Meowiarty

Spain, 2016:

Nico pulls a stray feather, adding it to the small pile of Lewis' feathers on the edge of the hotel bed.

"What do you think? You or me for this one?"

Lewis shrugs sleepily.

"I have pole, but you've got the lead."

Nico laughs softly, brushing through Lewis' wing.

"You should let me have this one."

Lewis' wings twitch.

"As if."

------

Japan, 2016:

Lewis walks in on Nico trimming his wings on the bathroom floor with a pair of kitchen scissors. The visual jars him so violently he's frozen for a moment as Nico meets his eyes, a broken coo slipping out of his throat. Nico's feathers are beautiful even in their mutiliated horror, cut at a sharp angles against the tile, blood smeared across Nico's fingers.

Nico is motionless, fingers twitching around the scissors, but he finds his voice a moment later.

"Did you know that a minor can get their wings trimmed in Germany with parental consent? It can save up to seven tenths of a second."

Lewis swallows thickly. It's an out of body experience, the scene in front of him, and Nico's voice is practically clinical about it.

"Why?"

Nico blinks rapidly a few times, pupils consuming his iris, voice still terrifyingly flat.

"If you start it early enough, the fledgling may develop desensitization. They might even grow to prefer it. Eventually, it stops feeling like a missing limb."

His wings twitch.

"If I do it enough, it'll stop hurting."

Lewis crumples to his knees, reaching out as Nico jerks violently back against the bathtub.

"Nico—"

It's not worth seven tenths. Nothing could be worth what Nico is doing, sliced off feathers scattered on the floor, and there's bile in Lewis' throat as he suddenly scrambles backwards, fingers scrabbling for his phone.

"Siri, call Toto,"

Nico's eyes blow wide as he launches himself forward at Lewis, blood fingers outstretched.

"No—!"

------

Abu Dhabi, 2016:

It's Max coming to join him on the rooftop. Lewis knows this because Max is one of the only drivers that bothers to use to stairs, and the hatch to the rooftop creaks.

"Hey."

He glances to his left as a pair of worn trainers enters his field of view, and then Max is settling cross legged next to him.

"How is it down there?"

Max hums.

"Some journos are saying that you pulled out Nico's feathers a few months ago, and that's why he got put on medical leave."

Lewis huffs a wry laugh.

"Let me guess, he's not denying it."

Max shrugs, moonlight reflecting off of his juvenile plumage.

"Right."

Lewis stretches back on his hands, letting his legs dangle over the edge of the roof.

"Do you believe that?"

He's not sure why he's asking. Max is a baby, one he barely knows, and he's certainly had the media on him this season, but Lewis doesn't feel sorry for him. He would've learned how to handle the attention eventually either way, if he's a good enough driver. Ultimately, what Max thinks about the situation between him and Nico doesn't matter.

Maybe that's why he's asking.

Max folds his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and resting his chin on them as he sighs.

"I think he trimmed them."

Lewis freezes, one breath stumbling into the next as his eyes widen. Clearly Max catches his reaction, snorting quietly.

"It is obvious, if you know what to look for. But he did not do a good job. It was sloppy. Two tenths, maybe, even if Mercedes had let him race."

Lewis turns his head, gaze flicking across Max. He'd gotten a good look at him during his first win, when Toto had made him and Nico watch the race over and over again, reminding them that the podium should've been theirs. He remembers thinking Max had fledgling wings still, not quite grown into all of his feathers.

Now, he looks closer. Max lets him, blue eyes watching impassively as Lewis takes in the length of his feathers, the rounded curves at the end of them. They're perfectly symmetrical at the ends, not a ragged edge to be found.

"What would you know about that? You're what, twelve?"

Max lets out a dry laugh, wings twitching away from Lewis' gaze.

"Do not stare at them. I have a growth condition, that is why mine are small. Rosberg has a brain condition. It is different."

Lewis narrows his eyes, a familiar defensive fire rising inside of him at the jab to Nico, but he doesn't have it in him to nurture the flame. God knows Nico certainly isn't doing the same for him down with the press right now.

"You can just say you still have fledgling feathers, man. We've all seen your bedhead."

One soft wing knocks against his gently as Max stands.

"Fuck you, mate."

Lewis stretches out his own wings with a flourish.

"Nice chatting, Verstappen. Hey, it's faster to just jump, you know?"

Max's trainers scratch against the gravel of the roof.

"I know. Taking the stairs is good for my legs."

Lewis files it away in his mind, stored alongside other asinine details, like the way Hulk's shoulders shake when he laughs, or how Sebastian's hair has taken a downward turn since he left Red Bull, or how Daniel's wings curve towards his new teammate in every room.

Things that only matter a little bit.

------

Canada, 2017:

Lewis curls a lock of Daniel's hair around his finger.

"How's the babysitting?"

Daniel cracks an eye at him, frowning.

"Mate, we just fucked and you're asking me about my teammate? He's barely legal, come on now."

Lewis chokes on his spit, slapping Daniel's shoulder.

"Not like that— Jesus Danny. You know that's not what I meant."

Daniel rolls onto his front and stretches his wings, letting the warm glow of the lamp curve across his feathers, glossy and well taken care of.

"We've been preening a bit, whenever I can pin him down long enough."

There's a forced lightness to his tone, and Lewis is so taken aback by it that he blinks. Daniel is hiding something from him.

Daniel has never hidden something from him before.

"Fine, don't tell me."

Daniel just shrugs at the implicit accusation.

"Trade secrets and all that. He's actually secretly the next Seb, and we're trying not to let anyone figure it out."

Lewis laughs loudly enough that his neighbor bangs their fist on the other side of the wall, and Daniel watches him with a new kind of fondness in his gaze.

------

Pre-season, 2019:

The new addition to the rule book and standards slips past most of them— it's Alex who points it out, sprawled in Lando's nest while George preens his wings.

"Mate, there's a section about no trimming wings."

Lando's head pops up, hair askew, and George frowns.

"What? Who the fuck was trimming? That's insane, holy shit. We would've heard about that."

George pulls a stray feather out and adds it to the pile.

"I wonder how much time that's worth?"

Alex presses his lips together, wings slumping.

"Not enough."

------

France, 2019:

"Max, over here! What do you have to say about the speculation over the length of your wings? What about the accusations of you taking steroids?"

Max's wings twitch briefly as he frowns, and Lewis winces.

"That is a stupid question. My wings are the same as they have always been, and we of course get drug tested constantly. Ask me about racing next time."

Well, at least he's not threatening reporters anymore. Lewis spares a moment to wonder how much the Red Bull PR team gets paid, mournfully thinking about what his career could've been like if he got to be as carefree as their drivers are. The team almost always backs them up in public, even if there's a disagreement behind closed doors.

When they all file out of the press pen, he glances at the ends of Max's wings to see what all the fuss has been about. Sure, they're longer now, but that's just him leaving his fledgling wings behind— he's a late bloomer. He narrows his eyes slightly when he realizes the end shape is different now, a few uneven ends and the typical signs of wear and tear.

He'd been under the impression that Max took good care of his wings, after he'd seen how perfect the ends of his fledgling feathers had been, but this seems to suggest the opposite— that he's like the rest of them, letting his wings fall as an afterthought to everything else.

Weird.

------

Austria, 2021:

The severe weather alarm is loud enough that it startles Lewis out of his sleep, squinting at his phone screen as he jabs to turn it off. The weather has taken a rough turn this weekend, and there's speculation about if they'll even race at all. He sees a text from Toto about making sure they've all got a torch with them, and he groans when he realizes he'd forgotten to repack one in his bag.

His neighbor probably has one. The hotel had needed to reshuffle several of the rooms and occupants when they'd arrived, leaving all the teams mixed up and separated, and while Toto's irritation about the situation had been funny at the moment, Lewis is wincing now at the realization that he has no clue who is next to him.

Part of the F1 circus? Definitely. A Mercedes team member? His chances are lower.

He sucks it up, pulling on a jumper as he steps into his slippers, crossing his fingers that he's somehow still ended up next to Valtteri. He knocks a few times on the door, tapping his foot impatiently.

Valtteri doesn't take this long. He knocks again, already irritated about being out of bed. He'd rather be at home in his nest, not standing in the hall in a pair of shorts and hotel slippers.

The door swings open, and he's face to face with a disgruntled Max Verstappen, hair sticking out at all angles, feathers askew.

"Wha— Lewis?"

He blinks a few times, one hand coming up to rub at his eyes as he leans against the doorframe, and Lewis isn't sure why he catches it— he'll think back on it over and over again for years, wondering what about this moment had made him pay attention. There's smears of pink near Max's fingertips, dark half moons under the edges of his nails.

Lewis is reminded of a bathroom floor in 2016. He's reminded of the way Max refuses to fly, or the perfectly rounded edges of his fledgling feathers, and his gaze drops to Max's wings now. They desperately need a preen, but there's a few splattered edges that don't seem like his normal plumage in the dim lighting, and Lewis—

He doesn't bully himself inside. He just steps forward, ignoring Max's confused noise as he nudges them both back into Max's room, letting the door shut behind him. The other driver is staring at him in complete bafflement, clearly still half asleep, but Lewis can see the moment his brain starts to wake up, eyes widening and mouth twisting into a scowl as the thunder booms outside.

"What the fuck is your problem, mate?"

Lewis fumbles for the light switch, and Max's eyes widen as he lunges forward, hand outstretched as Lewis flicks the overhead on. Max's bed is more nest-like than his own, but it's the dark smears of red across the bedding that has his heart thudding, wings twitching. Max's own snap out to block his view as he snaps his fingers.

"Lewis! What do you—"

He cuts off, feathers puffing up as he glares, clearly trying to reorient himself, and Lewis can see the blood where he must have pulled pin feathers too early.

That's— that's manageable. That's not wing trimming, it's just Max being really fucking stupid about molting, which—

"Why are you molting?"

The confusion has overridden the fear that had started to rise inside of him. His tone change clearly registers to Max, who folds his wings behind him, eyes still narrowed.

"None of your business. I have a growth condition."

His frown deepens.

"You knew that."

Lewis pauses, suddenly feeling awkward. How the fuck is he going to explain this to Toto if Max takes the situation to Christian?

"I..."

He did know that. Max had told him on the rooftop ages ago, while Nico had been letting the media believe Lewis had pulled out his feathers, hurting him instead of trying to save him, trying to pull him back from a ledge he refused to leave. Nico hadn't started trimming until he'd heard it was a procedure that fledglings could do in Germany. The only fledgling they'd had who'd spent any time near Germany at the time—

Max's fledgling feathers that had lasted into his late teens, his refusal to join flock preening sessions, his perfectly symmetrical feather ends, his refusal to fly, the fact that his adult plumage hadn't started to come in until he was 21, after the FIA had banned wing trimming.

Max's feathers, clearly still trying to grow for the first time.

"You're not molting— you're recovering."

Lewis' voice sounds odd to his own ears as he says it, the puzzle pieces starting to click together. It'd be impossible to notice that Max's wings had changed if he'd been trimming them the whole time, even if the idea is nearly incomprehensible in its primal horror.

Max's eyes widen for a moment as his wings fluff defensively again.

"I never broke any rules. There is nothing you can take to the FIA, so you can leave now."

There's a fragile thread to his voice, and Lewis has entirely forgotten what he came here for in the first place, but— Max's nest is bloody, and his nails are a mess, and even with their championship fight looming over both of them, Lewis can't help the part of his brain screaming flock at him.

"I have an ointment. For pin feathers."

He has no idea why he's offering, especially not when Max is giving him the expression he is, but then he sees Max's wing twitch, and the thought of how itchy it must be has his skin crawling.

"I don't have a motive, Max. But that's got to hurt, man."

Max watches him warily, but then he's stepping into his own slippers, and Lewis realizes with a spike of uncertainty that Max is agreeing.

He hadn't really expected him to agree.

"I'm in the room on your right. I'll grab the stuff and clean up a bit, and you can come over whenever you're ready."

Max furrows his brows, looking at him oddly.

"You're not just giving it to me?"

Shit. Lewis should, it would make the most sense, but something nestled deeply inside of him cowers at the thought of it. Somehow, when he wasn't looking, Max has become flock, and Lewis refuses to leave him in distress.

"I'll do it this time, so you know what to do, and then you can take it so you know what to do next time."

Max's wings twitch again.

"I know how to get rid of a pin feather, Lewis."

Lewis raises a brow, and Max cringes.

"Fine."

------

Max falls asleep in Lewis' haphazard nest halfway through the preen, shoulders slowly relaxing with each breath. Most of the pin feathers were ready to go, requiring only gentle coaxing from Lewis for the sheath to shed away, but he's careful as he applies ointment to the few that aren't ready yet. He suspects it's the half-preen he's doing that had relaxed Max, straightening his sleep rumpled feathers and checking for any debris while the younger driver dozed off.

He finds the feathers that Max must have pulled himself, damaged and slightly bloody still, and he does his best to be as gentle with them as he can be while he cleans them.

This isn't something he'd gotten to do with Nico after he'd found out. His last preen with Nico had been before Max won his first race, and after he'd called Toto about the trimming—

Well. Nico hadn't let him anywhere near him after that. There's something cathartic about preening Max, smoothing over a ragged patch in his heart that he thought he might have to live with forever. He and Max are fighting, sure, but it's not carrying off track the way it had with Nico, not that he and Max are even remotely close enough for that to happen anyways.

Still, he can't help the way he feels himself start to settle as he works on Max's other wing, easing the wound in his heart feather by feather. He still can't pinpoint when Max became flock— was it the moment in 2016, when he'd joined him on the roof? When Lewis had noticed details he'd chosen to willfully ignore?

If that was when it happened, why has Lewis never cared like he does now?

He knows the answer, even if he doesn't like it. Max and Daniel had clearly been flock, enough that Lewis' hindbrain must have decided Max had someone on the grid looking out for him already, so he didn't need to. But now with Daniel's move into Renault, his hindbrain has decided that wasn't enough.

He doesn't want to race flock. It had ended so awful for him with Nico that he'd thought about leaving, the jagged hole in his heart gaping and bleeding when Nico had left him behind.

But Max is clearly flock by accident, so maybe it won't hurt to try it just one more time, if it's going to go away naturally.

------

December, 2021:

Lewis had let his phone die a few hours ago, lying on the bed with his wings outstretched, hand petting across Roscoe, when the knocking on his door starts.

He ignores it, even as Roscoe gives a low boof.

It doesn't stop. He rolls over with a groan, dragging his feet as he makes his way to the door, yanking it open with a scowl.

"What."

Max Verstappen ducks under his arm and past his wings to let himself into Lewis' flat, making a soft noise of surprise at Roscoe.

"Oh hello!"

He beelines for the jar with Roscoe's treats, and Lewis blinks, still standing with the door open, utterly confused.

"Yes, you are so cute. You are perfect."

He finally shuts the door, turning to take in where Max is crouched carefully on the floor, running one hand down Roscoe's back.

"Max?"

He looks up at Lewis, wings folded behind him. They're longer than Lewis has ever seen them before, beautiful feathers brushing against the kitchen tile.

"Your flat is a mess."

Lewis' feathers fluff.

"I didn't need you to come over here and tell me that. Why are you here?"

He tries not to sound bitter.

"Don't you have world champion things to be doing?"

Max shrugs, cooing as Roscoe before he slowly straightens up.

"I am still concussed a little, so I'm supposed to be 'recovering'." He raises his fingers in lazy quote marks as he rolls his eyes, but then he flashes a small grin at Lewis.

"And I figured you would of course be wallowing and shit, so. Here I am."

Lewis blinks.

"You know I lost to you, right? You're like... the last person I should want to see right now."

Max flaps a hand dismissively as he pads over to the kitchen, peeking into the dishwasher.

"That's stupid. The championship is over, and we're flock."

Lewis chokes on his own spit, banging a fist into his chest as Max hunts under the sink for a dishwasher pod.

"How do you know— no, we're not."

Max pauses, turning his head to stare at him judgmentally.

"You came to preen me while I was asleep in the hospital. In front of my sister. You thought I was not going to figure it out?"

He makes a triumphant noise when he locates the pods, slotting one into the dishwasher before loading the unfortunate collection that Lewis had let build up. Lewis manages to find his voice a moment later, making his way into the kitchen to try and help in a half daze.

"How long have you known?"

Max shrugs.

"The back end of the season, pretty much. But I figured you were not wanting to talk about it."

He bats Lewis' hands away from the dishes.

"Go remake the nest and mope in there. Or in the living room. I am going to do some things and then I will come preen you."

He pauses.

"Do you want me to walk Roscoe? Otherwise I can ask Charles to do it."

Lewis' feathers puff up.

"I can walk my own dog, thanks."

"Okay."

------

New Year, 2022:

Max moves in. Lewis isn't entirely sure when it happens, he just knows that Max is around all the time, and eventually he suggests letting Roscoe meet his cats, and that's sort of the beginning of the end. Lewis can't find it within himself to argue when it means he's getting daily preens.

Max is more casual with his affection than Lewis would've expected— he'll sort out his feathers while Lewis is trying to brush his teeth in the mornings, or fix the collar of his shirt when Lewis is running behind.

Lewis knows several of the younger drivers are flock and live together, but he can't bring himself to ask why Max isn't with them. He knows deep down it's because he doesn't actually want Max to leave.

They have a routine going, where Lewis goes on morning walks with Roscoe and brings back breakfast, and Max drags himself out the door for his morning run after. They usually spend their free time in the living room nest, although Max is in and out sometimes, going out with the other younger drivers or settling in the sim for hours at a time until Lewis is prodding at him to stretch.

He always ends up helping work out the knots in his shoulders that Max says he isn't going to get each time, and Max always ends up asleep after.

They rotate who makes dinner, and when Max wants anything that isn't vegetarian, he'll go out with one of the other drivers. It's a good system, on that Lewis finds himself relaxing into all too quickly.

It's easy to get complacent.

------

Pre-season, 2022:

"—and so... Sorry, Lewis, is there someone with you?"

Lewis startles when Toto says his name, taking a moment to process the question.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry Toto, my flockmate is in the nest with me right now. He's asleep, he's not hearing anything."

Toto sighs fondly at him, and Lewis is already thinking of the rumors that will be flying at the factory now. It's well known that he'd somewhat sworn off having a flock for a bit— and highly speculated on within the media— so for him to admit that he has one, especially one sharing his nest with him... He's definitely going to get a text from Bono.

"I will have HR send you the paperwork for him to fill out."

Lewis nods, tuning back into the meeting as it carries on, and it isn't until the meeting is over and his leg is falling asleep from Max lying half on top of him that he realizes the problem.

HR is going to send flockmate paperwork. Paperwork that Max has to sign. With his name.

"Shit."

------

He calls Seb. He's not sure why, other than the fact that Seb has matured tremendously and nowadays only makes Lewis want to shove him into the ocean a little bit.

"So he's... huh. Wouldn't have expected that from you, Lewis."

Seb pauses.

"There are people that thought it would be you and me."

Lewis makes a soft noise of understanding, one hand petting through Max's wing absentmindedly. He's still asleep, Roscoe and Jimmy curled at his chest, and Lewis doesn't want to move them yet. Sassy watches him judgmentally from the top of the entertainment center.

"I don't really know how it happened, Seb."

"But you don't hate it."

"I don't."

Saying it out loud sparks a gentle feeling of fondness. He looks down and moves his hand to brush through the back of Max's hair, making a mental note to add a haircut to their shared calendar. Seb makes a considering noise over the phone.

"You're not the first flockmates to be from different teams. There should be paperwork for it."

He's already dreading the paperwork part, and he's sure Max won't be thrilled either, but he has no idea how Christian and Toto are going to react.

Toto... Toto might look past the fact that it's Max, of all people. Lewis knows he and Susie have been concerned about him, they'd even offered to let him join their flock for a while, but he'd denied them each time. He doesn't know enough about Christian to make a guess, although Max seems to get plenty of leeway when it comes to doing whatever he wants.

"I don't know why I'm nervous about the paperwork."

Seb hums, and Max shifts slightly, one wing twitching as he readjusts in his sleep.

"Makes it real. Right now it is the offseason, so it doesn't really count, yes? When the paperwork is filed, you'll get flock rooms in the hotels and shared accommodations. There's no pretending that it isn't happening."

His voice gentles.

"I think you are maybe afraid of that part."

Last time Lewis had gotten flock rooms with shared accommodations, it had been with Nico.

He hates when Seb is right.

------

Pre-season, 2022:

Max winces, holding the phone away from his ear as Lewis listens to the loud German crackling through the speakers. When it quiets down, he brings it back to his ear.

"Thank you Helmut, I will send over the paperwork."

The German starts again, and he hangs up. Lewis raises an eyebrow, stepping over to lean against Max's back, wings brushing together.

"That seemed... loud."

Max shrugs, leaning back into him.

"It's just Helmut. You know how he is."

He pauses.

"Or you've heard, I am sure."

Lewis laughs softly, watching the light reflect off of his feathers pressed next to Max's.

"I've heard a few things. I take it the team doesn't approve?"

Max's mouth twitches.

"The team respects my choices. They'll come around to the rest of it eventually."

One of his wings twitches as he winces.

"Well, GP doesn't like you much. I don't think that is changing, but he will be polite."

Lewis vows mentally to work on that. He knows GP is important to Max, even if his flockmate has never gone into detail about how much, and he wants to at least get along with the man.

"I'll send him a flower basket."

He neglects to mention how Bono had kept a picture of GP on his desk for an entire season— it's a Mercedes tradition, and while they may be flockmates, Max is still Red Bull, and the team is immature enough that Lewis doesn't trust them with the information. The last thing he wants is for the team to retaliate with something ridiculous and start a mini war in the pits.

He tugs Max gently towards the nest in the bedroom, relaxing when they're both flopped in the bedding, sunlight landing perfectly in the middle of the nest through the windows. They can spend an hour or two napping in the sunlight, and then it's Max's turn to get groceries, and Lewis needs to have another meeting with Angela.

"I will miss this."

Max's voice is casual as he snuggles into the bedding, and when Lewis snaps his head around to stare at him in confusion, he doesn't even have his eyes open. The sunlight gleams across his hair and shines warmly on his wings, and Lewis wants to freeze the moment in his memory forever of his flockmate looking so content, if not for the sheer confusion he's feeling.

"Max? What do you mean?"

He tries to keep the thread of anxiety out of his voice, but Max cracks one blue eye to stare at him.

"You will want your space during the season. I of course do not mind giving it, but,"

He stretches, rolling onto his side so he can look at Lewis fully.

"I will miss this. Do you think we can still stay together during the breaks?"

There's an ache somewhere in Lewis' heart, starting deep in his chest and digging its claws into his lungs as it climbs up his throat, gumming up his teeth and making it harder to breathe.

"We don't— Max,"

He tries to find the words, one wing stretching helplessly to brush against Max's.

"We don't have to stop this. For the season."

Max eyes him doubtfully, and Lewis hates that it might be deserved.

"Please do not lie to me."

His voice is soft.

"I would rather we do not try at all if you are just going to be wanting to get space during the season."

The ache pierces deeper. Lewis doesn't know how to verbalize everything he's feeling, and he's especially not ready to consider that Max has been feeling this way the entire time. He knows he needs to try.

"You're not Nico, Max."

He swallows.

"And I'm not the same person I was back then."

Max's wing rests against his own, eyes still wary, but Lewis can see the want in them, and he knows that Max is only trying to protect his own heart.

He's thought about it before, that Max is as damaged about flocks as he is, but in a different way. He hadn't considered how deep that might run.

"I want to try, Max. With you."

Max blinks, and Lewis shuffles close enough to layer their wings properly, tugging Max more into the center of the sunspot. His flockmate's voice has an edge of vulnerability to it when he speaks.

"You have to promise to try. If it gets mean, you have to— you still have to try."

Lewis knows exactly what he means, one hand snaking across Max's shoulder to pet carefully over the short feathers at the base of his neck.

"I will. I promise."

Max nods, curling closer, and Lewis feels the ache in his chest start to ease, the claws receding back down his throat.