The Ferrari motorhome is quiet, too quiet, the low hum of post-race tension vibrating in your bones like leftover static. The Spanish Grand Prix ended in smoke and shredded carbon fiber — both of you out by Lap 35, tangled up in a desperate corner neither one of you yielded for. The Tifosi are still reeling. The media is frothing. And all you can hear is the replay of the crash in your head — metal against metal, your name alongside his blinking red on the leaderboard as DNF.

You’re in the corner of the lounge, half-showered, hair still damp, fireproofs tied around your waist and the sweat of frustration clinging to your skin. The medics cleared you, but you haven’t spoken to him. Not since the crash. Not since the pit wall screamed both your names in disbelief.

Satoru’s voice carries before you even see him — familiar, bright and careless as ever, sharp with that usual charisma he knows how to wield like a blade. He's just outside, giving his post-race interview. You’re not trying to listen. But you do.

The journalist says, "It looked like there was some tension on track today between you and your teammate. What are you going to do going forward to mend any bridges with your frined?"

A pause.

Then: "Well we’re not friends," Satoru says and your breath leaves your lungs like you’ve been hit again. Satoru laughs afterward, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not the way it used to. "We're colleagues and we'll work to get the team as many 1-2's and points as possible."

There was a time — not so long ago — when that same mouth had said “I’ve got your back, always” under the blinding lights of Monza. When his champagne had been sprayed into your hair like it was the best damn thing he’d ever done. When he caught your eye with a grin right before lights out. There were nights spent studying telemetry together on the floor of the hotel, barefoot and giddy with the kind of adrenaline only shared dreams bring. Before the title started weighing down on you both more heavily, pulling your relationship taut, strained under all the pressure to bring home that championship. He wants his fifth, you want your first. It was great once, before all the noise and pride.

But not now.

Now, Satoru walks into the motorhome with his fireproofs half-zipped, sweat glinting on his neck, a towel slung around his shoulders. He doesn’t look at you right away. He heads to the counter, grabs a water bottle, twists the cap off with too much force. Satoru's jaw is set tight. His white hair sticks to his forehead, and those icy eyes won’t meet yours.

You're not friends, he's just told the whole world after knowing eachother since you were fifteen. He said you weren’t friends. So what are you now? Just teammates fighting for the same title, hoping the other fucks up first?