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Lando had always hated the term “Lando’s Max”. 

It felt needlessly ornate, the differentiation. After all, you could not own a person.

Yes, there were indeed two Max’s in Lando’s life, his two best friends, on track and off track, but Max Fewtrell was not the one he had wanted to be “his” either. Max Fewtrell was an amazing man, don’t get him wrong – he had been by Lando’s side through thick and thin, keeping by his side even as the Formula 1 frenzy ripped him apart time after time, and for that he would be eternally grateful. The way the man had dropped so many things just to take a call from Lando in the dead of night as he spiralled was something Lando would always treasure. 

Even still, the Max Lando had always held close to his heart was Max Emilian Verstappen. 

The current 4-time world champion. 

He had never wanted to upset their dynamic, one of laughter and banter, playful jibes at each other, but the way Lando’s stomach flipped whenever he managed to make Max laugh always felt like he had just won a race. The full sound, warm and loud, the way he sometimes giggled always felt like church bells tolling, like angels descending upon earth with their lyres. The way his ocean-blue eyes sparkled with mirth always felt like God’s gift, and the sweetest way he always looked out for Lando made his heart putty in the Dutchman’s hands. 

Max Verstappen was a kind man. 

Lando was not sure how he was the man that he was, given the childhood he had (he still feels the pit in his stomach when he remembers a younger Max, head down with his helmet still on), but he was grateful to have had the chance to see Max’s gentleness in action. He was grateful to ever been shown that sort of warmth from him. 

He still remembers the way Max had held him in his embrace after Sochi 2021, the way he had brushed the tears from his face gently, cradling his jaw like he was something precious, even when he should be celebrating his great recovery drive. The soft words and whispers mumbled into his hairline, assuring him that he would one day be champion, and all his struggles would have been worth it. 

He remembers the way Max had allowed him to sob into his shoulder, and fall asleep from exhaustion, still wrapped in his arms. How he had woken up to a gentle smile, a hand combing his hair back from his forehead, and an assuring voice asking if he wanted to get dinner. 

He remembers Abu Dhabi 2021, when Max had willingly rested his face in the crook of Lando’s neck, the hair tickling his face as his body radiated heat and excitement and sheer relief. Lando was so immensely proud, had held him close to his body, had held his body upright as he started tearing up and his knees had gone weak, had needed to fight the sheer urge to ruin their friendship and kiss him right there. 

Max had cradled Lando close to him like he was something precious, and Lando could not help but whisper, “I’m so proud of you, my champion.” Max had responded just by tightening his grip on Lando, and he wasn’t sure if the lingering wet patch on his fireproofs was Max’s sweat or his tears. 

All he knows is that Max had reverently told him back, “Thank you, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

 Letting go of Max after that felt like a curse, something sacrilegious, which he should be divinely punished for even daring to do. He was gorgeous in that moment, shining like the sun as he finally achieved his life goal, and Lando was right there to share the moment with him. 

When Lando finally, finally won his first race in Miami in 2024, Max had been on him immediately, smiling so largely that his face split in half, his crinkled blue eyes barely visible. The way Max had clapped him on the back, had congratulated him so earnestly; Lando had never felt more alive than the rush of knowing Max’s pride in him. Max had grabbed him into a hug, had dragged him aside in the middle of his media interview just to say that he had always known Lando would win one day, that he had always had faith in Lando.

It made Lando want to weep at his feet, to beg for his affection every single day.

Everything weaved itself into a tapestry, speaking of obsession, of a great love still yet to be foretold. It wove dreams where Lando could call Max his, of intertwined legs and warm sunshine and too-warm bodies pressed together. All he wanted was to find his head rested on Max’s broad chest once more. 

Why – why couldn’t “Lando’s Max” be this Max instead?

He wanted nothing more than to have his name intertwined with Max Verstappen's. 

So Lando pined.

He had wanted to make a move on Max, more than once, but how could he? In Lando’s eyes, Max was a figure that was so sacred, so unattainable, that he failed to approach him romantically every time he tried. He would make up his mind, set up a date, and get cold feet right beforehand. 

There was one time that he had gotten flowers, only to panic and shove them into a bin right outside the restaurant he had fully reserved. Max had laughed, questioning why he had dressed up so much for a casual outing between friends. Lando felt like his voice had been stuck in his throat, before he forced out a jab at Max’s awful dressing sense, just for Max to grin. 

This was safe. This was comfortable. Max is a good friend. 

A friend was all he was.

Lando was fine really, just being Max’s friend. He could get free flights from him, play games, talk racing, go out for padel and go clubbing together. It was quite clear for all to see that Lando enjoyed spending time with Max. He had even been trying to convince him to come play golf as well, using Carlos as a barrier to make it less obvious, and he was sure that the begging was slowly working. 

Max is a good guy, after all. 

Lando especially loved when he could get into deeper topics with Max. People always assumed he was shallow. A party boy, frivolous, arrogant and ostentatious, but never Max. Max always listened to him, and always treated him seriously whenever he spoke. He made Lando feel like his words carried weight, that he was important and precious. 

But if only Max were just a friend. It made his head spin sometimes, how easily and freely Max could flip the switch, flirt with Lando like no tomorrow, and then laugh it off. It always left Lando affected, blush colouring his cheeks and mind whirling like a schoolgirl with a crush. Well, he did have a crush. Unfortunately, he was also Yappatron 3000, whilst having a crush on the friendliest driver on the grid.

Oscar had once looked at Lando weirdly when he talked about Max yet again. 

“Dude… This is like the fifth time you’re talking about Max.”

Lando simply shrugged. Oscar was clearly spending too much time with Logan during their downtime.

“He’s the world champion, we can learn from him, no?”

Oscar stared at him like he had grown a second head. “Yeah, but you’ve been talking about his cats for the past 15 minutes, mate.” 

Lando had gone silent.

“You talk about Max way too much, abnormally so. Do you… like him or something?”

Lando had turned bright red, and started stammering to defend himself. “No!”, he had denied, too loud and too frantic. Oscar was not fooled. “Sure,” he had said. “Whatever you say, Lan.”

They sat in awkward silence for a good long while, Lando squirming in his seat, heart still beating out of his chest, before Oscar had sighed, bringing a hand up to his face. 

“Look, it’s not really my business, but are you sure about liking Max?” 

“I don’t like him like that!” His protests were weak at best.

Oscar gave him a pointed stare. 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” 

The aussie shrugged. “Whatever you say, Lando.” 

Lando wasn’t stupid. He knew what Oscar had been trying to tell him.

Despite never having made a move, he had desperately wished that Max’s gentleness would only be reserved for him, that only he would know of the soft gentle assurances, the light touches and warm hugs. No one has to know that what he dreams of in the depth of sleep, of unconscious desires, is not the thrill of a championship, not the rush of adrenaline. When he closes his eyes and wants, he imagines the feel of Max’s plush lips against his own.

Max is an affectionate person. Lando had always known that, but it still made him irrationally upset when Max hugged someone too tight, or laughed at someone else’s jokes too hard. The way he had stared at Daniel hugging Max in the media pen after Abu Dhabi 2022 could have bore a hole into the Aussie’s back. His newly ex-teammate muttered something that made Max laugh, and Lando zeroed in on the open way Max expressed his surprise and happiness. His good humour should be shown to Lando… he bit back the second half of the thought. Selfish, was all it was.

People did not often give Daniel enough credit. He was very smart, smarter than one would expect, contrary to the gossip that he made all the worst career choices. He was also very, very observant of his surroundings. 

That day, Daniel had come into Lando’s driver room, the last time he could as a McLaren driver. He took a place on the small massage bed, as if he belonged there, their thighs nearly touching. He waggled his eyebrows at Lando, snarkily questioning: “I felt you staring just now, any particular reason?” 

Lando did not deign a verbal response, laughing before shoving Daniel’s shoulder. He probably already knew anyway, and left a cryptic message before he exited the room.

“Know the limits, okay?”

Lando and Max weren’t anything but friends. Friends did not get upset when their friends hugged other people, even if they flirted for fun sometimes. 

Max had never seen Lando as anything but a friend, but Lando couldn’t help but wish for it to become more. His irrational distaste for witnessing Max’s affection for those who were not him was exponentially worsened when it involved Charles Leclerc. Ferrari driver, Maranello’s chosen one, the gleaming star held close to all Monegasques’ heart, their babe, their own. Most importantly, someone Max recognised and acknowledged. As oblivious as Lando was sometimes, how could he ever miss the way Max lights up around him?

It turned into an open secret in the paddock at some point; F1’s unofficial driver couple that everyone turned a blind eye to. The way the two always found each other, no matter the occasion. All their “Nothing, just an inchident”s and “I always knew if I made it to F1, Charles would too,”s. All their shared history, all their lives spent revolving around each other, all their respect and admiration slated on each other’s names. 

Lando knows Max never says anything he doesn’t mean. Lando knows that Max believes in him. Lando knows that Max wants him to succeed. 

But, when compared to the wonder he sees in Max’s eyes as he watches Charles walk by, and how Max would fight the media he so hates just to protect Charles, what was that flimsy respect for Lando worth? 

Charles’ waist was the one Max’s hands always found. Charles’ name was the one Max always had on his lips. Charles’ legacy was the one Max always defended. Charles’ form was the one Max’s eyes always looked towards. Charles’ skill was the one Max always praised. Fuck, Charles was the only one he had ever apologised to after a race inchident. 

How could Lando have ever competed with that? 

Lando liked Charles, he really did. 

They had spent a lot of time during the Covid lockdown, streaming together and gaming together. There were more than a few late-night chats between the Twitch Quartet, long after the streams ended and the fans no longer influenced their behaviours, when the dead of night and pain of isolation really set in. They were lucky to still be in regular contact, they had no idea when they would race again, and really, they were the only ones keeping each other sane. Charles and Lando had a few nights where they were the only two left in their Discord chat, just talking. Lando wasn’t the closest with Charles in the group, Alex was. But they were friends, are still friends, and so they would talk softly, insecurities floating to the surface as the crickets started their cacophonous song. 

“I feel like I lost my way,” Charles had admitted to him.

Lando was perplexed. Charles was named Il Predestinato, treated akin to a holy figure with the Tifosi, a god-like being, fated here to bring glory back to Ferrari. How could he be lost? The look on his face probably gave him away, as Charles sighed and reached a hand up to rub at his eyes and his forehead, still partly covered by his ridiculous bandana. 

“They’re asking so much of me,” he continued. Isn’t that a good thing? It means Ferrari saw his potential, no? “I have given my life to this, Lando, but I’m becoming a different person because of it.” 

“The fuck you talking ‘bout, mate?” was what he wanted to say, but what instead came out was: “Yeah?” 

Charles heaved again, tired eyes looking into the camera, lips bitterly upturned. “They want me to fight against Seb, and I don’t know whether it makes me a bad person to want to beat him. He’s my mentor, and I respect him a lot.” It’s not like Lando didn’t understand where Charles is coming from, but that’s just the nature of the sport, right? It’s cut throat, and your biggest enemy is still your own teammate. Lando and Carlos got on just fine, but he knows that he would still take any opportunity to beat the spaniard on track. 

“The way he looked at me after Brazil, Lando,” Charles shook his head. “He was so disappointed. I felt horrible about it for weeks.” Lando’s eyes bugged out as he saw tears well up in Charles’ eyes. “My papa didn’t raise me this way, Jules didn’t teach me this way.” 

Charles Leclerc, two-time race winner, agonising over his racing, and whether his deceased loved ones would be proud of him was not something Lando thought he needed to witness. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, silent for a long time before speaking. “Everyone makes mistakes, right? You were racing him hard, you didn’t mean to. I don’t think Seb holds it against you.” 

Charles laughed, something bitter. “It was no better than Verstappen against me in Austria and I still haven’t forgiven him for that one.” 

Lando stayed silent. To be frank, he didn’t fully understand it. It was just one shove, hard racing on old tyres, and it wasn’t illegal. Why was Charles still so hung up on it when he still finished on the podium? When he had seen the memes of how the two of them had unfollowed each other on Instagram, while on the same flight, no less, he had laughed at how preposterous it had been.

“He never changed from his karting days,” Charles had lamented, and that had been the end of the conversation.

Lando wouldn’t know about how Max karted, he never got the chance to race alongside him in the junior categories. Always a few years behind, only ever hearing of the legendary battles between him and Charles. He was never in the race with them, only relegated to watching them when their two classes overlapped at the same tracks. But he remembers how in awe he had been of Max’s skill. Who didn’t know of Max Verstappen, the newest wunderkind? The one who won all of the karting championships. The one everyone had their eyes on. The one breaking all the records. If anything, in Lando’s mind, Charles was the on-track menace in those days. Sometimes, he could relate to Charles’ obsession against Max then. He thinks he would go crazy too, if he were always compared to a single guy, the only one who stopped you from winning everything, from being the defining great of your generation. The snarky interviews Charles had always given as a karter made sense in those moments.

“Everyone has more experience than me, except Verstappen,”

Still, he had looked up to the giant that Max was in karting. He was overly excited when he first got to speak to Max, never having the confidence to do so without the aid of an official reason to. 

He remembers how the grin that stretched on his face seemed never-ending, the ache at the apples of his cheeks a constant reminder that he should probably stop smiling. In any other scenario, he would have dropped it, but no, it felt as if an unknown entity had been pulling at his cheeks, had moulded his face into pure joy, and the ache, ache, ache throbbed with the serotonin. 

He still keeps the photo of Max and him shaking hands as lanky, awkward teens as his phone wallpaper. Two years apart, but the staggering height difference had made him look like a child next to Max. Lando relished in that attention and recognition he received, looking to talk to him every chance he got since; starry-eyed and practically clinging to the race suit covering Max’s lanky form.

When Max had gleefully shared that he was joining F3 in 2014, far removed from the karting tracks Lando was still limited to, Lando had felt an indescribable sorrow.

It wasn’t even a conversation Lando was actively part of. For some reason, their championships were both having races at the same little track in the middle of Italy. Lando should had really been rushing to get ready as his race would start in 20 minutes, but Max had been grinning. It was a smile that shone so bright that it nearly blinded him, and he felt ridiculously envious of whoever had managed to make the Dutchman smile like that. 

He slowed down his steps, and he would deny it if someone asked if he was eavesdropping, (he was not! He was simply wanting to know what made Max so happy!) but he listened in on Max speaking as his eyes glistened like they belonged in constellations. Like stars in the night sky you only ever dreamed of.

“I already signed the contract!” Max was nearly giddy with it. 

Someone else spoke, Lando didn’t even know who, Pierre Gasly, maybe? “That’s awesome, Max! Even Charles is only going to F4, who did you sign with?” Only going to F4?

“Van Amersfoort. They wanted a dutch driver,” Max quipped.

Van Amersfoort? Wasn’t that an F3 team? What? The ground felt as if it had slipped from Lando’s feet. He knew that Max would graduate from karting after 2013, but he thought he could still see him around as F4 raced near karting sometimes. But F3? 

He barged into the conversation. He had not meant to, he was still shy to approach the other karters on track, but his body moved on its own, adolescent brain working overtime with no procedures to override his impulses. He had unknowingly stepped forward, past the tyres he had lurked behind, and his lips fell open, words leaving his lips of no volition of his own.

“What?! Max, you’re going to F3?” 

Max’s eyes widened as he startled from the sudden intrusion. When he saw it was Lando, he smiled again. “Yeah, isn’t that awesome?” 

He seemed to have had a particular fondness for the younger driver, who still appeared so childlike despite being only 2 years apart from Max himself. Lando didn't like being treated like a child, but it gave him some benefits which he freely made use of, when it came to Max.

One of the most lethal weapons in his arsenal, he pouted, eyes glistening. “Does that mean I won’t see you around anymore?” 

Everyone around them burst out laughing. Lando felt almost insulted, seeing Max doubled over, wiping a faux tear out of his eye. A gentle, uncharacteristically almost, hand landed on the top of his head, secure and protective and fond. Lando frowned upwards, big brown doe eyes staring at Max, who continued to pet his hair.

“You can text me anytime, Lando,” he had smiled. “We're friends now, right? You have my number!”

Lando lights up like a Christmas tree, zealously nodding. This makes the other boys burst out laughing once again. A puppy-like figure that chased one other boy around, eyes only trained on him, what’s not to be laughing about?

“Looks like Max already has a younger karter crushing on him,” one of the nameless faces quips. “Truly a superstar!”

Max flipped him off, a curse on his lips.

Lando ignored the cold feeling which settled in his chest when Max removed his warm palm from his hair. 

He nearly missed the race start of his kart race that day.

When the news broke just a year later, that Max would be jumping straight into Formula 1, fresh off a 6-race winning streak (the longest-ever win streak in F3), Lando had been shocked, mind-boggled. He had hoped that he himself could climb the ladder at such a rate to join Max before joining F1 together, but that was now blown out the water. 

He had hoped, prayed, that he too, could jump series, that he could find himself carving a blazing path up the formulas that would make the other karters as jealous of him as they had been of Max. That his name would be placed next to Max’s, the greatest talents of a generation, the clamour and the desire, and the desperation.

So he let it drive him, push him to be faster, stronger. His goal solidified itself as the want, the fervent desire to drive next to Max, to be an equal, to be seen, to have his own name finally etched next to Max’s. He would want nothing more than to see his name scrawled on headlines.

The youngest ever F1 driver.

He envied Charles, in some ways. 

He had exactly what Lando himself wanted. Charles' name had never stopped being placed next to Max’s, even across categories. Throughout their karting days, they always signed up for the same championships, always fighting for the same piece of tarmac. 

Even when the F1 news broke, the whispers around lower formula tracks spoke of Charles’ anger first. It was always Charles. How angry he was that his long-time rival would be the first to be catapulted straight into their collective dreams, a record-breaker once more, the youngest ever to do it. How furious he had been that the boy he spent his entire karting career fighting against had beaten him in the race of life, to be accepted by Red Bull’s Helmut Marko, the notoriously hard-to-please man. The rumours that even Toto Wolff had been vying to sign Max had caused more than a few tantrums to be thrown about.

The “insiders” told everyone they could find about how Charles had been even angrier that people were putting Max down just because of his age. In a way, when you slight Max, you slight Charles. Born a mere 16 days apart, the two were in the same categories, fighting the same championships, had been racing each other since the start. Max and Charles. Charles and Max. The ones who won everything in the lower formulas. Where one was, the other would be close behind, but it was no matter. Max had still surged ahead, and Charles was left in the dust, still crawling up the ladder, still fighting to prove himself, like everyone else, dreaming of the machine that made God weep.

Alex had pulled him aside one day to whisper about how Max gave his seat in F3 to Charles, heavily recommending the Monegasque to the Dutch team. 

Indignance had simmered low in his belly when he had heard that. Was Lando never considered? Was he not talented enough for Max to recommend instead? 

Later, post-qualifying in Las Vegas 2023, when Carlos had complained about how Max was so sappy and obvious about his affection towards Charles, and just how sheerly embarrassing it was, the same indignation arose. He rewatched the press conference so many times that it was seared into the back of his eyelids; the way Charles had blushed, the way Max spoke, voice fond and so matter-of-fact that it seemed to chastise people for their stupidity and foolishness, for not already knowing this worldly truth. The words played on-loop in the back of his head, a never-ending spiel.

“I always thought if I would make it to F1, Charles would also make it,” Reverent. Inevitable. Predestined. Oh, how he prayed that Max would say the same for him.

“It’s not a surprise that we’re sitting here together, I think.” He could almost imagine it attached to his name instead of Charles’. 

When he joined F2, he had a point to prove. Charles had just won the 2017 F2 championship as a rookie, and was now in F1, driving a Sauber, but backed by Ferrari. He never thinks himself as worse than Charles, of all people, and so he declared for all to know, “If Charles can do it, then I’m going to prove myself and win. There’s no point in being second or third.” 

Max had sent him that quote, laughing about it in their DMs. Already an established race-winner, Lando felt more starry-eyed talking to him than before, dreaming that he could win too, that he could be true equals with Max. Each step brought him closer to finally racing next to Max, and it was right there for him to seize, a pathway cleared and the light shining down upon him.

He would win. He would grasp that chance, he would prove himself.

Every time he sat in the car, he imagined that Max would be right there, watching him.

Do you see? Can you see me? 

When Lando was announced officially as a 2019 F1 driver with McLaren, Max had reached out once more, finding him in the corner of the paddock on a week F2 was racing with F1. Max was shining like the sun as he layered on the praise. His hair glittered golden in the bright afternoon light, distracting Lando. He had asked many questions, eyes attentively fixed on Lando as he answered, nodding along and placing a large hand on his shoulder. He felt giddy with the recognition, heat burning low in his stomach, basking in it. He was like a sun-bathing cat, more than happy to have Max’s attention on him, finally, finally. 

Look at me, how I shine, how I will barge into F1 like you did. Will you acknowledge me? 

Then his world practically shattered when Charles was brought up. 

“Have you heard? Charles is joining Ferrari, I heard they’ll announce it soon,” Max seemed to have no qualms in dunking the bucket of ice-cold water atop his head. 

“Oh, really..?” 

It was uncanny, really, how Lando’s mental state at that point almost hinged on every word that slipped from Max’s mouth, those sweet plush lips he dreamed of. One moment, he felt sky-high, cruising straight up to cloud nine before it got ripped away the next, and he found himself plummeting down to the cold, hard ground. 

“Yeah, he told me last week back in Monaco. I’m happy for him, it’s what he’s always wanted,” Max commented, that crinkly-eyed smile Lando loved so much plastered all over his face. But it was not for him.

He wanted to scream. But I’m in the Mclaren too, why won’t you talk more about me? Do you think I’m not good enough?

But how could the Mclaren of 2018 compare to the Ferrari? A proven race-winning car, the red steed of Maranello that still jockeys for the championship at the hands of a 4-time world champion, versus the plague of the papaya car in the past few years.

GP2 engine, Fernando’s voice rattled around in his head.

Max probably does not care for the papaya car in any way, still lagging far behind his own Red Bull. Nothing more than an afterthought compared to his own orange army screaming after him.

Max does not love him. Not in the way he wants.

All he can hope is he doesn’t love Charles in that way either.

When Lando had finally stepped into the paddock for the 2018 post-season test, the term “F1 driver” washed over him like a baptising. He felt reborn, renewed, unfettered. He had finally made it, the first step into his dreams, a way to claim his rightful place. Of course, it was far from his first time in the paddock, he had spent a copious amount of time in the Mclaren garage, shadowing Fernando and making him tea, but this was different. He would be in the car now, his car. He is now a fully-fledged Formula 1 driver. 

Carlos, his new teammate, came over and slung an arm over him. They had talked before, exchanging contacts to get to know their future teammate better. They got along easily enough, Carlos very naturally taking on a guiding big-brother role to take care of the incoming rookie. Lando was grateful for that, really. It was nice to know that someone else would be in the same position as him, learning the same new beast. He brushed away the rogue thoughts of wanting a certain blonde-haired blue-eyed driver to instruct him instead.

“Lando, how are you, mate?” Carlos smiled, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes like Max’s did. “Are you ready to jump in the car?”

Lando grinned back, lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet, excited energy thrumming under his skin. He was more than ready, he was practically made for this day. He started excitably rambling on about how he had jumped in the simulator for laps upon laps, and was now really happy to do that in the actual car. Carlos simply nodded along, and added some of his own comments on how he thinks the car would be better next year.

“Yeah, development has been alright, I know they’re working on the brakes but I’m not sure how-” Lando cuts himself off as he spots Max walking past behind Carlos.

He nearly shouts for Max’s attention, before noticing that he wasn’t alone. He’s walking next to Charles, now clothed in red, sipping from his Ferrari-sanctioned water bottle. The two were nearly pressed together, the gap between them toeing the line of being overly-close. Their heads were turned towards each other as Max gestured wildly to pair with the words falling out of his mouth a mile a minute. Lando couldn’t hear their conversation over the buzz of the paddock, but did hear their laughter ringing out together as Max must have cracked another one of his classic jokes. His eyes followed them down the road, until they turned the corner at one of the motorhomes.

When he finally turned back to Carlos, the spaniard was staring at him, an upturned brow and a questioning look. Lando cleared his throat, and thankfully, Carlos didn’t ask him any questions. When he clambered into the car, all he could think of was the brush of Max’s hand against Charles’.

Max never failed to be a good friend. Perhaps that’s what always kept Lando hooked, hoping beyond reason that it meant something more, that he could have Max’s devotion in the way that mattered most. 

Austria 2020, when Lando stood on the podium for the first time, when he earned the title “Last Lap Lando”, and before “Lando Nowins” became a stain on his name. He had just driven the best laps of his life, chasing the gap of the 6-time world champion that would get him into the spotlight, finally, finally his time in the sun. The sheer euphoria with which filled him almost made him feel guilty as he accepted congratulations from Max. The 8-time race winner had been the first driver to DNF that day, last on the list of driver names. Yet, he congratulated Lando with such earnestness and pride that it awed the Brit. He wondered if he could be as genuinely happy for others as Max was, so unaffected by his own misfortune.

“I knew you could catch him,” Max grinned, the type which made his eyes narrow into little crescent moons, the type which screamed kindness and fondness, and Lando wanted to believe was love. 

“Congratulations Lando! You’re going to be a champion one day.” 

How Max could say that with such certainty, even before Max himself was a champion, he would never know. But Lando himself could, would, whole-heartedly declare that Max would be a world champion too. There was no way he wouldn’t be, it was inevitable. He was inevitable. A force of nature, one that fate could not, would not ignore.

He noted the way Max’s eyes flickered to Charles, and the pointed effort Charles made to ignore Max. He lingered for a while, seemingly wanting to speak to Charles, before walking away. When Lando had strided close, Charles had whispered one word: “Karma.”

At that point, it was not as if Max and Charles were on horrible terms anymore. Charles still rode on Air Max when he chose to, and they’d had conversations about, Lando didn’t even know what, actually, but they seemed alright now. But Lando supposed Charles would always have a sore spot about Austria. No matter, it meant that Max’s attention would be on him.

It was weird, being friends with both Max and Charles. Sometimes it felt as if he were the one holding them together, while at others, it felt like he barely existed before them.

When the pandemic swept through the globe, and the F1 circus was forced back into their homes, like everyone else, the drivers’ fingers itched for something to do. Their lifeblood, their passions, their love was ripped from them. Racing was stolen from their grasp, every race cancelled, and having nothing to do while they were waiting agonisingly for news of whether they could go back to racing was practically torture. For the more outgoing drivers, quarantine and being unable to connect with their mates was mind-numbing, was something which nearly drove them insane. 

That was how the Twitch Quartet was born, how Lando and Charles grew closer. At the same time, Lando also ran his own streams with Max on call, keeping his friendship with the Dutchman alive. 

Their dynamics were slightly different, of course. 

“Lando, we can be world champion, I said. Please, Lando, Lando.” The screaming that came through was nothing short of hilarious, an in-game cry and pleading such that Lando wouldn’t play the fool and “accidentally” crash the virtual car they shared.  

He laughed as the simulated car crashed into the barriers. He noted the way Charles screamed, and he cackled in response. Later on, long after the stream ended, Charles had smiled at him, and shared, sounding like he had dug out these words from the softest, most vulnerable depths of his being. 

“I do believe in your ability, Lando. I think you will be champion one day.” 

It was no secret that Lando struggled with his mental health. The bravado needed from him in the sport took his entire being to conjure up, the facade he put on week in and week out held both his hopes and his fears, and they destroyed him sometimes. He had sometimes spent time staring at the ceiling of his motorhome, wondering if he reached where he was simply because his father paved the way for him. Did he buy his way into the sport, after all? Did he truly have a place?

The impostor’s syndrome took root in his heart, winding like vines, criss-crossing over his chest, wrapping around his limbs, binding him so thoroughly that he could barely move as it squeezed the air out of his lungs. 

Charles’ words struck him hard, an axe taken to the pestilent fear, leaving him a breath of much-needed oxygen. They were simple, but the weight behind them was monumental. 

The fact that someone like Charles, already widely seen as a champion-in-waiting, would put his weight behind Lando, it touched him to his core. Before he could say anything in response, Charles added, “Probably not before me, though!” 

It shocked a laugh out of Lando. He was grateful, really. He had been lost for words, anything he said felt like it would have cut too deep into the too-soft, too-vulnerable parts of his heart, of the part of him deep down that still fears that he would never be good enough. It felt as if it would have ruined Lando if he had spoken then.

It was different with Max, yet eerily similar. 

Max had followed Lando’s progress throughout his junior career, always offering advice. The sort of support that didn’t need to be voiced out loud. Lando knew the way Max operated, ever efficient and practical, but when he had a particularly bad time, the whispered encouragements that readily spilled from Max’s lips were something that Lando clung dearly to. It wasn’t the same as when it came from his friends, or even from Max Fewtrell. 

“His” Max, Max Fewtrell, is not unaware of the perils of formula racing. He’d had experience in karts as well, many tended to forget, but he just… didn’t have the weight Lando so craved. Ironic, really. Lando struggled with the heft of responsibilities and expectations weighing on his shoulders, but craved an equally hefty sense of recognition. It made him feel guilty sometimes, thinking that his best friend wouldn’t be enough comfort.

Being with Max was fun, easy, simple. Stupid jokes, non-stop laughter. But when it got tough, when Lando felt a little too alone, when he felt as if he might drown in the sea of his own doubts, Max was happy to sit in silence with him, to place a comforting arm over his frame and hold him together. It was during those moments where the too-soft, too-vulnerable parts of him overflowed, when it rushed out in a tidal wave, overwhelming, overpowering, crescending into the tears that crashed down into his palms as the words gushed out his chest. Max was there. Max was always there. Max was happy to listen, to sit with him, to take the beatings of his fear, his insecurity, his inadequacy and hurt. 

Max understood. Perhaps that’s what hurt the most.

Lando wanted to be seen, to be heard, to be known at his very core and to be cherished for being who he was. In his 25 years of age, he had never been willing to part with his heart. The too-soft, too-vulnerable mass of his heart was unsightly, was something he was so indescribably ashamed of, that he didn’t know what to do with himself. The good, the bad, the ugly. How did people simply trust the ones around them to stay despite it all? But Max saw through it all. 

Max saw through his facades, the walls he brought up around him to protect that small piece of his heart, too soft, too vulnerable, a mush of feelings that he never voiced. Max saw it all, and he never said a word against him. It was as if his eyes simply pierced through every single line of defense, making Lando crumble from the inside-out. A clairvoyant, an angel, a guardian, almost. Max knew him.

He supposed, at the end of the day, both Max and Charles had his interests at heart. They both cared in their own special way. But when caught between them, he seemed so insignificant, especially during the weird time the quarantine brought around. He had became something of a… messenger pigeon for them. 

Max and Charles had something going on at that time period, no doubt fueled by their clash in Austria and then Silverstone the previous season, where they avoided direct contact like it would burn them. Max, the biggest racing nerd Lando knew, had even pretended to hate iRacing as soon as he learnt Charles had taken it up. Charles would log off a sim-racing lobby as soon as he noticed Max was in it. Yet, their names would still be upon each other's lips as they conversed with their friends and fellow colleagues, and they would still somehow converse through the unfortunate people stuck between them. One just so happened to be Lando, the biggest victim of their shenanigans during that time.

“Did you send it to Charles?” 

Max had sent Lando a random meme the other day while they were taking a break from playing Call of Duty, and one of the first things he had said was, “I bet Charles would find this funny.” Lando just hummed.

“Do you think Charles would find this funny?” 

“Huh? I mean, I guess?” Lando squinted, putting his phone down. “If you’re so interested in what he thinks, why don’t you just send it to him?” He probably shouldn’t be pushing these long-term rivals together, but hearing Max speak about Charles, Charles, Charles got pretty tiring fast. He would rather not know about it.

“Uhm, probably not. He’s still mad at me.” Max smiled lopsidedly. “You send it instead?”

Lando rolled his eyes. He had no idea what was going on between them. It was tiresome, though. He hit forward on the link, searched up Charles’ name, and sent it along with the message Max thought u’d like dis meme lol. He watched as Charles came online immediately, as the doubletick turned blue and the speech bubble popped up. It stayed for a long while, disappearing and reappearing, before a message finally came through, disproportionately short for how long he’d typed. A singular thumbs up. What does that even mean? Lando sent back three question marks, asking whether he’s an old geezer, before Charles finally relented.

Charles F1

16 April, 2020

8:33pm

max thought u’d like dis meme lol

(link)

👍

???

what does that even mean

r u an old geezer

Lol

he’s right it’s a good meme

🤠

Lando turned off his phone and reported this back to Max, who had been again prowling for memes on his phone, as if he needed the lame humour to be his sustenance, a lion on the savannah. He lit up, eyes shining. The grin on his face made Lando’s chest ache something fierce as he mumbled something along the lines of “I knew it”. 

Would Max excitedly wait for his own reaction on random, stupid memes, hoping he liked them?

The same happened in reverse as well. One random night, when there was no stream scheduled, a message popped up on Lando’s phone. A link to a twitter post. 

Charles F1

2 May, 2020

10:16pm

Send this to Max

(link)

It was a simple command.

Charles F1

2 May, 2020

10:17pm

not even a hello???

only making me work

wat a horrible frnd u are charles

lol

yes yes hello lando

now send it to him

rude

sent

thank you lando

Max had laughed at the post, sending his own back, and Lando had been trapped in the middle, relegated to a messaging service between the two. He had been oddly fond of these exchanges if he were to be honest, he felt needed in those moments, in a strange way 

Eventually though, the messages stopped. He had thought, perhaps they moved on to someone new to be their messenger pigeon, but then the truth was revealed in clips of Charles’ streams that he saw.

“Yeah, I saw that, Max sent it to me,” Charles candidly shared, shifting in his seat slightly. 

They didn’t need Lando anymore, to speak.

“Good riddance,” he spoke, more to himself than anything. But a nagging feeling lingered.

When Lando had decided to finally move to Monaco in 2021, the first person he had contacted was Max. He was already effectively a local in Monaco, moving there immediately after his 18th birthday. Max’s tinny voice through the speakers was filled with something no short of excitement, congratulations falling easily.

“Let me help you out,” He had said. “Only if you want, of course.” And this was one of the times that Lando truly hated the term “Lando’s Max”. 

“Oh, Fewtrell is already helping me out. He wants to hang out for a few days since I’m leaving him behind and whatnot.” He tries to keep his voice even, light-hearted, though he felt like ripping his hair out for wasting the chance to spend a full day with Max. He mentally beats himself up for the thought that flashed through his head, begging him to just ditch Fewtrell for Verstappen. Max Max Max, Super Max, or whatever.

“We can hang out soon, though?” He offered, hoping the Dutchman would take it up, good friend that he was.

“Oh, say hi to Max for me. You guys should spend that time together, it’s not easy leaving your best friend,” this Max laughs. “I’ll show you around maybe a week after you settle in?” Lando was more than keen to take on the compromise, stomach flipping. 

Perhaps it would have been wiser to contact Charles, the only true Monegasque on the grid, but Lando was never as close to him. When the news broke, however, Lando had returned to a text on his phone.

Charles F1

19 December, 2021

1:16pm

congrats mate

let’s go out sometimes

jimmy’z?

lol

you’re exactly like max

He sent an emoji, the one with the stuck-out tongue, honestly unsure of how to react to that statement. 

Since when did Charles and Max talk about going out together?

The moving process was tough on Lando, and on Max Fewtrell as well. He dropped a bunch of boxes on the floor, before standing straight and stretching his back. A few audible cricks and cracks were heard before he let out a huge groan and he turned to kick one of the non-descript cardboard boxes for bringing him such pain.

“Mate, what did you even bring?” 

“Oi, don’t break my things!” Lando cried. “I’m moving my entire life over here, mate, of course it’s a lot. You were the one who told me not to hire the moving men!” 

“Yeah, because I thought you’d have a normal amount of things!” 

Lando rolled his eyes, muttering, “I even rejected Max for you, just for you to treat me like this,” 

Max (Fewtrell) must have some superhuman hearing, because he still heard that.

“What’s that? Talking about your crush again?” 

“It is not a crush. I am not a 15 year old schoolgirl, Fewtrell,” Lando protested, just to his laughter and bemusement. 

“Not sure what else you call it mate, you giggle and fawn over him like nothing else.” 

Lando sputtered. He did not do that. He didn’t!

“Don’t even try to deny it, mate,” Max continued. “Half of our conversations on a daily basis are about what Max did or said,” He looked up and rolled his eyes, voice taking on a mocking quality.

“His eyes are soooo blue, sighhhh, I could probably swim in them all day.” He raised the back of his hand to rest upon his forehead, in a ridiculous display of pure giddiness, akin to a virgin Victorian maiden afflicted with lovesickness. “The mole on his lip is sooooo kissable, I wonder how his lips taste, siiighhh.”

Lando’s jaw fell open, heat rising to his cheeks at the mockery. An undignified noise fell out his mouth, before he charged forward, near-tackling his best friend to the floor, who was laughing even as Lando started smacking him.

When he had finally finished moving in, when he went for that meal with Max (Verstappen; the one who was not his), it was great. Max showed him where the best padel courts were, where the best food was, and also, where the best hairdresser was.

He had walked into the small space like he owned it, like he’d been there hundreds of times before. A middle-aged woman walked out from behind the partition, eyes lighting up as she saw Max, arms raised in poise for a hug.

“Ah, Max! It’s good to see you,” she said, giggling. “What brings you here? You’re not due for a haircut for another 2 weeks!” 

“Hi Pascale,” Max smiled back. “I’m here to introduce you to Lando, he just moved to Monaco so I wanted to show him your place.”

Pascale’s attention shifted to Lando, who had been shyly standing behind Max for the entire interaction. Max gently pushed him forward, as he raised a hand for a handshake. Pascale ignored it, giving him a warm hug instead. 

“I saw your race in Sochi, you deserved the win.” Pascale smiled warmly. “I’m Pascale, Charles’ mother. Both he and Max speak about you often!” 

Lando’s eyes widened, gaze shifting to Max, who just shrugged. “Not much you don’t say to your hairdresser,” he joked. Lando didn’t know whether to feel flattered that he was part of the conversation topics Max would choose to speak about, a weird mix of emotions sitting on his chest and taking his breath away..

“Have a seat, boys, Charles should be here soon, he’s due for a haircut today.” Pascale moved again, presumably to get drinks for them. Max, however, made an excuse to leave quickly, seemingly flustered, much to Lando’s confusion and Pascale’s sadness.

“Ah, are you sure? I’m sure Charles would love to see you,” She proffered, head tilted slightly as her hand rested on Max’s bicep.

“I’m sorry Pascale,” Why did Max look sad? Lando frowned, confused. Did something happen between Charles and Max?

Alas, he supposes it was written in the stars that they would meet. Despite the deliberate avoiding action, Max and Lando still ran into Charles in the ice cream shop, the supposed “Best Gelato in Monaco”. 

Max and Lando had been grabbing an ice cream cone each, and settling down in the al fresco area to enjoy the beautiful sunny day, before Charles had approached, sunglasses settled securely on the high bridge of his nose. Max had spotted Charles approaching first, ducking down into his arm as if his dirty blonde hair, thick muscular neck and large frame weren’t indicator enough of who he was to anyone who knew of them. Lando had simply frowned and went to ask what he was doing, before he was cut off.

“Hi Lando, Hi Max. How are you guys?” Charles’ smooth, accented voice rolled through the space between them. 

There was a certain tone in which he enunciated Max’s name, a certain curl and lilt, one which signalled, amusement? A challenge, perhaps? The word sultry came to mind, and he was quick to wave it away. 

Nonetheless, observing the way Max flinched at being acknowledged, it was not a positive thing, probably. Lando could not for the life of him figure out why. His suspicious gaze flickered between the two, before landing on the Monegasque again, who still had made no effort to remove his RayBan sunglasses, ever the perfect PR darling. 

“Hi Charles, I’m doing good, just super tired from moving, and Max was just showing me around the area,” 

Even as he answered, Lando could tell Charles wasn’t really looking at him, shaded eyes still firmly locked on Max, who refused to even look properly at the green-eyed brunette. 

“Is that so? Well, I’m sure Max would be a very good guide. Isn’t that right, Max?” Max fidgeted uneasily under the scrutiny. That tone again. What was up between them? Why were they being so weird? 

Charles continued to make some small talk with them, (mainly Lando, as Max was so set on not speaking), before announcing that he should get his own ice cream. When he came back out, he ran a hand up Max’s shoulder, leaving them with a last “See you guys at Jimmy’z,“ pulling his sunglasses down for the first time and throwing one of his signature “winks” to them, before slinking down the street. 

Max cleared his throat uncomfortably, excusing himself from the table and setting after Charles. What the fuck? Lando watched as Max chased Charles down the small path, wrapping his large hand around Charles’ wrist, pulling him around to face him head-on. He saw the smirk that rested on Charles’ lips easily, as if he knew Max would chase after him, he saw as they spoke just out of earshot, in what no doubt was in harsh whispers, hissed between teeth in a vain effort for privacy. He watched as Max pulled Charles down an alley out of view, and how Charles seemed to be okay with being pulled around by Max. Lando was left even more confused than before at what was going on, at a secret shared between them he was not privy to. He had an urge to stand up and follow them, but his phone pinged with a message from Max. 

Max F1

20 January, 2022

4:01pm

Sorry Lando

Give me 5 mins

Lando reacted with a thumbs up emoji, before taking the chance to scroll through Twitter. He chanced upon some videos from the post-Abu Dhabi celebrations, his feed full of videos of Max celebrating his first championship just a month prior, and people speaking about the picture of the hug he had posted between them. 

He resisted pressing the like button on a fan gushing about how cute Norstappen was, they have a ship name?, and scrolled to another video, filmed late into the night. It seemed like the parties were winding down, filmed from the docks, where a grainy but still recognisable Charles was waving to someone. He didn’t understand why a video of Charles alone would show up on his feed, before it panned up to the Red Bull yacht, where he saw Max was yelling, hand pressed to his mouth to amplify his voice. The video panned back to Charles, who yelled back and gave Max a thumbs up, before turning around and running into a pole. Lando stifled a puff of laughter at that, Charles’ clumsiness truly knew no bounds. 

But then he watched it again. And again. 

He did not know why he did, honestly. Usually, with these videos, he was one and done, but it had been funny, and other things in the video had caught his attention.

He noticed the way Max’s eyes lingered, a glint in his eyes that was not quite the usual excitement or drunkenness, laden with something else. He saw the slight tension in Charles’ shoulders as he turned, how he seemed to want to run from that gaze, but basked in it as well. 

He read the comments which shared that Max had actually invited Charles to the party, near unheard of in F1. You don’t invite rival drivers to your team’s party, unless they themselves were an ex-driver. He wondered if this video was a key to explaining why the two were acting… off today.

Before he could ponder more, Max slinked back into the seat in front of him, an apology slipping from his lips, an excuse about how he had to ask Charles some questions. Why couldn’t you ask him in front of me? He bit back his thoughts. The rest of their day went perfectly fine, friendly as always. The only exception was how the video lingered in the back of Lando’s head. 

Later that week, Lando was getting ready for Jimmy’z, the first time he was going clubbing as an official resident of Monaco. As he pulled on some bracelets and rings, his phone buzzed with a text notification. He pulled it up to find a mirror selfie from Max, taken at an awkward angle, stiff and very unlike him. He was wearing a black tee, the word “Daddy” scrawled over the front in white, bold, capital letters. It stretched over his chest, form-fitting in a way Lando was almost ashamed of admitting made him drool. The shorts he wore wrapped his thighs in a delectable way, showcasing his athleticism almost sinfully. This image, packed full of things that would turn straight men gay, however ironically, was paired with an insecure-sounding message.

Max F1

February 2, 2024

21:10

Is this okay?

Lando failed to respond for a while, eyes soaking in the image, oh, how he hoped only he'd gotten it. 

mate

is this ur first time in jimmy’z

no shorts, get ur jeans or something

Charles banned me from wearing skinny jeans tonight

I have no other long pants apart from my suit pants

Also he told me to throw away all my shirts

Lando groaned. Of course it was Charles, it was always Charles.

u can borrow mine

Turns out, Lando and Max wear vastly different sizes. What were the loosest pair of slacks Lando owned were sinfully tight on Max, form-fitting to a distracting degree. They were like painted-on skin, highlighting every curve of his thigh muscles, but thankfully not exposing an outline of his… package. Lando feared he would go insane, if he had known the shape and size of what Max packed. But not seeing it also bred a deep and lasting curiousity, one which would haunt him for weeks afterwards. 

Pierre whistled at Max, praising how he could actually dress in something that wasn’t merely the Red Bull team kit. Max had switched to a plain white long-sleeved button-up, rolled up such that his forearms were exposed. The sleeves were tight around his biceps, showing off the strength he always had but never bothered to flaunt before. The top button was undone, leaving an almost-scandalous view of the upper part of Max’s chest. Lando had to fight himself to look away from him.

Max swatted at him, brushing Pierre off before laughing with a few other drivers who were also in attendance.

“Where’s Charles?” Lando had had the foolishness to ask. Pierre, Charles’ very own best friend, whom Lando directed the question to, had only shrugged. He made an off-handed comment, that Charles always needed to be fashionably late, a joke which made the small group laugh, before Max answered the question flawlessly.

“He told me he’s on the way, he’s probably in traffic,” He remarked. Why did Max know where Charles was when his own best friend didn’t? Lando was about to ask, but he failed to get the chance as he was cut off by –

“Well you missed me, didn’t you? I rushed here for you, Max.” The voice of the driver with eyes of watercolour seemingly appeared from nowhere, proclaiming his arrival. Everyone turned to face the only Monegasque on the grid, who still somehow had those same damn sunglasses perched on his nose. Lando wanted to smack it off his face. As everyone’s attention settled on him, Charles’ only reaction was to shift his weight onto one leg, cock his hip, pull his sunglasses down slightly, and wink. 

Everyone burst out laughing, used to Charles’ antics, all but one. Lando’s eye had been caught by the one unmoving figure of the group, Max, who instead stared at Charles with such an intensity, that Lando was bewildered. He had never seen such a look in Max’s eyes before. His mind flashed back to the video from Abu Dhabi. Oh, he has actually seen it before. But seeing it in person was in a whole other ballpark. There was a dark quality to his gaze, one which almost hungered. 

Lando’s eyes widened, unable to look away from the truth in front of him, at Max’s desire for someone who was not him. But then Max turned his gaze to Lando, and he grinned, and that dark quality disappeared immediately, melting into a familiar warmth, dissipating into nothing, and Lando almost felt like he had imagined that whole scenario. Almost as if it was a dream sequence playing out in front of him of what the worst day of his life might look like.

But no, Max was grinning at him. Not Charles, him. That had to mean something, right? Just as how it must have meant something when Max stayed through the night in his Sochi hotel room to comfort him, instead of celebrating his well-fought P2 with his loving team.

Carlos stood forward, his ex-teammate grabbing his shoulders, like he did so often, but this specific moment was so reminiscent of the 2018 post-season test, how Carlos looked at him. He grinned, however, starting a short toast to Lando. 

“Everyone, we’re here to celebrate Lando~” he cried, dragging out the O of his name like he did so often, making Lando almost double over in laughter. “I think everyone remembers when they first moved here, so let’s keep it special for him tonight, okay?” Lando’s hair got ruffled, messing up the pomade he so carefully ran through that night. He wanted to protest, to strike out at Carlos, but then cocktail glasses were raised, and Lando couldn’t help but down the drink in his hand.

Lando lost track of just how many drinks he had that night. Shot after shot was pushed into his palm, followed by a copious amount of drinks he was sure would make his trainer have an aneurysm if he knew. He started to recognise who had bought him drinks just by what was pushed to him; Red Bull Vodkas from Carlos, Gin and Tonics from Max, and Charles’ damn Moscow Mules. Even as his eyesight started to blur, his gaze caught Max’s form on the dancefloor, bumping to some random song he couldn’t care less for, was that Martin Garrix?

More eyes than usual were on Max. As the newest champion, the first one to dethrone the living legend Lewis Hamilton since 2016, Max’s attention was now golden; the hottest new commodity everyone chased after. It didn’t help that he looked so damn good that day, the lights pulsing down him and highlighting the sweat rolling down his neck. Lando licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. 

Someone he didn’t expect to be watching Max so closely was Charles. Especially not after that awkward encounter at the ice-cream shop. Yet, his gaze somehow always fell on Charles, who would unashamedly stare at Max. It was almost concerning, filled with dubious intentions, hate or lust? It was unclear even as Lando kept watching. Loose-fitting black button-up on his frame, Lando couldn’t deny Charles looked good. The shirt hinted at his fit physique, leaving just enough to the imagination that left people wanting. Charles, the driver who had brand deals left and right due to his natural good looks, no doubt also had many admirers in the club that day. 

Despite the eyes on each of them, Lando only caught their gazes looking at each other. He saw how they locked eyes, how they would do so even as they leaned in to whisper to someone else, as if they were playing a dangerous game with each other. He saw how their eyes would darken and their shoulders would get tense as the other ran their hand over the shoulder of whoever they were with on the dancefloor at that moment. 

Lando drank more to forget the way they stared at each other. The rest of the night went by in a blur.

He woke up to his phone ringing. He groaned as he opened his eyes, only to wince at the light which invaded his eyes. His head pulsated as he fumbled for his phone, hand slamming all over his bedside in search of the vibrations. The ringtone cut right into his head, exacerbating his absolute unit of a hangover. He finally gets his grip around his phone, and curses when it nearly slips from his fingers. He turns it around and notices that the call was already taken, and he pulls it up to his ear. 

“Hello?” He drawls, still not fully lucid. He is greeted by laughter, warm and full and just loud enough to not cause more pain.

“You good, mate?” The Dutch lisp falls through. Lando groans more. 

“Max,” he drags the name, almost hissing it. “My head is killing me. How’d I even get home?” 

“I got you home last night. You were wasted.” Max comments. “There’s some painkillers on your bedside table, take that.” 

Finally, not blinded by the sun, Lando looks at the bedside table, to see that truly, there were two pills sitting there, next to a glass of water. Lando tries not to dwell on how it means Max must have tucked him into bed, and rifled through his things to prepare this for him. I mean, there was not much around, did he even have painkillers in his apartment in the first place? Did it matter? Whatever.

“Don’t choke on it!” The voice sounds through again, laughter full-bodied. 

“Shut up, Max,” Lando grabs the pills and tosses them into his mouth, before draining the full cup of water. Damn, he didn’t know how parched he was, clearing his throat a bit to ease the scratch. He chokes on air and began a coughing fit. 

“Are you okay?!” Max sounds concerned, and Lando can almost imagine the frown on Max’s face. Lando waves his hand, forgetting momentarily that Max can’t actually see him, before awkwardly putting his hand down. He sputters for a while more, before finally regaining control of his vocal cords.

“I’m fine,” he pushes out. “Choked on air.” That causes the Dutchman to practically howl in laughter. Lando doesn’t understand how he could be so loud and lively at… fuck, it’s 11am? Ugh. He didn’t even have the energy to protest the mockery from his “grid bestie”, as people put it. He shoved his head into the crook of his elbow, shielding himself a bit from the headache as the medication slowly kicked into effect.

Another voice travels through the speakers, and Lando almost thinks he’s hallucinating. 

“Is he okay?” It’s soft, but Lando can determine that certain lilt to it which belonged to only one person in his direct circle. Charles. 

It’s suspicious how quickly Max chooses to hang up afterwards, cutting his own laughter off, “I’m glad you’re fine, Lando. I’ll call you later, rest up, mate!” before the tone went flat. What the fuck?

Lando decided not to think about it. It could be someone other than Charles. Perhaps just another random Monegasque who sounded similar to him. That must be it. 

The rest of that winter break, Lando barely ran into Max or Charles, engaging in his own activities, be it golfing, or gaming with his mates back in the UK. When they pulled up in Bahrain for testing, Lando barely saw Max again. But during the post-testing press conferences, he saw that Charles and Max were grouped together again by the media, names once again mentioned in tandem, a gift package where one would not be complete without the other close behind. 

“Title rivals,” they said. “This might be a greater season than last year.” 

The whispers up and down the paddock nearly drove him mad. Charles, Charles, Charles, he’s in imperious form, and oh, what a treat if a Ferrari could claim the title once again. Max, Max, Max, what an inchident they may create, can he fight his childhood rival again? Max and Charles, Charles and Max, as if they were a pair of star-crossed lovers, Eurydice and Orpheus who moved Heaven and Hell to be with each other.

Lando felt as if he were back in the position of watching Max leave for F3 and leaving him behind. He, too, was in F1, but was still in a completely different ballpark. He couldn’t fight in the front. Did that make him less of a driver, of a person? Lando simmered, indignant. 

Why? Why should he have to back down? 

The team back in the factory had done an amazing job of analysing the problems found in the car, to pinpoint the difficulties of the beast they wrangled every week, to hammer out the quirks and quarts, and still, still. He had no place. The cars they drove were nothing short of engineering miracles, built with the sweat and blood of each of the staff in the factory, ingenuity in a casing of steel and carbon fibre. It is aerodynamics brought to life, air-bending in actuality.

Lando craved, craved, to be able to haul the mechanical beast of roaring engine and warm metal to the top, to the front of the grid, where Max is. Where Max always was. He wanted nothing more than to dance with the Red Bull leading the charge, a flurry of Papaya and Navy to mesmerise and enchant. The gleam of the Navy beast was a siren’s call to Lando, a call to action, the motivation for striving and thriving, to work with the engineers to improve the car, all for the sake of racing him.

Then Max retired from the first race of the season. 

Lando himself had finished 15th; utterly pathetic, a disappointment compared to last year’s car which had been fighting for 3rd in the constructor’s. But he couldn’t imagine how Max must have felt, from winning the most exhilarating race of your career to DNF-ing the next race for reasons entirely out of your control. Such was life, he supposed. 

As he had been wallowing in his own team’s inadequacy in the safety of his hotel room, there had been a knock at the door. Lando dragged himself to the door, muttering all the while, preparing himself to remind whoever of his team was there that he had specifically requested not to be bothered tonight. He opened his mouth to speak as he swung the door open, but it was left hanging as he was met with Max standing in the door, whiskey in hand.

“Want to drink?” Max was casual as ever, raising the bottle in a mock-toast as his head tilted in a question. Are you gonna let me in? Lando struck himself out of his reverie, moving aside, a clear invitation to Max to enter.

“What brings you here, mate?” 

Max had shrugged. “Wasn’t in the mood to party but needed a drink. Thought you’d be best to accompany me,” a lopsided grin stretched across Max’s face, and in Lando’s mind, he was so reminded of Max’s youthful boyishness he’d had in the late 2010s. Lando nearly missed his chance to retort, to start up the banter he always did when around Max. 

“So you hope I never succeed?” Lando laughed, but perhaps that was the wrong thing to say as he watched Max’s eyes widen.

“No, no, of course not, I always hope you do well, Lando.” Max cried. “You’re my friend!” 

Friend. Of course. Lando smiled despite the twinge in his chest. “I know. Come on, we should start drinking or we might not catch our flights tomorrow.” 

Asking Max to drink was a mistake. 

Not the part about spending time with him, that was always amazing. It was the fact that now Max was drunk, and when he is drunk and feeling comfortable, he overshares. This was one of the first few times Lando had experienced this, he’d never been alone together with Max as they drank, or he’d been too out of it himself. This time, Max had downed most of the bottle himself. They had ordered room service for even more alcohol as if to make up for lost time, to drown their poor results in alcohol and kill it like germs, and now they were nursing bottles of wine and beer. It possibly wasn’t that wise to mix alcohol like that, but whatever. Either way, Max when inebriated was as if Pandora’s Box had opened, the slight unhinged quality to his words when sober making way for the quiet insight and thoughts he had, too soft and gentle for him to say when sober. 

“It’s been such a long time since I raced him properly, you know?” Max slurs, head hanging. He raised his head to look at Lando and his sparkling eyes did nothing to abate his aching heart. He was not speaking about Lando. 

All those championships he wasn’t a part of, all those races and crashes he had only heard of, the fierce rivalry still spoken about amongst his friends who had been there to witness Charles and Max, the greatest racing prodigies since Vettel. Was it so hard to be that important to him? If he could finally get his day in the sun, would Max look at him that way?

“Is racing him really that good?” Lando asked, the tiniest shake in his voice revealing his thinly-veiled insecurity. Yet, Max, sweet, sweet Max, his best friend, didn’t notice.

“You weren’t there, Lando,” Max sighed, a dopey grin on his face. His gaze looked as if he were a lifetime away. “Being able to race him was everything to me. Is everything to me now.” 

Max took another swig of his wine. “I would do anything to relive those inchidents with him.” 

Those damn inchident jokes. Ever since the old video resurfaced onto the internet, dug up by some prying fan, Max had taken every opportunity to bring it back up, no matter the context. It was as if his entire mind were filled by that damn childhood rivalry he had with Charles. 

I push him, he push me back, and after he push me off the track. Ridiculous that it’s been brought up so many times that Lando has even had it memorised by now.

Being pushed into a puddle because of an on-track fight, and later on being disqualified because of it, is not the type of story that one should be proud of. Yet, Max loved to talk about the inchident. Lando hardly understood.

Call him bitter, call him jealous, he did not care. Lando would probably race Max better anyway.

He grabbed what was left of the vodka brought up by room service and chugged it. Max cheered him on.

The next day, Lando barely remembered the quiet confession from Max, the echoes of it like a dream long past.