Chapter Text
Nick is too busy before the race to think too much.
Small mercies, really.
He has his ‘charming media personality’ on for the entire morning—there’s interviews, fan meetings, autographs, discussions with sponsors, he’s required to parade around the gridwalk with his father for a little while, the mechanics have questions and opinions on this or that, vehicle checks, equipment inspection, and fifteen minutes of warm-up followed by the last chance to make any adjustments to his car before the race starts.
And then there’s the opening ceremony, which is extremely extra, just like it is every year. Privately, he likes the pageantry of it. Publicly, he makes sure to stare judgmentally at Mardenborough, who is looking around with soft, childlike wonder. Jack Salter, in turn, is staring at Mardenborough with something like painfully tender pride, and Nick has to look away before he hurls. Jesus.
He catches Alex’s eye just before they turn to tuck themselves in their cars, and Alex grins cheerfully at him. Nick’s lips lift in an answering smile, and that’s all it takes for him to feel a little more grounded.
Last night was difficult—he went round and round in circles about whether Alex meant what he said, whether it was true, whether he was too needy or too easy or too eager. He’s been fortunate, so far, to not have run into anyone especially dangerous, but he knows from experience that it only takes one misstep to land yourself in a position you can’t easily escape from. It only takes one bad choice with the wrong person to leave a lasting scar.
But Alex was sweet afterwards, if a bit distant, and if he was really ashamed of Nick, surely he wouldn’t have met Nick’s eyes and smiled like he was happy to see him?
It’s strange, he thinks, that something as simple as a smile across a racetrack could save him from an uncontrolled tailspin.
He pulls his helmet on, then his gloves. Chris helps him into the car and buckles the five-point harness. There’s a moment before they drive off when Nick could have looked at Alex again, but he gets distracted staring Mardenborough down. Keep your enemies close, and all that.
“Comms check?” Chris’s voice crackles to life in his ear.
“Do you always have to pull the straps so f*cking tight?” Nick asks, like he always does.
“Yes, otherwise they’ll be useless when you start doing dumb sh*t,” Chris answers, like he always does.
It’s nice. Familiar. Nick grins, and he’s ready to go.
Le Mans, truthfully, is not all that interesting the first day. It’s twenty-four hours, so obviously you have to pace yourself. Nick learned how to ration his adrenaline a long time ago—all endurance racers do. So he’s taking it easy for the first shift.
He’ll drive three total shifts in this race: the first three hours are his, then his second driver, Pierre Fromant from France, will take over for the next three hours. Nick doesn’t get to work with Pierre very often, but he likes the guy well enough. Pierre is young, but serious. He’s dedicated like Nick, and just as intense, but not easy with his smiles in the same way, and he’s pretty quiet.
After Pierre’s three hours, their third driver, David Perel from South Africa, will drive the next three. David is charming as hell, cheerful and exuberant. Nick has worked with him in the past, and he enjoys it every time. David is easy to get along with and seems to click with everyone—truly, a social chameleon. Nick learned a lot of his “media personality” from David.
When David’s three hours are up, Nick will get back in the car for the following four hours, then Pierre for four, then David for four, and then Nick will drive the last three.
No driver can be in the car for more than fourteen hours, and this schedule has turned out to be the best balance between driving and sleeping. There’s enough wiggle room in the schedule for someone to get pitted early if they need it, and it also means that Nick starts and finishes, which are the most important parts anyway.
It also, this season, has the added benefit of matching Nismo’s shift schedule, which no, Nick isn’t technically supposed to know, but he figured it out anyway. He doesn’t know if he’ll race all his shifts against Alex too, but they’ll be on the track together at least for the first three hours.
Mardenborough got a better grid position than he did, and Alex had a significantly better position than the both of them, so he’ll have to do some catching up. He hopes Mardenborough is right on his tail—Nick thinks a battle between the three of them would be the perfect race.
No, he doesn’t have issues, thank you very much. He just likes to be challenged.
They’re about an hour in—he’s several positions behind Mardenborough, but overtaking fast. He’s about to hit the chicane when he hears Chris in his headset.
“Watch out, double yellows just went up.”
“What happened?”
“Poor overtake. Schulin clipped that red Ferrari and hit the wall. Safety car is out.”
Nick clears the chicane and sees the wreckage ahead of him. The safety team was fast, already working on putting the fire out. Nick coasts past, and kinda hopes that the safety car slowing everyone down might work to his advantage.
It takes a bit, but by the time he catches up to the group, the safety car is pulling off the track, and everyone slams the gas again.
Everyone, that is, except Mardenborough.
Nick comes up on him from behind, watching car after car shoot past. He thinks he knows what Mardenborough’s problem is: it hasn’t been that long since his crash at the Nürburgring, and Nick knows all too well what it feels like to be that close to another crash so soon after your own. He gets it, but also…
There’s a time and a place to fall apart, and on the track in the middle of the most important race of your career is not the f*cking time.
Nick slips sideways to overtake, and somewhere in the back of his mind, wonders if his sudden appearance might be enough to shock Mardenborough out of his flashback. He can see fairly quickly that it isn’t, though. Mardenborough is pretty out of it.
Ah, well.
“Bitch,” he says as he passes.
That’ll be an expensive lesson to learn—how to manage flashbacks on the track. Every racer has to eventually. Nick remembers when he did. Crashing is inevitable, no matter how good you think you are or how smart you think you drive or how safe you think your car is. You will crash.
That’s Jack f*cking Salter’s problem, though. It’s his job to hold Mardenborough’s hand. Nick’s got sh*t to do.
“Hey, what’re the positions right now?” Nick asks Chris.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Porsche.”
There’s a pause. Just a split second, but long enough for Nick to feel Chris’s disapproval loud and clear.
“…Jousset is…fourth, it looks like. You’re in tenth.”
“Not for long,” Nick mutters.
Nick clicks the shifter and lays on the accelerator, shooting ahead and leaving Mardenborough in the dust. He overtakes one of the Ford drivers so easily, sipping right past the GT—it’s one of the prototype Mk IVs, he thinks. Nick remembers reading something about them trying to build a spiritual successor to the GT40 that last raced Le Mans in the ‘60s, but he didn’t realise they were already on the track.
That new racing engine they built certainly isn’t helping them keep up with Nick, though, that’s for sure.
After about twenty minutes, he comes up on an Acura. He grins as he downshifts and tilts the wheel sideways to steal the corner out from under it. Usually he has to fight a little more to overtake, but today, driving feels so f*cking easy.
At these speeds, everyone is pretty spread out—except for the leading group, anyway—which gives Nick room to experiment a little bit. His approach during the race is different than in practice, where he tries to corner at top speed and gradually cuts down and down and down until he finds the best speed to take each corner.
He knows the usual speed for each turn—has each of them memorised, in fact, along with the ideal race line, but so does everyone else. He endeavours to be the best, to be elite, like his father said at the beginning of the season. Despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, Nick wants to make him proud.
And in order to be the best, he has to take risks. Calculated ones, at least during a race, so he doesn’t lose everything if he f*cks it up. So instead of cornering at top speed and cutting, he gradually adds to the usual speed for each turn until he feels like he’s about to lose control.
A calculated risk.
Naturally intuitive drivers like Mardenborough will always have the advantage over analytical ones like Nick, but he’s got the dedication and the experience to make up the difference. He will get on that podium, and he will earn that f*cking licence.
It works, and he gradually goes faster and faster until he’s taking his turns almost 20kph above the usual speed.
Nick knows his Lamborghini very well, but Chris is probably the only one that knows this LMP2 well enough to tell him if this experiment is sustainable for the entire race; Nick can keep track of driver fatigue and focus, but Chris has to watch the tire degradation, mechanical reliability, and general wear-and-tear.
Still, doing this will definitely come in handy later when he’s trying to pass at a critical moment. He likes to keep tricks like that tucked up his sleeve for when he really needs them.
Even though there was test after test and practice after practice, Nick still doesn’t feel as familiar with this car as he would normally like, but he’ll make do.
He always does.
Thankfully, the first shift passes without incident. Nick pulls into the pit and levers himself out of the co*ckpit, stays a moment to help Pierre strap in, and then the LMP2 in the black-and-gold Team Capa livery shoots off and leaves Nick standing there, f*cked-up on adrenaline, breathing heavy and shaking in his firesuit.
He’s pulling his gloves off and unbuckling his helmet when Chris comes over to steer him away from the track. Nick goes willingly, and lets himself be coaxed into a chair tucked out of the way near a screen, where he can still watch the race while Chris heads back to the pit wall.
It takes a while, but eventually, while Nick’s sitting there with his eyes closed, his breathing levels out and the adrenaline starts to ebb away. It leaves him twitchy and sweaty, and he wishes he thought to grab something to eat before he sat down.
Just as the thought forms, someone touches him lightly on the shoulder. He startles a little and looks up to see his father standing there, holding out a bottle of water and a power bar—chocolate, one of the good ones.
He accepts them gratefully, shooting Patrice a smile, and tears into the power bar like it’s his last meal.
Patrice sits in the chair next to him and watches the screen quietly while Nick starts on the bottle of water.
“What position are we in?” Patrice asks, like he hasn’t been sitting at the monitors next to Chris for the last three hours.
“Seventh. We were sixth before the driver change, but that stupid uh… BMW, I think? Went past while we were unf*cking Pierre’s straps.”
“Sixth… That’s better than we did last year, isn’t it?” Patrice says, and he’s got that kind of thoughtfulness in his voice that Nick has never been able to decipher. It seems equally likely to devolve into incomprehensible silence as it is to turn into a lecture, and Nick can never guess which one he’s about to get.
“I guess so,” Nick shrugs. It’s a facade, really—they both know Nick finished seventeenth last season. It’s been a point of contention between them for a long time, because Patrice can’t stop asking what happened, and Nick can’t stop telling him he doesn’t know.
“That’s good,” Patrice says, and then leans back in his chair and doesn’t say anything else. Nick doesn’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at Nick, and there’s a weird tension in the air that makes Nick want to crawl out of his skin.
He dislikes moments like these with his father, because Patrice is notoriously unreadable, and Nick really wishes he would just come out and say whatever the f*ck his problem is. Their relationship would be a lot less complicated if he did.
“Your mother would be proud of you,” Patrice says unexpectedly, and Nick is so shocked he can’t even respond.
They don’t talk about Nick’s mother. They haven’t spoken a single word to each other about her since her unexpected death at the beginning of the racing season last year. Even on the rare occasions when they have to discuss that time, it’s only alluded to.
“Last year we had a rough start…” Patrice said at the beginning of the season. Understatement of the f*cking century, in Nick’s opinion, but that’s just what things were like with his father. Always avoiding the real issues, everything is discussed in subtleties and innuendo and suggestion, he never just says it.
“This is everything she ever wanted for you, and it would make her so proud to see you here,” Patrice continues. Nick feels a little bit like he’s stepped into the Twilight Zone. This isn’t the first time he’s been at Le Mans. It’s not even the first time he’s been up at the top of his racing class. It is the first time he’s been this close to earning his platinum licence and becoming an actual, serious professional, capable of being a factory driver, or scouted for a top-level WEC team. But he hasn’t actually earned it yet, so he’s not really doing anything different than he was when she died.
Though, it is true that he’s doing better this year than he was last year. Her death hit him really hard, and for a little while there he thought he might actually wash out.
Nick is still stunlocked, and before he can unstick his brain enough to form a coherent response, Patrice pats his knee. It’s stilted and painfully awkward because he’s still not looking at Nick, but it’s so unexpected, it makes Nick’s entire system hard-restart.
Patrice, evidently reaching his limit for genuine emotional displays for the next decade, stands up and clears his throat.
“I just wanted you to know that,” he tells Nick, and then fully flees the scene before Nick can even say a word.
What the f*ck.
It occurs to him that his father was waiting for a response or a reaction from him, and probably thought he made some kind of grievous mistake bringing that up right now, but in Nick’s defence, he’s been driving one of the fastest cars on the planet in one of the most notorious races in the world for the last three hours and he can barely form any thoughts besides holy f*ck, I love the chocolate power bars.
Once the race is over, he can wave at Patrice from the podium, and they can pick this conversation back up after that, when Nick actually has something to say.
The first two hours of Nick’s second shift are pretty uneventful.
It’s two in the morning now, and it’s been drizzling on and off. The road is a little slippery, but not enough to justify going on full wets. Switching out the slicks for the treaded wet-weather tires will make the car grip the road surface more and slow him down. It also f*cks with cornering and braking, so it would be a massive disadvantage to run wets if everyone else is still on slicks.
On the other hand, if he switches to wets too late, he runs the risk of losing traction altogether and sliding uncontrollably across the track, because water makes slicks actually slick.
It’s a gamble, but Chris is good at his job, and he’s keeping an eye on the other crews and on the conditions. As soon as Nick needs to be on wets, he’ll get called in. For now, he can dedicate his focus on handling, since the road is getting more and more slippery and he needs to pay extra attention on the turns so he doesn’t spin out.
He loves the challenge of it. This is the best way to race—when the track is more dangerous than usual and he has to use every shred of skill and experience he has to keep himself from crashing. He lives for this.
Unfortunately, because the Circuit de la Sarthe is extremely long—13.6km—if he misses his opportunity to pit, he has to go around again. His average lap time hovers around four and a half minutes, and on a track that size, at that speed, that’s a long f*cking time to be on the wrong tires, especially in the rain.
He does take a bit of comfort in knowing that everyone else is in the same boat, at least.
“They’ve got Nissan on full wet now. You ready to change yet?” Chris asks.
“Who else has switched?”
“Just uh… the BMWs and one of the Toyotas, I think. Most of the lower classes have changed too, if that matters. Forecast says it’s gonna get worse.”
Nick debates for a second. He’s just about to hit the Mulsanne straight, which is right after the pit exit. That means he has almost a full lap to go before he can stop anyway. Usually he’d say “Nah, f*ck that, cowards,” but he has a lot riding on this race, and that makes him want to be careful, for once.
“Yeah, I’ll come in next time around.”
“Yeah?” Chris says. He sounds surprised, and it makes Nick laugh.
“Yes, asshole. I can be reasonable too.”
“Never thought I’d see the f*cking day, honestly.”
So that’s what Nick does. He finishes his lap—4:42:33, it’s too wet to go much faster—and pulls into the pit. He lets them put a full set of wets on. He talks sh*t to Chris. He shoots his father a wave. And then Chris answers the question he was trying not to ask.
“Jousset hasn’t come in yet; all the Porsches are still on slicks.”
“That seems a little stupid, no?”
“A bit, yeah, but I’ve only got the energy to worry about one reckless jackass at a time,” Chris says. And yeah, that’s fair.
The mechanics drop the car, and Chris shoots him a thumbs up.
“Watch yourself out there,” Chris adds in his headset as Nick drives off.
Switching to wets was a really good call, because the second he clears the end of the pit lane, it starts pouring f*cking rain. For once, caution pays off for him.
Now it’s the middle of the night and also completely downpouring, and Nick really loves when racing is challenging as hell, but this is a little much. He can’t f*cking see, and he knows no one else can f*cking see, and they’re all just going as fast as possible and praying that there’s nothing in the way.
At least it’s not like driving in the rain on the highway, where you have to watch out for obstacles or other people being total morons—the marshals are pretty strict with track safety, so he shouldn’t hit anything. And all the cars are reasonably well-lit, so he should be able to see all of them.
It’s really just the corners he has to worry about, but between practice, testing, and the first bit of the race, he’s been driving in circles around this circuit for like, twelve total hours by now, so he feels like he knows it well enough to guess where all the turns start, even if he can’t f*cking see.
He’s clearly not the only one struggling. Chris is feeding him reports about the other drivers. Two have spun out already, one slid into the tire barrier, and there’s a partial course caution behind him while they pull a Lotus off the track after losing control and smashing ass-first into a wall.
“Nick, heads up, double yellows are out.”
“What happened?”
“Not sure yet, stand by.”
Nick keeps going. He hasn’t come up on the safety car yet, and he doesn’t have to slow down until he gets behind it. Should be pretty obvious with all the lights.
It takes a minute, but the group shows up a hell of a lot quicker than he expected. He lets off the gas and coasts behind the safety car, privately glad that he can slow down in this bullsh*t rain for a little while. He likes the rush of adrenaline from putting his life at risk, but there’s a fine line between thrilling and terrifying.
“One of the Porsches and an Acura crashed into each other. They’re trying to figure out what happened. The rain is making it hard to make sense of the video.” Chris reports.
One of the Porsches…
“Do they know who it was yet?” Nick asks.
“Hang on.”
And for a second, Nick is irritated. He wonders what’s taking so long. They should know immediately. Chris should have an answer for him. He should know the instant it happened. They’re all watching the same cameras, aren’t they?
He continues driving, and it occurs to Nick that Chris might be avoiding telling him on purpose.
“Chris…” Nick says, and he’s not sure what Chris hears in his voice, but Chris answers quickly.
“Yes, they know who it is.”
And the fact that he won’t specify kind of tells Nick everything he needs to know. ‘One of the Porsches’ means Alex.
“Is he okay?” Nick asks, and he doesn’t know why he’s scared to hear the answer, but he almost hopes Chris won’t tell him. He almost hopes he never finds out. He almost hopes he could rewind to the moment before he knew it was a Porsche.
“Nick, you need to focus,” Chris scolds him, and look, Nick understands where he’s coming from, he knows why Chris doesn’t want to tell him, he’s familiar with Chris’s—and by extension, his father’s—overprotective streak. He gets it. But if he doesn’t have an answer in the next ten seconds, he’s gonna find it really hard to keep his sh*t together.
“Chris, I swear to f*cking God,” Nick says.
“I don’t know yet,” Chris sighs. “It doesn’t look bad. Safety teams are there now pulling the drivers out. No fire, but the cars are done for. They’ll both DNF. I don’t know any more than that right now.”
Nick takes a breath. “Okay,” he says, and it’s not okay, not really, but he doesn’t have the space to think about it right now. He has a job to do, and he has to trust that Chris will tell him what he needs to know, and that the safety team will take care of Alex. He’s behind the wheel with a little over an hour to go, and he needs to stay focused, or he’ll end up getting passed by half the track like Mardenborough. He’s not a f*cking rookie anymore.
“I’ll keep you updated. Keep your sh*t together and stick to that safety car.”
Nick appreciates the way Chris always sounds like he’s simultaneously the most unbothered person on the planet, and like he’s on his last shred of patience. An aura of forced calm. It reminds Nick that sometimes, you just gotta grip your last bit of composure with both hands.
They stay behind the safety car for a while. They’ve almost done a full lap by the time Chris updates him again.
“You still good, Nick?” Chris asks.
“I’m fine. Is everyone okay?”
“They’ll be fine. It looks worse than it was. Both drivers are at the med centre, but they’re walking and talking. We won’t know for sure until later, but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.”
Nick heaves a breath, and the tension in his shoulders eases a little.
“Do they know what happened?” Nick asks, and even he can hear the tremor in his voice. f*ck, he was never supposed to care this much. He’s not supposed to be affected like this.
There’s a brief pause before Chris answers, and the silence says a lot. Nick can feel Chris’s caution in the split-second delay, like he doesn’t want to tell Nick anything. Like he’s worried.
“Jousset was overtaking on turn fifteen and hit a puddle on the inside. He was still on slicks and lost control—spun himself and the Acura into the outside wall.”
Spinning out on slicks in the rain… Usually, Nick would call that a rookie mistake, but Alex knows better than that. He didn’t stay on slicks out of ignorance or arrogance; he must have decided he could handle it for one more lap—try to gain the advantage over everyone else—but the downpour caught him off guard. If he had been right, he could have easily taken first position.
A calculated risk, but it didn’t pay off this time. And now it makes sense why Chris was hesitant to answer, why he wanted to confirm before he told Nick anything; going off the road there runs you straight into a concrete wall. A crash like that…it would be difficult to tell if everyone was okay until they got out of the cars.
“Okay,” Nick says, and he feels like he should say more, but he can’t say what he wants to say: I’m glad he’s okay, because it will betray too much. It’ll be too obvious that he feels more than he’s supposed to.
There’s another pause that says too much, and Nick wishes Chris would stop doing that.
“Do you need to come in?”
And man, he kinda wishes Chris was a little more of an asshole sometimes, because yeah, Nick wants to come in, but now that Chris has offered, there’s no way he can do it. He has something to prove, and he’s not going to let Chris, or his father, think that he needs to be f*cking coddled.
“No, I don’t need to come in,” Nick says. He tries to sound irritated, but he’s not sure he quite manages it.
“I’m just saying, you only have an hour left, you can come in if you need to,” Chris continues.
“No, I don’t need to come in,” Nick repeats, and this time, he’s definitely irritated enough for it to come through. “f*ck off.”
“The option is there if you—”
“Godverdomme, Chris, shut the f*ck up,” Nick snaps. “I’m fine, okay? I can handle this.”
“Don’t swear at me in Dutch, kid, you know I don’t understand you,” Chris says, exasperated. “Keep your sh*t together and kick ass, then, yeah? Safety car is pulling off.”
“Got it,” Nick says. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, takes a deep breath, and lays on the accelerator the moment the safety car is clear.
Green flag is up, the gas pedal is down, and Nick leaves his anxiety in the spray of rainwater behind him. There will be time to worry about Alex, but right now, he has a job to do, and he can’t let fear jeopardise that.
By the time Nick gets out of the car at the end of his second shift, he’s so ruthlessly compartmentalised every single one of his thoughts that he barely hears Chris when he suggests that Nick try to go take a nap.
“I’ll wake you when it’s your turn again, okay?”
He’s not really sure he can get to sleep—and honestly, he’s not sure that being alone with his own thoughts is a good idea, but he knows he can’t really loiter in the pit box looking faintly dazed, like he’s been hit over the head with something heavy.
He’s almost to his motorhome when he’s accosted in a manner that’s somehow extremely familiar, yet very different from the last time.
He’s not shoved against the wall and kissed like he’s being devoured. He’s snagged by the arm and pulled into an unexpected hug.
Again, he struggles for a split second until he catches that familiar scent of brake dust and citrus. And high-octane fuel, antiseptic, and rainwater.
“Alex,” Nick says, surprised. He wraps his arms around Alex and tucks his face into Alex’s neck. “We gotta stop meeting like this.”
Alex chuckles, muffled against the collar of Nick’s firesuit.
“I thought you’d be in the med centre,” Nick continues.
“f*ck no,” Alex says. He pulls back a bit and grins. “I’m fine, just a flesh wound.”
Nick almost calls him on his obvious bullsh*t, but it’s still raining and the sweat is starting to cool on his skin. He’s barely keeping himself from shivering, pressed up against Alex’s warmth like this, and he’d rather not have this conversation out here in the cold.
“C’mon,” Nick says, jerking his head towards his trailer. “Let’s get out of the rain.”
Alex follows easily. He doesn’t take Nick’s offered hand, but he allows himself to be guided by the waist through the door and onto the little sofa.
Nick sits next to him, and something he didn’t know he was missing slots into place. It’s weird how he can feel at home with someone he barely knows.
It doesn’t occur to Nick to be guarded after what happened last time Alex was in his motorhome. It doesn’t occur to him to be upset about it. It doesn’t occur to him to confront Alex, or ask about it, or bring it up. To him, it’s just one of those things that happened. It feels like a whole lifetime has passed since then, and there’s no sense in dwelling on things that weren’t all that far out of the ordinary for him to begin with. Things are just like that, sometimes.
“Are you okay?” Nick asks. “They didn’t tell us much.”
“I told you, I’m fine. Already walked it off.”
“Alex…”
“They wouldn’t have let me out of the med centre if I wasn’t fine.”
“I don’t think they actually did let you out of the med centre.”
Alex sighs. “It’s mostly just bruises. Cracked a rib and got a hairline fracture on my elbow from smacking it on the roll cage. Didn’t tuck my sh*t fast enough.”
One of the first things racers are taught when they get into the car is how to crash—you’re trained to cross your arms over your chest and relax your muscles as much as possible to minimise damage, like breaking your arm on the roll cage.
“That doesn’t sound like you,” Nick teases. “You seem like you’d be great at tucking.”
Alex elbows him half-heartedly with his good arm. “Not my dick, asshole. I hit the kerb and instantly lost traction, I never even saw the crash coming.”
“Didn’t have enough time to move your massive balls out of the way?”
“Exactly! Now they’ll never be the same,” Alex sighs dramatically, slumping down into the cushions.
Nick grins, and leans back too. They’re sitting closer than is probably necessary, but neither of them have bothered to move away.
It makes sense to Nick—he sought the comfort of physical touch after his crashes too. It makes perfect sense that Alex would come to him. Even if it wasn’t a particularly bad wreck, there’s still a drop afterwards, there’s still a need to be comforted and cared for.
Nick doesn’t always have someone for this part. His father has never been physically affectionate, and Chris tries, sometimes—he can usually muster a hug and a slightly awkward pat on the shoulder, but he’s not an especially tactile person.
He never felt comfortable touching or being touched by the incredibly tactile Jack Salter during his brief stint with Team Capa, either. They clocked each other as gay almost instantly, and Nick always felt like there was this weird tension between them. He didn’t even like Jack securing his harness—the feeling of his hands on Nick’s skin always lingered for a long time after they separated. He was never able to figure out why.
Nick’s mother was really the only one that did that for him, when she could. She wasn’t always able to make it to his races. And now she’s gone.
So Nick is more than happy to be here for Alex, if that’s what he needs. He hopes someone would be kind enough to do it for him again.
Alex presses his shoulder into Nick’s, and Nick realises that he needs this as much as Alex does. It’s the soft touch after the rough sex against the door that he wished he was brave enough to ask for.
And Nick doesn’t understand why, but the way Alex’s is so warm and steady against his side is making Nick’s chest ache. He feels tension stretching heavy and languid between them—Alex shifts, tilting his hips forward a bit and letting his legs fall open a little wider, and Nick feels the air charge with anticipation.
They haven’t done this part before—the slow slide into sexual tension. Their first kiss happened fast, and the first time they had sex, it was angry and rough and hurried. They haven’t spent a lot of time balancing on the knife-edge of desire.
Nick debates for a second; Alex doesn’t seem nervous or inexperienced, but he doesn’t seem to like being touched all that much. Choking out your bottom against a door and then fully fleeing the first time you f*ck is a big clue that you’ve got some issues with intimacy.
On the other hand, Alex is here, initiating touch and clearly asking for more, so, f*ck it. What’s the worst that could happen?
Nick settles his hand on Alex’s thigh, sliding it inwards until he can run his thumb over the inseam of Alex’s sweats. He’s not dressed to race anymore—he must have changed out of his firesuit at some point after leaving the med centre.
Truthfully, his sweats are more like loose leggings, kind of sheer and baggy, and they’re so thin that Nick can feel the heat of Alex’s skin under his fingertips.
Alex stills for a second when Nick touches him, and Nick almost thinks he did something wrong, but Alex spreads his knees and shifts again, and Nick can see his co*ck already hardening in his tiny f*cking sweatpants.
Well, that’s pretty encouraging.
Nick slides his hand up Alex’s thigh, slowly, keeping his touch light and teasing. He can hear Alex’s breathing quicken, and it makes him smirk.
Just to be annoying, he stops just short of Alex’s co*ck, so close he can feel the way it’s twitching against the cloth. So close he can feel that Alex isn’t wearing anything under his sweats. So close, he can feel Alex’s desire curling like smoke over his skin.
“Nick…” Alex says, a little breathless. He’s asking for something, Nick thinks, but he doesn’t know how to voice it. And there’s something in Nick that feels a little vindictive. He didn’t think he had any lingering issues with their last meeting, but something makes him want to force Alex to say it—wants to force him to speak the words he didn’t ask Nick for last time.
Nick shifts, twisting around so he’s facing Alex, planting his knee in the cushions and dragging his other hand up the inside of Alex’s spread thighs. Alex closes his eyes, expecting to feel Nick’s touch, but Nick has other plans.
He stops just short of Alex’s co*ck again, straining against his sweats. It’s already leaking, leaving a damp little spot in the fabric, and Nick wants to taste it.
Alex tries to tilt his hips up into Nick’s hand, tries to coax Nick into touching him, but Nick doesn’t budge. Alex looks up—pretty brown eyes slightly dazed and a bit desperate, and man, Nick f*cking loves this.
He grins, a cruel little edge to it, and asks, “What do you want?”
“More,” Alex says, like that’s somehow an answer to Nick’s question. He twitches his hips upward, a clear request for Nick to touch him, but Nick still doesn’t move.
Instead, he leans forward until his lips are brushing Alex’s ear, and he murmurs, “Tell me what you want.”
Alex still doesn’t say it. He turns his head and captures Nick’s lips, kissing him slow and agonisingly tender. It’s so different from the way he’s kissed Nick before that Nick feels like the ground dropped out from under him. He feels that thrilling jolt in his belly—the same rush of dizzying pleasure he felt the first time he got behind the wheel of a racecar.
It disarms him, and he’s almost completely distracted from trying to lure Alex into using his words. Instead, he swings his leg over Alex’s thighs and straddles his lap. He keeps his hips angled back so he’s not pressing into Alex’s co*ck, and dips down to kiss him again.
Alex tastes like salt and chapstick and something that might be spearmint gum, and Nick chases it with his tongue. He coaxes Alex’s lips open and licks into Alex’s mouth.
And with his mouth open, Alex can't hide the little sounds he’s making. He can’t hide the soft little moans and the desperate little whimpers and the way he’s breathing like he just climbed out of the car after fifty laps at full speed. He can’t hide the way his hips are twitching under Nick or the way he’s clearly into this or the way he’s so obviously affected.
“Nick,” Alex says again, and this time it sounds almost like a whine. He settles his hands on Nick’s waist and tries to pull him closer, but they’re the same height, same size, same build, and Nick has the advantage of position. He doesn’t move.
Nick cradles Alex’s face with both hands and tilts his head to one side. He mouths over Alex’s throat, scraping his teeth over Alex’s jaw. He bites at Alex’s collarbone, and when Alex feels like he’s melting under Nick’s lips, he speaks again.
“Tell me what you want, baby, come on,” Nick murmurs against Alex’s skin, and he’s losing his composure too. “Tell me, just tell me.”
“f*ck…” Alex moans. He arches his back, trying to press up into Nick’s touch. Nick can’t tell if he’s trying to grind his co*ck against Nick, or if he’s trying to push his throat into Nick’s mouth, but Nick doesn’t indulge either one. He keeps his body separated from Alex’s as much as he can, and chases beads of sweat gathering behind Alex’s ear with his tongue.
“f*ck, okay, fine. Touch me, please, touch me, touch me,” Alex begs, and oh, it sounds so f*cking sweet.
“Yeah?” Nick says. He trails his hands down Alex’s throat, over his chest, and down his waist. He stops at the hem of Alex’s shirt and pauses. “You want me to touch you?”
“Yes, just f*cking—” Alex’s words are cut short with a moan when Nick rolls his hips against Alex’s co*ck. Nick pulls Alex’s shirt off, chasing it with his mouth and licking at one of Alex’s nipples.
“Is this what you wanted?” Nick asks. It’s a near-perfect echo of what Alex asked him last time, but without the condescension. It’s almost smug, like he’s trying to tell Alex, ‘see, this is how it’s done.’
“Yes, yes, please—” Alex is saying. He sounds completely wrecked and Nick’s barely even touched him. It’s really f*cking hot, actually. Much hotter than last time, and Nick is having trouble keeping his sh*t together. He’s not sure who will cave first, him or Alex.
He grinds his co*ck against Alex’s again and leans back in to bite Alex’s neck.
“You wanted me to touch you like this?” Nick says, cupping Alex’s co*ck with his palm. His sweatpants are slick with precum that’s soaked through the fabric. “f*ck, you’re so wet. I can feel you leaking through your pants.”
“God, Nick, please,” Alex moans, letting his head fall back against the couch.
“Please what, baby? What do you want me to do?” Nick says, rubbing his thumb over the beads of precum pushing through Alex’s sweats at the tip of his co*ck. Alex’s hips are twitching constantly now, like he can’t stop himself from grinding up into Nick’s hand.
“More, f*ck, I need more.”
Nick grins wickedly, watching Alex beg so sweetly underneath him, and he uses the last shred of his composure to goad him just a little more.
“More what? Tell me what you want.”
“Oh my f*cking god, please touch my f*cking dick, I swear to God—”
“That’s all you had to say, pretty boy,” Nick taunts. He slides off Alex’s lap—to Alex’s extreme protest—and in one smooth motion, sinks to his knees, yanks Alex’s sweatpants down, and takes Alex’s co*ck in his mouth.
Alex moans and immediately buries his hand in Nick’s hair. It’s too short to get a good grip, but he cups the back of Nick’s head. His hold is surprisingly gentle—he’s not pushing Nick down, he’s just touching him.
Alex’s co*ck was already slick with precum, and it’s hot and salty on Nick’s tongue. He wants Alex to cum in his mouth—wants to hold it there, pooled on his tongue. He wants to show it to Alex and be ordered to swallow. He wants to kiss Alex and let it slide into Alex’s mouth.
Above him, Alex is very vocally enjoying himself. He’s not quiet at all, unlike last time, and it’s making Nick’s head spin. He wants to touch himself so f*cking bad, god, his co*ck is leaking hot and slick against his thigh, and he can’t get enough friction on it. It’s dragging against the seam of his firesuit, too gently to do anything but drive him crazy, and he needs more.
Nick pulls back and shucks his firesuit and fireproofs as fast as humanly possible. One leg catches on his racing shoes, and he curses as he tries to untie them. He’s moving so quickly it’s kind of clumsy, and he nearly loses his balance in his haste. When he looks up, Alex looks amused as f*ck, and Nick vows to wipe that smirk off his face.
He steps back over to Alex, slotting himself neatly between Alex's still-spread legs, holds his fingers up to Alex’s mouth, and says, “Suck.”
“What, your fingers?”
“Yes, my fingers. Put them in your mouth.”
“Uh, alright,” Alex says, and it’s clear he has no idea what Nick is trying to do, but he seems willing enough to go along with it.
Alex takes Nick’s fingers into his mouth, letting his tongue slide over the pads of Nick’s fingertips.
Nick lets Alex play with his fingers for a second longer, and then pulls them out of his mouth.
“Spit,” he orders, holding them up to Alex’s lips.
Alex looks up at him through pretty, long lashes, and spits on Nick’s fingers. He holds eye contact as he lets drool roll off his tongue, and it’s so hot that Nick nearly f*cking loses it on the spot.
But he has other plans.
Nick leans over Alex and braces his dry hand on the back of the couch next to Alex’s face, and with the hand covered in Alex’s spit, he reaches back and starts to finger himself open.
Alex looks shellshocked, and Nick can’t resist leaning forward just a little to kiss that stupid, pretty look off his face.
He moans into Alex’s mouth, panting when his fingers brush his own prostate, and when he can barely stand with how much he needs to f*cking cum, he forces himself to pull his fingers out.
Nick climbs onto Alex’s lap again, planting his knees on either side of Alex’s thighs and bracing his hands against the back cushions. Alex’s co*ck drags against Nick’s hole, leaving a slick trail of precum through his own spit.
“f*ck, c’mon, baby, let me f*ck you, come here, yes, f*ck—” Alex is saying. He lines his co*ck up, and Nick sinks all the way down, all at once.
They both groan simultaneously, and Nick closes his eyes and rests his forehead on Alex’s. They’re both sweaty—sticky and hot and salty, and f*ck, it smells so f*cking good on Alex’s skin.
Alex is so wet that Nick barely feels the burn from not using proper lube. He wouldn’t have cared much about the pain at this point anyway; he’s too far gone for it to matter.
Alex’s co*ck is thick and heavy, and Nick feels every centimetre inside him; the stretch of it feels so f*cking good. He tips up and sinks back down a few times, letting them both get used to the sensation. It’s so different from last time—it’s hurried, but it’s not rough, it’s not careless. With Nick in charge, it’s hot and tender, and he feels drunk with it.
Nick buries his face in Alex’s neck and starts to ride him—it starts smooth, but Nick has been staving off his org*sm with both hands for a while now, and he knows it won’t be long.
Alex doesn’t seem to be doing any better. He’s got his hands on Nick’s hips, guiding and supporting him while he rides Alex co*ck, and each time Nick moans in his ear, his grip tightens. Nick is sure there’s going to be marks there later.
It’s just them, right now. It’s just the taste of sweat on Nick’s tongue, the smell of Alex’s soap, the feeling of his co*ck, the sound of his hitched breathing. There’s no race, no crash, no fear, no stress. All he feels is Alex beneath him and his org*sm coiling tighter and tighter in his belly.
Nick can feel Alex’s hips start to stutter, so he reaches down to stroke his co*ck. It’s been leaking between them this whole time, hot and slick, and it feels so f*cking good Nick nearly c*ms on the spot.
Alex’s moans are turning stilted and choked-off in that way that Nick knows means he’s right on the edge. Nick sinks his teeth into Alex’s neck and strokes faster, and man, he’s right there too.
“f*ck…” Alex groans. He buries himself to the hilt and stills, and Nick can feel him cumming. He can feel Alex’s co*ck pulsing inside him, filling him, claiming him.
It doesn’t take long before Nick tumbles over the edge right after him. His body curls inward and his org*sm is right f*cking there. He gasps, and c*ms all over both of them. It spills over his hand, smears between their bellies, drips onto Alex’s thighs. God, there’s really too much of it.
“Christ, that’s hot,” Alex says, sounding dazed and staring down at Nick’s cum.
Nick strokes himself to overstimulation, spreading his own cum over his co*ck, hips twitching uncontrollably. He doesn’t want to stop, not with Alex looking at him like that, not with Alex staring at him like he’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. Nick likes that look, likes that Alex’s guard is down enough that he can see how Alex really feels.
He holds eye contact with Alex, and he thinks he could actually make himself cum again like this.
He doesn’t, though. He can see sense returning to Alex—his eyes have an edge of lucidity to them already, and Nick wants to take advantage of Alex’s post-org*smic haze, when he’s all pliant and agreeable, for as long as possible.
He lets go of his co*ck with a stifled little gasp and holds his cum-slick hand away from them both. Alex is looking up at him, all soft and pleased, and Nick leans forward to kiss the smile from his lips, tender and so sweet.
“We should clean up,” Alex murmurs against Nick’s mouth, and yeah, Nick can agree. Cum dries fast, and it’s really not fun to clean up when it’s started to cool.
He gets up, sliding backwards off Alex’s lap and snagging a clean towel from the sink. He wets one and hands it to Alex, and then wanders away to rinse himself off. He has quite a bit more to clean up than Alex does, after all.
When he comes back, Alex is dressed, staring pensively at the folded towel in his hands. Nick pulls on his fireproofs and racing suit, since he’ll need to get back in the car at some point, and sits on the couch next to Alex. They’re close again, thighs pressed together, and Nick feels relaxed and sleepy—at ease, for the first time since he landed in France.
He likes this part the best—the calm that descends after passion. It feels like the moment the world goes quiet in the car, when he’s overtaking or when he perfectly steers into the apex of a curve. When everything is slow and silent and his focus is absolute.
Nick settles back into the cushions, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. He’s so relaxed, he doesn’t realise he’s falling asleep until Alex kind of pulls away from him, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
“You okay?” Nick asks, reaching out to touch Alex’s thigh.
Alex stands up and steps away—out of Nick’s reach, refusing to meet his eyes—and says, “I’m fine.”
His voice is strained, and it’s immediately obvious there’s something wrong. This time, he doesn’t worry if Alex didn’t want it; Alex was just as into this as Nick was. That much, at least, was obvious.
But Nick wonders what happened…is it because of him? Did he do something wrong? Is it something else?
“Alex…” Nick says, sitting up, and as soon as he speaks, he regrets it. He can see the line of Alex’s shoulders tighten and his jaw clench, and he knows he shouldn’t have said anything.
“I think…” Alex starts, still not turning around. He wavers for a moment, and then steps toward the door. “We shouldn’t do this again.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” Alex says. He takes the last steps towards the door, opens it, and pauses.
“Alex, what the f*ck?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, one more time, and then he leaves.
Nick stares after him, completely bewildered. For a second, he’s so f*cking furious—he’s getting really tired of feeling like he’s done something wrong, but not having any idea what. He’s tired of feeling like he needs to be so careful around Alex, like he can’t relax and let his guard down, because it allows Alex to hit him right where it f*cking hurts.
And just as soon as it comes, the fury passes, and all he’s left with is the feeling of rejection, and the knife-point of hurt lodged so deep in his chest.
Why is he never good enough?
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