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They were teenagers when they joined the sport.
Max was seventeen. Cocky. Aggressive. Passionate.
Carlos was twenty. Levelheaded. Reliable. Dedicated.
The two were so different, but when both were brought into Toro Rosso in that fateful year, it didn't take them long to click together. Carlos was immediately drawn to Max's humour and underlying sweetness, and in turn, Max was just as enchanted with Carlos' dreaminess and natural charm. But most importantly, they acknowledged each other's driving skills, and so they would race hard on track and then forgive and laugh about it when the chequered flag fell.
Of course, it was crucial that teammates have good chemistry with each other, but for two very talented rookies dying to make an impact to form a connection in such an innate way? That was less common than one would think.
There could be a seat up for grabs at Red Bull, and both of the young drivers knew that. Daniel's was basically safe, he'd proven his worth in that team, showed that he was reliable enough to count on for podiums and wins. He had championship potential, they would say. But Daniil? He wasn't so dependable, it seemed. Even when he scored a podium and ended up with more points that his teammate after the 2015 season, rumours in the paddock suggested that they might still be looking for a replacement in that seat. (It's hard to fill in a four-time world champion's old seat, after all.)
They both knew that that was what they were fighting for: a promotion for a top team. And both were objectively perfectly qualified for it as well: while Max's aggressive driving style had given him several impressive results, certainly better than Carlos'; the older's experience in single seaters and calmer head would mean that he'd be more trusted to at least bring the car home.
To be honest, neither of them cared about what the people say and speculate. They were young, burning with passion, hungry for wins; they were on top of the world and they knew that both would one day be at a top team and stand on the top step of the podium.
"I'll wait for you at Red Bull," Max would say behind motorhomes and hotel room doors. "You and me, we'll be an unstoppable team. We would of course win so many championships."
"You mean I'll be the one to wait for your promotion?" Carlos would always answer, not even bothering to hide his snickers.
"Bold of you to assume they'd favour you over me." (That was true. Max had gotten to sign his F1 contract before they even thought about promoting Carlos to the top step.) "But I'll let you dream about it in peace."
Carlos smiled. "Promise that no matter who makes the move first, we'll wait for the other, eh?"
"Of course," Max grinned in return.
"You did it, finally," Max said between gasps. "You finally got to a top team. I knew you'd get here."
Carlos smiled at his... friend? partner? lover?, breathless as well. "I already did that two years ago, with McLaren, remember?"
"You can't argue that that team's just barely in the top, though," the younger driver teased. "Ferrari is an upgrade. Celebrate your promotion properly, will you?"
"Hard to do otherwise when you got all of this as a celebratory gift." Carlos made a gesture to his surroundings. To Max, who was still caging him between his body and the wall.
(They had been going for almost ten minutes now, ever since Max pretty much stormed to his apartment and didn't even bother to let him close the front door after the news was announced. Carlos felt fortunate that none of his neighbours had come out and saw them doing all of this, really; he didn't need some extra sprinkles on his public image right now.)
Max shut him up with yet another kiss. When they parted for air again, he muttered, "It's a shame we're still not even in the same team after all this time."
"I think Alex is nice. Good driver, also. You raced him in karting before, yes?"
"He is, of course, but he's not you." The I want you was unspoken, but understood anyways. "We made a promise. I stand by it."
"You're such a sap."
"Hey, at least you know it's true- Hey! Chili! Put me down! What do you think you're doing?"
"You could have told me before," Carlos whispered into the darkness.
Max blinked. It wouldn't be noticed anyway. "What?"
"That you're promoted to the main team," the older clarified. "I really would have appreciated having a heads-up."
"To be fair, I didn't know either," Max sighed. It all happened too fast for his brain to register, and he was, ironically enough, a Formula One driver. He had driven in twenty-four races in arguably one of the fastest cars in the world, twenty-three when Helmut decided to bring him up to the new team, but this? Not something he could comprehend.
The sheets shuffled around as Carlos made a shrugging gesture. "I guess you're right. But I was worried for you, you know?"
"Why are you worried in the first place? Just because I got promoted and you didn't doesn't mean anything changed." Max's driving style remained the same. His arrogance was still there. Despite the fact that they split, his relationship with Carlos stayed the same. What was there to worry about that wasn't worth worrying before all this?
"Mid-season driver changes are always stressful. And to do this so early into the championship, when everyone is saying it's not worth it for the team to take such a big risk... I don't know if you can handle all of the pressure." The Spaniard chuckled. "Guess I didn't have to worry so much after all."
He turned over so that he's facing Max fully. "First race in a new team and an unfamiliar car." He pressed his lips gently on the other's cheek. "Qualifies on second row and then defended like a lion until the chequered flag." Another kiss, on the tip of Max's nose this time. "Youngest podium sitter ever, and by a mile." Once on the lips. Max burst into a big smile. "And a race winner at that. I'm so proud of you, mi pequeño león [my little lion], you're so good, such a good boy for me," Carlos murmured, lips tracing the jawline before trailing down to suck on that strong, pale neck.
Max giggled. "I'm flattered, really." Carlos didn't need the light to know that his ex-teammate's cheeks were burning with heat.
"Only the best for the race winner." Look, Max just won Carlos' home race. How couldn't he go crazy about all that?
"You'll be there too, one day, of course, wearing the same suit as I do," the younger replied, wide blue eyes staring at him even in the dark. "I just know that will happen. And when that day comes, I'll be standing on the second step of the podium clapping for you and spraying champagne all over your body, and then we'll go back to the hotel where I'll return the favour."
This time, Max was the first one to speak up. "I don't know if I should be happy or sad," he confessed.
"Wild thing to say right after all that we've just done, cariño [dear]," Carlos commented from where he was sitting on the bed.
"I know, I know," the Dutchman groaned, "but hey, if you were in my shoes, surely you'd react the same, no? No one wants to lose such a win streak due to shit qualifying and shit strategy."
"You're lucky you're in Red Bull and not Ferrari then."
"I suppose I am. For me I cannot understand how you and Charles could handle your pit wall and their crappy calls."
Carlos laughed. "We don't, really. We suffer together and send our therapy bills to Fred." He turned to the other man, who was still lying flat on his back. "At least I learnt a bit of the arrogance from you, so I can still sort of stand my ground against their stupidity. Charles is completely vulnerable to all of them."
"Glad to be of service," Max giggled, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief as they met Carlos' black ones. It was adorable. Carlos had to force himself to turn away lest he went in for a second round.
"I'm serious. Of all the things I thought I'd learnt from our time together, I never expected 'having a backbone' to be on top of the list."
"Look what that got you, though. Charles is supposed to be the prince that brings the team back to its glory days, yet you outscored him on your first season, got two wins, and are the only one who's able to win against us so far this season. That, for me, should be treated as a win in itself."
"Says the guy who debuted with me and now has two championships, on his way to winning his third, and got a record-breaking win streak in the process."
There was some shuffling and some pained groans before pale arms wrapped around his tanned chest. "Stop comparing us to each other, will you? For one, I'm glad you were the one to break my streak, Chili," Max whispered softly in his ear. "Gives me more motivation to continue racing, you know."
Carlos sucked in a breath. "Why so?"
"Such a stupid question, Carlos. Of course now that my record ended I have to fight to break it again, no?" Max giggled again. "And of course, since you now have an answer to our rocketship, I'll have to fight hard to keep this one against my favourite rival, too."
"Just you wait," Carlos replied. "We will make our own rocketship and I'll fight you for the title, too."
"McLaren, huh," Max murmured. If it weren't for the fact that Carlos was sitting right next to him, the words might have been lost to the loud music in the background. "And here I thought we'd still have a chance to race as each other's teammates again."
"You act like it's the end of the world." Carlos rolled his eyes. Not like it was visible in the dim lights of the club. "We mutually chose to not renew my contract. That is all that happened."
"Maybe for me it is the end of the world. Do you know how long I've been waiting to be standing in the same garage as you again?"
"You're fucking insane."
Max swiveled the barstool around to face Carlos, those eyes that should have reminded him of tropical seas now cold as ice. "Yeah, and you drive me insane. How about that?"
"You can't just say that out loud in the public, Max."
The younger man shrugged. "Not like anyone could hear us anyway over the music. And for me I don't give a shit about what people think of my sexuality. It of course does not affect my driving at all."
"No, it does not," Carlos reluctantly agreed. "But there's so much more to just driving in this sport. You're 20, almost 21 now, you've been in the sport for more than three years, you should know how much this affects your entire career. What about the sponsors? What about when you have to race in Bahrain? Abu Dhabi?"
"I'm sure the guys at Red Bull can figure out a way. Christian and Helmut will make sure of it."
He may not be confident enough to tell Max this, but that was exactly the reason that led him to the decision of not renewing the contract after all: the boy sitting in front of him had the entire team wrapped around his finger. In the two years and two months he was there, he'd proven himself again and again to earn all of that respect. That debut win in Spain, and then the wet masterclass at Brazil, a crazy recovery drive in un-overtake-able Monaco, three more wins and even more podiums, and all that... To be fair, if Carlos was the team principal, he would have fallen for that talent as well.
Yes, the seat was currently still empty for the next year, and yes, Carlos still wanted it, still wanted to know how it feels to drive a race-winning worthy car, still wanted to be Max's partner in crime, even. But Carlos also wanted to win himself, and he knew there was no way in hell he'd be able to do that when the team's golden boy was there and also hungry for a championship. McLaren might not have been doing well themselves, but their last win wasn't that long ago, and at least he wouldn't be subjected to that many team orders this way.
He stared at the glass in his hands, electing to divert his gaze from those piercing eyes. It was empty save for some melting ice, the wine having had been drunk up some time ago. "Some of us don't have the privilege to just do whatever we want without sacrificing something else, mate."
"I guess you're right," Max answered after a brief silence. "Good luck out there, then. I'll see you at the podium one day."
Carlos could only sit in his place and watch as he slipped off the stool and blended in with the sea of people.
"Who's there?" Max answered the door, only to find a clearly drunk, dark-haired Spaniard standing there with red-rimmed eyes, tear tracks still visible. "Oh, Carlos..."
The news were released earlier that day; Max had seen it and read it while sipping on his protein shake. It was shocking, yes, but he'd thought they had tied off every loose end if the announcement was made that early into the season. Now, looking at the crying, shaking man in front of him, it was clear this wasn't the case.
He could do nothing else but usher the elder inside the confines of his apartment.
Max wasn't an emotional person, or at least he'd like to think so. When was the last time he cried? Probably all the way back in 2021, after that last-lap battle. So no, he wasn't qualified to be good company for someone midway through a breakdown.
Plus, he had literally never dealt with a situation like this before, so there wasn't anything he could offer as an advice.
What he did know to do, however, is give one hell of a hug. Max opened his arms as an invitation, and Carlos crashed into it, sniffling his tears away but wetting the collar of the younger regardless.
"It's alright," Max murmured softly. "Let it all out. I'm here."
Carlos wailed at that. "They dropped me. They fucking dropped me, and I have to find out about all this from their public announcements."
"I'm so sorry, Chili," was all he could say. "Ferrari shouldn't have done that, fuck, that's such a dick move."
"I know that they want Lewis, he's a seven-time world champion for fuck's sake," Carlos continued between hysterical sobs. "And between me and Charles, it's an easy choice between who to keep, really."
"It shouldn't be that easy. You were the only one who could win against us last year, remember?"
"Yes, but he's their special project, like you. They aren't going to drop all that effort in a blink of an eye. I know it would happen, I just... I really wished they would tell me beforehand, give me a few days to process the news."
Max only tightened the hug in response, and that was how they spent the rest of the night: in each other's arms, emotions raw and rampant, but thoughts still hanging heavy in both men's minds.
They never got to race each other properly, or see each other in a championship-winning car mirroring their own, and now one was a record-breaking, multiple-time champion while the other was this close to disappearing from the grid altogether.
"What happened back there?" Carlos asked. "You were literally fighting me for the lead, and then suddenly you slowed down and I can't see you anywhere after the pit."
Max leaned against the headboard. "Floor damage," he lamented. "Drove through some debris, thought I had a puncture. Turns out an entire chunk of the floor was just fucked."
"Shame. I was really looking forward to fighting for P1 with you," Carlos replied.
Max nodded in agreement. "Same. It's funny how we never really got to fight on track ever since I left Toro Rosso."
"It kind of feels like there's some force behind all this that prevented us from ever being able to actually race each other properly for once, eh?" he joked. Like, sure, they'd passed each other a lot during the races, but there was never a battle between them when the position actually mattered to the grand scheme of the championship. Every time it was close to happening, either one of their cars broke down or Ferrari made another strategy blunder. Even the handful of times they ended up on the podium together was never an actual result of them battling: it was either Max battling Lewis, or Max battling Charles, or Max just being too far ahead to catch up and fight for position anyways, or it was just simply Monaco and with the cars being a big fat lump of metal you can just forget about overtaking in the first place.
This race was no different. The one time Carlos was actually ahead, Max's floor shat itself and the battle was over just like that. Yes, he won his first GP, got rightfully rewarded for all the hard work, but it would have been way more satisfying if he had to fight tooth and nail every lap to get that win. This one felt like it was served on a silver platter.
"I don't believe in curses," Max shrugged noncommitally. "For me I think there would always be more chances for us later. It's not like this is going to be your final race or anything. And of course I will be the one to come out on top."
Carlos quirked an eyebrow. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
"I think if we ask 2015 Carlos and Max about what they think they would be like ten years later, they probably won't think this is how they end up being."
"Yeah, mate? What's up with all this philosophical talk?"
"Think of all the scenarios we'd imagined together. At no point did we predict that I'd leave the team and end up racing in McLaren and Ferrari of all things."
"And we certainly didn't think you'd be driving for Williams and I'm making predictions that you'll be able to bring that car to the podium. Heck, even I didn't think you'd be do it twice at the start of the year."
Carlos shuffles around in his seat. "I still don't know why you believe in me that much to make that much of a gamble prediction."
"I know you, Chili. Of course I know what you're capable of. Even now, I still think you should have been here, racing alongside me, instead of having to settle for the midfield."
"It's not your fault Checo's contract ran all the way until 2026 and they only decided to terminate it too late."
"And my mistake was not pushing it to happen sooner. You know I'm still waiting for you, right?"
"Is it worth it, though? Is it worth it waiting that long?"
Max's laugh, soaked in sadness and transmission sounds, echoes into his ear. "It is, for me, always worth it, waiting for you. The only problem, I'm afraid, is that this has changed for you."