Chapter Text
Gabriel, tired after workout was heading to hotel, soon was Miami gp, and problems with government of Italy was getting pretty serious. But as it was just investigations he could at least relax(somehow).
He check his phone for any messages and found one from his teammate, one that he has crush since last season. He can't even directly look to his eyes!
*Hulk*
"Hey, watcha doing? Free to catch up for drinks?"
*Gabriella*
"Just finished with workout, free for whatever😜"
*Hulk*
"Cool, come to my hotel room in 20? I'm in 357"
*Gabriella*
"Sure old man!"
After putting his phone away he noticed that his heart was pounding, cheeks were burning and his hands were sweaty.. was he that much into that guy? He looked at his watch, yea he has time for shower.
After 10 minutes he was done and got some drinks to Nico before heading to his hotel room.
Gabriel stood in the elevator, a six-pack of Nico's favorite German beer sweating in his hand. His heart was still pounding from that text exchange. Old man. He'd called him old man. In a flirty way. Did Nico even notice? Did Nico care?
Stop. Breathe.
He knocked on 357.
"It's open."
Nico was on the sofa by the window, Miami's neon sky glowing behind him. Casual. Gray sweats, dark t-shirt. Wet hair. He looked up and smiled—easy, warm, the kind of smile that made Gabriel's stomach invert.
"Beer. You're a lifesaver."
Gabriel set the pack on the table and sat on the far end of the couch. Keep distance. Keep cool.
"You seem tense," Nico said, cracking open a bottle. "Workout was that brutal?"
"It's nothing." Gabriel waved a hand. "Just tired."
But Nico's eyes lingered. That was the problem with Nico Hülkenberg—he looked. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made Gabriel feel seen. Exposed.
" Italy stuff?" Nico asked quietly.
"Maybe." Gabriel shrugged, staring at his unopened beer. "Investigations are annoying. You know how it is."
Silence. The kind that begged to be filled.
Say something normal, Gabriel screamed inside his own head. Anything. Ask him about the track. About setups. About the weather. Literally anything.
"Hey," Nico said softly. "You okay?"
Gabriel looked up—and immediately regretted it. Nico's face was maybe a foot away. Concern creased between his brows. His lips slightly parted.
Gabriel's brain short-circuited.
"It's really nothing!" he blurted, way too loud. He grabbed a beer just to have something to do with his hands. The bottle cap slipped once, twice before twisting off.
God. Help me not go crazy.
Nico tilted his head. Didn't push. Just took a slow sip of his own beer and turned slightly toward the window. "Okay. If you say so."
The silence that followed was different. Not awkward. Just... waiting.
Gabriel tried to focus on the view. The Miami skyline. The ocean somewhere beyond. He was here. In a hotel room. With the guy he'd had a crush on since last season. And nothing was happening.
Good, he told himself. Nothing should happen.
But his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He set the bottle down before Nico could notice.
"Long day," Gabriel muttered. "Long weekend ahead."
"Mm." Nico didn't look away from the window. But his voice dropped, almost thoughtful. "Yeah. Something about this place feels... strange tonight."
Gabriel frowned. "Strange how?"
Nico shrugged. "Can't explain it. Like the air is different. Like something's about to happen."
Gabriel's skin prickled. For a second—just a split second—the lights in the room seemed to flicker. Or maybe that was just his eyes playing tricks. He was exhausted. Stressed. Imagining things.
"Probably just the humidity," Gabriel said.
Nico turned back to him. Smiled again. That small, crooked smile that did unspeakable things to Gabriel's pulse.
"Probably," Nico agreed.
But his eyes stayed on Gabriel a beat too long.
Nico reached for the second controller. "You play?"
Gabriel blinked. "What?"
"Football." Nico gestured at the PlayStation tucked under the TV. "You look like you need to turn your brain off for a bit. I'm not letting you sit there spiraling all night."
"I'm not spiraling—"
"You're white-knuckling that beer bottle like it owes you money." Nico tossed the controller onto the cushion between them. "Come on. I'll go easy on you, rookie."
Gabriel caught the controller before it slid off. Rookie. The word should have annoyed him. Instead, it sent something warm through his chest.
"Fine," he said, scooting a little closer so their knees almost touched. "But you're the old man here. Don't cry when I destroy you."
Nico's grin was sharp. "We'll see."
---
The game loaded. Generic stadium. Bright colors. Gabriel picked a random team—he didn't even care which—while Nico chose Germany, obviously.
Kickoff.
For the first two minutes, Gabriel actually played. Thumbs on the sticks, eyes on the screen. Normal. This was normal. Two teammates. A video game. Beer. Nothing weird.
Then Nico laughed—a short, breathy sound—when Gabriel's defender tripped over nothing.
And Gabriel's stomach flipped.
He glanced sideways. Nico's tongue was poking out slightly, the way it did when he was concentrating. His bare foot tapped against the carpet. His shoulder was right there.
The other team scored.
"Gabriel." Nico didn't even look at him. "You're just standing still. Your guy's having a existential crisis on the pitch."
"Shut up. I'm strategizing."
"You're distracted."
Gabriel's jaw tightened. He forced his eyes back to the screen. Focus. It's just football. It's just Nico. It's just—
Nico shifted on the couch, leaning forward slightly. The hem of his t-shirt rode up just above his waistband.
Gabriel's thumb slipped. His player passed the ball directly to the opponent.
"That was a choice," Nico said dryly.
"I know what I'm doing."
"You clearly don't."
---
Ten minutes in. Gabriel had scored exactly zero goals. Nico had scored three. Not because Nico was better—Gabriel could admit, grudgingly, that he held his own on a good day—but because Gabriel kept looking.
At Nico's hands on the controller. At the way his bicep flexed when he pressed the buttons too hard. At the stupid little satisfied hum he made when he stole the ball.
"Eyes on the screen, Gabriel."
"I am."
"You're not. You're looking at me."
Gabriel's face burned. "You wish, old man."
Nico smirked. Didn't argue.
---
Twenty minutes in. Gabriel had managed one goal. A fluke. He'd been staring at Nico's profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble he hadn't shaved—when his thumb mashed random buttons and somehow the ball went in.
"Lucky," Nico said.
"Skill."
"You weren't even watching the game."
"Maybe I don't need to watch to beat you."
Nico paused the game. Turned to face him fully. That look again—curious, soft, pinning Gabriel in place like a butterfly under glass.
"Then what were you watching?"
Gabriel's throat went dry. Say something. Say anything. Say it's nothing. Say—
"The... uh. The scoreboard."
Nico's eyebrow rose. "The scoreboard."
"Yes."
"Which is in the top corner. Of the screen. That you weren't looking at."
"Are we playing or are we debating?" Gabriel grabbed the controller and unpaused the game himself, desperate. "Stop stalling. I'm about to crush you."
Nico laughed—low and warm—and turned back to the screen.
Gabriel exhaled.
And then immediately got distracted by the way Nico's thigh pressed against the cushion, inches from his own.
---
Thirty minutes in. Gabriel had lost track of the score. Five to something? Six? He didn't care. He was too busy cataloging every small thing about this moment. The way the neon light from outside painted a pink stripe across Nico's cheek. The sound of his breathing when he concentrated. The fact that their elbows kept brushing and neither of them moved away.
"You're doing it again," Nico said quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Going somewhere else."
Gabriel's character froze mid-field. The ball rolled past. The crowd on-screen booed.
He wanted to say I'm right here. I've never been more here in my life. Instead, he said: "Just tired. Told you."
Nico set his controller down. The game kept running—players running in circles, pointless now.
"Gabriel."
God. The way he says my name.
"Yeah?"
Nico opened his mouth. Closed it. For once, the veteran seemed to be searching for words.
The lights flickered again. Just a blink. Both of them noticed this time.
"Huh," Nico said.
"Weird wiring," Gabriel mumbled.
But his skin was crawling. Not from fear. From something else. Something that felt like recognition, like he'd lived this moment before—or would live it again.
He shook it off. You're losing it. Get a grip.
"One more round?" Gabriel asked, grabbing the controller again. "I'm just warming up."
Nico studied him for a long second. Then smiled—that slow, crooked thing that made Gabriel's heart stutter.
"Sure, kid. One more."
Gabriel told himself it didn't mean anything.
He was already lying.
Gabriel glanced at his phone. 11:47 PM.
"I should probably head back," he said, setting the controller down. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "Early start tomorrow."
Nico nodded slowly. Didn't protest. Didn't say stay longer. Just gave that small, unreadable smile that Gabriel was starting to hate—because he couldn't tell if it meant fine, leave or please don't go.
"Thanks for the beer," Gabriel added, standing up. His legs felt weird. Detached.
"Anytime." Nico stood too, walking him to the door. They were close again. Too close. Gabriel could smell his shampoo—something clean, like cedar and soap.
Move. Walk. Leave.
"Goodnight, Gabriel."
"Night, old man."
The door closed behind him. Gabriel stood in the hallway for three full seconds, staring at the wood grain, heart hammering.
Then he walked.
---
His own room was colder. Sterile. The bed was still made from housekeeping. His gym bag sat exactly where he'd left it.
Gabriel kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the mattress, phone already in his hand.
Twitter.
Bad idea. He opened it anyway.
The timeline was chaos—Miami GP predictions, memes about the Ferrari strategy, someone arguing about tyre degradation. He scrolled mindlessly. Liked a few posts. Retweeted nothing.
Then he saw it.
A fan account had posted a clip from last season. Post-race interview. Nico and Gabriel standing side by side, both in team kit. Nico was talking—something technical about the car—but in the clip, Gabriel wasn't looking at the camera.
He was looking at Nico.
Oh god.
He liked the post on accident. Unliked it immediately. His face was burning.
He threw his phone face-down on the mattress.
You're an idiot. A complete, hopeless idiot.
---
Spotify. Music. Yes. Music would help.
He grabbed his earbuds from the nightstand and plugged in. Opened the app. His home page was the usual mess—his own playlists, some recommended albums, a "Because you listened to..." section.
He tapped on his Late Night Drive playlist. Soft synth. Low bass. Something melancholic.
The first song started playing. Something about wanting what you can't have.
Gabriel stared at the ceiling.
The universe is mocking me.
---
Before bed routine. Autopilot.
He dragged himself to the bathroom. Brushed his teeth—maybe a little too aggressively. Washed his face with that fancy Korean cleanser his sister had forced into his travel bag. Stared at his own reflection in the mirror.
His cheeks were still pink.
"You're pathetic," he told his reflection.
His reflection didn't disagree.
He changed into an old, faded t-shirt and loose shorts. No point in looking presentable. No one was watching.
Except Nico isn't watching. Because Nico is in his own room. Probably already asleep. Definitely not thinking about you.
He got into bed. Pulled the sheets up to his chin. Turned off the main light, leaving only the warm glow of the bedside lamp.
The music kept playing. Some sad indie song about a love that never happened.
Gabriel picked up his phone again.
---
Pinterest.
He didn't even remember opening the app. His thumb moved on its own—muscle memory, boredom, the gravitational pull of late-night doom-scrolling.
His feed was full of the usual: aesthetic car photos, race track layouts, helmet designs, some mood boards he'd saved for interior decorating ideas he'd never actually use.
And then.
And then.
A pin.
Nico Hülkenberg – young years.
Gabriel's thumb froze.
The photo was old. Grainy. Early 2010s maybe. Nico in a Force India polo, younger—so much younger—with longer hair and no smile lines and something sharp and hungry in his eyes. He was leaning against a pit wall, arms crossed, looking like he owned the world.
Gabriel swallowed.
He scrolled.
Another one. Nico in karting. A teenager. Skinny. Big grin. A helmet tucked under his arm. His hair was a disaster.
Cute, Gabriel thought. Then immediately hated himself for thinking it.
Another. Nico at some awards ceremony. Blazer. Tie slightly loosened. Drinking champagne from the bottle like he'd just won a war.
Stop scrolling, he told himself.
He kept scrolling.
Another. Nico on a beach. Shirtless. Sunburned across the nose. Laughing at something off-camera.
Gabriel's face was on fire.
He zoomed in. Just to check if that was a tattoo on Nico's ribs. Purely research. It was. Some small script he couldn't read.
God.
He saved the pin to a secret board. Then felt disgusting. Then saved three more.
The music swelled—a piano melody, soft and aching.
Gabriel set his phone on his chest and stared at the ceiling again.
You are so, so screwed.
He thought about Room 357. Nico on the couch. Their elbows touching. The flickering lights. Nico saying something's about to happen.
Gabriel rolled onto his side, pulled his knees up, and buried his face in the pillow.
His last thought before sleep dragged him under was embarrassingly simple:
I wish he'd looked at me longer.
The lamp clicked off by itself. Or maybe he'd turned it off and forgotten. He was too tired to check.
Somewhere in the dark, the air shimmered.
Just for a second.