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Rafa Câmara is staring at him again.
It’s not a new thing, the staring. Several times during a race weekend Nikola could look up at any moment and catch Rafa’s gaze on him, owl-like, all the way from the Invicta garage. Or, he’d pass him in the pit lane and feel his eyes train on him before immediately looking away again, like he never was looking in the first place.
Some might find it a bit creepy, but Nikola knows that it’s just a Rafa Thing (™), and to not think too hard about it. Rafa always had a dazed, absent expression on his face, like his mind had gone somewhere his body couldn’t. A lot of drivers are like that, honestly, with one foot always in the car, but Rafa is different. Rafa stares at you like he’s studying you, turning you over and over in his mind like a 3D engine model, trying to figure out how you work.
Nikola, for his part, does his very best to Not Notice Rafa Câmara.
He’s perfected it, he thinks, because he’s been doing it since they were in F3, and why should Rafa’s eyes feel any different from the hundreds of thousands that watch him on the track? But sometimes, he can’t help but notice him anyway. The track is where he feels Rafa’s gaze the most, when -- and he thinks this somewhat smugly -- his bright yellow Invicta is trailing behind Nikola’s own car, and he has no choice but to stare down Nikola’s taillights.
Otherwise -- what the hell is Rafa staring at?
He manages to get through a practice session and qualifying without thinking about Rafa too much. It’s not until he’s back in the hotel room, freshly showered, when his own Instagram algorithm puts him front and center again.
It’s a snippet of his post-FP1 with F2. He remembers standing there with one hand on his hip, the other pinching the tiny BlueTooth mic in his fingers, sweating profusely through his fireproofs, and mildly self-conscious because Rafa had been standing only a few meters away, eyes boring into his skull.
“Uh, yeah, the car feels good, apart from a lockup on turn 9, but it shouldn’t be a problem so long as the suspension is still --- hey, you got a staring problem over there?”
He’d meant it as a joke, but only just. He was sticky and exhausted and this interview had been the only thing standing in between the AC of Red Bull hospitality; the last thing he wanted to feel, on top of everything else, was Rafa’s eyes on him.
The camera swings over to Rafa, who’s mid-sip of his water bottle, his brown eyes wide, and any irritation Nikola had felt in that moment evaporates, replaced with the sudden realization that Rafa looks like a hamster. An adorable hamster that decided to dress as a bumblebee for Halloween.
Adorable. Jesus Christ. Nikola massages a point in the center of his forehead. Maybe he ought to get his head checked.
Onscreen, Rafa is shaking his head, the corners of his lips canting into a smile behind his straw. “No, no problem! I was just …” he makes a vague gesture with his hand, before becoming suddenly interested in his boots.
“Right.”
The camera swings back to Nikola, and as he stumbles through the rest of his post-practice report, he hates how he can see a pink flush spreading across the bridge of his nose, and how he knows that it has nothing to do with the heat.
To spare himself the secondhand embarrassment that generally comes with seeing recordings of himself -- oh my God, get it together -- he pulls open the Reel’s caption, and honestly, that doesn’t do him any good either.
@Formula2 Nikola and Rafa riff post-FP1! 👀 #formula2 #F2 #camalov
↳@DunnerDeal923 damnnn i didn’t know tsolov had jokes lol 🤣
↳@puppysupreme nikola finally getting that stick out of his ass i see
↳@marypowder watch out rafaaa they’re gonna set the lion on you next race 🦁
He fixates on that last hashtag -- #camalov -- before deciding that it’s time for bed.
“What do you think of Rafa?”
“Rafa?” Arvid isn’t eating his spinach omelet, he’s attacking it. An F1 driver’s schedule is considerably more packed than an F2 driver’s, so it’s kind of a miracle they can still meet for lunch. He gives a thoughtful swallow. “Nice guy. A bit quiet. A bit…”
“A bit what?”
“Well -- a bit strange, if I’m honest.”
“Ah.”
Nikola perches his chin in both hands, the quiche on his own plate suddenly forgotten. The chatter in hospitality is loud enough that no one could possibly know -- or want to know -- what they were talking about, but it still feels weird, taboo almost.
“Why, what’s up with Rafa?” Arvid asks, reaching for his sparkling water.
“Nothing. F2 just, uh. In a reel, they tagged it with our names. Camalov, I don’t know.”
He’s about to change the topic, talk about the upcoming sprint or when they could hang out at the next race, when Arvid says “I think he likes you, you know,” and Nikola’s entire world gets put on pause. Lags like a pit stop that’s taking too long, one wheel gun still stuck in the tire rim.
Arvid is smiling, though, so maybe it’s a joke. “What?”
“I think he likes you,” Arvid repeats, grinning. “He mentions you a lot, in his interviews. And, well, the staring…”
“It’s just a Rafa thing,” Nikola says stubbornly. “He stares at everyone.”
“Okay,” Arvid says, clearly not buying it. “Just don’t be too surprised F2 has caught on to it, that’s all. Come on, it’s cute.”
“Cute?!”
“Camalov,” Arvid snickers, cutting up his omelet some more. “And he’s like, going about it like you’re both still in primary school. What’s next, is he gonna yank your pigtails?”
“Stop.”
“Push you off the swings at recess?”
“Arvid --”
“Oh, more of a long-walks-on-the-beach type, is he?”
“He hasn’t got a crush on me.”
“Sure.” Arvid fixes him with a conciliatory look. “Look, who cares if Rafa likes you? Do you like him?”
“No,” Nikola says, maybe too quickly for his liking.
Arvid shrugs. “Then fine, it’s settled.” He returns to his omelet in a businesslike way. “You know, just ‘cause they’ve put your names together doesn’t mean it’s romantic. Fans love a driver pairing. It’s probably just to boost engagement.”
“And that’s what VCARB did with you and Lawson?”
Arvid brandishes his fork at him, the tips of ears going red. “That,” he says, “Was different.”
The feature race is good, another podium for him and Campos. Rafa’s finished third place, and they all shake hands in the cooldown room, their hands slick with sweat and salt, before settling in to watch the replays. Even though they had just been out there on the track, it’s always nice to see the race how the cameras see it. Nikola tries, once again, to Not Notice how Rafa sits down next to him.
During a slow-mo of Nikola overtaking Ollie Goethe, Rafa nudges Nikola’s shoulder with his own before leaning in to whisper: “Sorry about yesterday. Your interview.”
For a moment, Nikola doesn’t know what Rafa is talking about. He gets like this, so wrapped up in the sport that he forgets that outside the car, the world is still turning without him. “Oh,” he says, when he finally realizes. “Uh, don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”
“Did you see F2 posted about it?”
“Yeah, I did. It was quite funny, so.”
“They, uh, they tagged us in it.” In his lap, Rafa makes a hashtag with his fingers. “Camalov.”
Nikola swallows. “Yeah,” he rasps. “I saw that, too.”
“It was cute, no?”
And here is where Nikola meets his undoing, because he finally tears his eyes from the screen and finds himself effectively pinned by Rafa’s big brown eyes. They’re only a few inches apart, and Arvid’s words buzz in his head like radio static. I think he likes you, you know. I think he likes you. It’s cute. Camalov.
He hadn’t liked it when Arvid had said it. But when Rafa says it, it sounds so wonderfully simple.
Nikola makes several noises, but none of them are words.
Nikola’s flying somewhere over Italy, halfway to unconsciousness, when his phone pings with a WhatsApp notification. When he fishes it out of his jumper pocket, he feels his attention ramp back to full consciousness at the name on his screen.
Rafael Câmara (Invicta): [ATTACHMENT]
Rafael Câmara (Invicta): just saw this on twitter kkkk
Nikola opens the message. A GIF pops up. It’s pink and glittery and corny, like something from 2005. CAMALOV DOMINATION, the text sparkles above cutouts of his and Rafa’s F2 promotional photos, looking out of place in their seriousness.
It’s so goofy that Nikola can’t help but smile at it. The fans are creative, he’ll give them that. And they’re quick.
Absently, he scrolls through the old messages that linger above the new ones. Him and Rafa had never been close, but they were friends, once upon a time. There’s something about racing the same dozen or so people your whole life that will make you at least a little bit friendly: invites to iRacing lobbies, questions about track layouts, directions, so many directions. They were forever getting lost in sprawling paddocks that felt huge to them, often being mistaken for young fans with paddock passes before senior staff finally realized who they were.
Rafa isn’t an unwelcome presence on his phone, but still, Nikola tries to Not Notice the feeling of apprehension settling in his stomach, like he’s texting a girl he likes. What do I say? and all that. Which is weird, because it’s Rafa, so it shouldn’t even matter. That’s all. Just Rafa.
Before he can think too hard on it, his phone buzzes again.
Rafael Câmara (Invicta): cute right?
He scrolls back down to the present. There it is again. Rafa calling it -- them -- cute. Nikola taps out a response.
yeah haha
cute
The next time he sees Rafa, they’re at another track, another country.
It’s Friday, a half-hour before FP1. Nikola’s heading to the track, fresh from a debrief meeting with Campos. Even though it’s only Free Practice, he’s getting the pre-race jitters, the kind that remind him he’s about to do something dangerous and ill-advised.
He’s barely made it ten steps before Rafa whizzes by him on a scooter. Nikola doesn’t have time to be annoyed, because Rafa immediately slows, coming to a stop only a few meters away, and fixes him with a smile so bright that Nikola swears it could’ve powered the whole grid.
“Hey!” Rafa says. His fireproofs are undone at the waist, his turtle glasses perched on his nose. “Where are you headed?”
“FP1,” Nikola grins. “Same as you, no?”
“Oh, right.” Rafa lifts one hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and grins back. “Do you want a lift?”
Nikola almost gives his knee-jerk answer of No, it’s alright. No, you go ahead. No, I’ll be fine.
Almost.
“You sure?” he says instead.
Rafa just nods. “Of course.”
“Well, alright.”
It’s a little odd, because -- well, Nikola knows he’s tall, for a driver. He’d always been long and lanky, but he remembers there was a time when he and Rafa were the same height.
But, that must have been years ago, because standing behind him on the scooter, Nikola feels like he’s towering over him. He can see the top of his head, the dark brown hair that falls in loose waves around his face. And -- God, where is he supposed to put his hands? His waist? Nikola notices -- and then immediately tries not to -- how Rafa’s shirt is riding up against his fireproofs, the barest sliver of golden skin visible. Absolutely not.
He settles for his shoulders.
“Ready?” Rafa says. Before Nikola can answer, he lurches them forward, and Nikola’s so caught off guard that one of his stupid hands jumps to Rafa’s waist anyway.
If Rafa notices, he doesn’t say anything.
@Formula2 #Camalov making their way to the track! #F2
↳nat! @notalie1633
oh uhhh i didn’t know this was an option
↳alex @omegaliam
nikola very respectful with it i see 🙂↕️
↳charlie! → going to cota @4zanorris
f2 admin on that camalov agenda
↳kuip @papayaoiii
nikola usually looks so serious, how bizarre
↳emmy @ocontruther30
there’s literally no reason for them to be doing this btw 😭😭
ur fucked, Arvid texts him, along with the link to a particularly incriminating F2 tweet. Nikola just buries his head in his pillow, and lets out a long groan.
There’s a two-week break until the next F2 race, and honestly, thank God.
Nikola used to hate any weekend he wasn’t driving. He’s always hated being still, but the breaks between races feel like that week between Christmas and New Year’s, where everything feels slow and sluggish, like it’s suspended in gelatin. But this time, he’s happy to float. Happy to get away from the track for a bit.
He’s going to Bulgaria. Only for a few days, to have his cheeks pinched by his family, then it’s off to Milton Keynes for sim work. His mom bugs him when he’s going to bring someone home so she can properly embarrass him, tell them all about how he used to run around the house making car noises, but he just shrugs.
Rafa’s in Brazil, if his Instagram stories are anything to go off of. Kissing Brazilian babies or something, no doubt. But Nikola watches his stories anyway, trying to Not Notice how Rafa positively glows on home soil and how his dorky glasses make him look inexplicably like a turtle and, and, and.
There’s another guy, too, in a lot of them. Tall, dark, handsome, nameless. Nikola tries to Not Notice that, either, but it’s impossible. In Rafa’s photos, they always look like they’re having the time of their lives, clinking glasses on a beach somewhere, heads pressed together in a selfie.
Quit being weird, Nikola thinks, before putting his phone facedown on his bedside. He’s all bothered watching Rafa’s stories like some jealous ex. That can’t be normal.
They’ve been texting more lately, but Rafa’s responses have been somewhat sporadic. Nikola attributes this to the 6-hour time difference, but it’s weird. Travelling so often for F2 sometimes made the world feel smaller -- here one day, gone the next. But now, Nikola has never felt the distance from one side of the world to another more than when he’s thinking about Rafa.
On a drizzly evening at Milton Keynes, Nikola’s phone lights up with an incoming call.
It’s not Arvid, or his trainer, or his mother, or anyone else who calls him regularly. No, when he glances at the screen and sees Rafael Câmara (Invicta) on the screen, he almost falls off his bed. Rafa hasn’t called him since -- well, since F3.
“Hello?” He’s standing for some reason, an anxious energy thrumming through him all of a sudden. “Rafa? Is everything okay?”
“Hey.” A pause on the other line. Then: “You think something bad has to happen for me to call you?”
Nikola exhales, one of those nervous laugh-sighs. “No, of course not …” He leans his forehead on the wall, and resists the urge to fling himself out the nearest window. “How are you? How’s the break?”
“Good,” Rafa hums. There’s some rustling on his end, like he’s moving the phone around. “I’m back in Maranello now. FDA stuff.”
“Oh.” There’s an odd buoying sensation in Nikola’s chest. “Same time zone, then.”
Rafa laughs, and it yanks the buoy in his chest even more. “Yes. More or less.”
They talk for a little bit, about this and that. Rafa tells him about his time in Brazil, seeing his family, going to the beach. Nikola wants to ask about the guy in his stories, but it dies in his throat every time. He doesn’t know why he wants to know so badly.
It’s not long before they start talking shop, because they can’t help themselves. It’s not like they have many coworkers to commiserate with, exactly. But it feels like something has been unstoppered inside Nikola, and he can’t stop. Rafa’s so easy to talk to that Nikola has to consciously remind himself that he’s not supposed to tell him things like the brakes felt weird for me last race and last I heard they’re working on a DRS upgrade and I’m scared that if I put it in the wall everyone is going to hate me. Forever.
“It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” Rafa asks almost an hour later.
“What is?” Nikola’s made his way back under the covers, phone laid out on speaker on the pillow next to him. He’s so, so tired, but he doesn’t want to hang up, not yet.
“The teams. Me in Invicta, you in Campos. Both of us are in a junior F1 team, but our teammates aren’t.”
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” he yawns, repeating one of his and Arvid’s favorite sayings. “But, uh, no, it’s not weird. You know they only take so many people. Besides, Ferrari is probably under some blood curse to snap up all the good-looking drivers, so.”
“You think I’m good-looking?”
Ha. Ha ha ha ha. Fuck.
“I mean -- yeah.” Nikola says, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling above him. Maybe if he concentrates hard enough, he can cause a cave-in that will put him out of his misery. “Um. Like, objectively. Yeah. I think loads of people do.”
Silence on Rafa’s end, except for a soft sigh. “You’re cute, Nikola.”
There it is again. Cute. The word jolts Nikola’s memory, brings him somewhere he’s been trying to avoid.
I think he likes you, you know. Camalov, it’s cute.
Nikola blinks slowly. He could ask him. He could say, hey, Arvid told me something weird -- except it’s not weird, that’s not what I meant, haha, no way --
And then Rafa would say no, he doesn’t like him, of course not. Where would Arvid even get the idea, et cetera. And Nikola could move on. Get out of this funk he’s been in for the last month.
He opens his mouth.
“You should come with me,” Rafa says. “To Brazil. I think you’d like it.”
And the words fall away from Nikola’s lips, just like that. Maybe it’s for the better -- it’s a good moment. Don’t ruin it. “Yeah?” he says instead. He turns to his side, facing his phone, eyelids heavy.
“Yeah. The sun, the food. We’ll go to a karting track and then I can beat you in a real 1v1.”
“I don’t have to be in Brazil for that to happen.”
“I’ll bribe the track operator to rig it in my favor.”
“Not if I do it first,” Nikola says softly, his eyes slipping shut, and that’s the last thing he remembers.
The next morning, he wakes to find his phone burning hot underneath a tangle of sheets, flashing a 5% battery and a WhatsApp call that’s been going for 8 hours, 32 minutes, and 17 seconds.
Nikola hangs up, and tries to Not Notice how warm his face feels for so early in the morning.
On Thursday, in between media day activities, Nikola and Arvid are occupying a shaded table outside Racing Bulls’ hospitality, both dressed in team gear, both sweating their asses off.
Arvid is telling him something Liam did on the flight over, which Nikola is only half-listening to, when Rafa passes by, surrounded by a throng of red-polo’d Ferrari staff and admirers alike. Nikola watches him go by, signing each and every cap that’s presented to him, Ferrari or Invicta. He’s still sporting the Brazilian sun on his skin, as golden as ever.
“Hey,” Arvid prods him, having at last given up on telling his story. “Who’s staring now?”
“I wasn’t staring,” Nikola says, still half-listening, still staring.
Rafa wins that weekend, and it’s Nikola this time on the bottom step of the podium, but it’s still the same champagne he gets drenched in, in the end.
It’s just third place, but a few Campos guys want to go celebrate at a local club, a live DJ and all. Nikola doesn’t have anything else planned for tonight, so after a quick shower and change into something decent from his suitcase, he hits the town with them.
As they walk, he fires off a few quick texts to Rafa. He figures he won’t see them til later, that maybe he’s also out celebrating, but he doesn’t want to forget to do it later.
hey 👋congrats on the win
we should hang out sometime
celebrate properly 🍾
He's just overthinking his first message (why did he send a wave emoji??) when Rafa’s reply is almost immediate:
rafa 🐢: hey !!!
rafa 🐢: thank you very much ⭐
rafa 🐢: i’m actually about to head out somewhere if you wanted to come
rafa 🐢: but no worries if not
Rafa, going out for a wild night on the town? Nikola could hardly picture it. It’s like being asked to imagine Helmut Marko on a skateboard, bizarre and unsettling. The few times he’s seen Rafa out, at an event or something, he’s nursing a beer or sometimes a glass of bubbly all night, scanning the room with those enormous eyes of his. He made polite conversation with anyone who came close, but he was clearly uncomfortable in crowds. He had always stuck out, like a … like a …
Nikola looks up at the Campos guys he was walking with, their backs retreating under the streetlights. They were nice enough, but now Nikola can’t get the image of a hamster dressed as a bumblebee for Halloween out of his head.
nah it’s alright
send me the address
The place, as it turns out, isn’t a club at all, but actually a fishing pier at the beach, which isn’t far from downtown. The only sounds are the seagulls and the waves, and the shrieks of little kids on the beach below, daring each other to go in as the sun dips lower and lower. The breeze ruffles their hair and their clothes; Nikola even feels a wild spray of sea salt, and then it’s gone.
It’s actually cruel how good Rafa looks pinned against the dusk in a hoodie that’s slightly too big for him, hair wild, the sky reflected in his glasses. It’s the kind of image that makes Nikola wish he were an artist, if only for tonight. That’s what he should’ve been doing over the break. Learning how to paint so he can capture Rafa just like this.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Rafa asks, and Nikola blinks.
Oh, right. The beach. He means the beach.
“Yeah,” he smiles. “Thanks for bringing me,” he says, if only to cover the weird pulsing in his head.
“My mom told me about it,” Rafa says, throwing his arms over the wooden railing like a little kid. “I try to see the ocean, wherever we go.”
Nikola looks down at the water that’s swirling and churning, deep blue beneath them. It’s a little bit like how his head has been the last few weeks, turbulent and confused.
“Sorry it’s not, like. A cool bar or whatever,” Rafa says, his voice slightly smaller. “We can still go later, if you want.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Nikola says, his head snapping up. “It’s great. Really.”
Rafa’s eyes shine, and Nikola thinks he’s going to die. Die from Rafa Câmara-induced cuteness.
“Can I tell you something?” Rafa asks.
“Sure.” Nikola isn’t sure if he’s imagined it, but it feels like they’ve gotten closer, the sea breeze wrapping around them as one instead of two. Inside his chest, his heart is thumping like he’s back in the car. Like the lights are going out.
“I used to be really, like …” Rafa rolls the word he’s looking for around in his head, like it’s a marble. “Intimidated. By you.”
Oh. That wasn’t what Nikola thought he was going to say. “What?”
But Rafa only nods. “Yeah. You had this whole like … stoic … Bulgarian … thing going on. Like nobody had better fuck with you, or else. You were like, really scary in F3 -- I’m serious!” he says, once Nikola tries and fails to squelch a laugh. “And then we’d -- we’d hang out but then you’d go right back to being, like, The Bulgarian Lion, or whatever. Like you were afraid of people seeing just Nikola. So it’s been really nice, getting to know you again. As Nikola.”
This is almost too much to bear. A smile plays on his lips, but Nikola is so, so, deeply destabilized. He knows what it’s like to have Rafa’s eyes on him, but to have his attention -- to have been seen so clearly this whole time -- he feels vulnerable, exposed, an engine left out without a tarp.
I think he likes you, you know. Camalov, it’s cute. And, well, the staring…
“Can I tell you something?” he asks.
Rafa nods, and Nikola tries not to feel like his head is about to fucking explode.
“Arvid told me something, uh, ages ago, actually. That you were, um -- that maybe you liked me. Fancied me.” He lets out a breathy exhale, keeping his eyes locked on the water below. “And everything’s just been --” here he gestures vaguely at the air -- “Messing with me? A little bit? But I know it’s not, uh, true. Like, Arvid was probably just saying bullshit.”
His voice fades, and feels a flush writing itself onto every centimeter of his skin. If he looks at Rafa now, he’ll burst into flames.
He waits, patiently, for Rafa to give a disbelieving sort of laugh. A denial. A rebuttal, even. But none of that comes. Instead, Rafa says: “I do like you.”
Nikola has read old books where, in a very shocking moment, the character feels their knees going weak. He had never experienced such a thing personally -- until here, today, now, where he finds himself gripping the wooden plank of the railing to keep himself upright.
Oh. Oh.
“I do like you,” Rafa says again, if just a bit quieter.
Nikola chances a glance at Rafa. He doesn’t seem upset, just -- a little pink, if anything, making itself known along the bridge of his nose, like a sunburn. Nikola tries to Not Notice how Rafa is digging his nails into the railing, how the tip of his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip.
“It’s okay, if you -- I know it’s not, um --”
“Rafa,” Nikola says softly, and Rafa looks up at him, all brown eyes and dark lashes, and it does something terrible to his insides. It melts him from the inside out, makes him wonder why he’d ever wanted Rafa to stop looking at him before. It’s a horrific realization, to know that someone could do that to him at any time.
It’s magnetic, almost, the way they sway into each other; like something he can’t control, this sudden, burning need to have this one question answered. He tries to Not Notice how Rafa presses up on tiptoe -- tries to Not Notice how he tilts his chin up at him --
Tries, and fails.
He brings his head down, and their lips touch once. Twice. And then they’re kissing.
Nikola’s only kissed girls before, and honestly, it’s more or less the same, but at the same time, entirely different. It feels like the first time he’s ever kissed someone before. For all his Not Noticing, Rafa is overloading all five of his senses. Rafa is heat and sweetness and bubblegum, and the way he sighs against his mouth is wildly attractive.
Rafa seems to like kissing him, too, slow and unhurried. His hand starts on his chest before moving to his jaw, his palm rough but warm on Nikola’s cheek. He can feel Rafa pressing his body into him, and Nikola moves his arm down to his waist, that god-forsaken waist that had almost unraveled him on the scooter ride from hell.
There’s suddenly much more of him that Nikola wants to get his hands on. To see. To commit to memory like he has all the curves and the straights of Suzuka and Monza. Surely if they call a car then -- ?
Something buzzes near Nikola’s ear. Abruptly, Rafa pulls away.
“What?...” Nikola feels dizzy. They breathe in time with each other. Quick. Slow. Quick quick, slow.
But Rafa is frowning at something on his Apple Watch. The pink on his cheeks is now a bright crimson, the perfect shade of rosso corsa. Nikola tries to peer at the screen, but whatever it is is in Portuguese. Some kind of health alert.
“What’s wrong?” Nikola asks. He runs his hand along the small of Rafa’s back, and smirks slightly at the subsequent shiver that runs down Rafa’s spine.
“Nothing,” Rafa says, shutting off his Watch. “I, uh -- it said my heart rate spiked too quickly, just then. ‘Cause we were…” He gestures between them. “You know. Um.”
A big grin unfurls itself across Nikola’s lips. He can’t help it. “What?!” Rafa demands.
Nikola shrugs. “Nothing. You’re cute, that’s all.”
And Rafa huffs at him, mumbles something about heart attacks, and cardiovascular health, but Nikola can hardly hear it. He leans down to kiss him and he wants to hear his Watch buzz again, and again, and again.
“So what do you think?”
“What do I think of what?”
“Of Rafa, you idiot.”
Nikola quirks his mouth to one side. He’s standing with Arvid in the pitlane post-Sprint, watching Rafa give his mandatory F2 soundbite, BlueTooth microphone and all. Nikola is sweaty and exhausted from his own time on the track, but he’s waiting for Rafa to finish up so they can shower and get dinner somewhere. Showering separately, for propriety’s sake -- for now, anyway.
“Do you like him?”
Rafa is now talking very animatedly to what is clearly a Brazilian media outlet. He’s so different when he speaks Portuguese, Nikola realizes. More present, more there. He wonders if he’s noticed the same when Nikola speaks Bulgarian on the phone to his mother, before remembering -- of course. Probably.
Rafa looks up then, over the interviewer’s shoulder. His hair is all on end, a classic case of helmet hair, his forehead glistening with sweat. When he catches Nikola’s eye, he grins -- and Nikola feels like he did at the pier, vulnerable and helpless.
That nuclear weapon of a gaze, God. Seriously, the United Nations should intervene.
“Yeah,” Nikola smiles. “I like him.”