Author's notes
Unbetaed and ALSO english is not my first language. Sorry for any mistake and, please, feel free to alert me of them.
1970. Crystal Palace Circuit's pits.
This was the first and the last time Niki Lauda saw James Hunt. It was the last time because all the following encounters were misty spots, the fog covering their eyes with layers of overbearingness, challenge and presumption. At the Crystal Palace Circuit in London, while racing on Formula 3, there were no barriers meticulously built from bricks of remorse and aversion. Niki and James looked at each other as pilots competing for the same prize, rivals that barely knew each other. While Lauda kept his bland and softly disapproving mien due to James' ego – which was perceptible even for a complete stranger by the way he spoke too loud and laughed too arrogantly -, Hunt disguised his curiosity when gazing the Austrian with jokes and a mischievous attitude while observing as the latter prepared himself for the race, so focused and pragmatic.
Later on that same day, James Hunt would cause their two cars to spin out so that he could outrace Niki and win the competition – which he did. Lauda, then, made an oath to himself he would always hate him and would do everything to overcome him.
1974. Watkins Glen, USA Grand Prix. James stares the tenebrous scene. The wrecked car crashed into the Armco barrier will haunt him forever along with the headless body and the helmet lying on the track. Hunt forbids himself to think of what would be inside it and steps back horrified. He stumbles until he reaches his pit's interior, leaning on a desk while listening to the television announcing the death of Helmuth Koinigg. A certain urge at the back of his throat tells him he is about to throw up, so he advances towards the open air, retching and trembling.
As if his pitiful situation were not enough, Niki Lauda crosses his visual field heading towards his own pit. The Austrian sets eyes upon him and his face couldn't be more relaxed. With a laid-back tone of voice, Lauda expels his cohesive and bleak words: "He made a mistake, went into the corner too fast". His accent makes him look more egocentric and Hunt can't help but contract his body and vomit violently.
Lauda doesn't retract. Never. This is one of his most intrinsic characteristics and he tarries a while before making an exception to this rule. He doesn't care about a possible rejection as he lay a delicate hand on his arched back. His voice, this time, is tenuous and amicable: "We all know the risks and we willingly accept them. He certainly did".
James knows it. He repeats this same speech to himself a myriad of times before each race when his messed up mind filled with drugs and alcohol permits him to rationalize and, consequently, be afraid. Anyway, hearing Niki telling him the obvious statement seems to work. Maybe the Austrian's reputation of being too sceptical and hostile makes Hunt have the impression there is more reason on Lauda's words than on any other's.
After all, he wouldn't spare his time talking rubbish only to comfort James.
1975. When James sees him again at the Watkins Glen, he's at the Podium winning his first championship and Hunt suppress a meaningless laughter. It was a turbulent season, a tough competition between the two declared adversaries. How many times did Hunt seek for the Austrian's gaze among the crowd when he himself would show off at the podium or stare at Lauda in second place? Deep down, James knows there is only one person he need to impress and to prove himself, and that person is having its glorious moment – his stolen glorious moment. However, Hunt can't help but feel joyful and actually glad he was defeated by Niki instead of a complete John Doe.
On the post-victory celebration at the paddock area, with his rationality plunged into booze and vodka, Hunt can feel the lividness growing in his chest, the intense annoyance while observing the smiles and congratulations directed to the rat face burns his skin and he considers the idea of confronting Lauda simply because he is feeling specially obstinate and vexed.
"Congratulations. Though with a car like that, the rest of us never stood a chance..."
Niki turns himself towards the blond with a shrewd look of someone who has already imagined that exact same scene and had a range of answers at his service. "Maybe the fact the car is so good might have something to do with me".
"You're still in a Ferrari. And I'm still in a Hesketh. On equal terms, the way it was in Formula 3, I'd beat you, and you know it." James takes the liberty of breaking through the bubble which delimitated Niki's personal space. Both keep a flimsy smile and show an idiosyncratic blaze of arrongance.
"Never. You might get lucky and win one race. Maybe two. Because you're aggressive. But in the long run, over the course of a season, no chance." The Austrian pronounces each word in his systematic way, the accent reinforcing his hubris.
"Why's that?" James folds his arms around the chest and raises the eyebrows while staring at him heavily beneath the frowned forehead.
"Because you're not serious. You're just a party guy. Which is why everyone likes you." Lauda answers him. Supposedly, James should feel primarily offended by his adversary's sceptical analysis, however, Hunt laughs as if secretly triumphing, the smirk in his lips making Niki shift his weight uncomfortably.
"Now try saying that and tell me you're not jealous." Hunt teases him, leaning sluggishly towards the younger and ignoring his gesture to turn away in rejection. The blond stumbles on his own feet right after empting his twentieth or so beer can.
It is undeniably adorable the manner Niki relies on systematic arguments and doesn't spare words to disdain his fellow pilots. James is not capable of denying to himself that the Austrian provokes on him all sorts of feelings. Nothing makes Lauda lose track, nothing undermines him… Maybe Hunt appreciates the way Niki only shows rashness and uneasiness when the two are having an argument.
"I heard you got married." Niki ignores his attempt to unsettle him, even though it is clear by the way his mouth shrinks in pure displeasure Lauda isn't exactly enjoying the conversation. He wishes the championship were enough to keep James' mouth shut, but apparently it isn't even close to do so.
"I did." James seems subtly startled by the question and a little bit bummed. It is not pleasant remembering Suzy, not when he just lost the 1975 World Championship of Formula One Drivers. Everyone knows – it is not a hermetically sealed secret – his marriage is just one more boost to his world of luxury and stupidity. Lauda certainly knows it and that is exactly his goal: To expose to James the lame his life is.
"You know I've never seen you with her, once..." O Austrian feigns misunderstanding, without worrying to hide the derision in his lips set in a wry smile.
James falters, losing his relaxed posture for a second by virtue of the taunt. His eyes lock on Lauda's as if he is waiting for the other to take pity on the failure his decisions are, to consider he has already won enough for one day.
But Niki doesn't.
"Oh, maybe that's because you're always at home, on your own, looking after yourself, being a good little boy." The blond smiles, satisfied with the manner he managed to outwit the situation, still being able to savour his little mockery. However, right before Hunt finished his speech, he moves past Niki in an attempt to put an end to that discussion and ends up bumping his shoulder on the Austrian and stumbling on his own feet once more. Lauda holds him instinctively, keeping his firm hands on his arms. He sees Marlene still distracted and engaged in a conversation with Regazzoni, and, finally, he decides it would do no harm to delay his leaving just to assure that asshole would not kill himself.
"Alright, let's take you to somewhere quieter" Niki passes James' arms around his shoulders and bears him until they reach the internal part of Lauda's pit. "I don't know if I should be bringing you here. Whatever, you're too drunk to remember it tomorrow".
"Hey, I'm not deaf!" James mumbles, trying to take a few steps away from the Austrian who doesn't hesitate on letting him do so. He wanders through the room until he leans backwards on a wall. Niki walks unpretentiously towards him, but keeps himself taciturn. "I'm really relieved you've won." Hunt confesses.
"Why's that?" Niki folds his arms and raises his eyebrows in disbelief.
"Well, if it's not me, then I'd rather it were you."
Maybe it is the alcohol, maybe he died in an accident on the track and this is a delirium. The only thing James Hunt can affirm is that he is mesmerized by his rival's intensively blue eyes, so fierce and bland at the same time. He can't control his legs when they walk towards Niki, he can't control his hands when they surround delicately his face, and he certainly can't control his lips when they collide violently against the Austrian's.
The hands that were once gently pressed against Niki's cheeks, seems to be made of lead as they hold the younger who fights to free himself.
After some time, James loosens his fingers over Niki's skin and he can finally take a few steps away, dizzy and perplexed. Niki leans on a tools counter and gasps as if he is trying to make the air he is inhaling clear his mind, enlighten his thoughts. It doesn't. The Austrian is still in wrath and, surprisingly, awe. He avoids the Englishman's tempestuous eyes, but he is aware of his gaze, smothering him and making his line of thought even more blurry and oblique.
At least he can use it as an excuse when he decides the best thing to do is getting back to in front of Hunt in oscillating steps, tangling his trembling fingers with his cliché leather jacket's collar and meeting once more his mouth in a exasperate and certainly clumsy kiss.
The blond was not expecting this, howbeit he readily holds the other's waist and clashes his own back with the wall's cold concrete. James does not care; all he can think of – if it is even possible to think of something in that state of drunkenness – is touching Niki throughout his entire torso, bringing one hand to his curly hair and finger coiling his messy locks. For a second they are brought apart and he is capable of distinguishing something extremely close to despair in Niki's translucent eyes. Fearing a precocious separation, Hunt brings their bodies together once more, kissing him with more intensity, but way less hurry than before.
After all, they had already raced enough for one day.
Niki retrieves his sense in a last moment of lucidity. He pushes the blond aside and leaves the pit without even looking at him one last time.
James knows the hangover will be like hell.