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The team’s private villa glowed warm against the cool desert night, lanterns swaying in the breeze. It was meant to be one last blowout after Abu Dhabi… a celebration for Max’s third title, Checo’s third place, for the crew, for the long year finally over. The air still carried a faint summer sweetness, even if the wind had started to bite, and someone had decided karaoke was the natural next step after too many gin and tonics.
The girls from the social media team huddled around the karaoke machine, shrieking when “Seven Things” by Miley Cyrus flashed on the screen “I picked this one” one of them said and the rest clapped.
Checo was leaning against the bar, a cold drink in his hand, watching them bounce in place with amused detachment … until Max stepped right into the middle of their circle.
Flushed, glassy-eyed, hair slightly mussed, Max looked like someone who’d just been handed the wrong drink but decided to down it anyway. He clutched the microphone with a grip too tight for comfort, letting the girls flank him on either side like bodyguards in red bull blue.
The opening chords hit, and to Checo’s mild horror, Max didn’t just know the song… he owned it. His voice came low and hesitant at first, letting the girls carry the verses, but when the chorus swelled, he was there, right in it, belting with a mix of awkward conviction and raw edge.
It wasn’t random. Checo could feel it… every pointed lyric like a dart aimed across the patio.
Your friends, they're jerks, when you act like them, just know it hurts…
The girls squealed the line into their mics, laughing, but Max’s gaze cut through the noise, locking onto Checo for a beat too long before sliding away.
He looked shy in that way drunk people sometimes do… like the alcohol had loosened the leash but not the instinct to hide. He let the girls dance in front of him, leaning into them on the sharper lines, but every so often he’d step out just enough to make the aim unmistakable.
Checo’s stomach knotted. He took a slow sip of his drink and forced himself to look toward the horizon instead of the singer making a show of pretending this wasn’t about him. Not tonight. He wasn’t going to pick at that wound — not here, not in front of everyone, not with the taste of Brazil still sour in the back of his throat.
Max, oblivious or pretending to be, pressed on.
It's awkward and it's silent
As I wait for you to say
But what I need to hear now your sincere apology
When you mean it, I'll believe it, if you text it I'll delete it
Let's be clear
Oh, I'm not coming back
He leaned forward on the “I’m not coming back” like it was a dare, his voice cracking slightly from both alcohol and something unspoken. The girls laughed, tugging him into a playful spin, shielding him again.
Checo didn’t budge. He just swirled the ice in his glass and let the desert wind brush over his face, knowing he’d carry the sound of Max’s voice unpolished, aimed straight at him…
Max’s voice was raw now, the girls flanking him like a safety net, hands tugging him forward into the center of the circle as if they could shield him from whatever was eating him alive. The room pulsed with the beat, coworkers jumping, clapping, spilling drinks, the air thick with desert breeze and bad decisions.
Checo stood back, face half in shadow, telling himself he wasn’t going to do this tonight. No sir. Not after Brazil. Not after that suffocating “talk” Christian and Helmut had forced on them… two hours in a locked hospitality room, no phones, no eye contact. Max sitting rigid in his chair, Checo with his arms folded, both of them stone-silent until the clock ran out. He’d thought about breaking it, a few times, but the words always dried up into a frown and a headshake. Max had felt guilt flicker in his chest, but it was drowned by the stubborn anger knowing that Checo still wouldn’t admit it… wouldn’t own what happened in Monaco.
And now here they were, Max singing like he wanted the words to cut. Checo’s cheeks burned with every glance Max threw his way during certain lines, like little spotlights trained on him alone.
When the last chorus came, Max’s voice grew louder, steadier, as if he didn’t care who was listening.
The seven things I like about you
Your hair, your eyes, your old Levi's
When we kiss, I'm hypnotized
You made me laugh, you made me cry, but I guess that's both I'll have to buy
Your hand in mine when we're intertwined, everything's alright
I wanna be with the one I know
And the seventh thing I like the most that you do
You make me love you…
The crowd roared, bouncing to the beat.
Checo felt it then… that creeping sickness at the back of his throat. They had been too close, too close . His friends had noticed. Had joked about it. Called Max his boyfriend. And in Abu Dhabi, when they’d visited the paddock, Max overheard them. It had been in Spanish, but Max understood enough. He’d understood the tone.
“¿Todavía está enojado tu novio por lo de Mónaco?”
Is your boyfriend still mad at you because of Monaco?
The cheers rose like a wave when Max was lifted into the air, boots and all, tossed up by a sea of laughing mechanics and engineers. We Are the Champions blasted over the speakers, the chorus swelling as champagne sprayed again. Checo forced a smile, drained the last of his drink, and slipped his hands into his pockets. Enough.
He turned and made for the door, the air outside cooler but heavy with city lights and the faint echo of music spilling from inside. The valet was already moving for his keys when a voice cut through.
"Leaving already? Thought you'd want your turn at karaoke… saw a song in Spanish on the queue…"
Checo froze, then glanced over his shoulder. Max stood there, cheeks flushed from alcohol and adrenaline, eyes sharp despite the haze.
The hotel was far but anything to put space between them. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—do this again.
Perhaps this was it. This was them. Max would think what he wanted, believe what his inner circle told him, what his father whispered in his ear. And Checo? He was done. He’d explained once. Twice. He wouldn’t a third time.
"I’m leaving, Max. See you at the gala."
He slid into the driver’s seat.
"Open," He heard Max say, frowning at the locked door.
Checo knew better. This was asking for trouble. He rolled the window down instead.
"Go back inside, Max."
"No," Max’s voice sharpened. "If you go like this… I’ll never forgive you."
The words dug in. Checo’s jaw tightened, his anger flashing just enough for Max to see… Around them, a few people started to notice. One of his mechanics called out, “Everything all right, Max?”
"Yeah," Max said quickly. "Checo will take me back to the hotel."
Then the mechanic had the gall to look at Checo and say. “Maybe better if someone else takes him…”
That was it.
Checo slammed the passenger door open.
"Get in. I’ll take you..."
“You did it on purpose,” Max snapped, spinning on him. “I just want you to be an adult and admit it!” he said louder than he’d meant to.
“Enough!” Checo’s voice was sharp now, final. “I won’t apologize for anything. I didn’t do it on purpose, the telemetry shows it!”
“You’re smart. You know how to fake it,” Max accused, stepping forward.
“Well, fuck you,” Checo said, face flushed, heart hammering. “I’m tired of this bullshit. Hate me. I don’t care, you’re not my teammate anyway.”
“I was ,” Max said quietly, but the weight in his voice made it land like a punch.
Checo huffed, a bitter smirk tugging at his lips. “Sure. Whatever, mate. You’re here, you’re safe.I’ll see you.”
He turned for the door, his steps heavy. “No, don’t go.” Max’s voice cracked, ragged around the edges. “ I just want us to work. I want to be your teammate…”
Checo’s hand froze on the handle. He turned, his eyes still hard but something in them flickering. “I’ve fucking helped you, haven’t I? What is it, Max? You can’t handle failure like the rest of the world? That’s so pathetic.”
Max’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.” he stepped closer.
Checo stepped even closer, squaring up. “Oh, don’t what? I’m not fucking Esteban.”
That made Max laugh, short, sharp, like a dare. “I’d crush you, mate.”
Checo smirked, the kind of grin that came from too much beer and too much pride. “You’re drunk and you’re clumsy. I’d have you in a headlock in a second.”
Max’s eyes narrowed and he stepped forward like a predator ready to pounce only for Checo to pivot, catch him by the neck, and pull him into a loose but firm hold.
“Like this,” Checo muttered in his ear, holding most of Max’s weight in his arms. Max grunted and tried to twist free, but Checo’s grip was steady, controlled.
He guided him -half-dragging, half-carrying- until the back of Max’s legs hit the bed. With one push, they stumbled down onto the mattress.
“You’re an asshole.” he said blushing, embarrassed.
Checo laughed, short and rough. “That’s how you want to fix things?”
“I saw the telemetry,” Max said, turning his head toward him. “And the videos. I think you did it.”
“Well, I don’t care what your stupid brain thinks,” Checo shot back. “I didn’t do anything. And if you can’t move on from that, you’re brattier than I thought. You’re twenty-five… isn’t that when brains start to mature and develop?”
Max smacked the back of his hand against Checo’s arm, making Checo laugh again.
“You’ll win it next year,” Checo said, his tone cutting. “I mean, after this? I’m fucked. Your dad, your family… Everyone is running their mouths, the team leaking reports, they saw the telemetry and believed I did it on purpose…it’s the beginning of the end for me here. And you want me to admit something that ruined a lot of things for me anyway? What good would that do?”
Max’s jaw clenched. “It would fix us.”
Checo shook his head, his voice dropping. “No, it wouldn’t. Because you don’t believe me. And I can’t surround myself with people like that.” Checo looked at him for a moment before speaking, his voice low but steady.
Checo’s voice was quiet, but the words hit Max like cold water.
“We’re different, we don’t have to be close.”
The air between them turned thin…fragile, and Max’s mind betrayed him with a rush of memory… Japan. Sheets of rain blurring Suzuka’s lights, the tension in the pit wall. Checo ahead, pushing, defending with a precision that made the difference. By the time Max crossed the line, the math was done, the title was his. Not by luck. Not by some divine inevitability. Because he had the skills, a fast car.... and because Checo had been there helping the team, and him.
The scene bled into another memory, warmer, darker. That night. Champagne still sticky on his skin, the hotel a blur of laughter and noise. In the bathroom, Checo leaning against the sink, eyes soft from drink.
The kiss had been reckless, a dare Max didn’t speak out loud. Checo sighing against his lips, kissing him back as if the world could be suspended in that moment.
And now… this. Max, staring at him, wondering how the hell they had gone from Suzuka to here.
“I believe you." he took a deep breath "It’s true, everyone is running their mouths… Helmut, my dad, even my mom. It’s embarrassing.”
Checo nodded slowly. “I also have a big ego, Max,” he admitted, “ So like I said... We don’t have to be close but I will always be professional.”
Max’s expression tightened, the words landing like stones in his chest. Something told him that whatever they had was already fractured, maybe beyond repair.
“I won’t bring it up again,” he said quietly.
“Thanks. And next time, just tell me how you feel...no need for karaoke riddles.”
Max didn’t laugh, Checo sighted and went to his own room.
The gala was in early December, but the air between them had already shifted back when they went to Japan during the Honda Thanks Day.
They’d laughed, posed for photos, joked with the guys, enough to fool the cameras… but underneath, Checo felt the gap like a fracture he was determined not to mend. They’d agreed to be professional, not friendly. That’s what Checo had told himself, anyway. And when he caught the flicker of hurt in Max’s eyes during one of the group pictures, he knew Max had finally believed him… this wasn’t a passing mood. It wasn’t going to be the same anymore.
At the gala, the awkwardness became almost physical. Christian didn’t seem to know what to do with himself, hovering too long in conversations, laughing too loudly at nothing in particular. Geri, ever the peacemaker, tried to lighten the mood with comments about the décor and playful nudges, but it only skimmed the surface. The interviews came, the press games, the quick-fire questions about the season. They spoke when they had to, looked at each other when prompted, but never let the moment linger long enough for the old ease to return.
After the award giving, Max tried. He really did. He lingered near Checo, dropping small comments, half-smiles, nudging him during the walk back to their table as if coaxing out even the faintest grin. But Checo’s expression remained polite, steady, and unreadable. The effort died between them.
Then the photographers called them over for the official shots. Max stood beside him, and just as the flashes began, Checo placed his hand, firm, proud, on Max’s back, Max froze, he noticed Checo placed his hand lower than Leclerc who had barely touched him, possessiveness... something Max had already seen in little moments here and there with Checo.. It was such a small gesture, almost nothing, yet it sent a confusing warmth through Max’s chest. Checo was jelous of Charles. For the first time that night, Max’s expression softened, but by the time he turned to meet Checo’s eyes, he was gone, talking to Christian about how he had to rush back to Mexico, and how he’d see them all soon.
Max’s pulse kicked up, something raw unfurling in his chest.
I can’t let it end like this. I need to fix this.