Work Text:
It's Flavio's fault, really. Everything can be laid at his door. It's easy to see it now, with the benefit of hindsight—easy to follow the trajectory of a missile flung too far, too fast, too soon.
Flavio would disagree, of course. He would shake his head, eyes hidden behind mirrored shades, sweat pearling on his forehead and dampening the crinkled white hair. "No, Fernando," he would say, voice slow with heavy affection, "what I did, I did for you. Because I knew you could do it. Because it was the right time for you to do it. My special boy. You trusted me, and I made things happen. I did it for you."
Fernando is grateful. He is. Never doubt it. But he wonders—what if, what if—and the biggest 'what if' is: what if Flavio hadn't told him he was special?
Jarno is sad and patient and weary, the perfect foil to Fernando's exuberance. At times, Fernando wonders why Jarno races. It seems to cause him pain. When Fernando asks, Jarno gives him a soft look and says, "Because. Because."
It's not an answer, but perhaps Fernando didn't formulate the right question.
Jarno makes him feel safe. There's a kind of stability in their relationship, a kindred spark between them. Fernando thinks he could fall in love. Not in the same way he loves Flavio—that wouldn't be permitted, and besides, he can't imagine not loving Flavio, because Flavio has done so much for him... No, he thinks he could fall in love and heal whatever it is that still hurts Jarno. It takes him a long time to understand that when Jarno says 'no', it actually means 'you're not good enough'.
It's the first time he's experienced rejection. Fernando thinks he can make Jarno care for him, even if just a little. "I love you," he says, forcing the issue, but Jarno shakes his head and smiles that sad smile, and his passive acceptance of the situation infuriates Fernando. The anger and humiliation are too much of a distraction, but Fernando lives with them, nurses them, the feelings fusing together to create an odd kind of bitterness that torments him.
Flavio notices, and Jarno's contract is terminated.
"He had no fire," Flavio explains, his tone gentle and reassuring. "He had no drive. He was not special enough."
Fernando nods. He knows it's true. He knows Flavio has done this for him. But it still hurts.
"Another Italian," Flavio says when he announces that Giancarlo will be Fernando's new teammate. "Italians are good for you, no?"
Fernando smiles until his face goes numb. Giancarlo is Roman, elegant, sharp, clever, urbane. He is everything Flavio is not—everything Fernando is not. Giancarlo comes into the team knowing his place. He has nothing to prove and everything to gain.
For the first time, Fernando feels the touch of fear. He doesn't know why.
Fernando joins McLaren because it's time he had some degree of separation from Flavio. He needs to know if anyone else can see and appreciate the genius within him. He chooses McLaren because they have the reputation for favouring one teammate over the other. He's not interested in a democratic set-up; he wants preferential treatment. And he, a double world champion for Flavio, deserves to be given the best.
Instead, he's given the same as Lewis. Oh, his crew will jump if he snaps his fingers and demands something, but in terms of the structural integrity of the team, Fernando knows he's not number one. He has all the face he could have wished for, but he has nothing more than that, nothing deeper. Where Flavio trusted him, Ron merely tolerates him.
Lewis is the special one, the little boy with stars in his eyes who grew up under the tutelage of a benevolent McLaren, a doting Uncle Ron. Lewis is greedy and grasping in private, but in public he's all sweetness and light. Fernando struggles to strike the same balance. He gives up on it. Let the people see that he has only one facet to his character. He's not two-faced, like Lewis. Fernando is proud of this. He thinks Ron should be proud of him, too.
Ron is distant, hard to please. Fernando knows how to reach out. Flavio taught him how to overcome such barriers, taught him how to delight even the most jaded soul. Fernando seduces Ron with his aggression, such a contrast to Lewis' boring passivity. But Fernando gets no reward for his efforts.
"Good," Ron always says without fail, patting him as they lie in tangled sheets or on hastily-cleared desktops. "That was nice."
Eventually it's too much for him to bear, and Fernando asks, "Why do you favour Lewis?"
Ron looks bemused. "Because he's special."
From that point on, Fernando hates Lewis and he hates McLaren.
When Flavio marries Elisabetta, Fernando is guest of honour. He drives the wedding car and tries to ignore the sounds of possession from the back seat. He thinks how crass it is for Flavio to insist on something as meaningless as a blowjob from his new bride. Elisabetta is the latest in a long line of interchangeable beautiful women. Flavio will tire of her sooner rather than later.
Fernando knows he's special. Flavio always comes back to him. Fernando numbers all the times Flavio has praised him, told him how unique he is, how talented, how worthy of admiration.
He pulls up at a set of traffic lights, still wrapped in the glow of memory. The sharp tap of fingers against the glass divider behind him jolts him from his thoughts. Fernando turns his head. Flavio's voice issues through the slight gap in the panel. "Drive on."
Fernando frowns, looks up at the red light.
Flavio raps on the panel, almost rattling it. "Drive on!"
The command must be obeyed. Fernando puts his foot down. The car bucks, its tail stepping out with the force of the acceleration. The stink of burning rubber is left in their wake, along with a cacophony of blaring horns.
Through the glass divider, he can hear them laughing—Elisabetta high and breathless, Flavio scratchy and dirty.
Moisture films Fernando's eyes. He blinks it away, then brakes hard as he corners—hard enough to slew the car around, hard enough to make his passengers tumble and fall. He ignores the rapping on the panel behind his head.
He's a racing driver, not a fucking chauffeur.
Nelson adores him. Fernando sees it immediately in the way Nelson approaches him, head lowered like a submissive, eyes wide, gaze hungry. Piquet Senior is less impressed, watchful, angry; but the elder Piquet cares only for money and pride, and is willing to sacrifice his pretty young son for the chance to build on the family name.
Fernando is amused by the way Nelson follows him around. "I want to learn from the best," Nelson tells him, so earnest, so enthusiastic.
"And your father, is he not the best?" Fernando asks, teasing.
Nelson takes the question seriously. He pales, his happiness shrinking, and his gaze slides away for a moment before the sunshine returns to his expression. "He is the best, of course he's the best," Nelson says. "But you could be better than him."
"Better?" An edge creeps into Fernando's voice before he can stop it. "He has three titles, I have only two—is that what you mean?"
"No, no. It's not—I didn't mean..." Nelson looks appalled. He holds out his hands, palm upwards, a gesture of good faith. "I meant you could be better than him for me. That's all. For me."
But the damage is done. Just one tiny slip, one little splinter, and it's enough to turn Fernando's mild amusement into irritated contempt. He smiles to show Nelson there's no hard feelings, and Nelson blossoms beneath the attention, relaxing, trusting. Fernando is surprised by how gentle Nelson is, how naive—until he realises it's desperation disguised as amenability.
It would be so easy to take Nelson to bed. Too easy. Fernando rejects the idea before it's fully formed. He doesn't reconsider, not even when Nelson, flirting, smiling, takes off the team shirt to reveal a body of unsurpassed beauty.
Fernando ignores Nelson, making the rejection at a professional as well as a private level. He knows Flavio will take Nelson apart, piece by piece. It's not a game he wants to witness. Fernando fixes his sights elsewhere.
Ferrari comes knocking, and Fernando answers the call. He's expected them for a while, ever since Spygate, but they've made him wait. He can respect that, but at the same time, they must respect him. He's not cheap; he won't roll over and spread his legs just because it's Ferrari. He needs to make that clear.
They're amused when he mentions Spygate. They tell him they were flattered. Imitation is the best form of flattery, they say with wry chuckles; to their way of thinking, the technical specs McLaren illegally received from the development of the F2007 made the McLaren a second-rate Ferrari. It amused them that he was driving a second-rate Ferrari. How would he like to drive the real thing?
It depends, Fernando says, cautious.
"What do you want?" Ferrari asks, and he tells them. They're a one-man team, they've been that way ever since Michael, and he wants it. He wants the guarantee McLaren never gave him. He wants it written in blood, Ferrari red, that Felipe will be sidelined and silenced.
Ferrari smile. They say nothing. Fernando thinks this is because they don't need to say anything. He thinks they have a deal.
He signs the contract. He feels special again.
Felipe is an annoyance he could do without. Fernando hates his teammate, the precious little Ferrari princess, mollycoddled by everyone even before the accident. Felipe grew up in this team, almost won a championship for this team, and when Fernando sees how the crew and engineers treat Felipe, he feels like an outsider, and the jealousy scalds him.
It motivates him, too, and he wants to prove himself. Look at me, he says through his driving. Aren't I better? Aren't I more worthy?
But unbalancing Felipe isn't enough. Not when Fernando looks around the paddock and sees Robert eyeing up the possibility of a Ferrari seat in the future. He doesn't want Robert as a teammate. Robert is dangerous and unforgiving. Perhaps it's better that he keeps Felipe. Everyone knows this generation of Brazilians make good number two drivers, passive and non-threatening.
The only way Fernando will feel safe is if he wins. Not just a race—any fool can win a race, just look at that grinning German child and the lanky Australian halfwit—but a championship. Fernando needs to win a championship with the same kind of fervour that sends worshippers across the world to crawl on their hands and knees to sacred shrines. He needs it; Flavio tells him he needs it, tells him he deserves it, and Fernando believes. Ferrari can give it to him. The tifosi love him. They love him more than they loved Michael. He's Latin. He has heart. He deserves this. Nothing else matters. No one else matters. He has to win.
In Valencia, Lewis overtakes the safety car. One single action, one little mistake—except it's not a mistake, it's deliberate, Lewis did it to harm him, Fernando knows this for certain. The stewards take too long to punish Lewis. Fernando's third place becomes eighth. From the podium he slips into obscurity, an also-ran with a handful of points.
He tries to tell himself it was only third. But only third could have been only second, which could have been first. A win. And he needs that win, needs it like a drug, needs it like oxygen.
The more he thinks about it, the more he panics and the more he loses control and the more he convinces himself. This was his win. Forget Vettel and Button and Kobayashi. It was his win, and Lewis stole it from him.
Fernando can't bear it any longer. He gets out of the car and lets the bitterness spew forth, so much rage over something that should be a minor annoyance.
Ferrari listen to him. Ferrari understand.
Everyone else mocks him.
"Mate!"
Fernando turns to see Jenson hailing him. Fernando has never been Jenson's mate. Never been anyone's mate, really. The casual ease with which drivers like Jenson and Mark throw the word around annoys Fernando, but he slows his pace without breaking his stride and waits to see what Jenson has to say.
"Mate." Jenson puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes it. "What the fuck is going on between you and Lewis? It's got to stop."
Fernando rears back, throws off Jenson's friendly touch. "It's none of your business. Besides, you should ask him, not me. He's your 'mate'."
Jenson's gaze narrows. "He's my teammate, yeah. But you're the one I'm worried about."
"Worried?" That stops Fernando, stops him dead in his tracks. He can't remember the last time someone—a driver, that is—said they were worried about him. It's a strange feeling; not unpleasant, just strange. He blinks. "Why are you worried about me?"
"Because you're the guy everyone thinks is off his rocker." Jenson retreats slightly and tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. He studies Fernando, gaze stripping away the layers, then he shrugs. "Look, Lewis is a good guy. He can be a bit of a knob at times, a bit precious—but that's how it is, yeah? God knows I was just as much of an arsehole in the past. But you and me, we should be bigger than that."
Fernando stiffens. "We are nothing alike, you and I."
Jenson raises his eyebrows, but his tone remains mild. "Both graduates of the Flav School of Charm."
"You don't know him."
"Actually, I do." A hesitation, an exhalation, and Jenson lifts a hand in farewell. "Just take it easy, yeah?" He starts to walk away.
Before he gets too far, Fernando calls him back. "How do you do it? How can you stand it?"
Jenson doesn't ask what he means. Fernando realises the question must be written all over his face.
"They tell us winning's all that matters. But the victory depends on the fights you pick." Jenson pauses to take off his sunglasses. His eyes are very blue when he looks at Fernando.
"When I was nine, I overheard my dad telling his friend he didn't think I had it. He didn't sound angry or disappointed—just resigned. He'd done his best, the rest was up to me, and I wasn't good enough. But he wasn't going to tell me that to my face. He didn't know I'd heard that conversation, but I carried it with me every day. I heard him say those words over and over. And the more I heard them, the more I wanted to prove him wrong. I admit it—I got to F1 and I screwed around, fucked up more times than I can count—but then I remembered Dad saying those words. Took me longer than I wanted, but I got there. I did it. I proved I had it."
Fernando considers what Jenson is telling him. "You wanted to prove your father wrong. That is a nice story, but it means nothing to me."
"No, mate." Jenson lays a hand on Fernando's shoulder again. "The point isn't that I proved my dad wrong. The point is I proved it to myself. I've won, and nothing can take that away. It makes me special forever, and I've got nothing left to prove. I don't actually need to win again. Sure, it'd be nice to win again... but proving a point twice over is a bit of a wasted exercise."
The words are a tangle. Fernando tries to make sense of the meanings behind them. "And Lewis?"
Jenson gives him an almost pitying look. "He doesn't have anything to prove, either. Not anymore. It was never about you at McLaren. It's never been about you for Lewis. Think about it, yeah?"
Fernando thinks, a frown drawing his brows together into a deep furrow. "But I still have so much to prove."
"Thought so." Jenson pats him on the back. "Good luck with that."
Flavio is waiting in the paddock. His face lights up when he sees Fernando; his arms open wide for an embrace. "My boy," Flavio murmurs, holding him close. "My special boy."
Fernando says nothing. He leans into the hug, passive, needing it.
"It's a disgrace, this business with Lewis." Flavio holds Fernando away to gaze at him, hands on his shoulders. "If I were still in control here, things would be different. You know that."
"Yes," says Fernando. "Things would be different."
"Lewis is nothing." Flavio scowls, shows his teeth, an aging lion too indolent to do anything more threatening. "Nothing, I tell you."
Fernando nods, shrugs, one action cancelling out the other. "Maybe he has nothing to prove."
Flavio gives him a puzzled look, then laughs, claps Fernando on the back. "But you, my boy—you have more to prove!"
"Yes," says Fernando, his heart heavy. "I do."