Chapter Text
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N O V E M B E R of 1 9 8 9
Jean could count his first season as a success--and he does. But as with all racing drivers, there is a burn in him for more. In the parking lot, Jean moves to approach Nelson who is pulling the keys to his car out of his pocket. But something makes him pause in his tracks. Or, in this case, someone. Alain. The two men are in a heated discussion, Alain is pale faced and Nelson holds himself at a visible distance. Before Jean can even speak, Alain has pulled open the car door and Nelson slips inside after him reluctantly. And with that, they’re gone. Some small part of Jean trembles. Without a word to anyone, he returns to his motorhome and his eyes trace pictures on the ceiling until night fall.
Of all people, he imagines Gerhard. The Gerhard he hasn’t spoken to in a while, the Gerhard he gives quick nods to when he passes him in the paddock. He remembers his face as he slammed the door or his arm on his shoulders whenever he cried. And suddenly… he feels more homesick than he ever has before. A craving that fills his core; a craving for the future and whatever unknown may lay before him.
Jean hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until a loud rapping on his flimsy door pulls him up. Through the darkness, he rubs his eyes and flicks on his light. Before he can tell whoever it is to fuck off, it’s Nelson who barrels into his door. Blinking at the unexpected sight, Jean hesitates to shut the door behind him.
“Nelson? What’re you doing here?” Nelson looks… he looks scared. More scared than Jean has ever seen a man before. But it’s not fear, its petrification. “Merde, what happened to you?”, Jean watches him from the corner as he paces up and down the small area. Wound up. He is acting like a small toy someone had wound up. Nelson’s shirt is ruffled as if he’d hardly given himself time to dress before speeding here. He runs a hand through his messy hair, the lines of his forehead swimming with thought.
“How’re you doing?”, the question comes unexpectedly.
“You’ve never asked me that before,” Jean’s voice laces with worry.
“Just answer the question before I strangle someone.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”, Nelson gives him a quick, stern look and Jean throws his palms up in defense. “I was doing great sleeping until you barged in.”
“Good.” Nelson finally sits down on the couch with care, his nails in his mouth and his body quivering. “Very good…”
“Come on, Nelson,” Jean sighs, “What is this all about? Why are you shaking?” He recalls the evening hours before, Nelson and Alain in the parking lot. He’d felt the fear then drifting in the air somehow. “Does this have to do with Alain?” At the sound of a name, Nelson glances at him. His eyes are as black as the first night they truly spoke. It was under a glittering abyss of stars, ones that weaved and bent across the sky like sea waves. “Did you two speak or…”, something more.
“We…”, Nelson lets his voice trail away.
Jean senses something distant sink between his ribs. “So you two had sex again,” he purses his lips.
“It’s not like it was only the second time we ever had. We had something for many years until…”
Until Ayrton.
“Doesn’t seem like that to Alain,” a flicker of rage trembles within him, “When I spoke to him he barely even flinched at your name. Said you guys were little more than close friends.”
Nelson frowns, “We weren’t more than that.”
“Then why do you let him affect you so much?”
Nelson sighs and does the same motion he did back in July that first night. He places his head into his hands and shuts his eyes. “Do you remember what I said to you? In the parking lot, before our second time.” Jean doesn’t, it used to be perfect in his mind like a picture. “I told you that with all things, you may think you have control--but you don’t. None of us have control over our emotions. No matter how much we make fools of ourselves that we can just toss them away.”
“I’ll ask you again,” Jean places a hand on his knee, “Why do you let it affect you?”
You know you can’t have someone so you decide you want them even more. You regrow a forest in your heart from cut down trees only for the roots to still bleed the same poison as before.
Nelson looks at him like there’s a part of him he needs. He leans into his touch, laying his cheek on the back of Jean's hand and shutting his eyes. Jean never asks him what happened only because he doesn’t want to feel any more pity for him than he already does. Nelson sleeps the night in his bed, laying on his stomach in all of his clothes. The way he put it before passing out: something happened in that hotel room with Alain he doesn’t want to relive.
Jean runs his fingers through Nelson’s hair until morning. And the universe felt easy… all so easy.
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“Jean.”
“Gerhard.”
They shake hands. It’s been a while.
“Congratulations on surviving your first season.”
“I could say that same to you. A move to McLaren is big.”
The energy isn’t the same as before.
Gerhard struggles for words, reaching for playful banter. “Have any plans for the winter?”
“Testing, team communication, family, the sea.”
“It’s winter,” Gerhard shuffles the toe of his shoe into the dirt, “The time for snow and cold not the Italian countryside.” Jean would’ve argued with him like an old friend.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy freezing your ass off in Austria,” Jean smiles weakly.
“Speaking of which,” Gerhard chews his inner cheek. “You should come for a visit. Escape for a while from all… well, all this,” he gestures around them vaguely. The paddock has winded down. It’s the end of the season and the ambience buzzes with desensitized life.
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
“I was planning to spend the winter with Piquet. After that I’ll see my family and I head to England before January comes for the factory.”
“Still no time me me I see,” Gerhard’s grin is bitter.
“I’m sorry, maybe we could organize something if I call you.”
“Sure. You’ll call me.”
“I’ll call,” Jean shoots back.
Gerhard seems doubtful. He had a right to be. Jean remembers the cards. Hidden enemy, Gerhard had foretold.
Je suis mon pire ennemi; I am my worst enemy.
Jean supposes his fortune telling was true. But he’ll never learn from his mistakes.
“I should go,” Gerhard peeks at his watch, “People to see, places to be.” And it doesn’t seem like he truly wants to leave. But Jean doesn’t move to stop him. “I’ll see you… sometime. Take care of yourself.”
“You too.” Jean stands there for a moment alone. He feels as though he were watching a piece of himself walk away.
And, maybe, he was.
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D E C E M B E R of 1 9 8 9
The snowflakes were heavy on Nelson’s thick eyelashes. For two weeks the weather silked its way across their bones. It’s pitch dark but streetlamps ignite a pathway of incandescent light on the travel back to their sleepy inn. They laugh as Nelson slips over ice and Jean drags him along across the curb.
“You’re going to kill me, you stupid piece of shit,” Nelson growls, his voice wavering as he stares cautiously at a pathway of glistening ice under his feet.
“Trust me.” Jean laces their fingers together. Their touch is like fire, a breath of chilled wind across their veins that slowly crept towards their spines.
For once, Nelson does.
They tumble a few minutes later into a snowbank, the light playing symphonies on the colors in Nelson’s cheeks. On top of him, Jean brushes the hair off of Nelson’s forehead and his eyes follow him as if expecting him to bite into his neck. Without warning, Nelson snaps his head up from the snow and kisses him. The paper-thin crack of his lips are the nip of a sweet knife on his own. He places a hand on the back of his neck, drawing him closer and warming the cold of his skin. Everything around them became beautiful.
Returning to the room, the door slams shut and almost immediately Jean’s back is pressed to it. A moan rises in his mouth and Nelson sucks it from his throat as though it were air. But it doesn’t move to the bed. Nelson strips him by the entrance, not even waiting to see if the door was locked. He doesn’t tease him, he doesn’t make him wait, Nelson only brushes his teeth over his neck and pushes into him. A shard of moonlight pierces a line of light across Jean’s eyes and he stares into it as his neck falls back against the door.
“Nelson…”, he groans, his muscles moving like gears under his skin. After a moment, the speed stops and Jean pries his eyes open in confusion. Nelson is staring into them. There’s a fondness in his expression. A fondness for him and him alone.
“Você tem olhos bonitos,” he stammers.
“Why the hell did you stop?”, Jean whines, reaching forward to stroke himself.
“I said you have pretty eyes,” and without justifying what he said, Nelson begins to thrust into him again. He pretended as if he had never said it at all.
They’re blue. Not green.
His eyes. Not anyone else’s.
Jean cracks the window open before crawling into bed that night. They’d both just left the shower and frigid night air chills the room. It has begun to snow again. Jean never saw a lot of snow when he was a child but Nelson said he enjoyed skiing. Jean stuffs that somewhere in his memory even though he knows he’ll eventually forget.
“Are you sure I’m not in love with you?”, Jean inquires.
“Yes,” Nelson doesn’t hesitate, “You’re just a little young, that’s all. But it’s very hard not to love me as you can see.”
Jean slugs him in the shoulder sharply. “You said it wouldn’t be easy, but what if I’m only more bold than others?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, kid,” Nelson places his hands behind his head, the muscle of his arms are slick with perspiration.
“Are you in love with me?”
“Nope.”
“How do I know!”, Jean shakes his head, “Maybe you just have a difficult time saying it.”
“Listen, I know what it is. I know what it’s like.”
“Is it because of Alain?”
“Mary of god, you and your ridiculous questions,” Nelson grumbles. But he doesn't sound bitter, he sounds reflective like a man looking back on his long life.
“What if I do love you?”
“You wouldn’t question it.”
Jean shakes his head solemnly, “I don’t know anything about this anymore. You’ve confused me.”
“Look, Jean,” Nelson sits up suddenly and cups his hands in his, his face is sharp. “You would know, you wouldn’t question it and you certainly wouldn’t say I think I’m in love with you. I know I’m not the last thing you think about before you go to sleep or the first thing when you wake up.” Jean doesn’t stop him. “It makes you sick. Love. It makes you feel sick to your fucking stomach every time they’re around. Enough that you have to force yourself not to throw up because you feel so fucking terrified at the thought of what you feel and what they could do to you.” There are tears brimming his eyes and it makes Jean’s heart whimper. “And you can never hate them. No matter what they do to you or how much they hurt you, you can never hate them. Like it or not, you fall in love with every part of them, even the ones you don’t like, even the ones you have to force yourself to find in others.” His hands are trembling and he blinks the tears away. “In that moment, when you are with them, you can never imagine yourself with anyone else. And when they’re gone, they become everything around you. They are everything around you. It’s almost like you can’t fucking breathe.” He takes a long and shaky inhale. “Do you understand?”
For a long moment, Jean breathes in his words. He breathes them in for the rest of time.
“I understand.” His eyes fall to the snowfall. “It’s snowing.”
“I see that."
The homesickness has returned. It’s accompanied by a sudden flinch of epiphany.
You can never hate them.
Jean remembers the last winter that he spent. It was with Gerhard. He felt safer than he ever had before. For now, the evening night is blue across their sheets. Jean turn onto his side and reaches out to stroke the beam of light with the tip of his finger. It feels familiar as if he’d seen it before. The night is harsh on the blue darkness. Eventually, it drips like thick honey from his grasp and it’s gone as the sun rises.
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M A R C H of 1 9 9 0
Sometimes, that small part of him imagines what could’ve been.
America. 1990. Season opener.
Jean squeals the door of Nelson’s motorhome open, a now forgotten idea trickling half off his lips. Nelson’s not alone. From the couch, Alain leaps away unexpectedly, his hands are still latched to Nelson’s thighs. But the very first thing that Nelson does is clutch himself to Alain’s shirt as if desperately making sure he wouldn’t scamper off.
“I should go,” Alain swipes Nelson’s hold on him and stands to his feet. His face is flushed with color.
“No,” it takes Jean every ounce of himself to say that. “You should stay. I’ll leave.” He exits through the still parted door, closing it shut. The spring wind cuts across his cheeks.
“Wait!”, Nelson calls after him from the top steps.
Jean thinks to ignore him, but he doesn’t. He retraces the steps he'd taken and walks back towards him. And something within him screams:
Partir et ne pas revenir; Leave to do not turn back.
He’s always been a poor listener.
“You should go back inside,” Jean is blank-faced, “He’s in there waiting for you.”
If Nelson is surprised at his actions, he doesn’t say it. “But--”
Jean cuts him off, “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Now, go.” Don’t be a coward. Jean knows there’s that soft piece of Nelson, the one he heard in Portuguese under that vulnerable sunrise. The one that spoke with kindness and frailty. Don’t leave… please, don’t leave again, it had said. So he doesn’t. But he doesn’t make Nelson stay either.
“It’s not like we were…”
“We weren’t,” Jean grinds his teeth as if restraining himself, “We weren’t ever… together. Not like that.”
Nelson grins from the top step. It looks apologetic, miserable and unflinching. But there’s a gratitude written into the dimples on his chin.
“You know,” Nelson tilts his head, “We’re little more than fools you and I. Always playing the same stupid games.”
Jean doesn’t wait around to ask what that means.
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“Hello?”
“Gerhard?”
There’s a pause on the other line. “...Jean?”
“Yeah,” he holds back a sob, “It’s me. Is this a bad time?
“No, no, of course not, not at all,” Gerhard clears his throat, “Is there… is there something you need?”
“Can I see you?”
“It’s getting little late right now--”
“When have you ever shied away from midnight adventures?”
“Never.” He sighs in defeat. “Where can I meet you?”
An hour later they’re seated on the hood of Jean’s rental car. The horizon is a shade of pale pink light.
“I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?”
“For dismissing you off for a while,” he curls his knees to his chest, “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with us being at the top now?”, Gerhard must be teasing him.
“No,” Jean reasaures, “That was complete bullshit. I was just being difficult and stupid.”
Gerhard seems satisfied. “I always liked spring,” he plucks at a bit of pollen off of his sweater. Jean does too, but he doesn't say. When Gerhard turns away, Jean watches him from the corner of his eye with interest. It felt like finding something lost you thought you’d never get back. It also felt peaceful and, above all, he felt secure in it. “Do you mind if I ask something?”, the silence is broken.
“Ask what?”
“Why Nelson? What was it about him?”
“We’re friends. Close friends,” Jean shrugs, “I can learn a lot from him. I have learned a lot from him.”
“Am I still up there?”, Gerhard chuckles. His smile is soft and admirable.
“At the top of the list. Always.”
Jean shoves him playfully and he nearly tumbles off the hood of the car. The blue light of Gerhard’s eyes twinkled like crystal balls.
And this? Did your cards foresee this as well?
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A P R I L of 1 9 9 0
“What’re you drawing now?”, Jean leans over Nelson’s shoulder to inspect.
Unlike any time before, Nelson slaps a hand to the paper to cover it. Jean swore he saw a face, a face that peaked out from the pages. The same face that glanced towards him when he barged into Nelson’s motorhome.
“You’re being secretive,” Jean puts a hand on his shoulder.
“You’ve seen lots of my stuff before!”, Nelson closes the cover, “You have probably seen more than anybody else before.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I see you’re finally hanging around with that new fellow on McLaren again.”
“Gerhard?”
“Whatever his name is,” Nelson dismisses him, “I don’t care. I always thought he was a little… a little fruity.”
Jean raises a brow high on his forehead, “Fruity?”
“You know…”, Nelson bops his head to the side and back again, “Swings for the other team a little too hard?”
“And what do you define as a little too hard?”
“Nothing,” he chuckles, “That’s just what I thought. You would know better than I would.” Jean had never thought about it before. Gerhard had had girlfriends before. Or “girlfriends” as Jean coined them because there were often too many for him to keep count of. There was not point in keeping track anyways because they switched far too frequently.
“He’s my closest friend.”
Nelson peers at him long and hard as though he were picking apart his bones. “I like you, kid.” It’s oddly reminiscent.
“I like you too, old man.”
For the first time in a long time, Jean doesn’t allow himself to restrain the tears that night. This time, they’re filled with relief.
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Across the pitland, Jean looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun. Alain and Nelson are talking with their backs to the track like old friends. Occasionally, they laugh, but Alain never looks directly at him. There’s a moment, timeless and fulfilling that’s short and long forgotten seconds later. A sound up the paddock draws Alain’s eyes away and he turns his head. But Nelson doesn’t move, his gaze remains locked on Alain’s silhouette beside him. He peered towards him like he hadn’t seen the sunlight in a long time and he was just waking up to it in his eyes.
Nelson’s words come back to him.
You fall in love with every part of them, even the ones you don’t like, even the ones you have to force yourself to find in others.
And Jean realizes:
Voglio essere visto così un giorno; I want to be seen like that one day.
For once, his head agrees.
Alors qu'est-ce que j'attends?; So what am I waiting for?
A ripples moves through his gut as if there were a finger pointing towards something.
In that moment, when you are with them, you can ever imagine yourself with anyone else.
Gerhard grins when he approaches. It’s the same thing he saw earlier: the brightness of the sun.
“Hey, Jean--”
“Do you want to get dinner with me tonight?”
“Sure," Gerhard dusts off his hands, "Do you want to sit down somewhere or just pick something up?”
“No,” Jean swallows, “Do you want to have dinner with me?”
Gerhard looks confused, “Dinner?” His eyes suddenly widened, “Oh, dinner. Wait are you… asking me…”
“Yes.” Jean nods without hesitations.
“Will I finally get to see you dress up?”, the smile hasn’t faded.
“Only if I get the chance to destroy you with my fashion choices.”
“Oh, Jean,” Gerhard shakes his head softly, “When have I ever lost a battle with you?”
“Do you want me to bring up the points from last year?”
“You’re on.”
But Jean didn’t feel sick. He felt safe. And that was all that mattered to him. His eyes fall to the clouds above the racetrack.
“I like spring too.”
“I know, Jean.”
Gerhard’s eyes observed the same scene. For a moment, their hands brushed and neither shifted away. When he believed nobody was looking, Jean curled his finger over the cuff of Gerhard’s sleeve. He locked it in his touch. The grip between them tightened. Gerhard didn’t move but from the corner of his eye, he studied him. And it felt exactly how he always wanted to be looked at.
All was right.
Mi piace questo; I like this.