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This shouldn't have ended like this. Nico had imagined it hundreds of times as a child; they were both supposed to be champions together, both would find a way to stay together even with the heat of competition burning in their veins.
Nico Rosberg never thought he could hate Lewis Hamilton the way he did now, a burning pain festering in his ribs, just as they had let their friendship wither away. Lewis was everything to him: a brilliant soul at his core, a fierce competitor, his best friend, his other half. As a young man, he used to hear those stories about people born under the same star.
Their destinies seemed sealed even before they became who they were now. Nico, innocently, thought that if he and Lewis were born under the same star, then they would always remain together. Oh, how wrong he was. He hadn't considered that if stars are born, they eventually die too. That the brighter they shine, the higher they climb in the sky, the closer they are to the combustion. And they did, they burned in each other's fire, they were consumed by clinging so tightly to the opposing force that soon nothing was left.
And it hadn't been gradual, at least not for him; he noticed the distance first, how they were pulling away to the opposite side of the track, while Lewis took the checkered flag first, he was stuck behind; while Lewis had hundreds of trophies, he only had ten, and it was that pressure, that constant push towards the bottom, towards number two, that slowly soured the love.
Nico loved him, in a confusing, painful, and devastating way, but he also loved the competition, the trophy in his hands, the champagne drenching him at the top of the podium, his heart was split in two, urging him to break one more than the other.
Fortunately, he wasn't the one who had to decide everything; it was clear who they would choose first for the team. Lewis seemed more promising than anyone else; Lewis was winning races, Lewis was faster, Lewis, who broke his heart.
Things had changed so much, Nico missed him, perhaps too much; the late-night conversations, the quiet moments in the ice tubs, the light and warm jokes between them, now there was only this awkward silence, the poisonous statements in the press, and the silent violence creating space between them.
“Nico and I aren’t friends.” Weren’t they? Then what had become of those childhood years racing go-karts? Then what had become of all the laughter, the shared joy of winning a race? What was the point of all the show with the helmets and the hugs and the smiles? It was so unfair, it was a slap in the face that Lewis could move on so easily without him, because Nico couldn't.
Years later, he found himself looking at the posters with his face on them; years later, he was still waiting for a single glance from across the paddock; he was still searching for him on every lap, even though nothing remained there, Even though he was just "The Other Mercedes" and Lewis "The Seven-Time Champion," they were just a story now, tragic poetry wrapped in their youthful tears. And yet Lewis still pursued him, every step forward, his shadow trying to drag him down with him, those stupid Christmas presents, being neighbors for so long and avoiding each other, the jokes of the other commentators "Out of twenty drivers you only care about one."
Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he hadn't let his hunger for victory win, if instead of competing he had moved aside while Lewis was overtaking, what would have happened if he hadn't thrown away the cap with the number two every time? Would he be happier than he was now? Perhaps he wouldn't have to search for Lewis's eyes in the crowd, and instead, perhaps, just perhaps, he would have them close, to tell him how bright they looked, how splendid they still were despite the passage of time. Perhaps.
Nico was happy like this; he had almost everything he had ever dreamed of: a beautiful daughter, a loving wife, a single championship won with effort and tears, many tears. But there was still a missing piece: those brown eyes, that soft voice, and those gentle laughs.
He had everything, but not Lewis.
Lewis Hamilton hadn’t intended that from the start. He wanted to compete, to win, to smile with Nico by his side.
He never thought he would have everything except Nico; their descent had been slow at the start, so slow that Lewis didn't notice, at first he thought it was just a bad run, a problem with the car, Lewis never believed it was all about him.
He had been completely ignorant at first, but to this day he regretted everything else because once he noticed Nico's looks, how he laughed less and distanced himself more, he didn't even touch him anymore; he didn't ask, he wasn't interested beyond comparing metrics and gloating about knowing that he was the fastest.
Everything went downhill with every checkered flag and every trophy on his shelf, and it was truly selfish; while his best friend, the other part of himself, withered away, he chose to bask in the success, he smiled because his dreams had come true, oblivious to what it was doing to him. And it was truly naive to think that, despite his selfishness, he deserved someone like Nico. Nico with his shiny hair, Nico with his giant smile, Nico who shone like the sun.
It was very unsubtle how everything had changed for the worse; Lewis noticed it in the resentment in Nico's eyes, how he had gone from looking at him with that almost childlike sweetness to this, whatever that furrowed brow and the dimness in his pupils was, everyone noticed it in how they seemed to avoid each other during interviews, as it was more difficult to speak, as that cap flew back towards him almost violently.
Lewis knew he should have stopped; he should have chosen his words more carefully that afternoon. He has no excuse, but he was hurt; Nico hadn't shown up for the nights of doing nothing in his hotel room; Nico no longer looked at him, Nico drifted further away with every step he took, and Lewis longed for him back, he loved him so much that perhaps he himself was beginning to hate him a little.
“Nico isn’t my friend.” Of course not, they weren’t friends, they were something more, they used to be each other’s shared dream, the laughter after kids’ go-karts, the real reason behind the other's victory. Lewis loved him, he loved him like one loves a home-cooked meal or a cool, sunny afternoon.
But he also resented him a little; it was selfish, perhaps he always had been a little, but now he wanted something more, something bigger than the trophy in his hands and the cold sensation of the champagne in his head, more than the cap with the number one, he wanted Nico to be happy with this; hadn't that always been their dream? It was even more confusing and difficult to look to the side and not find that bright smile; it was painful to hear every congratulatory, the pat’s on the back and know that none of the hands were Nico's.
Now in retrospect, he had been a complete idiot back then, completely ignoring Nico's pain in the name of victory; he had been an even bigger idiot when Nico, his Nico had won a championship and instead of congratulating him, running towards him and lifting him up, he had become enraged.
The argument had been painful; Lewis regretted everything he had said. He hated being the reason for the small tears in the blond man's eyes, he hated even more how difficult the mere thought of apologizing was at that moment. It wasn't about the victory; it was about him walking away, perhaps forever, about no longer competing, about no longer looking at him so often.
After everything they had been through together, the laughter, the trophies and the tears, the anger and the ignorance. Lewis could tolerate Nico not looking at him only because he could look at Nico from afar, admire him without anyone noticing, and keep that image to himself.
Now there was nothing left. It was 2017 and everything seemed dull, there was still no real competition on the track, but Nico was still there, commenting on tires, track width, and oversteer, but it was all wrong, that's what Lewis thought, Nico should be racing alongside him, winning races, providing competition.
Lewis knows for sure now that he hates him. For the constant competition, for pulling away, but above all, for having left him behind, and suddenly the championships seem simpler, the tracks seem slower and Lewis decides that he, too, must leave him and forget about him. He no longer looks at him much, no longer tries to convince himself that things will soon be the same, he avoids him like the plague and refrains from mentioning him, and soon Nico, his Nico, is simply “The other Mercedes.” No longer his friend, no longer his partner. He's definitely no longer the boy he used to race go-karts with, no longer the Nico with the bright smile, although it was still there, it wasn't for him, never again for him.
Lewis hates the easy way Nico walked away, but he also hates himself for what he said, he hates himself even more for not apologizing, because he also stopped trying, he realizes, even with George smiling beside him, that deep down he misses him.
He knows that no matter how fast he was, Nico had been faster, perhaps to avoid the pain, perhaps to get away from him, and he had succeeded efficiently. After all, Nico seemed to have it all: a wife, a beautiful little girl who looked just like him, and Lewis was still there, seven titles later, still unable to find the excitement he'd once felt, still unable to find the sun as bright as it had been before.
He had seven championships, but he no longer had Nico.