Work Text:
The track emptied, even as Theo looked up into the night sky. Italy smelt amazing at night, Theo had concluded that years ago. It was hard to pinpoint when, but he did. He glanced up at the stars as they formed and came into view. Watching the white dots consume the blackened reflection. He had lost, with no hope of continuing.
But they both had not scored points, Theo understood that. It didn’t make the pain any worse. Didn’t numb the pain. Crossing the line and wishing there was a cliff he could just drive off. Begging for the race to be redone, knowing he’d lost it all fair and square. It had been his fault, he insisted. It wasn’t the car, never the car. The Frenchman lost fair and square.
“Theo.” The rich accent cut through the air like a knife, and Theo let out a short breath, looking down. He was still wearing his racing shoes and his suit. It felt vintage, as the night poured around them both. A familiar MP suit came into view and he found himself wishing he could push the Brazilian away, insisting that this was all fake and a dream. That he’ll wake up and be the winner.
“We both didn’t score.” Felipe added, his voice was so quiet Theo though he made the sentence up himself, or that maybe he was the one that uttered it. But it wasn't, he wasn't. Felipe whispered those words like a sin, as if he’d wished the race went differently, even if it was only a sprint. “Should have been us both.” Theo shook his head vigorously, clenching and unclenching his fists. “No, it was you.” the french driver explains. “You, Vesti, Vips. IT was never meant to be me.” Felipe reached forwards before stopping.
Theo didn’t want him to stop that night. It got colder when 2023 hit, the chill around him worsened as he took the victory. Cheering but not feeling the supposed heat he was supposed to feel. Even as he pulled himself out of the ART car, and cheered, jumping with his team, the warmth wasn't there. It felt too vintage, too fake, too worn down. He glanced around, nodding at Vesti, a former teammate, who nodded back. Accepting defeat.
They hugged, that much is certain. It didn’t feel the same as that night. The night Theo wished Felipe would have extended his arm further, brushed the small hair tickling his forehead. But the Brazilian never did, and he never asked him to. Theo never talked to the Brazilian again, not after 2022, not after Monza, nor anything further. Never spoke to him while he wore that ugly green suit. Never spoke to him after that.
It faded to darkness when 2024 came around and Theo found himself watching an almost reflection of them. Of people that were more than them. Brazilian and French, together again, somehow. Theo was still begging Sauber for a chance, but he never got it. Even as he watched the boy they had their eyes on win, or place, or get points. It all reminded him of the cold Monza night.
Isack sighed, or so Theo heard. They sat next to each other, as the media wanted. With Victor on the other side. A friend that Theo could confide in. Isack was unfamiliar to him, despite sharing a singular season together, to Theo the younger driver was a mere ghost. Many called him ‘ le petite prost ’ and yet Theo found himself wanting the stupid title. Wanting the name. But when the boy from Brazil came along, Theo understood. “Quoi?” Theo asked, Isack just shrugged.
The French Algerian boy, Theo, almost laughed. It was too similar, too close. “Quoi?” he asked once more, even Victor chose to ignore the interaction, chatting it up with nearby french journalists. Theo remained seated next to Isack, whose eyes darted around like he was in danger. “Isack,” the name slipped out. Like a sin. As if uttering the other racers name shouldn’t have happened. Theo had sauber written across his shirt, Isack had VCARB.
This wasn’t green vs white anymore.
‘ Le pequeno Senna ’ Felipe had heard that name too much, never about him, but about a boy he grew to know closely over the years. A driver he’d watch grow and grow till he could stand on his own two legs. “Small Senna?” Gabriel asked, confused by the name. Felipe knew the boy never considered himself to be like Senna, never thought he had the talent or skills to even try. The media hounded the Kimi boy almost immediately, Felipe thought it was the curls.
Felipe took a deep breath, the familiar scent of Monza filling his lungs, even as he stood at a different track, the cool breeze settling over his skin. “Don’t worry about it, butterfly,” Felipe mumbled, “you worry about racing.” Gabriel nodded slowly, regarding Felipe with a questionable look. Felipe watched as the Mclaren boy walked away with calculated ease, Felipe noticed, of course he did, how the soon to be champion eyed the roaring navy redbull. He wanted something he couldn’t have, yeared for something he didn't want.
Felipe walked to the pits and closed his eyes briefly. The darkness of Monza consumed him, as a familiar racer stood before him. Blond, Worn out. Vintage. “It should have been us.” Felipe mumbled, not noticing the way the engineers in the garage looked at him funny. The brazilian watched himself raise his arm and not quite touch what he wanted, the racer always seemed too distant, like he did not exist.
“Theo..” Felipe opened his eyes to a blank wall inside the garage, his hand laid flat against its cold surface.
This wasn’t them. Not anymore.