Chapter Text
The roar of the F1 hybrid engines echoed like thunder among the green hills of the Ardennes, accompanied by the cheers of the crowd, a colorful sea of raincoats and flags. The Spa- Francorchamps circuit, with its dangerous climbs and aerial descents, was soaked. The light rain that had been falling since the start of the race had turned the asphalt into an oily mirror.
In command of this dangerous dance, on lap 34, was Jasper. His helmet, with the iconic lone star of Texas, swayed inside the cockpit. Raindrops ran like scratches across his visor. His eyes, narrow and focused, scanned the curves ahead through the veil of spray thrown up by his own car. Adrenaline warmed his body against the cold that invaded the cockpit. He knew it. He knew it in his blood, in the way the car responded to his slightest touches on the steering wheel. This victory would be his.
The radio crackled in his ear and he heard the tense voice of Highsmith, his chief engineer. "Jasper, keep up the pace. All clear ahead until Eau Rouge."
Jasper pressed the communication button on the steering wheel, a smile forming under his helmet.
"Just taking a leisurely drive, enjoying the rainy Belgian scenery. How about coffee and waffles when I'm done?" The team laughed in the background.
The scene in the stands was pure excitement. People were soaked, but that didn't stop them from jumping and shouting every time the cars passed. Many held signs with Jasper's name on them. "THE KING." The younger fans cheered for others, but even they respected the old wolf in front. The atmosphere was electric, each lap more challenging than the last.
It was then that the voice of the official commentator, which was being broadcast worldwide, rose in tone, excited.
"And attention, everyone! Guy Anatole is flying! The Yankee, the favorite of the season, the young lion, is putting on a show in the fast laps! He is closing the gap on Jasper!"
Guy Anatole. Twenty-four years old. Bold, aggressive, impetuous. A raw talent burning with the desire to win. His car looked like a blue spear cutting through the fog and rain. Every turn was a limit tested, every overtaking a statement.
On lap 40, Jasper's mirror showed the distinctive nose of Anatole's car. He had been closing in fast for quite some time. A hungry presence.
"He's on your tail, Jasper," Highsmith's voice came, more serious now. "Don't react yet. Focus on the plan. Your rear tires have more life than his."
Jasper felt an old instinct awaken. It was... anticipation. He pressed the radio button, the tone laden with blatant insinuation.
"Highsmith, check the replay for me. That Yankee back there... does he always stay so close to the other cars, or is it just me? Because the way he's trying to get into my space, it looks like he's forgotten that this is a race, not a date."
There was a crackle of static, followed by a strangled cough and an explosion of muffled laughter from the other end of the radio. Highsmith's voice came through, punctuated by stifled laughter: "Jasper, I beg you... the stewards... they might... misinterpret it. Focus, man, for God's sake."
Jasper laughed, low and hoarse. "I'm just saying, if he wants a position so badly, he could at least buy me a drink first. But that's okay. I'll let him sweat a little more behind me. See if he can keep up."
Anatole attacked on the straights and in the DRS zones, coming dangerously close on the famous Blanchimont corners. Jasper defended his position, not blocking dirty, but positioning his car precisely, forcing Anatole to take longer lines and wear out his tires.
"He's trying to pass on the outside at the Pouhon corner, Jasper! Hold the line!" Highsmith almost shouted.
Jasper held his line. The car danced at the limit of grip, the tires whining in the water, but he didn't give an inch. Anatole had to back off.
"He almost sprayed me," Jasper commented dryly. "Ask him to be polite. I'm trying to stay dry here."
The crowd was going wild. Every failed attempt by Anatole was celebrated by Jasper's fans. Every fast lap by the young man brought a collective sigh. The official commentator couldn't stop: "Unbelievable! The king against our prince! Jasper, the immortal, won't give up any ground! And Anatole won't take no for an answer!"
The race was heading towards its climax. Last lap. The rain had let up, leaving the track wet. The radio crackled, the voice restrained like that of a general before the final attack.
"Now, Jasper. This is it. His tires are shot. On the climb to Raidillon, step on it."
Jasper didn't respond. His hands were steady on the wheel, his feet between the accelerator and brake. They climbed the legendary Eau Rouge hill. Anatole was only half a second behind, a blue shadow ready to attack.
And then, at the exit of the curve, Jasper simply... disappeared. While Anatole had pushed his tires to the limit trying to overtake, Jasper had spared them. At that moment, the red car with the lone star shot out of the curve like a rocket.
Anatole tried to respond, but his rear end swayed dangerously. The advantage was taken.
The final stretch to the checkered flag was a triumphant procession. Jasper crossed the finish line, the roar of his engine mingling with the deafening cheers from the stands. , the official commentator, lost his composure: "AND IT'S HIM! JASPER! VICTORY AT 52! THE KING CONQUERS SPA ONCE AGAIN! WHAT A MAN! WHAT A LEGEND! UNBELIEVABLE!"
Inside the car, Jasper sighed with a mixture of relief and triumph. He hit the steering wheel. The emotion was pure, raw, and childlike. He turned off the radio, still breathing heavily. “Highsmith... those waffles... better be with plenty of syrup. I think I deserve it.”
The answer came in unison, with the entire team shouting and laughing in the background: "Victory is ours!"
As he slowed down for the cool-down lap, passing the stands that vibrated in his honor, Jasper saw Anatole, the runner-up, pass him and raise a glove in a gesture of respect.
The rain began to fall again, lightly, washing away the dust, oil, and tension from the track. But for Jasper, inside the hot and victorious cockpit, warming the old heart of a street kid who still knew, better than anyone, the way to the finish line.
As soon as Jasper got out of the car, he was swallowed up by a tsunami of overalls. The team, a euphoric mass that shouted, jumped, and cried. Hands pulled him, patted him on the back. In an instant, his feet left the ground. He was lifted up, carried on shoulders like a trophy, and practically dragged toward the nearest bleachers, where fans stretched their hands over the railings.
There, with the deafening noise entering his ears like a victorious mantra, he raised the trophy. It was not a gesture for the photographers, but for those people, for his team.
Then came the champagne. The first bottle, shaken by Highsmith, popped with a satisfying pop! The cold white foam exploded over his head, running down his helmet, down his neck, soaking his jumpsuit. Jasper laughed, a genuine laugh, and grabbed the second bottle. He tipped it to his mouth, swallowing large gulps of the effervescent, sweet drink, while the rest ran down his chin, mixing with the foam. The heat of his body under the jumpsuit and the cold of the champagne created an electric sensation.
Tired of the heavy, wet material, he turned his back to the team, hands helping to pull the jumpsuit zipper from the nape of his neck to his waist. He squirmed to get his arms out, leaving his upper torso covered only by a white cotton T-shirt, clinging to his body from the moisture. The T-shirt, now transparent, outlined every defined muscle of a torso with bulging biceps as he lifted another bottle, the pronounced V below his navel disappearing into the waist of the jumpsuit still stuck on his legs. Foam and champagne ran down him, dripping onto his iconic brown leather cowboy boots, which he always wore on the podium.
On the other side of the parc fermé, Guy Anatole was being congratulated by his team for his second place finish. His engineers patted him on the back, but the young Frenchman's gaze was fixed on Jasper. He watched, mesmerized, the almost primal scene of triumph. He saw the water and foam running down his rival's body, his T-shirt clinging to him, his muscles moving under the wet fabric, the animal confidence that emanated from his every gesture. It was a vision of something that he, with all his raw speed, did not yet possess. He felt a strange knot in his stomach, a mixture of admiration and something else... more complex.
At the top of the podium, the announcer shouted out numbers that seemed like fiction: "JASPER! FIFTY-TWO YEARS! 315 CAREER WINS! AND TODAY, THE UNBELIEVABLE 15TH
CONSECUTIVE VICTORY, THE HIGHEST NUMBER OF CONSECUTIVE VICTORIES IN THE HISTORY OF FORMULA 1! UNBELIEVABLE!"
Jasper raised the trophy again, the flickering light reflecting in his eyes. At his side, on the second step, Guy Anatole climbed up. His smile for the photographers was professional. In third place, Osterhaus, the pragmatic German, maintained his usual serious expression.
As soon as they left the podium, the cordon opened up to the golden harassment of spotlights and microphones. The three drivers were surrounded.
For Osterhaus, the questions were direct: "Mr. Osterhaus, what are your expectations for the next race at Monza?"
The German adjusted his posture and spoke in a dry tone. "The expectation is always to maximize points. The car had good pace, we need to keep it that way. Thank you." Before anyone could ask more, he gave a quick wave and left, mingling with his engineers with the efficiency of a submarine submerging.
The siege on Guy Anatole was more intense. The spotlight loved the young heartthrob, the future of the sport.
"Guy! Second place today, but you were so close! How do you feel?"
Anatole smiled the practiced smile of someone who knew how to deal with the media. "It's a really good feeling, being here, being part of this, of course. We wanted to win; the team did an incredible job. But being second is no shame. Jasper was flawless in the end." His voice faltered slightly as he said the name.
A more daring reporter prodded, "Anatole, everyone wants to know... are you dating anyone at the moment? The fans are curious!"
Guy's smile froze for a split second. His eyes flicked involuntarily toward the noisy group where Jasper still stood, now drying his face with a towel. "I'm focused on racing. On winning." The last word sounded almost like a challenge to himself.
A wall of microphones formed in front of the winner.
"Jasper! Another historic victory! What motivates you to continue competing at 52 against drivers 30 years younger?"
Jasper dried his short gray hair with the towel, one corner of his mouth lifted in a tired half- smile. "Oh, you know," he began, his hoarse radio voice now softer but still thick with his Texas accent. "They keep me young. Seeing these kids race makes my hands itch." Vague answers were his specialty.
But the press wanted a catchy story. "Jasper, is it true that you're dating actress Olive Marie Farington? You were seen together in Saint-Tropez."
Jasper laughed an amused sound. "Olive is a dear friend. Saint-Tropez has sun, sea, and good restaurants. As far as I know, it's not a crime to go to a restaurant."
Then came the inevitable question, the one that made his eyes, for a second, lose their relaxed light. "Speaking of persistence... how long, Jasper? Doesn't retirement cross your mind after a record like todays?"
Inside him, an old anger tried to rise, but it was tired. Tired of proving, tired of justifying. He no longer felt the need to fight this narrative. "I still have a lot of fuel to burn. My schedule is packed with little room for retirement. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have champagne to finish drinking." With a final wave, he turned and walked away from the spotlight, leaving the questions hanging in the humid air.
Everyone knew jasper’s story. He lost his family at a very young age, in an event that extinguished his will to live. He grew up alone, fighting for food, for a safe place to sleep, learning to distrust everyone and trust only his own instincts.
As a teenager, survival pushed him into the shadows. He started selling small amounts of drugs, a miscalculation by a hungry boy. The police became a constant presence, a threat in the corner of his eye. Until that day. His feet hit the gas pedal, his breathing, previously labored with fear, synchronized with the race. He turned corners, disappeared into alleys, and managed to escape the police. Betrayal came later, money changed hands, and the police knocked on the door of his dirty hideout. Prison was a low blow, but also a time to look at his own hands and reflect. It was behind bars that the letter arrived. A man, a former mechanic with eyes that saw potential in the mud, offered him a test. "Let's see how fast you drive." Jasper had nothing to lose except his own life, which wasn't worth much at that point.
He accepted, and it was the best decision he ever made. The kart looked like a toy, but in his hands, it became an extension of that escape, the car roaring at him like an animal. He rose quickly, very quickly. From the smaller tracks to the glitzy Formula 1 circuits in the blink of an eye. It was as if he had been born to do it, as if all those dangerous street corners had been just practice.
First a podium, surprising. Then a victory, thrilling. Then another, and another. Championships piled up. He was no longer Jasper, the orphan, the ex-convict. He was Jasper, the Phenomenon, and the King. The newspapers never tired of telling his story. "The Street Kid Who Conquered the World!" Business magazines called him a strategic genius. Sports magazines called him an artist. Gossip magazines wanted to know everything except about racing.
The power, ah, power was a drug better than any he had ever sold. It went to his head like strong wine. The humble boy, who had saved a packet of cookies for three days, lost himself in the mirror. In his place appeared a man in an expensive suit with a sharp smile. He built a mansion so large that the echoes of his footsteps were lost in the corridors. He filled his garage with expensive cars, but he hardly ever drove them. His social life became a merry-go-round. A model on his arm in Monte Carlo. A movie actress laughing beside him at an awards ceremony. A famous singer accompanying him to a gala event. He was the perfect playboy, the most coveted bachelor. His philanthropy was vast: he donated millions to youth shelters and rehabilitation programs.
The years passed, but his success did not. He turned 40 and was still the man to beat. He turned 45, and young newcomers looked at him with a mixture of respect and ambition. He turned 50, and the impossible happened: he won another championship. His name was engraved in history. No one, no one, had as many titles as he did. The press called him "The Immortal."
Over time, the tone began to change. His age became the favorite topic. The same newspapers that glorified him began to whisper. "Is Jasper slow in the standings?" asked a headline after a bad practice session. When he lost a race, the frenzy was immediate. "End of the Line?" read the cover of a tabloid, with a photo of him looking tired in the paddock. Sports columnists wrote long articles giving their opinions. "It's time to hang up your helmet, Jasper." Every time he missed an overtaking maneuver, it was because of his "age." Every time a younger driver overtook him, it was the "end of an era."
It consumed him inside. He didn't see an old man in the mirror. He saw the man who had achieved everything with his own hands. The track was still his home, the only place where all the voices of the past, of the media, were silenced.
The next race would be in two weeks. The newspapers were already full of speculation. "The Farewell?" they asked. Jasper put on his racing boots, lighter than his expensive leather shoes. The roar of the engine was a reminder of the feeling of being alive and in motion. The track was still his.
The atmosphere in the loft was wild. The music, a techno beat mixed with a hot Latin rhythm, dominated the space, making the heavy air vibrate. The lights were sparse, just blue and purple neon lights cutting through the smoke and gloom. It was a maze of sweaty bodies, loud laughter, and movements suggested by the beat. The smell was an intoxicating mixture of spilled beer, expensive perfume, and the sweet-sour smell of electronic cigarette smoke.
Guy felt the thin fabric of his white T-shirt sticking to his back. He squeezed between groups, his gaze wandering in the darkness in search of Keves' blond hair or Doris' dark hair. Instead, his focus was captured like a magnet by the familiar silhouette leaning against the end of the bar. Jasper. Alone, holding a short, thick glass filled with an amber liquid, drinking it with the ease of someone taking a sip of water.
Guy moved quickly, almost impulsively, closing the distance between them. Jasper looked up, the bluish reflections of the light cutting across his angular features. A slow, knowing smile formed on his lips.
"Look who's here," Jasper's voice cut through the music, harsh and laden with irony. "Second place. Better luck next time, kid."
Another man might have taken offense, taken it as an affront. But Guy knew that tone. It was the same one from the dance floor: a provocation that was, deep down, a recognition. He laughed a sound that was lost in the beat. "Just being able to share the same podium with you is a victory for me."
The response made Jasper smile in a more genuine gesture, and he nodded to the bartender. "Make something lighter for my friend here. A piña colada, I think that's what kids like these days."
Guy felt a pang of frustration. He didn't want to be 'the kid'. He interjected, shaking his head with a determination that he tried to sound casual. "I think I'll have rum. Straight."
Jasper raised his eyebrows, a slight look of surprise in his eyes. "You really don't like to disappoint, kid."
The word 'kid' stuck in Guy like a pin. He stared at Jasper with his cheeky smile, tilting his head. "I've been a fan of yours since I was a kid," he said, maintaining eye contact. "I'd hate to disappoint you."
Jasper sighed, lowering his glass with a soft clink. "Please don't say that in front of anyone," he asked his voice low but firm. "Especially in front of women." The implication was clear: Guy's words reminded everyone, including Jasper, of the obvious age difference. Guy smiled a gesture that attempted to convey complicity. "I swear." He took a sip of the rum that had arrived.
Before the conversation could find a new direction, a presence insinuated itself with its cloying perfume. It was a woman with jet-black, straight, long hair and a statuesque body in a tight red dress. She glided over, taking Jasper's arm and leaning on him familiarly. "Were you looking for me, darling?" Her voice was mellifluous, a contrast to Jasper's harshness.
Jasper leaned in without hesitation and captured her lips in a long kiss. Guy watched, feeling a knot form in his stomach. He bit his lower lip, forcing himself to look away at the glass in his hand, the burn of the rum now tasteless.
As soon as he looked away, a euphoric blonde girl hit him. "GUY!" Keves, already clearly drunk, jumped into his arms, making him stagger. Her silver dress sparkled under the blue lights. "Where have you been? I've been waiting for you."
Over Kevis' shoulders, Guy saw Jasper walking away, the woman in the red dress glued to his side. The Texan gave Guy one last look, a smile that was both farewell and taunt. "Good luck, kid," Jasper said, before being swallowed up by the crowd.
Before Guy could process or respond, Keves pulled him by the hand, dragging him toward the epicenter of the music. The alcohol, now coursing through his veins with the rum and beers from earlier, began to dissolve his inhibitions. Kevis danced in front of him, her hips moving in hypnotic circles against him. Close behind, Doris appeared, her hands sliding over his shoulders, exploring the definition of his biceps through his thin, wet T-shirt, her bangs brushing against his neck.
Guy surrendered. He let the music penetrate him, moving his hips to the same lascivious rhythm as Kevis. His hands found her waist, firm and warm beneath the fabric. He closed his eyes for a moment, submerged in the sensation.
He didn't notice the pair of eyes watching him through the haze and flashing lights. Jasper, now with Olive Marie at his side, the stunning actress who was the subject of the tabloids, had his eyes fixed on Guy's dancing. Olive greeted Jasper with a kiss on the cheek, but her
attention was divided. She said something, and Jasper, without thinking too much, grabbed her hands and pulled her onto the dance floor, not far from where Guy was.
Olive laughed, surprised and excited. "You know, I like that about you," she shouted close to his ear to be heard. "You let loose and have fun without caring what others think."
Jasper raised his eyebrows. "That's a quality we both have in common, Olive." His dance with her was different. Less submissive to the music, more of a dialogue. He led her with his hands on her waist, their bodies meeting and separating with sexual tension. The other women who had surrounded him before watched from afar, their expressions envious.
As they spun, Guy and Jasper's eyes met across the crowd. Guy felt a rush of heat that didn't come solely from the alcohol. The scene came into focus in a new way. Kevis, now sitting on the steps of a low platform, pulled Guy close. Her fingers worked quickly, rolling a joint with practiced ease. The tip of her tongue ran over the silk with a slow, wet movement before she handed it to Guy with a crooked smile. "Here, to relax, my champion," she said, her voice slightly slurred. Guy placed the joint between his lips, at the exact spot her tongue had moistened. The lighter clicked. He took a long drag, holding the thick, sweet smoke until he felt a slight burn in his chest. As he exhaled, the smoke drifted out and dissolved into the blue lights. His eyes, heavy and cloudy, immediately sought and found Jasper's again through the haze.
Across the room, near the bar, Jasper was leaning against the wall, a half-empty bottle of bourbon in his hand. He was not sober. Far from it. A dangerous relaxation had taken over his posture, and his eyes scanned the room. When his gaze met Guy's, he stopped. He didn't smile. He just tilted his head, an almost imperceptible gesture, and brought the bottle to his lips again, taking a big swig while maintaining eye contact.
The pull was magnetic, and Guy crossed the space between them, ignoring the dancing bodies. He stopped a few inches from Jasper, feeling the heat and smell of bourbon, leather, and male sweat enveloping him.
"I've come to collect my reward," Guy said, his voice lower and bolder than he had intended, the effects of alcohol and weed loosening his tongue.
Jasper raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth turning up. "Reward? For coming in second? They already gave you the cup, kid."
"For staying on your tail for 40 laps," Guy retorted, taking a step forward. "For making you sweat. That deserves more than a silver trophy."
The bold statement made Jasper laugh, a low, hoarse sound that came from his chest. He set the bottle down on a nearby table and closed the final distance between them. Now they were almost touching.
"I like your ambition," he whispered, his warm, rolling Texas accent close to Guy's ear. "I love seeing it right in front of me. But on the track and here are different games. Are you sure you know the rules?"
Guy felt a shiver run down his spine. It was then that the music seemed to grow louder, calling to them. Jasper's gaze drifted down Guy's body, slow and appraising, before returning to his face. A hand rose, not to touch, but in a clear gesture of invitation to the small, crowded dance area. Jasper turned and began to move, and Guy simply followed, as if connected to him by a thread.
The dance began with closeness, face to face in the middle of the crowd, they created their own space. It wasn't an exaggerated dance; it was a suggestion with the hips, a sway of the shoulders, eyes fixed on Guy like headlights in the blue gloom. It was the physical confidence of someone who knows every inch of his or her own body and is not afraid to show it.
Guy, feeling brave and loose from the combination of everything he had ingested, responded. His movements were deliberate and full of intention. He let his hands rise, hovering close to Jasper's biceps without touching, while his own hips moved in a seductive rhythm. The white T-shirt, clinging with sweat, highlighted every line of his torso. Jasper's open black shirt swayed, revealing flashes of sweaty skin and defined muscle.
"It's not so easy to get past here, is it?" Jasper murmured his voice a growl that echoed inside Guy.
"You're still in front of me," Guy replied, sliding one foot forward, closing the distance. "But I'm persistent."
"I noticed," Jasper said, and finally his hand found Guy's hip. The hot, rough palm burned through the fabric of his jeans. "Persistent and... impatient."
The sensation of the touch was an electric shock that cleared some of the fog from Guy's mind. His own hand found Jasper's forearm, feeling the taut muscles beneath the skin.
"You talk too much, old man," Guy whispered, his lips close to Jasper's neck, feeling the rapid pulse there.
Jasper laughed, a muffled sound in the noise, and his other hand moved up to the back of Guy's neck, his fingers digging into the damp hair at the base of his skull, possessive.
"And you run too much without looking where you're going," he retorted, pulling Guy's head back, just enough to force him to look at him. His eyes were dark pools. "Sometimes it's good to be caught."
The music reached a climax that seemed to vibrate through the floor and up their legs. Guy no longer knew if he was moving to the music or to the subtle commands of Jasper's hands. Guy saw Jasper's gaze drop to his lips, and without thinking, he licked them, feeling them dry and hot.
The distance between their mouths was a space begging to be filled. Everything around them the lights, the music, the people blurred into an unimportant blur. There was only the tension between their bodies, the burning touch, and the heavy gaze that promised and threatened everything at the same time.
Consciousness returned like a painful and nauseating tide. The first sensation was the absurd softness of high-quality linen sheets beneath his naked body. The second was a throbbing headache, an anvil being hammered into his temples. The third was the smell. It wasn't his smell. It was the distinct mixture of expensive soap, a slight trace of cigar, and the unmistakable fragrance that was purely Jasper.
Guy opened his eyes, heavy as lead. Morning light filtered through closed blinds, cutting golden streaks across the dark room. The walls were exposed concrete, decorated only with a large black-and-white photo of a classic car. He was in a huge bed, alone, but the other side was clearly slept in, the covers rumpled.
He sat up very slowly, the world spinning. His clothes were scattered on the dark wood floor, in a path leading from the door to the bed. His heart stopped, and then raced in a panic.
"No."
He looked down at his own body under the sheets. Naked.
Fragmented memories, like shards of glass, cut through his mind: laughter in the darkness, the feel of a firm touch on the back of his neck, the taste of tequila and something else on his lips, the husky sound of a Texan voice whispering something he couldn't remember.
"Oh, shit."
Guy held his head in his hands, a low groan escaping his lips. He wasn't just hungover. He was in Jasper's bed.
"What did I do?"