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Chapter Text

Carlos had expected the buck to put up more of a fight but it went down almost willingly. Both hind legs kicked the air in surprise and a startled grunt split the air in two before its body sagged to the ground in quick surrender, following the lead of its hunter. Carlos watched it fall, stock-still, a stone toss away. The buck's head angled up, its big, black eyes meeting his, and their intelligence chilled him to the bone, their shimmer lusterless and unblinking. 

Lando went down with it, sinking low until his knees touched the ground, his body hooding over the animal like a cloak. He held the buck in place by the underside of its snout and the fat on its nape, soft skin and fur bunched up in his claws. The way he was cradling its head in his lap looked oddly maternal, his hands big and sure, guiding it into a sharper angle.  

The buck huffed a quivering exhale, its hot breath manifesting against the cold evening in a brisk cloud of vapor, fading silently into the darkness. Carlos could feel the rise and fall of his own breathing high in his chest, its tempo speeding up ever so slightly to ensure another breath followed, blood pumping fast in his veins. He shifted his balance to his other foot to prove to himself that time was still passing by, and the barrel of his rifle bumped into his side, darkening the skies above.

The buck looked peaceful as it lay on the ground, its hooves jerking in random spasms of movement, spurring the dry leaves scattered around them. Their rustling masked the squelching of Lando's mouth, but Carlos’ ears knew where to look and found them regardless. It was impossible to look away; the buck's face was harrowing yet hypnotizing all the same.

He couldn’t see Lando's face, only the dark silhouette of his back draping over his prey, but the convulsing body beneath him betrayed the animal's fate, the clarity behind its eyes slowly dying away. Its mouth lulled open and its tongue fell out, short pants of air spilling around it. It didn't take longer before the pants turned inaudible, the buck's large body growing heavy in Lando's arms, antlers drawing river delta patterns in the damp dirt below. 

Lando's throat thrummed with a wet growl, and his grip on the buck's head eased as his mouth peeled off its neck. Carlos’ breath froze in his lungs, his eyes watching Lando’s stiff body still kneeling on the ground, unmoving. The wind picked up and pushed the leaves around, snaking swiftly between the trees. The buck moaned helplessly, and Lando flinched, finally rising to his feet. He looked down at the buck's limp body and then turned around, head hanging low between his shoulders, hands drawn close to his body. He was purposefully avoiding Carlos’ gaze, but couldn't hide the blood on his chin and neck, staining the collar of his shirt red. 

Carlos’ mouth fell open, his lips already forming a sound, but he swallowed it before it got out, taking a step forward instead. He slipped the rifle off his shoulders, feeding a shell into the chamber with mechanical ease. Lando closed the distance between them in silence, coming to a stop behind him, sinking deep into the evening. The hunched shape of him threatened to enter Carlos' peripheral, just barely hanging on the edge of it. He glanced at him briefly over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of his eyes. They were dark and even in the darkness it was evident that he was crying, tears sliding down his cheeks to mix with the buck's blood on his face, dripping down to dry on his shirt.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, wiping the blood off his mouth. It left a smudged trail along his jaw, blending roughly into his pale skin, unmistakably there. The sight twisted the knife in Carlos’ gut, something spilling out of the wound.

The buck laid wheezing on the cold ground, its eyes all-knowing but kind, the two black punctures gaping silently into the darkness.  

“Está bien.” Carlos lined up the shot, squaring his shoulder. “Tranquilo.”

He didn't hesitate before he pulled the trigger, the sound of the shot exploding in his ears, shattering the world around to pieces.

Chapter Text

The sun was glowing red, painting the horizon crimson. The heat of the fifth hour was on the decline and the shadows strewn over the road were steadily growing colder, climbing high. Max was riding ahead of him, the pace of his horse swaying him lazily from side to side in the saddle, his head nodding along to its rhythm. The dip of his hat was pushed low into his forehead to shield his eyes from the blazing sun, the hair above his nape dampened with sweat. He was hunched a little in his seat, but the evening carved his figure sharp against the prairie, his shoulders wide and imposing. 

He was wearing one of George's shirts, blue cotton, the silhouette of it hugging his body tantalizing. He had given it to him because Max had a quick wit and couldn't keep his mouth shut — George had had to drag him out of the pub, three buttons ripped, beer spilled all over the front. Three days had passed and not once had he taken it off nor said a word about it. It had George wondering whether his scent had already claimed the fabric, his name woven in the seams. 

He pushed his hat deeper into his eyes, its brim framing his view in such a way that all he could see was the long slope of Max’s body, narrow hips rolling like mirage. Dazzled by their movement, George's thoughts drifted to the kiss they had shared in the morning, the weight of Max's waist firm and full in his hand, the bitter taste of coffee fresh on his tongue. He knew that if he focused hard enough, he would feel the residue warmth Max's palm had left on his cheek when it'd cupped his jaw, gripping just hard enough to take exactly what he wanted. His thumb caressed the horn of his saddle, the leather too hard to mimic what it yearned for.

The tips of his fingers remembered the moment Max's soft flesh had yielded underneath them, shivering as they skirted along the waistband of his pants and dived in. Max had drawn him close until they were chest to chest, George's other hand roaming across the long stretch of his shoulderblades, feeling their heat through his shirt. They had parted away breathless and wide-eyed, Max’s lips curling into a smile when their eyes met a second after. It hung in the air now like a promise, drifting ever so closer as the day came to a close.

George swallowed, distracted, one foot slipping out of the stirrup, and suddenly Max was turning around in the saddle, the eye of the bleeding sun spilling across his face. “Come on, princess,” he called, voice amused, “giddy up.”

George chuckled, a snarky remark already forming on his tongue before he realised that his horse had stopped moving, standing still in the dusty road, head bent low in the dry tufts of grass. He cursed and squeezed his legs to spur it into a trot, gripping the reins hard in both hands. Max's laughter rang loud across the prairie, the moon rising white and solitary up the open sky.

Chapter Text

Lando isn't sure if Carlos even remembers that day. It happened back when he was still at McLaren — 2020, the end of the season hanging like doomsday over them, only one race to go. It was Saturday night and they were watching TV in his hotel room, sprawled out on the bed next to each other, blinds drawn, the pale blue glow of the TV screen casting shadows across the ceiling. Their hips were pressed together, not a centimetre of space between them, and the warmth of Carlos’ body was magnetizing. Lando doesn't remember what exactly they were watching but he remembers what the fabric of Carlos’ shirt felt like against the side of his jaw and how badly he wanted to press his entire face into it. 

He also remembers that there was only one blanket covering them both, and that at one point his back had slid down along the back panel of the bed until he was mostly horizontal, chin tucked tight into the front of his hoodie, hands fiddling with the strings. His nose was level with Carlos’ bicep, the faint smell of his body wash circling around him until it was the only thing Lando could focus on. He slowed his breathing down to focus on it better, trying to figure out the exact formula.

He remembers his eyes fighting to stay open after a while, and Carlos’ low voice vibrating through him like a dancefloor-bass, rearranging every single particle inside of his body. “Landito,” he drawled, something mischievous hidden in that tone. “Are you sleeping?”

Lando hummed, face buried deep in the warmth of his hoodie. “Just thinking,” he said, stretching his legs in front of him.

“Thinking?” Carlos repeated, amusement clear in his voice. “What about?”

Lando closed his eyes, tugging harder at the strings. There was something familiar in that scent, he figured, sort of like coming home. “About how stupid you’re gonna look when I finish ahead of you tomorrow, obviously.”

Carlos chuckled, nudging Lando’s face with his shoulder. “So make sure you don't fall asleep at the start then, yeah?”

Lando rolled his eyes, poking Carlos back with his elbow. He murmured something dismissive into the fabric of the hoodie and kicked his feet up under the blanket, turning away from Carlos. It took him less than five minutes to fall asleep.

When he woke up, it was still dark and the TV was still playing but on mute, the brightness of the screen blinding. Lando squirmed in place and rubbed his eyes, the flush in his cheeks boiling hot.

“What time is it?” he mumbled, flipping his hips to the other side. His lower back felt sore and his right hand was completely numb, the heat of Carlos’ body plastered all over his left side scorching. “Carlos?” 

He turned his head and suddenly Carlos’ face was right there in front of him, so close Lando could count the freckles peppered across nose. His eyes were closed and his face relaxed, the hair pushed down his forehead pricking Lando in the cheek. He was leaning heavily into Lando, forehead cushioned by the left side of his head. If he leaned closer or Lando turned his head just a tiny bit more to the left, their lips would brush.

What Lando remembers the most is how loudly his heart was beating inside his chest at that moment — he was sure that everyone in Abu Dhabi could hear it. He also remembers wanting to press closer to Carlos and feel his lips against his; to curl up into his warmth and stay there forever. When Carlos twitched then and his hand fell into Lando’s laps, Lando ached to take his hand and pull him against him; wrap him in his arms and hide his face in his chest and just breathe. 

He remembers staying still, though, and closing his eyes, Carlos’ scent strong all around him, his soft breaths lulling him back to sleep.

Chapter Text

The bang of the shot tore through the air like a firecracker, blowing out the world into darkness. George reacted immediately, bolting upright in a flash of limbs and fabric, scrambling to stop the bullet in time. He heard a shout — his voice and Max's name, something terrible and urgent packed into that one syllable, twisting his guts into knots. It stirred something within him, that tiny, frail animal hibernating deep inside his core waking up, and he sprung up into a sitting position so fast he nearly hurled himself face first into the orange maw of the campfire, gasping for air. His eyes jumped around the camp until they saw Max staring at him from behind the flickering flames on the opposite side of the circle, face painted in monochrome, solemn like a ghost. George wheezed, the fire moving with him.

He closed his eyes and quickly opened them again, scared that it would bring him back to that wind-swept prairie and he'd never return. The fragments of the nightmare were seared into the back of his eyelids, but one image ruled over them all: Max on his knees, the barrel of a gun jammed into his face. 

“Fuck,” he spat, rolling onto his stomach. The earth was cold beneath his palms when he propped himself up on them, pitch black in the darkness of his shadow. He wrung his fingers into it, feeling his nails sink into the damp dirt as they soaked it up.

He had never seen Max's face so despondent. His eyes had been downturned  and vacant, void of emotion, his hair pushed out of his face by the roaring wind. There had been a thick gash at his hairline bleeding down his forehead and into his eyes, and the blood had been plenty and everywhere. George had called his name but Max didn’t hear him, staring at the ground without blinking like a statue, not a bit of fight left in his bones. George had never felt more desperate in his life.

He blinked and realised Max was talking to him. “George,” he repeated insistently, the echo of his voice distant in George's ears.

“I'm fine,” he forced out, clenching his eyes shut to erase Max's lifeless eyes from his memory. “Just a bad dream.”

He slid his knees under himself and swung his hips sideways so that he had the ground beneath him, rotating his body clockwise until he was facing the fire. His mind was racing two hundred miles ahead of him, his heart speeding up to try to catch up. 

He swallowed dryly, throat stuttering. Reaching for his canteen, he noticed his hand was shaking, pale and clammy despite the heat in his cheeks. He snatched it quickly to conceal the tremors, eyes darting to Max, worried that he had seen it. Max was watching him quietly, face blank and expression stoic, but his eyes were alert like he was trying to determine whether George was about to crumble apart. 

“What was it?” he asked eventually, something hesitant hidden in his tone.

“Hm?” George pretended he didn't hear him, hoping that Max would take the hint and leave it. 

“Your dream,” he clarified, voice blunt. “I…I heard you shouting my name.”

Something shifted in Max’s face then, a hint of uncertainty which didn't belong ghosting over his features, emphasized in the way he worried his lower lip between his teeth. Like that, George could almost see where the handle of the gun had struck him, the left half of his face bloody and swollen.

He shrugged, looking away in feign dismissal. “Dunno. I don't remember it.”

To his credit, Max didn't prod any further, yet  he kept looking at him with that unnerving expression of his, like he knew exactly what George was thinking. The light of the fire made the quirk in his eyebrow more pronounced and dramatic, and George found himself shying away from that scrutiny. 

He put the canteen away and wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders, drawing his knees closer to his chest. “You should get some sleep. I'll take the watch from now.”

Max didn't move, frozen in position. “Are you sure?”

“

/em> Max, I'm sure,” George pressed through his teeth. “Go to sleep.”

Max looked away but otherwise stayed still, the reflection of the campfire dancing in his eyes. His eyelashes were thick and black in the light of the fire, frayed into full glory by the early morning chill like the blades of a fan. George thought that he was pretty like that, face painted warm by the orange glow of the flames.

He was silent for a while and George thought he might listen to him for once and lay down, but then he opened his mouth and spoke again, voice oddly nonchalant:

“We could ride to the river. Later I mean. If the weather's good.” He wasn’t looking directly at him, yet George knew he was watching him closely. He could tell by the way his eyes were stagnant, not pointed at anything in particular, hovering just above the tip of the flames, slightly off centre. “The horses will like it.”

George watched him carefully, too. He knew what Max was trying to do. “Sure, if you want,” he said.

The cracking of wood was loud in the silence of their camp, sparks jumping out to die in the damp grass below. George felt the heat of the fire sailing towards him and when he looked down into his lap, he saw that his hands were no longer shaking, resting limp in the basin of his body. 

“Or maybe we could–”

“Max,” George stopped him, voice even, “it's okay. Really.” 

Max held his gaze for three more seconds and then looked away, stirring the charcoal with a stick. “Okay,” he said simply, scribing random shapes into the soft dirt in front of him.

They sat around the fire until the first streaks of dawn coloured the sky yellow in between the trees and the last remains of the nightmare sank into the shadows, disappearing as the day entered the night. The horses became restless, kicking the ground with their hooves, huffing impatiently as the sun rose up the sky. Max got up to feed them and George made coffee in the meantime, and when Max returned he sat right next to George and they had breakfast, knees brushing against each other, Max's presence solid and real next to him.

Chapter Text

“George?”

He wasn't sure why he'd answered the call. In his mind, George chalked it up to him being tired because a fully conscious brain wouldn't have allowed it. In all honesty though, it had something to do with the fact that he'd never actually deleted Max's number from his contacts. Then again, George liked to think that he was neither petty nor vindictive. Especially when it came to Max.

“Do you know how late it is?” he said coldly, scooting up on the bed so that he was at least somewhat vertical and his body didn't immediately try to go back to sleep. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table, the white, digital bars spelling out 2:34 in bold. Great.

“I know—....but I really—...help.” Max’s voice was hoarse and distorted like he'd just chainsmoked a full pack of cigarettes and coughed out his lungs while at it. George had to lower the volume significantly, and still it sounded as if someone was crunching tinfoil right next to the microphone, the static cutting off every second syllable of what he had said.

George closed his eyes and resisted the urge to hang up, choosing to be patient instead. He was better than that. “Fix your line, mate. I can't hear you.”

There was some shuffling and the static got louder before it died down completely, fading off into the background. “George?” Max called, voice clear. “Can you hear me now?”

“Yeah,” George sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “What could you possibly want?"

Max paused. “Could you come pick me up?”

George's hand stilled and he gritted his teeth, almost almost banging his head against the wall. “Seriously, Max? Who do you think you are?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “You call me at two in the morning just because you need a bloody lift? Get an Uber or something, and stop bothering me.”

He was about to hang up, thumb hovering right above the red phone button, but then a loud bang from Max's side startled him so bad he jumped and almost chucked his phone into the opposite wall.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Thunder,” Max answered distractedly, his voice urgent when he added: “George, listen to me. I'm at a police station in Nice, and I really need someone to come pick me up.”

George blinked. “What?”

“It's kinda urgent.”

“What the hell are you doing at a police station in Nice at two in the morning?”

“That's irrelevant," Max dismissed. “Can you come pick me up? I'll send you the location.”

“No, Max, what the fuck? What's going on?” It felt like he was dreaming.

“I'll tell you later. Can you come, yes or no?”

George swallowed, something dark and horrible suddenly wrenching itself into his stomach, making him squirm. “Are you okay?” he asked, already tensing up.

Max didn't answer. In the silence George could hear the tinfoil crunch again, soft but everpresent, and realised it was rain.

“Max?”

“Can you come?” Max repeated insistently, ignoring the question. He sounded like he was sure George would say no, and it stirred something unpleasant in him that he wasn't brave enough to examine closer.

“Answer the question, Max. Are you okay?” he pressed.

“Yes,” Max huffed, voice thick. “Just wet, it's been raining all fucking night.”

George didn't want to think about what Max could possibly be doing running around rainy Nice all night. He wondered, though, why exactly did he choose to call him about it.

“Send me the location,” he said, already halfway out of the bed. “I'll call you when I'm there.”