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heliads · 10 months

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i've got my eye on you

Nico Rosberg has moved on from 2016; the silver war; all of it. So he thought, at least. Lewis is still here, though, and that makes the forgetting so much more difficult.

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Nico Rosberg is not lonely, most of the time. He’s a busy man; he meets a lot of people, takes them out to drinks or dinner parties, and exchanges LinkedIns as often as phone numbers. It’s a good life. Keeps him sane.

Sometimes, though. Sometimes, Nico finds himself waiting for something else, something better, something real. That’s when he crosses the line he swears he’ll never touch again and thinks about someone specific. There is a man living in his very same complex, someone who knows Nico better than the scores of environmental activists and Sky Sports reporters, and Nico doubts they’ll ever be the same again.

They were good in the beginning. Better than good, they were the best and everyone knew it. The silver arrows, finest of the fine. They had identical white race suits and the same exact drive to win. That’s where they ran into problems, of course, because the podium only has space for one king to have a crown. The other has to be left in the shadow, the cursed second place. No one could live like that forever. They certainly didn’t.

Still, they were the same in almost every aspect. Nico swapped up their hats once, towards the end. He had wanted to throttle whoever had the idea to make their merch so similar. They may be on the same damn team, but that doesn’t mean they have to match in everything else as well. Same logo, same colors, and then Nico had taken off his cap to fidget with it and saw Lewis’ name there instead of his own, embroidered into the black fabric with the precision of a machine stitch.

Funny how Nico can literally walk around wearing Lewis’ name against his skull, and they still have no more claim to each other than complete strangers. Worse than strangers, actually. They had once been everything.

Some days, he thinks about it all the time. Other days, he forces it out of his mind until he can almost delude himself into thinking it’ll never show up again. And, on other, worse days, such as this one, Nico walks into the lobby of his home building in Monaco, both of his daughters holding his hands, and he spots Lewis across the room, pulling a suitcase behind him. Must have been a race weekend. Nico knows it is, of course, fixates over every score like he’s still in it, but. It’s easier to pretend that he could forget.

Usually, Nico’s good at brushing off encounters like this, but they’re just too close for that tactic to work. Nico wasn’t expecting it; last night ended up being late, plus he’s been out with the girls all morning. That’s why he doesn’t just keep walking, why he actually stops and stares. Lewis comes to a standstill around the same time. Must be the jetlag getting to him. That, and the fact that they haven’t been face to face outside of a race or work setting in months.

Nico should keep moving. He doesn’t, even as his girls tug at his hands in confusion. They know of Lewis, certainly, they’ve seen pictures up on the fridge and online, but they didn’t know Lewis like Nico did. No one could.

“It’s good to see you,” Nico says uncertainly. Pleasantries never fail.

Lewis shudders slightly and nods. “Yeah, you too. Hope the girls are doing well,” he adds, as if he can’t see both blonde daughters right by Nico’s side. They’re still holding onto his hands, one apiece, and eyeing Lewis with wide, curious stares. They’ve inherited that from him already, it seems, the inability to look away.

“Do you two want some sweets?” Lewis asks suddenly. “I keep a bag in my luggage.”

Nico frowns, asks something asinine about drivers and nutritionists and fitness goals. Lewis just chuckles and says that he never actually opens the thing, just keeps it in the bag so he can practice self discipline or something else insane like that. God, he always tried to be the best of them.

His girls don’t know any of that sort of life, though, and won’t so long as Nico can help it, so they just clap their hands and plead for a treat or two. Nico gives the appropriate nod when it’s clear that Lewis is serious.

Lewis kneels down to the ground, unzips the top of his suitcase and pulls out a bag. Crisp, unopened, just as promised. Lewis’ resolve held all this time, then broken just now. The plastic tears easily. It doesn’t take much.

Lewis considers the bag. “I’ve always been fond of those. They remind me of some stuff I used to love a while back. They were from some small town, I don’t remember where.”

“Hoddesdon,” Nico says. He states the place aloud like he’s rattling off one of a thousand countries or capital cities, some bright child with a knack for memory games who will grow up into a man who knows too many languages but not enough people with whom to practice. “You’re talking about the candy from Hoddesdon.” Town near the place they used to kart together. Close enough to walk or bike from any hotel or flat. Two boys could do it easily if they were inclined to stay out all day and night, and they usually were.

Lewis’ head snaps up, and the brief look of shock and wonder reminds Nico of when they were kids. It’s the exact same expression Lewis would wear when Nico agreed to buy him some sweets. Even though Lewis would beg and plead with him all day long, the moment Nico said yes Lewis always looked surprised, as if he never truly expected that Nico would go along with it. That Nico would go along with him. Maybe that’s why Nico always caved. It meant he got to see that look again.

Painfully, it also reminds Nico of how Lewis had looked when he found out Nico was retiring in 2016. They were in the midst of a massive crowd with too many overlapping voices and faces, but somehow Nico had still been able to look out across the crowded room and sight Lewis the moment Nico opened his mouth and announced his retirement.

It had been the same expression then as now. The brief drop of his stomach like a roller coaster, the smooth spread of a poker face to cover up any emotional slips or wide eyes. All of it. Lewis had never told Nico any of this, of course, but Nico has known Lewis long enough to read his body, his mind, his entire life. It’s why he likes pointing out Lewis’ flaws on Sky Sports; just another way of proving that he’s still got it, that no matter how much Lewis changes, Nico Rosberg still knows exactly what makes him tick.

More often than not back then, it was Nico. It’s still Nico now whenever they awkwardly run into each other in their complex or Nico analyzes him a little too well on live TV.

Right now, though, Lewis is not angry at him, just caught off guard. Something in the back of Nico’s brain says that he likes that more. Nico scowls to himself and wonders why he hadn’t shut that voice up years ago.

“Yeah,” Lewis says at last, after a weighty pause that Nico isn’t entirely sure doesn’t solely happen in the confines of his own head, “Yeah, it was.”

To distract himself, Lewis remembers what he’s promised and hands some individually wrapped candies to the two blonde girls clustering in front of him. Nico remains where he is, watching as Lewis replaces the bag in his luggage again, closes the top, stands up and mumbles something about how he’d better get going. Crazy travel like always. You know how it is.

Nico does know. He nods, giving Lewis the reprieve he needs to head to the lift. Nico thinks that he might actually lose his mind if he was in the same small box rattling up to their floor, looking anywhere but at Lewis, so he diverts his girls to throw their trash away first and Lewis gets away. Another lift comes in a short time. Everything is just as it was before, but– not at all.

His daughters cheer over their new sweets, giggling down the hallway about how they were able to convince Mr. Hamilton to give up his secret stash. Nico is plagued by the sudden thought that if he had married Lewis like he’d wondered about all those years ago, if they had adopted these girls instead of them being Nico’s by bloodline, that he might laugh about their reaction being inherited from Lewis instead of, you know, from him. It makes Nico think about just how much of Lewis is left in him. It makes him question if any of Nico is trapped inside Lewis, waiting to be let free.

Even after he gets back to his place and locks the door carefully to guard against any unwholesome influences, Nico’s entire train of thought is rattled for the rest of the day. Nico has been trying his damndest to avoid Lewis every time they catch the lift or leave the building around the same time, and he knows full well Lewis has been doing the same. He’s all but admitted to it a few instances before.

This is why they play this elaborate game of hide and never seek, then. Nico lies awake at night, remembering paths he hasn’t gone over in a long time. The start. The glorious first act. How it had all broken to pieces. Nico had said before that he doesn’t regret the rivalry, that it only pushed them to greater heights, and he stands by that now. Still. That doesn’t mean his blood doesn’t run dark with grief to think of everything they once had that is gone forever now.

Nico can remember talking with his communications handler about it one time. He and Lewis had been fracturing for a while by then, but they’d only started showing it publicly for a few weeks. The guy had told Nico that this was good, actually, that people liked the slow burn death of it all. It was like watching a railway crash in slow motion, the guy had said. You know it’ll hurt and you know it’ll end badly but you just can’t look away for the life of you.

It had made Nico’s veins thrum with the unhappy sickness of needing to prove the truth to be a lie. He’d wanted to spit in the guy’s face; swear at him until he ran out of breath; go drag Lewis in front of a live camera and make out with him until their gums bled, just to prove that they were still totally fine.

Look where all that pent up self-justification got him, though. Nico and Lewis are hiding from each other in the same complex, too convinced that the other needs to change to ever leave. The comms handler must be laughing at them still, gleeful and victorious after Nico made him rich.

There was a lot that even the viewers didn’t see. It’s not like either of them really tried to hide it, how they broke apart, but even so. People only saw the same few photos of sun bleached hair and gap toothed grins and unicycles, they didn’t know all of it. Nico thinks that’s for the best. The thought that anyone could know even half of what they had is intrusive and wrong.

When he closes his eyes, he can see all of it at once, overlapped like a thousand magazine clippings. Sleeping over and staying out late and making the same stupid jokes every time. Trying each other’s food and loudly arguing irrelevant details and racing and racing and racing. Small nothings that only serve to make him smile. More important stuff. Secrets Nico has only kept to himself.

Nico has only kissed Lewis once. That’s not counting stupid things like kisses on cheeks, everyone knows those don’t actually matter. That’s why you can get away with doing them in the background of televised interviews, in large crowds, even next to your father. People wouldn’t care, anyway. They’d laugh and say that he and Lewis were European, that’s what they did. It wasn’t real. It could never be real. When you count up how many times Nico wanted to kiss Lewis and didn’t, though— well, that would be like damn near every day.

The one kiss was different. That was on purpose. He’s thinking about it now. It was late at night. 2015. Abu Dhabi. Nico had wanted to win that championship more than he’d wanted anything in his life. Maybe he’d fucked himself over in Austin, maybe even earlier, but it was still Lewis with the security of that title once the final race was over. He’d driven beneath the waving flag, he’d smiled and cheered in all the photographs, and Nico had felt this terrible sort of rage simmering beneath his bones.

The kiss had been later, at one in a successive chain of afterparties for both Mercedes drivers, technically, but mainly for Lewis. Lewis was the one who got it done. Lewis was the one who made them all proud. Lewis was also the one who pulled Nico aside when everyone else was busy getting shitfaced or screaming their heads off.

It had been dark. No one had seen. Lewis had grinned at him, asked Nico if he was really going to sulk the whole night. Nico had said something stupid like why shouldn’t I and give me a reason to stop and, well, Lewis had. Nico can still feel that night burned into him, taste it like all those times he drank champagne on a podium straight from Lewis’ hands. Salt and sweet and shameless.

Lewis had pulled away just a little, enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, and asked if he was better. Nico lied, said yes, and swore to himself that he would win the next championship just so the next time this happened, he would not be the one to suffer. Betrayed with a kiss. Nico had made a proper Judas after all. He can still see the faces of everyone at Mercedes after he walked out of that contract, how even Vivian had cautiously asked him if he was really sure this was what he wanted. No one knew Nico Rosberg at all, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

Still, though. Thinking about the past makes him think about the kiss. They may have been somewhere between tipsy and wasted when it happened, but Nico swears that it had been a long time coming since before the fights even started. It just took the ache of resentment to let them cross that bridge and leave it burning.

He shouldn’t think about it anymore. He definitely shouldn’t think about how he’s still in the same building as Lewis, so close. Viv is out with the girls at the moment. No one would know. If Lewis rejects him here and now, well, Nico can always go back to his green energy fanboys and YouTube subscribers to soothe his ego.

This is a bad idea, and Nico can’t help it. He paces back and forth on the hallway he thinks might be Lewis’, dragging his heels like Lewis might be able to sense his hesitation somewhere, wherever he is, and come out at last. At the start of it, Nico has about a thousand different things he wants to say, accusations and apologies and mundane pleasantries all.

At the end, when Lewis does come out of his room, Nico doesn’t say anything. Can’t say anything. Instead, he just sort of nods, raises a hand halfway like he’s doing that weird half-jog at the start of a crosswalk.

Lewis waits, silhouetted against the threshold of his door, and when it’s clear that Nico won’t be doing or saying a whole lot at the moment, smiles and asks, “What, come here often?”

It’s a stupid joke. Nico laughs anyway. “We both live here,” he says somewhat impetuously.

Lewis tilts his head to the side, considering this. “Not right here, I think.”

Nico narrows his eyes, debating whether he truly has to explain the abstractions of flat rooms versus buildings, but Lewis breaks into that light chuckle of his and Nico lets go of his irritation, he lets go.

“I’m kidding, man,” Lewis tells him, still unable to hide a laugh, “Just trying to mess with you. Can I ask why you’re here, though?”

It’s a fair question. Nico is, in fact, loitering outside of his former friend turned rival turned something’s door like he’s got nowhere better to be. He doesn’t, but that’s beside the point. Truth be told, Nico himself doesn’t entirely know why he’s here. It just seemed like the place he needed to be.

“I was thinking,” he begins, “About a lot, actually. It’s been a while.”

Lewis stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, and then all of a sudden his entire being relaxes and he opens the door a little more. Good of him for finally recognizing an olive branch when Nico offers it. God knows he’s been practically screaming it every interview they’ve shared, every time they’ve met each other’s eyes in the paddock when he was there with Sky Sports.

“Wow,” Lewis mumbles, “Yeah. That sounds– that sounds good.”

This time Nico can’t hide his derisive snort. “That’s terrible. We’ve been avoiding this for ages. I run into you, we act nice, then run off. We have to face this.”

A brief spark of anger flashes through Lewis’ eyes– good, that’s something Nico can handle, something familiar that they can both feel better about than this strange nothingness– but even that’s gone soon enough. Lewis doesn’t have to put up with him like a teammate, Nico supposes. Whatever they do from here on out is their own undoing, the red purely on their ledgers. He wants to drown in it.

Lewis knows this too, Nico can taste it like blood on a bitten tongue. They stand there for a moment longer, daring each other to take it further. It’s a familiar game, one they’ve played since kids. I’ll go faster if you do. You’ll jump off the bridge so long as I go first.

The heavy pause ends with the gasp of a caught breath. Lewis hesitates a bit, wobbling on the heels of his feet, then rocks back down to earth at last. “You can come in, you know. If you want to.”

The sentence sort of makes Nico sick. There was a time when he wouldn’t have had to offer such a thing at all. The invitation would have gone without question. Nico thinks he lived half of his childhood at Lewis’ place instead of his, in hotel rooms and bedrooms and streets behind houses. The other half Lewis was at Nico’s. The thought that at some point they would be grown and staring at each other, having to wait for a formal question to share each other’s space, is nothing short of horrific.

Still, it’s better than they’ve been for a long time. Nico can still feel Lewis’ gaze washing over him again and again, taking in the details. They’re older, both of them, but not beyond the urge to stare. He can feel the weight of it on his throat, heavy like a chain, and it robs him a little of his faux confidence.

Nico nods once, the movement jerky and unsteady. “Alright,” he says, smiles, loosens his collar, and follows Lewis in.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy

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