Chapter Text
It’s at his favourite wholefood supermarket when he notices it.
Lewis is just picking up the weekly groceries making sure to get an equal amount of red apples for Max and green apples for Charles as to avoid the argument the pair had last week, when a flash catches his eye.
He straightens up, stiff, like a deer in headlights, surveying the quiet open aisles for anything out of place. Nothing.
He’s just overreacting. Tense, as it’s been so long since this last happened, well since this last didn’t happen because his mind is just playing tricks on him, and he is completely fine and safe.
This supermarket is his safe place! Full of healthy snacks and vegan-friendly options he can cook that don’t make Charles whine and complain when he serves it to them on ‘Sustainable Sundays.’
He’s been coming here since he, Sebastian, and a then six-year-old Carlos fled their last manor after some fucking scum of the Earth exposed their address and they got swarmed by camped-out cars and cameras for weeks until they bit the bullet and left.
That was a sad day - leaving the house they’d bought specifically to raise children in - their first home together. But one thing they’ve both learnt in their career (quite literally) on the road, a house is not a home, a home being together is the people you love.
Still, despite that sappy shit, moving is a real pain in the ass and they barely managed it with one kid nevertheless four. He does not want to do it again, not for a long time, no thank you.
So, carefully, he cradles Lando closer to his chest - adjusting the baby carrier, and picks up another Golden Delicious - though this time a little more hastily.
It’s at the pasta when there’s that flash again. Instincts from years ago kicking back in, he tenses, but forces his face to remain nonchalant - unreadable. He knows what it is now, that buzzing feeling that had followed him from the ice cream shop to this very store aisle.
He’s being followed.
After almost eight months of no paparazzi, they’re back, and out for blood.
How he and Sebastian still can make it onto the top newspaper page, or highest suggested articles online honestly surprises him. Seb retired almost fifteen years ago, and Lewis three years after that. He guessed being the first openly gay couple in F1, even though their engagement announcement was made a month after his retirement, was still big news.
Then when they adopted Carlos, that news became much, much, bigger.
With each child, the more the cameras flashed, the more the interest grew - on the day they first went out with Charles they’d had more coverage than the god-damn royal family’s press outing.
Hence, with each child, their determination to keep their children’s lives as private as possible also grew. They were lucky now, over a decade after getting their first child, that now they could live somewhat ‘normal’ out-of-the-public-eye lives. Still, every once in a while, a few times a year, there were bad days. They’d adopted Lando the day he was born three years ago, and since then no camera had still ever really caught sight of his face. When the press found about about the infant, they were ravenous. Cot cloths and chest cradles had meant not once had the boy’s face been captured by photograph and unwillingly published to billions of people to make millions.
He’d been foolish to think today’s situation hadn’t been a long time coming. It had been simmering for months.
Still, there’s only one thing Lewis can think as he shoves the pasta back on the rack, and moves his scarf as quickly as possible to cover his three-year-old’s face.
Fuck.
For a moment he’s frozen, complacent, with every passing second another opportunity to expose his family, reveal an innocent child’s face to a pack of hungry wolves that feel they deserve to know every intricate detail of the Hamilton-Vettel entourage.
But he has no time to lose. He’s gotta go.
So he shoves a wad of cash into his half-full trolley and dumps it on the ground - an asshole thing to do for sure, but he’s actually starting to freak out just a bit - his heart hammering harder than it did moments before those familiar five red lights went out on track, and he just needs to get to his car, with Lando, and get back to home where it’s safe-
He sucks in a breath when he blinks open his eyes to find them staring at his front lawn, car parked perfectly in the driveway and ignition still rumbling. He blinks again, unable to remember even getting here. Sudden anxiety washing through him again, he spins around to find a happily gurgling little Lando strapped safely into his car seat, drooling slightly onto his orange hoodie.
Lewis exhales, hands still grasped onto the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are pale. Taking another moment he leans against his headrest, closing his eyes and extremely glad his elder three are at school so there’s no loud bickering in the backseats.
He’s okay. Lando’s okay. They’re safe. They’re home.
Wetting his lips; swollen from unconsciously biting them - a nervous habit he’d relapsed into after retiring - he checks the GPS tracker and finds relief that even in his lucidness he’d remembered to turn down a few random streets in case the paparazzi tried to tail him.
Then he swallows, guiltily. He’d… basically blacked out. With his child in the car. This had happened before, sometimes from full focus in a race, and sometimes from panic that admittedly crept up on him more times now he was a parent, and more times he liked to admit to himself, or anyone - even though - in fairness, they were few and far between.
It hadn’t happened in… what? Eight months? He swore during a season at McLaren it happened every race and that was in much more extreme driving circumstances - at minimum three times the maximum speed he did now. And hey, he was still walking, right?
He’d won eight championships; beat the Schumacher record in his final season, he was confirmed a good driver.
He was fine.
When Lando’s happy babbles turn to discontented grunts Lewis turns off the car, takes off his seatbelt, and gets out of the car - blowing a raspberry on Lando’s reddening cheeks to make the toddler smile again, before carrying him to the door.
Just as he’s about to maneuver the keys into the front door, it opens, revealing a smiling Sebastian - a happy husband.
His heart doesn’t race as often as it used to when they first explored each other and the depths of their minds, their bodies, their souls. Now married for twelve years, Lewis didn’t get butterflies every time Seb walked into the room, or patted him on the back.
Instead, it’s been replaced with a warm squiggling contentness in his gut, something heavy and burrowed into his identity deeper than he ever thought possible. Than he ever dreamed of.
“Bags in the car?” the German questions with a small smirk when Lewis realises he has’t said a word.
“Oh-” he shifts Lando’s weight and realises he doesn’t quite know how exactly to answer this question. Obviously, honesty is the route, as Sebastian would very quickly find out he was lying with a simple press of the car key button, but there’s something that despite their decade-and-a-half-long relationship, he’s never been able to quite fully get internally right.
“No,” he blurts out. “There was paparazzi, they - they got Lando’s face.”
I’m sorry.
The smirk on Sebastian’s face falls immediately, replaced with a mix of emotions before settling on a lamented concern. “It was going to happen one day, Lew. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
Lando’s completely incongruent giggle almost makes him laugh too, but instead, he holds the toddler closer as if a camera were going to pop out of their well-tapered rosebush. “I know, it’s just… so unfair on them.”
“Well… yes, but it’s reality,” Seb shrugs always having dealt with this kind of matter much better than himself. “Come in Lewis, hand him to me - I can fix his lunch if you’d like to rest.”
Bed sounds good. But letting his youngest out of his sight, even though he knows they’re all safe, sounds bad.
Thus, with a grunt he plops onto the couch, the middle choice of his predicament and blearily watches as his husband makes aeroplane noises with food on a tiny neon green spoon; Lando seemingly not having any interest in it until it’s directly in front of his lips.
Sebastian gives up with the aeroplane bit when Lando, having watched this spoonful intently as it contains mashed pumpkin (his favourite is everything orange, it seems) decides enough is enough and grabs the spoon mid-flight into his mouth making the goop splatter everywhere.
Lewis manages a chuckle at his husband's disdain at the orange stains on his white button-up and the complete juxtaposition of Lando’s loud laughter.
He sits up though when he finally takes in Sebastian’s attire. “Did you have a meeting?”
“Yeah,” the blonde smiles, fiddling with his tie - a deep navy that brings out the blue of his eyes. “I told you about it last night? The call with AquaDex.”
“Right,” Lewis hums.
After they’d gotten Carlos, Seb had gone back to work. Obviously not as a Formula One driver, but instead in his second-largest fascination - the environment. The work as a spokesperson for several climate sustainability talks and processes, especially interconnected with motorsports was more out of passion than finances. They had tens of millions of dollars - the last thing they needed was more money (although hence why most of the income was separated into the boy’s college funds, charities, or school supplies because only God knew how Charles could lose that many pencil cases in a semester.)
Unlike the German, Lewis hadn’t really done… too much of anything apart from raising the kids. Of course, with Seb mostly working from home, and it not really being a nine-to-five five days a week - more like a ten-to-two three days per week with the exception of Friday office nights and a fly-out event once a month or so, so their housework was mostly fifty-fifty. At first, he just thought he was burnt out from almost two decades in such an intense and public sport, but after Carlos, then Charles, he realised he didn’t want to start working again.
Of course, he still committed time to charities and advocacies supporting black youth globally in education, apprenticeships and sports but that past-time was not largely consuming and extremely flexible, not really a job at all.
The constancy sometimes made him feel useless, or wasteful. But then he remembers he has four rambunctious kids and wonders how he’d survive if he spent even one more iota of time on something else.
“Want me to pick up the kids?” a steaming mug of chamomile tea is placed in front of him. Lewis blinks, not having even realised his husband cleaned Lando’s dishes (and his shirt, and the floor) up and made him tea.
Man, how did he deserve such a loving husband?
“No, I can,” he smiles assuringly at the German - crouched over to level with him with a slight frown on his face - like the one he wore earlier at the door. “I’m okay, hon, the supermarket just freaked me out.”
“I know,” there’s a kiss to his forehead and Lewis preens for it. “But we’re strong, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Lewis snickers. “We’re the Hamilton-Vettel’s.”
Sebastian grins again and this time presses a quick kiss to his lips. “We certainly are.”
He clasps the sides of Sebastian’s stubbly cheeks when the younger leans back to stand up and chases the kiss with a newfound spark at Seb’s small chuckle - probably at his over-eagerness and their clashing of teeth like they were young twenty, then thirty-year-old’s again.
“Liebling, you’re going to be late,” Lewis hears the German whisper - tone warning but gilded with humour.
Just as the heat in his stomach builds up he pulls away with a groan. As per usual, Seb is right. If he’s late to pick-up, the twenty minutes back home will be relentless.
“Come with me?” he puts on his best puppy-dog eyes he knows Charles learnt from him, and thus is the reason why both himself and the ten-year-old are the best at getting their way from Sebastian.
His husband shakes his head with a fond chuckle, but five minutes later he’s the one strapping Lando into their seven-seater and clambering into the passenger seat beside him.
Lewis stares at the ignition for a second, looking up at the brick wall he found himself waking up to not an hour ago, but pushes the memory away. He’s fine now, especially with Seb here. They’re all safe.
Seb plays a seventies tune Lewis only recognises from the time spent with the other. Immediately after, Lewis flicks it to a quick rap beat he loved listening to in his teen years. Lando sucks disinterestedly on his thumb and while they weave (very expertly) through the cones that form the queue for school pick-up, and they joke about how long it will take to search every genre of music made in the past sixty years until their youngest finally likes one.
He puts the car in park when they reach the primary school gate, and see the flashy red of Charles’ Ferrari jacket - yes, Ferrari. (No matter how many Grand Prix’s he showed the boy where he won, especially in his last decade in the Mercedes, the brown-haired boy only ever cheered for Sebastian when he donned that bright crimson.)
Lewis savours the last moment of relative silence, taking a sip of the chamomile tea Seb made and put in a thermos for him, as he watches his children move towards the car - like a muted TV show. It’s dramatic like it always is - Charles trying to get there first to claim a window seat, Max over-powering him easily and pushing him out of the way, making the younger silently yelp, betrayed, and Carlos - in his fifteen-year old angst now - roll his eyes (but Lewis knows their first child all too well - he can see that spark of fond amusement in them, no matter the unbothered facade he seems to wear at school.)
“-Da-ad! Max got the window seat last time and Papa promised I wouldn’t have to go to the back back today and-”
“I promised no such thing, Charles,” Lewis watches in the rear-view as Charles’ features shoot up in surprise at the German’s presence before returning to that petulant injustice. It's not common they both drive the kids somewhere anymore; mainly because the seven-seater doesn’t take the regular environmentally-sound petrol offered at each gas station, it only takes the plant-based one given at the one fifteen minutes away which is exhausting travelling to-and-fro to.
Lewis tunes out Charles’s responding argument and Max’s combative debate back, pulling out of the queue (and hitting the apex of the curve even in their truck-like beast of a car, the familiar satisfaction flooding through his veins at the action performed only for his own enjoyment) and letting Sebastian resolve the daily fight. His husband is better at it than he is; has the patience and control Lewis could only dream of.
In honesty, he hopes Charles grows out of this (sorry to say, but-) whiny argumentative stage soon, although seeing as it’s now been two years, it doesn’t seem to be going away in a hurry. He flicks his gaze to Max sitting with his headphones in, half-way through Year Eight now at thirteen. Unlike the ten-year-old he doesn’t often speak back to him or Sebastian, but instead just revels in riling Charles up as much as possible which just ends up driving the whole family up the wall.
He focuses back on the road when a car ahead cuts him off causing him to break suddenly (thank God for his well-trained reactions) and for a second his good old road-rage almost returns but he manages to keep his mouth firmly shut. He looks over at Seb and snorts with laughter. The other’s cheeks are pink and mouth agape with a line of insults ready to tumble out.
Gently he places a hand over his husbands’, and Seb blushes a deeper pink before finding the amusement and chortling too.
“Can we stop for ice-cream?” Charles asks, seemingly out of the blue and Lewis his to hide his smile at the randomness.
“Nope.”
“But why?” Charles lolls his head to the side in complaint. “We almost got in a car accident, it was traumatic.”
Lewis bites his lip to hide his smile already knowing that ‘traumatic’ must be a word the boy only learnt today at school and now for the next few weeks he’ll be saying it all the time until he learns a new new word to make himself sound smart. He’s sure if people judged his children, they’d agree that Charles wasn’t the most intelligent of them - probably ranking Carlos or Max first if they saw their report cards. What people forgot, and sometimes himself included, was that maybe out of all his children; Charles was the most socially intelligent for his age.
The comment for ice cream wasn’t random. It was a sneaky ploy to invoke pity and emotion to gain an advantage. For a brief moment, Lewis shudders. Charles would be a great F1 Team Manager if he ever chose that path; bold like Toto, but cunning like Horner. A force to be reckoned with.
Despite the intellect, Lewis refuses to give in; knowing all too well if Charles eats snacks now, he won’t finish dinner.
“Nope, Papa is making Sauerbraten tonight.”
“But, Da-ad,” Charles whines again and Lewis squeezes and un-squeezes the steering wheel. “We could have died!”
“Charles!” he scolds and watches the ten-year-old’s face turn from stunned to regretful. There’s a warning hand on his thigh, but Lewis ignores Seb’s attempt at mediation. Instead after holding Charles in a death-glare, (with a brief check back onto the road) he turns his attention to his eldest.
Carlos looks completely unfazed - sitting in the back back row of chairs behind Lando’s car seat generously just so Charles and Max would stop fighting.
Lewis feels his mouth dry when the Spaniard shrugs his shoulders and ruffles Charles’ hair - the boy looking something between panicked and guilty. “Dad won’t ever crash, he’s the driving champion of the world, remember?”
After the day he’s had, hearing those words almost brings him to tears. Not the fact that it’s a compliment, but the fact that when Carlos is faced with something legitimately traumatic or wrong, he continues to respond with kindness.
Carlos’s parents died in a car crash when he was three years old.
Without a car seat it was a miracle he survived. It was a miracle he came into Lewis’ and Seb’s lives six months later. It was a miracle that he was always the best son and eldest brother a father could ask for.
Charles doesn’t make so much as a peep for the rest of the car ride home. Max is engrossed in his music so doesn’t say much either. (Lewis can hear that it’s Eminem and as much as he hates those fear-mongering studies that ‘prove’ rap music links to youth violence and rebellion as it has always negatively impacted Black culture and youth, maybe he should have a word about making sure Max won’t repeat some of the phrases included in those verses.) Carlos is pretty quiet, like he has always been, but answers Seb’s questions about the Literature oral he had in class today, one that Lewis feels somewhat guilty he didn’t remember was today.
It’s Lando who’s loudest out of the six of them, giggling and playing with the string of Max’s headphones who although is at first irritated but the toddler tugging his earphones out but then softens to amuse him; dangling them above his curly hair but low enough that the youngest doesn’t get frustrated and cry.
Lewis pulls into the driveway in a much better mood than the time he did just before and better than he had been ten minutes ago. Even though it’s sometimes his sons’ that cause his poor mood or irritability, it’s also overwhelmingly them that solve it. Most times not even by trying, but instead just them being them.
“Dad?” Max’s voice cuts him back to the present.
He looks next to him, expecting to see Seb looking back at him, maybe with that worried expression like before, but his husband’s not there. He looks up the driveway to the front door where Charles has already disappeared inside, and Carlos is carrying both their bags, whilst Sebastian carries Lando.
Max and himself are the only ones left in the car.
He looks at his middle child in the mirror. The thirteen-year-old has one earphone out questioningly, and has an eyebrow raised at him, not wholly judgingly but… confused? Concerned? God, he can’t worry his husband and son in the same day-
“Are you going to turn the car off? The petrol station is far away, remember? You shouldn’t waste it.”
“Right,” he flicks his wrist and feels the car die under him. “Yeah, uh - got all your bags, bud?”
Max still won’t look away from him, blue eyes piercing into his own. “Uh-huh.”
Lewis plasters on a smile and turns to face him.
“First one to the door gets the biggest serving of Sauerbraten,” he says because he knows the German dish is Max’s favourite food.
That gets the boy looking away from him and Lewis snorts at the boy’s attempt to scramble out of the car with his oversized school bag and hockey kit thrown over his shoulder, almost stumbling under the weight.
Still, he doesn’t concede and when he arrives at the oak frame, he playfully sticks his tongue out at Max who groans at the loss. Max is the most competitive of their children and Lewis likes to believe he gets it from him, although realistically it’s probably both his and Seb’s shared influence.
Despite his victory, he gives his kid the biggest serving size of Sauerbraten after all when no one is looking.
Although perhaps it’s partially because Charles is still subdued from his snapping earlier, dinner is a drama-less, pleasant, and rather a quiet affair. It’s enjoyable really; Charles’ polite smile and zero attempts to sneak sweets before dinner, Max’s face lighting up with his first bite, Seb’s warm laughter at Lando’s attempt to steal his roasted carrot, and hell, even the way Carlos spaces out and stares into the abyss of the table scratching gently at the stubble starting to grow on his chin is hilarious and Lewis has to stifle a chuckle at his eldest’s distant expression.
“We’ve gotta teach him how to shave,” Seb starts as they brush their teeth in their ensuite; all kids tucked into bed and (hopefully) sleeping.
Lewis strips off his shirt and spits toothpaste into one of the two marble sinks. “I didn’t grow a beard until I was in my early twenties.”
“I didn’t grow a beard until my late twenties,” Sebastian jabs him in the side and Lewis yelps, glaring playfully at the man’s reflection in their shared mirror.
He frowns at his expression for a brief moment. Does his chest look less… full than normal? He’s sure he’s been keeping on top of his workouts, but the ink across his pecs looks… flat compared to how he last saw it. He’s always known that his tattoos may change over time; his skin will age and sag and the ink will lighten and fade. Which is the exact reason he’s kept parts of his workout regime and made sure to re-ink the dark shapes because each line is a part of him - from the ones atop his hands, to the sides of his neck.
In fact, he got them all redone last year, and they should last at least another five. So why does this one look so wrong?
"Liebling, what’s wrong?”
God, he’s made Seb get that concerned frown again. What is with him today? The paparazzi event, although unsettling, should not impact him this much; not after all these years.
“It’s just…” he wraps his hands around his waist watching his mirror image do the same (does he look less fit than he did last week?) and leans into Seb’s touch then his arms wrap around him too - embracing him in a back-hug. “We’re getting old, aren’t we?”
“Carlos is,” Seb agrees with a kiss to his temple. “Remember when we first met him? What was he? Three?”
“Three and a half,” Lewis gently specifies, recollecting that day, that moment, fondly. “He was so tiny back then, and now he’s… got a beard!”
“It’s not as impressive as mine though,” Sebastian jokes and Lewis snorts, the other alleviating his hint of insecurities with just a few simple words.
Lewis presses a kiss to his husband's chin. “Just wait a week with the pace his grows at.”
Sebastian hums and Lewis can feel the sound rumble throughout his throat, vibrating behind his cheek. “Can you imagine Lando with a beard?”
Lewis laughs loud enough that he fears it may awaken the whole house.
The next morning his run is interrupted by an image of Lando with a messily drawn beard atop of the photo.
<So you don’t have to imagine it. Don’t tire yourself out on your run! You’ll need some energy for later.>
Sent: 7:06 a.m.
Feet aching, he staggers to a bench and catches his breath, his amused choked laughter (it’s his first run in three weeks, okay? Don’t judge.) not really helping his recovery at all.
Biting his lip, he decides to send the message he typed while his brain was too foggy to fully think through.
<this about getting the kids up, or needing stamina for something when they’re at school?>
Sent: 7:07 a.m.
It takes less than a second for the other to reply.
<Find out when you get home ;) >
<But you better shower while I drop them off >
Sent: 7:07 a.m.
A rush of newfound energy flooding through him he types one final teasing message to his husband before taking off again at a considerably faster pace.
<but why would i need to shower AFTER the kids have left if what i need energy is for is helping them get ready for school??>
Sent: 7:08 a.m.
When he arrives back at the house, he takes his phone out of his pocket to turn his blasting music off because he constantly scolds the kids for their music being too high which will ‘lead to irreversible hearing loss’ and doesn’t want to get called out for being a hypocrite. Hypocrite was the Charles’ ‘new word’ of last week - succeeding ‘democracy’ and preceding ‘traumatic.’ The last thing he needs is to spur Charles into his speils of using ‘hypocrite’ (sometimes incorrectly) again.
It’s only then he reads Sebastian’s most recent message, sent twenty-five minutes ago.
<You're sleeping on the couch tonight>
Sent: 7:10 a.m.
He laughs at the baseless threat, and shoves his now soundless phone into his pocket again, unlocking the door.
And as it opens he grins, at the chorus of ‘good-morning’s’ or ‘Dad!’s’ (or an excited babble from Lando) from his kids and grins devilishly when he meets Seb’s playfully faux angry eyes.
Because at this moment, like at so many others, Lewis realises that if he ever thought winning his first race, or first or last Driver’s World Championship was the best moment of his life, then he was dead wrong.
Because there could really never be, despite the lows, anything better than this.