Chapter Text
1992
“Is he alive?” - is the first thing Nigel asks as soon as he picks up the phone.
There’s a knock on the other side of the line. Yes . Thank fuck.
“Is he ok?”
This time there are two knocks - no . Which...fair enough because the crash had looked horrible, Nelson’s car pummeling nose first into the concrete barrier.
“Right.” - Nigel says, slowly - “But he will live, yes?”
One knock. Yes. Good. Nigel breathes.
“Are you staying in Brazil?”
There’s a moment of silence, a strangled beat in which Nigel can almost feel Elio tearing himself up with his hesitation.
“Don’t be silly.” - he says before he can think better of it. Nelson just almost died and, as much as Nigel is not the Brazilian's biggest fan, he has been in this business long enough to know when not to be selfish. - “I am fine. I’ll see you in a month at Le Mans, yes?”
There’s a sigh across the phone line, a soft, deep sound that needs no words for Nigel to understand. He knows he is not fooling Elio, his Elio, the only person Nigel has confided in, away from the prying eyes of Williams.
“I’ll be fine.” - Nigel says, trying his best to convey that he means it because it is true, even if just by sheer force of determination - “I love you and I’ll see you soon.”
He lets the phone drop back in its cradle before the inevitable lack of answer can cut into either of them.
*
The message is written in the unfamiliar hand of a Monegasque florist.
Ottmarsheim
A36 Junction
23rd June - lunch time
E
Attached to it is a bouquet of fresh daffodils, bright and yellow. Nigel can’t remember ever telling Elio they are his favourite flowers but they are, light and bright and unassuming. Not as heavy as roses or crysanthemus...just, easy. Plain old daffodils like the ones that grow every spring in the English countryside. A little piece of home. It's such an Elio thing to do - Nigel muses - to tuck away in his heart a small detail he must have heard once when he instead routinely forgets the important things...like his wallet or passport or his helmet. Nigel can feel himself smile like an idiot as he sets the daffodils out in his driver’s room.
He’s got a date.
*
Elio picks him up at the border. The Italian is a sight for sore eyes, with his cheeks red from the heat and his hair sticking up every which way. Nigel does try not to ruin both their lives by kissing him then and there, by the side of the road. Elio has no such qualms.
He came up with the Cinquecento, the tiny, old, bright yellow car bringing a smile to Nigel’s lips. Out of all the amazing cars they own and have driven, this one holds a special place in both their hearts ever since they spent their first summer as teammates trying to patch it up after Elio adopted it out of rusting away by the corner of a field in Monza.
Nigel knows he will absolutely regret it tonight but right now he is all too happy to ditch his fancy Renault, courtesy of Williams, in favour of folding himself like an accordion in the cramped passenger seat.
"Have you got your passport and birth certificate?" - Elio asks as he shuts his own door and settles behind the wheel.
Nigel nods. "Are you going to tell me where we are going?”
Elio smiles and starts the engine.
*
If Nigel had to make a guess - which he has to since Elio’s list of useful things for a road trip somehow doesn’t include a map - they are going in the general direction of Hamburg. Elio has stubbornly insisted he is going to drive the whole way, pointing eloquently to Nigel's foot in its carbon fiber cast, but after six hours he needs the rest.
Hanover is a lovely town and they book themselves into a cosy hotel right by the riverfront, in separate rooms that are only for show. Being in the car for so long has made Nigel restless, the deep ache that has shadowed him since the beginning of the season simmering back up. He piles in with Elio under the hot spray of the shower, pushing him up against the wall, letting Elio hold them both upright. He’s got hair falling into his eyes, Elio, looking deliciously messy with lather and water all over him and just the hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his chin. Nigel closes his eyes and tries to let the warmth of the water and the feel of Elio’s hands roaming his skin strip the ache away.
*
It's still relatively early when they finally get out and Elio proposes they go get dinner somewhere. It's pleasant outside, cooler than the stifling heat of the South of France, and Nigel can appreciate that. He ends up taking off his cardigan which inevitably leads to Elio stealing it because he is cold.
"What do you feel like?" - Elio asks, the sleeves of the cardigan half covering his hands.
"Are you going to complain if I choose pub food?"
Elio wrinkles his nose. Of course.
They find a small Italian restaurant tucked away from the main street.
Nigel orders for both of them, in Italian, which sends both Elio and the owner (an avid Ferrari fan it turns out) into delighted fits of giggles.
"Your English wasn't any better" - Nigel grumbles, mock-offended, hiding a grumpy smile beneath his moustache. It earns him another round of laughs.
*
They walk back with the dark. There are strings of lights dangling from the trees on the river side, the golden glow dancing on the water. The wind has picked up but the two glasses of red wine he had at dinner are keeping Nigel warm while Elio tucks himself against his side, shivering. Nigel dares to slip an arm around his shoulders, pulls him closer.
Distance does make the heart grow fonder, Nigel thinks. The thought of Elio is what keeps Nigel going in the long months when their schedules don't match, the space in between giving them the freedom to pursue their dreams, to meet again with their lives richer and their hands full of gifts. Yet this distance, this non-existent distance, Nigel prefers.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
Nigel sighs. No.
Mostly because the answer is everything, everything that’s not this and that's a stupid answer. One would think he was broke and dying in a ditch or something, not leading the Championship even with a broken foot. It's also an unfair one to give Elio, brave, sweet, determined Elio, of all people. How can Nigel explain that they are all miserable? That Ayrton is in an explosive mood from hell, mercurial and unhinged, in perennial fight with himself and a car that lets him down? That Gerhard is making himself sick pining after him, fading more and more away with each passing day? That Alain is some sort of spectre? That his absence is haunting the whole F1 circus just as much as the mad hitch of unfinished business pushes him back, unrelenting, not allowing him respite nor escape?
How can Nigel explain that between him and them it somehow got all jumbled up together and now Nigel can’t stop his mind from spinning wildly off track when he least wants it to? How can he tell Elio just how many times his mind has replayed his accident, how the pain of the bones chafing in his foot overlaps with thoughts of Nelson’s accident? How can he explain that he can’t stop thinking about failure, about worth, about the contract that won’t be renewed, about what awaits him afterwards?
"Do you want me to talk about something else?" - Elio signs, his dark eyes kind.
Please , Nigel nods. "Tell me about Le Mans."
Elio does. Le Mans had been spectacular. Elio’s fifth win, under torrential rain, with a commanding lead of 5 seconds after an accident in qualifying had put his team at the back of the grid. Nigel had cursed himself for not being there, Williams insisting he stays in Canada to prepare for the Grand Prix.
"I was thinking” - Elio signs, his tale coming to a close - “ this was probably my last Le Mans."
Nigel stops.
“What?” - he says.
Elio stops too, signs it more slowly: “My last Le Mans.”
“I got that. But Elio, why?”
Elio sighs, tilting his face up so Nigel can fully see him under the pearls of light.
“I got offered a concert deal” - he signs - “In the States.”
"A concert deal." - Nigel repeats, slowly - "Not racing?"
Elio shakes his head.
Oh.
"I was thinking" - Elio continues, once he is sure the thought has sunk in - "you could come with me."
"To the States?"
Elio shrugs, smiling cheekily like he hasn't just offered Nigel to move halfway across the world with him.
"I am told oval racing can be fun. Once you have won the Championship, that is."
*
They leave early in the morning. Elio looks like he forgot to pack a comb - which knowing him might indeed be the case - and has decided Nigel’s cardigan now belongs to him full time. He has admitted they are going further North, somewhere in Denmark so they pour over the map Nigel helpfully acquired before they get going - which, in the cramped space of the car, inevitably ends with Nigel’s elbow in Elio’s ribs and Elio’s knee on Nigel’s… they probably should have done this in the hotel.
He is in a good mood, Elio, carefree and excited. There has always been something of a child in him, underneath the polite manners and the heavy tar of disappointment that sometimes clings to him. It’s fully out now, as he rummages through the back with only a shin on the steering wheel.
“Please, not the orchestra again. I beg you. It was torture.”
Elio drops the box of cassette tapes on Nigel's lap with a pout.
They settle on a Beatles mixed tape after a cassette labelled “mine” turned out to be Nelson’s (Nigel has no clue what a menina is but the guy needs to stop screaming about it), The Best of Beethoven was thrown into the trunk and a compilation of Liscio Romagnolo was met by Elio threatening to swerve into the guard rail.
With Hey Jude in his ears and the green german landscape rushing by, Nigel settles in. He is still aching a bit - he thinks - deep down. Maybe it won’t go away really, not until some time after the season is over.
The championship is firmly in his grasp - this opportunity is as rare as gold dust and he really shouldn’t be complaining, shouldn’t be looking at a gifted horse in the mouth. And he isn’t, God, he isn’t...but he has put so much into this season, so much effort and pain and time and blood, sweat and tears, literally , that it doesn’t feel like a gift. Senna is not trailing more than 30 points behind just because the car is good. That’s why it smarts so much, why the ache sometimes chokes him up. He is not a bad driver, this isn’t just luck - is it not enough that he is winning every race even when he ends every after podium screaming into his balaclava as they try to get his boot off? Has he not done enough to deserve a chance next year too?
He sighs. The Cinquecento is in 4th, the highest it can go. There’s something soothing in the smooth vibrations of the engine, Elio's foot flat on the floor, and Nigel lets his head fall against the cool glass of the window.
Win the Championship and take it from there - he tells himself, pulling his good leg up and folding it against the dash so he can snuggle further down into the seat. Would Indy be such a bad prospect?
Elio has been quiet, his focus on the road, but he seems to notice Nigel has reached some sort of decision because he smiles again now, his right hand coming off the wheel to rest on Nigel's thigh.
*
Elio’s good mood carries them through the rest of the day. He chats about his father, how he has been allowed to paint on the walls of the house in Ostia while they renovate it. He spent three weeks in Brazil, looking after Nelson. Alain is there now which means Elio will go back once the French leaves to run damage control.
“That bad?”
“Bad.” - Elio signs with a sigh - “Nels is...not in a good place right now. I think Alain helps but that man...I don’t understand: how is it this hard to know if you are in love?”
“I honestly wouldn’t know.” Elio rolls his eyes and hits him on a shoulder.
The truth is - Nigel thinks as he pushes against his seatbelt to press a placating kiss to Elio’s cheek - he agrees. Maybe it’s them, maybe they are the weird ones but Nigel took one good, hard look at what Alain and Senna (and Gerhard and Piquet) have going on and decided it was a hard pass for him. Friendship comes before love. Passion is rooted in affection. Nigel has found that the appeal of adrenaline sex and relationships as stable as the British weather is lost on him. The aggression bleeds out of him outside the track. Elio is his friend before he is his lover, his safe haven before he is the object of his carnal desires. Maybe one of the reasons they fit so nicely between them - he thinks - is that they have always been comfortable in each other's silence, even before, comfortable in each other’s presence. It’s them against the world. It has always been, all the way back to when Peter Warr at Lotus thought he knew better.
*
Copenhagen turns out to be their final destination. The city is brighter than Nigel had expected. The Cinquecento looks right at home next to the neat rows of brush stroke houses, all lined up in their coats of reds and yellows and greens along the waterfront. They choose the river once more, a Bed and Breakfast in a tall green house at the corner of a lovely cobblestone square. They share a bedroom this time, two double beds in it and a window nestled between them. They are too tired to do much, honestly, and Nigel orders them food from the restaurant next door which Elio insists they can’t eat while lying on the bed.
“Why Copenhagen?” - Nigel asks between a forkful of Frikadeller and the next.
“I wanted to take a roadtrip.” Elio signs, fumbling with his sandwich. He needs at least one free hand to sign and keeping the ham in the bread is a struggle.
“To Copenhagen?”
“Yes.” - Elio nods. Then he puts his sandwich down so he has a free hand to reach out and tangle Nigel’s fingers with his own - “I promise you’ll find out tomorrow.”
*
Nigel wakes up to cold. He shivers, turning around with a groan - there's no way Elio has managed to steal both duvets. The bed next to him is empty.
The cold - Nigel realizes as his brain frantically kicks in all at once - comes from the open window. Elio is there, sitting on the ledge with his feet dangling off and a cigarette in his fingers. The night sky outside is clear, dark enough to hide Elio from the eyes of the street down below but not enough that Nigel can’t follow the play of shadows on Elio’s silhouette, his bed head, his profile, the tilt of his head upward, towards the stars. And then lower, to the tense set of his shoulders, the lines of his torso hidden by the t-shirt he wore to bed, the elegant way his fingers hold the cigarette, a bad habit Nigel has never quite convinced him to give up. A little imperfection. It’s striking, Nigel thinks, just how deeply the realization that you are in love can shake you, even after living with that person through a million moments and joys and pains and words that all expressed it. He is so beautiful, Elio. His Elio.
"Come back to bed"
Elio startles. He whips around, the cigarette almost dropping to the floor, looking at Nigel like he has been caught committing a crime. Nigel would laugh but there's something that makes his breath catch in his throat instead, something that has to do with the cornered, fragile look shining in Elio's wide eyes.
Nigel sits up on the bed, awake, reaching a hand out, immediately, beckoning him over to safety. And Elio comes. He puts the cigarette out on the windowsill, flicking the butt out into the night as he shuts the stars out, plunging them back into darkness. His skin is frozen as he drops on the bed and Nigel is quick to draw the covers over them both, cocoons them in warmth. They huddle close together, Nigel pressing Elio into him, tangling their bodies together as his fingers slip underneath Elio's t-shirt, rubbing trails of heat into shivering muscles.
I am here. Tell me what's wrong.
He feels the answer in the caress of Elio's cold hands, down along the line of his neck, along the slope of his shoulder, the dip of his waist. There are words being spelled into his skin, the dark thoughts Elio's mind spins in its lonely moments. They had been silent even before he lost his voice: a smile that never reached his eyes, a show of confidence that barely covered the cracks, a defeated tilt of his head underneath his helmet. Elio speaks them now, his fingers erasing the space between them. He speaks of love and loss and fear, he speaks of bittersweet and fickle victories. He mourns the pieces of soul that have been ripped away from him, from them. Of the parts of themselves they willingly sacrificed in the pursuit of their dreams, a bit less of themselves left every time.
Nigel - he spells in the skin above his heart and Nigel feels it echo, deep in his soul, the prayer burned into his skin. - "Am I enough? Am I enough for forever? Are you going to forget me?"
"I promise I'll never forget you" - Nigel whispers, bowing his head into Elio's, the ache of a memory coming back to his mind- "I promise you are enough. I promise I am enough."
"You are" - Elio's fingers answer into his skin. The only answer they know. The only one they will accept.
You are.
*
Nigel wakes up with the sun. He groans, shifting over. The bed is empty. It’s a different kind of empty though. It’s the empty that can save Elio’s life because the Italian apparently got up early enough to unpack and the first thing Nigel does getting out of bed is put his foot on a stray sock and almost brain himself against the bedside table.
He stands under the shower, washing away the ashes of last night’s heavy thoughts, his mind spinning fresher, lighter ones as he contemplates the necessity of buying new socks. It’s such a silly thing, as endearing as it’s annoying, but Nigel knows, with absolute certainty, that he will have to before the end of their stay because Elio will lose all of his own, magically acquire Nigel’s and somehow lose those too. After 12 years, Nigel should know.
He gets ready in the bedroom, unpacking his own things as he goes. He is craving coffee, desperately. And something sweet maybe. Could he get away with ordering a cappuccino from somewhere even if it is after midday? He is looking around for his watch - he has successfully argued for cappuccino after 11.30 in the past - when he finally sees the velvet box on his nightstand.
*
Elio has found a piano. It is tucked away in a corner of the landlady’s sitting room, pressed up against the wall. It has probably seen better days but Elio’s touch is magic, the ivory yielding docile under his fingers, the melody coming out as round and rich as always. Nigel grabs his toast and his coffee and goes to sit next to him on the stool.
Elio's music is a treat, a gift, and Nigel will never pretend he understands but when he is close enough he can feel it, he can feel the tales and emotions Elio spins in it, feel it vibrate with the same kind elegance and determination he used to fly an F1 car around a blind corner. So he sits there quietly, listening, eating his breakfast and trying not to get crumbs all over the piano.
“Yes” - he says eventually, around a mouthful of bread, butter and strawberry jam.
The music stops.
“Yes?” - Elio signs.
“Yes." - Nigel smiles, setting his food on the floor - "I mean...I thought I was meant to ask you. I haven’t quite won the Championship yet.”
Elio shrugs but the sweet, happy grin blooming on his face betrays him. “You will. I know you will. But you don’t have to." - he signs, serious - "I thought about it and I just...I want us to have this."
He hesitates “We can wait though. If you want a bigger ceremony. Or if you want me to get down on one knee and…”
“Elio” - Nigel shushes him - “Is this what had you in knots yesterday night? You do know I would have married you in ‘82 if that had been legal. Here, now, us. It’s perfect. Although… - he adds with a grin - “I am not going to stop you from getting down on your knees…”
Elio shoves him off the piano stool.
*
They get married on the 27th of June 1992, in front of a Judge of Peace, a janitor and a lovely lady whose son is fighting a water damage case against his landlord in the courtroom across from theirs.
The judge reads their vows for them, plain and true:
“Do you take the here present to be your wedded husband, to live together in marriage? Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him for better or worse for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to him, for as long as you both shall live?”
“I promise” - Nigel says.
“I promise” - Elio signs.
And then they are kissing - Elio’s hands fisted in Nigel's shirt, Nigel’s hands cupping Elio’s face.
*
When, a month later, Nigel raises the first place trophy at his home Grand Prix for his 28th victory, the British drivers with most victories in history, he does it with a golden band around the ring finger of his left hand. How long will it take peiple to notice, he wonders as the crowd goes wild, the matching one on fingers that are now busy composing music on a New York stage? Maybe, Nigel thinks as he looks at the world through the spray of the champagne, he could get Elio to crash just one more podium ceremony...