Chapter Text
1
(...)
They say that he loves loudly. ‘Too loudly, ’ others comment. ‘It’s just attention seeking.'
But why wouldn't he? Every battle fought, every glass ceiling he’s broken to reach the pinnacle of the sport, every comment he’s had to tune out because ‘Lewis if you let it get to you, you’re letting them win’ when all he wanted to do then was scream and get angry and ask what more he has to prove to gain an ounce of the respect everyone else seemed to get outright—all of it was for moments like these.
“They all came.” Seb gave him a sideway glance, a small smile on his lips. His tone is less surprised and more ruminating. “I’m surprised you sent Fernando an invite.”
Lewis laughs (read: giggles). “For you.”
The ‘anything’ remains unsaid.
2
(...)
It was hard to reconcile, Lewis thinks, the reflex to give and be what Nico wanted and his unrelenting need to win. Borne from the difference was the ugly feeling of irritation that slowly bled into smaller parts of his life: from the snacks stashed in his motorhome (He used to roll his eyes, ‘this is shit. Nico has horrible taste.’ He didn’t really mean it.), to the small, snarky comments Nico passed his way during team meetings (He remembers looking around taking in the discomfort of everyone in the room; Lewis thought he was going crazy for wanting to bolt the fuck out of there).
Lewis doesn't recall when he started hating Nico.
Lewis does recall, however, when he realized it was mutual.
A little too late, frankly; Nico was always the smarter of the two of them—probably foresaw the future when they inevitably crashed and burned each other. He thinks Nico only waited to see the glare fully reflect back in Lewis’ eyes before he went full steam ahead on his plans. He thinks that maybe that was the last piece of the boy-who-once-was-his-whole-world. Maybe, maybe.
Nico burned himself and everything else to get to the top. And once he was there, he looked down to see ashes in place of all the bridges back to Lewis.
Lewis understands. It must have been worth it. It had to be.
(And it was, to some degree. The worst part about gaining a championship by losing Lewis, Nico thinks, is that half the time he doesn't regret it.)
And then there’s the aftermath:
Some fleeting moments of himself questioning, when he’s alone in his hotel room after a disappointing race weekend (and only when it’s disappointing really; Lewis finds that the thrill of victory masks all kinds of bad memories—including this one. He doesn't know what that says about him)—which seems to be happening more often now: if he had been in Nico’s position, would the outcome remain unchanged?
He used to think resolutely: no, he was better than that. He wouldn't burn the way Nico did. He fought, sometimes underhandedly too. But he wouldn’t have allowed it all to end like that, right?
It was a naive thought.
He’s no longer the man chasing records in 2016—he is the man of the record books now. And as Lewis looks at the younger grid he now races with, the battles, the simmering animosity even amidst forming friendships, he remembers himself and the borderline-psychotic need to be on the top of that fucking podium every single race. A need now partially soothed by the trophies lining his homes and storage units. It’s only so easy to assume he wouldn’t have sacrificed everything then too, now that he has anything he wants.
Nico might have set everything on fire. But Lewis was not much better by letting it all burn.
3
(...)
Lewis doesn't know if it was a thing: his affinity for befriending blonde, German rivals.
It was never something he noticed. After all, these were all people he’s raced with forever—some much longer than others. First, it was Nico, then came many, many others. Then, Sebastian. Then, even more after. He’s made acquaintances, friends, and enemies along the way; with many headlines of different praises and accusations, with or from different people.
Alonso. Button. Massa. Verstappen.
But none seemed to have stuck to his legacy stronger than Nico and Seb. Which is why he has to bite back a groan every time he’s scrolling through his social media accounts, reading over tweets and posts he’s tagged in.
‘He has a type.’ The fans have all seemingly concluded.
“But, I’m friends with Daniel, too, right?” He remembers telling Angela one day in Barcelona, maybe some years ago. “Checo and Val, too.”
Ang, being the amazing person that she is, does not reply and only gives him a bemused look as she stands by the door of his driver's room.
“I enjoy podiums with everyone,” he explains. A flash of blonde and blue materializes in his thoughts. “I mean—not—anyway.”
“Mexico, was it 2015? The after party? I don't go to those nearly as much as I did, yeah. But I was with Checo then. People know that, right? There were videos.”
And:
“Fernando—not that we’re… friends—but, first teammate, man! How’s that for a narrative?” He exclaimed, emphasizing the ‘teammate’ with elaborate hand movements. “It’s not like the press has stopped hounding us about each other either.”
Angela sighs, not at all disappointed. Likely just tired of him not understanding something, like he’s being purposefully obtuse. “I don't think that's what they mean.”
And he doesn’t get what they mean. Even as he sits and ponders, with Angela telling him to get ready for qualifying and leaving him with his thoughts.
(He does, though, get what they mean, deep inside. But Lewis really wasn’t ready to admit out loud. Not even three years after his fallout with Nico. The fear of repeating the same mistakes with someone else festers in his head and clouds emotional recognition; the pain makes him settle for separation rather than another almost.
No one ever told him a broken heart would cost him this much time.)
Yet:
When he eventually settles into himself again, able to drag some of the confidence he’s built in literally every other part of his life aside from the one that screams for Sebastian, he’s frantically pacing by the oven of his kitchen in Monaco, hoping it's not too late.
There’s a fire burning in his chest. How could they do that to him? They know how much driving for Ferrari means to Sebastian! It feels bitter. So, so bitter in Lewis’ mouth.
His hands are clenched, uncaring if his nails draw blood.
“Lewis?” Sebastian’s voice filters through his phone’s speaker. He draws out his name, like he's tired, like he spent the hours since the announcement wading through calls and visits and the press. He probably has.
He freezes. He wills himself to speak but nothing comes out.
‘Seb, listen to me. They don't deserve you they never did.’ ‘How are you feeling?’ ‘You’re still one of the best drivers I’ve ever had the pleasure competing with.’ ‘My favorite battles are with you, Seb.’ ‘I admire you. I admire you so much.’ ‘Ferrari isn’t the only team out there.’ ‘You still have so much to show the world.’ ‘Please don’t leave, Seb.’ ‘Please don’t leave me.’
“I—”
“Lewis? Hello?”
Lewis hears rustling on the other end and from the corner of his eye he swears he could almost see Seb standing up from the vintage couch he made fun of last time he visited. There are hundreds of things he wants to say—a collection of sentences he’s had stuck in his throat for years. But he knows it’s not yet time, knows there's only one thing he has to do now.
“Lewis if yo—”
“Can I come see you?”
There's silence on the other line. A staggered intake of breath.
“I want to see you, Seb.” Lewis clarifies. He’s had a hard time being sure of himself and love. Not this time. “If you’re ok with that.”
“I am at home, Lewis.” Sebastian tries. He pictures his blue eyes closed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Lewis knows it’s an attempt at rejection, but the shakiness of his voice betrays Sebastian.
Home for him is Switzerland. “I can be there by tomorrow.”
“I do not think—” Sebastian tries again. Another attempt. Another sigh. “I am not the best host right now.”
“I’ll cook for you. I learned a new recipe (thinking of you). I know you’ll love it.”
“Lewis…” his voice trails off.
“You don't need to host me for a night, man.” Lewis bargains. “I just—I need to see you for a few hours (I need to tell you so many things) then I can be out of your hair after. I’ll even do the dishes!”
There was no response for a few seconds and Lewis fears that the call was disconnected. Or that Seb just didn't want to talk.
Maybe he overstepped?
A beat, then two. “Alright.”
Lewis’ mood slightly betters despite the secondhand feeling of betrayal lingering in his chest. “Ok. Ok, Seb. (Thank you for trusting me. Again and again.) I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Seb hums in agreement, clearly tired. Lewis takes it for now. “Bye, Lew.”
A small smile draws on his lips. “See you, Sebby.”
4
(...)
Malaysia, 2015
“Lewis Hamilton, everyone!”
“Nico Rosberg! Nico, another podium. I know you teased him at the last race. You said, c’mon Sebastian, get a bit more speed and you can come up and join us…”
There’s much-lingering adrenaline coursing through Lewis’ veins as he processes the onslaught of sounds and emotions so customary to being up on the podium. Not the very top this time, though. A second-place finish in Malaysia wasn’t good, but it wasn’t all bad. Lewis just wasn’t expecting it, is all, for the Ferrari to be as fast as it was and for Sebastian to lead him from P2 after his pretty dominant win in Australia.
But success is always so short-lived.
It takes him a few seconds after the mic drops from his face to admit that there was some frustration. He can’t help it. The loss itches at him. He could’ve. They should’ve. Then maybe they would’ve.
(He’s been working on it. Lewis thinks he’s better at managing himself than before. Maybe.)
But, at least it’s Sebastian who’s standing—or really, sitting—next to him on the top step. Because it’s always easy with Seb. It always has been.
If it wasn’t him, he was glad it was Seb.
(He’s working on understanding that, too. It’s a thought he’ll never, ever voice out loud because the guilt eats him up every time he even so much as thinks it. Nico doesn’t deserve that. The team doesn’t either. So Lewis tucks that thought deep in his head.)
And especially today.
“Not expecting us to be quite quick today?” Seb teasingly nudges as Lewis sits down next to him on the podium. He was half expecting a tinge of irritation to bloom in his chest. It doesn’t come.
“It was a great race, man.” Lewis nudges back. “Not as good as mine in Australia but…”
Sebastian rolls his eyes but giggles. “Well, someone has to give you a challenge, you know.”
Lewis meets his eyes. “Not satisfied with four?”
“Mmm,” Sebastian is still smiling; Lewis realizes he is too. “Can’t let you get your third easily, more like.”
And it was that, exactly, the way Sebastian says third like it was a certainty. It was a throwaway comment, obviously, and one that surely isn't meant to be serious. Though he doesn't doubt part of it because Sebastian will do everything in his power to make it harder for him on track. That’s their relationship. Rivals, but not in the same way he fought Fernando (or even Nico). There was always something else there. Maybe it’s respect? He doesn’t want to think about it right now.
“I look forward to it.” Lewis winks at Sebastian before letting the crowd and the booming voices sway his focus for a few brief moments.
But the German beside him is a magnet; the star of the race. And Lewis’ wandering attention is nothing but a moth to a bright flame.
Sebastian sighs in undisguised relief and exhilaration. Lewis sees glittering at the corner of Sebastian's eye as he looks up to stare at the vast blue sky; he feels the uncontrollable bouncing of knees almost touching his.
He thinks, for a second and almost out of the blue, that he wants to remember this moment forever. Huh. He doesn't know why he feels so strongly seeing Sebastian so happy (the guilt creeps in again; another secret he’ll have to hide deep in himself). He's seen him win grander races before, ones with greater stakes. Four times, even.
Lewis looks again.
From the periphery, he can see Nico with a mic to his face and a bit further, a crowd of colors crashing against each other like waves across the shore—red on white, with Ferrari, Red Bull, and driver flags flailing about.
And yet there was only one sight. God Sebastian was… has it always been like this? Lewis feels like he’s seeing him again, for the first time. He was blinding. Which. Huh. It must be the heat—he can’t seem to think straight because he wants to reach over and touch the man beside him.
Then, Seb looks at him.
He makes a joke about tyre management that Lewis wouldn't remember because he was too busy shamelessly staring (his eyes are blue, Lewis knows this just as much as the whole world does but—they're much more indigo? a little deeper, not so sky blue). He knows, though, that he must've responded correctly because Sebastian laughs, his head falling forward to cover his face. Maybe he didn't say anything clever at all and Sebastian was just too happy that anything he said would've sent the German chuckling. But, did it matter? He was making Sebastian laugh. He was watching Sebastian bask in the glory of his first win in red. And fuck, he can’t seem to stop smiling (guilt, guilt ). Like it was his win they were celebrating.
Okay, Lewis. Deep breaths.
He focuses on a flag just by the edge of the crowd. The wind guides its erratic movement just like the heart rate he’s trying to school back to normality.
It’s no longer just adrenaline.
“This year’s car seems to suit me very well, obviously it’s a big change but the team has been phenomenal, welcoming me since the first day. I remember when the gate opened in Maranello it was like a dream coming true…”
Lewis doesn’t let his eyes wander but he lets Sebastian’s words wash over him, the joy so infectious. He thinks Seb reminds him so clearly of the unparalleled delight of racing and he chalks the whole rush of emotions he's feeling to that. Simply, he loved racing; Sebastian reminds him of the pure unadulterated happiness racing brings; he loved racing Sebastian.
That was it. Really.
(And he didn't know at the time—because it was win, win, win and there was a brewing sourness in the Mercedes garage that was starting to remind him just a little bit of Mclaren—but when Sebastian gazed up the sky to force the tears of happiness back down when they sat next to each other and laughed and gazed, it was already over.)
The same night, Lewis dreams in a different shade of blue.