Chapter Text
The air at the karting track carried a mixed scent of burnt gasoline, engine oil, and cut grass—a fragrance that many would find unpleasant, but for the sixteen-year-old boy stepping cautiously onto the asphalt near the pits, it was the smell of promise. Lewis looked around, trying not to seem too obviously impressed, but his dark brown eyes recorded everything: the row of karts lined up like warhorses, the mechanics in grease-stained overalls talking in groups, the distant roar of an engine being tested somewhere on the circuit. He wore a thin, old jacket, his hands shoved into his pockets to hide a slight tremor—not from fear, but from a contained energy, a hunger. The invitation to train there, earned through pure sweat and absurd lap times in smaller circuits, was his ticket. He knew it. But he also knew he was an intruder in a world that wasn't made for him.
Everyone here looks like they stepped out of a different catalog than mine. White sneakers, designer jackets… they look at me and they already know. They know my lunch comes from a voucher, that my kart is borrowed, that the name Hamilton means nothing anywhere. But let them. Let them look. Soon enough, they’ll be looking at my rear end on the track.
“Hey! You’re new, right? Haven’t seen you around here before.”
The voice came from a skinny boy with a Spar cap on sideways and an easy smile. He approached without ceremony. “I’m Dave. Are you lost?”
Lewis raised his chin, an almost imperceptible movement of self-defense. “No. I’m in the right place. I’m here to train.”
“Oh, good! So, are you staying in the dorms with the rest of us? Come on, I’ll show you the bay,” Dave said, turning and gesturing for Lewis to follow. The path led past pit boxes where other boys their age adjusted karts with tools that looked incredibly expensive. Lewis felt a few gazes pass over him—quick, evaluating.
They pretend they’re not looking. But they are. They’re seeing the color, the clothes, the vibe. It’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t need fancy tools. What I need is the track.
Dave talked non-stop, pointing things out. “There’s the cafeteria—the food is okay, but it fills you up. The bathrooms are communal, a nightmare in the morning. And the dorms… well, there are four bunks per room. A mess. But it’s fun. Unless you get a room with some snob, then it’s total crap.”
They entered a low corridor with white-painted concrete walls and a permanent smell of mold and disinfectant. Dave opened a door. The room was small, with two metal bunk beds, rusty lockers, and a dirty window overlooking a part of the parking lot. Messy clothes and helmets were scattered on the floor.
“You can pick a top bunk if you want. The bottom one is better if you roll around a lot at night,” Dave laughed. “We share the space with two others. One is Chris, a good guy. The other one…” Dave made a face, lowering his voice. “The other one is Nico. Nico Rosberg.”
The name echoed in the empty room. Lewis stood still, motionless.
Rosberg. I’ve heard that name. On TV. His father… Keke. Champion. Money, sponsorship, the name. Everything handed to him on a silver platter. Everything in his lap.
“Man, he’s the little prince around here,” Dave continued, sitting on the bottom bunk of one of the beds. “He hangs out with a rich crowd, has a fully customized kart, a sponsorship from fucking Mercedes already, can you imagine? His dad is always around, giving orders to everyone. Nico thinks he’s the best just because of his last name. He’s good, I won’t lie, he’s fast. But the way he carries himself… like he’s already an F1 driver and we’re just the cleaning crew.”
Lewis said nothing. He walked to the window and looked out, his back rigid. His mind was racing.
Little prince. Of course he is. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, never spent a day in need. Never chased a bus while hungry. Never heard ‘no’ because his skin was the wrong color. He just has to show up, and the world opens its doors. And I have to break every single one of them down. That’s fine. He can have the customized kart. I have the hunger. Let’s see which one is faster on the track.
“Is he in this room a lot?” Lewis asked, his voice controlled and neutral.
“More or less. He has a motorhome out there too, a huge one, so sometimes he sleeps there. But he comes to get his stuff. If you take his bed, he might get pissed. Better take that one,” Dave pointed to the opposite bunk.
Lewis threw his worn-out backpack onto the top mattress indicated. The movement was affirmative, almost a challenge.
Let him be pissed. The room isn't his. Nothing here is his by right, only by money. And money doesn’t drive.
“Thanks, Dave. Can you show me the karts we’re allowed to use?”
“Sure, come on!”
They left the room, and Dave continued the tour. Lewis listened, absorbing every detail of the circuit, the procedures, the practice times. But a part of his mind was already occupied, building an image: a blonde boy with light eyes, an easy and empty smile, surrounded by sycophants, looking down on Lewis. The prince and the pauper. The heir and the intruder.
All right, Nico Rosberg. You don't know me yet. But you will. You’ll learn to look at me. And it won’t be from the top down.
---
The motorhome parked in the area reserved for the wealthiest teams and families wasn't just a vehicle; it was a statement. An extensive, silver trailer with the Mercedes logo discreetly stamped on it. Inside, the air conditioning blew a constant, pleasant temperature, completely muffling the heat and noise of the circuit. The floor was light wood, the sofa beige leather, and a small modern kitchen gleamed with stainless steel. Keke Rosberg, an imposing figure even in flip-flops and shorts, was talking on the phone in Finnish, using wide gestures, while in the small bedroom at the back, Nico adjusted the leather cord around his neck.
He looked at himself in the built-in mirror. His blonde hair, washed with expensive products, fell perfectly over his forehead, and he brushed it back with his fingers—a habitual gesture. His racing suit, also featuring the Mercedes sponsorship, was new, clean, without a single grease stain. His white gloves, practically virgin, rested on the neatly made bed. Outside, his kart—an Intrepid chassis with a Comer engine—was impeccable, being prepared by a private mechanic his father paid for. Nico Rosberg's world was polished, efficient, cushioned. Every obstacle was removed before he even saw it. Success was an expectation, not an achievement. And the beauty he carried, almost ethereal, with his delicate features and glacial blue eyes, was just another attribute in this privileged package—something he knew made an impact, but which he rarely thought deeply about. It was a given, like his last name.
Stepping out of the motorhome, the contrast was sharp. The heat hit him like a wall, and the strong smell of fuel and burnt oil, which for many was the essence of the sport, was an unpleasant odor to him—a price to be paid. He walked toward the pits with a relaxed posture, yet conscious of his surroundings. The eyes of other young drivers followed him—a mix of admiration, envy, and resentment. He was used to it.
Then he saw him. A new boy, similar in height but leaner in build, standing next to Dave. What caught Nico’s attention first wasn’t the simple clothing, but the quiet intensity in his posture. And the skin color. A rich shade of brown that stood out vividly against the dull greys and greens of the karting track. Different. Very different from anyone who usually frequented that environment, at least as a driver. A sudden chill, a pang of an old and poorly understood discomfort, washed over Nico. He didn’t like things that were outside his control, outside his known map of the world.
He approached, not the new boy, but Dave—his natural interlocutor in that hierarchy he instinctively understood. Nico’s voice came out clear, carrying a slight authority and a disdain he didn’t even try to hide, while his blue eyes quickly scanned Lewis from head to toe, as if inspecting a faulty piece of equipment.
"Dave, who is this? Is he some mechanic's son? I’ve told you not to give tours of the karts to this kind of people; they have no sense for it. They’ll end up getting something dirty or getting in the way of serious practice."
The sentence hung in the hot air, heavy and deliberately offensive. Dave looked visibly embarrassed, opening his mouth to respond but not knowing what to say.
Lewis, for his part, felt the words like small stabs. But he didn’t move. He simply looked up and stared directly at Nico. And for the first time, the image he had built in his mind collided with reality. And the reality was… disconcerting.
My God. He is… beautiful. He looks like those angels in the stained-glass windows of the church my mom used to take me to when I was little. Golden hair, sky-blue… eyes. His skin… white and smooth, like a doll’s. He looks like a girl. A very… stop it! He’s nothing like me. Nothing like anything here. Why does he have to be like this? Why do I have to think this now?
Anger, wounded pride, and a sudden, completely unwanted confusion clashed inside him. His fury against the "prince" gained a new, more complex and irritating layer. He didn’t look away, keeping his expression neutral, but his thoughts were a whirlwind.
Mechanic's son. "This kind of people." See. See how he is. Look at his mouth, saying those things with that angel face. It’s worse. It’s worse because he believes it. He thinks his world is the right one, the clean one, and I’m the dirt that came to mess it up. Fine, little prince. Fine, pretty girl. Let’s see who gets who dirty on the track.
Nico's words lingered in the hot, oily air, carried with a disdain as natural to him as breathing. Dave opened his mouth, a silent protest forming on his lips, but before any sound came out, a voice cut through the awkward silence. It was a firm voice, without hesitation, carrying a London accent that sounded deliberately out of place in that polished environment.
"Lewis Hamilton. Driver. And no, I’m not a mechanic's son. I’m the son of a man who works three jobs so I can be here. Something you clearly don't know anything about."
Lewis had kept his voice low, but every syllable was projected with cutting precision. He hadn't moved, but his posture was now upright, shoulders back, chin slightly raised. His eyes, dark and intense, didn't pull away from Nico’s blue eyes. His anger was a contained fire, but the confusion the boy’s beauty had caused was temporarily engulfed by it.
Speak up, little prince. Speak more. Let me see what comes out of that pretty mouth now.
Nico paused for a fraction of a second. The direct answer, the affirmation of identity, the mention of work… all of it was a code he wasn't used to deciphering. It wasn't flattery; it wasn't a submissive nod. It was a confrontation. And for Nico, confrontations with people from a… different category… were resolved with contempt, not engagement. His lips, thin and a pale pink, curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. A short, dry laugh escaped his throat.
"Oh, how touching. A modern fairy tale. Daddy works hard, and the little son comes to race karts." Nico’s voice was melodic, even in its sarcasm. "But that doesn't change the fact that you’re in the way, Hamilton. Karts are for drivers. Not for tourists taking a tour."
The word "tour" was emphasized, a deliberate echo of his previous comment. Dave looked from one to the other, clearly wanting to be anywhere else. Nico felt a pang of satisfaction. He had re-established the hierarchy. He had made it clear.
But Lewis didn’t bow his head. Instead, a new kind of light sparked in his eyes. It wasn't just anger now. It was something more calculated, more dangerous. He observed Nico's perfect face, the immaculate skin now showing a slight flush of irritation, the blue eyes shining with superiority. And then, Lewis spoke. His voice dropped an octave, becoming almost intimate—a whispered provocation that sliced through the distant drone of the engines.
"Fine. Then show me, pretty girl. Show me on the track what a real driver is. Or do you just look pretty standing there, giving orders?"
The shift was instantaneous and electric. The expression of disdain froze on Nico's face. His blue eyes, previously so clear and cold, widened for a split second. Then, a wave of color, vibrant and unmistakable, rose from his neck, washed over his pale cheeks, and reached the tips of his ears. It was a deep, hot blush—a traitor that revealed everything: the surprise, the fury, and something else—a sharp, violent shame for being hit precisely in a spot he didn't even know was vulnerable. "Pretty girl". It wasn't a shout, it wasn't a brutal insult. It was a caustic observation, a reductionism that turned his greatest aesthetic advantage into a weapon against him. He stood paralyzed for an instant, his mouth slightly open, breathless for an answer. His hand, with carefully clean nails, twitched involuntarily at his side. The aristocratic confidence cracked, revealing a sixteen-year-old boy, furious and ashamed. That blush was Lewis's victory flag, far more eloquent than any response Nico could formulate.
I hit it. I hit the mark. Look at him, all flushed, looking like a cherry. He looks even more like a girl now. But… why is my heart beating like this? This is anger. Just anger. And victory. I saw his face drop. I saw the prince stumble.
The scene stood frozen for a second that seemed to drag on forever. Nico’s blush was a vivid stain against the paleness of his face, an involuntary confession that resonated much louder than his shaky words. He looked away, fixing his gaze on some empty spot on the asphalt near Lewis's feet, as if the sight of the boy who had provoked him was unbearable. Irritation was etched into every line of his body—tense shoulders, clenched jaw—but the explosive fury, the pure rage Lewis expected, was missing. Instead, there was intense confusion, a hesitation that turned that anger into something more contained, almost… vulnerable.
"W-what—don't call me that! I'm not a girl!" Nico said, his face flushed as he looked away. He seemed annoyed but not angry.
Lewis watched, every detail recorded with the precision of a driver analyzing a corner. The way Nico couldn’t hold his eye. The slight tremor in his lower lip. The absence of a sharper verbal counter-attack. The phrase "I'm not a girl" sounded less like a powerful statement and more like a fragile protest, almost a whisper to himself.
Wait… hold on. He’s not truly angry. He’s… irritated. But he didn’t curse back. He didn’t try to humiliate me again. He looked away. Did he… like it? No, impossible. How could anyone like being called that? Unless…
The idea flashed through Lewis's mind like a bolt of lightning, so strange and disturbing that he almost rejected it instantly. But the signs were there. That blush wasn’t just from rage; it was deep, it was hot, it was… embarrassed in a specific way. The diverted gaze wasn’t just contempt; it was as if Nico couldn’t face him because something in that provocation had touched an exposed nerve—a nerve that perhaps he himself didn't fully understand.
Does he like it? Does he like being treated like this? "Pretty girl"... he blushed, but he didn’t lunge at me. He got… stuck. My God. The perfect little prince, the heir, the golden boy… has this hidden inside. That explains why he looks so much like a… no. Stop thinking.
A complex wave of emotions flooded Lewis. There was still contempt for Nico's wealth and arrogance, the anger at the veiled prejudice. But now it was mixed with an acute, almost perverse curiosity and a newly discovered power. He had, unintentionally, found a gap in the flawless armor of the Rosberg boy. A strange, intimate gap that spoke of things neither of them quite understood.
Dave, standing beside them, seemed completely lost, his gaze shifting between the two as if watching a tennis match in a language he didn't know. The sound of engines in the distance filled the heavy silence. Lewis decided not to back down. The provocation had worked better than any direct counter-attack. He kept his voice at the same low, almost casual pitch, but with an edge of defiance that now carried a new weight.
"Isn't it? My bad then. You looked like one." He shrugged, a calculated movement, and then his dark eyes traveled over Nico’s still-flushed face, deliberately, from the tips of his blonde hair down to the tense line of his jaw. "But if you drive as well as you dress up, maybe you have a chance on the track. Or would you rather stay here, looking pretty, in the corner of your motorhome?"
The emphasis on the last word was a double blow—a reminder of his privilege and an echo of the previous provocation. Lewis didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but he instinctively felt he was in control of that strange dynamic for the first time since Nico had arrived.
"Stop being an idiot! I’m the best driver here, it’s in the blood, my father is a world champion!" Nico grumbled, his arrogance quickly returning to its place with renewed confidence at the mention of his father.
Nico’s indignation sounded like the yapping of a lapdog—loud, high-pitched, but without the bite of true fury. The blush on his face hadn’t completely faded, staining his cheeks a warm pink that contrasted absurdly with the blue coldness of his eyes. The reference to his father, the blood, the legacy, was his fortress—the shield he raised whenever he felt threatened. It was an argument that usually silenced others, an unquestionable reminder of his place in the pyramid.
But Lewis wasn’t "the others." He heard the arrogance returning, saw the chin lift again, and felt an even deeper sting of contempt.
Blood? Legacy? I’m building my own legacy from scratch, brick by sweaty brick. The reference to Keke Rosberg only solidified the image I had of Nico: not a driver, but a product, a spoiled heir living off another man’s laurels. Blood. In my blood, there’s work, not trophies. In my blood, there’s struggle. He knows nothing. Are you going to hide behind daddy forever, little princess?
A slow smile, not of joy but of pure, calculated provocation, appeared on Lewis's lips. He crossed his arms, a relaxed gesture that was anything but unpretentious. His eyes, dark and relentless, remained fixed on Nico, but now with a spark of deliberate challenge.
"Sure, sure. Your father is a champion. Impressive," Lewis said, his voice dripping with mock respect. "But the steering wheel doesn't know that, darling. The stopwatch doesn't either. It only knows what your arms and your head command. And I doubt her little head here, all worried about looking pretty, can think straight with a tight helmet on."
The use of the feminine pronoun was delivered with a sharp naturalness. Not as a shout, but as an established fact, a subtle and devastating correction. "Her." "She." Lewis didn’t even need to raise his voice. He just let the words hang in the hot air between them, watching every micro-reaction on Nico’s face.
Dave, beside him, swallowed hard. He looked at Nico, expecting an explosion, a furious denial. But what he saw was, again, not total fury. Nico shuddered as if he’d received a slight shock. His blue eyes widened, but not in blind rage—in shock. The blush, which had begun to subside, returned with full force, flooding his face and neck. His lips parted, but no sound came out for a long second. There was a visible struggle in his features: trained arrogance trying to reassert itself, but something deeper, more confused, being hit directly by Lewis's choice of words. It was as if Lewis had discovered a key to a door Nico didn’t even know existed, and was slowly turning it.
Nico’s response came as a hiss, a sound loaded with genuine panic that transcended mere irritation.
"Stop calling me that, idiot, I already told you I’m a boy."
But the words lost all their strength because of the action that followed. His blue eyes, previously fixed on Lewis with a mixture of challenge and confusion, widened and darted to the sides, frantically scanning the surroundings—the open pits, the dormitory entrance, the scattered groups of mechanics and drivers further off. It was a quick, almost spasmodic movement of pure social terror. The concern was no longer with Lewis, or the offense itself; it was about who might have heard. It was about the facade.
He’s afraid. Afraid of being seen. Afraid someone might hear. The perfect little prince can’t have a crack, can’t have a single second that doesn’t fit the magazine photo. Everything is for others. Even his anger has to be shown the right way. And I… I’m seeing what I shouldn’t.
Lewis watched that fleeting gaze, the posture that was now more like a cornered animal than an arrogant predator. The power he had felt before grew, but it merged with a sudden and somewhat disturbing understanding. This wasn’t just a provocation that worked; it was something deeper. He was messing with something fundamental and fragile in Nico's identity, and the rich boy, used to controlling every narrative, was completely lost on how to deal with one being imposed on him, especially one so… peculiar.
Lewis leaned forward slightly, not enough to invade personal space in a threatening way, but enough so his next words were clearly meant only for Nico’s ears—a private whisper amidst the public buzz of the karting track. His voice lost some of its sharp edge but gained an intimacy that was, in a way, even more invasive.
"Are you afraid someone will see?" he asked, his voice almost soft. "Relax, princess. No one’s looking at us. Everyone’s busy with more important things. Just you and me here. And I won’t tell your little secret to anyone… as long as you stop pretending to be so tough. Because we know that she isn't, right?"
The use of the pronoun again, now coupled with a perverse term of endearment—"princess"—and the suggestion of a shared secret, was a master manipulation. Lewis was doing something far bolder than simply insulting Nico. He was creating an isolated pact, a secret space of two where the normal rules—the rules that benefited Nico—didn’t apply. And by doing so, he was forcing Nico to confront his own performance, his own charade. The phrase "we know she isn't" was an assertion of forced complicity, a blow that struck at the core of the image Nico was desperately trying to protect.
Nico stood paralyzed. The blush didn’t fade. His eyes, returning now to Lewis, were massive, filled with a storm of emotions: humiliation, fear, anger, and a horrible, captivating curiosity about how far he would go. Nico seemed to contract entirely from within, as if Lewis's words were physical and had hit a vital, soft, and hidden spot.
"Idiot... don't talk about that again."
The sentence came out broken, more a breath of surrender than an order. There was no strength in it, only a desperate defense, a plea whispered on the edge of panic. His blue eyes, now clouded by a mist of confusion and shame, met Lewis's for one last second—an instant charged with something intense and indescribable—before tearing themselves away. He cast one last look around, a quick and nervous movement, confirming that his moment of exposure, his involuntary unveiling, had gone unnoticed by the outside world.
And then, he turned. The turn wasn't graceful or arrogant; it was an almost truncated movement, as if his limbs weren't perfectly obeying. He walked toward the sanctuary of the silver motorhome, his steps initially quick, almost stumbling, before steadying into a more determined but still tense rhythm. His back, previously relaxed and confident, was rigid, his shoulders slightly curved inward, as if trying to make himself smaller, to disappear.
Lewis stood still, watching the blonde figure retreat, blending into the shadows of the pits before disappearing completely behind the trailer's shiny door. The silence he left behind was different. It wasn't the silence of easy victory, but of ground conquered in a strange and intimate way.
Dave whistled low, shaking his head. "Man, you've got guts. No one talks to Rosberg like that. He’s going to hate you forever now."
But Lewis hardly heard him. His mind was busy, processing.
He ran away. He ran from me. It wasn’t with anger, it was with… fear. Fear of what I saw. Fear of what I said. "Princess". He heard it. And he didn’t truly deny it. He just asked not to talk about it again. As if we have a dirty secret.
He felt a strange restlessness in his chest. It wasn’t empathy. It was something more complex, more possessive. In a few minutes, he had torn down the imposing façade of the "prince" and glimpsed something fragile, confused, and deeply human behind it. And he was the only one who knew. The only one who held the key to that reaction.
He's going hate me, Dave’s right. But it’s not just hate. It’s something else. Something he doesn’t know how to handle. Something I… I don’t know either.
Hate or not, Lewis whispered to himself, his eyes still fixed on the spot where Nico had disappeared, from now on, he won’t be able to ignore me anymore.