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Mark doesn't pay him much attention at first. Blonde, young (so young), smiles a lot, seems like a pretty good driver, but Mark has other things to focus on.
He pays him more attention after the incident at Fuji, particularly after the stewards decide it was entirely Hamilton's fault. Bullshit, Mark thinks, but if there's one thing he's learned, it's that resentment doesn't help anyone, least of all yourself. Emotions have no place in racing, not those kind of emotions, anyway, and Mark's had to teach himself how to let things go.
Breathe, he tells himself when he's on the starting grid, trying to empty his mind.
Sometimes, it helps.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Monza, 2008
DC's looking more and more tired these days and when Mark glances the podium ceremony on one of the screens at the back of the garage, he sees Sebastian smiling on the top step. And he knows he's looking at next year's teammate.
And well, he thinks. It could be worse. He'll make it work. Mark always makes things work, always finds a way. He used to believe that was his greatest strength, but lately, he's not so sure.
When the announcement is official, Christian makes them all go out on a team bonding night. The mechanics are as raucous as ever, and the group's kicked out of several pubs before they end up back at the bar of the hotel where they're all staying. Mark's not drinking too much, still on the heavy duty pain pills for his leg, which aches like a distant, dull reminder of something he can't quite grasp, can't get a handle on.
The bathroom is empty when he goes in to take a piss but someone comes in when he's half done, and whoever it is, they don't head for the stalls, don't make their way over to the urinals. They seem to just stand there, and the muscles in Mark's back tense, ready, but he doesn't turn around, doesn't even move, finishing his piss, tucking himself away and walking to the sink. He turns on the tap before he looks in the mirror, and it's Sebastian, leaning back against the wall by the door, hands behind him, smug as fuck, grinning like he's as drunk as he probably is.
"Can I help you, mate?" Mark says to him.
He doesn't reply, and Mark turns to face him, folding his arms, trying to keep the expression on his face as neutral as possible.
Sebastian walks towards him, slowly, one step at a time, just a touch unsteady, and when he stops in front of Mark he says, "You don't like me."
Mark looks at him. "I don't know you."
And Sebastian reaches out, runs one finger carefully down the length of Mark's forearm, light but deliberate, purposeful. Mark doesn't respond, not yet, and he notes that though Sebastian may appear relaxed, loose with alcohol, he's got his weight on the balls of his feet, clearly prepared to get out of the way if Mark reacts badly.
Probably thinks I might hit him, Mark muses.
And yeah, good.
He glances down at Sebastian's hand, which is now resting awkwardly on Mark's wrist, then back up at his face, seeing the tension in his body ease just slightly, almost barely perceptible.
The kid's fucking weird, but weird is something Mark can work with, something he can understand.
"Maybe you should get to know me," Sebastian says.
"Maybe I should," Mark replies, and it's not much of an invitation but it's apparently all Sebastian needs, leaning in to press a brief kiss to Mark's mouth. He pulls back, smiling, like he's sure he's the most enticing thing on earth, like he's impossible to resist.
And Mark's not generally one to give into temptation, but it's been a long fucking year, and he's so tired and Sebastian is here, wide smile and filthy eyes, offering something. Not himself, because he's not that stupid, Mark guesses, but something close enough, so Mark grabs the back of his neck, firm, dragging him in with some force, kissing his mouth open, fierce and relentless.
He smirks into the kiss as he feels Sebastian's body weaken, sagging at the knees, and pushes him away, roughly, watching with satisfaction as he stumbles, takes a second to regain his balance.
"I'll be going up to my room in a while," Mark says, and he doesn't wait for any kind of answer, simply walks away, lets the door of the bathroom fall closed behind him. And sure enough, when he leaves the bar a little later, there's someone behind him, following at a respectful distance.
When they get to Mark's room, Sebastian pushes him up against the wall, kissing him hard, seemingly determined to be the aggressor this time. He gets one thigh between Mark's, rubbing up against him, and Mark spreads his legs, sliding down enough to make up for the height difference.
And Sebastian shifts out of reach, elusive, smiling. He quickly strips off his clothes as Mark watches, then throws himself down on the bed, on his back, knees bent, his hand on his cock. He looks so eager and Mark can't remember what it was like to be that young. Maybe Mark never was that young.
He takes off his own clothes, slowly, not to tease but to give himself a second to think, get back in control. Sebastian stares at him, tongue licking over his teeth like something wanton, unashamed lust all over his face. Mark checks his luggage, finds a condom and some lube, then stands at the end of the bed, studying Sebastian.
And the guy's putting on a show, that's for sure, but it's something worth seeing, cherry-red lips and blue eyes, pulling slowly on his cock, shifting his hips into the touch. "Do you want to fuck me?" he asks, casually, as if it's a completely rhetorical question, as if it would be unthinkable for anyone not to want him.
"No," Mark says, enjoying the confused frown that spreads over Sebastian's face. "I want you to fuck me," he says, and Sebastian grins.
"Even better," he says, and Mark throws the condom and lube on to the bed, crawls up to lie face down, and he's barely gotten himself comfortable before Sebastian's fingers are in his arse.
The kid's not exactly going to win awards for finesse, but the enthusiasm more than makes up for it, and they're soon fucking, Mark pushing his hips up off the bed to meet Sebastian's too-rapid thrusts. He's got no sense of rhythm or pace, Mark thinks, and he doesn't last long. When he's done, he pulls out, breathing audibly hard and Mark hears the sound of the condom hitting the bottom of the rubbish bin by the bed before he's flipped over, almost forcibly, Sebastian sucking his cock down greedily, not much in the way of subtlety, but then, sometimes that's just what you need.
Mark digs his fingers into Sebastian's hair when he comes, then hauls him up, rough as he can, till they're face to face and kissing, Mark licking the taste of his come out of Sebastian's mouth.
"You're dirty," Sebastian tells him, when they finally come up for air. "I like that." He settles down on to his side, looks at Mark. "I think we can be friends," he says.
"Teammates can't be friends," Mark replies, almost automatically. It's what everyone says, what they've all been told since day one, but sometimes Mark wonders if it's actually true, or just some convenient lie all the team bosses tell them to keep their drivers in line. Divide and conquer, maybe, but how would Mark even know?
"Well," Sebastian says, "we can learn from each other, have each other's back."
"Sure," says Mark, and it's a nice idea, but honestly, he can't even tell whether or not Sebastian's bullshitting. It doesn't matter, he supposes.
Sebastian yawns, flops over on to his back, and he's snoring quietly before Mark even has a chance to say make yourself at home. He doesn't usually let anyone stay but he doesn't have the heart to disturb Sebastian, especially not when he looks so bloody beautiful, lips slightly parted, face serene in sleep. He's definitely not Mark's normal type; he generally likes them a bit rougher around the edges, not pretty boys like this kid, but there's something about him.
Something, Mark thinks, and it's not long before he's drifting off himself.
He wakes what feels like a few hours later, and is careful not to move, not to give himself away, watching from between his eyelashes as Sebastian creeps around the room, picking up his clothes and dressing himself.
He looks back at Mark once, just once, when he turns to leave, and Mark listens to the door close, hears it click shut. And this was probably the worst possible way to start a healthy, workable relationship with your teammate, but it's not like Mark's going to let it happen again.
Shanghai, 2009
It stings, of course, that Sebastian's the first one to get a win for the team, but Mark's second, and a one-two is far from nothing. And with the car working the way it is now, Mark's sure it won't be long before he has his own turn on the top step of the podium.
He celebrates with the rest of the team, and every now and then he sees Sebastian looking at him from across the room, thoughtful little glint in his eye, but Mark ignores him and eventually he disappears.
Mark assumes he's moved on to another bar with his mechanics, but when he gets back to his hotel room, Sebastian's sitting in the corridor outside, playing some game on his phone, and he doesn't even look up until Mark's standing over him.
"Hi," he says, putting his phone in his pocket.
Mark doesn't reply for a second, because he's got no idea what Sebastian's doing here, but then he says, "I thought you'd be celebrating."
Sebastian shrugs, looks a little sheepish. "I thought we could celebrate together."
"I don't think that's a good idea, mate."
Sebastian scrambles to his feet, says, "It's a very good idea." He's grinning as he hooks two fingers into one of the belt loops on Mark's jeans, pulls him closer. "Come on," he says, his other hand snaking round Mark's waist, up under his shirt to caress across his shoulder blades, and Mark can feel himself relenting, giving in.
He's on his back this time, Sebastian kissing his neck while he fucks him, reaching down between them to tug on Mark's cock. Sebastian's hair smells of stale sweat and champagne, and when they're both finished, he licks the come off Mark's stomach, slow and thorough, till there's no trace remaining.
"We work well together," he says, sitting up, nodding to himself. "We make a good team."
"I guess we do," Mark says, but he's not convinced.
"You should trust me," Sebastian tells him.
"Yeah," says Mark. "Right."
Nurburgring, 2009
When Mark wakes up the next morning, hangover hitting him like a fucking sledgehammer, he remembers thinking (hoping) last night that maybe Sebastian would show up at his door.
He didn't, though, and in fact Mark can't recall seeing him once, the whole night. Which is not entirely unexpected, Mark supposes. Sebastian's pretty clearly the kind of guy who doesn't like to lose, but if Mark can suck it up, swallow his pride, take one for the team and be supportive, he doesn't see why Seb can't.
It doesn't hurt, exactly, it's just… disappointing.
But nothing can take the sheen off his first win. He grins to himself, joy bubbling up inside him like something hot, and this is where it begins, he's certain.
Things are finally going to go his way.
Hungaroring, 2009
Next race, and on the Saturday night, there's a knock on his hotel room door.
It's Seb, of course. Mark opens the door but doesn't invite Seb in, doesn't say anything, just stands there until he finally asks, "Can I come in?"
"Didn't see much of you after the last race," Mark says, and Seb just shrugs his shoulders. Mark shakes his head, moving aside, and Seb walks into the room.
"I want you to fuck me," he says.
"No."
"Why not?" says Seb, looking almost petulant, like a child, but Mark doesn't buy it for a second.
"I don't want to."
"I want you to."
"Well," Mark says, "that's your problem."
Seb smiles, all teeth, his eyes hard. "I always get what I want."
I bet you fucking do, Mark thinks, but what he says is, "Not this time."
"Hardline bottom, are you?"
"No."
"So it's just me, then?"
"No," says Mark, and he's curious, so he asks. "Does Christian fuck you?"
Seb looks away. "No," he says.
"What about Marko?"
"He only watches."
"You and someone else?"
"Just me," says Seb. "He just likes to watch me."
"And you like being watched," Mark says.
"Sometimes." Seb's voice is even, controlled, and it's obvious Mark's hit a sore spot, information that he files away for later.
"So," he says, taking off his shirt, strolling towards the bed, "are you going to fuck me?"
"Yeah," Seb says. "I am."
And it's not as if they settle into anything that could be called a routine, but they see each other occasionally. Race weekends, promo events. It's a good way to relieve tension, if nothing else, but Mark suspects that for both of them it's more a case of wanting to keep as close an eye as possible on the other's mental state.
Constant sizing up of the competition, gaining any advantage that you can is part of this business.
Mark tries not get too comfortable with the fucking, tries not to want it too much. Mostly, he fails.
And he knows it's a bad idea, but it's not until the next year that he truly realises exactly how bad.
Istanbul, 2010
He doesn't see Seb, after, but sometime during the night his phone beeps, and there's a text. Sorry, it merely says, and Mark throws the phone across the room, hears it hit the wall with a satisfying-sounding smash.
He doesn't go back to sleep.
Silverstone, 2010
Three races later, and Mark's not going to complain about a win, but it's a victory that leaves him feeling bitter, cheated. That at this stage in his career he's still having to prove himself, having to fight to be regarded as a driver of worth, of value, as someone with something to contribute to the team, well. It's not fair, he wants to think, but he knows that's immature and pointless.
He hears his father's voice in his head, saying, who the hell ever told you life was fair?, and steels himself, tries to look pleased for his boys, the mechanics and technicians. They feel it as much as he does, he knows, so when they go out to celebrate, he joins them, watches as they all get thoroughly pissed.
Mark sips a beer, wanting to head home as soon as he can, but trying not to spoil things for everyone else. He shouldn't be this cynical, he knows, but that's what racing does to people, and he's no one special, no exception to any rule.
When he gets up, goes to the bathroom, someone follows him in, catching the door as it swings shut behind him. And Mark doesn't even have to look, because he knows who it is. Surprised the fucker's got the guts to show his face at someone else's victory party, Mark thinks, but then Seb never can leave well enough alone.
"I didn't know you were here," Mark says, and Seb just looks at him.
They fuck in one of the stalls, trying to be as quiet as they can, Seb's cock thick and burning in Mark's arse. Afterwards, Seb says, "You know you're not a number two driver."
"Bullshit," Mark tells him, pulling up his jeans.
"You're not to me," Seb says, softly, and Mark turns away, slams the door behind him.
Abu Dhabi, 2010
Mark's supposed to fly out on the Monday morning after, but the idea of spending the night in his hotel room trying not to dwell on what could have been makes him feel sick, bile rising in his throat at the very thought, so he packs up, gets a taxi to the airport. The airline staff struggle to find him a seat, and he ends up being booked on a complicated series of flights that mean he'll get home later than he would have leaving in the morning.
But he doesn't care. Anonymous airports and endless plane time sound just about perfect right now, when all he wants to do is lose himself and not think.
Not think.
Never.
Not ever.
Melbourne, 2011
New year, new season, and this is always the busiest race for Mark, so many commitments, demands on his time. Sometimes he wonders if it would even be possible for him to do better than okay here, when he doesn't get a single minute to himself, not a moment to even breathe, focus.
But this is a sport, and a sport is nothing without fans, so Mark does what he can. He's a team player, after all.
"I need to sleep," he says, when Seb shows up late on Friday night.
Seb smirks at him, filthy glint in his eyes, and replies, "This won't take long."
"It better not," Mark tells him, and no, it doesn't.
"Are you okay?" Seb asks him, after.
"What?"
"About last year," Seb clarifies. "The championship. Are you okay?"
"Sure," says Mark.
Seb licks Mark's chest, tongue flicking over one of his nipples, but it's half-hearted, like it's just a distraction, an excuse to not look at Mark while he speaks. "It could have been you," he says, the words ghosting over Mark's skin, and Mark pushes him away, sits up.
"It could have been any of us, mate," he says.
They don't see a whole lot of each other throughout the year, and it's probably for the best, Mark thinks.
It's all for the best.
Brazil, 2011
Last race of the year and yeah, it's another win, but not much of one. Still, Mark'll take it.
"Congratulations," Seb says. He's got Mark up against the wall of his hotel room, biting long, sucking kisses over Mark's throat.
"Yeah," Mark replies, swallowing at the feel of Seb's teeth, his tongue.
"You know," says Seb, moving back, looking Mark in the eye, "I didn't have a gearbox problem."
And Mark can feel the tension creep up his spine, his hands balling into fists. "No fucking shit," he says, raising his chin, meeting Seb's gaze.
"So I think you owe me." Seb smiles at him.
"I don't owe you shit," Mark says.
"I want you to fuck me," Seb says, and he turns around, backing closer, grinding his arse into Mark's crotch, reaching up behind him to tangle one hand in Mark's hair, and Mark closes his eyes.
It'd be so easy to lose himself in this, take what he wants, what he's always wanted, and he allows himself the briefest moment to indulge the feeling, pressing his face into Seb's shoulder, arm sliding around his body to pull him even nearer, rubbing his cock against Seb's arse, counterpoint to the movement of his hips.
"Come on," Seb whispers, and that's enough.
"No," Mark says, letting go, stepping away. He inhales, refocuses, says it again. "No."
And Seb looks genuinely angry now, frustration plain on his face. "What's your fucking problem?"
"Nothing," says Mark, folding his arms, taking another step back.
"Well, maybe I should go," Seb says, but he doesn't make any move to leave.
Bluffing, Mark thinks. As bloody usual. "Maybe you should," he says.
Seb shakes his head. "Okay," he says. He lifts up his hands, turns towards the door. "I'm done with this."
"Great," Mark tells him, and there's so many things he'd like to say, but it's too late.
"I'll see you next season," says Seb, and then he's gone.
Mark sits down on the bed, stays there a while, thinking. Later, he has a shower, tries to have a wank, but he can't get properly hard, can't get into it, and he supposes that's about what he deserves.
And this time they might be really done, really finished but Mark's not stupid, not naïve enough not know that he and Seb will always be tied together in ways that go far beyond merely fucking one another, their fates bound up in complications that can never be escaped.
Sometimes Mark feels like the walls are closing in on him.
Sometimes he wants to just get in the car and race, drive till he's numb, until there's nothing left.
2012
It's purely professional, cordial. They don't see anything of each other away from the track and events. And Mark feels like he should be surprised by how much easier it makes things, how much simpler.
He misses the spark, perhaps, that extra layer of friction that always made him push that extra bit harder, but it's not a bad year, so he can't complain, not really.
He gets a couple of race victories, the team wins the constructor's.
Seb wins the championship.
Again.
Mark smiles for the photographers, raises his fist in the team photo, then goes home to Australia.
He sits on the beach, staring into the sun till his eyes hurt, then picks up his surfboard, paddles out past the breakers, the taste of salt in his mouth. He stays there a while, listening to the sound of the ocean, the water lapping against his board.
One more year, he tells himself.
But that's what he always says.
Sepang, 2013
Mark pounds his fist against the door of Seb's hotel room. There's no sound from within, no indication that Seb's even there, but Mark knows better. Probably hiding from Christian, he thinks, and says, "Come on, it's me."
Seb opens the door. "Hi," he says, quietly. He looks cautious, guarded.
"Can I come in?" asks Mark, and he's careful to keep his voice even, calm as he can, but there's no disguising how angry he is.
And Seb hesitates, like he's afraid of what Mark's going to do, but he moves to one side, ushers Mark into the room.
"I…" he starts, but Mark doesn't let him get the words out.
"Shut up," he says, and Seb nods, understanding. "Do you still want me to fuck you?" Mark asks him.
Seb looks startled, wary. "Yes," he answers, a little too quickly, too eagerly. "I mean, yes," he says, more steadily, as if he realises he's given himself away.
"Good," Mark says, and starts taking off his clothes.
Seb watches him for a second, then does the same. The air feels heavy, prickling with tension, but there's nothing sexual about it, no anticipation. Not for Mark, at least.
This is simply something he needs to do, needs to finish.
"How do you want me?" Seb says. His hands hang loosely at his sides, and Mark can see he's half-hard already.
"On the bed," says Mark. "On your front."
Seb does as he's told, and Mark thinks for a second, considers exactly what he wants to do. "Move up," he says, and Seb obeys.
Mark grabs a pillow from the top of the bed, yanks up Seb's hips and shoves it under him. "Okay," he says, settling himself down between Seb's thighs.
And when he leans in, spreading Seb's arse wide, the first touch of his tongue elicits a sharp little, "Oh," from Seb and it's obvious this wasn't what he was expecting. Which is at least partly the point, Mark muses, as he takes his time, kissing, licking, fucking Seb's arse with his tongue and fingers until he's wide open, wet with Mark's spit, writhing beneath him, moaning low and desperate.
"You don't have to do this," Seb says, the words a breathless murmur.
"What?" Mark says, looking up. "What am I doing?"
"You don't have to be nice to me."
And Mark doesn't answer, because if that's what Seb really thinks he's doing, then he doesn't even know what to say. "Do you want me to fuck you?" he asks.
"You know I want you to."
"Do you want me to make you say it?"
"I want you to do it."
Mark nods. "Got some stuff?"
Seb gestures vaguely behind him, and Mark looks around the room till he spots a box of condoms and some lube sitting on top of a chest of drawers. Interesting, he considers, that they're out, ready, but he chooses not to think about what that might mean.
And why should he, when he's rolling on a condom, slicking up his cock, and he couldn't even count how many times in his life he's done this, gone through this routine, but this feels different somehow, new in a way that's final; definitive and absolute.
He pushes into Seb's arse slow as he can, enjoying the sound of the hiss of breath, the quiet, high-pitched whimper that's barely audible. He doesn't rush it, doesn't start up right away, because there's no hurry, eventually setting up a steady, regular rhythm of thrusts, wanting to make this last.
Seb's arms are raised, grasping at the bedhead, knuckles white, and Mark watches him, rubbing his face against the sheets, mindless, his eyes closed, mouth open, and he's exactly as beautiful like this as Mark imagined.
Mark feels the pressure building inside him, like a wave starting to crest and he stills, takes a breath, gathering himself before he starts up again, and he does it over and over and over, taking himself to the edge each time, but stopping, always stopping short, not knowing how far he can take this, how long it can go on.
"Please," Seb finally says, voice cracking, breaking on what could almost be a sob. "Please," he says.
Mark takes hold of his hips, dragging him up on to his hands and knees, bending closer, pulling rough on Seb's cock, and Mark's finally letting go, shattering his own control, faster and faster till he's coming, feeling like he might break, destroy himself with the release of it, the relief of at last being freed from this, whatever it is.
He hears Seb's guttural moan, the tensing of his muscles as he comes into Mark's hand, and yeah, that's it, Mark thinks.
He pauses, takes a breath, then pulls out, way too fast, listening to Seb's little whine at it with satisfaction.
Seb collapses forward on to the bed, and Mark studies him for a moment, watches, not saying anything, before stalking off into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door.
There's no bin he can see, so he throws the condom into the sink, then stares at it lying there, limp and obscene. Done, he thinks. Finished, and he takes a piss, long and good and loud as he can.
When he goes back into the bedroom, Seb's sitting up, propped against the bedhead. He seems wasted, exhausted, and for the first time Mark notices how much older he looks now. It suits him.
"Are we okay?" Seb asks, quietly.
Mark walks around the room, picking up his clothes, stepping into his underwear, his jeans. "What?" he says.
"Are we okay?" says Seb, again.
Mark pulls his shirt over his head, says, "You know, I always overestimated you." He stops, glances over at Seb. "I always thought you were smarter." He shakes his head.
"You never gave me a chance," Seb says, his voice strained, tired. "Right from the start, from the beginning. You never trusted me."
And Mark laughs; a bitter, hollow sound. "Would things have turned out any different if I had?"
Seb shrugs, looks away. "No," he says, and it's clear that for once, there's no angle, nothing but straight truth.
"Yeah," says Mark.
He grabs his shoes, not bothering to put them on, and walks out, not looking back, not waiting for an answer. The door closes softly behind him, no dramatic exit, no fireworks, not this time.
And he feels lighter, somehow, like a weight's been lifted off him, and he truly can't tell if it's an unburdening, a lessening of some kind of load, or a loss, something taken from him by force, to be missed, mourned.
Same difference, he tells himself as he head off down the corridor, because it doesn't matter. Keep moving forward. Keep boxing.
None of it matters.