Chapter Text
Abu Dhabi, December 2024 Post-Season tyre test
Nico leaned against the pit wall data screen, arms folded, watching the last of the test laps scroll past. The 2024 season had ended days earlier, but the factory had already shipped everyone here for tyre work and rookie familiarisation. The air still carried the faint smell of hot rubber and brake dust.
The garage door at the back slid open. A burst of energy walked in.
Gabriel Bortoleto – Gabi – scanned the space quickly, then zeroed in on Nico. His grin arrived first: wide, immediate, pleased.
“Nico.” He crossed the garage in easy strides, hand already out. “Finally in the flesh.”
Nico turned fully, took the hand. The grip was firm and warm. Gabi’s fingers curled just enough to hold on a beat longer than standard, thumb brushing once across Nico’s palm before releasing.
“Gabi,” Nico said, voice steady. “Good to meet you.”
Gabi didn’t step back. He stayed close enough that Nico caught the scent of sun-warmed skin and the faint trace of whatever energy drink he’d downed on the way in. Dark eyes flicked over Nico – quick, appreciative sweep from shoulders to face – then locked on again with open curiosity.
“You’ve been in the car already?” Gabi asked, tilting his head toward the screens.
“A couple of runs. Getting a feel for the updates.”
Gabi nodded, stepping even closer to glance at the telemetry. His shoulder brushed Nico’s lightly as he leaned in. “Feels different. Sharper. Hungry.”
Nico glanced sideways. “Hungry?”
“Yeah.” Gabi’s grin sharpened. “Like it wants to eat the track. We’ll give it what it wants.”
Nico felt the corner of his mouth lift. The kid spoke with the confidence of someone who had already decided he belonged here. No nerves, no deference – just easy, bright presence.
Gabi’s hand landed on Nico’s upper arm for a second as he pointed at a sector time – fingers squeezing once, light but sure, before lifting away.
Nico registered the contact. Warm. Casual. Familiar in a way that surprised him.
His last teammate had been Kevin – older, steady, two dads comparing school stories and travel hacks. Comfortable. Predictable. This… this was different. Younger. Brighter. Uncharted.
And cute, a small voice in the back of Nico’s head supplied before he could stop it. The thought landed like a pebble in still water.
Gabi caught him looking and raised an eyebrow, playful. “What?”
“Nothing,” Nico said. “Just wondering how long it’ll take you to call me old.”
Gabi laughed – loud, honest, head tipping back slightly. “Give me a week. Maybe less.”
He let the laugh fade, eyes still bright, still holding Nico’s gaze a second too long.
Nico should have stepped back. Created space. He didn’t.
The moment stretched – comfortable, charged, effortless.
Then Gabi clapped him once on the shoulder – quick, friendly, fingers lingering just long enough to feel the muscle shift under the team polo.
“See you out there, teammate.”
He turned toward the engineers, already chatting, already at home.
Nico watched him go, the warmth of the touch still sitting on his arm like a quiet promise.
He exhaled slowly.
This was going to be interesting.
London, February 2025 F1 75 Live
Three months after that first garage meeting in Abu Dhabi, the livery reveal in London felt like the real public debut.
Backstage after the on-stage presentation, the green-and-black car still hummed in everyone’s minds. Crew adjusted lights for extra content shoots, PR hovered, cameras waited.
Nico leaned against a crate, twirling the microphone idly between his fingers.
Gabi stood a step away, chatting with a team member, laughing easily.
Their eyes met across the small space. A quiet dare passed between them.
Nico stepped closer, voice low so only Gabi could hear. “Fart into this.”
Gabi’s brows lifted. “You serious?”
“Do it.”
Gabi stared for a second – assessing – then his eyes lit up with mischief.
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you love it.”
Gabi grinned wider, stepped in close, and took the mic from Nico’s hand. Their fingers brushed – warm skin sliding against warm skin for a brief second.
He bent forward slightly, keeping the mic right where Nico held it steady, and let out a quick, perfectly amplified burst.
One heartbeat of silence.
Then Nico laughed – full, head-tilted-back, shoulders shaking freely. The sound rolled out of him unrestrained.
Gabi joined instantly, laughing so hard his face flushed, eyes shining. He leaned sideways into Nico’s side instinctively, chest pressing briefly against Nico’s arm, shoulder fitting neatly under Nico’s as if it belonged there.
Nico’s free hand came up on reflex, clamping around Gabi’s upper arm to steady them both – fingers digging in just enough to feel the muscle flex and shift under the team shirt.
“You’re unbelievable,” Nico said through the grin, still chuckling.
Gabi was laughing too hard to reply, body still angled into Nico’s, the warmth of him solid and close.
The camera caught everything.
They stayed like that a moment longer – Nico’s hand flat against Gabi’s bicep, thumb resting over the quick thump of his pulse, Gabi’s shoulder still tucked against him – before either of them thought to pull apart.
The laughter faded slowly, leaving only the easy heat between them and the faint echo of it in the air.
Bahrain, February 2025 Pre-Season Testing
The journalists noticed first.
“Chemistry’s real,” one posted on Instagram. “They act like an old couple.”
Nico read it in the motorhome later, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t disagree.
In an earlier interview he had tossed out, “If we’re any closer, we’d be lovers.”
The room had laughed.
Across the table Gabi had gone quiet for half a second too long.
Later, during a social media shoot, they squeezed onto a small couch meant for one.
It wasn’t necessary. There were other chairs.
Gabi chose the spot right next to him anyway, settling in so their thighs sealed together from hip to knee. The heat of Gabi’s leg bled steadily through Nico’s fireproofs. Gabi shifted once, pressing deeper into the contact without apology.
Nico felt every inch of the press. He didn’t move.
They played some silly “who knows who better” game for the cameras.
“What’s Nico’s biggest weakness?” the PR girl asked.
Gabi answered without hesitation. “Control.”
Nico’s gaze snapped sideways.
Gabi shrugged, smirking. “He hates losing control.”
The air tightened.
Nico reached down and pinched the inside of Gabi’s thigh – firm, deliberate – feeling the muscle jump under his fingers.
“Oi!” Gabi yelped, swatting his hand away, but the laugh was already bubbling up. “Stop that!”
“Focus,” Nico said calmly.
His palm stayed flat against the muscle, fingers spreading slowly. His thumb traced a small, absent circle over the spot he’d just pinched.
Gabi glanced down at the hand, then up at Nico. A slow smirk curved his lips, playful challenge in his eyes. He didn’t pull away. Instead he flexed his thigh once – subtle push back against Nico’s palm, daring him to keep it there.
Nico’s pulse ticked up. He held the contact a second longer before lifting his hand.
“You’re annoying,” Gabi said, voice low, teasing.
“You love it.”
The fans noticed everything.
Screenshots circulated. Slow-motion edits. Tweets exploded with hundreds of thousands of views.
#Gabico.
Later in the paddock, the pattern repeated.
They stood too close over data screens. Nico leaned in; Gabi leaned with him. Shoulders touching. Arms brushing.
Nico’s arm draped around Gabi’s shoulders, hand curling loosely at the nape, fingertips brushing the soft hairline there. Gabi’s fingers hooked into Nico’s waistband at the small of his back – light tug, grounding, like he was keeping Nico exactly where he wanted him.
The pose looked effortless, completely unforced.
The concept of distance simply didn’t apply to them.
Melbourne, March 2025
The fanstage was loud, the Melbourne sun bright, the crowd buzzing with pre-season excitement.
Gabi leaned into the microphone first, grin wide and unfiltered. “Nico’s getting old, you know. Thirty-eight. He’s basically ancient.”
The audience laughed. Nico rolled his eyes, but the smile tugged at his mouth anyway – small, dry, fond.
Backstage, as they walked through the paddock toward the garage, Gabi bumped their shoulders together deliberately. The contact lingered a second, solid and warm.
“You’re slow today,” Gabi said, voice teasing.
“I’m conserving energy,” Nico replied evenly.
“You’re thirty-eight.”
Nico shot him a sideways look. “I’m experienced.”
Gabi laughed – bright, open, head tipping back just a fraction. “Still hot for an old guy, though.”
Nico’s eyebrow lifted, but the smile deepened. “Watch it, rookie.”
Gabi’s grin turned wicked. He slid his arm around Nico’s waist without breaking stride, palm flattening against the side of Nico’s ribs. His fingers curled lightly into the team polo fabric, tugging just enough to pull Nico a fraction closer – warm, grounding, possessive in the most casual way.
Nico felt the heat of Gabi’s hand seep through the thin material, steady pressure right over his lower ribs. He didn’t tense. Didn’t pull away. Instead, he let his own arm come up easily, draping over Gabi’s shoulders. His hand settled at the top of Gabi’s back, thumb brushing once along the edge of Gabi’s collarbone through the shirt – slow, absent, like it was the most natural place for it to rest.
The touch felt effortless. Comfortable. Steady. Just easy.
Cameras clicked from the side. One shot caught them mid-stride, arms wrapped around each other like it was the most normal thing in the world. The photo would circulate online within minutes – fans zooming in, captioning it with hearts and fire emojis.
Nico felt Gabi’s palm warm against his side and told himself it was just how teammates walked. The lie felt thinner every lap.
They kept walking, shoulders brushing with every step, neither of them in a hurry to let go.
Later that day, a local sponsor handed them matching Australian-designed buggie smugglers – bright, ridiculous swimwear patterns.
Nico held his up, smirking. “Mine are huge.”
Gabi glanced down, then back up with a slow, teasing grin. “It’s for your dick.”
Nico’s laugh was low, surprised. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Think it’s that big?”
Gabi’s gaze flicked down again – quick, deliberate, appreciative – before meeting Nico’s eyes. “Guess we’ll find out one day.”
Nico shook his head, still grinning, but the air between them shifted just a fraction – warmer, heavier, charged with the kind of joke that wasn’t entirely a joke.
The cameras weren’t rolling this time.
But the moment lingered anyway.
China, March 2025 fan Q&A event
Shanghai wrapped itself in neon lights and humidity, the paddock alive with the pulse of a season still in its infancy.
On the fan stage, Fernando Alonso exuded that ageless, unreadable charm, while Lance Stroll stayed slightly to the side, observing everything with a quiet smirk.
Nico held the microphone firmly, standing taller than usual, a practiced smile on his face.
Gabi lingered at the edge of the stage, alert and brimming with energy, half rookie, half something else entirely.
Questions fired at them from the audience - favorite tracks, worst jet lag, pre-race rituals - but then someone shouted, “What about the rookies?”
Fernando’s eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly.
Nico turned on instinct and tapped the microphone against Gabi’s backside – a quick, firm smack that echoed through the speakers, the plastic cool against the fabric of Gabi’s race suit.
The sound carried. The crowd roared.
Gabi froze for a heartbeat, eyes widening in mock-shock. Then he laughed, covering the surprise with a playful tilt of his head. His eyes narrowed, grin sharpening as he locked on Nico – sharp and assessing, holding the gaze a beat too long, unblinking.
“What?” Nico said innocently, though one brow rose in challenge, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Gabi stepped right into Nico’s space, chest brushing Nico’s briefly. Nico felt the press of Gabi’s sternum through thin layers, the quick rise-fall of his breath immediate and warm.
“You’re dead,” Gabi said, voice low, teasing, but edged with something sharper underneath.
Nico held his gaze. For a single breath the teasing sharpened into heat – undeniable, electric. Nico felt the pull in his chest, sharp and insistent, and told himself it was just the crowd’s energy. He almost believed it.
Then Gabi shoved him lightly – palm flat against Nico’s chest, fingers splaying for a second over his heart before pulling back.
The moment dissolved into laughter from the audience. Phones were already up, clips forming before the Q&A even ended.
Fernando’s gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary before sliding back to the crowd, unreadable but watchful, as if he had noticed something important.
Between Races, April 2025
The weeks between Shanghai and Imola felt like walking a tightrope.
Every interaction carried weight Nico hadn’t expected.
In the motorhome after one free practice, Nico sat reviewing data, headset around his neck, eyes on the screen. His phone buzzed once.
A message from Gabi:
“You ignore me too well in meetings. Are you mad?”
Nico stared at the screen for a long moment.
Not mad. Just… distracted.
Movement caught in the corner of the room. Gabi leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely, one hand resting on the frame. His fingers drummed lightly - the small motion drawing Nico’s eye to the flex of his forearm under the rolled sleeve.
Gabi smirked without saying a word.
“I’m not ignoring you,” Nico replied, typing carefully. “I just… focus on the data.”
Gabi pushed off the doorway and stepped closer, stopping just inside Nico’s personal space. Close enough that Nico caught the faint scent of his shampoo mixed with the lingering rubber and sweat of the race suit.
“Sure,” Gabi said, eyes sparkling with challenge. “But I think you look at me differently than the data.”
Nico felt the flush rise in his chest. He looked away, counting the floor tiles. He shouldn’t feel this unsettled. Not now. Not ever.
Later, walking through the paddock, their shoulders brushed.
Gabi didn’t move away. The press cameras were watching, the crowd murmuring.
Still, Nico didn’t pull back - just held himself still as Gabi’s hand drifted to the edge of his arm. Fingers trailed lightly down the outside of Nico’s bicep - warm skin on skin, the touch deliberate enough to feel intentional, lingering a fraction too long before dropping away.
Nico felt the trail of Gabi’s fingers and told himself it was nothing. His pulse disagreed.
Texting became their private channel.
A message about tires. A joke about a rival driver. But always a pause, a hesitation that lingered in the air even after the phones were put down.
It was subtle.
Professional life and personal impulses tangled in every glance, every slight touch, every lingering silence.
Nico caught himself thinking of Gabi’s laugh when he should have been focusing on setup numbers.
And for the first time in decades, he wondered if some things couldn’t be controlled.
He stared at the empty doorway a moment longer. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going away. And for the first time in decades, he wondered if some things couldn’t be controlled
Imola, May 2025
The European stretch blurred into late flights, simulator days, and endless espresso.
Nico told himself that was the reason he felt off balance. Not Gabi.
Imola prep week.
The motorhome was quiet for once, mechanics gone, PR finished for the day.
Nico sat at the small table, headset around his neck, scrolling through telemetry on his laptop.
Sector three braking zones. Rear instability.
He replayed it twice.
A knock.
He didn’t look up. “It’s open.”
Gabi stepped in without hesitation.
He closed the door behind him softly and leaned back against it for a moment, watching Nico instead of speaking. Nico felt it before he looked up - the weight of being observed, measured.
“You’re still working?” Gabi asked.
“It’s Wednesday,” Nico replied, eyes returning to the screen.
Gabi hummed like he didn’t quite accept that answer. He crossed the small space easily and dropped onto the sofa opposite Nico - then slid sideways, stretching out. His socked foot settled against the side of Nico’s thigh - light at first, then staying as he settled deeper into the cushions.
Nico didn’t move it away.
“You know,” Gabi said lightly, “you get this line here wrong every lap.”
Nico arched a brow. “Do I?”
“Mhm.” Gabi leaned forward, elbows on knees, close enough that Nico felt the heat radiating from Gabi’s chest through the thin fabric of his team shirt, the faint stir of Gabi’s breath on his forearm. “You’re braking too safely.”
There was something layered under the word safely.
Nico finally looked at him fully. “It’s called consistency.”
“It’s called fear.”
The word landed softly. Not mocking. Not cruel.
Just honest.
For a second neither of them moved.
Gabi didn’t break eye contact. If anything, he leaned closer, invading Nico’s space with complete naturalness. His knee settled firmly against Nico’s thigh now, pressure steady and warm through fabric - not moving away.
Nico was very aware of it.
Nico’s breath hitched slightly at the press. He forced his breathing even, refusing to let the heat show on his face.
“You think I’m afraid?” Nico asked quietly.
“I think,” Gabi said, voice lowering just a fraction, “you like pretending you’re in control.”
The air shifted.
Nico closed the laptop slowly.
“And what do you think I’m not controlling?”
Gabi smiled.
Certain.
“You tell me.”
The silence that followed was charged.
Nico could see it now - this wasn’t unconscious. Gabi knew exactly how close he was sitting. Exactly how his hand rested on the sofa cushion just inches from Nico’s.
And still - Nico felt like the dangerous one.
Like he was the older man, the married one, the one who should know better.
He shifted back slightly, testing.
Gabi mirrored him instantly, leaning in just enough to erase the distance Nico tried to create.
That was the first moment Nico realized something uncomfortable:
He wasn’t leading this.
Gabi was.
And Gabi didn’t look confused. Or hesitant. Or naive.
He looked like someone who had decided.
“Come have dinner,” Gabi said eventually, as if nothing heavy had just passed between them. “You need real food. Not protein bars.”
Nico exhaled slowly. “You’re bossy for a rookie.”
Gabi stood, stepping back only when he chose to. “And you like that.”
He left before Nico could answer.
The door clicked shut.
Nico stared at it for a long time.
He had raced wheel-to-wheel with world champions without flinching.
But this?
This felt like losing control in slow motion.
And the worst part - He wasn’t sure he wanted to regain it.
Imola - Gabi’s POV
Gabi knew exactly when it changed.
It was qualifying.
He had watched Nico in the garage - helmet on, visor down, entire world narrowed to the steering wheel in his hands. Nico had always looked controlled. Surgical. Almost cold.
But that afternoon, there was something reckless under it. Gabi felt it before he understood it.
The lap was messy in sector one. Nico corrected mid-corner, overcommitted on entry to Rivazza, caught the slide.
The garage held its breath.
Gabi didn’t. He smiled.
There it is.
Not fear. Hunger.
And it wasn’t about the lap.
When Nico climbed out of the car after parc fermé, there was something sharper in his movements. He didn’t look at Gabi immediately - which told Gabi everything.
So he waited.
He knew how to wait.
Nico liked control. Nico liked leading. Nico liked the quiet dominance of being the experienced one.
Gabi had no interest in competing with that. He wanted to destabilize it. Gently. Precisely.
Later, when the paddock had thinned out and the motorhome lights were dimmed low, Gabi knocked on Nico’s door again.
This time he didn’t lean casually.
This time he stepped inside and closed the door behind him without asking.
Nico was standing by the counter, still in team gear, sleeves pushed up. He looked at Gabi like he’d been expecting him.
“Good lap,” Gabi said.
“You saw the delta.”
“I saw you pushing.”
Nico’s jaw tightened faintly.
“That’s the job.”
Gabi stepped closer. Not playful now. Measured.
“I think,” he said quietly, “you wanted to prove something.”
“To who?”
Gabi didn’t answer immediately. He reached past Nico for the water bottle on the counter - shoulder grazing Nico’s, chest sliding briefly against his arm, deliberate and unhurried.
Nico didn’t move.
“That you’re not afraid to lose control.”
The words sat between them.
Nico exhaled slowly. “You’re reading too much into telemetry.”
“No,” Gabi said softly. “I’m reading you.”
That was the moment.
He could see it - the fracture line.
Nico was used to admiration. Used to being looked up to.
But this was understanding. And it unsettled him.
Gabi tilted his head slightly. “You don’t like when I do that.”
“Do what.”
“See you.”
Silence.
It wasn’t defiance in Nico’s expression. It was conflict.
And that did something to Gabi’s chest he hadn’t expected. Because suddenly this wasn’t a game.
This wasn’t about destabilizing control.
This was about the way Nico’s breathing changed when Gabi stood too close.
The way his eyes flicked down and back up.
The way he didn’t step away.
Gabi hadn’t planned to care. That was the dangerous part.
“You should focus on Sunday,” Nico said finally, voice lower now.
“I will.”
Another half-step closer.
“You should too.”
Nico’s hand flexed against the counter.
“Gabi.”
It wasn’t a warning. It sounded almost like a plea. And that was the first flicker of doubt.
Gabi pulled back slightly then - not because he was unsure. But because he needed to know something.
“If you want me to stop,” he said quietly, seriously now, “tell me.”
There it was.
No teasing. No arrogance. A line drawn clearly.
Nico looked at him for a long second. Long enough that Gabi’s pulse betrayed him.
Then -
“I didn’t say that.”
The air shifted again. Consent. Complicity. Choice.
Gabi nodded once.
“Okay.”
He stepped back fully this time. Not retreating. Just resetting.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He left before Nico could regain balance.
Outside, under the soft Italian evening air, Gabi finally let himself breathe.
He wasn’t naive. He knew what this was turning into. And he knew exactly how far he was willing to go.