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It was only a few hours after the race ended when Lewis was disrupted. 

He was lost in his mind, not paying attention to his surroundings, staring into the distance and letting his feet guide him back to his motorhome after a tiring debrief. But he still failed to be surprised when he felt Max, who’d practically materialized from nowhere, take hold of his arm, and tug him wordlessly into a hidden space between team buildings. 

His back was shoved against a hard wall, and then he was pinned to it. An angry championship leader standing a breath away from him. Max’s strong hands digging a thoughtlessly rough grip into his waist. 

“You’re getting predictable.” Lewis said, teasing and unfazed. Max ignored him. 

He offered no mercy or consideration when he pushed Lewis against the solid, unforgiving wall and slammed their lips together, or when he overwhelmingly robbed Lewis of oxygen, leaving him dizzy and heavy lidded, or when he separated only to dip his head lower and get his claiming mouth on Lewis’ sweat-dried skin, pointedly pouring out hardly-contained emotions about how the race had ended. 

Lewis’ gaze drifted to the sky, letting him. It was the time of day when orange and blue faded into each other in the clouds, making it look sort of like an artful explosion. 

Max had been very discreet, as always. They’ve done this about a million times and as always, nobody was close when he snuck up on Lewis and anyone who might’ve seen was conveniently turned away. Max didn’t want to be caught any more than Lewis did, though he certainly walked the line sometimes. It was as if he knew the precise moments when no one was looking to ambush Lewis and the exact places no one could see to drag him to in almost every race paddock. It was peculiar, but they never got caught, so Lewis couldn’t complain. 

Without warning, straight teeth were sinking into the delicate dip of Lewis’ neck and shoulder, possessive, sending a thin wave of pleasure-pain through him. Lewis’ eyelashes fluttered and he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. 

They were smartly hidden, tucked away in a blocked corner of the paddock where it was unlikely anyone would catch a glance at them. The late afternoon sun casted an orange tint over everything, save them, hidden in a large inconspicuous shadow. The only remaining people around besides them were packing up and getting ready to leave. 

It was different than it usually was in that this time, the incident that caused it had been directly between Max and him on track, which was something exceedingly rare these days. It had ended, unexpectedly, with Lewis taking the third spot on the podium and Max left to brood over his lost points. 

Lewis wouldn’t apologize for the sake of anyone’s ego. He did what he was supposed to do as a driver and took the corner. He hadn’t told Max to push too hard trying to overtake, leading him to lock up his tires and making him slide, eventually coming into contact with Lewis’ car and going off track. In the moment it was happening, Lewis’ mind was going a mile a minute yet thinking nothing, behind his visor his eyes widened in equal parts awe and humorous disbelief as the Red Bull car went up and came back down. 

In a funny way, there was some nostalgia in it.

Lewis thought the whole thing was funny, anyway, after crossing the checkered flag in third place. It wasn’t like either of them got hurt or even DNF’d and, honestly, it was a little bit silly. Especially when someone showed Lewis the team radios seconds after the collision. 

Obviously, should Lewis have been the one to lose points from it or, God forbid, it ended his race, he would probably find it a lot less amusing. But that simply hadn’t happened, so he and Bono easily shared a laugh about it, away from any cameras of course.

Lewis wasn’t laughing now, instead he was sighing a soft moan, squirming just slightly when Max dug his teeth into the sensitive cartilage of his ear, making it hard to think of anything. His body was docile and unresisting, his mind melting down.

He was, as usual, trying to be as quiet as possible. Though the people around them couldn’t quite see them, they could end up hearing them. Max, of course, was not helping with that. 

He was towering over Lewis even more than usual, holding him still by dips of his slight waist with the intent of making him take what was given. Max enjoyed having Lewis squirm for him, reducing the decorated champion to a moaning mess. Many drivers would enjoy it the same as him, but only some of them would ever get to. Giving it to an angry Max was like tossing a bone to a dog.

The solid, unmoving grip on his waist was leaving hand-shaped bruises on top of the ones already there, going by the ache of it. The bright marks Checo made when he stopped by Lewis’ motorhome after the other day’s shit qualifying session were still fresh and dark, like a blooming of carnation flowers, sensitive to the touch. The sheepish apologies afterwards that Lewis waved away were sweet as always, but those bruises were staying for at least a week. 

A small whimper escaped against his will when Max tugged one of his earrings and the sound spurred Max on even more. Lewis’ teeth dug deeper into his lip.

One of Max’s hands pulled Lewis closer by the small of his back, so their crotches were basically touching through close, drawing Lewis’ attention away from the dull ache. He could feel the other’s hard-on, bluntly pressing against his own developing erection. 

Max’s relentless mouth moved back to Lewis’ neck again, low enough so that his less experimental collars could hide it, but high enough so it’d still be on Lewis’ mind when turning his head in public. He licked over faint marks and then made more- sucking and biting, rough and starved, drawing muffled whimpers from Lewis, who was practically being forced to the tips of his toes because of the controlling grip on his waist. 

Max bites when he’s mad. It’s almost funny, like how Roscoe will sometimes go rough up one of his toys when he gets little bursts of frustration. Something in Max’s mind had formed an obsession with digging his teeth into Lewis’ tatted skin, reveling in the muffled whiny sounds Lewis made when he bit a particularly sensitive area. Loved how he could sometimes make Lewis fully tremble if he bit down on the right place at the right time, like when he sunk his teeth into Lewis’ jugular when he bottomed out one time and Lewis was sure he’d left earth for a moment, vision going completely white, coming back to his body unable to stop shaking. Through blurry vision he could see Max staring at him, his dark blue eyes burning with the same equal parts satisfaction and hunger as when he stood on the top step of the podium. As if Lewis had just given him a trophy, letting Max watch him come apart for him, but it wasn’t nearly enough— he wanted a hundred, a thousand more. Insatiable in the way they all were, but just a little more, and that made all the difference.

Currently, Max was intent on drawing those whiny sounds out of Lewis. His demeanor was as wild as an animal. It was understandable why they compared him to a lion, Lewis thought not for the first time, exhaling a shaky moan when Max dragged his teeth along his wing tattoo. 

Max loved forcing Lewis to react to him, to acknowledge the effect he had on him. Having Lewis like this wasn’t enough, he had to know Lewis felt it, too. Felt who was doing it to him. In many ways he was still the young, blunt face staring holes through Lewis as if he didn’t think Lewis would ever notice it, as if Lewis couldn’t feel his dark eyes following him, wanting something from him that Lewis wouldn’t figure out until years later. Max needed it, and his anger only strengthened his need for Lewis’ acknowledgement. There was little that got the 3-time champion going more than seeing Lewis flushed, dazed, and whimpering from his hands. 

And Lewis could stay still and let Max tire his teeth out, closing his eyes and getting lost in the low pricks of pain and the feel of sharp teeth on skin, his mind, too often wondering and unable to stay focused on any one thing when he wasn’t on the track, was forced to be present, forced to be aware of every inch Max insisted on taking.

Max moved his hips against Lewis’ as he continued, desperate for any stimulation he could get and the friction against Lewis’ already interested cock was damning, he was already struggling to keep his sound down before but now it was practically impossible, he bit his lip harder anyway. He’d been solid for a few minutes and that combined with his exhaustion from the race made him half-want to pull away and jerk off then and there then quickly help Max out, but he had more self-control than that. Still, if he bit down on his bottom lip any deeper, he’s pretty sure the skin would break. 

Max was an unraveling heap of tension and frustration, radiating off of him in waves, enough to send anyone walking the other direction. Going off track made him finish two places below the podium, right behind Charles, who’d gotten lucky for once and gained points from their incident. Max was angry. Lewis understood it, the humiliation of screwing up a perfect opportunity, the failed overtake. 

He squirmed a little when Max bit him a bit too hard near his collarbone, was sure skin had broken. Max mumbled “stay still,” against his skin, voice low, and the hands holding him tightened like he wasn’t meant to move without permission. Like a spoiled child with his favorite toy. Lewis let him get away with too much.

Lewis did still, though, sighing but relaxing his body and allowing Max to continue to do what he wanted, gritting his teeth against a moan when he bit down harder. He even tilted his head slightly so Max could have better access. 

One of Max’s cold hands came to Lewis’ front and rucked his loose shirt up to run over the planes of his body possessively, cool skin on warm, feeling down the muscles of his flat abdomen to his waist up his torso to his chest, making Lewis shiver and tense again each time he ran over one of the many sensitive marks on his body which dated back to weeks ago. Some of them Lewis didn’t even remember when they appeared or who they came from.

Most of his and Max’s time in hidden, shaded corners like this was spent with minimal words uttered. Max was uncharacteristically silent, mostly communicating with actions, a contrast to his usual chatty self, which was fine with Lewis. It was almost uncanny, though, his bright cynical eyes fading to dark and nothingness in the shadows. Like a predator revealing itself, eyes only able to glow their true red in the dark. Gaze pointed directly and solely at Lewis.

Max was rock solid through his stupid tight jeans. 

Lewis could feel it, his thickness through the denim, shifting against him slowly. He’d seen it enough to know that it was an angry red underneath the clothing, pulsing with blood, throbbing against skin, aching for release. Aching for Lewis to relieve him. 

He could also feel Max’s abdomen through 100% cotton, not flat like his own but still solid and strong in its own right, expanding and contracting with his deep and quick pent up breathing, telling him he wouldn’t have to wait long. 

When Max seemed to have marked Lewis up enough, he pulled back, panting, dark eyes surveying his work. Not satisfied. Not enough, still not enough. 

But he took a moment to breathe, he leaned his burning forehead on Lewis’, aiming his cold gaze into Lewis’ heavy-lidded eyes. Max’s were a stormy mix of blue, even darker under the shade, glaring deep into Lewis’ soft, deep browns. His red lips were wearing a little frown that really reminded Lewis more of a child-like pout. His eyes darted between both of Lewis’ like he was trying to read him. 

Lewis looked back at him, openly. Then tilted his head. 

“You need something, mate?” He asked, friendly and casual, like their erections weren’t right against each other, like Max hadn’t just rendered Lewis almost breathless seconds ago, like they’ve only ever known each other as colleagues, like the way it had been before. But it was probably the use of mate instead of Max’s name that made him scowl so fully, the bridge of his nose wrinkling, unimpressed and annoyed.

Lewis’ smile widened. 

He thought it one of the funnest things to tease the younger drivers like George and Charles, and even more so Max, which Lewis mostly indulged in when they were alone. Flicking the lion’s nose, when Max was like this, angry and unrestrained, because he was so reactive. Even when Lewis let himself be completely at his mercy. Even when Lewis was disheveled as well, panting, face flushed from the stimulation, voice breathy. And it still worked, like always. 

Max took Lewis’ chin in a punishing, firm grip so he couldn’t move away, dipped his head…Lewis let out a surprised yelp when he felt Max sucking the blood from the open cuts on his bottom lip, then digging his own teeth into the wounds, spilling more iron between their mouths. Possessing even Lewis’ self-inflicted pain. 

Lewis’ vision blurred and he exhaled an amused, disbelieving huff at the other’s brutality.

Max kissed him roughly, licked into his mouth like it was his birthright as his hand went to hold Lewis’ nape, still controlling. “Asshole,” Max said quietly into Lewis’ mouth, and made sure to swallow Lewis’ responding chuckle.

He knew Max wasn’t really mad at him about the incident. Or, not just him. Max wasn’t as hard-headed as he made people think, he knew it was his own fault he lost control out there, though he wouldn't admit it, and that they wouldn’t have made contact had he not lost it. But Max was still mad, just more at himself. The Mclarens were only getting faster and the Red Bull upgrades weren’t working. Max was still comfortably in the lead but he knew that every point counted and that he’d sacrificed some today with the mistake he made. It was to be seen just how much something like that would affect his championship charge, but it was still enough to make any driver anxious and pissy. 

He looked younger like this, eyes dark and face flushed with something like injustice, and Lewis was reminded of a Max he knew years ago, who used to get just as mad, if not moreso, who was a live wire under his father’s oppressive thumb, who was slightly better at hiding how much he wanted Lewis’ attention. Then, Max took it out on others, anyone in his line of fire, now, Max took it out on Lewis. 

Max was insatiable, tongue fully invading Lewis’ mouth, determined to get all of him that he could reach, obsessed with taking all that Lewis would offer him, obsessed with draining the dissatisfaction in his guts from the race. 

When it felt like it’d gone on too long and they were losing time, Lewis tilted his head to the side, testingly rolled his hips, just a bit, so their bulges brushed over more. Max’s breath hitched and he pulled away, uttering a soft ‘fuck,’ and panting from his red parted lips, glancing down at where their crotches met then back up. Wide eyes that sloped down at the edges dilated to where his blues were a paper thin circle around black and his grip on Lewis’ waist tightened even further, forcing out a responding shaky exhale through Lewis’ teeth. 

Max looked like danger, uncontrolled, like a thunderstorm badly contained in the form of a human. 

He knew what he wanted, just sometimes got off track (hah) and needed a nudge to take it. The ball was in Max’s park now, he could decide what he needed from Lewis, how he wanted to let out his still-held frustration at the race. Lewis watched him, how his eyes cleared a bit, as he seemed to make his mind up. 

One of Max’s hands came up to Lewis’ shoulder, putting some firm pressure on it, and he leveled Lewis with a look. Finally. 

Lewis sinking to his knees was an action practiced and precise. Knees perfectly spread, thighs folded neatly over calves, back straight. Like settling into the perfectly-fit seat of his car. The concrete wasn’t nearly as comfortable, though, but he could deal with it, he was wearing thick cotton pants, and his knees were practically made for it.

He looked up at Max through his thick lashes, meeting the dilated eyes of the man who had once, years ago, come to Lewis’ motorhome, of all of them, angry and spazzing out over a harsh race penalty that apparently nobody besides himself thought he did not deserve (including Lewis, but he chose not to say) as if he thought Lewis was the only one who’d he felt he could console in for some reason. Probably he wasn’t thinking at all. 

Lewis had an inkling that it was more than the penalty- the young driver’s father was present and obviously unimpressed by the position his son finished. There was a coldness about Jos’ eyes that reminded Lewis of a shark, unempathetic and only interested in seeing blood. He hated enough being within hearing distance of the man for a few minutes, couldn’t imagine sharing a car ride with him, much less a home. There were some people who in their very being opposed everything in Lewis’. 

That man’s son, however, interestingly wasn’t one of those people.

So, unfazed, Lewis had sat back and listened as Max explained why the situation was completely unfair and stupid and looked to Lewis to agree with him, which he didn’t, and didn’t pretend like he did, but nonetheless empathized with him: ‘it was a tough one, for sure.’ he’d offered, and Max nodded like he was hardly listening and carried on ranting about it until he paused abruptly and trailed off, finally taking in his surroundings. The kid kind of stood there awkwardly after that, as if just then realizing he’d just stormed into Lewis Hamilton’s trailer and ran his mouth off about something that had absolutely nothing to do with him like they knew each other that well to complain about it to him. 

Lewis watched as the kid’s body practically buzzed with anxiety and frustration, hands jittery and unsure, very unlike how Lewis had seen him before: blatantly cocky and confident. But maybe Lewis just hadn’t been interested in looking for more than that.

A moment passed and Lewis sighed, moving his laptop from his lap to the small coffee table, passively aware of Max’s eyes being drawn to his thighs, only covered by rucked up shorts. 

“Max,” He said, and dark blue eyes sprung to his, hanging onto the word, his name from Lewis’ mouth. He always got like that when Lewis would say it, like he’d been waiting for ages just to hear it. 

“If you sit down, I can jerk you off. Will that make you feel better?” 

It came out more serious than he meant it. He’s not even completely sure why he said it- the words just spilled out naturally in response to a familiar situation, even if it wasn’t really the kind of joke he should be making and certainly not the person he should be making it to.

Either way, Max’s eyes blew wide as saucers, his Adam's apple bobbled as his throat worked to swallow, disbelief all over his face. Lewis half expected his expression to shift to disgust or anger, but instead it relaxed into something quieter, hesitant, still tense but interested. Lewis would say shy, but there was a certain glint in his eyes that hinted at something less innocent. 

Max appeased, slowly coming closer until he was sat next to Lewis. 

Lewis turned to face him and gave him a friendly smile and Max’s wide eyes flickered to his lips and stayed there, his jaw clenching.

As the situation became more and more real, Lewis didn’t start to feel regret, but he did remember that this kid was a teenager not very long ago. What am I doing, here? He thought to himself, but the gears were already in motion and Lewis wasn’t gonna chicken out now. Not with him.

And he did really want to help. 

Max was already hard. And big. Twitching madly in Lewis’ firm grip. 

He was flushed to hell but his eyes were somewhat clear, taking in every bit of Lewis as he jerked Max off until it was obvious he was nearing the edge. Instinctively Max’s head dipped to Lewis’ neck, panting hot air onto his thin, tattooed skin, thrusting in accordance into Lewis’ hand, slick with both his own spit and Max’s pre as Lewis mumbled encouragement: just like that, doing so good, so good for me, Max, get it all out. The words had just rolled off his tongue naturally, and every time Max’s name left his mouth, the cock in his grip jolted. 

Lewis was so focused on getting him there he hadn’t at all been prepared for the sudden pain of sharp rows of teeth digging into his sensitive neck when Max finally released. “Agh-“ Lewis had gasped, eyes widening in shock, a tremor running hot through his body, the pain processing all throughout his mind. Dormant lights flickering back on.

By the time Lewis pushed him away from his neck, he was passed out. Like a kid, worn out from his fit, only settling into rest after calming down. Lewis stared at him for a long moment, quizzically, gently rubbing around the aching spot he’d bit. The skin hadn’t broken, but it was a near thing, sure to leave a mark. Again, he felt something familiar in himself emerging, but firmly ignored it. 

He ran a hand over his face and looked over at Max, who was passed out against the cushion with his hand resting on Lewis’ bare thigh. His cum coated Lewis’ hand and his own boxers. His face was relaxed, looking more peaceful than Lewis had ever seen it. 

Maybe that had been the last straw for that part of his past which he tried to bury deep down to completely reemerge. 

He clenched his eyes shut, realizing exactly what was happening. ‘Fuck,’ he sighed, before removing the hand from his thigh, and going to grab a throw blanket. 

That was the first time and it was like opening a floodgate. Such incidents happened often after that, Max usually waiting until nobody else was around to find Lewis. Like a rabid stray dog returning for food. 

He thought the biting was a one time thing- it was not. Lewis’ fans were increasingly disappointed every time he showed up in his more conservative shirts and team jackets zipped up to his chin rather than the risky v-line vests and shirts revealing down past his compass tattoo. 

He felt Max’s heavy gaze on him during drivers’ parades every time someone made him throw his head back in laughter and he consciously adjusted his collar. He had to dig his blunt nails into his palm sometimes to remind himself it was Max’s gaze he was feeling, not anyone else’s.

It was manageable, though, or so Lewis told himself. Though he felt himself increasingly teetering near the edge of something. Something familiar and old, from a time when he didn’t know better. (Does it really make a difference, if he knows better now?)

He felt that something again with Max staring down at him, clearly feeling the rush from having Lewis Hamilton of all people on his knees for him, sitting pretty and waiting patiently to take his cock down his throat, even though they’ve done this hundreds of times by now it seemed to never get old. Lewis could see it in his face, which was always easy for Lewis to read, how it satisfied Max to have him like this, the power rush it gave him. The person who it once seemed impossible to beat, like this, for him.

And for Lewis, it simply felt natural, easy to sink back into no matter how long it’d been. 

Max’s cock was, as predicted, red, veiny, and rock solid when he unzipped his jeans and shoved them and his boxers down, letting it free, and it probably had been that way for a while. Lucky for him, Lewis knew just what Max wanted after having sung and danced the same song and dance with him many times before. 

His hand first went to Max’s base, enveloping the velvet skin in his fingers, and gave him a few relieving strokes, rotating his wrist just the way that got him breathing out shakingly, hand reaching out to tangle into Lewis’ braids, cold fingers against his warm scalp, the sharp pain of his hair being tugged. 

Max was big, seriously big. Probably the biggest Lewis ever had. He knew that his own hands were rather large for the average male, but they always looked normal-- small even, around Max’s length. He had made a point to never let Max fuck his throat before he had to be somewhere that heavily involved speaking because he knew if he let Max do what he wanted, his voice would be completely shot for at least the next few hours. Right now, though, Lewis had nowhere to be for at least a few days. The red lights were out.

Max breathed out a deep moan into the back of his free hand when Lewis’ thumb ran over his tip, which had been most likely leaking pre for hours. But even in the midst of everything, Max didn’t tug too hard on Lewis’ braids, remembering what Lewis had dictated about his hair. He exerted that tiny bit of restraint he had over himself for Lewis, who rewarded him by getting on with it. 

“Yeah, fuck.” Max said intelligently under his breath, unable to keep silent, letting out a shaky sigh of relief as soon as Lewis’ hand let go and he finally got Max in his mouth, downing almost all of him in one go, making his tongue flat to the bottom of his mouth. 

Max sat heavy on Lewis’ tongue, velvet, and hard, salty from the sweat and pre. Lewis’ eyelashes fluttered around his width with effort, vision blurring again. Lewis knew his jaw would be aching for a few hours after. Even though Lewis was used to the size, it reset to make him feel it every time like his body was looking forward to the ache. 

Max’s thighs were well filled out and firm —Lewis always wondered how he managed to get his tight ass jeans all the way on, or rather, why he insisted on always wearing them— and they were perfect for Lewis to hold onto so he could steady himself when taking him. Lewis did just so, fingers gripping the flesh through the denim as he relaxed his shoulders and made himself pliant, giving the green light.

The fingers in his braids tightened slightly, the grip becoming controlling, holding his head still. Max got his free hand around the base of his cock and gave it a squeeze, then started feeding the rest of his cock to Lewis with it, controlled and slow, but without pause. He wanted Lewis to feel it almost as much as he wanted to feel it. 

Lewis let his eyes slip shut as Max guided his length further down his lax throat, listening as he hummed with the relief of it. His length slipped in smoothly. Lewis made himself breath around it, trying to keep his mind intact but slowly slipping into the kind of cloudy headspace that appeared when he let someone else take complete control. It was safe. Lewis knew Max, even when angry like he was now, would never really hurt him. He trusted him in that, so he let himself drift a bit, let Max take the control he so desperately needed.

Max coaxed his length down Lewis’ throat until it was almost all inside his mouth, Lewis’ lips red and strained, then the hand on his cock joined the one in Lewis’ braids, both hands holding his skull still and pushing in until Lewis’ nose was flush against his crotch, tickled by the trimmed hair there, and Max let out a shaky sigh, probably having spent hours waiting until he could have his hard-on enveloped in Lewis’ warm mouth. 

He smelled like sweat, but clean enough so Lewis wasn’t bothered by it. More than anything, though, he smelled like Max, a nice heavy machinery and oak-like scent Lewis had become too familiar with.

Max needed more than a cockwarmer, so Lewis was only given a few seconds to breathe before Max pulled almost fully out and thrusted in rough, hitting the back of Lewis’ throat and making his eyes water a bit, then did it again, starting a brutal pace, holding Lewis’ head still by his braids and fucking in sharp and rougher, even, than usual into his mouth. If Lewis had anything left of his gag reflex, it would’ve been going haywire. Saliva poured uncontrolled from his mouth down his chin. 

There was no tenseness left in his body as his mind clouded and he let Max get his fill of him.

Normally, Lewis would be able to take it well and keep his own volume down— his self-control being one of his strongest traits and his strongest safeguard was that he could trust himself, if nobody else, to have control of a situation. But now he just couldn’t help the soft whimpers and little moans involuntarily escaping his mouth with every thrust, he didn’t have the mind to control it. 

He was human, despite how he liked to portray himself and how he was spoken of, either with admiration or malice. And he was extremely tired after the long Sunday, and sensitive from the strain he put on himself in the race. It was undoubtedly affecting him. His tight grip on himself was unraveling. Even when he let someone else have control, he could normally keep his noise down where the other sometimes slipped up, keep himself intact as his head drifted. It wasn’t like that now, he was being reckless, sloppy. 

The horrible thing was that, really, he couldn’t lie to himself and say it was just because he was tired-- no, if he was completely honest, he’d been feeling off ever since the post race interview earlier. Which happened to be hosted by Nico. It’d been what was on his mind as he was walking to his motorhome before being ambushed, pushed into a hidden corner, and put on his knees. 

It had admittedly been a relief, to have a distraction from his thoughts. He kept going back to the moment when he’d been reliably answering a generic question and Nico’s impossibly observant dark blue eyes slid to a barely visible mark on Lewis’ neck. How he had paused for a second when he took in how Lewis was casually massaging the bruises on his waist with his empty hand, the same exact way he used to back then, as if he’d just come to a realization. Back when they used each other in the same way, to take out their anger and frustrations left over from the track, in dim lit hotel rooms instead of paddock shadows, leaving countless bruises all over each other’s skin. He knew Nico was remembering how Lewis used to massage them almost absent-mindedly for days after. 

A bitter feeling arose in his chest, making him want to retreat from the irritatingly knowing eyes that remained the singular exception to his defenses. It was like there was nothing new, just history rewritten over again, with different names and dates, like nothing would actually ever change for Lewis, just be molded into different people, different faces. Different artists covering the same tired song, adding and removing things but still singing the same lyrics. 

Lewis just couldn’t help it. It wasn’t in his nature to turn away anyone when they were obviously struggling, when they came to him directly. 

After Nico was gone, new faces appeared on the grid and generations moved through, and drivers began to gravitate towards him. Coming to him at first for advice from a seasoned veteran or just casual conversation, to be around him. He was very open, welcoming, putting effort into being available and patient. He knew what it was like to feel unwelcome when arriving in the sport and he’d let hell freeze over before he let another driver feel like that. 

So, that progressed. It wasn’t uncommon now to find a driver or two in Lewis’ room or motorhome after a race. Seb commented on it, of course, because when has he been known to not poke fun when given the opportunity, that he’s adopted about half of the grid already. But Lewis didn’t see them that way, not paternally. If anything, he saw them more as little strays that wind up at his door sometimes whining to be fed and pet. One after another, as if he fed a pigeon once and the next day a whole flock was on his front lawn.

How it’d escalated, when they started coming to him when they were angry and frustrated from a bad race, and how it started ending up with him pushed against a wall or panting against his own hospitality couch cushions, or on his knees in a random hidden part of the paddock, he wasn’t sure. It felt like a natural progression. 

He still remembered Charles’ wide, horrified eyes, who’d been the first to do it after Max, impulsive and emotional, burst through his driver's room door after a particularly awful race for him, a strategy issue went even worse than normal, and somehow ended up kissing Lewis, then realized what he’d done. He froze like something small in headlights and looked horrified in himself, couldn’t process what he was feeling or what he was doing, too angry to think straight, mixing with fear, panicking and spiraling. He remembers the way Charles’ cheek burned on Lewis’ palm as Lewis held it, mumbled ‘hey, it’s alright,’ and brought his head in to kiss him again. Lewis woke up sore from the bruises all through the week after but it was worth it to watch as the anger drained out of Charles as sunk into Lewis’ heat, only a bit slick from a massage oil Lewis had mostly emptied with Max, hands on Lewis’ waist kneeling over him on the couch. It was worth it to see Charles’ limbs relaxing and breaths slowing like the sky clearing, the sigh of relief when he finally came, the whisper of Lewis’ name in that fancy, heavily accented way he said it. The gratitude in his voice. The tear that slipped from his eye. 

Lewis watched it all, physiological tears hanging on his bottom lashes, his mind buzzing and focused all at once. 

It wasn’t in his nature to deny that.

He wondered how Nico would react if he knew, really knew what was happening. If he’d be smug, relieved that he’d undoubtedly left his unfading mark on Lewis, that Lewis could act indifferent to him all he liked but his presence still lingered around Lewis in so many ways, haunting. Or if he’d look at Lewis with pity, sorry that Lewis was still undeniably affected by what happened so many years ago, that he never grew out of it.

Faint memories feathered across his mind, losing control with Nico and never being able to keep a hold of himself around the other, when they were like this or otherwise. The cruel, smug smile when he made Lewis break just right, shattering his tightly held self-control, leaving him disoriented and vulnerable. Cracking his shell, pleased at his still-soft under belly, uncaring about how deadly his glare was when he was trembling like a kitten. Lewis could beat him a thousand times on track, but there he would crack. But how could Lewis blame him, when they were so similar?

Lewis quickly blinked the memory away. He hated how Nico always appeared, seeping into his thoughts just when Lewis needed it least, like a wave pushing up on shore, washing away the progress, the important things he’d written in the sand from the last time. 

His mind came back to Max, whose grunts were getting increasingly desperate, pace not having eased up in the slightest. And passively noticed the wetness of tears on his cheeks from the mere force of Max’s cock abusing the back of his throat. 

Max, who for the longest time Lewis knew only as a kid filled with nothing but stubbornness and reckless rage until the day he’d fallen asleep, completely relieved, on Lewis’ motorhome couch. How it became obvious, then, that he hadn’t been born with that anger, which just seemed to be a part of him, but absorbed it from the environment he’d been raised in. How Max adapted to it and it merged with him. A fuse always ready to be lit, always waiting to explode. Lewis always thought that one day that all of that anger would detonate and someone would end up getting badly hurt. Max needed a safe way to let it out, needed someone who didn’t harbour the same anger, not in the same way at least, who understood, and that became Lewis. 

Max, who loved abusing his throat, loved how easy it could take his length when pliant and relaxed, loved how he could be as rough as he wanted with it, loved the control Lewis allowed him over it. Lewis’ gag reflex was practically a thing of myth so he could bury his grievances as deep as he wanted if he did it right without fear of hitting Lewis’ uvula and making him gag, something Max put to use regularly. But Lewis could always tell Max to stop, pinch his thigh or shove at him a bit to be let go, and he never felt an overbearing guilt to go lax, let his mind leave his body, and let himself be used like he felt with Nico sometimes back then. He never felt like he owed his body to anyone. He gave as much as he wanted to. 

Lewis had to remind himself that Max wasn’t like Nico and neither were any of the other drivers. Not Charles, or Lando, or George, or any of the rest of them. What he had with them wasn’t the same as it’d been with him and Nico for those few years. It hadn’t been held together with bandaids, a ticking bomb with no determined designation time, ready to go off at any point. If anything, it was formed from trust. Their strange exchange of trust that Lewis would stop them before they go too far, that he would be there to stabilize them, Lewis trusting them to take the lead, that there were no games, just them. Just Lewis doing this for them. It really was nothing like him and Nico and the more he thought about it, the more it calmed Lewis. 

His mind resurfaced to the cold feeling of drool escaping his mouth as Max’s cock hit the back of his throat again. The only thing keeping him semi-grounded being his grip on the other’s thighs, blunt nails digging through denim into skin. 

Lewis’ vision was blurred, and limbs weak from the low intake of oxygen. The only thing he could taste was salt and all he could hear was Max’s hardly contained noises above him. Barely-contained, desperate sounds.

Lewis felt him start going deeper and faster, ruthlessly chasing his release, and he hiccuped, throat contracting against the thick intrusion, earning himself a painful squeeze of his braids and a groan. The sounds of wet thrusts and small grunts filled the quiet, narrow space. 

Lewis had enough in him to swallow around Max a few times and each action earned him a sharper thrust and a deep groan from Max. A small ‘fuck’ now and then, a shiver. Made him faster. 

So, so desperate to get himself off the edge, to feel the relief.

Another tear or two slipped down Lewis’ flushed cheek, falling silently to the ground. 

Lewis felt hungry eyes on him so he looked up through his tear-clumped lashes and blurry vision. He saw Max, his wild dirty blond hair tossed and cheeks flushed and relaxed now, panting heavily from his full red lips, gaze singled in on Lewis. He painted an interesting image, like a lion again, fully satisfied with its hunt, but he was staring at Lewis like he was God, down on his knees. His own God, almost completely at his mercy.

Lewis stared back, aware of the image he painted. 

Most evidence of Max’s past anger and conflict was almost completely washed away now, only his natural wildness remained. All he needed was his cock in Lewis’ mouth for a few long minutes and his anger was drained, the only thing left being his desperation to get off.

Lewis’ own cock, now completely hard and depressingly neglected in his pants, jerked at the look on Max’s face— dark and hot, filled with nothing but desire, need. He couldn’t do much at the moment, too focused on taking Max and controlling his own noises to give his cock the attention it needed. He didn’t need to, though, his self-restraint coming back to him as his mind strayed further from the past and more towards Max and helping him.

Lewis pushed forward particularly deep on the next thrust, knowing Max was close, holding eye contact while his eyes fluttered, which made Max swallow hard, eyes clenching shut for a moment and voice strained as he mumbled Dutch and English under his breath, Lewis catching only a few, almost condescending, words. “—God, Lewis. So fucking good for this.”

When the words seeped into his brain, Lewis couldn’t really explain what happened, or rather why it did. His stomach clenched, a sharp, painful jolt traveled through his body, and suddenly there was a warm, humiliatingly sticky patch in the front of his boxers. Tears spilt over again, dripping down his jaw.

You’re always so good for this, aren’t you?

It took a second to realize that he’d come. And more to realize it was from nothing but some words and a cock down his throat. He couldn’t remember having done that in a long time. It was just those words, he thinks, that did it, the same ones he’d heard far before Max started showing up at random moments with that angry, desperately needy look on his face. Words from another, crueler German-speaking tongue. Back when Lewis upset Nico for one reason or another, maybe there were team orders during a race or Lewis had been cold unresponsive to him in public, unwilling to acknowledge their close relationship, when in private he’d tell Lewis to get on his knees and Lewis would roll his eyes but comply nonetheless, let Nico take his throat in the way he liked, let him hold Lewis’ head still as he gagged and still automatically swallowed when Nico shot down his throat and Nico called him that. Good for this. 

He was good for it, to be fair. Good for taking it deep down his throat and not gagging now, good for setting his own pleasure aside for other’s, good for finding pleasure in giving a measured amount of control to someone else. He'd always had a skill for enduring, taking on more than he should’ve been able to manage and managing it. The only difference was that now he knew himself better, was in tune with himself in a way that allowed him to be able to give those parts of himself to others without walking away hurt. He’d evolved into that since those times with him and Nico, and was better off for it.  

Max hadn’t noticed he came, thankfully, too consumed with his own pleasure, taking Lewis’ sudden full pliability as a sign to take him harder, faster, chasing his release desperately. 

From experience, Lewis knew the exact moment before Max was going to cum, too familiar with the tensing of the younger’s legs and the stiffness of both hands in Lewis’ braids, the sharp breath and sloppiness in pace. Lewis rubbed his thigh soothingly, like settling a horse, still holding eye contact, and met his next thrust, loosening his jaw more and sucking.

Looking up at Max, saying: give it to me. 

Max let out a guttural groan, fingers in Lewis’ hair squeezing, making him hum weakly at the ache. Between clenched teeth: “Lewis, oh. Fuck.” 

He had a particular way of getting off when he face-fucked Lewis. He held his head still with one hand in his braids, so just his tip was in Lewis’ mouth, and freed the other to fist the rest of his cock, hurriedly jerking the rest himself off into Lewis as he sat there kind of dumbly with his jaw slack. Open and willing. 

He wondered sometimes if there was really much he wouldn’t let Max and the others do to him if he thought it’d help them.

The thought didn’t marinate long before Max’s cock jerked once and he pushed Lewis back down on it just at the right moment to take his load fully. 

“Lewis,” Max gasped helplessly, like a prayer or a plea, and came, shooting, just like that, spilling then spilling more into Lewis’ mouth, filling it with warm, sticky salt, sliding down his throat, the little bit that escaped dripping sparsely down his chin. Max knew Lewis would much rather it there than his face, in his mouth being much more convenient when slipping back into people’s line of sight. Also, Lewis had always been a bit squirmish, so it came as no surprise that the sensation of cum over his eyelids and cheeks wasn’t a pleasant one to him, only sometimes did the inherent humiliation of it make it kind of good, but mostly it just felt horrible. As it turned out, Max and the others much preferred releasing in his warm mouth anyway.

After a moment, he felt Max’s soft thumb beneath his eye, rubbing away a tear. Lewis didn’t think before letting himself lean into it, his mind still not completely back, lost in the feeling. Then Max was letting go of his grip on Lewis’ braids and pulling him up by his arms like it was nothing, hands going to Lewis’ waist again when he swayed— softly this time, to hold him steady as he kissed him once more. Lewis sighed tiredly into it, jaw still slack as Max licked over his teeth for what he hadn’t swallowed. Unexpectedly, or maybe expectedly, he was a bit of a perv. 

He pulled away finally, the storm inside him sated, and Lewis’ head fell forwards, neck and spine too weak to keep him in place anymore, his forehead resting on the other’s chest, thoroughly exhausted. Panting against him and inhaling his scent. Lewis closed his eyes and let the sore feeling of Max’s fingers, though gentle, planted on his sensitive, bruised skin ground him. He weakly chuckled out a breathless “fuck,” and Max hummed in response, chin resting on top of Lewis’ head, panting too. He liked holding Lewis after, as if to remind himself Lewis was real and what they’d done was real and it was okay, it was all gonna be fine.

The drying semen in Lewis’ boxers was uncomfortable and made him feel lewd when he didn’t want to be, he couldn’t wait to shower as soon as he got back to his motorhome. Needed it, even. Needed to reform himself as a person in the come-down, because he hardly felt like one now.

Lewis raised his head, eventually, let his eyes roam over the face of the man in front of him, Max’s cheeks flushed with relief, his face calm now, eyes the blue of the sea after a storm, looking back at Lewis softly. Too softly, really, Lewis wanted to look away.

Max reached up and tucked a stray braid that’d fallen in front of Lewis’ eye behind his ear, making Lewis realize his bun had fallen apart sometime in their exchange, his braids falling untied around his head.

“Better?” Lewis asked, needing to hear it.

Max hummed and nodded, flushing a bit more. All that tension was thoroughly drained from Max’s limbs and he just seemed tired. It’d been a long Sunday. 

Lewis was practically dripping with exhaustion as well, he could feel his own needs coming on full-force and clenched his eyes shut, willing them away for just a few minutes.

“Okay. Will you tell Lando I was here first?” Max asked, then, shamelessly, a very Max-like smile back on his face. Brushing his thumb against Lewis’ ruined neck, delighting in the weak shudder it brung.

Lewis opened his eyes to blink at him in exasperation, then rolled his eyes. “Why do you think I’d do that, Max?” He asked, tilting his head, just to see Max’s eyes narrow with possessiveness and his smile strain. But then looked away, and sighed, giving in, “...He’ll be able to tell anyway.” 

The smugness on Max’s face when he looked back was almost enough to get Lewis to walk away then and there. Yet he still allowed Max to tilt his head and kiss him again, trying his tongue against Lewis’ lips.

Lewis clamped his hand down on Max’s shoulder, hard, snapping him out of it, and peeled himself away. 

“Alright, I’ll text you later, then.” He said, raising his brows, and it meant, yes, we’re actually going to talk about what happened and not just sweep it under the rug and pretend like everything was fine again. It took years of offering himself after a conflict to know that was never a permanent solution. The problems would always come back eventually if they weren’t properly dealt with. 

He could see Max’s expression sour a tad bit, and noticed how his fingers twitched after Lewis distanced himself. How he was fighting the urge to argue, remembering what had happened in the race, but he ended up nodding, solemnly, knowing they would go back and forth: Lewis would defend himself and the actions he took on track and Lewis knew Max was going to give him hell defending his own actions as well. He looked forward to it. “Of course,” Max agreed, unable to deny Lewis after everything.

Lewis smiled in satisfaction. He knew never to scold Max too hard on his aggressive driving style because he would easily call Lewis out on his hypocrisy. That, and the younger was impossibly stubborn. He was usually completely unwilling to change something he saw no need to, even when it was Lewis telling him. Though he did seem to take some suggestions at least a bit more seriously and compromise when they came from him. Still, Lewis was satisfied they were going to be having a real conversation about it, not just brushing it away.

“Good.” Lewis said, rubbing his arm, subtly coaxing. “You should go get some rest, man.”

Max nodded again, a little dazed and clearly almost as in need of a nap as Lewis was, and left him with a soft peck, apologizing for being so rough in Max-speak, even though Lewis would prefer him not to be sorry. Lewis gave him a soft smile and another friendly shoulder pat, and sent him off. 

Max slipped out of the shadow back out into the paddock walkway as if nothing had even happened, shoulders relaxed and body untensed, a storm calmed. Meanwhile, Lewis slumped back against the wall, exhausted. He could hardly stand. Had to take a few moments to calm himself down and break completely out of the soft, hazy headspace. And as it faded, his previous thoughts began seeping back in, reminding him of the empty pit in his chest that had been bothering him for hours. 

After a few minutes, he finally gathered himself enough to shuffle back to his motorhome, forcing himself to walk as normally as possible with dried cum in his boxers. Hoping nobody he passed noticed anything off, silently cursing himself and his weird unhealed complexes that had him cumming his pants like he was still a teenager.

One down, he crossed off in his head.

--

Lewis reached his motorhome a few minutes later and the door barely shut behind him before he was stripping and hopping in the small shower. It didn’t take long to lose himself in the thoughts he’d been avoiding as the cold water trailed down his sore skin. 

Of all the feelings he honed, blame lasted the shortest. He couldn’t find it in him to hold onto blame when it was only ever just how things were. Lewis’ body was something made to be taken, he was born that way, willing to give it. Still, blame flared maybe the strongest it ever had in him as he watched as Nico announced his retirement. He sat there, keeping his face passive, a lonely, achingly empty pit opening in his chest. How dare you take all you did and just leave? But that, too, faded quickly. He could’ve ripped out half of his heart and laid it on Nico’s bedstand for him to stay one more year but he still wouldn’t have stayed at that point. He’d let those thoughts distract himself from the guilt of the relief in the breath he let out, in how his body un-tensed for the first time, he felt, in years. 

But Nico was still right, after all this time. If it wasn’t true, then why did it come so easily? Why did it feel like second nature to sink to his knees or spread his legs, to let someone use him? The fact is that he still got a kick out of it, helping people, taking the anger and absorbing it, feeling it bloom purple and red on his skin. It was a strange sickness probably corrupting his veins before he ever met Nico. A need to take someone’s pain and fix it by making it his own. Some twisted savior complex that Nico awoke in him. 

Lewis finally came back to himself, realizing he’d been staring at the bruises high on his thighs, letting the scalding hot water run over his ruined neck for the last few dozen minutes. Droplets slid down the sides of his head, falling from his eyelashes to the shower floor. His fingers were pruny. He hadn’t even grabbed the body wash.

Lewis sighed and ran a hand over his face, instinctively reaching inside himself for control and using it to force all previous thoughts from his mind. He grabbed his washcloth and let his thoughts drift to the other major thing that had happened in the race that Sunday as he mechanically washed himself. 

Between the podium and the team debrief he’d taken some time to actually figure out what was going on with the McLarens during the race and there was no wonder why Lando was so snappy to him in the cooldown room after all the frustrating management from his team. And knowing Oscar, who cared about proving himself to the sport as much as any other driver, despite how determined the media was to characterize him as unbothered, he was probably frustrated as well that his first win, which should’ve been straightforward had his team not fumbled the pit stops, was tainted by team orders. 

Lewis felt for both of them, knowing both of how team orders could mess with a driver’s head, whose natural instinct is to keep the higher position, and the feeling of a win tainted by a teammate being told to back off. 

His eyes ran over the bruises around his wrists from Checo, and he made a note to text him and congratulate him on his nice recovery, the driver having gotten snuggly back into the points. He hoped that would make things at least a bit less tense behind the dark blue walls, dim the merciless whispers. Realistically, knew it wouldn’t. He wished there was more he could do, but even what he was able to offer was finite. How far could you stretch a single human body? However far, Lewis had probably passed it thousands of times by now.

It really was unfortunate about the Mclarens, though. Lewis couldn’t help but feel disappointed seeing his debut team fumbling simple things like what they had when they seemingly had a McLaren driver’s first real chance at a title since himself. He hoped for both Oscar and Lando’s sakes that they dealt with their issues before the title fight became serious, because what happened today with the loss of points, it would only fuel Max, make him that much more determined to get this one. Lewis didn’t know if the Mclarens were ready for that. 

He also sincerely hoped they came up with a better signal phrase than whatever the hell ‘papaya rules’ was. 

—

Lewis finished gently scrubbing himself off for the third time and finally felt clean enough to step out of the shower, pull a robe on, too lazy to redress himself, and tied his hair up. He had some time to waste before leaving the paddock so he padded over to his minifridge and pulled out a nutrition bar to gnaw on, leaning against the slim counter, and took out his phone to reply to congratulation texts from friends and friendly celebrities for his podium, shuffling on one of his playlists as he went through them, humming idly along to the music. 

He was going through his contacts when his eyes inevitably paused and then lingered on Nico’s for too long. Now ‘N. Rosberg’ saved as the name instead of just the phone number, which it’d been kept as for years after 2016, Lewis never quite having deleted his contact. Only recently he’d changed it after they’d ended up seeing each other during the winter break. 

It was actually Lewis who’d prompted it, shockingly. He’d been having a good day, uncommonly good, and the thought of Nico crossed his mind and he realized he didn’t feel the familiar aching pit in his stomach threatening to swallow him whole. He felt finally able to do what he’d thought of doing countless times before. It was impulsive, which was the only way it could’ve happened on his part. If Lewis really thought it over, he would’ve easily convinced himself out of it.

He called Nico, finally clicking the unnamed contact. Nico had answered after only two rings and he’d sounded confused, asking “Lewis?” like he seriously couldn’t believe it, like he was half expecting a prank call. In his defense, between the two of them, Lewis wouldn’t have expected himself to be the one to do it either. But Lewis wasn’t the same person he was years ago. And he felt for some reason that he had to prove it. 

Nico had been no less shocked when Lewis invited him to dinner, knowing they were both in Monaco that week. 

They met in a nice Italian restaurant, dimly lit, but populated enough so it didn’t feel like they were alone together. Lewis’ choice, of course. Nico had looked nervous but curious, his hair long, grown out like he used to wear it when he was younger, and Lewis found himself having to drag his eyes away. It was awkward at first, but eased as they settled. In some ways it was like nothing changed, but it was the first time they shared a real conversation in years, not just in an interview or with indirect references to each other. They’d chatted casually about what they were up to, Nico and his business, Lewis and his sponsors. Talked a little about the season, which Lewis wasn’t exactly ecstatic to talk about given how he was fairing, but he did. In the back of his mind, every moment they looked into each others’ eyes, with every second they were so close, he was thinking, insensibly: can he smell it on me? Can he tell? 

But Nico didn’t seem any different than usual, aside from some natural awkwardness and hesitance that came with the situation. He finally broke the bullshit after they’d been served their vegan pasta e fagioli and questioned why Lewis finally asked why now, after all that time. He was really looking for: what changed? They both knew Lewis was the one that built the wall between them after Nico left. He was the one who made a point to avoid saying Nico’s name and coldly shut down any chance to reconnect, the one outwardly less forgiving of what’d happened, and by Nico leaving afterwards. Leaving Lewis standing alone after the curtains closed. 

Lewis twirled his pasta and told a half-truth about how he felt it’d been long enough and growth had finally gotten to him. Nico didn’t exactly need to know everything that led him to this, what his words really meant, nor did he have the right to anymore. 

Nico didn’t look fully convinced, he frowned slightly and his blue eyes narrowed like he wanted to say something, dig deeper, but thankfully he had the decency now to hold his tongue and accept his answer, allowing Lewis his reasons. And the conversation drifted back into the easier topic of how his kids were doing. 

They didn’t quite know what to do when the meal came to an end and they both stood. How to say goodbye. What would be appropriate for them, now. They didn’t make manuals for these kinds of things. Nico was hesitant, as if worried he would spook him, so Lewis made the first move, pulling the other into a light, friendly half-hug, not dissimilar to how he would hug an engineer or friendly acquaintance. 

As Lewis went to pull away, Nico’s hand wrapped around his back and he leaned in naturally, feather-soft blond hair tickling Lewis’ neck, like he wanted more but Lewis was already quickly putting distance between them, ignoring the unhappy wrinkle between Nico’s brows that made that cruelly strong feeling he had to soothe the other’s pain run through his body. Holding back a shudder, he smiled casually and wished Nico well. Like there was nothing there. Like there never was. Like almost every part of him wasn’t screaming to offer some part of himself so that the wrinkle would smooth over and be replaced by the almost dopey, satisfied and relaxed smile he used to wear back then after Lewis let him do whatever he wanted to him. 

He saw how Nico’s smile strained a bit, like he was realizing now that it would truly never go back to the way it was before, that Lewis really wasn’t the same. That he would act like all was forgiven, but it would be all of scar tissue over a wound. Healed, but unreturned to its previous, unblemished, state. There were walls now that he would never breach again. That he had to accept it. 

He let his arms drop limp beside him and wished Lewis luck with the rest of the season. But, before Lewis could turn to go, Nico spoke again.

“If you ever wanna do this again, just-”

Lewis’ hand rubbed his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, uh.”

“Sorry. Sorry, I’m not trying to pressure you into anything, I’m just-.”

“I know,” Lewis said calmly, “It’s fine. This was nice. I’ll text you, alright?”

Nico looked relieved, like he was expecting something a lot worse. The hope in his smile had Lewis turning and walking away before waiting for a response. 

In any case, Lewis left knowing what to get Nico’s daughters for Christmas that year. He felt fine, after emptying his guts into the toilet as soon as he got home, anyway. It was like crossing something off a list. He washed his face, curled up into a ball with Roscoe tucked by his feet, and slept for ten straight hours. 

They’d been meeting up every now and then when they were both around, always prompted by Lewis, always the same spot. Nico had been very cautious of not overstepping. Mostly paddock talk, sometimes other little parts of their lives. Sometimes one of them will accidentally bring up the past, never further than 2013, and they’ll both hesitate before continuing. Every time it feels easier than the last, but they never spoke about anything that would make it hard. It was good, though, relative to what it was before.

Still, seeing and talking to Nico after the race had offset him today. Not without reason. Something in the way his ever hyper-analyzing blue eyes took in Lewis’ habitual movement felt invasive in a way Lewis almost forgot. The realization on his face had Lewis’ heart dropping to his stomach and he could practically feel him reliving the memories of them, covered in bruises, hiding them under clothing in public, Nico looking at him knowingly with boyish smug from across the garage, like he was in on a joke, when Lewis kept rubbing his waist. 

Lewis wondered if Nico expected some kind of explanation for what he saw earlier, wanted to know about the bruises on Lewis’ body that he hadn’t left, which Nico hadn’t noticed until that moment. From the look on his face when the recognition set in, he definitely did. But that wasn’t his business anymore.

Lewis swiped the Messages app away before he thought about it any longer and opened Twitter instead. His race had gone decent so he felt free to entertain himself with the post race chitter. He figured he’d take a small nap after seeing what everyone was talking about, the shower not having chased away his exhaustion. 

Lewis’ eyes skimmed over the posts about the Mclaren situation and him and Max’s incident, and he bit his lip, brows furrowing at some of the things he read, hoping neither Oscar or Lando had gone on social media yet. The shots being fired at either driver instead of the team were stupid, but hurtful. He knew how it could get into a young driver’s mind.

Sometimes, it was almost like his thoughts had summoning powers. 

Just before Lewis was about to set his phone down and take his long awaited nap, he heard his door open behind him. It was unlocked, like he always left it. Most of the drivers knew this and most of everyone else assumed it’d be locked-- an illusion of security.

Lando was one of them who knew.

Lewis looked up from his phone just in time to see him slam open the door and meet Lewis’ gaze with piercing, burning hazel eyes. His hair was a mess of frizzy curls, showing he’d probably been running his hands through it for the last few hours, and his face was stony. He showed all the signs that he’d probably been hardly managing since he let Oscar past him and take the win earlier that afternoon. Gone was the empty smile he’d been wearing since he left the cooldown room. Emotion showed plain on his face now.

Lewis blinked expectedly and greeted him with a calm, “Hello, Lando.”

He did not get a response. Instead, the second the door shut behind him, Lando was roughly crowding Lewis against the counter. One hand going to the marble surface and the other to the wrist of Lewis’ hand, which had automatically shot up, holding him still, pressing their lips together harshly, anger seeping from every pore. Intensive, like he was searching for something. His tongue slipping into Lewis’ pliant mouth easily, his strong hand holding Lewis in place as he deepened the kiss. Lewis almost dropped his phone in the heat of the moment and blindly set it behind him on the counter before he managed to break it.

Lando must’ve come straight to him as soon as his meetings and after-race responsibilities were over, having had to take longer with his team because of the incident of the switch, namely his very reluctant obedience with it and his obvious frustration with being given them. He’d most likely been scolded for not putting the team first and for ignoring Will, his race engineer, for so long. And it was common knowledge among them that Lewis was usually in his motorhome after he was done with his team.

Lando kissed him all consuming, pressing, moving so aggressively that their teeth clicked together a few times, wet moans escaping him every so often. As moments ticked by Lewis expected him to ease up but he didn’t, instead just pushed deeper and deeper into the kiss, not showing a bit of wear, pinching Lewis’ chin and tilting his head so he could reach further inside, holding him tighter like Lewis might turn into liquid and slip through his fingers if he were a bit lighter. Lewis went along with it, all of his responding whimpers getting swallowed by the other’s unrelenting mouth, melting into the kiss and taking the blunt, hot force of Lando’s grievances. 

Lewis’ vision blurred and a thick fog covered his mind from lack of oxygen. Just as he was reaching the edge, Lando pulled away, and Lewis gasped for air he’d been deprived of. 

Lando’s focus shifted to Lewis’ sensitive, already sore neck, letting his wrist go, which was already aching from how tight Lando had been gripping it. Lando never used to pay attention to Lewis’ neck, always more drawn to his chest, but he realized Lewis always had deep marks there after time with Max and since made it his mission to mark over those. A stupid territorial thing without any real confrontation but both took it seriously.  

He glared, petulant, obviously putting together that Max had gotten to Lewis first. Then he dipped his head. A warm tongue met Lewis’ skin and he shuddered, shaky hands coming up to grip onto the back of Lando’s shirt, clenching his eyes shut weakly as his neck was subjected to another hungry mouth.

He was half convinced he was surrounded by vampires sometimes, he didn’t know just what it was about his neck that made it so alluring. A bite followed shortly, as if confirming it, over a fresh bruise, could’ve been intentional or not, Lewis gasped at it either way, the sharp sting of pain coming hand in hand with a short wave of pleasure. He felt his blood traveling south again, somehow, despite his body’s exhaustion, despite his age. His body’s desire to practically be the paddock whore trumping any biological decline in that way.

Lando licked over the mark he left, quietly. His hand had shifted to Lewis’ jaw, tilting it a bit and holding him still as he shuddered through it. Silently and hungrily taking in all of Lewis’ whimpers.

Lando’s skin was hot on his, but not sweaty, just flushed. His lips felt like burns on Lewis’ neck and Lewis could feel the thickness of his hard-on on his thigh through the robe where their hips were almost pressed together. Lewis felt air on his pecs, the thin cloth had started to come loose, slipping down. 

Lando’s other hand drifted from the counter surface to one of Lewis’ still damp thighs and gave it a hard, bruising squeeze, making Lewis’ breath hitch and his grip on the shirt tighter, before shifting upwards and slipping shamelessly under the robe. 

It was like being caught in the middle of a wild tornado, everything was just happening without needing his say in it. 

Which was normal and would’ve been fine. Except, Lewis couldn’t shake that something felt off.

Despite everything, Lando still hadn’t said a word, which wasn’t like him, even when pissed he would normally complain a bit at least, irritated mumbles about everyone being muppets or whatever. Where Max was quiet and looming, Lando was whining and greedy. But, the only sounds he let out since he entered were non-sensible groans and grunts. His eyes, when Lewis had last seen them moments ago, were dark but distant, empty, like he wasn’t even there. No bratty little comments or back and forth between them, just nothing.

It didn’t feel right. It felt too familiar. Like if he would’ve squinted, those empty eyes were blue instead of hazel and there was a miserable pit in his stomach and a painful ache in his chest and he was stuck in a ditch he’d been in years ago, again.

It felt like he just realized a storm had approached when he was caught in the eye of it.

Lewis let go of the shirt and moved his hands to Lando’s burning chest, firmly not letting him get any closer. But Lando just stretched his head forwards further, as if he didn’t even notice the movement, and kept gnawing at Lewis’ skin. 

“Lando, buddy, slow down,” he said, trying to stabilize his voice, still raw from Max, but Lando didn’t even acknowledge he spoke, kept going even when Lewis’ hands pushed a bit at his chest, trying to get him to pay attention. “Fuck, ah, wait, Lando, can y-you-- mm, ouch! Fuck, ah- hey, listen.”

It was like he wasn’t even hearing Lewis as he continued with his marking, landing a sharp little bite on Lewis’ collarbone and then sucking it, making Lewis hiss. The hand on Lewis' thigh reached higher, thumb brushing against his sensitive, half-hard cock, making him shudder. 

That was all it took. Lewis gathered enough strength and shoved him away before he could do anymore. 

There were no words to describe the sound Lando made when forced back from Lewis other than a growl. It was savage and animal-like, the noise of a big cat deprived of its tear of raw meat. 

Lewis’ eyes widened, leaning on the counter panting breathlessly through his nose. He’d never heard Lando make a sound like that before. So primitive. 

With the space between them, he took in Lando’s form- glossy, dark hazel eyes filled with conflicting emotions and a heat that he’d been holding in for hours, chest heaving up and down, panting from his mouth like a dog. It might’ve been the worst that Lewis had ever seen him, his hands were practically trembling. But at the same time he looked, well, lost.

Had the race really messed him up that badly?

Lewis temporarily forgot his restraint and stepped forward on instinct, took the other into his arms, wrapping his hands around the other’s back.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He spoke softly, like he would to a frightened animal, rubbing him comfortingly. “I want you to calm down and tell me what you need.” 

Lando was stiff and silent, Lewis could feel the tension in his muscles, he still held him, one hand moving to make soothing movements on his back, trying to coax him down. Lando stood still in Lewis’ hold for a minute or two before slowly relaxing, his breathing evening out a bit, but not fully. The storm wasn’t over yet. His hands reached out to rest on Lewis’ waist, clenching and unclenching like he wasn’t completely in control or aware of the strength he was exerting. Like he was trying to understand how to channel what he was feeling. His head finally dropped forward on Lewis’ shoulder with a shaky sigh. Falling heavy, like a weight.

“Lew,” Lando finally spoke, the simple syllable of Lewis’ name expressing all of his defeat and frustration. Lando’s voice was wet from desperation, almost a whisper, half muffled from where his head dipped against Lewis’ skin. “Please. I just need it, you. Need to get out of my head.”  

Lewis swallowed. Something about the words moved him to his core. To be needed in that way, so desperately, Lewis couldn’t describe how it made him feel. It was familiar, of course. They all needed him. And, though Nico never told him outright ‘I need you,’ (no matter how badly Lewis needed to hear the words) it was just something Lewis knew. Whenever the blond shot him that even look from across the conference room or garage that told him to keep his hotel room unlocked, those three words were communicated without a sound. Lewis had more control this time. It was a purposeful and conscious decision to be a vessel for the others’ anger, to be the sole holder of their negative emotions. He enjoyed being needed like that, helping them. Lewis was mature and experienced, he knew how to handle what came with participating in the pinnacle of motorsport, and, hell, was probably better at handling their emotions than his own. And Lando sounded so desperate, so overwhelmed, so needy. He came straight to Lewis for him to help and Lewis wanted to do just that.

Lewis pulled back slightly so he could see the other’s face and Lando lifted his head from his shoulder, meeting his gaze. Calm, soft brown eyes looked into pleading, jumbled hazels, Lando’s brows were furrowed in need, lips shaky.

Lewis’ heart clenched against his will, even though he knew the other was probably playing it up to persuade him. 

Lando has had his fair share of bad days but had never acted like this before, never made Lewis think what they were doing wasn’t going to help. But, Lando had never been in a championship title fight before, hell, had never even won before until that season. He was so young, so inexperienced in the things Lewis knew so well, the knowledge he sometimes took for granted. Unlike someone like Lewis or Max, Lando had never been under all the stress and pressure of being a championship contender until now. Maybe he needed it, for Lewis to let him take it out on him, more than he ever had before. 

And Lando was angry, so angry, at not being able to benefit to the best of his ability in the race. He needed to get it out somehow, so he needed Lewis. And whatever discussion they needed to have, they’d do it after. 

“Okay,” Lewis said, relaxing his arms and giving himself. “You can.”

Lando’s eyes darkened instantly, the sad puppy act gone. He pushed Lewis against the counter again and practically shoved his robe off like it’d personally offended him by Lewis wearing it. Lewis huffed, letting it drop to the floor, leaving him completely bare as Lando remained dressed. Immediately Lando got his mouth on the newly exposed skin, sucking the nose of his lion tattoo. Lewis sighed a whimper. 

“Alright, wait,” Lewis got out when the edge of the counter dug into his back for the seventh time, ignoring the annoyed groan the other let out. He manipulated them away from the counter to where the small white couch was so he could fall back on it. Lando followed close, right on his heels, falling right on top of him, between his thighs, covering his figure, hands planted on either side next to his legs.

Lando dove back into another kiss, heated and devouring, but slightly more controlled. He climbed further onto the couch so his knees were both planted on it, forcing Lewis further back. Lewis unthinkingly tried to steady him with a hand on his shoulder but Lando caught it without looking, and pinned it against the couch, immobilizing it (and Lewis let him) then continued kissing him like he was trying to extract his soul from his mouth, whining into it. 

Right, Lewis remembered, Lando didn’t like Lewis touching him much when he was like this, trying to get all of his emotions out. It’s distracting, he’d said before. 

Lewis started getting dizzy again from complete lack of air, but Lando wasn’t satisfied yet, not allowing Lewis to pull away for even a second, just taking and taking until Lewis’ vision blurred and his eyelids drooped. When he finally let up and pulled away, all energy and strength was drained from Lewis’ limbs and he felt like liquid, eyes glazed and chest heaving.

Lando looked him over in slight satisfaction before letting go of his wrist to shimmy out of his shirt and bottoms. Lewis watched with dazed eyes as Lando hurriedly undressed himself, letting his clothes fall carelessly on the ground, exposing his very hard cock. Not as big as Max’s but still sizable, tan and practically throbbing, pre-cum already formed at the tip and making the skin there and around glossy. 

Lando didn’t let one second go to waste, firmly gripping one of Lewis’ limp thighs and lifting it, slotting himself further between Lewis’ legs, forcing him to make room.

Lewis watched Lando lean back from his face, looking down Lewis’ disheveled body, crouching lower, hungry gaze moving to Lewis’ exposed taint. Lando’s greenish eyes only glanced up at Lewis’ face once before-

Lewis let out a yelp, almost jumping at the warm, wet feeling when Lando’s spit landed on his hole. He instinctively clenched around nothing. 

Lando watched his reaction only for a second before carrying on.

Lewis let out a shaky sigh when Lando’s two fingers met his hole and then gasped, wincing when they pushed right into the furl of muscle without any pretense of easing into it. One of Lewis’ hands gripped the top of the couch cushion behind him for support, clenching his eyes for a second and letting out a small, shaky oh at the raw feeling, his eyes tearing up a bit more. He was still kind of loose from yesterday but not loose enough to not feel it.

The slick of the other’s spit wasn’t nearly enough to ease the burn of the fingers inside, but it wasn’t that bad, just bad enough to make him tremble, Lewis’ hand clenching and unclenching the edge of the couch as Lando opened him up just enough, spreading his fingers and making Lewis wince and ache with pain and pleasure. He was tired, though, so his body was looser and relaxed, making it less painful than it could’ve been.

His cock throbbed weakly, the pleasure-pain waking him up more, still spent from earlier but unable to ignore the stimulation. It didn’t go unnoticed by him that Lando, in the mood he was in, didn’t just shove his cock inside with no prep like other drivers did sometimes. Lewis’ body could adapt over time and the soreness didn’t bother him much if at all so he usually didn’t really need the whole lube and long minutes of prep thing. But, even like this, Lando took some time to prepare Lewis, which he did appreciate, but it’s not like he would have been mad or anything if he had just shoved it in. He didn’t expect to be taken care of. 

After a few quick minutes, the fingers were pulled away and Lando’s length was meeting Lewis’ hole and not giving a single pause before forcing its way in, making Lewis make room for him, slowly but not slow enough for Lewis to completely adjust to it before his cock was completely inside. Lewis let out a weak groan, twitching and fluttering around the intrusion. It felt raw and it dimly hurt, a familiar hurt. Like the ache of his back when getting out of the car now-a-days. But like that feeling, it was bearable, and, unlike that feeling, it was pleasurable too. 

Lewis knew Lando had to have felt the burn as well, but he also knew that sometimes the burn was good when you’re angry- that it needed to burn, to hurt, sometimes, just so you could feel it, to light up those nerves and feel the sick wave of satisfaction in destruction.

Lando let out a deep, raspy groan when he bottomed out, long lashes fluttering and chest heaving hard, closing his eyes in relief. Then he let himself tip forward, warm forehead dipping onto Lewis’ bare pecs. He breathed there for a moment, body otherwise still, as if collecting himself between Lewis’ breasts. A long moment passed as Lewis waited for him to get himself together, staring at the ceiling and wondering idly about when he’d be able to get some sleep. 

“I feel like an asshole,” Lando sighed out after a few minutes breathing against Lewis, dipping his head more so his hairline was on Lewis’ chest and Lewis could feel the tickle of his soft curls on his damp skin. It was a quiet whisper against Lewis’ skin, an admission. “I was fucking pissed. I’m not usually— it wasn’t supposed to go like that, with him and the team. Not my fault they made that call. And now I have to feel guilty about it? It’s such bullshit.”

Lewis hummed. “I know.”  He’d never known a driver who was particularly happy about team orders being used against themselves or having to have used them, no matter which side of the situation they were on. Even if it was to maximize points or for another sensible reason, it was against everything in a driver’s mind to give up their position, even when it was what the team needed. Especially for a win. Even if it was only fair. Lando was a bit of a brat on a good day, even more stubborn than the others. Either wasn’t able to admit he was wrong about something at all or sulked about it for days and let it completely consume him. Lewis thought he was completely justified in this case. Team order conflicts were irritating situations to be in and an ache to deal with afterwards. 

“You can be angry, mate,” He said. His hand that wasn’t gripping the edge of the couch drifted to Lando’s head, gently stroking his fingers through messy curls, soothing him more. “Sometimes it won’t be your fault, but it’ll happen anyway, and you have to deal with that. You can only learn from it and move on.” 

Lando hummed in acknowledgement, probably not completely taking in what Lewis was saying, but allowing him to touch, relaxing and letting himself be comforted for a moment, even slightly pushing up into the touch like a housecat. It only lasted a few seconds, then he was stopping Lewis’ hand and knocking it away from him, sending a dark look to him letting him know it wasn’t over yet. Lewis sighed and relaxed his lower body, settling more comfortably into the cushion behind him, without any part of him tensed he was all of a sex toy.

Without much finesse, Lando’s hips moved back, pulling out of Lewis almost entirely, leaving him nearly empty, before thrusting himself in, hard, re-filling the space he’d carved and forcing punched-out groans out of both of them, simultaneously. 

Lando fucked into him hard and uncaringly, greedily using Lewis’ pliant body to seek out his own release. Every sharp thrust tore a groan from Lewis, louder and in higher frequency when Lando’s cock managed to find his prostate. His quick, heated breaths were warm on Lewis’ shoulder.

Lando pushed his thigh up even further so his knee was close to his cheek, taking advantage of Lewis’ flexibility, giving Lando better access to thrust even deeper, reaching as far as he could inside of Lewis. Completely carving out a place for himself in Lewis’ body. He went so deep, Lewis was only able to focus on the feeling of him inside, cock stretching him open. He could feel it with every gasping breath he took.

Lewis’ own cock was hard again, too, somehow, fully erect and gleaming against his stomach. It ached to be touched and Lewis finally thought to stop neglecting it, reaching a hand out to give it some relieving strokes. A whimper of devastation escaped from his throat when it was smacked away before he could manage to soothe himself. He whined in confusion before realizing what he was doing, looking up questioningly. 

Lando sent a cold glare at Lewis- like a warning. Lewis’ heart pulsed, eyebrows raising at the audacity of being denied. Not before I do, the younger’s eyes seemed to say. Lewis almost laughed at that. Lando in the moment wanted every bit of Lewis, not even wanting him to focus a bit on himself. One part of Lewis scoffed at it, the other part, well, the other part wanted to go with it, for him. 

Lewis ended up conceding, leaving his weeping cock alone and letting Lando continue fucking him despite the aching need to get off. It made him that much more sensitive, every thrust reminded him of it. This wasn’t about Lewis in the end, it was about Lando. Letting him calm down and get his anger out was first. Lewis’ needs could come after that. So, he closed his eyes and focused himself, managing to bring himself back from the edge. 

Thankfully, just minutes later the younger driver’s thrusts started slowing and losing their rhythm.

Lewis’ brain flickered back to him, surfacing as he realized the other was close to release. “Hey,” he rasped softly, lightly kicking at the other driver’s shoulder with his ankle. “Lando, out. No condom.”

Lewis trusted the other drivers with his body, of course, and it wasn’t like he thought them dirty, he wouldn’t let them fuck him at all if he did. But, it was different than fucking around with one guy like he used to do. He really didn’t know where they’d been when they weren’t with him and he was a strong advocate of better safe than sorry. He’d deal with a few bruises here and there but he was not gonna risk dealing with an STD. 

Lando groaned irritatedly at the interruption, not stopping his pace, clearly not wanting to remove himself from Lewis’ warmth at all. But that didn’t matter. Lewis kicked him a bit harder. “Be good,” he said, letting some authority slip into his voice.

Lando growled again, annoyed, but obeyed in the end. He pulled away and gripped himself, pumping, quick and desperate, mouth open and panting, his eyes glazed. So lost in it.

“That’s it,” Lewis breathed and Lando whined a little when Lewis’ bigger hand covered his, slowing his pace but helping him along. “Such a good boy,” Lewis said, twisting his hand, satisfied that he’d obeyed, “such a good driver,” and immediately Lando’s hips stuttered in the air, buffered for a moment before splattering white hot release all over Lewis’ abdomen and chest, those words and Lewis’ hand being the last thing he needed to fully go off the edge. He came like he was expelling a demon. His shoulders untensed immediately after ejaculating, the ugly emotions having been drained from him, leaving him relaxed and tired, same as Max. 

Lewis let go and he fell, boneless, onto Lewis, like a puppet released from it's strings. Burying his face in his chest, completely uncaring of the mess now between them. For now, at least.

Lewis laid still for a moment, catching his breath, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes, before delicately reaching between them and making quick work of his own erection, letting more warm liquid coat both of their abdomens in a few seconds with a soft, pained moan. It was all mixed together with sweat and was frankly gross but Lewis would deal with that later.

His focus shifted back to Lando, whose face was pushed back into Lewis’ chest, his favorite spot. 

“Hey. Are you feeling alright now?” He asked softly.

Lando swallowed. “Touch me again, now,” he asked weakly, face flush to Lewis’ skin, sounding vulnerable and exhausted, still needy, “please.”

A secret fond smile appeared on Lewis’ face and he accepted, a hand reaching up to rub just above the younger’s nape, lightly scratching the back of his scalp the way he’d learned was best, amusing himself with how Lando absolutely melted with his touch, body going loose and liquid. That was why Lando stopped Lewis from touching him when he was trying to fuck his anger out; whenever Lewis’ fingers met his skin he’d just turn into a puddle. 

“I got you,” Lewis assured, and Lando sighed, soft and quiet, relaxed even more. Able to give in here where his weakness wouldn’t be used against him. 

Soft music from Lewis’ phone played in the background and Lewis could hear a door slam far away somewhere in the paddock. The orange afternoon sun reached here, too, pouring through the window blinds, the shadow drawing stripes on the floor. 

They stayed together like that for a few long minutes and then Lewis somehow managed to convince him to move and let Lewis clean them up with a washcloth he had stored in the little motorhome bathroom. Afterwards, he moved them both to the bed after seeing Lando wasn’t ready to leave yet, still in a relaxed, vulnerable state. Lewis checked the time on his watch when they settled in. It’d only been an hour since he got out of the shower. It felt like much more.

Lewis relaxed on his back with his legs crossed, Lando curled up to his side, a hand gravitating to one of Lewis’ warm pecs. Now quiet and calm, a striking contrast to him just a few minutes ago.

It was comfortable, all warm and familiar. Therapeutic in itself, their minds drifting and their bodies soft and liquid, both thoroughly exhausted. Lewis usually liked to do his little talks with them in moments like this, when they were open to almost anything, comfortable and malleable. 

“Have you spoken with Oscar?” Lewis asked, deciding to be blunt, stroking a hand through his curls again.

He could feel Lando curling closer, the little pout-scowl against his skin. ”Does it really matter?” he asked, “We’re gonna have to act like best friends next weekend anyway.”

That sounded more like the Lando he knew. 

But what Lando didn’t know was that after a race like he and his teammate had just had, talking to each other about it was all that mattered. Lewis still felt the weight from years ago of words never said, conversations never had. So many situations tossed aside instead of acknowledged and resolved. Lewis didn’t like how Oscar seemed apologetic even though he earned that win, didn’t like the hesitant looks Oscar kept throwing Lando’s way, the latter ignoring them all. 

He waited for a moment, seeing if Lando would say more.

“We, uh… we talked a bit during interviews. Not much in the debrief.” Said Lando, eventually, circling Lewis’ areola with his finger, making him shiver a bit. 

“You’re alright then?” Lewis asked.

Lando shrugged, clearly not wanting to talk about it.

Lewis thought for a moment on whether or not to bring it up. “The radio messages-”

“Yeah, don’t- please,” Lando interrupted. “We- we’ve gone over it, me and the team, Will. Don’t wanna think about that shitshow anymore.” Lando said, burying his head more into Lewis’ warm skin.

“Alright, man,” Lewis sighed, easing off, knowing not to push when he got like that. “Just need you to promise me you won’t blame Oscar, alright? I think he’s taking it pretty hard, too, and your team's decisions fucked him over, too.”

“Hmm. Not really in a fucking title battle, though, Oscar.” Lando mumbled, brattiness seeping back into him the more he came back into himself.

Lewis hummed in acknowledgment, lips quirking at the snark. “Sure, but still. I’m sure he already feels bad enough with this shitshow being his first win. Don’t have to make yourself and him miserable. He’s a good kid.”

Lando didn’t respond for a long moment and Lewis was about to see if he’d fallen asleep. 

“I don’t blame him,” Lando said eventually. “ That’d be stupid. Happy he got his first win, he deserves it. Just hate the way it went.”

“Well, probably not how he pictured his first win either. Neither of you deserved that.” He rubbed his thumb against the younger’s neck, soothing, and continued. “Don’t let something as stupid as team decisions destroy what you two have got going on. These things happen and will keep happening. You’ll realize it’s not worth it, never really is.”

The fact that Lewis was obviously speaking from experience hung in the air unsaid, the drivers seemed to know better than to mention Nico around him. But his presence was felt nonetheless.

“Yeah,” Lando finally sighed out, a hint of guilt in his voice. “Yeah, I think I’ll talk to him again. Our plane leaves in a few hours. I’ll try to speak to him, let him know we’re good. That he’s not the one I’m mad at.”

That brought a smile to Lewis’ face. When the grid is at ease, he is, too. “That’s good, I’m happy for you two.”

Lando hummed and then he paused and looked away before speaking again. “‘m sorry, by the way, about the cooldown room.”

Lewis blinked at him blankly for a second before remembering what he was talking about. After the race, Lewis tried to fill the awkward silence with a polite compliment to the quick McLaren car and Lando had responded with much more malice than necessary. Lewis honestly more or less forgot it happened, he had other things on his mind, and he knew they’d sort it out later anyway. “It’s fine-” Lewis started.

“No.” Lando said, uncharacteristically serious, pulling his head up to meet Lewis’ eyes. Lewis gave the other his full attention, focusing on his steady green eyes and trying to ignore his palm on Lewis’ sensitive nipple. “It was really stupid. Shouldn’t have talked to you like that, said that stuff, it wasn’t acceptable, ‘specially in front of the cameras. Was feeling like shit and I wasn’t thinking, so yeah, I‘m sorry, Lewis.” 

Lewis smiled gracefully. “Alright, then I forgive you,” He said, easily.

Lando gave him a small smile back, moved up to give him a little kiss on the cheek and went back to relaxing against him. It was really that simple, nothing had to weigh heavy unaddressed between Lewis and the rest of them.

“Christ, though, your voice.” Lando said, wincing, as if just noticing it, then asked, “Max?”

Lewis chuckled a bit, “Yeah.”

Lando made a face, probably cringing a bit at the image of his friend and title competitor sticking his cock down Lewis’ throat, but didn’t say anything else, cuddling closer to him. 

Lewis wondered how Lando and Max’s relationship, if the season really did end up with a big title fight, would develop. 

He wondered if Nico had thought about it, too.

Silently, a few races ago, he made a promise to himself to step in if he saw history repeating again, knowing the situation wasn’t exactly the same but that it was similar enough to end the same. And something in Lewis simply wouldn’t let that happen.

Their small rest lasted a dozen more minutes, enjoying the warmth, relaxing, until Lando got a text that his flight was departing soon, prompting an ‘agh, shit!’ and a scramble to find his clothes. Lewis watched somewhat fondly as he clumsily dressed himself. 

Before he left, he turned back to Lewis with some emotion in his eyes. “Lew…”

“I know,” Lewis smiled, not having to hear the thank you to know it was given, “go on then. Tell Oscar I said ‘hi and congrats again.’ And next time, don’t let yourself be in that position in the first place.”

Lando gave him a small, determined smile, eyes crinkling a bit, then nodded dutifully and left, shutting the door behind him. Much more gentle this time than before.

The bed was less warm without the other so Lewis stretched out, sighed, staring at the ceiling, body in heavy need of rest. Every bit of the day weighed down on him and every movement reminded him of newly acquired bruises. The only relief was knowing the grid was at peace again. 

Lewis curled up on his side, facing the little bedside table where his phone rested on top of, feeling the pull to it almost as strong as the pull to sleep. Maybe when he woke up he’d text Nico and they’d talk about something. He still didn’t know what he’d say but he felt it would come to him, that Nico would understand no matter what he said. Maybe they’d dance around what they both knew or, maybe they wouldn’t. But Lewis could already feel himself drifting to sleep, just before a new notification pops up on the screen.