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Nico can feel the end brewing in his gut. As he sits in this press conference, with the lights too bright, and the microphones too loud, he feels it. He’s not sure why it’s stirring such a feeling; it’s not like his retirement was forced onto him. He chose it, he wants it, he chose not to sign any contracts. But still, the dread continues to simmer.
Maybe it’s excitement, he placates. Retirement means winning. Finally, finally winning. The gnawing in his gut is just the anticipation of that first-place podium. If he imagines hard enough, he can already taste the champagne on his tongue, feel it stinging in his eyes, running down the back of his race suit. His jaw will hurt from grinning, his limbs will ache, his back will be killing him, but he’ll be happy. He’ll be fucking overjoyed. Nico knows that his first places always feel best when he’s shoving it in the face of someone else, when he’s winning out of sheer, unbridled spite. That fire, that drive, that thirst to win is just amplified tenfold when there is someone else challenging you. Yes, Nico thinks, I’m excited. It’s exciting.
He’s lying to himself, obviously. That feeling swirling in his gut isn’t excitement. Please.
It’s pure, gnawing, corrosive dread.
Sure, if he wins, he quite literally gets everything he has ever sought out to get. He wins, he achieves, he succeeds. But then it’s over.
If he wins, Nico will have everything. But truly, he will have nothing at all. Nothing left to chase, to burn and need so desperately for. No team by his side, no car to drive, no project to work on. No teammate. He’ll be Nico Rosberg, world champion. And in a year, he’ll be Nico Rosberg, former world champion. And that will be it.
Rationally, Nico knows that’s a little cynical. But right now, knowing that this is likely his last ‘normal’ press conference, he’ll allow himself to spiral a little internally.
He shifts in his seat a little. He gives another stunningly PR trained answer. The overhead lights begin to burn on his skin, and Lewis’ presence burns into him alongside them.
Fuck, man. Lewis.
He hasn’t told him yet. In its own right, even despite everything that’s happened, keeping a secret from Lewis still feels wrong. For fuck’s sake, they were just kids. They’re still just kids, realistically.
Nico wants to tell him. He itches to tell him, the feeling of this lie under his skin crawling and squirming. He hates it. He hates this. He hates him. Everytime Nico thinks about his stupid fucking face, his chest clenches and smolders with a vicious, biting rage. Then, it slowly fizzles away into something more melancholy, something that seems to physically weigh him down. An ugly little demon which does nothing but weep, pressing right up against his lungs with every inhale.
One thing that Nico Rosberg would hate to admit to anyone, let alone himself, is that he could never hate Lewis Hamilton. Not even if he tried.
And of-fucking-course, he’s deciding to think about this in the middle of press, where there’s about a billion cameras on him catching the exact moment he begins to well up. He tries to blink away the tears as discreetly as he can, bowing his head.
To make matters worse, that’s when Lewis decides to look at him, because of course it is. Nico senses Lewis’ subtle frown, just as Lewis had sensed Nico’s complete and utter internal breakdown.
He doesn’t know if Lewis says this to be nice, or to comfort him, or to make him feel eternally worse. What he does know is that when Lewis turns to him and whispers, “I like these press conferences, when it’s just two.” his heart splinters.
In a rush, he briefly regrets even thinking that he could retire. They’ve raced together since they were kids. They’ve grown up together, they’ve progressed, they’ve learnt, they’ve improved, together. They’ve never been apart, not really. They come and go as a package. Separate teams, same team, separate cars, same car, doesn’t matter. They’re Nico and Lewis, for Christ’s sake, he can’t leave. Especially not unannounced. What was he thinking? Who is he kidding? Himself? Everyone else? It doesn’t matter that it’s been difficult, and ugly, and cruel. They don’t mean that. They can come back from that. They can carry on racing, and it’ll all be fine again. They can be kids again. The two of them, despite being thirty fucking years old, can be kids again. They’ll fix it together. They’ll figure it out together.
The nostalgia washes away almost as quickly as it came, and Nico realises that he’s still staring at Lewis. Lewis stares back, an odd look on his face. Nico can't pinpoint anything in it; pity? Remorse? He doesn’t know.
Nico comes back to himself, tears still lingering on his waterline. He can’t do anything but shoot Lewis a small but loaded smile. Lewis’ barely frowns again, and the glimmer of hope in his face drops away.
What was Nico thinking? This can’t be fixed. Not properly. The decision’s been made. The rational, logical, emotionally optimal decision.
He can’t let this sport, this life, that man, hurt him any more. No matter what it means, or how much he’ll regret it in the long run.
When Nico wins, Lewis can’t even find it in himself to be bitter at the taste of loss. Annoyingly, he’s blisteringly proud. This is what Nico has always, always wanted, and, truthfully, all Lewis wants is for Nico to be happy.
It passes blurrily. Lewis briefly registers shaking Nico’s hand, once, twice. Briefly hugging, maybe. What he does remember, is watching Nico make his speech. He’s still slightly shiny from the champagne, and he has the biggest grin on his face. As he speaks, the floodlights seem to practically ignite him.
Lewis smiles. Maybe now they’ll be better. Maybe now that they’re on a somewhat more even playing field, they can let it rest. Be better, do better by each other. Be better teammates, forge that friendship again. He won’t walk into the Mercedes garage dreading what might happen when he sees Nico, dreading what ugly thing he’ll accidentally let slip.
He never meant anything he said to Nico in the past couple of years. He just hopes Nico knows that. At least he’ll have the chance to tell him now.
Five days later, when Nico announces his retirement, that fantasy shatters right in front of him. Lewis sits cross legged, upright on his hotel bed, listening to Nico speak.
Listening isn’t the right word, truthfully. Lewis’ ears have been ringing since Nico uttered the word ‘retirement’. How dare he stand there on that stage, smiling, like he didn’t just crack Lewis’ world in two. He hasn’t heard a word Nico’s said since. He just sits on his hotel bed, trembling.
Nico walks off the stage, shakes a few hands, and ducks into some cozy, makeshift cooldown room. Someone’s handed him a bottle of water somewhere along the way, and he places it on the floor, unopened. His hands shake. His phone’s erupting in his back pocket, but the sound is muffled. He pulls it out gingerly, finding messages from everyone under the sun, it seems. All except one.
Worlds away, two men weep for the loss of the other, yet don’t utter a word to prove it.