Chapter Text
Thursday, December 4th, 2025
Abu Dhabi — Media Day
Abu Dhabi always felt unreal to Max.
Too polished, too bright, too warm in a way that never quite reached your bones. Even the paddock smelled different here. Sunscreen and asphalt, perfume layered over fuel.
He and Charles arrived together, but not together. Not really. Not touching. Not leaning. Not looking for too long. They’ve learned the choreography by heart.
They both knew the rules here.
They didn’t need to say them out loud.
Conservative country. Final race. Cameras everywhere. Don’t give anyone anything.
Max adjusted the brim of his cap and kept walking, shoulders loose, expression neutral. The fifth title hovered somewhere in the background of his mind like an abstract concept.
Technically possible, statistically improbable, emotionally irrelevant.
Twelve points.
That was all that separated him from Lando. Under normal circumstances, it would have eaten him alive. He would have been calculating scenarios, rehearsing starts, obsessing over margins.
Instead, all he could think was how tired he was.
Not physically. Not even mentally, in the way seasons usually wore him down. This was something deeper, a fatigue of vigilance. Of watching every movement, every look, every unguarded second.
What Max wanted was simpler.
To be done.
To go home.
To close this season and leave the noise behind.
He’d already won.
Not the championship, that one could come or not, it almost didn’t matter.
He’d won Charles. He’d won a life far away from this paddock, from these politics, from these men in suits who spoke of morality while sharpening knives.
The rest was noise.
Everyone still talked about him like it was the only thing worth discussing: the comeback, the impossible math, the idea that even now, even like this, Max was still the driver to beat.
The only one, they said, who could really challenge him was Charles, said with a kind of reverence, as if Max hadn’t known that since the first time they’d gone wheel to wheel and neither of them had lifted.
Max smiled thinly at a journalist, nodded at another, and escaped into his driver’s room.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Silence.
He leaned back against the table for a second longer than necessary, exhaled slowly and his mind, traitorous as ever, went backwards.
To Monaco.
To the sound of a doorbell.
Monday, March 3rd, 2025
Monaco
The doorbell rang.
Charles reached it first. He opened the door … and stopped.
Fred Vasseur stood in the hallway.
Christian Horner beside him.
For a long second, nobody spoke, Fred looked unusually serious. Christian’s expression was unreadable.
Max blinked. “...Fred. Christian. Wow. This is… “ “Unexpected,” Charles finished for him, forcing a polite smile.
Fred nodded once, eyes flicking between them. Tired, kind, but heavy with something unsaid.
Christian’s voice was calm, measured. “We need to talk.”
The sentence landed like a drop of cold water.
Max swallowed, glancing at Charles.
Charles didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, slow, resigned. He stepped back, holding the door open. “Of course. Come in.”
“Please, sit,” Charles said, gesturing toward the living room. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Coffee would be great,” Fred replied immediately.
“Yes,” Christian added. “Coffee, thank you.”
Charles nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Christian’s gaze drifted around the room.
There were gift baskets everywhere. On the floor, on the dining table, stacked near the sofa. Bottles of champagne wrapped in tissue paper, ribbons half-tied, small boxes of sweets, handwritten cards scattered in careful piles. It looked like the aftermath of an overenthusiastic holiday workshop.
Christian raised an eyebrow and glanced at Max.
Max followed his look, then shrugged. Not defensive. Not explanatory. Just a vague, helpless shrug, as if to say: it’s a long story.
Fred noticed too. His eyes lingered a moment longer than Christian’s, curious but restrained. He didn’t comment.
Charles came back with four cups of coffee, carefully navigating the clutter. He set them down on the coffee table, shifting a few ribbons and boxes aside to make space.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said lightly. “We were just finishing some gifts.”
Fred smiled politely. “No worries.”
He clearly wanted to ask more, but didn’t.
They sat.
For a few seconds, the only sound was the soft clink of porcelain and the hum of the city outside.
Then Christian leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“We came in person,” he said, calm but deliberate, “because we didn’t want this conversation anywhere near a phone.”
Fred nodded. “No calls. No messages. Nothing that could be recorded or traced.”
Max’s posture shifted, almost imperceptibly. “Okay.”
Christian took a breath. “Over the last two days, Fred and I were contacted separately. By two different people.”
“People with weight,” Fred added. “Not journalists. Not paddock gossip.”
“They told us,” Christian continued, “that there are rumors circulating. Persistent ones.”
Charles wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, listening.
“About Mohammed Ben Sulayem,” Fred said.
Silence settled.
“Specifically,” Christian said, “about possible indirect involvement in the tabloid campaign earlier this year. Through investment funds. Financial links. Nothing with a signature on it, but enough to raise concern.”
Charles’s eyes flicked to Max’s. They didn’t speak.
Fred took a breath, then spoke slowly, as if replaying the call in his head.
“The way it was explained to me,” he said, “wasn’t as a single, clear accusation. More like… a pattern. Rumors that certain investment vehicles tied to people very close to MBS had quietly bought stakes in a UK-based media group over the past year. Not directly, not in a way you could trace on paper in five minutes, but through intermediaries, shell funds, advisory boards. The same media group that owns or finances the tabloid that went after you.”
Christian picked it up seamlessly. “And alongside that, there were whispers about access. About photographers suddenly getting credentials, hotel vantage points, tips about where drivers would be and when. Not official FIA access. Nothing that would leave fingerprints but introductions, doors opened, people ‘helped’ along.”
Fred nodded. “The idea wasn’t that MBS personally ordered an article or hired a paparazzo. It was subtler than that. More that an environment was created. A signal sent. That certain narratives would be… welcome.”
Christian’s mouth tightened. “But then the tabloid piece collapsed. The whistleblowing, the backlash, public opinion swinging hard in your favor. It didn’t just fail. It backfired.”
“Yes,” Fred said quietly. “And that’s where the concern really starts. Because the people who told us this believe the story doesn’t end there. When that avenue closed, when the scandal narrative was exposed and sympathy only grew… the suspicion is that the pressure would shift.”
Christian leaned forward. “Away from gossip. Away from headlines. And toward things that are harder to contest.”
Fred didn’t need to spell it out, but he did anyway. “Stewarding. Regulations. Penalties. Fines. Procedural decisions. The kind that can be justified on paper, argued as ‘neutral,’ but still shape outcomes.”
He looked at Max, then at Charles. “Nothing loud. Nothing that looks like revenge. Just enough friction to remind you where the levers of power are.”
Christian leaned back slightly, folding his hands together.
“We need to be very clear about one thing,” he said. “This isn’t just about gossip or bruised egos.”
Fred nodded. “And it isn’t just about you two as individuals.”
Max felt Charles’s knee brush against his. Neither of them moved away.
Christian continued, “MBS has built his presidency on a very specific idea of what Formula One should represent. Tradition. Authority. Control. And, whether he says it openly or not, a very narrow moral framework.”
Fred took over, his voice calm but unyielding. “What you represent challenges that framework on several levels.”
Charles frowned slightly. “Because we’re… out?”
“Yes,” Fred said simply. “That’s part of it.”
Christian added, “Formula One has invested heavily, politically and financially, in regions where public queerness is not just frowned upon, but actively rejected. Where the image of drivers matters as much as lap times.”
Fred nodded. “Sponsors, governments, host countries. A great deal of money depends on the sport presenting itself as ‘acceptable’ to very conservative audiences.”
“And then there’s you two,” Christian said. “Not quietly existing. Not hiding. But being… visible.”
Max exhaled through his nose. “We’re not exactly waving flags in the paddock.”
“No,” Christian agreed. “You’re doing something worse.”
Charles looked up. “Worse?”
“You’re being normal,” Christian said. “Affectionate. Calm. Untouchable in your performance. You don’t look rebellious. You don’t look apologetic. You look… inevitable.”
Fred leaned forward. “And that’s threatening.”
He paused, choosing his words carefully. “If you were struggling, if you were controversial in a way that could be dismissed as scandal, it would be easier. But you’re not.”
Christian continued, “You’re the most dominant driver of your generation,” he said to Max. “And you,” he turned to Charles, “are the one person consistently spoken about as his equal.”
Max felt something tighten in his chest.
Fred went on, “Individually, you are powerful. Together, you are a narrative problem.”
“A power couple,” Christian said bluntly.
Silence fell.
“You command the grid,” Fred said. “You command the media. You command the fans. And you do it without asking permission.”
Christian nodded. “From MBS’s perspective, that’s dangerous. Not just because of who you are, but because you’re impossible to discipline without looking small.”
Fred sighed softly. “After 2024, after the accident, after the penalties, after the public response… the balance shifted.”
“The FIA tried to reassert control,” Christian said. “And instead, they ended up amplifying you.”
Fred met Charles’s eyes. “You didn’t just save Max’s life. You exposed institutional failure. And the world applauded you for it.”
Charles swallowed.
“And then,” Christian added, “you refused to play along. Both of you.”
“The posts,” Fred said. “The symbols. The defiance… polite, but unmistakable.”
Christian’s voice lowered. “That kind of challenge isn’t forgiven easily. Especially by someone who sees himself as the guardian of moral order.”
Fred leaned back. “So when we were told that MBS might still be angry… that he might be looking for ways to reassert authority, to remind people who holds the power…”
He spread his hands slightly. “We couldn’t dismiss it.”
There was a brief silence after Fred finished speaking, the kind that settled heavy in the room.
Charles was the first to move. He shifted on the couch, fingers lacing together in front of him, posture careful but intent. “And… who told you this?” he asked, voice even, almost casual. Too casual.
Christian exchanged a glance with Fred. It was quick, practiced, two men used to sharing information without words. Neither of them answered right away.
“That part,” Christian said finally, choosing his words, “isn’t straightforward.”
Max noticed it immediately. The hesitation. The way Christian’s jaw set, the way Fred’s eyes dropped to his coffee cup, as if the answer might be written somewhere in the dark surface.
“Not straightforward how?” Max asked. His tone wasn’t sharp, but there was no mistaking the pressure underneath it.
Fred sighed softly. “They asked us not to make it about who,” he said. “Only about what. They were very clear on that.”
Charles tilted his head, studying them. “They,” he repeated.
Another pause.
Christian rubbed a hand over his chin. “Look, we didn’t get anonymous tips. This wasn’t a burner phone situation,” he said. “The people who called us are… people we trust. People with nothing to gain from stirring panic.”
Max leaned back slightly, eyes never leaving Christian. “So who?”
Fred hesitated a beat longer than necessary. Then he looked up, meeting Max’s gaze directly. “Lewis,” he said. “And Sebastian.”
The names landed with weight, but not shock.
Charles’s breath caught anyway, just for a fraction of a second. His eyes flicked to Max without him quite meaning to, something unspoken passing between them.
Christian nodded, confirming it. “They contacted us separately. Different calls, different times. Same concern. Same story.”
“They were careful,” Fred added. “Neither of them wanted to name a source. In fact, they were very explicit about not wanting us to ask. They both said the same thing, that the information came from someone they consider reliable. In good faith. But that protecting that person mattered.”
“And,” Christian said, softer now, “they both felt that if this was real, then we needed to know in order to protect you.”
Max exhaled slowly through his nose. Charles nodded once, small and deliberate. “That… makes sense,” he said quietly.
Fred watched them closely. “You don’t seem surprised.”
Max’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Let’s just say,” he replied, “it lines up with a few things.”
Fred stayed quiet for a few seconds longer. He didn’t rush to fill the space. He simply watched them, Max rigid on the edge of the couch, Charles curled slightly inward, fingers worrying at the seam of a cushion. Whatever they hadn’t said yet sat plainly between them.
Finally, Fred cleared his throat. “All right,” he said gently. “You said it lines up with a few things. I’m curious what those things are.”
Charles hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to tell them, more because saying it out loud still felt faintly ridiculous, even now. He glanced at Max, a silent check-in.
Max nodded once. Go on.
“So,” Charles began, choosing his words carefully, “during the three days of testing… it started to feel like we were never alone. Not even for a minute.”
Christian raised an eyebrow, intrigued but saying nothing.
“At first it was subtle,” Charles continued. “Lunch interruptions. People ‘accidentally’ sitting with us. Someone always arriving just as we were about to have a moment. We joked about it. Thought it was bad timing. Or… I don’t know, the paddock being the paddock.”
Max let out a quiet huff. “I thought I was losing my mind,” he admitted. “Every time I tried to get to him, someone showed up. Rookies. Drivers. George. Always friendly. Always harmless. Always there.”
Fred leaned forward slightly now. “And you think this was coordinated?”
Max grimaced. “At the beginning? No. I thought it was paranoia. Or that people were messing with us, trying to get under our skin. You know how it is.”
Charles nodded. “Especially after everything. Being out. The tabloid mess. It wouldn’t have been shocking if people wanted to poke at us a little.”
“But,” Max went on, voice tightening, “it didn’t feel malicious. That’s the thing. It felt… deliberate, but not cruel.”
He paused, then added, almost reluctantly, “And yeah. I had this stupid thought that Lewis was somehow behind it. Pulling strings. Which made no sense, so I ignored it.”
Fred and Christian exchanged another look.
“The longer it went on,” Charles said softly, “the stranger it became. Because while we were constantly being interrupted by the grid… the press never got close. No ambushes. No microphones. No photos. Which is impossible. Especially with us. Especially after the last few months.”
“And then there was the dinner,” Charles said.
He exhaled slowly, as if replaying it still made his chest tight. “We were relaxed. Maybe too relaxed. We were on the terrace and I noticed… people moving. Not randomly. Like they were placing themselves.”
Max picked it up seamlessly. “Drivers standing between us and the edge. Bodies blocking sightlines. People suddenly clustering in front of us.”
“And across the street,” Charles added, “there was a building. Offices, maybe apartments. I couldn’t see clearly, but something felt off. Like we were being watched.”
Christian’s jaw tightened. “You think there were photographers.”
“We do,” Charles said. “We can’t prove it. But it makes sense now.”
Max let out a breath that was almost a laugh, sharp with disbelief. “And then Fernando knocked over a candle. On purpose. Small fire. Everyone panics. All eyes off us.”
Charles gestured vaguely toward the chaos of ribbons and baskets scattered around the living room. “That’s why we were making the gift baskets,” he said. “We don’t have proof. We still don’t know the full shape of it. But at some point, it stopped feeling like coincidence. And it definitely stopped feeling like a joke. Do you think we are crazy?”
Fred didn’t answer immediately.
Then, slow and deliberate. “Lewis and Sebastian told us.”
Max stilled. Charles’s fingers stopped moving against the cushion.
“They told us about the chat,” Fred continued. “Not in passing. Properly. Who was in it, how it started, what it turned into.”
He hesitated, then added, “They showed us parts of it.”
Christian leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “I’ll be honest,” he said, eyes on Max, “I thought they were exaggerating. Drivers love to dramatize their own solidarity.”
Fred let out a short breath. “They weren’t exaggerating.”
He looked back at Charles now. “I’ve been in this sport a long time. I’ve seen alliances, cliques, temporary ceasefires. I’ve never seen… that.”
He searched for the word. “That level of coordination. Of care.”
Max frowned slightly. “So they were… third wheeling us.”
Christian gave a wry half-smile. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“They described it as ‘running interference,’” Fred said. “Keeping you from being isolated. Making sure there was always someone between you and the press. Between you and anything that could be… weaponized.”
Max let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Jesus.”
“And it wasn’t just talk,” Christian added. “From what we saw, it was practical. Who sits where. Who arrives when. Who creates a distraction if needed. It was… almost military.”
Fred nodded. “Lewis was very clear about one thing. This wasn’t about control. Or embarrassment. Or policing you.”
Charles swallowed. “It was about keeping us safe.”
“Yes,” Fred said simply. “From exposure. From pressure. From the FIA deciding to make an example of you again.”
Max stared at the floor for a long second. “And you saw the messages?” he asked. “You saw how… far it went?”
Fred didn’t smile, but his voice softened. “Max, I saw drivers coordinating their movements around you. I saw people volunteering to take heat, to draw cameras, to play decoy. I saw rookies offering themselves up without hesitation.”
Christian’s gaze sharpened. “Especially where you were concerned.”
Max blinked. “Me?”
Christian nodded. “There’s something almost feral about it, if I’m honest. Protective. The younger ones in particular. Alonso too, surprisingly enough.”
Max shook his head. “I thought people tolerated me.”
Christian met his eyes. “They don’t.”
“They had fun with it,” Christian added after a beat. “Let’s be honest. Some of them enjoyed it a lot.”
Fred smiled. “But they were serious.”
“And after MBS’s speech, everything intensified,” Christian said. “Especially with the rookies.”
“They took it personally. They were angry,” Fred continued. “Offended. And honestly? Disgusted. So they decided to answer in the most driver way possible.”
Max frowned. “Which is?”
“Being impossible to ignore,” Fred said. “Affection. Visibility. Constant presence.”
Christian let out a short laugh. “Apparently the original idea came from Kimi.”
Max raised an eyebrow.
“He called it,” Fred went on, “‘no personal space, the Italian way.’”
Charles smiled despite himself. “That tracks,” he said softly. “The last day, after the speech… everywhere I looked, there were gestures. Arms around shoulders. Hands on backs. People sitting closer than usual. It wasn’t subtle at all.”
“And Max… Daniel’s in the chat too,” Christian said.
Max let out a quiet laugh. “Of course he is.”
Charles glanced around at the apartment, at the dozens of baskets, bottles, ribbons, and sweets. “Well… I guess we’ll need to send an extra basket for him,” he said with a small shrug. “All of these,” he gestured to the chaos surrounding them, “were meant to thank the drivers. We didn’t have proof. But… we wanted to show them how much it meant to us. That we appreciated it. Really.”
Fred smiled faintly. “I understand.”
Christian leaned forward, tone turning serious. “But now you have to be careful. Eyes open, heads down. Avoid anything that could look like a mistake. Avoid giving MBS any reason.”
Fred added, “We’ll protect you. We’ll do everything we can. But it has to be subtle. No incidents. No excuses to punish you.”
Charles nodded slowly, feeling the weight of it. Max sat beside him, jaw tight, looking thoughtful. The small smile faded from both their faces.
“We’ll keep quiet,” Max said finally. “And stay sharp.”
“Exactly,” Christian said. “It’s not the time to push. Just… survive it. And trust that we’ve got your backs.”
As soon as the door closed behind Fred and Christian, Max and Charles were left alone in the quiet of the room.
Charles stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Max from behind and resting his head on his shoulder. “You didn’t want to say who the source was… and it’s not just to protect Carlos and his father, is it?”
Max exhaled, leaning slightly against him. “I trust Christian, really… and obviously Fred too. They’ve always had our back so far, but…”
“But you don’t trust Ferrari and Red Bull…”
“I don’t know. I just like having control over at least some pieces of information… Ferrari and Red Bull are complicated worlds. Politics, power… we know from experience that there’s always someone ready to stab you in the back…”
Charles let out a soft hum. “You’re right… but sometimes the world surprises you, doesn’t it? And you find out you can even trust George Russell…”
Max gave a low, amused scoff. “Pff… yeah, but let’s not get carried away… I still don’t like him…”
Charles smiled into the crook of Max’s neck, and Max turned slightly to press a tender kiss to Charles’ lips. “Whatever happens,” he murmured, “remember… you and me… that always comes first.”