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Fernando is thinking about Moses.
The desert air has a rough sandpaper tongue and he's navigating the maze of corridors between the Ferrari and Mercedes facilities. Moses, he thinks, had a pretty raw deal. 40 years of this, the heat and the wilderness. But then he never lost a Formula 1 World Championship. Swings and roundabouts.
He pushes open the glass door and the rush of cold air is inviting. The celebrations are quieter here in the heartland. Lewis' family surround him, quietly savouring the moment. Wet eyes, full hearts, hands clutching on the table top.
Anthony greets him first, warmly and without any of the reservation that comes from other members of the Hamilton clan. But as they clasp hands, Fernando's eyes are seeking out Lewis, who is making his way across the room towards them.
The hug is cordial, both of them realising that the cameras have found them, and there's a rigidity to their limbs that comes with practising the art of being watched by a large audience. But Fernando carries truth in the heart, if not the arms.
“You had a fantastic year,” he says. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Lewis says. There's a pause: he wants to reciprocate, but he knows that Fernando does not consider 2014 a fantastic year. Their old hesitancy is back. He loves it, because he knows what Lewis does when he doesn't know exactly what to say.
It's quiet, hushed into Fernando's ear. “So. Back to McLaren?”
Fernando smiles. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “Maybe not. You are thinking about a return too?”
***
“I am coming to you to win more championships,” Fernando says. Ron is looking a little like blanched spinach, because Ron has had many years of Finnish drivers and has evidently forgotten what it's like to have a driver around who actually speaks. “So, to do this, I need to have things around me working the way that I like. I think that you understand this.”
“Yes, of course. We want to accommodate this. I don't know how things worked at Renault, I wasn't privy to that information, but given your success there, we want to try to create that sort of environment for you, though clearly within the... confines of McLaren. They're different, as teams, I'm sure you know that, management style differs, team dynamics... but I also think we can learn a lot from where you were before.”
“Yes. And you also have much experience with winning championships, so I am confident that it will be a perfect match, working together.”
“Exactly. And everyone at Woking is really very excited to have you on board.”
“And me too. Has there been any news about the issue that I-”
“Ah,” Ron says, his face betraying nothing of the fact that he's about to lie right to Fernando's face. “It's still between Pedro, Gary and Lewis. We're weighing it up. It's a difficult decision and you know that we're determined to have the right line-up.”
“I think it's important to invest in the future of the team,” Fernando says. “I feel that I have a strong impact, in helping a younger driver to become an important part of a new team. I have always done that. So I'm sure you will make the right decision but also bear in mind my position.”
“We were clear in the negotiations, you know, about where things stand. You're coming to us as a double world champion, we're very aware of that, and your place here is... you know, it's secure. Whoever we choose as your teammate. Know that we're very clear on this. We know that you have not just... skills in terms of winning races, titles, but also in terms of challenging your teammates and helping them to improve. We want this to continue.”
“You promised me that I would receive preferential treatment. I am a champion and the rookies are not. This still stands.”
“That hasn't changed. We are absolutely committed to that, regardless of whom we choose.”
“OK,” Fernando says. “Then I hope you will enjoy bringing back the trophy to Woking, as much as I will enjoy taking the trophy home with me.”
***
He knows of Lewis, of course. People in F1 always know about those in the junior formulas who're nipping at their heels. Still, Fernando assumes a touch of hype. The British press have always salivated over each and every newcomer, praying for the second coming of Nigel Mansell. By and large they're solid and dependable but nothing extraordinary. Lewis is different in skin and speed, but only one of these matters to Fernando. He should prove an interesting teammate, someone to nurture and inspire. Fernando hasn't partnered a genuine rookie in some time and he's excited.
Testing is cold and unusually for a genuine rookie, Lewis doesn't use small talk as a method of warming things up. He's polite and civil but doesn't seem daunted about partnering Fernando, which Fernando both likes and finds infuriating. They stand on the freezing Jerez pit-wall, listening to the dull grumbles of their cars in their garages.
“It's a big step up, GP2 to F1,” Fernando says. He draws his jacket around him, rubbing his gloved hands together.
“Yeah,” Lewis says, his tone polished but slightly flat, as if he's practised talking too much. “But GP2 was a big step up from Formula 3, and so on and so on. You know how it goes. I've been ready for this my whole life.”
“No nerves?”
“I don't do nerves.”
“Why not?”
“I don't know, like – is there a reason for stuff like that? I don't really get nervous, I don't know... it's just how I am. I'm here to get the job done. Don't have time to worry about that stuff.”
“I think that nerves are part of caring. If you don't have nerves, how do you know you care?”
“You saying I don't care, man?” He's laughing, but only just.
“No, I don't know you. I am just surprised. Everyone has nerves. If you have some way around this, then maybe sell it, many people would buy it.”
“You don't exactly look like you're shaking in your boots, though.”
“I'm not nervous right now.”
“So on the grid in Australia you'll be bricking it?”
“What is 'bricking it'?”
“Like...” Lewis looks around, despite the fact that none of the team are silly enough to be standing outdoors, so they're completely alone. “Ah, don't make me say it. Go Google it.”
“OK. I will. And yes, in Australia, maybe some nerves.”
“You'd tell your new teammate that? Not what I expected. I was kinda thinking you were gonna be all hard on me, like – I'm the king of the castle, you're a peasant, I fear nobody.”
Fernando laughs. “Ahh. I won't be nervous about you. I don't fear you at all. People like Kimi, Felipe... but it brings out the best to be challenged, I think. It makes me better. I'm sure you'll know what I mean by this time next year.”
“I'm out to win it too,” Lewis says, almost petulant. “The title. Don't write me off.”
Fernando has to guard his mouth to stop it from smiling. “It's a bit different from GP2. Might take a little longer. Ambition is good but nerves teach you reality.”
“Alright, old man.”
“Alright, teacher's pet.”
Lewis' laugh is like thunder: a cracking sound that brings relief to hear it, but only after you've checked how close it is to your head.
***
Podium in Australia. Podium in Bahrain. Podium in Spain, of all the fucking places. The crowds are back to welcome home their prodigal son, their champion twice over. And yet he stands on the podium some inches beneath Lewis and loathes it.
Lewis goes away from Barcelona leading the championship.
“Ron,” Fernando says, the telephone line tinny with artificial breath. “This is not what I was promised. This is not what we discussed.”
“He's still a rookie,” Ron says. “He's doing better than we thought, but you're our guy. Please just keep calm. There's no reason for you to get concerned. The car is good. Just, let's keep things cool, OK?”
***
The principality.
Fernando has stopped giving Lewis advice. He has stopped sharing their data. He has stopped calling him teacher's pet, or indeed, anything at all. Their relationship is coolly inflexible. He doesn't have time for it to be otherwise. Monaco is too small for the pair of them and Ron watches over them both like an anxious paternal god.
There's a look in Fernando's eye as he climbs into the car on Sunday afternoon, a look that he throws like a rock at Ron. Ron looks away and it's unclear whether he's ignorant of what the look means, but either way, the gauntlet is thrown. Something has to change.
The team call what happens in the race an 'optimum team strategy'.
***
“Lewis,” Ron is saying. “You cannot say things like that to the press without speaking to the team first. You cannot-”
“That was my race today,” Lewis says. “You stopped me from racing him and you cost me my chance. I can say that to the press because it's true.”
“It's your opinion,” Ron says. He keeps catching Fernando's eye across the debriefing table and trying not to. “It's your opinion until you have spoken to the team, because you do not hear the messages passing between the team and Fernando, and you are not in charge of strategy, that is not your role. If you represent the team in a certain way then the damage is done and we can't do anything. We've been over this before.”
“I'm not just gonna sit and act like it's all fine, saying everything you want me to say!” Lewis says. “That's bollocks. You want me to tell them it was a great day for the team? Fine. But I won't say I'm happy with it, or that 2nd was the best I could do, because it wasn't unless you take into account that it was the best you guys wanted me to do. And that's not why I'm here.”
“You're here in your first year to find your feet,” Ron says. “And to-”
“To finish 2nd to Fernando? I'm finding my feet. I'm doing that fine, I don't need you to tell me how to manage that. I've outperformed him, haven't I? Are you now saying that I can't beat him because I'm new, or what?”
“Nobody is saying that,” Ron says. “Nobody stopped you from racing Fernando. We chose the best strategy for the team. It is about the team, Lewis, not about you.”
“Yeah? Well, I hope at some point you make a team decision that doesn't favour your little golden boy, because God fucking forbid that the team's interests depart from his at any point.”
“Lewis, you need to seriously think about the things you're saying,” Ron says, slamming his hand down onto the smooth glass surface of the table. “You're running your mouth off and it's uncalled for. This sort of thing causes rifts. We can do without that.”
“And you,” Lewis says, his dark wild eyes turning to Fernando. “Unusually quiet, huh? What happened, the fact that I'm leading this championship that's supposed to be yours, that bothered you? Your nerves got the better of you? Is that why you're trying to stop me from challenging you, man?”
“You are a child,” Fernando says. “This is how a child is. You see me when you become a man, then we talk.”
“Fuck you, Fernando. Just fuck you.”
“This isn't helping,” Ron says.
“What if I went to the FIA?” Lewis says, his tone all the more agitated. “What if I said to them – you know what, my team is interfering with the race results and I think the fans deserve better?”
“The fans,” Fernando scoffs.
“It's just as thinly fucking veiled as Ron saying 'the team' when he means you.”
“Nobody is going to the FIA,” Ron says, his voice cold. “This team protects its own interests above anyone's. Nobody is more important than this team in here, and you both need to understand that. The sooner you do, the happier we'll all be. Today was the best result for McLaren, and instead of celebrating we're in here squealing at one another like babies. Come on. We need to do better than this. I want both of you to go out there with smiles on and leave all of this behind. This year needs to be our year and I can't have this sort of behaviour spilling out into the public eye. Agreed?”
Lewis takes longer, significantly longer, to nod than Fernando does. But he does, and Ron seems mollified.
“And Lewis – I don't care how talented you are. Blackmail a member of this team again and you'll be out of a job before you can blink. That will not be tolerated here. Do you understand?”
***
“Fingers crossed behind your back?” Fernando says, as they walk back through the garage to face the outside world. The setting sun is glinting down on the harbour and the heat is beginning to fade.
“Look,” Lewis says. “You may have been promised shit by Ron – I don't know – but I am not your fucking subordinate, so don't speak to me like you're my mentor, or my dad. I have enough of a father already, OK? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“More than you,” Fernando says, as he walks past, not bothering to hold the door. “Speak to me when you've even won a race, you-”
“Don't you dare. Don't you dare-”
He grabs Fernando's arm, tugs him around with a surprising amount of force. Fernando rests on his heels, stands with his eyes slightly narrowed, his lips slightly quirked. There's something wonderful about being able to provoke a temper like his in someone else. He knows what it feels like to dance on top of emotional volatility and watching someone else struggle to find the steps is utterly delicious.
“Don't I dare what?”
“Call me what you were about to call me.”
“What's that, then?”
A stand-off. Lewis folds his arms, unwilling to say it. Fernando rolls back on his feet, then forward, all languid movement and superiority. Lewis is staring at the ceiling.
“You can't even say what you think I was going to say, that's how much it scares you,” Fernando goads. “I say it before – you're a child, not a man.”
“You think you're such a fucking big-shot, don't you, lording it over other people that you're just better than them. I've been here 4 months and been on the podium 5 times. Every fucking race. The win is coming whether you like it or not. So don't fucking think you can take pleasure out of calling me a virgin, you sick fuck, because that really says more about me than about you.”
“The opposite, actually.”
“What?”
“I wasn't going to call you a virgin. But it interests me that that's what you thought, that your mind went to this.”
Lewis doesn't say another word. When he leaves, he tries to slam the door, but it closes with a soft puckering sound. Fernando smiles.
***
Canada is karma, kicking him in the nuts.
He walks back to the garage, having finished 7th, and hesitates a glance at the team crowding underneath the podium. It's now one win each. It's now Lewis' turn for smugness, having won his first F1 race in six attempts. Still. There're wins and there're wins.
The bar that evening is raucous. Fernando hasn't any intention of staying long, but having failed to publicly congratulate Lewis, it's been pointed out to him that a little team spirit wouldn't go amiss. Although tempted to tell his bosses to do one, there's probably something in at least attempting to be gracious.
He finds Lewis full of cheer and, to his credit, manages to make his congratulations at least not sound entirely resentful.
“Cherry popped, would you say?” Lewis asks, face wide with adrenaline, eyes bright with intoxication.
“You're the one who keeps making it about sex,” Fernando says.
“Drink?”
“I'm not staying.”
“Neck it back, then.”
Fernando bites down on the insult and takes the glass, sips it. He watches Lewis as he does so, simmering.
“I hear they're seriously considering you for the championship,” he says.
“They just realised, yeah. I've been telling them for months. And I hear you think I got lucky.”
“You did,” Fernando says. “It's not a slight – we all have lucky races. It doesn't make it less a win.”
“Four safety cars, man, that's a win for me.”
“You won in the pits. Without the penalty-”
“This your way of congratulating me?”
“Well, most people just reply 'thank you', so I guess we're both disappointed.”
“Is anything anyone else does ever good enough for you, or is it just all about you?”
Fernando finishes his drink, slams the glass back onto the bar-top with more force than he reckoned with. The alcohol is already starting to fizz in his blood, the price paid for not being much of a drinker. And for drinking too much wine with his dinner. Lewis narrows his eyes, watching him, trying to work him out as though he's a puzzle.
“Everything,” Fernando says, a little hazily. “Is always, always about me. You should learn it. Learn it right now. And repeat it. Repeat it until you believe it and then maybe, maybe it'll be good enough for me.”
“You're literally, literally the most arrogant fucker I've ever met,” Lewis says, but he's amused.
“Then you're not trying hard enough,” Fernando says. “This drink is like rocket fuel. I'm going to bed.”
***
He has a small incident, a disagreement of sorts, with the lift. The lift seems to want to go down when he presses for his floor, and when the doors open he finds himself facing the dark, empty breakfast room. After several chosen curses and a quick kick at the doors, he finally manages to get the lift back up to ground level, at which point Jenson walks into it.
“I don't even want to ask,” he says.
“Lewis poisoned me with rocket fuel,” Fernando says. “And broke the lift.”
“OK,” Jenson says.
“I am going to tell someone.”
“You do that.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
“What floor are you on?”
“5th.”
“This lift only goes down. Look. I'll press the button for 8. That's my floor. The lift will go down and not up. Lewis broke it.”
“You're not pressing 8. You're pressing the B button. That's for the basement.”
“No, that's 8. Look. 8.”
“How many of those drinks did you have?”
“Poisoned chalice.”
“Right. You're on floor 8? You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Let's go there first.”
“How? The lift is broken.”
“Fernando, just – let me handle the lift. Just stand... there. OK.” Jenson presses for floor 8. He watches Fernando glare at the button panel as the doors close, his expression incredulous.
“I think you can work the lift because you're good with buttons,” Fernando says. “Get it?”
“Very good,” Jenson says. “If this lift breaks down, I am killing you, for the record.”
“Not if Lewis kills me first.”
***
When Jenson swipes Fernando's card in the door, and then turns on the light, he at least seems surprised to see Lewis there.
“See,” Fernando says. “Trying to kill me. Threatened. Broke the lift, but we survived. What now, Hamilton?”
“You left your wallet on the bar,” Lewis says.
“Oh.”
“I'll leave you to it,” Jenson says.
“Where is my wallet?” Fernando says. “And how did you get in?”
“Here,” Lewis says, handing it over. “Key card was in it.” Jenson exchanges a look with him, which Fernando misses, and Lewis rolls his eyes, which Fernando does not. Jenson seems to take this as his cue to leave, which is fine with Fernando, because when he kills Lewis there will be no witnesses.
“I am not remotely threatened,” Lewis says. “And I don't even know how to break a lift, and why would I try to kill Jenson?”
“You're a rogue,” Fernando says. “You don't care who you have to kill to get to me. You're the most dangerous type of criminal. No limits. No mercy.”
“Fernando?”
“What?”
“I don't speak Spanish.”
“Well, that's your problem.”
***
Lewis asks if he wants a glass of water, which Fernando accepts with all of the grace of a monarchical figure and also without burping. Whilst Lewis takes his time getting it, Fernando removes his shoes and attempts to recover his dignity. The buzz is starting to fizzle but it hasn't done anything for the feelings of persecution, the audacity of this young upstart, the need to run him over in a car or perhaps a tank, and to ask Ron Dennis what he thinks of that, then?
“Water,” Lewis says, setting down the glass.
Fernando stands up. Lewis' reactions are quick, and he takes a step back, up against the door to the bathroom.
“You know what,” Fernando says.
“What?”
“You disgust me.”
“OK.”
“With your – winning things and your – your being twelve years old, and your language, and your fucking – how dare you? I mean, seriously. It's appalling.”
“Do you ever actually make any sense?”
“What?”
“When speaking. You don't make sense. I mean, not always. Sometimes you do. But mostly it's just like – raving. Right now, raving.”
“I am not raving.”
“You are, man. You're a really weird bloke.”
“I'm not a weird bloke! You disgust me, is my point.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
Lewis looks at him. Really looks at him. The tip of his tongue touches the corner of his lip, presses it into submission, as though he wants to laugh but knows he shouldn't. His eyes aren't light enough for laughter, though, and his stance isn't relaxed. Fernando can hear them breathing in turn. And then the gap that is becomes the gap that was and Lewis' mouth finally relaxes, if only because it's against his own.
And that disgusts him even more.
So much so that he reaches down, grabs Lewis' hands in his hand, lifts them over his head and presses them full into the cold surface of the door. He closes the gap between them with his body, kissing him back harder than he's kissed anybody in years, feeling the shiver run through him and chasing it, mouthing it down Lewis' neck and into the curve of his shoulder, Lewis' hands thrumming beneath his own, a sound choking him but not daring to escape.
When Lewis' tongue wraps around his own, he thinks: disgusting, and kisses him back.
***
Lewis is lying on top of him, which is turning into Fernando's very favourite place for him to be, other than behind him on the track. He's responding to Fernando running his palms up and down his bare sides by grinding his hips downwards, grunting and gasping into each kiss, his fingers flexing chalk-white against the bedsheets. Fernando is pleased.
Well, until he draws back.
“Mmm,” Lewis says. “That was nice.”
“Is,” Fernando says. “It is nice.”
“I think it's gone far enough for one evening,” Lewis says, pulling back, smiling, fucking smiling.
“What?” Fernando says. He props himself up on his arms as Lewis gets up, tugging his shirt back on and doing up his jeans. Grinning throughout.
“I'm a good Catholic boy,” Lewis grins.
“What?”
“You heard.”
“You. I. What?”
“It was very nice, but now I'm leaving.”
“You don't like it?”
“I do like it.”
“Well, fuck you then.”
Lewis laughs. “Nice to spend time with you too, Fernando.”
“You know,” Fernando says. “When you are begging me to fuck you, I will remember this moment and I will be like: no, I won't, because of this moment. You little fucking cock-tease. I will say no. I will refuse. And I will leave you hard and in pain, because you are a fucking piece of work. You understand this?”
“Oh, Fernando,” Lewis says, standing by the door. “I'm never, ever going to beg.”
“Fuck you. I'll make you. I'll make you fucking beg.”
Lewis just scoffs, smiles and shuts the door behind him. He misses the pillow thrown by a second.
***
What Lewis hasn't accounted for is that the only thing that exceeds Fernando's libido is his stubbornness. He expects – Fernando can tell – that having implanted his hooks, that this will be sufficient to win Fernando over to him with no further action required. And Fernando is smarting, which makes him glacial. When Lewis says hello to him at the European Grand Prix with that sneaky little look on his face, Fernando is barely cordial. If it confuses Lewis, Fernando doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything except wiping the floor with Lewis and using him as a bloody flag on the podium.
In the end, Lewis is nowhere – but all of the adrenaline in Fernando's blood finds an outlet in Felipe, who he tangles with in the closing laps. Their argument uses the cool-down room for its intended purpose and in the end, Ron has to intervene, but Fernando is happy. The perfect result, in many ways: a decisive win, his teammate outside the points, and an irritated Felipe soundly ignored.
When Lewis tries to congratulate him in the bar later – rather more sullenly than Fernando managed – Fernando accepts it with the air of someone who has better things to do and better people to hear from. As he walks away, he imagine Lewis remaining behind as Felipe did, with so much to say and nobody to listen. It makes him smile.
***
They say that you shouldn't poke a stick into a hornet's nest. It's probably true.
They meet in the morning before qualifying to agree their order for qualifying in relation to its different phases. It's a difficult track for overtaking, so the refuelling stage of qualifying is crucial because it will prove decisive in terms of which car is light enough to secure pole. Once out on track, Fernando finds himself behind Lewis and waits to be let through. When it doesn't happen, he checks with the team, who tell him that Lewis has been ordered to let him by. Fernando knows enough about car placement, speed and timing to know that Lewis patently has no intention of letting him through, and he isn't surprised to be told by his engineer that they are still talking to Lewis almost one minute later. Fernando decides to take matters into his own hands.
When they have to pit for fresh tyres, Fernando takes advantage of his placement on the track – gained via Lewis' refusal to move over – to pip him to the pits. His mechanics fit the car and then wait for 20 seconds or so to give him a clear track. He can see Lewis stacked up behind him in his mirrors and he can barely resist a smirk. He gets the message to go but remains where he is, just as Lewis remained where he was despite being told otherwise. 5 seconds, then 10. 30 seconds total. Enough.
Once he pulls out the pits, he watches in the mirrors the mechanics changing Lewis' tyres. Once he rejoins the track, he makes the chequered flag by 2 seconds. Lewis does not, losing his opportunity to set a new qualifying lap. Pole is Fernando's.
Ron's voice reaches his ears and it isn't exactly symphonic, but in that moment, he doesn't care.
***
“What the fuck was that? What the fuck was that?”
The briefing room is anything but brief. The management staff have yet to arrive and so Lewis and Fernando have – until this moment – been attempting to maintain a professional outward appearance. Only, it seems that Lewis doesn't like being smiled at. Odd for someone who spends so much of his time goading others with that maddening grin of his.
Fernando says nothing. Control is back in his hands and it's better to maintain it with silence, because it annoys Lewis more than almost anything else.
“I mean, seriously? You must've been told to go. You must've seen me behind you. So you do what, you fuck with my lap, for what? To get pole? They'll take it off you, you fucking idiot, they'll take it off you. They won't let you keep it, when you obviously fucking messed with the result. What was that even for, for Canada? For what I did to you in the hotel room? You petulant fucking kid, I can't believe – you're supposed to be older than me, you're supposed to-”
“Lewis,” Ron says, from the door. “Can we wait until everyone is here, please, and then hear from everyone.”
Lewis shuts his mouth as hard as he'd slam a door, and Ron turns around to open the door for the others. Fernando spots his moment.
“You might want to leave now and tell the FIA, because I don't think anyone here is going to.”
And it gives him an idea.
***
The momentum, once it starts to swing Fernando's way, continues on its merry way. Lewis doesn't respond well to the stress post-Hungary, whereas it's nothing that Fernando hasn't dealt with before. They have separate meetings with Ron, where Fernando makes it clear that there are measures that he can take should he feel that his promised position is under threat. If it sounds like an ultimatum, well. It only belies the seriousness of the situation. He is sure that Ron understands the lengths that he will go to to do what is necessary. And Ron – having dealt with Ayrton and Alain – should really understand that.
They row, obviously, but then people do. It's normal. It's racing. And the greats, well. They're rarely nice.
Italy and Belgium prove decisive, and Lewis seems to sink deeper into insecurity. It's only natural, Fernando thinks. It's what he meant, back in testing, about this being different to GP2. GP2 is full of mild piranhas, but F1 is a different fishpond. Only the strongest survive. And it seems that Fernando has finally found an Achilles heel that he can exploit.
The question is, how far.
***
When you push a person to their limits, you find out everything about them.
“You were right,” Lewis says. They're in the garage, waiting, in Japan. It won't stop raining. It will never stop raining. “This is different from GP2.”
“The challenge isn't always in the driving,” Fernando says. He's cool, calm. Lewis may be leading the championship, but things are starting to change.
“I didn't expect to be driving against someone like you and have this kind of situation.”
“You don't win championships by being a nice guy.”
“No,” Lewis says. “But you also don't have to be a fucking prick. Sorry, that's breaking the terms of the truce agreement, isn't it.”
“Don't let Ron hear you speaking about me this way.”
“Do you really think you're going to be here next season?”
“I'm not thinking about next season. I'm thinking about now.”
“Seriously, though?”
“Why not? When I win the championship, they would be crazy to change me for some other driver. It's all OK with them as long as one of their guys win, so as far as I'm concerned, that's me, you'll have to live with it.”
“Is this all about Canada?”
“You are obsessed with Canada.”
“Look,” Lewis says. “You may be in the habit of doing this – seducing your teammates – all that, whatever, I don't know. But I'm not. I don't even know why I did what I did. So if it's all just a game then... fucking let it be a game, but leave me alone, because I have more important things to do.”
“I haven't even tried to touch you,” Fernando says. “Not since Canada. I'm not exactly pursuing you. I'm focussed on what I'm doing. You're the one still talking about it. Obsessing.”
“I'm not obsessing!”
“And you know, you kissed me, so perhaps you need to speak to a priest about your issues and leave me out of it.”
“My issues? What about your issues?”
“I don't have issues.”
“Oh, OK, so you're just completely comfortable with what happened. Obviously.”
“Yes,” Fernando says. “Completely. It's not my problem if you're freaking out. Don't try to start things you can't finish. Again, like a child.”
“I am so going to fucking love beating you. It is going to be the best fucking pleasure of my entire life.”
“I'll take pride, then, in being part of the best fucking pleasure of your entire life. Or should I not do that? I don't want you to get you even more upset.”
***
The challenge isn't just in the driving. Any rookie can win a race if he has an iota of talent. It takes something else to win in such challenging conditions, to not make a complete arse of things. It makes Fernando's own aquaplaning incident smart a little less, once he finds out that the FIA agree with him. Lewis may have speed, and a mouth, and slightly more to him than most of the other British rookies Fernando has seen, but he has so much to learn about safety cars, about rain, about controlling a race behind you as if you're conducting music. About not causing unavoidable collisions because you're braking like a 15 year old masturbating.
He and Lewis have resumed a pact of silence which Ron seems disinclined to disrupt. He doesn't even need to pressure Ron, but can see from his expression that the threat is hanging low over his head. McLaren runs on gentlemanly conduct the way the other cars run on fuel and he knows that Ron cannot bear the thought of the scandal that will ensue. If Lewis gets disqualified from China, Fernando really thinks that this might be it for the championship. The challenge isn't just in the driving. It's in the surviving with your nerves intact.
Sadly, it's not to be.
***
12 points behind. Twelve. 2 races remaining. Two.
In his mind, in that Chinese weekend, he has no teammate. He is only himself, en route to a third championship.
Lewis has only to finish within a point of Fernando to win the championship. Fernando needs him to retire.
And what Fernando needs, sometimes, the gods provide.
***
The mood is so drawn that the team post-race briefing is split in spirit between the two sides of the garage. Nobody from Lewis' side talks to anyone on Fernando's side. Lewis is diluted, as though something in his eyes has switched off. Fernando would sympathise, were it anyone else.
When two tribes go to war, indeed.
“OK,” says Ron. “I don't want to dwell on what happened today, lest this become unproductive. I think it's clear that on tyres we got it wrong today. The rest... we all know about. Some serious bad luck today. We need to re-group now and focus on Brazil. It's still the team's to lose. And I know that nobody here wants that. So let's keep the focus.”
“It wasn't bad luck,” Lewis says. “I fucked it up. I-”
“Lewis, I don't think this is the appropriate moment,” Ron says.
“The tyres were shot but I should've made the corner, I shouldn't have – it shouldn't have ended like that. It's just – I threw it away. I had it and I threw it away.”
“We have to move forward. It's still all to play for.”
If it's a psychological blow, it's a good one. Fernando is all for airing the laundry in public, but he separates his colours first. Nobody sees the red items except him. And yet the more Lewis talks, the more clothes he's dropping on the ground for everyone to see. If it's a game, it's clever. If it isn't, it's suicidal.
The challenge isn't just in the driving.
***
They go their separate ways, but the paddock is smaller than either of them would like. Waiting for their cars to pick them up, they stand in the damp air and reflect on a hard day's loss. Lewis is quiet, having apparently exhausted himself in the briefing. Fernando is surprised to find him lacking a need for reassurance. No part of him is seeking answers, like a child. Having flagellated himself, he knows that no comfort is coming.
“It-” Fernando says.
“If you're going to fucking dare, fucking dare tell me that it gets easier, you can go and choke on it, because I don't care about your lessons, I don't care about your wisdom, this is my life, this is my career, and you don't impress everyone you come across, you're not this fucking wise owl that everyone needs advice from, so just go back to shutting up and we'll all be a lot happier.”
“Do you wish you hadn't kissed me?”
Having finished his diatribe with something of a flourish, Lewis does not seem keen to admit confusion, but the oddness of the question is itching at his skin. He turns back, looking thoroughly suspicious. “What?”
“You heard.”
“What – how is that relevant?”
“You don't want my advice. I'm changing the subject.”
“I told you to shut up.”
“Yes. So I say to you: OK, I'm not an owl that everyone listens to. And you are not a dog that everyone is scared of. I am not going to shut up because you say so. So I am saying, do you wish you had not kissed me?”
“You accused me of not caring about the sport once and now I'm thinking: if you can care about that right now, then maybe you don't care.”
“I accused you of not feeling nerves, not of not caring. And I am asking without the psyche bullshit. This is a straightforward question.”
“Why? Do you wish you hadn't kissed me?”
Fernando laughs. “You never answer directly.”
“Depends on the question.”
The sun is falling out of the sky and its light dances a drunken polka on the hills beyond. The air is clammy with fading promise, with fear swallowed down. In the distance, birds sing a song that has absolutely nothing to do with cars and Fernando, not for the first time, envies them. The clouds move by and cast the two of them alternately in shadow and in light and Lewis' eyes are so honest, so new and so unguarded that it isn't surprising that they're discussing something so raw.
“I regret kissing you,” Lewis says. “I regret leaving your room. I would've regretted not kissing you. I regret a lot. It doesn't matter. There's only one thing that matters to me and it has nothing to do with you. I wish you'd realise that. It really isn't about you.”
“Don't ever show your hand like that in a briefing,” Fernando says, as Lewis turns to leave.
“No,” Lewis says. “I'm not taking your advice. Shove it up your arse and choke on it.”
“You showed me everything.”
“I showed you nothing.”
“Like you show me now – everything.”
“Fernando,” Lewis says. The cars are approaching. Whatever moment there was, there is, is fading. “I am showing you nothing. You're playing this game by yourself. And it's sad, because you think this is part of some big strategy, when it's not. It's just me, having had a shitty fucking day, because I cost myself the biggest prize today and I'm not built to forgive myself. So use that, if you think you can. Checkmate, whatever. But it's sad, and I feel sorry for you, because I'm beating you on track and that's the only place that counts.”
“It's not, actually,” Fernando says.
“Then where? There's nowhere else.”
Fernando smiles. He does it, without blinking, until Lewis swears at him and leaves.
***
Brazil is Fernando's lucky charm. He holds it in his hand and prays on it and it usually brings him out just fine. He goes into the final race 3 points behind but cheerful, drawing on the reserves of previous years, all of the knowledge and experience that wrapped around his heart makes him so fucking formidable. Lewis is quieter still. The garage is calm against the drums of São Paulo rumbling outside.
The race is two hours of their lives, more significant than any other two hours of the entire year. The nerves sing tight in Fernando's muscles and Lewis fades, the thoughts of his big dark eyes and his trembling throat beneath Fernando's teeth. All of it fades to a pinprick and Fernando feels at home.
The race is two hours of their lives and it flashes by in a searing, bitter whirlwind of karmic energy.
Or so it seems to Fernando.
***
“To lose the title like that is horrible,” Ron says. His voice is as seal-grey as Fernando's spirit. Lewis is looking at the floor. Nobody wants to be here for this. Nobody has anything to say. They're the guys who had it in their hands and tossed it all over the floor for the dogs to grab at. Kimi has gorged himself on silver and black scraps. Fernando's reign is over.
“But I want to say that I am very proud of this team for fighting so hard all year. To lose by one point is... unspeakable, but it is also a testament to the strength of McLaren that our two drivers were joint second. Next year, we will come back even stronger. I have no doubt.”
Fernando's eyes catch Lewis and he waits for Lewis to point out that it isn't joint second, it's second and third. They each have four wins, but Lewis has five 2nd place finishes to Fernando's four. Lewis takes second. It may never be enough, but it's something, and he expects Lewis to fight for it.
But Lewis says nothing.
***
Fernando returns to his room early in the evening, tired of the atmosphere in the bar and from attempting to look congratulatory. The lift works – thank God – and the entire floor is deadly silent. His footfalls sound soothing to him. When he pushes open the door, he's looking forward to a deep cold sleep more than anything else that he can think of.
“Jesus Christ!” he exclaims. “I. How. I didn't leave behind my wallet!”
“Told reception I'd lost my key, they gave me another,” Lewis says.
“What do you want? I thought you'd be celebrating.”
“I'm not.”
“I see that. What do you want?”
“I thought I'd give the wise owl some fucking advice,” Lewis says.
“I'd tell you to get out but I realise this is hypocritical. So please honour me with your wisdom.”
“Earlier this year, you said I'm a virgin, for all my second places. No wins. You mocked it. You forgot that you can get ahead, win championships, on second places. I finished above you. You came to this team as a double world champion and my second places got me above you. So maybe, just maybe, you're not as smart as you think.”
“I mocked it then, I'll mock it now,” Fernando says.
“How can you mock me beating you this year?”
“I don't care about second. I don't care about second in qualifying, a race, a championship. It means nothing. I mocked you because you were caring so much about second and this is because you had not won. Then you did and second wasn't enough, so you understood me. Now you seem like you are embarrassed and trying to be dignified by coming to me and saying, I'm second!, and wondering why I'm not impressed. Second is nothing.”
“I don't care how I win.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I beat you.”
“Then why are you here?”
Lewis studies him, in the dim lamplight. His breath is coming thick and fast.
“Then why are you here, telling me I am beaten? Surely I should know for myself. I should be bleeding. And I am not. Because it's not a victory unless one of you is ragged and the other is standing with a foot on his chest. This is victory. What you are doing is trying to scrape your balls off the ground.”
“Fuck you. Fernando, just fuck you, I'm trying to-”
“You're not trying to connect.” Fernando says, coming closer. He can feel the heat radiating off Lewis' body. “You're not trying to salvage this, to shake my hand and say: job well done. You're trying to run away with your dignity intact and I am saying do not do this. You fought with me and we both lost. We let the other guy win. And we should be bleeding like stray dogs and let ourselves be kicked and come out next year as bigger dogs. Don't crawl to me because I will not forgive you and I will not pet your head. Let the fleas bite you hard and make you come back harder.”
“Are you saying that I have fleas?”
“I'm saying wear defeat like it's victory and feel it, really fucking feel it, and then maybe you'll know why I laughed at you. Why you're not in my league. Why I am not afraid of you. Just try to bleed and see how it feels. Have some fucking courage.”
“You sound like a self-help manual,” Lewis says. “It's really disturbing.”
“You sound like a child.”
“You sound like-”
But what Fernando sounds like, the world will never find out, because the word is lost in a kiss and Fernando wraps his tongue around whatever it is he sounds like, defining it and redefining it and drenching it in lust. And as Lewis gasps into it, the sound tearing out to a small cry, Fernando finds his waist, finds the sensitive skin at his hips, and drags clothing from it for the carpet to wear instead.
He backs Lewis into one of the armchairs by the window, where the setting sun silhouettes him. And as they kiss, and as they pull at one another's clothing, their breath becomes a thumping one-two beat that could rival any carnival. Lewis' hands touch Fernando's face, his body tangles closer, his nerves shot through with spitting out lust. And Fernando can taste it in his mouth like victory and like blood.
Lewis falls into the chair with all the indignity that Fernando wants from him, and when he drops to his knees it's on Lewis' clothes, because nobody has time for a cushion and besides, he doesn't want Lewis getting ideas about how important this is or is not.
And though he looks at him, this wunderkind, this fucking splinter in his fucking toe with the big bright eyes and the wet red mouth, he doesn't let it in. He waits, tapping his fingernails against Lewis' thighs, following the dance of his goose-pimples.
“What?” Lewis eventually explodes. “Why aren't you – doing anything?”
Fernando licks his lips and Lewis shoves his hips forward a little, just through the power of temptation, of association, and then he drops his eyes. He's a dog begging for scraps and he knows it. Which gives Fernando an idea.
“You once told me that you'd never do something for me,” he says. “Do you remember?”
“I. What? No, I...”
Fernando lets the moment pass by like a wave on the shore.
“No. No. I am not begging.”
***
True enough, he doesn't. Which is how Fernando ends up on his knees, his body pushed forward against Lewis' sitting position, giving him just enough of an edge of hipbone against his erection to make him pay for not giving Fernando what he wants. They kiss and a gentle shove every so often makes Lewis cry out, forgetting where he is. There's no traction, because what Fernando will not touch with his mouth, he will not touch with his hand, so Lewis is left with only the option of pushing against his ribcage for friction. He won't do that any sooner than begging.
And meanwhile, with his own hands free, Fernando is able to do precisely as he pleases himself. And he does please himself.
Lewis is slow on this uptake, if on no other.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“Hm?” Fernando murmurs, through kisses.
“Your breathing is heavy, like – I can feel it and it's... fuck, are you –? Where are your hands? Do you have fourteen hands? What the fuck, Fernando?”
“It's not rocket science,” Fernando pants. “Want to lend me a hand?”
“No.”
“Want to borrow one of mine?”
“I can get off like this.”
“Mm,” Fernando says. And with a grin, he rears back on his haunches, pulling his body free of Lewis, leaving him cold and dangling and utterly furious.
Though not quite as furious as he looks when Fernando stands, holds his shoulders steady, and presses his erect cock right against his collarbone as he continues to work on it.
“If you fucking...” Lewis splutters. “If you fucking do that on me, I'm going to fucking kill you.”
“I can get off like this,” Fernando says, pleased.
“Don't you dare,” Lewis says. “I. You can't. It's – that's. You're a fucking animal.”
“It feels really good,” Fernando says.
“Oh... God, why aren't you touching me?”
“You know why.”
“What do I have to do.”
“Beg.”
“I won't.”
“Then the only come on you will be mine.”
“You – you are such. I fucking. I fucking –“
“Lewis,”
“What?”
“We both know what you want. So all you need to do is say it to me and I will suck you down my throat so far that you will let me keep it, it will feel so good. So just fucking let it go. OK? Nobody has time for this.”
“I'm a good Catholic-”
“So am I. This is the best kind of church I know.”
“Oh, fuck you, that's blas-”
“I know it is. But do you want your cock in my mouth or not?”
He does.
***
The underside of Lewis' chin is lovely, Fernando thinks. It's not something you often see, being as you need to be underneath them and they need to be tilting their head back and gasping, gasping, gasping, their hands flexing in your hair and their throat tight with all the little things they're scared to give away as their dick throbs away in your mouth.
Every mewl says to Fernando: I've never had my dick sucked like this. Every groan: you are truly the king of all things. Every grunt: I bow to you, my supreme overload of fellatio. Every cry: I will worship no other God.
And when he comes, and Fernando grabs him close by the thighs, like it's water and he's dying in the desert for just a little something for his parched throat, he holds Fernando by the hair and he shakes so hard that it rattles in Fernando's ears.
***
What happens in a suite in a hotel in São Paulo stays in São Paulo.
The thing about Fernando, Lewis thinks, is that he's relentless. It isn't just that he's driven, or that he's ambitious, or that he's tempestuous, because so many people in this world are just that. It's something else. Something he can't put his finger on. But as he's lying splayed across Fernando's back, holding his wrists prone to the mattress between the taut spread of thumb and pinky, as he's gritting sounds into the nape of Fernando's neck, he's losing the thread of his thought.
And Fernando is making sounds that could summon the dead.
“Oh God,” he's saying, “oh God, yes, yes, there – I need, yes, like this, like this, no, more of – more of that, can you, I need, can't you, Lewis, can you?”
“Don't speak Spanish,” Lewis pants. “Don't speak anything right now. What do you want? More? Harder? A fucking servant, you fucking prick? Seriously. You're getting everything you fucking need. Shut up.”
Fernando is laughing, the complete twat. “No,” he says. “Yes. Hard. Now please.”
“I am doing it hard, you – oh, for fuck's sake, what do you want, to end up in hospital?”
“Coward,” Fernando snorts.
Well.
That's not the sort of thing you take lying down.
He goes hard, goes home, until the lights are dimming in his eyes and all he is is this long beautiful stretch of muscle and the lightning in his stomach and the tickle in his bollocks and the curling fingers of pleasure that are waiting for him. And all he hears is Fernando's deep, desperate sounds. And all he feels is Fernando's fingers jumping beneath his own, clambering and climbing and taking his down with them as if they're both drowning, and perhaps they are, because it feels like neither of them can breathe and somehow it doesn't matter.
And Lewis does what he thought he'd never do, because Fernando is right: there are other places that you don't want to get beaten, and so he smacks Fernando on the hip hard enough to rouse him, to make him pick his hips up, pull himself to an arch, so that Lewis can snake his hand in and around him. And Fernando's gasp of unfurled pleasure is enough, almost, enough of a reward to make him stop thinking about what the fuck he's doing. And as he tightens his palm and slicks it, hot and wet, hard and fast and unforgiving, he hears Fernando tear himself to shreds and he feels the orgasm as if it's a part of him, beckoned on before it's really ready to be there, scrambling out and all over Lewis' hand, and Fernando with it, bucking and thrusting through it. And he thinks: this is the one place where I'm happy to come second.
And with the thought, and with the tensing of Fernando's skin beneath his and the awareness of the two of them, hot and wet together, all of his life is scrunched together, crumpled into a point of pure, white hot pleasure.
Old Testament, he thinks. Fernando is an Old Testament God, piled high with fury and jealousy and fire and brimstone and needing someone to beg mercy just so that he can refuse them.
A god so good that there's nobody else you'd need to worship.
***
“Me?” Lewis says. “McLaren again? That ship has sailed, man.”
“Never say never,” Fernando says. “I am waiting for you there...”
They both laugh, as though the water between them is cold rather than tepid, as though there isn't a moment of mutual heartbeat confined to their clasped hands and the twinkle in Fernando's eye.
“I'll give a wise owl some advice,” Lewis says, grinning. “Never return to the site of a battle you've already won. That sound suitably Samurai?”
“Depends on the battle,” Fernando says. “Isn't that where re-enactment comes in?”