But I don’t have the words to change the past nor to raise even a ghost of a smile.

Helpless. Completely helpless, useless. All I can do is stand here, my eyes searching for any place else to look but at him, for anything else to think about apart from my feelings of … what? Responsibility for something that I know isn’t my fucking fault in the first place? I can’t be held accountable for his screwed up feelings or his self-inflicted misery. I should listen to my head for once, laugh maybe then he can break out into that boyish grin of his and tell me he was only joking, winding me up just to see my reaction

Just one glance up though, one look at his pleading, questioning face, begging me for an answer, brings everything back. The realisation that this is no longer a game. No joke. And I’m left lurched with responsibility, an overwhelming sense of pity, the lot: emotions I know I shouldn’t have because I’m not to blame, can’t be to blame for this.

It doesn’t stop the guilt though, working its way up from my knotted stomach, feeding off my pity and fuelling a surprising anger at him and myself. But most of all the guilt washes over my common-sense, my rationale, hell even my normally unperturbable self-assurance to leave me loathing my role in this damn charade.

And I hate myself for hurting him this way, and detest him for doing this to me. For making me feel that I’ve personally turned the knife through his heart.

Of course I knew how he felt and in some strange way I found it more than mildly flattering. The way he would suddenly brighten when I walked over, the countless excuses he would spin out just to keep me close in his vicinity, whether discussing sector times, the weather, or even just banal chat. The way he would casually touch me whilst we talked, a hand on my shoulder or brushing my arm gently as if there was nothing in the slightest to be read in our contact. Or the dull sponsorship work, leaning over to whisper in my ear words he only wanted me to hear. Not to mention the times when he would just watch me from across the crowded garage, a walking paradox of desire and sorrow, of happiness and despair as if he thought I couldn’t feel those eyes on me. His gaze quickly snatched from me the instant I happened to throw a cursory glance in his direction.

I guess that makes my part in this worse, aiding and abetting his feelings. Just one great ego boost for me as all the while he would do everything to disguise it, to camouflage his feelings from me, from the rest of the team, not to mention the hoards of journalists already on his case.

Not that it mattered, it was obvious how he felt. When you spend so much time surrounded by the same old faces day after day, it’s difficult to keep secrets from what becomes your family. I don’t know if he knew that some of his mechanics had told me very early on about his crush, looking back he probably begged them not to in case it became common knowledge. And the way I laughed it off until it finally dawned on me they might be serious. Even then, even when I realised, I didn’t think we had to change the way we were. I honestly didn’t think it would matter and fuck, I never wanted him to think I was stringing him along. It was just that … I don’t know, I never saw it as a reason to feel uncomfortable, no reason to avoid him just because he happened to fancy me. And why should I? I mean, I have a girlfriend, he’s always known that, and it’s not as though any of my actions could be interpreted as anything but … playful.

And I think deep down he knew that. And that’s why I never thought it would get this far, he wasn’t supposed to tell me, for Christ’s sake. We were supposed to stay as we were, things were supposed to stay the same. A harmless game, innocent flirting, on my side as much as his. All just a bit of fun. I mean, I wasn’t exactly pushing him away with both hands, but then again he wasn’t honest with me by never admitting how he really felt. When you get right down to it, he lied to me consistently. Lied about his feelings, lied about the whole of our damn relationship. How can I be responsible for that?

A harmless game.

It was never that though, was it? Like a doubled edged sword, craving my attention, loving our little charade because it gave him the chance of being around me, of having me so close, but hurting at the pretence he had to keep, digging deeper than any refusal of mine could ever have done.

How was I so … irresponsible, so fucking oblivious to the fact that I was playing with fire, fanning a desire in him I had no intention of reciprocating and he knew was never going to go anywhere? Why did I just stand by and hurt him so much when it was the last thing on my mind? And why did he encourage me when he knew there wasn’t a chance in hell of it going anywhere?

It was only a matter of time I guess before he broke and now I’m left with the fall out. And, Christ, I don’t know where to begin. No more rules, no more game. Just this, the gaping abyss between us now and all I can think of is why now? Why after all this time tell me? Why put me in this god awful position?

Why make me feel such an selfish bastard for thinking about myself after he’s just spilled out his heart to me? After he’s opened up his soul to me, telling me absolutely everything. More than he has probably ever told anyone before, probably ever really admitted to himself for Christ’s sake. Just because of the vain hope that I might understand him when no-one else really does.

Yeah, throw that in my face as well, make me feel even more goddamn awful.

And what’s with all the questions?

Shit, my team mate, my friend, has just told me he’s utterly in love with me and can’t let me leave the team like this, and all I can think of it what the fuck he expects me to say to it. Not how it’s my fault for letting it get this far or even an inch of sympathy for the turmoil he is so obviously in, for the hurt that’s wracking and torturing him. Not the things I want to think, just an intoxicating amalgamation of recrimination and disbelief scrambling my feelings and making me dizzy in confusion, not knowing what to think or where to look.

Now, we’re in this empty hospitality room and for the first time in our relationship I feel uncomfortable being near him. I can’t stand to be in the same space as he is, can’t stand to have his presence as a reminder of the way he makes me feel about him, and more about the things it says about me myself right at this moment.

It’s just … I’m sorry. I want to tell him how much I’m sorry for this, for everything, for making him feel this wretched. I want nothing more to apologise, to erase this whole mess and start afresh, if that were possible. To go over to him, maybe hold him as he sobs the distress out of his system for however long it takes because I’m still his friend whatever else happens. I do still care. I want to care.

So, why can’t I? Why do I feel this fucking resentment more acutely than anything else?

Tears sting his eyes but I know he won’t wipe them, he won’t admit he’s so broken to me. He’s just waiting for my answer, the answer to his question, as if the whole of his sanity is hinged on my reply.

His arms cross protectively around his chest, his gaze pleading with me for an answer, any answer. The silence is killing him but I can’t bring myself to say it. I can’t hurt him any more than I already have and to be honest I think he already knows. He just needs this confirmation from my own lips, whether it destroys him or not. Needs to know that I don’t feel the same way about him but I can’t summon up the courage to say it. The words stick in my dry throat as I let the silence continue, the precious few seconds in which he can cling on to his misguided hope before I have to crush it completely.

Why did I have to open my fucking mouth in the first place? I knew why he was moping around in the motorhome with me, it’s so goddamn obvious that he’s not taking my announced departure well. Well, I heard his desperate attempts to sway round Patrick and Frank, I don’t need much more confirmation than that. I’ve never seen him so wound up and angry, spouting off expletives in a crude mixture of English and German, ranting about having some unproven indycar hotshot who thinks he’s so fucking brilliant, about how the fuck can they be serious in wanting to win a championship when they can’t even give the team stability, ignoring what the drivers want. I’m surprised he kept his job after that little outburst, that display of petulant temper. I do nothing and still get kicked out, he threatens the guys in charge and they say nothing, sod all.

Sweet irony, isn’t it. Regardless though, it all brings me back to the same question. So, why did I? Why press him like I did, why refuse to take his ‘nothing’ as an answer and keep pushing until he finally spilled out the pent-up emotion he had locked away from my sight and blurted out those words ‘You can’t leave, I don’t want to you. I want you …’ 

Everything I already knew and stuff I didn’t even realise he felt came flooding out into the cruel open world and I did it … I did it because I wanted to hear him say it. I selfishly wanted to see if he would finally admit to me what I know he’s never admitted to himself. Not because I had any remote interest in how he felt. Just because.

And I honestly didn’t think he would.

In the end, I don’t have to say anything, I’m at least spared that burden. He reads everything he has been dreading in my eyes when I finally look back up to him and our eyes lock briefly.

And now there is no point at breaking this painful silence, no reason to speak and nothing to say even if I wanted to except I am so, so sorry. My apologetic words are not going to cure anything, they are not going to heal the repercussions of this revelation and they sure as hell are not going to make a fuck load of difference to him.

I say them anyway as he backs away from me as if he can’t trust himself to look in my direction now without being reminded of this rejection. But me, I can’t take my eyes of him, his almost blank, expressionless face angled to the floor as he sits on the table behind him. I know it’s a mask, he’s blocking everything out as usual. It’s the only way he knows to dull the pain, to save him from his injured pride and the hollowness of defeat.

This is not my fault, though. What he’s feel now, what he’s always felt for me, I never asked for it. There’s no blaming me now his heart’s broken, and it will always heal, it has to. Fuck, it’s probably not the first time and it’s certainly not going to be the last.

Biting his lip, he struggles in a losing battle to quell the collecting tears, fighting to hold off his emotions, to keep them underwraps from me just as he always had. Resting against his knees, his head in his hands, loathing every second of the weakness and despair he’s caught up in but this time unable to repress it. He looks shattered, crushed and I know I should feel more than a twinge of remorse. I do, I’m not so fucking cold I can’t see he’s hurting, can’t understand a part what he’s going through. Yet, why doesn’t that make sense to me? Why is my over-riding emotion one of undeniable disdain despite the fact I should know better?

Guilt, isn’t it? Raising a guilt I’m trying to press firmly to the dark recesses of my mind, to cleanse myself of any part of this, of any responsibility for his sorrow. Blame him, take it out on him, yell at him, curse those fucking tears that are a testament to the fact that I’m not getting out of this so easily, that my conscience deserves to be scarred by the game I’ve played.

But what the fuck did he expect? Me to turn around and tell him I want him, want to kiss him, need to screw him. For fuck’s sake, we’re team mates, not bloody bed mates.

I inhale sharply, suddenly aware of a suffocating lull in the air and the after echoes of hastily shouted words when the realisation that I verbalised my growing frustrations hits me like a punch to the face. I curse under my breath but there’s nowhere to go. I hesitantly look to him with a view to apologising, meeting his stunned expression, his lips slightly parted as if to speak, tears trickling down his face more freely.

Now, I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry but that’s the truth whether he admits it or not. And I don’t look back to him, just mutter a simple ‘sorry, I can’t do this,’ and get the hell out of there, the hell away from him, from the fucking chaos that’s just been directed straight into my life and outside into a world of normalcy.

It may be selfish but what does he expect?

~The End.