Chapter Text
“It's hard to ignore all of my problems/Gonna regret being too honest/Calling it love, but this isn't falling/I'm gonna drag you right down to the bottom”
The sun rose over the Austrian hills, golden and cruel.
Nico sat at the edge of his hotel bed, still wearing yesterday's undershirt, staring at the wall like it might offer him answers.
It didn't.
He hadn't slept.
Not really.
A few broken hours, restless and dreamless, interrupted by flashes of a voice he couldn't forget and a face he couldn't escape.
He was tired.
But not just in the way that sleep could fix.
No — this was the kind of tired that sank into the marrow. The kind you carry in your chest, where joy used to live.
He moved through the morning on autopilot. Brushed his teeth. Showered too long. Dried his hair. Picked out a team shirt he didn't care about. Stared at himself in the mirror until his own face felt unfamiliar.
"You look fine," he told his reflection. But he didn't.
His eyes were rimmed red. His smile — the one he forced at the elevator doors — didn't reach anywhere near his heart.
The paddock was loud again. Reporters. Engines. Fans. The usual chaos of a race weekend.
But to Nico, it all sounded muffled. Like he was watching it through glass.
People smiled at him. He smiled back. Nodded. Said the right things. Played the part.
He was so good at playing the part. Even when every breath hurt.
Even when walking past Lewis's side of the garage made his chest twist.
Even when the scent of motor oil and race fuel reminded him of nights spent laughing between sessions, sharing headphones, arguments about tire temps, soft smiles across telemetry screens.
Now?
Now it felt like none of that had ever happened. Because Lewis wouldn't even look at him anymore.
He answered the same questions at the media briefing. "Yes, it was a hard race."
"No, I don't regret the move." "Yes, we're still teammates." "No, we're not friends."
The words tasted like ash. But he said them anyway.
Because the truth — the real truth — was too heavy to carry on camera.
Later that day he found himself in the old storage hallway near the back of the paddock. Somewhere no one really went. Somewhere quiet.
And for a second — just one — he let his hand press against the wall, just to hold himself up.
He wanted to cry again. But there was nothing left.
No tears. No anger.
Just... emptiness.
A soft whisper inside him that said:
"You've lost him."
And maybe, just maybe, he had lost himself too.
And then. Footsteps. Soft ones.
He didn't turn. He didn't need to. He knew.
Lewis stopped a few feet behind him.
Silence stretched between them like thread ready to snap. And finally, Nico spoke. Barely more than a breath.
"You don't have to say anything." Lewis didn't.
Not right away.
Then, quietly:
"I was going to."
Nico turned, just enough to see him in the corner of his eye.
"Don't," he said, voice shaky. "Don't say you're sorry. Not if you don't mean it." Lewis didn't argue.
Didn't lie.
Didn't say a word.
And that — that silence — was worse than anything else. Worse than the crash.
Worse than the yelling.
Worse than the broken stares and bitter words.
Because silence meant indifference.
And Nico could survive hate. But not that.
He gave a half-smile — broken, quiet. "We were something once, weren't we?" Lewis looked at him.
And for the briefest second, his mask slipped. "Yeah," he whispered. "We were."
But that was all.
No "I miss you." No "I'm sorry." No "Come back."
God how he needed those words like he needed the air to breathe. Just past tense.
And when Lewis walked away without another word, it felt like the final nail in the coffin of something beautiful.
Nico stayed there long after he'd gone. Still.
Silent.
Alone.
And in that quiet, in the echo of footsteps that didn't turn back — he finally understood.
It wasn't the crash that broke them. It wasn't the rivalry.
It wasn't pride.
It was the moment one of them stopped fighting. And it wasn't him.