Hate to race lestappen

The Futile Devices

The flight to Baku felt shorter than it was. Charles watched the clouds blur past the window, the familiar buzz of engines a strange comfort after the quiet of the Swiss mountains.

It was already a jarring change—back to noise, back to cameras, back to the endless cycle of racing and media and expectations. But at least they were together. That was the only thing that had stayed the same.

At the airport, Charles let Max go ahead. He wanted to slip away for a moment alone. He grabbed a coffee from a small kiosk near arrivals, the bitter heat burning away the last traces of sleep and silence. The rush of people, the flicker of cameras in the distance—it was overwhelming and familiar all at once.

Max was already checked in at the hotel by the time Charles arrived. Same building, different floors. No plans were made; it just happened that way. Charles liked it. There was comfort knowing Max was close, even if they weren't side by side. They both needed space sometimes.

No one outside their tight circle knew the truth. The media still spun stories of rivalry and tension; fans debated who hated who more.

Their friends knew better, still not all, but to the world, Max and Charles were enemies. It was easier that way—for now. The quiet moments they shared, the stolen glances, the hidden smiles—it all stayed behind closed doors, far from prying eyes.

A few hours after check-in, Charles bumped into Pierre in the lobby. Pierre was his usual loud, unfiltered self, and before Charles could escape, Pierre had already asked if he'd be joining him at some club in Vegas after the race. Charles said nothing, just nodded. He wasn't sure what to expect, but part of him wanted to go—wanted to feel normal again, even if just for a night.

Then he dragged him out for a snack, something sugary and unnecessary, talking a mile a minute like they hadn't seen each other in years. It grounded Charles a little, hearing Pierre go on about nonsense—tennis, someone's breakup, a disaster of a photoshoot in Paris.

The days that followed were a blur of press conferences and interviews. Media day hit hard. Cameras flashed, microphones crowded in, questions poured nonstop—about the championship, the rivalry, the tension everyone assumed simmered beneath the surface.

Charles smiled through it all, practiced answers ready on his tongue. But inside, the usual anxiety was missing. This time, he was calm.

He was playing the game like always, but the fear that usually knotted in his stomach wasn't there.

If Max won, he told himself, he'd be happy for him. Genuinely, without resentment or bitterness.

And if he won, well... he hoped Max would be too.

He didn't know what that would look like—Max wasn't exactly easy to read—but Charles was willing to believe it could work. That they could figure it out, like they always did.

There was still so much uncertainty, the championship looming large in the background like a shadow. But Charles felt something new—something real.

Trust.

The thought kept him grounded as he moved through the crowded hotel corridors and flashing cameras.

Friday came with its usual rhythm—briefings, track walks, early morning coffees in stiff chairs and cold garages. Charles liked Fridays. The pressure wasn't suffocating yet, and there was always something about slipping into the car for practice that steadied him. Like the moment his helmet went on, the world just hushed.

The track felt good. Fast. Sharp. Charles loved Baku, despite everything. Or maybe because of everything.

It had once broken his heart, but this time of year always brought him back—reminded him of where he came from, who he raced for. He didn't speak it aloud anymore, but this was the place he remembered his father most. After his dad died, this was the race he threw himself into. And he won. And the people here never forgot that.