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Hax can hear it when the power cuts out.
There's no indications towards it, no slow, gradual decline. His car is just working one second, then the next its not.
It's completely out of his control – later, his team tell him the battery failed due to heat damage, nothing he did wrong. Hax can't blame himself, for once.
He'd honestly feel better if he could.
The point gap between Infume and him has only grown – 43 points between them. Edcr's beyond Infume even, off on his own, untouchable planet. Hax was meant to close the gap down in this race, it was his to win. He started from pole, held the lead, yes he was battling for it with Infume, but it was gonna be his in the end. He could feel it.
Infume – Hax's teammate – takes the win, sailing uncontested to the finish line. Hax watches on from the garage, alone, so much time spent out of the race his media duties are long complete. He sees it all, the interviews, the podium, the champagne.
Infume glows, even under the dreary, Canadian sun. He grins as he sprays champagne over Doogile and Edcr, who both look mildly annoyed by the proceedings.
Envy blossoms in Hax's heart. It should be him up there, on the top step.
He’s had to get used to jealousy, this past season. He's had to watch as his teammate has been handed everything on a silver platter and Hax has had everything but. Hax's season has been a series of tragedies, piling one after another, like some insane Shakespeare play if it was about Formula 1 and ruining Hax's three peat hopes instead of love or whatever Shakespeare usually writes about. Hax never did any in school, not before he had to leave it to focus on racing.
Hax should have more championships – he's had more WDC podium finishes than he can count. He finally broke his curse two years ago, finally claimed a championship of his own, cemented his legacy. Then he won another. Back to back. Hax wasn't happy, though. He's not been happy in a long time.
The garage is almost empty. Everyone's at Infume podium, celebrating, already over Hax's unfortunate DNF. At least it was only Hax, they'll probably say, not the driver actually involved in the title fight.
Hax hasn't won a race since Australia – it feels a lifetime away now, despite it only being three months. Edcr's tallied up three race wins in a row, Infume only now breaking that streak. Hax just can't keep up. He's always second to his teammate. It doesn't matter how good he's been in past seasons, how consistent, if he can't close out a Championship given what's clearly a good enough car.
Nothing's clicked this year, not the way it has previously. There's something about these new regulations, something Hax knows must be his fault but he can't pinpoint what. He uses his teammate's data, his lines, tries everything, yet he's only ever a weak intimation.
Hax can't accept that Infume is just better, though. He's not got this far in life to give up the second things get hard. He wants to win. Everyone wants to win.
The broadcast switches off the podium ceremony, the Drivers’ Championship displaying on the screen, Hax’s name in third. He has two weeks to forget about this race. He can come back stronger in Monaco.
Hax doesn't come back stronger in Monaco, but he does the week after in Barcelona.
Second place, it's not a win, but he can live with it. Small improvements. Hax spent hours in the simulator in the last week, hunting down every fraction of a second of time save. He pushed himself through the tiredness, rebelled against the never ending, nagging voice telling him to just give up. It paid off in qualifying – he got pole, started in first on the grid.
Hax doesn't win the race. Edcr's too consistent for that and his pace too mediocre, but he closes down the gap in points to Infume at least. He has to take his victories where he can, these days.
He’s not happy. It’s not enjoyable. Hax hasn’t enjoyed racing for a long time.
After the race, after he completes all his media duties which consist of talking endlessly to various reporters about the race as they nod along, politely smiling. It's easy.
He runs into Infume as he's collecting his stuff from his driver's room in the Red Bull motorhome.
Hax grins at Infume, who offers him a small, half-hearted smile in return. Hax doesn’t let himself take it personally. Infume probably doesn’t like him, not when Hax is placing his car in between him and Edcr.
“Hi Infume!” Hax says. He sounds bright, almost too happy to his own ears, yet there’s a strained edge to it. Infume can probably hear it too, he probably doesn’t care, though.
“Hi Hax,” Infume says, not sounding overjoyed to see him, Hax has to say. He sounds like talking to Hax is a chore, something to tick off, like a conversation with Hax is some annoying cut scene.
Hax ignores it. He doesn't let it bother him. They've been teammates for three years straight, Hax likes to think he knows when Infume's at his limit. “How are you?” Hax asks.
Infume takes a step back, glancing away, not meeting Hax’s eyes. “Great, dude. I was just going so–”
“Are you heading back to the hotel?” Hax interrupts. Infume’s expression twitches.
“Why?” Infume asks, frowning. He’s looking at Hax now, holding his gaze steady.
“No reason,” Hax says offhandedly. “Just wondering if I could come with.”
Hax can’t pinpoint why exactly he asked. He’s been meaning to talk to Infume for a while now, though.
Infume shrugs, feigning nonchalance. Hax can tell – his eyes widened slightly, his cheeks flushed – Infume is so easy to read if someone takes the time to learn to. “Sure, man, do whatever you want.”
Hax collects his backpack from his driver's room. There's a mirror – there's dark circles under his eyes. He's not been sleeping well lately, despite his ever-present exhaustion.
The trip back is quick. Hax just trails after Infume, not even bothering to check if they're heading the right direction. Somehow they don't run into any fans.
They don't talk. Hax doesn't know what to talk about with Infume besides racing, and he's done with thinking about racing.
Maybe he needs to win a race to cure his done-ness with the sport. Win something again and he'll be reminded of the taste, of the addicting feeling of standing on the top step that feels so far out of reach from his position. He's a two time title winner, for fuck's sake. He needs to get it together.
Their rooms are on the same floor in the hotel. Hax follows Infume into his room. Infume doesn't comment on it, not even when Hax starts taking off his shoes and making himself at home on the sofa.
Infume gives him a very obvious sidelong glance, before disappearing off into the bathroom. The shower clicks on. Hax lies on his side and listens to the white noise, blankly gazing out the window.
“Why are you here, Hax? Not that you have to leave or anything… just like, y’know?” Infume's back. Hax hadn't even noticed.
Hax doesn't respond for a moment. Infume drops onto the sofa, rearranging Hax's legs so he can also fit.
“Maybe I want to spend time with you.” It doesn't feel like he's fully lying.
“Sure,” Infume says. He sounds amused. “Why are you actually here?”
“I think I might retire,” Hax throws out, words kept light. He doesn’t look at Infume.
“Retire? Are you insane?”
“No,” Hax mutters. His head hurts. “I’ve thought about this.”
“Have you actually?” Infume questions. Hax gets a strong feeling of wanting to throw something at him. “Why retire, why not just– I dunno– take a year out? Red Bull would take you back I’m sure–”
“Because I don’t want to come back,” Hax snaps back. The view is nice, outside. The sun’s starting to set out the window, it’s beams making their way through the window, bathing the room in an amber glow.
“So what, you’re giving up everything because you’re tired? It’s not fun anymore?” Hax hates how easy he is to read, how Infume instantly hit the root cause “It’s a fucking job it’s not meant to be fun.”
Hax shrugs. He’s not going to react, get annoyed, whatever. “I’ve got enough money to last me multiple lifetimes. Worst comes to worse I’m sure there’s something I could do. Stream or some shit, I dunno.”
“You’re going to retire from Formula 1 of all sports at 23 because you have enough money,” Infume says incredulously. “All those years, all that time spent on you making your way up the junior series, and you give up the second it stops going your way?”
“No,” Hax says. Infume doesn’t understand. “No, it’s not because of my performance this year, though I hoped–”
“That you’d win?”
“Of course,” Hax snaps. “I wanted a last dance, a third championship, three in a row. Of course I wanted that, but wanting isn’t enough.”
“I know. Fucking Edcr,” Infume says, rolling his eyes. Edcr’s single handedly taking Infume out of championship contention, every race the gap just seems to grow. “Why’s he so good?”
“Yeah,” Hax mumbles. He doesn’t even care about Edcr anymore. He’s not his problem. Hax just wants this season to be over so he can go back to his stupid, empty Monaco apartment and just do nothing for once.
Infume sighs. “If you want to retire, you should tell the team.”
“I told you,” Hax says. “It’s good enough for now.”
“Right.”
“It’s just not fun anymore,” Hax says, suddenly desperate to make Infume understand. He won’t, Hax knows, Infume’s been obsessed with this sport his whole life. Hax used to be. He can’t pinpoint where it all went wrong. “I’m always tired, Infume. Every day. Not like, tiredness because of like, physical tiredness, but mental. Like– I don’t know how to explain it, but it’s been like this for over a year, I was gonna retire last year. I was so fucking close. I should have just done it, honestly, we’re not even halfway through this season and I’m already done with it. I’m just drowning. I’ve never done anything else with my life, there’s so much more to see, so much I could do but I can’t because I have to spend every second of my life focused on racing.”
“You’re so–” Infume sighs. “Fucking back-to-back championship winner, barely losing to me in races and you want to retire.”
“I can do what I want,” Hax says, defensive.
“I know you put a lot into this sport,” Infume says slowly. “If you really think it’s the right decision, but just– please think about it.”
“What? Would you miss me or something?”
An uncomfortable silence falls over them.
“No,” Infume says hurriedly, breaking the awkwardness that had fallen between them. “Of course not.”
Why did Hax even ask? No one would miss him. His presence on the grid adds nothing to it. Maybe, a couple of people – Rowl, Mongey maybe, would miss him for the first few races, but they’ll move on.
“Okay, wait, I’m not doing this right,” Infume says, frantic. Hax didn’t even say anything. “I like racing against you. You make me better. If you left– I’d just rather you stayed, at least for another year, or I dunno.”
“You’ll be fine without me,” Hax turns his head to look at Infume, who’s staring at him with his stupid fucking hat still on his head. He had a shower, why is he wearing a hat? “You’ll be a great team leader, might as well be this year with your performance. You’ll be fine.”
“I don’t mean–” Infume sighs. “I don’t just want you around for your racing, I like having you around as a person.”
“Are you sure?” Hax laughs. “I’m pretty sure you’re annoyed with me more often than not these days.”
Infume groans. “No I’m not. What?”
“Like that,” Hax says, gesturing towards him, sitting up. “I’m annoying to be around, I know–”
“You’re not annoying,” Infume protests. Hax gives him a look. “Well, okay, sometimes you are, but most of the time I enjoy talking to you.”
“Sure,” Hax says. “Yeah.” He stands up. “I’ll see you around,” Hax forces his voice to sound bright.
“You’re going?” Infume asks, jumping up. “You don’t have to go, I didn’t– we can talk more, like–”
“No,” Hax says, pulling his shoes on with one hand. “I’m going. I need to go. I’ll see you in Austria.”
After his talk with Infume, Hax pulls himself together a bit.
Something’s flipped, the car’s working with him again rather than against. Hax is sure it’s not just the setup. He still feels like he’s drowning, like he’s having to empty out every drop of energy, wring himself like a sponge just to muster enough to keep him going, but it’s easier, he thinks.
He’s ahead of Infume in the championship, now. Second, behind Edcr. Hax just can’t bring himself to care.
He’s not enjoyed any of the races. He won Silverstone – the crowd love him there, they chanted his name to the skies and Hax tried his best to soak it in. He was fine in the interviews. He’s always fine in the interviews – his PR team barely do anything, they just tell him what not to say and let Hax go out and talk. He thinks through what he’s saying, as much as his fans might think otherwise. He forces himself to seem happy, grateful, excited – everything positive – as if he could somehow delude himself into actually feeling those emotions.
It never lasts long.
Hax lies in bed, staring at his ceiling, tracing the small cracks, the inconsistencies. He’s in Hungary, his flight came in today from Monaco. It’s only one more race until summer break, one more race until he’s flying back to Hong Kong for three weeks. Alone, without his trainer, just him.
He’s not really thought about what he’s going to do beyond see his family. He just wants to rest. He has to keep up with his workouts and shit, his trainer’s already sent him a schedule, colour coded and everything. Hax is just tired.
Infume keeps giving him anxious looks in the garage. He’s pretty sure Infume thinks he’s being subtle about it – he’s not. Infume might be the least subtle person Hax knows.
Edcr won Spa – Hax’s favourite track. He tried to enjoy it – his possible last race there, if he actually commits to retiring. Hax was sure, but now he’s not – not after talking to Infume. He could just stay another year, possibly win another championship. It’s not that much of his life, all things considered, he doesn’t need to rush.
Spa was a dry race, fairly boring, at least for him. Hax let himself enjoy it, coasting alone in third, far off from Infume in second and far ahead of Doogile behind him.
Hungary is boring as well, he spends the majority of the race in Infume’s slipstream, just not fast enough to catch him. He never enough energy left in his battery at the end of the lap to pass.
Another third collected. He requested a car from the team to Budapest, back to his hotel where he collects his stuff and disappears into the airport.
He's on a flight out before the day's over.
Hax is so tired.
Summer break flew by too fast, before he knew it he had to fly back out to the UK. The races blur together – Zandvoort, Monza, Madrid, Baku – and then it’s Singapore. The final stretch of the season begins.
Hax doesn’t care anymore. He’s sure everyone must be able to tell, but they probably just think it’s in a ‘he’s not gonna win the championship, so he’s given up’ sort of way, and not a ‘he’s going to retire at the end of the year and never come back’ way.
There’s been a slow, gradual decline in his desire to race, he supposes, across the season – not just this season, last season too. He’s not enjoyed racing in a long time. He’s meant to like it, this sport, this single thing he’s poured his whole life into.
It scares him, the idea of leaving it all. Of retiring, because that’s what it’ll be if he leaves. Some midfield team might take him on again if he takes a year out, but Red Bull have Infume. They don’t need him, if anything, they’d rather give his seat to some upcoming prospect, develop a new driver, someone who will outlast both him and Infume.
It’s his choice. It’s completely in his control if he retires or not. If he pulls the plug, cuts the power on his Formula 1 journey. Two back-to-back championships, a miracle required for a third, to pull of that three peat everyone seemed to think would happen pre-season.
He’d thought about this last season, at the end. He won, he was happy, of course he was happy, but the concept of having to do it all over again – he couldn’t even imagine it for himself. He pushed through, though, because he signed a contract. He was in a car that everyone else on the grid would kill for. The idea of three in a row, of cementing his legacy, it was too good to toss up.
Infume will miss him, supposedly. Hax isn’t fully convinced Infume wasn’t just saying that to be nice. Besides him, though, what’s the point of staying?
Hax doesn’t finish the last race of the season.
It’s his own fault – a misjudged overtake resulting in sidepod damage takes him out of the race first lap. Hax takes a moment to sit in the car, switching off the engine. It’s quiet besides the murmuring of the crowds and the long-off screeches of cars. He can smell the burnt rubber of the few lap old mediums, the exhaust gases, the melting plastic of the electronics. Or maybe he’s just making that all up, deluding himself into making this moment more special than it is.
It’s still afternoon – if Hax had made it later through the race, he would have been treated to a sunset, but alas.
He gets out the car, leaving his headrest behind. Hax doesn’t take his helmet off, doesn’t even lift his visor. It’s weird to think he’ll never get back in his car again – even if he does decide to race next year, it won’t be the same one. It’ll be a new model, an upgrade. Hax won’t miss this car, he decides, not like he does his championship winning cars.
It’s just weird to think about.
He’s not far from the start-finish straight. A marshal ferries him over on the back of a scooter. He’s waved off to media the second he gets to the pitlane, only handed a can of water disguised as a Red Bull.
He manages to slip into his driver’s room before he leaves, dropping off his light blue helmet and balaclava, running a hand through his hair to make it less flat. He grabs his phone. Stares at himself in the mirror. He still looks tired, but he’s lighter, in a way. He’s more relaxed, despite the nerves in Hax’s stomach telling a different story.
He heads to the media pen. He walks up to a random reporter – it doesn’t matter, he’s sure everyone will find out before long. “Hey Hax,” she says, a microphone pointed towards him. “How did you find the race?”
Hax laughs, bright, unfiltered. “It wasn’t really a race. I did like one lap. But, uh, I don’t really want to talk about racing today – or well, I do, but not today’s race, more in general–”
Infume finds him before he leaves the paddock.
The race is long over. Media took forever, Hax had expected it too, but it didn’t make it less annoying. The area is empty of fans now, only staff bustling around, packing everything up for next year. The season’s over. Hax made it.
Hax is packing up his stuff from his driver's room – there's not much, it can all fit in his backpack fairly easily – when a knock sounds at the door.
Hax opens the door to reveal Infume, who waves. Hax waves back.
“Can I come in?” Infume asks hesitantly, shifting on the balls of his feet. He's wearing a dark blue hoodie, hands hidden from view in the fabric.
Hax opens the door wider. “Of course,” he says. “Anytime.”
Infume slips in, leaning awkwardly against one of the bare walls. “It's gonna be weird, next year. Without you.”
Hax blinks at Infume. “You'll be fine.” Next year will be Infume's first season without Hax as a teammate.
“I guess, man,” Infume sighs, shaking his head. “Why are you retiring?”
Hax is tempted to just tell Infume to go watch one of the many interviews he did – the insane amount made him regret not requesting a press conference. “I don't enjoy it anymore,” Hax says. It's the simplest explanation he has, one Infume's heard before, even if he didn't accept it at the time.
“I hope you enjoy it,” Infume says plainly. “You can't disappear, though. We need to do something, like I dunno, padel or something. You need to come to some races next year. You have to be there when I win my first championship next year.”
Edcr won, in the end. It wasn't particularly close, but Infume managed to keep himself in mathematical contention right until the very end. Hax was out of the running back in Qatar, stuck with a third. Another podium to add to the tally.
“To cheer you on?” Hax grins. “I might be able to schedule it in.”
“I'm sure you'll manage,” Infume says dryly. “You can't just leaving racing forever. You're not allowed.”
“What are you gonna do about it?” Hax asks. The words are light on his tongue, flowing easily.
“I know where you live,” Infume just says, trying and failing to be threatening. “I've got my ways”
“I think you might be the most pathetic person I've ever spoken to in my life,” Hax says, completely honest.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Hax shakes his head, laughing. “Let's go,” he says in lieu of answering that question. “Let's leave.”
Infume bites his lip and nods. Hax grabs his bag, locking his driver's room behind him as they leave.
Hax leaves the paddock for the last time as a Formula 1 driver, talking with his last ever teammate. They're both smiling.