Chapter Text
Jimin had learned early that Formula One was built on lies.
Drivers lied about confidence. Team principals lied about strategy. Engineers lied about how serious a problem was until the car was safely back in the garage. Journalists lied to themselves about objectivity, then published whatever version of the truth made the better headline.
The only honest thing in the sport was the stopwatch.
Everything else depended on who was speaking.
Jimin stepped into the paddock just after seven in the morning, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the rising sun. The circuit was already alive around him: mechanics moving equipment between garages, hospitality staff carrying trays of coffee, engineers walking too quickly while pretending they weren’t in a hurry.
The season had only just begun, but the paddock already carried the familiar tension of a place where everyone was waiting for someone else to make a mistake.
Jimin understood the feeling.
He had spent most of his career making sure the mistake was never his.
“You’re late,” Taehyung said.
Jimin didn’t look at him. “Good morning to you too.”
“Your meeting started six minutes ago.”
“Then I’ve only missed the boring part.”
“You say that about every meeting.”
“Because every meeting has a boring part.”
Taehyung matched his pace, hands tucked into the pockets of his team jacket. He had a talent for appearing relaxed in situations where everyone else was quietly falling apart. It was one of the reasons Jimin tolerated him.
The other reason was that Taehyung knew when to stop talking.
He rarely did.
“You look tired,” Taehyung said.
“I look expensive.”
“You look like you slept in a chair.”
“An expensive chair.”
Taehyung smiled. “There he is.”
Jimin ignored him and kept walking.
The Mercedes garage was ahead, its silver-and-black branding bright beneath the morning light. The sight of it usually settled something in him. The garage was familiar in a way few places were: the smell of rubber and hot metal, the quiet concentration of the mechanics, the clean lines of the car waiting beneath the lights.
A race weekend was the only time Jimin felt entirely certain of where he belonged.
Not in front of the cameras.
Not at sponsor dinners.
Not in interviews where strangers tried to reduce years of work into a single question about whether he was under pressure.
Here.
Behind the wheel.
On the track.
That was the only place where people stopped asking him to explain himself.
They were almost at the garage when a voice came from behind them.
“Some people should probably spend less time talking and more time preparing.”
Jimin stopped.
He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
Taehyung’s expression changed beside him—not dramatically, but enough. The corners of his mouth lifted with the anticipation of someone who had just noticed an argument forming and had no intention of preventing it.
Jimin turned.
Jeon Jungkook stood in the middle of the paddock wearing Ferrari red. He held a paper cup of coffee in one hand, his other tucked into the pocket of his team jacket. He looked rested, which Jimin found offensive on principle.
Yoongi stood beside him, already looking tired of the morning. Mingyu was there too, watching the exchange with the quiet interest of a man who had discovered a source of free entertainment.
Jungkook’s eyes settled on Jimin.
They had been rivals for so long that the feeling had become almost automatic. Jimin could recognize Jungkook in a crowded room without seeing his face—the stillness of him, the controlled posture, the irritating sense that he was always measuring the distance between himself and everyone else.
They had raced against each other since the junior categories.
They had fought over podiums, qualifying positions, championship points, and the kind of small grievances that only became important after being repeated often enough.
The press had turned it into a story.
Mercedes versus Ferrari.
Jimin versus Jungkook.
Talent against talent. Pride against pride.
The truth was less glamorous.
They simply disliked each other.
Jimin glanced at Jungkook’s coffee.
“Careful,” he said. “You look nervous.”
Jungkook’s expression did not change. “I’m holding coffee, Park.”
“Exactly. You’re already shaking.”
“I’m not.”
“Then I suppose that’s just your personality.”
Taehyung coughed into his hand.
Yoongi looked at him. “Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m not,” Taehyung said.
“You are.”
Jungkook took a slow sip of his coffee, still looking at Jimin.
“Try not to drive into anyone today.”
There were several possible answers. Jimin considered each of them, then chose the one most likely to irritate him.
“Are you worried?”
“About my car.”
“Right.”
Jimin let his gaze move briefly over the Ferrari uniform.
“It must be exhausting,” he said, “being so emotionally attached to something that can actually be replaced.”
Mingyu’s amusement faded.
Jungkook’s eyes sharpened.
The exchange had crossed the invisible line between routine hostility and something more deliberate. Jimin felt it happen, felt the air change around them, but he didn’t regret the words.
Jungkook had a way of making every conversation feel like a contest.
Jimin had no interest in losing.
“Try keeping up,” Jungkook said.
Jimin smiled, though there was no warmth in it.
“Try staying out of my way.”
He turned and walked into the Mercedes garage.
Taehyung followed, waiting until the noise of the paddock had swallowed them before speaking.
“One day,” he said, “you’re going to say something that gets us both banned from a press conference.”
Jimin removed his sunglasses. “That would be a peaceful afternoon.”
“You’re not even denying it.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired when Jungkook is around.”
Jimin looked at him.
Taehyung raised both hands. “I said nothing.”
“You said plenty.”
“Noted.”
Jimin gave him a look.
Taehyung smiled. “You’re welcome.”
The Mercedes garage was already in motion.
The car sat beneath the overhead lights with its bodywork partially removed, exposing the complicated machinery beneath the sleek exterior. Mechanics moved around it with quiet precision. Engineers gathered near the monitors, their attention fixed on streams of data that meant very little to anyone outside the team and everything to the people inside it.
Jimin liked the garage best before the first session.
Before the noise became unbearable.
Before the cameras arrived.
Before the car stopped being a machine and became a promise everyone expected him to keep.
Hoseok stood near the timing screens, tablet in hand.
“There you are.”
Jimin dropped into a chair. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“You walked past me yesterday.”
“I was busy.”
“You were buying sunglasses.”
“Important work.”
Hoseok looked at him for a moment, then handed him a bottle of water.
“Your first meeting is in four minutes.”
“Then we have time.”
“We do not.”
“Four minutes is a generous amount of time.”
“For what?”
“Regretting my career.”
Hoseok’s mouth twitched.
That was the most Jimin usually got from him before nine in the morning.
Taehyung sat beside Jimin and leaned toward the tablet.
“What’s the car like?”
“Fast,” Hoseok said.
“Is that the official technical assessment?”
“No. The official technical assessment is that the car is fast in some places and irritating in others.”
“Sounds familiar,” Jimin said.
Hoseok gave him a flat look. “We’re still working on rear stability through the slower corners. The wind is expected to pick up later, which could make the balance unpredictable.”
“Ferrari?”
“Fast.”
Jimin looked up.
Hoseok noticed. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You asked about Ferrari.”
“I asked a general question.”
“You asked it immediately after I mentioned the car.”
“Coincidence.”
Taehyung smiled to himself.
Jimin pointed at him without looking. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“That’s unfair.”
“It’s accurate.”
Hoseok swiped to another page. “Ferrari is running a different downforce package. We won’t know how much of their pace is real until the first long run.”
Jimin nodded.
He told himself he was listening because Ferrari was their main competition.
That was all.
The championship was decided by points, not feelings. By lap times, not irritation. It would be stupid to let Jungkook’s comments affect him.
Jimin had never considered himself stupid.
Annoyed, perhaps.
Vindictive, occasionally.
But never stupid.
Jin entered the garage with a phone pressed to his ear. He finished the call, looked directly at Jimin, and immediately seemed to regret finding him.
“Media in ten minutes.”
“I know.”
“Sponsor interview after that.”
“I know.”
“Team briefing.”
“I know.”
Jin studied him. “Are you going to attend any of these?”
“I’m standing right here.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was a visual demonstration.”
Taehyung turned away.
Hoseok suddenly found something fascinating on his tablet.
Jin sighed. “Please don’t antagonize the Ferrari drivers during the press conference.”
Jimin leaned back. “I don’t antagonize them.”
“You respond.”
“Only when spoken to.”
“You respond with enthusiasm.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
Jimin stood and reached for his team jacket.
Jin looked him over. “Try to be normal.”
Jimin considered the request.
“Define normal.”
Jin closed his eyes.
“Forget it.”
The press conference room was cold enough to preserve a body.
Jimin sat beneath the bright lights with one ankle resting over his knee, his microphone positioned in front of him. Across the room, Jungkook sat in Ferrari red, looking as though he had been born knowing exactly where every camera was.
The media liked putting them together.
It gave them a simple story to sell.
Two young drivers. Two historic teams. Two enormous egos.
The rivalry had become a product long before either of them had been asked whether they wanted it.
The moderator smiled.
“Jimin, Mercedes has shown strong pace over the last few rounds, but Ferrari appears particularly competitive at this circuit. Do you expect another close battle?”
Jimin glanced toward the timing screens.
“Hopefully not.”
A few reporters laughed.
“Why’s that?”
“I’d prefer to be comfortably ahead.”
Jungkook leaned toward his microphone.
“That would be a first.”
Jimin turned his head.
Jungkook was looking at him with the same expression he wore on the grid: focused, unreadable, and just smug enough to be irritating.
Jimin smiled.
“Are you still talking?”
The laughter this time was louder.
The moderator looked pleased. “Jungkook, do you think Mercedes will be able to challenge Ferrari this weekend?”
“Of course they’ll challenge us,” Jungkook said. “The question is whether they’ll be able to stay there.”
“Staying behind someone isn’t difficult,” Jimin said.
Jungkook’s eyes moved toward him.
“Neither is talking.”
“Then you should be excellent at it.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the room.
Jimin heard Taehyung laugh from somewhere near the back. Jin, he suspected, was considering whether it was possible to resign as his manager mid-season.
The moderator attempted to redirect the conversation.
“There’s clearly a lot of confidence from both sides.”
“Confidence is important,” Jimin said.
“So is pace,” Jungkook replied.
“Then you should be fine.”
For a moment, Jungkook said nothing.
It was a small victory, but Jimin accepted it.
He had never been above taking the small victories.
The questions continued, circling the same subjects with different wording. Championship pressure. Team expectations. Their history. Whether they respected one another.
Jimin gave the answers he always gave.
He respected Jungkook’s ability.
He did not particularly enjoy racing against him.
He expected a competitive weekend.
He had no interest in discussing their personal relationship.
The last answer earned him a few raised eyebrows.
“What personal relationship?” a journalist asked.
Jimin looked at him.
“Exactly.”
Across the room, Jungkook’s mouth tightened.
It was almost satisfying.
Almost.
The hour before practice passed quickly.
Jimin changed into his race suit, listened to the final setup briefing, and stood beside the car while the mechanics completed their checks. Around him, the garage grew louder. The calm of the morning was disappearing, replaced by the familiar urgency of a session about to begin.
Hoseok approached with the final notes.
“Rear temperatures may be difficult on the first run. We’ll need to manage them carefully.”
“Understood.”
“The wind is stronger than expected through sector two.”
“Understood.”
“Ferrari is running more downforce.”
Jimin looked at him.
Hoseok paused. “You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Listening only when I mention Ferrari.”
“I listen to everything.”
“You don’t.”
“I listen selectively.”
“That isn’t better.”
Jimin took his helmet from the mechanic beside him.
“What’s Jungkook’s long-run pace?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“We will.”
Hoseok studied him. “It’s practice.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then drive like it’s practice.”
Jimin looked toward the end of the pit lane.
Jungkook stood beside the Ferrari, helmet tucked under his arm while Namjoon spoke to him. Yoongi was nearby, checking something on his phone. Mingyu leaned against the garage wall, apparently enjoying a conversation with one of the mechanics.
Jungkook looked over.
Their eyes met.
There was no smile this time.
No clever remark.
Just the quiet recognition of two people who had spent years learning exactly how dangerous the other could be.
Jimin looked away first—not because he was intimidated, but because he had better things to do.
“Tell them I’m ready,” he said.
Hoseok glanced at the car. “You’re already standing beside it.”
“Then tell them I’m more ready.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means hurry up.”
The lights above the pit lane changed.
One by one, the cars began to roll out.
Jimin lowered himself into the Mercedes cockpit and settled into the seat. The steering wheel came alive beneath his hands. The radio crackled in his ear.
“Radio check.”
“Loud and clear.”
“Installation lap first. Watch the rear temperatures.”
“Copy.”
The car moved forward.
For the first few seconds, the world became simple.
Steering.
Braking.
Throttle.
The pressure of the belts across his chest.
The faint vibration of the engine beneath him.
Everything outside the cockpit became distant and unimportant. The cameras, the journalists, the championship standings, the arguments in the paddock—all of it disappeared beneath the clean logic of the track.
This was why he drove.
Not because he enjoyed being watched.
Not because he wanted his name on billboards.
Not even because he wanted to beat Jungkook.
He drove because the car gave him an answer when everything else offered noise.
The pit lane opened.
Jimin accelerated.
The Mercedes responded immediately, smooth and sharp beneath him.
By the time he reached the first sector, the Ferrari was already ahead.
Jungkook.
Of course.
“Ferrari ahead,” Hoseok said over the radio. “Maintain the gap.”
“I see him.”
“Don’t push yet.”
Jimin watched the red car approach Turn One.
He knew Jungkook’s habits. He braked late when he believed he had the advantage. He defended aggressively when he believed someone was close enough to challenge him. He drove as though every corner was an argument he intended to win.
Jimin braked later.
The two cars entered the corner almost together, red and silver occupying the same narrow stretch of asphalt. Jungkook held the inside. Jimin refused to back out.
For a moment, there was not enough room for either of them.
Neither moved.
The Ferrari gained the better exit.
Jimin stayed close.
“Jimin,” Hoseok warned. “This is an installation lap.”
“He’s in my way.”
“You’re both on a practice lap.”
“He knows.”
Jungkook moved toward the racing line.
Jimin followed.
The Ferrari took the next corner aggressively, its rear stepping out before settling. Jimin watched the movement and adjusted his own line, keeping the gap narrow enough to remain irritating.
For three corners, they drove as if the session mattered.
As if the championship were already on the line.
As if neither of them could tolerate the other disappearing ahead.
Then Jungkook pulled away.
Jimin crossed the timing line and glanced at the display on his steering wheel.
P1 — Ferrari P2 — Mercedes
The result was temporary.
It meant nothing.
There were still several practice sessions, qualifying, and the race itself. The weekend had barely begun.
Jimin knew all of that.
He also knew that the red car was currently first.
“Good lap,” Hoseok said.
“Not good enough.”
“It’s the first run.”
“I noticed.”
“Box this lap.”
Jimin eased off the throttle.
The Ferrari disappeared farther down the circuit.
The red car was fast.
Too fast, perhaps.
That was fine.
Fast could be beaten.
Jimin had built a career on that belief.
He returned to the garage, climbed out of the car, and handed his helmet to a mechanic. The timing screens updated above the monitors.
Ferrari remained at the top.
Taehyung appeared beside him.
“P1 and P2.”
“Temporarily.”
“You say that like you’re not the one in P2.”
“I’m aware of where I am.”
“Just checking.”
Jimin looked toward the Ferrari garage.
Jungkook had returned as well. He stood beside his car while the engineers reviewed the data, his helmet still on, his shoulders relaxed.
He looked pleased.
Jimin hated that.
Not because Jungkook was fast.
Because he looked as though he expected to be.
Jimin pulled off his gloves, one finger at a time.
“Tell Hoseok I want another run.”
Taehyung glanced at him. “You’ve barely been out.”
“I want another run.”
“Because?”
Jimin looked at the timing screen.
“Because Ferrari is currently first.”
Taehyung smiled.
“There he is.”
Jimin turned toward him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
Taehyung laughed.
Across the paddock, Jungkook looked over.
This time, Jimin didn’t look away.
He raised two fingers in a lazy salute.
Jungkook’s expression hardened.
Jimin smiled faintly.
Good.
The weekend had officially begun.