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It all started at a karting track in Austria. They couldn’t have been older than sixteen at the time.
The odd thing is that before all the hurt and resentment and the plethora of other equally painful, though less negative, emotions that grew between them over the years, Shane had actually been more excited about meeting Ilya Rozanov than he had ever been about anything before.
If he had known back then that he would spend the rest of his life staring at the back of Ilya Rozanov’s car, chasing and pushing and gripping his steering wheel in desperation, only to be failed by a team he gave his whole life to, maybe he would have simply crashed into the barriers instead. It would have saved him a lot of pain.
Ilya entered his life as he did everything; aggressively, unexpectedly, and above all else, flawlessly. They had both taken part in a karting race that Ilya had won, half because Shane was so distracted by the fact that he was finally racing against the boy that he had been compared to all his life, to focus.
Because, of course, Shane had heard of him before. The Russian prodigy, an expected future world champion. It was all rumours and grainy video footage posted when the internet was still in its infancy, and badly translated articles from different Russian news outlets, and maybe that was the reason Shane had built the elusive Ilya Rozanov into something greater than a man in his mind.
Everybody mentioned his name as a warning. They had never met, Ilya never even competed in any real international tournaments, yet their names always seemed to follow one another in conversations and comparisons, and even insults. Their careers were intertwined before they ever even spoke a word to each other.
He asked another boy he knew from karting, who was one of the few people who had met Rozanov at the time, what he was like. Shane waited for the answer with bated breath, all wide-eyed curiosity and excitement.
“Kind of an asshole, huge ego.” The boy said, frowning. “But god, he’s the best driver I’ve ever seen.”
Before they ever met, Shane thought about Ilya a lot. He wondered what the other boy was like. How alike they really were, and did losing feel so much like dying to him, too, or did he not care? Did it feel overwhelming to have the entire world of motorsport watching his every move?
But most of all, he wondered if maybe they would one day be friends.
The karting race had been exhilarating, half of the adrenaline flowing through Shane’s body courtesy of Ilya’s presence itself. And after the race, Shane found Rozanov standing behind a trailer parked at the side of the track, alone with a cigarette between his thin, pale lips.
He stood in front of Shane, almost the same height, skin a sort of unnatural pale, hair slightly more ginger in the afternoon sun than the famous blond he had been told about. He looked unexpectedly plain, human.
“I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke here.”
Ilya’s eyes flick to him, but he seems unbothered. Shane panics slightly at the thought that he might not understand English very well, so he makes a vague gesture resembling smoking and points to a sign forbidding it standing a few meters away.
Illya stares at the sign for a few moments, then raises the cigarette back between his lips, almost mockingly. He doesn’t say a word. It feels intentional. Shane clears his throat, refusing to back down.
“You’re Ilya Rozanov.” Shane points out dumbly, then extends a hand forward after not getting a response. Ilya takes it. “I’m Shane, by the way.”
“I know who you are. I have heard about you.” He then says, with not much emotion behind the words.
“Really?” Shane asks, awfully excited at the thought that maybe Ilya had been looking forward to this moment just as much as he has.
“Da, I thought you would be faster.” Ilya says, lips curving into a mocking smile.
“I’m sorry?”
“You are slow and not very good.” He says like Shane is the one who doesn’t understand English very well. “Maybe try a different sport. I heard Canadians like hockey.”
And suddenly Shane is twelve again, and on some karting track in Europe, approaching a group of kids his age. All European, all white, and they look at him as if he’s something alien, a completely different species, and one of them tilts their head and says, in pure childish innocence We don’t speak Chinese, I’m sorry.
And then he’s fourteen, and he’s sitting in an expensive office somewhere in northern Italy while his mother talks to some karting team’s owner, hoping for a contract. And then the man looks at Shane like one would look at a dog or some other pet and say Well, your Shane is very good, I agree, but I’m afraid he doesn’t quite fit into the brand we’re curating. I’m sure you understand.
That’s how Shane feels now as Ilya’s gaze bores into him, like he’s that kid again. Canadian, a native English speaker, middle-class, and a good student. Boring in all aspects, and more talented than everyone else his age, but still too foreign. Too different. Too controversial due to his appearance alone.
Then Ilya walks away, and Shane realizes that he definitely is an asshole. The stupid hope and admiration filling his chest evaporate, and with his next breath, he takes in the resentment that will burn him alive for the next several years to come.
His mother would later frown and say I don't even know why you bothered to introduce yourself. You were bound to hate him.
And maybe the hate between them was inevitable, already decided by everyone around them before they had ever even laid eyes on one another. But still, Shane had hoped that the rivalry already being built around them could somehow forge a bond between them. One that would guarantee that even in a world of comparisons and high stakes and pressure, there would be someone to understand.
Of course, in the end, Shane’s dreams of friendship stayed only that: dreams.
++++++
It first started with a pull. An odd tug on his sleeve that kept causing Shane to turn around. Some unscratchable itch to always have his eyes on Ilya, to see what he’s doing and how he’s doing it. Entirely unexplainable, but always there.
At first, Shane reasoned with himself that it made sense to keep an eye on his biggest competitor. It wasn’t odd to re-watch every one of Ilya’s on boards multiple times, or to be acutely aware of the other any time he entered a room. Besides, he hated Ilya, of course, his very presence would irritate him to the point where he took up every crevice and corner of Shane’s brain.
There was always some logical explanation that Shane found to explain this pull between them. Of course, that is, until he couldn’t. Until Shane’s gaze started lingering on Ilya’s sweaty skin after a long race. How his curly hair coiled even tighter in more humid climates. How the high points of his cheekbones tinged slightly pink in the winter.
He notices all the little changes about Ilya’s body even now as they sit side by side in a press conference. Shane’s race had been fine, having taken third place quite comfortably. The Mercedes garage had been ecstatic, and Shane had to try his hardest to hide his own disappointment. He has long since realized that nothing less than first place would ever be enough for him.
Ilya sits right beside him, his hair is still wet with a mix of sweat and champagne. He had gotten first place, though that isn’t the topic being discussed now. Instead, all the questions seem to come back to the altercation between him and J.J that happened in the race. J.J tried what should have been a simple overtake, and Ilya hadn’t let him through, almost causing a collision.
It was all very typical of Ilya. He had the kind of driving style Shane’s mother hated. Aggressive, reckless, and dangerous. He drove like it was his life on the line, were he to lose, and not a few made up points on a made-up leader board. He drove as if coming out the other side alive was a suggestion.
Some called it real racing, a long-lost philosophy deeper than the sport, a love for victory so pure it left you speechless. Others called it irresponsible and senseless. Shane thought it beautiful, though he would never dare say it.
Shane found quite quickly that Ilya was the kind of person who dealt with adversaries by simply bending the world to his will. Sometimes it seemed to do so by itself, cleanly and sweetly. Other times, Ilya did it himself through blood, sweat, and pure defiance.
That’s what he does now, waving off the reporters' insults and concerns like their accusations had as little meaning as small talk about the weather. We were racing. Why would I let him through? He’d say. It is not my fault that he is a pussy.
It left Shane with a special kind of envy as someone who spent his entire life twisting and pulling and molding himself into a shape the sport could stomach. Every interview and statement had to be worded precisely, no matter how stupid or offensive the question being asked. He would smile through the hate because he had no alternative.
You’re a role model for kids like you, his mother would remind him. But he never asked for that. The weight of being someone to look up to, to admire. He never asked to be scrutinized and put on a pedestal, upheld to an impossible standard expected only of him. So he transforms himself into someone less sensitive, less emotional, more masculine. Someone easier to accept.
Ilya doesn’t have to do that because he is unapologetically himself. He’s mean and selfish and an asshole, and the world keeps turning anyway.
The press conference soon ends, and Ilya all but storms out of the room. Shane smiles kindly at the reporters. “Thank you.”
He finds Ilya later standing in some secluded corner of the paddock, for lack of a better word, brooding. His eyebrows are drawn together, and his lips are pulled downwards. Somehow, he still looks more content here in a dark alleyway than he did holding the trophy on the podium.
Shane clears his throat, and Ilya looks towards him.
When Ilya is thinking about something very hard, like a sentence said too fast to properly translate, or a complicated race strategy to make sense of, he gets this precise look in his eyes. It’s here now, as they stare at one another. As if Shane were a very complicated puzzle.
Shane thinks, a little absurdly, that if Ilya were a puzzle, he would be one of the sky. Made entirely out of different shades of blue. All the same, if you simply glance at it, but a million different variants of a color if you give it enough time. Shane is still finding new pieces every day.
“They were quite persistent today.” He finally says. Ilya scoffs.
“They do not understand what the word racing means.”
Shane smiles slightly at the words. They stand in silence for a moment.
“How did you know that he would turn?” Shane asks after a pause.
“His family is here. He would not want his parents to see him crash.“ Ilya answers simply, like that is an entirely sound strategy. Shane blinks for a few moments, taking the words in.
“Your dad is here too.”
Ilya smiles at that, and it’s not nice. It’s a mean sort of expression, joyless. Like he’s privy to some odd inside joke only he understands. He walks away after that without replying.
Shane realizes that Ilya would rather have crashed and killed them both than to have turned and let J.J pass, even to save his own life. He would have accepted death easier than losing, not in some abstract poetic sense, but in an entirely real, awful way.
The thought leaves him feeling sick.
++++++
Next, the feeling turned into an endless push towards Ilya. It was like an invisible force binding them together, a rope pulling tighter and tighter, until the very air around them seemed to be stiff with tension. It gave him a bigger adrenaline rush than driving a car at 350 km/h. It was unbearable, yet he never wanted the feeling to end.
And who was he to resist? How could he deny himself the occasional touch along Ilya’s lower back when taking a photo or passing him by, a supportive pat on his shoulder when their relationship eventually improved over the years, a stolen glance at the expense of his back when the other changed out of his fireproofs.
Were he a better man, maybe Shane would have denied himself these small indulgences of something he could never have in the face of Ilya’s obvious disdain for him. Just because they can have a civil conversation doesn't mean that all the resentment has suddenly diminished. But Shane isn’t a better man, he’s selfish and greedy and wants more and more until he has everything Ilya is willing to give him.
Formula 1 is a lonely sport. After most of the novelty of it wears off and the glamour and attention become annoyances, you realize the price you need to pay for the money and glory. Even with a paddock full of fans, a supportive team, loyal mechanics, and a great teammate, Shane still feels so awfully alone.
They say he’s amazing and talented and a one-in-a-generation talent, and he’s all the more isolated for it. Other people’s envy has always followed him like a shadow, an always-there reminder of the opportunities he’s stolen from others by simply being better.
Nobody would understand what it's like to be at the top while so young, having the weight of expectations on your shoulders. Nobody except Ilya Rozanov, maybe, but Shane is past trying to figure him out.
He now sits behind the Mercedes motorhome, enjoying a rare moment of silence, stuck in his own head. Words reverberate inside him, sink so deep into his brain that they might as well make a home there. The thoughts aren’t new, though, more like bruises that never quite seem to fade.
I just can't help but wonder if that kind of neuroticism is really safe in a sport like ours, the words Dallas Kent said three hours ago, all faux concern and with that special kind of mean glint in his eyes. And for three hours, Shane has been stuck on them.
You don’t belong here, Kent really means, but doesn’t say. He had been referring to one of Shane’s many pre-race rituals, which you could, in theory, call neurotic. His mother did, but she meant it in a very matter-of-fact way, like it was just another one of his quirks. Like she loved him all the more for it.
Ilya called him neurotic, too. In other words, of course, like a nervous wreck or a walking anxiety attack. Though when he said it, they had that same almost affectionate intonation to them, just as the word boring did. Shane sort of liked it when Ilya called him that, because it meant that he noticed. That he cared to pay attention.
Dallas Kent was just being a sore loser after Shane secured third place in the race, and Kent had to retire early in his McLaren due to an engine failure. It was almost ironic that it hadn’t been Shane this time. His never-ending bad luck seemed to have found a new victim for the day.
Still, the words sting in a very annoying way that Shane is scared every insult involving his identity always has, and probably always will. Soft footsteps suddenly sound from a distance, and Shane looks up.
“Dallas Kent is an asshole.” Says Ilya, still in his Red Bull team kit.
The navy looks good on him, not like the harsh Mercedes white that always seems to wash Shane out. He shines with the afterglow of victory, and Shane is suddenly awfully self-conscious about how he himself probably looks sitting alone in the dark while his team celebrates, looking like he’s been run over by a McLaren.
“Yeah, as always.” Shane mutters and burrows his face in his arms. Ilya huffs a laugh, and Shane feels an embarrassing amount of pride for getting that reaction.
“You drove well today.” Ilya says softly.
And maybe he did, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, it seems. Not for the mediocre cars that Mercedes keeps building him year after year. No amount of tire strategy or pushing on the straights or taking the optimal apex through the corners can help when the car simply isn’t fast enough.
“Not like it matters.” Shane mutters dejectedly. “You know, you almost hit me at the start.” He then remembers and looks up at Ilya in accusation. They had nearly collided in the first corner, ending both their races before they really even began.
“Yes, you did not start very well. You dove too far into the first corner. It was a reckless move.” Ilya nods to himself, as if that was what Shane meant. Shane is suddenly hit with a very familiar flare of anger.
“I don’t need you to explain every one of my mistakes, Rozanov. It’s not like you have much room to talk about how people should be driving, anyway. If we all drove like you, we’d need to have a mortician on standby and not an ambulance.” Shane rants.
“You are being mean.” Ilya points out. Not rudely or angrily, if anything, he just seems intrigued. It pisses Shane off further.
“Oh, fuck you. I don’t give a shit what you think, Rozanov.” Shane bites out. He stands up and walks right towards Ilya, who raises an eyebrow.
“You want to know what I think?” Ilya asks, and when Shane doesn’t answer, he continues.
“I think maybe you are jealous because your car is shit and your team is shit and everyone keeps pretending Mercedes will win a championship with you, but they never will, and you know it. I think it kills you.” He says.
“They put all this faith in you, but there is only so much you can do with a broken engine. But instead of hating them, you hate me, becasue that is easier. Hating me is simple. You like simple. That is what I think.” Ilya finishes.
Shane stares in shock for a few moments. “Mercedes will never win a championship with me? Are you kidding? Who do you think you fucking are?” He then yells out, feeling more hurt than he probably should.
Shane tries to storm away, but Ilya blocks his path, seemingly not done with him yet. In pure anger, he pushes Ilya away, his back hitting the motorhome wall. Before Shane can react with an apology or another profanity, Ilya reaches out and grabs his hand in a firm grip.
“Dallas Kent yells at people, curses people, and pushes people. Shane Hollander does not do this. Why are you stooping to his level?” Ilya asks, his voice much softer than Shane was expecting. It gives him pause.
Rage bubbles under his skin, the direction of it hard to make out. Partly at Ilya, who couldn’t have just left him alone to drown in his own misery, partly at Dallas Kent for never knowing when and about what to keep his mouth shut, partly at Mercedes for all their empty promises and emptier car upgrades, but mostly at himself. His anger always seems to redirect and find a victim in Shane himself
“I don’t–.” Shane tries to speak, but his voice breaks, and he swallows the rest of his sentence. “I don’t know.” He then says, much more quietly than before.
He isn’t even sure if what he’s saying makes sense, only that the anger drains out of his body as quickly as it came, leaving an almost worse feeling of numbness in its wake. He feels hollowed out, empty. At least the rage gave him something to hold onto, someone to blame, not this awful nothingness.
Ilya holds his arm, and it seems to Shane like, without it, he might fall. Not to the ground, but into the dark abyss of his own emotions, anger, and self-hatred. Shane looks at Ilya and feels that push towards him once again. He wants Ilya to hold him and never let go
“You are better than him. You are better than what the world gives you.” Ilya says, his words nice, but the tone hard, like he’s trying to beat the meaning into Shane’s head.
“Not better than me, of course. Because I’m still the best.” He then adds a little hastily, as if one kind moment between them could somehow destroy everything about the world they know.
“Of course.” Shane says, now smiling involuntarily like an idiot. His tone sounds entirely too honest.
When Ilya eventually lets go, Shane has to hold himself back not to follow behind.
++++++
Then came the moment the feeling turned his entire world upside down. It happened the year Ilya became a world champion. On the exact day, in fact. He and Ilya had been standing on the podium in Abu Dhabi. Shane on the second-place step, Ilya on the first.
Bright lights were shining all around them, cameras flashing, fireworks painting the night sky in dozens of different colours, but nothing could compare to the glow radiating from Ilya himself. He stood on the podium, head held high to the sky, a sight so beautiful that Shane felt like he was the winner that day for getting to witness him looking like that.
Ilya closed his eyes, gently took a hold of the chain around his neck, and brought the cross to his lips. Shane’s eyes tracked the movement carefully, almost reverently. Then Ilya let the necklace fall from between his fingers and slowly peeled his shirt, sticking to his skin with sweat, off his body. The audience roared, and Shane’s heartbeat exploded in his chest.
Ilya turned away from the public and held both hands up above him. He didn't have to say anything, Shane knew what he wanted. He took the champagne bottle left forgotten in his hand and shook it thoroughly. Then, with the precision of someone who has done this hundreds of times throughout his career, he aimed and sprayed Ilya with the champagne.
Gasps and yells and wolf whistles sounded from behind him, but all Shane could see was Ilya, like he was the only man on earth. The droplets of champagne cascaded through the air and painted Ilya’s skin beautifully as they ran over the planes of his back. When Ilya turned his head around, white smile and eyes so very bright, his gaze was locked on Shane.
In that moment, it was like his very center of gravity had been rightened. It straightened itself, pointing towards the only thing that has ever mattered. It was like Shane had been floating all his life aimlessly, and now his feet had finally touched solid ground, and there was only one possible path to walk. That being towards Ilya.
Because it was always him, wasn't it? His name besides Shane’s. This is how it will always be, he thought. Shane chasing and chasing after Ilya. Everywhere, on track and in his dreams and in life itself, and he is happy to do it. Forever if he must.
Ilya then picked up the champagne off the floor where he had left it before and took hold of Shane. His arm came up around Shane’s neck and hugged him towards himself. Before Shane could react, he poured the entire bottle over his head.
Shane gasped as the cold liquid fell over him. Ilya laughed in pure joy, and they stood so close together that Shane could feel the sound reverberating inside his very being.
“Good job. You were amazing.” Shane muttered into the side of Ilya’s neck. Breath ghosting over skin.
“Thank you, Hollander.” Ilya whispered back, the arm around Shane pulling him closer. “Thank you.”
++++++
It all came to a head in São Paulo. It had been the year after Shane signed a contract with Ferrari. His manager had asked, back then, when the terms were being negotiated and documents were being drafted, what it was that he wanted exactly. I want to be a world champion, Shane had said.
In Brazil, that came true. The victory had been a long time coming, inevitable as the press said. And still, even after having achieved what he’s always dreamed of, the one thing he has devoted his entire life to, the win felt awfully empty. What was the point of any of it if now, with Shane in first place, Ilya wasn’t in second to chase after him as Shane had for all those years?
Even now, Shane can still see the blood sometimes. The carnage of a car smashed up against the barriers after a 50G crash, the Red Bull logo impossible to make out due to the damage. Ilya’s face streaked with red after he took off his helmet, his body bruised black and blue for weeks afterwards.
“Where is Rozanov?” He asks Cliff Marlow, Ilya’s teammate, the moment he could escape from his team and the press.
“Still at medical.” He answers after giving Shane an odd look. Before he can ask anything, Shane has already walked away.
People call out to him, grab his arm, yell his name, but it’s all meaningless to Shane. The trophy is as good as useless if Ilya isn’t there. If Ilya is somewhere, alone and angry and suffering.
Walking towards medical feels like being in the car on the starting line, the seconds counting down, the engine roaring underneath you, your heart beating out of your chest in tandem with the deafening chants of the fans all around you. The goal is simple, to win. But Shane had already won, so Ilya must be his only salvation.
He knocks on the door lightly, then steps in. Ilya is sitting alone in the medical room, looking above all else, annoyed.
“Are you okay?” Shane asks, voice weak.
Frantically, his eyes look up and down Ilya’s form, taking in the bruises and cuts, his pale skin, and disheveled hair. He looks fine. At least to Shane, who was, admittedly, a little irrationally, expecting to see Ilya half dead. Bleeding out, strapped to a hundred different machines.
“Yes.” Ilya raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing here? I heard you won.”
Shane swallows, at a loss for how to answer. How could he possibly encompass all the reasons Shane is here instead of celebrating accomplishing his lifelong goal, without bearing his entire heart bare for Ilya to see?
“I was worried. The crash looked awful.”
Ilya hums in acknowledgement. His gaze is intense, like he’s trying to pick Shane apart with his eyes alone and see through him to his very core. Shane stares back with equal vigor. After a movement of silence, he finally asks the question that’s been on his mind since the race.
“You could have crashed into me and taken us both out. I wouldn't have won, the title competition would go on, maybe you’d win in Abu Dhabi. Why didn't you?” Shane asks. "You've done it before to others.”
Ilya shakes his head with a wry smile and looks at Shane like he’s ridiculous. Shane is used to that, being one step behind in every conversation. Still, getting the truth from Ilya feels like a necessity.
“Some things matter more than winning.” Ilya finally says, and his tone is heavy, like that one sentence might just mean everything. And for Ilya, who has chosen the slimmest chance at victory above anything else over and over again, no matter the morality, it feels monumental.
To Shane, it means everything, because the truth is between the lines, you matter more than winning.
“Ilya I–” He begins, voice a little choked up.
“But it must have been a little satisfying, no? Watching me flying into the barriers, knowing you'd win.” Ilya interrupts him.
He sounds so sure of himself, like bringing pain to him must be the biggest present anybody could ever ask for. To Shane, it seems entirely nonsensical.
“No, of course not. I mean, winning is nice, yes. But never if it comes at a cost to you.” Shane explains.
“Really?” Ilya asks in disbelief. “Why?”
And then Shane stops. He feels like he’s at the edge of a cliff, looking down at a pitch-black fall. He has no idea what is at the bottom of it, only that he’s been standing here for as long as he can remember, and never has the fall seemed more appealing.
Adrenaline courses through his veins, his breathing quickens, his pulse exceeds any speed that would seem sensical, but he doesn’t turn around before taking a step forward and jumping down.
“Because you’re all I've ever wanted.” Shane says. “You have to know that. It was always you.” He adds, more sure than he’s ever been of anything. Underneath it all, the declaration is clear: I love you.
Still falling, he wonders what it will be, a quick death, or a heaven for himself right here on earth?
Ilya’s head tilts to the side, and he examines Shane carefully. “For me, it was always you, too.” He finally says, his voice so very soft. It sounds awfully like I love you, too.
Then Shane lands on solid feet, and as they meet in the middle of the small medical room, and hands grab onto bodies, and bodies come together, and lips meet lips, Shane is left to wonder why exactly he had been so scared to fall all this time, when Ilya was always going to be there to catch him at the bottom.
The World Championship trophy stands forgotten at their feet.