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Chapter Text

"Fantastic debut here in Sasuka for rookie Henry Kobyla, at his first race of his first season in Formula One."

"Thats right, Crofty. Not often do we see rookies on podiums, let alone a replacement driver!"

"Disaster striked McClaren here at Monza. Capon is out on the first lap with a brake failure."

"But, it did open the iron wall for Kobyla to carve through the standings with his second podium of the season!"

"Amazing finish here at Silverstone! Hamilton takes the win with Kobyla chasing his tail."

"I'd say three more laps and we might have seen the overtake of the season."

"Think he could have done it? Squeezed around Lewis?"

"We see how aggressive his driving is--nearly ran our championship lead off the road diving for third today."

"Ooh, what a crash from McClaren. That's the risk of fighting it so hard, Crofty."

"Let's just hope Capon is alright."

".. There he is, looks good. Well enough to kick the tire, at least."

"Understandable, it was that tire that popped on him that sent him into the wall."

Hans stood in front of the TV, nearly as large as the wall, arms crossed over his compression shirt. Clips flash in his face, of the blue and red redbull flashing around corners and diving seasoned drivers.

The balls on this arsehole. The carelessness. The aggression.

The screen flashes his stubbled smile, sweat slicked and leaning awkwardly down to the reporter mic as he fidges with his earpiece, both dangling down his neck. "I mean, when the door is open, you take it. If I didn't, it wouldn't be racing." Kobyla says, answering a question not feasured in the clip. Hans knew exactly what race it was though. Just this last weekend, at Spain, where McClaren were squeezed out of another podium.

Again.

They already ran to the stewards, Hans insisted it. They had to be cheating. No way RedBull went from being a midfield team at best to wining consecutive podiums. But when the stewards came back with nary a hair reported out of place let alone a rear wing problem or flooring problem at least, Hans was beyond pissed.

Twenty faces and names crest the screen. Spain results, then it shifts to championship standings. Hans' DNF at the bottom in the race shifts to the top-- no, nearly the top.

Because today, he was defending for his life and finally got pushed out when Kobyla passed him. He wouldn't have been off the racing line if it wasn't for Kobyla diving him. He wouldn't have caught that debris and popped his tire if he wasn't pushed put.

And now Kobyla was two points ahead of him.

Fucking twat.

His side ached. The crash was rough, front fender turned to tissue paper. Side impact, 20gs of force snapping at his body. But because of the HANS device, his neck didn't snap in half and he only had some light bruising.

He'd be fine for Austria. He had to be-- winning at his home race would be the victory he needed.

And a win would steal his championship back.

Hans had two full seasons under his belt, two perfectly good seasons where he made good points and showed skill and promise. Finally, McClaren gave him a good car, and he had the chance to put it on the podium every race. He knew the potential was there, he could feel it in the engine as it rumbles under his fingertips at the steering wheel. 

The previous driver at Redbull dipped out three races into the season for a personal emergency. Kobyla was the reserve driver, pulled from his own wins in F2, and got his lucky break this season. With the way he's dominating the field, Hans bets there's a contract at the end of the season for him.

Fucker.

He was so close, yet Kobyla was in his way. Smiling friendily for the fans and cameras, shy and awkward in interviews. He was a fucking demon in that Redbull. Stalking those in front of him like a predator on the hunt, dive bombing and pulling off overtakes of the fucking century.  Eight podiums in ten races. He hadn't gotten first place yet, but neither had Hans. They shared many of those podiums in second and third, always a toss up to who would pass who at the last corner. 

Hans always made sure to nail him in the face with the champagne spray.

The race had ended, and he would be expected to make an appearance for interviews. Still with his race suit tied at his hips, he's gathering his things before his assistant can retrieve him.

He flashes his golden smile for the cameras. Waves and gives knuckles to fans who line the press junket tent. Alonso walks past him, clapping his shoulder. 

"Fought well today," he compliments, dark hair damp with sweat as he adjusts his hat. "Always unfortunate to hear someone crashed."

"It wasn't my fault for it, so.." Hans dismisses, hands on his hips. Alonso grins. He had said before he likes Hans' determination and aggression in the car. Hans didn't like to harp on his age, being the oldest driver on the grid, because he was still a beast when that Aston Martin worked for him. Alonso was a bit of a mentor figure, and it was party because Alonso didn't shy away from talking up and helping rookies. Hans was no longer a rookie, but here Alonso was, giving him a sage smile.

"No one's fault, just uh, an outcome of racing hard, right?"

Hans smiles, nodding. He wouldn't dare say Alonzo was wrong, but he did have other, strong feelings about the result. Alonso claps his shoulder against and heads out of the press tent.

Now, it was Hans' turn. A dozen other drivers still linger, talking to the different press in a large ring of cameras and microphones. 

They ask about the crash, the fight that led up to it, about Kobyla taking first in the championship and if he was eager to steal it back next weekend.

Of course he was. Hans can't help but crave putting Kobyla in his place. A rookie breaking records in his debut season. Kobyla was turning into a fan favorite. What a joke.

He smiles and dances around the questions easily enough. It was only good practice to keep the anger close to his chest and save it for the next fight behind the wheel, even if he wished Kobyla was at the corner to punch in his face, sufficing for kicking the tire.

"Oh woah, hey, Capon." Hans turns, stepping between stations of the press junket. Kobyla stops him, hand at his arm gently. "That looked like a rough crash, how are you doing?"

This fucker. Might as well rub in his podium finish by reminding him of the crash he caused.

Hans, feeling angry and vindictive, can't hold his tongue. He pulls away from Kobyla's hand sharply. "Would be at the front of you hadn't pushed me out."

Kobyla tilts his head, frowning softly. "C’mon, it's only racing."

"No one passes at that corner. Running me into the debris was deliberate."

The soft concern started to melt into something more serious. "I didn't place that debris there, Hans. I didn't know you'd catch it."

Hans lets out one sharp bark of a laugh. "What the fuck else would happen when you shoved me to the side like that?"

Theres the familiar fold of anger he was hoping to rise out of him. "You left the door wide-fucking-open. What was I supposed to do?"

"You dive bombed me like you owned the fucking track. I had no where to go, you need to leave space--"

Kobyla scoffs. "There was plenty of space--"

"Hans," his assistant had slipped through the other drivers to him, shooting him daggers. "You're on camera."

Hans jaw clicks as he tightens his expression. Kobyla huffs a breath, shaking his head. 

"Get some rest, Capon."

Smug bastard thinking he can play nice and get the last word. His own response falls from his laps before he can reign it back. "Yeah, fuck off, mate."

His assistant has him by the arm, steering him to the next press station. "Keep your head on, Hans." She warns, before letting him walk up and collect himself.

"Boy, what a crash, Hans. We heard earlier from Henry that he thinks the crash couldn't have been avoided, what do you think happened out there?"

Hans put-on smile drops like lead. Of course they caught onto their argument, and were trying to make a good headline out of it. 

"Well, that's racing," he says, side eyeing his assistant. He was already on thin ice. "The team at McClaren put together a great car for me, I know if the results were different I'd be sharing another podium with him today."

With his assistant now at his heels, he survives the rest of the junket with smiles and congratulations to Redbull for another win. Good sportsmanship made him look good going forward, bandaging whatever might've been caught on camera.

Then, he sat down for a PR meeting reminding him to save the fighting for behind the wheel. The clip they share of him makes his stomach knot. Hans, all anger and sharp eyes, Henry with that soft bend in his brow akin to pity.

Hans bites his tongue. He didn't need Kobyla's pity. So, he nods along with the team recommendation to steer clear when possible.

Maybe that was for the best. After all, public image was nearly as important as race wins.

He gets a week to recover, train, and prep for the next race weekend. He has his one mandatory visit with his uncle, has a real return party with old friends, then gets ready for all the PR games and interviews in the lead up to the weekend. Feeling refreshed, confident, and ready to race, he arrives Friday for practice only to be stopped in his tracks by a ten foot tall Henry Kobyla looming down at him.

He nearly forgot this was his home race, too. Both Czech transplants who's families moved closer to Red Bull Ring to be a part of the racing culture there. Both did carting here. Both learned to drive on this track. The only difference was that Hans had the privilege to accend to the expensive, exclusive leagues, where Kobyla had the underdog story of working his way all his childhood into race win after race win. They probably raced against each other in childhood, but it wasn't as often as the others on the grid.

Hans had to admit, Kobyla's stints in Formula 3 and Formula 2 were impressive. That didn't make him any less insufferable to look up at. At least he had his own large promotional graphic vinyl plastered on the wall not five feet away from Kobyla.

Hans met up with his team, chatting about strategy as they did a track walk. Fans were already finding their places, and the papaya orange for McClaren was being choked out by blue and red. It was the Red Bull Ring, and a Red Bull driver's home race too-- but Hans had hoped for a little more of an equal turnout. It was still early, so he held out for race day.

Practice went pretty well, driving the track was like slipping on a glove. Getting the fastest lap was easy-- many teams were holding back to focus on data. McClaren also was primarily testing data, so getting fastest lap of the day was just a cherry on top.

Qualifying was another beast. Now all ten teams were pushing for the coveted podium, with a realistic four that were most likey to make up the front of the pack. Red Bull, McClaren, Mercedes, Ferarri. 

Hans flew by Q1, but narrowly survived Q2-- Stroll, the fucking dolt, slowed him down on his flying lap at the end of session. Thankfully he was slower than Hans, bumping him into Q3.

This was the more important run. Fifteen minutes to put down the fastest time, and part of that had to be used for strategy and tire prep. 

"Kobyla has a 1:24:29," his engineer announces in his ear as Hans maintains heat in his tires on his warm up lap. 

"The fucker has pole right now?"

His engineers chuckle a little in his ear. "Go get him, Capon."

He didn't need any more motivation. As soon as he rounded the last corner before the final straight, he pushed hard, straining his tires after flying past the finish line. He skated around the first turn, wheels hitting the painted line. 

Slow in, fast out. He rounds the hairpin and barrels down to Rouch turn. Tires squeal, pushing the limit of the as he rounds the double curve around the grandstands. He dodges a slowed Tsunoda, driving off the racing line to make room for Hans' flying lap. Rounding the final corner, he flies down the final straight, opening his rear wing when he enters the DRS zone.

"That was a.. 1:24:31, mate. Two tenths off from pole."

Hans grinds his teeth, pushing harder. He uses every inch of the track, painted line to painted line, mindful to keep at least one tire on the track so he didn't invalidate his lap. He nearly loses the tires on the final corner, but snaps his wheel and saves it as he flies down the final straight.

"Whoo! Mate, that's pole!"

Hans cheers a relieved laugh, seeing his orange livery flash on one of the grandstands screens as he passes. "By how much?"

"Let's see- a 1:24:28."

Hans grins in his helmet. He was only a tenth faster, but a tenth meant pole, and a tenth still was faster than Kobyla.

Both mattered, but beating him felt just a little sweeter.

It seems there was quite the showing for McClaren, fans bursting at the grandstands, warring between orange and blue. Kobyla did get second, it was a good weekend so far for both of them. 

Hans rather eat his shoe than let him pass during the race.

But first, PR. 

Hans was invited this weekend to talk and answer fan questions on one of the many stages dotting the outer paddock. He was grinning out at the wave of papaya signs, flags, and jerseys when the last name he wanted to hear was called next to join the stage.

No one told him Kobyla was going to be joining him, yet Hans instantly knew why. Between sharing the Red Bull Ring as their home race and both getting podium finishes in qualifying, fans were likely eager to hear their perspectives before the race that afternoon-- and it all fed into that supposed rivalry they had.

Hans says supposed, because more than once now Kobyla has brushed it off in interviews, saying he was just honored to race him. 

Hans wasn't falling for the shtick. Nice guys didn't fight so aggressively like he did.

Kobyla waves at his own wave of Red Bull fans, before nodding to Hans with a smile.

It was going to be a long morning. 

At first, it was easy questions Hans could cheekily laugh off or answer skillfully. His uncle was backstage, nodding him along even if it had been years since Hans needed guidance on these things.

Then came the theories on strategy and the race later that day-- where they were obviously pinned against each other.

"Do you think you can hold Kobyla off for fifty laps?" Asks a little girl, no older than ten. Hans smiles, though something defensive tightens in his chest. 

"I think I have a fair shot," he looks over to the other man, wondering if he saw the comraderie for what it was, a facade. "But it looks like we might get rain this afternoon, and we know how well rain turns a race to my favor."

Kobyla grins too, raising the mic. "Now hold on," he holds out a hand for the audience. "Rain won't be the only deciding factor here. Remember, I grew up with the same sluggish storms as you did, Capon."

"Well have to see who the better driver is, then."

"Or, who makes the best use of yellow flags and pit stops." 

A pleasant laugh falls through the crowd. The jab was barbless, at surface level. But McClaren were having a bad run with pit stops this year, and Kobyla must be making fun of them. Hans tightens his jaw, but keeps a smile up, for appearances. 

"Just keep yourself and others out of the wall, right?"

Kobyla grins, eyes boring into Hans from the other side the presenter. "I should be able to manage that."

Smug fucker. He's yet to have a DNF this season, for a crash or mechanical issue. Hans locks his jaw to keep his fake smile planted on his cheeks.

The fans eat it up. Their argument earlier in the season had no audio recorded, but videos of them talking heatedly had made the rounds. A rivalry was built, even if Kobyla refused to really acknowledge it.

Hans tried to hold his tongue. It didn't look good to be the hot headed one while the other driver only chuckled and smiled along.

After the fan talk, they got some time to prepare themselves for the race. Team meetings, suiting up, final bathroom breaks, then resting in near silence before he was required to walk out onto the track for the anthem. 

Then he was talking with his engineers, doing his final weigh in, and climbing in the car. It was almost time for the formation lap, so the teams walk off with the easy-ups and tire warmers to clear the field. 

"This will be the race of the century, I already call it." Hans can hear the loud echo of the casters as he leads the formation lap.

"Both our leads are hungry for the win. With points so close and the possibility of winning their home race, I'm sure we'll have a show today, lads."

"That's right, Kobyla is set to continue his streak of podiums, but will he finally be able to take the win?"

"If Capon let's him. Tension is high between these two drivers. I suspect we might see a few waved flags before we see today's result."

Laugher echoes off the grandstands and pavement. "What do you think? Red flags or just yellow?"

"Time will tell, won't it?"

Hans gets into position, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. His helmet gleaming in the sunlight, but it would be short lived. A storm was on the horizon, one like many they were used to where it would hit fast and drift off into sunshine again. Question was how wet would it get-- would it warrant going to Intermediate tires? Or does Hans risk losing control on the wet track to stay on slicks and avoid the pit stop?

A dozen strategies rattle in his head. Tire compounds, break biases, strategies that his other drivers might have, and how he might take advantage of it.

Kobyla tended to stretch his tires thin before the first mandatory pit. Hans would just have to stretch them a lap farther, at least, to get the upper hand. 

The lights above them come alive. Red blares down with the sun, as every driver waits with their foot at the ready. 

One, two, three, four, five..

Hans is flooring it as soon as the five red lights go dark, bolting to the back of his fitted seat. Anticipation bleeds like the sweat already lining his scalp-- Kobyla was already trying to squeeze the inside, but Hans closes the door before the make it to the first turn. He wavers once, blocking him from racing up the inside. He can't swerve the other way and block him again for risk of penalty, so he begrudgingly let him ease ahead-- his front wheels lined with his rears-- as they approach the hairpin. It's a squeeze, the crowd is a raging wave if colors as they fly past, Hans not yielding against Kobyla's aggressive style.

It goes like this for fifteen long laps, he and Hans building a gap from the pack. They were entering their first pit window, and it was a massive game of chicken to see who would pit first. Pit second, and you had the upper hand. Even a lap's worth of fresher tires was enough to change the whole race.

They were slowing a tenth of a second per lap, tires raw from both if their aggressive driving styles. Hans maintained first, a position he would have to hand over eventually to pit, with the intention of carving up from wherever he falls behind in new tires. Gaining this place back would be easy, if Kobyla wasn't ever present in his rear view.

"Let's switch to plan B, Hans. Plan B."

Hans blinks, flying into the back straight with an unsteady rear. "What? Why are we changing strategies?" He pants out, heel-toe from the break to the throttle through the final corner. 

"Tire wear, mate." His engineer buzzes. From here, he can hear they were bummed, too.

Hans sighs out, eyes half on the road as he anticipates Kobyla's attempt to squeeze the inside on the first turn. He closed the door again-- doesn't this guy learn?

"Box next lap, box box."

"Let's hold out," Hans pants, blinking away sweat as he rounds the hairpin. "We're still expecting rain?"

His engineer pauses, likely glancing through the dozens of screens of information they had in their periphery. "Estimated sprinkle in ten laps in corners four, five, and nine. Then, a rough twenty lap estimation of rain that'll sweep in from the north."

"Good, we wait for that," Hans says, taking corner after corner. "We'll pit for new Inters."

"Capon," Andrea comes on the line, their team principal. "You'll be racing on rims of you push your tires like that."

"I can do it– ah, fuck!" Kobyla had come almost side by side with him, but Hans won on the switchback. He was already wavering, pellets of rubber raining on the asphalt with every harsh turn taken.

"You're approaching the pit entrance-- box box, we're ready for you."

Hans lets out an exasperated sigh, glancing behind him at the shiny red and blue livery in his rearview.

He could ignore them and stay out, but he knew what it felt like when the tires were beyond help. Then to wait it out for rain? It was dangerous, and the risk outweighed the sting of pitting first. With a final glance, he flicks his wheel into the pit entrance, shifting down rapidly to make the pit speed limiter.

He finds the orange pit easily, sliding in and letting the crowd of engineers work on him. No damage yet, but medium tires are swapped for softs. If the mediums burned this fast, then..

So they were aiming for Inters, then. 

"Knock them dead, mate." Andrea urges, as the team step back for all clear and Hans flied out of the pit again. It was a good time, only under three seconds stopped for the pit, now feeling lighter on his feet as he breaks out of the pit lane.

"For the first time in his career Henry Kobyla leads--"

Crofty gets drowned out by the roar of his engine as he passes the grandstands. Hans lost five places, but he had recovered from worse, putting his head down to focus. This is what he was good at. The dance, the daring dives, the agressive attacks. He slips past his teammate, who lets him pass without the fight. After all, he was going to get tires next, if the comms were any indication. He'd cut up the field in time, too. 

Ah, a McClaren one-two, push Kobyla into third again. What wonders that'll do for the championship..

He slips past Russell on the next lap, chasing Charles tail as they race up the main straight. Taking a page out of Kobyla's book he forces the inside, and to avoid collision Charles lets him pass. They were nearly side by side, he earned the space, and it felt good to be given it.

Then he chases down Hamilton, three laps later he's passing him on the back straight,  sliding into second as they turn into the main straight.

Tires were wearing. He was fast, the last two laps beating his personal best here at Red Bull Ring. Sooner rather than later, he'd fade, and his momentum would slow.

But rain was coming. Half the track still blinded him with sun, the back half slowly turning grey with cloud coverage. In the brief glimpses he gets of the cloud line, he can see the downward brush of grey, the rain already falling in the distance. It wouldn't hit the track all at once, it's sweep through from one side to the other.

Just as he puts his nose down to chase Kobyla, the thought hits him like a train. Has the bastard not pitted yet? How is he still surviving on those tires?

As if he heard Hans bewildered thoughts behind him, Hans watches Kobyla dodge into the pits a few tenths in front of him. Hans flies by, gaining first place again.

The victory is soured immediately. If Kobyla waited this long for new tires...

No. Rain was coming, and it was too early for Inters. The whole grid would slowly shift to Intermediate tires in the next few laps, regardless of a recent pit. Surely, Kobyla is screwing himself over in the end, waiting so long..

His job now was to build a gap, so when he pits, there's less to make up for when he rejoins the race. 

But that crazy bastard... hasn't his engineer warned him?

Hans flies around for two more laps before the first droplets hit his visor on the back half of the track, turn nine. Yes! Kobyla would be forced to pit soon, sending him further back. Even if he fought his way back to the leading pack, he would waste precious laps doing it.

Hans holds out, watching for the wet parts of the track as the rain slowly takes certain corners. The rest of the track was dry, so he waited it out until Inters were absolutely necessary.

Two more laps. Hans slides out too far at turn ten, earning him his first warning for track limits. Then another two laps-- and Kobyla is knocking on his back door again.

"Fucker," he says, hoping he wasnt caught on comms. His softs were fading, but the main straight was still dry and he needed more rain to warrant the change. One or two more laps. He just had to stick it out a bit longer.

Kobyla had the faster tires, even in the wet. He skates side by side with him multiple times, Hans trying to push him out when he could. 

Don't give it, hold him back, pit first, wait for the pit--

Their tires touch coming out of the hairpin, where the road is slicked fully with rain. It was minor, a small tap that on dry track would be an annoyance, not an hindrance. 

But it was wet, Hans' car was unsteadied, and he spins.

"Fucking hell motherfucker--" He curses loudly as he faces the wrong way at the side of the track, thankful he wasn't in incoming traffic. Kobyla flies past, and so does Hamilton and his teammate.

"Fucking cunt, knocking me out of the way, stupid fucking --" He bites his tongue, knowing at any point they could cut to his comms and catch his vitriol. It was already recorded, and he could only hope it was too vulgar to show on the telly.

With a frustrated growl, he spins himself right when a gap in the grid returns, before he can stall the car. He snaps it onto the track, tossing water behind him as his wheels spin and catch, launching him back into the race. 

"Okay mate? Everything looks good on our--"

"Kobyla touched my back wheel," Han's snaps, falling behind Gasly. His tires were flat spotted and worn to shit, he wasn't going to fight his way to the front again like this.

"Got it, we'll call for an investigation."

Better be. "Please tell me you have Inters ready," he whines, taking a deep breath before he did something reckless. After all, Stroll was behind him, one wrong move and he could be put in the wall. "How far did I fall?"

"Yeah, we can be ready. You're currently P8, mate, P8."

"Where am I gonna end up after the pit?"

A half second pause, then a less enthusiastic response. "P12."

For fucks sake. "I can work with that."

"Just worry about keeping yourself arse on track, Capon," Andrea comes again. "Rain is going to get heavier before it passes. You’ll be sandwiched between two rookies when you come out, so stay vigilant."

At least he would be away from Stroll, he thinks to himself. He didn't need to be crashed out by the lesser half of Aston Martin.

Hans pits, breathing hard as he comes to a stop. His arms tingle with the familiar adrenaline of the daunting task ahead of him. He hadn't been this low on the grid all year, save for his DNF. It wasn't like his rookie season, where fighting for P10 was a victory. 

He thought of himself as a good driver. He had to be better.

They step away to clear the way, and Hans bolts for the pit exit. Just over 4 seconds. Bad, but serviceable– they had to check his rear tire well for damage.

The next five laps are routine, getting into the flow of the changing strategy of the rain. Avoid the racing line-- the rubber they all laid down made it as slippery as ice. Watch for puddles or debris, even if they had a pretty clean race so far. 

With rain, came yellow flags.

As expected, the rookie ahead of him dips a tire into the racing line and spins, crashing into the wall at the first turn. Hans gets a front row view, it was a good smack into the tire wall but nothing that made him think he was hurt. Still, a tire hangs simply off the suspension, and they'd have to crane the car off track.

What follows are five more laps of yellow. A few drivers pit, getting their Inters, and Hans slips back into the points. Unfortunately for Ferrari, he watches Sainz pit as the yellow flag is lifted a sector later, so he gets no benefit from the slower cars on track.

Then, they're racing again. Hans finds his rhythm, experienced in fighting Ferrari, Aston Martin, and Mercedes.

Then Kobyla appears ahead of him again. He had pit a few laps before, still dealng with traffic like Hans had. He grits his teeth. He was going to get past him.

Its like Kobyla eats up the drivers ahead, spitting them out for Hans to deal with. Alonzo, George, Charles, then Lewis. Hans keeps it steady, chasing and weaving around them shortly after Kobyla passes. 

Ten laps to go, and the rain is still going strong. P2. One more to go.

The spray made it hard to see, sometimes leaving Hans with only the flashing hazard light at Kobyla's rear end to guide him through the track. He knew this track like the back of his hand, through, rain or shine. Every shift, breaking point, and point to pass. 

So did Kobyla.

He pressed him aggressively each time he aimed for a pass. Right in his rear view, alongside him, trying to slip through. Kobyla was as good of a defender as he was an aggressor. 

A gap forms again. Kobyla has to push hard to defend against Hans, and Hans pushes hard to stay on his tail. The rest of the pack fade away.

Final lap to go. Rain was thinning, overcast but no longer raining down on them. Hans makes it up the inside at turn five, a wheel ahead of him.

"Give in, arsehole, give in," Hans growls under his breath, not loud enough for comms to pick it up. 

They stay side by side into turn six, neither of them willing to give up. It's dangerous, taking this turn and the next nearly zippered by the wheels. One twitch of the wheel, one centimeter miscalculated wrong, and they'd both be sent flying into the barriers. 

Hans takes the back straight full force. Pulling away, unzippering their tires so he could gain the lead. 

Then Kobyla breaks late at the next turn, and Hans has to yield or hit him, so the bastard is in front of him again.

"Fuck!" Hans groans out, throttle full force as they race down the main straight. There was no time to switch back, to fight for it again. He lost it, conceding for second place.

It was still massive points. He hadn't given up, he raced one hell of a race, but..

They make their final lap around the track so they can pit. First, second, and third place markers already wait for them, as Kobyla, Hans, and Russell pull in their spots.

Hans dismounts, idly watching Kobyla run to his team and jump in, nearly clearing the barriers in his exuberance. The crowd was nearly all blue and red, choking out Hans' bright orange.

He strips his gloves and loosens his collar. After he weighs in, someone from his team gets the HANS device unhooked from his neck, and he follows them to the barriers. 

He goes over to celebrate with is team too, getting many cheers and pats on the back. Second place was still fantastic, after the run he had, but he really really rather just be in front of Kobyla.

An odd thought strikes him-- why did that matter more to him than getting first? His championship was on the line, and Kobyla getting the win only increases the gap he had on him. 

He looks over at him, flicking the visor up for airflow as the other man wrenches off his helmet. 

Dark brown hair plastered with sweat sticks to his forehead. His face had the tell-tale red creases at his cheeks from the visor padding, bent with his big smile stretching his face. Blue eyes glitter as he pauses, team rioting behind him at the barrier. Cameras turn to him and his grin, and his ungloved finger pointing to the grey sky.

A familiar stir rises in his gut. It could be pride, if it didn't grow and strangle something in his chest.

Had he really never truly looked at him before? Finding him attractive made everything else ten times worse.

Then he was coming over, grand smile on his dented cheeks, cameras capturing every second of Hans' reaction. 

He swallows the lump in his throat and drags off his own helmet, sweaty blond hair sticking up at odd angles. His instinct was to take that feeling and twist it in his favor, steal the knife and use it before it's used on him. But he was on camera, and the instinctual desire to start yelling about the spin, the other’s insistent aggression, touching tires-- he wants to throw a punch, which wouldn't just ruin his reputation, it'll cost him. Money or penalty points or race bans-- for a red hot, flashing moment, punching in that aggravatingly handsome face was all he wanted to do.

But Hans bites the inside of his cheek, plasters a fake smile on his lips, and claps him on the shoulder, hard.

They did have a rivalry, after all.

"Congrats, mate," he starts, knowing the whole world was watching. "You gave one bloody fight."

"I’d say," Kobyla shakes his head, grinning still. It's like he doesn't even register the camera not two feet away. "I cant wait to see that last lunge of yours. I thought I was done for."

Hans just stares for a half moment, trying to make sense of this guy's deal. He fought hard, ruthless and remorseless on the field. Hans takes a good look at the grin and the excitement in his blue eyes. How could this.. dork be the same driver?

Hans nods a little, finding his words. "Let's get to the cool down room then," he dismisses, still half smiling, still keeping at bay an itch in his palms to hit him. There was something.. something smug about the change of character that clung onto Hans like smoke.

Did the fight mean nothing? Was the championship something he even worried about? He was winning the damn thing, and he was more worried about the highlight reel?

They part ways, Kobyla unaware of Hans' spiraling inner thoughts. Stewards start navigating them to the post-race interviews where they start with Kobyla.

Hans swallows a knot in his throat as they hand him the Pirelli hat, denoting his second place win here in Austria. 

"Wow, what a race, Henry! How are you feeling?"

The crowds from the grand stands, who were now allowed to rush the track for a closer look at them all, scream in unison as he grins. "Well, amazing really. It's an honor to have my first win so close to home."

"You're breaking records, that's for sure. Let's talk about the fight for first with Capon--"

Kobyla is laughing before she can fully finish her sentence. "The guy really knows how to work you. I'd say we both were fighting tooth and nail till the end."

"Thats for sure. Well congratulations again on the win, Henry! Enjoy this moment. Let’s hear now from our second-place finisher…”

Kobyla is motioned off camera, and Hans is brought center stage. Orange erupts in the crowd.

"What. A. Race. That was a tough battle today—how close did you feel you were to taking the win?"

The facade ripples evenly across his face. "We were just talking, actually, I thought I had him in the last corner."

“We definitely were at the edge of our seats! Now, you both had talked about finding who was the better driver in some press interviews earlier today, do you think we've found him?"

His facade cracks. His smile turns a little bitter-- they weren't expecting him to just concede like that, were they?

"Well, of course I'm the better driver," he says, earning a boisterous cheer from the crowd. The day he admits anything else will be the day he has one foot in retirement. "Kobyla just gave one hell of a fight."

The interviewer laughs, nodding along. "Well, brilliant race, Capon. Now Russell, you pushed hard today.."

He was ushered off, back through the garages, up a set of stairs to the cool down room. Russell was behind him a few moments later, just as red and sweaty but not as excitable as Kobyla was. George was a good racer, one Hans could wrap his head around...

But he was a posh twat, in the most complimentary way possible. Wasn't too fun at the afterparties, let's say, but usually a decent bloke on the track.

Hans digs his eyes into Kobyla's damp, dark curls as they find the cool down room.

Let's just get through this without becoming a PR nightmare.

So Hans busies himself. Taking a water, chugging a little before he makes himself sick on it. Flattens out his hair with his Pirelli hat, fixing and tucking his hair away. He peels out of the top half of his race suit, to give him some air to breathe. Wiping down his face and neck with one of the damp towels, he finally joins his other podium winners at the wall-to-ceiling LED screen showing highlights.

Kobyla had one hell of a drive. Pass after pass, near miss after near miss, Red Bull even pulled a sub two-second pit stop when he swapped to Inters. Hans scoffs, shaking his head as he tries to make sense of the worn tires they swapped out.

Kobyla hums in question, arms crossed over his chest as he watches intently. George is getting himself water, half paying attention to the reel.

Hans got no break, they were on camera here too. "Just-- how the fuck did you manage to keep driving on those mediums for almost 25 laps?"

He grins. "Dumb luck, I suppose. My engineer wasn't too happy about that one."

Hans blinks at him incredulously. Maybe that was how he can drive how he does and act how he is now. He was either fucking stupid or fucking crazy.

"Woah, there," he brings Hans' attention back to the screen. It was an aerial shot of their intertwined fight turn after turn. Then, Hans slingshots himself forward, tasting victory at his fingertips..

Kobyla was right in front of him after diving so late. You can see Hans’ car snap, to avoid the collision.

"Christ, mate, you're gonna kill someone out there with moves like that," Russell adds. Stepping to Hans' other side. Finally, someone with sense.

"Nah, I trust Capon had it, right?"

Wait. "Excuse me?" He stares over at the slightly shorter man. 

Kobyla gestures to the screen. "We nearly collided. I knew you had the reaction time, though."

"You dive bombed me!"

Kobyla chuckles. "Thats racing, isn't it?"

George snorts a laugh too, stepping away to sit down.

That itch in his palms grows    exponentially. To wipe that grin off his face..

Hans just shakes his head and sits down too, before he does something he'll regret.

Chapter Text

Hans was going to regret this.

He just touched down in São Paulo the night before, giving him just less than twenty four to adjust to the time change. His teammate had invited him out to this huge club that was celebrating Halloween, claiming he needed to unwind before the race weekend.

Hans was no stranger to partying on off weeks and after wins, but he had reined it back. Last week, he even got the pole win, but dodged the afterparty because Kobyla got screwed on tire strategy, finished in the midfield, but was still in the championship lead.

He wasn't salty. He just needed to focus.

This year was the closest he had been to a win, and he wasn't about to let a rookie steal it from him.

Especially not one who grinned at him like they shared an inside joke. Especially not one who talked in interviews like almost running Hans off the track was a perfectly fine thing to do. Especially not one that got under his skin like he had.

Maybe he did need a drink. Go dance, meet some strangers, forget about the upcoming race for a few hours.

The problem was that a costume was required for entry, so he now stood in a Brazilian pound store, looking at costumes made for incredibly cheap. He grabs one of the packages: fake teeth, a cape that must be fit for a baby, and a little tube of what he hoped was non toxic fake blood-- everything was in Portuguese, so he was going completely on visuals.

He suits up in the taxi, tying the shoulder-length cape around his neck and opening the wrapper for the teeth. 

He wasn't about to do shots with a mouth full of plastic, so he leaves that behind and instead dabs some of the supplied fake blood at the corners of his mouth, letting it drip a little as he checks progress in his phone camera.

Bare minimum vampire. It'll do.

The club was packed, a colorful line of people outside in costumes from ones like Hans to extravagant, glittery carnival wear. He ducks under a particularly feathery shoulder of a group of girls waiting to the side so he could flash his ID to the bouncer before being let in.

The numbing thump of music brought comfort, for a short moment, as Hans weaved between dancing bodies to the bar. Music like this was as close as he got to the chest deep rumble of the car, where it felt like he and the vehicle were all one. The music leads him in the club, a fish swimming among other bodies who were chatting, dancing, and drinking profusely.

A group of other drivers were around here somewhere, and looking up at the double balconies he bet they were up where VIPs might mingle. He might visit, but he didn't mind riding solo for the night.

Maybe that's what he needed, a night to drink-- lightly, he had a day full of PR tomorrow and practice the next. He'd chat with whoever knew a bit of English, dance and relax, make new friends. It was always fun to unfold the stories if race wins or harrowing crashes to a pretty lady who decided to stick by him for the night.

For now, he ordered something fruity off the laminated cocktail menu that dotted the bar, and a shot of Tito's to warm himself up.

A hand touches his arm, and expecting either a friend off the grid or someone already looking to chat him up, he turns and nearly does a double take.

"Oy, I didn't expect to see another driver here," Kobyla grins, but Hans took a half second to recognize him. His cheeks were shadowed with eyeshadow, the shimmer faint under the pulsing lights. His brow was defined, and lips were painted white and black like teeth on a skull. It was simple enough it was easy to recognize him past first glance, but it was still striking. 

What also was striking was his neck on display, the tight black shirt he wore, and dark jeans that were just barely brushing against him, since Kobyla had to lean in close for Hans to hear him over the music.

He was inches away, grinning and pinning him to the spot with those blue eyes, and Hans felt something clamp down in his chest.

"Half the grid is upstairs," is all he can manage to say. 

"Really? Suppose I'm not too surprised." He looks up at the balcony, as if he was going to see a familiar face dancing on one of the glossy tables that line the railing. Hans took the moment of reprieve to lean away, giving himself an inch of breathing room. The bartender slides his drinks in front of him.

"Are you going up?" Kobyla asks, eyes turning back to Hans, glancing momentarily at his drinks. 

"No," Hans says, fingers spinning the shot glass in anticipation. "I'm staying down here for the party."

Kobyla raises his brow, glances at the sea of costumed dancers, and looks back to Hans.

"I'm sure there's dancing upstairs, too."

Something patronizing in his tone strikes deep in Hans' chest, and he responds with his own coarse tone. 

"I'm fine. Kobyla. Go meet with the mates." He takes the shot, feeling the other man's eyes trail down his throat.

His Adam's apple bobs, before he leans in close then. "You know where to find me, then."

"Yeah, don't wait up."

Kobyla sighs a little as he leans away, and unmistakably Hans catches the disappointment cresting his painted features before his wide shoulders disappear in the crowd. 

What the fuck was that? Pity? Who the hell does he think he is?

Hans sucks in his lip, pushes his hair off his forehead, and turns back to the bar. Fuck this. 

"Two more shots, please."

The bartender leans over the counter. Saying something in Portuguese before he catches the broken English about that being his limit for the hour.

Fine. He could suck down cocktails, then. He just wanted to numb the sudden flash of anger that bubbles in his chest.

He sucks half his cocktail down before the bartender delivers his two shots. He'd be in pain tomorrow when he'd have to smile and joke along in interviews, but this is what his teammate wanted, right? To let off some steam?

Hans downs one, looking around the dance floor as he lets it settle in his system. So far he sees no familiar faces, either those he considered friends, or those he considered highly punchable.

But he does recognize the next song that plays, so he spikes the last of his drink, the taste sugary and tart of berry, and downs it in a few decent gulps.

Paying his tab, he floats out into the crowd, brushing up with a crowd of half dressed flamingos. Feathers tickling the back of his head, he finds himself between a shirtless Brazilian man who rattles off something in his ear and a bedazzled group of women who accept him into the fold. 

He doesn’t know what the man said, but starts dancing along to the rhythm of the song pounding overhead. A few minutes pass of restraint, rolling his hips but keeping his eyes drawn down at the sticky dance floor. After what feels like an eternity, he feels he earns a glance to the balconies.

He wasn't sure where the guys were at, but he had partied with them enough times to know they'd be up there and not down here-- one rogue, drunk fan and they'd be swallowed whole by the crowd. That's what VIP lounges were for, usually overlooking the main dance floor.

Hans was still new to the grid in a way, in his third year. Not as prolific as Lewis or Charles or Carlos, which meant he wasn't so readily recognized. He could survive the crowd, and preferred it sometimes. Nothing was more boring than just sipping something on ice and just watching the party unfold. Hans rather be part of the action.

The crowd shifts around him as they dance, the flamingos being steadily replaced with zombies and superheroes and costumes that are more like glittery lingerie than an actual costume. A particular green laced fairy– he assumes– started grinding conspicuously on him, and suddenly he found a group to party with.

It was a group of French tourists, he learned with relief, as French was a language he did know. They were in for the race, and when Hans said he was too and patiently waited for the realization to dawn on them-- and it didn't-- Hans decided to leave it at that. Maybe it was better he didn't fumble to notarize himself, and maybe this was really a lucky break. One thing he knew is that the French knew how to drink, and they were Alpine fans who didn't say a word about Kobyla or the bloody standings, probably because Gasly wasn't in contention.

That suited him just fine. He bummed another two shots off their celebration, the little fairy that first introduced him glued to his side since he joined their group. He nicknamed her Tink, which she seemed to like.

He was well buzzed, heart hammering along with the music. They went from drinking to chatting to dancing as the night went on. He probably could have spent the rest of the night in their group if Tink hadn't started to pepper his neck with glittery kisses as they danced. 

A knot grew in his stomach. He probably could follow her back to her hotel to really have some fun, but something threw him off, like he was doing something he shouldn't. 

Tightening his jaw, he watches her twist and dance in front of him, biting her lip. That's where the night was inevitably barreling torwards, but then he caught eyes across the dance floor.

At the bar where he began the night, Kobyla had a beer in hand and was staring at him.

Oh, fuck him. He was going to keep him from getting laid, too? What more did this man want? He was already stealing the championship from him and embarrassing Hans with his flippant disregard of their rivalry. 

He needed to clear his head. Excusing himself to take a piss, he shoves past drunken dancers to find his way to the dimly lit hall for the bathroom.

Washing his hands, he finally gets a good look at himself in the sticker-bombed mirror. His hair sticking up a little, sweat lined his scalp, and Tink's green and white glitter dusting his neck and cape. 

The man in the mirror looked like he was tired, pissed, and needed another drink.

"Hans?" A deep voice echoes against the grimy tile from the door, making his heartbeat skyrocket.

"Fuck off, Kobyla," Hans bites out, as the other man rounded the partition if stalls to find the wall of sinks. 

He huffs a breath. "You looked like you were going to be sick."

"Yeah, and why are you watching me anyway?" Hans continues to sneer, knuckles white against the countertop. "Party's upstairs."

"Upstairs got boring."

"Oh and stalking me is the new fad, huh?" Hans looks up to him, expecting that sympathetic fold in his brow, but is caught off guard at how mad he looks-- makeup only defining what was already there.

"What's your problem?" He starts, finally hearing a sort of low simmering anger in his words. "I've done nothing but be nice to you."

"Nothing!?" Hans laughs, but even to his ears it's hollow. "You've been in the way of everything since you joined the grid."

It's Kobyla's turn to laugh humorlessly. "Don't make this about the championship, Hans. I'm talking about right now, outside the car."

"Right now is the championship. Every waking moment for me is the championship!" Hans waves his arms wide. "For years I've been toiling away for this win only for a fucking rookie to steal it right from under me!"

Kobyla points at his chest, tone rising. "I've earned my place on the track, same as you. If you're getting piss drunk and being this much of a brat over a fair fucking fight, I would hate to see what you do with a real disadvantage."

Hans shakes his head, carding his fingers through his hair as he turns back to the mirror. Restraint was waning– the longer Kobyla was here, the more he wanted to fucking deck him. "What are you even doing here? Go back to the party."

He hears him sigh, but he isn't walking away. "You're drunk, Hans. Let's just go back to the hotel."

"I'm fine." Hans gritted out, setting fists on the sink, using his last threads of restraint.

"No you're not. Let's just go, al--"

He had set a hand on his arm, and Hans had meant to spin around, arm out with a punch aimed to his jaw. Instead, his hand knotted into a fist in the hair at the back of his head and Hans crushed his lips to his.

It was as if fire raged white hot up his chest, already getting that airy, breathless feeling mere moments into the kiss. Instead of overflowing with that intense, fire-fueled anger, it finally had a place to go.

Oh.

They spin, Kobyla's arse bumping aggressively into the sink counter. Nails grate against Hans' ribs before fisting his shirt and pulling him closer. One bruising kiss is replaced with another, face paint smearing between the both of them. Both sets of hands roam, pulling at clothes, pulling each other closer. Hans is dizzy, bloodflow sinking to his groin the longer Kobyla lets him kiss him. It isn't until Hans gets a hand under his shirt, scratching the hard plane of muscle there before Kobyla is pulling away.

"Hans, you're drunk," he pants out, separating them. 

"I'm fine, just get back here--"

Firm hands plant themselves at his shoulders, shifting the shitty cape too far one way. "I'm not going to fuck you if you're drunk."

His reply dies in his throat, mind where he could put that deep voice and big mouth to better use. 

"Who said you'd be fucking me? What if I wanted to fuck you?" He says, lacking the bite he intended.

The other lets Hans plant his swollen lips at his neck, as he lets out a snort of a laugh. "Even more reason to wait until you're of sound mind."

"Oh come on, Kobyla--"

"Ah ah, and there's that." He pulls Hans off of him again. "If you want to fuck me, you'll have to call me Henry."

Hans rears his head back as little to look at him fully, surprised. "That was quite demanding for you."

Kobyla then raises a hand, brushing a knuckle against Hans' cheek. "You don't seem to mind."

His proud grin makes Hans' world tilt, embarrassed. He felt out of control. Kobyla already got under his skin, and now he had this over him? What should he expect, give him an inch and he takes a mile. Leave the door open at a corner and there he was, running him off the track. 

Hans scoffs, tone strained, defensive. "Nevermind." He pushes away, breaking out of Kobyla's hold on him and heading for the door.

"Wait-- Hans--"

The door squeaks as he leaves, that chest-rattling music enveloping him like a coffin. Hans can hear him shout after him as he dives into the crowd with the goal of getting to the exit before Kobyla can catch up to him. At first, it's easy, the flamingos are well and drunk, letting him slip past. The dozens of other bedazzled or otherwise decorated dancers accept him into the fold and part as he pushes his way past raining confetti and beach balls painted like pumpkins. Distracted, he doesn't realize who he bumps back to back to when he finds an open path closer to the bar.

"Oh, sorry mate-- hey!" Lewis grins, dressed like a stereotypical mechanic, setting a hand at his arm. "I thought everyone would be upstairs by now... you okay, Capon?" He gestures to his face. "You have a little.."

Oh shit, the facepaint.

He wipes his lips with the back of his hand, pulling away enough to cut the conversation off short. "Yeah yeah, fine. Just headed back to the hotel." He poorly tries wiping his face again. "See you at the track, mate."

Lewis gives him a concerned look, but lets it go. "Get back safe, okay?"

Hans is already moving away from the line where the bar and the dance floor converge, pushing past group after group of costumed people to get to the front entrance.

This was a mess. Hans still felt unsteady from the alcohol and the way Kobyla made him feel, only compounding with the championship at stake and the fact that it was slipping away, and he had no control.

The cool air does help loosen the tightness in his lungs. After his hasty leave, a new line of sweat painting his scalp, all that pent up energy has no where to go.

He deflates. More than anything, he feels like an idiot for reacting so harshly. Did Kobyla deserve it?

Did Henry deserve it?

He scrolls on his phone, looking for an Uber. For Lux, the only ones available for thirty minutes out, at least.

With a defeated sigh, he sits on the curb. The street now was empty, with a few retreating partiers walking a few blocks down already from the club. The bouncer was tucked inside, with no line to tend to. 

He was alone, and maybe a little cold, and now the alcohol was doing nothing but making him feel sorry for himself.

Another year wasted. This was his closest chance to get his first championship win, and like sand it was escaping him. After mulling around the idea, maybe having Henry be the one to steal it wasn't the worst outcome. Hans had seen the clips from his career in F3 and F2, and he raced against him plenty to know first hand there was genuine, undeniable skill there. You can't teach the confidence in the car that he has. 

The door behind him opens, and he was sure he knew who it was.

"There you are," Henry greets, as if releasing a breath of air. 

Hans pushes his hands in his hair, turning his head to rub a palm into his eye tiredly. He was on the downward spiral in multiple ways, the lull in action and alcohol making the late night catch up with him.

Only a few moments pass before he sits next to Hans at the curb with a crunch of gravel.

He holds out, to Hans' bewilderment, a shop rag. He takes it, realizing it was just a strip of cheap cotton fabric meant to look like a shop rag.

"Hamilton said you might need this."

Hans bows his head into his arm, grinding away the embarrassment.

"Of course he did."

"I did try to warn you." 

"Yeah?" Hans says, lifting his head to wipe what he could from his face with the cheap cloth. "And nothing else?"

"Well, you bolting like that might've been part of it. Just be lucky Hamilton can keep a secret."

Hans rolls his eyes, twisting the dirtied cloth in his hands. "I'm less worried about it being a secret. Though the team might feel a certain way about sleeping with the enemy."

Henry snorts. "Horner would probably bust a vein. Or ask me to get covert knowledge for sexual favors."

Hans chuckles too, shaking his head. "You're the one winning, Henry."

A beat of silence stretches between them, and Hans looks over to see Henry's smug grin. His facepaint was also smudged grey, but he'd need a little more than a dry cloth to clean up properly.

"You called me Henry."

"Shut up," Hans dismisses, smiling a little too, looking back to the street. 

"Was that for fucking or being fucked? Remind me."

Hans shoves him with his shoulder, crossing his arms and resting them at his knees. "It's for respect," he replies honestly. "And it's earned. I just have trouble accepting it."

"I can tell. I'll say I have no trouble thanking you." Henry replies softly. "I always told the truth, you're one of the best on the grid. I am honored to share a track with you."

"Save the lines for the camera," Hans smiles, looking his way to find his eyes. It was surprisingly tender despite the angry facepaint.

"Everything doesn't have to be about work."

Hans chuckles a little, tone full of playful disbelief. "Yes, it does. Henry-- no one dominates like you do without living and breathing the sport."

Hans can see it now, the peek of Henry's own embarrassed smile. "Well, yeah, I suppose." He looks to Hans again. "I don't mean to get in your way. I don't want you to take any of it personally."

Hans rolls his eyes again. "Opposed to what? I assume you've been online. The fans seem to think we're at each other's throats."

Humor crests his painted face. "We were at each other's throats, Hans."

"I was only at your throat," Hans corrects, a heat rising on his skin. "If I recall."

"I can fix that," Henry continues with that playful grin. "If you would like."

"Hah, funny." Hans tilts his head toward him slightly. "Ignoring the fight on track doesn't change the fact that we're fighting."

"I'm not ignoring it, I just.." it was Henry's turn to sigh, searching for the words in the grimy pavement. "Maybe I thought not making it a big deal would help you hate me a little less. It's just racing. We're only doing our jobs."

Hans' words are quick, but soft. "I don't hate you."

Henry grins again. "I know. You realize you are very easy to rile up anyways, right?"

Hans shakes his head. "The likelihood of those sexual favors working is dropping by the second."

Henry snorts. "Oh shame. I suppose we'll have to fuck for fun, then."

He can't help but grin. "I thought I was too drunk."

Hans can see the restraint in his smile. "You probably still are. Not to mention we have a five AM wake up call tomorrow."

The reminder nearly brings real, physical pain, and Hans groans to show it. "Don't remind me."

Henry chuckles. "Should I call a taxi?"

"I got it covered.” Hans lifts his phone. "Ride with me back to the hotel?"

Hans watches Henry bite his lip, poorly hiding a smile. "No sex tonight."

Hans was sure he could pester and argue his way into more, but he almost wanted to savor this new development. Admittedly, it made the stressors of the upcoming weekend a little easier to stomach, knowing more of this was in his near future. 

"What if I cash in some making out and fondling as that sexual favor?"

Henry grins again, biting Hans' offer. "In trade for what?"

"Sorry to say I don't have much in strategy to give RedBull the upper hand. But I have heard making out with me is reward enough."

This earns another snort from Henry, shaking his head. "How about this, I offer making out and some light fondling, and you promise to give me one hell of a fight this weekend."

"What, is a race weekend foreplay for you?"

"Its not for you?" Henry replies, just as cheekily fast.

"Alright," Hans starts to glow pink down his neck in the low streetlight. "Deal." He holds out a pinkie, and Henry smiles at him again. Linking their fingers, he wastes no time to drag him into a stretched, sideways kiss. 

There goes the rest of the face paint. Hans doesn't feel inclined to come up for air until a car pulls up asking for his name, and they both pile in. Paying the premium for Uber Lux earns them an ounce of privacy behind the driver screen and some moody, dim lighting inside, so Hans takes no time to cash in on Henry's side of the promise while he could.

— —

Hans, in short, created a monster.

He was well aware that Henry was the type of person to use what advantages he could get to have the upper hand. In his career, that meant hunting for driver errors and gaps like a wolf on the prowl, and for Hans, that meant every chance he got during PR day, practice and the press junket after qualifying, he was giving him looks that could kill a man and whispering things in his ear whenever he got the chance. While sly compliments and mischievous looks were nice, one comment stands out. Pass me in Quali and I'll have a treat for you. 

Hans got provisional pole.

In his personal life, for how brief he's known him, that mentality seemed minimal. Like any other driver on the grid, they were paid well and had a fair amount of influence. The only way Henry wielded that was frequent donations to a few different foundations for mothers in need and the few times he's spoken out about drunk driving. 

In about three seconds of Google searching him, Hans found out he lost his parents in a car crash, which confused him a little. His father, Radzig Kobyla, was a Formula driver in Hans’ father's days with his own set of companionships won– he also was alive and well. Hans read through some old quotes about his parents passing and drunk driving from the start of his public career that were a lot more bitter, but lately he seems to be more concerned about getting help to people like the man who accidentally killed his parents.

The mother's-in-need thing Hans had to ask about, while he and Henry got a quiet moment the night before race day. It was getting late, but fans still partied down below around the various booths and stages. Up here, they caught a VIP area left empty, and took advantage of it. Taking up a plush patio loveseat they had an electronic firepit fit ahead of them, giving them that and the stars to see each other with.

They sat close, but they hadn't fooled around since Wednesday night. They also were more committed to being sober for work, so they drank from the track-provided glass bottle waters instead. Hans leaned in to him, elbow half on the arm of the patio loveseat and half on Henry's shoulder. Propping his head up, watching him intently, he listens.

"Well, that was me and my Ma for a while. I don't remember much of those days, I was only four or five when she met my Dad, Martin. He made us a family again. Treated me like his own flesh and blood, loved my mother fiercely."

Hans frowns, voice quiet. "But, you're name.."

"Yeah, I know. Racing is in my blood, isn't it?’ Henry smiles a little as he continues. “Radzig Kobyla was a bit of a playboy, and Ma was too stubborn to go chase his tail and tie him down with family. He didn't know I existed until I was making waves in carting." Henry clears his throat. "I had talked about it with my parents about a year before the accident. At home, I'm Henry Kovář. Publicly, I'm Henry Kobyla. It really gave my career footing in F4. Radzig accepted me as his son, always trying to make up for the first 8 years of my life. Now, he tries to fill the gap Ma and Pa left."

“Oh, Henry,” Hans reaches out with his propped elbow, cupping the back of his head gently. "I'm sorry for your loss. I had no idea."

Henry smiles, with no lingering bend of emotion in his eyes. Hans guesses he had done his grieving, and wasn't wounded by it anymore, at least not outwardly. 

Was it a mask? Hans finds himself wishing he knew his tells, as Henry tilts his head back into Hans' hand. "It's okay, we're quiet about it." He takes a swig of his water like it was a beer. "From what I hear, you don't have the perfect family, either."

Hans scoffs, stretching out like a cat-- hand still playing with the hair at Henry's neck. "No, definitely not."

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Hans grins, watching the lift of the fire dance on his face. "Why, because we're much more public about the Capon drama?"

Henry shakes his head with a chuckle, although now he sees the fold of worry in his forehead. "They have your father's crash on camera. I thankfully never had that curse."

Hans nods past the veneer of humor. It was a bit of a curse. The video made the rounds whenever he himself had a bad crash, or when he did anything remarkable with his career. The fans, bless them, were also apparently psychopaths. Hitting the wall did not require memorials and racing history lessons to flood social media.

“Apt,” he murmurs softly. “I lived with my Uncle, after my father died and mother fell into this spiraling depression. I think she's in France right now? I haven't seen her in.." Hans lets out a breath of air. "Four years now? She made a showing at one of my F2 races drunk, talking to the media about my father. God, my manager had me disable my phone for the whole week. My DMs weren't safe with as much vitriol being tossed at my family."

"Christ, Hans."

Hans only smiles a little. "She has a reputation to be a fucking mess, my uncle is a right bastard who thinks my career will either bust or I'll die like his brother, my father ended a prolific career with a equally prolific crash, and I'm trying to fill shoes no one wants me to have. Are you sure we cant sneak down to the cafe for a bottle of wine? Champagne, at least?"

Henry smiles lightly, cozying up closer to him. "Your family must be fun on the break."

Hans snorts. "I have one, mandatory dinner with Hanush when I'm in town for RedBull Ring. In the off season, I'm vacationing as far from home as I can." Hans swallows more bitter comments. "Nothing for me at home anyway."

Henry is looking at him with that tender, thoughtful look he was so good at. It only worsened when their legs were brushing and we're a mere few inches away from kissing, if they so choose. "Stay with me for the break. At least part of it."

Hans scoffs, heart leaping at the offer. He funnels that feeling in the nervous twisting at the nape of Henry's neck. "You cant be serious."

"Why not?" Henry grins. "I usually keep quiet on breaks. You can meet Radzig. We'll stay at my villa in Pyšely. Make day trips into Prague when we want some noise, stay back and slip between the jacuzzi and the bed when we don't."

Hans can't help but to smile, too. It sounded.. nice. A quiet break, without the parties, the swimming off of yachts and finding mildly extreme sports to pass the time. 

Or maybe he should decline offers to go do anything with Carlos on the break. Having a rally driver as a father has done something irreversible with his danger radar.

He turns a little more towards Henry. "And what do we do all alone in your villa?"

"I can think of a few things," he says, letting Hans pull him in by the back of the neck. Their kiss is warm, full with good feelings and a long ache in his chest. He can hear Henry fumble with the glass bottles, setting his down then taking Hans’ to set it blindly on the low table in front of them. Then, a cool hand cups his cheek, and Hans melts.

Hans completely forgets he was supposed to hate this man. Henry was still up on him in points, and if Hans won tomorrow he'd finally take back the championship. He should be back at the hotel, training or resting for the big race.

Instead, he was moaning into his mouth.

It was hard not to get lost in the kiss, now that Hans yielded to it completely. There were still shouts and music down below, and anyone with access could stumble upon them.

Hans didn't care. What's a weekend without a little drama?

Without breaking the kiss, he pushes Henry back against the back cushion of the loveseat and throws a leg over his lap. His thighs were large and warm under his, strong and stable.

“And what do you think you're doing?” Henry grumbles affectionately, mouth now planted at his throat.

“Cashing in on that treat.”

Henry hums, arms more securely wrapping around his middle, hands running up his back. Hans keens like a cat, tangling his hands in Henry's hair. Flush chest to chest, he impatiently waits for him to trail wet kisses up to his ear to reply.

“This isn't the position I had in mind for that treat.”

“Oh?” Hans hums back, brushing his lips against his temple as Henry continues to pepper him. Steadily, blood flow was flooding elsewhere. “Then what was?”

He can feel Henry smile, no speaking against his jaw. “You really want to do this here?”

“Why not?” Hans breathes, rolling his hips down on Henry's own growing hard on under his jeans. The last thing he wanted was to wait till they got to the hotel. The smarter option, but Hans was impatient.

Henry's low groan reverberates between them, skin off skin. “Public indecency laws, for one.” Still, he wasn't slowing, hands now roaming down to Hans’ arse as he grinds.

“What, were we going to fuck for this little treat?” Hans' breath was catching, hand tightening in his hair.

Henry chuckles again, leaning his head back a little into the sensation, hitting him with blown, half lidded eyes. “No, not yet. Maybe I'll have you work for that one, since you did so well with a little motivation.”

A heat starts to rise up Hans’ neck. “And you complain I worry too much over work.”

“Well, that's the thing,” Henry runs hands back down his arse, but this time, he gains a firm grip. With a small grunt, he stood with Hans in the air, before flipping them around. He half kneels between Hans legs, pressing into him so now Hans hard on was nearly flush against Henry's stomach. “I'm not worried.”

As Henry grins, Hans flushes fully red from his cheeks to his ears to his neck. He'd love to kick his jeans off and start peeling off their mandatory team gear, but Henry was right about being in public. They'll just have to make due like horny teens before they get caught.

“Of course you aren't," Hans grumbles without a drop of the venom he would have a week ago. “So, what's this–”

Henry starts to trail kisses down Hans chest, cutting his words off with his silent answer. Ah.

“Just lie back and keep quiet, alright?" Henry mumbles, pushing Hans' team gear up off his stomach, going from mid-sternum to belly button to hip slowly, kiss by kiss.

Hans locked his jaw immediately, letting his head rest back on the back cushion. He didn't know what to do with his hands, since it had been a few years since he's been with another man, let alone had one go down on him.

He does reach down, cresting Henry's ear and cheek, in a small attempt to keep a connection going between them. Blowjobs can turn so one sided, and immediately he didn't want Henry to think he was just cashing in what was metaphorically owed and nothing more. 

Henry tilts into his hand gently, but he was on a mission. First, he holds the fabric of Hans shirt away, exposing his stomach. With the other, he starts picking at his jean buttons, all while kissing– then nipping– at his flesh. 

The anticipation has Hans straining in his pants. As Henry starts to unfold the jeans and shimmy them away enough so he has a little space to work with, Hans helps by lifting his arse and getting in a better position for him. Henry settles in to kneel between the couch and the center table, resting his arms on Hans thighs.

Christ. Even under the shirt, he can see the curve of his shoulder muscles flex as he leans in.

Henry savors him like dessert. Slow motions, dragging his swollen lips against the taut fabric of Hans’ pants, before he starts mouthing at his dick, wetting the fabric with his saliva.

Hans rests his head back again. Watching the half lidded look in his eyes, the slow, languid motions of his lips and tongue were going to drive him right to the edge far too early.

Maybe it was a bad idea to do this here. 

He bites his lip, hand brushing Henry’s hair as he moves. Without lifting his tongue from the damp fabric of his hard-on, Henry starts to peel at his pants to release his dick in full. Feeling the cool night air as he's exposed to is paired well with the slip of Henry's lips across his base. 

Hans had never been more aware of how out in the open they were then, even if the closest people were two stories down and too preoccupied with the music and dancing to even know they were up here. It sends a dangerous sort of thrill up his spine. While he can't imagine doing anything more risky than this, the fact they were going this far sweetens the high of feeling Henry's tongue against his dick.

Henry is extremely thorough, which doesn't surprise Hans at all. Actions still slow and deliberate, he wets him base to tip, and Hans can only imagine the mess he was making between them both. 

Would he walk out of here with remnants of Hans smeared on his face? Invisible, or nearly invisible to the normal passerby, but Hans would know, and so would Henry, and the possessive thought sends Hans spiraling.

“Christ, Henry," he found himself saying, eyes still half closed.

“Hm,” Henry murmurs against his head. “I thought you'd hold out a little longer before you'd beg.”

Fucking hell, presumptuous bastard.

He never wanted to fuck a man more in his life.

“Is that why you're going so bloody slow?”

He can nearly feel his smile against the base of his dick. “Maybe a little." He licks up Hans dick, closing his mouth against the head in almost a kiss. “You're whimpering, I was just about to give you your first noise complaint.”

Hans almost laughs, but the air gets punched from him when Henry finally takes him in his mouth and suckles. “God– do you plan to spank me and make me call you daddy, too?”

Now he can feel him grin, murmuring his reply against the head. “You're putting significantly more thought into it than I am.”

Then he drops down to the top of his throat, and bobs up again. 

“Of- ah-” He bites down to tamper his moan, God forbid he starts to whimper again. “Of-fucking-course. Let me guess--" Henry then takes him in his throat, making Hans see more than just the stars above. It takes him a long moment to find his words again without crying out from the sudden wave of pleasure. “You want to-to- rile me up?”

He hates how breathless he sounds. He hates how close it was to a whining moan. He'd think of ways to get him back, but he was too busy trying not to come down his throat.

“I want to turn you on,” Henry says, coming up for air. His voice already has that coarseness only sucking dick could give you. “Stop blushing, and I'll stop.”

Then he's back at it, and Hans is torn in so many ways– embarrassed, a little pissed, a lot infatuated, and more turned on than he's ever been in his life. 

Henry finds a good, steady tempo, throating him like he was made for sucking cock. Hans would say he had a sizable dick, more long than thick and something he never had any complaints about. The fact that Henry took him so easily and eagerly drives him closer and closer with every bob of his head.

He's far closer to the edge than he wanted to be, but maybe that was by Henry's design. It reminds him of how quickly they could be caught so in a spike of wanton adrenaline, he's close enough to warrant his own warning. 

“Oh, Hen- Henry, I'm–”

The low hum in his throat as he bobs sets him over the edge. There was no chance to decide where he was coming, and Henry could have popped off if he wanted. But he didn't, sinking low and swallowing shallowly, grunting and planting his hot palms at Hans' stomach. Stars permeate the backs of his eyelids, mouth agape, breathless and vaguely still aware he should be quiet as he floods his throat.

Oh, fuck. He was ruined. One blowjob and he was already convinced nothing could compare. Maybe it was just how Henry operated, soaking into Hans’ bones like a second skin. Pissing him off, caring for him, and being a bit of a menace in the bedroom.

He's vaguely aware Henry was tucking Hans back in his pants, crawling up to bring him back to earth. “Hey, hey, hey,” he calls softly, hand cupping Hans cheek. “Come back to me.”

Hans blinks his eyes open, finding Henry's eyes and his gentle grin. His lips were swollen, and he could almost tell in the low light that he was a bit sticky, but Hans didn't care. His arms come back online and he's yanking him by the hair to his lips.

“Fucking bastard,” he mumbles against his lips. “I can't believe–"

Shoulders shaking, Henry laughs into their kiss. “Yeah, yeah, alright. My ego doesn't need any fluffing.”

Part of Hans felt pissed– really, he just burned under his skin and didn't know what else to do with that feeling. Even though, he smiles too, foreheads touching. “Of course it doesn't. Not between how you drive on track and how you suck dick like this.”

Henry is chuckling again, sitting beside him, half turned towards Hans still. Jeans still undone, Hans is already tucking a leg under him to try crawling into his lap again.

“Hey,” Henry laughs good naturedly. “Now what are you doing?”

Hans takes his lips, only making it far enough to settle him on the cushions again. “Repaying the favor.”

Henry still smiles, one hand at Hans' hair, the other at his shoulder to stop him from crawling in his lap. “We should probably clear out before we really are found.”

Hans raises a brow, sitting back on one of his heels as the other leg stretches out in anticipation to throw it over his legs again. He reaches between them, calming the still stiff tent under his jeans. “No way am I going to be the only one with their dick out for the stars to see.”

Henry snorts, which really shouldn't be an attractive noise, but it has Hans reaching for any amount of skin he can reach with his lips, trying to crawl into his lap again. This time Henry yields an inch, and Hans finds himself sat back more on his knees, giving his hands some room to work. 

“We could have found somewhere better to give a blowjob,” Henry hums. “But someone was impatient.”

“You didn't seem eager to leave either.” Hans argues, claiming him, leaning forward to kiss his neck.

“You had me pinned down--" he hides another groan with a chuckle. “Much like you do now.”

A thrill of comeuppance runs up Hans’ spine. He pulls away to give him a smug grin, not unlike their first meeting. “You didn't seem to mind.”

Henry didn't bother hiding how he rolls his eyes. “What's your plan then?”

“I'd say it's fairly obvious," Hans hums, pulling at the buttons of his jeans. “Just lay back, and try to keep quiet.”

Henry's grin is alive and unbidden, as he leans his head back on the couch rest. Hans makes quick work of his pants, pulling fabric away and releasing him from those tight confines.

Henry was a little thicker than him, but still had a worrying amount of length. Hans was never good at deepthroating the few times he tried, and instantly knew he wouldn't be able to go head to base with Henry, not without some significant practice.

He'd tab that for another day.

For now, he wraps his hand around him like he would his own dick, and leans forward to kiss the underside of Henry's jaw. It's searching, for a few moments, as Henry lifts his head and Hans trails kisses till he has his lips again. 

He tasted faintly of salt, but the taste of his own come was long lost down his throat. It still did something bone deep and possessive to Hans, knowing that his taste would linger.

Hans starts with slow, testing strokes, wondering how quickly Henry would crumble and beg for a little more. It was only fair, right?

After a few strokes, Hans lifts his hand to give it a bold lick, attempting to add a bit of lubrication to the mix. For this, he takes a long lick, trying to impart as much saliva as he could and get back to the task at hand.

Henry hums at the sight, resting his head back again when Hans’ slick hand wraps around his dick again. Now he had much more fluid movements, rubbing his spit over the head and down to his base, or as far as he could reach with the jeans in his way. 

Hans leans forward again, kissing a bit of stubble at his throat. It had been a while since he was this intimate with another man, sometimes it was easy to forget how sharp and sturdy men were. While women had a certain plushness to them, regardless of the amount of pilates and diets those grid girls always sported, men were normally carved from stone. 

Henry was no different, throat a stiff plane to work wet kisses into, only exemplified by the neck resistance training they all had to do. His shoulders could hold boulders, his arms holding Hans by the waist as he worked. His touch was gentle, tender– but the stunted breath and his wet lips showed that Hans was starting to get under his skin, too. 

Arms flex. Henry is hesitant to grip him, he can feel it in the hesitation in his hands.

“Don't hold back on me,” Hans breathes into his skin, increasing his tempo steadily. “You don't anywhere else.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “I'm not holding back, I just–” He swallows again, cheek to cheek with Hans as he strokes him. “I've wanted this longer than you probably expect. I think it's only now hitting me that I'm really here with you.”

Hans can't help but grin, holding back the laugh that bubbles in his chest. “You've had my dick down your throat–”

Henry lets his head fall back. “Fuck, I did.”

“And it's only now hitting you?” 

He swallows again, fisting his hands at his shirt. Hans grins mischievously, watching his jaw flex as he strokes him. “Have you had a little crush on me, Henry?”

“Christ, I can tell you're going to be insuff-”

He bites his lip, as Hans gives his head a testing squeeze. “How long, Henry?”

He adds squeezes to his strokes, leaning away from his face enough to watch pleasure ripple across his features. 

Henry smiles, embarrassed, as his ears go red. “Your rookie season.”

Hans brows go up, watching as Henry lifts his head to meet his eyes, Hans' hand never slowing. 

“You won in Hungary.” He sighs out. “I had just crashed out in F2, and was watching the stream while I waited to fly out early.” Heat rises on his cheeks as he holds Hans’ eyes. “You pulled off your helmet to celebrate with your team, and something about the sweat– and the look of victory on your face–” Hans hand stutters, squeezing, gripping him eagerly, wanting to hear where he was going. He remembered that day, it was his first win in Formula 1. He wasn't a miracle worker like Henry was– he won from a mixture of champion contenders that year DNFing and Hans pushing for first among drivers that were more his speed at the time. 

He was elated, winning being the best feeling in the world.

“I made it through the flight and got to the hotel in Belgium. Fuck, Hans–” He bites his lip, fists roaming higher on Hans’ sides. “I jacked off with a fucking broken rib to that image of you. I couldn't get it out of my head.”

The confession ripples down Hans' insides, and for a moment he thinks he could go for a round two just from watching him slowly unravel. But this was about Henry, so Hans leans into his ear, brushing his lips there. 

“Did you stroke yourself like this?” He changes to long, slow strokes, keeping his fist uniformly tight as he moves. 

A sheen of sweat breaks across Henry's face. “Faster.”

Hans quickens, grinning into his ear. “Just like this? You were eager for it, weren't you?”

Henry leans his cheek into Hans’. “It was a long fucking flight.”

Hans curls his free arm around his neck, supporting his head, keeping them close while still being able to stroke him. “As soon as you got to the room? Before you even pulled the sheets back?”

A shutter runs down his spine. “In the shower.”

Oh, what Hans would give to see that. He'd have to ask for a reenactment when he got the chance. 

Hans himself lets out an approving moan, focused on keeping his speed. “Is this why you keep finishing ahead of me?”

Hans wasn't serious, and Henry catches it between panting waves of pleasure, letting out a huff of a laugh.

“Too afraid to see me win again?” Hans continues, watching his chest rise shakily. “Too afraid to have a hard on on camera?”

His grin is sideways panting as he forms the words. “Glad you never checked out my dick whenever we shared a podium.”

“Really?” Hans almost loses his tempo. This changed everything. “Sasuka?”

It was the first podium they shared, his debut. “I was- I was late to my flight.”

Hans grins, speeding his hand “Miami?”

“I baled on Carlos’ afterparty,” he pants. “I didn't trust myself to drink and–and not say something I shouldn't.”

Look at them now. “Austria?”

Henry gains his own smile, red and damp with sweat, hands shaking at Hans' sides as he tumbles closer and closer to the edge. He tosses his head back again, dark curls starting to stick to his skin. “Fuck– you looked like you were going to strangle me. I would've let you.”

“I wanted to do a lot more than that, Henry." Hans says, leaning into his ear. “But I think I really needed to come down your throat instead.”

“Fuck,” Henry bites out, closing his eyes. “I'm close, Hans.”

Even though his knees are a little stiff and a large part of him wanted to watch him come pressed cheek to cheek like this, he couldn't let them walk out with that much of a mess. So he crawls off his lap, hand still around him as his strokes turn shallow and he locks his lips around his head.

“Oh fuck– Hans, I–”

Each spurt of cum is hot and heavy on his tongue. It coats his mouth as he swallows, salty and yet not as bitter as others he had tasted. He expected to muscle through it but ended up enjoying the intense flavor as he took it spurt by spurt. 

“Hans..” Henry breathes, still twitching in his mouth. Hans clears his mouth with a swallow, licking at the red and swollen tip to make sure he doesn't leave a mess. He grins up at him before rising to his feet.

Henry tucks himself away, reaching out to pull Hans down to the couch again. They were both a mess, Hans never buttoned his jeans fully, and Henry was flushed and a little shiny from the sweat that broke across his skin. It didn't matter, they were still alone, and Henry seemed more focused on catching his breath and keeping a hold on Hans.

“Was that true?” Hans asks, wiping his face before yielding to leaning into his side. “Since my win in Hungary?”

Henry grins, tilting his head to spy him through thick eyelashes. “Is it a little weird that it is?”

Hans grins too, sighing gently before resting his head on his shoulder. “I might've thought so, before. Honestly, it's a little touching.”

Henry snorts, tilting his head back again. “Oh lord, what have I done to your ego. I knew you'd be insufferable.”

Hans grins. “At least now I'll benefit when I win tomorrow.”

“Oh, confident are you?” Henry chuckles quietly. “And if I pass you?”

“Well,” Hans hums, poorly hiding his own smug smile. “You might earn a treat of your own.”