Glad you’re okay. - Henry #6
“Yeah.” But Fritz remembers what happened the last time Henry left his hotel room. “Just one face fuck? It will not take thirty minutes.”
Henry, that stupid, insightful man, stops gathering the papers strewn about the desk and looks up.
Fritz squirms under the scrutiny, feeling even more exposed than when he was standing bare naked in front of the window.
“I’m not leaving you,” Henry says, finally.
“Great. Then we can fuck.”
“No, I still have to get back to my room. I’m serious, it’s a wreck, there’s clothes everywhere.” Henry shakes the stack of papers, tapping them against the desk until they fall into place. “I’m not leaving you, though. This isn’t like Silverstone.”
Well, time will tell.
“Come here.” Henry drops the organized stack of papers and holds his arms out. When Fritz doesn’t move, Henry huffs and crosses the room. “I’m sorry for abandoning you—I thought I was helping.”
Fritz snorts and looks away, back to the ugly painting over his bed. It’s better than speaking—than revealing any more of himself.
Henry leans into Fritz’s eyeline, but Fritz is stubborn and just turns his head further away.
“Hey, look at me,” Henry coaxes, cupping Fritz's face and guiding it back towards himself. “I really am sorry.”
“It is okay.”
“No, it’s not. I should have talked about it with you.” Henry squeezes Fritz’s cheek, and it grounds him, somewhat. “I acted more like a race engineer than a partner. I’ll do better at separating those things in the future.”
Partner.
Henry wants to be partners.
“Alright.”
“Alright?” Henry repeats, tentatively.
“I think a blow job would have been better than this conversation, but alright.”
Henry grins and pulls Fritz into a warm, sticky embrace. There's still drool drying on his chest. “I thought about you the entire time.”
Fritz buries his face in the nape of Henry’s neck. “I did not think about you at all.”
Henry laughs and pulls back. “We really need to pack now, c’mon.”
By the time Fritz has shoved everything into his bags, both Henry and Dieter are waiting for him in the lobby. At least with Henry sharing their car, Fritz can avoid Dieter saying “I told you not to do that” for forty minutes straight.
Fritz wanted to end the season on a high note, but it’s difficult to do so in a VFIbr. He finishes in the points, though—P8 for the last race of the year.
When he returns to the garage from parc ferme, everyone’s clapping. Fritz joins in, clapping and looking around, wondering if Lucas snuck in when he wasn’t looking. Instead, the mechanics laugh at him.
“Gonna miss you, buddy,” Antonio says, throwing an arm around him.
“Me?” Fritz is more than a little surprised. “But I am still going to be in the paddock. Just, over there.”
He points in the vague direction of the Red Boar garage. They’re at opposite ends this year, but next year they’ll be much closer, with VFIbr finishing fifth in the championship instead of dead last.
“You’ll have to come visit,” someone says.
“No, he’s not allowed,” another responds. “We can’t have him stealing top secret VFIbr secrets!”
Fritz laughs, though it probably isn’t nice to do so.
The group parts to let William through, and the other driver approaches with a modest smile. “It was good racing against you,” he says. “You always pushed me to do better, and I’m grateful for that.”
Fritz isn’t sure what to say but, “Yeah, you too.”
They shake hands and half-hug to the sound of clapping and camera shutters, but it feels just as forced as any of their other interactions.
“Hey,” William murmurs. “You wanna do a helmet swap?”
Fritz grimaces. “I am sorry.” He’s not. “I already asked Lucas.”
“Oh yeah, I understand.”
Fritz makes his rounds in the garage, accepting well wishes from his entire crew. As soon as one person takes out their phone, they’re all phones-out and asking for selfies.
With every new picture, with every new goodbye, it becomes clearer that Fritz is about to leave his entire team, not just his car.
They’ve had twenty-two races together. Some of them have stuck by him for double that. They’ve shared meals, flights, hangover remedies, a win, even.
Fritz grew close to his team over the course of the year, and the farewell hits harder than he ever expected it too.
He tears up—barely—but, since all eyes are on him, everyone immediately notices.
“He’s crying!” Jeremy laughs. “He’s going to Red Boar and he’s fuckin’ crying!”
“Shut up!” Fritz says, smacking him and wiping his eye.
“He’s going to miss us!”
“Didn’t even cry when he broke his foot.”
“Just stay with us if you’re gonna be a big baby about it.”
A chant of “TEAM THIRTY-FOUR!” starts in the garage and they carry it outside as they all herd together for an end-of-season team picture.
Fritz catches Henry’s face in the crowd and he smiles before he’s pushed forward to sit on the front wheel of his car.
He knows what’s coming, but his reaction time is delayed by the photographers who call for his attention. By the time he’s up and running, Fritz has already been drenched with no less than ten red boars and is almost completely blinded.
After running straight into the pool of photographers—possibly injuring someone—some kind soul guides him back to the garage while he catches his bearings. He still can’t see, but he can clearly hear people laughing at him.
Why would he ever love these assholes?
Fritz is handed from one person to another who shrugs him off into a familiar set of arms. “Here you go. Take care of him next year, we want to see him on that podium.”
“Will do,” Henry answers dutifully, shifting Fritz until he can support his weight.
“I think I am being bullied.”
“Absolutely you are.” Henry’s clothes are surprisingly dry, and Fritz tries to use the fabric to wipe at his eyes. “But it’s all out of love. I think.”
Fritz arrives at the paddock for testing early the next morning. He’s only slightly hung over, which is remarkable, honestly. When he’s spotted, the cameras all turn his direction and he smiles.
Yeah, he looks good in the navy team kit.
Fritz has already tested the Red Boar—every driver in the program has—but there’s something electric in the air today. Something permeable.
It’s the start of something new.
The team is testing new tire compounds at different fuel levels and different wing configurations. He’s not supposed to put too much weight on the results, just get a feel for the car.
At the same time, it feels like all eyes are on him as he suits up in Lucas’s driver’s room.
—His driver’s room.
Lucas was just naked in this space yesterday, but it’s Fritz’s now. The champion’s name is still on the door and everything.
Jesus.
Fritz checks himself in the full-length mirror. It’s not necessary, and it’s a little too warm, but he has the race suit zipped all the way up, checking the fit. His name is on his hip, the German flag waving proudly next to it.
He’s the German Red Boar driver now.
Fritz takes a deep breath and opens the door, surprised to see Henry waiting for him on the other side. He’s wearing an appreciative expression, his arms crossed in forced nonchalance. Fritz knows that look.
“Do not say it.” Fritz can’t help but smirk. If he feels a little cocky, so be it.
“You look good.” Henry’s eyes drag up his body, heat evident. “Really good.”
“Stop!” Fritz laughs, playfully smacking him. “I cannot be hard for my first day. Go away. Go away right now.”
“Alright, alright.” Henry’s hands pop up in surrender. “But remember, even if I’m not the voice in your ear today, I’ll still be listening in.”
“Try not to get too jealous.”
“No promises.”
It’s a long, grueling morning of hard driving. When Fritz finally emerges from the car, he’s shaking.
“How was it?” a mechanic asks, patting his shoulder.
“Fucking fast,” Fritz breathes. He removes his helmet and whips off the balaclava, but softly unhooks his earpieces.
“Faster than the VFIbr, huh?”
“Not just fast, but…” Fritz doesn’t know the right word in English. “Hungry? Strong? It wanted more from me—I could barely contain it.”
“And it doesn’t get easier, mate,” Sam Campbell calls, smiling over at him. They’re teammates now. That’ll take some getting used to. “It’ll chew you up and spit you out if you let it.”
“Right.” But he’s not right. It’s not a cruel car, it’s domineering. It’s—
Oh God, Fritz feels fucked.
Like he’s literally just had sex. The insatiable hunger, the power radiating off the car—it’s like being fucked against a window for everyone to see.
It doesn’t scare him, it excites him.
“So fast he missed the garage the first time,” someone comments.
“Hey! I used to be all the way down at the end!”
Fritz hoped no one would notice his little trip down pit lane, but of course they had. The VFIbr mechanics even waved at him when he paused in front of their garage before driving away.
Well, better to do so during testing than during an actual race.
He only just entered his driver’s room when there’s a knock on the door. It opens before he can answer, but Fritz doesn’t have enough time to be upset before he registers Lucas’s face.
“Feels weird to knock on my own door,” the champion says, closing it behind him. He holds his helmet and his eyebrows raise, like he’s waiting.
Right, the exchange. With everything else happening around him, Fritz might’ve forgotten. He stumbles over himself to grab his own helmet. He takes the proffered marker and hovers for a moment.
What is he supposed to say to his hero? What words can fully encapsulate everything Lucas has done for him? Has inspired in him?
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve written ‘Fritz’. We’re friendly enough for nicknames, right?”
“Ja,” Fritz isn’t going to cry. “Of course.”
He hands his completed helmet over and cradles Lucas’s like it’s made of glass. He’s always been so far away, it’s been impossible to study all of the little details that make up his infamous design. Everything is perfectly placed, barring the handwritten inscription:
Dear Fritz, You remind me of my younger self. I can’t wait to see what you accomplish. (Selfishly, I hope you stop at three WDC’s.) Take care of him. Yours, Lucas
“Him?” Fritz asks, looking up. Did Lucas know about Henry?
“My car, of course.”
“Of course,” Fritz repeats. Most drivers refer to their cars as women.
He doesn’t ask what he wants to, but he’s desperate to know. Why else would it be a man, if he didn’t experience the same thing Fritz did? If he didn't feel ridden hard and put away still wanting?
Lucas doesn’t share his hesitation. “You have been with both men and women?”
Fritz isn’t ashamed of his bisexuality, but his mouth drops open like a fish. “Um, yes. Yes, I have.”
“See? You remind me of me. The car? He is a man.” Lucas winks. “Enjoy the ride.”