Chapter Text
The Monaco sun was a brutal, beautiful tyrant, baking the asphalt of the circuit and glinting off the chrome and scarlet of the Ferrari garage. Inside, the air was a cocktail of chilled, conditioned air, high-octane fuel, and palpable tension. Charles Leclerc, still buzzing from his final practice session, had found a moment of surreal calm amidst the storm. He was tucked away in a quiet corner, partially obscured by a rack of pristine red race suits, his phone glowing in his hands.
A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. Leaning against a tool cabinet, looking impossibly cool in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, was Michael B. Jordan. The man was a walking sculpture, his presence causing a subtle, hushed ripple through the normally single-minded mechanics. Charles’s first instinct, as it so often was when he found something exciting or ridiculous, was to share it with his two closest confidants on the grid—the two people who were, like him, navigating the surreal world of Formula One while being hopelessly, happily devoted to older, slightly bewildering men.
His thumbs flew across the screen, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He didn’t double-check the recipient list. The excitement of the moment, the giddy thrill of a celebrity sighting in their inner sanctum, overrode his usual caution. He typed, hit send, and leaned back against the wall, waiting for the inevitable frantic responses from Lando and Oscar.
His phone vibrated almost instantly. Then again. And again. A torrent of notifications. His smile widened. They were fast. He unlocked the screen, and his blood ran cold.
He hadn’t sent it to the private, three-way chat named ‘The Nursery’—a joke made by Jenson after a particularly chaotic sim-racing evening. He had sent it to ‘The Pensioners & Their Carers’, the sprawling, six-man group chat that included their respective partners.
**Charles:** guys you not gonna believe who is in the Ferrari garaze! Michael B Jordan , he is so sexy. Oscar , Lando get your ass now in the garaze
The first response was, predictably, from Oscar, who was likely in the McLaren hospitality unit, a five-minute walk away.
**Oscar:** what? That man has abs. I am coming
Charles’s heart hammered against his ribs. *No, no, no, Oscar, don’t…* he thought, a silent plea to the unfeeling digital gods.
Then Lando, ever the agent of chaos, chimed in, his message popping up with an almost audible cackle.
**Lando:** man, I don’t know who is more sexy Lewis or Michael B Jordan?
Charles squeezed his eyes shut. This was a disaster of monumental proportions. He could feel the phantom weight of a certain seven-time world champion’s gaze from the Mercedes garage, could imagine the raised eyebrow, the slow, dangerous smile. He was about to type a frantic retraction, to claim his phone had been hacked, that it was a deepfake, anything, when two new messages appeared in near-perfect, devastating synchrony.
**Oscar:** Lewis
**Charles:** Lewis
The double-barelled confirmation, sent in the heat of the moment, now sat in the chat log, immutable and damning. Charles stared at his own name, the traitorous letters spelling out his doom. He had publicly, in a forum that included both Lewis Hamilton and his own fiercely competitive boyfriend, declared Lewis the more attractive man.
The garage, once a haven of cool air, now felt suffocating. The gentle hum of the air conditioning units morphed into a mocking drone. He could see Michael B. Jordan laughing with a Ferrari engineer, completely unaware of the digital Armageddon he had inadvertently triggered.
A new message appeared, this one from a number that made Charles’s stomach perform a sensation not unlike his car hitting the Nouvelle Chicane at full speed.
**Sebastian:** I am showing this to Lewis. He will be so pleased. I, however, am now questioning my entire taste in men. First the stripey shirts, now this?
Charles groaned, pressing his forehead against the cool metal of the cabinet. Sebastian’s tone was light, teasing, but there was an edge there, the subtle, possessive competitiveness that all four-time world champions possessed, even in retirement. It was the same edge that came out when someone else had a newer, shinier hypercar.
Then, the final nail in the coffin. A message from Jenson, Lando’s partner and a man who found immense joy in the discomfort of others, especially when it was this beautifully orchestrated.
**Jenson:** Well, this is the most entertaining thing to happen all weekend. Lando, darling, I’m hurt. I thought you appreciated a classic, well-rounded physique. Not just… what was it you said, Charles? ‘Abs’?
Charles was about to throw his phone into the Mediterranean when a new bubble appeared. It was Mark Webber. Of course it was. The no-nonsense Australian, Oscar’s partner, who viewed the melodrama of his younger colleagues with a mixture of bemusement and exasperation.
**Mark:** For Christ’s sake. Piastri, get your head out of the group chat and back into the debrief. You can objectify Hollywood actors on your own time. And Charles, it’s ‘garage’. Two ‘a’s, one ‘e’. Spell it right if you’re going to start an international incident.
The reprimand was so perfectly Mark, so grounding and practical, that it almost made the situation worse. This wasn’t just a minor faux pas; it was an ‘international incident’. He had managed to simultaneously slight his own boyfriend, Lando’s boyfriend, and provoke the wrath of the entire Australian contingent.
He finally managed to type, his fingers trembling.
**Charles:** This was a mistake. A terrible mistake. I meant to send that to a different chat.
**Sebastian:** Which one? The ‘I have a crush on Lewis Hamilton’ chat? Do you have one of those? Should I be worried?
Before Charles could formulate a reply, a new presence filled his peripheral vision. He looked up, and his breath caught. Sebastian Vettel was standing there, having evidently just arrived at the Ferrari garage. He wasn’t in his racing suit but in a pair of smart trousers and a polo shirt, his arms crossed over his chest, a deeply unimpressed look on his face. But his eyes, those famously intense blue eyes, were sparkling with mirth.
“So,” Sebastian said, his voice a low murmur that cut through the garage’s ambient noise. “Michael B. Jordan, is it? And Lewis? My, my, Charles. You have been busy.”
“Seb, please,” Charles whispered, his face flushing a shade of red that perfectly matched his race car. “It was a joke. A stupid joke.”
“It didn’t sound like a joke,” Sebastian said, stepping closer. He plucked the phone from Charles’s limp hand, scrolling through the carnage with a thoughtful hum. “It sounds very earnest. ‘He is so sexy’. Your words, not mine.” He looked up, his gaze flicking over to where the man in question was standing. “He is quite fit, I’ll give you that. But Lewis? Really? After he stole P2 from you in Barcelona? That’s a betrayal of team principle, *and* personal principle.”
“It was a reflex!” Charles hissed, desperate. “Lando asked a question, I answered! It doesn’t mean anything!”
At that moment, a blur of papaya and white shot into the garage. Lando Norris, his eyes wide with a mixture of panic and glee, skidded to a halt beside them. “He’s here? Where is he? Oh, wow, he’s— wait, Jenson just sent me seventeen crying-laughing emojis. I think we’re in trouble, mate.”
He was followed a moment later by a more measured but equally flustered Oscar Piastri. “Right, I’m here,” Oscar announced, then immediately saw Sebastian and froze, his bravado evaporating. “Oh. Hello, Seb.”
Sebastian merely raised an eyebrow, handing Charles back his phone. “The party’s all here, I see. The fan club.”
The three younger drivers stood in a guilty huddle, looking for all the world like schoolboys caught drawing on the walls. The object of their desired scrutiny was just meters away, completely oblivious.
Their phones buzzed in unison again.
**Lewis:** Well, well. I’m flattered, boys. Truly. Nico is laughing so hard he’s crying. He says he’s always known I had the better jawline, but it’s nice to have it confirmed by the next generation.
The message was followed by a selfie of Lewis and Nico Rosberg, the latter indeed wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, both of them looking impossibly glamorous and amused in the Mercedes motorhome. The final humiliation was complete.
Sebastian looked at the three chastised faces, his stern expression finally cracking into a warm, forgiving smile. He slung an arm around Charles’s shoulders, pulling him close. “It’s okay, *mon amour*. I know I am still your number one.” He dropped his voice to a whisper, just for Charles. “But if you ever want an autograph from Lewis, I’m sure I can arrange it. For a price.”
Charles leaned into the embrace, the tension draining from his body in a rush, replaced by a wave of affection and sheer relief. The chaos of the last ten minutes had been terrifying, but this—the gentle teasing, the secure weight of Sebastian’s arm around him—was home.
Lando, seeing the crisis had been averted, grinned. “Right. Now that’s sorted… anyone actually gonna go say hi to Michael B. Jordan?”
Oscar shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “You go ahead. I think I’ve caused enough trouble for one day. Mark’s probably sharpening his knives for my debrief.”
As Lando bounded off towards the celebrity, Charles looked up at Sebastian. “You’re not really mad?”
Sebastian kissed his temple. “No. A little jealous of the abs, perhaps. But not mad.” He paused, his eyes twinkling again. “But you are buying dinner tonight. Somewhere very, very expensive. And you can start by explaining, in detail, what exactly is so special about Lewis Hamilton’s bone structure.”