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Brazil, 2012.
Sebastian Vettel is the world champion. Fernando Alonso is second again, just a few points away from his third title.
The season was difficult, if not worse. Despite a few victories, the first half was almost without podiums. After two retirements, there were more podiums, but it wasn't enough. Again. In the last race, he came in second, and he had been pushing the limits of his car all season. He had given it everything he had, but it wasn't enough. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be.
As the cold raindrops fell on the ground, Fernando got out of the car, but he already knew it was over. His muscles were stiff, and his eyes were fixed on a single point. Someone was shouting at him, but he couldn't hear them. His mind was filled with thoughts, but he couldn't focus on just one.
Why wasn't it me?
Why was I so unlucky?
Should I just give up and leave?
But one poisonous thought lingered, causing a shiver to run down his spine.
"You're not doing enough! You're a weakling, and it's all your fault."
It made him feel nauseous, and a lump formed in his throat. No, it wasn't his fault... Was it? Perhaps he should have put in more effort, done the impossible to prove himself to everyone, and most importantly, to himself. Or maybe it was the opposite, and holding the lead for most of the season with a car that wasn't the fastest was already a victory. Fernando didn't know. But to be honest, he didn't want to know.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder, interrupting his endless stream of thoughts and calling him over to the scales. Everything else happened on autopilot. The scales, the waiting room, where everyone looked at him with sympathy, and the podium. In the crowd, he spotted Mark, and he finally smiled. It was a forced, tired, but genuine smile. Mark always had a way of lifting his spirits, even without words. His gaze conveyed love, support, and empathy. How he wished he could be with him, in their home, just lying there, embracing him. But unfortunately, it remained a mere dream.
He wasn't ready for the press conference, not mentally, not physically, in any way, so he just left. He didn't care if the team got a penalty or if he got reprimanded by the team, he was too tired.
After changing his clothes, he grabbed his bag and left the paddock as discreetly as possible. He needed to be alone, to process what was happening, to accept it. Of course, he wouldn't have minded Mark's company, not ever, but Mark was probably celebrating Sebastian's victory with the team, and Fernando didn't want to distract him. He knew that even though Mark didn't like the young German, he was happy for him. Fernando got into his car and drove away. He didn't know where to go, and Mark probably wouldn't be back to their room for a long time, so he didn't want to be alone, so he drove around the city.
The rain was pouring down on the car's roof, and the sound was deafening, drowning out everything else. It was getting late in the day, and the streets were slowly turning into streams, with puddles spreading across the asphalt, reflecting the gray buildings and the flickering lights. The city was immersed in a gloomy silence, filled with a sense of wet coldness and despondency, with only a few people hurrying home under their umbrellas. The constant rain and the empty streets seemed to reflect Fernando's own state of mind.
Despite his exhaustion, he still didn't want to return to the hotel, so he found a secluded spot in the city, a small, deserted street hidden from prying eyes. He drove into a small alley, where the noise of the city, created by passing cars, almost disappeared, giving way to a deafening silence. The radio was playing softly in the car, creating a more comfortable atmosphere. Until now, Fernando hadn't really paid attention to the music, as a constant stream of thoughts buzzed in his head, but his exhaustion was taking its toll. The thoughts became quieter, so he turned the music up a bit. The soft melody filled the car, and he could make out the lyrics.
Beside the victory,
That's our destiny.
Nothing more to say..
No more aces to play.
The winner takes it all,
The loser standing small.
Beside the victory,
That's our destiny.
Thoughts that had been pushed to the background with difficulty, feelings that had become a little quieter after the trip, returned with words that seemed even stronger than before.He thought about life, about his dreams, and about his hopes that were shattered once again.
The judges will decide,
The likes of me abide.
Spectators of the show,
Always staying low.
The game is on again.
A lover, or a friend.
A big thing or a small...
The winner takes it all!
The memory of his loss comes back to him. It was just a few points, a few fucking points that separated him from first place. These thoughts hurt him more than he expected, more than they did in 2010, when it happened again. He thought that if he had already gone through it, it would be easier, but it wasn't. For some reason, this time was even worse. Although there might be a reason for that, Mark was there for him, and they had each other. That year, not only did Fernando lose the title, but so did Mark.
Alonso always knew that Mark's situation was much more difficult than what he was showing. Unlike Fernando, who already had two world championship titles, Mark didn't have any, and that season, he was closer to winning than ever before. However, Red Bull's blatant favoritism ruined everything, and Fernando would always hate them for it.
Sometimes, when it crossed all possible boundaries, like with the anti-wing, Mark had to physically stop Fernando from going to their office and destroying it. If he hadn't dissuaded him, the Spaniard would have done just that. No one should treat Mark like that.
Suddenly, everything became overwhelming. Memories, feelings, emotions, and thoughts filled his mind. Something inside him broke, and tears flowed in large, bitter streams, enveloping him in despair.
His heart was weighed down by a heavy burden, and he was left alone in his pain.
Wiping away his tears with his palm, he took several ragged breaths, trying to calm himself, but it didn't help.
***
He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there. The night had fallen over the city, his head ached, and his tears had run out. Fernando just sat there, staring into the distance.
After a moment of contemplation, he decided it was time to return. He felt like he'd been hit by a bus. The exhaustion from the race was compounded by the aftermath of his breakdown, leaving him with an overwhelming need for sleep. Realizing that Mark was probably still gone, he decided to take his time. After all, what was the rush?
After parking his car and greeting the receptionist, he entered the elevator and pressed the button for the desired floor. Barely keeping his eyes open during the ride, Fernando stepped out of the elevator and made his way to the room.
As he opened the door, he wasn't expecting anything, especially the sight of Mark sitting on the bed, nervously tapping his foot on the floor.
Upon hearing the click and seeing Fernando enter, Mark immediately stood up and approached him.
"Fernando, where have you been? Have you seen the time?" Mark's tone was intimidating, but there was a hint of concern in it.
"I..." Before he could say anything, Mark interrupted him.
"What happened to your phone, Fernando? Why didn't you answer any of my calls?"
"Mark, please, leave me alone. I'm not in the mood right now."
"No, Fer! You didn't answer my calls for half the night!"
"So what? So what, Mark? Yes, I didn't answer, but what difference does it make?" Fernando honestly didn't want to get into an argument, but his frustration and exhaustion were working against him.
***
The argument, which had been going on for about ten minutes, continued unabated. Fernando looked up at Mark, his eyes filled with fury, and his blood was pumping with adrenaline. Slowly, he approached the man, maintaining eye contact, and pointed a finger directly at him.
"It's all your fault!" Fernando spat through clenched teeth, and the response didn't take long to come.
"How dare you blame me for this, you asshole!" Webber shouted back, his fists clenching and unclenching in an attempt to calm his nerves, and a vein bulged on his forehead from the constant tension.
In an instant, Fernando's fist connected with Mark's cheekbone, delivering a hard and precise blow. Years of training had paid off. Mark staggered back, clutching his cheek, which was already beginning to turn red, and looked at the man in disbelief. Fernando's anger quickly subsided, and he rushed towards Mark, tears welling up in his eyes.
"Dios, Mark, lo siento... Lo siento, cariño." It took Webber a moment to realize that Fernando was speaking Spanish.
In particularly emotional moments, this happened all the time, and of course, he liked it better when it was from joy rather than a situation like this. Fernando fell into Mark's arms, as if he was afraid that he would disappear after what he had done. With his nose buried in Mark's collarbone, he continued to repeat "lo siento" almost non-stop, whispering as he clung to Mark.
"Shh, Fer, it's okay, I'm fine." Realizing what was happening, the Australian gently stroked Fernando's hair and then pulled away.
"Nando, look at me." When there was no response, Mark cupped Fernando's cheeks and forced him to look at him.
"It's not your fault. It happens, and we'll get through it, right, Nando?" After receiving a slight nod, Mark kissed Fernando on the forehead and embraced him again.