Fic: Interconnection, Part 3
Pairing: Mark Webber/Sebastian Vettel
Rating: M
Synopsis: Post-Monaco, Mark sits out on the celebrations
Word count: 2662
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, never will. Don’t like, don’t read.
Interconnection, Part 3
Four hours had passed since the end of the race, and Mark needed a moment alone. Away from the press. Away from his partner and friends. Away from his team.
Truth be told, it was impossible to be truly away from the team in this instance. He was in his room at the waterfront motorhome, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. He didn’t have a headache, but he was expecting one, such was the conflict in his head. Emotions and truths were duelling each other like a battle at the Nouvelle chicane.
A certain truth was going to hit with incredible force if he didn’t drown it out with other thoughts.
Taking a deep breath, he repeated one word in his mind like a mantra: okay. It was his chosen word when it came to summing up his Monaco campaign, and he’d managed to appear reasonably pleased in front of the press. While he’d had better hopes coming into the weekend, there wasn’t much more he could’ve done today, what with most of the battle being on the Saturday. It was what it was, he affirmed to himself - a podium finish in a race that was known for being processional.
The uneasy feeling in his chest told him that he would have to keep these affirmations running in his mind for the rest of the day, like an engine that wasn’t to be turned down. He’d almost cracked after his post-race interview with Sky, having only realised afterward that he’d freely admitted that it would’ve been nice to overtake Seb. It was probably nothing to worry about - teammates made comments like this all the time - but the problem was he never knew with his teammate…
No. Don’t relive the silly argument from the other day. Don’t. We both got over it, so it’s fine. Think like Christian. He would say, ‘did you see a problem with our drivers today?’
There hadn’t been a problem today. Not professionally anyway. They’d chatted at the finish, sprayed champagne like any other celebration, and spoke of each other respectfully at the press conference.
Of course, that didn’t erase what happened in Germany. And in Milton Keynes…
Mark groaned when his phone beeped. Ann was wondering if he was okay. Then two minutes later another text came through from a mate of his. He’d told everyone to enjoy the chartered yacht while he took a break, but of course they knew something was wrong. Briefly, he considered pretending that he was away talking to the team about tyres - maybe a Mercedes/Pirelli protest debrief - but the thought of using tyres to avoid his loved ones seemed so preposterous that it only convinced him that he was well on his way to losing it.
Don’t worry, he repeated to himself. It’s all okay.
Unfortunately, the affirmation was overpowered, a hint of distress making it to the forefront of Mark’s mind.
It was that stupid helmet of Seb’s that had sparked the silly argument several days ago. Who argues with their teammate over a helmet?
*
Later that evening, Sebastian was at the Torch yacht party, having finally been let in.
The bouncer hadn’t believed him. Sebastian Vettel, three-time world champion, had to have his friends bring up his Wikipedia entry on their iPhones to prove to the bouncer that Sebastian was a Formula 1 driver. The F1 driver on the current grid. Normally, this kind of anonymity would’ve been fine - in a different context, not being recognised was a blessing. He remembered the time he had lunch with Bernie at The Ivy in London, only to be told to move out of the way on exiting, the photographers solely concerned with taking Bernie’s picture.
Sometimes being just another guy was acceptable.
But right now, Sebastian wasn’t a hundred percent okay with being unrecognised.
Not a bad race, Sebastian reminded himself as he was offered a drink from the passing waitress. Just not a win.
‘Don’t be bothered by it,’ Heikki said, nudging Sebastian in the arm. The group was hanging out inside, nursing drinks and listening to the DJ’s tunes.
Sebastian was so lost in his own thoughts that he wasn’t sure what his trainer was referring to. ‘Sorry. What?’
Heikki grinned. ‘I think that bouncer is going to be fired. Security? You’re a guest of honour here.’
It was true in some way. The organisers wanted to celebrate the fact that Sebastian had extended his championship lead. He wasn’t stupid though - he knew a PR stunt when he saw one. Like the time he had to play foosball with Mark against Adrian and Christian.
Heikki frowned when Sebastian didn’t respond. ‘Is something else wrong? I know the win would’ve been nice -’
Sebastian was quick to shake his head. ‘It’s not that.’
‘The Mercedes thing? The FIA is pissed off as hell, so now we wait and see what the penalty or sanction is.’
‘Not that either.’ He took a swig of his drink. ‘Maybe I just want it to be Canada already.’
The Finn wasn’t sure how to respond. Sebastian had been a little moody ever since they’d arrived in Monaco. Whatever the issue was, it was unusual - something not easily figured out.
‘You have that Infiniti thing tomorrow, right? With Sebastien B?’
Sebastian nodded. ‘Yeah. Testing.’
‘At least you don’t have to do it with Mark.’
The comment made Sebastian’s stomach churn. He did his best not to visibly wince, lest Heikki think he couldn’t handle his alcohol. Or worse, that he was taking a remark about his nemesis teammate the wrong way.
‘Yeah, true,’ he said flatly.
Half an hour later he was being shown around the yacht. He met the DJ. He had photos taken with promo girls. He met Xzibit and talked to him about Pimp My Ride. There were meet-and-greets, quick chats, more photo ops…things that demanded his carefree personality - the charming Sebastian.
Not the Sebastian who was internally conflicted over Mark.
There was nowhere to be truly alone here, which was perhaps a good thing. When he was by himself, he thought about Mark and what happened between them in Milton Keynes. In the shower last week, he’d vividly recalled how it had felt to have Mark up against him, the memories (and the fantasies they’d started) intensifying as he’d gotten off. Shame overcame him afterwards, so pronounced that he’d ended up just sitting there in the shower recess with the cold water running, praying for the salacious thoughts to go away. He was beginning to think that the mental torture was some sort of twisted karma for what Mark thought was a wrong in Malaysia. What else had he supposedly done to deserve this?
A buzz told him he’d received a text. It was Kimi, who was apparently on the way to the yacht with his posse. Judging by some of the autocorrect and typos, he was already drunk and happy.
Sebastian didn’t want to hang out with Kimi right now. He wanted to be around Mark, but of course that was an impossibility.
It was then that determination kicked in. If Sebastian wanted to hear from Mark, he would have to initiate the conversation himself.
He sent him a text. Hey. I gave the helmet away to a TV crew. Not sure if you heard.
Fear gripped him as he watched his screen, yet there was a flicker of misplaced hope that comforted him as the seconds passed. But then minutes passed and there was no response from the Australian. The silence made Sebastian edgy, so he left his group to replace his beer with a fresh one. Several people tried to start conversations with him along the way, which would’ve been fine if he wasn’t already waiting for a response from someone else.
The longer the wait became, the more the hope faded, until he found himself fully regretting the text. In an attempt to shake it off, he tried to be more upbeat when the group moved outside to the outside deck, but the change of scenery only made things worse. The vantage point reminded him of jumping into the water with Mark in previous years when either one of them had won.
In addition, for some reason the fact that it was night made Sebastian imagine it was day. Perhaps it was the dichotomy of it all. Or maybe he thought it was just a better, more postcard-worthy image: the water, the boats, the riches, the sun.
The sun.
His helmet for this grand prix had been a cheeky joke. If anyone was going to be offended by it, it would’ve been his girlfriend or his PR rep, Britta. But no, it had been Mark who had thought it was ridiculous, telling his own side of the Red Bull team that Sebastian was ‘playing up his masculinity’.
To Mark’s people, the remark hadn’t meant much. But to Sebastian, it had been out of line. It had felt personal. Since the Milton Keynes incident weeks earlier, the pair hadn’t spoken, both seemingly intent on forgetting that they had now had two moments of affection. To mention his masculinity at all was a threat. It had been Mark who’d started it all with his behaviour in Germany. Had that not happened, Sebastian would’ve had no reason to confront him at Headquarters, meaning they wouldn’t have had that sexual moment.
Sebastian hadn’t been able to contain his anger over the helmet comment. Instead of leaving it, he went and confronted Mark in the hallway outside their rooms on Tuesday afternoon. Mark had initially shrugged it off, saying he only remarked that the pin-up girl - whose top disappeared when the helmet got heated - was a tad juvenile. Sebastian then went right ahead and said the girl had nothing to do with trying to counter anything gay that had happened between them, an explanation which led Mark to vehemently declare that neither one of them should ever refer to those incidents ever again.
Certainly, they’d gotten through Free Practice 1 and 2 without visible acrimony. It was like both men believed nothing had happened. By the weekend, the cover-up was even better.
But now that their professional duties were over, Sebastian didn’t know where he stood. He wanted to bail on this party, like he had bailed on the charity soccer match after the argument. He wanted proper resolution, rather than a game of smoke and mirrors.
Answer the text, Mark, Sebastian thought. Answer me now.
A minute later, he got a response.
Good for you, mate.
It wasn’t enough of a response. Sebastian had felt this before - the undeniable thirst for more. Was he always taking from the older man? Maybe. All he knew now was that the four words, while probably designed so Sebastian wouldn’t reply, simply made him want to converse more.
So, you’re filming a segment with Sky on Wednesday?
As calculated as it was, it had to be a question so he’d get a response. On the flip slide, it made it obvious to Mark that Sebastian wanted to talk. If he wanted to know PR schedules, he could simply ask the team.
If they don’t replace me with you, then yeah.
Sebastian realised that he must’ve reacted visibly when Heikki asked him again if he was okay.
‘Seb, you want to talk about it?’
‘It’s nothing.’ However, his clipped tone indicated otherwise.
Sebastian stepped away and hung around near the railing, wanting enough space to reply without his screen being spied on. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the group was giving him strange looks. This was a raging party, and even though they were in a relatively private corner, Sebastian was being anti-social, lost in his own little bubble.
They left him alone for the time being. If Heikki couldn’t get a reason out of him, then there was no point prodding.
Sebastian wracked his brain for the right thing to say. Unfortunately, he couldn’t fucking think now that the rap music had been turned up. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to drop his phone overboard from nerves. He must’ve typed the text three times before he spelt everything correctly.
I didn’t mean it like that, he texted in frustration. I was just asking.
Barely a minute passed before he desperately sent a follow-up. Mark?
He had to admit to himself that he wasn’t coping with their strained interactions. The desire was too much: he’d liked Mark’s touch and he wanted to feel it again, despite all reason telling him it was the opposite of what he should want. Talking wasn’t touching, but maybe if he was given a bit of attention, the rest of his desire would disappear.
This time it seemed Mark understood the urgency. Yes, I believe you.
It could’ve been the pumped up bass track being played by the DJ, or it could’ve been adrenalin, but Sebastian felt like he was trembling with energy.
He continued to bother Mark. So which party are you at?
And when there was no response within two minutes, he added, You’ll like this: security wouldn’t let me into this party because they didn’t believe I was a driver.
Again, the second prompt got Mark to respond. Well, you’re young.
Sebastian didn’t know how many more texts he was going to get out of his teammate. The replies appeared to be conversation enders.
Still, he persevered. You reckon Mercedes will get a fine?
What followed was a flurry of texts between the two.
Seb, I can’t text like this. I’m with my mates. Just enjoy whatever party you’re at.
I can’t. Everyone is expecting me to smile and be happy and it’s irritating.
The curse of being a triple world champion. Your life is so hard.
Fuck you, Mark. I’m a mess when I’m not distracted by racing. I jerked off to thoughts of you the other day, did you know that? I’m so fucking ashamed. You don’t understand.
I do understand. More than you know.
What does that even mean???
I’m not going to trade sexual fantasies with you right now. Please. You know I don’t want to talk.
How about I keep texting until you do talk?
That’s very mature, kiddo. No wonder a stranger didn’t believe you were a driver.
You’re the immature one. You’re supposed to be older and wiser, but you’re not helping.
Look, I’m sorry. I really am. But I have no idea how to fix this, and I’m scared that if I come near you, we’re going to do something we’ll both regret.
We’re not going to accidentally have sex. I don’t even know how to do that with a man.
Seb, please. You’re going to make me cry. I can’t deal with this right now. You win all the time. Just give me this, okay?
I’m not trying to hurt you.
Sebastian was shaking as he sent the last message, and the sheer frustration of the situation suddenly became too much. He had to close his eyes and imagine that he was somewhere silent. Xzibit’s song ‘X’ was playing - or maybe the rapper was performing it live - he couldn’t tell. It was just beat after beat and the only lyric he could make out was ‘X’, until his head was filled with X X X, which in any language means the same thing. He felt for the railing with his free hand and steadied himself, before crouching down and hanging on for dear life.
‘Seb! Are you okay?!’
Someone was shaking his shoulder.
‘Seb!’
Slowly, Sebastian opened his eyes. Kimi was the owner of both the voice and the hand on his shoulder. As his Red Bull crew looked on in concern behind the Finn, Sebastian kept wishing he could emulate the Iceman.
How wonderful it would be to not give a fuck about anything.