Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Seeing Max Verstappen in the flesh for the first time in 2022, after months spent hiding from the world, isn’t nearly as bad as Lewis had convinced himself it could only be.

Lewis doesn’t feel too much of anything, actually, as he walks towards the younger man. Yes, he’s conscious of feeling the hundreds of pairs of eyes watching them from the media pen at the Catalunya test. But he isn’t anywhere near as angry or resentful as everyone probably expects. He relaxes into the knowledge that his scent won’t betray him either, that it's clean of any of the sour notes that negative emotions cause.

Rosa walks at his elbow, reminding him in undertone of what he can and cannot talk about in front of the cameras, and Lewis listens and nods along out of respect but with only half an ear. He’s been in this game so long that he knows exactly what to say, how to project confidence in the car and excitement for the season ahead, no matter what’s been going on with the team  in secret over the winter.

Max meets his eye as Lewis steps into the pen, his usual stoic expression not shifting in the slightest. His scent also remains entirely unchanged, indicating that he’s not experiencing any extreme emotions upon seeing Lewis either.

Good. That’s good. A surprise, yes, but a good one.

Lewis had expected last year’s animosity to make things just as severe and frosty between them still, but he’s glad it seems as though it won’t reside over their interactions moving forward.

The paddock is flooded with the intermingled scents of the hordes of people, strong even through Lewis' blockers, and he shies away from the overbearing onslaught of smell as he moves through the pen. It will be far worse when the actual testing gets underway and emotions heighten, but he’s been too used to the company of only a select and familiar few recently, so it overwhelms. He wrinkles his nose; the excited anticipation from the journalists duels with the sharp anxiety of the F1 staff. But it’s all underpinned by the well-known and constant impatience that rolls off drivers who just want to get into their cars and race.

Lewis can’t help but wonder, pausing to shove his sunglasses up as the sun tucks itself behind some clouds, if his sabbatical from the world – and social media – over winter had been something of a mistake. He’d needed it. He’d enjoyed it. And he absolutely stood by not wanting to know what was being said about him after Abu Dhabi.

But God, the way people are watching him...the journalists especially look nothing short of hungry, and it’s all because he’s offered nothing but radio silence since the dramatic conclusion of the 2021 season. Perhaps he should have drip fed them a few sound bites, posted a few thirst traps to quell the apparent need to see him? The stares are really starting to do his head in, and he hasn’t even done his first interview.

Hindsight’s a funny thing. Lewis understands the reason for the low buzz of anticipation he can smell in the air as the journalists and their camera-men stare from him to Max and back again, like a tennis rally. But don’t they have better things to focus on? The actual cars? The new driver line-ups? The sick outfit Lewis had worn to the paddock this morning, before he'd changed into team branded gear?

Because Lewis has done his time mourning the events of last year. He’s let himself feel every aspect of the hurt, from the seething, livid rage all the way through to the crippling heartbreak of utter betrayal. He’s not over it; it was too unjust, smelled too pre-meditated, cut him too cruelly and deep. But he’s healed enough now to keep his chin up and his head held high, as he faces the world again.

But why is he the only one that seems to have made any effort to move on? Was everyone else so desperate for drama that they’ve waited in limbo for him all this time, just so they can keep basking in it? Certainly, the media clustered about the circumference of the pen eye him with excitement that’s almost nervous, as if they expect some sort of wild outburst. But if they really think Lewis will display that sort of reaction, then they don’t know him very well at all, even after all these years.

He’s buried worse pain that this, and hidden far deeper-rooted grief. So his real feelings about Abu Dhabi are just one less thing the world knows about him; they'll never know the depth of his hurt and how far he has to push it down, but it’s no matter. He’s used to hiding.

Readying himself, Lewis waves to a few other drivers that are scattered about the pen. The guys from Red Bull, Ferrari, Williams and Aston Martin are already here, and Lewis can smell the McLaren and Alpha Tauri boys nearby but can’t see them yet.

As he finally moves a little closer to the journalists, Lewis also becomes aware that the scent of George’s tension is strengthening. His Beta teammate has stayed a step behind him the whole walk over, nerves and apprehension rolling off him in waves, a sharp scent that’s powerful over his natural paper-and-ink smell.

George is a good kid and was always destined to have a seat at Mercedes, so Lewis is trying not to show how much he’s already missing Valtteri even at this early stage of the season. It’s definitely an adjustment, a new scent at his side, though he wasn’t surprised that Mercedes’ desire for younger blood and fresh talent had pushed his beloved friend with his calming wintery smell away. It’s not lost on Lewis that it never seems to get remarked upon that he’s five years older than Valtteri, and that if anyone should have stepped aside due to their age it should have been him.

Lewis throws a quick glance at his new teammate over his shoulder. The kid’s been a part of the paddock for years with Williams, so he knows how all these media duties works... surely George can’t be nervous about the interviews? Or maybe he’s anxious about how testing will go, or how long it might take for him to prove himself in a car that’s going to be a huge step up from running a Williams at the back of the grid?

Then Lewis spots that Max is still watching them with his unnervingly stoic gaze, and he smells George’s concern heighten.

Ah. Aw. His teammate is worried for him. Unable to keep from smiling, Lewis shoots George a comforting glance, letting confidence and reassurance seep into his pheromones. Even through his suppressants, it should help put George a little more at ease.

As he glances over at the Red Bull boys again, he spots Checo hovering at Max’s elbow with a hesitant smile on his face, and when he catches Lewis' eye he offers an awkward wave.

Max simply regards the Mercedes duo with his closed-off gaze as Lewis and George approach, his face expressionless, his mouth turned down. But Lewis can’t smell any deceit on him when he murmurs, “Hey, George. Hi, Lewis. It’s good to see you.”

Lewis returns the sentiment sincerely enough, offering his fist for a bump to both him and Checo; he’d never had any real bad blood with Max, or any of Red Bull, not really. They were just doing their jobs, had fought with all their might, all their tricks, every weapon they could get their hands on, and had won. Sure, he hated the unnecessary aggression from Max on track, when the young man just wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t ease off, wouldn’t stop attacking.

But Lewis is reasonably sure that he’s one of the few on the grid who really understands Max right down to his core. He understands him better than Red Bull or Christian Horner or Max’s asshole of a dad could ever hope to. Because Lewis had been Max, once, a long time ago. He had been 23 years old and hungry, ravenous for victory. He had been so young, and so blind and deaf and dumb to anything but winning, to chasing the Championship with every inch of his heart and soul.

He’d won then, too, just like Max. He’d kept on winning. The hunger hasn’t died, and he doesn’t think it ever will but...

Should he warn Max that one will never feel like enough? Should Lewis tell him that chasing WDC’s at the detriment of everything else may just not quite be worth it?

No. As soon as the thought occurs to him, Lewis dismisses it. Max won’t listen, won’t want to hear such a sentiment, and certainly not from him. Maybe Lewis will try a decade from now, when Max will still be following in his footsteps. Then it will be Max’s turn, when he’s in his mid 30’s, to feel like his career is approaching its inevitable end.

Last year, if Lewis had won, he might have even retired. But for now the elusive 8^th victory still haunts him. He still wants it. He still feels competitive. But whether or not he can do it, when there were other, strong factories building amazing cars, when there were younger, desperate drivers snapping at his heels...? He’s running out of time.

He wants to keep going, to keep driving, forever. But it’s dogged him all winter, the niggling feeling that this might be it. It might be over, it might be out of his hands and beyond his reach. His contract dictates he has to try, however, and he’s geared himself up enough in anticipation now to a point of both determination and desperation. This year is his last shot.

But if it doesn’t go well... again, Lewis shoves the thought aside. No. No. It’s not over yet. He’s not done. He’s not giving up; he hasn’t even gotten started. They haven’t even tested yet, so where is his anxiety coming from?

Maybe the lack of Valtteri’s calming presence is affecting him more than he’d care to admit. But for George’s sake and his own Lewis needs to just get over himself, put his head down and focus.

As they move past where the Red Bull boys are lounging against the fence by the Sky Sports UK crew, George pats Lewis on the shoulder and peels off to go and chat with Alex and Lando. Lewis smells his teammate’s joy at being reunited with his friends saturate over his worry, and feels a tiny pang of jealousy.

He’s only ever had one truly close friend on the grid, and that had turned into the biggest, messiest, most painful disaster of his life. These days Lewis does now have Valtteri, with his quiet smile and comforting scent, and Seb, all chatter and teasing and eyes that miss nothing. But even them Lewis always kept at arm's length. He hopes it goes better for George, that his friendships will stay as strong as they are right now, and ultimately survive this life intact.

Lewis finds a spot in the pen that’s isolated from the others, as is his custom, and leans back against the railing. He prefers to be alone, to remain a little aloof. No more close relationships ever again, thanks. And it lessens his chances of being caught out in his... well, not lies, but...

Max shoots him another long look over Checo’s shoulder. Lewis knows why; there’s still a lingering tension between them that will take a long time to fade, and a lot unsaid. But this drama with Max pales in comparison to what else Lewis has endured in all his years in the paddock, so he’s not particularly perturbed by it.

Still, Max seems to be growing bothered, agitation starting to creep into his scent. Checo must notice because he lays a hand on his teammate’s arm and says something to him quietly. Lewis fights the urge to sigh. What has he done wrong now? They’ve barely exchanged words, only been in each other's presence for a few minutes, and already the kid is finding some reason to get angry?

He flicks his eyes away from Max, as the interviews start up and the Haas teammates step up to the cameras first. Max’s pheromones reach Lewis' nose again though, and yeah, now Lewis is starting to get pissed off, feels his blood start to run hotter. What’s the kid’s problem with him all of a sudden? All he had done was enter the pen. And why does Max smell... odd?

Lewis sniffs the air, trying not to be too obvious about it. But no, it’s not his imagination. Something smells a bit weird about Max. Different. Very different. Like there’s a new layer to his natural pheromones, a depth that hadn’t been there before.

Letting his senses flood with the other Omega’s scent, Lewis inhales surreptitiously again, unable to shake how odd he himself is suddenly feeling in response. He’s more easily attuned to Max and the other Omegas in the paddock, thanks to the similarity in their biology. Not that any of the other drivers know the truth of Lewis’ blood status.

Lewis has been on suppressants for so long to block his Heats and dull his pheromones, having jumped at the chance to take them as soon as he was of age, that he's always struggled to understand his instincts. The pills have overridden the handicap to his driving that being an unmated Omega would have brought and as a result he’s managed to keep his status quiet for nearly twenty years. Things have been difficult enough for him the past decade or two without it coming out that he’s an Omega. As unnatural as they are in what they do to him, those little white suppressant pills have been his saving grace, allowing him to almost completely deny and avoid his status and just focus on racing.

None of his teammates had ever known he was Omega except Nico, and only a few of his team and the trusted higher-ups at Merc have been privy to the information, outside of his family and closest, oldest friends. Lewis has always remained coy about it in interviews, not lying, but not giving a straight answer either. He doesn’t want it coming out until after he retires, if it has to come out at all.

But the blockers in his suppressants dull Lewis' senses as well as his pheromones, and he usually relies on Ange to tell him what he needs to know about the blood status of people unfamiliar to him since he can’t smell it for himself. Ange would know immediately what was up with Max, but she's over at hospitality and Lewis can’t tell on his own.

Driving as an Omega, even an unmated one, wasn’t impossible. Max wasn’t mated, and Charles had been courted by Sebastian for three years until they had bonded. But it made things harder when incidents and errors were chalked up to being of inferior status. Going into Heat every two months also meant that the FIA, already annoyed at Omegas being on their grid at all, had to try and time the calendar carefully around their projected Heats in order to avoid as many of them as possible missing out on races.

Max had famously been put on suppressants too, at a disturbingly young age. It still chilled Lewis to the core that the kid’s father had immediately put his underage son on the pills. Being Omega but not yet an adult had meant very little; the true effects of the blood status would have done nothing to Max until he was between 18 and 20 years old, like everyone. There had been no need for him to be on suppressants at 14.

It had seen Max come to the F1 grid already driving ruthless, even as a teenager, but it still turned Lewis’ stomach. Maybe Max was off the pills at last, and that was why he smelled different now?

Max keeps shooting him suspicious looks, and Lewis tries to fight his sudden nerves that the world champion might have figured his truth out, that he knew Lewis’ status somehow. Certainly, they had studied each other so carefully last year, with so much obsession and desperation to uncover chinks in armour, to gain any advantage, that it was possible that Max now knew that Lewis was an Omega too.

And the younger man is currently giving off different pheromones, that was for sure. To Lewis at least, Max has always smelled like anger and fire, like the pure and seething destruction of raging flames and acrid black smoke. But now there was a trace of something else, something cool and fresh to dull the fury and tame the flame... rain? No, a tinge of salt. The ocean?

Wait. Daniel?

Oh. Mate.

Daniel.

Mates. They were mates.

That explains the scent, and Lewis slumps back against the fence, satisfied now that he understands. It still didn’t explain why Max was looking at him weird and smelled agitated now despite their perfectly cordial interaction just earlier, but whatever.

Daniel is ambling over to Lewis from the other direction, looking as friendly and happy as ever. And yes, there’s Max on him in return, hanging hot over his natural ocean scent like scalding steam.

“Hey, Lewis.” Daniel offers his trademark grin before he throws his arms open for a hug, which Lewis returns.

“Good to see you,” Lewis tells him. Daniel smells pleased, comfortable, his Alpha scent complete and proud in a way only being bonded could make.

“I like the new smell on the two of you,” Lewis offers as congratulations, and Dan beams even wider. “It’s right. It makes sense.”

The rage of Max cooled, Daniel’s easy-going attitude fired up... yeah. It worked. They would work.

“Took us a while of dancing around, pretending we didn't feel it,” Daniel replies with a rueful shrug. “We got there in the end. Thought I’d better mate myself off the market at last, put an end to the rumours that I’m sniffing after Lando. Carlos started eyeing me a little close around his Heats last season.”

This last joke is delivered with Dan's typical aplomb – Lando being mated means that even when Daniel was in the middle of his Rut he still couldn't be attracted to his Omega teammate, whose pheromones carried Carlos’ Alpha scent. The Mclaren duo were perfectly safe from, and uninterested in, each other. But there are still traditionalists floating around the paddock who occupied positions of extreme authority. They turned their noses up at Omega presence altogether, and had damn near lost their minds at an Omega driver teaming up with an Alpha that wasn’t his mate.

“Max is finally off those fucking bullshit suppressants too, at last, as you can probably smell. Though that was a battle and a half, let me tell you.” Daniel shakes his head as he speaks, his expression darkening. “I didn’t force him, it was his choice, but Jos just about bloody dueled me when he heard...”

Lewis hums in acknowledgement of what Daniel was carefully avoiding stating too explicitly. As his mate and Alpha, Daniel now had authority over Max, meaning Jos had no power to command his son  anymore. Besides, coming off suppressants was typically the first thing an Omega did after bonding. The protection of an Alpha mate meant an Omega didn’t need to fear or hide anything anymore; they were constantly and permanently safe. It also meant Max would now have regular Heats, which had been stopped by the pills. However, none of that was any of Jos’ business now.

“You two deserve to be happy,” Lewis murmurs, genuinely meaning it. “The more time he’s able to spend away from... undue pressure... the better, in my opinion.”

“That’s what I think too, but it’s hard for Maxy to accept needing to step back from his dad. Thankfully, I think he likes me enough to at least listen to my opinion, most of the time,” Dan shoots his new mate a grin as he speaks, his tone teasing, knowing Max can hear him.

Max’s taut expression relaxes into a smile for Daniel and he seems to melt a little, a blush starting to colour his cheeks.

“I like you, maybe just a little,” the world champion calls over to his mate, joy blooming through his scent.

Lewis idly wonders what the distraction of a mate might mean to Max’s driving this year, whether it will dull his desire for another championship. Daniel pulls his thoughts away by bumping him gently with his shoulder in farewell when Lando appears and waves him over to go and do their interviews.

George makes his way back to Lewis’ side eventually, and they chat idly about what they got up to in their winter breaks as they wait for their turn in front of the cameras, though Lewis gets distracted from the conversation by the late arrival of the Alfa Romeo teammates to the media pen.

Something in him twists unhappily at the sight of Valtteri in the unfamiliar white, black and maroon gear. At the Finn’s side Zhou Guanyu both looks and smells nervous, and it’s sweet how Valtteri carefully takes the time to check on his Beta teammate, talking to him until the sharp scent of his nerves fade. It’s only once Zhou smells a bit better that Valtteri leaves him chatting with Yuki and Pierre, and immediately heads Lewis’ way.

“You looked better in black and teal,” Lewis grumbles, when his former teammate reaches him with his usual soft smile on his face.

Valtteri just shrugs as he touches Lewis’ forearm gently in greeting, then offers his fist to George for a bump. “I had kept George’s seat warm for long enough, I think.”

“You set the bar damn high,” George insists, his gratefulness at the compliment obvious in his tone and his scent.

Lewis lets them chat and clear the air between them, but takes a tiny step closer to Valtteri under the guise of shifting his weight. He’s so used to his old teammate that the pine-trees-and-snow scent of him is as comforting and familiar as Angela’s lemon meringue, and he lets it seep into his senses to soothe him.

George eventually wanders off to help make Zhou feel welcome, and Lewis is pleased for the opportunity to be alone with Valtteri.

“Smelt Max and Daniel?”

Valtteri sniffs the air in Daniel’s direction, and his eyebrows raise for a moment, though his expression remains placid. “Ah, so that’s what that is. I wondered why Max stopped the suppressants; I could smell him so much stronger.”

“He probably wouldn’t have come off them otherwise. You remember the trouble Lando had?”

Lando openly hadn’t wanted suppressants, and before he’d mated with Carlos he had spent his first year as an F1 driver under the heavy guard of a security team no less than six strong to keep him protected. It had been rough on everyone; a crazed Alpha fan had gotten past the guards once during one of Lando’s Heats, and only Carlos’ timely intervention to duel him had kept his teammate safe.

Lando and Carlos had later emerged from the former’s Heat week with their scents intermingled; the baked bread and chili chocolate smelled good together. They’d formally bonded a few weeks after that, to the FIA’s relief, their bond scent of cinnamon completing the harmony of their pheromones.

“Lucky there’s been no new Omegas on the grid recently,” Valtteri points out.

Lewis tries not to bristle. “As if it’s not difficult enough for them!”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Valtteri replies calmly, his blue eyes quietly assessing Lewis’ face. “You know I have no problem with Omegas driving, whether they’re mated or not. I simply meant that I’m glad no one is having to choose between going on suppressants and scrambling to find a mate, because unfortunately the third option of going it alone without either is very dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Lewis mutters, bumping their hips together as an apology for snapping. “I just... sorry, it’s just shocking that it’s still so hard for Omegas to have basic rights.”

“Having Mick around will make things better,” Valtteri points out. “Once he comes into his full status... he just needs a little more time.”

Lewis nods, but doesn’t comment. The shoes of Mick’s father were proving hard for the young man to fill, and not just as a driver. There were only a few drivers left on the grid these days who had raced with Michael, and had felt the protection of belonging to the pack of a True Alpha. The FIA had certainly been taking every liberty and advantage of their drivers ever since Michael’s retirement and without his authority the sense of pack had faded in his wake.

When Mick had joined the F1 grid last season the expectation that things would go back to feeling as secure and stable as they had under his father had been exponentially rough on him. He hadn’t even learned to trigger his morph into wolf form, was still only an Alpha; he had the True Alpha blood but not yet the full status.

Lewis opens his mouth to tell Valtteri that he didn’t envy the pressure on Mick’s shoulders, when he notices that his friend’s expression has gone cold and stiff and that his pretty eyes are narrow. Valtteri’s wintery scent spikes with suspicion, and Lewis glances around in confusion to try and see what has agitated him.

Then he smells it. Ugh. Old oil and rust. Jos Verstappen. With Daniel still tied up by the media, it seems that the other man has taken the opportunity to harass Max. Jos is leaning over to his son from across the barrier that separates the drivers from the journalists, gesturing angrily about something with a finger almost jabbing into Max’s eye. Lewis can smell the unhappiness rolling off the other Omega even through his blockers.

The new World Champion keeps his voice low and his eyes downcast as he replies to his father, trying to fawn and appease, as comes instinctively to an Omega. But it’s not working. When Jos’ finger makes contact with Max’s chest to shove him back a step, Lewis feels his blood run cold.

Max lets out a yip at the contact, more surprised than harmed, but it may as well have been a more violent attack for the protocol that’s just been breached. Jos had practically committed a crime by aggressively touching another Alpha’s mate, even if it was his own blood and son.

Hell was about to break loose and Lewis sucks in a rapid breath to hold, unable to do anything else but watch the inevitable carnage.

Hearing his mate’s noise of distress, Daniel suddenly tore through a cluster of the other drivers, his face rigid with rage. Some of the grid’s Alphas – Fernando, Sebastian, and Valtteri – had all started forward to protect Max, but they backed down as his own Alpha let out an enraged howl and charged.

Max turns helplessly, his hands raised in supplication to try and stop Daniel, pleas already falling from his lips.

“Daniel, no, please! I’m OK! He didn’t hurt me!”

Daniel’s answer was another scream of fury, as he reaches Max and gathers him into his arms to shield him, his lips still drawn back in a furious snarl. He might have then attacked Jos, if Max hadn’t been clinging to his waist to stop him, and were it not for Mick beating him to it.

The youngest grid Alpha is sprinting across the pen to them, his eyes wide and incensed, agitated growls falling from his throat in a way that’s almost feral. Then Lewis blinks and Mick is no longer human.

Lewis cries out in shock, his hand dropping into Valtteri’s out of surprised fear as a hulking, white wolf leaps clean over the huddled Beta drivers, slamming through the media barrier and into Jos. Valtteri squeezes Lewis' hand back before he turns his body to screen him protectively from the ensuing duel, even though Mick wins in mere seconds.

When the carnage calms, Jos is curled up in fetal supplication at the wolf’s feet, Mick’s teeth around his throat. Everyone else is frozen in terrified shock except for Sebastian.

Mick’s friend and mentor is sidling closer slowly with his hands raised, the only one unafraid of the True Alpha wolf.

“Easy, now, Mick. It’s done. You won. Max and the rest of the pack are safe.”

Mick releases Jos in order to let out a howl that ends in an angry snarl directly into the older man’s face. Jos actually whimpers.

“Come on, Mick,” Seb murmurs, as reaches to lay a hand on the wolf’s shoulder. “Come back, my friend.”

The young man is human again at the second he feels touch, crouched on the ground and peering up at Seb in confusion, his blue eyes wide and dazed.

“Sebastian? What just happened?”

“Those Schumi genes sure are strong, huh?” Seb tries to joke, but no one laughs. A medic comes scrambling up to check on Jos, who is staring up at Mick like he’s seen a ghost. Max, standing behind Daniel with his hands pressed to his mouth in shock, is shaking violently at what had almost happened.

Valtteri turns to Lewis as Mick staggers to his feet, and he realizes he’s still clinging to his friend’s hand.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. That was a shock, though,” Lewis mumbles, his lips feeling numb. Max is in tears, Dan cradling him to his chest and murmuring in his ear, and poor Mick still doesn’t look as though he understands what happened.

Valtteri is only looking at Lewis though, his eyes wide with concern, one hand coming up to touch Lewis' cheek gently. But George is already calling to them from by the fence that leads to the outbuildings, and the pen is rapidly emptying of drivers.

“Emergency briefing, guys! Lewis?”

“Yeah,” Lewis answers with a thumbs up, wrapping an arm around Valtteri’s waist because he needs the comfort of feeling him. When he passes the scene of the incident tucked into Valtteri’s side, he sees that Jos has already slunk off and that Mick is as white as a sheet, seemingly oblivious to whatever Sebastian is murmuring as he crouches next to him.

Mick must go to medical, or perhaps to speak to his mother Corinna, because when Seb finally joins the rest of the grid in the briefing room a little later he is alone.

Lewis and Valtteri have settled side by side against one wall, and Lewis watches Seb wander up to the front of the room, running his hands through his haphazard curls. Charles leaps up and hurries to his mate when he sees him, pressing his nose into his neck, and the two exchange a few quiet words.

Everyone else is silent. The Alphas all sit with their Omega mates around the perimeter of the room, with the exception of the unmated Pierre and Valtteri. Pierre has taken up a guard position in front of the Betas, who stay in their comfort huddle in the center. Valtteri remains at Lewis’ side.

“Well, wasn’t that something,” Seb eventually says out loud to the rest of them, looking far older than he is.

“I’m sorry, guys,” Max mumbles to them all, from where he’s shivering under Daniel’s arm at the back of the room. He smells awful, his fear and embarrassment making his scent sting hot with trauma in Lewis' nostrils.

“It was only a matter of time before Mick turned,” Lewis points out. As one of the oldest and most experienced drivers on the grid, it was usually his place to speak up at times like this, to try and calm everyone. “It was always going to be something big that triggered his shift, and you two have known each other all your lives, Max. Besides, what your Dad did just then was absolutely wrong.”

Max’s eyes flash a little in anger, but he must accept that Lewis is right because he doesn’t try to argue.

“Michael. I thought for a moment the wolf was Michael.” Fernando is at the front of the room, looking almost white with shock as he mumbles his words through bloodless lips. Next to him, Esteban presses in closer to his body, trying to comfort his Alpha.

Fernando’s pain tastes sharp in the air, but it’s nothing compared to Seb’s, which is so deep and consuming that Charles breaks out into whimpers, high and distressed.

“Sorry, darling, it’s OK. I’m OK,” Seb mutters absently, stroking his mate’s hair back from his forehead. But he didn't smell OK; he smelt sour and sore, like a wound.

“He looks a little different to Michael,” Lance offers. “Michael had pure white fur, right, Seb? But Mick’s has a bit of a gold sheen, it looks like.”

“Seems that way,” Seb agrees, before he closes his eyes and turns to bury his face in Charles’ neck, breathing him and their bond scent in.

“Well, I’m relieved,” Kevin insists loudly. “Mick’s been so worried over when he would turn; it was the first thing I smelled on him. At least now it’s happened he can let go of the stress of waiting. It’s been agony for him. The whole garage has been on edge and the season hasn’t even started.”

Lewis nods in agreement with Mick’s Haas team-mate.

“I think it will be good for us all to have a True Alpha on the grid again,” Valtteri murmurs. “Mick will be able to set better boundaries with the FIA, and we’ll all be safer for it.”

Lewis sees the glance Daniel shoots Valtteri, the relief prominent in the Australian’s gaze, as he himself clicks to what Valtteri is implying.

A True Alpha’s dominance overrode everything, which meant that Daniel wouldn’t be alone in safeguarding Max from Jos; Mick was now a layer of absolute protection around them all. At his say so, Max’s father could be banned from coming near him ever again. And Mick obviously already saw the grid as Pack, since he’d morphed in order to defend Max and his bond with Daniel, despite not even being particularly close to either of them.

“I hope Mick’s OK. That must have been such a shock,” Lewis murmurs, and Valtteri shifts to lean his weight more solidly against his side and loops his arm around his shoulders.

“I think he’ll be fine,” Seb replies, lifting his head from Charles' skin at last. “He knew this was coming. He’s been preparing for a while. But a lot of even just being an Alpha is still very new to him; he doesn’t always know how to behave or how to control his instincts. He was still underage when Michael had the accident, so he never got any real guidance from him. Taking on the True Alpha mantle will be harder still, but unfortunately that’s not something I can help him with.”

“What about Valentino? Or Marc Marquez?” Lewis asks. The Schumachers were the only True Alpha bloodline in F1, but the conflict between Valentino and Marc’s matching True statuses had damn near ripped the Moto GP grid apart up until Rossi's retirement last year. “Maybe one of them could come and give Mick some guidance?”

“It doesn’t even have to be a True Alpha from motor sport,” Daniel points out. “Although it’s probably easier if it’s someone who understands what we do; the whole travelling circus.”

“I have Valentino’s number, should I call him?” Lewis asks Seb, but it’s Mick that answers for himself as he steps into the room.

“No, thank you, Lewis. I think for now I will be OK.”

Lewis flinches, fighting the urge to drop to his knees and offer his throat in submission. The other Omegas are doing so, even though they’re all mated; the urge is just too strong. He doesn’t realize his fingers are digging into Valtteri’s arm until his former teammate gently rubs at the back of his hand. The Betas are on the edge of their seats too; Lewis sees that George is blinking rapidly and can hear little Yuki breathing hard, like he’s about to flee. His own chest feels tight, like his ribcage is constricting around his organs.

The Alphas are beyond tense too; those that are mated keep hands on their Omegas, their expressions all troubled. Mick will need to establish a hierarchy from amongst them almost immediately. The whole pack will now need proper unification and trust, starting with the Alphas, but that will be impossible if there was no clarity over Mick’s intentions as leader. He has the right to claim anything he wants now, order anything from anyone, and they would all be bound to do it; he could control the outcome of qualifying, of the races, even. He could command the Alphas to give him their mates, if he wished, although from the startled look he’s giving the display of submission he’s receiving, Lewis can’t see him doing any of that.

The young man turns to Seb, confused, but even his mentor is displaying downcast eyes and a bowed head in respect.

“I don’t... guys, you don’t need to do this, I don’t want... Stop.” The last word is spoken with instinctive, centuries old Command. The effect is immediate; Omegas climb off the floor as everyone straightens and sits normally again. Lewis feels the weight of resisting reacting to Mick lift, and lets out a loud sigh of relief. He’s been fighting against his Omega instincts for years – he’s well-practiced at it – but trying to ignore the urge to throw himself on the floor in submission like the others were doing had hurt and only contact from Valtteri had kept him upright.

“Don’t do that again, please,” Mick mutters to them all, looking troubled and angry – every inch Michael’s son. He probably couldn’t sense it himself, and likely didn’t understand why everyone was acting so different, but the dominance was rolling off him. His thunderstorm scent was like a tidal wave, so potent and overpowering that Lewis is starting to feel light-headed.

“Are you two alright?” Mick asks, turning to look at Daniel and Max.

Daniel nods in answer for them both. “We’re fine. Max wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s good. I’m sorry if I scared anyone, before. I saw Max being touched by the wrong Alpha and I just... snapped. All I could think was how Jos had no right to be aggressive to him, that he was insulting my pack, threatening a bonded pairing under my protection, and then...”

“Then you turned into a sick-as wolf and charged him, it was awesome!” Daniel is as unperturbed as ever, but next to him Max is still unhappy.

“I think we should let the three of you talk privately about how to proceed,” Seb offers, absently stroking at Charles’ back. “We’ll give you some space.”

“No,” Mick shakes his head. His voice is... different, too. The sweet young man is gone, all of a sudden; his tone is brusque and authoritative. “There’s no need because there is nothing to discuss. Jos Verstappen doesn’t come within 100 meters of Max or the rest of my pack again, or I’ll rip out his throat.”

He says it so calmly that it takes a while for his words to sink in. Once they do, Max’s anxiety only increases, and Daniel wraps his arms around him tightly.

“That’s not what my mate wants, boss,” Daniel says it very carefully, but the usual amusement and joy is gone from his face. He gazes at his True Alpha with guarded, worried eyes.

Mick’s own eyes narrow. “I won’t have him near us. I won’t have him upsetting your bond. I won’t allow him to lay a finger on one of my pack.”

“He’s my Dad,” Max says quietly.

“You have Daniel. You have me. You don’t need your father.” The True Alpha dominance is radiating off Mick again; he’s getting angry at being defied, but Lewis can see the confusion on his face. A lot of what is coming out of his mouth are Commands dictated by his biology, that he can’t help and isn't even choosing to say. It’s not leaving much room for the wholesome, nice kid Lewis knows is still in there.

“Let’s talk about it step by step, shall we, Mick? You want to protect Max, don’t you? You want him to feel happy and safe?” Seb asks.

Mick is so attuned to his friend that he seems willing to listen to reason, immediately nodding along with what Sebastian is saying.

“Yes. That’s what I’m saying. That’s why I’ve decided for him what is best.”

It takes a long time of gentle coaxing for all of them to guide Mick into agreeing to allow Max to choose for himself when he did and did not want his father present, and that if Jos wasn’t receptive to heeding his son's wishes or deferring to Daniel as Max’s Alpha and mate, then Mick would step in.

It’s a hard fight. As much as Lewis dislikes Jos Verstappen, he agrees it’s up to Max to dictate the amount of contact he has with his Dad. But Mick, still barely into the first hour of True Alpha-hood, is struggling.

“You can’t say no to me! No one can say no to me!” He snaps at Daniel at one point, and his voice, disbelieving and laced with rage, really isn’t his own. It’s like he’s a different person, the True Alpha wolf agitated, leaving the human confused.

Sebastian handles it all, for the most part, gently and slowly. Luckily Mick keeps giving in and agreeing with him purely out of habit and the other drivers all chip in as they can. Eventually, they manage to calm Mick’s anger and remind him of the importance of Max and Daniel’s comfort and happiness. Finally Mick gets turned about in circles enough that he relents.

“Max can decide how much he sees his father. That is the right way to proceed,” the True Alpha pronounces, as if that had been what he was saying all along.

Behind him Seb rolls his eyes, but everyone else just smells and looks relieved.

“Thank you, Mick,” Max tells him, earnestly.

“I won’t let anything happen to Maxy again,” Daniel chips in, and Mick finally relaxes into a smile.

It’s grown late, and one by one the driver teams stand and start heading for the door. Valtteri nudges Lewis’ arm in farewell as he leaves with poor little Zhou, who’s looking completely over-whelmed by it all.

Mick leaves with Max and Daniel, planning to go and clear things up with Jos, all traces of his anger abated as if it had never existed.

“This is going to be an interesting year,” George murmurs as he and Lewis leave the briefing room in their new True Alpha’s wake. “In more ways than one.”

“Isn’t it always?” Lewis asks, before he throws a quick glance at where Seb is sitting slumped in his seat. The German looks drained, and the grief is practically visible in the air around him, sharp now that he doesn’t have to hide it for Mick’s sake. Charles is draped over his lap, nose tucked under Seb’s ear as they breathe each other in.

Lewis hesitates for a moment, wanting to comfort his friend too, who had set aside his own shock and pain at seeing the ghost of Michael’s wolf in order to guide Mick. But Seb has his mate, he doesn’t need anything else in the world, and in the end Lewis trails George back to their Mercedes garage more than ready to grab his gear and go back to the hotel to get some sleep.

*

Lewis comes third in Bahrain. It’s not great; it’s better than he’d expected to finish, than the car had felt capable of, which is precisely what’s not great about it. The despairing feeling, the premonition of failure, that he’d felt at pre-season testing doesn’t ease. It sits over him, as arid as the dry Middle Eastern heat they’re trapped in for the next few weeks.

It could be worse though. It could be raining.

It gets worse. Jeddah is worse, as Lewis struggles with the car in ways he shouldn’t have to.

The only saving grace is the feeling amongst the drivers, a sense of unification that was sorely needed after the catastrophic tension of last year. Everyone is... not happier, not yet, but buoyed by the anticipation of forming a proper pack, the way the grid is meant to be.

It’s nice, the growing excitement for the inevitable. Lewis had forgotten how it felt to be pack. When Michael had ruled the grid he’d been in the lower classes, more removed from the central pack bond, but he could recall how it had felt even on the fringes. How coming to the grid and racing his brothers had carried with it a sense of peace and home. The disparity that had separated the pack since losing Michael rode on the back of the thick layer of tension that had built steadily for the past decade since being leaderless.

Mick was gently breaking the walls down with his mere presence, always smiling and friendly. But over the course of the weeks between testing at Catalunya and the second round of the season at Jeddah, their new leader continues to be at war with himself. From almost attacking Guenther in the Haas garage when they’d disagreed about something minor with the car set-up, to snapping at his own Uncle’s rather agitative questions in the media pen, Mick was losing his temper over the smallest things. His True Alpha biology couldn’t cope with being denied, but running one of the slowest cars at the back of the grid was nothing but a lesson in disappointment.

Then the attack on the factory near the Jeddah track happens, and the whole grid is on edge, frightened and nervous. Mick projects composure to try and calm his pack even as he squares off with the FIA officials that now trail him like a bad smell. He argues on the grid’s behalf for hours, but he’s still too new to being their True Alpha to really know how to fight for them without flipping out, morphing and committing literal murder.

Clustered in the briefing room on Friday evening, it grows later and later, and the nervous tension of his pack heightens beyond Mick’s control. His Alphas pace, anxious and wary, and the Omegas are starting to let out nervous yips from the center of a huddle of protective Betas.

This only makes Mick more agitated. His eyes, when he looks over at his cowering and tense pack, are purple. His anger smells sharp over his thunder and lightning scent, his aggravation thick and acrid. Lewis can feel it affecting him too, pulling him in based on his Omega instincts to nurture, to try to ease his True Alpha’s rage. He wants to go to Mick, to offer platonic comfort and friendliness, to lift his mood. He wants to go to Valtteri, too, and Seb, and to do something to help George, who is skittering about the room, trying to back up the Alphas and look after the Omegas all at once.

Mick's breathing is turning into snarls as the FIA official he’s speaking to remains defiant, continues to insist they have to race, and that is that. The man blathers on about the financial loss the FIA would take if the race didn’t go ahead, oblivious to the fact that Mick’s fingers are morphing into claws and that his eyes are now fully red.

Kevin, who’s always been the bravest Beta Lewis has ever encountered, leans over to put his hands on Mick’s shoulders, trying to hold him in his seat.

“Do you really think you have the right to tell me no?” Mick snarls at the official, the words barely discernible from amidst growls. “I rule this pack and I won’t allow them to be exposed to danger!”

Sebastian putting himself directly into Mick’s line of sight is the only thing that keeps him in check as the official finally gets the message and slowly backs to the door.

“Easy now, Mick. Easy, easy...”

It works just long enough for the rest of the Alphas to swarm on Mick to restrain him and try to stop his morphing, as the Betas gather in a tight ring around the Omegas. Lewis grabs onto Charles, who’s whining in concern for Sebastian, and hauls him into the center of their cluster of pack-mates.

“It’s OK,” he murmurs to the younger man. “Mick can’t ever hurt pack.”

“Mick, you need to calm yourself down. You’re scaring the Omegas.” As Sebastian speaks he takes hold of his friend’s face and holds him still.

This gives Kevin enough time to lean in and inject him with the sedative he’s taken to carrying for just these sorts of occasions, when Mick can’t control himself.

Mick isn’t even fully human again before he drops like a stone, his eyes turning from red to purple to blue just before they roll back in his head. Pierre and Daniel lower him gently back down onto his seat, and Lewis heaves a sigh of sympathy as he stares down at the kid’s taut expression, even when unconscious.

The one upside is how the mood in the rooms lifts, helping to elevate their much-needed sense of unification. Their leader had fought for them, and the pack had supported him and protected each other. Lewis feels it, at least, and he assumes Charles does too, because the young man turns without warning and tucks himself against him for a hug. Lewis pats at the other Omega’s back and realizes too late that his comfort of Charles is giving his own status away loud and clear to the rest of the room.

Cringing, Lewis shoots a glance over at Seb, wanting to ask him to take care of his mate. But Seb is busy with Mick, who is already starting to come around; as Mick’s second in command, Seb’s been by his side even more than usual these days. While Lewis couldn’t smell any resentment on Charles, he knew it wasn’t good for their mate-bond in the long term to have his Alpha taken from him so frequently.

Hoping that everyone is too preoccupied with their pack leader to really notice him, Lewis keeps patting at Charles until the younger man smells calmer. Ultimately, he knows that the other drivers will figure his status out eventually; the very definition of pack means that he can no longer remain as isolated as he has been. But that doesn’t mean Lewis is looking to announce it to all and sundry.

Luckily, no one seems to pay him any attention except for Valtteri. Lewis’ former teammate searches the cluster of drivers with his gaze until he spots Lewis, then offers him a small smile.

Taking a breath to steady himself, Lewis glances at Seb, who’s concern and worry is permeating the air. This wasn’t going to work if it stayed the same; the fractured edges of the pack were never going to fit neatly together if everyone was continuously affected by poor Mick’s rages.

“I think it’s time we asked for help,” Lewis says to Seb. “This is getting out of hand. Mick is going to be devastated when he wakes up and realizes how close he came to hurting someone again, and once he morphs none of us will be able to stop him. He needs proper guidance, and none of us can help him with that.”

“I will call Valentino,” Seb agrees, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. It’s then that Lewis notices how grey his face looks, along with the purple shadows under his eyes. “He’s retired, so he has more time than Marquez. Plus Mick has met him before, so he’ll be a little less of a threat.”

George has huddled up to Lewis’ other side by the time Mick wakes up, and is, as predicted, beside himself. Lewis breathes in the rapidly-becoming-familiar scent of paper and ink from his new teammate, his nose parsing it from Charles’ apple and honey, taking the comfort they both offer.

Mick is peering about at them, looking almost on the verge of tears, and Valtteri is leaning over him with a hand on his shoulder. Lewis hopes the snowy-pine-needles scent of him is as calming for Mick as it always has been to Lewis.

“Did I attack someone?” Mick’s voice is a mere whisper, tinged with horror.

“No. You didn’t hurt anyone.” Valtteri’s tone is firm with reassurance, and Lewis breathes him in over everyone else, pulling as much of his winter-tinged scent into his lungs as he can.

“But this cannot carry on, Mick,” Fernando says, as he reaches down to help the younger man stand up. “We think asking Valentino to come and help you for a few days would be beneficial to us all.”

“...OK,” Mick replies immediately, his scent meek and upset, looking ready to burst into tears. “I’m so bad at this!”

He buries his face in his hands, and Kevin wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“You’re doing great, Mick,” Daniel insists. “It’s all super new and intense, but you’re doing your best to do right by us. Just... a little too fiercely, I guess?”

“Just like Michael,” Fernando murmurs, almost to himself. As the Alpha leaves Mick’s side to come over to Esteban, reaching out to stroke his mate’s hair, Lewis wishes he hadn’t said that. Mick visibly flinches, and they all feel the stab of his pain.

“The grid hasn’t been a pack for a long time,” Sebastian reminds them all, projecting a gentle sense of calm through his green leaves, grass and honey scent. “It’s a big adjustment for everyone. As time progresses, the more you will learn, Mick. And as we go on, the more we will all bond.”

“Well, we shouldn’t be racing this weekend. It’s dangerous,” Mick’s voice is muffled from behind his hands as he returns to the issue at hand. Lewis can smell his agony at having failed to stop the race from going ahead.

“Next time,” Valtteri reassures him. “Next time you will be even stronger and they will have to listen to you.”

Mick just nods, still looking miserable, and slowly the rest of the drivers trail out in clusters. Over the yawns and calls of goodnight's, Lewis delivers Charles to his mate.

“Why don’t you two go get some sleep,” he suggests to Seb. Charles is staying tucked into Lewis’ side though, and Lewis is trying not to smell too worried about how he can barely smell them on each other.

“I need to be with Mick,” Seb starts to say, and the disappointment leeching off of Charles’ makes Lewis recoil a little.

“I’ll stay with him,” he insists. “I’ve got Valentino’s number. Mick can talk to him on my phone. You two go.”

Seb looks at his mate, his eyes softening, and Charles reaches out for him imploringly.

“Please, Seb? I’m tired, I want to go to our bed.”

“Of course, darling,” Seb murmurs back, his scent suddenly overwhelmingly smelling of clover, something Lewis had never noticed on him before. Their matching bond scent is honey, so Lewis is too distracted by his confusion at the sudden appearance of the new layer to really register them leaving hand-in-hand.

But once it’s just Lewis alone with his True Alpha, he takes a seat next to the young man. Mick’s scent is slowly turning back to its natural state, but a tinge of sadness remains.

“What was it like when my Dad was in charge?”

The question throws Lewis off, but Mick looks at him with pleading eyes, needing to know.

“I hadn’t presented at the time of the accident so... there’s a lot I wasn’t old enough to pick up on. We thought there was all the time in the world for him to be with me and help me. I hear how people speak about him now as the grid's True Alpha, but... I didn’t know that man. He was just my Dad.”

“Michael was... he was so in control, it was incredible. I’ve never known any dominance like it. He didn’t even need to speak, you just knew what he wanted and what you needed to do. But he drove fair, didn’t let hierarchy or his control of the pack affect the outcome of a race. He was a good leader, from what I saw of him down in the F3 and F2 classes. But you will get there, Mick. Give yourself some time.”

“Yeah. Hey, thanks for helping Sebastian and Charles,” Mick murmurs, lifting his sad blue eyes to Lewis’ face and smiling weakly. “I know I’m wrecking their bond, taking all of Sebastian’s time.”

“You’re not,” Lewis insists. “Charles knows how much you and Seb mean to each other; you know as well as I do that he doesn’t resent you. Seb is your second, it’s normal for you to rely on him. Charles is perfectly fine with it.”

“For now, at least.” Mick snivels, then wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “I just want to help. To protect my pack. But I don’t know how.”

“Let’s talk to Valentino,” Lewis insists, pulling out his phone but waiting for Mick’s nod of ascension. “He’ll be able to help, I think.”

“Lewis! How are you?” Valentino is as exuberant as ever when he picks up. Belatedly Lewis realizes it hadn’t occurred to him to find out where in the world Valentino is, or look into the time difference before making the call. Luckily his old friend seems unfazed.

“I’m doing good,” Lewis lies, at least not faking his happiness at hearing the Italian motorcycle racing legend's voice. “Look, man, we’ve got a bit of a scenario on our hands that we could use your help with, if you have a few minutes?”

“Is it Michael’s bambino?”

“Yeah,” Lewis glances at Mick, but his True Alpha gives no reaction to the assumption that he’s the cause of any problem. He just looks far more tired than any 22-year-old ever should.

“Is he there now? I have wondered, for some time... I will speak to him.”

Lewis dutifully hands over his phone and settles back to wait the conversation out, as Mick stands and paces about while he speaks. The True Alpha smells hopeful, though, and seems to be pleased to finally be talking to one of the few who could understand what he’s going through. As Mick drains the phone battery asking his questions and nodding at the answers, Lewis lets his mind wander.

Idly, he recalls the new sense of comfort he’d found in the scents of Charles and George earlier, which he’s only really experienced from friends like Valtteri and Sebastian before, outside of his entourage, Toto and Bono. It now looks as though Mick’s pulling the grid together as pack is going to push Lewis into building other relationships whether he likes it or not.

He cringes a little to himself at that, as he grabs an unopened bottle of water from the briefing table and takes a drink, moving to peer out at the floodlights lighting up the track below them.

He really doesn’t want to announce his status. The thought of dealing with the inevitable accusatory questions about why he’s hidden it for so long, when he could have been at the forefront of pushing for Omega rights in motorsports. They’d know he was on suppressants, too, which the FIA would interpret as a win for their claims all along that Omegas shouldn’t drive. Lewis couldn’t bear that either.

He also doesn’t want the constant stress of comments about being unmated, and questions about why. Because, selfishly, he dreads the reminder of how close he’d come to mating with Nico. After that had gone so devastatingly wrong he’s avoided every possible relationship ever since.

God. Nico.

The same usual pain flares through Lewis at the thought of the man, like a dull, old injury that aches in bad weather. Mick must feel it from him, because he throws a wide-eyed look of worry at Lewis over his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he insists, and Mick eventually turns back to focusing on his call, albeit with a crease between his eyebrows.

Lewis huffs a sigh as he drinks more water, and wishes the air-con was stronger. The room was stuffy and airless. He still doesn’t know how he ever got over Nico, or even if he truly was to this day. He’s never been with anyone since, that was for sure, unable to allow himself to be vulnerable enough to admit his blood status to someone ever again.

Sighing again, he forces himself to turn his mind to the data from today’s sessions, and how he could try to make the car settle better coming out of turn 3. He has a job to do, races to try to win. Sulking over lost love wouldn’t help him with that.

Eventually, he hears Mick thank Valentino and hang up the call, his scent significantly calmer.

“That was really useful,” he beams, as he passes Lewis his phone back and claps him on the shoulder. “He’s going to come to Imola to visit me when we race there, I think that will be good too. There’s so few True Alpha’s in the world, I’m lucky to know another.”

Lewis nods in agreement as he follows him to the door and out into the night, falling naturally to walk a little behind the pack leader. He wants to tell Mick that he’s amazed by the younger man’s capacity not to dwell on what he’s lost in not having Michael, and that he admires how positive he seems to be after speaking with Valentino. The happy, wholesome kid is back, for now.

In the end, he decides not to mention Michael; he’d been brought up enough today, better to let his name rest.

Mick’s good mood is so contagious that Lewis feels happier than he has in a while, lighter, less hunted and haunted.

He goes to bed feeling hopeful.

*

Mick’s crash in quali the next day is, to a word, traumatizing. A deep and horrified layer of fear settles over the grid in the aftermath and they all shy away from each other, too anxious without Mick to seek the comfort of pack yet. They’re already nervous about the missile attack, so watching their leader get carted off to hospital in an ambulance is... without Mick, the fearfulness coats Lewis’ throat so thick that he can taste it.

Anxious, he paces his driver’s room. When the space becomes too small he mumbles to Angela that he needs to breathe, and she hurries him outside. He wants... he doesn’t know what he wants, but not this place, with the heat of the cloying dry air and the scorching sun. It’s making his skin feel too tight, his blood too hot, like he’s boiling over from the inside out. He wants the opposite, wants reprieve, safety and cold, calm air.

But outside is no better, it still feels too hard to breathe, and his lungs are just as constricted.

Lewis lets out an agitated growl as he hunts for comfort, for relief. He doesn’t know what to do, where to turn. He wants to run, he wants Mick back with them, he wants air, proper air, wind that’s fresh and cold...

And upon wishing it, he smells it. Lewis turns blindly, already smiling, mindless of the crowded paddock, of Will Buxton trying to get his attention and shoving a microphone in his face. He just brushes past, his discomfort abating as he spots Valtteri already jogging his way.

Valtteri still has his race leathers hanging around his waist, and his sweaty hair is disheveled from his balaclava, his fair skin pink from the heat. Lewis’ tension evaporates away just looking at him as his own steps quicken while Angela plants herself between him and some hopeful looking media crews.

“Lewis. How are you?” Valtteri asks immediately upon reaching Lewis, as he folds him into a tight hug.

“I’m doing OK. Miss you in the garage though. We all do.” Lewis closes his eyes in delight at the contact and can't help but nestle into the embrace, even though Valtteri is a little shorter than him.

“I’m still right here,” Valtteri replies, as calm as ever in his ear.

And he’s right. Ever since Nico and the pain of all that he’d left scorched in his wake, Lewis has had Valtteri. His former teammate’s stolid, quiet presence has always been so firm, so soothing.

He leans a bit more into his friend, smelling worry on his scent.

“Are you alright, VB?”

Valtteri shrugs a little before he lets him go. Out of the whole grid, the Alphas had responded the fastest to Mick’s leadership, happy to slot themselves into a hierarchy under him with surprisingly little in-fighting or resistance. Lewis can sense Valtteri's anxiety at Mick being taken from them, even though the medical checks he’s currently undergoing are only a precaution.

“I suppose I’m OK, yeah. I want him back. I hope he can race tomorrow, if it’s all still definitely going ahead. He was still arguing with the officials about it when they put him in the ambulance. But it’s interesting how wrong it already feels without him, and so soon. Everything feels a bit... I don’t know how to describe it. Do you smell it?”

Lewis nods, knowing exactly what he means.

His senses have increased sharply since Mick had come into his True Alpha-hood, especially his ability to smell the rest of his new pack. And even through his blockers he’s noticing layers of scents that he hadn’t been able to pick up on ever before. Sebastian has that note of clover Lewis had never noticed until yesterday, and Valtteri himself right now seems to carry a trace of... green? Some sort of flora, at least. A hint of spring at the end of winter, like new shoots of ferns, underpinning his usual scent.

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling a little odd, myself. Not bad, just... on edge? Like everything is too much? I just want to get away from it all,” Lewis says by way of agreement.

Valtteri’s brow furrows further in worry, and he reaches up to squeeze Lewis’ shoulder gently. A chirp of pleasure at the sensation erupts from Lewis before he can help himself, which makes Valtteri smile, though he does pull his hand away to pat Lewis on the back.

Zhou is coming over, preceded by his lychee and vanilla scent, probably to fetch his team-mate for a briefing.

“Everything will work out. We all just need time to settle down and come to terms with things,” Valtteri predicts and Lewis nods because he can’t possibly be wrong.

*

It only gets worse. They’re forced to race, the FIA not giving a crap about Mick’s displeasure, or his accident, and all too happy to take advantage of his absence to completely overrule him. Lewis comes 10^th, the Mercedes feeling worse than he’s ever known it. He feels like shit, hot and tired and embarrassed. His team and entourage flutter about him, trying to help, but not even Angela is able to perk him up.

George shoots him worried looks from over the table as they sit down to debrief. Well, the others all debrief. Lewis sits in what’s more or less a stupor, and if he opens his mouth he’s sure that no sound will come out.

He feels... weird. Off. Too overheated, like he’s floating, dizzy. His blood feels like it’s scalding his veins as it pumps rapidly through his body. There’s no air and his throat is too tight, his lungs heaving, even though he’s rehydrated since the race. Everything smells weird, pungent and hot and inescapable.

He’d put these strange feelings down to the stress over Mick, but George seems to be doing fine, chattering away opposite him about tire degradation.

Someone asks Lewis something, he’s not sure who, but hears his name spoken with an inflection that indicates a question. He glances around, confused. His vision is swimming, people’s faces blurring.

“Lewis, are you alright?!” George notices, his scent immediately alarmed and confused all at once.

Lewis instinctively opens his mouth to comfort his friend and pack-mate, but only a high-pitched whine of unhappiness escapes.

“Lewis?!” Toto, one of the few Alphas Lewis has ever respected enough to willingly defer to, is leaning across the table towards him, but when his boss’ fingers encircle his wrist he can’t help but flinch back.

He doesn’t want Toto to touch him; he doesn’t want anyone to be near him, to look at him, to know. He feels both faint and frantic with adrenaline as he leaps to his feet, snapping at Toto in warning to stay back.

Wrong Alpha. Toto’s not his Alpha. Toto doesn’t smell right. Toto shouldn’t touch him.

Confused and whining, Lewis backs himself into a corner and sinks down, burying his face in his arms. His Omega instincts are taking over, making his body act without his permission, overriding his brain, and he doesn’t understand why. The Suppressants stopped these sorts of uncontrolled reactions, and he’s been on them for almost twenty years with no issues...

“Something’s wrong,” he moans, but can’t bear to look up until he smells Angela come running into the room. She immediately drops to enfold him in her arms and he inhales her scent of lemon meringue, even as his trembling intensifies.

“I don’t feel good,” he croaks to her, unable to open his eyes and too scared to lift his head from her shoulder. “Something’s not right, Ange!”

“The medics are coming. It’s going to be alright, Lewis,” Toto says. He’s exuding calm and safety through his pheromones, but his peppermint scent is almost hot with his concern. Thankfully he stays a safe distance away.

Dimly, Lewis is aware of Bono hustling the engineers, mechanics and data analysts from the room. George moves to plant himself between Toto and Lewis, a typical Beta reaction of protecting a pack’s unmated Omega from an Alpha. The thought is absurd to Lewis, his brain knowing that he’s currently behaving ridiculously, even as his body insists on staying curled up in Angela’s lap.

Toto has been happily mated to Susie for years, he doesn’t want Lewis and would never do anything to hurt him. He’s faithfully kept Lewis’ status a secret, had his back time and again, done everything to support him. He’s not pack, not like the Grid, but Lewis has always been able to fully trust him.

“What do you need, Lewis?” Angela asks, ready and waiting to get him whatever he wanted, like always.

“Cold air! I just want air, there’s no air, it’s so hot. I can’t breathe properly. I want...”

He doesn’t know how else to explain it, only that he’s suffocating and wants to crawl out of his skin. Everything is so dry and arid, and he hates it. He wants... God, he wants to bury himself in a snow bank or dive into an icy river...

“What’s happening to him?” George whispers, his scent saturated with panic.

“We’ll see what the medics have to say,” Toto murmurs.

The medic, when she comes running in, is Lewis’ usual woman. She knows him well and has been treating him since he joined Merc. Crouching down, she takes a long look at him, her eyes doing as much assessing as her nose. Then she feels his rapid pulse, takes his spiking temperature, injects him with something that almost makes him pass out and then announces that his Suppressants aren’t working anymore.

She says it so calmly that it takes a few moments to sink in, and Lewis ends up just gaping at her, confused.

“That’s impossible. I took it this morning, like always.”

“Yes,” she agrees, as she packs up her medical bag. “And it hasn’t worked. I’ve given you a high dosage of a special type of blocker, but it’s temporary.”

“But... but...”

“What can we do?” Toto asks, as he edges a little closer. “Lewis, what do you want to do?”

“This was always going to happen, the Suppressants aren’t designed to be taken forever,” the medic reminds them all gently. She glances around at their worried and confused faces, and then leans over to give Lewis’ shoulder a pat. “Mr. Hamilton’s age is almost definitely a factor. And the length of time he’s been on Suppressants is unnatural to his biology.”

“It’s ‘Sir’ Hamilton,” George corrects her, sounding dazed. He smells of pure shock, and his eyes are very wide as he gazes down at Lewis. “You’re an Omega? I thought you were an Alpha, for sure, just slightly... weird.”

Lewis shrugs, then mumbles, “Yeah. I'm an Omega.”

There’s no point in trying to keep it from the kid after what he’s just witnessed, but Lewis’ hand still clenches reflexively in Angela’s. It’s been a long time since he’s admitted it to anyone.

“I won’t tell anyone!” George hurries to say.

“I know you won’t, man.”

As Angela chirrups comfortingly to him, Lewis strains his memory for that long-ago conversation with a team of FIA medics when he’d made it into F3. But he hadn’t really cared what they were saying, just that the pills being held out to him meant he could race. His Dad had smelled reassuring and calm, clearly thought it was safe for Lewis to take them, so nothing else had mattered. He’s never thought all that hard about them since.

“There aren’t many options,” the medic says, in that slow and careful way that doctors use when they deliver bad news, trying to be as clear as possible. “There’s a few other types of Suppressants, but Lewis, your biology has become immune to the key drugs within them. They may work for a little while, but...”

“I can't take them anymore. The game is up. Everyone will know the truth at last,” Lewis finishes for her, still not able to move. “Damn. Damn it!”

His career has depended on this staying quiet, on him staying focused and silent; on denying every aspect of being Omega. Maybe his career would have been over anyway.

But he’s Lewis Hamilton. He has to fight, has to try. That’s in his God damn biology too.

*

In the break before Melbourne, Lewis tries four other types of Suppressants. They don’t work. He visits countless specialists in Monaco, and London, and New York, paying ludicrous amounts of money for both their discretion and the rarest, best Suppressants they can source. None work adequately enough, and by the time he’s on the plane to Australia his skin is in a constant state of prickling.

“You don’t smell too different than usual,” Angela consoles from her seat next to him, patting at his hand on the armrest. “There’s still time to keep trying to find one that works the best for now. It will be a while before they all work their way out of your system, anyway. We have time, Lewis.”

Time, that’s all that seems to be on his mind these days; wondering how much of it he has left on the grid; wondering how long until Mick is secure and confident enough in his True Alpha-status to bind them as pack; wondering how many more weeks of sickening stress he has to keep suffering through before the Mercedes starts to feel right under him again...

He just feels so... loose. Scattered. Like he’s drifting away from himself, a leaf caught in a breeze. He finds himself startling, having been staring blankly into space, surprised to see that he’s longer in the location he thought; not in the chauffeured car on the way to the track but now standing in his driver’s room in his leathers, or zoning out for a few seconds in an interview and suddenly jolting back to himself as he clambers into his Merc.

It’s disconcerting, and though Lewis knows it’s his body’s way of dealing with coming off twenty years of constant Suppressants, it still feels like a betrayal from the inside out. The stress buzzes like insects under his skin.

It seems as though his own floral scent of lavender, jasmine and citrus blossoms is way too pungent, that it must give him away, that any second someone will finally figure it out... and then he’ll have to give interviews after press conferences explaining why he’s hidden it for so long, and deal with the fallout from his fans, the scrutiny and hurt from those in the paddock who didn’t know, members of his team, the other drivers...

Then there’s normal life, aside from worrying over trying to keep his status hidden. Mercedes can’t make the car work; Lewis has a new teammate to establish a relationship with; the grid are all stuck in limbo watching poor Mick wage war with his nature and his instincts, forced to circle him like satellites as they wait for... no one knows what. Then there’s Lewis’ training, his diet, time in the simulator, reading data, meetings, media duties, and all the gigs he has to do to keep his sponsors happy... there’s no reprieve from a second of it.

And Abu Dhabi is still on everyone’s lips, and the wide-eyed glances and cameras pointed Lewis’ way whenever he and Max are within a foot of each other only adds to his ever-present tension.

Lewis puts on a brave face at the Melbourne press conference, finding an excuse to tease Valtteri, which is always fun, and then to joke about a few ‘alleged’ piercings with Max. But the distraction doesn’t last very long before he’s on edge again, though. He can feel the Suppressants failing, his senses sharpening.

“What is that smell, man?” Lewis grumbles out loud to no one in particular, when there’s a lull between questions.

There’s been a distracting scent hanging in the air all day, like moss on tree-bark and fresh water over river stones. It's appealing and attractive, and it must belong to an Alpha heading into a Rut, because it’s calling to Lewis in... particular ways. He hasn’t really felt a response to an Alpha like this before, and it's making him edgy and agitated with nervousness even as his body instinctively reacts, wanting to seek the Alpha out, wanting... things he hasn't wanted in so long that he thought he was past ever needing it again.

Valtteri, who’s seated next to Lewis for the press conference, glances over at him with a wide-eyed look.

“Do you smell it? It’s like... a stream in a forest?” Lewis asks him, annoyed. It’s unfamiliar, so it must be a new journalist, or a fan, but it doesn't belong to someone he knows. It's putting him off; he doesn't want to want this mystery person.

Valtteri blinks rapidly, the way he always does when he’s startled by something.

“No?” Lewis' friend eventually murmurs, apparently oblivious to the scent.

But Lewis can’t evade it. The more he tries to pretend he's not affected, the more it slinks into his senses until it’s hitting him like a freight train, like a wall at Monaco, unavoidable and demanding to be crashed into.

It’s so perfect, is the problem, and so very appealing. The more of it that Lewis breathes in, the more apprehensive it makes him. He wants to know who the scent belongs to. He hasn’t smelt so attracted to an Alpha since Nico in his Rut, but that was due to sheer familiarity and habit. This is different, a more natural and instinctive need and that realization makes the pit of his stomach freeze. Somewhere in this crowded room there’s an Alpha with an impending Rut, and Lewis is being called upon through pheromones to ease that, to serve, to offer himself...

Lewis shakes his head, trying to clear his senses, but his body is responding all on its own. Now that the Suppressants can’t assuage him, he wants to find the Alpha, to be taken... to... to... his skin prickles with desire, heat pooling low in his belly.

Gasping, he staggers up from his seat, ignoring the surprised glance Valtteri shoots him when he stumbles a little over his friend’s ankle in his haste. Max hasn’t finished speaking, but Lewis is pretty sure the other Omega is the last person who would care if he ducked out early.

He’s only made it as far as the hallway, which is thankfully empty, when Valtteri catches up to him.

“Lewis? Are you feeling OK? You smell... odd,” Valtteri reaches for him, touches his elbow, and even just the sensation of his fingertips grazing Lewis’ bare skin is too much. The touch makes Lewis' blood flinch in his veins, and he feels... cornered. Hunted. Like he’s suddenly prey to a predator.

He pulls free of the touch and snaps his teeth at Valtteri, hissing a high-pitched warning for him to stop. Valtteri immediately backs off with his hands raised, letting out a low, comforting rumble, but his eyes are wide and hurt at Lewis' reaction.

“Sorry!” Lewis suddenly wants to cry, wants to drop to his knees in submission, wants to find out where that damn intoxicating smell is coming from...

He wants... he doesn’t know what he wants.

“I’m sorry, VB,” he murmurs, forcing himself to focus on his friend's hurt expression. “You startled me. I’m just... jet-lagged.”

“I’d never hurt you. I only want to help,” Valtteri tells him, and some part of Lewis, the scant fraction of his heart that Nico didn’t quite manage to completely break, aches at having upset him.

“I know that, man. Believe me, without you these past five years would have been so damn rough, you were such an awesome teammate. I just... I’m tired. I haven’t been too well. I’ve got so much going wrong right now and I don’t know how to fix a single thing. I'm just overwhelmed.”

“Well,” Valtteri murmurs, and his eyes are almost shining, illuminated by the white light overhead. “If you ever need anything, I’m always right here. That won't change. OK? I'll always be there to give  you whatever you could ever need.”

Lewis nods in reply, opens his mouth to thank him properly, but suddenly Valtteri is moving past him and outside so fast that he hasn’t stopped nodding by the time he’s gone. Huffing out a sigh and aching at having obviously offended one of the few people on the grid that he truly trusts and loves, Lewis sinks back against the wall for a moment. He closes his eyes, relishing the momentary solitude.

Then that mystery Alpha's Rut scent blooms so strong in the back of Lewis' mouth, and he breathes in a slow inhale, actually allowing himself to enjoy it a little bit. Even when he was helping Nico through his Ruts, the Suppressants had dulled the experience for him. He'd simply given himself to Nico to be used however the Alpha had desired, and his own pleasure had been an afterthought, had seemed unnecessary. He also hadn’t really recalled, or perhaps just never realized to begin with, that Alphas gave off an additional scent layer to their pheromones during Rut. He’d never smelled a change on Nico, only ever the same faint scent of sun and sand and coconut as always.

But there was a familiar undercurrent to this mystery Rut smell, something that spoke of water and winter and leaves... Lewis inhales again, wishing he could follow the scent like a trail and that it would lead him to this Alpha that so appealed to him.

He hasn’t had sex since Nico, and his dry spell is now years long and currently all too eager to make its longevity known. With every breath he can feel himself getting harder in his jeans, his skin starting to tingle. Moss, ferns, and fresh, cold water... it scares him how much the smell intoxicates him, how badly he wants to seek out the Alpha. All he wants now is to be hunted down and pinned and taken, to give in to the urges and needs he’s so desperately denied for so long.

Lewis lets out a tiny whine of need before the gravity of how foolish and dangerous it is to be an unmated, turned-on Omega stranded in the middle of the paddock fully hits him. Shit. He freezes up again, his desire quelling. How the Hell is he going to get himself to safety now?

But inevitably if he doesn’t move from here then he’s going to be discovered; Alphas will sniff him out and come running at the chance to claim an aching, willing Omega. That was the benefit of being mated. No one could touch you during Heat but your Alpha. Esteban had once gone into Heat in the middle of a press conference and hadn’t even hesitated to keep giving his answers. No one had batted an eye. He belonged with Fernando, and his marshmallow scent was completely unappealing to any other Alpha; Fernando’s claim, and his their bond scent of an autumn bonfire, warded off any interest as effectively as a shield.

Lewis doesn't have that protection. It's never mattered. He's never felt desire since the Suppressants, but now without them he's completely defenseless.

Just when Lewis is about to dissolve into his panic, his breath coming in short and frightened gasps, the door out to the paddock flies open and Mick comes sprinting into the media prefab, his expression taut and enraged. Lewis flinches back from his anger, starts to cower, but Mick just snarls for his submission and grabs his arm to start pulling him along behind him back towards the door.

“Gotta get you somewhere safe,” the pack Alpha growls over his shoulder, and Lewis stares at him in wild alarm. But it was impossible to resist the unspoken command to follow and stay close to Mick. He wants to ask how Mick had figured it out, had known to come find him, but that was probably a stupid question. Mick's True Alpha senses would have elevated now to the point that he probably knew everything there was to know about the biology of his whole pack.

“My Suppressants have stopped,” Lewis scrambles to explain, his face flushing with embarrassment even as he’s hustled out into the fresh, breezy air.

“Knew you were on them, but didn’t know you were Omega before now. There are a few Alpha professional athletes that take Suppressants, I always assumed...” Mick trails off.

As they walk, Mick drags Lewis closer to his side and drapes a protective arm across his back, exuding dominance with his scent alone to warn off anyone from trying to approach them. People are watching them, surprised and clearly wondering what’s going on. But Lewis feels safer than he has in a very long time.

“I would have provided you with better protection if you’d told me,” Mick carries on, gentle admonishment in his voice.

“No one knows, or at least they didn’t until now. I don’t know what's happened. I’m not in Heat, but I can smell an Alpha... I don’t know. God, now everything’s ruined! My career, I’ve worked so hard...” Lewis can feel his panic spiraling again, his throat tightening.

Mick blinks at him, his blue eyes clouding over with concern at how Lewis is reacting with fear and distress. Then he throws his head back and roars. Lewis drops to his knees, stunned at the power of his voice, but the people milling about back off and some start to scatter, giving them a wider berth. Mick’s howl had been an angry warning to leave his vicinity immediately, and he was pulling Lewis up and dragging him off towards the carpark again before the sound has even faded.

“You’re not going to claim me, are you?” Lewis asks, eyeing him warily.

Mick actually stops walking again as he whirls to peer at Lewis in shock, and something of the sweet young man comes back into his startled expression. Then the True Alpha shakes his head and actually laughs.

“No, thank you. We’re not meant for each other, and it would take someone very special to be worthy of you. But you are the only Unmated Omega in my pack. It’s my job to protect you. Are you actually in Heat? I can’t tell. It doesn’t smell like a Heat, but you smell...” Mick sniffs and then breaks off, blushing.

God, this is so embarrassing. Lewis waits until they’re in the privacy and safety of the street car Mick’s been given by Ferrari to drive for the weekend before he answers.

“I don’t think its Heat,” Lewis murmurs. “I could smell an Alpha about to head into Rut and it... set me off, I guess? It's the first time I’ve properly sensed an Alpha like that since I went on my Suppressants, so...”

“Yeah, you said your Suppressants have stopped?” Mick asks as they peel out of the paddock lot.

“I’ve been on them since I came of age, so for almost twenty years now. They’ve stopped being effective, so I have no choice but to go it alone. I've tried other brands but I've built up an immunity now, apparently. So my options going forward are... non-existent,” Lewis replies before he lets out a sigh.

“I won’t force you to take a mate,” Mick tells him earnestly, and Lewis had forgotten that he even could, as pack leader. He’s forgotten a lot of things, it seems. “But consider it, if there’s someone you’re interested in. I’ll protect you as long as you need me to, of course. It will be easier for you once you bond, whenever that might be.”

Lewis gets what he’s saying, and he’s touched by the sentiment.

“Thanks, man.”

“I don’t think I’m a very good leader yet,” Mick says with a shake of his head, as he checks his mirrors before changing lanes. “Most of the time I have no idea what I’m doing. But right now I know exactly how to proceed, how to keep you safe. I just wish I was strong enough to unite the whole pack.”

“It will come. We can all feel it,” Lewis assures him. Mick had such pure intentions, such an obvious desire to do right by everyone, that Lewis has no doubt that his True Alpha will find his feet soon.

“Who was the Alpha that was going into Rut, by the way?” Mick asks, as they get closer to Lewis' hotel. “One of ours? I didn’t think any of mine were nearing Rut but it’s still hard for me to understand how my senses work. Everything feels so much more intense now, all the pheromones in air... it's constant.”

“I can’t tell either,” Lewis admits. “The blockers in the Suppressants have always affected my sense of smell, so I have no idea if it's a stranger or someone I know. I didn’t even know Seb had a bit of clover to his scent until the other day, and I’ve known him for years!”

“I’m sorry if any Omega ever feels forced to use Suppressants,” Mick murmurs. “But regardless, you’re safer with me in charge now than you were on them alone.”

Lewis had never considered that. When he’d raced under Michael as the grid’s True Alpha, he had assumed he wasn’t close enough to the superstar to warrant any attention or protection.

“My biology has always been a hindrance,” he says, picking his words carefully. “The sport isn’t exactly against Omegas, but it doesn’t do much to support us, either. I was warned by the FIA almost immediately that if I didn’t take Suppressants, then I was inviting trouble.”

Mick blanches a little, his horrified expression clear by his downturned mouth, his wide eyes. “My Dad wouldn’t have let anything happen to you!”

“Probably not,” Lewis agrees. “But I would have taken them anyway. To succeed in this sport, distractions like Heats are too much of a handicap and I couldn’t afford to be held back by them. It means my personal life has been on the back-burner sure, but...”

“You have 7 WDCs to show for it,” Mick finishes for him. “Was it worth it?”

“I wouldn’t change what I did,” Lewis avoids answering the question, still can’t admit that the answer is no, even to himself. “But I used to wish I was a Beta, not having to suffer with Heats or Ruts always seemed the best for racing.”

It was still rougher being an Omega than an Alpha, overall. Omegas were designed to biologically want to tend to Alphas; if one went into Rut, unmated Omegas within the radius of their pheromones would want to go to them, provided that there was enough attraction between them at a fundamental level. Scent helped with that as the first indicator of whether someone else was a potential mate. Whoever the Alpha was whose Rut Lewis could smell, he would without a doubt be attracted to them were they to properly meet.

A Heat was different. An unmated Omega in Heat was a target. Any unmated Alpha could try to claim such an Omega, though they still needed to have their consent before they could Mate with them. The annoying part, at least as it had always seemed to Lewis, was that the claim attempts wouldn’t stop until the Heat was over. He couldn’t have gone out in public for the days a Heat took to run its duration, let alone tried to race, without being besieged by Alphas begging to Mate him and satisfy his Heat. Not that he'd really be capable of being lucid during Heat, let alone driving his Mercedes.

“The FIA think Ruts allegedly make Alphas faster, better drivers. It's something about the hormones and the dominance, or whatever. But my Dad never believed that, and neither does Seb,” Mick says, naming the two men he idolizes the most.

“The only thing I regret is not pushing harder for Omega rights,” Lewis admit, cringing as his shame makes itself apparent. “I should have done more, could have tried harder. But I was selfish. I prioritized myself and my victories. It’s only hitting me now that could have been fighting all along for something so much more important. But the FIA... I didn't trust in having their support.”

“Well, you’re under my protection now. If you want to continue to keep your status as quiet as you can, I’ll do everything you need me to in order to help you. Screw what the FIA has to say; I’m in charge of my pack. But... well, I can’t ask people to turn off their noses, unfortunately,” Mick’s voice is quiet as he speaks, but there’s a thread of insistence to it.

True Alphas got what they wanted, and if he Commanded that Lewis was to be left alone and never had to talk about being Omega and that no one was ever allowed to comment on it, then that was what would happen. But the world would still be able to figure it out regardless, and that would happen very soon.

“We’ll have to see how it plays out once I’m fully off the influence of the Suppressants,” Lewis replies. “But thank you for wanting to take care of me. I've gone it alone for so long with just a few key people knowing... it's kinda nice to know I can trust someone else, too.”

“It’s my job to defend my pack, and it’s your right to get to choose what you want to reveal and what you don’t. The way Omegas are treated,” Mick breaks off to shake his head, “is still so horrible. You’d have hoped society would have progressed further than this, a lot sooner. Omegas deserve just as much independence and freedom as everyone else, not to just be used for sex and mating.”

“And here you are thinking you’re not a good Alpha,” Lewis chides him gently.

By the time he’s dropped off at his hotel, his desire was calmer. Being in his True Alpha’s presence has quelled the worst of it; Mick’s pheromones, which Lewis wasn't attracted to, still hung heavy over his senses as he made his way up to his room, and the scent of ozone and lighting and rain lingers.

After he locks his door behind him, Lewis wanders through to his bedroom feeling calmer, stronger, more at peace. But he’s not going back to the paddock though, not if that Alpha is still running around somewhere smelling so perfect...

He messages Ange that he’s arrived safe at the hotel and will talk to her later, then spends the rest of his afternoon experimenting with himself in ways that he hasn’t felt any need to in a very long time. The Suppressants had dulled his desires for so many decades that he barely felt arousal anymore, which was why this reaction to that unknown Alpha had surprised him so wholly. As Mick slowly fades from his senses, Lewis' attraction to that other series of scents from the mystery Alpha creeps back in. It feels embedded in his psyche, and his body responds far too eagerly; he can still smell the river, the mossy trees, sprigs of ferns.

As he gives in, his hole gets slick as it tries to ready itself for an Alpha who isn’t present. Lewis hasn’t felt an ache like this in years, not since Nico, and even then it wasn’t like this. He hadn’t needed Nico. Time passes in a haze as he gives in to desires he’d long since forgotten. But the scent of the mossy riverbed spurs him onward, washing away his inhibitions.

By the time he’s sated and exhausted, it’s evening and his phone is nearly dead from missed calls and ignored notifications.

He only focuses on Angela, the most important, and he calls her once he’s had a quick shower and is dressed in clean clothes, feeling hazy and warm and sleepy. He flops back onto his sheets, glad he remembered to put a towel down on top of his bed earlier.

“Are you... coping?” He can hear the concern in her voice.

“I’m fine now. It’s not Heat.” Not yet, at least, goes unsaid.

“Well, don’t feel too guilty about ducking out of the press-conference, most of the others left early too. The FIA kicked up a bit of a stink when they realized so many drivers were shirking media day, but when Mick got back he put a ban on it being discussed and insists that you all be able to avoid media duties whenever you like, without having to give explanations.”

Thank God for Mick Schumacher.

“Wait, who else skipped duties?” Lewis asks, even as he smiles at Mick covering for him so thoroughly.

“Uh, Max and Dan got caught having sex in one of the bathrooms. By Christian. So that was a whole thing; Horner’s making it far more dramatic than it needs to be, they’re mated for crying out loud. Let’s see, who else... oh, Valtteri left even before you did, and Pierre and Yuki not long after. Some of the other Betas wandered off then, once they realized others were getting away with leaving... The officials are causing a fuss, but Mick will have Valentino Rossi on his side at Imola, so I’d really like to see them try to stand up to two True Alphas.”

Lewis snorts, then bids her goodnight and hangs up. Going toe to toe with the FIA was never easy, and privately, he wouldn’t mind terribly if Mick just straight up morphed and start ripping out a few throats.

*

Lewis’ first Heat in almost twenty years comes two weeks later, at Imola. He can feel it building for days and days, at home in Monaco as he paces his apartment, works out incessantly to try and exhaust his adrenaline, then goes for long night-time walks to cool down, takes thousands of cold showers... he does everything he can think of to distract himself and deny it’s going to happen.

But the prickling under his skin, the cloying of his blood, the heat that pools when he catches a whiff of an Alpha that attracts him... he’s fooling no one, least of all himself. But nothing smells as satisfying as that mystery scent from back in Australia, from that unknown Alpha. He wants to smell it again, the moss and ferns and fresh water, the cold forest stream. But he still can't place that familiar tinge that had run through it like an undercurrent, of ice and evergreen, so he's just as clueless of who it belonged to.

Lewis is supposed to fly to Imola, but he opts to drive instead, too scared to pack the aids he’ll need in a bag that will get scanned by airport security. He drives one of his street cars to the Italian track instead, which takes almost six hours, but it gives him the time to truly mentally prepare.

His status is going to be obvious, and Lewis fights to accept that with resigned reluctance. There's nothing he can do to stop it. His biology is clear on his scent now that the Suppressants are out of his system, and his impending Heat can't be hidden. For the first time, people are going to know what he’s been keeping secret for so long. In a way, a tiny bit of him is relieved at not having to keep up the pretense and he holds on to that as he walks into the paddock with Angela as his heels.

People can smell it immediately, Lewis knows, from the confused looks that get directed his way. Zhou Guanyu does a double-take so fast that it looks painful when he spots Lewis on his way to the Mercedes garage. Lando, who was abandoning an interview in favour of wandering over to greet him, actually backs off a few steps in surprise. Even Valtteri, coming out of Alfa catering, freezes like a deer in headlights. His nostrils flare as he scents the air, then blinks wide blue eyes at Lewis.

“Hey, VB,” Lewis murmurs to him, desperate to see the same usual smile gracing his friend’s face, hoping that he of all people will still treat him the same...

But Valtteri looks physically pained as he gazes back at him, and Lewis can’t bear to look him in the eye for very long.

“Lewis...” Valtteri’s croak of his name is all he seems able to muster, and Lewis doesn’t linger.

The Mercedes garage is his haven, as ever; the team is probably just as surprised, but no one acts any different than ever, except for the longer-than-usual hug George gives him in greeting.

All in all, despite Mick’s best efforts, the media circle Lewis like sharks, throwing him long, speculative looks and waiting for any opportunity to pounce and start drilling him with questions. Lewis hides in his driver's room, his only sanctuary.

But luckily Valentino Rossi arrives in the course of the morning, ready to do his best to help. He ducks into the Mercedes garage to say hello to Lewis, and quietly murmurs he’ll do what he can to distract the media. It's a big comfort, up until Mick comes flying in from the pit entrance, purple-eyed and and snarling with his canines extending into fangs.

Shit. Lewis had completely forgotten. He’s known Valentino for so long that it hadn’t occurred to him that his True Alpha wouldn’t like another on his territory while one of his unmated Omegas was heading into Heat. Valentino had been coming anyway to aid Mick, but now, as Lewis shrinks back against the wall, he realizes how stupid he was for not properly thinking this through.

“It’s alright Mick,” Valentino says gently, backing off a few steps and allowing Mick to put himself in front of Lewis. “He is my very old friend. I only came to say hello. I’m not a threat to him.”

“He’s Unmated. And you...” Mick breaks off to snarl again, lips pulled back to bare his teeth. “Too close. You’re too close to him.”

Valentino acquiesces and leaves the garage quickly and with no fuss, and true to his words he heads straight for the cameras to attract as much attention as he can, parading about and showing off, as affable and exuberant as ever.

Lewis understands what Mick’s concern was, even as the young German puts his head in his hands and lets out a confused growl of dissatisfaction over what had just transpired.

Valentino wasn’t mated, but he didn’t smell fully unmated either. Perhaps he was courting someone? There was a tinge to his usual smell of a sun-baked olive grove that Lewis has never sensed on him before. But he’s been discovering lots of new scents on people he’s known for ages lately, so it’s hard to tell if it’s new. There was definitely a trace of something like terracotta and vines in Valentino’s wake, though.

Mick is struggling, clutching at his hair, and Lewis chirrups at him to get his attention. George repeats the noise as he comes over to crouch next to their True Alpha, draping an arm over him.

“Lewis is OK, Mick. You did well and kept him safe. But Valentino isn’t a threat to him,” Toto says gently from where he looms over them.

“Was I wrong? Did I mess up again?” Mick lifts his head as asks the older man, his eyes confused. “I don’t... I don’t know what to do. I feel things, and my instincts take over and I... don’t know if I’m right or wrong or upside down, or being rude, or not doing enough for my pack...”

“You did great,” Toto insists, his peppermint scent overlaid with assurance and sincerity.

Taking a deep breath, Mick squeezes at George's shoulder as he stands. He looks exhausted and agitated and he sniffs absently at Lewis as he glances warily around the garage.

“Your Heat shouldn’t hit till after the race, I think. That night, though, probably.”

Lewis blushes a little, though he doesn’t want to know how Mick can tell exactly when the Heat is due while he himself can’t. But there’s no point in being shy to someone who can understand so much about him through a single sense.

“Great, means I can still race,” he mumbles, trying to sound relieved even though he doesn’t really know what to feel.

Mick pats at his back and George’s arm briefly before he departs, looking exhausted already.

“Poor kid,” Toto murmurs. “I never saw Michael have it half as rough.”

“Michael would have had learned a lot from Ayrton before he passed, though, isn’t that right?” George asks, blinking around at them all as he mentions the True Alpha who had cared for the grid before Michael.

“Yes,” Toto agrees. “He had a good few years as Second to Senna. Mick hasn’t had any time to learn from any other True Alpha. I suppose it wasn't even a sure thing he would morph into one at all.”

“Well it was good of Vale to come,” Lewis says. “I don’t think he was offended, it’s not like him to get upset over those sorts of things.”

“No, Mick behaved correctly in defending you from him,” Toto insists, as he leads the way to where Bono and the others are waiting to go over the plan for the week. “But Valentino hasn’t known you off your Suppressants. Mick was right to warn him away; another True Alpha around his Unmated Omega... that’s a no-no. Valentino should have known better.”

Lewis shakes his head in response to his boss. “Vale didn’t mean anything by it. He’s my friend and he always comes to see me if he's at the paddock. There’s never been any need for caution, we’re not attracted to each other at all. Besides, I prefer the normalcy of someone still treating me the same!”

It comes out harsher than he intends it, and Angela shoots him a sharp look to tell him off for his tone, but he doesn’t care. Everything is going to change now; he’ll be handled with kid gloves, protected and fussed over... all the things he’d explicitly never wanted. His own friends will tiptoe around him now; Valtteri, earlier, hadn’t even wanted to speak to him...

Lewis stays moody and on edge all day, snapping at the press-conference journalists with all their smug, leading questions that straddle the line between admonishing Lewis for trying to keeping his status quiet, and condescendingly attributing every failure or accident in his whole career to it. Mick had purposefully placed himself in Lewis' media group, and he gets so angry too that he starts to morph, his teeth and nails lengthening. Daniel rushes to try and contain him with Lance at his heels, while Esteban guides Lewis from the room with an arm around his waist.

“God, those assholes!” Lance rages, after he catches them up and puts a hand on Lewis’ shoulder, his Beta instincts making him want to support and aid in Lewis' protection. “You all good?”

“Yeah, thanks guys,” Lewis mumbles, unsure why he doesn't seem to have the strength to lift his head from Este's shoulder. He's grateful for the grid's help even as he wishes he didn’t need it. “Is Mick OK?”

“Daniel’s got him, yeah. Come on. Let’s get you back to your garage,” Lance says, leading the way through the paddock and hissing at anyone who gives them another glance.

The next day is no better.

The impending Heat makes Lewis restless, ruins his instincts as he drives, puts him on edge and pushes him to make stupid errors. He thrashes the car as best he can around the circuit, pretends that he's fighting to outdrive his own biology, but it's not use. He qualifies 13^th on the grid for the sprint, which sees him starting the race in 14^th. The track is wet, everyone is wound up and antsy, and Lewis just wants to crawl out of his skin.

Sunday is horrible. Horrible. After waking up dreading everything, Lewis ends up finishing the race in P 13 and stumbles straight to his driver’s room after weigh-in. He slams and locks the door, knowing already what the media, the pundits, even the commentators are saying. The abuse and insults undoubtedly blowing up on social media will be yet another kick while he's down.

It wouldn’t surprise him if the likes of Helmut Marko were right now braying to all and sundry that this is what happens when you let an Omega in the car... they should be on Suppressants since they can’t function like normal people...they have no business racing, what a joke...

And is he wrong? Lewis' Heat is coming, building up inside him; he's been embarrassingly half-hard all day, and the whole grid, the whole paddock, the whole world probably knows it. It simmered under his skin for the whole drive, and he can’t separate out how bad the car was against the effect of his scattered mind and his growing need.

It's just too much and he can't ignore the ache any longer.

Desperate to take the edge off even though it's not a full-blown Heat yet, Lewis peels himself out of his suit and fireproofs. He’s barely even sat down on his couch before he wraps his hand around himself, already stroking frantically even though his palm is dry, as his hole tries to prepare and open itself. He cums twice before he remembers to even breathe, and eventually drags in rough, ragged pants of breath that make him feel like he's surfacing from a frozen lake.

His Heat-induced capacity to just keep going is mildly terrifying, but he soon takes hold of himself again. It’s nothing to cum a third time, more mess all over himself, before he dares to reach for his aching hole; two more orgasms from fingering then the haze starts to lift.

When he finally wipes himself clean with a towel that was already destined for the wash, he scrambles into a pair of joggers before he curls up on his tiny couch, feeling defeated.

Why the Hell had five back-to-back orgasms felt so hollow and unsatisfying? He already wants... more, something deeper, harder. He wants to be stretched and filled and pleasured. He wants the moss, the riverbank, the trace of arctic air burning his nostrils and lungs; he needs that mystery Alpha he smelled in Australia, who still haunts his senses.

Lewis is still curled up feeling empty and alone when Angela comes to find him. She knocks and unlocks the door with her key when he calls for her to, then sits down in the space next to his legs, after she’s covered him properly with a blanket.

He’s not ashamed of her knowing what he’s been doing; she’s seen him in way worse states than this.

“I know of something that might help,” Angela eventually murmurs, her gaze gentle and her words quiet. There's a slightly defensive note to her tone, though, like she expects an immediate 'no'.

“Anything. I’ll try anything,” Lewis mutters into his couch cushion.

“It’s an app.”

Ah. That explained her expectation that he’d reject her words.

“Ange, you know I can’t use-”

“Just listen,” she holds up a hand to cut off his protest. “It’s specifically to help you find a Heat mate!”

“I’m not following how and why you would think I would want to use something like that,” Lewis says slowly, confused. She knows him. She knows dating apps would be the last thing in the world he’d ever turn to.

“Because you can be completely anonymous, if you want. Just find a Heat partner, online only. You don’t have to show your face or give away your identity. You don’t have to meet up with them. Loads of people use messaging apps like this when they have Heats or Ruts. Betas are even on it!”

“Do you know what would happen if it got out that I was having cybersex with random Alphas online?!”

Angela just shrugs at him. “Your status isn’t a secret anymore, Lewis. You’re not going to be able to deny your urges when you’re in proper Heat. You need to do something. Or else you’ll have Mick Schumacher in wolf form planted outside your door for a week to protect you, and I don’t think either of you wants that!”

She has a point. Facing Heat alone meant he was completely vulnerable and defenseless, so there was no way Mick wouldn’t stay as close to him as he could.

“But if I’m not meeting up with any Alphas in person, how will their pheromones get on me to drive anyone else off?” Lewis asks, as he grudgingly takes her phone to examine the app displayed on her screen.

“Apparently it helps to be connected with someone, even virtually. You won’t smell like them, but your scent should change to show you’re... unavailable, so to speak. Being... satisfied.”

“Ew, stop talking,” he mumbles, even though he's slightly fascinated and hadn’t even known that was possible.

To hide his surprise and embarrassment at his lack of knowledge, Lewis peers down at the app, which seems to be in the same vein as Tinder. Or Grindr. He swipes through a few preview pictures of stills of conversations, his mouth scrunching in distaste.

Angela just shrugs again as she takes her phone back after a few minutes of his perusal.

“Think about it. For everyone’s sake. Now, it's debrief time, let’s go face the music.”

Lewis groans and grumbles but eventually lets her drag him off the couch. It never does to try and say no to Ange.

*

He intends to drive straight home that night, even though he packed a Heat kit in his boot. He doesn’t want to stay in his motorhome at the paddock, where people might hear him, or to get a hotel in the city and have journalists camped outside all night. He just wants to go home, to the comfort of his own bed and the sanctuary of his secure apartment.

There’s one obstacle to that though.

Mick’s not happy about Lewis leaving the proximity and safety of pack, his brow furrowed and his mouth turned down as he gazes at Lewis with confused blue eyes. He looks so similar to Michael when he's angry that Lewis can see why Seb’s carrying a nearly constant tinge of sadness to his scent these days.

“I don’t like it.”

“I’ll go straight home, I swear.” Lewis isn’t above begging if he has to. Pleading his case to a man 14 years his junior would feel a lot more ridiculous if said man didn’t now hold every type of power there was over him. Lewis was Mick's pack, and it was up to Mick to give him the permission he needed to leave his protection during Heat.

“I understand you want to go home, but I don’t want you leaving the pack. What if you get attacked?” Mick is shaking his head. “No. It’s not possible, Lewis.”

Lewis wrings his hands and tries to figure out how to explain that here with the pack is the last place he wants to be. “I really just want to go home. I’m not comfortable here.”

“But you’re safe.”

“I’ll lock my doors and drive as fast as I can. I’ll go straight home. I won’t stop for anything. Please, Mick!”

“He doesn’t want to be here, Mick,” Seb steps in to gently persuade. “You want him to feel comfortable, don’t you? Look, it’s... it’s a big thing, a Heat.”

“I want him safe.” Mick’s getting a stubborn set to his face, his eyes narrowing at being defied. “So go to your motorhome, Lewis, and stay there until it's over. We’ll guard you.”

Mortified and desperate, Lewis shoots a glance at the rest of the pack-members who are gathered about the debrief room they've commandeered. Kevin shrugs at him, helpless, and Esteban looks sympathetic. Max, Lewis notices out of the corner of his eye, nudges Dan in the ribs.

“Hey Mick, listen, Maxy and I are flying back in the jet in an hour or so. He can come with us,” Dan offers. “We’ll go straight from the tarmac to the car. I’ll be able to defend him, and I’ll get him home ASAP. Or, I think Valtteri is flying back too...?”

“No Valtteri. Unmated.” Mick is really not happy. His voice is becoming taut with anger, each word ending with clipped snarls.

“I’ll take him straight to the plane, then I’ll deliver to his front door. I won’t let you down, Alpha.”

“Charles and I will go too! The Omegas can help him prepare for what’s coming, and I can help Dan protect him. Ja?” Seb is so... so Seb about it. Effortlessly calm and confident, almost convincing Mick with his tone alone.

“Straight home, Sebastian,” Mick says, his tone brokering no argument. “Plane. Home. I really don't like this at all.”

“Plane. Home.” Daniel repeats, offering him a salute. “You got it, boss.”

“Do not call me-”

But Daniel is already dragging Lewis off by the elbow with a mutter of, “Quick before he changes his mind...”

“Thank you,” Lewis doesn’t know what else to say to him. “Thank you guys so much.”

“You're Pack,” Dan simply says, pulling him a little closer and ruffling at his braids until Lewis manages to twist away with an actual laugh.

*

Thankfully, the Heat doesn’t hit until the plane has almost landed in Nice, the nearest airport to Monaco. Lewis spends the ride curled up at the rear of Max’s private jet, swallowing his pride and embarrassment as he quietly questions his fellow Omegas about what to expect. He hasn’t had a Heat since he was a teenager, but for under-18s they’re so weak that they barely count, and he hardly remembers what it had felt like.

Daniel and Seb remain a respectful distance away. They have no interest in Lewis and are of no danger to him, but it’s still not comfortable for any of them as his pungent floral scent fills the plane cabin.

“Aren’t you excited?” Charles certainly looks to be, his eyes lit up. “I love my Heat weeks! They're the best!”

“You’re mated, man. I’m sure it’s all just plain fantastic for you and Seb.”

“Oh, I forgot. You don’t have a Mate...” Charles’ eyes go wide, and he cocks his head to one side as he considers this.

Max huffs a noise from his seat next to Lewis, but doesn’t say anything.

“Thanks for helping me get home,” Lewis mumbles to him. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re pack. It’s up to all of us to help keep you safe. I had trouble with my Suppressants when I turned 18 so I’ve had a few Heats while trapped in the paddock. Before Dan they were... not very nice.”

“Speaking of, is it starting? I think it’s starting,” Charles murmurs, sniffing the air. “Yeah. I smell... you’re definitely giving off more... is that trees? Leaves? Odd. You’re usually all flowers.”

“Darling,” Seb calls to him. “I don’t think Lewis needs attention drawn to his scent, thank you.”

“But it’s great!” Charles doesn’t get why no one else seems to think so, looking around at all their faces, his gleeful expression becoming more and more confused. “Isn’t it? He doesn't have to hide anymore, or be alone...”

“It’s not going to be as easy for Lewis as yours are. Don’t you remember what it was like, before Mating?” Max asks him, his eyes intense. “With not even a Heat mate...”

“No? I always had a Heat mate, and then Seb,” Charles is starting to look contrite. “I didn’t even know you can do it without a Heat mate... how... how do you manage it alone?!”

“I never had a Heat mate, either, because of the Suppressants,” Max murmurs, his eyes flicking to Daniel for comfort and his tension easing a little when Dan lets out a soft rumble to him. “I didn’t trust anyone before Dan.”

“Same for me,” Lewis says. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone that close to me, to see me so vulnerable.”

“I hated Suppressants,” Max says darkly, something sour coming into his scent, like old oil. “They... ugh.”

“Unnatural,” Lewis agrees, as Dan gives a gentle growl to call Max to him. Max goes and curls up on his Mate’s lap, lets Daniel stroke his hair and murmur to him until his unhappiness fades.

“And now your biology is just plain fucked up, at your grand old age,” Seb points out cheerfully, eyeing Lewis over his mug of tea. Pointing out the obvious with an air of amusement, as ever.

“You don’t seem surprised by any of it. Was it clear all along that I was Omega?” Lewis hasn’t asked anyone this yet, has dreaded the answer.

“No, not to me,” Dan offers. “I could never smell you very strongly, just a bit of lavender and orange blossom, or something. I assumed it was Suppressants but I never questioned why you took them. I guess I figured it was just a part of your process; that 7 times WDC mentality. And because you’ve always been...”

He trails off, hesitating.

“Always been Lewis,” Seb finishes for him, with a fond smile. “Always preferred your own company, no?”

It was the polite way of saying Lewis was a loner and a bit anti-social, at least to the rest of the grid.

“I knew,” Max says. “I don’t know how, but I knew since I first met you. I never said anything, of course; I didn’t want to ruin whatever reason you were keeping it quiet for. I stayed on the Suppressants for ages myself, until I realized one Heat that my want for Daniel was overriding them.”

Daniel smiles into his Mate’s hair.

“Well, I didn’t know anything,” Charles pipes up, and he’s a nice kid but that’s no shocker.

“You’re being very obvious with your silence, man,” Lewis tells Seb. His old friend just shrugs.

“I had a hunch, an account of how you never talked about it. Then after Nico... I could smell the hurt for miles. I figured you had been Heat mates, and since I knew he was Alpha, and Betas can’t adequately satisfy a Rut...”

“Don’t want to talk about Nico,” Lewis says reflexively, unable to help the angry pain that bleeds into his scent.

“Were you Mates? Did you break a Bond?” Charles asks, his voice hushed as if the taboo topic needs to be whispered about.

“No! No. I just helped him when he was in Rut. Then when things got bad between us at Merc we stopped. Made much more sense when he announced his retirement.”

“You were never meant for each other. The smell wasn’t right,” Seb insists, waving a dismissive hand. “Too... too much. Like you were burning, and he was cloying, it was... wrong.”

Lewis just shrugs. “It was only to help with his Rut. No more. Besides, once he fucked off Mercedes gave me Valtteri as my teammate, and that was much better. It was nice to finally have some peace after all the hurt.”

Thinking about Valtteri brought a smile to his face.

“Yeah, Valtteri’s a good cunt. I like him,” Dan agrees happily.

“I hope he’s happy at Alfa. He deserves to be,” Charles murmurs, distracted by scrolling his Insta feed.

“He’s probably having a better time than I ever made things for him at Mercedes,” Lewis points out, as he tries to ignore the prickling of his skin. A shiver ripples through him. He feels cold, then hot.

“That’s not your fault.” To Lewis’ surprise, Max is protesting on his behalf. “No matter who took the seat, they’d all have been playing second fiddle to you. What you’ve been able to do is amazing, and deserved to be prioritized by the team.”

“Thanks,” Lewis murmurs, at the same time as Seb snorts.

“Abu Dhabi.”

“Don’t tease them, Seb!” Charles chides his Mate. “We are all Pack now. We must try to have some harmony.”

Max doesn’t say anything else, just puts his head back down on Daniel’s shoulder as his hair continues to be lovingly stroked.

Seb’s got his trademark smirk in place though, which means he’s in the mood to wind someone up. Lewis feels a flutter of annoyance when his friend’s discerning blue eyes land on him, the obvious target.

“So did Valtteri never figure you out?”

“I don’t think so,” Lewis replies, a little suspicious at why the question is being asked with so much amusement. “He never said, if he did.”

“What about when he was in Rut? Or did the blockers ruin that?”

Ruin?

“I never knew when he was in Rut,” Lewis says as he shifts in his seat, his discomfort surely tangible in the air now. “I couldn’t tell, obviously, and I never asked Angela or anyone. I respected his privacy. And he never behaved any differently.”

“So when did your Suppressants stop working?” Seb asks, all shrewd eyes and smirking mouth now.

“Like, Australia, for definite. Possibly earlier, likely all year, I guess.”

Seb lets out a little hum in acknowledgement, his scent becoming weirdly exuberant. “Ah. You must have been experiencing a lot of new scents from us all since then, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” Lewis murmurs, trying not to notice the sweat pooling at his lower back. He swallows hard. “Didn’t know you had clover to your scent. Some of the Betas that I don’t know well, I couldn’t even smell them at all before, or just the bare bones. I knew that Yuki was something sugary. Lance was berries. Now I know they’re far more complex; Yuki's vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce, Lance is blackberry and sage.”

“Did you know about the different scents that come through during Ruts?” Seb leans forward as he asks, and even though he’s half a plane away Lewis shrinks back in his seat.

“Careful, Seb,” Daniel mumbles, though he doesn’t open his eyes and keeps his head resting back against his seat. Max’s eyes are shut too, a small smile on his lips. The two Mates smell content and in love. Charles, listening quietly to Seb’s questions, smells curious. Seb just plain smells troublesome, and Lewis bares his teeth at him to display his confusion.

“Seb, you are making him uncomfortable!” Charles scolds, moving to hunch on the seat between Lewis and Seb, protective even against his own Mate.

Seb spreads his hands. “Darling, it’s OK. Lewis, I have known you for almost twenty years now. You trust me, no?”

“Course,” Lewis mutters. “Just... what’s with all these questions, man? You’re weirding me out.”

“Just wondering what things you’re only just noticing!” Seb replies innocently. “Rut scents are so different, they can make an Alpha smell completely unfamiliar. It’s very confusing!”

“Dan’s doesn’t change too much,” Max offers, still face-planted happily in his Mate’s neck.

“But for others, trees can change to flowers,” Seb carries on, ticking things off on his fingers. “Cold can change to warm...”

“Give it a rest, Seb,” Dan grumbles, finally opening his eyes and sitting up to scowl at him. “Mick said to be careful what you say, so stop being a cunt.”

Looking weirdly satisfied with himself, Seb settles back in his seat, apparently considering his job done. Ten minutes later finds Lewis wishing his friend hadn’t stopped his stupid, weird rambling. The Heat hits as they descend into Nice and by the time they’ve landed he’s curled up and sobbing on his seat.

It’s too much, too unbearable. It hurts. He doesn’t even want to touch himself; he’s not even turned on, there’s no hint of pleasure to the pain. All of him aches, like his body is burning up, a fever all over.

He wails and whimpers as he’s hoisted up into Daniel’s arms and carried off the plane. There’s a car waiting on the tarmac, or something, he doesn’t fucking know because his eyes are screwed up from how much it hurts. He’s bundled into a backseat. Charles and Max, identifiable only by smell, hold him between them as he thrashes and wails, tries not to throw up, tries not to burn alive.

There’s a cold cloth on his forehead and another bathing his neck, his throat, his hands, but it’s useless. He knows he spends the whole ride screaming, but he can’t help it.

“Seb, put your foot down!” Someone begs, as hands skitter helplessly over his back, trying to soothe him.

“I can’t drive any faster, darling.”

“Fucking Hell, this is bad. I’m calling Mick,” Daniel sounds... scared. “Maybe he can ask for a temporary lift of the speed limit?”

“We should be calling Valtteri,” Max mutters grimly.

The name of his Finnish friend is the last thing Lewis hears before he passes out, his throat raw and his brain on fire.

*

Lewis wakes up in his bed, twisted in his sheets and soaked in sweat and his own cum. Groaning and helpless, he rips his jeans and underwear down. There’s no point trying to clean up or shower. He’s got days on end of this mess still to go.

His hole is wetter and more stretched than he’s ever known it could be, all on its own, and he slips two fingers in easily. Crooking them, he comes at the first graze of his fingertips over his prostate, moaning wantonly.

Lewis doesn’t have the mental energy to get out of bed all day. He just keeps going, keeps pleasuring his hole and his cock until he’s sated enough for a bit of sleep. Then he wakes and starts again. By nightfall he’s able to stagger to the kitchen to eat a little bit of fruit and drink a bottle of water; he’d prepared for this, stocking his fridge with plenty of easy-to-prepare food.

Later, after midnight, he manages a shower, though he has two orgasms in the process. He falls back onto his bed and fingers himself out once more, then finally has the presence of mind to strip his bedsheets and throw down a pile of towels in their place. He also fishes a box out from under his bed and grabs the first dildo he sees, before he gives in again to the Heat.

*

It takes four days for the Heat to break enough for him to move beyond his endless cycle of sleeping, cumming, eating, cumming, showering, cumming...

Lewis wakes on Thursday morning and almost weeps with relief to not be instantly erect and needy. He manages to put on a load of laundry that’s solely comprised of soiled towels before the need slinks back in. He props his foot up against the wall by his washing machine, mindlessly fingering himself out again. His cock throbs and pulses away, and he strokes it with his free hand.

The orgasm, when it finally shudders through him, is as weirdly unsatisfying as they’ve all been. He tries three different types of toys until he’s sated again, but there’s an edge to it. He wants more than his fingers. More than fake toys. He wants real, warm flesh. A Mate.

Rubbing tiredly at his eyes, he showers, throws his now washed towels into the dryer and puts on a load of his soiled sheets, then prepares a proper, fresh meal. It feels like such a relief to finally have the mental capacity to take care of these basic domestic tasks and Lewis tries not to let himself dwell on how much easier this would be if he had a Mate to care for him, to tend to him, to satisfy him...

Waiting for his curry to reduce down, he gets half way through unpacking his suitcase from Imola at last before he has to cum again. The urge keeps slinking back up through him, keeping him hard and his hole wet. Grumbling in annoyance, he strips his cock quickly and spills into a tissue, then throws it in the bin with no sense of pleasure at all.

Lewis is getting sick of this Heat. It just feels like a habit to keep pleasuring himself, instinctive, but not enjoyable. Like a chore he has to do in order to get back to being able to function properly for a few minutes.

As he eats, he texts Mick to assure him he’s doing fine, then calls Angela.

“Are you managing,” she asks gently, and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Seb said he’s never seen a Heat hit so bad,” she says sympathetically. “Have you thought about that app, at all?”

Lewis had forgotten all about it.

“I don’t think it’s for me, Ange. What if someone sees it on my phone? What if someone identifies me?”

Hours later, when he’s writhing as he plunges a prostate massager into himself and switches it on to its highest setting, he grabs his phone without thinking about it. He downloads the app, then buries his face in his pillow as thrusts back against the vibrations and cums with a weak spurt. He needs help, he needs someone, something, to relieve this lonely agony.

Sighing, he throws the latest dirty towel on the floor after he’s wiped himself clean, then shuts the toy off but doesn’t bother pulling it out, and grabs for his phone. He chews on his lip as he opens the app, then realizes how thirsty he is and staggers off to grab some water. The lurid pink home page is waiting for him to create a profile when he gets back.

Like he’s going to announce himself as he is! LH44 as a username isn’t going to do anyone any favours, though he smiles weakly as he entertains the thought. He dismisses XNDA pretty quickly too.

It’s surprisingly hard to pick something to name himself. He settles on Estoril85, the date and location of Senna’s first even F1 win. There would be plenty of Senna fans out there, so this couldn’t easily be traced back to him.

He fills in the rest of the information without too much panic; that he's in his late 30s, an Omega, and not wanting to do in person meet-ups. The app is making him feel anxious and caught-out, like he's doing something illegal, but he perseveres.

The last piece of his profile is a picture, and he toys absently with the base of his plug as he considers. Need is stirring in him again, and with a flash of inspiration he pulls the vibrator out so that his hole flutters, still open. He doesn’t want to display his tattoos, but he’s getting so far beyond horny that his brain doesn’t throw up any warning bells at pulling a pillow under his hips. He takes several photos of his ass, with his flared, wet hole on display. After a careful check that no identifying features are visible, he sets the best shot as his avatar.

Feeling proud of himself at taking steps to hopefully make sure he never has to tackle this horrible chore alone again, Lewis rolls back over and gets off once more.

*

When Lewis wakes he knows immediately that the Heat has finally broken and he huffs a sigh of relief before he even opens his eyes.

His room smells terrible, his body feels sluggish and sore, and he’s absolutely starving. But as he sits up he can’t help his smile, and lets out a relieved laugh.

He’s free. The fever is over. He can set foot outside again, get proper exercise and fresh air, clean his apartment of all evidence that this happened and get back to his actual job of being an F1 driver, not just a mindless, Heat-afflicted Omega.

There’s residual desire still churning in him, but it’s hazy and he’s not seized by it, not desperate and aching for satisfaction. He lets out another huff of joy as he rolls out of bed. It’s quite late at night, the streetlights of Monaco lighting up the harbour below him in neon colours.

The beauty of it strikes him, a stark reminder of how little he’s been able to enjoy, or even notice, the past four days. He’s still gazing out at the dark water as he calls his dad.

“Lewis! Thank God, we’ve been worrying. The news...”

Ah. Lewis can tell from his father’s tone exactly what’s been happening while he's been preoccupied.

“Making the headlines, I expect?” He asks grimly, wondering if it was a fan who’d figured out he was heading into Heat and had leaked it – some were creepily obsessed – or if it was one of the journalists that constantly watched him like vultures.

Lewis wouldn’t put anything past Will Buxton.

“There’s been so many kind comments and messages of support, just... don’t let those that don’t understand get to you.”

Lewis hears the warning, and feels drained again. He bids goodbye quickly after that.

Don’t disappear again, he could almost hear his Dad saying. This isn’t a defeat.

But wasn’t it? The inevitable accusations would come, were already undoubtedly out there. Those who hated him would tell each other knowingly that he’d only been handed his seven championships out of pity from the FIA, or that he’d done God-knows-what as a favour to get those victories...

And those who loved Lewis were undoubtedly hurt, wondering why he’d kept it even from his fans, why he hadn’t trusted those who worshipped him so blindly.

What about the Omegas out there? By denying his status he’d done absolutely nothing to help them. They would have every right to feel betrayed by that, when he could have been using his platform to call for their rights... those thoughts had bugged him at a deep, fundamental level for a long time, and now they were dragged up into the light, couldn't stay buried any longer...

Lewis sighs through his guilt, then lets out a yawn and drags himself to the kitchen for food. Moping won’t help anyone; he can’t change what he’s done, only work on being a better influence going forward. It’s a scary thought knowing that the right thing to do now is to embrace and champion that aspect of himself he’s denied for so many years and which he's been terrified of for so long.

As he reheats leftover chickpea curry Lewis scrolls through his neglected phone, seeking the distraction of idly tapping open or dismissing notifications. The microwave is just trilling at him when he reaches the notifications from the HeatMate app.

Opening it, Lewis blinks in surprise at the slew of messages waiting in profile's inbox. He almost forgets to eat as he scrolls through them, torn between amusement, surprise and disgust. He's mostly been sent dick pics from male Alphas, while the messages from females at least come with a bit more class and tact, an invitation for proper conversation and connection. Now that Lewis isn't mindless with Heat he just feels uncomfortable about the whole thing, nervous and embarrassed at why his scant profile has garnered any attention at all.

Why the Hell had he set such a picture as his avatar?! He cringes as he looks at his own ass, mortified at his depravity.

And who even are these people that think sending a dick pic as their only message will drive him so wild with desire that he’d automatically want to engage with them? Even at the height of Heat, he doesn’t think such an image would do all that much for him. It's off-putting, and he almost deletes the app altogether.

But wasn’t it just a few hours ago that he was gasping into his pillow, crying out with the need to be touched and held and pleasured by a real human, as he shuddered through yet another unsatisfying orgasm alone?

He was doing this to find help for next time, to find someone to guide him through. Just an aid, so it wasn't so hollow and lonely, he reminds himself. That’s all.

Deciding to ignore the messages and pictures that have flooded his inbox, Lewis instead scrolls the feature that lists other app users that are in a radius of him, setting the filter to Monaco. As he defines the results down to male Alphas, he finally takes the bite of food from the fork he’s all but forgotten he’s holding in his free hand. He definitely doesn't want to meet up, but having someone to help that's in the same time-zone and locality as him if he's not travelling will be easier.

With only profile pictures and usernames to go by, Lewis wrinkles his nose at the endless display of erections and stupid monikers, scrolling until his thumb hurts until he finally taps in triumph on the first profile that’s not a dick pic, just to be vindictive to all of the rest.

The picture he's selected depicts a high shot of the Alpha’s bare torso, displaying his shoulders down to his opened and parted jeans. Getting the message across without being obscene; Lewis appreciates that. Plus he’s pretty damn hot, and based on the photo alone he looks to be exactly Lewis’ usual type.

Under the Alpha's picture are vague details – that his username is coffeeandcontemplation, he’s an Alpha, and most importantly, he’s also listing the same ‘not interested in meet-ups’ tag as Lewis.

Tick, tick, tick.

But now what? How is Lewis supposed to start an interaction? He flicks to the message tab and stares at the blank page, his keypad waiting. He feels an overwhelming need to be funny and witty, to say something engaging without being overly creepy or sexual.

But what? He hasn’t hooked up with anyone in years, much less tried to flirt. With Nico they’d been so familiar with each other, for better or worse, and there had been so much anger and resentment fueling their desire... it was hardly the benchmark, but the feelings had been so powerful that they’d bypassed either of them having to initiate anything.

But Lewis is not here for witty conversation, or an emotional connection, or romance and love and all the things he’s never had, not even with Nico... he’s just here for a Heat mate.

The guy’s online now too, a little green circle below his picture.

God, what the Hell should Lewis say? He can hardly open with Hey, you look hot. Fancy helping me through my next Heat? Please? OK, bye.

... Right?

Laying his phone down, he resolves to finish eating, wondering to himself the whole time if it’s above Ange’s pay grade if he were to ask her help in composing a message.

He should probably pay her more regardless, she damn well deserves it.

But after he’s finished his meal he’s no closer to knowing what to say. So he washes the mountain of dirty dishes by his sink. Then he puts on another load of soiled towels from his bed into his washing machine. He’s just putting away the clean laundry into the linen cupboard when inspiration hits.

[22:13] Estoril85: Excited for the new season of ST?

There, sent, done. An opening that’s relaxed and engaging, something for them to talk that circumvented the obvious and lewd, for now. Assuming the guy even wants to talk, assuming he isn’t slogging his way through so many other messages that must be so much more interesting or sexy or funny or engaging than Lewis’...

But he glances back down at his screen to see that the guy has already replied, and the excited anticipation that crawls through Lewis is frankly pathetic.

[22:15] Coffeeandcontemplation: Very, less than a month away now, I’m counting the days

Great!

Ah.

Now what?

Fuck.

Lewis had not thought this through.

He throws himself down onto the couch and bites his lip as he stares at his phone. Should he ask the guy his favourite Stranger Things character? Or was it too obviously Hopper that such a question was just dumb? Should he tell him he knows Millie, that she's an absolute sweetheart? No... no, he can’t give that away...

Should he steer the conversation to something else, then? But what?

And yet, miraculously, the guy sweeps Lewis’ stress away yet again. He’s already typing another message, if the little dots are any indication.

[22:15] Coffeeandcontemplation: Senna fan?

[22:16] Estoril85: For sure. Who isn’t?

Lewis can’t help but smile, pleased someone had understood the reference his username indicated. He could talk about Senna more, but that might accidentally make it too obvious that he knows F1 like the back of his hand, better than he knows himself. He can’t do anything to give his identity away.

[22:18] Coffeeandcontemplation: So, you come here often?

It’s so cheesy that Lewis actually giggles out loud, some of his nerves easing up a little.

[22:20] Estoril85: Are you going to ask me what I’m wearing next?

[22:21] Coffeeandcontemplation: Then tell you it would look better on my bedroom floor, yeah. Stop predicting all my best lines. 

Lewis giggles again, actual genuine amusement lighting up his chest. He can’t remember the last time he’d sincerely laughed; not in the past few days, that was for sure. And yet another message comes through while he’s busy blushing over the teasing.

[22:23] Coffeeandcontemplation: I should say that I’m not usually so dorky, and that it’s because your profile picture has robbed me of all sense with its beauty, but one part would be a lie

[22:26] Estoril85: Aw, so you don’t like my ass?

[22:27] Coffeeandcontemplation: I’m the biggest dork on the planet. You, beautiful, look good enough to eat

[22:29] Estoril85: Lucky for you, I love dorky guys. And I love having my hole eaten. You can get right on that after I’ve choked on your gorgeous Alpha cock. God I want you to wreck my throat

Lewis types and sends the message so fast, spurred on by his enjoyment of the conversation and the faint tendrils of Heat still warming his blood. But as he reads it back his mouth drops open.

“Oh God, what the fuck?!” he whispers to himself, mortified, as his cheeks flush with embarrassment. What on earth had possessed him to write that?!

And he’s not the only one surprised.

[22:30] Coffeeandcontemplation: ... Wow! 0 to 100 with you, huh?

Yelping in embarrassment and furious at his arousal for making him get so carried away, Lewis scrambles to save the situation.

[22:33] Estoril85: I’m so sorry! I’ve just come out of Heat, like literally. I was having so much fun talking to you that I stopped remembering how to behave like a normal person! I’m sorry

[22:36] Coffeeandcontemplation: Don’t fret, beautiful. You surprised me but I’m certainly not complaining. If you need help during your Heat, then I am more than willing. I don’t meet in person though so it would only be through messaging on here

Well there it was, the answer to Lewis’ prayers, offered without him even having to ask. And they hadn’t even been talking for a full half hour. Who is this guy?!

[22:39] Estoril85: That would be great, actually. It was kinda what I was on here to look for. I travel a lot and don’t have free time for a relationship or finding a proper mate. And meet-ups don’t work for me either

[22:40] Coffeeandcontemplation: Perfect match, then

How could someone tease so easily through a typed message? Lewis grins dopily down at his screen, his embarrassment quelled. His arousal is still simmering away under his skin and he eases a hand absently over his fly as he considers asking for some of that help right now.

Or would that be too pushy, too forward? Despite the reality of the past few days of Heat, he doesn’t want to come across as a hopelessly needy, horny Omega that can't control himself.

The guy seems to be struggling with what to say now, too. The little ellipses keep appearing and disappearing as he types and deletes his words. It’s oddly comforting that they’re both uncertain and it makes Lewis feel braver, less alone. He does try for a more direct segue than a TV show this time, however.

[22:46] Estoril85: Regretting not hopping on this app when my Heat started on Monday morning, actually. I was so out of it though that I probably wouldn’t have been lucid anyway. Would have liked to meet you sooner.

[22:50] Coffeeandcontemplation: You went through Heat all alone? That sounds excruciating, you poor thing

[22:51] Estoril85: Alone, yeah. Just my fingers and some toys

[22:53] Coffeeandcontemplation: That is a travesty. I’ll be sure to give you as much of attention as you need next time, if you still need me to by then

[22:55] Estoril85: Oh I absolutely will. I don’t see my situation changing in the next few months

This is Lewis' chance, the opening he’s been waiting for. He hesitates just a bit longer, but his desire trumps his nerves. He’s so hard in his jeans that he’s feeling light-headed.

[22:57] Estoril85: I know it’s late, but... I wouldn’t mind a little help right now? Only if you want to, of course, no pressure

[22:58] Coffeeandcontemplation: Oh fuck yes, beautiful. You want to touch yourself for me?

Lewis’ eyes slip shut in pleasure and he lets out a whine of delighted ascension. The heady build of desire slinking through him is slower and steadier than when it's Heat induced, but still tinged with that same aching need that's been chasing him for days. Just having someone else’s input is already flooding him with so much anticipation, making him feel so much better about how lonely and unsatisfying his first real Heat had been.

[23:00] Estoril85: Yes please. Please, I need you so bad

[23:01] Coffeeandcontemplation: Anything you want, beautiful, no need to beg

[23:01] Estoril85: Still got some Heat in me. Gonna be doing more than just beg in a minute

[23:04] Coffeeandcontemplation: Oh yeah? Do you want to go grab one of those toys you mentioned?

Lewis lets out an eager whimper as he staggers up and stumbles off to his bedroom. His hole is tingling again, and he’s surprised that he’s not feeling numb there with how much he’s done in the past few days, after so many years of nothing at all. He dumps out his whole box of toys onto the bed, their lurid colours scattering across the towels he hasn’t removed yet, and considers them.

[23:08] Estoril85: Help me pick, Alpha?

[23:10] Coffeeandcontemplation: Show me your toys then, beautiful. I want to see what you have to pleasure yourself with instead of me

Lewis clicks a few photos, careful to attach one with no identifying features, just a haphazard pile of dildos, vibrators and plugs on the generic grey towel.

[23:16] Coffeeandcontemplation: The blue one

Lewis picks up his bright blue dildo, never knowing fake silicone could make him shiver with desire like this.

[23:19] Estoril85: You like the blue?

[23:20] Coffeeandcontemplation: It looks to be the closest in size to me

That makes Lewis start to tremble with need, and he’s dropping onto the bed and rolling onto his back in submission in seconds, his body acting on his own accord as he spreads his legs.

[23:23] Estoril85: It just became my favourite. You’re gonna send me into another week of Heat at this rate. I need you, Alpha

[23:24] Coffeeandcontemplation: I’m here, beautiful. Get your sweet little hole ready for me

No meet-ups, Lewis reminds himself sternly, as he fights the urge to beg the Alpha to come to him right now, to give him the pleasure he’s so badly needed to be properly fulfilled these past few days.

The past few decades.

[23:27] Estoril85: texting gonna get hard soon

After he hits send, he eases the dildo into himself. His moan is loud and lewd in his own ears as his exhausted muscles stretch, but his hole is so wet that the slide is easy. He lets the toy sink in as deep as it can go, crying out in delight as he squints through his pleasure to try and see his phone screen.

[23:30] Coffeeandcontemplation: not the only thing getting hard

Lewis bursts out laughing, his hand falling away from the base of the dildo to cover his mouth to contain it, even though he’s alone. Genuine amusement and affection bubble all through him. He thinks he's starting to really like this guy.

[23:35] Estoril85: You dork! This is the first time I’ve ever laugh-cried during sex... should I thank you? If this even counts as sex

[23:37] Coffeeandcontemplation: Well that’s a shame, sex should always be fun. But then again I did warn you I was a dork

[23:37] Coffeeandcontemplation: And yes, this counts. The state of my erection needs it to count

[23:39] Estoril85: Can you please stop being so funny for five seconds? I’m trying to concentrate here!

Lewis wipes at the tears in his eyes and tries to re-focus, sitting up a bit more and grabbing the base of his toy again, twisting it slowly.

[23:42] Coffeeandcontemplation: Need help getting back on track?

[23:43] Estoril85: I don’t know if I trust in your help now... you were great at first, and I'm loving this toy, but you’re losing credibility by distracting me!

[23:45] Coffeeandcontemplation: Then I’d better work hard to redeem myself

Lewis grins, absolutely eager to take the bait, as he starts to gently work the dildo in and out of himself again.

[23:48] Estoril85: There’s that word again, ‘hard’. How hard are we talking?

[23:50] Coffeandcontemplation: Do you want to see? You can tell me if my estimation of size was correct

God, he was asking for consent before sending his dick pick? This guy was getting better and better with every message.

[23:52] Estoril85: Yes. Yes please. I need to see you. 

The next item in the thread is the thumbnail, and Lewis taps so quickly to open it that it hasn’t even finished loading its preview.

Oh fuck yes. His breathing immediately comes more rapid. That was an Alpha cock Lewis was happy to have on his screen. Long and thick and gorgeously flushed, just looking at it has him clenching happily around the fake one in his hole. He whimpers a high and needy Omega call, arching off the bed to sit up so he can bear down on his toy.

Should he send something back? Fuck, this was why he’d never got into sexting. It was too hard for his strung-out brain to focus on both things at once.

He does end up sending back a photo, one leg drawn up and tattoos hidden, of the toy buried in his hole.

[23:59] Estoril85: You look so good. This toy is a poor replacement for that perfection you’re packing

[00:01] Estoril85: I need to fuck myself, I can’t text much longer, I’m going insane

[00:03] Coffeandcontemplation: Then just lie back and close your eyes, beautiful. Enjoy yourself. Imagine it’s me there with you, filling up that pretty little hole, giving you just what you need. You don’t have to try to text

Permission to be depraved granted, Lewis drops his phone and grabs his cock with his free hand. Even during Heat it hadn’t felt this good. He wails out loud again as he presses the rounded tip of the toy into his prostate over and over, barely easing off, his body greedy for it, for one last orgasm to really stave off the Heat.

In his mind he sees the picture of that gorgeous cock, even as he recalls that scent from Australia, the river, the moss and ferns. Suddenly his lungs are too tight, his body on fire with desperate need.

“Alpha! Alpha!”

This. This is what he’s been wanting for days. This is what he’s been missing out on for years, all his life. It was never this good with Nico, and Lewis doesn’t quite understand why not, because he’s alone but for a toy he’s pretending is a real man, an Alpha’s messages on his phone and some stranger's perfect Rut scent permanently embedded in his psyche. But his mind whites out around his wailing and he sinks his teeth into his pillow, snarling in pleasure, stripping his cock desperately as he cums two-fold, clenching around the toy.

How long he lies there for, panting for breath as his body shudders repeatedly through aftershocks, he doesn’t know. Eventually, the adrenaline stops racing his blood through him and he hazily lifts his head, blinking sleepily. The cum on his torso is sticky, and between his legs his slick has already started to dry. He eases the toy out with a low moan and rolls onto his side to curl up, his breathing still uneven and ragged.

It takes a few more deep breaths before he reaches blindly for his phone.

[00:24] Coffeandcontemplation: Beautiful Omega

Then there’s a picture of a cum-splattered torso, pale skin flushed pink underneath it, and Lewis moans helplessly again.

[00:27] Coffeandcontemplation: I hope you’re either still having fun or you’ve passed out from relief. And that I earned some of my credibility back

[00:30] Estoril85: I’m still seeing God. How was that the best orgasm of my life? I’ve used that toy loads of times, but it’s never felt that good

[00:31] Estoril85: Thank you, Alpha

[00:33] Coffeandcontemplation: Anytime, beautiful. Clean up, drink some water and get some sleep. Alpha’s orders

[00:34] Estoril85: Yessir

[00:36] Coffeandcontemplation: And if you ever want to talk, or want any sort of help either Heat-related or otherwise, I’ll be here

Lewis doesn’t know what to say, happiness and relief seeping through him, as he beams helplessly at the message.

[00:37] Estoril85: Thank you

[00:37] Estoril85: Good night

He sings under his breath as he showers, transfers the latest round of washing to his dryer, drinks a cup of green tea and then washes his toys in the laundry tub. Most satisfying of all is finally peeling the last of the sweat-and-cum soaked towels from his bed and remaking it with fresh sheets. His intention for a simple Heat mate was all well and good, but he’s genuinely pleased to have found a little bit more of a genuine connection with this Alpha.

Most of all he’s just glad this damn Heat is finally over.

*

Lewis messages a little with the Alpha the next morning while he languishes in bed, thanking him again for his care and attention, and wishes him a good day just as Ange shows up and lets herself into the apartment.

She’s already fixing him a light breakfast when he strolls out of his bedroom at last. All his washing from the dryer is put away in his linen cupboard, the windows are open to air the apartment out and his fridge is stocked with fresh food.

Ange hugs him in greeting and laughs when he tells her for the millionth time that he’d been a wreck without her.

After he’s eaten and done some meditation, she puts him through his paces, trailing him on a long run of the Monaco streets, then on to a grueling workout in the gym. It feels so good though; after days in bed it’s a relief to get out and have proper fresh air and exercise.

And he feels good, not at all sluggish and slow, like he’d expected to.

They make plans for when they’ll fly to America for the upcoming race, and by the time Lewis finally sits down to check his phone again in the late afternoon he can’t help his thrill at seeing a message from his HeatMate Alpha.

They chat idly about how their day's have gone, nothing but polite small talk, and Lewis is careful not to give anything away about who he is, what he does. He doesn’t flirt, either. He just wants to keep this guy in his pocket, so to speak, and bring him out when he needs him; selfish, perhaps, but that seemed to be the MO of the app.

Now that his heat is over he doesn’t really need to contact the guy again until the next one rolls around, although...

[16:58] Estoril85: Hey, I meant to say, if you need anything during your next Rut, I’m totally down for more of last night

The ellipses appear and disappear, and Lewis isn’t sure what to make of that. After a while there’s still silence, so he shoots another message, trying not to feel too nervous that he’s messed something up.

[17:07] Estoril85: If you don’t have some other arrangement already with someone else, I mean. If you do that's all good

That provokes an answer, at last.

[17:09] Coffeeandcontemplation: Thank you, beautiful. We’ll see how things stand when the time comes. My Rut isn’t due for a while

OK... what is that supposed to mean? He doesn’t think he’ll want Lewis when his Rut comes? Maybe last night was a one-off and now he’s just being polite? Or maybe he'd only been telling Lewis what he thought he wanted to hear, about being available for him during Heat, in order to get off ? Maybe he did have someone else, after all, someone better, someone he could Rut in person...

The rejection stings, and Lewis taps back a quick all cool man before he judiciously closes the app.

Whatever. The guy is just a distraction, an aid, a help that Lewis won’t need for another two months.

Anyway, more important right now is that he has a whole slew of data to read before Miami, so he shoves his phone under a couch cushion, grabs his tablet and gets to work.