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Valewis fic i talked about earlier!
Won't be able to finish it today but decided to post the first part of it anyway! Please read the warning!!!!
TW/CW: eating disorder, Vomiting
And as always: Any mistakes please ignore or let me know. Thank you!
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Valtteri sat at the long table, the buzz of voices around him fading into a blur. The air in the meeting room was heavy with the usual technical jargon, the upcoming race strategy, tire choices, and performance analysis, but none of it sank in. Valtteri was staring blankly at the figures flashing across the screen. The lights where too bright, and the words spoken by the engineers and team principal felt distant.
He hadn’t eaten properly in days, and his body felt it. The tight knot in his stomach was a familiar companion now, gnawing at him relentlessly. The hunger was always there, but the idea of eating, of trying to force food down when everything inside him felt twisted and wrong, seemed impossible.
At least he was weighting less than Lewis now.
His chest tightened as the pressure built inside, a familiar gnawing feeling creeping in. No matter how hard he pushed, how much he trained, it never felt like enough. The weight of never being enough—never quite living up to the expectations, to the dominance of his teammate, Lewis—sat on his shoulders like an unbearable burden. He had been struggling with this for months—long, agonizing months of trying to control something that seemed so utterly out of control.
He was drowning in it, struggling to stay afloat.
But it's his own fault, no? It's what he signed up for all those years ago. Valtteri should be used to it by now. It was part of the deal.
He glanced at Lewis across the table, the man who made everything seem effortless. Lewis, always calm, always composed, with a confidence Valtteri could never seem to find in himself. His thoughts raced, louder than the voices around him.
It's not his fault. I just need to be better. Why can’t I be better?
The room felt smaller.
His palms grew damp with sweat, and his pulse quickened.
His stomach churned, a twisting pain that had become all too familiar. The pressure of racing, of constantly being compared to Lewis, of always feeling second-best, had chipped away at him. The pressure had seeped into every part of his life, his mind a relentless critic.
He could feel the room spinning. His throat tightened, and he knew if he didn’t leave now, he wouldn’t be able to hold it together much longer. He needed to get back into control. Quietly, almost cautiously, he rose from his seat, quickly moving toward the door. His legs felt shaky beneath him, but he forced himself to walk, head down, hoping no one would notice. No one usually did, after all.
Of course they don’t care.
He headed down the hallway, heart pounding in his chest, his footsteps growing faster as he neared the stairs leading up to his Room, a place where he could break down in peace. But his body betrayed him. He couldn’t hold it back any longer.
The nausea surged, and he darted into the nearest restroom. Slamming the door behind him, he fell to his knees, hunching over the toilet. His whole body trembled as he gagged, trying to keep what little food he had managed to eat earlier from coming up.
---
Lewis had noticed.
He always noticed when Valtteri disappeared. He had been watching him for weeks—how his mood shifted, how his energy seemed depleted, how his once hearty laughter had dwindled into almost nothing. At first, he thought it was just the stress of the season, but there was something more, something darker lurking beneath the surface.
It wasn’t until he saw Valtteri’s hunched shoulders hastily leaving the room that a sinking feeling settled in his gut.
Lewis followed.
---
Valtteri knelt on the cold floor of the small bathroom, his hands gripping the porcelain edge of the toilet. His body trembled, the shame of what he was doing hitting him in waves, but it was the only way he felt in control. He hated it. He hated himself for it. But he couldn't stop.
He felt utterly alone in that moment, as he always had in the shadows of the team. But then, through the haze of sickness and shame, he heard the door creak open.
"Valtteri?" Not now. Not him. It was Lewis. Of course, it was Lewis.
His chest ached, too late to hide, too late to pretend everything was okay. He heaved, gagging as his body rejected the little food he had forced himself to eat earlier, his body convulsing as he struggled to breathe between violent retches.
"Go away," Valtteri choked out, his voice hoarse. His knuckles turning white from the force he held onto the porcelain with. He heaved again, his body shuddering as another wave of nausea hit.
Lewis stood frozen in the doorway. His breath hitched at the sight before him. Valtteri, the strong, composed teammate he had always admired, was hunched over in a position that spoke of agony and desperation. His heart clenched painfully in his chest.
"Valtteri…" Lewis's voice was a whisper, filled with concern but to Valtteri, it felt like a stab to the gut.
Valtteri lifted his head but didn't turn around. He couldn't. He couldn’t face this—couldn’t face Lewis. Not now, not like this. His eyes were wide, chest tight, as if even breathing hurt. He wanted to tell him to leave, to walk away and pretend he hadn’t seen any of this. But the words caught in his throat, choked by the raw shame and exhaustion.
He swallowed hard, trying to compose himself, to act like it wasn’t what it looked like. But it was. He knew it, and Lewis knew it too. He couldn’t help it. His body trembled as he hunched over the bowl once more, dry heaving, retching with nothing left to give. His stomach was painfully empty, but still, he gagged, his throat burning from the bile coming up in harsh waves.
Lewis stepped forward, the weight of the moment hanging between them like a thick fog. "Val, what—" Valtteri could feel the concern radiating off him, but he couldn’t bear it.
His body was still shaking, and he could feel Lewis’s presence close behind him. Why did he follow me? He had always tried so hard and managed to hide it before, always kept this side of himself locked away. He couldn’t bear for anyone, especially Lewis, to see him like this.
"Don't," Valtteri cut him off, his voice hoarse, raw from the strain. He didn’t want Lewis to see him like this, vulnerable, broken. "Please, Lewis, just-" His body convulsed, another dry heave shaking him as more bile rose in his throat. He gagged, coughing, the sound echoing in the small restroom. His whole body ached, exhausted from fighting this battle for so long.
"Just… go," Valtteri croaked, his voice ragged, barely audible "please."