Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing obviously but also none of the brands mentioned or have any affiliation to Formula 1 as if I did, I'd be hella rich…
Pairings: 1x2x1, past 1x3, a tiny moment of 1xD (oh yeah, never thought I'd write that pairing)
Warnings: yaoi, m/m sexual relationships of the smuttiest variety (lots and lots of smut ahead people) hints of het, swearing, fast cars, some angstiness
A/N: This fic is set in the world of Formula 1 racing and while I have done an extensive amount of research to try and bring the world to life, this is a work of fan fiction so not everything is entirely accurate and there is copious amounts of artistic license going on. If anything does confuse, feel free to PM as I will try to answer any questions though I am not expert, just a fan of the sport. I am posting this one now as I just saw the trailer for the movie Rush which I didn't realise existed when I wrote this fic! This idea came from the many rivalries between drivers throughout the history of Formula 1 from the famous Senna/Prost to the more recent Alonso/Hamilton and was an excuse to write sex, fancy locations and fast cars...
Update schedule for this fic (as is complete and nine parts) is Tuesday/Thursday and thanks to ELLE who midwifed and beta-d this little project.
Chapter One
Thursday - The Interview
For those people who were not a Formula 1 driver, a part of the team, part of the relentless press or the contingent of passionate fans, Thursday was not part of the race weekend. Those people probably assumed that a Formula 1 driver's job was made up of driving around a circuit once every few weeks for a two-hour race and nothing much else. But there was a lot more to the life than that and Thursday was just the start for the driver. In fact, the crew had arrived days before, reassembling cars, collecting data on the track and generally giving their team drivers the best chance once they arrived.
Thursday was Heero Yuy's least favourite day of his race weekend. It was the day he barely spent any time with his damn car – the reason he was a driver – and instead, he was forced to sit in interviews, look at data and attend sponsorship parties to keep the team owners of Winner Racing on his side. It was a day that tested his patience even though this weekend was Monte Carlo. Even though this was his damn circuit – the Monaco Grand Prix – a circuit he loved to race even more than Suzuka despite his Japanese background and the level of fan hysteria that winning on home soil produced. Monaco was the circuit kids who wanted to be racing drivers dreamed about. It was one he'd learnt to dream about – the first race his father ever won. The one circuit he'd fucked up on. Twice. It would not happen again.
He'd arrived and checked into the hotel, making sure he was dressed as he should be: Oakleys, his team shirt with every sponsor – Mobil, Red Bull, UPS, ING and more – his TAG Heuer watch secured around his wrist as the press took their first pictures of him. Heero knew that he was the one driver everyone wanted to speak to this weekend and he knew he had it coming but he'd agreed with the team's PR – a perky girl with short dark hair who told him he had to do at least one interview this race weekend prior to the mandatory press conferences – that he would do one print interview to clear up the rumours from the Spanish Grand Prix.
So Heero was sitting in the hotel suite, trying to look relaxed, trying to look like he vaguely wanted to do the interview. He knew he was damn intense and he hated the circus that surrounded being part of one of the world's richest sports. He knew he was in the damn thirty top earning sportsmen in the world, that his sponsorship deals in Europe were worth a cool ten million and that he should show some good humour but for Heero, Formula 1 was not about the money, the glitz, the supermodels clinging off him with their breasts out – it was about the need to drive. That driving was in his blood. And he wished sometimes he was in his father's era – knew that Kazuki Yuy did not have to deal with the intense press coverage and the PR chicks and doing the right thing all the time.
The hotel suite overlooked the harbour, the circuit itself already ready for the cars and Heero looked out over blue water towards the large yachts that would host glamorous parties this evening. He knew he had to attend one himself – the Cartier one as they were one of his many sponsors, the small platinum dog tags round his neck that could not be seen evidence of that. At least he only had to attend – show his face to the world's press and then leave as it was expected that drivers would leave early. They had their first of their three free practices early in the morning and then Heero could actually do what he was paid all that money for, received all that sponsorship for – to race in the fastest car, designed to his specifications and get the best time possible to shut up his critics.
The door opened and the PR girl entered followed by the only journalist Heero would agree to be interviewed by. He knew he'd managed to scare some of the press with his patented intense glare after questions that he did not think were appropriate or that he did not appreciate and he'd received some pretty bad press as a consequences. However, the hint of rebellion, of not playing the game had made him the "bad boy of Formula 1" and had only increased some of his sponsorship revenue.
He didn't get up to greet the journalist, instead, the PR girl – she was German or something, Heero thought but couldn't remember the name – pointed to the seat opposite and asked about water and whether they required refreshments, which both Heero and the man in front of him declined. The team PR would like to stay in the room as they were still on damage control after Spain but Heero had stipulated that he did not want any "team bullshit" in the interview, that he was going to be honest and he'd already officially apologised for his actions in Spain. And he'd done so grudgingly in person trying not to glare at his teammate who rolled his eyes at his lack of sincerity. Thankfully, though Formula 1 was a team sport as much as there were two people on a team, they were not meant to work together or even like each other and Heero made it very clear that he did not like his teammate. Not that his team mate liked him at all. At least he remained the team number one driver – the team principle whereas his teammate would always be relegated to second.
He tried to recall the words that his teammate had used to describe him after his insincere apology but the only bit he really remembered was the "fucking cock sucking motherfucking elitist prick with the world's biggest fucking chip on his shoulder." There had been a lot more but he'd ignored it. Heero looked up at his interviewer and tried not to look sour at one of the forced protocols of being a Formula 1 driver.
"I'm surprised you agreed to an interview after the last race, Yuy," the blond man opposite stated.
"The team demanded."
"Ahh, that makes sense. Want to smooth over the cracks, I imagine," he said and brought out the small electronic device, switching it on and placing it on the circular table between them. "You do not mind me recording?"
"No."
He knew how to play this and while he would rather not have any interview at all – especially not with someone he didn't particularly like – he knew that Zechs Merquise would be fairer than some of the more sensational journalists. And personal feelings aside, Merquise had been a driver, a damn good driver, one that Heero had raced against until a crash that they'd both been involved in last season. A crash that had taken Heero out for half of the season. A crash that had ended Merquise's career and relegated him to a profession in reporting both in print and on various international television stations. If anything, the blond man could say Heero owed him.
"Monaco," Merquise began now that the device was turned on. "This was your father's first race win twenty five years ago. Do you feel pressure to win this weekend in order to uphold his legacy?"
Heero was tempted to grunt in response and not give Mequise much more but knew he had to answer the question. He knew it was one of the many things people were saying – that he hadn't won at Monaco despite being one time World Champion and the anniversary of Kazuki Yuy's first race win was hanging over the race like a shadow. That Kazuki had died last year made it all the more poignant or significant or something. That's what the press was trying to say.
"I want to win as it is the race every driver wants to win."
The answer was bland but Heero knew it was more appropriate than bringing up some memory of his father and his legacy. He lived with the Yuy legacy every day. He didn't need to discuss it. If he'd not gone into Formula 1 then he'd not have that legacy, that shadow over him, but racing was in his blood, in his very DNA and he needed the speed, the control and the power of the engine to feel alive. It was all he'd ever wanted to do. All he'd ever wanted to be.
Merquise continued on the race related questions – asking how he felt about this year's new safety measures, asking him about the circuit and the potential weather conditions. Rain was a complete fuck over at Monaco but intense heat was a bitch. Non-racing drivers did not understand the intensity of being in the cockpit for two hours, the amount of sweat that left their bodies during a standard race and the G forces put on the human body. People thought they just drove cars. Little did they know the extreme pressure on their necks, backs and every other damn body part and the raw power needed to drive a Formula 1 car and become a World Champion. Heero answered as he should, being vaguely polite until the questions he'd been anticipating.
"Would you like to tell your story of the 'incident' at the Spanish Grand Prix? Your teammate has already been on record saying it was a little," Merquise glanced down at his notes in front of him, "'heated argument' but inside sources suggest you ended up slamming him against a wall with your hands around his throat. Can you confirm what happened between yourself and Duo Maxwell?"
"He did a risky overtaking manoeuvre that I felt the stewards should have penalised him for. I expressed that opinion."
"Expressed that opinion with your hands around his throat?"
Heero shook his head. "I told him that the move had been risky and could have knocked us both out of the race. I did not put my hands around his throat."
It was not a lie. He'd pushed him against the wall and put his hands on the other driver's shoulders, maybe a little firmly, maybe with a little hint of force, but he'd not actually put his hands around his throat. He may have told him that he'd fucked over his race, that he was an amateur from Hicksville USA and made an insulting comment about cornering as a NASCAR driver wouldn't understand that. They'd both finished the race and Heero had managed to finish fourth to at least get some championship points but he'd been on course for a podium finish. Second at least. And then the rookie fucking Duo Maxwell attempted that overtake, their cars aligning on the straight towards the La Caixa corner and the other driver should have given way at the point. That's what was supposed to happen. Heero had the racing line through the corner and Maxwell should have pulled up and let him maintain his lead.
He didn't.
The collision between the two cars was not enough to knock them both out but it was enough for the front wing of Heero's car to fly off and the debris to get caught in Maxwell's tires. The only saving grace was the fact that they were near the damn pits and that Heero was still the number one driver on the team. He was able to pit straight away, a new front cone and wing fitted to the front of the car whereas his teammate had to drive his limping car around the whole circuit one time until he could pit for new tires that had no rubber on by the time he got round. If he'd not been so flaming pissed at him, the achievement of taking a Formula 1 car around a track with a puncture would have impressed him. But then, Heero figured, nothing Maxwell did would impress him. At least he'd scored the twelve Championship points for fourth. At least his teammate had only finished eighth after his own fuck up to earn four. At least he was still marginally ahead of him in the Driver's Championship and after this weekend and if Heero won Monaco, he would be back to where he belonged – top of the World Championship.
Maybe he had been ever so slightly rash in his actions. He'd arrived in the garage two minutes prior to Maxwell as he was still completing his lap and he'd managed to forcefully remove his steering wheel and throw it back into the cockpit of his car. He'd removed his helmet, the fire retardant balaclava that held his hair away from his eyes during the race and weighed in, combing his fingers through his sweaty hair and had managed to be calm. Up until the point he saw his teammate pull in and he knew he'd lost it. Knew his race engineer, Trowa, had to pull him off before the team bosses saw but it didn't matter. The harm had already been done. The shouting match and the pushing him up against the wall had only been the culmination of the months of angry feelings he harboured towards his teammate.
Duo Maxwell was a NASCAR driver – not a Formula 1 driver, yeah, he'd driven Indy 500 and other cars but people left Formula 1 to drive NASCAR in retirement – the damn easy option. It was not somewhere to progress to – though Duo had broken the mould. It had pissed him off when they'd met in the boardroom of Winner Racing headquarters and the American had been friendly and damn likeable. He'd liked him less at the car unveiling press conference as they both stood under the harsh lights in their race suits for pictures and now that the season had actually begun he had even more reasons to dislike him. He was reckless on the track, he took corners too sharply, tried to overtake in places that no other driver tried – he was cocky with it too and was already grabbing headlines for his behaviour both on and off the track. There was a whole playboy rumour thing – the sort of media Heero had tried to avoid during his career – and it made him even more irritating.
"There have been reports of increasing animosity between the two of you. Is there any truth in that?"
"We are teammates. We don't have to be friends."
Merquise smiled. "You don't like him?"
"I don't have any opinion on him."
"He's been quoted as saying he feels he can win this weekend. That his car is in the best shape of the season. How do you feel about this?"
Heero frowned. "He talks a lot. He's not proven anything yet."
"He's only eight points behind you in the table in his rookie season…"
"He hasn't won yet."
"You think he will win a race this season?" Merquise pressed.
"You'd have to ask Duo Maxwell that."
"I'm asking you as his teammate."
"He might if he stops trying to get himself or another driver killed."
Heero realised what he'd said the moment the words had slipped out of his mouth. That would be the headline – that he believed that the rookie driver from NASCAR was going to get someone killed due to his reckless style of driving. He'd been trained by a media team how to act during interviews and press conferences but it was something that Heero had barely paid attention to and now he was going to take shit from the team for basically implying his teammate was a waiting hit and run. It was not good.
"I'm done," Heero said, getting to his feet. "Write whatever the hell you want Merquise."
They did anyway – wrote about the pressure of his legacy, wrote about his "comeback" season after last season's crash, wrote a million things about him and quite frankly, the rivalry with Duo Maxwell was something else they could write about. Fuck if he cared. He left the hotel suite, didn't answer the questions from the PR girl who had waited outside the door about what he'd said, and went to find transport to go see his actual car.
The sun was shining in Monte Carlo, the circuit was his damn favourite but still, his mood was not going to improve until he was behind the wheel of his car.