Fic: Interconnection, Part 14
(Some timings from real life rejigged for continuity purposes…re: Seb’s news)
Pairing: Mark Webber/Sebastian Vettel
Rating: M
Synopsis: At the FIA gala, Mark ruminates the end
Word count: 1,018
Disclaimer: Didn’t happen, never will. Don’t like, don’t read.
Interconnection, Part 14
Mark was doing his best to remain stoic in the face of Sebastian’s forced comments. He knew a camera was trained on him - of course it would be, considering how fractious their relationship was reported to be. There Sebastian was, up on stage, prattling on with his usual line about how there was mutual respect between the both of them. It made Mark especially sick to his stomach this time; he momentarily thought he tasted bile.
It was strange for Mark to realise that no one in this room full of important people - not even Christian - had a true inkling of just how humiliated he felt. To have to dress up in black tie for this gala, to have to attend in order to pick up a third place trophy, to have to pay lip service out of graciousness…none of it compared to the sense of impending self-hatred that came with knowing there would be a confrontation back at the hotel after this ceremony was over.
They were in Paris. City of love, right? It was cruel, oh, so cruel to have to be here. For Sebastian to have somehow engineered adjacent rooms (surely some bribery or sweet-talking had been involved) was truly the last bitter pill Mark was prepared to swallow.
He kept a straight face as he remembered the conversation where he received confirmation from Ann, of all people.
‘Did you hear?’
Ann had just strolled into the kitchen as if the last half a year hadn’t taken a toll on their relationship. The three-word question was believably flippant too, which for a moment made Mark think she was being vengeful. Truth was he didn’t know what to think anymore. His mind was consumed by Sebastian, defined by Sebastian, haunted by Sebastian. He had no capacity to conduct a full-scale, honest assessment of how badly his relationship with Ann had been damaged.
Odds were that she had accepted that the ‘phase’ was coming to, if it wasn’t already at, an end. Perhaps there was a truce on foot and he hadn’t even realised. After all, she had stopped finding excuses to stay out of the house; they weren’t sharing a bed at the moment, but she was still around by choice.
Ashamed, Mark pursed his lips and decided not to turn around completely. He did, however, quickly look over his shoulder to acknowledge her presence before going back to the task of cutting up an apple. The cutting motion was particularly morbid as he contemplated Ann’s quasi-rhetorical question. Chop. Cut. Chop. If he were a weaker man, he’d retreat into himself more than ever - perhaps take on the tendencies of a lonely, heartbroken teenager. He imagined what it would feel like to make a single cut across his wrist, not to do himself any real harm, but to remind himself of how far backward he had travelled because of his affair with Sebastian.
It was fucked.
He knew what Ann was referring to, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it was happening. How could he? He hadn’t even had the guts to confront Sebastian about it, and he’d been hearing conspiratorial whispers for weeks now. It was his own fault that he’d brushed aside the rumours as idle speculation. Hanna not at races? He’d told himself that it was about him - about Sebastian’s loyalty to him.
Then after Brazil, Heikki had straight up accused him of being a home-wrecker ‘of the worst kind’ and to think of ‘Seb’s family’. It hadn’t made any sense until…until it did.
Mark’s hand began to shake slightly as Anne took a few steps closer. He shook out the traitor hand and resumed cutting the apple, all the while fighting the ridiculous tears that were threatening to spill over. He was not a crying man, and yet here he was tearing up as if he was cutting an onion.
Suppressed somewhere in his mind was the fight he’d had with Sebastian after Abu Dhabi and the ‘I love you’ that wasn’t. It all seemed foolish now, to think there was a chance he had meant it. A chance that it hadn’t been a mere reflex from the many years of saying the same to Hanna on the phone.
Ann cleared her throat. ‘Obviously it’s not public yet, but it will be. Hanna’s a couple of months along, if not more.’
Mark didn’t respond. His ears were ringing, and he couldn’t help but flinch when Ann stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder.
‘I’m not sure if you knew,’ she continued. ‘You’ve been trying to avoid him lately, I can tell.’
‘I don’t care,’ Mark said through gritted teeth. ‘None of my business.’
Unfortunately, the ruse had never been convincingly in place. He wiped his eyes with the back of the hand that was still holding the knife. This alarmed Ann - she gently took the knife from him and let him walk away to collect his thoughts and compose himself.
There was no composing himself, though. Mark left the property and walked. And walked. And walked. It was dusk when he left and it was dark when he arrived.
He sat there on the fence of the field where he first kissed Sebastian, the cold biting at his hands and his cheeks and forever reminding him that that night after Silverstone was all in the past.
Eventually, Mark’s face went numb from the cold. Which was fine with him. It meant he couldn’t feel the hot, shameful tears streaming down his face.
He’d been a fool. The only solace was that he hadn’t slept with his now former teammate - and though that was a small win, he still took it.
Applause.
The speech was over - the gala audience was now clapping for Sebastian. Mark realised he was late in joining in - definitely not a good look - and immediately tried to be more sincere in his sign of mutual respect.
They would talk after this. He was ready now. Ready for the final chapter of the story that never should’ve happened.