#jb22fa14

Fernando was nodding, already thinking about taking a run in downtown Austin, seeing the flowers and squirrels he remembered from last year, as, from the corner of his eye, he spots a familiar form moving into the back of the garage.

Fernando jerks up, his eyes searching the crowd almost desperately, looking and looking, scanning, searching for the tall, lanky, thin, angular, handsome Australian man whom he has seen time and time again. And just like that, there he is. It is as though Fernando has conjured him, has found him. Mark Webber stands in the back of the garage, wearing headphones, long arms crossed over his thin chest, nodding and greeting the folks in the back, a single man among a large group, yet to Fernando Alonso he may as well be the only one there.

Fernando stands still, his muscles and stomach clenched, tended, frozen, watching the other driver chatting, nodding, smiling his bright, charming, dazzling smile, nodding his handsome head, his greying-brown hair curled and perfect. Fernando sees Mark’s eyes, round and bright, intent and clear, the kind of eyes that when they look at you, make you feel like you’re the only person in the whole entire world. And Mark turns slightly, a smile still on his face, and brings his eyes up, looking back at Fernando, connecting them.

Fernando blinks, pulling his eyes away and exhaling, as though pulling himself away from the sun. He nods back at his trainer, his mind now a million years away, and pulls on his sunglasses, so no one can see his wide, uncertain, unfocused gaze.

“Nando!”

Fernando freezes again, his heart pounding, blood rushing to his ears as he hears that familiar, swaying Aussie voice. He forces a smile onto his bearded cheeks, and turns, finding himself staring right back at Mark Webber, behind the protective veil of his shades.

“Amigo!” Fernando heard himself say, bringing out his hand so that they shake deeply, their touch strong and firm. Mark is grinning, searching Fernando with his clear eyes, and Fernando stiffens, forcing himself to remove the sunglasses. “What brings you to Austin?”

Mark smiles, glancing around in the way Fernando knows means Mark is about to tell a slight un-truth. “I love this place!” He responds casually. “I had to come see you enjoy it.”

Fernando smiles, wondering to himself what Mark could be trying to hide. He straightens, forcing himself to gather himself up. “Clara que si, of course. You can never resist.”

Mark glances back at Fernando, gazing back at him, looking back at Fernando with a softness that seem to polarize the Spanish man.

“No,” Mark replies softly. “I never can.”

Fernando feels his face flush, his heart pounding, and he blinks, clearing his throat and glancing around. “Ah si, yo necesito…I have…tenemos… we have work to do- PR. Press. So… I have to…”

Fernando curses himself internally for bumbling and stumbling over the words, and turns awkwardly away, as the smile falls from Mark’s face and he starts forward.

“Fernando-”

“I will see you…later.” Fernando states, turning and walking quickly away, focusing on making his steps as natural as possible, on breathing. In the McLaren garage, Mark stands stricken, as though stuck in place.

It had happened a few months ago, at the Australian Grand Prix. Fernando had finally gotten his McLaren to secure 8th place, a points finish, and the garage was smiling and upbeat and hopeful for the first time in ages. Fernando has emerged from the car feeling finally optimistic, relieved and appreciated by the sport and his team and the press and his fans. He and Jenson, who has finished 9th, had cheered with glasses of champagne in the garage and fist bumped, grinning and posing for selfies with their arms around each other an d grinning. Mark had been a guest in their garage, and he had clapped Fernando on the back, had hugged him, had poured him a glass of champagne and toasted to him- “The Spanish Lion!”. That night the team and Jenson and Mark and Fernando had gone out to celebrate. A fancy dinner with steak and caviar and white wine, and then a bar with karaoke and beers. Mark had stood with him, clasping his shoulder and partying with him the entire night, until both men where drunken and dazed. As they had stumbled from the club, high-fiving and cheering and slurring their words, Fernando had leaned forward, driven by complete loss of willpower and innate desire and lust, and pressed his lips against Mark’s, kissing him deeply. Mark had not moved, and Fernando had pulled away, and as he had looked back at the other driver he thought he had seen something in his eyes- pity or remorse, sympathy. Mark had stepped back, had hailed the nearby cab, and had worn a smile on his face as he had gestured for Fernando to climb inside and take the cab. Dumbfounded and speechless, Fernando had climbed inside and Mark had shut his door. As the taxi had pulled away, pure humiliation and shame sunk into Fernando and he had hung his head in agony, tears welling frustratingly into his eyes.

They had not spoken or seen each other since. Until now.

Fernando goes through his press. He waves at the fans and takes selfies and signs autographs. He answers simple questions and speaks in Spanish for the Latin American fans. He visits with guests, and from the corner of his eye he keeps seeing Mark, talking and charming the teams, always seeming to be looking at him. Night falls and drivers start to leave the circuit in cars. Fernando changes back into his t-shirt, jeans and leather jacket, waving goodbye to Jenson who heads out on his bike, and walks from the paddock, breathing in the warm Texan air.

“Fernando.”

Fernando looks up at the voice, and sees Mark in front of him, standing on the asphalt beneath the light of the tower in jeans and a button-down, looking back at Fernando with wide eyes and a look of slight worry.

Fernando pauses, his steps stopping, and swallows hard, color flooding his face. “Mark…”

“Nando,” Mark repeats, walking forward, up to Fernando with those clear, soft eyes, looking down shyly now. “We never got to talk about…what…”

“Is my fault,” Fernando interjects, looking away. “I apologize. I was drunk, y not thinking, and I’m sorry-”

“No,” Mark interrupts hurriedly, raising his hand. “No, I…see the real…the real reason I came here…”

Fernando’s heart is pounding his chest, blood pumping in his ears, as Mark looks up.

“The real reason I came here was for you.”

Fernando blinks, brown furrowing. “Mark, I thought-”

“That wasn’t how I wanted it to happen,” Mark says now, gazing steadily back at Fernando, his voice firm. “It wasn’t how I wanted it to go. I wanted it to be…”

Fernando stares back at him, and then Mark closes the gap between them, moving forward, grasping Fernando’s cheeks his large palms and kissing him deeply. Passionately. It is long and slow, full of yearning and desperation, of years and moments. They kiss longingly, drawing out each second, until Mark slowly pulls away, blinking back at Fernando, his gaze soft and tender.

“Te Amo,” The Australian whispers, and Fernando’s heart soars.