#crashes

He’d beat you in Formula 4. And Formula 3. You’d been the runner up, naturally. Every time you’d seen him in your rearview mirror, you knew the overtake was coming. Not that you’d let him pass, not easily, but he always did. You just made too many mistakes.

It only started to get personal in Formula 2. When your radio messages went from cursing in general, to just cursing Lando. It was always you two, dancing at the front. P1 and P2, interchangeable between you. But by making it a competition, in a way you hadn’t done before, spurred you on.

You won the championship. He was the step below you.

Still, he got his seat first. Of course he did, McLaren’s new protege. Straight into a top tier team, while you had to pray that your gender didn't scare anyone. That you’d get what you deserved.

So when Ferrari called you, you didn’t feel lucky. You were grateful, but not blessed, because you knew you’d earned it. And you were unbelievably excited to finally fulfil your childhood goal.

From the second your contract was signed, and the fanfare of announcements began, you were swamped by the media. You never mentioned it, never flaunted it, but you got more attention than Lando. By an inconsequential amount, but you both knew it.

What irritated you, though, was how they pitted you against each other- you’d become intertwined in headlines about rookie rivalry. And yet, they still made you do interviews together, made you smile, made you expose secrets of your complicated relationship.

Pre-season:

He’s sprawled out, on the couch, taking up just a little too much space. Not enough to make you uncomfortable- you don’t care that his leg is dangling over yours. But you hate how confident he is, grinning at the woman behind the camera. You’re gripping your whiteboard and red pen maliciously, and he laughs at your white knuckles.

“Careful, Ferrari. Don’t snap the ‘board.” he jokes lazily, and you scowl.

“Easy, McLaren. Just ready to start beating you pre-season.” you fire back, earning a quiet laugh from someone fussing with the lamps behind you. He’s cute, you notice, and you grin back. You gesture towards Lando and roll your eyes, like he doesn’t deserve your time, and the guy laughs again.

Then he’s gone, back into the shadows, and the camera begins to roll. You smile, your (admittedly little) media training kicking in.

“Hey guys, I’m Lando Norris, and I’m here with the other new rookie for this upcoming season-” he begins, and you cut him off, saying your name proudly, thinking of how he’d first introduced himself. He scrunches his nose at you, annoyed by the interruption, but you shrug.

“If you’ve been following us since the junior leagues, you’ll know we’ve been competing against each other for a long time.” you say slowly, and he nods along.

“Too long,” he remarks, and you give him a knowing look.

“Anyway, we’ve seen some of the comments, about us being the next big rivalry in the sport. So we’re here to see how well we know each other, and to prove that it’s not only bad blood. He was actually my first friend when I started karting.” you add, going off from the script you’d written in your mind. He beams, nodding along quickly, before picking up the first card on the table in front of you.

“Favourite flavour drink?” Lando asks, rapidly scribbling on his board, shielding it from you. You pause, before writing down your answer.

“Is it too obvious to say papaya?” you joke, and he nudges you slightly under the table.

You flip the boards simultaneously, and you smirk a little at the ‘mango’ scrawled in horrific handwriting.

“Huh. Surprised you got that right.” he admits, nodding to ‘melon?’ carefully written in red ink.

It’s up a week later. You don’t realise, until Lando texts you the link, with a range of emojis. You slowly, carefully, open the comments, and immediately close them again.

‘rivals? where???’

‘theyre kinda cute’

‘new fav duo’

‘wait i love them’

‘is it socially acceptable to ship them yet’

There were many things that set you apart from the rest of the grid, regarding your gender. But one of the biggest things, a huge, insurmountable thing, was that you knew you couldn’t come across as too close with any of them. You couldn’t let the fans grip to stares or laughs or contact. So you had to distance yourself, claim you only have enemies and you’re only there to win.

Turns out, you’d already failed spectacularly. You couldn’t bring yourself to read the rest, because you knew what they’d be like. Eventually, it would get to accusations.

‘oh, so that’s how she got the seat.’

‘well, she’s pretty, but i doubt she’ll even get any points.’

‘so she’s just landos girlfriend then, rightttt’

You didn’t need to read them, to know they were there. You also didn’t need to message Lando to see if he’d seen them, because you know he did. And it riles up something in you, knowing he doesn't feel a churn in his stomach. Knowing he can brush it off, or play it up, and grin as you drown in evil publicity. And it’s spontaneous, and unnecessary, but you do it anyway. You type furiously, blinking away feelings of pure dread, and attempt to destroy the only friendship you have in the new terrifying world of Formula One.

‘hey, lando? for the record, i’m deadly serious about beating you. no need to pull any fake friend crap for the cameras, im here to win. good luck, mate.’

He replies instantly, and you almost feel mean.

‘didn’t realise u were lying when u said we were friends from karting, but ‘kay. gl to you too.’

Rookie season, race one: bahrain:

You failed yet again when you met Charles Leclerc. You’d hoped, obviously, you’d be amicable with him. That you’d get along, and the season would be bearable. You hadn’t expected to click just so fast, though.

“alors, tu te sens confiant?” he asks, right before the first free practice. You stare at him gratefully and give a curt nod, but he doesn’t push. He shuffles beside you, watching the track below.

“You know, I think Ferrari needed something new. Something angry. I think, really, you might make a difference around here. It’s okay to be nervous, but don’t let it limit you. I think you could be great. Truly, great.” he mumbles genuinely, his accent catching on every other syllable. You turn away, slightly bashful because of his kindness.

“High praise, coming from ‘il predestinato’.” you reply quickly, trying not to replay his words in your aching head.

‘Something new. Something angry.’

He just chuckles, and waves to someone walking in the paddock.

“Well, don’t tell anyone, but we can share the title. I’m rooting for you.”

“Over Lando?” you ask carefully, and he scoffs.

“Think bigger, coequipier. Over everyone. Other than me, though. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” you murmur in agreement, nodding to yourself. And although you know he’s probably just being nice, the vote of confidence dulls the ache in your head, just slightly.

Turns out, the Ferrari is fast. Faster than you’d expected. And you’re driving like it's your sole purpose on earth, like if you died now, you’d be fulfilled. You don’t let the fact it's a free practice stop you from gunning it, which you immediately get reprimanded for.

“Um, tires. Please, watch out for degradation. Nurse them.” comes the sharp command, and you respond quickly, but not apologetically. Because you have the fastest lap on the board and you know full well no one was expecting it. You have to stop yourself from asking where Lando is, how his time compares to yours. It was a habit, because your old race engineer would tell you every time. She loved to see how it would spur you on, make you push even harder. Back then, you and Lando had been in a league of your own. Here? Bottom of the pack.

But your time, and your driving, said otherwise.

Qualifying hadn’t gone so well. By your standards- for a rookie, P10 was impressive. Good enough for the team, good enough for the media, good enough the fans. But not quite good enough for you.

The stone slab you’re sitting on is cold, but you appreciate the refuge from the bustle in the paddock.

“You set unrealistic standards for yourself, you know that? You always have. You don’t need to win the first one.” mumbles a recognisable voice, and you brace yourself for an argument that never comes. Instead, Lando sits beside you. Your arms don't touch, but he’s still closer than he needs to be.

“Sorry, about what I said. We are friends.” you say hesitantly, but he just sighs.

“No, you were right. We’re not. We haven’t been friends in a long time, have we?” he mutters carefully, and you nod slowly.

“It’s hard to be friends when I hate you for a living.”

“You drive, for a living.”

“Where’s the difference? I’m driving to beat you. I hate everyone in front of me, and I still hate them, even when I’m winning and they’re behind me, y’know?” you reply, and he hums in assent.

“I didn’t expect to feel so scared.” he admits quietly, and you punch his arm affectionately, but still hard.

“Never say that again. That’s dystopian.” you snap, and Lando laughs.

“Yeah, sorry. Anyway, duty calls.” he announces, rising up quickly. “Good luck!” he calls, as he walks away, and you mumble it back under your breath. You don’t really care if he hears or not. But you sort of hope he did, because imagining Lando Norris being scared is making you feel even more terrified yourself.

You finish P4. A momentous clamour of red is what guides you home, comfortably behind the other McLaren driver, a more experienced Oscar Piastri. Then ahead of him, your teammate. He was just shy of Max, who is unsurprised when he claims the top step. As you watch the podium, you feel a sprinkle of champagne trickle onto your hair, a gift from Charles.

He gives you a smile, like you deserve to celebrate too. And in a way, you agree with him. Not bad, for a newbie, seems to be the general consensus from everyone. You get nods and thumbs up with each turn in the paddock, and for a brief moment, you’re proud.

“Well done.” grins Lando, jogging after you. You smile at him gratefully, and say it back, even though you’re not sure he’ll be pleased with his own result, just missing out on points.

“Well, the only way is up?” he suggests, essentially reading your mind, and you laugh slightly.

“For you, maybe. I did pretty well.” you scoff, and he pauses.

“Yeah, you did.” comes his genuine response, and your breath catches. The sincerity of his voice knocks you off guard, and he notices.

“I’m still going to get ahead of you, in the championship, you know?” he exclaims, and you relax when you hear the humour in his tone.

For the record? He doesn’t. At the end of your rookie season, you’re comfortably P5 in the championship standings. Him? P7.

You don’t want to admit you’re starting to think you’re better than him, because that would be underestimating him. And you knew that underestimating Lando Norris was a terrible fucking idea.

Next season, he proves you right. You get P5 again. He sneaks his way into P4, and god does he milk it. LN4, 4th in the championship. Only in his second season. You get ignored, and people shift between you and him, like they’re unsure who to back.

When the media asks, you said you’re not progressing as fast as you want. The team is happy with your consistency, your performance, but personally? You want more. You think the car will have more to give, when your third season starts. When they push, when they ask how it feels for Lando to be ahead, you don’t bite. You congratulate him, and compliment his car.

“The McLarens are fast, aren’t they?”

Pre third season:

“So, you’re one of the favourites to win the title this year, ‘yknow?” comes a quiet voice. He isn’t pushing you, trying to annoy you. Just a statement, like he wants to gauge how you feel.

“So are you, Piastri. And you outrank me, in experience.” you shrug back casually, and he blinks.

“Yeah, well. Experience isn’t everything.”

“I agree!” Lando exclaims, forcing his way in between you. You move accordingly, leaning on the cool brick wall of the studio.

“Personally, I think it depends on the track, and the conditions. Some things can only be learnt through practice.” comes a thoughtful response, and you offer your palm.

Charles grins at you as your hands make a satisfying sound and he stands beside you, beginning to chatter to Oscar.

“Do you remember, we did our first official media thing as drivers here?” reminds Lando, and you nod.

“‘Course. I won, because you messed up my favourite song.”

He huffs. “It changes every week, come on. Unfair question.”

“I got yours right.” you say, and it comes out heavy. He tries to dismiss it, by shifting his head to the side, but he still looks a bit guilty.

You follow him into the studio and take a seat in a red chair, beside Charles. On the other side of the set, papaya blinks back at you. And in the middle of you both, a familiar face. You try to place it, try to work out how you know your interviewer, until he gives you a warm smile, and it clicks.

Two years ago, on a sofa, not a seat. Him, fiddling with the lights, and you making him chuckle. Huh.

“So, I’m Louis, and I’m here with the McLaren and Ferrari drivers, as we head into a new season. So, Charles. P2, in constructors last year. Just losing it, by a few points, to these guys. How does that feel- are you still reeling?” he begins, articulately. He sounds neutral, like every other presenter, but to you his words are barbed.

‘A few points.’

You felt like the constructor's loss was your fault. Yeah, maybe their car was faster, but Charles had beat Oscar in the standings. It was your painful loss to Lando that cost it. And no one said it, no one pointed it out, because there was no need for it. Your frustration was visible, every time you looked at Norris. Off putting tension, that once you’d managed to navigate. Now? You were drowning in it.

It made staring at him now, smiling when he congratulated Ferrari’s performance last season, undeniably difficult.

Louis calls your name next, snapping you back into reality.

“P5, last two seasons. Consistent. Where are you aiming for this year? Or would you be happy to get that position again?”

You scoff. “I didn’t fight my way here to stay stuck at fifth. Naturally, I’m going for the championship. And you know, I’m feeling good. I underestimated how much it stings to lose.” you admit, calmly, but your back is straight and your jaw is tense. Like you can feel Lando’s stare, his smirk, at your predictable response.

Oscar replies immediately, but his words are slow. “Well, you’ll have to beat everyone else in this room first.” You want to laugh, like it’s a joke, but he’s deadly serious, a challenge in his eyes, a slight raise in his eyebrow.

For someone you’d barely spoken to for the last two years, you wonder what the fuck he’s doing.

“So will you, mate.” remarks Lando, a slight smile tugging at his lips, and you shift your gaze to meet his.

“Frankly, I think beating me will be the biggest challenge. I was ahead of all of you last year, for the record.” adds Charles, and it’s finally the statement you need so you can laugh a little.

“Are none of you worried about Redbull or Mercedes?” asks Louis inquisitively, and Oscar takes this one.

“No, I think our biggest competition is in the room. You agree, Lando?”

“Well, mine certainly is.” he shoots back, staring at you.

And if you weren’t used to his games, or if you didn’t know him that well, you might let your cheeks flush. Instead, you just glower back, and nod.

“Well, it’s Ferrari’s year.” you reply, not missing a beat.

“Ferrari’s, or yours?”

You don’t need to answer that one. Stupid question, really. But Charles does anyway, a best attempt to be amicable.

“Both. Forza Ferrari.” is his effective response, and Louis beams, watching you shift slightly in your seat, as Lando pulls his irritatingly neon jumper over the top of his head.

The rest of the interview is somewhat unremarkable. You almost hope they’ll edit out the first bit, but if anything, that’ll be the only bit that makes the cut. You curse yourself slightly, for how quickly you got aggravated, but Charles just claps you on the back, understandingly.

“We need to beat them now, ‘predestinata’.” he mumbles, smiling, and you nod quickly.

The nickname makes you think back.

‘Something new. Something angry.’

Maybe you weren’t quite new anymore, but you were definitely still angry.

“We will.”

Just as you begin to follow him out, you hear someone call your name. A girl, probably a few years younger than you, running after you.

“Hi, I’m really sorry to disturb you, but I just want to say you’ve been a huge inspiration to me, since you started in the junior leagues. I knew you’d go all the way, I truly did. And, I don’t know, I just wanted to tell you that like, you’re really loved? I know that sounds weird. But there's so many of us, rooting for you. I know it must be hard, but like, don’t let them break you. You mean a lot to more people than you know.” she admits, slightly breathlessly, and you don’t know how to function. How to reply to something so raw, so genuine. So absurdly kind.

So you extend your arms awkwardly, and she quickly hugs you, and you almost cry. You don’t, obviously. But you’re close, and she can tell.

“Um, I’m Faye, by the way.” she whispers, like she’s scared you’ll run away if she talks any louder.

You introduce yourself back, without thinking, and she smiles.

“So, what do you want to do? Or are you happy working here?” you ask quickly, trying to figure out if she’d been the girl flitting around the cameras earlier.

“Ideally, what he does,” she begins, pointing to Louis, who’s talking to a cameraman. “He wants your number, but he’s too scared to ask, just so you know. Unprofessional, and he doesn’t want to seem like a creep. Although, I think he’s been wanting it for the last two years, so I wouldn’t be too harsh on him.” Faye mumbles quickly, and you laugh.

“Okay, well. If I give you mine, so we can discuss when you’ll be interviewing me, alright? And then, if he asks again, you can give it to him.” you explain, flashing your phone at her, and you watch her begin to grin.

“Wait, seriously?”

You smile. “Of course, you can get some exclusives. If that would help, and you’d like to, of course.” you suggest, and she practically squeals.

“That would be amazing, thank you so much!”

You nod gracefully, and notice Louis staring at you carefully from across the room. You give him a small wave, and he waves back immediately. Your eyes dart around the set, and you land on a flash of greeny-yellow. Lando’s jumper.

“Hey, Faye? I’m just gonna grab that, is that okay?” you murmur, pointing to the jumper, and she makes a hum of assent.

It smells like him, and it repulses you. Even when he’s not here, his stupid smirk haunts you. You pick it up dutifully and march out of the building, not looking up from your phone, unbothered. Suddenly, you slam into someone, and you hear a small ‘oof’ sound.

“Ah, sorry.” he mumbles, and you notice a familiar mop of brown hair. Oscar. You stare at him, somewhat coldly, and he sizes you up.

“Can you give this to Lando?” you ask, shoving the sweater into his unsuspecting chest aggressively. He blinks back, but takes it anyway, and then you’re gone.

“I was actually looking for you- to apologise? Sort of? Sorry for being so harsh earlier. Lando-“ he begins, but you just keep walking.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s fine.” you call, giving him a dismissive wave and striding out through the doors. You didn’t give a shit about Oscar Piastri when he was outside his car.

“Huh, he was right.”

You don’t turn around, because you don’t care to know what Lando was right about. But somewhere in Oscar’s words, you feel a small sense of betrayal.

Your third season, race one: australia:

Oscar manages pole, for his home race. You want to be annoyed, as you pull into P2, but you can’t really be, because it’s an almost perfect result. Still, you’ll be going for the win tomorrow, obviously. And being sandwiched between each McLaren might sound like a nightmare for a different driver, but for you? Perfect.

“Well, no one ever believes me when I say this, but I much prefer being second, to being in front. At the start of the race, for the record. Obviously, I love to win.” you admit earnestly, and you flash Faye an endearing smile. She’s nervous, as this is such a huge interview for her, but you mouth ‘you’re doing great!’ and she nods gratefully.

“So, why is that? And please don’t tell me you somehow qualified second intentionally?” she jokes, and you laugh with her easily.

“Oh, no. I’m not clever enough for that, and that’s such a risky idea. Maybe I’ll give it a go, one day. But for me, it’s a competitive feeling. Having someone to hunt, having prey, it’s entertaining. Motivating. Being in front, and waiting to see someone in your rearview mirrors is actually more terrifying. It comes with confidence, I guess. But I think, honestly? Confidence isn't my strength. Instead, I value my aggression.”

Faye pauses, thoughtfully.

“So, aggression worked for Max. Still does, clearly, with him being World Champion. But some call your driving style more insane than aggressive, do you think that's a fair judgement?”

You genuinely chuckle now, because of her attempt at being polite.

“I’ve definitely given my engineers a fair share of heart attacks. But there’s a line between risk-taking, and insanity. I like to think I’m on the line, and I’m pushing it, but I haven’t crossed it. Not yet. Maybe ‘erratic’ is a better word. I just don’t like slowing down, so if I can avoid braking by taking a wider line, or a closer corner, I’ll try it. That’s why I push so hard in free practices- they’re crucial for my driving style to work out, y’know?” you explain, and she nods along.

“Thank you so much, and good luck for tomorrow.”

It rains like a bitch in Melbourne, and the track is practically undrivable. At least, for other drivers. The rain makes your tactic a gamble, but you can’t afford to slow down, so you just trust yourself, chasing down that flash of papaya.

There’s a moment, when the whirring engine seems to be perfectly in time with the humming of your heart, and you’re reminded that this is what you live for. That time waits for no man, but you might just be the woman that's fast enough to conquer it.

So when Piastri spins out onto the grass, coming out of turn 12, you barely have time to feel bad. Instead, your engine roars as you push into P1,and for what feels like the first time, well, ever, you don’t look for Lando in your mirrors. You know he’s there. The team is feeding you numbers, your gap to him. Where he’s picking up time in comparison to you. But you just don’t look.

And as he gets closer, you pull out a fastest lap, lighting the screen up purple. And with that, you dare him to catch up.

But he can’t, and just like that, you win the first race of the season.

“Bien joué ! Course brillante, vraiment!” celebrates Charles, clapping you proudly on the back as you barrel into the garage, champagne still stuck in your eyelashes.

“Merci, Charles. Un départ parfait de la saison, n'est-ce pas?” you joke quickly, and he laughs heartily.

“For you, maybe. You’re still a rookie teammate to me, so I shouldn’t be letting you get ahead too often.” he replies, and you laugh with him.

After more claps and words of congratulations, the team let you leave the bustling paddock. Just as you’re walking out, a flash of orange emerges around the corner, the two teammates deep in conversation.

Oscar looks dejected, and Lando looks slightly miffed. And somewhere deep inside, you’re deeply satisfied.

“Shame about the spin, Oscar. But seriously, an impressive recovery.” you call out, smiling lazily at them both. You hope it at least comes off slightly genuine, and it seems to land.

“Stupid mistake on my behalf, but thanks. Anyway, congrats on the win.”he replies, and you’re pleasantly surprised by his sportsmanship.

Lando doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look you can’t quite describe, and your heart twists a little. For the first time ever, you can’t see the young boy you know from karting. Instead, you see a man who's looking at you like you’re something dangerous, something he wants out of his way, but he’s too scared to come near you.

And when you think back to two years ago, when you’d agreed you weren’t friends, it felt like a lie. Because that would make whatever you are now even less than friends, and you hoped that wasn’t the case. Deep down, you were still alone out here, and you liked knowing someone at least knew you as more than the ‘Ferrari girl.’

“Well done, Lando. See you on the podium next week, huh?” you remark, folding your arms, and he smiles back. But the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and you falter slightly.

You don’t celebrate alone that night, but you don’t party with your team. Instead, you find yourself in a dress that's ever so slightly too tight, in a restaurant with such dim lighting you wonder why you even bothered putting on makeup.

“Sorry I’m a bit late. I was unprepared for how big a deal this race win would be.” you explain apologetically. You’d won before, but this felt bigger.

Louis scoffs playfully, “Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m surprised you even said yes, honestly. Thought you’d be out with the team, or Lando or whatever.”

You almost choke on your breadstick. “Pfft, why would I be out with Lando?” you ask carefully, trying to sound casual.

He shrugs. “He came second, you guys are friends. I don’t know, I thought sometimes people celebrate with other team members.”

You smile gently, reaching for another breadstick, looking for an excuse to not be overly conversational. Or, to give him a hint to change the conversation- and so he does.

You let him talk for a bit, about his favourite films, and what music he listens to when he commutes for work. How his motorsport coverage is gaining more traction, so he’ll be around for more races.

You find yourself agreeing on political stances, and directors, and the way you say ‘scone’, and his gentle nature and slightly lovesick eyes fill you with a sense of calm you haven't felt in many long years.

And for once, you let yourself relax. And you let yourself wonder, for a fleeting moment, if there’s room in your mind for more than just racing. And maybe, just maybe, room in your heart.

Race six: miami:

Your hand is intertwined with Louis’ as you walk through the paddock. You weren’t sure if debuting a new relationship after a mere forty days together was a good idea, but he helped you breathe easier. And you figured that was a good sign, so you invited him to the garage for Miami.

And you were still leading the championship, so that helped your respiration too, you suppose.

Lando and Oscar were grappling for podium places beneath you, with your teammate below them. Followed by ‘mad Max’ (who was evidently still struggling with his car) and then the Mercedes’. And although you hated those idiots commenting about your cars being ‘rocket-ships’, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe you were lucky, and that’s why Ferrari and McLaren seemed to be in an entirely different league.

“Good luck out there today, yeah?” Louis whispers quietly into your hair, as you walk together through the paddock and towards hospitality.

“I’ll win this one for you, babe.” you exclaim teasingly, laughing as he cringes into your shoulder.

“Unfortunately, I’m going to win this one, actually.” calls an aggravating voice, and you tense.

“Hey, Lando!” smiles your boyfriend eagerly, and Lando smiles back.

“Hey, mate. Anyway, I’ve won here two years in a row now, and I’m going for the hattrick, sorry.” he mutters seriously, but he grins cheekily after.

“Oh, well. Unfortunately I pulled your rear wing off yesterday, so good luck without it.” you reply, equally as serious. But you don’t smile after, and for a moment he looks genuinely panicked.

You burst out laughing as he pales, and yet another unreadable expression paints his face. Something between agony and appreciation, and ‘I miss you.’

You don’t dwell on it, though. You just shake your head incredulously and walk on. You don’t notice Louis’ hand stiffen in yours, or how he studies the laughter etched on your face. How he wonders why he’s never seen you laugh quite like that before.

When you wave him goodbye and enter the front of the garage, he wonders if it’s worth asking about. But when you beam at him, he lets himself forget.

Lando leads Q1. He leads Q2. You chase him down the track, admiring each turn of his wheel, mentally criticising where he goes slightly too wide. But still, he’s faster than you.

Thirty seconds left of Q3, and you don’t need to ask to know who’s provisional pole. You’re sitting comfortably in P2, and your wheels are more worn than you’d like them.

“I want to do another lap.” you radio quickly, slightly too aware of the degradation below you. But you’re desperate for one last shot.

“We wouldn’t recommend it.”

You pause momentarily. That wasn’t an exact no.

So you floor it, cursing the VCarb blocking you slightly as you push through the line.

Turn one is messier than you expected, but you’re fast. You feel fast, but you’re making mistakes. And this lap needs to be near fucking perfect.

You turn out of 16, and you don’t need to hear the word ‘push’, because it blares in your mind like an alarm, weaving aggressively through your mind. Your foot is pressing excessively hard on the pedal, and you feel the car push with you.

And suddenly you run out of straight, and you brake so aggressively you wonder how the hell your neck hasn't snapped.

“Faye? That was insanity.” you murmur into your radio, even though you know she might never hear it. And then you’re around 18, and 19, and you’re over the line.

-0.214 seconds faster than Norris. -0.214 seconds faster than the new track record.

After a slight telling off from engineers and baffled words of endearment, you bump into none other than Mr P2 himself.

“How the fuck did you manage that?” he demands, gripping your arm slightly too hard.

“Lando, get off me.”

“Two tenths of a second, where did you find that?”

You laugh incredulously. “I don’t know, watch my lap.”

He sighs, exasperated. “I did. Multiple times. And each time I think you’re going to fucking kill yourself because you just forgot to brake. You drive like a maniac.”

“Yeah, but I’m the fastest.”

“You won’t be the fastest if you’re dead.”

“Yeah, that’s the only scenario I’m not the fastest in. Just get over it.”

“You’re insane, mate.”

You shoot him a fiery look. “And you’re too slow. Better luck next time, Norris.”

He just shakes his head, bewildered, as you walk off. And for a brief moment, it feels like you’re back in F4, and you’d out-qualified him for the first time. That first moment where it was serious, and both your bloods had boiled under the heated stare from the other. When for a brief second, hatred pumped in your hearts. Then he’d congratulated you, and you’d strung your arm through his, and it was okay. But that doesn’t happen now.

He overtakes you. He comes out of nowhere, after a poorly timed pit stop.

“For fucks sake, guys. I don’t think I can catch him in four laps.” you scream, aggravated.

“You need to try, please. Push.”

“What do you think I’m doing? When I lose, it’s on you.” you exclaim angrily, and you’re too mad to feel mean.

You’re right, because about seven minutes later, Lando gets his godforsaken hattrick in Miami, and you spray him gracefully with maybe too much champagne. He tries to act like he’s not choking on it.

“Let’s go out, later.” he requests, after the podium. A question, posed as a statement.

“Sorry, have you confused me with Oscar? He’s over there, sulking in fourth.” you joke, but he looks at you, serious.

“For old times sake. We used to joke about winning Miami, huh?”

You scowl. “We didn’t win Miami, you did.”

He huffs. “A technicality. And you won the sprint, so, you kinda did too. Come on, we owe it to our teenage selves.” he pleads, and you nod hesitantly.

“Fine, let me text Louis.”

His back straightens slightly when your tone softens as you say his name, but you don’t notice. And he sort of wishes you did.

Miami music feels louder than usual music, like their speakers are supercharged. And their lights are brighter, and the air is warmer.

And Lando is looking at you the same way he used to, as kids, and you can’t help but drown in the disgusting familiarity.

“Ugh, this is so not my music.” you groan into his ear, and he just laughs at you.

“What, were you seriously expecting some of ‘The Smiths’ in the club? Bit of a moodkiller, no?” he jokes back, and you whack his arm instinctively.

You let the beat course through your body for a minute, before he leans back into your ear.

“Is this how we become friends again? I’ve missed you.” he admits, barely audible.

“You suck up, just ‘cause I’m winning now, huh?” you smile back, but he looks at you genuinely, and you pause.

“No. I’m being serious- can we drop this enemy thing? Let's go back to us, duo. Not us, rivals.”

After a heavy moment, you shrug, a grin tugging your shiny lips.

“Okay, fine. But that means you need to bring me a smoothie after each race, like in karting.” you reply, and he nods.

“Mango.”

“Mango.” you agree, lacing your fingers through his and dragging him onto the uncomfortably busy floor, lights shining erratically on the tiles.

“We won in Miami!” you shriek, laughing, and he laughs with you.

“We sure did.”

Race nine: Monaco:

“Charles, bonne chance!”, you call to your teammate, watching the natural nerves from a home race paint his face paler than usual. Alexandra has her dainty arm linked through his, and she waves at you enthusiastically.

“Hey, good luck to you too! Forza Ferrari!” she calls back affectionately, and you smile at them both, slightly dazed by the way the warm air sits in your throat.

You don’t live in Monaco, not yet. It’s just not your city, but the weekend enchants you. And for a moment, you can see yourself intertwined with the streets of Monte Carlo.

“Too many tifosi around.” Lando mocks, and you frown.

“They’re not even here for me.” You pout dramatically, and he laughs at your expression.

“God forbid a man has a home race.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh, and you truly do. And when you notice his smile soften around the edges and his cheeks flush like they did when you’d kissed him once in ‘truth or dare’ as kids, you almost need to look away.

“Prepare yourself for the lap record I’m going to set in qualifying, by the way.” You say quickly, hoping he’ll snap out of it.

“I look forward to it.” He replies gleefully.

“Sorry, plans changed.” He admits, proudly gripping his tire. New track record, Lando Norris in Monaco.

You’re proud, annoyingly. Slightly devastated, as you accept P3, but your heart isn't in the frown on your face.

“Yeah, yeah. Good job, Norris.” you reply casually, and he grins.

“Thanks, Ferrari. Sorry about stealing it from the home-race-hero.” he murmurs guiltily, gesturing to your teammate, but you shrug.

“You were faster. That’s how it works.”

He studies you carefully for a moment. Trying to work out when exactly you became less empathetic. When exactly you lost your childish round features and your eyes became sharper.

What he’s really looking for is when you became so cold. Not mean, not evil. Just somewhat empty, ruthless. When speed became the only thing that mattered to you.

“You’re staring.” you accuse, narrowing your eyes.

“You’re different.” he replies, as a justification.

“Did you only just notice?”

He swallows carefully. “You know what? Yeah. I still thought you had some compassion in you.” he admits, and he doesn’t realise how brutal his words are until they’re hanging in the air.

But you don’t even blink. Your expression barely even changes, even though you feel like he just punched you.

And when he sees your face stay the same, his heart twists uncomfortably. Like he’s losing something he didn’t realise he had. Or maybe, he knew, but he never thought he would see it slip away. And suddenly, a deep regret replaces the pride in his chest, and he wishes he had done something before, when you were kinder. When you were less angry.

When you would’ve sighed dramatically, and condemned him to an afternoon of silent treatment for breaking millions of hearts. And he would’ve followed you around, like a puppy, until you eventually laughed at his pitiful expression.

He can only imagine that you’d march off, if he did that now. You wouldn’t even turn back.

“I still have compassion. But I have more determination. I told you, I’d forgotten how much losing stings. It hurts.” you reply earnestly, but it’s not enough.

“Bullshit. You used to feel so deeply. It was something I lo- valued-about you. And lately, it seems like you barely feel at all.”

Your eyebrows furrow at the attack.

“I still do. We just spend less time together. We’re just growing apart, and maybe I picked up most of my compassion from you. I don’t think you know me, if you think I’ve changed. You just never saw me without you. You made me softer, I guess. But I’ll take your disapproving look and my ruthlessness over failure.” you shoot back, trying to act unbothered.

The words swirl uncomfortably in his head.

“I did know you. Do.” he corrects, but the response isnt good enough to keep you grounded.

“Sure. Whatever.” you shrug, and then you’re gone, and he wishes quite violently to undo what just happened.

There’s no room for overtaking, not here, on these famed streets. So when you land yourself at the bottom step of the podium, you’re unsurprised. Like everyone else.

You and Charles paint the podium red, but Lando’s orange suit ruins it, smack in the middle.

You spray each other, because it’s the right thing to do. You take photos, because it’s the right thing to do. But it all feels very wrong, the way his hand lightly hugs your waist. The way you can’t quite smile for each other, can’t quite find anything nice to say to each other.

So you don’t say anything at all.

That is until, as you’re stepping off the podium balcony, you hear it. A small yell, from in front of you.

“Monaco baby!”

A small chant, you knew well. Something you’d heard before.

And before you can think it through, you call back, “Yeah, baby!”, and he turns around, a rueful smile on his damp face.

Your response, a peace offering. His smile, a gesture of acceptance.

You almost dare to ask him if it was compassionate enough, but you hold back. For the first time in a long time. And you hate to admit it, but you feel your edges soften, when he turns to look at you again.

And then he’s lost in the sea of fans and shouts and hollers, and you hope for a second that he never comes back, like you won’t see him next weekend.

Louis finds you immediately, a ridiculous grin on his quietly handsome face.

“You should’ve heard the crowd roaring. They love you.”

You chuckle halfheartedly, shaking your slightly wet hair. “They love Charles.”

“No, they love Ferrari. And you are Ferrari.” he corrects, and the comment sits with you, long after he’s gone, and you’re peeling off your red race suit, alone.

Lando invites you to celebrate again. Another little apology, you assume. You say yes, and you’re not entirely sure why. Luckily, Monaco is small, and the entertainment is smaller, so practically half the grid ends up together, in an establishment too fancy to be called a club, but no other word quite fits.

“Don’t know what the fuck was up with your car today, mate, but you seriously owe me. Stuck behind you for the whole race was truly distressing.” You hear Alex Albon mutter, elbowing George aggressively in the stomach.

“I’m buying you a drink, am I not?”

Alex scoffs. “I want more than that, you’re paying for dinner. Tomorrow.”

You sidle up to the bar, sitting easily next to them.

“Cute, you guys are going on a date then?” You joke carefully.

Aside from Charles, you’d gravitated towards the unusual pairing of Alex Albon and George Russell, friends from old. In some ways, they reminded you of you and Lando, rookies together. An understanding that teammates couldn’t share, not in the same way. You’d never overstepped, pushed yourself where you weren’t wanted. Just sometimes, when Ferrari got grating, and Lando too annoying, they helped you remember that you were here because you loved driving, and you were more than your team.

‘You are Ferrari.’ Lately, that seemed to be feeling more and more true.

“What, you didn’t know? We’ve been together for many a year now.” replies George casually, comfortably. He doesn’t laugh, because he doesn’t need to. Just lets his friendliness come across in his tone.

The music is blaring, and it’s distasteful. Beats, off time and too repetitive. You’re no DJ, but you’re convinced the person dancing behind the decks is probably even less experienced than you.

You feel the air to your right shift, and suddenly there’s a body occupying it.

“Not great, is it?” Comes a low whisper, and you turn expectantly.

“Not really, Piastri.”

He smiles, lopsided and confusing. “This kind of music is my favourite, but it isn’t representing itself very well.”

“I’ve noticed. It sounds like you use the same song for every post.”

He sighs, mock offended. Or maybe he’s genuinely offended. You can’t tell.

“Ouch.”

“I don’t care for house music.”

He lets your words sit, like he doesn’t know what to say.

“Fair enough.”

You wonder why he’s trying. Why he’s talking to you. Like he isn't hunting you down each weekend, smiling at your every mistake. Like you aren’t doing the same thing.

You slip away, without saying goodbye. You don’t owe him that, just because you’re leaving him alone, to curse at the bad house music in the background.

Instead, you weave through bodies and couches and up staircases until you reach an open glass door, leading to a balcony.

You step into the Monaco air, and breathe deeply, letting a moment of solitude calm your agitated body. But you’re not alone, because someone stands against the ledge, their body pressed against the stone fence. Not in a scary way, in a grounded way, like their own body intertwines with the moss.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you-“ you begin apologetically, but their curls catch in the light, and you’d recognise the back of his head anywhere.

“Lando.”

He doesn’t turn, he has no reason to.

“Hey. You’re not disturbing me.” He says softly, inviting you beside him.

“How come you’re out here, and not partying, or whatever?” You ask carefully, running your hand on the cool stone beneath you, pausing just before yours collides with his.

“Don’t know, just wanted to look at the city, I guess. I’ve lived here for years now, but it’s never felt truly like home. I felt like I had to prove something, so I could feel like I deserved the streets of Monte Carlo. And now, I’m the quickest person on them. I feel like a little chunk of the city might be mine, now. Is that silly?” He mumbles honestly, and you can’t help but feel a flutter of deep, true affection for the little boy that you know lives in the man to your left.

You let your hand trail slightly over his now, your way of saying ‘sorry’ and ‘I hope you still think I’m nice, somewhere,’ without saying anything at all. And when he returns the gesture, he confirms he does, somehow.

It’s a little too intimate for your liking, and you realise if you don’t break away now, you might spend all night here, letting the darkness hide the conflict on your face. So you begin to shift away, taking a step back.

And for the first time ever, he doesn’t let you go. He doesn’t let you slip away, like always. Doesn’t wait, because he knows you’ll come back to him, with a silent apology and a sarcastic joke, and a smile that’s too warm.

Instead, he’s scared that if you go, that might be it. That your edges will get too sharp, your walls too high, and he’ll never see the little girl that he knows lives inside of you, ever again. And he’s not quite willing to give that up, give you up, not yet.

You’re not sure what to do. You don’t know if you should fight what’s coming, the ugly truth he’s about to whisper, words that not even the dark of night can hide. So you don’t. You let your hand stay firmly in his, and wait for an argument that never quite comes.

Instead, his lips find yours. He tastes of a drink you can’t figure out, and lip balm, and confusion. You freeze, unable to move. To think, to breathe.

He pulls away regretfully, and you manage to stammer out a few harsh words.

“What the fuck are you playing at, Norris?”

He looks at you, carefully. Like you’re about to disappear, and he needs to study you properly before you go. He doesn’t move away from you, and you don’t step back either.

“Are you going to push me away?” He dares, standing up a little straighter. Your hands reach instinctively to his chest, to shove him. You tell yourself to muster some force behind it, let this be it. Let this be the final time you view him as Lando Norris, your friend. Let him truly become Lando Norris, your rival.

You really were going to push him, you really were.

So when your hands curl into his shirt and you pull him back into you, you actually don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. And your surprise mirrors his, because he lets out an unexpected gasp against your lips.

Years worth of every feeling you’ve had for him spills from you, without words. Gratitude, to friendliness. To kindness, to being competitive, to having a stupid, innocent crush. To frustration, to determination, to something you both feel but never say. And then, it turns sour. Anger, exasperation. Annoyance. Confusion, desperation. Missing him, but not because he’s far, but because he doesn’t feel like a friend anymore. And somewhere, something rises in your warm throat. But it isn’t sweet, it isn’t sour. It’s bitter, and you realise it’s something between loathing and disgust, something indescribable.

You hate him, and you think you might hate yourself too, just a little bit.

You pull away, with some finality. And with that slight shove, you hope he gets it. That this was the end. And maybe, had this been five years ago, you would be pulling away for breath, and then you’d bury your head in his chest and ask what had taken so long, and he’d be grateful he’d got it right. But now, he’s got it wrong.

And he knows. He sees it, all over your face. He feels it, from his unsettled heartbeat and breath that keeps catching on nothing. The butterflies in his stomach don’t seem like butterflies at all, or maybe they just have blades instead of wings.

“That was a mistake.” you mutter quickly.

He nods. “It was.”

He doesn’t apologise. Neither do you.

“I have a boyfriend.”

“You do.”

You frown now, repulsed and drowning in a sharp sense of guilt.

“I love him.”

He pauses. “That sounds like a defense.”

He might be right, maybe it is. A weak justification, to make whatever just happened insignificant. And it hurts to admit, but you felt more in that minute than you have with Louis.

But he’s warm, and he’s kind, and you don’t feel sick when you think about him for too long. And you’d rather feel less than feel that again. Maybe you were wrong, maybe you didn’t have space in your heart for anything other than racing. And it might be cruel, but you know Louis would rather have you like this, than not have you at all.

And right now, you need that. A hand to hold, an unwavering constant. Someone who looks at you like they have nothing else worth looking at, not someone who looks at you like you might them. Like they could hurt you.

And right now, as you stare at Lando, he has that impression on his face. Like you’re pointing rifles at each other, and he doesn’t know if he should shoot first.

“It’s the truth.”

He smiles wryly, and you wince.

“No, it isn’t. You’ve never loved anything other than driving. I wish I had seen that earlier.” he says casually, but you watch him unravel slightly.

You try to push down the urge to tell him he’s wrong. ‘I loved you, once,’ you want to admit, but you can’t, because it isn’t even true. Just when racing broke your heart, he was the only person who would patch it up, every time. You’d given him your heart more times than you could count, but it was just so he could mend it. Plaster the cracks, so you could try again.

He’s ran out of plaster. You’ve ran out of patience. You just let it shatter, with every missed pole position. Each podium you don’t step on.

This is it. This is the last time you reminisce on what could’ve been. On who you see in front of you.

The young girl in you, sipping a mango smoothie, plaits her hair with greasy fingers for the last time. With a sad flick of her wrist, she waves goodbye to the boy with unruly curls, and a frayed jumper, and too much confidence for someone with velcro straps in his kart. You don’t know if he waves back, because he’s gone once you blink.

“Goodbye, Lando.” you say calmly, quietly. But it’s firm, and it's final, and let it hang uncomfortably in the air. You don’t wait for a reply, you just leave.

Race eleven: Canada:

You’d fucked up the first corner. P2, to P4. And now, nearing the final three laps, you were still there. Your opposition, obstinate as usual. Your rival behind you, too fucking close.

“Can you tell Lando to fuck off?” you exclaim into your radio, exasperated.

“Um, no. No, we can’t do that. Just hold him off.”

You don’t bother replying, you just comply. You push down the straight, watching him use your slipstream, and you curse. You know it’s coming, the move into turn one. And you think you can hold it off, if you play it right.

But that move never comes, because you feel a shunt behind you, and then you’re off the track. Your rear wing rips clean off as the front of his car crashes into yours, and gravel flies up around your helmet. Rubble and debris and a rogue tire re-enters the track, and you’re seething.

“Are you okay? Please, come in. Are you okay?” is the immediate radio, and you sigh, giving a quick response.

“Is Lando okay?” you ask, trying to mask the anger in your voice.

“Uh, yep. He’s okay.”

“Great. I won’t feel as bad when I scream at him, then.” you reply, and then you’re jumping out.

You march up to him, visor half up, careful as your boots drag against the gravel.

“What the fuck are you playing at, Norris?” you yell at him, and he freezes at the familiarity of the phrase.

“It was a mistake.” he replies earnestly, but you know what he’s referring to. Why he chose to say that.

He could’ve said accident. He could’ve said sorry.

“Yeah, it fucking was. You don’t get to mess up my championship just because you can’t drive. You need to get a grip, and don’t go for gaps that don’t exist.”

He pulls off his helmet to look at you apologetically, and you do the same, but so he can see the fury etched in your expression.

“If you’re gonna blow your race, that’s fine. Great for me, actually. But you don’t get to blow mine, prick.” you scream, and you don’t care if anyone hears you. Even though, over the wind, you’re sure they can’t.

“I’m sorry.”

There it is. And it seems genuine, but it won’t get you those points back.

“Okay.” you say bitterly, and he stares at you, bewildered. You walk on, waving to nearing fans in grandstands, but you hear him shout.

“You know, I thought I understood you. I thought I knew why we’d grown apart, why you were so determined. But I just can’t understand why you hate me. I’m sorry, I made another mistake. I’ve made plenty of them, you know that. But I can't even find it in my heart to dislike you, not even a little bit. I just miss you. And you seem to despise me, as hard as you can. Why are you so angry at me?” he yells, his exasperation evident.

“I’m not angry at you. I’m just angry. I’m not like you, I can’t look past the sacrifices that were made to get me here. I can’t accept anything that isn’t first. You’re right, I’ve never loved anything else. I don’t have much love in me, and it’s all gone to this. So all that’s left, all I’m capable of feeling is anger, and hate, and it gets me up in the morning. I run on rage. You’re lucky, you’re so full of love. I always envied you for that. But before, it was easier to pretend. Less pressure, less cameras, just me and you and tracks I knew I could win. Undiluted passion. Now, it’s one big performance, and I’m not a fucking actor.

I’m a driver. And that’s all I need to be. I don’t need friends, I don’t need you. I’m sorry for dragging you behind me for such a long time, I should’ve let you go a while back.” you admit honestly, and his mouth hangs open slightly, unsure of how to react. And you wish you could take it all back, but normally honesty is something that runs from your mouth before you can catch it.

“You don’t need to let me go. I was with you, am with you, because I want to be. Angry, or not. You don’t need to be angry, when we’re together.” he tries, like one last attempt to rekindle something that died, but both of you think at different times. Or maybe to him, it didn’t die at all, but you don’t know.

“Lando, please. Please, let this be over. I can’t have our past hanging over my head anymore. You’re ruining my life, and you don’t even realise. Let me look at you like everyone on this grid, I’m begging you. I’m not who you want me to be, and I never will be.”

He pauses, and you smile at him gratefully, because you know hesitation from him is usually intentional. And something tugs at your heart, reminding you that you thought it was over two years ago, and before this season, and after Monaco. But this time, you promise it’s final.

Race thirteen: Great Britain:

Silverstone was a favourite of yours, and that wasn’t an unpopular opinion. It was nice, to be leading the championship here, but having Lando behind you wasn’t ideal.

He’d been avoiding you graciously, and you’d found it easier to focus. But here, he was everywhere. His face, on every wall. His neon green (or yellow, you still weren’t sure) painting the grandstands. You hated how loved he was, how it seemed like you were the only one who felt an ugly pang when you heard his laugh.

When you check the rota for Thursday interviews and see your name beside his, you wonder who the fuck has it out for you.

“So, Lando, home race. You excited?”

He chuckles. “Have you seen how many people are here supporting me? The love is overwhelming. Of course I’m excited. Hoping to get them a win.”

“Well, if you take a win here, and you” -the interviewer glares at you- “place lower than P4, you’ll take the lead. How does that feel?”

Lando glances at you briefly. “Well, I doubt she’ll get below P4 this race. Other than the DNF I caused, I don’t think she’s got below P4 yet, am I right?”

You nod, grateful when you hear ‘that I caused.’ A gesture, another apology. But not a favour, where he expected something in return.

He doesn’t get pole. You don’t either. But he’s ahead, and you know he’ll fight unbelievably hard for it to stay that way.

Monaco flashes to you again.

“You were faster. That’s how it works.”

You know he’s cursing Verstappen for stealing it from him. You know he’s cursing himself for kissing the gravel. But you know he definitely isn’t just shrugging, and letting it go, because that’s how it works.

Max spins first, in the heavy rain. And then, so does he. And maybe it’s payback for Canada, because you remain unscathed.

The win is no easy one. The race is no simple one. And as you drown in champagne, which feels no different than drowning in rain, the cheers feel less deserved. The buzz in your chest feels more like a sting than something melodic. And even as you stand on that top step, that familiar heart break plagues you. And this time, you can’t grumble to Lando. You can’t run to your parents, because they aren’t here.

And you haven’t been able to look Louis in the eye since Monaco, and you’ve started lying in interviews with Faye.

For the first time ever, driving isn’t enough to comfort your loneliness. Winning isn’t enough. And you wonder if maybe you’d been calmer as child, if you’d let it be something less consuming, you wouldn’t be here now, but you’d be happy.

Or maybe, you’d be like Lando, and be both.

But wondering gets you nowhere, and the season is only halfway done.

Summer break:

His hand brushes yours, and he plants a fleeting kiss to your forehead.

“Can we talk?” Louis whispers carefully, and it catches you off guard. You look up from your book and stare at him, expectantly.

“I’m not what you need, am I?”

A beat.

“What do you mean?” you splutter, and he sighs.

“I adore you, truly. I don’t think I’ll ever stop adoring you, but you look at me with pity. Like I’m boring you, or you wonder how I’m happy being so friendly.”

You let your confusion become visible on your face, and he has to stop himself from instinctively reaching for you.

“I thought you were the sun, at first. And then I realised I was wrong, you are fire. And you burnt me, and I didn’t even mind. But sometimes, you look tired of it. Of burning all the time. And I can’t be the person who cools you off, who makes you feel like you’re not fighting the world alone. I can breathe with you, I can message you and wait for you in the paddock, but you won’t let me see your soul, won’t let me fight the anger there. I don’t think anyone can, except maybe he can. And you deserve to try, deserve to do this, before you go too far and can’t come back. Before you end up in your own flames.”

You don’t ask who ‘he’ is. You blink. “Are you breaking up with me?”

He nods. “And I’m probably going to regret it for the rest of my life. I love you.”

You purse your lips. “Okay. Okay. I’m going to go, then. Goodbye.”

You don’t know what else to say. You’re not sure what to do.

And so it ends in fire, much like how you expect the world will eventually end, even though scientists are beginning to spread whispers of it ending in ice.

Race seventeen: Italy:

Eight races left. Eight chances, eight things you can’t afford to fuck up. Eight things that keep you up at night, that make you cry when darkness can hide you.

Loneliness is new to you. It’s ugly. You don’t know when you pushed everyone away, you just know it happened. Even Charles notices the shift, the change. He makes an effort, and you can’t give him anything back, and you go from friends by choice back to teammates by fate.

Eight left. Eight left, and then you can repent for your sins of the season. You can forgive it all, as it comes back to you. And you can hope that dread will turn back into love, and you will be excited for the next chapter, with ‘one’ branded on your car, branded on your shirt. And every little girl that wears your name on her back will be proud, and it will all be worth it. And your sorrow, your broken soul, shaped by malice, will heal. And your steps will be followed, and you are the beginning of an era of beauty.

You are still something new. You are still something angry. And that is good enough.

Lap 37, and you're comfortably first. The roar of the Italian crowd makes you press that pedal slightly harder as you pass them each lap, and blood pounds in your ears. It is so loud but still so quiet, the engine and cheers making a symphony that’s a frequency too high to hear.

You’re thrown forward, your head knocking hard against the front of the car. You spin, catapulting out into the barriers, and your eyes flutter shut instinctively. You’re slowing, as your wheels barrel over the gravel, but not quickly enough. The shunt is huge, and violent, and you feel a deep ache of pain in your chest, and your arm, and your head.

It’s like Canada, but terrifying, because when the radio comes, you can’t reply.

“Are you okay?”

Silence. You want to reach for the button, to reply, but you can’t lift your arm. Can’t move your head.

You can’t get out.

“Please, reply. Please confirm you’re okay, help is coming. Can you hear us?”

‘I can hear you, am I dying? Why can’t I talk? Can you help me?’

You’re lapsing out of consciousness, watching the crumpled barrier fade to black, but a voice in your ear keeps your eyes open. He pulls your helmet off, but your eyes are failing you.

“Hey, you’re okay. I’m here, you’re okay, come on. Can you try to lift your arm for me? I’m so sorry, seriously, I’m so sorry. Come on, we need to get out of here, this isn’t safe.”

Arms find yours, dragging you out of the seat. His curls tickle your neck, and your blood stains your suit, but he can’t tell, because they’re the same colour. He doesn’t watch you, as you bleed red. As you bleed Ferrari. Instead, he drags your limp body to the ambulance, and the marshals, and then the world is gone and you don’t know if it’s coming back.

Race: ???

You’re injured, unsurprisingly. You watch the footage on repeat, the gasps of horror and the terror of the crowd. You watch Oscar Piastri in the post race interview, realising he’s overtaken Lando in the championship standings by two points. You watch Lando wipe his eyes more than he should. You watch your lifeless body as they accidentally cut to it, cut to Lando dragging you, his face contorted into something you’ve never seen before.

The hospital smells like lemons and the lights are too bright. Not because your head hurts, but because you’ve never liked white lights. Your right arm is swollen and ugly and you would quite like to have died because at least you wouldn’t be so fucking angry at everyone. At a god you don’t believe in, at a universe that has let you get so close and ripped it away again.

You cry a lot now, unintentionally. Tears just seep from your eyes like uninvited guests, reminding you that you’re not as tough as you thought you were. You’re just human, and rage can’t hide that. You’re not damaged in a way that no one can understand, you’re just damaged. You let yourself think you had to do it all alone, because they’d never get you. You never let anyone even try to get you.

Maybe, somewhere along the line, you’d let yourself down. So had society, but you hadn’t even given them a chance. Maybe Lando was right, maybe you used to be more compassionate. Maybe you let that go too easily.

You decide to sleep, because it’s easier than thinking. When you wake, he’s there.

“You look like shit.” you announce, staring decidedly at his messy hair and deep eye bags, and he looks startled, but he doesn’t say it back.

“I can never make it up to you, can I?”

You shake your head. “Of course not. But, it was an accident. I won’t hold it against you.”

He sighs. “Yes, you will. Because you’re not going to win now. You told me in Canada that I don’t get to blow your races, and now I’ve blown your championship. Now, I get it. Now, you can hate me, and I’ll understand it. You won’t believe me, but I’m sorry. If I could swap places with you, I would.”

And you know it’s bullshit, because he’s just as competitive as you, and no driver would want to give up any grand prixs, no matter how guilty they felt.

The final race: Abu Dhabi:

You don’t race cautiously now, but you race differently. You follow the same lines as everyone else. You brake early. You copy, and overtake when you’re meant to. You do everything right, and hope you don’t get punished further.

It’s not enough. You knew it wouldn’t be. You make it back to second, you win every race you have left. But Lando takes your fucking championship, and for a moment, he forgets to feel guilty. That is, until he looks at you.

“Congratulations.” you murmur, catching him alone. You don’t question why he isn’t celebrating. You don’t care. You almost hope he thinks he doesn’t deserve to.

“Thank you.” he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Doesn’t look real.

“I wish I could heal, but I’m so far away from that.” you admit quietly, and he knows you don’t mean your arm.

A moment of quiet. Of hurt.

“I can’t wait for you anymore.” he says suddenly, and you don’t let the statement hang in the air.

“I never asked you to.”

He nods. “I know. And I don’t think you’re a bad person, or that you’re damaged.”

“I almost loved you, but I didn’t.” you whisper, and he looks a bit like he’s been shot.

“I think I knew that. I mean, I could laugh now, when I think about it. The part I was trying to play for you.”

You’re not sure how to respond, but you can’t walk away. So he keeps talking.

“I know that you’re removing yourself from me, from everyone. I can hear it every time we talk. You’ll let me in, and then you’ll shut it off. You slip away, you get mad. It’s half of you that hurts sometimes, that half that I don’t get it. The half you don’t let me get.”

“I’m sorry.” is all you can muster, but it isn’t enough.

“I lost what I wanted. I wanted you. Fuck, I mean I thought I was being brave when I kissed you in Monaco. I just-“

“Lando, are you sure you want to do this right now? You just won a fucking world championship.”

“Your world championship. And look, you’re trying to fucking run away again. Every time I try to tell you how I feel, how you’ve messed me up. How you haunt me, how I feel you in my bones like a fucking current, and you disappear. If it’s not now, it’s never.”

“Okay.” you reply simply, sitting beside him. Gripping the cobblestone steps, so he knows you’re not going anywhere, at least not now.

“If you find yourself out, if there’s a right time, I’ll be here. I’ll be your lifeline. But I can’t wait anymore, and I won’t. But if you can do it, if you can work out how to let me in, how to let racing move over, to give me room, I’ll be here.”

His shoulder brushes yours, and your knees touch as he gets up.