Chapter Text
February 2, 1992 — Saint-Chamond, France
"You really need to quit at some point," Eponine, who apparently is back from Paris, says. Grantaire glances over his shoulder at her, a dark silhouette overlaid on an oppressively blue sky. She looks a little more tan now and at some point she fully committed to bangs.
"Nice hair." He exhales a cloud of smoke with the words.
"Don't change the subject," she says, joining him on the porch steps. "How're you going to get your fourth world title if you die of lung cancer first?"
Grantaire points the end of his cigarette at her. "You know Williams' biggest sponsor is a tobacco company, right? I'm doing strategic product advertising."
Eponine glances around at the absolutely dead quiet green hills and fields stretching out for miles. "To who?"
"You, obviously. Is it working?"
She rolls her eyes emphatically, plucks the cigarette from his hand and, despite his protests, chucks it as far as she can. It lands on the dirt of the driveway.
"I hate you," Grantaire mutters, slouching and putting his chin in his palms, elbows on his knees.
"Uh-huh," she hums. "By the way, Williams is sponsored by Rothmans, not Marlboro." She jabs her finger accusingly at the red and white cigarette pack sitting next to it. "Marlboro is tried and true McLaren. Should've stopped smoking those in '89 when you left."
"I'm not exactly known for my brand loyalty," he says flatly. "Just ask Ron Dennis. Or Ferrari."
"Ferrari liked you enough to pay you an insane amount of money to sit on your ass and do nothing this year."
He half-laughs. "If they liked me they wouldn't have fired me. With one race left in the season." He tries and fails to not sound bitter about it. "The sabbatical is just because they're afraid of Williams."
"They're afraid of you in a Williams," she corrects, jabbing a finger into his arm to get the point across. "They're literally paying you a salary to not race so they have a fighting chance this season."
He shrugs. Technically that's true.
"Also," Eponine continues, "Ron Dennis can go fuck himself. His cars are shit this year, running on those Honda engines. Even Enjolras is trying to get away now, the little McLaren prince himself." She pauses and glances sideways at him, evidently sizing him up. "Speaking of which…"
"Nope." He tries to stand up, but she grabs him by the shoulder and shoves him back down.
"Nice try." She's got that smile on her face now, the sharp fox-like one. "I heard an interesting bit of news from the grapevine."
He sighs, knowing when to choose his battles. "And what's that?"
"That our dear Enjolras," she says, not an ounce of affection in her tone, "is trying to sign with Williams."
"Is he now? Good for him."
"He's trying really fucking hard," she says. "I heard he even offered to race for free."
Grantaire's eyebrows shoot up. "Really?" He hadn't known that, but it's not exactly surprising. Money means nothing to Enjolras as long as he's racing and winning.
"But for some reason," Eponine says, leaning close and lowering her voice as if telling a secret. "He just can't seem to seal the deal."
"Huh. Weird," he says, keeping his expression neutral.
"…almost like he can't sign with them. Legally."
Grantaire must have slipped for a second and let a shadow of a smile ghost across his face because Eponine pulls back and says, "Oh my god. You really did."
Grantaire shrugs and is aware of how smug he must look. "I only had one important clause in my contract. Eventually they agreed to it."
She laughs somewhat giddily. "You have an official clause in your contract that says that Williams can't sign Enjolras?"
"No." He grins. "Technically it says I can't be teammates with him again. Which is basically the same thing. It's good for next year, too."
"Will you even be racing next year?" she asks.
"No idea. That's not important. I need him to think he's been completely shut out for the foreseeable future."
She stares at him, looking both impressed and concerned. "You two are fucking insane. You know that, right? Like, kind of entirely unhinged."
"That's fair."
"What are you even mad at him for again?"
Grantaire scoffs and waves his hand in the air. "Suzuka '89. Suzuka '90. That time he tried to get me fired in '91. Just being an insufferable jackass. Take your pick."
"Have you ever considered being the bigger man?" she asks, only half-joking.
"Not even once," he says brightly. "Have you ever considered that if I show any weakness whatsoever he'll use the opportunity to run me over with his shitty McLaren?"
"I'm counting on it," she says and he elbows her in the side. She laughs but after a few seconds her expression shifts and sobers. "Seriously, though. Can you guys at least agree to ignore each other or something? I really can't do another Suzuka '90."
He thinks it's supposed to be a joke but she sounds more genuinely concerned than anything.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he offers, although he has absolutely no intentions of actually getting in touch with Enjolras. "Don't worry." He pauses. "Are you gonna come with me this year?"
"Obviously," she says brusquely. "It might be your last hurrah out there. Can't miss that."
"I thought you hated being in the paddock."
"I don't hate the paddock," she corrects, "just the people there. God, you'd think we're living in colonial times the way some of the ancient guys talk about women."
Grantaire nods. Eponine had come along with him for his first season all the way back in '81, when they were still barely adults. Eponine didn't have a place and Grantaire made what seemed to them to be an unfathomable amount of money when he first signed for McLaren, so it was only natural that she stuck with him. The press had, at some point, started reporting on her as his girlfriend, and their attempts to say anything contrary fell on deaf ears. After a few years they gave up and let people assume whatever they wanted. But that does unfortunately mean Eponine gets lumped in with the drivers' wives and girlfriends, a good amount of which she detests. She hasn't come with him since '84 (bar Japan 1989, since they knew it was practically a guaranteed clinch for the world championship and she got a ticket last minute to be there), though, and he wasn't going to ask her to come with him unless she brought it up first. He knew she hated to be away from her siblings for any prolonged amount of time.
"Thanks," he says softly and she nudges him with her shoulder in response. She's right; this might be his last season. He's been in the sport for more than ten years now and it certainly takes a toll. In some ways he'd been ready to call it quits years ago, but whenever he thinks about it, another part of his mind pipes up, reminding him that both he and Enjolras have three titles and he absolutely cannot leave without breaking the tie. Enjolras is younger and has a couple more good years left. He could easily snatch up a few championships if the car is good enough. There is no one on the grid at the moment that even comes close to him in terms of talent. With the right machinery he'll slaughter everyone else. Grantaire just needs one more and then he can quit while he's ahead. Four championships is good—hell, it's great. Only one other person had managed to pull that off in forty-odd years. Grantaire'd be making history with a fourth championship.
But fame isn't the only thing Grantaire wants. It's not even his priority. His priority is strapped into a four-wheeled Marlboro ad, wearing a red and gold helmet.
"Are you going to be watching the season this year?" Eponine asks.
"No," he replies immediately, and they both know it's a lie.
She just nods. "Good."
They stay there for a while, watching the clouds shifting across the sky. Eventually Eponine excuses herself, leaving him with a brief touch on the shoulder. She takes the pack of cigarettes with her and he doesn't try to stop her.
Sitting a couple of dozen feet away in the dirt at the edge of the driveway are a handful of newspapers wrapped in plastic, each one a day older than the next. He has to go and get them at some point, but he wants to live in the haze of unknowing for a little bit longer.
June 3rd, 1984 — Monaco
Sitting in his McLaren and gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline, Grantaire oscillated between 'they can't cancel this race' and 'dear God, they can't actually expect us to drive in this weather'. It was his first pole position with McLaren; he was still getting his bearings in the car but at this point he felt reasonably confident that he was able to work it in the way he needed to. That is, under normal racing conditions.
Monaco was already not an average race. The street track wound its way throughout the city, around swimming pools and buildings with sharp, narrow corners. The safety guards (the ones that were there) seemed threadbare at best.
That June Sunday morning on the Monaco track, it was raining. Not a light misting or even a heavy drizzle like they'd get in Silverstone up in England—no, it was raining. Just absolutely pouring down in a way that Grantaire had never seen before during a race. Judging by the nervous energy in the air, that was true of most people.
But Monaco was Monaco and that meant they couldn't call it off at this point, not with the whole city set up for the Grand Prix and thousands of spectators already in place.
Grantaire had very clear instructions: keep the car on the track. No risky moves, no going faster or harder than absolutely necessary to keep the lead. He was on a set of wet tyres that he prayed would give him enough grip. He wiped his visor, attempting to clear his field of vision a little.
The flag waved to signal the start of the formation lap, and Grantaire pulled out, leading the line of cars. He went slowly, taking note of the areas that would give him the most trouble when the race started. By the time he was back in place in the P1 spot, his sense of dread had been somewhat diminished by the adrenaline. Through his somewhat blurred visor and the downpour he saw the red lights flick on one by one until all five were lit. He didn't breathe.
The lights went out and Grantaire took off. The familiar thrill of racing was amplified tenfold by the slickness of the track, the feeling that each time he turned he came a little closer to losing control entirely. By the time he got to his second lap, he started seeing the crashes. Nothing too serious, but a staggering number nonetheless. In the corner of his eye there seemed to be a collision between a Ferrari and another car, and several medical staff were dashing back and forth.
Focus, he told himself. You can check on the others after.
His technicians informed him over the radio that Feuilly was gaining on him. Grantaire cursed and, almost as if on cue, his engine shuttered beneath him.
"No, no, come on," he muttered to himself, keeping his eyes ahead of him, trying to catch any glimpse of movement on the track. Even so, he almost didn't notice the stalled car until he nearly ran into one of the stewards pushing it off the track. He swerved just in time and cursed, feeling the tires slide on the pavement below him.
Feuilly was right on his tail now; he could make out the form of the car in his mirrors, although just barely. Grantaire hoped that the amount of spray he was kicking up behind him served as an effective enough deterrent for now.
The car vibrated with another strange noise from the engine. Misfiring again, just like last race. He resisted the urge to bash his head against the steering wheel as he felt the speed slowly go out of him.
Soon enough, he was passed by Feuilly. A lap later, his technicians told Grantaire that the gap between them was up a second. A lap after that, they told him it was two seconds. He told them to kindly shut up.
On lap nineteen, Grantaire could make out Feuilly's car in front of him on the straights. He silently put all his prayers into his engine and pushed on.
On the run up to Casino square, Grantaire could tell that Feuilly was going to spin out before it happened. Call it instinct; he was always good at predicting these things. With Feuilly off the track (and safe, from the looks of it), Grantaire had his second shot at keeping P1 and he intended to keep it.
If possible, it began to rain even harder. He clutched the wheel to keep his hands steady.
He checked his mirrors again, expecting to see the other McLaren keeping pace a little ways behind him. Instead, closer than he expected, was a white car with a flash of red from the helmet.
"Shit," he said. That was Enjolras, the rookie driving for Toleman. Grantaire was positive he'd qualified P13. Had he really gone up eleven places in twenty-something laps? In these weather conditions? In a fucking Toleman?
Every lap after that, Enjolras got closer and closer. Grantaire was losing time and grip and in an act of cruel fate he felt his brakes stick starting on lap twenty-seven. He was losing ground and he was losing it fast—he'd started with almost a half-minute lead but that had been cut down by entire seconds each lap. He wouldn't make it much further like this. Enjolras bore down on him like some sort of fog-wreathed demon.
On lap twenty-nine, Grantaire decided it was Hail Mary time. As he made his way across the line, he took one hand off of the steering wheel and waved it in the direction of the stewards.
The message was clear: stop the race. Enough people had crashed at this point for it to be a valid request, even though he never would have made it if his lead wasn't fading so quickly. The next lap felt impossibly long; Enjolras was directly behind him. Crossing the line into lap thirty, Grantaire waved again, more desperately this time.
Come on, he thought, teeth gritted. Come on, come on.
Lap thirty-thirty three is when his luck ran out. Enjolras, in his white Toleman, overtook him on a corner, and Grantaire let it happen. There was nothing more he could do.
And then they were on the straights to the finish line, and he saw it: the red flag, waving back and forth. They had stopped the race. He let out a sigh of relief as he passed the line a second or two behind Enjolras. He took his car to the pits as soon as possible, grateful to be done with the whole thing.
The first thing he said when he yanked his helmet and balaclava off was, "Did that count?"
He meant, of course, the overtake that had happened on the final lap. If the red flag had come out during the lap, then the finishing places would be decided by the places they had when they passed the line a lap ago, when Grantaire was still in the lead. And he was pretty damn sure that he saw the flag before crossing the line.
"Not sure," a technician said. "One second, we're trying to figure it out."
Grantaire, hair now plastered down with rain, wiped some away from his eyes and looked to the left, to the Toleman garage. Enjolras had hauled himself out of the car, discussing something with an engineer. He used an awful lot of hand motions. They didn't look like particularly happy ones, either.
"Okay," the McLaren technician said. "Okay, yes. Looks like we have word that the places from lap thirty-one will count."
Grantaire sent a silent thank you to whatever deity had heard him.
Enjolras must have been told too, because when Grantaire glanced back in his direction there was a pair of blue eyes burning with resentment boring directly into him.
March 22, 1992 — Saint-Chamond, France
Grantaire actually manages to keep himself from watching the first race of the season with the assistance of a bottle of vodka he'd stashed away some time ago. But it's somehow already been a week and Grantaire is sitting on his beat up old couch, staring at his blank television screen. His hand goes to the remote and then sharply away as if it's burned him.
"No, nope," he says to himself, standing up and resolutely marching out of the living room and into the kitchen. He’s supposed to be on sabbatical. Relaxing at his small, picturesque French home. He's certainly not feeling relaxed knowing that the cars were getting ready to race and Enjolras was in one of them and Grantaire wasn't.
He searches for something to do to occupy him and settles on making dinner—one of his mother's old recipes that is complex and, most importantly, time consuming. He slides the cutting board out and places it on the counter before setting an onion on it and grabbing a knife. It hovers there for a second, an inch or so away from the vegetable, before Grantaire drops the knife and spins around, barging back into the living room.
He's coming back next year—he needs to know how the other drivers are doing. Or, at the very least, he has an obligation to observe how well the Williams is doing on the track; he'd be in one of those soon enough. Or at least, that was the reasoning he gave himself.
Snatching the remote up, Grantaire jams the power button before he can stop himself. He navigates to the right channel and sees that they're still getting ready, prepping the cars and drivers. Almost immediately, the camera cuts to footage of the McLaren paddock. He's looking for the red and gold helmet before he's even fully registered the scene. Enjolras always had his helmet on for a while before the race. It was some sort of mental thing, like when he slid on the helmet something fundamental inside him shifted.
Grantaire is hit with three very distinct realizations all within the same fraction of a second. First, the helmet which Grantaire knew from every conceivable angle is nowhere to be found. Second, Enjolras is standing in the midst of a throng of technicians, notably bare-headed. Third, the reason for the lack of helmet, which appears to be some sort of neck brace.
The commentators are chattering on about Enjolras' accident from practice—what accident from practice? Grantaire's first thought is 'can he race?' and then immediately after, 'is he okay?' He feels an instant stab of shame for thinking about championship points before Enjolras' well-being.
"—looks like he's fine to race today," one of the commentators is saying. "That crash was pretty nasty, but luckily his injuries were mostly superficial."
"Yes," the other commentator chimes in. "And it's notable that Enjolras has been harping on about the lack of safety regulations on the track for the past few days."
"He's not the only one. A couple of drivers have also…"
Their voices fade away as he studies Enjolras' blurry profile, deep in conversation, gesturing with his hands the way he does when he's upset or passionate. His hair is longer; it doesn't look like he's gotten it cut since they'd last seen each other.
Enjolras pauses and, without warning, turns to look directly at the camera. Grantaire, overtaken by a sudden embarrassment, like he'd been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to, instinctively hits the power button again. The screen goes black and quiet.
He drifts back into the kitchen, trying to force himself into focusing on the food, picking up the knife again. It takes a second to realize that his hands are shaking. He puts the knife down gently and rubs a hand over his eyes. Freezer pizza it is, then.
October 21, 1984 — Portimão, Portugal
Grantaire slammed the door of his room in the paddock shut behind him, as hard as he could. He was breathing hard and felt mildly dizzy, and it wasn't entirely because he'd just spent two and a half hours baking in a thousand degree car.
He pushed hair out of his face and curled his hands into fists to keep himself from biting his nails like he tended to do when he got upset.
Half a point. He'd lost the driver's championship by half of a point. That was basically nothing. That was the lowest margin in the history of the sport.
If only he'd qualified a spot higher, if only he'd been quicker on the hairpin in those later laps, if only if only if only. But he didn't do any of that. He let out a frustrated yell and kicked a folding chair with as much force as he could manage, sending it flying backwards and collapsing in on itself.
Grantaire, as his anger and adrenaline calmed a bit, became aware of someone watching him from the doorway.
At some point Enjolras had opened the door and slipped inside, although he hadn't moved forward at all and looked a little like a deer in headlights. The shock of it threw Grantaire for a second.
"What do you want?" he asked. It was meant to sound aggressive but it just came across as tired. He sighed and flopped down on the couch.
"Uh." It didn't seem like it had occurred to Enjolras that he would be asked for a reason. "I don't know. Wanted to see if you were doing okay."
Grantaire stared blankly at him. "We don't really even know each other. Why do you care?"
Enjolras looked for a second like he was steeling himself for something before walking swiftly across the room and sitting down next to Grantaire on the couch, back straight. Grantaire glanced up at him from his slouched position that he didn't bother to fix.
"It should've been you," Enjolras said with all the conviction in the world. "It should have been you today. I know it, and so does everyone else."
Grantaire blinked, brows drawn together in confusion. "Thanks?"
"I mean it," Enjolras said, and for some reason Grantaire believed him. "You're the best one driving of that lot, and you were the best last year, and the year before that."
What could Grantaire say to that? He tried to form another 'thank you', but the words stuck in his throat.
Enjolras reached over and lightly grabbed Grantaire's wrist. Grantaire glanced up and down and didn't pull away.
Enjolras' mouth moved as if to form some other words, but he snapped his mouth shut and drew his hand away. Before Grantaire would press him further, Enjolras had stood up and swept out of the room in what looked like a mild panic, leaving a speechless Grantaire still sitting on the couch in his wake.
Five seconds hadn't passed before Eponine came in. "Why the hell was he here?" she asked, evidently having seen Enjolras leaving the room.
"I have no idea," he said faintly. "He, uh, told me he was sorry that I didn't win."
"You know, I heard some of the technicians talking," she said, retrieving the plastic folding chair that had previously been the victim of his wrath and unfolding it before sitting across from him. "They seem to forget that women have ears sometimes."
"What were they saying?"
"Just stuff about Enjolras. He's always so intense, so dedicated, blah blah blah. And then, one of the technicians goes 'I would like him a hell of a lot better if he didn't constantly make me run over to the McLaren garage to get Grantaire's stats.’"
Grantaire frowned. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know." She shrugged. "I'm guessing your lap times, tyres, stuff like that."
"Why?"
"How am I supposed to know that? I've never even talked to the guy. Maybe it's like a hero worship thing."
Grantaire thought back to Enjolras' eyes on him, the way he'd looked down with such ferocity. No, those weren't the eyes of a worshipper. The opposite, really.
"I don't think that's it," he said.
Eponine looked at him for a few seconds and said, "Wanna go out tonight?" It was her version of offering condolences, and exactly the kind he needed at the moment.
"You speak Portuguese?"
"Nope."
"Me neither. Let's go."
August 30, 1992 — Saint-Chamond, France
Grantaire has a routine now. He'll put on the race and then leave to do something in another room, the volume loud enough for him to hear the commentary without having to see any of it. It's a good system.
On Sunday, Grantaire puts on the Belgian Grand Prix and goes into the kitchen to wash dishes. The commentators are as peppy as usual, giving the viewers an overview of who's starting where and why. Enjolras has qualified P2, more than two seconds ahead of the Benetton-Ford in third. Enjolras' qualifying laps were terrifying—with only a few minutes and the objective 'go as fast as you can' seeing the white and red McLaren in your mirrors sent you swerving to the side so you didn't get in his way.
Grantaire runs his hands under the warm water, lost in a torrent of memories before the announcement of the formation lap snaps him back to the present. He grabs a cup and starts to scrub, much harder than is necessary as he listens to the commentators prattle on.
"The lights are off and we're racing here in Belgium!"
"Look at Enjolras, already undercutting. He's so close—oh! Did they touch there?"
"I couldn't see, but there's no debris—"
"And he's making the pass! He's done it! Enjolras into P1 within two corners."
"Just incredible. I don't know how he does it."
Grantaire slams down the cup upside-down onto the drying mat.
Every lap a further extension of Enjolras' lead by a couple tenths of a second. Even in his slower McLaren with a stupid fucking Honda engine and a Williams chasing him down.
"—and looking at that battle for seventh—"
"Oh my god! Bossuet's shunted the corner—"
"Oh, that's a nasty crash. Red flag is out."
Grantaire drops the plate he's holding into the sink and scrambles to the living room. On the screen is a helicopter shot of the wrecked Lotus, smoking and with scraps of metal all around. Grantaire's been in racing long enough to know the difference between an accident and a crash. This is a crash.
He stands there, unable to sit down or move much at all. Not Bossuet, God, anyone but him. He's still not fully recovered mentally from Joly's accident—oh, Joly must be losing it right now.
"And rounding the corner, here comes race leader Enjolras. He'll have to be careful to avoid the debris here."
"What's he doing here…?" one of the commentators asks, confused.
"I think he's stopping."
He is, indeed, stopping. Swerving onto the gravel, kicking up plumes of gray dust as he grinds himself to a stop. Grantaire watches as Enjolras hurriedly moves around in the cockpit, unbuckling and de-tangling himself. Within half a minute he's hauled himself out of the car and hits the ground running, directly towards the Lotus where Bossuet's unmoving form still sits.
What the hell is he doing? Grantaire thinks.
"What's he doing?" one of the commentators says, echoing him like an obnoxious British parrot. "The engine is still on—that thing could go up in flames any second."
"It probably will. Look at the state of it."
Suddenly it becomes glaringly obvious to Grantaire. The engine. He's going to try and turn off the engine.
Enjolras half-climbs up on the side of the wreckage, reaching past the unconscious driver, fumbling with the controls. The aerial shots struggle to get a good angle; everything's shaky.
He's only on the Lotus for a couple of seconds, but they stretch out like infinite little pouches of time. Grantaire's on his knees now, kneeling in front of the television, face a foot away from the screen. The commentators' voices fade into white noise.
And then Enjolras is jumping back, losing his footing and stumbling away from the wreckage. He stands almost unnaturally still until a few seconds later when the medical cars and ambulance pull up.
One of the track marshals runs up to Enjolras and, after a few seconds, the driver just nods and turns to walk off the track, sliding his visor up. Grantaire watches him go. The cameras linger on his face for as long as they can, on the sliver of humanity they can see through the helmet; fast blinking eyes and pale skin. Immediately after, they cut to footage of the medical staff wheeling Bossuet into the ambulance on a stretcher. Apart from the obvious lack of consciousness, he seems all right.
The static in Grantaire's mind dissipates enough for him to pick up on what the commentators are saying now.
"—just incredible. Sacrificing first place like that… there goes his championship hopes for this year. This race was supposed to be his last shot at keeping himself in the game."
"Well, I've seen a lot of accidents in my decades here, and believe me when I say that Enjolras might have just saved Bossuet's life there."
"Not even a moment of hesitation on his part."
Grantaire lowers himself fully onto the floor, looking up at the screen. He mutes the channel and watches for the next hour, just to see. His heart rate slowly calms as he watches the cars zip across the screen. There's only one more shot of Enjolras, right before the end of the race. He has his helmet off (he got a haircut at some point) and he's gazing up at, presumably, another screen. He doesn't look like a righteous angel. He looks devastated. Grantaire's not as happy about it as he thought he'd be.