Work Text:
SINGAPORE, 2021
Mingyu watches Seokmin's first win in three years from the sidelines instead of from behind the wheel of his own car. When the roar erupts from the garage two doors down as Seokmin rounds the last corner, he ducks out of the Red Bull garage to watch the mass exodus of the McLaren pit crew to the metal fences on either side of the track, see them shout in pure triumph and leap into each other’s arms. It’s a perfect weekend for McLaren: a one-two finish, a fastest lap, their first race win in nine years. But most of all it’s a perfect weekend for Seokmin, Mingyu thinks, as the chequered flag waves and Seokmin’s car crosses the finish line in a blur of orange, as Seokmin stops his car in parc fermé, clambers on top of it and raises his hands in the air like he can’t quite believe it either. It’s a weekend he deserves, after the state of his season so far: Mingyu tries not to doubt the press’s genuineness for once as he watches the camera flashes go off, capturing Seokmin’s victorious, spotlit silhouette against the night sky. Something about Seokmin just works like that: it's impossible to be anything but happy for his success.
The media loves Seokmin. Mingyu does, too. Which is why he’s running down to the cars as Seokmin climbs down, hot on the heels of Seokmin’s pit crew, slipping through the barricades and getting there in time to see Seokmin emerge, beaming, from a hug with his team principal.
"Seokmin!" Mingyu catches him by the elbow as Seokmin practically crashes headlong into him, giddy, ecstatic. Where they're touching—even through Seokmin’s race suit—his whole body thrums electric like a lightning rod. "Congratulations!”
“Thank you!” Seokmin has enough time to shout back over the cheers of the crowd, before his pit crew’s there, pressing against the barricades, swallowing him up with hugs and slaps on the back, joy hanging thick in the air like honey.
Under the spotlights he’s incandescent, glorious. Mingyu grasps his hand for a brief moment, then lets go.
SKY NEWS: Seokmin! Congratulations on your first win in three years! How does it feel?
LEE: [laughs] I haven’t processed it. I’m—it’s surreal. It’s so surreal. I might actually cry if you keep asking me about it.
Depending on who you ask, three years after he left Red Bull Racing, Lee Seokmin is at best an experienced veteran who’s just yet to come to grips with his new team’s car, at worst a washed-up driver past his prime doomed to being outshone by his younger, more talented teammate. Depending on who you ask, three years ago, in his last season with Red Bull, Lee Seokmin was a serious contender for the driver’s championship, might even have stood a shot at winning if not for a string of retirements in the later half of the season as the team started to structure itself around Kim Mingyu, racing legacy, boy-genius. Depending on who you ask: when Lee Seokmin left he was cutting his losses, parting ways on his own terms with his chin held high and his dignity intact, sending a message that he wasn’t getting what he deserved. When Lee Seokmin left he was scared of the results that would prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that he wasn’t as good as Kim Mingyu. He was running away from a fight.
Depending on who you ask: Lee Seokmin is the best teammate Kim Mingyu has ever had. Depending on who you ask: Lee Seokmin and Kim Mingyu hate each other.
Both of those things can be true.
But they’re not. They should be, but they’re not, because Mingyu, even back then, fierce with ambition, a little too loud and blunt and needy and clumsy, had wanted to hate Seokmin, and couldn’t. Couldn’t muster up any real hatred beyond grouchy antagonism because Seokmin kept matching him on track and off, kept beating him in the same car, kept being so likeable, easy and effortless in a way Mingyu had always wanted to be. The string of short-lived teammates that tried to fill the second Red Bull seat in Seokmin’s absence never quite lived up to his performance on track either, never quite replicated that white-hot current of adrenaline that surged in Mingyu’s chest whenever Seokmin overtook him brilliantly down the inside of the corner at two hundred kilometres per hour.
They weren’t teammates anymore, but when it became clear how much of a downgrade Seokmin had made—Mingyu fighting for wins, Seokmin fighting for points—it still hurt, for some inexplicable reason. When Seokmin ended up P2 Mingyu had grinned at him, delighted at the possibility of a real challenge, the kind that only Seokmin could give him. Together on the front row once again.
The world was shifting back onto its axis. Sitting behind the wheel of his car in P1 on the grid earlier that night, Mingyu had gripped the steering wheel, glanced at the burnt sunset orange of Seokmin’s car in his wing mirrors, felt his blood sing in response as the red lights blinked on one by one. Come on, he’d thought. Come on.
SKY NEWS: I said this to you after qualifying yesterday, but I think this race proves that the Seokmin we know and love is back in top form. So welcome back, Seokmin!
LEE: Thank you! [smiles] And now I can say it—I never left. I just moved aside for a little while. I’m back now.
The problem, of course, is that Mingyu can’t just forget about it, not when every other circuit across the globe reminds him of Seokmin. Even here, they’d filmed some stupid press videos in the past that Mingyu still remembers. Cycling each other around the circuit in a trishaw, Mingyu glancing at the lean muscle of Seokmin’s calves as he pedalled, looking away just as quickly. Mingyu cracking a crab leg open, scooping out the white flesh, feeding it to Seokmin with fingers sticky with chili sauce, watching his expression of bliss as he chewed. Countless pictures and videos and memories of the two of them in identical navy jumpsuits, red and yellow emblazoned down their arms and across their chest like a sunrise.
So, the problem: as much as Mingyu tries, he can’t forget the years they shared as teammates, how it felt to have Seokmin in the garage across from him, on his side. So, the bigger problem: he doesn’t. Try very hard, that is.
Seokmin arrives on the hotel’s rooftop deck well after midnight. Mingyu’s soaking in the infinity pool and staring out at the lights of Marina Bay fifty stories below when he hears the clear timbre of Seokmin’s voice, bright with a smile that Mingyu can picture even without turning around. In the silence he can hear the bartender’s affable response, his congratulations; hears Seokmin thank him. Man of the hour. Man of the day. Seokmin victorious is a wonderful creature.
There’s a brief silence, the patter of rapid footsteps. Mingyu turns in time to see Seokmin launch himself into the pool.
This late at night, the rooftop is empty but for the two of them and the bartender, so there’s no one else to be alarmed by the massive splash that Seokmin causes as he plunges in and then resurfaces, shaking his head. He beams at Mingyu.
“I went to your room after the team celebrations ended.” Seokmin pushes his soaking wet hair out of his face. “Thought I might find you here instead.”
“Yeah,” Mingyu huffs. He’d been too irritated from his crash and the points he’d lost to stay cooped up in his room for long, had headed to the rooftop deck to clear his head. He’d clocked laps up and down the pool to vent his pent-up frustration at squandering the valuable opportunity to extend his miniscule lead in the drivers’ championship, and by the time most of the hotel guests had gone back inside his exhaustion had dulled to the clean burn of physical exertion instead of anger. Then he’d just leaned against the side of the pool and enjoyed the refreshing night air, as cool as the atmosphere in Singapore was going to get—a welcome change from the humid sauna of an hour he’d spent in the cockpit during the race. Waiting for Seokmin to arrive, as he inevitably would.
Seokmin reads his curt answer for the current of dissatisfaction running underneath it, wades through the water until he’s standing beside Mingyu. “There’s nothing you could have done about it,” he says, and Mingyu can feel his gaze, the thoughtful weight of it. “The slow pit stop wasn’t your fault. The crash, too. From where I’m standing, it just looked like a racing accident.”
“You’re standing on the top step of the podium,” Mingyu snaps, and regrets it instantly, crossing his arms and scowling stubbornly out at the skyline.
For a second he’s afraid Seokmin might mistake his response for petty jealousy, but he might as well be a sheet of glass for how easily Seokmin sees right through him: Seokmin just laughs, teasing and bright, and jostles him. “Tough luck,” he says. “I think you can afford a few more bad races than me.”
Mingyu rolls his eyes and shoves him right back for that, finds himself starting to smile anyway. “You’re trying to curse me.”
“I’m not!” Seokmin holds his hands up in surrender, eyes still crinkled into crescent moons. “I’m just saying. Of course it would’ve been nice if you were on the podium too.”
Next to me, he doesn’t say, and Mingyu has to swallow his instinctive response: that if he had to be beaten by anyone, the singular most infuriating and most tolerable person to do it would be Seokmin, Seokmin, Seokmin. He glances away, has to clear his throat before his voice comes out steady again. “It felt good, didn’t it?”
“Mingyu,” Seokmin says mock-seriously, tilting his head back and closing his eyes like he’s basking in the light-drenched elation of the win. “Good is an understatement.”
He’s quiet for a moment. A rare breeze whispers past, raises goosebumps on the back of Mingyu’s neck. Then:
"Do you remember when I last won?" Seokmin asks, eyes still closed. "In Monaco."
Three years ago in Monaco Seokmin had been the star, the race favourite, hungry for it after the victory had been snatched from under his nose by a botched pit stop the year before. Despite an engine malfunction early on in the race, he’d dug his claws in and fended off half the field with a limping car and somehow, miraculously, implausibly, he’d won.
Mingyu had crashed in qualifying and had been fighting his way up from the back of the grid for a chance to finish in the points. He hadn’t seen Seokmin all race, but when he climbed out of his car in parc fermé Seokmin had still caught him halfway to the barricades, their bodies pressed together in an embrace as the cameras went off, smile so wide it threatened to break free of his helmet. Impulsively, Mingyu had reached out, popped Seokmin’s visor up just to see the pure delight on his face.
At the afterparty on some supermodel's obscenely luxurious yacht he’d only been able to take half an hour of race chatter before he wanted to be somewhere else, just for a moment. Mingyu clapped Seungcheol on the back in congratulations again—he’d finished second that race—and slipped out onto the deck, glass in hand.
The crisp night air fell around him like a veil; he let out an explosive sigh of relief and looked up to take in the view. Monaco was a boring circuit, kept on the racing calendar more for its history and prestige than for its excitement, but the city was dripping in jewels: from down in the marina, where he was drifting gently on the yacht, Monte Carlo was alight, blazing. Hotel rooms, casinos, streetlights along the harbour front. So bright it made the sky look grey instead of black, as if all the stars had fallen to rest in the hills like sparks of gold.
The cabin door swung shut with a soft click. Mingyu turned.
"Hi," Seokmin said, crossing the deck to stand next to Mingyu. He leaned against the railing, mirrored Mingyu's pose.
"Hi," Mingyu said, mouth curling into a smile. He tapped his glass against Seokmin's in acknowledgement. "Well done."
The yacht bobbed gently; champagne sloshed in Mingyu's glass. So Mingyu does remember: remembers Seokmin with his elbows on the railing, leaning out as the breeze curled through his hair. Remembers him laughing at something Mingyu said, head tipped back, eyes shut, smile helpless, wide. What he doesn’t remember is what the joke was. Whether it was even a joke. The clearest thing that comes to mind now is Seokmin’s joy, the little thrill of satisfaction that ran down Mingyu’s spine at having been the one to put it on his face.
The clearest thing that comes to mind: Seokmin leaning forward, slow, his expression sweet with intention. Golden light falling across his face in slants.
Mingyu blinks. Behind his eyelids the memory fades like an afterimage. “Yeah,” he says, throat dry. “I remember.”
Seokmin opens his eyes. He looks at Mingyu, and Mingyu looks at him, and there’s that same stark ambition reflected back, that same desire: the need to be adored. Seokmin, for all his warmth and amicable smiles, is equally as hungry as Mingyu, ruthlessly perfectionistic to a degree that even Mingyu isn’t: he just hides it better. In spite of—or maybe because of—that, he’s one of the few people on the grid that Mingyu likes.
Like might be the wrong word, then. He’s one of the few people on the grid that Mingyu knows.
Do you miss me? Seokmin had asked, the season he'd first left, in the middle of a post-race interview they'd been doing with Fox News. Uncharacteristically vulnerable, eyes searching Mingyu's face for the answer.
Mingyu reeled, both from the honesty the question demanded of him and its unexpected nature, hyper-aware of the camera on them, of what it meant that Seokmin was asking this of him here, now. He parroted it back. Do you miss me?
Seokmin grinned then, eyes crinkling, lovely, familiar. I asked first.
And what was Mingyu supposed to say to that? Lying had never been an option, not with Seokmin; they'd said so many things to each other, and barbed and hurtful as their words had been, they'd always been true. Hearts laid bare on the racetrack. Selfishly, honestly: yes. Of course. I miss you. I want you back. I want you. Truth bleeding into truth.
"Welcome back," Mingyu says.
Seokmin smiles. Of course he knows what Mingyu wants from him. Of course he knows. "I said it in the paddock," he says. "I told that reporter from Sky News."
"I know," Mingyu says. "But you haven't told me yet." He's aware of how he sounds: petulant, a little pleading. Seeking an answer from Seokmin just to hear him say it out loud. "Welcome back, Seokmin."
And as much as Mingyu gives, as much of himself as he puts into Seokmin's hands, Seokmin always gives it back. A reciprocal of faith, twofold, tenfold. "Okay," Seokmin says, moving closer. The surface of the pool ripples. "Okay," Seokmin says again, and he's close. He's so close. “Mingyu—”
Below, the city glitters. Above them the cloud cover gathers, blankets the sky in shades of indigo and grey, and you can’t see stars in Monaco or Singapore but Seokmin kisses him and kisses him and Mingyu’s not thinking about stars anymore, just the one, just the space between them, the golden light. When Seokmin pulls back Mingyu chases him, catches him, his face, his shoulders, his bare skin.
“Seokmin,” he says. His whole body thrumming, awake, alive. Like being behind the wheel of a car and hearing the engine start to stir. He leans forward again, lets their foreheads fall together. Seokmin’s hands curled around the back of his neck like an anchor.
“I’m here,” Seokmin says, quiet. Of course he knows what Mingyu needs. “I’m here. I never left.”