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It doesn't feel like nearly two years since they last saw each other. Some days he simply can't believe it can be that long, not when the memories of their last night together still burn so brightly, the remembered light of the Brazilian sun slicing between hotel room curtains outshining his dreary reality, and making it seem like it was only days ago that they said their last goodbye. It still hurts like it's only been days, still a heavy weight in his stomach, and a twist to his insides whenever he's reminded of a stolen moment or some little mundane thing, hears a similar accent or spots a crop of unruly dark curls, and he wonders how it can possibly be as long as it’s been when it still affects him like this. Other times though it feels like so much longer; decades, lifetimes even, the space between them a yawning chasm that he's no chance of crossing, not anymore. F1 has all but forgotten them already, and too much has happened to them both, leaving them too far apart. Or rather, too much has happened to Bruno, so much of which Vitaly has watched while he's been sitting here stagnating, finding himself stuck in the same old back-of-the-grid rut whilst Bruno's been out there shining like he's always deserved at last - racing, commentating, climbing podiums, presenting, travelling; never stopping, never looking back.
Vitaly can't seem to do anything but look back.
It probably isn't good for him to spend so much time scrolling through his Instagram and Twitter, tuning in to every show, watching every video, reading every article, (and that's probably one of the reasons why it does still hurt like it was all just last week,) but it's the one link he's got left - not since their occasional texts faded out to nothing, too long ago to send a message out of the blue now, least of all the ones he spends his nights in beige hotel rooms and unfamiliar motorhomes composing and deleting on his phone; everything from the melodramatic I do not know how to say how much I miss yous to the pathetically banal How are yous?, all of them inadequate, and every night ends with him closing his phone and trying to ignore how empty his bed feels for long enough to get some sleep.
*
His Twitter feed has been full of Formula E announcements these past weeks, a mixture of names he barely recognises alongside familiar faces, all standing next to new team bosses, all in shiny new racesuits, and all smiling with such optimism at the assembled cameras.
He'd been expecting to find Bruno's photo amongst them somewhere, but it still catches him off guard, the sheer brightness of that grin, breath catching in his chest as he can't help but mirror the expression with his own awkward smile, and for a moment it's like being in the room with him again, in a garage, a press conference, standing at a hotel room door being greeted with such a delighted expression that Vitaly had realised on the spot that he could never deny Bruno anything he could ever ask...
Except he's not in the room with him again, he hasn't been in two years, hasn't kissed him, held his hand, woken up next to him, made him smile like that, or even said hello in all that time, instead he's spent it just staring at his screen, watching from afar and replaying treasured memories like favourite mixtapes over and over again, wishing it could be even slightly enough to fill the hole in his life that Bruno left behind, and just make it stop hurting, just for a while.
It never did. It never got any better. If it had he wouldn’t be choking back what he refuses to admit are sobs as phantom pressure crushes his ribs in and makes him struggle to breathe properly, just from looking at one goddamn photograph, and suddenly it’s all too much. He can’t do this anymore. He's got to stop doing this to himself. There's only so much he can take, and this, this isn't helping. It's never helped. He doesn't want to let go, but really, what is he even holding onto these days? They never had much even when they had something, but this isn't anything at all, not even a "they" anymore - it’s just him, feeling like his life is on pause, waiting for someone who’s never coming back. Because Bruno's doing just fine without him, more than fine, looking so damn delighted with everything and ready to take on whatever's coming his way.
This has to stop.
Twitter, Instagram, all those things are unfollowed with almost no effort, and the folders of photos on his laptop and phone are wiped before he can think too hard about it, riding on a wave of determination and willpower that he hasn’t felt the like of in months, but half an hour later and he still can't press delete on the phone number, no matter how many times he reminds himself of how long it's been since he actually used it, staring at the name on his screen.
And then he does, because really it's the smallest of actions, just a flick of him thumb and it's gone.
As it explodes into pieces he realises just how violently he's just thrown his phone down the stairs. Not that he cares - it was useless even before it was in pieces as far as he's concerned, not now he can't even use it to contact the one person who matters.
Mattered. He's not the only one who hasn't even sent a text in two years.
He’s cut the last tie, and it feels like there’s a recoil from it having been pulled so taut for so long, a surge of directionless anger than makes him want to send his laptop down to follow the remnants of his phone. Instead he barely refrains from punching a wall, and collapses onto his mattress to dig his fingernails into his pillow so tightly that he’s at risk of tearing holes through the fabric, and not cry, definitely not cry, he’s not going to cry, not again, because really, nothing’s changed...
*
By the time he falls asleep that night, having composed in his head perfect versions of all the messages he never sent, it's long after dawn, and if he was hoping to make himself feel better then so far at least he's failed miserably.
But they say it has to get worse before it gets better, and he knows he had to start somewhere.