Chapter Text
Nico woke up to gray light filtering through the curtains.
The alarm hadn't gone off. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, blinking, confused. Then he remembered.
Vacation.
Starting today. Two weeks of nothing.
He sighed.
---
The morning routine was automatic. Shower. Coffee. Dressing in clothes that didn't require a team logo. He stood by the window, mug in hand, watching the city wake up.
He should feel relieved. He'd been running for months — meetings, flights, obligations. His body was tired. His mind was tired.
But sitting still made him restless.
Nico set down his mug.
You could clean the basement.
The thought was grim. Uninspiring. But it was something to do.
---
The basement was cold.
Concrete floor. Flickering light. Boxes stacked against the walls — things he'd meant to organize years ago and never touched.
Nico pulled on an old sweatshirt. Gloves. Started moving boxes.
Old clothes. Old books. Old electronics that didn't work anymore.
Then he found the trophy.
It was in a plastic bin. Wrapped in bubble wrap that had yellowed with age. Nico lifted it out carefully, peeled back the layers.
The 2016 World Championship trophy.
His fingers traced the silver curves. The weight was familiar — he'd held it once, twice, a hundred times. But now it felt different. Heavier. Colder.
You won.
You finally won.
And it didn't feel like winning.
Under the trophy, there was a photo.
Nico pulled it out. The edges were soft, worn from handling. Two men in racing suits. Arms around each other. Smiling.
Him and Lewis.
His chest tightened.
When was this?
2013? 2014? Before everything broke?
They looked young. Happy. Like they didn't know what was coming.
Nico stared at the photo.
You were friends once.
Real friends.
Before the battles. Before the cold walls. Before the silence.
He remembered the hugs on the podium. The laughter in press conferences. The way Lewis would look at him sometimes — not as a rival, as something else. Someone worth knowing.
Nico's throat tightened.
The year that ended everything.
The crashes. The mind games. The media twisting every word. The silence between them growing wider until it became a canyon.
Nico had won.
He'd beaten Lewis.
And instead of joy, there was emptiness. Instead of celebration, there was exhaustion. Instead of a friend to share it with, there was a championship trophy and a photo of two people who didn't exist anymore.
It wasn't worth it.
The win wasn't worth losing you.
Nico set the trophy down.
Set the photo down.
Stood there in the cold basement, staring at nothing.
He didn't cry.
He'd learned not to cry.
But he stood there for a long time, thinking about everything he'd gained and everything he'd lost.
The championship.
The friendship.
The man who used to hug him like he meant it.
I wonder if he thinks about me.
I wonder if he remembers.
I wonder —
Nico shook his head.
Put the trophy back in the bin.
Put the photo back in the bin.
Sealed it up.
The basement was still cold. The light still flickered. The boxes were still stacked against the walls.
Nothing had changed.
Except Nico's chest was heavier than before.
He climbed the stairs. Closed the basement door. Walked to the window.
The city was still there. The sun was still rising. The world kept turning.
Two weeks of nothing.
Maybe that's exactly what you need.
Nico wasn't sure.
He wasn't sure of anything.
Nico stood by the window for a long time.
The sun climbed higher. The city noise grew louder. But he didn't move. His mind was still in the basement, still staring at that trophy, still tracing the edges of that photo.
You kept it.
All these years, you kept it.
He hadn't meant to. Not consciously. The bin had been sealed, pushed into a corner, buried behind boxes of things that mattered less. But he'd never thrown it away. Never could.
Nico turned from the window.
Walked back to the basement door.
The stairs creaked under his feet.
The light still flickered. The cold still seeped through his sweatshirt. He walked to the bin, knelt down, opened it again.
The trophy gleamed. The photo smiled.
Nico picked them up.
The bubble wrap was old, yellowed, crumbling at the edges. He peeled it off carefully, like unwrapping something fragile. Something precious.
You're keeping this.
You're not throwing it away.
He carried the trophy and the photo upstairs.
The kitchen table was empty.
Nico set the trophy in the center. Propped the photo against it. Stepped back.
They looked strange in the daylight. Out of place. The silver curves catching the sun, the two young men frozen in a moment that didn't exist anymore.
What would Lewis say if he saw this?
Would he laugh?
Would he look away?
Would he remember?
Nico pulled out a chair. Sat down. Stared at the photo.
Lewis's arm around his shoulder. His arm around Lewis's waist. Both of them grinning, carefree, like the world was theirs.
When did that change?
When did the hugs stop?
When did you stop being friends and start being enemies?
That was when the cracks started. Lewis had won the championship, and something shifted. The competition got sharper. The silences got longer. The media started asking questions — are you still friends? can you be friends? is this the end?
Nico had said yes. Of course. We're still friends.
But they weren't.
Not really.
Not after 2016.
The win.
He'd dreamed of it for years. Worked for it. Sacrificed for it. His father's voice in his ear, telling him to be stronger, faster, better. His own voice in his head, telling him he could do it.
And he did.
He beat Lewis.
And instead of joy, there was silence. Instead of celebration, there was a podium where they barely looked at each other. Instead of a hug, there was a stiff handshake and eyes that wouldn't meet.
That wasn't how it was supposed to end.
You weren't supposed to lose your friend.
You weren't supposed to lose —
Nico pressed his palms against his eyes.
The photo smiled up at him.
The trophy gleamed.
How can you get it back?
How can you fix something that broke so long ago?
He didn't know.
But he wanted to try.
Nico pulled out his phone.
Lewis's contact was still there. He'd never deleted it. Never could.
The last message was years old. Something about a race, something meaningless. Before the silence.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
What would you even say?
"Hi, I know we haven't spoken in years. I found an old photo of us. I miss you."
That sounded desperate.
"Lewis, I've been thinking about 2016. About how it ended. I'm sorry."
That sounded like blame.
"I still have your photo. The one from 2013. We were hugging."
That sounded —
Nico set his phone down.
Coward.
You're a coward.
You've always been a coward.
He looked at the trophy.
The 2016 World Championship. The thing he'd wanted more than anything. The thing that cost him everything.
Was it worth it?
He'd asked himself that question a thousand times. Most days, he told himself yes. Most days, he believed it.
Today, staring at that photo, he wasn't sure.
You won.
And you lost.
Maybe winning isn't everything.
Nico stood up.
Walked to the window.
The city was still there. The sun was still shining. The world kept turning.
How do you gain back a friendship?
How do you rebuild something that's been broken for years?
He didn't know.
But he knew he couldn't do it from his kitchen table, staring at a photo, too scared to pick up the phone.
Nico grabbed his jacket.
The trophy stayed on the table. The photo stayed propped against it.
He walked out the door.
No destination. Just... moving.
Think.
Figure it out.
Don't let fear win again.
The door closed behind him.
The photo smiled up at the empty room.