berries

Lance squinted as he stepped into the open. The light felt harsher than he remembered circuits ever being, bouncing off the pale stone of the pit building and the metal flanks of transport trucks. It was the flat, relentless Mediterranean sun that baked the concrete until the air itself seemed to shimmer. The Istanbul Park paddock stretched wide and pale under it, a maze of motorhomes, equipment crates, and temporary awnings, the whole place humming with Friday-practice urgency.

Dust clung to everything with a fine beige powder that settled on shoes, on cables, on the edges of toolboxes. Mechanics wiped their hands on rags only for the dust to creep back seconds later. Every passing forklift kicked a little cloud of it into the air.

Everything looked wrong, like someone had dialed reality back twenty years and didn’t tell him. Old sponsors he hadn’t seen since childhood lined the walls. Advertisements were newly bolted into place, but were styled in a way that made Lance’s brain itch with blocky fonts, muted colors, and logos that felt like someone had printed them straight from a Windows XP desktop. Team kits rushed past him from defunct operations featuring designs he recognized from highlight reels, not real life. 

Some of it he didn’t recognize at all. It was some straight-up Twilight Zone shit, the kind of thing Lance would laugh at if he weren’t standing in the middle of it, dripping sweat, completely out of his depth.

Engineers in crisp team polos hurried between garages clutching printouts that fluttered in the hot breeze. Hospitality staff wheeled crates of bottled water toward the motorhomes. A mechanic jogged past carrying a front wing element like it weighed nothing at all.

He staggered toward the nearest patch of cover, ducking under a canvas awning that flapped miserably in the wind. It wasn’t much, barely more than a sheet of nylon, but at least the rain wasn’t physically assaulting his face anymore. He shoved his curls out of his eyes, blinking hard.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he muttered, spotting the Williams garage. 

It wasn’t his Williams. It wasn’t the slick, polished blue he remembered from his rookie days. This was the old-school stuff, blocky shapes, deep navy, awkward angles, mechanics in uniforms that looked like they’d been ironed with a brick.

But, shit, it was still Williams with the geometric W. It had that stubborn, self-made air baked right into the branding. The motorhome had the vibe of “sod it, we’ll do it ourselves.”

He picked his way across the paddock, keeping his head down, trying not to look like someone who had just materialized out of the rain. The bustle of mechanics and engineers swept around him, all focus and clipped efficiency.

The motorhome layout wasn’t exactly the same as he remembered, but it was close enough. It was familiar bones under less familiar skin. He edged around the perimeter, clinging to the wall to stay out of everyone’s way. 

People-watching, a casual hobby, was about to become survival. And immediately, the people were more confusing than the logos outside. There was… no facial hair, at all. Every man he saw had short hair, aggressively neat, aggressively parted. There was so much gel, so much blond. He hadn’t seen this many frosted tips since early childhood birthday parties in Montréal. 

And the women, or the lack thereof—there were practically none. He couldn’t see more than a couple in the motorhome, or on the crew. It wasn’t like 2021 at all. He was still staring, honestly gawking, when he heard someone clear their throat behind him. 

“Excuse me,” someone unmistakably British said. “Can I help you?”

Lance blinked hard, snapping back to reality. 

Holy shit, it was Tony Ross, but younger, with darker hair, fewer lines around the eyes. He was like… forty here? Forty-ish? Damn. This day was already hellish, but seeing pre-Mercedes Tony was just insult to injury.

Tony stopped dead in front of him, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“Sorry—who are you with?” he asked, no-nonsense. “And why are you dirtying up my tires?”

Lance coughed once, stalling just long enough to pull a believable lie out of thin air. He smiled. “Hi. Sorry. Long story. Formula BMW,” he said. “Here for the support program. They’re letting a few of us shadow teams this weekend.”

Tony blinked once, the way a man does when something lands in the “annoying but plausible” category. Lance felt sweat escaping his fireproofs. Fantastic.

“Who sent you?”

Lance jerked a thumb in a random direction. “Coordinator from BMW Motorsport. Training thing. We’re supposed to observe pit procedures, but, uh—” he gestured weakly at the biblical sunlight, “—I got a bit turned around.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to die of heat stroke. Thought I’d duck in, steal some shade.”

Ross exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a sigh. It was more of a “I do not have time for this, but I’m also not kicking a lost child into the sun” sound.

“You know your way around the pitlane?” Ross asked, folding his arms.

“Yeah,” Lance said instantly. “I did Macau last year. Hung out with the teams during FPs more times than I can count. I won’t touch anything.”

Tony gave him another narrow-eyed once-over. Lance held still, offering a smile that wasn’t too bright, just rookie-eager. Finally, the Brit nodded briskly. 

“Fine,” Tony said. “Don’t wander. Don’t speak to the drivers unless spoken to. Keep clear when we’re rolling the chassis.”

Lance nodded so gratefully it probably looked pathetic. “Got it. Thank you.”

Tony jerked his head toward the inner paddock. “Right. Come on then. You can stand by the pitwall. Try not to trip over anything valuable.”

Lance followed, heart pounding in his ears, keeping close to Tony’s heel. The paddock rushed by as they darted across towards the garages, sticking to the shade where they could. The Williams garage opened up through a backdoor, already a cacophony of movement and conversations. 

The digital of Lance’s career was a hell of a lot quieter than the analog and mechanical of this Williams garage. The livery didn’t so much smack him in the face as politely introduce itself, deep navy, almost matte in the low light, with broad white swoops like someone had designed it using rulers, covered in unfamiliar sponsors. Lance didn’t recognize the SeaWorld logo on the engine intake, being more familiar with this era of Williams featuring a Budweiser advertisement. 

Tony didn’t notice, he was too busy threading through the chaos. Mechanics in heavy cotton uniforms passed by carrying a stack of brake ducts that looked half the size of a modern car’s entire aero package. A tool trolley squeaked across the floor. A jack slammed down with a metallic clack. A mechanic shouted something about a rear anti-roll bar adjustment.

The tires stacked against the wall were fat Bridgestones with thick white logos, no barcodes, no RFID tags, nothing sleek or digital about them.

An engine fired somewhere in another garage, a raw blast of sound that reverberated off the concrete. It was not the hybrid whine Lance knew, not the growl of a V6. This was a V8 bark. It was pure combustion, edged and angry, shaking dust loose from the rafters. His heart lurched. Cool. 

They passed a workstation where an engineer sat hunched over a clunky silver laptop, the kind with a ribbed back and physical latch. The screen showed harsh green telemetry lines, jagged and basic, nothing like the layered HUD Lance was used to. Another guy was holding a pit board, an actual aluminum pit board, letters being slid into place by hand.

Tony kept moving, tossing clipped greetings to staff Lance dimly recognized. A tall, sharp-featured Australian in a headset barked instructions at someone over his shoulder—Sam… Sam Michael. 

A mechanic with a familiar face, someone Lance swore he’d seen years later in the team’s truck crew, jogged past carrying a front wing that looked like it weighed at least twice what a modern one did. A younger-looking team coordinator typed furiously on a bulky handheld device Lance hadn’t seen since high school.

The garage smelled different with unfiltered exhaust, brake dust, a hint of oil that felt richer, heavier, almost sweet? Lance wasn’t sure what was happening. It wasn’t like he could just walk up to someone and ask, “Hi, excuse me, what year is it?”

But every step he took made his stomach sink further. This wasn’t Istanbul 2021. He didn’t know where, or when, the fuck he was.  And he had no idea how to get back. 

~~~

Lance followed Tony out into the pit lane, the world washed in bright white. The pit wall gantry sat ahead like a metal skeleton, narrower than the modern ones, almost primitive, with thick black cables snaking from its base into the garage.

A shout came from somewhere inside the Williams garage. 

“Right, let’s get it running!”

The first engine turned over in the garage behind him, a jagged, ripping gnash that made every hair on Lance’s arms stand up. It had teeth, and an angry, metallic crackle that shook the pit wall railing under his hands. Lance flinched before he could stop himself.

Tony ducked under the small canvas roof and motioned Lance in after him. Up close, the pit wall looked almost homemade with smaller monitors, chunky brackets, and an exposed radio unit with actual buttons instead of touch panels. Sheets of printed setup notes were clipped to the side, edges fluttering from a desk fan. Behind him, an engineer leaned over to speak. 

“—we’ll brief Webber with the updated brake temps when he gets here.”

Another voice flipped through papers. “Right, and Nico still wants the differential tweak for FP2. Put that on the pre-run sheet.”

Lance had to physically restrain himself from laughing hysterically out loud. What more would this day throw at him? 

Tony clambered into his seat, headset already on, adjusting the gain knob with brisk, practiced motions. He didn’t seem to notice Lance’s stomach dropping out of his body.

Another V8 roared awake, rattling the boards under his feet. Lance shoved his fingers in his ears. One by one, other garages along the pit lane answered, Renault, Ferrari, McLaren, their engines coughing, then catching, then roaring in layered waves. The collective noise was staggering, animal, alive. Tony didn’t flinch.

“Stand just there,” Tony said, pointing to a narrow space behind the last chair. “Out of the way. We’ll be running systems checks in a few.”

Lance nodded, but his eyes drifted to the laminated sheets clipped to the console.

Driver Allocation – Williams F1

10 —M. Webber

9 — N. Rosberg

35 — A. Wurz 

The names were printed in an old-school font, blocky, unfussy. The ink bled a little from the rain. Fancy seeing you guys here. 

Tony was flipping switches, muttering into the headset, checking a printed run plan like everything in the universe was normal.

Voices drifted from the garage, louder now that the drivers were out.

“…Nico’s got the second stint, he can look over the sheet—”

“—yeah, Webber wants another look at the steering offsets—”

He kept his eyes glued to the pit lane. But curiosity was a sick, gnawing thing. And the next time the garage noise spiked, he stole a glance over his shoulder.

Two drivers stood in the center of the garage, half-suited, surrounded by mechanics. One in a navy fireproof top laughed dismissively at something a crewman said. The other adjusted his gloves, expression drawn and focused.

Lance’s stomach did a little flip. Nico Rosberg, baby-faced and blond, looked like he’d just come off the set of a shampoo commercial. He looked like any prep-school brat born and raised in Monaco, bored, rich, and sneering. 

Lance knew the razor-sharp driver under this blithe, careless exterior. He knew the grit and the measured, polished champion buried deep beneath this glossy, unbothered teenage sheen. 

Lance jerked his gaze away fast. The other driver stepped into view then, turning to speak to a mechanic. 

Mark Webber looked jagged around the edges like a hunting dog that would pursue a kill long after his legs had grown tired, only because he’d already tasted blood. 

Okay. Okay. Fine.

His brain had obviously been concussed into some kind of fever-dream greatest-hits-of-F1 compilation.

He clearly was dead. Or unconscious. Or—when did Webber move to Red Bull? 2007? 2006? No, dude, why was he even thinking about this right now—

He couldn’t stop staring at a version of Mark Webber he’d only ever seen on fucking YouTube. 

A tall guy stepped out from behind the monitors, tugging his gloves tight as a mechanic handed him a helmet. Lance squinted, realizing it was Alex Wurz.

“Holy shit,” he murmured.

And it wasn’t the slightly older, slightly more dad-energy version Lance remembered from GPDA meetings in 2021, this one was leaner, all long limbs and Austrian polish as he slid the helmet on and cinched the strap with a practiced tug.

Someone in the garage called out, “Two minute warning!” and both drivers began pulling on their balaclavas.

Lance snapped his attention back to the pit wall, face locked in a neutral, professional expression he did not feel. Tony handed him a spare headset.

“Hold this,” Tony said briskly. “And don’t drop it.”

Lance took it with numb fingers. Don’t drop it, he thought. Don’t faint. Don’t scream. Don’t ask what year it is. Don’t fall off the pit wall in front of Mark Webber like a lunatic. He stared straight ahead, his heart rabbiting like it was his first time in the paddock all over again, meeting his heroes. He put the headset on, grateful for the reprieve from the roar of the V8s. 

Mechanics rolled the Williams V8s into position just past the garage line. From the pit wall, Lance could see figures ducking around the car, whipping off tire blankets, checking pressures, adjusting wing angles, all with frantic, choreographed precision.

Webber came out first, helmet under his arm, striding through the garage like a man walking into a fistfight he fully intended to win. He barely glanced at the pit wall, jaw tight, brows permanently scrunched in that half-worried, half-frustrated expression he always seemed to wear. 

Then Alex followed, adjusting his gloves, mismatched boots colorful and bright. The mechanics waved them forward. Engines revved with a rising whine, shaking the pit lane.

Cars launched from the garages all down the row, kicking up spray. Renault burst out first. Ferrari thundered a second later. McLaren blurred past in silver. The Williams cars finally rolled forward and peeled cleanly into the pit lane queue. Lance stared after them numbly. 

Tony was already switching focus, flipping a toggle to bring up the world-feed screen on the left-most monitor.

“All right,” Tony muttered, mostly to himself. “Let’s see what we’re working with…”

The broadcast came to life, slightly grainy with washed-out colors, using camera angles Lance hadn’t seen since childhood. Dust speckled the lens. They showed pit lane shots, then the grid. A commentary team spoke  in the background, low and muddied. The old F1 graphics bar sat at the bottom.

Cars blasted out of the pit lane entrance. The pit wall timing monitor was populated in real time.

DAV – HON     MSC – FER

RAI – MCL       MAS – FER

FIS – REN        TRU – TOY

ALB – MID       WUR – WIL

BAR – HON     ALO – REN

SPE – STR       MOD – MID

WEB – WIL      DLR – MCL

VET – BMW     RSC – TOY

KUB – BMW    DOO – RBR

YAM – SAG     JAN – STR

COU – RBR    MON – SAG

Lance clamped a hand over his mouth. Names had appeared that hadn’t existed on the same leaderboard since he was in kindergarten. There were names he’d only ever seen in grainy highlight reels and F1 Classics replays, and names he’d never seen before at all. 

Raikkonen in a McLaren? Fernando in a Renault? Honda and Toyota still on the grid? Two Schumachers?

His brain scrambled to rationalize. 

Okay. Okay. He was pretty sure Webber only lasted a couple years at Williams. Like, 2004 and 2005, or 2005 and 2006, maybe. 

Alonso at Renault, that could mean anywhere from 2002-2006, right? 2007, he battled Lewis at McLaren. 

Oh. No HAM. This is—this is—holy shit.

Schumacher at Ferrari, fuck, that could be so many years. He joined in, what? 1995? 1996? But he stopped driving after the 2006 season. Lance remembered that. 

Tony, oblivious to the cosmic meltdown happening six inches behind him, pointed at the screen and said, “Good. Alex got in cleanly. Let’s see what he does on the banker.”

Lance had a few positives going for him. 

He was (currently) conscious. 

He was in Istanbul (not Constantinople).

Not a single person had sneered at him (probably because no one knew who he was). 

He was watching a timing screen full of drivers who hadn’t raced together in almost two decades!

So far, the negatives appeared to be fewer. 

No phone. 

No wallet. 

No way home. 

And there was only one explanation. But Lance didn’t dare think the words yet, not while the cameras showed Alonso’s Renault braking into Turn 1 like nothing in the world was wrong. Dust curled up in gray plumes behind every car on track, the pit lane shuddering as another V8 screamed past the wall. Lance braced a hand on the railing, pretending he wasn’t vibrating apart from the inside out.

On the world-feed monitor, the camera cut to a Ferrari tank-slapping out of Turn 12, red and white, twitchy but controlled.

MSC – FER flashed on the timing bar.

And how could he turn down an opportunity to watch his favorite driver, Michael Schumacher, in his prime? The commentators’ voices filtered through the pit wall speakers at low volume, muffled by static, but clear enough. 

“Alonso’s chasing his second title this year, if he can keep Schumacher at bay. Despite his DNF in Budapest, he’s held a ten-point gap on the Ferrari driver…”

And when the camera showed the #1 emblazoned blue and yellow Renault, Lance knew. If he was chasing his second title, with Michael Schumacher still on the grid, it was 2006. He was in 2006. Fernando was—shit—he was twenty-five and chasing his second championship. Lance was seven years old somewhere. He kind of wanted to throw up. 

On the screen, Alonso clipped a kerb, car snapping loose, but his hands were quick, correcting instantly, dancing through the dust like he was born in it.

Lance pressed both hands to his mouth. “Holy shit,” he whispered behind his fingers.

And then another line of commentary twisted everything tight. 

“And just in case you didn’t tune in this morning—that’s nineteen-year-old Sebastian Vettel, the BMW test driver. He’s the youngest driver to debut in a Formula One practice session—his morning glory lasted about ten seconds before he picked up a fine for speeding in the pit lane.”

His co-commentator laughed. “Yes, welcome to Formula One, Sebastian.”

Lance exhaled slowly, his face locked. He had seen the decals. He heard the names. He wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t hallucinating. He was in 2006, and the world was brutal and beautiful and unforgiving, all at once. His teenaged fucking teammate’s free practice debut was this weekend. 

“In the other Sauber, of course, we have Robert Kubica—the first Polish driver in Formula One—still chasing his first points after that impressive seventh place in Hungary turned unfortunately ‘nil-points’ by a post-race disqualification.”

The co-commentator clicked his tongue, lamenting. “…It’s the revolving door of Formula One once again—Kubica is now firmly the second driver at BMW Sauber after replacing Jacques Villeneuve in Hungary following the former world champion’s crash at Hockenheim.”

Lance folded his arms on the pit wall railing. Good riddance.

He stared down the pit lane, trying to think. He needed someone he could talk to, someone who wouldn’t immediately assume he was insane. The problem was that he barely knew anyone here. He’d shared a grid with Fernando, and Jenson. And he knew Alex from GPDA meetings. But those were coworker relationships, casual how was your break conversations, what are your holiday plans type shit. 

Which left Sebastian.

Somehow the person he knew best in this entire paddock was a nineteen-year-old kid he’d only been teammates with in the future for a handful of months.

At that moment the sun felt colder; the pit wall felt thinner. Time itself felt fragile. If Lance had any hopes of slipping through unnoticed, of surviving this trip back in time, the real race probably started now.

~~~

By the time FP2 wrapped, the paddock had shifted from chaos to that weird in-between lull where the engines had gone silent, heat still clung to the concrete, and mechanics drifted between garages with laptops and water bottles.

Lance leaned back from the Williams pit wall monitors and let out a slow breath. On the timing screen, the name was still sitting there at the top like someone had taped it there as a joke.

VET – 1:28.091

Fastest of the whole damn session.

Lance stared at it for another second and shook his head.

Only Sebastian Vettel could show up to his first ever Formula One weekend, get fined before lunch, and then casually top a practice session like it was a Tuesday karting heat.

Tony Ross was already buried in data, headset halfway off, talking to another engineer about Alex’s line through Turn 8 compared to Nico’s. 

Lance pushed himself off the railing.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his tone easy. “Thanks for letting me hang out up here.”

Tony glanced up, distracted but polite. “No problem.”

“Good luck the rest of the weekend.”

Tony gave a small nod, already turning back to the screens. Lance took that as his cue to get the hell out of the way.

He slipped down from the pit wall and started across the paddock, heat radiating off the ground through the soles of his shoes. His fireproofs were tied loosely around his waist now, the bright green Aston Martin fabric hanging there like a neon sign screaming I shouldn’t be here. 

He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about the fact that somewhere in this world, seven-year-old Lance Stroll was probably still in elementary school.

Instead he focused on the one thing that made any sense. If anyone here was going to help him not lose his mind, it was the guy he’d spent half his adult career racing alongside.

Or… racing against. Or occasionally yelling at on the radio. Whatever. 

Point was—Sebastian Vettel existed here. And Lance knew where to find him. Should he entrust his survival to a fucking teenager? Probably not. But it wasn’t like he had a lot of options right now. 

The BMW Sauber garage was two rows down, white-and-blue branding glowing under the sun. Engineers were still buzzing around the cars, laptops open, mechanics wheeling equipment back into place.

Lance slowed as he approached. One driver was removing his helmet, talking to a mechanic in the garage. 

Lance blinked. The guy was built like a Formula One driver, but the face, jeez, he looked like someone had grabbed a university engineering student and dropped him into an F1 suit. 

Kubica was maybe twenty. Twenty-one, tops. He was leaning over a monitor with one of the engineers, dark hair damp with sweat, youthful expression serious. 

Lance scanned past them.

Sebastian stood near the back of the garage with two mechanics, helmet tucked under one arm. His hair was damp and messy, much longer than Lance was used to seeing it, falling into his eyes before he shoved it behind his ears. 

Lance nearly laughed when he heard the kid’s voice. The German accent was so thick it practically had its own gravitational field.

“…I think maybe the rear was just a little bit too free in T8,” Sebastian was saying, hands moving while he talked. “When I go in, it is… a bit nervous.”

He sounded about sixteen. Lance leaned against a stack of tire trolleys and watched him for a second. He was definitely a teenager, but his face made sixteen feel generous.

The mechanics nodded and scribbled something down on a clipboard. Sebastian kept talking, gesturing animatedly, helmet hair falling back into his eyes again.

Eventually the conversation wound down. One engineer clapped him lightly on the shoulder and Sebastian nodded, pushing the hair out of his face one more time before turning toward the paddock lane, slinging a massive backpack over his shoulders. 

Lance straightened immediately. Sebastian stepped out of the garage and headed toward the hospitality area, weaving through mechanics and equipment with purpose and not at all the shock you’d expect of someone who’d just set the fastest time in a Formula One session.

Lance pushed off the tire stack. He followed, not too close, not too far. He kept a comfortable distance behind the German as they crossed the paddock lane toward the BMW Sauber hospitality unit.

Comfortable, in this case, meaning far enough that it didn’t look like stalking, but close enough that if Sebastian stopped suddenly Lance wouldn’t lose him in the crowd. It was harder than it sounded. 

The paddock had picked up again now that FP2 was over. Mechanics drifted between garages carrying laptops and toolboxes, engineers stood in little clusters arguing over printouts, and hospitality staff hauled crates of water bottles into the motorhomes before the dinner rush started.

Sebastian threaded through it all like he belonged there. Which, Lance supposed, he did. The kid still had helmet hair sticking out in every direction, sweat darkening the collar of his undershirt. His race suit hung half unzipped around his waist and he kept pushing that stupid mop of hair out of his eyes every few steps.

Nineteen, Lance reminded himself. Nineteen years old and he’d just topped a Formula One practice session.

Lance followed him up the short steps into the BMW hospitality entrance, trying to look like someone who had every right to be there and not like a guy wearing Aston Martin fireproofs in the year 2006.

Sebastian slowed, just a little. Lance noticed it immediately and tried to look very interested in a poster on the wall advertising something with Michelin tires and a lot of blue corporate font.

Then Sebastian stopped, turning to face Lance directly. 

“You have been following me since the garage,” he said in thickly accented English, folding his arms. “Should I be worried?”

Lance froze. For a second his brain just… stopped. Up close the kid looked even younger than he had in the garage. His face was completely smooth, his hair falling into his eyes again.

And the eyes. Lance still wasn’t ready for that. Those ridiculous bright blue eyes locked onto him with the focus of someone who had already decided he was going to win whatever conversation this was. They caught Lance off guard the same way they did fifteen years later.

He opened his mouth. “Uh—”

Fantastic start.

Sebastian waited exactly one second. Then his easily recognizable grin spread across his face. “If you are here to congratulate me,” he said smugly, “I accept.”

Lance blinked. Then he huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Actually… yeah.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this whole situation was.

“I watched practice,” he said. “You were flying out there, man.”

Sebastian’s grin widened like someone had just handed him confirmation of something he already believed.

“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “It was quite good.”

Lance stuck his hand out before he could overthink it.

“Lance,” he said.

Sebastian looked down at the hand for half a beat, then shook it, firm and quick. “Sebastian.”

Yeah, Lance thought. No shit.

Sebastian squinted at him like he was trying to place a face he’d seen once in a magazine. Then his eyebrows crept up. “You are American?” he asked.

Lance smiled in the way he always did when introducing himself to Europeans. “Canadian,” he said wearily. 

Sebastian’s expression cleared immediately, like that solved the mystery. “Ah.” He nodded once. “Like Villeneuve.”

Lance snorted. “Sure,” he said. 

Fuck Villeneuve. 

Sebastian’s gaze dropped straight to the bright green fireproofs knotted around Lance’s waist. He frowned, leaning a little closer, reading the lettering like it might explain itself.

“Aston Martin?” he said quizzically. 

Lance felt his stomach dip. “Uh—”

Sebastian tilted his head, still studying the suit. “GT1, right?”

Lance blinked. He had completely forgotten that Aston Martin actually did exist in racing in 2006, just… not anywhere near Formula One.

His brain scrambled through memories he hadn’t thought about in months. He’d endured endless team briefings, marketing decks, corporate heritage slides when he joined Aston Martin.

“Yeah,” Lance said quickly, relief creeping into his voice. 

Sebastian nodded slowly, eyes lighting up with recognition. “The green cars,” he said. “At Le Mans.”

Lance nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look casual. “I’ve done a bit of that stuff,” he added. “IMSA. Daytona.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead.

“The twenty-four hour race?”

Lance nodded.

Sebastian let out a small impressed whistle. “That is very long.”

Lance laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

Sebastian studied him again for a second, head tilted slightly, like he was trying to place something that didn’t quite add up. Then the grin crept back.

“So,” he said, folding his arms again. “What is an endurance driver doing at a Formula One paddock following rookies at practice?” His blue eyes narrowed playfully. 

“You are either very nice…” He leaned a little closer. “…or very strange.”

Lance shrugged, nonchalant. “Could be both.”

Sebastian kept studying him for another second, head tilted, the grin back in full force like he’d just decided Lance was interesting enough to keep around.

“Come,” the German said simply, and turned toward the buffet.

Lance followed, trying very hard to look like a guy who wandered into BMW Sauber hospitality every weekend and not like someone committing mild corporate espionage while wearing the wrong decade’s fireproofs.

The food setup was… basic. There were long folding tables with metal trays under heat lamps. None of the trays had anything fancy, just pasta, rice, chicken, a bowl of salad that looked like it had given up on life somewhere around Turn 6. Bottles of water and sports drinks were stacked in crates at the end. 

And the seating situation was even weirder. Drivers, mechanics, engineers were all just… sitting together. There weren’t any believed ropes. There was no separate “driver area”. A couple of mechanics in BMW shirts were already halfway through plates of pasta two tables over from Nick Heidfeld, who was eating quietly while reading something on a printout.

Sebastian had already loaded a plate like a man who had burned about five thousand calories that afternoon and intended to replace all of them from one plate. He grabbed a fork, looked around, and nodded toward a small table near the edge of the room. They sat.

Sebastian started eating immediately, shoveling pasta like the fork owed him money. Lance picked up a fork too, partly because he was hungry and partly because he had no idea what to do with his hands.

He watched Sebastian demolish half the plate in about thirty seconds. Then he cleared his throat.

“Okay,” Lance said. “So… if I tell you why I’m here…”

Sebastian didn’t look up from his food.

“…you gotta promise not to tell anyone.”

Sebastian paused, flicking his eyes up at Lance. His expression lit up like someone had offered him a puzzle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and raised one solemn finger.

“I swear,” he said, very seriously. “I will not tell anyone.”

Then he immediately went back to eating.

Lance stared at him for a second. Well. Full send, I guess. 

“I’m from the future,” he said, keeping his voice low. 

Sebastian nodded slowly. He kept chewing for a moment, thinking. Then he swallowed.

“Why?”

Lance blinked. “Why?” he repeated.

“Why are you here,” Sebastian said, shrugging slightly, like this was the obvious follow-up question. “If you are from the future.”

Lance simply stared at him. Who the hell heard “I’m from the future” and responded with why? Sebastian fucking Vettel, he guessed. 

The kid leaned back in his chair, grinning. “The interesting part is not that you are from the future.”

He gestured vaguely with his fork. “It is what you are here for. Your mission.”

“What kind of response is that?” Lance asked finally, incredulous. “You’re not even gonna question it?”

Sebastian shrugged again. “You seem serious.” He took another bite. “And if you are lying, it is at least an interesting lie.”

Lance rubbed his face. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Fair.” He leaned back in his chair. “But the thing is… I don’t actually know why I’m here.”

Sebastian stopped chewing. That finally seemed to bother him.

“You don’t know?”

“Nope.”

Sebastian frowned. “When did you arrive?”

“Few hours ago.”

“Well, go on then,” he said. “Tell me.”

Lance sighed. “Tell you what.”

Sebastian spread his hands. “What happened,” he said, as if it was obvious. “How did you arrive?”

Lance leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a second. “Okay,” he said. “So. I’m in practice.”

Sebastian nodded. “Practice where?”

“Here,” Lance said. “Istanbul.”

Sebastian blinked, like that was perfectly normal information. “Well yes, obviously. When.”

Lance hesitated. “2021.”

Sebastian’s eyes widened just a little. “Fifteen years.”

“Yeah.”

Sebastian leaned forward immediately. “So who wins—”

Lance fixed him with a flat look.

Sebastian stopped mid-question. “…never mind,” he said, smiling sheepishly. He took another bite of pasta, but the curiosity burning in his ridiculous blue eyes hadn’t gone anywhere. 

“So you are in practice,” he prompted. 

“Yeah,” Lance fidgeted with his napkin. “I’m chasing Alonso down,” he said. “Trying to pass him.”

Sebastian stared at him. Then he leaned back in his chair, and burst out laughing. 

Lance stared at him. “What?”

Sebastian pointed his fork at Lance. “Sorry,” he said, still laughing. “But, Fernando Alonso?”

“Yeah?”

“Mate,” Sebastian said, still grinning. “Why would Fernando Alonso still be racing in 2021?”

“Fair point,” Lance said with a lopsided grin. That wasn’t the weirdest part out of all this, but whatever. 

Sebastian waved Lance on. “Go on,” he said, still eating. 

Lance continued. “So I get alongside him over the line, and I lunged too late and locked up, and it’s not gonna stick. I know it’s not gonna stick. I’m about half a second away from putting the car into the wall.”

Sebastian grinned. “Ah. A normal Friday.”

“Exactly,” Lance agreed, still smiling. “So I’m bracing for impact, right? Already picturing the radio message, already hearing my engineer yelling at me.”

Sebastian nodded sympathetically. “Yes.”

“And then suddenly—” Lance spread his hands. “—I’m not in the car anymore.”

Sebastian frowned slightly. “You crashed?”

“No,” Lance said. “That’s the thing. I’m just… standing in the paddock.”

Sebastian blinked. “You got out of the car very quickly.”

“No,” Lance said, laughing once. “I mean I’m just there. In the paddock. No crash. No nothing. Just… boom.”

Sebastian shook his head, frowning. “No one else arrived with you?” 

Lance lifted his hands slightly. “I showed up exactly like this,” he said. “Racing suit, Nomex, boots. That’s it. No one else, no wallet, no helmet, no phone, no car, nothing.”

Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “That is inconvenient.”

“You’re telling me.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair, thinking. “So who is your teammate in the future?” His face split with that shit-eating grin again. “Michael Schumacher?” he teased. 

Lance rubbed the back of his neck. For the first time since this conversation started, his expression shifted a little more serious, despite the joke. 

Sebastian was still watching him expectantly, grinning wide.

Lance exhaled. “You.”

Sebastian’s grin stayed exactly where it was, for about two seconds. Then it began to fade. “…Me?”

Lance nodded. “Yeah.”

Sebastian stared at him. The kid had been joking and laughing and eating like a starving raccoon five seconds ago, but now his brows pulled together, eyes narrowing just a little while he studied Lance’s face, trying to figure out if he was being played.

Lance knew he didn’t look like he was joking.

Sebastian leaned back slowly. “How,” he said carefully, “am I supposed to believe a story like that?”

Lance shrugged. “Fair question.”

He pushed his plate a little further away, resting his elbows on the table. “You only joined this year,” he said. “So I’ve only known you a few months.”

Sebastian was still watching him closely.

“But,” Lance went on, “you can ask me stuff.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows twitched. “Stuff?”

“Yeah.” Lance waved a hand at him. “Things a teammate would know. About you.”

Sebastian didn’t answer right away. He just kept looking at Lance, eyes sharp now, the gears in his head clearly turning. Then he leaned forward a little, forearms on the table.

“Like what?”

He sat there with his arms crossed now, brow furrowed, looking faintly annoyed in the way only a nineteen-year-old German could manage.

Lance opened his mouth, realizing he had absolutely no idea where to start. He stared down at the table for a second, wracking his brain.

Okay. Think. “Uh,” he said, helpfully. 

“You’re from Heppenheim.”

Sebastian didn’t move.

“You’ve got a younger brother, Fabian,” Lance went on quickly. “And sisters.”

Still nothing.

“You’re obsessed with all this old music,” Lance said. “Like, deeply. I’ve heard more Beatles in the garage this year than in the rest of my life combined.”

Sebastian’s eyes flickered just a little.

Encouraging. Lance could work with the Beatles. 

“You say your favorite song is Drive My Car, but your favorite album is Revolver.” Lance held up a single finger. “And, you get all mushy over the German version of I Wanna Hold Your Hand.”

Now Sebastian’s brow creased slightly.

“You name all your cars,” Lance rattled off. “And when they finally let drivers pick permanent numbers, you take number five. Because of Schumacher.”

Sebastian’s arms loosen, resting his fists on the table. 

“But,” Lance added, “you hate when people compare you to him. You always say you want to be your own driver.”

Sebastian’s lips were slightly parted, clearly locked in to every word Lance was saying. So Lance kept going.

“You bounce before races,” he said. “Like literally bounce. On your toes. Even if the car’s terrible.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“And your helmet’s a size small,” Lance added. “Still is, even with an ego the size of Texas.” He exhaled and leaned back a little, rubbing his neck.

“And you get to the paddock first,” he said. “Every weekend.” Lance looked up at the skylight, smiling to himself a little. “You’re always the first one there. Everyone else trickles in after.”

Sebastian looked almost offended at that. 

Lance shrugged. “You keep everyone late in debriefs too.” It was hard not to associate Sebastian with the smell of shitty hospitality coffee when so many meetings ran late, requiring yet another cup. 

“You take notes on everything. Like… everything. You go over the car in ridiculous detail because you want to understand exactly what it’s doing and how to get the most out of it.”

Lance laughed quietly. “Which is great,” he said. “Except it means your teammate has to keep up.”

Sebastian didn’t interrupt.

Lance shook his head. “Drives me insane sometimes,” he said. “But it also makes me better. By default.”

He shrugged again. “Hard not to be better when the guy next to you is that into the car.”

Sebastian simply stared at him. He leaned back in his chair again, one hand drifting up to his hair, absentmindedly pushing the damp strands out of his eyes. The habit came and went every few seconds now, fingers through the hair, then back to the table, then back again.

All the while he kept looking at Lance. Those bright blue eyes didn’t blink much when he got into this kind of thinking mode. Lance had seen it fifteen years later in debriefs, when Sebastian would sit across the table staring at telemetry like he was trying to personally intimidate the data into giving up its secrets.

Now he was doing it to Lance. It was unsettling, to say the least. Lance shifted slightly in his chair under the scrutiny.

Sebastian twirled a piece of pasta on his fork, chewed thoughtfully, still watching him. Another few seconds passed. Finally he set the fork down.

“Okay,” he said, tilting his head a little. “Why did you come to find me?”

Lance exhaled slowly.

Well. No point dancing around it now.

“I need help,” he said.

Sebastian’s expression didn’t change.

“I’m in Istanbul,” Lance continued. “I’ve got nothing. No clothes except this. No money.” He gestured down at the Aston Martin fireproofs still tied around his waist.

“I don’t even know where I’m supposed to sleep tonight.”

Sebastian listened without interrupting.

“I have no idea how to get home,” Lance finished.

Sebastian leaned back again. “So. Either you are from the future,” he said thoughtfully, tapping the table, “…or you are a very dedicated stalker.”

Lance shrugged.

Sebastian grinned suddenly. “Either way,” he said, “you are more entertaining than watching television in the hotel.”

Lance snorted. “Glad to be of service.”

Sebastian leaned forward again, elbows on the table. “But if I’m going to help you,” he said. He pointed a finger at Lance. “You must tell me some things about the future. That seems fair, no?”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Sebastian smiled. “Oh,” he said, his eyes alight with mischief. “I think I can come up with something.”

Lance sighed. “Okay, sure,” he said, immediately regretting his agreement. “But nothing about racing.”

Sebastian considered that for about a second. “Deal.”

He stuck his hand out across the table. Lance huffed a quiet laugh and reached across to meet him in the middle.

Sebastian shook once, firm and quick, like he was sealing a business arrangement instead of agreeing to help a time traveler who’d followed him into hospitality.

Lance released his hand and shook his head. “Man,” he said. “You’re taking this way too well.”

Sebastian shrugged. “If you are lying,” he said calmly, picking up his fork again, “this is still a very entertaining afternoon.” He finished the last bite of pasta, wiped his hands on a napkin, and stood up.

“Come,” he said again.

Lance blinked. “Where are we going?”

“You need clothes,” Sebastian said, already heading for the door. “And shoes. You cannot walk around the paddock like this.”

Lance glanced down. Technically he had shoes. They were paper thin and not meant to be worn on the street, but they were shoes. 

“Yeah,” he admitted, pushing his chair back. “Fair point.”

Sebastian led the way out of hospitality and back into the paddock heat. The late afternoon sun had softened a little, but the concrete still radiated warmth upward like an open oven.

Lance followed him along the row of motorhomes, past mechanics rolling tool carts toward the garages and fans with paddock passes walking with signs tucked under their arms.

Sebastian ducked into a side entrance of the BMW Sauber motorhome and headed down a short corridor that smelled faintly of espresso and printer ink. 

A woman sat behind a folding desk surrounded by boxes, lanyards, stacks of team caps and neatly folded shirts.

Sebastian leaned one elbow on the desk. “Hello,” he said brightly.

The woman looked up. “Oh—Sebastian.”

He flashed the most innocent smile Lance had ever seen.

“This is my friend,” he said, gesturing vaguely at Lance.

The woman’s eyes flicked down immediately to the fireproofs tied around Lance’s waist. Her eyebrows rose.

Sebastian kept smiling. “His luggage is… lost.”

Lance tried very hard to look like a man whose luggage had indeed gone missing and not like someone who had fallen out of a wormhole three hours earlier.

The PR woman looked at him again, then back at Sebastian. She sighed in the long-suffering way of someone who had already dealt with too many drivers that day.

“There’s a box,” she said, pointing behind her. “Old team gear. Take whatever fits.”

Sebastian’s grin widened. “Perfect.”

Lance turned. Behind the desk sat a large cardboard crate overflowing with Puma-branded BMW Sauber shirts, hoodies, jackets, a couple of pairs of trainers still in their boxes.

Sebastian crouched beside it immediately, digging through like a kid at Christmas.

“Shoes,” he said, pulling out a pair of black Puma trainers and tossing them toward Lance.

Lance caught them.

“Try these.”

Lance slipped off his racing boots and stepped into them. They were a little big. But honestly that was the least strange thing that had happened all day.

Sebastian had already found a navy team hoodie and a pair of track pants. “And this,” he said, handing them over.

Lance glanced at the PR woman. 

She waved a hand without looking up from her laptop. “Take a bag too.”

Sebastian reached into the crate again and produced a soft BMW Sauber duffel. “Look,” he said cheerfully, tossing it onto the table. “You are fully equipped.”

Lance stuffed the hoodie and pants into the bag and dropped his fireproofs in on top.

He looked at Sebastian. “You are weirdly good at this.”

Sebastian shrugged. Then he pointed down the hallway toward the paddock. “Now,” he said. “Time to go.”

Lance paused in the corridor. “Seb,” he said, probably too familiarly. “Where exactly am I sleeping tonight?”

Sebastian looked at him like the answer was obvious. “The hotel.”

Lance waited. Sebastian kept walking. 

“…What?” Lance asked.

Sebastian stopped and turned around. “In my room.”

Lance blinked. “Your room.”

“Yes.” Sebastian pulled his straps tighter on his shoulders. “You will stay there.”

Lance hesitated. “Man, I don’t want to—”

Sebastian waved a hand like he was batting away a fly. “It is fine.”

“But—”

“I shared rooms for years in karting,” Sebastian said. “Four boys sometimes. One bathroom.” He started walking again. “This is luxury.”

Lance huffed a laugh, jogging to catch up. “You sure?”

Sebastian nodded. “There are two beds.”

“Well,” Lance said casually, “I don’t want to take one if you need both.”

Sebastian frowned at him slightly. “What use would I have for two beds?”

Lance shrugged, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. “I don’t know. Maybe you bring back so many women you need the extra space.”

“Ah,” Sebastian grinned, quickly catching on. “Yes, now that I am a big Formula One star with my hotel room full of… admirers.”

Lance shook his head, grinning helplessly. The kid’s sense of humor was exactly the same as it would be in 2021, and somehow even lamer. 

“Yeah, man, don’t wanna bring down the vibe.”

Sebastian shrugged, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I am old-fashioned. You, of course, would take the floor.” 

Lance shook his head, laughing. still convinced he was imposing. “Seriously, you don’t mind?”

Sebastian glanced back at him. “As long as you are interesting,” he said matter-of-factly. “And not a murderer.”

The evening air outside had cooled a little, but the concrete still held the heat of the day. Mechanics were rolling equipment back toward the garages, and the paddock had settled into that quieter post-practice rhythm.

Sebastian started walking toward the paddock exit. Lance followed.

They made it about twenty steps before Lance asked, “So where’s the car?”

Sebastian glanced back at him. “The car?”

“Yeah,” Lance said. “To get to the hotel.”

“I do not have a car here,” Sebastian led him through the paddock gate. “I have a scooter.”

Lance blinked. “Scooter.”

“Yes.”

Lance stared at him. “To the hotel.”

“Yes.”

“How far is it?”

Sebastian answered like this was a perfectly normal question with a perfectly normal answer. “Five kilometres.”

Lance’s eyes practically jumped out of his head. “Five—” He stopped himself.

Sebastian nodded, turning toward the gate. “It is not far.”

Lance stood there for a second. “Seb,” he said.

Sebastian looked back.

“You realize there are cars that can drive us anywhere, right?”

Sebastian frowned slightly. “Why?”

Lance opened his mouth. “…Because we can? Because it’s better than a fucking scooter?”

Sebastian shook his head slowly. “I cannot leave it here overnight, Lance.” He tapped the side of his head. “Fresh air.” Then he pointed away from the main parking lot where Lance knew all the team cars would be sitting, waiting for someone to claim them. “Come.”

Lance followed, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, weaving between engineers rolling equipment cases and mechanics loading tool carts into transporters. The evening air still held the day’s heat, the asphalt warm underfoot.

“Where is this thing parked?” Lance asked.

Sebastian pointed ahead. “Over there.”

They cut past the back row of motorhomes toward a fenced-off corner of the paddock where a handful of small bikes and scooters were clustered together with a couple of battered mopeds, a folding bicycle, and something that looked like it had been borrowed from a delivery service.

Sebastian walked straight to one of them. “There.”

Lance stopped. The scooter was white, all sharp plastic angles and oversized vents, the kind of aggressively styled machine that looked like someone had tried very hard to make a tiny engine appear dangerous. A Yamaha badge sat on the front fairing.

“This,” Lance said slowly, “is your transportation.”

Sebastian nodded. “Yes.”

Lance circled it once. It looked even smaller up close.

“You drove this to the circuit.”

“Yes.”

“From the hotel.”

“Yes.”

Lance squinted at it. “Man.”

Sebastian ignored him and flipped the seat up, shoving his own bag into the small storage compartment where Lance assumed a helmet was meant to go. 

“Put the bag here,” Sebastian said, pointing to the hook beneath the handlebars.

Lance hung the duffel there.

Sebastian swung a leg over the seat and settled onto the scooter like he’d done it a thousand times. Which he probably had.

Lance was still staring at it. “…This thing looks like it came free with a PlayStation.”

Sebastian looked over his shoulder. “It is a very good scooter.”

Lance snorted. Sebastian twisted the key. The engine coughed once and then sprang to life with the angry mosquito buzz of a two-stroke. The smell of burnt oil drifted into the air.

Lance blinked. “What the hell.”

Sebastian patted the seat behind him. “Let’s go.”

Lance looked at the tiny space available, then at the tiny rear foot pegs. “…This seems like a terrible idea.”

Sebastian tapped his chin, considering. “You could walk to the hotel, I suppose.”

Lance sighed and climbed on behind him, settling onto the narrow strip of seat that remained and gripping the metal bar at the back.

This was unbelievable. He had time-traveled fifteen years into the past and now he was scootering across the Turkish countryside with a nineteen-year-old Sebastian Vettel after a Formula One practice he wasn’t invited to take part in. 

Only Lance Stroll would get pole at a circuit one year only to have this happen the next. 

“Ugh,” Lance muttered, staring past him.

Sebastian glanced back. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lance said.

Sebastian nudged it forward with his foot, the little engine buzzing impatiently beneath them. The engine revved higher. Sebastian twisted the throttle.

The scooter lurched forward with a sharp brrrRAAAP, darting through the paddock access road and out toward the circuit exit. The sound climbed into a steady, angry whine as the tiny engine worked harder, the warm air rushing past Lance’s ears.

He leaned forward instinctively. “Fuck—”

Sebastian tipped the scooter into the first turn outside the gate, smooth and quick. Lance grabbed the sides of Sebastian’s jacket.

Sebastian glanced back over his shoulder. “Do not lean like that.”

“What?”

“Do not lean.”

The engine roared again as Sebastian accelerated onto the road leading away from the circuit.

The countryside opened around them, dry hills and empty stretches of asphalt glowing in the last of the evening light. The scooter buzzed furiously beneath them, pushing toward its top speed with all the determination of a mosquito carrying a brick. Lance tightened his grip on the grab rail.

Another bend appeared in the road. Sebastian leaned the scooter through it, Lance’s stomach dropping. His hands slid forward again and clutched the back of Sebastian’s jacket.

Sebastian shouted over the engine. “Do not pull me!”

“Then stop riding like that!”

“This is normal!”

The engine drowned the rest of the conversation.

After that they mostly rode in silence. The scooter rattled and hummed beneath them while the road stretched ahead in long, quiet lines. Once or twice Sebastian leaned the bike through a roundabout with the same smooth precision he would have used in a kart, and each time Lance felt himself grabbing for stability a second too late.

The ride took longer than it should have. Eventually the lights of the hotel appeared ahead of them.

Sebastian rolled off the throttle as they turned into the entrance drive, the angry buzz of the engine softening into a sputtering idle. He guided the scooter across the small parking lot and into a row of motorcycles near the side of the building.

The engine clicked and popped when he shut it off. For a moment the sudden quiet rang in Lance’s ears. Sebastian swung off the scooter and steadied it on its stand.

“There,” he said.

Lance climbed off more carefully than he had gotten on, his legs still adjusting to solid ground. Sebastian patted the seat once, satisfied.

The place was one of those modern business hotels they always stuck the teams in for flyaway races with a glass front, beige stone, a row of team transport vans parked along the curb. A few mechanics from various teams milled around the entrance smoking and talking in low voices.

Sebastian walked straight through the doors like he owned the place. Lance followed, trying very hard to look like someone who had every right to be there.

The lobby was bright and cool, air conditioning blasting after the heat outside. A handful of team personnel sat scattered around the couches with laptops and beers.

Sebastian headed for the elevators. Lance stopped at the front desk.

“Uh,” he said intelligently, leaning on the counter.

The receptionist looked up. “Yes?”

“My luggage got lost. On my flight,” Lance said. “Any chance you’ve got a toothbrush or something?”

The woman nodded immediately. “Of course.”

She disappeared into a cabinet and came back with a little plastic kit complete with a toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor, and a tiny bottle of shaving cream.

Lance took it like he’d just been handed a winning lottery ticket.

“Thank you.”

Sebastian was waiting by the elevator, watching the whole exchange with mild amusement.

“You see?” he said as the doors slid open. “Very easy.”

“Yeah,” Lance said. “You’re a genius.”

They rode up in silence.

The hallway upstairs smelled faintly like hotel carpet and detergent. Sebastian stopped at a door halfway down, pulled a key card out of his pocket, and pushed it open.

The room was simple with two beds, a small desk, a TV mounted to the wall, and one window looking out over the darkening countryside around the circuit. 

Sebastian dropped his bag on the floor. “Voilà,” he said, grinning. 

Lance stepped inside and set the BMW duffel down next to the second bed. He sat down on the mattress, the tension in his shoulders since he’d appeared in the paddock that afternoon finally easing a little. For the first time all day he wasn’t standing in a garage pretending he belonged there. He wasn’t wandering around the paddock trying not to get thrown out. He had a place to sleep.

He leaned back on the bed and let out a long breath.

“Man,” he said quietly, almost to himself. 

Sebastian glanced over. “Yes?”

Lance shook his head.

“I can’t believe this worked.”

Sebastian was already digging through his bag, pulling out a clean shirt and a toiletry bag. “You have a toothbrush now,” he said. “Life is improving.”

Lance laughed quietly.

“I will take a shower,” Sebastian announced, already heading toward the bathroom.

Lance looked up from the bed. “Okay.”

Sebastian paused in the doorway and pointed a finger at him. “Then I ask questions.”

Lance nodded solemnly. “That was the deal.”

“Yes.”

Sebastian disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later the shower started, pipes rattling briefly before the steady rush of water filled the small hotel room.

Lance sat there for a minute. The quiet settled around him. The air conditioner hummed. Somewhere down the hall a door closed. He looked at the ice bucket on the desk.

Well. Might as well make himself useful.

He grabbed the bucket and one of the room keys and stepped out into the hallway, letting the door click softly shut behind him.

The corridor stretched in both directions, carpet patterned in the usual hotel swirls meant to hide stains. Lance started down the hall, glancing along the walls for the little alcove that usually held the ice machine, to no avail. 

He rounded the corner toward the elevators, still nothing. 

“Of course,” he muttered.

He stepped into another corridor and nearly ran straight into someone. The man standing there turned at the same moment. Lance stopped dead. Fernando Alonso. 

Up close, in the bright hallway lights, Fernando looked… different. He wasn’t lined with years of racing and media obligations and endless paddock politics. 

His hair was so much longer than Lance was used to seeing in the future, thick and wavy and a little messy, falling around Fernando’s temples. His eyebrows were dark and strong over those unmistakable hazel eyes, the color sharp enough that they seemed to catch the light. His face was clean-shaven, the jawline sharp enough to cut glass. 

Up close, in the bright hallway lights, Fernando was unfairly pretty. He wasn’t lined with years of racing and media obligations and endless paddock politics. His skin had that smooth golden tan that made it look like he’d never been anywhere but the sun.

His hair was so much longer than Lance was used to seeing in the future, thick and wavy and a little messy, falling around Fernando’s temples. His eyebrows were dark and strong over those unmistakable hazel eyes, the color sharp enough that they seemed to catch the light. His face was clean-shaven, the jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

And, jeez, the guy was gorgeous.

Fernando had a towel slung over one shoulder and no shirt, the muscles across his chest and arms clearly defined in the hallway lighting. Lance had always thought of him as having that whole confident older-guy thing going on in the future. But in 2006 he looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. Lance realized he was staring, hard.

Fernando’s gaze flicked down immediately to Lance’s fireproofs tied around his waist, then back up again. The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Lost?” he asked, his voice warm and easy, smooth and more thickly accented.

Lance blinked. “Uh—”

Fernando’s shoulder leaned slightly against the wall, studying him with open curiosity.

Lance was taller than Fernando by a couple inches. The Aston Martin fireproofs hung loose around his hips, and despite the hoodie and trainers, Lance still looked like the athlete he was. Fernando’s eyes took that in quickly.

Lance suddenly became very aware of the ice bucket in his hand. “I was looking for the ice machine,” he said, gesturing with it.

Fernando smiled. “Ah.” He gestured down the hallway behind Lance. “Other side.”

Lance nodded quickly. “Right. Yeah.” He made absolutely no move to leave.

Fernando watched him for a second. Something about Lance looking slightly flustered, trying very hard to appear normal while still in his anachronistic racing gear, amused him.

“You are a driver?” Fernando asked.

Lance swallowed. “Something like that,” he said finally.

Butterflies exploded somewhere in his chest, which was confusing. He saw Fernando every other weekend. They raced on the same grid. They shared driver briefings. They both stood in the same stupid pre-race photos with their arms folded like action figures. Nothing about this should have been new.

But something about seeing Fernando younger, relaxed, standing barefoot in a hotel hallway with a towel over his shoulder made him fifteen again, watching race highlights on a laptop at two in the morning, simultaneously thrilled and confusingly chubbed up in his boxers.

He’d chalked it up to adrenaline at the time. Oh, what more he had to discover, later down the line.

Fernando shifted slightly and raised his arm to the wall beside Lance, leaning into it.

Lance’s eyes immediately betrayed him. They followed the movement without permission, tracing the line of Fernando’s arm as it lifted. His tan was uninterrupted, his brain unhelpfully noticed, the muscle underneath defined in a way that looked almost unfair under the hallway lights.

His shoulders were broad, his chest asymmetrically corded, tapering to a narrow waist. Lance felt a little lightheaded at the complete and frankly cruel jut of his hip, carving down a flat stomach into blue board shorts.

For one treacherous second, Lance imagined wrapping his larger hands around that narrow waist and pulling him closer, this beautifully coiled and venomous man he thought he knew looking up at him.

He dragged his gaze back up before he could get caught staring at Fernando’s abs like a complete idiot. Fernando was still watching him, his smile widening.

Think. Say something normal.

“I’m here with a friend,” Lance said quickly. “Sebastian.”

Fernando’s eyebrows lifted. “Vettel?”

“Yeah.”

Fernando gave a short, approving nod. “He was very fast today.”

There was no sarcasm in it. Lance nodded. “Yeah. He was.”

Fernando leaned a bit closer. Up close, the hazel in his eyes looked even more vivid, almost gold under the lights. His gaze dropped briefly again, taking in his broad shoulders, the Puma sweatshirt, the fireproofs zipped loosely around Lance’s hips. Lance felt his face warm.

“I’m just visiting this weekend,” he explained weakly. 

Fernando nodded slowly, still watching him with that open curiosity. “You chose a good race to visit.”

“Yeah?” Lance said. He didn’t really know what he was asking; his brain was still somewhere else entirely.

Fernando nodded, still leaning against the wall, that easy smile lingering on his face.

“It is a great track,” he said. “Good for the championship.”

Lance processed before laughing. “You’re only saying that because you’re winning.”

Fernando’s eyebrows lifted, amused. “You have driven here before, yes?”

Lance crossed his arms. Somewhere between the lingering nerves and the ridiculousness of the situation, a little bit of his usual confidence slipped back in.

“Yeah,” he said. “Put it on pole last year.”

Fernando’s eyebrows rose. He looked Lance over again, a little more carefully this time, like he was reassessing something. “And?”

Lance shifted his weight against the wall, arms still crossed. For a second he almost forgot where he was. “It’s one of the best on the calendar,” he said. “Turn 8 alone makes it worth the trip.”

Fernando nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“The load through there is crazy,” Lance went on. “You come out of it and your neck’s already done for the day.”

Fernando smiled a little at that.

“And the rhythm’s good,” Lance added. “The whole lap flows. You can actually race here.”

Fernando gave a quiet hum of agreement. “You see?” he said. “It is a good race weekend to visit.”

Lance smiled. “So, Turn 8 is the only reason it’s a good weekend to visit?”

Fernando huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “Is that not enough?”

Lance shrugged lightly, the grin still there. “I don’t know,” he said. “Seems like a low bar.”

Fernando tilted his head, studying Lance again, the corner of his mouth curving upward. “Good racing, good company,” he rattled off easily, “sometimes with one comes the other.”

He pushed himself off the wall and stepped a little closer, still relaxed, still smiling. “It depends who you meet.”

Lance cleared his throat and shifted the ice bucket from one hand to the other. “Well,” he said, forcing his brain to remember how normal conversation worked, “it was very nice to meet you.”

Fernando’s smile widened. There was something in his eyes when he looked back at Lance then, and it sent a sudden shiver straight down Lance’s spine.

“Yes,” he said. “It was.”

The elevator beside them chimed. The doors slid open. Inside stood a gaggle of shirtless drivers, shoulder to shoulder like they’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Webber pointed immediately. “Fonz.”

Coulthard leaned against the back rail with the long-suffering patience of a man who had already suffered through two practice sessions that day. “Come on, mate,” he said. “The pool’s waiting.”

Fernando sighed lightly through his nose and glanced back at Lance. He gestured toward the open elevator. “You come?”

Lance pictured it instantly, the four of them together. 

Webber, Coulthard, Massa, and Alonso.

In 2021, those guys were already a kind of thinly veiled fraternity whenever they ended up in the same room; they were loud, competitive, merciless with each other. Goodness only knew what they were like in their twenties, and Lance had had enough of a day already. 

Lance smiled politely. “I should probably get back,” he said, lifting the ice bucket slightly as evidence.

Fernando studied him for another second before nodding. “Another time,” he said.

“Vamos,” Mark called again, heavy with his Australian accent. David snickered at him. 

Felipe leaned his head out, grinning. “Hurry up. Rob is waiting.”

“Robert is coming?” Fernando asked excitedly, stepping into the elevator, eyes alight. 

Mark pressed the button immediately. “Smedley, mate,” he clarified as the doors slid shut, the three drivers already talking over each other before they even disappeared from view.

Lance stood there for a moment longer in the quiet hallway. He exhaled slowly, something akin to anticipation bleeding out of his chest. 

“Holy shit,” he muttered.

He stood in the hallway for a second after the elevator doors closed, the quiet settling back in around him. He turned and started back down the corridor, though his brain felt like it was running about three steps behind the rest of him.

He’d just run into Fernando Alonso, in 2006, half-naked in a hotel hallway. He let out a slow breath as he walked.

It was ridiculous how thrown he felt. He saw Fernando all the time in his own year. They chatted after driver briefings, over paddock lunches, the occasional media pen shuffle. Fernando was just another guy on the grid with sharp elbows and a reputation that stretched longer than most careers. Lance had never once looked at him the way he had just now, not even close.

Here, Fernando might be younger, leaner, with longer hair. But his eyes were just as intense in 2021. He still leaned against the wall like he owned the place. But the way he eyed Lance like he was something to be studied, to be obtained, somehow. It sent pleasant shivers up his spine. 

Lance shook his head slightly as he rounded the corner toward his room. He had no idea how long he was going to be stuck here. He could snap back in five minutes, or wake up in his own bed tomorrow morning, or heaven forbid even longer. 

He might as well make the most of it, right? The thought made him snort quietly to himself.

He slid the key into the door and pushed it open. The room was dim except for the bathroom light spilling across the carpet.

Sebastian was already asleep, completely out. He lay sprawled across the bed like someone had simply switched him off, one arm flung over the pillow, wet hair sticking up in every direction. His mouth hung slightly open, breathing slow and steady.

Lance stopped in the doorway and smiled at the nineteen-year-old future world champion, dead to the world.

He set the ice bucket down on the desk as quietly as he could and grabbed his toothbrush from the little pile of toiletries he’d collected earlier. The bathroom light hummed softly while he brushed his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror like the reflection might offer some explanation for the day.

When he came back out, Sebastian hadn’t moved. Lance changed into the strange assortment of spare Puma clothes they’d collected earlier, soft cotton shorts, a loose t-shirt that was clearly two sizes too big, and turned off the lamp by the bed.

The room fell into darkness except for the thin line of streetlight sneaking through the curtains. He climbed into the other bed and pulled the blanket up. For a moment he just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

He was stuck in 2006 with a nineteen-year-old Sebastian Vettel snoring gently six feet away, and somehow it still felt like things could be a lot worse. His eyes started to drift closed when suddenly he remembered the empty fucking ice bucket. 

Lance huffed a quiet laugh and buried his face into the pillow.