Chapter Text
Front and rear wings, halo, and a carbon fiber chassis. Smooth asphalt and the feeling of invulnerability. With all these factors, and the forces enacted upon the body harsher than that of a pilot, it’s easy to feel like a god, soaring above mere mortals in flight.
An angel of the circuit.
~~~~~
Kannapolis, North Carolina. It’s late December now, and he has to hurry to make use of the track before the snow falls here and his training is relegated to the sims. Alfred breathes in and out, feels the car fly and his body sing with the power of it. Rounds the first turn, feels the chassis shudder through it. Altogether it’s smooth. But not as smooth as it could be.
He likes the car. He’s pretty confident by next season it’ll be good even. Good but not great. Haas doesn’t build engines, and a Ferrari power unit does not a Ferrari make. Besides, he knows well enough where the priority is and it’s not on him and his car. An American driver looked good. An American rookie driver racking up some points rather than none was a certified media storm.
He grits his teeth, narrows his eyes, and throws himself into turn two. The car does more than shudder, the tail swerves wide, his tires are shot. He’s not coming in just yet though, and he’s sure no one is going to tell him to. He white knuckles the wheel as he comes out of the fishtail and into the straight. Blows out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The garage is coming up on turn three, he can make out a few figures watching from behind the glass walls.
He’s not sure why it makes his skin crawl, he’s used to driving with an audience. But he can’t escape the feeling he’s being judged in this moment. Evaluated and looked down on. It’s a feeling he was growing uncomfortably familiar with as his career continued on, and he wasn’t having any of it right this second. He can practically see the disapproval on his crew’s face as he considers his next actions, he only has a split second though and anger eventually wins out, his heart beating like a drum in his chest.
You don’t drift an F1 car. Not on purpose, it’s like testing fate, and if you do drift it it’s usually trying to get yourself out of a sticky situation. Everybody knows this, including Alfred. It hadn’t stopped him from trying though, and it had almost cost him his contract a few times. But because it isn’t done, he knows just how impressive it is when he closes his eyes, breathes deep, and gives the wheel a sharp twist around turn three. His eyes flash open again, steely blue and determined as the wheels scream beneath him. For a split second he and the car are one, machinery and bone, blood and rubber, each indistinguishable from the other. Breath coming heavy and sweat pouring down his brow. There’s not a moment where he doubts himself, because if he does he could die, and that fact is never once lost on him. As he straightens out, secure in the fact that he’s made it, he finishes it out by activating the DRS and blinking out of view.
He’d get an earful for it. Whoever was watching- his crew, his engineers. They’d give him an earful. But for now he’d ride the high, the adrenaline shining in his blood that gives way to a victorious shout. There was nothing better than this moment, not to him. Knowing and showing just how talented he actually was, proving he was here for a reason. Even if it was just to himself. Sometimes especially if it was just to himself.
He’s able to ride the high a bit longer before the expected beep of his radio interrupts, the scolding apparently couldn’t wait.
“That was incredibly stupid.” Tolys’ droll tones filter into his ear and he finds himself laughing, overjoyed from his success and amused at how annoyed but reluctantly accepting his team seemed to be of his antics.
“Awe face it, it looked pretty sick.” He argues, debating if he can get one more lap out of the tires. Likely not.
“I’m not conceding and calling your death wish “sick” Alfred.”
“You would if you really loved me and appreciated my skills.”
“You’re just like your father I swear- Can you just box please?”
“Copy, give me a second.” the radio clicks and he pulls into the pit lane, letting the car come to a steady stop before killing the engine.
There’s a ritual to finishing a race, or a practice. Really whenever he drives. The wheel is removed for him by the crew that’s waiting, minimal though it may be. The helmet has to come next. The feeling of cool air once again on his heated face as blond locks fall over sweat soaked skin is essential to being able to breathe again, which in turn calms the blood pumping wildly in his veins. The harness is dealt with in timely fashion, then the gloves, all before he exits the vehicle to meet Tolys who is approaching with all the wrath of an exhausted parent.
They’d only been working together for about a year now, but in that time they’d managed to become rather efficient. At times Alfred felt he’d rather deal with him than directly with the chief engineer. He passes his helmet off seamlessly, using his now free arm to wipe his sleeve across his forehead, a poor attempt at trying to get rid of at least some of that drenched feeling.
“Brakes could still use some work, and obviously a fresh set of tires. If the guys want I can do a full list, make some comments about what I think. Overall it's pretty solid, I’m proud to drive it.” he says, ignoring Tolys’ disgusted, and then unbelieving, look.
“A full work up could be nice. There’s a lot to be done before we unveil next season's car, and your input helps. But not right now, right now you’ve got company out on the main floor.” At his raised eyebrow Tolys just shrugs a little “Come on, you knew that or you wouldn’t have been showing out. Go on.”
Alfred rolls his eyes but concedes the point. He had been able to note that on his own and if Tolys wasn’t going to tell him who was here it would only take a little extra effort to go see. He slips his gloves into his pocket and heads out of the garage and into the building proper, race boots scuffing on slick tile.
He barely takes two steps before he’s scooped up into a tight, yet familiar, embrace. He stands stock still for about five seconds before hugging Francis Bonnefoy back with a fervor that almost lifts the older man up off the ground. It was rare enough that either of his fathers made the trip to the states in the off season that this was a pleasant surprise.
“Papa?! Jesus, you should have called. I would have met you at the airport!” he admonishes as he steps back. “And definitely been more presentable than this,” he adds, giving a mildly disgusted look down at his race suit that had been through its paces for the day for sure.
“Nonsense mon lapin, you are busy always. I am more than capable of calling my own car. Who do I look like? Your father?” Francis is as put together as always, hair swept back and out of his face with an uncharacteristically red ribbon. “No thank you. Besides, I’m afraid this is less than a social visit, more a professional matter.”
Some may say it wasn’t exactly smart to appoint one of your fathers as your manager. Others may say it was nepotism to appoint the Francis Bonnefoy (of Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS fame) as your manager when he’s one of said fathers. But Alfred figured keeping his mother’s name should help to balance things out. Moreso than that they’d had quite a few conversations about Alfred’s seat in F1 and it had always been a losing battle on Francis’ side; with Alfred refusing to allow him to push for a seat with Mercedes. He was going to earn a seat on his own merits or he wasn’t going to race at all and that was that. He suspected they’d both been more than a little disappointed when Haas had been the only one to bite, but it was what it was. He was going to do this his way.
“A professional visit? What in the off season? Pretty sure whatever it was could have been an e-” He trails off, finally noticing who the other figure he’d seen from the window before was. He feels his heart drop out of his chest and into some unknown chasm in the floor.
By the sly smile that crosses his father’s face, he certainly notices and takes advantage of his shock to press onward. “Not quite. Alfred, I wanted to introduce you to-”
“Feliciano Vargas.” he interrupts, unable to contain himself as he extends his hand for the other driver to shake. “With Ferrari, we’ve met.” He cringes a bit before adding, “Briefly.”
Feliciano Vargas is a slight man, slender for the most part but deceptively strong where it counted, shorter by just a few inches than Alfred despite the some odd years he has over him. His hair is a deep auburn color and it curls in a way that seems to promote some sort of supernatural kemptness that he was maybe just a little jealous of. He’s a racing legend who has been with Ferrari since- God knows when. He knows he started with the team when he and his twin brother Lorenzo were only eighteen. Not uncommon in their line of work, but signing with such a large team? Unheard of. And when Alfred had said they’d met he mostly meant staring at the rear wing of his car as it flew past. He could add a nice smile and a firm grip to his list of traits he was apparently keeping track of as they shook hands.
“Is this um- Is this about the engines? Because I mean if so I’m probably not the one to be talking to. I mean that’s not necessarily true. I know everything about the cars, you’re just supposed to talk to the engineers about that stuff and not- not the drivers.” he rambles when he’s nervous. He’d thought he’d gotten past that with all the press work he had to do but apparently not. He can feel his cheeks getting hot as Francis puts a steadying grip on his shoulder, squeezing once gently.
“Actually lapin, Feliciano is here to see about a contract. For you.” Yeah. He was glad for the hand on his shoulder now. Save for vomiting on his shoes the first thing he almost does is faint. The room spins and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. There’s just no way in hell he just heard that. He had to have made it up or- Fuck maybe he was dead. Maybe he died drifting that damn car out there on the track the way Tolys had told him a million times not to do. It was more plausible than getting offered a fucking seat at Ferrari.
But he doesn’t wake up, the scenario, real or not, just keeps playing out when Feliciano smiles and nods. He seems excited about this too- There’s just no way. No way someone so experienced was sitting here excited to race with someone just coming out of their rookie year. “I saw you on the circuit this morning, I have to hope what Francis was telling me on the way over is true and that you’ll accept the offer we’ve drafted up. Is there somewhere we can talk a little more ah- Privately? I’d hate to get you in too much trouble. Feels a little bit like espionage being here!” the Italian chuckles.
“Um-” He swallows down his nerves and takes a deep breath, managing to point down the hall towards one of the unused conference rooms. “Down there. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Pretty much no one here today.”
All that he can think as the group moves down the hall and to the doorway is that this is really happening. No warning, no phone call. Just like that and he has no idea why. After Feliciano enters the room, and before Francis has a chance to, Alfred catches him by the wrist and exchanges a panicked look.
“What did you do?!” He hisses out in a barely controlled hushed tone.
Francis has the audacity to keep on looking amused. Or worse yet like a giddy proud parent when Alfred really needs a manager right now. “Alfred, we may not see eye to eye about these things, and I may want to do everything I can when it comes to giving you the world, but I would never go against your wishes.”
“But he-”
Francis cups his face in his hands the way he had when Alfred was a small child, smiles gently and shakes his head. “But nothing. This is on your own merit Alfred, now hold your head up and get in there before that young man changes his mind. Feli is a nice boy. Besides, I know his grandfather.”
This startles Alfred enough to fix his father with a weird stare instead of continuing to worry. He considers asking about that further, but decides he’s probably better not knowing, and instead turns and enters the conference room as instructed.
Feliciano seemed to have come prepared, and Alfred feels a little overwhelmed as the pages are passed across the table to him. For sure this is about twice the size of his contract with Haas and he’s not really sure what it all means. What he does recognize however is the absolutely massive salary number that has the potential to make his heart stop beating in his chest. He barely knew what to do with his salary now. What was he going to do with all this?! Shit he wasn’t cut out for this. He really ought to decline the offer and just stick it out with Haas. He was okay here really. The expectations were so low there was no risk of disappointing anyone. He stares at the woodgrain of the table, feeling his heart rate climb exponentially.
Feliciano speaks up and snaps him out of his spiral, and when Alfred meets his eyes he finds it oddly comforting. There’s a gentle feeling of acceptance there that he hadn’t necessarily felt before. When he first got into racing he had been forced to accept very quickly that it was an individualistic sport. Even your teammates were usually coworkers at best, competitors at worst. Everyone was out for the championship and they’d gladly throw you under the bus to get it. But when he looks at Feliciano- When he looks at him he doesn’t see that, and that’s enough to settle his nerves and at least hear him out.
“So, as you likely know, at the end of the season my brother Lorenzo-” He hesitates and Alfred feels a twinge of regret. He hadn’t even thought about what the open Ferrari seat actually meant. Feliciano and Lorenzo Vargas were twins, and they’d been racing together for Ferrari their entire careers. They were an unstoppable force on the circuit and an infectious source of joy and motivation on the podium. But unexpectedly Lorenzo had taken a bad turn in Monaco, flipped the car a number of times, and allegedly had been lucky to walk away with his life. He was recovering well from what Alfred had heard, but rumors about his early retirement had been flying like grim ravens since.
“My brother is retiring.” Feliciano finally gets out, and he looks very pained to be saying it. “So we’ll have an open seat for the upcoming season, and Ferrari wants you to fill it. It’s not a multiyear contract, and I know coming from your position at Haas that’s probably intimidating. But I think it’s at least worth considering. You could advance with Ferrari, I’m trying to find a way to say it that’s respectful- But I’m not sure you’re going to do that here. Not really. You’re a good driver, and I’d be happy to have you as a teammate if you could get past that apprehension.”
Fuck it all. How in the world was he supposed to say no to that? And that fucking hopeful handsome face across the table that manages to have so much faith in him despite the fact that they just met properly? He can’t can he? Besides, he knows it’s objectively true. He’s as good as he’s going to get here with Haas. You could put the best driver’s in the world in that damn car and it wasn’t going to make a difference. He owes this to himself too.
He sighs, and glances over at Francis standing passively in the doorway. He was so smugly confident he hadn’t even bothered to sit down, go figure. “I suppose you’ve looked over all of this?”
“Of course. I didn’t see anything you should be worried about étoile. Well. Save for telling your father. But that’s not what I’m paid to look out for.” He hums, reaching into his pocket for a sleek black pen that he passes to Alfred without comment.
It’s the neatest Alfred’s ever signed his signature in his life, and the relief and excitement on his new co-driver’s face is enough to make his stomach do flips for hours after.
~~~~~
Maranello, Italy is cold in February. Chilled and rainy, but none of that was stopping Alfred from acting like a tourist, regularly having to be pulled back to the present by Francis who was both annoyed and a little bit amused. Being an F1 driver made him just about one of the most well traveled people in the world. Last season in his rookie year he’d managed to touch just about every continent. That being said he’d been there for work primarily and that often meant not seeing much outside the hotel and the circuit. Maranello was beautiful, despite the weather being what it was, and he was enjoying having a little bit of time to soak it in.
“Alfred?”
“Hm?” He doesn’t turn around, focused on a piece of architecture in the distance, and trying to decipher just how old it could be.
“Alfred!” His father’s exhausted tone got him to turn around finally and he found himself face to face with the Ferrari building. His legs lock up for a split second and he’s not quite sure if what he’s feeling is fear or excitement. Maybe awe? But at the same time that doesn’t seem right either.
He’s had time to process. Since signing the initial document Feliciano brought with him to the states there had been a million phone calls, a clock to race against when it came to the press finding out, and a lot of discussion about his future. But ultimately the off-season had proceeded no differently than normal, meaning a lot of time to sit and think. It hadn’t cleared much up though. He was excited, he knew that. But part of him was worried. Suddenly all eyes would be on him, and it wasn’t expected or given that he would fail. He had people besides himself to disappoint, and even though he could be a harsh judge…The public was harsher. He’d seen enough drivers over the years burn out over public opinion.
But, as he’s spiraling, he feels Francis take his hand and give it a squeeze. He looks up at the reassuring smile that’s been there for almost as long as he could remember. The one that had always been there. His first karting race and each one after. Win or lose, the smile never faded, and the excitement never waned. It eased something in his chest enough to know he could do this. As long as he could count on that sort of support he could and would make it here or anywhere.
“Are you ready to do this? There won’t be any going back, not until next season.” Francis warns, but it has a light tone. Insisting that he doesn’t need to ask, that he and Alfred both know he has it in him he just has to have the confidence to do it.
He nods and takes a shaky little breath, he feels about two feet tall. Five years old again and not ready at all for the world that’s about to hit him. But he walks into the lobby anyway. The displays scattered throughout said lobby and the hallways didn’t help all that much with the feeling of being a child. He feels himself craning to look at every car, every trophy, and he can’t help but wonder if maybe his own name might be featured among them in the not so distant future. He wants that to be the case, more than anything he wants to be the American rookie that made it big with Ferrari. And the funniest part of it was, before it was happening for him, he had never thought he couldn’t. His confidence used to be something akin to arrogance.
Feliciano is waiting for them outside the conference room, and Alfred has to duck his gaze to hide the burning feeling that comes to his cheeks. They hadn’t seen each other since December, they’d spoken on the phone a few times, ran in the sims against each other to start practicing strategy. But they hadn’t physically been in the same space- Not with Alfred being American based. Which he had a sneaking suspicion may have to change in the coming years, not that he was particularly broken up about it.
He looks good, which…Well he’d never seen the other driver not look good. But he’s practically glowing now that Alfred is here in Italy to begin preparation for the season. A full tour, an inspection of the car and meeting the engineers, and of course the first meeting with Romulus Vargas. He’s not overly excited for that one. He was a notoriously hard man to work for, with higher standards than just about any other team principal in the sport and Alfred wasn’t sure he was thrilled with the decision the team had seemed to make in going with him for the number two seat. If the lack of direct contact said anything.
“Alfred!” Oh- Feliciano had thrown his arms around and they were suddenly way too close in too short an amount of time. But he finds it surprisingly easy to laugh off the behavior and hug the shorter man back. “I’m so excited. I mean I’ve been excited but. It feels real now.” He says, releasing Alfred and stepping back again. Alfred feels his father’s stare burning holes in the back of the jacket Ferrari had gifted him for the occasion. He does not grace him with the satisfaction of blushing. Not any more than he had been anyway.
“You look good in red!” Feliciano continues, rambling on as if all the tension was just something to be swatted away. “I mean I knew you would but it’s always good to get proven right. Right. Anyway…Nonno is waiting. And I think it’s probably good if we get that over with first.”
Every time Alfred is reminded that Feliciano is practically the heir of Ferrari it’s a little like a slap in the face. On the track it’s not so hard to forget. When he and his brother are such an unstoppable nigh godly force. The way they look on the podium. Then it’s not hard. But then you meet the guy off the circuit and it’s somewhat staggering. He’s nice, easy to talk to for the most part. He’s the sort of man you wanted as your teammate especially in a sport like this. So fitting him into the role of the grandson of one of the most feared and respected veterans of the sport? Hard to do.
“Right. Yeah let’s um- Do that.” Now he does look back at Francis. It’s funny how you do that in these sorts of situations. Reach for a parent, or an older adult. As if you’re not a man grown who can handle it themselves.
The conference room wasn’t dissimilar to the one they’d met in back in the states, giving him a sense of deja vu that lingered up until he made eye contact with Romulus for the first time. He immediately drops it.
A final note on the Vargas family. Not only had Alfred been able to watch the twins in action for the entirety of their own careers, but he’d also grown up watching Romulus race on every “best races in F1 history” compilation ever. He wasn’t just a team principal with Scuderia Ferrari, he wasn’t just the grandfather to two of the sport's best current drivers, he was also the holder of the most consecutive world championships driving under the traditional rossa corsa, until he got bored and decided to retire. So it was a lot to deal with as someone with none of those accolades.
“So you’re the American driver.” He doesn’t have to break the ice. That’s good. He slowly sits down across from the older man at the table, for some reason remembering to fold his hands in his lap the way his father had always tried to impress on him. It doesn’t escape his notice that Feliciano does not sit down, and remains standing off to the right of his field of vision. Bad sign.
“Yes sir.” It seems like the safest form of address. It’s not that he’s scared of authority or anything, it's just that. Well. The season hasn’t started yet. This man still has the opportunity to fire him. Romulus looks down, the papers in front of him had to be some sort of file on him. An interesting concept but he tries to not let it psych him out.
“Just one question. I have it on good authority that Haas was prepared to offer you a five year contract, with a pay raise that wasn’t insignificant.” Yeah. He knew that already. He winces remembering the way it had been practically screamed at him when his principal had found out he was jumping ship for Ferrari. Sure. Objectively it was a good deal, and they had set aside a lot of money to afford him. But he had to do this, it was simple. “You finished in the points in pretty much every race last season. Including the sprints.”
It’s not a question but he nods, knowing just how well he had done with what he had to work with. “Yes sir.”
Romulus gives him a look for interrupting but doesn’t comment about it. He seems to be going somewhere with his statement. “You had a good thing at Haas. You could have been comfortable as their poster boy. Why the switch?”
That is the question. But Alfred is so stunned by the absurdity of it that he barely stifles a shocked laugh. He even forgets to be nervous as he asks “I’m sorry?”
“Why the switch? Why choose Ferrari rather than staying with a team based in your home country, a team that would have done all they could to keep you?”
He shakes his head, clearly bewildered “I’m sorry I just- What kind of question is that exactly? I mean. I’ll put it like this. I’m a racer. Haas is a decent team. But I didn’t fight my way into formula one for decent. Ferrari is the best. I’m aware this could tank me. That I’m taking a risk. But I have a chance to burn out with the best, or waste my time being decent. And for what it’s worth I don’t think I will burn out. I think I’m finally going to have a chance to show everyone I’m more than decent. Why wouldn’t I take that?”
“Tomorrow we’ll do your first press release with Ferrari, the questions will be similar.” Romulus says seriously, staring him down from across the table. Alfred’s never seen brown eyes look particularly stormy before but he can add it to the list of things he was unprepared for. It was almost challenging in a way. “Will you be able to handle that?”
“Um…Yes?” He sees Feliciano cringe from the corner of his eye and immediately knows he’s made some sort of vital mistake. He turns towards him a little bit, almost instinctively expecting a little help. All he gets is a half encouraging smile that doesn’t reach the concern in his eyes. Nervous. Good to know even the guy’s grandson feels that way.
Romulus sighs and Alfred can feel the palpable disappointment in the air so thick he could cut it with a knife. “I asked you a question. You do not answer it with a question again. Understand?”
He swallows thickly. Jesus.
“Yes sir.” This is worse than dealing with his father’s annoyance about him continuing to race, and that’s saying quite a bit.
Finally Romulus leans back in his seat with a slight nod. Had he- Had this been some sort of test? Had he passed? He’s not even sure but Feliciano seems to be breathing out a sigh of relief. And now after all that Francis chooses to return from where he’d disappeared to, glass of wine in hand. Complimentary no doubt. Leave it to his father.
“Alright then!” Feliciano says quickly, seemingly before the conversation can resume. He’s very quickly in Alfred’s space again, making eye contact and clearly indicating it’s time to go. He loops his arm in Alfred’s when he stands, staying glued to his side. “Ludwig is expecting us and I’m sure Alfred wants to see the car.”
He can barely comprehend enough to nod when he hears his name. His mind seems to short circuit when the Italian driver gets too close.
“We’ll leave the old men to catch up, huh?” He says a little quieter for Alfred’s ears only and it takes everything in him to hold in his laughter until they’re safely outside the door. Strangely enough the sound echoes from inside, and he gets the sense he’s being talked about. Or perhaps they both are.
Feliciano keeps his arm looped in his as they hurry away from the conference room, and Alfred feels like his laughter is half the reason he keeps laughing himself, until he’s out of breath. It’s a sort of infectious joy.
“I’m so sorry about him!” He giggles, shaking his head as he slows their pace to a normal walk. He doesn’t let go. Alfred doesn’t really mind.
“Don’t be, it’s fine. I’m kind of used to it. You should meet my dad at some point.” He says idly. Which. He probably wouldn’t, considering he still hadn’t told Arthur about the move. But it was just…He knew how it was going to go. He didn’t need more reason to doubt himself.
Feliciano gives him an appraising look, looking as if he might want to ask but he doesn’t. “Well you did well. I think you impressed him which…That is easier said than done.”
“What? Are you kidding me? He looked ready to rip my contract up right there in front of me!” He argues, and it’s not funny but somehow it is at the same time. The energy is good and surprisingly light as they make their way towards the garage.
“Well-” Feliciano winces a bit, turning his head to the side as if really considering the situation. “You did basically laugh at him. I don’t think that’s happened to him in a while. Not since Antonio left for McLaren again at least.”
“Okay that was kinda insane though.” Alfred replies, shaking his head at the memory. It had been highly publicized. Everyone wanted to wear the red jumpsuit at least once in their career and Antonio Carriedo was no different- But that had ended very explosively apparently. There were still clips floating around of Romulus and him arguing vehemently in the paddock.
Feliciano nods in agreement, looking disturbed by the memories “Oh trust me, just be glad you weren’t there and it was before your time. I thought Lorenzo was going to lose his mind over it.”
He gives the Italian a weird look but chooses not to comment further. He doesn’t know Lorenzo Vargas that well. Or at all. A point of guilt he was still carrying around with him like a particularly heavy stone in his pocket. He had practically stolen the guy's seat right out from him. Didn’t matter that he was retiring due to injury, it still felt kind of wrong. He would be more comfortable talking about him when he’d come to terms with that, until then he was good to change the subject.
Finally reaching their destination was a good enough distraction. They’re met with a brush of cool air as they step out into the garage, he tilts his head up and catches sight of the rolling storm clouds that don’t look all too promising. So much for a test drive. Unless he could convince the engineers to risk their work like that for a joyride.
He barely feels it when Feliciano detaches from his side but he does look over when a voice rings out calling his name. Apparently the smaller driver greeted just about everyone with a hug that nearly knocked the recipient off their feet, and no Alfred was not jealous of that fact in the slightest. Instead he’s focusing on the engineer he was apparently so close with.
He’s forced to shove down the thought that apparently everyone who worked for Ferrari was apparently devastatingly attractive.
The man was about Alfred’s age, taller than him by a little bit, blond and looked like he could probably lift one of the cars unassisted. Despite all that thought, he has a boyish quality to him. An endearing sort of awkwardness that shows itself in the way he gently guides Feliciano off him. His eyes are kind, and somewhat nervous.
“Ciao Feli, it’s taken you long enough to come see our work. I was beginning to wonder if you’d show up.” He’s clearly teasing and the sound of his voice makes a shiver run down Alfred’s spine.
He stands awkwardly to the side, watching the interaction play out with interest. The two are clearly very familiar with each other, which while not uncommon between a driver and their team it is still interesting to note. Though he can’t say it would make less for someone to not be familiar with Feliciano. He doesn’t leave a lot of room for argument.
“Lud, you flew in two days ago.” Feliciano scolds, folding his arms over his chest. His pouting is very obviously put on, and he’s barely containing a grin. At least it’s obvious to Alfred, to his companion it doesn’t seem to be as much. “I’ve been busy, and! I wanted to wait until Alfred was here so we could see them at the same time!”
When both of their attentions are suddenly on him he feels like he might just cease to exist out of embarrassment. He hopes this feeling of otherness would fade soon. If he could say one positive thing about his time with Haas it was that he at least had a good relationship with his team and pit crew.
“Oh- you must be the number two driver.” the engineer says, clearly appraising Alfred as much as he had done to him earlier. He approaches and offers his hand to shake, “Ludwig Bielschmidt. Chief engineer.”
Alfred takes the offered hand, his mind going elsewhere for a moment. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize why he knows that name. “Oh! Your brother is principal over at Mercedes! Gilbert, right?”
The hesitant and somewhat startled look Ludwig gives him makes his cheeks flush and he quickly stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I- Yes? How did you- ?”
He doesn’t finish his question, and Alfred feels encouraged to toss his jacket at Feliciano for giggling. “Ah- Sorry that was weird to lead with. My dad used to race with him back in the day.” He explains. “Francis Bonnefoy? He tried to pull a few strings last year and I wouldn’t let him.”
“Oh!” Recognition flickers in Ludwig’s eyes and he actually laughs, causing some of the tension to leak from Alfred’s shoulders. “That sounds like something my brother would have let you get away with for sure. Thank you for sticking it out though, I hear you have an engineering degree of your own. I could use a driver who knows what they’re doing in that regard.”
Feli’s indignant outcry causes them to share a small grin, and he’s reassured everything might be alright.
“I don’t need a degree! I have experience!” the redhead snaps back, and Alfred just giggles more. It’s true that experience behind the wheel really can be invaluable, it's just- well the way he looks when he’s pouting. “It’s about the feeling of the car! It’s an art not a science!”
Ludwig raises an eyebrow and there it is again, that particular fondness that makes Alfred question if he’s missing a piece of the puzzle here. “Feli, telling me something “feels wobbly” is not an art or a science you know.”
Feliciano opens his mouth to reply but Alfred cuts him off “I don’t know. Wobbly feels scientific enough to me. Loose. Wobbly. Hobbled together. Though I think I might not have to use that last one as much this season?”
Feliciano nods quickly, curls bouncing into his face with how enthusiastic he seems. “Trust me, you won’t regret coming over once you get behind the wheel. Ludwig knows what he’s doing.” Silently Alfred agrees he probably does, he’s got that look about him.
“Well, are we going to look at it or just talk about looking at it?” Ludwig asks, shifting his weight as if he was eager to get the initial appraisal over with.
“Of course we’re going to look at it.” He finds himself saying. “I didn’t come all the way to Italy not to.”
Needless to say he’s not disappointed. To the untrained eye the cars might look all the same, but to Alfred he can already tell this will be the best car he’s ever had the pleasure of driving. The first words out of his mouth upon seeing the red and black livery is, “She’s beautiful-”
He doesn’t need to look back at Ludwig to see he’s brimming with pride over the reaction. “Well, she’ll be yours unless something insane happens. Don’t do anything insane, I and the rest of the team put a lot of hours in. They’re really something this year.”
“Championship material?” Feliciano asks, leaning against the wide doorway of the garage. He sounds oddly serious, there’s a dark look in his eyes that Alfred misses because he’s still inspecting every inch of the car and then wandering off to look at the stats on the screen.
Ludwig nods, following Alfred’s path with his eyes, “I think so. It’ll really depend on the two of you. I’m sure the Red Bulls are of similar quality. But not better. Not like last year.”
His gaze settles as Alfred pours over the schematics for the car, speaking and gushing about the possibilities and not realizing no one is quite listening all the way. He smiles to himself. “You’re sure about him?”
Feliciano chuckles and nods, seeming oddly confident. “I’m sure. Besides, isn’t he cute?”
Ludwig can’t necessarily disagree with that.