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i. Ollie
Getting a taste might be worse than starving.
He dreams of it each night: the red. It’s more a feeling than anything, really, the speed, the blood, the bite. The soft pat on his head. An accented good job.
Ollie had it for a few hours and, months later, still can’t let go.
These days, Ollie looks at retired drivers and cannot understand how they could have ever let it go. Nico Rosberg is some sort of ghost in the paddock, a mirage of things that were and will never be—in his ironed suits, his slicked-back hair. His beta scent, flowery and unappealing.
The Ferrari garage smells like that sometimes, so it might just be a regulated paddock beta patch thing. The alpha ones had made Ollie break out in rashes when he had put them on for the first time. It was worth it. He’s pretty sure the other alphas on the grid felt the same way about it anyway; they had exchanged some sympathetic grimaces when Alex caught Ollie rubbing his neck in the driver parade back then.
Somehow, someway—but it seems to be the norm—Charles Leclerc seemed unbothered in the midst of it. Maybe it’s an omega thing, but the other omegas on the grid do seem at least a bit more… Real. Substantial. Bothered by things like itchy patches and scents, and the endless media circus.
But outside the track, Charles seems to float through life without any worry. Ollie assumes it’s what being a Ferrari messiah feels like—not that he would know. But when others might find it grating, Ollie finds himself basking in Charles’ easiness gratefully, a small spot of heaven where everything is possible if you believe in it hard enough.
And work hard enough.
Charles has agreed to show Ollie how he was taking notes of his data after practices, and they’ve been doing it for the last couple of hours. Admittedly, Ollie had given up around the second hour, but it did not really matter to Charles, whose own voice’s sound did not bother.
The coffee is excellent, at least, and there are worse sounds in the world than Charles’ singing accent, getting more and more pronounced as time goes by and the sun goes down.
Still, Ollie’s eyes flutter shut for a couple of seconds, and when he opens them back, Charles is staring right at him. Ollie feels himself blush. Scrambles to straighten up.
“Sleepy?” Charles asks, his cheek resting on his hand, a slight smile on his rosy lips. Ollie can’t determine its nature but nods.
“Yes, kinda” Ollie admits. As if Charles has really woken him up, he yawns and stretches on his chair, his knee knocking the table.
Charles laughs. “Ok fine, let’s go.” Just like that, Charles is gathering all of his stuff—admittedly a lot of them—and stuffing most of it in his pockets. Ollie is two seconds too late to react, and when he scrambles out of his chair, Charles is already halfway through the garage to where it’s pouring outside.
They’re probably the last drivers in the paddock at this point, and Ollie wouldn’t blame them, judging by the state of the weather and time of day. Thankfully, there’s an umbrella—a single one—lying around the garage that Ollie grabs in passing. Charles gives him a sheepish smile when he notices that only Ollie has one, but he doesn’t need to ask to press his shoulder against Ollie’s to fit under it.
It’s the end of the day. Everyone’s patches would have been worn up by now. Charles is no exception, and Ollie pretends not to be affected by the sudden burnt sugar smell coming from his right side.
The walk is quiet, Charles humming something under his breath and Ollie leaning the umbrella so much on his side that his left is completely soaked by the time they reach the end of the paddock. There is a floating moment after they pass the gates—Charles’ pass flashing a picture of him that made Ollie stare for a bit too long. Ollie doesn’t want it to end.
“Well, it was fun, no?” Charles says, looking up at Ollie with a slight tilt of the head.
“Uh—Yes, sure, it was very interesting. Thank you again for giving me so much of your time.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I need to get you ready,” Charles jokes, or at least Ollie thinks it’s one. He’s never really too sure with him.
It’s dark, but the umbrella is casting a red glow onto Charles. It’s the feeling, it’s back, and Ollie probably looks half mad as he stares at Charles and the glow and the red. Within grasp. If there was ever a moment, it could not be more obvious than now.
“Charles,” Ollie says, and his voice almost gives up under the weight of the words it’s meant to carry. “Do we have… a special relationship?”
“Yes, of course!” Charles twists his mouth, seemingly looking for his words. Ollie's hands are sweating so bad it's a bit gross. “You’re a bit like…”
“Yeah?”
“I think I’m a bit too young and you’re a bit too old for me to call you my pup,” Charles laughs. “Maybe you’re more like Arthur?”
Ollie blinks.
“Arthur,” he repeats. Out loud at first, then in his head; as if it would morph into something resembling more of the alpha of my life.
A car honks. Ollie thinks it’s his imagination, coming in to censor this moment for his own good, but then it honks again in the silence. Slick black, clearly given by a team, and parking right in front of them.
When Max Verstappen comes out of it, Ollie can’t even bring himself to be surprised; he’s just—
He doesn’t know what he’s feeling yet.
“Charles.” Max’s eyes glow in the dark even under the heavy rain. A shiver ran through Ollie’s spine. Wow, scary.
Almost scary enough to forget about Charles at his side, which Ollie should definitely protect from whatever Max wants from him instead of gaping stupidly. Maybe this could even be his chance to redeem himself.
He squares his shoulder, straightening up in all his height, and he has that on him compared to Max.
“Hey, you—”
“Bye Ollie, you know you can call me whenever,” Charles interrupts with a smile, but his mind is clearly already elsewhere, and helplessly, Ollie watches as his eyes leave him to never return.
There’s a bounce in his step—splashing water everywhere, including his oversized pants whose hems have already been tainted dark—and he barely acknowledges Max other than a brush of forearms as he slips into the driver's seat. Max closes the door behind him. A bit sick in the stomach, Ollie can’t help but notice how practiced the gesture is.
Unlike Charles’, Max’s scent is indiscernible to Ollie’s nose, even as he passes near him. Their eyes meet again as Max stands on the other side of the dark car. With every right to be boisterous, Max doesn’t look anything but a bit sorry at Ollie’s crumbling state.
“Get home safe,” Max says with a small nod before dipping down in the car.
As the car leaves, Ollie gets a glimpse of Charles’ profile behind the window—unbothered and laughing.
The starvation might be worse, actually, Ollie thinks in a daze as the rain doubles down on his too-big umbrella. His canines ache.
ii. Franco
Franco never thought he would be saying these words in his life but: he’s having a bad time at the club.
To be fair, he never had big expectations for Monaco, but it’s reaching a new low. He got brought into the kind of exclusive club where you have to know someone to get in, and Franco can’t decide if it’s what is making it boring or the DJ who keeps insisting on playing bad hyperpop. One might think paying a small fortune to the checkroom might give them enough money to hire someone competent, alas.
Or maybe it’s the fact that Franco was told to behave (with a serious frown) tonight. He doesn’t even know what that means; but the gist of it seems to be: don’t fuck someone you shouldn’t. So basically, anyone who might be interesting. Boring.
So far, he’s been hanging out at the bar and chatting up the barwoman in between drinks—even getting a few free ones in the mix. But the bar has been getting busier and busier, and he lost her attention a while ago, letting him nurse his drink alone. A free cocktail he almost spills when someone bumps into his shoulder to get to the bar.
Annoyed, Franco glances at the intruder only to come face to face with a pair of big green eyes. Familiar big green eyes.
Charles Leclerc blinks at him like Franco is the one who just rammed into him before breaking into a sheepish smile.
“Oh, sorry—Hi Franco!” His light accent rings like heaven between the bass.
“No worries, how are you doing? Let me get you your drink,” Franco hastens to add. This is the first real interesting thing that happened all night—he’s not going to let it slip away.
Visibly surprised, Charles still nods, and the warmth where their bodies are pressed together makes Franco feel a bit hot as he tries to get the barwoman's attention. After way less flirting with her than before, the order is quickly passed, and Franco hands his card before Charles even has the time to think about reaching for his.
For the bit of small talk they manage to squeeze while waiting for the order, Franco tries to judge the mood—which Charles seems receptive enough for when they finally get the drink, Franco leans on the bar with one thing in mind. This night may be salvageable.
Charles’ flowy shirt is unbuttoned enough for his smooth neck to be visible, and there’s a flush high on his cheeks that makes his eyes look brighter. His scent is subdued, but sweet enough Franco can guess it under the alcohol and sweat. A pretty, perfect omega.
“Thank you again,” Charles says, and it takes a few beats for Franco to react, for he was too focused on the mole under his eyes and how his—
He snaps out of it and flashes him a flirty smile. “Yeah, no problem! Monaco is funny, they didn’t even card us,” he jokes.
“Well, yes, they know me, of course, but you… How old are you anyway?”
“26,” Franco lies, but he eats half of the six, so it doesn’t sound very truthful, even to his own ears. He laughs sheepishly instead, rubbing his neck with a hand. “No, that’s not true, I’m 21, sorry. I just don’t want to scare you.”
“Why would you scare me?” Charles laughs, his whole face scrunching. “I’m 26! That makes me sound old now.”
“Well, you look really good for your age,” Franco leans to whisper in between them, his hand brushing Charles’ hip.
Charles swats him on the shoulder with a fake frown. Franco is already thinking about how he’s going to tell him they’ll have to go to his.
“It's a wonder they haven’t put a muzzle on you yet.”
The bar is sticky from where Franco is leaning on it, but the new angle pushes him up in Charles’ space, where he can see the milky skin of his neck. “Would you like to? Maybe I only let pretty omegas do it.” It makes Charles snort. The ice cubes in his glass are tingling together. Franco drinks it all up like a starved man—the sounds, the drink, the looks. The shine on Charles’ flushed nose when he shakes his head.
“Or those with an FIA badge on them. It’s going to get you in trouble, you know?”
“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.”
“Oh, I don’t,” Charles says with a shrug. Franco watches as his rosy lips close on the straw with morbid fascination. An apple waiting to be bitten.
“So, are you here alone?”
“Well, no,” Charles says without batting an eye. Licks his lip and misses a spot. “I’m here with my mate.”
“Oh, where is your friend, then?”
This time, Charles’ loud laugh makes him jump. “You’re very funny!”
Franco smiles without really understanding what is funny about what he said. As long as it made Charles laugh, he’s fine with it.
He’s about to try and make a move for it—maybe ‘accidentally’ get pushed further and brush his glands—when Charles’ entire face lights up as he turns back to Franco. Dimples hollowing on his cheeks like angel kisses. “I love this song!” he exclaims, already raising his arms in delight.
So does half of the club apparently, because while Franco glances at the barman to see if he can get Charles another drink, he’s gone into the crowd. Fuck. He’s been too close to closing the deal to let him slip away, so, fighting against his urge, Franco dives into the crowd.
Sticky bodies moving, some plastering on his, there’s barely enough air to breathe, even as he tried to play the game and dance with some people to get by. At some point, he’s squished between two couples and thinks he’s going to pass out when a girl almost knocks him out with her elbows.
A strong arm wraps around his shoulder, pulling him away from the voracious crowd. Dizzy, Franco lets himself be pressed on the strong side of the alpha—the scent is unmistakable for so close—and blinks up to where Max Verstappen is smiling at him.
“You ok?”
“Yeah, thank you, mate,” Franco says, relieved and unreasonably a bit annoyed.
“Looking for someone?”
“Yeah, have you seen Charles? I’ve lost him.”
Max’s scent sours a little, but his body language stays relaxed. He shrugs. “No, I lost him a while ago. Why, something to ask him?”
“Kinda, I don’t know, mate, I think I have good chances to… You know,” Franco says with a wink. The heavy silence that follows is unexpected. On his shoulder, he can feel Max’s hand tightening before relaxing, and there’s nothing on Max’s face for a couple of seconds. Fuck, the fucking omegas talk was usually a good way to bond between alphas in Franco’s experience. Until now.
At last, Max barks a laugh.
“Yeah? Well, good luck with it, mate,” Max smiles with a bit too many teeth before striking him with a strong slap on the shoulder. Franco winces and tries to manage a smile that Max doesn’t see as he’s already gone.
What the fuck is this guy’s problem?
Finally, back at the bar, Franco sips on his—this time very expensive—drink, trying to drown himself in it. He can’t believe he had him and freaking lost him in the stupid crowd.
With the little hope he still has, Franco lets his eyes roam through the room and stops at one of the VIP booths, shadowed at the back of the club. Slumped on a dark red sofa, Max has an omega on his lap, clearly having a good time. It’s a bit obscene for a club, people around them purposefully avoid looking—but it’s as if Franco was put under a spell to keep watching as the omega slowly grinds on Max’s lap as he rubs on the small of his back.
Well, at least one of them is having a good time. Suddenly, the omega goes to steal a kiss from Max’s lips and—
Franco knows this profile. Knows it very well, in fact, as he’s been buying him a drink 1 hour ago.
Stunned, Franco watches as Max meets eyes with him, his neck still being eaten by Charles, and drags his hand under Charles’ shorts. Riding it up until his inner thigh is visible and—
Oh. Yeah. That kind of mate.
From across the room, Max smirks at him before whispering something in Charles’ ear. The obvious shiver and tightening grip on his shirt finally made Franco look away.
“You ok, dude?” The barman asks.
“Strongest drink you have, please.”
Their hands brush, and he can taste the spike on her scent. She’s not Charles-pretty, but Franco can always close his eyes and pretend.
iii. Liam
Many people pass through an F1 garage on a qualifying day, including, but not exhaustively: celebrities, VIPs, wannabes, and fallen racing drivers. Liam would like to think he’s not yet in the very last category. He’s a secret fifth thing. But it’s a matter of time before he steps into a garage, with his number plastered on the navy car.
In the Red Bull Racing garage, there is also Charles Leclerc.
Since he’d become—again—a reserve driver, Liam has been spending a lot of time in the garage. Officially: looking at the data. Informally: looking at the data and Charles Leclerc. It’s just—it’s hard not to notice him. Even though it seems as if he does not want to be, the flash of red in the corner of the garage naturally draws eyes. At least Liam’s.
Data can only get so interesting when it’s not your own, so maybe that’s why Liam has been hyperfixating on Charles a little. It’s fun, alright! Like a game of Where’s Wally, easy version. Liam is probably not the only one playing it either, but everyone else seems much better at pretending it’s not happening than he is.
The politics of a Formula One paddock still escapes him.
It hasn’t happened today anyway—or maybe Liam missed it by missing FP3, which was more likely than not. Or there isn’t anything much to take in Red Bull’s garage compared to the Ferrari one these days.
This is maybe the biggest mystery about this whole thing: why is Charles here?
Surely there’s something he wants he can’t find anywhere else. It made sense in 2023. But in 2024, Liam meets Charles’ gaze above Checo’s telemetry chart and doesn’t know what to think.
The alpha-only bathroom is empty as Liam leaves it, wiping his wet hands on his pants. Most of this part of the garage is. So this is why, when he looks up as he walks away, his heart stops a little when someone appears at the other end of the hallway.
The messy hair is unmistakable, the red even less. But there’s something strange about his attitude. A limp in his walk. A heavy up and down on his shoulders.
Liam knows Charles by now. Knows the way he moves, how he looks in the morning compared to night, the ting of his scent, not quite hidden by the patches, leaving a phantom behind him.
Finally, after what seems like a million lifetimes, when Liam dies and is reborn all at once, Charles brushes past him in the hallway. Liam freezes as their eyes meet, and Charles looks—
Rimmed red eyes, hair sticking onto his forehead, feline lips bitten until raw and wet. It only lasts one second—maybe two. Charles blinks, and his pupils are always elsewhere when Liam’s whole being is taking him in.
After comes the scent. It’s overwhelming, taking him by the nose and going to his head, sweet and sour. A pre-heat. Liam blushes furiously, and as he scrambles to look behind him, he’s only left to see a glimpse of Charles’ comically large pants turning the corner.
“Are you ok?” A girl from the staff snaps him out of his trance. Liam stutters an excuse and rushes to the engineers’ room, where he is neither needed nor wanted.
On the corner of the room, almost one with the wall, Liam thinks of the eye contact. Of the unkept state that Charles came within the Red Bull Racing garage, of all places. Surely, there’s gotta be something more to it.
Yes, he’s going to ask him about it.
And if he finds him and he wants to talk, Liam would offer him… He starts sweating a little, thinking about it. The only heat he spent with an omega was with his ex-girlfriend, and he was so nervous she probably spent more time coddling him than he did with her. Sure, he’s not very proud of that, but here it comes: his opportunity to redeem himself. And do a good deed; two in one really!
No one stops him as he sneaks out of the meeting room. Quali is approaching, and so is the slow awakening of the garage right before it, the quiet hallways now being shouted from one side to the other, heels clicking on the floor, ruffling of papers, and loud laughter filling it up.
Maybe this should be discouraging more than empowering, but in the middle of the chaos, Liam feels as if an alpha-ness is filling him up. He’s going to become a real one; a real alpha like the ones who win championships and fuck the prettiest omegas of the paddock. A—albeit small—part of himself cringes at that train of thought. The other one is still in a daze from catching Charles' heat scent.
Actually, maybe Liam should come to Charles prepared. A box of condoms has been lying unused at the bottom of his bag for a while now, and there are surely a few good points to grab from showing he does not want to impregnate him. For now.
Surprisingly, there’s almost nobody again in the hallway to the drivers’ room, except some voices coming from Max’s room. Probably his trainer, even if it sounds… intimate. Low whispers to the usually boastful complaints—Liam would know, his room is right next to him.
But the closer he gets, the more something off is clearly going on. Liam stops in front of Max’s door, cracked open. He knows that voice. And scent. It’s not from Max.
A light giggle erupts, and Liam’s blood freezes.
“Max, someone could—” Charles—because of course it’s him—laughs.
“Let them.” Max. It’s his room, after all.
“No, c’mon, I need to go.”
“What, do you have any more suitors to entertain?”
“Sure,” Charles answers, but even through the door, Liam can hear the sarcastic dip in his voice. “Oh, don’t be like that, you know it’s in your head.”
“Who’s your next victim? Kimi? Maybe Liam?” The sound of his name makes Liam’s heart drop as if Max had directly accused him, dead in the eyes.
“Max.” This time, Charles’ voice doesn’t have anything of the previous teasing edge. It sounds more like a knife getting dragged out of its sheath. “I’m not in the mood to fight with you, I’ll just leave if you—”
“Sorry, I just—” There are sounds of ruffling and a little choked-up noise that Liam desperately wants to peek at to see. “You’re close to your heat, you know,”
Charles huffs loudly. “So now it’s my fault?”
A barking laugh. “Yes, you make me go crazy. I lose my head when you’re around.” A few wet noises. Finally, Liam gets a look inside the room. Two forms, indistinguishable from one another. From his history class, Liam vaguely remembers a painting; bright yellow, two people enlacing each other tightly. Klimt, The Kiss. Or something like that. “I’m just usually very… Well behaved.”
“No, you’re not. I should put you on a leash,” Charles scolds him.
“I’m not stopping you.”
“Shut up. Kiss me.”
Liam leaves before the wish is fulfilled.
iv. Oscar
When Oscar stumbles out of his party—his party for the Grand Prix he won—there’s weirdly one person he wants to see.
It’s just—no one at the party understands. Not Lando, not any of his mechanics, not the cute omega that put her arms around his shoulders before he realized how he did not want to spend this moment with any of the people in the room. He’s not even sure people noticed when he used Lando to break a glass to sneak out.
The first taxi he finds looks a bit shady for Oscar to be giving it an F1 driver’s hotel address but it’s a testimony to his state of ebriety that he can’t bring himself to give a fuck.
Baku’s street lights blind him when he looks outside the window, before bathing him in their soft orange and yellow. Oscar closes his eyes. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but he feels good about this one.
So good, in fact, that he gives a tip to his taxi driver, who opens the door for him once he arrives in front of the luxurious hotel. He barely gives him a second glance. The tip of his tongue catches on his canines; it barely hurts.
Charles’ room number is not too hard to get from the guy at the front desk. Oscar signs him a McLaren cap and makes up a story about being invited into the room. The guy reacts flustered, his beta scent blooming, and after a little hesitation, gives it to him with a blush high on his cheeks. Weird.
Still, he has it: Level 15, room 97.
In the mirror of the elevator, a flash of self-awareness strikes him as he catches his reflection and how he looks… Drunk is maybe a bit too nice of an adjective. Determined not to scare Charles off, Oscar flattens his hair and rubs out the suspicious stain on his shirt and cheeks as best as he can before the elevator dings open.
Well, the show must go on.
With the confidence he lost under neon lights and jazzy music, Oscar still finds the room quickly, at the end of the hallway. Takes a deep breath. Knocks.
Muffled noises on the other side of the door and angry steps on wood are the only signs of life in the entire hallway before a lock loudly turns. Oscar’s heart might be visibly beating out of his chest as a pair of sharp green eyes peek out.
“Hi,” Oscar breathes out. If there was ever a time for romantic music to start playing, it was now.
“Oscar? Why are you here?”
Huh. Charles’ tone is a bit—harsh. Cold.
Oscar tries to give him his best smile. “Can I come in?”
“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea,” Charles says, tentatively. He still hasn’t cracked the door open more than a few centimeters. Oscar wants to reach out and rip the door out of its hinges; wants to bite Charles where his skin is softest, wants to leave a claim so deep people will come in the room in a hundred years and know what happened there.
Instead, he shows his neck. A weak attempt at vulnerability—which Charles takes into account visibly by backing up. Almost disappearing into the darkness of his room. A subtle panic starts to rise; this is not how it was supposed to go.
“Please,” Oscar begs, one last time. “It won’t take long.”
Charles sighs. Opens the door further as the spark of victory—familiar today—tingles in Oscar’s ribs. “Only for a few minutes,” he warns, but Oscar is barely hearing it with the buzz in his ears. Which might as well be the alcohol.
The inside of Charles’ hotel room is not what he expected either. Not that he truly thought about it, but it surely wasn’t a suitcase that looked like it had been bombed from inside, with clothes spread across the room and a chair with what looked like dirty laundry. On the bed, there’s a semblance of a nest, but before Oscar has time to dissect it, Charles clears his throat. His cheeks are flushed red, but he doesn’t say anything about the state of his room.
Instead, with a haughty air, he asks: “So, what was it?”
Oscar barely knows what to say. Charles has been—kind after the race. Disappointed, of course, but soft in a way he doesn’t under the lights of his hotel room.
“The race, it was—It was incredible, to fight against you.”
“I lost,” Charles says. He’s not wrong, but Oscar is still left gaping.
“Sorry, I didn’t come to brag or anything. It was one of the best racing I’ve done, and I did it with you.”
“If you’re not here to brag, then I don’t know why you are here.”
“Charles. Haven’t you felt this too?”
“Oscar,” Charles sighs. Oscar can’t interpret his face, his tone. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but this is not—”
“I smelled it. Your slick, in the coolroom,” Oscar says and watches as Charles turns as red as his car. For the first time since he entered the room, there’s a crack. Oscar latches onto it desperately. Slowly but surely, he’s moving toward Charles, and maybe subconsciously, Charles is moving backward.
“You—Slick is not only sexual, but it can also come from intense emotion and—”
“So you agree, you had intense emotions. Racing me,” Oscar emphasizes. Charles shifts on his feet. Look at the bathroom door before shaking his head.
“You’re drunk.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
Charles is now backed up completely against the wall, and despite Charles being taller than him on paper, it’s almost as if he melted against the rough surface to blink up at him. Lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, with moles and smooth skin where dimples are supposed to be. Pink lips cracking open. His wrist splayed against the wall; Oscar’s hand covering it entirely—the fluster of his blood like hummingbird’s wings. This time, Oscar is not going to wait for Charles to let him in.
There’s barely anything between them. Not even a whisper, maybe a race win.
Oscar only notices the sound of the shower is gone when the door of the bathroom suddenly opens. A white fog is the first thing that comes out, followed closely by a very naked, very three-time world champion Max Verstappen.
Huh.
“Max?” Oscar asks stupidly.
“Oh.” Max stops rubbing his hair with his towel to blink at them. “Hi Oscar, what are you doing here?”
Oscar stares at him. At Charles. Then, back at Max, again, looking incredibly relaxed.
And: yes, ok, Oscar has noticed the alpha scent in the room. He has been ignoring it, putting it on a long day and Charles’ garage, but he did not expect to be faced by the alpha himself. There are scratches visible on Max’s shoulders, and a Red Bull cap on the table behind him.
“I needed to talk to Charles. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here too.”
“Well, I usually am.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t know,” Oscar stutters. Rubs the hand that was holding Charles’ wrist on his pants. Wiping off Charles’ scent by spreading it on his clothes—he catches Max’s eyes on the movement and freezes when realizing what he’s doing.
“And it’s also usually not a good idea to speak to Charles after a race like that, of course, especially if you’ve beaten him. Congrats, by the way.”
“What are you saying?” Charles snaps, who has stood back up and—yeah, definitely taller than Oscar.
“That you’re a bitch, sometimes,” Max says, matter-of-factly.
At that, Charles makes a weird noise, almost a snarl. Oscar instinctively takes a step back, more by survival than anything; and watches as Charles’ pretty face is distorted, scrunched into something almost ugly. Primal.
Oscar has never thought of Charles as capable of looking like that. He doesn’t know if it turns him on or off. At least it’s not directed at him—but as he’s about to look for support in Max, a loud snort echoes in the room.
Stunned, Oscar watches as Max shrugs being growled at, and goes back to drying his hair and grabbing a Red Bull can lying on a table.
What the fuck is even going on. Maybe he fell asleep in the taxi and is just dreaming up this whole thing. The room feels upside down, like someone flipped it and forgot to put it the right way again.
Now Charles is straight up ignoring him, and they’re seemingly arguing, but Oscar can’t concentrate on any words they’re saying, he’s just—staring. At how animated Charles looks, not that he usually doesn’t, but he just looks so much… Freer.
Max, on the other hand, just looks exactly as he usually does. Without meaning to, Oscar’s eyes wander.
Max is… an attractive guy. There’s no shame in admitting it, Oscar can appreciate alphas and omegas alike: someone handsome still stays that way no matter what. So, yes, Max being handsome and wet and half-naked is starting to get to his drunk brain a little—not helped by the moment he shared with Charles and the warmth his body has left behind.
A drop of water makes its way from Max’s hair to the slope of his scratched shoulder to go down his collarbones onto his pecs and stomach and—
The view is suddenly blocked by another—clothed—body, and Oscar makes a surprised noise as Charles all but snaps his teeth at him.
This is definitely not how Oscar thought the night would go. With Charles glaring at him because he ogled his alpha(?) a bit too hard and jumped to get all over him.
Charles’ grip on Max’s shoulder and neck seems almost painful for both of them. It doesn’t seem to bother Max, whose hand is now on Charles’ waist is rubbing him like a pet owner to a particularly feisty cat.
“I think you should leave.”
“I—Yes, ‘course.” Oscar can’t do anything but nod. He’s not sure he’s in his body anymore. “Sorry for… bothering you.”
Charles softens a little at the slight shake on Oscar’s hand as he takes his phone to call someone. Anyone. “Call next time, please.”
Oscar doesn’t have his number.
He nods.
“I will.”
v. Carlos
Singapore’s crushing heat makes Carlos grow heavy. As if his limbs cannot work properly, his sluggish brain struggles to make a proper sentence—god forbid an English one—Carlos desperately needs to check out of this lethargy before the race.
His trainer has given up on making him do any exercise for too long after qualifying, but informed him pointedly that his hotel did have a pool on the roof. Fine.
So, after finding his room empty and uninviting, off to the roof Carlos goes. Wraps the hotel’s fancy bathrobe around himself and smiles half-awkward, half-charming to the beta woman staring at him in the elevator. But going out in Q2 is nothing to reward, so he let her leave at her level alone, despite the look she gave him. He stares at her long, dark hair swooshing on her back until the door closes.
The regret immediately sets in as the warm air of Singapore hits him again when he goes out to the roof. The pool is empty. Nearly. Carlos internally groans at the thought of sharing the thought of his cold and calming swim disappearing.
Sitting at the edge, only his leg in the water, the only person there jumps when Carlos steps on the wooden platform surrounding the pool. A pair of sharp green eyes pins him into place before they soften into something apologetic.
Charles looks small in a way he never does in the paddock. Maybe it’s the oversized hoodie, maybe it’s the dark circles under his eyes.
They greet each other a bit awkwardly. Gauche in the way of coworkers who are vaguely aware of each other. A question about an omega-exclusive pool burns Carlos’ lips, but he busies himself with testing the water instead of asking.
Charles doesn’t seem ready to swim any time soon, despite being in long bathing shorts, so Carlos jumps into his session immediately—as if waiting a bit longer would give Charles the idea to join him in the pool. Thankfully, he’s able to complete his 30-minute session alone, and the burn in his arms almost feels good when he finally pushes himself out of the water. Charles still hasn’t moved except for lying down.
While drying his back, Carlos lets his eyes linger on him while he’s still lost in thought. Of course, Carlos is aware of Charles on a conceptual level. An omega, on the grid, driving a car a bit worse than his, but not enough to feel serene about it. Not for long, though. It’s hard not to feel bitter about the Ferrari seat going to the new guy who has barely proven anything, the wound still fresh in Carlos’ mind.
It will be him, someday. He has to believe it.
The aristocratic slope of Charles’ nose is highlighted by the tame lights surrounding the pool, and this might as well be what Lucifer looked like when he first fell on Earth. Lost and beautiful.
At last, Carlos let his towel fall next to Charles—this time, not even worthy of a reaction except a quick look—before sitting down. A bit more hesitation before he also lay down next to him. This time, Charles’ nose twitches before turning his head to look at him. Gives him a small, tired smile.
“You ok?” Carlos’ voice comes out softer than he anticipated.
Sympathizing with him may discourage him from running into his car at the start tomorrow. But there’s something almost—protective burning inside him.
“I’m… thinking a lot,” Charles admits.
“Never a good thing,” Carlos tries to joke, but immediately sees it’s not landing by the way Charles frowns.
“What?”
“Nothing. Do you want to talk about it?”
Charles hums, going back to stare at the sky instead of Carlos. Takes a deep breath. The sound of the city crackles gently in the background, a fire gently burning up.
“Do you want to have children?”
Carlos almost chokes on the air.
Truth to be told, Carlos is quite new to the whole alpha thing. Some presented as early as 15, with Charles falling into that category, while Carlos has been going through life thinking he was a beta until two years ago. He still doesn’t know what triggered it, but the start of 2016 has been eventful between Max leaving him for Red Bull and his sudden alpha presentation. His dad gave him a knowing look when the news broke a few days apart.
At least he had one thing that his dad really wanted. Even if he might have liked the Red Bull seat more.
All of that to say: Carlos had not been thinking about having children. As a beta, it’s more difficult, even if possible; but his alpha presentation has been making it a real topic in his life. Hypothetically.
Fortunately, Charles is not looking at him. His eyes firmly on the night sky, it’s at least giving Carlos some time to get it together. He clears his throat.
“I mean, yes. I would certainly like to have a family at some point, it’s definitely… The goal, I think. To have someone to come back to after, and yes, have children.” His own answer surprises him. It feels a bit too honest, too vulnerable.
Charles’ nose twitches. “That’s nice. Do all alphas think like you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh,” Charles says. Pensive. “I think—I might be pregnant.”
The revelation drops like a pebble in a calm lake. It has time to sink to the bottom before Carlos can gather his thoughts enough not to be left gaping like a fish. Charles pregnant. With a Ferrari seat. Fucking hell.
“Is the father–”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
Charles’ face shuts down hard and suddenly, and before he can think about it, Carlos blurts out the most idiotic thing in his life: “I could be the father if you want.”
There’s a stunned silence before Charles bursts into laughter. If Carlos could go back twenty minutes ago, so he could drown himself in the pool, he would happily do it. “You’re cute,” Charles says, rolling onto his side to face Carlos completely. His cheek is squished against the wood, and he looks painfully young. “But I’m not going to keep it, if— Not now, at least.”
“Right.”
It’s a miracle Charles doesn’t run off after that, honestly, but still, he stays. They don’t talk about the way his hand is splayed on his stomach, nor the way he doesn’t have anything on him, not even his phone. But it’s surprisingly nice. Despite the elephant in the room, Charles is nice, he’s funny, and laughs at most of Carlos’ jokes—even if Carlos suspects he doesn’t understand all of them.
That’s what he thinks about in his room after. Charles’ mouth, curling up in a smile, dimples hollowing his cheeks before he bursts into laughter and dips his head down. Shy. Like those omegas Carlos’s dad has promised would run at him now that he presented—like the one he told him would be the one.
Yes, Carlos thinks about it. He can’t stop, really.
The driver parade is the stuff of nightmares. In his bright yellow shirt that sticks on his back and the crushing heat, Carlos barely feels rested from his night trip to the pool. Weirdly, the crowd of kids begging for his attention is less dreadful than usual; with their eyes and caps too big for their heads and their missing teeth, most of them are… Cute. Really cute. Carlos catches Charles smiling at a little girl with a Renault cap, and he can’t entirely blame the heat for the hot spell running through his spine.
Maybe he can convince him. To not get rid of it, to start a family with him. Charles said not now which was not a never. Sure, there’s the Ferrari seat. But if they were willing to sign him now, surely they wouldn’t mind waiting one more year—when Charles will be even more mature.
And if they don’t, Carlos’ salary is enough for two. And more.
The kids are finally being driven away by staff, and there’s barely a minute of break before a light voice cuts through the chaos.
“Carlos!” Cahlos.
Charles looks well-rested, much more than last night. His white team wear gives him a soft glow, one that reminds Carlos of his mother on Monday morning. Never on the weekend; never when his dad is racing. But it’s Sunday, and Charles is glowing and peaceful, and he pushes Carlos’ shoulder playfully when he doesn’t respond right away to his greeting.
“So did you—How are you doing? And for the…” Carlos stops. Hesitates. Makes a weird gesture toward his stomach that Charles laughs at.
“False alarm,” Charles says brightly. “But thank you for yesterday, you were very nice when you didn’t have to be!”
The gratitude sounds wrong for what Carlos’ rotten mind has been building up. He barely has time to answer anyway, with the staff pressing Charles to get into his little car, which he does not without a last small wave at Carlos.
After the car, after the pointless interviews, and before the impending long race, Carlos gets a break. A small one, but deserved. Hard-won. The race hasn’t begun yet, but Carlos feels the tiredness of it already settling in his bones.
The cold water of his bottle is not enough—he almost wants to open it and try to drown in it. Spill it all over his face until he can’t breathe anymore.
A hand comes to slap him in the back, interrupting his thoughts.
The amiable smile of an ex-teammate; the mirror of someone you were supposed to be. They have a good relationship, their dads, not so much. But it doesn’t matter, they’re the ones racing in F1 now.
“Hey Carlos,” Max says, going for a fist bump. Carlos replies weakly. The heat flushes Max’s pale skin in something a bit ridiculous, and his hair is clearly sticking out from under his cap, like one of the small chicks in Carlos’ Nana garden.
“Hi, what’s up, mate?”
“Good, good,” Max replies dismissively. He rubs his neck, looking around, before leaning to whisper: “Listen, I wanted to say thank you for… you know.” Carlos doesn’t. “Charles yesterday. It meant a lot that you helped him.”
“How do you—” The heat must be getting to Carlos’ brain because the pieces only fall together when Max gives him a sheepish smile. He looks young. Not like he did when he debuted, when he was in the same car as Carlos, but still… Young. Carlos swallows before nodding. “Yeah, you—No worries.”
“Maybe you can be the godfather to the next one that sticks,” Max jokes. Carlos flinches.
When Max leaves, at the corner of the garage, Carlos sees a white-clad hand reach for Max’s collar and drag him away from his eyes.
Charles’ bathing shorts are long. There’s no mark on his neck. The link Carlos missed tugs at his heart.
+ i
Charles spits at Max’s feet when he gets out of the car. Of course, no one catches him, so he doesn’t get scolded or penalized, but Max feels the violence of it staring back at him in the puddle at his feet.
It’s only qualifying, and it’s too lost in the chaos for Max to do or say anything, so he doesn’t. No one will believe him anyway.
Since Charles presented as an omega, and Max as an alpha a bit before him, it has been worse than before. The hunger. Max can see how it’s eating Charles alive; while his own presentation settled something inside for him—he’s an alpha, he’s meant to do this—it just made Charles more aggressive. Almost feral, ready to tear someone’s throat if that meant even the smell of a win.
Now, it would be nice if anyone other than him could acknowledge that.
Max cleans his shoes on the grass next to the grass and quietly joins his Dad for the debriefing session. All things considered, it was not bad, he’s still front row and missed pole by not that much. He’s in front of Charles at least, which earned him the glaring and spitting.
Weirdly, Dad takes a long time to come back to the garage. Max watches as the other boys laugh and jump around their mechanics before deciding to go and play football. One of them even comes to offer Max to join them, but he knows better than to accept.
In the meantime, he read the book Victoria had landed him the last time they saw each other. Something about geography and countries, so Max had decided he would learn about every country in the world just in case he went racing there one day. And also impress Vic.
He’s beginning the Cs (Canada, Central African Republic, Chad…) when there’s a loud noise echoing in the small garage.
Dad is back. And he looks angry. Max clutches random straps of his go-kart, his heart suddenly very close to his ears as he watches him storm in and throw his keys on the nearest table. Metal on metal, a shot in the silence.
Quiet, Max doesn’t move an inch until Dad puts his eyes on him. Dark blue, a storm. They stare back at Max in each mirror, too.
“You are disqualified.”
Max’s body grows cold, like when he went out in the snow one winter in his pajamas with Victoria. A shiver made him numb in his legs. A fear of losing them forever.
“What?” His voice comes out small. It is not like Dad yet.
“They said you impended and drove dangerously and I don’t know what other shit, but you are disqualified. You’ll start from the back.”
“But, I didn’t do—”
“I fucking know. Fucking hell,” Dad swears and stomps away to yell at someone else and Max is almost as relieved as he desperately wished he stayed. Even to yell. Just to have someone.
Disqualified.
What the hell?
Embarrassingly, his eyes start to prick, the coldness becoming fire as he can feel every hair on his head, and he rubs his face until it hurts to get rid of the feeling.
There’s nothing to be done, or so he guesses. If Dad couldn’t do anything, then Max isn’t going to make a scene; he’s going to take it on the chin. He won’t embarrass his dad. He will win.
With a newfound determination, Max does what he can to help prepare for the race: lube the chains, fill the gas, check the air pressure, and prepare his gears; it’s ingrained in him at this point. Movements as familiar as showering at night, or putting on his clothes in the morning.
Except: he loves his kart. Even when it loses, especially when he wins. It is like a best friend, except it will know better than anyone how it feels to be alone on the track while it rains torrentially.
Later, when he’s alone in the garage, Max sits in a pile of tyres in the corner and lets himself be really, really sad. Feel the unfairness of it all, of his lost front row, of all his hard work down the drain, just like that. This time, he doesn’t want to cry. He just wants to hug his mom.
Until someone coughs.
Arms crossed, Charles is watching him from the entrance of the small garage. It’s like he’s taking all the space, with his sweet scent and his unreadable expression. His green eyes pierce Max as he slams a box closed. Stays on him even as Max tries to ignore him, busying himself with mindless tasks that won’t change the fact he’s starting twenty-something.
“It will not be one easy race for you. From the back,” Charles says, finally. His voice echoes like a gong. Max glares at him.
“How do you already—Wait. You did this.” The realization washes over Max like a cold shower. But this time, he’s hyper-aware of every part of his body as he watches the bland face of Charles staring at him. “I know you did, I do not know how but...”
Charles shrugs. “I do not know what you are saying.”
“You will regret this.”
“Really? We will see. You are last, I am first,” Charles states simply. His face twists into something half-haughty, half-compassionate. “Good luck.”
On that last note, he leaves.
With something burning in his stomach, Max watches as he reaches Pierre’s parents, with a smile breaking on his face—brilliant and guileless. Slipping right back into the perfect son’s role, like a snake shedding its skin. Max can almost feel the scales as he clenches his fists.
As if feeling his eyes on him, Charles looks back, and the glimpse of his smirk tattoos itself in Max’s mind.
He hates him with every fiber of his body.
There is no time for that, however: he has a race to win.
Walking right down the back of the grid is the worst feeling Max has ever experienced. Some boys give him a sorry smile, and most look relieved. One last guy to get to the front, he would be smiling too.
Even worse, at his spot, Max has already heard two alphas next to him talk about the courting gift they were going to give Charles. But, honestly, Charles sounded more like an afterthought than anything in the conversation, and Max—who was originally half participating in the conversation—had quickly grown silent before leaving.
It just—It was weird. Charles was still Charles; he still pushed everyone off the track if needed, still threw tantrums, scolded, and pouted at the end of the races he didn’t win. It’s rare to see Charles smile other than on those (rare, mind you) occasions when he stands at the top of the podium. So Max struggles to see where those guys got the ‘adorable and delicate’ adjectives from. Brooding and a bitch would be more suitable.
And a fucking cheater. Charles is too far on the grid for Max to see him, but he can almost see his bright gold helmet. Undeserving. He’s not a champion enough to wear gold like this.
Of course, Max wins.
There’s a pileup toward the front that takes off almost half the grid, and Max takes advantage of the chaos to pass up everyone; even Charles with damage and his gold helmet. Especially Charles, with his sweet scent and burning eyes.
It feels particularly good on the podium—the quiet, simmering rage of Charles like a slow time bomb at his right. Max doesn’t care. The trophy is a bit heavy, but he still brandishes it in the air like it weighs nothing; this is what he was meant to be. There’s nothing more natural than that.
On the way back to the garage, a few flowers persisted and grew in the grass near the tracks. Tiny and fiery; white and gold, and so vulnerable.
His mom has always liked it when Dad brought flowers to her. Even if the memory is getting foggier and foggier, the smile on his mom’s face is unforgettable. It had been a while since Max saw Mom smile like that. Charles too.
The thing with Charles is: there is no one like him. Thank God.
But, Max thinks of the way the other boys have been talking about him, how he’s never invited to the football games anymore. At the off-handed joke a boy has made about WAGs and F1—at the way Charles was described, at this vague representation of a cheerleader waiting for him in his garage.
But Max doesn’t want Charles to stop racing. He wants to beat him.
There’s almost no hesitation when he picks up the flowers.
After a race, Charles calls his father. Sometimes Jules, too. Max knows because Charles told him about it with a prideful air that made him want to punch him in the face. Everyone who has known Charles for long enough knows about Jules, and Max’s dad was a real Formula 1 driver anyway.
That’s where Max finds him, on the fringe of the track, away from the garage and the parking. Sitting on the grass, his phone cradled in his hands, whispering low secrets to it, his helmet next to him. White and gold and vulnerable; tiny and fiery.
The moment he notices Max, his face scrunches up like he ate something sour, and he quickly hangs up after saying someone sounding mean in French. By the time Max reached him, he had stood up and now looking down on Max from up his little clod. Max hesitates. Climb back to the same level as him. It doesn’t feel right to do it another way.
They were the same height, for a while. But the moment Max presented, he took at least 10 centimeters, while it only seemed to slow down Charles’ development. It’s not for too long, at least Max doesn’t think so, but it feels weird.
“What?” Charles asks. Curt. Or maybe it’s just his lack of English—Max is never sure.
Still, he hands his flowers. “For you.”
“Are you joking?”
Max looks at his flowers, the roots still dangling with dirt. No, it doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like he’s handing his heart, and Charles is looking down at it in disgust.
“No. Take it.”
“Why?” Charles asks again. Crosses his arms on his chest, and he looks—young. His hair falls down his face, almost too long, hiding his eyes. The small head movement he keeps on making to swipe the hair back is ridiculous. Max feels something very deep in his stomach twisting. “You do not like me.”
“You are really annoying. And you disqualified me, then I still won. I think we should do this forever.”
Charles stays quiet for a few minutes. It’s a very long time, especially when Max’s arm is starting to hurt, and he feels more and more like he’s going to get slapped in the face. Finally, Charles sighs—a long, drawn-out, unnatural sigh—before nodding.
“Ok, but no flowers. This is ugly.”
Still, Charles takes the flowers very carefully, like he’s afraid he’s going to let them fall. They look even tinier in Charles’ hands, but not crushed; as if they were about to bloom in his palm. The stem is the color of Charles’ eyes. Max feels he made a good deal.
A kick in the calf wakes Max up, but it’s the nails scratching his back that make him move.
“You’re crushing me,” Charles whines, trying to wiggle his way from under Max.
Half successful, he manages to get a leg out that he uses to kick Max again, this time on his back. Max comes back at him by sinking his teeth into his neck. Charles whines. Stop moving. Release a soothing, calm scent as Max let go of his bite to apologetically lick at it.
Only during winter breaks, he’s allowing himself to bite here, where everyone can see. Rationing it, letting it be something special, something that only belongs to them.
The mating bite on Charles’ thighs seems to be pulsing and pressed on Max’s skin, his heartbeat goes wild. Going from scratching his back to tickling the back of his hair, Charles’ fingers thread Max’s soul like a particularly annoying tapestry. A violent shiver shakes Max’s body—he’s not going to be able to fall back asleep when he’s so aware of the lean presence of Charles underneath him.
“Fucker,” Max groans on Charles’ neck. “I was having a nice dream.”
“What did you dream of?”
“Our courting.”
Charles’ fingers stop on his scalp. This time, he starts to wiggle so violently that Max has no choice but to let himself be knocked over. From above, as if back on his little clop, Charles looks down at him, amused; the moonlight highlighting him like some ancient God. “Yeah? Which part? The piece of my kart you ripped off to give me?”
“No, the beginning.”
Charles hums. Decide that it’s very lonely on top and curls himself back into Max’s arms, flustering his eyes closed. “That sounds like a nice dream.”
“I’d rather be awake,” Max confesses. Kisses the top of Charles’ hair, where he smells like night, him and their shampoo. “You were very mean to me back then.”
Charles cracks an eye open to glare at him. “No way!”
“It’s fine, I love you like this.”
“I love you asleep, it’s too early,” Charles groans—as if he wasn’t the one who woke Max up in the first place. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Outside, the stars burn out another rainbow and slash another cloud as the whole world falls back asleep in Max’s arms.