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The restaurant is tucked away from the louder, tourist-heavy streets of Suzuka, a quiet little spot Flavio somehow found through connections. It’s dimly lit but warm, the kind of place that smells like soy sauce, sizzling meat, and good decisions.
Jarno settles comfortably at the low wooden table, stretching his legs under it. It’s a rare moment of relaxation, the kind that only comes before race day, when the real pressure hasn’t set in yet. The air is filled with easy conversation (mainly straight rambling from Franck), the occasional clatter of chopsticks against ceramic, and the low hum of laughter from the four of them. Fernando, Franck, Flavio, and himself.
The food? Fucking spectacular.
There’s an assortment of dishes spread across the table—sushi, tempura, steaming bowls of miso soup, delicate slices of sashimi arranged like artwork. Jarno digs in without hesitation, alternating between bites of grilled fish and perfectly seasoned rice, humming in satisfaction.
Across from him, Fernando is… not eating.
Jarno notices it in between bites, the way Fernando holds his chopsticks absentmindedly, idly pushing a piece of sushi across his plate but never actually picking it up. His other hand drums lightly against the table, fingers tapping out a rhythm that doesn’t quite match the relaxed atmosphere.
He looks present but not here , his gaze slightly unfocused, like his mind is somewhere else entirely.
Jarno swallows a mouthful of rice and leans back on one elbow, tilting his head. “You know,” he says, voice casual, “I’m starting to think you’re not human.”
Fernando blinks, pulled from whatever distant thought he was lost in. “What?”
Jarno smirks. “I mean, come on. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep—half the time, you don’t even look real. You’re always just there , like some kind of…” He gestures vaguely with his chopsticks before grinning. “Supernatural being. You sure you’re not a ghost? Or a vampire?”
Flavio, sitting a few seats down, scoffs. “A vampire who drives a Formula 1 car,” he mutters, taking a sip of sake. “That’s a new one.”
But Fernando— Fernando giggles .
Not his usual sharp, self-assured chuckle. No, this is something lighter, breathier—almost boyish , like Jarno’s said the funniest thing in the world.
The sound throws Jarno completely off guard.
Fernando? Giggling?
That’s not right.
For a second, Jarno just stares at him.
Fernando meets his gaze, still smiling, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes. “I’ll leave that mystery to you, then,” he says, voice smooth, amused.
The way he says it makes the hair on the back of Jarno’s neck stand up.
Before he can say anything else, Fernando places his chopsticks down neatly on the edge of his plate and shifts in his seat.
“I should go,” he murmurs, already rising. “I’m not feeling great.” He nods politely to Flavio and the others. “Thank you for the meal.”
No one questions it—drivers have off days, weird routines, pre-race nerves. It’s not uncommon.
But as Fernando slips away, disappearing through the sliding wooden door, Jarno watches him go, a faint crease forming between his brows.
Something about that exchange lingers.
The way Fernando reacted. The way he laughed—like it wasn’t a denial, just… amusement.
For a split second, he considers following him. Maybe just to check in, to ask if he’s alright.
But then he looks down at the plate in front of him, at the still-steaming bowl of miso soup, the perfectly golden tempura—
Yeah, nah . This food is way too good to waste.
Fernando can handle himself.
Jarno shrugs off the weirdness and digs back in.
And for the moment, that’s enough.
The race is over, the cars are all packed away, and the cool night air has started to settle over the circuit. Jarno's legs are heavy, his back sore from the relentless drive, but he’s content enough with his P6 finish. Not great, but good. He can hold his head high.
But Fernando—
He finished P8. And for Fernando , that’s a letdown. A rare off day for the Spaniard, even if it’s not terrible by any means.
Something has been off about him all weekend. It’s not just the race today, it’s the way he’s been acting—distant, quieter than usual, almost… frail . He hasn’t been his usual cocky, confident self. There’s a sharpness missing from his attitude. Something isn’t right .
Jarno had noticed it after qualifying. Fernando barely spoke during the debrief. His eyes seemed a little too sunken. A little too… distant.
Even before the race, at dinner, he’d been acting strangely. Not eating, pushing his food around, the way he left early, as if he couldn’t bear being around people. That was unusual even for someone as self-contained as Fernando.
Maybe Jarno’s being paranoid. After all, the guy’s always been hard to read. But he had to admit, something was definitely off.
So before heading back to the hotel, Jarno decides to chat with Franck. The reserve driver’s leaning against the side of the paddock, talking to a few mechanics as they start packing up. Jarno walks over, stretching out his sore shoulders.
“You know, something’s been weird about Fernando this weekend,” he says casually, but the question is already hanging in the air.
Franck looks at him, brow furrowing. “ Tell me about it ,” he replies, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve been noticing it too. Ever since Friday, he’s been… off. Not like himself, y’know? He’s pale. He looked sick after qualifying. Maybe the heat got to him or something, but he hasn’t really been himself all weekend.”
Jarno doesn’t respond immediately, mulling it over. It’s not like Fernando to have an off weekend, much less let anyone see it.
“Yeah,” Jarno murmurs. “Maybe I’ll check on him.”
Franck raises an eyebrow, but Jarno doesn’t wait for any further questions. He slaps him on the shoulder, mutters something about heading into the garage, and walks away.
The garage is eerily quiet when Jarno steps inside. Most of the team has already left, the usual buzz of post-race excitement replaced by the soft sounds of tools being packed away and the faint hum of the overhead lights.
The air is cool, but it carries the faintest scent of tire rubber and oil— familiar , comforting. He’s walked through this garage a hundred times, but tonight, something feels different .
He can’t shake the feeling of unease that’s been simmering just beneath the surface all weekend. He tells himself it’s just nerves, leftover adrenaline from the race, but it doesn’t quite sit right.
He moves further in, eyes scanning the rows of empty pit boxes.
Then, he sees him.
Fernando is doubled over by the far wall, leaning heavily against it as if the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders. He’s not standing, not moving—just… there .
His breathing is ragged, too harsh in the silence of the room, each exhale a tight, almost pained gasp. Jarno’s stomach tightens, an instinctive sense of wrongness flooding his chest.
For a second, he just watches.
Fernando’s face is drawn, pale in the low light, his hair sticking damply to his forehead. His eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. He looks exhausted, like he’s been fighting a battle he’s losing.
Jarno’s stomach churns. This isn’t normal.
"Fernando?" he calls softly, stepping forward.
The sound of his voice seems to reach Fernando, but only just. His head tilts, the barest flicker of recognition crossing his features, but it’s followed by a sharp, pained groan.
“ Fernando ,” Jarno repeats, concern rising in his voice.
But Fernando doesn’t respond, his arms clutching his stomach as if he was in pain. His body shudders, like he’s fighting something invisible.
“Hey, hey ,” Jarno moves faster now, dropping to his knees beside him. “What’s going on? You don’t look good, mate. What’s wrong?”
Fernando’s lips part, but instead of speaking, he lets out a low, strangled sound. His eyes snap open— too wide , unnaturally so—and the shock that runs through Jarno is instant.
The pupils.
Red . The dark, rich crimson of freshly spilled blood.
Jarno’s breath catches.
“What the hell…”
Before he can react, Fernando’s hand shoots out, gripping his wrist with a strength that’s too much , too fierce for someone who’s supposed to be struggling. The grip is icy .
“Fernando…” Jarno starts, confuusion and concern warring in his voice, but before he can pull away, Fernando moves.
With a growl that’s far too guttural, far too inhuman , Fernando pushes Jarno backward, his body slamming him into the floor.
“ What the fuck? ” Jarno hisses, fighting to shove Fernando off of him. But the Spaniard is relentless, his body heavier than usual, pressing down, pinning Jarno in place.
The world tilts for a moment, dizzying—his breath comes in sharp bursts as he tries to break free, but there’s no escaping Fernando’s hold. His hands are everywhere—grabbing, pulling. Jarno’s heart is racing, but not from the fight, not from the struggle. It’s something else, something worse .
“ Fernando —stop!” Jarno shouts, but it’s too late.
Without warning, Fernando’s mouth opens, and Jarno sees them.
Fangs.
Sharp, glinting in the dim light, inches from his throat. And before Jarno can react, Fernando lunges.
There’s pain. Pain that splits through Jarno’s neck, sharp and burning as the fangs sink deep. It’s not just a bite—it’s wrong , savage.
Jarno gasps, his body arching, his hands desperate as he claws at Fernando’s shoulders. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say—nothing makes sense, nothing feels real. But the pain, the overwhelming heat, it’s too much to bear.
Fernando is on him , impossibly strong, his grip like iron as his fangs sink deeper. The burn radiates through Jarno’s body, spreading from his neck down his spine, through his chest, into his fingertips. His legs kick out instinctively, twisting beneath Fernando, but the vampire doesn’t budge. If anything, he presses in closer, like he’s terrified that if he lets go, he’ll lose something.
Jarno's hands slam against Fernando’s shoulders, shoving, but it's like pushing against a mountain. He’s never felt Fernando this solid before—there's no give, no chance to pry him off. His pulse hammers, loud in his ears, a siren call that Fernando seems to latch onto, drinking deeper.
" Get— off me!" Jarno snarls, his voice hoarse, his nails raking down the back of Fernando’s suit. He thrashes, twisting his hips, using every bit of strength he has left to throw Fernando off. But Fernando only growls against his skin—a deep, guttural sound that sends a violent shudder down Jarno’s spine.
And then, suddenly, he rips away .
Not completely—his mouth drags from the puncture wounds, his lips smeared red as he gasps for breath. His eyes are wild, irises glowing a deep, feverish red, his chest rising and falling in ragged, frantic movements. He stares down at Jarno like he barely recognizes him, like he’s warring with something inside himself.
Jarno gasps, trying to gather himself, his pulse erratic. His fingers shake as they grip Fernando’s suit, and for a brief second, he thinks he’s won—Fernando’s hesitating, there’s space between them now, he can push him off—
But then Fernando lunges again.
Jarno barely gets a breath in before Fernando’s mouth crashes back onto him, fangs piercing deeper this time, sinking into the unmarked side of his throat. Jarno screams , the sound sharp and choked, his body convulsing beneath the assault. The pain is worse this time—hot, unbearable, his vision darkening at the edges as Fernando feeds with a desperation that feels all-consuming .
There’s no hesitation now. No restraint.
Fernando’s hands clutch him tighter, pressing him into the cold garage floor as he takes more, more, more . His body trembles against Jarno’s, his fingers curling against fabric as if grounding himself in the act, needing it. His breath is ragged, uneven, punctuated by quiet, near-broken noises between each deep pull.
Jarno is dizzy . His limbs feel heavier, his grip weaker, but he fights . His hand slams against Fernando’s side, pushing, hitting, his knee jerking up to try and throw him off. It barely does anything.
" Fernando! " His voice is barely there now, just a breath of sound, but his body keeps moving . He pushes against Fernando’s chest, digging his fingers in, using every ounce of strength he has left. His pulse is weaker, his lungs feel tight, but he won’t just let this happen.
And then—finally—something gives.
With one last, desperate shove, Jarno forces Fernando back, ripping him away from his throat.
Fernando stumbles, his breath hitching as he reels back on his hands, blood streaking his mouth. His red irises flicker, unfocused, his entire body shaking .
Jarno gasps, clutching his neck, his chest rising and falling in rapid, erratic movements. His vision spins, the world tilting on its axis, but he manages to stand. Barely. His entire body aches , but he keeps his eyes locked on Fernando, watching as something shifts behind the hunger in his face.
Fernando looks wrecked .
His lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come. Only breathless, uneven panting, his fingers twitching where they rest on the floor. His body is still trembling, his irises flickering between red and something darker, something almost human again. His lips are parted, smeared with blood—Jarno’s blood—and for a moment, all either of them can do is breathe .
Jarno sways. He doesn’t want to, but his body feels off , sluggish in a way that unsettles him. His heart is still hammering in his chest, but it’s weaker now, his limbs heavy, his fingers numb where they dig into his own skin. He can feel the warmth trickling from his neck, sliding down his collarbone, soaking into the fabric of his race suit.
His pulse stutters. He shudders.
He should run .
Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to move , to put as much distance between himself and Fernando as possible. But his legs won’t work properly, his balance unsteady, his muscles weak from the blood loss. He forces himself to scoot back, his breathing sharp and ragged, but the moment he shifts, Fernando flinches .
It’s the first real reaction he’s had since Jarno shoved him off. His whole body jerks, like he wasn’t expecting movement, like he isn’t even really here . His fingers twitch against the floor, curling into fists before uncurling again, like he’s at war with himself. His expression is wrecked, his brows pinched tight, mouth still slightly parted—his jaw clenched like he’s forcing himself not to move.
Jarno sees the way his throat bobs, the way his hands tighten against the concrete, and it clicks in his head—
Fernando’s still hungry .
The thought sends a violent shudder down his spine. His body protests the movement, his muscles screaming, his head light and buzzing, but he keeps his stance firm.
“ What the fuck was that? ” His voice comes out hoarse, breathless, barely more than a rasp, but he doesn’t care. His heart is hammering so loudly in his ears it nearly drowns out his own words.
Fernando swallows, hard. He blinks rapidly, his breath still ragged, but he doesn’t answer.
Jarno takes another step back, keeping a hand pressed to his bleeding throat. His fingers are slick with warmth, but he barely registers it, too focused on the man in front of him—the thing in front of him.
Fernando finally moves, but it’s not to attack. His shoulders slump, the spaniards fingers twitching again at his sides. He exhales, ragged, as if trying to ground himself. He lifts a hand—just slightly—but as soon as he does, Jarno is the one to flinch.
Fernando freezes . His eyes snap up to Jarno’s face, something flickering behind the red.
Regret?
No.
No, Jarno doesn’t know if Fernando is even capable of regret right now. Not with the way his bloodied lips are still parted, his breath uneven, his body still trembling like he’s trying to hold himself back from finishing what he started.
Jarno's jaw tightens. His fingers press harder against his wound. The pain is sharp, grounding, keeping him focused. “You were going to—” He stops himself, swallows, shakes his head. His throat burns. His pulse is too slow, his skin clammy.
Fernando’s red eyes flicker down to his throat, blood trickling down much slower than before.
Jarno notices.
He notices all of it . The way Fernando’s fingers twitch again, the way his mouth barely moves but still looks hungry , the way his whole body is so unnaturally still except for his breathing—shallow, too slow, too calculated.
Jarno forces himself to straighten, ignoring the dizziness. He doesn’t look away. He can’t .
Fernando finally speaks.
“I—” His voice is wrecked , low and strained, like it physically hurts him to form words. His gaze darts up to Jarno’s, then flickers back down to his throat before he forces himself to look away entirely. He lets out a sharp, uneven exhale and drops his head. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Bullshit.”
Fernando visibly flinches at the word. His jaw tightens, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he dares to look at Jarno again. Jarno is shaking. He can feel it in his fingers, his arms, the way his breath keeps hitching in his throat. But he doesn’t break eye contact. Fernando looks at him like he wants to say something. Like there’s something important he needs to explain. But no words come out.
Seconds stretch between them, thick with something unnatural.
And then—
Fernando moves.
Not towards him. Not to attack.
He stumbles back .
Like he’s afraid. Like he doesn’t trust himself.
His breath catches, his hands flexing at his sides before he presses them against the ground like he needs to physically anchor himself in place. His red irises flicker again—faintly dimming, then sharpening, then dimming once more.
Jarno watches, silent.
He doesn’t understand what he’s seeing.
But for the first time since this whole shit-show started—
Fernando looks just as lost as he is.
Jarno watches Fernando for a long moment, the weight of everything that’s just happened hanging heavily between them. His body is on fire, his mind racing to piece together something, anything, that makes sense of this. But nothing comes.
Fernando’s still breathing hard, his hands gripping the concrete like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored. His gaze flickers up to meet Jarno’s, but it’s fleeting, almost apologetic—then it quickly drops again, like he can’t stand to look at him.
For a moment, neither of them move. The silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating.
Jarno’s throat burns. He wants to ask so many things—What the hell just happened? Are you even still you? But none of it feels like it would matter. He’s not sure he’s even ready to hear the answer.
Instead, he clears his throat, pushing himself to speak. His voice comes out raspy, raw, like he’s been holding something back for too long. “What the fuck are you?”
Fernando doesn’t immediately respond, his eyes darting away, focusing on nothing. For a moment, Jarno thinks maybe he hasn’t even heard him, but then Fernando shifts—just barely—and the briefest, strangled sound escapes his throat.
Jarno takes a small step back, his legs unsteady, but he doesn’t want to look away. He can’t. Fernando’s not done —he knows that much. He doesn’t even want to think about what might happen if he turns his back now.
Fernando finally lifts his head again, eyes red and distant. He looks at Jarno, and for a second, it’s like he’s trying to say something, but the words don’t come. He just breathes. A long, quiet exhale.
Jarno feels the weight of the silence, and it’s almost suffocating.
Finally, Fernando speaks, but it’s quiet—barely audible. “I can’t…” His voice trails off, like it’s taking everything just to say those two words. He doesn’t finish the sentence, but he doesn’t need to.
Jarno stays still, watching, his chest tight. He wants to move, to do something , but his body refuses to cooperate. He’s not sure if it’s the blood loss or just the sheer shock of everything, but right now, all he can do is wait.
For what, though? He doesn’t know.
There’s a long pause before Fernando shifts again, this time more deliberately. His gaze flickers to Jarno once more, before he pulls his eyes away quickly. It’s not quite guilt, not quite anything. It’s a look that says more than words ever could.
He should run, he should get his wound patched up, he should tell Flavio about whatever the hell just happened.
But alas, Jarno doesn’t move. He knows they’re not done, not by a long shot. But for now, at least, they’ve reached some kind of fragile standstill . The moment hangs there, unresolved. Tense. Heavy.
But somehow, and Jarno knew it shouldn't, that feels like enough—for now.