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salutethesargeant · 18 days ago

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The Morning (Ch. 1) - LS2, AA23

Pairing: Logan Sargeant x Alex Albon (Sargebon)

Summary: After the DNF in Vegas 2024, Alex lets his mind wander. The flashy lights of Vegas cause his memories to reminisce. He misses Vegas 2023. He misses being happy. He misses Logan. And for one night, his wishes are granted.

Warnings/Tags: Slow burn, angst, (mutual) pining, alternating pov, reunions, really slow burn, Alex is really soft and wants praise (and Logan), more to be revealed later.

It’s been a long weekend.

Everyone at Williams Racing shared that exact sentiment. Tired and beaten down. For the past few weeks, there had been nothing short of gruelling labor for everyone involved under the dark blue roofs. From the drivers, the social media team, and especially the engineers: there was no break when it came to the Oxfordshire team. Cars had been totaled, wrecked even. Labor had been increased overtime with little to no increase in the already little pay compared to other teams. Spirits had been broken quicker than they had ever been briefly lifted. No one was safe from this seemingly cursed constructor.

There was one individual who had essentially his entire world flipped upside down the most, even if he still had the privilege to call his blue seat a home: Alexander Albon. Or simply Alex, as most called him. The Thai-British driver who would be proud, if he did not know any better and was actually happy about his circumstances, to say he was the only remaining person at Williams to have a permanent seat. His contract extension from months ago was already starting to age poorly. As poor as a book left in the burning sun.

He had been at Williams the longest compared to his past and future teammates. Logically, in a better team that didn’t have managers with their heads in the clouds or the dirt of their own asses, he should have the advantage. He should be their first priority if anything - but no. It seems the gambling hands of God had come to spite him in his last few races. Personally. Out of his control, then came the media ready to hawk him down. Claims of the Asian driver being supposedly “washed,” and “at risk of having his contract ripped” due to being unable to finish recently. Or worse, finish better than his new, rookie teammate. Week in, week out. A new problem with the car. But not just any car, his car. Of course, it had to be him.

Even worse, it had to be now. His car was not the one totalled in qualifying this weekend, thank God. But in standard Williams fashion, Alex could not have even just a standing car of duct tape and glue as something to be happy about. His race, not the best due to poor qualifying from the day before, was at least going. Progressing. Then it stopped. The worst words he had ever heard lately came next. Came too quick. His own engineer on the radio. Up in his ears, up in his mind. The first syllable said stung hard and nasty, everything else mixing into a deafening ring.

“Alex, Alex. We got a terminal problem here. We need to retire the car. Box box.”

And then, what does he say? Does he laugh? Does he cry? Oh how he wishes to be anything but a slave to his own command. It was barely a half of the race’s 50 laps. Barely anything. Before he could even process the cars around him, the flashing of the lights. The loudness of the world. His hands move on their own, he drives. Drives what little he can remaining on the strip with this car. This car that had caused nothing but reminded him of his suffering all season. A shackle tied to a block of cement in the ocean. He drives in the pitlane. He gets to the Williams garage. He hops out, replying to his engineer as he speaks without direction. Drives without direction. Physically he is there with the thousands upon thousands of people on the strip - mentally, he had fizzled out. Yet again.

No matter how hard the angel in blue and white weeped, his cries would never be answered.

The car that was not in need of repair during the break. His car that was not wrecked before the race or during qualifying and needed a rushed fixing. His car that was in one piece. His car, that because of a supposed power unit issue in his engine that was not detected earlier, had to be forcefully retired. Yes, that same car.

How does he do it? How does he not just lose it and cry on camera? Cry so everyone can see how much he can handle it, handle simply being at Williams. Handle his performance drop. Handle his luck. Handle everything he has gone through this season. A survivor of seeing the worst happen around him and to him. Perhaps there was someone on there who admired his mental strength of not effectively folding over already and sobbing his eyes out like a towel being ringed.

George would listen. Surely as another 2019 rookie, a close friend, and an ex-Williams mercenary - but he wouldn’t fully get it. Not yet to Alex’s judgement. Maybe Lando, but no. Alex crossed the other 2019 rookie out of his mind. Too busy with McLaren and Oscar, the 2023 rookie, to care. His mind is starting to buffer out here. The smell of pot is strong. He walks away from his car with his head down and helmet on. Somehow the stench is too widespread to block, penetrating through. Hell, the latinos were right about that atleast. Latinos… Franco!

His new teammate, an Argentine boy with fluffy hair and an odd sense of humor. The one that has been his teammate since he got in the FW46 in Monza. The one who was already having a cult-like fanbase to run around and throw rumors that he’d replace Alex at his own team, among others. That kid.

No, not him either.

Maybe he would listen, although Alex had noted that the boy preferred to talk than do the former. The Thai driver could be the one talking instead, rambling about his recent frustrations and deals with luck. His frustrations with the team principal, James Vowles. Hell, maybe about everything since the kid got his promotion. But no, that seemed too mean. It wasn’t his fault anyway. He was weird, sure. Quirky and eccentric like a cartoon or sitcom character. Pretty foreign to Alex’s own ways, Asian or Anglo. But he had no reason to hate him. Kid took his opportunity as a reserve driver, or technically had no other choice, and got an F1 seat for a few races. You’d be stupid not to take that.

No, no. He had no superficial reason to dislike him. In fact… he can confidently say he liked the kid. He was charming, cute, and marketable. So much the latter. Good at driving despite some foolish mistakes and accidents since the past few races. Can’t judge him for that either, he was young once too. They were both thrown in the deep end for a team that grew more unstable by the day. In a sense, it was just the both of them. Or it should be on paper. Franco seemed to prefer to hang out around his fellow Spanish speakers - Checo came to mind - or “rookies”, such as Haas and Ferrari’s Bearman. Alex had George and the rest of his own set of friends on the grid too, that didn’t bother him.

What did bother Alex was James Vowles’ unsubtle favoritism for Franco compared to himself, a bit more than it should bother him. A part of himself hated how nice he was. How grateful he was to the team for picking him back up on his feet years ago where Red Bull crippled him. He would be a hypocrite, like the late Gasly before him, to bite the hand that feeds. His mouth was sewn shut anyway. Glued. A good boy like him just let it happen, or risk being kicked.

Even without uttering a word other than another new rehashed set of “today’s race didn’t go so well for us ,” he was still at risk. But, that was James’ whole deal. Like a child, he forgot about his old favorite toy to play and prop up his new one instead. Franco was marketable. He was the hot new sensation. There was no benefit to gas up Alex anymore, especially not when Franco being priority causes Alex to lose form. Silly him, he should've seen it coming.

It happened earlier. Just with him, not to him like it was now.

Alex made his way deeper into the Williams garage, the sight of his useless car put away for examination and to make room for pit work. He tore and ripped at his helmet and fireproofs, putting them up on his locker and taking deep breaths. He could breathe now, he could! It still frankly smelled overwhelmingly like marijuana, but it was better than nothing. Air hitting his lungs as he coughed in his arms like he hadn't breathed in weeks; He hadn’t. It was the luck of the lord himself he did not suffocate already, let alone out on track before his race was cut. That didn’t matter now. His mind wasn’t even at the race anymore. Had it ever been?

Staring into the dark hazel of his temporary teammates eyes, he froze. Transfixed with the graphic on the side of the garage’s wall, a certain feeling of dread and grief washed over. For what exactly? Alex was the one who’s race was ruined that night, even if Franco binned it in the wall yesterday. Perhaps he wasn’t looking close enough. Perhaps, even, there was something about Franco and James’ insistence on the lad that put him off. Some sort of innate feeling he had been repressing that gave him full body chills. Vegas wasn’t even that cold.

Franco’s portrait was normal. He had seen similar stills of himself also plastered everywhere. Thank God the most that was taken from media day were the same 3 poses. Nevermind that, where was he again? Oh right, the still of Franco’s image in the Williams pitstop garage. An ordinary photo that had him situated in place, catching his attention somehow. There was a look in the picture’s eyes, something familiar yet too foreign for him to name. Maybe his mind was making a mountain out of a molehill. It wouldn’t be the first time in the past few months that it has.

The Thai driver tried leaving, wishing to get out of his race suit. Sweat, grime, Vegas’ dirty air. It was too much to carry after getting out of the car. Or if he was honest, as he had always been, too much in general. He had bent to reach his race shoes, pulling his ankles high and slipping off the laces one by one. There goes the bunny under the tunnel, or something similar. He couldn’t help but giggle, that saying was always amusing to him. It reminded him of a story that Logan told him when they used to take each other's garments off after races. He was just a kid and was learning to tie his shoelaces when-

Wait. Shit.

LOGAN.

That’s what he couldn’t remember! Logan! Throughout the entire weekend in Nevada, Alex had been dealing with this sickening feeling at the back of his mind, throat, and heart. Maybe even his loins if he thought long enough. At first he tried antibiotics. George told him it was probably nausea. Lando said jet lag. Nope. Wrong – Deja Vu. The one that makes your heart sink and your head heavy. A contagious sickness worse than any virus.

Why hadn’t he noticed it earlier? The signs were extremely obvious now that he was reflecting back on it, gaze turned towards the led ceiling. Franco reminded Alex everyday, not by his faults, of James’ decision to cut Logan off the team. The day it was announced. How Alex, choppily remembering bits as he slowly changed from race suit to regular merchandise, reacted the moment James told him before his American teammate. How he fought tooth and nail for Logan, insisting over and over how unfair his treatment was. Asking for second chances again and again for someone with a worse car than his, someone who’d never be given priority like him. How it eventually meant nothing.

By the waving of the checkered flag in Zandvoort, many moons ago for him to count, he was gone. Snap. Fade. Gone. There was no #2 at Williams Racing, there never was.

Instead, there laid #43. Soon to be replaced yet again by #55. In Franco’s first press conference on the big stage, accompanied by him and Vowles, he summarized the situation. In the blink of an eye and hush of a whisper, #2 was alive again. In that second, Alex wasn’t there. He didn’t want to be there in front of the crowd. Standing right next to Vowles. Just exposed to the public eye, feeling naked and flashed. No…

He was in the office at the Oxfordshire headquarters. Fist slamming desks. Chewing bark and swears at his own boss. All for Sargeant. A Sargeant that the older Brit had grown resentment over and tossed aside to the meat grinder. Someone Alex couldn’t save, even if this business was expected to be as bloody as a butcher shop.

A part of Alex died months ago too. He just wished the Argentine didn’t have that stare, the stare of the sheep. Enthusiastic, ready, willing. Unknown to the true horrors of this team, of it’s own team principal. A look that, with darker eyes that he was used to seeing, reflected himself back. In those hazel pools, he saw not only Franco, but himself and Logan. Franco was a good kid. But that’s all he was to the driver he raced with and the one he replaced: a kid. He brought presence to the team. To press conferences. To Team Torque episodes, but not comfort. Alex needed something more, as a hole was left empty in his chest.

He finally got his merchandise on, tossing the suit away. The light blue AA23 hat wasn’t fitting right on his hair no matter how much he shuffled it around, eventually giving up halfway placed. Eh no. He’s better with it off. With the zip of his darker blue jacket, adorned with Williams, Mercedes, and numerous sponsors, the sound of tire changes wake up again. He’s been zoning out too much the past few minutes. Perhaps Franco had done the team a favor while carrying them on his back, gaining good places. He’d check later. They’d certainly make it everyone’s problem and celebrate like no tomorrow at the slightest move he does anyway. But Vegas, while new to the rookie, wasn’t Alex’s concern.

A mini television screen in the corner of the part of the garage the half-Brit was in showed him the current results. George P1, of course, since starting on pole. That wasn’t surprising. Lewis P2. Carlos P3… Max ahead of Lando, determined to win his 4th consecutive World Championship by any means necessary. That’s the Max that Alex knows: always and always working towards betterment. Almost unhealthily so, but Alex couldn’t judge what the Dutchman took the high end in order to be the best. It was admirable, then and now. Nothing was surprising here, actually. Well, Franco was struggling. That was to be expected if qualifying meant anything. His poor car was patched back in a day with duct tape and spit. It’d be a miracle if he got points with the few laps left in the race.

The tall Thai was gathering his belongings to take to his locker, prepared to grab some water before putting on headphones and watching along with the engineers. A talk with James too about having to retire the car. Not much he could do but cheer on Franco for the remaining minutes and wait for the next week, as he had been saying for the past handful of races. Sigh.

It was silly of him to have a moment earlier, think of Logan. Sure, for the first Vegas Grand Prix, the two had left their mark in qualifying. In fact, there were more signs of their bonding beyond the day before the race from last year. Like a weird stroke of coincidence, things from this year set off his alarms and only he was not realizing it. How out of it was he? Think Albon, think! There was the obvious, Franco replaced Logan and the latter had just vanished in thin air. That one… didn’t need pointing out. Alex felt its impact every time he woke in team-reserved hotel bedrooms, with a bed too big and cold. Just him, only him. Not enough for a good night’s sleep. Still, there was that beating feeling lingering in the back of his head as he walked around the paddock and Vegas garage.

The first few days that Alex and Franco arrived in the desert state of Nevada, that blanketing feeling of familiarness had coated him once again. Strange then, a warning sign now. Seeing the city down from the window view of his plane, small and scattered like an anthill, look tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hands. His Argentine teammate had fallen asleep from their flight in England, resting his head on Alex’s shoulder without any care of falling drool or deafening snores. In another world, the gesture is adorable and cute. In this one, he barely noticed. Vegas wasn’t eye-catching in the daytime, but thankfully it was at night when they landed. There wasn’t much for him to do on his phone during the plane but look at old pictures. The ‘memories’ tab seemed to bring up pictures of the nearby canyons, Hoover Dam, and… Logan. Him and Logan, in a helicopter. These must’ve been the pictures that Logan airdropped to his phone when they got back to the hotel, as the blonde was the only one to bring his phone on their helicopter ride. Ah, yes. It was slowly coming back to him, slower than the pace of a snail or a Kick Sauber, but eventually.

A helicopter ride over Vegas, one Alex mistakenly referred to at the time as a “date.” Of course it was a date. Williams may have scheduled it for PR, like the rest of their little escapades and challenges they did on camera, but at the end of the day it was a daring date. Maybe only between them was Alex’s thinly veiled “joke” serious, but perhaps it was for the better. Lord knows what would come out of the media, not the speculative superfans, had they actually caught on. Alex and the rest of the grid witnessed the outcome of the 2022 season. The extended, messy meeting of two flirty championship contenders. There’s continuous debate on whether it has ended well enough or if it’s gotten messier by time… Who was he kidding, they’d never be like that.

Logan was gone. For some reason, even months later. Even a year later in “his” city, despite both of them having a bad race, (not free practice or qualifying session, however) the thought - the feeling - of him has returned. He was too British for this, as he drank like a dehydrated traveler from his water. Vegas was Sin City. A hotpot of debauchery. But there was charm. Sick, wicked fun at every corner. For a place that his former teammate wasn’t born in, let alone didn’t grow up in, it screamed his name.

He’s lost track of where he is in the Williams garage again, holding a bottle of water in one hand and carrying his dirty racing gear in another arm. This has to be, what, the fifth time already? He was typically the more grounded one in reality of the two. Even Franco was spacier than this. God, he’s a mess. No wonder Williams picked him up and Red Bull dropped him. Okay, okay, Albon. Enough with the self-deprecation, he thought.

He had set his phone, this time one in the present rather than days ago when he was in a plane, to update its wallpaper with random photos from the gallery. Every day every hour - a new image was to be on his lockscreen. But with the brunette, well, it was random. Sometimes of the day it would be one of his cats or other animals. Another moment it would be of George or Lando striking a silly pose or looking like a fool during padel. Occasionally he’d see his mum or even himself as the center point. How he wished it was either of those today.

This wallpaper was set to one of the photos from when Franco and he had gone to the arena and met with the hockey team, the Golden Knights, for a PR challenge. It was fun. Silly. He visited the team exactly last year with someone more passionate for hockey, especially American hockey. The self-proclaimed “Florida Panthers boy” who kept whining to Alex about how Williams was forcing them (him mainly) to wear a “bad” jersey. The same American who blabbed and chattered about the intricacies of Florida hockey (something Alex never really understood. Why play a winter sport in the hottest state?) and other Miami sport teams during their bus ride. The same American… or really, Alex’s only American influence.

What was he doing? He cupped his face in his hands, taking deep breaths as he regained composure and spatial awareness. He checked the time on his phone. Wasting time over a man, a lost teammate. A former friend. Yet, perhaps if he did give James more of a fight that day so many months ago… if he didn’t tear up live at their public fanmeet when Franco mentioned him… if he did more, much more to support him when he was still there… if he…

And there he was monologing again. It wasn’t healthy, but what was at this point? He’d leave this team too if it meant he'd be less stressed by a landslide. Logan… atleast looked happy from what Alex saw on the blonde’s Instagram page. On the photos he liked, hoping to reach out even if there was no response on the other end since Zandvoort.

Surely, if he didn’t figure it out by now, he can’t keep doing this. But how could he not? Williams was getting worse by each race weekend, costs were ramping up as with a multitude of issues. If they kept going at this rate, Alex would be lucky to cross the finish line at all if his car didn’t fall apart again. Like today, and the last race day, and the last, and the… Fuck him at this point. It was getting harder to continue with a smile, but he tried. Tried too much until it hurt his face. There were only 2 more races left in the triple header. In the season.

He could make it, he knew he could. He hopes he will. But he’s mentally still in Holland. Who knows if he’ll ever be able to leave.

The brown and black of his bangs stuck to his forehead, sweat covering his skin as much as the rag beside him couldn’t wipe. The water from his cold bottle was already running out, his straw covered in bite marks from compulsively chewing to relieve stress. It was almost over. Franco was in p15, his car still together even if he was struggling to keep up with the other cars. Alex kept an eye on the mini TV in the corner of the cooldown room, occasionally looking up when his breath recovered. His mind still wasn’t there, but that was an established lost cause.

The announcers screamed outside the garage and on the screen, lighting up in joy as George finished as the winner and Max was officially crowned as world champion. A replay showed the early celebrations and team radios coming from the two European drivers. The Mercedes man yelling at the top of his lungs, ecstatic as ever while the Red Bull cried in joy. Good for them, really. Franco was overtaken by Zhou. P16. Another day in the office for him. No points. Sigh.

Maybe the lights were too bright for them. There wasn’t much hope to be bought with a struggling car, but the addition of new upgrades and a new teammate atleast had points finishes when it counted. When it did, but that was becoming too few and far between. You can't expect a kid to perform miracles every week when Alex's car busts up, again. And again. This was redundant now. The bright lights were blinding from outside the garage and the replayed footage on the television, straining the Thai driver’s eyes. Since the last car had finally crossed the line, the winners and podium makers were celebrating with their teams. Screentime switched between the absolutely buzzing atmospheres of Red Bull and Mercedes, champagne flying everywhere and fireworks sparkling in the sky.

He misses it, misses actually celebrating something. Points, a podium, a win, and championship after a grueling campaign. It’s been years, well not as bad as some facing much worse droughts, since his last one. Since soaking Max and the Red Bull engineers in the finest champagne the world had to offer. Being on top of the world. Many of the fans in the audience were celebrating too, with footage being clipped of various fandoms jumping in joy or crying in pain after their favorite contender losing. Plenty of famous people were being shown, none to catch Alex’s eye other than the usual he saw already. His tanned hand ran through his dark hair, reshaping its fluff and volume as he was finishing off his recovery. The ice had run warm, room temperature. With a deep breath, he pulled away his worries of today and started thinking about next week at Qatar. What new strategies he’ll discuss with his engineers, what he’ll learn after they assess his engine failure from minutes earlier, what next week has in store. The whole nine yards, as someone across the pond would say.

The commentators spoke over themselves one on one, their shouts and screams mixing together in a word vomit of praise and dramatic theatrics. Max won, George won, Lando lost, McLaren lost. Everyone lost but Red Bull and Mercedes. Ferrari were shaken up yet had a podium to take home. Williams were also tonight’s biggest losers, but what was new. Even last year, despite hitting Q3 in qualifying and setting too high of expectations then compared to now, was less embarrassing than today. Alex leaned against the cool wall of the secluded room, prepared for Franco to show sometime after parking his car in the parc fermé. The television stream of the race had mentioned his name a few times, but not enough to cause him to lift his head. More fan footage was being shown. The Vegas Strip was covered in flashy lights and firework sights. It would be beautiful to view if he wasn’t preoccupied. More clips from the podium celebrations followed after, champagne showers and confetti snowfall in the desert. Bright, colorful trophies and angelic lighting on the top three. More fans and celebrities in the crowd.

Alex was about prepared to leave to find his team principal, more than likely with the Argentine, by the entrance to the garage. With hands and arms of supplies in white and blue, he suddenly lost his grip and dropped them all. A mess in the blink of an eye, a flap of the butterfly’s wing, a second of the moment. The rich, dark chocolate doe-like brown of his eyes widened at the mention, his head snapping to the television screen at the corner as the broadcast selected few special guests in the paddock. The smell of marijuana in the air seemed to dissipate and his ability to breathe abandoned him, his throat getting tight until he felt like suffocating. There and then, his eyes had met him again. Right when he thought he never would again since the start of autumn. Somehow, despite thin breaths and a growing weakness in his knees and arms, he reached out towards the screen and uttered in a wispy voice. At a true loss for words, only one came out.

“Logan?”

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