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Chapter Text

Rationally Mick knows that the last team radio with which Gary prevents him from saying goodbye, perhaps momentarily, to F1 by making donuts is not a personal resentment towards him.
The day after tomorrow there are tests with the Pirelli 2023 compounds and Haas wants to deliver a car in good condition to Hülkenberg.

Emotionally for the young driver this is the proverbial straw that breaks the camel's back.

So Mick is irritated, sad and melancholy (not only for himself but also because today was also Seb's last time on the track, the man closest to a father figure for him in the paddock).

Timing doesn't work in his favor when, in an almost deserted paddock, he meets Max.

Mick loves the Dutchman, they grew up together as brothers and their platonic love later developed into something romantic, but at times like this, when Max is the antithesis of Mick's career, it's easy to pour one's frustrations on the world champion.

"No superparty on the Red Bull superyacht tonight for you?"
Mick asks with a hint of sarcasm and venom that, in his cheerful state, Max seems not to grasp.

"I just need to go back to my hotel room for a moment to change into these wet clothes!"
Max says, running a hand over but not limited to his champagne drenched Red Bull Merchandising clothes.
Oh right, Max celebrated his 15th win of the season, a record that is unlikely to be broken in the future !

"Let's celebrate my victory and say goodbye to Pierre, after ten years in our family. Too bad Checo missed out on second place... Hey why don't you join us?"
Max misses the seed of resentment his words are planting in Mick's wounded pride.
The Red Bull driver is about to get on his bike (a habit he learned from Daniel to dribble past journalists and fans) when Mick's response freezes him.

"You mean the shitty Red Bull family of which you are the father-master? No wonder Pierre is running away, after all you were a bad teammate for him as for Perez, right ?"

Max's hands are shaking on the handlebars and a few tears is form the sides of his eyes, but he's too proud to cry in front of Mick so he brushes them back.

"I don't understand why you are being so unfair to me! Checo didn't have the same pace as Charles or mine today. What should I have done? Let him pass at the start? That wouldn't have been honest!"

Max was overwhelmed by criticism after the race in Brazil but, for a whole week, Mick defended him, comparing his boyfriend's racing hunger to his father's, so Max doesn't understand why Mick is now so dismissive of him.
It's probably that very comparison that makes something evil writhe in Mick's angry mind.
Max is the one designated as natural heir of Michael Schumacher and not him, his legal heir .

"Well Mick I'm sorry the Haas have been a jerk on you but you can't take your grudges on me.
See you when you've calmed down. Now excuse me, but I have to go to my shitty team party!"

Max takes his leave and starts pedaling furiously. In the heat of the moment or out of distraction, he forgets to wear a helmet.

After his dad's accident, Mick is always very attentive to the safety of the people he loves but this time, out of spite or perhaps because he doesn't consider it a priority, he doesn't give Max any warning.
What could ever happen to him in a few kilometers of track?

******** ***********

Mick has let off steam with a nice hot bath and is now relaxing playing playstation in his hotel room when his phone rings.
He hopes it's not Günthe, Kevin or any member of his now former team but it's what he'd expect so he's really surprised when Yuki Tsunoda's name appears on the display.

The AlphaTauri driver asks him, in no uncertain terms, if he knows where Max has gone, because he is untraceable.
He's usually on time like clockwork for team engagements so everyone at the party is starting to worry and get nervous about his being late.

Concern also begins to settle in Mick's heart as he promises Yuki that he will go in search of Max himself and will let him know soon.

Predictably, Max doesn't answer any of Mick's attempted calls, so the young man puts on his shoes and decides to go back to look for him in the paddock.

The evening activity here is calm, a perfect contrast to the hectic activity of the afternoon, and Mick isn't particularly surprised to find Seb helping the janitors clean up the stands.

"Hey Seb I need your help!"
Mick is out of breath and on the verge of a panic attack and Seb has no qualms about stopping what he's doing to figure out what he can do for the boy.

They start looking for Max in every corner of the paddock and the track, even the most improbable ones, and in the end Seb is the first to notice a crumpled bicycle, a backpack on the ground and some traces of blood.

He would like to hug Mick and prevent him from seeing but the young man is already running towards Max exclaiming a hysterical Mein Gott !

Thankfully Max is conscious even though his bloodied face looks like a tragic Halloween mask. He's panting, frightened and sore, but nothing seems to be broken.

"Hey Max, stay calm and don't move. I'm going to get a doctor right away!"
Seb tries to calm him down but, even now, Max manages to protest that he's fine.

"Take care of Mick!"
Max whispers as soon as she realizes her boyfriend is about to hyperventilate.

******* **********

Somehow Seb manages to take care of both younger drivers. He calls doctors for Max and manages to deal with Mick's panic attack.
He stays with what he may by now consider a godson the entire time they wait outside the medical centre, and when they finally allow him to see Max, Seb can't resist Mick's pleading eyes begging him to come with him.

Max is sitting on the medical table, his face is starting to swell like the moon and he has several grazes on his arms and legs.
He has a slight concussion, thankfully nothing serious, but is otherwise fine.

Overcoming all embarrassment and guilt, Mick lets himself be guided by pure instinct and throws himself into Max's arms.
"Forgive me, I've been such an ass! I told you so many despicable things that you didn't deserve and I didn't tell you the most important thing. I love you Max and I would never forgive myself if you hurt yourself even more because of me!"

Mick sobs and Max winces as his boyfriend's steel grip intensifies the pain on his bruises but doesn't push him away. On the contrary, Max draws Mick even closer to him.

"Shut up! You've been a brat, it's true! But sometimes I behave worse than you. Let's forget everything, okay?
We can go back to cuddling up at the hotel all night but first I have to go and reassure everyone at Red Bull!"

Mick would like to protest and tell Max that he needs absolute rest but he knows how much he will be looked after by Red Bull, by all the staff who are now a second family for Max, so he doesn't oppose Max's decision.
"Can we come with you to your party?"
Mick says with a hesitant smile and nods in Seb's direction.
"I think everyone will forgive you for being late if you show up with their four-time world champion! Six world titles together!"
Mick winks at him, finally proud and no longer envious of his boyfriend's successes.

Chapter Text

"What the hell Max, be a little more careful!"

Pierre goes in search of some wipes with which to dry up the disaster as the red wine that his former teammate accidentally spilled on him expands on his white shirt in a blood-colored stain.

A bad omen.

"Isn't it too early to be drunk already anyway?"
Max shrugs, as relaxed as he's ever been in all his years in F1.
It's Thursday, he's already world champion with four races to go and he wants to enjoy the moment.
"I might make that boring press conference we have to go to a bit more fun. Would you like a drop of this grape juice , too, Pierre?"

"You could keep swigging your cans of Red Bull instead of playing at being the James Hunt of the new millennium!"
The Frenchman objects but smiles, infected by Max's unusual cheerfulness.

That's when they hear it: the deafening and screeching noise of too abrupt braking and the annoying and scary one of an impact.

**** *********

The two drivers immediately rush out of the Red Bull hospitality and are greeted outside by total chaos.
Max and Pierre make their way through the crowd of onlookers until they reach the point where they can recognize Carlos and other drivers and a small group of medical personnel blocking the wounded man's vision.

"What the hell happened?"
Max asks a petrified Carlos but Pierre doesn't need any answer.
Between telemetry data and a water bottle scattered on the asphalt he recognizes a familiar Saint Christopher medal.

"Keep it with you always, petit calamardo, and I'll know you'll be safe!"
He gave it to Charles, revealing to him that Checo never gets into a car without a sacred image of the patron saint of drivers and sportsmen.

He didn't expect to count among the dangers Charles flying into the windshield of a car traveling at high speed in an area where no vehicles are allowed.

Pierre remains motionless like a stone statue until they load Charles onto a stretcher: they have put a medical collar on him, his eyes are open and disoriented, his face is streaked with blood and a purplish bruise has formed on one temple, so similar to the stain on the shirt by Pierre.

This sight is enough to stir something in the Frenchman: he turns sideways and vomits on Max's shoes.

******* *********
Although Charles remains conscious throughout the ambulance journey, he is transported to the hospital with the code of maximum urgency given the dynamics of the accident and the need to exclude any internal bleeding or broken bones.

It is a real ordeal to be subjected to the various and countless medical tests but, fortunately, the painkillers help him a lot and, exhausted, the Ferrari driver would like to finally give in to sleep when doctors finally leave him alone in his hospital bed.

He knows it won't be possible. First he has to reassure his mother and siblings, then Charles' heart breaks when Arthur tells him that Pierre has adamantly refused to leave the hospital waiting room until the doctors allow him to see Charles.
Fuck the commitments on the track!

Charles tries to assume a relaxed and courageous expression so as not to worry his boyfriend further but he can't hold back the tears, more of relief for the narrow escape than for a real physical discomfort, when Pierre throws himself sobbing into his arms, being careful not to bump Charles' IV.

"I'm so glad you're relatively well! Too bad that medal didn't quite work"
Pierre whispers against Charles's lips, enjoying the warmth of his breath.
"Well St. Christopher protects us when we're in the car and I was on foot and a little distracted, right?"

Pierre smiles affectionately.
"You scared the shit out of me stupide idiot . Thankfully these two have been super supportive!"
Peering over Pierre's shoulder, Charles notices Carlos and Max, who have so far remained a discreet presence in Charles's hospital room.

“You guys skipped media day for me? You will be sanctioned!”
None of the three seem to care, in fact Max and Carlos smile, relieved to know that Charles will probably only lose one race during the season.
"Shut up, Leclerc! You owe me a new pair of shoes!"

Charles doesn't understand the Dutchman's joke and fears that his concussion is more serious than expected until he senses that it is something between Max and Pierre when the Frenchman gives Max an accusing look.
"You shut up, Max! You owe me a clean shirt!"

Chapter Text

"I smell burning!"
"The caterers at Red Bull are probably having trouble cooking lunch today!"

Pierre rolls his eyes, now addicted to the jokes circulating in the paddock about his former team, so he decides not to reply to the amused comments of his new Alpine mechanics.

"Guys there is nothing to joke about! There are real flames flaring from the Red Bull hospitality and it looks like a real fire has broken out!"

Pierre's heart sinks as he hears Karel's alarming words and, frantically, he begins to undo his helmet and runs out of his new garage.

There are members of his second family in potential danger and Pierre will not sit idly by. No member of the Alpine can stop him, not even Esteban who, by pure instinct, runs after him.

*** ****

The sheer relief that soothes Pierre as he recognizes familiar faces in the reassuring navy blue attire is soon swept away by mounting anguish as he learns that Yuky, Nyck, Max and Sergio are still inside the burning building and rescue is difficult.

It is pure adrenaline that makes his feet move towards the crumbling walls but Esteban's grip on his wrist is firm.
"Don't be silly Pierre!"
At that moment there is an encouraging cheer from a crowd with bated breath as Max and Checo have just exited the building carrying the body of a tried Nyck.
"I have to find Yuki!"
Pierre takes advantage of that moment of everyone's distraction to escape Esteban's grip and escape the prohibitions of the rescuers.

To say it's hell in there would be an understatement. The fire is not the biggest obstacle because Pierre, by pure chance, wears his fireproofs, but the smoke, acrid and dense, hurts his eyes and takes his breath away.

Despite feeling faint, Pierre is determined not to give up until he gets out of there with Yuki alive in his arms.

He can't help but cough and, right now, he doesn't care about the damage it could cause to his windpipe, airways and lungs.

When a wet gag is suddenly pressed across his mouth and nose, Pierre jumps in panic.
His overwhelmed brain relaxes as he recognizes a voice with an unmistakable Australian accent.

Daniel, who was probably in Red Bull hospitality with the other drivers, has already been put on a filter mask, however this does not prevent him from speaking.

"Enough of being a hero for today, Pierre Gasly! Your Yukino is already safe!"

Pierre's legs give way and only then does he notice the firefighters who are with Daniel and who help them both get out of there relatively unharmed.

*** ****

On the outside esplanade there are already several ambulances, Pierre barely registers Christian who tries to reassure Max (or vice versa), Checo and Nyck wrapped up in isothermal blankets until he sees Yuki, supported by Charles and Esteban.

The young Japanese, apart from some light burns, has an almost comical appearance being covered in soot.
"Chim chiminey, cher-ee , are you the chimney sweep from Mary Poppins?"

Pierre tries to make Yuki smile, visibly shocked, but at that moment his lungs give him away and he begins to gasp.

Paramedics swarm around Pierre and he is soon lying on a stretcher with an oxygen mask on his face.

"You've inhaled enough smoke and you'll need to get checked out at the hospital, but you'll be fine, okay Pierre?"
The Frenchman nods recognizing Pyry's voice, the only one who still manages to rein in his stubbornness after the last five years together, but he calms down only when he feels Yuki's hand caressing his arm in a comforting way.

"I'm coming with you. Apparently now, as well as hosting me in your apartment in Milan, you will also have to give me accommodation in your driver's room in Alpine!"
Yuki says slyly and with a touch of bitterness as she looks at the rubble around them.
Pierre tries to get up, ignoring a growing headache, to embrace him but Yuki gently pushes him down and runs a hand through his caramel hair leaving a few black trails.
"Rest now. Your Giuseppe will take care of you!"

Chapter Text

Valtteri frowns as his attempts to zip up his pants fail miserably.

Tonight Lewis managed to bring together the whole grid to have dinner together and pay homage in the best possible way to the extraordinary career of Seb.

Valtteri doesn't want to do the Contrary Mary and doesn't decline the invitation at the last moment but the only thought that, in the photos that will surely appear on social networks, he will be compared to his younger colleagues - handsome, athletic kids with muscles in the right places , already sends the Finn into a crisis.

He inhale and tense your abdominal muscles but that's not enough. He sighs and tries not to let anxiety ruin his evening.

*** *******

- Valtteri ate his Alfa Romeo C42 directly.
- Looks more and more like Super Mario Bros.
- Are you sure it's not the PE teacher on a field trip with the school group ?

"What's wrong?"
Lewis is behind him now, in the privacy of their shared hotel room, and Valtteri flinches slightly, pushing his iPhone away.

As he suspected, some of the other riders have already released photos of the nice dinner together, thus satisfying the curiosity of the fans who, as usual, are not very tender in their comments.

Lewis kisses his neck and begins wrapping his hands around his waist, and Valtteri, in his shame, instinctively pulls his wrist away.

"It's nothing."
Lewis doesn't believe him, especially when he recognizes a discarded pair of smart tailored trousers on the floor.

"You wore these to the Mercedes party in Brackley in 2017 when we celebrated our first constructors' title together!"

Lewis says quietly, carried away by the memories and without worrying about appearing indelicate. In fact, he is confused when Valtteri grabs the pants and throws them haphazardly into his open suitcase; then he sits on the edge of the bed and has his back to Lewis, trying to hide the blush on his cheeks.

After a moment the Mercedes champion is on his knees in front of him but Valtteri still can't look at him.

"It's nothing."
He repeats the Finnish and doesn't object when Lewis starts rubbing soothing circles into his lower back.
"Hey Val, you don't have to be ashamed of gaining weight. It's normal!"

Valtteri snorts but is silent.
Lewis is one of the few aware of his past eating problems, his struggle with bulimia nervosa, how even a simple beer drunk alone after his victory in Sochi in 2020 triggered a downward spiral in Valtteri, who at the time he hadn't felt appreciated even by the team and by Lewis himself.

"You've had such a bad time. That's why I was so happy to see you eating heartily tonight."
Lewis reflects, gently lifts the hem of Valtteri's shirt and tenderly kisses his belly. Valtteri lets him.

"And if you put on a little weight, who cares? It's normal you're no longer the Valtteri you were five years ago, and now that we're heading into winter break, you can get back in shape at your own pace for the next season!"

"They say I look like an eighties porn actor!"
Lewis can't help but chuckle against the Finn's thighs.
Now the they say runs off them like fresh water.
"Well then you are my exclusive porn star. They can only fantasize about that beautiful ass you gave them in Aspen, I have the privilege of touching it!"

Valtteri shakes his head and smiles, shakes Lewis's hand and Lewis shakes it back.

"Can I touch you?"

"Yup."

"Can I pick you up?"

“…Yes,” Valtteri replies, more shyly.

Lewis smiles predatory, takes the Finn in his arms and brings him back to the side of the bed that face the room mirror. He sits up on the bed, pulling Valtteri's back against his chest so he can see them both in the mirror.
"I love you Val. I love you in any way!"

"I love you too, Lew!"
Valtteri finally manages to mutter as the other man gently undresses him to his underwear.
"I look at you every day and I find you more beautiful every day."
Valtteri feels a pleasant warmth aroused by those praises and, before going deeper, he eases the tension with a joke.
"Shit, sometimes I wish I was a featherweight like Tsunoda!"

Chapter Text

It is well known that the Singapore Grand Prix is one of the toughest races on the calendar. The tropical climate and humidity make drivers hot and sweaty even before they get in the car.
To prepare for the challenge, in the last two weeks Charles has trained together with Andrea in the sauna but he is well aware that, in the next two hours, his body will be subjected to truly exhausting conditions.

Charles has heard stories of several of his colleagues not using the hydration system during other races to reduce the weight of the car. In Singapore, such an option is not even worth considering.

Today he is highly motivated to have a good race: Seb came all the way here, just over the equator, to support him and Lewis - although it's hard not to sulk because Seb following the race from the Red Bull garage, lair of Charles' championship contender.

Until lap 30 it was an intense battle between Charles, Lewis and Max for the lead and the Monegasque tried to stay focused because, just like in Monaco, mistakes can have big consequences on this track.

He certainly doesn't expect that, for the remaining half of the race, his battle will no longer be with the other drivers but with his body which runs the risk of dehydrating.

There's a problem with his hydration system, his body struggles to dissipate heat in the form of sweat, and Charles feels like a thirsty man in the desert desperate for an oasis.

**** *****

Lewis wins. Max in P2 and Charles in P3, almost miraculously due to the circumstances in which he faced halfway through the race.

Taking off his helmet and balaclava is a nice relief but Charles has to wait before he can also take off his racing suit and fireproofs and freshen up.
There are interviews with the first three classified and the Ferrari driver can't wait to put an end to the media commitments and the podium to finally be able to take a nice shower. Too bad his body has other ideas...

"Are you OK?" Lewis asks him, as he wipes his sweaty face with a damp towel and waits for Max's turn to finish the interview.
"Huh?"
Charles stupidly says before his world goes dark.

** ****

When he regains consciousness, Charles is lying on his back on a medical table with his legs raised to facilitate the flow of blood to his brain.

"Hey if you wanted our attention, there was no need to go to such extremes!"

Charles realizes he's not alone. Seb gently teases him, although behind his paternal smile Charles can read the aftermath of the fright that he must have given everyone a moment ago.

"What happened to me?"
He asks still feeling fucking exhausted
"You passed out in my arms."
Lewis points out, handing him a glass of water and helping him sit up to sip.

Charles looks rather self-conscious, looking at the plastic cup like it's the coolest thing he's ever seen.
He imagine Silvia and everyone at Ferrari having their work cut out at the moment managing the media and reassuring fans about their star driver's fainting, he knows his friends and fellow drivers are worried about him and Charles suspects the doctors they will be less nice than Lewis and Seb to help him rehydrate faster however right now he feels safer than at his family home in Monaco.

There are Lewis and Sebastian who, ever since he arrived in F1, have been protective of him, officially adopting him as their son of the grid.
A great achievement and reassurance for Charles.

"Well, now that our Charlie seems better, I'm going to steal the role of pilots spokesperson from George for a few moments to reassure everyone. When you collapsed in Lewis's arms, Pierre freaked out and Max started to insult anyone who didn't take care of you quickly..."
Seb patiently explains. He strokes Charles' shoulder and gives Lewis a quick kiss on the lips before leaving the room.

*** ***

"I'm sorry."
Charles hums as Lewis wipes his forehead with a fresh towel.
"Hey, it wasn't your fault. We're just happy you're recovering."
"I'm so lucky to have two beautiful people like you and Seb in my life."
Charles yawns, groggy, and Lewis wraps his arms around him.
"Looks like you could get some sleep now."
"Yes, I love your arms but now you have to go before Toto hates me!"
Lewis chuckles and strokes Charles' hair.
"Soon kid. As soon as Seb gets back to be with you and tonight we'll put you to bed and take care of you."
Charles rubs his throbbing temple and closes his eyes.
"Fine. But first we have to burn Seb's Red Bull hat. I don't care if he works for them now..."
Lewis shakes his head amused: he thought Charles didn't want to have anything to do with any heat source for today but... His diabolical idea and the sly smile that accompanies it are the clues that the boy is already better.

Chapter Text

It must be a conspiracy of the gods of Formula 1 against him or perhaps a twisted karma if even in Aston Martinthe engine forces Fernando to a painful DNF when
he was solidly in P5.
The Asturian has nothing left to do but ruefully return to his team's pits. In the post-race debriefing there will be time to analyze everything with his engineers, and before going into the media pen, Fernando wants to enjoy the passionate duel at the top between Max, George and Charles.
A little vindictively, he hopes that the Mercedes engine will also give problems on car 63, or even better on car 44, but more than anything else he hopes that, in the end, Max will win the race.

Fernando appreciates Max and has always had nice words for him so when the Dutchman takes the lead thanks to an undercut, the Asturian cheers silently.

The strategies in Red Bull are always excellent and also the Honda engine (the one that Nando denigrated years ago) helps Max a lot...Unfortunately no one could foresee an overheating of the brakes which leads to a complete disaster.

Max informs GP that there are problems as he starts to lose positions; he is told to stop in a safe area of the track but, unfortunately, the RB19 no longer responds to his controls and Max hits an Alpine car.

The collision is such that even Esteban, who was running a splendid comeback race, is forced to DNF.

Once again Fernando chuckles thinking that karma is like a bride: she is often late but when she arrives she leaves everyone speechless.
After two years as teammates, Nando didn't particularly like some of Esteban's statements about him, so there's a sort of satisfaction in knowing that the 31 car is also out of the race now.
He can be a little pleased after making sure that Esteban is fine because, even if he seems furious, he got out of the cockpit unharmed.

Fernando thinks he has to reevaluate Esteban's sportsmanship when he sees him approaching Max's number 1 car, no doubt to check on his health.
Except...In the heat of the moment the Frenchman vents his frustration by hitting his rival's helmet. A gesture that recalls George and Valtteri in Imola two years ago.

Nothing so shocking, they watch the past episodes between Max and Esteban, however Fernando frowns when he sees that Max takes too long to get out of the cockpit and, when he finally succeeds, he keeps his hand on his side and energetically shakes his head at something what the marshalls are telling him.

****** **********

Emotions are disastrous, Max thinks as he heads in advance into the media pen.
They're messy, they make his chest hurt to the point where he feels like his lungs are about to collapse, they make him do things he just doesn't want to do like furiously rubbing his eyes and wiping away tears before being in front of cameras and microphones .

His team actually wanted to send him to the medical center first to get checked but Max told everyone that he is fine and even if he is in pain he will bear it. He just wants to finish his media commitments as soon as possible and go home to decompress and convince himself that he has definitely not lost any chance for the championship.

"What was that, Verstappen? Revenge is a dish best eaten cold . Did you wait four years to punish me for what happened in Brazil?"
Fantastic! Of all people, he has to collide with Esteban in an area of the paddock that is still almost deserted.

"It's been four years, Ocon. I've gotten over it, you should too… I'm sorry about the incident just now, even if you're still the same asshole you were then!"
Esteban is about to lunge at Max when someone holds him from behind.
"Hey, hey you're gonna practice boxing another day. Leave Max alone now."
Fernando's voice brings back the rational part of Esteban who, at this point in front of his former teammate whom he has always admired, is a little ashamed of having lost control.
He snorts but doesn't argue, he turns around ready to go on his way when he hears Nando swearing at him.
"What the hell have you done, Este?"

Esteban doesn't understand until he sees Max who has collapsed on his knees on the tarmac, one hand on his side and shallow breathing.

*** ****

Max has hazy memories of the last few minutes, the dull ache in his side, where he was injured on impact, absorbing most of his concentration.
Yet he vaguely remembers Fernando yelling at Esteban, Esteban ranting apologies at him, Nando's firm hands holding him up while Max let himself be guided wherever he wanted to take him.
He realizes now that he is at the medical center.

"Hey how are you feeling champ?"
He hears the worried but strangely soft voice of the Aston Martin driver. Max is afraid to ask if he's passed out, even for a short while.
"Painkillers are a real panacea! I still think I'm better than Esteban...Did he survive your fury?"

Max jokes, trying to sit up, and Fernando shrugs and smiles conspiratorially.
"Well, let's say that from now on Este will be much nicer to you!"

Chapter Text

At first Charles thinks it all makes sense. Max loses his appetite after his spectacular crash at Silverstone and says the painkillers are messing with his stomach. Charles believes him.
In the second part of the season the fight with Mercedes became increasingly close and, with the enormous amount of pressure and stress to manage, Max was no longer able to take care of himself.
It gets to the point where he can't bring his fork to his mouth and actually eat.

The fact that they are almost always away from home helps the Dutchman keep his boyfriend's worries away even if, on the sporadic occasions when they have lunch together, Charles ends up feeding him, at least making him eat something.

Even if he shakes his head in disapproval, once again the Monegasque justifies Max's unhealthy eating habits: Charles knows how much discipline and strict diet their being high-level athletes imposes, so he says to himself that, once Max is champion of the world, he will go back to eating normally.

Unfortunately his optimism is bound to be proven wrong.
Their winter break gets off to a good start; the two engaged couples spend the Christmas holidays together and Charles is relieved to note that apparently Max seems to enjoy traditional foods.

Charles never discovers that almost all of the food Max eats goes down the toilet.

Things get worse with the start of the new season and with the entry into force of the new regulation which, in the first few races, seems to disadvantage Red Bull.

*** ***

It's nice for Charles to be back on the top step of the podium after two years in purgatory, but his satisfaction with his successes on the track is dampened by what happens to the person he loves.

The Ferrari driver tried with small tricks to awaken his boyfriend's taste buds: he brought him éclairs, because Max always made fun of him for the assonance of his surname with the delicious choux pastry pastries. He bought him pain au chocolat and they had their first real argument when Charles found it untouched in the trash can.

Charles realizes that his strength alone isn't enough to help Max when it becomes apparent that his boyfriend has lost so much weight that another hole had to be punched in his belt.
"Why are you doing this to yourself, mon cheri ?"
"To beat you on the track!"
Max answers honestly.
"Red Bull is at least 20 kilos overweight. I have to help my team lighten the weight!"

Can not be serious!
Losing just another five kilos could be detrimental to his health, let alone more!
Charles would like to tactfully suggest that he consider getting professional help. He knows Max too well: he will deny that there is a problem, he will say that is a subtle strategy by Charles to exclude him from the title fight and perhaps this will put an end to their relationship.

The Monegasque no longer knows what to do and decides to seek the opinion of someone wiser and without the emotional involvement that could cloud Charles' rationality.

** ****

Sebastian is always happy to have a chat with his former team-mate and has now been in F1 for enough years to be a veteran and know at a glance when his younger colleagues need some advice.
"From your expression I'd say you're in trouble, kid!"

Charles sighs and traces the outline of his steaming coffee cup with his fingers.
He realizes that he needed this break away from the paddock, in a cafe in Melbourne, confiding in a friend.
"Not me. Max."

The rest of the words come out easily and Charles feels lighter than he has in months.
"What do I do if he gets dizzy while driving at high speed?"
The Monegasque groans and accepts when Seb suggests that they will talk to Max.

*** ***

Max is shivering, despite the mild Australian autumn. Why is he so damn cold?

He's wearing a warm hoodie (Charles') and frowns when he looks in the mirror and it's obvious that the hoodie appears to be at least two sizes up.
Max chase away the knowledge that he doesn't look good and assumes his guarded, defensive expression when Charles shows up in his hotel room with Sebastian Vettel.

"Have I now become your topic of conversation in the paddock? Do you like to gossip about me with your friends, eh Charles? Who else have you told about what, how much and when I eat? Pierre? Carlos?"

Max is sinking into his eating disorder and, like a drowning man, reject the hand that tries to help him.

"I don't know how to help you Max. I would end our relationship if that would help you heal..."
Charles says in a heartfelt voice and this breaks Max's resistance
"I know you think you can do it on your own but please at least listen to Seb!"

Charles begs him before leaving the two champions of Red Bull, the old and the new, alone.

The Monegasque has agreed to allow Seb and Max a face-to-face conversation, so as not to make everything more embarrassing.

*** ***

Talking to the Aston Martin driver seems to have boosted Max's mood.
Even if that evening he still struggles with the food, at least he doesn't snap at Charles, in fact he even allows him some daring caresses although the Charles's heart sinks when his fingers meet the protrusions of Max's ribs.

Unfortunately, the road to recovery is rough and long and Charles realizes it when Max passes out on their bedroom floor.

Max can't remember how he got to the hospital but the sight of Charles' loving and encouraging smile will be his true motivation.
He doesn't care if, by admitting he has a problem, he will appear weak in the eyes of Red Bull or his father.
He has neglected himself so much that he is now hospitalized with a diagnosis of vitamin deficiencies and malnutrition.

Sebastian has assured him that no one will judge him and that he, Charles and the other drivers will be a support network for Max from now on, through his ups and downs, no matter what.

Max smiles wearily at Charles and reaches out on the rough hospital blanket for his boyfriend to hold.
"I start therapy on Monday."
It takes Charles a few seconds to understand Max's murmur, then he bends down to kiss the Dutchman's unkempt hair and whisper to him that he will always be by his side.
"Well then I have to get back in shape as soon as possible. I don't want to look bad next to an Armani model!"

Chapter Text

"I brought a surprise from Italy!"

When he receives that text message from Max, Daniel is already looking forward to real tortellini or any other gastronomic specialty from Emilia Romagna.
Trying to find a silver lining in his current situation, the Aussie thinks that having a third-rider contract for next season will allow him to be more forgiving with his diet.
Furthermore, they are in the low season and in the middle of the Christmas season, so some food mistakes can be forgiven.

More sinfully, Daniel figures that, later, he will taste Max too.
Daniel is thrilled at the idea as the Dutchman's travels with Red Bull have kept them apart for three weeks.

Max is a boy full of surprises but what awaits Daniel is decidedly unsettling.

"Did you buy a Vespa?"

Faced with Daniel's confusion, Max rejoices like a child on Christmas morning.

"Well, since Red Bull doesn't let me try Marc Marquez's Honda, I decided to experience the thrill of riding a scooter with timeless charm!"

Max explains, proud of his Vespa GTS.
" You know there's a reason there are clauses in your contract that prevent you from being insane or playing extreme sports!"
It's strange that Daniel is the wise one but for Max he has always been the voice of reason.
Not this time.

"Well Red Bull doesn't care about my safety when it sends us on its stupid challenges.
Nobody said anything to Pierre when he threw himself into the traffic of Monaco with his motorbike, indeed in Toro Rosso they even made a Vlog. And do we want to talk about Lewis who drove no less than Valentino Rossi's vehicle, a real MotoGP?"

Daniel gives up trying to argue. He knows how determined and stubborn Max is when he has a project in mind and wants to finish it.

"Okay, go for your Vespa ride so we can decorate our Christmas tree without any other distractions!"
Daniel feels like a parent giving permission to a teenager but Max's smile is one of pure joy and enthusiasm as he straps on his helmet and jumps on his motobike.
"I'll be back in no time!"

****** ***********

After pulling out the packages containing shiny and satin balls, little fabric reindeer and velvet bows, Daniel glances worriedly at his watch and thinks he should have paid more attention to Max's parting words.

After taking part in the Honda Thanks day at Motegi, in a recent interview Max admitted that he knows himself well and, on any wheeled vehicle, he would try to push to the max.

He frantically tries to reach Max but all her attempts to call go blank
Daniel tries not to get caught up in anxiety and panic but his mouth and throat are already dry. Swallowing becomes difficult as sweating and muscle tension increase.

Luckily, thanks to the app on her phone, the Aussie can easily locate Max's location and rushes to look for him by car.

Despite imagining all sorts of scenarios along the way, with hands shaking on the wheel and breathing barely controlled, the impact of the scene before him is devastating for Daniel.

Max's beautiful red Vespa is lying in the middle of the road with the engine still running.

Its owner is motionless at least ten meters away.
Daniel rushes to his boyfriend's side even though he can't ascertain the extent of his injuries and can't move him. In a glimmer of lucidity call the ambulance.

"I can't move my legs, Dan!"
Max hums and his former teammate freezes on the spot. Still, he struggles to keep an encouraging smile as Max tells him that when a car traveling in the opposite direction crossed his path, he grabbed both brakes but couldn't stop.
The collision was unavoidable.

It seems like an eternity has passed, even if in reality it's a matter of a few minutes, when Daniel finally hears the ambulance sirens getting closer and closer.

*** ***
Once in the hospital, Max is placed on a bed, undressed and examined by a doctor.
He has pain in both knees and will struggle to stand for a while, the fingers of his left hand are numb and he will have to wear a collar for a few days but despite this, his x-rays show nothing alarming.

He gets away with an eight-day prognosis and with the unpleasant task of having to explain his impudence to the top management of Red Bull.

Right now, however, the racing world is far from their thoughts, especially those of Daniel, who cries with relief to have Max back relatively whole.
"I did it on purpose to allow you to take my place during the first race of 2023!"
Max jokes, once the painkillers get him comfortable enough. Daniel lies down behind him and cuddles him gently.

"Shut up Maxy. You had to get injured better if you were going to sit out next season."

Even Daniel is relaxed enough now to answer in tone to his boyfriend.
Suddenly Max frowns, as if he's remembered something.
"Dan, how much damage did my Vespa take?"

Chapter Text

When, after a 2020 of races held with empty stands, it is announced that access to the paddock will once again be granted to fans, Lando is thrilled.

Sometimes the atmosphere can become hectic and chaotic, and this is a disadvantage especially in the pre-race, but the energy and warmth that supporters give are priceless.

Furthermore, the easing of the strict restrictive measures adopted last year means that COVID is less scary now.
This means that, in addition to masks and sanitizers, scientists have finally developed a drug that stimulates the immune system to produce antibodies, designed to fight the microorganisms that cause disease.
The only downside is that this serum has to be injected and that worries Lando more than the pandemic itself.

The young Englishman is not at all enthusiastic when the vaccination obligation is imposed on all drivers and various F1 personnel and it is not enough for him to have already tested positive once to be exempt.

At least Ferrari and McLaren have nothing against it when he and Carlos tell their teams that they will go get the vaccine together once they return to Lando's new home in Monaco after a racing weekend.

** **

The morning they have an appointment at the hospital, Lando remains motionless in the starfish position, intertwining his leg with Carlos's, trying not to disturb his boyfriend's sleep: better to postpone the inevitable! Maybe if Carlos doesn't wake up in time they will be late and their appointment will be cancelled...

" Buenos días cariño!"
Lando is always energized by the sound of Carlos' deep, sensual voice however this morning he can't help but feel a pang of disappointment at the failure of his childish plan, despite the sweet kisses that Carlos prints all over his body.

"Are you ready for our COVID jab, today?"
Carlos chuckles, knowing full well how squeamish Lando is about needles, and in response the McLaren driver pokes him in the side.

They call an Uber because they want to avoid getting bad publicity in case one of them is spotted in the other's company car, and Lando is so anxious that he even ignores the fact that they haven't even eaten breakfast.

"How can you be so calm?"
Lando asks, with a touch of envy, a relaxed Carlos.
"Come on, don't make a big deal out of it, Muppet . You know it's going to be like a scratch, like being jab by the tip of a nail or a pencil!"
Carlos usually manages to be very persuasive but, this time, Lando thinks it's best not to let his guard down. He lets the Ferrari driver go first, and when it's his turn, he hesitates.

"Do you want me to go inside with you?"
Carlos asks him thoughtfully and, at first, pride prevents Lando from accepting. Finally he nods and doesn't care if his boyfriend thinks it's stupid to be afraid of a stupid injection.

The doctor is very kind and tries to put Lando at ease, especially when she sees how agitated he is: she tells him not to worry or be ashamed of his fear because, in his career, he has seen big men throw tantrums like children for one injection!

Lando smiles shyly and rolls his eyes as Carlos holds his free hand when the needle pierces the deltoid muscle.
And no, it's not like a cat scratch, or whatever Carlos had said to him to keep him calm
The instantaneous burning in the arm brings tears to his eyes and only the knowledge that it's all over keeps him from cursing the Spaniard.

He lets them apply a plaster to the injection site and basks in the praise of Carlos who tells him how good and brave he was.
"Good, now we'll also do a blood test as requested by your teams and then you'll be free to go!"
The doctor's words are like a cold shower for Lando.

********* ************

"I don't understand why McLaren hate me so much!"
Lando groans and Carlos smiles with maddening affection.

"Oh sure, Zac and everyone else hates you so much they want to make sure you're healthy.
Come on Lando, I'm not too happy about this either but they are medical tests we do often and that's why we came fasted here this morning!"

Not by coincidence, at the mention of Carlos, Lando's empty stomach begins to rumble, reminding him that he's also very hungry now as well as pissed off.

"Who wants to come first?"
The doctor asks with a gentle smile, interrupting the bickering between the two lovers.

"Here I am!"
Lando steps forward, surprising even himself. His bravado fades a bit when he finds himself with a yellow tourniquet above 10cm from the crook of his elbow, roughly around his bicep.

Carlos follows the procedure with some apprehension, concentrating mainly on Lando's body language, but he doesn't dare to intervene in order not to exasperate him.

"We have done?"
The young Englishman asks, a few times, as he feels the gloved finger palpate his skin to locate the center of the target vein and when the area is disinfected.
"Take it easy, Lan!"
In the end Carlos can't hold back his suggestion because it's clear that Lando's anxiety is getting the upper hand.
"I'm very calm!"
"Then you can stop clinging to the edges of the desk!"

*** ***

The last thing Lando remembers is sticking his tongue out at Carlos before feeling an annoying pinch. Then his head became light as a cloud.

He doesn't remember going back to the waiting room but this is where he's sitting now, a burning sensation in his left deltoid muscle and an annoying soreness in the crook of his right elbow, and Carlos who looks at him amused but with eyes full of affection and concern.

"Oh no, don't tell me I passed out!"
Lando moans and puts his head in his hands, hoping that no one remembers this embarrassment.
"Yes, you did!"
Carlos smiles, then puts a hand around Lando's shoulders and pulls him into a hug.

"I'm sorry I underestimated your fear of needles and didn't realize sooner how stressful this situation was for you today. How about , to make it up to you, I buy you a breakfast high in sugar and carbohydrates? I promise we won't say nothing to Jon!"

Lando pretends to think about it for a few seconds but can't keep a straight face for long.
"Okay, but even my little needles accident must remain a secret between us, mi amor ! Let's go now, I'm starving!"

Chapter Text

Max is satisfied with his weekend: another podium for Red Bull, a prestigious second place after the penalty inflicted on Nico Rosberg.
The icing on the cake came with Pierre's first GP2 victory.

The Frenchman is the older of the two but also the more insecure and Max hopes this success will give him confidence and convince him that he is a great driver.
The days at Silverstone weren't the best for Pierre: on his way to the circuit the road car in which he was traveling with his parents skidded, overturned and went off the road.

Max was initially kept in the dark about the incident and, at first was furious at Red Bull for it. It certainly wasn't intentional because they were all focused on the F1 race and nobody in the team suspects how close Max and Pierre are.

Daniel manages to steal some more information to give to Max.
"It mustn't have been so bad if Pierre was cleared to race and even won, right?"

The young Dutchman tries to minimize it, but in Daniel's gaze there isn't the playful lightness that usually manages to calm him down in any situation.

"Pierre's mom is in ICU at the moment, Maxy. He was luckier but, after the race, he was in severe pain and they sent him for an MRI. They suspect he may have broken a vertebra."

Max's heart sinks at the mere thought that Pierre's career could suffer a setback: they are still so young but they already know how ruthless the racing world is and how an inconvenience can compromise their future.

The only thing he can do right now is control his crush and try to comfort him.

*** *****

Right now Pierre would like to be in the hospital to console his dad and comfort his mom but the doctors and his parents have been adamant in telling him that he needs to rest and have sent him back to the hotel.

At least he managed to make his whole family proud today: his brothers sent him enthusiastic words in their phone calls, Jean-Jacques embraced him holding back tears of emotion but the most beautiful thing was the tired but loving smile of Pascale.

Pierre is torn between feelings of guilt that he somehow feels responsible for the accident since his parents traveled to England to support him, and relief that, if he had been sitting on his mother's passenger side he would never have more drove a racing car.

These exhausting thoughts, the long day full of emotions and the painkillers have exhausted him and he is about to doze off when someone knocks on the door.

Pierre thinks it's Antonio, his Prema teammate and his very good friend so he's relaxed and doesn't try to put himself up to impress him.
"Come on!"
He just says, rubbing his head on the pillow.
His bad vertebra certainly doesn't help him to sit down quickly when he realizes that it's not Antonio but the boy on whom he has concentrated his forbidden dreams in recent times.

** **********

When Max enters the room, the lights are on their lowest setting. He stops near the kingsize bed Pierre is lying on and waits for the Frenchman to move, turning his head in his direction.

The Dutchman chuckles nervously when Pierre tries to sit up and a few French swars escape his lips.

"How are you?"
Max asks softly, not wanting to break the peaceful atmosphere.

"Better, now that you're here!"

Max blushes to the roots of his hair and looks down at his feet.
He's known Pierre for years now, since his karting days, and he knows that sometimes the other boy can be flirtatious but he certainly didn't expect him to be so direct with him.

However, he thinks that this could be a propitious situation to exploit and, overcoming his shyness, he plays along.
"So is there anything I can do for you?"

"Snuggles!"

Pierre replies with a cheeky smile. His fingers grab the edges of Max's Red Bull shirt and pull him towards the bed.
The rational and lucid part of Max suggests that he run away quickly but he is tired of being a cold and cynical calculator focused only on racing.
He is an eighteen year old boy: he wants to be mad, passionate... in love.

He slides carefully onto the bed, careful not to hurt Pierre and then pulls him into his arms.
"Are you Satisfied?"
Max mutters, still embarrassed.
"Very satisfied!"
The Prema driver hums, resting his head on Max's chest and letting himself be lulled by the accelerated beats of his heart.

For long minutes, Pierre feels blissful and in a safe enough space that he no longer has to cage his negative emotions.
Max is surprised and concerned when he realizes Pierre is silently crying.

"Hey man, what's wrong? Are you in a lot of pain?"

Pierre is surprised by so much tenderness and attention from Max and trusts him enough to share fears that he has not yet expressed aloud.

"I have a fractured vertebra, Max. I can finish the season on painkillers but then the doctors recommended surgery. They will fix my vertebra using orthopedic balloons and bone cement. They'll create a sort of internal plaster."

Max remains silent for a few seconds to absorb that information and Pierre probably doesn't expect any words of comfort because, with a bitter laugh, he continues his monologue.
"It shouldn't be a big problem! I'll have plenty of time to recover: if I finally manage to win the championship, next year I can't race in GP2 anymore and there's no chance I can make my debut in F1"

Max wishes he had the right words to say to him, reassure him that everything will be fine but he can't lie.
"One step at a time, man. We'll take things one step at a time..."
Pierre clumsily wipes his shining eyes and manages to meet Max's gaze.
"We'll take?"
He asks with a mixture of insecurity and hope.
Max shrugs and feigns indifference.
"Well I have to take care of my future teammate in Red Bull, even if everyone says your teammate is your worst enemy!"
Pierre wants to avoid illusions and flights of fancy, he has already been disappointed in the past, however just knowing that Max imagines a future in which they will be able to share the garage and perhaps other things, too make his ambitions seem a little more real.

"In Red Bull together?"
he says, lost in his fantasy.
"Sure. As soon as Daniel gets tired of me!"
Max laughs and, finally more casual, kisses Pierre on the lips.

It's a tender and innocent kiss, wanted by both but they don't want to go into it right away.

Chapter Text

Family clash between the Red Bulls .
Daniel can already imagine the sensational headlines with which the sports newspapers will tell the controversial incident between him and Max.
Max! The irreverent little boy has done it really big this time!

Daniel doesn't care if for the FIA it was a concurrence of faults and punished them with a reprimand, he just hopes that Red Bull puts the Dutch braggart back in his place.

The Australian is really angry, furious, when both he and Max are forced to retire on lap 40 of a race which was about to finish in a good position for both and which, thanks to the impudence of his young teammate, will bring the Red Bull at 0 points earned in the standings.

The two pilots leave the track, throwing fiery looks at each other from under their helmets.

Daniel would gladly avoid meeting Max at least until the next race but the post-race debriefing together with the team is a duty he cannot shirk.

*** *****

"I had the DRS open, I had taken you all the slipstream and I had an incredible lead. I was much faster than you! Can we know what's on your brain?"

As soon as he enters the room where various members of the team are gathered, Daniel does not care about anyone and goes straight to the attack against Max who, even if he tries to appear self-confident, sits stiffly ready to defend himself like a hunted prey.

"Facts say it's you who rear-ended me. You're a bit undecided on the track with those line changes, eh Daniel? First on the outside, then you try the attack on the inside. A double change of line when you were already in braking and certain that with the front locked contact would have been inevitable.
And then I'm the jerk?"

This guy's got a great punching-bag face . Daniel thinks but barely refrains from putting his hands on Max even though he can see him flinch, almost imperceptibly.

"Okay, I don't care how it happened but it's a serious accident. You should never have gone against each other. This was a lack of respect towards the mechanics, towards the whole team that works for you. You should apologize to them!"

Christian's anything but clear stance, somehow, embitters Daniel even more than the contact on the track.

Their Team Principal doesn't want to create further discontent by shifting the blame only to one of his drivers and this, in Daniel's eyes, is a sort of absolution for Max who is destined to become more and more a protégé of the Anglo-Austrian team.
The championship is still in its infancy, this is only the fourth round of the season, but now Daniel has clearer ideas about his future, increasingly distant from the team that made him make his F1 debut.

******** *******

A sort of complacency for the Australian from Red Bull comes when Niki Lauda, to a question from the press, replies that the controversial incident that enlivened the afternoon of the race is 70% Max's fault.

The fact that a legend of the sport, even though he now works for an opposing team, doesn't hold him accountable like his team did, is heartening to Daniel.

Most of his anger has boiled away, Daniel now feels calmer and ready to go talk to Max.
They had good duels during the race, before the crash, and Daniel is not against the idea that Red Bull lets them fight, however he wants to warn his young teammate so that, in the future, they avoid finding themselves in such unpleasant situations .

"Hey there Maxy-boy I come in peace! I hope you are unarmed!"
Daniel tries to regain his proverbial good humor to ease the tension and make Max let his guard down.
He frowns, as all of Max's belongings are still in his driver's room but there is no sign of the boy.

"Maxy where are you hiding to lick your wounds? Hey Ma..."
Daniel's breathing quickens as he realizes that Max is slumped on the floor, behind the sofa, looking nearly unconscious.

The Australian rushes next to him and realizes that, in reality, Max is conscious but seems to be in great pain.

The boy tries to keep his breaths shallow, if he inhales more deeply the pain is worse due to dyspnoea.

Daniel lifts Max's shirt at the chest area, without the other resisting, and winces when he realizes that a red, swollen hematoma has formed.
"Were you injured in the impact? Fuck Max, why didn't you say anything?"

"It didn't hurt at first, the adrenaline and everything, you know, it acted as an anesthetic."
Max defends himself weakly and, at this moment, with all the insecurity of his twenty years, he makes Daniel forget any kind of grudge.
He just wants to hug him and tell him that everything is fine between them.

"Did you hurt yourself anywhere else?"
"I have a headache and dizziness... What will I do if I have a cracked rib, Dan? I don't want to let anyone down."

Max is now on the verge of tears and Daniel is furious again. Not with Max but with Jos and with whoever has instilled in the boy the belief that he will only be loved and respected if he is unbeatable in a stupid race car.
Max is so convinced that put his health on the back burner.

"It's not the end of the world if you miss a couple of races, you know? You have at least the next twenty years to write your name in the golden register of champions, honey!"
Daniel gently reassures him. Precisely this tenderness to which the Dutchman is not accustomed leads him to pour out all his emotions without filters, it doesn't matter if sobbings makes the pain excruciating.

"Why are you so good to me, Dan? I don't deserve it...I'm fucking screwing your career at Red Bull and because of me you'll probably accept Renault's offer!"
Daniel manages to retrieve a bag of ice from the mini-fridge, helps Max sit on the couch, and presses the compress gently against his chest.
He wants to have it checked by the doctors as soon as possible but he knows that first of all he has to reassure Max.

"Hey honey if I'm leaving it's not your fault. Absolutely not. You're a great driver even if you're still a diamond in the rough , you're a very good friend and...An excellent kisser! I need some new challenges and I don't know if Red Bull is still able to give me what I want..."
Max smiles and giggles and embarrassed at various stages of Daniel's speech and, finally, looks at him with puppy eyes.
"Well, Red Bull gave you... me!"
"Oh yes the biggest pain in the ass of the century!"
Daniel teases him, leaning down to leave a kiss on his temple.
"A pain in the ass that I want healthy, though! Now let's go to the medical center so they'll understand what's wrong. Then lots of rest and lots of pampering and painkillers await you... I don't need you to play the martyr just because the Today's accident was your fault!"

The last part is a clear taunt that pricks Max in his pride and gets him back on his feet faster than he should.
"Fuck Dan. The truth is, you love the back of my car just like you love mine..."
"Oh you cheeky little one! This better not be said in our next installment of on the sofa !"
Daniel winks at him and holds him up as they set off together outside hospitality, united again as they were before that ill-fated 40th lap.

Chapter Text

Charles sighs when the discussion on track limits becomes heated, in the pre-race debriefing together with all the other drivers.

Max and Lewis are the ones to have conflicting opinions and the Dutchman never misses an opportunity to remind his bitter rival how the race direction pardoned Mercedes driver well over twenty times a couple of seasons ago, right on this track.
Lando and Yuki, on the other hand, don't seem particularly interested and take the opportunity to whisper something in each other's ears and giggle like two naughty and unruly schoolboys.

Charles rubs his temples annoyed by the subdued and uncontrolled shouting of his colleagues: they are adults for God's sake, why don't they adopt the rule of speaking one at a time?

The Ferrari driver feels heavy in his eyes and is thankful that he can hide his tiredness behind his Ray-Bans.

A throbbing, intense pain, perhaps a beginning migraine, is beginning to form in one half of his head, and Charles begins to suspect that he may have been careless in omitting his team the small incident whose he was victimized a few days ago.
The "Cavallino" has always been scrupulous and fussy about Charles' health, preventing him from skiing, parachuting or any other sport in which he could be seriously injured, so it would not be a good idea to go and tell Frédéric or any other member of Ferrari that their lead rider went out into the waters of Monaco on his jet ski but was eventually catapulted into the water and hit his head.
At first Charles didn't give it too much importance, he felt fine and, apart from a bump, he didn't even fear he might have gotten a concussion.

Now he is questioning his evaluative skills.
"Are you OK?"
Pierre's voice reaches him muffled, even though he's sitting not even a meter away from him. Charles barely remembers his friend telling him anything: about Esteban, a soccer match, or whatever, he just can't remember.

******* ********

Everything happens in slow motion before Pierre's eyes.
Instead of answering his question, Charles just stares into space, then smacks his lips and blinks his lids in repetitive motions.

Someone screams, in surprise and fright, when the Monegasque's muscles stiffen and then start to contract abruptly in a totally uncontrolled way.

"Let's give him space and move away any objects with which he could injure himself!"
Lewis is the first to regain the lucidity necessary to help the Monegasque; Logan, Oscar, and Nick help him move chairs around the floor where Charles has fallen and is writhing.

Instinctively Pierre would like to take him in his arms and wait for this bad moment to pass but seeing his best friend cyanotic, his arched neck and lower and upper limbs in an unnatural posture scares him to death. He knows he can't shake Charles to avoid breaking him.
He just slides his thigh under Charles' head to cushion the blows until Esteban provides him with a soft sweater to tuck under Charles' head.

Meanwhile, George has already taken off Charles' sunglasses and Lance has loosened his belt and unbuttoned the top two buttons around his neck to make breathing easier.

Carlos is on the phone to call for help while Fernando has gone to look for help inside the paddock.
Charles' convulsions last only two minutes but it is the longest period of time for many of those present.
Once the crisis has subsided, Max, on Lewis's instructions, moves Charles on his side to prevent saliva or vomit residues from ending up in his lungs.

Pierre and Max always remain close to Charles trying to appear calm even if, several times, the Frenchman furiously has to brush away his tears.
When help finally arrives, Guanyu and Alex lead the paramedics to Charles immediately.

***** *******

After his brain is affected by a blackout and he had the first seizure of his life, Charles is tired and sleepy.

Doctors tend to him, monitoring his vital signs and blood sugar, blood tests and head CT scans.

Charles feels weak and in pain from strong muscle contractions however the fact that his mother and siblings are in the hospital with him calms him down. He is also reassured by the news that there is nothing alarming in his head and that the bad experience he had a few hours ago was an delayed early post-traumatic seizure that occurred days after his head injury.

"Your friends would like to say hello before we get back on track for free practice but I can tell them to come back tomorrow!"
Arhtur says to him cautiously, affectionately stroking his brother's hair.
Charles is pale and looks exhausted however his breathing is now less labored and his forehead relaxes in a more calm expression.
"Okay. I can handle them for a few seconds. I owe it to them, after the scare I gave them!"In order not to tire Charles too much and speed up the times, the drivers enter paired and most of them just wish Charles a speedy recovery and tell him they want to see him again soon on the track.

Some go together with their teammate, others with their friends from the grid so Charles finds no logical connection when Max and Pierre show up together at his bedside.

“Did we go back to 2019 or what?”
The Monegasque tries to play down the drama, although speaking costs him effort and his voice is slurred like that of a drunk. He can see how upset his best friend is and this is a feeble attempt to make him smile.

"Tais-toi, idiot petit calamardo. Vous nous avez fait une bonne frayeur, vous savez?"
Pierre gently scolds him and Max, on the other side of the bed, rolls his eyes pretending to be disgusted by the flirtations between the two colleagues.

"Je suis vraiment désolé."

"Come on Pierre, kiss Charles goodbye now so he can rest while we go beat the Ferrari on the track!"

In moments like this, Pierre would like to kill Max instead he just turns redder than Charles's Ferrari who cackles.
"Let him talk, calamar. I pissed myself in front of the whole grill today, do you think it's more embarrassing if you kiss me in front of Max?"

Pierre's lips gently brush Charles's, silencing him, while Max exclaims a longed-for finally!

"However, there's a silver lining to all of this, you know Max?"
Charles's eyes have regained a sly spark as he caresses Pierre's shaggy cheek.
"It's not bad to miss the opening race of the season as it is known that whoever wins the first race always loses the world championship!"

Chapter Text

"You know? December 24th in Japan is considered Valentine's Day. During this special evening it is customary to go out to dinner, exchange gifts only between lovers and eat fried chicken!"

Yuki's eyes shine with a spark of passion as she recalls the traditions of her motherland.
Contrary to what was predicted exactly one year ago, he is perfectly at ease with his interlocutor.

A little less with the LED lights that he's been struggling with for quite a while and that he's finished tangling around his body instead of wrapping them around the Christmas tree which, at the moment, is a majestic project only in his imagination.

Nyck hides a smile, bending over the box containing colored balls and golden threads.

The two AlphaTauri drivers had a lot of fun filming the usual Christmas video in Faenza and Yuki realized how senseless his initial reservations about his new teammate were.
It certainly wasn't easy to get used to team dynamics without Pierre, there are times when Yuki lacks their bromance, yet Nyck has proved to be a valid replacement for the Frenchman.

So with that feeling of lingering cheer, brought on by the Christmas atmosphere, Yuki invited the Dutchman to his house, joking that he needed two more vigorous arms to decorate his fir tree and ask for the return of the sun as the Celts and Vikings did during the winter solstice.

"Well, we Dutch are credited with having exported the very ancient figure of Sinterklass all over the world. Every year Sinterklaas leaves Spain with helpers, with the typical black face and colorful Moorish costumes of the 1500s, up to Amsterdam, where he distributes sweets and biscuits to the little ones, parading through the characteristic city canals."

For Nyck too this is an opportunity to go back in time to his childhood, and he feels a pleasant warmth reddening his cheeks when Yuki smiles in agreement.
"Fried chicken and sweets. Luckily we're on winter break and don't have to watch our diet!"

******* *************

The two boys devote themselves to decorating the tree with great good humour.
They dedicate themselves to opening the branches trying to give it a super realistic effect; they spread those closest to the base well and let the tallest ones point to the ceiling. They get embarrassed like teenagers when their hands touch.

"What do you think if instead of arranging the lights in a spiral, like everyone does, we wrap them around the branches?"
Nyck suggests and, with dexterous hands, starts from the trunk to the end of the branch and then goes back. it's more challenging but the final effect is wonderful, with electric cables that are better camouflaged.

"We have a problem. Who puts the tree topper, now?"

Yuki wonders, when most of the work is done.
At times like these the disadvantages of being the shortest pair of drivers in the entire paddock are obvious.

"Come on jump into my arms, I'll lift you high enough for you to reach the top!"

In hindsight, Nyck should have known that such a stupid idea only works in cartoons and movies.
After some initial hesitation, Yuki accepts but the two are not coordinated enough, the Japanese shakes with laughter with the star that he will use for decoration in his hands and losing his balance is a matter of a moment.

The two AlphaTauri pilots fall to the ground, and the tree with all its beautiful decorations falls on both of them.

"Ouch!"
Yuki murmurs, rubbing his lower back even if Nyck's body has cushioned most of the impact with the floor.
"Are you in one piece, Nyck?"
The Dutchman inhales the characteristic nylon smell of the fake tree and chuckles.
"I do, your tree doesn't. We really were two bunglers!"

Yuki tries to extricate himself from the Christmas rubble to get back on his feet.
"I'm going to get a bag of ice from the freezer. I don't want to have to spend the holidays full of dings and bumps!"

Nyck, however, holds him by the wrist.
"Wait! We're standing just under a sprig of mistletoe...Wouldn't you like to honor another age-old tradition?"

Chapter Text

Formula 1's decision to send all the drivers to shoot a Christmas promotional video in Kitzbühel made some turn up their noses and was greeted with enthusiasm by the most daring.
Of course for Red Bull drivers, current or former, the trip to Austria is like a trip home and Lance, Valtteri and all the other avid skiers are also excited for this short break together.
The last snow of the night slowed down the world a bit making the landscape surreal and almost elfin. Everyone is enchanted by the misty landscape with soft colors and the blanket of fog that hides the landscape behind a blanket of mystery.
"It's freezing! Why don't people understand that Christmas is beautiful even in warm and sunny places?"
Alex moans, his breath condensed into wisps of smoke.
"What do you do in Thailand at Christmas? Do you organize banquets with macaques?"
"The Monkey Festival is in October, Lando!"
George and Lando, despite the biting cold inflaming their cheeks, take advantage of it to make fun of their friend and, soon, Charles also joins them by recomposing their Twich quartet.

The more skilful take the opportunity to show off their skills on skis while Yuki, happy as a child, whirls around to catch the flakes with his tongue, before they pile up on the pavement large and pale grey.

Daniel has started a real snowball fight and, to escape those frozen bullets, Max looks for something alternative.
"Hey Yuki come and help me, we'll make a snowman in Pierre's image and likeness!"

The Frenchman admonishes his former teammates with a glare and a rude gesture but Max and Yuki have dived down on their knees in the fresh snow and, like two inspired sculptors, are already shaping their creature.

"The final touch is missing: a cap for our Pierre Frosty"
Yuki finally says.
"I'm going to ask someone if they have an extra wool cap or scarf!"

Max stands up quickly, brushing the excess snow from his trousers and looks around: his colleagues look like children between snowball fights and attempts to make snow angels with their bodies, however he realizes that someone is stood on the sidelines and is not having fun.

Mick is sitting on a wooden bench, his ski boots still tied to his feet, after taking some promotional photos hours ago, and a clear melancholy smile obscuring his fine facial features.

"I'm sorry because he's your friend but Esteban is bad in Hans Brinker's remake. I wouldn't mind him sinking in the frozen lake with his skates!"
Max says, scratching his nose. His attempt to make Mick smile fails miserably.

"The mountain has always been a magnet for me, ever since I was a child. I have always loved its silences, the biting cold that smells like snow, the sun peeking out from behind the peaks, the sky that changes color a thousand times in a day...Up until nine years ago. Today it's been exactly nine fucking years that I hate snow and I hate skiing."

Mick vents in a sort of monologue in which he expresses all the feelings he usually keeps to himself.
"Shit!"
Max replies, feeling a little guilty. Of course, he will never forget Uncle Michael 's terrible accident and regrets not having thought how much this scenario can only bring back bad memories for Mick.

Mick shivers with a combination of cold and bad memories, he pulls up the collar of his jacket as his breathing becomes irregular and he begins to sob.

He feels scared and nervous, even though he knows there's no real danger, he's hungry for air, has a headache and stomach aches, and his heartbeat is racing.

"I feel like I'm going crazy, Max. Please, I don't want others to see me like this."

Little Schumacher clings to his childhood friend's arm and Max realizes he's hyperventilating.
Mick's tendency to try to breathe even deeper and faster worsens his symptoms.

"Come on Mick try to breathe deeply and slowly. As soon as you feel less nauseous we can get out of here."
Max talks to him quietly trying to ease his anxiety.
"It's okay to be afraid, you don't have to pretend with me."

******** *******

Once they are able to return to the hotel, Max orders a relaxing herbal tea and hopes that the lemon balm, plaxiflora, valerian and other herbs will help put Mick to sleep.

"Since Dad's accident, I think every panic attack I have has to do with my fear that our family might fall apart."
Mick says wearily now that his thoughts have finally started to slow down.
Max is looking for a playlist of relaxing music for him to listen to but he too knows the feeling of growing up in a dysfunctional family although for all their differences and less than idyllic moments, Max doesn't have to live constantly in fear that his dad might die at any moment.

"When I can stay at home with my mom and sister I feel loved and protected but also a little depressed. Do you think it's selfish to want family around when I'm sick?"

Mick is so insecure, still a kid right now, that Max just wants to hug him.
"Everyone has the right to be consoled by the people who love them when they need it. I'm sorry you couldn't stay at home this time but I hope I was a valid alternative to your family!"
"Let's say that this time the panic attack brought me an unconscious advantage, which I hadn't realized until now!"

Mick flirts bravely, making Max blush like a teenage crush.
"Come on latin lover now try to think of a good memory so you will fall asleep and have a good dream."
"Maybe you'll be there in the dream too!"
Mick smiles, laying back on the cushions and closing his eyes with a smile.

Chapter Text

Max is as defiant as ever with the press, reiterating that he's here to do his job and accepting that there are people who may not like him, or even find him obnoxious and arrogant.

In truth, he's fed up with the boos that accompanied his umpteenth victory.
He just can't understand why in the public mind he is now the bad guy, whatever he says or does, while Charles is idolized by adoring crowds as if he were the real prince of Monaco.

Despite the rivalry on the track, Max tries to get along with all his fellow drivers, even with the Ferrari driver of the same age, and it annoys him when he is labeled as presumptuous and snooty and in the comments on social media the fans speculate that the other drivers don't tolerate him.

Sometimes, however, the worm of doubt creeps into his mind, despite the fact that most of the boys are always friendly with him: what if the keyboard fans were right?
After all, several drivers, such as George Russell, expressly stated in 2021 that Hamilton had been robbed of his world title.

Max tries to chase away his uncertainties and put a satisfied smile on his face before getting on the podium.
Whatever others say, he knows he's worked hard since he was a child to get to this point in his career and knows that every success he has is deserved.
Furthermore, today there is Sebastian Vettel to reward the first three classified and, despite the somewhat stormy beginnings, now there is only mutual respect between Max and the former Red Bull champion.

Furthermore, the presence of Sebastian makes it more bearable for Max to stand on the podium together with Lewis and Charles.

The Dutchman is absent for a few minutes from the cool-down room, after commenting on the main actions of the race with his rivals, because he has to use the bathroom before getting on the podium.

*********

He later envies those drivers who let their personal trainers shadow them or those who are always surrounded by family or members of their team at any time of the race weekend. In fact, Max regrets his physiological need and the fact that he went to the toilets alone when a knife is pointed at his back.

"Shut up and don't try to be smart and maybe we won't hurt you enough to stop you from racing again... cheater !"
A menacing voice threatens Max and he realizes he is surrounded by a small group of bad guys.

Fear paralyzes him and he nods slowly, praying they don't stab him there in a paddock bathroom, and swallows hard when he realizes that someone else is locking the door.

What happens next is all a blur to Max.
There is no stab in the back but they start kicking and punching him, accompanying the beating with insulting phrases.
"This is for the championship you stole from Lewis!"
A kick in the shin
"This is for the shameful way you grabbed your second world title. Let's see if any of the good food from Red Bull's catering comes back to you, asshole!"
A punch delivered with force to the abdomen.
"And you deserve so many more: for all the times you collided with Ferrari causing them to lose races, Crashstappen. For the careers of your former teammates that you ruined!"
"This sport will be great without you. You said you will retire young, we can help you to speed up your decision!"

The shady individuals continue to beat him, amid gruesome laughter, aiming mainly at the abdomen and chest because Max leaves them exposed, instinctively taking care to protect his head to avoid a concussion.

However, the attackers attack parts of Max's body where the wounds will not be visible.
"Woe to you if you go crying to Christian or any other Red Bull imbecile, baby Max. We know you have two really adorable grandkids; Victoria would never forgive you if anything happened to them, right loser?"

Although Max is now writhing on the floor, in pain, this is the threat that hurts him more than any infliction on his body.

He closes his eyes and tries to control his breathing, expecting some more blows that don't come.
Almost dissolving into thin air the group of attackers leaves the Dutchman alone.

***** *************

Max grits his teeth and somehow makes his way back to the area around the podium where his team is ready to celebrate first place.
He keeps a protective arm around his abdomen but tries to act as normal as possible so as not to arouse suspicion and in truth no one seems to notice that Max is sick.
Good! He can't wait for the Dutch anthem to be played and for the trophy to be presented to him so he can then go and rest and regain his strength. He won't even wait to splash champagne with Lewis and Charles and doesn't care if it's interpreted as a snooty gesture on his part.
The safety of his grandkids is Max's priority.

"Today you make yourself wanted like a real star, huh Max? Well, some of us have post-race commitments, you know?"
Lewis sarcastically tells him and Charles also makes an impatient gesture to highlight how Red Bull almost got himself a fine for his driver's delay in showing up for the podium ceremony.
Max would like to fuck off both of them but prefers not to fuel useless controversies.
Probably the other two, and not only them, would toast with joy if they knew what Max was late for.

As the first notes of Het Wilhelmus begin to sound, Max takes off his Pirelli cap with the number 1 with numb fingers. Both his hands and feet start to tingle.

The nausea is so strong that Max is afraid he will vomit soon, in front of the audience who continue to boo him and that he needs no further reason to denigrate him.

The abdominal pain is so intense that Max wants to scream and cry instead he is so weak that he loses his balance and it is Seb who helps him stand rather than handing him a trophy.
"Are you okay, Max?"
The German asks him solicitously.

"Forgive me, everyone!"
Max manages to mumble as his blood pressure begins to drop significantly and his heart rate and respiratory rate continue to increase.

********** *********

Max presumably wakes up in a hospital bed, if the stiff, starched sheets enveloping him are any indication, an IV in his arm and Lewis Hamilton sobbing by his bedside.
He must be dead or maybe he's dreaming something illogical!

The pain, however, is very real as well as the unmistakable voice of Lewis as soon as he notices the blue of Max's irises.
"Fool! You nearly died. Why didn't you seek help?"
"Lukas. Leo."
Max gasps and his heart rate quickens again.

"Shhh, don't fret Max. The kids are safe and now you are too. Whoever reduced you to this state has already been stopped thanks to the security cameras..."

Max is confused and his head hurts so much that he can't bring himself to be relieved by the news.

"Why aren't you celebrating second place with your team?"
Lewis looks at him incredulously, as of all the questions Max could ask him, he chose the stupidest one.

"Max, you had internal bleeding so bad you ended up in surgery. You're being given intravenous fluids and there was an argument with the other guys about who has the same blood type as you if you ever needed to a blood transfusion."

Max shivers, finally realizing that his negligence could give him a hemorrhagic shock that could lead to his death.
"I...I didn't think you guys cared so much about me!"

"Well Max, despite our teasing in the press, I can assure you that I have a lot of respect for you, and the others guys too. All twenty of us, even Seb, worked half-hour shifts at your bedside so that you weren't alone when you would finally wake up and we will continue to watch over you until your mother arrives!"

Max sighs, looking at the tape holding the IV in place.
He fights back the tears, trying not to think that he will probably need to take medication and rest for a while.
He has never felt loved and part of a cohesive group like he does right now.
And if it weren't for the pain in his abdomen, he'd laugh when a nurse brings a giant bouquet of flowers. The recipient is no secret admirer.
"Please Lewis go tell the guys I love them all but I'm not dying!"

Lewis chuckles and Max, after appreciating his fellow drivers' witty note that accompanies the flowers, seems to be mulling something else over.
"Who the hell came up with the idea of turning even the toilets in the paddock into a kind of Big Brother? They won't let us piss anymore, even in peace!"

Chapter Text

The weekend in Istanbul was one of the most difficult of this troubled season.
The track conditions immediately proved to be prohibitive.
The tarmac was very slippery and wet in places and some drivers, like Alex, have publicly admitted that a tragedy was avoided by sheer luck.

To eliminate much of the oil present on the asphalt, the organizers decided to wash the track.

The weather conditions are also adverse with rain and cold forecast for the whole weekend.

Despite all these obstacles, Max was fastest on Friday but Saturday afternoon, when pole position is within his reach, everything starts to fall apart.

A wrong timing for Red Bull to call him to the pits, allows Lance Stroll to win his first career pole.
The post-qualification images of a heartbroken and disconsolate Max, who tries to dispose of his disappointment and anger near a garbage can, with a member of his team trying to cheer him up, immediately go viral.

It is always said that the points are done on Sunday, and the fact that the rain falls on the track up until a few minutes from the start doesn't worry Max that much.
He has always done excellent races in the wet, in Brazil in 2016 he was even compared to the greats of the past, so even with extreme wet tires he knows he has his chances.

Unfortunately the Dutchman puts in one of the worst performances of the season, he makes a bad start and several mistakes and only manages to finish sixth.

At the end of the race he would like to brood over his mistakes alone and his team would also be willing to give him time to decompress his emotions, unfortunately Max can't escape that phone call which arrives punctually while Lewis Hamilton is still celebrating his sixth world title.

Max considered the restrictions due to Covid 19 an advantage, which only allow grands prix to take place without an audience and limit the presence of people in the paddock.
That means his father can't shadow him this season, but it doesn't stop Jos from giving him a lecture over the phone.

*** ****

"The whole world saw today that you are a shrinking violet, Max!"

His father's critical voice has the same power it had over Max as a child: make him doubt his abilities.

"A bad race can happen to anyone. This year I was the only one capable of challenging Mercedes!"
The young Red Bull talent tries to defend himself, but the hesitation is evident in his words.
"Shut up Max. A challenge already over in September! How can you claim to be Lewis Hamilton's rival when he has won practically everything and you only won a handful of races in your career ?"

The boy would like to object that he is still young and that he has time to take his satisfaction but, he has already experienced his father's fury in the past, and even now Jos has the power to silence him even if they are miles away.

"All the sacrifices I've made for you, all the training in the rain were useless then? Show me that you're worthy of being in F1, Max. If I were you, I'd look for a way to atone for the shitty figure you've made this afternoon! "

****** ********

Young people make stupid mistakes and Max will have time to curse his tendency to overdo it to test the limits of what his body can do.
You learn by making mistakes and the lesson remains engraved forever when you risk your life.

Darkness has begun to fall over Tuzla and all of Turkey, hailstones are now pattering over the Istanbul Speed Park, making it almost a perfect Christmas card a month early.

Max doesn't care about the increasingly adverse weather conditions and doesn't think rationally: it's unconscious to undergo an exhausting run, of his own free will, after a race a few hours ago. However that's what Max does, exposing himself to the elements in shorts and a T-shirt, with the freezing temperature approaching zero degrees.

Max is out for a long time; at one point he stops running and the wet clothes are uncomfortable and start rubbing on his damp skin, which starts to cool down quickly.
The most sensible thing would be to go back to Red Bull hospitality where they will provide him with dry clothes and keep him warm but Max has lost track of time and furthermore deems himself unworthy of the attention and kindness of his team.

Also he has intense shivering his body is shaking, he feels dizzy and loses coordination.

By a strange twist of fate and a combination of circumstances, it is Lance who notices that there is something strange in the empty track.
Initially the Racing Point driver thought it could be an injured animal but, when he went to the scene to bring help, he was shocked to find himself in front of a Max Verstappen with accelerated breathing, difficulty speaking and a slight sense of confusion.

Lance grabs Max's wrist and feels it slow with every beat.
"Ok Max, better get you somewhere warm before you lose consciousness!"
Lance takes off his jacket and wraps it around Max, then hugs the Dutch hoping that his body helps to give him warmth.

Max is barely aware when Lance takes off his wet clothes and wraps him in dry blankets, including his head and leaving only his face exposed.
He doesn't rub or massage Max's body but pats it with warm compresses on his neck and rib cage.
Lance also tries to get him a hot drink but Max doesn't have the strength to drink.

In his last glimmer of consciousness, the Dutchman thinks he hears Lance tell someone, perhaps Sergio, to run and get a doctor.

******** ******

Max wakes up dazed and his first instinct is to rip out the cannula that causes pain in his left hand. Another hand, warm and with the familiar calluses that the hands of all f1 drivers have in common, stops him.

"Don't panic, Max. The doctors have decided to warm your blood with an IV."
Lance patiently explains to him.
"I really was a moron, wasn't I?"
Max asks and her voice sounds strange plus the tiredness that makes her weak. He realizes he's breathing through an oxygen mask.
"They also decided to give you humidified oxygen. And yes, I confirm you that you have been a moron. You went into hypothermia Max! Your temperature was so low that traditional thermometers did not detect it and the doctors had to resort to a special rectal thermometer .. ."
As if the humiliations of the day weren't already few... Max thinks, blushing slightly.

The Dutchman sighs. Despite the discomfort, minor pain, and the prospect of having to explain to his team and his father how he ended up in the medical center on hemodialysis, the warmth of the room is comforting for Max.
He is surprised because he realizes that not even Lance's company bothers him, on the contrary, he finds himself appreciating the Canadian.

He suddenly remembers that he hasn't been very sporty with his Racing Point colleague lately.
"I'm sorry your team frustrated your first pole today. A shitty result worse than mine!"
Max comments and surprisingly Lance laughs. A laugh somewhere between bitter and proud.
"The fans say he's the best you can expect from a daddy's boy!"

Max settles on his side and looks seriously at Lance.
"Fans can be dumb and ruthless. You have podiums, front row starts and now even a pole in F1, these things don't happen by accident. You deserve to be in that seat Lance and by the way...congratulation for beating me yesterday! "
Then Max catches his breath, slowly inhaling the humidified oxygen.
Lance shakes his hand in a sort of gratitude.
"Thank you for your encouragement, Max. I have to admit that it's completely unexpected after what you told me a few weeks ago in Portimão."
Max rolls his eyes and then smiles at his unsuspecting ally.
"Shut up, Stroll. Because of you I risked a diplomatic incident with Mongolia. By the way, I hope that when we return to compete in Asia, the weather will be better than in Turkey!"

Chapter Text

George is euphoric: he is in the points with his Williams and is about to attack nothing less than a Mercedes.

Both he and Bottas were traveling at around 300 km/h heading towards the first corner of the circuit, the Tamburello variant, when the violent accident occurred.

The accident was decidedly bad and frightened everyone in the pits; certainly in addition to fear no one expected it to end with insults and middle fingers.
With the adrenaline still running through his body, George doesn't regret at all having headed towards the wrecked Mercedes of a dazed Valtteri, starting to offend him and reacting with a slap on the rival's helmet when the Finn responded with the middle finger.

Of course the episode doesn't end on the track; once the red flag has been displayed and the two drivers return to the pits with a DNF each, it is time to try to clarify.
It's not a good idea to do this when both of them are still very angry.

** ***

"Hey Bottas, did you have fun taking away the possibility of a ninth place? You were a Williams driver and you know that for us scoring points would have been equivalent to a victory!"

Valtteri tries to shake off the stiffness and pain in his neck. Surely he will have to ask Antti for an extra massage to ease the tension and this will be enough to make him feel better.

"Well, you know, rookie, I defend myself from the attacks of any driver. At that point, the track was very humid and you should have known that since you'd already passed it for several laps. It wasn't a place to try an extreme overtaking with slick tyres. You tried, it didn't go well. I just did my job, defending myself."

It's strange to hear the placid Finn use an accusing tone but what makes George even more nervous is the fact that Valtteri calls him a rookie, when he now has two years of experience in F1.
"Between us drivers we have a sort of gentleman agreement whereby when approaching a corner, with the DRS open, the driver in front must not move suddenly to the side where the car behind arrives. Or you forgot it today, veteran ?"

George mocks him and Valtteri physically wants to hit the young Englishman who threatens to take away the coveted seat in the world champion team.
George is so stubborn in not wanting to admit his guilt that Valtteri would be happy to pay him back that slap with interest.

Instead he hears a ringing in his ears, his vision blurs and he has difficulty concentrating to formulate a meaningful reply.

Valtteri momentarily loses consciousness as, without realizing it, he finds himself slumped against the arms of George, his worst enemy this Sunday, who has now completely changed his expression.
He is no longer a furious Orestes but just a seriously worried colleague.

"Do you want me to drive you to the medical center? Can I go get your coach or someone at Mercedes?"
George asks hesitantly, even though he knows that rationally it would be better for him to stay away from Toto for the next few hours.

"I'm fine!"
Valtteri says proudly, even though it's obvious he's lying because his reflexes are weak.
"Come, I'll accompany you!"
Finally George manages to impose himself without accepting protests.

**** ****

After reviewing the crash from Kimi Raikkonen's camera car, which was behind them, George has to make amends: the collision is his fault.
It is evident that Valtteri had left him the necessary space to stay on track.

After receiving a good scolding also from Toto, George decides to go and apologize to the Mercedes driver.

Certainly the young Englishman does not ooze happiness from every pore in going to the Mercedes hospitality, where evidently everyone today blames him, and seeing Valtteri wearing a cervical collar makes him feel even worse.
"Sorry I didn't immediately make sure you weren't injured after the collision! I was so furious I acted like a brat and didn't want to admit it was my fault!"

Valtteri, seeing that he is about to cry, smiles good-naturedly.
"Come on, come to my driver's room where we could talk quietly. It could soon become yours, you know? Better you start to familiarize yourself!"

George blushes with embarrassment at the memory of complaining to the press, telling reporters that Valtteri would have behaved differently with any other driver, implying that he fears George.

"Did you hurt your spine?"
The Williams driver asks, wringing his hands nervously.
"Second degree whiplash. Nothing that won't go away in a couple of weeks!"
Valtteri says optimistically.

When his head abruptly jerked back and then forward, overstretching the muscles and ligaments in his neck, the Finn paid no particular attention to us: adrenaline and anger had been excellent anesthetics against pain.

Only when they subjected him to X-rays of various types, including lateral and open-mouth X-rays at the medical center, did he begin to suspect that he might have been seriously injured.

"Does it hurt a lot?"
George whispers, looking in all directions before mustering the courage to stare Valtteri in the eye.
“No, not much. The painkillers and muscle relaxants are doing their job.”

Valtteri is completely blown away when the Williams driver begins to sob in front of him, no longer trying to appear unshakable.
Somehow Valtteri understands the emotions of his young colleague: he has been in the pressure cooker of Mercedes for long enough to know that it is not always easy to be a driver of the Frecce d'Argento, not even for an ambitious boy who, surely, in the future, will he will become champion with them.

"Hey, look on the bright side! If I don't recover in time for Portimão, you will have another chance to show Toto that you are a good investment for Mercedes. I assure you that my shoes are much more comfortable than Lewis's! "

Despite all the tension building up between them, and the fact that they're competing for the same seat, George cracks a smile.
He has always believed that he can only improve by learning from Lewis but he now realizes that Valtteri could be an excellent mentor and give him the right advice to survive in the uncomfortable seat, next to a seven-time world champion.

"Bullshit!"
George gets excited, unexpectedly ready to defend his colleague.
"You've been at Mercedes for five years, you don't have to prove anything to anyone!"
Valtteri shrugs and takes two beers out of the mini fridge and hands one to George.
"Well cheers, we somehow accomplished our task today!"
"How? Causing a red flag?"
"Well without that, so without our input, the real star of the team would have been bogged down trackside. Lewis has us to thank for his second place!"

Chapter Text

Max welcomes the red flag as a salvation: after the crash, in the really excited race laps, he feels a persistent pain in his chest and can't breathe properly.

Once back in the pitlane, however, he tries to hide his pain: today his younger brothers are also in the Red Bull garage to cheer him on and he doesn't want to scare them.

Max tries to approach Bradley as discreetly as possible but before he can even say a single word to his PT, Jos towers over Max as soon as he gets out of the cockpit.

The eldest Verstappen doesn't seem to notice his son's wheezing and physical discomfort, or if he does he ignores it.

"What was that suicidal maneuver, Max? Thank heavens that, for once, luck is on your side: while the marshals fix the barriers and the mechanics fix your car, I strongly suggest you lock yourself in your pilot room and think about how to win this race!"
Jos growls at him.

"Dad, I don't even know if I can finish this race. I need to go to the medical center."
Max shyly admits, fearing his father's reaction which, in fact, is not long in coming.
"You will only go to the medical center when you have earned this privilege, as the winner of the race!"
Jos sets the record straight. He is furious, as evident by the vein growing on his jugular.
"Do you want to be an old-school pilot, Max, or a baby who whines over a broken nail?"

Max waives any reply. Insisting would be useless, so he puts on his balaclava and helmet again, determined to be as indomitable as the lion that heads over it.
At the "Are you okay, Max?" of Christian, his leading driver nods in the affirmative even though he knows that the remaining laps, when restarting from a standing start, will be a nightmare.

*** ***

Surrender is a verb that is not included in Max's vocabulary.
He clenched his teeth until his lips bled, he rode to the best of his ability and possibilities despite being injured, and in the end he managed to secure an unexpected third place.

Not what his father or Red Bull hoped for.
Despite having tried in every way to grab the top step of the podium, Max feels undeserving of any comfort and care he would immediately receive if he only asked for it.

The pain prevents him from thinking rationally but, at this point, Max doesn't want to appear weak in the eyes of anyone: he will respect all his post-race commitments and then fly home to Monaco, where he will crash in bed until he's ready for the next Grand Prix.

In the cool down room, Max tries to casually comment on the salient episodes of the race together with Lewis and George.
The Mercedes duo chuckle as yet another strategic mistake from Ferrari is shown.

The Red Bull driver finds himself being annoyed by his historic rivals.
There was an attempt by Lewis to iron out their differences in the past, but both have now accepted the fact that they will never be friends. There is too much competitiveness between them but, at least now, there is also mutual respect.

When Lewis casually smiles at him, asking him for an opinion on Max-he-don't-know-what, the Dutchman understands that it's not the Mercedes driver who is bothering him.
He's not exactly annoyed but nauseous, dazed and tired.

"Are you okay, Max?"

The worried voice of the Anglo-Caribbean pilot reaches Max's ears muffled, as if it came from another dimension, before everything gets dark.

*** ***

Lewis arches an eyebrow when Max doesn't reply with one of his usual irreverent jokes to an observation just made by George.
The two Mercedes drivers are even more confused when Max brings a hand to heart level and opens his mouth without any sound coming out.
When he sees him gasping, George has already run out for help, even before Max's blood pressure drops to dangerously low levels and, after a dizziness, he collapses in Lewis's arms.

What happens next is so surreal that Lewis seems to be the passive spectator of clips from a dramatic film.

The doctor is over Max's lifeless body, listening to his chest with his stethoscope.
"There is no airflow into the lungs!"

It is the phrase that haunts the Anglo-Caribbean driver, a few hours later, as he marches briskly towards Red Bull hospitality.
He knows he's not welcome but he doesn't want whoever allowed Max to end up in danger of life to get away with it.

Luckily, he finds Jos alone outside in the paddock, talking quietly on the phone.

"Oh the great Lewgend has come to make sure my son is badly injured, that you have no rivals for the title?"
Jos scoffs and Lewis loses all self-control, grabbing the man by the collar of his jacket.

"You asshole, you are not worthy to call Max your son . If you love him so much, why are Christian and all the other drivers in the hospital now, but not you?"

"Oh but it's you who have to provide succulent material for the new season of Drive to Survive, certainly not me. This week it's Max's turn to star in a heartbreaking story?"

Lewis's hands are tingling and he would like to immediately erase that smug smile from the former Benetton driver's face.

"Your son was admitted with a diagnosis of hypertensive pneumothorax. Do you know what that means?"
Lewis yells at him.
"It's such a serious medical emergency that the doctors haven't even had time to give Max any preliminary tests.
There, in the cool-down room, before our eyes, they inserted a large needle into his pleural cavity to remove the air!"

"Do you still think Max is a good actor, Jos, or that you're a bad father?"

*** *****

Max wakes up in a hospital bed, with a small tube in the space between his lung and chest wall.
(pleural space he thinks he heard some doctor say, in his semi-conscious stage)

"Hey kid, people said I was desperate, after I lay down on the floor in the cool down room, with my back pain... But you know how to make a drama!"
Max blinks several times, groggy, trying to make sure it's really Lewis Hamilton who's talking so softly to him and patting his cheek protectively and that it's not a hallucination.
Damn drugs!

"Why don't you love yourself a little more, Max?"
"Nobody loves me and I'm a world champion...let alone looking weak."

"Oh stupid boy!"
Lewis says, but his tone is maddeningly affectionate.

"There are so many people who love you, despite what happens on the track. Do you want me to tell you how George coordinated the rescue and kept the other guys calm in the waiting room? How Pierre yelled at Helmut to keep Jos away from you? Oh by the way… Your father will no longer be able to approach not only the Red Bull garage, but the entire paddock, over the next few race weekends. Chrisitan's influence matters apparently...
Oh and Daniel said he'll be a bodyguard for you, much more attractive than Kevin Costner!"
A sad smile plasters itself on Max's pale face: probably the usual dilemma between filial devotion and finally obtained freedom, even if at a high price, is tearing him apart inside, worse than that catheter sticking out of his side.
" Seb has taken refuge in the Swiss Alps, so Fernando and I could try to be father figures to you, what do you think?"
Max cautiously evaluates that proposal: unlike Seb, the two have no children, and have a much more fiery character than the German.
"Well I agree, as long as you don't jump on each other's necks."
Max smiles wearily at Lewis' mock offended expression.
The Mercedes driver is now stroking his hand to relax him and Max notices grazes on his knuckles, a much more useful reminder to Jos than to Lewis.
"Hey Lew, don't tell me you punched Nando already!"

Chapter Text

It is the glamorous grand prix par excellence: between glitz, luxury and frenzy.
Carlos would only like the sea, the sun and a corner sheltered from worldliness where he could only enjoy the wonderful landscapes.
After all, this is Charles' home race, people want him, all the spotlights are on him. However Carlos is a Ferrari driver and, although he is not the fan favorite of the Tifosi, as is the Monegasque they have loved since the beginning, he is obliged to participate in the team's media events.

Although it is late May today the weather is bad in Monaco and Carlos would like to oppose the decision of the PR team which decides that he and Charles can still do their interviews on a luxury motorboat: the rough sea will only be an extra that will make even more spectacular their interviews and their safety is guaranteed.

Carlos isn't too convinced but he returns the shy smile that Charles gives him before the two teammates separate to embark on two separate boats that will take them off the coast.

Naturally here Chares has priority and is the first to be interviewed.
While waiting his turn, Carlos tries to be friendly with the journalist who will be interviewing him and with the skipper who accompanies them.

In his job, the Spaniard is now used to meeting new people almost every day but breaking the ice with strangers is always embarrassing.
Especially when there are three of them in the middle of a rough sea and Carlos has never told anyone that he can't swim...

“So can we agree on a few questions that everyone, including fans, would finally like honest answers to?
Will you accept being only a second guide this year Carlos, or will you ruin one more race to Charles? No one will cheer for your improbable victory like at Silverstone last year. And the Tifosi will hate you even more, especially this year when Charles is first in the league!"

Suddenly the reporter attacks him spewing poisonous words that Carlos should be used to by now.
He knows that as pilots and public figures they are exposed to more criticism than many other people.
He knows that many would prefer Charles to be accompanied by the young and inexperienced Bearman, third in his F3 debut last year.
He knows that, by now, public opinion has decided that the elite of F1 champions is made up only of 5 stars and the others are seen as mere presences destined to eclipse like meteors.
But he wants to give his contribution to the struggles of the most prestigious and oldest stable of the Circus, not just be a passing name in Ferrari.
And he's working hard to close the two-second gap that separates him from Charles on the track.
He doesn't know if he will ever succeed but he is tired of being denigrated for free.

"If Charles fights concretely for the title I'll be happy to help him... But obviously this weekend in Monaco I'll focus mainly on my performance, as I always do!"
He replies diplomatically, trying to remain calm.

"Oh yeah maybe Checo Perez gave you some ideas last year on how to fuck up qualifying for the first driver, right?"
The skipper chuckles sarcastically, finding an echo in the other man's laughter.
So these two are in cahoots?
Suddenly Carlos suspects he is the victim of an ambush.

"If not even Vasseur and the gaps that Charles gives you in the race have succeeded in clarifying your place... Maybe then you need to refresh your ideas!"

Carlos is taken aback when the two men approach him and grab him under the armpits: the rocking movements of the boat have made him feel a bit nauseous, moreover, despite having been alert for a couple of minutes already, this initiative is so unexpected that he doesn't have time to react or defend himself, also because other men are stronger than him.

Suddenly Carlos finds himself thrashing about in the water, desperately fighting to stay afloat: he can only make croaking sounds before swallowing the salty water that enters his lungs.

*** ***

Charles is bored with yet another obvious question he has to answer. He plasters a polite smile on his face and tries to be nice and nonchalant so as not to make the pretty journalist who is conducting the interview feel out of place.
He gets distracted only for a moment and notices something anomalous about a nautical mile away from them.
“Oh my god, there's a man drowning. Alert the Coast Guard!"
The girl, efficient, immediately retrieves her cell phone and no one pays attention to Charles who, in the general confusion, has already dived before anyone can stop him.

Even if from afar, the Monegasque recognized that red jacket almost immediately: a flash of blinding color in the gray water.
With large strokes, Charles tries to resist the current that tries to suck him back and focuses the point where Carlos is as the finish line of the most important race of his life.

Finally manages to reach his teammate, who spends the last energy to prevent his body from sinking.
Charles' solid arms that surround his waist are a hope, a miracle.
Carlos's body becomes dead weight to be dragged along.

"Come on Carlos, you just have to move your legs and soon we'll be on the sand of the beach!"
Charles encourages him and, fortunately, the Spanish manages to be quite cooperative.
Finally on dry land, Charles feels the saltiness on every inch of his skin and his soaked clothes cling to him like a second skin.
He doesn't worry about it though because all her attention is focused on Carlos: the Spaniard has acute respiratory failure, a form of asphyxiation due to fluid in his lungs.

In these cases, timeliness is essential, therefore Charles cannot wait a second longer for the arrival of the paramedics, although the ambulance is now near.
He leans over Carlos's lifeless body, places his mouth on that of his teammate, inhales deeply and blows the air into Carlos's mouth. Charles catches his breath and repeats the operation until help arrives.

*** *****

Carlos can't celebrate with the team when, finally, Charles wins his home GP.
Anyone who forced him to watch the race from a hospital bed is brought to justice and, never as in recent days, has Carlos received the solidarity of colleagues and fans from all the teams.

He thinks that, right now, Charles is celebrating like never before bcause he finally break curse of Monaco he is therefore speechless when the Monegasque, radiant but awkward, shows up in his hospital room.
"Hey race winner what are you doing here? You should be partying... You'll have time to visit the sick!"
Carlos jokes, though he still has a hard time talking, without gasping for air or feeling his throat burn like hell.
Despite everything he feels better; yesterday they removed his oxygen mask and now he has only an IV to bother him.

"Well it seems you managed to steal the show from me even without being on the track today!"
Charles says, trying to sound resentful but can hardly hold back a laugh.
Carlos, however, makes a sad face, almost seeming devoured by guilt.
"I'm sorry..."
"No, no I didn't mean..."
"I'm sorry I have practically no memory of our almost first kiss!"
Charles blushes for a few seconds but then decides to repay Carlos with the same cheek.
"Well we can always have a second first kiss or a real first kiss right!"
He proposes and this time when he bends over Carlos's lips he feels only beautiful feelings.
This time it's Charles who takes Carlos's breath away, but it's wonderful.

Chapter Text

Gossips say Aston Martin is hiring near-retirement drivers instead of up-and-comers so as not to make daddy's boy look bad.
Gossip says that Fernando has such a long tongue that he could wrap it around himself like a scarf and that his latest statements are facade words that he doesn't even believe himself.

For Lance, the appreciative comments made by his new teammate in the preseason were actually a real confidence booster.

It was precisely Fernando's encouragement that spurred the unfortunate Canadian to work hard to recover as quickly as possible after his wrist surgery in Barcelona.
The AMR 23 amazed everyone in the pre-season tests in Sakhir and insiders even predicted podiums and victories for the Gaydon team, crowning it as the second force for the values expressed in the three days on the track.

Fernando, from his experience, tried to dampen easy enthusiasm but it is undeniable that there have been incredible improvements compared to last year's car.
And this optimism only increases Lance's frustration: he would like to be there to test that car temporarily entrusted to Felipe instead he is confined to the sofa with a plaster cast on his wrist and a prognosis of at least five weeks.

Although the team has not yet issued any official announcements, he knows it is highly unlikely, almost impossible, that car number 18 will be on the track in a week's time.

So Lance doesn't even fly to Barhain but prefers to stay in Barcelona to continue his treatment and bask in self-pity in peace.

What is totally unexpected is the guest who shows up at his door on Sunday evening, exactly one week before the official start of the 2023 season.

*** ***

Fernando stands a little to the side, unsure of what to say and maybe feeling a little insecure, which makes Lance smile tenderly.

"I came to see how my teammate is doing!"
The Asturian finally says and it is at the same time the most coherent and illogical thing he could have said.

"So you took a nearly six-hour plane ride just for a courtesy call?"
Lance replies in a sweet and amused tone.
He makes a small gesture with his good arm, inviting Fernando to sit inside.

The initial embarrassment is dissolved when a notification from his iPhone gives Lance the input to strike up a conversation.

"Fans are excited about the speculation that you and Sebastian could form the Aston Martin line-up for the first few races of the season!"

"It's just nonsense, imaginative scenarios of the tabloids to fill their pages!"
Fernando says placidly.

"But the fans would love such an amarcord couple. And they're not entirely wrong."
Lance persists and Nando frowns.
"What are you suggesting, Lance? That your contribution isn't useful to the team?"

"Most people think so."
admits the young Stroll quietly, pulling a pillow on his knees to gently rest his arm in search of some relief.

"Well, when I told the press that we missed you terribly during the tests, I wasn't lying."
The Asturian suddenly blushes and considering that statement too personal he hasten to add:
"Only you could make a comparison with the AMR22 and give us more precise feedback to improve the current car."
The words of Fernando, a two-time world champion who is preparing to compete in his twentieth season in F1 in search of a third title, are sincere and convince Lance not to underestimate his skills.

However, he is tired both physically and emotionally but determined not to give in to his denigrators.
"I will fly to Manama in a couple of days and the FIA doctors will give me a medical check to evaluate if I can be regularly on the grid at the first race."
Less than seven days. Mission almost impossible and maybe even a little suicidal.

"Lance, at Aston we are all excited for the start of the season and curious to see what we could fight for this year and we would all like to share these feelings with you... My advice though is not to rush things."
The young man moves his mouth to reply but the wise Fernando shakes his head vigorously.

"I am well aware of your impatience and frustration...They are the same that characterized my recovery when, on the eve of my return to F1, I too was the victim of a bicycle accident. I know you think it's unfair but better to lose a race than a whole season, right?"

Lance rationalizes and admits to himself that the veteran teammate is right. He doesn't dispute it but lowers his shoulders discouraged in surrender.
"I'm tired. And I feel disgusting: I can't even take a proper shower."

This time Nando is more daring to take the initiative.
"I could wash your hair. And keep you company for a couple of days here in Barcelona: as you well know, I'm a native Spanish speaker! And then we'll fly together to Bahrain...As a real team!"

Chapter Text

It all happens in a nanosecond and this leaves Max, the man playing on the edge of the thousandths, even more shocked.

He and Charles are talking quietly and in a friendly way about their race: the Monegasque complains about the lack of pace of his SF23, the reigning world champion jokes that he is bored without a real duel on the track and, given the abysmal gap between him and the the rest of the field , he even managed to follow the duel between Fernando and Lewis on the giant screens in the paddock while driving.
A red patch spreads on Charles' side at such a speed that it takes Max more than a moment to understand what's happening.

When the smell of blood mixes with that of gunpowder, Charles is already on the ground moaning.

How the hell did a gunman get into a crowded event like an F1 race?
How the hell did he catch up with drivers who were quietly making their way to their teams' motorhomes?

"Charles? Oh my God, Charles!"

Max chokes on his own breath as he crawls towards his friend-rival. She grabs Charles' hand and struggles to calm him down.
"Everything will be fine. You will be fine mijn kampioen "
The Ferrari driver's eyes are vacant but he manages to crack a smile when he hears Max coddle him in Dutch.
"At least I managed to save you, Max!"
These are the last words of a shivering Charles.

There is a dull ache in Max's head and heart that keeps all other thoughts at a distance, the sound of ambulance sirens, a cry for help that isn't his own, the paramedics taking Charles away from him.

******* ********

The skin on Charles' side is sore under the crunchy bandages.
He tries to move an arm and the slight movement sets his body on fire.
His brain is haywire.

In the haze that clouds the senses, fragments of memories intersect: Pierre bringing ice cubes to his mouth, a nurse removing the nasogastric tube, Max holding his hand.

Max holding his hand. He doesn't know if these memories follow a chronological order or if it's all messed up in his head.
"Are you daydreaming?"
A bright timbre of voice, calmly warm and veiled by a deep sadness, calms Charles better than the painkillers that are being administered intravenously.
The Ferrari driver smiles wearily but comforted by the fact that Max's presence is not a feverish illusion of his disturbed mind but Max in the flesh is at his bedside and gently cradles his hand in his.

"What happened?"

All those who have already visited him have tried, tactfully, to tell him what happened but his mother, brothers, Carlos and Pierre have provided him with a watered-down version which, combined with the effect of the drugs, seemed far-fetched to Charles.

“You took a bullet in my place. We were walking in the paddock, in an almost deserted spot, when a man tried to shoot me. You noticed it and became his shooting target, in my place.”

Max fails to tell him how terribly guilty he felt while Charles was in surgery.
How he wept, away from Charles' family and friends, when doctors told them the bullet landed close to Charles's spine but did not affect his vital organs.
Max doesn't tell him how he would have felt better if Arthur or the members of Ferrari had railed against him, because after all it's his fault that Charles is in a hospital bed, instead he found so much understanding.

"The guy who tried to take you out..."
Charles says after a long silence, during which he enjoys the pleasant warmth of Max's hand on the back of his. Max looks at him questioningly.
Obviously only a mentally unbalanced person can attempt to take a person's life, however sportingly he may hate him. There will be time to allow Charles to put a face to the man who reduced him to this state and who, fortunately, is already serving his sentence in prison.

The Monegasque takes a deep breath and then completes the sentence.
"I hope he wasn't a Ferrari fan!"
The unexpected joke releases all the tensions from Max's chest and Charles doesn't take long to join his weak laugh to that of the Dutchman.
As soon as the Monegasque's giggle turns into real laughter, however, the effort makes him moan.
"Hey, easy Charlie. You'll rip the stitches!"

The Red Bull driver scolds him gently and it is then that Charles remembers something and blushes when asking Max.
"Don't call me Charlie! I prefer that weird word you comforted me with when I was bleeding to death!"
Max rolls his eyes because Charles is dramatizing it on purpose now that his life is out of danger.
"What do you want me to call you, mijn kampioen ?"

Chapter Text

The start of the 2023 world championship was a disappointment for all teams other than Red Bull and Aston Martin.
AlphaTauri no longer experiences the glories reflected by the parent company as in the past, indeed these first two races seem to be the continuation of a bad 2022 which condemned it to ninth place in the constructors' standings.

Nyck was hopeful of a happier start in his first full season of Formula 1 but so far his hopes have been dashed.
Zero points and bottom of the standings where to cohabit with two impoverished nobles like McLaren and Williams; the Dutchman crosses his fingers so that the updates brought to Melbourne, after Tost snapped against the Faenza engineers, bear fruit.
It happens in a corner at high speed.
One moment Nyck is riding his number 21 AlphaTauri finally in the points and the next he crashes into the Tecpro barrier.

For a few seconds the adrenaline protects his body and the boy is surprised to see his candid white racing suit rapidly turning red; then the pain explodes: an excruciating pang, an unbearable burning, a stab that pierces not only metaphorically.
Poor Nyck realizes, to his horror, that a piece of debris is embedded in his stomach.

*** ***

After the embarrassing decisions of the FIA in Jeddah, George is determined to conquer the podium relying only on himself, without waiting for any penalties for those in front of him.

The Englishman is determined to take back that trophy that was first given to him and then taken away in Saudi Arabia; he is preparing to lap an AlphaTauri when, suddenly, he is catapulted into the nightmare he lived at Silverstone last year.

This time it's not Zhou who risks his life after a dangerous and spectacular carom but another Italian team.
Regardless of who is the driver involved, George's first reaction when the race is red-flagged is to rush to give first aid to the victim.
He drops out of his W14 and doesn't care if he gets disqualified for the rest of the race.

There's a lot more blood than George might think; his knees are shaking and so weak he fears they won't hold him long; he's pretty sure he'll pass out or fall ill when the macabre sight unfolds before his eyes.

It's Nyck. Nyck De Vries: brother, friend, defender, family of a young George for a time.
It is Nyck who is dying with a debris embedded in his stomach.
No, he's not dying, damn it! George won't allow it.

Although the Mercedes driver's first instinct is to put out the nasty debris lodged in his rival's body, he knows that this job is best left to the professionals.

The only thing George can do is keep Nyck calm while rescuers try to extract him from the car.

"Agh!"
Nyck inhales sharply, gasping in pain and panicking as he stares at her red-covered hand.
He feels tired, so tired he can feel the life sucking out of him.
But she also feels a gentle hand gently squeezing hers.
"Hey Nyck you'll be okay, okay? You'll be okay, do you hear me?"
Nyck closes his eyes and coughs: he wants to drive away the terrible metallic taste that rises in his throat but ends up causing himself further pain.
George's voice is ringing in his ears but the dark spots dancing around his eyes prevent him from believing George's actually at his side.

*** *****

When Nyck wakes up in the hospital, a finger presses on his lips and the same gentle hand that comforted him when he thought he was about to die now strokes his hair.
He grumbles; his body is numb and his torso is bandaged.

"It hurts?"
George whispers with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
It's probably the effect of the sedative and painkillers but Nyck likes to think that George's closeness also contributes to dissolving his pain.
He feels weak but is relieved to be alive.

"Lucky the doctors were able to get that foreign body out of my body! Isn't that ironic? Nyck De Vries nearly killed by debris!"
The Dutchman tries to make an ironic joke about his injury, about his narrow escape, even if talking still leaves him breathless.

George sighs, his hand subconsciously checking Nyck's pulse: the steady, steady throbbing calms him enough to counter Nyck words equally playfully.

"Last year at Silverstone, Max displayed a piece of Pierre's AlphaTauri endplate as a souvenir. You could do the same with your own piece of debris!"
"There's the small difference that the debris that ruined Max's race was lodged in the back of his Rb18, not embedded in his stomach!"

George looks at the ground, unable to hide his frown.
"Hey!"
From the bed he's lying on, Nyck gets George's attention.
"It was comforting to know you were there with me."
The Dutchman takes a deep breath and maybe it's not a good idea because as soon as he groans, George is ready to call a nurse.
"I am fine."
Nyck calms him down.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
George says awkwardly.
"Yes, actually there's something I've wanted to ask you for a long time...Even if it means stepping out of my comfort zone.
Would you come on a date with me while I'm recovering? I know I'm not as cute as my sister but..."
Nyck can't complete the sentence because it's no longer a warm finger pressing on his mouth but two soft lips.

Chapter Text

5:30 in the morning.

Lewis wakes up at dawn, awakened not by the sound of the alarm clock but by the noises from their home gym.
The Mercedes driver covers his burning eyes with his arm, a clear sign that he has not slept enough and is still suffering from travel fatigue after crossing several time zones in the space of a week. With a three-week layover before heading to Azerbaijan, Lewis hoped that he and Pierre would readjust their biological clocks to European rhythms with as much time and relaxation as they can afford, pampering, relaxing walks, lazy days on the boat and romantic dates.
Apparently Pierre has other plans.
Lewis briefly thinks about sleeping for a few more minutes, after all he deserves it after the podium in Melbourne which allowed him to set a new record, but he immediately drives away the temptation of the warmth of the blankets because his priority is Pierre.
Pierre who always overloads himself with work when the races are a disappointment for him (Lewis unfortunately has tried in vain to dissuade his boyfriend too many times from wanting to overdo it in the past).

With a big yawn, Lewis walks towards the gym area of the house, winking at the sudden brightness in the room.

Pierre is using the rowing machine: he is convinced that by training constantly he will improve his physical resistance, and thanks to the fluid movements he will develop a decent motor coordination... And maybe next time you will avoid crashing with your teammate. Says that little voice which, like a seeds of frustration, has settled in his mind ever since he was summoned by the commissioners together with Esteban.
"Pierre what are you doing at dawn?"
Lewis asks softly but firmly, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded.
The Frenchman doesn't seem bothered by that interruption, on the contrary he continues undaunted to follow his strict training schedule.
"Isn't that obvious? I need to be in top form in Baku to repay the team for the damage I caused yesterday."
Lewis is about to object by saying that it's not the driverss' fault that the final laps of the GP were turned into a farce by wicked race direction, but he knows that at this moment they would be empty words.
"Come on, come into the living room, your cup is already under the coffee machine and I'll prepare you a top-notch breakfast. Then, perhaps, we can go out for a walk together."
Finally the driver of the Alpine turns to look at him: rivulets of sweat drip down from his forehead freezing on his neck and Pierre's blue eyes dazzle like lightning bolts.
"I've already gone out for a jog when it was still pitch dark!"
He says in a whisper, sure of Lewis's outburst, who just has time to raise an eyebrow because the Frenchman anticipates it, preventing him from opening his mouth.
"Gym and running are a perfect combination!"
"I don't doubt it, honey, but overtraining is counterproductive. If you put yourself through this Herculean exertion you will have unpleasant consequences such as pain and discomfort. And, God forbid, you could end up with injuries and fractures!"
"Well in case I break my leg, no one will miss me on the track. If I'm not mistaken, in 2019 it was you who suggested, in the interview room, to Red Bull to replace me with Fernando Alonso!"
An unfortunate joke that Lewis made to Max after his victory in Budapest and which he deeply regretted, after witnessing the determination with which Pierre reacted to the demotion and, above all, after kissing him the first time.
However, this does not give the Frenchman the right to bring up that episode every time he is disappointed and annoyed.
By now Lewis knows how to defend himself against this passive-aggressive behavior: Pierre had too many lows last season not to have learned to handle it.
Lewis does not give in to Pierre's whims, avoids getting angry with him, losing control or accusing him.

"I'm going to prepare you a bath while you finish your training and, maybe, finally you try to overcome an unfortunate dialogue from four years ago!"

**** *****

Lewis is filling the tub with water and scented salts when a cry of pain makes him rush back into the gym where he left Pierre.
Pierre is half-reclining on the floor, his hands clasping his aching knee.
"It's probably just too much lactic acid, stupid cramp."
He grits his teeth, trying to convince himself and Lewis.
"Too bad for you that I don't trust your self-diagnosis much. Better get checked by a real doctor!"
Lewis replies as he approaches and notices how Pierre's knee is already starting to swell.
Making him walk is out of the question so Lewis picks him up to carry him to his car, muttering an affectionate:
"Stupid boy!"

** ***

After an X-ray, a visit to an orthopedist, Ben's understandably serious reprimand over the phone; finally that afternoon Pierre finds himself on the sofa in Lewis's apartment in Monaco, with his leg raised on a cushion.
He glances resignedly at the compression bandage on his knee, then his eyes drift to Lewis as he returns from the kitchen, where he's just filled an ice bag with cubes.
"Please don't say: I told you so! A sprained knee is punishment enough enough!"
Pierre pleads as Lewis wraps the ice pack in a towel before gently placing it on his boyfriend's knee, who shivers anyway.
Lewis smiles and leans in to kiss his chin.

"The good news is that you have achieved your aim and since you will need a lot of physiotherapy, we will spend most of the break with Ben as the third wheel."
Pierre looks at him guilty and Lewis finds it irresistible when he sees him blush.
"The bad news is that you'll probably have to skip Baku anyway, even without Ban."
Unlike this morning, the Frenchman doesn't react angrily; indeed he leans back in the most relaxed way possible and draws Lewis towards him, careful not to injure his leg further.

"Who cares. I've never had any luck on weekends with sprint races!"
Pierre shrugs and then consoles himself by slowly kissing Lewis' lips... After all, he has all the time he wants.

Chapter Text

It is a source of great pride to be called Il Predestinato , the young and new face, the one chosen to bring the world title back to Maranello.

But sometimes the label they've sewn on you can become cumbersome, a burden too heavy to carry on your shoulders, especially if they're not yet used to certain weights, like those of a twenty-five-year-old boy called to lead the Formula 1 team most prestigious, noble and successful in history.
2022 seemed like the good year for Charles to demonstrate all his worth and materialize the expectations of the Tifosi.
It was only a mere illusion that lasted just three races and now, a year later, Charles has no titles on his showcase: he is a great talent that has not yet blossomed.

Max has known Charles for at least a decade, even before the infamous episode at the Val d'Argenton circuit and, even if at the beginning of the season the Dutchman wanted to deceive himself considering it normal that Charles never smiled after two retirements in the first three races and justifying his depressed mood, now he can no longer stand by and watch.
His boyfriend's isn't simple sadness or frustration.

Max had also started 2022 in an equally disastrous way but he never got discouraged or lost heart and spurred his team on at the worst moments with the result that, at the end of the season, he was able to boast his second consecutive world title. However he is not stupid: he knows that Charles, like all sensitive people, is destined to suffer more than cynical ones like Max and, at times, Max envies the Monegasque because he never manages to experience emotions as intensely as Charles does.
The SF23, born under the best expectations, however seems to want to give only negative emotions to its top driver: sadness, disgust, fear and anger are a range of emotions that Max found himself managing both on himself firsthand and, later, as a prop for Charles over the last three years where Ferrari seems to get the car wrong every year.
What the Red Bull driver is not ready to handle is the sudden apathy and indifference into which Charles has sunk: a downward spiral animated by suggestive and imaginative media rumors, which see him soon abandon Ferrari in the direction of Brackley. The indignant reactions of the fans, who called Charles a traitor without him having made any statement, or the fact that they accuse him of feeling like a star when he hasn't demonstrated anything yet, also add guilt feelings to the explosive mixture that is Charles's mental health.
When on the weekends where they race in countries with mild, if not hot, climates, Charles shows up at the press conference and on the track in long-sleeved hoodies, definitely out of season, Max decides it's time to take matters in hands.

** ***

They have just returned to Monaco after a trio of races non-Europeans, when one evening the Dutch raises the subject.
"It's been a tough few months, haven't they?"
Max asks casually.
"Perhaps for me, for you they were just a triumphal ride."
Charles answers. He's too ashamed to make eye contact with his boyfriend, so he keeps pinching his arms covered in half-healed cuticles well hidden by the fabric of his shirt.

Max doesn't mind. The Spartan education and almost military training with which his father raised him help him survive in the world of sharks that is this sport and leave no aftermath on Max's armor: the redundant and daily comments that point him out as a cheater, the accusations of winning because he drives the best car (have there ever been a driver who won world championships with non-performing cars?) slip on him together with all the bad things that give birth to the minds of toxic fans.

However, Charles is not Max and he is not yet "waterproof" enough and the only thing Max notices in his dull eyes is the tiredness of someone who sees everything slipping from his own hands.

He approaches the Monegasque and runs his thumbs along the patches on Charles' skin.
"Will you tell anyone? I don't know maybe Andrea will force me to go to therapy...Why should you bother? I'm not even a threat to you on the track anymore!"
Charles snorts getting defensive.

Max sighs. He didn't want to share a part of his adolescence that he prefers not to make public even to the person he loves but is willing to talk about it if it means overcoming Charles's reluctance.
"I don't want to push you into doing something against your will. When my father ended up in prison, I struggled so much before agreeing to go to therapy. I thought seeing a psychologist meant I was flawed or crazy..."
Max now has tears in his eyes and Charles's hand rests sympathetically on his cheek.
"Oh Max, I had no idea."
"I was afraid of appearing weak but I took this risk and realized that problems don't solve themselves..."
"I want to improve, Max...But I don't feel ready yet to go and tell my most personal facts to a stranger."
Charles finally gives in. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to solving it, and Max is willing to stick to his boyfriend's timing. That doesn't mean she can't do her part to help him.
"Okay, let me show you a trick I learned from my therapist."
Max takes the initiative and, animated by this purpose, goes to the desk drawer to return with a felt-tip pen.
He sits next to Charles, unrolls one sleeve of his shirt and brings the Monegasque's arm across his lap, finding an empty space just below the crook of his arm.
"For a long time I had a butterfly drawn on my arms, on the spots where I regularly injured myself. The rules were simple: every time I tried to cut myself again I would kill the butterfly and I didn't want it to die but make she live and fly away ."
Max confesses, his voice breaking with emotion and all Charles wants to do now is hug him. Showing participation in what the Dutchman is doing for him is the best way to show him how much you appreciate him.

"Could you draw a racing car instead of a butterfly? At least I want to try not to crash this one."
Charles shyly proposes and Max smiles and nods enthusiastically.
"You can even name the car after the person you love, you know?"
Charles says nothing as the Dutch draw colored lines on his skin.
""I've decided it's going to be called MC-Max-23...Even though it's definitely ugly!"
Charles tenderly mocks Max's lackluster artistic skills.
"Shut up, the grill artist is Alex, not me. At least it's something a lot cooler than Daniel's or Lewis' tattoos!"
Max defends himself, kissing the spot on the skin where the nose of the car is drawn.
"Decidedly!"

Charles agrees. This unexpected gesture of love urges him not to give up: he will do everything to take care of the MC-Max-23.

Chapter Text

After applause and honors, covers of sports magazines and more, after rivers of ink poured to decant his talent with poetic tones, after fiery enthusiasms, Charles is really about to descend into the hell of celebrity, transforming himself into a human waste, before his name is written in the roll of honor of Formula 1?
On the track, as he skims the curbs at three hundred kilometers per hour, all life's problems disappear for Charles. In his single-seater he has always felt able to dominate the elements and to be fully adult and, at the same time, in an eternal childhood.
However, since Ferrari disregards his expectations every year, disillusioning him a little more and more, things started to go very badly when Charles lifts the visor of his helmet and gets out of his car.
Drive to Survive gave Formula 1 a lot of visibility, to the point that the drivers are now acclaimed as real rock stars, but it also set in motion the most destructive drug and the darkest and most unfathomable social phenomenon. Especially cannibalistic. Because it is typical of the star-system to be omnivorous: everything concerning its characters belongs to it, everything is part of its scene and its myth.

So Charles' private life is dissected and his pains and mournings used against him as deterrents, the right to privacy is a mirage and his apartment is no longer a domestic and safe nest after his Monegasque address becomes public domain.
Despite everything, he remains the affable boy he always was: he responds kindly to journalists who keep bringing up the memory of his father in their narrative, he is courteous and benevolent when it is speculated that he might leave Maranello for Mercedes and declares his love at Ferrari, a post appears on his Instagram profile in which he politely invites fans not to go and buzz his house because he will be happy to greet them on the street or on the circuit but he has the right to his privacy.
The more reasonable defend the sacrosanct rights of Charles but, under that post, there are also comments of ridicule and some that lead to insults.
Don't flatter yourself. They only admire you because you look good and not because you are a good driver
You're just a poor loser, you'll never win anything.
Outside of Italy, Leclerc is an ordinary Gasly .

These are just some of the more recent comments that echoed in Charles' head as, in the unexpected break from racing in April, he pedaled his bike through the scenic streets of Monte Carlo.
It hurts him to read some things and above all that they bring up his best friend: it's not fair that both of them suffer this sort of verbal violence from cowards who don't get involved in the first person.
In the throes of a blind fury against unknown persons, Charles grips the handlebars tighter and doesn't pay attention that turns red at traffic lights.

******* ********

Charles is doing some stretching, shaking his good arm in his jacket when someone pushes back the privacy curtain and utters a bubbly, "Knock knock!" at a wholly disrespectful volume, considering they're on the opposite side of a shared hospital room.

"Lando when you grow up a little!"
Charles is immediately heartened when he recognizes Lando's cheerful voice and Carlos' warm and familiar one.
The former McLaren teammates are not alone.
The Monegasque holds back a laugh only by a miracle when from behind a bouquet of tulips, red, orange, variegated, white, yellow, purple and pink, Max's annoyed face appears.

"What the hell, Max! I understand that by now our bitter rivalry has gone to hell but don't you think it's excessive to bring me the symbol flower of your country as a gift of love?"
Charles shoots him an amused look but before the Red Bull driver can retort sharply, Charles winces as he reaches for the other side of his jacket.

He can't get it right without pulling the tension across the opposite shoulder, but he's determined to make it work.
Pierre notices his struggle and wanders around the bed, grabbing his jacket without saying a word and adjusting it correctly, mindful of the sling in which Charles' arm is forced.

Charles pats his arm and sighs, "Thank you."
Pierre gives him an understanding wink in response.
"Actually, as soon as we heard about your accident, we all decided in our group chat to buy you flowers and tulips seemed to us the most suitable because they are the symbol of perfect and balanced relationships, thus rising to the symbol of true love. O At least that's what the flower girl told Alex and George when they went to buy them!"

His best friend's voice acts as a soothing balm on the frustrations and anger that brought injured Charles here to the hospital. A couple of stray petals fall near his hand as Max drops the bouquet, held together by a red velvet ribbon, onto the bed with little grace.
"So you've all been worried about me…I've barely been in the hospital half a day."
He extends his good hand to caress the jagged petals, with a rigid and fleshy consistency.

"We didn't want you to feel alone and the four of us came to represent all your other fellow drivers."
Carlos explains with a smile.
"Me as your teammate, Lando representing the twitch quartet, Pierre because it's impossible to keep him away from your side and Max representing all the other."
"It was a group effort, then!"
Charles murmurs feeling the tears of emotion come to his eyes; basking in the familiar closeness of these kids who understand him better than anyone.
"Okay, let's stop these heartbreaking scenes and get Charles out of here. Lewis is booking us a table at Il Terrazzino "
Max says matter-of-factly way thus managing to hide his concern for his rival friend and completely mangled the Italian pronunciation.
With friends so attentive and caring, who love him, Charles is confident that his dislocated shoulder will heal faster.
"Ah Charles, there's also another gift from Esteban but we left it in the car."
Pierre adds before the five boys earn their way out.
"He's about the same height as Yuki, so good luck to you sharing the passenger seat with this adorable teddy bear!"
Max adds, with a sardonic smile.
Charles rolls his eyes as Lando, Carlos, Max and Pierre jostle each other affectionately like carefree kids, then line up around him to protect and escort him to the car.

They are his friends, the ones that no toxic fan or irreverent pen of some journalist can ever take away from him.

Chapter Text

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Lewis is already lying on the acupuncturist's massage table, wearing only a pair of black shorts, when his smile falters at Daniel's plausible concern.

"Well you shouldn't be a guy easily impressed by needles!"
Lewis makes the point and while both are tattoo enthusiasts, Daniel feels like a fish out of water right now.
"Well no one has ever stimulated specific areas of my skin with needles..."
The Aussie rambles and Lewis gives an ironic smile because he would like to remind his boyfriend that it is enough for him to use more traditional methods to make him feel pleasure.

At that moment, however, almost all of the inked skin of Lewis's back is exposed, vivid and luminous, under the heating heat lamp and the metal trolley with the needles and wipes on it is approached.
"Let's start?"
The acupuncturist shows his latex-gloved thumb and as Lewis nods and relaxes, it's Daniel's hands that are shaking and his knees vibrate like a misplaced cup on a saucer.

***** ********

After the Baku GP, Lewis' back pain became unbearable.
ll porpoising on new cars, accentuated on the W 13 certainly didn't help the health of a driver now in his fifteenth season in F1 and no longer in his prime, but the Azerbaijani weekend was the worst of all and not even Angela's massages helped the Mercedes driver to ease the pain.
Traditional medicine no longer gives him any relief, so an open-minded person like Lewis has decided to try alternative medicine.

"Patients full of needles: this is the image that comes to mind when I hear the word acupuncture!"
Daniel cringed when his boyfriend told him he wanted to try one of China's best-known healing methods; however the McLaren driver didn't hesitate for a single moment when Lewis made it clear that he needed his support and that he didn't want to face the first session alone.
"Perhaps Zhou would be more appropriate than me as your escort!"
As usual, Daniel didn't spare Lewis a beat before hugging him softly and not in a bear hug as he would have liked to do.
Damned back pain!

**** ****

Lewis' heart rate is checked on both wrists.
"We differentiate over 30 wrist qualities."
Explains the therapist fumbling next to Lewis, opens packets of sterile needles, turns on the heat lamp that will gently warm his patient during treatment and turns on a playlist of relaxing classical music.

"I think a composition by Charles would be useful during an acupuncture session!"
Daniel tries to overcome his nervousness with another joke as he recognizes slowly repeating piano melodies.
He gets a reproachful look from the acupuncturist and a gentler but still critical one from Lewis.
Maybe it's best to keep quiet if he doesn't want to be kicked out of the room and start supporting Lewis with just his physical presence!

Lewis wriggles a little on the padded bed to get more comfortable and follows the therapist's directions to position his head correctly then closes his eyes as the other man's hand rests firmly but gently on his shoulder.

"Now you should feel just a little sting, Mr. Hamilton!"

365 acupuncture points are distributed throughout the body, from head to toe. These points are located on the energy channels, the twelve meridians, where, according to traditional Chinese medicine, the body's energy, the Qi, flows.

A disease develops if the body's energy is divided in an unbalanced way or if it is blocked. By inserting the needles in certain points, the Qi flows again.

The pressure and sharp sting of the first needle comes as a bit of a shock to Lewis.
He had almost convinced himself that the sensation would be just like a tattoo. The slow, grinding sting. But this is different. The sharpness of the sting remains.

Then the acupuncturist slides his hand further along the shoulder and another sharp sting joins the first.

And the strange thing is that they feel connected in some way. As if there was a buzz of electricity between the two points. And it makes him feel warmer.

****** ******

"So we treated the cause and not the symptom, if I understand correctly?"

Daniel scratches his head with one hand while his other arm hugs Lewis' waist as they leave the acupuncturist's office.
"Shit, it was weird seeing you stuck with needles like a voodoo doll for almost half an hour. But you were so brave my hero!"
Daniel adds by popping a kiss between Lewis' braids.

"You know what's the weirdest thing? I felt no pain, just a slight stimulation of the nerve endings when the needles were inserted..."
Lewis hesitates to add the rest and his face and neck turn beet red.
"Are you okay? If drowsy, do you have pins and needles or hot sensations?"
Daniel investigates, repeating what he read on a guidebook in the doctor's office.
"No, Dan. I feel full of energy. I actually think acupuncture made me horny!"

Daniel, like a quokka who laughs even when he sleeps, uses this information to his advantage.

"Well let's go home then. My tongue knows how to stimulate little Lulu better than all the needles in the world!"

Chapter Text

Mick loves spending time with the Vettel family so he decides to spend the week off, before flying to Canada, in Sebastian's private cottage, in the Swiss canton of Thurgau.
For Mick, the four-time world champion has always been like a second father and it will be nice to spend a few relaxing days on Lake Constance; away from the spotlight, from the glamor and nightlife to which both are refractory.

For the weekend, Seb has promised his children a day of fun at Seeburg Park in the nearby town of Kreuzlingen and Mick seems keen to join Emilie and Mathilda on the Ferris wheel, skateboarding tracks and a mini golf challenge where, together with Mathilda, they try to beat the eldest Vettel daughter and their dad.

"Wir haben es geschafft! Wir haben gewonnen . We won! We won!"
Mathilda hums, mocking her older sister and dad.
While Emilie sticks her tongue out at her sister, Seb sportingly accepts defeat while Mick laughs at this levity he really needed.
Intense pain, however, forces him to bring a hand to his chest. Sudden breathing also hurts terribly.
"Hey you're fine,
Mein Junge ?"
Seb is immediately next to Mick, stroking his shoulder and speaking to him with that fatherly and affectionate tone that always heartens and moves the young Schumacher.
Not this time, though. He's too focused on breathing and is grateful when the two little girls distract their dad with a new request.
"We're hungry, papa. Can we go to McDonald's?"

Mick thinks he can cry. He wants to go back to the Vettel family cottage and while Seb will be distracted by Hanna and their little four year old son, Mick will be able to better control his symptoms and avoid worrying his friends. He has been functioning well for the past four days but it seems that the movements on the skateboard track have increased his pain.
He also doesn't think he can eat anything, he will definitely end up vomiting.
The only thing Mick wants is a cozy bed instead he finds himself mumbling, a sound that must sound like an assent, when a compromise is found and the four stop at a McDrive.
"Yum, Appie Meal!"
"Mmm, Nuggets!"
Emilie and Mathilda are rejoicing in the back seat, Mick barely hears them and, with difficulty, manages to perceive that Seb has placed a box on his lap, probably containing his McChicken, and is slipping a glass of coke into his hand.
"Hey buddy, tired? Did the girls wear you out today?"
Seb tries to get Mick's attention with a joke but he sensed something was wrong as Mick had trouble moving his arm to grab his drink.

No longer able to hide and bear the sharp pain that torments him, Mick begins to whimper.
"Hey kind , what's wrong?"
Mick struggles to hold back the tears and, at this point, the only reason he doesn't sob is just because he's afraid of making the pain in his chest worse.
"Don't lie to me, Mick. What's wrong?"
Mick inhales, looking for air.
"I think I need a doctor, Seb!"

*********** ******

Seb sticks by Mick throughout their time in the ER.
Seb doesn't leave him when the doctor observes the evident hematoma near the thoracic vertebrae and listens to Mick's heart and lungs with the stethoscope in search of any abnormal sounds.

Seb holds his hand when the doctor says, "it's a suspicious fracture!" and when they inject Mick with contrast before doing a CT scan.

Painkillers, diagnostic tests, anxiety and stress eventually make Mick drowsy.
When he wakes up, from what could be a quick nap or a good night's sleep, because Mick slept like a rock, he obviously finds Seb at his bedside.
The former Aston Martin driver smiles at him but the disappointment is evident in his gaze.
"Where are Emilie and Mathilda?"
It's the first thing Mick asks, to postpone as long as possible the reproach he knows he deserves.
"Hanna picked them up and took them home. Do you know how irresponsible you've been, Mick?"

"I'm sorry I ruined the nice weekend you had planned with your family!"
Mick whispers, mortified, feeling like an intruder, an unwelcome guest, now as he stares at the white sheet.
"Oh stupid boy! How could you underestimate an injury instead of going to a doctor right away? You have a couple of badly fractured ribs, you know what that means? There could have been serious complications.
liver or kidneys injury; the lung could become inflamed and you could have pneumonia, not to mention internal bleeding..."
Seb stops; realizing he's scaring Mick and, although they can all breathe a sigh of relief because in the end everything went well, he can't let the young Schumacher get away with his superficiality.

"I'm sorry, Seb. I know it was stupid to tell myself it's just a little pain . But Mercedes finally seems to be competitive again and, after the race, I had the chance to get on the W14 on track at Barcelona to test the new Pirellis, and Toto also had words of appreciation for me and says I deserve a place on the grid next year. How could I go to the team that believed in me, when no one else did, and tell them that I Am I injured by tripping and falling down the stairs?"

"Oh stubborn kid! Don't worry, I'll call Toto and tell him you can't be with the team in Montreal. Then I'll call Corinna and tell him not to expect you for at least next week."
"But..."
"No buts!"

Seb nips any protest in the bud, gently stroking Mick's hair.
"I won't be able to pin you down with bandages and casts but there's a bed waiting for you in my cottage along with your old friend Seb, three rowdy kids and a patient woman and they all want to take care of you. We will wait together for your fracture to calcify spontaneously!"

Chapter Text

It starts with a slight headache and a bit of difficulty breathing but Lance doesn't put too much thought into it.
The team is euphoric: Fernando has finally achieved the coveted victory number 33 in his career and Lawrence is simply cheerful and happy to finally see prestigious results arrive after investing so much in the team.
Lance is happy for his father and his teammate, who have always been protective of him, even if there is some bitterness in him at not being able to match the results of the Spaniard double world champion and because he he didn't even manage to get on the podium at his home GP. However Lance doesn't want to spoil the mood with his moodiness so he pastes a smile on his face and joins the Aston Martin for a long dinner on a Crescent Street terrace restaurant to properly celebrate Fernando's victory.

When, late in the evening, Lance returns to his apartment in Montreal, where he has decided to spend a few relaxing days with Esteban after the race, it seems to him that he has climbed five flights of stairs.

He ignores the sharp, almost stabbing pain in his chest; he quickly takes off his elegant clothes and changes into the t-shirt and shorts he uses for the night and joins Esteban who is sleeping peacefully, lying on the bed in a starfish position.

Lance gives a light kiss on the Frenchman's cheek, avoiding waking him up, then lays down next to Esteban trying to fall asleep: the pain is annoying and lying down is a bit uncomfortable but Lance has had far worse flus in his life.

*** ****

Esteban is awakened by the sound of repeated coughing and, as soon as he emerges from the sleepy haze and manages to anchor himself in reality, he is alarmed to find that Lance is having difficulty breathing from those repeated dry coughing, although he is now in sitting against the pillows of the bed; he has inexplicable chills even for the mild Canadian summer.

"Hey mon chou, what's wrong with you?"
The Alpine pilot strokes his boyfriend's back, waiting for him to calm down and be able to respond.
"Everything hurts: head, chest, back...And this constant cough...I think I caught a cold!"
Lance sighs but his hasty self-diagnosis doesn't calm Esteban: he's worried because Lance can't even pull on a hoodie without agony and can barely walk from the bedroom to the bathroom before dizziness forces him to lean against Esteban.

Although he has to use the wall and Esteban as supports to trip over those few steps he manages, Lance is stubborn and adamant in reassuring his boyfriend that he will soon be fine and, only in the morning, finally gives in to Esteban's request, veiled threat, to call a doctor.
Lance agrees more out of exhaustion than anything else.

**** ***

In the first instance, the doctor proceeds to obtain an in-depth history of the symptoms complained of by Lance and some questions seem almost out of context to the two F1 drivers.
Lance is asked if he has traveled to places at risk of TB (well the idea of Vietnam is now a phantom GP and although they travel the world with their work, he has never been to areas where risk of South Africa, India).
Esteban hears for the first time the word asbestos a mineral once widely used in industry, which could be found in some old appliances and which could be the cause of Lance's ill health.

Only after the physical examination, after listening to Lance's chest and noting a coarse, shrill noise during breathing, does the doctor finally pronounce a diagnosis.

"It's pleurisy! It's an inflammation of the pleura, the membrane made up of two large thin sheets of tissue that surround the lungs and chest cavity, respectively."
"Is it serious doctor? What could have caused it?"
Esteban anticipates any form of protest from Lance, even if he gently strokes the silent Canadian's hand (apart from a few coughs) and feels guilty for not having understood how bad Lance was and for not insisting on having him examined sooner.

"The most frequent cause is a viral infection, a flu, and it seems to be the very reason for Lance's pleurisy. It's not too serious a condition and with good and timely treatment the recovery will be complete!"

****** ******

Lance's mouth is dry and already has a slightly metallic taste as Esteban fills him a glass of water and prepares his boyfriend's meds: if
ibuprofen is a panacea to relieve his pain, Lance is reluctant to swallow the drops of codeine.
" Dai mon chou don't be a baby now: these will help you keep your cough under control!"
"They suck, they taste so bitter! If only, as Nicholas once said, medicines could taste like Nutella..."
Lance sighs unhappily, remembering that observation by the other Canadian driver on the grid until last year.

Esteba drops the dropper and seems to give in to this wayward sick Lance; even leaving him alone by leaving the bedroom.
However, Lance knows that the Frenchman is even more stubborn than him, he proved it when, after the doors of F1 seemed to have closed forever in 2019, he returned to the grid the following year, conquering podiums and victories, so there is no it's a wonder he takes his job as a caregiver so seriously.
In fact, after a few minutes Esteban returns with half a glass of semi-melted ice cream.

"I didn't find Nutella in your cupboard but ice cream is even better for adopting a trick my mother used to use on me when I didn't want to take antibiotics as a kid!"
Adopting the way Sabine was able to cover the bad taste of the medicine and to anesthetize little Esteban's mouth with that cold food, Lance finally manages to take all his medicines.

"You know, my parents instead offered me a reward: my favorite dish, new stickers to collect..."
Lance says when he can finally lie down in bed: on the sore side because it feels comfortable. Esteban rubs Lance's back and places little kisses on his shoulder as Lance takes deep breaths.
"Well, I can offer you a lot of cuddles as a reward if tomorrow you won't be so petulant... After all, a long rest awaits you: I'll have plenty of time to spoil you!"

Chapter Text

The life of an F1 driver is full of privileges but also prohibitions. Max gladly accepted Red Bull's firm decision to prevent him from riding large-engined motorcycles or other vehicles that could endanger his safety off the track; however Hasselt's talent turned up his nose when Helmut denied him being able to take part in the exhibition at the Nordschleife together with old glories of the team such as Sebastian Vettel and Daniel Ricciardo.

Max knows that he would have tried to push the RB7 to the limit as well during the Red Bull Formula Nurburgring and that his team doesn't want any unnecessary risks for him; luckily Helmut, Christian and nobody else can put any veto on his winter holidays.

For this reason it is located in a mountain chalet, surrounded only by pine forests and endless expanses of fresh snow.
He and Fernando want to spend a few days isolated from the world and, since they weren't able to leave together because their schedules didn't match, Max arrived early and decided to start making the place welcoming for the arrival of his fiancé.

Max dedicates himself to lighting the wood stove, then sits down on the sofa to relax and his last coherent thought is that the sky is turning gray and Fernando would do well to get there before a real blizzard breaks out.
Suddenly Max feels weak and has a headache. He feels nauseous and wants to vomit: God, he really hopes he didn't catch some intestinal virus just at the beginning of the holidays!
Then he struggles to keep his eyes open and sleepiness is so tempting…

****** ********

Fernando has rented a snowmobile to reach the enchanted chalet which will be the perfect environment where he and Max can pamper, relax and make love away from prying eyes.
The Aston Martin driver is already looking forward to the long days in which he will be able to devote himself exclusively to his formidable boyfriend, while accelerating with his right thumb.
Who knows, maybe even today he will make fun of Max because it was he who broke Red Bull's dominance in the championship, something the Dutchman was very happy and proud of to see the man he loves get his coveted win number 33!

When Fernando finally arrives near the cottage, he realizes that something is wrong.
Max is in the space in front of the door: he's crying and shaking.
"Hey, mi campeón, what's wrong?"
Fernando immediately rushes next to the Dutchman who has sunk into the soft white blanket of snow; he looks lucid but his body is paralyzed.
"Help me!"
It's the only thing the boy manages to murmur before losing consciousness.

If only he knew what Max is suffering from, Fernando would not hesitate to give him first aid but he is totally groping in the dark: he is alone, isolated from the world and unable to call an ambulance because there is no signal on his phone and every minute could be precious or fatal for Max.
Fernando has no alternative but to act quickly: he picks Max up in his arms, pins dutchman firmly to his body as he embarks on a desperate snowmobile journey.

Driving at full throttle with Max's safety as a priority, with snow crystals dancing in the air distracting him and with gusts of wind treacherously sneaking past his padded jacket is a real nightmare for Fernando but he doesn't stop. : not when his wrist and forefinger start to hurt from the effort of accelerating and braking in increasingly difficult coordination, not when tiredness tells him that giving up would be the easier choice.
"Hold on Max, you'll be safe soon!"

******* *******

The first time Max wakes up in what seems to him a glass case similar to the one in which Snow White was placed after eating the poisoned apple.
The second time, when he wakes up in a hospital bed with an oxygen mask on his face, he learns it was a single patient hyperbaric chamber.

"Do you remember anything about what happened, Max?"
Fernando asks in a hoarse voice, Max doesn't know if it's because he cried a lot or because he caught a bad cold. Maybe both.
"I remember you screaming my name at the top of your lungs..."
The Dutchman says and Fernando is so grateful for those blue eyes watching him that he never wants to leave them again.
"Then they stuck needles all over me. Was there an ambulance? And then the fresh, clean air!"
Fernando frowns for a moment because clearly Max's memories are true albeit confused and he doesn't want to tell him all the odyssey he had to suffer to finally get to the hospital. However the Spaniard smiles because he is about to tell Max something difficult to accept.

"You had carbon monoxide poisoning, mi amor !"
"How is it possible?"
The Red Bull driver cries in dismay.
How could he not have noticed the incomplete burning of wood and low oxygen content in that room?
How is it possible that he survived a fatal condition 99% of the time ?

"Hey Max, it's all right now, ok? It's not your fault: carbon monoxide is an odorless and colorless gas, you couldn't have noticed it. Thank God you had the energy and foresight to drag yourself out of that death trap And that's where I found you!"
Fernando caresses his hand with soothing massages.
There will be time for the neurological examination that Max will have to undergo and to face his slight amnesia (which the doctors have assured will resolve completely).
There will be time to point the finger at the guilty and demand that they pay because Max is almost dead.
Now Fernando wants to enjoy every moment by Max's side. (Although he didn't plan to spend the winter break at his bedside rather than snuggled together under the soft blankets of a king size bed).

"Why don't you go and rest a bit now, Fer? You look like my grandfather rather than my attractive boyfriend!"
Max jokes about the bad appearance of the Spaniard: well he would like to see him with the fright that Fernando got!
"And give up your always sweet love jokes?"
Fernando jokes, kissing Max's hand.
They'll have to drag him along to prevent him from staying by Max's side from now on!
"Life is really a breath. A snap of the fingers!"
The wise Spaniard reflects aloud.
"The Loss of a Wood Stove!"
Max adds with a weary, grateful smile.

He still has so much to live for. And fate and Fernando gave him a second chance!

Chapter Text

The notes of Das Lied der Deutschen resonate on the podium and, if for a long time in the past this was the song of the German unification movement, today it brings everyone, critics and supporters, to agree in the applauding Mick Schumacher on the top step of the podium; the one who consecrates him to glory.

Lewis mixes with Mercedes, mingling with the enthusiastic engineers, ready to celebrate that son of art who is too often mistreated and too often penalized by cumbersome comparisons.
Lewis has never been so happy to sprain his ankle which forced him to miss the GP because, in doing so, it allowed a young talent to have his chance at the most difficult moment of Mick's career, when all the his insecurities had now prevailed over his ambitions.

Seb has warned him that, as the years go by, a kind of paternal protection develops towards the younger drivers on the grid and, now that he is nearing the end of his racing career, Lewis discovers the full truth of the words of the friend-rival.
In 2020 he was sorry when George wasted the great opportunity for a mess in the pits but he was also annoyed because Covid had forced him to miss a race even though he was already mathematically world champion; today Lewis feels only pride and happiness for his replacement on the track.

It was nice to see car number 44 leading the race again and that red and black helmet standing out above all the others.
Michael's helmet.
Mick handed it to Lewis at the Nurburgring in 2020, when the Anglo-Caribbean equaled Michael's win record and that he wanted to give back to Mick for his first race in a top team.
"This is the helmet your dad joined our team with at the end of his career. I know it's not part of his triumphal collection, that he never won wearing it, but maybe it's waiting for you to break this curse !"

The memory of Lewis' pep-talk with good luck wishing Mick is interrupted when, instead of uncorking the champagne and gleefully dunking Lando and George beside him, Mick begins to sway precariously like a drunk .

Lewis recalls the most diverse reactions to the first career victories of his young colleagues.
Remember Max's proud smile in Barcelona (even if the murderous rage he felt towards Nico that day prevails over everything else)
Remember the teary eyes and the kiss to the sky of Charles in the saddest podium of the last years.
He remembers Pierre's moving tears in a deserted Monza and Esteban's contained cheerfulness, hidden behind the kindness with which he supported an exhausted Lewis in Hungary.
However, the Mercedes multiple champion had never witnessed a winner who faints with the gold medal around his neck.

******* *******

Emotions never experienced in his life have given Mick an energy he hasn't had in days. Happiness is the only emotion to radiate throughout the body and the young German has naturally stretched his neck and head upwards, in the posture of one who is afraid of nothing, his shoulders straightened and relaxed and his her tone of voice increased in intensity as he sang the lines of Das Lied der Deutschen.

But when he started sweating and his vision started blurring, Mick blamed it on the heat and started counting down the minutes until he could finally get rid of his racing suit. When his lips and fingertips began to tingle and his vision turned into tunnel vision on Lando's racing suit suddenly a faded orange, the McLaren driver worried: "Mick, are you okay? You're white as a sheet!"
The young Schumacher suddenly lost his muscle tone and fell into the arms which George promptly extended to support him.

Then everything went dark.
Mick finds himself lying between soft, puffy pillows and under a soft blanket.
He looks down to meet the IV needle in his hand.
He's clearly in the medical center, if not worse in the hospital, so where did that fluffy blanket come from?

"Oh you're awake!"
Lewis smiles from a chair next to his bedside even if he can't hide all his apprehension well.
"Sorry for ruining the Mercedes post-race party!"
Mick mumbles, rubbing his eyes and wincing at the headache. He still feels quite dizzy.

"Hey you have nothing to worry about. Let them celebrate George's third place... After all, the guest of honor always keeps waiting, right?"

Mick whimpers, then puffs out his cheeks like a pufferfish.
He leans back against the cushions and stares at the white ceiling.
"I'm a real disaster, aren't I? I managed to show myself weak even on the day of my first victory in Formula 1! Everyone who says I don't even have a nail of my dad's talent is right!"

Lewis grabs Mick's hand and there's no hesitation as he begins to speak as the words come straight from his heart.
"I always knew you were a special and talented person long before today. Of course, you have finally achieved success but I, indeed all of us at Mercedes, have seen how hard you have worked in the simulator and behind the scenes since you became our third driver. it is also thanks to your precious contribution that our car has improved so much and we can aspire to new victories."

Mick listens in silence but shifts his wet gaze towards Lewis.
"You're not your father, Mick. And you don't have to be obsessed with becoming like him or equaling his career…Imagine if Max would have done such a thing!"
Mick chuckles at that joke Lewis threw in to dampen the solemnity of his speech and thinks it's funny that Max and Jos' story is inversely proportional to his.

"You passed out on the podium because you didn't spare yourself even a second. You did such painstaking and exhausting work without anyone acknowledging the right merits and the mix of emotion and tiredness was lethal for your body!"
Lewis explains to him amicably and Mick sighs.

"Well I was rewarded with a win and this super soft blanket...I hope it's not Roscoe's!"
Lewis laughs. As soon as Mick feels better and is cleared by the doctors, he will finally be able to act as Cicero and take him to the party with which everyone in Mercedes is eager to honor him.

Chapter Text

The last page of the calendar is ripped away without words: this year that is coming to an end has been full of emotions and disappointments for Mick but, more than anything else, it has been a terrible year.

Getting up, redeeming himself, starting again are the boy's goals for a new beginning that smells of courage and possibility.

New Year's Eve in Thurgau is so cold that Mick's cheeks turn red and his breath condenses into little clouds as, with trembling fingers, he pulls up the collar of his winter jacket.
"I told you to wear a scarf too, Schatz !"
Sebastia scolds him with a paternal smile.
"Hey give the boy a break! At least he's put on his wool hat!"
Lewis, Seb's husband, immediately takes Mick's defense as soon as he appears in the garden with a tray on which the flûtes wobbly and a bottle of champagne with which, in a few minutes, they will toast to the new year.

In reality, the wind suddenly picks up and the cold air seeps into Mick's clothes, leaving him shivering until Seb nudges him closer to the bonfire he's set up in advance so they can watch the midnight fireworks display, without risking hypothermia.

For the young Schumacher it is a privilege to spend this night of celebration together with the two multiple world champions: with their subtle attentions, Seb and Lewis made him forget for a few hours the draining loneliness that has been his only companion in recent weeks and the awareness that, in Germany, has left a crumbling family.
Corinna, his mom, is in the hospital with Gina Maria and for his dad is left only the legend and the regret of a champion with a tragic fate who passed away too soon.

It was nice to feel protected, cared for and pampered in the domestic tranquility that is the marital relationship between Lewis and Sebastian.
The two men spoiled Mick with a dinner of raclette and rösti and Mick's heart was as stringy as the cheese in the fondue.

Mick takes a deep breath as he watches the bonfire burn in a bright sparkling flame and remembers the time when his dad carried him on his shoulders as the fireworks battled the stars in the sky and Mick watched in childlike wonder and with upturned nose those colored flashes that illuminated the sky and the earth as they exploded into a thousand pieces.

***** *******

Suddenly there is a loud, almost deafening sound right behind Mick.
The first firework explodes without warning and takes Mick so by surprise that he blows it up.

His heart starts pounding, picking up its pace until Mick is sure it will come out of his chest. He can't breathe. He desperately tries to gasp for air, but his panic only increases when he feels like he won't be able to fill his lungs properly.

In a sudden alienation from reality, Mick is no longer in the garden of the Vettel-Hamilton's.
He is out of the stables where Gina, a young rising star of the world of Reining, breeds, looks after and loves her horses.
The hooves of the thoroughbreds stamp on the pavement, they toss their manes like loose hair, wag their tails and neigh nervously .

Louder noises, more distant this time.
Shooting! It echoes in Mick's alarmed mind.
Gina is on the ground, sprawled on a soft straw bed, her cowgirl hat rolled off, her blonde hair scattered in a crown around her face like a saint's halo.
Every fiber in Mick's body screams for him to run, somehow get to safety because the intruder who just assaulted his sister is still around.
Instinct screams for him to run to Gina Maria's rescue but his body can't move.
Try as he might, Mick seems paralyzed were it not for the shivering throughout his body .

There's this sudden certainty that he's going to die, that his heart will give out or kill him before the lack of oxygen.

******** *******

Gina Maria was very lucky.
A gunshot wound is one of the most traumatic a person can sustain but, once the bullet was extracted, she thankfully escaped with a graze wound to the shoulder and possibly PTSD .
So why are all of Mick's senses on alert and scenting danger everywhere even though his sister is safe and her assailant in jail?
What's wrong with him?
His mind races and he can practically feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, like on the Sundays he raced in F1.
Mick tries to concentrate, he realizes there are voices around him but he can't make out anything in particular. A few more frantic gasps later a voice clears from the white noise.

"Mick! Hey, can you hear me?" Seb's calm and worried voice. "Can you shake my hand, Schatz?"

Mick only realizes Seb is holding his hand when he sees their fingers intertwined. He tries to close his hand, to give Seb the sign he's asked for, but he can only move his fingers weakly.
"Okay, yes? Everything will be fine!"
Mick is startled when Lewis' tattooed hand moves along his cheek, stopping at his jaw and forcing the boy, somehow, to focus his attention on Lewis and Sebastian.

"Can you watch us?"
Lewis asks softly as his thumb gently turns Mick's face towards them.
The first thing the young Schumacher realizes are the tears in Seb's eyes, the mildly terrified expression promptly replaced by relief as Mick emerges from his haze.
"Seb..." Mick croaks, barely recognizing her voice.
"I...'m sorry!"
"Hey, you have nothing to be sorry about! C'mere." Sebastian pulls what he has always considered a godson into his arms, holding him tightly. "You'll be fine."

Mick doesn't feel embarrassed or uncomfortable as he slowly grounds himself to reality.
Seb knows the nightmares that populated Mick's nights after his father's death.
He and Lewis were his greatest support during that confused and mournful period and, both in the paddock and outside the circuits, they always gave him affection and protection.
So now she doesn't need to explain her panic attack. They understand.
"Let's take you home, alright Mick? I'm sure your sister and mum are already calling to wish you well and then, if you want, we can talk about what happened!"
Lewis takes the lead with an encouraging smile and Mick realizes how stiff his body is.

"Not a great way to start the new year, huh?"
He tries to play down and Sebastian affectionately ruffles his hair.
"Come on let's go. We have left behind this year full of bad memories and we have plenty of time to start the new year auspiciously!"
Mick knows that his father is irreplaceable but he feels less alone having these two substitutes who are always available and welcoming, always ready to listen and encourage him.
Seb and Lewis are his guardian angels.

Chapter Text

Nicholas is studying in the open air, in the space in front of his house that looks like a Zen garden, when the phone call comes.

Even though Lance swears it was an accident, Nicholas knows his boyfriend is being targeted.
The two Canadians have always been easy prey for bullies, first due to the economic wealth of their families and then because they have never been considered worthy of F1.
Only, after a certain age, Nicholas calls those people narcissistic, arrogant, and idiotic.
"Hockey is violent and dangerous!"
The ex-Williams driver tried to dissuade Lance from participating in an game of Canada's most beloved sport by summing it all up with a I won't come to cheer for you in a fight!
"I'll be stuffed like a Michelin man. Nothing bad will happen to me !"

Nicholas stares for a few moments at the paragraph he underlined with very light pencil strokes, because he considers the books works of art and doesn't want to smear them with an excessive use of highlighter strokes as he did with his notes in the garage, while Lance's reassurance sounds empty to his ears.

Kenya, Lance's dog, chases the cup with the remains of Nutella ice cream that Nicholas always leaves him in secret and is so funny while, with his velvety tongue, he plays a skill game with every licking , which for an instant she blunts all anxiety in Nicholas' stomach.
Until Lance's voice comes over the phone.

"I'm on my way to Montreal General Hospital, by ambulance. I took a fall on the ice. Do you want to meet me there?"

******* ***********

"Nick I'm fine! The doctors are taking care of me."
Nicholas raises his eyebrows at Lance's bumbling attempt to reassure him. Young Stroll is clearly in pain, and the information Nicholas received from the ER doctor justifies all his skepticism and concern.
He was carried on a stretcher and then to the hospital with a head injury.
Nicholas approaches and takes a silver circlet out of his pocket.
"They gave it to me because they needed to scan your head!"
Lance takes his engagement ring and slips it on his left finger, where he hopes it will stay until the morning of a future wedding when he'll moves it to his right ring finger to make room for the real wedding band.
"Did I have a concussion?"
"That's what doctors think, that's why they want to make sure with a CT scan. Now, can you tell me how that happened?"
While Lance feels more connected than ever with his boyfriend, he's never been able to get him to share the idea that ice hockey is an art.
It requires speed, precision and strength like other sports, but it also requires extraordinary intelligence to develop a logical sequence of movements, a technique that is fluid, graceful and in tune with the rest of the game.

An opposing player pushed Lance towards the plexiglass edge of the sideline that leads to the exit from the field. Lance hit his head in a corner and fell to the ice, motionless.

"I had a little scuffle on the ice. I scored a few goals and the other team got offended."

"They attacked you, didn't they?"
Nicholas remembers all too well, almost like a physical pain, the cowardly violence he was the victim of after being, against his will, the involuntary referee of the fiery 2021 world title fight. But then, even if he received death threats that scared him a lot, the haters limited themselves to going wild on social networks, in virtual reality where responsibility, protection and empathy are absent for a moment.
"Not exactly attacked, but they targeted me."

He and Lance have heard too many times the fans , the purists , whoever mock them when they miss a braking point or crash on the track.
Too many times they've laughed at them because they didn't live up to their teammates and because they don't have the makings of champions.
He is the only f1 driver who could crash a parked car.
They grinned in satisfaction as their sports careers, especially Nicholas's, fell apart.
Nicholas sits down next to Lance's bed and takes his boyfriend's hand.
"No more hockey! You won't do this to me again!"
Lance shakes his head, wincing when the movement causes pain.
"Bad people are also off the pitch Nick! Do you know how many offensive people enter the paddocks who are hit by my mere presence on the track? My helmet came off and I slipped and hit my head on the ice. Here's what I remember...Ah do you know that I scored a goal?"

Lance will be observed overnight but Nicholas seems impressed that he is wearing a hospital gown.
"Why aren't you wearing your clothes? I have to go ask the doctor how serious your situation is..."
Before he can get off his chair, Lance holds him with a firm grip on his wrist.
"It's okay, Nick. I had a nosebleed in the ambulance. My shirt was a little messed up with blood."
The effort to reassure her boyfriend seems to have drained Lance's remaining energy and he slumps back against the pillows in his hospital bed.
"Will you sit next to me?
Even though you will soon be earning an MBA in London, would you do me the honor of proceeding with a nice follow-up on your fiancé's health, Mr. Latifi?"
Nicholas chuckles, and leans down to kiss Lance's forehead.
"I love you!"
He whispers, brushing the fringe of Lance's dark hair back.
"I know. I'm sorry I scared you."
Lance responds, shaking Nicholas' hand.
"Having you here makes me feel so much better. And so much braver to face the enemy!"
A little later, away from an audience that applauds and much more often boos, the two Canadians fall asleep with the fingers of their hands intertwined.

Chapter Text

All Formula 1 drivers have super trained reflexes to dodge everything that happens on the track but, after a bad accident, the quickest reflex is to blame someone.
Oscar, like any good Australian, has always had a strong respect for the value of mateship and when he realizes that Zhou, with whom he has just collided on the first lap, stalls and does not get out of his Alfa Romeo, his instinct of loyalty and friendship prevails.
It's natural to be a little on edge after what just happened: Oscar's race is irreparably compromised and, when the race resumes after the red flag has been exposed, his McLaren 81 has suffered too much damage and this Sunday, which started under the best auspices, will end sadly with a DNF.
Oscar isn't looking for an alibi: the early stages of the match are always a lottery and it's easy to get involved in contacts in that chaos of cars, especially in midfield.

When the medical car arrives at the curve where the C43 and the MCL60 look more like crumpled metal than racing cars, Oscar receives inquisitive looks which, little by little, make his senses of guilt gush out, making him feel almost like a criminal.
"Are you okay, kid? Need a ride to the medical center to get checked out?"
Bruno Correia asks him and, even though he is sweating profusely and his heartbeat is racing, Oscar shakes his head as he hears Zhou scream in pain.
"Suspected Scaphoid Fracture!"
The young Australian manages to hear the words of the doctor who is checking the hand that Zhou was injured in the impact and notices that the Chinese cannot move his wrist or rotate his hand.
"Take care of him. Looks like a serious wound."
Oscar tells Bruno and sudden severe abdominal pain prevents him from adding that he will return to his team and they will take care of him.
The pain in his belly is so intense that Oscar doubts he will be able to handle his PR duties or his mechanics – he can't handle anyone's comments or jabs right now!
As soon as he shows up in the garage, however, Oscar reads understanding and support in the expressions of all members of McLaren, even if there is a little disappointment at having to withdraw one of the two cars.

Oscar staggers, almost tripping over his own feet, when Lando's left arm wraps around his waist and his teammate takes his hand to help stabilize him.
"Oscar we'll take you to the medical center, come on!"
"No!"
The young Australian mutters, dismissing a confused Lando.
"Oscar what's wrong?"
The Briton frowns.
"I can do it myself...Focus on your race!"
Proving him wrong, Oscar takes two steps and would collapse against a set of unused tires this weekend if Lando wasn't quick to back him up. The helmet, which Oscar hasn't noticed he's still holding since he got out of the car, slips from his weakened grip and clangs on the garage floor. He gives Lando a dull look before his eyes close and his head rests on his teammate's chest and Oscar finally gives in to exhaustion now that the adrenaline is no longer keeping him on his feet.

***** ********

Guanyu Zhou was lucky in today's unfortunate crash: his is a compound fracture so surgery will not be necessary.
Surely he will have to miss some race weekends or, much more likely, his racing season is already over but this injury will have no long-term consequences on his career.
Now that he sits at the bedside of a colleague, with a brace that immobilizes his wrist and thumb, he can only think that severe abdominal trauma can influence the prognosis quoad vitam.

Esteban, or perhaps Pierre, told him that in France, contusions account for more than 80% of abdominal trauma. Mortality reaches 30%, most often following a hemorrhage and therefore Zhou does not know whether to be flattered by Oscar's altruism, who has given precedence to his pain, or to be furious with him for his recklessness in underestimating symptoms that could prove to be very risky for the health of the young Australian.
Zhou runs the fingers of his good hand through Oscar's tousled hair as the McLaren driver opens his eyes.
Under other circumstances and at a different time he would probably take a moment to savor the closeness with the Chinese boy but now the compression bandage around his torso makes even breathing uncomfortable and he realizes he has an ice pack on his abdomen.
"You need lots of rest to avoid complications from your abdominal injury!"
Zhou tells him with a patient smile. He knows it's a lot to process for Oscar so, for the moment, he prefers to avoid the details: the doctors are doing everything to get his hematoma absorbed because, if it were to rupture, it could cause a potentially fatal hemorrhage.

"You've a brace!"
Oscar notices the swelling at the base of Zhou's thumb and, if he were able to move, he would probably try to give him a light massage to calm the pain which, surely, the painkillers have already mitigated.
"Oh it's nothing. He'll get better soon. Now I have to go...Get better soon, Oscar!"
The Alfa Romeo driver gets up from the uncomfortable chair but Oscar stops him.
"Wait! Would you like to stay a little longer? There's a TV here...Maybe we could watch the race together."
Zhou seems to reflect on that proposal for a single moment, then smiles and takes his place again next to Oscar's hospital bed.
"Why not? Sure you want to though? Relations between Australia and China have been a bit tense lately and I wouldn't want the culprit of our accident to exacerbate them!"
There is a flash of mischief that flickers in Oscar's mischievous gaze.
"I've never been so sure in my life!"

Chapter Text

Charles is tired.
The last few weeks have seen him always busy, always in a hurry: he worked for too many exhausting hours in the factory to improve the SF24, and he was also tirelessly divided between professional commitments and family.

His life has been a chain of frenetic events since his mother was admitted to hospital for some tests, in the same days Lorenzo became a new father and Charles took on the role of head of the family, also trying to be supportive to Arthur's career.
In the end he is not tired by the things he does but by the tension of having to do them. Worst of all, it's a race weekend when Charles struggles more than usual to find the energy to get out of bed.
He tells himself that he is lazy and will not admit to anyone else, be it another driver or a member of his family, that for him running this race will be a real challenge to himself.
His feet drag against the floor of the Ferrari hospitality area, his mental clouding is such that he almost trips. He straightens up, slightly more awake now, grateful that the hallway is empty so no one is around to see his misstep. Literally. He lengthens his pace and finds himself before the scrutinizing Carlos's eyes.

"Should I warn Andrea?"
The Spaniard asks with sincere concern that is misunderstood by Charles: he doesn't need his teammate, with whom relations soured after Monza last year, to go and snitch on his coach.
“You just have to mind your own business!”
Charles snaps, only later realizing how this irascibility is out of character for him.

His mood swings begin to alarm him when, later, he even snaps at Pierre on the driver's parade truck.

"Tu es épuisé, calamardo!"
His best friend approaches him almost furtively and hides all his apprehension behind his sunglasses.

"I consider the tiredness of those who have never spared themselves value!"
Charles responds defensively.

"Why is Charles quoting Mother Teresa of Calcutta?"
Sergio, who was within earshot, interjects curiously.
"Why don't you think about your races? Maybe you, Pierre, want to score some points and you, Checo, don't want to be humiliated by your teammate, right?"

Charles' tiredness leads him to be ruthless and harsh but also brings a sweetness that leaves him defenseless.

Rhythm, high-sounding words, honor, reference to the past, look to the future.

The national anthems, especially the most beautiful ones that they listen to before getting into the cockpit, usually energize Charles. Today even music acts as a trigger that transmits anxiety and uneasiness to his disconnected brain.

"I don't think it's wise to race today, kid!"
This time it is Lewis Hamilton himself who warns Charles, with George hot on his heels.
"You've been distracted since Friday's debriefing, Charles. You're the only pilot who had trouble making decisions or a position!"

The president of the GPDA underlines making the Ferrari driver blush slightly. For him they could have discussed safety issues as well as the weekend menu because he doesn't remember anything, having had difficulty thinking about any topic.

The discomfort is visible on Charles' face and gradually contracts his world until it is reduced to a half-closed window from which he sees only the shadows of those he considered friends but who, his tired mind, considers traitors.

“If you even dare to get in the car and put your life in danger, I swear I'll kick you out on the formation lap…At the risk of being calledCrashstappen again!”
Max hisses threateningly through clenched teeth, shoving him with his shoulder as he passes him and giving a fake smile to the cameras.

Indirectly, it is Max who rings the alarm clock for Charles: he doesn't care much about putting his life in danger but he could be a danger to the other drivers if he runs so dizzy and lacking concentration. And if he were to cause an accident he would never forgive himself.

He has already decided that it is better to remain in the realm of the unfinished rather than never give up when, as a further extreme gesture to protect him, all the other nineteen drivers are lined up in a wall around his SF24 number 16.

"I feel as tired as an old oak tree that can't stand looking at the same wall they've built in front of it right now. But, guys, you're the kind of flower that makes the cracks and crevices in it. This wall you have erected to protect me is disproportionate but beautiful!"

In fact it is not very harmonious to see Yuki next to Esteban but the solidarity of all his colleagues moves Charles beyond any symmetry.

******* *********

Charles goes to answer the door of his hotel room with only a pair of boxers and his hair wild from sleep. He drags his feet along the carpet, his eyes mostly closed but promptly widening when he finds himself in front of Max, rather than Pierre as he expected.

"Your BBF was kidnapped by his team to celebrate his podium, so I came to check on you. Go back to bed and try to relax, okay?"
Max says in a tone that is first amused and then strangely sweet and thoughtful.

Charles feels a mixture of discomfort and embarrassment, tinged with pleasure.
"Congratulations on the victory."
He mumbles, putting his head back on the pillow.
"And thanks for being rude to me today. You stopped me from doing something stupid!"

Max smiles with condescension but also with pity. Lando suffered a DNF after a bad off-track during the race which forced him to the medical center and here, no one knows how, he discovered that Charles' mental fatigue was such that it could have led to a nervous breakdown.
It wasn't difficult for Max to extract this information from the MCLaren driver, one of his closest friends.

"I should probably apologize to Carlos, Pierre and Checo. I was a real dick to them."
Charles thinks aloud.

"They have already forgiven you and we have all decided to contribute to streamlining your busy schedule in the next few days!"
Max is excited to make Charles aware of that program that, between interviews and post-race debriefings, all the other riders have drawn up God knows when!
"Yuki obviously offered to help you follow a healthy and balanced diet by assisting Andrea.
Carlos will take on some of your work in the factory during these days in which you will observe absolute rest. Obviously hoping that at Ferrari the nervous stress doesn't cause him to suffer."
Max can't help but comment, causing Charles to dramatically roll his eyes.

"Alex, George and Lando will distract you and make you relax. Pierre..."
"Oh God, tell me he didn't offer to babysit Lorenzo!"
Charles interrupts with a panicked voice that makes Max chuckle.
Well it's not Charles' fault that his best friend proved he couldn't even hold a newborn properly!
"No, that bordélique will keep an eye on Arthur and keep your mother company."

Sergio, Kevin and Nico, the paddock dads, offered solidarity and fatherly advice for Charles' brother, should it be needed.
And all the other pilots, in their own small way, want to help make Charles' life more relaxed.

"And what will you do for me, Max?"
Charles asks finally, a little curious and a little provocative.

Max sits cross-legged in the center of the bed and tacitly invites Charles to curl up in his lap.
"C'mere. We can do this together, okay? Close your eyes and let your mind float lightly, worry-free now!"

Charles, tired of unraveling knots and tangles, holding back opportunities, and trying to fix all the people he loves, is grateful for this: some warmth and Max's solid body to rest against.

Chapter Text

When, during the week, Helmut Marko complained about the exorbitant price of alcohol in Qatar, Pierre felt a kind of belated satisfaction.
The bans of this conservative country will at least put a black stain on the perfect celebration for that drivers' title from which only arithmetic divided the golden boy of Red Bull.

Despite the hatred towards his former team, however, Pierre would rather be celebrating Max's championship victory than celebrating Esteban's podium.
After the tension of the last two weeks and Pierre's DNF today in Losail, the boy must make the best of things.

Nobody takes away from his head the belief that the problems with his A523 today were the team's way of taking revenge for his hot reaction at the finish line in Suzuka, so Pierre prefers to remain hidden in a corner of the room where Alpine celebrates Esteban's podium.
He only walks away to get a drink to cool off but, shortly after, he feels like he's drank three flutes of champagne in a row.

"They didn't just grant exemptions to Red Bull, I see.Let's get drunk, here's to your health Estie!"
Pierre's words are slurred and he can't keep his balance no matter how hard he tries.
He looks for a stool to lean on to get as far away from Esteban as possible but his teammate puts his arm around his shoulders and grabs the drink from Pierre's hands before he hurts himself with the glass.

"Where did you get this drink, Pierre?"
The former AlphaTauri driver blinks as if he had to answer a really stupid question, then points to the half-hidden table.
"Pourquoi?"
The last syllables explode into a quack that sounds like a duck quacking, which would be comical if Esteban hadn't already realized the current situation.
"Merde! Come on, let's go back to the hotel and I'll explain everything to you!"

If he were capable of discernment , Pierre would object that he would not follow Esteban even if he were dragged but suddenly he feels tired, as if he had just racing in Singapore, his muscles are sore, his mouth and throat are dry, as if he is about to catch a cold, his head hurts and he is so confused that he struggles to focus on any figure among the black tuxedos and people still wearing Alpine merchandise.

In a brief moment of clarity he realizes that Esteban is making him lie down in the back seat of a car, in a recovery position.
"Je ne suis pas un enfant!"
Pierre protests by trying to sit up, even though his muscles don't cooperate.
"Stay down, we have to avoid making you suffocate in case you vomit!"

*** ******

Esteban knows that the Qatari authorities are strict with anyone stopped for speeding but he will pay the QAR 500 fine if it means getting Pierre safely back to his hotel room.
The journey between Doha's richest neighborhoods takes no more than fifteen minutes, although five of those minutes see Esteban turning to check that Pierre is still conscious in the back seat. Esteban parks trying not to cause jolts to his teammate's body, then very slowly moves Pierre to an upright position and, very carefully, helps him out of the Renault Arkana that the team provided him as a rental car this weekend.

Pierre's slurred speech and dizziness give way to lethargy that makes it almost impossible for Esteban to support him to the elevator, as he curses that team order that gave rise to his childish revenge, this evening.
It's lucky that they don't pass anyone in the elevator and in the corridor to their adjoining rooms: the hair that Pierre had previously styled perfectly is now a mess. Esteban takes off his jacket, an item of clothing that definitely comes from an old AlphaTauri collection, then starts undoing the buttons on Pierre's shirt, even though he complains.

After also taking off his shoes and placing him on the bed, Esteban forces Pierre to drink from a bottle of water, resting his head on a pile of pillows once he is satisfied with the amount of water Pierre has drunk.
Unexpectedly, Pierre moves to curl up on Esteban's chest, like when they were children and falls into a heavy sleep.
Esteban can't help the smile.

***** ******

When Pierre wakes up he is dazed and confused, his lips are dry and his pounding head rests on something softer than a backrest. He realizes it's a body and wonders how drunk he must have been to not remember it.
"Bonjour Pierrot!"
Pierre gasps and moves away from Esteban as if he had just been hit with an electric shock.
“What…s’est passé?”
Esteban frowns as he notices that Pierre is still unable to think clearly. Esteban convinces him to have another drink by promising to explain everything to him once his head is clearer.

“We didn't sleep together, if that's what you're worried about!”
Pierre huffs and Esteban can safely say he's over the worst of it, no trips to the ER needed.

"Did I crash on the track? I think I had a DNF...Did we collide like in Melbourne or did you jump over me like in Budapest?"
Everything from yesterday is a blur in Pierre's memories.

“I need you to stay calm for me, promise?”
Pierre doesn't answer and Esteban sighs in defeat.
“The reason you feel so bad is because you had a drink that was left on a table because it had been spiked.”
“Was I drugged?”
Esteban moves uncomfortably.
"That's not all. I knew before you drank it, but I didn't do anything to warn you!"

Pierre tries to jump up, his face turning red with anger, but he falters and is easily carried back to the sofa by Esteban.
"What the fuck! Did you deliberately let them put me in danger?"
Tears well up in Esteban's eyes and he has never been as ashamed of himself as he is in this moment.
"I know it was very stupid and childish of me but I didn't think anyone actually drank rose water..."
"I thought there couldn't be anything worse than being Max's teammate...Maybe I should change my mind!"
Pierre's gaze pierces him, making Esteban's blood run cold.
“The man who put drugs in the drink has been arrested and fired!”
Esteban says as a peace offering and Pierre shudders to think that someone from his side of the garage might have done this to him out of spite, for that middle finger he showed them on world live, in Japan.

It won't be easy to forgive Esteban, especially considering the dangerous consequences that those psychoactive substances could have had on his physical and mental functions.
His mother, however, always tells him that in true forgiveness there is understanding, courage, love and the desire to open a new chapter.

“Did you take care of me all night?”
Pierre asks, holding out a hand. There will be time for clarifications.
Esteban nods, relieved to no longer see fear and disgust in Pierre's contemptuous gaze.
Indeed his irises are now blue like a placid lake.
His response comes in a whisper, as if he were afraid of breaking the fragile truce that has been created between their tensions.
"I'll take care of you today too, if you'll let me!"

Chapter Text

Mick's life is like this luxurious hotel in the heart of Abu Dhabi, where all the glitz is in the lobby.

Since he has been in Formula 1 he feels as if he has continued to drink bad wine, worrying that the glasses are made of crystal.
At least that's how the media makes him feel, when their fatal pens hurt him worse than a stone in the chest.

The 2023 championship has just ended, without any particular fanfare, and Mercedes will give Mick the opportunity to perform with the W14 during tests to try the tires for the next championship, in a couple of days.
A wonderful opportunity for journalists and enthusiasts to find new reasons to criticize the young Schumacher: highlighting what is wrong with his driving, underlining the negative rather than the positive.
Noting how different he is from his father.

Even being back on track with the other drivers, some of whom he already competed with up until last year and others who have proven to be excellent rookies, makes Mick a little nervous.
At the moment, however, he doesn't want to think about it.

This evening he wants to help Esteban forget the disappointing season which, emblematically, Alpine finished out of the points in the last race. The fact that they are located in the third most expensive hotel in the city, with guaranteed sumptuous relaxation treatments, is certainly an excellent incentive for distraction.

Glittering chandeliers and a series of domes, the largest of which is meticulously decorated with gold, mother-of-pearl and crystals, stun Mick more than Esteban's kisses do.

The crystal vibrates, emits a hard and powerful sound, clinking like ice on glass, when Esteban shakes above him, his black hair tangled in the German's hands.

"We need to rehydrate and have a post-sex snack, Meine Liebe !"

Mick whispers, giggling at the tickling that Esteban's hands cause him, while the Frenchman cleans him carefully.
"We should have had coffee before fucking, not after. A trend circulating online claims that drinking coffee before sex can intensify orgasm by at least 50%."
This time Mick laughs seriously and gets up to get dressed, declaring that he will go in search of a real Arabic coffee, despite Esteban protesting that room service would be more convenient and convenient.
"Don't be so impatient Estie, soon we will be sipping a Qahwa together, with its intense cardamom flavour..."
"But without orange blossom water!"

********* *******

"I will, you know. One day I'll be able to surprise you!"
Esteban smiles sweetly, like a fool in love, while the words with which Mick greeted him, before closing the door of their hotel room, echo in his ears. He decides to tidy up the now completely unmade bed, so that everything is in order when Mick returns, when a thunderous crash coming from outside makes the hairs on his back stand on end, making him sit up stiffly.

A scream rises from his belly when he rushes into the corridor barefoot and faced with the scene in front of him the words die in his throat.
Half the chandelier is on the ground, a twisted wreck of broken crystals, bows, arms, cups, ceiling roses.
And in the midst of this disaster is Mick, panting and crying.

"Mick!"
Esteban calls to him, looking for a path to follow to reach him through the scattered pieces of glass.
"Ce qui s'est passé?"
Esteban doesn't have time to ask Mick if he's okay because Pierre, who has the room next to his roommate, bursts into the corridor with Charles hot on his heels.
Neither of them seems to mind that they are hastily and haphazardly dressed and that they are, however, still half naked.

"Mick..."
Esteban calls again, worried to see his boyfriend with skin as white as a ghost.
"Mick, where..."
He wants to ask him where it hurts but the sight of the blood on the carpet paralyzes him.
Strong arms hold him back and prevent him from collapsing and Esteban realizes that it is his friend Lance, who has appeared from who knows where.
Probably from downstairs with Fernando, because that's where the Aston Martin is housed.
"Mick where are you bleeding?"
When Esteban hears Alonso's voice taking matters into his own hands, he forgets all the skirmishes with his former teammate.

"Uh"
It's the only answering sound that comes from Mick and, for a second, everyone fears he's going to pass out.
Meanwhile Pierre bends down to check Mick's body part directly above the bloody shirt while Charles is already in contact with the emergency services.

"It's a laceration on the back, a few centimeters long. I couldn't say how deep"
Pierre says, making eye contact mostly with Esteban.
"I want to get up!"
Mick suddenly gasps when Fernando presses a towel on the bleeding wound and that's when Lance finally pushes Esteban to sit next to Mick.
"You can't, mon chou . But I promise I'll stay here with you!"

Mick groans, Esteban can't tell whether it's from pain or fear, then he struggles to speak.
" I'm sorry. Baby, es tut mir so leid."
Mick's teary eyes suddenly widen guiltily.
Now even his colleagues, driver friends, will think that he is incompetent. Just like the press does.
"Hey nothing to be sorry about, mon chou. We're all here to make sure you're okay!"
Esteban reassures him, with a kiss on the forehead.

******* *********

Esteban didn't tell a lie.
They're all there for Mick.
If they were a small minority in the hotel, once in the hospital the entire grill shows up waiting for news of the young Schumacher.

The worst part is waiting in the waiting room with everyone else while Mick undergoes a series of medical tests, the best part is that, for once, Pierre got it right: Mick has no puncture wounds and there are no they are fractures. Mick will get by with the gash and minor injury in his back, bruises, antibiotics that are already being administered to him and days of rest that will prevent him from being on the track in two days.
But that doesn't seem to worry anyone right now.

"Hey when you said you wanted to surprise me I didn't think you would pull off something so spectacular!"
Esteban greets him with a tense but relieved smile when he is finally allowed into the hospital room where Mick will remain for observation tonight.

"It was so embarrassing to be the victim of such a silly accident in front of the other guys. Now they will consider me even more stupid..."
Mick admits his hesitations out loud, studying the fold of the blue sheet.
"Hey, it was just an unfortunate accident and it could have happened to anyone. It wasn't your fault at all. I know when Haas sent you away last year it fueled your insecurities, I've been there in the past too ...And precisely because at this moment you need examples more than criticism, now I will surprise you!"

Esteban strokes his hand comfortingly, then looks at Mick with trust and sighs as if to collect his thoughts.
"Well, I'll start. They say I'm an unfair driver and that I'm a terrible teammate!"
“I might even agree if I were to fuel the sports journalism narrative!”
Pierre smiles, entering the room.
"Well I was branded for life as unable to handle pressure for my six months at Red Bull..."
"Where did he find me, me beeing called the worst partner that could happen to anyone, including Esteban!"
Max concludes for Pierre, entering and patting his childhood friend on the shoulder, who is now stirring in bed, heartened by these testimonies.

"Don't forget to say that popular opinion believes that our world titles are solely thanks to the cars we drove, Max!"
Lewis intervenes, setting himself up on the other side of Mick's bedside, making him a little intimidating. However, when Lewis winks at him, Mick's discomfort subsides.

"I drive the same car as Max but the journalists would enjoy seeing me capitulate and they already enjoy now belittling me at every race, exactly as they did in the past with Pierre or Alex!"
It's Checo's turn.
“Will you treat my Red Bull well next year, Nando?”
Fernando chuckles next to the Mexican.
"It depends. I'll keep an eye on you when I beat you up with my Aston. I'll never go and be a bootlicker to Max, with all due respect, but I'm the one who makes the wrong choices in my career!"
"Don't tell me! They've put the curse of the predestinato on me since I joined Ferrari!"
Charles talks to Fernando but turns to Mick with his usual shy and polite smile, tinged with sadness.

"Well your problems are made worse by how much I and the Spanish lobby are in charge of Ferrari, cabron!"
Carlos addresses his teammate seriously but it is clear that he is simply reporting a now well-rooted belief that makes him unpopular with the Ferrari fans themselves.

"At least you have two victories in your career. I'll soon have the record of podiums without achieving one!"
Lando smiles at Carlos and then at Mick with a shrug.
"Don't complain, guys! Think about those who don't even know what it's like to stand on the step of an F1 podium"
Nico jokes. There is a bit of embarrassment because, in fact, he is the usurper of the seat that belonged to Mick at Haas but in the complicity he is finding in the words of the other drivers, Mick finally feels understood .
Alex, George, Kevin, Oscar, Logan also speak... and they all have a testimony that helps Mick find an affinity that connects and consolidates them.
Lance, somehow, is the one who seems to understand best how cumbersome it is to have a heavy surname sewn on even if their stories are different.

Freeing himself from the fear of judgment from others means shaking off a backpack full of stones, a burden that has slowed Mick down until now; but now he knows that he can find mutual support in these people who appreciate him for the kind and polite boy he is, and not because he is Michael Schumacher's son, and they respect him for his value.
" Danke schon, guys. It really helps that all of you are here!"
Finally Mick speaks, exhales, slightly sleepy and buries his face in the pillow he made from Esteban's arm.
He falls asleep before the other drivers, his friends and his support network, can assure him that they will return tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Sebastian Vettel has always been an enterprising person; the kind of person who can come across a pile of scrap metal and see an opportunity to transform it into a beautiful sculpture.
The fact is that Seb seizes opportunities in every area of existence.

He has always been a dynamic person and this guaranteed him four world titles with Red Bull and one near miss with Ferrari.
If you decide to do a little more every day, you can change your life!
Has always been Seb's motto and even during his first year after retirement he maintained the habit of doing rather than idling.

The German is always very active in fights for the defense and protection of the environment and when he traveled to Japan together with Lewis and involved all the guys on the grid in the idea of building a hotel for bees, Lewis established that his husband is the best guy in the world (Not that he wasn't already convinced of that before).
More confidence, more courage, more creativity and more self-esteem: marriage to Sebastian brought to light Lewis' more enterprising nature too.

A few weeks later, in Qatar, Max will mathematically become world champion for the third time in a row. Seb likes the Dutch boy but decides to go to Losail mainly to support his husband. The race doesn't even have time to be a nightmare for Lewis because the contact with George puts him out of contention after a few metres, already on the first lap.

"Oh mein Gott, es ist heiß !It's so hot."

Sebastian complains in the Mercedes hospitality area where Lewis has just joined him, after his media commitments, to follow the final moments of the race together.
"Is it? I didn't notice."
Lewis teases her husband as she waves a fancy hat in front of her face to get some air.
The desert air and impressive humidity have made the weather conditions so prohibitive that Lewis is almost grateful for his DNF when he sees George and Lando raise their visors on the straight to breathe; when Alex almost collapses on the nose of his Williams in the parc-fermé and Lance collapses against an ambulance.

"I need to lie down for a moment, maybe the cold floor will help me dissipate body heat faster!"
Lewis raises an eyebrow when his husband falls to the floor and smiles when Roscoe gets up from his seat and runs over to sniff Seb's face and give him a lick.
“Oh why are you getting doggy style kisses?”
Lewis pretends to pout. He loves his bulldog like a real member of the family, he is organizing a party with a cake for his eleventh birthday but apparently...
"I'm his favorite! He likes me best"
Sebastian shrugs with a smile. But fuck...He feels like his skin is about to melt.

He starts to feel dizzy and his head starts to throb...In fact it really hurts.
He sits up suddenly and it's the worst idea he's ever had. The room begins to spin and he has probably turned so pale that his husband is worried.
"Do you feel OK?"
Lewis in fact asks him, moving so that he is facing Sebastian.
"Lew? I..."
He practically splutters and Lewis' eyes widen, looking at him, terrified.
The last thing Seb is aware of is that he is pushing his body against Lewis's before collapsing onto his husband, exhausted.

****** ******

For Lewis, it's like watching a movie in slow motion: Seb grows paler and paler, his blurry eyes begin to tremble, and a whimper escapes Seb's lips before he passes out.
Somehow, with that incoherent babbling, Seb was trying to warn him that he was about to faint but it's equally shocking to see his husband's eyes roll back in his head before he collapses against Lewis.
Roscoe starts barking loudly several times as if trying to wake Sebastian.
"Oh my God! Seb, Seb!"
Lewis squeals as he jumps up after gently placing his husband's head on the ground. He immediately starts fanning Seb with his hands.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
For a brief moment she panics and cannot decide how to rescue her husband in a timely manner.
Luckily Mick happens to pass by just as Roscoe trots towards his owner in the extravagant clothes Lewis showed up in the paddock on Thursday.
He drops them at Lewis's feet who takes the hint from his clever bulldog.
He gently lifts Seb's legs onto the pile of clothes along with a backpack that Mick has recovered from who knows where.
"Keep his legs up!"
Lewis instructs Mick while Roscoe returns with more loot: his water bowl.
If Lewis wasn't still panicked he would smile to see how Sebastian managed to make their dog so enterprising that he now seems like a first aid dog.
Lewis approaches Seb's head and begins pouring the water along his scalp, forehead, neck, hands...
“Mick get me a towel wet with cold water!”

The young Schumacher proves to be a providential helper and even more lucid than Lewis because it is he who calls the Mercedes medical staff who send Sebastian to the medical center.

**** ********

When Sebastian regains consciousness in a strangely familiar bed, with an IV in his arm, and hears Lewis's voice speaking to an operator in the background, for a moment he has the illusion that he is still an active driver.
He slowly comes into focus on the figure of his husband who, realizing that Sebastian is awake, has approached him, wringing his hands in a sign of nervousness.
"How's your head?"
Sebastian touches his forehead. He doesn't feel too much pain.
“It's still hot but it's not as bad as before.”
He says softly. He scrutinizes Lewis to find out what happened to him.
“The doctors think you suffered from dehydration and heatstroke!”
"Verdammt! I'm fucking old!"
Sebastian suddenly realizes. He recalls seasons in the past where he ran virtually without drinking during the Singapore race; always considered the most physically exhausting by all pilots.
Well until today...

"Don't say that. You're not alone at the medical center right now..."
For a split second Sebastian fears that some bad accident has occurred on the track, until Lewis explains.
"Sergeant intentionally stopped his race early because it was physically impossible for him to continue; Alex, Lance, George and many others came to the medical center to get checked out...Even Max jokingly asked for a wheelchair before getting on the podium! "
Lewis tells him but this doesn't hearten Seb. They are sick after their cockpits transformed into furnaces, not in a hospitality room with air conditioning!
Lewis seems to read her husband's thoughts.
"The fact is, you're exhausted Seb! When we get home you'll slow down a little and I'll try to be a good husband and take care of you. I owe it most of all to Roscoe...For as long as you're He was unconscious, he looked at me with those big eyes that seemed to say: take care of my favorite human!"
Sebastian smiles and then pulls Lewis in for a kiss.
"You already know this but you're my favorite human, Lew!"

Chapter Text

Mick always loved taking refuge in Les Brames in the winters of his childhood. The chalet offers a rare combination of privacy, comfort and space.
Mick has always loved the fact that, from the early hours of the morning, the sun penetrates the interior spaces, flooding them with light and heat.

Not enough to warm his shivering body when his father with that smile, cornerstone of all facial expressions, announces or perhaps asks in a mixture of pleasure, amusement and approval:
"Shall we go skiing today?"
In the heart of Trois Vallées, Méribel is enchanting surrounded by spectacular pine forests and chalets covered entirely in wood, typical of the Savoyard tradition.
"This morning I will put my signature in the virgin snow!"
Says a voice that seems to come from a dreamlike dimension.
It's not Michael's voice.
The pronunciation sounds like it belongs to someone who speaks some kind of German dialect simplified in grammar...Dutch!
A pair of blue eyes, the same color as the clear sky that should make skiing easier by offering ideal visibility, look confidently in Mick's direction.
"The fresh snow is very soft and doesn't stick to the ground very much, which makes the track conditions difficult. It takes a certain amount of strength and skill not to sink into the snow, Max!"
Max?
No, no this is not the right version of the story!
“Are you calling me a beginner?”
Max laughs and together they venture onto a not too difficult ski slope.

It's almost midday and Mick can't help but think of the traditional cakes and hot tea they'll find when they return to the chalet, before sunset.
Max is funny with his orange protective helmet but the fact that it is mandatory to wear one makes Mick a little calmer.
“These fucking frigid temperatures will freeze my beard and hair!”
Max complains as he heads into an unpaved stretch at normal speed.
Mick knows that snowfall can also turn a blue run into a mogul run, with small hills piled up from fresh snow. These are great fun for experienced skiers, but pose a great challenge for inexperienced winter sports enthusiasts. As a beginner, Max risks getting hurt here.
And tragedy is around the corner.
"Come on Max, it's better if we find a slope already leveled by a snow groomer!"
Mick doesn't have time to snatch Max from the mocking clutches of an atrocious fate.
Max is surprised by a rock hidden by a white blanket of fresh snow; his skis hit its and then Max lands head first on another boulder.
The protective helmet is not enough...

Critical conditions.
Head trauma.
Neurosurgical intervention.
Coma.
No, no, no why can't Mick discern the truth?
This is not his story, this is not Max's story.
So whoseis it?

******** ********

“Hey Mijn liefje come on wake up, let me help you!”

Max frowns worriedly: Mick caught a bad fever but the Dutchman was fine as long as it came to managing his boyfriend's rising body temperature. He turned to the doctor when Mick began suffering from neurological disorders such as hallucinations, delirium and lethargy.
"Max, Max, Max, Max, Max!"
Mick chants five times to be really sure that the Red Bull champion is at his bedside in the flesh and also the warmth of Max's handshake in his it's real.

"Hey you just had a bad nightmare. Now we'll cure your infection with medicine and you'll be fine soon."
Max smiles at him and Mick groans moving his head on the pillow. He grimaces not recognizing the spacious and luxurious interior of Les Brames.
"Where's the snow?"
The young German asks confused and although the tiredness is evident on Max's face he bursts out laughing.
"I know that as a hopeless romantic you would like a white Christmas but it will be a little difficult to get one in Monaco!"

Oh right, he's in the bedroom of Max's apartment; he realizes as he recognizes the familiar decor.
Mick's face darkens into a tense expression, his pale cheeks flecked red and his eyelids flutter as he reveals:
“I relived my father's accident!”
Mick grimaces and Max's insides tighten. He has been an excellent caregiver for the last three days but never knows how to handle this part of Mick's life which is a waking nightmare, even when the boy isn't delirious and feverish.

The damp sheets stick to Mick's sweaty body and he tries to extricate himself from them, making the situation worse. So he simply lies on the mattress and stares at Max with glassy eyes, as if the Dutchman could look straight into him, when with a sense of guilt Mick can barely utter:
"Only instead of my dad you were there!"

"Oh schat it's okay, try to calm down ok? This was just a bad trick of your brain...I'm here and I'm not going anywhere!"
Max sits on an empty side of the mattress and pulls Mick into his arms.
He knows he can't promise Mick that they will always be safe; for heaven's sake they are still racing drivers!
But Mick's irrational fears of the ski slopes are something Max can handle.

"Once, as a child, I went to
SnowWorld Landgraaf and I thought: damn there's no way I'm going to risk breaking my leg at twenty degrees below zero! If it has to happen, let it happen on a kart track. And when, in the past, I found myself in Kitzbühel with the other guys for events related to Red Bull I understood that there are three fundamental things to learn in skiing: how to put on the skis, how to slide downhill, and how to walk along the corridor of the hospital."

Despite the tragedy of his family experience on the ski slopes, Mick finds himself smiling reassured by the aversion that Max seems to have for this sport and for winter in general.
“Damn Mick, I would never play a sport with ambulances at the bottom of the hill!”
"But you practice one with a safety and medical car at the edge of the track!"
Max doesn't object to that fair observation but leans down to touch Mick's forehead with a kiss.
"You're still hot. Let me go get the thermometer so we can check your fever."
He starts to get up but Mick holds him back.
"No...Don't go..."
Mick mutters in fear, not letting go of Max's wrist.
“Okay I'm not going anywhere. But let me put a wet cloth on your forehead. Then I can help you change out of these soaked pajamas and once you're dry and safe we can talk about our holiday. We'll leave as soon as you're better !"
“Are we going to Switzerland to see Seb?”
Max makes a pout that Mick, even in his lethargy and delirium, finds irresistible.
"Like hell! Let Leclerc go and freeze in the Alps in winter...We'll go and enjoy the beaches of the Maldives!"
"I can't wait!"
Mick smiles and closes his eyes.
This time it's nice to fantasize about earthly paradises, white sand, long coastlines and a fantastic sea.

Chapter Text

Sebastian finds it rewarding to be a point of reference for young drivers even after his retirement from racing.
He conveys stability and security and even if Lewis teases him by telling him that Seb is like lighthouses on a coast for a ship, traffic lights and signs and road lanes for a car; the German is always happy to make himself available.

"You set an example not in words but in deeds, with your behavior!"
Fernando, the other veteran of the paddock, praises him.
"If your excellent results last year didn't speak for you I'd say you're flattering me, to steal some secrets of Aston Martin but it's undeniable that you now know that car better than me!"
Sebastian jokes as they head to the garages together.
Dedication, constancy and perseverance, however, are adjectives that Sebastian would not only use for the lion of Oviedo.

He raises his sunglasses to his forehead and looks fondly at his former Ferrari teammate who is walking towards the drivers' parade truck along with a handful of other young drivers. Sebastian has raced with many of them but feels a little older and wiser than he did now that he watches them from the sidetrack.
Motivation of becoming world champion with Ferrari is always the engine that pushes Charles' body to stay in motion. Moving towards a goal that will consecrate him to legend even if in his palmares he will only count one championship won rather than four or seven with another team.

Charles smiles at him as soon as he recognizes him, waving at him without stopping drinking from his bottle: probably some energy shot or one of those vitamin drinks that Seb doesn't miss at all.
"You gulped down your water in record time, Charles. If yesterday in Q3 on the last attempt you would have pushed like that you would surely be on pole today!"
Seb hears Pierre making fun of Charles and, out of spite, the Monegasque stops by to drink from the Frenchman's bottle.
"I don't know why I'm so thirsty today...Maybe the food Andrea gave me was saltier than usual!"
Charles shrugs and downplays it, not considering how careful his PT is about his diet.

At first Seb finds this scene amusing because he remembers how merciless a hot race can be on the body, however he frowns and becomes suspicious when, with the same speed he uses on the track, Charles reaches out to steal someone else's water. Unfortunately for him he runs into competition.
"I don't think Ferrari would be happy to know that you drink Red Bull before the race!"
Max is ironic even though everyone knows that he only wears his team's logo on his water bottle.
"Hey with all this water squirming around inside you you're going to have to run to the bathroom before they even play the national anthem, mate!"
Daniel makes his observation and Carlos interjects with a quip along the lines of at least my teammate isn't in danger of dehydration.

********* ********

Charles realizes how accurate Daniel's prophecy was when, fortunately, the pilots' parade is coming to an end. Only instead of an urge to pee he is suddenly struck by a wave of nausea that almost makes him fall off the truck and stumble forward. Luckily Seb is right there putting a hand around his shoulders and helping him keep his balance in a seemingly so casual manner that it doesn't arouse suspicion among the media immortalizing the moment or among the other drivers who are already going into full-on mode pre-race.

"Hey Kleiner Do you feel OK?"

Sebastian manages to discreetly drag Charles to a non-crowded place, without attracting attention, and reassuringly rubs the back of the Monegasque who is panting and trying to speak between gasps.
"Merci Seb. It would have been so embarrassing to get sick in front of others!"

This time when Sebastian hands him a bottle suggesting he rinse his mouth out, the mere sight of water turns Charles' stomach.
"Come on, let's go, I'll take you to the medical center!"
At those words, Charles' eyes widen worse than if his former teammate had punched him in the stomach.
"Non... je ne veux pas aller au centre médical... La course est sur le point de commencer!"

The fact that Charles rambles in French and suddenly can't handle a conversation in English is another wake-up call for Seb, especially when his eyes go unfocused and he starts shaking.
"Come on, I'll take you. Just a simple precaution to keep that paranoid old man Seb at peace, okay?"
Sebastian, with three children, now knows well the art of persuasion which seems to have an effect even on an exhausted Charles.

******* ********

Sebastian is focused on the blood pressure cuff that has just been wrapped around Charles' arm, so the doctor's question definitely catches him off guard.
"Everything will be fine. Your young friend is having a bout of diabetes. I just need to know how much insulin he took."
Insulin?
Diabetes?
Seb raises his head suddenly as if in the throes of a sudden whiplash and even Charles, despite having complained so far on that medical bed, seems to have enough energy to sit up.
"Charles is not diabetic. He doesn't take insulin that I know of!"
Seb shakes his head and squeezes Charles' hand as the doctor takes out a diabetes meter and pricks the finger on Charles' other hand.
“I need to check his levels before I give him anything.”

Charles is hyperglycemic. His blood sugar levels are so high that at the medical center they decide to start an intravenous line to lower them and rehydrate him.
The doctor continues to explain things to Seb but his words turn into a buzz of white noise in Charles' ears.
It's too much information to absorb all at once.
" J'ai peur ."

Charles whispers to himself, too exhausted and scared to even think about starting to sob.
Sebastian sits at his bedside but Charles doubts he could have heard his admission of fear.
“I don't want to be diabetic, Seb.”
"I know kleiner, but everything will be fine!"
The reassurance is weak and falls on deaf ears.

"It was so embarrassing having to chug water from my friends' water bottles and having to go pee all the time!"
Charles covers his eyes with the hand free from Seb's grasp, regardless of the fact that there is a needle stuck in his back of the hand , and this time he really sobs.
The doctor explained to Seb that excessive thirst and frequent urination are the first signs that someone is diabetic.
"Hey from now on you will bring insulin with you to prevent what happened today from happening. Ferrari will help you deal with this Charles, they will give you the best nutritionists..."
Charles would like to make a joke about how management isn't really his team's strong point but he's still too shocked by a diagnosis that will turn his life upside down.

"And today I saw how the other young drivers interact with you. They buzz around you like the worker bees do around the queen bee!"
That comparison with bees incredibly seems like one more reason for desperation for Charles.
"I will never be able to taste your bees' honey again!"
He sobs and Seb becomes tender as when he has to keep an innocent whim of his daughters at bay.
"Oh yes you will taste it, kleiner. honey has a richer nutritional composition, a greater sweetening power and a lower glycemic index than sucrose so we will ask the doctor but I think there should be no contraindications regarding your blood sugar!"

Charles is still trying to absorb some of the worst news of his life objectively, and even though his sobs have subsided, he realizes he needs to distract himself.
He hears the engines of the cars roaring outside, a sign that the race has already started and he will not take part in it today.
"Can we watch the race on TV now? I hope they haven't already screwed Carlos with some crazy strategy."
Charles murmurs but is distracted. Sebastian then runs a hand through his hair, drawing attention to himself.
"Hey, you know I'll be here to help you, right? From now on I will no longer come only to the races to raise awareness among people about environmental issues and to promote my initiatives for a better world but above all to keep an eye on you. I'll take care Care of yourself!"
And in this moment Charles feels protected. He has been suffering from the lack of a father figure for years but Sebastian could be an excellent, symbolic father figure.
“The world is already a better place with people like you, Seb!”
Charles whispers and closes his eyes.
He has a difficult road ahead of him but the certainty of not having to travel it alone.

Chapter Text

Sebastian and Kimi jokingly called the newcomer to the circus Max, the Menace.

The kid, a true phenomenon in his karting days, didn't even race in GP2 and became the youngest driver to ever make his debut in F1.

Obviously this has split the grid into two factions: there are those who consider Max a real talent who doesn't need to be tested before competing with the best in the world and those who consider him too immature and inexperienced, destined to cause disaster after disaster on the track.

For his part, Max Verstappen is a bold seventeen-year-old, he shows no fear. He's overly confident and Sebastian might even have heard a perplexed Lewis Hamilton call himarrogant and conceited . "He looks a bit like you!"
The Ferrari driver thus teased his teammate and life partner, receiving the iconic bwoah, from Kimi as a response.

Sebastian was the youngest rider to win a world title and knows that being a child prodigy also means carrying the emotional weight of expectations on his shoulders.
so when Max makes his debut in Toro Rosso he decides to keep an eye on him.
There is a risk that Max will develop mental health problems such as PTSD in the future if he is left alone in a stressful, unpredictable and selfish environment such as that of F1 - an environment which has taken a toll on the mental health of a veteran, four-year times world champion like Seb, imagine what he could do to a teenager who shows off a confidence that, in reality, he doesn't have.

Max's brain is young, it is still shaping, and it could be negatively shaped by stress factors and ungenerous comments that fall on him daily like a rain of gratuitous criticism.

The opening race in Australia is positive for Sebastian who gets on the podium but it is a disaster for Kimi who, after having almost collided with his teammate in the first laps, continues the ordeal until the fortieth lap before concluding with a DNF.
"Those idiots made me start again without the left rear tire being properly secured!"
Kimi is complaining about that fourth place that eluded him in the second pit stop and Seb is listening to him patiently as they walk together through an unusually deserted area of the paddock: the German wants to help his partner to let off steam the anger hidden under his usual superficial glacial layer to prevent Kimi from arriving too upset at the debriefing with Ferrari.

At first the two men think they have come across someone drunk but whoever is hiding in a secluded corner is wearing Red Bull merchandise and the Austrian team doesn't have much to celebrate after this weekend. Then the strawberry blonde hair peeking out from under the Red Bull cap attracts Seb's attention and the German is quick to kneel down next to Max who is hugging his torso as if he had a strong stomach ache.
"Are you feeling okay, kid?"
Unexpectedly it is Kimi's voice that asks the question and Seb realizes that his partner has placed himself on the other side of Max and now they surrounds him like two sentinels.

“I…suck…my debut…DNF.”

They are the only intelligible words that the two Ferrari drivers manage to make out amidst Max's labored breathing, his tremors and the feeling of suffocation.
"Fuck, he's having a panic attack!"
Kimi looks at Seb over Max's head and almost mimics his awareness in a lip-sync. Max, however, is too focused on trying, in vain, to manage his body, the pain in the center of his chest and the sudden fear, to pay attention to what the other two drivers are saying to each other.

"Hey Max I know it's terrible right now but you'll be okay. We're here with you and we'll help you get through it!"
Seb uses a reassuring tone and avoids phrases that could aggravate the situation. He doesn't tell Max to calm down but tries to reassure him while he waits with him for the crisis to pass.
Kimi is better at not being infected by emotions and when Max manages to mumble a hot, the Finn promptly hands him a wet towel to help him reduce the sensation of heat that Max feels especially in his neck and face.

The two Ferrari drivers never touch Max, they don't even touch him without asking him first, and when Max seems lucid enough to stand up and tries to escape, Kimi and Seb don't grab him or stop him.
“How about we do some stretching or jumping jacks or we can take you for a short walk, kiddo?”

Kimi proposes those alternatives in such a casual tone that, in other circumstances, it would make Seb chuckle because his partner is certainly not one for extra training after a race.
A walk seems like a good compromise for Max and while Seb encourages him to count out loud every time they inhale and exhale together, Max's hyperventilation slowly calms down and disappears.

******** **************

Seb and Kimi don't leave the young Toro Rosso driver alone even for a moment not even when they arrive near the Red Bull hospitality and Max seems to have regained control of himself.
"Um...Thank you for your help!"
A very awkward Max, who shows all his youth, knows that the time has come to say goodbye to his two guardian angels, even if he feels exhausted as if he had run two races in a row.

"Do you want me to come inside with you and explain the situation? You know I still have some influence in Red Bull!"
Seb tries to be friendly but a flash of terror crosses Max's clear gaze again.
"No, thanks. I can handle myself."
"Max you had a panic attack and..."
Seb tries to calm him down, to warn him not to underestimate the consequences.
"He won't become a
trainwreck or meltdown as an adult, Seb. Leave the kid alone!"

Kimi shows solidarity in his own way with Max and perhaps this is precisely what pushes the young Dutchman to be honest.
“Well honestly I would like something to numb me right now and make me forget that I didn't finish my first F1 race!”

"Hey, it wasn't your fault, Max. An engine failure, right? Unfortunately this sport will give you many disappointments that transcend your talent..."
Sebastian warns him and Max blushes, this time because a four-time world champion recognized him as talented.
"But it will also give you many beautiful things!"
Kimi adds hissingly, throwing an eloquent look at Seb, then to temper the unexpected romanticism he hastens to clarify:
"Like yacht parties in Monaco!"
Max laughs, still unaware of how many times, in the future, Sebastian and Kimi will behave like two parents with him, even in the moments when they collide on the track.
And when, in a still distant 2021, Max will be crowned world champion with Red Bull, admirably collecting Sebastian's heavy legacy, Seb and Kimi will be there to embrace him and rejoice like two proud parents.

Chapter Text

As a child, Oscar was taught that food poisoning doesn't last very long and resolves spontaneously without the use of drugs, however the abdominal cramps so strong that they cut off his breathing and force him to bend over in pain lead him to doubt of that reassurance, reminiscence of his past.

In his hotel room in Suzuka, the toilet is too loud for his battered head. Oscar collapses against the cold porcelain in search of any form of relief: his upper body aches not only from stomach cramps but also from having already vomited a couple of times and his knees and hips are numb from having spent most of the night kneeling on the bathroom tiles.

Oscar knows that the most common sense choice he could make at this moment is to warn Kim and entrust himself to the care of his performance coach but it is the middle of the night, he doesn't want to exaggerate a problem that will probably be resolved before tomorrow morning and, above all, he doesn't want that McLaren forces him to give up the race weekend: Oscar is looking for redemption after he missed out on the podium in Melbourne, in his home GP, due to team orders.

Furthermore, the poor boy wants to help his stomach improve quickly and has understood that the best way to do this is to stay still so, to avoid making the nausea worse, he discards even the thought of venturing out to look for his phone.

******** **********

"Hey...Scar..."
The bathroom door opens with too much noise and only a trailing echo of his name reaches Oscar's muffled ears but, even in his pitiful physical condition, it is not difficult for him to recognize Lando's exuberance.
He wonders how the hell his teammate managed to access his room, then everything becomes clearer to him when a second voice intervenes to scold Lando.
"Leave him alone, Norris. Can't you see he's not feeling well?"
Recognizing Kim's voice, Oscar tries to get up but his legs are too shaky to hold on for more than a few seconds.

"I got you!"
Lando reassures him, supporting him with a firm but gentle grip.
“Do you still need the bathroom or can I walk you to bed?”
Oscar knows that Lando is simply trying to be kind but he is too stubborn to show weakness and accept the help he is offered.
"I just want you both to go back to sleep and leave me alone so I can do the same!"
He replies grumpily, also throwing an annoyed look at Kim who is now taking his temperature.

“We can give you some space if that's what you need right now but you know I need to give yourself fluids and electrolytes to replace the ones you've lost!”
His performance coach corners him in a calm, professional tone that further annoys Oscar and alarms Lando.
“Does that mean he need ER?”

Oscar is about to retort that they're making his problem too big but realizes he's damn dehydrated if he feels dizzy. He holds the towel rack firmly in his hand to keep his balance, grimacing as his head thumps.

“Can I have some privacy, please? This place is awfully
crowded ."

Oscar plays that last card, without listening to whatever response Lando is given, and it seems to work.
Fearing that young aussie will be embarrassed to admit that he is suffering from a new bout of diarrhea, Lando and Kim fear they have been too intrusive and are willing to take a step back. Well... to put a distance of a few meters between them.
"Okay, take your time. We'll wait for you in the bedroom!"
Lando proposes but Oscar doesn't need to use the bathroom because he sways towards the sink and is forced to grip the edges with both hands.
Without Oscar needing to ask or a chance to protest, Lando turns on the cold water tap and wets his teammate's forehead and wrists, giving him momentary relief.

"May I know what you ate?"
Kim's question is legitimate but he seems torn between amusement and genuine concern.

"Sushi. Maybe I got salmonella!"
Oscar ventures a self-diagnosis and his stomach tightens again at the thought of having ingested dangerous bacteria or toxins.
"I'm lucky because I don't like fish."
Lando reflects aloud, relieved that his food tastes have prevented him from being in the same pitiful condition as Oscar and can't help but feel sorry for his teammate.

"Well it's not in my expertise to make you take drugs..."
Kim immediately becomes serious again and Lando, sensing the gravity of the situation, adds:
"And we can't wait for the symptoms to go away on their own or resort to useless natural remedies like making him drink milk!"

****** ******

In the end, finding himself in a hospital bed after the worst is over isn't as dramatic as Oscar had imagined.
Lando stayed by his bedside all night, not leaving him alone even when Oscar couldn't even keep down a glass of room temperature water.
Kim remained to guard his driver, trying to make him follow all the doctors' suggestions even if he was unable to prevent Oscar from being put an IV.

After Lando helps him get up on the pillows, Oscar brings the chamomile that Kim got him to his lips and manages to sip it and even appreciate the flavor.
"Who knows how you'll make me regret this amount of extra sugar in the next few days!"
Oscar smiles in the direction of his performance coach, silently acknowledging that he was grouchy to his guardian angels while he was ill and offering, in his own way, a metaphorical olive branch.
"If it can cheer you up your diet for the foreseeable future will consist of boiled rice, banana or apple and toast."
Kim warns him but Oscar finds no reason to complain especially because, once his dehydration is resolved, he will be fit to race the GP.
"Well, I predict you'll have a good race in Suzuka!"
Lando comments thoughtfully but confidently.
"And how do you know this, seer Norris?"
Oscar teases him and Lando's response is theoretically incontrovertible.
"If Carlos managed to take a victory after appendicitis, after what you went through tonight you deserve at least a podium in Suzuka!"

Chapter Text

Colorful houses with sloping roofs, the smell of chocolate in the streets and swans splashing freely in the canals. Towns that seem to have come out of a fairy tale book... These are Flanders, a unique place in the heart of Europe, an inexhaustible treasure of natural beauty, dotted with castles and historic gardens but, above all, a land of cycling.

Starting from Halle, crossing the Hallerbos, the Soignes Forest and the Meerdaalwoud, to cross the finish line in Louvain: this was supposed to be Valtteri's path to redemption.
The Finn, last spring, won the pass for these gravel world championships with a surge of pride and a great desire for redemption to demonstrate to the whole world that, even if his career in Formula 1 seems dangerously headed towards decline, he he can still be a top-level athlete.
He hadn't taken into account that an injury could put an early end to his dreams of glory and add to his regrets.
So now Valtteri finds himself resting in his hotel room with a broken rib and the constant pain that reminds him of the opportunity he is missing, every time he takes a deep breath, coughs, bends his body forward or turns on a side or compress the painful chest area.

Lewis enters the room with his usual confident step and exuding such determination and self-esteem that, not infrequently, Valtteri jokingly addresses him as Lord of the World.
The future Ferrari driver doesn't even bother to knock but he doesn't downplay the other man's discontent in fact, although he has known Valtteri for over a decade now, there are times when he doesn't know how to approach him.
And that's when Lewis resorts to generic phrases.

“I know you're not having a very happy time..."
He begins and registers only a slight crossing of Valtteri's eyes as the only sign of annoyance.
“I'm not pissed off!”
The Finn clarifies even if his tone of voice and his rigid posture suggest otherwise. He remains lying on his back on the bed, with his eyes turned to the ceiling and a sad expression that, these days, perhaps he wouldn't be able to erase even scoring points with Kick Sauber in the next race weekend.

"Come on baby, stop being so arrogant and tell me what's wrong, huh?"

Lewis tries to approach him in a sweet way but Valtteri snorts in disbelief.
"You know, it's incredible that the most snooty person in the paddock calls me arrogant!"
"Well, how should I define your insolence and harshness of manner?"

Their mutual accusations seem to only add more gunpowder to a powder keg ready to ignite at any moment.
Of course both have been unhappy for most of the racing season which is about to end but while Lewis' escape route from a Mercedes stingy with joy in the last three years is the glorious Ferrari which will be able to guarantee him an eighth title and, rightfully enter the legend, Valtteri's only dim alternative to retiring from racing appears to be a seat at Haas.

"I broke a rib, right? I've been in that fucking hospital all morning instead of riding my gravel bike and now I'm sick as hell!"
Valtteri suddenly blurts out and it is strange and unsettling to hear a man who is always calm and self-deprecating like him lose his temper.

How can he explain her visceral love for this new passion to the man he loves?

Flanders is a tough race, characterized by the Walls, slabs of pavé spread here and there over the entire course.

But Flanders is not just cycling: it is something that challenges the epic, a secular rosary of places and men who have made the history of this race, becoming feat after feat, edition after edition, true heroes to be consigned to the annals .
Lewis doesn't know what it feels like to suffer an injury that could ruin a career just in its infancy but he remembers very well the bitter taste of a defeat, of a safety car that unravels the cards one lap from making history and believes that Valtteri at this moment should feel, more or less, the way he felt in Abu Dhabi three years ago.
He lies on the bed next to Valtteri, careful not to touch the Finn in ways that might exacerbate his pain, then slowly strokes his hair.
This gesture seems to calm the Kick Sauber driver enough to the point that Valtteri begins to speak without filters.

"What cannot be explained with words, you can perceive from the vibrations of the bicycle, from those eternal jolts, in a hell of two hundred and sixty kilometres, because at these latitudes cycling is something strong, visceral, popular because as in few other places in the world, people live by bicycle and for the bicycle.

Flanders is nothing more than the fruit of an entire people's love for cycling. Sacred and profane fruit, fruit of an original sin where blood, sweat, rain and tears wet a long strip of pavé..."

Seeing the man who loves to talk about cycling with such passion, Lewis instinctively lifts himself up on one elbow to place a soft kiss on Valtteri's cheek. His hand moves towards the Finn's stomach, lazily stroking the cotton of his t-shirt but Valtteri grinds his teeth slightly because that movement causes him pain.
"Oh shit!"
Lewis tries to make amends by hearing the other man moan, then lifts Valtteri's shirt while looking for a few interminable moments at the purple marks covering the other man's skin.
He would just like to reach out, touch the bruised skin, soothe and heal Valtteri's wounds but unfortunately he is not a holy man and the only medicine he can resort to is his oratory art.

"Do you know? In all these years in Formula 1 I have always raced thinking of writing history. When I won my first title with McLaren and during the winning cycle with Mercedes I didn't just want to win, I wanted to do it in a special way. And I'm I'm sure that, very soon, you will do the same in the gravel world championship. You will be the protagonist of feats that, one day, we will tell our grandchildren about!"
Lewis predicts with optimism, a dreamy air but also with a good dose of conviction that makes Valtteri blush not so much for the total trust that his partner places in his abilities but, above all, for the idea of starting a family and growing old together.
He has no objections this time when Lewis pulls him towards him, gently massaging his hips.

"Let's consider this injury of yours as an obstacle placed at the start of a bright future, eh? And remember that obstacles are not for falling, but for flying higher, Val! In the meantime, for today I will hold you close to me until you feel better! "
"You're going to be in this position for a while!"
Valtteri sniffs, trying to disguise the tears that welled up in his eyes after his former teammate's touching motivational speech.
“You're worth it, baby!”
Lewis bends slightly to brush a hand over Valtteri's bare stomach, taking care to avoid the bruised rib then presses his lips together to leave a trail of kisses down the Finn's chest.
"I don't think we can have sex until I get better!"
Valtteri curbs whatever might have come from those kisses, teasing Lewis with his usual nonchalance.

“Can we have sweet, dreamy, romantic sex, then?”
Lewis suggests an alternative although he is not very insistent in proposing that compromise.

"I don't think so, I have to avoid sports and movements that could increase my heart rate and breathing, and also movements that rotate my torso and chest!"
Valtteri doesn't even try to shrug but his hand moves up and down Lewis' forearm giving him goosebumps.
"Flanders takes away my sleep. When God our lord created Flanders, he illuminated it with a black sun. A heretical sun. A sun that does not warm, does not dry the rain that wets your bones forever. It is a foreign land. Flanders is hell."
Lewis groans into the pillow, extolling a famous quote taken from the adventures of Captain Alatriste, swordsman and soldier in 17th century Spain.
He gets the first light and sincere laugh of the day from Valtteri and it doesn't matter if immediately afterwards he hears him curse again for having neglected his broken rib.