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‘Can you tell me about what happened?’
Carlos looked up briefly, his brown eyes flashing defensively, before returning his gaze to his hands. He picked at the skin around his fingernails, moving methodically from finger to finger.
He didn’t want to talk about it.
Ever.
‘I know it probably sounds strange,’ the woman continued, ‘but this is a place where you can feel safe. There’s no judgement, no conditions, I’m someone you can trust, Carlos.’
He pushed his nail into the quick of his thumbnail, making it bleed.
‘What about him? Tell me something about Lando?’
Carlos flinched at the sound of the name on her lips. His eyebrows knitted together, physically forcing back the emotions that were threatening to spill out and causing his throat to make a small, strangled noise.
‘How would you describe him to someone, like me, who didn’t know him?’
A thousand adjectives bolted through Carlos’ mind, each one bringing a mental image like a film reel played too fast. He pulled his hands down his face, exasperated at the woman’s insistence that he engaged with this process.
Why couldn’t she just leave him alone?
He looked up at her again and she smiled, hopefully.
Carlos wanted to punch her.
‘Three words, perhaps?’
‘I don’t see how this is going to help,’ Carlos sighed. ‘I don’t want to think about him. I don’t want to describe him to you. I want to go home.’
‘I’m not here to erase your bond, Carlos. We can acknowledge your relationship as a way to help you navigate your-’
‘Competitive,’ Carlos snapped.
The woman blinked in surprise, then her face became impassive again. ‘Competitive. That’s the first word that springs to mind?’
Carlos nodded.
‘Can you give me an example?’
He sighed. ‘In everything, it’s always about winning. Racing, FIFA, golf, everything. If I win, he’s furious. He wants to go again and again, until he beats me. He never stops wanting to win.’
‘That’s good, Carlos. Thank you. Can you think of another?’
Carlos closed his eyes, trying to hold onto the memory of a rainy evening in a Turkish hotel room. Endlessly claiming victory with no sign of Lando admitting defeat.
Double or quits? Come on, Carlos! This is the one, I can feel it!
‘Loyal.’
The woman smiled. ‘What made him loyal, Carlos?’
He sighed. There was a pulled thread in the leg of his jeans. He rubbed the material with the heel of his hand.
‘He’s always on my team, not just as my team-mate, but when I need someone, or someone has something to say about me. I can rely on him to... what do you say? Back me up.’
She smiled again.
‘I don’t know how to say the last one,’ Carlos mumbled.
‘That’s okay, can you give me the example first?’
‘He makes things fun. Sometimes I feel like we’re kids again, we can escape from the racing world together, like nothing matters. ’
She nodded. ‘Innocent, perhaps?’
Carlos tilted his head, unsure. ‘Perhaps?’
‘Thank you, Carlos, tha-’
‘Lando is lots of things though, he’s funny and he’s genuine. He’s reliable and honest. He’s messy, he’s courageous and he’s… he’s…’
The hand rubbing the leg of his jeans burned from the friction, but he didn’t care.
‘It’s okay, Carlos.’
A tightness wound round his throat, stopping the words and holding the air in his lungs. He looked up at the woman, taking in the muted tones of her outfit, the comfy chair she sat in - identical to his own - to give the impression of an informal chat, and the white coat that hung on the door.
‘He’s gone.’
Carlos turned the key and pushed into his apartment. There were letters on the floor, presumably slipped under the door by his neighbour, Luciana. He kicked them aside, slipping off his coat and hanging it on the hook before throwing his keys onto a small table.
Can you tell me about what happened?
He wandered into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle and making instant coffee. His hands spooning granules and pouring milk robotically before pouring boiling water into the mug. His hand shook and the water jumped onto the counter. Carlos sighed, reaching for a towel to mop it up, his eyes catching sight of the mug he’d pulled from the cupboard for the first time. A simple white cup with the words ‘ what’s the 20th letter of the alphabet?’ printed on it.
Carlos pushed the handle, rotating the cup in the puddle it was sitting in.
‘ Cheers, two sugars please!’ the other side read.
Lando’s mug.
Carlos picked the mug up and hurled it at the wall where it exploded against the cupboards. Coffee flew everywhere, it hit the window, brown liquid now tracing lines down towards the sill, and some had splashed back into his face.
He gasped, rushing forwards to collect the pieces. Jagged white fragments of ceramic that were now scattered across his kitchen tiles.
‘Fuck!’ he hissed, scooping them into his hand and trying to fit the pieces together. ‘No, no, no. I’m sorry. Fuck!’
Carlos dropped onto the floor, holding the broken mug to his chest, and cried.
Of course he’d been pushing. It was Austria. There was a reason Carlos kept calling him king of the hills and, even though his cheeks went pink and he tried to talk himself down, Lando knew this was his best chance at something he’d never managed before; pole.
Saturday had started the same as always; free practice. High fuel runs and then drain the tank for some fast laps. The car felt incredible, like there were rails under her instead of wheels. Every corner felt solid. Track limits were someone else’s problem today.
Qualifying one, two and then three. One lap blasts into safety.
Carlos watched the screens from the back of the Ferrari garage, since he’d been punted out by the Astons, with an equally grumpy Charles. Neither of them fancied the questions from the press pit yet and Sylvie was in no rush to make them leave yet.
The timer started as Lando’s McLaren crossed the line and Carlos watched as it smoothly navigated each apex.
‘This is looking pretty good, no?’ Charles commented, sounding impressed.
Carlos’ chest swelled with a warm glow, a golden light. It had to be Lando on the front row, the graphic showed only purple sectors for one and two.
He thought about the smile that would be on Lando’s face when he got out of the car. It would probably stay there for days. Carlos wouldn’t give him shit for it, probably.
‘Is he going to get held up in traffic?’ Charles asked, pointing at the circuit tracker.
Carlos could see the coloured dots of other cars out on track as other drivers dithered at the exit of the last corner. Arguing over slipstream and gentlemen's agreements.
As Lando approached the waiting cars, Carlos groaned.
Then it all happened at once.
Sebastian, trying to gain track position over Bottas, swung out to the right, spotting the fast approaching McLaren a millisecond later and jinking back to where it had come from. There was no time to put the brakes on and no time to react other than instinctively. Lando’s steering snapped to the right, losing the rear of the car which promptly smashed into Sebastian’s Aston Martin, kicking it violently in the opposite direction.
It hit the solid entrance to the pit lane side on, with barely any deceleration.
Everything stopped.
Carlos heard the cries and the sirens.
He watched the cameras broadcast anything but the wreckage.
He felt Charles arms gather him up and pull him across the paddock to the tinted privacy of the Ferrari motorhome.
People were talking to him, but he couldn’t hear. He could only see Charles, his face so pale the skin on his cheeks looked transparent and his eyes glassy, and that told him everything he never wanted to know.
Lando leaned against the fridge, arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a hoodie, but shivered, despite the summer air around him. At the small dining table in front of him, Carlos silently reconstructed the broken mug, trying to hold the pieces with trembling hands as the super glue dried.
In only two weeks Lando had watched the lights fade in him. He left the apartment only to visit his psychiatrist, quickly referred to by Ferrari when it became clear that the Spaniard wasn’t safe to return to his cockpit, and to attend his funeral.
He drank badly made, cheap coffee and barely ate.
He turned on the television and then stared at the wall.
Lando had watched the visitors file through, in an attempt to reach him. Family and friends, each one with a different tactic to appeal to the Carlos they knew. Rupert’s promises of forfeits if Carlos came to training and managed more pull ups. Carlos senior’s clasped hand on his shoulder like a supportive rock. Max and Charles sharing pained looks over his head as they tried to update him on paddock news, the way the fans had come together and the messages from team members he knew.
He looked past them all.
Carlos leaned back, sighing at the mug which was now deformed and definitely not watertight, and then got to his feet. He picked up a glass from the drainer and filled it with tap water.
Lando pushed himself off the fridge, ready to follow him to whichever room he was going to next.
As he got close he held out his hand.
Carlos walked straight through him.
Carlos didn’t sleep, and when his alarm went off the following morning he climbed out of bed feeling like every movement was an effort. The psychiatrist had told him that it was important to keep a routine, but he failed to understand how feeling broken in the shower was any different to feeling broken in bed. Still, he was too honest to lie and tell her he had, when he hadn’t complied with her wishes, so he stood under the running water, pushing the temperature up until his skin tingled.
Lando sat on the edge of the bath, watching as Carlos wrapped his hips in a towel and brushed his teeth. He pressed his fingers against the condensation in the shower screen, leaving no trace of his presence and feeling no moisture on his fingertips.
Carlos tutted at his reflection and returned to the bedroom to get dressed.
‘Oh, Carlos,’ Lando murmured.
It had come on all of a sudden, when Carlos had received a text which made the screen of his phone light up. The picture there unchanged from long before the accident; the pair of them, being interviewed before they headed up to the Monaco podium. Their eyes bright and smiles wide. Their first podium together.
Lando sat on the floor by his feet, his head resting against the arm of the chair close to where Carlos pushed his fists into his eyes, rasping sobs violently shaking him with each fight for breath.
So he cried with him, because he didn’t know what to do.
Carlos was the one who always knew what to do.
That night, when exhaustion finally took over and Carlos snored softly where he’d fallen asleep on the couch, Lando sat with his feet up on the coffee table, wracking his brain for some kind of solution. He’d been questioning for some time why he was here, why he’d found himself standing outside the apartment building, two days after being swallowed by darkness at the Red Bull Ring’s turn ten. He’d thought about death a lot, in his short time alive, and certainly counted it as one of his greatest fears, but when the time came he’d thought it would be a lot different.
He’d expected it to hurt, but it didn’t.
Not as much as it hurt Carlos.
Lando wanted to comfort him and give him some kind of sign that he was okay. He was, what, a ghost ? He was very much certainly dead, yet the world was still going on around him. He pouted in the darkness, remembering that the only afterlife knowledge he had was from watching Casper the Friendly Ghost as a kid.
‘Useless,’ he muttered.
Carlos groaned, waking up and feeling aches from limbs that had spent hours crushed into the confines of his couch. He wandered into the kitchen and made a coffee, he dropped down into a chair at the dining table and stared at the wall.
Lando sat in the chair opposite and stared back at him.
Right, concentrate.
Carlos sighed.
Lando dropped his head forwards, glaring up at Carlos from under his eyebrows and straining.
A look passed over Carlos, as though he had just had a sudden realisation, and he jumped to his feet.
‘Oh shit,’ Lando said to himself.
‘Is it normal?’ Carlos asked, a week later.
Isobel, his psychiatrist, smiled back at him. ‘I would say yes, completely.’
He nodded and relaxed slightly.
‘Do you have any of Lando’s clothing in the house, something that could have a lingering scent of him?’
Carlos mentally walked himself around his apartment, remembering that his mother had come and taken his laundry to be done, but there was a chance that one of Lando’s hoodies could have missed the basket.
‘I wanted to talk to you about racing today, Carlos.’
He huffed and shook his head, ‘Yes, of course. That’s why we’re here.’
‘It’s important to be able to distinguish your feelings of loss from any kind of trauma,’ Isobel explained. ‘This is standard for this process, not just because of who referred you to me.’
Carlos nodded. ‘I’m not afraid to race.’
‘How are you sleeping?’
‘Not so much.’
Isobel scribbled something onto the notepad in her hands. ‘I can prescribe s-’
‘I don’t want pills,’ Carlos growled. ‘It’s been three weeks and you’re expecting me to just bounce back, like life is normal again?’
Isobel’s face softened, she put the notepad and pen down in her lap. ‘Carlos, nobody is expecting you to be fine. You’ve lost someone who was very important to you.’
‘ Is very important,’ Carlos corrected. ‘He is important. He’s only gone from here,’ he swung an arm out into the air around him, ‘but he’s still here.’ The arm swung back, thumping his clenched fist against his chest as his voice started to break. ‘I won’t let him go from here.
When he returned home, Carlos pulled open the closet, reaching for his leather travel bag. The bag was still packed with items, clearly thrown into the cupboard when he’d returned from Austria, the last thing on his mind.
He unzipped it, pulling out it’s contents and gasping when the last thing he wrapped his hand around was a black hoodie. Now shaking, he opened it out, seeing the words Anti-Social Social Club written across the back.
‘Why do you have to wear this?’
‘Because I don’t like people.’
‘But you like me?’
‘Yeah, you’re not people. You’re Carlos.’
Carlos pulled the fabric up to his face, inhaling the familiar scent of Lando’s cologne and sinking once again onto the floor.
Lando cocked his head to the side, he’d wondered what had happened to that hoodie when he was tidying his hotel room before qualifying. He’d felt triumphant about getting Carlos to sense him, but now it just seemed like a coincidence.
‘Shit.’
When Carlos woke up the following morning, as the sun was still rising over the Sassuolo skyline, his teeth chattered at the chill.
His apartment was freezing.
He wandered to the window, placed his hand against the glass and frowned when it felt relatively warm.
On the floor beside the bed lay several piles of neatly folded laundry. Carlos bent down and grabbed a sweater, throwing it over his bare skin, and then continued to stare out of the window.
Lando lay on the made side of Carlos’ bed. His side, which in the three weeks since the accident Carlos had yet to stray across to, even when he was unconscious. Lando would curl up beside him, remembering what it was like to run his hand through his hair as his fingers caught on nothing, and watch him cry himself to sleep.
It wasn’t like he had nowhere else to go. There had been invitations to move on, friendly assurances that it was okay, from people who he found weirdly familiar. The light was safe, you just had to let go, but he didn’t want to. Not until he could be sure that Carlos was going to be alright, and right now he wasn’t.
Lando swung his feet to the floor and set off in search of him, finding him fiddling with the heating system, jumping across his ankles as they stuck out of the small cupboard.
Carlos shivered, glancing over his shoulder to wonder where the sudden gust of air had come from. He didn’t remember leaving a window open.
Behind him, Lando stared in amazement.
At eleven o’clock there was a knock at the door. Carlos shuffled towards it, peering through the peephole and seeing his team-mate on the other side.
He sighed and pulled the door open. ‘What are you doing here, Charles?’
Charles smiled and lifted a brown paper bag into view. ‘I brought you breakfast. Your favourite, aragostine!’
Carlos rolled his eyes. ‘That’s not breakfast, it’s dessert.’
‘Well, today I’m breaking the rules,’ he grinned, stepping inside as Carlos drew back. ‘Is your air conditioning broken? It’s freezing in here!’
Carlos shrugged. ‘I checked it, everything seems fine.’
‘You should call maintenance.’
‘I can deal with it, Charles.’
Charles smiled, he didn’t want to push him. He dropped the bag on the kitchen table and started pulling out pastries and two small take-out espresso cups.
‘How did your appointment go yesterday?’
‘It happened,’ Carlos replied flatly. ‘She wants to know if I’m okay to drive.’
‘What did you say?’
Carlos tried to ignore the hopeful tone of Charles’ voice.
‘I’m not afraid. I just…’ he replied, trailing off and pulling the cup to his mouth.
Charles put his hand on Carlos’ forearm. ‘It’s going to take time,’ he said, pushing an agostine towards him. ‘Please eat, Carlos.’
The air conditioning maintenance man scratched his head, staring at the unit as he tried to identify the issue. Carlos had explained that the apartment was cold, but there was no reason for it to be so.
‘It seems to be working fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve turned it off completely, you’ll just have to let me know how it goes.’
Carlos pulled his lips into what he hoped was a grateful smile and saw him out, wandering back into his freezing lounge.
Lando sat on the arm of the couch, staring up at him.
Waiting.
Carlos sighed, gazing around at the room.
‘What are you doing there?’ he said, walking across to his trophies and picking up a small plastic race car from the shelf.
He turned the toy over in his hand, remembering the day, a year and a half ago, when he and Lando had escaped the endless pre-season briefings and press commitments at the MTC and taken themselves to a nearby supermarket to buy lunch. Lando had insisted on buying chocolate, in defiance of his trainer’s strict diet plan, and decided on a Kinder Egg. When he’d cracked it open and consumed the treat, he’d set upon the toy, squealing with delight when it turned out to be an orange race car.
‘It’s fate, Carlito! The chocolate gods know I’m a McLaren driver!’
At the end of that day, when they cleared the papers from the meeting room table, Lando had wandered off without it, so Carlos had slipped it into his pocket and returned it to him later that week.
When Carlos left McLaren, Lando had given it to him. A small and pretty insignificant trinket to most people, but it was priceless to him.
Except, to Carlos’ knowledge, it should have been safely nestled in his desk drawer.
Lando smiled smugly.
‘How have you been this week, Carlos?’
He looked at Isobel and frowned, looking back at his hands again, twisting his fingers.
‘This is going to sound stupid,’ he said, taking a deep breath. ‘I think I might be sleep-walking.’
She cocked her head to the side. ‘Tell me a little more?’
‘I keep finding things in places they shouldn’t be. Things that make me think about him.’
‘What have you found?’
Carlos sighed. ‘A toy, a t-shirt. Two days ago I woke up and the milk was on the counter.’
Isobel made a note and looked back at him. ‘I think that’s very normal. Your mind is adjusting to a new way of understanding and that will take time.’
He nodded. It did make sense, but it was hard finding the items and then dealing with the memories that came rushing along with them.
‘I feel like I’m being watched.’
‘There are a lot of people concerned about you, Carlos.’
Carlos tutted. ‘I don’t mean like that. When I’m at home, alone, I feel like there’s someone there.’
Isobel smiled. ‘The world around you is adjusting too. This is only temporary.’
Carlos woke up with a start. It was still dark outside, but there were loud voices and music coming from his lounge. Carefully he slid from the bed and crept towards the door.
‘What the-?’ he breathed, as he peered inside.
The television was on, the light bright against the dark room and the volume louder than he’d usually have it. It took him a moment to register what was on the screen, a movie, Pulp Fiction.
The last movie he’d watched with Lando in Austria.
Carlos' throat constricted. He strode forwards, snatching at the remote control, shutting down the television, and then hurling it onto the floor..
‘Why is this happening to me?’ he cried, sinking onto the couch and curling into a ball.
Panicked, Lando clambered up onto the cushions beside him. Focussing as hard as he could on being there.
Carlos felt a chill wrap itself around him and the familiar scent, the same as he’d breathed in from the hoodie, curled through the air.
‘It’s like you’re here,’ Carlos whispered into the darkness.
‘I am here,’ Lando whispered back.
Carlos didn’t sleep for three three nights.
On the fourth day, he made the decision to go through his phone and check the messages that friends and relations had been leaving him, each one hopeful for a positive reply. He scrolled through the unread items, indifferent to the words in each message. All of them talking about taking his time, being there if he needed them, some even speaking of their prayers for him and for Lando.
At the bottom of the long list sat the last read conversation he’d had before his phone had become an inconsequential accessory. A sassy one line message from Lando that simply read, Eat my dust today, cabrón!
Carlos’ thumb hovered over the thread, desperate to open it and read their past conversations. To immerse himself in his old reality.
‘Please don’t do that,’ Lando said softly, looking over Carlos’ shoulder at the phone screen.
Carlos sighed deeply and tossed the phone onto the cushion beside him.
Later that evening, after drinking three quarters of a bottle of wine, Carlos picked up his phone again. The edges of his thoughts felt fuzzier, less jagged and likely to cut. So he went back to the messages and tapped on Lando’s thread.
Lando: I don’t want to go home tomorrow. I’m going to miss you.
The end of the sentence blurred as a tear dropped onto the screen.
Lando tutted. ‘Oh, Carlos.’
Carlos reached for the glass on the table and gulped at the red liquid greedily, the edges of his mouth curled upwards as it stained his skin. The edges no longer felt soft, they felt frayed, like a rope slowly unwinding itself. He locked the phone, gazing at his wallpaper again and stroking his thumb across the image.
Suddenly he was on his feet.
Lando hopped up, trailing at his heels again as he made for the bathroom. He watched as Carlos pulled open the cabinet that hung over his sink, scattering items like plasters and antiseptic cream as he searched for something.
‘Oh no.’ Lando swatted at the box in his hand, the high strength painkillers that he’d been prescribed after his crash, but it just passed straight through. ‘I told you to throw them away!’
Carlos walked from the bathroom to the kitchen, grabbing the remains of his wine, and then to the bedroom, where he slumped onto the mattress.
‘Carlos, stop it!’ Lando shouted, rushing round the bed till he was facing him.
Carlos shivered and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. He pulled a sheet of pills from the box and began popping them out into his hand, repeating the action with the second sheet until his palm was full of small white tablets.
‘Fuck sake!’ Lando yelled. ‘Please, Carlos. I’m here. You don’t need to do this. Please!’
Carlos' red rimmed eyes moved up to the dresser beside the bed, smiling sadly at the photograph that followed him wherever he went, their post-podium celebration from Brazil. The pair of them soaked with champagne, drunk on pride, eyes shining as they grinned at the camera.
Lando looked so young in that photograph.
Too young.
Too young for what happened to him.
Carlos’s face crumpled and he reached for his wine.
‘ CARLOS, NO!’ Lando screamed, slapping his hand at the photo frame.
It flew off the dresser and smashed against the hard-wood floor, the wine bottle crashing down next to it a second later when it slipped from Carlos’ grip.
The Spaniard jumped, the pills scattering. ‘¡Mierda!’ he cried, scrambling away from the broken glass, his eyes searching the empty air for what could have caused the frame to fall.
Lando watched him bolt from the bedroom and lock himself in the bathroom.
Carlos pushed his back against the bathroom door and breathed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. He had no explanation for what had just happened. The photo hadn’t been close to the edge, it wasn’t broken or liable to fall and there had been no forces that could have made it leave the dresser - unless he’d drunk enough wine to not feel an earthquake.
He closed his eyes, trying to drag himself back into calmness. He was just drunk and his mind was playing tricks on him. He climbed to his feet and went to the sink, splashing cold water on his face. His breathing slowed and he started to feel a little better.
When he opened the door, Lando was standing outside.
Carlos screamed in fright and slammed it shut again.
‘I’m going crazy,’ he mumbled. ‘This is it. I’m going completely crazy.’
Lando tapped on the door. ‘Carlos, please come out?’
Carlos whimpered. He wrapped his hand around the handle and slowly pulled it toward him.
‘Hey,’ Lando said, softly.
Carlos stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re not real.’
Lando sighed, reaching out his hand. ‘Take it.’
Carlos lifted his own hand, but snapped it back cautiously. ‘I can’t.. I don’t.. You can’t be real, Lando. You’re.. You’re..’
Lando launched himself at him, throwing his arms around Carlos’ neck and knocking him backwards into the door he’d just come out of. Carlos wound his own arms around Lando’s waist, feeling solid, tangible substance to the apparition in front of him.
The air around him cooled and the smell of Lando’s cologne filled his senses. Carlos pushed his face into his neck, breathing him in and when he opened his mouth and all of his pain poured out. They sank to the floor of the entrance hallway, Lando stroking his hair and pressing kisses against his forehead.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Carlos. I didn’t mean to leave you. I love you. I’m sorry.’
Carlos coughed against the tears, pushing away to look at Lando, who smiled and wiped his cheeks with the cuffs of his hoodie. ‘You’re real?’ he asked, pressing his hands against Lando’s chest, then his shoulders. He put his hands over Lando’s as they cupped his face and then moved to mirror the action. He felt cold, but still very, very real.
‘Yes, I’m real. I came back.’
‘Why?’
Lando shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just arrived here two days after the race and I’ve been hanging out here ever since.’
Carlos nodded, trying to take the information in. His eyes widened. ‘The orange car, and the milk?’
Lando grinned.
‘Ay, you almost gave me a fucking heart attack.’
‘I was building up to the big reveal. Give me a break, this being dead shit is pretty new to me, you know?’
Carlos laughed, tears still dancing down his cheeks. ‘Can I kiss you?’
Lando snorted, ‘Do you usually ask?’
Carlos pressed his lips to Lando’s, something he never thought he’d experience again, tasting the salt of his own tears against them.
‘You’re so cold,’ he mumbled.
Lando’s lips slotted between Carlos’s as he spoke, kissing him deeply before resting their foreheads together. ‘Probably just a side-effect.’
‘Do you feel cold?’
‘A little bit,’ Lando replied.
Carlos wrapped his arms around him and tugged him firmly against his chest. ‘I’ll keep you warm, don’t worry.’
Lando smiled and snuggled into him.
‘He came back.’
Isobel looked up from her notes, one of her eyebrows arching in surprise. ‘He’s back?’
Carlos nodded. ‘He arrived in my apartment last week. He says he’s been there all along.’
The pen in her hand moved quickly across the page in her lap. ‘Do you talk to him?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Carlos replied, in a matter-of-fact way.
‘Does he say why he’s come back?’
‘No, he doesn’t know. But it’s nice to have him around.’
Isobel smiled. ‘What have you been doing?’
Carlos pouted as he thought back to the previous four days. ‘We talk, play FIFA, he helps me cook.’
‘You’re finding it easier to eat now?’
‘Yes, although Lando doesn’t eat with me.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He says he isn’t hungry,’ Carlos replied.
Isobel made another note.
‘He talks to me in Spanish.’
‘All the time?’
Carlos shook his head, ‘No, just when he’s trying to be helpful. He’ll say ‘ cepilla tus dientes, mi amor’.
‘What does that mean?’ Isobel asked.
‘Brush your teeth, my love.’
‘Is that something he did when he was alive?’
Carlos shook his head. ‘Lando never learned Spanish, well, nothing useful.’
‘Ahh.’
When Carlos returned to his apartment, he was greeted by the sound of loud music, and pots and pans clattering. He threw his keys on to the hallway table and leaned on the doorframe, watching as Lando destroyed his kitchen in the name of baking.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, smirking.
Lando spun round to face him, he was covered in flour. ‘You’re early!’
‘Was I not supposed to see the disaster zone?’ Carlos asked, crossing the tiles and pulling Lando in for a kiss. ‘What are you poisoning me with today?’
‘Cupcakes, but if that’s your attitude towards the chef perhaps you won’t get any.’
Carlos chuckled, releasing Lando for long enough for him to slide the baking tray into his oven and then collecting him back up again and carrying him into the bedroom.
‘You’re going to get the sheets messy!’ Lando squeaked as Carlos dropped him onto the bed.
‘I don’t care,’ Carlos replied, pinning him down with his weight and claiming his lips hungrily. Lando’s body arched up underneath him, and he pulled at his clothes to run his hands along the cool skin underneath.
Even though everything was different now, it still seemed just the same to him. Lando made needy cries through parted lips, his eyes black as he looked up at Carlos in the half light. The sound alone was enough to stop his senses, but he focused on committing every detail to memory; the way his hands felt big against the sharp curve of Lando’s hips and how his head fell back against the sheets when he moved against him. Carlos hadn’t had any warning last time and it felt like he’d taken these moments for granted, so when he traced lines along Lando’s stomach with his mouth he tried to feel everything, in case the next morning he woke up to an empty bed and the memory was all he had left.
It had crossed Carlos’ mind a couple of times that he shouldn’t be doing this. That in some way it was wrong, but the arguments always fell on Lando’s deaf ears, who’d climb into his lap and leave him breathless, just like he’d done so many times. He felt the same, sounded the same, he tasted the same, but he’d been to his funeral and watched his mother cry.
It made no sense at all.
‘Do you remember it?’ Carlos asked, as they lay tangled together on the couch, watching television and eating Lando’s still warm cupcakes.
Lando was silent for a few moments.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s.. strange.’
Carlos moved up onto his elbow, looking down at the man next to him curiously.
‘It feels like it happened to somebody else, like it was a movie I watched once.’
‘I saw it, and I never want to watch it again,’ Carlos said, shuddering.
‘I didn’t feel it. I could see the wall coming and then,’ Lando paused, as though he was thinking back to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, and shrugged, ‘nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No light, no flashbacks, no nothing. I just thought my last thought and then I was gone.’
Carlos reached around Lando’s waist and pulled him close. ‘Can you remember what you thought of?’
Lando nodded and smiled. ‘Sólo tu.’
Carlos chuckled at the delighted expression on Charles’ face when he walked into the Ferrari factory, then laughed out loud when he walked into the corner of a table, in his rush to greet his team-mate.
‘Carlos!’ he cried, opening out his arms. ‘You’re here!’
‘I’m here,’ Carlos confirmed, letting Charles hug him. ‘I’m not a mirage.’
Charles grinned, leaving his arm around Carlos’ shoulder as they walked down the corridor together.
‘How are things?’
‘Better,’ Carlos replied. He wasn’t about to share the fact that he had the recently deceased, yet very much still present, love of his life in his apartment, or that said love of his life was currently improving his Call of Duty kill to death ratio while he was out. He’d heard the familiar sound of aggravated swearing, followed by the thud of a controller being launched across the lounge, before he’d wandered in and kissed him goodbye for the day.
Lando really was grumpy sometimes.
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ Charles said, ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘How was the factory?’
Carlos was cutting vegetables for dinner, with Lando perched on the counter beside him.
‘It was… weird.’
Lando tipped his head to the side. ‘Why weird?’
Carlos sighed and put the knife down, leaning on the edge of the counter. ‘They were nice enough, but they treated me like I’m made of glass.’
‘Dale tiempo,’ Lando said, pulling on Carlos’ arm to slot him between his knees. ‘They just want you to be okay.’
Carlos nodded. ‘I know. It was nice to see Charles at least.’
‘I always liked Charles.’
Carlos kissed Lando on the nose. ‘You only liked Charles because you were better at Rocket League and streaming.’
Lando huffed. ‘ You’d be better at streaming than Charles, and you wouldn’t tell people you were coming on your camera right now!’
‘That was a good impression, you know.’
‘Thanks.’
Carlos surveyed the paddock entrance through the windscreen of his car. He wasn’t driving this weekend, but had felt that he needed to be there, to be around people and get reacquainted with the racing world again. He looked across at Rupert, who was sorting through some papers in the passenger seat, and then glanced back to where Lando was sprawled across the back seat.
He grinned, putting a finger to his lips when Carlos opened his mouth to speak to him.
‘You ready?’ Rupert asked.
Carlos clenched his jaw, ‘Yes, let’s do this.’
They clambered out of the car and headed past the security gates towards the Ferrari motorhome. Lando fell into step with them, slowing when they approached the back of the McLaren garage.
Carlos slowed with him.
‘You okay?’ Rupert asked.
Lando looked pained as several crew members exited in front of them, one of them veering towards Carlos.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Carlos said, hugging the woman, who started crying in his arms.
She pulled back from him, apologising profusely.
Carlos tried to smile and Rupert steered him towards the red trucks. He caught sight of Lando heading into the garage, one of the mechanics passing through him as he reached, out of habit, for the support beam over his head.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ Rupert said, stepping aside and allowing Pierre to bounce up the steps and through the door.
‘Carlos,’ he said, smiling warmly and reaching out a hand for him to shake. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘People keep saying that,’ Carlos replied, glancing at Rupert, ‘Would it be alright to speak to you alone, just for a moment?’
Pierre nodded and Rupert slipped out of the door, closing it with a light click.
‘I don’t know how you did it, you know?’ Carlos said, his brown eyes searching the blue ones in front of him. ‘ How did you do it?’
Pierre smiled sadly, ‘You’re talking about Anthoine.’
Carlos nodded.
‘It took everything,’ Pierre explained, ‘especially after losing the drive, I was in a dark place. I didn’t think I had anything much to give. It was hard though. I imagine it’s harder for you?’
‘It was at the beginning, but things are different now.’
‘It won’t stop hurting, Carlos. But the way it hurts will change.’
‘Did you…’ Carlos stopped, biting his lip, as he tried to think if revealing Lando’s return was a good idea.
‘Did I what?’ Pierre asked.
Carlos sighed, ‘Nothing, it doesn’t mat-’
Pierre’s eyes narrowed and Carlos felt like he was trying to read his thoughts.
‘Thank you,’ Carlos said, putting an end to it.
The door flew open and an icy gust of wind rolled around them. Lando stomped past and threw himself onto the opposite couch. Pierre continued to look towards the door at some leaves that had blown in.
‘The wind’s getting up,’ he remarked, getting to his feet. ‘More wing adjustments. Great. ’
Carlos chuckled.
‘I’m always happy to talk and you have my number,’ Pierre said, patting Carlos on the shoulder as he headed out.
‘Gracias,’ Carlos replied.
He moved to the other couch, when Pierre was gone, where Lando was picking at the laces of his shoes.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked, letting Lando curl into his side.
Lando shook his head, pulling Carlos’ arm tighter around him. ‘Racing sucks,’ he mumbled.
‘Is he still here?’
Carlos sighed. ‘Yes.’
Isobel’s expression became curious. ‘Have your feelings changed towards him being back?’
‘No,’ Carlos said, firmly. ‘I’m still happy he’s here. I’m just being reminded of how frustrating it was to live with him, at times.’
‘What sort of things frustrate you?’
Carlos took a breath. It felt wrong to speak ill of Lando, but the truth was he was starting to get on his nerves at home.
‘He’s messier than I remember,’ he said, ‘and he plays Call of Duty all night, shouting at the television when he dies.’
Isobel nodded. ‘Was this something he did before the accident?’
‘I would say so, yes.’
‘Why do you think you’re finding it more frustrating now?’
Carlos shrugged.
When Carlos got back to his apartment he hung his coat on the hook behind the door and threw his keys on the table, then paused as he heard voices in his lounge.
‘Lando?’ he called.
‘Yeah, I’m in here! No, not the prison, we said we’d go downtown!’’
Carlos walked through the doorway and stopped, frozen at the sight in front of him.
‘Hey Carlos!’ Lando said, brightly greeting him. ‘I got some guys over, I hope you don’t mind?’
Two faces turned and grinned at him, from his own couch, Anthoine and Jules.
‘Um, hello,’ he said quietly.
They both waved.
‘Lando, can I borrow you for a moment?’
‘Sure,’ he said, handing his controller over to Jules and climbing off the couch. He followed Carlos into the kitchen, poking him in the ribs. ‘What’s up, Chili?’
‘You can’t just have people around while I’m out, Lando. It’s an apartment building, people will get suspicious if there’s noise. The man upstairs already complains about the heating being on.’
Lando rolled his eyes.
‘Please don’t do that,’ Carlos sighed.
‘No estés enojado conmigo,’ Lando pouted, sliding his arms around Carlos’ waist and pressing his lips against his jaw.
Carlos shivered, despite the warmth of the apartment. No matter how high the temperature was turned up to, Lando was always cold.
‘Vamos a la cama?’ he murmured, his mouth trailing down to Carlos’ throat and then nipping at the skin with his teeth.
‘Your friends are here,’ Carlos said, squirming slightly as he tried to unlock himself from Lando’s arms.
‘They won’t care.’
‘ I will care!’
Lando made a gumpy hmph! and returned to the lounge, immediately yelling at Anthoine who had ended up in the gulag again.
Carlos dropped into one of the chairs at his dining table and pushed his hands into his hair. In his pocket he felt his phone vibrate and pulled it out, seeing a notification from Pierre.
I’m in town to see Charles this weekend, wondered if you wanted to meet up for dinner?
‘Where are you going?’
Carlos tutted as pulled on his jacket, glancing over his reflection in the mirror at Lando, who was hovering in the doorway.
‘I told you already, I’m having dinner with Pierre.’
‘Gasly?’
Carlos’ eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘You know some other Pierres?’
Lando scowled. ‘What for?’
‘To have some good food and a nice conversation.’
‘I make nice food.’
‘You make nice cupcakes. I can’t live on them forever.’
Lando pulled a face. ‘Yeah, nice one. Make a living joke at a dead guy.’
‘Ay!’ Carlos groaned, reaching for Lando’s wrists and pulling him in for a hug. ‘You should be happy. You can spend time with your friends without me getting in the way.’
‘I suppose so,’ he replied. ‘Don’t be too late though, I’ll miss you.’
Carlos kissed Lando on the nose and left for the restaurant.
‘I’ve met someone.’
Isobel smiled warmly. ‘How do you feel about that?’
Carlos took a deep breath. ‘Honestly, I don’t know how to feel right now.’
‘That’s understandable. I’d imagine you feel quite conflicted? Do you talk to Lando about this someone?’
Carlos shook his head quickly, ‘No, but he knows him. He knows who he is.’
She made a note and left the pen in her lap.
‘I feel like I’m betraying him,’ Carlos said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘I love him, but-’
‘Things have to change, Carlos.’
A tear tumbled down his cheek. ‘When we were together, before the accident. I only ever wanted for him to be happy, and to be safe’
Isobel looked on empathically.
‘I couldn’t keep him safe, and now I feel like I’m going to break his heart.’
‘I’m positive that Lando would only want the same for you. You have to be happy too.’
Carlos coughed, reaching for a tissue from the table to dry his eyes.
‘Si, I know.’
When he returned home, Lando was in the kitchen making cupcakes again.
‘You’re going to make me too fat to fit back in my seat,’ Carlos complained, swerving as Lando swatted at him with a spatula.
‘Perhaps that’s all part of my plan?’ he said with a wink.
‘Pierre said tha…’
Lando smiled sadly as Carlos’s voice faded. ‘You and him, it’s working pretty good, right?’
Carlos shrugged. ‘It’s not like that. He understands things. He understands this. ’
‘It is like that, Carlos, but it’s okay.’
Carlos flicked on the kettle and quickly opened a cupboard, hiding his face as he searched for a mug.
Lando reached around him from behind, pressing against his back. ‘No puedo quedarme aquí para siempre.’
He turned, sniffing back the wet in his eyes, ‘I know. I’m just so-’
Lando pressed their lips together, firmly but so much softer than Carlos could ever remember it happening before. ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.’
‘I still love you. I always will. Always here.’
Carlos put his hand on his chest and Lando covered it with his own. ‘Always here.’
Later that evening, Pierre’s Honda pulled up outside the apartment building and Carlos slipped on his shoes, picking up his keys from the table and dropping them into his pocket. Lando leaned against the wall beside the mirror, reaching over to pull a piece of fluff from his collar.
‘Okay, time to go.’ Carlos said.
‘Yes,’ Lando said, nodding. ‘You look incredible. Make sure you have a nice time.’
‘I will try.’
He kissed Lando on the forehead and opened the door.
‘Goodbye!’
Lando wandered through the apartment and watched as Pierre got out of the car to greet Carlos. He chuckled as they stood awkwardly for a moment, then Pierre moved forwards, kissing Carlos quickly. Carlos smiled.
‘He’s a good guy, you know?’
Lando pulled the back of his hand across his eyes and nodded.
‘I know, Anthoine, it’s just-’
Anthoine waited patiently, as Lando searched for the words.
‘It hurts that I had to make him go off me.’
The Frenchman smiled. ‘He’ll never go off you. He just needed to move on.’
‘Is it time to go?’
‘It is.’
As Carlos was leaving the parking lot, he heard the trees rustle and stopped as a cool breeze wrapped around him, making his breath catch. He looked up at the fourth floor, to his own window, but there was nobody there, just his empty apartment.
‘Carlos?’
He heard Pierre’s voice call him , feeling warm fingers lace with his own. He lifted his free hand to his chest, remembering where Lando’s cold hands had been earlier that day, took a deep breath and then let Pierre lead him away.