Little drabbels - F1 house life - fanfiction

Moral compass

The large living room was filled with the sound of laughter and the occasional clink of glasses as the older drivers shared stories from their years on the circuit. The cozy atmosphere, with its soft lighting and plush couches, made it the perfect setting for reminiscing. Kimi, Seb, Lewis, Nico, Kevin, and Valtteri were in the middle of recounting some of the more colorful and borderline unbelievable tales from their pasts, much to the amusement of the younger drivers scattered around the room.

Max sat on the floor, leaning back against Checo's legs, his head resting comfortably between the Mexican's knees. Lando was sprawled out beside him, a lazy grin on his face as he listened to Lewis dive into another story. The rest of the group was similarly relaxed, either sitting on the floor or lounging on the couches, soaking in the atmosphere.

"So, there was this one time," Lewis began, his voice carrying a conspiratorial tone, "we were in Monaco, and this driver—I won't name names, but let's just say he had a reputation for being a bit of a hothead—crashed out during practice. He was absolutely furious, so instead of heading back to the paddock like any sane person would, he stormed down to the garage of the guy who'd been holding him up and started a full-on fight. Fists flying and everything. The team tried to break it up, but it was pure chaos."

The room erupted into laughter, though some of the younger drivers exchanged nervous glances, unsure whether to believe the story. Lewis continued, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "And that's not even the half of it. There was all this shady stuff happening behind the scenes—team orders that didn't make any sense, and whispers that the fight was just a distraction for something even bigger. But who knows? That's F1 for you."

Max listened intently, but as Lewis's story grew more outrageous, a frown began to form on his face. He glanced up at Checo, who was chuckling along with the others, and then over at Lando, who was grinning like a kid hearing a ghost story. After a moment of hesitation, Max shifted slightly and spoke up.

"I'm not going to do that," he said, his voice firm despite the light-hearted atmosphere. "That's against my moral compass."

For a moment, the room was silent, the air thick with anticipation of how Lewis might respond. Then, Lewis threw his head back and laughed, a deep, genuine laugh that filled the room. "Your moral compass?" he echoed, still chuckling. "Max, your moral compass is a fucking roulette wheel!"

The room erupted in laughter again, but not everyone was at ease. On a nearby couch, Esteban sat stiffly beside Pierre, his body tensing at the mention of a moral compass. The laughter around him only served to heighten his discomfort as memories of his own past interactions with Max began to surface—memories that were anything but pleasant.

Esteban couldn't help but remember their earlier days, back when they were both younger and more volatile. The incident that stuck out most was their infamous clash on track, a collision that had spiraled into a shouting match and even some physical pushing. Max's fury had been overwhelming, and Esteban, though he tried to stand his ground, had been deeply shaken by the confrontation.

Now, sitting in the room with Max just a few feet away, Esteban felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He glanced over at Pierre, who seemed to be enjoying the stories, but when Pierre noticed Esteban's discomfort, his expression softened. Though their relationship had been strained in the past, they had been slowly rebuilding their friendship, and Pierre felt a pang of protectiveness.

Without drawing too much attention, Pierre shifted closer to Esteban, subtly placing a hand on his friend's arm. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but it was enough to anchor Esteban in the present, pulling him away from the unsettling memories. Esteban gave Pierre a quick, appreciative glance, grateful for the silent support.

Just then, someone from across the room, unaware of the tension simmering beneath the surface, made a joking comment about the infamous incident between Max and Esteban. The words hung in the air like a dagger, and the room seemed to hold its breath.

Esteban felt his heart sink as the spotlight shifted to him. He desperately wanted to disappear, to melt into the couch and escape the sudden attention. His mind raced, searching for something—anything—to say that might defuse the situation. But all he could feel was the weight of the past pressing down on him, making him want to curl up and hide from the world.

Meanwhile, Max's reaction was immediate. The playful atmosphere vaporized as his face flushed a deep shade of red, his eyes dropping to the floor. Shame washed over him in waves, memories of his actions flooding back with painful clarity. He had been so young, so full of anger, and he had lashed out at Esteban in a way that still haunted him.

Max turned slightly, burying his face in Checo's legs, trying to escape the burning shame. He knew he had apologized before, but the guilt lingered, a dark shadow that he couldn't shake. He didn't want Esteban to feel uncomfortable, didn't want to reopen old wounds.

"I'm sorry," Max mumbled, his voice muffled against Checo's jeans. It was a sincere apology, one that carried the weight of his regret.

Esteban, though still uneasy, felt a pang of sympathy for Max. He hadn't expected the apology, especially not in front of everyone. Trying to shake off his own discomfort, Esteban looked over at Max, who still hadn't lifted his head. "You don't have to apologize," Esteban said quietly, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "It's in the past. We've both moved on."

Max finally looked up, his expression a mix of gratitude and lingering guilt. He gave Esteban a small, tentative nod, acknowledging the forgiveness but still feeling the weight of it all. The room had fallen into a silence, they all knew about the encounter and what it did.

Checo, always attuned to Max's moods, gently squeezed his shoulders in reassurance, a silent reminder that he wasn't alone. Lando, who had been watching the interaction with a concerned expression, reached out and nudged Max's arm, offering a supportive smile.

Pierre, meanwhile, kept his hand on Esteban's arm, a quiet gesture of solidarity that spoke volumes. The two weren't fully back to where they once were, but moments like this reminded them both of the importance of their friendship, of the bond they were slowly but surely rebuilding.

After a moment, the tension began to ease, the room settling back into a more comfortable atmosphere. Nico, always one to sense when things needed lightening up, cracked a joke about one of his own wild experiences, drawing the attention away from Max and Esteban and coaxing a few chuckles from the group.

Slowly the conversation shifted away from the past and back to more light-hearted topics, the older drivers continuing their storytelling with renewed energy. Max, though still a bit shaken, relaxed into Checo's embrace, feeling the comfort of being surrounded by people who, despite everything, accepted him and liked being around him.

Max and Esteban exchanged a brief, understanding glance. It wasn't just about forgiveness—it was about moving forward, about growing and learning from their shared history. Both had learned a lot since then and were ready to get over with it once and for all.