Work Text:
I.
The car has to meet weight.
It’s one of the first things they teach you when you’re serious enough for it to matter. The engineers shave grams the way sculptors shave marble, carefully, reverently. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing indulgent. Every gram accounted for.
Nico understands that.
He has always understood that.
In the garage, fluorescent lights flatten everything into precision. Silver bodywork gleams. Data scrolls across monitors in obedient columns. The car sits low and predatory, stripped to its most efficient form.
He stands beside it and feels too human.
There was a time, years ago now, when someone told him he was lucky. Natural build. Lean. Good for racing. He’d been sixteen, maybe seventeen. Old enough to understand what was praise and what was instruction.
Lean is good.
Light is fast.
Fast is loved.
The first time he skipped a meal on purpose, it felt like a private victory. No one noticed. That was the point. Hunger sharpened the edges of the world. Colors clearer. Thoughts cleaner. A thin, bright wire pulled tight inside his chest.
Discipline, he had told himself.
Not weakness. Not vanity.
Discipline.
Now, in 2016, the word still fits comfortably in his mouth.
Problem fits too. He just doesn’t use it.
He knows the signs. He isn’t stupid. He’s read enough, seen enough, heard enough whispered interviews about other athletes, other spirals. He knows what it looks like.
He just doesn’t look at it directly.
Instead, he looks at telemetry.
Instead, he looks at lap times.
Instead, he looks at the way the car responds when everything unnecessary has been stripped away.
He can do the same.
A team member hands him a recovery shake after the session. Chocolate. Standard. Measured. Necessary.
Necessary is negotiable.
He takes it, nods his thanks, waits until no one is watching, and sets it down untouched on the workbench behind him. Later, someone else will throw it away. It will look like an oversight.
He tells himself he’ll eat later.
Later is elastic.
Across the garage, he feels it before he sees it, the weight of someone’s attention. Not heavy. Just present. Familiar.
Lewis.
Nico doesn’t turn immediately. That would make it something. Instead, he studies the front wing adjustments on the screen in front of him, posture relaxed, expression neutral.
Control the body. Control the narrative.
When he finally glances up, Lewis is already looking at him.
It’s brief. Just a second too long to be accidental.
Lewis’s gaze flicks down, then back up again. Assessing. Calculating. Or maybe Nico is projecting. He’s good at that: turning ordinary glances into indictments.
Lewis steps closer, casual as ever, helmet tucked under his arm.
“You’re getting skinny,” he says, like it’s a joke. Like it isn’t.
Nico smiles easily. He has practiced this smile since he was a teenager standing in front of a mirror, Lewis should know, collarbones sharp beneath fluorescent bathroom light.
“Just optimizing.”
Lewis huffs a laugh. Shakes his head.
“You’re mad.” Lewis says.
Mad wins championships.
Mad wakes up before dawn to train.
Mad says no to dessert.
Mad stands on podiums.
Lewis’s eyes linger a second longer than necessary. On his face. His hair, maybe it’s a little longer than usual, curling faintly at the ends when it isn’t slicked back properly. Everyone can see how they frame his face prefectly, he is glowing.
“You should cut it,” Lewis adds, almost as an afterthought. “Getting a bit too pretty.”
Pretty.
The word lands somewhere Nico refuses to examine.
He shrugs. “Focus on your own hair.” He remembered he was funnier, or cockier, once. He must have lost it somewhere between refused desserts and throwing everything else up later on. When was the last time Lewis laughed lovingly at something he said?
Lewis smirks, deflects, moves on. The moment dissolves into the usual static of rivalry and noise.
But the word stays.
Pretty.
He had been called that before racing meant anything serious. Blond and slim and polite. The kind of boy adults smiled at approvingly. The kind of boy who learned early that approval was conditional.
Stay small.
Stay sharp.
Stay perfect.
Hunger curls low in his stomach now, familiar and steady. Not painful. Not yet. Just present. A reminder. A promise.
You are trying hard enough.
He presses his tongue briefly to the roof of his mouth, grounding himself. There’s a rhythm to this. A balance. He knows how far he can push. He’s done this for years. Through karting. Through GP2. Through every season of almost.
Almost champion.
Almost enough.
He tells himself this year will be different.
This year, there will be no almost.
Which means no mistakes.
Which means no softness.
Across the garage, Lewis throws his head back laughing at something a mechanic says. Loud. Effortless. Untouchable.
He doesn't remember Lewis walking away. A good few minutes must have passed if Lewis is deep in conversation with someone else now.
Nico watches him for a fraction too long.
There is something infuriating about how easily Lewis inhabits his body. The confidence. The looseness. As if gravity negotiates with him instead of demanding tribute.
Nico negotiates differently.
Everything is a calculation.
If he is lighter, he is faster.
If he is faster, he wins.
If he wins then-
The thought stops there. He doesn’t let it finish. The end of that sentence is too vulnerable to look at directly.
He reaches for a bottle of water instead of the shake. Takes a measured sip. Enough to be seen hydrating. Not enough to feel full.
Control the optics.
Control the inputs.
Control the outcome.
He is not a teenager anymore, staring at himself in a mirror and cataloguing flaws no one else but him can see. He is a Formula One driver fighting for a world championship. This is professionalism. This is commitment.
This is discipline.
The problem is manageable.
It has always been manageable.
Lewis glances at him again before walking away.
Nico feels the look like a touch. How long had it been since he and Lewis touched?
He straightens instinctively.
Sharper.
Lighter.
Better.
The car has to meet weight.
So does he.
II.
Lewis tells himself he’s imagining it.
That’s the easiest explanation.
The garage is always tense in a title fight. Everyone looks sharper. Leaner. Wired thinner than usual. Pressure does that. It strips people down to essentials.
Still.
Nico looks like..
No. Not that.
Different.
It starts small. A recovery meal left mostly untouched. A protein bar still sealed hours later. Lewis only notices because he’s looking for other things- data sheets, tire notes, weaknesses, mostly weaknesses. He catalogues Nico the way he catalogues corners. Entry speed. Exit line. Errors under pressure.
He adds this to the list without meaning to.
Doesn’t finish meals.
Trains longer after sessions.
Laughs a fraction too late in interviews.
It’s none of his business.
They’re not friends. He said it himself, it must have been Monaco, few years ago. Regrets it ever since.
They used to be, but that was before contracts and championships and headlines turned everything into comparison. Now every glance is interpreted, every word dissected.
Concern looks like strategy. Kindness looks like manipulation.
Lewis isn’t going to be that guy.
Still.
After Malaysia, Nico stumbles.
It’s barely noticeable, just a hand braced briefly against the edge of a table in the motorhome, knuckles whitening before he straightens. Anyone else would miss it.
Lewis doesn’t. Fuck's sake, rhey were friends at some point, he knows -knew- Nico better than himself at some point. He would be blind if he didn't notice.
He looks away immediately.
Because noticing feels like crossing a line.
Later, during debrief, Nico’s fingers tremble once while reaching for a pen. He stills them by pressing his thumb hard against the side of his hand. Controlled. Contained.
Lewis feels something cold slide under his ribs.
It’s just stress.
It has to be.
Nico has always been obsessive. Always calculating. Measuring sleep cycles. Optimizing travel schedules. Weighing everything: food, words, risks, the difference between friends, something more and then nothing at all.
This is just Nico being Nico. Always is. Nico is a drama queen most of the times, maybe he's exagerating, for attention.
And if it’s not,
It’s not his problem.
He tells himself that twice.
That evening, cameras catch them shoulder to shoulder in the paddock. The air is thick, humid, clinging. Nico’s race suit is unzipped at the collar, dark with sweat at the throat. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones that doesn’t look like exertion. It looks like strain.
Lewis doesn’t mean to look that closely.
He hears himself say, too casually, “You look wrecked.”
Nico glances at him, a faint crease between his brows. “Long race.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Their eyes hold for a beat too long. There’s something in Nico’s expression, something stretched thin and stubborn, that makes Lewis’s chest tighten.
He breaks it first.
Turns toward the interviewer waiting nearby.
By the time the microphones are clipped on, he’s already smiling, already performing. When the questions veer toward rivalry, tension, childhood, he laughs easily. Says they go way back. Says it’s all competition.
And when someone jokes about how well Nico cleans up on podiums, Lewis hears himself add lightly, “Yeah, he’s always been the pretty one.”
It’s meant to be harmless.
Teasing.
Safe.
It slipped out, he hadn’t said something like that to a camera in a hot while.
The interviewer chuckles. Nico doesn’t. He hasn't in a while.
There’s a flicker in his eyes, something unreadable. Not flattered. Not embarrassed. Just aware.
Lewis feels the ground tilt under his feet.
He moves fast to correct it. Starts talking about a party in London. About girls. About not having time for anything serious this season. The words tumble out practiced and smooth.
He doesn’t know who he’s convincing.
Lately he hasn't even been convincing himself with all this bullshit.
Later that night, alone in his hotel room, he scrolls past a clip of the interview online.
He doesn’t watch it.
He doesn’t need to.
The word "pretty" echoes anyway.
It hadn’t sounded like a joke in his head.
He pushes the phone facedown on the bedside table.
This is ridiculous.
He’s fighting for a championship. That’s what matters. Nico is the obstacle. The benchmark. The problem to solve.
Not the way his throat looked flushed under the lights.
Not the way his voice had gone slightly hoarse.
Not the way Lewis had wanted him. Shit.
He cuts the thought off so sharply it almost feels physical.
After Japan, he sees the shake again.
Full. Unopened. Sitting on a counter.
He doesn’t mean to pick it up.
He doesn’t mean to check.
But he does.
Still sealed.
He sets it back exactly where it was.
Something sharp and irritated rises in his chest.
Is this some kind of tactic?
Is Nico trying to prove he wants it more?
The thought feels ugly the moment it forms.
He remembers the stumble. The trembling hand.
That surely doesn’t look like strategy.
It looks..
No.
He refuses the word.
Instead, he chooses anger. Anger is simpler. Cleaner.
When he corners Nico later, it comes out wrong.
“You’re getting too thin,” he says, like an accusation.
Nico’s expression shutters instantly. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
Lewis steps closer without realizing it. Close enough to see how pale Nico is under the fluorescent lights. Close enough to notice how tightly he’s holding himself together.
“You think this makes you faster?” Lewis asks, voice tight. “Starving yourself?”
The word hangs between them.
Starving.
For half a second, something flashes across Nico’s face.
Recognition.
Then it’s gone.
“I know what I’m doing,” Nico says quietly.
That’s what unsettles Lewis.
Not defensiveness.
Certainty.
He wants to grab him. Shake him. Demand something he doesn’t have language for.
Instead, he scoffs. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
It’s crueler than he intends.
Nico’s jaw tightens.
Lewis walks away first.
He tells himself it’s frustration. Competitive edge. Mind games getting under his skin.
He tells himself it’s not concern.
Not fear.
Not the way his pulse jumped when Nico swayed slightly in the corner of his vision.
Outside, the season tightens like a wire pulled to breaking.
Inside, something smaller and quieter begins to fracture.
And Lewis, for the first time, is no longer sure which battle he’s actually fighting.
III.
The corridor was narrower than Nico remembered. The overhead lights hummed, fluorescent and unforgiving. The smell of sweat and cleaning fluid clung to everything, but it didn’t matter.
He didn’t notice. He only noticed the weight of Lewis beside him, the way his shadow stretched across the linoleum floor.
“You’re pushing too far,” Lewis said, voice tight. Not loud, but sharp enough to split the silence. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
Nico didn’t answer. Didn’t turn. He adjusted the zipper of his suit at the collar, a slow, controlled movement, thumb brushing the edge of the fabric.
Discipline. Focus. Control. That was all he had to offer. It had always been all he had.
“I said you can’t,” Lewis pressed, and now the frustration under his words was unmistakable. “Starving yourself. Training beyond reason. Shaking before the interviews. It’s not-”
“I have to,” Nico cut in, calm, measured. Every syllable a barricade. “I’m fine.”
“No,” Lewis spat, stepping closer. “You’re not fine.”
Nico exhaled through his nose, a quiet sound, like a blade against paper. He could feel the heat rising behind his ears, feel the line of tension along his jaw. Control. He was holding everything. Holding the world in place the only way he knew how.
He turned to leave.
Lewis moved faster.
The motorhome corridor didn’t give him room. His hand shot out before he cluld think it thru, grabbing Nico’s wrist. Just to stop him. Just to make him face what was happening. Just for a fraction of a second.
Electric. Sharp. Brief. Almost alive.
Nico froze.
The world contracted to the point of contact, the way Lewis’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, warm and insistent. A reminder.
Exhaustion pooled in Nico’s chest, behind his ribs, low and heavy. He could feel every second of it, how long he’d been carrying this weight alone, how tightly he’d bound himself to the discipline he called safety.
A twitch in the corner of his mouth. A tightening in his throat. The faint tremble he refused to let anyone see.
Then he pulled his wrist free.
Fast. Controlled. But just barely.
Nico’s eyes met Lewis’s for a fraction longer than he intended. Not anger. Not apology. Not acknowledgment. Exhaustion. God, he was so tired. And denial. Always denial. He's tired of himself already, no wonder everyone can't stand him recently.
“I’m fine,” he repeated. Words shaped like a shield. Calm. Flat. Unyielding. The faintest tremor in the corner of his eye he didn’t let anyone register.
Lewis let go first. Step back. The air seemed suddenly too wide, too open. He had felt it—the thinness, the fragility, the effort it took to stay upright. And Nico didn’t even flinch at the recognition.
Didn’t allow him that victory. Didn’t allow himself the comfort of being seen.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The corridor hummed, the lights flickered, and time slowed. Both were aware of the tension like a live wire strung between them.
Then Nico tilted his chin slightly, mask back in place, and walked away.
Lewis didn’t reach. He didn’t follow. He just watched him go, chest tight, pulse high, mind racing. Frustration, fear, something he refused to name—all tangled up in a way he couldn’t untangle without admitting too much.
By the time Nico disappeared around the corner, Lewis told himself it was the championship, the stress, nothing personal. He told himself it wasn’t desire. It wasn’t concern. It wasn’t anything.
But his hands itched anyway, remembering the brief contact. Remembering the heat, the impossibly taut line of Nico’s wrist, the weight of exhaustion he’d felt through skin and bone.
Nothing had been solved. Nothing had changed.
And the avalanche had begun.
IV.
Nico set the plate down, hands shaking. A few bites of sandwich sat untouched. He pressed a palm to his stomach, jaw tight, fingers curling into the edge of the counter. His stomach wouldn’t take it, not anymore. Every swallow felt like betrayal, every bite a reminder of how much control he had lost over something so basic.
He doubled over slightly, retching quietly into the toilet. The first time that day. He forgot to close, or lock the door. Only a few seconds, controlled, precise. He straightened, wiped his mouth, and forced himself to lift a water bottle. The liquid didn’t sit easily either, but he sipped anyway. Tried to will his body into obedience.
Lewis froze where he was, leaning against the doorway. The smell hit him faintly, the sound of strained breath and retching, and something in his chest cracked.
He had seen this before. Once, years ago, after a karting race when they were barely eighteen, Nico had gotten sick from forcing down food he couldn’t stomach. At least that's what he told him that day, but knowing now..
Lewis had stayed by him then, holding his hair back, pressing cool water to his lips, murmuring reassurances, steadying him when he trembled. He remembered the softness, the fragile trust, and how easy it had been to help him. Now, eight years later, Nico was older, harder, and no longer let anyone in.
“You can’t keep doing this!” Lewis finally burst out, voice raw and uneven, echoing off the walls. “Do you think winning is worth this? Do you even care about yourself? You're going to die, Nico!”
Nico’s head snapped up, pale and wet-eyed, jaw tight, lips pressed thin. “I have to do this.” he said, voice brittle, precise, a wall of control hiding the chaos within. “I’m fine!”
Lewis’ stomach twisted. His thoughts spun, a tangle of fear, shame, and something he wouldn’t let himself name. Why do I care this much? It’s just racing. It’s just… him. Stop. Stop. Stop. His hands itched, pulse thundered, mind screaming against itself.
Nico swayed slightly, gripping the counter as if to anchor himself. Another wave of nausea hit. He bent, retched again, short, sharp, controlled, almost automatic. Lewis felt his chest tighten. His anger, frustration, desire, fear, guilt.. all collided into one raw, burning coil.
“Stop!” Lewis yelled, stepping closer. His hand shot out instinctively, catching Nico’s wrist as he tried to straighten.
Electric. Impulsive. Brief.
Nico froze. Every muscle taut. The tremor through his wrist, subtle but undeniable, pulsed up into Lewis’ chest. He could feel the exhaustion, the weight Nico carried silently for years.
His eyes flicked to Lewis, wide for a split second: God, I’m so tired.
Then the smallest flinch, a pull of the wrist, fast, controlled, reclaiming the space.
“I’m fine, it's all under control” Nico repeated, flat, precise, unyielding. The quiver behind the words was buried, denied, masked with perfection.
Lewis exhaled slowly, swallowing hard. His chest ached. He wanted to shake him, scream at him, hold him, pull him close and force him to stop this madness—but Nico had already retreated. Mask back in place, jaw tight, hands fisted, eyes forward.
“Right,” Lewis muttered, voice quieter, cracked. “If you say so. I wonder what your parents think of you Nico. Must be heart breaking to have such a weak man for a son.”
Nico moved to the couch, sitting rigidly. He didn't reply. That was just Lewis trying to be mean, they did that sometimes. Say stuff that neither of them meant just to get a final blow, he means.
His breathing was shallow but steady. His body, still shaking faintly, screamed defiance. Lewis watched, frozen, feeling helpless, frustrated, guilty, and something deeper he refused to name. The memory of holding eighteen-year-old Nico flashed in his mind again.. oh how different it was now, how unreachable Nico had become.
Outside, the engines roared.
Inside, time had slowed to a suffocating crawl.
Lewis’ mind raced in circles, unable to reconcile what he saw with the man sitting before him.
Fear, obsession, shame, and something he could not admit intertwined into a living knot in his chest.
Nico had crossed the line between discipline and destruction, and Lewis had felt it.
Not a flicker, not a glimpse. He had felt it. The tremors, the nausea, the exhaustion that had been years in the making.
Neither spoke. Neither moved. The storm had passed outwardly, but inside, it still raged.
V.
Team orders were simple: share a room.
Lewis had protested quietly, but Nico shrugged and muttered something about “efficiency,” slipping past him with effortless grace. Lewis followed, tense, aware that eight hours in close proximity could be dangerous for both their tempers, and whatever else simmered beneath. Especially that.
Dinner with the team had been quieter than usual. Nico ate more than Lewis expected: two small bites of fish, a few spoonfuls of vegetables, and laughed softly at something the engineer had said. Lewis’ chest tightened. He’s eating. He’s laughing. Maybe he's-
Stop.
When Nico reached for his glass, their shoulders brushed briefly. Lewis froze, and Nico’s eyes flicked up at him, sparkling with mischief. There was a loose, careless tilt to him, tipsy enough to let the tension bleed into something dangerous.
Back in the hotel room, the space seemed smaller, heavier, warmer. Bottles clinked as Nico set down a nightcap, tipping slightly as he moved. He leaned against Lewis to steady himself, just a fraction of a second, but enough to send something sharp and unmanageable through him.
Nico's drunken gaze slid up, resting heavily on Lewis. Heat simmered between them, a quiet, intimate tension.
"You're watching me again," he murmured, lips grazing Lewis' ear as he leaned closer.
A teasing, knowing challenge. Lewis couldn't help the shiver the touch sparked, the goosebumps that followed.
"We shouldn't," he protested, half-hearted, he himself didn’t sound too convinced, hand coming to rest on Nico's waist.
Nico smirked, fingers tracing the line of Lewis' jaw.
"Since when have you followed rules?"
"This is a bad idea," Lewis muttered, but he didn't push Nico away.
The space between them hummed with a dangerous energy. His fingers gripped Nico's waist tighter, almost unconsciously.
Nico smiled, lazy, confident.
"You're overthinking."
"Shut up." Lewis' grip hardened, fingers definitely digging into Nico's waist.
His voice was rough, almost angry, but his eyes betrayed a deeper conflict.
Nico met his gaze, unfazed, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
"Make me."
Lewis growled low in his throat, his self-control slipping. He pushed Nico back against the wall, pinning him there with the weight of his body.
There was something dangerous in the way Lewis held Nico, like he was fighting a battle within himself just as fiercely as the one between them. He pressed closer, his hand sliding up the sensitive side of Nico's neck, his thumb tracing the edge of a collarbone.
Nico was still smirking, but his breathing was labored now. The heat between them was undeniable, a charge that threatened to spark at any moment.
"You always were reckless," he murmured, tilting his head back against the wall.
Lewis hated the way Nico's words made his heart race, the way his body responded so easily, betraying him. He hated the way he wanted this, ached for this, despite everything.
"And you're still a brat," he hissed, his free hand gripping Nico's hip, holding him in place.
Nico wiggled his ass, and Lewis took the hint and started to undress him.
He took the beautiful botton up Nico was wearing off, then the dress pants, everything until Nico was just in his briefs and Lewis fully dressed.
Lewis started to pull off Nico's briefs agonizingly slow, eventually they reached Nico's tighs, and. Wow Lewis remembered those tighs being a bit fuller.
Nico's dick was half hard, pretty, as all of Nico was, not big, maybe a bit under average, but flushed pink. Belonged in a museum.
Nico suddenly whined, "Lew, no need to prep me. Or to be this slowwwww. I've got a plug in anyway. Cmoon"
"Oh really? Prepped yourself just for me? Slut." Lewis had missed Nico being whiny, so much.
He carried Nico to the bed, just now realizing that he could probably carry twice as much without strain, and dropped him there, reaching for lube that came out of nowhere (Nico's bedside table).
"Fuck Nic you're so pretty" Lewis said, staring in awe at Nico before him, it's not like he hadn't ever seen Nico naked, just..
Nico blushed, from his cheeks all the way to his pecs. Had Lewis said he was pretty yet?
"Get a move on Lew," Nico once again whined. "Have you never seen a naked man before? God."
Lewis rolled his eyes and started to undress himself, shirt off, pants and socks off, boxers off, he was now also naked, hard, just wearing his cross necklace.
Nico's turn to stare now, he stared at Lewis like he wanted to eat him. Lewis was an handsome man, it was know, it was also known that he was well endowed. But seeing it in this light was a completely different thing.
The tattoos looked like they were almost glowing.
Lewis grabbed Nico's leg almost gently, and held it to Nico's torso.
"Is this comfortable?" Lewis asked.
"Yes yes Lewis just.. please?" Nico begged.
Lewis nodded, even though Nico's eyes were closed "I'm going to take out your plug, is that okay?"
"Lew I swear to God if you don't get a move on"
"Okay, patience, baby" Lewis sighed as he started to slowly pull out the plug, it was a standard metal one, with an heart-shaped blue gemstone, he didn't know if Nico did it on purpose, but it was the exact shade of Nico's eyes.
Nico sighed and bit out a whimper, his lips were al red, shiny with spit and bitten.
Once the plug was complitely out Lewis started to warm up the lube container between his hands. Once he declared it warm enough he opened the lid and spread the lube directly on his dick, before checking in with Nico to see him frantically nodding.
Lewis for good measure put a bit of lube also in Nico's entrance, even if he was stretched and lubed up.
Lewis started to slowly thrust into Nico, inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre.
Nico started moaning and biting his hand to keep the moans in, while Lewis simultaneously groaned.
"Fuck fuck fuck Nico you feel so good. So good baby, you look so pretty." Lewis kept babbling praises and Nico just ate them all up, "I want to hear you baby, can you take your hand out your mouth for me?"
Fuck that was hot, Nico thought, everything about this was hot.
Slowly and steadly Lewis started to bottom out and pick up his pace. Sweet sounds came out of both their mouths, aswell as the skin slapping that filled up the room.
Lewis whispered encouragements and Nico responded, teasing and coaxing him further. Every movement was careful but chaotic, deliberate but urgent. The rhythm was messy, unguarded, and full of the release of all the tension, control, and denial they had carried.
Time blurred. Moments stretched and contracted. They held each other, pressing together, shivering, sweating, whispering, laughing softly in between. The intensity ebbed and flowed, a dance of control and abandon, each leaning on the other in ways they rarely allowed themselves.
"Lewis, I'm so full" Nico moaned and arched his back beautifully, looking gorgeously fucked out, his hair splayed all around his head on the pillow like a halo.
Lewis was a firm believer in God, but if he had to say, that was exactly how he imagined angels and Heaven as a whole. So much for a rivalry.
Both of them were enjoying this so much, with Lewis praising Nico, and Nico begging. For God knows what.
Lewis felt Nico shiver under him, tight and warm, and it sent a raw ache through his chest. He wanted to tell Nico. Wanted to hold him even now but the words tangled in his throat.
"Fuck baby im close" Lewis exhaled, grabbing Nico's dick and jerking him off in time with his thrusts.
When they reached release, it was slow, messy, and unguarded. Lewis held Nico close, reverent, awed by the trust and rawness in front of him. Nico’s breath was ragged, body trembling with the effort of finally letting go, leaning into Lewis in rare surrender.
"That was good" Nico said, completely spent.
"Yeah, agreed man" Lewis replied.
Lewis dropped on top of Nico, smearing come on his own abs in the process. He eventually got up to grab a towel and clean Nico up, he was a gentleman after all.
"All good?" Lewis asked, looking at a, now clean, but sleepy Nico.
Nico blinked up at him, exhausted, hair damp, body still trembling faintly. "Mhm. Just can't feel my legs. And my throat hurts."
Lewis smiled at Nico, having forgot about both their problems. If he could just forget them forever, maybe they could have a life together. Get Coco and Roscoe, adopt a kid and live with Nico in Monaco.
If only.
They hadn't even kissed, Lewis realised as he pulled his and Nico's blanket higher.
Sleep came in ragged, shallow waves for Nico and Lewis both.
Lewis woke hours later in a cold sweat, heart hammering. The morning light filtered faintly through the blinds. He sat up abruptly, breath shaky, replaying the night in fragments he could barely face.
Then a soft gag from the bathroom made him freeze. He moved cautiously toward the doorway.
Nico was hunched over, shaking slightly. Two fingers pressed to the back of his mouth as he retched, hair damp and clinging to his forehead. Every muscle taut.
Lewis’ chest tightened, wanting to move closer, but fear and guilt froze him.
“Don’t say anything Lewis,” Nico said quietly, voice brittle, flat, eyes averted.
But his trembling fingers, his shaking shoulders, betrayed him.
Lewis swallowed. He didn’t reach out, didn’t speak further. Both frozen, suspended in that moment, exhausted, raw, and tangled in the consequences of the night.
The room held its silence, thick and suffocating. Neither of them moved.
VI.
Lewis avoids him, it's all he knows.
It isn’t dramatic. No slammed doors. No public arguments. Just small recalibrations. He leaves debrief two minutes early. Takes a different elevator. Keeps his headphones on even when nothing is playing.
He laughs louder than necessary at dinner. Lets himself be photographed outside the hotel with a girl on his arm, hand low on her waist, smile easy and bright and false.
Armor.
He tells himself last week was a mistake.
Alcohol. Proximity. Stress. He does not let himself call it desire.
But he still sees it. When he closes his eyes he sees that image.
Bathroom tile. Pale shoulders. Two fingers pressed past pink lips. The quiet, controlled sound of retching swallowed into porcelain.
"Don’t say anything, Lewis."
So he didn’t. He was a coward after all.
And then he left.
Then suddently it was Saturday morning.
Warm-up run with the team.
Nico doesn’t show.
Lewis notices immediately and hates that he does.
Near the coffee machine, an engineer mutters, low and clinical, “Low blood pressure. Doctor told him to sit out for a bit.”
Low blood pressure.
That doesn’t sound like vanity.
That doesn’t sound like discipline.
That sounds like a body failing.
Lewis sets his coffee down.
He tells himself not to go looking.
He goes anyway.
The drivers’ room is dim and cool, the air still. Nico sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Not dramatic. Not trembling.
Just still.
Lewis lingers in the doorway.
“You skipping warm-up now?” he asks.
It comes out sharper than he means it to.
Nico looks up slowly. There’s no smirk waiting for him
.
“Felt dizzy,” he says.
That’s it.
Lewis steps inside.
“You’re going to make a habit of that?”
“I’m handling it.”
“That’s what you said last week.”
Silence.
Lewis hates the silence, always has since he was a kid. Fighting is easier. Fighting has edges. This quiet compliance feels wrong.
“You look like shit,” he says.
Cruel. Familiar. Safe.
“Thanks,” Nico replies, flat.
That’s worse.
Lewis moves closer before he can stop himself. Close enough to see how sharp Nico’s collarbones have become beneath the fireproof layer. Close enough to remember gripping his hips against a hotel wall.
His stomach twists. He pushes the memory down.
“Is this what you want?” Lewis demands, voice low. “To black out before qualifying? To have them pull you from the car?”
“I’m not blacking out.”
“Yet.”
The word lands heavy.
Nico’s hands tighten slightly. “You’re being dramatic.”
Lewis laughs once, humorless. “You were on your knees last week.”
Nico goes very still.
“You don’t get to bring that up.”
“Oh, I don’t?” Lewis shoots back. “You told me not to say anything. Fine. I didn’t.” His voice roughens. “But I saw it.”
The air feels thinner.
“I can’t watch you do that,” Lewis says.
It slips out before he can reshape it.
Nico tilts his head. “Since when?”
Since always.
Since karting.
Since he was seventeen and shaking after a race and Lewis held his hair back without thinking.
Since Lewis learned what it felt like to want him and decided he would rather win than examine that too closely.
Instead he says, “Since it started affecting the car.”
Again, he was a coward.
“You’re worried about performance?” Nico asks quietly.
“I’m worried about you collapsing in parc fermé,” Lewis snaps. “Low blood pressure isn’t strategy. That’s your body shutting down.”
Nico swallows. “And what, you suddenly care?”
Lewis hesitates.
Everything in him wants to deflect. To joke. To say something about headlines or titles.
Instead he says, low and unsteady, “I’ve always cared.”
The room stills.
Lewis feels exposed, like he’s stepped too far over something he can’t retreat from.
Nico studies him carefully. Doesn't reply.
“See someone,” Lewis says, pushing forward before he can lose nerve.
“What?” Nico finally replies.
“A specialist. A doctor. I don’t care what you call it.” His jaw tightens. “This isn’t discipline anymore.”
The word hangs there.
Not discipline.
“It’s under control,” Nico says, but it sounds thinner now.
“No, it’s not.” Lewis forces himself to stay still, not pacing, not reaching.
“If you won’t book it, I will,” he says. “I’ll talk to the team doctor. I’ll talk to Toto.”
Nico stands abruptly. “You wouldn’t.”
Lewis holds his gaze. “Try me.”
There’s anger there now. Real anger. And something sharper beneath it.
“You’d sabotage me?” Nico asks.
“I’d save you.”
The words feel dangerous. Too honest.
“You don’t get to control this,” Nico says.
“I’m not trying to control you,” Lewis replies. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Silence stretches between them.
Nico looks exhausted. Not strategic. Not proud.
Just tired.
“If I go,” he says carefully, “this doesn’t become gossip.”
“It won’t.”
“And you don’t sit there looking at me like I’m broken.”
Lewis swallows. “I won’t.”
A pause.
“And you stop using it against me when you’re angry.”
That lands hardest.
Lewis nods once. “Fine.”
“One appointment,” Nico says.
“Okay.”
They stand too close. Neither moves.
“You eat before qualifying,” Lewis adds roughly. “I’ll be there.”
“You’re not my keeper.”
“No, I'm not,” Lewis agrees.
A beat.
“I’m your teammate.”
Once he would have said bestfriend. But now it’s the safest word he can choose.
Nico nods once.
Lewis turns toward the door, then stops without looking back.
“Don’t make me drag you to medical,” he mutters.
There’s the faintest ghost of a smirk in Nico’s voice when he answers, “I’d like to see you try.”
It’s fragile. Barely there.
But it’s there.
Lewis steps back into the noise of the paddock with his chest tight and something unfamiliar lodged beneath his ribs.
Nothing is fixed.
Nothing is forgiven.
He still doesn’t have language for what Nico is to him. He still plans to be photographed with a woman tonight. He still hates the way his pulse stutters when Nico looks at him too long.
But he has drawn a line.
And this time, he doesn’t walk away from it.