Chapter Text
It’s only been what, an hour?
Lance opens his phone, and is pleasantly surprised to see that he’s guessed correctly. He pointedly ignores the duolingo notifications that are practically begging him to continue his Spanish lessons.
Which he was already taking. It’s not like he-
Come on. It’s not like he was seriously starting Spanish because of Fernando.
And that’s pretty much verbatim the excuse he gave Estaban a few days ago when the fucking geek stalked him on the app.
“Spanish is your new top language.” Esteban had said, his eyes staring right into Lance’s soul over facetime.
“Oh? Uh, yeah. Guess so.” He shrugs, exaggerating the movement so that Este can see it through the screen.
“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” Esteban says, not sparing Lance his dignity by using kinder, gentler words.
“I am not, non. ” Lance replies, because it’s the truth. They’d last kissed after their weird not-a-date. It was kind of this hungry thing in an alley outside the restaurant, but unlike their escapades in the club bathroom or in Lance’s hotel room before that, it only lasted about 5 minutes before Fernando was pulling away with a frown.
The shorter man pulled out his phone, and showed that he was getting a call from Valtteri.
Homewrecker.
Lance is joking, of course. He’s not overly eager to hop on a cycling trail right now, so Fernando and Valtteri can fuck off to do whatever the old guys do. That makes Lance laugh to himself, because they’re really not that old.
To be fair, Lance is a billionaire’s son. In his context, a 20 year age gap is pretty fucking normal.
So Fernando gives Lance a sad smile, and tells him they’ll catch up more later.
So no, Esteban, Lance is not fucking Fernando. Or being fucked, or even really doing anything with him.
“We have a lot of Spanish sponsors?” Lance says, like it’s obvious. Like there’s no other possible conclusion to come to, and that Esteban is an idiot for even asking. Este is used to Lance’s shenanigans, though, and doesn’t let the topic slip that easily.
“Ah, but you want him to. That’s- you are disgusting, Lance.” Esteban groans, but there’s no real disdain or judgement behind his words. Esteban understands Lance.
Lance shrugged over the phone and smiled slightly. Esteban laughed, and told him that he was being stupid. Lance agreed.
“Maybe Fernando likes stupid.” Lance teased.
“He does. That’s why he hates me.” Esteban fires back, to a giggling Lance.
“Yeah? If you say so.” Lance says, unconvinced.
“Eugh?” Esteban says, one of those guttural sounds that he and Pierre and sometimes Charles make. The ones that show Lance that while he can speak their language, he’s not like them. It’s not a bad thing though. He doesn’t think he’d enjoy being that European anyway.
Esteban looks off screen, nodding along to a voice that Lance can’t quite hear.
“I have to go. Don’t do anything stupid, ouais ?” Esteban says and Lance just laughs, hanging up without a response.
Lance wouldn’t be surprised if Esteban had already predicted this attraction that Lance had to Fernando. He wouldn’t be shocked at all if it was scrawled in the slightly taller man’s diary, along with some biting review of how shitty his team was being.
Private criticism that Lance knows Esteban has.
Sometimes, though, Lance wants to join him at Alpine. It could work out, Lance thinks. They could bring back the good old days of Renault, maybe. Lance knows the team favours francophones, and it’s not like Charles is keen on leaving the fucking dumpster fire that is Scuderia Ferrari, even though he should.
Este and Pierre are getting along fine, apparently, but Lance knows that he and Esteban could make some moves on track, if they were aligned. Besides, it would be nice to get away from the ‘daddy’s money’ shit. It doesn’t bother him as much as it could, but it still bothers him more than it should. Lance secretly hopes another team will try and get him in a seat for 2025, so all the haters settle down. Don’t they know that Niki Lauda bought his way into the sport, too? Different, of course, but it takes money to do this. And it’s just how it is.
Sometimes he’s surprised that guys like Lando don’t ever seem to get any of those types of comments, really. Lando and Lance have similar temperaments sometimes, but Lando doesn’t get called a brat or have endless posts about how his own dad’s deep pockets helped fuel his karting obsession. Lance’s father absolutely was there supporting his own dream of racing, which is why doesn’t think it’s right to be ashamed to admit that you have so much help from family. No point in running from the truth.
Besides, he puts in the work and he dedicates himself to doing his best. But it still hurts that every single mistake or lapse in judgement goes fucking viral and gets him death threats and hate comments for weeks. Probably will always hurt, Lance thinks.
Lance doesn’t love his life, a lot of the time. He doesn’t love that feeling that lingers, signalling to him how he could probably just fuck off and do nothing for the rest of time. He could afford to live between clubs in Ibiza and Mykonos, yachts in the Mediterranean, galas in Paris. He could just do nothing.
And not receive hate comments and death threats while doing so.
After just barely drifting off to sleep Lance looks at his phone to check the time, and it’s almost 18:45. He should be ready by now. Okay, he has some time, yeah. But he’s basically just lounged around when he could have been, like, working on his Spanish or something. Just like the stupid app was telling him.
Lance supposes he could ask Esteban for Spanish lessons. Or do what any normal person would do and hire a private tutor to advance his language skills. You know, so he can talk to the sponsors and stuff.
He finds himself secretly hoping he will get a private tutor. But not one that will teach him how to talk about the car’s performance. One that will whisper strings of filth in his ears, and teach him all the words to describe what he’s going to do to Lance.
Phew.
Lance has a feeling that duolingo doesn’t specialise in the type of vocab he’s looking for, but it’s a good exercise in training his tongue.
Not that tongue training is something his ‘private tutor’ couldn’t help with either.
Fuck, Lance is so weird.
He finally decides to get out of bed, letting out a disappointed noise when he has to actually get up and move, instead of stretching his limbs across his warm bed, rubbing his cheek up to his pillow and nestling it there. And maybe also day-dreaming about sharing it with someone.
He cracks his neck as he walks around his room, rolling his shoulders and making weird groaning noises to shake the sleep from his body.
Lance thinks he should invite Fernando and Esteban to the cat cafe downtown. They both are cat people, which kinda makes sense. Lance likes dogs a bit more, personally, but he’s more than self-aware enough to realise the obvious connection between his own lazy, disinterested attitude and that of a cat.
So what? He’s not ashamed by the comparison. He likes to watch and observe rather than jump in right away and smooth over the details later. He enjoys a good stretch. Enjoys even more a good nap.
Man, he could go for another nap. It’s always hard to shake his post-orgasm haze and pull himself from his comfortable bed.
He worries, sometimes, that this is a bad idea. Not in the way that most of the shit Lance gets up to with his friends is probably a bad idea. He worries that this thing between them is going to rip him apart and leave him discarded, just like Alpine was.
Lance doesn’t even blame Fernando for what happened there, just like Esteban doesn’t blame Lance for taking his own seat in 2019. It’s how it goes, in this sport. There’s only so many of them, more super licence holders than there are seats available. It’s never going to be easy.
Lance knows what people say about him. His comments may be turned off often, those rare times he actually posts anything anymore. He’s seen the long chains of insults that people assign to his name. The betrayal of knowing that all he’ll ever be to them is a fuck up of a rich boy weighs heavy on his heart.
He knows some of the other drivers hate him, too.
There are bullies on the grid. Guys that never aged past 15, apparently, and openly show their disdain for Lance and, often, Esteban too.
If Lance were braver, he’d ask Fernando for advice. It must have been difficult, ending Schumi’s streak like that. And then losing by that slim margin, fighting and giving it everything on track.
Fernando would understand.
Lance will ask. He’ll be brave.
A few weeks ago, he didn’t feel brave at all around Fernando. Sure, it was amazing to get the reassurement and praise after that first race, but Lance was still so reserved. Apprehensive. He doesn’t even blame Esteban for it, because the horror stories about being teammates with Alonso? That’s not what made him so nervous. Lance had seen this weird shift, noticed that people just didn’t like him anymore. It kept fucking eating at him, even though he pushed and pushed and pushed it down. Buried his insecurities and stopped checking his social media. He stopped googling himself too.
There’s no reason for Lance to be thinking about all this stuff, but he’s nothing if not self-deprecating. It’s an inevitability that he’ll find some way to just be sad. It’s his way. He’s not sure why it keeps happening to him, too. He’s tried his best to be humble, to acknowledge his fans at the races, to do his duty. He’s nice, too. He likes being kind to people and buying people presents that actually mean something to them- another reason why he’s growing more and more fond of Fernando.
But it’s no use. Here he is, tugging on outfit after outfit, on the verge of tears. Because he’ll never be good enough. If he posts a lot, he’s begging for attention. If he never posts, he’s a shut-in or neglecting his duties to the media. If he makes jokes, he’s treated like one. If he’s serious, people roast him for being emotionless.
He knows that the sport is fucked up. That much is clear. Has been clear for decades. It tears people apart. Ruins relationships. Ruins lives.
Hell, Fernando himself said he’d probably have a family by now if it weren’t for his dedication to Formula 1. Lance wonders if he ever gets sad, seeing the other guys’ families. Wonders if Fernando ever thinks about what could have been if he’d hung up the boots earlier.
Lance thinks Nico Rosberg has a lot of things figured out, and a lot of things very much not figured out. One of the things he might have gotten right was the decision to retire. Hell, look at Lewis. He’s fighting for his legacy out there, and this season has shut him out over and over. It’s gotta be painful.
Those are the times when Lance is glad he doesn’t drive for a high profile team. He can’t really imagine it. When Seb was there, it sorta felt like a high profile team. Because it’s fucking Sebastian Vettel. That’s a name.
Fernando Alonso is a name too, of course, but he’s so… different. Different than Seb, for sure. Different than himself, though, too. Not a far cry from the Alonso of the mid 2000s, but different.
Lance may have been born into fashion, but you wouldn’t be able to tell from the mass of abandoned outfits on his bed. Or maybe that’s actually a dead giveaway that he was practically lab-created to know fashion. Not that he really likes to show it. Not in the flashy way that others do, at least.
He’s more of a quiet luxury fan. Stealth wealth, if you will. He’d nearly had a conniption after his friends forced him to watch an episode of
Succession
. Hit the nail right on the head.
So he settles on a clean white shirt and tight slacks. He’s traded out his silver chain for a stacked necklace thing, because this
is
a date, afterall.
It’s a date.
Oh man.