Work Text:
All racers love Dakar in their own way and each for their own special thing. It has the unique charm of the East and the desert, the luxury of golden dunes and the triumph of reckless speed, starry Arabian nights and even unbearable heat, the atmosphere of a multi-day competition of endurance, talent and resourcefulness, adrenaline and a sense of fraternization in bivouacs speaking hundreds of languages with hundreds of accents, making noise in their own way. But absolutely everyone, without exception, it would not be an exaggeration to say, they adore Dakar for how different it is from any other race in the world.
They arrive at Dakar almost light, without giant containers with cars following their steps, there is no need for them here – the magic of the east does everything for them.
The first stage of this year is going well for them, everyone remains in a fighting mood, while there is still no big difference between them in terms of time and number of victories, and it's more fun in the camp today than usual. The night is thick and dark, marked by white lines of light from lanterns in the camp, it's noisy here – at dinner you can hear loud conversations, laughter and songs in different ways, the general atmosphere of the meeting, the first this year and, for some, the only one. Francois soon finds him in the camp and sits right next to him, as close as decency and the periodic attention of cameras from social media operators allow them. The food is simple, you don't have to be fussy in Dakar, but they enjoy relaxing after a day in the desert in an atmosphere of competition, hot dinner and conversation.
"Hey, guys, we'll wait for you at the finish line tomorrow!"
Jacky and Francois laugh at a joke and greet a passing Kamaz crew, waving eagerly to old acquaintances. They laugh loudly in response and salute them with their free hands, even the four of them barely holding their heavy cargo carpet on their shoulders. The recognizable burgundy fabric with strange blue geometric and floral patterns is rolled into a large roll, which they stubbornly puff towards the service station, apparently wanting to exhaust it from the dust.
Jacky smiles broadly when explosive sounds of joy reach their corner, when others notice their noticeable carpet, which for some reason invariably causes joy and delight among the local riders from Eastern Europe every time. Francois just snorts and pops the French fries he stole from Jacky into his mouth. He has his own, but it's not that interesting.
"How do you like the beginning of this year?" He mumbles with his mouth full, stealing a second potato and dodging Jacky's hand, which is clearly trying to rip the food right out of his teeth.
"Thief," Jacky chuckles without malice and puts his plate away from the grasping predatory fingers of Francois. "It's fun. Again, must adjust to the sight of you darting by on your rocket-powered rugs," he quips and playfully pokes a long potato in Francois's direction, which he shamelessly grabs with his teeth from his hand, flirtatiously smacking his lips dangerously close to his fingertips.
Francois's own single-seater rug, with a pattern so ornate that it looks like he stole it from under the bedroom door of Louis XV, lies at his feet, folded in a pile. Jacky knows that this swallow is frisky and nimble even by Dakar standards, but just like Francois himself... skittish, rebellious and loving to show off. He is endlessly amused by how their magic carpets, even used only once a year, reflect their characters and behavior.
Denise, Jacky's navigator, taps him on the shoulder, distracting his attention from Francois, who is already focused on eating again, and nods towards maintenance, saying that he will take their maroon two-seater lightweight rug with a rhythmic gold pattern reminiscent of armorial motifs to the filing to fix the catch on the fabric they did when they collided with the top of a sharp stone.
"Did Jochen write to you about Vanya? How is she?" Francois waits until Denise steals their transport and leaves them alone to move closer to Jacky and entwine their free hands. They both put the plates on their laps to get comfortable with each other, and Jacky leans his head on Francois' broad shoulder, always touched when he starts talking in his warm, gentle tone about their daughter.
"She's sulking that she has to visit all our numerous relatives in honor of the holiday while we're having fun,“ they laugh softly among themselves, clearly imagining the expression on little Vanina's face, who always rushed to every race with them, in love with cars and speed just like her fathers and uncles. She should come to them with Jackie and Jochen for the third stage, when it would be easiest for them to adopt a child here, but surely her uncles are already bothering with demands to take her to Dakar right now. "Isn't Jackie texting you?"
"Writing. Mostly he jokes and complains that now he has to look after two children," Francois snorts. Jochen prefers to communicate with Jacky, considering Francois too moody according to him (although, in fact, they are too similar), while Jackie obviously chooses her best friend for constant correspondence. – Oh! He recently said that Jochen demanded to bring him an Arabian carpet, even a video was sent. He pulls out his phone and shows Jacky, leaning close to him, an uneven shot in which Jochen, holding Vanina on his lap, eagerly pokes at a photo of Nasser with his luxurious turquoise racing carpet with gold twisted patterns on his laptop monitor. probably telling me what he could do with such a “technique" himself.
They laugh when Vanina in the video, after listening to Jochen, begins to prove something to him with an incredibly important look, as much as possible for a small child, and Jochen himself, who at one time inspired almost horror and awe with his appearance at the unprepared inhabitants of the paddock, listens to her with the utmost attention.
Jacky looks at Francois while he puts his phone in his pocket and collects their empty plates – he always looks particularly wild at Dakar, with dusty disheveled hair, ridiculously fluffy from the desert wind and sweat moisture under his helmet, his bright blue eyes flicker with the light of the spotlights installed in the bivouac, and his skin seems They're even darker from the sun, which they can't see outside of their racing suits. Francois is as incongruously European here as he is magically oriental in the sands of Saudi Arabia.
Jacky stealthily looks around, he is not used to hiding, after all, their relationship has not been a secret for a long time – they even have a child together, it would be problematic to hide it – but here I would not like to risk violating not the most loyal laws, and kisses Francois on the cheek. He looks back at him with the same ecstatic expression that is flickering in Jacky's eyes now, and squeezes his hand with a smirk.
"Do you think if I ask very politely, these crazy guys will let me ride on their carpet after the final?" he nods so crazily in the direction of the service station, where the cargo crews have just passed, that Jacky can only laugh at him, so loudly that several nearby riders turn around and smile at them. They're both well-liked here.
"Politely? I didn't think you could do that."