#ipss

I have been going through a lot medically. I have a condition called Cushing’s Disease. But I have one more test to officially confirm the diagnosis on January 10th and then, if results are positive, it’ll be time for surgery.

To remove a very small tumor on my pituitary gland. I’m terrified.

I’m scared the results will be inconclusive again. I’m scared that the test will be a waste of time. I’m scared that the test will cause damage.

I can’t talk to anyone about it. They don’t understand. I WANT the results to be positive. I WANT to have this. It’s answers. After YEARS of confusion and frustration. It’s answers. And a potential cure to almost all of my issues. But it’s still scary.

I feel a lot like Alexa. Struggling to keep it all together. I feel a bit lost. I wish I had a Katie.

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Customer: if it doesn't ring up its free right?

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Customer: did I get all my bags haha I'm soooo spacey sometimes

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Cashier: *standing waiting for next customer*

Customer: you were just waiting for me right? Haha

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Cashier: *also standing waiting for next customer*

Customer: I'm here to give you some work. Just trying to give you some job security

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Customer: are you open?

Cashier: (I don't know can you read?) Yes.

Customer: oh haha now I see the sign

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Cashier: *again standing waiting for customer*

Customer: you look bored I can help you out

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Cashier: this coupon is out of date I can't ring it up

Customer: oh haha you like me though right? Can't you make an exception?

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Customer: *walks into line while sign is closed*

Cashier: sorry sir I'm closing down

Customer: but you're checking someone out can't you check me out too?

Cashier: no. (CLOSED MEANS CLOSED)

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Cusomter: I only came in for two things but got a cart full of stuff instead hahaha I'm so unique

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Customer: explains something like you're a halfwit because you're a cashier and then asks see I taught you something didn't I?

It is not like Fernando means for it to happen, either. 

Qatar is short on good clubs, the ones that turn an eye around for a fight as long as it stays rather clean, or the one that can really be anything if you let it. 

Besides, Rosberg’s gone and Mark didn’t come to this specific race, and Hulk decided he’s staying in or something for whatever reason (Fernando is not stupid, he knows it’s because Gabi won first) and oh, he’s happy for his protégée but as good as his liver is, it’s not the one of even ten years ago, and his only company for older times is Jenson and/or Lewis. 

Which. 

With Jenson it is always fun, so Fernando already has the half-mind to invite him along, but never let it be said that Fernando is not petty. 

He is, oh he fucking is and he will show it. 

The years don’t matter in the face of winning, Fernando thinks smugly as he finishes lacing on too-fancy dress shoes that will be covered in vomit tomorrow morning, and texts back to Lewis: 👍. 

It is easy to infuriate his old teammate; Fernando does not delight in that fact enough, really. 

It’s a second thought to text Jenson too, inviting him along, and the old McLaren driver is more than happy to come so Fernando is not losing. He never loses, but just for the record. 

Lance also asks Fernando if he’s going out to celebrate Gabi, mentioning that the rookie had asked for some recommendations, and would Fernando like to come? Yes he would, he responds, and also he’s bringing Lewis and Jenson. 

Lance calls him then, laughing brightly—there is nothing to gloom about to each other if they’ve finished one after the other after the points, P13 and P14—and since when has Fernando been this popular? 

Lewis is gloomy as they drive, something about Adrian, if Fernando guesses, but Fernando’s also never had a hard-on for German drivers like Lewis or even Seb so it’s no big problem. 

They get to the club without warfare, Lance greeting them with delighted laughter and a small, fake los besitos, and there is a grinning Esteban-and-Pierre behind them. Lance says, “The rookies are inside. Gabi is waiting for you.” 

Oh, sweet Gabi. 

Sometimes Fernando wonders what would happen if Gabi had ever been on the grid in 2010—how different could it have been? But those years are long gone, just like the other fourteen between then and now, and it’s not like Fernando’s gotten any closer to winning in the recent years, but they have already gone back in time a bit, Lewis hanging onto a dancing Jenson’s arm, pouting, and Fernando resists the urge to gloat. 

Instead he asks Lance, “Where?” 

Lance laughs, points somewhere up at the VIP section where Gabi is decidedly not, and gets dragged out by a screaming Pierre who apparently has a dance. Or something. 

Fernando hums, picks up a drink that looks like la puesta del sol, and basks in the cheers of the young drivers. 

Time moves strangely, he knows. 

Once there had been moments that felt never-ending, standing on top of the world with his hands held high or crying at night to the sound of his car purring in the night air. Those days are—not long gone but somehow out of reach. Something will click soon and he will able to regain that feeling underneath his hands. 

Fernando takes a swing of his drink. 

Qatar—and its clubs—are not loud per se but they are something, a magic hovering outside of Fernando’s reach. Maybe that is what makes the time move even slower here. 

Fernando feels as though he can open his eyes and glance at the dancing throng and make out Lewis and Jenson, dancing all on top of each other, and even the figures of Seb and Nico and Nico and Romain and Kimi and Mark and and and. But if he opens his eyes—and he does, quickly picking up a fluorescent green drink—he sees nothing but a moody Lewis (okay, so if Fernando snorts, that is only his business) and a half-dancing Jenson, because now they are no longer the epitome of cool. 

Fernando surveys Gabi, maybe just a little half-drunk. Has he always been able to see stars? 

Gabi looks a bit like a king overwatching his court, even if he is not the highest in the drivers’ ranking. Fernando thinks that Gabi has just overtaken him too. They look happy, they look like—the new generation? 

Those are not the right words but curse English, curse the British like Lewis and Ollie—he adds with distaste as he sees the young Brit encouraging Gabi through shot after shot—and only really Jenson is spared from that. 

Fernando hums again, smooth as a song. 

Their time will come. His is not done, not yet. 

Fernando spins on his heels, nearly losing his balance and ramming into a covered waitress, but he’s not a driver for nothing and years of training have honed his reflexes to be used for much more, so Fernando regains himself and goes to look for Lance. Maybe Lancito will be interested in hearing some stories. 

(It turns out that Lance had decided to abandon Pierre and Esteban and their shtick and had settled on watching by the side with a shot cup of tequila and a shot of water, and does not mind at all when Fernando claims the barstool next to him, ordering some strong cocktail or another, and he also doesn’t mind when Fernando starts to talk about everything under the sun, or is it the moon? Does the saying change in English? Fernando squints at his glass; English is such a stupid language and Brits are like pests. 

Lance is a good kid. He is also Fernando’s teammate and decidedly not British, so that’s another point in his favor. Well, Fernando has never had a problem with Jenson but he has with Lewis, and Lewis kind of ruined all British people for Fernando. 

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