Chapter Text
Part 1 - fraying.
Charles's home is one of the places Carlos often frequent more than his own. Entering requires a passcode and he is a little surprise the man still keeps the same six-numbers code. After today, though, it's likely to be changed. No longer does Charles need to type in the combination of their birthdays.
No matter what unfolds within these walls today, the ending has already been decided, it's inevitable.
Carlos steps inside into the space he once used to love being at. The strong scent of Charles' sea salt breeze with neroli on the furnitures, the walls, the picture frames, the decorations, all used to have a mix of his own distinct incense and smoked vanilla scents that balance everything out between them.
Unfortunately, everywhere he turns is Charles and somebody else. A month ago, this has been one of the causes to his suspicion toward the Monegasque that soon accumulates like a mass snowball of hollow explanations and absences tumbling down a mountain at an accelerating speed and crashes into him. Crumbling into a pile of snow and knocking him down in the process — that's a week ago where he and Charles has had the big brutal fight, in which it hurt (still does) him more than the omega who's to blame for this conflict. That, perhaps, is what he finds hardest to forgive.
He doesn't want to go back into those details and reopening his wounds. The two main reasons he is here is to retrieve his stuffs and, most devastating of all, officially break it off with his mate he's loved for years.
It's still easy to sense where his mate is but not as easy as when they had been freshly bonded with each other back then. With a fraying link, it can hardly do it's purpose in connecting you with your mate. For a long while, he's been starved of said connection and despite the betrayal, he still wishes to feel just a little of Charles, even for a little, before parting like this.
At last, he finds him in the kitchen down the long corridor. Charles certainly looks in a better shape than him. There is no denying the answer why, yet it hits him like a blow.
“We should do this quickly." He tries to sound professional and composed despite the ache returning in his chest upon seeing him. He doesn't favour staying in this space any longer.
Charles inclines his head slightly. “Yes.”
The air between them feels as charged as it should be, probably because the bond itself foresees what's coming. Severing a mate bond is not a simple act. Mutuality is an important factor determining it's success, alongside a ritualised unravelling of what was once forged with devotion and trust. It will hurt, always does — all loss leaves behind scars. However dreading it is, Carlos hopes he can manage his well-being after this. Recovery is going to be hell onwards.
Charles moves first, pushing himself off the counter and heading towards a drawer to retrieve a box, then moves to the living room where he kneels on the rug. Inside the small box is a sterile knife, clean bandages, and medicinal herbs. He's prepared this beforehand. With steady hands, Charles reaches up and undoes the top buttons of his shirt, fabric parting to bare the line of his throat.
The mating bite sits just below the curve of his jaw and now pale with age. Carlos frowns behind him before nearing him with careful steps until he's in front of him.
"Do mine first." Charles hands him the knife.
Positioning it above the marked skin, Carlos holds his breath. His chest feels tight and with the proximity, their bond begins to come alive, as if hopeful, and the sensation nearly brings him to his knees. It's a shame what they're about to do next to it.
Speaking the vow is the hardest thing to do when his tongue feels heavy. It's only saddening how effortless Charles does it.
"I will not hold you to me any longer. I do so knowingly, without coercion, and with full intent.”
Carlos's hand trembles as he positions the blade over the marked skin. With Charles's breath fanning his cheeks and his scent entering his nose, his heart roars louder for that longing sensation and proximity. Slowly, he draws the blade along the mark as careful as he can to not break the skin. When it's his turn, Charles seems more hesitant.
Whether he feels guilty or ashamed, he doesn't want to know.
"I accept to release you. I ask no return, make no claim, and consent to the severing of what was." He forces himself to hold his gasp at the sharp pulse rippling through his chest. This is the part he has been dreading all along. He cannot look at Charles's face, so he ends up fixing his gaze on the far wall and braces himself as the knife touches the old scar at his neck. As the blade moves, a blinding flare lances through him, causing him to inhale sharply. The bond on his side that's been trying to reach out for his mate surges in heightened panic, flooding his senses with echoes of Charles’s presence as if trying to remind him of everything it once was.
He keeps still and silent. If he speaks, the words might betray him in turn. Then the knife is gone.
Cool salve follows almost immediately and is pressed to his neck with such care he wants to miss but no longer can at this state. The neutralising agents work to dampen the biological backlash and, perhaps, provide him some relief.
Or, grief, which is finally allowed to surface now that the bond is no longer insisting he hold on.
"I'm sorry." Charles says while wrapping the bandage on him.
Carlos cannot muster up any response to that. He just wants to leave as soon as he can. Charles's scent around him is sickening him. “I’ll get my things,” he says after being silent for too long.
Carlos learns quickly that the bond did more work than he ever gave it credit for.
Most alphas at his level are known for their range and acuity, but now it is as if the world has been stripped of its buffers. His surroundings are even more invasive than he's ever thought it can be. His instincts has nothing to cling to, and nobody who can regulate his own disarrays, he feels like a walking exposed nerve fibre, raw and constantly firing, and aware of every pheromonal fluctuation in his environment whether he wants to be or not.
In race weekends, it gets extremely draining because the garage is saturated with stress pheromones of everybody.
Fear from junior engineers spikes and dissipates too late for him to ignore. Competitive aggression from other alphas needles at the back of his throat, setting off instincts he does not want and cannot afford. Even neutral scents like fuel or tyre rubbers makes his head throb by mid-morning. He also stops wearing cologne entirely because the mixing of scents makes him nauseous, and he cuts workouts short because the physical exertion only sharpens his senses further once the adrenaline drops.
He forgets how punishing it is to go through this without a scent suppressor. Even then, it does not work as well as they used to in his teenage days.
He hates this. He hates being short-tempered without intending to be. He hates being unpredictable with his own emotions that were once regulated by his former mate. He hates not being able to sleep peacefully and waking up already alert and instincts scanning for a connection that is no longer there.
If race weekends are too loud for him, off-race weekends' silence is beyond unbearable. There is no noise to drown himself in and no schedule strict enough to keep his mind occupied.
When his well-being is too deteriorated for him to handle, he's prescribed with medication that may mute his instinctual spikes, though the doctor warns him they are not meant for prolonged use. Whatever. He needs something to help prevent him from spiralling. Or someone. But—
Seeking for a new mate isn't practical with the kind of life he has—he knows better than that—so he swallows the pills and buries that desire instead.
Fortunately for him, soon enough, he's able to get back on his feet little by little, emphasise on little—the side effects of the drug is causing him sudden migraines mid-day. Unfortunately for him, he makes the mistake of forgetting what else he has on his plate currently.
'We're still on tomorrow, right?' George's message read.
A part of Carlos wants to type out a "no," and set another date because he's not in the mood for work. His migraine is going to kill him before he can start discussing work matters with him. But he's already excused himself weeks ago when he was dealing with Charles. It isn't that he dislikes George—the guy is highly capable, definitely knows his stuff in the GPDA field and deeply dedicated to have people to not just listen, but consider his rather strong opinions. Surprisingly, they both work well together, no doubt. George had been understanding back then, so it only feels wrong to not proceed with the meeting again.
Sighing, Carlos types his reply. 'Sure. Same place?'
'Yes.'
Carlos arrives a bit late on accident. The migraine that morning causes his movements to be slower than usual. Only after swallowing down an ibuprofen and a short nap did he able to function a bit better.
He looks around the café, trying to find the familiar deep brown curls but sees none. George isn't here yet, he assumes. That is rather a surprise to him. Perhaps the rain is messing up the traffic. It's quite a downpour outside. It doesn't matter, he decides, because it's just means more buffer time for him to sit down and order a cup of espresso he didn't get the chance to drink earlier.
George arrives ten minutes later.
He sees him scanning the place with a slight frown, hair dampened by the rain outside. He raises a finger and gets his attention, finally.
“Sorry, I got caught up by… something. And traffic didn't help.” George says as he shrugs out of his coat.
"No problem," Carlos's nose twitches at the smell he's sensing. He's used to recognising stress pheromones from different kinds of people, but this one is somehow held under such control that possibly only few can sense it. He forces himself to relax, and is thankful for the suppressant doing it's job in his veins.
They exchange pleasantaries while waiting for George's tea. Neutral topics, mostly. Clearly, neither of them is feeling chatty today compared to their previous meetings. Thank God it isn't awkward— they've spent a good amount of time together to understand one's silence once in a while. When the server returns and leaves them alone again, George sets his cup down carefully and opens his tablet.
“It's not much, but I’ve made some progress on the framework, most importantly the part we were stuck before regarding the mutual support system."
Some progress is downplaying it. What he is shown looks too much for one person to do and perfect it, but then again, he understands how much of a hardworking man George is. He takes a brief look at the detailed writings, secretly a bit guilty for letting him do all the work. "You've done quite a lot." He comments in a murmur.
"I had some time between races." George's smile seems tight. “Nothing much, I’ve only been refining the language mostly. I don’t want it to read as if we’re assigning solutions to kids who may not be ready for them.” His hand suddenly raises up to press at his temple, stifling a wince.
Carlos observes him for a moment. "Are you okay?" He gets a nod and strained smile instead. He scrolls further down to give a brief read on things they've actually talked about while outlining the programme together at the start.
It has grown into something far more intricate than either of them has anticipated but they only take it as a good sign to move forward. They feel proud, even, to be able to craft an initiative for incoming drivers into a sport this grueling. Formula One is not neutral ground. Alphas, omegas, and even betas experience its pressures differently, both biologically as well as psychologically. Besides addressing stress pheromone management during race weekends and usage of types of suppressors without stigma, they also create initiatives for voluntary peer-support systems where compatible drivers could regulate together without recreating mate dynamics. Because for some, traditional mate bonds are too intense for young drivers entering an already high-risk environment.
Their main concern is, of course, whether the FIA is going to accept such ideas.
Carlos hums, impressed. "I think it's good so far. This is very detailed, George." He glances up finally and notices George's scowl softening and his shoulders dropping a centimeter.
"Thanks. It’s… important not just for them but for me. If we’re going to do this, we have to do it right." George clears his throat and adjusts the tablet on the table. But the scowl returns as he holds his temple again. Before Carlos can ask, the man stands up abruptly with an excuse me, and heads to the restroom.
Left alone, he lets out a sigh at the silence and also wonders if George is doing okay. Then, something vibrates on the table that brings his attention to the phone lighting up with incoming Instagram DM notifications. He doesn't mean to read it but already sees the words and who it's from.
'Unblock me. You can't keep doing this.'
It is not his place. He's familiar with the odd dynamic between George and Max, only seen it from distances but quite often. Half the time, they are crazy for one another, while the other half, they are ready to bite at each other's throat— or dick. Either way, he has no right to judge the way they show their love for each other. Every mating finds its own equilibrium, however strange it may look from the outside.
George returns a minute later and upon seeing the notifications, the man simply curses and flips his phone screen face down.
Carlos does not comment on that either but truthfully, he is always amused.
✩₊ ̊.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
George sits on the table with his notebook that early morning. Sleep hasn't come easy these days, so he just took a shower and revise his schedule for the weekend. That, and because it's Silverstone. He hears the sheets shifting on the bed and a muffled groan. He glances at his mate, seeing the alpha rubbing his eyes awake.
“Morning,” he says quietly.
“Mm,” Max hums as he looks for his phone under the pillow. “What time is it?”
George returns to his notebook, “Just after seven.” He gets a tired groan.
“…Too early.”
He contemplates for two seconds before getting up from the chair to join the other in the bed to seek some comfort, at least. Hopefully. Carefully, he slides beside Max, lowers his head onto his shoulder and ignores the slight hitch of breath. He needs this, something. This is better than nothing at all.
“You okay?”
He nods against him. “I don’t feel very good.” The opening should be enough. Any other time, Max would’ve wrapped an arm around him, pressed his nose into his hair, and scented him with his lavender notes that he only grants him the privilege to be drowned in, until all the trembling eased. Any other time.
“Headache?” The phone hasn't been put away yet.
“Not really. I feel… off.” George curls his fingers into the fabric of Max’s shirt at the hem unconsciously.
Finally, he feels his eyes on him but only for a second. “You’ve been tense all week. Maybe take a painkiller,” Max replies with a grumble. “That usually helps.”
George bites the inside of his cheek. That's one revolutionary solution. He opens his mouth to add when suddenly, Max isn't by his side anymore. He swallows down his whine at the loss of contact and sits up straight. The man he's in love with is moving towards his luggage, barely looking at him. "I didn't really sleep last night, by the way." He tries again.
Max shrugs as he looks for clean clothes. “Happens.”
"And you've been busy lately."
“Yeah, work’s been killing me. The team is struggling to keep the car fast especially to catch up with the McLarens. And I still believe I can catch Norris, but it's not easy.”
That isn't the point. He's aware of how competitive the season has been for all of them. The Redbull is acting like a cat on a hot tin roof now that they are falling behind in the WDC race. George knows Max doesn't like the situation he's in and fine, he would be if he's in his place. However, none of that matters if he can't even notice his mate's needs.
How ignorant…
His fingers dig into his own palm. “I thought maybe you’d feel it,” he murmurs almost to himself.
“Feel what?” Max stands up and faces him with a genuinely puzzled look.
“That I’m not regulating very well, Max.” George sighs, shifting on the bed to cross his legs. “I’ve been struggling a little with being home and everything. It's all normal stuff but, you know, you haven’t… checked in.” His chest tightens painfully all of a sudden. He hates that he has to say it like this. Hates that he has to ask. “It’s been a while since you last scented me.”
“Oh. That.”
He flinches. That?
“I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” Max shrugs. “You didn’t say you needed it. I can't read your mind, George." There isn't even the slightest bit of recognition in those cold blue eyes.
“I know, I know,” George says quickly, then sighs. He realises, belatedly, that this is going nowhere. So he shakes his head instead, "Nevermind."
Max is already moving toward the bathroom, anyway, with a quiet, “You really should take something for your headache.”
The bathroom door clicks shut, sounding too loud in the quiet room and George stares at it as the fabric bunches beneath his fingers. Throughout the whole conversation, he can't even sense his own mate's consciousness in their delicate bond. He wonders what's going on and what has he done wrong for this to come slap at his face. Then, irritation surges through his chest before hurt follows afterward. A scream wants to tear out of him but he swallows it whole, exhales through his nose, hoping he'll calm down only for him to fail.
"I didn’t think it was that big of a deal."
George slips out a humourless laugh upon remembering the words. His gaze drifts to the bedside table where Max’s phone lies there.
Before he can think better of it, he grabs it, takes one step toward the small living area and hurls it across the room. “Bloody wanker,” he snarls under his breath. The phone hits the wall and skids across the floor until it disappears beneath the sofa. “Good,” he whispers. “Figure it out yourself.”
He turns away before the doubt can even grasp him. Since he's showered hours ago, he only has to pull on his team kit before leaving altogether without even an ounce of hesitation. Two can play at this game.
His Jeep waits in the car park. As he walks toward it, he unlocks his phone and pulls up his messages to send Kimi a text. The poor boy isn't at all happy at being picked up this early. George presses his lips at the sight of the boy stumbling out in a hoodie and looking like he just rolled off his bed. Which is really highly possible.
“Morning,” Kimi yanks the passenger door open and climbs in with a huff. “You know it’s, like… really early, right? I thought we weren’t leaving for another—" He checks his phone and frowns, "—two hours. Did something happen with…?” He is smart enough to stop his sentence right there.
George scoffs, “I know, kid, I'm sorry. And nothing happened.” It is technically true, though. Nonetheless, Kimi still studies him quietly. He’s young and is still learning a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. George can sense his worry, with both of them bearing the same second gender. Even though it's looked down on by many, he's more than glad to have a fellow omega as a teammate; someone who also goes through things with the same vulnerabilities and emotional undercurrents. “Look, it’s… just been one of those mornings.” He doesn’t elaborate because dragging anyone else into the tangled mess is the last thing he wanted.
However, Kimi already knows too much. He’s practically seen him and Max at their best, reckless and stupidly in love, and he's also seen the ugly storms.
God save the kid, honestly.
“Oh,” Kimi says quietly. "Are you sure?" He sounds genuinely concerned.
“Yeah… I’m sure. It’s nothing you need to worry about.” George hopes his smile is reassuring enough.
Even before they are together, it's hard to figure Max out. George doesn't understand him. The alpha's barely acknowledged him last week and now he's seeking for his touches all of a sudden.
George is only half-awake when Max joins him in his bed with his undeniably potent scent of sage, and slides a hand over his waist rather determinedly and… possessively. The next thing he knows is he's tugged closer until their bodies align and that Max’s mouth is on the curve of his shoulder, teeth grazing skin, causing him to slip out a shiver. And the kiss that follows is insistent.
Someone's a bit hungry.
He lets it happen and tilts his head automatically to bare his neck out of pure instincts and need. It's been so long. Finally, the bond between them thrums and roars alive because finally, they are close and drowning in each other's scents all over. Max is gripping him like he's suddenly afraid of losing him. Such action is very familiar and oh, he's missed it despite the lack of care in the touches. He's been touch-starved to the freaking bones.
"Max?"
The said man's face stays buried near his neck, breathing him in like oxygen, then his scent saturated the whole room around them. His hands slide from George's waist to his stomach, then higher to span his ribs not-so-gently.
George's swallows. He can tell where this is going. His body, traitorously, is leaning into it while his own thoughts are scrambling several steps behind him. He turns to Max's hold and brings them chest to chest, tangles their legs together, and all these contacts make his head dizzy. He hasn't realised how badly he missed simple full-body closeness until now.
"I'm here," he whispers to him reassuringly.
Max lifts his head and George sees his eyes that are unfocused with want. His thumb presses under his jaw, tipping his face up, and George closes his eyes at the all-consuming kiss, trying to match it all he can even though his anxious heart is beating louder in his ears.
He does want to be enough for him. He loves him, doesn't he?
His hands come up and hold onto him, to his shoulders, back, shirt, and pours his own hunger into the closeness as well. He kisses him back with more openness. Regardless of knowing where this is obviously heading towards to. He knows where Max wants to go next and the expectation that comes with it. Max’s hot breath fans against his cold skin as he ventures down his bare chest and stomach, dragging his mouth all over him.
“Slow,” George murmurs in hopes the alpha will listen.
Max's control is thinning; he can feel the erratic spike of pheromones that's weighing both of them down. “George, we could…” Max coaxes.
"Wait," George opens his eyes to see him above him again, frowning.
It pains him to do this. “No. Not like that,” his panic is flaring by the second. “I just— I can’t.”
Max pulls back to look at him. Frustration is written on his face in bold, and possibly resentment. “Jesus Christ... Again?” He rolls off of him with a heavy sigh. “You shut me down every time we get close to mating. It's been months, George."
"And? Are we catching up on a deadline or something?" George shoots back, feeling his anger flaring through the hurt but he tries to keep it at bay.
Max's glare at him, however, is making it a difficult task. “You know what I mean. I have my needs, George."
Needs?
He wants to talk about needs?
George props up on his elbows and glares back. He feels his breath quickens, then. His anger slowly keeps on rising from being pent up all this weeks. "I needed your comfort from all the pressure from my family and my team to try win my home race for once. And what did you say instead? To take the damn painkillers."
Max’s shoulders slump slightly. “I didn’t realise it was—”
“And that’s your fucking problem, Max. I have to specify to you each one of my needs now. Even the basic ones too.”
Max’s jaw tightens and he seems like he's trying his very best not to explode right then and there. George knows how hard that is — he knows his mate, after all. "What are you talking about?"
This is the part he’s been circling for weeks. He's been too afraid to say it outright because he doesn't want to simply accuse him. He swallows, and starts quietly and carefully, “Our bond isn’t— it’s not like it used to be. Different… It feels weaker. And you don’t seem to notice or, maybe you do and you’re just— busy, which, fine. I understand that, I know you’re tired. I’m not saying you’re doing it on purpose.” He looks down at his hands in defeat. Max is going to say he's overthinking it like always and sure, maybe, he thinks so too at this point. He's just so scared that he's getting paranoid or whatever. But he also cannot turn away from his growing suspicion that something is terribly wrong. “Sometimes… it feels like your attention is somewhere else. I don’t know why.”
Max’s exhales sharply. His next words are the usual, “You’re reading too much into it. I’m just stressed. We both are.” Trust him. Trust his words. And yet, the connection between them feels uneven and strained. “I'm going out for a bit, needed air.”
The door closes behind him, leaving him alone in the quiet, surrounded by the fading trace of ginger and the growing fear that this love might slip out of his fingers. Every time Max leaves, George often feels his chest hurt in a strange way. He stands up to go wash his face, though not even two steps away from his bed, his vision swims and his knees buckle. He catches himself on the edge of the bed quickly before his face meets the floor.
“Shit,” he gasps.
Too often that George has been waking up in the middle of the night due to the empty space beside him on the bed. He should be used to the absence at this point. It's not like this is the first time he's woken up from his dreamless sleep because he cannot feel his alpha close to him. The pattern is getting more consistent at this point. Nevertheless, his stubborn heart will, possibly, forever be hurt and whine over it. He reaches over the empty space. It's cold, as expected. Science has proven that being bonded to a mate should easily provide him the ability to sense how far his alpha is from his grasp, should even offer at least a reassurance or a pull, unfortunately, lately he can't figure out why it isn't helping. Instead, it lies slack and unresponsive more so than a few months ago.
No, he knows why now. He's frankly aware why the link between them is fraying at the edges day by day.
He exhales slowly, turns his head, and huffs at the untouched pillows. He pushes himself up on one elbow, a dull throb blooming behind his eyes as he moves causing him to press his fingers briefly to his temple to wait for the ache to subside. It does not. It rarely does anymore. He's not sure why he's surprised anymore.
After a moment, he stands and pulls on the shirt he’d discarded earlier, the fabric hanging loose over his frame. The apartment is dark and cold at three in the morning, as it should, except for the faint glow coming from the kitchen. As he follows the light, the ache behind his eyes worsen. His body is already bracing itself for the imminent disappointment. You shouldn't assume anything. Surely, there are a hundred harmless reasons he might be awake. The lie somewhat comforts him sometimes. He pauses at the threshold of the living room. Max is there, just as he expected, shoulders bare and phone held loosely in one hand.
The irritation washes him over before he can stop it. A hot thing born from exhaustion and too many nights like this.
“If you can’t sleep, you shouldn’t be on your phone.” He blinks and suddenly, he's standing in front of Max who's looking a bit startled. He looks down and sees his hand closing around the phone and his fingers together firmly. The contact should have steadied him. Whatever happened to it, though…
He is so tired of holding himself together, so he says instead, “Come to bed with me.” The words come out softer than he intends, because still, part of him still wants this to work, still yearns for the connection. “Please. It’s cold without you there.”
Max says nothing; his gaze flicks down to their hands, then back up. The delay hurts enough. “In a minute, I just need to finish something.”
George just nods, something he has learned to do, and releases his hand and steps back. “…Fine.”
The walk back to the bedroom feels lonely still and the moment he slides under the covers again, the sheets are colder as ever. He curls onto his side, facing the door and waits out of habit more than hope.
✩₊ ̊.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Part 2 - moths.
George waves goodbye at Carlos before leaving the cafe. He glances upward and sighs. The sun has come out of the grey clouds, finally. But even if the weather is bright as he likes it, it cannot help the heavy and dull feeling in his heart. After arriving home, he takes out his phone to get rid of the notifications filled up in his screen, including the private messages from Max. When will he ever stop?
He simply doesn't have the energy to argue at this point. With a sigh, he heads to the kitchen, puts his phone face-down on the counter, and makes some tea for himself. It helps with his stress only a little but he prefers that over someone who can't even pay full attention to him.
Just thinking about it makes his head pound. He breathes deeply, though the tightness in his chest remains. This is tiring.
Why is he punishing himself? He can just go back instead of sulking like this, like a child.
He pours the water into the glass teapot, watches the colour bloom in the mug when his phone vibrates twice against the counter. He's still not giving up? That's rare. He flips the phone over but sees a different name instead.
'Hey. You left your coat at the café. I just noticed when leaving.'
'Do you want me to drop it off?'
From Carlos.
"Bugger." George grabs his phone to type a quick reply.
'Sorry, I totally forgot. If you can come, that'd be great. I'm home.'
The reply came immediately, 'Ok. I can be there in ten.'
He sets the phone down and massages his temple. This keeps on happening too often lately that it's getting a bit frustrating. Keep it together. Soon, the doorbell rings, startling him out of his daze.
Carlos stands at the door with his coat folded neatly over one arm. “Hola. Sorry. I should’ve checked sooner.”
“I'm sorry, it's my fault. I didn't even notice.” George replies quickly, then stepping aside after accepting his coat. “Do come in. I already made tea.” Carlos has been here only once before when they had to do work together. He's one of the people he's comfortable enough to hang out, anyway.
George pauses at the couch where he's just put his coat down when he realises the other has stopped at the door looking a bit more alert. He has lived with an alpha long enough to understand their quirks. Alphas has such a sensitive nose. Suddenly, he becomes acutely aware of himself.
Can he sense how much stress he's in? The stress pheromones he’s been trying—and failing—to keep contained all afternoon must've lingered in the house. He feels a prickle of embarrassment crawl up his spine. Well.
“Sorry, I— long week.”
Carlos just nods with an understanding smile, “Don’t worry, I’ve had worse in my garage.”
"I'm sure you have," George gestures towards the kitchen for him to follow, "The tea always helps. It's my own blend, actually. Come, have a seat." He prepares two mugs for both of them, then.
Carlos takes a seat at the table, then glances around casually. “You’ve rearranged. The bookshelf was against that wall last time.”
George follows his gaze. He has been doing a lot of arranging in his house as of lately just to keep himself busy. “Oh. Yeah. I needed more space near the window.” He pours the drink and puts one near the Spaniard.
Hm? Something's different.
It's only instinctual nature to sense one's scent and determine from there whether they are bonded or claimed or neither of those two (in other words, unclaimed). He's worked alongside Carlos several times ever since being co-directors together, and he's often used to the double scent notes deeply layered in harmony between each other. A combination of incesce and sea salt; a rather complex match but somehow works elegantly. Now, that freshness attribute isn't there to balance out the smoky notes.
He isn't opposed to assuming… Maybe it’s the suppressors. Maybe it’s none of his business.
He looks down quickly before he’s caught analysing too long.
…Maybe Alex knows something about it.
He forces the thought away. Not his business.
George looks around his house for something else to do at eleven in the evening because he's been restless for almost an hour now. Sleep isn't coming. There's nothing left to tidy, though. Reading may help, if only his stubborn brain can sit still and focus on the printed words. TV is noisy and too much distraction too.
What does he want?
He wants—
He drops himself onto the couch and takes a long moment to hear it. The bond with his mate is still there, of course, but it feels entirely wrong under his skin. He presses a hand flat against his sternum, inhaling deeply as he closes his eyes.
Lying is so tiring. He misses him.
He can go back and forget about the fight. No, why should he? Max hasn't even come here to see him.
George swallows. Is he being unfair?
He knows his mate better than anyone. The prick isn't the best at expressing his feelings and, unfortunately, apologising. He's been fine with that before and compromised a lot, hence how far they've come now.
Mating. Max has longed it.
"Why are we even bonded if you won’t let me mate you?"
He doesn't mean to reject him. And he's never been opposed to sex, per se. He can't put it into words yet, but every time they get near to crossing that line, his wall goes up. Surrendering and being in such state of vulnerability are both instinctual acts all omegas will eventual feel especially with their bonded mate… or most omegas.
Or. Maybe he's overcomplicating it. If he goes back and lets Max have what he’s been asking for… maybe the tension will ease.
George can picture it too clearly. Max’s hands firm at his waist, his voice dropping when he’s calling him his favourite nicknames in Dutch, his scent of fresh lavender and vanilla with a hint of sage wrapping around him like a heavy heated blanket that can soothe him back to the dreamland in a milisecond. And his loving kisses on him and maybe some bruises on his skin. His thinning of his control when instinct takes over in intense hunger, knowing Max, of course— his mate has been starving for him for a while.
He feels heat crawling up his neck at the thoughts despite the underlying fear bubbling in his guts.
If I just give him what he needs, he won’t be angry anymore.
Commit to it. He leans his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes. He really misses him, does he?
Have some level of self-preservation.
The warning comes rather too late as he's already standing at Max's door with a spare key he keeps for himself. The text 'I'm coming over,' is still on delivered but the alpha might already been asleep considering it's almost midnight now.
“Max?” he calls softly as he steps inside. He looks around to seek for his mate's scent. It is there, he knows it by heart, but layered with something else. He freezes at the doorway, his nose twitching again, his stomach flips violently and a cold wave rolls down his spine.
No, he couldn't..?
He takes a step further inside despite himself to confirm it, though the further he walks in, the more pungent the foreign scent is in his nose. Has Max invited a friend over? Or someone from his team, maybe—
But why would another omega’s scent be this embedded?
The nausea spikes and claws itself up his throat, resulting in him holding himself from gagging. George shakes his head and marches back out with held breath.
The moment he slides into the driver’s seat of his car, the hot tears finally blur his vision.
“—yeah, yeah, I'm leaving now, relax,” Alex opens the door with one arm in a jacket sleeve, and phone wedged between his shoulder and ear until he looks up and halts. “Hold on.” He pulls the phone away. “George?”
George hasn't realised how wrecked he must look until he sees it reflected on his best friend's face.
“Hi. Sorry. I should’ve texted.”
"Hey, I might be late. Call you later." Alex ends the call and tosses his phone onto the console table. “No need to apologise for that. What happened?”
"I just needed to get out."
"Max?" After getting a nod, he drags his best friend inside and kicks the door closed. "Sit and talk."
George sinks into the couch, shaking his head as he sniffs. "Not now. I want to puke." He slowly moves to lie down on his side and only then does he notice the outfit. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Club,” Alex jerks his thumb toward the hallway. “Going out with Lando and Carlos.”
“You should go.”
He snorts in return. “Absolutely, because I’m totally leaving you like this.”
“I’m fine—”
“Your scent is all over the place.”
George closes his eyes. Curse all alphas and their bloody nose. “Go. You should go.” A leg nudges his.
"I can't leave you alone and miserable like this. Come with us."
“Alex, I look like I’ve been run over.”
Alex shrugs and says, "I doubt anyone is going to notice, George. They'll be busy getting drunk and high. It's dark, anyway. Come on, you can use some distraction, seriously."
George gives himself some time to think for a moment. Distraction sounds nice. One drink won't hurt, he figures. But…
“Go borrow my clothes. Everything will fit you— you’re my height and thinner so that’s workable.” Alex says as if he's read his mind.
"But—"
"And I’ve got neutral suppressors. You won’t have to worry about broadcasting your stress to every alpha in a ten-metre radius.”
Ouch. Fine, then. George reluctantly stands up and heads to where he remembers Alex's room is, down the hallway, and pauses briefly at the mirror. Jesus, he does look wrecked. He makes a mental note to himself to grab one of Alex's sunglasses.
Carlos isn't sure whether he should be impressed or concerned. Probably both. Twice already that wonders how bad has it gotten for George to go that hard on intoxicating himself tonight. The man's been glued at the bar for a good half an hour emptying probably over three glasses now. Alex is passing by when he notices him and laughs.
“Is it okay to let him be like that?” Carlos tilts his chin toward the bar.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Alex notices the confusion, then adds, "Lovers quarrel, the usual. I’m taking Lando to the floor, can you watch him for me, mate?”
Carlos shrugs one shoulder and mutters, "Why not." After waving at Alex who disappears into the crowd, he drifts closer to the bar and takes the empty stool next to George. What a rare sight. Flushed cheeks and dazed eyes — his guards are down completely. “Hey.”
George turns slowly, eyes a little glazed, and slurred, “Oh. Hello. You’re… very symmetrical.”
He's out of it… The Brit hums, then signals for another drink, in which Carlos calmly reaches out and nudges the glass slightly back toward the bartender instead. “Maybe water.”
George frowns at him. “Oi, you’re not my coach.”
Carlos agrees easily. “I'm making sure you don’t regret tomorrow, George.”
Easy enough, the other exhales and obeys, though with a tiny pout. “Fine, because I am responsible, I guess.”
The bartender swaps the order, thankfully. And for a while, they sit in companiable silence amidst the loud bass thumping between the walls of the dark room, the glasses clinking and chattering. Carlos taps his fingers on the counter top to the rhythm of the music while humming to the slow R&B song the DJ is putting on. Occasionally, he glances over at his co-worker who's been staring into nothing in particular. Minutes later, when he looks again, he notices the man is talking with a stranger who's appeared all of a sudden.
He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop — he's not like Lando or Alex — but he’s sitting right there.
The alpha stranger who has slid in beside George is obviously hitting on him, and really smooth about it too. It's all in the eyes, taking him in, all intrigued and charmed.
“Is that really helping?”
“Only temporarily, it does.”
“We can do better than that. What about this one?”
Carlos shifts, noticing him is actually considering taking it. "Hey," he nudges his arm. “Slow down, you’ve had enough.” George glances at him, then at the new drink. The stranger follows the exchange with mild curiosity.
"It's fine." George tells him. Carlos only nods once at the guy before proceeding to mind his own business. He knows George can handle himself. He knows how he's like. Instead, he focuses on enjoying the music playing while at the same time glances at the ever persistent stranger — who is now taking George's wrist in his hand.
Is he that desperate?
George is only staring down at where the man is touching him for now. He almost seems to lean into the contact. His shoulders sag the tiniest bit, too.
“We could step outside for some fresh air. Somewhere quieter. You don’t look like you want to be here, if I'm being honest.”
“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” George responds, "And I'm already bonded. No, thank you." He pulls his wrist back and turns away to ignore the next words coming out of the other alpha's mouth, and eventually, the guy walks away back into the crowd with a sour face.
Carlos finally turns to look at George and raises a questioning brow at him.
“Bugger… He actually smelled really nice.”
That isn't what he expects to hear. "Really now?"
“Not in a way that matters. You know what I mean. I wouldn't go with him either way. I'm not some— I don't do that.” George scrambles to reach for the glass of water that had been pushed away earlier then swallows down the remaining liquid. He looks even more confused at himself than ever at this point. His leg begins to bounce on the stool, Carlos notices.
It is fairly understandable to suddenly be defensive. George is a very loyal man. After all, even after so many fights (that he knows of from his good teammate, Alex), he's still with Max, isn't he?
"What am I even thinking about? Christ— my head is a mess…" He stands abruptly.
Carlos is on his feet a second later after realising the other is leaving for the exit. “¿A dónde va? George—" He pushes through the thick crowd while at the same time keeping George's brown curls stay in his sight, and once outside, he sees him barely two steps past the doorway before he bends forward bracing one hand against the brick wall by the pavement and retches.
He closes the distance and waits behind him with one steady hand hovering at his back. When George finally straightens slightly, he looks pale under the streetlight. “This is fantastic,” he croaks.
Carlos hands him a folded handkerchief, "Wanna go home?"
George nods while wiping his mouth with it. "Perhaps."
Carlos slows the car upon turning into the gated drive at the house. He takes another look at the dark windows. It is late, Max should be asleep already, he assumes. "You have your key, right?" He gets a nod, then a soft curse when George fumbles for it in his pocket. He steps out first and walks around to the passenger side to open the door and offer a hand.
"Got it," George murmurs a thanks after taking his hand. His palm is colder than Carlos expects but he files it away and follows him down the path. The key clicks quietly, the door creaks open, he walks in and pauses.
He looks around at the place, carefully inhaling the air again.
How can he forget those scent notes he had used to be obsessed with dearly? Of sea salt, bergamot and neroli. A month later and he still finds them nice to breathe in, if it weren't for his sticthed up heart in his ribs, that is. Carlos sighs and shakes the thoughts away. He's moved on, remember?
Wait—
Why can he smell him here?
Realisation dawns upon him. The way he turns to look at George may make his neck snap if he isn't careful.
"Can we go? I honestly can’t stand this place anymore." George is heading for the door a bit hurriedly.
It is not his place. Carlos thinks again after getting into the car and being told to 'just drive' instead of given a location. Not wanting to push, he just does so because he himself is occupied at the realisation he's just made. Charles has been here, he is sure of it. He glances at George once, pressing his lips thin.
Isn't this unfortunate?
“I knew it, I bloody knew it!” George starts muttering. "He wouldn’t wait. Of course he wouldn’t. Why would he, really? Fucking prick.” His hand flies up in frustration. Carlos only listens quietly and focuses on the road as the omega next to him blows up in his car. Usually, he only hears bits and pieces from Alex, who sometimes complain in slight frustration about his best friend's complicated relationship. It would be amusing to get to experience this himself.
However, the thought of Charles having possibly been seeing Max before the breakup plagues his mind.
“Do you know? I'm just gonna say it— he’s been pushing about mating for weeks. ‘We’re bonded, George.’ ‘It’s natural, George.’ ‘You don’t trust me, George.’” George mimics the phrases with a mocking tone. “I told him I wasn’t ready but I never said never. I just said not yet. Is he that much of a bonehead or is he that desperate to shove his dick somewhere?? Are all alphas like that? And now there’s some omega in his house. In our place.” His voice drops on that last word.
Slowly, Carlos's car fills with the bitter velvet apricot scent of the distressed omega. He lowers the window a little without making it obvious. George doesn't seem to notice as he keeps on ranting to his heart's content.
“In the end, it's my fault, isn't it? I should’ve just mated him… if that’s all he wanted.”
He stops the car at the red light. “I don't think you're at fault here. Cheating is a choice, George.” He says at last. Though he isn't completely sure how that can provide much comfort or some at all. He glances sideways. George’s head has tipped to the side against the window, eyes closed.
"Y él está fuera..." Carlos sighs. "Que noche..."
Waking up to the feeling of sandpaper on his tongue and his skull being replaced by concrete aren't ideal for George. His eyes flutter open as he inhales and instantly, he regrets it. This is not his bedroom.
"Oh no…" He croaks to no one. He pushes himself up on his elbows and immediately flops back down with a groan when the room tilts violently. His headache is pounding like a drum in his skull.
There's a soft knock at the door. "Alive and well, Your Royal Highness?" Alex has a smug look on his face but also hinted with worry.
George grumbles, "Morning. Don't judge."
"Not surprised at all, but I'm a little horrified. You've reached a new level of tragic, dear George." Alex snickers.
George groans from where he is on the bed in his wrinkled clothes and covers his face by burying it into the pillow, away from the too-bright sun. The remnants of last night's drinks make even the thought of moving an inch exhausting. "I look fine…" His stomach rolls slightly. It's a stark reminder that last night has been a spectacularly bad idea. "How… did I get here?"
Alex pushes himself from the doorframe and nears the bed. "You don't remember?"
There was the club and the bar, a lot of alcohol, some guy trying to hit on him. George racks his brain for more information then. Right, Carlos has been popping up in last night's memories quite a lot. "I… remember bits."
"To put it simply, you passed out in Carlos's car."
"I what." He tries to process more of the blurred memories coming up flashing in his mind and then remembering that he pukes somewhere. Crap, he hopes he didn't do that in the car… That would be humiliating. He sinks back in the crumpled sheets and stares at the ceiling. "Oh my God. How dignified is that."
A shadow looks over him. Alex stands beside him, blocking the sun rays coming from the window, and he's crossing his arms with that frown. "That isn't the main issue." The humour drains at the edge of his tone. "You hardly downed half of the bar unless something really, really fucked up happened. Are you okay?"
More memories surface in George's mind, reminding him how he ends up here feeling like shite. He's been doing a lot of thinking about it the whole time he's been drinking at the bar last night, and after visiting the place again (from what he vaguely remembers from last night), he's reached to a solid conclusion. There's is no other way to say it.
"Alex, I think I'm being cheated on."
✩₊ ̊.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
“You shouldn’t call me every time you two fight.” Charles always says that kind of stuff and yet he is the one who comes and kisses him. Max isn't opposed to it. He's more focused on the old spark that's ignited every time their lips and bodies meet. It never really left no matter who they are bonded to. Are they actually meant to be?
What about George, then?
“Does he know you called me?” He scoffs but instead of answering, he bends down to latch his mouth onto the omega's neck. Charles doesn't really need the answer does he? It's going to make Max look even more pathetic after how many times he's faced rejection by his own mate. He's getting fucking tired of it. This is why Charles is here.
Charles’ restraint cracks even more as he arches himself toward him. “You always choose wrong timing,” he murmurs against his mouth.
“Story of my life.”
They stumble toward the couch without breaking apart due to Max's suppressed hunger, only long enough to sit then not really sitting at all because Charles ends up half in his lap and fingers in his hair, their mouths clashing again. They end up tangled in this mess built up from lust, reckless mistakes and their own past. “You’ve missed me, don’t lie.” Charles murmurs between kisses, teeth grazing Max’s jawline.
Max groans and tilts his head. Admitting it out loud in a space he's shared with his actual mate who's not here feels utterly wrong. Even he has that bit of sense of shame. His hands curl into Charles’ hair to tug him back, desperate for more, despite everything. “Stop talking and just be here. Please…”
Charles smiles against his lips. “Je suis là, mon amour. J'ai toujours été là.” He shudders when their hips rock into each other before it breaks into a moan as he moves again. “You can’t touch him like this, right? Even though he’s your own mate. So lose it with me instead.”
Max can’t answer with words because he's still ashamed at himself. Unfortunately, his body's instincts are too powerful for himself to restraint. Or he's just that weak. How disappointing it is that he can't touch George in such intimate ways he's doing to Charles tonight. He closes his eyes and shakes all the thoughts away as he brings Charles down again to kiss him harder.
✩₊ ̊.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Part 3 - devil.
“Gentlemen, thank you for the detailed proposal. We see you’ve accounted for driver safety, scheduling conflicts, pheromone monitoring, and psychological evaluations. It’s… thorough. Quite thorough, I'd say.” One of the senior FIA reps finally says. George is beyond relieved for the praise considering he and Carlos has worked their asses off for this project. Though, he knows better to expect some disagreements. From where he's sitting, he can see a few doubtful faces.
“Thank you, sir. We’ve tried to anticipate as many variables as possible.” He replies. "We hope to make peer-support regulation completely safe while minimizing unnecessary bonding stress.”
Another representative speaks up, “We’re intrigued by your approach. Most of it is logical, and the simulations look promising. But…” She inhales, “…we have one remaining concern. You’ve addressed direct mating-like dynamics, emotional attachment monitoring, and even environmental stressors. Say the drivers are carefully paired and monitored but one unstable driver could… unconsciously influence another. If one participant is overly stressed, it could spread to their partner and over time, this might destabilize an entire pairing. How do you prevent that?”
This is the kind of challenge they have prepared for. “We’ve anticipated that all human interaction is nuanced but it’s not uncontrollable. All pairings will be short rotations with clear opt-out periods. If a driver’s emotional signals spike outside safe parameters, the system automatically separates them and resets the pair. We won't allow anyone to continue under unsafe conditions."
"Also these safeguards..." Carlos adds after him, “The important thing about it is early detection. We don’t ban the pairing but manage it. This isn’t about relationships. It’s about controlled regulation. If a rookie shows instability, it’s flagged immediately. Then we separate them.” The panel is silent for a long moment to process the answers. George feels the sweat at his temple cool— he's grateful to have Carlos by his side playing a team player for this meeting. Deep down, he isn't very keen to face this many FIA people, not when his own mental state is at an all-time low. He focuses on the edge of the screen across from him where the last Powerpoint slide is still frozen there.
“What happens if the instability fails to be detected immediately? Cortisol levels can fluctuate for reasons unrelated to emotional transfer. Not to mention sleep disruption is common in this sport. Let’s say the monitoring doesn’t catch it in time. Let’s say two rookies regulate together for weeks before anyone realises one is absorbing the other’s distress. What then?”
“We'll take responsibility if anything happens.”
“That’s damage control, Mr. Sainz.”
George inhales slowly. “We’re not claiming it’s perfect. Not yet. In this first phase, our priority is transparency.” All eyes are on him again, but he focuses his gaze on the medical consultant. He keeps his hands folded on the table so no one can see the faint tremor in his fingers, “Our system creates documented checkpoints to monitor well-being and safety. Weekly psychological check-ins, scent variance logs reviewed by third-party specialists, structured debriefs after each rotation. In case of any signs of destabilization, we have thorough records and can identify patterns. From there, we'll be able to intervene before any issues impact on-track safety.”
The silence afterwards is stretched for too long. Gladly, they look convinced by his explanation. It's only luck on George and Carlos's side that time is running out for them to stay in this suffocating room for longer than they should have. “You two have built a framework that manages most foreseeable risks. Very well. We are not rejecting this, however, we will require additional modelling on delayed stress propagation, and we want a more detailed escalation protocol in writing.” Finally, the meeting begins to adjourn. Everyone files out for the exit, leaving the two GPDA directors alone in the room.
George allows himself to relax his shoulders with a deep breath. "Jesus… That was exhausting.” He mutters while rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.
Carlos sighs as well as he sinks in his seat. “That went better than I anticipated.”
"High praise, Carlos. You think they bought it?” George watches the alpha consider for a moment and shrug.
“I think they’re less worried now. But you were really sure about it. More than usual, George.”
George gives a humourless breath. “It’s not theoretical to me. Thought you know that by now.” His eyes hold his for a second too long, then looks away first. He reaches up to rub at his temple and instantly regrets it. The dull ache surges forward to torture him yet again. “Oh, for—” He winces. “Bloody hell.”
Perfect timing too. They still have to do their respective team’s media duties. George stands up carefully, figuring he should get going by now.
Carlos starts standing up to leave too. “Have you taken anything?”
“Yes, Mum.” George sighs. “Sorry. I will, I just need coffee first.” He hopes Carlos will stop staring like he will fall unconscious in any minute every time they’re together for work. Passing out in his car that night is one time. Hopefully…
Soon, they are stepping out into the corridor. The paddock is already buzzing all around them.
He adjusts his expression automatically and slide his public face into place. Despite his own mental and physical health deteriorating little by little. It’s his burden to carry. Max is… he doesn’t want to see him yet.
“You sure you’re alright?”
George pauses, looks down at the hand holding his elbow then at Carlos. He knows the other is just being attentive and kind because that’s just how Carlos is. “I didn’t exactly sleep brilliantly last night because of today. I’ll manage, though.” A Mercedes PR staff member is waving from a distance, he spots.
Carlos holds out a small foil packet at him. “Painkillers.”
George stares at it. “You carry those around?”
“Grand Prix weekends.”
Very unconvincing indeed. Nevertheless, he reluctantly accepts it. “Thank you.” He huffs when a hand pats his back firmly.
“We did a good job today. Get enough rest, George. See you later.” With that, Carlos heads toward the Williams garage, leaving George alone staring at the painkiller tablet in his hand. He’s grown sick of it at one point days ago.
“It doesn’t even work…” He slips it into his pocket before heading for his garage. After getting himself a coffee, he feels slightly better to not snap at anyone trying to talk to him, thank God.
“George!”
Kimi appears so suddenly to almost make George drop his drink. “Kimi. You look alarmingly enthusiastic for a Thursday, mate.”
The boy grins wider. “I’ve been trapped doing social media videos for forty minutes, George. Alone. They made me rank my top ten favourite pasta shapes. Tell me it’s exhausting deciding between hundreds that exist.”
George chuckles at the genuine devastation. “That’s rough.”
“I’m glad you’re here. How did your meeting go by the way?”
He winces at the subject. “Eh, OK. Tough questions, but good.”
“They didn’t shut it down?”
“Not for now.”
George has only told him a little about the programme. Some insights from the rookies are important and Kimi had been supportive about it, while Carlos has gotten good words from Ollie. “That’s good.” Kimi’s shoulders visibly relax, surprisingly.
George hums, raising his brow. “You were worried?”
Kimi hesitates, then shrugs. “I’m hoping that everything can go well with that. You know, with everything,” He gestures vaguely around them, “Would’ve been nice to have something like that when I started F2.” He bumps his shoulder gently against George’s arm. “You’re doing good things, George. I think it’s amazing.”
The simplicity of it almost catches George off guard. He realises that this is the whole point. “Careful. You’ll ruin my intimidating reputation.”
“As if. You don’t even have one like that.” Kimi rolls his eyes. When they reached further into the garage, he seems to remember something and his expression shifts. “Before I forget, Max dropped by earlier looking for you.” He sounds rather careful this time.
“Oh. Did he.” George says lightly, not wanting Kimi to notice what’s going on (he entirely doubts it, Kimi can easily read him like a manual).
“Yeah. He came by about… half an hour ago? Asked if you were in yet.” Kimi is suddenly interested in the stitching on his jersey shirt. “I told him you had the FIA meeting. He didn’t say much and left.”
George senses the headache appearing again. The coffee tastes too bitter on his tongue than he’d like. His stomach is already unsettled enough and the thought of facing Max here makes the nausea curl at the back of his throat.
“Did he say he’d come back?”
“Didn’t say.” Kimi shifts his weight. “Do you want me to, like… tell people you’re in a debrief if he shows up again?”
George thinks for a second. “If he comes back, please tell him I’m tied up.”
Halfway towards his own motorhome, Carlos slows his steps, then turns on his heel instead. He needs to get something done first. The thing has been disturbing him and cause an uncomfortable lump forming low in his stomach. The matter isn't even his business, technically now, well, he's simply being a good friend for George. Anyone sensible will agree to him.
The Scuderia Ferrari motorhome stands a little further down the paddock all too familiar for him. A mechanic he knows greets him with a polite wave, to which he smiles back, and asks if Charles is around. He gets pointed toward the driver’s room corridor.
“Oui?” comes from inside the room before the door opens slightly. "Carlos."
Carlos is met with a sleepy Charles. The soft look on his ex-mate is…
He stops himself, refusing to think of buried memories. Then, his traitorous nose picks up the omega's scent of sea-salt laced with… sage and lavender. That proves it. "Got a minute? I need to talk to you about something."
Charles takes a second to allow him inside and locks the door behind him. "You have five." He heads to sit himself down, but Carlos remains standing and folding his arms over his chest.
Before the awkward silence can morph into something even more tense, and because both of them don't have the privilege to waste their time, he goes straight to the point. “Have you been seeing Max?”
Charles’ brows draw together. “What?”
“Dillo e basta.”
“Bene. Sì. What is this about?”
Carlos looks at him closely for any sign of discomfort or guilt. Charles looks completely confused instead. "You know he's still bonded to George, right?"
Charles's brows draw together into a scowl. "I know they’ve been struggling for a while. He told me things weren’t stable between them."
“So? That doesn’t justify you to meddle with someone’s relationship.”
"I'm not telling him to do anything."
“He’s bonded, Charles. Whether it’s perfect or not doesn’t matter.” Carlos presses. Though Charles is always a little stubborn. Especially for Max. Always for Max.
“He's isn’t doing so good either, for your information," Charles points to himself, "And I, for one, care about him enough to give him what he truly needs.”
“That's not your responsibility. You’re not his mate.” That may be the last straw for him, as the omega's scent gets more defensive around him. Charles exhales harshly, running a hand through his hair. When he doesn't argue back, Carlos adds carefully, "I know how much you always care for him but this isn't going to help anyone."
A scoff leaves Charles's lips. "As if you know what's really going on. If you're worried about George, then go comfort him. You two are close now, yes?"
Cheating on one's mate is regarded as one of the most heinous sin in their society. He was raised to believe mate bonds were not to be tampered with. You either honour them until the end or you leave. Wander alone or find a new one to fill in the void — a lone one, not somebody sacredly tied to someone else. It looks like Charles doesn't fully get it, either is Max, apparently.
Comfort him?
Carlos almost laughs as he makes his way up the truck and makes a beeline for Lando, which then they are joined by Kimi and Gabriel. He speaks less most of the time, partly because he's trying calm himself down for the upcoming race. From the corner of his eyes, he notices Charles and Max alone at the corner being not at all discreet. But he catches Kimi glancing at them twice before scowling at the ground.
He taps his arm, "You okay?" The kid gives him a polite smile and shakes his head.
"The usual nerves. I'll be fine after." Kimi's eyes wander towards the reporter on the other side of the truck, where his teammate is also there holding the microphone.
Carlos watches the kid's reaction closely. "Are you worried about something else?"
"A little, but… It's not really my business." Kimi shrugs, then excuses himself when he's been called to the reporter this time. Carlos now watches as George takes his place beside him at the railings. The man looks a little better or maybe it's the sun's work. His stress pheromone level is concerning as ever.
"What?"
"Hm?" He stands straighter at the other's gaze.
"Have something on your mind or what?"
Carlos gives it a thought first, turning around to lean forward against the railing. "Is your head okay now?"
George mirrors him with a light chuckle, while his hand waves at the crowd with his grin. "The thing's merciful enough not to make today dreadful. It'll be hell after the race, though."
"Is it always bad?"
"Everyday." The smile drops for barely a second.
If it’s this bad. If Max has already sought someone else and if George’s condition is deteriorating this quickly, is there even hope left?
Stop. He shouldn’t be this invested. It isn’t his relationship.
"Goodness. Don't you look charming."
"Spare the praises, Alex. Can't you see that your dear friend is on the brink of death here?"
George can't even open his eyes without seeing stars, and not for a good reason at all.
The race was fine. Points are points. He'd move on and focus onward with Hungary next if he hasn't seen the race highlights, specifically the fight between Max and Charles on track few seconds ahead of himself, in which causes his chest to stir in envy — however childish that looks, he can't will it away. Because it's Charles of all people, the person Max might possibly still be carrying a torch for even though he often denies it. Which causes the stupid headache to return and accompanied by nausea.
And so George goes to his true-hearted best friend in hopes for some kind of comfort one can provide appropriately. If anyone is going to witness him at his most pathetic, it might as well be Alex.
"Aren't you being too dramatic?" Alex eyes him from across the small room at the mirror and sighs, "But that's just you, I suppose. How bad is it this time?"
"Absolute nightmare." George groans, rolling over on the couch to press his forehead against the cushion. If only it helps.
"And how long must you suffer like this, again?"
"God knows."
"Should I go get him?"
"...God?"
Alex stands behind the couch and peers down at him with a laugh. "No, I meant the devil himself. Your mate."
George glares up at him at the idea. "No. I'd rather die." At this point, there might be more truth in it that he can admit.
“You can’t avoid him forever.” Alex goes on with a careful voice. He's going to give him another pep talk again, George is sure of it and dreads it. Fortunately, there’s a knock on the door before it can continue any further. He sinks into the couch with an arm over his eyes, to shield from the light, after his best friend disappears for the door. There are brief murmur of voices that he recognises it instantly, and he hears footsteps approaching.
“And debrief’s delayed. There's some issue with data from the other side of the garage.”
“Thank God for that. I was just about to start praying for divine intervention.”
"Why— Oh."
He lifts his gaze and meets Carlos's deep brown ones.
“That’s perfect timing, actually. I need to pop out for a bit,” Alex walks around his teammate to grab his team shirt and put it on. "Can you nurse him for me? He gets worse if left unattended."
Carlos shrugs one shoulder. "Okay."
"Brilliant. Back in a bit.”
The door clicks shut. Silence settles over the small room. George hides his face again, murmuring, "Told you. Hell." A soft laughter is heard somewhere from his right. And there’s the scrape of a chair being pulled closer.
"Here."
He turns his head and their eyes meet again. Carlos has a cold water bottle in his hand, lifted in a silent offer. He hesitates for a bit as pride flares once shortly, then lets his head tip sideways without thinking too hard. The cold touches the skin makes him flinch at first until it starts to help ease the dull pain. This should be comforting — might be beyond that if the right person is here instead. The thought makes him scowl bitterly.
"Ey." The cold presses into his skin a little more as Carlos speaks, "Relax your face."
George shuts his eyes and tries to do so. However, more thoughts swirl in his head as the clock ticks, as the headache ebs away little by little. As he easily can pick up the smell of smoked vanilla, leading him to wonder when's the last time his nose was filled with his mate's scent.
Oh, right. That bloody unfortunate night.
Visiting that memory again allows his headache to consume him again. It's time he does something about it, perhaps. His eyes flutter open, looks beside him. "Carlos."
"What?" Carlos puts down his phone and meets his stare.
"I have a question I’ve been meaning to ask you,” George begins slowly, clearing his throat. “That night you drove drunk me to Max’s house. I picked up another scent and broke down in your car — you remember the whole disaster." He pushes himself up slowly, wincing as the room tilts, and sits upright on the couch. The cold bottle is set aside on the small table, then.
Carlos raises his eyebrow at him. "And?"
"I recently figured it out. And I need to confirm it with you." George holds his gaze. "Neroli and sea salt. You used to carry those scent notes before. When you were with Charles." He looks at the reaction closely. He sees neither surprise nor confusion. There's no denial too.
"Lo lamento…"
"For what?"
Carlos sighs, dragging his gaze elsewhere. "I already knew just recently. But the race…"
"Don't bother," George starts looking for his phone and sees it lying at the foot of the couch. He reaches for it with a wince, unlocks it, as he scrolls in his contact. Despite the throbbing pain protesting and persisting, he continues on. "I guess I should finally go and meet him." Alex will be thrilled.
✩₊ ̊.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
George pounds on the door rapidly, impatiently. He doesn't have much time until his flight soon after this. He rather make this visit as quick as possible. The door swings open, revealing Max in plain t-shirt, a towel, and reek of someone else. He walks past him into the room as anger keeps boiling.
"George? What the—"
"Jesus," He wrinkles his nose once he smells the room. “You could’ve at least changed the sheets,” he drawls in disgust.
"What are you talking about?" The sheer ignorance is unbelievable and audacious. But that's to be expected from Max.
George turns to face him fully now and curls his hands into fists. “I don’t have much time to spare, so I’ll be direct. Let's break up. I honestly don’t see us going far in this relationship. And don't give me that look. I’ve seen enough. I know everything I need to know.” He dismisses if his voice is trembling, betraying how badly this hurts despite his controlled fury. At the moment, all he's preparing himself for is the reaction. Max is a difficult person.
"Fine."
"What?" George repeats in disbelief. “That’s all you’ve got to say? After everything?” He expects at least some fight from his mate. It's only wishful thinking at this point to hope that they are not going to be over this way. Perhaps he's a bit too hopeful for his own good.
Max frowns at his face and arches a brow with a careless shrug. "What do you want me to say? You've made your decision already." For a split second, something akin to guilt flashes across his face but it's gone too quickly for George to process. "I'm not going to argue with you again, George."
He stares at him, a little too stunned himself. They used to be explosive together, loud. Slammed doors, raised voices, then apologies just as intense — foreheads pressed together and promises murmured into flushed skin. Passionate. They were fire and gasoline from the very beginning. It's what makes them them. It was how it started, ironically so: heated post-race arguments because they're just so competitive on track and often clashes to each other, but then at some point because the universe favours them so much, the hate evolved itself into something delicate and intimate.
And fragile…
"That's it?" He hears himself ask.
"What's the point?" Max sounds bored, even. Tired of him, it seems.
George scoffs aloud. How could he— He searches his face desperately for some softness or stubborn protectiveness, at least.
But Max keeps a straight face, its as if he's already put the walls back up around him again. "You're right, I don't see us going anywhere. I needed you in a way that you don't. And sadly, I'm not patient enough to wait. You didn't bond with a saint, George." He nears him with careful steps, stopping right in front of him.
"I didn't ask for a saint. I asked for you."
"You had me. But you were always holding back, always so careful that you lost me in the process." Max turns his head to the side to break their gaze. "Anyways, I've had enough drama. You came here to break up. So let's just break up."
Whatever hope that had been flickering stubbornly in George finally gutters out.