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“We’re not friends.”
It shouldn’t have hurt so much, the smallest, simplest phrase. Coming rather deadpan from Seiji, bluntly delivered to a camera and a reporter and therefore the world, it burned like accidentally grabbing a cast iron skillet from a four hundred degree oven bare-handed.
They may as well have grown up together. At least, in all the ways that mattered. They’d met in karts when they were ten, both having gone on to the regional stage, and there was something about Seiji that had drawn Jesse in. He could’ve boiled it down to potentially being the only other person who took it all seriously, the only person who could truly rival him, but that would be dismissive of a lot of other parts about him. The knack he had for racing history only Jesse had ever bothered to remember, the way he remembered the smallest details, his urge to always be competitive, how he always seemed to understand Jesse on a fundamental level and knew exactly how to cheer him up when he needed it…
They’d spent summers together with Jesse’s family in Monaco. They’d gone on winter vacations together. They spent every possible waking moment together if it could be helped. When Seiji was teetering on having to drop out of karting because his family was running out of money, Jesse’s father had stepped in to fund every part of it that was needed. Seiji was family, he’d said, I always take care of my family. They went through the junior formulae together; yes, Jesse had been signed to a team a year before Seiji, but that didn’t matter.
His father had wanted Jesse to sign with Williams. It was the team he’d won his own championship with, he held sentimental value to them. But Williams hadn’t been anything more than a midfield team for years. Start here, Robert had told him, you aren’t going to win a championship with them. Not right now. But take the two year contract and ease into it.
As much as he wanted to ignore it, the lingering promise in the back of his mind couldn’t be. If you can hold your own and figure out the ropes, there may be something better for you down the line.
Jesse’s first year was, predictably, not great. It was a strange feeling, to go from topping any leaderboard his name graced to being in the middle of the pack. Only part of that was the car’s fault too; a larger part of the whole ordeal was that he’d finally stepped into the highest bracket that existed and he was only mostly ready for it. Unfortunately, his father and manager had been correct.
But Seiji had entered the fold by his second year. Except, Seiji had entered as the second seat in a fucking McLaren, and was clawing at the top of the board. It pissed Jesse off, yes, but at the end of the day they were never racing each other. So, it didn’t really matter, did it? They could still be themselves off track, they still had themselves. Jesse preferred to keep racing talk to a minimum when they weren’t actively at the circuit, even when he was sneaking into the McLaren pits to hang out with Seiji.
Honestly, and maybe it was bad to think now that he had hindsight, but Jesse had been glad to hear that Seiji’s team had been disqualified from the Constructor’s Championship. Stealing schematics and stuff from another team, or something similar. Seiji didn’t want to talk about it, and Jesse had been taking the advice to avoid reading any sort of racing news to heart. All of that to say, at the time, Jesse was just glad to hear that it wasn’t that Seiji was simply better than him, he just had an illegal car.
Seiji was second in the Driver’s Championship that year anyway, by tooth and nail. Jesse was ninth by nothing shorter than a miracle from god himself.
That winter break wasn’t the first time they’d kissed. That had been about four years prior, in a hotel room in the middle of Formula Three. That winter break was the first time they’d had sex, however, caught between flights and hotel rooms. Between home and what could’ve been. It was for the best that they didn’t talk about it with anyone, that it could be their secret to have and hold away from anyone who would try and ruin it.
Nobody else had to know. It was the kind of thing that made Jesse’s heart flutter at the time. One thing that could be his and nobody else’s—while the world had him ninety percent of the time, Seiji had that remaining ten percent and only Seiji.
When the time had come for Jesse to make the move to Mercedes, it was a gamble. A new team in general wouldn’t hold water for the first few years at minimum, but it was the chance to make something. It was difficult, of course it was, but Jesse took pride in it nonetheless. They weren’t winning, but they could compete. Somehow, that made it easier to balance things with Seiji when he took home his first Driver’s Championship. Things could keep being normal.
At first, when Seiji had come to him in secret during their summer break, letting himself into Jesse’s apartment that may as well have been theirs to sit on the sofa, Jesse was elated.
I signed to Mercedes for next year. Multi year contract.
Teammates. After all this time, they could still come back together and race again. Would they be fighting? Yes, of course, but in Jesse’s mind that wouldn’t change anything. They’d had fights on the track before and nothing had changed, now it could actually just be them versus the world. Like it’d always felt.
The first year already, something snapped. The car was more competitive than they thought; arguably, it was the car to beat. Suddenly, they were championship contenders. Suddenly, Jesse was halfway dating a model from Portugal to keep people from speculating too much about his personal life. Suddenly, Seiji was seeing a woman from a pop band. Jesse knew more about Seiji’s “girlfriend” than he did his own.
They only mostly shared hotel rooms. Their kisses felt like conjugal visits, the sex felt like makeup sex versus anything else.
Something broke.
Jesse won it. He rubbed it in. Part of him hadn’t even meant to aggravate the wound with salt, but he had. Finally, fucking finally, he had his title. He could say that he did his family proud, that he lived up to what he was supposed to be.
They didn’t see each other much at all over the winter break. Seiji went home to visit his family, and Jesse didn’t have to travel far to be with his own. They saw each other sporadically, but Seiji didn’t linger so close anymore. He didn’t chuckle at any quips. He left as soon as he was permitted to. He might’ve been in the hotel room next door to Jesse, but he didn’t leave the adjoining doors unlocked anymore.
By the time the season started, though, Seiji had softened up. It wasn’t as often as it used to be, but he’d come into Jesse’s hotel rooms sometimes. Stay with him in the garage sometimes. They kissed when they were sure nobody was watching, but they didn’t linger like they used to.
“We’re not friends.”
Okay. With a little more self-reflection, the inciting incident for that line was definitely Jesse’s own fault.
Round five. Barcelona. Turn four. They were almost side by side. Jesse took the turn wider than he should’ve on the inside racing line, Seiji didn’t leave space. On paper he had to, in practice he didn’t owe Jesse shit. Jesse’s nose rammed right into Seiji’s side. They spun out onto the gravel with carbon fiber chunks joining the loose stones.
“What the fuck were you thinking?!” Seiji had yelled before he was wholly out of the car. He made no moves to get closer to Jesse, the way his hands were tight meant he might’ve thrown a punch.
“And what the fuck were you thinking?! You knew I was there, you have to leave space!” Jesse had snapped right back. “And instead you get the bright idea to turn right fucking into me! What, does it make you uncomfortable to realize that I’m better than you in equal machinery? That you can’t just win because you’re Seiji Katayama?!”
Seiji’s expression wasn’t visible under the helmet. His body language was, even under three layers of Nomex. If either of them spoke another word, they’d actually be at each other’s throats. Jesse chose to leave it. Leave him there in the gravel. He never apologized. The crash was Jesse’s fault, he even knew it at the time.
Seiji stood there, unmoving, for a long time. How long exactly, he didn’t know.
Jesse was in front of Seiji in the points at that time.
Round nine. Austria. Turn three. Jesse saw a chance to overtake Seiji after a long race of playing second fiddle, and in the moment of an attempted pass made contact. Seiji had kept going straight when he should’ve turned. Jesse didn’t learn until later that he’d damaged Seiji’s front wing, and while for a brief few minutes, he was worried that he’d manage to get penalized for it, that wasn’t the case. Seiji did instead.
In that moment, it was okay in Jesse’s book. Why’d he even keep trying to go straight into a turn anyway? It made no sense.
He and Seiji were closer than they had been in points. Jesse had ground to maintain, but not as much as he’d have liked. The pair had been told by their team principle, Donati, that if they continued to dogfight like they had on the track, they would be on the hook for any future damage costs.
Seiji was different after that. The days they used to spend together, even if they’d grown shorter and quieter, had vanished entirely. The chats, the shared meals, lingering in the garage together in near silence. The bed they’d once shared during race weekends was empty. Seiji stopped cycling, he stopped running, he only went and swam, something he’d never liked anyway. His helmet was never wholly painted anymore, his gloves missing random but inconsequential pieces.
It took Jesse longer than it should’ve to realize that it was because of him. Because of their title fight. That Seiji had taken the challenge Jesse had inadvertently set: the title of champion was more important than whatever they’d had.
It never mattered. Nothing ever mattered. Except, Jesse realized that one little tidbit far too late. The damage done was irreversible.
The top of the podium had never felt so lonely, even with Seiji just an arm’s length away on the second step. At the same time, whenever he had to look up at Seiji on the top step, part of Jesse wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him to remind himself that he was still there, real. The other part only wanted to throw him off the pedestal entirely and into the asphalt below. Watch him bleed if it meant victory.
Jesse had to be really good about correcting those kinds of intrusive thoughts as soon as they came. He knew Seiji was undoubtedly thinking the same ones, though.
They didn’t speak anymore. Not unless they had to.
In his defense, Jesse tried to reach out to him after round sixteen. Malaysia. Even after months of hardly saying a single, solitary word to each other outside of what was absolutely necessary, it really hadn’t been fair. Engine failure after leading so much of the race? And Jesse had barely clinched the final, bottom step of the three-person podium.
He tried to apologize, but Seiji didn’t want to hear it. He waved Jesse off as he’d approached, nothing more and nothing less. When Jesse tried saying words to him, he slammed a door in his face.
Point taken. But it still stung.
Seiji went on a tear during the last leg of the season. The kind of tear that Jesse had no answers to. Three wins in a row and the gap he’d done so well to build and maintain was almost gone. Twelve points, only twelve. He had no leeway to fuck up in the last race of the reason. If Seiji continued his streak, he’d be nothing short of fucked if he missed the podium, and it all would have been for… nothing.
In a way, it was all-consuming. There was little on his mind outside of making it all mean something. He could barely sleep, he couldn’t eat, he barely felt human in the week leading up any time he dared to heave himself out of bed. In the days leading up to the race, he’d still go to the door that connected their rooms and put a hand on it. Contemplate opening it. Scratch with one finger at the white paint.
He wondered if Seiji ever did the same.
The first words Seiji went out of his way to speak to him came cornering him in a makeshift supply closet in the garage, hackles already raised. It may have been in a different location, but it was the same setup down to the placement of each individual wrench that they’d shared so much intimacy once before. A lifetime ago, maybe, but Jesse couldn’t afford to be sentimental about it in the moment.
“Stay out of my way this time, got it?”
That was it. No elaboration, nothing.
Jesse raised a single eyebrow indignantly. “Yeah, sure man. Definitely doing that.”
Seiji exhaled sharply, almost a whistle, and glared. “When today ends, when I cross that line and see that chequered flag, I’m going to prove that you’re not untouchable. That you can lose.”
“You’ve won the past three races. If this is you threatening to play dirty, go ahead. Try. That’s a two way street and we both know I’m willing to make sure you come with me if you try and pull that card.” Jesse flicked hair out of his face, crossed his arms over his chest. “Only be, what, my two on your four in that case?”
It was an exaggeration, and it was flipped, and it was incorrect. Jesse had known it at the time, but the semantics of things had always pissed Seiji off. Seiji had turned on his heels and stormed off anyway, leaving Jesse alone in the dimly lit closet.
Neither of them tried to kill each other during the race, actually. Seiji had the lead, easily. Arguably, the only thing he’d done was try to back up Jesse into traffic to theoretically allow someone to overtake him.
It never happened. Seiji won the race.
But, Jesse was right there on the third spot of the podium. Nothing else mattered. Third place be damned, five points of difference between the two of them be damned, he won the championship title.
The night was a blur. Things rushed past him, he lost count of how much champagne doused him versus how much he actually drank. Notably, Seiji was nowhere to be found, but maybe they’d pushed each other so far away that it was bound to happen.
It wasn’t until he was on Donati’s jet with his engineer, a kid from F2, and someone in a suit whom he didn’t recognize that he really thought it was strange.
“As you’ve heard, Seiji hasn’t resigned his contract with us for next season,” Donati started, her eyes slowly flicking up across the wooden table with paper strewn about it. “So, you have a new teammate for next year. All I ask is that you don’t try and kill each other as much.”
Jesse’s eyebrows furrowed immediately. “Seiji hasn’t what?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No, Aly, he didn’t tell me anything. What are you talking about?”
She gestured loosely backwards, towards another row of seats. “Marcel Berre, F2 winner this year, is your new teammate. He skipped F3, so it’s a gamble, but one I believe will pay off. Seiji has decided to sign with… it pains me to say it, Williams.”
Jesse sat there, admittedly in a stunned stupor, before slowly shaking his head. “Fucking Williams?”
“Yeah. His teammate this coming year’s also a rookie, Nicholas Cox. Really a wild card pick, but he looks sharp.”
Jesse chewed on his lip. Not even the grace of telling him? After everything they’d been through together?
“We’re not friends” echoed through his mind, that dull delivery, that sharp sting after.
It wouldn’t have burned so hot if he didn’t tell that same reporter, not five minutes before Seiji uttered those words, when asked the same question, “We’re friends. We’ll always be friends.”
Everyone was right. Jesse might’ve lost too many battles in favor of winning the war. He’d done it to himself. He still believed, deep down, that Seiji would always be his best friend. That nobody could come close to understanding him quite like Seiji did. Even when there was nothing left but the charred remains of the bridge they’d both lit fire to, the same bridge that Jesse himself had poured the accelerant on. He wondered, briefly, what the younger version of himself would think of what had become of him and Seiji. How disgusted he probably would have been with himself.
But maybe Seiji was right, too. Maybe they couldn’t be friends anymore, just… rivals, nothing more. Just ghosts that haunted each other's shadows, maybe forever.
It made his chest ache. But Jesse had done it to himself, and there was nothing he could do to change that now.