#mine.doc

The call came in just before midnight when Sebastian should have been asleep, but was lying awake in bed, body too exhausted from the weekend to be productive, but mind racing so fast it made him restless, the mess of sheets tangled around his legs due to the many times he’d rolled over, trying to find a spot comfortable enough that sleep might find him. The number was one that he’d had saved into his phone years ago, but not one that he used often, the name usually only coming up in the one group chat they shared, used only for GPDA business. He wouldn't consider the two of them particularly close despite the one season they'd shared as teammates, but they'd always gotten along and Sebastian appreciated what he brought to the sport both on and off track.

He almost didn’t answer, having convinced himself that it was a misdial, a drunken accident while the caller was out partying, maybe out with members of the team they’d once shared, the aftermath of Red Bull’s home race was always a rowdy affair. But, at the last moment he remembered that he wasn’t the only one who had had a shit weekend. The Red Bull Ring had usually been kind to both of them in the past despite neither of them ever winning there, but the last two years had been rough, neither of them satisfied with how things had gone with their new teams, their struggles mirroring each other more than people realized.

“Daniel?”

The man on the other end was silent, no drunken mechanics or pounding bass audible in the background, in fact, there was no noise at all and the silence made Sebastian think that perhaps it really was a misdial.

“Daniel, are you there?”

But there was something about the silence that persisted that made Sebastian wait despite the lack of an answer, his ears strained to hear anything before deciding to hang up. There was no rustling that blew out the speaker on Sebastian’s phone, indicating that Daniel’s phone was rustling around in his pocket— the call a product of a butt dial, nor was there any muffled fumbling accompanied by some choice swear words the other man fumbled to end the call. There was nothing, so Sebastian waited.       

“Hey, Seb.”

Daniel sounded off, not at all like his usual cheery self, he sounded as exhausted as Sebastian felt, the kind of exhaustion that went beyond the kind of tiredness that came after a long weekend on track. No, it was more than that, it was the kind of exhaustion that settled deep in your bones, the kind that weighed you down emotionally, the kind that couldn’t be remedied with a good night’s rest or a relaxing vacation. It was a feeling that Sebastian knew all too well.

The feeling of defeat.

“Is everything alright?” The question held more weight than it would normally, but why else would Daniel be calling now, this late, if something weren’t bothering him? And even if something were wrong, why Sebastian? He would consider them friends and not just mere co-workers who were friendly with each other, but not the kind of friends who talk to each other much outside of work; it was the kind of relationship that was closer than what the job required of them, but only existed because they worked together. Once everything was said and done and their time in the sport was over, Sebastian didn’t think they’d be seeing much of each other. A sad thought because he liked Daniel, but realistic all the same.   

There was silence again on the other side of the call, then finally, “What was it like, realizing that Ferrari didn’t have your back?”

It was Sebastian’s turn to be silent, the unexpected question catching him off guard and bringing back memories that he hadn’t thought about since 2018 when he’d realized that the team had been icing him out, ever since he’d come to terms with the fact that he’d been hung out to dry, the old dog— still useful, but nothing in comparison to Charles’ fresh face and Disney Prince like appearance, the future of Ferrari, il predestinato.

But despite the fact he hadn’t expected that question, he understood, he knew immediately where Daniel was coming from. He’d seen it, they all had even if most chose not to acknowledge it. It happened more often than people thought and all you could do was feel sorry for the driver and hope that it didn’t happen to you. It was F1 after all, and even if four world titles and all his other accolades gave Sebastian some leeway, at Ferrari, it wasn't enough to save him from being tossed aside when his performance wasn't what the team wanted. The sport was cutthroat and despite the success of his career, there were times he felt like the sport had already chewed him up and spit him back out.

“It was devastating,” he said slowly, still trying to figure out how to articulate his thoughts into words. Sebastian hadn’t talked much about his time with Ferrari, not with family or friends and certainly not with the media. He’d reflected on his time there of course, running through each season in his head, trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong, trying to eke out every last lesson as he could, savoring the successes but using the failures as a chance to learn, and there were a number of failures to pick through, both his own and that of the team. But once that well had run dry, those memories were left alone, mostly untouched. He didn’t refuse to relive them, but it wasn’t a time in his life he liked to remember often. 

“I had always wanted to drive for Ferrari, everyone knows who they are, even if they know nothing else about racing,” he started slowly, not sure where he was going with this, but pressing on all the same. “Ferrari is the team, it was Michael’s team and I wanted to win there, I wanted to win more than anything, to bring glory once again to Maranello.” He trailed off, thinking about how that hadn't happened, how season after season he'd felt like he failed the team and how, at the end, the team had failed him. He wondered once again, the same way Daniel probably had too, whether or not it was a good to have left Red Bull when he did; it was rare, the instances where he'd let himself reminisce like this, those time when he'd live— even just momentarily— in the past, relishing in the success of his youth. Sebastian was one who always preferred to look forward, not back, but more and more often as of late, he'd find himself looking back at his career and thinking about the what ifs.

“And later?” Daniel prompted, interrupting Sebastian’s thoughts. “When it all went to shit?”    

“I kept pushing hard, kept trying to make it work. What is it that they say? Kept trying to fit a square peg in a round hole? That was me, but I kept trying to fit myself into Ferrari, but I wasn't what they wanted, not anymore and whatever I did didn’t make a difference.”

“How did you know?”

He could have asked what Daniel meant, but it wasn’t necessary.

How did you know it wasn’t you?

Sebastian knew what Daniel was going through, knew the feeling of questioning that came in situations like these. Were you imagining things? Were you paranoid? Was the team out to get you? It was hard to be a professional athlete, to have experienced the success they both had achieved and to think that you still had it, but the team that was supposed to be behind you wasn’t convinced. F1 was very much a sport of “what have you done for me lately?” but in Daniel’s case, he’d won McLaren’s first race since Jenson nearly ten years prior, the first under the team's current management, it shouldn’t have been seen as a last hurrah but a promise of what was to come; not the high point, but the start of something new.

By winning in Monza, he’d proven why McLaren had hired him, proved that his experience and level headedness inside the car was valuable, even if his performance had been lacking. 

While a good driver could find success through his own skill and talent, a great driver knew that sometimes you needed to set your ego aside and trust the team behind you; there were times to question strategy, to ignore team orders and do what he thought was best— and god knows that Sebastian had been guilty of that on more than one occasion— but lessons like that were only learned with experience. It was that experience which Daniel’s teammate didn’t have, exemplified by the fact that he’d thrown away his chances at his first win and McLaren’s second for the season a mere weeks after their double podium in Monza, but it wasn’t the kind of experience that you could learn by watching your teammate or studying races. Those kinds of lessons were learnt by making mistakes, by honing your instincts and knowing when to not trust your gut, and Daniel had already paid his dues and the world had watched as Lando learned the hard way.      

“It’s a bit like grief,” he started, uncertain how to articulate his thoughts, his lived experiences, but still trying his best. He hadn’t been Daniel’s mentor for a long time and wasn’t even sure he’d earned the right to call himself that, or if Daniel had ever considered him as such. Sebastian has been a little too selfish, too preoccupied with his own success back then to have properly taught Daniel anything, but Dan has been successful in his own right and a bit of the selfishness and pride that still lingered in Sebastian hoped that his former teammate had been able to pick something up in their brief time together.

“There are stages, and progress isn’t exactly linear. Some days you’re convinced that the team is actively sabotaging your success, and I don’t mean just favoring your teammate instead of you, but trying to make you look bad; then there are the good days where everything is all smiles and you feel like you’re crazy for every thinking the team isn’t supporting you.” Sebastian has never talked this much about his time with Ferrari, not even like this, in the abstract, but he knew that Daniel knew what and who he was talking about. It was why he called after all and Sebastian trusted Daniel, trusted that this conversation wouldn’t somehow end up as some scandalous headline or else getting back to Ferrari in the form of paddock gossip.

“Then there’s acceptance, but how acceptance goes depends on the person, I suppose. I went scorched earth, let the bitterness get the best of me when I shouldn't have.” He thought back to those last few months at Ferrari, when he’d purposefully made life difficult for certain members of the team. Had it been childish? Certainly, but even now Sebastian would insist that his behavior was justified. “Although,” he conceded after a brief pause, “maybe acceptance came after, for me.”

Daniel sighed, causing the sound coming through the call to be sharp and muffled at the same time. “I think McLaren is doing the same thing to me. I see it, in the media, online. They’re saying that Ferrari is doing the same thing to Charles that they did to you, you know, sabotaging your success, but I think the same thing is happening to me, but everyone just thinks I’m washed.”

As a rule, Sebastian tried to spend as little time as possible online, especially when it came to the so called journalism that reported on F1, but even within the paddock it was hard to ignore the shit show Ferrari was this season and as a result, he too had heard the whispers Daniel was talking about. He didn’t know how widespread this conspiracy went nor had he discussed the issues Charles was experiencing with the man himself, but he knew the signs.

He could see them with Daniel.

“You go back and forth, doing everything you can to prove your worth, to prove to the team that you’re indispensable,” he said, but no one was truly indispensable in Formula 1— drivers like Michael and Lewis maybe being the sole exceptions— but there was always another driver, younger, cheaper, more marketable, less combative, something— anything— that you weren’t. “And when you do that for a while and it doesn’t seem to be working, you spiral and wonder why you’re doing this at all?”

“I think that’s where I am now,” Daniel interrupted breathlessly, as if he were trying to get the words out before he lost his nerve. “I have another year, if I want it,” he continued, but I don’t know if I want it left unsaid. “I want to keep racing, but I don’t know if I can do it here, and if I’m not at McLaren, where else can I go?”

Seats in F1 were a precious commodity and with the younger drivers signing long term contracts, with their teams desperate to keep their homegrown talent locked up for as long as possible, available seats were even rarer now. Fresh drivers with a lot of talent were having to sit out a year until their teams were able to find a place for them to race, and veteran drivers were ending up at teams who couldn’t make the most of their ability in the car, their skill and knowledge used for development, so the team could hopefully have a competitive machine that the driver would never get the chance to see. 

It was a dilemma that Sebastian had gone through with Ferrari and Carlos two seasons prior when the desire for success, the passion for winning still burned within, but even with his accolades, a good seat wasn’t a guarantee. He had gotten offers from multiple teams, but as the deadline where he had to make a decision had approached, Sebastian had to have a sit down with himself and really figure out if he wanted to spend what could have been the twilight years of his career with a mid-tier or lower team. Would fighting for points be enough for him? Sure, he had wanted to get the bitter taste Ferrari had left in his mouth, but how far down the grid would he have been willing to go?

As it turned out, Sebastian had decided that he wasn’t done yet and signed with Aston Martin. Things with his new team had been fine for the most part, he’d gotten a hard fought for podium in Baku the previous season, and had earned a second in Hungary that had only been taken away because of an error by the team, but fine wasn’t satisfying and he could feel himself getting more and more listless as time wore on. He knew that Daniel was just like him, knew that he wouldn’t be satisfied with fighting for the last couple of points finishing positions, but on the other hand, wasn’t that what he was doing now?    

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are your options?”

Sebastian laid there in the darkness, listening to Daniel talk candidly about the teams who had reached out and the discussions that had taken place, not bothering to turn on the lamp on his nightstand, the darkness a comforting blanket over him. In the darkness, the thoughts swirling around his head could remain mere fleeting ideas, nothing yet fully formed, he could pretend that everything was fine. In the light he'd have to face reality, face the fact that his time in the sport was more limited than he'd hoped, counting down faster than he would like.

“I’m thinking about retiring,” Sebastian confessed as Daniel trailed off, the first time he’d voiced that thought to someone else on the grid. He’d spoken to his dad, his manager, discussed what the future held for him with his brother, but it hadn’t seemed real then; his family knew how much racing meant to him, they’d been there since the beginning, but they also knew how passionate Sebastian had become about other things, how those passions had begun to fill the void that struggling at the back of the pack had left behind. Saying it aloud, to another driver, to Daniel who in many ways had had it harder than he had in the last year and a half made his upcoming decision finally seem to have weight, like it meant something. If he left, he wouldn’t be able to take it back. Realistically he knew he could, Fernando had returned after all, but once he left, Sebastian knew that he would want to be done, it was just a matter of whether or not he’d reached that point yet. Was he ready to make the jump, or did he want to keep pressing on? “So that’s one seat that would be open. I can let the team know you might be available, if you’d like.”

“Wow, Seb that’s… wow.”

He knew that Daniel had called to talk about his problems, to get the advice of someone who had been in his position before; he hadn’t called to hear about Sebastian’s own issues and maybe it was selfish to make such a confession right now, to burden Daniel with his own issues unprompted, but somehow it felt relevant, like saying the thing he’d been avoiding out loud would let Daniel know that he wasn’t alone in all of this, that Sebastian was struggling just like he was. 

“You had to have known it was coming, if not this year, then soon.”

The sad truth was that drivers from their generation were retiring, soon to be replaced by shiny new drivers who had the kind of hunger that could only be fed by youth and inexperience. Kimi had retired at the end of the previous season, people thought Lewis would follow suit in the next few years if he could capture his eighth title— the assumption being that he would want to cement his place in the history books before retiring before pursuing new ambitions, but with the way things were going, it seemed that Sebastian would be the next to leave.

Then there was Daniel, one of the drivers Sebastian rated highest on the current grid, both in terms of skill and what he brought to the sport off track. He had been unlucky, Sebastian thought, a talented driver who had been in his prime at the wrong time. A proven race winner who had not only dealt with an unreliable car and done wonders with it, but with the misfortune of having driven alongside one of the greatest ever, constantly on the sidelines as Lewis won time and time again. He knew that Daniel had what it took to beat Lewis, he’d beaten Sebastian in his first year at Red Bull after all, but a combination of the rocket ship that Mercedes had seemed to produce year after year coupled with a less reliable Red Bull and some bad luck meant that Daniel had never been able to truly challenge Lewis the way that Nico and Sebastian had, the same way Max had last year.

“I guess, but I don’t want to think about you retiring because it means that I could be next.”

It was true, all the drivers who Sebastian had spent the majority of his career racing against were gone, or else considering what would come after racing. Jenson and Nico had retired more than five years ago at this point, and while others like Sergio and Valtteri had been around for a long time too, most of the drivers from Sebastian’s early days had moved on to other championships or become one of the talking heads running around the paddock on race days, not good or young enough to stick around, but not ready to give it all up just yet.  

“I dunno, Fernando is older than all of us. He’s probably going to be the next to go.”        

“Alonso? Nah man, he’s going to out race us all. He’ll be eighty and still trying to race something. Lawnmowers maybe.”

Sebastian snorted, a genuine reaction, surprised at Daniel’s quick wit even though he should really be used to it by now. It was one of the things he’d always liked about Daniel; in a sport where everyone took themselves too seriously too often— Sebastian included early on in his career— Daniel was always there with a joke or a laugh, constant reminder that while racing deserved respect, it was still a dream job and the drivers deserved to have fun while doing it.

“I mean, it!” Daniel protested, interpreting Sebastian’s reaction as disbelief with his assessment.

“You’re probably right,” he conceded, all the tension from the past hour melting away. “And when he’s eighty, he’ll still be beating some of the youngsters on the grid.”

“Do my ears deceive me?” Daniel gasped dramatically, also seemingly relieved of the angst that had dominated most of their conversation. “You’re so much different than the cocky asshole who was my teammate all those years ago. You never would have admitted that Alonso was better than you.”     

Sebastian might not be as funny as Daniel, but he could be just as quick witted when it suited him. "Yeah, well, you're still the same insufferable kid who was mine,” he hummed, with no heat behind his words. “I just said that Fernando could still outrace children, I never said he could beat me."

“Nah, nah, nah, I can read between the lines, you might not have said it, but that was clearly you admitting that Alonso was better than you,” Daniel was laughing now, clearly not believing a word that he was saying, but having too much fun with the bit to let it go too easily.

Sebastian started laughing too, his head thrown back into his pillow; he’d always found Daniel’s laughter, his loud honking laugh, to be infectious and now was no different. “Is that what you think? With a point of view like that, when you finally decide to retire, don’t become a talking head like Jenson or the others, you should go into journalism. Someone will take you on if you can come up with headlines like that.”

“Fuck off, mate. I’d rather go drown myself than get anywhere near journalism.”  

Chucking, Sebastian agreed. “Fair enough.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, but a different kind of silence than the awkward one that had preceded this lengthy conversation. Sebastian didn’t know if he had been any help at all to Daniel, he knew that Dan had a tough decision ahead of him and hoped that Sebastian’s experience, although different, would be able to help him in some way. He didn’t want to see Daniel leave the grid, not yet, not when there was still unfinished business, but he wasn’t sure what else he could do or say to help.

“What is that thing you say? Fuck them all?” he asked, breaking the silence.

There was a brief pause, then a delighted laugh came from the other end, the giggle sounding like it was pulled out of Daniel unexpectedly, like he hadn’t expected something so crass out of Sebastian’s mouth, but honestly he should know better by now. "Yeah, that's right. Fuck 'em all Seb."

"You should bring that energy for the rest of the season,” he advised, bringing the conversation back to where they had started. “If they want to get rid of you, then show them what they're gonna be missing with you gone. You’re the last McLaren race winner in almost a decade; don’t let them disrespect you like this."

Daniel's elation was palpable even through the phone, his mood a complete 180 from the man who'd called less than an hour earlier and it was this more than anything that made Sebastian feel like he’d done everything he could. Daniel would still need to come to terms with his future, to figure out what he was going to do and where he was going to go, but, if even for just a few moments, he could say that he helped Daniel feel less alone in what Sebastian knew to be a very isolating experience. 

"And what about you? You're retiring, but you still have something to prove too. You can't let Fernando, the old bastard out drive you at this stage in your careers. You gotta put your money where your mouth is and prove you're still better than him." 

"And Lewis," Sebastian hummed as his body relaxed deeper into the mattress, the stillness of his thoughts combined with the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to him. "People always forget I'm younger than him."

“Sebastian, I’m gonna be honest with you, I think it’s the hair and the beard. They age you like fifteen years, mate. They gotta go.”

“You don’t like my hair?”

“I never said that—”

“But you implied it!”

“Who’s the one reading into things now? Maybe you should be the one to go into journalism.”

Sebastian laughed again, imagining himself on the other side of the fence in the media pen or in the press conference, asking questions of his friends or former rivals that he knew they’d hate, just to rile them up. Some he knew that he’d be able to have fun with, while others would hate him even more if he tried to mess with them. “What kind of headline would you be willing to give me if I interviewed you, hm? What news would you let me be the first to reveal to the world?”

“If you become a reporter, when the time comes, I’ll let you break the news that I’m retiring. That sound good?”

“But that’s not going to be for a long time, right?”

Inej was nervous.

A feeling she knew little of until a few weeks ago. She had always been so sure of everything she’d wanted, a trait she was always proud of. She’d always been sure that she’d wanted more, more than what her little Suli town could offer, more than that vain brute Jan Van Eck and his right-hand man Pekka Rollin. An adventure in the great wide somewhere.

And then she met that cruel, bastard Beast. The man who had imprisoned her father, and subsequently Inej herself. The Beast, with his large black horns curling out of his head, grey skin that darkened the further down one looked, clawed fingers and large paws for feet, and a thin tail, always lashing about with a pointed tip. With his everpresent frown and furrowed brow and under-the-breath comments.

At first, she had despised him with everything she had. Ironic, how, after all her wishing and dreaming of freedom, she’d been confined to a crumbling palace, doomed for the rest of her life. But that was at first.

Now, although she refused to ever say it aloud, she was falling for the Beast. Something had changed between the two after he had jumped in and saved her from a wolf attack. Ever since then, they had read in the library together, walked the gardens together, explored the ruins of the castle together and tonight, they were to dine together. Kaz was falling as well, but Inej didn’t need to know that.

“Monsieur, you must quit your fussing. Inej will love the way you look, no matter what.” Jesper said, waving his candles around as he spoke.

Kaz huffed, staring at himself in the mirror. He reached up to realign his tie for the millionth time. He was in his finest suit, deep blue color with gold accents spirling down the blazer. His hair was combed back neatly, and he traded his usual black gloves for a pair of white ones. Although he refused to ever say it aloud, he was nervous for tonight. “What if I make a fool of myself?”

“You’ve already done that quite a bit, démon.” Matthias chuckled, a gentle ticking noise emitting from him as the seconds passed. A fitting nickname, one as brutal as it was endearing. For once, Kaz wished he didn’t have a clock with him. Every minute that passed was a minute closer to seeing Inej.

A frown formed on Kaz’s lips.

Jesper hopped up to the dresser, standing in front of the mirror to block Kaz’s view. “I think what the old clock means to say is, Inej already has seen you at your worst. Tonight, she will see you at your best!”

A small feather duster joined Jesper on the dresser. “Trust me, monsieur, if I can fall in love with this idiot, Inej can fall for you.” Wylan said, though a smile was on his face.

Across the hall, Inej was just about finished getting ready as well. She was dressed in a large, yellow ballgown, with edged rimmed with gold accents. She could practically hear her heart beating thunderously in her chest.

“Are you ready to go, madame?” Nina, a small porcelain teapot asked, perched on top of a small rolling cart.

“You look beautiful, Inej!” Kuwei exclaimed, climbing up to sit next to Nina. He, too, was a small porcelain cup, although he did have a chip in his rim.

Inej sighed and tore her eyes away from the mirror. “I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” She forced a smile to her lips. The butterflies in her stomach were beginning to make her nauseous. How she’d make it through tonight’s dinner, she didn’t know.

As if on cue, both Inej and Kaz made their way towards the grand ballroom. Neither quite knew what to expect, but their smaller friends shoved them along, muttering words of encouragement as they walked.

When they finally arrived at the daunting staircase, their eyes locked instantly. A shy smile appeared on Inej’s face as she took in the sight of the Beast. His jaw dropped slightly when he did the same to her. Jesper reached up and closed it. Slowly, they walked towards each other, a grin of excitement plastered on Jesper’s, Wylan’s, Kuwei’s, Matthias’ and Nina's faces.

“You…” Kaz was at a loss for words. “You look lovely.” He finally mustered, a small smile taking form. When was the last time he did that?

“Thank you.” Inej felt slightly breathless. “One could say the same about you.” She added after a moment. Was that a hint of a blush on the Beast’s cheeks?

Kaz stood up slightly taller, fidgeting now. He brushed his hair back, unsure of what to say next. They were simply standing there now, stares unwavering. Inej couldn’t let the smile slip from her face.

Finally, Kaz broke the silence. He offered his arm, heart pounding.

September 2019 Italian Grand Prix; Monza, Italy

Pierre watched from the crowded Monza pit lane as, for the second time in two races, Charles stood proudly on the middle step of the podium, his eyes shining brightly as he hoisted his first place trophy up in the air, the Tifosi in the stands screaming and setting off cans of red colored smoke in celebration, flags emblazoned with the prancing horse waving freely. His heart ached, the pride he felt for his best friend unable to outweigh the wish that he was the one up there celebrating, that he was the one Hamilton and Bottas were soaking with champagne. Instead, Pierre was the lone Red Bull employee standing behind a pack of Mercedes staff who were cheering for their drivers as they relished in the satisfying feeling of a job well done.

As the drivers traipsed off the podium and their assembled teams began to disperse, Pierre made his way back to the Red Bull garage, head down. He knew that some kind of lecture from Horner to the rest of the team was imminent, especially after such a mixed result, but being able to see his best friend celebrate a victory in person was more than worth it.

As a sim driver for Red Bull, Pierre spent most race weekends at the factory, where he tested various setups in various scenarios and relayed his feedback to the team, but it meant that he was rarely able to spend a weekend at the track. As such, he'd missed Charles' maiden victory, having watched the celebration from the race day command center with the other factory employees who provided support to the onsite staff. But despite the separation, as soon as the on screen celebrations had concluded, Pierre was on the first flight to Nice, not caring about the cost of the ticket or the cab ride to Charles' Monaco apartment where he waited patiently on the doorstep until his best friend returned.

The pair had celebrated into the early morning, finishing off the bottle of champagne Pierre had picked up at the airport and a bottle of wine from Charles' kitchen as they chatted about the race until the sun had risen, the light reflecting brightly off the water as they made their way to bed. It was only as Pierre was grabbing his stuff to drag into the guest room did Charles say the words that still echoed in Pierre's mind, haunting him weeks later. "It'll be you up there one day, Calamar."

Pierre and Charles had grown up together, two kids with bad haircuts and the same dream. Although they were fierce competitors on track, they were even better friends off it and they rose through the ranks together, trading wins in karting races, before making their way through F3 and F2 together, always by each other's side, always inseparable.

But, in 2017, things began to change. Charles got the call that he would be joining Sauber's F1 Team for the following year with the unspoken promise that if he performed well, one day he could find himself in one of the coveted Ferrari seats, the bright red iconic even to those who knew nothing about racing. For Pierre, his only chance to drive an F1 car came from his stint as a test driver during pre-season testing before heading off to Japan to compete in Super Formula.

However, even after a successful season in the lower category, the call that came wasn’t the one Pierre wanted. He did his best to hide his disappointment when Helmut had told him that there weren’t enough seats and Pierre would be sidelined yet again, and instead they wanted him to move to Milton Keynes to work as a sim driver. Despite being worried that the new role would be detrimental to his career long term, he accepted after a week of weighing the pros and cons, praying that a close connection to the F1 team would pay off in the long run.

By 2018, Charles had moved to a top team and was the rising star for Ferrari, their Il predestinato, bringing with it the promise of Ferrari's return to dominance after so many years spent behind Mercedes and Red Bull. And Pierre, well, it seemed like his dreams of even getting back on track were slipping away. 

F1 celebrations were something Pierre hoped he never got used to, but he wouldn’t deny how awkward he’d felt arriving at the venue Charles had invited him to a few hours before. Ferrari’s staff and guests had taken over the VIP section of the club, the more secluded area somehow noisier than the crowded dance floor as the alcohol flowed freely. Winning was always fun, but winning at your home race with a promising young talent like Charles, who was poised to become the new face of Ferrari, meant the team was in high spirits and celebrating hard.

Charles had greeted Pierre loudly when he’d seen him, the young man extracting himself from a conversation with a small group to hug his best friend, a drunk Charles clinging tightly to Pierre as he chattered about how happy he was Pierre was there and how excited he was to celebrate together. But soon enough, Charles was swept away by members of his team who wanted to celebrate with their race winner and Pierre was left alone, watching from a distance.

Pierre left the club just after midnight, leaving behind a drunk Charles who was still surrounded by a handful of members of his team and an assortment of admirers who were willing to do whatever it took to get close enough to bask in Charles’ aura.  He opted to walk back to the hotel Red Bull were staying at instead of taking an Uber, the cool night air pushing away the last hazy remnants of a night of celebration. He hadn’t really partaken in the bottles of champagne and shots of various liquors that had been in steady supply that night and had remained fairly sober despite the fact that everyone around him was happy to drink in honor of Charles’ victory. As a result, his mind was clear as he walked through the quiet streets of Monza, the stillness of the night only interrupted by passing groups of people, their laughter fading away as Pierre continued through the city.

His room was quiet, lights from the street below softly illuminating the furniture, the faint light guiding Pierre as he made his way over to the bed, the Frenchman not bothering to turn on the bedside lamp. He was exhausted, but knew with how his mind was racing that sleep was going to evade him again. It had felt good to celebrate with his friend, but the selfish part of him had wished that Charles had finished in any place other than first. The fact that it was Charles’ second win, one of many that was expected to come, meant that the veneer of winning hadn’t worn off just yet; couple that with the fact that it was his second win in two races and that it was Ferrari’s home race meant that the post-race celebration was wilder that usual, even by F1 standards.

The rational part of Pierre’s mind knew that Charles deserved this, that Charles deserved everything, but to witness his best friend accomplishing everything they’d ever dreamed of first hand made Pierre’s heart ache with a jealousy that had no place in the midst of such a joyous occasion. But jealousy was a nasty thing and instead of continuing the celebration into the early morning, Pierre was sitting at the edge of his bed, head in his hands, once again lost in thoughts of what could have been.

Twenty-three wasn’t old by any means, but with every passing season, the chances of Pierre getting a chance at an F1 drive were getting slimmer and slimmer. Rookies were getting younger every year, teams were putting their faith in younger drivers thanks to the success of drivers like Max and Charles, and Pierre knew that there was a promising group of Red Bull Academy drivers who were gunning for the same seat Pierre sought. His chances at a seat with another team were even slimmer, most had their own driver academies and even if a seat became available, it was doubtful any team would take their chance on an unproven talent without serious scrutiny.

Pierre told himself that he just needed to keep working hard, needed to prove his worth and that eventually an opportunity would come. But late at night, when self-doubt had firmly settled into the furthest corners of Pierre’s mind, he knew that he wasn’t good enough for Red Bull, he wasn’t good enough for Formula 1.  

He wasn’t good enough for Charles.

And here, alone in a hotel room in Milan with the weight of his dream threatening to tear him apart from the inside, he wondered whether it was time to find something else.

The rest of the season continued to pass with little deviation from Pierre’s regular routine. Races came and went with him doing whatever he could from behind the scenes to help the team be successful, but as it became clearer and clearer that there was little hope for Red Bull to catch Ferrari in the Constructors Championship, he spent less time testing various setups for Max and Alex to use during race weekends and switched his focus to testing concepts for next season’s car.

Long hours in the simulator left Pierre exhausted. Sim work wasn’t nearly as exhilarating as throwing a real car around tight corners or sending the car hurtling down impossibly long straights despite the ever evolving technology that made the experience more and more realistic and the nature of the work meant he went through more set up changes in a few hours than any driver experienced during a weekend, leaving him mentally drained by the time he left the factory for his Milton Keynes flat.

With every passing day, the self-doubt that had intensified after Monza threatened to consume him and the rare compliment from Christian or Max’s praise for his work during meetings did little to reassure him that he did belong here, that he was worthy of some kind of role within the team, even if it wasn’t the one, he so desperately wanted.

Subconsciously, he began to withdraw, throwing himself into work, into doing whatever he could to prove his worth. Weekdays were spent working to get everything perfect, running scenarios over and over again until he was able to pull whatever he could from the car, while off weekends found Pierre in the gym or running along Caldecotte Lake until his lungs burned and his muscles felt like jelly. By night, he was too tired to do anything more than throw together a quick dinner before collapsing in bed with exhaustion, only to wake up and do it all again.

His mother expressed concern one day over the phone, mentioning to Pierre that one of his brothers had told her that he hadn’t reached out lately, unusual for Pierre as his family was the most important thing, but he brushed her off, using the excuse that he was being worked harder than ever (true) and once the season was over, he’d have a chance to take a break (half true). The excuse had worked for now and she’d bid Pierre good bye with a plea that he not work himself too hard and he agreed with no intention to keep his promise.

Texts from Charles went mostly unanswered, his best friend sending him photos from various circuits or funny memes that encapsulated their relationship perfectly. In return, Pierre only responded when necessary to ensure that Charles wouldn’t get suspicious and ask if something was up; Pierre had always been a bad liar, especially when it came to Charles, so it was easier to pretend like everything was fine when in reality, for the first time, Pierre just wanted Charles to leave him alone.

Maintaining the charade was easier than it should have been, the success Charles had had all year continuing as the season began to wind down, making him a hotter and hotter commodity with little time for his mostly anonymous best friend. While Charles was out basking in the glory of success with one of the top teams in Formula 1, Pierre was struggling to not drown in his own self-doubt and while his motives for keeping Charles at arm’s length were selfish, he also didn’t want to bring down his best friend when he was deservedly relishing in everything life had to offer.

But despite how well Pierre was able to keep his issues under wraps, it all threatened to fall apart at the last race of the season. Aside from the usual race weekend prep work, there was little that needed to be done that couldn’t be pushed back until after the season’s end, which meant that as soon as the week was over, Pierre was on a flight to Abu Dhabi. There was little at stake that weekend, Mercedes had taken both the Drivers and Constructors Championship a few races before and so long as Max finished ahead of Charles in the race, he’d be guaranteed 3rd place in the Drivers’ standings, achieving his best finish of his career. Things had been so bad lately that Pierre had considered skipping the last race all together, but despite all his personal problems, he was still a racecar driver at heart and didn't want to pass up the opportunity to watch the race from the garage.

It was hard to quiet the voice in the back of his head that whispered that this might be his last race as an F1 employee. The team was happy with his work and even if it were a mere facsimile of what he wanted to be doing, he was still a valuable resource that wasn't easily replaced. Rationally he knew that there was little chance he’d be let go at the end of the season, but even the most straightforward logic was no match against one’s own self-doubt, and Pierre rationalized his thinking by convincing himself that being surprised was better than hoping for something and ending up disappointed. 

December 2019 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix; Yas Island, Abu Dhabi

Pierre arrived late enough in the evening that all there was time for was a quick check in with Christian before heading up to his room. Max had sent him a message asking him if he wanted to play FIFA when he got in, but Pierre had declined, giving the excuse that he didn’t want to disrupt Max’s pre-race routine despite knowing that Max didn’t strictly prescribe to such measures like most of the other drivers. For the same reasons, Pierre didn’t bother to text Charles to let him know that he was also in Abu Dhabi, knowing that his own presence would probably be a distraction. There would be plenty of time after the race for them to catch up. 

The lead up to lights out was uneventful for Pierre, who spent most of the afternoon chatting with Alex and Max during their downtime between meetings and press obligations before they had to retreat to get ready for the race.  

The race itself was fairly uneventful, but there was a buzz in the garage after the podium ceremony, the energy distinctly distinguishable from the normal post race chatter. Max’s second place finish secured his third place finish in the Driver’s standings, the highest finish for a Red Bull driver since Daniel three seasons prior. That success coupled with the relief that the long season was finally over was palpable as the mechanics and pit crew chatted about their off seasons plans as they packed up the garage. 

Once the last of the post race photos had been taken, Pierre made his way back to Red Bull Energy Station, weaving his way around various members of the paddock and carts of equipment, not in any hurry to get out of there and end up in the post race traffic that flooded the area as fans made their way away from the circuit. On a normal day, most of the crowds and cars would have dissipated by the time Pierre was ready to leave, the lengthy post race debriefs every team conducted ensuring that even the most dedicated fans would have made their way home by the time their favorite drivers left. But today, there was little need for such a meeting, not when it was the end of the season and the new year would bring a new car and new challenges. No, instead, Pierre was all but dragging his feet not wanting to be alone with his thoughts.

He almost didn’t hear the shouting of his name until he was almost to the glass doors that were the only thing separating him from the chaos of the paddock and temporary salvation. “Pierre, wait!”

A hand closed around his elbow and he looked up to see Charles standing next to him, face still sticky with champagne from the podium celebration, red race suit mostly unzipped, the upper half hanging off his body, the only salvation he could find in the hot Abu Dhabi air.

Charles looked as exhausted as Pierre felt, but there was a relaxed look of satisfaction on his face. Pierre knew that he wasn’t satisfied knowing that third place in the standings had been in his grasp, he also knew that Charles could also see the big picture and would find his overall result at the end of the season a kind of victory itself. He’d proven that his promotion to Ferrari wasn’t premature and that he deserved to represent the future of the team.

“I didn’t know that you would be here this weekend,” he said, voice louder than usual as to be heard over the elevated noise of the paddock.  

“I got in last night,” Pierre shrugged, glancing at Charles’ hand that was still wrapped around his elbow.

Charles let him go, frowning now, a look of hurt flashing in his eyes.

Normally the wounded look would have made Pierre’s heart lurch, he hated hurting Charles, his best friend had experienced too much pain for someone his age that he never wanted to be the one to ever add to Charles’ burden in anyway, but after the year he’d had, Pierre was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep for the next week, even if it meant ditching his best friend. 

“But you didn’t say anything,” Charles repeated earnestly, as if wanting to believe that Pierre wouldn’t have intentionally left him in the dark, not when it had been months since they’d seen each other and even longer since they’d had a proper conversation.

“I’m here for the team,” Pierre shrugged, for Max and Alex, hanging unsaid in the air between them and Charles took a step back, the look of hurt now reflected on his face, no longer fleeting but permanent.

Pierre knew that the rivalry between Charles and Max had fizzled out a long time ago, that the intense hatred that they felt for each other as kids, as rivals going head-to-head in go karts had turned into mutual respect as they had grown and matured as both drivers and people. But at the same time, hearing that your best friend had chosen someone other than you still stung and upon hearing this, Charles looked away, his hand nervously running through his hair. 

Despite everything, Pierre still wasn’t that cruel and even in his exhausted state he didn’t want to permanently damage his relationship with Charles even if, in the moment, it would have given him some satisfaction to hurt Charles, to make him feel the pain that Pierre had been carrying around with him for months. But logic won out and he did his best to bury the feelings of inadequacy that had been plaguing him, instead, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t Charles’ fault that Pierre felt like a failure.

“I was going to text you after the race.” A lie, but not one so outrageous that would give Charles a reason to doubt him. His mother always told him that he had an honest face; maybe it was the product of being the youngest, the baby of the family, or maybe it was part of the endless optimism he used to have— a quality that he seems to have lost as he’d grown older, more jaded. “You wouldn’t have been able to see me until later anyway.”

That part was true. Between final strategy meetings, race prep, and the chaos of it being the last race of the season, coupled with the fact that Charles still had his final place in the standings to fight for, there was no way the two of them would have been able to spend any significant amount of time together; and even if they could, there’s no way either of their teams would have appreciated them hanging out, not with Charles and Max being so close in the championship.

Charles nodded, the look of hurt still on his face, but seemingly willing to accept Pierre’s excuse. “We must go out then,” he said, stepping back to make his leave. “Later of course.”

“Of course,” Pierre echoed despite the bone deep exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders. There was the end of season party that Red Bull would be hosting too, but that would be so busy that he’d only need to make an appearance if he wanted to; be seen by all the right people before sneaking off to crash in his hotel room for a few hours before flying back to the UK. Most of the Red Bull staff would be so drunk that it really didn’t matter if he was there or not. He could sleep on the plane, use the time between Christmas and the new year to catch up on all the rest he’d missed out on over the last few months. He wouldn’t have much to do then, it would just be him alone with his thoughts.

Despite the bitterness and jealousy that had made a home in Pierre’s chest, Charles was still his best friend and he missed him. Missed the ease that came with knowing someone better than you knew yourself, the ease of being able to talk about anything or to sit in silence, both equally as comfortable. He missed the feeling of being known, of being understood, of being loved and appreciated unconditionally knowing that he didn’t need to keep proving over and over that he was worthy of that love and appreciation. But most of all, Pierre missed the silence that came with being with someone who knew you as well as Pierre and Charles knew each other. The thoughts of self-doubt, of uncertainty, it all went away when they were together because none of that was important so long as they were friends. Pierre wanted that feeling back, he just wasn’t sure if he was worthy of it.

“Dinner?” Charles suggested, briefly glancing over his shoulder at the chaos of the paddock behind him. He’ll be all but required to meet up with the rest of the team later to celebrate the end of the season; Pierre could come along if he wanted, but they both knew that he shouldn't if he wanted to remain in Horner and Marko's good graces.

Pierre nodded. “And drinks.”

Charles scoffed. “But of course, mate. That is a given.”

A genuine smile tugged at the corners of Pierre’s lips, the first in who knows how long, and the sensation made his cheeks burn at the exertion. “Text me when you’re finished.” He gestured generally at the paddock around them knowing that even though the season was now over, Charles probably had a million and one things to do before he left the track.

“Of course,” Charles repeated with a grin of his own before heading back toward the Ferrari motorhome.

Late December 2019 Red Bull Racing HQ; Milton Keynes, UK

Pierre was no stranger to Horner's office; he'd spent many days sitting in the brightly lit room with its big windows and photos of historic Red Bull moments hanging from the walls. The man behind the desk didn't have a commanding presence when you first looked at him, but looks were deceiving and in Pierre's experience, it never did anyone well to underestimate Christian Horner. He wasn’t as scary as dealing with a post race phone call from Helmut, Horner dealt with drivers on too regular of a basis to ever be an effective boss with such a domineering personality, but that didn’t mean he was a pushover. Not in the slightest.

No, this man could make or break Pierre’s career and he knew better than to cross him.

"We've been looking at the data," Horner began, sliding a tablet across his desk for Pierre to look at. Displayed on the screen was telemetry data that compared his sim times with the actual times of the two Toro Rosso drivers. He flipped through the graphs as Horner continued, "and you've done an excellent job in the sim, we'd like to give you the chance to prove yourself."

Pierre's head shot up, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Horner said nothing, instead watching Pierre with that intense look, his hands folded neatly in front of him. Once he was sure he had Pierre's undecided attention, he continued. “A spot has opened up, and as part of Toro Rosso’s rebrand into Alpha Tauri, and we want to promote you into that seat.”    

Horner was smiling at him as Pierre hesitated, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was the end of December and all of the driver lineups had been confirmed for months at this point, including Red Bull and the newly named AlphaTauri. Objectively, Pierre knew that there probably wasn’t anyone as qualified as he to fill in the role on short notice; as far as he knew, none of the rookie drivers had enough license points to qualify and none had logged nearly as many hours in the sim as he had, but that didn’t explain why a seat was suddenly open and who he’d be replacing.

When neither of them spoke, Pierre half shocked into silence, half waiting for further explanation, he finally said, “You’re joking. You’re pulling my leg.”

His reaction made Horner laugh, but even with the ease that his boss was demonstrating, Pierre was still on edge, not sure what to expect or how to respond. Recognizing that Pierre was in a state of disbelief, Horner opened a drawer and pulled out a file folder and set it on the desk in front of Pierre. "This is the initial offer, take it to your team and we can schedule a date to discuss the full terms and details. Welcome to Formula 1, Pierre." 

Pierre took the folder, not daring to open it just yet, his grip so tight on the shiny Red Bull Racing folder that he was probably creasing the pages within, his fingerprints smudging the otherwise pristine navy-blue surface. “Was there anything else that you wanted to discuss?” he asked, still not believing what was happening, certain that there were other reasons why he had been summoned to Horner’s office.

But in response, his boss shook his head, a knowing smile on his face, the look of a man who had given the same news to several drivers before Pierre and knew that sometimes it took some time to sink in. “Go home and take the rest of the year off, Pierre. Call your family, get spectacularly drunk, do whatever it is you want to do to celebrate. Come back in the new year ready to work.”

He nodded and stood, Horner following suit and offering Pierre his hand in congratulations, which Pierre shook, still a little dazed by the news. “We’ll set up a meeting for you to meet with Franz and the two of you can make plans for you to meet the rest of the team.”

Nodding again, he cleared his throat, not quite trusting his voice, but pressed on. “Thank you so much, this is a dream come true.”

Horner smiled, not quite as unnerving as Marko’s, but there was still something behind it, something shark-like that even after all this time as part of the Red Bull program, Pierre wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Enjoy your holiday, Pierre.”

He waited until the lead up to Christmas to tell his family, he and his brothers and their families all crammed under his parent’s roof to celebrate the holiday, accidentally elbowing each other at the dinner table, his youngest nephew screaming with delight at something only he could comprehend.

His family had been elated at the news, all of them jockeying to try and hug him, maneuvering around the dining room table difficult with so many people, their voices growing louder and louder as they all tried to make their congratulations heard. Some of his younger niblings didn’t quite understand what was going on, but they cheered and screamed too, wanting to be part of the celebrations, their shrill voices rising above everything else.  

The reaction of his family made everything feel real, like the volume of the rest of the world had been on mute while Pierre glided through it, unsure of where he was or what he was doing; but now, now it was like the knob had been turned up to eleven, the joy and praise of the people he loved most, of the people who would love him unconditionally breaking through the fog that he’d been lost in for the last several months. His family who had given everything up for him to chase this dream, the ones who would cheer him on on victory and would console him in defeat and yet would love the all the same no matter where he finished, these were the people he raced for.

His dad joked that Pierre better get him and his mom paddock passes for his first race, his brother teasing him, asking Pierre if he’d be able to steal the keys to his new F1 car to take it for a spin, fully knowing that formula cars didn’t use keys. Across the table, one of his sister-in-law’s and his mother were asking another of Pierre’s brother’s about AlphaTauri, how well they did last season and how well they could expect Pierre to do in the car they’d developed.

It was overwhelming, their reaction, and for as much as he loved them, for as much as he wanted to celebrate this accomplishment with them, the people who had seen how hard he’d worked, who’d seen where he came from and where he was going, but looking at the table at all of them, there was still something that had settled in Pierre’s chest long ago that even all the love and support of his family couldn’t quite shake it. As much as he wanted to relish in their praise, to selfishly be the center of attention even if just for a night, what he wanted more was to make his escape to his old room and curl up in the small twin bed he’d long outgrown, seeking out the silence and the loneliness that he’d grown accustomed to.

When things had settled down and dinner had been consumed, he helped his mother clear the table and clean up the kitchen as his brothers and their families went into the family room, using the time to get the kids settled, the anticipation of opening presents was so exciting that it threatened to overwhelm them and evolve into a full-on meltdown if not handled properly. As he diligently scraped the plates clean and arranged them neatly in the dishwasher, his mother paused to look at him.

“What did Charles say when you told him? He must have been elated.”

Pierre looked down at the plate in his hands under the guise of continuing to clean as to avoid his mother’s eyes. Charles had been the second person he’d wanted to tell as soon as he’d gotten out of sight of Horner’s office, the first being his parents, but he’d waited, rationalizing that it would be better to break the news in person. Waiting the extra week plus to see the pride and excitement his parents and the rest of his family had been more than worth it and, in his mind, he rationalized that waiting to tell Charles would be the same.

Continuing to look down, he told his mother this, missing the sad but knowing smile she gave him.

Charles had mentioned hanging out during the winter break before things got too busy with car launches and testing, the time between the end of the season and the start of the next getting shorter and shorter as more and more races were added to the calendar. He had initially mentioned the time between Christmas and New Year’s when things were as busy; most of the factory staff was taking a much needed break before the ramp up to the new season and the drivers were scattered to the four corners of the earth, some at home, some with family, some on vacation relaxing before they were expected to get back into the car and do it all over again.

Except there was no all over again for Pierre. It was going to be a brand new experience and he was equal parts excited and terrified that he’d mess everything up. When he took to the track in Barcelona in a couple months, it wouldn’t be his first time in an F1 car, but he knew that this was his chance to prove himself, to prove to Red Bull, the people in the paddock and to the fans that he belonged in F1. He knew that Red Bull could be a little ruthless with it came to drivers, even in a sport as competitive as F1, the organization had a reputation for tossing drivers aside when it looked like they weren’t getting up to speed quickly enough, and he was determined that he wasn’t going to be another driver who was talented, but not talented enough for F1. No, once he got that seat, he was going to keep it.

With that in mind, he threw everything he had into prepping for the new season. He studied track layouts until they were committed to memory, practicing every track on next year’s calendar on his home sim until he could drive them with his eyes closed, his dreams filled with visions speeding down the main straight at Paul Ricard, the home crowd cheering for him, distinguishable even over the sound of the engine. He worked out even more than he did before, now under the careful eye of a performance coach, his shoulders getting broader, arms thicker with corded muscle.

He pushed himself more than he had before, but instead of spending countless hours at the factory testing setups and running simulated runs for the benefit of other drivers, he was doing it for himself, ensuring that when the season started, he would be ready for anything.

But with all this extra work, it meant that he didn’t have time to hang out with Charles. This season's other new drivers, Pierre’s former friend turned rival Esteban Ocon returning after a season without a seat, and newcomer Nicholas Latifi had a head start of several months to prepare for the upcoming season while Pierre was stuck playing catch up. Every time that Charles texted, asking if Pierre could fly out to Monaco to escape the rain and fog of the UK in favor of a slightly warmer climate and the weak winter Mediterranean sun— even if just for a weekend— Pierre always declined, worried that a day he wasn’t working on racing would be a day he’d fall even further behind. 

Pierre hated to blow off one of his best friends like this, and he suspected that now that Charles wasn’t dealing with sponsors and flying off the new countries several times a month, he was starting to catch on that Pierre was disengaged from their friendship, but even the knowing that his friend was no longer buying his excuses, Pierre was still making them. He rationalized his behavior by telling himself that they’d have more time to catch up this season when they be at the same place almost every weekend, but the voice inside his head kept telling him that if he kept blowing Charles off like this, he might not have a friend to hang out with come the start of the season.

All of this could be avoided if Pierre were honest and told Charles why he was busy, but for some reason, he hadn’t yet told him about his promotion to F1. Rationally, he knew that he should tell him sooner rather than later; AlphaTauri and Red Bull had yet to announce anything and as far as the press were concerned, AlphaTauri’s line up was still the same one that was announced part way through last season. There was no reason not to tell Charles, the deal was already complete, modifications to the original offer had only taken a few days to negotiate and the ink on the contract had been dry before the holidays. Pierre knew that his best friend wouldn’t have wanted to hear it from anyone but him, but there was something about admitting it before it was announced, like there was the possibility that it could all be taken away before it was put into the world.

Telling his family had been one thing, but telling someone who knew you better than you knew yourself? Telling someone with whom you’d shared your hopes and dreams with since you were small children? For some reason that was far scarier.

His introduction as one of the drivers for the newly branded AlphaTauri had been announced at the launch of the new car, the press immediately running to be the first tweet out the news, journalist speculation fueling fan theories as to why things had changed in a matter of months. Immediately after the brand new white and navy livery was revealed, the press was all over him, asking questions about the upcoming season, looking for any clue as to why he would be in the car instead of who the team had originally announced.

Pierre wasn't used to the media wanting to talk to him. Sure, he'd given an interview here or there after winning the GP2 championship, had appeared once or twice on the French broadcast to promote the team and talk about the drivers, but other than those short stints, no one really cared about the mostly anonymous driver who had been sidelined for the last few seasons. The experience was overwhelming, the crowd of reporters jockeying for position as they swarmed him, the number of people and cameras so packed together that he couldn't see the room beyond.

He gave prepared, measured answers, careful to not reveal more than what the team wanted him to say, the media strategy having been carefully crafted by the team of PR specialists that Pierre had never needed to interact with until now. Daniil had been helpful, they had similar senses of humor and used it to their advantage, much to the amusement of the various journalists who were covering the event, but even their improv and off the cuff statements didn’t give away too much. 

After what seemed like an eternity later, Pierre was free, the weight on his chest finally lifting as he escaped to the green room, finally able to change out of his race suit, the methodical, familiar motion of separating the Velcro at his neck then pulling the zipper down until he could shuck off the fabric was a comforting feeling that he hadn’t realized he’d missed until now. It wasn’t the same as peeling out of the suit like it was a second skin, the light fabric drenched in sweat after a good, hard race, but that was coming, all Pierre had to do was be patient.

There was a short media debrief that he needed to attend before he could head home and take care of the mass of notifications that no doubt had flooded his phone over the course of the last several hours, but first he wanted to post something to social media, his official announcement to the fans who had stuck by him as he’d waited for this opportunity. The dizzying number of WhatsApp messages, texts, and Twitter notifications coupled with a handful of missed calls and voicemails were all ignored as he opened up Instagram.

“FORMULA 1!!!!!!!” he typed out quickly, a photo of him standing proudly next to the new AT01 having been sent to him by someone from the PR team specifically for this purpose. “So excited to represent @AlphaTauriF1 this season! Thank you to the team and to @RedBullRacing for making a dream come true! #LetsGetToWork”

It was a pretty standard post as far as announcements went, it didn’t express even a fraction of how excited and nervous he was, but even if he had thousands of words to convey how he was feeling, he’d never be able to put into words the elation at finally achieving he’d been working toward for most of his life.

He sighed, remembering that this hadn’t been just his dream and that Formula 1 had been a dream he’d shared with others, including Charles with whom he still hadn’t told about his promotion. The guilty side of him wanted to wait until after the debrief, until after he’d gotten home and eaten to give him the chance to soak it all in, but that was a lie.

Pierre was still hiding from Charles, was still doing whatever he could to avoid him and had been doing so since Monza the previous year. The fact was that he’d been lying to himself for nearly half a year, pushing one of his best friends aside as he buried himself deeper and deeper into working, using his job and ambition as an excuse to avoid taking a step back and reflecting on how much he’d lost himself in the past year.

He was punishing himself, there was no denying it, but what was a little more pain at this point? He’d probably hurt Charles more than enough lately, so maybe he deserved it. The sooner confessed and let Charles be mad at him, the sooner he could apologize and beg Charles for forgiveness. His friend had a gentle heart and while mad, would probably forgive Pierre, but Pierre wasn’t sure if he deserved it.

Against his better judgment, he swiped down on his phone, scrolling through notifications until found what he was looking for.

Missed Call Calamar 🦑(5)

Pierre shook his head and swiped away the missed call notification. It was just like Charles to call him multiple times and not leave him a voicemail despite knowing that Pierre was probably talking to the media, but usually when Charles was excited or upset, logic often went out the window. 

Knowing that there was no escaping it now, he switched over to his texts, ignoring the notifications with messages of congratulations from other drivers and colleagues, seeking out his thread with Charles.

From Calamar 🦑: ???????!!!!!!! From Calamar 🦑: What the fuck Pierre, I had to hear the news from Arthur???? From Calamar 🦑: How long have you been keeping this a secret??

His fingers hovered over the keys, not quite sure how he should respond. Pierre couldn’t deny that he’d been avoiding talking to Charles about anything, not just the fact that he’d be on the grid this upcoming season. He’d been relying on the fact that AlphaTauri had waited until just before the car launch to announce that there had been changes to their diver duo, not revealing who would be in the car until everything was announced, the new team, new branding, and new driver combining to hopefully be the most exciting reveal leading up to testing in a few weeks.

Theoretically, he could justify not telling Charles because he had been afraid that any leak would have jeopardized his seat. It seemed more often than not that the rumors that seemed to come out of the paddock were true— or at the very least, had some basis in fact— and Red Bull had wanted to avoid the PR disaster of having the fact that they had to replace one of the drivers on their junior team during the offseason.

Without racing as the focus, any minor scandal that occurred in the off season could have the potential to blow wildly out of proportion as journalists and fans have little to talk about or discuss, resulting in wild speculation fueled by conspiracy theories and the barest of facts to back up their claims.

While Pierre could make up such an excuse, doing so would mean telling Charles— albeit indirectly— that he hadn’t trusted him to keep his promotion a secret, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

The truth was Pierre hadn’t wanted to tell Charles. At first, he didn’t know how to, but then he came to the realization that the prospect of telling Charles about his promotion filled him with a dread that he couldn’t describe or pinpoint the reason behind. He wasn’t excited to tell him that the dream they had shared as kids was becoming a reality and it made him feel like a horrible person. Pierre knew he couldn’t tell Charles all of  that without his best friend demanding they immediately meet face to face to work things out, so instead, he’d done what he’d gotten good at in the last year: throw himself into work to escape his problems.

Choosing on taking the cowards way out once again, Pierre fumbled to write a quick response, hoping that Charles was so happy for him that he didn’t dig too deep into Pierre’s reasoning.

To Calamar 🦑: I signed the contract a little over a month ago and have been drowning in pre-season prep ever since 🤣🤣🤣 To Calamar 🦑: I feel like I haven’t had any time to think let alone do anything else 🤪

It was a feeble excuse, although not entirely untrue, but it would have to do.

It was strange, facing the fact that you’d been running from something, but even with acknowledging that he wasn’t fine, it wasn’t something that Pierre wanted to examine too closely right now. He was on the verge of being able to call himself a Formula 1 driver, something that he’d been working toward since he was a kid, and he didn’t want to taint the memory of finally making it by spending too much time examining his behavior the past few months.

No, his dreams were finally starting to come true, and he knew that if he just waited a little longer, everything was going to be fine.

How could they not be?

February 2020 Testing; Barcelona, Spain

The bright Spanish sunshine did little to warm Pierre up as he jogged from the garage back to the joint Alpha Tauri/Red Bull hospitality building, the sleeves of his race suit swinging freely from his hips as the click of a camera’s shutter followed him as he exited the garage.  

His first session in the car had gone better than expected with him ending up in the top five for the day— at one point even taking the fastest lap of the session— a feat he hadn’t expected when he got in the car that morning, but there was still work to be done. He’d spun early on, not quite to grips with being back in a racecar, but overall, the team had been pleased with what he had shown in the morning session and he was excited to get back out on track.  

“Pierre!”

Max was heading toward him with his hand raised in greeting, dressed in his Red Bull polo, his racing gear not necessary today with Alex taking over driving duties for both sessions. He stopped, waiting for the other driver to catch up to him so they could walk inside the motorhome together, but Max didn’t seem to be in a rush to get inside just yet, choosing to lean against the railing that separated the hospitality building from the rest of the paddock despite the chill that hadn’t quite abated in the late afternoon sunshine.

“You looked good out there. How did it feel, being in the car for the first time?”

Pierre shrugged with a laugh, “I think my arms are going to fall off and my shoulders and neck are killing me.” Max joined in on the laughter as Pierre rolled his shoulders and neck with a grimace to emphasize his point, his muscles protesting at the movement, but for now it was the good kind of pain, the kind that hit you after a long workout. “All the working out I did over the break doesn’t seem to have helped me in any way.” 

“It doesn’t matter how often you work out, I think,” Max explained. “You can do all the exercises in the world, but nothing compares to the actual G-Forces in the car and it takes actually driving to get used to it.”

Max trailed off and raised his hand high in greeting, focused on someone walking through the paddock. Pierre half expected it to be Daniel who was often by Max’s side during the weekend despite the pair no longer being teammates, but Pierre followed Max’s gaze and saw Charles leaving the Ferrari garage with Sebastian and several members of their team, his eyes locked on Pierre and Max not listening to what looked like a lively conversation between Sebastian and one of their mechanics. Pierre tried to work up the courage to call out to Charles, to do something familiar, but as soon as he realized Pierre was looking at him, Charles looked away and continued following his teammate into the Ferrari motorhome.

Guilt swirled in the pit of Pierre’s stomach, but he did his best to try and push it away. It was his fault that he and Charles weren’t talking, but he couldn’t worry about it now, he had a job to do. 

Next to him, Max’s forehead furrowed in confusion, trying to take in what was happening. “What’s wrong with him? Is Ferrari’s car shit again?”

There were times, even after he’d known Max for as long as he had, that Pierre wasn’t sure if Max was joking or not. He wasn’t sure if it was a Dutch thing or a Max thing, but despite having a great sense of humor, his jokes and criticisms were often said in the same blunt tone and this was just another occasion where Pierre wasn’t sure if he should laugh, not that he was able to.

Charles hadn’t reached out after Pierre had texted him his excuse as to why he hadn’t told him that he’d been given a seat, and Pierre was beginning to suspect that Charles had started to put the pieces together and had realized that Pierre had been purposefully avoiding him.

He wanted nothing more than to have his best friend by his side, to be able to share this experience together, but Pierre was so deep in his self-loathing it consumed him, and at this point, he was more afraid of Charles' rejection than anything. He'd rather have his best friend mad at him than not be a passing thought in Charles' mind, so he kept to himself and didn't offer an explanation. 

By the time Pierre was free to leave, the sun had set and a chill had settled over the shadowy paddock, the yellowish light coming from the lights mounted on the sides of the garages casting long shadows along the pavement. He shivered, wishing that he had his sweatshirt but it was probably stashed away somewhere in his driver’s room with Pyry who was waiting for him so they could drive back to the hotel and go over tomorrow’s schedule.

He started jogging in that direction, wanting to be out of the cold and hoping that by getting his blood flowing he could get some feeling back into his fingers, but as he rounded around a tire cart, he ran into someone, sending them both to the ground.

“Oh my god, are you alright?” a familiar voice said and Pierre looked up to see Charles pushing himself up off the ground, unaware of whom he’d just run into.

“I— yeah,” Pierre mumbled, wanting nothing more in that moment to disappear. Of all the people, it had to be Charles. He debated on not getting up, on staying on the ground, waiting to be swallowed up, but he couldn’t, so instead he sighed to himself and slowly got to his feet. He sensed rather than saw the moment Charles realized who he’d run into, his body stiffening as he recognized Pierre.  

“Sorry,” was all Pierre could offer, still not looking at Charles, instead checking his hands for any scrapes or bruises, flexing his arms and rotating his wrists to see if he’d hurt anything as he’d fallen.

“So you do know how to apologize,” Charles said bitterly, his tone making Pierre look up at him in shock. “I’d thought you had forgotten.”

Pierre had dealt with a moody Charles before, knew that there were times that Charles could be petulant, more like a spoiled child than the twenty-something man he’d grown to be, but he had never been on the receiving end of his anger. And more than anything, he knew that this time Charles’ anger was justified, that he deserved Pierre dropping to his knees and groveling, begging for Charles’ forgiveness, but Pierre was too much of a coward to give him what he deserved.

Instead, he mumbled a quick “See you later, Charles,” and turned away, heading back toward the joint Red Bull/Alpha Tauri hospitality building, unable to see the anger and betrayal in Charles’ eyes any longer.

September 2020 Italian Grand Prix; Monza, Italy

Pierre was sticky with champagne, his race suit heavy, soaked with his sweat and the remainder of the podium celebration that he’d participated in from the top step mere minutes before. The crowd below in the pitlane had dispersed, mechanics going to pack up the garage— cargo needing to be shipped to the next track before they could head off and enjoy what little was left of their weekend— drivers having disappeared to clean up before having to endure yet another race debrief where every detail was picked over as the team of strategists and engineers tried to figure out where they could make up time, even a tenth of a second meaning the difference between a good result and a disastrous one.

He knew that he too would need to join them, to leave the podium behind, trophy in one hand, magnum bottle of champagne in the other, the black and gold hat crowning him the race winner fit snugly around his head, but he couldn't make himself do it, not yet. He needed a shower, needed to pluck off the confetti that clung to his clothing, needed to replace the mask that smelled like champagne and stuck to his face like a second skin, but he continued to sit, soaking it all in.

Footsteps approached him, probably someone from F1 or track management here to tell him that he needed to leave the podium and return to the team, but they didn’t. Whoever it was took a seat next to him on the top step and waited silently.

He looked up to see Charles, dressed in his Ferrari polo and a pair of jeans, looking at the empty grandstands and the main straight where a year ago fans cheered as he stood on this very step and hoisted his trophy high into the air, confetti raining down around him— the King of Monza, the Ferrari Prince, il Predestinato. There had been no cheering fans this time, not for Pierre, just what seemed like the entire paddock in the pitlane below, everyone seemingly excited for him and in many ways, Pierre preferred it that way. It was the people he worked with or alongside who knew what struggles he’d gone through while waiting in the wings, waiting for his chance to prove what he was made of, and it was those people who understood best what it meant to him. With no fans in attendance, he was able to relish the moment a little longer, able to soak it in and finally start letting go of all of the stress that had been weighing him down. He wouldn’t have any other way. 

Part of him wondered what Charles was doing here next to him. They hadn’t spoken to each other that weekend and hadn’t been speaking much at all, not since their awkward encounter in Barcelona several months prior. Even when they had been forced to quarantine in their homes, when Pierre couldn’t go home to be with his family and was left alone in his small Bologna apartment they hadn’t bothered making up, both drivers stubbornly choosing silence in what had to be one of the most isolating times of their lives. Charles had filled up his time by streaming with some of the other drives, namely George, Alex, and Lando, the four of them forming a little F1 streaming gang while Pierre opted to keep his gaming away from the prying eyes of fans, only a few old friends and former GP2 rivals he was still close to as witnesses to his inability to pick up shooting games.

“I was cheering for you,” Charles said after a long stretch of silence, his voice barely audible over music blasting in one of the garages, loud enough to be audible from the podium platform. “Seb and I both asked to delay the briefing so we could watch you win.”

Sebastian was the only other winner in the Toro Rosso/Alpha Tauri team’s history, and like Pierre, he had claimed his first victory at Monza some twelve seasons earlier, back when Pierre and Charles were still in karts and could only dream about racing in Formula One. Pierre had looked up to Sebastian as a child, had watched him claim his four Championships and had dreamed of doing the same; maybe it was too early to hope to follow in his footsteps, to hope that his career could reach a fraction of the success Sebastian had achieved, but Pierre hadn’t gotten here by dreaming small.

But for now, it was enough to know that Sebastian had been rooting for him.     

Guilt twinged Pierre’s stomach when he realized that he should be happy that Charles had been rooting for him to, that even after Pierre had pushed him away, Charles still cared enough to want Pierre to win, that he still wanted Pierre to fulfill their childhood dream, F1 Drivers, race winners, World Champions. Despite what countless people had told them, despite the kids at school that had bullied Pierre and had told him that he was wasting his time, that he wasn’t good enough, the two of them had managed the improbable and achieved the first two. They were here, together, both winners at Monza.

“You shouldn’t have,” Pierre said stubbornly, “I don’t deserve your support, not after everything.”

Charles huffed, “Yeah, maybe, but I did it anyway and you can’t do anything about it now.”

Pierre didn’t have a response to that, so he continued to sit in silence. He knew that if he didn’t take advantage of this, of the olive branch Charles was offering, then their friendship was probably as good as dead. But despite knowing that this was his last chance, there were so many things that he wanted to say that he didn’t know where to start; he was frozen, terrified of saying the wrong thing. So, he continued to sit there, soaking in the moment.

“I don’t understand, why didn’t you tell me you’d been offered a seat?” Charles said, breaking the silence again.

Pierre had asked himself this same question countless times over the past few months, particularly on the nights he had been alone and unable to fall asleep, his only company being the thoughts that still swirled around in his head, the ones that hadn’t been silenced when he had finally achieved his lifelong dream.

“I—” Pierre hesitated and licked his lips, not sure where to start, but where was a better place and the beginning? “Last year,” he said finally. “You won here, do you remember?”

Charles looked at him, confused, and Pierre continued. Of course, Charles remembered winning at Monza, they both did. “I stood in the pit lane, watching you get your trophy.” He gestured to the long straight below them, remembering what it had been like to look up Charles, to see the red, white, and green confetti raining from the sky as the loyal Ferrari fans sang along as the Italian anthem played, flags waving widely as the sea of supporters cheered for Charles, their future champion.

“I was jealous.”

There were a million words that he could say, countless ways to explain why he had acted the way he had, but when it came down to it, the root of why he had distanced himself from Charles was because he had been jealous.

Jealous that his best friend had achieved his dream of racing in F1 and that he had found success, that he had made it to a top team that believed him, who was willing to favor him over a proven race winner and champion, that he had not only made it, but that it was more than possible that he could add his name and signature to the Championship Trophy, that his legacy would be cemented alongside the greats of the sport.

“Watching you up here, lifting up the trophy above your head. I wanted that for myself.” Pierre looked down at his feet, knowing how selfish it sounded, but if he wanted things with Charles to return to some kind of normal, he needed to be honest, needed to be willing to have the difficult conversation that he’d been avoiding for a year. If Charles still hated him after Pierre bared his soul, then so be it, but now that they were here, he wasn’t going to allow himself to leave the podium without knowing one way or another.

“I was happy for you too, of course, and I hated myself for being jealous because you deserve all the success in the world.”

Pierre felt fingers wrap around his wrist and he looked up to see Charles watching him, eyes wide with concern. Knowing that maybe, just maybe Charles didn’t hate him gave Pierre the courage to keep going.

“I guess it probably started before Monza, jealousy doesn’t come out of nowhere, no? But that weekend was when I first realized. I went home after and didn’t want to feel anything. I kept pushing myself, working longer hours, doing more at the factory because I didn’t want to be alone, or have enough time to stop and think about how miserable I was.

“I didn’t want to bother you with my problems because you were so happy, deservedly so, so I kept it to myself thinking that it would go away and I guess it never really did.”

“But we hung out in Abu Dhabi, you seemed okay then,” Charles frowned, brows furrowed in confusion. “A little tired maybe, but we all were.”

Pierre smiled ruefully and shook his head, remembering what had ended up being the last time he and Charles hung out together. There were times that night that he had been able to forget that it felt like he was drowning in his own emotions— and in those brief moments of respite, things with Charles had felt normal— but when the conversation lulled, and especially after the two had gone their separate ways at the end of the night, remembering the moments of peace made Pierre feel even worse. It was like he was punishing himself for his brief moments of happiness and whatever good feelings the night had left him with had quickly dissipated.

“I never thought I was that good of an actor,” he chuckled, “but maybe if racing doesn't work out, I should give that a try next, no? I never thought I was good at keeping secrets from you.”

Charles’s frown deepened. “Don’t joke like that.”

His tone surprised Pierre, who wasn’t used to Charles speaking with this much force. Charles was usually more easy going, assertive at times when he knew what he wanted, but never sharp, not even when he was angry; at times he could be petulant, more like the youngest sibling rather than the middle child that he was, but even with all their years of friendship, Pierre had never heard Charles sound so defiant.

“You belong here, with us,” Charles gestured aimlessly around them, at the podium, down toward the paddock below, then finally at the trophy still clutched in his hands, the twin of the one Charles had lifted high above his head the year before as Pierre had watched him, jealousy curling in the pit of his stomach as confetti rained down and the crowd cheered for their hero. “That is proof.

“You won a Formula 1 race, Pierre, only about a hundred people can say that they’ve achieved that in like 70 years of racing. No matter what happens after today, you’re a part of history and they can’t take that away from you. Our names are forever tied to this sport; we made it together, just like we planned. You deserve this, you earned this through hard work and determination and never giving up. I’m proud of you.”

The look on Charles’ face— the fierce determination in his eyes, the stubbornness of his pout— reminded Pierre of when they were kids, dreaming about making it to Formula 1, of the times they stayed up while on vacation together and dreamed about racing alongside each other. As they had grown older, those dreams never wavered. When Pierre had been told that he’d never amount to anything, that it would be better if he just gave up, Charles had reassured him that they were going to make it, they were going to be the ones who defied the odds.

And he had been right.

Despite setbacks and hardships, despite the timing not being quite right at first, they had made it. It may have taken Pierre a little longer than it had taken Charles, but they were here, together, competing at the highest level of motorsport just like they had dreamed.

Pierre didn’t have the words to express to Charles how much he meant to Pierre in that moment, how grateful he was for Charles’ unwavering support, even in the wake of Pierre’s treatment of him over the past year. He knew that he’d have to work to feel like he’d truly earned the forgiveness Charles had given him so easily, but the fear that Charles hated him was easing knowing that after everything, his best friend was still by his side.

“You’re beginning to sound a lot like Sebastian,” Pierre said instead of what he was feeling. “Rattling off all those statistics, I think he’s rubbed off on you.”

Charles scoffed, but the way his eyes lit up betrayed his attempt at looking annoyed; Pierre knew that Charles idolized Sebastian, and that any comparison would be taken as a compliment and that this time was no different. “Mate, come on. He makes fun of me for knowing nothing about this sport, but anything is nothing compared to him.”

Pierre laughed for what felt like the first time in ages, head tipping back as he felt his chest expanding— not just from the gasping breaths that he was taking as Charles grinned next to him, proud that the joke had landed— but from the weight of jealousy and bitterness that had made a home there in the past few months starting to melt away. He knew that things weren’t going to get better immediately, that winning a race and more importantly, the knowledge that Charles was right there fighting with him, for him wasn’t going to fix all his problems, but it was a light at the end of the tunnel, a lifeline that he could cling onto when things were rough and it was more than what he’d thought he’d had when he had felt so alone.

But the laughter, as good as it had felt, was short lived; Pierre’s mask was still soaked with champagne and the damp fabric was sticking to his face as he inhaled, making breathing more difficult.

“We should do something to celebrate,” he said, cheeks still wide with a smile. “Not go out obviously, but—”

“Dinner,” Charles said firmly, cutting him off. “We can order room service and catch up.” That determined look was back in Charles' eyes, and even if he had wanted to, there was no way Pierre could have said no to him. When Charles got his mind set on something, there was no convincing him otherwise.

“I’ll text you,” Pierre promised, standing from the podium, his trophy clutched in one hand, champagne in the other.

“Mate, you better, or else I’m going to come find you.”