Work Text:
Kevin Magnussen is in agony.
It wasn’t physical pain; he almost wished it were. Then at least he would have concrete proof of his suffering; a visible testament, one that could be seen and acknowledged by those unfortunate enough to look upon it. No, what he had was mental pain. It’s a searing block in his head, drowning out all ordinary thoughts and beating itself like a tattoo into the back of his mind. Concentration was a distant dream. His fingers twitch with the memorised motions of a paddle-shift gearbox; the blood in his ears swells and thumps to the tune of a turbo-hybrid V6, his eyes jitter in the glow of five red lights.
The truth is, he realises, I’m suffering from withdrawal. Withdrawal from the fastest, the most intoxicating, the most scintillating drug in the world.
Formula One.
He hadn’t given two shits about Haas spiralling down the championship rankings. The VF chassis got worse with every successive number plastered on it, dragging an underpowered engine, flawed suspension package, overweight gearbox. If anything, he preferred it this way. The slower teams would fight tooth and nail just to keep their heads above water. There was no ‘playing it safe’, no ‘team orders.’ Just a straight-up war of machine and man, written in sweat and engraved in burnt rubber. He’d taken a pay cut. After Italy, he’d stayed up all night with the engineers to squeeze the faintest hint of drivability out of that jalopy of a racing car. Cars that fought back were special, he’d realised. Oh sure, you might break records in a Mercedes. You could lift trophies in a Ferrari, titles in a Red Bull. In a Haas or an Alfa Romeo, you’d drag your battered body over broken glass for a seventh-place finish. Six points could mean everything when you were in the thick of the midfield, and Kevin loved every high-octane second of it.
It’s why it had hurt so much when Guenther had let him go.
He barely remembers it. Platitudes. A few decisive nods. Something about a ‘restructuring year’. All just before the Portuguese Grand Prix. Naturally, the race had been somewhat of a blur, with the Haas car handling sluggishly and predictably. There’d been no fight in it, no drive: he and Romain had crossed the line 16th and 17th, almost two laps down. Levering himself out of the cockpit post-race was the hardest thing he’d ever done, to confront the fact that these last few races might be his final imprint on F1.
After Sakhir, after seeing Romain caught in the midst of that fireball, something within him was extinguished, like fingers pinching a candle flame. Sure, he’d raced around in endurance prototypes this year, even made a one-off race in IndyCar, but nothing had come close to equalling that excitement he felt on the F1 grid.
That’s why he was here, lounging on the couch, ringed by beer bottles and watching the team he and Romain worked so hard to build disintegrate on live television.
They were racing in Turkey, at Istanbul Park. Kevin had always wanted to drive an F1 car there; the circuit had vanished from the calendar three years before he got his own start in the sport. He’d always held out a faint hope that it would one day return; now here it was, and he was sat at home, tipsy, watching two hapless rookies squander his hope.
Well, maybe hapless was a bit harsh. Word on the grapevine was that the VF-21 was a barely updated version of the already dire 2020 chassis, brightened up with a new livery on it. The Schumacher kid had managed to wrestle it to fourteenth place in qualifying, earning a low whistle of approval from Kevin. Right now, though, he was struggling in nineteenth, dropping well back behind the other cars. Over a race distance, the problems of the VF-21 were just given too much time and space to make themselves apparent, as evidenced by the second Haas driver, who was miles off of even his teammate’s pace.
The less said about Schumacher’s teammate, the better. Kevin hated Nikita Mazepin. Hated him for stealing his drive, hated him for his insufferably rich father, hated him for being the worst thing in F1 since elimination qualifying. Mazepin was—is—tragic. There was no other word for it. As a driver, he's monumentally slow and obscenely reckless: an awful combination for any rookie, much less a paid one. To top it all off, the Russian is consistently determined to act like an insufferable prick during interviews. Kevin swears that if he has to read another whiny fucking headline about Haas sabotaging Mazepin’s car or favouring Schumacher with team orders, he's going to—
“Why are you making yourself watch this? I came over here to watch the damn race, and even I’m fed up with it.”
The Dane jolts at the sound of the laidback German accent. “Jesus, Nico, at least give me some warning before you scare me like that!”
“Don’t be such a baby.” He surveys the beer bottles on the table and armrest with distaste, lip curling in time to the shake of his head. “How much are you planning to drink?”
“As much as I need to enjoy this race.”
“Pfft. Your liver’s going to give out long before then.”
Nico plops down on the couch next to Kevin; the cushion underneath him shifts slightly under Nico’s weight, and Kevin forces his breathing to still. He’d invited Nico over to watch the race a few days ago, thoroughly dissatisfied with his lack of contacts outside the F1 paddock. Well, in truth the taller German had practically invited himself: he had been free from Aston Martin simulator duties for a couple of weeks and made up some excuse about seeing Kevin on TV. Something about Kevin looking ‘down’ in a recent interview and needing some ‘dude time’. It’s total bullshit, Kevin had thought at the time, but I’m sure we could both use the company.
“Looks like Bottas is doing well for a change,” the taller blonde quips drily, his blue eyes roving over the TV screen. “Although it hardly matters at this point. Everyone knows this championship’s going to be a two-horse race – poor guy’s light-years behind Hamilton and Verstappen."
“Yeah,” Kevin replies vacantly, slightly unnerved by Nico’s habit of referring to other drivers by their surnames. “Who do you think’s taking the title?”
“Well, I’d say it’s Hamilton’s to lose, right? That W12’s one hell of a racing machine; I’d do anything to have a drive in it myself.”
“Pity they’d never let you near it,” Kevin scoffs bitterly. The memory of Mercedes’ empty offer of a test-drive for Romain was still fresh in his mind: every time he thought about it, his mind returned inevitably to the crash. The dappled glare of the flames in his wing mirrors seem to etch themselves into his eyelids, and he blinks furiously to soothe the prickling sensation that always seems to accompany an onslaught of tears. Nico must’ve realised this, because he clears his throat awkwardly and lays a tentative hand on Kevin’s thigh.
“Kevin, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.”
The German hurriedly withdraws his hand. On-screen, the number 22 car of Yuki Tsunoda spins around in a cloud of froth and spray: several other cars loom out of the lancing rain, shooting past the stricken Toro Rosso. AlphaTauri, Kevin mentally corrects himself. He’s starting to think he might never get used to that name.
“So…” Nico mutters after a while, “back to what we were saying. Who do you think will win?”
“Hm?”
“The world championship, of course. Hamilton or Verstappen?”
“Verstappen,” Kevin answers promptly.
Nico leans back in his seat and looks at him, his expression a combination of shock and curiosity.
“Why’d you say that? I mean, Hamilton is the superior driver—”
“Lewis, you mean.”
“—and it’s clear that the W12 is the superior car,” Nico continues, undeterred. “Sure, Verstappen may be leading the standings, and I don’t deny he’s exceedingly fast and superbly talented, but he’s… erratic. Hamilton—sorry, Lewis—is a seven-time world champion. He’s well-rounded, consistent and more experienced, and that’s why he’s going to win.”
Kevin laughs in response and smirks at the ex-Renault driver. He can’t help himself.
“Nico, just because you find Sir Lewis attractive doesn’t mean you have to campaign for the presidency of his fan club as well.”
At this, his friend whirls around, blue eyes wide and spots of colour rising in his cheeks.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You know exactly what I mean…”
Once, years ago in Singapore, they’d been to a post-race party. It had been in some exclusive club in Marina Bay: the organisers had opened the place up solely to the F1 paddock. Kevin hadn’t finished the Grand Prix that day; his Haas’s engine had given up the ghost on lap 50. Nevertheless, Romain had finished ninth and scored points, and Kevin went along to celebrate with his teammate. It’d been a lot more enjoyable than Kevin had expected after a few drinks: seeing the other drivers outside the paddock was always fun, and he’d even attempted some ridiculous tandem dance move with Daniel Ricciardo on the neon-lit floor. The Australian had been flushed by both alcohol and the exhilaration of his podium finish, and his enthusiasm was infectious. After that, Kevin had danced with Pascal Wehrlein, Carlos Sainz and even a smiling young pit crew member from the Williams team. It was after dancing with her that he’d caught sight of a figure sat morosely at the bar. Excusing himself, he’d moseyed over and taken the stool beside the stranger, who turned out to be none other than Nico Hulkenberg himself.
“Hey, Nico. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you come to one of these things before. Aren’t you into dancing?” he’d said, gesturing at Nico’s teammate Jolyon Palmer, who was singing jubilantly, arm-in-arm with Stoffel Vandoorne and a pair of Renault technicians.
“No. Please leave me alone,” came the curt and sharp response. Nico had eyed him disdainfully, determined to ignore him. Of course, this had been the year of their infamous tussle in Hungary, and the legendary comment that came in the subsequent interview. Their relations since had been frosty to non-existent, to say the least. Still, suffused with alcohol and party spirit, Kevin hadn’t let up.
“C’mon, Nico, why come to party if you’re not gonna…well…party?”
“I wanted the free drinks. You weren’t the only driver who retired today, Magnussen.” His last name had been spat like it was some sort of disease: undeterred, Kevin motioned the bartender over and ordered two shots of Jägermeister.
“Ah, Nico, I’m sorry. I know you were… what, fifth?”
“Fourth. Twelve valuable points.”
“Well, join me in a drink to their honour, then.”
Nico shrugged and downed the shot, then another, and another. Before long, the Renault and Haas drivers were leaning on the bar, enmity forgotten as they chattered like old friends.
“What do you think of Jolyon? You raced alongside him last year, no?” Nico has asked.
“Jolyon?” Momentarily stunned by Nico’s use of his teammate’s first name, Kevin had almost coughed out a mouthful of his drink.
“Yeah… how’d you find him?”
“Boring,” Kevin had replied with a snort. “He treats racing like it’s something you can study, like you need a textbook or something. Always…calculating. We argued a lot about that.”
Nico opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the club’s lights dimmed to a dull, pulsing purple. There was a commotion on the other side of the dance floor: Daniel stuck two fingers in his mouth to whistle. Kevin had been craning his neck to try and see what all the fuss was about when Lewis Hamilton had sauntered up into the crowd.
The world champion had been imposing, as if his very presence had somehow cast a thrall over the party-goers and drivers alike. Dressed in a slim white jacket dotted with golden geometric shapes, Lewis had nodded decisively at something Daniel had said before breaking into a sudden dance routine. Seeing the Brit dance was a shock in itself. Kevin had always assumed Lewis kept himself regimented, disciplined, controlled; somehow the concept of him dancing was something fundamentally irreconcilable to his view of the dominant Mercedes driver. Yet, as he watched, Kevin couldn’t help but grin. Lewis moved with a lithe, powerful grace, his white-gold jacket glimmering under the glare of the lights, seemingly completely detached from the now cheering and whistling crowd.
Kevin turned to Nico. “He’s pretty good, huh? I didn’t—”
The look on Nico’s face had been utterly enraptured.
Kevin watched the German driver’s eyes rove over the dancing Lewis, as if analysing every muscle moving under the clothes. At first, he’d assumed it was the drink: then Nico had stared pointedly at the Brit’s arse in his jeans. He understood.
“Hey, easy there with the stare, Nico. You keep gazing at it like that, you might burn another hole into it.”
Nico had spun around then, mouth agape and cheeks blushing a rich scarlet. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—I’m not—”
“Hey, man, it’s cool. He’s an attractive guy.”
At this Nico had looked away; his shoulders slumped with something Kevin thought at the time was frustration but had come to realise was more like relief.
“He sure is…”
“Kevin?” echoes Nico’s voice, jerking the Dane out of his reminiscence.
“Sorry, what?” he mumbles back, shaking his head to clear the memory from his mind. God. I must’ve drunk more than I thought.
“I was saying, what does Max have that Hamilton doesn’t? He has a slower car, less experience, and let’s be fair here—a lesser teammate. I like Perez, but Bottas was always going to be the better number two.”
“Max has something else, though…” Kevin murmurs. Sequences of images flash through his mind; the glint of Red Bull blue through his helmet visor, Max’s car diving up the inside of Charles in Austria two years ago, the sight of a Red Bull sitting atop Lewis’s Mercedes in the Monza Turn 2 gravel trap.
“What?”
“I don’t know how to describe it. Just—Lewis is smooth, okay? He’s a legend, he knows what it’s like to win. Max doesn’t. Every time he’s won this season, he’s seen that title inch just a little closer. He can feel it, taste it almost. That’s why he fights so hard: he knows that he can finally lift the Driver’s Championship for the first time in his career, and he won’t let a single opportunity get away from him. He’s fierce wheel-to-wheel because every overtake at any point in the season could be the one that loses him the championship. That’s why he never gives anybody an inch.”
Kevin chuckles ruefully. It was meant to sound flippant, but it comes out more bitterly than intended. “Reminds me of myself when I was his age.”
Romain would’ve chuckled and made some joke about how Kevin was ‘too young’ to be using “when I was his age” in any comparison, but Nico just remains still and silent. Kevin looks at his friend. Nico’s eyes bore into the screen, watching Esteban Ocon charge into Turn 6. The silence between them seems taut and purposeful, and feels charged with… something. That’s just the beer talking, he tells himself half-heartedly, but he can’t quite bring himself to believe it. Nico turns to him, shifting slightly on the couch. Their knees touch: Kevin feels the contact like a bolt of lightning, shivering and crackling through every pore of his skin.
“Don’t you wish it was you, sometimes?” Nico whispers in a hushed, low baritone. “Don’t you think about how much better things would’ve been if it’d been you in that Mercedes, fighting Verstappen for every point? If those world championships were yours?”
“You want me to be honest?”
“I’d prefer it, yes.”
“No, I don’t.”
He holds up a hand to silence Nico, whose mouth is opening in imminent protest.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’d love a world championship or two. Hell, I’d love to win just one race! To me, though…racing’s all about the thrill. Laugh at me all you want, it’s true. I just don’t think sailing off into the distance every year in that silver chariot would bring me any joy. Think about it—this is the first time Lewis has had to fight for a title in years, and even back then, it was with another Mercedes. Only now is another team’s driver able to challenge him. I respect him enormously, you know I do, but I could never cope with that. To me, racing’s about wheels against wheels. It’s about pulling out of the pits half a second ahead of your rival, seeing his face while your helmets are side-by-side—”
“Pushing him onto the grass in a stupid move up the inside?”
“Yes, even that completely fair and unjustly penalised overtake. The point is, racing for me is all about the battles. If I wanted success, I’d go back to the IMSA guys. They’d have that prototype ready for me in a heartbeat. I was just as fast if not faster than their regular guy, van der Zande. Endurance racing’s just... it's not the same. I mean, if anyone knows that, you do, Nico—you’ve won Le Mans, for fuck’s sake!”
Nico smiles, and scoots closer. Now their thighs are touching, and the sensation excites Kevin more than anything he’s felt since he stepped out of his VF-20 in Abu Dhabi.
“F1’s a blur, it’s a war, it’s thousands of things throwing themselves at you every second. Whether it’s for fourteenth or fourth, your first points or your first championship, it doesn’t matter! Everything’s on the line! That’s what I miss about F1, Nico; the heat of those split-second moments, y’know? The risk.”
He heaves a deep breath, unexpectedly light-headed; the drink must be hitting him harder than he expected. Nico’s still gazing at him, spellbound by the outpouring of emotion in his outburst, and for a few seconds, neither one of them speaks, transfixed by the other.
“Do you want to take a risk?” Nico says quietly, breaking the silence.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know exactly what I mean.”
“Right now?”
Nico nods. There’s something alight in his face, in his eyes. It’s that same hard-eyed determination he’d seen at the bar in Singapore, accentuating the light dusting of stubble on his chin and the furrowed curve of his eyebrows. Dimly, Kevin registers his heartbeat picking up, and silently prepares himself for the word he wants to say so badly.
“Yes.”
Nico doesn’t need any more invitation. With a creak of sofa springs, he wraps one arm between Kevin’s neck and the headrest and slides his other arm around Kevin’s right shoulder. The pressure of his lips comes as a surprise to the former Haas driver. He’s never kissed a man before. It’s warmer than he would expect, and the brush of Nico’s stubble along his jaw is a sensation he never knew he’d want this badly. Nico pushes downwards, gently but firmly, and his mouth shifts, hot and wet over Kevin’s jaw to his neck. The taller man fumbles slightly with the zipper on Kevin’s turtleneck jumper, stopping to curse softly in German before yanking it down and returning his attentions to the side of his neck. His breath is hard and fast against Kevin’s skin. It’s a heady feeling, too heady, and the Dane leans back, breaking their connection.
“Something the matter?” Nico says in a rush. His words trip over themselves in an endearing mix of passion and concern. “Did I—are you—”
“No, no, it’s fine, Nico, I just… I’ve never done this… with a guy before.”
Nico stares at him, bewildered, and Kevin resists the urge to lean forward and kiss him again. “Kevin, do you not want to continue?”
Do you want to take a risk? Nico’s words echo in his mind.
He puts his arm around Nico’s neck this time and pulls the German in close until their foreheads are almost touching. At this distance, Kevin can smell the cologne in Nico’s sweat, and the sudden knowledge that he must’ve put that on specifically before coming here is simultaneously the most intoxicating and electrifying feeling on Earth.
“Yes,” he breaths into Nico’s mouth as they kiss again. “Of course I do.”