Chapter Text
In Formula 1, your first rival is your teammate. Sasuke knows this.
He is selfish and hungry. He's glad Itachi never made it. He's glad his brother got chewed up and spit out when Sasuke was too young to be a threat. He's glad he still has a brother, not an enemy.
“Yes, Ni-san, I'll make sure to get plenty of rest.”
He was still inside the rented car. Pre-season testing is a hassle, and his team is decent, not good, but he’s lucky he got promoted after only one year.
“I need to get going now, don’t want to be late.” Sasuke hangs up before Itachi can start fussing over him again.
He takes a deep breath before opening the car door and walking out. He scans the badge, ignoring the cameras pointed in his direction.
Mekies greets him halfway to the hospitality.
“Good morning,” he smiles at Sasuke in a soft way that has no place in Formula 1 —where the strong eat the weak, where a moment of hesitation can end your whole career,” I know you’re not a particularly social person, but the team wanted to do a little something for you.”
“They already did something for shakedown.”
“I know you’re someone who values the truth, Sasuke,” he sighs, catching Sasuke’s whole attention. They don’t stop talking, though. They can’t. The second the photographers, broadcasters, or, god forbid, Netflix see them, they might as well shove a few microphones down their throats.
“We’re all a bit worried you’ll be nervous and don’t want you to feel pressured.”
“No need. I trained myself out of being nervous.”
Mekies laughs.
It’s not a joke. The press smells fear and nervousness. Once you’re in the car, nervousness must be killed. Once you’re on trial on the media pen or at a press conference, any and all signs of nervousness are weaknesses.
The team is nice, even if they act a bit too familiarly. They come and ask him about his life —his family, his hobbies, what he did over winter break— and Sasuke skillfully turns the conversation around.
It backfires on him. Massively. Colapinto has been going on and on and on about literally everything from football —Fútbol. I don't understand why Yanquis call it “soccer”— to Lewis Hamilton and how he has a nice ass or eyes, Sasuke isn’t quite sure, he had already zoned out by then.
Luck is on his side because Colapinto ends up joining a group discussing a match. Mekies is discussing something with the social media team, or at least Sasuke thinks they are. Vettel is holding court on the other side of the hospitality. He gestured wildly, recounting one thing or another, eliciting laughs from everyone around him.
The star aligned to let Sasuke slip away silently, setting down his untouched piece of cake, and grabbing another can of Red Bull.
“Nervous?”
Sasuke almost groans. He hadn’t even opened his Red Bull before Sebastian–fucking–Vettel is at his door.
“Don’t make that face.” Vettel moves closer until he’s sat next to Sasuke in the small driver’s room.” Everyone was tripping over themselves to come check up on you. I managed to win the “Rock, Paper, Scissors” tournament to get the honor of keeping you company.”
“I didn’t make a face,” Sasuke grumbles as he presses his knees to his chest. He’s tired and cranky and hangry, and he shouldn’t be putting his shoes on the bed, and if his mother were here, she’d already have scolded him threefold.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Vettel lowers his voice in a comically fake way that almost brings a smile to Sasuke’s face.” Testing matters so little you might as well just get out of the car and push it around the track.”
Sasuke lets out a little huff.
“It’d be great exercise!”
Vettel has that smile that’s contagious. The corners of Sasuke’s mouth rise involuntarily.
“Is this your way of telling me the car is shit?”
“Language.” Vettel gets up and ruffles his hair.” We can’t have you getting a fine before the season has even properly started.”
“Like you didn’t wear your underwear outside of your racing suit once,” Sasuke mumbles, not low enough for Vettel not to hear him.
Pre-season testing passes in a blur. Between trying to make his obsession with numbers and strategy and the stupid timesheets seem more normal than it is— because Sasuke’s isn’t obsessively taking notes, he isn’t reviewing the previous season and studying everything and he definitely isn’t spending hours in the sim when he’s in Milton Keynes, he swears. The media mostly looks him over because rich, pretty boys are a dime a dozen in Formula One. The only boxes he doesn’t check are “Nepo Baby” and “White,” and it’s not like he can do anything about it.
He flops down on his bed the second he’s back in his shitty apartment. He threw his shoes somewhere and didn’t even bother to change out of his outside clothes, let alone shower. The weather outside is depressing and wet, and there isn’t even a single trace of sun in sight. It’s so un;ike how it’s like back home, still cold but dry with lots of sun.
He has nothing to do, and his fridge is emptier than empty. He can’t go to the factory so late; at most, he’d get an hour in the sim and maybe half an hour of snacks. Maybe he should just buy his own. It wouldn’t necessarily help with the feel of his car, but he needs to keep his skills sharp. He also wouldn’t be able to just freely tell the team he spends hours of free time on his at-home sim without them looking at him like he’s trying to pull a Nico Rosberg in his obsessiveness to win —not that he’s obsessed about Colapinto, the silver war could only happen with people who care about each other, and Sasuke couldn’t be paid to care about Colapinto in a personal level.