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Pepe remembers the first time he’d done anything with Isack.
It was after the feature race, in Silverstone in July. Isack had won. Pepe had earned himself a singular measly point, finishing down in tenth.
Emotions had been high, to say the least. So high in fact that once they were alone in their drivers room post race, Isack had — with a perfectly imperfect grin adorning his face — immediately inserted himself into a hug with Pepe.
It was nice, for a moment. Two young racers, bonding over emotions very few people in the world could understand properly. Then, though, there had been an interesting development.
“Isack,” he had said hesitantly, unsure if he should have been saying anything at all to address it — or if he should simply pretend he wasn’t aware of the situation.
“Yeah?” the muffled reply had come, from where he was buried in the Spaniard’s arms.
“I… I can feel your— your, uhm…”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” Isack had said, scrambling backwards instantly, a horrified look on his face as he had begun to apologise profusely. “Merde, I’m so sorry mate, I wasn’t even thinking. I am so, so sorry.”
Pepe wasn’t sure why he dug himself an ever deeper hole, but he had. “...Would you like some help with that?”
It’d been comical, the expression on his teammates face. Eventually though, he’d gotten over the initial shock and asked if that was a joke.
Pepe had told him it didn’t have to be, and from then on it had all moved so fast. Afterwards, they’d giggled through Campos’ debrief, giving each other secretive looks which caused the entire team to wonder what had made Pepe so happy after his… mediocre, to say the least, performance.
It had been magical, in his eyes. The way their bodies were working together just felt absolutely natural, inevitable even. As if it was always going to happen at some point, whether it happened then or later in life. Pepe thinks that maybe even then, there were underlying feelings that he hadn’t been able to admit to himself yet.
And it hadn’t ended there. The next night, Pepe had received a single view photo from Isack. You can probably guess what it was that had him panting like a dog as all of his blood rushed south.
By the time Monza rolled around towards the end of August, they had been dancing around each other for a whole month — coy story likes, late night texts with unwarranted selfies, and even a drunk phone call at one point. Pepe wasn’t too proud of that one, but it had happened nonetheless.
It ended up being a difficult weekend for them both, Pepe narrowly missing out on what could’ve been a podium when he finished fourth in the sprint. They had finished together in the feature, with Isack in eleventh and himself in twelfth.
Missing out on points, by such fine margins — barely a few seconds on paper — had been a miserable thing to swallow.
That Sunday evening, Isack had hesitated as they walked towards the car park to go their separate ways.
“Pepe?” he’d said, hovering nervously by his side the whole time. “I was wondering if you’d want to… well, are you free tonight? We could hang out, watch a movie or something and try to take our minds off of things.”
He’d agreed, unsurprisingly. What was surprising was how tender Isack had been with him that night, and they had truly found solace in each other. If that was by fucking, that was their business only.
It had prompted Pepe to, after the sex of course, confess that he was seemingly crushing on Isack. He’d admitted to liking him back, and they went on a date the next day before flying out — There is no time like the present.
On their third date, Isack had officially asked him to be his boyfriend after their constant activities which had taken place since Silverstone.
Now, it’s 2025. When Pepe jumps down from his car and runs to the barriers where his team is waiting, he’s shocked to immediately spy Isack amongst everyone there to greet him.
He came to see me.
He’s instantly choked up with emotion. It’s a busy weekend for any F2 driver, but an F1 driver making time in his schedule to watch a feeder series race is pretty insane — They’re the pinnacle of the event, and everyone else is usually there for them.
So it’s, like, a pretty big deal that he’s here for his boyfriend.
“So proud, mon coeur, so, so proud. I’ll see you later, yeah?” Isack murmurs, just loud enough for Pepe to hear over all the Campos mechanics and engineers. The Frenchman slaps his helmet for good measure, hugs him tightly for a second before stepping back to let others have a turn.
When Isack had made it to F1, gotten the legendary call from Dr Marko himself, Pepe did feel just a little like he was being left in the dust. How could he not, stuck in F2 for another season and unsure if he would ever be worthy of a shot at the pinnacle of motorsport?
Isack had promised to be there for him anyway, had whispered sweet nothings into his ear that night as they had celebratory sex.
And he was, proven by Pepe’s view of him now when he stands atop the podium. It’s still a fresh feeling to win in F2, and he runs a hand through his hair in somewhat relief. His other sits proudly on top of his heart as he mouths the words to the Spanish national anthem.
Later, he’s sitting in debrief. Not concentrating, really — too busy thinking of what Isack had said to him earlier. Pepe shivers at the thought — He called me his heart, he’s proud of me. He’s proud. I did something right.
Several feelings are flowing through him. Arousement, mostly.
Later, just as he is finishing up at the circuit and about to head back to his hotel, there’s a ding on his phone. The Spaniard knows exactly who it will be; Isack knows the Campos routine well, will still be familiarised with exactly how long debriefs and recovery take in F2.
Isack
Room number?
If you aren’t too busy partying
❤️
Pepe
Never too busy for you
I’m heading back now
Come fuck me
Please
That’s exactly what happens that night. It’s sweet, it’s familiar, and it calms their senses to know such a thing — such love between two people.