Chapter Five

Saturday - Qualifying

"The best way to win the race is from pole position."

That was Heero's father's few words of advice regarding driving. Considering he had been a multiple World Champion, considering he had travelled the world with Heero in his journey up to Formula 1, his advice was limited. His criticism, though, had been given more regularly. It was always said that Kuzuki Yuy had been a driver with complete control – that he'd been the epitome of focus, determination and calm. And Heero tried to live up to some of that reputation but then he knew he had a streak of recklessness that Duo had so damn helpfully pointed out. That at times he overtook when he shouldn't. He got frustrated. That he maybe wasn't quite the same as his father.

True, it was an obvious statement. Pole position meant that Heero would be at the front of the grid, his own sleek Winner vehicle on the racing line, whoever came second alongside him but on the dirty side of the track and behind by half a meter. It usually meant, unless the engine blew, unless a stupid driver error, that his car would be the first around corner one and it would ensure a lead from the beginning of the race. Then he'd be able to pull away.

In his head, Heero played through the race start over and over again, sitting in his car, watching as the five red lights turned on and then off to be replaced by the green. It was an exhilarating moment, the moment when the race had begun and Heero was in his own world then – seventy eight laps, over an hour and a half and nothing but him and his car. Trowa would be in his ear, advising, informing, relaying team orders but really, it was him and the machine he controlled. And it was the nearest he'd ever come to feeling as though he belonged somewhere.

"Engine oil in your veins," his mother had said once, a sad smile and a vague look of disappointment.

He supposed he could understand – being the wife of a Formula 1 World Champion had been one that she resented. Though the racing world had not been as glamorous as it was now, Heero understood before he reached his teens that his father had a reputation for sleeping with the models that had always seemed to exist around the sport and that faithfulness was not something he had done well. It didn't surprise him that during large parts of his childhood his mother took Heero to the races but did so without any enthusiasm and as Heero got older she would try to make him think about his schoolwork and try to persuade him not to travel to Sao Paolo in Brazil or the Nurbergring in Germany or Silverstone in Britain to watch his father.

Seeing her son do the same, even replicate that lifestyle probably stung. His mother didn't attend his races even after his father's death and she was often unhappy with the stories she heard. She'd been happy when he'd dated Sylvia – but then that had been nothing more than going through some motions for Heero. She'd been pretty and clever and they'd had plenty of sex but he'd felt detached throughout the experience. It was nothing like Duo.

Heero realised his thoughts were not helping him – that he was out on the track for the final session of qualifying and he was thinking about his fucked up relationship with his father and his mother and the fact that he worried maybe he was like his father fucking around with anyone who offered without any repercussions. Shit, he really should've talked to Dr. Po. Got something out of his system prior to the race. Knew his father was haunting this race in his head, knew that Duo and his whole casual thing had made him have an uncomfortable night's sleep despite having one of the best orgasms he'd ever had from a hand job. A phrase he didn't think was possible.

"How are the tires?" Trowa's voice buzzed through on his ear piece.

"Responsive. Good," he answered, returning his focus back to the circuit.

This was his warm up lap, the car at a lower speed, weaving the Winner Racing vehicle so that it picked up debris off the track in order to maintain grip around the circuit. He'd got through the first two phases of qualifying where cars were gradually knocked out with the slowest speeds so that in the final "shoot out" of the session, there were only ten cars left. Heero's was one of them. As was his teammate's. He'd seen Duo's times were good. Not as good as his own but wondered if he had some idea of making people doubt him and then pull a lap out of the bag. It seemed he'd probably like that drama. Of course, he'd been jerked off by him on the roof of the Fairmont Hotel overlooking the race track – he was all about being dramatic.

His car was coming to the end of its warm up lap, the final corners taken cautiously – more cautiously than he would do on a "hot lap" and Heero was at the final straight to cross over the line for his one and only final qualifying lap.

"Go for hot lap," Trowa said and he had the urge to tell him to shut up.

Heero was more than aware that this lap was crucial. That he wanted pole more than he'd wanted anything in his damn life and at that precise moment, he'd put everything into it. He'd not pushed his body in the gym that morning, sweating out every memory of Duo Maxwell in the intensity of his work out, sat in the simulator, sat with Trowa going over the track and where to pick up valuable tenths for this lap not to be perfect. And it would be.

Crossing over the line started the countdown and the car achieved impossible speeds as he reached turn one – Sainte Devote. There were no other cars in his area of the track, Trowa carefully timing Heero's exit from the garage to ensure he had free air and no other cars on his area of the circuit. There was a freedom to qualifying that wasn't replicated in the actual race – that in the race there were cars to overtake, some to lap, the other drivers' potential failures creating debris on the track, the safety car having to come out… but qualifying was pure driving. He was racing himself and his mind had now focused – he forgot about his father, he forgot about the pressure and he forgot about Duo and that little hitch in his breath that happened just before he came. It was now him and his car.

His car glided around the Sainte Devote, the gear change done via the complex electronics on his steering wheel, his head rattling around as the speed and change in direction exerted pressure and his tires slid up onto the curb to gain whatever potential time he could. He almost felt like he could hear Trowa's breathing in his ear but realised it was his own as he went down the next straight to Beau Rivage, a less intense corner but still applying more than one G force on his body. The extreme pressure he experienced made him think sometimes he should've been a damn pilot. Only other career where he could get this kinda rush.

Massenet and Casino were more extreme corners, the G forces increasing to three and he felt the pressure on his body, on his breathing, on his chest as he turned those. He'd experience enough G forces in his career but there was always something about this race – about this lap that he had to give damn everything in – that made the forces on his body more intense, everything more intense. The sunlight, the heat, the thrum of the engine and the exertion of each corner, of each metre of race track.

The next part of the track was a straight leading to Mirabeau and on approach he'd hit the sector time, the first indication of quite how fast his damn car was going. Heero could sense he was going damn fast, yeah, he had indication of that on his electronic steering wheel but there was something more to it than that. That he just fucking knew it was a good lap. That it all felt good. Engine oil in his veins.

"Fastest. Four tenths ahead of Chang," Trowa said.

Heero gritted his teeth at the transmission, a small grunt leaving his lips in acknowledgement but Trowa did not expect anything else. It was why he damn liked his race engineer. He'd had race engineers who'd wanted to chat during the hot lap but Trowa trusted his focus, trusted his need to win, to dominate and would only provide the information that was valuable. Four tenths was not enough, he thought, that Duo hadn't gone out of the garage when he left. That his race engineer was waiting for him to be the last on the circuit, to be the last person starting their hot lap and it would mean that he'd be the only one who could beat him once he completed his own lap. It meant Heero had to be on the best lap he could do. Had to do it in Monaco. Had to stop thinking about his father and his stupid bit of advice.

It was the famous Hairpin next and it briefly brought with it an inappropriate feeling and memory. The Fairmont overlooked it. That terrace where Duo's breath had been hot on the collar of his shirt, where his hand had been wrapped in a fist around his hard cock and he was asking him if he wanted him to come. The momentary thoughts flashed behind his eyes, his visor, and his breathing quickened – blaming the adrenaline rather than any passing hint of arousal. Though the feeling perhaps wasn't arousal now – it was more anger. Anger at his own foolish actions – about the fact he couldn't just keep his dick in his pants and how he had been damn weak when Duo offered sexual pleasure without any hint of embarrassment or feeling involved.

He maybe was a bit ragged around the corners, around the Hairpin, cursing himself for letting him get into his head at the wrong moment as he straightened up the car for the Portier corner and knew he'd lost a few tenths. Those precious fucking tenths.

"Lost two tenths." He heard Trowa and unusually he responded to his calm engineer.

"I know."

He knew and he was going to get them back – through the Tunnel, the speed reaching over two hundred kilometres and the car being pushed to its limit. He'd get those damn tenths back. By the next sector time he'd be back up to four tenths at least. He told himself that mantra as he took turns ten and eleven – the Chicane, his head bobbing from side to side from the force of the aggressive way he took those corners and he knew he was close. Too close to the barriers. Too close the edge of the circuit. That he was letting emotions flood this lap – his father, his need to prove himself, damn Duo Maxwell and the "we could fuck, ya know" comment.

"Heero."

His name was said like a warning. That this was a reckless lap but he was approaching Tabac, changing to fourth gear, waiting for Trowa to confirm his time and let him know whether he'd picked up time against Chang.

"Six tenths up."

There was nothing to celebrate on that – six tenths was lot for damn qualifying but it was then Trowa gave him more information from the track.

"Maxwell's out on his hot lap – first sector time one tenth slower."

Heero really couldn't help the noise that seemed to come out of him then – it was a bit like a growl and maybe a little animalistic as he forced the car around turns thirteen and fourteen, riding up high on the curb, experiencing the three to four G forces, knowing that driving like this was what ended careers. That racing this close to the edge, this close to losing control and hitting the barriers was what got drivers killed. His comments to Merquise, Duo bright eyed and pissed at him in a yacht bathroom and he was doing exactly the same thing. And fuck, it felt good to be driving like that. Driving with anger, adrenalin and barely contained fury.

The next few corners were immediately upon him, fifteen and sixteen taken with the same sharp tugs on the steering wheel as he focused on the last few seconds of his own lap – trying not to damn think of where Duo was on the track and whether he could make up the relevant time. By the time he got to La Rascasse, the car slowed to make it seem like he was barely moving as he lowered his speed to near sixty kilometres and then he was revving the engine up for the last few moments – the Anthony Noughes corner and the straight to the start/finish line. Accelerating higher and higher, increasing the gears, reaching sixth gear as his car broke two hundred and sixty kilometres to cross the line.

He knew it was a good time. Knew it in his gut as Trowa said those words.

"P1." Position one. Pole. He began to slow the car down and tried not to celebrate prematurely knowing that Duo was somewhere on the damn track but Trowa continued. "Seven tenths up on Chang. Your lap 1.13:872."

"Maxwell?" he asked, his voice calm, controlled, even though he could feel the blood hot in his veins.

"Can't do it. Have to make up too much time."

He wasn't going to damn celebrate until it was confirmed as he weaved the car to pick up debris off the track in order for the car to weigh in at the correct weight after his laps. It would only take seconds for that lap to be complete but he would not celebrate until…

"Confirmed. P1. Maxwell P2 - three tenths down."

Heero knew some drivers would punch the air at that news, would raise their fists or pound on the steering wheel as pole was always something important in the world of motor racing and in Monte Carlo, it meant even more. The iconic race. The street circuit. The only thing better would be a race victory but Heero didn't celebrate obviously despite knowing that the images on the screens of Formula 1 fans around the world would be his car, his helmet as he drove to return to the pits. His only response was to let a smirk cross his face, unseen by anyone else due to his helmet.

"Mission accomplished."