Chapter Text
The first thing George became aware of was the warmth.
It was everywhere—enveloping him, seeping into his bones, making his sleep-addled brain feel safe and heavy. There was a weight across his chest, a leg tangled with his, and a soft puff of breath ghosting against his collarbone. He sighed contentedly, instinctively pulling the source of that warmth closer, nuzzling into something soft and smelling of something familiar. Something that made his chest ache with a dull, pleasant thrum.
Shampoo, his foggy brain supplied. The kind Alex uses.
Wait.
George's eyes flew open.
The ceiling above him was wrong. His bedroom had a plain white ceiling with a single light fixture. This one was vaulted, with dark wooden beams and a skylight letting in pale morning sun. Panic flickered in his chest, quickly doused by the far more urgent problem currently using his pectoral as a pillow.
He looked down.
Honey-brown skin. Dark, sleep-tousled hair that curled slightly at the ends. A familiar slope of a shoulder, bare and relaxed. An arm thrown possessively across his stomach.
Alex.
Alex Albon was in his bed. In his arms.
George's brain, which had been happily dormant just seconds ago, screeched to a halt like a car hitting a wall at 200 miles per hour. All systems crashed. Error messages flooded his mental dashboard.
ALEX IN BED. REPEAT: ALEX. IN. BED.
He stopped breathing. Literally. His lungs just... refused to cooperate. Because if he breathed, if he made even the smallest sound, this moment would shatter. And despite the sheer, cosmic impossibility of it, despite the guilt already coiling like a serpent in his stomach, George Russell did not want this moment to end.
He was in love with Alex Albon. Had been for what felt like forever. It was a fact of his life, as constant and unrequited as gravity. And Alex was engaged to Lily. George had spent last night at the engagement party, smiling until his face hurt, drinking too much champagne, and then going home to cry into his pillow like a pathetic cliché.
So how in the bloody hell was Alex Albon in his bed?
He must have made a sound—a sharp inhale, a tiny whimper of confusion—because the body against him stirred. The arm across his stomach tightened. The head on his chest lifted slightly, and George found himself staring down into the sleep-soft, utterly gorgeous face of his best friend.
Alex's eyes fluttered open. Dark, warm, full of sleepy contentment. They focused on George's face, and a slow, private smile spread across his lips. The kind of smile that was usually reserved for Lily.
"Morning, love," Alex murmured, his voice rough with sleep. And then, with the casual intimacy of long practice, he tilted his head up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to George's jaw.
George short-circuited. Every neuron in his brain fired at once, then promptly gave up and died. He was a statue. A very warm, very confused, very terrified statue with a racing heart.
Alex pulled back just enough to look at him, his brow furrowing slightly. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
I think I am the ghost, George thought hysterically. I think I've stumbled into someone else's life. Someone who gets to wake up to you every morning.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. What came out was a strangled, "Alex?"
The concern in Alex's eyes deepened. He pushed himself up on one elbow, the duvet slipping to reveal a tantalizing stretch of bare chest that George absolutely did not let his eyes flicker to. (He did. He definitely did.)
"Yeah?" Alex said slowly. "It's me. Who else would I be?" A teasing glint entered his eyes, a familiar Albun mischief that made George's heart clench. "Did you have a weird dream? Was I in it? Was I being annoyingly handsome and stealing the covers?"
Yes, George wanted to say. Every night. You're in every single one.
Instead, he forced his frozen vocal cords to produce words. "I... um. The... the covers?" He was a genius. An absolute wordsmith.
Alex laughed, soft and fond, and the sound was so familiar, so Alex, that George felt tears prick at the back of his eyes. This was wrong. This was so wrong. But it also felt so achingly, impossibly right.
"You're adorable when you're confused," Alex informed him, leaning in to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. "It's Saturday. No alarms. Go back to sleep." He flopped back down, resuming his position as the little spoon, tucking himself against George's side like he belonged there. "Or don't. But if you're going to stare at me like I'm a puzzle you can't solve, at least make coffee first."
George's arm, of its own volition, wrapped around Alex and pulled him closer. It was reflex. Instinct. The same way a plant turns toward the sun. Alex hummed in appreciation and nestled in, completely at ease.
And George lay there, wide awake, his mind a hurricane of questions, his heart a traitorous, joyful mess, and his soul drowning in guilt.
Lily, he thought, the name a cold splash of reality. Lily. Alex belongs to Lily. Not to me. Never to me.
But this Alex—this warm, sleepy, affectionate Alex—clearly believed he belonged to George. And George, selfish, desperate, heartbroken George, couldn't bring himself to correct him. Not yet. Just a few more minutes. Just a little longer in this impossible dream.
He pressed his lips to the top of Alex's head, breathing him in.
What the hell is happening?
Deep breaths George, come on. Figure out what’s going on. Make a list.
Physical Evidence: Alex Albon is definitely in my bed. He is definitely shirtless. I am definitely shirtless. We are definitely cuddling. This is not a dream (pinched own arm, ow).
Context Clues: Alex called me "love." Alex kissed me like it was normal. Alex is acting like we do this every morning. Conclusion: In whatever twisted version of reality this is, Alex Albon is my boyfriend.
Moral Implications: Alex is engaged to Lily, or at least he was. Is this the same Alex? Am I in the future or an alternate universe? Does he remember Lily? If he doesn't... am I taking advantage? If this is a different Alex, one who loves me... am I stealing him from the other George?
Emotional State: Confusion: 100%. Terror: 75%. Guilt: Rising rapidly, currently at 60%. Happiness: A secret, shameful 90% that he's trying very hard to ignore.
Immediate Plan: Pretend to fall asleep. Do not move. Do not think. Just... feel. Just for a little while.
When Alex eventually stirs again, properly awake, George will have to face the music. He'll have to figure out who he is in this world, where they are, and most importantly, what Alex knows. But for now, in the quiet morning light, with the man of his dreams in his arms, George allows himself one selfish moment of peace.
He's going to need it for the storm to come
---
Charles Leclerc woke up warm.
This was, in itself, unusual. Charles ran hot at night; he usually kicked off the covers within hours of falling asleep. But this warmth was different—it was external, solid, *alive*. There was a weight pressed against his back, an arm slung heavily over his waist, and a soft huff of breath stirring the hair at the nape of his neck.
His first sleepy thought was that he'd finally caved and gotten a cat. A very large, very warm cat.
His second thought, as consciousness dripped slowly into his brain, was that cats didn't have muscular arms or broad chests.
His eyes flew open.
The room was wrong. His Monaco apartment had cream walls and sea views. This room had exposed brick, modern art, and a racing bike mounted on the wall. A Red Bull racing bike. With Max Verstappen's name printed on the frame in tiny letters.
Charles's heart stopped.
The arm around his waist tightened. The body behind him shifted, and a sleepy voice murmured against his shoulder, "Mmnnngh."
Dutch. That was a Dutch-sounding grunt. Max Verstappen made Dutch-sounding grunts. Max Verstappen was in his bed. *Behind him. Holding him.*
Charles did the only thing his fried brain could think of.
He screamed.
Not loudly—it came out more as a strangled yelp, high-pitched and undignified, the kind of noise Charles Leclerc had not made since he was twelve and his brother had jumped out of a closet at him. He scrambled forward, out of the embrace, and promptly fell off the bed with a spectacular crash.
"WHAT THE—" The voice behind him was now alert, confused, and definitely Dutch-accented. The bed creaked. "What—where—who—"
Charles was on the floor, tangled in a duvet, staring up at the bed with wide, horrified eyes.
Max Verstappen was peering over the edge at him.
Max Verstappen had sleep-mussed hair and wild blue eyes and bare shoulders.
Max Verstappen was *shirtless*.
And Max Verstappen was looking at him like *he'd* seen a ghost.
"Charles?" Max's voice was strangled, confused, *terrified*. "What—why are you—where am I? Where are we? What is happening?"
Charles stared at him. The panic in Max's voice was real. The confusion on his face was real. This wasn't the look of someone who'd woken up with their boyfriend. This was the look of someone who'd woken up in a nightmare.
"I don't know," Charles heard himself say. "I don't know where we are. I don't know why we're here. I don't know why you're—" He gestured vaguely at Max's bare chest, then immediately looked away, face burning. "—why you're like that."
Max looked down at himself. Looked back at Charles. His face cycled through approximately seventeen emotions in three seconds.
"Why am I shirtless?" he demanded. "Why are *you*—" He stopped. Stared. Charles followed his gaze and realized with dawning horror that he was also wearing significantly less clothing than he'd gone to sleep in.
"Oh no," Charles whispered.
"Oh no," Max agreed.
They stared at each other.
Then both of them scrambled—Max backwards on the bed, Charles pushing himself across the floor—until there was maximum possible distance between them. Max clutched the duvet to his chest like a maiden in a Victorian novel. Charles found himself pressed against the far wall, using a pillow as a shield.
"This is not my room," Max said. His voice was high. Max Verstappen's voice was never high. "This is not my room, these are not my sheets, and you are not supposed to be here."
"This is not my room either," Charles shot back. "And you are definitely not supposed to be here. We are not—we don't—we're rivals! We fight! We barely speak!"
"I KNOW we barely speak!" Max's eyes were wide, wild, darting around the room like he expected someone to jump out at them. "So why are we in bed together?!"
"I DON'T KNOW!"
They both stopped. Breathed. The absurdity of the situation hung between them like a physical thing.
Max spoke first, calmer now, his voice carefully controlled in a way that Charles recognized from a thousand press conferences. "Okay. Okay. Let's think. What's the last thing you remember?"
Charles forced himself to think past the panic. "I went to bed. My apartment. Monaco. Tuesday night."
"Tuesday," Max repeated. "It was Wednesday morning when I went to bed. My apartment. Monaco."
"Monaco," Charles said slowly. "We both live in Monaco. That's... that's normal. That's fine."
"Nothing about this is fine," Max said flatly. He looked around the room again, really looked this time. "This apartment. It's nice. Too nice for a hotel. There are photos on the wall."
Charles followed his gaze. Framed pictures. He couldn't see them clearly from this angle, but—
"Check your phone," he said suddenly. "Your phone. See if you have service. See if there are... clues."
Max grabbed a phone from the nightstand. Unlocked it with his face. Started scrolling.
His face went pale.
"Charles," he said slowly. "There are pictures of us on my phone."
"Show me."
Max hesitated. Then he got up—still clutching the duvet, Charles noticed, and would have found it funny if he wasn't so terrified—and crossed the room. He held out the phone.
Charles looked.
Photos. Dozens of them. Charles and Max at dinner, smiling. Charles and Max on a beach. Charles and Max kissing. *Kissing.* His arm around Max's shoulders. Max's head on his chest. Both of them looking disgustingly, obnoxiously happy.
"That's not us," Charles whispered. "That's not—we don't—"
"I know," Max said. His voice was strange. "I know we don't. But apparently... apparently somewhere, some version of us does."
Charles looked up at him. They were close now, Max having crossed the room without either of them noticing. Close enough that Charles could see the panic still in his eyes, but underneath it, something else. Something that looked almost like...
"Your phone," Max said. "Check your phone."
Charles scrambled for his own device, still on the floor where it must have fallen during his dramatic exit from the bed. He unlocked it. Scrolled.
More photos. A text thread between them full of heart emojis. A saved note titled "Max's Favorite Things" in his own handwriting. A calendar reminder for "1 year anniversary" in three weeks.
"Oh god," Charles breathed. "Oh god, Max, we're together. In this world, we're *together*."
"Together," Max echoed. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, letting the duvet fall. He was wearing sweatpants. Charles tried very hard not to notice. "Together as in... boyfriends."
"Boyfriends," Charles agreed weakly.
They sat in silence for a long moment. Two rivals, trapped in an alternate dimension, apparently madly in love with each other.
Max broke first.
"So," he said, and his voice was almost normal now, almost the Max Charles knew from the paddock—competitive, controlled, a little bit smug. "Alternate universe. Boyfriends. Any idea how we get back to our own world where we hate each other?"
Charles opened his mouth to agree, to latch onto that familiar narrative—rivals, enemies, *safe*.
But the word that came out was, "I don't hate you."
Max blinked. "What?"
"I don't hate you," Charles repeated, and realized it was true. "In our world. I don't hate you. We're rivals. We fight. But I don't—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I never hated you."
Max stared at him. Something flickered in those blue eyes—surprise, maybe, or recognition.
"I don't hate you either," he said quietly. "For the record."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
More silence. Different, this time. Less panicked. More... aware.
Charles cleared his throat. "So. Alternate universe. Us. Together. What do we do?"
Max considered. "First? We figure out where we are. Who we are here. What our lives look like." He paused. "Then we figure out if we want to go back."
Charles looked at him sharply. "If?"
Max shrugged, but there was something careful in his expression. "Just a thought. We should know what we're leaving before we decide to leave it."
Charles thought about the photos. The way this version of Max looked at this version of Charles. The way his heart had done something strange when Max said *I don't hate you either*.
"Okay," he said. "First, we figure out where we are."
Max nodded. Stood up. Extended a hand to help Charles up.
Charles looked at the hand. At Max's face. At the hand again.
"Truce?" Max asked. "Until we figure this out?"
Charles took the hand.
"Truce."
Their fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary before they both pulled away.
They'd discovered the apartment was theirs—jointly, apparently. A shared closet. A shared bathroom. A shared life.
They'd discovered their jobs: Max worked in marketing for Red Bull (some kind of corporate office, not a race track), and Charles worked as a tailor at Ferrari Bespoke. Normal jobs. Civilian jobs. Jobs that didn't involve racing at 200 miles per hour.
They'd discovered that in this world, they were *that couple*. The one with joint bank accounts and matching coffee mugs and a calendar full of date nights.
And now they were sitting at the kitchen island, nursing coffee that Max had made on autopilot ("I just... knew where everything was"), when Charles's phone buzzed.
A text from someone named "Daniel 🤙":
Dude! You and Max still on for dinner tonight? Checo wants to try that new Italian place. Also, congrats again on the anniversary planning—three weeks!! So excited for you both!! 🎉🥂
Charles showed Max.
Max read it. Read it again.
"Daniel," he said slowly. "Daniel Ricciardo. He's... he's our friend here?"
"Apparently." Charles scrolled up. Found a group chat called "The Chaos Council" featuring Max, Charles, Daniel, and someone named Lando (Wonder if he’s our Lando). Full of inside jokes and memes and plans to hang out.
Max was scrolling through his own phone. "I have a chat with Daniel too. He's... he's really close. We talk every day." He looked up, something vulnerable in his eyes. "In our world, Daniel and I... we don't talk anymore. Not since he left Red Bull."
Charles knew. Everyone knew. The end of the Ricciardo-Verstappen partnership had been painful, public, and permanent.
"I'm sorry," Charles said quietly.
Max shrugged, but it was forced. "It's fine. It was years ago."
But the way he kept scrolling through the messages, the way his thumb hovered over a photo of him and Daniel laughing together—it wasn't fine. Not really.
Charles made a decision.
"Let's go," he said.
Max looked up. "Go where?"
"To dinner. Tonight. With Daniel and Checo." Charles met his eyes. "If we're stuck here for now, we should... we should meet people. Figure out our lives. And you..." He hesitated. "You should see your friend."
Max stared at him. Something shifted in his expression—surprise, yes, but also something warmer. Something almost like gratitude.
"You'd do that?" he asked. "Pretend to be my boyfriend at a double date with people we don't know?"
Charles felt his ears go pink. "We're not pretending. We are boyfriends here. Apparently. We just need to... act like it. Figure it out as we go. Also, they aren’t strangers, we will just be talking to different versions of the people we know"
"Act like we're in love," Max said slowly.
"Act like we're in love," Charles agreed. Then, quieter: "How hard can it be?"
The look Max gave him then was unreadable. But when he spoke, his voice was soft.
"Okay. Tonight. Double date with Daniel and Checo." He paused. "Charles?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For... for this. For being... not terrible about everything."
Charles almost smiled. "Don't thank me yet. We have three weeks until our anniversary. We have to figure out what we're getting each other."
Max groaned. "Oh god. Anniversary presents. What do boyfriends get each other for anniversaries?"
"I don't know! I've never been anyone's boyfriend!"
"Me neither!"
They looked at each other. And then, slowly, impossibly, they both started laughing.
It was the first time Charles had ever heard Max Verstappen laugh like that—free, unguarded, real. It did something to his chest that he refused to examine.
That night, Charles lay in the guest room (they'd agreed it was safer, for now), staring at the ceiling.
He couldn't stop thinking about Max's laugh. About the way his eyes had crinkled. About the photos on his phone—the way this version of Max looked at this version of Charles.
About the fact that when Max had said *I don't hate you either*, Charles had felt something suspiciously like hope.
Three weeks until our anniversary, he thought. What am I going to do?
In the master bedroom, Max was having the same problem.
He doesn't hate me, Max thought. In any world, apparently, Charles Leclerc doesn't hate me.
What does that mean?
Neither of them slept well.
Neither of them would admit why.
---
Oscar Piastri woke up feeling... normal.
This was, in itself, unusual. He was a light sleeper, attuned to small changes in his environment—a new sound, a different smell, a shift in temperature. His apartment in Monaco was as familiar to him as the back of his hand, and his brain typically ran a quick diagnostic upon waking: Location: secure. Time: acceptable. Threats: none. Return to sleep.
But something was different today.
He couldn't pinpoint it immediately. The ceiling was the same. The light filtering through the curtains was the right angle for a late autumn morning. The sheets were his sheets—good quality, neutral colors, exactly how he liked them.
And yet.
He sat up slowly, scanning the room. Everything was in its place. His books on the shelf. His laptop on the desk. His spare hoodie draped over the chair.
Wait.
He didn't own a hoodie that color. It was bright papaya orange, even brighter than the McLaren one somehow, emblazoned with a logo he didn't recognize. He got up, crossed the room, picked it up.
McLaren Creative Agency, the logo read. Below it, in smaller letters: Lando Norris: Creative Director.
Oscar stared at the hoodie.
Lando Norris. He knew that name. Lando was a driver—a talented, chaotic, endlessly chatty driver who drove Oscar absolutely mad with his constant commentary and complete lack of personal space. They were teammates. Friends, maybe. Oscar wasn't entirely sure what qualified as friendship these days.
Why was Lando's hoodie in his apartment?
He was still staring at it when the bedroom door burst open.
"GOOD MORNING, MY BEAUTIFUL, PERFECT, RIDICULOUSLY TALENTED BOYFRIEND!"
Oscar's brain crashed.
A human missile launched itself at him, all flailing limbs and boundless energy, and Oscar found himself tackled back onto the bed with approximately seventy kilograms of Lando Norris on top of him.
"There you are!" Lando's face was inches from his own, beaming, ridiculous, terrifyingly close. "I woke up and you were gone, and then I remembered that you are so oddly specific about your bed, and so I came here, and here you are! Hi! Good morning! I love you!”
Oscar's mouth opened. No sound came out.
Lando didn't seem to notice. He was already pressing kisses to Oscar's face—forehead, nose, both cheeks, chin—a machine gun of affection that left Oscar completely paralyzed.
"You're so cute in the morning," Lando continued, apparently capable of talking while kissing someone. "Your hair is all messy and you have that confused little face you make when I'm being too much, which is always, but you love it, you love me, I'm the luckiest person in the entire world, did you know that? Did you know I'm the luckiest? Because I am. I'm lucky. You're lucky. We're both lucky. We're so lucky."
Oscar's brain, which had been furiously trying to process the situation, finally rebooted enough to formulate a single word.
"Lando?"
Lando's face lit up like Christmas morning. "That's my name! You said my name! I love when you say my name. Say it again."
"Lando."
"MMMMM." Lando buried his face in Oscar's neck and made a happy sound. "Best morning ever. Can we stay in bed all day? I know we have that meeting at eleven, but we could be late. We're the bosses, we can be late. Actually, you're not the boss, I'm the boss, but you're basically the boss because I do whatever you say. Did you know that? If you told me to jump off a bridge, I'd be like 'how high, babe?' That's how whipped I am. Completely whipped. Oscar-whipped. It's a condition. There's no cure."
Oscar lay there, staring at the ceiling, Lando Norris literally wrapped around him like an octopus, and tried to piece together what was happening.
Boyfriend, his brain supplied helpfully. He called himself your boyfriend. Multiple times. He said he loves you. He's currently attached to your neck.
Yes, Oscar acknowledged. That does appear to be the situation.
In your apartment. His hoodie is in your apartment. He apparently lives here, or least is here often.
Yes.
You are dating Lando Norris. In this reality, you are dating Lando Norris.
Oscar took a deep breath.
Lando Norris, his brain continued, unhelpfully, who talks constantly. Who has no concept of personal space. Who drives you absolutely insane with his constant chatter and his terrible jokes and his complete inability to take anything seriously.
Yes. Oscar was aware.
Lando Norris, his brain added, quieter now, who always remembers your coffee order. Who saves you a seat at every team dinner. Who somehow knows when you're having a bad day and shows up with exactly the right distraction. Who looks at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
Oscar's heart did something complicated.
Oh no, he thought.
"Lando," he said again, because it was the only word he seemed capable of producing.
Lando pulled back just enough to look at him, those brown eyes wide and warm and full of something that made Oscar's chest ache. "Yeah, baby?"
Baby. Lando had called him baby. Lando called him baby regularly, apparently. In this world, Lando called him baby and kissed his face and tackled him in the morning and Oscar just... let him? Liked it? Loved it?
"I need..." Oscar started. Stopped. Started again. "I need a moment."
Lando's expression shifted instantly to concern. "You okay? Are you feeling sick? You look a bit pale. Well, paler than usual. You're always a bit pale, it's not very Australian of you, guess it makes sense since you lived in the UK for so long. It’s almost like you’re British like me, very distinguished, very vampire-chic, but right now you're extra pale. Should I get you water? Tea? You like tea. British person likes tea, shocker. I'll make you tea."
He was already scrambling off the bed, already halfway to the door, when Oscar's hand shot out and caught his wrist.
"Lando. Wait."
Lando froze. Turned back. Those big brown eyes were worried now, genuinely worried, and Oscar felt something twist inside him.
"I'm fine," Oscar said. "I just... woke up a bit disoriented. That's all."
The worry didn't leave Lando's face, but it softened into something tender. He came back to the bed, sat down carefully, took Oscar's hand in both of his.
"Disoriented how?" he asked, and his voice was softer now, gentler, none of the manic energy from before. "Bad dreams? Sometimes you get those. You never tell me what they're about, but I can tell. You get all tense and quiet and you don't want breakfast. Is it that?"
Oscar stared at him. This version of Lando—this boyfriend version—knew that. Knew about his bad dreams. Knew how he reacted. Paid attention to the small things.
"Something like that," he managed.
Lando nodded seriously. Then he lifted Oscar's hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "Okay. Well, I'm here. Whatever it was, I'm here. And I'm going to make you tea, and then I'm going to make you breakfast, and then we're going to sit on the couch and watch something boring because I know that's what you like in the morning, and then eventually you'll feel better and tell me I'm annoying again, and everything will be normal."
Oscar's throat felt tight. "You'd do that?"
Lando looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "Osc. I would do anything for you. Literally anything. Did you not know that? Have I been insufficiently clear about my devotion? Because I can ramp it up. I can be even more. I can be so much more. I will write you poetry. Terrible poetry. Really bad. Rhyming 'Oscar' with 'laser' because you have laser focus, get it? I'll do it. I'll do it right now—"
"Please don't."
Lando grinned. "There he is. There's my robot boyfriend with the emotional range of a teaspoon. I love you."
And he said it so easily, so naturally, like the words meant nothing and everything at once.
Oscar didn't know what to do with that.
Two Hours later, Oscar had learned several things.
First: He and Lando lived together. In his apartment, apparently, but Lando's things had infiltrated every corner—colorful socks in the laundry, weird snacks in the pantry, a collection of ridiculous hats in the closet.
Second: Lando was the Creative Director at something called McLaren Creative Agency. Oscar was the Strategic Planner. They worked together. They were apparently very good at their jobs. Lando provided the chaos and the vision; Oscar provided the structure and the execution. They balanced each other.
Third: Lando Norris, in boyfriend mode, was exhausting. Affectionate, yes. Loving, definitely. But also constantly touching, constantly talking, constantly there in a way that Oscar had never experienced. Every time Oscar moved, Lando's eyes followed. Every time Oscar spoke, Lando listened like he was receiving vital intelligence. Every time Oscar was within arm's reach, Lando found a way to close the distance—a hand on his back, a kiss on his cheek, a lean against his shoulder.
It was overwhelming.
It was also, Oscar was slowly realizing, not entirely unpleasant.
They were on the couch now, some nature documentary playing on the television. Lando had made good on his promise—tea, then breakfast (pancakes, slightly burned, clearly made with enthusiasm rather than skill), then blankets on the couch. Lando was curled against his side, head on his shoulder, humming softly along with the documentary music.
Oscar's phone was in his hand. He'd been scrolling for the past hour, piecing together the shape of this world.
Lando Norris was his boyfriend. Publicly. There were photos of them at events, at dinners, on vacation. There were interviews where they'd talked about each other. There was a whole article in some fashion magazine about "McLaren's Power Couple" and how they'd transformed the agency together.
In this world, Oscar Piastri was loved. Openly, loudly, enthusiastically loved by Lando Norris.
In his world, Oscar Piastri was... what? Friends with Lando. Teammates. Occasionally annoyed by him, occasionally amused by him, occasionally aware that when Lando laughed, Oscar's eyes tended to drift in his direction.
Occasionally aware that he might, possibly, maybe, feel something more than friendship.
"Your brain is being very loud," Lando murmured against his shoulder. "I can hear it thinking from here. What's wrong?"
Oscar hesitated. He couldn't tell Lando the truth—hi, I'm from an alternate universe where we're not together and I'm slowly realizing I might have feelings for you. That would be insane.
But he could ask questions. Gather data.
"I’m thinking of how we met. And how I would love to hear the story from your side,” he replied.
Lando pulled back to look at him, head tilted. "Again? We met at the agency. I interviewed you."
"Tell me again."
Lando's expression flickered—confusion, then something softer. "You really are disoriented today, huh?"
"Just... tell me."
Lando settled back against his shoulder, apparently accepting this. "Okay. So, I was looking for a strategist. Someone who could actually organize my chaos, you know? I'd interviewed, like, twenty people, and they were all boring or scared of me or both. Then you walked in. Suit. Perfect posture. Face like you'd rather be anywhere else. And I thought, 'oh no, another boring one.'"
Oscar listened, his heart doing something complicated.
"Then I asked you a question about campaign planning, and you just... lit up. Not on the outside—you're still you, still all stoic and mysterious—but your eyes. You got so intense. So focused. You had all these ideas, all these plans, and you weren't afraid to tell me when my ideas were stupid. You looked at me like I was just another person, not the Creative Director, not Lando Norris the brand, just... some guy with a half-baked concept. And I thought, 'I need this person in my life forever.'"
Lando paused, his fingers tracing absent patterns on Oscar's sleeve.
"I hired you on the spot. My team thought I was insane. Three months later, I asked you out. You said no."
Oscar blinked. "I did say that huh, seems like so long ago.”
"Yep. And you said no wice." Lando's voice was fond, amused. "First time, you said you didn't date colleagues. Professional boundaries. Very serious. Very Oscar. Second time, you said you didn't think we'd be compatible. I was too loud, too chaotic, too much. I said, 'Oscar, I know I'm a lot. But I think you might be the only person who could handle all of me.'"
Oscar's throat tightened. "And then I said….”
"You stared at me for like thirty seconds. I almost died. Then you said, 'I'll need evidence. Show me.' So I did. I showed you every day. And eventually, you believed me."
Lando lifted his head, met Oscar's eyes. There was no guile there, no performance. Just quiet, steady love.
"And now here we are," he said softly. "Best decision I ever made. Worst decision? That time I let you choose the holiday destination and we ended up hiking for six hours. Six hours, Oscar. In the mud. You owe me."
Oscar almost smiled. Almost. "You didn't hate it."
"No," Lando agreed. "I didn't hate it. Because I was with you." He leaned in, pressed a gentle kiss to Oscar's lips. "I'd hike a thousand miles in the mud if you were at the end of it."
And there it was again. That easy declaration. That complete, unconditional offering of love.
Oscar didn't know what to do with it.
But he was starting to think he might want to find out.
---
Yuki Tsunoda woke up warm.
This was normal. Pierre ran cold and stole blankets, which meant Yuki ended up wrapped around him like a human radiator. It was their routine—on the road, at home, wherever they were. Pierre would shiver dramatically until Yuki pulled him close, and then Pierre would hum contentedly and fall asleep with his face buried in Yuki's neck.
This morning was no different.
Pierre was there, curled against his side, dark hair tickling Yuki's chin, breathing softly. The room was dim. The sheets were the right ones. The pillow was the right pillow.
Yuki closed his eyes again and smiled.
Perfect.
Twenty minutes later, Yuki padded into the kitchen, still in his pajamas, and started the coffee maker. Pierre without coffee was a danger to society. Yuki had learned this the hard way.
He opened the fridge to get milk.
There was a jar of fancy raspberry jam in the door. The kind Pierre bought from that little French shop. Yuki didn't remember it being this full, but Pierre was always bringing home random groceries.
He shrugged and grabbed the milk.
The coffee was almost done when Pierre appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a robe, hair adorably messy.
"Coffee?" he mumbled.
"Coffee," Yuki confirmed, already pouring.
Pierre shuffled over, took the mug with both hands, and pressed a kiss to Yuki's cheek. "Merci, mon cœur."
Yuki leaned into it. "Mm."
They settled at the kitchen island, the morning quiet wrapping around them. Pierre scrolled through his phone. Yuki stared at his coffee, not quite awake.
Then he noticed the calendar on the wall.
It was their calendar—the one they kept synced between race weekends and factory days and sponsor events. But the dates were wrong. There was something circled for next week that Yuki didn't recognize.
"Pierre?" He pointed. "What's this?"
Pierre looked up. "The AlphaTauri presentation. New season collection reveal." He frowned slightly. "You've been talking about it for weeks."
Yuki blinked. "I have?"
"Yeah. The fashion thing. With the..." Pierre gestured vaguely. "Clothes."
Yuki stared at him. "Fashion?"
"Your job?" Pierre's frown deepened. "Yuki, are you feeling okay?"
Yuki opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked around the kitchen—really looked, this time. The books on the shelf were different. There was a plant on the windowsill that he didn't remember buying. The mug in his hands had a logo for something called "AlphaTauri Urban Fashion."
"I..." He set down the mug carefully. "Pierre. What's my job?"
Pierre's expression shifted from confused to concerned. "You design clothes. For AlphaTauri. The fashion brand." He reached across the island, pressed a hand to Yuki's forehead. "Are you sick? Did you hit your head?"
Yuki shook him off, not unkindly. "I'm not sick. I just..." He took a breath. "I remember racing. I remember driving. I remember you and me, traveling together, living out of suitcases, falling asleep in hotel rooms all over the world." He looked at Pierre. "I don't remember designing anything."
Pierre was quiet for a long moment. Then he pulled out his phone, scrolled for a second, and turned it toward Yuki.
It was a photo of them. Both smiling. Both wearing clothes Yuki didn't recognize. In the background, Yuki could see other familiar faces—Charles in a sharp suit, Max next to him, Lando making a ridiculous face at the camera.
Yuki stared at the photo. That was Charles. That was Max. That was Lando and Oscar standing way too close. That was George looking annoyingly handsome. That was Lewis in the corner, smiling but not quite reaching his eyes.
They were all there. All the drivers. But they looked... different. Dressed differently. Standing differently. Like they belonged to a different world.
"I don't remember this," Yuki whispered.
Pierre put the phone down. Took Yuki's hand across the island.
"Okay," he said. "Tell me what you do remember."
So Yuki did. He talked about racing—the smell of burning rubber, the roar of the crowd, the weight of the steering wheel in his hands. He talked about the grid, the drivers, the constant travel. He talked about Pierre—how they'd met, how they'd fallen together, how they somehow made it work despite the chaos of their lives.
"And everyone's there," he finished. "Charles, Max, Lando, Oscar, George, Lewis. We're all together, all the time. Travelling, competing, fighting, celebrating. They're my colleagues. My rivals. My friends."
Pierre listened to all of it without interrupting. When Yuki finished, he squeezed his hand.
"So in your world," Pierre said slowly, "you're all still together. Just... differently."
"Yes."
"And in this world..." Pierre looked around the kitchen. "You're all still together too. Just in a different way. Different jobs, different lives, but you all know each other. You're all still connected."
Yuki blinked. "We are?"
"Yeah. Charles and Max are together here. Like, together together. Lando and Oscar run McLaren Creative. George models for Mercedes. Lewis designs for them. Everyone's still in each other's lives." Pierre smiled slightly. "Apparently, some things transcend dimensions."
Yuki stared at him. "Charles and Max are together? Like, dating?"
"Very dating. Disgustingly dating. Lando won't stop talking about it."
"And Lando and Oscar?"
"Also together. Also disgusting. Lando is very proud of himself."
Yuki's brain was short-circuiting. "So in this world, all my—" He stopped himself. All his what? All his hopes? All his secret wishes he'd never admitted out loud?
Pierre raised an eyebrow. "All your...?"
"Nothing." Yuki felt his ears go pink. "Just... that's a lot to process."
Pierre didn't push. He just squeezed Yuki's hand again and said, "Take your time."
They'd moved to the couch. Yuki was curled against Pierre's side, staring at his phone, trying to figure out how to reach the others without sounding completely insane.
"I need to check," he muttered. "I need to see if they're here. If they remember."
Pierre's arm was around him, warm and solid. "Then check. Text someone."
"Who? What do I even say? 'Hey Charles, are you also from a different dimension where we drive cars really fast?'"
Pierre snorted. "Maybe start simpler."
Yuki considered. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
"I have an idea."
[The grid chat]
Yuki: What's the last corner at Suzuka called?
Lando: ?
Jenson: Since when did we name corners at bars? You okay Yuki? @Pierre, check on your husband?
Daniel: No idea, but we could all it confession corner
Carlos: Drop the lore! I think I missed it?
Esteban: Maybe Pierre has finally driven Yuki crazy like he did with me
Pierre: Oh f off.
Fernando: How about “a triangle” seems to describe corners well?
Lance: I second that!
Daniel: Of course you side with your sugar baby
Fernando: (middle finger)
Valterri: How about “Confession triangle”
(George liked a message)
(Kimi A liked a message)
(Olli liked a message)
(Seb liked a message)
(Kimi R liked a message)
[Must be the water]
Charles: ...Casio Triangle.
Charles: Yuki.
Charles: Please tell me you're also experiencing something weird.
Charles: At home. With Max. Oh, he also says Casio Triangle.
Yuki: UR WITH MAX MAX?!?
Charles: It's complicated. Long story. You?
Yuki: With Pierre. Also complicated. Also long story.
Charles: Okay. Okay. So it's not just me. And Max. Who else?
Right on cue, another message popped up on Yuki’s phone
[Yabadabadoo]
George: Cario Triangle.
George: Yuki
George: Please tell me you're not having a normal day either.
Yuki: I'm definitely not having a normal day.
George: THANK GOD. I thought I was losing my mind. Alex is here and he's perfect and he's MY BOYFRIEND apparently but in our world he's engaged to Lily and I don't know what to do.
Yuki blinked at the wall of text.
Yuki: George. Breathe.
George: I CAN'T BREATHE. I'M IN LOVE WITH MY BEST FRIEND, WHO’S ENGAGED TO A WOMAN.BUT ALSO HE'S MY FIANCÉ HERE. HE'S JUST MINE AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S REAL ANYMORE.
Yuki: Okay that's a lot. But we're going to figure it out. There are more of us. Charles is here. Max is here.
George: Anyone else? Or just the three of us
Yuki: More, definitely more
[Mate that's not fair. Sorry, that's not fair.] (I couldn’t think of one of his quotes, sorry….)
Oscar: Casio Triangle.
Oscar: I remember racing. I remember driving. I remember everything except why I woke up in someone else's apartment with someone else's clothes and someone else's boyfriend.
Yuki: Lando?
Oscar: Lando. Yes. He's... a lot.
Yuki: In a good way?
Oscar: ...I don't know yet.
Yuki smiled softly. Poor Oscar. Poor confused, overwhelmed Oscar.
Yuki: We're going to figure this out. Charles is here. Max is here. George is here. Me. You. That's five of us.
Oscar: Lewis? I didn’t see anything from him in the group chat
Yuki: I don't know. He never checks his phone anyways though.
Oscar: True. Okay. Keep me posted.
Yuki: Will do.
Twenty Minutes Later:
Yuki has created a new group chat.
Yuki added Charles, Max, George, and Oscar.
Yuki: Okay. Everyone here is from the racing world. Everyone here woke up somewhere weird. Let's figure this out together.
The responses came fast.
Charles: Thank you Yuki. I was going insane.
Max: Same. Though Charles being here helps. Sort of. It's complicated.
George: Wait. Max. You're there with Charles?
Max: Yes.
George: And you're both from our world?
Charles: Yes.
George: So you woke up together? In the same place?
Max: ...yes.
George: AND YOU'RE BOTH JUST... OKAY WITH THAT?
Charles: Nobody said okay.
Max: We're managing.
Oscar: They're definitely managing something.
Yuki: OSCAR CALLED THEM OUT
Oscar: I just made an observation.
George: Focus, everyone. We need a plan.
Yuki: Plan: We meet. In person. Figure out what's happening. Pierre says there's a coffee shop called Williams. Alex runs it?
George: ...Alex. Yes. Alex runs it. In this world, Alex is my... yeah.
Yuki: Right. Well. Can we meet there? Tomorrow morning?
Charles: I can make that work.
Max: Same.
Oscar: I'll be there.
George: Tomorrow morning. Williams Cafe. We'll figure this out.
Yuki: 9am?
George: 9am works.
Oscar: I'll be there.
Charles: Same.
Max: Same.
Yuki: Great. See you all tomorrow. Try not to lose your minds before then.
George: Too late.
Charles: Way too late.
Max: What Charles said.
Oscar: ...same.
Yuki smiled at his phone. They were all here. All confused. All trying to figure it out together.
He looked up at Pierre. "Tomorrow morning. Coffee shop. Everyone's coming."
Pierre raised an eyebrow. "Everyone who's from your world?"
"Yeah. Charles, Max, George, Oscar." He paused. "Not Lewis yet. He's... complicated. And not Lando—he's not one of us. He's just... here. Normal. Happy with Oscar."
Pierre nodded slowly. "That must be weird for Oscar. Waking up next to someone who loves him but doesn't know anything's wrong."
"Yeah." Yuki leaned back against him. "But we'll figure it out. All of it. Together."
Pierre pressed a kiss to his hair. "Together."
---
The ceiling was wrong.
Lewis blinked at it, groggy, waiting for his brain to catch up with his eyes. His ceiling at home was white, plain, unremarkable. This one was white too, but there was a subtle texture to it, a slight vault he didn't recognize, and the light filtering through the curtains was too golden, too soft.
He sat up slowly. The bedroom surrounded him—minimalist, elegant, expensive. His clothes, his style, but... not his space. The dresser was different. The artwork on the walls was unfamiliar. And on the nightstand, where his watch should be, there was a framed photo.
Him. And Nico.
Younger. Happier. Arms around each other at some gala, grinning at the camera like they'd just won everything.
Lewis's breath caught. He picked up the frame, fingers tracing the glass over Nico's face. They'd had photos like this once. Before the fighting. Before the silence. Before everything broke.
Where am I?
He checked his phone. Same model, same background, but the calendar was wrong. The dates were right—same year, same month—but the appointments were different. A fitting at 10am. A creative review at 2pm. Dinner with Toto at 8pm.
And a news notification from Sky News Fashion: "The Grid: Nico Rosberg and Jenson Button's Romantic Getaway to Lake Como—Exclusive Photos Inside!"
Lewis clicked it without thinking. The article loaded—photos of Nico and Jenson on a boat, laughing, Jenson's arm around Nico's waist, Nico's head tilted back in genuine, carefree joy. The kind of joy Lewis hadn't seen on Nico's face in years. Maybe ever.
What. The. Hell.
He needed air. He needed to move. He needed his brain to stop screaming long enough to process the fact that Nico Rosberg—his Nico, the one he'd just started talking to again after a decade of silence—was apparently in a very public, very happy relationship with Jenson Button in whatever twisted reality this was.
Lewis pulled on running clothes. Found them in the closet, exactly his size, exactly his style. Of course. He ran. He always ran when he couldn't face things.
The Thames path was familiar, at least. The same gray water, the same tourist crowds, the same distant skyline. He pushed himself hard, trying to outrun the images burned into his brain. Nico laughing. Jenson's hand on his waist. The headline: Romantic Getaway.
He'd just gotten Nico back. Just started to rebuild. Just started to believe that maybe, after all this time, they could find their way back to each other. And now this?
He rounded a corner near a riverside café and stopped dead.
There they were.
Nico and Jenson, at an outdoor table, sharing a plate of pastries. Jenson was saying something that made Nico roll his eyes, but he was smiling—that small, private smile he only gave to people he truly trusted. Jenson reached out, wiped a crumb from the corner of Nico's mouth with his thumb, and Nico caught his hand, pressed a kiss to his knuckles, and held on.
Lewis couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but stand there like a ghost at his own funeral.
Jenson looked up.
Their eyes met. Jenson's expression shifted instantly—from soft affection to something harder, sharper. Protective. He leaned in, murmured something to Nico. Nico's head turned. His eyes found Lewis.
And for one frozen second, Lewis saw it all: surprise, confusion, a flicker of something old and painful. Then nothing. A carefully constructed wall, smooth and impenetrable.
Lewis's legs moved before his brain could stop them. He was walking toward the table, heart pounding, mouth dry, no idea what he was going to say.
"Lewis." Jenson's voice was pleasant. Too pleasant. The kind of pleasant that preceded a storm. "Long time no see."
"Nico." Lewis ignored Jenson completely, eyes locked on the man who'd once been his entire world. "Can we talk?"
Nico's expression didn't change. "We're having breakfast, Lewis. Whatever it is, it can wait."
"It can't wait." Lewis stepped closer. Jenson shifted, not quite blocking him, but positioning himself firmly between them. "Please. Just five minutes."
Jenson laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Five minutes. Right. Because that's how it always starts with you, isn't it? Five minutes turns into an hour, an hour turns into a night, and before anyone knows what's happening, you've pulled him back into your orbit and left him wrecked when you inevitably disappear again."
Lewis stared at him. "I... what?"
"Don't play dumb." Jenson's voice was rising, drawing glances from nearby tables. "I was there, Lewis. I picked up the pieces after you two imploded. I watched him cry over you for months. I held him when he couldn't sleep. I'm the one who offered him a job at Sky when Mercedes made it clear they'd choose you over him. So no. You don't get five minutes. You don't get anything."
Nico touched Jenson's arm. "Jen. It's okay."
"No, it's not okay." Jenson turned to him, and his face softened in a way that made Lewis's stomach turn. "He doesn't get to waltz back into your life whenever he feels like it. Not again. Not while I'm here."
"Nico." Lewis's voice came out rough, desperate. "I don't know what he's talking about. I don't know what world this is. I just woke up and everything is wrong and you're with him and I—" He stopped, swallowed, forced himself to breathe. "We were just starting to talk again. In my world. After ten years. We were finally—"
"Stop." Nico's voice was quiet, but it cut through everything. He stood, extracting himself gently from Jenson's protective hold. "I don't know what game you're playing, Lewis. I don't know if this is some new tactic or if you actually believe what you're saying. But I'm not doing this. Not again."
"Nico, please—"
"I spent eight years building something with you." Nico's eyes were bright, but his voice stayed steady. "Eight years of loving you, supporting you, believing in us. And when that fashion week happened—when I was sick and you let the press erase me from every story, every interview, every photo—you didn't defend me. You didn't correct them. You just... let it happen. Let them paint you as the sole genius while I was at home with a fever, watching my work be credited to someone else."
Lewis's mouth opened. Closed. He had no idea what Nico was talking about.
"The fight after that," Nico continued, "the things you said. The things I said. We were terrible together, Lewis. We loved hard and fought harder and neither of us ever learned how to just talk to each other. You ran. I shut down. And it destroyed us."
"I know," Lewis whispered, because he did know that version of them. The silver wars. The silence. The years of pain.
"I don't think you do." Nico's smile was sad, wistful. "Because if you did, you'd understand why I can't go back. Why I won't. Jenson..." He glanced back at the man watching them with barely concealed tension. "Jenson stayed. Jenson fought for me. Jenson learned my language and taught me his. He's my person now, Lewis. He has been for a long time."
Lewis felt the words like physical blows. "I'm happy for you." The lie tasted like ash. "I am. I just... I don't understand how we got here. In my world, we were finally—"
"Your world." Nico's eyebrows rose. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"I know how it sounds." Lewis ran a hand over his face, exhausted, heartbroken, completely out of his depth. "I know. But I woke up this morning in an apartment that isn't mine, with a photo of us on my nightstand, and news alerts about your engagement, and I have no idea what's happening. None of this is my life."
Jenson snorted. "Convenient."
"Jenson." Nico's voice was gentle but firm. He studied Lewis for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes. "If that's true—if you really don't remember—then I'm sorry. This must be incredibly disorienting. But I can't help you. I can't be the one who explains your life to you. That's not fair to me, and it's not fair to Jenson."
Lewis nodded, throat tight. "I understand."
"I hope you find your way back." Nico reached for Jenson's hand, interlaced their fingers. "And I hope, wherever you are, you're happy. Truly. I meant what I said about wishing you peace."
They walked away. Jenson's arm around Nico's waist, protective and possessive. Nico leaning into him slightly, a gesture of trust so natural it made Lewis's chest cave in.
He stood there for a long time, watching them disappear into the crowd.
He had no idea how he even made it back to his apartment.
Lewis sat on the edge of his unfamiliar bed, phone in hand, scrolling through years of evidence.
Photos of Nico and Jenson at fashion weeks, at award shows, on vacation. Articles about their relationship, their work at Sky News, their status as the "it couple" of fashion journalism. A profile piece on Jenson titled "The Man Who Healed Nico Rosberg's Heart."
And then, older articles. The fashion week incident Nico mentioned. Headlines from five years ago:
"Lewis Hamilton's Solo Triumph at Mercedes Fashion Week"
"Hamilton Redefines Menswear in Landmark Collection"
"Where Was Nico Rosberg? Questions Surround Designer's Absence"
No mention of Nico's contributions. No correction from Lewis. No public defense.
He found the interview Nico gave six months later, after leaving Mercedes. His first with Sky News, before he and Jenson were together.
"I poured everything into that collection," Nico had said, composed but hollow-eyed. "Every sketch, every fitting, every late night. And then I got sick, and in my absence, the narrative shifted. I'm not blaming anyone. I'm just... tired. Tired of fighting for credit. Tired of being invisible in a partnership that was supposed to be equal. Sometimes love isn't enough. Sometimes you have to choose yourself."
Lewis put the phone down. Pressed his palms to his eyes. Breathed through the crushing weight in his chest.
This world's Lewis had let Nico down. Had run from the problem instead of fixing it. Had lost him completely.
And now he was here, in the wreckage of someone else's mistakes, watching the man he loved build a life with someone better.
What do I do now?
He didn't know. He didn't know anything except that he couldn't stay here, in this apartment full of someone else's memories, drowning in someone else's grief.
How could he look at this Nico? This Nico who was happy, who was loved, who had finally found peace.
Would his Nico also find solace in Jenson’s arms?
Lewis shivered at that thought.
Sighing, he opened up his phone again and saw something very striking.
Yuki: What's the last corner at Suzuka called?