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Max is buzzing with anticipation coming into the Dutch Grand Prix. After the disappointment of the cancellation last year, it feels incredible to be finally racing in front of a home crowd. And sure, the reduced numbers mean it isn’t really a crowd by normal standards, but any spectators at all still feels kind of like a miracle.
The extra media work he has to do isn’t all that fun - he’s getting tired of being asked about his feelings - but the anticipation in the air is hard to beat and he’s in a great mood when he arrives at the track for Friday practice.
He’s just slammed his car door behind him when an obnoxious orange car pulls in next to him and honks. Max flips the driver off.
“Doing alright, sunshine?” Daniel asks as he springs out of the car and treats Max to one of those stupid grins that Max still can’t get enough of somehow.
“Worse now that you’re here,” he says, and holds out a fist for Michael to bump as he climbs out of the passenger seat.
“Tell me about it,” Michael says. “He won’t stop singing this morning.”
They fall into step together, and Daniel does, in fact, treat them to an off-key rendition of Say My Name.
“What’s got you so excited today?” Max asks as they swipe into the track.
“It’s a beautiful day, Max,” Daniel says grandly. “Don’t need any reason other than that.”
It’s objectively obnoxious but it just fills Max up with fondness, so rather than reply he rolls his eyes and bumps Daniel’s shoulder.
Daniel laughs and grabs his arm in response, but rather than shoving him away, he suddenly tightens his grip and yanks Max into his side. A familiar figure on a scooter skids to a stop where Max had been standing a second ago.
“Oh shit, sorry,” Seb says, looking genuinely concerned. Max almost didn’t recognise him on the scooter without the red shirt, but he waves off the apology.
“No worries,” Daniel says easily, “you sure you have a license to drive that thing?”
“They tried to revoke it with my super license but I argued my case.”
“Any way I can appeal that decision?”
“Take it up with the FIA,” Seb says, grinning, and then he kicks off, calling out behind him “Good luck for this weekend, guys!”
“Is he doing media work this year?” Max asks as he watches him leave. It’s strange not having Seb racing this year, although Max wonders if Seb might prefer it to the shitstorm that 2020 had been.
“Dunno,” Daniel says, and he’s looking at Max, not Seb. He nudges Max’s foot with his. “You want to make a bet on today’s session?”
Max grins at him. “Of course, what do you want to owe me?”
“You lose, I get to post anything I want on your Instagram.”
“Done.”
*
Monaco is always the biggest spectacle of the year, and usually one of the most fun, but this time around Charles can’t shake the feeling that it’s going to be a fiasco.
He is glad to be here, of course he is. But the car, although marginally improved from last year, isn’t good enough to win, and it’s getting hard, week after week, to put in the work and give it everything when it never seems to pay off.
The social events have started to lose their shine, too; there’s only so many times he can make small talk about how his year is going without wanting to scream.
He skirts the edges of a PR event, avoiding mingling with any sponsors for too long and savouring the one beer he’s allowing himself tonight. It’s an off day, but this isn’t the place to be drowning his sorrows.
The evening is boring, and Charles is just edging towards the door, thinking it might be worth making an early break for it, when he spots Seb out on the terrace. It’s a surprise - he hadn’t known Seb was in Monaco this weekend - but it’s followed by a strange sense of relief.
He and Seb had bonded, over the escalating pile of shit that last year had turned into, and by the time the season wrapped up, Charles felt a kinship with Sebastian that only forms from going through a bad experience with someone.
He’d spotted Seb a couple of weeks ago in the Netherlands, but hadn’t gotten a chance to speak with him, so this time he makes a beeline for him, raising his drink in greeting as he approaches. Seb looks happy to see him too, clasping his hand and giving him a half hug. Lewis, who Charles hadn’t realised was standing out here next to him, offers Charles a small smile.
“I’ll let you guys catch up,” Lewis says to Seb, after they’ve all exchanged greetings, squeezing Seb’s arm before clapping Charles on the back and heading inside.
“Are you doing okay, Charles?” Seb asks when it’s just them.
“Eh,” Charles says. “Ça va moyen.” He shrugs.
It doesn’t quite cover I’m panicking about how long it’s going to take before the team is good again and whether or not I’m wasting the best years of my career here, but Charles isn’t sure how to lead with that, and it seems indelicate to say to Seb in any case.
“Sounds about right,” Seb says with a snort, clinking his bottle against Charles’.
“I’m just not sure what to do,” Charles admits, dropping his voice, somehow afraid of being overheard. “I feel like I’m doing the best I can, but it’s not enough.”
“Sometimes there’s nothing to do, except keep pushing. And sometimes it’ll pay off.” It’s not exactly encouraging, but Seb isn’t done. “You just put your head down, do your job - ” he shrugs “ - and keep an eye on the exit.”
Charles frowns at that.
“The exit isn’t until 2024,” he says slowly. And maybe not even then; even in the midst of the current situation, he hasn’t thought seriously about the possibility of going somewhere else when his contract ends.
“I know,” Seb says. “And if anyone understands the appeal of Ferrari, it’s me. I’m just saying, make sure you think about what’s right for you, in the real world, and not the idea you have of it in your head.”
Charles stares at him. It’s the most frankly he’s ever heard Seb talk about his time at Ferrari, and it’s making panic well up in the pit of Charles stomach for some reason. Which Seb can clearly tell, because his expression softens and he elbows Charles gently.
“Oh, don’t worry too much,” he says. “There’s still plenty of time for things to turn around. Don’t listen to me, I’m just a grumpy old man.”
Now that one Charles has heard before; any time Seb tries to play the “I’m just an old man” trick, Charles is immediately suspicious. He doesn’t say anything though, and they drink in silence for a long moment.
“Are you here doing TV this week?” Charles asks eventually. “If not you should come to the garage tomorrow, say hi to everyone.”
“Not doing TV, no,” Seb says slowly. “But it might be a bit soon for me to come around, eh?”
“Perhaps,” Charles allows. “I know everyone would like to see you, though.”
“I’ll think about it,” Seb says with a smile, and Charles doesn’t push any further.
They make small talk about the last couple of rounds instead, and eventually Lewis shows up again and distracts Seb from their conversation. Charles lingers, playing with the label of his bottle and only half listening, thinking about everything Seb had said.
“I’ll see you around, Charles,” is the next thing that filters through to his brain, and he looks up and refocuses on Seb in front of him.
“Of course,” he says automatically, “enjoy the weekend.”
“I’m sure I will,” Seb says, looking much more sure of it than Charles is of his. He gives Charles’ shoulder a gentle pat.
“You’ll be fine,” he says, but Charles isn’t quite sure he believes him.
*
Valtteri is starting to get suspicious.
He didn’t think anything of it in the Netherlands; he can understand that if you’ve spent more than a decade right in the thick of the F1 action, it’s hard to let go, so you might as well visit, especially for a new race on the calendar.
Baku was odd, but he’d heard Max mention something about some media work, which seems perfectly sensible, even if there was no media accreditation badge or microphone in sight.
Monaco is Monaco, and in isolation, it’s not that unusual to see almost anyone you could imagine there.
But when Valtteri steps into the foyer of the Mercedes motorhome at Silverstone on a bright, clear Friday morning and sees Sebastian chatting to Toto in the corner, it’s pretty clear what’s going on.
He spots Tiffany at a table much closer to the door, sunglasses pushed up into her hair and sipping a coffee, clearly waiting for him and he makes his way over and sits down next to her.
She nudges a second cup towards him. Valtteri picks it up and toys with it, watching Seb and Toto chat casually, and wishes Tiffany had been sitting slightly closer to them so he could overhear what they’re talking about and confirm his suspicions.
Valtteri is a sensible guy, and he’s under no illusions that this isn’t going to be his last year with Mercedes. He’s made his peace with that, but he’s always assumed he’d be vacating the seat for someone a lot younger than him, not someone two years older.
That stings a little.
TIffany nudges him. “You’re not being very subtle,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Sebastian’s here again,” Valtteri says in a whisper. “This is the fourth race in a row.”
Tiffany puts down her cup and stares at him.
“...Yes?” she says slowly, like she doesn’t quite understand what the problem is.
“I think Toto’s trying to get him to sign,” he hisses.
TIffany’s expression doesn’t change, but she also doesn’t stop staring at him. Valtteri turns back to watch Seb and Toto, who are now having an animated discussion about either skiing or paddleboarding, judging by Seb’s hand gestures.
“I don’t think - ” Tiffany starts, but she breaks off when Lewis comes in from a back room and joins Toto and Seb. He pats Seb on the back, resting his hand right between Seb’s shoulder blades, and sticks his other hand out for Toto to shake.
Lewis has been in an alarmingly good mood this season, especially since the European leg of the tour kicked off. And yes, perhaps equalling Schumacher’s all time championship title record could do that to you, except breaking records has never previously made Lewis anything other than hyperfixated on the next one.
But whatever the reason, Lewis has a spring in his step and a lightness in his shoulders, and Valtteri finds it puzzling and slightly alarming. It certainly hasn’t boded well for him on the track.
The three of them don’t chat for long before they scatter. Seb catches Valtteri and TIffany looking at him as he follows Lewis out the door and offers a grin and a raised hand as he exits, which Tiffany returns. Valtteri just nods.
“Do you think Lewis knows?” Vatteri asks, turning back to Tiffany. Admittedly, there was nothing particularly suspicious about that interaction, but Lewis and Seb have always been friends in a way that Lewis isn’t really friends with any of the other drivers, and Vatteri would understand if Seb wanted Lewis on the inside of a decision like this.
Tiffany, to his chagrin, is now squinting at him.
“Knows what?” she asks.
“About whatever Toto and Sebastian have in the works,” he explains. He thought they would be on the same page about this, but Tiffany looks like she’s reading from an entirely different book.
“I don’t think Toto and Sebastian are conspiring to take your seat next year, babe,” she says, her voice gentle.
“It’s not a conspiracy,” Valtteri explains. “It’s just logical. I’m not even mad about it!” He pauses, and lowers his voice to try and make that sound more convincing. “I’m just curious, and confused.”
“Just because you saw him chatting to Toto one time?”
“It’s not just one time, though! He was at Zandvoort, and Baku, and always around the Mercedes team, too. I think I even saw him in Montreal,” Valtteri adds, pausing to think. “Not exactly his back yard, is it? And he was in Monaco, too.”
“I know he was in Monaco, I had breakfast with him.”
It’s Valtteri’s turn to stare.
“You knew?”
Tiffany sighs, and Valtteri deflates. It’s her “you’re spiralling and I love you but you need to stop” sigh. She’s usually right.
“There’s nothing to know,” she says, and pauses. “About the contract. I’m sure Sebastian isn’t following Toto around the tour trying to get a contract. We had a very nice breakfast in Monaco and talked about what life on the paddock is like when you’re not driving, and he told me he’s enjoying his year off.”
Tiffany is by far the most sensible person Valtteri knows, and on the balance of things, she’s probably right.
“I didn’t know you were such good friends,” he says, rather than acknowledge that.
“I wouldn’t say we are, but he’s an easy guy to get along with.”
They finish their coffee in silence, before it occurs to Valtteri that this hasn’t exactly solved the core mystery.
“If he’s not angling for a contract, why is he still around so much, then?” he asks and Tiffany snorts.
“You’d have to ask him,” she says, standing and picking up her backpack. She drops her sunglasses down onto her nose and reaches for Valtteri’s hand. “Maybe he just really loves Formula 1.”
*
It’s a disappointment to end qualifying in eighth spot, especially after last year, but Pierre’s done well from worse positions and he’s still got a good feeling about Sunday. There’s plenty still to think about though, so he ducks out of the paddock as soon as he can, and takes himself for a walk on a circuitous route around the nearby park.
He analyses every last bit of the session as he walks, mulling over what he could or should have done differently, and what he needs to do tomorrow to get himself into a position to finish strong.
He’s rounding his way back towards the start when he spots a familiar figure up ahead.
“Sebastian!” he says, surprised but pleased to see him. He didn’t realise Seb was in Monza for the weekend; he’s seen him around the last few races, but hasn’t had a chance to speak to him much.
Seb is clearly trying to convince a very complacent looking Roscoe to run around with him, but he looks up when Pierre calls out to him.
“Hey, Pierre,” Seb says, raising an arm in greeting, before returning his gaze at Roscoe, who gives him a lazy stare back.
“You’re here for the weekend?” Pierre asks, jogging up to him.
“I am,” Seb says. “Monza’s hard to resist.”
“No argument from me,” Pierre agrees.
“You did well out there today,” Seb says, without a hint of condescension in his voice, and Pierre ducks his head. “Unlucky getting caught up with Sainz and Albon for your last lap.”
Pierre sighs. “I was too impatient.”
“Just a bit, maybe,” Seb says with a smile, “but you did fine from P10 last year.”
Pierre grins at him and ducks his head, pleased and a little embarrassed.
They fall into an easy conversation about the weekend so far and Pierre can’t resist the temptation to pick Seb’s brain for ten minutes, slowly talking through everything he’d worked out on his circuit of the park. Seb doesn’t offer advice exactly, but he does have some interesting perspectives on what strategy Pierre should use tomorrow.
“It’s very helpful,” Pierre says earnestly. “Thank you.”
“I’ll send you a bill,” Sebastian says. “I shouldn’t be giving my consulting services away for free now that I’m unemployed.”
Pierre grins at him and crouches down to pet Roscoe, who butts up into Pierre’s hand enthusiastically.
“How are you, anyway?” Pierre asks, moving to scratch under Roscoe’s chin.
“Me or the dog?” Seb asks, but carries on before Pierre can respond. “I’m pretty good, can’t complain.” He looks good, too - relaxed, smiling, something looser in posture than the last time Pierre really spoke to him.
“You don’t miss racing?” Pierre blurts out, unable to resist, and then immediately backtracks. “Sorry, that’s rude, you don’t have to answer.” He stands up and tries to subtly wipe the hand that Roscoe has now slobbered all over on his shorts.
Seb doesn’t look offended though.
“Of course I miss it,” he says, “but there’s other things in life.”
“I suppose so,” Pierre says doubtfully. Objectively, Seb is right, but Pierre can’t imagine what he’d fill all his time with if he wasn’t doing this.
“Getting this guy to exercise, for one,” Seb says, fixing Roscoe with a look. He’s now rolled over on his back and is lazily swatting at a fly buzzing around him.
“He’s not very energetic,” Pierre agrees.
“It is pretty hot,” Seb says, as if he hadn’t just been tacitly complaining about his laziness.
Between the two of them they coax Roscoe off the ground and start slowly walking back towards the paddock.
“How did you end up taking him for a walk?” Pierre asks, curious. Roscoe follows Lewis around extremely faithfully; he’s a friendly dog (Pierre always stops to pet him when he sees him and Roscoe always seems to enjoy it), but Pierre’s never seen him about with anyone other than Lewis or Angela, or sometimes Lewis’ brother.
“Lewis just mentioned that he was restless, and I don’t have much to do now that qualifying’s done,” Seb says with a shrug, which doesn’t quite answer Pierre’s question.
“My girlfriend used to make me walk her dog on my days off,” Pierre says after a moment. “He was pretty energetic though, so we used to go for runs.”
Seb is giving him a strange look and Pierre replays the last sentence in his head.
“Oh, he’s not dead or anything,” he says quickly. “We just broke up.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Seb says, still looking a little confused.
It’s only then that Pierre’s brain puts together the alternate interpretation of what he’d said to Seb, and he blushes. Seb hadn’t seemed at all offended though, so Pierre lets it lie.
They’ve reached the main avenue, and Seb turns in the direction of the Mercedes building.
“Good luck tomorrow,” he says to Pierre, holding his arm up for a fist bump.
“Thanks,” Pierre says, beaming back at him.
“See you around,” Seb says, and Pierre watches as Sebastian ambles down the road, Roscoe on his heels. The two of them run into Lewis outside Pirelli, and Lewis immediately crouches down to pet his dog. Then he looks up and gives Seb a smile that makes Pierre think huh.
He has a qualifying debrief in ten minutes, though, and he still has to get something to eat, so he turns and hurries back to his own team building.
It’s not really any of his business, anyway.
*
Christian is used to knowing every single thing that goes on in, around, and adjacent to the paddock.
He’s been a team principal for sixteen years, and around the sport even longer. He knows enough people in enough teams that someone can usually sort fact from fiction for him, or give him a tip off when something interesting is happening. He has the equivalent of a colour-coded filing system in his brain for paddock gossip.
It’s infuriating that no one can tell him what Sebastian Vettel is doing on the paddock this year.
Figuring it out is not at the top of his priority list. Red Bull are pushing this season, closer to Mercedes than any other season, and Max is on a hot streak like he’s never had before. There’s plenty for him to think about and worry about.
But every time he bumps into Seb - six races and counting now - just hanging around, having pleasant conversations, and clearly not in a hurry to explain himself, he wants to know why.
When he runs into him in Singapore, it’s clearly time to wrangle something out of him. Seb’s not a great liar, but he can obfuscate with the best of them. Twenty years of talking to the media will do that to you.
It’s yet another sponsor event; Christian tends to have lost track of them by this point in the season, he just shows up where he’s told to and shakes hands, and he’s surprised Seb is here at it at all. He doesn’t look like he’s particularly enjoying it either, a slightly glazed look on his face when Christian approaches.
“So what’re you filling your time with these days?” Christian asks casually, once the pleasantries have been dispensed with.
“Mostly watching a lot of racing,” Seb replies. “A bit of travel.”
“Unemployment suits you, then,” Christian says. It certainly looks like it does; Seb looks tanned, relaxed, and well-rested, the darkish circles of last year gone from underneath his eyes.
“It really does,” Seb says. He looks like he means it, too. “I should have considered it years ago.”
“You haven’t gotten bored yet?”
“Oh, there’s still plenty to do,” Sebastian says easily. “There’s always lots to see on a race weekend, and then I have a few things going on back home.”
“You’re still more or less on the F1 schedule, from what I’ve seen.” Christian takes a sip of his drink. “I always find it hard to keep track of things at home when I’m on the road.”
“Well, I have someone who looks after my chickens,” Sebastian says, and he looks amused now. “So everything is under control.”
“Well that’s the important thing,” Christian says with a smile. “And you got any plans for next year?”
“I’m still considering my options,” Seb says, and smirks. “I might get some goats, you know?”
Christian realises then they’ve somehow dropped into a press conference-style exchange and there’s no winning those with Sebastian.
“I’m no good with animals,” he says, conceding defeat. “My girls are always asking when I’ll finally let them get a pet, but that’s definitely not happening until they’re old enough to take care of it themselves.”
Seb asks after the kids, like Christian knew he would, and even seems genuinely interested when Christian pulls out his phone and shows him some pictures.
By the time they’re done, the crowd is starting to filter out. Christian shakes Seb’s hand heartily, and has one last try.
“If you’re looking for something to do next year other than raise farm animals,” he says, “give me a call. We could find a use for your racing brain on the team.”
Sebastian looks genuinely surprised by the offer.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “Not quite sure I’m ready for that yet, but maybe in a few years. I haven’t entirely given up on driving yet.”
“Well I’ll make sure to ask again, then.”
Seb’s phone rings, and Christian’s just sneaky enough to catch a glimpse of Lewis’ face on the screen before Seb picks up and gives Christian a wave as he walks away.
It’s probably unrelated, but Christian can’t help but wonder if “not quite ready” means “I already have another offer from a different team.”
He files that information away for later.
*
Lewis is half stripped out of his racing suit, listening to Angela describe his itinerary for the rest of the evening when Sebastian arrives at his driver’s room.
Seb’s grinning, wide and unfiltered like he’s the one who just won the race, and Lewis’ heart beats a bit faster at the sight of him.
“Fucking incredible,” Seb says, and he catches Lewis around the shoulders and draws him into a hug. “Hell of a fight back. I almost broke my headset when you lost power on the last lap.”
He pulls back to grin at Lewis, and Lewis remembers, all in a rush, the countless podiums he’s stood on with Seb. How many times he’s had Seb’s grinning face a couple of inches away from his own, his arm tight around Lewis’ neck, both of them drenched in champagne and adrenaline. He wishes he’d savoured them a little more, but this is good too, this is almost better, because now he can lean in and kiss Seb, and have Seb kiss him back with enthusiasm.
“That one was mostly the team,” he says when they break apart, and Seb laughs.
“It was at least eighty percent Bono,” he concedes. “Still twenty percent you. You managed those tires like…” Seb trails off, shaking his head. “You did keep missing the apex at turn nineteen, though.”
Lewis laughs, always delighted at Seb’s inability to keep his feedback to himself.
“You should give me your full review of my performance later,” he says.
“I made lots of notes,” Seb agrees, swaying in to kiss him again, his hand now clutched in the damp, sweaty mess of Lewis’s undershirt. His mouth is warm and soft and familiar to Lewis in a way that has become utterly indispensable.
“Alright, you two,” Angela interrupts, poking Lewis in the side. “Plenty of time for that later, we’re on a tight schedule tonight.”
“Five minutes?” Lewis asks, and he can practically hear her rolling her eyes, but his eyes are fixed on Seb, who’s biting his lip.
“Clock’s ticking,” Angela says sternly, but the pat she gives Lewis’s arm is gentle.
“I can do a lot with five minutes,” Seb says when the door shuts behind her.
And doesn’t Lewis know it.