Chapter Text
The paddock was a damn monstrosity of shouts and whispers when Max arrived. It was the third race week of the season, everyone was still finding their land legs, and yet it looked like no one was doing their job this fine Sunday. Everyone was huddled up in groups staring at their phones and gossiping.
Max groaned internally, what the hell had happened now? His team had told him nothing, though they were tense as they walked beside him. He caught an Alpine engineer saying ‘Perez’ and narrowed his eyes.
Had Helmut said something racist? Again? It was always awkward when he did. No one from Red Bull said anything to condemn it, instead they all waited for Checo, clearly hurt and humiliated, to wave it off to the team and the media.
Finally, Max made it to the Red Bull hospitality, overwhelmed at the crowd of reporters hanging around. What the hell? Wasn’t security supposed to keep these people away?
“Max, Max! Did you know about the affair?”
Excuse him?
“Max! Were you aware of Checo’s inclinations? Do you feel comfortable being teammates with-?”
“Max! Is the relationship still going on?”
“Max, over here! Did you know?”
At last he made it through the door and was immediately led to Christian’s office. What the absolute fuck was going on?
When he got there, Marko was there with a furious look on his face and Christian was on the phone. Other members of the team were standing around typing on their phones like little work ants. Max stood in the middle of it, stupefied.
“No, Toto, of course I didn’t know.” Chrisitan shouted down the phone. “Why the fuck would I if you didn’t? How the hell didn’t you know? He was your driver! Oh, don’t start-“ Christian groaned as Toto’s voice screamed out of the phone’s speaker. “Fuck, just talk with him. I’ll talk with Sergio, we’ll figure it out— No, we’re not firing him, you fuckwit. Who do you think I am? Don’t answer that.”
Fire Checo? Max gaped— what had his teammate done? As soon as Christian hung up the phone, Max spoke up.
“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” He asked, “And where’s Checo?”
Christian sighed.
“The Mexican is a faggot, that’s what’s going on.” Marko grumbled.
Silence. Someone coughed uncomfortably.
Max went cold.
Christian looked at him with knowing eyes. “Well, erm, Checo is talking with his people right now. He’ll join us momentarily. You didn’t see anything on social media this morning?” He asked him.
Max shook his head, “I of course don’t check social media on race weeks.”
“Of course you don’t.” Christian said with a small smile. “If only everyone was like you.” His smile disappeared and he grabbed a tablet from his desk. He passed it over and said, “These images were posted on Twitter this morning at 4:42am, they quickly made their way everywhere.”
Oh.
Max scrolled through the photographs, feeling close to numb. They were photos of Lewis and Checo, from some years ago going by Lewis’ hair, kissing. Snogging. Groping each other.
The photos were taken from outside a window, looking into a hotel room of some sort. Checo was pressed against the wall and the photos showed a sequence of him jumping to wrap his legs around Hamilton’s waist, the kiss never stopping. The photos went on, some less focused than others, showing Lewis carrying Checo through the room and shoving him down the long sofa, clothes coming off as they went along.
What caught Max’s eye the most was Checo’s eyes in one of the final photos. He was looking up at Hamilton, who was kneeling over him, with his hair dishevelled and shirt halfway down his arms and with a smile lighting up his face. He looked happy, he looked in love.
Max looked up at Christian, who stared back at him. “Who posted these? Why now?”
Christian sat down, gesturing for Max to do the same. “We don’t know. Right now we’re just waiting for Checo to get a full picture so we can release a statement.” He said.
“Saying we support him, right?” Max blurted out, then cringed under Marko’s glare. “That Red Bull supports him. You can’t fire him for being gay, can you? Mercedes won’t.”
Before Christian could answer, the door opened and Checo walked in, Alice and his team behind him. The man looked ashen and small, his posture insecure and his eyes lowered. His hair was messy, obviously the result of having a hand run through it many times.
“Checo, good morning. Please, sit down.” Christian gestured at his chairs.
Max and Checo did, the younger man trying unsuccessfully to catch the other’s gaze. Marko’s scowl followed his teammate relentlessly.
“So, fucking up on track was not enough. You had to spread your legs for the competition?” The man said angrily.
“Helmut!” Christian admonished as Checo’s breath hitched and Max’s fist clenched.
“Chri- Christian, the photos are old. I swear.” Checo said, looking all around the room pleadingly. “You can’t think I would ever…I am not a spy.”
Christian raised a hand. “We don’t think that, Checo. You wouldn’t be beating Hamilton in the rankings for the third year in a row if you were, now would you?” He joked.
But Checo still looked troubled.
Christian caught his gaze. “Son, listen to me. Your contract is not under discussion here. You are a Red Bull Racing driver and we are all here to support you.” He said, throwing a warning look at Marko, who mercifully stayed quiet.
Checo gasped quietly. “You’re not firing me?” He asked hopefully.
Christian smiled gently at him, “No, we are not.” He leaned forward, “But Checo, we need to know the truth so we can help you. Do you understand?”
Checo nodded haltingly. “I…I’m not gay. Well. I like women, too.” He whispered.
Christian nodded, “Okay, thank you for telling us. Now, are you in a relationship with Lewis Hamilton?”
Checo shook his head immediately. “No.” He denied. “These photos are nearly a decade old.”
“So you were at some point in a relationship?” Christian proded.
Checo was silent for a moment, then after a look at Jo and Xavi in the back of the room gave a brief nod.
“And this was during your time at Force India, yes?”
“Eh, yes. Well, it started when I was at McLaren.” Checo started. “We were together for four years.”
A rumble went through the room. Four years was a serious amount of time.
Checo swallowed, then continued, “The photos are from 2015, after he won the championship. We, uh, we were also celebrating the return of the Mexico GP.” He looked down, “It was a good year.” He said softly.
“And then what happened?” The gentle question came from Max, unintentionally.
Checo looked up at him, looking for any hint of mockery or cruelty. After finding none, he answered.
“Rosberg won in 2016.” He said simply. “Lew…Hamilton was convinced he lost because he was distracted. Because I distracted him. He said he wanted to focus on the racing, so he ended things.” He chuckled weakly, “Guess it worked.” He sniffed and drew himself up, “We never resumed the relationship. We moved on.”
Christian looked at him with pity. “I see.” He said, “Thank you for telling us, Checo. You will put out a statement?”
Checo nodded.
“So will we, declaring our complete support. You are our driver and whoever tries to demean you will have to fight off the bulls, okay?”
A bit hypocritical with Marko in the room, but the spirit of it was enough to bring a small smile to Checo’s face.
“Now, I don’t know what Hamilton and Mercedes will say, but we might need to work with them here.” Christian continued, “Is that okay with you?”
“Yes. Like I said, I’ve moved on.”
“Good.” Christian said.
“Make sure it stays that way.” Marko pitched in, unhappily.
Checo winced.
Christian coughed and patted his desk, “Now, how about you two go and get ready for qualifying, okay? Focus on the race for now.”
Max stood up, but Checo lingered. He looked at their team principal and softly thanked him. The man smiled at him in response.
Checo attempted to get away from Max as they made their way to their driver’s rooms, but Max sneaked in through the door before he could close it in his face.
Checo sighed, “Max-“
“Please, I just want to talk.” Max cut in, eyeing Jo standing protectively in front of his driver. “As friends.”
After a moment, Checo nodded in acceptance. “Danos un momento, Jo. Te aviso si te necesito, gracias, eh?” [Give us a moment. I’ll call you if I need you, thank you.]
“Claro, wey. Espero aqui afuerita.” Jo said, glaring warningly at Max before going out the door. [Of course. I’ll wait right outside.]
Finally, the two were alone. There was quiet.
Checo leaned against his bunk and rubbed his eyes. “Max,” he exhaled, “we need to change and get ready, so can you just say what you want to say?”
Max had never seen him be so curt outside of the situation in Brazil in 2022. He swallowed and tried to quickly figure out what he wanted to say. “I-“ he started, but stopped when his voice cracked. Suddenly, he was nervous. He twitched and hugged himself.
Checo stood up and approached him, concerned. “Max? What’s going on?” He put his warm hands on his teammates shoulders, looking at him with kind eyes.
Always so kind, was Checo.
The touch was enough to break Max, who burst into panicked sobs. Struggling to catch his breath, he let out an embarrassed apology.
Checo hushed him, bringing him into a hug. “Oh, Max.” He whispered, rubbing the man’s back.
“I-I’m sorry.” Max said again. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, it’s okay.” Checo said, “You can cry.”
He held the man until he calmed down and stepped back.
“I’m sorry. I came here to comfort you and instead I do this, fuck.” Max said, flustered.
Checo frowned at him. “Max,” he said firmly, “what’s going on? You can trust me.”
Of course he could. “I’m just- with all this happening, and Marko-!” He took a breath. “I’m gay, too. Or well, bisexual, maybe.” He declared.
Checo blinked. “Oh.”
At his ever so adorable look of confusion, Max couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah.” He gulped, “I’ve never said it out loud before.”
“Oh, Max.” Checo hugged him again. “Thank you for telling me.”
Max melted into the embrace gratefully. “I thought I was the only one.” He whispered. “I knew it was unlikely and, and the guys make comments and flirt-“ Daniel came to mind “-but I thought it was only me.”
Checo leaned back enough to look up at him with a smile. “You’re not, Max. You’re not alone.” He said, then quirked his brow, “It’s actually kind of a statistical improbability that there’s so many of us in the grid.”
Max laughed wetly.
“No one knows?” Checo asked softly, still rubbing his teammate’s arms.
“Um, my d-dad caught me looking at photos one time and he, well, he didn’t like that.” He shrugged one arm, “And since then I haven’t really talked about it. I, I still look at photos sometimes. There’s those hookup services, you know. I,I,I know I like men. I went on a date once, even.”
“Ooh,” Checo teased, “was he cute?”
Max giggled, shyly looking down. “Yeah.” He replied quietly. “But it did not feel- safe. And I’ve had girlfriends, so. Haven’t really explored. And I’m of course so sorry that this is happening to you, that someone violated your privacy like this, but I’m so glad I’m not alone.” He leaned down and buried his face on the elder’s neck. “And I’m glad it's you.”
Checo choked on a sob, cradling his friend close to him and allowing himself to release all the emotions of the morning. No, Max wasn’t alone. And neither was Checo.
Checo was on the podium, because of course he was. He’d won in Jeddah and been on the podium in Bahrain- whatever Marko said, his season was more than good so far. He was P3, having started P5 and could have been P2- had he not been distracted. Ironically, Russel had sneaked into the position. Hamilton had, thankfully, ended P6 far away from the podium.
The bulls enjoyed the podium as best they could, hugged each other extra hard after stepping out of their cars. Coulthard didn’t even hint at the photos, allowing them to talk about the race unbothered. They were in Miami and Checo was heartened to note that when he stepped onto the podium, the cheers of his name were as loud as ever.
Maybe the people hadn’t seen the photos yet. Maybe a good race was a good race, even by a queer man.
But then came the press conference and there was no hiding then.
The reporters didn’t even pretend to be interested in the race.
“Checo, Lewis released a statement earlier today confirming his pansexuality. You released a statement earlier today confirming that you have had relations with both men and women— does that mean you too are pansexual?”
Checo took a calming breath. “Eh, I don’t really care for labels-“
“Bisexual, then?”
“I don’t- sure, if you want a label, bisexual is fine. I like women. I like men.”
Another spoke up. “And Hamilton? Are you in a relationship?”
“No-“
“Hamilton said in his post-race interview today that the photos are the result of a drunken mistake some years ago, an ill-conceived one-night stand. Do you have any comments on that?”
Checo froze, losing his breath at the question. He swallowed a few times, zoning on the curious reporter. “Le…Lewis said that?” He asked haltingly, his head swimming.
“Yes? Is that not accurate?”
Checo couldn’t breathe, “I-“
“Can we focus on the race, please?” Max interrupted, annoyed. “Is this a joke? Are you people real reporters?”
George nodded along dutifully.
The reporters turned away from Checo, but they didn’t move on.
“Max, do you feel comfortable having a bisexual teammate?”
The man scoffed, visibly rolling his eyes. “Are you kidding me-?” He started, “Yes! I am! Checo is a great teammate, a great racer, and a great friend. Now can you shut up about this?” He clenched his hand beneath his thigh, feeling sweaty.
“And you, George? Are you comfortable with a queer teammate?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, Lewis is attracted to men.”
“Oh, is that what queer means? Good to know.”
“Come on, George-“
“What?” The tall man asked, looking fed up. “You know what? I am. I am comfortable. Because I’m queer too. Homosexual, if you want a label.”
The reporters started shouting, prompting the officials to shut them down and end the conference.
Checo was still trying to regain his breathing, whilst Max stared at George, who’d gone very pale all of sudden. George too? (Maybe he should have predicted that, but he honestly thought that was just how rich Brits behaved)
A tired looking FIA official gestured for them to leave and Max stood up, gently nudging at George to do the same. Checo stood up as well, taking in the sight of George. The man just now registered what the boy had said and felt a pang of sadness.
Once they had made it to a semi-secluded hallway outside the press room, Checo stopped moving and turned to George. “George?” He asked, “you okay?”
The Mercedes driver looked at him, then down. “I think I’m going to be sick.” He whispered, then turned away just in time to heave into the floor.
Max jumped away and Checo winced. He rubbed the man’s shoulders as he puked, offering him his water can when he was done.
George took it with shaking hands. “I didn’t mean to say that.” He said.
“You were lying?” Max questioned him sharply.
George looked up, “No!” He shouted. “But I- it was a secret. Oh god, my parents don’t even know. Shit .”
Checo grabbed him by the shoulders before he could continue to panic. “George, breathe with me, okay? Breathe in! Uno, dos, tres…” he kept counting, “And out. Again.”
They breathed together until the younger man was calm again.
“That was a very brave thing you did, George.” Checo said kindly. “I’m sure Lewis will appreciate it.” He carefully swallowed the knot that built itself in his throat as he said the man’s name. “Now, you need to speak with your team and take a shower, eat something, then call your parents. Okay, George?”
“Okay, Checo.” George answered softly. Then, “About what the reporter said- Lewis told us the truth. About you two. But he said he’d tell the press it was a one time thing, if they asked. So they didn’t bother you too much.”
“George-“
“I just— I don’t think he meant to hurt you.” George rushed out. “He was very worried about you, earlier. Before the race. And when he talked about you, about the photos, he looked very happy! So I don’t want you to think he’s ashamed because I think he just wants to protect you.” He blinked, “I think.” He repeated.
Checo sighed. Lying to the press wasn’t protecting Checo, they were still going to bother him. It was just pushing their relationship under the rug, like they had been doing for close to eight years. “Don’t worry about that now, George.” He said, “Lewis and I will talk. Now go find your team.”
George did as he was told, still halfway in shock. Max stared after him, wondering if he should have done the same and come out. No, if he had, his father would have already manifested out of the ground and screamed at him until he turned to stone. He really was a coward, wasn’t he?
He swallowed his doubts and turned to Checo, who was staring blankly at the ground lost in thought. “Hey,” he said softly, “let’s go shower and eat something, yeah? We did good today.”
Checo blinked and looked up.
Bravely, Max took hold of his hand. “Lewis is an idiot, okay? Don’t think about him now. I want some tacos de bastor.”
Checo frowned, thrown out of his thoughts. “You mean tacos al pastor ?” He asked.
“Yeah, those too.”
Checo laughed, then sniffed.
Max squeezed his hand. “Come on,” he said, “they’re probably looking for us all over.”
Checo squeezed it back.
“Come on, then.”