Maybe in another life-formula 1

Turn off the lights.

The music was too loud.

The bass thumped through the floor of the club, rattling glasses, reverberating through bones. It was the kind of music designed to feel rather than hear, to drown out thoughts and replace them with nothing but sensation. It did its job well.

Red Bull had conquered their home race with a double podium at the Red Bull Ring, and the team was celebrating like they had won the championship. The drinks flowed as freely as the laughter, mechanics, and engineers toasting each other, drivers caught in the swirling energy of the crowd.

Angelus should be happy.

He had helped make this happen. His adjustments had brought Pérez back onto the podium. His work had mattered.

And yet, standing at the bar, whiskey in hand, Angelus felt... nothing.

Well, not nothing. Something deeper, something heavier sat in his chest. A kind of hollow ache that had been growing for weeks, pressing into his ribs like a weight he couldn't shake. He blamed it on exhaustion, on the relentless stress of his job, on the fresh diagnosis he still hadn't wrapped his head around.

But deep down, he knew what it really was.

Loneliness.

It hit him hardest at moments like these, when everyone around him was together when they had someone to pull close, to share the night with. His old rivals, his old teammates, people he used to stand beside on the grid, are now surrounded by partners, friends, and people who fit seamlessly into their lives.

And then there was Max.

They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. But Angelus never believed that bullshit. Distance had been his salvation. When Max was far away, when they lived in different worlds, when they never had to cross paths—it was easy. He didn't care, or at least he told himself that. He was busy enough to forget. Out of sight, out of mind.

But now, proximity made it unbearable.

Now, Max was everywhere. In the paddock. In the garage. In meetings, debriefs, celebrations, and post-race analysis. Always just close enough for Angelus to feel the weight of something he'd once had, and now never would again. It wasn't fair how something so long buried could still have the power to hurt.

He caught himself noticing things he shouldn't. The way Max still furrowed his brows when he was thinking, biting the inside of his cheek like he always had. The way he still bounced his knee when he was restless, foot tapping against the floor in a quiet rhythm. The way his voice still had that edge of frustration when things weren't going right, tempered now by years of experience but still so distinctly him.

It wasn't just the familiarity that stung. It was the reminder.

Because Angelus knew what it was like to have Max's attention without barriers between them, to be the person Max turned to with unfiltered thoughts, sharp humor, and the rare softness most never got to see. He knew what it felt like to be understood by him in a way no one else had managed.

And now?

Now, it was professionality, it was him putting up his walls to save himself, they only spoke when they needed to.

And somehow, that hurt more than the distance ever did.

Angelus felt his gaze before he even looked. A weight at the edge of his vision. When he turned his head slightly, there he was across the room, standing next to Kelly, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

But Max wasn't paying attention to her.

He was watching him.

Angelus's fingers tightened around his glass. He didn't want to think about that either.