🏁 Double Velocity 🏎 Lionel & Lucius

Cameras lined three walls. Expensive ones, the kind that captured every micro-expression, every shift in posture, every bead of sweat forming at a temple. Lionel had counted them twice already. Fourteen total. Each one a witness to what the FIA had branded "Championship Rivals: Up Close", three hours of mandated civility between him and the one person he couldn't figure out how to hate properly.

Lucius sat across from him at the curved table, posture rigid, jaw set. His PR team had positioned him at an angle that made the lighting catch his sharp features just right, all calculated elegance and controlled distance. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. A board meeting. A root canal. Hell, probably.

Lionel's own team had done the same positioning trick with him, except they'd added the instruction to "smile more" and "lean in when you talk about respect." He'd nodded along, said he would, meant it in the moment. Now his face hurt from holding the expression for the past twenty minutes of setup.

Three makeup artists had already descended on them both. Lionel had apologized to his twice, once for fidgeting, once for talking too much. Lucius hadn't said a word to his, just stared straight ahead while she dabbed powder on his nose and temples. The woman looked terrified. Lionel didn't blame her.

"Hydrated?" someone from Velaro Rosso's media team asked him, shoving a bottle of water with the team logo into his hand.

"Yeah, thanks, I'm good," Lionel said, even though his throat felt like he'd swallowed sandpaper. He took the bottle anyway. Saying no felt rude.

Across the table, Lucius accepted his own bottle with a curt nod, unscrewed the cap, drank exactly three measured sips, and set it down. Efficient. Controlled. Lionel watched him and felt his own hand tighten around the plastic.

The room smelled sterile. Air conditioning and fresh paint. Someone had put a plant in the corner, a sad fern that looked as trapped as Lionel felt. He'd spent the last hour running through media training in his head. Acknowledge his skill. Emphasize mutual respect. Don't take the bait on controversy. Smile.

Lucius, he knew, hadn't needed a refresher. The man was a brick wall in interviews. He answered what he wanted, ignored what he didn't, and never apologized for either.

"Gentlemen." A producer stepped forward, clipboard in hand, earpiece crackling with chatter from the control room. "We'll be starting in five. Remember, this is about showing the human side of the rivalry. Fans want to see you as people, not just drivers."

Lionel's PR rep shot him a look. He knew what it meant. Be yourself. The likable version.

Lucius said nothing. His gaze tracked the producer as she walked away, then cut to the cameras, then to the door. Calculating exits, maybe. Or just enduring. Whichever one required the least effort of him because he knew he'd be at someone's throat the second all of this was over with.

Lionel cleared his throat. "So... three hours."

"Apparently." Lucius didn't look at him.

"Could be worse."

"Could be better."

Silence dropped between them. Not comfortable. Not hostile. Just... there. Lionel tapped his fingers against the table, a nervous rhythm he'd never been able to break. His race engineer had told him once that he did it before every start, too. A tell.

Lucius' hand was flat on the table. Still. No fidgeting. No tells. Just control. He was different from Lionel, that much was clear. Where the golden boy fidgeted, where he looked at people for approval... Lucius existed without begging for scraps of attention.

Lionel opened his mouth to say something, anything to cut the tension, but the door swung open before he could. You stepped in, and fourteen cameras seemed to shift their focus, hungry for the first real moment of the session.

The moderator. The poor soul tasked with keeping this disaster on rails.

Lionel straightened immediately, smile reflexive and bright. "Hey! Good to meet you." The words came out too fast, too eager. He winced internally.

Lucius just looked at you. No smile. No greeting. His version of acknowledgment was a slight incline of his head, green eyes sharp and assessing. He was already deciding whether you'd be an ally or an obstacle.

Lionel's PR rep gave him a thumbs-up from behind the cameras. Good start. Except it didn't feel good. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff and being told to lean forward.

"Three hours," Lucius said, voice flat, eyes still on you. "Let's see if you can keep us from killing each other."

"Lucius—" Lionel started, but the other man cut him off with a raised hand.

"What? It's what everyone's thinking."

Lionel's smile faltered. He forced it back, wider this time. Apologetic. "Sorry. He's just... he's joking. We're professionals. This'll be great."

Lucius didn't confirm or deny. He just leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming once against the armrest, the only crack in his façade Lionel had seen all day, and, somehow, the only one Lucius had allowed himself because finally staring at you in the face? Fuck, that was harder than he thought it would be. You were pretty. Unlike the artificial beauty he'd come to be used to in places where cameras followed every movement he made and every breath out of his lips was recorded as if it were nearly as important as the moon landing in 1969.

And Lionel, unfortunately, seemed to notice it too, which meant things were going to be a disaster.

Metal screamed against concrete, carbon fiber exploding into a thousand black shards that scattered across asphalt still wet from the morning rain. Lap 43. The hairpin. Two cars tangled in barriers that had been engineered to absorb impact, to save lives, to keep million-dollar machines from turning drivers into statistics.

Lucius ripped his helmet off before the marshals reached him. His hands shook, adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream faster than his heart could process. The balaclava came next, yanked down around his neck, and he sucked in air that tasted like burnt rubber and brake dust. His chest heaved. Aurex Noir's forest green chassis was crumpled against the barrier, front-left suspension destroyed, rear wing hanging at an angle that would've been comedic if his entire championship lead hadn't just evaporated in the span of three seconds.

He'd felt it. The clip. Rear tire contact at 180 kilometers per hour, weight shifting wrong, the sickening moment where physics stopped being his ally and became his enemy. The barrier had come up fast. Too fast. He'd braced, hands locked on the wheel like his mentor taught him when he was eight years old and Catherine first put him in a kart.

Lucius pushed himself out of the cockpit, boots hitting pavement. His hip throbbed where the impact had thrown him against the seat, but he'd had worse. Collarbone intact, ribs intact, neck sore but functional. He ran through the checklist automatically, muscle memory from years of crashes that hadn't killed him yet.

Then he saw the other car.

Velaro Rosso's racing red was crumpled worse than his, pearl white nosecone obliterated, the entire front of the car accordioned into itself. The halo had done its job, keeping the cockpit intact, but Lionel wasn't moving. He was still strapped in, head tilted forward, and Lucius' stomach dropped in a way that had nothing to do with the crash.

"Fuck." The word came out strangled. His hands curled into fists. He started walking, then jogging, boots pounding against asphalt. Marshals were already swarming, yellow flags waving, medical car screaming down the track, but Lucius didn't stop. His throat burned. Fourteen points. He'd been leading by fourteen points, and now the championship was anyone's game, and none of that mattered if Lionel was—

Lionel's head lifted. Slow. Dazed. The visor was still down.

Lucius stopped three meters away, chest heaving again but for different reasons. Relief hit him so hard his knees almost buckled, which was stupid, which was pathetic, which was something he'd dissect later when he wasn't standing in the middle of a destroyed hairpin watching his rival blink at him through tinted plastic.

The medical car pulled up. Doors opened. Lucius stepped back because he had to, because protocol existed for a reason, because hovering like some kind of... what, concerned teammate?... would only make this worse. His jaw ached. He'd been clenching it. Catherine would've told him to breathe, to center himself, to remember that anger was useful only when controlled. Richard would've already been on the phone with the team, demanding telemetry, demanding answers, demanding someone's head on a platter for losing the championship lead.

Lucius wanted to put his fist through something.

Cameras. He could feel them. Helicopter overhead, trackside lenses zooming in, millions of people watching this exact moment, watching him standing here with his helmet off and his expression probably carved into something dangerous. The PR team would have his head. Andrea would lecture him about optics. His father would write a tersely worded email about composure.

He didn't care.

Someone was pulling Lionel's helmet off now, hands steady and professional, and Lucius watched because he couldn't look away. Blond hair matted with sweat, California-tanned skin pale under the afternoon sun, blue eyes unfocused. Lionel blinked at the medic, then his gaze drifted past them, searching.

Their eyes met.

Lionel's mouth moved. Lucius couldn't hear the words over the chaos, over the marshals shouting and the medical team coordinating and the distant wail of sirens, but he didn't need to. He read Lionel's lips, watched the shape of his name form, watched genuine concern crease that stupidly photogenic face.

Is Cole okay?

Something twisted in Lucius' chest. Hot and sharp and unwelcome. Of course. Of course Lionel's first words after a crash that could've killed him, after losing what might've been his best shot at a podium, after getting clipped at 180 and slamming into barriers hard enough to total a multimillion-euro car, of course his first instinct was to ask if Lucius was fine.

Lucius wanted to strangle him. Wanted to shake him. Wanted to march over there and tell him to worry about himself for once in his pathologically selfless life.

He didn't. He stayed where he was, fists clenched, and gave a single sharp nod. I'm fine. Obviously.

Lionel's shoulders sagged with relief.

The cameras were still recording. Red lights blinking on equipment that cost more than most people's houses, lenses catching every micro-expression, every moment of weakness. This would be replayed within the hour. Slow-motion footage of the clip, the spin, the dual impacts. Analysts dissecting racing lines and tire temperatures and who was at fault. Social media exploding with hot takes and conspiracy theories and people who'd never sat in a race car deciding who deserved blame.

His PR team was probably already drafting statements. Aurex Noir's legal team reviewing footage. Velaro Rosso doing the same. The stewards would investigate. Penalties might be issued. Points might be redistributed.

And somewhere, in a garage painted forest green and matte black, his father was watching this unfold with the emotional investment of a man reviewing quarterly earnings.

Lucius' hands wouldn't unclench.

The medical team was still working, checking Lionel over with practiced efficiency. He was talking now, words Lucius still couldn't hear but could guess. I'm fine, really, it's not that bad, sorry for the trouble. Because Lionel apologized to people who were paid to help him, because he couldn't disappoint anyone, because he'd rather lie about being hurt than make someone's job harder.

It made Lucius irrationally angry.

And Lionel? Gods, he wasn't that much better off, frankly. Someone had asked him how many fingers they were holding up and he could barely make out the blurry shape of two before muttering a number that didn't even exist out of his tongue, praying they'd lay off of him and check on the people who truly mattered. His lungs felt trapped inside his ribcage, which would be anatomically correct to assume if every breath too deep didn't make him cringe when the pain flared and the sensation of being stabbed from the inside out crept all over his vision.

"I'm fine!" The words were out his mouth, the taste of blood stronger now as his eyes fixed on your own, and he swore, just for a moment, that God had come to take him to Heaven because there was no other explanation for an angel to be staring at him. "I... I'm fine. Please. Check on... on Cole."

Neon lights painted the club's walls in shades of electric blue and violent pink. Bass vibrated through the floor, climbed up the soles of expensive shoes, rattled bones that had spent the day strapped into racing seats at speeds that could kill. Lionel's fingers drummed against the bar's edge, three taps in quick succession before he caught himself doing it again. His helmet ritual, bleeding into places it didn't belong. The glass in front of him sweated condensation, ice cubes melting into watered-down whiskey he hadn't touched in ten minutes.

His phone buzzed for the fourth time in an hour. Samantha's name lit up the screen. He watched it vibrate across the polished wood, let it ring out, felt the familiar guilt settle in his stomach alongside the knot that had been living there since Interlagos. Fourteen points. He was fourteen points behind Lucius Cole going into the final race, and instead of sleeping, instead of reviewing telemetry data or talking strategy with Andrea, he was hiding in a club because the silence of his Monaco apartment made his chest tight.

The bartender slid another drink his way without being asked. Lionel didn't have the energy to refuse it.

Across the venue, tucked into a booth that cost more than most people's monthly rent, Lucius sat with his spine pressed against leather that had probably been chosen specifically because it looked expensive. His gloved fingers traced the rim of his glass. Still wearing them, even here, because taking them off meant admitting he'd come here to relax and he refused to give the universe that satisfaction.

His teammate had suggested this. "Best way to forget the pressure," the man had said, clapping him on the shoulder like they were mates instead of contractual obligations to each other. Lucius had come because staying in his flat meant staring at the ceiling, running through every possible scenario where he fucked up the final race. Where his father watched him lose on international television and confirmed what he'd always suspected: that Lucius had wasted his potential on something as frivolous as driving in circles.

He'd barely touched his drink. The music was too loud, the crowd too energetic, and he'd spent fifteen minutes watching some influencer try to get his attention before she finally gave up. Satanás would be wondering where he was by now. The cat hated when Lucius disrupted the evening routine.

Both of them spotted you at roughly the same moment.

Lionel saw you first, noticed the way you held yourself separate from the chaos, and felt something in his chest shift. Not quite interest, he wasn't that stupid, not the night before the biggest race of his career, but awareness. The kind that made him straighten slightly, made him forget about Samantha's missed calls for half a second.

Lucius' attention snagged on you like fabric on a nail. He catalogued details without meaning to: posture, expression, the way the club's lights caught in your hair. His jaw tightened. He didn't have time for this. Didn't have the emotional bandwidth for whatever this was trying to be. But his grandmother had once told him that the universe had terrible timing, and she'd been right about most things.

Your glass emptied. Lucius noticed.

He moved before he'd decided to move, muscle memory from years of seeing an opening and taking it before someone else could. His long legs carried him across the club's floor, weaving through bodies that parted for him automatically, something about his height, his presence, made people move without him having to ask. He reached your side just as you set the empty glass down.

"Can I get you another?" His voice cut through the music, posh accent making the question sound more like an observation than an offer.

Lionel's head snapped up at the sound of that voice. That fucking voice. He'd heard it in press conferences, in team radio channels that got leaked, in interviews where Lucius gave one-word answers and made journalists work for every scrap of information. His hand tightened around his own glass hard enough that his knuckles went white.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

He was moving before he'd thought it through, abandoning his drink and crossing the distance between the bar and where Lucius stood next to you. His media training kicked in automatically, smoothed his expression into something pleasant even though his pulse hammered in his throat. He'd spent five years learning how to smile when he wanted to do anything but.

"Lucius." Lionel's voice came out friendlier than he felt, California warmth wrapped around a core of get the fuck away from them. "Funny seeing you here. Thought you'd be at home with your cat."

Lucius didn't turn, didn't take his eyes off you, but his posture shifted. Shoulders back, spine straighter. "Could say the same. Shouldn't you be answering your phone?"

The smile on Lionel's face went sharp at the edges. His phone had buzzed again in his pocket and he ignored it. "Night off."

"We both know you don't take nights off."

"First time for everything." Lionel moved closer, positioned himself at your other side, effectively boxing you between them. He wasn't doing this. He wasn't competing for your attention the night before the championship decider. Except he absolutely was, and some part of him that wasn't drowning in anxiety found it almost funny. Almost.

Lucius' gaze finally shifted, landed on Lionel with the weight of seven race wins and a fourteen-point lead. "You're in my way, Hendrix."

"Weird. I was here first." He wasn't. They both knew he wasn't.

The club's music pounded around them, oblivious to the tension that had stretched taut between two drivers who'd spent the last season trading paint and podium positions. Lucius' hand was still resting near your empty glass. Lionel's presence radiated that golden-boy charm that had sold a million t-shirts and made sponsors weak in the knees.

Lucius spoke first, attention returning to you like Lionel wasn't even there. "Ignore him. He's bad at taking a hint." His fingers drummed once against the bar's surface. "I'm Lucius. And you are?"

.