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The pain starts small. Barely the pinprick of a blunt needle at his intercostals. It’s the kind of pain that rears its head for maybe thirty seconds, maximum, the kind Nico can forget about without even trying. He’s known that this is the way his body works, he’s known it for years.
So when it flares in lap 45/56, he's not too stressed about it.
Three laps later, when it still hasn't disappeared, he gets a little more concerned.
By lap 51, it's bad.
His bottom right rib has clearly dislocated, which is annoying on its own, but this close to the end of the race? Nico seethes at it.
Every little bounce, every ounce of G-Force sends the rib digging ever so slightly further into his intercostal muscles, the edge feeling sharp and personal.
‘It’s only three more laps.’ He tells himself. ‘This is fine, this is manageable.’
Nico keeps telling himself that, until he crosses the line in second, slowing down enough that he can lean on the side of the cockpit slightly. The gentle stabbing sensation had bloomed into a kind of deranged clawing at his side, the edge of the shorter, bottom rib scratching and biting along his side. And, fuck, does it hurt.
The rib dislocations never usually linger, popping back into place with regular movement, no more than a minute after it popped out in the first place. This has happened maybe only three times before for Nico. The only things he has to really work back into place are his knees, and even then, they're never fully out, just wrong.
Each breath feels like a punishment, even as he rolls his car up to P2. A few mechanics come over to help him out, standard procedure. Take the steering wheel out, hand it over, work himself out of the cockpit. Whatever comes after that doesn't matter.
Except today it does. Because everything after is standing in the way of him and his driver's room, where he can hold his rib in place enough to breathe painlessly for a bit.
He's leaning slightly as he walks over to weigh in, slower than usual. Lewis is wrapped up in the win, already celebrating with the team, glancing over his shoulder every so often, trying to find his teammate. Nico feels a slight pang of guilt. The 1-2 is great, obviously. Somewhere, he’s happy; the pain is louder than that.
He weighs in, willing the seconds to go faster as he stands on the scales, the ache spreading through his ribcage with each heaved breath. When he steps off, Lewis finds him, buzzing with adrenaline, wrapping him into a tight hug before Nico can stop him. He cries out quietly, feebly attempting to hug him back. Lewis pulls away before he can.
His face has gone from elated to concerned in less than a second, his hands hovering around Nico. Lewis can tell something’s wrong by the way Nico’s frowning, subtle enough to avoid concern. Lewis knows better. The way he’s holding himself is all wrong, his shoulders curved in, one hand shielding his right side like it’s worth money. He’s hunched over a notch, walking slowly, leaning to the side.
Nico can see Lewis panicking in the second it takes for him to answer. He shakes his head, waving off the concern. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” His voice comes out strained, lacking conviction. It doesn’t help to ease Lewis’ worry at all.
Nico shrugs him off, “Go weigh in, I need to go sit.”
Lewis is torn between following procedure and hovering over Nico as he walks away. Something’s wrong, worse than usual. He sees the pain Nico’s in half the time, the ambient ache ebbing and flowing as it wants. He hears the things Nico brushes off as normal, the things Nico thinks are normal. The casual dislocations, the abnormally quick recovery period from them. The straining. The bruising. The weird positions he feels sitting in are comfortable.
Lewis has come to learn not to freak out over these things. They’re not normal to him, but they’re normal to Nico. He can respect that. As long as they’re not affecting Nico more than they should, not putting him in any long-term state of pain. Fine.
But whatever’s going on with him right now is not that.
He watches him walk off slowly while he’s standing on the scale. When the attendant waves him off, he borderline sprints over to Nico’s side, hovering over him. “What can I do?”
Nico’s endlessly grateful for the fact that Lewis has got with the programme with his condition. When he explained it to him, sure, he looked confused. But he immediately accepted what Nico needed. Less mindless panic, because it’s unnecessary; an offer of help, because that’s what actually makes it easier. Nico winces slightly as the edge of his rib continues to jab at his intercostals, his voice breathless. “I don’t need anything, just. Walk with me.”
The cooldown room’s not far, and by the time they reach it, Nico practically collapses onto the couch with relief. It’s immediate, the way he pushes through the sharp ache to unzip his race suit, pulling one arm out with a small grunt. He leans forward slightly, tucking his fingers under his ribcage, finding the offending false rib. It’s the one that plays up the most, only attached to the sternum with cartilage, so it slips wrong every so often. Nico pulls the rib forward slightly, easing it away from the muscle it’s pressing against. The relief is instant, the area feeling like it physically cools down, the tension easing.
Nico breathes slow, cool, finally easily. He leans forward fully now, resting his forehead on his knees, hand still tucked into his side, keeping the rib in place.
Lewis can’t help but marvel, every time, at just how pliant Nico’s body is. It feels alien to him, the idea that he can just move his bones as he pleases. The concept that things can just slip without any kind of notice. He’s seen Nico physically holding his shoulder to keep the joint stable.
He can’t imagine it. The way that Nico’s joints, his physical bones, can just fail.
But he also knows that doesn’t matter at the moment. What matters is making sure that he can help. He kneels, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. He knows not to put any actual weight through it, only making gentle contact. “You need anything?”
Nico shakes his head gently, still breathing through it.
Fernando takes this moment to walk in, given that he’s P3. He frowns at the sight of the two of them, Nico hunched over, Lewis crouched beside him. “Is he okay?”
Nico doesn’t even sit up, just waves his free hand, voice slightly less strained than it was before. “I’m fine, just. Give me a sec.”
Fernando looks to Lewis, checking. Lewis nods silently, confirming. He sits, letting the two of them get on with… whatever’s going on.
The same ritual happens again a minute or so later, when a race official walks in to let them know podium’s not far away. She offers to attempt to delay for a few minutes, to which Nico shakes his head firmly, “No, no, I’m good. Thank you, it’s fine.”
He stands, retracting his hand and manoeuvring his rib back into a more suitable position; not right by any means, but better. Fernando and Lewis share a look as they watch him walk away. They’re not sure that’s true, but Lewis knows there’s no stopping him.
He just wants to get this over with.
—------------------------------
The podium is normal. Lewis catches a stray wince as Nico lifts his P2 trophy, the way he grits his teeth not lost on him. There’s nothing more than that, though. Once they’re off, away from the cameras, he studies Nico’s posture properly. Not slumped anymore, shoulders less hunched. His hand’s still resting gingerly over his ribs, but that seems more precautionary. The team’s buzzing when they re-enter the garage, elated with the 1-2. Lewis can’t help but worry at every slap on the shoulder Nico takes, every hearty hug.
Debrief is short, brief. It’s not exactly like they have much to work on, in Toto’s words. Nico cannot be more grateful for that.
Lewis comes into Nico’s drivers room with him, watching as he slumps down into the sofa with an exhausted sigh. Lewis busies himself with the typical routine when something like this happens; water, heat pack, quiet. Once the bag is hot enough to ease, not burn, he turns and hands it to Nico. He speaks quietly, calm but firm. “You wanna tell me what the problem is now?”
Nico takes the bag from him, sitting up slightly so that the heat can get where he needs. “False rib dislocated. Or sublocated, I’m not sure. Either way, it hurt like a bitch, kept pressing along the inside muscle.”
Lewis sits on the opposite wall of the room, handing Nico a water bottle. “And you didn’t think to tell Tony?”
Nico rolls his eyes slightly, “It only started, like, ten laps before the end, usually it just goes back into place without trying, it rarely ever gets worse.” He readjusts slightly, and when he next speaks, his voice is somewhat weaker, almost like he’s admitting stupidity. “I thought I could just. Handle it, you know?”
Lewis can’t hold back his sigh any harder. Miraculously, he manages it. “Nico.”
“Yeah, I know.” Nico sighs, “I should’ve said. But nine times out of ten, I barely have to think about it and it goes away, this was just. Unexpected.”
Lewis does sigh then. There’s a slight lull in the conversation, before he starts again. “I trust you to know your system best, Nico. I can’t comprehend half the shit it does, but. I know you can.”
Nico looks up at him then, something exhausted in his eyes. Lewis can’t help but wince. “...But I saw you, man. You were in literal agony. And that was when we were out of the car.”
Lewis watches Nico’s jaw flex as he grits his teeth, tipping his head back against the wall. “You have to tell Tony when this shit happens, you know that. They know that this can happen, they’re prepared for it.”
Nico’s eyes close. “...They would’ve made me retire, and you know it. It was only ten laps.”
God, Lewis tries so hard to be sympathetic but sometimes his best friend is just fucking stupid. “Nico, you physically had to hold your rib in place to breathe. You should’ve retired.”
Nico lifts his head at that, his tone heating up. “I’m not made of glass, Lewis, it was a simple sublocation-”
“You were in agony-”
“I’m always in fucking agony!”
That shuts Lewis up. “It’s the way I’ve lived my life, Lewis, since I was barely 13. I know my limits, and sure, I tested them today, but it’s fine. I’m fine.”
There’s another gap, as Lewis takes a breath.
Nico continues, somewhat calmer, “Plus, if I said ‘My rib popped out’ in the middle of a race, not only would the garage be panicking, the entirety of the media would be branding me a liability right about now. They don’t get that it’s just… normal, for me.”
Lewis nods gently, trying to let go of some of his pent-up concern. “...I know.”
Nico takes another swig of water, letting his head fall back against the wall again. His hand rests over the heat bag, pressing it ever so slightly into his ribcage, the warmth helping. Lewis looks up at him. “Just… don’t let it get that bad without saying anything.” Nico looks back to his teammate, not finding exasperation in his eyes, but sheer, pure concern. “Even if you stay out, please don’t just do it by yourself. Let someone know, at least.”
There’s a long moment before Nico responds, the two of them steeping in a steady silence, all of the time in the world available to them, now that Nico’s not actively in pain. Lewis hears the breath he takes, long and suffering. Then, he nods. Slow and sure. “Okay.”
—----------------------------
By ten, Nico’s in his hotel room, a new heat bag pressed to his side, more as a precaution than anything else. He’s not in pain anymore, a slight upside to the condition; as much as it hurts when it fails, it rights itself fairly quickly.
He hasn’t eaten, too tired to move from where he sits in bed. Today was good for results, sure, but it was also completely draining.
The quiet panic of something out of the ordinary, pain-wise, has taken it out of him. The aches and pains are usually predictable. Constant, steady, rumbling low in the background. Grazing and stinging, sometimes, but not enough that he can’t ignore it.
So the onset of something unpredictable, something he couldn’t ignore, in the middle of a race? It frightened him more than he’d like to let on.
Nico’s just beginning to doze slightly when there’s a knock at his hotel door. He swings his legs over the side of the bed with a huff, his body a little stiff from staying still for too long.
He checks through the peephole, finding Lewis there, two paper bags in hand. Glad it’s not some random, he unlocks the door. “Aren’t you meant to be celebrating?”
Lewis looks up from his feet, smiling, clearly proud of himself. He’s midway through a french fry. “I knew you wouldn’t have eaten, ‘cause you’re an idiot, so. I brought pizza.”
Nico raises his eyebrows, smiling. “And fries. Clearly.”
Lewis pushes past him, chuckling. “Don’t call them fries just to piss me off, you know they’re chips.”
Nico closes the door behind him, quipping back at his teammate, teasing sarcasm coating every syllable like molten sugar. “Yeah, okay.”
He’s quietly grateful for the company.