Work Text:
“If you win the Championship next week, I’ll let you kiss me.” Donghyuck stands tall in the glowing sun of Qatar, beams of light staving off the winter chill seeping through the Red Bull jacket wrapped around his shoulders. His usual sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose, making him come eye-to-eye with the driver in front of him. He pushes them back up with a single finger and watches Mark watch him. His face is silhouetted in the light, barely visible, but Donghyuck memorised Mark’s furrowed brows and pouted lips a long time ago.
Mark’s fresh out of the car, clearly, his suit hanging loose around his waist and pink balaclava marks still pressed into his face. He weighed himself, rushed off to the toilet, and then got pulled aside by Donghyuck. He can’t keep Mark for too long, lest the world think he’s taking a massive shit, but Donghyuck has enough time to say what he wants to say. That is, his proposition.
An olive branch. Or a joke. Whichever Mark decides.
The two of them now stand face-to-face behind Alpine's garage, not particularly by choice, but simply put, it’s the quietest spot on the circuit. They’re alone, the nearest crowd so swept up in everything that went down during the race, they’re only a whisper in the wind to Donghyuck’s ears.
Their only company is the sun, but Donghyuck trusts her not to listen.
A cold breeze ruffles Mark’s sweaty hair, and Donghyuck feels the same happen to him, ruffling his perfectly styled hair. Donghyuck stares intently as Mark runs a tired hand across his face, smoothing out the impressions of his balaclava and closing his eyes tightly. He makes a vaguely confused sound and turns his head to look around, as if there’s a camera somewhere filming them, as if Donghyuck’s playing a prank on him. Netflix’s been a complete pain in their ass since Donghyuck retired, spreading bullshit propaganda no one wants to hear, so he’d sooner shoot out his reconstructed knee than let them catch wind of this.
“Is that what you want?” Mark’s weary eyes open and remain unblinking, flicking back and forth between the lenses of Donghyuck’s sunglasses as if he’ll be able to see through them if he simply tries hard enough. Donghyuck stares past him and leans back against the wall, letting out a disappointed huff. He crosses his arms to try and keep some heat in, ignoring the goosebumps that prickle along his tanned skin.
That’s not what Donghyuck expected to hear. Not a question Donghyuck’s heard from Mark before. Mark always assumes, and that’s how Donghyuck likes it. People like Jisung and Renjun ask. How’s he feeling? What does he want to eat? Where are his painkillers hidden?
Mark doesn’t have to ask; he knows. It’s why he’s so good at what he does.
Mark Lee, Formula 1’s current golden boy, is on track to win his first WDC this year. It’s his fourth season, only 24. Donghyuck’s proud to have watched him grow from an insecure teen with limbs too long for his body into the man he is today. A confident, pro athlete. A lion through and through, unafraid.
Donghyuck’s less proud to be in his shadows, to be known as a has-been instead of the champion he almost was, but despite it all, he’s happy for Mark. He is.
So, why ask? Mark’s known Donghyuck since he was a snot-nosed kid, with shaggy hair falling over his wide eyes, and a dream far too big to take up so much space in his little body. Maybe it’s because of how tired Mark looks these days, the pressure of the season weighing so far down on his shoulders he’s not even sure who Donghyuck is anymore, let alone himself. Maybe he feels like he lost Donghyuck somewhere along the way, even though Donghyuck’s standing right in front of him, giving him what he wants.
Then, maybe Donghyuck shouldn’t have done this whole thing in the first place. But, if he had that mentality, he never would’ve been a Red Bull driver, let alone in a Formula 1 car. It’s all about taking, in this sport, so maybe Mark’s simply losing his nerve. Too afraid to take what's his, even though he’ll be the one at the end of the season holding the trophy, looking down at everyone else from his spot on the podium.
That’s life, and Donghyuck’s used to it by now, 2 years post-surgery. Mark should be, too. Shouldn’t be treating Donghyuck like he’s some kicked puppy who doesn’t know what he wants. He didn’t even act like this after Donghyuck’s accident. Sent Donghyuck a get-well-soon card and kept himself busy with taking Donghyuck’s seat, becoming Red Bull’s number one driver. While Donghyuck was stuck in a hospital bed, held together by metal.
“I want what you want.” Donghyuck finally answers, his tone deceptively calm. A lie, of course. If Donghyuck had ever wanted what Mark wanted, neither of them would be standing here right now. Donghyuck was always the one to push them to follow their dreams as kids, holding his head up high and pretending that Mark couldn’t clearly see how scared he was.
“Donghyuck.” Mark mutters, voice tired. The bags under his eyes stand out prominently against his translucent skin, rings of purple so stark that Donghyuck’s surprised he hasn’t heard more fuss about it from fans, more worry. But Donghyuck was always the best at knowing when Mark’s at his worst. When Donghyuck would have to pry him from his stupid go-kart and sit him down in their tiny shared apartment on the crappy side of Italy. Would have to look extra hard in their local grocery store for ingredients he recognises, the sound of Korean barely familiar to him anymore, but the taste still the same.
Donghyuck doesn’t reply, doesn’t need to. Mark knows what he’s thinking, always does, even when they’re halfway across the world from each other.
The hospital was cold, but Donghyuck feels colder now. Mark thought he lost Donghyuck, but maybe Donghyuck’s the one who lost Mark after all. It feels like Mark is staring at him from the other side of a ravine, Donghyuck’s screams unable to be heard over the gushing river below them. Mark was always the better swimmer between the two of them, even though Donghyuck’s the one who grew up in Jeju.
“I have to…” Mark cuts himself off, wiping the sweat dripping down his temple with the back of his hand.
“Go.” Donghyuck finishes his sentence for him, a dismissal. The olive branch is gone.
Mark takes the hint, spinning on his heel and walking away from Donghyuck, tiredness radiating from every inch of his body. He doesn’t say goodbye, but that’s how Donghyuck likes it; he hates saying goodbye more than he hates waking up in the morning.
Donghyuck smothers a snort and kicks a nearby rock as hard as he can, wishing it was Mark’s face as it smashes into pieces.
Sometimes he wishes Mark was the one in Donghyuck’s place. Wishes he was the one who spun out instead of Donghyuck all those years ago. Wishes he was the one who woke up in a hospital bed alone, wondering where the hell his best friend was. Wishes he was the one who had to do over a year of physical therapy just for the chance to, maybe, if he was lucky, walk again.
Wishes Mark understood him even just a little bit, even though he’s the only person in the entire world who ever understood Donghyuck in the first place.
Maybe they’re both right, maybe they lost each other.
But whose fault is that?
He wants to kiss Mark, he wants to punch him so hard he never wakes up again, he wants more than anything to wrap his hands around a steering wheel again. He wants, he wants, he wants. He can never have. How is that fair? How is any of what happened to Donghyuck fair? Why is he the one who has to look up at Mark when it was always the other way around? Why does he have to carry the burden of finding himself again alone?
Donghyuck stands against the cement until the sun sets, the cold creeping back into his bones, settling side by side with the pain that lives there. His knee aches in time with his heart; he ignores it.
When Mark ends up winning the championship just as everyone expected, Donghyuck rolls over in bed and goes back to sleep.