Work Text:
The champagne is a 2012 Dom Pérignon Rosé.
Lewis holds the bottle up to the light, turning it slowly. He'd ordered it three weeks ago, had it shipped from a private cellar in Reims, because Nico once mentioned — offhandedly, years ago, in a conversation Lewis wasn't supposed to remember — that rosé champagne reminded him of summers in Monaco before everything went wrong.
Lewis remembers.
On the kitchen counter: a box of Pierre Marcolini truffles, a dozen garden roses in that shade of deep red that's almost black, and two crystal flutes he's already polished twice. The playlist is cued up on the sound system — a carefully constructed mix of old R&B and whatever that French jazz album which Nico plays on Sunday mornings.
He adjusts his collar in the hallway mirror. Dark shirt, top button undone, sleeves rolled once at the cuff. He looks good. He knows he looks good.
"You know it's just us tonight, right?" Nico appears behind him in the mirror, still toweling off his hair from the shower. "You don't have to— " He gestures at the whole production.
"That's the point." Lewis turns, catches Nico by the belt loop, pulls him half a step closer. "Just us. No kids. No grandkids. No one asking me to fix anything or explain anything or fund anything."
Nico raises an eyebrow. Water drips from his hair onto the collar of his half-buttoned shirt.
"Just you," Lewis says, "and me, and a very expensive bottle of champagne."
Nico's mouth curves. He leans in, and Lewis closes his eyes —
His phone rings.
"Dad! Okay, so, don't be mad."
Lewis pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't need to look at Nico, who has already taken one step back and folded his arms, to know what expression he's wearing. "Lando."
"I found this restaurant—it's brand new, you literally can't get a table, but somehow Oscar knows someone who knows someone, and they had a six-person table, which, okay, not exactly intimate, but then I thought: Max and Charles need a night out, and George and Alex need a night out, and we could all go together— "
"Lando."
"—and the reservation is at eight, and Mika's already had his bath, and he goes down easy if you sing to him, and I know you had plans but — "
"Lando."
A pause. Then, quieter: "Please?"
Lewis looks at Nico. Nico unfolds his arms and makes the exact face he makes when he already knows how this ends.
"Fine," Lewis says. "Bring him over."
"OSCAR, HE SAID YES— " The phone goes dead.
Lewis stares at the ceiling. "One baby," he says. "We can work around one baby."
Nico doesn't say anything. But his eyes are smiling.
Twenty minutes later, Lando breezes through the front door in a fitted blazer that's slightly too trendy and a cloud of cologne that arrives before he does.
"Right, so, he ate at six, he shouldn't need changing for a bit, his blanket's in the bag—the blue one, not the green one, the green one is a backup—and if he cries, just— "
"We've done this before," Nico says calmly, already lifting Mika out of Oscar's arms with the practiced ease of someone who has, in fact, done this many times before. Mika is small and warm and smells like baby shampoo. He blinks up at Nico with enormous brown eyes and grabs a fistful of his shirt.
Oscar stands in the doorway, looking faintly guilty. He's dressed more simply than Lando — dark trousers, a cream knit — but he keeps tugging at the sleeve of his sweater as if he is in a press conferences and he's not sure he should be speaking.
"We really appreciate it," Oscar says. "We wouldn't ask, but— "
"Go." Lewis waves a hand. "Have fun. Don't let him order the full menu."
"It's called sampling," Lando says, offended. "It's what you do at nice restaurants."
"It's what you do at a buffet. Go."
Lando opens his mouth. Closes it. Narrows his eyes. "Happy Valentine's Day, Dad." He kisses Mika's head, grabs Oscar by the elbow, and disappears.
Lewis closes the door. The house goes still. Mika gnaws on Nico's collar.
"See?" Lewis says. "We've got this."
The doorbell rings.
Charles Leclerc stands on the doorstep looking like he's walked off the cover of GQ Italia, which is to say, he looks like Charles Leclerc. Behind him, Max Verstappen holds a bag in one hand and his son in the other, both with the same expression of vague disinterest.
"Lewis, I am so, so sorry," Charles begins, pressing a hand to his chest. "I know this is—we wouldn't ask, but Lando said you were already watching Mika, and our situation is—it's complicated, because it's our turn to watch Lily this Valentine, so Kelly and Marco are in Brazil for their anniversary, and we couldn't— "
"Charles. Breathe."
Charles breathes. His cheeks are faintly flushed. Max shifts the toddler on his hip.
"Lily packed her own bag," Max says, in a tone that suggests this concludes the necessary information transfer.
And indeed, six-year-old Lily Verstappen walks through the door on her own, a small backpack over one shoulder, hair in a neat braid. She surveys the living room like a site inspector, locates Mika on Nico's lap, and nods once, as though confirming an expected variable.
"Hello," she says. To Mika. Who stares at her. "I'm Lily. I'm in charge."
Lewis bites the inside of his cheek.
Charles crouches down to kiss Max Junior goodbye. The boy — round-faced, blue-eyed, built like a small, determined tank — tolerates this patiently like someone who has important things to get back to. Charles whispers something in French against his hair. Max Junior responds by grabbing his ear.
Max hands over the bag. "His routine is in the front pocket. Bedtime is seven-thirty. He doesn't like the dark."
"Got it."
Max hesitates. Then, like it costs him something: "Thank you."
"You owe me one," Lewis says lightly.
Max holds Lewis's gaze for one beat and nods. Then he turns, takes Charles by the hand, and leaves without looking back.
Lewis closes the door. In the living room, Mika has grabbed a fistful of Lily's braid. She holds very still, looks at Nico, and says, "He has a strong grip. That's good for a driver."
Nico makes a sound that's halfway between a laugh and a cough.
Lewis picks up the champagne and puts it back in the ice bucket. "I'll wait," he tells it.
The doorbell rings.
"Before you say anything," George Russell says, holding Emily on his hip and a laminated sheet of paper in his free hand, "I've prepared a comprehensive— "
"Is that a schedule?" Lewis takes the laminated page. It is, in fact, a colour-coded itinerary of Emily's evening, complete with timestamps, dietary notes, and a section titled Preferred Comfort Strategies (Ranked by Efficacy).
Alex Albon peers over George's shoulder. "I told him it was too much."
"It's thorough," George corrects.
Emily is four years old and appears to be constructing a small wall of shyness between herself and the world, her face pressed into George's neck. She has Alex's dark eyes and George's cheekbones and a tiny clip in her hair shaped like a butterfly.
"Hey, Em," Lewis says, softening his voice. "Lily's here. Do you want to go say hi?"
Emily peeks out. Across the room, Lily looks up from where she's carefully separating Mika's fingers from her braid. She gives Emily a small wave. Not enthusiastic — measured, almost regal.
Emily's arms reach out toward Lily.
"There we go," Alex says, and the relief on his face suggests drop-off is not always this diplomatic.
They make the handover. George lingers, smoothing Emily's hair, murmuring something about the butterfly clip being new and please don't let her lose it. Alex physically steers him toward the door.
"Thank you, Lewis. Seriously." Alex grins. "We'll make it up to you."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
The door closes for the third time. Lewis turns to face his living room.
Mika sits on a play mat, chewing on a rubber giraffe. Max Junior has found a remote control and is pressing buttons with the intensity of an engineer running diagnostics. Emily clings to Lily's hand, and Lily — to her credit — holds it like it's the most natural thing in the world, leading her carefully around the coffee table that Nico has already moved to the wall.
Nico is in the kitchen, heating milk. He has a baby towel over one shoulder. His hair has air-dried in uneven waves.
Lewis rolls up his sleeves.
"Happy Valentine's Day to us," he says.
The first hour is manageable.
Nico runs it like a pit stop — efficient, calm, no wasted movement. Bottles prepped and lined up. Snacks distributed in order of mess potential (rice crackers first, banana slices only under supervision, absolutely nothing with chocolate until after the carpet has been covered with a blanket).
Lily is his co-pilot. She sits on the floor next to Emily, patiently turning the pages of a picture book about marine animals, providing commentary with absolute conviction. ("Octopuses have three hearts. That's two more than most people. That's an advantage.")
At one point, when Max Junior starts fussing and Mika is mid-bottle and Emily needs her butterfly clip refastened all at once, Lily stands up, walks over to Max Junior, and hands him a stuffed elephant with the decisive energy of a team principal making a strategy call. Max Junior stops fussing.
Lily then turns to Emily, fixes the butterfly clip easily, then looks at Nico — who is holding Mika's bottle now — and gives him a small nod of approval.
"You're very good at this," Nico tells her.
Lily straightens her back. "It's about reading what people need," she says, "and responding before they know they need it."
Behind her, Lewis catches Nico's eye. Neither of them says a word, because if either of them opens their mouth, they will laugh, and Lily Verstappen is not the sort of person who appreciates being laughed at.
Lewis takes Max Junior for a diaper change.
It's a one-man job in theory. Max Junior makes it feel like a contact sport, he kicks and squirms and arches his back with a core strength that seems medically improbable for a three-year-old.
"Easy," Lewis mutters. "Easy. We're almost done. Just—hold still—"
Max Junior does not hold still. Lewis gets kicked in the wrist, fumbles a wipe, drops the diaper, picks up the diaper, and finally — finally — gets the whole situation under control.
He sits back. Max Junior lies on the changing mat, breathing hard, apparently satisfied that he put up a good fight.
Lewis looks at him.
That face. Those blue eyes, that stubborn set to the jaw, the way his brow furrows like the world is a problem he intends to solve by force. It's Max. It's just Max, shrunk down and wrapped in a dinosaur onesie.
Lewis leans in close. Gently, with his thumb and forefinger, he pinches one round, impossibly soft cheek.
"That," he whispers, "is for 2021. We're even now."
Max Junior blinks. He doesn't understand. Of course he doesn't — he's three, and the 2021 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix is nothing to him, just a number, just a sound.
He giggles.
Lewis picks him up and carries him back to the living room.
By eight-thirty, the situation has deteriorated.
No one will sleep.
Lewis has tried lullabies (Emily was interested; the others were not). Nico has tried dimming the lights (Max Junior cried). Lily has tried reasoning with them ("Sleeping is efficient. You grow faster when you sleep." Mika threw a rice cracker at her). They've tried warm milk. They've tried gentle music. They've considered driving around the block, except there are four children and not enough car seats.
"I have an idea," Lewis says.
Nico looks at him with the weary hopefulness of a man who has been bouncing a toddler on his hip for twenty minutes. "Does it involve tranquillizers?"
"Better."
Lewis disappears into the garage.
He comes back two minutes later. "Everyone up. Field trip."
Nico stares at him. Lewis just grins.
The garage is temperature-controlled, spacious, and in the middle, under a spotlight: a miniature Mercedes-AMG.
It's a child-sized electric car, silver with black detailing, built to spec by a team at the Brackley factory as a gift for Mika. It has working LED headlights. It has a Bluetooth speaker. It has a leather seat with three-point harness and a top speed that Nico forced Lewis to have limited to five kilometres per hour after an incident involving the driveway gate that they have agreed never to discuss.
The car costs more than a real one. Lewis knows this. Nico knows this. The children do not know this, and they do not care. What they care about is that it is shiny and it moves and Mika is already making a sound that can only be described as a shriek of excitement.
"Me first," Mika declares, with the confidence of a boy who knows his grandfather bought this specifically for him.
Lewis lifts him in. Mika grips the steering wheel. Lewis guides the car in a slow loop around the garage floor, weaving between Nico's Porsche and the recycling bins, and Mika's face — the way it opens up, pure joy, every trace of sleepy resistance gone — and Lewis catches Nico watching them both from the doorway, smiling.
Max Junior watches with the focus of a predator.
"Me," he says. Not a question. A statement.
They take turns. Mika, then Max Junior (who, naturally, attempts to steer the car directly into a tyre rack, requiring Lewis to intervene with the parent remote). Emily goes next, gripping the wheel with both hands and whispering "vroom" so quietly it's almost inaudible.
Lily watches from a folding chair by the wall, arms crossed, legs swinging. "That's for babies," she announces.
"Of course," Nico says, pulling up a folding chair beside her.
"I don't need a toy car."
"Absolutely not."
"I'm six."
"Very mature."
Two minutes later, Lily is in the driver's seat, spine straight, hands at ten and two, Pure Verstappen. She navigates a precise circuit of the garage — around the Porsche, past the workbench, clear of the tool cabinet — and pulls to a stop exactly where she started.
"Not bad," she says, to no one in particular.
Lewis gets his phone out.
@lewishamilton 📸
[Photo: Four children around a silver miniature Mercedes-AMG. Mika stands beside it with one hand on the hood, proprietary. Max Junior is mid-climb into the passenger seat. Emily sits on the play mat nearby, hugging a teddy bear that had its own line on George's laminated schedule. Lily is in the driver's seat, face serious as a steward's inquiry.]
Happy Valentine's Day from the babysitting service 🥂 Future grid is looking competitive 😂❤️
❤️ 283,409 likes
@landonorris liked this post
@charles_leclerc liked this post
@totowolff ❤️❤️❤️ This is the best thing I've seen all day. The next generation of Silver Arrows!
@zakbrown Why is Mika not in a McLaren car? @landonorris explain yourself immediately
@landonorris unliked this post
@fredvasseur Ferrari also makes children's cars. Just saying. 🏎️
@charles_leclerc unliked this post
@andreastella Noted. Sending a papaya one tomorrow.
@christianhorner Lovely photo. Next time bring them to Milton Keynes — we have ponies 🐎
@totowolff @christianhorner Let me guess. Ponies with Red Bull logos on the saddle cloths?
@christianhorner Maybe 😏
@georgerussell63 Emily looks so happy 🥹 thank you Lewis!!
@oscarpiastri I see my son is wearing Mercedes merchandise. Interesting.
@landonorris NO.
@danielricciardo This is the content I pay internet for 🤣🤣🤣
@sebastianvettel Lily's driving line is already better than some people I raced against 😄
Lewis puts the phone down when the notifications become unmanageable. Nico is reading the comments over his shoulder, his chin resting on Lewis's head, his body shaking with silent laughter.
"You've started a war," Nico says.
"I've started content."
"You're getting a very long voice note from Lando."
Lewis grins. On the floor, Mika has fallen asleep against Max Junior, who is also asleep, the two of them slumped together like a pile of laundry. Emily is curled in a ball on the play mat, the butterfly clip somehow still intact. Lily sits in the armchair with a book about cars, turning pages at the methodical pace of someone who is definitely awake and intends to stay that way.
The house, finally, is quiet.
Lewis leans back into Nico. Nico's arm comes around his shoulder.
The parents come back in waves.
George and Alex arrive first, just past ten. George enters on tiptoe, already scanning for Emily, and when he sees her asleep on the mat, his whole body softens. He lifts her carefully. Emily stirs, mumbles "Lily," and settles against his chest.
"She had a great time," Nico whispers. "Barely cried at all."
George mouths thank you and carries her out. Alex follows, pausing to squeeze Lewis's arm.
Max and Charles come next, hand in hand. Charles has that post-dinner glow, relaxed and loose-limbed. Max, by contrast, looks approximately as relaxed as he always does, which is to say: vigilant.
Charles scoops up Max Junior from the floor. The boy's head lolls against his father's shoulder.
"Was he good?" Charles asks.
"Perfect," Lewis says.
Max picks up Lily, who has fallen asleep in the armchair with the car book open on her chest. She barely stirs, just loops her arms around Max's neck. Something in Max's jaw loosens.
He turns toward the door. Max Junior, half-awake in Charles's arms, lifts his head.
"Papa."
Max stops. "Ja?"
"Papa... what is twenny...twenny-one?"
The room goes very still.
Max turns slowly. His eyes find Lewis. They are very blue and very, very sharp.
Lewis's face is a masterpiece of innocence now. He has no idea what this child is talking about. His hands are behind his back and his eyebrows are slightly raised and if he were hooked up to a polygraph right now, it would explode.
Nico develops a sudden, intense interest in the ceiling.
Charles, in the doorway, presses his lips together. His shoulders tremble. He says nothing.
"It's a number," Max tells his son, after a pause that lasts approximately one geological era. "Go back to sleep."
He looks at Lewis one more time. The look says: I will remember this.
Lewis smiles. The smile says: I know.
The door closes.
Lando and Oscar are last.
Oscar lifts Mika from the couch in one smooth motion. Mika doesn't wake. He slots against Oscar's chest like a puzzle piece finding its place.
"Thanks, Dad." Lando hugs Lewis, then Nico — quick, tight, a little cologne still clinging to his jacket. "How was he?"
"An angel." Lewis brushes a curl off Mika's forehead. "As always."
"Obviously. Takes after his dad." Lando adjusts his collar. "Charming. Low-maintenance. Easy to love."
Oscar, already halfway out the door, doesn't turn around. "Funny, everyone keeps saying he takes after me."
Lando clutches his chest in mock outrage, and Oscar steers him out with a hand on the small of his back, the same way Alex steered George, the same way Max took Charles by the hand. All these young men, Lewis thinks, finding their way to the same gestures.
The door closes for the last time.
The house is wrecked.
There are toys on every surface. A half-empty bottle of milk on the coffee table. Rice cracker crumbs in the carpet. Crayon marks on a piece of paper that might have started as a lion and ended as a philosophical statement. A stuffed elephant that Max Junior left behind. One tiny sock, unmatched, origin unknown.
Lewis picks his way through the debris. He retrieves the champagne from the ice bucket — the ice has long since melted into tepid water. He opens the box of truffles, two are mysteriously missing. He places the roses on the table, adjusts the petals, steps back to assess.
"Nico," he calls. "We can still—"
He walks into the living room.
Nico is asleep on the couch.
He's curled on his side, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting on a baby blanket — the green one, not the blue one — that Lando dropped behind. His shirt is untucked. His feet are bare. His breathing is slow and even and deep.
Lewis stands there.
There's no music playing. The playlist stopped hours ago and neither of them noticed. The roses are in the kitchen and the champagne is warm and the truffles are short by two and his collar, the one he'd adjusted so carefully in the mirror, is wrinkled and stained with something that's probably milk but might be banana.
His Valentine's Day is ruined.
He looks at Nico's face — the lines that weren't there when they were seventeen, the silver in his hair, his mouth slightly open, the way Lewis has seen a thousand times and still hasn't gotten tired of.
Lewis thinks about the boy who broke his heart. The boy he thought he'd lost forever. The years in between — the silence, the cold, the distance — he thinks about Lando walking into the paddock with that grin, those eyes, and the whole careful architecture of their separate lives cracking open like an egg.
He thinks about tonight. The doorbell ringing and ringing and ringing. The chaos, the noise, the four children who fell asleep in his house on Valentine's Day because their parents trusted him — trusted them — with the people they love most.
He pulls the blanket up over Nico's shoulder, tucks the edge under his chin and presses his lips to Nico's temple softly.
Then he sits down on the floor with his back against the couch, close enough to feel Nico's breathing.
He takes out his phone. Opens the camera. Angles it up: Nico asleep behind him, soft and unguarded, the wreckage of a beautiful evening everywhere.
He takes the photo, looks at it for a long moment.
He doesn't post it.
Some things aren't for the internet.
Lewis puts the phone down. He rests his head back against the couch, and Nico's hand, in sleep, finds the curve of his shoulder.
"Happy Valentine's Day," Lewis says, to the quiet room.
Outside, Monaco glitters.