, Jean, and Scott did start theirs earlier), he paid closer attention to the two. They behaved just like they always did, if he was even allowed to make statements of the sort considering how long (or rather, short) he'd known them for.

Erik mentioned someone from the factory in Maranello, Hank, who, in truth, was like an eighth member of their party considering how often he was being brought up by them and Ororo. Emma laughed at the comment, which she was doing much more often than he was used to seeing her do while the season was still on.

On their way to the piste, they chatted about how soon winter break would be over, and everyone would be back at the factory. 

“Everyone but you,” Erik said to Emma, who rolled her eyes at him, and muttered something under her breath. 

Then happened the events of the snowball fight. 

Let him just make this very clear, he, in no way, intended for this to turn out that way. After all, watching and analysing becomes very hard once you're lying in the snow with the subject of your analysis on top of you. 

Every self-respecting scientist would tell you that these circumstances aren't ideal for any kind of observation, unless what you are carrying out a research on is the exact colour of your subject's eyes. In that case, those conditions are more than perfect, mainly considering how pulling your subject on top of yourself causes their eyes to widen significantly in shock. 

Unfortunately enough, that wasn't really what he was trying to find out.

It did give him another idea though. 

It was kind of difficult to observe the interactions between Erik and Emma when Erik was as distracted as one could be. It was quite obvious that he would catch on, sooner or later, as he was clearly a very clever individual. 

In turn, Charles minimising the amount of their shared conversations or exchanged jokes vastly affected the effectiveness of his observations, because the man seemed very keen on checking his reaction whenever he said anything within Charles's earshot. 

He, in a show of vanity that he wasn’t too proud of, found it a little amusing. But that wasn’t the point at all, and so he needed to do something about it.

He started engaging in conversation with Erik, timing his reactions to seem the right amount of casual, and not like, well, he was timing them. 

When conducting an experiment, the most common approach would be to compare the test sample with a normal one, which was what he was trying to do here, except the longer he thought about it, the less certain he was about which sample was the normal one. 

God, maybe he actually wasn't that good at his job. He was sure that if any of his college professors heard his thoughts now, they would immediately make a petition to take his degree away.

— ◇ —

“Why didn't you go down for breakfast with us today?” Jean asked, taking her skiing goggles off. 

He was standing by a tree just off the track they decided to challenge themselves with this time, when the redhead stopped next to him. He wasn't sure whether her sudden appearance or the question she asked caught him more off guard.

“I slept in,” he answered, lowering the scarf covering his mouth so she could hear him more clearly.

“Oh, that's what Erik told us as well,” she said, then tilted her head in curious fashion, “so you're not mad at my husband or anything?”

“Jean– Why would I ever be mad at him?” While he may have known the reason someone could've assumed that was the case, it couldn't be further from the truth.

“Because he's a little dumb and can't keep his mouth shut, of course,” the woman laughed, though it sounded quite humourless, in his opinion. “No, really, you probably didn't wanna hear what that asshole said.”

Just like predicted, she got it all twisted.

“I did, actually,” he spoke gently, to make sure she saw he was being genuine. “To be honest with you, I'm a little puzzled as to why Erik hadn't told me that before.”

Now he wasn't exactly sure why he said that last part, and clearly neither did Grey, because she looked a touch confused.

“If I had to guess,” she said, slowly. “I'd say because he didn't want you to overthink it.”

Well that didn't really work, did it now?

“But Scott said you talked to Emma about this. Meaning he did tell her,” he countered, believing he was in the right here. And really… That was it, wasn’t it? 

He really didn’t like being kept in the dark while everyone around him knew whatever it was that he was being kept in the dark about. His father had done that to him plenty of times. His father had done that not that long ago, when he was telling everyone around the factory that he would replace him, while he still was under the impression he would just have to act civil with Niles for the rest of his life (which he planned to end prematurely for that very reason). 

Then, there was that unusual exchange he had with Ororo, and it all made him wonder – was he really being treated that differently? 

He tried to mimic what everyone else had been doing, what they were acting like with Erik, whether in conversation, or in general. 

He tried to figure out what it was about Emma that made him want to share that part of the story with her that he didn’t possess, but he kept coming up short.

“Oh, you know her, he must've known that wouldn't have bothered her,” Jean shrugged, meanwhile he quickly decided to file that sentence away for later. “Besides, your case seems a little worse, at least to me.”

Now that wasn’t something he expected her to say. 

Could it be that all this time he was busy focusing on the wrong variables? That the human factor of it all wasn’t as impactful as he thought? Or maybe there was something about the entire situation that Scott failed to mention? In which case, honestly, was it truly that hard to keep him in the loop? 

“Why?” was the question he asked, though it felt wrong being spoken out loud, given how many times he’d been repeating it in his head these days. Among other questions, as one can probably imagine.

"Well, everyone can see she's a woman, for one. You were insulted based on an assumption Niles has no proof of correctness of. If the other drivers didn’t know better than not to cross Erik, it could start a rumour," she spoke, and he could hear a hint of cautiousness in her voice. 

It was the tone that people use when unsure if what they said would insult the other person. So it wasn’t something Niles said, it was something that Charles didn't say. That would be easy to fix.

"It was possibly the only correct assumption he'd made in his entire life, give him some credit," he said, and saw her eyes widening in shock. 

For a split second, a sense of panic washed over him, but then she laughed, throwing her head back as she did. She clearly didn't expect him to be so straightforward (could someone kindly point out the irony here? he was not going to do that) about this.

"I have to say, I kinda see where he was coming from," she joked, and it was his turn to stare at her scandalized. 

But before he got to say anything, her expression grew more serious. "Either way, it still sucks. But at least women working in motorsports are used to this kind of thing. Trust me, I would know."

That, he didn't need to question. 

In a way, their stories were kind of similar. The wife of a team principal holding such an important position within the team was bound to be controversial, just like a son of one doing the same was. 

Then, there came the so-called experts. Meaning either middle aged men who scored a total of seven points during their own Formula 1 careers, or idiots online whose favourite hobby was asking their Tinder dates who was the runner-up in the 1967 Constructor's Championship simply because they said they liked watching races from time to time. 

He hated both groups with a passion. They were always the first to undermine the work and achievements of the women in the sport who, quite often, at least in his personal experience, turned out to be superior in comparison to their male teammates. 

It would take years, and a lot of work to change that mindset, so deeply engraved in some people's brains.

He wanted to voice his acknowledgement, let Jean know that he was aware of how much it took for her to build a name of her own. 

He guessed it was also the reason why she didn't take Scott's last name when they got married. She must've known that the moment people got to know her as Mrs Summers, her goal would be even harder to achieve. 

But before he got to say any of that, somebody interrupted.

“You've been standing there forever, come on!” screamed Raven, waving frantically at them. He was fairly certain it wasn't helping her ski, but who was he to say anything.

He glanced in Jean's direction, to see her smiling at him now. If he was to guess what her expression meant, he'd say she was letting him know he shouldn't overthink it. 

— ◇ —

Unfortunately, he much preferred verbal instructions, and so he promptly ignored her request.

Their conversation, although cut short by his sister's untimely intervention, was very useful. 

It wasn't unheard of that getting your observations peer reviewed could greatly aid in your analysis. This was one of these instances, for sure.

He came to a couple of conclusions.

Young straight American men are awful. Now that wasn’t exactly a brand new discovery for him, but he really needed to get it out there.

Erik was most likely trying to protect him from having to revisit that first conclusion. And from career-threatening rumours, he supposed.

Erik was also treating him differently than Emma, or anyone else he’d seen him interact with so far, for that matter. 

He was about to come to a conclusion number four (that is – that he didn’t exactly hate conclusion number three), when the results of the peer review became relevant again. 

That single sentence that he filed away for later was glaring at him now, impossible to ignore.

Erik knew Emma wouldn’t be affected. He didn’t know Charles wouldn’t either.

— ◇ —

“Because I don’t know if we should,” he spoke, solemnly. 

He knew Erik would catch onto what was happening sooner on later, it was inevitable. He also couldn’t rule out that this was all a set-up orchestrated by Raven, because he found it incredibly hard to believe that the man would just knock on his door the very moment his sister announced she was leaving to meet up with Jean and Scott. 

Either way, there he was now, right in front of him, asking why they’re not talking, like it was something completely normal that he had, in his immeasurable cruelty, taken away from him.

“And what does that mean?” Erik asked, and it hurt to look at him, so eager to know, like he really cared.

“I know what Niles said about me at the drivers’ dinner,” he said, hoping that would clear at least some confusion. It must have, because his expression shifted into a wry one. “I wish you would’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want you to–”

“To worry?” he cut in, sharply, leaving the man in front of him speechless. He shook his head slightly, trying to regain his composure. “I don’t need, nor want that protection. If something concerns me, I want to know of that first. If you want our partnership to work, that’s my condition.”

He told himself this was what he should’ve done from the beginning. And if the pained look on Erik’s face made him want to cry a little inside, that was his business. 

The man nodded, and since they got that one out of the way, why not go a step further?

“I’m aware you’ve offered to be my friend, so I wouldn’t feel bad about you defending me. Now that we’ve acknowledged that you can stop doing that, I’ll understand if I lose that title,” he knew Formula 1 drivers had good reaction time, but he didn’t expect Erik to jump from his seat the moment that last word left his mouth. 

He was hovering dangerously over him now, and if that alone didn’t make him uneasy, the next thing he said definitely got the job done.

“Charles, be honest, are you stupid?” 

“Excuse me?” he tried his best to sound offended, which, realistically, he had every right to be, but something was stopping him.

“You really think that’s what this is all about?” Erik asked, with a tone of pure disbelief. 

But before he got to think of an answer to this clearly rhetorical question, the man continued, exasperated, “I didn’t ask you to be friends so I could have an excuse to defend you, or whatever. I asked you to be friends so I could have an excuse to be your friend.”

“What?” Exactly, what?

“Come on, you know what I mean,” he said, and all Charles could do was stare at him blankly.

“You really won’t make it easy for me, huh?” Erik sighed and sat back in his armchair, resting his head on his hand and looking at him seriously. “I’m sorry for not telling you about what Simon said. I understand if you’re upset with me, and I promise not to run over whoever told you about it.”

He smiled, although a little reluctantly, at that last part, and let him continue, wherever this was headed.

“I didn’t tell you, because I believed it shouldn’t concern you what a nobody like Niles has to say about you behind your back. Not because I didn’t think you could handle it on your own, but because it was just completely irrelevant.” 

That, as nice and surprisingly well thought-through for Erik standards as it was, he, unfortunately, had to interrupt.

“Then why did you tell Emma?” he asked, calmly.

“Because she asked me about it.”

Sometimes you need a little nudge to spot something you haven't seen before. Like when during a practice, your teammate points out one of the graphs hasn't been live updating and needs to be refreshed. 

Other times, a comparison of different samples proves itself to be useful. Like when after a miserable quali session you pull up testing results to see what went wrong. 

Finally, sometimes you need to get your entire analysis checked by someone else, so they can provide you with insights you wouldn't be able to come up with on your own. Like when you inform the driver of the planned strategy during the race, and they tell you they're not going to do that, so you need to think of something else (although that might be an original experience).

And sometimes none of these things work because there's a hedgehog on the track, and the race is paused so someone can get it to safety.

Charles hated unforeseen circumstances. It really sucks when you spend hours spiralling over something that turns out to be a misunderstanding. Very bothersome if you asked him. 

“I asked you to be my friend, because I felt like we got along well. I'm sorry if that made you uncomfortable,” Erik continued, while he grew gradually more embarrassed with every word, unable to believe how big of an idiot he was. 

“It didn't!” he scrambled, needing to say something, anything at this point. “I was glad to accept that offer, I'm just…”

He didn't know how to finish that sentence. 

He was just, what? 

Surprised that the terrifying track shark Erik Lehnsherr was just Erik to him? Erik who had the same sense of humour, who kept sending him stupid articles about their shared mortal enemy, who video called him about every single minor inconvenience that he faced because he loved complaining so much? 

Surprised that the Erik Lehnsherr who was already being listed as a possible future world champion of Formula 1, who could speak three languages, and who casually did Olympic-level skiing (that one might have been an exaggeration because, believe it or not, Charles didn't actually know much about Olympic-level skiing, but he thought that whatever Erik was doing was equally impressive nonetheless) wanted to be just Erik to him?

“Not used to your driver not being an ass?” Erik offered, and it was honestly the best next thing, and so he chuckled, nodding.

“Then how about this?” the man said then, leaning towards him in his seat. “Let's start this friendship thing again.”

He extended his hand over the coffee table.

“Hello, I'm Erik. I'm German, I love skiing, and I'm a Formula 1 driver for Scuderia Ferrari.”

He took his hand over the coffee table.

“Hi Erik, I'm Charles. I'm British, I enjoy reading, and I'm a race engineer for Scuderia Ferrari.”

Sometimes there is a hedgehog on the race track. Sometimes there is an Erik Lehnsherr in Charles Xavier's life. Shit happens.

Chapter Text

Erik was seriously offended that nobody bothered to tell him how troublesome friendship becomes once you’re no longer a high schooler. Not that it was any easier for him when he himself was one, but… Whatever. 

He wasn’t exactly used to explaining his intentions, but he felt like he’d need to improve in that area, as Charles seemed to stress a whole lot whenever he wasn’t a hundred percent certain of something. 

“So, where do we go from here?” the man asked, letting go of his hand which he shook just now. 

It was a good question, where do they go from here? Perhaps rushing this whole thing wasn’t the best of ideas. His impatience was something he should probably unlearn as well, however, everything should be achieved one step at a time. 

So, first, making his intentions clear.

“As I’ve already said, I’d like us to be friends. Not for any mysterious reason, just… because,” he said, hesitantly. “If that’s fine by you, of course.”

Charles looked at him, his expression different now from the one he was wearing mere minutes ago. 

His smile looked like it was genuine instead of like it was meant to be interpreted as genuine. It was like he let himself drop the mask he was wearing, let his face muscles act on their own, instead of working the way he needed them to in that specific moment. 

It was a subtle difference, and he couldn’t be entirely sure if it would be noticeable to anyone but him, but he’d learned that he was paying much more attention to detail whenever Charles Xavier was involved. 

“I guess I could live with that,” he replied finally, the smile morphing into a good-natured smirk. 

He raised an eyebrow at him in response, trying not to let it be known that somewhere deep inside, he felt like Christmas came early this year. Which possibly wasn’t the best expression considering it was a week after Christmas, and he didn’t even celebrate Christmas. 

Maybe he felt like Hanukkah came late, don’t ask him any stupid questions.

He was so in his head about religious celebrations taking place in December, he didn’t catch whatever it was that Charles said next, because he was now looking at him mildly amused.

“What?” he asked, dumbly.

“I said I’m sorry.”

“What?” he repeated because, well, he felt like repeating himself now.

“I shouldn’t have overreacted. I’m sure you meant well,” Charles explained, failing to meet his gaze now. He was looking down at the coffee table between them now, clearly embarrassed. “Again, I apologize.”

“Do you know that you don’t need to?” he asked, for a lack of a better answer to what he had just heard. At least it got Charles to look at him, even if just to stare at him in confusion. “I should have told you about the dinner from the start. You had every right to be upset with me. No need to apologize for that.”

The man seemed to consider his words briefly, before he shook his head.

“But I already said I know you meant well.”

“You know that now,” he said, doing his best to convey that he really meant it. “You couldn’t be sure of my intentions before.”

“But I shouldn’t have assumed the worst,” Charles argued, leaning over the table now, clearly determined to hold his ground. 

Luckily for him, he was trained to endure G-force on an almost daily basis. He could deal with a little push-and-pull with his race engineer.

“It’s a part of your job to assume the worst. I’d be a little worried about my street in Maranello if you hadn’t done that,” he said, showing off his teeth to the man across the table now. Most people flinched when he did that. Charles didn’t move a muscle.

“I should’ve just asked then,” he shot back, squinting at him. “You shouldn’t have had to come here to explain yourself to me.”

“I wanted to,” he said, resting his head on his palm.

“Why won’t you just let me apologize?” Charles asked, clearly growing frustrated. 

If it wasn’t for his wish to keep at least some of his face, and not embarrass himself, he would’ve told him. He would’ve told him that he didn’t want him to feel like he needed to apologize, not for some stupid misunderstanding like this. Not for anything, actually. He didn’t want to guess, but he got the impression that Charles had already done his fair share of apologizing in his life. 

“Because all is fine. We figured this out, didn’t we?” he said instead. He really hoped Charles would get it.

“Yes, but we also sort of restarted our friendship in order to do that, didn’t we?” the man mirrored his tone, looking at him like he was a little stupid. Maybe he was. Not like he cared much. 

At least he was still infinitely smarter than Simon Niles, and Brian Xavier, and every other person that ever thought they deserved Charles’s apology. He was satisfied with that.

“I don’t mind,” he spoke, truthfully.

“Well I do–” and Erik was beginning to get a touch bored of this entire conversation, so he had to interrupt him. Because Charles somehow failed to grasp that it was all worth it, that, in fact…

“I’d do it again, if that’s what it takes for you to stop questioning it,” that he was worth it. 

He hadn’t known Charles Xavier for a long time, but if he was to be certain of one thing, and one thing only, it was that he was worth it. 

The man was silent for a little while, and he would have begun to worry he'd overstepped again, but then Charles hummed, and gave him a barely noticeable nod. A win, in Erik’s book. 

— ◇ —

Another one came when Raven caught a cold the very next day. Now, don’t get him wrong, she was a really enjoyable person to be around, and he sincerely hoped she would get better. It was what her temporary indisposition led to that he considered a win.

“Lehnsherr!” Ororo called out to him from where she was sitting on the edge of Raven’s bed. 

Hers and Charles’s room was tearing at the seams with guests this morning, everyone coming to see her after her brother announced at breakfast that his beyond irresponsible sister got sick, and so the two of them wouldn’t be able to join them in any sort of outdoor activities they planned for the day. 

Everyone immediately assured him that none of them would be going anywhere without them (Erik was, proudly, the first to say that), and that’s how all of them ended up in the room belonging to the Xavier siblings with scones in an amount that was definitely too big for one person (Jean and Scott insisted she needed to have options). 

“What’s up?” he asked, getting up from the armchair which he considered his designated spot ever since the events of last night took place. He was happy to say everything was back to normal, so much so that he doubted anything could ruin his good mood at the moment.

“Could we ask you for a favour?” she spoke, in a somewhat hushed voice, like she was about to tell him a secret, which seemed quite strange. 

That’s when he realised she was joined by Emma, Jean, and a sniffling Raven. And that Charles and Scott were nowhere to be seen. 

“We told them to go down and grab some coffees for everyone,” Emma said before he even got to ask the question, like she was reading his mind. 

He only continued looking between the four of them questioningly, hoping that would earn him some further explanation, as to what they wanted him to do then.

“Could you get rid of my brother?” Raven asked, her voice more nasal because of the cold. She was clearly about to tell him a bit more about that request, but she was interrupted by her own sneeze.

“There’s a herbal medicine shop in the town market, we thought you could get him to go there to buy something for Raven, so he stops acting like mother hen for a while,” Ororo said, sounding slightly amused. 

Charles was indeed fussing over his sister the entire morning, which she clearly found annoying considering she had already cussed him out for it multiple times in the past hour or so. Erik personally found it rather adorable, not that he would ever tell anyone that. Anyway, he could see where they were coming from.

He was about to agree, because, well, how could he not? After his and Charles’s emergency friendship reset, it’d be nice to spend time with him while not having Raven’s colorful selection of curses act as background music. That’s when Jean spoke.

“And you can take Scott with you,” she added, to his dismay. “We’ll have a girls day, and you can make sure you’re not back at least until lunch.”

Now, he didn’t have any strong feelings towards Summers. He just thought he was rather boring, as most team principals were. Surely, he was spending way too much time worrying over documents and budget and other team principal stuff to actually have anything interesting to say. 

Whatever he knew about him, he knew either from his wife, or Ororo, who happened to be his college classmate back in the day. So you can’t really blame him, right?

Unfortunately, he didn’t have a choice. It was that, or watching Charles progressively lose his mind over the span of the next eight hours, or more.

“You got it,” he said, earning himself a joyous scream interrupted by a coughing fit from Raven, a pat on the shoulder from Jean, and the satisfied smiles of Emma and Ororo. They were sometimes too similar for his liking.

— ◇ —

Getting Charles to agree to leave may have taken some work, but the two of them (and Scott) eventually found themselves back down in the hotel lobby about thirty minutes later.

They were about to leave, when someone walked up to them. It was a young girl, twenty years old at most, and she seemed to be mid check-in (or check-out) considering she had luggage with her.

“Excuse me, I’m a huge fan,” she spoke nervously, and he realized she was addressing him. The past few days were quiet enough he had forgotten he was, in fact, famous. “Could we, maybe, take a photo together? If that’s cool with you, I wouldn’t wanna bother you during break.”

He wasn’t too big on these things, which he had made very clear every chance he got. As much as he could live with on-paddock interactions, as they were pretty much unavoidable, and a huge part of his job, people walking up to him when he was out of uniform, and just trying to live his life more or less peacefully was more bothersome than flattering, at least to him.

He was about to say they were in a rush, or that he wasn’t in the mood, or something along these lines, until he caught Charles’s eyes. He was looking at him expectantly, with his eyebrows raised. Another thing he had forgotten was that the man was too nice for his own good at times. 

“Sure,” he said, and watched as the girl quickly pulled out her phone.

“Thank you so much. My girlfriend is not gonna believe this!” she exclaimed after snapping a couple of pictures, and just like that she was gone. 

What wasn’t gone was Charles’s gaze on him, except now it was paired with a gentle, pleased smile. Maybe he didn’t mind it as much as he thought. 

“Can we go now?” he asked, scrunching his face in fake annoyance. He had an image to keep, after all.

An image that Charles seemed to be able to see right through, considering he only chuckled, and answered, like he was doing him a favour, “Lead the way, my friend.”

— ◇ —

The walk to the town market had taken them longer than usual, which he hoped the two men would fail to notice, because otherwise they might’ve realized that he chose the wrong way on purpose, as he was told to do. 

At least now, walking between the stalls and shops, all crammed together into the space that was likely smaller than the area of Ferrari’s headquarters, he had an excuse to walk slower. 

That, however, also had its disadvantages, because it meant he couldn’t exactly ignore Summers’s attempts at socializing.

“Have you guys ever thought about what you would be doing if you weren’t in Formula 1?” he asked at one point, and he could swear he heard this exact question in some team’s social media content once.

“I’d probably be trying to get into Formula 1,” he answered, rolling his eyes. 

“No, I mean like, if Formula 1 didn’t exist,” the man clarified, and Erik had to hold back a sigh, which didn’t go unnoticed by Charles, who shook his head in exasperation. 

Could he really blame him though? He wanted to use the winter break to briefly forget about boring interview questions, and even more boring PR answers, not roleplay the average post-race press conference with the Mercedes team principal.

“I’d have to invent it then,” he said, to Scott's evident dissatisfaction. Charles, on the other hand, decided to spare the guy.

“I think I'd go into biology, maybe genetics? I used to love that in high school,” he said, shrugging. 

Erik had no trouble imagining him as the professor Raven claimed he used to call himself when they were kids, maybe doing lectures about rare genetic mutations and such, dressed in one of his cardigans (the number of which was still unknown to him, though he guessed it must've been around a couple of thousands for sure), and drawing everyone in with the sheer force of his passion for his job. 

And as nice as that image was, it could never compare with the vision of that same inspired twinkle in his eyes, except this one caused by his actual job, at Ferrari, with him, that he would surely see soon enough. And maybe that was the thing that made one of them better from the other. 

That he would get to witness it.

Encouraged by the man’s confession, he spoke, “I guess I’d still be an athlete.”

“I could see that, yeah,” Scott hummed, and this time he managed to stop himself from scoffing at him. “What sport though? Personally, I think you’d do great in track and field.”

Honestly, was he trying to gather information about him to help Logan win in the title fight against him? 

Again, as hard as that could be to believe, he didn’t dislike the man. He understood him and Ororo had been friends for many years, and respected him, because it wasn’t a secret that the team thrived under his rule. But he really, desperately needed someone to teach him how to start sounding like an actual human being, and not a customer service chatbot.

“Nah…” he spoke, dragging out the syllable, “I think I’d do chess.”

Both Charles and Scott laughed at the answer, although the latter was definitely doing it to hide the awkwardness, rather than because he really found it funny. He raised his eyebrows, pretending to be confused, and hoping they’d move on from this entire conversation now.

Luckily, they did, and as the time passed, he managed to start tuning out the small talk, only paying attention during the more interesting bits (which in this case meant whenever Charles was speaking). He actually tried engaging him in conversation, which was going kind of clumsily, considering he briefly forgot the other man was even with them. Multiple times. 

So now, as the two were discussing a movie that he was pretty sure he’d never seen, but still had to chitchat with its cast when they were Ferrari’s guests at the garage in Vegas a couple of years ago, he felt the irresistible urge to mention meeting an actress whose performance Charles seemed to be particularly passionate about. 

However, he didn’t get to do that, because suddenly, Summers stopped dead in his tracks. They were passing a considerate display of knitwear, which was now getting closely inspected by the man. 

“Actually, guys, you go ahead,” he said, and Erik almost punched the air, stopping himself only to hear the rest of whatever he had to say. “I’ll check this out, maybe get something for Jean, and we can meet up later.”

And just like that, the day got so much better.

Once Scott disappeared inside, Charles immediately turned to look at him. “Don’t be rude, my friend.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” he tried defending himself, to no avail, because the giant smile on his face was really hard to misinterpret. Sue him.

“Yeah, that's kind of the whole point, Erik,” the man in front of him sighed, though it didn’t feel like he was scolding him. “Why do you dislike him so much?”

“I don’t,” Charles only raised a single eyebrow at that, “No, really. But don’t you think he’s a little boring?”

“Because you’re the most interesting person in the world,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Of course I am, that’s why you wanted to work with me,” he shot back, grinning even wider.

“I wanted to work with you?” Charles asked, raising his voice a pitch to sound properly scandalised. What was giving him away was his soft gaze, and the blush sitting at the top of his cheeks, and on the tip of his nose, caused by the cold, but just now amplified by him clearly trying to hold back a chuckle. “You asked me to be your race engineer, unprovoked, on live television!”

“Yes, and you agreed.”

And he couldn’t begin to say how glad he was that Charles did, in fact, agree. 

Quite possibly even more glad than he was to be able to get rid of Scott Summers. But that, fortunately enough, no one would ask him about. Not even Scott Summers himself. 

Clearly, the HR approved small talk handbook didn't include questions of the sort.

Chapter Text

Charles wanted to surprise Erik. 

The idea came to him as he caught a glimpse of a particularly cozy looking little shop. They had been walking for a while, and, admittedly, the conversation had been flowing a little better since Scott’s departure. 

It’s not that Summers wasn’t a pleasant companion, he actually found he quite liked him over the past few days. Just, sometimes, he was trying a bit too hard, which could get a touch irritating. It certainly did for Erik. Now, the man seemed both more relaxed and more focused on his surroundings, as paradoxical as that sounded.

He was currently talking about the time him and Darwin decided not to meet over the summer break, as they had come to a conclusion they were spending too much time together during the season, and would soon grow tired of each other, only to then find out they had chosen the same vacation destination (“Because you wouldn’t catch me dead on a yacht in Monaco,” Erik laughed) and so the plan didn’t really work out. 

It was honestly quite astonishing that the two got along so well. Judging from the very limited amount of interactions he had with Ferrari’s second driver (and the very unlimited amount of interactions he had with the team’s first driver), they seemed like complete opposites. 

Before he got to know them, he sort of assumed they were one of those pairs of teammates that either vaguely disliked each other, or just didn’t really care about one another. That was how it worked at McLaren, the PR team had just been doing a great job covering it up, by forcing the two drivers to film so much ridiculous social media content his head hurt just thinking about it. 

Every day, he was thankful he didn’t have to partake in such a farce. And, in all fairness, there was somebody specific he could thank for that. 

Which is why, when he spotted the front window display of that shop they were passing, he immediately knew what he needed to do.

“Excuse me, Erik, do you mind?” he asked, stopping right in front of the entry. “It’ll take just a minute, you can wait for me here.”

The man looked at him curiously, before shifting his attention to the place itself. “Or I can just come in with you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, trying his best not to give himself away. Recently, putting up an act has been getting progressively more difficult. He couldn’t tell why that was. “You know how these vintage shops are, it’ll probably be troublesome for me to move around even on my own.”

Erik didn’t seem convinced, but whatever it was that he was thinking about his excuses, he refused to share. Just another reason to thank him. Instead, he just nodded, and said, “Sure, I’ll wait here then.”

The thing was, when Charles left the shop (which, in his defence, was actually hard to navigate because of the sheer number of delicate-looking items lying around, making him consider his every move twice, so he didn’t actually make that up to discourage his companion from following him inside) with a medium sized package safely tucked away in his bag, Erik wasn’t there waiting for him.

Fortunately enough, before he started looking up what the numbers were for the kidnappings of Formula 1 drivers to calculate the man’s chances at survival, he appeared a couple of stalls down, walking back with three paper bags in his hand, one of which was significantly bigger than the other two.

“I got us snacks,” Erik said, handing him one of the smaller bags the moment he approached. He peeked inside, noticing a bunch of thick pretzel sticks, and what seemed to be chocolate covered fruit. “Not as good as in Germany, but they’ll do.”

“And what’s that?” he asked, pointing to the third bag.

“Uh, just, some things for my parents,” he answered, instinctively holding the bag closer to himself, “souvenirs, and stuff.”

Now that didn’t sound suspicious at all. But if Erik didn’t call him out on his obvious bullshit earlier, he had no choice but to pay him back by doing the very same thing. 

“That’s sweet of you, Erik.” he said instead, smiling at the man, and getting the now familiar shark grin in response.

They stood like that for a minute, just beaming at each other for no apparent reason, which might’ve seemed weird to anybody else, but it really wasn’t, at least not for them. 

Eventually, the silence was broken by his friend. “I think I saw that herbal medicine shop they told us about, let’s get your sister something.”

And, truth be told, he kind of forgot about Raven for a little bit. Not on purpose, obviously, he loved her more than life itself. He just couldn’t remember the last time he had such a good time just taking a walk and talking to someone. 

Besides, she’d probably be glad to hear he stopped worrying about her health, at least for a while. She was still getting an earful about dressing appropriately for the weather once they were back at the hotel.

“Yes, let’s do that,” he said, and let Erik lead the way. 

Indeed, not that far from the vintage shop he visited earlier, was located a very similar place, with its front window displaying small sachets and packages of dried herbs, flower teas, and such. When they entered, tiny bells over their heads announced their arrival to the shopkeeper, who happened to be an older man, with a curly gray beard, and small rectangular framed glasses resting on top of his nose. 

Something about them must’ve been screaming tourists, because when he spotted them from behind the counter, he immediately started speaking in English.

“How can I help you?” he asked, with an unmistakable accent. 

And Charles was about to answer, when Erik shook his head at him, and then stepped forward, swiftly switching to quick German. 

The two men chatted for a while, which would probably annoy him since he couldn’t understand a single word (well, maybe except for danke, and medizin), but he knew his friend was doing this for him. Not because he believed he wasn’t capable, but because he just wanted to help. Because he was his friend. A nice thought.

After a couple of minutes, they were ready to leave, having bought enough herbal medicine to heal the entire town, and not just Raven. 

Maybe if he asked her really nicely, she’d agree to take the rest of it with her and finally start taking better care of herself between shoots and runways. Ridiculous idea, he was aware, alright? Let a man dream from time to time.

“Now I hate to be saying this,” Erik started, wearing a sour expression on his face, “But we should probably find Summers now.”

He rolled his eyes. “How will you survive that?”

“I’ll have to tune out the frequency of his voice again.”

“That’s so rude!” he exclaimed, scandalised, and felt tears of laughter well up in the corners of his eyes. “I’ll call him.”

Now it was Erik’s turn to look offended. “You have his phone number? I had to ask Fred for yours!”

“He gave it to me in case I got tired of you and wanted to switch teams,” he responded, eliciting the exact reaction he was hoping for, as the man’s eyebrows shot up in a look of utter betrayal. 

He couldn’t hold himself back, and laughed in his face, worsening the situation.

“Charles Francis Xavier, do you have a death wish?” he asked, and he was just going to answer him, when he realized something.

“How do you know my middle name? I’ve never told you that,” he inquired, squinting his eyes at the man. 

“You haven’t? Well, what does it matter, don’t change the sub–” he didn’t let him finish that sentence.

“Erik, did you Google me?” and if his expression that could only be described as that of a deer caught in headlights was anything to go by, he absolutely did.

“I had to find out who you were before offering you a job as my race engineer, okay?” Erik tried defending himself, with mediocre results.

“You mean to tell me you didn’t know who I was? Well, that hurts,” he shot back, taking great pleasure in observing the man’s growing despair upon his words.

He was about to say something else, when the phone he had been holding in his hand the entire time lit up, Scott’s name popping up on its screen. He showed it to Erik, winking at him, and picked up the call. 

“Yes, Scott, absolutely, yeah, we’ll meet you there. Lehnsherr is boring anyway,” he said to the man on the other end of the line, and if everything before was infinitely amusing to him, this was another level of comedy. 

And Erik? Erik may have or may have not looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. And that may have or may have not been the funniest thing about this.

They did meet Scott (who was carrying way too many things to even spot them at first, as they were blocking his line of sight) not long after, and Erik even managed to stop acting like a kicked puppy in the meantime, though that particular advancement had taken Charles apologising profusely for being mean to him, which, no, he wasn’t really sorry for that, and the man obviously knew that, but was clearly taking as much pleasure in letting this little game of theirs continue as he was. 

No wonder Summers spent the majority of their walk back to the hotel completely confused.

— ◇ —

When they finally made it back, they were met with his sick sister and three other women who were definitely not taking care of his sick sister. 

All four ended up sitting on the floor in their hotel bathrobes, which made sense for Jean, or even Raven, if he briefly ignored that she was sick and should be in bed. Emma and Ororo, however… He glanced sideways at Erik, and noticing the look of terror on his face, he thought: exactly.

After some initial chaos of Scott showing off the things he bought, him giving Raven a speech about her needing to be more responsible, Ororo and Erik whispering conspiratorially about something he wasn’t sure he wanted to know of, and Emma scolding Jean for not being careful enough with her freshly painted nails as she started trying on the three new knitted beanies her husband got her, they eventually managed to all agree on their plans for the rest of the day, although it had probably taken much more time that it would’ve had, had any of them been even remotely normal. 

Either way, boardgames and takeout it was.

That first part was quite easy, well, maybe except for Erik arguing with Raven about which noodle option was better for Pad Thai. 

(“You’re an athlete, you shouldn’t even be eating that, what could you possibly know, Lehnsherr?” “Charles, does being impolite like this run in your entire family, or are you two the only ones with this specific gene mutation?”)

As for the second part, if you believe you know competitiveness, you clearly have never played against any of them. 

Between Jean threatening Scott with divorce papers over Uno, Erik switching to German curses any time Emma stole his Monopoly money from him (“It’s not stealing if it’s the rules of the game, Erik!” “Rules that you’re clearly not abiding by, because you’ve literally just cheated me out of a house.” “Keep telling yourself that.”) and several instances of physical violence committed by Raven and Ororo during the very few rounds of Codenames they managed to play without anyone sustaining serious injuries, it was exactly what it sounds like: a bloodbath.

In the evening, when the boardgame-induced heat died down, and all the takeout containers were long forgotten, as half of their party was dozing off in different parts of his and Raven’s room, while the other half tried to figure out how to politely excuse themselves without breaking the spell of comfort and serenity that must’ve been cast over that very room, that’s when Charles remembered.

He wanted to surprise Erik.

“Erik,” he whispered, trying to get the man’s attention without getting the attention of, well, everybody else. 

He was sitting in an armchair opposite him, resting his head on his palm, just like before, and yet nothing like it at all. 

This time they weren’t fighting, this time they were friends, surely, with no doubts clouding either of their minds whatsoever. Surrounded by people whose company was beyond pleasant. Including Scott, though Erik probably wouldn’t have agreed with that statement. 

When the man finally looked at him, from under his eyelashes, he suddenly didn’t know what to say. 

And so he just reached into his bag, discarded on the floor by the coffee table, quite similarly to the takeout containers, and pulled out the package, sliding it forward across the table.

Erik looked at it questioningly, so he nodded in encouragement. In response, the man began examining it, fingertips tracing alongside the edge. After a minute or two, he got to unwrapping the gift, and soon, they were both looking at a folded wooden chessboard. 

Charles knew that if either of them was to open it and look inside, they would see dark green velvet lining holding all thirty two pieces, each one carved by hand, at least according to the lady who sold him the set earlier. And she was quite convincing.

“If you ever get bored of Formula 1,” he said, referencing that one off-handed comment Erik made in order to make Scott stop talking to him. “Consider this a late Hanukkah present.”

His friend was silent for a long time. Until, at last, he spoke. “This is so stupid.”

That was not exactly the reaction he wanted from him. He tried reading Erik’s expression, waiting for the punchline to come. 

He thought it was about to, as the man reached down for the third paper bag from earlier and passed it to him. Strangely enough, inside he found metal biscuit cutters, and that wasn’t really helping clear things up.

“The first day, at dinner,” Erik said, like it was supposed to mean something to him.

He realised when he took another look at the biscuit cutters inside.

— ◇ —

“Charles, please, don’t start again,” Raven begged, because someone (Scott, most likely) was unwise enough to ask them about their favourite biscuit cutter shapes. And, boy, did he have a thing or two to say about that.

“Well, it really depends. If we’re talking animal shaped, bats definitely have the best recognizability to durability ratio because of the surface area. Unlike reindeers, you don’t break off a part of the biscuit by breathing near it,” he said, briefly ignoring the funny looks he got from everyone else at their table. 

They clearly never had a baking phase as teenagers.

“When it comes to geometrical, I don’t have any prejudices against any common shapes, but I have to say I like triangles the most. They give you the jagged feel of a star, but are a little more stable and minimalistic. Plus, I really like pumpkins, I find them very relaxing to decorate.”

Anyone could probably guess that no one else answered that question after that.

— ◇ —

And now, inside the paper bag, there were metal biscuit cutters shaped like bats, triangles, and pumpkins. Each one in three different sizes.

“When did you even get them?” he asked, unable to say anything else at the moment.

Erik shrugged, smiling. “When you were inside that shop buying chess for me,” he said. 

Okay, this really was stupid, then. Or maybe they were stupid. Who would bother with such a minor difference in wording?

Certainly not him, but maybe that was because he wasn’t willing to bother with any wording at all. 

For heavens only knew which time, Erik Lehnsherr had managed to render him speechless. It was a bad sign. A very bad sign. But he would worry about it some other time.

Now, he just laughed. And Erik laughed with him.

— ◇ —

Maybe, the two of them ended up quietly celebrating when the weather forecast the next day showed a high risk of a snowstorm occurring in the days leading to the end of their trip, preventing them from stepping a foot outside of the hotel for the rest of it. 

Maybe, they had no choice but to stay in and spend most of their time either playing chess, or swiping through Charles’s very valuable (he had it uploaded onto three different cloud drives) photo collection of the baked goods he had made during his sophomore year in high school for no apparent reason. 

Maybe, they considered it to be the highlight of their trip. 

Maybe.

Chapter Text

During the following weeks, a few things happen.

First, a date is set for Charles’s very first Maranello visit. Normally, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but this is Charles, and so Erik makes it a big deal. 

An entire week prior to it, and a couple of days before the Brit flies to Bologna, everyone at the factory is made aware that it is going to be an event. He plans ahead, and arranges for the entirety of his garage and pit wall crew to be present that day. 

Same goes for the team that worked the closest with Emma, as Charles insisted on meeting them as soon as possible. It takes a couple of phone calls, and a really expensive coffee order he has to promise Ororo in exchange, but it eventually all works out.

When Charles arrives on a Monday morning, the factory is possibly the most alive Erik had ever seen it. 

— ◇ —

“Good to see you, my friend,” he greeted the man before he even fully got out of the car, and, more importantly, before Fred got to do it.

“And you, Erik,” Charles responded before he inevitably fell victim to the overenthusiastic Ferrari team principal, who hadn’t let go of him for at least four and a half minutes, constantly repeating things along the lines of “How have you been, kid?” and “It’s so good to finally have you with us, was the drive okay?”

Around two minutes and seventeen seconds in, Darwin approached the scene. He technically didn’t need to be at the factory until Wednesday, and Erik didn’t even consider asking him to come, but he did anyway. 

“Seems like you have competition,” he said, sing-songy. He couldn’t really tell what he meant by that, considering he was quite busy trying to see if Charles had already lost breath from Fred’s embrace and answering the same question for the sixth time. Luckily, his teammate didn’t let him be confused for long, “Soon you’re not gonna be the favourite child anymore.”

He laughed at that. 

The moment he met Charles, at a bougie little restaurant with questionable decor (at least for his simple, uncultured mind, as Emma would oftentimes say) in Qatar, he knew there would be no competition. 

Charles Xavier was a person radiant enough he made everyone want to settle somewhere within the light, or, more importantly, the warmth he was producing. He seemed like someone born to attract attention, and it was as though it was only ever out of modesty and mercy for everyone else that he rejected it. 

He could not compete with that, and he didn’t wish to. He was fine with finding his own orbit around the man, just like everyone who got to know him did. And, if he knew anything about the Solar System, he’d say he wanted to be more of a Mercury, rather than a Neptune.

“Thank God,” he spoke, a note of sarcasm coloring his voice, instead. Darwin chuckled in response, stepping forward to, hopefully, get Charles out of their team principal's embrace and also greet him. No one could resist the gravitational pull of Charles Xavier. 

“Darwin!” Charles exclaimed, finally noticing him, and swiftly freeing himself from Fred's hold, “It's so good to see you. How's Angel?”

“She's fine, though she said everyone back at McLaren is dreading coming back to the factory without you there,” did Erik really need to say it at this point?

“I'm sure they'll figure it out, but do pass my best wishes to her,” the man responded, and, to his surprise (and delight) turned to him next. “So? Why don't you show me around, Erik?”

He didn't need to tell him twice.

And when he saw how the Ferrari factory welcomed the Brit, he knew all the calls and coffee orders were worth it. 

Charles made himself very clear from the start about how he had one singular wish for the day – to introduce himself to as many people as possible, which meant the tour was less about seeing the factory, and more about seeing the people who made it one. The reactions varied, and soon enough Erik started to notice a pattern.

When Charles greeted the youngest employees, either interns, or last season hires who were barely out of college when signing the contracts, they seemed puzzled. 

Most of them wouldn't work with Charles directly, and probably didn't expect him to care enough to try remembering their names. 

When that initial feeling faded, they immediately started asking questions, talking over each other, and eventually forcing Erik to rescue the man from a bunch of human-shaped ducklings. 

“They remind me of my juniors at McLaren. It's good to see young talents like this,” he said to him, a little mawkishly, when they were walking down one of the corridors to get to the next office space. 

“You are barely older than some of them, don't be a sap,” he joked, putting no heart in it, because it was only to hide the fact how endearing he found it.

Then, there were their peers, a little more comfortable, and a little less cautious. 

And yet, Charles’s attitude didn’t change one bit upon meeting them. Erik was in the best possible position to observe how the man behaved during the countless introductions he pressured him to arrange, since he could only stand somewhere in sight and try not interrupting, as everyone else took turns learning that Charles Xavier might as well be the Sun incarnate. 

It would’ve hurt his ego a little not to be the center of attention for once otherwise. Fortunately, this was completely expected and understandable.

“Everyone is so nice, I’m starting to think it’s some sort of trap,” he joked during another short break he was allowed to have from all the handshakes while Erik was leading him to the cafeteria. 

The most astonishing thing so far had been that despite having gone through the same motions for what, at least to his very subjective judgement, could’ve been thousands of times (Ferrari didn’t even have that many employees, he was overestimating), it didn’t seem to tire the man at all. 

Erik, on the other hand, could get tired just looking at it. 

Could, because in reality, he didn’t. Somehow, watching Charles like this, in his element, surrounded by people he was used to seeing every single day for the bigger part of the year, now all the more aware of what it meant, wasn’t boring in the slightest.

It was exciting.

“I promise you, my friend, it’s not,” he answered, not really sure anymore what he was referring to.

The only time when Charles’s behaviour did shift was when he was meeting some of Ferrari’s veteran employees, people who probably worked there before Erik first started karting. 

The shift itself, however, was caused by something else entirely. Because although it’d be normal for one to feel intimidated when facing people whose work experience probably spanned out over a longer period of time than one’s lifetime, that didn’t seem to be the case for Charles. 

The thing that did it instead was… the Italian. 

The first time Erik heard it, he had a hard time picking up his jaw off the floor. It was a well-known fact that Ferrari prioritized Italian hires, and had only recently started going more global. Most of the younger workers had no problem learning English, and it had been slowly but steadily replacing Italian as the primary language of the Maranello factory.

Still, if he had learned anything during his time there, it was that middle aged Italian men could be stubborn as hell. Thus the departments dominated by them remained traditional when it came to the language. 

He made sure to mention it to Charles beforehand, so the man wouldn’t feel disheartened when the reaction he got wasn’t as enthusiastic as he wanted it to be, also assuring him that he’d translate for him if the need arose.

What he didn’t exactly predict was that the guy would come prepared.

And if he had learned anything during his time there, it was also that middle aged Italian men adored anyone who put in the tiniest bit of effort to communicate with them.

Meaning he really was dethroned as the favourite child of all of Ferrari.

“You’re playing dirty, Xavier,” he said, his tone accusatory, just as they were leaving another one of the departments. 

“What makes you say that, Erik?” the guy had the guts to try acting all innocent.

“Languages were my thing. How can I compete with your blinding smile now that you also know them?” was his response, and, to his absolute satisfaction, it earned him one of the aforementioned blinding smiles.

“You’ll need to think of something,” Charles laughed, bumping his shoulder with Erik’s own.

He really did need to, he thought to himself, once they finally arrived at what used to be Emma’s office, and her entire team that had gathered there upon his request straight up ignored him. 

“Charles! How have you been?” Ororo asked, and took a sip of her coffee. A sip of the coffee Erik had bought for her this morning. The very overcomplicated, very expensive coffee he had bought for her this morning.

“Really good, thank you,” the man answered, smiling. He was beginning to question his previous line of thought. Maybe he hated being a Mercury. “And you must be Hank?”

The guy Charles was now speaking to nodded. The guy whose personal life mission seemed to be to torment everyone around with his never-ending monologues about strategies and data was now completely silent, as if Charles at the very least turned him to stone. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Charles continued, outstretching his hand to McCoy, who shook it hesitantly, looking mildly mesmerized. 

And the mildness was only caused by his glasses making it difficult to see the sparks he probably had in his eyes at the moment. The monologues may have come to an end, but tormenting Erik hasn't, apparently.

— ◇ —

Second, Charles gives up his London apartment, and moves to Maranello. 

What’s ridiculous about this event in particular, is that Erik doesn’t find out until Charles emails him an invitation to a housewarming party. 

When he videocalls the man to figure out what the hell is wrong with him, he answers sitting on the edge of the bed in a room that definitely isn’t his London apartment Erik had seen so many times before. 

And after a brief back and forth, he comes to the conclusion that he had been a fool, and his new race-engineer is a complete moron.

— ◇ —

“I know you’re busy preparing to come back on track, and I knew you’d want to help me move in, and wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I decided to keep it from you for a little while,” he said to him, completely casual about it, like he hadn’t gravely offended him just now.

“I would’ve made time for you,” he spoke, a little helpless. He couldn’t believe in such a betrayal.

“I didn’t want you to need to. Just come to the party this weekend, that’ll be enough help,” the man sighed, letting himself lean back, stretching his neck. He was probably tired from moving in. Serves him right.

He begrudgingly agreed to the invitation (not without driving Charles a little insane first, of course, he was still mad), and then let him list all the other people he invited. 

There wasn’t a lot, mostly his new coworkers, and a couple of neighbours he’d met already during the God knows how long period of time he’d been in Maranello without saying a word. 

It wasn’t exactly his fault that he didn’t notice the date on the invitation and appeared in front of Charles’s door that same evening, carrying bags with his favourite takeout in town, and some books he had bought recently, purely because he thought his friend might find them interesting.

It also wasn’t his fault that Charles was a beyond cunning, devious individual, and managed to get him to briefly forget about his impossible misdeeds by bringing him tea in an awful Ferrari red mug with Erik’s own face on it (these monstrosities were flooding the souvenir shops all over the town recently), which was somehow even worse. 

And then that too was forgotten by him when Charles offered him a game of chess. With his own set, very similar to the one he got him a couple of weeks ago.

“I knew you’d forget to bring your own, so I got one for myself too when I first arrived here,” he told him, and suddenly, just like that, all his sins were forgiven. 

Even that mug.

Erik was known for holding grudges. Charles could not care less.

That assures him of the correctness of his initial opinion. Because how could the Sun ever concern itself with the grudges Mercury held for it?

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knows it should bother him. Somewhere, also in the back of his mind, just, on the other side, maybe, he doesn't know why.

— ◇ —

And lastly, Erik has his first pre-season practice with Charles’s voice in his headset. He nearly crashes into a wall. It makes him understand why. But that's a story for another time.