Chapter Text
03:51pm, Friday, Grand Prix Weekend
“Slow down. You’re taking corners too fast and we need to keep tyre temperature stable.”
The voice crackles over the radio headset.
It’s just noise. Nothing but distant, bothersome interference.
Mark usually listens.
He does.
Controlled timings and impeccable precision are his legacy. They are what earned him his name on the racing circuit—the Machine, skilled and systematic, the prince of the grid. He lives for the detail, the rigour, the gratification of making up a tenth of a second on a lap by tipping the steering wheel five degrees to the left on a tight bend.
Only, this time, he pushes the car forward. The wind can’t pin him down while he breaks the laws of speed and time, his eyes scanning the circuit and clocking the angle and steepness of every corner as if there’s more than a trophy on the line.
Because there is.
His very dignity depends on it.
“Mark, are you listening to me?”
No. He isn’t.
“What’s his speed?” Mark asks.
“Mark—”
“What. Is. His. Speed?”
An exasperated sigh.
“He’s 0.2 seconds faster than you on sector three.”
“And overall?”
“Half a second across the whole track.”
Fuck.
He grips the steering wheel tighter.
The practice hour is nearly up, but he’s not done yet. He needs to go harder. Faster. Never mind that he follows a structured run plan. He always has, ever since he was scouted by the team and given the full driver seat. The engineering and mechanics crew arrange each of his practice runs down to the last detail, comparing stats on tyres, wings, and fuel on each lap, optimising the car to perfection.
He shouldn’t care about other drivers’ timings right now.
He shouldn’t.
That doesn’t stop him from pushing his foot down as he races around a corner.
Sunlight spills over the window. Asphalt flies beneath the tyres. Other cars disappear from his side mirror as he overtakes and kicks up grit behind him.
But all Mark can see is the needle on his speedometer ticking up.
Taunting him.
“In case your caveman brain forgot, this is just Free Practice,” Game—the team’s race engineer and strategiser—speaks through the headset, his voice dripping with irritation. “You can both get your dicks out and start measuring at qualifiers tomorrow, but right now? I need you to slow down on the corners before you fuck up my data.”
Mark’s lips press into a firm line.
His pride fights him tooth and nail, watching that half a second flash before his eyes in blood red, but he eases off the accelerator.
He knows Game is right. During the first day of Grand Prix weekend, practice sessions are just for learning the track and testing setups.
There are other cars currently on the tarmac, and team engineers are constantly comparing lap times between drivers, but Mark isn’t racing any of them right now. He just needs to get familiar with the circuit. To identify the bends where he drifts a little too far. To follow his team’s instructions so they can test out different adjustments and gather data on the car’s performance.
Usually, Mark complies. Thrives on precision. On meticulous excellence.
Today, he just doesn’t care.
Because Mark knows he’s out there. He can practically feel the bastard’s presence on the track, all long, reckless limbs and laid-back arrogance, reminders of him around every barrier, besting his lap times like he’s Mark’s inescapable shadow. Or like he has a personal vendetta against him.
Which, Mark is convinced, he does.
“Alright,” Game says a couple of minutes later. “We’ve got what we need. You can box this lap and call it a day.”
Mark reluctantly leaves the circuit once he reaches the pit lane. He passes other crews and drivers’ fixing up their cars before pulling in beside his own team’s open garage. As soon as he steers the car into position, the mechanics swarm him. Attaching cooling fans, removing tyres, checking for fluid leaks or overheating.
Mark is already removing his helmet when Game approaches the car, headset still on and a clipboard in one hand. He rests his arms on the edge of the cockpit, nearly at eye-level, and quirks an eyebrow at him.
He doesn’t need to say anything. Mark can read it on his face.
Mark sighs. “I know, I know.”
“Then don’t make me have this conversation with you again,” Game replies, his voice hard. “You want to win? Then you need to listen to me.”
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“Do you? Because remember, it’s not just your ass on the line here. I have sponsors to answer to. Boss is already on my case about Ferrari’s superior aerodynamics. Don’t add to my problems just because you can’t stop getting a hard-on every time you beat your arch nemesis’ scores.”
Mark’s jaw clenches.
Noises drown him in a maelstrom of high-speed movement. Cars tearing over tarmac, the buzz from the crowds in the grandstand, camera lenses snapping towards him.
Mark can practically hear the commentary.
Here we have the prince of the circuit. F1’s golden boy and a crowd favourite bested by 0.5 seconds. Are ten years of dominating the circuit enough when you have an even deadlier foe waiting to dethrone you at every turn? Will Mark win the Belgian Grand Prix or will this be the weekend he finally caves under the pressure?
Nausea tightens his stomach. “It won’t happen again.”
“Make sure it doesn’t,” Game says, then sighs. “I don’t get paid enough to babysit my drivers. A healthy rivalry is one thing, but if you’ve got a problem with him, sort it out. Don’t bring it onto my track.”
Game doesn’t wait for a reply. He just turns and walks away, back to the mechanics crew, already discussing the results they’re gathering on the monitors.
Mark can’t blame him for being annoyed. Game can’t do his job if Mark doesn’t do his—and that is to listen to his pit crew and race. Leaving nothing behind. No prisoners. No second best.
But lately, Mark isn’t focusing on the track, the other drivers, or his timings anymore. Instead, he’s thinking about one man. One driver. Crooked smile and provocative eyes coaxing him down the path of ruin.
Mark sighs and unstraps himself, leaving the mechanics to it as he steps away from the car’s overheated engine, desperate for air.
He’s undoing the strap of his suit and rolling down the zipper when it happens.
Another car screeches to a halt in the garage behind him.
Mark stops.
He recognises the car make, the Ferrari team logo, even the heedless, lazy steering that belongs to the driver behind the wheel. Fucking hell, he can practically smell him over the tang of gasoline and scorched tyres.
A tall figure emerges, stepping out of the car with surprising languor for someone who’s just been driving over two hundred miles per hour. Like a fallen god who owns the very tarmac he walks on. He’s still in his helmet, light gleaming across the white surface as if his presence is absorbing the fucking sun.
His head flicks over.
Across the pit lane.
Straight at Mark.
Mark stiffens. The driver’s eyes are hidden behind his shield, but he can still feel them on his skin, crawling over him, digging and festering like a parasite that feeds off his irritation.
Then, the driver walks towards him.
Slow. Provocative. Predatory.
He doesn’t wait to be invited into Mark’s space. He just steps into it, crowding him, standing close enough for onlookers to get the wrong idea.
Mark lets him do it. He refuses to take a step back, even if his whole body locks up the second his honeyed sweat and masculine scent slams into his nostrils and infects his bloodstream with venom.
The driver’s smiling behind his helmet. Mark can’t see it, but he can feel it. Though the crew and paddock staff barrel past them—pretending they’re not watching, listening in—the other driver seems completely unbothered.
Instead, he only has eyes for Mark.
“Half a second,” he says.
His voice sends an aftershock through Mark’s veins.
The driver reaches up. Slowly removes his helmet.
Mark stops breathing.
Junior Panachai is as he always is. An adrenaline-fuelled vision, a racing fanatic’s wet dream, the living embodiment of cockiness and trouble. He hasn’t broken eye contact once, and the barest hint of a smirk pushes up the corners of his mouth, as if to say ‘We both know I’m better than you but let’s keep pretending we don’t’. Even after spending the past hour trapped under a helmet, the damp strands of his raven hair fall perfectly around his face, and tantalising drops of sweat press at his temples.
It’s disgusting.
Mark hates everything about him, from that infuriating smile down to his stupid, perfect hair.
“You’re slipping,” Junior says. Arches a brow. “Losing your touch so soon?”
Mark doesn’t answer him. There are people around—cameras nearby, team members listening. This conversation isn’t private. As two of the biggest names in the elite racing world, their interactions rarely are. Worse still, their rivalry isn’t a secret. Everybody knows, feeds off every exchange, analysing every shared glance or televised interview.
They’re all waiting for the next clash. The next time the tension between them bursts and goes up in flames.
Mark can’t help himself. “Only children need an ego boost on a practice run.”
Mark remains unmoved. Collected. Untouchable. Even if he just wants to wrap his hands around Junior’s neck.
Junior just smiles wider, his expression knowing, as if he can read Mark’s brain like a teleprompter. He’s still standing too close. Mechanics have to move around them. Someone brushes past, but they don’t shift.
Junior’s presence is suffocating. Mark’s skin burns from the invisible radiation he emits. Every hair on his body is standing on end, and his lungs groan from the smell of him, somehow both nauseous and high as a kite at the same time.
He wants to put oceans between them.
He wants to lick his neck.
He doesn’t know what the fuck he wants.
Then, Junior leans in, and they’re face to face. Their breaths mingle, oxygen waiting for the implosion.
Shit. Mark doesn’t think he’s breathing anymore. He thinks he might pass out.
People are watching them still, eyes following their every move.
Mark doesn’t blink, doesn’t dodge or make a show of it. He just stares back at those flaming, unsettling eyes, as if the proximity doesn’t bother him, as if his heartbeat isn’t cannonballing inside his chest at speeds of a million miles per hour.
They hold eye contact for too long, locked in another competition, neither of them willing to give in first.
Until Junior’s gaze rakes all over Mark’s body. He traces the line of his waist, then the exposed curve of his neck, as if he’s stripping him down with his eyes and finding him entirely lacking.
Mark wants to punch him in the face.
Junior’s voice drops low, only loud enough for the two of them to hear. “Guess we’ll see who’s the real amateur in the qualis. Better luck tomorrow, princess.”
Mark chokes on air.
He doesn’t get a chance to fire back before Junior shoots him one last smirk and walks away.
Mark stands there, face flaming red and teeth grinding, his breath heaving as if he’s just run laps around the circuit. His heartbeat doesn’t slow, not even when he finally leaves the pit lane.
People are still watching him, waiting for a reaction.
He refuses to give them one.
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
10:34pm, Friday, Grand Prix Weekend
The hotel room is dark, air con on full blast as he checks the day’s recap on the sports channel. The flicker from the TV is the only light in the room, but Mark doesn’t move from the bed to turn on the lamp.
He doesn’t want to take his eyes off the screen, not even for a second.
They’re talking about him again. About both of them.
“Mark Jiruntanin sounded a little frustrated today,” a reporter from the sports roundtable says. “Though we didn’t get access to the full radio feed to know what it was about, we can take a wild guess.”
“His fastest lap was half a second behind Junior, right?” Another woman adds.
A third chuckles. “Someone should remind them Free Practices aren’t timed. It’s the qualifiers that count.”
“That’s what happens when you have a ten-year rivalry on the circuit.“
“We’ve had rivalries before, but I’ve never seen anything like this. I don’t believe this just comes down to competing for the top spot on a podium. This is something else.”
The first broadcaster looks shocked, but gleeful, encouraged by the other commentator's unethical speculation on live TV. “Are you saying it's personal?”
“I'm saying there's more to these two than meets the eye.”
Mark clenches his jaw.
His phone buzzes on the bed covers.
Joong (11:37pm):
You let him get to you again.
Mark frowns.
Despite being his direct competitor on Red Bull, Mark has known Joong since they were kids. That’s one byproduct of belonging to some of most renowned, elite motorsports families in Thailand. They’ve always mixed in the same social circles, bonding over the mutual burden of living up to the family legacy.
He types out a reply.
Mark (11:37pm):
No. I didn’t.
Joong (11:38pm):
Sure. And that little confrontation on the pit lane was what exactly? An invitation to tea?
Mark (11:38pm):
It was nothing.
Joong (11.38pm):
I saw the footage. It didn't look like nothing.
Mark (11.38pm):
Not my fault the cameras spend more time trying to start rumours than focusing on the actual racing.
Joong (11.39pm):
This is you and Junior we're talking about. Every time you breathe in each other’s direction, that shit ends up plastered across every news channel and groupie podcast.
Mark sighs, rubbing his forehead.
He’s seen the fan edits. All the video essay breakdowns and twitter speculations. He’s spent more time down that rabbit hole than he should for a world-class athlete.
Not that he would ever admit it.
Mark (11.39pm):
I’m serious. He did not ‘get to me’.
Joong (11.40pm):
Uh-huh, Mr. 0.5 seconds.
I overheard my pit crew gossiping earlier. They kept saying how pissed off your mechanics were that you kept ignoring your run plan.
Mark grits his teeth. He hates how right they are, how much everyone can see it.
But he hates himself most of all, because Mark has been training for this all his life. The podium belongs to him.
He just hates having to share it with Junior.
When he doesn't answer, another message follows.
Joong (11.42pm):
That's unlike you.
Mark (11.42pm):
It won’t happen again.
Joong (11.43pm):
You always say that until it does. Then when you get back on the track, it’s like you both forget you’re racing anyone else. It’s weird.
Mark sighs.
He lets himself fall back onto the bedsheets, staring blankly at the ceiling as his phone slips from his hand onto the mattress beside him.
Inside, his thoughts are chaos.
Because Joong is right.
Junior is getting under his skin.
But why now? They’ve spent a decade chasing each other across circuits and continents, always side by side, always at each other’s throats. Ten years of verbal sparring, lethal tension, and infuriating smirks that felt far too much like a personal dare.
Somewhere along the line, Junior stopped being just another rival.
Mark doesn’t know when it happened. Only that now, Junior sinks beneath his skin and stays there, impossible to ignore, impossible to rip out.
But Mark still has a race to win. A title to defend. A crown to hold onto.
So he decides, then and there, to put Junior out of his mind.
If only it didn’t refuse to listen.