Chapter Text
Suzuka Circuit - Ino, Japan.
The week of Shane's nightmares starts fifty kilometres south of Nagoya. Home of the Japanese Grand Prix, the Suzuka circuit lies in Ino, Suzuka City.
This race is undoubtedly every driver's favourite. The track was second to none, the weather mild and the fans enthusiastic to another level. The track demands high technical skill. It's a rhythmic, flowing sequence of corners that allow you to feel the full exhilaration of the sport. Its racing history is rich. Rivalry's have been born and died here. Championships won and lost.
It's a home race for Shane—technically.
Despite the fact he’s only spent approximately three weeks of his life all together here in Japan. It didn't matter. His ancestral ties through his maternal side meant the Japanese people had adopted him as their own.
It’s not as though he hadn't wanted to spend time in Japan anyway, they just had other priorities. Karting and single seaters had consumed his life for as long as he could remember and every penny the Hollanders had managed to scrape together for as long as he'd been racing had gone towards his future career.
There certainly wasn't any spare money for them to travel back to his mother's home country of Japan. Money had just been too tight to travel recreationally. It was too tight for just about anything. They had relied on family funding and immense financial support from sponsorships to keep afloat for a long time. Their Honda deal was the only thing that kept food on the table for a year or two before Shane had been scouted for the Scuderia Ferrari Driver Academy with the promise of waived fees.
Shane's mother, Yuna Hollander, had always been adamant that it didn't matter to her. She was proud to see Shane's success even at the detriment of her ties to her ancestral home. She had placed all of his faith in him and always knew that he was going to succeed. It was her confidence in him that lit a fire under Shane.
Coming up through racing he had moved through the categories quickly, hopping from Formula 4 to Formula 2 and after winning the Championship title in his first year he was promoted into the newly available Alfa Romeo seat. He was championed as something of a wunderkind. By nineteen, with a year of Formula 1 racing under his belt, he inherited the seat of world Champion Kimi Räikkönen and signed on as a driver for Scuderia Ferrari. The most coveted seat in racing.
Formula One is the pinnacle of a racing career. The chances of ending up in a seat were so slim. Statistically, the odds are often described as effectively zero or less than 0.1%. You need luck, wealth and extraordinary talent to find yourself in one of the twenty seats.
Fortunately, that’s what Shane is. An extraordinary talent.
His race IQ is unparalleled, his reaction time is perfect. He's spent almost every moment of every day perfecting his craft—diets, workouts, simulators, reviewing telemetry of every car on every track looking for the perfect race line. He lives and breathes racing and it pays off. He had five race wins in his first two years and was now in pole position in Suzuka, ready to take another win in (one of) his home races.
· · ─ · ─ · ·
At 13:50 pm on Sunday, he removes his cap as he stands alongside his fellow drivers on the track.
The speakers begin to play the Japanese national anthem and he feels the all camera lenses point and zoom toward him as if expecting him to sing along. It's the same year after year. It'll be the same at his next home race at the Canadian GP in Montreal later this year. And at Ferrari's home race in Monza. And in Imola. He'll be the driver each nation hangs their hopes and dreams on.
He feels the weight of a million eyes upon him, half hoping failure for him, half hoping for victory.
He closes his eyes and drowns out the noise.
Calm. You are the best. You are the best. You are the best.
It's not the anthem ending that triggers him to open his eyes again.
It's the compulsion he has to look at that one certain driver across the track.
He feels the need to see that face itching under his skin.
Ilya Rozanov.
The name alone is enough to shift something in him.
The man that made his blood turn to ice and fire. Made his heart pound and his stomach turn.
Driver for Oracle Redbull Racing. Managed by Russian racing titan, Sergei Vetrova.
First meeting in the European junior karting categories, they'd shook hands—Shane with a shy smile and Ilya with a hard stare—and didn't talk for a considerable time afterwards. They'd been occasional rivals on track in Formula 2. There they had briefly fought for the Championship title before it had proven Rozanov wouldn't have a competitive car enough to place in the top two that year. He had made big waves though. He'd placed third in the championship while his teammate finished dead last.
Their stares meet across the tarmac.
He feels his blood pressure begin to rise as his eyes narrow.
Cool blue eyes squint in the sun. Tan glassy skin reflecting the sunlight off his cutting cheekbones.
Rozanov's lips quirk into a smirk and Shane has to avert his eyes. The skin on his arms prickled with goose bumps under his fireproofs. He blinks rapidly as though scrubbing away the eye contact with his lids. The thing is, this season Shane had been thinking so much about Ilya it was as though he could see his face, stuck permanently behind his eyelids.
Everything about him made Shane jealous. The fact that he didn't have to work as hard as Shane but was just as good as him. The fact that he didn't have to struggle for funding and take on a million sponsorships to scrape his way by. The fact that he had no problem running his mouth in the post race pressers and didn't have to answer to the red-headed fury of Sylvia the head of PR every time he gave an opinion.
He was jealous of Ilyas teeth too. And, that stupid smirk. That gorgeous, stupid smirk.
Heading down the grid he purposefully keeps his eyes off of the Russian driver. He keeps to himself till their formation lap comes to end and they pull into their grid positions. His head straining to turn to check the front tires of Car 81 hadn't breached their P2 marker. He tunes out the voice of his race engineer, Hayden Pike, through his in-ears as he finishes his run down on what tires the grid were running with.
He sees the black and gold helmet of Rozanov nod towards him. He nods back.
It's an agreement of sorts. Their way of saying "Let's go racing".
Rozanov was brutal and aggressive with every other driver on the grid, but not with Shane. They were both too good for that. They could dance with each other's cars in a way that they couldn't with the others. Pure racing.
· · ─ · ─ · ·
The lights come into focus.
He waits with baited breath—all senses heightened, ready to pounce.
He feels the vibrations of the engine trembling beneath him. He hears the roar of the crowd in the stands.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
The lights go out.
They're both quick off the line.
Shane pushes on forward straight on, letting the weight of his body be pressed back against his seat. Rozanov uses his usual tactic with Shane and takes an offensive line. Shane has the upper hand though. His quick reaction off the start puts his back wheels a car lengths ahead off Rozanov's front wing within seconds.
They spend the first two laps swapping positions, overtaking and undertaking. It’s a high stakes game off cat and mouse at three hundred kilometres per hour.
Waiting for Shane to loop back onto the straight, Hayden cuts in over the radio, “Just a pointer, Shane.”
“Shoot, Hayden”
“Barret is less than a second off of Rozanov.”
He knows what that means. He can practically hear the English accents of Crofty and Brundle's commentating right now.
Rookie Troy Barrett is making great pace here. If Hollander has his wits about him, he’ll pump the brakes a little here and let Barrett have a go at getting past Rozanov.
I don't see that happening. Hollander is much too careful. He’ll want to power on ahead and try to build a distance between himself and the Redbull.
Maybe he should. Do the safe thing. It would be very on brand, but, as he continues to flow around the circuit with Ilya on his tail, he glimpses down to his tires. They had opted for a softer compound than Ilyas. He should have the grip to be moving quicker than Rozanov who has the harder tire, but it’s not happening. The temperature is better suited to Ilya's. The degradation Shane's tires are going to start developing soon is going to leave Ilya with an advantage on him.
Keeping all four tires ahead of the Redbull he takes a line that starts eking Ilya back into the grips of Barrett's Mercedes. He smiles a little as he imagines the tiny little frown Ilya will have under his helmet when he realizes what Shane has done. It's not finished though.
The two cars behind him are within a second of him now.
They both have access to DRS.
Shane does not.
The Drag Reduction System will add ten kilometres an hour to their speed. He doesn't have the race pace to get out ahead of them while they have it. The advantage tilts, perceptibly, away from him. It doesn't panic him. He's learned to fight against the tightening constraint of narrowing possibility—but he's grown frustrated with Rozanov staying too close for comfort. By now, he should've backed off to cool his tires. Instead, he's still nipping at Shane's heels like it's a joke to him. A game of tag on the playground.
Shane's not here to play games. This is his home race. His team and the country are depending on him. He can't risk this win playing games with Ilya.
He accepts that if he makes a single mistake, he’s fucked. The margin for error has collapsed to nothing.
He just needs to stretch his stint on these tires as long as possible and pray for a safety car to come so he can pit quicker and get an undercut on Rozanov… or Barrett if he manages to take P2 soon enough.
It's no good though. He only registers something has gone wrong when his head snaps to the side and his vision blurs as he spins out across the gravel trap and into the barrier. His chest and wrists ache as he keeps his grip on the wheel in the impact. His hands shake when he finally lets go of the wheel—the adrenaline pulses through him.
His thumb presses on the Radio button. As he tries to speak, a pain whimper escapes his lips.
"All good there, Bud? How are we feeling?" Hayden's tinny concerned voice echos in his ears.
Shane looks around him at the state of the Ferrari. His front two wheels are hanging limply. The suspension and carbon chassis are in pieces.
He sighs. "All good. Sorry about that. Not sure what happened"
"Our Russian friend gave you a little love tap then. You'll see the results to your right. We'll debrief when you're back in the garage."
He tries to look over but his neck roars with a searing pain. He unclips his harness, removes the wheel, headrest and stands up onto his seat to climb over the halo, exiting the cock pit.
Shane turns then to the right to see Ilya already out of his car some 20 metres up the barrier.
He's already got his helmet and balaclava off, his curls frizzy and flattened to his head. He's scowling and scanning up and down as Shane stood across from him.
Barretts nowhere in sight. Undoubtedly not in the lead of the race, heading for the pits under the safety car. The safety car caused by car 24 and 81 crashing. The safety car caused by car 81 colliding with the back of car 24. Shane is fuming. He flips up the visor, letting Rozanov get a glimpse of his raging eyes and stomps his way forward through the gravel.
"You fucking idiot!" He shouts as he kicks up the rocks with each step.
"You were in the way." Ilya tries to smirk but it just looks pained.
"I was in the way?" Shane scoffs before continuing, "I was in the fucking way? maybe if you had backed off a little instead of riding up my fucking ass you wouldn't have ploughed us both into the wall, you dick!"
Rozanov tries to look serious and bites his lip to keep the laugh in but his chuckles escape him.
"Riding up your fucking ass?" He repeats in a shout over the roar of the cars zipping past them. Much slower now but still the engines wail sounds through the air.
To buy a few seconds for his blush to settle, Shane flicks his visor down and pulls his helmet and itchy Nomex balaclava off.
"Real mature, Rozanov." He responds, running a hand through his messy static hair.
Ilya stares at his flushed cheeks, then drops his eyes down to Shane's shaking hand.
"You are okay, Hollander?"
It's so earnest and concerned that the Canadian has to look away. He observes the medical car driving towards them as the Marshalls direct the crane vehicle to pick up the remains of the cars.
Shane decides not to answer. He just glares at Ilya with spite and walks away to the now parked Aston Martin. His race was down the drain. He should've been in the top stop of the podium today. Weeks of preparation were now down the drain after less than ten laps because of Rozanov.
· · ─ · ─ · ·
"We know that everyone has been championing you for a win this weekend. I'm sure your family is going to have your back regardless of the result, but do you feel this is a bit of a wasted weekend, given the result?"
Trust the British press to really lift everyone's spirits in the post race press. He really didn't need to be reminded of how disappointed everyone will be in him for not winning today—regardless of who was at fault.
He looks to his left at his Press Representative, Rose Landry. She's the fiery protege of Silvia Frangipane Hoffer, The head of Public relations for Scuderia Ferrari. Both women have red hair, an astounding poker face and a nose for sniffing out bullshit. Shane is terrified of them both— But, he loves Rose. She was funny, kind and had taken him under her wing the first day he arrived at the factory in Maranello. She had media-trained him to perfection while helping him to express himself in his everyday life. They both loved hockey and spent their time on race weekends discussing it as they speed-walked their way through the crowds in the paddock.
Rose smiles softly at him as she catches his face—the one he wears while he masks his emotions.
"Mm, Well, I'm disappointed for sure. I definitely was hoping for a different outcome this weekend but there's not much we can do about it. The team did our best and we learned a lot this weekend."
His eyes meet the journalist fleetingly and he looks away to check if Rozanov has left his team briefing yet to do press. The race is playing on a screen behind him. Barrett is in P1. Where Shane should be right now.
"We saw you having a tense conversation with Rozanov when you exited your car. Did he explain he wasn't at fault? And, can you speak more on the comments made by him last race weekend about the incident in the stewards office?"
The image of himself and Ilya shouting at each other in the stewards, flashes in his mind and he fights a smirk as he recalls the three penalty points put onto Ilya's superlicense. Ilya had been furious after. It was unfair. Shane probably would've argued in his favour, if he hadn't first caught a few strays from Ilya's defence.
"I won't comment on last week, but no, he did not share what had caused him to hit me. I saw the footage in our debrief just now. Troy is very green to this. I made my fair share of mistakes in my rookie year. He'll learn. I'm hoping for a good result for him today." He's lying. He's fucking furious at the rookie.
Barrett had taken out Rozanov's rear, losing half a front wing in the process—but, therefore, pushed Ilya sideways into the back of the Ferrari, taking out the two cars in front of him. With the safety car gap, he could put on new tires, change his front wing and make up a big enough window to serve his ten second stop-and-go penalty. Now, he was in the lead of the race.
"Will you talk to Ilya about the incident now you know?"
He tries not to react to Roses small exhale of a laugh. He bites his lip and nods trying to keep a straight face, ignoring Rose in his peripheral.
"Mm, Maybe, I don't know. If I catch him at some point later."
· · ─ · ─ · ·
Nagoya Marriott Associa Hotel - Nagoya, Japan.
They do talk about it later—in a way.
He's face down, ass up when said discussion is happening. It's fairly ambiguous on how constructive the talk is.
They'd started on the sofa, until he thought about the fact hotels don't clean the couch cushions between every guest. Ilya was fine with the suggestion to move over to the bed. He'd kissed up and down his body sucking purple splotches into Hollander's skin as he worked his way down towards Shane's legs, pushing them apart. Opening and stretching his hole with his tongue, fingers and spit. He'd made Shane sit on his face—clean shaven balls resting on Ilya's chin while he tried to suffocate himself between Shane's cheeks.
Minutes later, he's got his chest against the mattress, his back curving up to present to himself to Ilya.
"Am I riding up your fucking ass now, Hollander?" He punctuates his words with a penetrating stroke of his thick cock.
Shane whines and pants in response. He has Ilya hand gripping his hair pushing his face into the mattress, as he fucks hard into Shane. It's not the best position for Shane's stiff neck if he's being completely honest, but he can't bring himself to complain presently.
Shane's fingers ache as he grips the white cotton sheets and pushes himself back into each thrust, allowing himself to let the full length in with each thrust. His filthy breathless moans fill the room as Ilya returns with grunts in kind.
"Dirty fucking boy," He growls and spanks Shane's ass.
"I thought it," Shane breaks his sentence to gasp and cry out at Ilya striking his ass once more. "I thought i said something—ngahh, fuck, something about you ploughing us both into a wall"
Ilya chuckles and unsheathes himself from Shane, and grabs him by the waist—wrapping Shane's legs around him as he walks to two of them across the room to the wall opposite the bed.
"Happy?" He asks with a kiss.
"Happy. Now fuck me."
Shane's sweaty back feels cold pressed against the wall and his wrists ache as he wraps his arms around Ilya's shoulders. The new position means his dick is rutting against their pressing stomachs. The tip is bright pink and weeping tears of pre-cum and polished in lube that had dripped down and around his balls from his hole.
Rozanov's tongue is in his mouth within a split second and his hips rock into him. The tip of him reaches Shane's prostate immediately. He moans into Ilya's open mouth.
"You fucking love this cock" Ilya says, with an almost serious expression.
Shane nods, closing his eyes and letting his forehead rest against Ilya's forehead. He feels the curve of Ilya's length deep within him, and feel himself growing closer with each slow stroke.
He felt euphoric. After all the stress and bullshit that comes with a race weekend, he floats in a spiritual freedom powered by Ilya's magic cock, and forgets everything that went wrong. Forgetting anything that went right. Forgetting anything but the perfect feeling of Ilya hooked prick dragging and pressing against his prostate as he's fucked against the creme walls of Ilya's hotel room.
"I fucking love your cock, oh fuck. oh shit."
"Gonna come in you. Gonna fill you with my fucking cum." Ilya replies through his moans before capturing Shane's lips with his own. "Tell me you want my cum, Hollander."
"I want your cum, Please, Please" He begged pathetically.
"Tell me how bad you need it. After all these years, you still can't get enough of it, can you?" Ilya is panting and his arms are shaking from holding Shane up for so long.
"I need it so bad. Fuck, Please, I need it. Come for me." Shane's almost there. He feels himself about to tip over the edge until Ilya turns them back toward the bed, places Shane on the edge and hammers hard and quick into him. Shane's cock shoots a burst of cum up Shane's torso, with some landing on his shoulder and neck. He lets out a guttural deep moan, and shakes from the pleasure that fills his body.
As Ilya fucks into him, he leans forward and licks up the splash of cum that landed at the base of Shane's throat before releasing against Shane's prostate with a, "Fuck! Fuck, Hollander!"
· · ─ · ─ · ·
"Good Chicken?" Ilya asks, his mouth full of food. His fingers are greasy as he grips onto his dense cheeseburger and piles fries in with each bite. He's got a bit of ketchup on his cheek. It makes Shane smile.
"Nobody's taking that from you, you know that right?" Shane wipes the ketchup off with his thumb and sucks it clean. He stabs his fork into his plain chicken salad. He liked plain. Plain is good. In a sport where every kilogram less is milliseconds of time off his lap, he's more than happy to sacrifice flavour and grease.
"huh?"
"You're about to crush that burger, why can't you eat like a normal person?" Shane comments.
"I am not a normal person" He takes a moment to swallow his bite, taking a swig of his beer before adding, "I am world Champion fastest driver in the world."
"So, it's the burgers that win Championships, not the rocket-ship you drive?"
Ilya smirks "Wouldn't you like to know? It is okay, Hollander, one day Ferrari will pull their head out of their ass-holes and stop making you tractors."
This gets a grunt from Shane.
"Fuck off."
He chews on his lettuce and nibbles on the end of a cucumber slice.
"Мой зайчик, It's two weeks until the next race. You can have a few of my fries if you want some human food not-," gesturing to Shane's meal. "This bird food." (My Bunny)
He ignores the Russian words, not bothering to ask Ilya what it means. He never tells.
"It's not bird fo-, I'm not explaining it again, Rozanov. It's discipline. Our car is overweight as it is and until we get upgrades in Miami, this is how I can help."
Shane blinks fast, his fist clenching on his lap. He doesn't want to discuss food with Ilya. He takes a swig of his ginger ale to break his discomfort.
Ilya seemed to have the lucky ability to eat whatever he wanted and have his metabolism keep it off his waist. Shane isn't so lucky. Last year ,when he took his eye off of the ball and gained a couple kilograms, his team principal, Gerard Theriault, had called him out in front of his race strategists in the morning debrief. It hadn't gone down well with his Personal Trainer, J.J when he told him, but Shane was adamant to not disappoint his TP again.
"Okay." Ilya says, softly.
"Okay."
Ilya hesitates for a moment, chomping on a fry. "You will stay tonight"
"Um. Are you asking or stating a fact?" Shane finishes his meal, placing his cutlery on the plate and scans the room from his seat at the table, lingering at the unkempt bed.
"What will make you stay? Asking or stating facts?" He sounds a bit nervous, as though approaching a skittish cat. He really needn't bother. Shane wanted to stay more than anything. But, he definitely doesn't want Rozanov knowing how desperate he is to stay.
"My flight is at 10 a.m tomorrow"
"Wake up early. Or, delay it, Mr. Private Jet"
"Okay, well, what about my parents?" He questions.
Ilya raises an eyebrow, "They are staying in your room?"
Shane shakes his head.
"If they wake up before, you say you are in the gym or eating breakfast. Or, you tell them you were in Ilya Rozanov's room getting your dick sucked. Your choice." Ilya shrugs, acting nonchalant.
It gives the Canadian the perfect excuse to stand up and sink himself onto Ilya lap. Ilya rolls his hips up into Shane's crotch, palming at his cock between his stretched open thighs.
"I can make it work, I think." Shane comments, sighing, before biting on Ilya bottom lip.
Rozanov kisses him hard, his hand curling into Hollander's hair before he pulls away and whispers against his lips, "Can I finish my cheeseburger, first?"
· · ─ · ─ · ·
He wakes up at 5:16 in the morning to the rhythmic vibrations of his phone he'd left on silent. The call drops before he can reach for it but when he looks at the screen he sees fifteen missed calls from Rose, two from his mother and one from his father and countless others from various Ferrari colleagues.
He has one hundred and forty notifications. Something is very wrong.
It's a wonder he hadn't been woken before. He panics for a second, knowing that they must have discovered his room empty just five floors below from where he was now.
Why would they be looking for him so early? What the fuck has happened that his phone is blowing up?
He takes a moment to place his head back on his pillow next to Ilya's head, and breathes.
He's ashamed that his first thought is maybe Theriault is finally gone. He grins despite himself. But, he can’t help the sinking feeling in his gut.
He silently slips his clothes on and presses a kiss to Ilya's head before slipping out into the hallway. He'll tell them he went for any early morning walk. Extra early… to avoid the crowds.
Tapping on Rose's missed call notification, he heads towards the elevators, a short walk away.
She answers within one ring.
"Where. the. fuck. are. you." Her voice echoes sternly through the phone. He hears her moving around.
"I went for an early morning walk." He lies, pressing the button to beckon the elevator. "I'm back, now. Just getting in the elevator."
"Oh, are you? you went for a walk and are arriving back at the hotel at 5:20 am?" She asks. "I'm alone, Shane, Don't fucking lie to me right now."
He sighs. He doesn’t know why he even tried lying to her. She always knows.
She sighs, guilty as she whispers, "Shane..."
There’s ping, and the elevator doors open.
Yuna Hollander is standing in the elevator, her face more serious than he's ever seen before. Her hand rests on the doorway, stopping it from closing again.
“Mom?”
"Shane Hollander.” He can tell she doesn't want him to say anything so he stays standing, his arms hanging limp by his side, the call to Rose ending with a press of his standby button.
“I would like you to explain to me, Since when have you been in a relationship with Ilya Rozanov?"
He chokes on his own spit, eyes bulging.
"What?! We're not. We're not in a relationship. It's complicated. We're just friends. Kinda."
"You're just friends, Kinda? Okay. Just friends…’Kinda’."
She nods, processing his words, her lips pursed. "Then explain to me. Why the hell, I—along with, what I assume to be almost every other staff member in the paddock — have just received an anonymous email with a Sex Tape, made by you and your 'just friend' Ilya Rozanov?'
Oh, Fuck.