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— How the fuck did you manage to do that?... — Roman made an intense show of scrolling through TikToks on his phone. But every now and then, his gaze would lift for a couple of seconds to survey the scene unfolding in front of the DAMS team cabin. — I’d sooner believe they’d completely fall out and turn into those senior formula drivers who are ready to tear each other's throats out, whether in interviews or on the track.
Dino only hissed in response, also trying not to look like he was paying attention. A few meters away from the cabin—right in front of the entrance where he and Roman had set up camp on folding chairs—stood Nikola Tsolov and Rafael Câmara, chatting about everything and nothing. A casual observer, not particularly well-versed in the relationships between the Formula 2 grid drivers, would say it was just colleagues discussing the recent Azerbaijan Grand Prix weekend. And only a few knew what it had cost these two to start getting closer. Let alone "closer"—even just talking normally, beyond the level of "hi-bye" and podium handshakes.
Rafa was explaining something to the Campos driver, gesturing animatedly. Nikola listened closely, looking at Câmara with an unusual, soft presence—the way he looked only at the people dearest to him. And it was unusual to see Rafa so easygoing in conversation. He was usually quite taciturn, listening more than talking. In all the challenges hosted by Saioa, their social media manager at the Ferrari Academy, Dino was usually the one providing most of the content; Câmara was more detached. But how people change when they’re talking to someone they like!
Roman snapped his fingers right in front of Dino’s face.
— Babycakes, you’re zoning out. Tsolov’s not going to eat Rafa, don't worry. You already worked like a legend, that’s it, you can let them sail off into the sunset.
Dino blinked hard and shook his head, a bit too jerkily.
— Yeah, I... nothing, really. Just spaced out for a second. When are we allowed to go inside?
— Oh, I don't know, they told me the cleanup would be done in an hour, but that was an hour and a half ago...
Dino, of course, had already stopped listening again, shifting his attention back to the pair of guys standing closer to each other with every passing minute.
Ahead lay the general briefing before a glorious two-month break. No matter how much drivers loved racing, they were still young guys missing their friends and families. Because of that, a joyful atmosphere filled the meeting room, even for the guys whose races hadn’t gone all that well. Roman got dragged into a conversation by the Rodin drivers, and Dino hurried over to take the empty chair next to Câmara.
— I’m so proud of you, you have no idea! — Dino started right off the bat, sliding into the seat and leaning close to Rafa’s ear. — I thought you were joking when you told me about the confession.
— If I were joking, you’d have killed me after finding out the truth, — Câmara replied with a chuckle.
Out loud, Rafa was, as always, a bit prickly in response to Dino’s teasing, but they both knew: he was fiercely grateful to Beganovic for his help. Dino had been the first to notice his friend’s unusual attitude toward his championship rival. The standoff between Rafa and Nikola stretched all the way back to Formula 3, where Tsolov had finally secured decent funding in the right year, while Câmara was starving for wins after stepping out from the shadow of bad luck during his early regional championship seasons. The guys didn't openly tear into each other, as Bilinski had mentioned earlier that day, but it was obvious they cared deeply about each other—especially when they both qualified on the front row for a race.
Still, Dino wouldn't call himself a good friend if he couldn't read Rafa like an open book. Tsolov wasn't just a rival—he was the first person whose negative opinion actually mattered to Rafa; whose criticism was initially met with fierce resistance and then analyzed through long, sleepless nights trying to improve his skills; whose presence on the grid genuinely made Rafa crave victory. Dino noticed all of it in Câmara’s clenched, furious jaw, in the dark eyes that flashed with real emotion whenever he saw the Bulgarian.
But Rafa wouldn't be Rafa if he had intended to leave things as they were from the start. Dino, naturally, hadn't let him: he rigged the seating arrangements at briefings so the rivals would sit together, forced Câmara to write to Nikola personally about random work questions, and during the summer break, he literally eavesdropped on which island Tsolov was heading to for vacation and promptly invited Rafa there.
And all those actions had borne fruit—gradually, the guys stopped snapping at each other or pretending the other didn't exist. And then Dino got the text: "I confessed to him. He confessed to me too"—and felt a storm of emotions. It had become a sort of multi-month project, and Dino figured he’d aced it with an A-plus. Bilinski had spent all those weeks baffled, wondering where his teammate got so much energy and, most importantly, so much genuine desire to fix his friend's love life. Too bad Dino couldn't explain it to himself either.
The briefing began. Câmara scanned the gathered drivers a couple of times.
— Nikola said he’d run into the garages, but he should’ve been back by now... Hope he doesn't get a fine for being late, — Rafa said gloomily.
Dino looked around too—the Bulgarian really wasn't anywhere to be seen. That strange feeling in his chest flared up again; Dino rushed to stamp it down before it reached his head and made him start overthinking. Meanwhile, Rafa looked at the quiet Beganovic and tugged at the hem of his unzipped race suit.
— Why haven’t you changed? And Bilinski’s still sweating it out in his gear too, I see. Slobs.
— They wouldn't let us into the cabins, some kind of extra-important cleaning... So we're stuck like this. Oh well, you'll just have to endure the natural scent of Ferrari summer camp, — Dino laughed, pushing away Rafa’s hand, which was still holding onto the edge of his suit and revealing the sweat-drenched base layer underneath.
He hated himself for it.
A moment later, Nikola sat down on the other side of Rafa.
— Your only hope is that the FIA gents were way too busy arguing about tire strategies and didn't notice your tardiness, — Rafa immediately chimed in.
Nikola let out a barely audible giggle and stroked Câmara’s shoulder.
— Beganovic, why haven't you changed?
Dino shifted his gaze from Nikola’s hand—still resting on Rafa’s back—and shook off another trance from his face.
— If you hadn't been late, you'd know, — Rafa whispered right away instead of Dino, making Nikola roll his eyes.
The boredom of the briefing was dangerous—thoughts cluttered the head, and there was nothing to distract from them. Dino sat on pins and needles, dreaming only of getting the hell out of this event as fast as possible. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, he apologized to his immediate row neighbors and slipped out to the restroom to catch his breath. The temptation to run away was there, hoping the organizers wouldn't notice the DAMS driver's long absence, but the plan fell apart before he even made it out of the stalls. Tsolov appeared in the doorway, wearing his usual unreadable expression. Dino instinctively took a step back, as if sensing in advance that the conversation wouldn't be pleasant.
Nikola just looked at Dino, his gaze scanning his face searchingly while Dino nervously squeezed his hands. Finally, unable to handle the tension anymore, Dino was about to brush it off with a bad joke, but Nikola suddenly spoke:
— Amazing how someone can be such a good and such a bad actor at the same time.
Tsolov shoved his hands into his pants pockets and walked over to the mirror above the sink, watching Beganovic through the reflection.
Dino frowned and shook his head:
— I have no idea what you're talking about...
— I see the way you look at him.
Those words cracked something open inside Dino. All that hot, incoherent nonsense that had been poisoning the guy's life for the past few years—held back by a dam of spontaneity and useless chatter—poured right through the crack. And this storm of emotion on Beganovic's face was exactly what Nikola needed to confirm his guesses.
— I see you clenching your jaw every time he turns to me or talks to me. And I wouldn't even think it worthy of my attention... but you're the exact one who dragged Câmara almost by the hand toward me...
— That's an exagge—
— According to Rafa, — Nikola cut him off, — you were the one convincing him to message me on Instagram about any meaningless questions, you listened to all his worries, you're responsible for that "accidental" meeting in the Caribbean. And with all of that, you're the exact one who feels like the hardest obstacle standing before his heart.
Dino wanted to walk out. Or better yet—punch the mirror so he wouldn't have to look at his pathetic state in it right now, and then walk out. But then he'd be admitting that Nikola was right. Yeah... what difference did it make anymore. Nikola already knew he was right. Tsolov tilted his head.
— I hate wasting words on nothing. One question: is this going to be a problem in the future?
Dino smiled. Slipping back into his habitual good-guy persona, locking all the wrong thoughts away under heavy bolts.
— Rafa is my best friend, — Beganovic replied, nodding to his own reflection in the mirror. — His happiness comes first for me. I won't... get in the way or become a nuisance. I won't stand between you two. You don't have to worry.
Nikola didn't answer. Apparently, those words were enough for him to consider the conversation over. Dino finally walked out of the restroom, too broken down to notice the shadow of genuine regret on Nikola’s face.
If anyone else had been standing in Tsolov's place at that moment, Dino would have worried about his words leaking. But Nikola could be trusted—Beganovic didn't hook his friends up with just anyone. If only Nikola were just a tiny bit less observant and smart... he wouldn't have gone and prodded at this festering wound inside Dino.
---
Lying awake at night in his driver's cabin, Dino stared with unbearable melancholy at the blinding phone screen. There were way too many pictures of Rafa in his gallery.
Here he was, still just a kid, squinting funny without his glasses at Ferrari winter tests when they first met at the rookie academy gathering. Winters in Italy were gloomy, but Dino felt so much better the moment he saw a bunch of embarrassed, energetic, and clearly friendly peers—and among them, one Brazilian boy with a sweet smile. Dino had even forgotten how to breathe for a second, drowning in those dark eyes and getting lost in that funny-accented speech. They hit it off instantly. Best friends at first sight, or so Dino had stupidly and naively assumed back then.
He was the loudest supporter when Rafa won in regionals. Rafa was the first to congratulate him when he moved up a level. Signing his contract with DAMS, Beganovic had typed out a row of fire emojis under the announcement *"Rafael Câmara joins Invicta Team for 2026!"* and regretted not being good enough to get picked up there too.
"That would have been such a vibe!" Dino had lamented in those days, lying on Rafa’s shoulder and scrolling through Insta posts on his phone.
"We’ll still be close though," Rafa had been relaxed, scrolling past as soon as Dino mumbled "I'm done reading," and spent an entire hour calming his friend down. — "At each Grand Prix, on the same starting grid. Watch out, I might just beat you in every single session!"
Rafa had no idea that even being in the same team wasn't enough for Dino. Ideally, he wanted to eat together, sleep together, watch TikToks together, share a single cockpit—Dino wouldn't mind moving over, he wasn't greedy.
Here was another photo—the two of them stuck in the Nice airport, and Câmara sleeping on Dino’s shoulder, sprawled across uncomfortable chairs while Beganovic tried not to even breathe so as not to wake him. Here was the summer camp, and a sleepover at Tuukka's. Here were screenshots of their video calls—Dino took snapshots every time Rafa made a funny face due to a bad connection, or whenever he thought he looked infinitely gorgeous (always).
And here was the fresh one from social media. Nikola whispering something in Rafa's ear by the garage entrance, and Câmara looking at him in a way he had never looked at Dino. With that very same softness that made everything inside Beganovic twist into a tight, painful knot.
Dino swallowed the bitter lump in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut tight. He brought this on himself, after all. He was the one pushing Rafa, whispering ideas for messages, setting up those "accidental" run-ins with Tsolov on vacation. He had literally built someone else's happiness with his own hands, hoping that stupid reverse psychology would work. It hadn't. The silly, wrong, inappropriate crush hadn't burned out—it had simply started rotting from the inside.
Dino flipped his phone screen-side down. Only the blue LED of the charger glowed in the dark room. Next door, Roman was fast asleep, completely unaware of his teammate's inner torment. The ideal solution right now would be to gently distance himself from Rafa. He was in a relationship now, spending less time with friends, which meant Dino needed to let him go, let him build the next phase of his life. Dino's heart squeezed with pain, but he stubbornly frowned and resolutely pulled the blanket over his head, forcing himself to close his eyes. He would just do his job. Joke on camera, shoot promo material with literally anyone they paired him with. He would become the ultimate friend who knew how to disappear at the right time.
---
A couple of weeks had passed since the Baku Grand Prix. Dino had gradually recovered, cooling down from the emotional storm of that briefing and the tough talk with Nikola, but a background static of inner turmoil still remained. There was still a month and a half until the next round, and the Formula 2 organizers decided to gather the drivers for a massive media intensive in Singapore—right on the eve of the senior Formula 1 weekend, keeping the guys there for a few extra days after it wrapped up.
The shooting day and series of promo activities stretched into a full-on marathon. The contrast between the drivers was obvious to everyone in the studio. Rafa and Nikola, tucked away in a corner on one of the guest sofas, were serving out this shooting process like a punishment. Câmara sat with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression completely blank and his gaze vacant, only occasionally tossing flat answers at the social media managers' questions. Nikola looked no less detached beside him. Both introverts by nature—even the basic necessity of smiling for static cameras and promo banners drained their energy completely.
Beganovic, on the other hand, blossomed on camera. Dino was born for media: charismatic, with lively facial expressions, a loud laugh, and natural charm, he instantly threw himself into any stunt, whether it was a new social media trend or a personal vlog for Ferrari.
Yet today, his borderline-frantic hyperactivity reeked of desperation. Dino grabbed onto every joke, every take, every stupid challenge like a lifeline. Anything to avoid looking at the corner where Câmara and Tsolov were sitting. Anything to keep the deafening thoughts out of his head.
— Looking good! — the media team girl announced cheerfully. — Alright, next... for the partner "lip-read the phrase" video, we need someone to pair with Beganovic! — she called out, checking her tablet.
Dino hadn't even had a chance to sit down and grab some water. Then again—the more work, the better.
— Rafa, you in? — Nikola suddenly asked.
— I'll pass... nah, — Câmara answered a bit more sharply than he intended, not even lifting his eyes from the floor.
Dino stalled for a second, feeling a sharp pinch under his ribs, but immediately stretched his signature bright smile across his face:
— No problem! We'll drag someone from the neighboring garages.
— Is Roman finally planning to crawl out of his room? — the social media manager asked, but Beganovic didn't get a chance to answer.
— Oh, I can! — Emerson Fittipaldi popped out from behind the lighting rigs. The AIX driver had just finished his solo walk-ins and was now spinning his racing helmet around with a bored look. — Dino, you don't mind, do you? Bilinski looks like he's currently—
— Emo-boy! My man! — Beganovic stepped forward without losing a second, pulling Fittipaldi into a tight shoulder hug and bumping temples with him. — Right on time! Let's not distract Roman from important business.
Emerson looked slightly taken aback, but quickly regained his confident look. Unlike Rafa, who clamped up in front of lenses, and Nikola, who tired out fast, younger Fittipaldi was like a fish in water in front of the camera, just as good as Dino. He winked at the guy hugging him and dragged him toward the media team setting up their gear.
— I'm playing for keeps. The loser buys coffee in Monaco at that exact spot where the Monégasque prince himself would go bankrupt, — Emerson chuckled, leaning close to Dino's ear.
The social media manager's eyes lit up. She scribbled notes with her pen, mapping out new chunks of content as ideas popped into her head.
— Deal, Brazilian, — Dino replied. The word "Brazilian" slipped off his tongue automatically, but somewhere deep inside, it echoed with a dull ache.
From the corner where Câmara and Tsolov sat, a sharp sound echoed. Rafa squeezed his plastic isotonic cup so hard it crunched, sending a crack straight up the side. Nikola slowly arched a telling eyebrow and shifted his gaze from the tortured cup to Rafa's face: Câmara's jaw was clenched so tight his muscles twitched, and his dark eyes were literally burning a hole through Fittipaldi's back as Emerson playfully ruffled Dino's hair after a good take. Tsolov just as slowly shifted his gaze back to the film crew, simultaneously hiding a smile breaking across his lips.
And that first partner challenge was only the beginning. Over the following days, Singapore turned into a massive blur of chaos where Dino and Emerson unexpectedly became an awesome duo to everyone's surprise. The media team, catching the vibe, shoved them into every format they could possibly think of: cooking battles, night shoots around Marina Bay, autograph sessions, and beach interactions. It felt like they were trying to stockpile enough videos not for a month and a half, but for a whole year ahead.
Emerson smoothly and effortlessly filled all of Beganovic's personal downtime. And Dino didn't mind the new company at all. They went to breakfast together, stared blankly at sports programs on TV in hotel restaurants after long shooting shifts, tossed jokes back and forth on social media, and goofed off on camera. Fittipaldi unhesitatingly put an arm around Dino's waist for photos, snatched his red Ferrari cap, and whispered things into his ear with a smile right during livestreams, making him burst into genuine giggles and triggering fresh waves of fan comments.
Dino latched onto this light, no-strings-attached attention like a painkiller. He could combine useful PR work with genuinely pleasant off-track bustle, and most importantly—without being a nuisance to Nikola and Rafa.
Sitting on a folding chair between takes, Dino suddenly realized why those introvert drivers loved hiding in corners away from everyone else. Away from external noise, it was genuinely easier to think. True, the thoughts crawling into his head were a terrible form of salvation. With Emerson, the pain—unexpectedly—really did quiet down. It softened, turning from a sharp flash under his ribs into a dull background hum. Contrast-wise with the past few months of Dino's life, everything with Fittipaldi felt clear, safe, and simple—without those exhausting subtexts and without the constant fear of giving himself away with an accidental look, word, or gesture. And best of all—Dino could finally fulfill his old promise: stop being an annoying shadow lingering in sight, stop intruding on his friend's personal time and hogging attention. It was mature, correct, and sickeningly logical.
Only, despite that correctness, a black, immovable void kept expanding in his chest, while his fingertips sparked with a desire to drop this whole circus act and wind up right in front of the Invicta drivers' rooms in a split second.
Dino stubbornly pressed his lips together, staring down at his feet. He had locked himself in this isolation: first playing matchmaker with idiotic enthusiasm, and now cowardly hiding behind Fittipaldi's loud laughter just to avoid watching Rafa look at someone else. Every second next to Emerson acted like a great band-aid, but under that band-aid, the wound kept rotting. Dino tore himself apart inside for missing Rafa so badly it made his teeth grind, hated himself for even daring to miss him, and simultaneously felt a lousy sense of guilt toward Emerson, who clearly didn't deserve to just be a patch for this emotional hole in Beganovic's soul.
— It scares me to look at you during those rare moments when you aren't swarmed by people like flies, — Roman suddenly pointed out.
Dino jumped—he hadn't even noticed Bilinski pulling up a neighboring chair, so deep in thought was he. Roman scanned the people surrounding them. The Invicta guys sat with miserable expressions listening to their manager, while other teams drifted in and out of shared events or headed back to their paddock motorhomes. Only Dino seemed incapable of escaping this merry-go-round.
— Is something hurting? — Roman continued, not getting an answer from Dino. — Did babwee and Rafa have a falling out?
— No, — Dino instantly put on a relaxed face. — What made you think that?
— Well... — Roman dragged out the word significantly, working his eyebrows. — I'm no expert, but usually people don't suddenly stop hanging out closely for no reason. If you didn't fight, at least something happened. Is it Tsolov's fault? Did he ban you from hanging out? I'm gonna beat the shit out of h—
— No! — Dino squeezed his eyes shut for a second, rubbing his temples with his fingers. — Don't... don't make it absurd. I just... have other things to do. After all, I'm human too, I'm allowed to get tired of socializing...
— Dino! Coming? Our turn! — Emerson waved at them from the shooting zone.
Bilinski's smile grew even more telling, while Dino nervously darted his eyes across the floor.
— With certain people, — he corrected himself, — with certain people.
— It felt like you and Rafa were glued at the hip your whole lives.
— Exactly, — Dino said with unexpected harshness, turning his whole body toward his teammate. — That wasn't the best thing I've ever done in my life. I'm even thinking of apologizing for my excessive clinginess—after all, you know Rafa, he doesn't like all that physical contact. And I basically decided it for him. So... I'm fixing it!
Dino offered a firm smile.
— Anyway, Roman, don't worry, I'm fine, just minor life changes...
He wanted to add something else, but a light hug from behind stopped him. Fittipaldi had apparently gotten tired of waiting and walked over himself.
— Let's go, let's go, it's your favorite—scriptless chatter on camera, — he took Dino by the hand, wrapping his fingers firmly around his, and led Dino toward the media crew.
Roman watched them go in silence, observing Emerson throw an arm around Dino's shoulders, rubbing reassuringly and laughing. Bilinski didn't consider himself a top-tier psychologist or a savior friend equipped to diagnose everything going on, but if Beganovic's changes were already visible to the naked eye—trouble was brewing. Roman shrugged, sighed, and trudged off toward the motorhomes.
---
Emerson was still warmly hugging his grid colleague, while Dino himself felt a two-faced cold running down his spine, sometimes feeling like a sharp, lingering stare. And while Beganovic wrote that cold off to his own internal loops, Nikola would have confirmed without a second thought that this particular thing—was definitely not a mental quirk.
Back in Baku, he hadn't been surprised at all when the restroom door slammed shut behind Beganovic. Surprised, perhaps, only by the desperate stubbornness with which Dino put his fake "good guy" mask back on. Spinning a web of lies about Rafa's happiness coming first, smiling at his crooked reflection in the mirror, and promising not to get in the way—it was so naive and foolish that Tsolov felt a second of genuine pity for the guy. Dino believed he had closed the book, and that his clenched jaw and longing gaze could just be crossed out with a couple of right words. Nikola, naturally, didn't believe a word of it. Even then, Tsolov knew: this bomb was going to blow sooner or later. It was just a matter of time and a trigger.
And Singapore, with its insane promo marathon, unintentionally became the ideal testing ground. Nikola watched in silence from his sofa in the corner of the pavilion as Beganovic, latching onto Emerson Fittipaldi, increasingly resembled a drowning man grabbing onto the first flimsy log in a churning river. The laughter was too loud, the hugs before cameras too tight, the frantic desire to fill every hour with someone else's presence too obvious. That fakeness was noticed by many—Bilinski, for instance, was trying his hardest to talk to Dino about it, though obviously to no avail.
However, Beganovic wasn't the only one acting weird in this story.
Rafa was changing. Subtly, barely noticeably to outsiders, but to Nikola—who had studied the guy down to his smallest gestures even before they started dating—these shifts were crystal clear, sharp enough to hurt the eyes. Outwardly, Rafa remained his usual silent, detached self. He dodged overly frequent appearances, sat nearby during shoot days, let his knee be reassuringly stroked under the table, and gave terse answers to the media team. But Nikola could feel how the very texture of his presence had shifted. It showed in the small details: the way Rafa held his breath a fraction longer every time Dino's explosive laughter echoed from the other end of the room, the way his fingers twitched barely perceptibly as he scrolled through social media and stumbled upon fresh edits of Fittipaldi. And also in how he instantly lost the thread of conversation the moment Emerson threw an arm around Dino's neck yet again.
At those moments, Nikola froze himself, staring wide-eyed at his boyfriend, in whose eyes something alien and unnatural flashed for a split second—the exact look Rafa usually only gave on track when someone snatched a position out from under him. Rafa thought he was hiding well. He pretended he was just annoyed by the clingy Fittipaldi or that he was just worried about a friend who—well, obviously, clearly—was just being used for views, nothing else. But Nikola saw right through Rafa: the guy was losing his mind because his personal, always-available Dino suddenly belonged to someone else.
Watching these two absolute idiots drive themselves into completely idiotic cages out of sheer deafness and blindness simply got tiring for Nikola at some point.
— You know, — Nikola said quietly, keeping his relaxed posture and continuing to watch Fittipaldi whisper something in Dino's ear at the other end of the floor, — this shooting day is dragging on way too long. But Beganovic doesn't look bored at all, it seems.
Câmara beside him twitched ever so slightly, but didn't lift his eyes from the floor.
— So what? — Rafa muttered, masking his own tension. — Let him have fun.
— Mm-hm, — Nikola smirked faintly, barely audible. He finally shifted, placing his palm over Rafa's clenched fist. — Have fun. Only you're looking at him like...
— How? — Rafa snapped his head toward Nikola. — How am I looking at him?
— ...like you're ready to go right over there and knock Emerson's teeth out.
Rafa froze for a second, then angrily yanked his hand out from under Nikola's, exhaling noisily through his nose. The irritation he had been suppressing so carefully over the past few days finally broke through. Câmara rubbed his face hard with both palms, ruffled his already messy curls, and hissed through his teeth:
— He's just all over him, that's all. Won't leave him alone all day. It looks... stupid. And cringe.
— Beganovic at Fittipaldi or Fittipaldi at Beganovic? — Nikola asked with a light, almost imperceptible tease, not moving an inch. — Because I'm getting a bit confused.
— Tsolov, shut the fuck up, — Câmara snapped, throwing a dark look at him. — You can see for yourself how Emerson is using him for views and reach. Dino's naive enough to think they're best friends forever, while that guy's just working the media. Look at him, already grabbing his waist. Disgusting.
Nikola even squinted toward the set at that comment. True enough—Emerson had his arm around Dino's waist, and not in a light, weightless way, but firmly. Unexpectedly to himself, he also found the sight... well, not disgusting, but wrong. Tsolov sighed in response and turned his attention back to Câmara.
— Rafa, — Nikola said quietly, but with weight, stripping all mockery from his voice. — If you were genuinely just worried about the sincerity and purity of Dino's media strategy, you'd be laughing right now at this "new season" of his blogger career. But you're sitting here, falling apart from rage, fists clenched, ready to practically pick a fight with Fittipaldi just because he's touching *your* Beganovic.
— He's not mine... — Rafa spat out angrily, though his voice cracked for a fraction of a second.
— You're jealous, — Nikola hit the nail on the head, leaving no room to hide behind cheap arguments. — Seriously jealous of him. And the shittiest part is you're trying to lie about it to both me and yourself.
— Absolute bullshit! — Rafa jumped up from the sofa, pulling his cap down almost over his eyes. His tension had peaked. — I just don't want him being made a fool of on camera!...
Nikola almost laughed at that comment, remembering all of Dino's internet stunts, but bit his tongue just in time to avoid riling Rafa up even more.
— ...Dino is my best friend, and I simply care! And you... you're talking nonsense, Niko. Imagining things...
Câmara spun on his heel and walked away toward the far end of the hall at a fast pace, clearly fleeing the conversation.
Nikola stayed put, calm and unshakeable, merely watching him go. He saw the guy nearly clip the corner of a table on his way, awkwardly jerk a plastic cup at the water cooler, and breathe heavily staring at the floor. Rafa could deny it out loud all he wanted, but food for thought had already been tossed his way—no taking it back now. And Nikola knew full well: right then, Câmara was trying to argue with himself inside his head, but all arguments crumbled against naked facts.
Nikola watched this theater play out for a few more days. On one side was Beganovic, burying himself deeper into Emerson's company. On the other side was Rafa, who had turned into a walking thunderstorm over those days. He practically stopped sleeping, sat through engineering briefings with a dark look, and on set, he hypnotized Fittipaldi's back with a gaze like he was calculating the ideal trajectory for a targeted strike. It was painfully clear: Nikola's words had run over him like a steamroller. Rafa tried arguing with himself, but judging by his miserable appearance, it wasn't going well at all.
On the fourth day after that final private talk, the drivers had another shoot, this time on the coast. Everyone was drifting toward the buses, and Nikola silently accompanied an even-quieter-than-usual Rafa. A few meters away from them, Emerson, humming something cheerfully, draped his hoodie over Dino's slightly shivering shoulders and familiarly ruffled his hair, damp from the beach activity. Dino offered his habitual smile and nodded. Rafa, standing next to Nikola by the curb, froze. Tsolov saw out of the corner of his eye how Câmara's Adam's apple twitched convulsively and his fingers gripped the backpack strap so hard the fabric strained.
— Yeah, — Rafa breathed out unexpectedly.
His voice sounded strained and so desperate that Nikola even frowned with concern. Câmara slowly lowered his head, hiding his eyes under his cap.
— Yeah, fuck. I am jealous.
He let out a heavy sigh, and that sound held more shame and guilt than any single Formula 2 driver should ever have to hold.
— I'm jealous of him, Niko, — Rafa said quietly, almost in pain, keeping his eyes down. — It tears me apart just looking at when this... this! touches him. And I feel... I feel so sick and ashamed saying this to you. To my boyfriend. I feel like an absolute bastard.
Nikola stayed silent for a couple of seconds, listening to the other's breathing against the backdrop of crickets. Then he simply took a step closer, calmly throwing an arm around Rafa's shoulders and lightly stroking his neck with his fingers—a familiar, grounding gesture.
— Don't, — Tsolov said evenly, shifting his gaze to Dino, who was climbing into the bus alongside Emerson at that exact moment. — First of all, you're a terrible conspirator. It was crystal clear to me back in Azerbaijan. And second...
Nikola narrowed his eyes slightly, following the red Ferrari cap of Beganovic.
— ...I hate seeing him apart from us just as much.
— Us? — Rafa snapped his head up, staring at Nikola with wide eyes. A thick, distinct blush spread across Câmara's face, creeping down past the collar of his t-shirt. — You...
Nikola met his shocked gaze with a slight, barely perceptible nod. Câmara swallowed and looked away, realizing there was nothing for him to justify to Tsolov in this situation.
— Still... I feel like absolute shit in front of you, — Rafa squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the back of his neck, struggling to hide the embarrassment boiling over. — And in front of him too. I feel like some total possessive freak. Being jealous of your best friend is already an extreme, but being jealous like this... when I have you, and he has his own life... Fine, I'm officially a monster.
Nikola couldn't help himself and let out a short, barely audible giggle. A warm smile flashed across his usually impassive face.
— Trust me, Rafa, — Tsolov said quietly, giving his shoulder a slight squeeze, — in this story you are far from the only person with wild mental loops.
— What are you talking about now? — Câmara frowned.
— Oh, I should just tell you everything and show you the whole picture, — Nikola advised in an even tone, placing both hands on Rafa’s shoulders and turning him toward the approaching bus. — You've got the whole evening ahead of you. Think about how you two even talked to each other all this time.
Nikola’s words sank deep into Rafa’s head. Sitting in the back seat of the bus and watching the darkening palm trees of Singapore flash past the window, Rafa tried for the first time in a long while to look at his and Dino’s past without his usual filtering beliefs. And the picture that formed in his head made his heart squeeze painfully. They were together almost always. From day one at the Ferrari Academy. Rafa remembered how Dino was always the first to appear by his side after bad qualifying sessions. How Beganovic, without asking unnecessary questions, brought him food and distracted him with chatter whenever Câmara withdrew into himself before races. How Dino literally forced him to smile, stirred him up, dragged him into his stupid ideas, and was always, absolutely always, within arm's reach.
And what had Rafa been doing all this time?
Rafa took it for granted. As something natural, eternal, and self-evident. He was used to Dino being his personal source of warmth and comfort with no need for recharging. And when the attraction to Nikola had sparked, it was Dino whom Rafa carried every emotion, doubt, and fear to. Dino listened, supported him, led him by the hand toward Tsolov... and Câmara hadn't even stopped to think about what Beganovic felt in those moments.
"Judging by all of this, I... was friendzoning him for years?" — Rafa realized with horror, throwing his head back against the headrest.
He kept Dino tightly tethered to himself, let him unacceptably close, while taking no responsibility for it. But the moment Beganovic took a step aside toward Emerson—Rafa started tearing apart from rage. Câmara squeezed his eyes shut. Nikola’s phrase about mental loops acquired a terrifying meaning. Rafa suddenly understood clearly: Dino wasn't hiding behind Fittipaldi for no reason. And he wasn't playing matchmaker between them and Nikola with such desperation for no reason either.
Rafa turned his head and stared at Nikola with a completely shattered look. Tsolov felt the attention and pulled an earphone out.
— I'm a shitty friend, right? Like, a total douchebag? — Rafa announced his conclusions in a dead voice.
Nikola just rolled his eyes and pulled his boyfriend into a hug, kissing his forehead.
— You two love to dramatize and demonize yourselves so much...
On another bus, the subject of their conversation was behaving no less restlessly. The sticky, heavy presence of someone else, which sent needles prickling across Dino's skin, had felt almost constant over the past few days. He was convinced that this was Nikola's way of still controlling the situation, testing him for durability, and sniffing out faking. But every time Beganovic glanced sideways at the Bulgarian, Nikola was either calmly on his phone or talking in passing with the engineers, completely ignoring the surrounding noise. The gaze wasn't coming from him at all. But from whom else—Dino simply didn't have the mental energy left to figure out.
Returning from the beach shoot to his room, Beganovic felt like a squeezed lemon. Emerson was calling him downstairs to grab a snack at the lobby bar and discuss today's funny TikTok moments, but Dino just tiredly brushed it off, forcing a familiar smile onto his face with great effort, and headed to his room. The painkiller in the form of Fittipaldi was gradually wearing off, like medication you grow accustomed to. Dino crossed the threshold of his room, kicking off his sneakers on the fly, and collapsed exhausted onto the made bed fully clothed. Semidarkness reigned in the room. Only the muffled noise of Singapore drifted from the balcony, and the blue LED of the air conditioner blinked. It was quiet next door—Bilinski, judging by everything, was stuck somewhere with the rest of the guys or had gone out for a late dinner. Dino buried his face in the pillow, breathing heavily and trying to block out the flashing images in his head: Rafa smiling at Nikola, Nikola stroking Rafa's knee, and Dino himself laughing stupidly next to Emerson just to keep from losing his mind.
The sudden silence of the room was cut by a sharp, dry knock on the door. Dino winced, in no rush to lift his head.
— Roman, if you're here for keys or a charger, come in, it's unlocked... — he muttered dully into the pillow.
The door didn't open. Instead, there was another knock—this time a bit more persistent and demanding. With a heavy sigh, Dino pushed himself up from the bed, wiped his tired eyes, and, shuffling his feet across the carpet, dragged himself toward the entrance.
— Well, what won't you let me si— — he started, pulling the door toward himself, and froze in place.
It wasn't Bilinski standing on the threshold. In the narrow hallway flooded with yellow light stood Câmara and Tsolov. Rafa looked wound up to the limit, with dark, burning eyes and a bitten lip, while Nikola stood slightly behind, hands shoved in his pockets, looking at Dino with that absolute, unreadable seriousness that instantly caught Beganovic's breath. Though Rafa's presence always caught his breath stronger, of course. Right now, too, his nervous look and confident attitude made Dino involuntarily admire him, until the guy's muffled voice pulled him back to reality.
— Hey, Dino, — Rafa started on an exhale, — can we come in?
Dino opened his mouth a few times and snapped it shut, choosing a suitable response, but ultimately just stepped aside, letting the unexpected guests inside. The guys walked further in, and Dino silently closed the door and stood by the entrance, not knowing where to put his hands.
Rafa's presence in this room echoed in his chest with a familiar, almost physically tangible pain. Before, Câmara could barge in without knocking, collapse onto Dino's bed right in his outdoor shoes, throw his legs over the armrest, and discuss telemetry or rewatch stupid videos for hours. Dino remembered every single such evening: how he sat beside him on the floor, listening to Rafa's funny accent and unintentionally catching himself looking not at the phone screen, but into those dark, shining eyes. Now Rafa, hesitating slightly, sat on the edge of that very bed, nervously pressing his lips together. Nikola stayed standing slightly apart, shoulder leaning against the desk and arms crossed over his chest. A deafening, awkward silence hung in the room.
— Ahem... — Rafa rocked his foot, eyeing the nightstand. — Where's Roman? And... is that a new massage gun on the table? Didn't the previous one break in Belgium?
Dino shrugged, stretching a polite smile across his face that looked completely wooden right now.
— Yeah, uh... — he replied, looking anywhere but at Rafa, — Roman—I don't know, probably at dinner. And the gun, yeah, new... the trainer gave it out yesterday.
— Ah, I see. Must be good.
— Decent.
They both looked like they were being forced to talk under threat of death. Dino kept hugging the doorframe by the closed door, and Rafa stared at the carpet, convulsively squeezing his fingers on his knees. Nikola, who had been watching this circus for a couple of minutes, let out a heavy, almost suffering sigh. He slowly rubbed his eyes with two fingers, rolled them toward the ceiling, and lowering his hand, expressively raised his eyebrows, shifting his gaze from one guy to the other.
— God, — Tsolov muttered exhaustedly. — Are you guys seriously going to uselessly wag your tongues discussing a massager? Câmara, is that what you came in here for?
Rafa flinched, as if pushed in the back, and whipped his head up with a sharp motion. Dino felt the air between them instantly electrify.
— Emerson, — Rafa blurted out abruptly and without preamble, instantly dropping all his feigned calm tone. — I don't like Fittipaldi. I fucking hate that you're constantly with him.
Dino was momentarily stunned by such a direct attack, but the defense mechanism built up over the past month kicked in faster than cold rational reason. He frowned, crossing his arms over his chest:
— What do you mean you "don't like him"? Emerson is a great guy. He's fun, he helps with the media, and we get along normally. What's the problem?
— The problem is that he's all over you! — Rafa's voice rose, slipping into angry, jealous notes. — He carries your stuff, presses against you in every shot, and you sit there attached to him and pretend everything's fine! You don't just "get along normally" with him. You're practically fusing with him, hiding behind him.
Dino felt a hot, angry wave rush to his cheeks. Not that Câmara was wrong—the words were true. But hearing them specifically from Rafa hurt the most.
— Oh, really? — Dino replied with a poisonous chuckle, taking a step away from the door. — Hiding? And why shouldn't I find a new company, huh? You've got a new company yourself, — he pointed a short, almost angrily dismissive wave at the calmly standing Nikola, — and you spend all your time with him. What, was I supposed to sit alone and wait until you had an opening in your schedule?
— That's different! — Rafa even stood up from the bed, digging his nails into his own palms with fury. — I'm with Tsolov because we... because we clicked! And you and Emerson are just continuing to lie to yourselves! You're running away, Dino! From me, from all of us, pretending you don't care, while yourself...
— While myself what?! — Dino cut him off. — What business is it of yours anyway?! I don't believe you just came here to protect me from the evil Fittipaldi! What specifically pisses you off so much about Emerson? Why the fuck do you even care who I spend my nights with and who I let touch my stuff?!
The words flew out of Dino's mouth faster than he could filter them. Silence hung in the room again, but now it felt oppressive and hot. Dino breathed heavily, fists clenched, while Rafa froze opposite him with darting eyes and a slight squint.
— What... what-what do you spend? — Rafa asked suddenly, and Dino saw in his friend's... friend's? ... expression something new.
Nikola arched an eyebrow, watching this performance with loud speeches and unexpected plot twists.
Dino checked himself for a second, realizing he'd blurted too much. He and Emerson, of course, just stayed up late at the hotel bar or watched videos in the room, but the angry, desperate resentment inside demanded going all the way. He pressed his lips together, barely turning pale with anger, and stubbornly thrust his chin up.
— Yeah, nights! — Dino spat out, nearly chewing on every word. — And what about it? What don't you like? What business is it of yours? You spend nights with Nikola, and I can't? Or do I need to ask your permission on who to sleep with and who to let into my room?!
Rafa's ears practically plugged up from those words. Dry gunpowder seemed to ignite in his head—blind rage instantly choked out the rest of the world. Hearing those words from Dino—*his* Dino—about someone else proved excruciatingly unbearable. Nikola, standing by the desk, simply pressed his palm to his lips, covering up his frank, feigned shock.
— Wow... — he whispered.
He didn't interfere though—realizing that this conflict had finally reached its peak.
— You... — Rafa breathed out, and all his tension held back for weeks broke off the chain.
Câmara stepped forward and slammed forcefully into Dino, literally pressing him back against the closed hotel door. The lock clinked dull. Dino gasped from surprise and pain, trying to push Rafa away with his hands, but Rafa locked his ribcage down tight. The next moment, Rafa simply grabbed Dino by the collar of his t-shirt, pulled him close, and crashed his lips onto his with a dull fury. Rafa kissed him angrily, possessively, roughly, like it was a fight rather than a kiss. Dino, from shock and flared resentful anger, tried to pull away at first: he pressed his palms against Rafa's shoulders wanting to push him back, accidentally scratching his neck with his nails. But... he didn't turn his face away. And then he started answering the kiss with the same aggression, biting foreign lips to a salty taste of blood on his tongue, making Rafa hiss from slight pain. They breathed heavily in the moments their lips parted, and then clung to each other again, as if afraid one of them would run away.
The kiss broke apart as abruptly as it had started. Rafa finally pulled back a couple of centimeters. A drop of blood from a bite glistened on Câmara's lower lip, while Dino's hair was wildly disheveled and his fingers were convulsively clenched on the other's shoulders.
A thick, almost palpable noise of wildly beating hearts stood between them. Both stared into each other's eyes, not daring to look away, and anger, resentment, and arousal splashed simultaneously in those eyes.
— You're a... absolute sociopath with zero tactical awareness, Câmara, — Dino hissed in a clipped voice, unconsciously tightening his grip on the fabric of Rafa's shoulders even harder.
— And you're a stupid, unhinged bastard, — Rafa didn't stay in debt, angry not so much at Dino as at how his own knees were shaking and his stomach was pulling from this closeness. — I can't stand you, Beganovic...
— Yeah well I...
They lunged toward each other again, ready to continue this strange, aggressive argument, but then both simultaneously felt cool fingers gently and firmly bury themselves in the hair at the back of their necks. Both Rafa and Dino froze as if struck by lightning. Standing right next to them, almost point-blank, was Nikola, whom they had managed to completely forget amidst all the emotions. His hands rested calmly on their heads, forcing both guys to turn their heads toward him in sync. A thick, scorching wave of shame washed over them instantly. Câmara forgot how to breathe for a moment, terrified as he shifted his gaze from the disheveled, bruised Dino to his boyfriend. Nikola just calmly looked them both over, shifted his gaze to Rafa's split lip, then to the ruffled Beganovic, and a sincere smile bloomed on his usually impassive face.
— Holy shit, finally, — Nikola breathed out with feeling, lightly tugging them both by the hair to make them relax their necks. — Thank god. I'm proud, rushing to praise—praising.
Dino blinked, trying to digest what was happening.
— You... you weren't fazed by literally anything, Tsolov? — he blurted out, licking his lips and still not daring to take his hands off Rafa's shoulders.
— No, — Nikola arched an eyebrow with slight surprise. — Should I have been?
— You're very strange, — Dino exhaled, and his hands gradually relaxed, driving away the tension that had gripped his body. — I realized that back when I was studying you inside and out before Operation "Get Rafa Into a Relationship." But at least you don't scatter socks around the room or text your exes from fake accounts. So... I'll forgive you this weirdness too.
— Did you sneak into my room and check if my socks were scattered?
— Don't be ironic...
Rafa chuckled quietly, nervously, burying his nose in Dino's neck, and Nikola gently stroked both of their backs. Only now could all three hear the silence and peace of the dead of night.
Half an hour later, only a dim floor lamp by the desk was lit in the room. All three were sprawled on Dino's bed in some kind of confused, disheveled state. The owner of the room lay in the middle, staring at the ceiling, Rafa pressed against his side, resting his chin on his shoulder and throwing a heavy leg over his thighs, while Nikola positioned himself on the other side, propping his head with a hand and leisurely tracing patterns with his finger on Dino's collarbone. The atmosphere was strange—quiet, slightly surreal, when all the scariest things had already been said and done.
— So... — Dino spoke slowly, with a slightly vacant voice, keeping his eyes on the white ceiling, — for several months I tortured myself playing matchmaker between you two, then another month torturing myself convincing my own head that I did everything right and everything's going as it should and I don't belong here, and now you two are telling me that all of that is bullshit and without me sugar isn't sweet and the sun doesn't shine?
— Spot on, — Nikola closed his eyes for a split second. — You pulled off a masterpiece combination, Magnus Carlsen would be jealous, you just forgot to put yourself in the lineup.
— Who would've thought...
— I still think Fittipaldi needs his teeth knocked out, — Rafa muttered dully from somewhere around Dino's neck, lightly nibbling his skin, for which he immediately received a quiet "ouch" and a pinch in the side. — Just, you know, as a preventative measure.
— As a warning shot, — Nikola chimed in with fake seriousness.
— Maniacs, — Dino condemned them without malice, feeling the rotting, dull pain inside finally quiet down for the very first time in a very long time.