Tee/Orchid

[altee-221]

Chapters: 6/?

heyyooo

updated this after such a long time, tried to describe all ive seen 😭😭

lemme know what you guys think💗

love, Tee

[altee-221]

"The Melting Point?"

Carlos finds the trend by accident.

It’s some stupid, harmless TikTok thing—“raise your hands, don’t move, no matter what”—usually followed by someone doing something mildly inconvenient. He watches it once. Twice. Then his mouth tilts into that slow, knowing smile that has ruined careers, championships, and emotional stability worldwide.

“Oh,” he murmurs to himself. “This will end lives.”

Charles — first victim

Charles agrees immediately because he trusts Carlos with his soul.

They’re alone in the apartment, phone propped up against a stack of books. Carlos explains the rules very seriously.

“Hands straight up. Don’t move. No reacting.”

Charles nods, solemn. Raises his arms. Looks at Carlos like this is easy.

Carlos steps in close. Close enough that Charles’s breath stutters already.

“Ready?” Carlos asks.

“Yes,” Charles says, voice steady. Liar.

Carlos kisses him.

Not rushed. Not teasing. Just there warm, sure, devastating.

Charles lasts exactly half a second.

His hands drop instantly, one cupping Carlos’s jaw, the other sliding to his waist as he pulls him in like gravity just activated. Carlos makes a surprised little sound into the kiss and Charles tilts him, backs him up a step, folds him in so securely it’s almost reverent.

The kiss deepens. Carlos tries—tries—to pull back.

Charles does not let him.

When they finally break, Charles is breathing hard, forehead pressed to Carlos’s.

“…I failed,” he says faintly.

Carlos grins. “Spectacularly.”

Max — second victim

Max pretends this is stupid.

“This is dumb,” he says, already raising his arms anyway. “But I will win."

Carlos doesn’t argue. He steps in, eyes bright.

He kisses Max quick at first, just enough to test. Max doesn’t move.

Carlos hums, pleased, and kisses him again. Slower. Deeper.

Max exhales sharply through his nose.

Then Carlos presses in closer, fingers brushing Max’s ribs, mouth warm and unrelenting.

Max snaps.

His arms come down like a trap, one hand tangling in Carlos’s hair, the other locked firm at his lower back. He drags Carlos in until there’s no space left, kisses him back with that intense, focused devotion that makes it feel like the rest of the world just… disappears.

Carlos melts right with him this time, smiling into the kiss because oh, there it is.

When Max finally pulls back, forehead to forehead, he mutters:

“You did that on purpose.”

Carlos beams. “You still failed.”

Max exhales, defeated, and kisses him again anyway.

Lando — third victim

Lando is already suspicious.

“This feels like a trap,” he says. “You’re smiling too much.”

Carlos bats his lashes. “Hands up.”

Lando raises them. Wiggling his fingers. “I swear, if you—”

Carlos kisses him mid-sentence.

Lando makes a soft, surprised noise that immediately turns into a laugh into the kiss—and then he’s gone. Arms wrapping around Carlos’s shoulders, lifting him just a little off the floor as he hugs him close, burying him into his chest like mine, mine, mine.

“CARLOS,” he laughs breathlessly when they break, still holding him tight. “That’s cheating!”

Carlos’s nose scrunches. “The trend didn’t say I couldn’t kiss you.”

Lando shakes his head, smiling helplessly, and tucks Carlos even closer like he’s afraid he might escape.

Oscar — final victim

Oscar listens very carefully to the rules.

He nods. Raises his hands. Stands perfectly still.

Carlos almost feels bad.

Almost.

He steps in slowly this time, giving Oscar plenty of warning. Oscar doesn’t move, but his eyes soften, lashes fluttering just slightly.

Carlos kisses him gently.

Oscar holds. For a second.

Then his breath breaks.

His arms come down Instantly, hands settling warm and firm at his waist. He pulls Carlos in close, forehead dipping as he deepens the kiss, tucking Carlos securely against him, completely enclosing him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

No rush. No panic. Just total surrender.

When they part, Oscar rests his forehead against Carlos’s, smiling shy and ruined.

“…I tried,” he murmurs.

Carlos laughs softly, heart full, and kisses him again just because he can.

Carlos watches the clips back, delighted.

Four attempts. Four complete failures. Four boyfriends absolutely incapable of not melting into him.

Even though, Max and Oscar do want to give it another shot, and well who is he to say no ?

For science, obviously. 

they try. they really do. and that’s what makes it so much worse for them

Max :

Max goes into it like it’s a challenge.

Jaw set. Shoulders squared. Hands straight up, fingers stretched like he’s being measured at a police station.

“This time,” he says flatly, “I’m not moving.”

Carlos hums, clearly unconvinced, and steps in close.

Max is already struggling because Carlos is right there warm, familiar, his. The smell of his shampoo, the quiet smile, the way he tilts his head just slightly like he’s already planning Max’s downfall.

Carlos kisses him.

Max lasts a heartbeat.

A literal fraction of a second passes before something in him snaps—some ancient, feral instinct screaming mine—and his arms come down without permission.

“Fuck—”

One hand cups Carlos’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheek automatically, the other hooks around his waist and tugs, hard, like he’s offended by the idea of distance. Carlos makes a small surprised noise and stumbles forward, and Max uses it to pull him in closer, closer, still not close enough.

The kiss deepens because Max can’t not respond. He tilts Carlos slightly, presses him flush against his chest, forehead dipping instinctively like he’s shielding him from the world.

Carlos tries to pull back, laughing softly.

Max doesn’t let him.

“No,” he mutters into the kiss, voice low and wrecked. “Not done.”

When they finally separate, Max rests his forehead against Carlos’s, breathing hard, hands still firm at his waist like letting go might physically hurt.

“…It’s not possible,” Max says finally, defeated.

Carlos grins like he’s just won something very important.

Oscar :

Oscar takes it very seriously.

He plants his feet. Raises his hands carefully, deliberately, like if he’s precise enough, he can outthink his own heart.

Carlos watches him with fond amusement before stepping in.

“Oscar,” Carlos says softly, just to check.

Oscar nods. “I’m ready.”

Carlos kisses him.

It’s soft. Tender. Not even trying to be unfair.

Oscar’s breath catches instantly.

He holds. He really does—his hands stay up, trembling slightly, like his body is arguing with itself. His shoulders tense. His jaw tightens. You can almost see the thought forming in his head:

How am I supposed to let my love kiss me and not—

He breaks.

His hands come down like he’s afraid Carlos might disappear if he doesn’t touch him right now, one sliding to Carlos’s waist, the other cradling the back of his head gently, reverently. He pulls Carlos in, not roughly, but urgently, pressing him closer like even zero space feels like too much.

The kiss deepens without Oscar meaning it to. He hums softly, tilting his head, tucking Carlos into the safe curve of his body like it’s instinct, like it’s muscle memory written into his bones.

Carlos melts into him, smiling.

Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s holding him tighter until Carlos’s fingers brush his wrist.

When they part, Oscar keeps his forehead pressed to Carlos’s, eyes still closed.

“…I couldn’t,” he admits quietly.

Carlos kisses his cheek, affectionate and smug. “You didn’t stand a chance.”

Oscar exhales, arms tightening around him just a little more, because honestly, why would he ever want to let go?

Carlos, later, very casually announces:

“So,” he says, scrolling through the videos, “none of you have self control.”

Max scoffs. Oscar just shakes his head, fond and helpless.

And Carlos is well....

Carlos is thriving.

love, Tee

[altee-221]

“The Warmest Room in the House”

The villa is dark when Carlos slips inside.

Not the warm, lived-in dark it usually is when at least one of them is awake—soft music playing somewhere, the low murmur of voices, the sound of someone padding barefoot across the marble floor looking for water at an ungodly hour. This is a true, settled quiet. The kind that only exists when everyone has finally listened to him.

Go to sleep, he’d said, earlier. I’ll be late. Don’t wait up.

They had protested, of course. Half-jokes, half-pouts, Lando threatening to “accidentally” fall asleep on the couch so Carlos would have to carry him. Oscar asking if he’d eaten. Charles offering to keep the light on. Max just giving him that look soft, assessing, knowing but still nodding.

Carlos closes the door gently behind him, easing it shut until the latch barely clicks. He sets his keys down in the bowl by muscle memory, slips off his shoes, and stands there for a moment in the entryway, shoulders finally lowering now that the day is over.

It’s well past midnight. The event had run long—smiling, handshakes, photos, endless conversation. Then the meeting afterward that had stretched and stretched, numbers and plans blurring together while his body slowly ran out of fuel. He’s exhausted in that deep, bone-level way, but his mind is still humming. He knows sleep won’t come easily yet.

The lights stay off. He knows this house well enough to move through it without them.

Carlos starts down the hallway, steps soft, careful, as if the walls themselves might be sleeping.

He turns first toward Charles’s room.

The door is cracked just slightly—Charles never fully closes it, not if Carlos isn’t home yet. Carlos nudges it open with two fingers and pauses in the doorway.

Moonlight spills across the bed, pale and silver. Charles is curled on his side, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other resting loosely on the pillow beside him, like it had been waiting for someone who never came. His hair is a mess, curls flattened in places and wild in others. His mouth is slightly open, breath slow and even.

Carlos doesn’t go in. He doesn’t need to.

He just watches for a moment, chest tightening with something fond and aching all at once. Then he reaches out and nudges the door a fraction more closed, so the light won’t shift as the moon moves.

“Sleep well, amor,” he whispers, so quietly it barely exists.

Next is Lando.

Lando’s door is closed, but not locked. Carlos eases it open and is immediately greeted by chaos, even in sleep. Lando is sprawled diagonally across the bed, one leg hanging off the side, blankets twisted around his waist like he lost a fight with them. His phone is face-down on the nightstand, abandoned mid-scroll. There’s an empty glass of water next to it, probably drunk in one go.

Carlos smiles despite himself.

He steps inside just long enough to tug the blanket back over Lando’s shoulder, careful not to wake him. Lando shifts, mumbles something incomprehensible, then settles again, brow smoothing.

Carlos lingers a second longer here. Lando always looks younger when he sleeps, softer. Less sharp edges.

“Goodnight, cariño,” Carlos murmurs, and slips back out.

Oscar’s room is next.

Oscar sleeps in what Carlos calls organised chaos. He’s on his back, arms thrown over his chest, his hair going through a storm of their own, blanket pulled up to just below his shoulders a little bunched under his legs. The bedside lamp is off, but the curtains are open, city light filtering in faintly. There’s a book on the nightstand, carefully bookmarked. A glass of water, untouched.

Carlos doesn’t even open the door all the way—just enough to see the rise and fall of Oscar’s chest. Enough to know he’s okay.

“Rest, my love” Carlos whispers, though Oscar can’t hear it.

Last is Max.

Max’s door opens without a sound. Carlos steps just inside, instinctively pausing the way he always does with Max, as if the man might wake simply because Carlos is near. Max is turned toward the door, one arm flung out across the empty side of the bed. His face is relaxed, unguarded in sleep in a way he rarely allows himself when awake.

Carlos swallows.

He reaches out, just barely brushing his knuckles against Max’s fingertips. Not enough to wake him. Just enough to say I’m here.

Max’s fingers curl reflexively, catching nothing.

Carlos pulls his hand back before the ache can turn sharp. He closes the door gently and exhales.

Everyone is home. Everyone is safe. Everyone is asleep.

Only then does he let himself move again.

Instead of going to his own room, Carlos turns toward the guest suite at the end of the hall. It’s easier this way—less risk of waking someone up.

The shower is quiet, blessedly so. He keeps the water warm, not hot, and lets it run over him until the tension finally begins to drain from his shoulders. He presses his forehead briefly to the cool tile, eyes closed, breathing slow.

When he steps out, towel slung low around his hips, the room is just as he left it: dim, still, untouched.

He pulls on soft lounge wear (an old shirt, loose pants ) and sits on the edge of the guest bed with his laptop balanced on his knees. The glow of the screen fills the room, the only light now.

Emails. Notes. A few last things he’d promised himself he’d finish tonight so tomorrow could be lighter. His fingers move automatically, mind drifting in and out, thoughts occasionally wandering back down the hallway—four rooms, four steady heartbeats.

At some point, he closes the laptop.

He doesn’t remember deciding to. Just one moment he’s staring at the screen, and the next it’s dark, the quiet rushing back in around him.

Carlos sets the laptop aside carefully, like it might break if he isn’t gentle, and leans back against the pillows. He tells himself he’ll lie down for just a minute. Just until his eyes stop burning. Just until his breathing evens out.

The house holds him in its silence.

Somewhere down the hall, someone shifts in their sleep. The floor creaks softly as it settles. The world keeps turning.

Carlos’s head tips to the side.

He’s asleep before he realizes it.

Carlos doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep when the first shift in the air wakes him.

Not fully, just enough for his body to register something warm is closer now.

Lando pads in barefoot, hair a mess, eyes barely open. He’s not really awake; he’s following instinct more than thought. The house had been too quiet. Too cold. And there had been light under the guest room door. A pull in his chest he didn’t bother questioning.

He stands there for a second, swaying slightly, blanket forgotten somewhere behind him.

Then he sees Carlos.

Curled on his side, laptop abandoned on the nightstand, one arm loose like it’s waiting.

Lando exhales, relief pouring out of him, and climbs onto the bed without ceremony. He tucks himself right against Carlos’s chest, forehead pressing under Carlos’s chin, legs tangling together like they’ve done this a thousand times.

Carlos stirs immediately.

His arm tightens on reflex, hand sliding up Lando’s back, fingers spreading wide like he needs to anchor him. His eyes flutter open just enough to register soft hair, familiar warmth, home.

“Lan…” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

Lando hums, nose pressing into Carlos’s collarbone. “You’re warm,” he mumbles, half-asleep already.

Carlos smiles without opening his eyes. He kisses Lando’s temple slow, absent, instinctive and tugs him closer until Lando is fully tucked against his chest, heart to heart.

“There,” Carlos whispers. “Sleep.”

They do.

The second presence comes later.

Max doesn’t open his eyes when he leaves his room. He just grabs his blanket, drags it behind him like a child, and follows the memory of Carlos’s fingers brushing his hand earlier. The warmth that never quite leaves him after that man touches him.

He pauses in the doorway, assessing even in sleep.

Sees Lando curled in close.

Grunts softly, approving.

Max climbs onto the bed from the other side, sliding in behind Carlos, chest to Carlos’s back, arm draping around his waist like it belongs there. His forehead presses between Carlos’s shoulder blades. The blanket comes with him, thrown messily over all three of them.

Carlos wakes again, this time a little more.

He shifts, turning just enough to make space, hand finding Max’s wrist automatically and tugging it higher secure, intentional. His eyes crack open, just enough to see blond hair, familiar broad shoulders.

“liefje,” Carlos murmurs, the Dutch nickname warm and lazy on his tongue.

Max responds instantly, voice low, words slurred with sleep. “Ik ben hier.” (I’m here.)

Carlos hums, content, and presses a kiss to Max’s temple before tucking him closer, shoulder snug against his chest. Max exhales, deep and satisfied, and settles in like the world has finally corrected itself.

The bed is warmer now. Heavier. Right.

Carlos’s breathing evens out again, arms wrapped around the shapes of the people he loves, body unconsciously adjusting to hold them both.

The guest room light stays dim.

The door stays open.

And somewhere down the hall, another presence stirs drawn by warmth, by quiet, by the unmistakable pull of Carlos Sainz asleep and waiting.

Oscar almost trips on the edge of the rug.

He’s that far gone blanket slung over one arm, eyes barely open, body moving on autopilot. He doesn’t register the room, or the light, or even the others at first.

He only sees Carlos.

Something in his chest loosens immediately.

Oscar crosses the room and climbs onto the bed without hesitation, careful but clumsy, and somehow manages to shimmy himself into the space between Carlos and Max. Not really onto the mattress—more onto Carlos. His knees barely touch the bed as he settles, chest pressed to Carlos’s sternum, head tucked under Carlos’s chin.

Carlos stirs again, a soft sound leaving his throat.

He adjusts instinctively, rolling fully onto his back so Oscar can settle properly, one arm wrapping around Oscar’s shoulders, the other coming up to cradle the back of his head. Oscar fits there like he was designed for it, curled into Carlos’s neck, cheek warm against his skin.

Carlos presses a kiss to Oscar’s temple, slow and grounding.

“Mmm,” Oscar murmurs, eyes never opening. “I was worried you… hadn’t eaten.”

The concern is so quiet, so earnest, it makes Carlos’s chest ache even in sleep.

“I’m okay,” Carlos whispers back, voice thick and gentle. “Todo bien ahora.” He smiles faintly. “Estoy bien, cariño.”

Oscar hums, content, fingers curling into Carlos’s shirt. His breathing evens out almost immediately, trust absolute.

Carlos holds him closer and lets sleep pull him under again.

For a while, the room is full four bodies, shared warmth, steady breathing.

Then comes Charles.

Charles doesn’t even hesitate at the doorway.

He’s barely awake, eyes glassy, movements slow, drawn forward by something deeper than thought. He steps in, sees the pile of limbs and blankets, and still makes his way toward Carlos with quiet determination.

He slips between Carlos and Lando, gentle but insistent, nudging, tugging lightly at Carlos’s shirt until there’s space. Lando grumbles something incoherent in protest, but doesn’t wake properly just shifts enough to allow it.

Charles steals a corner of Oscar’s blanket without shame and tucks himself fully against Carlos’s chest, one arm winding up and around Carlos’s ribs, cheek pressed over Carlos’s heart nudging oscar off Carlos's chest almost accidentally, but oscar holds on shifting a bit to make space.

Carlos wakes one last time.

His hand comes up immediately, smoothing over Charles’s back, fingers tracing slow, familiar paths. He exhales, long and relieved, like something essential has finally clicked into place.

“Mon amour,” Charles murmurs in French, voice broken with sleep and longing. “Tu m’as tellement manqué.”

Carlos leans his head down as far as he can and kisses Charles’s temple, lingering.

“Tout va bien maintenant,” he whispers back. “Je suis là.” He smiles softly, thumb brushing Charles’s shoulder. “Dors, amor.”

Charles sighs deep, content and melts fully into him.

The guest bed is far too small for five grown men.

And yet, somehow, everyone fits.

Carlos lies at the center of it all—Lando warm at his side, Max solid at his back, Oscar tucked into his neck, Charles cradled over his heart—arms full, chest full, house finally quiet in the way it’s meant to be.

This time, when Carlos falls asleep, he doesn’t wake again.

love, Tee

[altee-221]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 3/?

heyyy guys uploaded after a very long time😭

 lemme know what you guys think. I feel like I kinda forgot how to write😭💗

love, Tee

[altee-221]

“The Carlos Chronicles: Memes, Meals, and Midnight Songs”

The Dead GC

The drivers’ group chat, for all its notoriety, was a ghost town most days.

Every now and then, George would drop a carefully formatted update, bullet points and all:

George Russell:

Reminder: drivers’ briefing at 9:00 sharp tomorrow.

Stewarding notes on track limits.

GPDA feedback session after FP2, mandatory attendance.

The replies were predictable. A sprinkling of thumbs-ups, a couple of polite “got it 👍,” and maybe an awkward “thanks mate.” Nothing else. A dozen names sitting silently at the bottom, unread messages piling up, the rookies especially quiet.

Carlos had noticed it for a while now. The group felt more like a work Slack than twenty-odd men who shared the grid, the plane rides, the endless hotel lobbies together. He and George, as GPDA directors, did most of the talking. Sometimes Lewis would weigh in with his smooth calm, or Fernando would ask a precise question, or Max would send a clipped acknowledgment. But Ollie, Isack, Liam, even Yuki—silent. Lurking like shadows.

It bothered him more than he admitted.

They were supposed to be a community, weren’t they? A paddock family, as much as one could be. And here the younger guys were, sitting on the edges like guests at a party, too unsure to jump in. He remembered being that age—unsure if speaking up would make him look foolish, careful not to overstep around the veterans. The group chat had been no better back then either: dry as dust, all logistics and nothing else.

So one night, scrolling in his hotel bed after yet another long day, Carlos frowned at George’s latest post about changes to stewarding protocols. A wall of text. Half the drivers had already marked it with “👍.” The other half hadn’t even opened it yet. The chat would die again until the next GPDA announcement.

Carlos sighed. He could leave it be. He should leave it be. But—

His thumb hovered. Then he switched apps, saved a meme, and without thinking too hard, dropped it into the silence.

It was stupid. It was one of those ancient memes, a SpongeBob with text that read, When you’ve just sat down and your engineer asks for one more push lap.

He stared at the screen after hitting send. Instantly regretted it. The chat remained frozen, those two gray ticks mocking him. He put his phone down face-first, muttering, “Qué tonto…”

Two minutes later, the screen lit up.

Lando Norris: 😭😭 accurate

A beat.

Oscar Piastri: ngl that’s me every quali

Then—out of nowhere—

Ollie Bearman: 💀💀💀

Carlos blinked at the screen, surprised. The rookie hadn’t said a word in weeks. Then another notification:

George Russell: Carlos pls this is not professional

But George had added a laughing emoji.

And just like that, the ice cracked.

The Meme Habit

It didn’t happen overnight. But after that first SpongeBob, after Lando’s emojis and Ollie’s unexpected skulls, Carlos noticed something. The silence wasn’t so heavy anymore.

So a few days later, sitting in the back of a car on the way to the airport, he did it again. Scrolled, chuckled at a random image, dropped it into the chat with zero explanation.

A shaky picture of a traffic cone lying flat on the ground: Me after FP1.

Lando: you ok mate 😂

Liam Lawson: 😭 that’s how i felt after suzuka last year

Yuki: coned.

Carlos smiled faintly. Closed his phone. That was enough.

And then it kept happening.

Carlos never planned it. That was the truth of it.

He was not a man who plotted these things, not someone who thought, ah yes, today I will engineer camaraderie in a group chat. He simply… got bored. And when he got bored, his thumb wandered.

At first it was just one meme, then another. He never meant to start a pattern. But when you’re traveling across time zones, waiting in lounges, sitting in the back of cars with nothing but the soft hum of the engine, your mind slips into small rituals. For Carlos, it became this: scroll, chuckle, send. A SpongeBob here, a photo of a traffic cone there. A screenshot of some headline badly translated into Spanish. A lyric from whatever song his headphones had been playing too many times on repeat.

He’d send it, pocket his phone, and forget.

The others, however, did not forget.

By the third week, the drivers had started to notice. The silence of the chat had turned into something else—something with a pulse.

One morning, while Carlos was boarding a plane, Lando wrote in the chat:

Lando Norris: where’s carlos he hasn’t posted the daily meme yet 😭

Oscar followed, bone-dry as always:

Oscar Piastri: he’s probably on a plane. give him a sec.

Then, a few minutes later, Ollie Bearman, who had barely said ten words in the chat all season, dropped in shy but bold:

Ollie: post the goods Sainz 👀

Carlos only saw this later, after takeoff, when he finally connected to the patchy WiFi. He frowned, confused. The goods? What were they even—

He scrolled up. Saw the messages. Blinked. He hadn’t realised anyone was paying attention.

Still, he shrugged, pressed his gallery, and uploaded a photo he’d snapped of a sad little sandwich in the airport lounge. Caption: meals of champions.

The chat exploded.

Liam Lawson: 💀💀💀 where did u even find that

Lando: 🤣🤣🤣 you’ve done it again

Isack Hadjar: bro living like it’s a gp2 weekend

Yuki: 💔 someone save him

Carlos stared at the notifications piling up, bewildered. It was just a sandwich. He pocketed the phone again, shaking his head.

The routine built slowly. He didn’t notice at first. He just kept doing what he always did—when he was waiting, when he was traveling, when the days stretched too long. A meme, a lyric, a photo.

But the others… they began to wait.

They noticed his rhythm more than he ever did. The memes always dropped in moments of transit. Red-eye flights. Airport lounges. Transfers from circuit to hotel. The rookies started to joke about it openly:

Isack: meme o’clock yet?

Lando: he’s def in a taxi rn. it’s coming.

Ollie: refreshing the chat like 🕒👀

Even Max, who hardly contributed, one day dropped a curt:

Max Verstappen: hurry up i’m bored

And everyone knew exactly what he meant.

Carlos, meanwhile, remained oblivious. He never clocked that the chat was waiting for him. He thought he was just filling silence, being stupid, distracting himself from travel. He didn’t realise that he had become the new gravity around which the whole group was now trying to orbit.

The rookies especially lived for it. Ollie, usually shy, was now tossing skull emojis left and right. Liam tried to one-up him with increasingly chaotic memes. Isack was cocky, sending his own posts in direct competition:

Isack: today’s entry, thank me later 👇 [image]

Lando: not carlos-level but not bad

Oscar: 7/10. effort noted.

The older drivers noticed too.

Lewis was the easiest to please and get a reaction out of, more often that not his profile picture would light up with series of laughing emojis lined up with memes of his own.

Fernando, on the other hand, was less subtle.

Fernando Alonso: you are all ridiculous. i hope you know this.

To which Carlos had simply replied: Carlos: you laughed tho 👀

And the group chat had screamed in delight.

Even Sebastian Vettel, retired but still lingering in the chat, chimed in one evening with:

Seb: ok this is actually funny [reaction to a Carlos meme of two cats fighting labeled “me vs. track limits”]

That was it—Seb’s stamp of approval. The rookies screen-shotted it, sent it to each other privately, celebrated as if they’d won a race.

The rookies had especially started to thrive.

Ollie, who used to linger in silence, now chimed in often, emboldened by Carlos’s openers. He was still shy, still hesitant sometimes, but every meme was a doorway he could walk through.

Isack who had turned it into a competition would fire back with his own memes, half of them unfunny, all of them delivered with supreme confidence.

Liam jumped into chaos territory—sending reaction GIFs, jokes about New Zealand, weird inside references.

Gabriel Bortoleto, who had barely typed anything before, suddenly found himself laughing aloud on planes, sending little “😭😭😭”s after Carlos’s drops.

And each time, the ice between rookies and veterans melted a little more.

Nobody said it outright. But everyone felt it.

The group chat wasn’t just logistics anymore. It wasn’t only schedules and stewarding and updates. It was lighter now. It was easier. You could open it and expect a laugh, a small distraction, a reminder that behind the helmets and politics and endless travel, there were still people here who could be stupid together.

love,

Tee

[altee-221]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

"We Bought a Bakery (No One Could Stop Us)”

Runtime: 1h 48m — uploaded by: @teto_

Opening Frame:

Black screen. Text appears in Teto’s handwriting:

“This was a joke. Now it’s a business. Welcome to: Pan Nuestro — the world’s softest chaos.”

Footage begins in Milan, six months ago.

Carlos and Teto sit on a fountain edge, both holding comically large gelatos. It’s evening — cobblestone shiny from rain, lights flickering gold.

Teto: “If you weren’t racing, what would you be doing?” Carlos: “Something where I could use my hands. Maybe something slow.” Teto: “Like crime?” Carlos: “Like baking.”

They look at each other. Then at the camera.

Freeze frame. Text overlay:

“This was the moment we ruined our lives in the best way possible.”

[altee-221]

“We’re Not Googling, We’re Just Well-Connected” -Carlos and Alex being Menaces Pt 3

If anyone had told James Vowles that his drivers would be responsible for the most chaotic fan panel in the history of Formula 1, he might’ve believed it. Slightly. Grudgingly. But even he, master planner that he was, couldn’t have predicted the pure whirlwind of madness that was Carlos Sainz and Alex Albon armed with microphones and zero adult supervision.

It started innocently enough.

Carlos and Alex had been scheduled to do a light-hearted fan stage appearance during the post-race weekend festivities—just a cute little driver's bit with audience participation. There were prizes. There were rules.

What could possibly go wrong?

Anyways, The sun was doing that annoying thing where it acted like it was the headline act. Beating down on a sea of fans already waving signs and foam fingers, blaring out chants like, “WE LOVE YOU ALEX!” and “CARLITOS FOR PRESIDENT!” The F1 Fan Stage was a hotplate, and standing right at the center of it were two men with microphones, wireless earpieces, way too much charm, and absolutely zero intention of behaving.

Carlos Sainz had his sunglasses perched too low on his nose, smirking like he had a plan. He didn’t. Alex Albon was grinning like a boy who had just remembered that rules were really just suggestions with extra steps.

"Alright! We’re playing ‘Gridlock Quiz Show!’" the host announced cheerily, waving a stack of cue cards while the crowd erupted in cheers. "Multiple choice questions, three lifelines—none of which include Google, you cheaters—and the team with the highest score wins a trophy designed by actual schoolchildren."

"How old are the schoolchildren?" Alex asked immediately.

"Seven," said the host.

"Perfect. That’s our mental age too," Carlos replied with a completely straight face, already squinting at the screen like he was preparing to decipher ancient code.

The crowd screamed.

The host blinked. "You’re a team. We’re calling you... ‘Menace Motorsport.’"

Carlos and Alex high-fived with such ferocity, the mic squealed in protest.

“Okay,” the host said, sighing already, “First question: In what year did the turbo-hybrid era officially begin in Formula One?”

Alex blinked. Carlos looked skyward like the answer might be written in the clouds.

“2014?” Carlos mumbled.

“Wait wait wait,” Alex said, holding up a finger. “This feels like a trap. It feels like it was 2014, but maybe they changed something halfway through a season or—”

Carlos already had his phone out.

“No carlosss. You are not allowed to google,” the host said, exasperated.

“This is not Google,” Carlos said innocently. “This is… James Vowles.”

“Oh, perfect,” Alex added brightly, bouncing on his heels.

“He’s not googling,” Alex says brightly. “He’s calling a friend. This is educational.”

“Phone-a-friend,” Carlos agrees. “It’s tradition.”

Carlos pressed the call button and waited.

Ring.

Ring.

“No answer,” Carlos muttered. “How is he not—? I’m his driver. We are in danger. We are flailing publicly.”

Alex, already giggling, pulled out his phone. "What if he sees both of us calling at the same time and thinks we’ve crashed into each other again?"

Carlos brightened. "Even better."

James picked up after 3 seconds (panicked):

"Are you two okay? What happened? Who hit who—"

“Hi James!” Alex said cheerily. “Can you tell us when the turbo-hybrid era started?”

In the background: the roar of thousands of fans screaming in delight.

James paused. “Are you—are you on stage?”

“Technically yes,” Carlos replied, holding the mic closer to his phone. “But more importantly, is it 2014?”

James takes zero seconds to adjust. “You’re calling me for a history question?”

“Yes,” they say in unison.

James sighed deeply, the sound of a man who regretted every life choice leading to this moment.

“Yes. 2014. It began with the 1.6-litre V6 turbo-hybrids. Mercedes dominated. Rosberg and Hamilton had that huge intra-team battle—”

“We got it, James, thank you, thank you,” Alex interrupted, waving like they’d just won the lottery. “Say bye to the fans!”

A collective scream from the crowd.

"Thanks!" they said in unison, hanging up immediately while the host tried very hard not to cry from laughter.

“Okay!” the host announced, already rattled. “Correct answer. Next question: What was the first race to be officially called a Grand Prix?”

Both men immediately stared at her, then at each other, and back to the question like it had personally insulted them.

“…what?”

“Sorry, was that in Latin?” Carlos asked, squinting at the screen. “Is this before Formula One existed?”

“Oh, this one’s too hard,” Alex said, shaking his head. “We need a smarter friend.”

Carlos grinned. “I’m calling Toto.”

The crowd exploded.

“WHAT?” the host cried. “No. You cannot call Toto Wolff—”

“He’s not Google,” Carlos said brightly. “He’s just… Austrian.”

Toto picked up in two rings.

“Carlito,” Toto said warmly, already suspicious. “What do you need?”

“You’re on speaker,” Carlos said, as Alex shouted, “HI TOTO!”

“...What are you two doing.”

"Toto," Carlos said, beaming, "you are on the fan stage. You are now my quiz partner."

"Oh God. What’s the question."

"When was the first race to be called a Grand Prix?”

Pause.

“1906. Le Mans. Organized by the Automobile Club de France,” Toto replied, barely taking a breath. “But, if you’re asking about the modern Formula One World Championship, then that’s 1950, Silverstone—”

Chaos.

The fans were losing their minds. Cameras flashed. The host gave up trying to rein it in.

“We’ll take the 1906 answer,” Alex beamed.

“Thanks, Toto!” Carlos grinned.

Toto chuckled. “Stop causing trouble.”

“We’re not causing trouble,” Alex said. “We’re enhancing the sport.”

The next question was not easier.

“In what year did Kimi Räikkönen make his F1 debut?”

Carlos looked mildly insulted. “This is personal. He’s my hero. I should know this.”

Alex blinked. “...2000?”

Carlos winced. “Too early.”

They both stared at the screen. The host shrugged like, go on, pick up the phone again.

“Let me call George,” Alex said, already dialing. “He’s like… history boy.”

“I still have Toto on the line,” Carlos whispered.

“PERFECT.”

George picked up with a suspicious, “...hello?”

“Hi George!” Alex sang. “Carlos and I are doing a fan quiz!”

There was a beat. Then: “What did you break?”

“Nothing yet,” Carlos said. “Quick, when did Kimi debut?”

“2001. Sauber. I literally just watched the race on YouTube.”

From Carlos’s phone, Toto let out a proud, “Correct.”

Carlos and Alex yelled triumphantly. The audience chanted George’s name.

The host had given up entirely. She was now sitting on a folding chair, watching this unfold with the energy of a mum at a children's magic show where the kids had tied up the magician and taken over the stage.

The next question popped up:

“Which of these is NOT a real corner at Silverstone?” A) Becketts B) Copse C) Finglehurst D) Stowe

Carlos read it aloud and squinted.

Alex leaned in. “I mean. Come on. Finglehurst??”

“…sounds like a cheese,” Carlos said. “Or a pub.”

“I say we conference in Lando,” Alex said, already pressing the button. “He’ll know.”

 Carlos didn’t even blink when he added Lando to the call.

Lando picked up faster than Toto.

"Hi," Lando said brightly. "Hi Carlos."

“Heyyy Landooo,” Alex and Carlos chorused.

"Why am I here?"

"Quiz. You know things."

"Okay," Lando said immediately. "Oscar’s here too. He says hi."

Oscar’s voice piped up faintly in the background: “Hi Carlos!!”

“Hi Oscar!” Carlos grinned. “Wait, do you know if Finglehurst is a Silverstone corner?”

“…it’s not,” Oscar said immediately. “That’s a village.”

“Oh my God,” Alex said, doubled over laughing. “You just knew that?”

Toto, still on the call: "Who let him graduate high school this smart?"

George: "Me. I take full credit."

Alex: "George, you’re older than all of us, shut up."

Carlos: "Next question!"

The host was visibly crying from laughter. "This is—fine. It’s fine. You’ve turned a simple quiz into a multiplayer phone strategy game but honestly I’ve given up."

Next one!"

And then came the truly a hard question.

“How many Grand Prix wins did Alain Prost have?”

Carlos whistled low. “That’s a James question.”

“Toto’s still on,” Alex reminded him.

Carlos looked at his phone. “Toto, can you—”

“I’m calling James,” Toto said immediately. “Hold on.”

Alex collapsed onto the stage laughing. The host put her clipboard over her face.

James Vowles’ voice returned to the chaos, now joined by the background hum of whatever engineering room he had been pulled from.

James happens to have questions: “WHY AM I ON CALL WITH TOTO, CARLOS??? AND Lando?

Toto: "James! Join the trivia emergency."

Oscar: “Hi James!”

George: “I’m still here!”

Now there were seven men on the call. The fans were roaring. The microphones were a mess. Every phone was on speaker.

“Forty-nine,” James said. “Four world titles. Second-most wins at the time of his retirement. Anything else?”

Carlos looked directly at the audience, dramatically solemn.

“We’re learning so much,” he said.

The crowd lost it.

Next Question: What is the color of the curbs at Monza?

Everyone, all six of them on call, fell silent.

Lando: "Wait. Isn’t it—green?"

Toto: "Red and white."

Oscar and Carlos at the same time: "Isn't there green too?"

George: "What side of the track?"

James: "There’s red, white, and green to match the Italian flag—"

Alex: "Why is this the question we struggle with?"

Carlos: "This is embarrassing."

Oscar: "I KNEW THIS ONE!"

Alex: "No you didn’t, you said green."

Oscar: "AND I WAS RIGHT."

The host was doubled over, the stage manager had given up, and the camera crew was filming everything.

The phones were stacked. Toto and James on Carlos’s. George, Oscar, and Lando on Alex’s. Six of them, ready to battle increasingly ridiculous questions.

Next question: “How many wheels does an F1 car have?”

They blinked.

Carlos slowly tilted his head. “Wait… wait. Is this a trick?”

Alex frowned. “Two at the front… two at the back…”

Oscar: “Don’t forget the steering wheel.”

George: “That’s not a WHEEL wheel, Oscar.”

Oscar: “It says wheel.”

James: “That’s not how language works.”

Toto: “Are we genuinely debating this?”

Lando: “Okay but like, what if they count the spare tyres in the garage?”

Carlos: “They said car, not team container.”

Alex: “Are the four wheels on the car the only ones we’re counting?”

James: “Yes. Obviously.”

Carlos: “Okay. Four. Final answer.”

Correct.

But barely. It took seven adults and several careers in engineering to confirm that an F1 car had four wheels.

New Question: “Which of these is not a nickname for a corner at Spa?” A) Eau Rouge B) Blanchimont C) Slippery Elbow D) La Source

The stage went dead silent.

“Slippery Elbow sounds like an infection,” Alex muttered.

“Sounds like what I had after karting,” George added on the phone.

Carlos: “Okay, I don’t remember ever racing through a corner and hearing someone yell ‘TAKE SLIPPERY ELBOW!’”

Toto: “It’s definitely not real.”

James: “Yeah, that one’s fake.”

Oscar (muffled): “It could be British slang?”

Lando (yelling): “It’s not British slang!”

Carlos: “Okay, okay. Slippery Elbow. Final answer.”

Host: “Correct.”

Alex collapsed to his knees in celebration while Carlos gave him a mock blessing. Fans screamed. Toto laughed.

By the time they reached the final question, the fan stage had descended into such delightful chaos that security had to widen the barriers to accommodate the swelling crowd.

Final Question: How many points did Bianchi score in his F1 career?

Silence fell again. All six of them took a breath.

"I remember this," Carlos said softly. "Monaco. Ninth."

Toto, quiet for once, added: "Two points."

The answer was submitted. The score was tallied. They didn’t win. Technically.

But the crowd didn't care.

They cheered like the team had taken pole. Carlos raised his arms. Alex bowed. The phones were still open.

"Can we keep this going for the next fan panel?" Carlos asked brightly.

"Absolutely not," the host wheezed, wiping their eyes.

At his office, James sighed as he looked at his phone, now containing two dozen missed calls, four FaceTime screenshots, and one video clip of Carlos and Alex arguing over whether pi counted as a number in a trivia round.

Toto sent him a text:

we need to revoke their phones before public events

James replied:

it wouldn’t help. they’d just borrow someone else’s

And across the paddock, someone posted the clip of all six voices shouting "RED-WHITE-GREEN!" in unison, captioned:

"This is why they’re not allowed unsupervised anymore."

love, Tee

[altee-221]

“Carlos vs. The Grid’s Collective Brain Rot: Volume 2”

Scene Red Carpet Event, Monaco

Lineup: Carlos, Daniel, Lewis, Charles

Question from entertainment media outlet: “If you had to marry someone from the grid for tax reasons, who would it be?”

Daniel: “Carlos.”

Lewis: “Carlos.”

Charles, arm already around Carlos: “Obviously Carlos.”

Carlos blinks. “Why is this a tax evasion operation?”

Daniel: “You have the most normal handwriting. That’s what I look for in a fake husband.”

Lewis: “Your face wouldn’t give us away.”

Charles: “You’re good with spreadsheets.”

Carlos, laughing: “Do I just radiate ‘responsible criminal’ to you?”

Daniel: “Yes. I would trust you to hide my offshore accounts.”

Carlos: “Should I be flattered or—”

Lewis: “Both.”

Entertainment Reporter, grinning way too wide: “So, Carlos, how does it feel to be everyone’s choice for marriage… you know, for strategic reasons?”

Carlos, still mid-laugh, lets out a little breathless: “I feel like I should be concerned, honestly.”

He glances left, where Daniel is adjusting his tuxedo lapel like he’s already planning a wedding on a boat. Lewis is just smiling calmly, hands in pockets. And Charles, dear God, is still holding onto Carlos’s arm like it’s already legally binding.

Carlos, turning to Charles, deadpan: “Is this… is this a love thing? Or are we hiding something from the government?”

Charles, without hesitation: “Both.”

Daniel: “Love and money. Like all great marriages.”

Lewis, faux-dramatic: “We’re simply trying to protect what we’ve built, Carlos. Protect us.”

Carlos, blinking like he just walked into a plot mid-season: “…What did you do?”

Daniel, grinning: “I didn’t do anything. But my offshore accountant Greg did. Greg is… creative.”

Carlos: “Greg is fugitive-adjacent, isn’t he?”

Lewis, gently: “He’s on a boat now.”

Carlos, pausing for one full second: “…Greg is the boat, isn’t he?”

Charles, helpfully: “He changed his name to ‘Sea-Legally Distinct.’”

Carlos, looking to the camera crew behind them: “Are you getting this? Are you recording this for evidence? Because I think I just got roped into an international crime ring on the carpet at Monaco.”

Reporter, absolutely delighted: “If you had to pick one of them, who would you marry to survive the audit?”

Carlos, squinting at the group: “Who’s got the best alibi?”

Daniel, hand to heart: “I once hid under a ping pong table for six hours to avoid a Netflix producer. That counts as stealth.”

Lewis: “I’m very polite to customs officers.”

Charles, not missing a beat: “I told your father I was your soulmate.”

Carlos: “…When?”

Charles: “Two years ago. He agreed.”

Carlos, covering his mouth, trying not to laugh: “Okay but—wait. If I did marry one of you. Hypothetically. Would I be the face of the operation, or the hidden asset?”

Daniel: “You’d be the CFO.”

Lewis: “You’d be the pretty one.”

Charles: “You’d be the one we all fight over in season two of the documentary.”

Carlos, nodding slowly, dead serious: “Okay. But again. Who are we hiding from?”

Lewis: “Interpol. Maybe. We don’t know if they’re looking yet.”

Carlos: “I do know that I’ve never lied so much while smiling.”

Daniel: “That’s marriage, baby.”

A beat. The reporter is in tears laughing. The cameras are still rolling.

Carlos, now hunched slightly, head in one hand, shoulders shaking with laughter, murmurs into his palm: “Oh my God. I have three wives.”

Reporter, absolutely thrilled: “Would you like to meet your fourth?”

Carlos, without looking up: “I can’t. I’m married.”

Cue: PIERRE GASLY, STRUTTING UP LIKE A VIOLENTLY CONFIDENT CAT IN GUCCI

Pierre: “I heard there was a queue forming for Carlos’s hand in marriage. So. I came to claim my spot.”

Carlos, raising his head just enough to give him a side-eye through his fingers: “Pierre. You already proposed last year during karaoke night.”

Pierre: “Yes, and unlike Charles, I don’t need to wait for tax fraud. I want you for love and clout.”

Carlos, dropping his head again, groaning-laughing into both hands now: “Am I in a throuple? Is this a pyramid scheme of spouses? I think I’ve been tricked.”

Lewis, with the softest smile: “You’re not being tricked. You’re being adored. By very resourceful men.”

Daniel: “Exactly. This is not a scam. This is community.”

And then — as if summoned by pure chaos energy — MAX VERSTAPPEN appears. Sunglasses on. Completely calm. Already holding two espresso shots and a pen.

Max: “I brought a witness and a notary.”

Carlos, without lifting his head: “Max. You’re not serious.”

Max: “Carlos. We’ve shared an Uber. That means something.”

Carlos, peeking between his fingers, his voice all dry laughter: “I cannot be married to all of you.”

Max, sipping his espresso: “That’s what a coward says.”

Pierre: “He’s my husband!”

Charles, arms crossed and very dramatic: “He proposed to me first.”

Daniel, waving a paper towel like a legal contract: “He and I signed a deal with soy sauce at a sushi place in Melbourne!”

Lewis, ever the mediator: “I think we need to hold a council.”

Carlos, wheezing, literally wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand: “Oh my God. I have four husbands. Five? Is Lewis my legal advisor or also my emotional support spouse?”

Daniel: “Why not both?”

Carlos: “I’m going to jail.”

Max: “No, you're going to brunch. With all of us.”

The press LOVES it. They're filming like it's a royal wedding.

One journalist is on their phone whispering, “We’re witnessing history. Monaco’s most eligible bachelor has been absorbed into a grid-wide marriage cult.”

Another whispers back, “Do we address him as Mr. Grid now? Or Captain?”

Carlos straightens up just enough to catch that and goes, “Captain is nice, actually,” and then immediately ducks his head again with a helpless little laugh.

Alex Albon arrives. Calm. Smiling. Holding an oat milk latte.

Alex: “Hi. Sorry I’m late. Is the marriage application still open?”

Carlos, staring up at the sky now like he’s pleading with some distant racing god: “Oh my God. You too?”

Alex, handing him the latte: “I just want Tuesdays and a drawer. That’s it.”

Carlos, very quietly, shaking his head as he accepts the drink: “This is blackmail. But in a very gentle tone.”

Alex: “We’re soft-launching our shared flat next week. Daniel’s already on Zillow.”

Daniel: “I found a six-bedroom with a hot tub and an espresso bar!”

Carlos: “You people need help.”

Lando, appearing from somewhere, sipping something fizzy and pointing at the velvet rope: “No, you need to sign in. You skipped me. I proposed last year with a gummy ring at McDonald’s.”

Carlos: “You tried to put it on my thumb.”

Lando: “It’s not my fault your fingers are huge.”

Carlos, head in hands again: “Someone stop them. I’m going to have to send out a group honeymoon itinerary.”

A producer is now standing at the side of the carpet, whispering frantically into an earpiece. “I don’t know what to do, he’s marrying everyone.”

Final addition: Isack hadjar, walking past in the background, sipping his water and watching all this like it's a Discovery Channel special. He just mutters, half in awe: “Man has a whole harem and didn’t even flirt once.”

Carlos, still doubled over laughing, shoulders shaking as he clutches the latte: “I don’t know how this happened.”

Charles, proudly: “It’s the Sainz Effect.”

LAST FRAME: Carlos, wiping his face, looking at the flashing cameras.

Carlos: “…If any of you are actually serious, I expect a prenup.I want Thursdays off and at least one dog. Each.”

Everyone, in unison: “DEAL.”

love, Tee

[altee-221]

“Another Day in the Circus: Carlos Sainz vs. The Grid’s Collective Insanity”

I HAVE THIS STUPID IDEA AND HOPE FULLY YOU GUYS LIKE IT enough to excuse the trenches im in😭😭 and please ignore the timeline its literally in shambles like i was writing and well they all just fit and i im sorry😭😭

Scene: FIA Press Conference – Mid-season Media Day, Belgium Participants: Carlos Sainz, Max Verstappen, Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Pierre Gasly Audience: Journalists, Live Broadcast, Millions of Fans, Carlos’s Sanity Hanging by a Thread

“Alright, gentlemen,” the moderator began, straightening the note cards with a kind of grim professionalism that made Carlos instinctively brace his forearms on the table. “We’re going to start with some lighter questions before we go into team performance and strategies.”

Carlos made the mistake of glancing sideways. On his right: Daniel Ricciardo was already bouncing his leg like a kid about to commit crimes. To his left, Max was reclining so far back in his chair it was a miracle he hadn’t fallen through the press conference backdrop. Pierre was twirling a pen with the speed of someone who absolutely would poke out someone’s eye and feel nothing. Lando was... already giggling.

Carlos ducked his head and exhaled slowly through his nose.

Here we go.

“Daniel,” the journalist grinned, “if you weren’t a Formula 1 driver, what career path do you think you’d take?”

Carlos didn’t even look up.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“Male stripper.”

Carlos’s head dropped.

There it was.

He chuckled into his chest, hand coming up like a slow, resigned wave, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The entire room had burst into stunned laughter, with even the cameramen snorting. But Carlos didn’t flinch. After the briefest pause, he tilted his head and said, perfectly deadpan:

“Where?”

Daniel blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Carlos raised his eyebrows. “Like... do you already have bookings? Is there a place we can subscribe? VIP pass?”

Max was crying. Lando was full-body cackling, slapping the table in front of him. Pierre leaned toward Carlos with a look of mock-serious interest. “Yeah, is there a dress code? Asking for… myself.”

“Oh my god,” Daniel wheezed, “why are you enabling me?!”

Carlos just shrugged. “This is better than you deciding to become an opera singer like you said last year.”

Daniel pointed at him. “That was a beautiful dream. I still have the lungs.”

“Not the pitch, bro,” Lando muttered.

Carlos tilted his head again. “But maybe the thighs. For the—uh—routine.”

More laughter. Carlos leaned back in his chair, perfectly casual. Daniel made jazz hands at the crowd and muttered something about “Ricciardo’s Red Room Revue,” and Carlos just shook his head and looked to the next question like this was normal.

Fifteen Minutes Later – The Mercedes Question

A new journalist stood up, clearly a rookie, maybe on his first day. He looked slightly terrified. “Max,” he asked, voice cracking, “there’ve been renewed rumors linking you to Mercedes after the recent reshuffle—can you confirm or deny any movement?”

Max’s mouth twitched.

Carlos had seen that look before.

Oh no.

The Dutchman stared at the poor man for a long, uncomfortable second, then suddenly leaned forward and said, “What if I just died?”

Dead silence.

Carlos was mid-eye rub—knuckles pressing into his lids, shoulders sagging—and then froze. His fingers halted like they were playing a game of red light/green light. He turned, slowly, to look at Max.

Max continued, voice perfectly flat, “Like, what if I just dropped dead in front of you? Right now. In this room.”

Lando made a choking sound.

Max blinked at the ceiling. “Or like, what if the roof just collapsed? You see those water stains? What if this is a sign? What if the ground splits open and we all fall in?”

Carlos tilted his head upward and gave the ceiling a very slow, deliberate once-over.

Max kept going, gesturing vaguely at the wall. “What if the walls start closing in? What if we’re all in a simulation?”

Pierre whispered, “We are,” and Carlos closed his eyes.

Then he forgot which eye he’d been rubbing.

Genuinely moved his hand from one to the other like he had short-circuited for a second. The room was silent.

Carlos finally muttered, “Maybe you should stay at my place.”

Max blinked. “What?”

Carlos gave a shrug and pointed vaguely toward Max. “I think my flat has thicker walls. And no water stains. We’ll be safe from collapsing ceilings.”

Pierre, losing composure: “A bunker. He just offered him a bunker.”

Lando: “He’s gonna start smuggling us in one by one like it’s the apocalypse.”

Carlos, still deadpan: “I have cereal. You can pick your favorite spoon.”

Everyone lost it.

Max just nodded seriously. “Alright. Bags packed.”

Carlos smiled—just a little—and leaned into the mic, tone dry: “So… anyway, about Mercedes.”

Later – Hypothetical Game Gone Wrong

Interviewer: “Lando, if you could switch bodies with any driver on the grid for 24 hours, who would it be?”

Lando grinned and looked straight at Carlos.

Carlos raised one eyebrow.

“Carlos.”

Carlos blinked. “Why?”

Lando: “So I can touch his own hair and finally know what it feels like.”

The entire room groaned.

Carlos laughed. “You want to be me just to touch my hair?”

Pierre deadpan: “That’s not even the worst answer today.”

Daniel chimed in: “What shampoo do you use, by the way?”

Carlos opened his mouth to answer, paused, and slowly turned toward the moderator like was this still the press conference? or had he wandered into a fanfiction?

He tilted his head, smiled sweetly. “Should I just pass it around next time? Little sample bottles? Max can have the bunker. Lando can have the hair.”

Max, still committed: “Do you have blackout curtains?”

Carlos nodded. “And oat milk.”

Daniel: “I’m moving in too.”

Pierre: “I call the guest bed.”

Carlos: “There’s a queue. You’ll have to register.”

Moderator, hands in the air: “Okay, okay, we’re moving on—”

Carlos raised a finger. “Wait, should I just post the address?”

End of Conference – Chaos Debrief

As the drivers exited the stage, the paddock burst into confused laughter and murmurs.

“That was the weirdest interview I’ve ever seen,” one journalist muttered to another. “Is Carlos… okay?”

Meanwhile, backstage:

Daniel slung an arm around Carlos’s shoulder. “You’re the only reason we haven’t been banned yet.”

Carlos sighed, rubbing his temple. “I am starting to believe this. Also lets focus on the yet.”

Pierre: “You enable us.”

Carlos: “I try to redirect. There’s a difference.”

Max: “You told me to come live with you if the ceiling falls.”

Carlos: “Because you looked like you were going to manifest it.”

Lando, giggling, slipped his phone back into his pocket. “I recorded your reaction. A man was gagged. You literally blinked three times, looked at the ceiling, forgot which eye you were rubbing, and then offered shelter. Ok icon.”

Carlos groaned. “I just want to talk about tires one day. That’s all.”

Daniel: “Yeah, well. We want to talk about pole dancing, reincarnation, and your shampoo.”

Carlos muttered something in Spanish under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “God, grant me patience.”

But even then—even then—he reached out and fixed the twisted mic on Max’s jacket as they walked.

Because no matter how chaotic, how brain-melting, how absolutely unhinged the grid got—

Carlos Sainz would sigh. He would blink. He would look at the ceiling. And then he’d ask, “Okay, but… why that shampoo?”

Because that’s just another day in the circus.

And he’s the one holding the tent up.

love, Tee

[altee-221]

OKKKK POLL TIME: i kinda wanna write this little fic where the Williams trio does the mute deaf blind challenge? idk what its called making like cake? brownies? idk ill see but yeah helpp me decide their roless😭🤪

whose voice we taking? (mute one idk how to write it w/o sounding a bit crazy )

carlos

alex

james?

Voting ended onJul 22, 2025

MAYBE WE CAN DO GUEST APPEARANCES ??? TOTO? CHARLES ?LANDO? GEORGE?? MAX?

[altee-221]

who we blinding?

carlos

alex?

james

Voting ended onJul 22, 2025

for the Williams trio doing the mute deaf blind challenge?

[altee-221]

whose ears?

carlos ?

alex

james

Voting ended onJul 22, 2025

for the Williams trio doing the mute deaf blind challenge?

( i keep writing this so no one thinks im going batshit crazy just taking f1 drivers and tps ears and eyes😭)

[altee-221]

“He’s Meditating, Guys”-Carlos and Alex being Menaces Pt 2

It started innocently.

George had gone live on Instagram from the team gym. He was sweaty, exhausted, and dramatically sprawled on the turf mat like a Victorian widow.

The caption read: “Recovery is part of training 🧘‍♂️”

The angle was horrible. The lighting worse. The vibe? Unclear.

And still, within two minutes, the live had over 20k viewers and rising. Because somewhere, Alex Albon had found it and commented:

alex_albon:

he’s meditating guys

kimi.antonelli:

he’s died

georgerussell63:

I can see you both, you know

carlossainz55 joined the live.

Carlos Enters the Chat

Carlos didn’t even have to be in the building to start chaos.

carlossainz55:

bro he’s flatlining

alex_albon:

that’s just his breathing pattern. deep and slow. like the dead.

georgerussell63:

I am not dead. I did sled pushes and collapsed for 20 seconds.

carlossainz55:

2 secs of plank and he went full Romeo & Juliet

alex_albon:

no fr i thought there was a fainting couch involved get this man a lace handkerchief

georgerussell63:

@alex_albon YOU wore compression socks with slides last week you don’t get to mock me

alex_albon:

it’s called innovation. look it up.

Other Drivers Start Joining

landonorris joined the live.

landonorris:

is this a funeral should i wear black

oscarpiastri:

are we doing open casket or

georgerussell63:

I AM BREATHING

valtteribottas:

same

pierregasly:

can’t relate

Carlos Doubles Down

carlossainz55:

u okay george? blink once for yes blink twice for emergency GPDA meeting

georgerussell63:

I’m blinking furiously and you know it

alex_albon:

that could also mean brain misfire hard to say tbh

The Team Principals Arrive (Why?)

jamesvowles joined the live (has his little baby in one hand phone in other)

jamesvowles:

Is this a normal amount of driver bullying Am I supposed to stop it?

carlossainz55:

no boss let us cook

alex_albon:

this is team bonding

jamesvowles:

…it’s good content continue

totowolff joined the live.

totowolff:

george please hydrate also ignore carlos he was dropped as a child

carlossainz55:

i landed just fine thanks

alex_albon:

yeah he’s perfectly adjusted. like a very friendly cryptid

Meanwhile…

Back in the actual gym, George finally sat up. Sweat-soaked. Red-faced. Still very much alive.

He scrolled through the chaos on his own live. “I hate all of you,” he said, directly into the front camera. “Carlos, I’m muting you.”

A new comment appeared instantly:

carlossainz55:

u wouldn’t dare i know your middle name

alex_albon:

we all do we’re ready to chant it

The Live Descends Further

fernandoalo_oficial:

I was told there was blood. disappointed.

yukitsunoda0511:

he’s faking he just wants attention

georgerussell63:

@yukitsunoda0511 STOP STARTING RUMORS

kimi.antonelli:

is it true u cried watching Paddington 2 not judging just confirming

georgerussell63:

WHO TOLD YOU THAT

alex_albon:

carlos

carlossainz55:

no i told him about Paddington 1 2 was probably carmen

Final Moments

The live peaked at 43.6k viewers, mostly there to see if George would collapse again. He didn’t. He just slowly stood, middle fingers raised, walked to the camera, and said:

“This is why I trust no one on this grid.”

Carlos and Alex waved in the comments. Lily liked the video. Rebecca reposted it on Stories with a skull emoji.

Group Chat Screenshot, 3 Hours Later

George 😒: you two are MENACES

Carlos 🐢: but like. charming? LOVABLE?

Alex 🧃: irreparably so

James 👔: Live got picked up by ESPN social. 3.2 million views. Please consider bothering each other again on camera.

George 😒: you’re ALL dead to me

Lando 🍋: should we post the crying at Paddington 2 thing now or later

Oscar 😐: i vote now

love, Tee

[altee-221]

“Drivers Read Tweets”- Carlos and Alex being Menaces

"He’s Just So Botherable, George"

The Williams media room was too quiet for two men who had just been handed a segment called “Drivers Read Tweets”. A bad idea from the start, if anyone had asked Carlos Sainz. Not that anyone had. Least of all Alex, who was currently elbow-deep in a bowl of off-brand gummy worms and wearing his cap backwards like he was about to host a Nickelodeon game show.

Carlos, on the other hand, was reading tweets off a screen like he was auditioning for dramatic theatre.

“If I personally knew George Russell I would spent my entire life bothering him he’s such a botherable guy I wanna irritate him.”

A beat of silence.

Carlos blinked. Turned to Alex.

“…Aleeeex. Be honest. Did you write this???”

Alex choked on a gummy worm.

“I—what?!”

Carlos pointed at him, expression scandalized. “Come out with your realll account!!!, @jettvettradio is you! ..... you can be honest here. This is a safe space. You can Confess.”

Carlos slowly turns to the camera and shaking his head whispering, "This is NOT a safe space i WILL tell george in the next GPDA meeting."

Alex was already laughing, that soft wheezy giggle that came when he was genuinely entertained. “Bro. No. But also? I wish I wrote that. It’s poetry. It’s art. George is botherable. I stand by it.”

“You did write it.” Carlos was nodding like he’d cracked a conspiracy. “It has your rhythm. Your sentence structure. It screams ‘Alex Albon, menace to society.’”

And Alex—god love him—did not deny it.

Instead, he pulled out his phone, eyes gleaming. “Say less.”

Carlos blinked. “Wait, what are you—?”

Alex posted the exact tweet, word-for-word, from his verified account.

“if i personally knew george russell i would spent my entire life bothering him hes such a botherable guy i wanna irritate him” — Alex Albon, 2025

Carlos wheezed so hard he doubled over.

Elsewhere, In Mercedes HQ

George blinked at his phone.

“…What did I do?”

He looked up from the screen like he expected someone to explain.

No one did.

Esteban scrolled past him at the coffee machine. “Albon posted it?”

“Yup,” Pierre muttered.

George clutched his chest. “But why me? Why not—Lando? Or—Oscar? They’re way more botherable!”

“Maybe you just have a face,” Yuki offered, unhelpfully. “Like a face people want to poke with a stick.”

Back at Williams

Rebecca leaned into the room with Lily behind her.

“Why is George texting you the cry-laugh emoji in all caps?”

Carlos didn’t even look up. “Because lily's boyfriend is an agent of chaos.”

Lily just nodded. “Yeah. That tracks.”

“Also—” Alex said, biting another gummy worm—“George is already mad. He texted ‘YOU’RE BOTHERABLE’ back. In all caps. So I won.”

Carlos gave him a long look.

“…I’m still not convinced you didn’t write the original tweet.”

Alex grinned. “I’m not convinced I didn’t, either.”

They high-fived.

And somewhere deep in the Williams marketing room…

James Vowles glanced at the tweet, sighed once, head in his hands. “am I supposed to parent them???” he asked the ceiling. “Am I—am I enabling this?”

A pause. He looked at his coffee. Took a sip.

“…Nah. Let them cook.”

Bonus: Group Chat Mayhem

Carlos 🐢: george still mad u think? Alex 🧃: nah he texted me “you’re dead to me” but with a smiley Carlos 🐢: would you like to take it back?

Alex 🧃: NAHHH😌 Alex 🧃: all i said is my truth

Alex 🧃: i wanna pull his curls and run away

Carlos is dead on the floor laughing folded back like a lawn chair.

George 🤨: I CAN SEE YOU SAYING THIS

Charles 🍓: he’s gonna block u

Max 🔥: he should

Lando 🍋: im just glad it wasn’t about me this time Oscar 😐: give it 5 mins

[altee-221]

Summary:

James Vowles watches Carlos walk through the hospitality zone with the natural serenity of a man who’s already finished his cardio, had two coffees, and beaten the rest of the team by a solid half hour — all before sunrise.

He watches Carlos greet three mechanics by name, hand over a protein bar to an intern who forgot breakfast, and casually deflect an interview request with a smile and a shoulder pat.

James looks at Alex.

Alex looks at James.

They say nothing.

But they’re already thinking the same thing:

"We’re going to need bikes."

That’s how it starts: a sunrise ride, a flask of coffee, and a driver who turns pre-dawn cardio into an accidental cult. By the time the rest of the paddock wakes up, Carlos Sainz has biked a mountain, found the best pastries in Europe, converted half the team, and somehow made it all look like serenity in motion.

love,

Tee

[altee-221]

The Photo Drops:

Captioned simply, "Kart day with the best. Missed this." Posted by @RobertoMerhi. Tagged: @CarlosSainz55

They’re leaning in, focused, a tangle of curls and serious faces, one pointing, the other gazing adoringly intrigued like Teto just invented the wheel.

The comments are already spiraling:

“okay but why is carlos looking at him like that??” “they built rome in a garage.” “is that... flirting?? with spark plugs??” “not to be dramatic but this photo personally attacked me.”

Scene: F1 Couch Interview — All Four Boyfriends Present

Setting: Casual roundtable. All four boyfriends—Charles, Max, Lando, Oscar—lounging on a plush couch. Mics clipped, water bottles in hand. Mood: Chill. Until—

A producer off-camera says, far too casually:

“Hey, did you guys see the photo Roberto just posted with Carlos?”

The screen behind them lights up. A beat of silence. Then all hell breaks loose.

The Couch Reactions:

Lando (flinching instantly): “NO. No, what is that?! Why is he that close? Is Carlos inhaling Teto’s conditioner??”

Oscar (already zooming in on Carlos's face): “Why does he look like he’s in love. That is not a normal listening face. That’s an ‘I would die for you’ face.”

Charles (flatly): “Did Teto post it? Block him. Immediately.” (he picks up his phone and actually opens Instagram like he’s doing it)

Max says nothing. Just stares at the photo. Jaw clenched. One eye twitching. He takes one slow, terrifying inhale—the kind that precedes volcanic eruptions or wars.

Then, without breaking eye contact with the screen, he opens Notes.

Max’s Notes App Title:

“Teto Crimes Log 🚨”

He begins typing.

Instagram Comments (From the Boyfriends):

@Lando.jpg:

uhm?? why is my boyfriend being romantic with a carburetor and someone else’s hair?? 😐

@OscarPiastri:

i just want to know what was SO interesting about the fuel line that he had to lean in like that. also why does he look like that. also i’m FINE.

@Charles_Leclerc:

just a reminder carlos is MY boyfriend and i’ve also pointed at things near him before and he never looked at ME like that

@MaxVerstappen1:

[comment deleted] [comment deleted] @teto99 we need to talk. bring the kart.

Back to the Couch:

Oscar (muttering):

“Did the fuel line whisper the secrets of the universe? Does it sing lullabies? Does it love him back??”

He throws a cushion at the screen.

Charles:

“I point at things all the time. I point at baguettes. I point at tire data. I once pointed at a bird and Carlos said ‘cool’. BUT THIS??”

He turns dead serious. Charles:

“Did anyone check if that fuel line has a name? Is she registered? Because he looks like he’d marry her.”

Lando (arms crossed):

“If Teto so much as breathes near our boyfriend next weekend, I’m zip-tying myself to Carlos’s ankle.”

Host 1 (nervously laughing):

“So clearly... you guys know Carlos pretty well—”

Lando:

“He let Teto point at things. He never lets me point.”

Max (coldly):

“He lets you point at wrong things.”

Lando (offended):

“WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT IN FRONT OF THEM.”

F1 Fans in the Comments, Spiraling:

@drive2survivepls:

oh this isn’t casual this is INTIMATE. that’s ‘we’ve built ikea furniture together without fighting’ energy.

@someoneprotectcarlos:

i love him but i don’t think he knows he’s in a relationship. plural.

@f1fangirl989:

why does this feel like a deleted scene from a romance movie where they fix a kart and then kiss in the garage lights and the soundtrack swells

@softforcarlos:

teto said ‘i’m gonna point at a fuel gauge and steal four men’s boyfriend in one shot’ and he DID.

@oscarpbackup:

bro we were JUST healing from the whipped cream incident and now THIS???

Sky Sports F1 Special Segment:

“Welcome to another edition of WHAT IN THE HELL IS GOING ON IN THE HOUSE OF SAINZ — today’s episode features one grease-stained menace, one oblivious Spaniard, and four boyfriends in emotional shambles.”

@Lando.jpg (again, 6 minutes later):

i looked like that once. it was when carlos let me hold the umbrella for him. for ONE lap. he said “don’t poke me with it” he never looked at me like that anyway i’m fine.

@OscarPiastri (replying to himself):

it’s not even that i’m mad it’s just that i’m MAD. also why is he leaning like that. what is this posture of betrayal

@Charles_Leclerc (added story post):

[photo of himself in an old karting suit. captioned: “he used to look at me like that. or did he?”]

@MaxVerstappen1 (in comment thread):

I have seen brake pedals treated with less reverence. @teto99 blink twice if this is war.

The Couch. Four Boyfriends. One Photo. Internal Monologues of Doom:

CHARLES —

He said he doesn’t like getting too close when working because it’s “distracting.” He said “space is important.” He said “it’s just a kart, it’s not that interesting.” And now??? NOW he's bent over like a croissant around Teto’s back like it’s a goddamn art installation?? What did Teto say? "Look, it’s the ignition wire"? And suddenly Carlos is smitten?? If I pointed at a tire right now, would Carlos drop to his knees and build me a monument?

He starts muttering out loud.

Charles: “Stupid kart. Stupid man. I hope the kart explodes. Not fatally. Just dramatically.”

MAX —

He said it was uncomfortable to lean like that. Said it hurt his back. That it was “inefficient.” But there he is, wrapped around Teto like a wearable backpack. Breathing in tandem. Sharing air. That’s not a collaboration. That’s emotional cohabitation. Also— Why is Teto smiling like he knows? Like he can feel me watching from a thousand miles away.

His jaw twitches. His hand curls into a fist so tight his knuckles go white.

Max (quietly): “I’m going to dismantle the kart. Piece by piece. With my teeth.”

LANDO —

I pointed at things once. I asked him to teach me about torque once. You know what he said? “Lando, don’t touch anything, please.” But Teto gets to graze his forearm, gets a whisper of chest on back, gets an engineered embrace?? Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of being inside a Carlos-arm-cage??? DO YOU KNOW??

He’s on the verge of tears but refuses to blink.

Lando (brokenly): “What’s so interesting in that stupid fucking kart, huh?? You gotta LEAN on a man’s BACK with your whole CHEST for it??? WHAT’S IN THERE?? LOVE LETTERS?? THE HOLY GRAIL??”

OSCAR —

I’m fine. It’s fine. This is fine. I mean, it’s just a photo. A perfectly lit, tragically intimate photo where Carlos looks like he found peace after war. Teto’s not even that charming. He’s… he’s annoying. Right? Right??? But then why did Carlos smile like that? Why does he always look like home when Teto's around?

He glances at the screen again. Carlos’s hand is resting on the edge of the kart, inches from Teto’s elbow.

Oscar (to himself): “I’m gonna start a rumor that Teto steals lug nuts for sport.”

GROUP DELUSION: THEY ALL START TRYING TO RATIONALIZE THE PHOTO OUT LOUD

Charles: “Maybe it was cold. Maybe they were conserving warmth. It’s science.”

Max: “Teto is shorter. Maybe Carlos was just... crouching efficiently.”

Lando: “Maybe Carlos fell. Like… onto his back. In slow motion. With longing.”

Oscar: “Maybe that kart is cursed and it hypnotizes people into spooning.”

Silence.

Charles (suddenly): “I bet that kart doesn’t even run.”

[altee-221]

THE CARLOS SAINZ EFFECT: BESTIE WARS

(or: the time Carlos accepted an award while being held hostage by two ex-teammates on stage)

The F1 Gala was not, by nature, meant to be chaotic.

But then again, the F1 Gala was not meant to contain Carlos Sainz and both of his former teammates and whatever cosmic ripple the Sainz Effect was having on masculinity across continents this year.

Rebecca—tucked neatly in the front row in shimmering silver—had her chin propped on one hand, smiling so widely her cheekbones ached. Not because she was particularly moved by the speeches or the drama of the occasion, but because Carlos, her boyfriend, the unknowing Greek god of the paddock, had once again caused global havoc by doing absolutely nothing except existing.

It started innocently.

Carlos had been called on stage—Best Driver of the Year, Most Inspiring Teammate, Nicest Arms in the Grid, some award, who even cared? He stood up with that soft, bashful smile, adjusted his jacket, brushed his fingers over the front of his shirt, and made his way up. Everything was smooth until he noticed who was standing there waiting to "present" the award.

Charles and Lando.

Which meant hands. Which meant gremlin energy. Which meant Rebecca straightened in her seat, grinning like a woman watching a telenovela unfold in real time.

Carlos moved first to Charles, who already had his arms out, a mic in one hand, smirk on his face. Carlos offered the traditional dap—two quick pats on the back—but Charles did not release the handshake. Instead, he kept hold of Carlos’s right hand, sliding his thumb across Carlos’s knuckles and pulling him in for a full-bodied, head-on-shoulder hug that lasted about three seconds longer than socially acceptable.

Rebecca hummed. That’s one hand gone.

Carlos turned to Lando next, already with one less limb to offer, and the Brit immediately made the most of it.

"Don’t even think about skipping me," Lando said, reaching for the left hand and giving him a firm pull, like a man reeling in treasure. He went in for a full hug, wrapping both arms tight around Carlos’s torso—face pressed to chest, like he was inhaling the fabric of Carlos’s tux and memorizing the scent.

By the time Lando pulled back—but did not let go—Carlos was standing center stage with Charles on his right, Lando on his left, and both of his hands fully occupied like some sort of medieval hostage offering peace to two warring kingdoms.

Someone coughed.

Cameras flashed.

Carlos turns his head, slow and careful like he's diffusing a bomb made of testosterone and friendship bracelets. Charles is still holding his right hand—not just holding it now, no, he’s laced their fingers together like they’re middle school soulmates about to carve their names into a desk. His thumb is brushing along the back of Carlos’s hand, soothing, territorial.

Lando has gone full limpet on the left. His cheek’s still half against Carlos’s chest, arms wound halfway back around his waist even though the hug should be over. His grip has not loosened. If anything, it’s firmer now. Like if he holds Carlos tight enough, long enough, the world will finally make sense again.

Carlos glances at the audience. Half of them are watching with rapt, frozen amusement. The other half are trying to calculate the odds of who Carlos will hug longer next time and whether or not this counts as public polyamory.

Rebecca? Rebecca is living. She has her phone out, casually recording the chaos for “private memories” but also possibly for a supercut compilation she’s building titled: “Men Losing Their Minds Over My Boyfriend: Vol. 7” She doesn’t get jealous. She gets content.

Now back to the stage—

The award presenter has finally made it to his mark, visibly unsure whether he’s arrived at the wrong part of the ceremony or walked into a deeply personal domestic moment. He coughs again. No one hears him.

Charles is saying something. It’s in French. It's low and way too intimate for a stage mic. Carlos laughs, quiet, genuine, his body jolting just slightly with it. Lando immediately scowls. "What’d he say?" he demands, like a little brother trying to keep up. Carlos tilts his head to respond, and Charles leans in again, looking like a man who’s just been granted a private sunrise.

But Lando—Lando is not going down without a fight.

He slides one hand up to Carlos’s face and does the unthinkable—he turns Carlos’s jaw back toward him, fingers soft on the curve of it like he’s handling glass.

Carlos blinks. Turns back. He smiles at Lando.

Charles sees red.

There’s now a visible tug-of-war happening. It’s not hands anymore—it’s gravity. Two forces pulling one sun.

Charles tightens his grip and shifts closer. Lando steps further in, all but climbing into Carlos’s lap. Carlos is in the middle, both arms stretched out in perfect balance, shoulders occupied, soul weary, still smiling like a man who’s just proud of his friends for caring this much.

He tries again. "Guys," he says, soft and warm like he's asking toddlers to share a toy. “The award?”

“Oh,” Lando says. “You mean our award?”

Charles just lifts his chin. “We did raise you.”

Carlos blinks. “I’m two years older than you.”

“That’s not the point,” Charles says.

Lando nods solemnly. “We taught you how to love.”

Rebecca snorts so hard she has to bite her sleeve.

And the poor presenter—still hovering—finally steps forward like he’s breaking up a slow dance at a wedding he wasn’t invited to. He clears his throat. Carlos hears him this time.

Which means—Carlos moves.

But does he wrench free? Push them off? Shove their ridiculous clingy selves aside?

No. No, no, no.

Carlos just pulls them both in—arms curling around each of them, Charles to the right, Lando to the left, cheek to temple, shoulder to shoulder—the most beautiful, infuriating, diplomatic group hug the world has ever seen.

The audience lets out an audible aww. Someone in the back whispers, “He’s the glue.” Another adds, “No, he’s the entire scrapbook.”

Carlos gives them both a soft squeeze—tender, gentle, grounding—and then peels himself away like a man parting the sea.

Finally, he steps forward, both hands now free, and accepts the award with that smile that says, Yes, I know they’re ridiculous. No, I don’t mind. Yes, I’ll probably hug them again in five minutes.

The applause swells.

Behind him, Charles and Lando are whispering furiously at each other, gesturing like divorced parents negotiating weekend custody. Rebecca can’t stop laughing. She uploads the clip with the caption:

“when your boyfriend’s bromance game is stronger than most people’s relationships”

[altee-221]

"Should I Call Rebecca?"

It’s halfway through the movie when it happens.

Carlos is relaxed. Too relaxed. The popcorn in his lap has become community property, stolen by the shameless hands of Lando, Charles, and occasionally George from the row behind.

The movie’s good. Flashy. Slick. Brad Pitt delivers every line like it’s made of gravel and tragedy. Damson Idris has people giggling with one raised eyebrow. There’s real racing footage spliced in between the drama. The drivers keep pointing at each other every time one of them flickers past.

Carlos has spotted himself once. Maybe twice. Always in the background. Grainy. Helmet on. Safe.

He is not worried.

Until the bar scene.

The music drops to a sultry little hush. Damson leans on the counter. There’s a girl beside him. She twirls her straw in her drink, raises an eyebrow.

“Wait, So you’re in like F1 ?” “Yeah.” “Can you introduce me to Carlos Sainz?”

Silence.

The theatre does not breathe.

And then—like a wave hitting a wall—every single person in the room turns.

Row after row. Seats creaking. Necks swiveling. The collective force of every living soul in Times Square shifting their attention.

Carlos freezes.

Charles inhales a wheeze so deep it echoes. Lando lets out a “HA!” so loud that the screen actually buffers. George kicks the back of Carlos’s seat in unfiltered joy.

“DID SHE JUST—” “SHE DID!” “INTRODUCE HER TO—” “TO HIM!”

Toto shouts from three rows back:

“Sainz! You didn’t tell us you were the lead romantic interest!”

Carlos, hands in the air:

“I didn’t know!” “I’m not even in that scene!”

“Carlos,” Charles says solemnly from beside him trying act as serious as possible. “Should I… should I call Rebecca?”

The entire row howls.

James Vowles, proud as a parent at a school play:

“She didn’t stutter. She knew what she wanted.”

Yuki, nearly falling over two rows ahead:

“SHE’S JUST LIKE ME FR.”

Carlos covers his face with both hands.

“I was told I wasn’t even in the movie,” he says into the void.

Lando’s still chanting:

“Should I call Rebecca? Should I call Rebecca?” “Hello, Rebecca? He’s RIGHT HERE. HOLD HIM BACKKK!!”

Oscar, helpfully:

“She’s got taste.”

Charles just pats Carlos’s knee and whispers, “It’s okay. You’re famous now.”

The actors are laughing now. Actual Hollywood actors. Brad Pitt is giggling. Damson has turned in his seat, twisted all the way around to grin at Carlos like he planned this personally.

“Told you, man. You’re global.”

Carlos is red. Visibly red. He sinks lower into his chair.

“I didn’t sign anything. I wasn’t mic’d. I was in the back.” “I was drinking a smoothie when they filmed that weekend.”

But it’s not over. Because then—it cuts.

New scene. No dialogue. Just golden hour.

The shot.

A slow pan.

Pit lane. Warm light.

And then—Carlos. On full screen. Alone.

Wearing nothing but a team polo. Wrinkled. Slightly crooked. A water bottle in hand. Earphones dangling.

The sunset hits just right. Hair backlit. Shoulders relaxed. Somehow the air moves around him like it’s in love.

He’s walking. No hurry. No pose. Just walking.

BUT he’s smiling.

Soft. Lazy. That golden-retriever kind of smile—like someone just told him a secret they knew he wouldn’t share. Like he’s in a good mood for no reason. Like he’s happy just to exist in that light, in that second, in that exact place.

The sunlight loves him. It glows off the curve of his cheeks makeing him look like a painting that accidentally learned how to move.

And the theatre erupts.

Chaos.

Pure, unfiltered chaos.

Lando: screaming. Charles: on the floor.

George yells, “I’M CALLING BECCA RIGHT NOW.” Oscar climbs over Carlos’s lap just to dramatically place his hand on Carlos’s heart and say, “This belongs to the people now.”

Toto is audibly crying with laughter. Lewis whispers reverently, “Oh, he is the moment.”

From somewhere in the crowd:

“WHY IS HE SMILING LIKE THAT?” “WHO SMILES IN GOLDEN LIGHT FOR FREE??”

Yuki, full volume:

“WHY IS THIS BETTER THAN THE ENDING OF LA LA LAND??”

Carlos is on the verge of tears.

“I was walking back from the catering tent.” “I had potato salad in the other hand.”

Oscar: “Potato salad didn’t make the cut. Your face did.”

Brad Pitt, somewhere near the front, turns around and lifts a hand like he’s hailing a king.

“Carlos Sainz, everybody. Star of stage and screen.”

Damson adds, grinning, “We didn’t colour-grade that shot. That was just raw footage. The sun did that for him.”

Carlos sinks into his seat.

“I’m never showing my face again.” “I’m gonna tell the team I’ve retired.”

Lando, gleeful:

“From motorsport?” “Or from being devastatingly handsome?”

[altee-221]

"Carlos & George: The Paddock Parents"

(a deeply emotional sitcom starring 20 drivers, a thousand problems, and two overworked guardians just trying to hold the family together)

Scene 1: Carlos, Mid-Interview

He’s radiant. That post-quali glow. Hair: windswept perfection. Smile: soft. Generous. Distractingly attractive. The interviewer’s barely functioning.

Carlos:

“We found good pace today, the car felt balanced—”

GEORGE ENTERS.

Storming in like a PTA mom who just got a call from the principal.

He’s holding his phone and a folder and what appears to be a partially unwrapped protein bar.

“Sorry—have you seen what your son just tweeted?!”

Carlos doesn’t even blink.

“Which one?”

George: shakes the phone dramatically

“Oscar. He posted a photo from the gravel with the caption ‘vibes.’ VIBES, Carlos.”

Carlos:

“Did he crash?”

George: “He was nudged.”

Carlos: “He’s fine.”

George: “HE’S IN CROCS.”

Carlos, turning to the interviewer:

“Excuse me. I have to go speak to my son.”

Scene 2: The GPDA Lunch Table

Carlos and George are at their usual spot. Two plates. Two iPads. Six documents. Twelve complaints.

Enter Yuki, sulking.

Yuki:

“Max yelled at me.”

George:

“What did you do?”

Yuki:

“Nothing! Maybe. I might’ve taken a shortcut through his garage.”

George:

“Yuki.”

Carlos, calmly handing him a juice box:

“Did you say sorry?”

Yuki:

“I brought him gum.”

Carlos:

“That’s fine.”

George:

“No, it’s not—he threw a wrench.”

Carlos:

“But the gum is nice.”

Yuki beams. George seethes. Carlos wins.

Scene 3: Mid-Driver Briefing

A rookie is shaking. Literally trembling in his chair. The stewards are harsh today.

Carlos leans over from behind, squeezes the kid’s shoulder. George silently slides him a pen and paper.

On it, Carlos has written:

“Breathe. You’re not alone. We’re here.”

And George has added:

“Also never say ‘I thought it was legal.’ Say ‘I was reacting instinctively to evolving conditions.’”

Scene 4: Social Media Fiasco

George barges into Carlos’s room, phone in hand.

“DID YOU SEE WHAT CHARLES POSTED?”

Carlos:

“He looked cute?”

George:

“He’s in the medical centre, Carlos. He fainted because he skipped breakfast.”

Carlos:

“Oh. That’s less cute.”

Cut to 15 minutes later. Carlos is seen in the Ferrari motorhome with a bag of pastries, forcing Charles to sit down and eat while patting his head.

George is in the background, arms crossed, whispering:

“You spoil them.”

Carlos:

“They’re ours.”

Scene 5: Strategy Debrief

The debrief is chaos. Everyone’s yelling about tyres and track limits and “who moved my brake bias settings.”

George is frustrated.

Carlos is... braiding Lando’s hair.

George:

“Can you focus?”

Carlos:

“He was stressed.”

George:

“So you’re parenting in the middle of a tyre war??”

Carlos, smiling:

“Yes.”

Scene 6: A Driver is in Trouble

Zhou spun in FP3. The car’s a mess. He’s gutted.

Camera catches him sitting on the floor of the garage, shoulders shaking.

Then—Carlos.

Sits beside him. Doesn’t speak. Just lets Zhou lean against him like a kid needing safety.

Minutes later, George storms in:

“Did you file the form for the damaged sensor?” “Who’s getting fined?” “Does he have electrolytes?”

Carlos just pats Zhou’s back.

“Let him breathe. We’ll fix the rest.”

And George... exhales.

Sits on the other side.

They stay there. One shoulder each. One calm. One panicked. But always there.

Cut To: Rookies in Confessional

Oscar:

“Carlos tells you it’s okay to mess up. George makes sure you learn from it.”

Liam:

“If I had a nightmare about stewards, I’d call Carlos.”

Isack:

“If I skipped a meal, George would appear in my kitchen like a food-delivering ghost.”

Scene 7: “Your Son” Wars

Carlos, storming into the Williams motorhome:

“George. Your son hit a foam barrier and blamed the wind.”

George:

“Absolutely not. That is your son. I raised them to take responsibility.”

Carlos:

“He used my media phrases and your hand gestures.”

George, sighing:

“Fine. He’s both ours.”